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Title: The Entire Project Gutenberg Works of Mark Twain

Author: Mark Twain (and Albert Bigelow Paine)

Release Date: April, 2002  [Etext #3200]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on February 25, 2001]
[This file was last updated on July 29, 2002]

Edition: 13

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII





*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMPLETE PG EDITION OF TWAIN ***



This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>





                    THE ENTIRE GUTENBERG TWAIN FILES
                             BY MARK TWAIN



ETEXT EDITOR'S NOTE:
This is a compilation of all the works of Mark Twain in the Project
Gutenberg Mark Twain collection which now has over sixty files.  These
individual files have been prepared by many different Gutenberg
volunteers over a period of many years.  Any of the individual works may
be found in much smaller size than this "entire" file at:

The Gutenberg Project Search Page:   http://www.promo.net/pg/

As additional works of Mark Twain become available the present file will
be updated to include them.  The bibliography of Twain by Albert Bigelow
Paine has been used in organizing the major works in this collection in
the order of the date of their first publication; however many of the
short stories, speeches and other shorter works are not in chronologic
order as they were originally included as part of major works of much
different publishing date.
                                        D.W.




           CONTENTS OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG TWAIN COLLECTION

THE INNOCENTS ABROAD
MARK TWAIN'S (BURLESQUE) AUTO-BIOGRAPHY
     FIRST ROMANCE.
ROUGHING IT
THE GILDED AGE (with Charles Dudley Warner)
SKETCHES NEW AND OLD
     MY WATCH
     POLITICAL ECONOMY
     THE JUMPING FROG
     JOURNALISM IN TENNESSEE
     THE STORY OF THE BAD LITTLE BOY
     THE STORY OF THE GOOD LITTLE BOY
     A COUPLE OF POEMS BY TWAIN AND MOORE
     NIAGARA
     ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS
     TO RAISE POULTRY
     EXPERIENCE OF THE MCWILLIAMSES WITH MEMBRANOUS CROUP
     MY FIRST LITERARY VENTURE
     HOW THE AUTHOR WAS SOLD IN NEWARK
     THE OFFICE BORE
     JOHNNY GREER
     THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF THE GREAT BEEF CONTRACT
     THE CASE OF GEORGE FISHER
     DISGRACEFUL PERSECUTION OF A BOY
     THE JUDGES "SPIRITED WOMAN"
     INFORMATION WANTED
     SOME LEARNED FABLES, FOR GOOD OLD BOYS AND GIRLS
     MY LATE SENATORIAL SECRETARYSHIP
     A FASHION ITEM
     RILEY-NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENT
     A FINE OLD MAN
     SCIENCE vs. LUCK
     THE LATE BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
     MR. BLOKE'S ITEM
     A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE
     PETITION CONCERNING COPYRIGHT
     AFTER-DINNER SPEECH
     LIONIZING MURDERERS
     A NEW CRIME
     A CURIOUS DREAM
     A TRUE STORY
     THE SIAMESE TWINS
     SPEECH AT THE SCOTTISH BANQUET IN LONDON
     A GHOST STORY
     THE CAPITOLINE VENUS
     SPEECH ON ACCIDENT INSURANCE
     JOHN CHINAMAN IN NEW YORK
     HOW I EDITED AN AGRICULTURAL PAPER
     THE PETRIFIED MAN
     MY BLOODY MASSACRE
     THE UNDERTAKER'S CHAT
     CONCERNING CHAMBERMAIDS
     AURELIA'S UNFORTUNATE YOUNG MAN
     "AFTER" JENKINS
     ABOUT BARBERS
     "PARTY CRIES" IN IRELAND
     THE FACTS CONCERNING THE RECANT RESIGNATION
     HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF
     HONORED AS A CURIOSITY
     FIRST INTERVIEW KITH ARTEMUS WARD
     CANNIBALISM IN THE CARS
     THE KILLING OF JULIUS CAESAR "LOCALIZED"
     THE WIDOW'S PROTEST
     THE SCRIPTURAL PANORAMIST
     CURING A COLD
     A CURIOUS PLEASURE EXCURSION
     RUNNING FOR GOVERNOR
     A MYSTERIOUS VISIT
THE CURIOUS REPUBLIC OF GONDOUR AND OTHER WHIMSICAL SKETCHES
     THE CURIOUS REPUBLIC OF GONDOUR
     A MEMORY
     INTRODUCTORY TO "MEMORANDA".
     ABOUT SMELLS
     A COUPLE OF SAD EXPERIENCES
     DAN MURPHY
     THE "TOURNAMENT" IN A.D. 1870
     CURIOUS RELIC FOR SALE
     A REMINISCENCE OF THE BACK SETTLEMENTS
     A ROYAL COMPLIMENT
     THE APPROACHING EPIDEMIC
     THE TONE-IMPARTING COMMITTEE
     OUR PRECIOUS LUNATIC
     THE EUROPEAN WAR
     THE WILD MAN INTERVIEWED
     LAST WORDS OF GREAT MEN
1601--CONVERSATION AT THE SOCIAL FIRESIDE OF THE TUDORS
THE FACTS CONCERNING THE RECENT CARNIVAL OF CRIME IN CONNECTICUT
THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER
THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON AND OTHER STORIES
     THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON
     ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING
     ABOUT MAGNANIMOUS-INCIDENT LITERATURE
          THE GRATEFUL POODLE
          THE BENEVOLENT AUTHOR
          THE GRATEFUL HUSBAND
     PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH
     THE GREAT REVOLUTION IN PITCAIRN
     THE CANVASSER'S TALE
     AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER
     PARIS NOTES
     LEGEND OF SAGENFELD, IN GERMANY
     SPEECH ON THE BABIES
     SPEECH ON THE WEATHER
     CONCERNING THE AMERICAN LANGUAGE
     ROGERS
SOME RAMBLING NOTES OF AN IDLE EXCURSION
THE STOLEN WHITE ELEPHANT
A TRAMP ABROAD
THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER
LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI
THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN
A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT
THE AMERICAN CLAIMANT
EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY
IN DEFENSE OF HARRIET SHELLEY
FENNIMORE COOPER'S LITERARY OFFENCES
ESSAYS ON PAUL BOURGET
     WHAT PAUL BOURGET THINKS OF US
     A LITTLE NOTE TO M. PAUL BOURGET
TOM SAWYER ABROAD
THE TRAGEDY OF PUDD'NHEAD WILSON
THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS
PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC
TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE
FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR, A JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD
THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED HADLEYBURG
THE HADLEYBERG OTHER STORIES
     MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT OF IT
     THE ESQUIMAUX MAIDEN'S ROMANCE
     CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND THE BOOK OF MRS. EDDY
     IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD?
     MY DEBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON
     AT THE APPETITE-CURE
     CONCERNING THE JEWS
     FROM THE 'LONDON TIMES' OF 1904
     ABOUT PLAY-ACTING
     TRAVELLING WITH A REFORMER
     DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES
     LUCK
     THE CAPTAIN'S STORY
     STIRRING TIMES IN AUSTRIA
     MEISTERSCHAFT
     MY BOYHOOD DREAMS
          TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE
     IN MEMORIAM--OLIVIA SUSAN CLEMENS
WHAT IS MAN AND OTHER ESSAYS
     WHAT IS MAN?
     THE DEATH OF JEAN
     THE TURNING-POINT OF MY LIFE
     HOW TO MAKE HISTORY DATES STICK
     THE MEMORABLE ASSASSINATION
     A SCRAP OF CURIOUS HISTORY
     SWITZERLAND, THE CRADLE OF LIBERTY
     AT THE SHRINE OF ST. WAGNER
     WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
     ENGLISH AS SHE IS TAUGHT
     A SIMPLIFIED ALPHABET
     AS CONCERNS INTERPRETING THE DEITY
     CONCERNING TOBACCO
     TAMING THE BICYCLE
     IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER AND OTHER STORIES
     THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
     A FABLE
     HUNTING THE DECEITFUL TURKEY
     THE McWILLIAMSES AND THE BURGLAR ALARM
A DOUBLE BARRELED DETECTIVE
A DOG'S TALE
THE $30,000 BEQUEST AND OTHER STORIES
      THE $30,000 BEQUEST
      A DOG'S TALE
      WAS IT HEAVEN?  OR HELL?
      A CURE FOR THE BLUES
      THE ENEMY CONQUERED; OR, LOVE TRIUMPHANT
      THE CALIFORNIAN'S TALE
      A HELPLESS SITUATION
      A TELEPHONIC CONVERSATION
      EDWARD MILLS AND GEORGE BENTON:  A TALE
      THE FIVE BOONS OF LIFE
      THE FIRST WRITING-MACHINES
      ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER
      ITALIAN WITH GRAMMAR
      A BURLESQUE BIOGRAPHY
      HOW TO TELL A STORY
      GENERAL WASHINGTON'S NEGRO BODY-SERVANT
      WIT INSPIRATIONS OF THE "TWO-YEAR-OLDS"
      AN ENTERTAINING ARTICLE
      A LETTER TO THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY
      AMENDED OBITUARIES
      A MONUMENT TO ADAM
      A HUMANE WORD FROM SATAN
      INTRODUCTION TO "THE NEW GUIDE OF THE
      CONVERSATION IN PORTUGUESE AND ENGLISH"
      ADVICE TO LITTLE GIRLS
      POST-MORTEM POETRY
      THE DANGER OF LYING IN BED
      PORTRAIT OF KING WILLIAM III
      DOES THE RACE OF MAN LOVE A LORD?
      EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY
      EVE'S DIARY
A HORSE'S TALE
CHRISTIAN SCIENCE
EXTRACT FROM CAPTAIN STORMFIELD'S VISIT TO HEAVEN
IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?
ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING
GOLDSMITH'S FRIEND ABROAD AGAIN
HOW TO TELL A STORY AND OTHER STORIES
     HOW TO TELL A STORY
          THE WOUNDED SOLDIER
          THE GOLDEN ARM
     MENTAL TELEGRAPHY AGAIN
     THE INVALIDS STORY
MARK TWAIN'S SPEECHES
     INTRODUCTION
     PREFACE
     THE STORY OF A SPEECH
     PLYMOUTH ROCK AND THE PILGRIMS
     COMPLIMENTS AND DEGREES
     BOOKS, AUTHORS, AND HATS
     DEDICATION SPEECH
     DIE SCHRECKEN DER DEUTSCHEN SPRACHE.
     THE HORRORS OF THE GERMAN LANGUAGE
     GERMAN FOR THE HUNGARIANS
     A NEW GERMAN WORD
     UNCONSCIOUS PLAGIARISM
     THE WEATHER
     THE BABIES
     OUR CHILDREN AND GREAT DISCOVERIES
     EDUCATING THEATRE-GOERS
     THE EDUCATIONAL THEATRE
     POETS AS POLICEMEN
     PUDD'NHEAD WILSON DRAMATIZED
     DALY THEATRE
     THE DRESS OF CIVILIZED WOMAN
     DRESS REFORM AND COPYRIGHT
     COLLEGE GIRLS
     GIRLS
     THE LADIES
     WOMAN'S PRESS CLUB
     VOTES FOR WOMEN
     WOMAN-AN OPINION
     ADVICE TO GIRLS
     TAXES AND MORALS
     TAMMANY AND CROKER
     MUNICIPAL CORRUPTION
     MUNICIPAL GOVERNMENT
     CHINA AND THE PHILIPPINES
     THEORETICAL AND PRACTICAL MORALS
     LAYMAN'S SERMON
     UNIVERSITY SETTLEMENT SOCIETY
     PUBLIC EDUCATION ASSOCIATION
     EDUCATION AND CITIZENSHIP
     COURAGE
     THE DINNER TO MR. CHOATE
     ON STANLEY AND LIVINGSTONE
     HENRY M. STANLEY
     DINNER TO MR. JEROME
     HENRY IRVING
     DINNER TO HAMILTON W. MABIE
     INTRODUCING NYE AND RILEY
     DINNER TO WHITELAW REID
     ROGERS AND RAILROADS
     THE OLD-FASHIONED PRINTER
     SOCIETY OF AMERICAN AUTHORS
     READING-ROOM OPENING
     LITERATURE
     DISAPPEARANCE OF LITERATURE
     THE NEW YORK PRESS CLUB DINNER
     THE ALPHABET AND SIMPLIFIED SPELLING
     SPELLING AND PICTURES
     BOOKS AND BURGLARS
     AUTHORS' CLUB
     BOOKSELLERS
     "MARK TWAIN's FIRST APPEARANCE"
     MORALS AND MEMORY
     QUEEN VICTORIA
     JOAN OF ARC
     ACCIDENT INSURANCE--ETC.
     OSTEOPATHY
     WATER-SUPPLY
     MISTAKEN IDENTITY
     CATS AND CANDY
     OBITUARY POETRY
     CIGARS AND TOBACCO
     BILLIARDS
     THE UNION RIGHT OR WRONG?
     AN IDEAL FRENCH ADDRESS
     STATISTICS
     GALVESTON ORPHAN BAZAAR
     SAN FRANCISCO EARTHQUAKE
     CHARITY AND ACTORS
     RUSSIAN REPUBLIC
     RUSSIAN SUFFERERS
     WATTERSON AND TWAIN AS REBELS
     ROBERT FULTON FUND
     FULTON DAY, JAMESTOWN
     LOTOS CLUB DINNER IN HONOR OF MARK TWAIN
     COPYRIGHT
     IN AID OF THE BLIND
     DR. MARK TWAIN, FARMEOPATH
     MISSOURI UNIVERSITY SPEECH
     BUSINESS
     CARNEGIE THE BENEFACTOR
     ON POETRY, VERACITY, AND SUICIDE
     WELCOME HOME
     AN UNDELIVERED SPEECH
     SIXTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY
     TO THE WHITEFRIARS
     THE ASCOT GOLD CUP
     THE SAVAGE CLUB DINNER
     GENERAL MILES AND THE DOG
     WHEN IN DOUBT, TELL THE TRUTH
     THE DAY WE CELEBRATE
     INDEPENDENCE DAY
     AMERICANS AND THE ENGLISH
     ABOUT LONDON
     PRINCETON
     THE ST. LOUIS HARBOR-BOAT "MARK TWAIN"
     SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY
MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS 1853-1910
     ARRANGED WITH COMMENT BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE
A BOY'S LIFE OF MARK TWAIN, BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE
MARK TWAIN, A BIOGRAPHY, BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE






               THE COMPLETE PROJECT GUTENBERG MARK TWAIN



THE INNOCENTS ABROAD

by Mark Twain


[From an 1869--1st Edition]



                                CONTENTS


                                CHAPTER I.
Popular Talk of the Excursion--Programme of the Trip--Duly Ticketed for
the Excursion--Defection of the Celebrities

                               CHAPTER II.
Grand Preparations--An Imposing Dignitary--The European Exodus--
Mr. Blucher's Opinion--Stateroom No. 10--The Assembling of the Clans--
At Sea at Last

                               CHAPTER III.
"Averaging" the Passengers--Far, far at Sea.--Tribulation among the
Patriarchs--Seeking Amusement under Difficulties--Five Captains in the
Ship

                               CHAPTER IV.
The Pilgrims Becoming Domesticated--Pilgrim Life at Sea--"Horse-
Billiards"--The "Synagogue"--The Writing School--Jack's "Journal"--
The "Q. C. Club"--The Magic Lantern--State Ball on Deck--Mock Trials--
Charades--Pilgrim Solemnity--Slow Music--The Executive Officer Delivers
an Opinion

                                CHAPTER V.
Summer in Mid-Atlantic--An Eccentric Moon--Mr. Blucher Loses Confidence
--The Mystery of "Ship Time"--The Denizens of the Deep--"Land Hoh"--
The First Landing on a Foreign Shore--Sensation among the Natives--
Something about the Azores Islands--Blucher's Disastrous Dinner--
The Happy Result

                               CHAPTER VI.
Solid Information--A Fossil Community--Curious Ways and Customs--Jesuit
Humbuggery--Fantastic Pilgrimizing--Origin of the Russ Pavement--
Squaring Accounts with the Fossils--At Sea Again

                               CHAPTER VII.
A Tempest at Night--Spain and Africa on Exhibition--Greeting a Majestic
Stranger--The Pillars of Hercules--The Rock of Gibraltar--Tiresome
Repetition--"The Queen's Chair"--Serenity Conquered--Curiosities of
the Secret Caverns--Personnel of Gibraltar--Some Odd Characters--A
Private Frolic in Africa--Bearding a Moorish Garrison (without loss of
life)--Vanity Rebuked--Disembarking in the Empire of Morocco

                              CHAPTER VIII.
The Ancient City of Tangier, Morocco--Strange Sights--A Cradle of
Antiquity--We become Wealthy--How they Rob the Mail in Africa--The Danger
of being Opulent in Morocco

                               CHAPTER IX.
A Pilgrim--in Deadly Peril--How they Mended the Clock--Moorish
Punishments for Crime--Marriage Customs--Looking Several ways for Sunday
--Shrewd, Practice of Mohammedan Pilgrims--Reverence for Cats--Bliss of
being a Consul-General

                                CHAPTER X.
Fourth of July at Sea--Mediterranean Sunset--The "Oracle" is Delivered
of an Opinion--Celebration Ceremonies--The Captain's Speech--France in
Sight--The Ignorant Native--In Marseilles--Another Blunder--Lost in
the Great City--Found Again--A Frenchy Scene

                               CHAPTER XI.
Getting used to it--No Soap--Bill of Fare, Table d'hote--"An American
Sir"--A Curious Discovery--The "Pilgrim" Bird--Strange Companionship--
A Grave of the Living--A Long Captivity--Some of Dumas' Heroes--Dungeon
of the Famous "Iron Mask."

                               CHAPTXR XII.
A Holiday Flight through France--Summer Garb of the Landscape--Abroad
on the Great Plains--Peculiarities of French Cars--French Politeness
American Railway Officials--"Twenty Mnutes to Dinner!"--Why there
are no Accidents--The "Old Travellers"--Still on the Wing--Paris at
Last----French Order and Quiet--Place of the Bastile--Seeing the Sights--
A Barbarous Atrocity--Absurd Billiards

                              CHAPTER XIII.
More Trouble--Monsieur Billfinger--Re-Christening the Frenchman--In the
Clutches of a Paris Guide--The International Exposition--Fine Military
Review--Glimpse of the Emperor Napoleon and the Sultan of Turkey

                               CHAPTER XIV.
The Venerable Cathedral of Notre-Dame--Jean Sanspeur's Addition--
Treasures and Sacred Relics--The Legend of the Cross--The Morgue--The
Outrageious 'Can-Can'--Blondin Aflame--The Louvre Palace--The Great Park
--Showy Pageantry--Preservation of Noted Things

                               CHAPTER XV.
French National Burying--Ground--Among the Great Dead--The Shrine of
Disappointed Love--The Story of Abelard and Heloise--"English Spoken
Here"--"American Drinks Compounded Here"--Imperial Honors to an
American--The Over-estimated Grisette--Departure from Paris--A Deliberate
Opinion Concerning the Comeliness of American Women

                               CHAPTER XVI.
Versailles--Paradise Regained--A Wonderful Park--Paradise Lost--
Napoleonic Strategy

                              CHAPTER XVII.
War--The American Forces Victorious--" Home Again"--Italy in Sight
The "City of Palaces"--Beauty of the Genoese Women--The "Stub-Hunters"--
Among the Palaces--Gifted Guide--Church Magnificence--"Women not
Admitted"--How the Genoese Live--Massive Architecture--A Scrap of Ancient
History--Graves for 60,000

                              CHAPTER XVIII.
Flying Through Italy--Marengo--First Glimpse of the Famous Cathedral--
Description of some of its Wonders--A Horror Carved in Stone----An
Unpleasant Adventure--A Good Man--A Sermon from the Tomb--Tons of Gold
and Silver--Some More Holy Relics--Solomon's Temple

                               CHAPTER XIX
"Do You Wiz zo Haut can be?"--La Scala--Petrarch and Laura--Lucrezia
Borgia--Ingenious Frescoes--Ancient Roman Amphitheatre--A Clever
Delusion--Distressing Billiards--The Chief Charm of European Life--An
Italian Bath--Wanted: Soap--Crippled French--Mutilated English--The Most
Celebrated Painting in the World--Amateur Raptures--Uninspired Critics--
Anecdote--A Wonderful Echo--A Kiss for a Franc

                                CHAPTER XX
Rural Italy by Rail--Fumigated, According to Law--The Sorrowing
Englishman--Night by the Lake of Como--The Famous Lake--Its Scenery--
Como compared with Tahoe--Meeting a Shipmate

                               CHAPTER XXI.
The Pretty Lago di Lecco--A Carriage Drive in the Country--Astonishing
Sociability in a Coachman--Sleepy Land--Bloody Shrines--The Heart and
Home of Priestcraft--A Thrilling Mediaeval Romance--The Birthplace of
Harlequin--Approaching Venice

                              CHAPTER XXII.
Night in Venice--The "Gay Gondolier"--The Grand Fete by Moonlight--
The Notable Sights of Venice--The Mother of the Republics Desolate

                              CHANTER XXIII.
The Famous Gondola--The Gondola in an Unromantic Aspect--The Great Square
of St. Mark and the Winged Lion--Snobs, at Home and Abroad--Sepulchres of
the Great Dead--A Tilt at the "Old Masters"--A Contraband Guide--
The Conspiracy--Moving Again

                              CHAPTER XXIV.
Down Through Italy by Rail--Idling in Florence--Dante and Galileo--An
Ungrateful City--Dazzling Generosity--Wonderful Mosaics--The Historical
Arno--Lost Again--Found Again, but no Fatted Calf Ready--The Leaning
Tower of Pisa--The Ancient Duomo--The Old Original First Pendulum that
Ever Swung--An Enchanting Echo--A New Holy Sepulchre--A Relic of
Antiquity--A Fallen Republic--At Leghorn--At Home Again, and Satisfied,
on Board the Ship--Our Vessel an Object of Grave Suspicion--Garibaldi
Visited--Threats of Quarantine

                               CHAPTER XXV.
The Works of Bankruptcy--Railway Grandeur--How to Fill an Empty
Treasury--The Sumptuousness of Mother Church--Ecclesiastical Splendor--
Magnificence and Misery--General Execration--More Magnificence
A Good Word for the Priests--Civita Vecchia the Dismal--Off for Rome

                              CHAPTER XXVI.
The Modern Roman on His Travels--The Grandeur of St. Peter's--Holy Relics
--Grand View from the Dome--The Holy Inquisition--Interesting Old Monkish
Frauds--The Ruined Coliseum--The Coliseum in the Days of its Prime--
Ancient Playbill of a Coliseum Performance--A Roman Newspaper Criticism
1700 Years Old

                              CHAPTER XXVII.
"Butchered to Make a Roman Holiday"--The Man who Never Complained--
An Exasperating Subject--Asinine Guides--The Roman Catacombs
The Saint Whose Fervor Burst his Ribs--The Miracle of the Bleeding Heart
--The Legend of Ara Coeli

                             CHAPTER XXVIII.
Picturesque Horrors--The Legend of Brother Thomas--Sorrow Scientifically
Analyzed--A Festive Company of the Dead--The Great Vatican Museum
Artist Sins of Omission--The Rape of the Sabines--Papal Protection of
Art--High Price of "Old Masters"--Improved Scripture--Scale of Rank
of the Holy Personages in Rome--Scale of Honors Accorded Them---
Fossilizing--Away for Naples

                              CHAPTER XXIX.
Naples--In Quarantine at Last--Annunciation--Ascent of Mount Vesuvius--A
Two Cent Community--The Black Side of Neapolitan Character--Monkish
Miracles--Ascent of Mount Vesuvius Continued--The Stranger and the
Hackman--Night View of Naples from the Mountain-side---Ascent of Mount
Vesuvius Continued

                               CHAPTER XXX.
Ascent of Mount Vesuvius Continued--Beautiful View at Dawn--Less
Beautiful in the Back Streets--Ascent of Vesuvius Continued--Dwellings a
Hundred Feet High--A Motley Procession--Bill of Fare for a Peddler's
Breakfast--Princely Salaries--Ascent of Vesuvius Continued--An Average of
Prices--The wonderful "Blue Grotto"--Visit to Celebrated Localities in
the Bay of Naples--The Poisoned "Grotto of the Dog"--A Petrified Sea of
Lava--Ascent of Mount Vesuvius Continued--The Summit Reached--Description
of the Crater--Descent of Vesuvius

                              CHAPTER XXXI.
The Buried City of Pompeii--How Dwellings Appear that have been
Unoccupied for Eighteen hundred years--The Judgment Seat--Desolation--The
Footprints of the Departed--"No Women Admitted"--Theatres, Bakeshops,
Schools--Skeletons preserved by the Ashes and Cinders--The Brave Martyr
to Duty--Rip Van Winkle--The Perishable Nature of Fame

                              CHAPTER XXXII.
At Sea Once More--The Pilgrims all Well--Superb Stromboli--Sicily by
Moonlight--Scylla and Charybdis--The "Oracle" at Fault--Skirting the
Isles of Greece Ancient Athens--Blockaded by Quarantine and Refused
Permission to Enter--Running the Blockade--A Bloodless Midnight
Adventure--Turning Robbers from Necessity--Attempt to Carry the Acropolis
by Storm--We Fail--Among the Glories of the Past--A World of Ruined
Sculpture--A Fairy Vision--Famous Localities--Retreating in Good Order
--Captured by the Guards--Travelling in Military State--Safe on Board
Again

                             CHAPTER XXXIII.
Modern Greece--Fallen Greatness--Sailing Through the Archipelago and the
Dardanelles--Footprints of History--The First Shoddy Contractor of whom
History gives any Account--Anchored Before Constantinople--Fantastic
Fashions--The Ingenious Goose-Rancher--Marvelous Cripples--The Great
Mosque--The Thousand and One Columns--The Grand Bazaar of Stamboul

                              CHAPTER XXXIV.
Scarcity of Morals and Whiskey--Slave-Girl Market Report--Commercial
Morality at a Discount--The Slandered Dogs of Constantinople--
Questionable Delights of Newspaperdom in Turkey--Ingenious Italian
Journalism--No More Turkish Lunches Desired--The Turkish Bath Fraud--
The Narghileh Fraud--Jackplaned by a Native--The Turkish Coffee Fraud

                              CHAPTER XXXV.
Sailing Through the Bosporus and the Black Sea--"Far-Away Moses"--
Melancholy Sebastopol--Hospitably Received in Russia--Pleasant English
People--Desperate Fighting--Relic Hunting--How Travellers Form "Cabinets"

                              CHAPTER XXXVI.
Nine Thousand Miles East--Imitation American Town in Russia--Gratitude
that Came Too Late--To Visit the Autocrat of All the Russias

                             CHAPTER XXXVII.
Summer Home of Royalty--Practising for the Dread Ordeal--Committee on
Imperial Address--Reception by the Emperor and Family--Dresses of the
Imperial Party--Concentrated Power--Counting the Spoons--At the Grand
Duke's--A Charming Villa--A Knightly Figure--The Grand Duchess--A Grand
Ducal Breakfast--Baker's Boy, the Famine-Breeder--Theatrical Monarchs a
Fraud--Saved as by Fire--The Governor--General's Visit to the Ship--
Official "Style"--Aristocratic Visitors--"Munchausenizing" with Them--
Closing Ceremonies

                             CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Return to Constantinople--We Sail for Asia--The Sailors Burlesque the
Imperial Visitors--Ancient Smyrna--The "Oriental Splendor" Fraud--
The "Biblical Crown of Life"--Pilgrim Prophecy-Savans--Sociable
Armenian Girls--A Sweet Reminiscence--"The Camels are Coming, Ha-ha!"

                              CHAPTER XXXIX.
Smyrna's Lions--The Martyr Polycarp--The "Seven Churches"--Remains of the
Six Smyrnas--Mysterious Oyster Mine Oysters--Seeking Scenery--A Millerite
Tradition--A Railroad Out of its Sphere

                               CHAPTER XL.
Journeying Toward Ancient Ephesus--Ancient Ayassalook--The Villanous
Donkey--A Fantastic Procession--Bygone Magnificence--Fragments of
History--The Legend of the Seven Sleepers

                               CHAPTER XLI.
Vandalism Prohibited--Angry Pilgrims--Approaching Holy Land!--The "Shrill
Note of Preparation"--Distress About Dragomans and Transportation--
The "Long Route" Adopted--In Syria--Something about Beirout--A Choice
Specimen of a Greek "Ferguson"--Outfits--Hideous Horseflesh--Pilgrim
"Style"--What of Aladdin's Lamp?

                              CHAPTER XLII.
"Jacksonville," in the Mountains of Lebanon--Breakfasting above a Grand
Panorama--The Vanished City--The Peculiar Steed, "Jericho"--The Pilgrims
Progress--Bible Scenes--Mount Hermon, Joshua's Battle Fields, etc.--
The Tomb of Noah--A Most Unfortunate People

                              CHAPTER XLIII.
Patriarchal Customs--Magnificent Baalbec--Description of the Ruins--
Scribbling Smiths and Joneses--Pilgrim Fidelity to the Letter of the Law
--The Revered Fountain of Baalam's Ass

                              CHAPTER XLIV.
Extracts from Note-Book--Mahomet's Paradise and the Bible's--Beautiful
Damascus the Oldest City on Earth--Oriental Scenes within the Curious Old
City--Damascus Street Car--The Story of St. Paul--The "Street called
Straight"--Mahomet's Tomb and St. George's--The Christian Massacre--
Mohammedan Dread of Pollution--The House of Naaman--
The Horrors of Leprosy

                               CHAPTER XLV.
The Cholera by way of Variety--Hot--Another Outlandish Procession--Pen
and-Ink Photograph of "Jonesborough," Syria--Tomb of Nimrod, the Mighty
Hunter--The Stateliest Ruin of All--Stepping over the Borders of Holy-
Land--Bathing in the Sources of Jordan--More "Specimen" Hunting--Ruins of
Cesarea--Philippi--"On This Rock Will I Build my Church"--The People the
Disciples Knew--The Noble Steed "Baalbec"--Sentimental Horse Idolatry of
the Arabs

                              CHAPTER XLVI.
Dan--Bashan--Genessaret--A Notable Panorama--Smallness of Palestine--
Scraps of History--Character of the Country--Bedouin Shepherds--Glimpses
of the Hoary Past--Mr. Grimes's Bedouins--A Battle--Ground of Joshua--
That Soldier's Manner of Fighting--Barak's Battle--The Necessity of
Unlearning Some Things--Desolation

                              CHAPTER XLVII.
"Jack's Adventure"--Joseph's Pit--The Story of Joseph--Joseph's
Magnanimity and Esau's--The Sacred Lake of Genessaret--Enthusiasm of the
Pilgrims--Why We did not Sail on Galilee--About Capernaum--Concerning the
Saviour's Brothers and Sisters--Journeying toward Magdela

                             CHAPTER XLVIII.
Curious Specimens of Art and Architecture--Public Reception of the
Pilgrims--Mary Magdalen's House--Tiberias and its Queer Inhabitants--
The Sacred Sea of Galilee--Galilee by Night

                              CHAPTER XLIX.
The Ancient Baths--Ye Apparition--A Distinguished Panorama--The Last
Battle of the Crusades--The Story of the Lord of Kerak--Mount Tabor--
What one Sees from its Top--Memory of a Wonderful Garden--The House of
Deborah the Prophetess

                                CHAPTER L.
Toward Nazareth--Bitten By a Camel--Grotto of the Annunciation, Nazareth
--Noted Grottoes in General--Joseph's Workshop--A Sacred Bowlder--
The Fountain of the Virgin--Questionable Female Beauty--
Literary Curiosities

                               CHAPTER LI.
Boyhood of the Saviour--Unseemly Antics of Sober Pilgrims--Home of the
Witch of Endor--Nain--Profanation--A Popular Oriental Picture--Biblical
Metaphors Becoming steadily More Intelligible--The Shuuem Miracle--
The "Free Son of The Desert"--Ancient Jezrael--Jehu's Achievements--
Samaria and its Famous Siege

                               CHAPTER LII
Curious Remnant of the Past--Shechem--The Oldest "First Family" on Earth
--The Oldest Manuscript Extant--The Genuine Tomb of Joseph--Jacob's Well
--Shiloh--Camping with the Arabs--Jacob's Ladder--More Desolation--
Ramah, Beroth, the Tomb of Samuel, The Fountain of Beira--Impatience--
Approaching Jerusalem--The Holy City in Sight--Noting Its Prominent
Features--Domiciled Within the Sacred Walls

                              CHAPTER LIII.
"The Joy of the Whole Earth"--Description of Jerusalem--Church of the
Holy Sepulchre--The Stone of Unction--The Grave of Jesus--Graves of
Nicodemus and Joseph of Armattea--Places of the Apparition--The Finding
of the There Crosses----The Legend--Monkish Impostures--The Pillar of
Flagellation--The Place of a Relic--Godfrey's Sword--"The Bonds of
Christ"--"The Center of the Earth"--Place whence the Dust was taken of
which Adam was Made--Grave of Adam--The Martyred Soldier--The Copper
Plate that was on the Cross--The Good St. Helena--Place of the Division
of the Garments--St. Dimas, the Penitent Thief--The Late Emperor
Maximilian's Contribution--Grotto wherein the Crosses were Found, and the
Nails, and the Crown of Thorns--Chapel of the Mocking--Tomb of
Melchizedek--Graves of Two Renowned Crusaders--The Place of the
Crucifixion

                               CHAPTER LIV.
The "Sorrowful Way"--The Legend of St. Veronica's Handkerchief--
An Illustrious Stone--House of the Wandering Jew--The Tradition of the
Wanderer--Solomon's Temple--Mosque of Omar--Moslem Traditions--"Women not
Admitted"--The Fate of a Gossip--Turkish Sacred Relics--Judgment Seat of
David and Saul--Genuine Precious Remains of Solomon's Temple--Surfeited
with Sights--The Pool of Siloam--The Garden of Gethsemane and Other
Sacred Localities

                               CHAPTER LV.
Rebellion in the Camp--Charms of Nomadic Life--Dismal Rumors--En Route
for Jericho and The Dead Sea--Pilgrim Strategy--Bethany and the Dwelling
of Lazarus--"Bedouins!"--Ancient Jericho--Misery--The Night March--
The Dead Sea--An Idea of What a "Wilderness" in Palestine is--The Holy
hermits of Mars Saba--Good St. Saba--Women not Admitted--Buried from the
World for all Time--Unselfish Catholic Benevolence--Gazelles--The Plain
of the Shepherds--Birthplace of the Saviour, Bethlehem--Church of the
Nativity--Its Hundred Holy Places--The Famous "Milk" Grotto--Tradition--
Return to Jerusalem--Exhausted

                               CHAPTER LVI.
Departure from Jerusalem--Samson--The Plain of Sharon--Arrival at Joppa--
Horse of Simon the Tanner--The Long Pilgrimage Ended--Character of
Palestine Scenery--The Curse

                              CHAPTER LVII.
The Happiness of being at Sea once more--"Home" as it is in a Pleasure
Ship--"Shaking Hands" with the Vessel--Jack in Costume--His Father's
Parting Advice--Approaching Egypt--Ashore in Alexandria--A Deserved
Compliment for the Donkeys--Invasion of the Lost Tribes of America--End
of the Celebrated "Jaffa Colony"--Scenes in Grand Cairo--Shepheard's
Hotel Contrasted with a Certain American Hotel--Preparing for the
Pyramids

                              CHAPTER LVIII.
"Recherche" Donkeys--A Wild Ride--Specimens of Egyptian Modesty--Moses in
the Bulrushes--Place where the Holy Family Sojourned--Distant view of the
Pyramids--A Nearer View--The Ascent--Superb View from the top of the
Pyramid--"Backsheesh! Backsheesh!"--An Arab Exploit--In the Bowels of the
Pyramid--Strategy--Reminiscence of "Holiday's Hill"--Boyish Exploit--The
Majestic Sphynx--Things the Author will not Tell--Grand Old Egypt

                               CHAPTER LIX.
Going Home--A Demoralized Note-Book--A Boy's Diary--Mere Mention of Old
Spain--Departure from Cadiz--A Deserved Rebuke--The Beautiful Madeiras
--Tabooed--In the Delightful Bermudas--An English Welcome--Good-by to
"Our Friends the Bermudians"--Packing Trunks for Home--Our First
Accident--The Long Cruise Drawing to a Close--At Home--Amen

                               CHAPTER LX.
Thankless Devotion--A Newspaper Valedictory--Conclusion






                                 PREFACE

This book is a record of a pleasure trip.  If it were a record of a
solemn scientific expedition, it would have about it that gravity, that
profundity, and that impressive incomprehensibility which are so proper
to works of that kind, and withal so attractive.  Yet notwithstanding it
is only a record of a pic-nic, it has a purpose, which is to suggest to
the reader how he would be likely to see Europe and the East if he looked
at them with his own eyes instead of the eyes of those who traveled in
those countries before him.  I make small pretense of showing anyone how
he ought to look at objects of interest beyond the sea--other books do
that, and therefore, even if I were competent to do it, there is no need.

I offer no apologies for any departures from the usual style of travel-
writing that may be charged against me--for I think I have seen with
impartial eyes, and I am sure I have written at least honestly, whether
wisely or not.

In this volume I have used portions of letters which I wrote for the
Daily Alta California, of San Francisco, the proprietors of that journal
having waived their rights and given me the necessary permission.  I have
also inserted portions of several letters written for the New York
Tribune and the New York Herald.

THE AUTHOR.
SAN FRANCISCO.





CHAPTER I.

For months the great pleasure excursion to Europe and the Holy Land was
chatted about in the newspapers everywhere in America and discussed at
countless firesides.  It was a novelty in the way of excursions--its like
had not been thought of before, and it compelled that interest which
attractive novelties always command.  It was to be a picnic on a gigantic
scale.  The participants in it, instead of freighting an ungainly steam
ferry--boat with youth and beauty and pies and doughnuts, and paddling up
some obscure creek to disembark upon a grassy lawn and wear themselves
out with a long summer day's laborious frolicking under the impression
that it was fun, were to sail away in a great steamship with flags flying
and cannon pealing, and take a royal holiday beyond the broad ocean in
many a strange clime and in many a land renowned in history! They were to
sail for months over the breezy Atlantic and the sunny Mediterranean;
they were to scamper about the decks by day, filling the ship with shouts
and laughter--or read novels and poetry in the shade of the smokestacks,
or watch for the jelly-fish and the nautilus over the side, and the
shark, the whale, and other strange monsters of the deep; and at night
they were to dance in the open air, on the upper deck, in the midst of a
ballroom that stretched from horizon to horizon, and was domed by the
bending heavens and lighted by no meaner lamps than the stars and the
magnificent moon--dance, and promenade, and smoke, and sing, and make
love, and search the skies for constellations that never associate with
the "Big Dipper" they were so tired of; and they were to see the ships of
twenty navies--the customs and costumes of twenty curious peoples--the
great cities of half a world--they were to hob-nob with nobility and hold
friendly converse with kings and princes, grand moguls, and the anointed
lords of mighty empires! It was a brave conception; it was the offspring
of a most ingenious brain.  It was well advertised, but it hardly needed
it: the bold originality, the extraordinary character, the seductive
nature, and the vastness of the enterprise provoked comment everywhere
and advertised it in every household in the land.  Who could read the
program of the excursion without longing to make one of the party? I will
insert it here.  It is almost as good as a map.  As a text for this book,
nothing could be better:

                   EXCURSION TO THE HOLY LAND, EGYPT,
      THE CRIMEA, GREECE, AND INTERMEDIATE POINTS OF INTEREST.
                     BROOKLYN, February 1st, 1867

       The undersigned will make an excursion as above during the coming
     season, and begs to submit to you the following programme:

       A first-class steamer, to be under his own command, and capable of
     accommodating at least one hundred and fifty cabin passengers, will
     be selected, in which will be taken a select company, numbering not
     more than   three-fourths of the ship's capacity.  There is good
     reason to believe that this company can be easily made up in this
     immediate vicinity, of mutual friends and acquaintances.

       The steamer will be provided with every necessary comfort,
     including library and musical instruments.

       An experienced physician will be on board.

       Leaving New York about June 1st, a middle and pleasant route will
     be taken across the Atlantic, and passing through the group of
     Azores, St. Michael will be reached in about ten days.  A day or two
     will be spent here, enjoying the fruit and wild scenery of these
     islands, and the voyage continued, and Gibraltar reached in three or
     four days.

       A day or two will be spent here in looking over the wonderful
     subterraneous fortifications, permission to visit these galleries
     being readily obtained.

       From Gibraltar, running along the coasts of Spain and France,
     Marseilles will be reached in three days.  Here ample time will be
     given not only to look over the city, which was founded six hundred
     years before the Christian era, and its artificial port, the finest
     of the kind in the Mediterranean, but to visit Paris during the
     Great Exhibition; and the beautiful city of Lyons, lying
     intermediate, from the heights of which, on a clear day, Mont Blanc
     and the Alps can be distinctly seen.  Passengers who may wish to
     extend the time at Paris can do so, and, passing down through
     Switzerland, rejoin the steamer at Genoa.

       From Marseilles to Genoa is a run of one night.  The excursionists
     will have an opportunity to look over this, the "magnificent city of
     palaces," and visit the birthplace of Columbus, twelve miles off,
     over a beautiful road built by Napoleon I.  From this point,
     excursions may be made to Milan, Lakes Como and Maggiore, or to
     Milan, Verona (famous for its extraordinary fortifications), Padua,
     and Venice.  Or, if passengers desire to visit Parma (famous for
     Correggio's frescoes) and Bologna, they can by rail go on to
     Florence, and rejoin the steamer at Leghorn, thus spending about
     three weeks amid the cities most famous for art in Italy.

       From Genoa the run to Leghorn will be made along the coast in one
     night, and time appropriated to this point in which to visit
     Florence, its palaces and galleries; Pisa, its cathedral and
     "Leaning Tower," and Lucca and its baths, and Roman amphitheater;
     Florence, the most remote, being distant by rail about sixty miles.

       From Leghorn to Naples (calling at Civita Vecchia to land any who
     may prefer to go to Rome from that point), the distance will be made
     in about thirty-six hours; the route will lay along the coast of
     Italy, close by Caprera, Elba, and Corsica.  Arrangements have been
     made to take on board at Leghorn a pilot for Caprera, and, if
     practicable, a call will be made there to visit the home of
     Garibaldi.

       Rome [by rail], Herculaneum, Pompeii, Vesuvius, Vergil's tomb, and
     possibly the ruins of Paestum can be visited, as well as the
     beautiful surroundings of Naples and its charming bay.

       The next point of interest will be Palermo, the most beautiful
     city of Sicily, which will be reached in one night from Naples.  A
     day will be spent here, and leaving in the evening, the course will
     be taken towards Athens.

       Skirting along the north coast of Sicily, passing through the
     group of Aeolian Isles, in sight of Stromboli and Vulcania, both
     active volcanoes, through the Straits of Messina, with "Scylla" on
     the one hand and "Charybdis" on the other, along the east coast of
     Sicily, and in sight of Mount Etna, along the south coast of Italy,
     the west and south coast of Greece, in sight of ancient Crete, up
     Athens Gulf, and into the Piraeus, Athens will be reached in two and
     a half or three days.  After tarrying here awhile, the Bay of
     Salamis will be crossed, and a day given to Corinth, whence the
     voyage will be continued to Constantinople, passing on the way
     through the Grecian Archipelago, the Dardanelles, the Sea of
     Marmora, and the mouth of the Golden Horn, and arriving in about
     forty-eight hours from Athens.

       After leaving Constantinople, the way will be taken out through
     the beautiful Bosphorus, across the Black Sea to Sebastopol and
     Balaklava, a run of about twenty-four hours.  Here it is proposed to
     remain two days, visiting the harbors, fortifications, and
     battlefields of the Crimea; thence back through the Bosphorus,
     touching at Constantinople to take in any who may have preferred to
     remain there; down through the Sea of Marmora and the Dardanelles,
     along the coasts of ancient Troy and Lydia in Asia, to Smyrna, which
     will be reached in two or two and a half days from Constantinople.
     A sufficient stay will be made here to give opportunity of visiting
     Ephesus, fifty miles distant by rail.

       From Smyrna towards the Holy Land the course will lay through the
     Grecian  Archipelago, close by the Isle of Patmos, along the coast
     of Asia, ancient Pamphylia, and the Isle of Cyprus.  Beirut will be
     reached in three days.  At Beirut time will be given to visit
     Damascus; after which the steamer will proceed to Joppa.

       From Joppa, Jerusalem, the River Jordan, the Sea of Tiberias,
     Nazareth, Bethany, Bethlehem, and other points of interest in the
     Holy Land can be visited, and here those who may have preferred to
     make the journey from Beirut through the country, passing through
     Damascus, Galilee, Capernaum, Samaria, and by the River Jordan and
     Sea of Tiberias, can rejoin the steamer.

       Leaving Joppa, the next point of interest to visit will be
     Alexandria, which will be reached in twenty-four hours.  The ruins
     of Caesar's Palace, Pompey's Pillar, Cleopatra's Needle, the
     Catacombs, and ruins of ancient Alexandria will be found worth the
     visit.  The journey to Cairo, one hundred and thirty miles by rail,
     can be made in a few hours, and from which can be visited the site
     of ancient Memphis, Joseph's Granaries, and the Pyramids.

       From Alexandria the route will be taken homeward, calling at
     Malta, Cagliari (in Sardinia), and Palma (in Majorca), all
     magnificent harbors, with charming scenery, and abounding in fruits.

       A day or two will be spent at each place, and leaving Parma in the
     evening, Valencia in Spain will be reached the next morning.  A few
     days will be spent in this, the finest city of Spain.

       From Valencia, the homeward course will be continued, skirting
     along the coast of Spain.  Alicant, Carthagena, Palos, and Malaga
     will be passed but a mile or two distant, and Gibraltar reached in
     about twenty-four hours.

       A stay of one day will be made here, and the voyage continued to
     Madeira, which will be reached in about three days.  Captain
     Marryatt writes: "I do not know a spot on the globe which so much
     astonishes and delights upon first arrival as Madeira." A stay of
     one or two days will be made here, which, if time permits, may be
     extended, and passing on through the islands, and probably in sight
     of the Peak of Teneriffe, a southern track will be taken, and the
     Atlantic crossed within the latitudes of the northeast trade winds,
     where mild and pleasant weather, and a smooth sea, can always be
     expected.

       A call will be made at Bermuda, which lies directly in this route
     homeward, and will be reached in about ten days from Madeira, and
     after spending a short time with our friends the Bermudians, the
     final departure will be made for home, which will be reached in
     about three days.

       Already, applications have been received from parties in Europe
     wishing to join the Excursion there.

       The ship will at all times be a home, where the excursionists, if
     sick, will be surrounded by kind friends, and have all possible
     comfort and sympathy.

       Should contagious sickness exist in any of the ports named in the
     program, such ports will be passed, and others of interest
     substituted.

       The price of passage is fixed at $1,250, currency, for each adult
     passenger.  Choice of rooms and of seats at the tables apportioned
     in the order in which passages are engaged; and no passage
     considered engaged until ten percent of the passage money is
     deposited with the treasurer.

       Passengers can remain on board of the steamer, at all ports, if
     they desire, without additional expense, and all boating at the
     expense of the ship.

       All passages must be paid for when taken, in order that the most
     perfect arrangements be made for starting at the appointed time.

       Applications for passage must be approved by the committee before
     tickets are issued, and can be made to the undersigned.

       Articles of interest or curiosity, procured by the passengers
     during the voyage, may be brought home in the steamer free of
     charge.

       Five dollars per day, in gold, it is believed, will be a fair
     calculation to make for all traveling expenses onshore and at the
     various points where passengers may wish to leave the steamer for
     days at a time.

       The trip can be extended, and the route changed, by unanimous vote
     of the passengers.

      CHAS.  C.  DUNCAN,  117 WALL STREET, NEW YORK  R.  R.  G******,
     Treasurer

      Committee on Applications  J.  T.  H*****, ESQ.  R.  R.  G*****,
     ESQ.  C.  C.  Duncan

      Committee on Selecting Steamer  CAPT.  W.  W.  S* * * *, Surveyor
     for Board of Underwriters

       C.  W.  C******, Consulting Engineer for U.S.  and Canada  J.  T.
     H*****, Esq. C.  C.  DUNCAN

       P.S.--The very beautiful and substantial side-wheel steamship
     "Quaker City" has been chartered for the occasion, and will leave
     New York June 8th.  Letters have been issued by the government
     commending the party to courtesies abroad.

What was there lacking about that program to make it perfectly
irresistible? Nothing that any finite mind could discover.  Paris,
England, Scotland, Switzerland, Italy--Garibaldi! The Grecian
Archipelago! Vesuvius! Constantinople! Smyrna! The Holy Land! Egypt and
"our friends the Bermudians"! People in Europe desiring to join the
excursion--contagious sickness to be avoided--boating at the expense of
the ship--physician on board--the circuit of the globe to be made if the
passengers unanimously desired it--the company to be rigidly selected by
a pitiless "Committee on Applications"--the vessel to be as rigidly
selected by as pitiless a "Committee on Selecting Steamer." Human nature
could not withstand these bewildering temptations.  I hurried to the
treasurer's office and deposited my ten percent.  I rejoiced to know that
a few vacant staterooms were still left.  I did avoid a critical personal
examination into my character by that bowelless committee, but I referred
to all the people of high standing I could think of in the community who
would be least likely to know anything about me.

Shortly a supplementary program was issued which set forth that the
Plymouth Collection of Hymns would be used on board the ship.  I then
paid the balance of my passage money.

I was provided with a receipt and duly and officially accepted as an
excursionist.  There was happiness in that but it was tame compared to
the novelty of being "select."

This supplementary program also instructed the excursionists to provide
themselves with light musical instruments for amusement in the ship, with
saddles for Syrian travel, green spectacles and umbrellas, veils for
Egypt, and substantial clothing to use in rough pilgrimizing in the Holy
Land.  Furthermore, it was suggested that although the ship's library
would afford a fair amount of reading matter, it would still be well if
each passenger would provide himself with a few guidebooks, a Bible, and
some standard works of travel.  A list was appended, which consisted
chiefly of books relating to the Holy Land, since the Holy Land was part
of the excursion and seemed to be its main feature.

Reverend Henry Ward Beecher was to have accompanied the expedition, but
urgent duties obliged him to give up the idea.  There were other
passengers who could have been spared better and would have been spared
more willingly.  Lieutenant General Sherman was to have been of the party
also, but the Indian war compelled his presence on the plains.  A popular
actress had entered her name on the ship's books, but something
interfered and she couldn't go.  The "Drummer Boy of the Potomac"
deserted, and lo, we had never a celebrity left!

However, we were to have a "battery of guns" from the Navy Department (as
per advertisement) to be used in answering royal salutes; and the
document furnished by the Secretary of the Navy, which was to make
"General Sherman and party" welcome guests in the courts and camps of the
old world, was still left to us, though both document and battery, I
think, were shorn of somewhat of their original august proportions.
However, had not we the seductive program still, with its Paris, its
Constantinople, Smyrna, Jerusalem, Jericho, and "our friends the
Bermudians?" What did we care?




CHAPTER II.

Occasionally, during the following month, I dropped in at 117 Wall Street
to inquire how the repairing and refurnishing of the vessel was coming
on, how additions to the passenger list were averaging, how many people
the committee were decreeing not "select" every day and banishing in
sorrow and tribulation.  I was glad to know that we were to have a little
printing press on board and issue a daily newspaper of our own.  I was
glad to learn that our piano, our parlor organ, and our melodeon were to
be the best instruments of the kind that could be had in the market.  I
was proud to observe that among our excursionists were three ministers of
the gospel, eight doctors, sixteen or eighteen ladies, several military
and naval chieftains with sounding titles, an ample crop of "Professors"
of various kinds, and a gentleman who had "COMMISSIONER OF THE UNITED
STATES OF AMERICA TO EUROPE, ASIA, AND AFRICA" thundering after his name
in one awful blast!  I had carefully prepared myself to take rather a
back seat in that ship because of the uncommonly select material that
would alone be permitted to pass through the camel's eye of that
committee on credentials; I had schooled myself to expect an imposing
array of military and naval heroes and to have to set that back seat
still further back in consequence of it maybe; but I state frankly that I
was all unprepared for this crusher.

I fell under that titular avalanche a torn and blighted thing.  I said
that if that potentate must go over in our ship, why, I supposed he must
--but that to my thinking, when the United States considered it necessary
to send a dignitary of that tonnage across the ocean, it would be in
better taste, and safer, to take him apart and cart him over in sections
in several ships.

Ah, if I had only known then that he was only a common mortal, and that
his mission had nothing more overpowering about it than the collecting of
seeds and uncommon yams and extraordinary cabbages and peculiar bullfrogs
for that poor, useless, innocent, mildewed old fossil the Smithsonian
Institute, I would have felt so much relieved.

During that memorable month I basked in the happiness of being for once
in my life drifting with the tide of a great popular movement.  Everybody
was going to Europe--I, too, was going to Europe.  Everybody was going to
the famous Paris Exposition--I, too, was going to the Paris Exposition.
The steamship lines were carrying Americans out of the various ports of
the country at the rate of four or five thousand a week in the aggregate.
If I met a dozen individuals during that month who were not going to
Europe shortly, I have no distinct remembrance of it now.  I walked about
the city a good deal with a young Mr.  Blucher, who was booked for the
excursion.  He was confiding, good-natured, unsophisticated,
companionable; but he was not a man to set the river on fire.  He had the
most extraordinary notions about this European exodus and came at last to
consider the whole nation as packing up for emigration to France.  We
stepped into a store on Broadway one day, where he bought a handkerchief,
and when the man could not make change, Mr. B. said:

"Never mind, I'll hand it to you in Paris."

"But I am not going to Paris."

"How is--what did I understand you to say?"

"I said I am not going to Paris."

"Not going to Paris!  Not g---- well, then, where in the nation are you
going to?"

"Nowhere at all."

"Not anywhere whatsoever?--not any place on earth but this?"

"Not any place at all but just this--stay here all summer."

My comrade took his purchase and walked out of the store without a word--
walked out with an injured look upon his countenance.  Up the street
apiece he broke silence and said impressively: "It was a lie--that is my
opinion of it!"

In the fullness of time the ship was ready to receive her passengers.
I was introduced to the young gentleman who was to be my roommate, and
found him to be intelligent, cheerful of spirit, unselfish, full of
generous impulses, patient, considerate, and wonderfully good-natured.
Not any passenger that sailed in the Quaker City will withhold his
endorsement of what I have just said.  We selected a stateroom forward of
the wheel, on the starboard side, "below decks."  It bad two berths in
it, a dismal dead-light, a sink with a washbowl in it, and a long,
sumptuously cushioned locker, which was to do service as a sofa--partly--
and partly as a hiding place for our things.  Notwithstanding all this
furniture, there was still room to turn around in, but not to swing a cat
in, at least with entire security to the cat.  However, the room was
large, for a ship's stateroom, and was in every way satisfactory.

The vessel was appointed to sail on a certain Saturday early in June.

A little after noon on that distinguished Saturday I reached the ship and
went on board.  All was bustle and confusion.  [I have seen that remark
before somewhere.]  The pier was crowded with carriages and men;
passengers were arriving and hurrying on board; the vessel's decks were
encumbered with trunks and valises; groups of excursionists, arrayed in
unattractive traveling costumes, were moping about in a drizzling rain
and looking as droopy and woebegone as so many molting chickens.  The
gallant flag was up, but it was under the spell, too, and hung limp and
disheartened by the mast.  Altogether, it was the bluest, bluest
spectacle!  It was a pleasure excursion--there was no gainsaying that,
because the program said so--it was so nominated in the bond--but it
surely hadn't the general aspect of one.

Finally, above the banging, and rumbling, and shouting, and hissing of
steam rang the order to "cast off!"--a sudden rush to the gangways--a
scampering ashore of visitors-a revolution of the wheels, and we were
off--the pic-nic was begun!  Two very mild cheers went up from the
dripping crowd on the pier; we answered them gently from the slippery
decks; the flag made an effort to wave, and failed; the "battery of guns"
spake not--the ammunition was out.

We steamed down to the foot of the harbor and came to anchor.  It was
still raining.  And not only raining, but storming.  "Outside" we could
see, ourselves, that there was a tremendous sea on.  We must lie still,
in the calm harbor, till the storm should abate.  Our passengers hailed
from fifteen states; only a few of them had ever been to sea before;
manifestly it would not do to pit them against a full-blown tempest until
they had got their sea-legs on.  Toward evening the two steam tugs that
had accompanied us with a rollicking champagne-party of young New Yorkers
on board who wished to bid farewell to one of our number in due and
ancient form departed, and we were alone on the deep.  On deep five
fathoms, and anchored fast to the bottom.  And out in the solemn rain, at
that.  This was pleasuring with a vengeance.

It was an appropriate relief when the gong sounded for prayer meeting.
The first Saturday night of any other pleasure excursion might have been
devoted to whist and dancing; but I submit it to the unprejudiced mind if
it would have been in good taste for us to engage in such frivolities,
considering what we had gone through and the frame of mind we were in.
We would have shone at a wake, but not at anything more festive.

However, there is always a cheering influence about the sea; and in my
berth that night, rocked by the measured swell of the waves and lulled by
the murmur of the distant surf, I soon passed tranquilly out of all
consciousness of the dreary experiences of the day and damaging
premonitions of the future.




CHAPTER III.

All day Sunday at anchor.  The storm had gone down a great deal, but the
sea had not.  It was still piling its frothy hills high in air "outside,"
as we could plainly see with the glasses.  We could not properly begin a
pleasure excursion on Sunday; we could not offer untried stomachs to so
pitiless a sea as that.  We must lie still till Monday.  And we did.  But
we had repetitions of church and prayer-meetings; and so, of course, we
were just as eligibly situated as we could have been any where.

I was up early that Sabbath morning and was early to breakfast.  I felt a
perfectly natural desire to have a good, long, unprejudiced look at the
passengers at a time when they should be free from self-consciousness--
which is at breakfast, when such a moment occurs in the lives of human
beings at all.

I was greatly surprised to see so many elderly people--I might almost
say, so many venerable people.  A glance at the long lines of heads was
apt to make one think it was all gray.  But it was not.  There was a
tolerably fair sprinkling of young folks, and another fair sprinkling of
gentlemen and ladies who were non-committal as to age, being neither
actually old or absolutely young.

The next morning we weighed anchor and went to sea.  It was a great
happiness to get away after this dragging, dispiriting delay.  I thought
there never was such gladness in the air before, such brightness in the
sun, such beauty in the sea.  I was satisfied with the picnic then and
with all its belongings.  All my malicious instincts were dead within me;
and as America faded out of sight, I think a spirit of charity rose up in
their place that was as boundless, for the time being, as the broad ocean
that was heaving its billows about us.  I wished to express my feelings--
I wished to lift up my voice and sing; but I did not know anything to
sing, and so I was obliged to give up the idea.  It was no loss to the
ship, though, perhaps.

It was breezy and pleasant, but the sea was still very rough.  One could
not promenade without risking his neck; at one moment the bowsprit was
taking a deadly aim at the sun in midheaven, and at the next it was
trying to harpoon a shark in the bottom of the ocean.  What a weird
sensation it is to feel the stem of a ship sinking swiftly from under you
and see the bow climbing high away among the clouds!  One's safest course
that day was to clasp a railing and hang on; walking was too precarious a
pastime.

By some happy fortune I was not seasick.--That was a thing to be proud
of.  I had not always escaped before.  If there is one thing in the world
that will make a man peculiarly and insufferably self-conceited, it is to
have his stomach behave itself, the first day it sea, when nearly all his
comrades are seasick.  Soon a venerable fossil, shawled to the chin and
bandaged like a mummy, appeared at the door of the after deck-house, and
the next lurch of the ship shot him into my arms.  I said:

"Good-morning, Sir.  It is a fine day."

He put his hand on his stomach and said, "Oh, my!" and then staggered
away and fell over the coop of a skylight.

Presently another old gentleman was projected from the same door with
great violence.  I said:

"Calm yourself, Sir--There is no hurry.  It is a fine day, Sir."

He, also, put his hand on his stomach and said "Oh, my!" and reeled away.

In a little while another veteran was discharged abruptly from the same
door, clawing at the air for a saving support.  I said:

"Good morning, Sir.  It is a fine day for pleasuring.  You were about to
say--"

"Oh, my!"

I thought so.  I anticipated him, anyhow.  I stayed there and was
bombarded with old gentlemen for an hour, perhaps; and all I got out of
any of them was "Oh, my!"

I went away then in a thoughtful mood.  I said, this is a good pleasure
excursion.  I like it.  The passengers are not garrulous, but still they
are sociable.  I like those old people, but somehow they all seem to have
the "Oh, my" rather bad.

I knew what was the matter with them.  They were seasick.  And I was glad
of it.  We all like to see people seasick when we are not, ourselves.
Playing whist by the cabin lamps when it is storming outside is pleasant;
walking the quarterdeck in the moonlight is pleasant; smoking in the
breezy foretop is pleasant when one is not afraid to go up there; but
these are all feeble and commonplace compared with the joy of seeing
people suffering the miseries of seasickness.

I picked up a good deal of information during the afternoon.  At one time
I was climbing up the quarterdeck when the vessel's stem was in the sky;
I was smoking a cigar and feeling passably comfortable.  Somebody
ejaculated:

"Come, now, that won't answer.  Read the sign up there--NO SMOKING ABAFT
THE WHEEL!"

It was Captain Duncan, chief of the expedition.  I went forward, of
course.  I saw a long spyglass lying on a desk in one of the upper-deck
state-rooms back of the pilot-house and reached after it--there was a
ship in the distance.

"Ah, ah--hands off!  Come out of that!"

I came out of that.  I said to a deck-sweep--but in a low voice:

"Who is that overgrown pirate with the whiskers and the discordant
voice?"

"It's Captain Bursley--executive officer--sailing master."

I loitered about awhile, and then, for want of something better to do,
fell to carving a railing with my knife.  Somebody said, in an
insinuating, admonitory voice:

"Now, say--my friend--don't you know any better than to be whittling the
ship all to pieces that way? You ought to know better than that."

I went back and found the deck sweep.

"Who is that smooth-faced, animated outrage yonder in the fine clothes?"

"That's Captain L****, the owner of the ship--he's one of the main
bosses."

In the course of time I brought up on the starboard side of the
pilot-house and found a sextant lying on a bench.  Now, I said, they
"take the sun" through this thing; I should think I might see that vessel
through it.  I had hardly got it to my eye when someone touched me on the
shoulder and said deprecatingly:

"I'll have to get you to give that to me, Sir.  If there's anything you'd
like to know about taking the sun, I'd as soon tell you as not--but I
don't like to trust anybody with that instrument.  If you want any
figuring done--Aye, aye, sir!"

He was gone to answer a call from the other side.  I sought the
deck-sweep.

"Who is that spider-legged gorilla yonder with the sanctimonious
countenance?"

"It's Captain Jones, sir--the chief mate."

"Well.  This goes clear away ahead of anything I ever heard of before.
Do you--now I ask you as a man and a brother--do you think I could
venture to throw a rock here in any given direction without hitting a
captain of this ship?"

"Well, sir, I don't know--I think likely you'd fetch the captain of the
watch may be, because he's a-standing right yonder in the way."

I went below--meditating and a little downhearted.  I thought, if five
cooks can spoil a broth, what may not five captains do with a pleasure
excursion.




CHAPTER IV.

We plowed along bravely for a week or more, and without any conflict of
jurisdiction among the captains worth mentioning.  The passengers soon
learned to accommodate themselves to their new circumstances, and life in
the ship became nearly as systematically monotonous as the routine of a
barrack.  I do not mean that it was dull, for it was not entirely so by
any means--but there was a good deal of sameness about it.  As is always
the fashion at sea, the passengers shortly began to pick up sailor terms
--a sign that they were beginning to feel at home.  Half-past six was no
longer half-past six to these pilgrims from New England, the South, and
the Mississippi Valley, it was "seven bells"; eight, twelve, and four
o'clock were "eight bells"; the captain did not take the longitude at
nine o'clock, but at "two bells."  They spoke glibly of the "after
cabin," the "for'rard cabin," "port and starboard" and the "fo'castle."

At seven bells the first gong rang; at eight there was breakfast, for
such as were not too seasick to eat it.  After that all the well people
walked arm-in-arm up and down the long promenade deck, enjoying the fine
summer mornings, and the seasick ones crawled out and propped themselves
up in the lee of the paddle-boxes and ate their dismal tea and toast, and
looked wretched.  From eleven o'clock until luncheon, and from luncheon
until dinner at six in the evening, the employments and amusements were
various.  Some reading was done, and much smoking and sewing, though not
by the same parties; there were the monsters of the deep to be looked
after and wondered at; strange ships had to be scrutinized through
opera-glasses, and sage decisions arrived at concerning them; and more
than that, everybody took a personal interest in seeing that the flag was
run up and politely dipped three times in response to the salutes of
those strangers; in the smoking room there were always parties of
gentlemen playing euchre, draughts and dominoes, especially dominoes,
that delightfully harmless game; and down on the main deck, "for'rard"--
for'rard of the chicken-coops and the cattle--we had what was called
"horse billiards."  Horse billiards is a fine game.  It affords good,
active exercise, hilarity, and consuming excitement.  It is a mixture of
"hop-scotch" and shuffleboard played with a crutch.  A large hop-scotch
diagram is marked out on the deck with chalk, and each compartment
numbered.  You stand off three or four steps, with some broad wooden
disks before you on the deck, and these you send forward with a vigorous
thrust of a long crutch.  If a disk stops on a chalk line, it does not
count anything.  If it stops in division No. 7, it counts 7; in 5, it
counts 5, and so on.  The game is 100, and four can play at a time.  That
game would be very simple played on a stationary floor, but with us, to
play it well required science.  We had to allow for the reeling of the
ship to the right or the left.  Very often one made calculations for a
heel to the right and the ship did not go that way.  The consequence was
that that disk missed the whole hopscotch plan a yard or two, and then
there was humiliation on one side and laughter on the other.

When it rained the passengers had to stay in the house, of course--or at
least the cabins--and amuse themselves with games, reading, looking out
of the windows at the very familiar billows, and talking gossip.

By 7 o'clock in the evening, dinner was about over; an hour's promenade
on the upper deck followed; then the gong sounded and a large majority of
the party repaired to the after cabin (upper), a handsome saloon fifty or
sixty feet long, for prayers.  The unregenerated called this saloon the
"Synagogue."  The devotions consisted only of two hymns from the Plymouth
Collection and a short prayer, and seldom occupied more than fifteen
minutes.  The hymns were accompanied by parlor-organ music when the sea
was smooth enough to allow a performer to sit at the instrument without
being lashed to his chair.

After prayers the Synagogue shortly took the semblance of a writing
school.  The like of that picture was never seen in a ship before.
Behind the long dining tables on either side of the saloon, and scattered
from one end to the other of the latter, some twenty or thirty gentlemen
and ladies sat them down under the swaying lamps and for two or three
hours wrote diligently in their journals.  Alas!  that journals so
voluminously begun should come to so lame and impotent a conclusion as
most of them did!  I doubt if there is a single pilgrim of all that host
but can show a hundred fair pages of journal concerning the first twenty
days' voyaging in the Quaker City, and I am morally certain that not ten
of the party can show twenty pages of journal for the succeeding twenty
thousand miles of voyaging!  At certain periods it becomes the dearest
ambition of a man to keep a faithful record of his performances in a
book; and he dashes at this work with an enthusiasm that imposes on him
the notion that keeping a journal is the veriest pastime in the world,
and the pleasantest.  But if he only lives twenty-one days, he will find
out that only those rare natures that are made up of pluck, endurance,
devotion to duty for duty's sake, and invincible determination may hope
to venture upon so tremendous an enterprise as the keeping of a journal
and not sustain a shameful defeat.

One of our favorite youths, Jack, a splendid young fellow with a head
full of good sense, and a pair of legs that were a wonder to look upon in
the way of length and straightness and slimness, used to report progress
every morning in the most glowing and spirited way, and say:

"Oh, I'm coming along bully!" (he was a little given to slang in his
happier moods.)  "I wrote ten pages in my journal last night--and you
know I wrote nine the night before and twelve the night before that.
Why, it's only fun!"

"What do you find to put in it, Jack?"

"Oh, everything.  Latitude and longitude, noon every day; and how many
miles we made last twenty-four hours; and all the domino games I beat and
horse billiards; and whales and sharks and porpoises; and the text of the
sermon Sundays (because that'll tell at home, you know); and the ships we
saluted and what nation they were; and which way the wind was, and
whether there was a heavy sea, and what sail we carried, though we don't
ever carry any, principally, going against a head wind always--wonder
what is the reason of that?--and how many lies Moult has told--Oh, every
thing!  I've got everything down.  My father told me to keep that
journal.  Father wouldn't take a thousand dollars for it when I get it
done."

"No, Jack; it will be worth more than a thousand dollars--when you get it
done."

"Do you?--no, but do you think it will, though?

"Yes, it will be worth at least as much as a thousand dollars--when you
get it done.  May be more."

"Well, I about half think so, myself.  It ain't no slouch of a journal."

But it shortly became a most lamentable "slouch of a journal."  One night
in Paris, after a hard day's toil in sightseeing, I said:

"Now I'll go and stroll around the cafes awhile, Jack, and give you a
chance to write up your journal, old fellow."

His countenance lost its fire.  He said:

"Well, no, you needn't mind.  I think I won't run that journal anymore.
It is awful tedious.  Do you know--I reckon I'm as much as four thousand
pages behind hand.  I haven't got any France in it at all.  First I
thought I'd leave France out and start fresh.  But that wouldn't do,
would it? The governor would say, 'Hello, here--didn't see anything in
France? That cat wouldn't fight, you know.  First I thought I'd copy
France out of the guide-book, like old Badger in the for'rard cabin,
who's writing a book, but there's more than three hundred pages of it.
Oh, I don't think a journal's any use--do you? They're only a bother,
ain't they?"

"Yes, a journal that is incomplete isn't of much use, but a journal
properly kept is worth a thousand dollars--when you've got it done."

"A thousand!--well, I should think so.  I wouldn't finish it for a
million."

His experience was only the experience of the majority of that
industrious night school in the cabin.  If you wish to inflict a
heartless and malignant punishment upon a young person, pledge him to
keep a journal a year.

A good many expedients were resorted to to keep the excursionists amused
and satisfied.  A club was formed, of all the passengers, which met in
the writing school after prayers and read aloud about the countries we
were approaching and discussed the information so obtained.

Several times the photographer of the expedition brought out his
transparent pictures and gave us a handsome magic-lantern exhibition.
His views were nearly all of foreign scenes, but there were one or two
home pictures among them.  He advertised that he would "open his
performance in the after cabin at 'two bells' (nine P.M.) and show the
passengers where they shall eventually arrive"--which was all very well,
but by a funny accident the first picture that flamed out upon the canvas
was a view of Greenwood Cemetery!

On several starlight nights we danced on the upper deck, under the
awnings, and made something of a ball-room display of brilliancy by
hanging a number of ship's lanterns to the stanchions.  Our music
consisted of the well-mixed strains of a melodeon which was a little
asthmatic and apt to catch its breath where it ought to come out strong,
a clarinet which was a little unreliable on the high keys and rather
melancholy on the low ones, and a disreputable accordion that had a leak
somewhere and breathed louder than it squawked--a more elegant term does
not occur to me just now.  However, the dancing was infinitely worse than
the music.  When the ship rolled to starboard the whole platoon of
dancers came charging down to starboard with it, and brought up in mass
at the rail; and when it rolled to port they went floundering down to
port with the same unanimity of sentiment.  Waltzers spun around
precariously for a matter of fifteen seconds and then went scurrying down
to the rail as if they meant to go overboard.  The Virginia reel, as
performed on board the Quaker City, had more genuine reel about it than
any reel I ever saw before, and was as full of interest to the spectator
as it was full of desperate chances and hairbreadth escapes to the
participant.  We gave up dancing, finally.

We celebrated a lady's birthday anniversary with toasts, speeches, a
poem, and so forth.  We also had a mock trial.  No ship ever went to sea
that hadn't a mock trial on board.  The purser was accused of stealing an
overcoat from stateroom No. 10.  A judge was appointed; also clerks, a
crier of the court, constables, sheriffs; counsel for the State and for
the defendant; witnesses were subpoenaed, and a jury empaneled after much
challenging.  The witnesses were stupid and unreliable and contradictory,
as witnesses always are.  The counsel were eloquent, argumentative, and
vindictively abusive of each other, as was characteristic and proper.
The case was at last submitted and duly finished by the judge with an
absurd decision and a ridiculous sentence.

The acting of charades was tried on several evenings by the young
gentlemen and ladies, in the cabins, and proved the most distinguished
success of all the amusement experiments.

An attempt was made to organize a debating club, but it was a failure.
There was no oratorical talent in the ship.

We all enjoyed ourselves--I think I can safely say that, but it was in a
rather quiet way.  We very, very seldom played the piano; we played the
flute and the clarinet together, and made good music, too, what there was
of it, but we always played the same old tune; it was a very pretty tune
--how well I remember it--I wonder when I shall ever get rid of it.  We
never played either the melodeon or the organ except at devotions--but I
am too fast: young Albert did know part of a tune something about
"O Something-Or-Other How Sweet It Is to Know That He's His What's-his-
Name" (I do not remember the exact title of it, but it was very plaintive
and full of sentiment); Albert played that pretty much all the time until
we contracted with him to restrain himself.  But nobody ever sang by
moonlight on the upper deck, and the congregational singing at church and
prayers was not of a superior order of architecture.  I put up with it as
long as I could and then joined in and tried to improve it, but this
encouraged young George to join in too, and that made a failure of it;
because George's voice was just "turning," and when he was singing a
dismal sort of bass it was apt to fly off the handle and startle
everybody with a most discordant cackle on the upper notes.  George
didn't know the tunes, either, which was also a drawback to his
performances.  I said:

"Come, now, George, don't improvise.  It looks too egotistical.  It will
provoke remark.  Just stick to 'Coronation,' like the others.  It is a
good tune--you can't improve it any, just off-hand, in this way."

"Why, I'm not trying to improve it--and I am singing like the others--
just as it is in the notes."

And he honestly thought he was, too; and so he had no one to blame but
himself when his voice caught on the center occasionally and gave him the
lockjaw.

There were those among the unregenerated who attributed the unceasing
head-winds to our distressing choir-music.  There were those who said
openly that it was taking chances enough to have such ghastly music going
on, even when it was at its best; and that to exaggerate the crime by
letting George help was simply flying in the face of Providence.  These
said that the choir would keep up their lacerating attempts at melody
until they would bring down a storm some day that would sink the ship.

There were even grumblers at the prayers.  The executive officer said the
pilgrims had no charity:

"There they are, down there every night at eight bells, praying for fair
winds--when they know as well as I do that this is the only ship going
east this time of the year, but there's a thousand coming west--what's a
fair wind for us is a head wind to them--the Almighty's blowing a fair
wind for a thousand vessels, and this tribe wants him to turn it clear
around so as to accommodate one--and she a steamship at that!  It ain't
good sense, it ain't good reason, it ain't good Christianity, it ain't
common human charity.  Avast with such nonsense!"




CHAPTER V.

Taking it "by and large," as the sailors say, we had a pleasant ten days'
run from New York to the Azores islands--not a fast run, for the distance
is only twenty-four hundred miles, but a right pleasant one in the main.
True, we had head winds all the time, and several stormy experiences
which sent fifty percent of the passengers to bed sick and made the ship
look dismal and deserted--stormy experiences that all will remember who
weathered them on the tumbling deck and caught the vast sheets of spray
that every now and then sprang high in air from the weather bow and swept
the ship like a thunder-shower; but for the most part we had balmy summer
weather and nights that were even finer than the days.  We had the
phenomenon of a full moon located just in the same spot in the heavens at
the same hour every night.  The reason of this singular conduct on the
part of the moon did not occur to us at first, but it did afterward when
we reflected that we were gaining about twenty minutes every day because
we were going east so fast--we gained just about enough every day to keep
along with the moon.  It was becoming an old moon to the friends we had
left behind us, but to us Joshuas it stood still in the same place and
remained always the same.

Young Mr. Blucher, who is from the Far West and is on his first voyage,
was a good deal worried by the constantly changing "ship time."  He was
proud of his new watch at first and used to drag it out promptly when
eight bells struck at noon, but he came to look after a while as if he
were losing confidence in it.  Seven days out from New York he came on
deck and said with great decision:

"This thing's a swindle!"

"What's a swindle?"

"Why, this watch.  I bought her out in Illinois--gave $150 for her--and I
thought she was good.  And, by George, she is good onshore, but somehow
she don't keep up her lick here on the water--gets seasick may be.  She
skips; she runs along regular enough till half-past eleven, and then, all
of a sudden, she lets down.  I've set that old regulator up faster and
faster, till I've shoved it clear around, but it don't do any good; she
just distances every watch in the ship, and clatters along in a way
that's astonishing till it is noon, but them eight bells always gets in
about ten minutes ahead of her anyway.  I don't know what to do with her
now.  She's doing all she can--she's going her best gait, but it won't
save her.  Now, don't you know, there ain't a watch in the ship that's
making better time than she is, but what does it signify?  When you hear
them eight bells you'll find her just about ten minutes short of her
score sure."

The ship was gaining a full hour every three days, and this fellow was
trying to make his watch go fast enough to keep up to her.  But, as he
had said, he had pushed the regulator up as far as it would go, and the
watch was "on its best gait," and so nothing was left him but to fold his
hands and see the ship beat the race.  We sent him to the captain, and he
explained to him the mystery of "ship time" and set his troubled mind at
rest.  This young man asked a great many questions about seasickness
before we left, and wanted to know what its characteristics were and how
he was to tell when he had it.  He found out.

We saw the usual sharks, blackfish, porpoises, &c., of course, and by and
by large schools of Portuguese men-of-war were added to the regular list
of sea wonders.  Some of them were white and some of a brilliant carmine
color.  The nautilus is nothing but a transparent web of jelly that
spreads itself to catch the wind, and has fleshy-looking strings a foot
or two long dangling from it to keep it steady in the water.  It is an
accomplished sailor and has good sailor judgment.  It reefs its sail when
a storm threatens or the wind blows pretty hard, and furls it entirely
and goes down when a gale blows.  Ordinarily it keeps its sail wet and in
good sailing order by turning over and dipping it in the water for a
moment.  Seamen say the nautilus is only found in these waters between
the 35th and 45th parallels of latitude.

At three o'clock on the morning of the twenty-first of June, we were
awakened and notified that the Azores islands were in sight.  I said I
did not take any interest in islands at three o'clock in the morning.
But another persecutor came, and then another and another, and finally
believing that the general enthusiasm would permit no one to slumber in
peace, I got up and went sleepily on deck.  It was five and a half
o'clock now, and a raw, blustering morning.  The passengers were huddled
about the smoke-stacks and fortified behind ventilators, and all were
wrapped in wintry costumes and looking sleepy and unhappy in the pitiless
gale and the drenching spray.

The island in sight was Flores.  It seemed only a mountain of mud
standing up out of the dull mists of the sea.  But as we bore down upon
it the sun came out and made it a beautiful picture--a mass of green
farms and meadows that swelled up to a height of fifteen hundred feet and
mingled its upper outlines with the clouds.  It was ribbed with sharp,
steep ridges and cloven with narrow canyons, and here and there on the
heights, rocky upheavals shaped themselves into mimic battlements and
castles; and out of rifted clouds came broad shafts of sunlight, that
painted summit, and slope and glen, with bands of fire, and left belts of
somber shade between.  It was the aurora borealis of the frozen pole
exiled to a summer land!

We skirted around two-thirds of the island, four miles from shore, and
all the opera glasses in the ship were called into requisition to settle
disputes as to whether mossy spots on the uplands were groves of trees or
groves of weeds, or whether the white villages down by the sea were
really villages or only the clustering tombstones of cemeteries.  Finally
we stood to sea and bore away for San Miguel, and Flores shortly became a
dome of mud again and sank down among the mists, and disappeared.  But to
many a seasick passenger it was good to see the green hills again, and
all were more cheerful after this episode than anybody could have
expected them to be, considering how sinfully early they had gotten up.

But we had to change our purpose about San Miguel, for a storm came up
about noon that so tossed and pitched the vessel that common sense
dictated a run for shelter.  Therefore we steered for the nearest island
of the group--Fayal (the people there pronounce it Fy-all, and put the
accent on the first syllable).  We anchored in the open roadstead of
Horta, half a mile from the shore.  The town has eight thousand to ten
thousand inhabitants.  Its snow-white houses nestle cosily in a sea of
fresh green vegetation, and no village could look prettier or more
attractive.  It sits in the lap of an amphitheater of hills which are
three hundred to seven hundred feet high, and carefully cultivated clear
to their summits--not a foot of soil left idle.  Every farm and every
acre is cut up into little square inclosures by stone walls, whose duty
it is to protect the growing products from the destructive gales that
blow there.  These hundreds of green squares, marked by their black lava
walls, make the hills look like vast checkerboards.

The islands belong to Portugal, and everything in Fayal has Portuguese
characteristics about it.  But more of that anon.  A swarm of swarthy,
noisy, lying, shoulder-shrugging, gesticulating Portuguese boatmen, with
brass rings in their ears and fraud in their hearts, climbed the ship's
sides, and various parties of us contracted with them to take us ashore
at so much a head, silver coin of any country.  We landed under the walls
of a little fort, armed with batteries of twelve-and-thirty-two-pounders,
which Horta considered a most formidable institution, but if we were ever
to get after it with one of our turreted monitors, they would have to
move it out in the country if they wanted it where they could go and find
it again when they needed it.  The group on the pier was a rusty one--men
and women, and boys and girls, all ragged and barefoot, uncombed and
unclean, and by instinct, education, and profession beggars.  They
trooped after us, and never more while we tarried in Fayal did we get rid
of them.  We walked up the middle of the principal street, and these
vermin surrounded us on all sides and glared upon us; and every moment
excited couples shot ahead of the procession to get a good look back,
just as village boys do when they accompany the elephant on his
advertising trip from street to street.  It was very flattering to me to
be part of the material for such a sensation.  Here and there in the
doorways we saw women with fashionable Portuguese hoods on.  This hood is
of thick blue cloth, attached to a cloak of the same stuff, and is a
marvel of ugliness.  It stands up high and spreads far abroad, and is
unfathomably deep.  It fits like a circus tent, and a woman's head is
hidden away in it like the man's who prompts the singers from his tin
shed in the stage of an opera.  There is no particle of trimming about
this monstrous capote, as they call it--it is just a plain, ugly dead-
blue mass of sail, and a woman can't go within eight points of the wind
with one of them on; she has to go before the wind or not at all.  The
general style of the capote is the same in all the islands, and will
remain so for the next ten thousand years, but each island shapes its
capotes just enough differently from the others to enable an observer to
tell at a glance what particular island a lady hails from.

The Portuguese pennies, or reis (pronounced rays), are prodigious.  It
takes one thousand reis to make a dollar, and all financial estimates are
made in reis.  We did not know this until after we had found it out
through Blucher.  Blucher said he was so happy and so grateful to be on
solid land once more that he wanted to give a feast--said he had heard it
was a cheap land, and he was bound to have a grand banquet.  He invited
nine of us, and we ate an excellent dinner at the principal hotel.  In
the midst of the jollity produced by good cigars, good wine, and passable
anecdotes, the landlord presented his bill.  Blucher glanced at it and
his countenance fell.  He took another look to assure himself that his
senses had not deceived him and then read the items aloud, in a faltering
voice, while the roses in his cheeks turned to ashes:

"'Ten dinners, at 600 reis, 6,000 reis!'  Ruin and desolation!

"'Twenty-five cigars, at 100 reis, 2,500 reis!'  Oh, my sainted mother!

"'Eleven bottles of wine, at 1,200 reis, 13,200 reis!'  Be with us all!

"'TOTAL, TWENTY-ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED REIS!'  The suffering Moses!
There ain't money enough in the ship to pay that bill!  Go--leave me to
my misery, boys, I am a ruined community."

I think it was the blankest-looking party I ever saw.  Nobody could say a
word.  It was as if every soul had been stricken dumb.  Wine glasses
descended slowly to the table, their contents untasted.  Cigars dropped
unnoticed from nerveless fingers.  Each man sought his neighbor's eye,
but found in it no ray of hope, no encouragement.  At last the fearful
silence was broken.  The shadow of a desperate resolve settled upon
Blucher's countenance like a cloud, and he rose up and said:

"Landlord, this is a low, mean swindle, and I'll never, never stand it.
Here's a hundred and fifty dollars, Sir, and it's all you'll get--I'll
swim in blood before I'll pay a cent more."

Our spirits rose and the landlord's fell--at least we thought so; he was
confused, at any rate, notwithstanding he had not understood a word that
had been said.  He glanced from the little pile of gold pieces to Blucher
several times and then went out.  He must have visited an American, for
when he returned, he brought back his bill translated into a language
that a Christian could understand--thus:

10 dinners, 6,000 reis, or .  .  .$6.00

25 cigars, 2,500 reis, or .  .  .  2.50

11 bottles wine, 13,200 reis, or  13.20

Total 21,700 reis, or .  .  .  . $21.70

Happiness reigned once more in Blucher's dinner party.  More refreshments
were ordered.




CHAPTER VI.

I think the Azores must be very little known in America.  Out of our
whole ship's company there was not a solitary individual who knew
anything whatever about them.  Some of the party, well read concerning
most other lands, had no other information about the Azores than that
they were a group of nine or ten small islands far out in the Atlantic,
something more than halfway between New York and Gibraltar.  That was
all.  These considerations move me to put in a paragraph of dry facts
just here.

The community is eminently Portuguese--that is to say, it is slow, poor,
shiftless, sleepy, and lazy.  There is a civil governor, appointed by the
King of Portugal, and also a military governor, who can assume supreme
control and suspend the civil government at his pleasure.  The islands
contain a population of about 200,000, almost entirely Portuguese.
Everything is staid and settled, for the country was one hundred years
old when Columbus discovered America.  The principal crop is corn, and
they raise it and grind it just as their great-great-great-grandfathers
did.  They plow with a board slightly shod with iron; their trifling
little harrows are drawn by men and women; small windmills grind the
corn, ten bushels a day, and there is one assistant superintendent to
feed the mill and a general superintendent to stand by and keep him from
going to sleep.  When the wind changes they hitch on some donkeys and
actually turn the whole upper half of the mill around until the sails are
in proper position, instead of fixing the concern so that the sails could
be moved instead of the mill.  Oxen tread the wheat from the ear, after
the fashion prevalent in the time of Methuselah.  There is not a
wheelbarrow in the land--they carry everything on their heads, or on
donkeys, or in a wicker-bodied cart, whose wheels are solid blocks of
wood and whose axles turn with the wheel.  There is not a modern plow in
the islands or a threshing machine.  All attempts to introduce them have
failed.  The good Catholic Portuguese crossed himself and prayed God to
shield him from all blasphemous desire to know more than his father did
before him.  The climate is mild; they never have snow or ice, and I saw
no chimneys in the town.  The donkeys and the men, women, and children of
a family all eat and sleep in the same room, and are unclean, are ravaged
by vermin, and are truly happy.  The people lie, and cheat the stranger,
and are desperately ignorant, and have hardly any reverence for their
dead.  The latter trait shows how little better they are than the donkeys
they eat and sleep with.  The only well-dressed Portuguese in the camp
are the half a dozen well-to-do families, the Jesuit priests, and the
soldiers of the little garrison.  The wages of a laborer are twenty to
twenty-four cents a day, and those of a good mechanic about twice as
much.  They count it in reis at a thousand to the dollar, and this makes
them rich and contented.  Fine grapes used to grow in the islands, and an
excellent wine was made and exported.  But a disease killed all the vines
fifteen years ago, and since that time no wine has been made.  The
islands being wholly of volcanic origin, the soil is necessarily very
rich.  Nearly every foot of ground is under cultivation, and two or three
crops a year of each article are produced, but nothing is exported save a
few oranges--chiefly to England.  Nobody comes here, and nobody goes
away.  News is a thing unknown in Fayal.  A thirst for it is a passion
equally unknown.  A Portuguese of average intelligence inquired if our
civil war was over.  Because, he said, somebody had told him it was--or
at least it ran in his mind that somebody had told him something like
that!  And when a passenger gave an officer of the garrison copies of the
Tribune, the Herald, and Times, he was surprised to find later news in
them from Lisbon than he had just received by the little monthly steamer.
He was told that it came by cable.  He said he knew they had tried to lay
a cable ten years ago, but it had been in his mind somehow that they
hadn't succeeded!

It is in communities like this that Jesuit humbuggery flourishes.  We
visited a Jesuit cathedral nearly two hundred years old and found in it a
piece of the veritable cross upon which our Saviour was crucified.  It
was polished and hard, and in as excellent a state of preservation as if
the dread tragedy on Calvary had occurred yesterday instead of eighteen
centuries ago.  But these confiding people believe in that piece of wood
unhesitatingly.

In a chapel of the cathedral is an altar with facings of solid silver--at
least they call it so, and I think myself it would go a couple of hundred
to the ton (to speak after the fashion of the silver miners)--and before
it is kept forever burning a small lamp.  A devout lady who died, left
money and contracted for unlimited masses for the repose of her soul, and
also stipulated that this lamp should be kept lighted always, day and
night.  She did all this before she died, you understand.  It is a very
small lamp and a very dim one, and it could not work her much damage, I
think, if it went out altogether.

The great altar of the cathedral and also three or four minor ones are a
perfect mass of gilt gimcracks and gingerbread.  And they have a swarm of
rusty, dusty, battered apostles standing around the filagree work, some
on one leg and some with one eye out but a gamey look in the other, and
some with two or three fingers gone, and some with not enough nose left
to blow--all of them crippled and discouraged, and fitter subjects for
the hospital than the cathedral.

The walls of the chancel are of porcelain, all pictured over with figures
of almost life size, very elegantly wrought and dressed in the fanciful
costumes of two centuries ago.  The design was a history of something or
somebody, but none of us were learned enough to read the story.  The old
father, reposing under a stone close by, dated 1686, might have told us
if he could have risen.  But he didn't.

As we came down through the town we encountered a squad of little donkeys
ready saddled for use.  The saddles were peculiar, to say the least.
They consisted of a sort of saw-buck with a small mattress on it, and
this furniture covered about half the donkey.  There were no stirrups,
but really such supports were not needed--to use such a saddle was the
next thing to riding a dinner table--there was ample support clear out to
one's knee joints.  A pack of ragged Portuguese muleteers crowded around
us, offering their beasts at half a dollar an hour--more rascality to the
stranger, for the market price is sixteen cents.  Half a dozen of us
mounted the ungainly affairs and submitted to the indignity of making a
ridiculous spectacle of ourselves through the principal streets of a town
of 10,000 inhabitants.

We started.  It was not a trot, a gallop, or a canter, but a stampede,
and made up of all possible or conceivable gaits.  No spurs were
necessary.  There was a muleteer to every donkey and a dozen volunteers
beside, and they banged the donkeys with their goad sticks, and pricked
them with their spikes, and shouted something that sounded like "Sekki-
yah!" and kept up a din and a racket that was worse than Bedlam itself.
These rascals were all on foot, but no matter, they were always up to
time--they can outrun and outlast a donkey.  Altogether, ours was a
lively and a picturesque procession, and drew crowded audiences to the
balconies wherever we went.

Blucher could do nothing at all with his donkey.  The beast scampered
zigzag across the road and the others ran into him; he scraped Blucher
against carts and the corners of houses; the road was fenced in with high
stone walls, and the donkey gave him a polishing first on one side and
then on the other, but never once took the middle; he finally came to the
house he was born in and darted into the parlor, scraping Blucher off at
the doorway.  After remounting, Blucher said to the muleteer, "Now,
that's enough, you know; you go slow hereafter."

But the fellow knew no English and did not understand, so he simply said,
"Sekki-yah!" and the donkey was off again like a shot.  He turned a comer
suddenly, and Blucher went over his head.  And, to speak truly, every
mule stumbled over the two, and the whole cavalcade was piled up in a
heap.  No harm done.  A fall from one of those donkeys is of little more
consequence than rolling off a sofa.  The donkeys all stood still after
the catastrophe and waited for their dismembered saddles to be patched up
and put on by the noisy muleteers.  Blucher was pretty angry and wanted
to swear, but every time he opened his mouth his animal did so also and
let off a series of brays that drowned all other sounds.

It was fun, scurrying around the breezy hills and through the beautiful
canyons.  There was that rare thing, novelty, about it; it was a fresh,
new, exhilarating sensation, this donkey riding, and worth a hundred worn
and threadbare home pleasures.

The roads were a wonder, and well they might be.  Here was an island with
only a handful of people in it--25,000--and yet such fine roads do not
exist in the United States outside of Central Park.  Everywhere you go,
in any direction, you find either a hard, smooth, level thoroughfare,
just sprinkled with black lava sand, and bordered with little gutters
neatly paved with small smooth pebbles, or compactly paved ones like
Broadway.  They talk much of the Russ pavement in New York, and call it a
new invention--yet here they have been using it in this remote little
isle of the sea for two hundred years!  Every street in Horta is
handsomely paved with the heavy Russ blocks, and the surface is neat and
true as a floor--not marred by holes like Broadway.  And every road is
fenced in by tall, solid lava walls, which will last a thousand years in
this land where frost is unknown.  They are very thick, and are often
plastered and whitewashed and capped with projecting slabs of cut stone.
Trees from gardens above hang their swaying tendrils down, and contrast
their bright green with the whitewash or the black lava of the walls and
make them beautiful.  The trees and vines stretch across these narrow
roadways sometimes and so shut out the sun that you seem to be riding
through a tunnel.  The pavements, the roads, and the bridges are all
government work.

The bridges are of a single span--a single arch--of cut stone, without a
support, and paved on top with flags of lava and ornamental pebblework.
Everywhere are walls, walls, walls, and all of them tasteful and
handsome--and eternally substantial; and everywhere are those marvelous
pavements, so neat, so smooth, and so indestructible.  And if ever roads
and streets and the outsides of houses were perfectly free from any sign
or semblance of dirt, or dust, or mud, or uncleanliness of any kind, it
is Horta, it is Fayal.  The lower classes of the people, in their persons
and their domiciles, are not clean--but there it stops--the town and the
island are miracles of cleanliness.

We arrived home again finally, after a ten-mile excursion, and the
irrepressible muleteers scampered at our heels through the main street,
goading the donkeys, shouting the everlasting "Sekki-yah," and singing
"John Brown's Body" in ruinous English.

When we were dismounted and it came to settling, the shouting and jawing
and swearing and quarreling among the muleteers and with us was nearly
deafening.  One fellow would demand a dollar an hour for the use of his
donkey; another claimed half a dollar for pricking him up, another a
quarter for helping in that service, and about fourteen guides presented
bills for showing us the way through the town and its environs; and every
vagrant of them was more vociferous, and more vehement and more frantic
in gesture than his neighbor.  We paid one guide and paid for one
muleteer to each donkey.

The mountains on some of the islands are very high.  We sailed along the
shore of the island of Pico, under a stately green pyramid that rose up
with one unbroken sweep from our very feet to an altitude of 7,613 feet,
and thrust its summit above the white clouds like an island adrift in a
fog!

We got plenty of fresh oranges, lemons, figs, apricots, etc., in these
Azores, of course.  But I will desist.  I am not here to write Patent
Office reports.

We are on our way to Gibraltar, and shall reach there five or six days
out from the Azores.




CHAPTER VII.

A week of buffeting a tempestuous and relentless sea; a week of
seasickness and deserted cabins; of lonely quarterdecks drenched with
spray--spray so ambitious that it even coated the smokestacks thick with
a white crust of salt to their very tops; a week of shivering in the
shelter of the lifeboats and deckhouses by day and blowing suffocating
"clouds" and boisterously performing at dominoes in the smoking room at
night.

And the last night of the seven was the stormiest of all.  There was no
thunder, no noise but the pounding bows of the ship, the keen whistling
of the gale through the cordage, and the rush of the seething waters.
But the vessel climbed aloft as if she would climb to heaven--then paused
an instant that seemed a century and plunged headlong down again, as from
a precipice.  The sheeted sprays drenched the decks like rain.  The
blackness of darkness was everywhere.  At long intervals a flash of
lightning clove it with a quivering line of fire that revealed a heaving
world of water where was nothing before, kindled the dusky cordage to
glittering silver, and lit up the faces of the men with a ghastly luster!

Fear drove many on deck that were used to avoiding the night winds and
the spray.  Some thought the vessel could not live through the night, and
it seemed less dreadful to stand out in the midst of the wild tempest and
see the peril that threatened than to be shut up in the sepulchral
cabins, under the dim lamps, and imagine the horrors that were abroad on
the ocean.  And once out--once where they could see the ship struggling
in the strong grasp of the storm--once where they could hear the shriek
of the winds and face the driving spray and look out upon the majestic
picture the lightnings disclosed, they were prisoners to a fierce
fascination they could not resist, and so remained.  It was a wild night
--and a very, very long one.

Everybody was sent scampering to the deck at seven o'clock this lovely
morning of the thirtieth of June with the glad news that land was in
sight!  It was a rare thing and a joyful, to see all the ship's family
abroad once more, albeit the happiness that sat upon every countenance
could only partly conceal the ravages which that long siege of storms had
wrought there.  But dull eyes soon sparkled with pleasure, pallid cheeks
flushed again, and frames weakened by sickness gathered new life from the
quickening influences of the bright, fresh morning.  Yea, and from a
still more potent influence: the worn castaways were to see the blessed
land again!--and to see it was to bring back that motherland that was in
all their thoughts.

Within the hour we were fairly within the Straits of Gibraltar, the tall
yellow-splotched hills of Africa on our right, with their bases veiled in
a blue haze and their summits swathed in clouds--the same being according
to Scripture, which says that "clouds and darkness are over the land."
The words were spoken of this particular portion of Africa, I believe.
On our left were the granite-ribbed domes of old Spain.  The strait is
only thirteen miles wide in its narrowest part.

At short intervals along the Spanish shore were quaint-looking old stone
towers--Moorish, we thought--but learned better afterwards.  In former
times the Morocco rascals used to coast along the Spanish Main in their
boats till a safe opportunity seemed to present itself, and then dart in
and capture a Spanish village and carry off all the pretty women they
could find.  It was a pleasant business, and was very popular.  The
Spaniards built these watchtowers on the hills to enable them to keep a
sharper lookout on the Moroccan speculators.

The picture on the other hand was very beautiful to eyes weary of the
changeless sea, and by and by the ship's company grew wonderfully
cheerful.  But while we stood admiring the cloud-capped peaks and the
lowlands robed in misty gloom a finer picture burst upon us and chained
every eye like a magnet--a stately ship, with canvas piled on canvas till
she was one towering mass of bellying sail!  She came speeding over the
sea like a great bird.  Africa and Spain were forgotten.  All homage was
for the beautiful stranger.  While everybody gazed she swept superbly by
and flung the Stars and Stripes to the breeze!  Quicker than thought,
hats and handkerchiefs flashed in the air, and a cheer went up!  She was
beautiful before--she was radiant now.  Many a one on our decks knew then
for the first time how tame a sight his country's flag is at home
compared to what it is in a foreign land.  To see it is to see a vision
of home itself and all its idols, and feel a thrill that would stir a
very river of sluggish blood!

We were approaching the famed Pillars of Hercules, and already the
African one, "Ape's Hill," a grand old mountain with summit streaked with
granite ledges, was in sight.  The other, the great Rock of Gibraltar,
was yet to come.  The ancients considered the Pillars of Hercules the
head of navigation and the end of the world.  The information the
ancients didn't have was very voluminous.  Even the prophets wrote book
after book and epistle after epistle, yet never once hinted at the
existence of a great continent on our side of the water; yet they must
have known it was there, I should think.

In a few moments a lonely and enormous mass of rock, standing seemingly
in the center of the wide strait and apparently washed on all sides by
the sea, swung magnificently into view, and we needed no tedious traveled
parrot to tell us it was Gibraltar.  There could not be two rocks like
that in one kingdom.

The Rock of Gibraltar is about a mile and a half long, I should say, by
1,400 to 1,500 feet high, and a quarter of a mile wide at its base.  One
side and one end of it come about as straight up out of the sea as the
side of a house, the other end is irregular and the other side is a steep
slant which an army would find very difficult to climb.  At the foot of
this slant is the walled town of Gibraltar--or rather the town occupies
part of the slant.  Everywhere--on hillside, in the precipice, by the
sea, on the heights--everywhere you choose to look, Gibraltar is clad
with masonry and bristling with guns.  It makes a striking and lively
picture from whatsoever point you contemplate it.  It is pushed out into
the sea on the end of a flat, narrow strip of land, and is suggestive of
a "gob" of mud on the end of a shingle.  A few hundred yards of this flat
ground at its base belongs to the English, and then, extending across the
strip from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, a distance of a quarter of
a mile, comes the "Neutral Ground," a space two or three hundred yards
wide, which is free to both parties.

"Are you going through Spain to Paris?"  That question was bandied about
the ship day and night from Fayal to Gibraltar, and I thought I never
could get so tired of hearing any one combination of words again or more
tired of answering, "I don't know."  At the last moment six or seven had
sufficient decision of character to make up their minds to go, and did
go, and I felt a sense of relief at once--it was forever too late now and
I could make up my mind at my leisure not to go.  I must have a
prodigious quantity of mind; it takes me as much as a week sometimes to
make it up.

But behold how annoyances repeat themselves.  We had no sooner gotten rid
of the Spain distress than the Gibraltar guides started another--a
tiresome repetition of a legend that had nothing very astonishing about
it, even in the first place: "That high hill yonder is called the Queen's
Chair; it is because one of the queens of Spain placed her chair there
when the French and Spanish troops were besieging Gibraltar, and said she
would never move from the spot till the English flag was lowered from the
fortresses.  If the English hadn't been gallant enough to lower the flag
for a few hours one day, she'd have had to break her oath or die up
there."

We rode on asses and mules up the steep, narrow streets and entered the
subterranean galleries the English have blasted out in the rock.  These
galleries are like spacious railway tunnels, and at short intervals in
them great guns frown out upon sea and town through portholes five or six
hundred feet above the ocean.  There is a mile or so of this subterranean
work, and it must have cost a vast deal of money and labor.  The gallery
guns command the peninsula and the harbors of both oceans, but they might
as well not be there, I should think, for an army could hardly climb the
perpendicular wall of the rock anyhow.  Those lofty portholes afford
superb views of the sea, though.  At one place, where a jutting crag was
hollowed out into a great chamber whose furniture was huge cannon and
whose windows were portholes, a glimpse was caught of a hill not far
away, and a soldier said:

"That high hill yonder is called the Queen's Chair; it is because a queen
of Spain placed her chair there once when the French and Spanish troops
were besieging Gibraltar, and said she would never move from the spot
till the English flag was lowered from the fortresses.  If the English
hadn't been gallant enough to lower the flag for a few hours one day,
she'd have had to break her oath or die up there."

On the topmost pinnacle of Gibraltar we halted a good while, and no doubt
the mules were tired.  They had a right to be.  The military road was
good, but rather steep, and there was a good deal of it.  The view from
the narrow ledge was magnificent; from it vessels seeming like the
tiniest little toy boats were turned into noble ships by the telescopes,
and other vessels that were fifty miles away and even sixty, they said,
and invisible to the naked eye, could be clearly distinguished through
those same telescopes.  Below, on one side, we looked down upon an
endless mass of batteries and on the other straight down to the sea.

While I was resting ever so comfortably on a rampart, and cooling my
baking head in the delicious breeze, an officious guide belonging to
another party came up and said:

"Senor, that high hill yonder is called the Queen's Chair--"

"Sir, I am a helpless orphan in a foreign land.  Have pity on me.  Don't
--now don't inflict that most in-FERNAL old legend on me anymore today!"

There--I had used strong language after promising I would never do so
again; but the provocation was more than human nature could bear.  If you
had been bored so, when you had the noble panorama of Spain and Africa
and the blue Mediterranean spread abroad at your feet, and wanted to gaze
and enjoy and surfeit yourself in its beauty in silence, you might have
even burst into stronger language than I did.

Gibraltar has stood several protracted sieges, one of them of nearly four
years' duration (it failed), and the English only captured it by
stratagem.  The wonder is that anybody should ever dream of trying so
impossible a project as the taking it by assault--and yet it has been
tried more than once.

The Moors held the place twelve hundred years ago, and a staunch old
castle of theirs of that date still frowns from the middle of the town,
with moss-grown battlements and sides well scarred by shots fired in
battles and sieges that are forgotten now.  A secret chamber in the rock
behind it was discovered some time ago, which contained a sword of
exquisite workmanship, and some quaint old armor of a fashion that
antiquaries are not acquainted with, though it is supposed to be Roman.
Roman armor and Roman relics of various kinds have been found in a cave
in the sea extremity of Gibraltar; history says Rome held this part of
the country about the Christian era, and these things seem to confirm the
statement.

In that cave also are found human bones, crusted with a very thick, stony
coating, and wise men have ventured to say that those men not only lived
before the flood, but as much as ten thousand years before it.  It may be
true--it looks reasonable enough--but as long as those parties can't vote
anymore, the matter can be of no great public interest.  In this cave
likewise are found skeletons and fossils of animals that exist in every
part of Africa, yet within memory and tradition have never existed in any
portion of Spain save this lone peak of Gibraltar!  So the theory is that
the channel between Gibraltar and Africa was once dry land, and that the
low, neutral neck between Gibraltar and the Spanish hills behind it was
once ocean, and of course that these African animals, being over at
Gibraltar (after rock, perhaps--there is plenty there), got closed out
when the great change occurred.  The hills in Africa, across the channel,
are full of apes, and there are now and always have been apes on the rock
of Gibraltar--but not elsewhere in Spain!  The subject is an interesting
one.

There is an English garrison at Gibraltar of 6,000 or 7,000 men, and so
uniforms of flaming red are plenty; and red and blue, and undress
costumes of snowy white, and also the queer uniform of the bare-kneed
Highlander; and one sees soft-eyed Spanish girls from San Roque, and
veiled Moorish beauties (I suppose they are beauties) from Tarifa, and
turbaned, sashed, and trousered Moorish merchants from Fez, and long-
robed, bare-legged, ragged Muhammadan vagabonds from Tetuan and Tangier,
some brown, some yellow and some as black as virgin ink--and Jews from
all around, in gabardine, skullcap, and slippers, just as they are in
pictures and theaters, and just as they were three thousand years ago, no
doubt.  You can easily understand that a tribe (somehow our pilgrims
suggest that expression, because they march in a straggling procession
through these foreign places with such an Indian-like air of complacency
and independence about them) like ours, made up from fifteen or sixteen
states of the Union, found enough to stare at in this shifting panorama
of fashion today.

Speaking of our pilgrims reminds me that we have one or two people among
us who are sometimes an annoyance.  However, I do not count the Oracle in
that list.  I will explain that the Oracle is an innocent old ass who
eats for four and looks wiser than the whole Academy of France would have
any right to look, and never uses a one-syllable word when he can think
of a longer one, and never by any possible chance knows the meaning of
any long word he uses or ever gets it in the right place; yet he will
serenely venture an opinion on the most abstruse subject and back it up
complacently with quotations from authors who never existed, and finally
when cornered will slide to the other side of the question, say he has
been there all the time, and come back at you with your own spoken
arguments, only with the big words all tangled, and play them in your
very teeth as original with himself.  He reads a chapter in the
guidebooks, mixes the facts all up, with his bad memory, and then goes
off to inflict the whole mess on somebody as wisdom which has been
festering in his brain for years and which he gathered in college from
erudite authors who are dead now and out of print.  This morning at
breakfast he pointed out of the window and said:

"Do you see that there hill out there on that African coast?  It's one of
them Pillows of Herkewls, I should say--and there's the ultimate one
alongside of it."

"The ultimate one--that is a good word--but the pillars are not both on
the same side of the strait."  (I saw he had been deceived by a
carelessly written sentence in the guidebook.)

"Well, it ain't for you to say, nor for me.  Some authors states it that
way, and some states it different.  Old Gibbons don't say nothing about
it--just shirks it complete--Gibbons always done that when he got stuck--
but there is Rolampton, what does he say?  Why, be says that they was
both on the same side, and Trinculian, and Sobaster, and Syraccus, and
Langomarganbl----"

"Oh, that will do--that's enough.  If you have got your hand in for
inventing authors and testimony, I have nothing more to say--let them be
on the same side."

We don't mind the Oracle.  We rather like him.  We can tolerate the
Oracle very easily, but we have a poet and a good-natured enterprising
idiot on board, and they do distress the company.  The one gives copies
of his verses to consuls, commanders, hotel keepers, Arabs, Dutch--to
anybody, in fact, who will submit to a grievous infliction most kindly
meant.  His poetry is all very well on shipboard, notwithstanding when he
wrote an "Ode to the Ocean in a Storm" in one half hour, and an
"Apostrophe to the Rooster in the Waist of the Ship" in the next, the
transition was considered to be rather abrupt; but when he sends an
invoice of rhymes to the Governor of Fayal and another to the commander
in chief and other dignitaries in Gibraltar with the compliments of the
Laureate of the Ship, it is not popular with the passengers.

The other personage I have mentioned is young and green, and not bright,
not learned, and not wise.  He will be, though, someday if he recollects
the answers to all his questions.  He is known about the ship as the
"Interrogation Point," and this by constant use has become shortened to
"Interrogation."  He has distinguished himself twice already.  In Fayal
they pointed out a hill and told him it was 800 feet high and 1,100 feet
long.  And they told him there was a tunnel 2,000 feet long and 1,000
feet high running through the hill, from end to end.  He believed it.  He
repeated it to everybody, discussed it, and read it from his notes.
Finally, he took a useful hint from this remark, which a thoughtful old
pilgrim made:

"Well, yes, it is a little remarkable--singular tunnel altogether--stands
up out of the top of the hill about two hundred feet, and one end of it
sticks out of the hill about nine hundred!"

Here in Gibraltar he corners these educated British officers and badgers
them with braggadocio about America and the wonders she can perform!  He
told one of them a couple of our gunboats could come here and knock
Gibraltar into the Mediterranean Sea!

At this present moment half a dozen of us are taking a private pleasure
excursion of our own devising.  We form rather more than half the list of
white passengers on board a small steamer bound for the venerable Moorish
town of Tangier, Africa.  Nothing could be more absolutely certain than
that we are enjoying ourselves.  One can not do otherwise who speeds over
these sparkling waters and breathes the soft atmosphere of this sunny
land.  Care cannot assail us here.  We are out of its jurisdiction.

We even steamed recklessly by the frowning fortress of Malabat
(a stronghold of the Emperor of Morocco) without a twinge of fear.
The whole garrison turned out under arms and assumed a threatening
attitude--yet still we did not fear.  The entire garrison marched and
counter-marched within the rampart, in full view--yet notwithstanding
even this, we never flinched.

I suppose we really do not know what fear is.  I inquired the name of the
garrison of the fortress of Malabat, and they said it was Mehemet Ali Ben
Sancom.  I said it would be a good idea to get some more garrisons to
help him; but they said no, he had nothing to do but hold the place, and
he was competent to do that, had done it two years already.  That was
evidence which one could not well refute.  There is nothing like
reputation.

Every now and then my glove purchase in Gibraltar last night intrudes
itself upon me.  Dan and the ship's surgeon and I had been up to the
great square, listening to the music of the fine military bands and
contemplating English and Spanish female loveliness and fashion, and at
nine o'clock were on our way to the theater, when we met the General, the
Judge, the Commodore, the Colonel, and the Commissioner of the United
States of America to Europe, Asia, and Africa, who had been to the Club
House to register their several titles and impoverish the bill of fare;
and they told us to go over to the little variety store near the Hall of
Justice and buy some kid gloves.  They said they were elegant and very
moderate in price.  It seemed a stylish thing to go to the theater in kid
gloves, and we acted upon the hint.  A very handsome young lady in the
store offered me a pair of blue gloves.  I did not want blue, but she
said they would look very pretty on a hand like mine.  The remark touched
me tenderly.  I glanced furtively at my hand, and somehow it did seem
rather a comely member.  I tried a glove on my left and blushed a little.
Manifestly the size was too small for me.  But I felt gratified when she
said:

"Oh, it is just right!"  Yet I knew it was no such thing.

I tugged at it diligently, but it was discouraging work.  She said:

"Ah!  I see you are accustomed to wearing kid gloves--but some gentlemen
are so awkward about putting them on."

It was the last compliment I had expected.  I only understand putting on
the buckskin article perfectly.  I made another effort and tore the glove
from the base of the thumb into the palm of the hand--and tried to hide
the rent.  She kept up her compliments, and I kept up my determination to
deserve them or die:

"Ah, you have had experience!  [A rip down the back of the hand.] They
are just right for you--your hand is very small--if they tear you need
not pay for them.  [A rent across the middle.]  I can always tell when a
gentleman understands putting on kid gloves.  There is a grace about it
that only comes with long practice."  The whole after-guard of the glove
"fetched away," as the sailors say, the fabric parted across the
knuckles, and nothing was left but a melancholy ruin.

I was too much flattered to make an exposure and throw the merchandise on
the angel's hands.  I was hot, vexed, confused, but still happy; but I
hated the other boys for taking such an absorbing interest in the
proceedings.  I wished they were in Jericho.  I felt exquisitely mean
when I said cheerfully:

"This one does very well; it fits elegantly.  I like a glove that fits.
No, never mind, ma'am, never mind; I'll put the other on in the street.
It is warm here."

It was warm.  It was the warmest place I ever was in.  I paid the bill,
and as I passed out with a fascinating bow I thought I detected a light
in the woman's eye that was gently ironical; and when I looked back from
the street, and she was laughing all to herself about something or other,
I said to myself with withering sarcasm, "Oh, certainly; you know how to
put on kid gloves, don't you?  A self-complacent ass, ready to be
flattered out of your senses by every petticoat that chooses to take the
trouble to do it!"

The silence of the boys annoyed me.  Finally Dan said musingly:

"Some gentlemen don't know how to put on kid gloves at all, but some do."

And the doctor said (to the moon, I thought):

"But it is always easy to tell when a gentleman is used to putting on kid
gloves."

Dan soliloquized after a pause:

"Ah, yes; there is a grace about it that only comes with long, very long
practice."

"Yes, indeed, I've noticed that when a man hauls on a kid glove like he
was dragging a cat out of an ash hole by the tail, he understands putting
on kid gloves; he's had ex--"

"Boys, enough of a thing's enough!  You think you are very smart, I
suppose, but I don't.  And if you go and tell any of those old gossips in
the ship about this thing, I'll never forgive you for it; that's all."

They let me alone then for the time being.  We always let each other
alone in time to prevent ill feeling from spoiling a joke.  But they had
bought gloves, too, as I did.  We threw all the purchases away together
this morning.  They were coarse, unsubstantial, freckled all over with
broad yellow splotches, and could neither stand wear nor public
exhibition.  We had entertained an angel unawares, but we did not take
her in.  She did that for us.

Tangier!  A tribe of stalwart Moors are wading into the sea to carry us
ashore on their backs from the small boats.




CHAPTER VIII.

This is royal!  Let those who went up through Spain make the best of it--
these dominions of the Emperor of Morocco suit our little party well
enough.  We have had enough of Spain at Gibraltar for the present.
Tangier is the spot we have been longing for all the time.  Elsewhere we
have found foreign-looking things and foreign-looking people, but always
with things and people intermixed that we were familiar with before, and
so the novelty of the situation lost a deal of its force.  We wanted
something thoroughly and uncompromisingly foreign--foreign from top to
bottom--foreign from center to circumference--foreign inside and outside
and all around--nothing anywhere about it to dilute its foreignness--
nothing to remind us of any other people or any other land under the sun.
And lo!  In Tangier we have found it.  Here is not the slightest thing
that ever we have seen save in pictures--and we always mistrusted the
pictures before.  We cannot anymore.  The pictures used to seem
exaggerations--they seemed too weird and fanciful for reality.  But
behold, they were not wild enough--they were not fanciful enough--they
have not told half the story.  Tangier is a foreign land if ever there
was one, and the true spirit of it can never be found in any book save
The Arabian Nights.  Here are no white men visible, yet swarms of
humanity are all about us.  Here is a packed and jammed city enclosed in
a massive stone wall which is more than a thousand years old.  All the
houses nearly are one-and two-story, made of thick walls of stone,
plastered outside, square as a dry-goods box, flat as a floor on top, no
cornices, whitewashed all over--a crowded city of snowy tombs!  And the
doors are arched with the peculiar arch we see in Moorish pictures; the
floors are laid in varicolored diamond flags; in tesselated, many-colored
porcelain squares wrought in the furnaces of Fez; in red tiles and broad
bricks that time cannot wear; there is no furniture in the rooms (of
Jewish dwellings) save divans--what there is in Moorish ones no man may
know; within their sacred walls no Christian dog can enter.  And the
streets are oriental--some of them three feet wide, some six, but only
two that are over a dozen; a man can blockade the most of them by
extending his body across them.  Isn't it an oriental picture?

There are stalwart Bedouins of the desert here, and stately Moors proud
of a history that goes back to the night of time; and Jews whose fathers
fled hither centuries upon centuries ago; and swarthy Riffians from the
mountains--born cut-throats--and original, genuine Negroes as black as
Moses; and howling dervishes and a hundred breeds of Arabs--all sorts and
descriptions of people that are foreign and curious to look upon.

And their dresses are strange beyond all description.  Here is a bronzed
Moor in a prodigious white turban, curiously embroidered jacket, gold and
crimson sash, of many folds, wrapped round and round his waist, trousers
that only come a little below his knee and yet have twenty yards of stuff
in them, ornamented scimitar, bare shins, stockingless feet, yellow
slippers, and gun of preposterous length--a mere soldier!--I thought he
was the Emperor at least.  And here are aged Moors with flowing white
beards and long white robes with vast cowls; and Bedouins with long,
cowled, striped cloaks; and Negroes and Riffians with heads clean-shaven
except a kinky scalp lock back of the ear or, rather, upon the after
corner of the skull; and all sorts of barbarians in all sorts of weird
costumes, and all more or less ragged.  And here are Moorish women who
are enveloped from head to foot in coarse white robes, and whose sex can
only be determined by the fact that they only leave one eye visible and
never look at men of their own race, or are looked at by them in public.
Here are five thousand Jews in blue gabardines, sashes about their
waists, slippers upon their feet, little skullcaps upon the backs of
their heads, hair combed down on the forehead, and cut straight across
the middle of it from side to side--the selfsame fashion their Tangier
ancestors have worn for I don't know how many bewildering centuries.
Their feet and ankles are bare.  Their noses are all hooked, and hooked
alike.  They all resemble each other so much that one could almost
believe they were of one family.  Their women are plump and pretty, and
do smile upon a Christian in a way which is in the last degree
comforting.

What a funny old town it is!  It seems like profanation to laugh and jest
and bandy the frivolous chat of our day amid its hoary relics.  Only the
stately phraseology and the measured speech of the sons of the Prophet
are suited to a venerable antiquity like this.  Here is a crumbling wall
that was old when Columbus discovered America; was old when Peter the
Hermit roused the knightly men of the Middle Ages to arm for the first
Crusade; was old when Charlemagne and his paladins beleaguered enchanted
castles and battled with giants and genii in the fabled days of the olden
time; was old when Christ and his disciples walked the earth; stood where
it stands today when the lips of Memnon were vocal and men bought and
sold in the streets of ancient Thebes!

The Phoenicians, the Carthagenians, the English, Moors, Romans, all have
battled for Tangier--all have won it and lost it.  Here is a ragged,
oriental-looking Negro from some desert place in interior Africa, filling
his goatskin with water from a stained and battered fountain built by the
Romans twelve hundred years ago.  Yonder is a ruined arch of a bridge
built by Julius Caesar nineteen hundred years ago.  Men who had seen the
infant Saviour in the Virgin's arms have stood upon it, maybe.

Near it are the ruins of a dockyard where Caesar repaired his ships and
loaded them with grain when he invaded Britain, fifty years before the
Christian era.

Here, under the quiet stars, these old streets seem thronged with the
phantoms of forgotten ages.  My eyes are resting upon a spot where stood
a monument which was seen and described by Roman historians less than two
thousand years ago, whereon was inscribed:

               "WE ARE THE CANAANITES.  WE ARE THEY THAT
               HAVE BEEN DRIVEN OUT OF THE LAND OF CANAAN
               BY THE JEWISH ROBBER, JOSHUA."

Joshua drove them out, and they came here.  Not many leagues from here is
a tribe of Jews whose ancestors fled thither after an unsuccessful revolt
against King David, and these their descendants are still under a ban and
keep to themselves.

Tangier has been mentioned in history for three thousand years.  And it
was a town, though a queer one, when Hercules, clad in his lion skin,
landed here, four thousand years ago.  In these streets he met Anitus,
the king of the country, and brained him with his club, which was the
fashion among gentlemen in those days.  The people of Tangier (called
Tingis then) lived in the rudest possible huts and dressed in skins and
carried clubs, and were as savage as the wild beasts they were constantly
obliged to war with.  But they were a gentlemanly race and did no work.
They lived on the natural products of the land.  Their king's country
residence was at the famous Garden of Hesperides, seventy miles down the
coast from here.  The garden, with its golden apples (oranges), is gone
now--no vestige of it remains.  Antiquarians concede that such a
personage as Hercules did exist in ancient times and agree that he was an
enterprising and energetic man, but decline to believe him a good, bona-
fide god, because that would be unconstitutional.

Down here at Cape Spartel is the celebrated cave of Hercules, where that
hero took refuge when he was vanquished and driven out of the Tangier
country.  It is full of inscriptions in the dead languages, which fact
makes me think Hercules could not have traveled much, else he would not
have kept a journal.

Five days' journey from here--say two hundred miles--are the ruins of an
ancient city, of whose history there is neither record nor tradition.
And yet its arches, its columns, and its statues proclaim it to have been
built by an enlightened race.

The general size of a store in Tangier is about that of an ordinary
shower bath in a civilized land.  The Muhammadan merchant, tinman,
shoemaker, or vendor of trifles sits cross-legged on the floor and
reaches after any article you may want to buy.  You can rent a whole
block of these pigeonholes for fifty dollars a month.  The market people
crowd the marketplace with their baskets of figs, dates, melons,
apricots, etc., and among them file trains of laden asses, not much
larger, if any, than a Newfoundland dog.  The scene is lively, is
picturesque, and smells like a police court.  The Jewish money-changers
have their dens close at hand, and all day long are counting bronze coins
and transferring them from one bushel basket to another.  They don't coin
much money nowadays, I think.  I saw none but what was dated four or five
hundred years back, and was badly worn and battered.  These coins are not
very valuable.  Jack went out to get a napoleon changed, so as to have
money suited to the general cheapness of things, and came back and said
he bad "swamped the bank, had bought eleven quarts of coin, and the head
of the firm had gone on the street to negotiate for the balance of the
change."  I bought nearly half a pint of their money for a shilling
myself.  I am not proud on account of having so much money, though.  I
care nothing for wealth.

The Moors have some small silver coins and also some silver slugs worth a
dollar each.  The latter are exceedingly scarce--so much so that when
poor ragged Arabs see one they beg to be allowed to kiss it.

They have also a small gold coin worth two dollars.  And that reminds me
of something.  When Morocco is in a state of war, Arab couriers carry
letters through the country and charge a liberal postage.  Every now and
then they fall into the hands of marauding bands and get robbed.
Therefore, warned by experience, as soon as they have collected two
dollars' worth of money they exchange it for one of those little gold
pieces, and when robbers come upon them, swallow it.  The stratagem was
good while it was unsuspected, but after that the marauders simply gave
the sagacious United States mail an emetic and sat down to wait.

The Emperor of Morocco is a soulless despot, and the great officers under
him are despots on a smaller scale.  There is no regular system of
taxation, but when the Emperor or the Bashaw want money, they levy on
some rich man, and he has to furnish the cash or go to prison.
Therefore, few men in Morocco dare to be rich.  It is too dangerous a
luxury.  Vanity occasionally leads a man to display wealth, but sooner or
later the Emperor trumps up a charge against him--any sort of one will
do--and confiscates his property.  Of course, there are many rich men in
the empire, but their money is buried, and they dress in rags and
counterfeit poverty.  Every now and then the Emperor imprisons a man who
is suspected of the crime of being rich, and makes things so
uncomfortable for him that he is forced to discover where he has hidden
his money.

Moors and Jews sometimes place themselves under the protection of the
foreign consuls, and then they can flout their riches in the Emperor's
face with impunity.




CHAPTER IX.

About the first adventure we had yesterday afternoon, after landing here,
came near finishing that heedless Blucher.  We had just mounted some
mules and asses and started out under the guardianship of the stately,
the princely, the magnificent Hadji Muhammad Lamarty (may his tribe
increase!) when we came upon a fine Moorish mosque, with tall tower, rich
with checker-work of many-colored porcelain, and every part and portion
of the edifice adorned with the quaint architecture of the Alhambra, and
Blucher started to ride into the open doorway.  A startling "Hi-hi!" from
our camp followers and a loud "Halt!" from an English gentleman in the
party checked the adventurer, and then we were informed that so dire a
profanation is it for a Christian dog to set foot upon the sacred
threshold of a Moorish mosque that no amount of purification can ever
make it fit for the faithful to pray in again.  Had Blucher succeeded in
entering the place, he would no doubt have been chased through the town
and stoned; and the time has been, and not many years ago, either, when a
Christian would have been most ruthlessly slaughtered if captured in a
mosque.  We caught a glimpse of the handsome tessellated pavements within
and of the devotees performing their ablutions at the fountains, but even
that we took that glimpse was a thing not relished by the Moorish
bystanders.

Some years ago the clock in the tower of the mosque got out of order.
The Moors of Tangier have so degenerated that it has been long since
there was an artificer among them capable of curing so delicate a patient
as a debilitated clock.  The great men of the city met in solemn conclave
to consider how the difficulty was to be met.  They discussed the matter
thoroughly but arrived at no solution.  Finally, a patriarch arose and
said:

"Oh, children of the Prophet, it is known unto you that a Portuguee dog
of a Christian clock mender pollutes the city of Tangier with his
presence.  Ye know, also, that when mosques are builded, asses bear the
stones and the cement, and cross the sacred threshold.  Now, therefore,
send the Christian dog on all fours, and barefoot, into the holy place to
mend the clock, and let him go as an ass!"

And in that way it was done.  Therefore, if Blucher ever sees the inside
of a mosque, he will have to cast aside his humanity and go in his
natural character.  We visited the jail and found Moorish prisoners
making mats and baskets.  (This thing of utilizing crime savors of
civilization.)  Murder is punished with death.  A short time ago three
murderers were taken beyond the city walls and shot.  Moorish guns are
not good, and neither are Moorish marksmen.  In this instance they set up
the poor criminals at long range, like so many targets, and practiced on
them--kept them hopping about and dodging bullets for half an hour before
they managed to drive the center.

When a man steals cattle, they cut off his right hand and left leg and
nail them up in the marketplace as a warning to everybody.  Their surgery
is not artistic.  They slice around the bone a little, then break off the
limb.  Sometimes the patient gets well; but, as a general thing, he
don't.  However, the Moorish heart is stout.  The Moors were always
brave.  These criminals undergo the fearful operation without a wince,
without a tremor of any kind, without a groan!  No amount of suffering
can bring down the pride of a Moor or make him shame his dignity with a
cry.

Here, marriage is contracted by the parents of the parties to it.  There
are no valentines, no stolen interviews, no riding out, no courting in
dim parlors, no lovers' quarrels and reconciliations--no nothing that is
proper to approaching matrimony.  The young man takes the girl his father
selects for him, marries her, and after that she is unveiled, and he sees
her for the first time.  If after due acquaintance she suits him, he
retains her; but if he suspects her purity, he bundles her back to her
father; if he finds her diseased, the same; or if, after just and
reasonable time is allowed her, she neglects to bear children, back she
goes to the home of her childhood.

Muhammadans here who can afford it keep a good many wives on hand.  They
are called wives, though I believe the Koran only allows four genuine
wives--the rest are concubines.  The Emperor of Morocco don't know how
many wives he has, but thinks he has five hundred.  However, that is near
enough--a dozen or so, one way or the other, don't matter.

Even the Jews in the interior have a plurality of wives.

I have caught a glimpse of the faces of several Moorish women (for they
are only human, and will expose their faces for the admiration of a
Christian dog when no male Moor is by), and I am full of veneration for
the wisdom that leads them to cover up such atrocious ugliness.

They carry their children at their backs, in a sack, like other savages
the world over.

Many of the Negroes are held in slavery by the Moors.  But the moment a
female slave becomes her master's concubine her bonds are broken, and as
soon as a male slave can read the first chapter of the Koran (which
contains the creed) he can no longer be held in bondage.

They have three Sundays a week in Tangier.  The Muhammadans' comes on
Friday, the Jews' on Saturday, and that of the Christian Consuls on
Sunday.  The Jews are the most radical.  The Moor goes to his mosque
about noon on his Sabbath, as on any other day, removes his shoes at the
door, performs his ablutions, makes his salaams, pressing his forehead to
the pavement time and again, says his prayers, and goes back to his work.

But the Jew shuts up shop; will not touch copper or bronze money at all;
soils his fingers with nothing meaner than silver and gold; attends the
synagogue devoutly; will not cook or have anything to do with fire; and
religiously refrains from embarking in any enterprise.

The Moor who has made a pilgrimage to Mecca is entitled to high
distinction.  Men call him Hadji, and he is thenceforward a great
personage.  Hundreds of Moors come to Tangier every year and embark for
Mecca.  They go part of the way in English steamers, and the ten or
twelve dollars they pay for passage is about all the trip costs.  They
take with them a quantity of food, and when the commissary department
fails they "skirmish," as Jack terms it in his sinful, slangy way.  From
the time they leave till they get home again, they never wash, either on
land or sea.  They are usually gone from five to seven months, and as
they do not change their clothes during all that time, they are totally
unfit for the drawing room when they get back.

Many of them have to rake and scrape a long time to gather together the
ten dollars their steamer passage costs, and when one of them gets back
he is a bankrupt forever after.  Few Moors can ever build up their
fortunes again in one short lifetime after so reckless an outlay.  In
order to confine the dignity of Hadji to gentlemen of patrician blood and
possessions, the Emperor decreed that no man should make the pilgrimage
save bloated aristocrats who were worth a hundred dollars in specie.  But
behold how iniquity can circumvent the law!  For a consideration, the
Jewish money-changer lends the pilgrim one hundred dollars long enough
for him to swear himself through, and then receives it back before the
ship sails out of the harbor!

Spain is the only nation the Moors fear.  The reason is that Spain sends
her heaviest ships of war and her loudest guns to astonish these Muslims,
while America and other nations send only a little contemptible tub of a
gunboat occasionally.  The Moors, like other savages, learn by what they
see, not what they hear or read.  We have great fleets in the
Mediterranean, but they seldom touch at African ports.  The Moors have a
small opinion of England, France, and America, and put their
representatives to a deal of red-tape circumlocution before they grant
them their common rights, let alone a favor.  But the moment the Spanish
minister makes a demand, it is acceded to at once, whether it be just or
not.

Spain chastised the Moors five or six years ago, about a disputed piece
of property opposite Gibraltar, and captured the city of Tetouan.  She
compromised on an augmentation of her territory, twenty million dollars'
indemnity in money, and peace.  And then she gave up the city.  But she
never gave it up until the Spanish soldiers had eaten up all the cats.
They would not compromise as long as the cats held out.  Spaniards are
very fond of cats.  On the contrary, the Moors reverence cats as
something sacred.  So the Spaniards touched them on a tender point that
time.  Their unfeline conduct in eating up all the Tetouan cats aroused a
hatred toward them in the breasts of the Moors, to which even the driving
them out of Spain was tame and passionless.  Moors and Spaniards are foes
forever now.  France had a minister here once who embittered the nation
against him in the most innocent way.  He killed a couple of battalions
of cats (Tangier is full of them) and made a parlor carpet out of their
hides.  He made his carpet in circles--first a circle of old gray
tomcats, with their tails all pointing toward the center; then a circle
of yellow cats; next a circle of black cats and a circle of white ones;
then a circle of all sorts of cats; and, finally, a centerpiece of
assorted kittens.  It was very beautiful, but the Moors curse his memory
to this day.

When we went to call on our American Consul General today I noticed that
all possible games for parlor amusement seemed to be represented on his
center tables.  I thought that hinted at lonesomeness.  The idea was
correct.  His is the only American family in Tangier.  There are many
foreign consuls in this place, but much visiting is not indulged in.
Tangier is clear out of the world, and what is the use of visiting when
people have nothing on earth to talk about?  There is none.  So each
consul's family stays at home chiefly and amuses itself as best it can.
Tangier is full of interest for one day, but after that it is a weary
prison.  The Consul General has been here five years, and has got enough
of it to do him for a century, and is going home shortly.  His family
seize upon their letters and papers when the mail arrives, read them over
and over again for two days or three, talk them over and over again for
two or three more till they wear them out, and after that for days
together they eat and drink and sleep, and ride out over the same old
road, and see the same old tiresome things that even decades of centuries
have scarcely changed, and say never a single word!  They have literally
nothing whatever to talk about.  The arrival of an American man-of-war is
a godsend to them.  "O Solitude, where are the charms which sages have
seen in thy face?"  It is the completest exile that I can conceive of.
I would seriously recommend to the government of the United States that
when a man commits a crime so heinous that the law provides no adequate
punishment for it, they make him Consul General to Tangier.

I am glad to have seen Tangier--the second-oldest town in the world.  But
I am ready to bid it good-bye, I believe.

We shall go hence to Gibraltar this evening or in the morning, and
doubtless the Quaker City will sail from that port within the next forty-
eight hours.




CHAPTER X.

We passed the Fourth of July on board the Quaker City, in mid-ocean.  It
was in all respects a characteristic Mediterranean day--faultlessly
beautiful.  A cloudless sky; a refreshing summer wind; a radiant sunshine
that glinted cheerily from dancing wavelets instead of crested mountains
of water; a sea beneath us that was so wonderfully blue, so richly,
brilliantly blue, that it overcame the dullest sensibilities with the
spell of its fascination.

They even have fine sunsets on the Mediterranean--a thing that is
certainly rare in most quarters of the globe.  The evening we sailed away
from Gibraltar, that hard-featured rock was swimming in a creamy mist so
rich, so soft, so enchantingly vague and dreamy, that even the Oracle,
that serene, that inspired, that overpowering humbug, scorned the dinner
gong and tarried to worship!

He said: "Well, that's gorgis, ain't it!  They don't have none of them
things in our parts, do they?  I consider that them effects is on account
of the superior refragability, as you may say, of the sun's diramic
combination with the lymphatic forces of the perihelion of Jubiter.  What
should you think?"

"Oh, go to bed!" Dan said that, and went away.

"Oh, yes, it's all very well to say go to bed when a man makes an
argument which another man can't answer.  Dan don't never stand any
chance in an argument with me.  And he knows it, too.  What should you
say, Jack?"

"Now, Doctor, don't you come bothering around me with that dictionary
bosh.  I don't do you any harm, do I?  Then you let me alone."

"He's gone, too.  Well, them fellows have all tackled the old Oracle, as
they say, but the old man's most too many for 'em.  Maybe the Poet Lariat
ain't satisfied with them deductions?"

The poet replied with a barbarous rhyme and went below.

"'Pears that he can't qualify, neither.  Well, I didn't expect nothing
out of him.  I never see one of them poets yet that knowed anything.
He'll go down now and grind out about four reams of the awfullest slush
about that old rock and give it to a consul, or a pilot, or a nigger, or
anybody he comes across first which he can impose on.  Pity but
somebody'd take that poor old lunatic and dig all that poetry rubbage out
of him.  Why can't a man put his intellect onto things that's some value?
Gibbons, and Hippocratus, and Sarcophagus, and all them old ancient
philosophers was down on poets--"

"Doctor," I said, "you are going to invent authorities now and I'll leave
you, too.  I always enjoy your conversation, notwithstanding the
luxuriance of your syllables, when the philosophy you offer rests on your
own responsibility; but when you begin to soar--when you begin to support
it with the evidence of authorities who are the creations of your own
fancy--I lose confidence."

That was the way to flatter the doctor.  He considered it a sort of
acknowledgment on my part of a fear to argue with him.  He was always
persecuting the passengers with abstruse propositions framed in language
that no man could understand, and they endured the exquisite torture a
minute or two and then abandoned the field.  A triumph like this, over
half a dozen antagonists was sufficient for one day; from that time
forward he would patrol the decks beaming blandly upon all comers, and so
tranquilly, blissfully happy!

But I digress.  The thunder of our two brave cannon announced the Fourth
of July, at daylight, to all who were awake.  But many of us got our
information at a later hour, from the almanac.  All the flags were sent
aloft except half a dozen that were needed to decorate portions of the
ship below, and in a short time the vessel assumed a holiday appearance.
During the morning, meetings were held and all manner of committees set
to work on the celebration ceremonies.  In the afternoon the ship's
company assembled aft, on deck, under the awnings; the flute, the
asthmatic melodeon, and the consumptive clarinet crippled "The Star-
Spangled Banner," the choir chased it to cover, and George came in with a
peculiarly lacerating screech on the final note and slaughtered it.
Nobody mourned.

We carried out the corpse on three cheers (that joke was not intentional
and I do not endorse it), and then the President, throned behind a cable
locker with a national flag spread over it, announced the "Reader," who
rose up and read that same old Declaration of Independence which we have
all listened to so often without paying any attention to what it said;
and after that the President piped the Orator of the Day to quarters and
he made that same old speech about our national greatness which we so
religiously believe and so fervently applaud.  Now came the choir into
court again, with the complaining instruments, and assaulted "Hail
Columbia"; and when victory hung wavering in the scale, George returned
with his dreadful wild-goose stop turned on and the choir won, of course.
A minister pronounced the benediction, and the patriotic little gathering
disbanded.  The Fourth of July was safe, as far as the Mediterranean was
concerned.

At dinner in the evening, a well-written original poem was recited with
spirit by one of the ship's captains, and thirteen regular toasts were
washed down with several baskets of champagne.  The speeches were bad--
execrable almost without exception.  In fact, without any exception but
one.  Captain Duncan made a good speech; he made the only good speech of
the evening.  He said:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:--May we all live to a green old age and be
prosperous and happy.  Steward, bring up another basket of champagne."

It was regarded as a very able effort.

The festivities, so to speak, closed with another of those miraculous
balls on the promenade deck.  We were not used to dancing on an even
keel, though, and it was only a questionable success.  But take it all
together, it was a bright, cheerful, pleasant Fourth.

Toward nightfall the next evening, we steamed into the great artificial
harbor of this noble city of Marseilles, and saw the dying sunlight gild
its clustering spires and ramparts, and flood its leagues of environing
verdure with a mellow radiance that touched with an added charm the white
villas that flecked the landscape far and near.  [Copyright secured
according to law.]

There were no stages out, and we could not get on the pier from the ship.
It was annoying.  We were full of enthusiasm--we wanted to see France!
Just at nightfall our party of three contracted with a waterman for the
privilege of using his boat as a bridge--its stern was at our companion
ladder and its bow touched the pier.  We got in and the fellow backed out
into the harbor.  I told him in French that all we wanted was to walk
over his thwarts and step ashore, and asked him what he went away out
there for.  He said he could not understand me.  I repeated.  Still he
could not understand.  He appeared to be very ignorant of French.  The
doctor tried him, but he could not understand the doctor.  I asked this
boatman to explain his conduct, which he did; and then I couldn't
understand him.  Dan said:

"Oh, go to the pier, you old fool--that's where we want to go!"

We reasoned calmly with Dan that it was useless to speak to this
foreigner in English--that he had better let us conduct this business in
the French language and not let the stranger see how uncultivated he was.

"Well, go on, go on," he said, "don't mind me.  I don't wish to
interfere.  Only, if you go on telling him in your kind of French, he
never will find out where we want to go to.  That is what I think about
it."

We rebuked him severely for this remark and said we never knew an
ignorant person yet but was prejudiced.  The Frenchman spoke again, and
the doctor said:

"There now, Dan, he says he is going to allez to the douain.  Means he is
going to the hotel.  Oh, certainly--we don't know the French language."

This was a crusher, as Jack would say.  It silenced further criticism
from the disaffected member.  We coasted past the sharp bows of a navy of
great steamships and stopped at last at a government building on a stone
pier.  It was easy to remember then that the douain was the customhouse
and not the hotel.  We did not mention it, however.  With winning French
politeness the officers merely opened and closed our satchels, declined
to examine our passports, and sent us on our way.  We stopped at the
first cafe we came to and entered.  An old woman seated us at a table and
waited for orders.  The doctor said:

"Avez-vous du vin?"

The dame looked perplexed.  The doctor said again, with elaborate
distinctness of articulation:

"Avez-vous du--vin!"

The dame looked more perplexed than before.  I said:

"Doctor, there is a flaw in your pronunciation somewhere.  Let me try
her.  Madame, avez-vous du vin?--It isn't any use, Doctor--take the
witness."

"Madame, avez-vous du vin--du fromage--pain--pickled pigs' feet--beurre--
des oeufs--du boeuf--horseradish, sauerkraut, hog and hominy--anything,
anything in the world that can stay a Christian stomach!"

She said:

"Bless you, why didn't you speak English before?  I don't know anything
about your plagued French!"

The humiliating taunts of the disaffected member spoiled the supper, and
we dispatched it in angry silence and got away as soon as we could.  Here
we were in beautiful France--in a vast stone house of quaint
architecture--surrounded by all manner of curiously worded French signs--
stared at by strangely habited, bearded French people--everything
gradually and surely forcing upon us the coveted consciousness that at
last, and beyond all question, we were in beautiful France and absorbing
its nature to the forgetfulness of everything else, and coming to feel
the happy romance of the thing in all its enchanting delightfulness--and
to think of this skinny veteran intruding with her vile English, at such
a moment, to blow the fair vision to the winds!  It was exasperating.

We set out to find the centre of the city, inquiring the direction every
now and then.  We never did succeed in making anybody understand just
exactly what we wanted, and neither did we ever succeed in comprehending
just exactly what they said in reply, but then they always pointed--they
always did that--and we bowed politely and said, "Merci, monsieur," and
so it was a blighting triumph over the disaffected member anyway.  He was
restive under these victories and often asked:

"What did that pirate say?"

"Why, he told us which way to go to find the Grand Casino."

"Yes, but what did he say?"

"Oh, it don't matter what he said--we understood him.  These are educated
people--not like that absurd boatman."

"Well, I wish they were educated enough to tell a man a direction that
goes some where--for we've been going around in a circle for an hour.
I've passed this same old drugstore seven times."

We said it was a low, disreputable falsehood (but we knew it was not).
It was plain that it would not do to pass that drugstore again, though--
we might go on asking directions, but we must cease from following
finger-pointings if we hoped to check the suspicions of the disaffected
member.

A long walk through smooth, asphaltum-paved streets bordered by blocks of
vast new mercantile houses of cream-colored stone every house and every
block precisely like all the other houses and all the other blocks for a
mile, and all brilliantly lighted--brought us at last to the principal
thoroughfare.  On every hand were bright colors, flashing constellations
of gas burners, gaily dressed men and women thronging the sidewalks--
hurry, life, activity, cheerfulness, conversation, and laughter
everywhere!  We found the Grand Hotel du Louvre et de la Paix, and wrote
down who we were, where we were born, what our occupations were, the
place we came from last, whether we were married or single, how we liked
it, how old we were, where we were bound for and when we expected to get
there, and a great deal of information of similar importance--all for the
benefit of the landlord and the secret police.  We hired a guide and
began the business of sightseeing immediately.  That first night on
French soil was a stirring one.  I cannot think of half the places we
went to or what we particularly saw; we had no disposition to examine
carefully into anything at all--we only wanted to glance and go--to move,
keep moving!  The spirit of the country was upon us.  We sat down,
finally, at a late hour, in the great Casino, and called for unstinted
champagne.  It is so easy to be bloated aristocrats where it costs
nothing of consequence!  There were about five hundred people in that
dazzling place, I suppose, though the walls being papered entirely with
mirrors, so to speak, one could not really tell but that there were a
hundred thousand.  Young, daintily dressed exquisites and young,
stylishly dressed women, and also old gentlemen and old ladies, sat in
couples and groups about innumerable marble-topped tables and ate fancy
suppers, drank wine, and kept up a chattering din of conversation that
was dazing to the senses.  There was a stage at the far end and a large
orchestra; and every now and then actors and actresses in preposterous
comic dresses came out and sang the most extravagantly funny songs, to
judge by their absurd actions; but that audience merely suspended its
chatter, stared cynically, and never once smiled, never once applauded!
I had always thought that Frenchmen were ready to laugh at any thing.




CHAPTER XI.

We are getting foreignized rapidly and with facility.  We are getting
reconciled to halls and bedchambers with unhomelike stone floors and no
carpets--floors that ring to the tread of one's heels with a sharpness
that is death to sentimental musing.  We are getting used to tidy,
noiseless waiters, who glide hither and thither, and hover about your
back and your elbows like butterflies, quick to comprehend orders, quick
to fill them; thankful for a gratuity without regard to the amount; and
always polite--never otherwise than polite.  That is the strangest
curiosity yet--a really polite hotel waiter who isn't an idiot.  We are
getting used to driving right into the central court of the hotel, in the
midst of a fragrant circle of vines and flowers, and in the midst also of
parties of gentlemen sitting quietly reading the paper and smoking.  We
are getting used to ice frozen by artificial process in ordinary bottles
--the only kind of ice they have here.  We are getting used to all these
things, but we are not getting used to carrying our own soap.  We are
sufficiently civilized to carry our own combs and toothbrushes, but this
thing of having to ring for soap every time we wash is new to us and not
pleasant at all.  We think of it just after we get our heads and faces
thoroughly wet or just when we think we have been in the bathtub long
enough, and then, of course, an annoying delay follows.  These
Marseillaises make Marseillaise hymns and Marseilles vests and Marseilles
soap for all the world, but they never sing their hymns or wear their
vests or wash with their soap themselves.

We have learned to go through the lingering routine of the table d'hote
with patience, with serenity, with satisfaction.  We take soup, then wait
a few minutes for the fish; a few minutes more and the plates are
changed, and the roast beef comes; another change and we take peas;
change again and take lentils; change and take snail patties (I prefer
grasshoppers); change and take roast chicken and salad; then strawberry
pie and ice cream; then green figs, pears, oranges, green almonds, etc.;
finally coffee.  Wine with every course, of course, being in France.
With such a cargo on board, digestion is a slow process, and we must sit
long in the cool chambers and smoke--and read French newspapers, which
have a strange fashion of telling a perfectly straight story till you get
to the "nub" of it, and then a word drops in that no man can translate,
and that story is ruined.  An embankment fell on some Frenchmen
yesterday, and the papers are full of it today--but whether those
sufferers were killed, or crippled, or bruised, or only scared is more
than I can possibly make out, and yet I would just give anything to know.

We were troubled a little at dinner today by the conduct of an American,
who talked very loudly and coarsely and laughed boisterously where all
others were so quiet and well behaved.  He ordered wine with a royal
flourish and said:

"I never dine without wine, sir" (which was a pitiful falsehood), and
looked around upon the company to bask in the admiration he expected to
find in their faces.  All these airs in a land where they would as soon
expect to leave the soup out of the bill of fare as the wine!--in a land
where wine is nearly as common among all ranks as water!  This fellow
said: "I am a free-born sovereign, sir, an American, sir, and I want
everybody to know it!"  He did not mention that he was a lineal
descendant of Balaam's ass, but everybody knew that without his telling
it.

We have driven in the Prado--that superb avenue bordered with patrician
mansions and noble shade trees--and have visited the chateau Boarely and
its curious museum.  They showed us a miniature cemetery there--a copy of
the first graveyard that was ever in Marseilles, no doubt.  The delicate
little skeletons were lying in broken vaults and had their household gods
and kitchen utensils with them.  The original of this cemetery was dug up
in the principal street of the city a few years ago.  It had remained
there, only twelve feet underground, for a matter of twenty-five hundred
years or thereabouts.  Romulus was here before he built Rome, and thought
something of founding a city on this spot, but gave up the idea.  He may
have been personally acquainted with some of these Phoenicians whose
skeletons we have been examining.

In the great Zoological Gardens we found specimens of all the animals the
world produces, I think, including a dromedary, a monkey ornamented with
tufts of brilliant blue and carmine hair--a very gorgeous monkey he was--
a hippopotamus from the Nile, and a sort of tall, long-legged bird with a
beak like a powder horn and close-fitting wings like the tails of a dress
coat.  This fellow stood up with his eyes shut and his shoulders stooped
forward a little, and looked as if he had his hands under his coat tails.
Such tranquil stupidity, such supernatural gravity, such self-
righteousness, and such ineffable self-complacency as were in the
countenance and attitude of that gray-bodied, dark-winged, bald-headed,
and preposterously uncomely bird!  He was so ungainly, so pimply about
the head, so scaly about the legs, yet so serene, so unspeakably
satisfied!  He was the most comical-looking creature that can be
imagined.  It was good to hear Dan and the doctor laugh--such natural and
such enjoyable laughter had not been heard among our excursionists since
our ship sailed away from America.  This bird was a godsend to us, and I
should be an ingrate if I forgot to make honorable mention of him in
these pages.  Ours was a pleasure excursion; therefore we stayed with
that bird an hour and made the most of him.  We stirred him up
occasionally, but he only unclosed an eye and slowly closed it again,
abating no jot of his stately piety of demeanor or his tremendous
seriousness.  He only seemed to say, "Defile not Heaven's anointed with
unsanctified hands."  We did not know his name, and so we called him "The
Pilgrim."  Dan said:

"All he wants now is a Plymouth Collection."

The boon companion of the colossal elephant was a common cat!  This cat
had a fashion of climbing up the elephant's hind legs and roosting on his
back.  She would sit up there, with her paws curved under her breast, and
sleep in the sun half the afternoon.  It used to annoy the elephant at
first, and he would reach up and take her down, but she would go aft and
climb up again.  She persisted until she finally conquered the elephant's
prejudices, and now they are inseparable friends.  The cat plays about
her comrade's forefeet or his trunk often, until dogs approach, and then
she goes aloft out of danger.  The elephant has annihilated several dogs
lately that pressed his companion too closely.

We hired a sailboat and a guide and made an excursion to one of the small
islands in the harbor to visit the Castle d'If.  This ancient fortress
has a melancholy history.  It has been used as a prison for political
offenders for two or three hundred years, and its dungeon walls are
scarred with the rudely carved names of many and many a captive who
fretted his life away here and left no record of himself but these sad
epitaphs wrought with his own hands.  How thick the names were!  And
their long-departed owners seemed to throng the gloomy cells and
corridors with their phantom shapes.  We loitered through dungeon after
dungeon, away down into the living rock below the level of the sea, it
seemed.  Names everywhere!--some plebeian, some noble, some even
princely.  Plebeian, prince, and noble had one solicitude in common--they
would not be forgotten!  They could suffer solitude, inactivity, and the
horrors of a silence that no sound ever disturbed, but they could not
bear the thought of being utterly forgotten by the world.  Hence the
carved names.  In one cell, where a little light penetrated, a man had
lived twenty-seven years without seeing the face of a human being--lived
in filth and wretchedness, with no companionship but his own thoughts,
and they were sorrowful enough and hopeless enough, no doubt.  Whatever
his jailers considered that he needed was conveyed to his cell by night
through a wicket.

This man carved the walls of his prison house from floor to roof with all
manner of figures of men and animals grouped in intricate designs.  He
had toiled there year after year, at his self-appointed task, while
infants grew to boyhood--to vigorous youth--idled through school and
college--acquired a profession--claimed man's mature estate--married and
looked back to infancy as to a thing of some vague, ancient time, almost.
But who shall tell how many ages it seemed to this prisoner?  With the
one, time flew sometimes; with the other, never--it crawled always.  To
the one, nights spent in dancing had seemed made of minutes instead of
hours; to the other, those selfsame nights had been like all other nights
of dungeon life and seemed made of slow, dragging weeks instead of hours
and minutes.

One prisoner of fifteen years had scratched verses upon his walls, and
brief prose sentences--brief, but full of pathos.  These spoke not of
himself and his hard estate, but only of the shrine where his spirit fled
the prison to worship--of home and the idols that were templed there.
He never lived to see them.

The walls of these dungeons are as thick as some bed-chambers at home are
wide--fifteen feet.  We saw the damp, dismal cells in which two of Dumas'
heroes passed their confinement--heroes of "Monte Cristo."  It was here
that the brave Abbe wrote a book with his own blood, with a pen made of a
piece of iron hoop, and by the light of a lamp made out of shreds of
cloth soaked in grease obtained from his food; and then dug through the
thick wall with some trifling instrument which he wrought himself out of
a stray piece of iron or table cutlery and freed Dantes from his chains.
It was a pity that so many weeks of dreary labor should have come to
naught at last.

They showed us the noisome cell where the celebrated "Iron Mask"--that
ill-starred brother of a hardhearted king of France--was confined for a
season before he was sent to hide the strange mystery of his life from
the curious in the dungeons of Ste. Marguerite.  The place had a far
greater interest for us than it could have had if we had known beyond all
question who the Iron Mask was, and what his history had been, and why
this most unusual punishment had been meted out to him.  Mystery!  That
was the charm.  That speechless tongue, those prisoned features, that
heart so freighted with unspoken troubles, and that breast so oppressed
with its piteous secret had been here.  These dank walls had known the
man whose dolorous story is a sealed book forever!  There was fascination
in the spot.




CHAPTER XII.

We have come five hundred miles by rail through the heart of France.
What a bewitching land it is!  What a garden!  Surely the leagues of
bright green lawns are swept and brushed and watered every day and their
grasses trimmed by the barber.  Surely the hedges are shaped and measured
and their symmetry preserved by the most architectural of gardeners.
Surely the long straight rows of stately poplars that divide the
beautiful landscape like the squares of a checker-board are set with line
and plummet, and their uniform height determined with a spirit level.
Surely the straight, smooth, pure white turnpikes are jack-planed and
sandpapered every day.  How else are these marvels of symmetry,
cleanliness, and order attained?  It is wonderful.  There are no
unsightly stone walls and never a fence of any kind.  There is no dirt,
no decay, no rubbish anywhere--nothing that even hints at untidiness--
nothing that ever suggests neglect.  All is orderly and beautiful--every
thing is charming to the eye.

We had such glimpses of the Rhone gliding along between its grassy banks;
of cosy cottages buried in flowers and shrubbery; of quaint old red-tiled
villages with mossy medieval cathedrals looming out of their midst; of
wooded hills with ivy-grown towers and turrets of feudal castles
projecting above the foliage; such glimpses of Paradise, it seemed to us,
such visions of fabled fairyland!

We knew then what the poet meant when he sang of:  "--thy cornfields
green, and sunny vines,  O pleasant land of France!"

And it is a pleasant land.  No word describes it so felicitously as that
one.  They say there is no word for "home" in the French language.  Well,
considering that they have the article itself in such an attractive
aspect, they ought to manage to get along without the word.  Let us not
waste too much pity on "homeless" France.  I have observed that Frenchmen
abroad seldom wholly give up the idea of going back to France some time
or other.  I am not surprised at it now.

We are not infatuated with these French railway cars, though.  We took
first-class passage, not because we wished to attract attention by doing
a thing which is uncommon in Europe but because we could make our journey
quicker by so doing.  It is hard to make railroading pleasant in any
country.  It is too tedious.  Stagecoaching is infinitely more
delightful.  Once I crossed the plains and deserts and mountains of the
West in a stagecoach, from the Missouri line to California, and since
then all my pleasure trips must be measured to that rare holiday frolic.
Two thousand miles of ceaseless rush and rattle and clatter, by night and
by day, and never a weary moment, never a lapse of interest!  The first
seven hundred miles a level continent, its grassy carpet greener and
softer and smoother than any sea and figured with designs fitted to its
magnitude--the shadows of the clouds.  Here were no scenes but summer
scenes, and no disposition inspired by them but to lie at full length on
the mail sacks in the grateful breeze and dreamily smoke the pipe of
peace--what other, where all was repose and contentment?  In cool
mornings, before the sun was fairly up, it was worth a lifetime of city
toiling and moiling to perch in the foretop with the driver and see the
six mustangs scamper under the sharp snapping of the whip that never
touched them; to scan the blue distances of a world that knew no lords
but us; to cleave the wind with uncovered head and feel the sluggish
pulses rousing to the spirit of a speed that pretended to the resistless
rush of a typhoon!  Then thirteen hundred miles of desert solitudes; of
limitless panoramas of bewildering perspective; of mimic cities, of
pinnacled cathedrals, of massive fortresses, counterfeited in the eternal
rocks and splendid with the crimson and gold of the setting sun; of dizzy
altitudes among fog-wreathed peaks and never-melting snows, where
thunders and lightnings and tempests warred magnificently at our feet and
the storm clouds above swung their shredded banners in our very faces!
But I forgot.  I am in elegant France now, and not scurrying through the
great South Pass and the Wind River Mountains, among antelopes and
buffaloes and painted Indians on the warpath.  It is not meet that I
should make too disparaging comparisons between humdrum travel on a
railway and that royal summer flight across a continent in a stagecoach.
I meant in the beginning to say that railway journeying is tedious and
tiresome, and so it is--though at the time I was thinking particularly of
a dismal fifty-hour pilgrimage between New York and St. Louis.  Of course
our trip through France was not really tedious because all its scenes and
experiences were new and strange; but as Dan says, it had its
"discrepancies."

The cars are built in compartments that hold eight persons each.  Each
compartment is partially subdivided, and so there are two tolerably
distinct parties of four in it.  Four face the other four.  The seats and
backs are thickly padded and cushioned and are very comfortable; you can
smoke if you wish; there are no bothersome peddlers; you are saved the
infliction of a multitude of disagreeable fellow passengers.  So far, so
well.  But then the conductor locks you in when the train starts; there
is no water to drink in the car; there is no heating apparatus for night
travel; if a drunken rowdy should get in, you could not remove a matter
of twenty seats from him or enter another car; but above all, if you are
worn out and must sleep, you must sit up and do it in naps, with cramped
legs and in a torturing misery that leaves you withered and lifeless the
next day--for behold they have not that culmination of all charity and
human kindness, a sleeping car, in all France.  I prefer the American
system.  It has not so many grievous "discrepancies."

In France, all is clockwork, all is order.  They make no mistakes.  Every
third man wears a uniform, and whether he be a marshal of the empire or a
brakeman, he is ready and perfectly willing to answer all your questions
with tireless politeness, ready to tell you which car to take, yea, and
ready to go and put you into it to make sure that you shall not go
astray.  You cannot pass into the waiting room of the depot till you have
secured your ticket, and you cannot pass from its only exit till the
train is at its threshold to receive you.  Once on board, the train will
not start till your ticket has been examined--till every passenger's
ticket has been inspected.  This is chiefly for your own good.  If by any
possibility you have managed to take the wrong train, you will be handed
over to a polite official who will take you whither you belong and bestow
you with many an affable bow.  Your ticket will be inspected every now
and then along the route, and when it is time to change cars you will
know it.  You are in the hands of officials who zealously study your
welfare and your interest, instead of turning their talents to the
invention of new methods of discommoding and snubbing you, as is very
often the main employment of that exceedingly self-satisfied monarch, the
railroad conductor of America.

But the happiest regulation in French railway government is--thirty
minutes to dinner!  No five-minute boltings of flabby rolls, muddy
coffee, questionable eggs, gutta-percha beef, and pies whose conception
and execution are a dark and bloody mystery to all save the cook that
created them!  No, we sat calmly down--it was in old Dijon, which is so
easy to spell and so impossible to pronounce except when you civilize it
and call it Demijohn--and poured out rich Burgundian wines and munched
calmly through a long table d'hote bill of fare, snail patties, delicious
fruits and all, then paid the trifle it cost and stepped happily aboard
the train again, without once cursing the railroad company.  A rare
experience and one to be treasured forever.

They say they do not have accidents on these French roads, and I think it
must be true.  If I remember rightly, we passed high above wagon roads or
through tunnels under them, but never crossed them on their own level.
About every quarter of a mile, it seemed to me, a man came out and held
up a club till the train went by, to signify that everything was safe
ahead.  Switches were changed a mile in advance by pulling a wire rope
that passed along the ground by the rail, from station to station.
Signals for the day and signals for the night gave constant and timely
notice of the position of switches.

No, they have no railroad accidents to speak of in France.  But why?
Because when one occurs, somebody has to hang for it!  Not hang, maybe,
but be punished at least with such vigor of emphasis as to make
negligence a thing to be shuddered at by railroad officials for many a
day thereafter.  "No blame attached to the officers"--that lying and
disaster-breeding verdict so common to our softhearted juries is seldom
rendered in France.  If the trouble occurred in the conductor's
department, that officer must suffer if his subordinate cannot be proven
guilty; if in the engineer's department and the case be similar, the
engineer must answer.

The Old Travelers--those delightful parrots who have "been here before"
and know more about the country than Louis Napoleon knows now or ever
will know--tell us these things, and we believe them because they are
pleasant things to believe and because they are plausible and savor of
the rigid subjection to law and order which we behold about us
everywhere.

But we love the Old Travelers.  We love to hear them prate and drivel and
lie.  We can tell them the moment we see them.  They always throw out a
few feelers; they never cast themselves adrift till they have sounded
every individual and know that he has not traveled.  Then they open their
throttle valves, and how they do brag, and sneer, and swell, and soar,
and blaspheme the sacred name of Truth!  Their central idea, their grand
aim, is to subjugate you, keep you down, make you feel insignificant and
humble in the blaze of their cosmopolitan glory!  They will not let you
know anything.  They sneer at your most inoffensive suggestions; they
laugh unfeelingly at your treasured dreams of foreign lands; they brand
the statements of your traveled aunts and uncles as the stupidest
absurdities; they deride your most trusted authors and demolish the fair
images they have set up for your willing worship with the pitiless
ferocity of the fanatic iconoclast!  But still I love the Old Travelers.
I love them for their witless platitudes, for their supernatural ability
to bore, for their delightful asinine vanity, for their luxuriant
fertility of imagination, for their startling, their brilliant, their
overwhelming mendacity!

By Lyons and the Saone (where we saw the lady of Lyons and thought little
of her comeliness), by Villa Franca, Tonnere, venerable Sens, Melun,
Fontainebleau, and scores of other beautiful cities, we swept, always
noting the absence of hog-wallows, broken fences, cow lots, unpainted
houses, and mud, and always noting, as well, the presence of cleanliness,
grace, taste in adorning and beautifying, even to the disposition of a
tree or the turning of a hedge, the marvel of roads in perfect repair,
void of ruts and guiltless of even an inequality of surface--we bowled
along, hour after hour, that brilliant summer day, and as nightfall
approached we entered a wilderness of odorous flowers and shrubbery, sped
through it, and then, excited, delighted, and half persuaded that we were
only the sport of a beautiful dream, lo, we stood in magnificent Paris!

What excellent order they kept about that vast depot!  There was no
frantic crowding and jostling, no shouting and swearing, and no
swaggering intrusion of services by rowdy hackmen.  These latter gentry
stood outside--stood quietly by their long line of vehicles and said
never a word.  A kind of hackman general seemed to have the whole matter
of transportation in his hands.  He politely received the passengers and
ushered them to the kind of conveyance they wanted, and told the driver
where to deliver them.  There was no "talking back," no dissatisfaction
about overcharging, no grumbling about anything.  In a little while we
were speeding through the streets of Paris and delightfully recognizing
certain names and places with which books had long ago made us familiar.
It was like meeting an old friend when we read Rue de Rivoli on the
street corner; we knew the genuine vast palace of the Louvre as well as
we knew its picture; when we passed by the Column of July we needed no
one to tell us what it was or to remind us that on its site once stood
the grim Bastille, that grave of human hopes and happiness, that dismal
prison house within whose dungeons so many young faces put on the
wrinkles of age, so many proud spirits grew humble, so many brave hearts
broke.

We secured rooms at the hotel, or rather, we had three beds put into one
room, so that we might be together, and then we went out to a restaurant,
just after lamplighting, and ate a comfortable, satisfactory, lingering
dinner.  It was a pleasure to eat where everything was so tidy, the food
so well cooked, the waiters so polite, and the coming and departing
company so moustached, so frisky, so affable, so fearfully and
wonderfully Frenchy!  All the surroundings were gay and enlivening.  Two
hundred people sat at little tables on the sidewalk, sipping wine and
coffee; the streets were thronged with light vehicles and with joyous
pleasure-seekers; there was music in the air, life and action all about
us, and a conflagration of gaslight everywhere!

After dinner we felt like seeing such Parisian specialties as we might
see without distressing exertion, and so we sauntered through the
brilliant streets and looked at the dainty trifles in variety stores and
jewelry shops.  Occasionally, merely for the pleasure of being cruel, we
put unoffending Frenchmen on the rack with questions framed in the
incomprehensible jargon of their native language, and while they writhed
we impaled them, we peppered them, we scarified them, with their own vile
verbs and participles.

We noticed that in the jewelry stores they had some of the articles
marked "gold" and some labeled "imitation."  We wondered at this
extravagance of honesty and inquired into the matter.  We were informed
that inasmuch as most people are not able to tell false gold from the
genuine article, the government compels jewelers to have their gold work
assayed and stamped officially according to its fineness and their
imitation work duly labeled with the sign of its falsity.  They told us
the jewelers would not dare to violate this law, and that whatever a
stranger bought in one of their stores might be depended upon as being
strictly what it was represented to be.  Verily, a wonderful land is
France!

Then we hunted for a barber-shop.  From earliest infancy it had been a
cherished ambition of mine to be shaved some day in a palatial barber-
shop in Paris.  I wished to recline at full length in a cushioned invalid
chair, with pictures about me and sumptuous furniture; with frescoed
walls and gilded arches above me and vistas of Corinthian columns
stretching far before me; with perfumes of Araby to intoxicate my senses
and the slumbrous drone of distant noises to soothe me to sleep.  At the
end of an hour I would wake up regretfully and find my face as smooth and
as soft as an infant's.  Departing, I would lift my hands above that
barber's head and say, "Heaven bless you, my son!"

So we searched high and low, for a matter of two hours, but never a
barber-shop could we see.  We saw only wig-making establishments, with
shocks of dead and repulsive hair bound upon the heads of painted waxen
brigands who stared out from glass boxes upon the passer-by with their
stony eyes and scared him with the ghostly white of their countenances.
We shunned these signs for a time, but finally we concluded that the wig-
makers must of necessity be the barbers as well, since we could find no
single legitimate representative of the fraternity.  We entered and
asked, and found that it was even so.

I said I wanted to be shaved.  The barber inquired where my room was.  I
said never mind where my room was, I wanted to be shaved--there, on the
spot.  The doctor said he would be shaved also.  Then there was an
excitement among those two barbers!  There was a wild consultation, and
afterwards a hurrying to and fro and a feverish gathering up of razors
from obscure places and a ransacking for soap.  Next they took us into a
little mean, shabby back room; they got two ordinary sitting-room chairs
and placed us in them with our coats on.  My old, old dream of bliss
vanished into thin air!

I sat bolt upright, silent, sad, and solemn.  One of the wig-making
villains lathered my face for ten terrible minutes and finished by
plastering a mass of suds into my mouth.  I expelled the nasty stuff with
a strong English expletive and said, "Foreigner, beware!"  Then this
outlaw strapped his razor on his boot, hovered over me ominously for six
fearful seconds, and then swooped down upon me like the genius of
destruction.  The first rake of his razor loosened the very hide from my
face and lifted me out of the chair.  I stormed and raved, and the other
boys enjoyed it.  Their beards are not strong and thick.  Let us draw the
curtain over this harrowing scene.

Suffice it that I submitted and went through with the cruel infliction of
a shave by a French barber; tears of exquisite agony coursed down my
cheeks now and then, but I survived.  Then the incipient assassin held a
basin of water under my chin and slopped its contents over my face, and
into my bosom, and down the back of my neck, with a mean pretense of
washing away the soap and blood.  He dried my features with a towel and
was going to comb my hair, but I asked to be excused.  I said, with
withering irony, that it was sufficient to be skinned--I declined to be
scalped.

I went away from there with my handkerchief about my face, and never,
never, never desired to dream of palatial Parisian barber-shops anymore.
The truth is, as I believe I have since found out, that they have no
barber shops worthy of the name in Paris--and no barbers, either, for
that matter.  The impostor who does duty as a barber brings his pans and
napkins and implements of torture to your residence and deliberately
skins you in your private apartments.  Ah, I have suffered, suffered,
suffered, here in Paris, but never mind--the time is coming when I shall
have a dark and bloody revenge.  Someday a Parisian barber will come to
my room to skin me, and from that day forth that barber will never be
heard of more.

At eleven o'clock we alighted upon a sign which manifestly referred to
billiards.  Joy!  We had played billiards in the Azores with balls that
were not round and on an ancient table that was very little smoother than
a brick pavement--one of those wretched old things with dead cushions,
and with patches in the faded cloth and invisible obstructions that made
the balls describe the most astonishing and unsuspected angles and
perform feats in the way of unlooked-for and almost impossible
"scratches" that were perfectly bewildering.  We had played at Gibraltar
with balls the size of a walnut, on a table like a public square--and in
both instances we achieved far more aggravation than amusement.  We
expected to fare better here, but we were mistaken.  The cushions were a
good deal higher than the balls, and as the balls had a fashion of always
stopping under the cushions, we accomplished very little in the way of
caroms.  The cushions were hard and unelastic, and the cues were so
crooked that in making a shot you had to allow for the curve or you would
infallibly put the "English" on the wrong side of the hall.  Dan was to
mark while the doctor and I played.  At the end of an hour neither of us
had made a count, and so Dan was tired of keeping tally with nothing to
tally, and we were heated and angry and disgusted.  We paid the heavy
bill--about six cents--and said we would call around sometime when we had
a week to spend, and finish the game.

We adjourned to one of those pretty cafes and took supper and tested the
wines of the country, as we had been instructed to do, and found them
harmless and unexciting.  They might have been exciting, however, if we
had chosen to drink a sufficiency of them.

To close our first day in Paris cheerfully and pleasantly, we now sought
our grand room in the Grand Hotel du Louvre and climbed into our
sumptuous bed to read and smoke--but alas!

          It was pitiful,
          In a whole city-full,
          Gas we had none.

No gas to read by--nothing but dismal candles.  It was a shame.  We tried
to map out excursions for the morrow; we puzzled over French "guides to
Paris"; we talked disjointedly in a vain endeavor to make head or tail of
the wild chaos of the day's sights and experiences; we subsided to
indolent smoking; we gaped and yawned and stretched--then feebly wondered
if we were really and truly in renowned Paris, and drifted drowsily away
into that vast mysterious void which men call sleep.




CHAPTER XIII.

The next morning we were up and dressed at ten o'clock.  We went to the
'commissionaire' of the hotel--I don't know what a 'commissionaire' is,
but that is the man we went to--and told him we wanted a guide.  He said
the national Exposition had drawn such multitudes of Englishmen and
Americans to Paris that it would be next to impossible to find a good
guide unemployed.  He said he usually kept a dozen or two on hand, but he
only had three now.  He called them.  One looked so like a very pirate
that we let him go at once.  The next one spoke with a simpering
precision of pronunciation that was irritating and said:

"If ze zhentlemans will to me make ze grande honneur to me rattain in
hees serveece, I shall show to him every sing zat is magnifique to look
upon in ze beautiful Parree.  I speaky ze Angleesh pairfaitemaw."

He would have done well to have stopped there, because he had that much
by heart and said it right off without making a mistake.  But his self-
complacency seduced him into attempting a flight into regions of
unexplored English, and the reckless experiment was his ruin.  Within ten
seconds he was so tangled up in a maze of mutilated verbs and torn and
bleeding forms of speech that no human ingenuity could ever have gotten
him out of it with credit.  It was plain enough that he could not
"speaky" the English quite as "pairfaitemaw" as he had pretended he
could.

The third man captured us.  He was plainly dressed, but he had a
noticeable air of neatness about him.  He wore a high silk hat which was
a little old, but had been carefully brushed.  He wore second-hand kid
gloves, in good repair, and carried a small rattan cane with a curved
handle--a female leg--of ivory.  He stepped as gently and as daintily as
a cat crossing a muddy street; and oh, he was urbanity; he was quiet,
unobtrusive self-possession; he was deference itself!  He spoke softly
and guardedly; and when he was about to make a statement on his sole
responsibility or offer a suggestion, he weighed it by drachms and
scruples first, with the crook of his little stick placed meditatively to
his teeth.  His opening speech was perfect.  It was perfect in
construction, in phraseology, in grammar, in emphasis, in pronunciation--
everything.  He spoke little and guardedly after that.  We were charmed.
We were more than charmed--we were overjoyed.  We hired him at once.  We
never even asked him his price.  This man--our lackey, our servant, our
unquestioning slave though he was--was still a gentleman--we could see
that--while of the other two one was coarse and awkward and the other was
a born pirate.  We asked our man Friday's name.  He drew from his
pocketbook a snowy little card and passed it to us with a profound bow:

                             A. BILLFINGER,
                    Guide to Paris, France, Germany,
                            Spain, &c., &c.
                       Grande Hotel du Louvre.

"Billfinger!  Oh, carry me home to die!"

That was an "aside" from Dan.  The atrocious name grated harshly on my
ear, too.  The most of us can learn to forgive, and even to like, a
countenance that strikes us unpleasantly at first, but few of us, I
fancy, become reconciled to a jarring name so easily.  I was almost sorry
we had hired this man, his name was so unbearable.  However, no matter.
We were impatient to start.  Billfinger stepped to the door to call a
carriage, and then the doctor said:

"Well, the guide goes with the barbershop, with the billiard-table, with
the gasless room, and may be with many another pretty romance of Paris.
I expected to have a guide named Henri de Montmorency, or Armand de la
Chartreuse, or something that would sound grand in letters to the
villagers at home, but to think of a Frenchman by the name of Billfinger!
Oh!  This is absurd, you know.  This will never do.  We can't say
Billfinger; it is nauseating.  Name him over again; what had we better
call him?  Alexis du Caulaincourt?"

"Alphonse Henri Gustave de Hauteville," I suggested.

"Call him Ferguson," said Dan.

That was practical, unromantic good sense.  Without debate, we expunged
Billfinger as Billfinger, and called him Ferguson.

The carriage--an open barouche--was ready.  Ferguson mounted beside the
driver, and we whirled away to breakfast.  As was proper, Mr. Ferguson
stood by to transmit our orders and answer questions.  By and by, he
mentioned casually--the artful adventurer--that he would go and get his
breakfast as soon as we had finished ours.  He knew we could not get
along without him and that we would not want to loiter about and wait for
him.  We asked him to sit down and eat with us.  He begged, with many a
bow, to be excused.  It was not proper, he said; he would sit at another
table.  We ordered him peremptorily to sit down with us.

Here endeth the first lesson.  It was a mistake.

As long as we had that fellow after that, he was always hungry; he was
always thirsty.  He came early; he stayed late; he could not pass a
restaurant; he looked with a lecherous eye upon every wine shop.
Suggestions to stop, excuses to eat and to drink, were forever on his
lips.  We tried all we could to fill him so full that he would have no
room to spare for a fortnight, but it was a failure.  He did not hold
enough to smother the cravings of his superhuman appetite.

He had another "discrepancy" about him.  He was always wanting us to buy
things.  On the shallowest pretenses he would inveigle us into shirt
stores, boot stores, tailor shops, glove shops--anywhere under the broad
sweep of the heavens that there seemed a chance of our buying anything.
Anyone could have guessed that the shopkeepers paid him a percentage on
the sales, but in our blessed innocence we didn't until this feature of
his conduct grew unbearably prominent.  One day Dan happened to mention
that he thought of buying three or four silk dress patterns for presents.
Ferguson's hungry eye was upon him in an instant.  In the course of
twenty minutes the carriage stopped.

"What's this?"

"Zis is ze finest silk magazin in Paris--ze most celebrate."

"What did you come here for?  We told you to take us to the palace of the
Louvre."

"I suppose ze gentleman say he wish to buy some silk."

"You are not required to 'suppose' things for the party, Ferguson.  We do
not wish to tax your energies too much.  We will bear some of the burden
and heat of the day ourselves.  We will endeavor to do such 'supposing'
as is really necessary to be done.  Drive on."  So spake the doctor.

Within fifteen minutes the carriage halted again, and before another silk
store.  The doctor said:

"Ah, the palace of the Louvre--beautiful, beautiful edifice!  Does the
Emperor Napoleon live here now, Ferguson?"

"Ah, Doctor!  You do jest; zis is not ze palace; we come there directly.
But since we pass right by zis store, where is such beautiful silk--"

"Ah!  I see, I see.  I meant to have told you that we did not wish to
purchase any silks to-day, but in my absent-mindedness I forgot it.  I
also meant to tell you we wished to go directly to the Louvre, but I
forgot that also.  However, we will go there now.  Pardon my seeming
carelessness, Ferguson.  Drive on."

Within the half hour we stopped again--in front of another silk store.
We were angry; but the doctor was always serene, always smooth-voiced.
He said:

"At last!  How imposing the Louvre is, and yet how small!  How
exquisitely fashioned!  How charmingly situated!--Venerable, venerable
pile--"

"Pairdon, Doctor, zis is not ze Louvre--it is--"

"What is it?"

"I have ze idea--it come to me in a moment--zat ze silk in zis magazin--"

"Ferguson, how heedless I am.  I fully intended to tell you that we did
not wish to buy any silks to-day, and I also intended to tell you that we
yearned to go immediately to the palace of the Louvre, but enjoying the
happiness of seeing you devour four breakfasts this morning has so filled
me with pleasurable emotions that I neglect the commonest interests of
the time.  However, we will proceed now to the Louvre, Ferguson."

"But, doctor," (excitedly,) "it will take not a minute--not but one small
minute!  Ze gentleman need not to buy if he not wish to--but only look at
ze silk--look at ze beautiful fabric.  [Then pleadingly.] Sair--just only
one leetle moment!"

Dan said, "Confound the idiot!  I don't want to see any silks today, and
I won't look at them.  Drive on."

And the doctor: "We need no silks now, Ferguson.  Our hearts yearn for
the Louvre.  Let us journey on--let us journey on."

"But doctor!  It is only one moment--one leetle moment.  And ze time will
be save--entirely save!  Because zere is nothing to see now--it is too
late.  It want ten minute to four and ze Louvre close at four--only one
leetle moment, Doctor!"

The treacherous miscreant!  After four breakfasts and a gallon of
champagne, to serve us such a scurvy trick.  We got no sight of the
countless treasures of art in the Louvre galleries that day, and our only
poor little satisfaction was in the reflection that Ferguson sold not a
solitary silk dress pattern.

I am writing this chapter partly for the satisfaction of abusing that
accomplished knave Billfinger, and partly to show whosoever shall read
this how Americans fare at the hands of the Paris guides and what sort of
people Paris guides are.  It need not be supposed that we were a stupider
or an easier prey than our countrymen generally are, for we were not.
The guides deceive and defraud every American who goes to Paris for the
first time and sees its sights alone or in company with others as little
experienced as himself.  I shall visit Paris again someday, and then let
the guides beware!  I shall go in my war paint--I shall carry my tomahawk
along.

I think we have lost but little time in Paris.  We have gone to bed every
night tired out.  Of course we visited the renowned International
Exposition.  All the world did that.  We went there on our third day in
Paris--and we stayed there nearly two hours.  That was our first and last
visit.  To tell the truth, we saw at a glance that one would have to
spend weeks--yea, even months--in that monstrous establishment to get an
intelligible idea of it.  It was a wonderful show, but the moving masses
of people of all nations we saw there were a still more wonderful show.
I discovered that if I were to stay there a month, I should still find
myself looking at the people instead of the inanimate objects on
exhibition.  I got a little interested in some curious old tapestries of
the thirteenth century, but a party of Arabs came by, and their dusky
faces and quaint costumes called my attention away at once.  I watched a
silver swan, which had a living grace about his movements and a living
intelligence in his eyes--watched him swimming about as comfortably and
as unconcernedly as if he had been born in a morass instead of a
jeweler's shop--watched him seize a silver fish from under the water and
hold up his head and go through all the customary and elaborate motions
of swallowing it--but the moment it disappeared down his throat some
tattooed South Sea Islanders approached and I yielded to their
attractions.

Presently I found a revolving pistol several hundred years old which
looked strangely like a modern Colt, but just then I heard that the
Empress of the French was in another part of the building, and hastened
away to see what she might look like.  We heard martial music--we saw an
unusual number of soldiers walking hurriedly about--there was a general
movement among the people.  We inquired what it was all about and learned
that the Emperor of the French and the Sultan of Turkey were about to
review twenty-five thousand troops at the Arc de l'Etoile.  We
immediately departed.  I had a greater anxiety to see these men than I
could have had to see twenty expositions.

We drove away and took up a position in an open space opposite the
American minister's house.  A speculator bridged a couple of barrels with
a board and we hired standing places on it.  Presently there was a sound
of distant music; in another minute a pillar of dust came moving slowly
toward us; a moment more and then, with colors flying and a grand crash
of military music, a gallant array of cavalrymen emerged from the dust
and came down the street on a gentle trot.  After them came a long line
of artillery; then more cavalry, in splendid uniforms; and then their
imperial majesties Napoleon III and Abdul Aziz.  The vast concourse of
people swung their hats and shouted--the windows and housetops in the
wide vicinity burst into a snowstorm of waving handkerchiefs, and the
wavers of the same mingled their cheers with those of the masses below.
It was a stirring spectacle.

But the two central figures claimed all my attention.  Was ever such a
contrast set up before a multitude till then?  Napoleon in military
uniform--a long-bodied, short-legged man, fiercely moustached, old,
wrinkled, with eyes half closed, and such a deep, crafty, scheming
expression about them!--Napoleon, bowing ever so gently to the loud
plaudits, and watching everything and everybody with his cat eyes from
under his depressed hat brim, as if to discover any sign that those
cheers were not heartfelt and cordial.

Abdul Aziz, absolute lord of the Ottoman empire--clad in dark green
European clothes, almost without ornament or insignia of rank; a red
Turkish fez on his head; a short, stout, dark man, black-bearded, black-
eyed, stupid, unprepossessing--a man whose whole appearance somehow
suggested that if he only had a cleaver in his hand and a white apron on,
one would not be at all surprised to hear him say: "A mutton roast today,
or will you have a nice porterhouse steak?"

Napoleon III, the representative of the highest modern civilization,
progress, and refinement; Abdul-Aziz, the representative of a people by
nature and training filthy, brutish, ignorant, unprogressive,
superstitious--and a government whose Three Graces are Tyranny, Rapacity,
Blood.  Here in brilliant Paris, under this majestic Arch of Triumph, the
First Century greets the Nineteenth!

NAPOLEON III., Emperor of France!  Surrounded by shouting thousands, by
military pomp, by the splendors of his capital city, and companioned by
kings and princes--this is the man who was sneered at and reviled and
called Bastard--yet who was dreaming of a crown and an empire all the
while; who was driven into exile--but carried his dreams with him; who
associated with the common herd in America and ran foot races for a
wager--but still sat upon a throne in fancy; who braved every danger to
go to his dying mother--and grieved that she could not be spared to see
him cast aside his plebeian vestments for the purple of royalty; who kept
his faithful watch and walked his weary beat a common policeman of
London--but dreamed the while of a coming night when he should tread the
long-drawn corridors of the Tuileries; who made the miserable fiasco of
Strasbourg; saw his poor, shabby eagle, forgetful of its lesson, refuse
to perch upon his shoulder; delivered his carefully prepared, sententious
burst of eloquence upon unsympathetic ears; found himself a prisoner, the
butt of small wits, a mark for the pitiless ridicule of all the world--
yet went on dreaming of coronations and splendid pageants as before; who
lay a forgotten captive in the dungeons of Ham--and still schemed and
planned and pondered over future glory and future power; President of
France at last! a coup d'etat, and surrounded by applauding armies,
welcomed by the thunders of cannon, he mounts a throne and waves before
an astounded world the sceptre of a mighty empire!  Who talks of the
marvels of fiction?  Who speaks of the wonders of romance?  Who prates of
the tame achievements of Aladdin and the Magii of Arabia?

ABDUL-AZIZ, Sultan of Turkey, Lord of the Ottoman Empire!  Born to a
throne; weak, stupid, ignorant, almost, as his meanest slave; chief of a
vast royalty, yet the puppet of his Premier and the obedient child of a
tyrannical mother; a man who sits upon a throne--the beck of whose finger
moves navies and armies--who holds in his hands the power of life and
death over millions--yet who sleeps, sleeps, eats, eats, idles with his
eight hundred concubines, and when he is surfeited with eating and
sleeping and idling, and would rouse up and take the reins of government
and threaten to be a sultan, is charmed from his purpose by wary Fuad
Pacha with a pretty plan for a new palace or a new ship--charmed away
with a new toy, like any other restless child; a man who sees his people
robbed and oppressed by soulless tax-gatherers, but speaks no word to
save them; who believes in gnomes and genii and the wild fables of The
Arabian Nights, but has small regard for the mighty magicians of to-day,
and is nervous in the presence of their mysterious railroads and
steamboats and telegraphs; who would see undone in Egypt all that great
Mehemet Ali achieved, and would prefer rather to forget than emulate him;
a man who found his great empire a blot upon the earth--a degraded,
poverty-stricken, miserable, infamous agglomeration of ignorance, crime,
and brutality--and will idle away the allotted days of his trivial life
and then pass to the dust and the worms and leave it so!

Napoleon has augmented the commercial prosperity of France in ten years
to such a degree that figures can hardly compute it.  He has rebuilt
Paris and has partly rebuilt every city in the state.  He condemns a
whole street at a time, assesses the damages, pays them, and rebuilds
superbly.  Then speculators buy up the ground and sell, but the original
owner is given the first choice by the government at a stated price
before the speculator is permitted to purchase.  But above all things, he
has taken the sole control of the empire of France into his hands and
made it a tolerably free land--for people who will not attempt to go too
far in meddling with government affairs.  No country offers greater
security to life and property than France, and one has all the freedom he
wants, but no license--no license to interfere with anybody or make
anyone uncomfortable.

As for the Sultan, one could set a trap any where and catch a dozen abler
men in a night.

The bands struck up, and the brilliant adventurer, Napoleon III., the
genius of Energy, Persistence, Enterprise; and the feeble Abdul-Aziz, the
genius of Ignorance, Bigotry, and Indolence, prepared for the Forward--
March!

We saw the splendid review, we saw the white-moustached old Crimean
soldier, Canrobert, Marshal of France, we saw--well, we saw every thing,
and then we went home satisfied.




CHAPTER XIV.

We went to see the Cathedral of Notre Dame.  We had heard of it before.
It surprises me sometimes to think how much we do know and how
intelligent we are.  We recognized the brown old Gothic pile in a moment;
it was like the pictures.  We stood at a little distance and changed from
one point of observation to another and gazed long at its lofty square
towers and its rich front, clustered thick with stony, mutilated saints
who had been looking calmly down from their perches for ages.  The
Patriarch of Jerusalem stood under them in the old days of chivalry and
romance, and preached the third Crusade, more than six hundred years ago;
and since that day they have stood there and looked quietly down upon the
most thrilling scenes, the grandest pageants, the most extraordinary
spectacles that have grieved or delighted Paris.  These battered and
broken-nosed old fellows saw many and many a cavalcade of mail-clad
knights come marching home from Holy Land; they heard the bells above
them toll the signal for the St. Bartholomew's Massacre, and they saw the
slaughter that followed; later they saw the Reign of Terror, the carnage
of the Revolution, the overthrow of a king, the coronation of two
Napoleons, the christening of the young prince that lords it over a
regiment of servants in the Tuileries to-day--and they may possibly
continue to stand there until they see the Napoleon dynasty swept away
and the banners of a great republic floating above its ruins.  I wish
these old parties could speak.  They could tell a tale worth the
listening to.

They say that a pagan temple stood where Notre Dame now stands, in the
old Roman days, eighteen or twenty centuries ago--remains of it are still
preserved in Paris; and that a Christian church took its place about A.D.
300; another took the place of that in A.D. 500; and that the foundations
of the present cathedral were laid about A.D. 1100.  The ground ought to
be measurably sacred by this time, one would think.  One portion of this
noble old edifice is suggestive of the quaint fashions of ancient times.
It was built by Jean Sans-Peur, Duke of Burgundy, to set his conscience
at rest--he had assassinated the Duke of Orleans.  Alas!  Those good old
times are gone when a murderer could wipe the stain from his name and
soothe his troubles to sleep simply by getting out his bricks and mortar
and building an addition to a church.

The portals of the great western front are bisected by square pillars.
They took the central one away in 1852, on the occasion of thanksgivings
for the reinstitution of the presidential power--but precious soon they
had occasion to reconsider that motion and put it back again!  And they
did.

We loitered through the grand aisles for an hour or two, staring up at
the rich stained-glass windows embellished with blue and yellow and
crimson saints and martyrs, and trying to admire the numberless great
pictures in the chapels, and then we were admitted to the sacristy and
shown the magnificent robes which the Pope wore when he crowned Napoleon
I; a wagon-load of solid gold and silver utensils used in the great
public processions and ceremonies of the church; some nails of the true
cross, a fragment of the cross itself, a part of the crown of thorns.
We had already seen a large piece of the true cross in a church in the
Azores, but no nails.  They showed us likewise the bloody robe which that
archbishop of Paris wore who exposed his sacred person and braved the
wrath of the insurgents of 1848, to mount the barricades and hold aloft
the olive branch of peace in the hope of stopping the slaughter.  His
noble effort cost him his life.  He was shot dead.  They showed us a cast
of his face taken after death, the bullet that killed him, and the two
vertebrae in which it lodged.  These people have a somewhat singular
taste in the matter of relics.  Ferguson told us that the silver cross
which the good archbishop wore at his girdle was seized and thrown into
the Seine, where it lay embedded in the mud for fifteen years, and then
an angel appeared to a priest and told him where to dive for it; he did
dive for it and got it, and now it is there on exhibition at Notre Dame,
to be inspected by anybody who feels an interest in inanimate objects of
miraculous intervention.

Next we went to visit the Morgue, that horrible receptacle for the dead
who die mysteriously and leave the manner of their taking off a dismal
secret.  We stood before a grating and looked through into a room which
was hung all about with the clothing of dead men; coarse blouses, water-
soaked; the delicate garments of women and children; patrician vestments,
hacked and stabbed and stained with red; a hat that was crushed and
bloody.  On a slanting stone lay a drowned man, naked, swollen, purple;
clasping the fragment of a broken bush with a grip which death had so
petrified that human strength could not unloose it--mute witness of the
last despairing effort to save the life that was doomed beyond all help.
A stream of water trickled ceaselessly over the hideous face.  We knew
that the body and the clothing were there for identification by friends,
but still we wondered if anybody could love that repulsive object or
grieve for its loss.  We grew meditative and wondered if, some forty
years ago, when the mother of that ghastly thing was dandling it upon her
knee, and kissing it and petting it and displaying it with satisfied
pride to the passers-by, a prophetic vision of this dread ending ever
flitted through her brain.  I half feared that the mother, or the wife or
a brother of the dead man might come while we stood there, but nothing of
the kind occurred.  Men and women came, and some looked eagerly in and
pressed their faces against the bars; others glanced carelessly at the
body and turned away with a disappointed look--people, I thought, who
live upon strong excitements and who attend the exhibitions of the Morgue
regularly, just as other people go to see theatrical spectacles every
night.  When one of these looked in and passed on, I could not help
thinking--

"Now this don't afford you any satisfaction--a party with his head shot
off is what you need."

One night we went to the celebrated Jardin Mabille, but only staid a
little while.  We wanted to see some of this kind of Paris life, however,
and therefore the next night we went to a similar place of entertainment
in a great garden in the suburb of Asnieres.  We went to the railroad
depot, toward evening, and Ferguson got tickets for a second-class
carriage.  Such a perfect jam of people I have not often seen--but there
was no noise, no disorder, no rowdyism.  Some of the women and young
girls that entered the train we knew to be of the demi-monde, but others
we were not at all sure about.

The girls and women in our carriage behaved themselves modestly and
becomingly all the way out, except that they smoked.  When we arrived at
the garden in Asnieres, we paid a franc or two admission and entered a
place which had flower beds in it, and grass plots, and long, curving
rows of ornamental shrubbery, with here and there a secluded bower
convenient for eating ice cream in.  We moved along the sinuous gravel
walks, with the great concourse of girls and young men, and suddenly a
domed and filigreed white temple, starred over and over and over again
with brilliant gas jets, burst upon us like a fallen sun.  Nearby was a
large, handsome house with its ample front illuminated in the same way,
and above its roof floated the Star-Spangled Banner of America.

"Well!" I said.  "How is this?"  It nearly took my breath away.

Ferguson said an American--a New Yorker--kept the place, and was carrying
on quite a stirring opposition to the Jardin Mabille.

Crowds composed of both sexes and nearly all ages were frisking about the
garden or sitting in the open air in front of the flagstaff and the
temple, drinking wine and coffee or smoking.  The dancing had not begun
yet.  Ferguson said there was to be an exhibition.  The famous Blondin
was going to perform on a tightrope in another part of the garden.  We
went thither.  Here the light was dim, and the masses of people were
pretty closely packed together.  And now I made a mistake which any
donkey might make, but a sensible man never.  I committed an error which
I find myself repeating every day of my life.  Standing right before a
young lady, I said:

"Dan, just look at this girl, how beautiful she is!"

"I thank you more for the evident sincerity of the compliment, sir, than
for the extraordinary publicity you have given to it!"  This in good,
pure English.

We took a walk, but my spirits were very, very sadly dampened.  I did not
feel right comfortable for some time afterward.  Why will people be so
stupid as to suppose themselves the only foreigners among a crowd of ten
thousand persons?

But Blondin came out shortly.  He appeared on a stretched cable, far away
above the sea of tossing hats and handkerchiefs, and in the glare of the
hundreds of rockets that whizzed heavenward by him he looked like a wee
insect.  He balanced his pole and walked the length of his rope--two or
three hundred feet; he came back and got a man and carried him across; he
returned to the center and danced a jig; next he performed some gymnastic
and balancing feats too perilous to afford a pleasant spectacle; and he
finished by fastening to his person a thousand Roman candles, Catherine
wheels, serpents and rockets of all manner of brilliant colors, setting
them on fire all at once and walking and waltzing across his rope again
in a blinding blaze of glory that lit up the garden and the people's
faces like a great conflagration at midnight.

The dance had begun, and we adjourned to the temple.  Within it was a
drinking saloon, and all around it was a broad circular platform for the
dancers.  I backed up against the wall of the temple, and waited.  Twenty
sets formed, the music struck up, and then--I placed my hands before my
face for very shame.  But I looked through my fingers.  They were dancing
the renowned "Can-can."  A handsome girl in the set before me tripped
forward lightly to meet the opposite gentleman, tripped back again,
grasped her dresses vigorously on both sides with her hands, raised them
pretty high, danced an extraordinary jig that had more activity and
exposure about it than any jig I ever saw before, and then, drawing her
clothes still higher, she advanced gaily to the center and launched a
vicious kick full at her vis-a-vis that must infallibly have removed his
nose if he had been seven feet high.  It was a mercy he was only six.

That is the can-can.  The idea of it is to dance as wildly, as noisily,
as furiously as you can; expose yourself as much as possible if you are a
woman; and kick as high as you can, no matter which sex you belong to.
There is no word of exaggeration in this.  Any of the staid, respectable,
aged people who were there that night can testify to the truth of that
statement.  There were a good many such people present.  I suppose French
morality is not of that straight-laced description which is shocked at
trifles.

I moved aside and took a general view of the can-can.  Shouts, laughter,
furious music, a bewildering chaos of darting and intermingling forms,
stormy jerking and snatching of gay dresses, bobbing beads, flying arms,
lightning flashes of white-stockinged calves and dainty slippers in the
air, and then a grand final rush, riot, a terrific hubbub, and a wild
stampede!  Heavens!  Nothing like it has been seen on earth since
trembling Tam O'Shanter saw the devil and the witches at their orgies
that stormy night in "Alloway's auld haunted kirk."

We visited the Louvre, at a time when we had no silk purchases in view,
and looked at its miles of paintings by the old masters.  Some of them
were beautiful, but at the same time they carried such evidences about
them of the cringing spirit of those great men that we found small
pleasure in examining them.  Their nauseous adulation of princely patrons
was more prominent to me and chained my attention more surely than the
charms of color and expression which are claimed to be in the pictures.
Gratitude for kindnesses is well, but it seems to me that some of those
artists carried it so far that it ceased to be gratitude and became
worship.  If there is a plausible excuse for the worship of men, then by
all means let us forgive Rubens and his brethren.

But I will drop the subject, lest I say something about the old masters
that might as well be left unsaid.

Of course we drove in the Bois de Boulogne, that limitless park, with its
forests, its lakes, its cascades, and its broad avenues.  There were
thousands upon thousands of vehicles abroad, and the scene was full of
life and gaiety.  There were very common hacks, with father and mother
and all the children in them; conspicuous little open carriages with
celebrated ladies of questionable reputation in them; there were Dukes
and Duchesses abroad, with gorgeous footmen perched behind, and equally
gorgeous outriders perched on each of the six horses; there were blue and
silver, and green and gold, and pink and black, and all sorts and
descriptions of stunning and startling liveries out, and I almost yearned
to be a flunkey myself, for the sake of the fine clothes.

But presently the Emperor came along and he outshone them all.  He was
preceded by a bodyguard of gentlemen on horseback in showy uniforms, his
carriage-horses (there appeared to be somewhere in the remote
neighborhood of a thousand of them,) were bestridden by gallant-looking
fellows, also in stylish uniforms, and after the carriage followed
another detachment of bodyguards.  Everybody got out of the way;
everybody bowed to the Emperor and his friend the Sultan; and they went
by on a swinging trot and disappeared.

I will not describe the Bois de Boulogne.  I can not do it.  It is simply
a beautiful, cultivated, endless, wonderful wilderness.  It is an
enchanting place.  It is in Paris now, one may say, but a crumbling old
cross in one portion of it reminds one that it was not always so.  The
cross marks the spot where a celebrated troubadour was waylaid and
murdered in the fourteenth century.  It was in this park that that fellow
with an unpronounceable name made the attempt upon the Russian Czar's
life last spring with a pistol.  The bullet struck a tree.  Ferguson
showed us the place.  Now in America that interesting tree would be
chopped down or forgotten within the next five years, but it will be
treasured here.  The guides will point it out to visitors for the next
eight hundred years, and when it decays and falls down they will put up
another there and go on with the same old story just the same.




CHAPTER XV.

One of our pleasantest visits was to Pere la Chaise, the national
burying-ground of France, the honored resting-place of some of her
greatest and best children, the last home of scores of illustrious men
and women who were born to no titles, but achieved fame by their own
energy and their own genius.  It is a solemn city of winding streets and
of miniature marble temples and mansions of the dead gleaming white from
out a wilderness of foliage and fresh flowers.  Not every city is so well
peopled as this, or has so ample an area within its walls.  Few palaces
exist in any city that are so exquisite in design, so rich in art, so
costly in material, so graceful, so beautiful.

We had stood in the ancient church of St. Denis, where the marble
effigies of thirty generations of kings and queens lay stretched at
length upon the tombs, and the sensations invoked were startling and
novel; the curious armor, the obsolete costumes, the placid faces, the
hands placed palm to palm in eloquent supplication--it was a vision of
gray antiquity.  It seemed curious enough to be standing face to face, as
it were, with old Dagobert I., and Clovis and Charlemagne, those vague,
colossal heroes, those shadows, those myths of a thousand years ago!  I
touched their dust-covered faces with my finger, but Dagobert was deader
than the sixteen centuries that have passed over him, Clovis slept well
after his labor for Christ, and old Charlemagne went on dreaming of his
paladins, of bloody Roncesvalles, and gave no heed to me.

The great names of Pere la Chaise impress one, too, but differently.
There the suggestion brought constantly to his mind is, that this place
is sacred to a nobler royalty--the royalty of heart and brain.  Every
faculty of mind, every noble trait of human nature, every high occupation
which men engage in, seems represented by a famous name.  The effect is a
curious medley.  Davoust and Massena, who wrought in many a battle
tragedy, are here, and so also is Rachel, of equal renown in mimic
tragedy on the stage.  The Abbe Sicard sleeps here--the first great
teacher of the deaf and dumb--a man whose heart went out to every
unfortunate, and whose life was given to kindly offices in their service;
and not far off, in repose and peace at last, lies Marshal Ney, whose
stormy spirit knew no music like the bugle call to arms.  The man who
originated public gas-lighting, and that other benefactor who introduced
the cultivation of the potato and thus blessed millions of his starving
countrymen, lie with the Prince of Masserano, and with exiled queens and
princes of Further India.  Gay-Lussac the chemist, Laplace the
astronomer, Larrey the surgeon, de Suze the advocate, are here, and with
them are Talma, Bellini, Rubini; de Balzac, Beaumarchais, Beranger;
Moliere and Lafontaine, and scores of other men whose names and whose
worthy labors are as familiar in the remote by-places of civilization as
are the historic deeds of the kings and princes that sleep in the marble
vaults of St. Denis.

But among the thousands and thousands of tombs in Pere la Chaise, there
is one that no man, no woman, no youth of either sex, ever passes by
without stopping to examine.  Every visitor has a sort of indistinct idea
of the history of its dead and comprehends that homage is due there, but
not one in twenty thousand clearly remembers the story of that tomb and
its romantic occupants.  This is the grave of Abelard and Heloise--a
grave which has been more revered, more widely known, more written and
sung about and wept over, for seven hundred years, than any other in
Christendom save only that of the Saviour.  All visitors linger pensively
about it; all young people capture and carry away keepsakes and mementoes
of it; all Parisian youths and maidens who are disappointed in love come
there to bail out when they are full of tears; yea, many stricken lovers
make pilgrimages to this shrine from distant provinces to weep and wail
and "grit" their teeth over their heavy sorrows, and to purchase the
sympathies of the chastened spirits of that tomb with offerings of
immortelles and budding flowers.

Go when you will, you find somebody snuffling over that tomb.  Go when
you will, you find it furnished with those bouquets and immortelles.  Go
when you will, you find a gravel-train from Marseilles arriving to supply
the deficiencies caused by memento-cabbaging vandals whose affections
have miscarried.

Yet who really knows the story of Abelard and Heloise?  Precious few
people.  The names are perfectly familiar to every body, and that is
about all.  With infinite pains I have acquired a knowledge of that
history, and I propose to narrate it here, partly for the honest
information of the public and partly to show that public that they have
been wasting a good deal of marketable sentiment very unnecessarily.


                       STORY OF ABELARD AND HELOISE

Heloise was born seven hundred and sixty-six years ago.  She may have had
parents.  There is no telling.  She lived with her uncle Fulbert, a canon
of the cathedral of Paris.  I do not know what a canon of a cathedral is,
but that is what he was.  He was nothing more than a sort of a mountain
howitzer, likely, because they had no heavy artillery in those days.
Suffice it, then, that Heloise lived with her uncle the howitzer and was
happy.  She spent the most of her childhood in the convent of Argenteuil
--never heard of Argenteuil before, but suppose there was really such a
place.  She then returned to her uncle, the old gun, or son of a gun, as
the case may be, and he taught her to write and speak Latin, which was
the language of literature and polite society at that period.

Just at this time, Pierre Abelard, who had already made himself widely
famous as a rhetorician, came to found a school of rhetoric in Paris.
The originality of his principles, his eloquence, and his great physical
strength and beauty created a profound sensation.  He saw Heloise, and
was captivated by her blooming youth, her beauty, and her charming
disposition.  He wrote to her; she answered.  He wrote again; she
answered again.  He was now in love.  He longed to know her--to speak to
her face to face.

His school was near Fulbert's house.  He asked Fulbert to allow him to
call.  The good old swivel saw here a rare opportunity: his niece, whom
he so much loved, would absorb knowledge from this man, and it would not
cost him a cent.  Such was Fulbert--penurious.

Fulbert's first name is not mentioned by any author, which is
unfortunate.  However, George W. Fulbert will answer for him as well as
any other.  We will let him go at that.  He asked Abelard to teach her.

Abelard was glad enough of the opportunity.  He came often and staid
long.  A letter of his shows in its very first sentence that he came
under that friendly roof like a cold-hearted villain as he was, with the
deliberate intention of debauching a confiding, innocent girl.  This is
the letter:

          "I cannot cease to be astonished at the simplicity of Fulbert;
          I was as much surprised as if he had placed a lamb in the power
          of a hungry wolf.  Heloise and I, under pretext of study, gave
          ourselves up wholly to love, and the solitude that love seeks
          our studies procured for us.  Books were open before us, but we
          spoke oftener of love than philosophy, and kisses came more
          readily from our lips than words."

And so, exulting over an honorable confidence which to his degraded
instinct was a ludicrous "simplicity," this unmanly Abelard seduced the
niece of the man whose guest he was.  Paris found it out.  Fulbert was
told of it--told often--but refused to believe it.  He could not
comprehend how a man could be so depraved as to use the sacred protection
and security of hospitality as a means for the commission of such a crime
as that.  But when he heard the rowdies in the streets singing the love-
songs of Abelard to Heloise, the case was too plain--love-songs come not
properly within the teachings of rhetoric and philosophy.

He drove Abelard from his house.  Abelard returned secretly and carried
Heloise away to Palais, in Brittany, his native country.  Here, shortly
afterward, she bore a son, who, from his rare beauty, was surnamed
Astrolabe--William G.  The girl's flight enraged Fulbert, and he longed
for vengeance, but feared to strike lest retaliation visit Heloise--for
he still loved her tenderly.  At length Abelard offered to marry Heloise
--but on a shameful condition: that the marriage should be kept secret
from the world, to the end that (while her good name remained a wreck, as
before,) his priestly reputation might be kept untarnished.  It was like
that miscreant.  Fulbert saw his opportunity and consented.  He would see
the parties married, and then violate the confidence of the man who had
taught him that trick; he would divulge the secret and so remove somewhat
of the obloquy that attached to his niece's fame.  But the niece
suspected his scheme.  She refused the marriage at first; she said
Fulbert would betray the secret to save her, and besides, she did not
wish to drag down a lover who was so gifted, so honored by the world, and
who had such a splendid career before him.  It was noble, self-
sacrificing love, and characteristic of the pure-souled Heloise, but it
was not good sense.

But she was overruled, and the private marriage took place.  Now for
Fulbert!  The heart so wounded should be healed at last; the proud spirit
so tortured should find rest again; the humbled head should be lifted up
once more.  He proclaimed the marriage in the high places of the city and
rejoiced that dishonor had departed from his house.  But lo!  Abelard
denied the marriage!  Heloise denied it!  The people, knowing the former
circumstances, might have believed Fulbert had only Abelard denied it,
but when the person chiefly interested--the girl herself--denied it, they
laughed, despairing Fulbert to scorn.

The poor canon of the cathedral of Paris was spiked again.  The last hope
of repairing the wrong that had been done his house was gone.  What next?
Human nature suggested revenge.  He compassed it.  The historian says:

          "Ruffians, hired by Fulbert, fell upon Abelard by night, and
          inflicted upon him a terrible and nameless mutilation."

I am seeking the last resting place of those "ruffians."  When I find it
I shall shed some tears on it, and stack up some bouquets and
immortelles, and cart away from it some gravel whereby to remember that
howsoever blotted by crime their lives may have been, these ruffians did
one just deed, at any rate, albeit it was not warranted by the strict
letter of the law.

Heloise entered a convent and gave good-bye to the world and its
pleasures for all time.  For twelve years she never heard of Abelard--
never even heard his name mentioned.  She had become prioress of
Argenteuil and led a life of complete seclusion.  She happened one day to
see a letter written by him, in which he narrated his own history.  She
cried over it and wrote him.  He answered, addressing her as his "sister
in Christ."  They continued to correspond, she in the unweighed language
of unwavering affection, he in the chilly phraseology of the polished
rhetorician.  She poured out her heart in passionate, disjointed
sentences; he replied with finished essays, divided deliberately into
heads and sub-heads, premises and argument.  She showered upon him the
tenderest epithets that love could devise, he addressed her from the
North Pole of his frozen heart as the "Spouse of Christ!"  The abandoned
villain!

On account of her too easy government of her nuns, some disreputable
irregularities were discovered among them, and the Abbot of St. Denis
broke up her establishment.  Abelard was the official head of the
monastery of St. Gildas de Ruys, at that time, and when he heard of her
homeless condition a sentiment of pity was aroused in his breast (it is a
wonder the unfamiliar emotion did not blow his head off,) and he placed
her and her troop in the little oratory of the Paraclete, a religious
establishment which he had founded.  She had many privations and
sufferings to undergo at first, but her worth and her gentle disposition
won influential friends for her, and she built up a wealthy and
flourishing nunnery.  She became a great favorite with the heads of the
church, and also the people, though she seldom appeared in public.  She
rapidly advanced in esteem, in good report, and in usefulness, and
Abelard as rapidly lost ground.  The Pope so honored her that he made her
the head of her order.  Abelard, a man of splendid talents, and ranking
as the first debater of his time, became timid, irresolute, and
distrustful of his powers.  He only needed a great misfortune to topple
him from the high position he held in the world of intellectual
excellence, and it came.  Urged by kings and princes to meet the subtle
St. Bernard in debate and crush him, he stood up in the presence of a
royal and illustrious assemblage, and when his antagonist had finished he
looked about him and stammered a commencement; but his courage failed
him, the cunning of his tongue was gone: with his speech unspoken, he
trembled and sat down, a disgraced and vanquished champion.

He died a nobody, and was buried at Cluny, A.D., 1144.  They removed his
body to the Paraclete afterward, and when Heloise died, twenty years
later, they buried her with him, in accordance with her last wish.  He
died at the ripe age of 64, and she at 63.  After the bodies had remained
entombed three hundred years, they were removed once more.  They were
removed again in 1800, and finally, seventeen years afterward, they were
taken up and transferred to Pere la Chaise, where they will remain in
peace and quiet until it comes time for them to get up and move again.

History is silent concerning the last acts of the mountain howitzer.  Let
the world say what it will about him, I, at least, shall always respect
the memory and sorrow for the abused trust and the broken heart and the
troubled spirit of the old smooth-bore.  Rest and repose be his!

Such is the story of Abelard and Heloise.  Such is the history that
Lamartine has shed such cataracts of tears over.  But that man never
could come within the influence of a subject in the least pathetic
without overflowing his banks.  He ought to be dammed--or leveed, I
should more properly say.  Such is the history--not as it is usually
told, but as it is when stripped of the nauseous sentimentality that
would enshrine for our loving worship a dastardly seducer like Pierre
Abelard.  I have not a word to say against the misused, faithful girl,
and would not withhold from her grave a single one of those simple
tributes which blighted youths and maidens offer to her memory, but I am
sorry enough that I have not time and opportunity to write four or five
volumes of my opinion of her friend the founder of the Parachute, or the
Paraclete, or whatever it was.

The tons of sentiment I have wasted on that unprincipled humbug in my
ignorance!  I shall throttle down my emotions hereafter, about this sort
of people, until I have read them up and know whether they are entitled
to any tearful attentions or not.  I wish I had my immortelles back, now,
and that bunch of radishes.

In Paris we often saw in shop windows the sign "English Spoken Here,"
just as one sees in the windows at home the sign "Ici on parle
francaise."  We always invaded these places at once--and invariably
received the information, framed in faultless French, that the clerk who
did the English for the establishment had just gone to dinner and would
be back in an hour--would Monsieur buy something?  We wondered why those
parties happened to take their dinners at such erratic and extraordinary
hours, for we never called at a time when an exemplary Christian would be
in the least likely to be abroad on such an errand.  The truth was, it
was a base fraud--a snare to trap the unwary--chaff to catch fledglings
with.  They had no English-murdering clerk.  They trusted to the sign to
inveigle foreigners into their lairs, and trusted to their own
blandishments to keep them there till they bought something.

We ferreted out another French imposition--a frequent sign to this
effect: "ALL MANNER OF AMERICAN DRINKS ARTISTICALLY PREPARED HERE."  We
procured the services of a gentleman experienced in the nomenclature of
the American bar, and moved upon the works of one of these impostors.  A
bowing, aproned Frenchman skipped forward and said:

"Que voulez les messieurs?"  I do not know what "Que voulez les
messieurs?"  means, but such was his remark.

Our general said, "We will take a whiskey straight."

[A stare from the Frenchman.]

"Well, if you don't know what that is, give us a champagne cock-tail."

[A stare and a shrug.]

"Well, then, give us a sherry cobbler."

The Frenchman was checkmated.  This was all Greek to him.

"Give us a brandy smash!"

The Frenchman began to back away, suspicious of the ominous vigor of the
last order--began to back away, shrugging his shoulders and spreading his
hands apologetically.

The General followed him up and gained a complete victory.  The
uneducated foreigner could not even furnish a Santa Cruz Punch, an Eye-
Opener, a Stone-Fence, or an Earthquake.  It was plain that he was a
wicked impostor.

An acquaintance of mine said the other day that he was doubtless the only
American visitor to the Exposition who had had the high honor of being
escorted by the Emperor's bodyguard.  I said with unobtrusive frankness
that I was astonished that such a long-legged, lantern-jawed,
unprepossessing-looking specter as he should be singled out for a
distinction like that, and asked how it came about.  He said he had
attended a great military review in the Champ de Mars some time ago, and
while the multitude about him was growing thicker and thicker every
moment he observed an open space inside the railing.  He left his
carriage and went into it.  He was the only person there, and so he had
plenty of room, and the situation being central, he could see all the
preparations going on about the field.  By and by there was a sound of
music, and soon the Emperor of the French and the Emperor of Austria,
escorted by the famous Cent Gardes, entered the enclosure.  They seemed
not to observe him, but directly, in response to a sign from the
commander of the guard, a young lieutenant came toward him with a file of
his men following, halted, raised his hand, and gave the military salute,
and then said in a low voice that he was sorry to have to disturb a
stranger and a gentleman, but the place was sacred to royalty.  Then this
New Jersey phantom rose up and bowed and begged pardon, then with the
officer beside him, the file of men marching behind him, and with every
mark of respect, he was escorted to his carriage by the imperial Cent
Gardes!  The officer saluted again and fell back, the New Jersey sprite
bowed in return and had presence of mind enough to pretend that he had
simply called on a matter of private business with those emperors, and so
waved them an adieu and drove from the field!

Imagine a poor Frenchman ignorantly intruding upon a public rostrum
sacred to some six-penny dignitary in America.  The police would scare
him to death first with a storm of their elegant blasphemy, and then pull
him to pieces getting him away from there.  We are measurably superior to
the French in some things, but they are immeasurably our betters in
others.

Enough of Paris for the present.  We have done our whole duty by it.  We
have seen the Tuileries, the Napoleon Column, the Madeleine, that wonder
of wonders the tomb of Napoleon, all the great churches and museums,
libraries, imperial palaces, and sculpture and picture galleries, the
Pantheon, Jardin des Plantes, the opera, the circus, the legislative
body, the billiard rooms, the barbers, the grisettes--

Ah, the grisettes!  I had almost forgotten.  They are another romantic
fraud.  They were (if you let the books of travel tell it) always so
beautiful--so neat and trim, so graceful--so naive and trusting--so
gentle, so winning--so faithful to their shop duties, so irresistible to
buyers in their prattling importunity--so devoted to their poverty-
stricken students of the Latin Quarter--so lighthearted and happy on
their Sunday picnics in the suburbs--and oh, so charmingly, so
delightfully immoral!

Stuff!  For three or four days I was constantly saying:

"Quick, Ferguson!  Is that a grisette?"

And he always said, "No."

He comprehended at last that I wanted to see a grisette.  Then he showed
me dozens of them.  They were like nearly all the Frenchwomen I ever saw
--homely.  They had large hands, large feet, large mouths; they had pug
noses as a general thing, and moustaches that not even good breeding
could overlook; they combed their hair straight back without parting;
they were ill-shaped, they were not winning, they were not graceful; I
knew by their looks that they ate garlic and onions; and lastly and
finally, to my thinking it would be base flattery to call them immoral.

Aroint thee, wench!  I sorrow for the vagabond student of the Latin
Quarter now, even more than formerly I envied him.  Thus topples to earth
another idol of my infancy.

We have seen every thing, and tomorrow we go to Versailles.  We shall see
Paris only for a little while as we come back to take up our line of
march for the ship, and so I may as well bid the beautiful city a
regretful farewell.  We shall travel many thousands of miles after we
leave here and visit many great cities, but we shall find none so
enchanting as this.

Some of our party have gone to England, intending to take a roundabout
course and rejoin the vessel at Leghorn or Naples several weeks hence.
We came near going to Geneva, but have concluded to return to Marseilles
and go up through Italy from Genoa.

I will conclude this chapter with a remark that I am sincerely proud to
be able to make--and glad, as well, that my comrades cordially endorse
it, to wit: by far the handsomest women we have seen in France were born
and reared in America.

I feel now like a man who has redeemed a failing reputation and shed
luster upon a dimmed escutcheon, by a single just deed done at the
eleventh hour.

Let the curtain fall, to slow music.




CHAPTER XVI.

VERSAILLES!  It is wonderfully beautiful!  You gaze and stare and try to
understand that it is real, that it is on the earth, that it is not the
Garden of Eden--but your brain grows giddy, stupefied by the world of
beauty around you, and you half believe you are the dupe of an exquisite
dream.  The scene thrills one like military music!  A noble palace,
stretching its ornamented front, block upon block away, till it seemed
that it would never end; a grand promenade before it, whereon the armies
of an empire might parade; all about it rainbows of flowers, and colossal
statues that were almost numberless and yet seemed only scattered over
the ample space; broad flights of stone steps leading down from the
promenade to lower grounds of the park--stairways that whole regiments
might stand to arms upon and have room to spare; vast fountains whose
great bronze effigies discharged rivers of sparkling water into the air
and mingled a hundred curving jets together in forms of matchless beauty;
wide grass-carpeted avenues that branched hither and thither in every
direction and wandered to seemingly interminable distances, walled all
the way on either side with compact ranks of leafy trees whose branches
met above and formed arches as faultless and as symmetrical as ever were
carved in stone; and here and there were glimpses of sylvan lakes with
miniature ships glassed in their surfaces.  And every where--on the
palace steps, and the great promenade, around the fountains, among the
trees, and far under the arches of the endless avenues--hundreds and
hundreds of people in gay costumes walked or ran or danced, and gave to
the fairy picture the life and animation which was all of perfection it
could have lacked.

It was worth a pilgrimage to see.  Everything is on so gigantic a scale.
Nothing is small--nothing is cheap.  The statues are all large; the
palace is grand; the park covers a fair-sized county; the avenues are
interminable.  All the distances and all the dimensions about Versailles
are vast.  I used to think the pictures exaggerated these distances and
these dimensions beyond all reason, and that they made Versailles more
beautiful than it was possible for any place in the world to be.  I know
now that the pictures never came up to the subject in any respect, and
that no painter could represent Versailles on canvas as beautiful as it
is in reality.  I used to abuse Louis XIV for spending two hundred
millions of dollars in creating this marvelous park, when bread was so
scarce with some of his subjects; but I have forgiven him now.  He took a
tract of land sixty miles in circumference and set to work to make this
park and build this palace and a road to it from Paris.  He kept 36,000
men employed daily on it, and the labor was so unhealthy that they used
to die and be hauled off by cartloads every night.  The wife of a
nobleman of the time speaks of this as an "inconvenience," but naively
remarks that "it does not seem worthy of attention in the happy state of
tranquillity we now enjoy."

I always thought ill of people at home who trimmed their shrubbery into
pyramids and squares and spires and all manner of unnatural shapes, and
when I saw the same thing being practiced in this great park I began to
feel dissatisfied.  But I soon saw the idea of the thing and the wisdom
of it.  They seek the general effect.  We distort a dozen sickly trees
into unaccustomed shapes in a little yard no bigger than a dining room,
and then surely they look absurd enough.  But here they take two hundred
thousand tall forest trees and set them in a double row; allow no sign of
leaf or branch to grow on the trunk lower down than six feet above the
ground; from that point the boughs begin to project, and very gradually
they extend outward further and further till they meet overhead, and a
faultless tunnel of foliage is formed.  The arch is mathematically
precise.  The effect is then very fine.  They make trees take fifty
different shapes, and so these quaint effects are infinitely varied and
picturesque.  The trees in no two avenues are shaped alike, and
consequently the eye is not fatigued with anything in the nature of
monotonous uniformity.  I will drop this subject now, leaving it to
others to determine how these people manage to make endless ranks of
lofty forest trees grow to just a certain thickness of trunk (say a foot
and two-thirds); how they make them spring to precisely the same height
for miles; how they make them grow so close together; how they compel one
huge limb to spring from the same identical spot on each tree and form
the main sweep of the arch; and how all these things are kept exactly in
the same condition and in the same exquisite shapeliness and symmetry
month after month and year after year--for I have tried to reason out the
problem and have failed.

We walked through the great hall of sculpture and the one hundred and
fifty galleries of paintings in the palace of Versailles, and felt that
to be in such a place was useless unless one had a whole year at his
disposal.  These pictures are all battle scenes, and only one solitary
little canvas among them all treats of anything but great French
victories.  We wandered, also, through the Grand Trianon and the Petit
Trianon, those monuments of royal prodigality, and with histories so
mournful--filled, as it is, with souvenirs of Napoleon the First, and
three dead kings and as many queens.  In one sumptuous bed they had all
slept in succession, but no one occupies it now.  In a large dining room
stood the table at which Louis XIV and his mistress Madame Maintenon, and
after them Louis XV, and Pompadour, had sat at their meals naked and
unattended--for the table stood upon a trapdoor, which descended with it
to regions below when it was necessary to replenish its dishes.  In a
room of the Petit Trianon stood the furniture, just as poor Marie
Antoinette left it when the mob came and dragged her and the King to
Paris, never to return.  Near at hand, in the stables, were prodigious
carriages that showed no color but gold--carriages used by former kings
of France on state occasions, and never used now save when a kingly head
is to be crowned or an imperial infant christened.  And with them were
some curious sleighs, whose bodies were shaped like lions, swans, tigers,
etc.--vehicles that had once been handsome with pictured designs and
fine workmanship, but were dusty and decaying now.  They had their
history.  When Louis XIV had finished the Grand Trianon, he told
Maintenon he had created a Paradise for her, and asked if she could think
of anything now to wish for.  He said he wished the Trianon to be
perfection--nothing less.  She said she could think of but one thing--it
was summer, and it was balmy France--yet she would like well to sleigh
ride in the leafy avenues of Versailles!  The next morning found miles
and miles of grassy avenues spread thick with snowy salt and sugar, and a
procession of those quaint sleighs waiting to receive the chief concubine
of the gaiest and most unprincipled court that France has ever seen!

From sumptuous Versailles, with its palaces, its statues, its gardens,
and its fountains, we journeyed back to Paris and sought its antipodes--
the Faubourg St. Antoine.  Little, narrow streets; dirty children
blockading them; greasy, slovenly women capturing and spanking them;
filthy dens on first floors, with rag stores in them (the heaviest
business in the Faubourg is the chiffonier's); other filthy dens where
whole suits of second and third-hand clothing are sold at prices that
would ruin any proprietor who did not steal his stock; still other filthy
dens where they sold groceries--sold them by the half-pennyworth--five
dollars would buy the man out, goodwill and all.  Up these little crooked
streets they will murder a man for seven dollars and dump the body in the
Seine.  And up some other of these streets--most of them, I should say--
live lorettes.

All through this Faubourg St. Antoine, misery, poverty, vice, and crime
go hand in hand, and the evidences of it stare one in the face from every
side.  Here the people live who begin the revolutions.  Whenever there is
anything of that kind to be done, they are always ready.  They take as
much genuine pleasure in building a barricade as they do in cutting a
throat or shoving a friend into the Seine.  It is these savage-looking
ruffians who storm the splendid halls of the Tuileries occasionally, and
swarm into Versailles when a king is to be called to account.

But they will build no more barricades, they will break no more soldiers'
heads with paving-stones.  Louis Napoleon has taken care of all that.  He
is annihilating the crooked streets and building in their stead noble
boulevards as straight as an arrow--avenues which a cannon ball could
traverse from end to end without meeting an obstruction more irresistible
than the flesh and bones of men--boulevards whose stately edifices will
never afford refuges and plotting places for starving, discontented
revolution breeders.  Five of these great thoroughfares radiate from one
ample centre--a centre which is exceedingly well adapted to the
accommodation of heavy artillery.  The mobs used to riot there, but they
must seek another rallying-place in future.  And this ingenious Napoleon
paves the streets of his great cities with a smooth, compact composition
of asphaltum and sand.  No more barricades of flagstones--no more
assaulting his Majesty's troops with cobbles.  I cannot feel friendly
toward my quondam fellow-American, Napoleon III., especially at this
time,--[July, 1867.]--when in fancy I see his credulous victim,
Maximilian, lying stark and stiff in Mexico, and his maniac widow
watching eagerly from her French asylum for the form that will never
come--but I do admire his nerve, his calm self-reliance, his shrewd good
sense.




CHAPTER XVII.

We had a pleasant journey of it seaward again.  We found that for the
three past nights our ship had been in a state of war.  The first night
the sailors of a British ship, being happy with grog, came down on the
pier and challenged our sailors to a free fight.  They accepted with
alacrity, repaired to the pier, and gained--their share of a drawn
battle.  Several bruised and bloody members of both parties were carried
off by the police and imprisoned until the following morning.  The next
night the British boys came again to renew the fight, but our men had had
strict orders to remain on board and out of sight.  They did so, and the
besieging party grew noisy and more and more abusive as the fact became
apparent (to them) that our men were afraid to come out.  They went away
finally with a closing burst of ridicule and offensive epithets.  The
third night they came again and were more obstreperous than ever.  They
swaggered up and down the almost deserted pier, and hurled curses,
obscenity, and stinging sarcasms at our crew.  It was more than human
nature could bear.  The executive officer ordered our men ashore--with
instructions not to fight.  They charged the British and gained a
brilliant victory.  I probably would not have mentioned this war had it
ended differently.  But I travel to learn, and I still remember that they
picture no French defeats in the battle-galleries of Versailles.

It was like home to us to step on board the comfortable ship again and
smoke and lounge about her breezy decks.  And yet it was not altogether
like home, either, because so many members of the family were away.  We
missed some pleasant faces which we would rather have found at dinner,
and at night there were gaps in the euchre-parties which could not be
satisfactorily filled.  "Moult"  was in England, Jack in Switzerland,
Charley in Spain.  Blucher was gone, none could tell where.  But we were
at sea again, and we had the stars and the ocean to look at, and plenty
of room to meditate in.

In due time the shores of Italy were sighted, and as we stood gazing from
the decks, early in the bright summer morning, the stately city of Genoa
rose up out of the sea and flung back the sunlight from her hundred
palaces.

Here we rest for the present--or rather, here we have been trying to
rest, for some little time, but we run about too much to accomplish a
great deal in that line.

I would like to remain here.  I had rather not go any further.  There may
be prettier women in Europe, but I doubt it.  The population of Genoa is
120,000; two-thirds of these are women, I think, and at least two-thirds
of the women are beautiful.  They are as dressy and as tasteful and as
graceful as they could possibly be without being angels.  However, angels
are not very dressy, I believe.  At least the angels in pictures are not
--they wear nothing but wings.  But these Genoese women do look so
charming.  Most of the young demoiselles are robed in a cloud of white
from head to foot, though many trick themselves out more elaborately.
Nine-tenths of them wear nothing on their heads but a filmy sort of veil,
which falls down their backs like a white mist.  They are very fair, and
many of them have blue eyes, but black and dreamy dark brown ones are met
with oftenest.

The ladies and gentlemen of Genoa have a pleasant fashion of promenading
in a large park on the top of a hill in the center of the city, from six
till nine in the evening, and then eating ices in a neighboring garden an
hour or two longer.  We went to the park on Sunday evening.  Two thousand
persons were present, chiefly young ladies and gentlemen.  The gentlemen
were dressed in the very latest Paris fashions, and the robes of the
ladies glinted among the trees like so many snowflakes.  The multitude
moved round and round the park in a great procession.  The bands played,
and so did the fountains; the moon and the gas lamps lit up the scene,
and altogether it was a brilliant and an animated picture.  I scanned
every female face that passed, and it seemed to me that all were
handsome.  I never saw such a freshet of loveliness before.  I did not
see how a man of only ordinary decision of character could marry here,
because before he could get his mind made up he would fall in love with
somebody else.

Never smoke any Italian tobacco.  Never do it on any account.  It makes
me shudder to think what it must be made of.  You cannot throw an old
cigar "stub" down anywhere, but some vagabond will pounce upon it on the
instant.  I like to smoke a good deal, but it wounds my sensibilities to
see one of these stub-hunters watching me out of the corners of his
hungry eyes and calculating how long my cigar will be likely to last.
It reminded me too painfully of that San Francisco undertaker who used to
go to sick-beds with his watch in his hand and time the corpse.  One of
these stub-hunters followed us all over the park last night, and we never
had a smoke that was worth anything.  We were always moved to appease him
with the stub before the cigar was half gone, because he looked so
viciously anxious.  He regarded us as his own legitimate prey, by right
of discovery, I think, because he drove off several other professionals
who wanted to take stock in us.

Now, they surely must chew up those old stubs, and dry and sell them for
smoking-tobacco.  Therefore, give your custom to other than Italian
brands of the article.

"The Superb" and the "City of Palaces" are names which Genoa has held for
centuries.  She is full of palaces, certainly, and the palaces are
sumptuous inside, but they are very rusty without and make no pretensions
to architectural magnificence.  "Genoa the Superb" would be a felicitous
title if it referred to the women.

We have visited several of the palaces--immense thick-walled piles, with
great stone staircases, tesselated marble pavements on the floors,
(sometimes they make a mosaic work, of intricate designs, wrought in
pebbles or little fragments of marble laid in cement,) and grand salons
hung with pictures by Rubens, Guido, Titian, Paul Veronese, and so on,
and portraits of heads of the family, in plumed helmets and gallant coats
of mail, and patrician ladies in stunning costumes of centuries ago.
But, of course, the folks were all out in the country for the summer, and
might not have known enough to ask us to dinner if they had been at home,
and so all the grand empty salons, with their resounding pavements, their
grim pictures of dead ancestors, and tattered banners with the dust of
bygone centuries upon them, seemed to brood solemnly of death and the
grave, and our spirits ebbed away, and our cheerfulness passed from us.
We never went up to the eleventh story.  We always began to suspect
ghosts.  There was always an undertaker-looking servant along, too, who
handed us a program, pointed to the picture that began the list of the
salon he was in, and then stood stiff and stark and unsmiling in his
petrified livery till we were ready to move on to the next chamber,
whereupon he marched sadly ahead and took up another malignantly
respectful position as before.  I wasted so much time praying that the
roof would fall in on these dispiriting flunkies that I had but little
left to bestow upon palace and pictures.

And besides, as in Paris, we had a guide.  Perdition catch all the
guides.  This one said he was the most gifted linguist in Genoa, as far
as English was concerned, and that only two persons in the city beside
himself could talk the language at all.  He showed us the birthplace of
Christopher Columbus, and after we had reflected in silent awe before it
for fifteen minutes, he said it was not the birthplace of Columbus, but
of Columbus' grandmother!  When we demanded an explanation of his conduct
he only shrugged his shoulders and answered in barbarous Italian.  I
shall speak further of this guide in a future chapter.  All the
information we got out of him we shall be able to carry along with us, I
think.

I have not been to church so often in a long time as I have in the last
few weeks.  The people in these old lands seem to make churches their
specialty.  Especially does this seem to be the case with the citizens of
Genoa.  I think there is a church every three or four hundred yards all
over town.  The streets are sprinkled from end to end with shovel-hatted,
long-robed, well-fed priests, and the church bells by dozens are pealing
all the day long, nearly.  Every now and then one comes across a friar of
orders gray, with shaven head, long, coarse robe, rope girdle and beads,
and with feet cased in sandals or entirely bare.  These worthies suffer
in the flesh and do penance all their lives, I suppose, but they look
like consummate famine-breeders.  They are all fat and serene.

The old Cathedral of San Lorenzo is about as notable a building as we
have found in Genoa.  It is vast, and has colonnades of noble pillars,
and a great organ, and the customary pomp of gilded moldings, pictures,
frescoed ceilings, and so forth.  I cannot describe it, of course--it
would require a good many pages to do that.  But it is a curious place.
They said that half of it--from the front door halfway down to the altar
--was a Jewish synagogue before the Saviour was born, and that no
alteration had been made in it since that time.  We doubted the
statement, but did it reluctantly.  We would much rather have believed
it.  The place looked in too perfect repair to be so ancient.

The main point of interest about the cathedral is the little Chapel of
St. John the Baptist.  They only allow women to enter it on one day in
the year, on account of the animosity they still cherish against the sex
because of the murder of the Saint to gratify a caprice of Herodias.  In
this Chapel is a marble chest, in which, they told us, were the ashes of
St. John; and around it was wound a chain, which, they said, had confined
him when he was in prison.  We did not desire to disbelieve these
statements, and yet we could not feel certain that they were correct--
partly because we could have broken that chain, and so could St. John,
and partly because we had seen St. John's ashes before, in another
church.  We could not bring ourselves to think St. John had two sets of
ashes.

They also showed us a portrait of the Madonna which was painted by St.
Luke, and it did not look half as old and smoky as some of the pictures
by Rubens.  We could not help admiring the Apostle's modesty in never
once mentioning in his writings that he could paint.

But isn't this relic matter a little overdone?  We find a piece of the
true cross in every old church we go into, and some of the nails that
held it together.  I would not like to be positive, but I think we have
seen as much as a keg of these nails.  Then there is the crown of thorns;
they have part of one in Sainte Chapelle, in Paris, and part of one also
in Notre Dame.  And as for bones of St. Denis, I feel certain we have
seen enough of them to duplicate him if necessary.

I only meant to write about the churches, but I keep wandering from the
subject.  I could say that the Church of the Annunciation is a wilderness
of beautiful columns, of statues, gilded moldings, and pictures almost
countless, but that would give no one an entirely perfect idea of the
thing, and so where is the use?  One family built the whole edifice, and
have got money left.  There is where the mystery lies.  We had an idea at
first that only a mint could have survived the expense.

These people here live in the heaviest, highest, broadest, darkest,
solidest houses one can imagine.  Each one might "laugh a siege to
scorn."  A hundred feet front and a hundred high is about the style, and
you go up three flights of stairs before you begin to come upon signs of
occupancy.  Everything is stone, and stone of the heaviest--floors,
stairways, mantels, benches--everything.  The walls are four to five feet
thick.  The streets generally are four or five to eight feet wide and as
crooked as a corkscrew.  You go along one of these gloomy cracks, and
look up and behold the sky like a mere ribbon of light, far above your
head, where the tops of the tall houses on either side of the street bend
almost together.  You feel as if you were at the bottom of some
tremendous abyss, with all the world far above you.  You wind in and out
and here and there, in the most mysterious way, and have no more idea of
the points of the compass than if you were a blind man.  You can never
persuade yourself that these are actually streets, and the frowning,
dingy, monstrous houses dwellings, till you see one of these beautiful,
prettily dressed women emerge from them--see her emerge from a dark,
dreary-looking den that looks dungeon all over, from the ground away
halfway up to heaven.  And then you wonder that such a charming moth
could come from such a forbidding shell as that.  The streets are wisely
made narrow and the houses heavy and thick and stony, in order that the
people may be cool in this roasting climate.  And they are cool, and stay
so.  And while I think of it--the men wear hats and have very dark
complexions, but the women wear no headgear but a flimsy veil like a
gossamer's web, and yet are exceedingly fair as a general thing.
Singular, isn't it?

The huge palaces of Genoa are each supposed to be occupied by one family,
but they could accommodate a hundred, I should think.  They are relics of
the grandeur of Genoa's palmy days--the days when she was a great
commercial and maritime power several centuries ago.  These houses, solid
marble palaces though they be, are in many cases of a dull pinkish color,
outside, and from pavement to eaves are pictured with Genoese battle
scenes, with monstrous Jupiters and Cupids, and with familiar
illustrations from Grecian mythology.  Where the paint has yielded to age
and exposure and is peeling off in flakes and patches, the effect is not
happy.  A noseless Cupid or a Jupiter with an eye out or a Venus with a
fly-blister on her breast, are not attractive features in a picture.
Some of these painted walls reminded me somewhat of the tall van,
plastered with fanciful bills and posters, that follows the bandwagon of
a circus about a country village.  I have not read or heard that the
outsides of the houses of any other European city are frescoed in this
way.

I can not conceive of such a thing as Genoa in ruins.  Such massive
arches, such ponderous substructions as support these towering broad-
winged edifices, we have seldom seen before; and surely the great blocks
of stone of which these edifices are built can never decay; walls that
are as thick as an ordinary American doorway is high cannot crumble.

The republics of Genoa and Pisa were very powerful in the Middle Ages.
Their ships filled the Mediterranean, and they carried on an extensive
commerce with Constantinople and Syria.  Their warehouses were the great
distributing depots from whence the costly merchandise of the East was
sent abroad over Europe.  They were warlike little nations and defied, in
those days, governments that overshadow them now as mountains overshadow
molehills.  The Saracens captured and pillaged Genoa nine hundred years
ago, but during the following century Genoa and Pisa entered into an
offensive and defensive alliance and besieged the Saracen colonies in
Sardinia and the Balearic Isles with an obstinacy that maintained its
pristine vigor and held to its purpose for forty long years.  They were
victorious at last and divided their conquests equably among their great
patrician families.  Descendants of some of those proud families still
inhabit the palaces of Genoa, and trace in their own features a
resemblance to the grim knights whose portraits hang in their stately
halls, and to pictured beauties with pouting lips and merry eyes whose
originals have been dust and ashes for many a dead and forgotten century.

The hotel we live in belonged to one of those great orders of knights of
the Cross in the times of the Crusades, and its mailed sentinels once
kept watch and ward in its massive turrets and woke the echoes of these
halls and corridors with their iron heels.

But Genoa's greatness has degenerated into an unostentatious commerce in
velvets and silver filagree-work.  They say that each European town has
its specialty.  These filagree things are Genoa's specialty.  Her smiths
take silver ingots and work them up into all manner of graceful and
beautiful forms.  They make bunches of flowers, from flakes and wires of
silver, that counterfeit the delicate creations the frost weaves upon a
windowpane; and we were shown a miniature silver temple whose fluted
columns, whose Corinthian capitals and rich entablatures, whose spire,
statues, bells, and ornate lavishness of sculpture were wrought in
polished silver, and with such matchless art that every detail was a
fascinating study and the finished edifice a wonder of beauty.

We are ready to move again, though we are not really tired yet of the
narrow passages of this old marble cave.  Cave is a good word--when
speaking of Genoa under the stars.  When we have been prowling at
midnight through the gloomy crevices they call streets, where no
footfalls but ours were echoing, where only ourselves were abroad, and
lights appeared only at long intervals and at a distance, and
mysteriously disappeared again, and the houses at our elbows seemed to
stretch upward farther than ever toward the heavens, the memory of a cave
I used to know at home was always in my mind, with its lofty passages,
its silence and solitude, its shrouding gloom, its sepulchral echoes, its
flitting lights, and more than all, its sudden revelations of branching
crevices and corridors where we least expected them.

We are not tired of the endless processions of cheerful, chattering
gossipers that throng these courts and streets all day long, either; nor
of the coarse-robed monks; nor of the "Asti" wines, which that old doctor
(whom we call the Oracle,) with customary felicity in the matter of
getting everything wrong, misterms "nasty."  But we must go,
nevertheless.

Our last sight was the cemetery (a burial place intended to accommodate
60,000 bodies,) and we shall continue to remember it after we shall have
forgotten the palaces.  It is a vast marble collonaded corridor extending
around a great unoccupied square of ground; its broad floor is marble,
and on every slab is an inscription--for every slab covers a corpse.  On
either side, as one walks down the middle of the passage, are monuments,
tombs, and sculptured figures that are exquisitely wrought and are full
of grace and beauty.  They are new and snowy; every outline is perfect,
every feature guiltless of mutilation, flaw, or blemish; and therefore,
to us these far-reaching ranks of bewitching forms are a hundred fold
more lovely than the damaged and dingy statuary they have saved from the
wreck of ancient art and set up in the galleries of Paris for the worship
of the world.

Well provided with cigars and other necessaries of life, we are now ready
to take the cars for Milan.




CHAPTER XVIII.

All day long we sped through a mountainous country whose peaks were
bright with sunshine, whose hillsides were dotted with pretty villas
sitting in the midst of gardens and shrubbery, and whose deep ravines
were cool and shady and looked ever so inviting from where we and the
birds were winging our flight through the sultry upper air.

We had plenty of chilly tunnels wherein to check our perspiration,
though.  We timed one of them.  We were twenty minutes passing through
it, going at the rate of thirty to thirty-five miles an hour.

Beyond Alessandria we passed the battle-field of Marengo.

Toward dusk we drew near Milan and caught glimpses of the city and the
blue mountain peaks beyond.  But we were not caring for these things--
they did not interest us in the least.  We were in a fever of impatience;
we were dying to see the renowned cathedral!  We watched--in this
direction and that--all around--everywhere.  We needed no one to point it
out--we did not wish any one to point it out--we would recognize it even
in the desert of the great Sahara.

At last, a forest of graceful needles, shimmering in the amber sunlight,
rose slowly above the pygmy housetops, as one sometimes sees, in the far
horizon, a gilded and pinnacled mass of cloud lift itself above the waste
of waves, at sea,--the Cathedral!  We knew it in a moment.

Half of that night, and all of the next day, this architectural autocrat
was our sole object of interest.

What a wonder it is!  So grand, so solemn, so vast!  And yet so delicate,
so airy, so graceful!  A very world of solid weight, and yet it seems in
the soft moonlight only a fairy delusion of frost-work that might vanish
with a breath!  How sharply its pinnacled angles and its wilderness of
spires were cut against the sky, and how richly their shadows fell upon
its snowy roof!  It was a vision!--a miracle!--an anthem sung in stone, a
poem wrought in marble!

Howsoever you look at the great cathedral, it is noble, it is beautiful!
Wherever you stand in Milan or within seven miles of Milan, it is visible
and when it is visible, no other object can chain your whole attention.
Leave your eyes unfettered by your will but a single instant and they
will surely turn to seek it.  It is the first thing you look for when you
rise in the morning, and the last your lingering gaze rests upon at
night.  Surely it must be the princeliest creation that ever brain of man
conceived.

At nine o'clock in the morning we went and stood before this marble
colossus.  The central one of its five great doors is bordered with a
bas-relief of birds and fruits and beasts and insects, which have been so
ingeniously carved out of the marble that they seem like living
creatures--and the figures are so numerous and the design so complex that
one might study it a week without exhausting its interest.  On the great
steeple--surmounting the myriad of spires--inside of the spires--over the
doors, the windows--in nooks and corners--every where that a niche or a
perch can be found about the enormous building, from summit to base,
there is a marble statue, and every statue is a study in itself!
Raphael, Angelo, Canova--giants like these gave birth to the designs, and
their own pupils carved them.  Every face is eloquent with expression,
and every attitude is full of grace.  Away above, on the lofty roof, rank
on rank of carved and fretted spires spring high in the air, and through
their rich tracery one sees the sky beyond.  In their midst the central
steeple towers proudly up like the mainmast of some great Indiaman among
a fleet of coasters.

We wished to go aloft.  The sacristan showed us a marble stairway (of
course it was marble, and of the purest and whitest--there is no other
stone, no brick, no wood, among its building materials) and told us to go
up one hundred and eighty-two steps and stop till he came.  It was not
necessary to say stop--we should have done that any how.  We were tired
by the time we got there.  This was the roof.  Here, springing from its
broad marble flagstones, were the long files of spires, looking very tall
close at hand, but diminishing in the distance like the pipes of an
organ.  We could see now that the statue on the top of each was the size
of a large man, though they all looked like dolls from the street.  We
could see, also, that from the inside of each and every one of these
hollow spires, from sixteen to thirty-one beautiful marble statues looked
out upon the world below.

From the eaves to the comb of the roof stretched in endless succession
great curved marble beams, like the fore-and-aft braces of a steamboat,
and along each beam from end to end stood up a row of richly carved
flowers and fruits--each separate and distinct in kind, and over 15,000
species represented.  At a little distance these rows seem to close
together like the ties of a railroad track, and then the mingling
together of the buds and blossoms of this marble garden forms a picture
that is very charming to the eye.

We descended and entered.  Within the church, long rows of fluted
columns, like huge monuments, divided the building into broad aisles, and
on the figured pavement fell many a soft blush from the painted windows
above.  I knew the church was very large, but I could not fully
appreciate its great size until I noticed that the men standing far down
by the altar looked like boys, and seemed to glide, rather than walk.  We
loitered about gazing aloft at the monster windows all aglow with
brilliantly colored scenes in the lives of the Saviour and his followers.
Some of these pictures are mosaics, and so artistically are their
thousand particles of tinted glass or stone put together that the work
has all the smoothness and finish of a painting.  We counted sixty panes
of glass in one window, and each pane was adorned with one of these
master achievements of genius and patience.

The guide showed us a coffee-colored piece of sculpture which he said was
considered to have come from the hand of Phidias, since it was not
possible that any other artist, of any epoch, could have copied nature
with such faultless accuracy.  The figure was that of a man without a
skin; with every vein, artery, muscle, every fiber and tendon and tissue
of the human frame represented in minute detail.  It looked natural,
because somehow it looked as if it were in pain.  A skinned man would be
likely to look that way unless his attention were occupied with some
other matter.  It was a hideous thing, and yet there was a fascination
about it some where.  I am very sorry I saw it, because I shall always
see it now.  I shall dream of it sometimes.  I shall dream that it is
resting its corded arms on the bed's head and looking down on me with its
dead eyes; I shall dream that it is stretched between the sheets with me
and touching me with its exposed muscles and its stringy cold legs.

It is hard to forget repulsive things.  I remember yet how I ran off from
school once, when I was a boy, and then, pretty late at night, concluded
to climb into the window of my father's office and sleep on a lounge,
because I had a delicacy about going home and getting thrashed.  As I lay
on the lounge and my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I fancied I
could see a long, dusky, shapeless thing stretched upon the floor.  A
cold shiver went through me.  I turned my face to the wall.  That did not
answer.  I was afraid that that thing would creep over and seize me in
the dark.  I turned back and stared at it for minutes and minutes--they
seemed hours.  It appeared to me that the lagging moonlight never, never
would get to it.  I turned to the wall and counted twenty, to pass the
feverish time away.  I looked--the pale square was nearer.  I turned
again and counted fifty--it was almost touching it.  With desperate will
I turned again and counted one hundred, and faced about, all in a
tremble.  A white human hand lay in the moonlight!  Such an awful sinking
at the heart--such a sudden gasp for breath!  I felt--I cannot tell what
I felt.  When I recovered strength enough, I faced the wall again.  But
no boy could have remained so with that mysterious hand behind him.  I
counted again and looked--the most of a naked arm was exposed.  I put my
hands over my eyes and counted till I could stand it no longer, and then
--the pallid face of a man was there, with the corners of the mouth drawn
down, and the eyes fixed and glassy in death!  I raised to a sitting
posture and glowered on that corpse till the light crept down the bare
breastline by line--inch by inch--past the nipple--and then it disclosed
a ghastly stab!

I went away from there.  I do not say that I went away in any sort of a
hurry, but I simply went--that is sufficient.  I went out at the window,
and I carried the sash along with me.  I did not need the sash, but it
was handier to take it than it was to leave it, and so I took it.--I was
not scared, but I was considerably agitated.

When I reached home, they whipped me, but I enjoyed it.  It seemed
perfectly delightful.  That man had been stabbed near the office that
afternoon, and they carried him in there to doctor him, but he only lived
an hour.  I have slept in the same room with him often since then--in my
dreams.

Now we will descend into the crypt, under the grand altar of Milan
Cathedral, and receive an impressive sermon from lips that have been
silent and hands that have been gestureless for three hundred years.

The priest stopped in a small dungeon and held up his candle.  This was
the last resting-place of a good man, a warm-hearted, unselfish man; a
man whose whole life was given to succoring the poor, encouraging the
faint-hearted, visiting the sick; in relieving distress, whenever and
wherever he found it.  His heart, his hand, and his purse were always
open.  With his story in one's mind he can almost see his benignant
countenance moving calmly among the haggard faces of Milan in the days
when the plague swept the city, brave where all others were cowards, full
of compassion where pity had been crushed out of all other breasts by the
instinct of self-preservation gone mad with terror, cheering all, praying
with all, helping all, with hand and brain and purse, at a time when
parents forsook their children, the friend deserted the friend, and the
brother turned away from the sister while her pleadings were still
wailing in his ears.

This was good St. Charles Borromeo, Bishop of Milan.  The people idolized
him; princes lavished uncounted treasures upon him.  We stood in his
tomb.  Near by was the sarcophagus, lighted by the dripping candles.  The
walls were faced with bas-reliefs representing scenes in his life done in
massive silver.  The priest put on a short white lace garment over his
black robe, crossed himself, bowed reverently, and began to turn a
windlass slowly.  The sarcophagus separated in two parts, lengthwise, and
the lower part sank down and disclosed a coffin of rock crystal as clear
as the atmosphere.  Within lay the body, robed in costly habiliments
covered with gold embroidery and starred with scintillating gems.  The
decaying head was black with age, the dry skin was drawn tight to the
bones, the eyes were gone, there was a hole in the temple and another in
the cheek, and the skinny lips were parted as in a ghastly smile!  Over
this dreadful face, its dust and decay and its mocking grin, hung a crown
sown thick with flashing brilliants; and upon the breast lay crosses and
croziers of solid gold that were splendid with emeralds and diamonds.

How poor, and cheap, and trivial these gew-gaws seemed in presence of the
solemnity, the grandeur, the awful majesty of Death!  Think of Milton,
Shakespeare, Washington, standing before a reverent world tricked out in
the glass beads, the brass ear-rings and tin trumpery of the savages of
the plains!

Dead Bartolomeo preached his pregnant sermon, and its burden was: You
that worship the vanities of earth--you that long for worldly honor,
worldly wealth, worldly fame--behold their worth!

To us it seemed that so good a man, so kind a heart, so simple a nature,
deserved rest and peace in a grave sacred from the intrusion of prying
eyes, and believed that he himself would have preferred to have it so,
but peradventure our wisdom was at fault in this regard.

As we came out upon the floor of the church again, another priest
volunteered to show us the treasures of the church.

What, more?  The furniture of the narrow chamber of death we had just
visited weighed six millions of francs in ounces and carats alone,
without a penny thrown into the account for the costly workmanship
bestowed upon them!  But we followed into a large room filled with tall
wooden presses like wardrobes.  He threw them open, and behold, the
cargoes of "crude bullion" of the assay offices of Nevada faded out of my
memory.  There were Virgins and bishops there, above their natural size,
made of solid silver, each worth, by weight, from eight hundred thousand
to two millions of francs, and bearing gemmed books in their hands worth
eighty thousand; there were bas-reliefs that weighed six hundred pounds,
carved in solid silver; croziers and crosses, and candlesticks six and
eight feet high, all of virgin gold, and brilliant with precious stones;
and beside these were all manner of cups and vases, and such things, rich
in proportion.  It was an Aladdin's palace.  The treasures here, by
simple weight, without counting workmanship, were valued at fifty
millions of francs!  If I could get the custody of them for a while, I
fear me the market price of silver bishops would advance shortly, on
account of their exceeding scarcity in the Cathedral of Milan.

The priests showed us two of St. Paul's fingers, and one of St. Peter's;
a bone of Judas Iscariot, (it was black,) and also bones of all the other
disciples; a handkerchief in which the Saviour had left the impression of
his face.  Among the most precious of the relics were a stone from the
Holy Sepulchre, part of the crown of thorns, (they have a whole one at
Notre Dame,) a fragment of the purple robe worn by the Saviour, a nail
from the Cross, and a picture of the Virgin and Child painted by the
veritable hand of St. Luke.  This is the second of St. Luke's Virgins we
have seen.  Once a year all these holy relics are carried in procession
through the streets of Milan.

I like to revel in the dryest details of the great cathedral.  The
building is five hundred feet long by one hundred and eighty wide, and
the principal steeple is in the neighborhood of four hundred feet high.
It has 7,148 marble statues, and will have upwards of three thousand more
when it is finished.  In addition it has one thousand five hundred bas-
reliefs.  It has one hundred and thirty-six spires--twenty-one more are
to be added.  Each spire is surmounted by a statue six and a half feet
high.  Every thing about the church is marble, and all from the same
quarry; it was bequeathed to the Archbishopric for this purpose centuries
ago.  So nothing but the mere workmanship costs; still that is expensive
--the bill foots up six hundred and eighty-four millions of francs thus
far (considerably over a hundred millions of dollars,) and it is
estimated that it will take a hundred and twenty years yet to finish the
cathedral.  It looks complete, but is far from being so.  We saw a new
statue put in its niche yesterday, alongside of one which had been
standing these four hundred years, they said.  There are four staircases
leading up to the main steeple, each of which cost a hundred thousand
dollars, with the four hundred and eight statues which adorn them.  Marco
Compioni was the architect who designed the wonderful structure more than
five hundred years ago, and it took him forty-six years to work out the
plan and get it ready to hand over to the builders.  He is dead now.  The
building was begun a little less than five hundred years ago, and the
third generation hence will not see it completed.

The building looks best by moonlight, because the older portions of it,
being stained with age, contrast unpleasantly with the newer and whiter
portions.  It seems somewhat too broad for its height, but may be
familiarity with it might dissipate this impression.

They say that the Cathedral of Milan is second only to St. Peter's at
Rome.  I cannot understand how it can be second to anything made by human
hands.

We bid it good-bye, now--possibly for all time.  How surely, in some
future day, when the memory of it shall have lost its vividness, shall we
half believe we have seen it in a wonderful dream, but never with waking
eyes!




CHAPTER XIX.

"Do you wis zo haut can be?"

That was what the guide asked when we were looking up at the bronze
horses on the Arch of Peace.  It meant, do you wish to go up there?
I give it as a specimen of guide-English.  These are the people that make
life a burthen to the tourist.  Their tongues are never still.  They talk
forever and forever, and that is the kind of billingsgate they use.
Inspiration itself could hardly comprehend them.  If they would only show
you a masterpiece of art, or a venerable tomb, or a prison-house, or a
battle-field, hallowed by touching memories or historical reminiscences,
or grand traditions, and then step aside and hold still for ten minutes
and let you think, it would not be so bad.  But they interrupt every
dream, every pleasant train of thought, with their tiresome cackling.
Sometimes when I have been standing before some cherished old idol of
mine that I remembered years and years ago in pictures in the geography
at school, I have thought I would give a whole world if the human parrot
at my side would suddenly perish where he stood and leave me to gaze, and
ponder, and worship.

No, we did not "wis zo haut can be."  We wished to go to La Scala, the
largest theater in the world, I think they call it.  We did so.  It was a
large place.  Seven separate and distinct masses of humanity--six great
circles and a monster parquette.

We wished to go to the Ambrosian Library, and we did that also.  We saw a
manuscript of Virgil, with annotations in the handwriting of Petrarch,
the gentleman who loved another man's Laura, and lavished upon her all
through life a love which was a clear waste of the raw material.  It was
sound sentiment, but bad judgment.  It brought both parties fame, and
created a fountain of commiseration for them in sentimental breasts that
is running yet.  But who says a word in behalf of poor Mr. Laura?  (I do
not know his other name.)  Who glorifies him?  Who bedews him with tears?
Who writes poetry about him?  Nobody.  How do you suppose he liked the
state of things that has given the world so much pleasure?  How did he
enjoy having another man following his wife every where and making her
name a familiar word in every garlic-exterminating mouth in Italy with
his sonnets to her pre-empted eyebrows?  They got fame and sympathy--he
got neither.  This is a peculiarly felicitous instance of what is called
poetical justice.  It is all very fine; but it does not chime with my
notions of right.  It is too one-sided--too ungenerous.

Let the world go on fretting about Laura and Petrarch if it will; but as
for me, my tears and my lamentations shall be lavished upon the unsung
defendant.

We saw also an autograph letter of Lucrezia Borgia, a lady for whom I
have always entertained the highest respect, on account of her rare
histrionic capabilities, her opulence in solid gold goblets made of
gilded wood, her high distinction as an operatic screamer, and the
facility with which she could order a sextuple funeral and get the
corpses ready for it.  We saw one single coarse yellow hair from
Lucrezia's head, likewise.  It awoke emotions, but we still live.  In
this same library we saw some drawings by Michael Angelo (these Italians
call him Mickel Angelo,) and Leonardo da Vinci.  (They spell it Vinci and
pronounce it Vinchy; foreigners always spell better than they pronounce.)
We reserve our opinion of these sketches.

In another building they showed us a fresco representing some lions and
other beasts drawing chariots; and they seemed to project so far from the
wall that we took them to be sculptures.  The artist had shrewdly
heightened the delusion by painting dust on the creatures' backs, as if
it had fallen there naturally and properly.  Smart fellow--if it be smart
to deceive strangers.

Elsewhere we saw a huge Roman amphitheatre, with its stone seats still in
good preservation.  Modernized, it is now the scene of more peaceful
recreations than the exhibition of a party of wild beasts with Christians
for dinner.  Part of the time, the Milanese use it for a race track, and
at other seasons they flood it with water and have spirited yachting
regattas there.  The guide told us these things, and he would hardly try
so hazardous an experiment as the telling of a falsehood, when it is all
he can do to speak the truth in English without getting the lock-jaw.

In another place we were shown a sort of summer arbor, with a fence
before it.  We said that was nothing.  We looked again, and saw, through
the arbor, an endless stretch of garden, and shrubbery, and grassy lawn.
We were perfectly willing to go in there and rest, but it could not be
done.  It was only another delusion--a painting by some ingenious artist
with little charity in his heart for tired folk.  The deception was
perfect.  No one could have imagined the park was not real.  We even
thought we smelled the flowers at first.

We got a carriage at twilight and drove in the shaded avenues with the
other nobility, and after dinner we took wine and ices in a fine garden
with the great public.  The music was excellent, the flowers and
shrubbery were pleasant to the eye, the scene was vivacious, everybody
was genteel and well-behaved, and the ladies were slightly moustached,
and handsomely dressed, but very homely.

We adjourned to a cafe and played billiards an hour, and I made six or
seven points by the doctor pocketing his ball, and he made as many by my
pocketing my ball.  We came near making a carom sometimes, but not the
one we were trying to make.  The table was of the usual European style--
cushions dead and twice as high as the balls; the cues in bad repair.
The natives play only a sort of pool on them.  We have never seen any
body playing the French three-ball game yet, and I doubt if there is any
such game known in France, or that there lives any man mad enough to try
to play it on one of these European tables.  We had to stop playing
finally because Dan got to sleeping fifteen minutes between the counts
and paying no attention to his marking.

Afterward we walked up and down one of the most popular streets for some
time, enjoying other people's comfort and wishing we could export some of
it to our restless, driving, vitality-consuming marts at home.  Just in
this one matter lies the main charm of life in Europe--comfort.  In
America, we hurry--which is well; but when the day's work is done, we go
on thinking of losses and gains, we plan for the morrow, we even carry
our business cares to bed with us, and toss and worry over them when we
ought to be restoring our racked bodies and brains with sleep.  We burn
up our energies with these excitements, and either die early or drop into
a lean and mean old age at a time of life which they call a man's prime
in Europe.  When an acre of ground has produced long and well, we let it
lie fallow and rest for a season; we take no man clear across the
continent in the same coach he started in--the coach is stabled somewhere
on the plains and its heated machinery allowed to cool for a few days;
when a razor has seen long service and refuses to hold an edge, the
barber lays it away for a few weeks, and the edge comes back of its own
accord.  We bestow thoughtful care upon inanimate objects, but none upon
ourselves.  What a robust people, what a nation of thinkers we might be,
if we would only lay ourselves on the shelf occasionally and renew our
edges!

I do envy these Europeans the comfort they take.  When the work of the
day is done, they forget it.  Some of them go, with wife and children, to
a beer hall and sit quietly and genteelly drinking a mug or two of ale
and listening to music; others walk the streets, others drive in the
avenues; others assemble in the great ornamental squares in the early
evening to enjoy the sight and the fragrance of flowers and to hear the
military bands play--no European city being without its fine military
music at eventide; and yet others of the populace sit in the open air in
front of the refreshment houses and eat ices and drink mild beverages
that could not harm a child.  They go to bed moderately early, and sleep
well.  They are always quiet, always orderly, always cheerful,
comfortable, and appreciative of life and its manifold blessings.  One
never sees a drunken man among them.  The change that has come over our
little party is surprising.  Day by day we lose some of our restlessness
and absorb some of the spirit of quietude and ease that is in the
tranquil atmosphere about us and in the demeanor of the people.  We grow
wise apace.  We begin to comprehend what life is for.

We have had a bath in Milan, in a public bath-house.  They were going to
put all three of us in one bath-tub, but we objected.  Each of us had an
Italian farm on his back.  We could have felt affluent if we had been
officially surveyed and fenced in.  We chose to have three bathtubs, and
large ones--tubs suited to the dignity of aristocrats who had real
estate, and brought it with them.  After we were stripped and had taken
the first chilly dash, we discovered that haunting atrocity that has
embittered our lives in so many cities and villages of Italy and France--
there was no soap.  I called.  A woman answered, and I barely had time to
throw myself against the door--she would have been in, in another second.
I said:

"Beware, woman!  Go away from here--go away, now, or it will be the worse
for you.  I am an unprotected male, but I will preserve my honor at the
peril of my life!"

These words must have frightened her, for she skurried away very fast.

Dan's voice rose on the air:

"Oh, bring some soap, why don't you!"

The reply was Italian.  Dan resumed:

"Soap, you know--soap.  That is what I want--soap.  S-o-a-p, soap; s-o-p-
e, soap; s-o-u-p, soap.  Hurry up!  I don't know how you Irish spell it,
but I want it.  Spell it to suit yourself, but fetch it.  I'm freezing."

I heard the doctor say impressively:

"Dan, how often have we told you that these foreigners cannot understand
English?  Why will you not depend upon us?  Why will you not tell us what
you want, and let us ask for it in the language of the country?  It would
save us a great deal of the humiliation your reprehensible ignorance
causes us.  I will address this person in his mother tongue: 'Here,
cospetto!  corpo di Bacco!  Sacramento!  Solferino!--Soap, you son of a
gun!'  Dan, if you would let us talk for you, you would never expose your
ignorant vulgarity."

Even this fluent discharge of Italian did not bring the soap at once, but
there was a good reason for it.  There was not such an article about the
establishment.  It is my belief that there never had been.  They had to
send far up town, and to several different places before they finally got
it, so they said.  We had to wait twenty or thirty minutes.  The same
thing had occurred the evening before, at the hotel.  I think I have
divined the reason for this state of things at last.  The English know
how to travel comfortably, and they carry soap with them; other
foreigners do not use the article.

At every hotel we stop at we always have to send out for soap, at the
last moment, when we are grooming ourselves for dinner, and they put it
in the bill along with the candles and other nonsense.  In Marseilles
they make half the fancy toilet soap we consume in America, but the
Marseillaise only have a vague theoretical idea of its use, which they
have obtained from books of travel, just as they have acquired an
uncertain notion of clean shirts, and the peculiarities of the gorilla,
and other curious matters.  This reminds me of poor Blucher's note to the
landlord in Paris:

     PARIS, le 7 Juillet.  Monsieur le Landlord--Sir: Pourquoi don't you
     mettez some savon in your bed-chambers?  Est-ce que vous pensez I
     will steal it?  La nuit passee you charged me pour deux chandelles
     when I only had one; hier vous avez charged me avec glace when I had
     none at all; tout les jours you are coming some fresh game or other
     on me, mais vous ne pouvez pas play this savon dodge on me twice.
     Savon is a necessary de la vie to any body but a Frenchman, et je
     l'aurai hors de cet hotel or make trouble.  You hear me.  Allons.
     BLUCHER.

I remonstrated against the sending of this note, because it was so mixed
up that the landlord would never be able to make head or tail of it; but
Blucher said he guessed the old man could read the French of it and
average the rest.

Blucher's French is bad enough, but it is not much worse than the English
one finds in advertisements all over Italy every day.  For instance,
observe the printed card of the hotel we shall probably stop at on the
shores of Lake Como:

     "NOTISH."

     "This hotel which the best it is in Italy and most superb, is
     handsome locate on the best situation of the lake, with the most
     splendid view near the Villas Melzy, to the King of Belgian, and
     Serbelloni.  This hotel have recently enlarge, do offer all
     commodities on moderate price, at the strangers gentlemen who whish
     spend the seasons on the Lake Come."

How is that, for a specimen?  In the hotel is a handsome little chapel
where an English clergyman is employed to preach to such of the guests of
the house as hail from England and America, and this fact is also set
forth in barbarous English in the same advertisement.  Wouldn't you have
supposed that the adventurous linguist who framed the card would have
known enough to submit it to that clergyman before he sent it to the
printer?

Here in Milan, in an ancient tumble-down ruin of a church, is the
mournful wreck of the most celebrated painting in the world--"The Last
Supper," by Leonardo da Vinci.  We are not infallible judges of pictures,
but of course we went there to see this wonderful painting, once so
beautiful, always so worshipped by masters in art, and forever to be
famous in song and story.  And the first thing that occurred was the
infliction on us of a placard fairly reeking with wretched English.  Take
a morsel of it: "Bartholomew (that is the first figure on the left hand
side at the spectator,) uncertain and doubtful about what he thinks to
have heard, and upon which he wants to be assured by himself at Christ
and by no others."

Good, isn't it?  And then Peter is described as "argumenting in a
threatening and angrily condition at Judas Iscariot."

This paragraph recalls the picture.  "The Last Supper" is painted on the
dilapidated wall of what was a little chapel attached to the main church
in ancient times, I suppose.  It is battered and scarred in every
direction, and stained and discolored by time, and Napoleon's horses
kicked the legs off most the disciples when they (the horses, not the
disciples,) were stabled there more than half a century ago.

I recognized the old picture in a moment--the Saviour with bowed head
seated at the centre of a long, rough table with scattering fruits and
dishes upon it, and six disciples on either side in their long robes,
talking to each other--the picture from which all engravings and all
copies have been made for three centuries.  Perhaps no living man has
ever known an attempt to paint the Lord's Supper differently.  The world
seems to have become settled in the belief, long ago, that it is not
possible for human genius to outdo this creation of da Vinci's.  I
suppose painters will go on copying it as long as any of the original is
left visible to the eye.  There were a dozen easels in the room, and as
many artists transferring the great picture to their canvases.  Fifty
proofs of steel engravings and lithographs were scattered around, too.
And as usual, I could not help noticing how superior the copies were to
the original, that is, to my inexperienced eye.  Wherever you find a
Raphael, a Rubens, a Michelangelo, a Carracci, or a da Vinci (and we see
them every day,) you find artists copying them, and the copies are always
the handsomest.  Maybe the originals were handsome when they were new,
but they are not now.

This picture is about thirty feet long, and ten or twelve high, I should
think, and the figures are at least life size.  It is one of the largest
paintings in Europe.

The colors are dimmed with age; the countenances are scaled and marred,
and nearly all expression is gone from them; the hair is a dead blur upon
the wall, and there is no life in the eyes.  Only the attitudes are
certain.

People come here from all parts of the world, and glorify this
masterpiece.  They stand entranced before it with bated breath and parted
lips, and when they speak, it is only in the catchy ejaculations of
rapture:

"Oh, wonderful!"

"Such expression!"

"Such grace of attitude!"

"Such dignity!"

"Such faultless drawing!"

"Such matchless coloring!"

"Such feeling!"

"What delicacy of touch!"

"What sublimity of conception!"

"A vision!  A vision!"

I only envy these people; I envy them their honest admiration, if it be
honest--their delight, if they feel delight.  I harbor no animosity
toward any of them.  But at the same time the thought will intrude itself
upon me, How can they see what is not visible?  What would you think of a
man who looked at some decayed, blind, toothless, pock-marked Cleopatra,
and said: "What matchless beauty!  What soul!  What expression!"  What
would you think of a man who gazed upon a dingy, foggy sunset, and said:
"What sublimity!  What feeling!  What richness of coloring!"  What would
you think of a man who stared in ecstasy upon a desert of stumps and
said: "Oh, my soul, my beating heart, what a noble forest is here!"

You would think that those men had an astonishing talent for seeing
things that had already passed away.  It was what I thought when I stood
before "The Last Supper" and heard men apostrophizing wonders, and
beauties and perfections which had faded out of the picture and gone, a
hundred years before they were born.  We can imagine the beauty that was
once in an aged face; we can imagine the forest if we see the stumps; but
we can not absolutely see these things when they are not there.  I am
willing to believe that the eye of the practiced artist can rest upon the
Last Supper and renew a lustre where only a hint of it is left, supply a
tint that has faded away, restore an expression that is gone; patch, and
color, and add, to the dull canvas until at last its figures shall stand
before him aglow with the life, the feeling, the freshness, yea, with all
the noble beauty that was theirs when first they came from the hand of
the master.  But I can not work this miracle.  Can those other uninspired
visitors do it, or do they only happily imagine they do?

After reading so much about it, I am satisfied that the Last Supper was a
very miracle of art once.  But it was three hundred years ago.

It vexes me to hear people talk so glibly of "feeling," "expression,"
"tone," and those other easily acquired and inexpensive technicalities of
art that make such a fine show in conversations concerning pictures.
There is not one man in seventy-five hundred that can tell what a
pictured face is intended to express.  There is not one man in five
hundred that can go into a court-room and be sure that he will not
mistake some harmless innocent of a juryman for the black-hearted
assassin on trial.  Yet such people talk of "character" and presume to
interpret "expression" in pictures.  There is an old story that Matthews,
the actor, was once lauding the ability of the human face to express the
passions and emotions hidden in the breast.  He said the countenance
could disclose what was passing in the heart plainer than the tongue
could.

"Now," he said, "observe my face--what does it express?"

"Despair!"

"Bah, it expresses peaceful resignation!  What does this express?"

"Rage!"

"Stuff!  It means terror!  This!"

"Imbecility!"

"Fool!  It is smothered ferocity!  Now this!"

"Joy!"

"Oh, perdition!  Any ass can see it means insanity!"

Expression!  People coolly pretend to read it who would think themselves
presumptuous if they pretended to interpret the hieroglyphics on the
obelisks of Luxor--yet they are fully as competent to do the one thing as
the other.  I have heard two very intelligent critics speak of Murillo's
Immaculate Conception (now in the museum at Seville,) within the past few
days.  One said:

"Oh, the Virgin's face is full of the ecstasy of a joy that is complete--
that leaves nothing more to be desired on earth!"

The other said:

"Ah, that wonderful face is so humble, so pleading--it says as plainly as
words could say it: 'I fear; I tremble; I am unworthy.  But Thy will be
done; sustain Thou Thy servant!'"

The reader can see the picture in any drawing-room; it can be easily
recognized: the Virgin (the only young and really beautiful Virgin that
was ever painted by one of the old masters, some of us think,) stands in
the crescent of the new moon, with a multitude of cherubs hovering about
her, and more coming; her hands are crossed upon her breast, and upon her
uplifted countenance falls a glory out of the heavens.  The reader may
amuse himself, if he chooses, in trying to determine which of these
gentlemen read the Virgin's "expression" aright, or if either of them did
it.

Any one who is acquainted with the old masters will comprehend how much
"The Last Supper" is damaged when I say that the spectator can not really
tell, now, whether the disciples are Hebrews or Italians.  These ancient
painters never succeeded in denationalizing themselves.  The Italian
artists painted Italian Virgins, the Dutch painted Dutch Virgins, the
Virgins of the French painters were Frenchwomen--none of them ever put
into the face of the Madonna that indescribable something which proclaims
the Jewess, whether you find her in New York, in Constantinople, in
Paris, Jerusalem, or in the empire of Morocco.  I saw in the Sandwich
Islands, once, a picture copied by a talented German artist from an
engraving in one of the American illustrated papers.  It was an allegory,
representing Mr. Davis in the act of signing a secession act or some such
document.  Over him hovered the ghost of Washington in warning attitude,
and in the background a troop of shadowy soldiers in Continental uniform
were limping with shoeless, bandaged feet through a driving snow-storm.
Valley Forge was suggested, of course.  The copy seemed accurate, and yet
there was a discrepancy somewhere.  After a long examination I discovered
what it was--the shadowy soldiers were all Germans!  Jeff Davis was a
German!  even the hovering ghost was a German ghost!  The artist had
unconsciously worked his nationality into the picture.  To tell the
truth, I am getting a little perplexed about John the Baptist and his
portraits.  In France I finally grew reconciled to him as a Frenchman;
here he is unquestionably an Italian.  What next?  Can it be possible
that the painters make John the Baptist a Spaniard in Madrid and an
Irishman in Dublin?

We took an open barouche and drove two miles out of Milan to "see ze
echo," as the guide expressed it.  The road was smooth, it was bordered
by trees, fields, and grassy meadows, and the soft air was filled with
the odor of flowers.  Troops of picturesque peasant girls, coming from
work, hooted at us, shouted at us, made all manner of game of us, and
entirely delighted me.  My long-cherished judgment was confirmed.  I
always did think those frowsy, romantic, unwashed peasant girls I had
read so much about in poetry were a glaring fraud.

We enjoyed our jaunt.  It was an exhilarating relief from tiresome sight-
seeing.

We distressed ourselves very little about the astonishing echo the guide
talked so much about.  We were growing accustomed to encomiums on wonders
that too often proved no wonders at all.  And so we were most happily
disappointed to find in the sequel that the guide had even failed to rise
to the magnitude of his subject.

We arrived at a tumble-down old rookery called the Palazzo Simonetti--a
massive hewn-stone affair occupied by a family of ragged Italians.
A good-looking young girl conducted us to a window on the second floor
which looked out on a court walled on three sides by tall buildings.  She
put her head out at the window and shouted.  The echo answered more times
than we could count.  She took a speaking trumpet and through it she
shouted, sharp and quick, a single "Ha!"  The echo answered:

"Ha!--ha!----ha!--ha!--ha!-ha!  ha!  h-a-a-a-a-a!" and finally went off
into a rollicking convulsion of the jolliest laughter that could be
imagined.  It was so joyful--so long continued--so perfectly cordial and
hearty, that every body was forced to join in.  There was no resisting
it.

Then the girl took a gun and fired it.  We stood ready to count the
astonishing clatter of reverberations.  We could not say one, two, three,
fast enough, but we could dot our notebooks with our pencil points almost
rapidly enough to take down a sort of short-hand report of the result.
My page revealed the following account.  I could not keep up, but I did
as well as I could.

I set down fifty-two distinct repetitions, and then the echo got the
advantage of me.  The doctor set down sixty-four, and thenceforth the
echo moved too fast for him, also.  After the separate concussions could
no longer be noted, the reverberations dwindled to a wild, long-sustained
clatter of sounds such as a watchman's rattle produces.  It is likely
that this is the most remarkable echo in the world.

The doctor, in jest, offered to kiss the young girl, and was taken a
little aback when she said he might for a franc!  The commonest gallantry
compelled him to stand by his offer, and so he paid the franc and took
the kiss.  She was a philosopher.  She said a franc was a good thing to
have, and she did not care any thing for one paltry kiss, because she had
a million left.  Then our comrade, always a shrewd businessman, offered
to take the whole cargo at thirty days, but that little financial scheme
was a failure.




CHAPTER XX.

We left Milan by rail.  The Cathedral six or seven miles behind us; vast,
dreamy, bluish, snow-clad mountains twenty miles in front of us,--these
were the accented points in the scenery.  The more immediate scenery
consisted of fields and farm-houses outside the car and a monster-headed
dwarf and a moustached woman inside it.  These latter were not show-
people.  Alas, deformity and female beards are too common in Italy to
attract attention.

We passed through a range of wild, picturesque hills, steep, wooded,
cone-shaped, with rugged crags projecting here and there, and with
dwellings and ruinous castles perched away up toward the drifting clouds.
We lunched at the curious old town of Como, at the foot of the lake, and
then took the small steamer and had an afternoon's pleasure excursion to
this place,--Bellaggio.

When we walked ashore, a party of policemen (people whose cocked hats and
showy uniforms would shame the finest uniform in the military service of
the United States,) put us into a little stone cell and locked us in.  We
had the whole passenger list for company, but their room would have been
preferable, for there was no light, there were no windows, no
ventilation.  It was close and hot.  We were much crowded.  It was the
Black Hole of Calcutta on a small scale.  Presently a smoke rose about
our feet--a smoke that smelled of all the dead things of earth, of all
the putrefaction and corruption imaginable.

We were there five minutes, and when we got out it was hard to tell which
of us carried the vilest fragrance.

These miserable outcasts called that "fumigating" us, and the term was a
tame one indeed.  They fumigated us to guard themselves against the
cholera, though we hailed from no infected port.  We had left the cholera
far behind us all the time.  However, they must keep epidemics away
somehow or other, and fumigation is cheaper than soap.  They must either
wash themselves or fumigate other people.  Some of the lower classes had
rather die than wash, but the fumigation of strangers causes them no
pangs.  They need no fumigation themselves.  Their habits make it
unnecessary.  They carry their preventive with them; they sweat and
fumigate all the day long.  I trust I am a humble and a consistent
Christian.  I try to do what is right.  I know it is my duty to "pray for
them that despitefully use me;" and therefore, hard as it is, I shall
still try to pray for these fumigating, maccaroni-stuffing organ-
grinders.

Our hotel sits at the water's edge--at least its front garden does--and
we walk among the shrubbery and smoke at twilight; we look afar off at
Switzerland and the Alps, and feel an indolent willingness to look no
closer; we go down the steps and swim in the lake; we take a shapely
little boat and sail abroad among the reflections of the stars; lie on
the thwarts and listen to the distant laughter, the singing, the soft
melody of flutes and guitars that comes floating across the water from
pleasuring gondolas; we close the evening with exasperating billiards on
one of those same old execrable tables.  A midnight luncheon in our ample
bed-chamber; a final smoke in its contracted veranda facing the water,
the gardens, and the mountains; a summing up of the day's events.  Then
to bed, with drowsy brains harassed with a mad panorama that mixes up
pictures of France, of Italy, of the ship, of the ocean, of home, in
grotesque and bewildering disorder.  Then a melting away of familiar
faces, of cities, and of tossing waves, into a great calm of
forgetfulness and peace.

After which, the nightmare.

Breakfast in the morning, and then the lake.

I did not like it yesterday.  I thought Lake Tahoe was much finer.
I have to confess now, however, that my judgment erred somewhat, though
not extravagantly.  I always had an idea that Como was a vast basin of
water, like Tahoe, shut in by great mountains.  Well, the border of huge
mountains is here, but the lake itself is not a basin.  It is as crooked
as any brook, and only from one-quarter to two-thirds as wide as the
Mississippi.  There is not a yard of low ground on either side of it--
nothing but endless chains of mountains that spring abruptly from the
water's edge and tower to altitudes varying from a thousand to two
thousand feet.  Their craggy sides are clothed with vegetation, and white
specks of houses peep out from the luxuriant foliage everywhere; they are
even perched upon jutting and picturesque pinnacles a thousand feet above
your head.

Again, for miles along the shores, handsome country seats, surrounded by
gardens and groves, sit fairly in the water, sometimes in nooks carved by
Nature out of the vine-hung precipices, and with no ingress or egress
save by boats.  Some have great broad stone staircases leading down to
the water, with heavy stone balustrades ornamented with statuary and
fancifully adorned with creeping vines and bright-colored flowers--for
all the world like a drop curtain in a theatre, and lacking nothing but
long-waisted, high-heeled women and plumed gallants in silken tights
coming down to go serenading in the splendid gondola in waiting.

A great feature of Como's attractiveness is the multitude of pretty
houses and gardens that cluster upon its shores and on its mountain
sides.  They look so snug and so homelike, and at eventide when every
thing seems to slumber, and the music of the vesper bells comes stealing
over the water, one almost believes that nowhere else than on the lake of
Como can there be found such a paradise of tranquil repose.

From my window here in Bellaggio, I have a view of the other side of the
lake now, which is as beautiful as a picture.  A scarred and wrinkled
precipice rises to a height of eighteen hundred feet; on a tiny bench
half way up its vast wall, sits a little snowflake of a church, no bigger
than a martin-box, apparently; skirting the base of the cliff are a
hundred orange groves and gardens, flecked with glimpses of the white
dwellings that are buried in them; in front, three or four gondolas lie
idle upon the water--and in the burnished mirror of the lake, mountain,
chapel, houses, groves and boats are counterfeited so brightly and so
clearly that one scarce knows where the reality leaves off and the
reflection begins!

The surroundings of this picture are fine.  A mile away, a grove-plumed
promontory juts far into the lake and glasses its palace in the blue
depths; in midstream a boat is cutting the shining surface and leaving a
long track behind, like a ray of light; the mountains beyond are veiled
in a dreamy purple haze; far in the opposite direction a tumbled mass of
domes and verdant slopes and valleys bars the lake, and here indeed does
distance lend enchantment to the view--for on this broad canvas, sun and
clouds and the richest of atmospheres have blended a thousand tints
together, and over its surface the filmy lights and shadows drift, hour
after hour, and glorify it with a beauty that seems reflected out of
Heaven itself.  Beyond all question, this is the most voluptuous scene we
have yet looked upon.

Last night the scenery was striking and picturesque.  On the other side
crags and trees and snowy houses were reflected in the lake with a
wonderful distinctness, and streams of light from many a distant window
shot far abroad over the still waters.  On this side, near at hand, great
mansions, white with moonlight, glared out from the midst of masses of
foliage that lay black and shapeless in the shadows that fell from the
cliff above--and down in the margin of the lake every feature of the
weird vision was faithfully repeated.

Today we have idled through a wonder of a garden attached to a ducal
estate--but enough of description is enough, I judge.

I suspect that this was the same place the gardener's son deceived the
Lady of Lyons with, but I do not know.  You may have heard of the passage
somewhere:

          "A deep vale,
          Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world,
          Near a clear lake margined by fruits of gold
          And whispering myrtles:
          Glassing softest skies, cloudless,
          Save with rare and roseate shadows;
          A palace, lifting to eternal heaven its marbled walls,
          From out a glossy bower of coolest foliage musical with birds."

That is all very well, except the "clear" part of the lake.  It certainly
is clearer than a great many lakes, but how dull its waters are compared
with the wonderful transparence of Lake Tahoe!  I speak of the north
shore of Tahoe, where one can count the scales on a trout at a depth of a
hundred and eighty feet.  I have tried to get this statement off at par
here, but with no success; so I have been obliged to negotiate it at
fifty percent discount.  At this rate I find some takers; perhaps the
reader will receive it on the same terms--ninety feet instead of one
hundred and eighty.  But let it be remembered that those are forced
terms--Sheriff's sale prices.  As far as I am privately concerned, I
abate not a jot of the original assertion that in those strangely
magnifying waters one may count the scales on a trout (a trout of the
large kind,) at a depth of a hundred and eighty feet--may see every
pebble on the bottom--might even count a paper of dray-pins.  People talk
of the transparent waters of the Mexican Bay of Acapulco, but in my own
experience I know they cannot compare with those I am speaking of.  I
have fished for trout, in Tahoe, and at a measured depth of eighty-four
feet I have seen them put their noses to the bait and I could see their
gills open and shut.  I could hardly have seen the trout themselves at
that distance in the open air.

As I go back in spirit and recall that noble sea, reposing among the
snow-peaks six thousand feet above the ocean, the conviction comes strong
upon me again that Como would only seem a bedizened little courtier in
that august presence.

Sorrow and misfortune overtake the legislature that still from year to
year permits Tahoe to retain its unmusical cognomen!  Tahoe!  It suggests
no crystal waters, no picturesque shores, no sublimity.  Tahoe for a sea
in the clouds: a sea that has character and asserts it in solemn calms at
times, at times in savage storms; a sea whose royal seclusion is guarded
by a cordon of sentinel peaks that lift their frosty fronts nine thousand
feet above the level world; a sea whose every aspect is impressive, whose
belongings are all beautiful, whose lonely majesty types the Deity!

Tahoe means grasshoppers.  It means grasshopper soup.  It is Indian, and
suggestive of Indians.  They say it is Pi-ute--possibly it is Digger.
I am satisfied it was named by the Diggers--those degraded savages who
roast their dead relatives, then mix the human grease and ashes of bones
with tar, and "gaum" it thick all over their heads and foreheads and
ears, and go caterwauling about the hills and call it mourning.  These
are the gentry that named the Lake.

People say that Tahoe means "Silver Lake"--"Limpid Water"--"Falling
Leaf."  Bosh.  It means grasshopper soup, the favorite dish of the Digger
tribe,--and of the Pi-utes as well.  It isn't worth while, in these
practical times, for people to talk about Indian poetry--there never was
any in them--except in the Fenimore Cooper Indians.  But they are an
extinct tribe that never existed.  I know the Noble Red Man.  I have
camped with the Indians; I have been on the warpath with them, taken part
in the chase with them--for grasshoppers; helped them steal cattle; I
have roamed with them, scalped them, had them for breakfast.  I would
gladly eat the whole race if I had a chance.

But I am growing unreliable.  I will return to my comparison of the
lakes.  Como is a little deeper than Tahoe, if people here tell the
truth.  They say it is eighteen hundred feet deep at this point, but it
does not look a dead enough blue for that.  Tahoe is one thousand five
hundred and twenty-five feet deep in the centre, by the state geologist's
measurement.  They say the great peak opposite this town is five thousand
feet high: but I feel sure that three thousand feet of that statement is
a good honest lie.  The lake is a mile wide, here, and maintains about
that width from this point to its northern extremity--which is distant
sixteen miles: from here to its southern extremity--say fifteen miles--it
is not over half a mile wide in any place, I should think.  Its snow-clad
mountains one hears so much about are only seen occasionally, and then in
the distance, the Alps.  Tahoe is from ten to eighteen miles wide, and
its mountains shut it in like a wall.  Their summits are never free from
snow the year round.  One thing about it is very strange: it never has
even a skim of ice upon its surface, although lakes in the same range of
mountains, lying in a lower and warmer temperature, freeze over in
winter.

It is cheerful to meet a shipmate in these out-of-the-way places and
compare notes with him.  We have found one of ours here--an old soldier
of the war, who is seeking bloodless adventures and rest from his
campaigns in these sunny lands.--[Colonel J.  HERON FOSTER, editor of a
Pittsburgh journal, and a most estimable gentleman.  As these sheets are
being prepared for the press I am pained to learn of his decease shortly
after his return home--M.T.]--




CHAPTER XXI.

We voyaged by steamer down the Lago di Lecco, through wild mountain
scenery, and by hamlets and villas, and disembarked at the town of Lecco.
They said it was two hours, by carriage to the ancient city of Bergamo,
and that we would arrive there in good season for the railway train.  We
got an open barouche and a wild, boisterous driver, and set out.  It was
delightful.  We had a fast team and a perfectly smooth road.  There were
towering cliffs on our left, and the pretty Lago di Lecco on our right,
and every now and then it rained on us.  Just before starting, the driver
picked up, in the street, a stump of a cigar an inch long, and put it in
his mouth.  When he had carried it thus about an hour, I thought it would
be only Christian charity to give him a light.  I handed him my cigar,
which I had just lit, and he put it in his mouth and returned his stump
to his pocket!  I never saw a more sociable man.  At least I never saw a
man who was more sociable on a short acquaintance.

We saw interior Italy, now.  The houses were of solid stone, and not
often in good repair.  The peasants and their children were idle, as a
general thing, and the donkeys and chickens made themselves at home in
drawing-room and bed-chamber and were not molested.  The drivers of each
and every one of the slow-moving market-carts we met were stretched in
the sun upon their merchandise, sound a sleep.  Every three or four
hundred yards, it seemed to me, we came upon the shrine of some saint or
other--a rude picture of him built into a huge cross or a stone pillar by
the road-side.--Some of the pictures of the Saviour were curiosities in
their way.  They represented him stretched upon the cross, his
countenance distorted with agony.  From the wounds of the crown of
thorns; from the pierced side; from the mutilated hands and feet; from
the scourged body--from every hand-breadth of his person streams of blood
were flowing!  Such a gory, ghastly spectacle would frighten the children
out of their senses, I should think.  There were some unique auxiliaries
to the painting which added to its spirited effect.  These were genuine
wooden and iron implements, and were prominently disposed round about the
figure: a bundle of nails; the hammer to drive them; the sponge; the reed
that supported it; the cup of vinegar; the ladder for the ascent of the
cross; the spear that pierced the Saviour's side.  The crown of thorns
was made of real thorns, and was nailed to the sacred head.  In some
Italian church-paintings, even by the old masters, the Saviour and the
Virgin wear silver or gilded crowns that are fastened to the pictured
head with nails.  The effect is as grotesque as it is incongruous.

Here and there, on the fronts of roadside inns, we found huge, coarse
frescoes of suffering martyrs like those in the shrines.  It could not
have diminished their sufferings any to be so uncouthly represented.
We were in the heart and home of priest craft--of a happy, cheerful,
contented ignorance, superstition, degradation, poverty, indolence, and
everlasting unaspiring worthlessness.  And we said fervently: it suits
these people precisely; let them enjoy it, along with the other animals,
and Heaven forbid that they be molested.  We feel no malice toward these
fumigators.

We passed through the strangest, funniest, undreampt-of old towns, wedded
to the customs and steeped in the dreams of the elder ages, and perfectly
unaware that the world turns round!  And perfectly indifferent, too, as
to whether it turns around or stands still.  They have nothing to do but
eat and sleep and sleep and eat, and toil a little when they can get a
friend to stand by and keep them awake.  They are not paid for thinking--
they are not paid to fret about the world's concerns.  They were not
respectable people--they were not worthy people--they were not learned
and wise and brilliant people--but in their breasts, all their stupid
lives long, resteth a peace that passeth understanding!  How can men,
calling themselves men, consent to be so degraded and happy.

We whisked by many a gray old medieval castle, clad thick with ivy that
swung its green banners down from towers and turrets where once some old
Crusader's flag had floated.  The driver pointed to one of these ancient
fortresses, and said, (I translate):

"Do you see that great iron hook that projects from the wall just under
the highest window in the ruined tower?"

We said we could not see it at such a distance, but had no doubt it was
there.

"Well," he said; "there is a legend connected with that iron hook.
Nearly seven hundred years ago, that castle was the property of the noble
Count Luigi Gennaro Guido Alphonso di Genova----"

"What was his other name?"  said Dan.

"He had no other name.  The name I have spoken was all the name he had.
He was the son of----"

"Poor but honest parents--that is all right--never mind the particulars--
go on with the legend."

                               THE LEGEND.

Well, then, all the world, at that time, was in a wild excitement about
the Holy Sepulchre.  All the great feudal lords in Europe were pledging
their lands and pawning their plate to fit out men-at-arms so that they
might join the grand armies of Christendom and win renown in the Holy
Wars.  The Count Luigi raised money, like the rest, and one mild
September morning, armed with battle-ax, portcullis and thundering
culverin, he rode through the greaves and bucklers of his donjon-keep
with as gallant a troop of Christian bandits as ever stepped in Italy.
He had his sword, Excalibur, with him.  His beautiful countess and her
young daughter waved him a tearful adieu from the battering-rams and
buttresses of the fortress, and he galloped away with a happy heart.

He made a raid on a neighboring baron and completed his outfit with the
booty secured.  He then razed the castle to the ground, massacred the
family and moved on.  They were hardy fellows in the grand old days of
chivalry.  Alas!  Those days will never come again.

Count Luigi grew high in fame in Holy Land.  He plunged into the carnage
of a hundred battles, but his good Excalibur always brought him out
alive, albeit often sorely wounded.  His face became browned by exposure
to the Syrian sun in long marches; he suffered hunger and thirst; he
pined in prisons, he languished in loathsome plague-hospitals.  And many
and many a time he thought of his loved ones at home, and wondered if all
was well with them.  But his heart said, Peace, is not thy brother
watching over thy household?

                              * * * * * * *

Forty-two years waxed and waned; the good fight was won; Godfrey reigned
in Jerusalem--the Christian hosts reared the banner of the cross above
the Holy Sepulchre!

Twilight was approaching.  Fifty harlequins, in flowing robes, approached
this castle wearily, for they were on foot, and the dust upon their
garments betokened that they had traveled far.  They overtook a peasant,
and asked him if it were likely they could get food and a hospitable bed
there, for love of Christian charity, and if perchance, a moral parlor
entertainment might meet with generous countenance--"for," said they,
"this exhibition hath no feature that could offend the most fastidious
taste."

"Marry," quoth the peasant, "an' it please your worships, ye had better
journey many a good rood hence with your juggling circus than trust your
bones in yonder castle."

"How now, sirrah!"  exclaimed the chief monk, "explain thy ribald speech,
or by'r Lady it shall go hard with thee."

"Peace, good mountebank, I did but utter the truth that was in my heart.
San Paolo be my witness that did ye but find the stout Count Leonardo in
his cups, sheer from the castle's topmost battlements would he hurl ye
all!  Alack-a-day, the good Lord Luigi reigns not here in these sad
times."

"The good Lord Luigi?"

"Aye, none other, please your worship.  In his day, the poor rejoiced in
plenty and the rich he did oppress; taxes were not known, the fathers of
the church waxed fat upon his bounty; travelers went and came, with none
to interfere; and whosoever would, might tarry in his halls in cordial
welcome, and eat his bread and drink his wine, withal.  But woe is me!
some two and forty years agone the good count rode hence to fight for
Holy Cross, and many a year hath flown since word or token have we had of
him.  Men say his bones lie bleaching in the fields of Palestine."

"And now?"

"Now!  God 'a mercy, the cruel Leonardo lords it in the castle.  He
wrings taxes from the poor; he robs all travelers that journey by his
gates; he spends his days in feuds and murders, and his nights in revel
and debauch; he roasts the fathers of the church upon his kitchen spits,
and enjoyeth the same, calling it pastime.  These thirty years Luigi's
countess hath not been seen by any [he] in all this land, and many
whisper that she pines in the dungeons of the castle for that she will
not wed with Leonardo, saying her dear lord still liveth and that she
will die ere she prove false to him.  They whisper likewise that her
daughter is a prisoner as well.  Nay, good jugglers, seek ye refreshment
other wheres.  'Twere better that ye perished in a Christian way than
that ye plunged from off yon dizzy tower.  Give ye good-day."

"God keep ye, gentle knave--farewell."

But heedless of the peasant's warning, the players moved straightway
toward the castle.

Word was brought to Count Leonardo that a company of mountebanks besought
his hospitality.

"'Tis well.  Dispose of them in the customary manner.  Yet stay!  I have
need of them.  Let them come hither.  Later, cast them from the
battlements--or--how many priests have ye on hand?"

"The day's results are meagre, good my lord.  An abbot and a dozen
beggarly friars is all we have."

"Hell and furies!  Is the estate going to seed?  Send hither the
mountebanks.  Afterward, broil them with the priests."

The robed and close-cowled harlequins entered.  The grim Leonardo sate in
state at the head of his council board.  Ranged up and down the hall on
either hand stood near a hundred men-at-arms.

"Ha, villains!"  quoth the count, "What can ye do to earn the hospitality
ye crave."

"Dread lord and mighty, crowded audiences have greeted our humble efforts
with rapturous applause.  Among our body count we the versatile and
talented Ugolino; the justly celebrated Rodolpho; the gifted and
accomplished Roderigo; the management have spared neither pains nor
expense--"

"S'death!  What can ye do?  Curb thy prating tongue."

"Good my lord, in acrobatic feats, in practice with the dumb-bells, in
balancing and ground and lofty tumbling are we versed--and sith your
highness asketh me, I venture here to publish that in the truly marvelous
and entertaining Zampillaerostation--"

"Gag him!  throttle him!  Body of Bacchus!  am I a dog that I am to be
assailed with polysyllabled blasphemy like to this?  But hold!  Lucretia,
Isabel, stand forth!  Sirrah, behold this dame, this weeping wench.  The
first I marry, within the hour; the other shall dry her tears or feed the
vultures.  Thou and thy vagabonds shall crown the wedding with thy merry-
makings.  Fetch hither the priest!"

The dame sprang toward the chief player.

"O, save me!"  she cried; "save me from a fate far worse than death!
Behold these sad eyes, these sunken cheeks, this withered frame!  See
thou the wreck this fiend hath made, and let thy heart be moved with
pity!  Look upon this damosel; note her wasted form, her halting step,
her bloomless cheeks where youth should blush and happiness exult in
smiles!  Hear us and have compassion.  This monster was my husband's
brother.  He who should have been our shield against all harm, hath kept
us shut within the noisome caverns of his donjon-keep for lo these thirty
years.  And for what crime?  None other than that I would not belie my
troth, root out my strong love for him who marches with the legions of
the cross in Holy Land, (for O, he is not dead!) and wed with him!  Save
us, O, save thy persecuted suppliants!"

She flung herself at his feet and clasped his knees.

"Ha!-ha!-ha!"  shouted the brutal Leonardo.  "Priest, to thy work!"  and
he dragged the weeping dame from her refuge.  "Say, once for all, will
you be mine?--for by my halidome, that breath that uttereth thy refusal
shall be thy last on earth!"

"NE-VER?"

"Then die!" and the sword leaped from its scabbard.

Quicker than thought, quicker than the lightning's flash, fifty monkish
habits disappeared, and fifty knights in splendid armor stood revealed!
fifty falchions gleamed in air above the men-at-arms, and brighter,
fiercer than them all, flamed Excalibur aloft, and cleaving downward
struck the brutal Leonardo's weapon from his grasp!

"A Luigi to the rescue!  Whoop!"

"A Leonardo!  'tare an ouns!'"

"Oh, God, Oh, God, my husband!"

"Oh, God, Oh, God, my wife!"

"My father!"

"My precious!"  [Tableau.]

Count Luigi bound his usurping brother hand and foot.  The practiced
knights from Palestine made holyday sport of carving the awkward men-at-
arms into chops and steaks.  The victory was complete.  Happiness
reigned.  The knights all married the daughter.  Joy!  wassail!  finis!

"But what did they do with the wicked brother?"

"Oh nothing--only hanged him on that iron hook I was speaking of.  By the
chin."

"As how?"

"Passed it up through his gills into his mouth."

"Leave him there?"

"Couple of years."

"Ah--is--is he dead?"

"Six hundred and fifty years ago, or such a matter."

"Splendid legend--splendid lie--drive on."

We reached the quaint old fortified city of Bergamo, the renowned in
history, some three-quarters of an hour before the train was ready to
start.  The place has thirty or forty thousand inhabitants and is
remarkable for being the birthplace of harlequin.  When we discovered
that, that legend of our driver took to itself a new interest in our
eyes.

Rested and refreshed, we took the rail happy and contented.  I shall not
tarry to speak of the handsome Lago di Gardi; its stately castle that
holds in its stony bosom the secrets of an age so remote that even
tradition goeth not back to it; the imposing mountain scenery that
ennobles the landscape thereabouts; nor yet of ancient Padua or haughty
Verona; nor of their Montagues and Capulets, their famous balconies and
tombs of Juliet and Romeo et al., but hurry straight to the ancient city
of the sea, the widowed bride of the Adriatic.  It was a long, long ride.
But toward evening, as we sat silent and hardly conscious of where we
were--subdued into that meditative calm that comes so surely after a
conversational storm--some one shouted--

"VENICE!"

And sure enough, afloat on the placid sea a league away, lay a great
city, with its towers and domes and steeples drowsing in a golden mist of
sunset.




CHAPTER XXII.

This Venice, which was a haughty, invincible, magnificent Republic for
nearly fourteen hundred years; whose armies compelled the world's
applause whenever and wherever they battled; whose navies well nigh held
dominion of the seas, and whose merchant fleets whitened the remotest
oceans with their sails and loaded these piers with the products of every
clime, is fallen a prey to poverty, neglect and melancholy decay.  Six
hundred years ago, Venice was the Autocrat of Commerce; her mart was the
great commercial centre, the distributing-house from whence the enormous
trade of the Orient was spread abroad over the Western world.  To-day her
piers are deserted, her warehouses are empty, her merchant fleets are
vanished, her armies and her navies are but memories.  Her glory is
departed, and with her crumbling grandeur of wharves and palaces about
her she sits among her stagnant lagoons, forlorn and beggared, forgotten
of the world.  She that in her palmy days commanded the commerce of a
hemisphere and made the weal or woe of nations with a beck of her
puissant finger, is become the humblest among the peoples of the earth,--
a peddler of glass beads for women, and trifling toys and trinkets for
school-girls and children.

The venerable Mother of the Republics is scarce a fit subject for
flippant speech or the idle gossipping of tourists.  It seems a sort of
sacrilege to disturb the glamour of old romance that pictures her to us
softly from afar off as through a tinted mist, and curtains her ruin and
her desolation from our view.  One ought, indeed, to turn away from her
rags, her poverty and her humiliation, and think of her only as she was
when she sunk the fleets of Charlemagne; when she humbled Frederick
Barbarossa or waved her victorious banners above the battlements of
Constantinople.

We reached Venice at eight in the evening, and entered a hearse belonging
to the Grand Hotel d'Europe.  At any rate, it was more like a hearse than
any thing else, though to speak by the card, it was a gondola.  And this
was the storied gondola of Venice!--the fairy boat in which the princely
cavaliers of the olden time were wont to cleave the waters of the moonlit
canals and look the eloquence of love into the soft eyes of patrician
beauties, while the gay gondolier in silken doublet touched his guitar
and sang as only gondoliers can sing!  This the famed gondola and this
the gorgeous gondolier!--the one an inky, rusty old canoe with a sable
hearse-body clapped on to the middle of it, and the other a mangy,
barefooted guttersnipe with a portion of his raiment on exhibition which
should have been sacred from public scrutiny.  Presently, as he turned a
corner and shot his hearse into a dismal ditch between two long rows of
towering, untenanted buildings, the gay gondolier began to sing, true to
the traditions of his race.  I stood it a little while.  Then I said:

"Now, here, Roderigo Gonzales Michael Angelo, I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a
stranger, but I am not going to have my feelings lacerated by any such
caterwauling as that.  If that goes on, one of us has got to take water.
It is enough that my cherished dreams of Venice have been blighted
forever as to the romantic gondola and the gorgeous gondolier; this
system of destruction shall go no farther; I will accept the hearse,
under protest, and you may fly your flag of truce in peace, but here I
register a dark and bloody oath that you shan't sing.  Another yelp, and
overboard you go."

I began to feel that the old Venice of song and story had departed
forever.  But I was too hasty.  In a few minutes we swept gracefully out
into the Grand Canal, and under the mellow moonlight the Venice of poetry
and romance stood revealed.  Right from the water's edge rose long lines
of stately palaces of marble; gondolas were gliding swiftly hither and
thither and disappearing suddenly through unsuspected gates and alleys;
ponderous stone bridges threw their shadows athwart the glittering waves.
There was life and motion everywhere, and yet everywhere there was a
hush, a stealthy sort of stillness, that was suggestive of secret
enterprises of bravoes and of lovers; and clad half in moonbeams and half
in mysterious shadows, the grim old mansions of the Republic seemed to
have an expression about them of having an eye out for just such
enterprises as these at that same moment.  Music came floating over the
waters--Venice was complete.

It was a beautiful picture--very soft and dreamy and beautiful.  But what
was this Venice to compare with the Venice of midnight?  Nothing.  There
was a fete--a grand fete in honor of some saint who had been instrumental
in checking the cholera three hundred years ago, and all Venice was
abroad on the water.  It was no common affair, for the Venetians did not
know how soon they might need the saint's services again, now that the
cholera was spreading every where.  So in one vast space--say a third of
a mile wide and two miles long--were collected two thousand gondolas, and
every one of them had from two to ten, twenty and even thirty colored
lanterns suspended about it, and from four to a dozen occupants.  Just as
far as the eye could reach, these painted lights were massed together--
like a vast garden of many-colored flowers, except that these blossoms
were never still; they were ceaselessly gliding in and out, and mingling
together, and seducing you into bewildering attempts to follow their mazy
evolutions.  Here and there a strong red, green, or blue glare from a
rocket that was struggling to get away, splendidly illuminated all the
boats around it.  Every gondola that swam by us, with its crescents and
pyramids and circles of colored lamps hung aloft, and lighting up the
faces of the young and the sweet-scented and lovely below, was a picture;
and the reflections of those lights, so long, so slender, so numberless,
so many-colored and so distorted and wrinkled by the waves, was a picture
likewise, and one that was enchantingly beautiful.  Many and many a party
of young ladies and gentlemen had their state gondolas handsomely
decorated, and ate supper on board, bringing their swallow-tailed, white-
cravatted varlets to wait upon them, and having their tables tricked out
as if for a bridal supper.  They had brought along the costly globe lamps
from their drawing-rooms, and the lace and silken curtains from the same
places, I suppose.  And they had also brought pianos and guitars, and
they played and sang operas, while the plebeian paper-lanterned gondolas
from the suburbs and the back alleys crowded around to stare and listen.

There was music every where--choruses, string bands, brass bands, flutes,
every thing.  I was so surrounded, walled in, with music, magnificence
and loveliness, that I became inspired with the spirit of the scene, and
sang one tune myself.  However, when I observed that the other gondolas
had sailed away, and my gondolier was preparing to go overboard, I
stopped.

The fete was magnificent.  They kept it up the whole night long, and I
never enjoyed myself better than I did while it lasted.

What a funny old city this Queen of the Adriatic is!  Narrow streets,
vast, gloomy marble palaces, black with the corroding damps of centuries,
and all partly submerged; no dry land visible any where, and no sidewalks
worth mentioning; if you want to go to church, to the theatre, or to the
restaurant, you must call a gondola.  It must be a paradise for cripples,
for verily a man has no use for legs here.

For a day or two the place looked so like an overflowed Arkansas town,
because of its currentless waters laving the very doorsteps of all the
houses, and the cluster of boats made fast under the windows, or skimming
in and out of the alleys and by-ways, that I could not get rid of the
impression that there was nothing the matter here but a spring freshet,
and that the river would fall in a few weeks and leave a dirty high-water
mark on the houses, and the streets full of mud and rubbish.

In the glare of day, there is little poetry about Venice, but under the
charitable moon her stained palaces are white again, their battered
sculptures are hidden in shadows, and the old city seems crowned once
more with the grandeur that was hers five hundred years ago.  It is easy,
then, in fancy, to people these silent canals with plumed gallants and
fair ladies--with Shylocks in gaberdine and sandals, venturing loans upon
the rich argosies of Venetian commerce--with Othellos and Desdemonas,
with Iagos and Roderigos--with noble fleets and victorious legions
returning from the wars.  In the treacherous sunlight we see Venice
decayed, forlorn, poverty-stricken, and commerceless--forgotten and
utterly insignificant.  But in the moonlight, her fourteen centuries of
greatness fling their glories about her, and once more is she the
princeliest among the nations of the earth.

          "There is a glorious city in the sea;
          The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
          Ebbing and flowing; and the salt-sea weed
          Clings to the marble of her palaces.
          No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
          Lead to her gates!  The path lies o'er the sea,
          Invisible: and from the land we went,
          As to a floating city--steering in,
          And gliding up her streets, as in a dream,
          So smoothly, silently--by many a dome,
          Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
          The statues ranged along an azure sky;
          By many a pile, in more than Eastern pride,
          Of old the residence of merchant kings;
          The fronts of some, tho' time had shatter'd them,
          Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
          As tho' the wealth within them had run o'er."

What would one naturally wish to see first in Venice?  The Bridge of
Sighs, of course--and next the Church and the Great Square of St. Mark,
the Bronze Horses, and the famous Lion of St. Mark.

We intended to go to the Bridge of Sighs, but happened into the Ducal
Palace first--a building which necessarily figures largely in Venetian
poetry and tradition.  In the Senate Chamber of the ancient Republic we
wearied our eyes with staring at acres of historical paintings by
Tintoretto and Paul Veronese, but nothing struck us forcibly except the
one thing that strikes all strangers forcibly--a black square in the
midst of a gallery of portraits.  In one long row, around the great hall,
were painted the portraits of the Doges of Venice (venerable fellows,
with flowing white beards, for of the three hundred Senators eligible to
the office, the oldest was usually chosen Doge,) and each had its
complimentary inscription attached--till you came to the place that
should have had Marino Faliero's picture in it, and that was blank and
black--blank, except that it bore a terse inscription, saying that the
conspirator had died for his crime.  It seemed cruel to keep that
pitiless inscription still staring from the walls after the unhappy
wretch had been in his grave five hundred years.

At the head of the Giant's Staircase, where Marino Faliero was beheaded,
and where the Doges were crowned in ancient times, two small slits in the
stone wall were pointed out--two harmless, insignificant orifices that
would never attract a stranger's attention--yet these were the terrible
Lions' Mouths!  The heads were gone (knocked off by the French during
their occupation of Venice,) but these were the throats, down which went
the anonymous accusation, thrust in secretly at dead of night by an
enemy, that doomed many an innocent man to walk the Bridge of Sighs and
descend into the dungeon which none entered and hoped to see the sun
again.  This was in the old days when the Patricians alone governed
Venice--the common herd had no vote and no voice.  There were one
thousand five hundred Patricians; from these, three hundred Senators were
chosen; from the Senators a Doge and a Council of Ten were selected, and
by secret ballot the Ten chose from their own number a Council of Three.
All these were Government spies, then, and every spy was under
surveillance himself--men spoke in whispers in Venice, and no man trusted
his neighbor--not always his own brother.  No man knew who the Council of
Three were--not even the Senate, not even the Doge; the members of that
dread tribunal met at night in a chamber to themselves, masked, and robed
from head to foot in scarlet cloaks, and did not even know each other,
unless by voice.  It was their duty to judge heinous political crimes,
and from their sentence there was no appeal.  A nod to the executioner
was sufficient.  The doomed man was marched down a hall and out at a
door-way into the covered Bridge of Sighs, through it and into the
dungeon and unto his death.  At no time in his transit was he visible to
any save his conductor.  If a man had an enemy in those old days, the
cleverest thing he could do was to slip a note for the Council of Three
into the Lion's mouth, saying "This man is plotting against the
Government."  If the awful Three found no proof, ten to one they would
drown him anyhow, because he was a deep rascal, since his plots were
unsolvable.  Masked judges and masked executioners, with unlimited power,
and no appeal from their judgements, in that hard, cruel age, were not
likely to be lenient with men they suspected yet could not convict.

We walked through the hall of the Council of Ten, and presently entered
the infernal den of the Council of Three.

The table around which they had sat was there still, and likewise the
stations where the masked inquisitors and executioners formerly stood,
frozen, upright and silent, till they received a bloody order, and then,
without a word, moved off like the inexorable machines they were, to
carry it out.  The frescoes on the walls were startlingly suited to the
place.  In all the other saloons, the halls, the great state chambers of
the palace, the walls and ceilings were bright with gilding, rich with
elaborate carving, and resplendent with gallant pictures of Venetian
victories in war, and Venetian display in foreign courts, and hallowed
with portraits of the Virgin, the Saviour of men, and the holy saints
that preached the Gospel of Peace upon earth--but here, in dismal
contrast, were none but pictures of death and dreadful suffering!--not a
living figure but was writhing in torture, not a dead one but was smeared
with blood, gashed with wounds, and distorted with the agonies that had
taken away its life!

From the palace to the gloomy prison is but a step--one might almost jump
across the narrow canal that intervenes.  The ponderous stone Bridge of
Sighs crosses it at the second story--a bridge that is a covered tunnel--
you can not be seen when you walk in it.  It is partitioned lengthwise,
and through one compartment walked such as bore light sentences in
ancient times, and through the other marched sadly the wretches whom the
Three had doomed to lingering misery and utter oblivion in the dungeons,
or to sudden and mysterious death.  Down below the level of the water, by
the light of smoking torches, we were shown the damp, thick-walled cells
where many a proud patrician's life was eaten away by the long-drawn
miseries of solitary imprisonment--without light, air, books; naked,
unshaven, uncombed, covered with vermin; his useless tongue forgetting
its office, with none to speak to; the days and nights of his life no
longer marked, but merged into one eternal eventless night; far away from
all cheerful sounds, buried in the silence of a tomb; forgotten by his
helpless friends, and his fate a dark mystery to them forever; losing his
own memory at last, and knowing no more who he was or how he came there;
devouring the loaf of bread and drinking the water that were thrust into
the cell by unseen hands, and troubling his worn spirit no more with
hopes and fears and doubts and longings to be free; ceasing to scratch
vain prayers and complainings on walls where none, not even himself,
could see them, and resigning himself to hopeless apathy, driveling
childishness, lunacy!  Many and many a sorrowful story like this these
stony walls could tell if they could but speak.

In a little narrow corridor, near by, they showed us where many a
prisoner, after lying in the dungeons until he was forgotten by all save
his persecutors, was brought by masked executioners and garroted, or
sewed up in a sack, passed through a little window to a boat, at dead of
night, and taken to some remote spot and drowned.

They used to show to visitors the implements of torture wherewith the
Three were wont to worm secrets out of the accused--villainous machines
for crushing thumbs; the stocks where a prisoner sat immovable while
water fell drop by drop upon his head till the torture was more than
humanity could bear; and a devilish contrivance of steel, which inclosed
a prisoner's head like a shell, and crushed it slowly by means of a
screw.  It bore the stains of blood that had trickled through its joints
long ago, and on one side it had a projection whereon the torturer rested
his elbow comfortably and bent down his ear to catch the moanings of the
sufferer perishing within.

Of course we went to see the venerable relic of the ancient glory of
Venice, with its pavements worn and broken by the passing feet of a
thousand years of plebeians and patricians--The Cathedral of St. Mark.
It is built entirely of precious marbles, brought from the Orient--
nothing in its composition is domestic.  Its hoary traditions make it an
object of absorbing interest to even the most careless stranger, and thus
far it had interest for me; but no further.  I could not go into
ecstasies over its coarse mosaics, its unlovely Byzantine architecture,
or its five hundred curious interior columns from as many distant
quarries.  Every thing was worn out--every block of stone was smooth and
almost shapeless with the polishing hands and shoulders of loungers who
devoutly idled here in by-gone centuries and have died and gone to the
dev--no, simply died, I mean.

Under the altar repose the ashes of St. Mark--and Matthew, Luke and John,
too, for all I know.  Venice reveres those relics above all things
earthly.  For fourteen hundred years St. Mark has been her patron saint.
Every thing about the city seems to be named after him or so named as to
refer to him in some way--so named, or some purchase rigged in some way
to scrape a sort of hurrahing acquaintance with him.  That seems to be
the idea.  To be on good terms with St. Mark, seems to be the very summit
of Venetian ambition.  They say St. Mark had a tame lion, and used to
travel with him--and every where that St. Mark went, the lion was sure to
go.  It was his protector, his friend, his librarian.  And so the Winged
Lion of St. Mark, with the open Bible under his paw, is a favorite emblem
in the grand old city.  It casts its shadow from the most ancient pillar
in Venice, in the Grand Square of St. Mark, upon the throngs of free
citizens below, and has so done for many a long century.  The winged lion
is found every where--and doubtless here, where the winged lion is, no
harm can come.

St. Mark died at Alexandria, in Egypt.  He was martyred, I think.
However, that has nothing to do with my legend.  About the founding of
the city of Venice--say four hundred and fifty years after Christ--(for
Venice is much younger than any other Italian city,) a priest dreamed
that an angel told him that until the remains of St. Mark were brought to
Venice, the city could never rise to high distinction among the nations;
that the body must be captured, brought to the city, and a magnificent
church built over it; and that if ever the Venetians allowed the Saint to
be removed from his new resting-place, in that day Venice would perish
from off the face of the earth.  The priest proclaimed his dream, and
forthwith Venice set about procuring the corpse of St. Mark.  One
expedition after another tried and failed, but the project was never
abandoned during four hundred years.  At last it was secured by
stratagem, in the year eight hundred and something.  The commander of a
Venetian expedition disguised himself, stole the bones, separated them,
and packed them in vessels filled with lard.  The religion of Mahomet
causes its devotees to abhor anything that is in the nature of pork, and
so when the Christian was stopped by the officers at the gates of the
city, they only glanced once into his precious baskets, then turned up
their noses at the unholy lard, and let him go.  The bones were buried in
the vaults of the grand cathedral, which had been waiting long years to
receive them, and thus the safety and the greatness of Venice were
secured.  And to this day there be those in Venice who believe that if
those holy ashes were stolen away, the ancient city would vanish like a
dream, and its foundations be buried forever in the unremembering sea.




CHAPTER XXIII.

The Venetian gondola is as free and graceful, in its gliding movement, as
a serpent.  It is twenty or thirty feet long, and is narrow and deep,
like a canoe; its sharp bow and stern sweep upward from the water like
the horns of a crescent with the abruptness of the curve slightly
modified.

The bow is ornamented with a steel comb with a battle-ax attachment which
threatens to cut passing boats in two occasionally, but never does.  The
gondola is painted black because in the zenith of Venetian magnificence
the gondolas became too gorgeous altogether, and the Senate decreed that
all such display must cease, and a solemn, unembellished black be
substituted.  If the truth were known, it would doubtless appear that
rich plebeians grew too prominent in their affectation of patrician show
on the Grand Canal, and required a wholesome snubbing.  Reverence for the
hallowed Past and its traditions keeps the dismal fashion in force now
that the compulsion exists no longer.  So let it remain.  It is the color
of mourning.  Venice mourns.  The stern of the boat is decked over and
the gondolier stands there.  He uses a single oar--a long blade, of
course, for he stands nearly erect.  A wooden peg, a foot and a half
high, with two slight crooks or curves in one side of it and one in the
other, projects above the starboard gunwale.  Against that peg the
gondolier takes a purchase with his oar, changing it at intervals to the
other side of the peg or dropping it into another of the crooks, as the
steering of the craft may demand--and how in the world he can back and
fill, shoot straight ahead, or flirt suddenly around a corner, and make
the oar stay in those insignificant notches, is a problem to me and a
never diminishing matter of interest.  I am afraid I study the
gondolier's marvelous skill more than I do the sculptured palaces we
glide among.  He cuts a corner so closely, now and then, or misses
another gondola by such an imperceptible hair-breadth that I feel myself
"scrooching," as the children say, just as one does when a buggy wheel
grazes his elbow.  But he makes all his calculations with the nicest
precision, and goes darting in and out among a Broadway confusion of busy
craft with the easy confidence of the educated hackman.  He never makes a
mistake.

Sometimes we go flying down the great canals at such a gait that we can
get only the merest glimpses into front doors, and again, in obscure
alleys in the suburbs, we put on a solemnity suited to the silence, the
mildew, the stagnant waters, the clinging weeds, the deserted houses and
the general lifelessness of the place, and move to the spirit of grave
meditation.

The gondolier is a picturesque rascal for all he wears no satin harness,
no plumed bonnet, no silken tights.  His attitude is stately; he is lithe
and supple; all his movements are full of grace.  When his long canoe,
and his fine figure, towering from its high perch on the stern, are cut
against the evening sky, they make a picture that is very novel and
striking to a foreign eye.

We sit in the cushioned carriage-body of a cabin, with the curtains
drawn, and smoke, or read, or look out upon the passing boats, the
houses, the bridges, the people, and enjoy ourselves much more than we
could in a buggy jolting over our cobble-stone pavements at home.  This
is the gentlest, pleasantest locomotion we have ever known.

But it seems queer--ever so queer--to see a boat doing duty as a private
carriage.  We see business men come to the front door, step into a
gondola, instead of a street car, and go off down town to the counting-
room.

We see visiting young ladies stand on the stoop, and laugh, and kiss
good-bye, and flirt their fans and say "Come soon--now do--you've been
just as mean as ever you can be--mother's dying to see you--and we've
moved into the new house, O such a love of a place!--so convenient to the
post office and the church, and the Young Men's Christian Association;
and we do have such fishing, and such carrying on, and such swimming-
matches in the back yard--Oh, you must come--no distance at all, and if
you go down through by St. Mark's and the Bridge of Sighs, and cut
through the alley and come up by the church of Santa Maria dei Frari, and
into the Grand Canal, there isn't a bit of current--now do come, Sally
Maria--by-bye!" and then the little humbug trips down the steps, jumps
into the gondola, says, under her breath, "Disagreeable old thing, I hope
she won't!" goes skimming away, round the corner; and the other girl
slams the street door and says, "Well, that infliction's over, any way,--
but I suppose I've got to go and see her--tiresome stuck-up thing!"
Human nature appears to be just the same, all over the world.  We see the
diffident young man, mild of moustache, affluent of hair, indigent of
brain, elegant of costume, drive up to her father's mansion, tell his
hackman to bail out and wait, start fearfully up the steps and meet "the
old gentleman" right on the threshold!--hear him ask what street the new
British Bank is in--as if that were what he came for--and then bounce
into his boat and skurry away with his coward heart in his boots!--see
him come sneaking around the corner again, directly, with a crack of the
curtain open toward the old gentleman's disappearing gondola, and out
scampers his Susan with a flock of little Italian endearments fluttering
from her lips, and goes to drive with him in the watery avenues down
toward the Rialto.

We see the ladies go out shopping, in the most natural way, and flit from
street to street and from store to store, just in the good old fashion,
except that they leave the gondola, instead of a private carriage,
waiting at the curbstone a couple of hours for them,--waiting while they
make the nice young clerks pull down tons and tons of silks and velvets
and moire antiques and those things; and then they buy a paper of pins
and go paddling away to confer the rest of their disastrous patronage on
some other firm.  And they always have their purchases sent home just in
the good old way.  Human nature is very much the same all over the world;
and it is so like my dear native home to see a Venetian lady go into a
store and buy ten cents' worth of blue ribbon and have it sent home in a
scow.  Ah, it is these little touches of nature that move one to tears in
these far-off foreign lands.

We see little girls and boys go out in gondolas with their nurses, for an
airing.  We see staid families, with prayer-book and beads, enter the
gondola dressed in their Sunday best, and float away to church.  And at
midnight we see the theatre break up and discharge its swarm of hilarious
youth and beauty; we hear the cries of the hackman-gondoliers, and behold
the struggling crowd jump aboard, and the black multitude of boats go
skimming down the moonlit avenues; we see them separate here and there,
and disappear up divergent streets; we hear the faint sounds of laughter
and of shouted farewells floating up out of the distance; and then, the
strange pageant being gone, we have lonely stretches of glittering water
--of stately buildings--of blotting shadows--of weird stone faces
creeping into the moonlight--of deserted bridges--of motionless boats at
anchor.  And over all broods that mysterious stillness, that stealthy
quiet, that befits so well this old dreaming Venice.

We have been pretty much every where in our gondola.  We have bought
beads and photographs in the stores, and wax matches in the Great Square
of St. Mark.  The last remark suggests a digression.  Every body goes to
this vast square in the evening.  The military bands play in the centre
of it and countless couples of ladies and gentlemen promenade up and down
on either side, and platoons of them are constantly drifting away toward
the old Cathedral, and by the venerable column with the Winged Lion of
St. Mark on its top, and out to where the boats lie moored; and other
platoons are as constantly arriving from the gondolas and joining the
great throng.  Between the promenaders and the side-walks are seated
hundreds and hundreds of people at small tables, smoking and taking
granita, (a first cousin to ice-cream;) on the side-walks are more
employing themselves in the same way.  The shops in the first floor of
the tall rows of buildings that wall in three sides of the square are
brilliantly lighted, the air is filled with music and merry voices, and
altogether the scene is as bright and spirited and full of cheerfulness
as any man could desire.  We enjoy it thoroughly.  Very many of the young
women are exceedingly pretty and dress with rare good taste.  We are
gradually and laboriously learning the ill-manners of staring them
unflinchingly in the face--not because such conduct is agreeable to us,
but because it is the custom of the country and they say the girls like
it.  We wish to learn all the curious, outlandish ways of all the
different countries, so that we can "show off" and astonish people when
we get home.  We wish to excite the envy of our untraveled friends with
our strange foreign fashions which we can't shake off.  All our
passengers are paying strict attention to this thing, with the end in
view which I have mentioned.  The gentle reader will never, never know
what a consummate ass he can become, until he goes abroad.  I speak now,
of course, in the supposition that the gentle reader has not been abroad,
and therefore is not already a consummate ass.  If the case be otherwise,
I beg his pardon and extend to him the cordial hand of fellowship and
call him brother.  I shall always delight to meet an ass after my own
heart when I shall have finished my travels.

On this subject let me remark that there are Americans abroad in Italy
who have actually forgotten their mother tongue in three months--forgot
it in France.  They can not even write their address in English in a
hotel register.  I append these evidences, which I copied verbatim from
the register of a hotel in a certain Italian city:

     "John P. Whitcomb, Etats Unis.  "Wm. L. Ainsworth, travailleur (he
     meant traveler, I suppose,) Etats Unis.  "George P. Morton et fils,
     d'Amerique.  "Lloyd B.  Williams, et trois amis, ville de Boston,
     Amerique.  "J. Ellsworth Baker, tout de suite de France, place de
     naissance Amerique, destination la Grand Bretagne."

I love this sort of people.  A lady passenger of ours tells of a fellow-
citizen of hers who spent eight weeks in Paris and then returned home and
addressed his dearest old bosom friend Herbert as Mr. "Er-bare!"  He
apologized, though, and said, "'Pon my soul it is aggravating, but I
cahn't help it--I have got so used to speaking nothing but French, my
dear Erbare--damme there it goes again!--got so used to French
pronunciation that I cahn't get rid of it--it is positively annoying, I
assure you."  This entertaining idiot, whose name was Gordon, allowed
himself to be hailed three times in the street before he paid any
attention, and then begged a thousand pardons and said he had grown so
accustomed to hearing himself addressed as "M'sieu Gor-r-dong," with a
roll to the r, that he had forgotten the legitimate sound of his name!
He wore a rose in his button-hole; he gave the French salutation--two
flips of the hand in front of the face; he called Paris Pairree in
ordinary English conversation; he carried envelopes bearing foreign
postmarks protruding from his breast-pocket; he cultivated a moustache
and imperial, and did what else he could to suggest to the beholder his
pet fancy that he resembled Louis Napoleon--and in a spirit of
thankfulness which is entirely unaccountable, considering the slim
foundation there was for it, he praised his Maker that he was as he was,
and went on enjoying his little life just the same as if he really had
been deliberately designed and erected by the great Architect of the
Universe.

Think of our Whitcombs, and our Ainsworths and our Williamses writing
themselves down in dilapidated French in foreign hotel registers!  We
laugh at Englishmen, when we are at home, for sticking so sturdily to
their national ways and customs, but we look back upon it from abroad
very forgivingly.  It is not pleasant to see an American thrusting his
nationality forward obtrusively in a foreign land, but Oh, it is pitiable
to see him making of himself a thing that is neither male nor female,
neither fish, flesh, nor fowl--a poor, miserable, hermaphrodite
Frenchman!

Among a long list of churches, art galleries, and such things, visited by
us in Venice, I shall mention only one--the church of Santa Maria dei
Frari.  It is about five hundred years old, I believe, and stands on
twelve hundred thousand piles.  In it lie the body of Canova and the
heart of Titian, under magnificent monuments.  Titian died at the age of
almost one hundred years.  A plague which swept away fifty thousand lives
was raging at the time, and there is notable evidence of the reverence in
which the great painter was held, in the fact that to him alone the state
permitted a public funeral in all that season of terror and death.

In this church, also, is a monument to the doge Foscari, whose name a
once resident of Venice, Lord Byron, has made permanently famous.

The monument to the doge Giovanni Pesaro, in this church, is a curiosity
in the way of mortuary adornment.  It is eighty feet high and is fronted
like some fantastic pagan temple.  Against it stand four colossal
Nubians, as black as night, dressed in white marble garments.  The black
legs are bare, and through rents in sleeves and breeches, the skin, of
shiny black marble, shows.  The artist was as ingenious as his funeral
designs were absurd.  There are two bronze skeletons bearing scrolls, and
two great dragons uphold the sarcophagus.  On high, amid all this
grotesqueness, sits the departed doge.

In the conventual buildings attached to this church are the state
archives of Venice.  We did not see them, but they are said to number
millions of documents.  "They are the records of centuries of the most
watchful, observant and suspicious government that ever existed--in which
every thing was written down and nothing spoken out."  They fill nearly
three hundred rooms.  Among them are manuscripts from the archives of
nearly two thousand families, monasteries and convents.  The secret
history of Venice for a thousand years is here--its plots, its hidden
trials, its assassinations, its commissions of hireling spies and masked
bravoes--food, ready to hand, for a world of dark and mysterious
romances.

Yes, I think we have seen all of Venice.  We have seen, in these old
churches, a profusion of costly and elaborate sepulchre ornamentation
such as we never dreampt of before.  We have stood in the dim religious
light of these hoary sanctuaries, in the midst of long ranks of dusty
monuments and effigies of the great dead of Venice, until we seemed
drifting back, back, back, into the solemn past, and looking upon the
scenes and mingling with the peoples of a remote antiquity.  We have been
in a half-waking sort of dream all the time.  I do not know how else to
describe the feeling.  A part of our being has remained still in the
nineteenth century, while another part of it has seemed in some
unaccountable way walking among the phantoms of the tenth.

We have seen famous pictures until our eyes are weary with looking at
them and refuse to find interest in them any longer.  And what wonder,
when there are twelve hundred pictures by Palma the Younger in Venice and
fifteen hundred by Tintoretto?  And behold there are Titians and the
works of other artists in proportion.  We have seen Titian's celebrated
Cain and Abel, his David and Goliah, his Abraham's Sacrifice.  We have
seen Tintoretto's monster picture, which is seventy-four feet long and I
do not know how many feet high, and thought it a very commodious picture.
We have seen pictures of martyrs enough, and saints enough, to regenerate
the world.  I ought not to confess it, but still, since one has no
opportunity in America to acquire a critical judgment in art, and since I
could not hope to become educated in it in Europe in a few short weeks, I
may therefore as well acknowledge with such apologies as may be due, that
to me it seemed that when I had seen one of these martyrs I had seen them
all.  They all have a marked family resemblance to each other, they dress
alike, in coarse monkish robes and sandals, they are all bald headed,
they all stand in about the same attitude, and without exception they are
gazing heavenward with countenances which the Ainsworths, the Mortons and
the Williamses, et fils, inform me are full of "expression."  To me there
is nothing tangible about these imaginary portraits, nothing that I can
grasp and take a living interest in.  If great Titian had only been
gifted with prophecy, and had skipped a martyr, and gone over to England
and painted a portrait of Shakspeare, even as a youth, which we could all
have confidence in now, the world down to the latest generations would
have forgiven him the lost martyr in the rescued seer.  I think posterity
could have spared one more martyr for the sake of a great historical
picture of Titian's time and painted by his brush--such as Columbus
returning in chains from the discovery of a world, for instance.  The old
masters did paint some Venetian historical pictures, and these we did not
tire of looking at, notwithstanding representations of the formal
introduction of defunct doges to the Virgin Mary in regions beyond the
clouds clashed rather harshly with the proprieties, it seemed to us.

But humble as we are, and unpretending, in the matter of art, our
researches among the painted monks and martyrs have not been wholly in
vain.  We have striven hard to learn.  We have had some success.  We have
mastered some things, possibly of trifling import in the eyes of the
learned, but to us they give pleasure, and we take as much pride in our
little acquirements as do others who have learned far more, and we love
to display them full as well.  When we see a monk going about with a lion
and looking tranquilly up to heaven, we know that that is St. Mark.  When
we see a monk with a book and a pen, looking tranquilly up to heaven,
trying to think of a word, we know that that is St. Matthew.  When we see
a monk sitting on a rock, looking tranquilly up to heaven, with a human
skull beside him, and without other baggage, we know that that is St.
Jerome.  Because we know that he always went flying light in the matter
of baggage.  When we see a party looking tranquilly up to heaven,
unconscious that his body is shot through and through with arrows, we
know that that is St. Sebastian.  When we see other monks looking
tranquilly up to heaven, but having no trade-mark, we always ask who
those parties are.  We do this because we humbly wish to learn.  We have
seen thirteen thousand St. Jeromes, and twenty-two thousand St. Marks,
and sixteen thousand St. Matthews, and sixty thousand St. Sebastians, and
four millions of assorted monks, undesignated, and we feel encouraged to
believe that when we have seen some more of these various pictures, and
had a larger experience, we shall begin to take an absorbing interest in
them like our cultivated countrymen from Amerique.

Now it does give me real pain to speak in this almost unappreciative way
of the old masters and their martyrs, because good friends of mine in the
ship--friends who do thoroughly and conscientiously appreciate them and
are in every way competent to discriminate between good pictures and
inferior ones--have urged me for my own sake not to make public the fact
that I lack this appreciation and this critical discrimination myself.  I
believe that what I have written and may still write about pictures will
give them pain, and I am honestly sorry for it.  I even promised that I
would hide my uncouth sentiments in my own breast.  But alas!  I never
could keep a promise.  I do not blame myself for this weakness, because
the fault must lie in my physical organization.  It is likely that such a
very liberal amount of space was given to the organ which enables me to
make promises, that the organ which should enable me to keep them was
crowded out.  But I grieve not.  I like no half-way things.  I had rather
have one faculty nobly developed than two faculties of mere ordinary
capacity.  I certainly meant to keep that promise, but I find I can not
do it.  It is impossible to travel through Italy without speaking of
pictures, and can I see them through others' eyes?

If I did not so delight in the grand pictures that are spread before me
every day of my life by that monarch of all the old masters, Nature, I
should come to believe, sometimes, that I had in me no appreciation of
the beautiful, whatsoever.

It seems to me that whenever I glory to think that for once I have
discovered an ancient painting that is beautiful and worthy of all
praise, the pleasure it gives me is an infallible proof that it is not a
beautiful picture and not in any wise worthy of commendation.  This very
thing has occurred more times than I can mention, in Venice.  In every
single instance the guide has crushed out my swelling enthusiasm with the
remark:

"It is nothing--it is of the Renaissance."

I did not know what in the mischief the Renaissance was, and so always I
had to simply say,

"Ah!  so it is--I had not observed it before."

I could not bear to be ignorant before a cultivated negro, the offspring
of a South Carolina slave.  But it occurred too often for even my self-
complacency, did that exasperating "It is nothing--it is of the
Renaissance."  I said at last:

"Who is this Renaissance?  Where did he come from?  Who gave him
permission to cram the Republic with his execrable daubs?"

We learned, then, that Renaissance was not a man; that renaissance was a
term used to signify what was at best but an imperfect rejuvenation of
art.  The guide said that after Titian's time and the time of the other
great names we had grown so familiar with, high art declined; then it
partially rose again--an inferior sort of painters sprang up, and these
shabby pictures were the work of their hands.  Then I said, in my heat,
that I "wished to goodness high art had declined five hundred years
sooner."  The Renaissance pictures suit me very well, though sooth to say
its school were too much given to painting real men and did not indulge
enough in martyrs.

The guide I have spoken of is the only one we have had yet who knew any
thing.  He was born in South Carolina, of slave parents.  They came to
Venice while he was an infant.  He has grown up here.  He is well
educated.  He reads, writes, and speaks English, Italian, Spanish, and
French, with perfect facility; is a worshipper of art and thoroughly
conversant with it; knows the history of Venice by heart and never tires
of talking of her illustrious career.  He dresses better than any of us,
I think, and is daintily polite.  Negroes are deemed as good as white
people, in Venice, and so this man feels no desire to go back to his
native land.  His judgment is correct.

I have had another shave.  I was writing in our front room this afternoon
and trying hard to keep my attention on my work and refrain from looking
out upon the canal.  I was resisting the soft influences of the climate
as well as I could, and endeavoring to overcome the desire to be indolent
and happy.  The boys sent for a barber.  They asked me if I would be
shaved.  I reminded them of my tortures in Genoa, Milan, Como; of my
declaration that I would suffer no more on Italian soil.  I said "Not any
for me, if you please."

I wrote on.  The barber began on the doctor.  I heard him say:

"Dan, this is the easiest shave I have had since we left the ship."

He said again, presently:

"Why Dan, a man could go to sleep with this man shaving him."

Dan took the chair.  Then he said:

"Why this is Titian.  This is one of the old masters."

I wrote on.  Directly Dan said:

"Doctor, it is perfect luxury.  The ship's barber isn't any thing to
him."

My rough beard wee distressing me beyond measure.  The barber was rolling
up his apparatus.  The temptation was too strong.  I said:

"Hold on, please.  Shave me also."

I sat down in the chair and closed my eyes.  The barber soaped my face,
and then took his razor and gave me a rake that well nigh threw me into
convulsions.  I jumped out of the chair: Dan and the doctor were both
wiping blood off their faces and laughing.

I said it was a mean, disgraceful fraud.

They said that the misery of this shave had gone so far beyond any thing
they had ever experienced before, that they could not bear the idea of
losing such a chance of hearing a cordial opinion from me on the subject.

It was shameful.  But there was no help for it.  The skinning was begun
and had to be finished.  The tears flowed with every rake, and so did the
fervent execrations.  The barber grew confused, and brought blood every
time.  I think the boys enjoyed it better than any thing they have seen
or heard since they left home.

We have seen the Campanile, and Byron's house and Balbi's the geographer,
and the palaces of all the ancient dukes and doges of Venice, and we have
seen their effeminate descendants airing their nobility in fashionable
French attire in the Grand Square of St. Mark, and eating ices and
drinking cheap wines, instead of wearing gallant coats of mail and
destroying fleets and armies as their great ancestors did in the days of
Venetian glory.  We have seen no bravoes with poisoned stilettos, no
masks, no wild carnival; but we have seen the ancient pride of Venice,
the grim Bronze Horses that figure in a thousand legends.  Venice may
well cherish them, for they are the only horses she ever had.  It is said
there are hundreds of people in this curious city who never have seen a
living horse in their lives.  It is entirely true, no doubt.

And so, having satisfied ourselves, we depart to-morrow, and leave the
venerable Queen of the Republics to summon her vanished ships, and
marshal her shadowy armies, and know again in dreams the pride of her old
renown.




CHAPTER XXIV.

Some of the Quaker City's passengers had arrived in Venice from
Switzerland and other lands before we left there, and others were
expected every day.  We heard of no casualties among them, and no
sickness.

We were a little fatigued with sight seeing, and so we rattled through a
good deal of country by rail without caring to stop.  I took few notes.
I find no mention of Bologna in my memorandum book, except that we
arrived there in good season, but saw none of the sausages for which the
place is so justly celebrated.

Pistoia awoke but a passing interest.

Florence pleased us for a while.  I think we appreciated the great figure
of David in the grand square, and the sculptured group they call the Rape
of the Sabines.  We wandered through the endless collections of paintings
and statues of the Pitti and Ufizzi galleries, of course.  I make that
statement in self-defense; there let it stop.  I could not rest under the
imputation that I visited Florence and did not traverse its weary miles
of picture galleries.  We tried indolently to recollect something about
the Guelphs and Ghibelines and the other historical cut-throats whose
quarrels and assassinations make up so large a share of Florentine
history, but the subject was not attractive.  We had been robbed of all
the fine mountain scenery on our little journey by a system of
railroading that had three miles of tunnel to a hundred yards of
daylight, and we were not inclined to be sociable with Florence.  We had
seen the spot, outside the city somewhere, where these people had allowed
the bones of Galileo to rest in unconsecrated ground for an age because
his great discovery that the world turned around was regarded as a
damning heresy by the church; and we know that long after the world had
accepted his theory and raised his name high in the list of its great
men, they had still let him rot there.  That we had lived to see his dust
in honored sepulture in the church of Santa Croce we owed to a society of
literati, and not to Florence or her rulers.  We saw Dante's tomb in that
church, also, but we were glad to know that his body was not in it; that
the ungrateful city that had exiled him and persecuted him would give
much to have it there, but need not hope to ever secure that high honor
to herself.  Medicis are good enough for Florence.  Let her plant Medicis
and build grand monuments over them to testify how gratefully she was
wont to lick the hand that scourged her.

Magnanimous Florence!  Her jewelry marts are filled with artists in
mosaic.  Florentine mosaics are the choicest in all the world.  Florence
loves to have that said.  Florence is proud of it.  Florence would foster
this specialty of hers.  She is grateful to the artists that bring to her
this high credit and fill her coffers with foreign money, and so she
encourages them with pensions.  With pensions!  Think of the lavishness
of it.  She knows that people who piece together the beautiful trifles
die early, because the labor is so confining, and so exhausting to hand
and brain, and so she has decreed that all these people who reach the age
of sixty shall have a pension after that!  I have not heard that any of
them have called for their dividends yet.  One man did fight along till
he was sixty, and started after his pension, but it appeared that there
had been a mistake of a year in his family record, and so he gave it up
and died.

These artists will take particles of stone or glass no larger than a
mustard seed, and piece them together on a sleeve button or a shirt stud,
so smoothly and with such nice adjustment of the delicate shades of color
the pieces bear, as to form a pigmy rose with stem, thorn, leaves, petals
complete, and all as softly and as truthfully tinted as though Nature had
builded it herself.  They will counterfeit a fly, or a high-toned bug, or
the ruined Coliseum, within the cramped circle of a breastpin, and do it
so deftly and so neatly that any man might think a master painted it.

I saw a little table in the great mosaic school in Florence--a little
trifle of a centre table--whose top was made of some sort of precious
polished stone, and in the stone was inlaid the figure of a flute, with
bell-mouth and a mazy complication of keys.  No painting in the world
could have been softer or richer; no shading out of one tint into another
could have been more perfect; no work of art of any kind could have been
more faultless than this flute, and yet to count the multitude of little
fragments of stone of which they swore it was formed would bankrupt any
man's arithmetic!  I do not think one could have seen where two particles
joined each other with eyes of ordinary shrewdness.  Certainly we could
detect no such blemish.  This table-top cost the labor of one man for ten
long years, so they said, and it was for sale for thirty-five thousand
dollars.

We went to the Church of Santa Croce, from time to time, in Florence, to
weep over the tombs of Michael Angelo, Raphael and Machiavelli,
(I suppose they are buried there, but it may be that they reside
elsewhere and rent their tombs to other parties--such being the fashion
in Italy,) and between times we used to go and stand on the bridges and
admire the Arno.  It is popular to admire the Arno.  It is a great
historical creek with four feet in the channel and some scows floating
around.  It would be a very plausible river if they would pump some water
into it.  They all call it a river, and they honestly think it is a
river, do these dark and bloody Florentines.  They even help out the
delusion by building bridges over it.  I do not see why they are too good
to wade.

How the fatigues and annoyances of travel fill one with bitter prejudices
sometimes!  I might enter Florence under happier auspices a month hence
and find it all beautiful, all attractive.  But I do not care to think of
it now, at all, nor of its roomy shops filled to the ceiling with snowy
marble and alabaster copies of all the celebrated sculptures in Europe--
copies so enchanting to the eye that I wonder how they can really be
shaped like the dingy petrified nightmares they are the portraits of.  I
got lost in Florence at nine o'clock, one night, and staid lost in that
labyrinth of narrow streets and long rows of vast buildings that look all
alike, until toward three o'clock in the morning.  It was a pleasant
night and at first there were a good many people abroad, and there were
cheerful lights about.  Later, I grew accustomed to prowling about
mysterious drifts and tunnels and astonishing and interesting myself with
coming around corners expecting to find the hotel staring me in the face,
and not finding it doing any thing of the kind.  Later still, I felt
tired.  I soon felt remarkably tired.  But there was no one abroad, now--
not even a policeman.  I walked till I was out of all patience, and very
hot and thirsty.  At last, somewhere after one o'clock, I came
unexpectedly to one of the city gates.  I knew then that I was very far
from the hotel.  The soldiers thought I wanted to leave the city, and
they sprang up and barred the way with their muskets.  I said:

"Hotel d'Europe!"

It was all the Italian I knew, and I was not certain whether that was
Italian or French.  The soldiers looked stupidly at each other and at me,
and shook their heads and took me into custody.  I said I wanted to go
home.  They did not understand me.  They took me into the guard-house and
searched me, but they found no sedition on me.  They found a small piece
of soap (we carry soap with us, now,) and I made them a present of it,
seeing that they regarded it as a curiosity.  I continued to say Hotel
d'Europe, and they continued to shake their heads, until at last a young
soldier nodding in the corner roused up and said something.  He said he
knew where the hotel was, I suppose, for the officer of the guard sent
him away with me.  We walked a hundred or a hundred and fifty miles, it
appeared to me, and then he got lost.  He turned this way and that, and
finally gave it up and signified that he was going to spend the remainder
of the morning trying to find the city gate again.  At that moment it
struck me that there was something familiar about the house over the way.
It was the hotel!

It was a happy thing for me that there happened to be a soldier there
that knew even as much as he did; for they say that the policy of the
government is to change the soldiery from one place to another constantly
and from country to city, so that they can not become acquainted with the
people and grow lax in their duties and enter into plots and conspiracies
with friends.  My experiences of Florence were chiefly unpleasant.  I
will change the subject.

At Pisa we climbed up to the top of the strangest structure the world has
any knowledge of--the Leaning Tower.  As every one knows, it is in the
neighborhood of one hundred and eighty feet high--and I beg to observe
that one hundred and eighty feet reach to about the hight of four
ordinary three-story buildings piled one on top of the other, and is a
very considerable altitude for a tower of uniform thickness to aspire to,
even when it stands upright--yet this one leans more than thirteen feet
out of the perpendicular.  It is seven hundred years old, but neither
history or tradition say whether it was built as it is, purposely, or
whether one of its sides has settled.  There is no record that it ever
stood straight up.  It is built of marble.  It is an airy and a beautiful
structure, and each of its eight stories is encircled by fluted columns,
some of marble and some of granite, with Corinthian capitals that were
handsome when they were new.  It is a bell tower, and in its top hangs a
chime of ancient bells.  The winding staircase within is dark, but one
always knows which side of the tower he is on because of his naturally
gravitating from one side to the other of the staircase with the rise or
dip of the tower.  Some of the stone steps are foot-worn only on one end;
others only on the other end; others only in the middle.  To look down
into the tower from the top is like looking down into a tilted well.  A
rope that hangs from the centre of the top touches the wall before it
reaches the bottom.  Standing on the summit, one does not feel altogether
comfortable when he looks down from the high side; but to crawl on your
breast to the verge on the lower side and try to stretch your neck out
far enough to see the base of the tower, makes your flesh creep, and
convinces you for a single moment in spite of all your philosophy, that
the building is falling.  You handle yourself very carefully, all the
time, under the silly impression that if it is not falling, your trifling
weight will start it unless you are particular not to "bear down" on it.

The Duomo, close at hand, is one of the finest cathedrals in Europe.  It
is eight hundred years old.  Its grandeur has outlived the high
commercial prosperity and the political importance that made it a
necessity, or rather a possibility.  Surrounded by poverty, decay and
ruin, it conveys to us a more tangible impression of the former greatness
of Pisa than books could give us.

The Baptistery, which is a few years older than the Leaning Tower, is a
stately rotunda, of huge dimensions, and was a costly structure.  In it
hangs the lamp whose measured swing suggested to Galileo the pendulum.
It looked an insignificant thing to have conferred upon the world of
science and mechanics such a mighty extension of their dominions as it
has.  Pondering, in its suggestive presence, I seemed to see a crazy
universe of swinging disks, the toiling children of this sedate parent.
He appeared to have an intelligent expression about him of knowing that
he was not a lamp at all; that he was a Pendulum; a pendulum disguised,
for prodigious and inscrutable purposes of his own deep devising, and not
a common pendulum either, but the old original patriarchal Pendulum--the
Abraham Pendulum of the world.

This Baptistery is endowed with the most pleasing echo of all the echoes
we have read of.  The guide sounded two sonorous notes, about half an
octave apart; the echo answered with the most enchanting, the most
melodious, the richest blending of sweet sounds that one can imagine.  It
was like a long-drawn chord of a church organ, infinitely softened by
distance.  I may be extravagant in this matter, but if this be the case
my ear is to blame--not my pen.  I am describing a memory--and one that
will remain long with me.

The peculiar devotional spirit of the olden time, which placed a higher
confidence in outward forms of worship than in the watchful guarding of
the heart against sinful thoughts and the hands against sinful deeds, and
which believed in the protecting virtues of inanimate objects made holy
by contact with holy things, is illustrated in a striking manner in one
of the cemeteries of Pisa.  The tombs are set in soil brought in ships
from the Holy Land ages ago.  To be buried in such ground was regarded by
the ancient Pisans as being more potent for salvation than many masses
purchased of the church and the vowing of many candles to the Virgin.

Pisa is believed to be about three thousand years old.  It was one of the
twelve great cities of ancient Etruria, that commonwealth which has left
so many monuments in testimony of its extraordinary advancement, and so
little history of itself that is tangible and comprehensible.  A Pisan
antiquarian gave me an ancient tear-jug which he averred was full four
thousand years old.  It was found among the ruins of one of the oldest of
the Etruscan cities.  He said it came from a tomb, and was used by some
bereaved family in that remote age when even the Pyramids of Egypt were
young, Damascus a village, Abraham a prattling infant and ancient Troy
not yet [dreampt] of, to receive the tears wept for some lost idol of a
household.  It spoke to us in a language of its own; and with a pathos
more tender than any words might bring, its mute eloquence swept down the
long roll of the centuries with its tale of a vacant chair, a familiar
footstep missed from the threshold, a pleasant voice gone from the
chorus, a vanished form!--a tale which is always so new to us, so
startling, so terrible, so benumbing to the senses, and behold how
threadbare and old it is!  No shrewdly-worded history could have brought
the myths and shadows of that old dreamy age before us clothed with human
flesh and warmed with human sympathies so vividly as did this poor little
unsentient vessel of pottery.

Pisa was a republic in the middle ages, with a government of her own,
armies and navies of her own and a great commerce.  She was a warlike
power, and inscribed upon her banners many a brilliant fight with Genoese
and Turks.  It is said that the city once numbered a population of four
hundred thousand; but her sceptre has passed from her grasp, now, her
ships and her armies are gone, her commerce is dead.  Her battle-flags
bear the mold and the dust of centuries, her marts are deserted, she has
shrunken far within her crumbling walls, and her great population has
diminished to twenty thousand souls.  She has but one thing left to boast
of, and that is not much, viz: she is the second city of Tuscany.

We reached Leghorn in time to see all we wished to see of it long before
the city gates were closed for the evening, and then came on board the
ship.

We felt as though we had been away from home an age.  We never entirely
appreciated, before, what a very pleasant den our state-room is; nor how
jolly it is to sit at dinner in one's own seat in one's own cabin, and
hold familiar conversation with friends in one's own language.  Oh, the
rare happiness of comprehending every single word that is said, and
knowing that every word one says in return will be understood as well!
We would talk ourselves to death, now, only there are only about ten
passengers out of the sixty-five to talk to.  The others are wandering,
we hardly know where.  We shall not go ashore in Leghorn.  We are
surfeited with Italian cities for the present, and much prefer to walk
the familiar quarterdeck and view this one from a distance.

The stupid magnates of this Leghorn government can not understand that so
large a steamer as ours could cross the broad Atlantic with no other
purpose than to indulge a party of ladies and gentlemen in a pleasure
excursion.  It looks too improbable.  It is suspicious, they think.
Something more important must be hidden behind it all.  They can not
understand it, and they scorn the evidence of the ship's papers.  They
have decided at last that we are a battalion of incendiary, blood-thirsty
Garibaldians in disguise!  And in all seriousness they have set a gun-
boat to watch the vessel night and day, with orders to close down on any
revolutionary movement in a twinkling!  Police boats are on patrol duty
about us all the time, and it is as much as a sailor's liberty is worth
to show himself in a red shirt.  These policemen follow the executive
officer's boat from shore to ship and from ship to shore and watch his
dark maneuvres with a vigilant eye.  They will arrest him yet unless he
assumes an expression of countenance that shall have less of carnage,
insurrection and sedition in it.  A visit paid in a friendly way to
General Garibaldi yesterday (by cordial invitation,) by some of our
passengers, has gone far to confirm the dread suspicions the government
harbors toward us.  It is thought the friendly visit was only the cloak
of a bloody conspiracy.  These people draw near and watch us when we
bathe in the sea from the ship's side.  Do they think we are communing
with a reserve force of rascals at the bottom?

It is said that we shall probably be quarantined at Naples.  Two or three
of us prefer not to run this risk.  Therefore, when we are rested, we
propose to go in a French steamer to Civita and from thence to Rome, and
by rail to Naples.  They do not quarantine the cars, no matter where they
got their passengers from.




CHAPTER XXV.

There are a good many things about this Italy which I do not understand--
and more especially I can not understand how a bankrupt Government can
have such palatial railroad depots and such marvels of turnpikes.  Why,
these latter are as hard as adamant, as straight as a line, as smooth as
a floor, and as white as snow.  When it is too dark to see any other
object, one can still see the white turnpikes of France and Italy; and
they are clean enough to eat from, without a table-cloth.  And yet no
tolls are charged.

As for the railways--we have none like them.  The cars slide as smoothly
along as if they were on runners.  The depots are vast palaces of cut
marble, with stately colonnades of the same royal stone traversing them
from end to end, and with ample walls and ceilings richly decorated with
frescoes.  The lofty gateways are graced with statues, and the broad
floors are all laid in polished flags of marble.

These things win me more than Italy's hundred galleries of priceless art
treasures, because I can understand the one and am not competent to
appreciate the other.  In the turnpikes, the railways, the depots, and
the new boulevards of uniform houses in Florence and other cities here, I
see the genius of Louis Napoleon, or rather, I see the works of that
statesman imitated.  But Louis has taken care that in France there shall
be a foundation for these improvements--money.  He has always the
wherewithal to back up his projects; they strengthen France and never
weaken her.  Her material prosperity is genuine.  But here the case is
different.  This country is bankrupt.  There is no real foundation for
these great works.  The prosperity they would seem to indicate is a
pretence.  There is no money in the treasury, and so they enfeeble her
instead of strengthening.  Italy has achieved the dearest wish of her
heart and become an independent State--and in so doing she has drawn an
elephant in the political lottery.  She has nothing to feed it on.
Inexperienced in government, she plunged into all manner of useless
expenditure, and swamped her treasury almost in a day.  She squandered
millions of francs on a navy which she did not need, and the first time
she took her new toy into action she got it knocked higher than
Gilderoy's kite--to use the language of the Pilgrims.

But it is an ill-wind that blows nobody good.  A year ago, when Italy saw
utter ruin staring her in the face and her greenbacks hardly worth the
paper they were printed on, her Parliament ventured upon a 'coup de main'
that would have appalled the stoutest of her statesmen under less
desperate circumstances.  They, in a manner, confiscated the domains of
the Church!  This in priest-ridden Italy!  This in a land which has
groped in the midnight of priestly superstition for sixteen hundred
years!  It was a rare good fortune for Italy, the stress of weather that
drove her to break from this prison-house.

They do not call it confiscating the church property.  That would sound
too harshly yet.  But it amounts to that.  There are thousands of
churches in Italy, each with untold millions of treasures stored away in
its closets, and each with its battalion of priests to be supported.
And then there are the estates of the Church--league on league of the
richest lands and the noblest forests in all Italy--all yielding immense
revenues to the Church, and none paying a cent in taxes to the State.
In some great districts the Church owns all the property--lands,
watercourses, woods, mills and factories.  They buy, they sell, they
manufacture, and since they pay no taxes, who can hope to compete with
them?

Well, the Government has seized all this in effect, and will yet seize it
in rigid and unpoetical reality, no doubt.  Something must be done to
feed a starving treasury, and there is no other resource in all Italy--
none but the riches of the Church.  So the Government intends to take to
itself a great portion of the revenues arising from priestly farms,
factories, etc., and also intends to take possession of the churches and
carry them on, after its own fashion and upon its own responsibility.
In a few instances it will leave the establishments of great pet churches
undisturbed, but in all others only a handful of priests will be retained
to preach and pray, a few will be pensioned, and the balance turned
adrift.

Pray glance at some of these churches and their embellishments, and see
whether the Government is doing a righteous thing or not.  In Venice,
today, a city of a hundred thousand inhabitants, there are twelve hundred
priests.  Heaven only knows how many there were before the Parliament
reduced their numbers.  There was the great Jesuit Church.  Under the old
regime it required sixty priests to engineer it--the Government does it
with five, now, and the others are discharged from service.  All about
that church wretchedness and poverty abound.  At its door a dozen hats
and bonnets were doffed to us, as many heads were humbly bowed, and as
many hands extended, appealing for pennies--appealing with foreign words
we could not understand, but appealing mutely, with sad eyes, and sunken
cheeks, and ragged raiment, that no words were needed to translate.  Then
we passed within the great doors, and it seemed that the riches of the
world were before us!  Huge columns carved out of single masses of
marble, and inlaid from top to bottom with a hundred intricate figures
wrought in costly verde antique; pulpits of the same rich materials,
whose draperies hung down in many a pictured fold, the stony fabric
counterfeiting the delicate work of the loom; the grand altar brilliant
with polished facings and balustrades of oriental agate, jasper, verde
antique, and other precious stones, whose names, even, we seldom hear--
and slabs of priceless lapis lazuli lavished every where as recklessly as
if the church had owned a quarry of it.  In the midst of all this
magnificence, the solid gold and silver furniture of the altar seemed
cheap and trivial.  Even the floors and ceilings cost a princely fortune.

Now, where is the use of allowing all those riches to lie idle, while
half of that community hardly know, from day to day, how they are going
to keep body and soul together?  And, where is the wisdom in permitting
hundreds upon hundreds of millions of francs to be locked up in the
useless trumpery of churches all over Italy, and the people ground to
death with taxation to uphold a perishing Government?

As far as I can see, Italy, for fifteen hundred years, has turned all her
energies, all her finances, and all her industry to the building up of a
vast array of wonderful church edifices, and starving half her citizens
to accomplish it.  She is to-day one vast museum of magnificence and
misery.  All the churches in an ordinary American city put together could
hardly buy the jeweled frippery in one of her hundred cathedrals.  And
for every beggar in America, Italy can show a hundred--and rags and
vermin to match.  It is the wretchedest, princeliest land on earth.

Look at the grand Duomo of Florence--a vast pile that has been sapping
the purses of her citizens for five hundred years, and is not nearly
finished yet.  Like all other men, I fell down and worshipped it, but
when the filthy beggars swarmed around me the contrast was too striking,
too suggestive, and I said, "O, sons of classic Italy, is the spirit of
enterprise, of self-reliance, of noble endeavor, utterly dead within ye?
Curse your indolent worthlessness, why don't you rob your church?"

Three hundred happy, comfortable priests are employed in that Cathedral.

And now that my temper is up, I may as well go on and abuse every body I
can think of.  They have a grand mausoleum in Florence, which they built
to bury our Lord and Saviour and the Medici family in.  It sounds
blasphemous, but it is true, and here they act blasphemy.  The dead and
damned Medicis who cruelly tyrannized over Florence and were her curse
for over two hundred years, are salted away in a circle of costly vaults,
and in their midst the Holy Sepulchre was to have been set up.  The
expedition sent to Jerusalem to seize it got into trouble and could not
accomplish the burglary, and so the centre of the mausoleum is vacant
now.  They say the entire mausoleum was intended for the Holy Sepulchre,
and was only turned into a family burying place after the Jerusalem
expedition failed--but you will excuse me.  Some of those Medicis would
have smuggled themselves in sure.--What they had not the effrontery to
do, was not worth doing.  Why, they had their trivial, forgotten exploits
on land and sea pictured out in grand frescoes (as did also the ancient
Doges of Venice) with the Saviour and the Virgin throwing bouquets to
them out of the clouds, and the Deity himself applauding from his throne
in Heaven!  And who painted these things?  Why, Titian, Tintoretto, Paul
Veronese, Raphael--none other than the world's idols, the "old masters."

Andrea del Sarto glorified his princes in pictures that must save them
for ever from the oblivion they merited, and they let him starve.  Served
him right.  Raphael pictured such infernal villains as Catherine and
Marie de Medicis seated in heaven and conversing familiarly with the
Virgin Mary and the angels, (to say nothing of higher personages,) and
yet my friends abuse me because I am a little prejudiced against the old
masters--because I fail sometimes to see the beauty that is in their
productions.  I can not help but see it, now and then, but I keep on
protesting against the groveling spirit that could persuade those masters
to prostitute their noble talents to the adulation of such monsters as
the French, Venetian and Florentine Princes of two and three hundred
years ago, all the same.

I am told that the old masters had to do these shameful things for bread,
the princes and potentates being the only patrons of art.  If a grandly
gifted man may drag his pride and his manhood in the dirt for bread
rather than starve with the nobility that is in him untainted, the excuse
is a valid one.  It would excuse theft in Washingtons and Wellingtons,
and unchastity in women as well.

But somehow, I can not keep that Medici mausoleum out of my memory.  It
is as large as a church; its pavement is rich enough for the pavement of
a King's palace; its great dome is gorgeous with frescoes; its walls are
made of--what?  Marble?--plaster?--wood?--paper?  No.  Red porphyry--
verde antique--jasper--oriental agate--alabaster--mother-of-pearl--
chalcedony--red coral--lapis lazuli!  All the vast walls are made wholly
of these precious stones, worked in, and in and in together in elaborate
pattern s and figures, and polished till they glow like great mirrors
with the pictured splendors reflected from the dome overhead.  And before
a statue of one of those dead Medicis reposes a crown that blazes with
diamonds and emeralds enough to buy a ship-of-the-line, almost.  These
are the things the Government has its evil eye upon, and a happy thing it
will be for Italy when they melt away in the public treasury.

And now----.  However, another beggar approaches.  I will go out and
destroy him, and then come back and write another chapter of
vituperation.

Having eaten the friendless orphan--having driven away his comrades--
having grown calm and reflective at length--I now feel in a kindlier
mood.  I feel that after talking so freely about the priests and the
churches, justice demands that if I know any thing good about either I
ought to say it.  I have heard of many things that redound to the credit
of the priesthood, but the most notable matter that occurs to me now is
the devotion one of the mendicant orders showed during the prevalence of
the cholera last year.  I speak of the Dominican friars--men who wear a
coarse, heavy brown robe and a cowl, in this hot climate, and go
barefoot.  They live on alms altogether, I believe.  They must
unquestionably love their religion, to suffer so much for it.  When the
cholera was raging in Naples; when the people were dying by hundreds and
hundreds every day; when every concern for the public welfare was
swallowed up in selfish private interest, and every citizen made the
taking care of himself his sole object, these men banded themselves
together and went about nursing the sick and burying the dead.  Their
noble efforts cost many of them their lives.  They laid them down
cheerfully, and well they might.  Creeds mathematically precise, and
hair-splitting niceties of doctrine, are absolutely necessary for the
salvation of some kinds of souls, but surely the charity, the purity, the
unselfishness that are in the hearts of men like these would save their
souls though they were bankrupt in the true religion--which is ours.

One of these fat bare-footed rascals came here to Civita Vecchia with us
in the little French steamer.  There were only half a dozen of us in the
cabin.  He belonged in the steerage.  He was the life of the ship, the
bloody-minded son of the Inquisition!  He and the leader of the marine
band of a French man-of-war played on the piano and sang opera turn
about; they sang duets together; they rigged impromptu theatrical
costumes and gave us extravagant farces and pantomimes.  We got along
first-rate with the friar, and were excessively conversational, albeit he
could not understand what we said, and certainly he never uttered a word
that we could guess the meaning of.

This Civita Vecchia is the finest nest of dirt, vermin and ignorance we
have found yet, except that African perdition they call Tangier, which is
just like it.  The people here live in alleys two yards wide, which have
a smell about them which is peculiar but not entertaining.  It is well
the alleys are not wider, because they hold as much smell now as a person
can stand, and of course, if they were wider they would hold more, and
then the people would die.  These alleys are paved with stone, and
carpeted with deceased cats, and decayed rags, and decomposed vegetable-
tops, and remnants of old boots, all soaked with dish-water, and the
people sit around on stools and enjoy it.  They are indolent, as a
general thing, and yet have few pastimes.  They work two or three hours
at a time, but not hard, and then they knock off and catch flies.  This
does not require any talent, because they only have to grab--if they do
not get the one they are after, they get another.  It is all the same to
them.  They have no partialities.  Whichever one they get is the one they
want.

They have other kinds of insects, but it does not make them arrogant.
They are very quiet, unpretending people.  They have more of these kind
of things than other communities, but they do not boast.

They are very uncleanly--these people--in face, in person and dress.
When they see any body with a clean shirt on, it arouses their scorn.
The women wash clothes, half the day, at the public tanks in the streets,
but they are probably somebody else's.  Or may be they keep one set to
wear and another to wash; because they never put on any that have ever
been washed.  When they get done washing, they sit in the alleys and
nurse their cubs.  They nurse one ash-cat at a time, and the others
scratch their backs against the door-post and are happy.

All this country belongs to the Papal States.  They do not appear to have
any schools here, and only one billiard table.  Their education is at a
very low stage.  One portion of the men go into the military, another
into the priesthood, and the rest into the shoe-making business.

They keep up the passport system here, but so they do in Turkey.  This
shows that the Papal States are as far advanced as Turkey.  This fact
will be alone sufficient to silence the tongues of malignant
calumniators.  I had to get my passport vised for Rome in Florence, and
then they would not let me come ashore here until a policeman had
examined it on the wharf and sent me a permit.  They did not even dare to
let me take my passport in my hands for twelve hours, I looked so
formidable.  They judged it best to let me cool down.  They thought I
wanted to take the town, likely.  Little did they know me.  I wouldn't
have it.  They examined my baggage at the depot.  They took one of my
ablest jokes and read it over carefully twice and then read it backwards.
But it was too deep for them.  They passed it around, and every body
speculated on it awhile, but it mastered them all.

It was no common joke.  At length a veteran officer spelled it over
deliberately and shook his head three or four times and said that in his
opinion it was seditious.  That was the first time I felt alarmed.  I
immediately said I would explain the document, and they crowded around.
And so I explained and explained and explained, and they took notes of
all I said, but the more I explained the more they could not understand
it, and when they desisted at last, I could not even understand it
myself.  They said they believed it was an incendiary document, leveled
at the government.  I declared solemnly that it was not, but they only
shook their heads and would not be satisfied.  Then they consulted a good
while; and finally they confiscated it.  I was very sorry for this,
because I had worked a long time on that joke, and took a good deal of
pride in it, and now I suppose I shall never see it any more.  I suppose
it will be sent up and filed away among the criminal archives of Rome,
and will always be regarded as a mysterious infernal machine which would
have blown up like a mine and scattered the good Pope all around, but for
a miraculous providential interference.  And I suppose that all the time
I am in Rome the police will dog me about from place to place because
they think I am a dangerous character.

It is fearfully hot in Civita Vecchia.  The streets are made very narrow
and the houses built very solid and heavy and high, as a protection
against the heat.  This is the first Italian town I have seen which does
not appear to have a patron saint.  I suppose no saint but the one that
went up in the chariot of fire could stand the climate.

There is nothing here to see.  They have not even a cathedral, with
eleven tons of solid silver archbishops in the back room; and they do not
show you any moldy buildings that are seven thousand years old; nor any
smoke-dried old fire-screens which are chef d'oeuvres of Reubens or
Simpson, or Titian or Ferguson, or any of those parties; and they haven't
any bottled fragments of saints, and not even a nail from the true cross.
We are going to Rome.  There is nothing to see here.




CHAPTER XXVI.

What is it that confers the noblest delight?  What is that which swells a
man's breast with pride above that which any other experience can bring
to him?  Discovery!  To know that you are walking where none others have
walked; that you are beholding what human eye has not seen before; that
you are breathing a virgin atmosphere.  To give birth to an idea--to
discover a great thought--an intellectual nugget, right under the dust of
a field that many a brain--plow had gone over before.  To find a new
planet, to invent a new hinge, to find the way to make the lightnings
carry your messages.  To be the first--that is the idea.  To do
something, say something, see something, before any body else--these are
the things that confer a pleasure compared with which other pleasures are
tame and commonplace, other ecstasies cheap and trivial.  Morse, with his
first message, brought by his servant, the lightning; Fulton, in that
long-drawn century of suspense, when he placed his hand upon the
throttle-valve and lo, the steamboat moved; Jenner, when his patient with
the cow's virus in his blood, walked through the smallpox hospitals
unscathed; Howe, when the idea shot through his brain that for a hundred
and twenty generations the eye had been bored through the wrong end of
the needle; the nameless lord of art who laid down his chisel in some old
age that is forgotten, now, and gloated upon the finished Laocoon;
Daguerre, when he commanded the sun, riding in the zenith, to print the
landscape upon his insignificant silvered plate, and he obeyed; Columbus,
in the Pinta's shrouds, when he swung his hat above a fabled sea and
gazed abroad upon an unknown world!  These are the men who have really
lived--who have actually comprehended what pleasure is--who have crowded
long lifetimes of ecstasy into a single moment.

What is there in Rome for me to see that others have not seen before me?
What is there for me to touch that others have not touched?  What is
there for me to feel, to learn, to hear, to know, that shall thrill me
before it pass to others?  What can I discover?--Nothing.  Nothing
whatsoever.  One charm of travel dies here.  But if I were only a Roman!
--If, added to my own I could be gifted with modern Roman sloth, modern
Roman superstition, and modern Roman boundlessness of ignorance, what
bewildering worlds of unsuspected wonders I would discover!  Ah, if I
were only a habitant of the Campagna five and twenty miles from Rome!
Then I would travel.

I would go to America, and see, and learn, and return to the Campagna and
stand before my countrymen an illustrious discoverer.  I would say:

"I saw there a country which has no overshadowing Mother Church, and yet
the people survive.  I saw a government which never was protected by
foreign soldiers at a cost greater than that required to carry on the
government itself.  I saw common men and common women who could read;
I even saw small children of common country people reading from books;
if I dared think you would believe it, I would say they could write,
also.

"In the cities I saw people drinking a delicious beverage made of chalk
and water, but never once saw goats driven through their Broadway or
their Pennsylvania Avenue or their Montgomery street and milked at the
doors of the houses.  I saw real glass windows in the houses of even the
commonest people.  Some of the houses are not of stone, nor yet of
bricks; I solemnly swear they are made of wood.  Houses there will take
fire and burn, sometimes--actually burn entirely down, and not leave a
single vestige behind.  I could state that for a truth, upon my death-
bed.  And as a proof that the circumstance is not rare, I aver that they
have a thing which they call a fire-engine, which vomits forth great
streams of water, and is kept always in readiness, by night and by day,
to rush to houses that are burning.  You would think one engine would be
sufficient, but some great cities have a hundred; they keep men hired,
and pay them by the month to do nothing but put out fires.  For a certain
sum of money other men will insure that your house shall not burn down;
and if it burns they will pay you for it.  There are hundreds and
thousands of schools, and any body may go and learn to be wise, like a
priest.  In that singular country if a rich man dies a sinner, he is
damned; he can not buy salvation with money for masses.  There is really
not much use in being rich, there.  Not much use as far as the other
world is concerned, but much, very much use, as concerns this; because
there, if a man be rich, he is very greatly honored, and can become a
legislator, a governor, a general, a senator, no matter how ignorant an
ass he is--just as in our beloved Italy the nobles hold all the great
places, even though sometimes they are born noble idiots.  There, if a
man be rich, they give him costly presents, they ask him to feasts, they
invite him to drink complicated beverages; but if he be poor and in debt,
they require him to do that which they term to "settle."  The women put
on a different dress almost every day; the dress is usually fine, but
absurd in shape; the very shape and fashion of it changes twice in a
hundred years; and did I but covet to be called an extravagant falsifier,
I would say it changed even oftener.  Hair does not grow upon the
American women's heads; it is made for them by cunning workmen in the
shops, and is curled and frizzled into scandalous and ungodly forms.
Some persons wear eyes of glass which they see through with facility
perhaps, else they would not use them; and in the mouths of some are
teeth made by the sacrilegious hand of man.  The dress of the men is
laughably grotesque.  They carry no musket in ordinary life, nor no long-
pointed pole; they wear no wide green-lined cloak; they wear no peaked
black felt hat, no leathern gaiters reaching to the knee, no goat-skin
breeches with the hair side out, no hob-nailed shoes, no prodigious
spurs.  They wear a conical hat termed a "nail-kag;" a coat of saddest
black; a shirt which shows dirt so easily that it has to be changed every
month, and is very troublesome; things called pantaloons, which are held
up by shoulder straps, and on their feet they wear boots which are
ridiculous in pattern and can stand no wear.  Yet dressed in this
fantastic garb, these people laughed at my costume.  In that country,
books are so common that it is really no curiosity to see one.
Newspapers also.  They have a great machine which prints such things by
thousands every hour.

"I saw common men, there--men who were neither priests nor princes--who
yet absolutely owned the land they tilled.  It was not rented from the
church, nor from the nobles.  I am ready to take my oath of this.  In
that country you might fall from a third story window three several
times, and not mash either a soldier or a priest.--The scarcity of such
people is astonishing.  In the cities you will see a dozen civilians for
every soldier, and as many for every priest or preacher.  Jews, there,
are treated just like human beings, instead of dogs.  They can work at
any business they please; they can sell brand new goods if they want to;
they can keep drug-stores; they can practice medicine among Christians;
they can even shake hands with Christians if they choose; they can
associate with them, just the same as one human being does with another
human being; they don't have to stay shut up in one corner of the towns;
they can live in any part of a town they like best; it is said they even
have the privilege of buying land and houses, and owning them themselves,
though I doubt that, myself; they never have had to run races naked
through the public streets, against jackasses, to please the people in
carnival time; there they never have been driven by the soldiers into a
church every Sunday for hundreds of years to hear themselves and their
religion especially and particularly cursed; at this very day, in that
curious country, a Jew is allowed to vote, hold office, yea, get up on a
rostrum in the public street and express his opinion of the government if
the government don't suit him!  Ah, it is wonderful.  The common people
there know a great deal; they even have the effrontery to complain if
they are not properly governed, and to take hold and help conduct the
government themselves; if they had laws like ours, which give one dollar
of every three a crop produces to the government for taxes, they would
have that law altered: instead of paying thirty-three dollars in taxes,
out of every one hundred they receive, they complain if they have to pay
seven.  They are curious people.  They do not know when they are well
off.  Mendicant priests do not prowl among them with baskets begging for
the church and eating up their substance.  One hardly ever sees a
minister of the gospel going around there in his bare feet, with a
basket, begging for subsistence.  In that country the preachers are not
like our mendicant orders of friars--they have two or three suits of
clothing, and they wash sometimes.  In that land are mountains far higher
than the Alban mountains; the vast Roman Campagna, a hundred miles long
and full forty broad, is really small compared to the United States of
America; the Tiber, that celebrated river of ours, which stretches its
mighty course almost two hundred miles, and which a lad can scarcely
throw a stone across at Rome, is not so long, nor yet so wide, as the
American Mississippi--nor yet the Ohio, nor even the Hudson.  In America
the people are absolutely wiser and know much more than their
grandfathers did.  They do not plow with a sharpened stick, nor yet with
a three-cornered block of wood that merely scratches the top of the
ground.  We do that because our fathers did, three thousand years ago, I
suppose.  But those people have no holy reverence for their ancestors.
They plow with a plow that is a sharp, curved blade of iron, and it cuts
into the earth full five inches.  And this is not all.  They cut their
grain with a horrid machine that mows down whole fields in a day.  If I
dared, I would say that sometimes they use a blasphemous plow that works
by fire and vapor and tears up an acre of ground in a single hour--but--
but--I see by your looks that you do not believe the things I am telling
you.  Alas, my character is ruined, and I am a branded speaker of
untruths!"

Of course we have been to the monster Church of St. Peter, frequently.
I knew its dimensions.  I knew it was a prodigious structure.  I knew it
was just about the length of the capitol at Washington--say seven hundred
and thirty feet.  I knew it was three hundred and sixty-four feet wide,
and consequently wider than the capitol.  I knew that the cross on the
top of the dome of the church was four hundred and thirty-eight feet
above the ground, and therefore about a hundred or may be a hundred and
twenty-five feet higher than the dome of the capitol.--Thus I had one
gauge.  I wished to come as near forming a correct idea of how it was
going to look, as possible; I had a curiosity to see how much I would
err.  I erred considerably.  St. Peter's did not look nearly so large as
the capitol, and certainly not a twentieth part as beautiful, from the
outside.

When we reached the door, and stood fairly within the church, it was
impossible to comprehend that it was a very large building.  I had to
cipher a comprehension of it.  I had to ransack my memory for some more
similes.  St. Peter's is bulky.  Its height and size would represent two
of the Washington capitol set one on top of the other--if the capitol
were wider; or two blocks or two blocks and a half of ordinary buildings
set one on top of the other.  St. Peter's was that large, but it could
and would not look so.  The trouble was that every thing in it and about
it was on such a scale of uniform vastness that there were no contrasts
to judge by--none but the people, and I had not noticed them.  They were
insects.  The statues of children holding vases of holy water were
immense, according to the tables of figures, but so was every thing else
around them.  The mosaic pictures in the dome were huge, and were made of
thousands and thousands of cubes of glass as large as the end of my
little finger, but those pictures looked smooth, and gaudy of color, and
in good proportion to the dome.  Evidently they would not answer to
measure by.  Away down toward the far end of the church (I thought it was
really clear at the far end, but discovered afterward that it was in the
centre, under the dome,) stood the thing they call the baldacchino--a
great bronze pyramidal frame-work like that which upholds a mosquito bar.
It only looked like a considerably magnified bedstead--nothing more.  Yet
I knew it was a good deal more than half as high as Niagara Falls.  It
was overshadowed by a dome so mighty that its own height was snubbed.
The four great square piers or pillars that stand equidistant from each
other in the church, and support the roof, I could not work up to their
real dimensions by any method of comparison.  I knew that the faces of
each were about the width of a very large dwelling-house front, (fifty or
sixty feet,) and that they were twice as high as an ordinary three-story
dwelling, but still they looked small.  I tried all the different ways I
could think of to compel myself to understand how large St. Peter's was,
but with small success.  The mosaic portrait of an Apostle who was
writing with a pen six feet long seemed only an ordinary Apostle.

But the people attracted my attention after a while.  To stand in the
door of St. Peter's and look at men down toward its further extremity,
two blocks away, has a diminishing effect on them; surrounded by the
prodigious pictures and statues, and lost in the vast spaces, they look
very much smaller than they would if they stood two blocks away in the
open air.  I "averaged" a man as he passed me and watched him as he
drifted far down by the baldacchino and beyond--watched him dwindle to an
insignificant school-boy, and then, in the midst of the silent throng of
human pigmies gliding about him, I lost him.  The church had lately been
decorated, on the occasion of a great ceremony in honor of St. Peter, and
men were engaged, now, in removing the flowers and gilt paper from the
walls and pillars.  As no ladders could reach the great heights, the men
swung themselves down from balustrades and the capitals of pilasters by
ropes, to do this work.  The upper gallery which encircles the inner
sweep of the dome is two hundred and forty feet above the floor of the
church--very few steeples in America could reach up to it.  Visitors
always go up there to look down into the church because one gets the best
idea of some of the heights and distances from that point.  While we
stood on the floor one of the workmen swung loose from that gallery at
the end of a long rope.  I had not supposed, before, that a man could
look so much like a spider.  He was insignificant in size, and his rope
seemed only a thread.  Seeing that he took up so little space, I could
believe the story, then, that ten thousand troops went to St. Peter's,
once, to hear mass, and their commanding officer came afterward, and not
finding them, supposed they had not yet arrived.  But they were in the
church, nevertheless--they were in one of the transepts.  Nearly fifty
thousand persons assembled in St. Peter's to hear the publishing of the
dogma of the Immaculate Conception.  It is estimated that the floor of
the church affords standing room for--for a large number of people; I
have forgotten the exact figures.  But it is no matter--it is near
enough.

They have twelve small pillars, in St. Peter's, which came from Solomon's
Temple.  They have, also--which was far more interesting to me--a piece
of the true cross, and some nails, and a part of the crown of thorns.

Of course we ascended to the summit of the dome, and of course we also
went up into the gilt copper ball which is above it.--There was room
there for a dozen persons, with a little crowding, and it was as close
and hot as an oven.  Some of those people who are so fond of writing
their names in prominent places had been there before us--a million or
two, I should think.  From the dome of St. Peter's one can see every
notable object in Rome, from the Castle of St. Angelo to the Coliseum.
He can discern the seven hills upon which Rome is built.  He can see the
Tiber, and the locality of the bridge which Horatius kept "in the brave
days of old" when Lars Porsena attempted to cross it with his invading
host.  He can see the spot where the Horatii and the Curatii fought their
famous battle.  He can see the broad green Campagna, stretching away
toward the mountains, with its scattered arches and broken aqueducts of
the olden time, so picturesque in their gray ruin, and so daintily
festooned with vines.  He can see the Alban Mountains, the Appenines, the
Sabine Hills, and the blue Mediterranean.  He can see a panorama that is
varied, extensive, beautiful to the eye, and more illustrious in history
than any other in Europe.--About his feet is spread the remnant of a
city that once had a population of four million souls; and among its
massed edifices stand the ruins of temples, columns, and triumphal arches
that knew the Caesars, and the noonday of Roman splendor; and close by
them, in unimpaired strength, is a drain of arched and heavy masonry that
belonged to that older city which stood here before Romulus and Remus
were born or Rome thought of.  The Appian Way is here yet, and looking
much as it did, perhaps, when the triumphal processions of the Emperors
moved over it in other days bringing fettered princes from the confines
of the earth.  We can not see the long array of chariots and mail-clad
men laden with the spoils of conquest, but we can imagine the pageant,
after a fashion.  We look out upon many objects of interest from the dome
of St. Peter's; and last of all, almost at our feet, our eyes rest upon
the building which was once the Inquisition.  How times changed, between
the older ages and the new!  Some seventeen or eighteen centuries ago,
the ignorant men of Rome were wont to put Christians in the arena of the
Coliseum yonder, and turn the wild beasts in upon them for a show.  It
was for a lesson as well.  It was to teach the people to abhor and fear
the new doctrine the followers of Christ were teaching.  The beasts tore
the victims limb from limb and made poor mangled corpses of them in the
twinkling of an eye.  But when the Christians came into power, when the
holy Mother Church became mistress of the barbarians, she taught them the
error of their ways by no such means.  No, she put them in this pleasant
Inquisition and pointed to the Blessed Redeemer, who was so gentle and so
merciful toward all men, and they urged the barbarians to love him; and
they did all they could to persuade them to love and honor him--first by
twisting their thumbs out of joint with a screw; then by nipping their
flesh with pincers--red-hot ones, because they are the most comfortable
in cold weather; then by skinning them alive a little, and finally by
roasting them in public.  They always convinced those barbarians.  The
true religion, properly administered, as the good Mother Church used to
administer it, is very, very soothing.  It is wonderfully persuasive,
also.  There is a great difference between feeding parties to wild beasts
and stirring up their finer feelings in an Inquisition.  One is the
system of degraded barbarians, the other of enlightened, civilized
people.  It is a great pity the playful Inquisition is no more.

I prefer not to describe St. Peter's.  It has been done before.  The
ashes of Peter, the disciple of the Saviour, repose in a crypt under the
baldacchino.  We stood reverently in that place; so did we also in the
Mamertine Prison, where he was confined, where he converted the soldiers,
and where tradition says he caused a spring of water to flow in order
that he might baptize them.  But when they showed us the print of Peter's
face in the hard stone of the prison wall and said he made that by
falling up against it, we doubted.  And when, also, the monk at the
church of San Sebastian showed us a paving-stone with two great
footprints in it and said that Peter's feet made those, we lacked
confidence again.  Such things do not impress one.  The monk said that
angels came and liberated Peter from prison by night, and he started away
from Rome by the Appian Way.  The Saviour met him and told him to go
back, which he did.  Peter left those footprints in the stone upon which
he stood at the time.  It was not stated how it was ever discovered whose
footprints they were, seeing the interview occurred secretly and at
night.  The print of the face in the prison was that of a man of common
size; the footprints were those of a man ten or twelve feet high.  The
discrepancy confirmed our unbelief.

We necessarily visited the Forum, where Caesar was assassinated, and also
the Tarpeian Rock.  We saw the Dying Gladiator at the Capitol, and I
think that even we appreciated that wonder of art; as much, perhaps, as
we did that fearful story wrought in marble, in the Vatican--the Laocoon.
And then the Coliseum.

Every body knows the picture of the Coliseum; every body recognizes at
once that "looped and windowed" band-box with a side bitten out.  Being
rather isolated, it shows to better advantage than any other of the
monuments of ancient Rome.  Even the beautiful Pantheon, whose pagan
altars uphold the cross, now, and whose Venus, tricked out in consecrated
gimcracks, does reluctant duty as a Virgin Mary to-day, is built about
with shabby houses and its stateliness sadly marred.  But the monarch of
all European ruins, the Coliseum, maintains that reserve and that royal
seclusion which is proper to majesty.  Weeds and flowers spring from its
massy arches and its circling seats, and vines hang their fringes from
its lofty walls.  An impressive silence broods over the monstrous
structure where such multitudes of men and women were wont to assemble in
other days.  The butterflies have taken the places of the queens of
fashion and beauty of eighteen centuries ago, and the lizards sun
themselves in the sacred seat of the Emperor.  More vividly than all the
written histories, the Coliseum tells the story of Rome's grandeur and
Rome's decay.  It is the worthiest type of both that exists.  Moving
about the Rome of to-day, we might find it hard to believe in her old
magnificence and her millions of population; but with this stubborn
evidence before us that she was obliged to have a theatre with sitting
room for eighty thousand persons and standing room for twenty thousand
more, to accommodate such of her citizens as required amusement, we find
belief less difficult.  The Coliseum is over one thousand six hundred
feet long, seven hundred and fifty wide, and one hundred and sixty-five
high.  Its shape is oval.

In America we make convicts useful at the same time that we punish them
for their crimes.  We farm them out and compel them to earn money for the
State by making barrels and building roads.  Thus we combine business
with retribution, and all things are lovely.  But in ancient Rome they
combined religious duty with pleasure.  Since it was necessary that the
new sect called Christians should be exterminated, the people judged it
wise to make this work profitable to the State at the same time, and
entertaining to the public.  In addition to the gladiatorial combats and
other shows, they sometimes threw members of the hated sect into the
arena of the Coliseum and turned wild beasts in upon them.  It is
estimated that seventy thousand Christians suffered martyrdom in this
place.  This has made the Coliseum holy ground, in the eyes of the
followers of the Saviour.  And well it might; for if the chain that bound
a saint, and the footprints a saint has left upon a stone he chanced to
stand upon, be holy, surely the spot where a man gave up his life for his
faith is holy.

Seventeen or eighteen centuries ago this Coliseum was the theatre of
Rome, and Rome was mistress of the world.  Splendid pageants were
exhibited here, in presence of the Emperor, the great ministers of State,
the nobles, and vast audiences of citizens of smaller consequence.
Gladiators fought with gladiators and at times with warrior prisoners
from many a distant land.  It was the theatre of Rome--of the world--and
the man of fashion who could not let fall in a casual and unintentional
manner something about "my private box at the Coliseum" could not move in
the first circles.  When the clothing-store merchant wished to consume
the corner grocery man with envy, he bought secured seats in the front
row and let the thing be known.  When the irresistible dry goods clerk
wished to blight and destroy, according to his native instinct, he got
himself up regardless of expense and took some other fellow's young lady
to the Coliseum, and then accented the affront by cramming her with ice
cream between the acts, or by approaching the cage and stirring up the
martyrs with his whalebone cane for her edification.  The Roman swell was
in his true element only when he stood up against a pillar and fingered
his moustache unconscious of the ladies; when he viewed the bloody
combats through an opera-glass two inches long; when he excited the envy
of provincials by criticisms which showed that he had been to the
Coliseum many and many a time and was long ago over the novelty of it;
when he turned away with a yawn at last and said,

"He a star! handles his sword like an apprentice brigand!  he'll do for
the country, may be, but he don't answer for the metropolis!"

Glad was the contraband that had a seat in the pit at the Saturday
matinee, and happy the Roman street-boy who ate his peanuts and guyed the
gladiators from the dizzy gallery.

For me was reserved the high honor of discovering among the rubbish of
the ruined Coliseum the only playbill of that establishment now extant.
There was a suggestive smell of mint-drops about it still, a corner of it
had evidently been chewed, and on the margin, in choice Latin, these
words were written in a delicate female hand:

     "Meet me on the Tarpeian Rock tomorrow evening, dear, at sharp
     seven.  Mother will be absent on a visit to her friends in the
     Sabine Hills.        CLAUDIA."

Ah, where is that lucky youth to-day, and where the little hand that
wrote those dainty lines?  Dust and ashes these seventeen hundred years!

Thus reads the bill:


                            ROMAN COLISEUM.
                        UNPARALLELED ATTRACTION!
               NEW PROPERTIES!  NEW LIONS!  NEW GLADIATORS!
                       Engagement of the renowned
                        MARCUS MARCELLUS VALERIAN!
                           FOR SIX NIGHTS ONLY!

The management beg leave to offer to the public an entertainment
surpassing in magnificence any thing that has heretofore been attempted
on any stage.  No expense has been spared to make the opening season one
which shall be worthy the generous patronage which the management feel
sure will crown their efforts.  The management beg leave to state that
they have succeeded in securing the services of a

                            GALAXY OF TALENT!
such as has not been beheld in Rome before.

The performance will commence this evening with a

                         GRAND BROADSWORD COMBAT!
between two young and promising amateurs and a celebrated Parthian
gladiator who has just arrived a prisoner from the Camp of Verus.

This will be followed by a grand moral

                          BATTLE-AX ENGAGEMENT!
between the renowned Valerian (with one hand tied behind him,) and two
gigantic savages from Britain.

After which the renowned Valerian (if he survive,) will fight with the
broad-sword,

                               LEFT HANDED!
against six Sophomores and a Freshman from the Gladiatorial College!

A long series of brilliant engagements will follow, in which the finest
talent of the Empire will take part

After which the celebrated Infant Prodigy known as

                          "THE YOUNG ACHILLES,"
will engage four tiger whelps in combat, armed with no other weapon than
his little spear!

The whole to conclude with a chaste and elegant

                            GENERAL SLAUGHTER!
In which thirteen African Lions and twenty-two Barbarian Prisoners will
war with each other until all are exterminated.

                           BOX OFFICE NOW OPEN.

Dress Circle One Dollar; Children and Servants half price.

An efficient police force will be on hand to preserve order and keep the
wild beasts from leaping the railings and discommoding the audience.

Doors open at 7; performance begins at 8.

POSITIVELY NO FREE LIST.

                          Diodorus Job Press.


It was as singular as it was gratifying that I was also so fortunate as
to find among the rubbish of the arena, a stained and mutilated copy of
the Roman Daily Battle-Ax, containing a critique upon this very
performance.  It comes to hand too late by many centuries to rank as
news, and therefore I translate and publish it simply to show how very
little the general style and phraseology of dramatic criticism has
altered in the ages that have dragged their slow length along since the
carriers laid this one damp and fresh before their Roman patrons:

     "THE OPENING SEASON.--COLISEUM.--Notwithstanding the inclemency of
     the weather, quite a respectable number of the rank and fashion of
     the city assembled last night to witness the debut upon metropolitan
     boards of the young tragedian who has of late been winning such
     golden opinions in the amphitheatres of the provinces.  Some sixty
     thousand persons were present, and but for the fact that the streets
     were almost impassable, it is fair to presume that the house would
     have been full.  His august Majesty, the Emperor Aurelius, occupied
     the imperial box, and was the cynosure of all eyes.  Many
     illustrious nobles and generals of the Empire graced the occasion
     with their presence, and not the least among them was the young
     patrician lieutenant whose laurels, won in the ranks of the
     "Thundering Legion," are still so green upon his brow.  The cheer
     which greeted his entrance was heard beyond the Tiber!

     "The late repairs and decorations add both to the comeliness and the
     comfort of the Coliseum.  The new cushions are a great improvement
     upon the hard marble seats we have been so long accustomed to.  The
     present management deserve well of the public.  They have restored
     to the Coliseum the gilding, the rich upholstery and the uniform
     magnificence which old Coliseum frequenters tell us Rome was so
     proud of fifty years ago.

     "The opening scene last night--the broadsword combat between two
     young amateurs and a famous Parthian gladiator who was sent here a
     prisoner--was very fine.  The elder of the two young gentlemen
     handled his weapon with a grace that marked the possession of
     extraordinary talent.  His feint of thrusting, followed instantly by
     a happily delivered blow which unhelmeted the Parthian, was received
     with hearty applause.  He was not thoroughly up in the backhanded
     stroke, but it was very gratifying to his numerous friends to know
     that, in time, practice would have overcome this defect.  However,
     he was killed.  His sisters, who were present, expressed
     considerable regret.  His mother left the Coliseum.  The other youth
     maintained the contest with such spirit as to call forth
     enthusiastic bursts of applause.  When at last he fell a corpse, his
     aged mother ran screaming, with hair disheveled and tears streaming
     from her eyes, and swooned away just as her hands were clutching at
     the railings of the arena.  She was promptly removed by the police.
     Under the circumstances the woman's conduct was pardonable, perhaps,
     but we suggest that such exhibitions interfere with the decorum
     which should be preserved during the performances, and are highly
     improper in the presence of the Emperor.  The Parthian prisoner
     fought bravely and well; and well he might, for he was fighting for
     both life and liberty.  His wife and children were there to nerve
     his arm with their love, and to remind him of the old home he should
     see again if he conquered.  When his second assailant fell, the
     woman clasped her children to her breast and wept for joy.  But it
     was only a transient happiness.  The captive staggered toward her
     and she saw that the liberty he had earned was earned too late.  He
     was wounded unto death.  Thus the first act closed in a manner which
     was entirely satisfactory.  The manager was called before the
     curtain and returned his thanks for the honor done him, in a speech
     which was replete with wit and humor, and closed by hoping that his
     humble efforts to afford cheerful and instructive entertainment
     would continue to meet with the approbation of the Roman public

     "The star now appeared, and was received with vociferous applause
     and the simultaneous waving of sixty thousand handkerchiefs.  Marcus
     Marcellus Valerian (stage name--his real name is Smith,) is a
     splendid specimen of physical development, and an artist of rare
     merit.  His management of the battle-ax is wonderful.  His gayety
     and his playfulness are irresistible, in his comic parts, and yet
     they are inferior to his sublime conceptions in the grave realm of
     tragedy.  When his ax was describing fiery circles about the heads
     of the bewildered barbarians, in exact time with his springing body
     and his prancing legs, the audience gave way to uncontrollable
     bursts of laughter; but when the back of his weapon broke the skull
     of one and almost in the same instant its edge clove the other's
     body in twain, the howl of enthusiastic applause that shook the
     building, was the acknowledgment of a critical assemblage that he
     was a master of the noblest department of his profession.  If he has
     a fault, (and we are sorry to even intimate that he has,) it is that
     of glancing at the audience, in the midst of the most exciting
     moments of the performance, as if seeking admiration.  The pausing
     in a fight to bow when bouquets are thrown to him is also in bad
     taste.  In the great left-handed combat he appeared to be looking at
     the audience half the time, instead of carving his adversaries; and
     when he had slain all the sophomores and was dallying with the
     freshman, he stooped and snatched a bouquet as it fell, and offered
     it to his adversary at a time when a blow was descending which
     promised favorably to be his death-warrant.  Such levity is proper
     enough in the provinces, we make no doubt, but it ill suits the
     dignity of the metropolis.  We trust our young friend will take
     these remarks in good part, for we mean them solely for his benefit.
     All who know us are aware that although we are at times justly
     severe upon tigers and martyrs, we never intentionally offend
     gladiators.

     "The Infant Prodigy performed wonders.  He overcame his four tiger
     whelps with ease, and with no other hurt than the loss of a portion
     of his scalp.  The General Slaughter was rendered with a
     faithfulness to details which reflects the highest credit upon the
     late participants in it.

     "Upon the whole, last night's performances shed honor not only upon
     the management but upon the city that encourages and sustains such
     wholesome and instructive entertainments.  We would simply suggest
     that the practice of vulgar young boys in the gallery of shying
     peanuts and paper pellets at the tigers, and saying "Hi-yi!" and
     manifesting approbation or dissatisfaction by such observations as
     "Bully for the lion!"  "Go it, Gladdy!"  "Boots!"  "Speech!"  "Take
     a walk round the block!"  and so on, are extremely reprehensible,
     when the Emperor is present, and ought to be stopped by the police.
     Several times last night, when the supernumeraries entered the arena
     to drag out the bodies, the young ruffians in the gallery shouted,
     "Supe!  supe!"  and also, "Oh, what a coat!"  and "Why don't you pad
     them shanks?"  and made use of various other remarks expressive of
     derision.  These things are very annoying to the audience.

     "A matinee for the little folks is promised for this afternoon, on
     which occasion several martyrs will be eaten by the tigers.  The
     regular performance will continue every night till further notice.
     Material change of programme every evening.  Benefit of Valerian,
     Tuesday, 29th, if he lives."


I have been a dramatic critic myself, in my time, and I was often
surprised to notice how much more I knew about Hamlet than Forrest did;
and it gratifies me to observe, now, how much better my brethren of
ancient times knew how a broad sword battle ought to be fought than the
gladiators.




CHAPTER XXVII.

So far, good.  If any man has a right to feel proud of himself, and
satisfied, surely it is I.  For I have written about the Coliseum, and
the gladiators, the martyrs, and the lions, and yet have never once used
the phrase "butchered to make a Roman holiday."  I am the only free white
man of mature age, who has accomplished this since Byron originated the
expression.

Butchered to make a Roman holiday sounds well for the first seventeen or
eighteen hundred thousand times one sees it in print, but after that it
begins to grow tiresome.  I find it in all the books concerning Rome--and
here latterly it reminds me of Judge Oliver.  Oliver was a young lawyer,
fresh from the schools, who had gone out to the deserts of Nevada to
begin life.  He found that country, and our ways of life, there, in those
early days, different from life in New England or Paris.  But he put on a
woollen shirt and strapped a navy revolver to his person, took to the
bacon and beans of the country, and determined to do in Nevada as Nevada
did.  Oliver accepted the situation so completely that although he must
have sorrowed over many of his trials, he never complained--that is, he
never complained but once.  He, two others, and myself, started to the
new silver mines in the Humboldt mountains--he to be Probate Judge of
Humboldt county, and we to mine.  The distance was two hundred miles.  It
was dead of winter.  We bought a two-horse wagon and put eighteen hundred
pounds of bacon, flour, beans, blasting-powder, picks and shovels in it;
we bought two sorry-looking Mexican "plugs," with the hair turned the
wrong way and more corners on their bodies than there are on the mosque
of Omar; we hitched up and started.  It was a dreadful trip.  But Oliver
did not complain.  The horses dragged the wagon two miles from town and
then gave out.  Then we three pushed the wagon seven miles, and Oliver
moved ahead and pulled the horses after him by the bits.  We complained,
but Oliver did not.  The ground was frozen, and it froze our backs while
we slept; the wind swept across our faces and froze our noses.  Oliver
did not complain.  Five days of pushing the wagon by day and freezing by
night brought us to the bad part of the journey--the Forty Mile Desert,
or the Great American Desert, if you please.  Still, this mildest-
mannered man that ever was, had not complained.  We started across at
eight in the morning, pushing through sand that had no bottom; toiling
all day long by the wrecks of a thousand wagons, the skeletons of ten
thousand oxen; by wagon-tires enough to hoop the Washington Monument to
the top, and ox-chains enough to girdle Long Island; by human graves;
with our throats parched always, with thirst; lips bleeding from the
alkali dust; hungry, perspiring, and very, very weary--so weary that when
we dropped in the sand every fifty yards to rest the horses, we could
hardly keep from going to sleep--no complaints from Oliver: none the next
morning at three o'clock, when we got across, tired to death.

Awakened two or three nights afterward at midnight, in a narrow canon, by
the snow falling on our faces, and appalled at the imminent danger of
being "snowed in," we harnessed up and pushed on till eight in the
morning, passed the "Divide" and knew we were saved.  No complaints.
Fifteen days of hardship and fatigue brought us to the end of the two
hundred miles, and the Judge had not complained.  We wondered if any
thing could exasperate him.  We built a Humboldt house.  It is done in
this way.  You dig a square in the steep base of the mountain, and set up
two uprights and top them with two joists.  Then you stretch a great
sheet of "cotton domestic" from the point where the joists join the hill-
side down over the joists to the ground; this makes the roof and the
front of the mansion; the sides and back are the dirt walls your digging
has left.  A chimney is easily made by turning up one corner of the roof.
Oliver was sitting alone in this dismal den, one night, by a sage-brush
fire, writing poetry; he was very fond of digging poetry out of himself--
or blasting it out when it came hard.  He heard an animal's footsteps
close to the roof; a stone or two and some dirt came through and fell by
him.  He grew uneasy and said "Hi!--clear out from there, can't you!"--
from time to time.  But by and by he fell asleep where he sat, and pretty
soon a mule fell down the chimney!  The fire flew in every direction, and
Oliver went over backwards.  About ten nights after that, he recovered
confidence enough to go to writing poetry again.  Again he dozed off to
sleep, and again a mule fell down the chimney.  This time, about half of
that side of the house came in with the mule.  Struggling to get up, the
mule kicked the candle out and smashed most of the kitchen furniture, and
raised considerable dust.  These violent awakenings must have been
annoying to Oliver, but he never complained.  He moved to a mansion on
the opposite side of the canon, because he had noticed the mules did not
go there.  One night about eight o'clock he was endeavoring to finish his
poem, when a stone rolled in--then a hoof appeared below the canvas--then
part of a cow--the after part.  He leaned back in dread, and shouted
"Hooy!  hooy!  get out of this!"  and the cow struggled manfully--lost
ground steadily--dirt and dust streamed down, and before Oliver could get
well away, the entire cow crashed through on to the table and made a
shapeless wreck of every thing!

Then, for the first time in his life, I think, Oliver complained.  He
said,

"This thing is growing monotonous!"

Then he resigned his judgeship and left Humboldt county.  "Butchered to
make a Roman holyday" has grown monotonous to me.

In this connection I wish to say one word about Michael Angelo
Buonarotti.  I used to worship the mighty genius of Michael Angelo--that
man who was great in poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture--great in
every thing he undertook.  But I do not want Michael Angelo for
breakfast--for luncheon--for dinner--for tea--for supper--for between
meals.  I like a change, occasionally.  In Genoa, he designed every
thing; in Milan he or his pupils designed every thing; he designed the
Lake of Como; in Padua, Verona, Venice, Bologna, who did we ever hear of,
from guides, but Michael Angelo?  In Florence, he painted every thing,
designed every thing, nearly, and what he did not design he used to sit
on a favorite stone and look at, and they showed us the stone.  In Pisa
he designed every thing but the old shot-tower, and they would have
attributed that to him if it had not been so awfully out of the
perpendicular.  He designed the piers of Leghorn and the custom house
regulations of Civita Vecchia.  But, here--here it is frightful.  He
designed St. Peter's; he designed the Pope; he designed the Pantheon, the
uniform of the Pope's soldiers, the Tiber, the Vatican, the Coliseum, the
Capitol, the Tarpeian Rock, the Barberini Palace, St. John Lateran, the
Campagna, the Appian Way, the Seven Hills, the Baths of Caracalla, the
Claudian Aqueduct, the Cloaca Maxima--the eternal bore designed the
Eternal City, and unless all men and books do lie, he painted every thing
in it!  Dan said the other day to the guide, "Enough, enough, enough!
Say no more!  Lump the whole thing!  say that the Creator made Italy from
designs by Michael Angelo!"

I never felt so fervently thankful, so soothed, so tranquil, so filled
with a blessed peace, as I did yesterday when I learned that Michael
Angelo was dead.

But we have taken it out of this guide.  He has marched us through miles
of pictures and sculpture in the vast corridors of the Vatican; and
through miles of pictures and sculpture in twenty other palaces; he has
shown us the great picture in the Sistine Chapel, and frescoes enough to
frescoe the heavens--pretty much all done by Michael Angelo.  So with him
we have played that game which has vanquished so many guides for us--
imbecility and idiotic questions.  These creatures never suspect--they
have no idea of a sarcasm.

He shows us a figure and says: "Statoo brunzo."  (Bronze statue.)

We look at it indifferently and the doctor asks: "By Michael Angelo?"

"No--not know who."

Then he shows us the ancient Roman Forum.  The doctor asks: "Michael
Angelo?"

A stare from the guide.  "No--thousan' year before he is born."

Then an Egyptian obelisk.  Again: "Michael Angelo?"

"Oh, mon dieu, genteelmen!  Zis is two thousan' year before he is born!"

He grows so tired of that unceasing question sometimes, that he dreads to
show us any thing at all.  The wretch has tried all the ways he can think
of to make us comprehend that Michael Angelo is only responsible for the
creation of a part of the world, but somehow he has not succeeded yet.
Relief for overtasked eyes and brain from study and sightseeing is
necessary, or we shall become idiotic sure enough.  Therefore this guide
must continue to suffer.  If he does not enjoy it, so much the worse for
him.  We do.

In this place I may as well jot down a chapter concerning those necessary
nuisances, European guides.  Many a man has wished in his heart he could
do without his guide; but knowing he could not, has wished he could get
some amusement out of him as a remuneration for the affliction of his
society.  We accomplished this latter matter, and if our experience can
be made useful to others they are welcome to it.

Guides know about enough English to tangle every thing up so that a man
can make neither head or tail of it.  They know their story by heart--the
history of every statue, painting, cathedral or other wonder they show
you.  They know it and tell it as a parrot would--and if you interrupt,
and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again.
All their lives long, they are employed in showing strange things to
foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration.  It is human
nature to take delight in exciting admiration.  It is what prompts
children to say "smart" things, and do absurd ones, and in other ways
"show off" when company is present.  It is what makes gossips turn out in
rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news.
Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it
is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect
ecstasies of admiration!  He gets so that he could not by any possibility
live in a soberer atmosphere.  After we discovered this, we never went
into ecstasies any more--we never admired any thing--we never showed any
but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the
sublimest wonders a guide had to display.  We had found their weak point.
We have made good use of it ever since.  We have made some of those
people savage, at times, but we have never lost our own serenity.

The doctor asks the questions, generally, because he can keep his
countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more
imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives.  It comes
natural to him.

The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because
Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion
before any relic of Columbus.  Our guide there fidgeted about as if he
had swallowed a spring mattress.  He was full of animation--full of
impatience.  He said:

"Come wis me, genteelmen!--come!  I show you ze letter writing by
Christopher Colombo!--write it himself!--write it wis his own hand!--
come!"

He took us to the municipal palace.  After much impressive fumbling of
keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread
before us.  The guide's eyes sparkled.  He danced about us and tapped the
parchment with his finger:

"What I tell you, genteelmen!  Is it not so?  See!  handwriting
Christopher Colombo!--write it himself!"

We looked indifferent--unconcerned.  The doctor examined the document
very deliberately, during a painful pause.--Then he said, without any
show of interest:

"Ah--Ferguson--what--what did you say was the name of the party who wrote
this?"

"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"

Another deliberate examination.

"Ah--did he write it himself; or--or how?"

"He write it himself!--Christopher Colombo!  He's own hand-writing, write
by himself!"

Then the doctor laid the document down and said:

"Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could
write better than that."

"But zis is ze great Christo--"

"I don't care who it is!  It's the worst writing I ever saw.  Now you
musn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers.  We are not
fools, by a good deal.  If you have got any specimens of penmanship of
real merit, trot them out!--and if you haven't, drive on!"

We drove on.  The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more
venture.  He had something which he thought would overcome us.  He said:

"Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me!  I show you beautiful, O, magnificent
bust Christopher Colombo!--splendid, grand, magnificent!"

He brought us before the beautiful bust--for it was beautiful--and sprang
back and struck an attitude:

"Ah, look, genteelmen!--beautiful, grand,--bust Christopher Colombo!--
beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!"

The doctor put up his eye-glass--procured for such occasions:

"Ah--what did you say this gentleman's name was?"

"Christopher Colombo!--ze great Christopher Colombo!"

"Christopher Colombo--the great Christopher Colombo.  Well, what did he
do?"

"Discover America!--discover America, Oh, ze devil!"

"Discover America.  No--that statement will hardly wash.  We are just
from America ourselves.  We heard nothing about it.  Christopher Colombo
--pleasant name--is--is he dead?"

"Oh, corpo di Baccho!--three hundred year!"

"What did he die of?"

"I do not know!--I can not tell."

"Small-pox, think?"

"I do not know, genteelmen!--I do not know what he die of!"

"Measles, likely?"

"May be--may be--I do not know--I think he die of somethings."

"Parents living?"

"Im-poseeeble!"

"Ah--which is the bust and which is the pedestal?"

"Santa Maria!--zis ze bust!--zis ze pedestal!"

"Ah, I see, I see--happy combination--very happy combination, indeed.
Is--is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust?"

That joke was lost on the foreigner--guides can not master the subtleties
of the American joke.

We have made it interesting for this Roman guide.  Yesterday we spent
three or four hours in the Vatican, again, that wonderful world of
curiosities.  We came very near expressing interest, sometimes--even
admiration--it was very hard to keep from it.  We succeeded though.
Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums.  The guide was bewildered--
non-plussed.  He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary
things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we
never showed any interest in any thing.  He had reserved what he
considered to be his greatest wonder till the last--a royal Egyptian
mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps.  He took us there.  He
felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to
him:

"See, genteelmen!--Mummy!  Mummy!"

The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.

"Ah,--Ferguson--what did I understand you to say the gentleman's name
was?"

"Name?--he got no name!--Mummy!--'Gyptian mummy!"

"Yes, yes.  Born here?"

"No!  'Gyptian mummy!"

"Ah, just so.  Frenchman, I presume?"

"No!--not Frenchman, not Roman!--born in Egypta!"

"Born in Egypta.  Never heard of Egypta before.  Foreign locality,
likely.  Mummy--mummy.  How calm he is--how self-possessed.  Is, ah--is
he dead?"

"Oh, sacre bleu, been dead three thousan' year!"

The doctor turned on him savagely:

"Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this!  Playing us for
Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn!  Trying to impose
your vile second-hand carcasses on us!--thunder and lightning, I've a
notion to--to--if you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out!--or by
George we'll brain you!"

We make it exceedingly interesting for this Frenchman.  However, he has
paid us back, partly, without knowing it.  He came to the hotel this
morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavored as well as he could to
describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant.  He
finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics.  The observation
was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a
guide to say.

There is one remark (already mentioned,) which never yet has failed to
disgust these guides.  We use it always, when we can think of nothing
else to say.  After they have exhausted their enthusiasm pointing out to
us and praising the beauties of some ancient bronze image or broken-
legged statue, we look at it stupidly and in silence for five, ten,
fifteen minutes--as long as we can hold out, in fact--and then ask:

"Is--is he dead?"

That conquers the serenest of them.  It is not what they are looking for
--especially a new guide.  Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient,
unsuspecting, long-suffering subject we have had yet.  We shall be sorry
to part with him.  We have enjoyed his society very much.  We trust he
has enjoyed ours, but we are harassed with doubts.

We have been in the catacombs.  It was like going down into a very deep
cellar, only it was a cellar which had no end to it.  The narrow passages
are roughly hewn in the rock, and on each hand as you pass along, the
hollowed shelves are carved out, from three to fourteen deep; each held a
corpse once.  There are names, and Christian symbols, and prayers, or
sentences expressive of Christian hopes, carved upon nearly every
sarcophagus.  The dates belong away back in the dawn of the Christian
era, of course.  Here, in these holes in the ground, the first Christians
sometimes burrowed to escape persecution.  They crawled out at night to
get food, but remained under cover in the day time.  The priest told us
that St. Sebastian lived under ground for some time while he was being
hunted; he went out one day, and the soldiery discovered and shot him to
death with arrows.  Five or six of the early Popes--those who reigned
about sixteen hundred years ago--held their papal courts and advised with
their clergy in the bowels of the earth.  During seventeen years--from
A.D. 235 to A.D. 252--the Popes did not appear above ground.  Four were
raised to the great office during that period.  Four years apiece, or
thereabouts.  It is very suggestive of the unhealthiness of underground
graveyards as places of residence.  One Pope afterward spent his entire
pontificate in the catacombs--eight years.  Another was discovered in
them and murdered in the episcopal chair.  There was no satisfaction in
being a Pope in those days.  There were too many annoyances.  There are
one hundred and sixty catacombs under Rome, each with its maze of narrow
passages crossing and recrossing each other and each passage walled to
the top with scooped graves its entire length.  A careful estimate makes
the length of the passages of all the catacombs combined foot up nine
hundred miles, and their graves number seven millions.  We did not go
through all the passages of all the catacombs.  We were very anxious to
do it, and made the necessary arrangements, but our too limited time
obliged us to give up the idea.  So we only groped through the dismal
labyrinth of St. Callixtus, under the Church of St. Sebastian.  In the
various catacombs are small chapels rudely hewn in the stones, and here
the early Christians often held their religious services by dim, ghostly
lights.  Think of mass and a sermon away down in those tangled caverns
under ground!

In the catacombs were buried St. Cecilia, St. Agnes, and several other of
the most celebrated of the saints.  In the catacomb of St. Callixtus, St.
Bridget used to remain long hours in holy contemplation, and St. Charles
Borromeo was wont to spend whole nights in prayer there.  It was also the
scene of a very marvelous thing.

     "Here the heart of St. Philip Neri was so inflamed with divine love
     as to burst his ribs."

I find that grave statement in a book published in New York in 1808, and
written by "Rev. William H. Neligan, LL.D., M. A., Trinity College,
Dublin; Member of the Archaeological Society of Great Britain."
Therefore, I believe it.  Otherwise, I could not.  Under other
circumstances I should have felt a curiosity to know what Philip had for
dinner.

This author puts my credulity on its mettle every now and then.  He tells
of one St. Joseph Calasanctius whose house in Rome he visited; he visited
only the house--the priest has been dead two hundred years.  He says the
Virgin Mary appeared to this saint.  Then he continues:

     "His tongue and his heart, which were found after nearly a century
     to be whole, when the body was disinterred before his canonization,
     are still preserved in a glass case, and after two centuries the
     heart is still whole.  When the French troops came to Rome, and when
     Pius VII. was carried away prisoner, blood dropped from it."

To read that in a book written by a monk far back in the Middle Ages,
would surprise no one; it would sound natural and proper; but when it is
seriously stated in the middle of the nineteenth century, by a man of
finished education, an LL.D., M. A., and an Archaeological magnate, it
sounds strangely enough.  Still, I would gladly change my unbelief for
Neligan's faith, and let him make the conditions as hard as he pleased.

The old gentleman's undoubting, unquestioning simplicity has a rare
freshness about it in these matter-of-fact railroading and telegraphing
days.  Hear him, concerning the church of Ara Coeli:

     "In the roof of the church, directly above the high altar, is
     engraved, 'Regina Coeli laetare Alleluia."  In the sixth century
     Rome was visited by a fearful pestilence.  Gregory the Great urged
     the people to do penance, and a general procession was formed.  It
     was to proceed from Ara Coeli to St. Peter's.  As it passed before
     the mole of Adrian, now the Castle of St. Angelo, the sound of
     heavenly voices was heard singing (it was Easter morn,) Regina
     Coeli, laetare!  alleluia!  quia quem meruisti portare, alleluia!
     resurrexit sicut dixit; alleluia!"  The Pontiff, carrying in his
     hands the portrait of the Virgin, (which is over the high altar and
     is said to have been painted by St. Luke,) answered, with the
     astonished people, 'Ora pro nobis Deum, alleluia!'  At the same time
     an angel was seen to put up a sword in a scabbard, and the
     pestilence ceased on the same day.  There are four circumstances
     which 'CONFIRM'--[The italics are mine--M. T.]--this miracle: the
     annual procession which takes place in the western church on the
     feast of St Mark; the statue of St. Michael, placed on the mole of
     Adrian, which has since that time been called the Castle of St.
     Angelo; the antiphon Regina Coeli which the Catholic church sings
     during paschal time; and the inscription in the church."




CHAPTER XXVIII.

From the sanguinary sports of the Holy Inquisition; the slaughter of the
Coliseum; and the dismal tombs of the Catacombs, I naturally pass to the
picturesque horrors of the Capuchin Convent.  We stopped a moment in a
small chapel in the church to admire a picture of St. Michael vanquishing
Satan--a picture which is so beautiful that I can not but think it
belongs to the reviled "Renaissance," notwithstanding I believe they told
us one of the ancient old masters painted it--and then we descended into
the vast vault underneath.

Here was a spectacle for sensitive nerves!  Evidently the old masters had
been at work in this place.  There were six divisions in the apartment,
and each division was ornamented with a style of decoration peculiar to
itself--and these decorations were in every instance formed of human
bones!  There were shapely arches, built wholly of thigh bones; there
were startling pyramids, built wholly of grinning skulls; there were
quaint architectural structures of various kinds, built of shin bones and
the bones of the arm; on the wall were elaborate frescoes, whose curving
vines were made of knotted human vertebrae; whose delicate tendrils were
made of sinews and tendons; whose flowers were formed of knee-caps and
toe-nails.  Every lasting portion of the human frame was represented in
these intricate designs (they were by Michael Angelo, I think,) and there
was a careful finish about the work, and an attention to details that
betrayed the artist's love of his labors as well as his schooled ability.
I asked the good-natured monk who accompanied us, who did this?  And he
said, "We did it"--meaning himself and his brethren up stairs.  I could
see that the old friar took a high pride in his curious show.  We made
him talkative by exhibiting an interest we never betrayed to guides.

"Who were these people?"

"We--up stairs--Monks of the Capuchin order--my brethren."

"How many departed monks were required to upholster these six parlors?"

"These are the bones of four thousand."

"It took a long time to get enough?"

"Many, many centuries."

"Their different parts are well separated--skulls in one room, legs in
another, ribs in another--there would be stirring times here for a while
if the last trump should blow.  Some of the brethren might get hold of
the wrong leg, in the confusion, and the wrong skull, and find themselves
limping, and looking through eyes that were wider apart or closer
together than they were used to.  You can not tell any of these parties
apart, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, I know many of them."

He put his finger on a skull.  "This was Brother Anselmo--dead three
hundred years--a good man."

He touched another.  "This was Brother Alexander--dead two hundred and
eighty years.  This was Brother Carlo--dead about as long."

Then he took a skull and held it in his hand, and looked reflectively
upon it, after the manner of the grave-digger when he discourses of
Yorick.

"This," he said, "was Brother Thomas.  He was a young prince, the scion
of a proud house that traced its lineage back to the grand old days of
Rome well nigh two thousand years ago.  He loved beneath his estate.  His
family persecuted him; persecuted the girl, as well.  They drove her from
Rome; he followed; he sought her far and wide; he found no trace of her.
He came back and offered his broken heart at our altar and his weary life
to the service of God.  But look you.  Shortly his father died, and
likewise his mother.  The girl returned, rejoicing.  She sought every
where for him whose eyes had used to look tenderly into hers out of this
poor skull, but she could not find him.  At last, in this coarse garb we
wear, she recognized him in the street.  He knew her.  It was too late.
He fell where he stood.  They took him up and brought him here.  He never
spoke afterward.  Within the week he died.  You can see the color of his
hair--faded, somewhat--by this thin shred that clings still to the
temple.  This, [taking up a thigh bone,] was his.  The veins of this
leaf in the decorations over your head, were his finger-joints, a hundred
and fifty years ago."

This business-like way of illustrating a touching story of the heart by
laying the several fragments of the lover before us and naming them, was
as grotesque a performance, and as ghastly, as any I ever witnessed.  I
hardly knew whether to smile or shudder.  There are nerves and muscles in
our frames whose functions and whose methods of working it seems a sort
of sacrilege to describe by cold physiological names and surgical
technicalities, and the monk's talk suggested to me something of this
kind.  Fancy a surgeon, with his nippers lifting tendons, muscles and
such things into view, out of the complex machinery of a corpse, and
observing, "Now this little nerve quivers--the vibration is imparted to
this muscle--from here it is passed to this fibrous substance; here its
ingredients are separated by the chemical action of the blood--one part
goes to the heart and thrills it with what is popularly termed emotion,
another part follows this nerve to the brain and communicates
intelligence of a startling character--the third part glides along this
passage and touches the spring connected with the fluid receptacles that
lie in the rear of the eye.  Thus, by this simple and beautiful process,
the party is informed that his mother is dead, and he weeps."  Horrible!

I asked the monk if all the brethren up stairs expected to be put in this
place when they died.  He answered quietly:

"We must all lie here at last."

See what one can accustom himself to.--The reflection that he must some
day be taken apart like an engine or a clock, or like a house whose owner
is gone, and worked up into arches and pyramids and hideous frescoes, did
not distress this monk in the least.  I thought he even looked as if he
were thinking, with complacent vanity, that his own skull would look well
on top of the heap and his own ribs add a charm to the frescoes which
possibly they lacked at present.

Here and there, in ornamental alcoves, stretched upon beds of bones, lay
dead and dried-up monks, with lank frames dressed in the black robes one
sees ordinarily upon priests.  We examined one closely.  The skinny hands
were clasped upon the breast; two lustreless tufts of hair stuck to the
skull; the skin was brown and sunken; it stretched tightly over the cheek
bones and made them stand out sharply; the crisp dead eyes were deep in
the sockets; the nostrils were painfully prominent, the end of the nose
being gone; the lips had shriveled away from the yellow teeth: and
brought down to us through the circling years, and petrified there, was a
weird laugh a full century old!

It was the jolliest laugh, but yet the most dreadful, that one can
imagine.  Surely, I thought, it must have been a most extraordinary joke
this veteran produced with his latest breath, that he has not got done
laughing at it yet.  At this moment I saw that the old instinct was
strong upon the boys, and I said we had better hurry to St. Peter's.
They were trying to keep from asking, "Is--is he dead?"

It makes me dizzy, to think of the Vatican--of its wilderness of statues,
paintings, and curiosities of every description and every age.  The "old
masters" (especially in sculpture,) fairly swarm, there.  I can not write
about the Vatican.  I think I shall never remember any thing I saw there
distinctly but the mummies, and the Transfiguration, by Raphael, and some
other things it is not necessary to mention now.  I shall remember the
Transfiguration partly because it was placed in a room almost by itself;
partly because it is acknowledged by all to be the first oil painting in
the world; and partly because it was wonderfully beautiful.  The colors
are fresh and rich, the "expression," I am told, is fine, the "feeling"
is lively, the "tone" is good, the "depth" is profound, and the width is
about four and a half feet, I should judge.  It is a picture that really
holds one's attention; its beauty is fascinating.  It is fine enough to
be a Renaissance.  A remark I made a while ago suggests a thought--and a
hope.  Is it not possible that the reason I find such charms in this
picture is because it is out of the crazy chaos of the galleries?  If
some of the others were set apart, might not they be beautiful?  If this
were set in the midst of the tempest of pictures one finds in the vast
galleries of the Roman palaces, would I think it so handsome?  If, up to
this time, I had seen only one "old master" in each palace, instead of
acres and acres of walls and ceilings fairly papered with them, might I
not have a more civilized opinion of the old masters than I have now?  I
think so.  When I was a school-boy and was to have a new knife, I could
not make up my mind as to which was the prettiest in the show-case, and I
did not think any of them were particularly pretty; and so I chose with a
heavy heart.  But when I looked at my purchase, at home, where no
glittering blades came into competition with it, I was astonished to see
how handsome it was.  To this day my new hats look better out of the shop
than they did in it with other new hats.  It begins to dawn upon me, now,
that possibly, what I have been taking for uniform ugliness in the
galleries may be uniform beauty after all.  I honestly hope it is, to
others, but certainly it is not to me.  Perhaps the reason I used to
enjoy going to the Academy of Fine Arts in New York was because there
were but a few hundred paintings in it, and it did not surfeit me to go
through the list.  I suppose the Academy was bacon and beans in the
Forty-Mile Desert, and a European gallery is a state dinner of thirteen
courses.  One leaves no sign after him of the one dish, but the thirteen
frighten away his appetite and give him no satisfaction.

There is one thing I am certain of, though.  With all the Michael
Angelos, the Raphaels, the Guidos and the other old masters, the sublime
history of Rome remains unpainted!  They painted Virgins enough, and
popes enough and saintly scarecrows enough, to people Paradise, almost,
and these things are all they did paint.  "Nero fiddling o'er burning
Rome," the assassination of Caesar, the stirring spectacle of a hundred
thousand people bending forward with rapt interest, in the coliseum, to
see two skillful gladiators hacking away each others' lives, a tiger
springing upon a kneeling martyr--these and a thousand other matters
which we read of with a living interest, must be sought for only in
books--not among the rubbish left by the old masters--who are no more, I
have the satisfaction of informing the public.

They did paint, and they did carve in marble, one historical scene, and
one only, (of any great historical consequence.) And what was it and why
did they choose it, particularly?  It was the Rape of the Sabines, and
they chose it for the legs and busts.

I like to look at statues, however, and I like to look at pictures, also
--even of monks looking up in sacred ecstacy, and monks looking down in
meditation, and monks skirmishing for something to eat--and therefore I
drop ill nature to thank the papal government for so jealously guarding
and so industriously gathering up these things; and for permitting me, a
stranger and not an entirely friendly one, to roam at will and unmolested
among them, charging me nothing, and only requiring that I shall behave
myself simply as well as I ought to behave in any other man's house.  I
thank the Holy Father right heartily, and I wish him long life and plenty
of happiness.

The Popes have long been the patrons and preservers of art, just as our
new, practical Republic is the encourager and upholder of mechanics.  In
their Vatican is stored up all that is curious and beautiful in art; in
our Patent Office is hoarded all that is curious or useful in mechanics.
When a man invents a new style of horse-collar or discovers a new and
superior method of telegraphing, our government issues a patent to him
that is worth a fortune; when a man digs up an ancient statue in the
Campagna, the Pope gives him a fortune in gold coin.  We can make
something of a guess at a man's character by the style of nose he carries
on his face.  The Vatican and the Patent Office are governmental noses,
and they bear a deal of character about them.

The guide showed us a colossal statue of Jupiter, in the Vatican, which
he said looked so damaged and rusty--so like the God of the Vagabonds--
because it had but recently been dug up in the Campagna.  He asked how
much we supposed this Jupiter was worth?  I replied, with intelligent
promptness, that he was probably worth about four dollars--may be four
and a half.  "A hundred thousand dollars!"  Ferguson said.  Ferguson
said, further, that the Pope permits no ancient work of this kind to
leave his dominions.  He appoints a commission to examine discoveries
like this and report upon the value; then the Pope pays the discoverer
one-half of that assessed value and takes the statue.  He said this
Jupiter was dug from a field which had just been bought for thirty-six
thousand dollars, so the first crop was a good one for the new farmer.
I do not know whether Ferguson always tells the truth or not, but I
suppose he does.  I know that an exorbitant export duty is exacted upon
all pictures painted by the old masters, in order to discourage the sale
of those in the private collections.  I am satisfied, also, that genuine
old masters hardly exist at all, in America, because the cheapest and
most insignificant of them are valued at the price of a fine farm.  I
proposed to buy a small trifle of a Raphael, myself, but the price of it
was eighty thousand dollars, the export duty would have made it
considerably over a hundred, and so I studied on it awhile and concluded
not to take it.

I wish here to mention an inscription I have seen, before I forget it:

"Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth TO MEN OF GOOD WILL!"  It is
not good scripture, but it is sound Catholic and human nature.

This is in letters of gold around the apsis of a mosaic group at the side
of the 'scala santa', church of St. John Lateran, the Mother and Mistress
of all the Catholic churches of the world.  The group represents the
Saviour, St. Peter, Pope Leo, St. Silvester, Constantine and Charlemagne.
Peter is giving the pallium to the Pope, and a standard to Charlemagne.
The Saviour is giving the keys to St. Silvester, and a standard to
Constantine.  No prayer is offered to the Saviour, who seems to be of
little importance any where in Rome; but an inscription below says,
"Blessed Peter, give life to Pope Leo and victory to king Charles."  It
does not say, "Intercede for us, through the Saviour, with the Father,
for this boon," but "Blessed Peter, give it us."

In all seriousness--without meaning to be frivolous--without meaning to
be irreverent, and more than all, without meaning to be blasphemous,--I
state as my simple deduction from the things I have seen and the things I
have heard, that the Holy Personages rank thus in Rome:

First--"The Mother of God"--otherwise the Virgin Mary.

Second--The Deity.

Third--Peter.

Fourth--Some twelve or fifteen canonized Popes and martyrs.

Fifth--Jesus Christ the Saviour--(but always as an infant in arms.)

I may be wrong in this--my judgment errs often, just as is the case with
other men's--but it is my judgment, be it good or bad.

Just here I will mention something that seems curious to me.  There are
no "Christ's Churches" in Rome, and no "Churches of the Holy Ghost," that
I can discover.  There are some four hundred churches, but about a fourth
of them seem to be named for the Madonna and St. Peter.  There are so
many named for Mary that they have to be distinguished by all sorts of
affixes, if I understand the matter rightly.  Then we have churches of
St. Louis; St. Augustine; St. Agnes; St. Calixtus; St. Lorenzo in Lucina;
St. Lorenzo in Damaso; St. Cecilia; St. Athanasius; St. Philip Neri; St.
Catherine, St. Dominico, and a multitude of lesser saints whose names are
not familiar in the world--and away down, clear out of the list of the
churches, comes a couple of hospitals: one of them is named for the
Saviour and the other for the Holy Ghost!

Day after day and night after night we have wandered among the crumbling
wonders of Rome; day after day and night after night we have fed upon the
dust and decay of five-and-twenty centuries--have brooded over them by
day and dreampt of them by night till sometimes we seemed moldering away
ourselves, and growing defaced and cornerless, and liable at any moment
to fall a prey to some antiquary and be patched in the legs, and
"restored" with an unseemly nose, and labeled wrong and dated wrong, and
set up in the Vatican for poets to drivel about and vandals to scribble
their names on forever and forevermore.

But the surest way to stop writing about Rome is to stop.  I wished to
write a real "guide-book" chapter on this fascinating city, but I could
not do it, because I have felt all the time like a boy in a candy-shop--
there was every thing to choose from, and yet no choice.  I have drifted
along hopelessly for a hundred pages of manuscript without knowing where
to commence.  I will not commence at all.  Our passports have been
examined.  We will go to Naples.




CHAPTER XXIX.

The ship is lying here in the harbor of Naples--quarantined.  She has
been here several days and will remain several more.  We that came by
rail from Rome have escaped this misfortune.  Of course no one is allowed
to go on board the ship, or come ashore from her.  She is a prison, now.
The passengers probably spend the long, blazing days looking out from
under the awnings at Vesuvius and the beautiful city--and in swearing.
Think of ten days of this sort of pastime!--We go out every day in a boat
and request them to come ashore.  It soothes them.  We lie ten steps from
the ship and tell them how splendid the city is; and how much better the
hotel fare is here than any where else in Europe; and how cool it is; and
what frozen continents of ice cream there are; and what a time we are
having cavorting about the country and sailing to the islands in the Bay.
This tranquilizes them.

                           ASCENT OF VESUVIUS.

I shall remember our trip to Vesuvius for many a day--partly because of
its sight-seeing experiences, but chiefly on account of the fatigue of
the journey.  Two or three of us had been resting ourselves among the
tranquil and beautiful scenery of the island of Ischia, eighteen miles
out in the harbor, for two days; we called it "resting," but I do not
remember now what the resting consisted of, for when we got back to
Naples we had not slept for forty-eight hours.  We were just about to go
to bed early in the evening, and catch up on some of the sleep we had
lost, when we heard of this Vesuvius expedition.  There was to be eight
of us in the party, and we were to leave Naples at midnight.  We laid in
some provisions for the trip, engaged carriages to take us to
Annunciation, and then moved about the city, to keep awake, till twelve.
We got away punctually, and in the course of an hour and a half arrived
at the town of Annunciation.  Annunciation is the very last place under
the sun.  In other towns in Italy the people lie around quietly and wait
for you to ask them a question or do some overt act that can be charged
for--but in Annunciation they have lost even that fragment of delicacy;
they seize a lady's shawl from a chair and hand it to her and charge a
penny; they open a carriage door, and charge for it--shut it when you get
out, and charge for it; they help you to take off a duster--two cents;
brush your clothes and make them worse than they were before--two cents;
smile upon you--two cents; bow, with a lick-spittle smirk, hat in hand--
two cents; they volunteer all information, such as that the mules will
arrive presently--two cents--warm day, sir--two cents--take you four
hours to make the ascent--two cents.  And so they go.  They crowd you--
infest you--swarm about you, and sweat and smell offensively, and look
sneaking and mean, and obsequious.  There is no office too degrading for
them to perform, for money.  I have had no opportunity to find out any
thing about the upper classes by my own observation, but from what I hear
said about them I judge that what they lack in one or two of the bad
traits the canaille have, they make up in one or two others that are
worse.  How the people beg!--many of them very well dressed, too.

I said I knew nothing against the upper classes by personal observation.
I must recall it!  I had forgotten.  What I saw their bravest and their
fairest do last night, the lowest multitude that could be scraped up out
of the purlieus of Christendom would blush to do, I think.  They
assembled by hundreds, and even thousands, in the great Theatre of San
Carlo, to do--what?  Why, simply, to make fun of an old woman--to deride,
to hiss, to jeer at an actress they once worshipped, but whose beauty is
faded now and whose voice has lost its former richness.  Every body spoke
of the rare sport there was to be.  They said the theatre would be
crammed, because Frezzolini was going to sing.  It was said she could not
sing well, now, but then the people liked to see her, anyhow.  And so we
went.  And every time the woman sang they hissed and laughed--the whole
magnificent house--and as soon as she left the stage they called her on
again with applause.  Once or twice she was encored five and six times in
succession, and received with hisses when she appeared, and discharged
with hisses and laughter when she had finished--then instantly encored
and insulted again!  And how the high-born knaves enjoyed it!  White-
kidded gentlemen and ladies laughed till the tears came, and clapped
their hands in very ecstacy when that unhappy old woman would come meekly
out for the sixth time, with uncomplaining patience, to meet a storm of
hisses!  It was the cruelest exhibition--the most wanton, the most
unfeeling.  The singer would have conquered an audience of American
rowdies by her brave, unflinching tranquillity (for she answered encore
after encore, and smiled and bowed pleasantly, and sang the best she
possibly could, and went bowing off, through all the jeers and hisses,
without ever losing countenance or temper:) and surely in any other land
than Italy her sex and her helplessness must have been an ample
protection to her--she could have needed no other.  Think what a
multitude of small souls were crowded into that theatre last night.  If
the manager could have filled his theatre with Neapolitan souls alone,
without the bodies, he could not have cleared less than ninety millions
of dollars.  What traits of character must a man have to enable him to
help three thousand miscreants to hiss, and jeer, and laugh at one
friendless old woman, and shamefully humiliate her?  He must have all the
vile, mean traits there are.  My observation persuades me (I do not like
to venture beyond my own personal observation,) that the upper classes of
Naples possess those traits of character.  Otherwise they may be very
good people; I can not say.


                     ASCENT OF VESUVIUS--CONTINUED.

In this city of Naples, they believe in and support one of the
wretchedest of all the religious impostures one can find in Italy--the
miraculous liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius.  Twice a year the
priests assemble all the people at the Cathedral, and get out this vial
of clotted blood and let them see it slowly dissolve and become liquid--
and every day for eight days, this dismal farce is repeated, while the
priests go among the crowd and collect money for the exhibition.  The
first day, the blood liquefies in forty-seven minutes--the church is
crammed, then, and time must be allowed the collectors to get around:
after that it liquefies a little quicker and a little quicker, every day,
as the houses grow smaller, till on the eighth day, with only a few
dozens present to see the miracle, it liquefies in four minutes.

And here, also, they used to have a grand procession, of priests,
citizens, soldiers, sailors, and the high dignitaries of the City
Government, once a year, to shave the head of a made-up Madonna--a
stuffed and painted image, like a milliner's dummy--whose hair
miraculously grew and restored itself every twelve months.  They still
kept up this shaving procession as late as four or five years ago.  It
was a source of great profit to the church that possessed the remarkable
effigy, and the ceremony of the public barbering of her was always
carried out with the greatest possible eclat and display--the more the
better, because the more excitement there was about it the larger the
crowds it drew and the heavier the revenues it produced--but at last a
day came when the Pope and his servants were unpopular in Naples, and the
City Government stopped the Madonna's annual show.

There we have two specimens of these Neapolitans--two of the silliest
possible frauds, which half the population religiously and faithfully
believed, and the other half either believed also or else said nothing
about, and thus lent themselves to the support of the imposture.  I am
very well satisfied to think the whole population believed in those poor,
cheap miracles--a people who want two cents every time they bow to you,
and who abuse a woman, are capable of it, I think.


                     ASCENT OF VESUVIUS--CONTINUED.

These Neapolitans always ask four times as much money as they intend to
take, but if you give them what they first demand, they feel ashamed of
themselves for aiming so low, and immediately ask more.  When money is to
be paid and received, there is always some vehement jawing and
gesticulating about it.  One can not buy and pay for two cents' worth of
clams without trouble and a quarrel.  One "course," in a two-horse
carriage, costs a franc--that is law--but the hackman always demands
more, on some pretence or other, and if he gets it he makes a new demand.
It is said that a stranger took a one-horse carriage for a course--
tariff, half a franc.  He gave the man five francs, by way of experiment.
He demanded more, and received another franc.  Again he demanded more,
and got a franc--demanded more, and it was refused.  He grew vehement--
was again refused, and became noisy.  The stranger said, "Well, give me
the seven francs again, and I will see what I can do"--and when he got
them, he handed the hackman half a franc, and he immediately asked for
two cents to buy a drink with.  It may be thought that I am prejudiced.

Perhaps I am.  I would be ashamed of myself if I were not.


                     ASCENT OF VESUVIUS--CONTINUED.

Well, as I was saying, we got our mules and horses, after an hour and a
half of bargaining with the population of Annunciation, and started
sleepily up the mountain, with a vagrant at each mule's tail who
pretended to be driving the brute along, but was really holding on and
getting himself dragged up instead.  I made slow headway at first, but I
began to get dissatisfied at the idea of paying my minion five francs to
hold my mule back by the tail and keep him from going up the hill, and so
I discharged him.  I got along faster then.

We had one magnificent picture of Naples from a high point on the
mountain side.  We saw nothing but the gas lamps, of course--two-thirds
of a circle, skirting the great Bay--a necklace of diamonds glinting up
through the darkness from the remote distance--less brilliant than the
stars overhead, but more softly, richly beautiful--and over all the great
city the lights crossed and recrossed each other in many and many a
sparkling line and curve.  And back of the town, far around and abroad
over the miles of level campagna, were scattered rows, and circles, and
clusters of lights, all glowing like so many gems, and marking where a
score of villages were sleeping.  About this time, the fellow who was
hanging on to the tail of the horse in front of me and practicing all
sorts of unnecessary cruelty upon the animal, got kicked some fourteen
rods, and this incident, together with the fairy spectacle of the lights
far in the distance, made me serenely happy, and I was glad I started to
Vesuvius.


                  ASCENT OF MOUNT VESUVIUS--CONTINUED.

This subject will be excellent matter for a chapter, and tomorrow or next
day I will write it.




CHAPTER XXX.

                     ASCENT OF VESUVIUS--CONTINUED.

"See Naples and die."  Well, I do not know that one would necessarily die
after merely seeing it, but to attempt to live there might turn out a
little differently.  To see Naples as we saw it in the early dawn from
far up on the side of Vesuvius, is to see a picture of wonderful beauty.
At that distance its dingy buildings looked white--and so, rank on rank
of balconies, windows and roofs, they piled themselves up from the blue
ocean till the colossal castle of St. Elmo topped the grand white pyramid
and gave the picture symmetry, emphasis and completeness.  And when its
lilies turned to roses--when it blushed under the sun's first kiss--it
was beautiful beyond all description.  One might well say, then, "See
Naples and die."  The frame of the picture was charming, itself.  In
front, the smooth sea--a vast mosaic of many colors; the lofty islands
swimming in a dreamy haze in the distance; at our end of the city the
stately double peak of Vesuvius, and its strong black ribs and seams of
lava stretching down to the limitless level campagna--a green carpet that
enchants the eye and leads it on and on, past clusters of trees, and
isolated houses, and snowy villages, until it shreds out in a fringe of
mist and general vagueness far away.  It is from the Hermitage, there on
the side of Vesuvius, that one should "see Naples and die."

But do not go within the walls and look at it in detail.  That takes away
some of the romance of the thing.  The people are filthy in their habits,
and this makes filthy streets and breeds disagreeable sights and smells.
There never was a community so prejudiced against the cholera as these
Neapolitans are.  But they have good reason to be.  The cholera generally
vanquishes a Neapolitan when it seizes him, because, you understand,
before the doctor can dig through the dirt and get at the disease the man
dies.  The upper classes take a sea-bath every day, and are pretty
decent.

The streets are generally about wide enough for one wagon, and how they
do swarm with people!  It is Broadway repeated in every street, in every
court, in every alley!  Such masses, such throngs, such multitudes of
hurrying, bustling, struggling humanity!  We never saw the like of it,
hardly even in New York, I think.  There are seldom any sidewalks, and
when there are, they are not often wide enough to pass a man on without
caroming on him.  So everybody walks in the street--and where the street
is wide enough, carriages are forever dashing along.  Why a thousand
people are not run over and crippled every day is a mystery that no man
can solve.  But if there is an eighth wonder in the world, it must be the
dwelling-houses of Naples.  I honestly believe a good majority of them
are a hundred feet high!  And the solid brick walls are seven feet
through.  You go up nine flights of stairs before you get to the "first"
floor.  No, not nine, but there or thereabouts.  There is a little bird-
cage of an iron railing in front of every window clear away up, up, up,
among the eternal clouds, where the roof is, and there is always somebody
looking out of every window--people of ordinary size looking out from the
first floor, people a shade smaller from the second, people that look a
little smaller yet from the third--and from thence upward they grow
smaller and smaller by a regularly graduated diminution, till the folks
in the topmost windows seem more like birds in an uncommonly tall martin-
box than any thing else.  The perspective of one of these narrow cracks
of streets, with its rows of tall houses stretching away till they come
together in the distance like railway tracks; its clothes-lines crossing
over at all altitudes and waving their bannered raggedness over the
swarms of people below; and the white-dressed women perched in balcony
railings all the way from the pavement up to the heavens--a perspective
like that is really worth going into Neapolitan details to see.


                     ASCENT OF VESUVIUS--CONTINUED.

Naples, with its immediate suburbs, contains six hundred and twenty-five
thousand inhabitants, but I am satisfied it covers no more ground than an
American city of one hundred and fifty thousand.  It reaches up into the
air infinitely higher than three American cities, though, and there is
where the secret of it lies.  I will observe here, in passing, that the
contrasts between opulence and poverty, and magnificence and misery, are
more frequent and more striking in Naples than in Paris even.  One must
go to the Bois de Boulogne to see fashionable dressing, splendid
equipages and stunning liveries, and to the Faubourg St. Antoine to see
vice, misery, hunger, rags, dirt--but in the thoroughfares of Naples
these things are all mixed together.  Naked boys of nine years and the
fancy-dressed children of luxury; shreds and tatters, and brilliant
uniforms; jackass-carts and state-carriages; beggars, Princes and
Bishops, jostle each other in every street.  At six o'clock every
evening, all Naples turns out to drive on the 'Riviere di Chiaja',
(whatever that may mean;) and for two hours one may stand there and see
the motliest and the worst mixed procession go by that ever eyes beheld.
Princes (there are more Princes than policemen in Naples--the city is
infested with them)--Princes who live up seven flights of stairs and
don't own any principalities, will keep a carriage and go hungry; and
clerks, mechanics, milliners and strumpets will go without their dinners
and squander the money on a hack-ride in the Chiaja; the rag-tag and
rubbish of the city stack themselves up, to the number of twenty or
thirty, on a rickety little go-cart hauled by a donkey not much bigger
than a cat, and they drive in the Chiaja; Dukes and bankers, in sumptuous
carriages and with gorgeous drivers and footmen, turn out, also, and so
the furious procession goes.  For two hours rank and wealth, and
obscurity and poverty clatter along side by side in the wild procession,
and then go home serene, happy, covered with glory!

I was looking at a magnificent marble staircase in the King's palace, the
other day, which, it was said, cost five million francs, and I suppose it
did cost half a million, may be.  I felt as if it must be a fine thing to
live in a country where there was such comfort and such luxury as this.
And then I stepped out musing, and almost walked over a vagabond who was
eating his dinner on the curbstone--a piece of bread and a bunch of
grapes.  When I found that this mustang was clerking in a fruit
establishment (he had the establishment along with him in a basket,) at
two cents a day, and that he had no palace at home where he lived, I lost
some of my enthusiasm concerning the happiness of living in Italy.

This naturally suggests to me a thought about wages here.  Lieutenants in
the army get about a dollar a day, and common soldiers a couple of cents.
I only know one clerk--he gets four dollars a month.  Printers get six
dollars and a half a month, but I have heard of a foreman who gets
thirteen.

To be growing suddenly and violently rich, as this man is, naturally
makes him a bloated aristocrat.  The airs he puts on are insufferable.

And, speaking of wages, reminds me of prices of merchandise.  In Paris
you pay twelve dollars a dozen for Jouvin's best kid gloves; gloves of
about as good quality sell here at three or four dollars a dozen.  You
pay five and six dollars apiece for fine linen shirts in Paris; here and
in Leghorn you pay two and a half.  In Marseilles you pay forty dollars
for a first-class dress coat made by a good tailor, but in Leghorn you
can get a full dress suit for the same money.  Here you get handsome
business suits at from ten to twenty dollars, and in Leghorn you can get
an overcoat for fifteen dollars that would cost you seventy in New York.
Fine kid boots are worth eight dollars in Marseilles and four dollars
here.  Lyons velvets rank higher in America than those of Genoa.  Yet the
bulk of Lyons velvets you buy in the States are made in Genoa and
imported into Lyons, where they receive the Lyons stamp and are then
exported to America.  You can buy enough velvet in Genoa for twenty-five
dollars to make a five hundred dollar cloak in New York--so the ladies
tell me.  Of course these things bring me back, by a natural and easy
transition, to the

                     ASCENT OF VESUVIUS--CONTINUED.

And thus the wonderful Blue Grotto is suggested to me.  It is situated on
the Island of Capri, twenty-two miles from Naples.  We chartered a little
steamer and went out there.  Of course, the police boarded us and put us
through a health examination, and inquired into our politics, before they
would let us land.  The airs these little insect Governments put on are
in the last degree ridiculous.  They even put a policeman on board of our
boat to keep an eye on us as long as we were in the Capri dominions.
They thought we wanted to steal the grotto, I suppose.  It was worth
stealing.  The entrance to the cave is four feet high and four feet wide,
and is in the face of a lofty perpendicular cliff--the sea-wall.  You
enter in small boats--and a tight squeeze it is, too.  You can not go in
at all when the tide is up.  Once within, you find yourself in an arched
cavern about one hundred and sixty feet long, one hundred and twenty
wide, and about seventy high.  How deep it is no man knows.  It goes down
to the bottom of the ocean.  The waters of this placid subterranean lake
are the brightest, loveliest blue that can be imagined.  They are as
transparent as plate glass, and their coloring would shame the richest
sky that ever bent over Italy.  No tint could be more ravishing, no
lustre more superb.  Throw a stone into the water, and the myriad of tiny
bubbles that are created flash out a brilliant glare like blue theatrical
fires.  Dip an oar, and its blade turns to splendid frosted silver,
tinted with blue.  Let a man jump in, and instantly he is cased in an
armor more gorgeous than ever kingly Crusader wore.

Then we went to Ischia, but I had already been to that island and tired
myself to death "resting" a couple of days and studying human villainy,
with the landlord of the Grande Sentinelle for a model.  So we went to
Procida, and from thence to Pozzuoli, where St. Paul landed after he
sailed from Samos.  I landed at precisely the same spot where St. Paul
landed, and so did Dan and the others.  It was a remarkable coincidence.
St. Paul preached to these people seven days before he started to Rome.

Nero's Baths, the ruins of Baiae, the Temple of Serapis; Cumae, where the
Cumaen Sybil interpreted the oracles, the Lake Agnano, with its ancient
submerged city still visible far down in its depths--these and a hundred
other points of interest we examined with critical imbecility, but the
Grotto of the Dog claimed our chief attention, because we had heard and
read so much about it.  Every body has written about the Grotto del Cane
and its poisonous vapors, from Pliny down to Smith, and every tourist has
held a dog over its floor by the legs to test the capabilities of the
place.  The dog dies in a minute and a half--a chicken instantly.  As a
general thing, strangers who crawl in there to sleep do not get up until
they are called.  And then they don't either.  The stranger that ventures
to sleep there takes a permanent contract.  I longed to see this grotto.
I resolved to take a dog and hold him myself; suffocate him a little, and
time him; suffocate him some more and then finish him.  We reached the
grotto at about three in the afternoon, and proceeded at once to make the
experiments.  But now, an important difficulty presented itself.  We had
no dog.

                     ASCENT OF VESUVIUS--CONTINUED.

At the Hermitage we were about fifteen or eighteen hundred feet above the
sea, and thus far a portion of the ascent had been pretty abrupt.  For
the next two miles the road was a mixture--sometimes the ascent was
abrupt and sometimes it was not: but one characteristic it possessed all
the time, without failure--without modification--it was all
uncompromisingly and unspeakably infamous.  It was a rough, narrow trail,
and led over an old lava flow--a black ocean which was tumbled into a
thousand fantastic shapes--a wild chaos of ruin, desolation, and
barrenness--a wilderness of billowy upheavals, of furious whirlpools, of
miniature mountains rent asunder--of gnarled and knotted, wrinkled and
twisted masses of blackness that mimicked branching roots, great vines,
trunks of trees, all interlaced and mingled together: and all these weird
shapes, all this turbulent panorama, all this stormy, far-stretching
waste of blackness, with its thrilling suggestiveness of life, of action,
of boiling, surging, furious motion, was petrified!--all stricken dead
and cold in the instant of its maddest rioting!--fettered, paralyzed, and
left to glower at heaven in impotent rage for evermore!

Finally we stood in a level, narrow valley (a valley that had been
created by the terrific march of some old time irruption) and on either
hand towered the two steep peaks of Vesuvius.  The one we had to climb--
the one that contains the active volcano--seemed about eight hundred or
one thousand feet high, and looked almost too straight-up-and-down for
any man to climb, and certainly no mule could climb it with a man on his
back.  Four of these native pirates will carry you to the top in a sedan
chair, if you wish it, but suppose they were to slip and let you fall,--
is it likely that you would ever stop rolling?  Not this side of
eternity, perhaps.  We left the mules, sharpened our finger-nails, and
began the ascent I have been writing about so long, at twenty minutes to
six in the morning.  The path led straight up a rugged sweep of loose
chunks of pumice-stone, and for about every two steps forward we took, we
slid back one.  It was so excessively steep that we had to stop, every
fifty or sixty steps, and rest a moment.  To see our comrades, we had to
look very nearly straight up at those above us, and very nearly straight
down at those below.  We stood on the summit at last--it had taken an
hour and fifteen minutes to make the trip.

What we saw there was simply a circular crater--a circular ditch, if you
please--about two hundred feet deep, and four or five hundred feet wide,
whose inner wall was about half a mile in circumference.  In the centre
of the great circus ring thus formed, was a torn and ragged upheaval a
hundred feet high, all snowed over with a sulphur crust of many and many
a brilliant and beautiful color, and the ditch inclosed this like the
moat of a castle, or surrounded it as a little river does a little
island, if the simile is better.  The sulphur coating of that island was
gaudy in the extreme--all mingled together in the richest confusion were
red, blue, brown, black, yellow, white--I do not know that there was a
color, or shade of a color, or combination of colors, unrepresented--and
when the sun burst through the morning mists and fired this tinted
magnificence, it topped imperial Vesuvius like a jeweled crown!

The crater itself--the ditch--was not so variegated in coloring, but yet,
in its softness, richness, and unpretentious elegance, it was more
charming, more fascinating to the eye.  There was nothing "loud" about
its well-bred and well-creased look.  Beautiful?  One could stand and
look down upon it for a week without getting tired of it.  It had the
semblance of a pleasant meadow, whose slender grasses and whose velvety
mosses were frosted with a shining dust, and tinted with palest green
that deepened gradually to the darkest hue of the orange leaf, and
deepened yet again into gravest brown, then faded into orange, then into
brightest gold, and culminated in the delicate pink of a new-blown rose.
Where portions of the meadow had sunk, and where other portions had been
broken up like an ice-floe, the cavernous openings of the one, and the
ragged upturned edges exposed by the other, were hung with a lace-work of
soft-tinted crystals of sulphur that changed their deformities into
quaint shapes and figures that were full of grace and beauty.

The walls of the ditch were brilliant with yellow banks of sulphur and
with lava and pumice-stone of many colors.  No fire was visible any
where, but gusts of sulphurous steam issued silently and invisibly from a
thousand little cracks and fissures in the crater, and were wafted to our
noses with every breeze.  But so long as we kept our nostrils buried in
our handkerchiefs, there was small danger of suffocation.

Some of the boys thrust long slips of paper down into holes and set them
on fire, and so achieved the glory of lighting their cigars by the flames
of Vesuvius, and others cooked eggs over fissures in the rocks and were
happy.

The view from the summit would have been superb but for the fact that the
sun could only pierce the mists at long intervals.  Thus the glimpses we
had of the grand panorama below were only fitful and unsatisfactory.

                               THE DESCENT.

The descent of the mountain was a labor of only four minutes.  Instead of
stalking down the rugged path we ascended, we chose one which was bedded
knee-deep in loose ashes, and ploughed our way with prodigious strides
that would almost have shamed the performance of him of the seven-league
boots.

The Vesuvius of today is a very poor affair compared to the mighty
volcano of Kilauea, in the Sandwich Islands, but I am glad I visited it.
It was well worth it.

It is said that during one of the grand eruptions of Vesuvius it
discharged massy rocks weighing many tons a thousand feet into the air,
its vast jets of smoke and steam ascended thirty miles toward the
firmament, and clouds of its ashes were wafted abroad and fell upon the
decks of ships seven hundred and fifty miles at sea!  I will take the
ashes at a moderate discount, if any one will take the thirty miles of
smoke, but I do not feel able to take a commanding interest in the whole
story by myself.




CHAPTER XXXI.

                        THE BURIED CITY OF POMPEII

They pronounce it Pom-pay-e.  I always had an idea that you went down
into Pompeii with torches, by the way of damp, dark stairways, just as
you do in silver mines, and traversed gloomy tunnels with lava overhead
and something on either hand like dilapidated prisons gouged out of the
solid earth, that faintly resembled houses.  But you do nothing the kind.
Fully one-half of the buried city, perhaps, is completely exhumed and
thrown open freely to the light of day; and there stand the long rows of
solidly-built brick houses (roofless) just as they stood eighteen hundred
years ago, hot with the flaming sun; and there lie their floors, clean-
swept, and not a bright fragment tarnished or waiting of the labored
mosaics that pictured them with the beasts, and birds, and flowers which
we copy in perishable carpets to-day; and here are the Venuses, and
Bacchuses, and Adonises, making love and getting drunk in many-hued
frescoes on the walls of saloon and bed-chamber; and there are the narrow
streets and narrower sidewalks, paved with flags of good hard lava, the
one deeply rutted with the chariot-wheels, and the other with the passing
feet of the Pompeiians of by-gone centuries; and there are the bake-
shops, the temples, the halls of justice, the baths, the theatres--all
clean-scraped and neat, and suggesting nothing of the nature of a silver
mine away down in the bowels of the earth.  The broken pillars lying
about, the doorless doorways and the crumbled tops of the wilderness of
walls, were wonderfully suggestive of the "burnt district" in one of our
cities, and if there had been any charred timbers, shattered windows,
heaps of debris, and general blackness and smokiness about the place, the
resemblance would have been perfect.  But no--the sun shines as brightly
down on old Pompeii to-day as it did when Christ was born in Bethlehem,
and its streets are cleaner a hundred times than ever Pompeiian saw them
in her prime.  I know whereof I speak--for in the great, chief
thoroughfares (Merchant street and the Street of Fortune) have I not seen
with my own eyes how for two hundred years at least the pavements were
not repaired!--how ruts five and even ten inches deep were worn into the
thick flagstones by the chariot-wheels of generations of swindled tax-
payers?  And do I not know by these signs that Street Commissioners of
Pompeii never attended to their business, and that if they never mended
the pavements they never cleaned them?  And, besides, is it not the
inborn nature of Street Commissioners to avoid their duty whenever they
get a chance?  I wish I knew the name of the last one that held office in
Pompeii so that I could give him a blast.  I speak with feeling on this
subject, because I caught my foot in one of those ruts, and the sadness
that came over me when I saw the first poor skeleton, with ashes and lava
sticking to it, was tempered by the reflection that may be that party was
the Street Commissioner.

No--Pompeii is no longer a buried city.  It is a city of hundreds and
hundreds of roofless houses, and a tangled maze of streets where one
could easily get lost, without a guide, and have to sleep in some ghostly
palace that had known no living tenant since that awful November night of
eighteen centuries ago.

We passed through the gate which faces the Mediterranean, (called the
"Marine Gate,") and by the rusty, broken image of Minerva, still keeping
tireless watch and ward over the possessions it was powerless to save,
and went up a long street and stood in the broad court of the Forum of
Justice.  The floor was level and clean, and up and down either side was
a noble colonnade of broken pillars, with their beautiful Ionic and
Corinthian columns scattered about them.  At the upper end were the
vacant seats of the Judges, and behind them we descended into a dungeon
where the ashes and cinders had found two prisoners chained on that
memorable November night, and tortured them to death.  How they must have
tugged at the pitiless fetters as the fierce fires surged around them!

Then we lounged through many and many a sumptuous private mansion which
we could not have entered without a formal invitation in incomprehensible
Latin, in the olden time, when the owners lived there--and we probably
wouldn't have got it.  These people built their houses a good deal alike.
The floors were laid in fanciful figures wrought in mosaics of many-
colored marbles.  At the threshold your eyes fall upon a Latin sentence
of welcome, sometimes, or a picture of a dog, with the legend "Beware of
the Dog," and sometimes a picture of a bear or a faun with no inscription
at all.  Then you enter a sort of vestibule, where they used to keep the
hat-rack, I suppose; next a room with a large marble basin in the midst
and the pipes of a fountain; on either side are bedrooms; beyond the
fountain is a reception-room, then a little garden, dining-room, and so
forth and so on.  The floors were all mosaic, the walls were stuccoed, or
frescoed, or ornamented with bas-reliefs, and here and there were
statues, large and small, and little fish-pools, and cascades of
sparkling water that sprang from secret places in the colonnade of
handsome pillars that surrounded the court, and kept the flower-beds
fresh and the air cool.  Those Pompeiians were very luxurious in their
tastes and habits.  The most exquisite bronzes we have seen in Europe,
came from the exhumed cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii, and also the
finest cameos and the most delicate engravings on precious stones; their
pictures, eighteen or nineteen centuries old, are often much more
pleasing than the celebrated rubbish of the old masters of three
centuries ago.  They were well up in art.  From the creation of these
works of the first, clear up to the eleventh century, art seems hardly to
have existed at all--at least no remnants of it are left--and it was
curious to see how far (in some things, at any rate,) these old time
pagans excelled the remote generations of masters that came after them.
The pride of the world in sculptures seem to be the Laocoon and the Dying
Gladiator, in Rome.  They are as old as Pompeii, were dug from the earth
like Pompeii; but their exact age or who made them can only be
conjectured.  But worn, and cracked, without a history, and with the
blemishing stains of numberless centuries upon them, they still mutely
mock at all efforts to rival their perfections.

It was a quaint and curious pastime, wandering through this old silent
city of the dead--lounging through utterly deserted streets where
thousands and thousands of human beings once bought and sold, and walked
and rode, and made the place resound with the noise and confusion of
traffic and pleasure.  They were not lazy.  They hurried in those days.
We had evidence of that.  There was a temple on one corner, and it was a
shorter cut to go between the columns of that temple from one street to
the other than to go around--and behold that pathway had been worn deep
into the heavy flagstone floor of the building by generations of time-
saving feet!  They would not go around when it was quicker to go through.
We do that way in our cities.

Every where, you see things that make you wonder how old these old houses
were before the night of destruction came--things, too, which bring back
those long dead inhabitants and place the living before your eyes.  For
instance: The steps (two feet thick--lava blocks) that lead up out of the
school, and the same kind of steps that lead up into the dress circle of
the principal theatre, are almost worn through!  For ages the boys
hurried out of that school, and for ages their parents hurried into that
theatre, and the nervous feet that have been dust and ashes for eighteen
centuries have left their record for us to read to-day.  I imagined I
could see crowds of gentlemen and ladies thronging into the theatre, with
tickets for secured seats in their hands, and on the wall, I read the
imaginary placard, in infamous grammar, "POSITIVELY NO FREE LIST, EXCEPT
MEMBERS OF THE PRESS!"  Hanging about the doorway (I fancied,) were
slouchy Pompeiian street-boys uttering slang and profanity, and keeping a
wary eye out for checks.  I entered the theatre, and sat down in one of
the long rows of stone benches in the dress circle, and looked at the
place for the orchestra, and the ruined stage, and around at the wide
sweep of empty boxes, and thought to myself, "This house won't pay."  I
tried to imagine the music in full blast, the leader of the orchestra
beating time, and the "versatile" So-and-So (who had "just returned from
a most successful tour in the provinces to play his last and farewell
engagement of positively six nights only, in Pompeii, previous to his
departure for Herculaneum,") charging around the stage and piling the
agony mountains high--but I could not do it with such a "house" as that;
those empty benches tied my fancy down to dull reality.  I said, these
people that ought to be here have been dead, and still, and moldering to
dust for ages and ages, and will never care for the trifles and follies
of life any more for ever--"Owing to circumstances, etc., etc., there
will not be any performance to-night."  Close down the curtain.  Put out
the lights.

And so I turned away and went through shop after shop and store after
store, far down the long street of the merchants, and called for the
wares of Rome and the East, but the tradesmen were gone, the marts were
silent, and nothing was left but the broken jars all set in cement of
cinders and ashes: the wine and the oil that once had filled them were
gone with their owners.

In a bake-shop was a mill for grinding the grain, and the furnaces for
baking the bread: and they say that here, in the same furnaces, the
exhumers of Pompeii found nice, well baked loaves which the baker had not
found time to remove from the ovens the last time he left his shop,
because circumstances compelled him to leave in such a hurry.

In one house (the only building in Pompeii which no woman is now allowed
to enter,) were the small rooms and short beds of solid masonry, just as
they were in the old times, and on the walls were pictures which looked
almost as fresh as if they were painted yesterday, but which no pen could
have the hardihood to describe; and here and there were Latin
inscriptions--obscene scintillations of wit, scratched by hands that
possibly were uplifted to Heaven for succor in the midst of a driving
storm of fire before the night was done.

In one of the principal streets was a ponderous stone tank, and a water-
spout that supplied it, and where the tired, heated toilers from the
Campagna used to rest their right hands when they bent over to put their
lips to the spout, the thick stone was worn down to a broad groove an
inch or two deep.  Think of the countless thousands of hands that had
pressed that spot in the ages that are gone, to so reduce a stone that is
as hard as iron!

They had a great public bulletin board in Pompeii--a place where
announcements for gladiatorial combats, elections, and such things, were
posted--not on perishable paper, but carved in enduring stone.  One lady,
who, I take it, was rich and well brought up, advertised a dwelling or so
to rent, with baths and all the modern improvements, and several hundred
shops, stipulating that the dwellings should not be put to immoral
purposes.  You can find out who lived in many a house in Pompeii by the
carved stone door-plates affixed to them: and in the same way you can
tell who they were that occupy the tombs.  Every where around are things
that reveal to you something of the customs and history of this forgotten
people.  But what would a volcano leave of an American city, if it once
rained its cinders on it?  Hardly a sign or a symbol to tell its story.

In one of these long Pompeiian halls the skeleton of a man was found,
with ten pieces of gold in one hand and a large key in the other.  He had
seized his money and started toward the door, but the fiery tempest
caught him at the very threshold, and he sank down and died.  One more
minute of precious time would have saved him.  I saw the skeletons of a
man, a woman, and two young girls.  The woman had her hands spread wide
apart, as if in mortal terror, and I imagined I could still trace upon
her shapeless face something of the expression of wild despair that
distorted it when the heavens rained fire in these streets, so many ages
ago.  The girls and the man lay with their faces upon their arms, as if
they had tried to shield them from the enveloping cinders.  In one
apartment eighteen skeletons were found, all in sitting postures, and
blackened places on the walls still mark their shapes and show their
attitudes, like shadows.  One of them, a woman, still wore upon her
skeleton throat a necklace, with her name engraved upon it--JULIE DI
DIOMEDE.

But perhaps the most poetical thing Pompeii has yielded to modern
research, was that grand figure of a Roman soldier, clad in complete
armor; who, true to his duty, true to his proud name of a soldier of
Rome, and full of the stern courage which had given to that name its
glory, stood to his post by the city gate, erect and unflinching, till
the hell that raged around him burned out the dauntless spirit it could
not conquer.

We never read of Pompeii but we think of that soldier; we can not write
of Pompeii without the natural impulse to grant to him the mention he so
well deserves.  Let us remember that he was a soldier--not a policeman--
and so, praise him.  Being a soldier, he staid,--because the warrior
instinct forbade him to fly.  Had he been a policeman he would have
staid, also--because he would have been asleep.

There are not half a dozen flights of stairs in Pompeii, and no other
evidences that the houses were more than one story high.  The people did
not live in the clouds, as do the Venetians, the Genoese and Neapolitans
of to-day.

We came out from under the solemn mysteries of this city of the Venerable
Past--this city which perished, with all its old ways and its quaint old
fashions about it, remote centuries ago, when the Disciples were
preaching the new religion, which is as old as the hills to us now--and
went dreaming among the trees that grow over acres and acres of its still
buried streets and squares, till a shrill whistle and the cry of "All
aboard--last train for Naples!"  woke me up and reminded me that I
belonged in the nineteenth century, and was not a dusty mummy, caked with
ashes and cinders, eighteen hundred years old.  The transition was
startling.  The idea of a railroad train actually running to old dead
Pompeii, and whistling irreverently, and calling for passengers in the
most bustling and business-like way, was as strange a thing as one could
imagine, and as unpoetical and disagreeable as it was strange.

Compare the cheerful life and the sunshine of this day with the horrors
the younger Pliny saw here, the 9th of November, A.D. 79, when he was so
bravely striving to remove his mother out of reach of harm, while she
begged him, with all a mother's unselfishness, to leave her to perish and
save himself.

     'By this time the murky darkness had so increased that one might
     have believed himself abroad in a black and moonless night, or in a
     chamber where all the lights had been extinguished.  On every hand
     was heard the complaints of women, the wailing of children, and the
     cries of men.  One called his father, another his son, and another
     his wife, and only by their voices could they know each other.  Many
     in their despair begged that death would come and end their
     distress.

     "Some implored the gods to succor them, and some believed that this
     night was the last, the eternal night which should engulf the
     universe!

     "Even so it seemed to me--and I consoled myself for the coming death
     with the reflection: BEHOLD, THE WORLD IS PASSING AWAY!"

                              * * * * * * * *

After browsing among the stately ruins of Rome, of Baiae, of Pompeii, and
after glancing down the long marble ranks of battered and nameless
imperial heads that stretch down the corridors of the Vatican, one thing
strikes me with a force it never had before: the unsubstantial, unlasting
character of fame.  Men lived long lives, in the olden time, and
struggled feverishly through them, toiling like slaves, in oratory, in
generalship, or in literature, and then laid them down and died, happy in
the possession of an enduring history and a deathless name.  Well, twenty
little centuries flutter away, and what is left of these things?  A crazy
inscription on a block of stone, which snuffy antiquaries bother over and
tangle up and make nothing out of but a bare name (which they spell
wrong)--no history, no tradition, no poetry--nothing that can give it
even a passing interest.  What may be left of General Grant's great name
forty centuries hence?  This--in the Encyclopedia for A. D. 5868,
possibly:

     "URIAH S. (or Z.) GRAUNT--popular poet of ancient times in the Aztec
     provinces of the United States of British America.  Some authors say
     flourished about A. D. 742; but the learned Ah-ah Foo-foo states
     that he was a cotemporary of Scharkspyre, the English poet, and
     flourished about A. D. 1328, some three centuries after the Trojan
     war instead of before it.  He wrote 'Rock me to Sleep, Mother.'"

These thoughts sadden me.  I will to bed.




CHAPTER XXXII.

Home, again!  For the first time, in many weeks, the ship's entire family
met and shook hands on the quarter-deck.  They had gathered from many
points of the compass and from many lands, but not one was missing; there
was no tale of sickness or death among the flock to dampen the pleasure
of the reunion.  Once more there was a full audience on deck to listen to
the sailors' chorus as they got the anchor up, and to wave an adieu to
the land as we sped away from Naples.  The seats were full at dinner
again, the domino parties were complete, and the life and bustle on the
upper deck in the fine moonlight at night was like old times--old times
that had been gone weeks only, but yet they were weeks so crowded with
incident, adventure and excitement, that they seemed almost like years.
There was no lack of cheerfulness on board the Quaker City.  For once,
her title was a misnomer.

At seven in the evening, with the western horizon all golden from the
sunken sun, and specked with distant ships, the full moon sailing high
over head, the dark blue of the sea under foot, and a strange sort of
twilight affected by all these different lights and colors around us and
about us, we sighted superb Stromboli.  With what majesty the monarch
held his lonely state above the level sea!  Distance clothed him in a
purple gloom, and added a veil of shimmering mist that so softened his
rugged features that we seemed to see him through a web of silver gauze.
His torch was out; his fires were smoldering; a tall column of smoke that
rose up and lost itself in the growing moonlight was all the sign he gave
that he was a living Autocrat of the Sea and not the spectre of a dead
one.

At two in the morning we swept through the Straits of Messina, and so
bright was the moonlight that Italy on the one hand and Sicily on the
other seemed almost as distinctly visible as though we looked at them
from the middle of a street we were traversing.  The city of Messina,
milk-white, and starred and spangled all over with gaslights, was a fairy
spectacle.  A great party of us were on deck smoking and making a noise,
and waiting to see famous Scylla and Charybdis.  And presently the Oracle
stepped out with his eternal spy-glass and squared himself on the deck
like another Colossus of Rhodes.  It was a surprise to see him abroad at
such an hour.  Nobody supposed he cared anything about an old fable like
that of Scylla and Charybdis.  One of the boys said:

"Hello, doctor, what are you doing up here at this time of night?--What
do you want to see this place for?"

"What do I want to see this place for?  Young man, little do you know me,
or you wouldn't ask such a question.  I wish to see all the places that's
mentioned in the Bible."

"Stuff--this place isn't mentioned in the Bible."

"It ain't mentioned in the Bible!--this place ain't--well now, what place
is this, since you know so much about it?"

"Why it's Scylla and Charybdis."

"Scylla and Cha--confound it, I thought it was Sodom and Gomorrah!"

And he closed up his glass and went below.  The above is the ship story.
Its plausibility is marred a little by the fact that the Oracle was not a
biblical student, and did not spend much of his time instructing himself
about Scriptural localities.--They say the Oracle complains, in this hot
weather, lately, that the only beverage in the ship that is passable, is
the butter.  He did not mean butter, of course, but inasmuch as that
article remains in a melted state now since we are out of ice, it is fair
to give him the credit of getting one long word in the right place,
anyhow, for once in his life.  He said, in Rome, that the Pope was a
noble-looking old man, but he never did think much of his Iliad.

We spent one pleasant day skirting along the Isles of Greece.  They are
very mountainous.  Their prevailing tints are gray and brown, approaching
to red.  Little white villages surrounded by trees, nestle in the valleys
or roost upon the lofty perpendicular sea-walls.

We had one fine sunset--a rich carmine flush that suffused the western
sky and cast a ruddy glow far over the sea.--Fine sunsets seem to be
rare in this part of the world--or at least, striking ones.  They are
soft, sensuous, lovely--they are exquisite refined, effeminate, but we
have seen no sunsets here yet like the gorgeous conflagrations that flame
in the track of the sinking sun in our high northern latitudes.

But what were sunsets to us, with the wild excitement upon us of
approaching the most renowned of cities!  What cared we for outward
visions, when Agamemnon, Achilles, and a thousand other heroes of the
great Past were marching in ghostly procession through our fancies?  What
were sunsets to us, who were about to live and breathe and walk in actual
Athens; yea, and go far down into the dead centuries and bid in person
for the slaves, Diogenes and Plato, in the public market-place, or gossip
with the neighbors about the siege of Troy or the splendid deeds of
Marathon?  We scorned to consider sunsets.

We arrived, and entered the ancient harbor of the Piraeus at last.  We
dropped anchor within half a mile of the village.  Away off, across the
undulating Plain of Attica, could be seen a little square-topped hill
with a something on it, which our glasses soon discovered to be the
ruined edifices of the citadel of the Athenians, and most prominent among
them loomed the venerable Parthenon.  So exquisitely clear and pure is
this wonderful atmosphere that every column of the noble structure was
discernible through the telescope, and even the smaller ruins about it
assumed some semblance of shape.  This at a distance of five or six
miles.  In the valley, near the Acropolis, (the square-topped hill before
spoken of,) Athens itself could be vaguely made out with an ordinary
lorgnette.  Every body was anxious to get ashore and visit these classic
localities as quickly as possible.  No land we had yet seen had aroused
such universal interest among the passengers.

But bad news came.  The commandant of the Piraeus came in his boat, and
said we must either depart or else get outside the harbor and remain
imprisoned in our ship, under rigid quarantine, for eleven days!  So we
took up the anchor and moved outside, to lie a dozen hours or so, taking
in supplies, and then sail for Constantinople.  It was the bitterest
disappointment we had yet experienced.  To lie a whole day in sight of
the Acropolis, and yet be obliged to go away without visiting Athens!
Disappointment was hardly a strong enough word to describe the
circumstances.

All hands were on deck, all the afternoon, with books and maps and
glasses, trying to determine which "narrow rocky ridge" was the
Areopagus, which sloping hill the Pnyx, which elevation the Museum Hill,
and so on.  And we got things confused.  Discussion became heated, and
party spirit ran high.  Church members were gazing with emotion upon a
hill which they said was the one St. Paul preached from, and another
faction claimed that that hill was Hymettus, and another that it was
Pentelicon!  After all the trouble, we could be certain of only one
thing--the square-topped hill was the Acropolis, and the grand ruin that
crowned it was the Parthenon, whose picture we knew in infancy in the
school books.

We inquired of every body who came near the ship, whether there were
guards in the Piraeus, whether they were strict, what the chances were of
capture should any of us slip ashore, and in case any of us made the
venture and were caught, what would be probably done to us?  The answers
were discouraging: There was a strong guard or police force; the Piraeus
was a small town, and any stranger seen in it would surely attract
attention--capture would be certain.  The commandant said the punishment
would be "heavy;" when asked "how heavy?" he said it would be "very
severe"--that was all we could get out of him.

At eleven o'clock at night, when most of the ship's company were abed,
four of us stole softly ashore in a small boat, a clouded moon favoring
the enterprise, and started two and two, and far apart, over a low hill,
intending to go clear around the Piraeus, out of the range of its police.
Picking our way so stealthily over that rocky, nettle-grown eminence,
made me feel a good deal as if I were on my way somewhere to steal
something.  My immediate comrade and I talked in an undertone about
quarantine laws and their penalties, but we found nothing cheering in the
subject.  I was posted.  Only a few days before, I was talking with our
captain, and he mentioned the case of a man who swam ashore from a
quarantined ship somewhere, and got imprisoned six months for it; and
when he was in Genoa a few years ago, a captain of a quarantined ship
went in his boat to a departing ship, which was already outside of the
harbor, and put a letter on board to be taken to his family, and the
authorities imprisoned him three months for it, and then conducted him
and his ship fairly to sea, and warned him never to show himself in that
port again while he lived.  This kind of conversation did no good,
further than to give a sort of dismal interest to our quarantine-breaking
expedition, and so we dropped it.  We made the entire circuit of the town
without seeing any body but one man, who stared at us curiously, but said
nothing, and a dozen persons asleep on the ground before their doors,
whom we walked among and never woke--but we woke up dogs enough, in all
conscience--we always had one or two barking at our heels, and several
times we had as many as ten and twelve at once.  They made such a
preposterous din that persons aboard our ship said they could tell how we
were progressing for a long time, and where we were, by the barking of
the dogs.  The clouded moon still favored us.  When we had made the whole
circuit, and were passing among the houses on the further side of the
town, the moon came out splendidly, but we no longer feared the light.
As we approached a well, near a house, to get a drink, the owner merely
glanced at us and went within.  He left the quiet, slumbering town at our
mercy.  I record it here proudly, that we didn't do any thing to it.

Seeing no road, we took a tall hill to the left of the distant Acropolis
for a mark, and steered straight for it over all obstructions, and over a
little rougher piece of country than exists any where else outside of the
State of Nevada, perhaps.  Part of the way it was covered with small,
loose stones--we trod on six at a time, and they all rolled.  Another
part of it was dry, loose, newly-ploughed ground.  Still another part of
it was a long stretch of low grape-vines, which were tanglesome and
troublesome, and which we took to be brambles.  The Attic Plain, barring
the grape-vines, was a barren, desolate, unpoetical waste--I wonder what
it was in Greece's Age of Glory, five hundred years before Christ?

In the neighborhood of one o'clock in the morning, when we were heated
with fast walking and parched with thirst, Denny exclaimed, "Why, these
weeds are grape-vines!"  and in five minutes we had a score of bunches of
large, white, delicious grapes, and were reaching down for more when a
dark shape rose mysteriously up out of the shadows beside us and said
"Ho!"  And so we left.

In ten minutes more we struck into a beautiful road, and unlike some
others we had stumbled upon at intervals, it led in the right direction.
We followed it.  It was broad, and smooth, and white--handsome and in
perfect repair, and shaded on both sides for a mile or so with single
ranks of trees, and also with luxuriant vineyards.  Twice we entered and
stole grapes, and the second time somebody shouted at us from some
invisible place.  Whereupon we left again.  We speculated in grapes no
more on that side of Athens.

Shortly we came upon an ancient stone aqueduct, built upon arches, and
from that time forth we had ruins all about us--we were approaching our
journey's end.  We could not see the Acropolis now or the high hill,
either, and I wanted to follow the road till we were abreast of them, but
the others overruled me, and we toiled laboriously up the stony hill
immediately in our front--and from its summit saw another--climbed it and
saw another!  It was an hour of exhausting work.  Soon we came upon a row
of open graves, cut in the solid rock--(for a while one of them served
Socrates for a prison)--we passed around the shoulder of the hill, and
the citadel, in all its ruined magnificence, burst upon us!  We hurried
across the ravine and up a winding road, and stood on the old Acropolis,
with the prodigious walls of the citadel towering above our heads.  We
did not stop to inspect their massive blocks of marble, or measure their
height, or guess at their extraordinary thickness, but passed at once
through a great arched passage like a railway tunnel, and went straight
to the gate that leads to the ancient temples.  It was locked!  So, after
all, it seemed that we were not to see the great Parthenon face to face.
We sat down and held a council of war.  Result: the gate was only a
flimsy structure of wood--we would break it down.  It seemed like
desecration, but then we had traveled far, and our necessities were
urgent.  We could not hunt up guides and keepers--we must be on the ship
before daylight.  So we argued.  This was all very fine, but when we came
to break the gate, we could not do it.  We moved around an angle of the
wall and found a low bastion--eight feet high without--ten or twelve
within.  Denny prepared to scale it, and we got ready to follow.  By dint
of hard scrambling he finally straddled the top, but some loose stones
crumbled away and fell with a crash into the court within.  There was
instantly a banging of doors and a shout.  Denny dropped from the wall in
a twinkling, and we retreated in disorder to the gate.  Xerxes took that
mighty citadel four hundred and eighty years before Christ, when his five
millions of soldiers and camp-followers followed him to Greece, and if we
four Americans could have remained unmolested five minutes longer, we
would have taken it too.

The garrison had turned out--four Greeks.  We clamored at the gate, and
they admitted us.  [Bribery and corruption.]

We crossed a large court, entered a great door, and stood upon a pavement
of purest white marble, deeply worn by footprints.  Before us, in the
flooding moonlight, rose the noblest ruins we had ever looked upon--the
Propylae; a small Temple of Minerva; the Temple of Hercules, and the
grand Parthenon.  [We got these names from the Greek guide, who didn't
seem to know more than seven men ought to know.] These edifices were all
built of the whitest Pentelic marble, but have a pinkish stain upon them
now.  Where any part is broken, however, the fracture looks like fine
loaf sugar.  Six caryatides, or marble women, clad in flowing robes,
support the portico of the Temple of Hercules, but the porticos and
colonnades of the other structures are formed of massive Doric and Ionic
pillars, whose flutings and capitals are still measurably perfect,
notwithstanding the centuries that have gone over them and the sieges
they have suffered.  The Parthenon, originally, was two hundred and
twenty-six feet long, one hundred wide, and seventy high, and had two
rows of great columns, eight in each, at either end, and single rows of
seventeen each down the sides, and was one of the most graceful and
beautiful edifices ever erected.

Most of the Parthenon's imposing columns are still standing, but the roof
is gone.  It was a perfect building two hundred and fifty years ago, when
a shell dropped into the Venetian magazine stored here, and the explosion
which followed wrecked and unroofed it.  I remember but little about the
Parthenon, and I have put in one or two facts and figures for the use of
other people with short memories.  Got them from the guide-book.

As we wandered thoughtfully down the marble-paved length of this stately
temple, the scene about us was strangely impressive.  Here and there, in
lavish profusion, were gleaming white statues of men and women, propped
against blocks of marble, some of them armless, some without legs, others
headless--but all looking mournful in the moonlight, and startlingly
human!  They rose up and confronted the midnight intruder on every side--
they stared at him with stony eyes from unlooked-for nooks and recesses;
they peered at him over fragmentary heaps far down the desolate
corridors; they barred his way in the midst of the broad forum, and
solemnly pointed with handless arms the way from the sacred fane; and
through the roofless temple the moon looked down, and banded the floor
and darkened the scattered fragments and broken statues with the slanting
shadows of the columns.

What a world of ruined sculpture was about us!  Set up in rows--stacked
up in piles--scattered broadcast over the wide area of the Acropolis--
were hundreds of crippled statues of all sizes and of the most exquisite
workmanship; and vast fragments of marble that once belonged to the
entablatures, covered with bas-reliefs representing battles and sieges,
ships of war with three and four tiers of oars, pageants and processions
--every thing one could think of.  History says that the temples of the
Acropolis were filled with the noblest works of Praxiteles and Phidias,
and of many a great master in sculpture besides--and surely these elegant
fragments attest it.

We walked out into the grass-grown, fragment-strewn court beyond the
Parthenon.  It startled us, every now and then, to see a stony white face
stare suddenly up at us out of the grass with its dead eyes.  The place
seemed alive with ghosts.  I half expected to see the Athenian heroes of
twenty centuries ago glide out of the shadows and steal into the old
temple they knew so well and regarded with such boundless pride.

The full moon was riding high in the cloudless heavens, now.  We
sauntered carelessly and unthinkingly to the edge of the lofty
battlements of the citadel, and looked down--a vision!  And such a
vision!  Athens by moonlight!  The prophet that thought the splendors of
the New Jerusalem were revealed to him, surely saw this instead!  It lay
in the level plain right under our feet--all spread abroad like a
picture--and we looked down upon it as we might have looked from a
balloon.  We saw no semblance of a street, but every house, every window,
every clinging vine, every projection was as distinct and sharply marked
as if the time were noon-day; and yet there was no glare, no glitter,
nothing harsh or repulsive--the noiseless city was flooded with the
mellowest light that ever streamed from the moon, and seemed like some
living creature wrapped in peaceful slumber.  On its further side was a
little temple, whose delicate pillars and ornate front glowed with a rich
lustre that chained the eye like a spell; and nearer by, the palace of
the king reared its creamy walls out of the midst of a great garden of
shrubbery that was flecked all over with a random shower of amber lights
--a spray of golden sparks that lost their brightness in the glory of the
moon, and glinted softly upon the sea of dark foliage like the pallid
stars of the milky-way.  Overhead the stately columns, majestic still in
their ruin--under foot the dreaming city--in the distance the silver sea
--not on the broad earth is there an other picture half so beautiful!

As we turned and moved again through the temple, I wished that the
illustrious men who had sat in it in the remote ages could visit it again
and reveal themselves to our curious eyes--Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes,
Socrates, Phocion, Pythagoras, Euclid, Pindar, Xenophon, Herodotus,
Praxiteles and Phidias, Zeuxis the painter.  What a constellation of
celebrated names!  But more than all, I wished that old Diogenes, groping
so patiently with his lantern, searching so zealously for one solitary
honest man in all the world, might meander along and stumble on our
party.  I ought not to say it, may be, but still I suppose he would have
put out his light.

We left the Parthenon to keep its watch over old Athens, as it had kept
it for twenty-three hundred years, and went and stood outside the walls
of the citadel.  In the distance was the ancient, but still almost
perfect Temple of Theseus, and close by, looking to the west, was the
Bema, from whence Demosthenes thundered his philippics and fired the
wavering patriotism of his countrymen.  To the right was Mars Hill, where
the Areopagus sat in ancient times and where St. Paul defined his
position, and below was the market-place where he "disputed daily" with
the gossip-loving Athenians.  We climbed the stone steps St. Paul
ascended, and stood in the square-cut place he stood in, and tried to
recollect the Bible account of the matter--but for certain reasons, I
could not recall the words.  I have found them since:

     "Now while Paul waited for them at Athens, his spirit was stirred in
     him, when he saw the city wholly given up to idolatry.  "Therefore
     disputed he in the synagogue with the Jews, and with the devout
     persons, and in the market daily with them that met with him.
                         * * * * * * * * *
     "And they took him and brought him unto Areopagus, saying, May we
     know what this new doctrine whereof thou speakest is?
                         * * * * * * * * *
     "Then Paul stood in the midst of Mars hill, and said, Ye men of
     Athens, I perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious; "For
     as I passed by and beheld your devotions, I found an altar with this
     inscription: To THE UNKNOWN GOD.  Whom, therefore, ye ignorantly
     worship, him declare I unto you."--Acts, ch. xvii."

It occurred to us, after a while, that if we wanted to get home before
daylight betrayed us, we had better be moving.  So we hurried away.  When
far on our road, we had a parting view of the Parthenon, with the
moonlight streaming through its open colonnades and touching its capitals
with silver.  As it looked then, solemn, grand, and beautiful it will
always remain in our memories.

As we marched along, we began to get over our fears, and ceased to care
much about quarantine scouts or any body else.  We grew bold and
reckless; and once, in a sudden burst of courage, I even threw a stone at
a dog.  It was a pleasant reflection, though, that I did not hit him,
because his master might just possibly have been a policeman.  Inspired
by this happy failure, my valor became utterly uncontrollable, and at
intervals I absolutely whistled, though on a moderate key.  But boldness
breeds boldness, and shortly I plunged into a Vineyard, in the full light
of the moon, and captured a gallon of superb grapes, not even minding the
presence of a peasant who rode by on a mule.  Denny and Birch followed my
example.

Now I had grapes enough for a dozen, but then Jackson was all swollen up
with courage, too, and he was obliged to enter a vineyard presently.  The
first bunch he seized brought trouble.  A frowsy, bearded brigand sprang
into the road with a shout, and flourished a musket in the light of the
moon!  We sidled toward the Piraeus--not running you understand, but only
advancing with celerity.  The brigand shouted again, but still we
advanced.  It was getting late, and we had no time to fool away on every
ass that wanted to drivel Greek platitudes to us.  We would just as soon
have talked with him as not if we had not been in a hurry.  Presently
Denny said, "Those fellows are following us!"

We turned, and, sure enough, there they were--three fantastic pirates
armed with guns.  We slackened our pace to let them come up, and in the
meantime I got out my cargo of grapes and dropped them firmly but
reluctantly into the shadows by the wayside.  But I was not afraid.  I
only felt that it was not right to steal grapes.  And all the more so
when the owner was around--and not only around, but with his friends
around also.  The villains came up and searched a bundle Dr. Birch had in
his hand, and scowled upon him when they found it had nothing in it but
some holy rocks from Mars Hill, and these were not contraband.  They
evidently suspected him of playing some wretched fraud upon them, and
seemed half inclined to scalp the party.  But finally they dismissed us
with a warning, couched in excellent Greek, I suppose, and dropped
tranquilly in our wake.  When they had gone three hundred yards they
stopped, and we went on rejoiced.  But behold, another armed rascal came
out of the shadows and took their place, and followed us two hundred
yards.  Then he delivered us over to another miscreant, who emerged from
some mysterious place, and he in turn to another!  For a mile and a half
our rear was guarded all the while by armed men.  I never traveled in so
much state before in all my life.

It was a good while after that before we ventured to steal any more
grapes, and when we did we stirred up another troublesome brigand, and
then we ceased all further speculation in that line.  I suppose that
fellow that rode by on the mule posted all the sentinels, from Athens to
the Piraeus, about us.

Every field on that long route was watched by an armed sentinel, some of
whom had fallen asleep, no doubt, but were on hand, nevertheless.  This
shows what sort of a country modern Attica is--a community of
questionable characters.  These men were not there to guard their
possessions against strangers, but against each other; for strangers
seldom visit Athens and the Piraeus, and when they do, they go in
daylight, and can buy all the grapes they want for a trifle.  The modern
inhabitants are confiscators and falsifiers of high repute, if gossip
speaks truly concerning them, and I freely believe it does.

Just as the earliest tinges of the dawn flushed the eastern sky and
turned the pillared Parthenon to a broken harp hung in the pearly
horizon, we closed our thirteenth mile of weary, round-about marching,
and emerged upon the sea-shore abreast the ships, with our usual escort
of fifteen hundred Piraean dogs howling at our heels.  We hailed a boat
that was two or three hundred yards from shore, and discovered in a
moment that it was a police-boat on the lookout for any quarantine-
breakers that might chance to be abroad.  So we dodged--we were used to
that by this time--and when the scouts reached the spot we had so lately
occupied, we were absent.  They cruised along the shore, but in the wrong
direction, and shortly our own boat issued from the gloom and took us
aboard.  They had heard our signal on the ship.  We rowed noiselessly
away, and before the police-boat came in sight again, we were safe at
home once more.

Four more of our passengers were anxious to visit Athens, and started
half an hour after we returned; but they had not been ashore five minutes
till the police discovered and chased them so hotly that they barely
escaped to their boat again, and that was all.  They pursued the
enterprise no further.

We set sail for Constantinople to-day, but some of us little care for
that.  We have seen all there was to see in the old city that had its
birth sixteen hundred years before Christ was born, and was an old town
before the foundations of Troy were laid--and saw it in its most
attractive aspect.  Wherefore, why should we worry?

Two other passengers ran the blockade successfully last night.  So we
learned this morning.  They slipped away so quietly that they were not
missed from the ship for several hours.  They had the hardihood to march
into the Piraeus in the early dusk and hire a carriage.  They ran some
danger of adding two or three months' imprisonment to the other novelties
of their Holy Land Pleasure Excursion.  I admire "cheek."--[Quotation
from the Pilgrims.]--But they went and came safely, and never walked a
step.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

From Athens all through the islands of the Grecian Archipelago, we saw
little but forbidding sea-walls and barren hills, sometimes surmounted by
three or four graceful columns of some ancient temple, lonely and
deserted--a fitting symbol of the desolation that has come upon all
Greece in these latter ages.  We saw no ploughed fields, very few
villages, no trees or grass or vegetation of any kind, scarcely, and
hardly ever an isolated house.  Greece is a bleak, unsmiling desert,
without agriculture, manufactures or commerce, apparently.  What supports
its poverty-stricken people or its Government, is a mystery.

I suppose that ancient Greece and modern Greece compared, furnish the
most extravagant contrast to be found in history.  George I., an infant
of eighteen, and a scraggy nest of foreign office holders, sit in the
places of Themistocles, Pericles, and the illustrious scholars and
generals of the Golden Age of Greece.  The fleets that were the wonder of
the world when the Parthenon was new, are a beggarly handful of fishing-
smacks now, and the manly people that performed such miracles of valor at
Marathon are only a tribe of unconsidered slaves to-day.  The classic
Illyssus has gone dry, and so have all the sources of Grecian wealth and
greatness.  The nation numbers only eight hundred thousand souls, and
there is poverty and misery and mendacity enough among them to furnish
forty millions and be liberal about it.  Under King Otho the revenues of
the State were five millions of dollars--raised from a tax of one-tenth
of all the agricultural products of the land (which tenth the farmer had
to bring to the royal granaries on pack-mules any distance not exceeding
six leagues) and from extravagant taxes on trade and commerce.  Out of
that five millions the small tyrant tried to keep an army of ten thousand
men, pay all the hundreds of useless Grand Equerries in Waiting, First
Grooms of the Bedchamber, Lord High Chancellors of the Exploded
Exchequer, and all the other absurdities which these puppy-kingdoms
indulge in, in imitation of the great monarchies; and in addition he set
about building a white marble palace to cost about five millions itself.
The result was, simply: ten into five goes no times and none over.  All
these things could not be done with five millions, and Otho fell into
trouble.

The Greek throne, with its unpromising adjuncts of a ragged population of
ingenious rascals who were out of employment eight months in the year
because there was little for them to borrow and less to confiscate, and a
waste of barren hills and weed-grown deserts, went begging for a good
while.  It was offered to one of Victoria's sons, and afterwards to
various other younger sons of royalty who had no thrones and were out of
business, but they all had the charity to decline the dreary honor, and
veneration enough for Greece's ancient greatness to refuse to mock her
sorrowful rags and dirt with a tinsel throne in this day of her
humiliation--till they came to this young Danish George, and he took it.
He has finished the splendid palace I saw in the radiant moonlight the
other night, and is doing many other things for the salvation of Greece,
they say.

We sailed through the barren Archipelago, and into the narrow channel
they sometimes call the Dardanelles and sometimes the Hellespont.  This
part of the country is rich in historic reminiscences, and poor as Sahara
in every thing else.  For instance, as we approached the Dardanelles, we
coasted along the Plains of Troy and past the mouth of the Scamander; we
saw where Troy had stood (in the distance,) and where it does not stand
now--a city that perished when the world was young.  The poor Trojans are
all dead, now.  They were born too late to see Noah's ark, and died too
soon to see our menagerie.  We saw where Agamemnon's fleets rendezvoused,
and away inland a mountain which the map said was Mount Ida.  Within the
Hellespont we saw where the original first shoddy contract mentioned in
history was carried out, and the "parties of the second part" gently
rebuked by Xerxes.  I speak of the famous bridge of boats which Xerxes
ordered to be built over the narrowest part of the Hellespont (where it
is only two or three miles wide.) A moderate gale destroyed the flimsy
structure, and the King, thinking that to publicly rebuke the contractors
might have a good effect on the next set, called them out before the army
and had them beheaded.  In the next ten minutes he let a new contract for
the bridge.  It has been observed by ancient writers that the second
bridge was a very good bridge.  Xerxes crossed his host of five millions
of men on it, and if it had not been purposely destroyed, it would
probably have been there yet.  If our Government would rebuke some of our
shoddy contractors occasionally, it might work much good.  In the
Hellespont we saw where Leander and Lord Byron swam across, the one to
see her upon whom his soul's affections were fixed with a devotion that
only death could impair, and the other merely for a flyer, as Jack says.
We had two noted tombs near us, too.  On one shore slept Ajax, and on the
other Hecuba.

We had water batteries and forts on both sides of the Hellespont, flying
the crimson flag of Turkey, with its white crescent, and occasionally a
village, and sometimes a train of camels; we had all these to look at
till we entered the broad sea of Marmora, and then the land soon fading
from view, we resumed euchre and whist once more.

We dropped anchor in the mouth of the Golden Horn at daylight in the
morning.  Only three or four of us were up to see the great Ottoman
capital.  The passengers do not turn out at unseasonable hours, as they
used to, to get the earliest possible glimpse of strange foreign cities.
They are well over that.  If we were lying in sight of the Pyramids of
Egypt, they would not come on deck until after breakfast, now-a-days.

The Golden Horn is a narrow arm of the sea, which branches from the
Bosporus (a sort of broad river which connects the Marmora and Black
Seas,) and, curving around, divides the city in the middle.  Galata and
Pera are on one side of the Bosporus, and the Golden Horn; Stamboul
(ancient Byzantium) is upon the other.  On the other bank of the Bosporus
is Scutari and other suburbs of Constantinople.  This great city contains
a million inhabitants, but so narrow are its streets, and so crowded
together are its houses, that it does not cover much more than half as
much ground as New York City.  Seen from the anchorage or from a mile or
so up the Bosporus, it is by far the handsomest city we have seen.  Its
dense array of houses swells upward from the water's edge, and spreads
over the domes of many hills; and the gardens that peep out here and
there, the great globes of the mosques, and the countless minarets that
meet the eye every where, invest the metropolis with the quaint Oriental
aspect one dreams of when he reads books of eastern travel.
Constantinople makes a noble picture.

But its attractiveness begins and ends with its picturesqueness.  From
the time one starts ashore till he gets back again, he execrates it.  The
boat he goes in is admirably miscalculated for the service it is built
for.  It is handsomely and neatly fitted up, but no man could handle it
well in the turbulent currents that sweep down the Bosporus from the
Black Sea, and few men could row it satisfactorily even in still water.
It is a long, light canoe (caique,) large at one end and tapering to a
knife blade at the other.  They make that long sharp end the bow, and you
can imagine how these boiling currents spin it about.  It has two oars,
and sometimes four, and no rudder.  You start to go to a given point and
you run in fifty different directions before you get there.  First one
oar is backing water, and then the other; it is seldom that both are
going ahead at once.  This kind of boating is calculated to drive an
impatient man mad in a week.  The boatmen are the awkwardest, the
stupidest, and the most unscientific on earth, without question.

Ashore, it was--well, it was an eternal circus.  People were thicker than
bees, in those narrow streets, and the men were dressed in all the
outrageous, outlandish, idolatrous, extravagant, thunder-and-lightning
costumes that ever a tailor with the delirium tremens and seven devils
could conceive of.  There was no freak in dress too crazy to be indulged
in; no absurdity too absurd to be tolerated; no frenzy in ragged
diabolism too fantastic to be attempted.  No two men were dressed alike.
It was a wild masquerade of all imaginable costumes--every struggling
throng in every street was a dissolving view of stunning contrasts.  Some
patriarchs wore awful turbans, but the grand mass of the infidel horde
wore the fiery red skull-cap they call a fez.  All the remainder of the
raiment they indulged in was utterly indescribable.

The shops here are mere coops, mere boxes, bath-rooms, closets--any thing
you please to call them--on the first floor.  The Turks sit cross-legged
in them, and work and trade and smoke long pipes, and smell like--like
Turks.  That covers the ground.  Crowding the narrow streets in front of
them are beggars, who beg forever, yet never collect any thing; and
wonderful cripples, distorted out of all semblance of humanity, almost;
vagabonds driving laden asses; porters carrying dry-goods boxes as large
as cottages on their backs; peddlers of grapes, hot corn, pumpkin seeds,
and a hundred other things, yelling like fiends; and sleeping happily,
comfortably, serenely, among the hurrying feet, are the famed dogs of
Constantinople; drifting noiselessly about are squads of Turkish women,
draped from chin to feet in flowing robes, and with snowy veils bound
about their heads, that disclose only the eyes and a vague, shadowy
notion of their features.  Seen moving about, far away in the dim, arched
aisles of the Great Bazaar, they look as the shrouded dead must have
looked when they walked forth from their graves amid the storms and
thunders and earthquakes that burst upon Calvary that awful night of the
Crucifixion.  A street in Constantinople is a picture which one ought to
see once--not oftener.

And then there was the goose-rancher--a fellow who drove a hundred geese
before him about the city, and tried to sell them.  He had a pole ten
feet long, with a crook in the end of it, and occasionally a goose would
branch out from the flock and make a lively break around the corner, with
wings half lifted and neck stretched to its utmost.  Did the goose-
merchant get excited?  No.  He took his pole and reached after that goose
with unspeakable sang froid--took a hitch round his neck, and "yanked"
him back to his place in the flock without an effort.  He steered his
geese with that stick as easily as another man would steer a yawl.  A few
hours afterward we saw him sitting on a stone at a corner, in the midst
of the turmoil, sound asleep in the sun, with his geese squatting around
him, or dodging out of the way of asses and men.  We came by again,
within the hour, and he was taking account of stock, to see whether any
of his flock had strayed or been stolen.  The way he did it was unique.
He put the end of his stick within six or eight inches of a stone wall,
and made the geese march in single file between it and the wall.  He
counted them as they went by.  There was no dodging that arrangement.

If you want dwarfs--I mean just a few dwarfs for a curiosity--go to
Genoa.  If you wish to buy them by the gross, for retail, go to Milan.
There are plenty of dwarfs all over Italy, but it did seem to me that in
Milan the crop was luxuriant.  If you would see a fair average style of
assorted cripples, go to Naples, or travel through the Roman States.
But if you would see the very heart and home of cripples and human
monsters, both, go straight to Constantinople.  A beggar in Naples who
can show a foot which has all run into one horrible toe, with one
shapeless nail on it, has a fortune--but such an exhibition as that would
not provoke any notice in Constantinople.  The man would starve.  Who
would pay any attention to attractions like his among the rare monsters
that throng the bridges of the Golden Horn and display their deformities
in the gutters of Stamboul?  O, wretched impostor!  How could he stand
against the three-legged woman, and the man with his eye in his cheek?
How would he blush in presence of the man with fingers on his elbow?
Where would he hide himself when the dwarf with seven fingers on each
hand, no upper lip, and his under-jaw gone, came down in his majesty?
Bismillah!  The cripples of Europe are a delusion and a fraud.  The truly
gifted flourish only in the by-ways of Pera and Stamboul.

That three-legged woman lay on the bridge, with her stock in trade so
disposed as to command the most striking effect--one natural leg, and two
long, slender, twisted ones with feet on them like somebody else's fore-
arm.  Then there was a man further along who had no eyes, and whose face
was the color of a fly-blown beefsteak, and wrinkled and twisted like a
lava-flow--and verily so tumbled and distorted were his features that no
man could tell the wart that served him for a nose from his cheek-bones.
In Stamboul was a man with a prodigious head, an uncommonly long body,
legs eight inches long and feet like snow-shoes.  He traveled on those
feet and his hands, and was as sway-backed as if the Colossus of Rhodes
had been riding him.  Ah, a beggar has to have exceedingly good points to
make a living in Constantinople.  A blue-faced man, who had nothing to
offer except that he had been blown up in a mine, would be regarded as a
rank impostor, and a mere damaged soldier on crutches would never make a
cent.  It would pay him to get apiece of his head taken off, and
cultivate a wen like a carpet sack.

The Mosque of St. Sophia is the chief lion of Constantinople.  You must
get a firman and hurry there the first thing.  We did that.  We did not
get a firman, but we took along four or five francs apiece, which is much
the same thing.

I do not think much of the Mosque of St. Sophia.  I suppose I lack
appreciation.  We will let it go at that.  It is the rustiest old barn in
heathendom.  I believe all the interest that attaches to it comes from
the fact that it was built for a Christian church and then turned into a
mosque, without much alteration, by the Mohammedan conquerors of the
land.  They made me take off my boots and walk into the place in my
stocking-feet.  I caught cold, and got myself so stuck up with a
complication of gums, slime and general corruption, that I wore out more
than two thousand pair of boot-jacks getting my boots off that night, and
even then some Christian hide peeled off with them.  I abate not a single
boot-jack.

St. Sophia is a colossal church, thirteen or fourteen hundred years old,
and unsightly enough to be very, very much older.  Its immense dome is
said to be more wonderful than St. Peter's, but its dirt is much more
wonderful than its dome, though they never mention it.  The church has a
hundred and seventy pillars in it, each a single piece, and all of costly
marbles of various kinds, but they came from ancient temples at Baalbec,
Heliopolis, Athens and Ephesus, and are battered, ugly and repulsive.
They were a thousand years old when this church was new, and then the
contrast must have been ghastly--if Justinian's architects did not trim
them any.  The inside of the dome is figured all over with a monstrous
inscription in Turkish characters, wrought in gold mosaic, that looks as
glaring as a circus bill; the pavements and the marble balustrades are
all battered and dirty; the perspective is marred every where by a web of
ropes that depend from the dizzy height of the dome, and suspend
countless dingy, coarse oil lamps, and ostrich-eggs, six or seven feet
above the floor.  Squatting and sitting in groups, here and there and far
and near, were ragged Turks reading books, hearing sermons, or receiving
lessons like children.  and in fifty places were more of the same sort
bowing and straightening up, bowing again and getting down to kiss the
earth, muttering prayers the while, and keeping up their gymnastics till
they ought to have been tired, if they were not.

Every where was dirt, and dust, and dinginess, and gloom; every where
were signs of a hoary antiquity, but with nothing touching or beautiful
about it; every where were those groups of fantastic pagans; overhead the
gaudy mosaics and the web of lamp-ropes--nowhere was there any thing to
win one's love or challenge his admiration.

The people who go into ecstasies over St. Sophia must surely get them out
of the guide-book (where every church is spoken of as being "considered
by good judges to be the most marvelous structure, in many respects, that
the world has ever seen.")  Or else they are those old connoisseurs from
the wilds of New Jersey who laboriously learn the difference between a
fresco and a fire-plug and from that day forward feel privileged to void
their critical bathos on painting, sculpture and architecture forever
more.

We visited the Dancing Dervishes.  There were twenty-one of them.  They
wore a long, light-colored loose robe that hung to their heels.  Each in
his turn went up to the priest (they were all within a large circular
railing) and bowed profoundly and then went spinning away deliriously and
took his appointed place in the circle, and continued to spin.  When all
had spun themselves to their places, they were about five or six feet
apart--and so situated, the entire circle of spinning pagans spun itself
three separate times around the room.  It took twenty-five minutes to do
it.  They spun on the left foot, and kept themselves going by passing the
right rapidly before it and digging it against the waxed floor.  Some of
them made incredible "time."  Most of them spun around forty times in a
minute, and one artist averaged about sixty-one times a minute, and kept
it up during the whole twenty-five.  His robe filled with air and stood
out all around him like a balloon.

They made no noise of any kind, and most of them tilted their heads back
and closed their eyes, entranced with a sort of devotional ecstacy.
There was a rude kind of music, part of the time, but the musicians were
not visible.  None but spinners were allowed within the circle.  A man
had to either spin or stay outside.  It was about as barbarous an
exhibition as we have witnessed yet.  Then sick persons came and lay
down, and beside them women laid their sick children (one a babe at the
breast,) and the patriarch of the Dervishes walked upon their bodies.  He
was supposed to cure their diseases by trampling upon their breasts or
backs or standing on the back of their necks.  This is well enough for a
people who think all their affairs are made or marred by viewless spirits
of the air--by giants, gnomes, and genii--and who still believe, to this
day, all the wild tales in the Arabian Nights.  Even so an intelligent
missionary tells me.

We visited the Thousand and One Columns.  I do not know what it was
originally intended for, but they said it was built for a reservoir.  It
is situated in the centre of Constantinople.  You go down a flight of
stone steps in the middle of a barren place, and there you are.  You are
forty feet under ground, and in the midst of a perfect wilderness of
tall, slender, granite columns, of Byzantine architecture.  Stand where
you would, or change your position as often as you pleased, you were
always a centre from which radiated a dozen long archways and colonnades
that lost themselves in distance and the sombre twilight of the place.
This old dried-up reservoir is occupied by a few ghostly silk-spinners
now, and one of them showed me a cross cut high up in one of the pillars.
I suppose he meant me to understand that the institution was there before
the Turkish occupation, and I thought he made a remark to that effect;
but he must have had an impediment in his speech, for I did not
understand him.

We took off our shoes and went into the marble mausoleum of the Sultan
Mahmoud, the neatest piece of architecture, inside, that I have seen
lately.  Mahmoud's tomb was covered with a black velvet pall, which was
elaborately embroidered with silver; it stood within a fancy silver
railing; at the sides and corners were silver candlesticks that would
weigh more than a hundred pounds, and they supported candles as large as
a man's leg; on the top of the sarcophagus was a fez, with a handsome
diamond ornament upon it, which an attendant said cost a hundred thousand
pounds, and lied like a Turk when he said it.  Mahmoud's whole family
were comfortably planted around him.

We went to the great Bazaar in Stamboul, of course, and I shall not
describe it further than to say it is a monstrous hive of little shops--
thousands, I should say--all under one roof, and cut up into innumerable
little blocks by narrow streets which are arched overhead.  One street is
devoted to a particular kind of merchandise, another to another, and so
on.

When you wish to buy a pair of shoes you have the swing of the whole
street--you do not have to walk yourself down hunting stores in different
localities.  It is the same with silks, antiquities, shawls, etc.  The
place is crowded with people all the time, and as the gay-colored Eastern
fabrics are lavishly displayed before every shop, the great Bazaar of
Stamboul is one of the sights that are worth seeing.  It is full of life,
and stir, and business, dirt, beggars, asses, yelling peddlers, porters,
dervishes, high-born Turkish female shoppers, Greeks, and weird-looking
and weirdly dressed Mohammedans from the mountains and the far provinces
--and the only solitary thing one does not smell when he is in the Great
Bazaar, is something which smells good.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

Mosques are plenty, churches are plenty, graveyards are plenty, but
morals and whiskey are scarce.  The Koran does not permit Mohammedans to
drink.  Their natural instincts do not permit them to be moral.  They say
the Sultan has eight hundred wives.  This almost amounts to bigamy.  It
makes our cheeks burn with shame to see such a thing permitted here in
Turkey.  We do not mind it so much in Salt Lake, however.

Circassian and Georgian girls are still sold in Constantinople by their
parents, but not publicly.  The great slave marts we have all read so
much about--where tender young girls were stripped for inspection, and
criticised and discussed just as if they were horses at an agricultural
fair--no longer exist.  The exhibition and the sales are private now.
Stocks are up, just at present, partly because of a brisk demand created
by the recent return of the Sultan's suite from the courts of Europe;
partly on account of an unusual abundance of bread-stuffs, which leaves
holders untortured by hunger and enables them to hold back for high
prices; and partly because buyers are too weak to bear the market, while
sellers are amply prepared to bull it.  Under these circumstances, if the
American metropolitan newspapers were published here in Constantinople,
their next commercial report would read about as follows, I suppose:

                        SLAVE GIRL MARKET REPORT.

     "Best brands Circassians, crop of 1850, L200; 1852, L250; 1854,
     L300.  Best brands Georgian, none in market; second quality, 1851,
     L180.  Nineteen fair to middling Wallachian girls offered at L130 @
     150, but no takers; sixteen prime A 1 sold in small lots to close
     out--terms private.

     "Sales of one lot Circassians, prime to good, 1852 to 1854, at L240
     @ 242, buyer 30; one forty-niner--damaged--at L23, seller ten, no
     deposit.  Several Georgians, fancy brands, 1852, changed hands to
     fill orders.  The Georgians now on hand are mostly last year's crop,
     which was unusually poor.  The new crop is a little backward, but
     will be coming in shortly.  As regards its quantity and quality, the
     accounts are most encouraging.  In this connection we can safely
     say, also, that the new crop of Circassians is looking extremely
     well.  His Majesty the Sultan has already sent in large orders for
     his new harem, which will be finished within a fortnight, and this
     has naturally strengthened the market and given Circassian stock a
     strong upward tendency.  Taking advantage of the inflated market,
     many of our shrewdest operators are selling short.  There are hints
     of a "corner" on Wallachians.

     "There is nothing new in Nubians.  Slow sale.

     "Eunuchs--None offering; however, large cargoes are expected from
     Egypt today."


I think the above would be about the style of the commercial report.
Prices are pretty high now, and holders firm; but, two or three years
ago, parents in a starving condition brought their young daughters down
here and sold them for even twenty and thirty dollars, when they could do
no better, simply to save themselves and the girls from dying of want.
It is sad to think of so distressing a thing as this, and I for one am
sincerely glad the prices are up again.

Commercial morals, especially, are bad.  There is no gainsaying that.
Greek, Turkish and Armenian morals consist only in attending church
regularly on the appointed Sabbaths, and in breaking the ten commandments
all the balance of the week.  It comes natural to them to lie and cheat
in the first place, and then they go on and improve on nature until they
arrive at perfection.  In recommending his son to a merchant as a
valuable salesman, a father does not say he is a nice, moral, upright
boy, and goes to Sunday School and is honest, but he says, "This boy is
worth his weight in broad pieces of a hundred--for behold, he will cheat
whomsoever hath dealings with him, and from the Euxine to the waters of
Marmora there abideth not so gifted a liar!"  How is that for a
recommendation?  The Missionaries tell me that they hear encomiums like
that passed upon people every day.  They say of a person they admire,
"Ah, he is a charming swindler, and a most exquisite liar!"

Every body lies and cheats--every body who is in business, at any rate.
Even foreigners soon have to come down to the custom of the country, and
they do not buy and sell long in Constantinople till they lie and cheat
like a Greek.  I say like a Greek, because the Greeks are called the
worst transgressors in this line.  Several Americans long resident in
Constantinople contend that most Turks are pretty trustworthy, but few
claim that the Greeks have any virtues that a man can discover--at least
without a fire assay.

I am half willing to believe that the celebrated dogs of Constantinople
have been misrepresented--slandered.  I have always been led to suppose
that they were so thick in the streets that they blocked the way; that
they moved about in organized companies, platoons and regiments, and took
what they wanted by determined and ferocious assault; and that at night
they drowned all other sounds with their terrible howlings.  The dogs I
see here can not be those I have read of.

I find them every where, but not in strong force.  The most I have found
together has been about ten or twenty.  And night or day a fair
proportion of them were sound asleep.  Those that were not asleep always
looked as if they wanted to be.  I never saw such utterly wretched,
starving, sad-visaged, broken-hearted looking curs in my life.  It seemed
a grim satire to accuse such brutes as these of taking things by force of
arms.  They hardly seemed to have strength enough or ambition enough to
walk across the street--I do not know that I have seen one walk that far
yet.  They are mangy and bruised and mutilated, and often you see one
with the hair singed off him in such wide and well defined tracts that he
looks like a map of the new Territories.  They are the sorriest beasts
that breathe--the most abject--the most pitiful.  In their faces is a
settled expression of melancholy, an air of hopeless despondency.  The
hairless patches on a scalded dog are preferred by the fleas of
Constantinople to a wider range on a healthier dog; and the exposed
places suit the fleas exactly.  I saw a dog of this kind start to nibble
at a flea--a fly attracted his attention, and he made a snatch at him;
the flea called for him once more, and that forever unsettled him; he
looked sadly at his flea-pasture, then sadly looked at his bald spot.
Then he heaved a sigh and dropped his head resignedly upon his paws.  He
was not equal to the situation.

The dogs sleep in the streets, all over the city.  From one end of the
street to the other, I suppose they will average about eight or ten to a
block.  Sometimes, of course, there are fifteen or twenty to a block.
They do not belong to any body, and they seem to have no close personal
friendships among each other.  But they district the city themselves, and
the dogs of each district, whether it be half a block in extent, or ten
blocks, have to remain within its bounds.  Woe to a dog if he crosses the
line!  His neighbors would snatch the balance of his hair off in a
second.  So it is said.  But they don't look it.

They sleep in the streets these days.  They are my compass--my guide.
When I see the dogs sleep placidly on, while men, sheep, geese, and all
moving things turn out and go around them, I know I am not in the great
street where the hotel is, and must go further.  In the Grand Rue the
dogs have a sort of air of being on the lookout--an air born of being
obliged to get out of the way of many carriages every day--and that
expression one recognizes in a moment.  It does not exist upon the face
of any dog without the confines of that street.  All others sleep
placidly and keep no watch.  They would not move, though the Sultan
himself passed by.

In one narrow street (but none of them are wide) I saw three dogs lying
coiled up, about a foot or two apart.  End to end they lay, and so they
just bridged the street neatly, from gutter to gutter.  A drove of a
hundred sheep came along.  They stepped right over the dogs, the rear
crowding the front, impatient to get on.  The dogs looked lazily up,
flinched a little when the impatient feet of the sheep touched their raw
backs--sighed, and lay peacefully down again.  No talk could be plainer
than that.  So some of the sheep jumped over them and others scrambled
between, occasionally chipping a leg with their sharp hoofs, and when the
whole flock had made the trip, the dogs sneezed a little, in the cloud of
dust, but never budged their bodies an inch.  I thought I was lazy, but I
am a steam-engine compared to a Constantinople dog.  But was not that a
singular scene for a city of a million inhabitants?

These dogs are the scavengers of the city.  That is their official
position, and a hard one it is.  However, it is their protection.  But
for their usefulness in partially cleansing these terrible streets, they
would not be tolerated long.  They eat any thing and every thing that
comes in their way, from melon rinds and spoiled grapes up through all
the grades and species of dirt and refuse to their own dead friends and
relatives--and yet they are always lean, always hungry, always
despondent.  The people are loath to kill them--do not kill them, in
fact.  The Turks have an innate antipathy to taking the life of any dumb
animal, it is said.  But they do worse.  They hang and kick and stone and
scald these wretched creatures to the very verge of death, and then leave
them to live and suffer.

Once a Sultan proposed to kill off all the dogs here, and did begin the
work--but the populace raised such a howl of horror about it that the
massacre was stayed.  After a while, he proposed to remove them all to an
island in the Sea of Marmora.  No objection was offered, and a ship-load
or so was taken away.  But when it came to be known that somehow or other
the dogs never got to the island, but always fell overboard in the night
and perished, another howl was raised and the transportation scheme was
dropped.

So the dogs remain in peaceable possession of the streets.  I do not say
that they do not howl at night, nor that they do not attack people who
have not a red fez on their heads.  I only say that it would be mean for
me to accuse them of these unseemly things who have not seen them do them
with my own eyes or heard them with my own ears.

I was a little surprised to see Turks and Greeks playing newsboy right
here in the mysterious land where the giants and genii of the Arabian
Nights once dwelt--where winged horses and hydra-headed dragons guarded
enchanted castles--where Princes and Princesses flew through the air on
carpets that obeyed a mystic talisman--where cities whose houses were
made of precious stones sprang up in a night under the hand of the
magician, and where busy marts were suddenly stricken with a spell and
each citizen lay or sat, or stood with weapon raised or foot advanced,
just as he was, speechless and motionless, till time had told a hundred
years!

It was curious to see newsboys selling papers in so dreamy a land as
that.  And, to say truly, it is comparatively a new thing here.  The
selling of newspapers had its birth in Constantinople about a year ago,
and was a child of the Prussian and Austrian war.

There is one paper published here in the English language--The Levant
Herald--and there are generally a number of Greek and a few French papers
rising and falling, struggling up and falling again.  Newspapers are not
popular with the Sultan's Government.  They do not understand journalism.
The proverb says, "The unknown is always great."  To the court, the
newspaper is a mysterious and rascally institution.  They know what a
pestilence is, because they have one occasionally that thins the people
out at the rate of two thousand a day, and they regard a newspaper as a
mild form of pestilence.  When it goes astray, they suppress it--pounce
upon it without warning, and throttle it.  When it don't go astray for a
long time, they get suspicious and throttle it anyhow, because they think
it is hatching deviltry.  Imagine the Grand Vizier in solemn council with
the magnates of the realm, spelling his way through the hated newspaper,
and finally delivering his profound decision: "This thing means mischief
--it is too darkly, too suspiciously inoffensive--suppress it!  Warn the
publisher that we can not have this sort of thing: put the editor in
prison!"

The newspaper business has its inconveniences in Constantinople.  Two
Greek papers and one French one were suppressed here within a few days of
each other.  No victories of the Cretans are allowed to be printed.  From
time to time the Grand Vizier sends a notice to the various editors that
the Cretan insurrection is entirely suppressed, and although that editor
knows better, he still has to print the notice.  The Levant Herald is too
fond of speaking praisefully of Americans to be popular with the Sultan,
who does not relish our sympathy with the Cretans, and therefore that
paper has to be particularly circumspect in order to keep out of trouble.
Once the editor, forgetting the official notice in his paper that the
Cretans were crushed out, printed a letter of a very different tenor,
from the American Consul in Crete, and was fined two hundred and fifty
dollars for it.  Shortly he printed another from the same source and was
imprisoned three months for his pains.  I think I could get the assistant
editorship of the Levant Herald, but I am going to try to worry along
without it.

To suppress a paper here involves the ruin of the publisher, almost.  But
in Naples I think they speculate on misfortunes of that kind.  Papers are
suppressed there every day, and spring up the next day under a new name.
During the ten days or a fortnight we staid there one paper was murdered
and resurrected twice.  The newsboys are smart there, just as they are
elsewhere.  They take advantage of popular weaknesses.  When they find
they are not likely to sell out, they approach a citizen mysteriously,
and say in a low voice--"Last copy, sir: double price; paper just been
suppressed!"  The man buys it, of course, and finds nothing in it.  They
do say--I do not vouch for it--but they do say that men sometimes print a
vast edition of a paper, with a ferociously seditious article in it,
distribute it quickly among the newsboys, and clear out till the
Government's indignation cools.  It pays well.  Confiscation don't amount
to any thing.  The type and presses are not worth taking care of.

There is only one English newspaper in Naples.  It has seventy
subscribers.  The publisher is getting rich very deliberately--very
deliberately indeed.

I never shall want another Turkish lunch.  The cooking apparatus was in
the little lunch room, near the bazaar, and it was all open to the
street.  The cook was slovenly, and so was the table, and it had no cloth
on it.  The fellow took a mass of sausage meat and coated it round a wire
and laid it on a charcoal fire to cook.  When it was done, he laid it
aside and a dog walked sadly in and nipped it.  He smelt it first, and
probably recognized the remains of a friend.  The cook took it away from
him and laid it before us.  Jack said, "I pass"--he plays euchre
sometimes--and we all passed in turn.  Then the cook baked a broad, flat,
wheaten cake, greased it well with the sausage, and started towards us
with it.  It dropped in the dirt, and he picked it up and polished it on
his breeches, and laid it before us.  Jack said, "I pass."  We all
passed.  He put some eggs in a frying pan, and stood pensively prying
slabs of meat from between his teeth with a fork.  Then he used the fork
to turn the eggs with--and brought them along.  Jack said "Pass again."
All followed suit.  We did not know what to do, and so we ordered a new
ration of sausage.  The cook got out his wire, apportioned a proper
amount of sausage-meat, spat it on his hands and fell to work!  This
time, with one accord, we all passed out.  We paid and left.  That is
all I learned about Turkish lunches.  A Turkish lunch is good, no doubt,
but it has its little drawbacks.

When I think how I have been swindled by books of Oriental travel, I want
a tourist for breakfast.  For years and years I have dreamed of the
wonders of the Turkish bath; for years and years I have promised myself
that I would yet enjoy one.  Many and many a time, in fancy, I have lain
in the marble bath, and breathed the slumbrous fragrance of Eastern
spices that filled the air; then passed through a weird and complicated
system of pulling and hauling, and drenching and scrubbing, by a gang of
naked savages who loomed vast and vaguely through the steaming mists,
like demons; then rested for a while on a divan fit for a king; then
passed through another complex ordeal, and one more fearful than the
first; and, finally, swathed in soft fabrics, been conveyed to a princely
saloon and laid on a bed of eider down, where eunuchs, gorgeous of
costume, fanned me while I drowsed and dreamed, or contentedly gazed at
the rich hangings of the apartment, the soft carpets, the sumptuous
furniture, the pictures, and drank delicious coffee, smoked the soothing
narghili, and dropped, at the last, into tranquil repose, lulled by
sensuous odors from unseen censers, by the gentle influence of the
narghili's Persian tobacco, and by the music of fountains that
counterfeited the pattering of summer rain.

That was the picture, just as I got it from incendiary books of travel.
It was a poor, miserable imposture.  The reality is no more like it than
the Five Points are like the Garden of Eden.  They received me in a great
court, paved with marble slabs; around it were broad galleries, one above
another, carpeted with seedy matting, railed with unpainted balustrades,
and furnished with huge rickety chairs, cushioned with rusty old
mattresses, indented with impressions left by the forms of nine
successive generations of men who had reposed upon them.  The place was
vast, naked, dreary; its court a barn, its galleries stalls for human
horses.  The cadaverous, half nude varlets that served in the
establishment had nothing of poetry in their appearance, nothing of
romance, nothing of Oriental splendor.  They shed no entrancing odors--
just the contrary.  Their hungry eyes and their lank forms continually
suggested one glaring, unsentimental fact--they wanted what they term in
California "a square meal."

I went into one of the racks and undressed.  An unclean starveling
wrapped a gaudy table-cloth about his loins, and hung a white rag over my
shoulders.  If I had had a tub then, it would have come natural to me to
take in washing.  I was then conducted down stairs into the wet, slippery
court, and the first things that attracted my attention were my heels.
My fall excited no comment.  They expected it, no doubt.  It belonged in
the list of softening, sensuous influences peculiar to this home of
Eastern luxury.  It was softening enough, certainly, but its application
was not happy.  They now gave me a pair of wooden clogs--benches in
miniature, with leather straps over them to confine my feet (which they
would have done, only I do not wear No. 13s.) These things dangled
uncomfortably by the straps when I lifted up my feet, and came down in
awkward and unexpected places when I put them on the floor again, and
sometimes turned sideways and wrenched my ankles out of joint.  However,
it was all Oriental luxury, and I did what I could to enjoy it.

They put me in another part of the barn and laid me on a stuffy sort of
pallet, which was not made of cloth of gold, or Persian shawls, but was
merely the unpretending sort of thing I have seen in the negro quarters
of Arkansas.  There was nothing whatever in this dim marble prison but
five more of these biers.  It was a very solemn place.  I expected that
the spiced odors of Araby were going to steal over my senses now, but
they did not.  A copper-colored skeleton, with a rag around him, brought
me a glass decanter of water, with a lighted tobacco pipe in the top of
it, and a pliant stem a yard long, with a brass mouth-piece to it.

It was the famous "narghili" of the East--the thing the Grand Turk smokes
in the pictures.  This began to look like luxury.  I took one blast at
it, and it was sufficient; the smoke went in a great volume down into my
stomach, my lungs, even into the uttermost parts of my frame.  I exploded
one mighty cough, and it was as if Vesuvius had let go.  For the next
five minutes I smoked at every pore, like a frame house that is on fire
on the inside.  Not any more narghili for me.  The smoke had a vile
taste, and the taste of a thousand infidel tongues that remained on that
brass mouthpiece was viler still.  I was getting discouraged.  Whenever,
hereafter, I see the cross-legged Grand Turk smoking his narghili, in
pretended bliss, on the outside of a paper of Connecticut tobacco, I
shall know him for the shameless humbug he is.

This prison was filled with hot air.  When I had got warmed up
sufficiently to prepare me for a still warmer temperature, they took me
where it was--into a marble room, wet, slippery and steamy, and laid me
out on a raised platform in the centre.  It was very warm.  Presently my
man sat me down by a tank of hot water, drenched me well, gloved his hand
with a coarse mitten, and began to polish me all over with it.  I began
to smell disagreeably.  The more he polished the worse I smelt.  It was
alarming.  I said to him:

"I perceive that I am pretty far gone.  It is plain that I ought to be
buried without any unnecessary delay.  Perhaps you had better go after my
friends at once, because the weather is warm, and I can not 'keep' long."

He went on scrubbing, and paid no attention.  I soon saw that he was
reducing my size.  He bore hard on his mitten, and from under it rolled
little cylinders, like maccaroni.  It could not be dirt, for it was too
white.  He pared me down in this way for a long time.  Finally I said:

"It is a tedious process.  It will take hours to trim me to the size you
want me; I will wait; go and borrow a jack-plane."

He paid no attention at all.

After a while he brought a basin, some soap, and something that seemed to
be the tail of a horse.  He made up a prodigious quantity of soap-suds,
deluged me with them from head to foot, without warning me to shut my
eyes, and then swabbed me viciously with the horse-tail.  Then he left me
there, a snowy statue of lather, and went away.  When I got tired of
waiting I went and hunted him up.  He was propped against the wall, in
another room, asleep.  I woke him.  He was not disconcerted.  He took me
back and flooded me with hot water, then turbaned my head, swathed me
with dry table-cloths, and conducted me to a latticed chicken-coop in one
of the galleries, and pointed to one of those Arkansas beds.  I mounted
it, and vaguely expected the odors of Araby a gain.  They did not come.

The blank, unornamented coop had nothing about it of that oriental
voluptuousness one reads of so much.  It was more suggestive of the
county hospital than any thing else.  The skinny servitor brought a
narghili, and I got him to take it out again without wasting any time
about it.  Then he brought the world-renowned Turkish coffee that poets
have sung so rapturously for many generations, and I seized upon it as
the last hope that was left of my old dreams of Eastern luxury.  It was
another fraud.  Of all the unchristian beverages that ever passed my
lips, Turkish coffee is the worst.  The cup is small, it is smeared with
grounds; the coffee is black, thick, unsavory of smell, and execrable in
taste.  The bottom of the cup has a muddy sediment in it half an inch
deep.  This goes down your throat, and portions of it lodge by the way,
and produce a tickling aggravation that keeps you barking and coughing
for an hour.

Here endeth my experience of the celebrated Turkish bath, and here also
endeth my dream of the bliss the mortal revels in who passes through it.
It is a malignant swindle.  The man who enjoys it is qualified to enjoy
any thing that is repulsive to sight or sense, and he that can invest it
with a charm of poetry is able to do the same with any thing else in the
world that is tedious, and wretched, and dismal, and nasty.




CHAPTER XXXV.

We left a dozen passengers in Constantinople, and sailed through the
beautiful Bosporus and far up into the Black Sea.  We left them in the
clutches of the celebrated Turkish guide, "FAR-AWAY MOSES," who will
seduce them into buying a ship-load of ottar of roses, splendid Turkish
vestments, and ail manner of curious things they can never have any use
for.  Murray's invaluable guide-books have mentioned 'Far-away Moses'
name, and he is a made man.  He rejoices daily in the fact that he is a
recognized celebrity.  However, we can not alter our established customs
to please the whims of guides; we can not show partialities this late in
the day.  Therefore, ignoring this fellow's brilliant fame, and ignoring
the fanciful name he takes such pride in, we called him Ferguson, just as
we had done with all other guides.  It has kept him in a state of
smothered exasperation all the time.  Yet we meant him no harm.  After he
has gotten himself up regardless of expense, in showy, baggy trowsers,
yellow, pointed slippers, fiery fez, silken jacket of blue, voluminous
waist-sash of fancy Persian stuff filled with a battery of silver-mounted
horse-pistols, and has strapped on his terrible scimitar, he considers it
an unspeakable humiliation to be called Ferguson.  It can not be helped.
All guides are Fergusons to us.  We can not master their dreadful foreign
names.

Sebastopol is probably the worst battered town in Russia or any where
else.  But we ought to be pleased with it, nevertheless, for we have been
in no country yet where we have been so kindly received, and where we
felt that to be Americans was a sufficient visa for our passports.  The
moment the anchor was down, the Governor of the town immediately
dispatched an officer on board to inquire if he could be of any
assistance to us, and to invite us to make ourselves at home in
Sebastopol!  If you know Russia, you know that this was a wild stretch of
hospitality.  They are usually so suspicious of strangers that they worry
them excessively with the delays and aggravations incident to a
complicated passport system.  Had we come from any other country we could
not have had permission to enter Sebastopol and leave again under three
days--but as it was, we were at liberty to go and come when and where we
pleased.  Every body in Constantinople warned us to be very careful about
our passports, see that they were strictly 'en regle', and never to
mislay them for a moment: and they told us of numerous instances of
Englishmen and others who were delayed days, weeks, and even months, in
Sebastopol, on account of trifling informalities in their passports, and
for which they were not to blame.  I had lost my passport, and was
traveling under my room-mate's, who stayed behind in Constantinople to
await our return.  To read the description of him in that passport and
then look at me, any man could see that I was no more like him than I am
like Hercules.  So I went into the harbor of Sebastopol with fear and
trembling--full of a vague, horrible apprehension that I was going to be
found out and hanged.  But all that time my true passport had been
floating gallantly overhead--and behold it was only our flag.  They never
asked us for any other.

We have had a great many Russian and English gentlemen and ladies on
board to-day, and the time has passed cheerfully away.  They were all
happy-spirited people, and I never heard our mother tongue sound so
pleasantly as it did when it fell from those English lips in this far-off
land.  I talked to the Russians a good deal, just to be friendly, and
they talked to me from the same motive; I am sure that both enjoyed the
conversation, but never a word of it either of us understood.  I did most
of my talking to those English people though, and I am sorry we can not
carry some of them along with us.

We have gone whithersoever we chose, to-day, and have met with nothing
but the kindest attentions.  Nobody inquired whether we had any passports
or not.

Several of the officers of the Government have suggested that we take the
ship to a little watering-place thirty miles from here, and pay the
Emperor of Russia a visit.  He is rusticating there.  These officers said
they would take it upon themselves to insure us a cordial reception.
They said if we would go, they would not only telegraph the Emperor, but
send a special courier overland to announce our coming.  Our time is so
short, though, and more especially our coal is so nearly out, that we
judged it best to forego the rare pleasure of holding social intercourse
with an Emperor.

Ruined Pompeii is in good condition compared to Sebastopol.  Here, you
may look in whatsoever direction you please, and your eye encounters
scarcely any thing but ruin, ruin, ruin!--fragments of houses, crumbled
walls, torn and ragged hills, devastation every where!  It is as if a
mighty earthquake had spent all its terrible forces upon this one little
spot.  For eighteen long months the storms of war beat upon the helpless
town, and left it at last the saddest wreck that ever the sun has looked
upon.  Not one solitary house escaped unscathed--not one remained
habitable, even.  Such utter and complete ruin one could hardly conceive
of.  The houses had all been solid, dressed stone structures; most of
them were ploughed through and through by cannon balls--unroofed and
sliced down from eaves to foundation--and now a row of them, half a mile
long, looks merely like an endless procession of battered chimneys.  No
semblance of a house remains in such as these.  Some of the larger
buildings had corners knocked off; pillars cut in two; cornices smashed;
holes driven straight through the walls.  Many of these holes are as
round and as cleanly cut as if they had been made with an auger.  Others
are half pierced through, and the clean impression is there in the rock,
as smooth and as shapely as if it were done in putty.  Here and there a
ball still sticks in a wall, and from it iron tears trickle down and
discolor the stone.

The battle-fields were pretty close together.  The Malakoff tower is on a
hill which is right in the edge of the town.  The Redan was within rifle-
shot of the Malakoff; Inkerman was a mile away; and Balaklava removed but
an hour's ride.  The French trenches, by which they approached and
invested the Malakoff were carried so close under its sloping sides that
one might have stood by the Russian guns and tossed a stone into them.
Repeatedly, during three terrible days, they swarmed up the little
Malakoff hill, and were beaten back with terrible slaughter.  Finally,
they captured the place, and drove the Russians out, who then tried to
retreat into the town, but the English had taken the Redan, and shut them
off with a wall of flame; there was nothing for them to do but go back
and retake the Malakoff or die under its guns.  They did go back; they
took the Malakoff and retook it two or three times, but their desperate
valor could not avail, and they had to give up at last.

These fearful fields, where such tempests of death used to rage, are
peaceful enough now; no sound is heard, hardly a living thing moves about
them, they are lonely and silent--their desolation is complete.

There was nothing else to do, and so every body went to hunting relics.
They have stocked the ship with them.  They brought them from the
Malakoff, from the Redan, Inkerman, Balaklava--every where.  They have
brought cannon balls, broken ramrods, fragments of shell--iron enough to
freight a sloop.  Some have even brought bones--brought them laboriously
from great distances, and were grieved to hear the surgeon pronounce them
only bones of mules and oxen.  I knew Blucher would not lose an
opportunity like this.  He brought a sack full on board and was going for
another.  I prevailed upon him not to go.  He has already turned his
state-room into a museum of worthless trumpery, which he has gathered up
in his travels.  He is labeling his trophies, now.  I picked up one a
while ago, and found it marked "Fragment of a Russian General."  I
carried it out to get a better light upon it--it was nothing but a couple
of teeth and part of the jaw-bone of a horse.  I said with some asperity:

"Fragment of a Russian General!  This is absurd.  Are you never going to
learn any sense?"

He only said: "Go slow--the old woman won't know any different."  [His
aunt.]

This person gathers mementoes with a perfect recklessness, now-a-days;
mixes them all up together, and then serenely labels them without any
regard to truth, propriety, or even plausibility.  I have found him
breaking a stone in two, and labeling half of it "Chunk busted from the
pulpit of Demosthenes," and the other half "Darnick from the Tomb of
Abelard and Heloise."  I have known him to gather up a handful of pebbles
by the roadside, and bring them on board ship and label them as coming
from twenty celebrated localities five hundred miles apart.  I
remonstrate against these outrages upon reason and truth, of course, but
it does no good.  I get the same tranquil, unanswerable reply every time:

"It don't signify--the old woman won't know any different."

Ever since we three or four fortunate ones made the midnight trip to
Athens, it has afforded him genuine satisfaction to give every body in
the ship a pebble from the Mars-hill where St. Paul preached.  He got all
those pebbles on the sea shore, abreast the ship, but professes to have
gathered them from one of our party.  However, it is not of any use for
me to expose the deception--it affords him pleasure, and does no harm to
any body.  He says he never expects to run out of mementoes of St. Paul
as long as he is in reach of a sand-bank.  Well, he is no worse than
others.  I notice that all travelers supply deficiencies in their
collections in the same way.  I shall never have any confidence in such
things again while I live.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

We have got so far east, now--a hundred and fifty-five degrees of
longitude from San Francisco--that my watch can not "keep the hang" of
the time any more.  It has grown discouraged, and stopped.  I think it
did a wise thing.  The difference in time between Sebastopol and the
Pacific coast is enormous.  When it is six o'clock in the morning here,
it is somewhere about week before last in California.  We are excusable
for getting a little tangled as to time.  These distractions and
distresses about the time have worried me so much that I was afraid my
mind was so much affected that I never would have any appreciation of
time again; but when I noticed how handy I was yet about comprehending
when it was dinner-time, a blessed tranquillity settled down upon me, and
I am tortured with doubts and fears no more.

Odessa is about twenty hours' run from Sebastopol, and is the most
northerly port in the Black Sea.  We came here to get coal, principally.
The city has a population of one hundred and thirty-three thousand, and
is growing faster than any other small city out of America.  It is a free
port, and is the great grain mart of this particular part of the world.
Its roadstead is full of ships.  Engineers are at work, now, turning the
open roadstead into a spacious artificial harbor.  It is to be almost
inclosed by massive stone piers, one of which will extend into the sea
over three thousand feet in a straight line.

I have not felt so much at home for a long time as I did when I "raised
the hill" and stood in Odessa for the first time.  It looked just like an
American city; fine, broad streets, and straight as well; low houses,
(two or three stories,) wide, neat, and free from any quaintness of
architectural ornamentation; locust trees bordering the sidewalks (they
call them acacias;) a stirring, business-look about the streets and the
stores; fast walkers; a familiar new look about the houses and every
thing; yea, and a driving and smothering cloud of dust that was so like a
message from our own dear native land that we could hardly refrain from
shedding a few grateful tears and execrations in the old time-honored
American way.  Look up the street or down the street, this way or that
way, we saw only America!  There was not one thing to remind us that we
were in Russia.  We walked for some little distance, reveling in this
home vision, and then we came upon a church and a hack-driver, and
presto! the illusion vanished!  The church had a slender-spired dome that
rounded inward at its base, and looked like a turnip turned upside down,
and the hackman seemed to be dressed in a long petticoat with out any
hoops.  These things were essentially foreign, and so were the carriages
--but every body knows about these things, and there is no occasion for
my describing them.

We were only to stay here a day and a night and take in coal; we
consulted the guide-books and were rejoiced to know that there were no
sights in Odessa to see; and so we had one good, untrammeled holyday on
our hands, with nothing to do but idle about the city and enjoy
ourselves.  We sauntered through the markets and criticised the fearful
and wonderful costumes from the back country; examined the populace as
far as eyes could do it; and closed the entertainment with an ice-cream
debauch.  We do not get ice-cream every where, and so, when we do, we are
apt to dissipate to excess.  We never cared any thing about ice-cream at
home, but we look upon it with a sort of idolatry now that it is so
scarce in these red-hot climates of the East.

We only found two pieces of statuary, and this was another blessing.  One
was a bronze image of the Duc de Richelieu, grand-nephew of the splendid
Cardinal.  It stood in a spacious, handsome promenade, overlooking the
sea, and from its base a vast flight of stone steps led down to the
harbor--two hundred of them, fifty feet long, and a wide landing at the
bottom of every twenty.  It is a noble staircase, and from a distance the
people toiling up it looked like insects.  I mention this statue and this
stairway because they have their story.  Richelieu founded Odessa--
watched over it with paternal care--labored with a fertile brain and a
wise understanding for its best interests--spent his fortune freely to
the same end--endowed it with a sound prosperity, and one which will yet
make it one of the great cities of the Old World--built this noble
stairway with money from his own private purse--and--.  Well, the people
for whom he had done so much, let him walk down these same steps, one
day, unattended, old, poor, without a second coat to his back; and when,
years afterwards, he died in Sebastopol in poverty and neglect, they
called a meeting, subscribed liberally, and immediately erected this
tasteful monument to his memory, and named a great street after him.
It reminds me of what Robert Burns' mother said when they erected a
stately monument to his memory: "Ah, Robbie, ye asked them for bread and
they hae gi'en ye a stane."

The people of Odessa have warmly recommended us to go and call on the
Emperor, as did the Sebastopolians.  They have telegraphed his Majesty,
and he has signified his willingness to grant us an audience.  So we are
getting up the anchors and preparing to sail to his watering-place.  What
a scratching around there will be, now! what a holding of important
meetings and appointing of solemn committees!--and what a furbishing up
of claw-hammer coats and white silk neck-ties!  As this fearful ordeal we
are about to pass through pictures itself to my fancy in all its dread
sublimity, I begin to feel my fierce desire to converse with a genuine
Emperor cooling down and passing away.  What am I to do with my hands?
What am I to do with my feet?  What in the world am I to do with myself?




CHAPTER XXXVII.

We anchored here at Yalta, Russia, two or three days ago.  To me the
place was a vision of the Sierras.  The tall, gray mountains that back
it, their sides bristling with pines--cloven with ravines--here and there
a hoary rock towering into view--long, straight streaks sweeping down
from the summit to the sea, marking the passage of some avalanche of
former times--all these were as like what one sees in the Sierras as if
the one were a portrait of the other.  The little village of Yalta
nestles at the foot of an amphitheatre which slopes backward and upward
to the wall of hills, and looks as if it might have sunk quietly down to
its present position from a higher elevation.  This depression is covered
with the great parks and gardens of noblemen, and through the mass of
green foliage the bright colors of their palaces bud out here and there
like flowers.  It is a beautiful spot.

We had the United States Consul on board--the Odessa Consul.  We
assembled in the cabin and commanded him to tell us what we must do to be
saved, and tell us quickly.  He made a speech.  The first thing he said
fell like a blight on every hopeful spirit: he had never seen a court
reception.  (Three groans for the Consul.)  But he said he had seen
receptions at the Governor General's in Odessa, and had often listened to
people's experiences of receptions at the Russian and other courts, and
believed he knew very well what sort of ordeal we were about to essay.
(Hope budded again.)  He said we were many; the summer palace was small--
a mere mansion; doubtless we should be received in summer fashion--in the
garden; we would stand in a row, all the gentlemen in swallow-tail coats,
white kids, and white neck-ties, and the ladies in light-colored silks,
or something of that kind; at the proper moment--12 meridian--the
Emperor, attended by his suite arrayed in splendid uniforms, would appear
and walk slowly along the line, bowing to some, and saying two or three
words to others.  At the moment his Majesty appeared, a universal,
delighted, enthusiastic smile ought to break out like a rash among the
passengers--a smile of love, of gratification, of admiration--and with
one accord, the party must begin to bow--not obsequiously, but
respectfully, and with dignity; at the end of fifteen minutes the Emperor
would go in the house, and we could run along home again.  We felt
immensely relieved.  It seemed, in a manner, easy.  There was not a man
in the party but believed that with a little practice he could stand in a
row, especially if there were others along; there was not a man but
believed he could bow without tripping on his coat tail and breaking his
neck; in a word, we came to believe we were equal to any item in the
performance except that complicated smile.  The Consul also said we ought
to draft a little address to the Emperor, and present it to one of his
aides-de-camp, who would forward it to him at the proper time.
Therefore, five gentlemen were appointed to prepare the document, and the
fifty others went sadly smiling about the ship--practicing.  During the
next twelve hours we had the general appearance, somehow, of being at a
funeral, where every body was sorry the death had occurred, but glad it
was over--where every body was smiling, and yet broken-hearted.

A committee went ashore to wait on his Excellency the Governor-General,
and learn our fate.  At the end of three hours of boding suspense, they
came back and said the Emperor would receive us at noon the next day--
would send carriages for us--would hear the address in person.  The Grand
Duke Michael had sent to invite us to his palace also.  Any man could see
that there was an intention here to show that Russia's friendship for
America was so genuine as to render even her private citizens objects
worthy of kindly attentions.

At the appointed hour we drove out three miles, and assembled in the
handsome garden in front of the Emperor's palace.

We formed a circle under the trees before the door, for there was no one
room in the house able to accommodate our three-score persons
comfortably, and in a few minutes the imperial family came out bowing and
smiling, and stood in our midst.  A number of great dignitaries of the
Empire, in undress unit forms, came with them.  With every bow, his
Majesty said a word of welcome.  I copy these speeches.  There is
character in them--Russian character--which is politeness itself, and the
genuine article.  The French are polite, but it is often mere ceremonious
politeness.  A Russian imbues his polite things with a heartiness, both
of phrase and expression, that compels belief in their sincerity.  As I
was saying, the Czar punctuated his speeches with bows:

"Good morning--I am glad to see you--I am gratified--I am delighted--I am
happy to receive you!"

All took off their hats, and the Consul inflicted the address on him.  He
bore it with unflinching fortitude; then took the rusty-looking document
and handed it to some great officer or other, to be filed away among the
archives of Russia--in the stove.  He thanked us for the address, and
said he was very much pleased to see us, especially as such friendly
relations existed between Russia and the United States.  The Empress said
the Americans were favorites in Russia, and she hoped the Russians were
similarly regarded in America.  These were all the speeches that were
made, and I recommend them to parties who present policemen with gold
watches, as models of brevity and point.  After this the Empress went and
talked sociably (for an Empress) with various ladies around the circle;
several gentlemen entered into a disjointed general conversation with the
Emperor; the Dukes and Princes, Admirals and Maids of Honor dropped into
free-and-easy chat with first one and then another of our party, and
whoever chose stepped forward and spoke with the modest little Grand
Duchess Marie, the Czar's daughter.  She is fourteen years old, light-
haired, blue-eyed, unassuming and pretty.  Every body talks English.

The Emperor wore a cap, frock coat and pantaloons, all of some kind of
plain white drilling--cotton or linen and sported no jewelry or any
insignia whatever of rank.  No costume could be less ostentatious.  He is
very tall and spare, and a determined-looking man, though a very
pleasant-looking one nevertheless.  It is easy to see that he is kind and
affectionate There is something very noble in his expression when his cap
is off.  There is none of that cunning in his eye that all of us noticed
in Louis Napoleon's.

The Empress and the little Grand Duchess wore simple suits of foulard (or
foulard silk, I don't know which is proper,) with a small blue spot in
it; the dresses were trimmed with blue; both ladies wore broad blue
sashes about their waists; linen collars and clerical ties of muslin;
low-crowned straw-hats trimmed with blue velvet; parasols and flesh-
colored gloves The Grand Duchess had no heels on her shoes.  I do not
know this of my own knowledge, but one of our ladies told me so.  I was
not looking at her shoes.  I was glad to observe that she wore her own
hair, plaited in thick braids against the back of her head, instead of
the uncomely thing they call a waterfall, which is about as much like a
waterfall as a canvas-covered ham is like a cataract.  Taking the kind
expression that is in the Emperor's face and the gentleness that is in
his young daughter's into consideration, I wondered if it would not tax
the Czar's firmness to the utmost to condemn a supplicating wretch to
misery in the wastes of Siberia if she pleaded for him.  Every time their
eyes met, I saw more and more what a tremendous power that weak,
diffident school-girl could wield if she chose to do it.  Many and many a
time she might rule the Autocrat of Russia, whose lightest word is law to
seventy millions of human beings!  She was only a girl, and she looked
like a thousand others I have seen, but never a girl provoked such a
novel and peculiar interest in me before.  A strange, new sensation is a
rare thing in this hum-drum life, and I had it here.  There was nothing
stale or worn out about the thoughts and feelings the situation and the
circumstances created.  It seemed strange--stranger than I can tell--to
think that the central figure in the cluster of men and women, chatting
here under the trees like the most ordinary individual in the land, was a
man who could open his lips and ships would fly through the waves,
locomotives would speed over the plains, couriers would hurry from
village to village, a hundred telegraphs would flash the word to the four
corners of an Empire that stretches its vast proportions over a seventh
part of the habitable globe, and a countless multitude of men would
spring to do his bidding.  I had a sort of vague desire to examine his
hands and see if they were of flesh and blood, like other men's.  Here
was a man who could do this wonderful thing, and yet if I chose I could
knock him down.  The case was plain, but it seemed preposterous,
nevertheless--as preposterous as trying to knock down a mountain or wipe
out a continent.  If this man sprained his ankle, a million miles of
telegraph would carry the news over mountains--valleys--uninhabited
deserts--under the trackless sea--and ten thousand newspapers would prate
of it; if he were grievously ill, all the nations would know it before
the sun rose again; if he dropped lifeless where he stood, his fall might
shake the thrones of half a world!  If I could have stolen his coat, I
would have done it.  When I meet a man like that, I want something to
remember him by.

As a general thing, we have been shown through palaces by some plush-
legged filagreed flunkey or other, who charged a franc for it; but after
talking with the company half an hour, the Emperor of Russia and his
family conducted us all through their mansion themselves.  They made no
charge.  They seemed to take a real pleasure in it.

We spent half an hour idling through the palace, admiring the cosy
apartments and the rich but eminently home-like appointments of the
place, and then the Imperial family bade our party a kind good-bye, and
proceeded to count the spoons.

An invitation was extended to us to visit the palace of the eldest son,
the Crown Prince of Russia, which was near at hand.  The young man was
absent, but the Dukes and Countesses and Princes went over the premises
with us as leisurely as was the case at the Emperor's, and conversation
continued as lively as ever.

It was a little after one o'clock, now.  We drove to the Grand Duke
Michael's, a mile away, in response to his invitation, previously given.

We arrived in twenty minutes from the Emperor's.  It is a lovely place.
The beautiful palace nestles among the grand old groves of the park, the
park sits in the lap of the picturesque crags and hills, and both look
out upon the breezy ocean.  In the park are rustic seats, here and there,
in secluded nooks that are dark with shade; there are rivulets of crystal
water; there are lakelets, with inviting, grassy banks; there are
glimpses of sparkling cascades through openings in the wilderness of
foliage; there are streams of clear water gushing from mimic knots on the
trunks of forest trees; there are miniature marble temples perched upon
gray old crags; there are airy lookouts whence one may gaze upon a broad
expanse of landscape and ocean.  The palace is modeled after the choicest
forms of Grecian architecture, and its wide colonnades surround a central
court that is banked with rare flowers that fill the place with their
fragrance, and in their midst springs a fountain that cools the summer
air, and may possibly breed mosquitoes, but I do not think it does.

The Grand Duke and his Duchess came out, and the presentation ceremonies
were as simple as they had been at the Emperor's.  In a few minutes,
conversation was under way, as before.  The Empress appeared in the
verandah, and the little Grand Duchess came out into the crowd.  They had
beaten us there.  In a few minutes, the Emperor came himself on
horseback.  It was very pleasant.  You can appreciate it if you have ever
visited royalty and felt occasionally that possibly you might be wearing
out your welcome--though as a general thing, I believe, royalty is not
scrupulous about discharging you when it is done with you.

The Grand Duke is the third brother of the Emperor, is about thirty-seven
years old, perhaps, and is the princeliest figure in Russia.  He is even
taller than the Czar, as straight as an Indian, and bears himself like
one of those gorgeous knights we read about in romances of the Crusades.
He looks like a great-hearted fellow who would pitch an enemy into the
river in a moment, and then jump in and risk his life fishing him out
again.  The stories they tell of him show him to be of a brave and
generous nature.  He must have been desirous of proving that Americans
were welcome guests in the imperial palaces of Russia, because he rode
all the way to Yalta and escorted our procession to the Emperor's
himself, and kept his aids scurrying about, clearing the road and
offering assistance wherever it could be needed.  We were rather familiar
with him then, because we did not know who he was.  We recognized him
now, and appreciated the friendly spirit that prompted him to do us a
favor that any other Grand Duke in the world would have doubtless
declined to do.  He had plenty of servitors whom he could have sent, but
he chose to attend to the matter himself.

The Grand Duke was dressed in the handsome and showy uniform of a Cossack
officer.  The Grand Duchess had on a white alpaca robe, with the seams
and gores trimmed with black barb lace, and a little gray hat with a
feather of the same color.  She is young, rather pretty modest and
unpretending, and full of winning politeness.

Our party walked all through the house, and then the nobility escorted
them all over the grounds, and finally brought them back to the palace
about half-past two o'clock to breakfast.  They called it breakfast, but
we would have called it luncheon.  It consisted of two kinds of wine;
tea, bread, cheese, and cold meats, and was served on the centre-tables
in the reception room and the verandahs--anywhere that was convenient;
there was no ceremony.  It was a sort of picnic.  I had heard before that
we were to breakfast there, but Blucher said he believed Baker's boy had
suggested it to his Imperial Highness.  I think not--though it would be
like him.  Baker's boy is the famine-breeder of the ship.  He is always
hungry.  They say he goes about the state-rooms when the passengers are
out, and eats up all the soap.  And they say he eats oakum.  They say he
will eat any thing he can get between meals, but he prefers oakum.  He
does not like oakum for dinner, but he likes it for a lunch, at odd
hours, or any thing that way.  It makes him very disagreeable, because it
makes his breath bad, and keeps his teeth all stuck up with tar.  Baker's
boy may have suggested the breakfast, but I hope he did not.  It went off
well, anyhow.  The illustrious host moved about from place to place, and
helped to destroy the provisions and keep the conversation lively, and
the Grand Duchess talked with the verandah parties and such as had
satisfied their appetites and straggled out from the reception room.

The Grand Duke's tea was delicious.  They give one a lemon to squeeze
into it, or iced milk, if he prefers it.  The former is best.  This tea
is brought overland from China.  It injures the article to transport it
by sea.

When it was time to go, we bade our distinguished hosts good-bye, and
they retired happy and contented to their apartments to count their
spoons.

We had spent the best part of half a day in the home of royalty, and had
been as cheerful and comfortable all the time as we could have been in
the ship.  I would as soon have thought of being cheerful in Abraham's
bosom as in the palace of an Emperor.  I supposed that Emperors were
terrible people.  I thought they never did any thing but wear magnificent
crowns and red velvet dressing-gowns with dabs of wool sewed on them in
spots, and sit on thrones and scowl at the flunkies and the people in the
parquette, and order Dukes and Duchesses off to execution.  I find,
however, that when one is so fortunate as to get behind the scenes and
see them at home and in the privacy of their firesides, they are
strangely like common mortals.  They are pleasanter to look upon then
than they are in their theatrical aspect.  It seems to come as natural to
them to dress and act like other people as it is to put a friend's cedar
pencil in your pocket when you are done using it.  But I can never have
any confidence in the tinsel kings of the theatre after this.  It will be
a great loss.  I used to take such a thrilling pleasure in them.  But,
hereafter, I will turn me sadly away and say;

"This does not answer--this isn't the style of king that I am acquainted
with."

When they swagger around the stage in jeweled crowns and splendid robes,
I shall feel bound to observe that all the Emperors that ever I was
personally acquainted with wore the commonest sort of clothes, and did
not swagger.  And when they come on the stage attended by a vast body-
guard of supes in helmets and tin breastplates, it will be my duty as
well as my pleasure to inform the ignorant that no crowned head of my
acquaintance has a soldier any where about his house or his person.

Possibly it may be thought that our party tarried too long, or did other
improper things, but such was not the case.  The company felt that they
were occupying an unusually responsible position--they were representing
the people of America, not the Government--and therefore they were
careful to do their best to perform their high mission with credit.

On the other hand, the Imperial families, no doubt, considered that in
entertaining us they were more especially entertaining the people of
America than they could by showering attentions on a whole platoon of
ministers plenipotentiary and therefore they gave to the event its
fullest significance, as an expression of good will and friendly feeling
toward the entire country.  We took the kindnesses we received as
attentions thus directed, of course, and not to ourselves as a party.
That we felt a personal pride in being received as the representatives of
a nation, we do not deny; that we felt a national pride in the warm
cordiality of that reception, can not be doubted.

Our poet has been rigidly suppressed, from the time we let go the anchor.
When it was announced that we were going to visit the Emperor of Russia,
the fountains of his great deep were broken up, and he rained ineffable
bosh for four-and-twenty hours.  Our original anxiety as to what we were
going to do with ourselves, was suddenly transformed into anxiety about
what we were going to do with our poet.  The problem was solved at last.
Two alternatives were offered him--he must either swear a dreadful oath
that he would not issue a line of his poetry while he was in the Czar's
dominions, or else remain under guard on board the ship until we were
safe at Constantinople again.  He fought the dilemma long, but yielded at
last.  It was a great deliverance.  Perhaps the savage reader would like
a specimen of his style.  I do not mean this term to be offensive.  I
only use it because "the gentle reader" has been used so often that any
change from it can not but be refreshing:

          "Save us and sanctify us, and finally, then,
          See good provisions we enjoy while we journey to Jerusalem.
          For so man proposes, which it is most true
          And time will wait for none, nor for us too."

The sea has been unusually rough all day.  However, we have had a lively
time of it, anyhow.  We have had quite a run of visitors.  The Governor-
General came, and we received him with a salute of nine guns.  He brought
his family with him.  I observed that carpets were spread from the pier-
head to his carriage for him to walk on, though I have seen him walk
there without any carpet when he was not on business.  I thought may be
he had what the accidental insurance people might call an extra-hazardous
polish ("policy" joke, but not above mediocrity,) on his boots, and
wished to protect them, but I examined and could not see that they were
blacked any better than usual.  It may have been that he had forgotten
his carpet, before, but he did not have it with him, anyhow.  He was an
exceedingly pleasant old gentleman; we all liked him, especially Blucher.
When he went away, Blucher invited him to come again and fetch his carpet
along.

Prince Dolgorouki and a Grand Admiral or two, whom we had seen yesterday
at the reception, came on board also.  I was a little distant with these
parties, at first, because when I have been visiting Emperors I do not
like to be too familiar with people I only know by reputation, and whose
moral characters and standing in society I can not be thoroughly
acquainted with.  I judged it best to be a little offish, at first.  I
said to myself, Princes and Counts and Grand Admirals are very well, but
they are not Emperors, and one can not be too particular about who he
associates with.

Baron Wrangel came, also.  He used to be Russian Ambassador at
Washington.  I told him I had an uncle who fell down a shaft and broke
himself in two, as much as a year before that.  That was a falsehood, but
then I was not going to let any man eclipse me on surprising adventures,
merely for the want of a little invention.  The Baron is a fine man, and
is said to stand high in the Emperor's confidence and esteem.

Baron Ungern-Sternberg, a boisterous, whole-souled old nobleman, came
with the rest.  He is a man of progress and enterprise--a representative
man of the age.  He is the Chief Director of the railway system of
Russia--a sort of railroad king.  In his line he is making things move
along in this country He has traveled extensively in America.  He says he
has tried convict labor on his railroads, and with perfect success.  He
says the convicts work well, and are quiet and peaceable.  He observed
that he employs nearly ten thousand of them now.

This appeared to be another call on my resources.  I was equal to the
emergency.  I said we had eighty thousand convicts employed on the
railways in America--all of them under sentence of death for murder in
the first degree.  That closed him out.

We had General Todtleben (the famous defender of Sebastopol, during the
siege,) and many inferior army and also navy officers, and a number of
unofficial Russian ladies and gentlemen.  Naturally, a champagne luncheon
was in order, and was accomplished without loss of life.  Toasts and
jokes were discharged freely, but no speeches were made save one thanking
the Emperor and the Grand Duke, through the Governor-General, for our
hospitable reception, and one by the Governor-General in reply, in which
he returned the Emperor's thanks for the speech, etc., etc.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

We returned to Constantinople, and after a day or two spent in exhausting
marches about the city and voyages up the Golden Horn in caiques, we
steamed away again.  We passed through the Sea of Marmora and the
Dardanelles, and steered for a new land--a new one to us, at least--Asia.
We had as yet only acquired a bowing acquaintance with it, through
pleasure excursions to Scutari and the regions round about.

We passed between Lemnos and Mytilene, and saw them as we had seen Elba
and the Balearic Isles--mere bulky shapes, with the softening mists of
distance upon them--whales in a fog, as it were.  Then we held our course
southward, and began to "read up" celebrated Smyrna.

At all hours of the day and night the sailors in the forecastle amused
themselves and aggravated us by burlesquing our visit to royalty.  The
opening paragraph of our Address to the Emperor was framed as follows:

     "We are a handful of private citizens of America, traveling simply
     for recreation--and unostentatiously, as becomes our unofficial
     state--and, therefore, we have no excuse to tender for presenting
     ourselves before your Majesty, save the desire of offering our
     grateful acknowledgments to the lord of a realm, which, through good
     and through evil report, has been the steadfast friend of the land
     we love so well."

The third cook, crowned with a resplendent tin basin and wrapped royally
in a table-cloth mottled with grease-spots and coffee stains, and bearing
a sceptre that looked strangely like a belaying-pin, walked upon a
dilapidated carpet and perched himself on the capstan, careless of the
flying spray; his tarred and weather-beaten Chamberlains, Dukes and Lord
High Admirals surrounded him, arrayed in all the pomp that spare
tarpaulins and remnants of old sails could furnish.  Then the visiting
"watch below," transformed into graceless ladies and uncouth pilgrims, by
rude travesties upon waterfalls, hoopskirts, white kid gloves and
swallow-tail coats, moved solemnly up the companion way, and bowing low,
began a system of complicated and extraordinary smiling which few
monarchs could look upon and live.  Then the mock consul, a slush-
plastered deck-sweep, drew out a soiled fragment of paper and proceeded
to read, laboriously:

"To His Imperial Majesty, Alexander II., Emperor of Russia:

"We are a handful of private citizens of America, traveling simply for
recreation,--and unostentatiously, as becomes our unofficial state--and
therefore, we have no excuse to tender for presenting ourselves before
your Majesty--"

The Emperor--"Then what the devil did you come for?"

--"Save the desire of offering our grateful acknowledgments to the lord
of a realm which--"

The Emperor--" Oh, d--n the Address!--read it to the police.
Chamberlain, take these people over to my brother, the Grand Duke's, and
give them a square meal.  Adieu!  I am happy--I am gratified--I am
delighted--I am bored.  Adieu, adieu--vamos the ranch!  The First Groom
of the Palace will proceed to count the portable articles of value
belonging to the premises."

The farce then closed, to be repeated again with every change of the
watches, and embellished with new and still more extravagant inventions
of pomp and conversation.

At all times of the day and night the phraseology of that tiresome
address fell upon our ears.  Grimy sailors came down out of the foretop
placidly announcing themselves as "a handful of private citizens of
America, traveling simply for recreation and unostentatiously," etc.; the
coal passers moved to their duties in the profound depths of the ship,
explaining the blackness of their faces and their uncouthness of dress,
with the reminder that they were "a handful of private citizens,
traveling simply for recreation," etc., and when the cry rang through the
vessel at midnight: "EIGHT BELLS!--LARBOARD WATCH, TURN OUT!"  the
larboard watch came gaping and stretching out of their den, with the
everlasting formula: "Aye-aye, sir!  We are a handful of private citizens
of America, traveling simply for recreation, and unostentatiously, as
becomes our unofficial state!"

As I was a member of the committee, and helped to frame the Address,
these sarcasms came home to me.  I never heard a sailor proclaiming
himself as a handful of American citizens traveling for recreation, but I
wished he might trip and fall overboard, and so reduce his handful by one
individual, at least.  I never was so tired of any one phrase as the
sailors made me of the opening sentence of the Address to the Emperor of
Russia.

This seaport of Smyrna, our first notable acquaintance in Asia, is a
closely packed city of one hundred and thirty thousand inhabitants, and,
like Constantinople, it has no outskirts.  It is as closely packed at its
outer edges as it is in the centre, and then the habitations leave
suddenly off and the plain beyond seems houseless.  It is just like any
other Oriental city.  That is to say, its Moslem houses are heavy and
dark, and as comfortless as so many tombs; its streets are crooked,
rudely and roughly paved, and as narrow as an ordinary staircase; the
streets uniformly carry a man to any other place than the one he wants to
go to, and surprise him by landing him in the most unexpected localities;
business is chiefly carried on in great covered bazaars, celled like a
honeycomb with innumerable shops no larger than a common closet, and the
whole hive cut up into a maze of alleys about wide enough to accommodate
a laden camel, and well calculated to confuse a stranger and eventually
lose him; every where there is dirt, every where there are fleas, every
where there are lean, broken-hearted dogs; every alley is thronged with
people; wherever you look, your eye rests upon a wild masquerade of
extravagant costumes; the workshops are all open to the streets, and the
workmen visible; all manner of sounds assail the ear, and over them all
rings out the muezzin's cry from some tall minaret, calling the faithful
vagabonds to prayer; and superior to the call to prayer, the noises in
the streets, the interest of the costumes--superior to every thing, and
claiming the bulk of attention first, last, and all the time--is a
combination of Mohammedan stenches, to which the smell of even a Chinese
quarter would be as pleasant as the roasting odors of the fatted calf to
the nostrils of the returning Prodigal.  Such is Oriental luxury--such is
Oriental splendor!  We read about it all our days, but we comprehend it
not until we see it.  Smyrna is a very old city.  Its name occurs several
times in the Bible, one or two of the disciples of Christ visited it, and
here was located one of the original seven apocalyptic churches spoken of
in Revelations.  These churches were symbolized in the Scriptures as
candlesticks, and on certain conditions there was a sort of implied
promise that Smyrna should be endowed with a "crown of life."  She was to
"be faithful unto death"--those were the terms.  She has not kept up her
faith straight along, but the pilgrims that wander hither consider that
she has come near enough to it to save her, and so they point to the fact
that Smyrna to-day wears her crown of life, and is a great city, with a
great commerce and full of energy, while the cities wherein were located
the other six churches, and to which no crown of life was promised, have
vanished from the earth.  So Smyrna really still possesses her crown of
life, in a business point of view.  Her career, for eighteen centuries,
has been a chequered one, and she has been under the rule of princes of
many creeds, yet there has been no season during all that time, as far as
we know, (and during such seasons as she was inhabited at all,) that she
has been without her little community of Christians "faithful unto
death."  Hers was the only church against which no threats were implied
in the Revelations, and the only one which survived.

With Ephesus, forty miles from here, where was located another of the
seven churches, the case was different.  The "candlestick" has been
removed from Ephesus.  Her light has been put out.  Pilgrims, always
prone to find prophecies in the Bible, and often where none exist, speak
cheerfully and complacently of poor, ruined Ephesus as the victim of
prophecy.  And yet there is no sentence that promises, without due
qualification, the destruction of the city.  The words are:

     "Remember, therefore, from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and
     do the first works; or else I will come unto thee quickly, and will
     remove thy candlestick out of his place, except thou repent."

That is all; the other verses are singularly complimentary to Ephesus.
The threat is qualified.  There is no history to show that she did not
repent.  But the cruelest habit the modern prophecy-savans have, is that
one of coolly and arbitrarily fitting the prophetic shirt on to the wrong
man.  They do it without regard to rhyme or reason.  Both the cases I
have just mentioned are instances in point.  Those "prophecies" are
distinctly leveled at the "churches of Ephesus, Smyrna," etc., and yet
the pilgrims invariably make them refer to the cities instead.  No crown
of life is promised to the town of Smyrna and its commerce, but to the
handful of Christians who formed its "church."  If they were "faithful
unto death," they have their crown now--but no amount of faithfulness and
legal shrewdness combined could legitimately drag the city into a
participation in the promises of the prophecy.  The stately language of
the Bible refers to a crown of life whose lustre will reflect the day-
beams of the endless ages of eternity, not the butterfly existence of a
city built by men's hands, which must pass to dust with the builders and
be forgotten even in the mere handful of centuries vouchsafed to the
solid world itself between its cradle and its grave.

The fashion of delving out fulfillments of prophecy where that prophecy
consists of mere "ifs," trenches upon the absurd.  Suppose, a thousand
years from now, a malarious swamp builds itself up in the shallow harbor
of Smyrna, or something else kills the town; and suppose, also, that
within that time the swamp that has filled the renowned harbor of Ephesus
and rendered her ancient site deadly and uninhabitable to-day, becomes
hard and healthy ground; suppose the natural consequence ensues, to wit:
that Smyrna becomes a melancholy ruin, and Ephesus is rebuilt.  What
would the prophecy-savans say?  They would coolly skip over our age of
the world, and say: "Smyrna was not faithful unto death, and so her crown
of life was denied her; Ephesus repented, and lo!  her candle-stick was
not removed.  Behold these evidences!  How wonderful is prophecy!"

Smyrna has been utterly destroyed six times.  If her crown of life had
been an insurance policy, she would have had an opportunity to collect on
it the first time she fell.  But she holds it on sufferance and by a
complimentary construction of language which does not refer to her.
Six different times, however, I suppose some infatuated prophecy-
enthusiast blundered along and said, to the infinite disgust of Smyrna
and the Smyrniotes: "In sooth, here is astounding fulfillment of
prophecy!  Smyrna hath not been faithful unto death, and behold her crown
of life is vanished from her head.  Verily, these things be astonishing!"

Such things have a bad influence.  They provoke worldly men into using
light conversation concerning sacred subjects.  Thick-headed commentators
upon the Bible, and stupid preachers and teachers, work more damage to
religion than sensible, cool-brained clergymen can fight away again, toil
as they may.  It is not good judgment to fit a crown of life upon a city
which has been destroyed six times.  That other class of wiseacres who
twist prophecy in such a manner as to make it promise the destruction and
desolation of the same city, use judgment just as bad, since the city is
in a very flourishing condition now, unhappily for them.  These things
put arguments into the mouth of infidelity.

A portion of the city is pretty exclusively Turkish; the Jews have a
quarter to themselves; the Franks another quarter; so, also, with the
Armenians.  The Armenians, of course, are Christians.  Their houses are
large, clean, airy, handsomely paved with black and white squares of
marble, and in the centre of many of them is a square court, which has in
it a luxuriant flower-garden and a sparkling fountain; the doors of all
the rooms open on this.  A very wide hall leads to the street door, and
in this the women sit, the most of the day.  In the cool of the evening
they dress up in their best raiment and show themselves at the door.
They are all comely of countenance, and exceedingly neat and cleanly;
they look as if they were just out of a band-box.  Some of the young
ladies--many of them, I may say--are even very beautiful; they average a
shade better than American girls--which treasonable words I pray may be
forgiven me.  They are very sociable, and will smile back when a stranger
smiles at them, bow back when he bows, and talk back if he speaks to
them.  No introduction is required.  An hour's chat at the door with a
pretty girl one never saw before, is easily obtained, and is very
pleasant.  I have tried it.  I could not talk anything but English, and
the girl knew nothing but Greek, or Armenian, or some such barbarous
tongue, but we got along very well.  I find that in cases like these, the
fact that you can not comprehend each other isn't much of a drawback.
In that Russia n town of Yalta I danced an astonishing sort of dance an
hour long, and one I had not heard of before, with a very pretty girl,
and we talked incessantly, and laughed exhaustingly, and neither one ever
knew what the other was driving at.  But it was splendid.  There were
twenty people in the set, and the dance was very lively and complicated.
It was complicated enough without me--with me it was more so.  I threw in
a figure now and then that surprised those Russians.  But I have never
ceased to think of that girl.  I have written to her, but I can not
direct the epistle because her name is one of those nine-jointed Russian
affairs, and there are not letters enough in our alphabet to hold out.
I am not reckless enough to try to pronounce it when I am awake, but I
make a stagger at it in my dreams, and get up with the lockjaw in the
morning.  I am fading.  I do not take my meals now, with any sort of
regularity.  Her dear name haunts me still in my dreams.  It is awful on
teeth.  It never comes out of my mouth but it fetches an old snag along
with it.  And then the lockjaw closes down and nips off a couple of the
last syllables--but they taste good.

Coming through the Dardanelles, we saw camel trains on shore with the
glasses, but we were never close to one till we got to Smyrna.  These
camels are very much larger than the scrawny specimens one sees in the
menagerie.  They stride along these streets, in single file, a dozen in a
train, with heavy loads on their backs, and a fancy-looking negro in
Turkish costume, or an Arab, preceding them on a little donkey and
completely overshadowed and rendered insignificant by the huge beasts.
To see a camel train laden with the spices of Arabia and the rare fabrics
of Persia come marching through the narrow alleys of the bazaar, among
porters with their burdens, money-changers, lamp-merchants, Al-naschars
in the glassware business, portly cross-legged Turks smoking the famous
narghili; and the crowds drifting to and fro in the fanciful costumes of
the East, is a genuine revelation of the Orient.  The picture lacks
nothing.  It casts you back at once into your forgotten boyhood, and
again you dream over the wonders of the Arabian Nights; again your
companions are princes, your lord is the Caliph Haroun Al Raschid, and
your servants are terrific giants and genii that come with smoke and
lightning and thunder, and go as a storm goes when they depart!




CHAPTER XXXIX.

We inquired, and learned that the lions of Smyrna consisted of the ruins
of the ancient citadel, whose broken and prodigious battlements frown
upon the city from a lofty hill just in the edge of the town--the Mount
Pagus of Scripture, they call it; the site of that one of the Seven
Apocalyptic Churches of Asia which was located here in the first century
of the Christian era; and the grave and the place of martyrdom of the
venerable Polycarp, who suffered in Smyrna for his religion some eighteen
hundred years ago.

We took little donkeys and started.  We saw Polycarp's tomb, and then
hurried on.

The "Seven Churches"--thus they abbreviate it--came next on the list.  We
rode there--about a mile and a half in the sweltering sun--and visited a
little Greek church which they said was built upon the ancient site; and
we paid a small fee, and the holy attendant gave each of us a little wax
candle as a remembrancer of the place, and I put mine in my hat and the
sun melted it and the grease all ran down the back of my neck; and so now
I have not any thing left but the wick, and it is a sorry and a wilted-
looking wick at that.

Several of us argued as well as we could that the "church" mentioned in
the Bible meant a party of Christians, and not a building; that the Bible
spoke of them as being very poor--so poor, I thought, and so subject to
persecution (as per Polycarp's martyrdom) that in the first place they
probably could not have afforded a church edifice, and in the second
would not have dared to build it in the open light of day if they could;
and finally, that if they had had the privilege of building it, common
judgment would have suggested that they build it somewhere near the town.
But the elders of the ship's family ruled us down and scouted our
evidences.  However, retribution came to them afterward.  They found that
they had been led astray and had gone to the wrong place; they discovered
that the accepted site is in the city.

Riding through the town, we could see marks of the six Smyrnas that have
existed here and been burned up by fire or knocked down by earthquakes.
The hills and the rocks are rent asunder in places, excavations expose
great blocks of building-stone that have lain buried for ages, and all
the mean houses and walls of modern Smyrna along the way are spotted
white with broken pillars, capitals and fragments of sculptured marble
that once adorned the lordly palaces that were the glory of the city in
the olden time.

The ascent of the hill of the citadel is very steep, and we proceeded
rather slowly.  But there were matters of interest about us.  In one
place, five hundred feet above the sea, the perpendicular bank on the
upper side of the road was ten or fifteen feet high, and the cut exposed
three veins of oyster shells, just as we have seen quartz veins exposed
in the cutting of a road in Nevada or Montana.  The veins were about
eighteen inches thick and two or three feet apart, and they slanted along
downward for a distance of thirty feet or more, and then disappeared
where the cut joined the road.  Heaven only knows how far a man might
trace them by "stripping."  They were clean, nice oyster shells, large,
and just like any other oyster shells.  They were thickly massed
together, and none were scattered above or below the veins.  Each one was
a well-defined lead by itself, and without a spur.  My first instinct was
to set up the usual--

                                 NOTICE:

     "We, the undersigned, claim five claims of two hundred feet each,
     (and one for discovery,) on this ledge or lode of oyster-shells,
     with all its dips, spurs, angles, variations and sinuosities, and
     fifty feet on each side of the same, to work it, etc., etc.,
     according to the mining laws of Smyrna."

They were such perfectly natural-looking leads that I could hardly keep
from "taking them up."  Among the oyster-shells were mixed many fragments
of ancient, broken crockery ware.  Now how did those masses of oyster-
shells get there?  I can not determine.  Broken crockery and oyster-
shells are suggestive of restaurants--but then they could have had no
such places away up there on that mountain side in our time, because
nobody has lived up there.  A restaurant would not pay in such a stony,
forbidding, desolate place.  And besides, there were no champagne corks
among the shells.  If there ever was a restaurant there, it must have
been in Smyrna's palmy days, when the hills were covered with palaces.
I could believe in one restaurant, on those terms; but then how about the
three?  Did they have restaurants there at three different periods of the
world?--because there are two or three feet of solid earth between the
oyster leads.  Evidently, the restaurant solution will not answer.

The hill might have been the bottom of the sea, once, and been lifted up,
with its oyster-beds, by an earthquake--but, then, how about the
crockery?  And moreover, how about three oyster beds, one above another,
and thick strata of good honest earth between?

That theory will not do.  It is just possible that this hill is Mount
Ararat, and that Noah's Ark rested here, and he ate oysters and threw the
shells overboard.  But that will not do, either.  There are the three
layers again and the solid earth between--and, besides, there were only
eight in Noah's family, and they could not have eaten all these oysters
in the two or three months they staid on top of that mountain.  The
beasts--however, it is simply absurd to suppose he did not know any more
than to feed the beasts on oyster suppers.

It is painful--it is even humiliating--but I am reduced at last to one
slender theory: that the oysters climbed up there of their own accord.
But what object could they have had in view?--what did they want up
there?  What could any oyster want to climb a hill for?  To climb a hill
must necessarily be fatiguing and annoying exercise for an oyster.  The
most natural conclusion would be that the oysters climbed up there to
look at the scenery.  Yet when one comes to reflect upon the nature of an
oyster, it seems plain that he does not care for scenery.  An oyster has
no taste for such things; he cares nothing for the beautiful.  An oyster
is of a retiring disposition, and not lively--not even cheerful above the
average, and never enterprising.  But above all, an oyster does not take
any interest in scenery--he scorns it.  What have I arrived at now?
Simply at the point I started from, namely, those oyster shells are
there, in regular layers, five hundred feet above the sea, and no man
knows how they got there.  I have hunted up the guide-books, and the gist
of what they say is this: "They are there, but how they got there is a
mystery."

Twenty-five years ago, a multitude of people in America put on their
ascension robes, took a tearful leave of their friends, and made ready to
fly up into heaven at the first blast of the trumpet.  But the angel did
not blow it.  Miller's resurrection day was a failure.  The Millerites
were disgusted.  I did not suspect that there were Millers in Asia Minor,
but a gentleman tells me that they had it all set for the world to come
to an end in Smyrna one day about three years ago.  There was much
buzzing and preparation for a long time previously, and it culminated in
a wild excitement at the appointed time.  A vast number of the populace
ascended the citadel hill early in the morning, to get out of the way of
the general destruction, and many of the infatuated closed up their shops
and retired from all earthly business.  But the strange part of it was
that about three in the afternoon, while this gentleman and his friends
were at dinner in the hotel, a terrific storm of rain, accompanied by
thunder and lightning, broke forth and continued with dire fury for two
or three hours.  It was a thing unprecedented in Smyrna at that time of
the year, and scared some of the most skeptical.  The streets ran rivers
and the hotel floor was flooded with water.  The dinner had to be
suspended.  When the storm finished and left every body drenched through
and through, and melancholy and half-drowned, the ascensionists came down
from the mountain as dry as so many charity-sermons!  They had been
looking down upon the fearful storm going on below, and really believed
that their proposed destruction of the world was proving a grand success.

A railway here in Asia--in the dreamy realm of the Orient--in the fabled
land of the Arabian Nights--is a strange thing to think of.  And yet they
have one already, and are building another.  The present one is well
built and well conducted, by an English Company, but is not doing an
immense amount of business.  The first year it carried a good many
passengers, but its freight list only comprised eight hundred pounds of
figs!

It runs almost to the very gates of Ephesus--a town great in all ages of
the world--a city familiar to readers of the Bible, and one which was as
old as the very hills when the disciples of Christ preached in its
streets.  It dates back to the shadowy ages of tradition, and was the
birthplace of gods renowned in Grecian mythology.  The idea of a
locomotive tearing through such a place as this, and waking the phantoms
of its old days of romance out of their dreams of dead and gone
centuries, is curious enough.

We journey thither tomorrow to see the celebrated ruins.




CHAPTER XL.

This has been a stirring day.  The Superintendent of the railway put a
train at our disposal, and did us the further kindness of accompanying us
to Ephesus and giving to us his watchful care.  We brought sixty scarcely
perceptible donkeys in the freight cars, for we had much ground to go
over.  We have seen some of the most grotesque costumes, along the line
of the railroad, that can be imagined.  I am glad that no possible
combination of words could describe them, for I might then be foolish
enough to attempt it.

At ancient Ayassalook, in the midst of a forbidding desert, we came upon
long lines of ruined aqueducts, and other remnants of architectural
grandeur, that told us plainly enough we were nearing what had been a
metropolis, once.  We left the train and mounted the donkeys, along with
our invited guests--pleasant young gentlemen from the officers' list of
an American man-of-war.

The little donkeys had saddles upon them which were made very high in
order that the rider's feet might not drag the ground.  The preventative
did not work well in the cases of our tallest pilgrims, however.  There
were no bridles--nothing but a single rope, tied to the bit.  It was
purely ornamental, for the donkey cared nothing for it.  If he were
drifting to starboard, you might put your helm down hard the other way,
if it were any satisfaction to you to do it, but he would continue to
drift to starboard all the same.  There was only one process which could
be depended on, and it was to get down and lift his rear around until his
head pointed in the right direction, or take him under your arm and carry
him to a part of the road which he could not get out of without climbing.
The sun flamed down as hot as a furnace, and neck-scarfs, veils and
umbrellas seemed hardly any protection; they served only to make the long
procession look more than ever fantastic--for be it known the ladies were
all riding astride because they could not stay on the shapeless saddles
sidewise, the men were perspiring and out of temper, their feet were
banging against the rocks, the donkeys were capering in every direction
but the right one and being belabored with clubs for it, and every now
and then a broad umbrella would suddenly go down out of the cavalcade,
announcing to all that one more pilgrim had bitten the dust.  It was a
wilder picture than those solitudes had seen for many a day.  No donkeys
ever existed that were as hard to navigate as these, I think, or that had
so many vile, exasperating instincts.  Occasionally we grew so tired and
breathless with fighting them that we had to desist,--and immediately the
donkey would come down to a deliberate walk.  This, with the fatigue, and
the sun, would put a man asleep; and soon as the man was asleep, the
donkey would lie down.  My donkey shall never see his boyhood's home
again.  He has lain down once too often. He must die.

We all stood in the vast theatre of ancient Ephesus,--the stone-benched
amphitheatre I mean--and had our picture taken.  We looked as proper
there as we would look any where, I suppose.  We do not embellish the
general desolation of a desert much.  We add what dignity we can to a
stately ruin with our green umbrellas and jackasses, but it is little.
However, we mean well.

I wish to say a brief word of the aspect of Ephesus.

On a high, steep hill, toward the sea, is a gray ruin of ponderous blocks
of marble, wherein, tradition says, St. Paul was imprisoned eighteen
centuries ago.  From these old walls you have the finest view of the
desolate scene where once stood Ephesus, the proudest city of ancient
times, and whose Temple of Diana was so noble in design, and so exquisite
of workmanship, that it ranked high in the list of the Seven Wonders of
the World.

Behind you is the sea; in front is a level green valley, (a marsh, in
fact,) extending far away among the mountains; to the right of the front
view is the old citadel of Ayassalook, on a high hill; the ruined Mosque
of the Sultan Selim stands near it in the plain, (this is built over the
grave of St. John, and was formerly Christian Church ;) further toward
you is the hill of Pion, around whose front is clustered all that remains
of the ruins of Ephesus that still stand; divided from it by a narrow
valley is the long, rocky, rugged mountain of Coressus.  The scene is a
pretty one, and yet desolate--for in that wide plain no man can live, and
in it is no human habitation.  But for the crumbling arches and monstrous
piers and broken walls that rise from the foot of the hill of Pion, one
could not believe that in this place once stood a city whose renown is
older than tradition itself.  It is incredible to reflect that things as
familiar all over the world to-day as household words, belong in the
history and in the shadowy legends of this silent, mournful solitude.
We speak of Apollo and of Diana--they were born here; of the
metamorphosis of Syrinx into a reed--it was done here; of the great god
Pan--he dwelt in the caves of this hill of Coressus; of the Amazons--this
was their best prized home; of Bacchus and Hercules both fought the
warlike women here; of the Cyclops--they laid the ponderous marble blocks
of some of the ruins yonder; of Homer--this was one of his many
birthplaces; of Cirmon of Athens; of Alcibiades, Lysander, Agesilaus--
they visited here; so did Alexander the Great; so did Hannibal and
Antiochus, Scipio, Lucullus and Sylla; Brutus, Cassius, Pompey, Cicero,
and Augustus; Antony was a judge in this place, and left his seat in the
open court, while the advocates were speaking, to run after Cleopatra,
who passed the door; from this city these two sailed on pleasure
excursions, in galleys with silver oars and perfumed sails, and with
companies of beautiful girls to serve them, and actors and musicians to
amuse them; in days that seem almost modern, so remote are they from the
early history of this city, Paul the Apostle preached the new religion
here, and so did John, and here it is supposed the former was pitted
against wild beasts, for in 1 Corinthians, xv. 32 he says:

     "If after the manner of men I have fought with beasts at Ephesus,"
     &c.,

when many men still lived who had seen the Christ; here Mary Magdalen
died, and here the Virgin Mary ended her days with John, albeit Rome has
since judged it best to locate her grave elsewhere; six or seven hundred
years ago--almost yesterday, as it were--troops of mail-clad Crusaders
thronged the streets; and to come down to trifles, we speak of meandering
streams, and find a new interest in a common word when we discover that
the crooked river Meander, in yonder valley, gave it to our dictionary.
It makes me feel as old as these dreary hills to look down upon these
moss-hung ruins, this historic desolation.  One may read the Scriptures
and believe, but he can not go and stand yonder in the ruined theatre and
in imagination people it again with the vanished multitudes who mobbed
Paul's comrades there and shouted, with one voice, "Great is Diana of the
Ephesians!"  The idea of a shout in such a solitude as this almost makes
one shudder.

It was a wonderful city, this Ephesus.  Go where you will about these
broad plains, you find the most exquisitely sculptured marble fragments
scattered thick among the dust and weeds; and protruding from the ground,
or lying prone upon it, are beautiful fluted columns of porphyry and all
precious marbles; and at every step you find elegantly carved capitals
and massive bases, and polished tablets engraved with Greek inscriptions.
It is a world of precious relics, a wilderness of marred and mutilated
gems.  And yet what are these things to the wonders that lie buried here
under the ground?  At Constantinople, at Pisa, in the cities of Spain,
are great mosques and cathedrals, whose grandest columns came from the
temples and palaces of Ephesus, and yet one has only to scratch the
ground here to match them.  We shall never know what magnificence is,
until this imperial city is laid bare to the sun.

The finest piece of sculpture we have yet seen and the one that impressed
us most, (for we do not know much about art and can not easily work up
ourselves into ecstasies over it,) is one that lies in this old theatre
of Ephesus which St. Paul's riot has made so celebrated.  It is only the
headless body of a man, clad in a coat of mail, with a Medusa head upon
the breast-plate, but we feel persuaded that such dignity and such
majesty were never thrown into a form of stone before.

What builders they were, these men of antiquity!  The massive arches of
some of these ruins rest upon piers that are fifteen feet square and
built entirely of solid blocks of marble, some of which are as large as a
Saratoga trunk, and some the size of a boarding-house sofa.  They are not
shells or shafts of stone filled inside with rubbish, but the whole pier
is a mass of solid masonry.  Vast arches, that may have been the gates of
the city, are built in the same way.  They have braved the storms and
sieges of three thousand years, and have been shaken by many an
earthquake, but still they stand.  When they dig alongside of them, they
find ranges of ponderous masonry that are as perfect in every detail as
they were the day those old Cyclopian giants finished them.  An English
Company is going to excavate Ephesus--and then!

And now am I reminded of--

                    THE LEGEND OF THE SEVEN SLEEPERS.

In the Mount of Pion, yonder, is the Cave of the Seven Sleepers.  Once
upon a time, about fifteen hundred years ago, seven young men lived near
each other in Ephesus, who belonged to the despised sect of the
Christians.  It came to pass that the good King Maximilianus, (I am
telling this story for nice little boys and girls,) it came to pass, I
say, that the good King Maximilianus fell to persecuting the Christians,
and as time rolled on he made it very warm for them.  So the seven young
men said one to the other, let us get up and travel.  And they got up and
traveled.  They tarried not to bid their fathers and mothers good-bye, or
any friend they knew.  They only took certain moneys which their parents
had, and garments that belonged unto their friends, whereby they might
remember them when far away; and they took also the dog Ketmehr, which
was the property of their neighbor Malchus, because the beast did run his
head into a noose which one of the young men was carrying carelessly, and
they had not time to release him; and they took also certain chickens
that seemed lonely in the neighboring coops, and likewise some bottles of
curious liquors that stood near the grocer's window; and then they
departed from the city.  By-and-by they came to a marvelous cave in the
Hill of Pion and entered into it and feasted, and presently they hurried
on again.  But they forgot the bottles of curious liquors, and left them
behind.  They traveled in many lands, and had many strange adventures.
They were virtuous young men, and lost no opportunity that fell in their
way to make their livelihood.  Their motto was in these words, namely,
"Procrastination is the thief of time."  And so, whenever they did come
upon a man who was alone, they said, Behold, this person hath the
wherewithal--let us go through him.  And they went through him.  At the
end of five years they had waxed tired of travel and adventure, and
longed to revisit their old home again and hear the voices and see the
faces that were dear unto their youth.  Therefore they went through such
parties as fell in their way where they sojourned at that time, and
journeyed back toward Ephesus again.  For the good King Maximilianus was
become converted unto the new faith, and the Christians rejoiced because
they were no longer persecuted.  One day as the sun went down, they came
to the cave in the Mount of Pion, and they said, each to his fellow, Let
us sleep here, and go and feast and make merry with our friends when the
morning cometh.  And each of the seven lifted up his voice and said, It
is a whiz.  So they went in, and lo, where they had put them, there lay
the bottles of strange liquors, and they judged that age had not impaired
their excellence.  Wherein the wanderers were right, and the heads of the
same were level.  So each of the young men drank six bottles, and behold
they felt very tired, then, and lay down and slept soundly.

When they awoke, one of them, Johannes--surnamed Smithianus--said, We are
naked.  And it was so.  Their raiment was all gone, and the money which
they had gotten from a stranger whom they had proceeded through as they
approached the city, was lying upon the ground, corroded and rusted and
defaced.  Likewise the dog Ketmehr was gone, and nothing save the brass
that was upon his collar remained.  They wondered much at these things.
But they took the money, and they wrapped about their bodies some leaves,
and came up to the top of the hill.  Then were they perplexed.  The
wonderful temple of Diana was gone; many grand edifices they had never
seen before stood in the city; men in strange garbs moved about the
streets, and every thing was changed.

Johannes said, It hardly seems like Ephesus.  Yet here is the great
gymnasium; here is the mighty theatre, wherein I have seen seventy
thousand men assembled; here is the Agora; there is the font where the
sainted John the Baptist immersed the converts; yonder is the prison of
the good St. Paul, where we all did use to go to touch the ancient chains
that bound him and be cured of our distempers; I see the tomb of the
disciple Luke, and afar off is the church wherein repose the ashes of the
holy John, where the Christians of Ephesus go twice a year to gather the
dust from the tomb, which is able to make bodies whole again that are
corrupted by disease, and cleanse the soul from sin; but see how the
wharves encroach upon the sea, and what multitudes of ships are anchored
in the bay; see, also, how the city hath stretched abroad, far over the
valley behind Pion, and even unto the walls of Ayassalook; and lo, all
the hills are white with palaces and ribbed with colonnades of marble.
How mighty is Ephesus become!

And wondering at what their eyes had seen, they went down into the city
and purchased garments and clothed themselves.  And when they would have
passed on, the merchant bit the coins which they had given him, with his
teeth, and turned them about and looked curiously upon them, and cast
them upon his counter, and listened if they rang; and then he said, These
be bogus.  And they said, Depart thou to Hades, and went their way.  When
they were come to their houses, they recognized them, albeit they seemed
old and mean; and they rejoiced, and were glad.  They ran to the doors,
and knocked, and strangers opened, and looked inquiringly upon them.  And
they said, with great excitement, while their hearts beat high, and the
color in their faces came and went, Where is my father?  Where is my
mother?  Where are Dionysius and Serapion, and Pericles, and Decius?  And
the strangers that opened said, We know not these.  The Seven said, How,
you know them not?  How long have ye dwelt here, and whither are they
gone that dwelt here before ye?  And the strangers said, Ye play upon us
with a jest, young men; we and our fathers have sojourned under these
roofs these six generations; the names ye utter rot upon the tombs, and
they that bore them have run their brief race, have laughed and sung,
have borne the sorrows and the weariness that were allotted them, and are
at rest; for nine-score years the summers have come and gone, and the
autumn leaves have fallen, since the roses faded out of their cheeks and
they laid them to sleep with the dead.

Then the seven young men turned them away from their homes, and the
strangers shut the doors upon them.  The wanderers marveled greatly, and
looked into the faces of all they met, as hoping to find one that they
knew; but all were strange, and passed them by and spake no friendly
word.  They were sore distressed and sad.  Presently they spake unto a
citizen and said, Who is King in Ephesus?  And the citizen answered and
said, Whence come ye that ye know not that great Laertius reigns in
Ephesus?  They looked one at the other, greatly perplexed, and presently
asked again, Where, then, is the good King Maximilianus?  The citizen
moved him apart, as one who is afraid, and said, Verily these men be mad,
and dream dreams, else would they know that the King whereof they speak
is dead above two hundred years agone.

Then the scales fell from the eyes of the Seven, and one said, Alas, that
we drank of the curious liquors.  They have made us weary, and in
dreamless sleep these two long centuries have we lain.  Our homes are
desolate, our friends are dead.  Behold, the jig is up--let us die.  And
that same day went they forth and laid them down and died.  And in that
self-same day, likewise, the Seven-up did cease in Ephesus, for that the
Seven that were up were down again, and departed and dead withal.  And
the names that be upon their tombs, even unto this time, are Johannes
Smithianus, Trumps, Gift, High, and Low, Jack, and The Game.  And with
the sleepers lie also the bottles wherein were once the curious liquors:
and upon them is writ, in ancient letters, such words as these--Dames of
heathen gods of olden time, perchance: Rumpunch, Jinsling, Egnog.

Such is the story of the Seven Sleepers, (with slight variations,) and I
know it is true, because I have seen the cave myself.

Really, so firm a faith had the ancients this legend, that as late as
eight or nine hundred years ago, learned travelers held it in
superstitious fear.  Two of them record that they ventured into it, but
ran quickly out again, not daring to tarry lest they should fall asleep
and outlive their great grand-children a century or so.  Even at this day
the ignorant denizens of the neighboring country prefer not to sleep in
it.




CHAPTER XLI.

When I last made a memorandum, we were at Ephesus.  We are in Syria, now,
encamped in the mountains of Lebanon.  The interregnum has been long,
both as to time and distance.  We brought not a relic from Ephesus!
After gathering up fragments of sculptured marbles and breaking ornaments
from the interior work of the Mosques; and after bringing them at a cost
of infinite trouble and fatigue, five miles on muleback to the railway
depot, a government officer compelled all who had such things to
disgorge!  He had an order from Constantinople to look out for our party,
and see that we carried nothing off.  It was a wise, a just, and a well-
deserved rebuke, but it created a sensation.  I never resist a temptation
to plunder a stranger's premises without feeling insufferably vain about
it.  This time I felt proud beyond expression.  I was serene in the midst
of the scoldings that were heaped upon the Ottoman government for its
affront offered to a pleasuring party of entirely respectable gentlemen
and ladies I said, "We that have free souls, it touches us not."  The
shoe not only pinched our party, but it pinched hard; a principal
sufferer discovered that the imperial order was inclosed in an envelop
bearing the seal of the British Embassy at Constantinople, and therefore
must have been inspired by the representative of the Queen.  This was
bad--very bad.  Coming solely from the Ottomans, it might have signified
only Ottoman hatred of Christians, and a vulgar ignorance as to genteel
methods of expressing it; but coming from the Christianized, educated,
politic British legation, it simply intimated that we were a sort of
gentlemen and ladies who would bear watching!  So the party regarded it,
and were incensed accordingly.  The truth doubtless was, that the same
precautions would have been taken against any travelers, because the
English Company who have acquired the right to excavate Ephesus, and have
paid a great sum for that right, need to be protected, and deserve to be.
They can not afford to run the risk of having their hospitality abused by
travelers, especially since travelers are such notorious scorners of
honest behavior.

We sailed from Smyrna, in the wildest spirit of expectancy, for the chief
feature, the grand goal of the expedition, was near at hand--we were
approaching the Holy Land!  Such a burrowing into the hold for trunks
that had lain buried for weeks, yes for months; such a hurrying to and
fro above decks and below; such a riotous system of packing and
unpacking; such a littering up of the cabins with shirts and skirts, and
indescribable and unclassable odds and ends; such a making up of bundles,
and setting apart of umbrellas, green spectacles and thick veils; such a
critical inspection of saddles and bridles that had never yet touched
horses; such a cleaning and loading of revolvers and examining of bowie-
knives; such a half-soling of the seats of pantaloons with serviceable
buckskin; then such a poring over ancient maps; such a reading up of
Bibles and Palestine travels; such a marking out of routes; such
exasperating efforts to divide up the company into little bands of
congenial spirits who might make the long and arduous Journey without
quarreling; and morning, noon and night, such mass-meetings in the
cabins, such speech-making, such sage suggesting, such worrying and
quarreling, and such a general raising of the very mischief, was never
seen in the ship before!

But it is all over now.  We are cut up into parties of six or eight, and
by this time are scattered far and wide.  Ours is the only one, however,
that is venturing on what is called "the long trip"--that is, out into
Syria, by Baalbec to Damascus, and thence down through the full length of
Palestine.  It would be a tedious, and also a too risky journey, at this
hot season of the year, for any but strong, healthy men, accustomed
somewhat to fatigue and rough life in the open air.  The other parties
will take shorter journeys.

For the last two months we have been in a worry about one portion of this
Holy Land pilgrimage.  I refer to transportation service.  We knew very
well that Palestine was a country which did not do a large passenger
business, and every man we came across who knew any thing about it gave
us to understand that not half of our party would be able to get dragomen
and animals.  At Constantinople every body fell to telegraphing the
American Consuls at Alexandria and Beirout to give notice that we wanted
dragomen and transportation.  We were desperate--would take horses,
jackasses, cameleopards, kangaroos--any thing.  At Smyrna, more
telegraphing was done, to the same end.  Also fearing for the worst, we
telegraphed for a large number of seats in the diligence for Damascus,
and horses for the ruins of Baalbec.

As might have been expected, a notion got abroad in Syria and Egypt that
the whole population of the Province of America (the Turks consider us a
trifling little province in some unvisited corner of the world,) were
coming to the Holy Land--and so, when we got to Beirout yesterday, we
found the place full of dragomen and their outfits.  We had all intended
to go by diligence to Damascus, and switch off to Baalbec as we went
along--because we expected to rejoin the ship, go to Mount Carmel, and
take to the woods from there.  However, when our own private party of
eight found that it was possible, and proper enough, to make the "long
trip," we adopted that programme.  We have never been much trouble to a
Consul before, but we have been a fearful nuisance to our Consul at
Beirout.  I mention this because I can not help admiring his patience,
his industry, and his accommodating spirit.  I mention it also, because I
think some of our ship's company did not give him as full credit for his
excellent services as he deserved.

Well, out of our eight, three were selected to attend to all business
connected with the expedition.  The rest of us had nothing to do but look
at the beautiful city of Beirout, with its bright, new houses nestled
among a wilderness of green shrubbery spread abroad over an upland that
sloped gently down to the sea; and also at the mountains of Lebanon that
environ it; and likewise to bathe in the transparent blue water that
rolled its billows about the ship (we did not know there were sharks
there.) We had also to range up and down through the town and look at the
costumes.  These are picturesque and fanciful, but not so varied as at
Constantinople and Smyrna; the women of Beirout add an agony--in the two
former cities the sex wear a thin veil which one can see through (and
they often expose their ancles,) but at Beirout they cover their entire
faces with dark-colored or black veils, so that they look like mummies,
and then expose their breasts to the public.  A young gentleman (I
believe he was a Greek,) volunteered to show us around the city, and said
it would afford him great pleasure, because he was studying English and
wanted practice in that language.  When we had finished the rounds,
however, he called for remuneration--said he hoped the gentlemen would
give him a trifle in the way of a few piastres (equivalent to a few five
cent pieces.)  We did so.  The Consul was surprised when he heard it, and
said he knew the young fellow's family very well, and that they were an
old and highly respectable family and worth a hundred and fifty thousand
dollars!  Some people, so situated, would have been ashamed of the berth
he had with us and his manner of crawling into it.

At the appointed time our business committee reported, and said all
things were in readdress--that we were to start to-day, with horses, pack
animals, and tents, and go to Baalbec, Damascus, the Sea of Tiberias, and
thence southward by the way of the scene of Jacob's Dream and other
notable Bible localities to Jerusalem--from thence probably to the Dead
Sea, but possibly not--and then strike for the ocean and rejoin the ship
three or four weeks hence at Joppa; terms, five dollars a day apiece, in
gold, and every thing to be furnished by the dragoman.  They said we
would lie as well as at a hotel.  I had read something like that before,
and did not shame my judgment by believing a word of it.  I said nothing,
however, but packed up a blanket and a shawl to sleep in, pipes and
tobacco, two or three woollen shirts, a portfolio, a guide-book, and a
Bible.  I also took along a towel and a cake of soap, to inspire respect
in the Arabs, who would take me for a king in disguise.

We were to select our horses at 3 P.M.  At that hour Abraham, the
dragoman, marshaled them before us.  With all solemnity I set it down
here, that those horses were the hardest lot I ever did come across, and
their accoutrements were in exquisite keeping with their style.  One
brute had an eye out; another had his tail sawed off close, like a
rabbit, and was proud of it; another had a bony ridge running from his
neck to his tail, like one of those ruined aqueducts one sees about Rome,
and had a neck on him like a bowsprit; they all limped, and had sore
backs, and likewise raw places and old scales scattered about their
persons like brass nails in a hair trunk; their gaits were marvelous to
contemplate, and replete with variety under way the procession looked
like a fleet in a storm.  It was fearful.  Blucher shook his head and
said:

"That dragon is going to get himself into trouble fetching these old
crates out of the hospital the way they are, unless he has got a permit."

I said nothing.  The display was exactly according to the guide-book, and
were we not traveling by the guide-book?  I selected a certain horse
because I thought I saw him shy, and I thought that a horse that had
spirit enough to shy was not to be despised.

At 6 o'clock P.M., we came to a halt here on the breezy summit of a
shapely mountain overlooking the sea, and the handsome valley where dwelt
some of those enterprising Phoenicians of ancient times we read so much
about; all around us are what were once the dominions of Hiram, King of
Tyre, who furnished timber from the cedars of these Lebanon hills to
build portions of King Solomon's Temple with.

Shortly after six, our pack train arrived.  I had not seen it before, and
a good right I had to be astonished.  We had nineteen serving men and
twenty-six pack mules!  It was a perfect caravan.  It looked like one,
too, as it wound among the rocks.  I wondered what in the very mischief
we wanted with such a vast turn-out as that, for eight men.  I wondered
awhile, but soon I began to long for a tin plate, and some bacon and
beans.  I had camped out many and many a time before, and knew just what
was coming.  I went off, without waiting for serving men, and unsaddled
my horse, and washed such portions of his ribs and his spine as projected
through his hide, and when I came back, behold five stately circus tents
were up--tents that were brilliant, within, with blue, and gold, and
crimson, and all manner of splendid adornment!  I was speechless.  Then
they brought eight little iron bedsteads, and set them up in the tents;
they put a soft mattress and pillows and good blankets and two snow-white
sheets on each bed.  Next, they rigged a table about the centre-pole, and
on it placed pewter pitchers, basins, soap, and the whitest of towels--
one set for each man; they pointed to pockets in the tent, and said we
could put our small trifles in them for convenience, and if we needed
pins or such things, they were sticking every where.  Then came the
finishing touch--they spread carpets on the floor!  I simply said, "If
you call this camping out, all right--but it isn't the style I am used
to; my little baggage that I brought along is at a discount."

It grew dark, and they put candles on the tables--candles set in bright,
new, brazen candlesticks.  And soon the bell--a genuine, simon-pure bell
--rang, and we were invited to "the saloon."  I had thought before that
we had a tent or so too many, but now here was one, at least, provided
for; it was to be used for nothing but an eating-saloon.  Like the
others, it was high enough for a family of giraffes to live in, and was
very handsome and clean and bright-colored within.  It was a gem of a
place.  A table for eight, and eight canvas chairs; a table-cloth and
napkins whose whiteness and whose fineness laughed to scorn the things we
were used to in the great excursion steamer; knives and forks, soup-
plates, dinner-plates--every thing, in the handsomest kind of style.  It
was wonderful!  And they call this camping out.  Those stately fellows in
baggy trowsers and turbaned fezzes brought in a dinner which consisted of
roast mutton, roast chicken, roast goose, potatoes, bread, tea, pudding,
apples, and delicious grapes; the viands were better cooked than any we
had eaten for weeks, and the table made a finer appearance, with its
large German silver candlesticks and other finery, than any table we had
sat down to for a good while, and yet that polite dragoman, Abraham, came
bowing in and apologizing for the whole affair, on account of the
unavoidable confusion of getting under way for a very long trip, and
promising to do a great deal better in future!

It is midnight, now, and we break camp at six in the morning.

They call this camping out.  At this rate it is a glorious privilege to
be a pilgrim to the Holy Land.




CHAPTER XLII.

We are camped near Temnin-el-Foka--a name which the boys have simplified
a good deal, for the sake of convenience in spelling.  They call it
Jacksonville.  It sounds a little strangely, here in the Valley of
Lebanon, but it has the merit of being easier to remember than the Arabic
name.

                     "COME LIKE SPIRITS, SO DEPART."

                 "The night shall be filled with music,
                   And the cares that infest the day
                 Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
                      And as silently steal away."

I slept very soundly last night, yet when the dragoman's bell rang at
half-past five this morning and the cry went abroad of "Ten minutes to
dress for breakfast!"  I heard both.  It surprised me, because I have not
heard the breakfast gong in the ship for a month, and whenever we have
had occasion to fire a salute at daylight, I have only found it out in
the course of conversation afterward.  However, camping out, even though
it be in a gorgeous tent, makes one fresh and lively in the morning--
especially if the air you are breathing is the cool, fresh air of the
mountains.

I was dressed within the ten minutes, and came out.  The saloon tent had
been stripped of its sides, and had nothing left but its roof; so when we
sat down to table we could look out over a noble panorama of mountain,
sea and hazy valley.  And sitting thus, the sun rose slowly up and
suffused the picture with a world of rich coloring.

Hot mutton chops, fried chicken, omelettes, fried potatoes and coffee--
all excellent.  This was the bill of fare.  It was sauced with a savage
appetite purchased by hard riding the day before, and refreshing sleep in
a pure atmosphere.  As I called for a second cup of coffee, I glanced
over my shoulder, and behold our white village was gone--the splendid
tents had vanished like magic!  It was wonderful how quickly those Arabs
had "folded their tents;" and it was wonderful, also, how quickly they
had gathered the thousand odds and ends of the camp together and
disappeared with them.

By half-past six we were under way, and all the Syrian world seemed to be
under way also.  The road was filled with mule trains and long
processions of camels.  This reminds me that we have been trying for some
time to think what a camel looks like, and now we have made it out.  When
he is down on all his knees, flat on his breast to receive his load, he
looks something like a goose swimming; and when he is upright he looks
like an ostrich with an extra set of legs.  Camels are not beautiful, and
their long under lip gives them an exceedingly "gallus"--[Excuse the
slang, no other word will describe it]--expression.  They have immense,
flat, forked cushions of feet, that make a track in the dust like a pie
with a slice cut out of it.  They are not particular about their diet.
They would eat a tombstone if they could bite it.  A thistle grows about
here which has needles on it that would pierce through leather, I think;
if one touches you, you can find relief in nothing but profanity.  The
camels eat these.  They show by their actions that they enjoy them.  I
suppose it would be a real treat to a camel to have a keg of nails for
supper.

While I am speaking of animals, I will mention that I have a horse now by
the name of "Jericho."  He is a mare.  I have seen remarkable horses
before, but none so remarkable as this.  I wanted a horse that could shy,
and this one fills the bill.  I had an idea that shying indicated spirit.
If I was correct, I have got the most spirited horse on earth.  He shies
at every thing he comes across, with the utmost impartiality.  He appears
to have a mortal dread of telegraph poles, especially; and it is
fortunate that these are on both sides of the road, because as it is now,
I never fall off twice in succession on the same side.  If I fell on the
same side always, it would get to be monotonous after a while.  This
creature has scared at every thing he has seen to-day, except a haystack.
He walked up to that with an intrepidity and a recklessness that were
astonishing.  And it would fill any one with admiration to see how he
preserves his self-possession in the presence of a barley sack.  This
dare-devil bravery will be the death of this horse some day.

He is not particularly fast, but I think he will get me through the Holy
Land.  He has only one fault.  His tail has been chopped off or else he
has sat down on it too hard, some time or other, and he has to fight the
flies with his heels.  This is all very well, but when he tries to kick a
fly off the top of his head with his hind foot, it is too much variety.
He is going to get himself into trouble that way some day.  He reaches
around and bites my legs too.  I do not care particularly about that,
only I do not like to see a horse too sociable.

I think the owner of this prize had a wrong opinion about him.  He had an
idea that he was one of those fiery, untamed steeds, but he is not of
that character.  I know the Arab had this idea, because when he brought
the horse out for inspection in Beirout, he kept jerking at the bridle
and shouting in Arabic, "Ho!  will you?  Do you want to run away, you
ferocious beast, and break your neck?" when all the time the horse was
not doing anything in the world, and only looked like he wanted to lean
up against something and think.  Whenever he is not shying at things, or
reaching after a fly, he wants to do that yet.  How it would surprise his
owner to know this.

We have been in a historical section of country all day.  At noon we
camped three hours and took luncheon at Mekseh, near the junction of the
Lebanon Mountains and the Jebel el Kuneiyiseh, and looked down into the
immense, level, garden-like Valley of Lebanon.  To-night we are camping
near the same valley, and have a very wide sweep of it in view.  We can
see the long, whale-backed ridge of Mount Hermon projecting above the
eastern hills.  The "dews of Hermon" are falling upon us now, and the
tents are almost soaked with them.

Over the way from us, and higher up the valley, we can discern, through
the glasses, the faint outlines of the wonderful ruins of Baalbec, the
supposed Baal-Gad of Scripture.  Joshua, and another person, were the two
spies who were sent into this land of Canaan by the children of Israel to
report upon its character--I mean they were the spies who reported
favorably.  They took back with them some specimens of the grapes of this
country, and in the children's picture-books they are always represented
as bearing one monstrous bunch swung to a pole between them, a
respectable load for a pack-train.  The Sunday-school books exaggerated
it a little.  The grapes are most excellent to this day, but the bunches
are not as large as those in the pictures.  I was surprised and hurt when
I saw them, because those colossal bunches of grapes were one of my most
cherished juvenile traditions.

Joshua reported favorably, and the children of Israel journeyed on, with
Moses at the head of the general government, and Joshua in command of the
army of six hundred thousand fighting men.  Of women and children and
civilians there was a countless swarm.  Of all that mighty host, none but
the two faithful spies ever lived to set their feet in the Promised Land.
They and their descendants wandered forty years in the desert, and then
Moses, the gifted warrior, poet, statesman and philosopher, went up into
Pisgah and met his mysterious fate.  Where he was buried no man knows--
for

          "* * * no man dug that sepulchre,
          And no man saw it e'er--
          For the Sons of God upturned the sod
          And laid the dead man there!"

Then Joshua began his terrible raid, and from Jericho clear to this Baal-
Gad, he swept the land like the Genius of Destruction.  He slaughtered
the people, laid waste their soil, and razed their cities to the ground.
He wasted thirty-one kings also.  One may call it that, though really it
can hardly be called wasting them, because there were always plenty of
kings in those days, and to spare.  At any rate, he destroyed thirty-one
kings, and divided up their realms among his Israelites.  He divided up
this valley stretched out here before us, and so it was once Jewish
territory.  The Jews have long since disappeared from it, however.

Back yonder, an hour's journey from here, we passed through an Arab
village of stone dry-goods boxes (they look like that,) where Noah's tomb
lies under lock and key.  [Noah built the ark.]  Over these old hills and
valleys the ark that contained all that was left of a vanished world once
floated.

I make no apology for detailing the above information.  It will be news
to some of my readers, at any rate.

Noah's tomb is built of stone, and is covered with a long stone building.
Bucksheesh let us in.  The building had to be long, because the grave of
the honored old navigator is two hundred and ten feet long itself!  It is
only about four feet high, though.  He must have cast a shadow like a
lightning-rod.  The proof that this is the genuine spot where Noah was
buried can only be doubted by uncommonly incredulous people.  The
evidence is pretty straight.  Shem, the son of Noah, was present at the
burial, and showed the place to his descendants, who transmitted the
knowledge to their descendants, and the lineal descendants of these
introduced themselves to us to-day.  It was pleasant to make the
acquaintance of members of so respectable a family.  It was a thing to be
proud of.  It was the next thing to being acquainted with Noah himself.

Noah's memorable voyage will always possess a living interest for me,
henceforward.

If ever an oppressed race existed, it is this one we see fettered around
us under the inhuman tyranny of the Ottoman Empire.  I wish Europe would
let Russia annihilate Turkey a little--not much, but enough to make it
difficult to find the place again without a divining-rod or a diving-
bell.  The Syrians are very poor, and yet they are ground down by a
system of taxation that would drive any other nation frantic.  Last year
their taxes were heavy enough, in all conscience--but this year they have
been increased by the addition of taxes that were forgiven them in times
of famine in former years.  On top of this the Government has levied a
tax of one-tenth of the whole proceeds of the land.  This is only half
the story.  The Pacha of a Pachalic does not trouble himself with
appointing tax-collectors.  He figures up what all these taxes ought to
amount to in a certain district.  Then he farms the collection out.  He
calls the rich men together, the highest bidder gets the speculation,
pays the Pacha on the spot, and then sells out to smaller fry, who sell
in turn to a piratical horde of still smaller fry.  These latter compel
the peasant to bring his little trifle of grain to the village, at his
own cost.  It must be weighed, the various taxes set apart, and the
remainder returned to the producer.  But the collector delays this duty
day after day, while the producer's family are perishing for bread; at
last the poor wretch, who can not but understand the game, says, "Take a
quarter--take half--take two-thirds if you will, and let me go!"  It is a
most outrageous state of things.

These people are naturally good-hearted and intelligent, and with
education and liberty, would be a happy and contented race.  They often
appeal to the stranger to know if the great world will not some day come
to their relief and save them.  The Sultan has been lavishing money like
water in England and Paris, but his subjects are suffering for it now.

This fashion of camping out bewilders me.  We have boot-jacks and a bath-
tub, now, and yet all the mysteries the pack-mules carry are not
revealed.  What next?




CHAPTER XLIII.

We had a tedious ride of about five hours, in the sun, across the Valley
of Lebanon.  It proved to be not quite so much of a garden as it had
seemed from the hill-sides.  It was a desert, weed-grown waste, littered
thickly with stones the size of a man's fist.  Here and there the natives
had scratched the ground and reared a sickly crop of grain, but for the
most part the valley was given up to a handful of shepherds, whose flocks
were doing what they honestly could to get a living, but the chances were
against them.  We saw rude piles of stones standing near the roadside, at
intervals, and recognized the custom of marking boundaries which obtained
in Jacob's time.  There were no walls, no fences, no hedges--nothing to
secure a man's possessions but these random heaps of stones.  The
Israelites held them sacred in the old patriarchal times, and these other
Arabs, their lineal descendants, do so likewise.  An American, of
ordinary intelligence, would soon widely extend his property, at an
outlay of mere manual labor, performed at night, under so loose a system
of fencing as this.

The plows these people use are simply a sharpened stick, such as Abraham
plowed with, and they still winnow their wheat as he did--they pile it on
the house-top, and then toss it by shovel-fulls into the air until the
wind has blown all the chaff away.  They never invent any thing, never
learn any thing.

We had a fine race, of a mile, with an Arab perched on a camel.  Some of
the horses were fast, and made very good time, but the camel scampered by
them without any very great effort.  The yelling and shouting, and
whipping and galloping, of all parties interested, made it an
exhilarating, exciting, and particularly boisterous race.

At eleven o'clock, our eyes fell upon the walls and columns of Baalbec, a
noble ruin whose history is a sealed book.  It has stood there for
thousands of years, the wonder and admiration of travelers; but who built
it, or when it was built, are questions that may never be answered.  One
thing is very sure, though.  Such grandeur of design, and such grace of
execution, as one sees in the temples of Baalbec, have not been equaled
or even approached in any work of men's hands that has been built within
twenty centuries past.

The great Temple of the Sun, the Temple of Jupiter, and several smaller
temples, are clustered together in the midst of one of these miserable
Syrian villages, and look strangely enough in such plebeian company.
These temples are built upon massive substructions that might support a
world, almost; the materials used are blocks of stone as large as an
omnibus--very few, if any of them, are smaller than a carpenter's tool
chest--and these substructions are traversed by tunnels of masonry
through which a train of cars might pass.  With such foundations as
these, it is little wonder that Baalbec has lasted so long.  The Temple
of the Sun is nearly three hundred feet long and one hundred and sixty
feet wide.  It had fifty-four columns around it, but only six are
standing now--the others lie broken at its base, a confused and
picturesque heap.  The six columns are their bases, Corinthian capitals
and entablature--and six more shapely columns do not exist.  The columns
and the entablature together are ninety feet high--a prodigious altitude
for shafts of stone to reach, truly--and yet one only thinks of their
beauty and symmetry when looking at them; the pillars look slender and
delicate, the entablature, with its elaborate sculpture, looks like rich
stucco-work.  But when you have gazed aloft till your eyes are weary, you
glance at the great fragments of pillars among which you are standing,
and find that they are eight feet through; and with them lie beautiful
capitals apparently as large as a small cottage; and also single slabs of
stone, superbly sculptured, that are four or five feet thick, and would
completely cover the floor of any ordinary parlor.  You wonder where
these monstrous things came from, and it takes some little time to
satisfy yourself that the airy and graceful fabric that towers above your
head is made up of their mates.  It seems too preposterous.

The Temple of Jupiter is a smaller ruin than the one I have been speaking
of, and yet is immense.  It is in a tolerable state of preservation.  One
row of nine columns stands almost uninjured.  They are sixty-five feet
high and support a sort of porch or roof, which connects them with the
roof of the building.  This porch-roof is composed of tremendous slabs of
stone, which are so finely sculptured on the under side that the work
looks like a fresco from below.  One or two of these slabs had fallen,
and again I wondered if the gigantic masses of carved stone that lay
about me were no larger than those above my head.  Within the temple, the
ornamentation was elaborate and colossal.  What a wonder of architectural
beauty and grandeur this edifice must have been when it was new!  And
what a noble picture it and its statelier companion, with the chaos of
mighty fragments scattered about them, yet makes in the moonlight!

I can not conceive how those immense blocks of stone were ever hauled
from the quarries, or how they were ever raised to the dizzy heights they
occupy in the temples.  And yet these sculptured blocks are trifles in
size compared with the rough-hewn blocks that form the wide verandah or
platform which surrounds the Great Temple.  One stretch of that platform,
two hundred feet long, is composed of blocks of stone as large, and some
of them larger, than a street-car.  They surmount a wall about ten or
twelve feet high.  I thought those were large rocks, but they sank into
insignificance compared with those which formed another section of the
platform.  These were three in number, and I thought that each of them
was about as long as three street cars placed end to end, though of
course they are a third wider and a third higher than a street car.
Perhaps two railway freight cars of the largest pattern, placed end to
end, might better represent their size.  In combined length these three
stones stretch nearly two hundred feet; they are thirteen feet square;
two of them are sixty-four feet long each, and the third is sixty-nine.
They are built into the massive wall some twenty feet above the ground.
They are there, but how they got there is the question.  I have seen the
hull of a steamboat that was smaller than one of those stones.  All these
great walls are as exact and shapely as the flimsy things we build of
bricks in these days.  A race of gods or of giants must have inhabited
Baalbec many a century ago.  Men like the men of our day could hardly
rear such temples as these.

We went to the quarry from whence the stones of Baalbec were taken.  It
was about a quarter of a mile off, and down hill.  In a great pit lay the
mate of the largest stone in the ruins.  It lay there just as the giants
of that old forgotten time had left it when they were called hence--just
as they had left it, to remain for thousands of years, an eloquent rebuke
unto such as are prone to think slightingly of the men who lived before
them.  This enormous block lies there, squared and ready for the
builders' hands--a solid mass fourteen feet by seventeen, and but a few
inches less than seventy feet long!  Two buggies could be driven abreast
of each other, on its surface, from one end of it to the other, and leave
room enough for a man or two to walk on either side.

One might swear that all the John Smiths and George Wilkinsons, and all
the other pitiful nobodies between Kingdom Come and Baalbec would
inscribe their poor little names upon the walls of Baalbec's magnificent
ruins, and would add the town, the county and the State they came from--
and swearing thus, be infallibly correct.  It is a pity some great ruin
does not fall in and flatten out some of these reptiles, and scare their
kind out of ever giving their names to fame upon any walls or monuments
again, forever.

Properly, with the sorry relics we bestrode, it was a three days' journey
to Damascus.  It was necessary that we should do it in less than two.
It was necessary because our three pilgrims would not travel on the
Sabbath day.  We were all perfectly willing to keep the Sabbath day, but
there are times when to keep the letter of a sacred law whose spirit is
righteous, becomes a sin, and this was a case in point.  We pleaded for
the tired, ill-treated horses, and tried to show that their faithful
service deserved kindness in return, and their hard lot compassion.  But
when did ever self-righteousness know the sentiment of pity?  What were a
few long hours added to the hardships of some over-taxed brutes when
weighed against the peril of those human souls?  It was not the most
promising party to travel with and hope to gain a higher veneration for
religion through the example of its devotees.  We said the Saviour who
pitied dumb beasts and taught that the ox must be rescued from the mire
even on the Sabbath day, would not have counseled a forced march like
this.  We said the "long trip" was exhausting and therefore dangerous in
the blistering heats of summer, even when the ordinary days' stages were
traversed, and if we persisted in this hard march, some of us might be
stricken down with the fevers of the country in consequence of it.
Nothing could move the pilgrims.  They must press on.  Men might die,
horses might die, but they must enter upon holy soil next week, with no
Sabbath-breaking stain upon them.  Thus they were willing to commit a sin
against the spirit of religious law, in order that they might preserve
the letter of it.  It was not worth while to tell them "the letter
kills."  I am talking now about personal friends; men whom I like; men
who are good citizens; who are honorable, upright, conscientious; but
whose idea of the Saviour's religion seems to me distorted.  They lecture
our shortcomings unsparingly, and every night they call us together and
read to us chapters from the Testament that are full of gentleness, of
charity, and of tender mercy; and then all the next day they stick to
their saddles clear up to the summits of these rugged mountains, and
clear down again.  Apply the Testament's gentleness, and charity, and
tender mercy to a toiling, worn and weary horse?--Nonsense--these are for
God's human creatures, not His dumb ones.  What the pilgrims choose to
do, respect for their almost sacred character demands that I should allow
to pass--but I would so like to catch any other member of the party
riding his horse up one of these exhausting hills once!

We have given the pilgrims a good many examples that might benefit them,
but it is virtue thrown away.  They have never heard a cross word out of
our lips toward each other--but they have quarreled once or twice.  We
love to hear them at it, after they have been lecturing us.  The very
first thing they did, coming ashore at Beirout, was to quarrel in the
boat.  I have said I like them, and I do like them--but every time they
read me a scorcher of a lecture I mean to talk back in print.

Not content with doubling the legitimate stages, they switched off the
main road and went away out of the way to visit an absurd fountain called
Figia, because Baalam's ass had drank there once.  So we journeyed on,
through the terrible hills and deserts and the roasting sun, and then far
into the night, seeking the honored pool of Baalam's ass, the patron
saint of all pilgrims like us.  I find no entry but this in my note-book:

     "Rode to-day, altogether, thirteen hours, through deserts, partly,
     and partly over barren, unsightly hills, and latterly through wild,
     rocky scenery, and camped at about eleven o'clock at night on the
     banks of a limpid stream, near a Syrian village.  Do not know its
     name--do not wish to know it--want to go to bed.  Two horses lame
     (mine and Jack's) and the others worn out.  Jack and I walked three
     or four miles, over the hills, and led the horses.  Fun--but of a
     mild type."

Twelve or thirteen hours in the saddle, even in a Christian land and a
Christian climate, and on a good horse, is a tiresome journey; but in an
oven like Syria, in a ragged spoon of a saddle that slips fore-and-aft,
and "thort-ships," and every way, and on a horse that is tired and lame,
and yet must be whipped and spurred with hardly a moment's cessation all
day long, till the blood comes from his side, and your conscience hurts
you every time you strike if you are half a man,--it is a journey to be
remembered in bitterness of spirit and execrated with emphasis for a
liberal division of a man's lifetime.




CHAPTER XLIV.

The next day was an outrage upon men and horses both.  It was another
thirteen-hour stretch (including an hour's "nooning.") It was over the
barrenest chalk-hills and through the baldest canons that even Syria can
show.  The heat quivered in the air every where.  In the canons we almost
smothered in the baking atmosphere.  On high ground, the reflection from
the chalk-hills was blinding.  It was cruel to urge the crippled horses,
but it had to be done in order to make Damascus Saturday night.  We saw
ancient tombs and temples of fanciful architecture carved out of the
solid rock high up in the face of precipices above our heads, but we had
neither time nor strength to climb up there and examine them.  The terse
language of my note-book will answer for the rest of this day's
experiences:

     "Broke camp at 7 A.M., and made a ghastly trip through the Zeb Dana
     valley and the rough mountains--horses limping and that Arab
     screech-owl that does most of the singing and carries the water-
     skins, always a thousand miles ahead, of course, and no water to
     drink--will he never die?  Beautiful stream in a chasm, lined thick
     with pomegranate, fig, olive and quince orchards, and nooned an hour
     at the celebrated Baalam's Ass Fountain of Figia, second in size in
     Syria, and the coldest water out of Siberia--guide-books do not
     say Baalam's ass ever drank there--somebody been imposing on the
     pilgrims, may be.  Bathed in it--Jack and I.  Only a second--ice-
     water.  It is the principal source of the Abana river--only one-
     half mile down to where it joins.  Beautiful place--giant trees all
     around--so shady and cool, if one could keep awake--vast stream
     gushes straight out from under the mountain in a torrent.  Over it
     is a very ancient ruin, with no known history--supposed to have been
     for the worship of the deity of the fountain or Baalam's ass or
     somebody.  Wretched nest of human vermin about the fountain--rags,
     dirt, sunken cheeks, pallor of sickness, sores, projecting bones,
     dull, aching misery in their eyes and ravenous hunger speaking from
     every eloquent fibre and muscle from head to foot.  How they sprang
     upon a bone, how they crunched the bread we gave them!  Such as
     these to swarm about one and watch every bite he takes, with greedy
     looks, and swallow unconsciously every time he swallows, as if they
     half fancied the precious morsel went down their own throats--
     hurry up the caravan!--I never shall enjoy a meal in this
     distressful country.  To think of eating three times every day under
     such circumstances for three weeks yet--it is worse punishment than
     riding all day in the sun.  There are sixteen starving babies from
     one to six years old in the party, and their legs are no larger than
     broom handles.  Left the fountain at 1 P.M.  (the fountain took us
     at least two hours out of our way,) and reached Mahomet's lookout
     perch, over Damascus, in time to get a good long look before it was
     necessary to move on.  Tired?  Ask of the winds that far away with
     fragments strewed the sea."

As the glare of day mellowed into twilight, we looked down upon a picture
which is celebrated all over the world.  I think I have read about four
hundred times that when Mahomet was a simple camel-driver he reached this
point and looked down upon Damascus for the first time, and then made a
certain renowned remark.  He said man could enter only one paradise; he
preferred to go to the one above.  So he sat down there and feasted his
eyes upon the earthly paradise of Damascus, and then went away without
entering its gates.  They have erected a tower on the hill to mark the
spot where he stood.

Damascus is beautiful from the mountain.  It is beautiful even to
foreigners accustomed to luxuriant vegetation, and I can easily
understand how unspeakably beautiful it must be to eyes that are only
used to the God-forsaken barrenness and desolation of Syria.  I should
think a Syrian would go wild with ecstacy when such a picture bursts upon
him for the first time.

From his high perch, one sees before him and below him, a wall of dreary
mountains, shorn of vegetation, glaring fiercely in the sun; it fences in
a level desert of yellow sand, smooth as velvet and threaded far away
with fine lines that stand for roads, and dotted with creeping mites we
know are camel-trains and journeying men; right in the midst of the
desert is spread a billowy expanse of green foliage; and nestling in its
heart sits the great white city, like an island of pearls and opals
gleaming out of a sea of emeralds.  This is the picture you see spread
far below you, with distance to soften it, the sun to glorify it, strong
contrasts to heighten the effects, and over it and about it a drowsing
air of repose to spiritualize it and make it seem rather a beautiful
estray from the mysterious worlds we visit in dreams than a substantial
tenant of our coarse, dull globe.  And when you think of the leagues of
blighted, blasted, sandy, rocky, sun-burnt, ugly, dreary, infamous
country you have ridden over to get here, you think it is the most
beautiful, beautiful picture that ever human eyes rested upon in all the
broad universe!  If I were to go to Damascus again, I would camp on
Mahomet's hill about a week, and then go away.  There is no need to go
inside the walls.  The Prophet was wise without knowing it when he
decided not to go down into the paradise of Damascus.

There is an honored old tradition that the immense garden which Damascus
stands in was the Garden of Eden, and modern writers have gathered up
many chapters of evidence tending to show that it really was the Garden
of Eden, and that the rivers Pharpar and Abana are the "two rivers" that
watered Adam's Paradise.  It may be so, but it is not paradise now, and
one would be as happy outside of it as he would be likely to be within.
It is so crooked and cramped and dirty that one can not realize that he
is in the splendid city he saw from the hill-top.  The gardens are hidden
by high mud-walls, and the paradise is become a very sink of pollution
and uncomeliness.  Damascus has plenty of clear, pure water in it,
though, and this is enough, of itself, to make an Arab think it beautiful
and blessed.  Water is scarce in blistered Syria.  We run railways by our
large cities in America; in Syria they curve the roads so as to make them
run by the meagre little puddles they call "fountains," and which are not
found oftener on a journey than every four hours.  But the "rivers" of
Pharpar and Abana of Scripture (mere creeks,) run through Damascus, and
so every house and every garden have their sparkling fountains and
rivulets of water.  With her forest of foliage and her abundance of
water, Damascus must be a wonder of wonders to the Bedouin from the
deserts.  Damascus is simply an oasis--that is what it is.  For four
thousand years its waters have not gone dry or its fertility failed.
Now we can understand why the city has existed so long.  It could not
die.  So long as its waters remain to it away out there in the midst of
that howling desert, so long will Damascus live to bless the sight of the
tired and thirsty wayfarer.

     "Though old as history itself, thou art fresh as the breath of
     spring, blooming as thine own rose-bud, and fragrant as thine own
     orange flower, O Damascus, pearl of the East!"

Damascus dates back anterior to the days of Abraham, and is the oldest
city in the world.  It was founded by Uz, the grandson of Noah.  "The
early history of Damascus is shrouded in the mists of a hoary antiquity."
Leave the matters written of in the first eleven chapters of the Old
Testament out, and no recorded event has occurred in the world but
Damascus was in existence to receive the news of it.  Go back as far as
you will into the vague past, there was always a Damascus.  In the
writings of every century for more than four thousand years, its name has
been mentioned and its praises sung.  To Damascus, years are only
moments, decades are only flitting trifles of time.  She measures time,
not by days and months and years, but by the empires she has seen rise,
and prosper and crumble to ruin.  She is a type of immortality.  She saw
the foundations of Baalbec, and Thebes, and Ephesus laid; she saw these
villages grow into mighty cities, and amaze the world with their
grandeur--and she has lived to see them desolate, deserted, and given
over to the owls and the bats.  She saw the Israelitish empire exalted,
and she saw it annihilated.  She saw Greece rise, and flourish two
thousand years, and die.  In her old age she saw Rome built; she saw it
overshadow the world with its power; she saw it perish.  The few hundreds
of years of Genoese and Venetian might and splendor were, to grave old
Damascus, only a trifling scintillation hardly worth remembering.
Damascus has seen all that has ever occurred on earth, and still she
lives.  She has looked upon the dry bones of a thousand empires, and will
see the tombs of a thousand more before she dies.  Though another claims
the name, old Damascus is by right the Eternal City.

We reached the city gates just at sundown.  They do say that one can get
into any walled city of Syria, after night, for bucksheesh, except
Damascus.  But Damascus, with its four thousand years of respectability
in the world, has many old fogy notions.  There are no street lamps
there, and the law compels all who go abroad at night to carry lanterns,
just as was the case in old days, when heroes and heroines of the Arabian
Nights walked the streets of Damascus, or flew away toward Bagdad on
enchanted carpets.

It was fairly dark a few minutes after we got within the wall, and we
rode long distances through wonderfully crooked streets, eight to ten
feet wide, and shut in on either aide by the high mud-walls of the
gardens.  At last we got to where lanterns could be seen flitting about
here and there, and knew we were in the midst of the curious old city.
In a little narrow street, crowded with our pack-mules and with a swarm
of uncouth Arabs, we alighted, and through a kind of a hole in the wall
entered the hotel.  We stood in a great flagged court, with flowers and
citron trees about us, and a huge tank in the centre that was receiving
the waters of many pipes.  We crossed the court and entered the rooms
prepared to receive four of us.  In a large marble-paved recess between
the two rooms was a tank of clear, cool water, which was kept running
over all the time by the streams that were pouring into it from half a
dozen pipes.  Nothing, in this scorching, desolate land could look so
refreshing as this pure water flashing in the lamp-light; nothing could
look so beautiful, nothing could sound so delicious as this mimic rain to
ears long unaccustomed to sounds of such a nature.  Our rooms were large,
comfortably furnished, and even had their floors clothed with soft,
cheerful-tinted carpets.  It was a pleasant thing to see a carpet again,
for if there is any thing drearier than the tomb-like, stone-paved
parlors and bed-rooms of Europe and Asia, I do not know what it is.
They make one think of the grave all the time.  A very broad, gaily
caparisoned divan, some twelve or fourteen feet long, extended across one
side of each room, and opposite were single beds with spring mattresses.
There were great looking-glasses and marble-top tables.  All this luxury
was as grateful to systems and senses worn out with an exhausting day's
travel, as it was unexpected--for one can not tell what to expect in a
Turkish city of even a quarter of a million inhabitants.

I do not know, but I think they used that tank between the rooms to draw
drinking water from; that did not occur to me, however, until I had
dipped my baking head far down into its cool depths.  I thought of it
then, and superb as the bath was, I was sorry I had taken it, and was
about to go and explain to the landlord.  But a finely curled and scented
poodle dog frisked up and nipped the calf of my leg just then, and before
I had time to think, I had soused him to the bottom of the tank, and when
I saw a servant coming with a pitcher I went off and left the pup trying
to climb out and not succeeding very well.  Satisfied revenge was all I
needed to make me perfectly happy, and when I walked in to supper that
first night in Damascus I was in that condition.  We lay on those divans
a long time, after supper, smoking narghilies and long-stemmed chibouks,
and talking about the dreadful ride of the day, and I knew then what I
had sometimes known before--that it is worth while to get tired out,
because one so enjoys resting afterward.

In the morning we sent for donkeys.  It is worthy of note that we had to
send for these things.  I said Damascus was an old fossil, and she is.
Any where else we would have been assailed by a clamorous army of donkey-
drivers, guides, peddlers and beggars--but in Damascus they so hate the
very sight of a foreign Christian that they want no intercourse whatever
with him; only a year or two ago, his person was not always safe in
Damascus streets.  It is the most fanatical Mohammedan purgatory out of
Arabia.  Where you see one green turban of a Hadji elsewhere (the honored
sign that my lord has made the pilgrimage to Mecca,) I think you will see
a dozen in Damascus.  The Damascenes are the ugliest, wickedest looking
villains we have seen.  All the veiled women we had seen yet, nearly,
left their eyes exposed, but numbers of these in Damascus completely hid
the face under a close-drawn black veil that made the woman look like a
mummy.  If ever we caught an eye exposed it was quickly hidden from our
contaminating Christian vision; the beggars actually passed us by without
demanding bucksheesh; the merchants in the bazaars did not hold up their
goods and cry out eagerly, "Hey, John!"  or "Look this, Howajji!"  On the
contrary, they only scowled at us and said never a word.

The narrow streets swarmed like a hive with men and women in strange
Oriental costumes, and our small donkeys knocked them right and left as
we plowed through them, urged on by the merciless donkey-boys.  These
persecutors run after the animals, shouting and goading them for hours
together; they keep the donkey in a gallop always, yet never get tired
themselves or fall behind.  The donkeys fell down and spilt us over their
heads occasionally, but there was nothing for it but to mount and hurry
on again.  We were banged against sharp corners, loaded porters, camels,
and citizens generally; and we were so taken up with looking out for
collisions and casualties that we had no chance to look about us at all.
We rode half through the city and through the famous "street which is
called Straight" without seeing any thing, hardly.  Our bones were nearly
knocked out of joint, we were wild with excitement, and our sides ached
with the jolting we had suffered.  I do not like riding in the Damascus
street-cars.

We were on our way to the reputed houses of Judas and Ananias.  About
eighteen or nineteen hundred years ago, Saul, a native of Tarsus, was
particularly bitter against the new sect called Christians, and he left
Jerusalem and started across the country on a furious crusade against
them.  He went forth "breathing threatenings and slaughter against the
disciples of the Lord."

     "And as he journeyed, he came near Damascus, and suddenly there
     shined round about him a light from heaven:

     "And he fell to the earth and heard a voice saying unto him, 'Saul,
     Saul, why persecutest thou me?'

     "And when he knew that it was Jesus that spoke to him he trembled,
     and was astonished, and said, 'Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?'"

He was told to arise and go into the ancient city and one would tell him
what to do.  In the meantime his soldiers stood speechless and awe-
stricken, for they heard the mysterious voice but saw no man.  Saul rose
up and found that that fierce supernatural light had destroyed his sight,
and he was blind, so "they led him by the hand and brought him to
Damascus."  He was converted.

Paul lay three days, blind, in the house of Judas, and during that time
he neither ate nor drank.

There came a voice to a citizen of Damascus, named Ananias, saying,
"Arise, and go into the street which is called Straight, and inquire at
the house of Judas, for one called Saul, of Tarsus; for behold, he
prayeth."

Ananias did not wish to go at first, for he had heard of Saul before, and
he had his doubts about that style of a "chosen vessel" to preach the
gospel of peace.  However, in obedience to orders, he went into the
"street called Straight" (how he found his way into it, and after he did,
how he ever found his way out of it again, are mysteries only to be
accounted for by the fact that he was acting under Divine inspiration.)
He found Paul and restored him, and ordained him a preacher; and from
this old house we had hunted up in the street which is miscalled
Straight, he had started out on that bold missionary career which he
prosecuted till his death.  It was not the house of the disciple who sold
the Master for thirty pieces of silver.  I make this explanation in
justice to Judas, who was a far different sort of man from the person
just referred to.  A very different style of man, and lived in a very
good house.  It is a pity we do not know more about him.

I have given, in the above paragraphs, some more information for people
who will not read Bible history until they are defrauded into it by some
such method as this.  I hope that no friend of progress and education
will obstruct or interfere with my peculiar mission.

The street called Straight is straighter than a corkscrew, but not as
straight as a rainbow.  St. Luke is careful not to commit himself; he
does not say it is the street which is straight, but the "street which is
called Straight."  It is a fine piece of irony; it is the only facetious
remark in the Bible, I believe.  We traversed the street called Straight
a good way, and then turned off and called at the reputed house of
Ananias.  There is small question that a part of the original house is
there still; it is an old room twelve or fifteen feet under ground, and
its masonry is evidently ancient.  If Ananias did not live there in St.
Paul's time, somebody else did, which is just as well.  I took a drink
out of Ananias' well, and singularly enough, the water was just as fresh
as if the well had been dug yesterday.

We went out toward the north end of the city to see the place where the
disciples let Paul down over the Damascus wall at dead of night--for he
preached Christ so fearlessly in Damascus that the people sought to kill
him, just as they would to-day for the same offense, and he had to escape
and flee to Jerusalem.

Then we called at the tomb of Mahomet's children and at a tomb which
purported to be that of St. George who killed the dragon, and so on out
to the hollow place under a rock where Paul hid during his flight till
his pursuers gave him up; and to the mausoleum of the five thousand
Christians who were massacred in Damascus in 1861 by the Turks.  They say
those narrow streets ran blood for several days, and that men, women and
children were butchered indiscriminately and left to rot by hundreds all
through the Christian quarter; they say, further, that the stench was
dreadful.  All the Christians who could get away fled from the city, and
the Mohammedans would not defile their hands by burying the "infidel
dogs."  The thirst for blood extended to the high lands of Hermon and
Anti-Lebanon, and in a short time twenty-five thousand more Christians
were massacred and their possessions laid waste.  How they hate a
Christian in Damascus!--and pretty much all over Turkeydom as well.  And
how they will pay for it when Russia turns her guns upon them again!

It is soothing to the heart to abuse England and France for interposing
to save the Ottoman Empire from the destruction it has so richly deserved
for a thousand years.  It hurts my vanity to see these pagans refuse to
eat of food that has been cooked for us; or to eat from a dish we have
eaten from; or to drink from a goatskin which we have polluted with our
Christian lips, except by filtering the water through a rag which they
put over the mouth of it or through a sponge!  I never disliked a
Chinaman as I do these degraded Turks and Arabs, and when Russia is ready
to war with them again, I hope England and France will not find it good
breeding or good judgment to interfere.

In Damascus they think there are no such rivers in all the world as their
little Abana and Pharpar.  The Damascenes have always thought that way.
In 2 Kings, chapter v., Naaman boasts extravagantly about them.  That was
three thousand years ago.  He says: "Are not Abana and Pharpar rivers of
Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel?  May I not wash in them
and be clean?"  But some of my readers have forgotten who Naaman was,
long ago.  Naaman was the commander of the Syrian armies.  He was the
favorite of the king and lived in great state.  "He was a mighty man of
valor, but he was a leper."  Strangely enough, the house they point out
to you now as his, has been turned into a leper hospital, and the inmates
expose their horrid deformities and hold up their hands and beg for
bucksheesh when a stranger enters.

One can not appreciate the horror of this disease until he looks upon it
in all its ghastliness, in Naaman's ancient dwelling in Damascus.  Bones
all twisted out of shape, great knots protruding from face and body,
joints decaying and dropping away--horrible!




CHAPTER XLV.

The last twenty-four hours we staid in Damascus I lay prostrate with a
violent attack of cholera, or cholera morbus, and therefore had a good
chance and a good excuse to lie there on that wide divan and take an
honest rest.  I had nothing to do but listen to the pattering of the
fountains and take medicine and throw it up again.  It was dangerous
recreation, but it was pleasanter than traveling in Syria.  I had plenty
of snow from Mount Hermon, and as it would not stay on my stomach, there
was nothing to interfere with my eating it--there was always room for
more.  I enjoyed myself very well.  Syrian travel has its interesting
features, like travel in any other part of the world, and yet to break
your leg or have the cholera adds a welcome variety to it.

We left Damascus at noon and rode across the plain a couple of hours, and
then the party stopped a while in the shade of some fig-trees to give me
a chance to rest.  It was the hottest day we had seen yet--the sun-flames
shot down like the shafts of fire that stream out before a blow-pipe--the
rays seemed to fall in a steady deluge on the head and pass downward like
rain from a roof.  I imagined I could distinguish between the floods of
rays--I thought I could tell when each flood struck my head, when it
reached my shoulders, and when the next one came.  It was terrible.  All
the desert glared so fiercely that my eyes were swimming in tears all the
time.  The boys had white umbrellas heavily lined with dark green.  They
were a priceless blessing.  I thanked fortune that I had one, too,
notwithstanding it was packed up with the baggage and was ten miles
ahead.  It is madness to travel in Syria without an umbrella.  They told
me in Beirout (these people who always gorge you with advice) that it was
madness to travel in Syria without an umbrella.  It was on this account
that I got one.

But, honestly, I think an umbrella is a nuisance any where when its
business is to keep the sun off.  No Arab wears a brim to his fez, or
uses an umbrella, or any thing to shade his eyes or his face, and he
always looks comfortable and proper in the sun.  But of all the
ridiculous sights I ever have seen, our party of eight is the most so--
they do cut such an outlandish figure.  They travel single file; they all
wear the endless white rag of Constantinople wrapped round and round
their hats and dangling down their backs; they all wear thick green
spectacles, with side-glasses to them; they all hold white umbrellas,
lined with green, over their heads; without exception their stirrups are
too short--they are the very worst gang of horsemen on earth, their
animals to a horse trot fearfully hard--and when they get strung out one
after the other; glaring straight ahead and breathless; bouncing high and
out of turn, all along the line; knees well up and stiff, elbows flapping
like a rooster's that is going to crow, and the long file of umbrellas
popping convulsively up and down--when one sees this outrageous picture
exposed to the light of day, he is amazed that the gods don't get out
their thunderbolts and destroy them off the face of the earth!  I do--I
wonder at it.  I wouldn't let any such caravan go through a country of
mine.

And when the sun drops below the horizon and the boys close their
umbrellas and put them under their arms, it is only a variation of the
picture, not a modification of its absurdity.

But may be you can not see the wild extravagance of my panorama.  You
could if you were here.  Here, you feel all the time just as if you were
living about the year 1200 before Christ--or back to the patriarchs--or
forward to the New Era.  The scenery of the Bible is about you--the
customs of the patriarchs are around you--the same people, in the same
flowing robes, and in sandals, cross your path--the same long trains of
stately camels go and come--the same impressive religious solemnity and
silence rest upon the desert and the mountains that were upon them in the
remote ages of antiquity, and behold, intruding upon a scene like this,
comes this fantastic mob of green-spectacled Yanks, with their flapping
elbows and bobbing umbrellas!  It is Daniel in the lion's den with a
green cotton umbrella under his arm, all over again.

My umbrella is with the baggage, and so are my green spectacles--and
there they shall stay.  I will not use them.  I will show some respect
for the eternal fitness of things.  It will be bad enough to get sun-
struck, without looking ridiculous into the bargain.  If I fall, let me
fall bearing about me the semblance of a Christian, at least.

Three or four hours out from Damascus we passed the spot where Saul was
so abruptly converted, and from this place we looked back over the
scorching desert, and had our last glimpse of beautiful Damascus, decked
in its robes of shining green.  After nightfall we reached our tents,
just outside of the nasty Arab village of Jonesborough.  Of course the
real name of the place is El something or other, but the boys still
refuse to recognize the Arab names or try to pronounce them.  When I say
that that village is of the usual style, I mean to insinuate that all
Syrian villages within fifty miles of Damascus are alike--so much alike
that it would require more than human intelligence to tell wherein one
differed from another.  A Syrian village is a hive of huts one story high
(the height of a man,) and as square as a dry-goods box; it is mud-
plastered all over, flat roof and all, and generally whitewashed after a
fashion.  The same roof often extends over half the town, covering many
of the streets, which are generally about a yard wide.  When you ride
through one of these villages at noon-day, you first meet a melancholy
dog, that looks up at you and silently begs that you won't run over him,
but he does not offer to get out of the way; next you meet a young boy
without any clothes on, and he holds out his hand and says "Bucksheesh!"
--he don't really expect a cent, but then he learned to say that before
he learned to say mother, and now he can not break himself of it; next
you meet a woman with a black veil drawn closely over her face, and her
bust exposed; finally, you come to several sore-eyed children and
children in all stages of mutilation and decay; and sitting humbly in the
dust, and all fringed with filthy rags, is a poor devil whose arms and
legs are gnarled and twisted like grape-vines.  These are all the people
you are likely to see.  The balance of the population are asleep within
doors, or abroad tending goats in the plains and on the hill-sides.  The
village is built on some consumptive little water-course, and about it is
a little fresh-looking vegetation.  Beyond this charmed circle, for miles
on every side, stretches a weary desert of sand and gravel, which
produces a gray bunchy shrub like sage-brush.  A Syrian village is the
sorriest sight in the world, and its surroundings are eminently in
keeping with it.

I would not have gone into this dissertation upon Syrian villages but for
the fact that Nimrod, the Mighty Hunter of Scriptural notoriety, is
buried in Jonesborough, and I wished the public to know about how he is
located.  Like Homer, he is said to be buried in many other places, but
this is the only true and genuine place his ashes inhabit.

When the original tribes were dispersed, more than four thousand years
ago, Nimrod and a large party traveled three or four hundred miles, and
settled where the great city of Babylon afterwards stood.  Nimrod built
that city.  He also began to build the famous Tower of Babel, but
circumstances over which he had no control put it out of his power to
finish it.  He ran it up eight stories high, however, and two of them
still stand, at this day--a colossal mass of brickwork, rent down the
centre by earthquakes, and seared and vitrified by the lightnings of an
angry God.  But the vast ruin will still stand for ages, to shame the
puny labors of these modern generations of men.  Its huge compartments
are tenanted by owls and lions, and old Nimrod lies neglected in this
wretched village, far from the scene of his grand enterprise.

We left Jonesborough very early in the morning, and rode forever and
forever and forever, it seemed to me, over parched deserts and rocky
hills, hungry, and with no water to drink.  We had drained the goat-skins
dry in a little while.  At noon we halted before the wretched Arab town
of El Yuba Dam, perched on the side of a mountain, but the dragoman said
if we applied there for water we would be attacked by the whole tribe,
for they did not love Christians.  We had to journey on.  Two hours later
we reached the foot of a tall isolated mountain, which is crowned by the
crumbling castle of Banias, the stateliest ruin of that kind on earth, no
doubt.  It is a thousand feet long and two hundred wide, all of the most
symmetrical, and at the same time the most ponderous masonry.  The
massive towers and bastions are more than thirty feet high, and have been
sixty.  From the mountain's peak its broken turrets rise above the groves
of ancient oaks and olives, and look wonderfully picturesque.  It is of
such high antiquity that no man knows who built it or when it was built.
It is utterly inaccessible, except in one place, where a bridle-path
winds upward among the solid rocks to the old portcullis.  The horses'
hoofs have bored holes in these rocks to the depth of six inches during
the hundreds and hundreds of years that the castle was garrisoned.  We
wandered for three hours among the chambers and crypts and dungeons of
the fortress, and trod where the mailed heels of many a knightly Crusader
had rang, and where Phenician heroes had walked ages before them.

We wondered how such a solid mass of masonry could be affected even by an
earthquake, and could not understand what agency had made Banias a ruin;
but we found the destroyer, after a while, and then our wonder was
increased tenfold.  Seeds had fallen in crevices in the vast walls; the
seeds had sprouted; the tender, insignificant sprouts had hardened; they
grew larger and larger, and by a steady, imperceptible pressure forced
the great stones apart, and now are bringing sure destruction upon a
giant work that has even mocked the earthquakes to scorn!  Gnarled and
twisted trees spring from the old walls every where, and beautify and
overshadow the gray battlements with a wild luxuriance of foliage.

From these old towers we looked down upon a broad, far-reaching green
plain, glittering with the pools and rivulets which are the sources of
the sacred river Jordan.  It was a grateful vision, after so much desert.

And as the evening drew near, we clambered down the mountain, through
groves of the Biblical oaks of Bashan, (for we were just stepping over
the border and entering the long-sought Holy Land,) and at its extreme
foot, toward the wide valley, we entered this little execrable village of
Banias and camped in a great grove of olive trees near a torrent of
sparkling water whose banks are arrayed in fig-trees, pomegranates and
oleanders in full leaf.  Barring the proximity of the village, it is a
sort of paradise.

The very first thing one feels like doing when he gets into camp, all
burning up and dusty, is to hunt up a bath.  We followed the stream up to
where it gushes out of the mountain side, three hundred yards from the
tents, and took a bath that was so icy that if I did not know this was
the main source of the sacred river, I would expect harm to come of it.
It was bathing at noonday in the chilly source of the Abana, "River of
Damascus," that gave me the cholera, so Dr. B.  said.  However, it
generally does give me the cholera to take a bath.

The incorrigible pilgrims have come in with their pockets full of
specimens broken from the ruins.  I wish this vandalism could be stopped.
They broke off fragments from Noah's tomb; from the exquisite sculptures
of the temples of Baalbec; from the houses of Judas and Ananias, in
Damascus; from the tomb of Nimrod the Mighty Hunter in Jonesborough; from
the worn Greek and Roman inscriptions set in the hoary walls of the
Castle of Banias; and now they have been hacking and chipping these old
arches here that Jesus looked upon in the flesh.  Heaven protect the
Sepulchre when this tribe invades Jerusalem!

The ruins here are not very interesting.  There are the massive walls of
a great square building that was once the citadel; there are many
ponderous old arches that are so smothered with debris that they barely
project above the ground; there are heavy-walled sewers through which the
crystal brook of which Jordan is born still runs; in the hill-side are
the substructions of a costly marble temple that Herod the Great built
here--patches of its handsome mosaic floors still remain; there is a
quaint old stone bridge that was here before Herod's time, may be;
scattered every where, in the paths and in the woods, are Corinthian
capitals, broken porphyry pillars, and little fragments of sculpture; and
up yonder in the precipice where the fountain gushes out, are well-worn
Greek inscriptions over niches in the rock where in ancient times the
Greeks, and after them the Romans, worshipped the sylvan god Pan.  But
trees and bushes grow above many of these ruins now; the miserable huts
of a little crew of filthy Arabs are perched upon the broken masonry of
antiquity, the whole place has a sleepy, stupid, rural look about it, and
one can hardly bring himself to believe that a busy, substantially built
city once existed here, even two thousand years ago.  The place was
nevertheless the scene of an event whose effects have added page after
page and volume after volume to the world's history.  For in this place
Christ stood when he said to Peter:

     "Thou art Peter; and upon this rock will I build my church, and the
     gates of hell shall not prevail against it.  And I will give unto
     thee the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven; and whatsoever thou shalt
     bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatsoever thou shalt
     loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven."

On those little sentences have been built up the mighty edifice of the
Church of Rome; in them lie the authority for the imperial power of the
Popes over temporal affairs, and their godlike power to curse a soul or
wash it white from sin.  To sustain the position of "the only true
Church," which Rome claims was thus conferred upon her, she has fought
and labored and struggled for many a century, and will continue to keep
herself busy in the same work to the end of time.  The memorable words I
have quoted give to this ruined city about all the interest it possesses
to people of the present day.

It seems curious enough to us to be standing on ground that was once
actually pressed by the feet of the Saviour.  The situation is suggestive
of a reality and a tangibility that seem at variance with the vagueness
and mystery and ghostliness that one naturally attaches to the character
of a god.  I can not comprehend yet that I am sitting where a god has
stood, and looking upon the brook and the mountains which that god looked
upon, and am surrounded by dusky men and women whose ancestors saw him,
and even talked with him, face to face, and carelessly, just as they
would have done with any other stranger.  I can not comprehend this; the
gods of my understanding have been always hidden in clouds and very far
away.

This morning, during breakfast, the usual assemblage of squalid humanity
sat patiently without the charmed circle of the camp and waited for such
crumbs as pity might bestow upon their misery.  There were old and young,
brown-skinned and yellow.  Some of the men were tall and stalwart, (for
one hardly sees any where such splendid-looking men as here in the East,)
but all the women and children looked worn and sad, and distressed with
hunger.  They reminded me much of Indians, did these people.  They had
but little clothing, but such as they had was fanciful in character and
fantastic in its arrangement.  Any little absurd gewgaw or gimcrack they
had they disposed in such a way as to make it attract attention most
readily.  They sat in silence, and with tireless patience watched our
every motion with that vile, uncomplaining impoliteness which is so truly
Indian, and which makes a white man so nervous and uncomfortable and
savage that he wants to exterminate the whole tribe.

These people about us had other peculiarities, which I have noticed in
the noble red man, too: they were infested with vermin, and the dirt had
caked on them till it amounted to bark.

The little children were in a pitiable condition--they all had sore eyes,
and were otherwise afflicted in various ways.  They say that hardly a
native child in all the East is free from sore eyes, and that thousands
of them go blind of one eye or both every year.  I think this must be so,
for I see plenty of blind people every day, and I do not remember seeing
any children that hadn't sore eyes.  And, would you suppose that an
American mother could sit for an hour, with her child in her arms, and
let a hundred flies roost upon its eyes all that time undisturbed?  I see
that every day.  It makes my flesh creep.  Yesterday we met a woman
riding on a little jackass, and she had a little child in her arms--
honestly, I thought the child had goggles on as we approached, and I
wondered how its mother could afford so much style.  But when we drew
near, we saw that the goggles were nothing but a camp meeting of flies
assembled around each of the child's eyes, and at the same time there was
a detachment prospecting its nose.  The flies were happy, the child was
contented, and so the mother did not interfere.

As soon as the tribe found out that we had a doctor in our party, they
began to flock in from all quarters.  Dr. B., in the charity of his
nature, had taken a child from a woman who sat near by, and put some sort
of a wash upon its diseased eyes.  That woman went off and started the
whole nation, and it was a sight to see them swarm!  The lame, the halt,
the blind, the leprous--all the distempers that are bred of indolence,
dirt, and iniquity--were represented in the Congress in ten minutes, and
still they came!  Every woman that had a sick baby brought it along, and
every woman that hadn't, borrowed one.  What reverent and what worshiping
looks they bent upon that dread, mysterious power, the Doctor!  They
watched him take his phials out; they watched him measure the particles
of white powder; they watched him add drops of one precious liquid, and
drops of another; they lost not the slightest movement; their eyes were
riveted upon him with a fascination that nothing could distract.
I believe they thought he was gifted like a god.  When each individual
got his portion of medicine, his eyes were radiant with joy--
notwithstanding by nature they are a thankless and impassive race--and
upon his face was written the unquestioning faith that nothing on earth
could prevent the patient from getting well now.

Christ knew how to preach to these simple, superstitious, disease-
tortured creatures: He healed the sick.  They flocked to our poor human
doctor this morning when the fame of what he had done to the sick child
went abroad in the land, and they worshiped him with their eyes while
they did not know as yet whether there was virtue in his simples or not.
The ancestors of these--people precisely like them in color, dress,
manners, customs, simplicity--flocked in vast multitudes after Christ,
and when they saw Him make the afflicted whole with a word, it is no
wonder they worshiped Him.  No wonder His deeds were the talk of the
nation.  No wonder the multitude that followed Him was so great that at
one time--thirty miles from here--they had to let a sick man down through
the roof because no approach could be made to the door; no wonder His
audiences were so great at Galilee that He had to preach from a ship
removed a little distance from the shore; no wonder that even in the
desert places about Bethsaida, five thousand invaded His solitude, and He
had to feed them by a miracle or else see them suffer for their confiding
faith and devotion; no wonder when there was a great commotion in a city
in those days, one neighbor explained it to another in words to this
effect: "They say that Jesus of Nazareth is come!"

Well, as I was saying, the doctor distributed medicine as long as he had
any to distribute, and his reputation is mighty in Galilee this day.
Among his patients was the child of the Shiek's daughter--for even this
poor, ragged handful of sores and sin has its royal Shiek--a poor old
mummy that looked as if he would be more at home in a poor-house than in
the Chief Magistracy of this tribe of hopeless, shirtless savages.  The
princess--I mean the Shiek's daughter--was only thirteen or fourteen
years old, and had a very sweet face and a pretty one.  She was the only
Syrian female we have seen yet who was not so sinfully ugly that she
couldn't smile after ten o'clock Saturday night without breaking the
Sabbath.  Her child was a hard specimen, though--there wasn't enough of
it to make a pie, and the poor little thing looked so pleadingly up at
all who came near it (as if it had an idea that now was its chance or
never,) that we were filled with compassion which was genuine and not put
on.

But this last new horse I have got is trying to break his neck over the
tent-ropes, and I shall have to go out and anchor him.  Jericho and I
have parted company.  The new horse is not much to boast of, I think.
One of his hind legs bends the wrong way, and the other one is as
straight and stiff as a tent-pole.  Most of his teeth are gone, and he is
as blind as bat.  His nose has been broken at some time or other, and is
arched like a culvert now.  His under lip hangs down like a camel's, and
his ears are chopped off close to his head.  I had some trouble at first
to find a name for him, but I finally concluded to call him Baalbec,
because he is such a magnificent ruin.  I can not keep from talking about
my horses, because I have a very long and tedious journey before me, and
they naturally occupy my thoughts about as much as matters of apparently
much greater importance.

We satisfied our pilgrims by making those hard rides from Baalbec to
Damascus, but Dan's horse and Jack's were so crippled we had to leave
them behind and get fresh animals for them.  The dragoman says Jack's
horse died.  I swapped horses with Mohammed, the kingly-looking Egyptian
who is our Ferguson's lieutenant.  By Ferguson I mean our dragoman
Abraham, of course.  I did not take this horse on account of his personal
appearance, but because I have not seen his back.  I do not wish to see
it.  I have seen the backs of all the other horses, and found most of
them covered with dreadful saddle-boils which I know have not been washed
or doctored for years.  The idea of riding all day long over such ghastly
inquisitions of torture is sickening.  My horse must be like the others,
but I have at least the consolation of not knowing it to be so.

I hope that in future I may be spared any more sentimental praises of the
Arab's idolatry of his horse.  In boyhood I longed to be an Arab of the
desert and have a beautiful mare, and call her Selim or Benjamin or
Mohammed, and feed her with my own hands, and let her come into the tent,
and teach her to caress me and look fondly upon me with her great tender
eyes; and I wished that a stranger might come at such a time and offer me
a hundred thousand dollars for her, so that I could do like the other
Arabs--hesitate, yearn for the money, but overcome by my love for my
mare, at last say, "Part with thee, my beautiful one!  Never with my
life!  Away, tempter, I scorn thy gold!"  and then bound into the saddle
and speed over the desert like the wind!

But I recall those aspirations.  If these Arabs be like the other Arabs,
their love for their beautiful mares is a fraud.  These of my
acquaintance have no love for their horses, no sentiment of pity for
them, and no knowledge of how to treat them or care for them.  The Syrian
saddle-blanket is a quilted mattress two or three inches thick.  It is
never removed from the horse, day or night.  It gets full of dirt and
hair, and becomes soaked with sweat.  It is bound to breed sores.  These
pirates never think of washing a horse's back.  They do not shelter the
horses in the tents, either--they must stay out and take the weather as
it comes.  Look at poor cropped and dilapidated "Baalbec," and weep for
the sentiment that has been wasted upon the Selims of romance!




CHAPTER XLVI.

About an hour's ride over a rough, rocky road, half flooded with water,
and through a forest of oaks of Bashan, brought us to Dan.

From a little mound here in the plain issues a broad stream of limpid
water and forms a large shallow pool, and then rushes furiously onward,
augmented in volume.  This puddle is an important source of the Jordan.
Its banks, and those of the brook are respectably adorned with blooming
oleanders, but the unutterable beauty of the spot will not throw a well-
balanced man into convulsions, as the Syrian books of travel would lead
one to suppose.

From the spot I am speaking of, a cannon-ball would carry beyond the
confines of Holy Land and light upon profane ground three miles away.
We were only one little hour's travel within the borders of Holy Land--we
had hardly begun to appreciate yet that we were standing upon any
different sort of earth than that we had always been used to, and see how
the historic names began already to cluster!  Dan--Bashan--Lake Huleh--
the Sources of Jordan--the Sea of Galilee.  They were all in sight but
the last, and it was not far away.  The little township of Bashan was
once the kingdom so famous in Scripture for its bulls and its oaks.
Lake Huleh is the Biblical "Waters of Merom."  Dan was the northern and
Beersheba the southern limit of Palestine--hence the expression "from Dan
to Beersheba."  It is equivalent to our phrases "from Maine to Texas"--
"from Baltimore to San Francisco."  Our expression and that of the
Israelites both mean the same--great distance.  With their slow camels
and asses, it was about a seven days' journey from Dan to Beersheba---say
a hundred and fifty or sixty miles--it was the entire length of their
country, and was not to be undertaken without great preparation and much
ceremony.  When the Prodigal traveled to "a far country," it is not
likely that he went more than eighty or ninety miles.  Palestine is only
from forty to sixty miles wide.  The State of Missouri could be split
into three Palestines, and there would then be enough material left for
part of another--possibly a whole one.  From Baltimore to San Francisco
is several thousand miles, but it will be only a seven days' journey in
the cars when I am two or three years older.--[The railroad has been
completed since the above was written.]--If I live I shall necessarily
have to go across the continent every now and then in those cars, but one
journey from Dan to Beersheba will be sufficient, no doubt.  It must be
the most trying of the two.  Therefore, if we chance to discover that
from Dan to Beersheba seemed a mighty stretch of country to the
Israelites, let us not be airy with them, but reflect that it was and is
a mighty stretch when one can not traverse it by rail.

The small mound I have mentioned a while ago was once occupied by the
Phenician city of Laish.  A party of filibusters from Zorah and Eschol
captured the place, and lived there in a free and easy way, worshiping
gods of their own manufacture and stealing idols from their neighbors
whenever they wore their own out.  Jeroboam set up a golden calf here to
fascinate his people and keep them from making dangerous trips to
Jerusalem to worship, which might result in a return to their rightful
allegiance.  With all respect for those ancient Israelites, I can not
overlook the fact that they were not always virtuous enough to withstand
the seductions of a golden calf.  Human nature has not changed much since
then.

Some forty centuries ago the city of Sodom was pillaged by the Arab
princes of Mesopotamia, and among other prisoners they seized upon the
patriarch Lot and brought him here on their way to their own possessions.
They brought him to Dan, and father Abraham, who was pursuing them, crept
softly in at dead of night, among the whispering oleanders and under the
shadows of the stately oaks, and fell upon the slumbering victors and
startled them from their dreams with the clash of steel.  He recaptured
Lot and all the other plunder.

We moved on.  We were now in a green valley, five or six miles wide and
fifteen long.  The streams which are called the sources of the Jordan
flow through it to Lake Huleh, a shallow pond three miles in diameter,
and from the southern extremity of the Lake the concentrated Jordan flows
out.  The Lake is surrounded by a broad marsh, grown with reeds.  Between
the marsh and the mountains which wall the valley is a respectable strip
of fertile land; at the end of the valley, toward Dan, as much as half
the land is solid and fertile, and watered by Jordan's sources.  There is
enough of it to make a farm.  It almost warrants the enthusiasm of the
spies of that rabble of adventurers who captured Dan.  They said: "We
have seen the land, and behold it is very good.  * * *  A place where
there is no want of any thing that is in the earth."

Their enthusiasm was at least warranted by the fact that they had never
seen a country as good as this.  There was enough of it for the ample
support of their six hundred men and their families, too.

When we got fairly down on the level part of the Danite farm, we came to
places where we could actually run our horses.  It was a notable
circumstance.

We had been painfully clambering over interminable hills and rocks for
days together, and when we suddenly came upon this astonishing piece of
rockless plain, every man drove the spurs into his horse and sped away
with a velocity he could surely enjoy to the utmost, but could never hope
to comprehend in Syria.

Here were evidences of cultivation--a rare sight in this country--an acre
or two of rich soil studded with last season's dead corn-stalks of the
thickness of your thumb and very wide apart.  But in such a land it was a
thrilling spectacle.  Close to it was a stream, and on its banks a great
herd of curious-looking Syrian goats and sheep were gratefully eating
gravel.  I do not state this as a petrified fact--I only suppose they
were eating gravel, because there did not appear to be any thing else for
them to eat.  The shepherds that tended them were the very pictures of
Joseph and his brethren I have no doubt in the world.  They were tall,
muscular, and very dark-skinned Bedouins, with inky black beards.  They
had firm lips, unquailing eyes, and a kingly stateliness of bearing.
They wore the parti-colored half bonnet, half hood, with fringed ends
falling upon their shoulders, and the full, flowing robe barred with
broad black stripes--the dress one sees in all pictures of the swarthy
sons of the desert.  These chaps would sell their younger brothers if
they had a chance, I think.  They have the manners, the customs, the
dress, the occupation and the loose principles of the ancient stock.
[They attacked our camp last night, and I bear them no good will.]
They had with them the pigmy jackasses one sees all over Syria and
remembers in all pictures of the "Flight into Egypt," where Mary and the
Young Child are riding and Joseph is walking alongside, towering high
above the little donkey's shoulders.

But really, here the man rides and carries the child, as a general thing,
and the woman walks.  The customs have not changed since Joseph's time.
We would not have in our houses a picture representing Joseph riding and
Mary walking; we would see profanation in it, but a Syrian Christian
would not.  I know that hereafter the picture I first spoke of will look
odd to me.

We could not stop to rest two or three hours out from our camp, of
course, albeit the brook was beside us.  So we went on an hour longer.
We saw water, then, but nowhere in all the waste around was there a foot
of shade, and we were scorching to death.  "Like unto the shadow of a
great rock in a weary land."  Nothing in the Bible is more beautiful than
that, and surely there is no place we have wandered to that is able to
give it such touching expression as this blistering, naked, treeless
land.

Here you do not stop just when you please, but when you can.  We found
water, but no shade.  We traveled on and found a tree at last, but no
water.  We rested and lunched, and came on to this place, Ain Mellahah
(the boys call it Baldwinsville.) It was a very short day's run, but the
dragoman does not want to go further, and has invented a plausible lie
about the country beyond this being infested by ferocious Arabs, who
would make sleeping in their midst a dangerous pastime.  Well, they ought
to be dangerous.  They carry a rusty old weather-beaten flint-lock gun,
with a barrel that is longer than themselves; it has no sights on it, it
will not carry farther than a brickbat, and is not half so certain.  And
the great sash they wear in many a fold around their waists has two or
three absurd old horse-pistols in it that are rusty from eternal disuse--
weapons that would hang fire just about long enough for you to walk out
of range, and then burst and blow the Arab's head off.  Exceedingly
dangerous these sons of the desert are.

It used to make my blood run cold to read Wm. C. Grimes' hairbreadth
escapes from Bedouins, but I think I could read them now without a
tremor.  He never said he was attacked by Bedouins, I believe, or was
ever treated uncivilly, but then in about every other chapter he
discovered them approaching, any how, and he had a blood-curdling fashion
of working up the peril; and of wondering how his relations far away
would feel could they see their poor wandering boy, with his weary feet
and his dim eyes, in such fearful danger; and of thinking for the last
time of the old homestead, and the dear old church, and the cow, and
those things; and of finally straightening his form to its utmost height
in the saddle, drawing his trusty revolver, and then dashing the spurs
into "Mohammed" and sweeping down upon the ferocious enemy determined to
sell his life as dearly as possible.  True the Bedouins never did any
thing to him when he arrived, and never had any intention of doing any
thing to him in the first place, and wondered what in the mischief he was
making all that to-do about; but still I could not divest myself of the
idea, somehow, that a frightful peril had been escaped through that man's
dare-devil bravery, and so I never could read about Wm. C. Grimes'
Bedouins and sleep comfortably afterward.  But I believe the Bedouins to
be a fraud, now.  I have seen the monster, and I can outrun him.  I shall
never be afraid of his daring to stand behind his own gun and discharge
it.

About fifteen hundred years before Christ, this camp-ground of ours by
the Waters of Merom was the scene of one of Joshua's exterminating
battles.  Jabin, King of Hazor, (up yonder above Dan,) called all the
sheiks about him together, with their hosts, to make ready for Israel's
terrible General who was approaching.

     "And when all these Kings were met together, they came and pitched
     together by the Waters of Merom, to fight against Israel.  And they
     went out, they and all their hosts with them, much people, even as
     the sand that is upon the sea-shore for multitude," etc.

But Joshua fell upon them and utterly destroyed them, root and branch.
That was his usual policy in war.  He never left any chance for newspaper
controversies about who won the battle.  He made this valley, so quiet
now, a reeking slaughter-pen.

Somewhere in this part of the country--I do not know exactly where--
Israel fought another bloody battle a hundred years later.  Deborah, the
prophetess, told Barak to take ten thousand men and sally forth against
another King Jabin who had been doing something.  Barak came down from
Mount Tabor, twenty or twenty-five miles from here, and gave battle to
Jabin's forces, who were in command of Sisera.  Barak won the fight, and
while he was making the victory complete by the usual method of
exterminating the remnant of the defeated host, Sisera fled away on foot,
and when he was nearly exhausted by fatigue and thirst, one Jael, a woman
he seems to have been acquainted with, invited him to come into her tent
and rest himself.  The weary soldier acceded readily enough, and Jael put
him to bed.  He said he was very thirsty, and asked his generous
preserver to get him a cup of water.  She brought him some milk, and he
drank of it gratefully and lay down again, to forget in pleasant dreams
his lost battle and his humbled pride.  Presently when he was asleep she
came softly in with a hammer and drove a hideous tent-pen down through
his brain!

"For he was fast asleep and weary.  So he died."  Such is the touching
language of the Bible.  "The Song of Deborah and Barak" praises Jael for
the memorable service she had rendered, in an exultant strain:

     "Blessed above women shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite be,
     blessed shall she be above women in the tent.

     "He asked for water, and she gave him milk; she brought forth butter
     in a lordly dish.

     "She put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the workman's
     hammer; and with the hammer she smote Sisera, she smote off his head
     when she had pierced and stricken through his temples.

     "At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed,
     he fell: where he bowed, there he fell down dead."

Stirring scenes like these occur in this valley no more.  There is not a
solitary village throughout its whole extent--not for thirty miles in
either direction.  There are two or three small clusters of Bedouin
tents, but not a single permanent habitation.  One may ride ten miles,
hereabouts, and not see ten human beings.

To this region one of the prophecies is applied:

     "I will bring the land into desolation; and your enemies which dwell
     therein shall be astonished at it.  And I will scatter you among the
     heathen, and I will draw out a sword after you; and your land shall
     be desolate and your cities waste."

No man can stand here by deserted Ain Mellahah and say the prophecy has
not been fulfilled.

In a verse from the Bible which I have quoted above, occurs the phrase
"all these kings."  It attracted my attention in a moment, because it
carries to my mind such a vastly different significance from what it
always did at home.  I can see easily enough that if I wish to profit by
this tour and come to a correct understanding of the matters of interest
connected with it, I must studiously and faithfully unlearn a great many
things I have somehow absorbed concerning Palestine.  I must begin a
system of reduction.  Like my grapes which the spies bore out of the
Promised Land, I have got every thing in Palestine on too large a scale.
Some of my ideas were wild enough.  The word Palestine always brought to
my mind a vague suggestion of a country as large as the United States.
I do not know why, but such was the case.  I suppose it was because I
could not conceive of a small country having so large a history.  I think
I was a little surprised to find that the grand Sultan of Turkey was a
man of only ordinary size.  I must try to reduce my ideas of Palestine to
a more reasonable shape.  One gets large impressions in boyhood,
sometimes, which he has to fight against all his life.  "All these
kings."  When I used to read that in Sunday School, it suggested to me
the several kings of such countries as England, France, Spain, Germany,
Russia, etc., arrayed in splendid robes ablaze with jewels, marching in
grave procession, with sceptres of gold in their hands and flashing
crowns upon their heads.  But here in Ain Mellahah, after coming through
Syria, and after giving serious study to the character and customs of the
country, the phrase "all these kings" loses its grandeur.  It suggests
only a parcel of petty chiefs--ill-clad and ill-conditioned savages much
like our Indians, who lived in full sight of each other and whose
"kingdoms" were large when they were five miles square and contained two
thousand souls.  The combined monarchies of the thirty "kings" destroyed
by Joshua on one of his famous campaigns, only covered an area about
equal to four of our counties of ordinary size.  The poor old sheik we
saw at Cesarea Philippi with his ragged band of a hundred followers,
would have been called a "king" in those ancient times.

It is seven in the morning, and as we are in the country, the grass ought
to be sparkling with dew, the flowers enriching the air with their
fragrance, and the birds singing in the trees.  But alas, there is no dew
here, nor flowers, nor birds, nor trees.  There is a plain and an
unshaded lake, and beyond them some barren mountains.  The tents are
tumbling, the Arabs are quarreling like dogs and cats, as usual, the
campground is strewn with packages and bundles, the labor of packing them
upon the backs of the mules is progressing with great activity, the
horses are saddled, the umbrellas are out, and in ten minutes we shall
mount and the long procession will move again.  The white city of the
Mellahah, resurrected for a moment out of the dead centuries, will have
disappeared again and left no sign.




CHAPTER XLVII.

We traversed some miles of desolate country whose soil is rich enough,
but is given over wholly to weeds--a silent, mournful expanse, wherein we
saw only three persons--Arabs, with nothing on but a long coarse shirt
like the "tow-linen" shirts which used to form the only summer garment of
little negro boys on Southern plantations.  Shepherds they were, and they
charmed their flocks with the traditional shepherd's pipe--a reed
instrument that made music as exquisitely infernal as these same Arabs
create when they sing.

In their pipes lingered no echo of the wonderful music the shepherd
forefathers heard in the Plains of Bethlehem what time the angels sang
"Peace on earth, good will to men."

Part of the ground we came over was not ground at all, but rocks--cream-
colored rocks, worn smooth, as if by water; with seldom an edge or a
corner on them, but scooped out, honey-combed, bored out with eye-holes,
and thus wrought into all manner of quaint shapes, among which the
uncouth imitation of skulls was frequent.  Over this part of the route
were occasional remains of an old Roman road like the Appian Way, whose
paving-stones still clung to their places with Roman tenacity.

Gray lizards, those heirs of ruin, of sepulchres and desolation, glided
in and out among the rocks or lay still and sunned themselves.  Where
prosperity has reigned, and fallen; where glory has flamed, and gone out;
where beauty has dwelt, and passed away; where gladness was, and sorrow
is; where the pomp of life has been, and silence and death brood in its
high places, there this reptile makes his home, and mocks at human
vanity.  His coat is the color of ashes: and ashes are the symbol of
hopes that have perished, of aspirations that came to nought, of loves
that are buried.  If he could speak, he would say, Build temples: I will
lord it in their ruins; build palaces: I will inhabit them; erect
empires: I will inherit them; bury your beautiful: I will watch the worms
at their work; and you, who stand here and moralize over me: I will crawl
over your corpse at the last.

A few ants were in this desert place, but merely to spend the summer.
They brought their provisions from Ain Mellahah--eleven miles.

Jack is not very well to-day, it is easy to see; but boy as he is, he is
too much of a man to speak of it.  He exposed himself to the sun too much
yesterday, but since it came of his earnest desire to learn, and to make
this journey as useful as the opportunities will allow, no one seeks to
discourage him by fault-finding.  We missed him an hour from the camp,
and then found him some distance away, by the edge of a brook, and with
no umbrella to protect him from the fierce sun.  If he had been used to
going without his umbrella, it would have been well enough, of course;
but he was not.  He was just in the act of throwing a clod at a mud-
turtle which was sunning itself on a small log in the brook.  We said:

"Don't do that, Jack.  What do you want to harm him for?  What has he
done?"

"Well, then, I won't kill him, but I ought to, because he is a fraud."

We asked him why, but he said it was no matter.  We asked him why, once
or twice, as we walked back to the camp but he still said it was no
matter.  But late at night, when he was sitting in a thoughtful mood on
the bed, we asked him again and he said:

"Well, it don't matter; I don't mind it now, but I did not like it today,
you know, because I don't tell any thing that isn't so, and I don't think
the Colonel ought to, either.  But he did; he told us at prayers in the
Pilgrims' tent, last night, and he seemed as if he was reading it out of
the Bible, too, about this country flowing with milk and honey, and about
the voice of the turtle being heard in the land.  I thought that was
drawing it a little strong, about the turtles, any how, but I asked Mr.
Church if it was so, and he said it was, and what Mr. Church tells me, I
believe.  But I sat there and watched that turtle nearly an hour today,
and I almost burned up in the sun; but I never heard him sing.  I believe
I sweated a double handful of sweat---I know I did--because it got in my
eyes, and it was running down over my nose all the time; and you know my
pants are tighter than any body else's--Paris foolishness--and the
buckskin seat of them got wet with sweat, and then got dry again and
began to draw up and pinch and tear loose--it was awful--but I never
heard him sing.  Finally I said, This is a fraud--that is what it is, it
is a fraud--and if I had had any sense I might have known a cursed mud-
turtle couldn't sing.  And then I said, I don't wish to be hard on this
fellow, and I will just give him ten minutes to commence; ten minutes--
and then if he don't, down goes his building.  But he didn't commence,
you know.  I had staid there all that time, thinking may be he might,
pretty soon, because he kept on raising his head up and letting it down,
and drawing the skin over his eyes for a minute and then opening them out
again, as if he was trying to study up something to sing, but just as the
ten minutes were up and I was all beat out and blistered, he laid his
blamed head down on a knot and went fast asleep."

"It was a little hard, after you had waited so long."

"I should think so.  I said, Well, if you won't sing, you shan't sleep,
any way; and if you fellows had let me alone I would have made him shin
out of Galilee quicker than any turtle ever did yet.  But it isn't any
matter now--let it go.  The skin is all off the back of my neck."

About ten in the morning we halted at Joseph's Pit.  This is a ruined
Khan of the Middle Ages, in one of whose side courts is a great walled
and arched pit with water in it, and this pit, one tradition says, is the
one Joseph's brethren cast him into.  A more authentic tradition, aided
by the geography of the country, places the pit in Dothan, some two days'
journey from here.  However, since there are many who believe in this
present pit as the true one, it has its interest.

It is hard to make a choice of the most beautiful passage in a book which
is so gemmed with beautiful passages as the Bible; but it is certain that
not many things within its lids may take rank above the exquisite story
of Joseph.  Who taught those ancient writers their simplicity of
language, their felicity of expression, their pathos, and above all,
their faculty of sinking themselves entirely out of sight of the reader
and making the narrative stand out alone and seem to tell itself?
Shakspeare is always present when one reads his book; Macaulay is present
when we follow the march of his stately sentences; but the Old Testament
writers are hidden from view.

If the pit I have been speaking of is the right one, a scene transpired
there, long ages ago, which is familiar to us all in pictures.  The sons
of Jacob had been pasturing their flocks near there.  Their father grew
uneasy at their long absence, and sent Joseph, his favorite, to see if
any thing had gone wrong with them.  He traveled six or seven days'
journey; he was only seventeen years old, and, boy like, he toiled
through that long stretch of the vilest, rockiest, dustiest country in
Asia, arrayed in the pride of his heart, his beautiful claw-hammer coat
of many colors.  Joseph was the favorite, and that was one crime in the
eyes of his brethren; he had dreamed dreams, and interpreted them to
foreshadow his elevation far above all his family in the far future, and
that was another; he was dressed well and had doubtless displayed the
harmless vanity of youth in keeping the fact prominently before his
brothers.  These were crimes his elders fretted over among themselves and
proposed to punish when the opportunity should offer.  When they saw him
coming up from the Sea of Galilee, they recognized him and were glad.
They said, "Lo, here is this dreamer--let us kill him."  But Reuben
pleaded for his life, and they spared it.  But they seized the boy, and
stripped the hated coat from his back and pushed him into the pit.  They
intended to let him die there, but Reuben intended to liberate him
secretly.  However, while Reuben was away for a little while, the
brethren sold Joseph to some Ishmaelitish merchants who were journeying
towards Egypt.  Such is the history of the pit.  And the self-same pit is
there in that place, even to this day; and there it will remain until the
next detachment of image-breakers and tomb desecraters arrives from the
Quaker City excursion, and they will infallibly dig it up and carry it
away with them.  For behold in them is no reverence for the solemn
monuments of the past, and whithersoever they go they destroy and spare
not.

Joseph became rich, distinguished, powerful--as the Bible expresses it,
"lord over all the land of Egypt."  Joseph was the real king, the
strength, the brain of the monarchy, though Pharaoh held the title.
Joseph is one of the truly great men of the Old Testament.  And he was
the noblest and the manliest, save Esau.  Why shall we not say a good
word for the princely Bedouin?  The only crime that can be brought
against him is that he was unfortunate.  Why must every body praise
Joseph's great-hearted generosity to his cruel brethren, without stint of
fervent language, and fling only a reluctant bone of praise to Esau for
his still sublimer generosity to the brother who had wronged him?  Jacob
took advantage of Esau's consuming hunger to rob him of his birthright
and the great honor and consideration that belonged to the position; by
treachery and falsehood he robbed him of his father's blessing; he made
of him a stranger in his home, and a wanderer.  Yet after twenty years
had passed away and Jacob met Esau and fell at his feet quaking with fear
and begging piteously to be spared the punishment he knew he deserved,
what did that magnificent savage do?  He fell upon his neck and embraced
him!  When Jacob--who was incapable of comprehending nobility of
character--still doubting, still fearing, insisted upon "finding grace
with my lord" by the bribe of a present of cattle, what did the gorgeous
son of the desert say?

"Nay, I have enough, my brother; keep that thou hast unto thyself!"

Esau found Jacob rich, beloved by wives and children, and traveling in
state, with servants, herds of cattle and trains of camels--but he
himself was still the uncourted outcast this brother had made him.  After
thirteen years of romantic mystery, the brethren who had wronged Joseph,
came, strangers in a strange land, hungry and humble, to buy "a little
food"; and being summoned to a palace, charged with crime, they beheld in
its owner their wronged brother; they were trembling beggars--he, the
lord of a mighty empire!  What Joseph that ever lived would have thrown
away such a chance to "show off?"  Who stands first--outcast Esau
forgiving Jacob in prosperity, or Joseph on a king's throne forgiving the
ragged tremblers whose happy rascality placed him there?

Just before we came to Joseph's Pit, we had "raised" a hill, and there, a
few miles before us, with not a tree or a shrub to interrupt the view,
lay a vision which millions of worshipers in the far lands of the earth
would give half their possessions to see--the sacred Sea of Galilee!

Therefore we tarried only a short time at the pit.  We rested the horses
and ourselves, and felt for a few minutes the blessed shade of the
ancient buildings.  We were out of water, but the two or three scowling
Arabs, with their long guns, who were idling about the place, said they
had none and that there was none in the vicinity.  They knew there was a
little brackish water in the pit, but they venerated a place made sacred
by their ancestor's imprisonment too much to be willing to see Christian
dogs drink from it.  But Ferguson tied rags and handkerchiefs together
till he made a rope long enough to lower a vessel to the bottom, and we
drank and then rode on; and in a short time we dismounted on those shores
which the feet of the Saviour have made holy ground.

At noon we took a swim in the Sea of Galilee--a blessed privilege in this
roasting climate--and then lunched under a neglected old fig-tree at the
fountain they call Ain-et-Tin, a hundred yards from ruined Capernaum.
Every rivulet that gurgles out of the rocks and sands of this part of the
world is dubbed with the title of "fountain," and people familiar with
the Hudson, the great lakes and the Mississippi fall into transports of
admiration over them, and exhaust their powers of composition in writing
their praises.  If all the poetry and nonsense that have been discharged
upon the fountains and the bland scenery of this region were collected in
a book, it would make a most valuable volume to burn.

During luncheon, the pilgrim enthusiasts of our party, who had been so
light-hearted and so happy ever since they touched holy ground that they
did little but mutter incoherent rhapsodies, could scarcely eat, so
anxious were they to "take shipping" and sail in very person upon the
waters that had borne the vessels of the Apostles.  Their anxiety grew
and their excitement augmented with every fleeting moment, until my fears
were aroused and I began to have misgivings that in their present
condition they might break recklessly loose from all considerations of
prudence and buy a whole fleet of ships to sail in instead of hiring a
single one for an hour, as quiet folk are wont to do.  I trembled to
think of the ruined purses this day's performances might result in.
I could not help reflecting bodingly upon the intemperate zeal with which
middle-aged men are apt to surfeit themselves upon a seductive folly
which they have tasted for the first time.  And yet I did not feel that
I had a right to be surprised at the state of things which was giving me
so much concern.  These men had been taught from infancy to revere,
almost to worship, the holy places whereon their happy eyes were resting
now.  For many and many a year this very picture had visited their
thoughts by day and floated through their dreams by night.  To stand
before it in the flesh--to see it as they saw it now--to sail upon the
hallowed sea, and kiss the holy soil that compassed it about: these were
aspirations they had cherished while a generation dragged its lagging
seasons by and left its furrows in their faces and its frosts upon their
hair.  To look upon this picture, and sail upon this sea, they had
forsaken home and its idols and journeyed thousands and thousands of
miles, in weariness and tribulation.  What wonder that the sordid lights
of work-day prudence should pale before the glory of a hope like theirs
in the full splendor of its fruition?  Let them squander millions!
I said--who speaks of money at a time like this?

In this frame of mind I followed, as fast as I could, the eager footsteps
of the pilgrims, and stood upon the shore of the lake, and swelled, with
hat and voice, the frantic hail they sent after the "ship" that was
speeding by.  It was a success.  The toilers of the sea ran in and
beached their barque.  Joy sat upon every countenance.

"How much?--ask him how much, Ferguson!--how much to take us all--eight
of us, and you--to Bethsaida, yonder, and to the mouth of Jordan, and to
the place where the swine ran down into the sea--quick!--and we want to
coast around every where--every where!--all day long!--I could sail a
year in these waters!--and tell him we'll stop at Magdala and finish at
Tiberias!--ask him how much?--any thing--any thing whatever!--tell him we
don't care what the expense is!"  [I said to myself, I knew how it would
be.]

Ferguson--(interpreting)--"He says two Napoleons--eight dollars."

One or two countenances fell.  Then a pause.

"Too much!--we'll give him one!"

I never shall know how it was--I shudder yet when I think how the place
is given to miracles--but in a single instant of time, as it seemed to
me, that ship was twenty paces from the shore, and speeding away like a
frightened thing!  Eight crestfallen creatures stood upon the shore, and
O, to think of it!  this--this--after all that overmastering ecstacy!
Oh, shameful, shameful ending, after such unseemly boasting!  It was too
much like "Ho! let me at him!"  followed by a prudent "Two of you hold
him--one can hold me!"

Instantly there was wailing and gnashing of teeth in the camp.  The two
Napoleons were offered--more if necessary--and pilgrims and dragoman
shouted themselves hoarse with pleadings to the retreating boatmen to
come back.  But they sailed serenely away and paid no further heed to
pilgrims who had dreamed all their lives of some day skimming over the
sacred waters of Galilee and listening to its hallowed story in the
whisperings of its waves, and had journeyed countless leagues to do it,
and--and then concluded that the fare was too high.  Impertinent
Mohammedan Arabs, to think such things of gentlemen of another faith!

Well, there was nothing to do but just submit and forego the privilege of
voyaging on Genessaret, after coming half around the globe to taste that
pleasure.  There was a time, when the Saviour taught here, that boats
were plenty among the fishermen of the coasts--but boats and fishermen
both are gone, now; and old Josephus had a fleet of men-of-war in these
waters eighteen centuries ago--a hundred and thirty bold canoes--but
they, also, have passed away and left no sign.  They battle here no more
by sea, and the commercial marine of Galilee numbers only two small
ships, just of a pattern with the little skiffs the disciples knew.  One
was lost to us for good--the other was miles away and far out of hail.
So we mounted the horses and rode grimly on toward Magdala, cantering
along in the edge of the water for want of the means of passing over it.

How the pilgrims abused each other!  Each said it was the other's fault,
and each in turn denied it.  No word was spoken by the sinners--even the
mildest sarcasm might have been dangerous at such a time.  Sinners that
have been kept down and had examples held up to them, and suffered
frequent lectures, and been so put upon in a moral way and in the matter
of going slow and being serious and bottling up slang, and so crowded in
regard to the matter of being proper and always and forever behaving,
that their lives have become a burden to them, would not lag behind
pilgrims at such a time as this, and wink furtively, and be joyful, and
commit other such crimes--because it would not occur to them to do it.
Otherwise they would.  But they did do it, though--and it did them a
world of good to hear the pilgrims abuse each other, too.  We took an
unworthy satisfaction in seeing them fall out, now and then, because it
showed that they were only poor human people like us, after all.

So we all rode down to Magdala, while the gnashing of teeth waxed and
waned by turns, and harsh words troubled the holy calm of Galilee.

Lest any man think I mean to be ill-natured when I talk about our
pilgrims as I have been talking, I wish to say in all sincerity that I do
not.  I would not listen to lectures from men I did not like and could
not respect; and none of these can say I ever took their lectures
unkindly, or was restive under the infliction, or failed to try to profit
by what they said to me.  They are better men than I am; I can say that
honestly; they are good friends of mine, too--and besides, if they did
not wish to be stirred up occasionally in print, why in the mischief did
they travel with me?  They knew me.  They knew my liberal way--that I
like to give and take--when it is for me to give and other people to
take.  When one of them threatened to leave me in Damascus when I had the
cholera, he had no real idea of doing it--I know his passionate nature
and the good impulses that underlie it.  And did I not overhear Church,
another pilgrim, say he did not care who went or who staid, he would
stand by me till I walked out of Damascus on my own feet or was carried
out in a coffin, if it was a year?  And do I not include Church every
time I abuse the pilgrims--and would I be likely to speak ill-naturedly
of him?  I wish to stir them up and make them healthy; that is all.

We had left Capernaum behind us.  It was only a shapeless ruin.  It bore
no semblance to a town, and had nothing about it to suggest that it had
ever been a town.  But all desolate and unpeopled as it was, it was
illustrious ground.  From it sprang that tree of Christianity whose broad
arms overshadow so many distant lands to-day.  After Christ was tempted
of the devil in the desert, he came here and began his teachings; and
during the three or four years he lived afterward, this place was his
home almost altogether.  He began to heal the sick, and his fame soon
spread so widely that sufferers came from Syria and beyond Jordan, and
even from Jerusalem, several days' journey away, to be cured of their
diseases.  Here he healed the centurion's servant and Peter's mother-in-
law, and multitudes of the lame and the blind and persons possessed of
devils; and here, also, he raised Jairus's daughter from the dead.  He
went into a ship with his disciples, and when they roused him from sleep
in the midst of a storm, he quieted the winds and lulled the troubled sea
to rest with his voice.  He passed over to the other side, a few miles
away and relieved two men of devils, which passed into some swine.  After
his return he called Matthew from the receipt of customs, performed some
cures, and created scandal by eating with publicans and sinners.  Then he
went healing and teaching through Galilee, and even journeyed to Tyre and
Sidon.  He chose the twelve disciples, and sent them abroad to preach the
new gospel.  He worked miracles in Bethsaida and Chorazin--villages two
or three miles from Capernaum.  It was near one of them that the
miraculous draft of fishes is supposed to have been taken, and it was in
the desert places near the other that he fed the thousands by the
miracles of the loaves and fishes.  He cursed them both, and Capernaum
also, for not repenting, after all the great works he had done in their
midst, and prophesied against them.  They are all in ruins, now--which is
gratifying to the pilgrims, for, as usual, they fit the eternal words of
gods to the evanescent things of this earth; Christ, it is more probable,
referred to the people, not their shabby villages of wigwams: he said it
would be sad for them at "the day of judgment"--and what business have
mud-hovels at the Day of Judgment?  It would not affect the prophecy in
the least--it would neither prove it or disprove it--if these towns were
splendid cities now instead of the almost vanished ruins they are.
Christ visited Magdala, which is near by Capernaum, and he also visited
Cesarea Philippi.  He went up to his old home at Nazareth, and saw his
brothers Joses, and Judas, and James, and Simon--those persons who, being
own brothers to Jesus Christ, one would expect to hear mentioned
sometimes, yet who ever saw their names in a newspaper or heard them from
a pulpit?  Who ever inquires what manner of youths they were; and whether
they slept with Jesus, played with him and romped about him; quarreled
with him concerning toys and trifles; struck him in anger, not suspecting
what he was?  Who ever wonders what they thought when they saw him come
back to Nazareth a celebrity, and looked long at his unfamiliar face to
make sure, and then said, "It is Jesus?"  Who wonders what passed in
their minds when they saw this brother, (who was only a brother to them,
however much he might be to others a mysterious stranger who was a god
and had stood face to face with God above the clouds,) doing strange
miracles with crowds of astonished people for witnesses?  Who wonders if
the brothers of Jesus asked him to come home with them, and said his
mother and his sisters were grieved at his long absence, and would be
wild with delight to see his face again?  Who ever gives a thought to
the sisters of Jesus at all?--yet he had sisters; and memories of them
must have stolen into his mind often when he was ill-treated among
strangers; when he was homeless and said he had not where to lay his
head; when all deserted him, even Peter, and he stood alone among his
enemies.

Christ did few miracles in Nazareth, and staid but a little while.  The
people said, "This the Son of God!  Why, his father is nothing but a
carpenter.  We know the family.  We see them every day.  Are not his
brothers named so and so, and his sisters so and so, and is not his
mother the person they call Mary?  This is absurd."  He did not curse his
home, but he shook its dust from his feet and went away.

Capernaum lies close to the edge of the little sea, in a small plain some
five miles long and a mile or two wide, which is mildly adorned with
oleanders which look all the better contrasted with the bald hills and
the howling deserts which surround them, but they are not as deliriously
beautiful as the books paint them.  If one be calm and resolute he can
look upon their comeliness and live.

One of the most astonishing things that have yet fallen under our
observation is the exceedingly small portion of the earth from which
sprang the now flourishing plant of Christianity.  The longest journey
our Saviour ever performed was from here to Jerusalem--about one hundred
to one hundred and twenty miles.  The next longest was from here to
Sidon--say about sixty or seventy miles.  Instead of being wide apart--as
American appreciation of distances would naturally suggest--the places
made most particularly celebrated by the presence of Christ are nearly
all right here in full view, and within cannon-shot of Capernaum.
Leaving out two or three short journeys of the Saviour, he spent his
life, preached his gospel, and performed his miracles within a compass no
larger than an ordinary county in the United States.  It is as much as I
can do to comprehend this stupefying fact.  How it wears a man out to
have to read up a hundred pages of history every two or three miles--for
verily the celebrated localities of Palestine occur that close together.
How wearily, how bewilderingly they swarm about your path!

In due time we reached the ancient village of Magdala.




CHAPTER XLVIII.

Magdala is not a beautiful place.  It is thoroughly Syrian, and that is
to say that it is thoroughly ugly, and cramped, squalid, uncomfortable,
and filthy--just the style of cities that have adorned the country since
Adam's time, as all writers have labored hard to prove, and have
succeeded.  The streets of Magdala are any where from three to six feet
wide, and reeking with uncleanliness.  The houses are from five to seven
feet high, and all built upon one arbitrary plan--the ungraceful form of
a dry-goods box.  The sides are daubed with a smooth white plaster, and
tastefully frescoed aloft and alow with disks of camel-dung placed there
to dry.  This gives the edifice the romantic appearance of having been
riddled with cannon-balls, and imparts to it a very warlike aspect.  When
the artist has arranged his materials with an eye to just proportion--the
small and the large flakes in alternate rows, and separated by carefully-
considered intervals--I know of nothing more cheerful to look upon than a
spirited Syrian fresco.  The flat, plastered roof is garnished by
picturesque stacks of fresco materials, which, having become thoroughly
dried and cured, are placed there where it will be convenient.  It is
used for fuel.  There is no timber of any consequence in Palestine--none
at all to waste upon fires--and neither are there any mines of coal.
If my description has been intelligible, you will perceive, now, that a
square, flat-roofed hovel, neatly frescoed, with its wall-tops gallantly
bastioned and turreted with dried camel-refuse, gives to a landscape a
feature that is exceedingly festive and picturesque, especially if one is
careful to remember to stick in a cat wherever, about the premises, there
is room for a cat to sit.  There are no windows to a Syrian hut, and no
chimneys.  When I used to read that they let a bed-ridden man down
through the roof of a house in Capernaum to get him into the presence of
the Saviour, I generally had a three-story brick in my mind, and marveled
that they did not break his neck with the strange experiment.  I perceive
now, however, that they might have taken him by the heels and thrown him
clear over the house without discommoding him very much.  Palestine is
not changed any since those days, in manners, customs, architecture, or
people.

As we rode into Magdala not a soul was visible.  But the ring of the
horses' hoofs roused the stupid population, and they all came trooping
out--old men and old women, boys and girls, the blind, the crazy, and the
crippled, all in ragged, soiled and scanty raiment, and all abject
beggars by nature, instinct and education.  How the vermin-tortured
vagabonds did swarm!  How they showed their scars and sores, and
piteously pointed to their maimed and crooked limbs, and begged with
their pleading eyes for charity!  We had invoked a spirit we could not
lay.  They hung to the horses's tails, clung to their manes and the
stirrups, closed in on every aide in scorn of dangerous hoofs--and out of
their infidel throats, with one accord, burst an agonizing and most
infernal chorus: "Howajji, bucksheesh!  howajji, bucksheesh!  howajji,
bucksheesh!  bucksheesh!  bucksheesh!"  I never was in a storm like that
before.

As we paid the bucksheesh out to sore-eyed children and brown, buxom
girls with repulsively tattooed lips and chins, we filed through the town
and by many an exquisite fresco, till we came to a bramble-infested
inclosure and a Roman-looking ruin which had been the veritable dwelling
of St. Mary Magdalene, the friend and follower of Jesus.  The guide
believed it, and so did I.  I could not well do otherwise, with the house
right there before my eyes as plain as day.  The pilgrims took down
portions of the front wall for specimens, as is their honored custom, and
then we departed.

We are camped in this place, now, just within the city walls of Tiberias.
We went into the town before nightfall and looked at its people--we cared
nothing about its houses.  Its people are best examined at a distance.
They are particularly uncomely Jews, Arabs, and negroes.  Squalor and
poverty are the pride of Tiberias.  The young women wear their dower
strung upon a strong wire that curves downward from the top of the head
to the jaw--Turkish silver coins which they have raked together or
inherited.  Most of these maidens were not wealthy, but some few had been
very kindly dealt with by fortune.  I saw heiresses there worth, in their
own right--worth, well, I suppose I might venture to say, as much as nine
dollars and a half.  But such cases are rare.  When you come across one
of these, she naturally puts on airs.  She will not ask for bucksheesh.
She will not even permit of undue familiarity.  She assumes a crushing
dignity and goes on serenely practicing with her fine-tooth comb and
quoting poetry just the same as if you were not present at all.  Some
people can not stand prosperity.

They say that the long-nosed, lanky, dyspeptic-looking body-snatchers,
with the indescribable hats on, and a long curl dangling down in front of
each ear, are the old, familiar, self-righteous Pharisees we read of in
the Scriptures.  Verily, they look it.  Judging merely by their general
style, and without other evidence, one might easily suspect that self-
righteousness was their specialty.

From various authorities I have culled information concerning Tiberias.
It was built by Herod Antipas, the murderer of John the Baptist, and
named after the Emperor Tiberius.  It is believed that it stands upon the
site of what must have been, ages ago, a city of considerable
architectural pretensions, judging by the fine porphyry pillars that are
scattered through Tiberias and down the lake shore southward.  These were
fluted, once, and yet, although the stone is about as hard as iron, the
flutings are almost worn away.  These pillars are small, and doubtless
the edifices they adorned were distinguished more for elegance than
grandeur.  This modern town--Tiberias--is only mentioned in the New
Testament; never in the Old.

The Sanhedrim met here last, and for three hundred years Tiberias was the
metropolis of the Jews in Palestine.  It is one of the four holy cities
of the Israelites, and is to them what Mecca is to the Mohammedan and
Jerusalem to the Christian.  It has been the abiding place of many
learned and famous Jewish rabbins.  They lie buried here, and near them
lie also twenty-five thousand of their faith who traveled far to be near
them while they lived and lie with them when they died.  The great Rabbi
Ben Israel spent three years here in the early part of the third century.
He is dead, now.

The celebrated Sea of Galilee is not so large a sea as Lake Tahoe--
[I measure all lakes by Tahoe, partly because I am far more familiar with
it than with any other, and partly because I have such a high admiration
for it and such a world of pleasant recollections of it, that it is very
nearly impossible for me to speak of lakes and not mention it.]--by a
good deal--it is just about two-thirds as large.  And when we come to
speak of beauty, this sea is no more to be compared to Tahoe than a
meridian of longitude is to a rainbow.  The dim waters of this pool can
not suggest the limpid brilliancy of Tahoe; these low, shaven, yellow
hillocks of rocks and sand, so devoid of perspective, can not suggest the
grand peaks that compass Tahoe like a wall, and whose ribbed and chasmed
fronts are clad with stately pines that seem to grow small and smaller as
they climb, till one might fancy them reduced to weeds and shrubs far
upward, where they join the everlasting snows.  Silence and solitude
brood over Tahoe; and silence and solitude brood also over this lake of
Genessaret.  But the solitude of the one is as cheerful and fascinating
as the solitude of the other is dismal and repellant.

In the early morning one watches the silent battle of dawn and darkness
upon the waters of Tahoe with a placid interest; but when the shadows
sulk away and one by one the hidden beauties of the shore unfold
themselves in the full splendor of noon; when the still surface is belted
like a rainbow with broad bars of blue and green and white, half the
distance from circumference to centre; when, in the lazy summer
afternoon, he lies in a boat, far out to where the dead blue of the deep
water begins, and smokes the pipe of peace and idly winks at the
distant crags and patches of snow from under his cap-brim; when the boat
drifts shoreward to the white water, and he lolls over the gunwale and
gazes by the hour down through the crystal depths and notes the colors of
the pebbles and reviews the finny armies gliding in procession a hundred
feet below; when at night he sees moon and stars, mountain ridges
feathered with pines, jutting white capes, bold promontories, grand
sweeps of rugged scenery topped with bald, glimmering peaks, all
magnificently pictured in the polished mirror of the lake, in richest,
softest detail, the tranquil interest that was born with the morning
deepens and deepens, by sure degrees, till it culminates at last in
resistless fascination!

It is solitude, for birds and squirrels on the shore and fishes in the
water are all the creatures that are near to make it otherwise, but it is
not the sort of solitude to make one dreary.  Come to Galilee for that.
If these unpeopled deserts, these rusty mounds of barrenness, that never,
never, never do shake the glare from their harsh outlines, and fade and
faint into vague perspective; that melancholy ruin of Capernaum; this
stupid village of Tiberias, slumbering under its six funereal plumes of
palms; yonder desolate declivity where the swine of the miracle ran down
into the sea, and doubtless thought it was better to swallow a devil or
two and get drowned into the bargain than have to live longer in such a
place; this cloudless, blistering sky; this solemn, sailless, tintless
lake, reposing within its rim of yellow hills and low, steep banks, and
looking just as expressionless and unpoetical (when we leave its sublime
history out of the question,) as any metropolitan reservoir in
Christendom--if these things are not food for rock me to sleep, mother,
none exist, I think.

But I should not offer the evidence for the prosecution and leave the
defense unheard.  Wm. C. Grimes deposes as follows:--

     "We had taken ship to go over to the other side.  The sea was not
     more than six miles wide.  Of the beauty of the scene, however, I
     can not say enough, nor can I imagine where those travelers carried
     their eyes who have described the scenery of the lake as tame or
     uninteresting.  The first great characteristic of it is the deep
     basin in which it lies.  This is from three to four hundred feet
     deep on all sides except at the lower end, and the sharp slope of
     the banks, which are all of the richest green, is broken and
     diversified by the wadys and water-courses which work their way down
     through the sides of the basin, forming dark chasms or light sunny
     valleys.  Near Tiberias these banks are rocky, and ancient
     sepulchres open in them, with their doors toward the water.  They
     selected grand spots, as did the Egyptians of old, for burial
     places, as if they designed that when the voice of God should reach
     the sleepers, they should walk forth and open their eyes on scenes
     of glorious beauty.  On the east, the wild and desolate mountains
     contrast finely with the deep blue lake; and toward the north,
     sublime and majestic, Hermon looks down on the sea, lifting his
     white crown to heaven with the pride of a hill that has seen the
     departing footsteps of a hundred generations.  On the north-east
     shore of the sea was a single tree, and this is the only tree of any
     size visible from the water of the lake, except a few lonely palms
     in the city of Tiberias, and by its solitary position attracts more
     attention than would a forest.  The whole appearance of the scene is
     precisely what we would expect and desire the scenery of Genessaret
     to be, grand beauty, but quiet calm.  The very mountains are calm."

It is an ingeniously written description, and well calculated to deceive.
But if the paint and the ribbons and the flowers be stripped from it, a
skeleton will be found beneath.

So stripped, there remains a lake six miles wide and neutral in color;
with steep green banks, unrelieved by shrubbery; at one end bare,
unsightly rocks, with (almost invisible) holes in them of no consequence
to the picture; eastward, "wild and desolate mountains;" (low, desolate
hills, he should have said;) in the north, a mountain called Hermon, with
snow on it; peculiarity of the picture, "calmness;" its prominent
feature, one tree.

No ingenuity could make such a picture beautiful--to one's actual vision.

I claim the right to correct misstatements, and have so corrected the
color of the water in the above recapitulation.  The waters of Genessaret
are of an exceedingly mild blue, even from a high elevation and a
distance of five miles.  Close at hand (the witness was sailing on the
lake,) it is hardly proper to call them blue at all, much less "deep"
blue.  I wish to state, also, not as a correction, but as matter of
opinion, that Mount Hermon is not a striking or picturesque mountain by
any means, being too near the height of its immediate neighbors to be so.
That is all.  I do not object to the witness dragging a mountain forty-
five miles to help the scenery under consideration, because it is
entirely proper to do it, and besides, the picture needs it.

"C. W. E.," (of "Life in the Holy Land,") deposes as follows:--

     "A beautiful sea lies unbosomed among the Galilean hills, in the
     midst of that land once possessed by Zebulon and Naphtali, Asher and
     Dan.  The azure of the sky penetrates the depths of the lake, and
     the waters are sweet and cool.  On the west, stretch broad fertile
     plains; on the north the rocky shores rise step by step until in the
     far distance tower the snowy heights of Hermon; on the east through
     a misty veil are seen the high plains of Perea, which stretch away
     in rugged mountains leading the mind by varied paths toward
     Jerusalem the Holy.  Flowers bloom in this terrestrial paradise,
     once beautiful and verdant with waving trees; singing birds enchant
     the ear; the turtle-dove soothes with its soft note; the crested
     lark sends up its song toward heaven, and the grave and stately
     stork inspires the mind with thought, and leads it on to meditation
     and repose.  Life here was once idyllic, charming; here were once no
     rich, no poor, no high, no low.  It was a world of ease, simplicity,
     and beauty; now it is a scene of desolation and misery."

This is not an ingenious picture.  It is the worst I ever saw.  It
describes in elaborate detail what it terms a "terrestrial paradise," and
closes with the startling information that this paradise is "a scene of
desolation and misery."

I have given two fair, average specimens of the character of the
testimony offered by the majority of the writers who visit this region.
One says, "Of the beauty of the scene I can not say enough," and then
proceeds to cover up with a woof of glittering sentences a thing which,
when stripped for inspection, proves to be only an unobtrusive basin of
water, some mountainous desolation, and one tree.  The other, after a
conscientious effort to build a terrestrial paradise out of the same
materials, with the addition of a "grave and stately stork," spoils it
all by blundering upon the ghastly truth at the last.

Nearly every book concerning Galilee and its lake describes the scenery
as beautiful.  No--not always so straightforward as that.  Sometimes the
impression intentionally conveyed is that it is beautiful, at the same
time that the author is careful not to say that it is, in plain Saxon.
But a careful analysis of these descriptions will show that the materials
of which they are formed are not individually beautiful and can not be
wrought into combinations that are beautiful.  The veneration and the
affection which some of these men felt for the scenes they were speaking
of, heated their fancies and biased their judgment; but the pleasant
falsities they wrote were full of honest sincerity, at any rate.  Others
wrote as they did, because they feared it would be unpopular to write
otherwise.  Others were hypocrites and deliberately meant to deceive.
Any of them would say in a moment, if asked, that it was always right and
always best to tell the truth.  They would say that, at any rate, if they
did not perceive the drift of the question.

But why should not the truth be spoken of this region?  Is the truth
harmful?  Has it ever needed to hide its face?  God made the Sea of
Galilee and its surroundings as they are.  Is it the province of Mr.
Grimes to improve upon the work?

I am sure, from the tenor of books I have read, that many who have
visited this land in years gone by, were Presbyterians, and came seeking
evidences in support of their particular creed; they found a Presbyterian
Palestine, and they had already made up their minds to find no other,
though possibly they did not know it, being blinded by their zeal.
Others were Baptists, seeking Baptist evidences and a Baptist Palestine.
Others were Catholics, Methodists, Episcopalians, seeking evidences
indorsing their several creeds, and a Catholic, a Methodist, an
Episcopalian Palestine.  Honest as these men's intentions may have been,
they were full of partialities and prejudices, they entered the country
with their verdicts already prepared, and they could no more write
dispassionately and impartially about it than they could about their own
wives and children.  Our pilgrims have brought their verdicts with them.
They have shown it in their conversation ever since we left Beirout.
I can almost tell, in set phrase, what they will say when they see Tabor,
Nazareth, Jericho and Jerusalem--because I have the books they will
"smouch" their ideas from.  These authors write pictures and frame
rhapsodies, and lesser men follow and see with the author's eyes instead
of their own, and speak with his tongue.  What the pilgrims said at
Cesarea Philippi surprised me with its wisdom.  I found it afterwards in
Robinson.  What they said when Genessaret burst upon their vision,
charmed me with its grace.  I find it in Mr. Thompson's "Land and the
Book."  They have spoken often, in happily worded language which never
varied, of how they mean to lay their weary heads upon a stone at Bethel,
as Jacob did, and close their dim eyes, and dream, perchance, of angels
descending out of heaven on a ladder.  It was very pretty.  But I have
recognized the weary head and the dim eyes, finally.  They borrowed the
idea--and the words--and the construction--and the punctuation--from
Grimes.  The pilgrims will tell of Palestine, when they get home, not as
it appeared to them, but as it appeared to Thompson and Robinson and
Grimes--with the tints varied to suit each pilgrim's creed.

Pilgrims, sinners and Arabs are all abed, now, and the camp is still.
Labor in loneliness is irksome.  Since I made my last few notes, I have
been sitting outside the tent for half an hour.  Night is the time to see
Galilee.  Genessaret under these lustrous stars has nothing repulsive
about it.  Genessaret with the glittering reflections of the
constellations flecking its surface, almost makes me regret that I ever
saw the rude glare of the day upon it.  Its history and its associations
are its chiefest charm, in any eyes, and the spells they weave are feeble
in the searching light of the sun.  Then, we scarcely feel the fetters.
Our thoughts wander constantly to the practical concerns of life, and
refuse to dwell upon things that seem vague and unreal.  But when the day
is done, even the most unimpressible must yield to the dreamy influences
of this tranquil starlight.  The old traditions of the place steal upon
his memory and haunt his reveries, and then his fancy clothes all sights
and sounds with the supernatural.  In the lapping of the waves upon the
beach, he hears the dip of ghostly oars; in the secret noises of the
night he hears spirit voices; in the soft sweep of the breeze, the rush
of invisible wings.  Phantom ships are on the sea, the dead of twenty
centuries come forth from the tombs, and in the dirges of the night wind
the songs of old forgotten ages find utterance again.

In the starlight, Galilee has no boundaries but the broad compass of the
heavens, and is a theatre meet for great events; meet for the birth of a
religion able to save a world; and meet for the stately Figure appointed
to stand upon its stage and proclaim its high decrees.  But in the
sunlight, one says: Is it for the deeds which were done and the words
which were spoken in this little acre of rocks and sand eighteen
centuries gone, that the bells are ringing to-day in the remote islands
of the sea and far and wide over continents that clasp the circumference
of the huge globe?

One can comprehend it only when night has hidden all incongruities and
created a theatre proper for so grand a drama.




CHAPTER XLIX.

We took another swim in the Sea of Galilee at twilight yesterday, and
another at sunrise this morning.  We have not sailed, but three swims are
equal to a sail, are they not?  There were plenty of fish visible in the
water, but we have no outside aids in this pilgrimage but "Tent Life in
the Holy Land," "The Land and the Book," and other literature of like
description--no fishing-tackle.  There were no fish to be had in the
village of Tiberias.  True, we saw two or three vagabonds mending their
nets, but never trying to catch any thing with them.

We did not go to the ancient warm baths two miles below Tiberias.  I had
no desire in the world to go there.  This seemed a little strange, and
prompted me to try to discover what the cause of this unreasonable
indifference was.  It turned out to be simply because Pliny mentions
them.  I have conceived a sort of unwarrantable unfriendliness toward
Pliny and St. Paul, because it seems as if I can never ferret out a place
that I can have to myself.  It always and eternally transpires that St.
Paul has been to that place, and Pliny has "mentioned" it.

In the early morning we mounted and started.  And then a weird apparition
marched forth at the head of the procession--a pirate, I thought, if ever
a pirate dwelt upon land.  It was a tall Arab, as swarthy as an Indian;
young-say thirty years of age.  On his head he had closely bound a
gorgeous yellow and red striped silk scarf, whose ends, lavishly fringed
with tassels, hung down between his shoulders and dallied with the wind.
From his neck to his knees, in ample folds, a robe swept down that was a
very star-spangled banner of curved and sinuous bars of black and white.
Out of his back, somewhere, apparently, the long stem of a chibouk
projected, and reached far above his right shoulder.  Athwart his back,
diagonally, and extending high above his left shoulder, was an Arab gum
of Saladin's time, that was splendid with silver plating from stock clear
up to the end of its measureless stretch of barrel.  About his waist was
bound many and many a yard of elaborately figured but sadly tarnished
stuff that came from sumptuous Persia, and among the baggy folds in front
the sunbeams glinted from a formidable battery of old brass-mounted
horse-pistols and the gilded hilts of blood-thirsty knives.  There were
holsters for more pistols appended to the wonderful stack of long-haired
goat-skins and Persian carpets, which the man had been taught to regard
in the light of a saddle; and down among the pendulous rank of vast
tassels that swung from that saddle, and clanging against the iron shovel
of a stirrup that propped the warrior's knees up toward his chin, was a
crooked, silver-clad scimitar of such awful dimensions and such
implacable expression that no man might hope to look upon it and not
shudder.  The fringed and bedizened prince whose privilege it is to ride
the pony and lead the elephant into a country village is poor and naked
compared to this chaos of paraphernalia, and the happy vanity of the one
is the very poverty of satisfaction compared to the majestic serenity,
the overwhelming complacency of the other.

"Who is this?  What is this?"  That was the trembling inquiry all down
the line.

"Our guard!  From Galilee to the birthplace of the Savior, the country is
infested with fierce Bedouins, whose sole happiness it is, in this life,
to cut and stab and mangle and murder unoffending Christians.  Allah be
with us!"

"Then hire a regiment!  Would you send us out among these desperate
hordes, with no salvation in our utmost need but this old turret?"

The dragoman laughed--not at the facetiousness of the simile, for verily,
that guide or that courier or that dragoman never yet lived upon earth
who had in him the faintest appreciation of a joke, even though that joke
were so broad and so ponderous that if it fell on him it would flatten
him out like a postage stamp--the dragoman laughed, and then, emboldened
by some thought that was in his brain, no doubt, proceeded to extremities
and winked.

In straits like these, when a man laughs, it is encouraging when he
winks, it is positively reassuring.  He finally intimated that one guard
would be sufficient to protect us, but that that one was an absolute
necessity.  It was because of the moral weight his awful panoply would
have with the Bedouins.  Then I said we didn't want any guard at all.
If one fantastic vagabond could protect eight armed Christians and a pack
of Arab servants from all harm, surely that detachment could protect
themselves.  He shook his head doubtfully.  Then I said, just think of
how it looks--think of how it would read, to self-reliant Americans, that
we went sneaking through this deserted wilderness under the protection of
this masquerading Arab, who would break his neck getting out of the
country if a man that was a man ever started after him.  It was a mean,
low, degrading position.  Why were we ever told to bring navy revolvers
with us if we had to be protected at last by this infamous star-spangled
scum of the desert?  These appeals were vain--the dragoman only smiled
and shook his head.

I rode to the front and struck up an acquaintance with King Solomon-in-
all-his-glory, and got him to show me his lingering eternity of a gun.
It had a rusty flint lock; it was ringed and barred and plated with
silver from end to end, but it was as desperately out of the
perpendicular as are the billiard cues of '49 that one finds yet in
service in the ancient mining camps of California.  The muzzle was eaten
by the rust of centuries into a ragged filigree-work, like the end of a
burnt-out stove-pipe.  I shut one eye and peered within--it was flaked
with iron rust like an old steamboat boiler.  I borrowed the ponderous
pistols and snapped them.  They were rusty inside, too--had not been
loaded for a generation.  I went back, full of encouragement, and
reported to the guide, and asked him to discharge this dismantled
fortress.  It came out, then.  This fellow was a retainer of the Sheik of
Tiberias.  He was a source of Government revenue.  He was to the Empire
of Tiberias what the customs are to America.  The Sheik imposed guards
upon travelers and charged them for it.  It is a lucrative source of
emolument, and sometimes brings into the national treasury as much as
thirty-five or forty dollars a year.

I knew the warrior's secret now; I knew the hollow vanity of his rusty
trumpery, and despised his asinine complacency.  I told on him, and with
reckless daring the cavalcade straight ahead into the perilous solitudes
of the desert, and scorned his frantic warnings of the mutilation and
death that hovered about them on every side.

Arrived at an elevation of twelve hundred feet above the lake, (I ought
to mention that the lake lies six hundred feet below the level of the
Mediterranean--no traveler ever neglects to flourish that fragment of
news in his letters,) as bald and unthrilling a panorama as any land can
afford, perhaps, was spread out before us.  Yet it was so crowded with
historical interest, that if all the pages that have been written about
it were spread upon its surface, they would flag it from horizon to
horizon like a pavement.  Among the localities comprised in this view,
were Mount Hermon; the hills that border Cesarea Philippi, Dan, the
Sources of the Jordan and the Waters of Merom; Tiberias; the Sea of
Galilee; Joseph's Pit; Capernaum; Bethsaida; the supposed scenes of the
Sermon on the Mount, the feeding of the multitudes and the miraculous
draught of fishes; the declivity down which the swine ran to the sea; the
entrance and the exit of the Jordan; Safed, "the city set upon a hill,"
one of the four holy cities of the Jews, and the place where they believe
the real Messiah will appear when he comes to redeem the world; part of
the battle-field of Hattin, where the knightly Crusaders fought their
last fight, and in a blaze of glory passed from the stage and ended their
splendid career forever; Mount Tabor, the traditional scene of the Lord's
Transfiguration.  And down toward the southeast lay a landscape that
suggested to my mind a quotation (imperfectly remembered, no doubt:)

     "The Ephraimites, not being called upon to share in the rich spoils
     of the Ammonitish war, assembled a mighty host to fight against
     Jeptha, Judge of Israel; who, being apprised of their approach,
     gathered together the men of Israel and gave them battle and put
     them to flight.  To make his victory the more secure, he stationed
     guards at the different fords and passages of the Jordan, with
     instructions to let none pass who could not say Shibboleth.  The
     Ephraimites, being of a different tribe, could not frame to
     pronounce the word right, but called it Sibboleth, which proved them
     enemies and cost them their lives; wherefore, forty and two thousand
     fell at the different fords and passages of the Jordan that day."

We jogged along peacefully over the great caravan route from Damascus to
Jerusalem and Egypt, past Lubia and other Syrian hamlets, perched, in the
unvarying style, upon the summit of steep mounds and hills, and fenced
round about with giant cactuses, (the sign of worthless land,) with
prickly pears upon them like hams, and came at last to the battle-field
of Hattin.

It is a grand, irregular plateau, and looks as if it might have been
created for a battle-field.  Here the peerless Saladin met the Christian
host some seven hundred years ago, and broke their power in Palestine for
all time to come.  There had long been a truce between the opposing
forces, but according to the Guide-Book, Raynauld of Chatillon, Lord of
Kerak, broke it by plundering a Damascus caravan, and refusing to give up
either the merchants or their goods when Saladin demanded them.  This
conduct of an insolent petty chieftain stung the Sultan to the quick, and
he swore that he would slaughter Raynauld with his own hand, no matter
how, or when, or where he found him.  Both armies prepared for war.
Under the weak King of Jerusalem was the very flower of the Christian
chivalry.  He foolishly compelled them to undergo a long, exhausting
march, in the scorching sun, and then, without water or other
refreshment, ordered them to encamp in this open plain.  The splendidly
mounted masses of Moslem soldiers swept round the north end of
Genessaret, burning and destroying as they came, and pitched their camp
in front of the opposing lines.  At dawn the terrific fight began.
Surrounded on all sides by the Sultan's swarming battalions, the
Christian Knights fought on without a hope for their lives.  They fought
with desperate valor, but to no purpose; the odds of heat and numbers,
and consuming thirst, were too great against them.  Towards the middle of
the day the bravest of their band cut their way through the Moslem ranks
and gained the summit of a little hill, and there, hour after hour, they
closed around the banner of the Cross, and beat back the charging
squadrons of the enemy.

But the doom of the Christian power was sealed.  Sunset found Saladin
Lord of Palestine, the Christian chivalry strewn in heaps upon the field,
and the King of Jerusalem, the Grand Master of the Templars, and Raynauld
of Chatillon, captives in the Sultan's tent.  Saladin treated two of the
prisoners with princely courtesy, and ordered refreshments to be set
before them.  When the King handed an iced Sherbet to Chatillon, the
Sultan said," It is thou that givest it to him, not I."  He remembered
his oath, and slaughtered the hapless Knight of Chatillon with his own
hand.

It was hard to realize that this silent plain had once resounded with
martial music and trembled to the tramp of armed men.  It was hard to
people this solitude with rushing columns of cavalry, and stir its torpid
pulses with the shouts of victors, the shrieks of the wounded, and the
flash of banner and steel above the surging billows of war.  A desolation
is here that not even imagination can grace with the pomp of life and
action.

We reached Tabor safely, and considerably in advance of that old iron-
clad swindle of a guard.  We never saw a human being on the whole route,
much less lawless hordes of Bedouins.  Tabor stands solitary and alone,
a giant sentinel above the Plain of Esdraelon.  It rises some fourteen
hundred feet above the surrounding level, a green, wooden cone,
symmetrical and full of grace--a prominent landmark, and one that is
exceedingly pleasant to eyes surfeited with the repulsive monotony of
desert Syria.  We climbed the steep path to its summit, through breezy
glades of thorn and oak.  The view presented from its highest peak was
almost beautiful.  Below, was the broad, level plain of Esdraelon,
checkered with fields like a chess-board, and full as smooth and level,
seemingly; dotted about its borders with white, compact villages, and
faintly penciled, far and near, with the curving lines of roads and
trails.  When it is robed in the fresh verdure of spring, it must form a
charming picture, even by itself.  Skirting its southern border rises
"Little Hermon," over whose summit a glimpse of Gilboa is caught.  Nain,
famous for the raising of the widow's son, and Endor, as famous for the
performances of her witch are in view.  To the eastward lies the Valley
of the Jordan and beyond it the mountains of Gilead.  Westward is Mount
Carmel.  Hermon in the north--the table-lands of Bashan--Safed, the holy
city, gleaming white upon a tall spur of the mountains of Lebanon--a
steel-blue corner of the Sea of Galilee--saddle-peaked Hattin,
traditional "Mount of Beatitudes" and mute witness brave fights of the
Crusading host for Holy Cross--these fill up the picture.

To glance at the salient features of this landscape through the
picturesque framework of a ragged and ruined stone window--arch of the
time of Christ, thus hiding from sight all that is unattractive, is to
secure to yourself a pleasure worth climbing the mountain to enjoy.  One
must stand on his head to get the best effect in a fine sunset, and set a
landscape in a bold, strong framework that is very close at hand, to
bring out all its beauty.  One learns this latter truth never more to
forget it, in that mimic land of enchantment, the wonderful garden of my
lord the Count Pallavicini, near Genoa.  You go wandering for hours among
hills and wooded glens, artfully contrived to leave the impression that
Nature shaped them and not man; following winding paths and coming
suddenly upon leaping cascades and rustic bridges; finding sylvan lakes
where you expected them not; loitering through battered mediaeval castles
in miniature that seem hoary with age and yet were built a dozen years
ago; meditating over ancient crumbling tombs, whose marble columns were
marred and broken purposely by the modern artist that made them;
stumbling unawares upon toy palaces, wrought of rare and costly
materials, and again upon a peasant's hut, whose dilapidated furniture
would never suggest that it was made so to order; sweeping round and
round in the midst of a forest on an enchanted wooden horse that is moved
by some invisible agency; traversing Roman roads and passing under
majestic triumphal arches; resting in quaint bowers where unseen spirits
discharge jets of water on you from every possible direction, and where
even the flowers you touch assail you with a shower; boating on a
subterranean lake among caverns and arches royally draped with clustering
stalactites, and passing out into open day upon another lake, which is
bordered with sloping banks of grass and gay with patrician barges that
swim at anchor in the shadow of a miniature marble temple that rises out
of the clear water and glasses its white statues, its rich capitals and
fluted columns in the tranquil depths.  So, from marvel to marvel you
have drifted on, thinking all the time that the one last seen must be the
chiefest.  And, verily, the chiefest wonder is reserved until the last,
but you do not see it until you step ashore, and passing through a
wilderness of rare flowers, collected from every corner of the earth, you
stand at the door of one more mimic temple.  Right in this place the
artist taxed his genius to the utmost, and fairly opened the gates of
fairy land.  You look through an unpretending pane of glass, stained
yellow--the first thing you see is a mass of quivering foliage, ten short
steps before you, in the midst of which is a ragged opening like a
gateway-a thing that is common enough in nature, and not apt to excite
suspicions of a deep human design--and above the bottom of the gateway,
project, in the most careless way! a few broad tropic leaves and
brilliant flowers.  All of a sudden, through this bright, bold gateway,
you catch a glimpse of the faintest, softest, richest picture that ever
graced the dream of a dying Saint, since John saw the New Jerusalem
glimmering above the clouds of Heaven.  A broad sweep of sea, flecked
with careening sails; a sharp, jutting cape, and a lofty lighthouse on
it; a sloping lawn behind it; beyond, a portion of the old "city of
palaces," with its parks and hills and stately mansions; beyond these, a
prodigious mountain, with its strong outlines sharply cut against ocean
and sky; and over all, vagrant shreds and flakes of cloud, floating in a
sea of gold.  The ocean is gold, the city is gold, the meadow, the
mountain, the sky--every thing is golden-rich, and mellow, and dreamy as
a vision of Paradise.  No artist could put upon canvas, its entrancing
beauty, and yet, without the yellow glass, and the carefully contrived
accident of a framework that cast it into enchanted distance and shut out
from it all unattractive features, it was not a picture to fall into
ecstasies over.  Such is life, and the trail of the serpent is over us
all.

There is nothing for it now but to come back to old Tabor, though the
subject is tiresome enough, and I can not stick to it for wandering off
to scenes that are pleasanter to remember.  I think I will skip, any how.
There is nothing about Tabor (except we concede that it was the scene of
the Transfiguration,) but some gray old ruins, stacked up there in all
ages of the world from the days of stout Gideon and parties that
flourished thirty centuries ago to the fresh yesterday of Crusading
times.  It has its Greek Convent, and the coffee there is good, but never
a splinter of the true cross or bone of a hallowed saint to arrest the
idle thoughts of worldlings and turn them into graver channels.
A Catholic church is nothing to me that has no relics.

The plain of Esdraelon--"the battle-field of the nations"--only sets one
to dreaming of Joshua, and Benhadad, and Saul, and Gideon; Tamerlane,
Tancred, Coeur de Lion, and Saladin; the warrior Kings of Persia, Egypt's
heroes, and Napoleon--for they all fought here.  If the magic of the
moonlight could summon from the graves of forgotten centuries and many
lands the countless myriads that have battled on this wide, far-reaching
floor, and array them in the thousand strange Costumes of their hundred
nationalities, and send the vast host sweeping down the plain, splendid
with plumes and banners and glittering lances, I could stay here an age
to see the phantom pageant.  But the magic of the moonlight is a vanity
and a fraud; and whoso putteth his trust in it shall suffer sorrow and
disappointment.

Down at the foot of Tabor, and just at the edge of the storied Plain of
Esdraelon, is the insignificant village of Deburieh, where Deborah,
prophetess of Israel, lived.  It is just like Magdala.




CHAPTER L.

We descended from Mount Tabor, crossed a deep ravine, followed a hilly,
rocky road to Nazareth--distant two hours.  All distances in the East are
measured by hours, not miles.  A good horse will walk three miles an hour
over nearly any kind of a road; therefore, an hour, here, always stands
for three miles.  This method of computation is bothersome and annoying;
and until one gets thoroughly accustomed to it, it carries no
intelligence to his mind until he has stopped and translated the pagan
hours into Christian miles, just as people do with the spoken words of a
foreign language they are acquainted with, but not familiarly enough to
catch the meaning in a moment.  Distances traveled by human feet are also
estimated by hours and minutes, though I do not know what the base of the
calculation is.  In Constantinople you ask, "How far is it to the
Consulate?" and they answer, "About ten minutes."  "How far is it to the
Lloyds' Agency?"  "Quarter of an hour."  "How far is it to the lower
bridge?"  "Four minutes."  I can not be positive about it, but I think
that there, when a man orders a pair of pantaloons, he says he wants them
a quarter of a minute in the legs and nine seconds around the waist.

Two hours from Tabor to Nazareth--and as it was an uncommonly narrow,
crooked trail, we necessarily met all the camel trains and jackass
caravans between Jericho and Jacksonville in that particular place and
nowhere else.  The donkeys do not matter so much, because they are so
small that you can jump your horse over them if he is an animal of
spirit, but a camel is not jumpable.  A camel is as tall as any ordinary
dwelling-house in Syria--which is to say a camel is from one to two, and
sometimes nearly three feet taller than a good-sized man.  In this part
of the country his load is oftenest in the shape of colossal sacks--one
on each side.  He and his cargo take up as much room as a carriage.
Think of meeting this style of obstruction in a narrow trail.  The camel
would not turn out for a king.  He stalks serenely along, bringing his
cushioned stilts forward with the long, regular swing of a pendulum, and
whatever is in the way must get out of the way peaceably, or be wiped out
forcibly by the bulky sacks.  It was a tiresome ride to us, and perfectly
exhausting to the horses.  We were compelled to jump over upwards of
eighteen hundred donkeys, and only one person in the party was unseated
less than sixty times by the camels.  This seems like a powerful
statement, but the poet has said, "Things are not what they seem."  I can
not think of any thing, now, more certain to make one shudder, than to
have a soft-footed camel sneak up behind him and touch him on the ear
with its cold, flabby under-lip.  A camel did this for one of the boys,
who was drooping over his saddle in a brown study.  He glanced up and saw
the majestic apparition hovering above him, and made frantic efforts to
get out of the way, but the camel reached out and bit him on the shoulder
before he accomplished it.  This was the only pleasant incident of the
journey.

At Nazareth we camped in an olive grove near the Virgin Mary's fountain,
and that wonderful Arab "guard" came to collect some bucksheesh for his
"services" in following us from Tiberias and warding off invisible
dangers with the terrors of his armament.  The dragoman had paid his
master, but that counted as nothing--if you hire a man to sneeze for you,
here, and another man chooses to help him, you have got to pay both.
They do nothing whatever without pay.  How it must have surprised these
people to hear the way of salvation offered to them "without money and
without price."  If the manners, the people or the customs of this
country have changed since the Saviour's time, the figures and metaphors
of the Bible are not the evidences to prove it by.

We entered the great Latin Convent which is built over the traditional
dwelling-place of the Holy Family.  We went down a flight of fifteen
steps below the ground level, and stood in a small chapel tricked out
with tapestry hangings, silver lamps, and oil paintings.  A spot marked
by a cross, in the marble floor, under the altar, was exhibited as the
place made forever holy by the feet of the Virgin when she stood up to
receive the message of the angel.  So simple, so unpretending a locality,
to be the scene of so mighty an event!  The very scene of the
Annunciation--an event which has been commemorated by splendid shrines
and august temples all over the civilized world, and one which the
princes of art have made it their loftiest ambition to picture worthily
on their canvas; a spot whose history is familiar to the very children of
every house, and city, and obscure hamlet of the furthest lands of
Christendom; a spot which myriads of men would toil across the breadth of
a world to see, would consider it a priceless privilege to look upon.
It was easy to think these thoughts.  But it was not easy to bring myself
up to the magnitude of the situation.  I could sit off several thousand
miles and imagine the angel appearing, with shadowy wings and lustrous
countenance, and note the glory that streamed downward upon the Virgin's
head while the message from the Throne of God fell upon her ears--any one
can do that, beyond the ocean, but few can do it here.  I saw the little
recess from which the angel stepped, but could not fill its void.  The
angels that I know are creatures of unstable fancy--they will not fit in
niches of substantial stone.  Imagination labors best in distant fields.
I doubt if any man can stand in the Grotto of the Annunciation and people
with the phantom images of his mind its too tangible walls of stone.

They showed us a broken granite pillar, depending from the roof, which
they said was hacked in two by the Moslem conquerors of Nazareth, in the
vain hope of pulling down the sanctuary.  But the pillar remained
miraculously suspended in the air, and, unsupported itself, supported
then and still supports the roof.  By dividing this statement up among
eight, it was found not difficult to believe it.

These gifted Latin monks never do any thing by halves.  If they were to
show you the Brazen Serpent that was elevated in the wilderness, you
could depend upon it that they had on hand the pole it was elevated on
also, and even the hole it stood in.  They have got the "Grotto" of the
Annunciation here; and just as convenient to it as one's throat is to his
mouth, they have also the Virgin's Kitchen, and even her sitting-room,
where she and Joseph watched the infant Saviour play with Hebrew toys
eighteen hundred years ago.  All under one roof, and all clean, spacious,
comfortable "grottoes."  It seems curious that personages intimately
connected with the Holy Family always lived in grottoes--in Nazareth, in
Bethlehem, in imperial Ephesus--and yet nobody else in their day and
generation thought of doing any thing of the kind.  If they ever did,
their grottoes are all gone, and I suppose we ought to wonder at the
peculiar marvel of the preservation of these I speak of.  When the Virgin
fled from Herod's wrath, she hid in a grotto in Bethlehem, and the same
is there to this day.  The slaughter of the innocents in Bethlehem was
done in a grotto; the Saviour was born in a grotto--both are shown to
pilgrims yet.  It is exceedingly strange that these tremendous events all
happened in grottoes--and exceedingly fortunate, likewise, because the
strongest houses must crumble to ruin in time, but a grotto in the living
rock will last forever.  It is an imposture--this grotto stuff--but it is
one that all men ought to thank the Catholics for.  Wherever they ferret
out a lost locality made holy by some Scriptural event, they straightway
build a massive--almost imperishable--church there, and preserve the
memory of that locality for the gratification of future generations.  If
it had been left to Protestants to do this most worthy work, we would not
even know where Jerusalem is to-day, and the man who could go and put his
finger on Nazareth would be too wise for this world.  The world owes the
Catholics its good will even for the happy rascality of hewing out these
bogus grottoes in the rock; for it is infinitely more satisfactory to
look at a grotto, where people have faithfully believed for centuries
that the Virgin once lived, than to have to imagine a dwelling-place for
her somewhere, any where, nowhere, loose and at large all over this town
of Nazareth.  There is too large a scope of country.  The imagination can
not work.  There is no one particular spot to chain your eye, rivet your
interest, and make you think.  The memory of the Pilgrims can not perish
while Plymouth Rock remains to us.  The old monks are wise.  They know
how to drive a stake through a pleasant tradition that will hold it to
its place forever.

We visited the places where Jesus worked for fifteen years as a
carpenter, and where he attempted to teach in the synagogue and was
driven out by a mob.  Catholic chapels stand upon these sites and protect
the little fragments of the ancient walls which remain.  Our pilgrims
broke off specimens.  We visited, also, a new chapel, in the midst of the
town, which is built around a boulder some twelve feet long by four feet
thick; the priests discovered, a few years ago, that the disciples had
sat upon this rock to rest, once, when they had walked up from Capernaum.
They hastened to preserve the relic.  Relics are very good property.
Travelers are expected to pay for seeing them, and they do it cheerfully.
We like the idea.  One's conscience can never be the worse for the
knowledge that he has paid his way like a man.  Our pilgrims would have
liked very well to get out their lampblack and stencil-plates and paint
their names on that rock, together with the names of the villages they
hail from in America, but the priests permit nothing of that kind.
To speak the strict truth, however, our party seldom offend in that way,
though we have men in the ship who never lose an opportunity to do it.
Our pilgrims' chief sin is their lust for "specimens."  I suppose that by
this time they know the dimensions of that rock to an inch, and its
weight to a ton; and I do not hesitate to charge that they will go back
there to-night and try to carry it off.

This "Fountain of the Virgin" is the one which tradition says Mary used
to get water from, twenty times a day, when she was a girl, and bear it
away in a jar upon her head.  The water streams through faucets in the
face of a wall of ancient masonry which stands removed from the houses of
the village.  The young girls of Nazareth still collect about it by the
dozen and keep up a riotous laughter and sky-larking.  The Nazarene girls
are homely.  Some of them have large, lustrous eyes, but none of them
have pretty faces.  These girls wear a single garment, usually, and it is
loose, shapeless, of undecided color; it is generally out of repair, too.
They wear, from crown to jaw, curious strings of old coins, after the
manner of the belles of Tiberias, and brass jewelry upon their wrists and
in their ears.  They wear no shoes and stockings.  They are the most
human girls we have found in the country yet, and the best natured.
But there is no question that these picturesque maidens sadly lack
comeliness.

A pilgrim--the "Enthusiast"--said: "See that tall, graceful girl! look at
the Madonna-like beauty of her countenance!"

Another pilgrim came along presently and said: "Observe that tall,
graceful girl; what queenly Madonna-like gracefulness of beauty is in her
countenance."

I said: "She is not tall, she is short; she is not beautiful, she is
homely; she is graceful enough, I grant, but she is rather boisterous."

The third and last pilgrim moved by, before long, and he said: "Ah, what
a tall, graceful girl! what Madonna-like gracefulness of queenly beauty!"

The verdicts were all in.  It was time, now, to look up the authorities
for all these opinions.  I found this paragraph, which follows.  Written
by whom?  Wm. C. Grimes:

     "After we were in the saddle, we rode down to the spring to have a
     last look at the women of Nazareth, who were, as a class, much the
     prettiest that we had seen in the East.  As we approached the crowd
     a tall girl of nineteen advanced toward Miriam and offered her a cup
     of water.  Her movement was graceful and queenly.  We exclaimed on
     the spot at the Madonna-like beauty of her countenance.  Whitely was
     suddenly thirsty, and begged for water, and drank it slowly, with
     his eyes over the top of the cup, fixed on her large black eyes,
     which gazed on him quite as curiously as he on her.  Then Moreright
     wanted water.  She gave it to him and he managed to spill it so as
     to ask for another cup, and by the time she came to me she saw
     through the operation; her eyes were full of fun as she looked at
     me.  I laughed outright, and she joined me in as gay a shout as ever
     country maiden in old Orange county.  I wished for a picture of her.
     A Madonna, whose face was a portrait of that beautiful Nazareth
     girl, would be a 'thing of beauty' and 'a joy forever.'"

That is the kind of gruel which has been served out from Palestine for
ages.  Commend me to Fennimore Cooper to find beauty in the Indians, and
to Grimes to find it in the Arabs.  Arab men are often fine looking, but
Arab women are not.  We can all believe that the Virgin Mary was
beautiful; it is not natural to think otherwise; but does it follow that
it is our duty to find beauty in these present women of Nazareth?

I love to quote from Grimes, because he is so dramatic.  And because he
is so romantic.  And because he seems to care but little whether he tells
the truth or not, so he scares the reader or excites his envy or his
admiration.

He went through this peaceful land with one hand forever on his revolver,
and the other on his pocket-handkerchief.  Always, when he was not on the
point of crying over a holy place, he was on the point of killing an
Arab.  More surprising things happened to him in Palestine than ever
happened to any traveler here or elsewhere since Munchausen died.

At Beit Jin, where nobody had interfered with him, he crept out of his
tent at dead of night and shot at what he took to be an Arab lying on a
rock, some distance away, planning evil.  The ball killed a wolf.  Just
before he fired, he makes a dramatic picture of himself--as usual, to
scare the reader:

     "Was it imagination, or did I see a moving object on the surface of
     the rock?  If it were a man, why did he not now drop me?  He had a
     beautiful shot as I stood out in my black boornoose against the
     white tent.  I had the sensation of an entering bullet in my throat,
     breast, brain."

Reckless creature!

Riding toward Genessaret, they saw two Bedouins, and "we looked to our
pistols and loosened them quietly in our shawls," etc.  Always cool.

In Samaria, he charged up a hill, in the face of a volley of stones; he
fired into the crowd of men who threw them.  He says:

     "I never lost an opportunity of impressing the Arabs with the
     perfection of American and English weapons, and the danger of
     attacking any one of the armed Franks.  I think the lesson of that
     ball not lost."

At Beit Jin he gave his whole band of Arab muleteers a piece of his mind,
and then--

     "I contented myself with a solemn assurance that if there occurred
     another instance of disobedience to orders I would thrash the
     responsible party as he never dreamed of being thrashed, and if I
     could not find who was responsible, I would whip them all, from
     first to last, whether there was a governor at hand to do it or I
     had to do it myself"

Perfectly fearless, this man.

He rode down the perpendicular path in the rocks, from the Castle of
Banias to the oak grove, at a flying gallop, his horse striding "thirty
feet" at every bound.  I stand prepared to bring thirty reliable
witnesses to prove that Putnam's famous feat at Horseneck was
insignificant compared to this.

Behold him--always theatrical--looking at Jerusalem--this time, by an
oversight, with his hand off his pistol for once.

     "I stood in the road, my hand on my horse's neck, and with my dim
     eyes sought to trace the outlines of the holy places which I had
     long before fixed in my mind, but the fast-flowing tears forbade my
     succeeding.  There were our Mohammedan servants, a Latin monk, two
     Armenians and a Jew in our cortege, and all alike gazed with
     overflowing eyes."

If Latin monks and Arabs cried, I know to a moral certainty that the
horses cried also, and so the picture is complete.

But when necessity demanded, he could be firm as adamant.  In the Lebanon
Valley an Arab youth--a Christian; he is particular to explain that
Mohammedans do not steal--robbed him of a paltry ten dollars' worth of
powder and shot.  He convicted him before a sheik and looked on while he
was punished by the terrible bastinado.  Hear him:

     "He (Mousa) was on his back in a twinkling, howling, shouting,
     screaming, but he was carried out to the piazza before the door,
     where we could see the operation, and laid face down.  One man sat
     on his back and one on his legs, the latter holding up his feet,
     while a third laid on the bare soles a rhinoceros-hide koorbash
     --["A Koorbash is Arabic for cowhide, the cow being a rhinoceros.
     It is the most cruel whip known to fame.  Heavy as lead, and
     flexible as India-rubber, usually about forty inches long and
     tapering gradually from an inch in diameter to a point, it
     administers a blow which leaves its mark for time."--Scow Life in
     Egypt, by the same author.]--that whizzed through the air at every
     stroke.  Poor Moreright was in agony, and Nama and Nama the Second
     (mother and sister of Mousa,) were on their faces begging and
     wailing, now embracing my knees and now Whitely's, while the
     brother, outside, made the air ring with cries louder than Mousa's.
     Even Yusef came and asked me on his knees to relent, and last of
     all, Betuni--the rascal had lost a feed-bag in their house and had
     been loudest in his denunciations that morning--besought the Howajji
     to have mercy on the fellow."

But not he!  The punishment was "suspended," at the fifteenth blow to
hear the confession.  Then Grimes and his party rode away, and left the
entire Christian family to be fined and as severely punished as the
Mohammedan sheik should deem proper.

     "As I mounted, Yusef once more begged me to interfere and have mercy
     on them, but I looked around at the dark faces of the crowd, and I
     couldn't find one drop of pity in my heart for them."

He closes his picture with a rollicking burst of humor which contrasts
finely with the grief of the mother and her children.

One more paragraph:

     "Then once more I bowed my head.  It is no shame to have wept in
     Palestine.  I wept, when I saw Jerusalem, I wept when I lay in the
     starlight at Bethlehem.  I wept on the blessed shores of Galilee.
     My hand was no less firm on the rein, my anger did not tremble on
     the trigger of my pistol when I rode with it in my right hand along
     the shore of the blue sea" (weeping.) "My eye was not dimmed by
     those tears nor my heart in aught weakened.  Let him who would sneer
     at my emotion close this volume here, for he will find little to his
     taste in my journeyings through Holy Land."

He never bored but he struck water.

I am aware that this is a pretty voluminous notice of Mr. Grimes' book.
However, it is proper and legitimate to speak of it, for "Nomadic Life in
Palestine" is a representative book--the representative of a class of
Palestine books--and a criticism upon it will serve for a criticism upon
them all.  And since I am treating it in the comprehensive capacity of a
representative book, I have taken the liberty of giving to both book and
author fictitious names.  Perhaps it is in better taste, any how, to do
this.




CHAPTER LI.

Nazareth is wonderfully interesting because the town has an air about it
of being precisely as Jesus left it, and one finds himself saying, all
the time, "The boy Jesus has stood in this doorway--has played in that
street--has touched these stones with his hands--has rambled over these
chalky hills."  Whoever shall write the boyhood of Jesus ingeniously will
make a book which will possess a vivid interest for young and old alike.
I judge so from the greater interest we found in Nazareth than any of our
speculations upon Capernaum and the Sea of Galilee gave rise to.  It was
not possible, standing by the Sea of Galilee, to frame more than a vague,
far-away idea of the majestic Personage who walked upon the crested waves
as if they had been solid earth, and who touched the dead and they rose
up and spoke.  I read among my notes, now, with a new interest, some
sentences from an edition of 1621 of the Apocryphal New Testament.
[Extract.]

     "Christ, kissed by a bride made dumb by sorcerers, cures her.  A
     leprous girl cured by the water in which the infant Christ was
     washed, and becomes the servant of Joseph and Mary.  The leprous son
     of a Prince cured in like manner.

     "A young man who had been bewitched and turned into a mule,
     miraculously cured by the infant Savior being put on his back, and
     is married to the girl who had been cured of leprosy.  Whereupon the
     bystanders praise God.

     "Chapter 16.  Christ miraculously widens or contracts gates, milk-
     pails, sieves or boxes, not properly made by Joseph, he not being
     skillful at his carpenter's trade.  The King of Jerusalem gives
     Joseph an order for a throne.  Joseph works on it for two years and
     makes it two spans too short.  The King being angry with him, Jesus
     comforts him--commands him to pull one side of the throne while he
     pulls the other, and brings it to its proper dimensions.

     "Chapter 19.  Jesus, charged with throwing a boy from the roof of a
     house, miraculously causes the dead boy to speak and acquit him;
     fetches water for his mother, breaks the pitcher and miraculously
     gathers the water in his mantle and brings it home.

     "Sent to a schoolmaster, refuses to tell his letters, and the
     schoolmaster going to whip him, his hand withers."

Further on in this quaint volume of rejected gospels is an epistle of St.
Clement to the Corinthians, which was used in the churches and considered
genuine fourteen or fifteen hundred years ago.  In it this account of the
fabled phoenix occurs:

     "1.  Let us consider that wonderful type of the resurrection, which
     is seen in the Eastern countries, that is to say, in Arabia.

     "2.  There is a certain bird called a phoenix.  Of this there is
     never but one at a time, and that lives five hundred years.  And
     when the time of its dissolution draws near, that it must die, it
     makes itself a nest of frankincense, and myrrh, and other spices,
     into which, when its time is fulfilled, it enters and dies.

     "3.  But its flesh, putrefying, breeds a certain worm, which, being
     nourished by the juice of the dead bird, brings forth feathers; and
     when it is grown to a perfect state, it takes up the nest in which
     the bones of its parent lie, and carries it from Arabia into Egypt,
     to a city called Heliopolis:

     "4.  And flying in open day in the sight of all men, lays it upon
     the altar of the sun, and so returns from whence it came.

     "5.  The priests then search into the records of the time, and find
     that it returned precisely at the end of five hundred years."

Business is business, and there is nothing like punctuality, especially
in a phoenix.

The few chapters relating to the infancy of the Saviour contain many
things which seem frivolous and not worth preserving.  A large part of
the remaining portions of the book read like good Scripture, however.
There is one verse that ought not to have been rejected, because it so
evidently prophetically refers to the general run of Congresses of the
United States:

     "199.  They carry themselves high, and as prudent men; and though
     they are fools, yet would seem to be teachers."

I have set these extracts down, as I found them.  Everywhere among the
cathedrals of France and Italy, one finds traditions of personages that
do not figure in the Bible, and of miracles that are not mentioned in its
pages.  But they are all in this Apocryphal New Testament, and though
they have been ruled out of our modern Bible, it is claimed that they
were accepted gospel twelve or fifteen centuries ago, and ranked as high
in credit as any.  One needs to read this book before he visits those
venerable cathedrals, with their treasures of tabooed and forgotten
tradition.

They imposed another pirate upon us at Nazareth--another invincible Arab
guard.  We took our last look at the city, clinging like a whitewashed
wasp's nest to the hill-side, and at eight o'clock in the morning
departed.  We dismounted and drove the horses down a bridle-path which I
think was fully as crooked as a corkscrew, which I know to be as steep as
the downward sweep of a rainbow, and which I believe to be the worst
piece of road in the geography, except one in the Sandwich Islands, which
I remember painfully, and possibly one or two mountain trails in the
Sierra Nevadas.  Often, in this narrow path the horse had to poise
himself nicely on a rude stone step and then drop his fore-feet over the
edge and down something more than half his own height.  This brought his
nose near the ground, while his tail pointed up toward the sky somewhere,
and gave him the appearance of preparing to stand on his head.  A horse
cannot look dignified in this position.  We accomplished the long descent
at last, and trotted across the great Plain of Esdraelon.

Some of us will be shot before we finish this pilgrimage.  The pilgrims
read "Nomadic Life" and keep themselves in a constant state of Quixotic
heroism.  They have their hands on their pistols all the time, and every
now and then, when you least expect it, they snatch them out and take aim
at Bedouins who are not visible, and draw their knives and make savage
passes at other Bedouins who do not exist.  I am in deadly peril always,
for these spasms are sudden and irregular, and of course I cannot tell
when to be getting out of the way.  If I am accidentally murdered, some
time, during one of these romantic frenzies of the pilgrims, Mr. Grimes
must be rigidly held to answer as an accessory before the fact.  If the
pilgrims would take deliberate aim and shoot at a man, it would be all
right and proper--because that man would not be in any danger; but these
random assaults are what I object to.  I do not wish to see any more
places like Esdraelon, where the ground is level and people can gallop.
It puts melodramatic nonsense into the pilgrims' heads.  All at once,
when one is jogging along stupidly in the sun, and thinking about
something ever so far away, here they come, at a stormy gallop, spurring
and whooping at those ridgy old sore-backed plugs till their heels fly
higher than their heads, and as they whiz by, out comes a little potato-
gum of a revolver, there is a startling little pop, and a small pellet
goes singing through the air.  Now that I have begun this pilgrimage, I
intend to go through with it, though sooth to say, nothing but the most
desperate valor has kept me to my purpose up to the present time.  I do
not mind Bedouins,--I am not afraid of them; because neither Bedouins nor
ordinary Arabs have shown any disposition to harm us, but I do feel
afraid of my own comrades.

Arriving at the furthest verge of the Plain, we rode a little way up a
hill and found ourselves at Endor, famous for its witch.  Her descendants
are there yet.  They were the wildest horde of half-naked savages we have
found thus far.  They swarmed out of mud bee-hives; out of hovels of the
dry-goods box pattern; out of gaping caves under shelving rocks; out of
crevices in the earth.  In five minutes the dead solitude and silence of
the place were no more, and a begging, screeching, shouting mob were
struggling about the horses' feet and blocking the way.  "Bucksheesh!
bucksheesh!  bucksheesh!  howajji, bucksheesh!"  It was Magdala over
again, only here the glare from the infidel eyes was fierce and full of
hate.  The population numbers two hundred and fifty, and more than half
the citizens live in caves in the rock.  Dirt, degradation and savagery
are Endor's specialty.  We say no more about Magdala and Deburieh now.
Endor heads the list.  It is worse than any Indian 'campoodie'.  The hill
is barren, rocky, and forbidding.  No sprig of grass is visible, and only
one tree.  This is a fig-tree, which maintains a precarious footing among
the rocks at the mouth of the dismal cavern once occupied by the
veritable Witch of Endor.  In this cavern, tradition says, Saul, the
king, sat at midnight, and stared and trembled, while the earth shook,
the thunders crashed among the hills, and out of the midst of fire and
smoke the spirit of the dead prophet rose up and confronted him.  Saul
had crept to this place in the darkness, while his army slept, to learn
what fate awaited him in the morrow's battle.  He went away a sad man, to
meet disgrace and death.

A spring trickles out of the rock in the gloomy recesses of the cavern,
and we were thirsty.  The citizens of Endor objected to our going in
there.  They do not mind dirt; they do not mind rags; they do not mind
vermin; they do not mind barbarous ignorance and savagery; they do not
mind a reasonable degree of starvation, but they do like to be pure and
holy before their god, whoever he may be, and therefore they shudder and
grow almost pale at the idea of Christian lips polluting a spring whose
waters must descend into their sanctified gullets.  We had no wanton
desire to wound even their feelings or trample upon their prejudices, but
we were out of water, thus early in the day, and were burning up with
thirst.  It was at this time, and under these circumstances, that I
framed an aphorism which has already become celebrated.  I said:
"Necessity knows no law."  We went in and drank.

We got away from the noisy wretches, finally, dropping them in squads and
couples as we filed over the hills--the aged first, the infants next, the
young girls further on; the strong men ran beside us a mile, and only
left when they had secured the last possible piastre in the way of
bucksheesh.

In an hour, we reached Nain, where Christ raised the widow's son to life.
Nain is Magdala on a small scale.  It has no population of any
consequence.  Within a hundred yards of it is the original graveyard, for
aught I know; the tombstones lie flat on the ground, which is Jewish
fashion in Syria.  I believe the Moslems do not allow them to have
upright tombstones.  A Moslem grave is usually roughly plastered over and
whitewashed, and has at one end an upright projection which is shaped
into exceedingly rude attempts at ornamentation.  In the cities, there is
often no appearance of a grave at all; a tall, slender marble tombstone,
elaborately lettred, gilded and painted, marks the burial place, and this
is surmounted by a turban, so carved and shaped as to signify the dead
man's rank in life.

They showed a fragment of ancient wall which they said was one side of
the gate out of which the widow's dead son was being brought so many
centuries ago when Jesus met the procession:

     "Now when he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold there was a
     dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a
     widow: and much people of the city was with her.

     "And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said, Weep
     not.

     "And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood
     still.  And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, arise.

     "And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak.  And he delivered
     him to his mother.

     "And there came a fear on all.  And they glorified God, saying, That
     a great prophet is risen up among us; and That God hath visited his
     people."

A little mosque stands upon the spot which tradition says was occupied by
the widow's dwelling.  Two or three aged Arabs sat about its door.  We
entered, and the pilgrims broke specimens from the foundation walls,
though they had to touch, and even step, upon the "praying carpets" to do
it.  It was almost the same as breaking pieces from the hearts of those
old Arabs.  To step rudely upon the sacred praying mats, with booted
feet--a thing not done by any Arab--was to inflict pain upon men who had
not offended us in any way.  Suppose a party of armed foreigners were to
enter a village church in America and break ornaments from the altar
railings for curiosities, and climb up and walk upon the Bible and the
pulpit cushions?  However, the cases are different.  One is the
profanation of a temple of our faith--the other only the profanation of a
pagan one.

We descended to the Plain again, and halted a moment at a well--of
Abraham's time, no doubt.  It was in a desert place.  It was walled three
feet above ground with squared and heavy blocks of stone, after the
manner of Bible pictures.  Around it some camels stood, and others knelt.
There was a group of sober little donkeys with naked, dusky children
clambering about them, or sitting astride their rumps, or pulling their
tails.  Tawny, black-eyed, barefooted maids, arrayed in rags and adorned
with brazen armlets and pinchbeck ear-rings, were poising water-jars upon
their heads, or drawing water from the well.  A flock of sheep stood by,
waiting for the shepherds to fill the hollowed stones with water, so that
they might drink--stones which, like those that walled the well, were
worn smooth and deeply creased by the chafing chins of a hundred
generations of thirsty animals.  Picturesque Arabs sat upon the ground,
in groups, and solemnly smoked their long-stemmed chibouks.  Other Arabs
were filling black hog-skins with water--skins which, well filled, and
distended with water till the short legs projected painfully out of the
proper line, looked like the corpses of hogs bloated by drowning.  Here
was a grand Oriental picture which I had worshiped a thousand times in
soft, rich steel engravings!  But in the engraving there was no
desolation; no dirt; no rags; no fleas; no ugly features; no sore eyes;
no feasting flies; no besotted ignorance in the countenances; no raw
places on the donkeys' backs; no disagreeable jabbering in unknown
tongues; no stench of camels; no suggestion that a couple of tons of
powder placed under the party and touched off would heighten the effect
and give to the scene a genuine interest and a charm which it would
always be pleasant to recall, even though a man lived a thousand years.
Oriental scenes look best in steel engravings.  I cannot be imposed upon
any more by that picture of the Queen of Sheba visiting Solomon.  I shall
say to myself, You look fine, Madam but your feet are not clean and you
smell like a camel.

Presently a wild Arab in charge of a camel train recognized an old friend
in Ferguson, and they ran and fell upon each other's necks and kissed
each other's grimy, bearded faces upon both cheeks.  It explained
instantly a something which had always seemed to me only a farfetched
Oriental figure of speech.  I refer to the circumstance of Christ's
rebuking a Pharisee, or some such character, and reminding him that from
him he had received no "kiss of welcome."  It did not seem reasonable to
me that men should kiss each other, but I am aware, now, that they did.
There was reason in it, too.  The custom was natural and proper; because
people must kiss, and a man would not be likely to kiss one of the women
of this country of his own free will and accord.  One must travel, to
learn.  Every day, now, old Scriptural phrases that never possessed any
significance for me before, take to themselves a meaning.

We journeyed around the base of the mountain--"Little Hermon,"--past the
old Crusaders' castle of El Fuleh, and arrived at Shunem.  This was
another Magdala, to a fraction, frescoes and all.  Here, tradition says,
the prophet Samuel was born, and here the Shunamite woman built a little
house upon the city wall for the accommodation of the prophet Elisha.
Elisha asked her what she expected in return.  It was a perfectly natural
question, for these people are and were in the habit of proffering favors
and services and then expecting and begging for pay.  Elisha knew them
well.  He could not comprehend that any body should build for him that
humble little chamber for the mere sake of old friendship, and with no
selfish motive whatever.  It used to seem a very impolite, not to say a
rude, question, for Elisha to ask the woman, but it does not seem so to
me now.  The woman said she expected nothing.  Then for her goodness and
her unselfishness, he rejoiced her heart with the news that she should
bear a son.  It was a high reward--but she would not have thanked him for
a daughter--daughters have always been unpopular here.  The son was born,
grew, waxed strong, died.  Elisha restored him to life in Shunem.

We found here a grove of lemon trees--cool, shady, hung with fruit.  One
is apt to overestimate beauty when it is rare, but to me this grove
seemed very beautiful.  It was beautiful.  I do not overestimate it.  I
must always remember Shunem gratefully, as a place which gave to us this
leafy shelter after our long, hot ride.  We lunched, rested, chatted,
smoked our pipes an hour, and then mounted and moved on.

As we trotted across the Plain of Jezreel, we met half a dozen Digger
Indians (Bedouins) with very long spears in their hands, cavorting around
on old crowbait horses, and spearing imaginary enemies; whooping, and
fluttering their rags in the wind, and carrying on in every respect like
a pack of hopeless lunatics.  At last, here were the "wild, free sons of
the desert, speeding over the plain like the wind, on their beautiful
Arabian mares" we had read so much about and longed so much to see!  Here
were the "picturesque costumes!"  This was the "gallant spectacle!"
Tatterdemalion vagrants--cheap braggadocio--"Arabian mares" spined and
necked like the ichthyosaurus in the museum, and humped and cornered like
a dromedary!  To glance at the genuine son of the desert is to take the
romance out of him forever--to behold his steed is to long in charity to
strip his harness off and let him fall to pieces.

Presently we came to a ruinous old town on a hill, the same being the
ancient Jezreel.

Ahab, King of Samaria, (this was a very vast kingdom, for those days, and
was very nearly half as large as Rhode Island) dwelt in the city of
Jezreel, which was his capital.  Near him lived a man by the name of
Naboth, who had a vineyard.  The King asked him for it, and when he would
not give it, offered to buy it.  But Naboth refused to sell it.  In those
days it was considered a sort of crime to part with one's inheritance at
any price--and even if a man did part with it, it reverted to himself or
his heirs again at the next jubilee year.  So this spoiled child of a
King went and lay down on the bed with his face to the wall, and grieved
sorely.  The Queen, a notorious character in those days, and whose name
is a by-word and a reproach even in these, came in and asked him
wherefore he sorrowed, and he told her.  Jezebel said she could secure
the vineyard; and she went forth and forged letters to the nobles and
wise men, in the King's name, and ordered them to proclaim a fast and set
Naboth on high before the people, and suborn two witnesses to swear that
he had blasphemed.  They did it, and the people stoned the accused by the
city wall, and he died.  Then Jezebel came and told the King, and said,
Behold, Naboth is no more--rise up and seize the vineyard.  So Ahab
seized the vineyard, and went into it to possess it.  But the Prophet
Elijah came to him there and read his fate to him, and the fate of
Jezebel; and said that in the place where dogs licked the blood of
Naboth, dogs should also lick his blood--and he said, likewise, the dogs
should eat Jezebel by the wall of Jezreel.  In the course of time, the
King was killed in battle, and when his chariot wheels were washed in the
pool of Samaria, the dogs licked the blood.  In after years, Jehu, who
was King of Israel, marched down against Jezreel, by order of one of the
Prophets, and administered one of those convincing rebukes so common
among the people of those days: he killed many kings and their subjects,
and as he came along he saw Jezebel, painted and finely dressed, looking
out of a window, and ordered that she be thrown down to him.  A servant
did it, and Jehu's horse trampled her under foot.  Then Jehu went in and
sat down to dinner; and presently he said, Go and bury this cursed woman,
for she is a King's daughter.  The spirit of charity came upon him too
late, however, for the prophecy had already been fulfilled--the dogs had
eaten her, and they "found no more of her than the skull, and the feet,
and the palms of her hands."

Ahab, the late King, had left a helpless family behind him, and Jehu
killed seventy of the orphan sons.  Then he killed all the relatives, and
teachers, and servants and friends of the family, and rested from his
labors, until he was come near to Samaria, where he met forty-two persons
and asked them who they were; they said they were brothers of the King of
Judah.  He killed them.  When he got to Samaria, he said he would show
his zeal for the Lord; so he gathered all the priests and people together
that worshiped Baal, pretending that he was going to adopt that worship
and offer up a great sacrifice; and when they were all shut up where they
could not defend themselves, he caused every person of them to be killed.
Then Jehu, the good missionary, rested from his labors once more.

We went back to the valley, and rode to the Fountain of Ain Jelud.  They
call it the Fountain of Jezreel, usually.  It is a pond about one hundred
feet square and four feet deep, with a stream of water trickling into it
from under an overhanging ledge of rocks.  It is in the midst of a great
solitude.  Here Gideon pitched his camp in the old times; behind Shunem
lay the "Midianites, the Amalekites, and the Children of the East," who
were "as grasshoppers for multitude; both they and their camels were
without number, as the sand by the sea-side for multitude."  Which means
that there were one hundred and thirty-five thousand men, and that they
had transportation service accordingly.

Gideon, with only three hundred men, surprised them in the night, and
stood by and looked on while they butchered each other until a hundred
and twenty thousand lay dead on the field.

We camped at Jenin before night, and got up and started again at one
o'clock in the morning.  Somewhere towards daylight we passed the
locality where the best authenticated tradition locates the pit into
which Joseph's brethren threw him, and about noon, after passing over a
succession of mountain tops, clad with groves of fig and olive trees,
with the Mediterranean in sight some forty miles away, and going by many
ancient Biblical cities whose inhabitants glowered savagely upon our
Christian procession, and were seemingly inclined to practice on it with
stones, we came to the singularly terraced and unlovely hills that
betrayed that we were out of Galilee and into Samaria at last.

We climbed a high hill to visit the city of Samaria, where the woman may
have hailed from who conversed with Christ at Jacob's Well, and from
whence, no doubt, came also the celebrated Good Samaritan.  Herod the
Great is said to have made a magnificent city of this place, and a great
number of coarse limestone columns, twenty feet high and two feet
through, that are almost guiltless of architectural grace of shape and
ornament, are pointed out by many authors as evidence of the fact.  They
would not have been considered handsome in ancient Greece, however.

The inhabitants of this camp are particularly vicious, and stoned two
parties of our pilgrims a day or two ago who brought about the difficulty
by showing their revolvers when they did not intend to use them--a thing
which is deemed bad judgment in the Far West, and ought certainly to be
so considered any where.  In the new Territories, when a man puts his
hand on a weapon, he knows that he must use it; he must use it instantly
or expect to be shot down where he stands.  Those pilgrims had been
reading Grimes.

There was nothing for us to do in Samaria but buy handfuls of old Roman
coins at a franc a dozen, and look at a dilapidated church of the
Crusaders and a vault in it which once contained the body of John the
Baptist.  This relic was long ago carried away to Genoa.

Samaria stood a disastrous siege, once, in the days of Elisha, at the
hands of the King of Syria.  Provisions reached such a figure that "an
ass' head was sold for eighty pieces of silver and the fourth part of a
cab of dove's dung for five pieces of silver."

An incident recorded of that heavy time will give one a very good idea of
the distress that prevailed within these crumbling walls.  As the King
was walking upon the battlements one day, "a woman cried out, saying,
Help, my lord, O King!  And the King said, What aileth thee?  and she
answered, This woman said unto me, Give thy son, that we may eat him to-
day, and we will eat my son to-morrow.  So we boiled my son, and did eat
him; and I said unto her on the next day, Give thy son that we may eat
him; and she hath hid her son."

The prophet Elisha declared that within four and twenty hours the prices
of food should go down to nothing, almost, and it was so.  The Syrian
army broke camp and fled, for some cause or other, the famine was
relieved from without, and many a shoddy speculator in dove's dung and
ass's meat was ruined.

We were glad to leave this hot and dusty old village and hurry on.  At
two o'clock we stopped to lunch and rest at ancient Shechem, between the
historic Mounts of Gerizim and Ebal, where in the old times the books of
the law, the curses and the blessings, were read from the heights to the
Jewish multitudes below.




CHAPTER LII.

The narrow canon in which Nablous, or Shechem, is situated, is under high
cultivation, and the soil is exceedingly black and fertile.  It is well
watered, and its affluent vegetation gains effect by contrast with the
barren hills that tower on either side.  One of these hills is the
ancient Mount of Blessings and the other the Mount of Curses and wise men
who seek for fulfillments of prophecy think they find here a wonder of
this kind--to wit, that the Mount of Blessings is strangely fertile and
its mate as strangely unproductive.  We could not see that there was
really much difference between them in this respect, however.

Shechem is distinguished as one of the residences of the patriarch Jacob,
and as the seat of those tribes that cut themselves loose from their
brethren of Israel and propagated doctrines not in conformity with those
of the original Jewish creed.  For thousands of years this clan have
dwelt in Shechem under strict tabu, and having little commerce or
fellowship with their fellow men of any religion or nationality.  For
generations they have not numbered more than one or two hundred, but they
still adhere to their ancient faith and maintain their ancient rites and
ceremonies.  Talk of family and old descent!  Princes and nobles pride
themselves upon lineages they can trace back some hundreds of years.
What is this trifle to this handful of old first families of Shechem who
can name their fathers straight back without a flaw for thousands--
straight back to a period so remote that men reared in a country where
the days of two hundred years ago are called "ancient" times grow dazed
and bewildered when they try to comprehend it!  Here is respectability
for you--here is "family"--here is high descent worth talking about.
This sad, proud remnant of a once mighty community still hold themselves
aloof from all the world; they still live as their fathers lived, labor
as their fathers labored, think as they did, feel as they did, worship in
the same place, in sight of the same landmarks, and in the same quaint,
patriarchal way their ancestors did more than thirty centuries ago.  I
found myself gazing at any straggling scion of this strange race with a
riveted fascination, just as one would stare at a living mastodon, or a
megatherium that had moved in the grey dawn of creation and seen the
wonders of that mysterious world that was before the flood.

Carefully preserved among the sacred archives of this curious community
is a MSS.  copy of the ancient Jewish law, which is said to be the oldest
document on earth.  It is written on vellum, and is some four or five
thousand years old.  Nothing but bucksheesh can purchase a sight.  Its
fame is somewhat dimmed in these latter days, because of the doubts so
many authors of Palestine travels have felt themselves privileged to cast
upon it.  Speaking of this MSS. reminds me that I procured from the high-
priest of this ancient Samaritan community, at great expense, a secret
document of still higher antiquity and far more extraordinary interest,
which I propose to publish as soon as I have finished translating it.

Joshua gave his dying injunction to the children of Israel at Shechem,
and buried a valuable treasure secretly under an oak tree there about the
same time.  The superstitious Samaritans have always been afraid to hunt
for it.  They believe it is guarded by fierce spirits invisible to men.

About a mile and a half from Shechem we halted at the base of Mount Ebal
before a little square area, inclosed by a high stone wall, neatly
whitewashed.  Across one end of this inclosure is a tomb built after the
manner of the Moslems.  It is the tomb of Joseph.  No truth is better
authenticated than this.

When Joseph was dying he prophesied that exodus of the Israelites from
Egypt which occurred four hundred years afterwards.  At the same time he
exacted of his people an oath that when they journeyed to the land of
Canaan they would bear his bones with them and bury them in the ancient
inheritance of his fathers.  The oath was kept. "And the bones of Joseph,
which the children of Israel brought up out of Egypt, buried they in
Shechem, in a parcel of ground which Jacob bought of the sons of Hamor
the father of Shechem for a hundred pieces of silver."

Few tombs on earth command the veneration of so many races and men of
divers creeds as this of Joseph.  "Samaritan and Jew, Moslem and
Christian alike, revere it, and honor it with their visits.  The tomb of
Joseph, the dutiful son, the affectionate, forgiving brother, the
virtuous man, the wise Prince and ruler.  Egypt felt his influence--the
world knows his history."

In this same "parcel of ground" which Jacob bought of the sons of Hamor
for a hundred pieces of silver, is Jacob's celebrated well.  It is cut in
the solid rock, and is nine feet square and ninety feet deep.  The name
of this unpretending hole in the ground, which one might pass by and take
no notice of, is as familiar as household words to even the children and
the peasants of many a far-off country.  It is more famous than the
Parthenon; it is older than the Pyramids.

It was by this well that Jesus sat and talked with a woman of that
strange, antiquated Samaritan community I have been speaking of, and told
her of the mysterious water of life.  As descendants of old English
nobles still cherish in the traditions of their houses how that this king
or that king tarried a day with some favored ancestor three hundred years
ago, no doubt the descendants of the woman of Samaria, living there in
Shechem, still refer with pardonable vanity to this conversation of their
ancestor, held some little time gone by, with the Messiah of the
Christians.  It is not likely that they undervalue a distinction such as
this.  Samaritan nature is human nature, and human nature remembers
contact with the illustrious, always.

For an offense done to the family honor, the sons of Jacob exterminated
all Shechem once.

We left Jacob's Well and traveled till eight in the evening, but rather
slowly, for we had been in the saddle nineteen hours, and the horses were
cruelly tired.  We got so far ahead of the tents that we had to camp in
an Arab village, and sleep on the ground.  We could have slept in the
largest of the houses; but there were some little drawbacks: it was
populous with vermin, it had a dirt floor, it was in no respect cleanly,
and there was a family of goats in the only bedroom, and two donkeys in
the parlor.  Outside there were no inconveniences, except that the dusky,
ragged, earnest-eyed villagers of both sexes and all ages grouped
themselves on their haunches all around us, and discussed us and
criticised us with noisy tongues till midnight.  We did not mind the
noise, being tired, but, doubtless, the reader is aware that it is almost
an impossible thing to go to sleep when you know that people are looking
at you.  We went to bed at ten, and got up again at two and started once
more.  Thus are people persecuted by dragomen, whose sole ambition in
life is to get ahead of each other.

About daylight we passed Shiloh, where the Ark of the Covenant rested
three hundred years, and at whose gates good old Eli fell down and "brake
his neck" when the messenger, riding hard from the battle, told him of
the defeat of his people, the death of his sons, and, more than all, the
capture of Israel's pride, her hope, her refuge, the ancient Ark her
forefathers brought with them out of Egypt.  It is little wonder that
under circumstances like these he fell down and brake his neck.  But
Shiloh had no charms for us.  We were so cold that there was no comfort
but in motion, and so drowsy we could hardly sit upon the horses.

After a while we came to a shapeless mass of ruins, which still bears the
name of Bethel.  It was here that Jacob lay down and had that superb
vision of angels flitting up and down a ladder that reached from the
clouds to earth, and caught glimpses of their blessed home through the
open gates of Heaven.

The pilgrims took what was left of the hallowed ruin, and we pressed on
toward the goal of our crusade, renowned Jerusalem.

The further we went the hotter the sun got, and the more rocky and bare,
repulsive and dreary the landscape became.  There could not have been
more fragments of stone strewn broadcast over this part of the world, if
every ten square feet of the land had been occupied by a separate and
distinct stonecutter's establishment for an age.  There was hardly a tree
or a shrub any where.  Even the olive and the cactus, those fast friends
of a worthless soil, had almost deserted the country.  No landscape
exists that is more tiresome to the eye than that which bounds the
approaches to Jerusalem.  The only difference between the roads and the
surrounding country, perhaps, is that there are rather more rocks in the
roads than in the surrounding country.

We passed Ramah, and Beroth, and on the right saw the tomb of the prophet
Samuel, perched high upon a commanding eminence.  Still no Jerusalem came
in sight.  We hurried on impatiently.  We halted a moment at the ancient
Fountain of Beira, but its stones, worn deeply by the chins of thirsty
animals that are dead and gone centuries ago, had no interest for us--we
longed to see Jerusalem.  We spurred up hill after hill, and usually
began to stretch our necks minutes before we got to the top--but
disappointment always followed:--more stupid hills beyond--more unsightly
landscape--no Holy City.

At last, away in the middle of the day, ancient bite of wall and
crumbling arches began to line the way--we toiled up one more hill, and
every pilgrim and every sinner swung his hat on high!  Jerusalem!

Perched on its eternal hills, white and domed and solid, massed together
and hooped with high gray walls, the venerable city gleamed in the sun.
So small!  Why, it was no larger than an American village of four
thousand inhabitants, and no larger than an ordinary Syrian city of
thirty thousand.  Jerusalem numbers only fourteen thousand people.

We dismounted and looked, without speaking a dozen sentences, across the
wide intervening valley for an hour or more; and noted those prominent
features of the city that pictures make familiar to all men from their
school days till their death.  We could recognize the Tower of Hippicus,
the Mosque of Omar, the Damascus Gate, the Mount of Olives, the Valley of
Jehoshaphat, the Tower of David, and the Garden of Gethsemane--and dating
from these landmarks could tell very nearly the localities of many others
we were not able to distinguish.

I record it here as a notable but not discreditable fact that not even
our pilgrims wept.  I think there was no individual in the party whose
brain was not teeming with thoughts and images and memories invoked by
the grand history of the venerable city that lay before us, but still
among them all was no "voice of them that wept."

There was no call for tears.  Tears would have been out of place.  The
thoughts Jerusalem suggests are full of poetry, sublimity, and more than
all, dignity.  Such thoughts do not find their appropriate expression in
the emotions of the nursery.

Just after noon we entered these narrow, crooked streets, by the ancient
and the famed Damascus Gate, and now for several hours I have been trying
to comprehend that I am actually in the illustrious old city where
Solomon dwelt, where Abraham held converse with the Deity, and where
walls still stand that witnessed the spectacle of the Crucifixion.




CHAPTER LIII.

A fast walker could go outside the walls of Jerusalem and walk entirely
around the city in an hour.  I do not know how else to make one
understand how small it is.  The appearance of the city is peculiar.  It
is as knobby with countless little domes as a prison door is with bolt-
heads.  Every house has from one to half a dozen of these white plastered
domes of stone, broad and low, sitting in the centre of, or in a cluster
upon, the flat roof.  Wherefore, when one looks down from an eminence,
upon the compact mass of houses (so closely crowded together, in fact,
that there is no appearance of streets at all, and so the city looks
solid,) he sees the knobbiest town in the world, except Constantinople.
It looks as if it might be roofed, from centre to circumference, with
inverted saucers.  The monotony of the view is interrupted only by the
great Mosque of Omar, the Tower of Hippicus, and one or two other
buildings that rise into commanding prominence.

The houses are generally two stories high, built strongly of masonry,
whitewashed or plastered outside, and have a cage of wooden lattice-work
projecting in front of every window.  To reproduce a Jerusalem street, it
would only be necessary to up-end a chicken-coop and hang it before each
window in an alley of American houses.

The streets are roughly and badly paved with stone, and are tolerably
crooked--enough so to make each street appear to close together
constantly and come to an end about a hundred yards ahead of a pilgrim as
long as he chooses to walk in it.  Projecting from the top of the lower
story of many of the houses is a very narrow porch-roof or shed, without
supports from below; and I have several times seen cats jump across the
street from one shed to the other when they were out calling.  The cats
could have jumped double the distance without extraordinary exertion.  I
mention these things to give an idea of how narrow the streets are.
Since a cat can jump across them without the least inconvenience, it is
hardly necessary to state that such streets are too narrow for carriages.
These vehicles cannot navigate the Holy City.

The population of Jerusalem is composed of Moslems, Jews, Greeks, Latins,
Armenians, Syrians, Copts, Abyssinians, Greek Catholics, and a handful of
Protestants.  One hundred of the latter sect are all that dwell now in
this birthplace of Christianity.  The nice shades of nationality
comprised in the above list, and the languages spoken by them, are
altogether too numerous to mention.  It seems to me that all the races
and colors and tongues of the earth must be represented among the
fourteen thousand souls that dwell in Jerusalem.  Rags, wretchedness,
poverty and dirt, those signs and symbols that indicate the presence of
Moslem rule more surely than the crescent-flag itself, abound.  Lepers,
cripples, the blind, and the idiotic, assail you on every hand, and they
know but one word of but one language apparently--the eternal
"bucksheesh."  To see the numbers of maimed, malformed and diseased
humanity that throng the holy places and obstruct the gates, one might
suppose that the ancient days had come again, and that the angel of the
Lord was expected to descend at any moment to stir the waters of
Bethesda.  Jerusalem is mournful, and dreary, and lifeless.  I would not
desire to live here.

One naturally goes first to the Holy Sepulchre.  It is right in the city,
near the western gate; it and the place of the Crucifixion, and, in fact,
every other place intimately connected with that tremendous event, are
ingeniously massed together and covered by one roof--the dome of the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Entering the building, through the midst of the usual assemblage of
beggars, one sees on his left a few Turkish guards--for Christians of
different sects will not only quarrel, but fight, also, in this sacred
place, if allowed to do it.  Before you is a marble slab, which covers
the Stone of Unction, whereon the Saviour's body was laid to prepare it
for burial.  It was found necessary to conceal the real stone in this way
in order to save it from destruction.  Pilgrims were too much given to
chipping off pieces of it to carry home.  Near by is a circular railing
which marks the spot where the Virgin stood when the Lord's body was
anointed.

Entering the great Rotunda, we stand before the most sacred locality in
Christendom--the grave of Jesus.  It is in the centre of the church, and
immediately under the great dome.  It is inclosed in a sort of little
temple of yellow and white stone, of fanciful design.  Within the little
temple is a portion of the very stone which was rolled away from the door
of the Sepulchre, and on which the angel was sitting when Mary came
thither "at early dawn."  Stooping low, we enter the vault--the Sepulchre
itself.  It is only about six feet by seven, and the stone couch on which
the dead Saviour lay extends from end to end of the apartment and
occupies half its width.  It is covered with a marble slab which has been
much worn by the lips of pilgrims.  This slab serves as an altar, now.
Over it hang some fifty gold and silver lamps, which are kept always
burning, and the place is otherwise scandalized by trumpery, gewgaws, and
tawdry ornamentation.

All sects of Christians (except Protestants,) have chapels under the roof
of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and each must keep to itself and not
venture upon another's ground.  It has been proven conclusively that they
can not worship together around the grave of the Saviour of the World in
peace.  The chapel of the Syrians is not handsome; that of the Copts is
the humblest of them all.  It is nothing but a dismal cavern, roughly
hewn in the living rock of the Hill of Calvary.  In one side of it two
ancient tombs are hewn, which are claimed to be those in which Nicodemus
and Joseph of Aramathea were buried.

As we moved among the great piers and pillars of another part of the
church, we came upon a party of black-robed, animal-looking Italian
monks, with candles in their hands, who were chanting something in Latin,
and going through some kind of religious performance around a disk of
white marble let into the floor.  It was there that the risen Saviour
appeared to Mary Magdalen in the likeness of a gardener.  Near by was a
similar stone, shaped like a star--here the Magdalen herself stood, at
the same time.  Monks were performing in this place also.  They perform
everywhere--all over the vast building, and at all hours.  Their candles
are always flitting about in the gloom, and making the dim old church
more dismal than there is any necessity that it should be, even though it
is a tomb.

We were shown the place where our Lord appeared to His mother after the
Resurrection.  Here, also, a marble slab marks the place where St.
Helena, the mother of the Emperor Constantine, found the crosses about
three hundred years after the Crucifixion.  According to the legend, this
great discovery elicited extravagant demonstrations of joy.  But they
were of short duration.  The question intruded itself: "Which bore the
blessed Saviour, and which the thieves?"  To be in doubt, in so mighty a
matter as this--to be uncertain which one to adore--was a grievous
misfortune.  It turned the public joy to sorrow.  But when lived there a
holy priest who could not set so simple a trouble as this at rest?  One
of these soon hit upon a plan that would be a certain test.  A noble lady
lay very ill in Jerusalem.  The wise priests ordered that the three
crosses be taken to her bedside one at a time.  It was done.  When her
eyes fell upon the first one, she uttered a scream that was heard beyond
the Damascus Gate, and even upon the Mount of Olives, it was said, and
then fell back in a deadly swoon.  They recovered her and brought the
second cross.  Instantly she went into fearful convulsions, and it was
with the greatest difficulty that six strong men could hold her.  They
were afraid, now, to bring in the third cross.  They began to fear that
possibly they had fallen upon the wrong crosses, and that the true cross
was not with this number at all.  However, as the woman seemed likely to
die with the convulsions that were tearing her, they concluded that the
third could do no more than put her out of her misery with a happy
dispatch.  So they brought it, and behold, a miracle!  The woman sprang
from her bed, smiling and joyful, and perfectly restored to health.  When
we listen to evidence like this, we cannot but believe.  We would be
ashamed to doubt, and properly, too.  Even the very part of Jerusalem
where this all occurred is there yet.  So there is really no room for
doubt.

The priests tried to show us, through a small screen, a fragment of the
genuine Pillar of Flagellation, to which Christ was bound when they
scourged him.  But we could not see it, because it was dark inside the
screen.  However, a baton is kept here, which the pilgrim thrusts through
a hole in the screen, and then he no longer doubts that the true Pillar
of Flagellation is in there.  He can not have any excuse to doubt it, for
he can feel it with the stick.  He can feel it as distinctly as he could
feel any thing.

Not far from here was a niche where they used to preserve a piece of the
True Cross, but it is gone, now.  This piece of the cross was discovered
in the sixteenth century.  The Latin priests say it was stolen away, long
ago, by priests of another sect.  That seems like a hard statement to
make, but we know very well that it was stolen, because we have seen it
ourselves in several of the cathedrals of Italy and France.

But the relic that touched us most was the plain old sword of that stout
Crusader, Godfrey of Bulloigne--King Godfrey of Jerusalem.  No blade in
Christendom wields such enchantment as this--no blade of all that rust in
the ancestral halls of Europe is able to invoke such visions of romance
in the brain of him who looks upon it--none that can prate of such
chivalric deeds or tell such brave tales of the warrior days of old.  It
stirs within a man every memory of the Holy Wars that has been sleeping
in his brain for years, and peoples his thoughts with mail-clad images,
with marching armies, with battles and with sieges.  It speaks to him of
Baldwin, and Tancred, the princely Saladin, and great Richard of the Lion
Heart.  It was with just such blades as these that these splendid heroes
of romance used to segregate a man, so to speak, and leave the half of
him to fall one way and the other half the other.  This very sword has
cloven hundreds of Saracen Knights from crown to chin in those old times
when Godfrey wielded it.  It was enchanted, then, by a genius that was
under the command of King Solomon.  When danger approached its master's
tent it always struck the shield and clanged out a fierce alarm upon the
startled ear of night.  In times of doubt, or in fog or darkness, if it
were drawn from its sheath it would point instantly toward the foe, and
thus reveal the way--and it would also attempt to start after them of its
own accord.  A Christian could not be so disguised that it would not know
him and refuse to hurt him--nor a Moslem so disguised that it would not
leap from its scabbard and take his life.  These statements are all well
authenticated in many legends that are among the most trustworthy legends
the good old Catholic monks preserve.  I can never forget old Godfrey's
sword, now.  I tried it on a Moslem, and clove him in twain like a
doughnut.  The spirit of Grimes was upon me, and if I had had a graveyard
I would have destroyed all the infidels in Jerusalem.  I wiped the blood
off the old sword and handed it back to the priest--I did not want the
fresh gore to obliterate those sacred spots that crimsoned its brightness
one day six hundred years ago and thus gave Godfrey warning that before
the sun went down his journey of life would end.

Still moving through the gloom of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre we
came to a small chapel, hewn out of the rock--a place which has been
known as "The Prison of Our Lord" for many centuries.  Tradition says
that here the Saviour was confined just previously to the crucifixion.
Under an altar by the door was a pair of stone stocks for human legs.
These things are called the "Bonds of Christ," and the use they were once
put to has given them the name they now bear.

The Greek Chapel is the most roomy, the richest and the showiest chapel
in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  Its altar, like that of all the
Greek churches, is a lofty screen that extends clear across the chapel,
and is gorgeous with gilding and pictures.  The numerous lamps that hang
before it are of gold and silver, and cost great sums.

But the feature of the place is a short column that rises from the middle
of the marble pavement of the chapel, and marks the exact centre of the
earth.  The most reliable traditions tell us that this was known to be
the earth's centre, ages ago, and that when Christ was upon earth he set
all doubts upon the subject at rest forever, by stating with his own lips
that the tradition was correct.  Remember, He said that that particular
column stood upon the centre of the world.  If the centre of the world
changes, the column changes its position accordingly.  This column has
moved three different times of its own accord.  This is because, in great
convulsions of nature, at three different times, masses of the earth--
whole ranges of mountains, probably--have flown off into space, thus
lessening the diameter of the earth, and changing the exact locality of
its centre by a point or two.  This is a very curious and interesting
circumstance, and is a withering rebuke to those philosophers who would
make us believe that it is not possible for any portion of the earth to
fly off into space.

To satisfy himself that this spot was really the centre of the earth, a
sceptic once paid well for the privilege of ascending to the dome of the
church to see if the sun gave him a shadow at noon.  He came down
perfectly convinced.  The day was very cloudy and the sun threw no
shadows at all; but the man was satisfied that if the sun had come out
and made shadows it could not have made any for him.  Proofs like these
are not to be set aside by the idle tongues of cavilers.  To such as are
not bigoted, and are willing to be convinced, they carry a conviction
that nothing can ever shake.

If even greater proofs than those I have mentioned are wanted, to satisfy
the headstrong and the foolish that this is the genuine centre of the
earth, they are here.  The greatest of them lies in the fact that from
under this very column was taken the dust from which Adam was made.  This
can surely be regarded in the light of a settler.  It is not likely that
the original first man would have been made from an inferior quality of
earth when it was entirely convenient to get first quality from the
world's centre.  This will strike any reflecting mind forcibly.  That
Adam was formed of dirt procured in this very spot is amply proven by the
fact that in six thousand years no man has ever been able to prove that
the dirt was not procured here whereof he was made.

It is a singular circumstance that right under the roof of this same
great church, and not far away from that illustrious column, Adam
himself, the father of the human race, lies buried.  There is no question
that he is actually buried in the grave which is pointed out as his--
there can be none--because it has never yet been proven that that grave
is not the grave in which he is buried.

The tomb of Adam!  How touching it was, here in a land of strangers, far
away from home, and friends, and all who cared for me, thus to discover
the grave of a blood relation.  True, a distant one, but still a
relation.  The unerring instinct of nature thrilled its recognition.  The
fountain of my filial affection was stirred to its profoundest depths,
and I gave way to tumultuous emotion.  I leaned upon a pillar and burst
into tears.  I deem it no shame to have wept over the grave of my poor
dead relative.  Let him who would sneer at my emotion close this volume
here, for he will find little to his taste in my journeyings through Holy
Land.  Noble old man--he did not live to see me--he did not live to see
his child.  And I--I--alas, I did not live to see him.  Weighed down by
sorrow and disappointment, he died before I was born--six thousand brief
summers before I was born.  But let us try to bear it with fortitude.
Let us trust that he is better off where he is.  Let us take comfort in
the thought that his loss is our eternal gain.

The next place the guide took us to in the holy church was an altar
dedicated to the Roman soldier who was of the military guard that
attended at the Crucifixion to keep order, and who--when the vail of the
Temple was rent in the awful darkness that followed; when the rock of
Golgotha was split asunder by an earthquake; when the artillery of heaven
thundered, and in the baleful glare of the lightnings the shrouded dead
flitted about the streets of Jerusalem--shook with fear and said, "Surely
this was the Son of God!"  Where this altar stands now, that Roman
soldier stood then, in full view of the crucified Saviour--in full sight
and hearing of all the marvels that were transpiring far and wide about
the circumference of the Hill of Calvary.  And in this self-same spot the
priests of the Temple beheaded him for those blasphemous words he had
spoken.

In this altar they used to keep one of the most curious relics that human
eyes ever looked upon--a thing that had power to fascinate the beholder
in some mysterious way and keep him gazing for hours together.  It was
nothing less than the copper plate Pilate put upon the Saviour's cross,
and upon which he wrote, "THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS."  I think St.
Helena, the mother of Constantine, found this wonderful memento when she
was here in the third century.  She traveled all over Palestine, and was
always fortunate.  Whenever the good old enthusiast found a thing
mentioned in her Bible, Old or New, she would go and search for that
thing, and never stop until she found it.  If it was Adam, she would find
Adam; if it was the Ark, she would find the Ark; if it was Goliath, or
Joshua, she would find them.  She found the inscription here that I was
speaking of, I think.  She found it in this very spot, close to where the
martyred Roman soldier stood.  That copper plate is in one of the
churches in Rome, now.  Any one can see it there.  The inscription is
very distinct.

We passed along a few steps and saw the altar built over the very spot
where the good Catholic priests say the soldiers divided the raiment of
the Saviour.

Then we went down into a cavern which cavilers say was once a cistern.
It is a chapel, now, however--the Chapel of St. Helena.  It is fifty-one
feet long by forty-three wide.  In it is a marble chair which Helena used
to sit in while she superintended her workmen when they were digging and
delving for the True Cross.  In this place is an altar dedicated to St.
Dimas, the penitent thief.  A new bronze statue is here--a statue of St.
Helena.  It reminded us of poor Maximilian, so lately shot.  He presented
it to this chapel when he was about to leave for his throne in Mexico.

From the cistern we descended twelve steps into a large roughly-shaped
grotto, carved wholly out of the living rock.  Helena blasted it out when
she was searching for the true Cross.  She had a laborious piece of work,
here, but it was richly rewarded.  Out of this place she got the crown of
thorns, the nails of the cross, the true Cross itself, and the cross of
the penitent thief.  When she thought she had found every thing and was
about to stop, she was told in a dream to continue a day longer.  It was
very fortunate.  She did so, and found the cross of the other thief.

The walls and roof of this grotto still weep bitter tears in memory of
the event that transpired on Calvary, and devout pilgrims groan and sob
when these sad tears fall upon them from the dripping rock.  The monks
call this apartment the "Chapel of the Invention of the Cross"--a name
which is unfortunate, because it leads the ignorant to imagine that a
tacit acknowledgment is thus made that the tradition that Helena found
the true Cross here is a fiction--an invention.  It is a happiness to
know, however, that intelligent people do not doubt the story in any of
its particulars.

Priests of any of the chapels and denominations in the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre can visit this sacred grotto to weep and pray and worship the
gentle Redeemer.  Two different congregations are not allowed to enter at
the same time, however, because they always fight.

Still marching through the venerable Church of the Holy Sepulchre, among
chanting priests in coarse long robes and sandals; pilgrims of all colors
and many nationalities, in all sorts of strange costumes; under dusky
arches and by dingy piers and columns; through a sombre cathedral gloom
freighted with smoke and incense, and faintly starred with scores of
candles that appeared suddenly and as suddenly disappeared, or drifted
mysteriously hither and thither about the distant aisles like ghostly
jack-o'-lanterns--we came at last to a small chapel which is called the
"Chapel of the Mocking."  Under the altar was a fragment of a marble
column; this was the seat Christ sat on when he was reviled, and
mockingly made King, crowned with a crown of thorns and sceptred with a
reed.  It was here that they blindfolded him and struck him, and said in
derision, "Prophesy who it is that smote thee."  The tradition that this
is the identical spot of the mocking is a very ancient one.  The guide
said that Saewulf was the first to mention it.  I do not know Saewulf,
but still, I cannot well refuse to receive his evidence--none of us can.

They showed us where the great Godfrey and his brother Baldwin, the first
Christian Kings of Jerusalem, once lay buried by that sacred sepulchre
they had fought so long and so valiantly to wrest from the hands of the
infidel.  But the niches that had contained the ashes of these renowned
crusaders were empty.  Even the coverings of their tombs were gone--
destroyed by devout members of the Greek Church, because Godfrey and
Baldwin were Latin princes, and had been reared in a Christian faith
whose creed differed in some unimportant respects from theirs.

We passed on, and halted before the tomb of Melchisedek!  You will
remember Melchisedek, no doubt; he was the King who came out and levied a
tribute on Abraham the time that he pursued Lot's captors to Dan, and
took all their property from them.  That was about four thousand years
ago, and Melchisedek died shortly afterward.  However, his tomb is in a
good state of preservation.

When one enters the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Sepulchre itself is
the first thing he desires to see, and really is almost the first thing
he does see.  The next thing he has a strong yearning to see is the spot
where the Saviour was crucified.  But this they exhibit last.  It is the
crowning glory of the place.  One is grave and thoughtful when he stands
in the little Tomb of the Saviour--he could not well be otherwise in such
a place--but he has not the slightest possible belief that ever the Lord
lay there, and so the interest he feels in the spot is very, very greatly
marred by that reflection.  He looks at the place where Mary stood, in
another part of the church, and where John stood, and Mary Magdalen;
where the mob derided the Lord; where the angel sat; where the crown of
thorns was found, and the true Cross; where the risen Saviour appeared--
he looks at all these places with interest, but with the same conviction
he felt in the case of the Sepulchre, that there is nothing genuine about
them, and that they are imaginary holy places created by the monks.  But
the place of the Crucifixion affects him differently.  He fully believes
that he is looking upon the very spot where the Savior gave up his
life.  He remembers that Christ was very celebrated, long before he came
to Jerusalem; he knows that his fame was so great that crowds followed
him all the time; he is aware that his entry into the city produced a
stirring sensation, and that his reception was a kind of ovation; he can
not overlook the fact that when he was crucified there were very many in
Jerusalem who believed that he was the true Son of God.  To publicly
execute such a personage was sufficient in itself to make the locality of
the execution a memorable place for ages; added to this, the storm, the
darkness, the earthquake, the rending of the vail of the Temple, and the
untimely waking of the dead, were events calculated to fix the execution
and the scene of it in the memory of even the most thoughtless witness.
Fathers would tell their sons about the strange affair, and point out the
spot; the sons would transmit the story to their children, and thus a
period of three hundred years would easily be spanned--[The thought is
Mr. Prime's, not mine, and is full of good sense.  I borrowed it from his
"Tent Life."--M.  T.]--at which time Helena came and built a church upon
Calvary to commemorate the death and burial of the Lord and preserve the
sacred place in the memories of men; since that time there has always
been a church there.  It is not possible that there can be any mistake
about the locality of the Crucifixion.  Not half a dozen persons knew
where they buried the Saviour, perhaps, and a burial is not a startling
event, any how; therefore, we can be pardoned for unbelief in the
Sepulchre, but not in the place of the Crucifixion.  Five hundred years
hence there will be no vestige of Bunker Hill Monument left, but America
will still know where the battle was fought and where Warren fell.  The
crucifixion of Christ was too notable an event in Jerusalem, and the Hill
of Calvary made too celebrated by it, to be forgotten in the short space
of three hundred years.  I climbed the stairway in the church which
brings one to the top of the small inclosed pinnacle of rock, and looked
upon the place where the true cross once stood, with a far more absorbing
interest than I had ever felt in any thing earthly before.  I could not
believe that the three holes in the top of the rock were the actual ones
the crosses stood in, but I felt satisfied that those crosses had stood
so near the place now occupied by them, that the few feet of possible
difference were a matter of no consequence.

When one stands where the Saviour was crucified, he finds it all he can
do to keep it strictly before his mind that Christ was not crucified in a
Catholic Church.  He must remind himself every now and then that the
great event transpired in the open air, and not in a gloomy, candle-
lighted cell in a little corner of a vast church, up-stairs--a small cell
all bejeweled and bespangled with flashy ornamentation, in execrable
taste.

Under a marble altar like a table, is a circular hole in the marble
floor, corresponding with the one just under it in which the true Cross
stood.  The first thing every one does is to kneel down and take a candle
and examine this hole.  He does this strange prospecting with an amount
of gravity that can never be estimated or appreciated by a man who has
not seen the operation.  Then he holds his candle before a richly
engraved picture of the Saviour, done on a messy slab of gold, and
wonderfully rayed and starred with diamonds, which hangs above the hole
within the altar, and his solemnity changes to lively admiration.  He
rises and faces the finely wrought figures of the Saviour and the
malefactors uplifted upon their crosses behind the altar, and bright with
a metallic lustre of many colors.  He turns next to the figures close to
them of the Virgin and Mary Magdalen; next to the rift in the living rock
made by the earthquake at the time of the Crucifixion, and an extension
of which he had seen before in the wall of one of the grottoes below; he
looks next at the show-case with a figure of the Virgin in it, and is
amazed at the princely fortune in precious gems and jewelry that hangs so
thickly about the form as to hide it like a garment almost.  All about
the apartment the gaudy trappings of the Greek Church offend the eye and
keep the mind on the rack to remember that this is the Place of the
Crucifixion--Golgotha--the Mount of Calvary.  And the last thing he looks
at is that which was also the first--the place where the true Cross
stood.  That will chain him to the spot and compel him to look once more,
and once again, after he has satisfied all curiosity and lost all
interest concerning the other matters pertaining to the locality.

And so I close my chapter on the Church of the Holy Sepulchre--the most
sacred locality on earth to millions and millions of men, and women, and
children, the noble and the humble, bond and free.  In its history from
the first, and in its tremendous associations, it is the most illustrious
edifice in Christendom.  With all its clap-trap side-shows and unseemly
impostures of every kind, it is still grand, reverend, venerable--for a
god died there; for fifteen hundred years its shrines have been wet with
the tears of pilgrims from the earth's remotest confines; for more than
two hundred, the most gallant knights that ever wielded sword wasted
their lives away in a struggle to seize it and hold it sacred from
infidel pollution.  Even in our own day a war, that cost millions of
treasure and rivers of blood, was fought because two rival nations
claimed the sole right to put a new dome upon it.  History is full of
this old Church of the Holy Sepulchre--full of blood that was shed
because of the respect and the veneration in which men held the last
resting-place of the meek and lowly, the mild and gentle, Prince of
Peace!




CHAPTER LIV.

We were standing in a narrow street, by the Tower of Antonio.  "On these
stones that are crumbling away," the guide said, "the Saviour sat and
rested before taking up the cross.  This is the beginning of the
Sorrowful Way, or the Way of Grief."  The party took note of the sacred
spot, and moved on.  We passed under the "Ecce Homo Arch," and saw the
very window from which Pilate's wife warned her husband to have nothing
to do with the persecution of the Just Man.  This window is in an
excellent state of preservation, considering its great age.  They showed
us where Jesus rested the second time, and where the mob refused to give
him up, and said, "Let his blood be upon our heads, and upon our
children's children forever."  The French Catholics are building a church
on this spot, and with their usual veneration for historical relics, are
incorporating into the new such scraps of ancient walls as they have
found there.  Further on, we saw the spot where the fainting Saviour fell
under the weight of his cross.  A great granite column of some ancient
temple lay there at the time, and the heavy cross struck it such a blow
that it broke in two in the middle.  Such was the guide's story when he
halted us before the broken column.

We crossed a street, and came presently to the former residence of St.
Veronica.  When the Saviour passed there, she came out, full of womanly
compassion, and spoke pitying words to him, undaunted by the hootings and
the threatenings of the mob, and wiped the perspiration from his face
with her handkerchief.  We had heard so much of St. Veronica, and seen
her picture by so many masters, that it was like meeting an old friend
unexpectedly to come upon her ancient home in Jerusalem.  The strangest
thing about the incident that has made her name so famous, is, that when
she wiped the perspiration away, the print of the Saviour's face remained
upon the handkerchief, a perfect portrait, and so remains unto this day.
We knew this, because we saw this handkerchief in a cathedral in Paris,
in another in Spain, and in two others in Italy.  In the Milan cathedral
it costs five francs to see it, and at St. Peter's, at Rome, it is almost
impossible to see it at any price.  No tradition is so amply verified as
this of St. Veronica and her handkerchief.

At the next corner we saw a deep indention in the hard stone masonry of
the corner of a house, but might have gone heedlessly by it but that the
guide said it was made by the elbow of the Saviour, who stumbled here and
fell.  Presently we came to just such another indention in a stone wall.
The guide said the Saviour fell here, also, and made this depression with
his elbow.

There were other places where the Lord fell, and others where he rested;
but one of the most curious landmarks of ancient history we found on this
morning walk through the crooked lanes that lead toward Calvary, was a
certain stone built into a house--a stone that was so seamed and scarred
that it bore a sort of grotesque resemblance to the human face.  The
projections that answered for cheeks were worn smooth by the passionate
kisses of generations of pilgrims from distant lands.  We asked "Why?"
The guide said it was because this was one of "the very stones of
Jerusalem" that Christ mentioned when he was reproved for permitting the
people to cry "Hosannah!"  when he made his memorable entry into the
city upon an ass.  One of the pilgrims said, "But there is no evidence
that the stones did cry out--Christ said that if the people stopped from
shouting Hosannah, the very stones would do it."  The guide was perfectly
serene.  He said, calmly, "This is one of the stones that would have
cried out.  "It was of little use to try to shake this fellow's simple
faith--it was easy to see that.

And so we came at last to another wonder, of deep and abiding interest--
the veritable house where the unhappy wretch once lived who has been
celebrated in song and story for more than eighteen hundred years as the
Wandering Jew.  On the memorable day of the Crucifixion he stood in this
old doorway with his arms akimbo, looking out upon the struggling mob
that was approaching, and when the weary Saviour would have sat down and
rested him a moment, pushed him rudely away and said, "Move on!"  The
Lord said, "Move on, thou, likewise," and the command has never been
revoked from that day to this.  All men know how that the miscreant upon
whose head that just curse fell has roamed up and down the wide world,
for ages and ages, seeking rest and never finding it--courting death but
always in vain--longing to stop, in city, in wilderness, in desert
solitudes, yet hearing always that relentless warning to march--march on!
They say--do these hoary traditions--that when Titus sacked Jerusalem and
slaughtered eleven hundred thousand Jews in her streets and by-ways, the
Wandering Jew was seen always in the thickest of the fight, and that when
battle-axes gleamed in the air, he bowed his head beneath them; when
swords flashed their deadly lightnings, he sprang in their way; he bared
his breast to whizzing javelins, to hissing arrows, to any and to every
weapon that promised death and forgetfulness, and rest.  But it was
useless--he walked forth out of the carnage without a wound.  And it is
said that five hundred years afterward he followed Mahomet when he
carried destruction to the cities of Arabia, and then turned against him,
hoping in this way to win the death of a traitor.  His calculations were
wrong again.  No quarter was given to any living creature but one, and
that was the only one of all the host that did not want it.  He sought
death five hundred years later, in the wars of the Crusades, and offered
himself to famine and pestilence at Ascalon.  He escaped again--he could
not die.  These repeated annoyances could have at last but one effect--
they shook his confidence.  Since then the Wandering Jew has carried on a
kind of desultory toying with the most promising of the aids and
implements of destruction, but with small hope, as a general thing.  He
has speculated some in cholera and railroads, and has taken almost a
lively interest in infernal machines and patent medicines.  He is old,
now, and grave, as becomes an age like his; he indulges in no light
amusements save that he goes sometimes to executions, and is fond of
funerals.

There is one thing he can not avoid; go where he will about the world, he
must never fail to report in Jerusalem every fiftieth year.  Only a year
or two ago he was here for the thirty-seventh time since Jesus was
crucified on Calvary.  They say that many old people, who are here now,
saw him then, and had seen him before.  He looks always the same--old,
and withered, and hollow-eyed, and listless, save that there is about him
something which seems to suggest that he is looking for some one,
expecting some one--the friends of his youth, perhaps.  But the most of
them are dead, now.  He always pokes about the old streets looking
lonesome, making his mark on a wall here and there, and eyeing the oldest
buildings with a sort of friendly half interest; and he sheds a few tears
at the threshold of his ancient dwelling, and bitter, bitter tears they
are.  Then he collects his rent and leaves again.  He has been seen
standing near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre on many a starlight night,
for he has cherished an idea for many centuries that if he could only
enter there, he could rest.  But when he approaches, the doors slam to
with a crash, the earth trembles, and all the lights in Jerusalem burn a
ghastly blue!  He does this every fifty years, just the same.  It is
hopeless, but then it is hard to break habits one has been eighteen
hundred years accustomed to.  The old tourist is far away on his
wanderings, now.  How he must smile to see a pack of blockheads like us,
galloping about the world, and looking wise, and imagining we are finding
out a good deal about it!  He must have a consuming contempt for the
ignorant, complacent asses that go skurrying about the world in these
railroading days and call it traveling.

When the guide pointed out where the Wandering Jew had left his familiar
mark upon a wall, I was filled with astonishment.  It read:

                         "S. T.--1860--X."

All I have revealed about the Wandering Jew can be amply proven by
reference to our guide.

The mighty Mosque of Omar, and the paved court around it, occupy a fourth
part of Jerusalem.  They are upon Mount Moriah, where King Solomon's
Temple stood.  This Mosque is the holiest place the Mohammedan knows,
outside of Mecca.  Up to within a year or two past, no Christian could
gain admission to it or its court for love or money.  But the prohibition
has been removed, and we entered freely for bucksheesh.

I need not speak of the wonderful beauty and the exquisite grace and
symmetry that have made this Mosque so celebrated--because I did not see
them.  One can not see such things at an instant glance--one frequently
only finds out how really beautiful a really beautiful woman is after
considerable acquaintance with her; and the rule applies to Niagara
Falls, to majestic mountains and to mosques--especially to mosques.

The great feature of the Mosque of Omar is the prodigious rock in the
centre of its rotunda.  It was upon this rock that Abraham came so near
offering up his son Isaac--this, at least, is authentic--it is very much
more to be relied on than most of the traditions, at any rate.  On this
rock, also, the angel stood and threatened Jerusalem, and David persuaded
him to spare the city.  Mahomet was well acquainted with this stone.
From it he ascended to heaven.  The stone tried to follow him, and if the
angel Gabriel had not happened by the merest good luck to be there to
seize it, it would have done it.  Very few people have a grip like
Gabriel--the prints of his monstrous fingers, two inches deep, are to be
seen in that rock to-day.

This rock, large as it is, is suspended in the air.  It does not touch
any thing at all.  The guide said so.  This is very wonderful.  In the
place on it where Mahomet stood, he left his foot-prints in the solid
stone.  I should judge that he wore about eighteens.  But what I was
going to say, when I spoke of the rock being suspended, was, that in the
floor of the cavern under it they showed us a slab which they said
covered a hole which was a thing of extraordinary interest to all
Mohammedans, because that hole leads down to perdition, and every soul
that is transferred from thence to Heaven must pass up through this
orifice.  Mahomet stands there and lifts them out by the hair.  All
Mohammedans shave their heads, but they are careful to leave a lock of
hair for the Prophet to take hold of.  Our guide observed that a good
Mohammedan would consider himself doomed to stay with the damned forever
if he were to lose his scalp-lock and die before it grew again.  The most
of them that I have seen ought to stay with the damned, any how, without
reference to how they were barbered.

For several ages no woman has been allowed to enter the cavern where that
important hole is.  The reason is that one of the sex was once caught
there blabbing every thing she knew about what was going on above ground,
to the rapscallions in the infernal regions down below.  She carried her
gossiping to such an extreme that nothing could be kept private--nothing
could be done or said on earth but every body in perdition knew all about
it before the sun went down.  It was about time to suppress this woman's
telegraph, and it was promptly done.  Her breath subsided about the same
time.

The inside of the great mosque is very showy with variegated marble walls
and with windows and inscriptions of elaborate mosaic.  The Turks have
their sacred relics, like the Catholics.  The guide showed us the
veritable armor worn by the great son-in-law and successor of Mahomet,
and also the buckler of Mahomet's uncle.  The great iron railing which
surrounds the rock was ornamented in one place with a thousand rags tied
to its open work.  These are to remind Mahomet not to forget the
worshipers who placed them there.  It is considered the next best thing
to tying threads around his finger by way of reminders.

Just outside the mosque is a miniature temple, which marks the spot where
David and Goliah used to sit and judge the people.--[A pilgrim informs
me that it was not David and Goliah, but David and Saul.  I stick to my
own statement--the guide told me, and he ought to know.]

Every where about the Mosque of Omar are portions of pillars, curiously
wrought altars, and fragments of elegantly carved marble--precious
remains of Solomon's Temple.  These have been dug from all depths in the
soil and rubbish of Mount Moriah, and the Moslems have always shown a
disposition to preserve them with the utmost care.  At that portion of
the ancient wall of Solomon's Temple which is called the Jew's Place of
Wailing, and where the Hebrews assemble every Friday to kiss the
venerated stones and weep over the fallen greatness of Zion, any one can
see a part of the unquestioned and undisputed Temple of Solomon, the same
consisting of three or four stones lying one upon the other, each of
which is about twice as long as a seven-octave piano, and about as thick
as such a piano is high.  But, as I have remarked before, it is only a
year or two ago that the ancient edict prohibiting Christian rubbish like
ourselves to enter the Mosque of Omar and see the costly marbles that
once adorned the inner Temple was annulled.  The designs wrought upon
these fragments are all quaint and peculiar, and so the charm of novelty
is added to the deep interest they naturally inspire.  One meets with
these venerable scraps at every turn, especially in the neighboring
Mosque el Aksa, into whose inner walls a very large number of them are
carefully built for preservation.  These pieces of stone, stained and
dusty with age, dimly hint at a grandeur we have all been taught to
regard as the princeliest ever seen on earth; and they call up pictures
of a pageant that is familiar to all imaginations--camels laden with
spices and treasure--beautiful slaves, presents for Solomon's harem--a
long cavalcade of richly caparisoned beasts and warriors--and Sheba's
Queen in the van of this vision of "Oriental magnificence."  These
elegant fragments bear a richer interest than the solemn vastness of the
stones the Jews kiss in the Place of Wailing can ever have for the
heedless sinner.

Down in the hollow ground, underneath the olives and the orange-trees
that flourish in the court of the great Mosque, is a wilderness of
pillars--remains of the ancient Temple; they supported it.  There are
ponderous archways down there, also, over which the destroying "plough"
of prophecy passed harmless.  It is pleasant to know we are disappointed,
in that we never dreamed we might see portions of the actual Temple of
Solomon, and yet experience no shadow of suspicion that they were a
monkish humbug and a fraud.

We are surfeited with sights.  Nothing has any fascination for us, now,
but the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  We have been there every day, and
have not grown tired of it; but we are weary of every thing else.  The
sights are too many.  They swarm about you at every step; no single foot
of ground in all Jerusalem or within its neighborhood seems to be without
a stirring and important history of its own.  It is a very relief to
steal a walk of a hundred yards without a guide along to talk unceasingly
about every stone you step upon and drag you back ages and ages to the
day when it achieved celebrity.

It seems hardly real when I find myself leaning for a moment on a ruined
wall and looking listlessly down into the historic pool of Bethesda.  I
did not think such things could be so crowded together as to diminish
their interest.  But in serious truth, we have been drifting about, for
several days, using our eyes and our ears more from a sense of duty than
any higher and worthier reason.  And too often we have been glad when it
was time to go home and be distressed no more about illustrious
localities.

Our pilgrims compress too much into one day.  One can gorge sights to
repletion as well as sweetmeats.  Since we breakfasted, this morning, we
have seen enough to have furnished us food for a year's reflection if we
could have seen the various objects in comfort and looked upon them
deliberately.  We visited the pool of Hezekiah, where David saw Uriah's
wife coming from the bath and fell in love with her.

We went out of the city by the Jaffa gate, and of course were told many
things about its Tower of Hippicus.

We rode across the Valley of Hinnom, between two of the Pools of Gihon,
and by an aqueduct built by Solomon, which still conveys water to the
city.  We ascended the Hill of Evil Counsel, where Judas received his
thirty pieces of silver, and we also lingered a moment under the tree a
venerable tradition says he hanged himself on.

We descended to the canon again, and then the guide began to give name
and history to every bank and boulder we came to: "This was the Field of
Blood; these cuttings in the rocks were shrines and temples of Moloch;
here they sacrificed children; yonder is the Zion Gate; the Tyropean
Valley, the Hill of Ophel; here is the junction of the Valley of
Jehoshaphat--on your right is the Well of Job."  We turned up
Jehoshaphat.  The recital went on.  "This is the Mount of Olives; this is
the Hill of Offense; the nest of huts is the Village of Siloam; here,
yonder, every where, is the King's Garden; under this great tree
Zacharias, the high priest, was murdered; yonder is Mount Moriah and the
Temple wall; the tomb of Absalom; the tomb of St. James; the tomb of
Zacharias; beyond, are the Garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of the
Virgin Mary; here is the Pool of Siloam, and----"

We said we would dismount, and quench our thirst, and rest.  We were
burning up with the heat.  We were failing under the accumulated fatigue
of days and days of ceaseless marching.  All were willing.

The Pool is a deep, walled ditch, through which a clear stream of water
runs, that comes from under Jerusalem somewhere, and passing through the
Fountain of the Virgin, or being supplied from it, reaches this place by
way of a tunnel of heavy masonry.  The famous pool looked exactly as it
looked in Solomon's time, no doubt, and the same dusky, Oriental women,
came down in their old Oriental way, and carried off jars of the water on
their heads, just as they did three thousand years ago, and just as they
will do fifty thousand years hence if any of them are still left on
earth.

We went away from there and stopped at the Fountain of the Virgin.  But
the water was not good, and there was no comfort or peace any where, on
account of the regiment of boys and girls and beggars that persecuted us
all the time for bucksheesh.  The guide wanted us to give them some
money, and we did it; but when he went on to say that they were starving
to death we could not but feel that we had done a great sin in throwing
obstacles in the way of such a desirable consummation, and so we tried to
collect it back, but it could not be done.

We entered the Garden of Gethsemane, and we visited the Tomb of the
Virgin, both of which we had seen before.  It is not meet that I should
speak of them now.  A more fitting time will come.

I can not speak now of the Mount of Olives or its view of Jerusalem, the
Dead Sea and the mountains of Moab; nor of the Damascus Gate or the tree
that was planted by King Godfrey of Jerusalem.  One ought to feel
pleasantly when he talks of these things.  I can not say any thing about
the stone column that projects over Jehoshaphat from the Temple wall like
a cannon, except that the Moslems believe Mahomet will sit astride of it
when he comes to judge the world.  It is a pity he could not judge it
from some roost of his own in Mecca, without trespassing on our holy
ground.  Close by is the Golden Gate, in the Temple wall--a gate that was
an elegant piece of sculpture in the time of the Temple, and is even so
yet.  From it, in ancient times, the Jewish High Priest turned loose the
scapegoat and let him flee to the wilderness and bear away his twelve-
month load of the sins of the people.  If they were to turn one loose
now, he would not get as far as the Garden of Gethsemane, till these
miserable vagabonds here would gobble him up,--[Favorite pilgrim
expression.]--sins and all.  They wouldn't care.  Mutton-chops and sin is
good enough living for them.  The Moslems watch the Golden Gate with a
jealous eye, and an anxious one, for they have an honored tradition that
when it falls, Islamism will fall and with it the Ottoman Empire.  It did
not grieve me any to notice that the old gate was getting a little shaky.

We are at home again.  We are exhausted.  The sun has roasted us, almost.
We have full comfort in one reflection, however.  Our experiences in
Europe have taught us that in time this fatigue will be forgotten; the
heat will be forgotten; the thirst, the tiresome volubility of the guide,
the persecutions of the beggars--and then, all that will be left will be
pleasant memories of Jerusalem, memories we shall call up with always
increasing interest as the years go by, memories which some day will
become all beautiful when the last annoyance that incumbers them shall
have faded out of our minds never again to return.  School-boy days are
no happier than the days of after life, but we look back upon them
regretfully because we have forgotten our punishments at school, and how
we grieved when our marbles were lost and our kites destroyed--because we
have forgotten all the sorrows and privations of that canonized epoch and
remember only its orchard robberies, its wooden sword pageants and its
fishing holydays.  We are satisfied.  We can wait.  Our reward will come.
To us, Jerusalem and to-day's experiences will be an enchanted memory a
year hence--memory which money could not buy from us.




CHAPTER LV.

We cast up the account.  It footed up pretty fairly.  There was nothing
more at Jerusalem to be seen, except the traditional houses of Dives and
Lazarus of the parable, the Tombs of the Kings, and those of the Judges;
the spot where they stoned one of the disciples to death, and beheaded
another; the room and the table made celebrated by the Last Supper; the
fig-tree that Jesus withered; a number of historical places about
Gethsemane and the Mount of Olives, and fifteen or twenty others in
different portions of the city itself.

We were approaching the end.  Human nature asserted itself, now.
Overwork and consequent exhaustion began to have their natural effect.
They began to master the energies and dull the ardor of the party.
Perfectly secure now, against failing to accomplish any detail of the
pilgrimage, they felt like drawing in advance upon the holiday soon to be
placed to their credit.  They grew a little lazy.  They were late to
breakfast and sat long at dinner.  Thirty or forty pilgrims had arrived
from the ship, by the short routes, and much swapping of gossip had to be
indulged in.  And in hot afternoons, they showed a strong disposition to
lie on the cool divans in the hotel and smoke and talk about pleasant
experiences of a month or so gone by--for even thus early do episodes of
travel which were sometimes annoying, sometimes exasperating and full as
often of no consequence at all when they transpired, begin to rise above
the dead level of monotonous reminiscences and become shapely landmarks
in one's memory.  The fog-whistle, smothered among a million of trifling
sounds, is not noticed a block away, in the city, but the sailor hears it
far at sea, whither none of those thousands of trifling sounds can reach.
When one is in Rome, all the domes are alike; but when he has gone away
twelve miles, the city fades utterly from sight and leaves St. Peter's
swelling above the level plain like an anchored balloon.  When one is
traveling in Europe, the daily incidents seem all alike; but when he has
placed them all two months and two thousand miles behind him, those that
were worthy of being remembered are prominent, and those that were really
insignificant have vanished.  This disposition to smoke, and idle and
talk, was not well.  It was plain that it must not be allowed to gain
ground.  A diversion must be tried, or demoralization would ensue.  The
Jordan, Jericho and the Dead Sea were suggested.  The remainder of
Jerusalem must be left unvisited, for a little while.  The journey was
approved at once.  New life stirred in every pulse.  In the saddle--
abroad on the plains--sleeping in beds bounded only by the horizon: fancy
was at work with these things in a moment.--It was painful to note how
readily these town-bred men had taken to the free life of the camp and
the desert The nomadic instinct is a human instinct; it was born with
Adam and transmitted through the patriarchs, and after thirty centuries
of steady effort, civilization has not educated it entirely out of us
yet.  It has a charm which, once tasted, a man will yearn to taste again.
The nomadic instinct can not be educated out of an Indian at all.

The Jordan journey being approved, our dragoman was notified.

At nine in the morning the caravan was before the hotel door and we were
at breakfast.  There was a commotion about the place.  Rumors of war and
bloodshed were flying every where.  The lawless Bedouins in the Valley of
the Jordan and the deserts down by the Dead Sea were up in arms, and were
going to destroy all comers.  They had had a battle with a troop of
Turkish cavalry and defeated them; several men killed.  They had shut up
the inhabitants of a village and a Turkish garrison in an old fort near
Jericho, and were besieging them.  They had marched upon a camp of our
excursionists by the Jordan, and the pilgrims only saved their lives by
stealing away and flying to Jerusalem under whip and spur in the darkness
of the night.  Another of our parties had been fired on from an ambush
and then attacked in the open day.  Shots were fired on both sides.
Fortunately there was no bloodshed.  We spoke with the very pilgrim who
had fired one of the shots, and learned from his own lips how, in this
imminent deadly peril, only the cool courage of the pilgrims, their
strength of numbers and imposing display of war material, had saved them
from utter destruction.  It was reported that the Consul had requested
that no more of our pilgrims should go to the Jordan while this state of
things lasted; and further, that he was unwilling that any more should
go, at least without an unusually strong military guard.  Here was
trouble.  But with the horses at the door and every body aware of what
they were there for, what would you have done?  Acknowledged that you
were afraid, and backed shamefully out?  Hardly.  It would not be human
nature, where there were so many women.  You would have done as we did:
said you were not afraid of a million Bedouins--and made your will and
proposed quietly to yourself to take up an unostentatious position in the
rear of the procession.

I think we must all have determined upon the same line of tactics, for it
did seem as if we never would get to Jericho.  I had a notoriously slow
horse, but somehow I could not keep him in the rear, to save my neck.
He was forever turning up in the lead.  In such cases I trembled a
little, and got down to fix my saddle.  But it was not of any use.  The
others all got down to fix their saddles, too.  I never saw such a time
with saddles.  It was the first time any of them had got out of order in
three weeks, and now they had all broken down at once.  I tried walking,
for exercise--I had not had enough in Jerusalem searching for holy
places.  But it was a failure.  The whole mob were suffering for
exercise, and it was not fifteen minutes till they were all on foot and I
had the lead again.  It was very discouraging.

This was all after we got beyond Bethany.  We stopped at the village of
Bethany, an hour out from Jerusalem.  They showed us the tomb of Lazarus.
I had rather live in it than in any house in the town.  And they showed
us also a large "Fountain of Lazarus," and in the centre of the village
the ancient dwelling of Lazarus.  Lazarus appears to have been a man of
property.  The legends of the Sunday Schools do him great injustice; they
give one the impression that he was poor.  It is because they get him
confused with that Lazarus who had no merit but his virtue, and virtue
never has been as respectable as money.  The house of Lazarus is a three-
story edifice, of stone masonry, but the accumulated rubbish of ages has
buried all of it but the upper story.  We took candles and descended to
the dismal cell-like chambers where Jesus sat at meat with Martha and
Mary, and conversed with them about their brother.  We could not but look
upon these old dingy apartments with a more than common interest.

We had had a glimpse, from a mountain top, of the Dead Sea, lying like a
blue shield in the plain of the Jordan, and now we were marching down a
close, flaming, rugged, desolate defile, where no living creature could
enjoy life, except, perhaps, a salamander.  It was such a dreary,
repulsive, horrible solitude!  It was the "wilderness" where John
preached, with camel's hair about his loins--raiment enough--but he never
could have got his locusts and wild honey here.  We were moping along
down through this dreadful place, every man in the rear.  Our guards--two
gorgeous young Arab sheiks, with cargoes of swords, guns, pistols and
daggers on board--were loafing ahead.

"Bedouins!"

Every man shrunk up and disappeared in his clothes like a mud-turtle.
My first impulse was to dash forward and destroy the Bedouins.  My second
was to dash to the rear to see if there were any coming in that
direction.  I acted on the latter impulse.  So did all the others.  If
any Bedouins had approached us, then, from that point of the compass,
they would have paid dearly for their rashness.  We all remarked that,
afterwards.  There would have been scenes of riot and bloodshed there
that no pen could describe.  I know that, because each man told what he
would have done, individually; and such a medley of strange and unheard-
of inventions of cruelty you could not conceive of.  One man said he had
calmly made up his mind to perish where he stood, if need be, but never
yield an inch; he was going to wait, with deadly patience, till he could
count the stripes upon the first Bedouin's jacket, and then count them
and let him have it.  Another was going to sit still till the first lance
reached within an inch of his breast, and then dodge it and seize it.  I
forbear to tell what he was going to do to that Bedouin that owned it.
It makes my blood run cold to think of it.  Another was going to scalp
such Bedouins as fell to his share, and take his bald-headed sons of the
desert home with him alive for trophies.  But the wild-eyed pilgrim
rhapsodist was silent.  His orbs gleamed with a deadly light, but his
lips moved not.  Anxiety grew, and he was questioned.  If he had got a
Bedouin, what would he have done with him--shot him?  He smiled a smile
of grim contempt and shook his head.  Would he have stabbed him?  Another
shake.  Would he have quartered him--flayed him?  More shakes.  Oh!
horror what would he have done?

"Eat him!"

Such was the awful sentence that thundered from his lips.  What was
grammar to a desperado like that?  I was glad in my heart that I had been
spared these scenes of malignant carnage.  No Bedouins attacked our
terrible rear.  And none attacked the front.  The new-comers were only a
reinforcement of cadaverous Arabs, in shirts and bare legs, sent far
ahead of us to brandish rusty guns, and shout and brag, and carry on like
lunatics, and thus scare away all bands of marauding Bedouins that might
lurk about our path.  What a shame it is that armed white Christians must
travel under guard of vermin like this as a protection against the
prowling vagabonds of the desert--those sanguinary outlaws who are always
going to do something desperate, but never do it.  I may as well mention
here that on our whole trip we saw no Bedouins, and had no more use for
an Arab guard than we could have had for patent leather boots and white
kid gloves.  The Bedouins that attacked the other parties of pilgrims so
fiercely were provided for the occasion by the Arab guards of those
parties, and shipped from Jerusalem for temporary service as Bedouins.
They met together in full view of the pilgrims, after the battle, and
took lunch, divided the bucksheesh extorted in the season of danger, and
then accompanied the cavalcade home to the city!  The nuisance of an Arab
guard is one which is created by the Sheiks and the Bedouins together,
for mutual profit, it is said, and no doubt there is a good deal of truth
in it.

We visited the fountain the prophet Elisha sweetened (it is sweet yet,)
where he remained some time and was fed by the ravens.

Ancient Jericho is not very picturesque as a ruin.  When Joshua marched
around it seven times, some three thousand years ago, and blew it down
with his trumpet, he did the work so well and so completely that he
hardly left enough of the city to cast a shadow.  The curse pronounced
against the rebuilding of it, has never been removed.  One King, holding
the curse in light estimation, made the attempt, but was stricken sorely
for his presumption.  Its site will always remain unoccupied; and yet it
is one of the very best locations for a town we have seen in all
Palestine.

At two in the morning they routed us out of bed--another piece of
unwarranted cruelty--another stupid effort of our dragoman to get ahead
of a rival.  It was not two hours to the Jordan.  However, we were
dressed and under way before any one thought of looking to see what time
it was, and so we drowsed on through the chill night air and dreamed of
camp fires, warm beds, and other comfortable things.

There was no conversation.  People do not talk when they are cold, and
wretched, and sleepy.  We nodded in the saddle, at times, and woke up
with a start to find that the procession had disappeared in the gloom.
Then there was energy and attention to business until its dusky outlines
came in sight again.  Occasionally the order was passed in a low voice
down the line: "Close up--close up!  Bedouins lurk here, every where!"
What an exquisite shudder it sent shivering along one's spine!

We reached the famous river before four o'clock, and the night was so
black that we could have ridden into it without seeing it.  Some of us
were in an unhappy frame of mind.  We waited and waited for daylight, but
it did not come.  Finally we went away in the dark and slept an hour on
the ground, in the bushes, and caught cold.  It was a costly nap, on that
account, but otherwise it was a paying investment because it brought
unconsciousness of the dreary minutes and put us in a somewhat fitter
mood for a first glimpse of the sacred river.

With the first suspicion of dawn, every pilgrim took off his clothes and
waded into the dark torrent, singing:

               "On Jordan's stormy banks I stand,
               And cast a wistful eye
               To Canaan's fair and happy land,
               Where my possessions lie."

But they did not sing long.  The water was so fearfully cold that they
were obliged to stop singing and scamper out again.  Then they stood on
the bank shivering, and so chagrined and so grieved, that they merited
holiest compassion.  Because another dream, another cherished hope, had
failed.  They had promised themselves all along that they would cross the
Jordan where the Israelites crossed it when they entered Canaan from
their long pilgrimage in the desert.  They would cross where the twelve
stones were placed in memory of that great event.  While they did it they
would picture to themselves that vast army of pilgrims marching through
the cloven waters, bearing the hallowed ark of the covenant and shouting
hosannahs, and singing songs of thanksgiving and praise.  Each had
promised himself that he would be the first to cross.  They were at the
goal of their hopes at last, but the current was too swift, the water was
too cold!

It was then that Jack did them a service.  With that engaging
recklessness of consequences which is natural to youth, and so proper and
so seemly, as well, he went and led the way across the Jordan, and all
was happiness again.  Every individual waded over, then, and stood upon
the further bank.  The water was not quite breast deep, any where.  If it
had been more, we could hardly have accomplished the feat, for the strong
current would have swept us down the stream, and we would have been
exhausted and drowned before reaching a place where we could make a
landing.  The main object compassed, the drooping, miserable party sat
down to wait for the sun again, for all wanted to see the water as well
as feel it.  But it was too cold a pastime.  Some cans were filled from
the holy river, some canes cut from its banks, and then we mounted and
rode reluctantly away to keep from freezing to death.  So we saw the
Jordan very dimly.  The thickets of bushes that bordered its banks threw
their shadows across its shallow, turbulent waters ("stormy," the hymn
makes them, which is rather a complimentary stretch of fancy,) and we
could not judge of the width of the stream by the eye.  We knew by our
wading experience, however, that many streets in America are double as
wide as the Jordan.

Daylight came, soon after we got under way, and in the course of an hour
or two we reached the Dead Sea.  Nothing grows in the flat, burning
desert around it but weeds and the Dead Sea apple the poets say is
beautiful to the eye, but crumbles to ashes and dust when you break it.
Such as we found were not handsome, but they were bitter to the taste.
They yielded no dust.  It was because they were not ripe, perhaps.

The desert and the barren hills gleam painfully in the sun, around the
Dead Sea, and there is no pleasant thing or living creature upon it or
about its borders to cheer the eye.  It is a scorching, arid, repulsive
solitude.  A silence broods over the scene that is depressing to the
spirits.  It makes one think of funerals and death.

The Dead Sea is small.  Its waters are very clear, and it has a pebbly
bottom and is shallow for some distance out from the shores.  It yields
quantities of asphaltum; fragments of it lie all about its banks; this
stuff gives the place something of an unpleasant smell.

All our reading had taught us to expect that the first plunge into the
Dead Sea would be attended with distressing results--our bodies would
feel as if they were suddenly pierced by millions of red-hot needles; the
dreadful smarting would continue for hours; we might even look to be
blistered from head to foot, and suffer miserably for many days.  We were
disappointed.  Our eight sprang in at the same time that another party of
pilgrims did, and nobody screamed once.  None of them ever did complain
of any thing more than a slight pricking sensation in places where their
skin was abraded, and then only for a short time.  My face smarted for a
couple of hours, but it was partly because I got it badly sun-burned
while I was bathing, and staid in so long that it became plastered over
with salt.

No, the water did not blister us; it did not cover us with a slimy ooze
and confer upon us an atrocious fragrance; it was not very slimy; and I
could not discover that we smelt really any worse than we have always
smelt since we have been in Palestine.  It was only a different kind of
smell, but not conspicuous on that account, because we have a great deal
of variety in that respect.  We didn't smell, there on the Jordan, the
same as we do in Jerusalem; and we don't smell in Jerusalem just as we
did in Nazareth, or Tiberias, or Cesarea Philippi, or any of those other
ruinous ancient towns in Galilee.  No, we change all the time, and
generally for the worse.  We do our own washing.

It was a funny bath.  We could not sink.  One could stretch himself at
full length on his back, with his arms on his breast, and all of his body
above a line drawn from the corner of his jaw past the middle of his
side, the middle of his leg and through his ancle bone, would remain out
of water.  He could lift his head clear out, if he chose.  No position
can be retained long; you lose your balance and whirl over, first on your
back and then on your face, and so on.  You can lie comfortably, on your
back, with your head out, and your legs out from your knees down, by
steadying yourself with your hands.  You can sit, with your knees drawn
up to your chin and your arms clasped around them, but you are bound to
turn over presently, because you are top-heavy in that position.  You can
stand up straight in water that is over your head, and from the middle of
your breast upward you will not be wet.  But you can not remain so.  The
water will soon float your feet to the surface.  You can not swim on your
back and make any progress of any consequence, because your feet stick
away above the surface, and there is nothing to propel yourself with but
your heels.  If you swim on your face, you kick up the water like a
stern-wheel boat.  You make no headway.  A horse is so top-heavy that he
can neither swim nor stand up in the Dead Sea.  He turns over on his side
at once.  Some of us bathed for more than an hour, and then came out
coated with salt till we shone like icicles.  We scrubbed it off with a
coarse towel and rode off with a splendid brand-new smell, though it was
one which was not any more disagreeable than those we have been for
several weeks enjoying.  It was the variegated villainy and novelty of it
that charmed us.  Salt crystals glitter in the sun about the shores of
the lake.  In places they coat the ground like a brilliant crust of ice.

When I was a boy I somehow got the impression that the river Jordan was
four thousand miles long and thirty-five miles wide.  It is only ninety
miles long, and so crooked that a man does not know which side of it he
is on half the time.  In going ninety miles it does not get over more
than fifty miles of ground.  It is not any wider than Broadway in New
York.

There is the Sea of Galilee and this Dead Sea--neither of them twenty
miles long or thirteen wide.  And yet when I was in Sunday School I
thought they were sixty thousand miles in diameter.

Travel and experience mar the grandest pictures and rob us of the most
cherished traditions of our boyhood.  Well, let them go.  I have already
seen the Empire of King Solomon diminish to the size of the State of
Pennsylvania; I suppose I can bear the reduction of the seas and the
river.

We looked every where, as we passed along, but never saw grain or crystal
of Lot's wife.  It was a great disappointment.  For many and many a year
we had known her sad story, and taken that interest in her which
misfortune always inspires.  But she was gone.  Her picturesque form no
longer looms above the desert of the Dead Sea to remind the tourist of
the doom that fell upon the lost cities.

I can not describe the hideous afternoon's ride from the Dead Sea to Mars
Saba.  It oppresses me yet, to think of it.  The sun so pelted us that
the tears ran down our cheeks once or twice.  The ghastly, treeless,
grassless, breathless canons smothered us as if we had been in an oven.
The sun had positive weight to it, I think.  Not a man could sit erect
under it.  All drooped low in the saddles.  John preached in this
"Wilderness!"  It must have been exhausting work.  What a very heaven the
messy towers and ramparts of vast Mars Saba looked to us when we caught a
first glimpse of them!

We staid at this great convent all night, guests of the hospitable
priests.  Mars Saba, perched upon a crag, a human nest stock high up
against a perpendicular mountain wall, is a world of grand masonry that
rises, terrace upon terrace away above your head, like the terraced and
retreating colonnades one sees in fanciful pictures of Belshazzar's Feast
and the palaces of the ancient Pharaohs.  No other human dwelling is
near.  It was founded many ages ago by a holy recluse who lived at first
in a cave in the rock--a cave which is inclosed in the convent walls,
now, and was reverently shown to us by the priests.  This recluse, by his
rigorous torturing of his flesh, his diet of bread and water, his utter
withdrawal from all society and from the vanities of the world, and his
constant prayer and saintly contemplation of a skull, inspired an
emulation that brought about him many disciples.  The precipice on the
opposite side of the canyon is well perforated with the small holes they
dug in the rock to live in.  The present occupants of Mars Saba, about
seventy in number, are all hermits.  They wear a coarse robe, an ugly,
brimless stove-pipe of a hat, and go without shoes.  They eat nothing
whatever but bread and salt; they drink nothing but water.  As long as
they live they can never go outside the walls, or look upon a woman--for
no woman is permitted to enter Mars Saba, upon any pretext whatsoever.

Some of those men have been shut up there for thirty years.  In all that
dreary time they have not heard the laughter of a child or the blessed
voice of a woman; they have seen no human tears, no human smiles; they
have known no human joys, no wholesome human sorrows.  In their hearts
are no memories of the past, in their brains no dreams of the future.
All that is lovable, beautiful, worthy, they have put far away from them;
against all things that are pleasant to look upon, and all sounds that
are music to the ear, they have barred their massive doors and reared
their relentless walls of stone forever.  They have banished the tender
grace of life and left only the sapped and skinny mockery.  Their lips
are lips that never kiss and never sing; their hearts are hearts that
never hate and never love; their breasts are breasts that never swell
with the sentiment, "I have a country and a flag."  They are dead men who
walk.

I set down these first thoughts because they are natural--not because
they are just or because it is right to set them down.  It is easy for
book-makers to say "I thought so and so as I looked upon such and such a
scene"--when the truth is, they thought all those fine things afterwards.
One's first thought is not likely to be strictly accurate, yet it is no
crime to think it and none to write it down, subject to modification by
later experience.  These hermits are dead men, in several respects, but
not in all; and it is not proper, that, thinking ill of them at first, I
should go on doing so, or, speaking ill of them I should reiterate the
words and stick to them.  No, they treated us too kindly for that.  There
is something human about them somewhere.  They knew we were foreigners
and Protestants, and not likely to feel admiration or much friendliness
toward them.  But their large charity was above considering such things.
They simply saw in us men who were hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and
that was sufficient.  They opened their doors and gave us welcome.  They
asked no questions, and they made no self-righteous display of their
hospitality.  They fished for no compliments.  They moved quietly about,
setting the table for us, making the beds, and bringing water to wash in,
and paid no heed when we said it was wrong for them to do that when we
had men whose business it was to perform such offices.  We fared most
comfortably, and sat late at dinner.  We walked all over the building
with the hermits afterward, and then sat on the lofty battlements and
smoked while we enjoyed the cool air, the wild scenery and the sunset.
One or two chose cosy bed-rooms to sleep in, but the nomadic instinct
prompted the rest to sleep on the broad divan that extended around the
great hall, because it seemed like sleeping out of doors, and so was more
cheery and inviting.  It was a royal rest we had.

When we got up to breakfast in the morning, we were new men.  For all
this hospitality no strict charge was made.  We could give something if
we chose; we need give nothing, if we were poor or if we were stingy.
The pauper and the miser are as free as any in the Catholic Convents of
Palestine.  I have been educated to enmity toward every thing that is
Catholic, and sometimes, in consequence of this, I find it much easier to
discover Catholic faults than Catholic merits.  But there is one thing I
feel no disposition to overlook, and no disposition to forget: and that
is, the honest gratitude I and all pilgrims owe, to the Convent Fathers
in Palestine.  Their doors are always open, and there is always a welcome
for any worthy man who comes, whether he comes in rags or clad in purple.
The Catholic Convents are a priceless blessing to the poor.  A pilgrim
without money, whether he be a Protestant or a Catholic, can travel the
length and breadth of Palestine, and in the midst of her desert wastes
find wholesome food and a clean bed every night, in these buildings.
Pilgrims in better circumstances are often stricken down by the sun and
the fevers of the country, and then their saving refuge is the Convent.
Without these hospitable retreats, travel in Palestine would be a
pleasure which none but the strongest men could dare to undertake.  Our
party, pilgrims and all, will always be ready and always willing, to
touch glasses and drink health, prosperity and long life to the Convent
Fathers of Palestine.

So, rested and refreshed, we fell into line and filed away over the
barren mountains of Judea, and along rocky ridges and through sterile
gorges, where eternal silence and solitude reigned.  Even the scattering
groups of armed shepherds we met the afternoon before, tending their
flocks of long-haired goats, were wanting here.  We saw but two living
creatures.  They were gazelles, of "soft-eyed" notoriety.  They looked
like very young kids, but they annihilated distance like an express
train.  I have not seen animals that moved faster, unless I might say it
of the antelopes of our own great plains.

At nine or ten in the morning we reached the Plain of the Shepherds, and
stood in a walled garden of olives where the shepherds were watching
their flocks by night, eighteen centuries ago, when the multitude of
angels brought them the tidings that the Saviour was born.  A quarter of
a mile away was Bethlehem of Judea, and the pilgrims took some of the
stone wall and hurried on.

The Plain of the Shepherds is a desert, paved with loose stones, void of
vegetation, glaring in the fierce sun.  Only the music of the angels it
knew once could charm its shrubs and flowers to life again and restore
its vanished beauty.  No less potent enchantment could avail to work this
miracle.

In the huge Church of the Nativity, in Bethlehem, built fifteen hundred
years ago by the inveterate St. Helena, they took us below ground, and
into a grotto cut in the living rock.  This was the "manger" where Christ
was born.  A silver star set in the floor bears a Latin inscription to
that effect.  It is polished with the kisses of many generations of
worshiping pilgrims.  The grotto was tricked out in the usual tasteless
style observable in all the holy places of Palestine.  As in the Church
of the Holy Sepulchre, envy and uncharitableness were apparent here.  The
priests and the members of the Greek and Latin churches can not come by
the same corridor to kneel in the sacred birthplace of the Redeemer, but
are compelled to approach and retire by different avenues, lest they
quarrel and fight on this holiest ground on earth.

I have no "meditations," suggested by this spot where the very first
"Merry Christmas!" was uttered in all the world, and from whence the
friend of my childhood, Santa Claus, departed on his first journey, to
gladden and continue to gladden roaring firesides on wintry mornings in
many a distant land forever and forever.  I touch, with reverent finger,
the actual spot where the infant Jesus lay, but I think--nothing.

You can not think in this place any more than you can in any other in
Palestine that would be likely to inspire reflection.  Beggars, cripples
and monks compass you about, and make you think only of bucksheesh when
you would rather think of something more in keeping with the character of
the spot.

I was glad to get away, and glad when we had walked through the grottoes
where Eusebius wrote, and Jerome fasted, and Joseph prepared for the
flight into Egypt, and the dozen other distinguished grottoes, and knew
we were done.  The Church of the Nativity is almost as well packed with
exceeding holy places as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre itself.  They
even have in it a grotto wherein twenty thousand children were
slaughtered by Herod when he was seeking the life of the infant Saviour.

We went to the Milk Grotto, of course--a cavern where Mary hid herself
for a while before the flight into Egypt.  Its walls were black before
she entered, but in suckling the Child, a drop of her milk fell upon the
floor and instantly changed the darkness of the walls to its own snowy
hue.  We took many little fragments of stone from here, because it is
well known in all the East that a barren woman hath need only to touch
her lips to one of these and her failing will depart from her.  We took
many specimens, to the end that we might confer happiness upon certain
households that we wot of.

We got away from Bethlehem and its troops of beggars and relic-peddlers
in the afternoon, and after spending some little time at Rachel's tomb,
hurried to Jerusalem as fast as possible.  I never was so glad to get
home again before.  I never have enjoyed rest as I have enjoyed it during
these last few hours.  The journey to the Dead Sea, the Jordan and
Bethlehem was short, but it was an exhausting one.  Such roasting heat,
such oppressive solitude, and such dismal desolation can not surely exist
elsewhere on earth.  And such fatigue!

The commonest sagacity warns me that I ought to tell the customary
pleasant lie, and say I tore myself reluctantly away from every noted
place in Palestine.  Every body tells that, but with as little
ostentation as I may, I doubt the word of every he who tells it.  I could
take a dreadful oath that I have never heard any one of our forty
pilgrims say any thing of the sort, and they are as worthy and as
sincerely devout as any that come here.  They will say it when they get
home, fast enough, but why should they not?  They do not wish to array
themselves against all the Lamartines and Grimeses in the world.  It does
not stand to reason that men are reluctant to leave places where the very
life is almost badgered out of them by importunate swarms of beggars and
peddlers who hang in strings to one's sleeves and coat-tails and shriek
and shout in his ears and horrify his vision with the ghastly sores and
malformations they exhibit.  One is glad to get away.  I have heard
shameless people say they were glad to get away from Ladies' Festivals
where they were importuned to buy by bevies of lovely young ladies.
Transform those houris into dusky hags and ragged savages, and replace
their rounded forms with shrunken and knotted distortions, their soft
hands with scarred and hideous deformities, and the persuasive music of
their voices with the discordant din of a hated language, and then see
how much lingering reluctance to leave could be mustered.  No, it is the
neat thing to say you were reluctant, and then append the profound
thoughts that "struggled for utterance," in your brain; but it is the
true thing to say you were not reluctant, and found it impossible to
think at all--though in good sooth it is not respectable to say it, and
not poetical, either.

We do not think, in the holy places; we think in bed, afterwards, when
the glare, and the noise, and the confusion are gone, and in fancy we
revisit alone, the solemn monuments of the past, and summon the phantom
pageants of an age that has passed away.




CHAPTER LVI.

We visited all the holy places about Jerusalem which we had left
unvisited when we journeyed to the Jordan and then, about three o'clock
one afternoon, we fell into procession and marched out at the stately
Damascus gate, and the walls of Jerusalem shut us out forever.  We paused
on the summit of a distant hill and took a final look and made a final
farewell to the venerable city which had been such a good home to us.

For about four hours we traveled down hill constantly.  We followed a
narrow bridle-path which traversed the beds of the mountain gorges, and
when we could we got out of the way of the long trains of laden camels
and asses, and when we could not we suffered the misery of being mashed
up against perpendicular walls of rock and having our legs bruised by the
passing freight.  Jack was caught two or three times, and Dan and Moult
as often.  One horse had a heavy fall on the slippery rocks, and the
others had narrow escapes.  However, this was as good a road as we had
found in Palestine, and possibly even the best, and so there was not much
grumbling.

Sometimes, in the glens, we came upon luxuriant orchards of figs,
apricots, pomegranates, and such things, but oftener the scenery was
rugged, mountainous, verdureless and forbidding.  Here and there, towers
were perched high up on acclivities which seemed almost inaccessible.
This fashion is as old as Palestine itself and was adopted in ancient
times for security against enemies.

We crossed the brook which furnished David the stone that killed Goliah,
and no doubt we looked upon the very ground whereon that noted battle was
fought.  We passed by a picturesque old gothic ruin whose stone pavements
had rung to the armed heels of many a valorous Crusader, and we rode
through a piece of country which we were told once knew Samson as a
citizen.

We staid all night with the good monks at the convent of Ramleh, and in
the morning got up and galloped the horses a good part of the distance
from there to Jaffa, or Joppa, for the plain was as level as a floor and
free from stones, and besides this was our last march in Holy Land.
These two or three hours finished, we and the tired horses could have
rest and sleep as long as we wanted it.  This was the plain of which
Joshua spoke when he said, "Sun, stand thou still on Gibeon, and thou
moon in the valley of Ajalon."  As we drew near to Jaffa, the boys
spurred up the horses and indulged in the excitement of an actual race--
an experience we had hardly had since we raced on donkeys in the Azores
islands.

We came finally to the noble grove of orange-trees in which the Oriental
city of Jaffa lies buried; we passed through the walls, and rode again
down narrow streets and among swarms of animated rags, and saw other
sights and had other experiences we had long been familiar with.  We
dismounted, for the last time, and out in the offing, riding at anchor,
we saw the ship!  I put an exclamation point there because we felt one
when we saw the vessel.  The long pilgrimage was ended, and somehow we
seemed to feel glad of it.

[For description of Jaffa, see Universal Gazetteer.] Simon the Tanner
formerly lived here.  We went to his house.  All the pilgrims visit Simon
the Tanner's house.  Peter saw the vision of the beasts let down in a
sheet when he lay upon the roof of Simon the Tanner's house.  It was from
Jaffa that Jonah sailed when he was told to go and prophesy against
Nineveh, and no doubt it was not far from the town that the whale threw
him up when he discovered that he had no ticket.  Jonah was disobedient,
and of a fault-finding, complaining disposition, and deserves to be
lightly spoken of, almost.  The timbers used in the construction of
Solomon's Temple were floated to Jaffa in rafts, and the narrow opening
in the reef through which they passed to the shore is not an inch wider
or a shade less dangerous to navigate than it was then.  Such is the
sleepy nature of the population Palestine's only good seaport has now and
always had.  Jaffa has a history and a stirring one.  It will not be
discovered any where in this book.  If the reader will call at the
circulating library and mention my name, he will be furnished with books
which will afford him the fullest information concerning Jaffa.

So ends the pilgrimage.  We ought to be glad that we did not make it for
the purpose of feasting our eyes upon fascinating aspects of nature, for
we should have been disappointed--at least at this season of the year.  A
writer in "Life in the Holy Land" observes:

     "Monotonous and uninviting as much of the Holy Land will appear to
     persons accustomed to the almost constant verdure of flowers, ample
     streams and varied surface of our own country, we must remember that
     its aspect to the Israelites after the weary march of forty years
     through the desert must have been very different."

Which all of us will freely grant.  But it truly is "monotonous and
uninviting," and there is no sufficient reason for describing it as being
otherwise.

Of all the lands there are for dismal scenery, I think Palestine must be
the prince.  The hills are barren, they are dull of color, they are
unpicturesque in shape.  The valleys are unsightly deserts fringed with a
feeble vegetation that has an expression about it of being sorrowful and
despondent.  The Dead Sea and the Sea of Galilee sleep in the midst of a
vast stretch of hill and plain wherein the eye rests upon no pleasant
tint, no striking object, no soft picture dreaming in a purple haze or
mottled with the shadows of the clouds.  Every outline is harsh, every
feature is distinct, there is no perspective--distance works no
enchantment here.  It is a hopeless, dreary, heart-broken land.

Small shreds and patches of it must be very beautiful in the full flush
of spring, however, and all the more beautiful by contrast with the far-
reaching desolation that surrounds them on every side.  I would like much
to see the fringes of the Jordan in spring-time, and Shechem, Esdraelon,
Ajalon and the borders of Galilee--but even then these spots would seem
mere toy gardens set at wide intervals in the waste of a limitless
desolation.

Palestine sits in sackcloth and ashes.  Over it broods the spell of a
curse that has withered its fields and fettered its energies.  Where
Sodom and Gomorrah reared their domes and towers, that solemn sea now
floods the plain, in whose bitter waters no living thing exists--over
whose waveless surface the blistering air hangs motionless and dead--
about whose borders nothing grows but weeds, and scattering tufts of
cane, and that treacherous fruit that promises refreshment to parching
lips, but turns to ashes at the touch.  Nazareth is forlorn; about that
ford of Jordan where the hosts of Israel entered the Promised Land with
songs of rejoicing, one finds only a squalid camp of fantastic Bedouins
of the desert; Jericho the accursed, lies a moldering ruin, to-day, even
as Joshua's miracle left it more than three thousand years ago; Bethlehem
and Bethany, in their poverty and their humiliation, have nothing about
them now to remind one that they once knew the high honor of the
Saviour's presence; the hallowed spot where the shepherds watched their
flocks by night, and where the angels sang Peace on earth, good will to
men, is untenanted by any living creature, and unblessed by any feature
that is pleasant to the eye.  Renowned Jerusalem itself, the stateliest
name in history, has lost all its ancient grandeur, and is become a
pauper village; the riches of Solomon are no longer there to compel the
admiration of visiting Oriental queens; the wonderful temple which was
the pride and the glory of Israel, is gone, and the Ottoman crescent is
lifted above the spot where, on that most memorable day in the annals of
the world, they reared the Holy Cross.  The noted Sea of Galilee, where
Roman fleets once rode at anchor and the disciples of the Saviour sailed
in their ships, was long ago deserted by the devotees of war and
commerce, and its borders are a silent wilderness; Capernaum is a
shapeless ruin; Magdala is the home of beggared Arabs; Bethsaida and
Chorazin have vanished from the earth, and the "desert places" round
about them where thousands of men once listened to the Saviour's voice
and ate the miraculous bread, sleep in the hush of a solitude that is
inhabited only by birds of prey and skulking foxes.

Palestine is desolate and unlovely.  And why should it be otherwise?  Can
the curse of the Deity beautify a land?

Palestine is no more of this work-day world.  It is sacred to poetry and
tradition--it is dream-land.




CHAPTER LVII.

It was worth a kingdom to be at sea again.  It was a relief to drop all
anxiety whatsoever--all questions as to where we should go; how long we
should stay; whether it were worth while to go or not; all anxieties
about the condition of the horses; all such questions as "Shall we ever
get to water?"  "Shall we ever lunch?"  "Ferguson, how many more million
miles have we got to creep under this awful sun before we camp?"  It was
a relief to cast all these torturing little anxieties far away--ropes of
steel they were, and every one with a separate and distinct strain on it
--and feel the temporary contentment that is born of the banishment of
all care and responsibility.  We did not look at the compass: we did not
care, now, where the ship went to, so that she went out of sight of land
as quickly as possible.  When I travel again, I wish to go in a pleasure
ship.  No amount of money could have purchased for us, in a strange
vessel and among unfamiliar faces, the perfect satisfaction and the sense
of being at home again which we experienced when we stepped on board the
"Quaker City,"--our own ship--after this wearisome pilgrimage.  It is a
something we have felt always when we returned to her, and a something we
had no desire to sell.

We took off our blue woollen shirts, our spurs, and heavy boots, our
sanguinary revolvers and our buckskin-seated pantaloons, and got shaved
and came out in Christian costume once more.  All but Jack, who changed
all other articles of his dress, but clung to his traveling pantaloons.
They still preserved their ample buckskin seat intact; and so his short
pea jacket and his long, thin legs assisted to make him a picturesque
object whenever he stood on the forecastle looking abroad upon the ocean
over the bows.  At such times his father's last injunction suggested
itself to me.  He said:

"Jack, my boy, you are about to go among a brilliant company of gentlemen
and ladies, who are refined and cultivated, and thoroughly accomplished
in the manners and customs of good society.  Listen to their
conversation, study their habits of life, and learn.  Be polite and
obliging to all, and considerate towards every one's opinions, failings
and prejudices.  Command the just respect of all your fellow-voyagers,
even though you fail to win their friendly regard.  And Jack--don't you
ever dare, while you live, appear in public on those decks in fair
weather, in a costume unbecoming your mother's drawing-room!"

It would have been worth any price if the father of this hopeful youth
could have stepped on board some time, and seen him standing high on the
fore-castle, pea jacket, tasseled red fez, buckskin patch and all,
placidly contemplating the ocean--a rare spectacle for any body's
drawing-room.

After a pleasant voyage and a good rest, we drew near to Egypt and out of
the mellowest of sunsets we saw the domes and minarets of Alexandria rise
into view.  As soon as the anchor was down, Jack and I got a boat and
went ashore.  It was night by this time, and the other passengers were
content to remain at home and visit ancient Egypt after breakfast.  It
was the way they did at Constantinople.  They took a lively interest in
new countries, but their school-boy impatience had worn off, and they had
learned that it was wisdom to take things easy and go along comfortably--
these old countries do not go away in the night; they stay till after
breakfast.

When we reached the pier we found an army of Egyptian boys with donkeys
no larger than themselves, waiting for passengers--for donkeys are the
omnibuses of Egypt.  We preferred to walk, but we could not have our own
way.  The boys crowded about us, clamored around us, and slewed their
donkeys exactly across our path, no matter which way we turned.  They
were good-natured rascals, and so were the donkeys.  We mounted, and the
boys ran behind us and kept the donkeys in a furious gallop, as is the
fashion at Damascus.  I believe I would rather ride a donkey than any
beast in the world.  He goes briskly, he puts on no airs, he is docile,
though opinionated.  Satan himself could not scare him, and he is
convenient--very convenient.  When you are tired riding you can rest your
feet on the ground and let him gallop from under you.

We found the hotel and secured rooms, and were happy to know that the
Prince of Wales had stopped there once.  They had it every where on
signs.  No other princes had stopped there since, till Jack and I came.
We went abroad through the town, then, and found it a city of huge
commercial buildings, and broad, handsome streets brilliant with gas-
light.  By night it was a sort of reminiscence of Paris.  But finally
Jack found an ice-cream saloon, and that closed investigations for that
evening.  The weather was very hot, it had been many a day since Jack had
seen ice-cream, and so it was useless to talk of leaving the saloon till
it shut up.

In the morning the lost tribes of America came ashore and infested the
hotels and took possession of all the donkeys and other open barouches
that offered.  They went in picturesque procession to the American
Consul's; to the great gardens; to Cleopatra's Needles; to Pompey's
Pillar; to the palace of the Viceroy of Egypt; to the Nile; to the superb
groves of date-palms.  One of our most inveterate relic-hunters had his
hammer with him, and tried to break a fragment off the upright Needle and
could not do it; he tried the prostrate one and failed; he borrowed a
heavy sledge hammer from a mason and tried again.  He tried Pompey's
Pillar, and this baffled him.  Scattered all about the mighty monolith
were sphinxes of noble countenance, carved out of Egyptian granite as
hard as blue steel, and whose shapely features the wear of five thousand
years had failed to mark or mar.  The relic-hunter battered at these
persistently, and sweated profusely over his work.  He might as well have
attempted to deface the moon.  They regarded him serenely with the
stately smile they had worn so long, and which seemed to say, "Peck away,
poor insect; we were not made to fear such as you; in ten-score dragging
ages we have seen more of your kind than there are sands at your feet:
have they left a blemish upon us?"

But I am forgetting the Jaffa Colonists.  At Jaffa we had taken on board
some forty members of a very celebrated community.  They were male and
female; babies, young boys and young girls; young married people, and
some who had passed a shade beyond the prime of life.  I refer to the
"Adams Jaffa Colony."  Others had deserted before.  We left in Jaffa Mr.
Adams, his wife, and fifteen unfortunates who not only had no money but
did not know where to turn or whither to go.  Such was the statement made
to us.  Our forty were miserable enough in the first place, and they lay
about the decks seasick all the voyage, which about completed their
misery, I take it.  However, one or two young men remained upright, and
by constant persecution we wormed out of them some little information.
They gave it reluctantly and in a very fragmentary condition, for, having
been shamefully humbugged by their prophet, they felt humiliated and
unhappy.  In such circumstances people do not like to talk.

The colony was a complete fiasco.  I have already said that such as could
get away did so, from time to time.  The prophet Adams--once an actor,
then several other things, afterward a Mormon and a missionary, always an
adventurer--remains at Jaffa with his handful of sorrowful subjects.  The
forty we brought away with us were chiefly destitute, though not all of
them.  They wished to get to Egypt.  What might become of them then they
did not know and probably did not care--any thing to get away from hated
Jaffa.  They had little to hope for.  Because after many appeals to the
sympathies of New England, made by strangers of Boston, through the
newspapers, and after the establishment of an office there for the
reception of moneyed contributions for the Jaffa colonists, One Dollar
was subscribed.  The consul-general for Egypt showed me the newspaper
paragraph which mentioned the circumstance and mentioned also the
discontinuance of the effort and the closing of the office.  It was
evident that practical New England was not sorry to be rid of such
visionaries and was not in the least inclined to hire any body to bring
them back to her.  Still, to get to Egypt, was something, in the eyes of
the unfortunate colonists, hopeless as the prospect seemed of ever
getting further.

Thus circumstanced, they landed at Alexandria from our ship.  One of our
passengers, Mr. Moses S. Beach, of the New York Sun, inquired of the
consul-general what it would cost to send these people to their home in
Maine by the way of Liverpool, and he said fifteen hundred dollars in
gold would do it.  Mr. Beach gave his check for the money and so the
troubles of the Jaffa colonists were at an end.--[It was an unselfish
act of benevolence; it was done without any ostentation, and has never
been mentioned in any newspaper, I think.  Therefore it is refreshing to
learn now, several months after the above narrative was written, that
another man received all the credit of this rescue of the colonists.
Such is life.]

Alexandria was too much like a European city to be novel, and we soon
tired of it.  We took the cars and came up here to ancient Cairo, which
is an Oriental city and of the completest pattern.  There is little about
it to disabuse one's mind of the error if he should take it into his head
that he was in the heart of Arabia.  Stately camels and dromedaries,
swarthy Egyptians, and likewise Turks and black Ethiopians, turbaned,
sashed, and blazing in a rich variety of Oriental costumes of all shades
of flashy colors, are what one sees on every hand crowding the narrow
streets and the honeycombed bazaars.  We are stopping at Shepherd's
Hotel, which is the worst on earth except the one I stopped at once in a
small town in the United States.  It is pleasant to read this sketch in
my note-book, now, and know that I can stand Shepherd's Hotel, sure,
because I have been in one just like it in America and survived:

     I stopped at the Benton House.  It used to be a good hotel, but that
     proves nothing--I used to be a good boy, for that matter.  Both of
     us have lost character of late years.  The Benton is not a good
     hotel.  The Benton lacks a very great deal of being a good hotel.
     Perdition is full of better hotels than the Benton.

     It was late at night when I got there, and I told the clerk I would
     like plenty of lights, because I wanted to read an hour or two.
     When I reached No. 15 with the porter (we came along a dim hall that
     was clad in ancient carpeting, faded, worn out in many places, and
     patched with old scraps of oil cloth--a hall that sank under one's
     feet, and creaked dismally to every footstep,) he struck a light--
     two inches of sallow, sorrowful, consumptive tallow candle, that
     burned blue, and sputtered, and got discouraged and went out.  The
     porter lit it again, and I asked if that was all the light the clerk
     sent.  He said, "Oh no, I've got another one here," and he produced
     another couple of inches of tallow candle.  I said, "Light them both
     --I'll have to have one to see the other by."  He did it, but the
     result was drearier than darkness itself.  He was a cheery,
     accommodating rascal.  He said he would go "somewheres" and steal a
     lamp.  I abetted and encouraged him in his criminal design.  I heard
     the landlord get after him in the hall ten minutes afterward.

     "Where are you going with that lamp?"

     "Fifteen wants it, sir."

     "Fifteen!  why he's got a double lot of candles--does the man want
     to illuminate the house?--does he want to get up a torch-light
     procession?--what is he up to, any how?"

     "He don't like them candles--says he wants a lamp."

     "Why what in the nation does----why I never heard of such a thing?
     What on earth can he want with that lamp?"

     "Well, he only wants to read--that's what he says."

     "Wants to read, does he?--ain't satisfied with a thousand candles,
     but has to have a lamp!--I do wonder what the devil that fellow
     wants that lamp for?  Take him another candle, and then if----"

     "But he wants the lamp--says he'll burn the d--d old house down if
     he don't get a lamp!" (a remark which I never made.)

     "I'd like to see him at it once.  Well, you take it along--but I
     swear it beats my time, though--and see if you can't find out what
     in the very nation he wants with that lamp."

     And he went off growling to himself and still wondering and
     wondering over the unaccountable conduct of No. 15.  The lamp was a
     good one, but it revealed some disagreeable things--a bed in the
     suburbs of a desert of room--a bed that had hills and valleys in it,
     and you'd have to accommodate your body to the impression left in it
     by the man that slept there last, before you could lie comfortably;
     a carpet that had seen better days; a melancholy washstand in a
     remote corner, and a dejected pitcher on it sorrowing over a broken
     nose; a looking-glass split across the centre, which chopped your
     head off at the chin and made you look like some dreadful unfinished
     monster or other; the paper peeling in shreds from the walls.

     I sighed and said: "This is charming; and now don't you think you
     could get me something to read?"

     The porter said, "Oh, certainly; the old man's got dead loads of
     books;" and he was gone before I could tell him what sort of
     literature I would rather have.  And yet his countenance expressed
     the utmost confidence in his ability to execute the commission with
     credit to himself.  The old man made a descent on him.

     "What are you going to do with that pile of books?"

     "Fifteen wants 'em, sir."

     "Fifteen, is it?  He'll want a warming-pan, next--he'll want a
     nurse!  Take him every thing there is in the house--take him the
     bar-keeper--take him the baggage-wagon--take him a chamber-maid!
     Confound me, I never saw any thing like it.  What did he say he
     wants with those books?"

     "Wants to read 'em, like enough; it ain't likely he wants to eat
     'em, I don't reckon."

     "Wants to read 'em--wants to read 'em this time of night, the
     infernal lunatic!  Well, he can't have them."

     "But he says he's mor'ly bound to have 'em; he says he'll just go a-
     rairin' and a-chargin' through this house and raise more--well,
     there's no tellin' what he won't do if he don't get 'em; because
     he's drunk and crazy and desperate, and nothing'll soothe him down
     but them cussed books."  [I had not made any threats, and was not in
     the condition ascribed to me by the porter.]

     "Well, go on; but I will be around when he goes to rairing and
     charging, and the first rair he makes I'll make him rair out of the
     window."  And then the old gentleman went off, growling as before.

     The genius of that porter was something wonderful.  He put an armful
     of books on the bed and said "Good night" as confidently as if he
     knew perfectly well that those books were exactly my style of
     reading matter.  And well he might.  His selection covered the whole
     range of legitimate literature.  It comprised "The Great
     Consummation," by Rev. Dr. Cummings--theology; "Revised Statutes of
     the State of Missouri"--law; "The Complete Horse-Doctor"--medicine;
     "The Toilers of the Sea," by Victor Hugo--romance; "The works of
     William Shakspeare"--poetry.  I shall never cease to admire the tact
     and the intelligence of that gifted porter.

But all the donkeys in Christendom, and most of the Egyptian boys, I
think, are at the door, and there is some noise going on, not to put it
in stronger language.--We are about starting to the illustrious Pyramids
of Egypt, and the donkeys for the voyage are under inspection.  I will go
and select one before the choice animals are all taken.




CHAPTER LVIII.

The donkeys were all good, all handsome, all strong and in good
condition, all fast and all willing to prove it.  They were the best we
had found any where, and the most 'recherche'.  I do not know what
'recherche' is, but that is what these donkeys were, anyhow.  Some were
of a soft mouse-color, and the others were white, black, and vari-
colored.  Some were close-shaven, all over, except that a tuft like a
paint-brush was left on the end of the tail.  Others were so shaven in
fanciful landscape garden patterns, as to mark their bodies with curving
lines, which were bounded on one side by hair and on the other by the
close plush left by the shears.  They had all been newly barbered, and
were exceedingly stylish.  Several of the white ones were barred like
zebras with rainbow stripes of blue and red and yellow paint.  These were
indescribably gorgeous.  Dan and Jack selected from this lot because they
brought back Italian reminiscences of the "old masters."  The saddles
were the high, stuffy, frog-shaped things we had known in Ephesus and
Smyrna.  The donkey-boys were lively young Egyptian rascals who could
follow a donkey and keep him in a canter half a day without tiring.  We
had plenty of spectators when we mounted, for the hotel was full of
English people bound overland to India and officers getting ready for the
African campaign against the Abyssinian King Theodorus.  We were not a
very large party, but as we charged through the streets of the great
metropolis, we made noise for five hundred, and displayed activity and
created excitement in proportion.  Nobody can steer a donkey, and some
collided with camels, dervishes, effendis, asses, beggars and every thing
else that offered to the donkeys a reasonable chance for a collision.
When we turned into the broad avenue that leads out of the city toward
Old Cairo, there was plenty of room.  The walls of stately date-palms
that fenced the gardens and bordered the way, threw their shadows down
and made the air cool and bracing.  We rose to the spirit of the time and
the race became a wild rout, a stampede, a terrific panic.  I wish to
live to enjoy it again.

Somewhere along this route we had a few startling exhibitions of Oriental
simplicity.  A girl apparently thirteen years of age came along the great
thoroughfare dressed like Eve before the fall.  We would have called her
thirteen at home; but here girls who look thirteen are often not more
than nine, in reality.  Occasionally we saw stark-naked men of superb
build, bathing, and making no attempt at concealment.  However, an hour's
acquaintance with this cheerful custom reconciled the pilgrims to it, and
then it ceased to occasion remark.  Thus easily do even the most
startling novelties grow tame and spiritless to these sight-surfeited
wanderers.

Arrived at Old Cairo, the camp-followers took up the donkeys and tumbled
them bodily aboard a small boat with a lateen sail, and we followed and
got under way.  The deck was closely packed with donkeys and men; the two
sailors had to climb over and under and through the wedged mass to work
the sails, and the steersman had to crowd four or five donkeys out of the
way when he wished to swing his tiller and put his helm hard-down.  But
what were their troubles to us?  We had nothing to do; nothing to do but
enjoy the trip; nothing to do but shove the donkeys off our corns and
look at the charming scenery of the Nile.

On the island at our right was the machine they call the Nilometer, a
stone-column whose business it is to mark the rise of the river and
prophecy whether it will reach only thirty-two feet and produce a famine,
or whether it will properly flood the land at forty and produce plenty,
or whether it will rise to forty-three and bring death and destruction to
flocks and crops--but how it does all this they could not explain to us
so that we could understand.  On the same island is still shown the spot
where Pharaoh's daughter found Moses in the bulrushes.  Near the spot we
sailed from, the Holy Family dwelt when they sojourned in Egypt till
Herod should complete his slaughter of the innocents.  The same tree they
rested under when they first arrived, was there a short time ago, but the
Viceroy of Egypt sent it to the Empress Eugenie lately.  He was just in
time, otherwise our pilgrims would have had it.

The Nile at this point is muddy, swift and turbid, and does not lack a
great deal of being as wide as the Mississippi.

We scrambled up the steep bank at the shabby town of Ghizeh, mounted the
donkeys again, and scampered away.  For four or five miles the route lay
along a high embankment which they say is to be the bed of a railway the
Sultan means to build for no other reason than that when the Empress of
the French comes to visit him she can go to the Pyramids in comfort.
This is true Oriental hospitality.  I am very glad it is our privilege to
have donkeys instead of cars.

At the distance of a few miles the Pyramids rising above the palms,
looked very clean-cut, very grand and imposing, and very soft and filmy,
as well.  They swam in a rich haze that took from them all suggestions of
unfeeling stone, and made them seem only the airy nothings of a dream--
structures which might blossom into tiers of vague arches, or ornate
colonnades, may be, and change and change again, into all graceful forms
of architecture, while we looked, and then melt deliciously away and
blend with the tremulous atmosphere.

At the end of the levee we left the mules and went in a sailboat across
an arm of the Nile or an overflow, and landed where the sands of the
Great Sahara left their embankment, as straight as a wall, along the
verge of the alluvial plain of the river.  A laborious walk in the
flaming sun brought us to the foot of the great Pyramid of Cheops.  It
was a fairy vision no longer.  It was a corrugated, unsightly mountain of
stone.  Each of its monstrous sides was a wide stairway which rose
upward, step above step, narrowing as it went, till it tapered to a point
far aloft in the air.  Insect men and women--pilgrims from the Quaker
City--were creeping about its dizzy perches, and one little black swarm
were waving postage stamps from the airy summit--handkerchiefs will be
understood.

Of course we were besieged by a rabble of muscular Egyptians and Arabs
who wanted the contract of dragging us to the top--all tourists are.  Of
course you could not hear your own voice for the din that was around you.
Of course the Sheiks said they were the only responsible parties; that
all contracts must be made with them, all moneys paid over to them, and
none exacted from us by any but themselves alone.  Of course they
contracted that the varlets who dragged us up should not mention
bucksheesh once.  For such is the usual routine.  Of course we contracted
with them, paid them, were delivered into the hands of the draggers,
dragged up the Pyramids, and harried and be-deviled for bucksheesh from
the foundation clear to the summit.  We paid it, too, for we were
purposely spread very far apart over the vast side of the Pyramid.  There
was no help near if we called, and the Herculeses who dragged us had a
way of asking sweetly and flatteringly for bucksheesh, which was
seductive, and of looking fierce and threatening to throw us down the
precipice, which was persuasive and convincing.

Each step being full as high as a dinner-table; there being very, very
many of the steps; an Arab having hold of each of our arms and springing
upward from step to step and snatching us with them, forcing us to lift
our feet as high as our breasts every time, and do it rapidly and keep it
up till we were ready to faint, who shall say it is not lively,
exhilarating, lacerating, muscle-straining, bone-wrenching and perfectly
excruciating and exhausting pastime, climbing the Pyramids?  I beseeched
the varlets not to twist all my joints asunder; I iterated, reiterated,
even swore to them that I did not wish to beat any body to the top; did
all I could to convince them that if I got there the last of all I would
feel blessed above men and grateful to them forever; I begged them,
prayed them, pleaded with them to let me stop and rest a moment--only one
little moment: and they only answered with some more frightful springs,
and an unenlisted volunteer behind opened a bombardment of determined
boosts with his head which threatened to batter my whole political
economy to wreck and ruin.

Twice, for one minute, they let me rest while they extorted bucksheesh,
and then continued their maniac flight up the Pyramid.  They wished to
beat the other parties.  It was nothing to them that I, a stranger, must
be sacrificed upon the altar of their unholy ambition.  But in the midst
of sorrow, joy blooms.  Even in this dark hour I had a sweet consolation.
For I knew that except these Mohammedans repented they would go straight
to perdition some day.  And they never repent--they never forsake their
paganism.  This thought calmed me, cheered me, and I sank down, limp and
exhausted, upon the summit, but happy, so happy and serene within.

On the one hand, a mighty sea of yellow sand stretched away toward the
ends of the earth, solemn, silent, shorn of vegetation, its solitude
uncheered by any forms of creature life; on the other, the Eden of Egypt
was spread below us--a broad green floor, cloven by the sinuous river,
dotted with villages, its vast distances measured and marked by the
diminishing stature of receding clusters of palms.  It lay asleep in an
enchanted atmosphere.  There was no sound, no motion.  Above the date-
plumes in the middle distance, swelled a domed and pinnacled mass,
glimmering through a tinted, exquisite mist; away toward the horizon a
dozen shapely pyramids watched over ruined Memphis: and at our feet the
bland impassible Sphynx looked out upon the picture from her throne in
the sands as placidly and pensively as she had looked upon its like full
fifty lagging centuries ago.

We suffered torture no pen can describe from the hungry appeals for
bucksheesh that gleamed from Arab eyes and poured incessantly from Arab
lips.  Why try to call up the traditions of vanished Egyptian grandeur;
why try to fancy Egypt following dead Rameses to his tomb in the Pyramid,
or the long multitude of Israel departing over the desert yonder?  Why
try to think at all?  The thing was impossible.  One must bring his
meditations cut and dried, or else cut and dry them afterward.

The traditional Arab proposed, in the traditional way, to run down
Cheops, cross the eighth of a mile of sand intervening between it and the
tall pyramid of Cephron, ascend to Cephron's summit and return to us on
the top of Cheops--all in nine minutes by the watch, and the whole
service to be rendered for a single dollar.  In the first flush of
irritation, I said let the Arab and his exploits go to the mischief.
But stay.  The upper third of Cephron was coated with dressed marble,
smooth as glass.  A blessed thought entered my brain.  He must infallibly
break his neck.  Close the contract with dispatch, I said, and let him
go.  He started.  We watched.  He went bounding down the vast broadside,
spring after spring, like an ibex.  He grew small and smaller till he
became a bobbing pigmy, away down toward the bottom--then disappeared.
We turned and peered over the other side--forty seconds--eighty seconds--
a hundred--happiness, he is dead already!--two minutes--and a quarter--
"There he goes!"  Too true--it was too true.  He was very small, now.
Gradually, but surely, he overcame the level ground.  He began to spring
and climb again.  Up, up, up--at last he reached the smooth coating--now
for it.  But he clung to it with toes and fingers, like a fly.  He
crawled this way and that--away to the right, slanting upward--away to
the left, still slanting upward--and stood at last, a black peg on the
summit, and waved his pigmy scarf!  Then he crept downward to the raw
steps again, then picked up his agile heels and flew.  We lost him
presently.  But presently again we saw him under us, mounting with
undiminished energy.  Shortly he bounded into our midst with a gallant
war-whoop.  Time, eight minutes, forty-one seconds.  He had won.  His
bones were intact.  It was a failure.  I reflected.  I said to myself, he
is tired, and must grow dizzy.  I will risk another dollar on him.

He started again.  Made the trip again.  Slipped on the smooth coating
--I almost had him.  But an infamous crevice saved him.  He was with us
once more--perfectly sound.  Time, eight minutes, forty-six seconds.

I said to Dan, "Lend me a dollar--I can beat this game, yet."

Worse and worse.  He won again.  Time, eight minutes, forty-eight
seconds.  I was out of all patience, now.  I was desperate.--Money was
no longer of any consequence.  I said, "Sirrah, I will give you a hundred
dollars to jump off this pyramid head first.  If you do not like the
terms, name your bet.  I scorn to stand on expenses now.  I will stay
right here and risk money on you as long as Dan has got a cent."

I was in a fair way to win, now, for it was a dazzling opportunity for an
Arab.  He pondered a moment, and would have done it, I think, but his
mother arrived, then, and interfered.  Her tears moved me--I never can
look upon the tears of woman with indifference--and I said I would give
her a hundred to jump off, too.

But it was a failure.  The Arabs are too high-priced in Egypt.  They put
on airs unbecoming to such savages.

We descended, hot and out of humor.  The dragoman lit candles, and we all
entered a hole near the base of the pyramid, attended by a crazy rabble
of Arabs who thrust their services upon us uninvited.  They dragged us up
a long inclined chute, and dripped candle-grease all over us.  This chute
was not more than twice as wide and high as a Saratoga trunk, and was
walled, roofed and floored with solid blocks of Egyptian granite as wide
as a wardrobe, twice as thick and three times as long.  We kept on
climbing, through the oppressive gloom, till I thought we ought to be
nearing the top of the pyramid again, and then came to the "Queen's
Chamber," and shortly to the Chamber of the King.  These large apartments
were tombs.  The walls were built of monstrous masses of smoothed
granite, neatly joined together.  Some of them were nearly as large
square as an ordinary parlor.  A great stone sarcophagus like a bath-tub
stood in the centre of the King's Chamber.  Around it were gathered a
picturesque group of Arab savages and soiled and tattered pilgrims, who
held their candles aloft in the gloom while they chattered, and the
winking blurs of light shed a dim glory down upon one of the
irrepressible memento-seekers who was pecking at the venerable
sarcophagus with his sacrilegious hammer.

We struggled out to the open air and the bright sunshine, and for the
space of thirty minutes received ragged Arabs by couples, dozens and
platoons, and paid them bucksheesh for services they swore and proved by
each other that they had rendered, but which we had not been aware of
before--and as each party was paid, they dropped into the rear of the
procession and in due time arrived again with a newly-invented delinquent
list for liquidation.

We lunched in the shade of the pyramid, and in the midst of this
encroaching and unwelcome company, and then Dan and Jack and I started
away for a walk.  A howling swarm of beggars followed us--surrounded us--
almost headed us off.  A sheik, in flowing white bournous and gaudy head-
gear, was with them.  He wanted more bucksheesh.  But we had adopted a
new code--it was millions for defense, but not a cent for bucksheesh.  I
asked him if he could persuade the others to depart if we paid him.  He
said yes--for ten francs.  We accepted the contract, and said--

"Now persuade your vassals to fall back."

He swung his long staff round his head and three Arabs bit the dust.  He
capered among the mob like a very maniac.  His blows fell like hail, and
wherever one fell a subject went down.  We had to hurry to the rescue and
tell him it was only necessary to damage them a little, he need not kill
them.--In two minutes we were alone with the sheik, and remained so.
The persuasive powers of this illiterate savage were remarkable.

Each side of the Pyramid of Cheops is about as long as the Capitol at
Washington, or the Sultan's new palace on the Bosporus, and is longer
than the greatest depth of St. Peter's at Rome--which is to say that each
side of Cheops extends seven hundred and some odd feet.  It is about
seventy-five feet higher than the cross on St. Peter's.  The first time I
ever went down the Mississippi, I thought the highest bluff on the river
between St. Louis and New Orleans--it was near Selma, Missouri--was
probably the highest mountain in the world.  It is four hundred and
thirteen feet high.  It still looms in my memory with undiminished
grandeur.  I can still see the trees and bushes growing smaller and
smaller as I followed them up its huge slant with my eye, till they
became a feathery fringe on the distant summit.  This symmetrical Pyramid
of Cheops--this solid mountain of stone reared by the patient hands of
men--this mighty tomb of a forgotten monarch--dwarfs my cherished
mountain.  For it is four hundred and eighty feet high.  In still earlier
years than those I have been recalling, Holliday's Hill, in our town, was
to me the noblest work of God.  It appeared to pierce the skies.  It was
nearly three hundred feet high.  In those days I pondered the subject
much, but I never could understand why it did not swathe its summit with
never-failing clouds, and crown its majestic brow with everlasting snows.
I had heard that such was the custom of great mountains in other parts of
the world.  I remembered how I worked with another boy, at odd afternoons
stolen from study and paid for with stripes, to undermine and start from
its bed an immense boulder that rested upon the edge of that hilltop; I
remembered how, one Saturday afternoon, we gave three hours of honest
effort to the task, and saw at last that our reward was at hand; I
remembered how we sat down, then, and wiped the perspiration away, and
waited to let a picnic party get out of the way in the road below--and
then we started the boulder.  It was splendid.  It went crashing down the
hillside, tearing up saplings, mowing bushes down like grass, ripping and
crushing and smashing every thing in its path--eternally splintered and
scattered a wood pile at the foot of the hill, and then sprang from the
high bank clear over a dray in the road--the negro glanced up once and
dodged--and the next second it made infinitesimal mince-meat of a frame
cooper-shop, and the coopers swarmed out like bees.  Then we said it was
perfectly magnificent, and left.  Because the coopers were starting up
the hill to inquire.

Still, that mountain, prodigious as it was, was nothing to the Pyramid of
Cheops.  I could conjure up no comparison that would convey to my mind a
satisfactory comprehension of the magnitude of a pile of monstrous stones
that covered thirteen acres of ground and stretched upward four hundred
and eighty tiresome feet, and so I gave it up and walked down to the
Sphynx.

After years of waiting, it was before me at last.  The great face was so
sad, so earnest, so longing, so patient.  There was a dignity not of
earth in its mien, and in its countenance a benignity such as never any
thing human wore.  It was stone, but it seemed sentient.  If ever image
of stone thought, it was thinking.  It was looking toward the verge of
the landscape, yet looking at nothing--nothing but distance and vacancy.
It was looking over and beyond every thing of the present, and far into
the past.  It was gazing out over the ocean of Time--over lines of
century-waves which, further and further receding, closed nearer and
nearer together, and blended at last into one unbroken tide, away toward
the horizon of remote antiquity.  It was thinking of the wars of departed
ages; of the empires it had seen created and destroyed; of the nations
whose birth it had witnessed, whose progress it had watched, whose
annihilation it had noted; of the joy and sorrow, the life and death, the
grandeur and decay, of five thousand slow revolving years.  It was the
type of an attribute of man--of a faculty of his heart and brain.  It was
MEMORY--RETROSPECTION--wrought into visible, tangible form.  All who know
what pathos there is in memories of days that are accomplished and faces
that have vanished--albeit only a trifling score of years gone by--will
have some appreciation of the pathos that dwells in these grave eyes that
look so steadfastly back upon the things they knew before History was
born--before Tradition had being--things that were, and forms that moved,
in a vague era which even Poetry and Romance scarce know of--and passed
one by one away and left the stony dreamer solitary in the midst of a
strange new age, and uncomprehended scenes.

The Sphynx is grand in its loneliness; it is imposing in its magnitude;
it is impressive in the mystery that hangs over its story.  And there is
that in the overshadowing majesty of this eternal figure of stone, with
its accusing memory of the deeds of all ages, which reveals to one
something of what he shall feel when he shall stand at last in the awful
presence of God.

There are some things which, for the credit of America, should be left
unsaid, perhaps; but these very things happen sometimes to be the very
things which, for the real benefit of Americans, ought to have prominent
notice.  While we stood looking, a wart, or an excrescence of some kind,
appeared on the jaw of the Sphynx.  We heard the familiar clink of a
hammer, and understood the case at once.  One of our well meaning
reptiles--I mean relic-hunters--had crawled up there and was trying to
break a "specimen" from the face of this the most majestic creation the
hand of man has wrought.  But the great image contemplated the dead ages
as calmly as ever, unconscious of the small insect that was fretting at
its jaw.  Egyptian granite that has defied the storms and earthquakes of
all time has nothing to fear from the tack-hammers of ignorant
excursionists--highwaymen like this specimen.  He failed in his
enterprise.  We sent a sheik to arrest him if he had the authority, or to
warn him, if he had not, that by the laws of Egypt the crime he was
attempting to commit was punishable with imprisonment or the bastinado.
Then he desisted and went away.

The Sphynx: a hundred and twenty-five feet long, sixty feet high, and a
hundred and two feet around the head, if I remember rightly--carved out
of one solid block of stone harder than any iron.  The block must have
been as large as the Fifth Avenue Hotel before the usual waste (by the
necessities of sculpture) of a fourth or a half of the original mass was
begun.  I only set down these figures and these remarks to suggest the
prodigious labor the carving of it so elegantly, so symmetrically, so
faultlessly, must have cost.  This species of stone is so hard that
figures cut in it remain sharp and unmarred after exposure to the weather
for two or three thousand years.  Now did it take a hundred years of
patient toil to carve the Sphynx?  It seems probable.

Something interfered, and we did not visit the Red Sea and walk upon the
sands of Arabia.  I shall not describe the great mosque of Mehemet Ali,
whose entire inner walls are built of polished and glistening alabaster;
I shall not tell how the little birds have built their nests in the
globes of the great chandeliers that hang in the mosque, and how they
fill the whole place with their music and are not afraid of any body
because their audacity is pardoned, their rights are respected, and
nobody is allowed to interfere with them, even though the mosque be thus
doomed to go unlighted; I certainly shall not tell the hackneyed story of
the massacre of the Mamelukes, because I am glad the lawless rascals were
massacred, and I do not wish to get up any sympathy in their behalf; I
shall not tell how that one solitary Mameluke jumped his horse a hundred
feet down from the battlements of the citadel and escaped, because I do
not think much of that--I could have done it myself; I shall not tell of
Joseph's well which he dug in the solid rock of the citadel hill and
which is still as good as new, nor how the same mules he bought to draw
up the water (with an endless chain) are still at it yet and are getting
tired of it, too; I shall not tell about Joseph's granaries which he
built to store the grain in, what time the Egyptian brokers were "selling
short," unwitting that there would be no corn in all the land when it
should be time for them to deliver; I shall not tell any thing about the
strange, strange city of Cairo, because it is only a repetition, a good
deal intensified and exaggerated, of the Oriental cities I have already
spoken of; I shall not tell of the Great Caravan which leaves for Mecca
every year, for I did not see it; nor of the fashion the people have of
prostrating themselves and so forming a long human pavement to be ridden
over by the chief of the expedition on its return, to the end that their
salvation may be thus secured, for I did not see that either; I shall not
speak of the railway, for it is like any other railway--I shall only say
that the fuel they use for the locomotive is composed of mummies three
thousand years old, purchased by the ton or by the graveyard for that
purpose, and that sometimes one hears the profane engineer call out
pettishly, "D--n these plebeians, they don't burn worth a cent--pass out
a King;"--[Stated to me for a fact.  I only tell it as I got it.  I am
willing to believe it.  I can believe any thing.]--I shall not tell of
the groups of mud cones stuck like wasps' nests upon a thousand mounds
above high water-mark the length and breadth of Egypt--villages of the
lower classes; I shall not speak of the boundless sweep of level plain,
green with luxuriant grain, that gladdens the eye as far as it can pierce
through the soft, rich atmosphere of Egypt; I shall not speak of the
vision of the Pyramids seen at a distance of five and twenty miles, for
the picture is too ethereal to be limned by an uninspired pen; I shall
not tell of the crowds of dusky women who flocked to the cars when they
stopped a moment at a station, to sell us a drink of water or a ruddy,
juicy pomegranate; I shall not tell of the motley multitudes and wild
costumes that graced a fair we found in full blast at another barbarous
station; I shall not tell how we feasted on fresh dates and enjoyed the
pleasant landscape all through the flying journey; nor how we thundered
into Alexandria, at last, swarmed out of the cars, rowed aboard the ship,
left a comrade behind, (who was to return to Europe, thence home,) raised
the anchor, and turned our bows homeward finally and forever from the
long voyage; nor how, as the mellow sun went down upon the oldest land on
earth, Jack and Moult assembled in solemn state in the smoking-room and
mourned over the lost comrade the whole night long, and would not be
comforted.  I shall not speak a word of any of these things, or write a
line.  They shall be as a sealed book.  I do not know what a sealed book
is, because I never saw one, but a sealed book is the expression to use
in this connection, because it is popular.

We were glad to have seen the land which was the mother of civilization--
which taught Greece her letters, and through Greece Rome, and through
Rome the world; the land which could have humanized and civilized the
hapless children of Israel, but allowed them to depart out of her borders
little better than savages.  We were glad to have seen that land which
had an enlightened religion with future eternal rewards and punishment in
it, while even Israel's religion contained no promise of a hereafter.
We were glad to have seen that land which had glass three thousand years
before England had it, and could paint upon it as none of us can paint
now; that land which knew, three thousand years ago, well nigh all of
medicine and surgery which science has discovered lately; which had all
those curious surgical instruments which science has invented recently;
which had in high excellence a thousand luxuries and necessities of an
advanced civilization which we have gradually contrived and accumulated
in modern times and claimed as things that were new under the sun; that
had paper untold centuries before we dreampt of it--and waterfalls before
our women thought of them; that had a perfect system of common schools so
long before we boasted of our achievements in that direction that it
seems forever and forever ago; that so embalmed the dead that flesh was
made almost immortal--which we can not do; that built temples which mock
at destroying time and smile grimly upon our lauded little prodigies of
architecture; that old land that knew all which we know now, perchance,
and more; that walked in the broad highway of civilization in the gray
dawn of creation, ages and ages before we were born; that left the
impress of exalted, cultivated Mind upon the eternal front of the Sphynx
to confound all scoffers who, when all her other proofs had passed away,
might seek to persuade the world that imperial Egypt, in the days of her
high renown, had groped in darkness.




CHAPTER LIX.

We were at sea now, for a very long voyage--we were to pass through the
entire length of the Levant; through the entire length of the
Mediterranean proper, also, and then cross the full width of the
Atlantic--a voyage of several weeks.  We naturally settled down into a
very slow, stay-at-home manner of life, and resolved to be quiet,
exemplary people, and roam no more for twenty or thirty days.  No more,
at least, than from stem to stern of the ship.  It was a very comfortable
prospect, though, for we were tired and needed a long rest.

We were all lazy and satisfied, now, as the meager entries in my note-
book (that sure index, to me, of my condition,) prove.  What a stupid
thing a note-book gets to be at sea, any way.  Please observe the style:

     "Sunday--Services, as usual, at four bells.  Services at night,
     also.  No cards.

     "Monday--Beautiful day, but rained hard.  The cattle purchased at
     Alexandria for beef ought to be shingled.  Or else fattened.  The
     water stands in deep puddles in the depressions forward of their
     after shoulders.  Also here and there all over their backs.  It is
     well they are not cows--it would soak in and ruin the milk.  The
     poor devil eagle--[Afterwards presented to the Central Park.]--from
     Syria looks miserable and droopy in the rain, perched on the forward
     capstan.  He appears to have his own opinion of a sea voyage, and if
     it were put into language and the language solidified, it would
     probably essentially dam the widest river in the world.

     "Tuesday--Somewhere in the neighborhood of the island of Malta.  Can
     not stop there.  Cholera.  Weather very stormy.  Many passengers
     seasick and invisible.

     "Wednesday--Weather still very savage.  Storm blew two land birds to
     sea, and they came on board.  A hawk was blown off, also.  He
     circled round and round the ship, wanting to light, but afraid of
     the people.  He was so tired, though, that he had to light, at last,
     or perish.  He stopped in the foretop, repeatedly, and was as often
     blown away by the wind.  At last Harry caught him.  Sea full of
     flying-fish.  They rise in flocks of three hundred and flash along
     above the tops of the waves a distance of two or three hundred feet,
     then fall and disappear.

     "Thursday--Anchored off Algiers, Africa.  Beautiful city, beautiful
     green hilly landscape behind it.  Staid half a day and left.  Not
     permitted to land, though we showed a clean bill of health.  They
     were afraid of Egyptian plague and cholera.

     "Friday--Morning, dominoes.  Afternoon, dominoes.  Evening,
     promenading the deck.  Afterwards, charades.

     "Saturday--Morning, dominoes.  Afternoon, dominoes.  Evening,
     promenading the decks.  Afterwards, dominoes.

     "Sunday--Morning service, four bells.  Evening service, eight bells.
     Monotony till midnight.--Whereupon, dominoes.

     "Monday--Morning, dominoes.  Afternoon, dominoes.  Evening,
     promenading the decks.  Afterward, charades and a lecture from Dr.
     C. Dominoes.

     "No date--Anchored off the picturesque city of Cagliari, Sardinia.
     Staid till midnight, but not permitted to land by these infamous
     foreigners.  They smell inodorously--they do not wash--they dare not
     risk cholera.

     "Thursday--Anchored off the beautiful cathedral city of Malaga,
     Spain.--Went ashore in the captain's boat--not ashore, either, for
     they would not let us land.  Quarantine.  Shipped my newspaper
     correspondence, which they took with tongs, dipped it in sea water,
     clipped it full of holes, and then fumigated it with villainous
     vapors till it smelt like a Spaniard.  Inquired about chances to run
     to blockade and visit the Alhambra at Granada.  Too risky--they
     might hang a body.  Set sail--middle of afternoon.

     "And so on, and so on, and so forth, for several days.  Finally,
     anchored off Gibraltar, which looks familiar and home-like."

It reminds me of the journal I opened with the New Year, once, when I was
a boy and a confiding and a willing prey to those impossible schemes of
reform which well-meaning old maids and grandmothers set for the feet of
unwary youths at that season of the year--setting oversized tasks for
them, which, necessarily failing, as infallibly weaken the boy's strength
of will, diminish his confidence in himself and injure his chances of
success in life.  Please accept of an extract:

     "Monday--Got up, washed, went to bed.
     "Tuesday--Got up, washed, went to bed.
     "Wednesday--Got up, washed, went to bed.
     "Thursday--Got up, washed, went to bed.
     "Friday--Got up, washed, went to bed.
     "Next Friday--Got up, washed, went to bed.
     "Friday fortnight--Got up, washed, went to bed.
     "Following month--Got up, washed, went to bed."

I stopped, then, discouraged.  Startling events appeared to be too rare,
in my career, to render a diary necessary.  I still reflect with pride,
however, that even at that early age I washed when I got up.  That
journal finished me.  I never have had the nerve to keep one since.  My
loss of confidence in myself in that line was permanent.

The ship had to stay a week or more at Gibraltar to take in coal for the
home voyage.

It would be very tiresome staying here, and so four of us ran the
quarantine blockade and spent seven delightful days in Seville, Cordova,
Cadiz, and wandering through the pleasant rural scenery of Andalusia, the
garden of Old Spain.  The experiences of that cheery week were too varied
and numerous for a short chapter and I have not room for a long one.
Therefore I shall leave them all out.




CHAPTER LX.

Ten or eleven o'clock found us coming down to breakfast one morning in
Cadiz.  They told us the ship had been lying at anchor in the harbor two
or three hours.  It was time for us to bestir ourselves.  The ship could
wait only a little while because of the quarantine.  We were soon on
board, and within the hour the white city and the pleasant shores of
Spain sank down behind the waves and passed out of sight.  We had seen no
land fade from view so regretfully.

It had long ago been decided in a noisy public meeting in the main cabin
that we could not go to Lisbon, because we must surely be quarantined
there.  We did every thing by mass-meeting, in the good old national way,
from swapping off one empire for another on the programme of the voyage
down to complaining of the cookery and the scarcity of napkins.  I am
reminded, now, of one of these complaints of the cookery made by a
passenger.  The coffee had been steadily growing more and more execrable
for the space of three weeks, till at last it had ceased to be coffee
altogether and had assumed the nature of mere discolored water--so this
person said.  He said it was so weak that it was transparent an inch in
depth around the edge of the cup.  As he approached the table one morning
he saw the transparent edge--by means of his extraordinary vision long
before he got to his seat.  He went back and complained in a high-handed
way to Capt.  Duncan.  He said the coffee was disgraceful.  The Captain
showed his.  It seemed tolerably good.  The incipient mutineer was more
outraged than ever, then, at what he denounced as the partiality shown
the captain's table over the other tables in the ship.  He flourished
back and got his cup and set it down triumphantly, and said:

"Just try that mixture once, Captain Duncan."

He smelt it--tasted it--smiled benignantly--then said:

"It is inferior--for coffee--but it is pretty fair tea."

The humbled mutineer smelt it, tasted it, and returned to his seat.  He
had made an egregious ass of himself before the whole ship.  He did it no
more.  After that he took things as they came.  That was me.

The old-fashioned ship-life had returned, now that we were no longer in
sight of land.  For days and days it continued just the same, one day
being exactly like another, and, to me, every one of them pleasant.  At
last we anchored in the open roadstead of Funchal, in the beautiful
islands we call the Madeiras.

The mountains looked surpassingly lovely, clad as they were in living,
green; ribbed with lava ridges; flecked with white cottages; riven by
deep chasms purple with shade; the great slopes dashed with sunshine and
mottled with shadows flung from the drifting squadrons of the sky, and
the superb picture fitly crowned by towering peaks whose fronts were
swept by the trailing fringes of the clouds.

But we could not land.  We staid all day and looked, we abused the man
who invented quarantine, we held half a dozen mass-meetings and crammed
them full of interrupted speeches, motions that fell still-born,
amendments that came to nought and resolutions that died from sheer
exhaustion in trying to get before the house.  At night we set sail.

We averaged four mass-meetings a week for the voyage--we seemed always in
labor in this way, and yet so often fallaciously that whenever at long
intervals we were safely delivered of a resolution, it was cause for
public rejoicing, and we hoisted the flag and fired a salute.

Days passed--and nights; and then the beautiful Bermudas rose out of the
sea, we entered the tortuous channel, steamed hither and thither among
the bright summer islands, and rested at last under the flag of England
and were welcome.  We were not a nightmare here, where were civilization
and intelligence in place of Spanish and Italian superstition, dirt and
dread of cholera.  A few days among the breezy groves, the flower
gardens, the coral caves, and the lovely vistas of blue water that went
curving in and out, disappearing and anon again appearing through jungle
walls of brilliant foliage, restored the energies dulled by long drowsing
on the ocean, and fitted us for our final cruise--our little run of a
thousand miles to New York--America--HOME.

We bade good-bye to "our friends the Bermudians," as our programme hath
it--the majority of those we were most intimate with were negroes--and
courted the great deep again.  I said the majority.  We knew more negroes
than white people, because we had a deal of washing to be done, but we
made some most excellent friends among the whites, whom it will be a
pleasant duty to hold long in grateful remembrance.

We sailed, and from that hour all idling ceased.  Such another system of
overhauling, general littering of cabins and packing of trunks we had not
seen since we let go the anchor in the harbor of Beirout.  Every body was
busy.  Lists of all purchases had to be made out, and values attached, to
facilitate matters at the custom-house.  Purchases bought by bulk in
partnership had to be equitably divided, outstanding debts canceled,
accounts compared, and trunks, boxes and packages labeled.  All day long
the bustle and confusion continued.

And now came our first accident.  A passenger was running through a
gangway, between decks, one stormy night, when he caught his foot in the
iron staple of a door that had been heedlessly left off a hatchway, and
the bones of his leg broke at the ancle.  It was our first serious
misfortune.  We had traveled much more than twenty thousand miles, by
land and sea, in many trying climates, without a single hurt, without a
serious case of sickness and without a death among five and sixty
passengers.  Our good fortune had been wonderful.  A sailor had jumped
overboard at Constantinople one night, and was seen no more, but it was
suspected that his object was to desert, and there was a slim chance, at
least, that he reached the shore.  But the passenger list was complete.
There was no name missing from the register.

At last, one pleasant morning, we steamed up the harbor of New York, all
on deck, all dressed in Christian garb--by special order, for there was a
latent disposition in some quarters to come out as Turks--and amid a
waving of handkerchiefs from welcoming friends, the glad pilgrims noted
the shiver of the decks that told that ship and pier had joined hands
again and the long, strange cruise was over.  Amen.




CHAPTER LXI.

In this place I will print an article which I wrote for the New York
Herald the night we arrived.  I do it partly because my contract with my
publishers makes it compulsory; partly because it is a proper, tolerably
accurate, and exhaustive summing up of the cruise of the ship and the
performances of the pilgrims in foreign lands; and partly because some of
the passengers have abused me for writing it, and I wish the public to
see how thankless a task it is to put one's self to trouble to glorify
unappreciative people.  I was charged with "rushing into print" with
these compliments.  I did not rush.  I had written news letters to the
Herald sometimes, but yet when I visited the office that day I did not
say any thing about writing a valedictory.  I did go to the Tribune
office to see if such an article was wanted, because I belonged on the
regular staff of that paper and it was simply a duty to do it.  The
managing editor was absent, and so I thought no more about it.  At night
when the Herald's request came for an article, I did not "rush."  In
fact, I demurred for a while, because I did not feel like writing
compliments then, and therefore was afraid to speak of the cruise lest I
might be betrayed into using other than complimentary language.  However,
I reflected that it would be a just and righteous thing to go down and
write a kind word for the Hadjis--Hadjis are people who have made the
pilgrimage--because parties not interested could not do it so feelingly
as I, a fellow-Hadji, and so I penned the valedictory.  I have read it,
and read it again; and if there is a sentence in it that is not fulsomely
complimentary to captain, ship and passengers, I can not find it.  If it
is not a chapter that any company might be proud to have a body write
about them, my judgment is fit for nothing.  With these remarks I
confidently submit it to the unprejudiced judgment of the reader:

     RETURN OF THE HOLY LAND EXCURSIONISTS--THE STORY OF THE CRUISE.

     TO THE EDITOR OF THE HERALD:

     The steamer Quaker City has accomplished at last her extraordinary
     voyage and returned to her old pier at the foot of Wall street.
     The expedition was a success in some respects, in some it was not.
     Originally it was advertised as a "pleasure excursion."  Well,
     perhaps, it was a pleasure excursion, but certainly it did not look
     like one; certainly it did not act like one.  Any body's and every
     body's notion of a pleasure excursion is that the parties to it will
     of a necessity be young and giddy and somewhat boisterous.  They
     will dance a good deal, sing a good deal, make love, but sermonize
     very little.  Any body's and every body's notion of a well conducted
     funeral is that there must be a hearse and a corpse, and chief
     mourners and mourners by courtesy, many old people, much solemnity,
     no levity, and a prayer and a sermon withal.  Three-fourths of the
     Quaker City's passengers were between forty and seventy years of
     age!  There was a picnic crowd for you!  It may be supposed that the
     other fourth was composed of young girls.  But it was not.  It was
     chiefly composed of rusty old bachelors and a child of six years.
     Let us average the ages of the Quaker City's pilgrims and set the
     figure down as fifty years.  Is any man insane enough to imagine
     that this picnic of patriarchs sang, made love, danced, laughed,
     told anecdotes, dealt in ungodly levity?  In my experience they
     sinned little in these matters.  No doubt it was presumed here at
     home that these frolicsome veterans laughed and sang and romped all
     day, and day after day, and kept up a noisy excitement from one end
     of the ship to the other; and that they played blind-man's buff or
     danced quadrilles and waltzes on moonlight evenings on the quarter-
     deck; and that at odd moments of unoccupied time they jotted a
     laconic item or two in the journals they opened on such an elaborate
     plan when they left home, and then skurried off to their whist and
     euchre labors under the cabin lamps.  If these things were presumed,
     the presumption was at fault.  The venerable excursionists were not
     gay and frisky.  They played no blind-man's buff; they dealt not in
     whist; they shirked not the irksome journal, for alas! most of them
     were even writing books.  They never romped, they talked but little,
     they never sang, save in the nightly prayer-meeting.  The pleasure
     ship was a synagogue, and the pleasure trip was a funeral excursion
     without a corpse.  (There is nothing exhilarating about a funeral
     excursion without a corpse.) A free, hearty laugh was a sound that
     was not heard oftener than once in seven days about those decks or
     in those cabins, and when it was heard it met with precious little
     sympathy.  The excursionists danced, on three separate evenings,
     long, long ago, (it seems an age.) quadrilles, of a single set, made
     up of three ladies and five gentlemen, (the latter with
     handkerchiefs around their arms to signify their sex.) who timed
     their feet to the solemn wheezing of a melodeon; but even this
     melancholy orgie was voted to be sinful, and dancing was
     discontinued.

     The pilgrims played dominoes when too much Josephus or Robinson's
     Holy Land Researches, or book-writing, made recreation necessary--
     for dominoes is about as mild and sinless a game as any in the
     world, perhaps, excepting always the ineffably insipid diversion
     they call croquet, which is a game where you don't pocket any balls
     and don't carom on any thing of any consequence, and when you are
     done nobody has to pay, and there are no refreshments to saw off,
     and, consequently, there isn't any satisfaction whatever about it--
     they played dominoes till they were rested, and then they
     blackguarded each other privately till prayer-time.  When they were
     not seasick they were uncommonly prompt when the dinner-gong
     sounded.  Such was our daily life on board the ship--solemnity,
     decorum, dinner, dominoes, devotions, slander.  It was not lively
     enough for a pleasure trip; but if we had only had a corpse it would
     have made a noble funeral excursion.  It is all over now; but when I
     look back, the idea of these venerable fossils skipping forth on a
     six months' picnic, seems exquisitely refreshing.  The advertised
     title of the expedition--"The Grand Holy Land Pleasure Excursion"--
     was a misnomer.  "The Grand Holy Land Funeral Procession" would have
     been better--much better.

     Wherever we went, in Europe, Asia, or Africa, we made a sensation,
     and, I suppose I may add, created a famine.  None of us had ever
     been any where before; we all hailed from the interior; travel was a
     wild novelty to us, and we conducted ourselves in accordance with
     the natural instincts that were in us, and trammeled ourselves with
     no ceremonies, no conventionalities.  We always took care to make it
     understood that we were Americans--Americans!  When we found that a
     good many foreigners had hardly ever heard of America, and that a
     good many more knew it only as a barbarous province away off
     somewhere, that had lately been at war with somebody, we pitied the
     ignorance of the Old World, but abated no jot of our importance.
     Many and many a simple community in the Eastern hemisphere will
     remember for years the incursion of the strange horde in the year of
     our Lord 1867, that called themselves Americans, and seemed to
     imagine in some unaccountable way that they had a right to be proud
     of it.  We generally created a famine, partly because the coffee on
     the Quaker City was unendurable, and sometimes the more substantial
     fare was not strictly first class; and partly because one naturally
     tires of sitting long at the same board and eating from the same
     dishes.

     The people of those foreign countries are very, very ignorant.  They
     looked curiously at the costumes we had brought from the wilds of
     America.  They observed that we talked loudly at table sometimes.
     They noticed that we looked out for expenses, and got what we
     conveniently could out of a franc, and wondered where in the
     mischief we came from.  In Paris they just simply opened their eyes
     and stared when we spoke to them in French!  We never did succeed in
     making those idiots understand their own language.  One of our
     passengers said to a shopkeeper, in reference to a proposed return
     to buy a pair of gloves, "Allong restay trankeel--may be ve coom
     Moonday;" and would you believe it, that shopkeeper, a born
     Frenchman, had to ask what it was that had been said.  Sometimes it
     seems to me, somehow, that there must be a difference between
     Parisian French and Quaker City French.

     The people stared at us every where, and we stared at them.  We
     generally made them feel rather small, too, before we got done with
     them, because we bore down on them with America's greatness until we
     crushed them.  And yet we took kindly to the manners and customs,
     and especially to the fashions of the various people we visited.
     When we left the Azores, we wore awful capotes and used fine tooth
     combs--successfully.  When we came back from Tangier, in Africa, we
     were topped with fezzes of the bloodiest hue, hung with tassels like
     an Indian's scalp-lock.  In France and Spain we attracted some
     attention in these costumes.  In Italy they naturally took us for
     distempered Garibaldians, and set a gunboat to look for any thing
     significant in our changes of uniform.  We made Rome howl.  We could
     have made any place howl when we had all our clothes on.  We got no
     fresh raiment in Greece--they had but little there of any kind.  But
     at Constantinople, how we turned out!  Turbans, scimetars, fezzes,
     horse-pistols, tunics, sashes, baggy trowsers, yellow slippers--Oh,
     we were gorgeous!  The illustrious dogs of Constantinople barked
     their under jaws off, and even then failed to do us justice.  They
     are all dead by this time.  They could not go through such a run of
     business as we gave them and survive.

     And then we went to see the Emperor of Russia.  We just called on
     him as comfortably as if we had known him a century or so, and when
     we had finished our visit we variegated ourselves with selections
     from Russian costumes and sailed away again more picturesque than
     ever.  In Smyrna we picked up camel's hair shawls and other dressy
     things from Persia; but in Palestine--ah, in Palestine--our splendid
     career ended.  They didn't wear any clothes there to speak of.  We
     were satisfied, and stopped.  We made no experiments.  We did not
     try their costume.  But we astonished the natives of that country.
     We astonished them with such eccentricities of dress as we could
     muster.  We prowled through the Holy Land, from Cesarea Philippi to
     Jerusalem and the Dead Sea, a weird procession of pilgrims, gotten
     up regardless of expense, solemn, gorgeous, green-spectacled,
     drowsing under blue umbrellas, and astride of a sorrier lot of
     horses, camels and asses than those that came out of Noah's ark,
     after eleven months of seasickness and short rations.  If ever those
     children of Israel in Palestine forget when Gideon's Band went
     through there from America, they ought to be cursed once more and
     finished.  It was the rarest spectacle that ever astounded mortal
     eyes, perhaps.

     Well, we were at home in Palestine.  It was easy to see that that
     was the grand feature of the expedition.  We had cared nothing much
     about Europe.  We galloped through the Louvre, the Pitti, the
     Ufizzi, the Vatican--all the galleries--and through the pictured and
     frescoed churches of Venice, Naples, and the cathedrals of Spain;
     some of us said that certain of the great works of the old masters
     were glorious creations of genius, (we found it out in the guide-
     book, though we got hold of the wrong picture sometimes,) and the
     others said they were disgraceful old daubs.  We examined modern and
     ancient statuary with a critical eye in Florence, Rome, or any where
     we found it, and praised it if we saw fit, and if we didn't we said
     we preferred the wooden Indians in front of the cigar stores of
     America.  But the Holy Land brought out all our enthusiasm.  We fell
     into raptures by the barren shores of Galilee; we pondered at Tabor
     and at Nazareth; we exploded into poetry over the questionable
     loveliness of Esdraelon; we meditated at Jezreel and Samaria over
     the missionary zeal of Jehu; we rioted--fairly rioted among the holy
     places of Jerusalem; we bathed in Jordan and the Dead Sea, reckless
     whether our accident-insurance policies were extra-hazardous or not,
     and brought away so many jugs of precious water from both places
     that all the country from Jericho to the mountains of Moab will
     suffer from drouth this year, I think.  Yet, the pilgrimage part of
     the excursion was its pet feature--there is no question about that.
     After dismal, smileless Palestine, beautiful Egypt had few charms
     for us.  We merely glanced at it and were ready for home.

     They wouldn't let us land at Malta--quarantine; they would not let
     us land in Sardinia; nor at Algiers, Africa; nor at Malaga, Spain,
     nor Cadiz, nor at the Madeira islands.  So we got offended at all
     foreigners and turned our backs upon them and came home.  I suppose
     we only stopped at the Bermudas because they were in the programme.
     We did not care any thing about any place at all.  We wanted to go
     home.  Homesickness was abroad in the ship--it was epidemic.  If the
     authorities of New York had known how badly we had it, they would
     have quarantined us here.

     The grand pilgrimage is over.  Good-bye to it, and a pleasant memory
     to it, I am able to say in all kindness.  I bear no malice, no ill-
     will toward any individual that was connected with it, either as
     passenger or officer.  Things I did not like at all yesterday I like
     very well to-day, now that I am at home, and always hereafter I
     shall be able to poke fun at the whole gang if the spirit so moves
     me to do, without ever saying a malicious word.  The expedition
     accomplished all that its programme promised that it should
     accomplish, and we ought all to be satisfied with the management of
     the matter, certainly.  Bye-bye!

                                             MARK TWAIN.


I call that complimentary.  It is complimentary; and yet I never have
received a word of thanks for it from the Hadjis; on the contrary I speak
nothing but the serious truth when I say that many of them even took
exceptions to the article.  In endeavoring to please them I slaved over
that sketch for two hours, and had my labor for my pains.  I never will
do a generous deed again.




CONCLUSION.

Nearly one year has flown since this notable pilgrimage was ended; and as
I sit here at home in San Francisco thinking, I am moved to confess that
day by day the mass of my memories of the excursion have grown more and
more pleasant as the disagreeable incidents of travel which encumbered
them flitted one by one out of my mind--and now, if the Quaker City were
weighing her anchor to sail away on the very same cruise again, nothing
could gratify me more than to be a passenger.  With the same captain and
even the same pilgrims, the same sinners.  I was on excellent terms with
eight or nine of the excursionists (they are my staunch friends yet,) and
was even on speaking terms with the rest of the sixty-five.  I have been
at sea quite enough to know that that was a very good average.  Because a
long sea-voyage not only brings out all the mean traits one has, and
exaggerates them, but raises up others which he never suspected he
possessed, and even creates new ones.  A twelve months' voyage at sea
would make of an ordinary man a very miracle of meanness.  On the other
hand, if a man has good qualities, the spirit seldom moves him to exhibit
them on shipboard, at least with any sort of emphasis.  Now I am
satisfied that our pilgrims are pleasant old people on shore; I am also
satisfied that at sea on a second voyage they would be pleasanter,
somewhat, than they were on our grand excursion, and so I say without
hesitation that I would be glad enough to sail with them again.  I could
at least enjoy life with my handful of old friends.  They could enjoy
life with their cliques as well--passengers invariably divide up into
cliques, on all ships.

And I will say, here, that I would rather travel with an excursion party
of Methuselahs than have to be changing ships and comrades constantly, as
people do who travel in the ordinary way.  Those latter are always
grieving over some other ship they have known and lost, and over other
comrades whom diverging routes have separated from them.  They learn to
love a ship just in time to change it for another, and they become
attached to a pleasant traveling companion only to lose him.  They have
that most dismal experience of being in a strange vessel, among strange
people who care nothing about them, and of undergoing the customary
bullying by strange officers and the insolence of strange servants,
repeated over and over again within the compass of every month.  They
have also that other misery of packing and unpacking trunks--of running
the distressing gauntlet of custom-houses--of the anxieties attendant
upon getting a mass of baggage from point to point on land in safety.
I had rasher sail with a whole brigade of patriarchs than suffer so.
We never packed our trunks but twice--when we sailed from New York, and
when we returned to it.  Whenever we made a land journey, we estimated
how many days we should be gone and what amount of clothing we should
need, figured it down to a mathematical nicety, packed a valise or two
accordingly, and left the trunks on board.  We chose our comrades from
among our old, tried friends, and started.  We were never dependent upon
strangers for companionship.  We often had occasion to pity Americans
whom we found traveling drearily among strangers with no friends to
exchange pains and pleasures with.  Whenever we were coming back from a
land journey, our eyes sought one thing in the distance first--the ship--
and when we saw it riding at anchor with the flag apeak, we felt as a
returning wanderer feels when he sees his home.  When we stepped on
board, our cares vanished, our troubles were at an end--for the ship was
home to us.  We always had the same familiar old state-room to go to, and
feel safe and at peace and comfortable again.

I have no fault to find with the manner in which our excursion was
conducted.  Its programme was faithfully carried out--a thing which
surprised me, for great enterprises usually promise vastly more than they
perform.  It would be well if such an excursion could be gotten up every
year and the system regularly inaugurated.  Travel is fatal to prejudice,
bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on
these accounts.  Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things can
not be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's
lifetime.

The Excursion is ended, and has passed to its place among the things that
were.  But its varied scenes and its manifold incidents will linger
pleasantly in our memories for many a year to come.  Always on the wing,
as we were, and merely pausing a moment to catch fitful glimpses of the
wonders of half a world, we could not hope to receive or retain vivid
impressions of all it was our fortune to see.  Yet our holyday flight has
not been in vain--for above the confusion of vague recollections, certain
of its best prized pictures lift themselves and will still continue
perfect in tint and outline after their surroundings shall have faded
away.

We shall remember something of pleasant France; and something also of
Paris, though it flashed upon us a splendid meteor, and was gone again,
we hardly knew how or where.  We shall remember, always, how we saw
majestic Gibraltar glorified with the rich coloring of a Spanish sunset
and swimming in a sea of rainbows.  In fancy we shall see Milan again,
and her stately Cathedral with its marble wilderness of graceful spires.
And Padua--Verona--Como, jeweled with stars; and patrician Venice, afloat
on her stagnant flood--silent, desolate, haughty--scornful of her humbled
state--wrapping herself in memories of her lost fleets, of battle and
triumph, and all the pageantry of a glory that is departed.

We can not forget Florence--Naples--nor the foretaste of heaven that is
in the delicious atmosphere of Greece--and surely not Athens and the
broken temples of the Acropolis.  Surely not venerable Rome--nor the
green plain that compasses her round about, contrasting its brightness
with her gray decay--nor the ruined arches that stand apart in the plain
and clothe their looped and windowed raggedness with vines.  We shall
remember St. Peter's: not as one sees it when he walks the streets of
Rome and fancies all her domes are just alike, but as he sees it leagues
away, when every meaner edifice has faded out of sight and that one dome
looms superbly up in the flush of sunset, full of dignity and grace,
strongly outlined as a mountain.

We shall remember Constantinople and the Bosporus--the colossal
magnificence of Baalbec--the Pyramids of Egypt--the prodigious form, the
benignant countenance of the Sphynx--Oriental Smyrna--sacred Jerusalem--
Damascus, the "Pearl of the East," the pride of Syria, the fabled Garden
of Eden, the home of princes and genii of the Arabian Nights, the oldest
metropolis on earth, the one city in all the world that has kept its name
and held its place and looked serenely on while the Kingdoms and Empires
of four thousand years have risen to life, enjoyed their little season of
pride and pomp, and then vanished and been forgotten!




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Innocents Abroad,
by Mark Twain






A BURLESQUE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

by Mark Twain



CONTENTS:
        MARK TWAIN'S (BURLESQUE) AUTO-BIOGRAPHY
        FIRST ROMANCE.

1871




BURLESQUE AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

Two or three persons having at different times intimated that if I would
write an autobiography they would read it, when they got leisure, I yield
at last to this frenzied public demand, and herewith tender my history:

Ours is a noble old house, and stretches a long way back into antiquity.
The earliest ancestor the Twains have any record of was a friend of the
family by the name of Higgins.  This was in the eleventh century, when
our people were living in Aberdeen, county of Cork, England.  Why it is
that our long line has ever since borne the maternal name (except when
one of them now and then took a playful refuge in an alias to avert
foolishness), instead of Higgins, is a mystery which none of us has ever
felt much desire to stir.  It is a kind of vague, pretty romance, and we
leave it alone.  All the old families do that way.

Arthour Twain was a man of considerable note a solicitor on the highway
in William Rufus' time.  At about the age of thirty he went to one of
those fine old English places of resort called Newgate, to see about
something, and never returned again.  While there he died suddenly.

Augustus Twain, seems to have made something of a stir about -the year
1160.  He was as full of fun as he could be, and used to take his old
sabre and sharpen it up, and get in a convenient place on a dark night,
and stick it through people as they went by, to see them jump.  He was a
born humorist.  But he got to going too far with it; and the first time
he was found stripping one of these parties, the authorities removed one
end of him, and put it up on a nice high place on Temple Bar, where it
could contemplate the people and have a good time.  He never liked any
situation so much or stuck to it so long.

Then for the next two hundred years the family tree shows a succession of
soldiers--noble, high-spirited fellows, who always went into battle
singing; right behind the army, and always went out a-whooping, right
ahead of it.

This is a scathing rebuke to old dead Froissart's poor witticism that our
family tree never had but one limb to it, and that that one stuck out at
right angles, and bore fruit winter, and summer.

                         ||=======|====
                         ||       |
                         ||       |
                         ||       O
                         ||     / || \
                         ||       ||
                         ||       ||
                         ||                  
                         ||
                         ||
                         OUR FAMILY TREE

Early in the fifteenth century we have Beau Twain, called "the Scholar."
He wrote a beautiful, beautiful hand.  And he could imitate anybody's
hand so closely that it was enough to make a person laugh his head off to
see it.  He had infinite sport with his talent.  But by and by he took a
contract to break stone for a road, and the roughness of the work spoiled
his hand.  Still, he enjoyed life all the time he was in the stone
business, which, with inconsiderable intervals, was some forty-two years.
In fact, he died in harness.  During all those long years he gave such
satisfaction that he never was through with one contract a week till
government gave him another.  He was a perfect pet.  And he was always a
favorite with his fellow-artists, and was a conspicuous member of their
benevolent secret society, called the Chain Gang.  He always wore his
hair short, had a preference for striped clothes, and died lamented by
the government.  He was a sore loss to his country.  For he was so
regular.

Some years later we have the illustrious John Morgan Twain.  He came over
to this country with Columbus in 1492, as a passenger.  He appears to
have been of a crusty, uncomfortable disposition.  He complained of the
food all the way over, and was always threatening to go ashore unless
there was a change.  He wanted fresh shad.  Hardly a day passed over his
head that he did not go idling about the ship with his nose in the air,
sneering about the commander, and saying he did not believe Columbus knew
where he was going to or had ever been there before.  The memorable cry
of "Land ho!" thrilled every heart in the ship but his.  He gazed a while
through a piece of smoked glass at the penciled line lying on the distant
water, and then said: "Land be hanged,--it's a raft!"

When this questionable passenger came on board the ship, he brought
nothing with him but an old newspaper containing a handkerchief marked
"B. G.," one cotton sock marked "L. W. C." one woollen one marked "D. F."
and a night-shirt marked "O. M. R."  And yet during the voyage he worried
more about his "trunk," and gave himself more airs about it, than all
the rest of the passengers put together.

If the ship was "down by the head," and would got steer, he would go and
move his "trunk" farther aft, and then watch the effect.  If the
ship was "by the stern," he would suggest to Columbus to detail some men
to "shift that baggage."  In storms he had to be gagged, because his
wailings about his "trunk" made it impossible for the men to hear the
orders.  The man does not appear to have been openly charged with any
gravely unbecoming thing, but it is noted in the ship's log as a "curious
circumstance" that albeit he brought his baggage on board the ship in a
newspaper, he took it ashore in four trunks, a queensware crate, and a
couple of champagne baskets.  But when he came back insinuating in an
insolent, swaggering way, that some of his things were missing, and was
going to search the other passengers' baggage, it was too much, and they
threw him overboard.  They watched long and wonderingly for him to come
up, but not even a bubble rose on the quietly ebbing tide.  But while
every one was most absorbed in gazing over the side, and the interest was
momentarily increasing, it was observed with consternation that the
vessel was adrift and the anchor cable hanging limp from the bow.  Then
in the ship's dimmed and ancient log we find this quaint note:

          "In time it was discouvered yt ye troblesome passenger hadde
          gonne downe and got ye anchor, and toke ye same and solde it to
          ye dam sauvages from ye interior, saying yt he hadde founde it,
          ye sonne of a ghun!"

Yet this ancestor had good and noble instincts, and it is with pride that
we call to mind the fact that he was the first white person who ever
interested himself in the work of elevating and civilizing our Indians.
He built a commodious jail and put up a gallows, and to his dying day he
claimed with satisfaction that he had had a more restraining and
elevating influence on the Indians than any other reformer that ever,
labored among them.  At this point the chronicle becomes less frank and
chatty, and closes abruptly by saying that the old voyager went to see
his gallows perform on the first white man ever hanged in America, and
while there received injuries which terminated in his death.

The great grandson of the "Reformer" flourished in sixteen hundred and
something, and was known in our annals as, "the old Admiral," though in
history he had other titles.  He was long in command of fleets of swift
vessels, well armed and, manned, and did great service in hurrying up
merchantmen.  Vessels which he followed and kept his eagle eye on, always
made good fair time across the ocean.  But if a ship still loitered in
spite of all he could do, his indignation would grow till he could
contain himself no longer--and then he would take that ship home where he
lived and, keep it there carefully, expecting the owners to come for it,
but they never did.  And he would try to get the idleness and sloth out
of the sailors of that ship by compelling, them to take invigorating
exercise and a bath.  He called it "walking a plank."  All the pupils
liked it.  At any rate, they never found any fault with it after trying
it.  When the owners were late coming for their ships, the Admiral always
burned them, so that the insurance money should not be lost.  At last
this fine old tar was cut down in the fulness of his years and honors.
And to her dying day, his poor heart-broken widow believed that if he had
been cut down fifteen minutes sooner he might have been resuscitated.

Charles Henry Twain lived during the latter part of the seventeenth
century, and was a zealous and distinguished missionary.  He converted
sixteen thousand South Sea islanders, and taught them that a dog-tooth
necklace and a pair of spectacles was not enough clothing to come to
divine service in.  His poor flock loved him very, very dearly; and when
his funeral was over, they got up in a body (and came out of the
restaurant) with tears in their eyes, and saying, one to another, that he
was a good tender missionary, and they wished they had some more of him.

PAH-GO-TO-WAH-WAH-PUKKETEKEEWIS (Mighty-Hunter-with-a-Hog-Eye) TWAIN
adorned the middle of the eighteenth century, and aided Gen. Braddock
with all his heart to resist the oppressor Washington.  It was this
ancestor who fired seventeen times at our Washington from behind a tree.
So far the beautiful romantic narrative in the moral story-books is
correct; but when that narrative goes on to say that at the seventeenth
round the awe-stricken savage said solemnly that that man was being
reserved by the Great Spirit for some mighty mission, and he dared not
lift his sacrilegious rifle against him again, the narrative seriously
impairs the integrity of history.  What he did say was:

"It ain't no (hic !) no use.  'At man's so drunk he can't stan' still
long enough for a man to hit him.  I (hic !) I can't 'ford to fool away
any more am'nition on him!"

That was why he stopped at the seventeenth round, and it was, a good
plain matter-of-fact reason, too, and one that easily commends itself to
us by the eloquent, persuasive flavor of probability there is about it.

I always enjoyed the story-book narrative, but I felt a marring misgiving
that every Indian at Braddock's Defeat who fired at a soldier a couple of
times (two easily grows to seventeen in a century), and missed him,
jumped to the conclusion that the Great Spirit was reserving that soldier
for some grand mission; and so I somehow feared that the only reason why
Washington's case is remembered and the others forgotten is, that in his
the prophecy' came true, and in that of the others it didn't.  There are
not books enough on earth to contain the record of the prophecies Indians
and other unauthorized parties have made; but one may carry in his
overcoat pockets the record of all the prophecies that have been
fulfilled.

I will remark here, in passing, that certain ancestors of mine are so
thoroughly well known in history by their aliases, that I have not felt
it to be worth while to dwell upon them, or even mention them in the
order of their birth.  Among these may be mentioned RICHARD BRINSLEY
TWAIN, alias Guy Fawkes; JOHN WENTWORTH TWAIN, alias Sixteen-String Jack;
WILLIAM HOGARTH TWAIN, alias Jack Sheppard; ANANIAS TWAIN, alias Baron
Munchausen; JOHN GEORGE TWAIN, alias Capt. Kydd; and them there are
George Francis Train, Tom Pepper, Nebuchadnezzar and Baalam's Ass--they
all belong to our family, but to a branch of it somewhat distantly
removed from the honorable direct line--in fact, a collateral branch,
whose members chiefly differ from the ancient stock in that, in order to
acquire the notoriety we have always yearned and hungered for, they have
got into a low way of going to jail instead of getting hanged.

It is not well; when writing an autobiography, to follow your ancestry
down too close to your own time--it is safest to speak only vaguely of
your great-grandfather, and then skip from there to yourself, which I now
do.

I was born without teeth--and there Richard III had the advantage of me;
but I was born without a humpback, likewise, and there I had the
advantage of him.  My parents were neither very poor nor conspicuously
honest.

But now a thought occurs to me.  My own history would really seem so tame
contrasted with that of my ancestors, that it is simply wisdom to leave
it unwritten until I am hanged.  If some other biographies I have read
had stopped with the ancestry until a like event occurred, it would have
been a felicitous thing, for the reading public.  How does it strike you?







                            AWFUL, TERRIBLE
                            MEDIEVAL ROMANCE

CHAPTER I

THE SECRET REVEALED.

It was night.  Stillness reigned in the grand old feudal castle of
Klugenstein.  The year 1222 was drawing to a close.  Far away up in the
tallest of the castle's towers a single light glimmered.  A secret
council was being held there.  The stern old lord of Klugenstein sat in
a chair of state meditating.  Presently he, said, with a tender
accent:

"My daughter!"

A young man of noble presence, clad from head to heel in knightly mail,
answered:

"Speak, father!"

"My daughter, the time is come for the revealing of the mystery that hath
puzzled all your young life.  Know, then, that it had its birth in the
matters which I shall now unfold.  My brother Ulrich is the great Duke of
Brandenburgh.  Our father, on his deathbed, decreed that if no son were
born to Ulrich, the succession should pass to my house, provided a son
were born to me.  And further, in case no son, were born to either, but
only daughters, then the succession should pass to Ulrich's daughter,
if she proved stainless; if she did not, my daughter should succeed,
if she retained a blameless name.  And so I, and my old wife here, prayed
fervently for the good boon of a son, but the prayer was vain.  You were
born to us.  I was in despair.  I saw the mighty prize slipping from my
grasp, the splendid dream vanishing away.  And I had been so hopeful!
Five years had Ulrich lived in wedlock, and yet his wife had borne no
heir of either sex.

"'But hold,' I said, 'all is not lost.'  A saving scheme had shot athwart
my brain.  You were born at midnight.  Only the leech, the nurse, and six
waiting-women knew your sex.  I hanged them every one before an hour had
sped.  Next morning all the barony went mad with rejoicing over the
proclamation that a son was born to Klugenstein, an heir to mighty
Brandenburgh!  And well the secret has been kept.  Your mother's own
sister nursed your infancy, and from that time forward we feared nothing.

"When you were ten years old, a daughter was born to Ulrich.  We grieved,
but hoped for good results from measles, or physicians, or other natural
enemies of infancy, but were always disappointed.  She lived, she throve-
-Heaven's malison upon her!  But it is nothing.  We are safe.  For,
Ha-ha! have we not a son?  And is not our son the future Duke?  Our well-
beloved Conrad, is it not so?--for, woman of eight-and-twenty years--as
you are, my child, none other name than that hath ever fallen to you!

"Now it hath come to pass that age hath laid its hand upon my brother,
and he waxes feeble.  The cares of state do tax him sore.  Therefore he
wills that you shall come to him and be already Duke--in act, though not
yet in name.  Your servitors are ready--you journey forth to-night.

"Now listen well.  Remember every word I say.  There is a law as old as
Germany that if any woman sit for a single instant in the great ducal
chair before she hath been absolutely crowned in presence of the people,
SHE SHALL DIE! So heed my words.  Pretend humility.  Pronounce your
judgments from the Premier's chair, which stands at the foot of the
throne.  Do this until you are crowned and safe.  It is not likely that
your sex will ever be discovered; but still it is the part of wisdom to
make all things as safe as may be in this treacherous earthly life."

"Oh; my father, is it for this my life hath been a lie!  Was it that I
might cheat my unoffending cousin of her rights?  Spare me, father,
spare your child!"

"What, huzzy!  Is this my reward for the august fortune my brain has
wrought for thee?  By the bones of my father, this puling sentiment of
thine but ill accords with my humor.

"Betake thee to the Duke, instantly!  And beware how thou meddlest with my
purpose!"

Let this suffice, of the conversation.  It is enough for us to know that
the prayers, the entreaties and the tears of the gentle-natured girl
availed nothing.  They nor anything could move the stout old lord of
Klugenstein.  And so, at last, with a heavy heart, the daughter saw the
castle gates close behind her, and found herself riding away in the
darkness surrounded by a knightly array of armed, vassals and a brave
following of servants.

The old baron sat silent for many minutes after his daughter's departure,
and then he turned to his sad wife and said:

"Dame, our matters seem speeding fairly.  It is full three months since I
sent the shrewd and handsome Count Detzin on his devilish mission to my
brother's daughter Constance.  If he fail, we are not wholly safe; but if
he do succeed, no power can bar our girl from being Duchess e'en though
ill-fortune should decree she never should be Duke!"

"My heart is full of bodings, yet all may still be well."

"Tush, woman! Leave the owls to croak.  To bed with ye, and dream of
Brandenburgh and grandeur!"




CHAPTER II.

FESTIVITY AND TEARS

Six days after the occurrences related in the above chapter, the
brilliant capital of the Duchy of Brandenburgh was resplendent with
military pageantry, and noisy with the rejoicings of loyal multitudes;
for Conrad, the young heir to the crown, was come.  The old Duke's, heart
was full of happiness, for Conrad's handsome person and graceful bearing
had won his love at once.  The great halls of tie palace were thronged
with nobles, who welcomed Conrad bravely; and so bright and happy did all
things seem, that he felt his fears and sorrows passing away and giving
place to a comforting contentment.

But in a remote apartment of the palace a scene of a different nature
was, transpiring.  By a window stood the Duke's only child, the Lady
Constance.  Her eyes were red and swollen, and full of tears.  She was
alone.  Presently she fell to weeping anew, and said aloud:

"The villain Detzin is gone--has fled the dukedom!  I could not believe
it at first, but alas! it is too true.  And I loved him so.  I dared to
love him though I knew the Duke my father would never let me wed him.
I loved him--but now I hate him!  With all, my soul I hate him!  Oh, what
is to become of me!  I am lost, lost, lost!  I shall go mad!"




CHAPTER III.

THE PLOT THICKENS.

Few months drifted by.  All men published the praises of the young
Conrad's government and extolled the wisdom of his judgments, the
mercifulness of his sentences, and the modesty with which he bore himself
in his great office.  The old Duke soon gave everything into his hands,
and sat apart and listened with proud satisfaction while his heir
delivered the decrees of the crown from the seat of the premier.
It seemed plain that one so loved and praised and honored of all men
as Conrad was, could not be otherwise than happy.  But strange enough,
he was not.  For he saw with dismay that the Princess Constance had begun
to love him!  The love of, the rest of the world was happy fortune for
him, but this was freighted with danger!  And he saw, moreover, that the
delighted Duke had discovered his daughter's passion likewise, and was
already dreaming of a marriage.  Every day somewhat of the deep sadness
that had been in the princess' face faded away; every day hope and
animation beamed brighter from her eye; and by and by even vagrant smiles
visited the face that had been so troubled.

Conrad was appalled.  He bitterly cursed himself for having yielded to
the instinct that had made him seek the companionship of one of his own
sex when he was new and a stranger in the palace--when he was sorrowful
and yearned for a sympathy such as only women can give or feel.  He now
began to avoid, his cousin.  But this only made matters worse, for,
naturally enough, the more he avoided her, the more she cast herself in
his way.  He marveled at this at first; and next it startled him.  The
girl haunted him; she hunted him; she happened upon him at all times and
in all places, in the night as well as in the day.  She seemed singularly
anxious.  There was surely a mystery somewhere.

This could not go on forever.  All the world was talking about it.  The
Duke was beginning to look perplexed.  Poor Conrad was becoming a very
ghost through dread and dire distress.  One day as he was emerging from a
private ante-room attached to the picture gallery, Constance confronted
him, and seizing both his hands, in hers, exclaimed:

"Oh, why, do you avoid me?  What have I done--what have I said, to lose
your kind opinion of me--for, surely I had it once?  Conrad, do not
despise me, but pity a tortured heart?  I cannot--cannot hold the words
unspoken longer, lest they kill me--I LOVE you, CONRAD!  There, despise
me if you must, but they would be uttered!"

Conrad was speechless.  Constance hesitated a moment, and then,
misinterpreting his silence, a wild gladness flamed in her eyes, and she
flung her arms about his neck and said:

"You relent! you relent! You can love me--you will love me! Oh, say you
will, my own, my worshipped Conrad!'"

Conrad groaned aloud.  A sickly pallor overspread his countenance, and
he trembled like an aspen.  Presently, in desperation, he thrust the poor
girl from him, and cried:

"You know not what you ask!  It is forever and ever impossible!"  And then
he fled like a criminal and left the princess stupefied with amazement.
A minute afterward she was crying and sobbing there, and Conrad was
crying and sobbing in his chamber.  Both were in despair.  Both save ruin
staring them in the face.

By and by Constance rose slowly to her feet and moved away, saying:

"To think that he was despising my love at the very moment that I thought
it was melting his cruel heart!  I hate him!  He spurned me--did this
man--he spurned me from him like a dog!"




CHAPTER IV

THE AWFUL REVELATION.

Time passed on.  A settled sadness rested once more upon the countenance
of the good Duke's daughter.  She and Conrad were seen together no more
now.  The Duke grieved at this.  But as the weeks wore away, Conrad's
color came back to his cheeks and his old-time vivacity to his eye, and
he administered the government with a clear and steadily ripening wisdom.

Presently a strange whisper began to be heard about the palace.  It grew
louder; it spread farther.  The gossips of the city got hold-of it.  It
swept the dukedom.  And this is what the whisper said:

"The Lady Constance hath given birth to a child!"

When the lord of Klugenstein heard it, he swung his plumed helmet thrice
around his head and shouted:

"Long live.  Duke Conrad!--for lo, his crown is sure, from this day
forward!  Detzin has done his errand well, and the good scoundrel shall
be rewarded!"

And he spread, the tidings far and wide, and for eight-and-forty hours no
soul in all the barony but did dance and sing, carouse and illuminate, to
celebrate the great event, and all at proud and happy old Klugenstein's
expense.




CHAPTER V.

THE FRIGHTFUL CATASTROPHE.

The trial was at hand.  All the great lords and barons of Brandenburgh
were assembled in the Hall of Justice in the ducal palace.  No space was
left unoccupied where there was room for a spectator to stand or sit.
Conrad, clad in purple and ermine, sat in the premier's chair, and on
either side sat the great judges of the realm.  The old Duke had sternly
commanded that the trial of his daughter should proceed, without favor,
and then had taken to his bed broken-hearted.  His days were numbered.
Poor Conrad had begged, as for his very life, that he might be spared the
misery of sitting in judgment upon his cousin's crime, but it did not
avail.

The saddest heart in all that great assemblage was in Conrad's breast.

The gladdest was in his father's.  For, unknown to his daughter "Conrad,"
the old Baron Klugenstein was come, and was among the crowd of nobles,
triumphant in the swelling fortunes of his house.

After the heralds had made due proclamation and the other preliminaries
had followed, the venerable Lord Chief justice said:

"Prisoner, stand forth!"

The unhappy princess rose and stood unveiled before the vast multitude.
The Lord Chief Justice continued:

"Most noble lady, before the great judges of this realm it hath been
charged and proven that out of holy wedlock your Grace hath given birth
unto a child; and by our ancient law the penalty is death, excepting in
one sole contingency, whereof his Grace the acting Duke, our good Lord
Conrad, will advertise you in his solemn sentence now; wherefore, give
heed."

Conrad stretched forth the reluctant sceptre, and in the self-same moment
the womanly heart beneath his robe yearned pityingly toward the doomed
prisoner, and the tears came into his eyes.  He opened his lips to speak,
but the Lord Chief Justice said quickly:

"Not there, your Grace, not there!  It is not lawful to pronounce
judgment upon any of the ducal line SAVE FROM THE DUCAL THRONE!"

A shudder went to the heart of poor Conrad, and a tremor shook the iron
frame of his old father likewise.  CONRAD HAD NOT BEEN CROWNED--dared he
profane the throne? He hesitated and turned pale with fear.  But it must
be done.  Wondering eyes were already upon him.  They would be suspicious
eyes if he hesitated longer.  He ascended the throne.  Presently he
stretched forth the sceptre again, and said:

"Prisoner, in the name of our sovereign lord, Ulrich, Duke of
Brandenburgh, I proceed to the solemn duty that hath devolved upon me.
Give heed to my words.  By the ancient law of the land, except you
produce the partner of your guilt and deliver him up to the executioner,
you must surely die.  Embrace this opportunity--save yourself while yet
you may.  Name the father of your child!"

A solemn hush fell upon the great court--a silence so profound that men
could hear their own hearts beat.  Then the princess slowly turned, with
eyes gleaming with hate, and pointing her finger straight at Conrad,
said:

"Thou art the man!"

An appalling conviction of his helpless, hopeless peril struck a chill to
Conrad's heart like the chill of death itself.  What power on earth could
save him!  To disprove the charge, he must reveal that he was a woman;
and for an uncrowned woman to sit in the ducal chair was death!  At one
and the same moment, he and his grim old father swooned and fell to, the
ground.

[The remainder of this thrilling and eventful story will NOT be found in
this or any other publication, either now or at any future time.]

The truth is, I have got my hero (or heroine) into such a particularly
close place, that I do not see how I am ever going to get him (or her)
out of it again--and therefore I will wash my hands of the whole
business, and leave that person to get out the best way that offers--or
else stay there.  I thought it was going to be easy enough to straighten
out that little difficulty, but it looks different now.

[If Harper's Weekly or the New York Tribune desire to copy these initial
chapters into the, reading columns of their valuable journals, just as
they do the opening chapters of Ledger and New York Weekly novels, they
are at liberty to do so at the usual rates, provided they "trust."]

                                                       MARK TWAIN




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of A Burlesque Autobiography,
by Mark Twain






ROUGHING IT

by Mark Twain

1880



                                   TO
                           CALVIN H. HIGBIE,
                             Of California,
        an Honest Man, a Genial Comrade, and a Steadfast Friend.
                         THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED
                             By the Author,
                     In Memory of the Curious Time
                              When We Two
                    WERE MILLIONAIRES FOR TEN DAYS.




                              ROUGHING IT

                                   BY
                              MARK TWAIN.
                          (SAMUEL L. CLEMENS.)



                               PREFATORY.

This book is merely a personal narrative, and not a pretentious history
or a philosophical dissertation. It is a record of several years of
variegated vagabondizing, and its object is rather to help the resting
reader while away an idle hour than afflict him with metaphysics, or goad
him with science. Still, there is information in the volume; information
concerning an interesting episode in the history of the Far West, about
which no books have been written by persons who were on the ground in
person, and saw the happenings of the time with their own eyes. I allude
to the rise, growth and culmination of the silver-mining fever in Nevada
-a curious episode, in some respects; the only one, of its peculiar kind,
that has occurred in the land; and the only one, indeed, that is likely
to occur in it.

Yes, take it all around, there is quite a good deal of information in the
book. I regret this very much; but really it could not be helped:
information appears to stew out of me naturally, like the precious ottar
of roses out of the otter. Sometimes it has seemed to me that I would
give worlds if I could retain my facts; but it cannot be. The more I calk
up the sources, and the tighter I get, the more I leak wisdom. Therefore,
I can only claim indulgence at the hands of the reader, not
justification.

THE AUTHOR.



CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
My Brother appointed Secretary of Nevada--I Envy His Prospective
Adventures--Am Appointed Private Secretary Under Him--My Contentment
Complete--Packed in One Hour--Dreams and Visions--On the Missouri River--
A Bully Boat

CHAPTER II.
Arrive at St. Joseph--Only Twenty-five Pounds Baggage Allowed--Farewell
to Kid Gloves and Dress Coats--Armed to the Teeth--The "Allen"--A
Cheerful Weapon--Persuaded to Buy a Mule--Schedule of Luxuries--We Leave
the "States"--"Our Coach"--Mails for the Indians--Between a Wink and an
Earthquake--A Modern Sphynx and How She Entertained Us--A Sociable Heifer

CHAPTER III.
"The Thoroughbrace is Broke"--Mails Delivered Properly--Sleeping Under
Difficulties--A Jackass Rabbit Meditating, and on Business--A Modern
Gulliver--Sage-brush--Overcoats as an Article of Diet--Sad Fate of a
Camel--Warning to Experimenters

CHAPTER IV.
Making Our Bed--Assaults by the Unabridged--At a Station--Our Driver a
Great and Shining Dignitary--Strange Place for a Frontyard--
Accommodations--Double Portraits--An Heirloom--Our Worthy Landlord--
"Fixings and Things"--An Exile--Slumgullion--A Well Furnished Table--The
Landlord Astonished--Table Etiquette--Wild Mexican Mules--Stage-coaching
and Railroading

CHAPTER V.
New Acquaintances--The Cayote--A Dog's Experiences--A Disgusted Dog--The
Relatives of the Cayote--Meals Taken Away from Home

CHAPTER VI.
The Division Superintendent--The Conductor--The Driver--One Hundred and
Fifty Miles' Drive Without Sleep--Teaching a Subordinate--Our Old Friend
Jack and a Pilgrim--Ben Holliday Compared to Moses

CHAPTER VII.
Overland City--Crossing the Platte--Bemis's Buffalo Hunt--Assault by a
Buffalo--Bemis's Horse Goes Crazy--An Impromptu Circus--A New Departure--
Bemis Finds Refuge in a Tree--Escapes Finally by a Wonderful Method

CHAPTER VIII.
The Pony Express--Fifty Miles Without Stopping--"Here he Comes"--Alkali
Water--Riding an Avalanche--Indian Massacre

CHAPTER IX.
Among the Indians--An Unfair Advantage--Laying on our Arms--A Midnight
Murder--Wrath of Outlaws--A Dangerous, yet Valuable Citizen

CHAPTER X.
History of Slade--A Proposed Fist-fight--Encounter with Jules--Paradise
of Outlaws--Slade as Superintendent--As Executioner--A Doomed Whisky
Seller--A Prisoner--A Wife's Bravery--An Ancient Enemy Captured--Enjoying
a Luxury--Hob-nobbing with Slade--Too Polite--A Happy Escape

CHAPTER XI.
Slade in Montana--"On a Spree"--In Court--Attack on a Judge--Arrest by
the Vigilantes--Turn out of the Miners--Execution of Slade--Lamentations
of His Wife--Was Slade a Coward?

CHAPTER XII.
A Mormon Emigrant Train--The Heart of the Rocky Mountains--Pure
Saleratus--A Natural Ice-House--An Entire Inhabitant--In Sight of
"Eternal Snow"--The South Pass--The Parting Streams--An Unreliable Letter
Carrier--Meeting of Old Friends--A Spoiled Watermelon--Down the Mountain-
-A Scene of Desolation--Lost in the Dark--Unnecessary Advice--U.S. Troops
and Indians--Sublime Spectacle--Another Delusion Dispelled--Among the
Angels

CHAPTER XIII.
Mormons and Gentiles--Exhilarating Drink, and its Effect on Bemis--Salt
Lake City--A Great Contrast--A Mormon Vagrant--Talk with a Saint--A Visit
to the "King"--A Happy Simile

CHAPTER XIV.
Mormon Contractors--How Mr. Street Astonished Them--The Case Before
Brigham Young, and How he Disposed of it--Polygamy Viewed from a New
Position

CHAPTER XV.
A Gentile Den--Polygamy Discussed--Favorite Wife and D. 4--Hennery for
Retired Wives--Children Need Marking--Cost of a Gift to No. 6--A Penny-
whistle Gift and its Effects--Fathering the Foundlings--It Resembled Him
--The Family Bedstead

CHAPTER XVI
The Mormon Bible--Proofs of its Divinity--Plagiarism of its Authors--
Story of Nephi--Wonderful Battle--Kilkenny Cats Outdone

CHAPTER XVII.
Three Sides to all Questions--Everything "A Quarter"--Shriveled Up--
Emigrants and White Shirts at a Discount--"Forty-Niners"--Above Par--Real
Happiness

CHAPTER XVIII.
Alkali Desert--Romance of Crossing Dispelled--Alkali Dust--Effect on the
Mules--Universal Thanksgiving

CHAPTER XIX.
The Digger Indians Compared with the Bushmen of Africa--Food, Life and
Characteristics--Cowardly Attack on a Stage Coach--A Brave Driver--The
Noble Red Man

CHAPTER XX.
The Great American Desert--Forty Miles on Bones--Lakes Without Outlets--
Greely's Remarkable Ride--Hank Monk, the Renowned Driver--Fatal Effects
of "Corking" a Story--Bald-Headed Anecdote

CHAPTER XXI.
Alkali Dust--Desolation and Contemplation--Carson City--Our Journey
Ended--We are Introduced to Several Citizens--A Strange Rebuke--A Washoe
Zephyr at Play--Its Office Hours--Governor's Palace--Government Offices--
Our French Landlady Bridget O'Flannigan--Shadow Secrets--Cause for a
Disturbance at Once--The Irish Brigade--Mrs. O'Flannigan's Boarders--The
Surveying Expedition--Escape of the Tarantulas

CHAPTER XXII.
The Son of a Nabob--Start for Lake Tahoe--Splendor of the Views--Trip on
the Lake--Camping Out--Reinvigorating Climate--Clearing a Tract of Land--
Securing a Title--Outhouse and Fences

CHAPTER XXIII.
A Happy Life--Lake Tahoe and its Moods--Transparency of the Waters--A
Catastrophe--Fire! Fire!--A Magnificent Spectacle--Homeless Again--We
take to the Lake--A Storm--Return to Carson

CHAPTER XXIV.
Resolve to Buy a Horse--Horsemanship in Carson--A Temptation--Advice
Given Me Freely--I Buy the Mexican Plug--My First Ride--A Good Bucker--I
Loan the Plug--Experience of Borrowers--Attempts to Sell--Expense of the
Experiment--A Stranger Taken In

CHAPTER XXV.
The Mormons in Nevada--How to Persuade a Loan from Them--Early History of
the Territory--Silver Mines Discovered--The New Territorial Government--A
Foreign One and a Poor One--Its Funny Struggles for Existence--No Credit,
no Cash--Old Abe Currey Sustains it and its Officers--Instructions and
Vouchers--An Indian's Endorsement--Toll-Gates

CHAPTER XXVI.
The Silver Fever--State of the Market--Silver Bricks--Tales Told--Off for
the Humboldt Mines

CHAPTER XXVII.
Our manner of going--Incidents of the Trip--A Warm but Too Familiar a
Bedfellow--Mr. Ballou Objects--Sunshine amid Clouds--Safely Arrived

CHAPTER XXVIII.
Arrive at the Mountains--Building Our Cabin--My First Prospecting Tour--
My First Gold Mine--Pockets Filled With Treasures--Filtering the News to
My Companions--The Bubble Pricked--All Not Gold That Glitters

CHAPTER XXIX.
Out Prospecting--A Silver Mine At Last--Making a Fortune With Sledge and
Drill--A Hard Road to Travel--We Own in Claims--A Rocky Country

CHAPTER XXX.
Disinterested Friends--How "Feet" Were Sold--We Quit Tunnelling--A Trip
to Esmeralda--My Companions--An Indian Prophesy--A Flood--Our Quarters
During It

CHAPTER XXXI.
The Guests at "Honey Lake Smith's"--"Bully Old Arkansas"--"Our Landlord"-
-Determined to Fight--The Landlord's Wife--The Bully Conquered by Her--
Another Start--Crossing the Carson--A Narrow Escape--Following Our Own
Track--A New Guide--Lost in the Snow

CHAPTER XXXII.
Desperate Situation--Attempts to Make a Fire--Our Horses leave us--We
Find Matches--One, Two, Three and the Last--No Fire--Death Seems
Inevitable--We Mourn Over Our Evil Lives--Discarded Vices--We Forgive
Each Other--An Affectionate Farewell--The Sleep of Oblivion

CHAPTER XXXIII.
Return of Consciousness--Ridiculous Developments--A Station House--Bitter
Feelings--Fruits of Repentance--Resurrected Vices

CHAPTER XXXIV.
About Carson--General Buncombe--Hyde vs. Morgan--How Hyde Lost His Ranch-
-The Great Landslide Case--The Trial--General Buncombe in Court--A
Wonderful Decision--A Serious Afterthought

CHAPTER XXXV.
A New Travelling Companion--All Full and No Accommodations--How Captain
Nye found Room--and Caused Our Leaving to be Lamented--The Uses of
Tunnelling--A Notable Example--We Go into the "Claim" Business and Fail--
At the Bottom

CHAPTER XXXVI.
A Quartz Mill--Amalgamation--"Screening Tailings"--First Quartz Mill in
Nevada--Fire Assay--A Smart Assayer--I stake for an advance

CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Whiteman Cement Mine--Story of its Discovery--A Secret Expedition--A
Nocturnal Adventure--A Distressing Position--A Failure and a Week's
Holiday

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Mono Lake--Shampooing Made Easy--Thoughtless Act of Our Dog and the
Results--Lye Water--Curiosities of the Lake--Free Hotel--Some Funny
Incidents a Little Overdrawn

CHAPTER XXXIX.
Visit to the Islands in Lake Mono--Ashes and Desolation--Life Amid Death
Our Boat Adrift--A Jump For Life--A Storm On the Lake--A Mass of Soap
Suds--Geological Curiosities--A Week On the Sierras--A Narrow Escape From
a Funny Explosion--"Stove Heap Gone"

CHAPTER XL.
The "Wide West" Mine--It is "Interviewed" by Higbie--A Blind Lead--Worth
a Million--We are Rich At Last--Plans for the Future

CHAPTER XLI.
A Rheumatic Patient--Day Dreams--An Unfortunate Stumble--I Leave
Suddenly--Another Patient--Higbie in the Cabin--Our Balloon Bursted--
Worth Nothing--Regrets and Explanations--Our Third Partner

CHAPTER XLII.
What to do Next?--Obstacles I Had Met With--"Jack of All Trades"--Mining
Again--Target Shooting--I Turn City Editor--I Succeed Finely

CHAPTER XLIII.
My Friend Boggs--The School Report--Boggs Pays Me An Old Debt--Virginia
City

CHAPTER XLIV.
Flush Times--Plenty of Stock--Editorial Puffing--Stocks Given Me--Salting
Mines--A Tragedian In a New Role

CHAPTER XLV.
Flush Times Continue--Sanitary Commission Fund--Wild Enthusiasm of the
People--Would not wait to Contribute--The Sanitary Flour Sack--It is
Carried to Gold Hill and Dayton--Final Reception in Virginia--Results of
the Sale--A Grand Total

CHAPTER XLVI.
The Nabobs of Those Days--John Smith as a Traveler--Sudden Wealth--A
Sixty-Thousand-Dollar Horse--A Smart Telegraph Operator--A Nabob in New
York City--Charters an Omnibus--"Walk in, It's All Free"--"You Can't Pay
a Cent"--"Hold On, Driver, I Weaken"--Sociability of New Yorkers

CHAPTER XLVII.
Buck Fanshaw's Death--The Cause Thereof--Preparations for His Burial--
Scotty Briggs the Committee Man--He Visits the Minister--Scotty Can't
Play His Hand--The Minister Gets Mixed--Both Begin to See--"All Down
Again But Nine"--Buck Fanshaw as a Citizen--How To "Shook Your Mother"--
The Funeral--Scotty Briggs as a Sunday School Teacher

CHAPTER XLVIII.
The First Twenty-Six Graves in Nevada--The Prominent Men of the County--
The Man Who Had Killed His Dozen--Trial by Jury--Specimen Jurors--A
Private Grave Yard--The Desperadoes--Who They Killed--Waking up the Weary
Passenger--Satisfaction Without Fighting

CHAPTER XLIX.
Fatal Shooting Affray--Robbery and Desperate Affray--A Specimen City
Official--A Marked Man--A Street Fight--Punishment of Crime

CHAPTER L.
Captain Ned Blakely--Bill Nookes Receives Desired Information--Killing of
Blakely's Mate--A Walking Battery--Blakely Secures Nookes--Hang First and
Be Tried Afterwards--Captain Blakely as a Chaplain--The First Chapter of
Genesis Read at a Hanging--Nookes Hung--Blakely's Regrets

CHAPTER LI.
The Weekly Occidental--A Ready Editor--A Novel--A Concentration of
Talent--The Heroes and the Heroines--The Dissolute Author Engaged--
Extraordinary Havoc With the Novel--A Highly Romantic Chapter--The Lovers
Separated--Jonah Out-done--A Lost Poem--The Aged Pilot Man--Storm On the
Erie Canal--Dollinger the Pilot Man--Terrific Gale--Danger Increases--A
Crisis Arrived--Saved as if by a Miracle

CHAPTER LII.
Freights to California--Silver Bricks--Under Ground Mines--Timber
Supports--A Visit to the Mines--The Caved Mines--Total of Shipments in
1863

CHAPTER LIII.
Jim Blaine and his Grandfather's Ram--Filkin's Mistake--Old Miss Wagner
and her Glass Eye--Jacobs, the Coffin Dealer--Waiting for a Customer--His
Bargain With Old Robbins--Robbins Sues for Damage and Collects--A New Use
for Missionaries--The Effect--His Uncle Lem. and the Use Providence Made
of Him--Sad Fate of Wheeler--Devotion of His Wife--A Model Monument--What
About the Ram?

CHAPTER LIV.
Chinese in Virginia City--Washing Bills--Habit of Imitation--Chinese
Immigration--A Visit to Chinatown--Messrs. Ah Sing, Hong Wo, See Yup, &c.

CHAPTER LV.
Tired of Virginia City--An Old Schoolmate--A Two Years' Loan--Acting as
an Editor--Almost Receive an Offer--An Accident--Three Drunken Anecdotes
--Last Look at Mt. Davidson--A Beautiful Incident

CHAPTER LVI.
Off for San Francisco--Western and Eastern Landscapes--The Hottest place
on Earth--Summer and Winter

CHAPTER LVII.
California--Novelty of Seeing a Woman--"Well if it ain't a Child!"--One
Hundred and Fifty Dollars for a Kiss--Waiting for a turn

CHAPTER LVIII.
Life in San Francisco--Worthless Stocks--My First Earthquake--Reportorial
Instincts--Effects of the Shocks--Incidents and Curiosities--Sabbath
Breakers--The Lodger and the Chambermaid--A Sensible Fashion to Follow--
Effects of the Earthquake on the Ministers

CHAPTER LIX.
Poor Again--Slinking as a Business--A Model Collector--Misery loves
Company--Comparing Notes for Comfort--A Streak of Luck--Finding a Dime--
Wealthy by Comparison--Two Sumptuous Dinners

CHAPTER LX.
An Old Friend--An Educated Miner--Pocket Mining--Freaks of Fortune

CHAPTER LXI.
Dick Baker and his Cat--Tom Quartz's Peculiarities--On an Excursion--
Appearance On His Return--A Prejudiced Cat--Empty Pockets and a Roving
Life

CHAPTER LXII.
Bound for the Sandwich Islands--The Three Captains--The Old Admiral--His
Daily Habits--His Well Fought Fields--An Unexpected Opponent--The Admiral
Overpowered--The Victor Declared a Hero

CHAPTER LXIII.
Arrival at the Islands--Honolulu--What I Saw There--Dress and Habits of
the Inhabitants--The Animal Kingdom--Fruits and Delightful Effects

CHAPTER LXIV.
An Excursion--Captain Phillips and his Turn-Out--A Horseback Ride--A
Vicious Animal--Nature and Art--Interesting Ruins--All Praise to the
Missionaries

CHAPTER LXV.
Interesting Mementoes and Relics--An Old Legend of a Frightful Leap--An
Appreciative Horse--Horse Jockeys and Their Brothers--A New Trick--A Hay
Merchant--Good Country for Horse Lovers

CHAPTER LXVI.
A Saturday Afternoon--Sandwich Island Girls on a Frolic--The Poi
Merchant--Grand Gala Day--A Native Dance--Church Membership--Cats and
Officials--An Overwhelming Discovery

CHAPTER LXVII.
The Legislature of the Island--What Its President Has Seen--Praying for
an Enemy--Women's Rights--Romantic Fashions--Worship of the Shark--Desire
for Dress--Full Dress--Not Paris Style--Playing Empire--Officials and
Foreign Ambassadors--Overwhelming Magnificence

CHAPTER LXVIII.
A Royal Funeral--Order of Procession--Pomp and Ceremony--A Striking
Contrast--A Sick Monarch--Human Sacrifices at His Death--Burial Orgies

CHAPTER LXIX.
"Once more upon the Waters."--A Noisy Passenger--Several Silent Ones--A
Moonlight Scene--Fruits and Plantations

CHAPTER LXX.
A Droll Character--Mrs. Beazely and Her Son--Meditations on Turnips--A
Letter from Horace Greeley--An Indignant Rejoinder--The Letter Translated
but too Late

CHAPTER LXXI.
Kealakekua Bay--Death of Captain Cook--His Monument--Its Construction--On
Board the Schooner

CHAPTER LXXII.
Young Kanakas in New England--A Temple Built by Ghosts--Female Bathers--I
Stood Guard--Women and Whiskey--A Fight for Religion--Arrival of
Missionaries

CHAPTER LXXIII.
Native Canoes--Surf Bathing--A Sanctuary--How Built--The Queen's Rock--
Curiosities--Petrified Lava

CHAPTER LXXIV.
Visit to the Volcano--The Crater--Pillar of Fire--Magnificent Spectacle--
A Lake of Fire

CHAPTER LXXV.
The North Lake--Fountains of Fire--Streams of Burning Lava--Tidal Waves

CHAPTER LXXVI.
A Reminiscence--Another Horse Story--My Ride with the Retired Milk Horse-
-A Picnicing Excursion--Dead Volcano of Holeakala--Comparison with
Vesuvius--An Inside View

CHAPTER LXXVII.
A Curious Character--A Series of Stories--Sad Fate of a Liar--Evidence of
Insanity

CHAPTER LXXVIII.
Return to San Francisco--Ship Amusements--Preparing for Lecturing--
Valuable Assistance Secured--My First Attempt--The Audience Carried--
"All's Well that Ends Well."

CHAPTER LXXIX.
Highwaymen--A Predicament--A Huge Joke--Farewell to California--At Home
Again--Great Changes.  Moral.



APPENDIX.
A.--Brief Sketch of Mormon History
B.--The Mountain Meadows Massacre
C.--Concerning a Frightful Assassination that was never Consummated






CHAPTER I.

My brother had just been appointed Secretary of Nevada Territory--an
office of such majesty that it concentrated in itself the duties and
dignities of Treasurer, Comptroller, Secretary of State, and Acting
Governor in the Governor's absence.  A salary of eighteen hundred dollars
a year and the title of "Mr. Secretary," gave to the great position an
air of wild and imposing grandeur.  I was young and ignorant, and I
envied my brother.  I coveted his distinction and his financial splendor,
but particularly and especially the long, strange journey he was going to
make, and the curious new world he was going to explore.  He was going to
travel!  I never had been away from home, and that word "travel" had a
seductive charm for me.  Pretty soon he would be hundreds and hundreds of
miles away on the great plains and deserts, and among the mountains of
the Far West, and would see buffaloes and Indians, and prairie dogs, and
antelopes, and have all kinds of adventures, and may be get hanged or
scalped, and have ever such a fine time, and write home and tell us all
about it, and be a hero.  And he would see the gold mines and the silver
mines, and maybe go about of an afternoon when his work was done, and
pick up two or three pailfuls of shining slugs, and nuggets of gold and
silver on the hillside.  And by and by he would become very rich, and
return home by sea, and be able to talk as calmly about San Francisco and
the ocean, and "the isthmus" as if it was nothing of any consequence to
have seen those marvels face to face.  What I suffered in contemplating
his happiness, pen cannot describe.  And so, when he offered me, in cold
blood, the sublime position of private secretary under him, it appeared
to me that the heavens and the earth passed away, and the firmament was
rolled together as a scroll!  I had nothing more to desire.  My
contentment was complete.

At the end of an hour or two I was ready for the journey.  Not much
packing up was necessary, because we were going in the overland stage
from the Missouri frontier to Nevada, and passengers were only allowed a
small quantity of baggage apiece.  There was no Pacific railroad in those
fine times of ten or twelve years ago--not a single rail of it.
I only proposed to stay in Nevada three months--I had no thought of
staying longer than that.  I meant to see all I could that was new and
strange, and then hurry home to business.  I little thought that I would
not see the end of that three-month pleasure excursion for six or seven
uncommonly long years!

I dreamed all night about Indians, deserts, and silver bars, and in due
time, next day, we took shipping at the St. Louis wharf on board a
steamboat bound up the Missouri River.

We were six days going from St. Louis to "St. Jo."--a trip that was so
dull, and sleepy, and eventless that it has left no more impression on my
memory than if its duration had been six minutes instead of that many
days.  No record is left in my mind, now, concerning it, but a confused
jumble of savage-looking snags, which we deliberately walked over with
one wheel or the other; and of reefs which we butted and butted, and then
retired from and climbed over in some softer place; and of sand-bars
which we roosted on occasionally, and rested, and then got out our
crutches and sparred over.

In fact, the boat might almost as well have gone to St. Jo. by land, for
she was walking most of the time, anyhow--climbing over reefs and
clambering over snags patiently and laboriously all day long.  The
captain said she was a "bully" boat, and all she wanted was more "shear"
and a bigger wheel.  I thought she wanted a pair of stilts, but I had the
deep sagacity not to say so.




CHAPTER II.

The first thing we did on that glad evening that landed us at St. Joseph
was to hunt up the stage-office, and pay a hundred and fifty dollars
apiece for tickets per overland coach to Carson City, Nevada.

The next morning, bright and early, we took a hasty breakfast, and
hurried to the starting-place.  Then an inconvenience presented itself
which we had not properly appreciated before, namely, that one cannot
make a heavy traveling trunk stand for twenty-five pounds of baggage--
because it weighs a good deal more.  But that was all we could take--
twenty-five pounds each.  So we had to snatch our trunks open, and make a
selection in a good deal of a hurry.  We put our lawful twenty-five
pounds apiece all in one valise, and shipped the trunks back to St. Louis
again.  It was a sad parting, for now we had no swallow-tail coats and
white kid gloves to wear at Pawnee receptions in the Rocky Mountains, and
no stove-pipe hats nor patent-leather boots, nor anything else necessary
to make life calm and peaceful.  We were reduced to a war-footing.  Each
of us put on a rough, heavy suit of clothing, woolen army shirt and
"stogy" boots included; and into the valise we crowded a few white
shirts, some under-clothing and such things.  My brother, the Secretary,
took along about four pounds of United States statutes and six pounds of
Unabridged Dictionary; for we did not know--poor innocents--that such
things could be bought in San Francisco on one day and received in Carson
City the next.  I was armed to the teeth with a pitiful little Smith &
Wesson's seven-shooter, which carried a ball like a homoeopathic pill,
and it took the whole seven to make a dose for an adult.  But I thought
it was grand.  It appeared to me to be a dangerous weapon.  It only had
one fault--you could not hit anything with it.  One of our "conductors"
practiced awhile on a cow with it, and as long as she stood still and
behaved herself she was safe; but as soon as she went to moving about,
and he got to shooting at other things, she came to grief.  The Secretary
had a small-sized Colt's revolver strapped around him for protection
against the Indians, and to guard against accidents he carried it
uncapped.  Mr. George Bemis was dismally formidable.  George Bemis was
our fellow-traveler.

We had never seen him before.  He wore in his belt an old original
"Allen" revolver, such as irreverent people called a "pepper-box." Simply
drawing the trigger back, cocked and fired the pistol.  As the trigger
came back, the hammer would begin to rise and the barrel to turn over,
and presently down would drop the hammer, and away would speed the ball.
To aim along the turning barrel and hit the thing aimed at was a feat
which was probably never done with an "Allen" in the world.  But George's
was a reliable weapon, nevertheless, because, as one of the stage-drivers
afterward said, "If she didn't get what she went after, she would fetch
something else." And so she did.  She went after a deuce of spades nailed
against a tree, once, and fetched a mule standing about thirty yards to
the left of it.  Bemis did not want the mule; but the owner came out with
a double-barreled shotgun and persuaded him to buy it, anyhow.  It was a
cheerful weapon--the "Allen." Sometimes all its six barrels would go off
at once, and then there was no safe place in all the region round about,
but behind it.

We took two or three blankets for protection against frosty weather in
the mountains.  In the matter of luxuries we were modest--we took none
along but some pipes and five pounds of smoking tobacco.  We had two
large canteens to carry water in, between stations on the Plains, and we
also took with us a little shot-bag of silver coin for daily expenses in
the way of breakfasts and dinners.

By eight o'clock everything was ready, and we were on the other side of
the river.  We jumped into the stage, the driver cracked his whip, and we
bowled away and left "the States" behind us.  It was a superb summer
morning, and all the landscape was brilliant with sunshine.  There was a
freshness and breeziness, too, and an exhilarating sense of emancipation
from all sorts of cares and responsibilities, that almost made us feel
that the years we had spent in the close, hot city, toiling and slaving,
had been wasted and thrown away.  We were spinning along through Kansas,
and in the course of an hour and a half we were fairly abroad on the
great Plains.  Just here the land was rolling--a grand sweep of regular
elevations and depressions as far as the eye could reach--like the
stately heave and swell of the ocean's bosom after a storm.  And
everywhere were cornfields, accenting with squares of deeper green, this
limitless expanse of grassy land.  But presently this sea upon dry ground
was to lose its "rolling" character and stretch away for seven hundred
miles as level as a floor!

Our coach was a great swinging and swaying stage, of the most sumptuous
description--an imposing cradle on wheels.  It was drawn by six handsome
horses, and by the side of the driver sat the "conductor," the legitimate
captain of the craft; for it was his business to take charge and care of
the mails, baggage, express matter, and passengers.  We three were the
only passengers, this trip.  We sat on the back seat, inside.  About all
the rest of the coach was full of mail bags--for we had three days'
delayed mails with us.  Almost touching our knees, a perpendicular wall
of mail matter rose up to the roof.  There was a great pile of it
strapped on top of the stage, and both the fore and hind boots were full.
We had twenty-seven hundred pounds of it aboard, the driver said--"a
little for Brigham, and Carson, and 'Frisco, but the heft of it for the
Injuns, which is powerful troublesome 'thout they get plenty of truck to
read." But as he just then got up a fearful convulsion of his countenance
which was suggestive of a wink being swallowed by an earthquake, we
guessed that his remark was intended to be facetious, and to mean that we
would unload the most of our mail matter somewhere on the Plains and
leave it to the Indians, or whosoever wanted it.

We changed horses every ten miles, all day long, and fairly flew over the
hard, level road.  We jumped out and stretched our legs every time the
coach stopped, and so the night found us still vivacious and unfatigued.

After supper a woman got in, who lived about fifty miles further on, and
we three had to take turns at sitting outside with the driver and
conductor.  Apparently she was not a talkative woman.  She would sit
there in the gathering twilight and fasten her steadfast eyes on a
mosquito rooting into her arm, and slowly she would raise her other hand
till she had got his range, and then she would launch a slap at him that
would have jolted a cow; and after that she would sit and contemplate the
corpse with tranquil satisfaction--for she never missed her mosquito; she
was a dead shot at short range.  She never removed a carcase, but left
them there for bait.  I sat by this grim Sphynx and watched her kill
thirty or forty mosquitoes--watched her, and waited for her to say
something, but she never did.  So I finally opened the conversation
myself.  I said:

"The mosquitoes are pretty bad, about here, madam."

"You bet!"

"What did I understand you to say, madam?"

"You BET!"

Then she cheered up, and faced around and said:

"Danged if I didn't begin to think you fellers was deef and dumb.  I did,
b'gosh.  Here I've sot, and sot, and sot, a-bust'n muskeeters and
wonderin' what was ailin' ye.  Fust I thot you was deef and dumb, then I
thot you was sick or crazy, or suthin', and then by and by I begin to
reckon you was a passel of sickly fools that couldn't think of nothing to
say.  Wher'd ye come from?"

The Sphynx was a Sphynx no more!  The fountains of her great deep were
broken up, and she rained the nine parts of speech forty days and forty
nights, metaphorically speaking, and buried us under a desolating deluge
of trivial gossip that left not a crag or pinnacle of rejoinder
projecting above the tossing waste of dislocated grammar and decomposed
pronunciation!

How we suffered, suffered, suffered!  She went on, hour after hour, till
I was sorry I ever opened the mosquito question and gave her a start.
She never did stop again until she got to her journey's end toward
daylight; and then she stirred us up as she was leaving the stage (for we
were nodding, by that time), and said:

"Now you git out at Cottonwood, you fellers, and lay over a couple o'
days, and I'll be along some time to-night, and if I can do ye any good
by edgin' in a word now and then, I'm right thar.  Folks'll tell you't
I've always ben kind o' offish and partic'lar for a gal that's raised in
the woods, and I am, with the rag-tag and bob-tail, and a gal has to be,
if she wants to be anything, but when people comes along which is my
equals, I reckon I'm a pretty sociable heifer after all."

We resolved not to "lay by at Cottonwood."




CHAPTER III.

About an hour and a half before daylight we were bowling along smoothly
over the road--so smoothly that our cradle only rocked in a gentle,
lulling way, that was gradually soothing us to sleep, and dulling our
consciousness--when something gave away under us!  We were dimly aware of
it, but indifferent to it.  The coach stopped.  We heard the driver and
conductor talking together outside, and rummaging for a lantern, and
swearing because they could not find it--but we had no interest in
whatever had happened, and it only added to our comfort to think of those
people out there at work in the murky night, and we snug in our nest with
the curtains drawn.  But presently, by the sounds, there seemed to be an
examination going on, and then the driver's voice said:

"By George, the thoroughbrace is broke!"

This startled me broad awake--as an undefined sense of calamity is always
apt to do.  I said to myself: "Now, a thoroughbrace is probably part of a
horse; and doubtless a vital part, too, from the dismay in the driver's
voice.  Leg, maybe--and yet how could he break his leg waltzing along
such a road as this?  No, it can't be his leg.  That is impossible,
unless he was reaching for the driver.  Now, what can be the
thoroughbrace of a horse, I wonder?  Well, whatever comes, I shall not
air my ignorance in this crowd, anyway."

Just then the conductor's face appeared at a lifted curtain, and his
lantern glared in on us and our wall of mail matter.  He said:
"Gents, you'll have to turn out a spell.  Thoroughbrace is broke."

We climbed out into a chill drizzle, and felt ever so homeless and
dreary.  When I found that the thing they called a "thoroughbrace" was
the massive combination of belts and springs which the coach rocks itself
in, I said to the driver:

"I never saw a thoroughbrace used up like that, before, that I can
remember.  How did it happen?"

"Why, it happened by trying to make one coach carry three days' mail--
that's how it happened," said he.  "And right here is the very direction
which is wrote on all the newspaper-bags which was to be put out for the
Injuns for to keep 'em quiet.  It's most uncommon lucky, becuz it's so
nation dark I should 'a' gone by unbeknowns if that air thoroughbrace
hadn't broke."

I knew that he was in labor with another of those winks of his, though I
could not see his face, because he was bent down at work; and wishing him
a safe delivery, I turned to and helped the rest get out the mail-sacks.
It made a great pyramid by the roadside when it was all out.  When they
had mended the thoroughbrace we filled the two boots again, but put no
mail on top, and only half as much inside as there was before.  The
conductor bent all the seat-backs down, and then filled the coach just
half full of mail-bags from end to end.  We objected loudly to this, for
it left us no seats.  But the conductor was wiser than we, and said a bed
was better than seats, and moreover, this plan would protect his
thoroughbraces.  We never wanted any seats after that.  The lazy bed was
infinitely preferable.  I had many an exciting day, subsequently, lying
on it reading the statutes and the dictionary, and wondering how the
characters would turn out.

The conductor said he would send back a guard from the next station to
take charge of the abandoned mail-bags, and we drove on.

It was now just dawn; and as we stretched our cramped legs full length on
the mail sacks, and gazed out through the windows across the wide wastes
of greensward clad in cool, powdery mist, to where there was an expectant
look in the eastern horizon, our perfect enjoyment took the form of a
tranquil and contented ecstasy.  The stage whirled along at a spanking
gait, the breeze flapping curtains and suspended coats in a most
exhilarating way; the cradle swayed and swung luxuriously, the pattering
of the horses' hoofs, the cracking of the driver's whip, and his "Hi-yi!
g'lang!" were music; the spinning ground and the waltzing trees appeared
to give us a mute hurrah as we went by, and then slack up and look after
us with interest, or envy, or something; and as we lay and smoked the
pipe of peace and compared all this luxury with the years of tiresome
city life that had gone before it, we felt that there was only one
complete and satisfying happiness in the world, and we had found it.

After breakfast, at some station whose name I have forgotten, we three
climbed up on the seat behind the driver, and let the conductor have our
bed for a nap.  And by and by, when the sun made me drowsy, I lay down on
my face on top of the coach, grasping the slender iron railing, and slept
for an hour or more.  That will give one an appreciable idea of those
matchless roads.  Instinct will make a sleeping man grip a fast hold of
the railing when the stage jolts, but when it only swings and sways, no
grip is necessary.  Overland drivers and conductors used to sit in their
places and sleep thirty or forty minutes at a time, on good roads, while
spinning along at the rate of eight or ten miles an hour.  I saw them do
it, often.  There was no danger about it; a sleeping man will seize the
irons in time when the coach jolts.  These men were hard worked, and it
was not possible for them to stay awake all the time.

By and by we passed through Marysville, and over the Big Blue and Little
Sandy; thence about a mile, and entered Nebraska.  About a mile further
on, we came to the Big Sandy--one hundred and eighty miles from St.
Joseph.

As the sun was going down, we saw the first specimen of an animal known
familiarly over two thousand miles of mountain and desert--from Kansas
clear to the Pacific Ocean--as the "jackass rabbit." He is well named.
He is just like any other rabbit, except that he is from one third to
twice as large, has longer legs in proportion to his size, and has the
most preposterous ears that ever were mounted on any creature but a
jackass.

When he is sitting quiet, thinking about his sins, or is absent-minded or
unapprehensive of danger, his majestic ears project above him
conspicuously; but the breaking of a twig will scare him nearly to death,
and then he tilts his ears back gently and starts for home.  All you can
see, then, for the next minute, is his long gray form stretched out
straight and "streaking it" through the low sage-brush, head erect, eyes
right, and ears just canted a little to the rear, but showing you where
the animal is, all the time, the same as if he carried a jib.  Now and
then he makes a marvelous spring with his long legs, high over the
stunted sage-brush, and scores a leap that would make a horse envious.
Presently he comes down to a long, graceful "lope," and shortly he
mysteriously disappears.  He has crouched behind a sage-bush, and will
sit there and listen and tremble until you get within six feet of him,
when he will get under way again.  But one must shoot at this creature
once, if he wishes to see him throw his heart into his heels, and do the
best he knows how.  He is frightened clear through, now, and he lays his
long ears down on his back, straightens himself out like a yard-stick
every spring he makes, and scatters miles behind him with an easy
indifference that is enchanting.

Our party made this specimen "hump himself," as the conductor said.  The
secretary started him with a shot from the Colt; I commenced spitting at
him with my weapon; and all in the same instant the old "Allen's" whole
broadside let go with a rattling crash, and it is not putting it too
strong to say that the rabbit was frantic!  He dropped his ears, set up
his tail, and left for San Francisco at a speed which can only be
described as a flash and a vanish!  Long after he was out of sight we
could hear him whiz.

I do not remember where we first came across "sage-brush," but as I have
been speaking of it I may as well describe it.

This is easily done, for if the reader can imagine a gnarled and
venerable live oak-tree reduced to a little shrub two feet-high, with its
rough bark, its foliage, its twisted boughs, all complete, he can picture
the "sage-brush" exactly.  Often, on lazy afternoons in the mountains, I
have lain on the ground with my face under a sage-bush, and entertained
myself with fancying that the gnats among its foliage were liliputian
birds, and that the ants marching and countermarching about its base were
liliputian flocks and herds, and myself some vast loafer from Brobdignag
waiting to catch a little citizen and eat him.

It is an imposing monarch of the forest in exquisite miniature, is the
"sage-brush."  Its foliage is a grayish green, and gives that tint to
desert and mountain.  It smells like our domestic sage, and "sage-tea"
made from it taste like the sage-tea which all boys are so well
acquainted with.  The sage-brush is a singularly hardy plant, and grows
right in the midst of deep sand, and among barren rocks, where nothing
else in the vegetable world would try to grow, except "bunch-grass."
--["Bunch-grass" grows on the bleak mountain-sides of Nevada and
neighboring territories, and offers excellent feed for stock, even in the
dead of winter, wherever the snow is blown aside and exposes it;
notwithstanding its unpromising home, bunch-grass is a better and more
nutritious diet for cattle and horses than almost any other hay or grass
that is known--so stock-men say.]--The sage-bushes grow from three to
six or seven feet apart, all over the mountains and deserts of the Far
West, clear to the borders of California.  There is not a tree of any
kind in the deserts, for hundreds of miles--there is no vegetation at all
in a regular desert, except the sage-brush and its cousin the
"greasewood," which is so much like the sage-brush that the difference
amounts to little.  Camp-fires and hot suppers in the deserts would be
impossible but for the friendly sage-brush.  Its trunk is as large as a
boy's wrist (and from that up to a man's arm), and its crooked branches
are half as large as its trunk--all good, sound, hard wood, very like
oak.

When a party camps, the first thing to be done is to cut sage-brush; and
in a few minutes there is an opulent pile of it ready for use.  A hole a
foot wide, two feet deep, and two feet long, is dug, and sage-brush
chopped up and burned in it till it is full to the brim with glowing
coals.  Then the cooking begins, and there is no smoke, and consequently
no swearing.  Such a fire will keep all night, with very little
replenishing; and it makes a very sociable camp-fire, and one around
which the most impossible reminiscences sound plausible, instructive, and
profoundly entertaining.

Sage-brush is very fair fuel, but as a vegetable it is a distinguished
failure.  Nothing can abide the taste of it but the jackass and his
illegitimate child the mule.  But their testimony to its nutritiousness
is worth nothing, for they will eat pine knots, or anthracite coal, or
brass filings, or lead pipe, or old bottles, or anything that comes
handy, and then go off looking as grateful as if they had had oysters for
dinner.  Mules and donkeys and camels have appetites that anything will
relieve temporarily, but nothing satisfy.

In Syria, once, at the head-waters of the Jordan, a camel took charge of
my overcoat while the tents were being pitched, and examined it with a
critical eye, all over, with as much interest as if he had an idea of
getting one made like it; and then, after he was done figuring on it as
an article of apparel, he began to contemplate it as an article of diet.
He put his foot on it, and lifted one of the sleeves out with his teeth,
and chewed and chewed at it, gradually taking it in, and all the while
opening and closing his eyes in a kind of religious ecstasy, as if he had
never tasted anything as good as an overcoat before, in his life.  Then
he smacked his lips once or twice, and reached after the other sleeve.
Next he tried the velvet collar, and smiled a smile of such contentment
that it was plain to see that he regarded that as the daintiest thing
about an overcoat.  The tails went next, along with some percussion caps
and cough candy, and some fig-paste from Constantinople.  And then my
newspaper correspondence dropped out, and he took a chance in that--
manuscript letters written for the home papers.  But he was treading on
dangerous ground, now.  He began to come across solid wisdom in those
documents that was rather weighty on his stomach; and occasionally he
would take a joke that would shake him up till it loosened his teeth; it
was getting to be perilous times with him, but he held his grip with good
courage and hopefully, till at last he began to stumble on statements
that not even a camel could swallow with impunity.  He began to gag and
gasp, and his eyes to stand out, and his forelegs to spread, and in about
a quarter of a minute he fell over as stiff as a carpenter's work-bench,
and died a death of indescribable agony.  I went and pulled the
manuscript out of his mouth, and found that the sensitive creature had
choked to death on one of the mildest and gentlest statements of fact
that I ever laid before a trusting public.

I was about to say, when diverted from my subject, that occasionally one
finds sage-bushes five or six feet high, and with a spread of branch and
foliage in proportion, but two or two and a half feet is the usual
height.




CHAPTER IV.

As the sun went down and the evening chill came on, we made preparation
for bed.  We stirred up the hard leather letter-sacks, and the knotty
canvas bags of printed matter (knotty and uneven because of projecting
ends and corners of magazines, boxes and books).  We stirred them up and
redisposed them in such a way as to make our bed as level as possible.
And we did improve it, too, though after all our work it had an upheaved
and billowy look about it, like a little piece of a stormy sea.  Next we
hunted up our boots from odd nooks among the mail-bags where they had
settled, and put them on.  Then we got down our coats, vests, pantaloons
and heavy woolen shirts, from the arm-loops where they had been swinging
all day, and clothed ourselves in them--for, there being no ladies either
at the stations or in the coach, and the weather being hot, we had looked
to our comfort by stripping to our underclothing, at nine o'clock in the
morning.  All things being now ready, we stowed the uneasy Dictionary
where it would lie as quiet as possible, and placed the water-canteens
and pistols where we could find them in the dark.  Then we smoked a final
pipe, and swapped a final yarn; after which, we put the pipes, tobacco
and bag of coin in snug holes and caves among the mail-bags, and then
fastened down the coach curtains all around, and made the place as "dark
as the inside of a cow," as the conductor phrased it in his picturesque
way.  It was certainly as dark as any place could be--nothing was even
dimly visible in it.  And finally, we rolled ourselves up like silk-
worms, each person in his own blanket, and sank peacefully to sleep.

Whenever the stage stopped to change horses, we would wake up, and try to
recollect where we were--and succeed--and in a minute or two the stage
would be off again, and we likewise.  We began to get into country, now,
threaded here and there with little streams.  These had high, steep banks
on each side, and every time we flew down one bank and scrambled up the
other, our party inside got mixed somewhat.  First we would all be down
in a pile at the forward end of the stage, nearly in a sitting posture,
and in a second we would shoot to the other end, and stand on our heads.
And we would sprawl and kick, too, and ward off ends and corners of mail-
bags that came lumbering over us and about us; and as the dust rose from
the tumult, we would all sneeze in chorus, and the majority of us would
grumble, and probably say some hasty thing, like: "Take your elbow out of
my ribs!--can't you quit crowding?"

Every time we avalanched from one end of the stage to the other, the
Unabridged Dictionary would come too; and every time it came it damaged
somebody.  One trip it "barked" the Secretary's elbow; the next trip it
hurt me in the stomach, and the third it tilted Bemis's nose up till he
could look down his nostrils--he said.  The pistols and coin soon settled
to the bottom, but the pipes, pipe-stems, tobacco and canteens clattered
and floundered after the Dictionary every time it made an assault on us,
and aided and abetted the book by spilling tobacco in our eyes, and water
down our backs.

Still, all things considered, it was a very comfortable night.  It wore
gradually away, and when at last a cold gray light was visible through
the puckers and chinks in the curtains, we yawned and stretched with
satisfaction, shed our cocoons, and felt that we had slept as much as was
necessary.  By and by, as the sun rose up and warmed the world, we pulled
off our clothes and got ready for breakfast.  We were just pleasantly in
time, for five minutes afterward the driver sent the weird music of his
bugle winding over the grassy solitudes, and presently we detected a low
hut or two in the distance.  Then the rattling of the coach, the clatter
of our six horses' hoofs, and the driver's crisp commands, awoke to a
louder and stronger emphasis, and we went sweeping down on the station at
our smartest speed.  It was fascinating--that old overland stagecoaching.

We jumped out in undress uniform.  The driver tossed his gathered reins
out on the ground, gaped and stretched complacently, drew off his heavy
buckskin gloves with great deliberation and insufferable dignity--taking
not the slightest notice of a dozen solicitous inquires after his health,
and humbly facetious and flattering accostings, and obsequious tenders of
service, from five or six hairy and half-civilized station-keepers and
hostlers who were nimbly unhitching our steeds and bringing the fresh
team out of the stables--for in the eyes of the stage-driver of that day,
station-keepers and hostlers were a sort of good enough low creatures,
useful in their place, and helping to make up a world, but not the kind
of beings which a person of distinction could afford to concern himself
with; while, on the contrary, in the eyes of the station-keeper and the
hostler, the stage-driver was a hero--a great and shining dignitary, the
world's favorite son, the envy of the people, the observed of the
nations.  When they spoke to him they received his insolent silence
meekly, and as being the natural and proper conduct of so great a man;
when he opened his lips they all hung on his words with admiration (he
never honored a particular individual with a remark, but addressed it
with a broad generality to the horses, the stables, the surrounding
country and the human underlings); when he discharged a facetious
insulting personality at a hostler, that hostler was happy for the day;
when he uttered his one jest--old as the hills, coarse, profane, witless,
and inflicted on the same audience, in the same language, every time his
coach drove up there--the varlets roared, and slapped their thighs, and
swore it was the best thing they'd ever heard in all their lives.  And
how they would fly around when he wanted a basin of water, a gourd of the
same, or a light for his pipe!--but they would instantly insult a
passenger if he so far forgot himself as to crave a favor at their hands.
They could do that sort of insolence as well as the driver they copied it
from--for, let it be borne in mind, the overland driver had but little
less contempt for his passengers than he had for his hostlers.

The hostlers and station-keepers treated the really powerful conductor of
the coach merely with the best of what was their idea of civility, but
the driver was the only being they bowed down to and worshipped.  How
admiringly they would gaze up at him in his high seat as he gloved
himself with lingering deliberation, while some happy hostler held the
bunch of reins aloft, and waited patiently for him to take it!  And how
they would bombard him with glorifying ejaculations as he cracked his
long whip and went careering away.

The station buildings were long, low huts, made of sundried, mud-colored
bricks, laid up without mortar (adobes, the Spaniards call these bricks,
and Americans shorten it to 'dobies).  The roofs, which had no slant to
them worth speaking of, were thatched and then sodded or covered with a
thick layer of earth, and from this sprung a pretty rank growth of weeds
and grass.  It was the first time we had ever seen a man's front yard on
top of his house.  The building consisted of barns, stable-room for
twelve or fifteen horses, and a hut for an eating-room for passengers.
This latter had bunks in it for the station-keeper and a hostler or two.
You could rest your elbow on its eaves, and you had to bend in order to
get in at the door.  In place of a window there was a square hole about
large enough for a man to crawl through, but this had no glass in it.
There was no flooring, but the ground was packed hard.  There was no
stove, but the fire-place served all needful purposes.  There were no
shelves, no cupboards, no closets.  In a corner stood an open sack of
flour, and nestling against its base were a couple of black and venerable
tin coffee-pots, a tin teapot, a little bag of salt, and a side of bacon.


By the door of the station-keeper's den, outside, was a tin wash-basin,
on the ground.  Near it was a pail of water and a piece of yellow bar
soap, and from the eaves hung a hoary blue woolen shirt, significantly--
but this latter was the station-keeper's private towel, and only two
persons in all the party might venture to use it--the stage-driver and
the conductor.  The latter would not, from a sense of decency; the former
would not, because did not choose to encourage the advances of a station-
keeper.  We had towels--in the valise; they might as well have been in
Sodom and Gomorrah.  We (and the conductor) used our handkerchiefs, and
the driver his pantaloons and sleeves.  By the door, inside, was fastened
a small old-fashioned looking-glass frame, with two little fragments of
the original mirror lodged down in one corner of it.  This arrangement
afforded a pleasant double-barreled portrait of you when you looked into
it, with one half of your head set up a couple of inches above the other
half.  From the glass frame hung the half of a comb by a string--but if I
had to describe that patriarch or die, I believe I would order some
sample coffins.

It had come down from Esau and Samson, and had been accumulating hair
ever since--along with certain impurities.  In one corner of the room
stood three or four rifles and muskets, together with horns and pouches
of ammunition.  The station-men wore pantaloons of coarse, country-woven
stuff, and into the seat and the inside of the legs were sewed ample
additions of buckskin, to do duty in place of leggings, when the man rode
horseback--so the pants were half dull blue and half yellow, and
unspeakably picturesque.  The pants were stuffed into the tops of high
boots, the heels whereof were armed with great Spanish spurs, whose
little iron clogs and chains jingled with every step.  The man wore a
huge beard and mustachios, an old slouch hat, a blue woolen shirt, no
suspenders, no vest, no coat--in a leathern sheath in his belt, a great
long "navy" revolver (slung on right side, hammer to the front), and
projecting from his boot a horn-handled bowie-knife.  The furniture of
the hut was neither gorgeous nor much in the way.  The rocking-chairs and
sofas were not present, and never had been, but they were represented by
two three-legged stools, a pine-board bench four feet long, and two empty
candle-boxes.  The table was a greasy board on stilts, and the table-
cloth and napkins had not come--and they were not looking for them,
either.  A battered tin platter, a knife and fork, and a tin pint cup,
were at each man's place, and the driver had a queens-ware saucer that
had seen better days.  Of course this duke sat at the head of the table.
There was one isolated piece of table furniture that bore about it a
touching air of grandeur in misfortune.  This was the caster.  It was
German silver, and crippled and rusty, but it was so preposterously out
of place there that it was suggestive of a tattered exiled king among
barbarians, and the majesty of its native position compelled respect even
in its degradation.

There was only one cruet left, and that was a stopperless, fly-specked,
broken-necked thing, with two inches of vinegar in it, and a dozen
preserved flies with their heels up and looking sorry they had invested
there.

The station-keeper upended a disk of last week's bread, of the shape and
size of an old-time cheese, and carved some slabs from it which were as
good as Nicholson pavement, and tenderer.

He sliced off a piece of bacon for each man, but only the experienced old
hands made out to eat it, for it was condemned army bacon which the
United States would not feed to its soldiers in the forts, and the stage
company had bought it cheap for the sustenance of their passengers and
employees.  We may have found this condemned army bacon further out on
the plains than the section I am locating it in, but we found it--there
is no gainsaying that.

Then he poured for us a beverage which he called "Slum gullion," and it
is hard to think he was not inspired when he named it.  It really
pretended to be tea, but there was too much dish-rag, and sand, and old
bacon-rind in it to deceive the intelligent traveler.

He had no sugar and no milk--not even a spoon to stir the ingredients
with.

We could not eat the bread or the meat, nor drink the "slumgullion." And
when I looked at that melancholy vinegar-cruet, I thought of the anecdote
(a very, very old one, even at that day) of the traveler who sat down to
a table which had nothing on it but a mackerel and a pot of mustard.  He
asked the landlord if this was all.  The landlord said:

"All!  Why, thunder and lightning, I should think there was mackerel
enough there for six."

"But I don't like mackerel."

"Oh--then help yourself to the mustard."

In other days I had considered it a good, a very good, anecdote, but
there was a dismal plausibility about it, here, that took all the humor
out of it.

Our breakfast was before us, but our teeth were idle.

I tasted and smelt, and said I would take coffee, I believed.  The
station-boss stopped dead still, and glared at me speechless.  At last,
when he came to, he turned away and said, as one who communes with
himself upon a matter too vast to grasp:

"Coffee!  Well, if that don't go clean ahead of me, I'm d---d!"

We could not eat, and there was no conversation among the hostlers and
herdsmen--we all sat at the same board.  At least there was no
conversation further than a single hurried request, now and then, from
one employee to another.  It was always in the same form, and always
gruffly friendly.  Its western freshness and novelty startled me, at
first, and interested me; but it presently grew monotonous, and lost its
charm.  It was:

"Pass the bread, you son of a skunk!"  No, I forget--skunk was not the
word; it seems to me it was still stronger than that; I know it was, in
fact, but it is gone from my memory, apparently.  However, it is no
matter--probably it was too strong for print, anyway.  It is the landmark
in my memory which tells me where I first encountered the vigorous new
vernacular of the occidental plains and mountains.

We gave up the breakfast, and paid our dollar apiece and went back to our
mail-bag bed in the coach, and found comfort in our pipes.  Right here we
suffered the first diminution of our princely state.  We left our six
fine horses and took six mules in their place.  But they were wild
Mexican fellows, and a man had to stand at the head of each of them and
hold him fast while the driver gloved and got himself ready.  And when at
last he grasped the reins and gave the word, the men sprung suddenly away
from the mules' heads and the coach shot from the station as if it had
issued from a cannon.  How the frantic animals did scamper!  It was a
fierce and furious gallop--and the gait never altered for a moment till
we reeled off ten or twelve miles and swept up to the next collection of
little station-huts and stables.

So we flew along all day.  At 2 P.M.  the belt of timber that fringes the
North Platte and marks its windings through the vast level floor of the
Plains came in sight.  At 4 P.M.  we crossed a branch of the river, and
at 5 P.M.  we crossed the Platte itself, and landed at Fort Kearney,
fifty-six hours out from St. Joe--THREE HUNDRED MILES!

Now that was stage-coaching on the great overland, ten or twelve years
ago, when perhaps not more than ten men in America, all told, expected to
live to see a railroad follow that route to the Pacific.  But the
railroad is there, now, and it pictures a thousand odd comparisons and
contrasts in my mind to read the following sketch, in the New York Times,
of a recent trip over almost the very ground I have been describing.  I
can scarcely comprehend the new state of things:

     "ACROSS THE CONTINENT.

     "At 4.20 P.M., Sunday, we rolled out of the station at Omaha, and
     started westward on our long jaunt.  A couple of hours out, dinner
     was announced--an "event" to those of us who had yet to experience
     what it is to eat in one of Pullman's hotels on wheels; so, stepping
     into the car next forward of our sleeping palace, we found ourselves
     in the dining-car.  It was a revelation to us, that first dinner on
     Sunday.  And though we continued to dine for four days, and had as
     many breakfasts and suppers, our whole party never ceased to admire
     the perfection of the arrangements, and the marvelous results
     achieved.  Upon tables covered with snowy linen, and garnished with
     services of solid silver, Ethiop waiters, flitting about in spotless
     white, placed as by magic a repast at which Delmonico himself could
     have had no occasion to blush; and, indeed, in some respects it
     would be hard for that distinguished chef to match our menu; for, in
     addition to all that ordinarily makes up a first-chop dinner, had we
     not our antelope steak (the gormand who has not experienced this--
     bah! what does he know of the feast of fat things?) our delicious
     mountain-brook trout, and choice fruits and berries, and (sauce
     piquant and unpurchasable!) our sweet-scented, appetite-compelling
     air of the prairies?

     "You may depend upon it, we all did justice to the good things, and
     as we washed them down with bumpers of sparkling Krug, whilst we
     sped along at the rate of thirty miles an hour, agreed it was the
     fastest living we had ever experienced.  (We beat that, however, two
     days afterward when we made twenty-seven miles in twenty-seven
     minutes, while our Champagne glasses filled to the brim spilled not
     a drop!) After dinner we repaired to our drawing-room car, and, as
     it was Sabbath eve, intoned some of the grand old hymns--"Praise God
     from whom," etc.; "Shining Shore," "Coronation," etc.--the voices of
     the men singers and of the women singers blending sweetly in the
     evening air, while our train, with its great, glaring Polyphemus
     eye, lighting up long vistas of prairie, rushed into the night and
     the Wild.  Then to bed in luxurious couches, where we slept the
     sleep of the just and only awoke the next morning (Monday) at eight
     o'clock, to find ourselves at the crossing of the North Platte,
     three hundred miles from Omaha--fifteen hours and forty minutes
     out."




CHAPTER V.

Another night of alternate tranquillity and turmoil.  But morning came,
by and by.  It was another glad awakening to fresh breezes, vast expanses
of level greensward, bright sunlight, an impressive solitude utterly
without visible human beings or human habitations, and an atmosphere of
such amazing magnifying properties that trees that seemed close at hand
were more than three mile away.  We resumed undress uniform, climbed
a-top of the flying coach, dangled our legs over the side, shouted
occasionally at our frantic mules, merely to see them lay their ears back
and scamper faster, tied our hats on to keep our hair from blowing away,
and leveled an outlook over the world-wide carpet about us for things new
and strange to gaze at.  Even at this day it thrills me through and
through to think of the life, the gladness and the wild sense of freedom
that used to make the blood dance in my veins on those fine overland
mornings!

Along about an hour after breakfast we saw the first prairie-dog
villages, the first antelope, and the first wolf.  If I remember rightly,
this latter was the regular cayote (pronounced ky-o-te) of the farther
deserts.  And if it was, he was not a pretty creature or respectable
either, for I got well acquainted with his race afterward, and can speak
with confidence.  The cayote is a long, slim, sick and sorry-looking
skeleton, with a gray wolf-skin stretched over it, a tolerably bushy tail
that forever sags down with a despairing expression of forsakenness and
misery, a furtive and evil eye, and a long, sharp face, with slightly
lifted lip and exposed teeth.  He has a general slinking expression all
over.  The cayote is a living, breathing allegory of Want.  He is always
hungry.

He is always poor, out of luck and friendless.  The meanest creatures
despise him, and even the fleas would desert him for a velocipede.  He is
so spiritless and cowardly that even while his exposed teeth are
pretending a threat, the rest of his face is apologizing for it.  And he
is so homely!--so scrawny, and ribby, and coarse-haired, and pitiful.
When he sees you he lifts his lip and lets a flash of his teeth out, and
then turns a little out of the course he was pursuing, depresses his head
a bit, and strikes a long, soft-footed trot through the sage-brush,
glancing over his shoulder at you, from time to time, till he is about
out of easy pistol range, and then he stops and takes a deliberate survey
of you; he will trot fifty yards and stop again--another fifty and stop
again; and finally the gray of his gliding body blends with the gray of
the sage-brush, and he disappears.  All this is when you make no
demonstration against him; but if you do, he develops a livelier interest
in his journey, and instantly electrifies his heels and puts such a deal
of real estate between himself and your weapon, that by the time you have
raised the hammer you see that you need a minie rifle, and by the time
you have got him in line you need a rifled cannon, and by the time you
have "drawn a bead" on him you see well enough that nothing but an
unusually long-winded streak of lightning could reach him where he is
now.  But if you start a swift-footed dog after him, you will enjoy it
ever so much--especially if it is a dog that has a good opinion of
himself, and has been brought up to think he knows something about speed.

The cayote will go swinging gently off on that deceitful trot of his, and
every little while he will smile a fraudful smile over his shoulder that
will fill that dog entirely full of encouragement and worldly ambition,
and make him lay his head still lower to the ground, and stretch his neck
further to the front, and pant more fiercely, and stick his tail out
straighter behind, and move his furious legs with a yet wilder frenzy,
and leave a broader and broader, and higher and denser cloud of desert
sand smoking behind, and marking his long wake across the level plain!
And all this time the dog is only a short twenty feet behind the cayote,
and to save the soul of him he cannot understand why it is that he cannot
get perceptibly closer; and he begins to get aggravated, and it makes him
madder and madder to see how gently the cayote glides along and never
pants or sweats or ceases to smile; and he grows still more and more
incensed to see how shamefully he has been taken in by an entire
stranger, and what an ignoble swindle that long, calm, soft-footed trot
is; and next he notices that he is getting fagged, and that the cayote
actually has to slacken speed a little to keep from running away from
him--and then that town-dog is mad in earnest, and he begins to strain
and weep and swear, and paw the sand higher than ever, and reach for the
cayote with concentrated and desperate energy.  This "spurt" finds him
six feet behind the gliding enemy, and two miles from his friends.  And
then, in the instant that a wild new hope is lighting up his face, the
cayote turns and smiles blandly upon him once more, and with a something
about it which seems to say: "Well, I shall have to tear myself away from
you, bub--business is business, and it will not do for me to be fooling
along this way all day"--and forthwith there is a rushing sound, and the
sudden splitting of a long crack through the atmosphere, and behold that
dog is solitary and alone in the midst of a vast solitude!

It makes his head swim.  He stops, and looks all around; climbs the
nearest sand-mound, and gazes into the distance; shakes his head
reflectively, and then, without a word, he turns and jogs along back to
his train, and takes up a humble position under the hindmost wagon, and
feels unspeakably mean, and looks ashamed, and hangs his tail at half-
mast for a week.  And for as much as a year after that, whenever there is
a great hue and cry after a cayote, that dog will merely glance in that
direction without emotion, and apparently observe to himself, "I believe
I do not wish any of the pie."

The cayote lives chiefly in the most desolate and forbidding desert,
along with the lizard, the jackass-rabbit and the raven, and gets an
uncertain and precarious living, and earns it.  He seems to subsist
almost wholly on the carcases of oxen, mules and horses that have dropped
out of emigrant trains and died, and upon windfalls of carrion, and
occasional legacies of offal bequeathed to him by white men who have been
opulent enough to have something better to butcher than condemned army
bacon.

He will eat anything in the world that his first cousins, the desert-
frequenting tribes of Indians will, and they will eat anything they can
bite.  It is a curious fact that these latter are the only creatures
known to history who will eat nitro-glycerine and ask for more if they
survive.

The cayote of the deserts beyond the Rocky Mountains has a peculiarly
hard time of it, owing to the fact that his relations, the Indians, are
just as apt to be the first to detect a seductive scent on the desert
breeze, and follow the fragrance to the late ox it emanated from, as he
is himself; and when this occurs he has to content himself with sitting
off at a little distance watching those people strip off and dig out
everything edible, and walk off with it.  Then he and the waiting ravens
explore the skeleton and polish the bones.  It is considered that the
cayote, and the obscene bird, and the Indian of the desert, testify their
blood kinship with each other in that they live together in the waste
places of the earth on terms of perfect confidence and friendship, while
hating all other creature and yearning to assist at their funerals.  He
does not mind going a hundred miles to breakfast, and a hundred and fifty
to dinner, because he is sure to have three or four days between meals,
and he can just as well be traveling and looking at the scenery as lying
around doing nothing and adding to the burdens of his parents.

We soon learned to recognize the sharp, vicious bark of the cayote as it
came across the murky plain at night to disturb our dreams among the
mail-sacks; and remembering his forlorn aspect and his hard fortune, made
shift to wish him the blessed novelty of a long day's good luck and a
limitless larder the morrow.




CHAPTER VI.

Our new conductor (just shipped) had been without sleep for twenty hours.
Such a thing was very frequent.  From St. Joseph, Missouri, to
Sacramento, California, by stage-coach, was nearly nineteen hundred
miles, and the trip was often made in fifteen days (the cars do it in
four and a half, now), but the time specified in the mail contracts, and
required by the schedule, was eighteen or nineteen days, if I remember
rightly.  This was to make fair allowance for winter storms and snows,
and other unavoidable causes of detention.  The stage company had
everything under strict discipline and good system.  Over each two
hundred and fifty miles of road they placed an agent or superintendent,
and invested him with great authority.  His beat or jurisdiction of two
hundred and fifty miles was called a "division." He purchased horses,
mules harness, and food for men and beasts, and distributed these things
among his stage stations, from time to time, according to his judgment of
what each station needed.  He erected station buildings and dug wells.
He attended to the paying of the station-keepers, hostlers, drivers and
blacksmiths, and discharged them whenever he chose.  He was a very, very
great man in his "division"--a kind of Grand Mogul, a Sultan of the
Indies, in whose presence common men were modest of speech and manner,
and in the glare of whose greatness even the dazzling stage-driver
dwindled to a penny dip.  There were about eight of these kings, all
told, on the overland route.

Next in rank and importance to the division-agent came the "conductor."
His beat was the same length as the agent's--two hundred and fifty miles.
He sat with the driver, and (when necessary) rode that fearful distance,
night and day, without other rest or sleep than what he could get perched
thus on top of the flying vehicle.  Think of it!  He had absolute charge
of the mails, express matter, passengers and stage, coach, until he
delivered them to the next conductor, and got his receipt for them.

Consequently he had to be a man of intelligence, decision and
considerable executive ability.  He was usually a quiet, pleasant man,
who attended closely to his duties, and was a good deal of a gentleman.
It was not absolutely necessary that the division-agent should be a
gentleman, and occasionally he wasn't.  But he was always a general in
administrative ability, and a bull-dog in courage and determination--
otherwise the chieftainship over the lawless underlings of the overland
service would never in any instance have been to him anything but an
equivalent for a month of insolence and distress and a bullet and a
coffin at the end of it.  There were about sixteen or eighteen conductors
on the overland, for there was a daily stage each way, and a conductor on
every stage.

Next in real and official rank and importance, after the conductor, came
my delight, the driver--next in real but not in apparent importance--for
we have seen that in the eyes of the common herd the driver was to the
conductor as an admiral is to the captain of the flag-ship.  The driver's
beat was pretty long, and his sleeping-time at the stations pretty short,
sometimes; and so, but for the grandeur of his position his would have
been a sorry life, as well as a hard and a wearing one.  We took a new
driver every day or every night (for they drove backward and forward over
the same piece of road all the time), and therefore we never got as well
acquainted with them as we did with the conductors; and besides, they
would have been above being familiar with such rubbish as passengers,
anyhow, as a general thing.  Still, we were always eager to get a sight
of each and every new driver as soon as the watch changed, for each and
every day we were either anxious to get rid of an unpleasant one, or
loath to part with a driver we had learned to like and had come to be
sociable and friendly with.  And so the first question we asked the
conductor whenever we got to where we were to exchange drivers, was
always, "Which is him?"  The grammar was faulty, maybe, but we could not
know, then, that it would go into a book some day.  As long as everything
went smoothly, the overland driver was well enough situated, but if a
fellow driver got sick suddenly it made trouble, for the coach must go
on, and so the potentate who was about to climb down and take a luxurious
rest after his long night's siege in the midst of wind and rain and
darkness, had to stay where he was and do the sick man's work.  Once, in
the Rocky Mountains, when I found a driver sound asleep on the box, and
the mules going at the usual break-neck pace, the conductor said never
mind him, there was no danger, and he was doing double duty--had driven
seventy-five miles on one coach, and was now going back over it on this
without rest or sleep.  A hundred and fifty miles of holding back of six
vindictive mules and keeping them from climbing the trees!  It sounds
incredible, but I remember the statement well enough.

The station-keepers, hostlers, etc., were low, rough characters, as
already described; and from western Nebraska to Nevada a considerable
sprinkling of them might be fairly set down as outlaws--fugitives from
justice, criminals whose best security was a section of country which was
without law and without even the pretence of it.  When the "division-
agent" issued an order to one of these parties he did it with the full
understanding that he might have to enforce it with a navy six-shooter,
and so he always went "fixed" to make things go along smoothly.

Now and then a division-agent was really obliged to shoot a hostler
through the head to teach him some simple matter that he could have
taught him with a club if his circumstances and surroundings had been
different.  But they were snappy, able men, those division-agents, and
when they tried to teach a subordinate anything, that subordinate
generally "got it through his head."

A great portion of this vast machinery--these hundreds of men and
coaches, and thousands of mules and horses--was in the hands of Mr. Ben
Holliday.  All the western half of the business was in his hands.  This
reminds me of an incident of Palestine travel which is pertinent here, so
I will transfer it just in the language in which I find it set down in my
Holy Land note-book:

      No doubt everybody has heard of Ben Holliday--a man of prodigious
      energy, who used to send mails and passengers flying across the
      continent in his overland stage-coaches like a very whirlwind--two
      thousand long miles in fifteen days and a half, by the watch!  But
      this fragment of history is not about Ben Holliday, but about a
      young New York boy by the name of Jack, who traveled with our small
      party of pilgrims in the Holy Land (and who had traveled to
      California in Mr. Holliday's overland coaches three years before,
      and had by no means forgotten it or lost his gushing admiration of
      Mr. H.) Aged nineteen.  Jack was a good boy--a good-hearted and
      always well-meaning boy, who had been reared in the city of New
      York, and although he was bright and knew a great many useful
      things, his Scriptural education had been a good deal neglected--to
      such a degree, indeed, that all Holy Land history was fresh and new
      to him, and all Bible names mysteries that had never disturbed his
      virgin ear.

      Also in our party was an elderly pilgrim who was the reverse of
      Jack, in that he was learned in the Scriptures and an enthusiast
      concerning them.  He was our encyclopedia, and we were never tired
      of listening to his speeches, nor he of making them.  He never
      passed a celebrated locality, from Bashan to Bethlehem, without
      illuminating it with an oration.  One day, when camped near the
      ruins of Jericho, he burst forth with something like this:

      "Jack, do you see that range of mountains over yonder that bounds
      the Jordan valley?  The mountains of Moab, Jack!  Think of it, my
      boy--the actual mountains of Moab--renowned in Scripture history!
      We are actually standing face to face with those illustrious crags
      and peaks--and for all we know" [dropping his voice impressively],
      "our eyes may be resting at this very moment upon the spot WHERE
      LIES THE MYSTERIOUS GRAVE OF MOSES!  Think of it, Jack!"

      "Moses who?"  (falling inflection).

      "Moses who!  Jack, you ought to be ashamed of yourself--you ought to
      be ashamed of such criminal ignorance.  Why, Moses, the great guide,
      soldier, poet, lawgiver of ancient Israel!  Jack, from this spot
      where we stand, to Egypt, stretches a fearful desert three hundred
      miles in extent--and across that desert that wonderful man brought
      the children of Israel!--guiding them with unfailing sagacity for
      forty years over the sandy desolation and among the obstructing
      rocks and hills, and landed them at last, safe and sound, within
      sight of this very spot; and where we now stand they entered the
      Promised Land with anthems of rejoicing!  It was a wonderful,
      wonderful thing to do, Jack!  Think of it!"

      "Forty years?  Only three hundred miles?  Humph!  Ben Holliday would
      have fetched them through in thirty-six hours!"

The boy meant no harm.  He did not know that he had said anything that
was wrong or irreverent.  And so no one scolded him or felt offended with
him--and nobody could but some ungenerous spirit incapable of excusing
the heedless blunders of a boy.

At noon on the fifth day out, we arrived at the "Crossing of the South
Platte," alias "Julesburg," alias "Overland City," four hundred and
seventy miles from St. Joseph--the strangest, quaintest, funniest
frontier town that our untraveled eyes had ever stared at and been
astonished with.




CHAPTER VII.

It did seem strange enough to see a town again after what appeared to us
such a long acquaintance with deep, still, almost lifeless and houseless
solitude!  We tumbled out into the busy street feeling like meteoric
people crumbled off the corner of some other world, and wakened up
suddenly in this.  For an hour we took as much interest in Overland City
as if we had never seen a town before.  The reason we had an hour to
spare was because we had to change our stage (for a less sumptuous
affair, called a "mud-wagon") and transfer our freight of mails.

Presently we got under way again.  We came to the shallow, yellow, muddy
South Platte, with its low banks and its scattering flat sand-bars and
pigmy islands--a melancholy stream straggling through the centre of the
enormous flat plain, and only saved from being impossible to find with
the naked eye by its sentinel rank of scattering trees standing on either
bank.  The Platte was "up," they said--which made me wish I could see it
when it was down, if it could look any sicker and sorrier.  They said it
was a dangerous stream to cross, now, because its quicksands were liable
to swallow up horses, coach and passengers if an attempt was made to ford
it.  But the mails had to go, and we made the attempt.  Once or twice in
midstream the wheels sunk into the yielding sands so threateningly that
we half believed we had dreaded and avoided the sea all our lives to be
shipwrecked in a "mud-wagon" in the middle of a desert at last.  But we
dragged through and sped away toward the setting sun.

Next morning, just before dawn, when about five hundred and fifty miles
from St. Joseph, our mud-wagon broke down.  We were to be delayed five or
six hours, and therefore we took horses, by invitation, and joined a
party who were just starting on a buffalo hunt.  It was noble sport
galloping over the plain in the dewy freshness of the morning, but our
part of the hunt ended in disaster and disgrace, for a wounded buffalo
bull chased the passenger Bemis nearly two miles, and then he forsook his
horse and took to a lone tree.  He was very sullen about the matter for
some twenty-four hours, but at last he began to soften little by little,
and finally he said:

"Well, it was not funny, and there was no sense in those gawks making
themselves so facetious over it.  I tell you I was angry in earnest for
awhile.  I should have shot that long gangly lubber they called Hank, if
I could have done it without crippling six or seven other people--but of
course I couldn't, the old 'Allen's' so confounded comprehensive.  I wish
those loafers had been up in the tree; they wouldn't have wanted to laugh
so.  If I had had a horse worth a cent--but no, the minute he saw that
buffalo bull wheel on him and give a bellow, he raised straight up in the
air and stood on his heels.  The saddle began to slip, and I took him
round the neck and laid close to him, and began to pray.  Then he came
down and stood up on the other end awhile, and the bull actually stopped
pawing sand and bellowing to contemplate the inhuman spectacle.

"Then the bull made a pass at him and uttered a bellow that sounded
perfectly frightful, it was so close to me, and that seemed to literally
prostrate my horse's reason, and make a raving distracted maniac of him,
and I wish I may die if he didn't stand on his head for a quarter of a
minute and shed tears.  He was absolutely out of his mind--he was, as
sure as truth itself, and he really didn't know what he was doing.  Then
the bull came charging at us, and my horse dropped down on all fours and
took a fresh start--and then for the next ten minutes he would actually
throw one hand-spring after another so fast that the bull began to get
unsettled, too, and didn't know where to start in--and so he stood there
sneezing, and shovelling dust over his back, and bellowing every now and
then, and thinking he had got a fifteen-hundred dollar circus horse for
breakfast, certain.  Well, I was first out on his neck--the horse's, not
the bull's--and then underneath, and next on his rump, and sometimes head
up, and sometimes heels--but I tell you it seemed solemn and awful to be
ripping and tearing and carrying on so in the presence of death, as you
might say.  Pretty soon the bull made a snatch for us and brought away
some of my horse's tail (I suppose, but do not know, being pretty busy at
the time), but something made him hungry for solitude and suggested to
him to get up and hunt for it.

"And then you ought to have seen that spider legged old skeleton go! and
you ought to have seen the bull cut out after him, too--head down, tongue
out, tail up, bellowing like everything, and actually mowing down the
weeds, and tearing up the earth, and boosting up the sand like a
whirlwind!  By George, it was a hot race!  I and the saddle were back on
the rump, and I had the bridle in my teeth and holding on to the pommel
with both hands.  First we left the dogs behind; then we passed a jackass
rabbit; then we overtook a cayote, and were gaining on an antelope when
the rotten girth let go and threw me about thirty yards off to the left,
and as the saddle went down over the horse's rump he gave it a lift with
his heels that sent it more than four hundred yards up in the air, I wish
I may die in a minute if he didn't.  I fell at the foot of the only
solitary tree there was in nine counties adjacent (as any creature could
see with the naked eye), and the next second I had hold of the bark with
four sets of nails and my teeth, and the next second after that I was
astraddle of the main limb and blaspheming my luck in a way that made my
breath smell of brimstone.  I had the bull, now, if he did not think of
one thing.  But that one thing I dreaded.  I dreaded it very seriously.
There was a possibility that the bull might not think of it, but there
were greater chances that he would.  I made up my mind what I would do in
case he did.  It was a little over forty feet to the ground from where I
sat.  I cautiously unwound the lariat from the pommel of my saddle----"

"Your saddle?  Did you take your saddle up in the tree with you?"

"Take it up in the tree with me?  Why, how you talk.  Of course I didn't.
No man could do that.  It fell in the tree when it came down."

"Oh--exactly."

"Certainly.  I unwound the lariat, and fastened one end of it to the
limb.  It was the very best green raw-hide, and capable of sustaining
tons.  I made a slip-noose in the other end, and then hung it down to see
the length.  It reached down twenty-two feet--half way to the ground.
I then loaded every barrel of the Allen with a double charge.  I felt
satisfied.  I said to myself, if he never thinks of that one thing that I
dread, all right--but if he does, all right anyhow--I am fixed for him.
But don't you know that the very thing a man dreads is the thing that
always happens?  Indeed it is so.  I watched the bull, now, with anxiety
--anxiety which no one can conceive of who has not been in such a
situation and felt that at any moment death might come.  Presently a
thought came into the bull's eye.  I knew it! said I--if my nerve fails
now, I am lost.  Sure enough, it was just as I had dreaded, he started in
to climb the tree----"

"What, the bull?"

"Of course--who else?"

"But a bull can't climb a tree."

"He can't, can't he?  Since you know so much about it, did you ever see a
bull try?"

"No!  I never dreamt of such a thing."

"Well, then, what is the use of your talking that way, then?  Because you
never saw a thing done, is that any reason why it can't be done?"

"Well, all right--go on.  What did you do?"

"The bull started up, and got along well for about ten feet, then slipped
and slid back.  I breathed easier.  He tried it again--got up a little
higher--slipped again.  But he came at it once more, and this time he was
careful.  He got gradually higher and higher, and my spirits went down
more and more.  Up he came--an inch at a time--with his eyes hot, and his
tongue hanging out.  Higher and higher--hitched his foot over the stump
of a limb, and looked up, as much as to say, 'You are my meat, friend.'
Up again--higher and higher, and getting more excited the closer he got.
He was within ten feet of me!  I took a long breath,--and then said I,
'It is now or never.'  I had the coil of the lariat all ready; I paid it
out slowly, till it hung right over his head; all of a sudden I let go of
the slack, and the slipnoose fell fairly round his neck!  Quicker than
lightning I out with the Allen and let him have it in the face.  It was
an awful roar, and must have scared the bull out of his senses.  When the
smoke cleared away, there he was, dangling in the air, twenty foot from
the ground, and going out of one convulsion into another faster than you
could count!  I didn't stop to count, anyhow--I shinned down the tree and
shot for home."

"Bemis, is all that true, just as you have stated it?"

"I wish I may rot in my tracks and die the death of a dog if it isn't."

"Well, we can't refuse to believe it, and we don't.  But if there were
some proofs----"

"Proofs!  Did I bring back my lariat?"

"No."

"Did I bring back my horse?"

"No."

"Did you ever see the bull again?"

"No."

"Well, then, what more do you want?  I never saw anybody as particular as
you are about a little thing like that."

I made up my mind that if this man was not a liar he only missed it by
the skin of his teeth.  This episode reminds me of an incident of my
brief sojourn in Siam, years afterward.  The European citizens of a town
in the neighborhood of Bangkok had a prodigy among them by the name of
Eckert, an Englishman--a person famous for the number, ingenuity and
imposing magnitude of his lies.  They were always repeating his most
celebrated falsehoods, and always trying to "draw him out" before
strangers; but they seldom succeeded.  Twice he was invited to the house
where I was visiting, but nothing could seduce him into a specimen lie.
One day a planter named Bascom, an influential man, and a proud and
sometimes irascible one, invited me to ride over with him and call on
Eckert.  As we jogged along, said he:

"Now, do you know where the fault lies?  It lies in putting Eckert on his
guard.  The minute the boys go to pumping at Eckert he knows perfectly
well what they are after, and of course he shuts up his shell.  Anybody
might know he would.  But when we get there, we must play him finer than
that.  Let him shape the conversation to suit himself--let him drop it or
change it whenever he wants to.  Let him see that nobody is trying to
draw him out.  Just let him have his own way.  He will soon forget
himself and begin to grind out lies like a mill.  Don't get impatient--
just keep quiet, and let me play him.  I will make him lie.  It does seem
to me that the boys must be blind to overlook such an obvious and simple
trick as that."

Eckert received us heartily--a pleasant-spoken, gentle-mannered creature.
We sat in the veranda an hour, sipping English ale, and talking about the
king, and the sacred white elephant, the Sleeping Idol, and all manner of
things; and I noticed that my comrade never led the conversation himself
or shaped it, but simply followed Eckert's lead, and betrayed no
solicitude and no anxiety about anything.  The effect was shortly
perceptible.  Eckert began to grow communicative; he grew more and more
at his ease, and more and more talkative and sociable.  Another hour
passed in the same way, and then all of a sudden Eckert said:

"Oh, by the way!  I came near forgetting.  I have got a thing here to
astonish you.  Such a thing as neither you nor any other man ever heard
of--I've got a cat that will eat cocoanut!  Common green cocoanut--and
not only eat the meat, but drink the milk.  It is so--I'll swear to it."

A quick glance from Bascom--a glance that I understood--then:

"Why, bless my soul, I never heard of such a thing.  Man, it is
impossible."

"I knew you would say it.  I'll fetch the cat."

He went in the house.  Bascom said:

"There--what did I tell you?  Now, that is the way to handle Eckert.  You
see, I have petted him along patiently, and put his suspicions to sleep.
I am glad we came.  You tell the boys about it when you go back.  Cat eat
a cocoanut--oh, my!  Now, that is just his way, exactly--he will tell the
absurdest lie, and trust to luck to get out of it again.

"Cat eat a cocoanut--the innocent fool!"

Eckert approached with his cat, sure enough.

Bascom smiled.  Said he:

"I'll hold the cat--you bring a cocoanut."

Eckert split one open, and chopped up some pieces.  Bascom smuggled a
wink to me, and proffered a slice of the fruit to puss.  She snatched it,
swallowed it ravenously, and asked for more!

We rode our two miles in silence, and wide apart.  At least I was silent,
though Bascom cuffed his horse and cursed him a good deal,
notwithstanding the horse was behaving well enough.  When I branched off
homeward, Bascom said:

"Keep the horse till morning.  And--you need not speak of this--
foolishness to the boys."




CHAPTER VIII.

In a little while all interest was taken up in stretching our necks and
watching for the "pony-rider"--the fleet messenger who sped across the
continent from St. Joe to Sacramento, carrying letters nineteen hundred
miles in eight days!  Think of that for perishable horse and human flesh
and blood to do!  The pony-rider was usually a little bit of a man,
brimful of spirit and endurance.  No matter what time of the day or night
his watch came on, and no matter whether it was winter or summer,
raining, snowing, hailing, or sleeting, or whether his "beat" was a level
straight road or a crazy trail over mountain crags and precipices, or
whether it led through peaceful regions or regions that swarmed with
hostile Indians, he must be always ready to leap into the saddle and be
off like the wind!  There was no idling-time for a pony-rider on duty.
He rode fifty miles without stopping, by daylight, moonlight, starlight,
or through the blackness of darkness--just as it happened.  He rode a
splendid horse that was born for a racer and fed and lodged like a
gentleman; kept him at his utmost speed for ten miles, and then, as he
came crashing up to the station where stood two men holding fast a fresh,
impatient steed, the transfer of rider and mail-bag was made in the
twinkling of an eye, and away flew the eager pair and were out of sight
before the spectator could get hardly the ghost of a look.  Both rider
and horse went "flying light." The rider's dress was thin, and fitted
close; he wore a "round-about," and a skull-cap, and tucked his
pantaloons into his boot-tops like a race-rider.  He carried no arms--he
carried nothing that was not absolutely necessary, for even the postage
on his literary freight was worth five dollars a letter.

He got but little frivolous correspondence to carry--his bag had business
letters in it, mostly.  His horse was stripped of all unnecessary weight,
too.  He wore a little wafer of a racing-saddle, and no visible blanket.
He wore light shoes, or none at all.  The little flat mail-pockets
strapped under the rider's thighs would each hold about the bulk of a
child's primer.  They held many and many an important business chapter
and newspaper letter, but these were written on paper as airy and thin as
gold-leaf, nearly, and thus bulk and weight were economized.  The stage-
coach traveled about a hundred to a hundred and twenty-five miles a day
(twenty-four hours), the pony-rider about two hundred and fifty.  There
were about eighty pony-riders in the saddle all the time, night and day,
stretching in a long, scattering procession from Missouri to California,
forty flying eastward, and forty toward the west, and among them making
four hundred gallant horses earn a stirring livelihood and see a deal of
scenery every single day in the year.

We had had a consuming desire, from the beginning, to see a pony-rider,
but somehow or other all that passed us and all that met us managed to
streak by in the night, and so we heard only a whiz and a hail, and the
swift phantom of the desert was gone before we could get our heads out of
the windows.  But now we were expecting one along every moment, and would
see him in broad daylight.  Presently the driver exclaims:

"HERE HE COMES!"

Every neck is stretched further, and every eye strained wider.  Away
across the endless dead level of the prairie a black speck appears
against the sky, and it is plain that it moves.  Well, I should think so!

In a second or two it becomes a horse and rider, rising and falling,
rising and falling--sweeping toward us nearer and nearer--growing more
and more distinct, more and more sharply defined--nearer and still
nearer, and the flutter of the hoofs comes faintly to the ear--another
instant a whoop and a hurrah from our upper deck, a wave of the rider's
hand, but no reply, and man and horse burst past our excited faces, and
go winging away like a belated fragment of a storm!

So sudden is it all, and so like a flash of unreal fancy, that but for
the flake of white foam left quivering and perishing on a mail-sack after
the vision had flashed by and disappeared, we might have doubted whether
we had seen any actual horse and man at all, maybe.

We rattled through Scott's Bluffs Pass, by and by.  It was along here
somewhere that we first came across genuine and unmistakable alkali water
in the road, and we cordially hailed it as a first-class curiosity, and a
thing to be mentioned with eclat in letters to the ignorant at home.
This water gave the road a soapy appearance, and in many places the
ground looked as if it had been whitewashed.  I think the strange alkali
water excited us as much as any wonder we had come upon yet, and I know
we felt very complacent and conceited, and better satisfied with life
after we had added it to our list of things which we had seen and some
other people had not.  In a small way we were the same sort of simpletons
as those who climb unnecessarily the perilous peaks of Mont Blanc and the
Matterhorn, and derive no pleasure from it except the reflection that it
isn't a common experience.  But once in a while one of those parties
trips and comes darting down the long mountain-crags in a sitting
posture, making the crusted snow smoke behind him, flitting from bench to
bench, and from terrace to terrace, jarring the earth where he strikes,
and still glancing and flitting on again, sticking an iceberg into
himself every now and then, and tearing his clothes, snatching at things
to save himself, taking hold of trees and fetching them along with him,
roots and all, starting little rocks now and then, then big boulders,
then acres of ice and snow and patches of forest, gathering and still
gathering as he goes, adding and still adding to his massed and sweeping
grandeur as he nears a three thousand-foot precipice, till at last he
waves his hat magnificently and rides into eternity on the back of a
raging and tossing avalanche!

This is all very fine, but let us not be carried away by excitement, but
ask calmly, how does this person feel about it in his cooler moments next
day, with six or seven thousand feet of snow and stuff on top of him?

We crossed the sand hills near the scene of the Indian mail robbery and
massacre of 1856, wherein the driver and conductor perished, and also all
the passengers but one, it was supposed; but this must have been a
mistake, for at different times afterward on the Pacific coast I was
personally acquainted with a hundred and thirty-three or four people who
were wounded during that massacre, and barely escaped with their lives.
There was no doubt of the truth of it--I had it from their own lips.  One
of these parties told me that he kept coming across arrow-heads in his
system for nearly seven years after the massacre; and another of them
told me that he was struck so literally full of arrows that after the
Indians were gone and he could raise up and examine himself, he could not
restrain his tears, for his clothes were completely ruined.

The most trustworthy tradition avers, however, that only one man, a
person named Babbitt, survived the massacre, and he was desperately
wounded.  He dragged himself on his hands and knee (for one leg was
broken) to a station several miles away.  He did it during portions of
two nights, lying concealed one day and part of another, and for more
than forty hours suffering unimaginable anguish from hunger, thirst and
bodily pain.  The Indians robbed the coach of everything it contained,
including quite an amount of treasure.




CHAPTER IX.

We passed Fort Laramie in the night, and on the seventh morning out we
found ourselves in the Black Hills, with Laramie Peak at our elbow
(apparently) looming vast and solitary--a deep, dark, rich indigo blue in
hue, so portentously did the old colossus frown under his beetling brows
of storm-cloud.  He was thirty or forty miles away, in reality, but he
only seemed removed a little beyond the low ridge at our right.  We
breakfasted at Horse-Shoe Station, six hundred and seventy-six miles out
from St. Joseph.  We had now reached a hostile Indian country, and during
the afternoon we passed Laparelle Station, and enjoyed great discomfort
all the time we were in the neighborhood, being aware that many of the
trees we dashed by at arm's length concealed a lurking Indian or two.
During the preceding night an ambushed savage had sent a bullet through
the pony-rider's jacket, but he had ridden on, just the same, because
pony-riders were not allowed to stop and inquire into such things except
when killed.  As long as they had life enough left in them they had to
stick to the horse and ride, even if the Indians had been waiting for
them a week, and were entirely out of patience.  About two hours and a
half before we arrived at Laparelle Station, the keeper in charge of it
had fired four times at an Indian, but he said with an injured air that
the Indian had "skipped around so's to spile everything--and ammunition's
blamed skurse, too." The most natural inference conveyed by his manner of
speaking was, that in "skipping around," the Indian had taken an unfair
advantage.

The coach we were in had a neat hole through its front--a reminiscence of
its last trip through this region.  The bullet that made it wounded the
driver slightly, but he did not mind it much.  He said the place to keep
a man "huffy" was down on the Southern Overland, among the Apaches,
before the company moved the stage line up on the northern route.  He
said the Apaches used to annoy him all the time down there, and that he
came as near as anything to starving to death in the midst of abundance,
because they kept him so leaky with bullet holes that he "couldn't hold
his vittles."

This person's statement were not generally believed.

We shut the blinds down very tightly that first night in the hostile
Indian country, and lay on our arms.  We slept on them some, but most of
the time we only lay on them.  We did not talk much, but kept quiet and
listened.  It was an inky-black night, and occasionally rainy.  We were
among woods and rocks, hills and gorges--so shut in, in fact, that when
we peeped through a chink in a curtain, we could discern nothing.  The
driver and conductor on top were still, too, or only spoke at long
intervals, in low tones, as is the way of men in the midst of invisible
dangers.  We listened to rain-drops pattering on the roof; and the
grinding of the wheels through the muddy gravel; and the low wailing of
the wind; and all the time we had that absurd sense upon us, inseparable
from travel at night in a close-curtained vehicle, the sense of remaining
perfectly still in one place, notwithstanding the jolting and swaying of
the vehicle, the trampling of the horses, and the grinding of the wheels.
We listened a long time, with intent faculties and bated breath; every
time one of us would relax, and draw a long sigh of relief and start to
say something, a comrade would be sure to utter a sudden "Hark!" and
instantly the experimenter was rigid and listening again.  So the
tiresome minutes and decades of minutes dragged away, until at last our
tense forms filmed over with a dulled consciousness, and we slept, if one
might call such a condition by so strong a name--for it was a sleep set
with a hair-trigger.  It was a sleep seething and teeming with a weird
and distressful confusion of shreds and fag-ends of dreams--a sleep that
was a chaos.  Presently, dreams and sleep and the sullen hush of the
night were startled by a ringing report, and cloven by such a long, wild,
agonizing shriek!  Then we heard--ten steps from the stage--

"Help!  help!  help!" [It was our driver's voice.]

"Kill him!  Kill him like a dog!"

"I'm being murdered!  Will no man lend me a pistol?"

"Look out! head him off! head him off!"

[Two pistol shots; a confusion of voices and the trampling of many feet,
as if a crowd were closing and surging together around some object;
several heavy, dull blows, as with a club; a voice that said appealingly,
"Don't, gentlemen, please don't--I'm a dead man!" Then a fainter groan,
and another blow, and away sped the stage into the darkness, and left the
grisly mystery behind us.]

What a startle it was!  Eight seconds would amply cover the time it
occupied--maybe even five would do it.  We only had time to plunge at a
curtain and unbuckle and unbutton part of it in an awkward and hindering
flurry, when our whip cracked sharply overhead, and we went rumbling and
thundering away, down a mountain "grade."

We fed on that mystery the rest of the night--what was left of it, for it
was waning fast.  It had to remain a present mystery, for all we could
get from the conductor in answer to our hails was something that sounded,
through the clatter of the wheels, like "Tell you in the morning!"

So we lit our pipes and opened the corner of a curtain for a chimney, and
lay there in the dark, listening to each other's story of how he first
felt and how many thousand Indians he first thought had hurled themselves
upon us, and what his remembrance of the subsequent sounds was, and the
order of their occurrence.  And we theorized, too, but there was never a
theory that would account for our driver's voice being out there, nor yet
account for his Indian murderers talking such good English, if they were
Indians.

So we chatted and smoked the rest of the night comfortably away, our
boding anxiety being somehow marvelously dissipated by the real presence
of something to be anxious about.

We never did get much satisfaction about that dark occurrence.  All that
we could make out of the odds and ends of the information we gathered in
the morning, was that the disturbance occurred at a station; that we
changed drivers there, and that the driver that got off there had been
talking roughly about some of the outlaws that infested the region ("for
there wasn't a man around there but had a price on his head and didn't
dare show himself in the settlements," the conductor said); he had talked
roughly about these characters, and ought to have "drove up there with
his pistol cocked and ready on the seat alongside of him, and begun
business himself, because any softy would know they would be laying for
him."

That was all we could gather, and we could see that neither the conductor
nor the new driver were much concerned about the matter.  They plainly
had little respect for a man who would deliver offensive opinions of
people and then be so simple as to come into their presence unprepared to
"back his judgment," as they pleasantly phrased the killing of any
fellow-being who did not like said opinions.  And likewise they plainly
had a contempt for the man's poor discretion in venturing to rouse the
wrath of such utterly reckless wild beasts as those outlaws--and the
conductor added:

"I tell you it's as much as Slade himself want to do!"

This remark created an entire revolution in my curiosity.  I cared
nothing now about the Indians, and even lost interest in the murdered
driver.  There was such magic in that name, SLADE!  Day or night, now, I
stood always ready to drop any subject in hand, to listen to something
new about Slade and his ghastly exploits.  Even before we got to Overland
City, we had begun to hear about Slade and his "division" (for he was a
"division-agent") on the Overland; and from the hour we had left Overland
City we had heard drivers and conductors talk about only three things--
"Californy," the Nevada silver mines, and this desperado Slade.  And a
deal the most of the talk was about Slade.  We had gradually come to have
a realizing sense of the fact that Slade was a man whose heart and hands
and soul were steeped in the blood of offenders against his dignity; a
man who awfully avenged all injuries, affront, insults or slights, of
whatever kind--on the spot if he could, years afterward if lack of
earlier opportunity compelled it; a man whose hate tortured him day and
night till vengeance appeased it--and not an ordinary vengeance either,
but his enemy's absolute death--nothing less; a man whose face would
light up with a terrible joy when he surprised a foe and had him at a
disadvantage.  A high and efficient servant of the Overland, an outlaw
among outlaws and yet their relentless scourge, Slade was at once the
most bloody, the most dangerous and the most valuable citizen that
inhabited the savage fastnesses of the mountains.




CHAPTER X.

Really and truly, two thirds of the talk of drivers and conductors had
been about this man Slade, ever since the day before we reached
Julesburg.  In order that the eastern reader may have a clear conception
of what a Rocky Mountain desperado is, in his highest state of
development, I will reduce all this mass of overland gossip to one
straightforward narrative, and present it in the following shape:

Slade was born in Illinois, of good parentage.  At about twenty-six years
of age he killed a man in a quarrel and fled the country.  At St. Joseph,
Missouri, he joined one of the early California-bound emigrant trains,
and was given the post of train-master.  One day on the plains he had an
angry dispute with one of his wagon-drivers, and both drew their
revolvers.  But the driver was the quicker artist, and had his weapon
cocked first.  So Slade said it was a pity to waste life on so small a
matter, and proposed that the pistols be thrown on the ground and the
quarrel settled by a fist-fight.  The unsuspecting driver agreed, and
threw down his pistol--whereupon Slade laughed at his simplicity, and
shot him dead!

He made his escape, and lived a wild life for awhile, dividing his time
between fighting Indians and avoiding an Illinois sheriff, who had been
sent to arrest him for his first murder.  It is said that in one Indian
battle he killed three savages with his own hand, and afterward cut their
ears off and sent them, with his compliments, to the chief of the tribe.

Slade soon gained a name for fearless resolution, and this was sufficient
merit to procure for him the important post of overland division-agent at
Julesburg, in place of Mr. Jules, removed.  For some time previously, the
company's horses had been frequently stolen, and the coaches delayed, by
gangs of outlaws, who were wont to laugh at the idea of any man's having
the temerity to resent such outrages.  Slade resented them promptly.

The outlaws soon found that the new agent was a man who did not fear
anything that breathed the breath of life.  He made short work of all
offenders.  The result was that delays ceased, the company's property was
let alone, and no matter what happened or who suffered, Slade's coaches
went through, every time!  True, in order to bring about this wholesome
change, Slade had to kill several men--some say three, others say four,
and others six--but the world was the richer for their loss.  The first
prominent difficulty he had was with the ex-agent Jules, who bore the
reputation of being a reckless and desperate man himself.  Jules hated
Slade for supplanting him, and a good fair occasion for a fight was all
he was waiting for.  By and by Slade dared to employ a man whom Jules had
once discharged.  Next, Slade seized a team of stage-horses which he
accused Jules of having driven off and hidden somewhere for his own use.
War was declared, and for a day or two the two men walked warily about
the streets, seeking each other, Jules armed with a double-barreled shot
gun, and Slade with his history-creating revolver.  Finally, as Slade
stepped into a store Jules poured the contents of his gun into him from
behind the door.  Slade was plucky, and Jules got several bad pistol
wounds in return.

Then both men fell, and were carried to their respective lodgings, both
swearing that better aim should do deadlier work next time.  Both were
bedridden a long time, but Jules got to his feet first, and gathering his
possessions together, packed them on a couple of mules, and fled to the
Rocky Mountains to gather strength in safety against the day of
reckoning.  For many months he was not seen or heard of, and was
gradually dropped out of the remembrance of all save Slade himself.  But
Slade was not the man to forget him.  On the contrary, common report said
that Slade kept a reward standing for his capture, dead or alive!

After awhile, seeing that Slade's energetic administration had restored
peace and order to one of the worst divisions of the road, the overland
stage company transferred him to the Rocky Ridge division in the Rocky
Mountains, to see if he could perform a like miracle there.  It was the
very paradise of outlaws and desperadoes.  There was absolutely no
semblance of law there.  Violence was the rule.  Force was the only
recognized authority.  The commonest misunderstandings were settled on
the spot with the revolver or the knife.  Murders were done in open day,
and with sparkling frequency, and nobody thought of inquiring into them.
It was considered that the parties who did the killing had their private
reasons for it; for other people to meddle would have been looked upon as
indelicate.  After a murder, all that Rocky Mountain etiquette required
of a spectator was, that he should help the gentleman bury his game--
otherwise his churlishness would surely be remembered against him the
first time he killed a man himself and needed a neighborly turn in
interring him.

Slade took up his residence sweetly and peacefully in the midst of this
hive of horse-thieves and assassins, and the very first time one of them
aired his insolent swaggerings in his presence he shot him dead!  He
began a raid on the outlaws, and in a singularly short space of time he
had completely stopped their depredations on the stage stock, recovered a
large number of stolen horses, killed several of the worst desperadoes of
the district, and gained such a dread ascendancy over the rest that they
respected him, admired him, feared him, obeyed him!  He wrought the same
marvelous change in the ways of the community that had marked his
administration at Overland City.  He captured two men who had stolen
overland stock, and with his own hands he hanged them.  He was supreme
judge in his district, and he was jury and executioner likewise--and not
only in the case of offences against his employers, but against passing
emigrants as well.  On one occasion some emigrants had their stock lost
or stolen, and told Slade, who chanced to visit their camp.  With a
single companion he rode to a ranch, the owners of which he suspected,
and opening the door, commenced firing, killing three, and wounding the
fourth.

From a bloodthirstily interesting little Montana book.--["The Vigilantes
of Montana," by Prof. Thos. J. Dimsdale.]--I take this paragraph:

      "While on the road, Slade held absolute sway.  He would ride down to
      a station, get into a quarrel, turn the house out of windows, and
      maltreat the occupants most cruelly.  The unfortunates had no means
      of redress, and were compelled to recuperate as best they could."

On one of these occasions, it is said he killed the father of the fine
little half-breed boy Jemmy, whom he adopted, and who lived with his
widow after his execution.  Stories of Slade's hanging men, and of
innumerable assaults, shootings, stabbings and beatings, in which he was
a principal actor, form part of the legends of the stage line.  As for
minor quarrels and shootings, it is absolutely certain that a minute
history of Slade's life would be one long record of such practices.

Slade was a matchless marksman with a navy revolver.  The legends say
that one morning at Rocky Ridge, when he was feeling comfortable, he saw
a man approaching who had offended him some days before--observe the fine
memory he had for matters like that--and, "Gentlemen," said Slade,
drawing, "it is a good twenty-yard shot--I'll clip the third button on
his coat!"  Which he did.  The bystanders all admired it.  And they all
attended the funeral, too.

On one occasion a man who kept a little whisky-shelf at the station did
something which angered Slade--and went and made his will.  A day or two
afterward Slade came in and called for some brandy.  The man reached
under the counter (ostensibly to get a bottle--possibly to get something
else), but Slade smiled upon him that peculiarly bland and satisfied
smile of his which the neighbors had long ago learned to recognize as a
death-warrant in disguise, and told him to "none of that!--pass out the
high-priced article."  So the poor bar-keeper had to turn his back and
get the high-priced brandy from the shelf; and when he faced around again
he was looking into the muzzle of Slade's pistol.  "And the next
instant," added my informant, impressively, "he was one of the deadest
men that ever lived."

The stage-drivers and conductors told us that sometimes Slade would leave
a hated enemy wholly unmolested, unnoticed and unmentioned, for weeks
together--had done it once or twice at any rate.  And some said they
believed he did it in order to lull the victims into unwatchfulness, so
that he could get the advantage of them, and others said they believed he
saved up an enemy that way, just as a schoolboy saves up a cake, and made
the pleasure go as far as it would by gloating over the anticipation.
One of these cases was that of a Frenchman who had offended Slade.
To the surprise of everybody Slade did not kill him on the spot, but let
him alone for a considerable time.  Finally, however, he went to the
Frenchman's house very late one night, knocked, and when his enemy opened
the door, shot him dead--pushed the corpse inside the door with his foot,
set the house on fire and burned up the dead man, his widow and three
children!  I heard this story from several different people, and they
evidently believed what they were saying.  It may be true, and it may
not.  "Give a dog a bad name," etc.

Slade was captured, once, by a party of men who intended to lynch him.
They disarmed him, and shut him up in a strong log-house, and placed a
guard over him.  He prevailed on his captors to send for his wife, so
that he might have a last interview with her.  She was a brave, loving,
spirited woman.  She jumped on a horse and rode for life and death.
When she arrived they let her in without searching her, and before the
door could be closed she whipped out a couple of revolvers, and she and
her lord marched forth defying the party.  And then, under a brisk fire,
they mounted double and galloped away unharmed!

In the fulness of time Slade's myrmidons captured his ancient enemy
Jules, whom they found in a well-chosen hiding-place in the remote
fastnesses of the mountains, gaining a precarious livelihood with his
rifle.  They brought him to Rocky Ridge, bound hand and foot, and
deposited him in the middle of the cattle-yard with his back against a
post.  It is said that the pleasure that lit Slade's face when he heard
of it was something fearful to contemplate.  He examined his enemy to see
that he was securely tied, and then went to bed, content to wait till
morning before enjoying the luxury of killing him.  Jules spent the night
in the cattle-yard, and it is a region where warm nights are never known.
In the morning Slade practised on him with his revolver, nipping the
flesh here and there, and occasionally clipping off a finger, while Jules
begged him to kill him outright and put him out of his misery.  Finally
Slade reloaded, and walking up close to his victim, made some
characteristic remarks and then dispatched him.  The body lay there half
a day, nobody venturing to touch it without orders, and then Slade
detailed a party and assisted at the burial himself.  But he first cut
off the dead man's ears and put them in his vest pocket, where he carried
them for some time with great satisfaction.  That is the story as I have
frequently heard it told and seen it in print in California newspapers.
It is doubtless correct in all essential particulars.

In due time we rattled up to a stage-station, and sat down to breakfast
with a half-savage, half-civilized company of armed and bearded
mountaineers, ranchmen and station employees.  The most gentlemanly-
appearing, quiet and affable officer we had yet found along the road in
the Overland Company's service was the person who sat at the head of the
table, at my elbow.  Never youth stared and shivered as I did when I
heard them call him SLADE!

Here was romance, and I sitting face to face with it!--looking upon it--
touching it--hobnobbing with it, as it were!  Here, right by my side, was
the actual ogre who, in fights and brawls and various ways, had taken the
lives of twenty-six human beings, or all men lied about him!  I suppose I
was the proudest stripling that ever traveled to see strange lands and
wonderful people.

He was so friendly and so gentle-spoken that I warmed to him in spite of
his awful history.  It was hardly possible to realize that this pleasant
person was the pitiless scourge of the outlaws, the raw-head-and-bloody-
bones the nursing mothers of the mountains terrified their children with.
And to this day I can remember nothing remarkable about Slade except that
his face was rather broad across the cheek bones, and that the cheek
bones were low and the lips peculiarly thin and straight.  But that was
enough to leave something of an effect upon me, for since then I seldom
see a face possessing those characteristics without fancying that the
owner of it is a dangerous man.

The coffee ran out.  At least it was reduced to one tin-cupful, and Slade
was about to take it when he saw that my cup was empty.

He politely offered to fill it, but although I wanted it, I politely
declined.  I was afraid he had not killed anybody that morning, and might
be needing diversion.  But still with firm politeness he insisted on
filling my cup, and said I had traveled all night and better deserved it
than he--and while he talked he placidly poured the fluid, to the last
drop.  I thanked him and drank it, but it gave me no comfort, for I could
not feel sure that he would not be sorry, presently, that he had given it
away, and proceed to kill me to distract his thoughts from the loss.
But nothing of the kind occurred.  We left him with only twenty-six dead
people to account for, and I felt a tranquil satisfaction in the thought
that in so judiciously taking care of No. 1 at that breakfast-table I had
pleasantly escaped being No. 27.  Slade came out to the coach and saw us
off, first ordering certain rearrangements of the mail-bags for our
comfort, and then we took leave of him, satisfied that we should hear of
him again, some day, and wondering in what connection.




CHAPTER XI.

And sure enough, two or three years afterward, we did hear him again.
News came to the Pacific coast that the Vigilance Committee in Montana
(whither Slade had removed from Rocky Ridge) had hanged him.  I find an
account of the affair in the thrilling little book I quoted a paragraph
from in the last chapter--"The Vigilantes of Montana; being a Reliable
Account of the Capture, Trial and Execution of Henry Plummer's Notorious
Road Agent Band: By Prof. Thos. J. Dimsdale, Virginia City, M.T."
Mr. Dimsdale's chapter is well worth reading, as a specimen of how the
people of the frontier deal with criminals when the courts of law prove
inefficient.  Mr. Dimsdale makes two remarks about Slade, both of which
are accurately descriptive, and one of which is exceedingly picturesque:
"Those who saw him in his natural state only, would pronounce him to be a
kind husband, a most hospitable host and a courteous gentleman; on the
contrary, those who met him when maddened with liquor and surrounded by a
gang of armed roughs, would pronounce him a fiend incarnate."  And this:
"From Fort Kearney, west, he was feared a great deal more than the
almighty."  For compactness, simplicity and vigor of expression, I will
"back" that sentence against anything in literature.  Mr. Dimsdale's
narrative is as follows.  In all places where italics occur, they are
mine:

      After the execution of the five men on the 14th of January, the
      Vigilantes considered that their work was nearly ended.  They had
      freed the country of highwaymen and murderers to a great extent, and
      they determined that in the absence of the regular civil authority
      they would establish a People's Court where all offenders should be
      tried by judge and jury.  This was the nearest approach to social
      order that the circumstances permitted, and, though strict legal
      authority was wanting, yet the people were firmly determined to
      maintain its efficiency, and to enforce its decrees.  It may here be
      mentioned that the overt act which was the last round on the fatal
      ladder leading to the scaffold on which Slade perished, was the
      tearing in pieces and stamping upon a writ of this court, followed
      by his arrest of the Judge Alex. Davis, by authority of a presented
      Derringer, and with his own hands.

      J. A. Slade was himself, we have been informed, a Vigilante; he
      openly boasted of it, and said he knew all that they knew.  He was
      never accused, or even suspected, of either murder or robbery,
      committed in this Territory (the latter crime was never laid to his
      charge, in any place); but that he had killed several men in other
      localities was notorious, and his bad reputation in this respect was
      a most powerful argument in determining his fate, when he was
      finally arrested for the offence above mentioned.  On returning from
      Milk River he became more and more addicted to drinking, until at
      last it was a common feat for him and his friends to "take the
      town."  He and a couple of his dependents might often be seen on one
      horse, galloping through the streets, shouting and yelling, firing
      revolvers, etc.  On many occasions he would ride his horse into
      stores, break up bars, toss the scales out of doors and use most
      insulting language to parties present.  Just previous to the day of
      his arrest, he had given a fearful beating to one of his followers;
      but such was his influence over them that the man wept bitterly at
      the gallows, and begged for his life with all his power.  It had
      become quite common, when Slade was on a spree, for the shop-keepers
      and citizens to close the stores and put out all the lights; being
      fearful of some outrage at his hands.  For his wanton destruction of
      goods and furniture, he was always ready to pay, when sober, if he
      had money; but there were not a few who regarded payment as small
      satisfaction for the outrage, and these men were his personal
      enemies.

      From time to time Slade received warnings from men that he well knew
      would not deceive him, of the certain end of his conduct.  There was
      not a moment, for weeks previous to his arrest, in which the public
      did not expect to hear of some bloody outrage.  The dread of his
      very name, and the presence of the armed band of hangers-on who
      followed him alone prevented a resistance which must certainly have
      ended in the instant murder or mutilation of the opposing party.

      Slade was frequently arrested by order of the court whose
      organization we have described, and had treated it with respect by
      paying one or two fines and promising to pay the rest when he had
      money; but in the transaction that occurred at this crisis, he
      forgot even this caution, and goaded by passion and the hatred of
      restraint, he sprang into the embrace of death.

      Slade had been drunk and "cutting up" all night.  He and his
      companions had made the town a perfect hell.  In the morning, J. M.
      Fox, the sheriff, met him, arrested him, took him into court and
      commenced reading a warrant that he had for his arrest, by way of
      arraignment.  He became uncontrollably furious, and seizing the
      writ, he tore it up, threw it on the ground and stamped upon it.

      The clicking of the locks of his companions' revolvers was instantly
      heard, and a crisis was expected.  The sheriff did not attempt his
      retention; but being at least as prudent as he was valiant, he
      succumbed, leaving Slade the master of the situation and the
      conqueror and ruler of the courts, law and law-makers.  This was a
      declaration of war, and was so accepted.  The Vigilance Committee
      now felt that the question of social order and the preponderance of
      the law-abiding citizens had then and there to be decided.  They
      knew the character of Slade, and they were well aware that they must
      submit to his rule without murmur, or else that he must be dealt
      with in such fashion as would prevent his being able to wreak his
      vengeance on the committee, who could never have hoped to live in
      the Territory secure from outrage or death, and who could never
      leave it without encountering his friend, whom his victory would
      have emboldened and stimulated to a pitch that would have rendered
      them reckless of consequences.  The day previous he had ridden into
      Dorris's store, and on being requested to leave, he drew his
      revolver and threatened to kill the gentleman who spoke to him.
      Another saloon he had led his horse into, and buying a bottle of
      wine, he tried to make the animal drink it.  This was not considered
      an uncommon performance, as he had often entered saloons and
      commenced firing at the lamps, causing a wild stampede.

      A leading member of the committee met Slade, and informed him in the
      quiet, earnest manner of one who feels the importance of what he is
      saying: "Slade, get your horse at once, and go home, or there will
      be ---- to pay."  Slade started and took a long look, with his dark
      and piercing eyes, at the gentleman.  "What do you mean?"  said he.
      "You have no right to ask me what I mean," was the quiet reply, "get
      your horse at once, and remember what I tell you."  After a short
      pause he promised to do so, and actually got into the saddle; but,
      being still intoxicated, he began calling aloud to one after another
      of his friends, and at last seemed to have forgotten the warning he
      had received and became again uproarious, shouting the name of a
      well-known courtezan in company with those of two men whom he
      considered heads of the committee, as a sort of challenge; perhaps,
      however, as a simple act of bravado.  It seems probable that the
      intimation of personal danger he had received had not been forgotten
      entirely; though fatally for him, he took a foolish way of showing
      his remembrance of it.  He sought out Alexander Davis, the Judge of
      the Court, and drawing a cocked Derringer, he presented it at his
      head, and told him that he should hold him as a hostage for his own
      safety.  As the judge stood perfectly quiet, and offered no
      resistance to his captor, no further outrage followed on this score.
      Previous to this, on account of the critical state of affairs, the
      committee had met, and at last resolved to arrest him.  His
      execution had not been agreed upon, and, at that time, would have
      been negatived, most assuredly.  A messenger rode down to Nevada to
      inform the leading men of what was on hand, as it was desirable to
      show that there was a feeling of unanimity on the subject, all along
      the gulch.

      The miners turned out almost en masse, leaving their work and
      forming in solid column about six hundred strong, armed to the
      teeth, they marched up to Virginia.  The leader of the body well
      knew the temper of his men on the subject.  He spurred on ahead of
      them, and hastily calling a meeting of the executive, he told them
      plainly that the miners meant "business," and that, if they came up,
      they would not stand in the street to be shot down by Slade's
      friends; but that they would take him and hang him.  The meeting was
      small, as the Virginia men were loath to act at all.  This momentous
      announcement of the feeling of the Lower Town was made to a cluster
      of men, who were deliberation behind a wagon, at the rear of a store
      on Main street.

      The committee were most unwilling to proceed to extremities.  All
      the duty they had ever performed seemed as nothing to the task
      before them; but they had to decide, and that quickly.  It was
      finally agreed that if the whole body of the miners were of the
      opinion that he should be hanged, that the committee left it in
      their hands to deal with him.  Off, at hot speed, rode the leader of
      the Nevada men to join his command.

      Slade had found out what was intended, and the news sobered him
      instantly.  He went into P. S. Pfouts' store, where Davis was, and
      apologized for his conduct, saying that he would take it all back.

      The head of the column now wheeled into Wallace street and marched
      up at quick time.  Halting in front of the store, the executive
      officer of the committee stepped forward and arrested Slade, who was
      at once informed of his doom, and inquiry was made as to whether he
      had any business to settle.  Several parties spoke to him on the
      subject; but to all such inquiries he turned a deaf ear, being
      entirely absorbed in the terrifying reflections on his own awful
      position.  He never ceased his entreaties for life, and to see his
      dear wife.  The unfortunate lady referred to, between whom and Slade
      there existed a warm affection, was at this time living at their
      ranch on the Madison.  She was possessed of considerable personal
      attractions; tall, well-formed, of graceful carriage, pleasing
      manners, and was, withal, an accomplished horsewoman.

      A messenger from Slade rode at full speed to inform her of her
      husband's arrest.  In an instant she was in the saddle, and with all
      the energy that love and despair could lend to an ardent temperament
      and a strong physique, she urged her fleet charger over the twelve
      miles of rough and rocky ground that intervened between her and the
      object of her passionate devotion.

      Meanwhile a party of volunteers had made the necessary preparations
      for the execution, in the valley traversed by the branch.  Beneath
      the site of Pfouts and Russell's stone building there was a corral,
      the gate-posts of which were strong and high.  Across the top was
      laid a beam, to which the rope was fastened, and a dry-goods box
      served for the platform.  To this place Slade was marched,
      surrounded by a guard, composing the best armed and most numerous
      force that has ever appeared in Montana Territory.

      The doomed man had so exhausted himself by tears, prayers and
      lamentations, that he had scarcely strength left to stand under the
      fatal beam.  He repeatedly exclaimed, "My God! my God! must I die?
      Oh, my dear wife!"

      On the return of the fatigue party, they encountered some friends of
      Slade, staunch and reliable citizens and members of the committee,
      but who were personally attached to the condemned.  On hearing of
      his sentence, one of them, a stout-hearted man, pulled out his
      handkerchief and walked away, weeping like a child.  Slade still
      begged to see his wife, most piteously, and it seemed hard to deny
      his request; but the bloody consequences that were sure to follow
      the inevitable attempt at a rescue, that her presence and entreaties
      would have certainly incited, forbade the granting of his request.
      Several gentlemen were sent for to see him, in his last moments, one
      of whom (Judge Davis) made a short address to the people; but in
      such low tones as to be inaudible, save to a few in his immediate
      vicinity.  One of his friends, after exhausting his powers of
      entreaty, threw off his coat and declared that the prisoner could
      not be hanged until he himself was killed.  A hundred guns were
      instantly leveled at him; whereupon he turned and fled; but, being
      brought back, he was compelled to resume his coat, and to give a
      promise of future peaceable demeanor.

      Scarcely a leading man in Virginia could be found, though numbers of
      the citizens joined the ranks of the guard when the arrest was made.
      All lamented the stern necessity which dictated the execution.

      Everything being ready, the command was given, "Men, do your duty,"
      and the box being instantly slipped from beneath his feet, he died
      almost instantaneously.

      The body was cut down and carried to the Virginia Hotel, where, in a
      darkened room, it was scarcely laid out, when the unfortunate and
      bereaved companion of the deceased arrived, at headlong speed, to
      find that all was over, and that she was a widow.  Her grief and
      heart-piercing cries were terrible evidences of the depth of her
      attachment for her lost husband, and a considerable period elapsed
      before she could regain the command of her excited feelings.

There is something about the desperado-nature that is wholly
unaccountable--at least it looks unaccountable.  It is this.  The true
desperado is gifted with splendid courage, and yet he will take the most
infamous advantage of his enemy; armed and free, he will stand up before
a host and fight until he is shot all to pieces, and yet when he is under
the gallows and helpless he will cry and plead like a child.  Words are
cheap, and it is easy to call Slade a coward (all executed men who do not
"die game" are promptly called cowards by unreflecting people), and when
we read of Slade that he "had so exhausted himself by tears, prayers and
lamentations, that he had scarcely strength left to stand under the fatal
beam," the disgraceful word suggests itself in a moment--yet in
frequently defying and inviting the vengeance of banded Rocky Mountain
cut-throats by shooting down their comrades and leaders, and never
offering to hide or fly, Slade showed that he was a man of peerless
bravery.  No coward would dare that.  Many a notorious coward, many a
chicken-livered poltroon, coarse, brutal, degraded, has made his dying
speech without a quaver in his voice and been swung into eternity with
what looked liked the calmest fortitude, and so we are justified in
believing, from the low intellect of such a creature, that it was not
moral courage that enabled him to do it.  Then, if moral courage is not
the requisite quality, what could it have been that this stout-hearted
Slade lacked?--this bloody, desperate, kindly-mannered, urbane gentleman,
who never hesitated to warn his most ruffianly enemies that he would kill
them whenever or wherever he came across them next!  I think it is a
conundrum worth investigating.




CHAPTER XII.

Just beyond the breakfast-station we overtook a Mormon emigrant train of
thirty-three wagons; and tramping wearily along and driving their herd of
loose cows, were dozens of coarse-clad and sad-looking men, women and
children, who had walked as they were walking now, day after day for
eight lingering weeks, and in that time had compassed the distance our
stage had come in eight days and three hours--seven hundred and ninety-
eight miles!  They were dusty and uncombed, hatless, bonnetless and
ragged, and they did look so tired!

After breakfast, we bathed in Horse Creek, a (previously) limpid,
sparkling stream--an appreciated luxury, for it was very seldom that our
furious coach halted long enough for an indulgence of that kind.  We
changed horses ten or twelve times in every twenty-four hours--changed
mules, rather--six mules--and did it nearly every time in four minutes.
It was lively work.  As our coach rattled up to each station six
harnessed mules stepped gayly from the stable; and in the twinkling of an
eye, almost, the old team was out, and the new one in and we off and away
again.

During the afternoon we passed Sweetwater Creek, Independence Rock,
Devil's Gate and the Devil's Gap.  The latter were wild specimens of
rugged scenery, and full of interest--we were in the heart of the Rocky
Mountains, now.  And we also passed by "Alkali" or "Soda Lake," and we
woke up to the fact that our journey had stretched a long way across the
world when the driver said that the Mormons often came there from Great
Salt Lake City to haul away saleratus.  He said that a few days gone by
they had shoveled up enough pure saleratus from the ground (it was a dry
lake) to load two wagons, and that when they got these two wagons-loads
of a drug that cost them nothing, to Salt Lake, they could sell it for
twenty-five cents a pound.

In the night we sailed by a most notable curiosity, and one we had been
hearing a good deal about for a day or two, and were suffering to see.
This was what might be called a natural ice-house.  It was August, now,
and sweltering weather in the daytime, yet at one of the stations the men
could scape the soil on the hill-side under the lee of a range of
boulders, and at a depth of six inches cut out pure blocks of ice--hard,
compactly frozen, and clear as crystal!

Toward dawn we got under way again, and presently as we sat with raised
curtains enjoying our early-morning smoke and contemplating the first
splendor of the rising sun as it swept down the long array of mountain
peaks, flushing and gilding crag after crag and summit after summit, as
if the invisible Creator reviewed his gray veterans and they saluted with
a smile, we hove in sight of South Pass City.  The hotel-keeper, the
postmaster, the blacksmith, the mayor, the constable, the city marshal
and the principal citizen and property holder, all came out and greeted
us cheerily, and we gave him good day.  He gave us a little Indian news,
and a little Rocky Mountain news, and we gave him some Plains information
in return.  He then retired to his lonely grandeur and we climbed on up
among the bristling peaks and the ragged clouds.  South Pass City
consisted of four log cabins, one if which was unfinished, and the
gentleman with all those offices and titles was the chiefest of the ten
citizens of the place.  Think of hotel-keeper, postmaster, blacksmith,
mayor, constable, city marshal and principal citizen all condensed into
one person and crammed into one skin.  Bemis said he was "a perfect
Allen's revolver of dignities."  And he said that if he were to die as
postmaster, or as blacksmith, or as postmaster and blacksmith both, the
people might stand it; but if he were to die all over, it would be a
frightful loss to the community.

Two miles beyond South Pass City we saw for the first time that
mysterious marvel which all Western untraveled boys have heard of and
fully believe in, but are sure to be astounded at when they see it with
their own eyes, nevertheless--banks of snow in dead summer time.  We were
now far up toward the sky, and knew all the time that we must presently
encounter lofty summits clad in the "eternal snow" which was so common
place a matter of mention in books, and yet when I did see it glittering
in the sun on stately domes in the distance and knew the month was August
and that my coat was hanging up because it was too warm to wear it, I was
full as much amazed as if I never had heard of snow in August before.
Truly, "seeing is believing"--and many a man lives a long life through,
thinking he believes certain universally received and well established
things, and yet never suspects that if he were confronted by those things
once, he would discover that he did not really believe them before, but
only thought he believed them.

In a little while quite a number of peaks swung into view with long claws
of glittering snow clasping them; and with here and there, in the shade,
down the mountain side, a little solitary patch of snow looking no larger
than a lady's pocket-handkerchief but being in reality as large as a
"public square."

And now, at last, we were fairly in the renowned SOUTH PASS, and whirling
gayly along high above the common world.  We were perched upon the
extreme summit of the great range of the Rocky Mountains, toward which we
had been climbing, patiently climbing, ceaselessly climbing, for days and
nights together--and about us was gathered a convention of Nature's kings
that stood ten, twelve, and even thirteen thousand feet high--grand old
fellows who would have to stoop to see Mount Washington, in the twilight.
We were in such an airy elevation above the creeping populations of the
earth, that now and then when the obstructing crags stood out of the way
it seemed that we could look around and abroad and contemplate the whole
great globe, with its dissolving views of mountains, seas and continents
stretching away through the mystery of the summer haze.

As a general thing the Pass was more suggestive of a valley than a
suspension bridge in the clouds--but it strongly suggested the latter at
one spot.  At that place the upper third of one or two majestic purple
domes projected above our level on either hand and gave us a sense of a
hidden great deep of mountains and plains and valleys down about their
bases which we fancied we might see if we could step to the edge and look
over.  These Sultans of the fastnesses were turbaned with tumbled volumes
of cloud, which shredded away from time to time and drifted off fringed
and torn, trailing their continents of shadow after them; and catching
presently on an intercepting peak, wrapped it about and brooded there--
then shredded away again and left the purple peak, as they had left the
purple domes, downy and white with new-laid snow.  In passing, these
monstrous rags of cloud hung low and swept along right over the
spectator's head, swinging their tatters so nearly in his face that his
impulse was to shrink when they came closet.  In the one place I speak
of, one could look below him upon a world of diminishing crags and
canyons leading down, down, and away to a vague plain with a thread in it
which was a road, and bunches of feathers in it which were trees,--a
pretty picture sleeping in the sunlight--but with a darkness stealing
over it and glooming its features  deeper and deeper under the frown of a
coming storm; and then, while no film or shadow marred the noon
brightness of his high perch, he could watch the tempest break forth down
there and see the lightnings leap from crag to crag and the sheeted rain
drive along the canyon-sides, and hear the thunders peal and crash and
roar.  We had this spectacle; a familiar one to many, but to us a
novelty.

We bowled along cheerily, and presently, at the very summit (though it
had been all summit to us, and all equally level, for half an hour or
more), we came to a spring which spent its water through two outlets and
sent it in opposite directions.  The conductor said that one of those
streams which we were looking at, was just starting on a journey westward
to the Gulf of California and the Pacific Ocean, through hundreds and
even thousands of miles of desert solitudes.  He said that the other was
just leaving its home among the snow-peaks on a similar journey eastward
--and we knew that long after we should have forgotten the simple rivulet
it would still be plodding its patient way down the mountain sides, and
canyon-beds, and between the banks of the Yellowstone; and by and by
would join the broad Missouri and flow through unknown plains and deserts
and unvisited wildernesses; and add a long and troubled pilgrimage among
snags and wrecks and sandbars; and enter the Mississippi, touch the
wharves of St. Louis and still drift on, traversing shoals and rocky
channels, then endless chains of bottomless and ample bends, walled with
unbroken forests, then mysterious byways and secret passages among woody
islands, then the chained bends again, bordered with wide levels of
shining sugar-cane in place of the sombre forests; then by New Orleans
and still other chains of bends--and finally, after two long months of
daily and nightly harassment, excitement, enjoyment, adventure, and awful
peril of parched throats, pumps and evaporation, pass the Gulf and enter
into its rest upon the bosom of the tropic sea, never to look upon its
snow-peaks again or regret them.

I freighted a leaf with a mental message for the friends at home, and
dropped it in the stream.  But I put no stamp on it and it was held for
postage somewhere.

On the summit we overtook an emigrant train of many wagons, many tired
men and women, and many a disgusted sheep and cow.

In the wofully dusty horseman in charge of the expedition I recognized
John -----.  Of all persons in the world to meet on top of the Rocky
Mountains thousands of miles from home, he was the last one I should have
looked for.  We were school-boys together and warm friends for years.
But a boyish prank of mine had disruptured this friendship and it had
never been renewed.  The act of which I speak was this.  I had been
accustomed to visit occasionally an editor whose room was in the third
story of a building and overlooked the street.  One day this editor gave
me a watermelon which I made preparations to devour on the spot, but
chancing to look out of the window, I saw John standing directly under it
and an irresistible desire came upon me to drop the melon on his head,
which I immediately did.  I was the loser, for it spoiled the melon, and
John never forgave me and we dropped all intercourse and parted, but now
met again under these circumstances.

We recognized each other simultaneously, and hands were grasped as warmly
as if no coldness had ever existed between us, and no allusion was made
to any.  All animosities were buried and the simple fact of meeting a
familiar face in that isolated spot so far from home, was sufficient to
make us forget all things but pleasant ones, and we parted again with
sincere "good-bye" and "God bless you" from both.

We had been climbing up the long shoulders of the Rocky Mountains for
many tedious hours--we started down them, now.  And we went spinning away
at a round rate too.

We left the snowy Wind River Mountains and Uinta Mountains behind, and
sped away, always through splendid scenery but occasionally through long
ranks of white skeletons of mules and oxen--monuments of the huge
emigration of other days--and here and there were up-ended boards or
small piles of stones which the driver said marked the resting-place of
more precious remains.

It was the loneliest land for a grave!  A land given over to the cayote
and the raven--which is but another name for desolation and utter
solitude.  On damp, murky nights, these scattered skeletons gave forth a
soft, hideous glow, like very faint spots of moonlight starring the vague
desert.  It was because of the phosphorus in the bones.  But no
scientific explanation could keep a body from shivering when he drifted
by one of those ghostly lights and knew that a skull held it.

At midnight it began to rain, and I never saw anything like it--indeed, I
did not even see this, for it was too dark.  We fastened down the
curtains and even caulked them with clothing, but the rain streamed in in
twenty places, nothwithstanding.  There was no escape.  If one moved his
feet out of a stream, he brought his body under one; and if he moved his
body he caught one somewhere else.  If he struggled out of the drenched
blankets and sat up, he was bound to get one down the back of his neck.
Meantime the stage was wandering about a plain with gaping gullies in it,
for the driver could not see an inch before his face nor keep the road,
and the storm pelted so pitilessly that there was no keeping the horses
still.  With the first abatement the conductor turned out with lanterns
to look for the road, and the first dash he made was into a chasm about
fourteen feet deep, his lantern following like a meteor.  As soon as he
touched bottom he sang out frantically:

"Don't come here!"

To which the driver, who was looking over the precipice where he had
disappeared, replied, with an injured air: "Think I'm a dam fool?"

The conductor was more than an hour finding the road--a matter which
showed us how far we had wandered and what chances we had been taking.
He traced our wheel-tracks to the imminent verge of danger, in two
places.  I have always been glad that we were not killed that night.
I do not know any particular reason, but I have always been glad.
In the morning, the tenth day out, we crossed Green River, a fine, large,
limpid stream--stuck in it with the water just up to the top of our mail-
bed, and waited till extra teams were put on to haul us up the steep
bank.  But it was nice cool water, and besides it could not find any
fresh place on us to wet.

At the Green River station we had breakfast--hot biscuits, fresh antelope
steaks, and coffee--the only decent meal we tasted between the United
States and Great Salt Lake City, and the only one we were ever really
thankful for.

Think of the monotonous execrableness of the thirty that went before it,
to leave this one simple breakfast looming up in my memory like a shot-
tower after all these years have gone by!

At five P.M.  we reached Fort Bridger, one hundred and seventeen miles
from the South Pass, and one thousand and twenty-five miles from St.
Joseph.  Fifty-two miles further on, near the head of Echo Canyon, we met
sixty United States soldiers from Camp Floyd.  The day before, they had
fired upon three hundred or four hundred Indians, whom they supposed
gathered together for no good purpose.  In the fight that had ensued,
four Indians were captured, and the main body chased four miles, but
nobody killed.  This looked like business.  We had a notion to get out
and join the sixty soldiers, but upon reflecting that there were four
hundred of the Indians, we concluded to go on and join the Indians.

Echo Canyon is twenty miles long.  It was like a long, smooth, narrow
street, with a gradual descending grade, and shut in by enormous
perpendicular walls of coarse conglomerate, four hundred feet high in
many places, and turreted like mediaeval castles.  This was the most
faultless piece of road in the mountains, and the driver said he would
"let his team out."  He did, and if the Pacific express trains whiz
through there now any faster than we did then in the stage-coach, I envy
the passengers the exhilaration of it.  We fairly seemed to pick up our
wheels and fly--and the mail matter was lifted up free from everything
and held in solution!  I am not given to exaggeration, and when I say a
thing I mean it.

However, time presses.  At four in the afternoon we arrived on the summit
of Big Mountain, fifteen miles from Salt Lake City, when all the world
was glorified with the setting sun, and the most stupendous panorama of
mountain peaks yet encountered burst on our sight.  We looked out upon
this sublime spectacle from under the arch of a brilliant rainbow!  Even
the overland stage-driver stopped his horses and gazed!

Half an hour or an hour later, we changed horses, and took supper with a
Mormon "Destroying Angel."

"Destroying Angels," as I understand it, are Latter-Day Saints who are
set apart by the Church to conduct permanent disappearances of obnoxious
citizens.  I had heard a deal about these Mormon Destroying Angels and
the dark and bloody deeds they had done, and when I entered this one's
house I had my shudder all ready.  But alas for all our romances, he was
nothing but a loud, profane, offensive, old blackguard!  He was murderous
enough, possibly, to fill the bill of a Destroyer, but would you have any
kind of an Angel devoid of dignity?  Could you abide an Angel in an
unclean shirt and no suspenders?  Could you respect an Angel with a
horse-laugh and a swagger like a buccaneer?

There were other blackguards present--comrades of this one.  And there
was one person that looked like a gentleman--Heber C. Kimball's son, tall
and well made, and thirty years old, perhaps.  A lot of slatternly women
flitted hither and thither in a hurry, with coffee-pots, plates of bread,
and other appurtenances to supper, and these were said to be the wives of
the Angel--or some of them, at least.  And of course they were; for if
they had been hired "help" they would not have let an angel from above
storm and swear at them as he did, let alone one from the place this one
hailed from.

This was our first experience of the western "peculiar institution," and
it was not very prepossessing.  We did not tarry long to observe it, but
hurried on to the home of the Latter-Day Saints, the stronghold of the
prophets, the capital of the only absolute monarch in America--Great Salt
Lake City.  As the night closed in we took sanctuary in the Salt Lake
House and unpacked our baggage.




CHAPTER XIII.

We had a fine supper, of the freshest meats and fowls and vegetables--a
great variety and as great abundance.  We walked about the streets some,
afterward, and glanced in at shops and stores; and there was fascination
in surreptitiously staring at every creature we took to be a Mormon.
This was fairy-land to us, to all intents and purposes--a land of
enchantment, and goblins, and awful mystery.  We felt a curiosity to ask
every child how many mothers it had, and if it could tell them apart; and
we experienced a thrill every time a dwelling-house door opened and shut
as we passed, disclosing a glimpse of human heads and backs and
shoulders--for we so longed to have a good satisfying look at a Mormon
family in all its comprehensive ampleness, disposed in the customary
concentric rings of its home circle.

By and by the Acting Governor of the Territory introduced us to other
"Gentiles," and we spent a sociable hour with them.  "Gentiles" are
people who are not Mormons.  Our fellow-passenger, Bemis, took care of
himself, during this part of the evening, and did not make an
overpowering success of it, either, for he came into our room in the
hotel about eleven o'clock, full of cheerfulness, and talking loosely,
disjointedly and indiscriminately, and every now and then tugging out a
ragged word by the roots that had more hiccups than syllables in it.
This, together with his hanging his coat on the floor on one side of a
chair, and his vest on the floor on the other side, and piling his pants
on the floor just in front of the same chair, and then comtemplating the
general result with superstitious awe, and finally pronouncing it "too
many for him" and going to bed with his boots on, led us to fear that
something he had eaten had not agreed with him.

But we knew afterward that it was something he had been drinking.  It was
the exclusively Mormon refresher, "valley tan."

Valley tan (or, at least, one form of valley tan) is a kind of whisky,
or first cousin to it; is of Mormon invention and manufactured only in
Utah.  Tradition says it is made of (imported) fire and brimstone.  If I
remember rightly no public drinking saloons were allowed in the kingdom
by Brigham Young, and no private drinking permitted among the faithful,
except they confined themselves to "valley tan."

Next day we strolled about everywhere through the broad, straight, level
streets, and enjoyed the pleasant strangeness of a city of fifteen
thousand inhabitants with no loafers perceptible in it; and no visible
drunkards or noisy people; a limpid stream rippling and dancing through
every street in place of a filthy gutter; block after block of trim
dwellings, built of "frame" and sunburned brick--a great thriving orchard
and garden behind every one of them, apparently--branches from the street
stream winding and sparkling among the garden beds and fruit trees--and a
grand general air of neatness, repair, thrift and comfort, around and
about and over the whole.  And everywhere were workshops, factories, and
all manner of industries; and intent faces and busy hands were to be seen
wherever one looked; and in one's ears was the ceaseless clink of
hammers, the buzz of trade and the contented hum of drums and fly-wheels.

The armorial crest of my own State consisted of two dissolute bears
holding up the head of a dead and gone cask between them and making the
pertinent remark, "UNITED, WE STAND--(hic!)--DIVIDED, WE FALL."  It was
always too figurative for the author of this book.  But the Mormon crest
was easy.  And it was simple, unostentatious, and fitted like a glove.
It was a representation of a GOLDEN BEEHIVE, with the bees all at work!

The city lies in the edge of a level plain as broad as the State of
Connecticut, and crouches close down to the ground under a curving wall
of mighty mountains whose heads are hidden in the clouds, and whose
shoulders bear relics of the snows of winter all the summer long.

Seen from one of these dizzy heights, twelve or fifteen miles off, Great
Salt Lake City is toned down and diminished till it is suggestive of a
child's toy-village reposing under the majestic protection of the Chinese
wall.

On some of those mountains, to the southwest, it had been raining every
day for two weeks, but not a drop had fallen in the city.  And on hot
days in late spring and early autumn the citizens could quit fanning and
growling and go out and cool off by looking at the luxury of a glorious
snow-storm going on in the mountains.  They could enjoy it at a distance,
at those seasons, every day, though no snow would fall in their streets,
or anywhere near them.

Salt Lake City was healthy--an extremely healthy city.

They declared there was only one physician in the place and he was
arrested every week regularly and held to answer under the vagrant act
for having "no visible means of support."  They always give you a good
substantial article of truth in Salt Lake, and good measure and good
weight, too. [Very often, if you wished to weigh one of their airiest
little commonplace statements you would want the hay scales.]

We desired to visit the famous inland sea, the American "Dead Sea," the
great Salt Lake--seventeen miles, horseback, from the city--for we had
dreamed about it, and thought about it, and talked about it, and yearned
to see it, all the first part of our trip; but now when it was only arm's
length away it had suddenly lost nearly every bit of its interest.  And
so we put it off, in a sort of general way, till next day--and that was
the last we ever thought of it.  We dined with some hospitable Gentiles;
and visited the foundation of the prodigious temple; and talked long with
that shrewd Connecticut Yankee, Heber C. Kimball (since deceased), a
saint of high degree and a mighty man of commerce.

We saw the "Tithing-House," and the "Lion House," and I do not know or
remember how many more church and government buildings of various kinds
and curious names.  We flitted hither and thither and enjoyed every hour,
and picked up a great deal of useful information and entertaining
nonsense, and went to bed at night satisfied.

The second day, we made the acquaintance of Mr. Street (since deceased)
and put on white shirts and went and paid a state visit to the king.
He seemed a quiet, kindly, easy-mannered, dignified, self-possessed old
gentleman of fifty-five or sixty, and had a gentle craft in his eye that
probably belonged there.  He was very simply dressed and was just taking
off a straw hat as we entered.  He talked about Utah, and the Indians,
and Nevada, and general American matters and questions, with our
secretary and certain government officials who came with us.  But he
never paid any attention to me, notwithstanding I made several attempts
to "draw him out" on federal politics and his high handed attitude toward
Congress.  I thought some of the things I said were rather fine.  But he
merely looked around at me, at distant intervals, something as I have
seen a benignant old cat look around to see which kitten was meddling
with her tail.

By and by I subsided into an indignant silence, and so sat until the end,
hot and flushed, and execrating him in my heart for an ignorant savage.
But he was calm.  His conversation with those gentlemen flowed on as
sweetly and peacefully and musically as any summer brook.  When the
audience was ended and we were retiring from the presence, he put his
hand on my head, beamed down on me in an admiring way and said to my
brother:

"Ah--your child, I presume?  Boy, or girl?"




CHAPTER XIV.

Mr. Street was very busy with his telegraphic matters--and considering
that he had eight or nine hundred miles of rugged, snowy, uninhabited
mountains, and waterless, treeless, melancholy deserts to traverse with
his wire, it was natural and needful that he should be as busy as
possible.  He could not go comfortably along and cut his poles by the
road-side, either, but they had to be hauled by ox teams across those
exhausting deserts--and it was two days' journey from water to water, in
one or two of them.  Mr. Street's contract was a vast work, every way one
looked at it; and yet to comprehend what the vague words "eight hundred
miles of rugged mountains and dismal deserts" mean, one must go over the
ground in person--pen and ink descriptions cannot convey the dreary
reality to the reader.  And after all, Mr. S.'s mightiest difficulty
turned out to be one which he had never taken into the account at all.
Unto Mormons he had sub-let the hardest and heaviest half of his great
undertaking, and all of a sudden they concluded that they were going to
make little or nothing, and so they tranquilly threw their poles
overboard in mountain or desert, just as it happened when they took the
notion, and drove home and went about their customary business!  They
were under written contract to Mr. Street, but they did not care anything
for that.  They said they would "admire" to see a "Gentile" force a
Mormon to fulfil a losing contract in Utah!  And they made themselves
very merry over the matter.  Street said--for it was he that told us
these things:

"I was in dismay.  I was under heavy bonds to complete my contract in a
given time, and this disaster looked very much like ruin.  It was an
astounding thing; it was such a wholly unlooked-for difficulty, that I
was entirely nonplussed.  I am a business man--have always been a
business man--do not know anything but business--and so you can imagine
how like being struck by lightning it was to find myself in a country
where written contracts were worthless!--that main security, that sheet-
anchor, that absolute necessity, of business.  My confidence left me.
There was no use in making new contracts--that was plain.  I talked with
first one prominent citizen and then another.  They all sympathized with
me, first rate, but they did not know how to help me.  But at last a
Gentile said, 'Go to Brigham Young!--these small fry cannot do you any
good.'  I did not think much of the idea, for if the law could not help
me, what could an individual do who had not even anything to do with
either making the laws or executing them?  He might be a very good
patriarch of a church and preacher in its tabernacle, but something
sterner than religion and moral suasion was needed to handle a hundred
refractory, half-civilized sub-contractors.  But what was a man to do?
I thought if Mr. Young could not do anything else, he might probably be
able to give me some advice and a valuable hint or two, and so I went
straight to him and laid the whole case before him.  He said very little,
but he showed strong interest all the way through.  He examined all the
papers in detail, and whenever there seemed anything like a hitch, either
in the papers or my statement, he would go back and take up the thread
and follow it patiently out to an intelligent and satisfactory result.
Then he made a list of the contractors' names.  Finally he said:

"'Mr. Street, this is all perfectly plain.  These contracts are strictly
and legally drawn, and are duly signed and certified.  These men
manifestly entered into them with their eyes open.  I see no fault or
flaw anywhere.'

"Then Mr. Young turned to a man waiting at the other end of the room and
said: 'Take this list of names to So-and-so, and tell him to have these
men here at such-and-such an hour.'

"They were there, to the minute.  So was I.  Mr. Young asked them a
number of questions, and their answers made my statement good.  Then he
said to them:

"'You signed these contracts and assumed these obligations of your own
free will and accord?'

"'Yes.'

"'Then carry them out to the letter, if it makes paupers of you!  Go!'

"And they did go, too!  They are strung across the deserts now, working
like bees.  And I never hear a word out of them.

"There is a batch of governors, and judges, and other officials here,
shipped from Washington, and they maintain the semblance of a republican
form of government--but the petrified truth is that Utah is an absolute
monarchy and Brigham Young is king!"

Mr. Street was a fine man, and I believe his story.  I knew him well
during several years afterward in San Francisco.

Our stay in Salt Lake City amounted to only two days, and therefore we
had no time to make the customary inquisition into the workings of
polygamy and get up the usual statistics and deductions preparatory to
calling the attention of the nation at large once more to the matter.

I had the will to do it.  With the gushing self-sufficiency of youth I
was feverish to plunge in headlong and achieve a great reform here--until
I saw the Mormon women.  Then I was touched.  My heart was wiser than my
head.  It warmed toward these poor, ungainly and pathetically "homely"
creatures, and as I turned to hide the generous moisture in my eyes, I
said, "No--the man that marries one of them has done an act of Christian
charity which entitles him to the kindly applause of mankind, not their
harsh censure--and the man that marries sixty of them has done a deed of
open-handed generosity so sublime that the nations should stand uncovered
in his presence and worship in silence."

      [For a brief sketch of Mormon history, and the noted Mountain Meadow
      massacre, see Appendices A and B. ]




CHAPTER XV.

It is a luscious country for thrilling evening stories about
assassinations of intractable Gentiles.  I cannot easily conceive of
anything more cosy than the night in Salt Lake which we spent in a
Gentile den, smoking pipes and listening to tales of how Burton galloped
in among the pleading and defenceless "Morisites" and shot them down, men
and women, like so many dogs.  And how Bill Hickman, a Destroying Angel,
shot Drown and Arnold dead for bringing suit against him for a debt.
And how Porter Rockwell did this and that dreadful thing.  And how
heedless people often come to Utah and make remarks about Brigham, or
polygamy, or some other sacred matter, and the very next morning at
daylight such parties are sure to be found lying up some back alley,
contentedly waiting for the hearse.

And the next most interesting thing is to sit and listen to these
Gentiles talk about polygamy; and how some portly old frog of an elder,
or a bishop, marries a girl--likes her, marries her sister--likes her,
marries another sister--likes her, takes another--likes her, marries her
mother--likes her, marries her father, grandfather, great grandfather,
and then comes back hungry and asks for more.  And how the pert young
thing of eleven will chance to be the favorite wife and her own venerable
grandmother have to rank away down toward D 4 in their mutual husband's
esteem, and have to sleep in the kitchen, as like as not.  And how this
dreadful sort of thing, this hiving together in one foul nest of mother
and daughters, and the making a young daughter superior to her own mother
in rank and authority, are things which Mormon women submit to because
their religion teaches them that the more wives a man has on earth, and
the more children he rears, the higher the place they will all have in
the world to come--and the warmer, maybe, though they do not seem to say
anything about that.

According to these Gentile friends of ours, Brigham Young's harem
contains twenty or thirty wives.  They said that some of them had grown
old and gone out of active service, but were comfortably housed and cared
for in the henery--or the Lion House, as it is strangely named.  Along
with each wife were her children--fifty altogether.  The house was
perfectly quiet and orderly, when the children were still.  They all took
their meals in one room, and a happy and home-like sight it was
pronounced to be.  None of our party got an opportunity to take dinner
with Mr. Young, but a Gentile by the name of Johnson professed to have
enjoyed a sociable breakfast in the Lion House.  He gave a preposterous
account of the "calling of the roll," and other preliminaries, and the
carnage that ensued when the buckwheat cakes came in.  But he embellished
rather too much.  He said that Mr. Young told him several smart sayings
of certain of his "two-year-olds," observing with some pride that for
many years he had been the heaviest contributor in that line to one of
the Eastern magazines; and then he wanted to show Mr. Johnson one of the
pets that had said the last good thing, but he could not find the child.

He searched the faces of the children in detail, but could not decide
which one it was.  Finally he gave it up with a sigh and said:

"I thought I would know the little cub again but I don't."  Mr. Johnson
said further, that Mr. Young observed that life was a sad, sad thing--
"because the joy of every new marriage a man contracted was so apt to be
blighted by the inopportune funeral of a less recent bride."  And Mr.
Johnson said that while he and Mr. Young were pleasantly conversing in
private, one of the Mrs. Youngs came in and demanded a breast-pin,
remarking that she had found out that he had been giving a breast-pin to
No. 6, and she, for one, did not propose to let this partiality go on
without making a satisfactory amount of trouble about it.  Mr. Young
reminded her that there was a stranger present.  Mrs. Young said that if
the state of things inside the house was not agreeable to the stranger,
he could find room outside.  Mr. Young promised the breast-pin, and she
went away.  But in a minute or two another Mrs. Young came in and
demanded a breast-pin.  Mr. Young began a remonstrance, but Mrs. Young
cut him short.  She said No. 6 had got one, and No. 11 was promised one,
and it was "no use for him to try to impose on her--she hoped she knew
her rights."  He gave his promise, and she went.  And presently three
Mrs. Youngs entered in a body and opened on their husband a tempest of
tears, abuse, and entreaty.  They had heard all about No. 6, No. 11, and
No. 14.  Three more breast-pins were promised.  They were hardly gone
when nine more Mrs. Youngs filed into the presence, and a new tempest
burst forth and raged round about the prophet and his guest.  Nine
breast-pins were promised, and the weird sisters filed out again.  And in
came eleven more, weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth.  Eleven
promised breast-pins purchased peace once more.

"That is a specimen," said Mr. Young.  "You see how it is.  You see what
a life I lead.  A man can't be wise all the time.  In a heedless moment I
gave my darling No. 6--excuse my calling her thus, as her other name has
escaped me for the moment--a breast-pin.  It was only worth twenty-five
dollars--that is, apparently that was its whole cost--but its ultimate
cost was inevitably bound to be a good deal more.  You yourself have seen
it climb up to six hundred and fifty dollars--and alas, even that is not
the end!  For I have wives all over this Territory of Utah.  I have
dozens of wives whose numbers, even, I do not know without looking in the
family Bible.  They are scattered far and wide among the mountains and
valleys of my realm.  And mark you, every solitary one of them will hear
of this wretched breast pin, and every last one of them will have one or
die.  No. 6's breast pin will cost me twenty-five hundred dollars before
I see the end of it.  And these creatures will compare these pins
together, and if one is a shade finer than the rest, they will all be
thrown on my hands, and I will have to order a new lot to keep peace in
the family.  Sir, you probably did not know it, but all the time you were
present with my children your every movement was watched by vigilant
servitors of mine.  If you had offered to give a child a dime, or a stick
of candy, or any trifle of the kind, you would have been snatched out of
the house instantly, provided it could be done before your gift left your
hand.  Otherwise it would be absolutely necessary for you to make an
exactly similar gift to all my children--and knowing by experience the
importance of the thing, I would have stood by and seen to it myself that
you did it, and did it thoroughly.  Once a gentleman gave one of my
children a tin whistle--a veritable invention of Satan, sir, and one
which I have an unspeakable horror of, and so would you if you had eighty
or ninety children in your house.  But the deed was done--the man
escaped.  I knew what the result was going to be, and I thirsted for
vengeance.  I ordered out a flock of Destroying Angels, and they hunted
the man far into the fastnesses of the Nevada mountains.  But they never
caught him.  I am not cruel, sir--I am not vindictive except when sorely
outraged--but if I had caught him, sir, so help me Joseph Smith, I would
have locked him into the nursery till the brats whistled him to death.
By the slaughtered body of St. Parley Pratt (whom God assail!) there
was never anything on this earth like it!  I knew who gave the whistle to
the child, but I could, not make those jealous mothers believe me.  They
believed I did it, and the result was just what any man of reflection
could have foreseen: I had to order a hundred and ten whistles--I think
we had a hundred and ten children in the house then, but some of them are
off at college now--I had to order a hundred and ten of those shrieking
things, and I wish I may never speak another word if we didn't have to
talk on our fingers entirely, from that time forth until the children got
tired of the whistles.  And if ever another man gives a whistle to a
child of mine and I get my hands on him, I will hang him higher than
Haman!  That is the word with the bark on it!  Shade of Nephi!  You don't
know anything about married life.  I am rich, and everybody knows it.  I
am benevolent, and everybody takes advantage of it.  I have a strong
fatherly instinct and all the foundlings are foisted on me.

"Every time a woman wants to do well by her darling, she puzzles her brain
to cipher out some scheme for getting it into my hands.  Why, sir, a
woman came here once with a child of a curious lifeless sort of
complexion (and so had the woman), and swore that the child was mine and
she my wife--that I had married her at such-and-such a time in such-and-
such a place, but she had forgotten her number, and of course I could not
remember her name.  Well, sir, she called my attention to the fact that
the child looked like me, and really it did seem to resemble me--a common
thing in the Territory--and, to cut the story short, I put it in my
nursery, and she left.  And by the ghost of Orson Hyde, when they came to
wash the paint off that child it was an Injun!  Bless my soul, you don't
know anything about married life.  It is a perfect dog's life, sir--a
perfect dog's life.  You can't economize.  It isn't possible.  I have
tried keeping one set of bridal attire for all occasions.  But it is of
no use.  First you'll marry a combination of calico and consumption
that's as thin as a rail, and next you'll get a creature that's nothing
more than the dropsy in disguise, and then you've got to eke out that
bridal dress with an old balloon.  That is the way it goes.  And think of
the wash-bill--(excuse these tears)--nine hundred and eighty-four pieces
a week!  No, sir, there is no such a thing as economy in a family like
mine.  Why, just the one item of cradles--think of it!  And vermifuge!
Soothing syrup!  Teething rings!  And 'papa's watches' for the babies to
play with!  And things to scratch the furniture with!  And lucifer
matches for them to eat, and pieces of glass to cut themselves with!
The item of glass alone would support your family, I venture to say, sir.
Let me scrimp and squeeze all I can, I still can't get ahead as fast as I
feel I ought to, with my opportunities.  Bless you, sir, at a time when I
had seventy-two wives in this house, I groaned under the pressure of
keeping thousands of dollars tied up in seventy-two bedsteads when the
money ought to have been out at interest; and I just sold out the whole
stock, sir, at a sacrifice, and built a bedstead seven feet long and
ninety-six feet wide.  But it was a failure, sir.  I could not sleep.
It appeared to me that the whole seventy-two women snored at once.
The roar was deafening.  And then the danger of it!  That was what I was
looking at.  They would all draw in their breath at once, and you could
actually see the walls of the house suck in--and then they would all
exhale their breath at once, and you could see the walls swell out, and
strain, and hear the rafters crack, and the shingles grind together.
My friend, take an old man's advice, and don't encumber yourself with a
large family--mind, I tell you, don't do it.  In a small family, and in a
small family only, you will find that comfort and that peace of mind
which are the best at last of the blessings this world is able to afford
us, and for the lack of which no accumulation of wealth, and no
acquisition of fame, power, and greatness can ever compensate us.
Take my word for it, ten or eleven wives is all you need--never go over
it."

Some instinct or other made me set this Johnson down as being unreliable.
And yet he was a very entertaining person, and I doubt if some of the
information he gave us could have been acquired from any other source.
He was a pleasant contrast to those reticent Mormons.




CHAPTER XVI.

All men have heard of the Mormon Bible, but few except the "elect" have
seen it, or, at least, taken the trouble to read it.  I brought away a
copy from Salt Lake.  The book is a curiosity to me, it is such a
pretentious affair, and yet so "slow," so sleepy; such an insipid mess of
inspiration.  It is chloroform in print.  If Joseph Smith composed this
book, the act was a miracle--keeping awake while he did it was, at any
rate.  If he, according to tradition, merely translated it from certain
ancient and mysteriously-engraved plates of copper, which he declares he
found under a stone, in an out-of-the-way locality, the work of
translating was equally a miracle, for the same reason.

The book seems to be merely a prosy detail of imaginary history, with the
Old Testament for a model; followed by a tedious plagiarism of the New
Testament.  The author labored to give his words and phrases the quaint,
old-fashioned sound and structure of our King James's translation of the
Scriptures; and the result is a mongrel--half modern glibness, and half
ancient simplicity and gravity.  The latter is awkward and constrained;
the former natural, but grotesque by the contrast.  Whenever he found his
speech growing too modern--which was about every sentence or two--he
ladled in a few such Scriptural phrases as "exceeding sore," "and it came
to pass," etc., and made things satisfactory again.  "And it came to
pass" was his pet.  If he had left that out, his Bible would have been
only a pamphlet.

The title-page reads as follows:

      THE BOOK OF MORMON: AN ACCOUNT WRITTEN BY THE HAND OF MORMON, UPON
      PLATES TAKEN FROM THE PLATES OF NEPHI.

      Wherefore it is an abridgment of the record of the people of Nephi,
      and also of the Lamanites; written to the Lamanites, who are a
      remnant of the House of Israel; and also to Jew and Gentile; written
      by way of commandment, and also by the spirit of prophecy and of
      revelation.  Written and sealed up, and hid up unto the Lord, that
      they might not be destroyed; to come forth by the gift and power of
      God unto the interpretation thereof; sealed by the hand of Moroni,
      and hid up unto the Lord, to come forth in due time by the way of
      Gentile; the interpretation thereof by the gift of God.  An
      abridgment taken from the Book of Ether also; which is a record of
      the people of Jared; who were scattered at the time the Lord
      confounded the language of the people when they were building a
      tower to get to Heaven.

"Hid up" is good.  And so is "wherefore"--though why "wherefore"?  Any
other word would have answered as well--though--in truth it would not
have sounded so Scriptural.

Next comes:

      THE TESTIMONY OF THREE WITNESSES.
      Be it known unto all nations, kindreds, tongues, and people unto
      whom this work shall come, that we, through the grace of God the
      Father, and our Lord Jesus Christ, have seen the plates which
      contain this record, which is a record of the people of Nephi, and
      also of the Lamanites, their brethren, and also of the people of
      Jared, who came from the tower of which hath been spoken; and we
      also know that they have been translated by the gift and power of
      God, for His voice hath declared it unto us; wherefore we know of a
      surety that the work is true.  And we also testify that we have seen
      the engravings which are upon the plates; and they have been shown
      unto us by the power of God, and not of man.  And we declare with
      words of soberness, that an angel of God came down from heaven, and
      he brought and laid before our eyes, that we beheld and saw the
      plates, and the engravings thereon; and we know that it is by the
      grace of God the Father, and our Lord Jesus Christ, that we beheld
      and bear record that these things are true; and it is marvellous in
      our eyes; nevertheless the voice of the Lord commanded us that we
      should bear record of it; wherefore, to be obedient unto the
      commandments of God, we bear testimony of these things.  And we know
      that if we are faithful in Christ, we shall rid our garments of the
      blood of all men, and be found spotless before the judgment-seat of
      Christ, and shall dwell with Him eternally in the heavens.  And the
      honor be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, which
      is one God.  Amen.
                          OLIVER COWDERY,
                          DAVID WHITMER,
                          MARTIN HARRIS.

Some people have to have a world of evidence before they can come
anywhere in the neighborhood of believing anything; but for me, when a
man tells me that he has "seen the engravings which are upon the plates,"
and not only that, but an angel was there at the time, and saw him see
them, and probably took his receipt for it, I am very far on the road to
conviction, no matter whether I ever heard of that man before or not, and
even if I do not know the name of the angel, or his nationality either.

Next is this:

      AND ALSO THE TESTIMONY OF EIGHT WITNESSES.
      Be it known unto all nations, kindreds, tongues, and people unto
      whom this work shall come, that Joseph Smith, Jr., the translator of
      this work, has shown unto us the plates of which hath been spoken,
      which have the appearance of gold; and as many of the leaves as the
      said Smith has translated, we did handle with our hands; and we also
      saw the engravings thereon, all of which has the appearance of
      ancient work, and of curious workmanship.  And this we bear record
      with words of soberness, that the said Smith has shown unto us, for
      we have seen and hefted, and know of a surety that the said Smith
      has got the plates of which we have spoken.  And we give our names
      unto the world, to witness unto the world that which we have seen;
      and we lie not, God bearing witness of it.
                          CHRISTIAN WHITMER,
                          JACOB WHITMER,
                          PETER WHITMER, JR.,
                          JOHN WHITMER,
                          HIRAM PAGE,
                          JOSEPH SMITH, SR.,
                          HYRUM SMITH,
                          SAMUEL H.  SMITH.

And when I am far on the road to conviction, and eight men, be they
grammatical or otherwise, come forward and tell me that they have seen
the plates too; and not only seen those plates but "hefted" them, I am
convinced.  I could not feel more satisfied and at rest if the entire
Whitmer family had testified.

The Mormon Bible consists of fifteen "books"--being the books of Jacob,
Enos, Jarom, Omni, Mosiah, Zeniff, Alma, Helaman, Ether, Moroni, two
"books" of Mormon, and three of Nephi.

In the first book of Nephi is a plagiarism of the Old Testament, which
gives an account of the exodus from Jerusalem of the "children of Lehi";
and it goes on to tell of their wanderings in the wilderness, during
eight years, and their supernatural protection by one of their number, a
party by the name of Nephi.  They finally reached the land of
"Bountiful," and camped by the sea.  After they had remained there "for
the space of many days"--which is more Scriptural than definite--Nephi
was commanded from on high to build a ship wherein to "carry the people
across the waters."  He travestied Noah's ark--but he obeyed orders in
the matter of the plan.  He finished the ship in a single day, while his
brethren stood by and made fun of it--and of him, too--"saying, our
brother is a fool, for he thinketh that he can build a ship."  They did
not wait for the timbers to dry, but the whole tribe or nation sailed the
next day.  Then a bit of genuine nature cropped out, and is revealed by
outspoken Nephi with Scriptural frankness--they all got on a spree!
They, "and also their wives, began to make themselves merry, insomuch
that they began to dance, and to sing, and to speak with much rudeness;
yea, they were lifted up unto exceeding rudeness."

Nephi tried to stop these scandalous proceedings; but they tied him neck
and heels, and went on with their lark.  But observe how Nephi the
prophet circumvented them by the aid of the invisible powers:

      And it came to pass that after they had bound me, insomuch that I
      could not move, the compass, which had been prepared of the Lord,
      did cease to work; wherefore, they knew not whither they should
      steer the ship, insomuch that there arose a great storm, yea, a
      great and terrible tempest, and we were driven back upon the waters
      for the space of three days; and they began to be frightened
      exceedingly, lest they should be drowned in the sea; nevertheless
      they did not loose me.  And on the fourth day, which we had been
      driven back, the tempest began to be exceeding sore.  And it came to
      pass that we were about to be swallowed up in the depths of the sea.

Then they untied him.

      And it came to pass after they had loosed me, behold, I took the
      compass, and it did work whither I desired it.  And it came to pass
      that I prayed unto the Lord; and after I had prayed, the winds did
      cease, and the storm did cease, and there was a great calm.

Equipped with their compass, these ancients appear to have had the
advantage of Noah.

Their voyage was toward a "promised land"--the only name they give it.
They reached it in safety.

Polygamy is a recent feature in the Mormon religion, and was added by
Brigham Young after Joseph Smith's death.  Before that, it was regarded
as an "abomination."  This verse from the Mormon Bible occurs in Chapter
II. of the book of Jacob:

      For behold, thus saith the Lord, this people begin to wax in
      iniquity; they understand not the Scriptures; for they seek to
      excuse themselves in committing whoredoms, because of the things
      which were written concerning David, and Solomon his son.  Behold,
      David and Solomon truly had many wives and concubines, which thing
      was abominable before me, saith the Lord; wherefore, thus saith the
      Lord, I have led this people forth out of the land of Jerusalem, by
      the power of mine arm, that I might raise up unto me a righteous
      branch from the fruit of the loins of Joseph.  Wherefore, I the Lord
      God, will no suffer that this people shall do like unto them of old.

However, the project failed--or at least the modern Mormon end of it--for
Brigham "suffers" it.  This verse is from the same chapter:

      Behold, the Lamanites your brethren, whom ye hate, because of their
      filthiness and the cursings which hath come upon their skins, are
      more righteous than you; for they have not forgotten the commandment
      of the Lord, which was given unto our fathers, that they should
      have, save it were one wife; and concubines they should have none.

The following verse (from Chapter IX. of the Book of Nephi) appears to
contain information not familiar to everybody:

      And now it came to pass that when Jesus had ascended into heaven,
      the multitude did disperse, and every man did take his wife and his
      children, and did return to his own home.

      And it came to pass that on the morrow, when the multitude was
      gathered together, behold, Nephi and his brother whom he had raised
      from the dead, whose name was Timothy, and also his son, whose name
      was Jonas, and also Mathoni, and Mathonihah, his brother, and Kumen,
      and Kumenenhi, and Jeremiah, and Shemnon, and Jonas, and Zedekiah,
      and Isaiah; now these were the names of the disciples whom Jesus had
      chosen.

In order that the reader may observe how much more grandeur and
picturesqueness (as seen by these Mormon twelve) accompanied on of the
tenderest episodes in the life of our Saviour than other eyes seem to
have been aware of, I quote the following from the same "book"--Nephi:

      And it came to pass that Jesus spake unto them, and bade them arise.
      And they arose from the earth, and He said unto them, Blessed are ye
      because of your faith.  And now behold, My joy is full.  And when He
      had said these words, He wept, and the multitude bear record of it,
      and He took their little children, one by one, and blessed them, and
      prayed unto the Father for them.  And when He had done this He wept
      again, and He spake unto the multitude, and saith unto them, Behold
      your little ones.  And as they looked to behold, they cast their
      eyes toward heaven, and they saw the heavens open, and they saw
      angels descending out of heaven as it were, in the midst of fire;
      and they came down and encircled those little ones about, and they
      were encircled about with fire; and the angels did minister unto
      them, and the multitude did see and hear and bear record; and they
      know that their record is true, for they all of them did see and
      hear, every man for himself; and they were in number about two
      thousand and five hundred souls; and they did consist of men, women,
      and children.

And what else would they be likely to consist of?

The Book of Ether is an incomprehensible medley of if "history," much of
it relating to battles and sieges among peoples whom the reader has
possibly never heard of; and who inhabited a country which is not set
down in the geography.  These was a King with the remarkable name of
Coriantumr,^^ and he warred with Shared, and Lib, and Shiz, and others,
in the "plains of Heshlon"; and the "valley of Gilgal"; and the
"wilderness of Akish"; and the "land of Moran"; and the "plains of
Agosh"; and "Ogath," and "Ramah," and the "land of Corihor," and the
"hill Comnor," by "the waters of Ripliancum," etc., etc., etc.  "And it
came to pass," after a deal of fighting, that Coriantumr, upon making
calculation of his losses, found that "there had been slain two millions
of mighty men, and also their wives and their children"--say 5,000,000 or
6,000,000 in all--"and he began to sorrow in his heart."  Unquestionably
it was time.  So he wrote to Shiz, asking a cessation of hostilities, and
offering to give up his kingdom to save his people.  Shiz declined,
except upon condition that Coriantumr would come and let him cut his head
off first--a thing which Coriantumr would not do.  Then there was more
fighting for a season; then four years were devoted to gathering the
forces for a final struggle--after which ensued a battle, which, I take
it, is the most remarkable set forth in history,--except, perhaps, that
of the Kilkenny cats, which it resembles in some respects.  This is the
account of the gathering and the battle:

      7.  And it came to pass that they did gather together all the
      people, upon all the face of the land, who had not been slain, save
      it was Ether.  And it came to pass that Ether did behold all the
      doings of the people; and he beheld that the people who were for
      Coriantumr, were gathered together to the army of Coriantumr; and
      the people who were for Shiz, were gathered together to the army of
      Shiz; wherefore they were for the space of four years gathering
      together the people, that they might get all who were upon the face
      of the land, and that they might receive all the strength which it
      was possible that they could receive.  And it came to pass that when
      they were all gathered together, every one to the army which he
      would, with their wives and their children; both men, women, and
      children being armed with weapons of war, having shields, and
      breast-plates, and head-plates, and being clothed after the manner
      of war, they did march forth one against another, to battle; and
      they fought all that day, and conquered not.  And it came to pass
      that when it was night they were weary, and retired to their camps;
      and after they had retired to their camps, they took up a howling
      and a lamentation for the loss of the slain of their people; and so
      great were their cries, their howlings and lamentations, that it did
      rend the air exceedingly.  And it came to pass that on the morrow
      they did go again to battle, and great and terrible was that day;
      nevertheless they conquered not, and when the night came again, they
      did rend the air with their cries, and their howlings, and their
      mournings, for the loss of the slain of their people.

      8.  And it came to pass that Coriantumr wrote again an epistle unto
      Shiz, desiring that he would not come again to battle, but that he
      would take the kingdom, and spare the lives of the people.  But
      behold, the Spirit of the Lord had ceased striving with them, and
      Satan had full power over the hearts of the people, for they were
      given up unto the hardness of their hearts, and the blindness of
      their minds that they might be destroyed; wherefore they went again
      to battle.  And it came to pass that they fought all that day, and
      when the night came they slept upon their swords; and on the morrow
      they fought even until the night came; and when the night came they
      were drunken with anger, even as a man who is drunken with wine; and
      they slept again upon their swords; and on the morrow they fought
      again; and when the night came they had all fallen by the sword save
      it were fifty and two of the people of Coriantumr, and sixty and
      nine of the people of Shiz.  And it came to pass that they slept
      upon their swords that night, and on the morrow they fought again,
      and they contended in their mights with their swords, and with their
      shields, all that day; and when the night came there were thirty and
      two of the people of Shiz, and twenty and seven of the people of
      Coriantumr.

      9.  And it came to pass that they ate and slept, and prepared for
      death on the morrow.  And they were large and mighty men, as to the
      strength of men.  And it came to pass that they fought for the space
      of three hours, and they fainted with the loss of blood.  And it
      came to pass that when the men of Coriantumr had received sufficient
      strength, that they could walk, they were about to flee for their
      lives, but behold, Shiz arose, and also his men, and he swore in his
      wrath that he would slay Coriantumr, or he would perish by the
      sword: wherefore he did pursue them, and on the morrow he did
      overtake them; and they fought again with the sword.  And it came to
      pass that when they had all fallen by the sword, save it were
      Coriantumr and Shiz, behold Shiz had fainted with loss of blood.
      And it came to pass that when Coriantumr had leaned upon his sword,
      that he rested a little, he smote off the head of Shiz.  And it came
      to pass that after he had smote off the head of Shiz, that Shiz
      raised upon his hands and fell; and after that he had struggled for
      breath, he died.  And it came to pass that Coriantumr fell to the
      earth, and became as if he had no life.  And the Lord spake unto
      Ether, and said unto him, go forth.  And he went forth, and beheld
      that the words of the Lord had all been fulfilled; and he finished
      his record; and the hundredth part I have not written.

It seems a pity he did not finish, for after all his dreary former
chapters of commonplace, he stopped just as he was in danger of becoming
interesting.

The Mormon Bible is rather stupid and tiresome to read, but there is
nothing vicious in its teachings.  Its code of morals is unobjectionable-
-it is "smouched" [Milton] from the New Testament and no credit given.




CHAPTER XVII.

At the end of our two days' sojourn, we left Great Salt Lake City hearty
and well fed and happy--physically superb but not so very much wiser, as
regards the "Mormon question," than we were when we arrived, perhaps.
We had a deal more "information" than we had before, of course, but we
did not know what portion of it was reliable and what was not--for it all
came from acquaintances of a day--strangers, strictly speaking.  We were
told, for instance, that the dreadful "Mountain Meadows Massacre" was the
work of the Indians entirely, and that the Gentiles had meanly tried to
fasten it upon the Mormons; we were told, likewise, that the Indians were
to blame, partly, and partly the Mormons; and we were told, likewise, and
just as positively, that the Mormons were almost if not wholly and
completely responsible for that most treacherous and pitiless butchery.
We got the story in all these different shapes, but it was not till
several years afterward that Mrs. Waite's book, "The Mormon Prophet,"
came out with Judge Cradlebaugh's trial of the accused parties in it and
revealed the truth that the latter version was the correct one and that
the Mormons were the assassins.  All our "information" had three sides to
it, and so I gave up the idea that I could settle the "Mormon question"
in two days.  Still I have seen newspaper correspondents do it in one.

I left Great Salt Lake a good deal confused as to what state of things
existed there--and sometimes even questioning in my own mind whether a
state of things existed there at all or not.  But presently I remembered
with a lightening sense of relief that we had learned two or three
trivial things there which we could be certain of; and so the two days
were not wholly lost.  For instance, we had learned that we were at last
in a pioneer land, in absolute and tangible reality.

The high prices charged for trifles were eloquent of high freights and
bewildering distances of freightage.  In the east, in those days, the
smallest moneyed denomination was a penny and it represented the smallest
purchasable quantity of any commodity.  West of Cincinnati the smallest
coin in use was the silver five-cent piece and no smaller quantity of an
article could be bought than "five cents' worth."  In Overland City the
lowest coin appeared to be the ten-cent piece; but in Salt Lake there did
not seem to be any money in circulation smaller than a quarter, or any
smaller quantity purchasable of any commodity than twenty-five cents'
worth.  We had always been used to half dimes and "five cents' worth" as
the minimum of financial negotiations; but in Salt Lake if one wanted a
cigar, it was a quarter; if he wanted a chalk pipe, it was a quarter; if
he wanted a peach, or a candle, or a newspaper, or a shave, or a little
Gentile whiskey to rub on his corns to arrest indigestion and keep him
from having the toothache, twenty-five cents was the price, every time.
When we looked at the shot-bag of silver, now and then, we seemed to be
wasting our substance in riotous living, but if we referred to the
expense account we could see that we had not been doing anything of the
kind.

But people easily get reconciled to big money and big prices, and fond
and vain of both--it is a descent to little coins and cheap prices that
is hardest to bear and slowest to take hold upon one's toleration.  After
a month's acquaintance with the twenty-five cent minimum, the average
human being is ready to blush every time he thinks of his despicable
five-cent days.  How sunburnt with blushes I used to get in gaudy Nevada,
every time I thought of my first financial experience in Salt Lake.
It was on this wise (which is a favorite expression of great authors, and
a very neat one, too, but I never hear anybody say on this wise when they
are talking).  A young half-breed with a complexion like a yellow-jacket
asked me if I would have my boots blacked.  It was at the Salt Lake House
the morning after we arrived.  I said yes, and he blacked them.  Then I
handed him a silver five-cent piece, with the benevolent air of a person
who is conferring wealth and blessedness upon poverty and suffering.  The
yellow-jacket took it with what I judged to be suppressed emotion, and
laid it reverently down in the middle of his broad hand.  Then he began
to contemplate it, much as a philosopher contemplates a gnat's ear in the
ample field of his microscope.  Several mountaineers, teamsters, stage-
drivers, etc., drew near and dropped into the tableau and fell to
surveying the money with that attractive indifference to formality which
is noticeable in the hardy pioneer.  Presently the yellow-jacket handed
the half dime back to me and told me I ought to keep my money in my
pocket-book instead of in my soul, and then I wouldn't get it cramped and
shriveled up so!

What a roar of vulgar laughter there was!  I destroyed the mongrel
reptile on the spot, but I smiled and smiled all the time I was detaching
his scalp, for the remark he made was good for an "Injun."

Yes, we had learned in Salt Lake to be charged great prices without
letting the inward shudder appear on the surface--for even already we had
overheard and noted the tenor of conversations among drivers, conductors,
and hostlers, and finally among citizens of Salt Lake, until we were well
aware that these superior beings despised "emigrants."  We permitted no
tell-tale shudders and winces in our countenances, for we wanted to seem
pioneers, or Mormons, half-breeds, teamsters, stage-drivers, Mountain
Meadow assassins--anything in the world that the plains and Utah
respected and admired--but we were wretchedly ashamed of being
"emigrants," and sorry enough that we had white shirts and could not
swear in the presence of ladies without looking the other way.

And many a time in Nevada, afterwards, we had occasion to remember with
humiliation that we were "emigrants," and consequently a low and inferior
sort of creatures.  Perhaps the reader has visited Utah, Nevada, or
California, even in these latter days, and while communing with himself
upon the sorrowful banishment of these countries from what he considers
"the world," has had his wings clipped by finding that he is the one to
be pitied, and that there are entire populations around him ready and
willing to do it for him--yea, who are complacently doing it for him
already, wherever he steps his foot.

Poor thing, they are making fun of his hat; and the cut of his New York
coat; and his conscientiousness about his grammar; and his feeble
profanity; and his consumingly ludicrous ignorance of ores, shafts,
tunnels, and other things which he never saw before, and never felt
enough interest in to read about.  And all the time that he is thinking
what a sad fate it is to be exiled to that far country, that lonely land,
the citizens around him are looking down on him with a blighting
compassion because he is an "emigrant" instead of that proudest and
blessedest creature that exists on all the earth, a "FORTY-NINER."

The accustomed coach life began again, now, and by midnight it almost
seemed as if we never had been out of our snuggery among the mail sacks
at all.  We had made one alteration, however.  We had provided enough
bread, boiled ham and hard boiled eggs to last double the six hundred
miles of staging we had still to do.

And it was comfort in those succeeding days to sit up and contemplate the
majestic panorama of mountains and valleys spread out below us and eat
ham and hard boiled eggs while our spiritual natures revelled alternately
in rainbows, thunderstorms, and peerless sunsets.  Nothing helps scenery
like ham and eggs.  Ham and eggs, and after these a pipe--an old, rank,
delicious pipe--ham and eggs and scenery, a "down grade," a flying coach,
a fragrant pipe and a contented heart--these make happiness.  It is what
all the ages have struggled for.




CHAPTER XVIII.

At eight in the morning we reached the remnant and ruin of what had been
the important military station of "Camp Floyd," some forty-five or fifty
miles from Salt Lake City.  At four P.M.  we had doubled our distance and
were ninety or a hundred miles from Salt Lake.  And now we entered upon
one of that species of deserts whose concentrated hideousness shames the
diffused and diluted horrors of Sahara--an "alkali" desert.  For sixty-
eight miles there was but one break in it.  I do not remember that this
was really a break; indeed it seems to me that it was nothing but a
watering depot in the midst of the stretch of sixty-eight miles.  If my
memory serves me, there was no well or spring at this place, but the
water was hauled there by mule and ox teams from the further side of the
desert.  There was a stage station there.  It was forty-five miles from
the beginning of the desert, and twenty-three from the end of it.

We plowed and dragged and groped along, the whole live-long night, and at
the end of this uncomfortable twelve hours we finished the forty-five-
mile part of the desert and got to the stage station where the imported
water was.  The sun was just rising.  It was easy enough to cross a
desert in the night while we were asleep; and it was pleasant to reflect,
in the morning, that we in actual person had encountered an absolute
desert and could always speak knowingly of deserts in presence of the
ignorant thenceforward.  And it was pleasant also to reflect that this
was not an obscure, back country desert, but a very celebrated one, the
metropolis itself, as you may say.  All this was very well and very
comfortable and satisfactory--but now we were to cross a desert in
daylight.  This was fine--novel--romantic--dramatically adventurous--
this, indeed, was worth living for, worth traveling for!  We would write
home all about it.

This enthusiasm, this stern thirst for adventure, wilted under the sultry
August sun and did not last above one hour.  One poor little hour--and
then we were ashamed that we had "gushed" so.  The poetry was all in the
anticipation--there is none in the reality.  Imagine a vast, waveless
ocean stricken dead and turned to ashes; imagine this solemn waste tufted
with ash-dusted sage-bushes; imagine the lifeless silence and solitude
that belong to such a place; imagine a coach, creeping like a bug through
the midst of this shoreless level, and sending up tumbled volumes of dust
as if it were a bug that went by steam; imagine this aching monotony of
toiling and plowing kept up hour after hour, and the shore still as far
away as ever, apparently; imagine team, driver, coach and passengers so
deeply coated with ashes that they are all one colorless color; imagine
ash-drifts roosting above moustaches and eyebrows like snow accumulations
on boughs and bushes.  This is the reality of it.

The sun beats down with dead, blistering, relentless malignity; the
perspiration is welling from every pore in man and beast, but scarcely a
sign of it finds its way to the surface--it is absorbed before it gets
there; there is not the faintest breath of air stirring; there is not a
merciful shred of cloud in all the brilliant firmament; there is not a
living creature visible in any direction whither one searches the blank
level that stretches its monotonous miles on every hand; there is not a
sound--not a sigh--not a whisper--not a buzz, or a whir of wings, or
distant pipe of bird--not even a sob from the lost souls that doubtless
people that dead air.  And so the occasional sneezing of the resting
mules, and the champing of the bits, grate harshly on the grim stillness,
not dissipating the spell but accenting it and making one feel more
lonesome and forsaken than before.

The mules, under violent swearing, coaxing and whip-cracking, would make
at stated intervals a "spurt," and drag the coach a hundred or may be two
hundred yards, stirring up a billowy cloud of dust that rolled back,
enveloping the vehicle to the wheel-tops or higher, and making it seem
afloat in a fog.  Then a rest followed, with the usual sneezing and bit-
champing.  Then another "spurt" of a hundred yards and another rest at
the end of it.  All day long we kept this up, without water for the mules
and without ever changing the team.  At least we kept it up ten hours,
which, I take it, is a day, and a pretty honest one, in an alkali desert.
It was from four in the morning till two in the afternoon.  And it was so
hot! and so close! and our water canteens went dry in the middle of the
day and we got so thirsty!  It was so stupid and tiresome and dull! and
the tedious hours did lag and drag and limp along with such a cruel
deliberation!  It was so trying to give one's watch a good long
undisturbed spell and then take it out and find that it had been fooling
away the time and not trying to get ahead any!  The alkali dust cut
through our lips, it persecuted our eyes, it ate through the delicate
membranes and made our noses bleed and kept them bleeding--and truly and
seriously the romance all faded far away and disappeared, and left the
desert trip nothing but a harsh reality--a thirsty, sweltering, longing,
hateful reality!

Two miles and a quarter an hour for ten hours--that was what we
accomplished.  It was hard to bring the comprehension away down to such a
snail-pace as that, when we had been used to making eight and ten miles
an hour.  When we reached the station on the farther verge of the desert,
we were glad, for the first time, that the dictionary was along, because
we never could have found language to tell how glad we were, in any sort
of dictionary but an unabridged one with pictures in it.  But there could
not have been found in a whole library of dictionaries language
sufficient to tell how tired those mules were after their twenty-three
mile pull.  To try to give the reader an idea of how thirsty they were,
would be to "gild refined gold or paint the lily."

Somehow, now that it is there, the quotation does not seem to fit--but no
matter, let it stay, anyhow.  I think it is a graceful and attractive
thing, and therefore have tried time and time again to work it in where
it would fit, but could not succeed.  These efforts have kept my mind
distracted and ill at ease, and made my narrative seem broken and
disjointed, in places.  Under these circumstances it seems to me best to
leave it in, as above, since this will afford at least a temporary
respite from the wear and tear of trying to "lead up" to this really apt
and beautiful quotation.




CHAPTER XIX.

On the morning of the sixteenth day out from St. Joseph we arrived at the
entrance of Rocky Canyon, two hundred and fifty miles from Salt Lake.
It was along in this wild country somewhere, and far from any habitation
of white men, except the stage stations, that we came across the
wretchedest type of mankind I have ever seen, up to this writing.  I
refer to the Goshoot Indians.  From what we could see and all we could
learn, they are very considerably inferior to even the despised Digger
Indians of California; inferior to all races of savages on our continent;
inferior to even the Terra del Fuegans; inferior to the Hottentots, and
actually inferior in some respects to the Kytches of Africa.  Indeed, I
have been obliged to look the bulky volumes of Wood's "Uncivilized Races
of Men" clear through in order to find a savage tribe degraded enough to
take rank with the Goshoots.  I find but one people fairly open to that
shameful verdict.  It is the Bosjesmans (Bushmen) of South Africa.  Such
of the Goshoots as we saw, along the road and hanging about the stations,
were small, lean, "scrawny" creatures; in complexion a dull black like
the ordinary American negro; their faces and hands bearing dirt which
they had been hoarding and accumulating for months, years, and even
generations, according to the age of the proprietor; a silent, sneaking,
treacherous looking race; taking note of everything, covertly, like all
the other "Noble Red Men" that we (do not) read about, and betraying no
sign in their countenances; indolent, everlastingly patient and tireless,
like all other Indians; prideless beggars--for if the beggar instinct
were left out of an Indian he would not "go," any more than a clock
without a pendulum; hungry, always hungry, and yet never refusing
anything that a hog would eat, though often eating what a hog would
decline; hunters, but having no higher ambition than to kill and eat
jack-ass rabbits,  crickets and grasshoppers, and embezzle carrion from
the buzzards and cayotes; savages who, when asked if they have the common
Indian belief in a Great Spirit show a something which almost amounts to
emotion, thinking whiskey is referred to; a thin, scattering race of
almost naked black children, these Goshoots are, who produce nothing at
all, and have no villages, and no gatherings together into strictly
defined tribal communities--a people whose only shelter is a rag cast on
a bush to keep off a portion of the snow, and yet who inhabit one of the
most rocky, wintry, repulsive wastes that our country or any other can
exhibit.

The Bushmen and our Goshoots are manifestly descended from the self-same
gorilla, or kangaroo, or Norway rat, which-ever animal--Adam the
Darwinians trace them to.

One would as soon expect the rabbits to fight as the Goshoots, and yet
they used to live off the offal and refuse of the stations a few months
and then come some dark night when no mischief was expected, and burn
down the buildings and kill the men from ambush as they rushed out.
And once, in the night, they attacked the stage-coach when a District
Judge, of Nevada Territory, was the only passenger, and with their first
volley of arrows (and a bullet or two) they riddled the stage curtains,
wounded a horse or two and mortally wounded the driver.  The latter was
full of pluck, and so was his passenger.  At the driver's call Judge Mott
swung himself out, clambered to the box and seized the reins of the team,
and away they plunged, through the racing mob of skeletons and under a
hurtling storm of missiles.  The stricken driver had sunk down on the
boot as soon as he was wounded, but had held on to the reins and said he
would manage to keep hold of them until relieved.

And after they were taken from his relaxing grasp, he lay with his head
between Judge Mott's feet, and tranquilly gave directions about the road;
he said he believed he could live till the miscreants were outrun and
left behind, and that if he managed that, the main difficulty would be at
an end, and then if the Judge drove so and so (giving directions about
bad places in the road, and general course) he would reach the next
station without trouble.  The Judge distanced the enemy and at last
rattled up to the station and knew that the night's perils were done; but
there was no comrade-in-arms for him to rejoice with, for the soldierly
driver was dead.

Let us forget that we have been saying harsh things about the Overland
drivers, now.  The disgust which the Goshoots gave me, a disciple of
Cooper and a worshipper of the Red Man--even of the scholarly savages in
the "Last of the Mohicans" who are fittingly associated with backwoodsmen
who divide each sentence into two equal parts: one part critically
grammatical, refined and choice of language, and the other part just such
an attempt to talk like a hunter or a mountaineer, as a Broadway clerk
might make after eating an edition of Emerson Bennett's works and
studying frontier life at the Bowery Theatre a couple of weeks--I say
that the nausea which the Goshoots gave me, an Indian worshipper, set me
to examining authorities, to see if perchance I had been over-estimating
the Red Man while viewing him through the mellow moonshine of romance.
The revelations that came were disenchanting.  It was curious to see how
quickly the paint and tinsel fell away from him and left him treacherous,
filthy and repulsive--and how quickly the evidences accumulated that
wherever one finds an Indian tribe he has only found Goshoots more or
less modified by circumstances and surroundings--but Goshoots, after all.
They deserve pity, poor creatures; and they can have mine--at this
distance.  Nearer by, they never get anybody's.

There is an impression abroad that the Baltimore and Washington Railroad
Company and many of its employees are Goshoots; but it is an error.
There is only a plausible resemblance, which, while it is apt enough to
mislead the ignorant, cannot deceive parties who have contemplated both
tribes.  But seriously, it was not only poor wit, but very wrong to start
the report referred to above; for however innocent the motive may have
been, the necessary effect was to injure the reputation of a class who
have a hard enough time of it in the pitiless deserts of the Rocky
Mountains, Heaven knows!  If we cannot find it in our hearts to give
those poor naked creatures our Christian sympathy and compassion, in
God's name let us at least not throw mud at them.




CHAPTER XX.

On the seventeenth day we passed the highest mountain peaks we had yet
seen, and although the day was very warm the night that followed upon its
heels was wintry cold and blankets were next to useless.

On the eighteenth day we encountered the eastward-bound telegraph-
constructors at Reese River station and sent a message to his Excellency
Gov. Nye at Carson City (distant one hundred and fifty-six miles).

On the nineteenth day we crossed the Great American Desert--forty
memorable miles of bottomless sand, into which the coach wheels sunk from
six inches to a foot.  We worked our passage most of the way across.
That is to say, we got out and walked.  It was a dreary pull and a long
and thirsty one, for we had no water.  From one extremity of this desert
to the other, the road was white with the bones of oxen and horses.
It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that we could have walked the
forty miles and set our feet on a bone at every step!  The desert was one
prodigious graveyard.  And the log-chains, wagon tyres, and rotting
wrecks of vehicles were almost as thick as the bones.  I think we saw
log-chains enough rusting there in the desert, to reach across any State
in the Union.  Do not these relics suggest something of an idea of the
fearful suffering and privation the early emigrants to California
endured?

At the border of the Desert lies Carson Lake, or The "Sink" of the
Carson, a shallow, melancholy sheet of water some eighty or a hundred
miles in circumference.  Carson River empties into it and is lost--sinks
mysteriously into the earth and never appears in the light of the sun
again--for the lake has no outlet whatever.

There are several rivers in Nevada, and they all have this mysterious
fate.  They end in various lakes or "sinks," and that is the last of
them.  Carson Lake, Humboldt Lake, Walker Lake, Mono Lake, are all great
sheets of water without any visible outlet.  Water is always flowing into
them; none is ever seen to flow out of them, and yet they remain always
level full, neither receding nor overflowing.  What they do with their
surplus is only known to the Creator.

On the western verge of the Desert we halted a moment at Ragtown.  It
consisted of one log house and is not set down on the map.

This reminds me of a circumstance.  Just after we left Julesburg, on the
Platte, I was sitting with the driver, and he said:

"I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to
listen to it.  Horace Greeley went over this road once.  When he was
leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an
engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through
quick.  Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace.
The coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the
buttons all off of Horace's coat, and finally shot his head clean through
the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to
go easier--said he warn't in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, 'Keep your seat, Horace, and I'll get you there on
time'--and you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!"

A day or two after that we picked up a Denver man at the cross roads, and
he told us a good deal about the country and the Gregory Diggings.
He seemed a very entertaining person and a man well posted in the affairs
of Colorado.  By and by he remarked:

"I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to
listen to it.  Horace Greeley went over this road once.  When he was
leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an
engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through
quick.  Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace.  The
coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the
buttons all off of Horace's coat, and finally shot his head clean through
the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to
go easier--said he warn't in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, 'Keep your seat, Horace, and I'll get you there on
time!'--and you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!"

At Fort Bridger, some days after this, we took on board a cavalry
sergeant, a very proper and soldierly person indeed.  From no other man
during the whole journey, did we gather such a store of concise and well-
arranged military information.  It was surprising to find in the desolate
wilds of our country a man so thoroughly acquainted with everything
useful to know in his line of life, and yet of such inferior rank and
unpretentious bearing.  For as much as three hours we listened to him
with unabated interest.  Finally he got upon the subject of trans-
continental travel, and presently said:

"I can tell you a very laughable thing indeed, if you would like to
listen to it.  Horace Greeley went over this road once.  When he was
leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an
engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through
quick.  Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace.  The
coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the
buttons all off of Horace's coat, and finally shot his head clean through
the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to
go easier--said he warn't in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, 'Keep your seat, Horace, and I'll get you there on
time!'--and you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!"

When we were eight hours out from Salt Lake City a Mormon preacher got in
with us at a way station--a gentle, soft-spoken, kindly man, and one whom
any stranger would warm to at first sight.  I can never forget the pathos
that was in his voice as he told, in simple language, the story of his
people's wanderings and unpitied sufferings.  No pulpit eloquence was
ever so moving and so beautiful as this outcast's picture of the first
Mormon pilgrimage across the plains, struggling sorrowfully onward to the
land of its banishment and marking its desolate way with graves and
watering it with tears.  His words so wrought upon us that it was a
relief to us all when the conversation drifted into a more cheerful
channel and the natural features of the curious country we were in came
under treatment.  One matter after another was pleasantly discussed, and
at length the stranger said:

"I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to
listen to it.  Horace Greeley went over this road once.  When he was
leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an
engagement to lecture in Placerville, and was very anxious to go through
quick.  Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace.  The
coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the
buttons all off of Horace's coat, and finally shot his head clean through
the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to
go easier--said he warn't in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, 'Keep your seat, Horace, and I'll get you there on
time!'--and you bet you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!"

Ten miles out of Ragtown we found a poor wanderer who had lain down to
die.  He had walked as long as he could, but his limbs had failed him at
last.  Hunger and fatigue had conquered him.  It would have been inhuman
to leave him there.  We paid his fare to Carson and lifted him into the
coach.  It was some little time before he showed any very decided signs
of life; but by dint of chafing him and pouring brandy between his lips
we finally brought him to a languid consciousness.  Then we fed him a
little, and by and by he seemed to comprehend the situation and a
grateful light softened his eye.  We made his mail-sack bed as
comfortable as possible, and constructed a pillow for him with our coats.
He seemed very thankful.  Then he looked up in our faces, and said in a
feeble voice that had a tremble of honest emotion in it:

"Gentlemen, I know not who you are, but you have saved my life; and
although I can never be able to repay you for it, I feel that I can at
least make one hour of your long journey lighter.  I take it you are
strangers to this great thorough fare, but I am entirely familiar with
it.  In this connection I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if
you would like to listen to it.  Horace Greeley----"

I said, impressively:

"Suffering stranger, proceed at your peril.  You see in me the melancholy
wreck of a once stalwart and magnificent manhood.  What has brought me to
this?  That thing which you are about to tell.  Gradually but surely,
that tiresome old anecdote has sapped my strength, undermined my
constitution, withered my life.  Pity my helplessness.  Spare me only
just this once, and tell me about young George Washington and his little
hatchet for a change."

We were saved.  But not so the invalid.  In trying to retain the anecdote
in his system he strained himself and died in our arms.

I am aware, now, that I ought not to have asked of the sturdiest citizen
of all that region, what I asked of that mere shadow of a man; for, after
seven years' residence on the Pacific coast, I know that no passenger or
driver on the Overland ever corked that anecdote in, when a stranger was
by, and survived.  Within a period of six years I crossed and recrossed
the Sierras between Nevada and California thirteen times by stage and
listened to that deathless incident four hundred and eighty-one or
eighty-two times.  I have the list somewhere.  Drivers always told it,
conductors told it, landlords told it, chance passengers told it, the
very Chinamen and vagrant Indians recounted it.  I have had the same
driver tell it to me two or three times in the same afternoon.  It has
come to me in all the multitude of tongues that Babel bequeathed to
earth, and flavored with whiskey, brandy, beer, cologne, sozodont,
tobacco, garlic, onions, grasshoppers--everything that has a fragrance to
it through all the long list of things that are gorged or guzzled by the
sons of men.  I never have smelt any anecdote as often as I have smelt
that one; never have smelt any anecdote that smelt so variegated as that
one.  And you never could learn to know it by its smell, because every
time you thought you had learned the smell of it, it would turn up with a
different smell.  Bayard Taylor has written about this hoary anecdote,
Richardson has published it; so have Jones, Smith, Johnson, Ross Browne,
and every other correspondence-inditing being that ever set his foot upon
the great overland road anywhere between Julesburg and San Francisco; and
I have heard that it is in the Talmud.  I have seen it in print in nine
different foreign languages; I have been told that it is employed in the
inquisition in Rome; and I now learn with regret that it is going to be
set to music.  I do not think that such things are right.

Stage-coaching on the Overland is no more, and stage drivers are a race
defunct.  I wonder if they bequeathed that bald-headed anecdote to their
successors, the railroad brakemen and conductors, and if these latter
still persecute the helpless passenger with it until he concludes, as did
many a tourist of other days, that the real grandeurs of the Pacific
coast are not Yo Semite and the Big Trees, but Hank Monk and his
adventure with Horace Greeley.  [And what makes that worn anecdote the
more aggravating, is, that the adventure it celebrates never occurred.
If it were a good anecdote, that seeming demerit would be its chiefest
virtue, for creative power belongs to greatness; but what ought to be
done to a man who would wantonly contrive so flat a one as this?  If I
were to suggest what ought to be done to him, I should be called
extravagant--but what does the sixteenth chapter of Daniel say?  Aha!]




CHAPTER XXI.

We were approaching the end of our long journey.  It was the morning of
the twentieth day.  At noon we would reach Carson City, the capital of
Nevada Territory.  We were not glad, but sorry.  It had been a fine
pleasure trip; we had fed fat on wonders every day; we were now well
accustomed to stage life, and very fond of it; so the idea of coming to a
stand-still and settling down to a humdrum existence in a village was not
agreeable, but on the contrary depressing.

Visibly our new home was a desert, walled in by barren, snow-clad
mountains.  There was not a tree in sight.  There was no vegetation but
the endless sage-brush and greasewood.  All nature was gray with it.  We
were plowing through great deeps of powdery alkali dust that rose in
thick clouds and floated across the plain like smoke from a burning
house.

We were coated with it like millers; so were the coach, the mules, the
mail-bags, the driver--we and the sage-brush and the other scenery were
all one monotonous color.  Long trains of freight wagons in the distance
envelope in ascending masses of dust suggested pictures of prairies on
fire.  These teams and their masters were the only life we saw.
Otherwise we moved in the midst of solitude, silence and desolation.
Every twenty steps we passed the skeleton of some dead beast of burthen,
with its dust-coated skin stretched tightly over its empty ribs.
Frequently a solemn raven sat upon the skull or the hips and contemplated
the passing coach with meditative serenity.

By and by Carson City was pointed out to us.  It nestled in the edge of a
great plain and was a sufficient number of miles away to look like an
assemblage of mere white spots in the shadow of a grim range of mountains
overlooking it, whose summits seemed lifted clear out of companionship
and consciousness of earthly things.

We arrived, disembarked, and the stage went on.  It was a "wooden" town;
its population two thousand souls.  The main street consisted of four or
five blocks of little white frame stores which were too high to sit down
on, but not too high for various other purposes; in fact, hardly high
enough.  They were packed close together, side by side, as if room were
scarce in that mighty plain.

The sidewalk was of boards that were more or less loose and inclined to
rattle when walked upon.  In the middle of the town, opposite the stores,
was the "plaza" which is native to all towns beyond the Rocky Mountains--
a large, unfenced, level vacancy, with a liberty pole in it, and very
useful as a place for public auctions, horse trades, and mass meetings,
and likewise for teamsters to camp in.  Two other sides of the plaza were
faced by stores, offices and stables.

The rest of Carson City was pretty scattering.

We were introduced to several citizens, at the stage-office and on the
way up to the Governor's from the hotel--among others, to a Mr. Harris,
who was on horseback; he began to say something, but interrupted himself
with the remark:

"I'll have to get you to excuse me a minute; yonder is the witness that
swore I helped to rob the California coach--a piece of impertinent
intermeddling, sir, for I am not even acquainted with the man."

Then he rode over and began to rebuke the stranger with a six-shooter,
and the stranger began to explain with another.  When the pistols were
emptied, the stranger resumed his work (mending a whip-lash), and Mr.
Harris rode by with a polite nod, homeward bound, with a bullet through
one of his lungs, and several in his hips; and from them issued little
rivulets of blood that coursed down the horse's sides and made the animal
look quite picturesque.  I never saw Harris shoot a man after that but it
recalled to mind that first day in Carson.

This was all we saw that day, for it was two o'clock, now, and according
to custom the daily "Washoe Zephyr" set in; a soaring dust-drift about
the size of the United States set up edgewise came with it, and the
capital of Nevada Territory disappeared from view.

Still, there were sights to be seen which were not wholly uninteresting
to new comers; for the vast dust cloud was thickly freckled with things
strange to the upper air--things living and dead, that flitted hither and
thither, going and coming, appearing and disappearing among the rolling
billows of dust--hats, chickens and parasols sailing in the remote
heavens; blankets, tin signs, sage-brush and shingles a shade lower;
door-mats and buffalo robes lower still; shovels and coal scuttles on the
next grade; glass doors, cats and little children on the next; disrupted
lumber yards, light buggies and wheelbarrows on the next; and down only
thirty or forty feet above ground was a scurrying storm of emigrating
roofs and vacant lots.

It was something to see that much.  I could have seen more, if I could
have kept the dust out of my eyes.

But seriously a Washoe wind is by no means a trifling matter.  It blows
flimsy houses down, lifts shingle roofs occasionally, rolls up tin ones
like sheet music, now and then blows a stage coach over and spills the
passengers; and tradition says the reason there are so many bald people
there, is, that the wind blows the hair off their heads while they are
looking skyward after their hats.  Carson streets seldom look inactive on
Summer afternoons, because there are so many citizens skipping around
their escaping hats, like chambermaids trying to head off a spider.

The "Washoe Zephyr" (Washoe is a pet nickname for Nevada) is a peculiar
Scriptural wind, in that no man knoweth "whence it cometh."  That is to
say, where it originates.  It comes right over the mountains from the
West, but when one crosses the ridge he does not find any of it on the
other side!  It probably is manufactured on the mountain-top for the
occasion, and starts from there.  It is a pretty regular wind, in the
summer time.  Its office hours are from two in the afternoon till two the
next morning; and anybody venturing abroad during those twelve hours
needs to allow for the wind or he will bring up a mile or two to leeward
of the point he is aiming at.  And yet the first complaint a Washoe
visitor to San Francisco makes, is that the sea winds blow so, there!
There is a good deal of human nature in that.

We found the state palace of the Governor of Nevada Territory to consist
of a white frame one-story house with two small rooms in it and a
stanchion supported shed in front--for grandeur--it compelled the respect
of the citizen and inspired the Indians with awe.  The newly arrived
Chief and Associate Justices of the Territory, and other machinery of the
government, were domiciled with less splendor.  They were boarding around
privately, and had their offices in their bedrooms.

The Secretary and I took quarters in the "ranch" of a worthy French lady
by the name of Bridget O'Flannigan, a camp follower of his Excellency the
Governor.  She had known him in his prosperity as commander-in-chief of
the Metropolitan Police of New York, and she would not desert him in his
adversity as Governor of Nevada.

Our room was on the lower floor, facing the plaza, and when we had got
our bed, a small table, two chairs, the government fire-proof safe, and
the Unabridged Dictionary into it, there was still room enough left for a
visitor--may be two, but not without straining the walls.  But the walls
could stand it--at least the partitions could, for they consisted simply
of one thickness of white "cotton domestic" stretched from corner to
corner of the room.  This was the rule in Carson--any other kind of
partition was the rare exception.  And if you stood in a dark room and
your neighbors in the next had lights, the shadows on your canvas told
queer secrets sometimes!  Very often these partitions were made of old
flour sacks basted together; and then the difference between the common
herd and the aristocracy was, that the common herd had unornamented
sacks, while the walls of the aristocrat were overpowering with
rudimental fresco--i.e., red and blue mill brands on the flour sacks.

Occasionally, also, the better classes embellished their canvas by
pasting pictures from Harper's Weekly on them.  In many cases, too, the
wealthy and the cultured rose to spittoons and other evidences of a
sumptuous and luxurious taste.  [Washoe people take a joke so hard that I
must explain that the above description was only the rule; there were
many honorable exceptions in Carson--plastered ceilings and houses that
had considerable furniture in them.--M. T.]

We had a carpet and a genuine queen's-ware washbowl.  Consequently we
were hated without reserve by the other tenants of the O'Flannigan
"ranch."  When we added a painted oilcloth window curtain, we simply took
our lives into our own hands.  To prevent bloodshed I removed up stairs
and took up quarters with the untitled plebeians in one of the fourteen
white pine cot-bedsteads that stood in two long ranks in the one sole
room of which the second story consisted.

It was a jolly company, the fourteen.  They were principally voluntary
camp-followers of the Governor, who had joined his retinue by their own
election at New York and San Francisco and came along, feeling that in
the scuffle for little territorial crumbs and offices they could not make
their condition more precarious than it was, and might reasonably expect
to make it better.  They were popularly known as the "Irish Brigade,"
though there were only four or five Irishmen among all the Governor's
retainers.

His good-natured Excellency was much annoyed at the gossip his henchmen
created--especially when there arose a rumor that they were paid
assassins of his, brought along to quietly reduce the democratic vote
when desirable!

Mrs. O'Flannigan was boarding and lodging them at ten dollars a week
apiece, and they were cheerfully giving their notes for it.  They were
perfectly satisfied, but Bridget presently found that notes that could
not be discounted were but a feeble constitution for a Carson boarding-
house.  So she began to harry the Governor to find employment for the
"Brigade."  Her importunities and theirs together drove him to a gentle
desperation at last, and he finally summoned the Brigade to the presence.
Then, said he:

"Gentlemen, I have planned a lucrative and useful service for you--a
service which will provide you with recreation amid noble landscapes, and
afford you never ceasing opportunities for enriching your minds by
observation and study.  I want you to survey a railroad from Carson City
westward to a certain point!  When the legislature meets I will have the
necessary bill passed and the remuneration arranged."

"What, a railroad over the Sierra Nevada Mountains?"

"Well, then, survey it eastward to a certain point!"

He converted them into surveyors, chain-bearers and so on, and turned
them loose in the desert.  It was "recreation" with a vengeance!
Recreation on foot, lugging chains through sand and sage-brush, under a
sultry sun and among cattle bones, cayotes and tarantulas.

"Romantic adventure" could go no further.  They surveyed very slowly,
very deliberately, very carefully.  They returned every night during the
first week, dusty, footsore, tired, and hungry, but very jolly.  They
brought in great store of prodigious hairy spiders--tarantulas--and
imprisoned them in covered tumblers up stairs in the "ranch."  After the
first week, they had to camp on the field, for they were getting well
eastward.  They made a good many inquiries as to the location of that
indefinite "certain point," but got no information.  At last, to a
peculiarly urgent inquiry of "How far eastward?"  Governor Nye
telegraphed back:

"To the Atlantic Ocean, blast you!--and then bridge it and go on!"

This brought back the dusty toilers, who sent in a report and ceased from
their labors.  The Governor was always comfortable about it; he said Mrs.
O'Flannigan would hold him for the Brigade's board anyhow, and he
intended to get what entertainment he could out of the boys; he said,
with his old-time pleasant twinkle, that he meant to survey them into
Utah and then telegraph Brigham to hang them for trespass!

The surveyors brought back more tarantulas with them, and so we had quite
a menagerie arranged along the shelves of the room.  Some of these
spiders could straddle over a common saucer with their hairy, muscular
legs, and when their feelings were hurt, or their dignity offended, they
were the wickedest-looking desperadoes the animal world can furnish.
If their glass prison-houses were touched ever so lightly they were up
and spoiling for a fight in a minute.  Starchy?--proud?  Indeed, they
would take up a straw and pick their teeth like a member of Congress.
There was as usual a furious "zephyr" blowing the first night of the
brigade's return, and about midnight the roof of an adjoining stable blew
off, and a corner of it came crashing through the side of our ranch.
There was a simultaneous awakening, and a tumultuous muster of the
brigade in the dark, and a general tumbling and sprawling over each other
in the narrow aisle between the bedrows.  In the midst of the turmoil,
Bob H---- sprung up out of a sound sleep, and knocked down a shelf with
his head.  Instantly he shouted:

"Turn out, boys--the tarantulas is loose!"

No warning ever sounded so dreadful.  Nobody tried, any longer, to leave
the room, lest he might step on a tarantula.  Every man groped for a
trunk or a bed, and jumped on it.  Then followed the strangest silence--a
silence of grisly suspense it was, too--waiting, expectancy, fear.  It
was as dark as pitch, and one had to imagine the spectacle of those
fourteen scant-clad men roosting gingerly on trunks and beds, for not a
thing could be seen.  Then came occasional little interruptions of the
silence, and one could recognize a man and tell his locality by his
voice, or locate any other sound a sufferer made by his gropings or
changes of position.  The occasional voices were not given to much
speaking--you simply heard a gentle ejaculation of "Ow!" followed by a
solid thump, and you knew the gentleman had felt a hairy blanket or
something touch his bare skin and had skipped from a bed to the floor.
Another silence.  Presently you would hear a gasping voice say:

"Su--su--something's crawling up the back of my neck!"

Every now and then you could hear a little subdued scramble and a
sorrowful "O Lord!" and then you knew that somebody was getting away from
something he took for a tarantula, and not losing any time about it,
either.  Directly a voice in the corner rang out wild and clear:

"I've got him!  I've got him!" [Pause, and probable change of
circumstances.]  "No, he's got me!  Oh, ain't they never going to fetch a
lantern!"

The lantern came at that moment, in the hands of Mrs. O'Flannigan, whose
anxiety to know the amount of damage done by the assaulting roof had not
prevented her waiting a judicious interval, after getting out of bed and
lighting up, to see if the wind was done, now, up stairs, or had a larger
contract.

The landscape presented when the lantern flashed into the room was
picturesque, and might have been funny to some people, but was not to us.
Although we were perched so strangely upon boxes, trunks and beds, and so
strangely attired, too, we were too earnestly distressed and too
genuinely miserable to see any fun about it, and there was not the
semblance of a smile anywhere visible.  I know I am not capable of
suffering more than I did during those few minutes of suspense in the
dark, surrounded by those creeping, bloody-minded tarantulas.  I had
skipped from bed to bed and from box to box in a cold agony, and every
time I touched anything that was furzy I fancied I felt the fangs.  I had
rather go to war than live that episode over again.  Nobody was hurt.
The man who thought a tarantula had "got him" was mistaken--only a crack
in a box had caught his finger.  Not one of those escaped tarantulas was
ever seen again.  There were ten or twelve of them.  We took candles and
hunted the place high and low for them, but with no success.  Did we go
back to bed then?  We did nothing of the kind.  Money could not have
persuaded us to do it.  We sat up the rest of the night playing cribbage
and keeping a sharp lookout for the enemy.




CHAPTER XXII.

It was the end of August, and the skies were cloudless and the weather
superb.  In two or three weeks I had grown wonderfully fascinated with
the curious new country and concluded to put off my return to "the
States" awhile.  I had grown well accustomed to wearing a damaged slouch
hat, blue woolen shirt, and pants crammed into boot-tops, and gloried in
the absence of coat, vest and braces.  I felt rowdyish and "bully," (as
the historian Josephus phrases it, in his fine chapter upon the
destruction of the Temple).  It seemed to me that nothing could be so
fine and so romantic.  I had become an officer of the government, but
that was for mere sublimity.  The office was an unique sinecure.  I had
nothing to do and no salary.  I was private Secretary to his majesty the
Secretary and there was not yet writing enough for two of us.  So Johnny
K---- and I devoted our time to amusement.  He was the young son of an
Ohio nabob and was out there for recreation.  He got it.  We had heard a
world of talk about the marvellous beauty of Lake Tahoe, and finally
curiosity drove us thither to see it.  Three or four members of the
Brigade had been there and located some timber lands on its shores and
stored up a quantity of provisions in their camp.  We strapped a couple
of blankets on our shoulders and took an axe apiece and started--for we
intended to take up a wood ranch or so ourselves and become wealthy.
We were on foot.  The reader will find it advantageous to go horseback.
We were told that the distance was eleven miles.  We tramped a long time
on level ground, and then toiled laboriously up a mountain about a
thousand miles high and looked over.  No lake there.  We descended on the
other side, crossed the valley and toiled up another mountain three or
four thousand miles high, apparently, and looked over again.  No lake
yet.  We sat down tired and perspiring, and hired a couple of Chinamen to
curse those people who had beguiled us.  Thus refreshed, we presently
resumed the march with renewed vigor and determination.  We plodded on,
two or three hours longer, and at last the Lake burst upon us--a noble
sheet of blue water lifted six thousand three hundred feet above the
level of the sea, and walled in by a rim of snow-clad mountain peaks that
towered aloft full three thousand feet higher still!  It was a vast oval,
and one would have to use up eighty or a hundred good miles in traveling
around it.  As it lay there with the shadows of the mountains brilliantly
photographed upon its still surface I thought it must surely be the
fairest picture the whole earth affords.

We found the small skiff belonging to the Brigade boys, and without loss
of time set out across a deep bend of the lake toward the landmarks that
signified the locality of the camp.  I got Johnny to row--not because I
mind exertion myself, but because it makes me sick to ride backwards when
I am at work.  But I steered.  A three-mile pull brought us to the camp
just as the night fell, and we stepped ashore very tired and wolfishly
hungry.  In a "cache" among the rocks we found the provisions and the
cooking utensils, and then, all fatigued as I was, I sat down on a
boulder and superintended while Johnny gathered wood and cooked supper.
Many a man who had gone through what I had, would have wanted to rest.

It was a delicious supper--hot bread, fried bacon, and black coffee.  It
was a delicious solitude we were in, too.  Three miles away was a saw-
mill and some workmen, but there were not fifteen other human beings
throughout the wide circumference of the lake.  As the darkness closed
down and the stars came out and spangled the great mirror with jewels, we
smoked meditatively in the solemn hush and forgot our troubles and our
pains.  In due time we spread our blankets in the warm sand between two
large boulders and soon feel asleep, careless of the procession of ants
that passed in through rents in our clothing and explored our persons.
Nothing could disturb the sleep that fettered us, for it had been fairly
earned, and if our consciences had any sins on them they had to adjourn
court for that night, any way.  The wind rose just as we were losing
consciousness, and we were lulled to sleep by the beating of the surf
upon the shore.

It is always very cold on that lake shore in the night, but we had plenty
of blankets and were warm enough.  We never moved a muscle all night, but
waked at early dawn in the original positions, and got up at once,
thoroughly refreshed, free from soreness, and brim full of friskiness.
There is no end of wholesome medicine in such an experience.  That
morning we could have whipped ten such people as we were the day before--
sick ones at any rate.  But the world is slow, and people will go to
"water cures" and "movement cures" and to foreign lands for health.
Three months of camp life on Lake Tahoe would restore an Egyptian mummy
to his pristine vigor, and give him an appetite like an alligator.  I do
not mean the oldest and driest mummies, of course, but the fresher ones.
The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and
delicious.  And why shouldn't it be?--it is the same the angels breathe.
I think that hardly any amount of fatigue can be gathered together that a
man cannot sleep off in one night on the sand by its side.  Not under a
roof, but under the sky; it seldom or never rains there in the summer
time.  I know a man who went there to die.  But he made a failure of it.
He was a skeleton when he came, and could barely stand.  He had no
appetite, and did nothing but read tracts and reflect on the future.
Three months later he was sleeping out of doors regularly, eating all he
could hold, three times a day, and chasing game over mountains three
thousand feet high for recreation.  And he was a skeleton no longer, but
weighed part of a ton.  This is no fancy sketch, but the truth.  His
disease was consumption.  I confidently commend his experience to other
skeletons.

I superintended again, and as soon as we had eaten breakfast we got in
the boat and skirted along the lake shore about three miles and
disembarked.  We liked the appearance of the place, and so we claimed
some three hundred acres of it and stuck our "notices" on a tree.  It was
yellow pine timber land--a dense forest of trees a hundred feet high and
from one to five feet through at the butt.  It was necessary to fence our
property or we could not hold it.  That is to say, it was necessary to
cut down trees here and there and make them fall in such a way as to form
a sort of enclosure (with pretty wide gaps in it).  We cut down three
trees apiece, and found it such heart-breaking work that we decided to
"rest our case" on those; if they held the property, well and good; if
they didn't, let the property spill out through the gaps and go; it was
no use to work ourselves to death merely to save a few acres of land.
Next day we came back to build a house--for a house was also necessary,
in order to hold the property.  We decided to build a substantial log-
house and excite the envy of the Brigade boys; but by the time we had cut
and trimmed the first log it seemed unnecessary to be so elaborate, and
so we concluded to build it of saplings.  However, two saplings, duly cut
and trimmed, compelled recognition of the fact that a still modester
architecture would satisfy the law, and so we concluded to build a
"brush" house.  We devoted the next day to this work, but we did so much
"sitting around" and discussing, that by the middle of the afternoon we
had achieved only a half-way sort of affair which one of us had to watch
while the other cut brush, lest if both turned our backs we might not be
able to find it again, it had such a strong family resemblance to the
surrounding vegetation.  But we were satisfied with it.

We were land owners now, duly seized and possessed, and within the
protection of the law.  Therefore we decided to take up our residence on
our own domain and enjoy that large sense of independence which only such
an experience can bring.  Late the next afternoon, after a good long
rest, we sailed away from the Brigade camp with all the provisions and
cooking utensils we could carry off--borrow is the more accurate word--
and just as the night was falling we beached the boat at our own landing.




CHAPTER XXIII.

If there is any life that is happier than the life we led on our timber
ranch for the next two or three weeks, it must be a sort of life which I
have not read of in books or experienced in person.  We did not see a
human being but ourselves during the time, or hear any sounds but those
that were made by the wind and the waves, the sighing of the pines, and
now and then the far-off thunder of an avalanche.  The forest about us
was dense and cool, the sky above us was cloudless and brilliant with
sunshine, the broad lake before us was glassy and clear, or rippled and
breezy, or black and storm-tossed, according to Nature's mood; and its
circling border of mountain domes, clothed with forests, scarred with
land-slides, cloven by canons and valleys, and helmeted with glittering
snow, fitly framed and finished the noble picture.  The view was always
fascinating, bewitching, entrancing.  The eye was never tired of gazing,
night or day, in calm or storm; it suffered but one grief, and that was
that it could not look always, but must close sometimes in sleep.

We slept in the sand close to the water's edge, between two protecting
boulders, which took care of the stormy night-winds for us.  We never
took any paregoric to make us sleep.  At the first break of dawn we were
always up and running foot-races to tone down excess of physical vigor
and exuberance of spirits.  That is, Johnny was--but I held his hat.
While smoking the pipe of peace after breakfast we watched the sentinel
peaks put on the glory of the sun, and followed the conquering light as
it swept down among the shadows, and set the captive crags and forests
free.  We watched the tinted pictures grow and brighten upon the water
till every little detail of forest, precipice and pinnacle was wrought in
and finished, and the miracle of the enchanter complete.  Then to
"business."

That is, drifting around in the boat.  We were on the north shore.
There, the rocks on the bottom are sometimes gray, sometimes white.
This gives the marvelous transparency of the water a fuller advantage
than it has elsewhere on the lake.  We usually pushed out a hundred yards
or so from shore, and then lay down on the thwarts, in the sun, and let
the boat drift by the hour whither it would.  We seldom talked.
It interrupted the Sabbath stillness, and marred the dreams the luxurious
rest and indolence brought.  The shore all along was indented with deep,
curved bays and coves, bordered by narrow sand-beaches; and where the
sand ended, the steep mountain-sides rose right up aloft into space--rose
up like a vast wall a little out of the perpendicular, and thickly wooded
with tall pines.

So singularly clear was the water, that where it was only twenty or
thirty feet deep the bottom was so perfectly distinct that the boat
seemed floating in the air!  Yes, where it was even eighty feet deep.
Every little pebble was distinct, every speckled trout, every hand's-
breadth of sand.  Often, as we lay on our faces, a granite boulder, as
large as a village church, would start out of the bottom apparently, and
seem climbing up rapidly to the surface, till presently it threatened to
touch our faces, and we could not resist the impulse to seize an oar and
avert the danger.  But the boat would float on, and the boulder descend
again, and then we could see that when we had been exactly above it, it
must still have been twenty or thirty feet below the surface.  Down
through the transparency of these great depths, the water was not merely
transparent, but dazzlingly, brilliantly so.  All objects seen through it
had a bright, strong vividness, not only of outline, but of every minute
detail, which they would not have had when seen simply through the same
depth of atmosphere.  So empty and airy did all spaces seem below us, and
so strong was the sense of floating high aloft in mid-nothingness, that
we called these boat-excursions "balloon-voyages."

We fished a good deal, but we did not average one fish a week.  We could
see trout by the thousand winging about in the emptiness under us, or
sleeping in shoals on the bottom, but they would not bite--they could see
the line too plainly, perhaps.  We frequently selected the trout we
wanted, and rested the bait patiently and persistently on the end of his
nose at a depth of eighty feet, but he would only shake it off with an
annoyed manner, and shift his position.

We bathed occasionally, but the water was rather chilly, for all it
looked so sunny.  Sometimes we rowed out to the "blue water," a mile or
two from shore.  It was as dead blue as indigo there, because of the
immense depth.  By official measurement the lake in its centre is one
thousand five hundred and twenty-five feet deep!

Sometimes, on lazy afternoons, we lolled on the sand in camp, and smoked
pipes and read some old well-worn novels.  At night, by the camp-fire, we
played euchre and seven-up to strengthen the mind--and played them with
cards so greasy and defaced that only a whole summer's acquaintance with
them could enable the student to tell the ace of clubs from the jack of
diamonds.

We never slept in our "house."  It never recurred to us, for one thing;
and besides, it was built to hold the ground, and that was enough.  We
did not wish to strain it.

By and by our provisions began to run short, and we went back to the old
camp and laid in a new supply.  We were gone all day, and reached home
again about night-fall, pretty tired and hungry.  While Johnny was
carrying the main bulk of the provisions up to our "house" for future
use, I took the loaf of bread, some slices of bacon, and the coffee-pot,
ashore, set them down by a tree, lit a fire, and went back to the boat to
get the frying-pan.  While I was at this, I heard a shout from Johnny,
and looking up I saw that my fire was galloping all over the premises!
Johnny was on the other side of it.  He had to run through the flames to
get to the lake shore, and then we stood helpless and watched the
devastation.

The ground was deeply carpeted with dry pine-needles, and the fire
touched them off as if they were gunpowder.  It was wonderful to see with
what fierce speed the tall sheet of flame traveled!  My coffee-pot was
gone, and everything with it.  In a minute and a half the fire seized
upon a dense growth of dry manzanita chapparal six or eight feet high,
and then the roaring and popping and crackling was something terrific.
We were driven to the boat by the intense heat, and there we remained,
spell-bound.

Within half an hour all before us was a tossing, blinding tempest of
flame!  It went surging up adjacent ridges--surmounted them and
disappeared in the canons beyond--burst into view upon higher and farther
ridges, presently--shed a grander illumination abroad, and dove again--
flamed out again, directly, higher and still higher up the mountain-side-
-threw out skirmishing parties of fire here and there, and sent them
trailing their crimson spirals away among remote ramparts and ribs and
gorges, till as far as the eye could reach the lofty mountain-fronts were
webbed as it were with a tangled network of red lava streams.  Away
across the water the crags and domes were lit with a ruddy glare, and the
firmament above was a reflected hell!

Every feature of the spectacle was repeated in the glowing mirror of the
lake!  Both pictures were sublime, both were beautiful; but that in the
lake had a bewildering richness about it that enchanted the eye and held
it with the stronger fascination.

We sat absorbed and motionless through four long hours.  We never thought
of supper, and never felt fatigue.  But at eleven o'clock the
conflagration had traveled beyond our range of vision, and then darkness
stole down upon the landscape again.

Hunger asserted itself now, but there was nothing to eat.  The provisions
were all cooked, no doubt, but we did not go to see.  We were homeless
wanderers again, without any property.  Our fence was gone, our house
burned down; no insurance.  Our pine forest was well scorched, the dead
trees all burned up, and our broad acres of manzanita swept away.  Our
blankets were on our usual sand-bed, however, and so we lay down and went
to sleep.  The next morning we started back to the old camp, but while
out a long way from shore, so great a storm came up that we dared not try
to land.  So I baled out the seas we shipped, and Johnny pulled heavily
through the billows till we had reached a point three or four miles
beyond the camp.  The storm was increasing, and it became evident that it
was better to take the hazard of beaching the boat than go down in a
hundred fathoms of water; so we ran in, with tall white-caps following,
and I sat down in the stern-sheets and pointed her head-on to the shore.
The instant the bow struck, a wave came over the stern that washed crew
and cargo ashore, and saved a deal of trouble.  We shivered in the lee of
a boulder all the rest of the day, and froze all the night through.  In
the morning the tempest had gone down, and we paddled down to the camp
without any unnecessary delay.  We were so starved that we ate up the
rest of the Brigade's provisions, and then set out to Carson to tell them
about it and ask their forgiveness.  It was accorded, upon payment of
damages.

We made many trips to the lake after that, and had many a hair-breadth
escape and blood-curdling adventure which will never be recorded in any
history.




CHAPTER XXIV.

I resolved to have a horse to ride.  I had never seen such wild, free,
magnificent horsemanship outside of a circus as these picturesquely-clad
Mexicans, Californians and Mexicanized Americans displayed in Carson
streets every day.  How they rode!  Leaning just gently forward out of
the perpendicular, easy and nonchalant, with broad slouch-hat brim blown
square up in front, and long riata swinging above the head, they swept
through the town like the wind!  The next minute they were only a sailing
puff of dust on the far desert.  If they trotted, they sat up gallantly
and gracefully, and seemed part of the horse; did not go jiggering up and
down after the silly Miss-Nancy fashion of the riding-schools.  I had
quickly learned to tell a horse from a cow, and was full of anxiety to
learn more.  I was resolved to buy a horse.

While the thought was rankling in my mind, the auctioneer came skurrying
through the plaza on a black beast that had as many humps and corners on
him as a dromedary, and was necessarily uncomely; but he was "going,
going, at twenty-two!--horse, saddle and bridle at twenty-two dollars,
gentlemen!" and I could hardly resist.

A man whom I did not know (he turned out to be the auctioneer's brother)
noticed the wistful look in my eye, and observed that that was a very
remarkable horse to be going at such a price; and added that the saddle
alone was worth the money.  It was a Spanish saddle, with ponderous
'tapidaros', and furnished with the ungainly sole-leather covering with
the unspellable name.  I said I had half a notion to bid.  Then this
keen-eyed person appeared to me to be "taking my measure"; but I
dismissed the suspicion when he spoke, for his manner was full of
guileless candor and truthfulness.  Said he:

"I know that horse--know him well.  You are a stranger, I take it, and so
you might think he was an American horse, maybe, but I assure you he is
not.  He is nothing of the kind; but--excuse my speaking in a low voice,
other people being near--he is, without the shadow of a doubt, a Genuine
Mexican Plug!"

I did not know what a Genuine Mexican Plug was, but there was something
about this man's way of saying it, that made me swear inwardly that I
would own a Genuine Mexican Plug, or die.

"Has he any other--er--advantages?"  I inquired, suppressing what
eagerness I could.

He hooked his forefinger in the pocket of my army-shirt, led me to one
side, and breathed in my ear impressively these words:

"He can out-buck anything in America!"

"Going, going, going--at twent--ty--four dollars and a half, gen--"

"Twenty-seven!" I shouted, in a frenzy.

"And sold!" said the auctioneer, and passed over the Genuine Mexican Plug
to me.

I could scarcely contain my exultation.  I paid the money, and put the
animal in a neighboring livery-stable to dine and rest himself.

In the afternoon I brought the creature into the plaza, and certain
citizens held him by the head, and others by the tail, while I mounted
him.  As soon as they let go, he placed all his feet in a bunch together,
lowered his back, and then suddenly arched it upward, and shot me
straight into the air a matter of three or four feet!  I came as straight
down again, lit in the saddle, went instantly up again, came down almost
on the high pommel, shot up again, and came down on the horse's neck--all
in the space of three or four seconds.  Then he rose and stood almost
straight up on his hind feet, and I, clasping his lean neck desperately,
slid back into the saddle and held on.  He came down, and immediately
hoisted his heels into the air, delivering a vicious kick at the sky, and
stood on his forefeet.  And then down he came once more, and began the
original exercise of shooting me straight up again.  The third time I
went up I heard a stranger say:

"Oh, don't he buck, though!"

While I was up, somebody struck the horse a sounding thwack with a
leathern strap, and when I arrived again the Genuine Mexican Plug was not
there.  A California youth chased him up and caught him, and asked if he
might have a ride.  I granted him that luxury.  He mounted the Genuine,
got lifted into the air once, but sent his spurs home as he descended,
and the horse darted away like a telegram.  He soared over three fences
like a bird, and disappeared down the road toward the Washoe Valley.

I sat down on a stone, with a sigh, and by a natural impulse one of my
hands sought my forehead, and the other the base of my stomach.  I
believe I never appreciated, till then, the poverty of the human
machinery--for I still needed a hand or two to place elsewhere.  Pen
cannot describe how I was jolted up.  Imagination cannot conceive how
disjointed I was--how internally, externally and universally I was
unsettled, mixed up and ruptured.  There was a sympathetic crowd around
me, though.

One elderly-looking comforter said:

"Stranger, you've been taken in.  Everybody in this camp knows that
horse.  Any child, any Injun, could have told you that he'd buck; he is
the very worst devil to buck on the continent of America.  You hear me.
I'm Curry.  Old Curry.  Old Abe Curry.  And moreover, he is a simon-pure,
out-and-out, genuine d--d Mexican plug, and an uncommon mean one at that,
too.  Why, you turnip, if you had laid low and kept dark, there's chances
to buy an American horse for mighty little more than you paid for that
bloody old foreign relic."

I gave no sign; but I made up my mind that if the auctioneer's brother's
funeral took place while I was in the Territory I would postpone all
other recreations and attend it.

After a gallop of sixteen miles the Californian youth and the Genuine
Mexican Plug came tearing into town again, shedding foam-flakes like the
spume-spray that drives before a typhoon, and, with one final skip over a
wheelbarrow and a Chinaman, cast anchor in front of the "ranch."

Such panting and blowing!  Such spreading and contracting of the red
equine nostrils, and glaring of the wild equine eye!  But was the
imperial beast subjugated?  Indeed he was not.

His lordship the Speaker of the House thought he was, and mounted him to
go down to the Capitol; but the first dash the creature made was over a
pile of telegraph poles half as high as a church; and his time to the
Capitol--one mile and three quarters--remains unbeaten to this day.  But
then he took an advantage--he left out the mile, and only did the three
quarters.  That is to say, he made a straight cut across lots, preferring
fences and ditches to a crooked road; and when the Speaker got to the
Capitol he said he had been in the air so much he felt as if he had made
the trip on a comet.

In the evening the Speaker came home afoot for exercise, and got the
Genuine towed back behind a quartz wagon.  The next day I loaned the
animal to the Clerk of the House to go down to the Dana silver mine, six
miles, and he walked back for exercise, and got the horse towed.
Everybody I loaned him to always walked back; they never could get enough
exercise any other way.

Still, I continued to loan him to anybody who was willing to borrow him,
my idea being to get him crippled, and throw him on the borrower's hands,
or killed, and make the borrower pay for him.  But somehow nothing ever
happened to him.  He took chances that no other horse ever took and
survived, but he always came out safe.  It was his daily habit to try
experiments that had always before been considered impossible, but he
always got through.  Sometimes he miscalculated a little, and did not get
his rider through intact, but he always got through himself.  Of course I
had tried to sell him; but that was a stretch of simplicity which met
with little sympathy.  The auctioneer stormed up and down the streets on
him for four days, dispersing the populace, interrupting business, and
destroying children, and never got a bid--at least never any but the
eighteen-dollar one he hired a notoriously substanceless bummer to make.
The people only smiled pleasantly, and restrained their desire to buy, if
they had any.  Then the auctioneer brought in his bill, and I withdrew
the horse from the market.  We tried to trade him off at private vendue
next, offering him at a sacrifice for second-hand tombstones, old iron,
temperance tracts--any kind of property.  But holders were stiff, and we
retired from the market again.  I never tried to ride the horse any more.
Walking was good enough exercise for a man like me, that had nothing the
matter with him except ruptures, internal injuries, and such things.
Finally I tried to give him away.  But it was a failure.  Parties said
earthquakes were handy enough on the Pacific coast--they did not wish to
own one.  As a last resort I offered him to the Governor for the use of
the "Brigade."  His face lit up eagerly at first, but toned down again,
and he said the thing would be too palpable.

Just then the livery stable man brought in his bill for six weeks'
keeping--stall-room for the horse, fifteen dollars; hay for the horse,
two hundred and fifty!  The Genuine Mexican Plug had eaten a ton of the
article, and the man said he would have eaten a hundred if he had let
him.

I will remark here, in all seriousness, that the regular price of hay
during that year and a part of the next was really two hundred and fifty
dollars a ton.  During a part of the previous year it had sold at five
hundred a ton, in gold, and during the winter before that there was such
scarcity of the article that in several instances small quantities had
brought eight hundred dollars a ton in coin!  The consequence might be
guessed without my telling it: peopled turned their stock loose to
starve, and before the spring arrived Carson and Eagle valleys were
almost literally carpeted with their carcases!  Any old settler there
will verify these statements.

I managed to pay the livery bill, and that same day I gave the Genuine
Mexican Plug to a passing Arkansas emigrant whom fortune delivered into
my hand.  If this ever meets his eye, he will doubtless remember the
donation.

Now whoever has had the luck to ride a real Mexican plug will recognize
the animal depicted in this chapter, and hardly consider him exaggerated
--but the uninitiated will feel justified in regarding his portrait as a
fancy sketch, perhaps.




CHAPTER XXV.

Originally, Nevada was a part of Utah and was called Carson county; and a
pretty large county it was, too.  Certain of its valleys produced no end
of hay, and this attracted small colonies of Mormon stock-raisers and
farmers to them.  A few orthodox Americans straggled in from California,
but no love was lost between the two classes of colonists.  There was
little or no friendly intercourse; each party staid to itself.  The
Mormons were largely in the majority, and had the additional advantage of
being peculiarly under the protection of the Mormon government of the
Territory.  Therefore they could afford to be distant, and even
peremptory toward their neighbors.  One of the traditions of Carson
Valley illustrates the condition of things that prevailed at the time I
speak of.  The hired girl of one of the American families was Irish, and
a Catholic; yet it was noted with surprise that she was the only person
outside of the Mormon ring who could get favors from the Mormons.  She
asked kindnesses of them often, and always got them.  It was a mystery to
everybody.  But one day as she was passing out at the door, a large bowie
knife dropped from under her apron, and when her mistress asked for an
explanation she observed that she was going out to "borry a wash-tub from
the Mormons!"

In 1858 silver lodes were discovered in "Carson County," and then the
aspect of things changed.  Californians began to flock in, and the
American element was soon in the majority.  Allegiance to Brigham Young
and Utah was renounced, and a temporary territorial government for
"Washoe" was instituted by the citizens.  Governor Roop was the first and
only chief magistrate of it.  In due course of time Congress passed a
bill to organize "Nevada Territory," and President Lincoln sent out
Governor Nye to supplant Roop.

At this time the population of the Territory was about twelve or fifteen
thousand, and rapidly increasing.  Silver mines were being vigorously
developed and silver mills erected.  Business of all kinds was active and
prosperous and growing more so day by day.

The people were glad to have a legitimately constituted government, but
did not particularly enjoy having strangers from distant States put in
authority over them--a sentiment that was natural enough.  They thought
the officials should have been chosen from among themselves from among
prominent citizens who had earned a right to such promotion, and who
would be in sympathy with the populace and likewise thoroughly acquainted
with the needs of the Territory.  They were right in viewing the matter
thus, without doubt.  The new officers were "emigrants," and that was no
title to anybody's affection or admiration either.

The new government was received with considerable coolness.  It was not
only a foreign intruder, but a poor one.  It was not even worth plucking
--except by the smallest of small fry office-seekers and such.  Everybody
knew that Congress had appropriated only twenty thousand dollars a year
in greenbacks for its support--about money enough to run a quartz mill a
month.  And everybody knew, also, that the first year's money was still
in Washington, and that the getting hold of it would be a tedious and
difficult process.  Carson City was too wary and too wise to open up a
credit account with the imported bantling with anything like indecent
haste.

There is something solemnly funny about the struggles of a new-born
Territorial government to get a start in this world.  Ours had a trying
time of it.  The Organic Act and the "instructions" from the State
Department commanded that a legislature should be elected at such-and-
such a time, and its sittings inaugurated at such-and-such a date.  It
was easy to get legislators, even at three dollars a day, although board
was four dollars and fifty cents, for distinction has its charm in Nevada
as well as elsewhere, and there were plenty of patriotic souls out of
employment; but to get a legislative hall for them to meet in was another
matter altogether.  Carson blandly declined to give a room rent-free, or
let one to the government on credit.

But when Curry heard of the difficulty, he came forward, solitary and
alone, and shouldered the Ship of State over the bar and got her afloat
again.  I refer to "Curry--Old Curry--Old Abe Curry."  But for him the
legislature would have been obliged to sit in the desert.  He offered his
large stone building just outside the capital limits, rent-free, and it
was gladly accepted.  Then he built a horse-railroad from town to the
capitol, and carried the legislators gratis.

He also furnished pine benches and chairs for the legislature, and
covered the floors with clean saw-dust by way of carpet and spittoon
combined.  But for Curry the government would have died in its tender
infancy.  A canvas partition to separate the Senate from the House of
Representatives was put up by the Secretary, at a cost of three dollars
and forty cents, but the United States declined to pay for it.  Upon
being reminded that the "instructions" permitted the payment of a liberal
rent for a legislative hall, and that that money was saved to the country
by Mr. Curry's generosity, the United States said that did not alter the
matter, and the three dollars and forty cents would be subtracted from
the Secretary's eighteen hundred dollar salary--and it was!

The matter of printing was from the beginning an interesting feature of
the new government's difficulties.  The Secretary was sworn to obey his
volume of written "instructions," and these commanded him to do two
certain things without fail, viz.:

1.  Get the House and Senate journals printed; and,
2.  For this work, pay one dollar and fifty cents per "thousand" for
composition, and one dollar and fifty cents per "token" for press-work,
in greenbacks.

It was easy to swear to do these two things, but it was entirely
impossible to do more than one of them.  When greenbacks had gone down to
forty cents on the dollar, the prices regularly charged everybody by
printing establishments were one dollar and fifty cents per "thousand"
and one dollar and fifty cents per "token," in gold.  The "instructions"
commanded that the Secretary regard a paper dollar issued by the
government as equal to any other dollar issued by the government.  Hence
the printing of the journals was discontinued.  Then the United States
sternly rebuked the Secretary for disregarding the "instructions," and
warned him to correct his ways.  Wherefore he got some printing done,
forwarded the bill to Washington with full exhibits of the high prices of
things in the Territory, and called attention to a printed market report
wherein it would be observed that even hay was two hundred and fifty
dollars a ton.  The United States responded by subtracting the printing-
bill from the Secretary's suffering salary--and moreover remarked with
dense gravity that he would find nothing in his "instructions" requiring
him to purchase hay!

Nothing in this world is palled in such impenetrable obscurity as a U.S.
Treasury Comptroller's understanding.  The very fires of the hereafter
could get up nothing more than a fitful glimmer in it.  In the days I
speak of he never could be made to comprehend why it was that twenty
thousand dollars would not go as far in Nevada, where all commodities
ranged at an enormous figure, as it would in the other Territories, where
exceeding cheapness was the rule.  He was an officer who looked out for
the little expenses all the time.  The Secretary of the Territory kept
his office in his bedroom, as I before remarked; and he charged the
United States no rent, although his "instructions" provided for that item
and he could have justly taken advantage of it (a thing which I would
have done with more than lightning promptness if I had been Secretary
myself).  But the United States never applauded this devotion.  Indeed, I
think my country was ashamed to have so improvident a person in its
employ.

Those "instructions" (we used to read a chapter from them every morning,
as intellectual gymnastics, and a couple of chapters in Sunday school
every Sabbath, for they treated of all subjects under the sun and had
much valuable religious matter in them along with the other statistics)
those "instructions" commanded that pen-knives, envelopes, pens and
writing-paper be furnished the members of the legislature.  So the
Secretary made the purchase and the distribution.  The knives cost three
dollars apiece.  There was one too many, and the Secretary gave it to the
Clerk of the House of Representatives.  The United States said the Clerk
of the House was not a "member" of the legislature, and took that three
dollars out of the Secretary's salary, as usual.

White men charged three or four dollars a "load" for sawing up stove-
wood.  The Secretary was sagacious enough to know that the United States
would never pay any such price as that; so he got an Indian to saw up a
load of office wood at one dollar and a half.  He made out the usual
voucher, but signed no name to it--simply appended a note explaining that
an Indian had done the work, and had done it in a very capable and
satisfactory way, but could not sign the voucher owing to lack of ability
in the necessary direction.  The Secretary had to pay that dollar and a
half.  He thought the United States would admire both his economy and his
honesty in getting the work done at half price and not putting a
pretended Indian's signature to the voucher, but the United States did
not see it in that light.

The United States was too much accustomed to employing dollar-and-a-half
thieves in all manner of official capacities to regard his explanation of
the voucher as having any foundation in fact.

But the next time the Indian sawed wood for us I taught him to make a
cross at the bottom of the voucher--it looked like a cross that had been
drunk a year--and then I "witnessed" it and it went through all right.
The United States never said a word.  I was sorry I had not made the
voucher for a thousand loads of wood instead of one.

The government of my country snubs honest simplicity but fondles artistic
villainy, and I think I might have developed into a very capable
pickpocket if I had remained in the public service a year or two.

That was a fine collection of sovereigns, that first Nevada legislature.
They levied taxes to the amount of thirty or forty thousand dollars and
ordered expenditures to the extent of about a million.  Yet they had
their little periodical explosions of economy like all other bodies of
the kind.  A member proposed to save three dollars a day to the nation by
dispensing with the Chaplain.  And yet that short-sighted man needed the
Chaplain more than any other member, perhaps, for he generally sat with
his feet on his desk, eating raw turnips, during the morning prayer.

The legislature sat sixty days, and passed private tollroad franchises
all the time.  When they adjourned it was estimated that every citizen
owned about three franchises, and it was believed that unless Congress
gave the Territory another degree of longitude there would not be room
enough to accommodate the toll-roads.  The ends of them were hanging over
the boundary line everywhere like a fringe.

The fact is, the freighting business had grown to such important
proportions that there was nearly as much excitement over suddenly
acquired toll-road fortunes as over the wonderful silver mines.




CHAPTER XXVI.

By and by I was smitten with the silver fever.  "Prospecting parties"
were leaving for the mountains every day, and discovering and taking
possession of rich silver-bearing lodes and ledges of quartz.  Plainly
this was the road to fortune.  The great "Gould and Curry" mine was held
at three or four hundred dollars a foot when we arrived; but in two
months it had sprung up to eight hundred.  The "Ophir" had been worth
only a mere trifle, a year gone by, and now it was selling at nearly four
thousand dollars a foot!  Not a mine could be named that had not
experienced an astonishing advance in value within a short time.
Everybody was talking about these marvels.  Go where you would, you heard
nothing else, from morning till far into the night.  Tom So-and-So had
sold out of the "Amanda Smith" for $40,000--hadn't a cent when he "took
up" the ledge six months ago.  John Jones had sold half his interest in
the "Bald Eagle and Mary Ann" for $65,000, gold coin, and gone to the
States for his family.  The widow Brewster had "struck it rich" in the
"Golden Fleece" and sold ten feet for $18,000--hadn't money enough to buy
a crape bonnet when Sing-Sing Tommy killed her husband at Baldy Johnson's
wake last spring.  The "Last Chance" had found a "clay casing" and knew
they were "right on the ledge"--consequence, "feet" that went begging
yesterday were worth a brick house apiece to-day, and seedy owners who
could not get trusted for a drink at any bar in the country yesterday
were roaring drunk on champagne to-day and had hosts of warm personal
friends in a town where they had forgotten how to bow or shake hands from
long-continued want of practice.  Johnny Morgan, a common loafer, had
gone to sleep in the gutter and waked up worth a hundred thousand
dollars, in consequence of the decision in the "Lady Franklin and Rough
and Ready" lawsuit.  And so on--day in and day out the talk pelted our
ears and the excitement waxed hotter and hotter around us.

I would have been more or less than human if I had not gone mad like the
rest.  Cart-loads of solid silver bricks, as large as pigs of lead, were
arriving from the mills every day, and such sights as that gave substance
to the wild talk about me.  I succumbed and grew as frenzied as the
craziest.

Every few days news would come of the discovery of a bran-new mining
region; immediately the papers would teem with accounts of its richness,
and away the surplus population would scamper to take possession.  By the
time I was fairly inoculated with the disease, "Esmeralda" had just had a
run and "Humboldt" was beginning to shriek for attention.  "Humboldt!
Humboldt!" was the new cry, and straightway Humboldt, the newest of the
new, the richest of the rich, the most marvellous of the marvellous
discoveries in silver-land was occupying two columns of the public prints
to "Esmeralda's" one.  I was just on the point of starting to Esmeralda,
but turned with the tide and got ready for Humboldt.  That the reader may
see what moved me, and what would as surely have moved him had he been
there, I insert here one of the newspaper letters of the day.  It and
several other letters from the same calm hand were the main means of
converting me.  I shall not garble the extract, but put it in just as it
appeared in the Daily Territorial Enterprise:

      But what about our mines?  I shall be candid with you.  I shall
      express an honest opinion, based upon a thorough examination.
      Humboldt county is the richest mineral region upon God's footstool.
      Each mountain range is gorged with the precious ores.  Humboldt is
      the true Golconda.

      The other day an assay of mere croppings yielded exceeding four
      thousand dollars to the ton.  A week or two ago an assay of just
      such surface developments made returns of seven thousand dollars to
      the ton.  Our mountains are full of rambling prospectors.  Each day
      and almost every hour reveals new and more startling evidences of
      the profuse and intensified wealth of our favored county.  The metal
      is not silver alone.  There are distinct ledges of auriferous ore.
      A late discovery plainly evinces cinnabar.  The coarser metals are
      in gross abundance.  Lately evidences of bituminous coal have been
      detected.  My theory has ever been that coal is a ligneous
      formation.  I told Col.  Whitman, in times past, that the
      neighborhood of Dayton (Nevada) betrayed no present or previous
      manifestations of a ligneous foundation, and that hence I had no
      confidence in his lauded coal mines.  I repeated the same doctrine
      to the exultant coal discoverers of Humboldt.  I talked with my
      friend Captain Burch on the subject.  My pyrhanism vanished upon his
      statement that in the very region referred to he had seen petrified
      trees of the length of two hundred feet.  Then is the fact
      established that huge forests once cast their grim shadows over this
      remote section.  I am firm in the coal faith.

      Have no fears of the mineral resources of Humboldt county.  They are
      immense--incalculable.

Let me state one or two things which will help the reader to better
comprehend certain items in the above.  At this time, our near neighbor,
Gold Hill, was the most successful silver mining locality in Nevada.  It
was from there that more than half the daily shipments of silver bricks
came.  "Very rich" (and scarce) Gold Hill ore yielded from $100 to $400
to the ton; but the usual yield was only $20 to $40 per ton--that is to
say, each hundred pounds of ore yielded from one dollar to two dollars.
But the reader will perceive by the above extract, that in Humboldt from
one fourth to nearly half the mass was silver!  That is to say, every one
hundred pounds of the ore had from two hundred dollars up to about three
hundred and fifty in it.  Some days later this same correspondent wrote:

      I have spoken of the vast and almost fabulous wealth of this
      region--it is incredible.  The intestines of our mountains are
      gorged with precious ore to plethora.  I have said that nature
      has so shaped our mountains as to furnish most excellent
      facilities for the working of our mines.  I have also told you
      that the country about here is pregnant with the finest mill
      sites in the world.  But what is the mining history of Humboldt?
      The Sheba mine is in the hands of energetic San Francisco
      capitalists.  It would seem that the ore is combined with metals
      that render it difficult of reduction with our imperfect mountain
      machinery.  The proprietors have combined the capital and labor
      hinted at in my exordium.  They are toiling and probing.  Their
      tunnel has reached the length of one hundred feet.  From primal
      assays alone, coupled with the development of the mine and public
      confidence in the continuance of effort, the stock had reared
      itself to eight hundred dollars market value.  I do not know that
      one ton of the ore has been converted into current metal.  I do
      know that there are many lodes in this section that surpass the
      Sheba in primal assay value.  Listen a moment to the calculations
      of the Sheba operators.  They purpose transporting the ore
      concentrated to Europe.  The conveyance from Star City (its
      locality) to Virginia City will cost seventy dollars per ton;
      from Virginia to San Francisco, forty dollars per ton; from
      thence to Liverpool, its destination, ten dollars per ton.  Their
      idea is that its conglomerate metals will reimburse them their
      cost of original extraction, the price of transportation, and the
      expense of reduction, and that then a ton of the raw ore will net
      them twelve hundred dollars.  The estimate may be extravagant.
      Cut it in twain, and the product is enormous, far transcending
      any previous developments of our racy Territory.

      A very common calculation is that many of our mines will yield
      five hundred dollars to the ton.  Such fecundity throws the Gould
      & Curry, the Ophir and the Mexican, of your neighborhood, in the
      darkest shadow.  I have given you the estimate of the value of a
      single developed mine.  Its richness is indexed by its market
      valuation.  The people of Humboldt county are feet crazy.  As I
      write, our towns are near deserted.  They look as languid as a
      consumptive girl.  What has become of our sinewy and athletic
      fellow-citizens?  They are coursing through ravines and over
      mountain tops.  Their tracks are visible in every direction.
      Occasionally a horseman will dash among us.  His steed betrays
      hard usage.  He alights before his adobe dwelling, hastily
      exchanges courtesies with his townsmen, hurries to an assay
      office and from thence to the District Recorder's.  In the
      morning, having renewed his provisional supplies, he is off again
      on his wild and unbeaten route.  Why, the fellow numbers already
      his feet by the thousands.  He is the horse-leech.  He has the
      craving stomach of the shark or anaconda.  He would conquer
      metallic worlds.

This was enough.  The instant we had finished reading the above article,
four of us decided to go to Humboldt.  We commenced getting ready at
once.  And we also commenced upbraiding ourselves for not deciding
sooner--for we were in terror lest all the rich mines would be found and
secured before we got there, and we might have to put up with ledges that
would not yield more than two or three hundred dollars a ton, maybe.  An
hour before, I would have felt opulent if I had owned ten feet in a Gold
Hill mine whose ore produced twenty-five dollars to the ton; now I was
already annoyed at the prospect of having to put up with mines the
poorest of which would be a marvel in Gold Hill.




CHAPTER XXVII.

Hurry, was the word!  We wasted no time.  Our party consisted of four
persons--a blacksmith sixty years of age, two young lawyers, and myself.
We bought a wagon and two miserable old horses.  We put eighteen hundred
pounds of provisions and mining tools in the wagon and drove out of
Carson on a chilly December afternoon.  The horses were so weak and old
that we soon found that it would be better if one or two of us got out
and walked.  It was an improvement.  Next, we found that it would be
better if a third man got out.  That was an improvement also.  It was at
this time that I volunteered to drive, although I had never driven a
harnessed horse before and many a man in such a position would have felt
fairly excused from such a responsibility.  But in a little while it was
found that it would be a fine thing if the drive got out and walked also.
It was at this time that I resigned the position of driver, and never
resumed it again.  Within the hour, we found that it would not only be
better, but was absolutely necessary, that we four, taking turns, two at
a time, should put our hands against the end of the wagon and push it
through the sand, leaving the feeble horses little to do but keep out of
the way and hold up the tongue.  Perhaps it is well for one to know his
fate at first, and get reconciled to it.  We had learned ours in one
afternoon.  It was plain that we had to walk through the sand and shove
that wagon and those horses two hundred miles.  So we accepted the
situation, and from that time forth we never rode.  More than that, we
stood regular and nearly constant watches pushing up behind.

We made seven miles, and camped in the desert.  Young Clagett (now member
of Congress from Montana) unharnessed and fed and watered the horses;
Oliphant and I cut sagebrush, built the fire and brought water to cook
with; and old Mr. Ballou the blacksmith did the cooking.  This division
of labor, and this appointment, was adhered to throughout the journey.
We had no tent, and so we slept under our blankets in the open plain.  We
were so tired that we slept soundly.

We were fifteen days making the trip--two hundred miles; thirteen,
rather, for we lay by a couple of days, in one place, to let the horses
rest.

We could really have accomplished the journey in ten days if we had towed
the horses behind the wagon, but we did not think of that until it was
too late, and so went on shoving the horses and the wagon too when we
might have saved half the labor.  Parties who met us, occasionally,
advised us to put the horses in the wagon, but Mr. Ballou, through whose
iron-clad earnestness no sarcasm could pierce, said that that would not
do, because the provisions were exposed and would suffer, the horses
being "bituminous from long deprivation."  The reader will excuse me from
translating.  What Mr. Ballou customarily meant, when he used a long
word, was a secret between himself and his Maker.  He was one of the best
and kindest hearted men that ever graced a humble sphere of life.  He was
gentleness and simplicity itself--and unselfishness, too.  Although he
was more than twice as old as the eldest of us, he never gave himself any
airs, privileges, or exemptions on that account.  He did a young man's
share of the work; and did his share of conversing and entertaining from
the general stand-point of any age--not from the arrogant, overawing
summit-height of sixty years.  His one striking peculiarity was his
Partingtonian fashion of loving and using big words for their own sakes,
and independent of any bearing they might have upon the thought he was
purposing to convey.  He always let his ponderous syllables fall with an
easy unconsciousness that left them wholly without offensiveness.
In truth his air was so natural and so simple that one was always
catching himself accepting his stately sentences as meaning something,
when they really meant nothing in the world.  If a word was long and
grand and resonant, that was sufficient to win the old man's love, and he
would drop that word into the most out-of-the-way place in a sentence or
a subject, and be as pleased with it as if it were perfectly luminous
with meaning.

We four always spread our common stock of blankets together on the frozen
ground, and slept side by side; and finding that our foolish, long-legged
hound pup had a deal of animal heat in him, Oliphant got to admitting him
to the bed, between himself and Mr. Ballou, hugging the dog's warm back
to his breast and finding great comfort in it.  But in the night the pup
would get stretchy and brace his feet against the old man's back and
shove, grunting complacently the while; and now and then, being warm and
snug, grateful and happy, he would paw the old man's back simply in
excess of comfort; and at yet other times he would dream of the chase and
in his sleep tug at the old man's back hair and bark in his ear.  The old
gentleman complained mildly about these familiarities, at last, and when
he got through with his statement he said that such a dog as that was not
a proper animal to admit to bed with tired men, because he was "so
meretricious in his movements and so organic in his emotions."  We turned
the dog out.

It was a hard, wearing, toilsome journey, but it had its bright side; for
after each day was done and our wolfish hunger appeased with a hot supper
of fried bacon, bread, molasses and black coffee, the pipe-smoking, song-
singing and yarn-spinning around the evening camp-fire in the still
solitudes of the desert was a happy, care-free sort of recreation that
seemed the very summit and culmination of earthly luxury.

It is a kind of life that has a potent charm for all men, whether city or
country-bred.  We are descended from desert-lounging Arabs, and countless
ages of growth toward perfect civilization have failed to root out of us
the nomadic instinct.  We all confess to a gratified thrill at the
thought of "camping out."

Once we made twenty-five miles in a day, and once we made forty miles
(through the Great American Desert), and ten miles beyond--fifty in all--
in twenty-three hours, without halting to eat, drink or rest.  To stretch
out and go to sleep, even on stony and frozen ground, after pushing a
wagon and two horses fifty miles, is a delight so supreme that for the
moment it almost seems cheap at the price.

We camped two days in the neighborhood of the "Sink of the Humboldt."
We tried to use the strong alkaline water of the Sink, but it would not
answer.  It was like drinking lye, and not weak lye, either.  It left a
taste in the mouth, bitter and every way execrable, and a burning in the
stomach that was very uncomfortable.  We put molasses in it, but that
helped it very little; we added a pickle, yet the alkali was the
prominent taste and so it was unfit for drinking.

The coffee we made of this water was the meanest compound man has yet
invented.  It was really viler to the taste than the unameliorated water
itself.  Mr. Ballou, being the architect and builder of the beverage felt
constrained to endorse and uphold it, and so drank half a cup, by little
sips, making shift to praise it faintly the while, but finally threw out
the remainder, and said frankly it was "too technical for him."

But presently we found a spring of fresh water, convenient, and then,
with nothing to mar our enjoyment, and no stragglers to interrupt it, we
entered into our rest.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

After leaving the Sink, we traveled along the Humboldt river a little
way.  People accustomed to the monster mile-wide Mississippi, grow
accustomed to associating the term "river" with a high degree of watery
grandeur.  Consequently, such people feel rather disappointed when they
stand on the shores of the Humboldt or the Carson and find that a "river"
in Nevada is a sickly rivulet which is just the counterpart of the Erie
canal in all respects save that the canal is twice as long and four times
as deep.  One of the pleasantest and most invigorating exercises one can
contrive is to run and jump across the Humboldt river till he is
overheated, and then drink it dry.

On the fifteenth day we completed our march of two hundred miles and
entered Unionville, Humboldt county, in the midst of a driving snow-
storm.  Unionville consisted of eleven cabins and a liberty-pole.  Six of
the cabins were strung along one side of a deep canyon, and the other
five faced them.  The rest of the landscape was made up of bleak mountain
walls that rose so high into the sky from both sides of the canyon that
the village was left, as it were, far down in the bottom of a crevice.
It was always daylight on the mountain tops a long time before the
darkness lifted and revealed Unionville.

We built a small, rude cabin in the side of the crevice and roofed it
with canvas, leaving a corner open to serve as a chimney, through which
the cattle used to tumble occasionally, at night, and mash our furniture
and interrupt our sleep.  It was very cold weather and fuel was scarce.
Indians brought brush and bushes several miles on their backs; and when
we could catch a laden Indian it was well--and when we could not (which
was the rule, not the exception), we shivered and bore it.

I confess, without shame, that I expected to find masses of silver lying
all about the ground.  I expected to see it glittering in the sun on the
mountain summits.  I said nothing about this, for some instinct told me
that I might possibly have an exaggerated idea about it, and so if I
betrayed my thought I might bring derision upon myself.  Yet I was as
perfectly satisfied in my own mind as I could be of anything, that I was
going to gather up, in a day or two, or at furthest a week or two, silver
enough to make me satisfactorily wealthy--and so my fancy was already
busy with plans for spending this money.  The first opportunity that
offered, I sauntered carelessly away from the cabin, keeping an eye on
the other boys, and stopping and contemplating the sky when they seemed
to be observing me; but as soon as the coast was manifestly clear, I fled
away as guiltily as a thief might have done and never halted till I was
far beyond sight and call.  Then I began my search with a feverish
excitement that was brimful of expectation--almost of certainty.
I crawled about the ground, seizing and examining bits of stone, blowing
the dust from them or rubbing them on my clothes, and then peering at
them with anxious hope.  Presently I found a bright fragment and my heart
bounded!  I hid behind a boulder and polished it and scrutinized it with
a nervous eagerness and a delight that was more pronounced than absolute
certainty itself could have afforded.  The more I examined the fragment
the more I was convinced that I had found the door to fortune.  I marked
the spot and carried away my specimen.  Up and down the rugged mountain
side I searched, with always increasing interest and always augmenting
gratitude that I had come to Humboldt and come in time.  Of all the
experiences of my life, this secret search among the hidden treasures of
silver-land was the nearest to unmarred ecstasy.  It was a delirious
revel.

By and by, in the bed of a shallow rivulet, I found a deposit of shining
yellow scales, and my breath almost forsook me!  A gold mine, and in my
simplicity I had been content with vulgar silver!  I was so excited that
I half believed my overwrought imagination was deceiving me.  Then a fear
came upon me that people might be observing me and would guess my secret.
Moved by this thought, I made a circuit of the place, and ascended a
knoll to reconnoiter.  Solitude.  No creature was near.  Then I returned
to my mine, fortifying myself against possible disappointment, but my
fears were groundless--the shining scales were still there.  I set about
scooping them out, and for an hour I toiled down the windings of the
stream and robbed its bed.  But at last the descending sun warned me to
give up the quest, and I turned homeward laden with wealth.  As I walked
along I could not help smiling at the thought of my being so excited over
my fragment of silver when a nobler metal was almost under my nose.  In
this little time the former had so fallen in my estimation that once or
twice I was on the point of throwing it away.

The boys were as hungry as usual, but I could eat nothing.  Neither could
I talk.  I was full of dreams and far away.  Their conversation
interrupted the flow of my fancy somewhat, and annoyed me a little, too.
I despised the sordid and commonplace things they talked about.  But as
they proceeded, it began to amuse me.  It grew to be rare fun to hear
them planning their poor little economies and sighing over possible
privations and distresses when a gold mine, all our own, lay within sight
of the cabin and I could point it out at any moment.  Smothered hilarity
began to oppress me, presently.  It was hard to resist the impulse to
burst out with exultation and reveal everything; but I did resist.  I
said within myself that I would filter the great news through my lips
calmly and be serene as a summer morning while I watched its effect in
their faces.  I said:

"Where have you all been?"

"Prospecting."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?  What do you think of the country?"

"Can't tell, yet," said Mr. Ballou, who was an old gold miner, and had
likewise had considerable experience among the silver mines.

"Well, haven't you formed any sort of opinion?"

"Yes, a sort of a one.  It's fair enough here, may be, but overrated.
Seven thousand dollar ledges are scarce, though.

"That Sheba may be rich enough, but we don't own it; and besides, the rock
is so full of base metals that all the science in the world can't work
it.  We'll not starve, here, but we'll not get rich, I'm afraid."

"So you think the prospect is pretty poor?"

"No name for it!"

"Well, we'd better go back, hadn't we?"

"Oh, not yet--of course not.  We'll try it a riffle, first."

"Suppose, now--this is merely a supposition, you know--suppose you could
find a ledge that would yield, say, a hundred and fifty dollars a ton--
would that satisfy you?"

"Try us once!" from the whole party.

"Or suppose--merely a supposition, of course--suppose you were to find a
ledge that would yield two thousand dollars a ton--would that satisfy
you?"

"Here--what do you mean?  What are you coming at?  Is there some mystery
behind all this?"

"Never mind.  I am not saying anything.  You know perfectly well there
are no rich mines here--of course you do.  Because you have been around
and examined for yourselves.  Anybody would know that, that had been
around.  But just for the sake of argument, suppose--in a kind of general
way--suppose some person were to tell you that two-thousand-dollar ledges
were simply contemptible--contemptible, understand--and that right yonder
in sight of this very cabin there were piles of pure gold and pure
silver--oceans of it--enough to make you all rich in twenty-four hours!
Come!"

"I should say he was as crazy as a loon!" said old Ballou, but wild with
excitement, nevertheless.

"Gentlemen," said I, "I don't say anything--I haven't been around, you
know, and of course don't know anything--but all I ask of you is to cast
your eye on that, for instance, and tell me what you think of it!" and I
tossed my treasure before them.

There was an eager scramble for it, and a closing of heads together over
it under the candle-light.  Then old Ballou said:

"Think of it?  I think it is nothing but a lot of granite rubbish and
nasty glittering mica that isn't worth ten cents an acre!"

So vanished my dream.  So melted my wealth away.  So toppled my airy
castle to the earth and left me stricken and forlorn.

Moralizing, I observed, then, that "all that glitters is not gold."

Mr. Ballou said I could go further than that, and lay it up among my
treasures of knowledge, that nothing that glitters is gold.  So I learned
then, once for all, that gold in its native state is but dull,
unornamental stuff, and that only low-born metals excite the admiration
of the ignorant with an ostentatious glitter.  However, like the rest of
the world, I still go on underrating men of gold and glorifying men of
mica.  Commonplace human nature cannot rise above that.




CHAPTER XXIX.

True knowledge of the nature of silver mining came fast enough.  We went
out "prospecting" with Mr. Ballou.  We climbed the mountain sides, and
clambered among sage-brush, rocks and snow till we were ready to drop
with exhaustion, but found no silver--nor yet any gold.  Day after day we
did this.  Now and then we came upon holes burrowed a few feet into the
declivities and apparently abandoned; and now and then we found one or
two listless men still burrowing.  But there was no appearance of silver.
These holes were the beginnings of tunnels, and the purpose was to drive
them hundreds of feet into the mountain, and some day tap the hidden
ledge where the silver was.  Some day!  It seemed far enough away, and
very hopeless and dreary.  Day after day we toiled, and climbed and
searched, and we younger partners grew sicker and still sicker of the
promiseless toil.  At last we halted under a beetling rampart of rock
which projected from the earth high upon the mountain.  Mr. Ballou broke
off some fragments with a hammer, and examined them long and attentively
with a small eye-glass; threw them away and broke off more; said this
rock was quartz, and quartz was the sort of rock that contained silver.
Contained it!  I had thought that at least it would be caked on the
outside of it like a kind of veneering.  He still broke off pieces and
critically examined them, now and then wetting the piece with his tongue
and applying the glass.  At last he exclaimed:

"We've got it!"

We were full of anxiety in a moment.  The rock was clean and white, where
it was broken, and across it ran a ragged thread of blue.  He said that
that little thread had silver in it, mixed with base metal, such as lead
and antimony, and other rubbish, and that there was a speck or two of
gold visible.  After a great deal of effort we managed to discern some
little fine yellow specks, and judged that a couple of tons of them
massed together might make a gold dollar, possibly.  We were not
jubilant, but Mr. Ballou said there were worse ledges in the world than
that.  He saved what he called the "richest" piece of the rock, in order
to determine its value by the process called the "fire-assay."  Then we
named the mine "Monarch of the Mountains" (modesty of nomenclature is not
a prominent feature in the mines), and Mr. Ballou wrote out and stuck up
the following "notice," preserving a copy to be entered upon the books in
the mining recorder's office in the town.

      "NOTICE."

      "We the undersigned claim three claims, of three hundred feet each
      (and one for discovery), on this silver-bearing quartz lead or lode,
      extending north and south from this notice, with all its dips,
      spurs, and angles, variations and sinuosities, together with fifty
      feet of ground on either side for working the same."

We put our names to it and tried to feel that our fortunes were made.
But when we talked the matter all over with Mr. Ballou, we felt depressed
and dubious.  He said that this surface quartz was not all there was of
our mine; but that the wall or ledge of rock called the "Monarch of the
Mountains," extended down hundreds and hundreds of feet into the earth--
he illustrated by saying it was like a curb-stone, and maintained a
nearly uniform thickness-say twenty feet--away down into the bowels of
the earth, and was perfectly distinct from the casing rock on each side
of it; and that it kept to itself, and maintained its distinctive
character always, no matter how deep it extended into the earth or how
far it stretched itself through and across the hills and valleys.  He
said it might be a mile deep and ten miles long, for all we knew; and
that wherever we bored into it above ground or below, we would find gold
and silver in it, but no gold or silver in the meaner rock it was cased
between.  And he said that down in the great depths of the ledge was its
richness, and the deeper it went the richer it grew.  Therefore, instead
of working here on the surface, we must either bore down into the rock
with a shaft till we came to where it was rich--say a hundred feet or so
--or else we must go down into the valley and bore a long tunnel into the
mountain side and tap the ledge far under the earth.  To do either was
plainly the labor of months; for we could blast and bore only a few feet
a day--some five or six.  But this was not all.  He said that after we
got the ore out it must be hauled in wagons to a distant silver-mill,
ground up, and the silver extracted by a tedious and costly process.  Our
fortune seemed a century away!

But we went to work.  We decided to sink a shaft.  So, for a week we
climbed the mountain, laden with picks, drills, gads, crowbars, shovels,
cans of blasting powder and coils of fuse and strove with might and main.
At first the rock was broken and loose and we dug it up with picks and
threw it out with shovels, and the hole progressed very well.  But the
rock became more compact, presently, and gads and crowbars came into
play.  But shortly nothing could make an impression but blasting powder.

That was the weariest work!  One of us held the iron drill in its place
and another would strike with an eight-pound sledge--it was like driving
nails on a large scale.  In the course of an hour or two the drill would
reach a depth of two or three feet, making a hole a couple of inches in
diameter.  We would put in a charge of powder, insert half a yard of
fuse, pour in sand and gravel and ram it down, then light the fuse and
run.  When the explosion came and the rocks and smoke shot into the air,
we would go back and find about a bushel of that hard, rebellious quartz
jolted out.  Nothing more.  One week of this satisfied me.  I resigned.
Clagget and Oliphant followed.  Our shaft was only twelve feet deep.  We
decided that a tunnel was the thing we wanted.

So we went down the mountain side and worked a week; at the end of which
time we had blasted a tunnel about deep enough to hide a hogshead in, and
judged that about nine hundred feet more of it would reach the ledge.
I resigned again, and the other boys only held out one day longer.
We decided that a tunnel was not what we wanted.  We wanted a ledge that
was already "developed."  There were none in the camp.

We dropped the "Monarch" for the time being.

Meantime the camp was filling up with people, and there was a constantly
growing excitement about our Humboldt mines.  We fell victims to the
epidemic and strained every nerve to acquire more "feet."  We prospected
and took up new claims, put "notices" on them and gave them grandiloquent
names.  We traded some of our "feet" for "feet" in other people's claims.
In a little while we owned largely in the "Gray Eagle," the "Columbiana,"
the "Branch Mint," the "Maria Jane," the "Universe," the "Root-Hog-or-
Die," the "Samson and Delilah," the "Treasure Trove," the "Golconda," the
"Sultana," the "Boomerang," the "Great Republic," the "Grand Mogul," and
fifty other "mines" that had never been molested by a shovel or scratched
with a pick.  We had not less than thirty thousand "feet" apiece in the
"richest mines on earth" as the frenzied cant phrased it--and were in
debt to the butcher.  We were stark mad with excitement--drunk with
happiness--smothered under mountains of prospective wealth--arrogantly
compassionate toward the plodding millions who knew not our marvellous
canyon--but our credit was not good at the grocer's.

It was the strangest phase of life one can imagine.  It was a beggars'
revel.  There was nothing doing in the district--no mining--no milling--
no productive effort--no income--and not enough money in the entire camp
to buy a corner lot in an eastern village, hardly; and yet a stranger
would have supposed he was walking among bloated millionaires.
Prospecting parties swarmed out of town with the first flush of dawn, and
swarmed in again at nightfall laden with spoil--rocks.  Nothing but
rocks.  Every man's pockets were full of them; the floor of his cabin was
littered with them; they were disposed in labeled rows on his shelves.




CHAPTER XXX.

I met men at every turn who owned from one thousand to thirty thousand
"feet" in undeveloped silver mines, every single foot of which they
believed would shortly be worth from fifty to a thousand dollars--and as
often as any other way they were men who had not twenty-five dollars in
the world.  Every man you met had his new mine to boast of, and his
"specimens" ready; and if the opportunity offered, he would infallibly
back you into a corner and offer as a favor to you, not to him, to part
with just a few feet in the "Golden Age," or the "Sarah Jane," or some
other unknown stack of croppings, for money enough to get a "square meal"
with, as the phrase went.  And you were never to reveal that he had made
you the offer at such a ruinous price, for it was only out of friendship
for you that he was willing to make the sacrifice.  Then he would fish a
piece of rock out of his pocket, and after looking mysteriously around as
if he feared he might be waylaid and robbed if caught with such wealth in
his possession, he would dab the rock against his tongue, clap an
eyeglass to it, and exclaim:

"Look at that!  Right there in that red dirt!  See it?  See the specks of
gold?  And the streak of silver?  That's from the Uncle Abe.  There's a
hundred thousand tons like that in sight!  Right in sight, mind you!
And when we get down on it and the ledge comes in solid, it will be the
richest thing in the world!  Look at the assay!  I don't want you to
believe me--look at the assay!"

Then he would get out a greasy sheet of paper which showed that the
portion of rock assayed had given evidence of containing silver and gold
in the proportion of so many hundreds or thousands of dollars to the ton.


I little knew, then, that the custom was to hunt out the richest piece of
rock and get it assayed!  Very often, that piece, the size of a filbert,
was the only fragment in a ton that had a particle of metal in it--and
yet the assay made it pretend to represent the average value of the ton
of rubbish it came from!

On such a system of assaying as that, the Humboldt world had gone crazy.
On the authority of such assays its newspaper correspondents were
frothing about rock worth four and seven thousand dollars a ton!

And does the reader remember, a few pages back, the calculations, of a
quoted correspondent, whereby the ore is to be mined and shipped all the
way to England, the metals extracted, and the gold and silver contents
received back by the miners as clear profit, the copper, antimony and
other things in the ore being sufficient to pay all the expenses
incurred?  Everybody's head was full of such "calculations" as those--
such raving insanity, rather.  Few people took work into their
calculations--or outlay of money either; except the work and expenditures
of other people.

We never touched our tunnel or our shaft again.  Why?  Because we judged
that we had learned the real secret of success in silver mining--which
was, not to mine the silver ourselves by the sweat of our brows and the
labor of our hands, but to sell the ledges to the dull slaves of toil and
let them do the mining!

Before leaving Carson, the Secretary and I had purchased "feet" from
various Esmeralda stragglers.  We had expected immediate returns of
bullion, but were only afflicted with regular and constant "assessments"
instead--demands for money wherewith to develop the said mines.  These
assessments had grown so oppressive that it seemed necessary to look into
the matter personally.  Therefore I projected a pilgrimage to Carson and
thence to Esmeralda.  I bought a horse and started, in company with
Mr. Ballou and a gentleman named Ollendorff, a Prussian--not the party
who has inflicted so much suffering on the world with his wretched
foreign grammars, with their interminable repetitions of questions which
never have occurred and are never likely to occur in any conversation
among human beings.  We rode through a snow-storm for two or three days,
and arrived at "Honey Lake Smith's," a sort of isolated inn on the Carson
river.  It was a two-story log house situated on a small knoll in the
midst of the vast basin or desert through which the sickly Carson winds
its melancholy way.  Close to the house were the Overland stage stables,
built of sun-dried bricks.  There was not another building within several
leagues of the place.  Towards sunset about twenty hay-wagons arrived and
camped around the house and all the teamsters came in to supper--a very,
very rough set.  There were one or two Overland stage drivers there,
also, and half a dozen vagabonds and stragglers; consequently the house
was well crowded.

We walked out, after supper, and visited a small Indian camp in the
vicinity.  The Indians were in a great hurry about something, and were
packing up and getting away as fast as they could.  In their broken
English they said, "By'm-by, heap water!" and by the help of signs made
us understand that in their opinion a flood was coming.  The weather was
perfectly clear, and this was not the rainy season.  There was about a
foot of water in the insignificant river--or maybe two feet; the stream
was not wider than a back alley in a village, and its banks were scarcely
higher than a man's head.

So, where was the flood to come from?  We canvassed the subject awhile
and then concluded it was a ruse, and that the Indians had some better
reason for leaving in a hurry than fears of a flood in such an
exceedingly dry time.

At seven in the evening we went to bed in the second story--with our
clothes on, as usual, and all three in the same bed, for every available
space on the floors, chairs, etc., was in request, and even then there
was barely room for the housing of the inn's guests.  An hour later we
were awakened by a great turmoil, and springing out of bed we picked our
way nimbly among the ranks of snoring teamsters on the floor and got to
the front windows of the long room.  A glance revealed a strange
spectacle, under the moonlight.  The crooked Carson was full to the brim,
and its waters were raging and foaming in the wildest way--sweeping
around the sharp bends at a furious speed, and bearing on their surface a
chaos of logs, brush and all sorts of rubbish.  A depression, where its
bed had once been, in other times, was already filling, and in one or two
places the water was beginning to wash over the main bank.  Men were
flying hither and thither, bringing cattle and wagons close up to the
house, for the spot of high ground on which it stood extended only some
thirty feet in front and about a hundred in the rear.  Close to the old
river bed just spoken of, stood a little log stable, and in this our
horses were lodged.

While we looked, the waters increased so fast in this place that in a few
minutes a torrent was roaring by the little stable and its margin
encroaching steadily on the logs.  We suddenly realized that this flood
was not a mere holiday spectacle, but meant damage--and not only to the
small log stable but to the Overland buildings close to the main river,
for the waves had now come ashore and were creeping about the foundations
and invading the great hay-corral adjoining.  We ran down and joined the
crowd of excited men and frightened animals.  We waded knee-deep into the
log stable, unfastened the horses and waded out almost waist-deep, so
fast the waters increased.  Then the crowd rushed in a body to the hay-
corral and began to tumble down the huge stacks of baled hay and roll the
bales up on the high ground by the house.  Meantime it was discovered
that Owens, an overland driver, was missing, and a man ran to the large
stable, and wading in, boot-top deep, discovered him asleep in his bed,
awoke him, and waded out again.  But Owens was drowsy and resumed his
nap; but only for a minute or two, for presently he turned in his bed,
his hand dropped over the side and came in contact with the cold water!
It was up level with the mattress!  He waded out, breast-deep, almost,
and the next moment the sun-burned bricks melted down like sugar and the
big building crumbled to a ruin and was washed away in a twinkling.

At eleven o'clock only the roof of the little log stable was out of
water, and our inn was on an island in mid-ocean.  As far as the eye
could reach, in the moonlight, there was no desert visible, but only a
level waste of shining water.  The Indians were true prophets, but how
did they get their information?  I am not able to answer the question.
We remained cooped up eight days and nights with that curious crew.
Swearing, drinking and card playing were the order of the day, and
occasionally a fight was thrown in for variety.  Dirt and vermin--but let
us forget those features; their profusion is simply inconceivable--it is
better that they remain so.

There were two men----however, this chapter is long enough.




CHAPTER XXXI.

There were two men in the company who caused me particular discomfort.
One was a little Swede, about twenty-five years old, who knew only one
song, and he was forever singing it.  By day we were all crowded into one
small, stifling bar-room, and so there was no escaping this person's
music.  Through all the profanity, whisky-guzzling, "old sledge" and
quarreling, his monotonous song meandered with never a variation in its
tiresome sameness, and it seemed to me, at last, that I would be content
to die, in order to be rid of the torture.  The other man was a stalwart
ruffian called "Arkansas," who carried two revolvers in his belt and a
bowie knife projecting from his boot, and who was always drunk and always
suffering for a fight.  But he was so feared, that nobody would
accommodate him.  He would try all manner of little wary ruses to entrap
somebody into an offensive remark, and his face would light up now and
then when he fancied he was fairly on the scent of a fight, but
invariably his victim would elude his toils and then he would show a
disappointment that was almost pathetic.  The landlord, Johnson, was a
meek, well-meaning fellow, and Arkansas fastened on him early, as a
promising subject, and gave him no rest day or night, for awhile.  On the
fourth morning, Arkansas got drunk and sat himself down to wait for an
opportunity.  Presently Johnson came in, just comfortably sociable with
whisky, and said:

"I reckon the Pennsylvania 'lection--"

Arkansas raised his finger impressively and Johnson stopped.  Arkansas
rose unsteadily and confronted him.  Said he:

"Wha-what do you know a--about Pennsylvania?  Answer me that.  Wha--what
do you know 'bout Pennsylvania?"

"I was only goin' to say--"

"You was only goin' to say.  You was!  You was only goin' to say--what
was you goin' to say?  That's it!  That's what I want to know.  I want to
know wha--what you ('ic) what you know about Pennsylvania, since you're
makin' yourself so d---d free.  Answer me that!"

"Mr. Arkansas, if you'd only let me--"

"Who's a henderin' you?  Don't you insinuate nothing agin me!--don't you
do it.  Don't you come in here bullyin' around, and cussin' and goin' on
like a lunatic--don't you do it.  'Coz I won't stand it.  If fight's what
you want, out with it!  I'm your man!  Out with it!"

Said Johnson, backing into a corner, Arkansas following, menacingly:

"Why, I never said nothing, Mr. Arkansas.  You don't give a man no
chance.  I was only goin' to say that Pennsylvania was goin' to have an
election next week--that was all--that was everything I was goin' to say
--I wish I may never stir if it wasn't."

"Well then why d'n't you say it?  What did you come swellin' around that
way for, and tryin' to raise trouble?"

"Why I didn't come swellin' around, Mr. Arkansas--I just--"

"I'm a liar am I!  Ger-reat Caesar's ghost--"

"Oh, please, Mr. Arkansas, I never meant such a thing as that, I wish I
may die if I did.  All the boys will tell you that I've always spoke well
of you, and respected you more'n any man in the house.  Ask Smith.  Ain't
it so, Smith?  Didn't I say, no longer ago than last night, that for a
man that was a gentleman all the time and every way you took him, give me
Arkansas?  I'll leave it to any gentleman here if them warn't the very
words I used.  Come, now, Mr. Arkansas, le's take a drink--le's shake
hands and take a drink.  Come up--everybody!  It's my treat.  Come up,
Bill, Tom, Bob, Scotty--come up.  I want you all to take a drink with me
and Arkansas--old Arkansas, I call him--bully old Arkansas.  Gimme your
hand agin.  Look at him, boys--just take a look at him.  Thar stands the
whitest man in America!--and the man that denies it has got to fight me,
that's all.  Gimme that old flipper agin!"

They embraced, with drunken affection on the landlord's part and
unresponsive toleration on the part of Arkansas, who, bribed by a drink,
was disappointed of his prey once more.  But the foolish landlord was so
happy to have escaped butchery, that he went on talking when he ought to
have marched himself out of danger.  The consequence was that Arkansas
shortly began to glower upon him dangerously, and presently said:

"Lan'lord, will you p-please make that remark over agin if you please?"

"I was a-sayin' to Scotty that my father was up'ards of eighty year old
when he died."

"Was that all that you said?"

"Yes, that was all."

"Didn't say nothing but that?"

"No--nothing."

Then an uncomfortable silence.

Arkansas played with his glass a moment, lolling on his elbows on the
counter.  Then he meditatively scratched his left shin with his right
boot, while the awkward silence continued.  But presently he loafed away
toward the stove, looking dissatisfied; roughly shouldered two or three
men out of a comfortable position; occupied it himself, gave a sleeping
dog a kick that sent him howling under a bench, then spread his long legs
and his blanket-coat tails apart and proceeded to warm his back.  In a
little while he fell to grumbling to himself, and soon he slouched back
to the bar and said:

"Lan'lord, what's your idea for rakin' up old personalities and blowin'
about your father?  Ain't this company agreeable to you?  Ain't it?  If
this company ain't agreeable to you, p'r'aps we'd better leave.  Is that
your idea?  Is that what you're coming at?"

"Why bless your soul, Arkansas, I warn't thinking of such a thing.  My
father and my mother--"

"Lan'lord, don't crowd a man!  Don't do it.  If nothing'll do you but a
disturbance, out with it like a man ('ic)--but don't rake up old bygones
and fling'em in the teeth of a passel of people that wants to be
peaceable if they could git a chance.  What's the matter with you this
mornin', anyway?  I never see a man carry on so."

"Arkansas, I reely didn't mean no harm, and I won't go on with it if it's
onpleasant to you.  I reckon my licker's got into my head, and what with
the flood, and havin' so many to feed and look out for--"

"So that's what's a-ranklin' in your heart, is it?  You want us to leave
do you?  There's too many on us.  You want us to pack up and swim.  Is
that it?  Come!"

"Please be reasonable, Arkansas.  Now you know that I ain't the man to--"

"Are you a threatenin' me?  Are you?  By George, the man don't live that
can skeer me!  Don't you try to come that game, my chicken--'cuz I can
stand a good deal, but I won't stand that.  Come out from behind that bar
till I clean you!  You want to drive us out, do you, you sneakin'
underhanded hound!  Come out from behind that bar!  I'll learn you to
bully and badger and browbeat a gentleman that's forever trying to
befriend you and keep you out of trouble!"

"Please, Arkansas, please don't shoot!  If there's got to be bloodshed--"

"Do you hear that, gentlemen?  Do you hear him talk about bloodshed?  So
it's blood you want, is it, you ravin' desperado!  You'd made up your
mind to murder somebody this mornin'--I knowed it perfectly well.  I'm
the man, am I?  It's me you're goin' to murder, is it?  But you can't do
it 'thout I get one chance first, you thievin' black-hearted, white-
livered son of a nigger!  Draw your weepon!"

With that, Arkansas began to shoot, and the landlord to clamber over
benches, men and every sort of obstacle in a frantic desire to escape.
In the midst of the wild hubbub the landlord crashed through a glass
door, and as Arkansas charged after him the landlord's wife suddenly
appeared in the doorway and confronted the desperado with a pair of
scissors!  Her fury was magnificent.  With head erect and flashing eye
she stood a moment and then advanced, with her weapon raised.  The
astonished ruffian hesitated, and then fell back a step.  She followed.
She backed him step by step into the middle of the bar-room, and then,
while the wondering crowd closed up and gazed, she gave him such another
tongue-lashing as never a cowed and shamefaced braggart got before,
perhaps!  As she finished and retired victorious, a roar of applause
shook the house, and every man ordered "drinks for the crowd" in one and
the same breath.

The lesson was entirely sufficient.  The reign of terror was over, and
the Arkansas domination broken for good.  During the rest of the season
of island captivity, there was one man who sat apart in a state of
permanent humiliation, never mixing in any quarrel or uttering a boast,
and never resenting the insults the once cringing crew now constantly
leveled at him, and that man was "Arkansas."

By the fifth or sixth morning the waters had subsided from the land, but
the stream in the old river bed was still high and swift and there was no
possibility of crossing it.  On the eighth it was still too high for an
entirely safe passage, but life in the inn had become next to
insupportable by reason of the dirt, drunkenness, fighting, etc., and so
we made an effort to get away.  In the midst of a heavy snow-storm we
embarked in a canoe, taking our saddles aboard and towing our horses
after us by their halters.  The Prussian, Ollendorff, was in the bow,
with a paddle, Ballou paddled in the middle, and I sat in the stern
holding the halters.  When the horses lost their footing and began to
swim, Ollendorff got frightened, for there was great danger that the
horses would make our aim uncertain, and it was plain that if we failed
to land at a certain spot the current would throw us off and almost
surely cast us into the main Carson, which was a boiling torrent, now.
Such a catastrophe would be death, in all probability, for we would be
swept to sea in the "Sink" or overturned and drowned.  We warned
Ollendorff to keep his wits about him and handle himself carefully, but
it was useless; the moment the bow touched the bank, he made a spring and
the canoe whirled upside down in ten-foot water.

Ollendorff seized some brush and dragged himself ashore, but Ballou and I
had to swim for it, encumbered with our overcoats.  But we held on to the
canoe, and although we were washed down nearly to the Carson, we managed
to push the boat ashore and make a safe landing.  We were cold and water-
soaked, but safe.  The horses made a landing, too, but our saddles were
gone, of course.  We tied the animals in the sage-brush and there they
had to stay for twenty-four hours.  We baled out the canoe and ferried
over some food and blankets for them, but we slept one more night in the
inn before making another venture on our journey.

The next morning it was still snowing furiously when we got away with our
new stock of saddles and accoutrements.  We mounted and started.  The
snow lay so deep on the ground that there was no sign of a road
perceptible, and the snow-fall was so thick that we could not see more
than a hundred yards ahead, else we could have guided our course by the
mountain ranges.  The case looked dubious, but Ollendorff said his
instinct was as sensitive as any compass, and that he could "strike a
bee-line" for Carson city and never diverge from it.  He said that if he
were to straggle a single point out of the true line his instinct would
assail him like an outraged conscience.  Consequently we dropped into his
wake happy and content.  For half an hour we poked along warily enough,
but at the end of that time we came upon a fresh trail, and Ollendorff
shouted proudly:

"I knew I was as dead certain as a compass, boys!  Here we are, right in
somebody's tracks that will hunt the way for us without any trouble.
Let's hurry up and join company with the party."

So we put the horses into as much of a trot as the deep snow would allow,
and before long it was evident that we were gaining on our predecessors,
for the tracks grew more distinct.  We hurried along, and at the end of
an hour the tracks looked still newer and fresher--but what surprised us
was, that the number of travelers in advance of us seemed to steadily
increase.  We wondered how so large a party came to be traveling at such
a time and in such a solitude.  Somebody suggested that it must be a
company of soldiers from the fort, and so we accepted that solution and
jogged along a little faster still, for they could not be far off now.
But the tracks still multiplied, and we began to think the platoon of
soldiers was miraculously expanding into a regiment--Ballou said they had
already increased to five hundred!  Presently he stopped his horse and
said:

"Boys, these are our own tracks, and we've actually been circussing round
and round in a circle for more than two hours, out here in this blind
desert!  By George this is perfectly hydraulic!"

Then the old man waxed wroth and abusive.  He called Ollendorff all
manner of hard names--said he never saw such a lurid fool as he was, and
ended with the peculiarly venomous opinion that he "did not know as much
as a logarythm!"

We certainly had been following our own tracks.  Ollendorff and his
"mental compass" were in disgrace from that moment.

After all our hard travel, here we were on the bank of the stream again,
with the inn beyond dimly outlined through the driving snow-fall.  While
we were considering what to do, the young Swede landed from the canoe and
took his pedestrian way Carson-wards, singing his same tiresome song
about his "sister and his brother" and "the child in the grave with its
mother," and in a short minute faded and disappeared in the white
oblivion.  He was never heard of again.  He no doubt got bewildered and
lost, and Fatigue delivered him over to Sleep and Sleep betrayed him to
Death.  Possibly he followed our treacherous tracks till he became
exhausted and dropped.

Presently the Overland stage forded the now fast receding stream and
started toward Carson on its first trip since the flood came.  We
hesitated no longer, now, but took up our march in its wake, and trotted
merrily along, for we had good confidence in the driver's bump of
locality.  But our horses were no match for the fresh stage team.  We
were soon left out of sight; but it was no matter, for we had the deep
ruts the wheels made for a guide.  By this time it was three in the
afternoon, and consequently it was not very long before night came--and
not with a lingering twilight, but with a sudden shutting down like a
cellar door, as is its habit in that country.  The snowfall was still as
thick as ever, and of course we could not see fifteen steps before us;
but all about us the white glare of the snow-bed enabled us to discern
the smooth sugar-loaf mounds made by the covered sage-bushes, and just in
front of us the two faint grooves which we knew were the steadily filling
and slowly disappearing wheel-tracks.

Now those sage-bushes were all about the same height--three or four feet;
they stood just about seven feet apart, all over the vast desert; each of
them was a mere snow-mound, now; in any direction that you proceeded (the
same as in a well laid out orchard) you would find yourself moving down a
distinctly defined avenue, with a row of these snow-mounds an either side
of it--an avenue the customary width of a road, nice and level in its
breadth, and rising at the sides in the most natural way, by reason of
the mounds.  But we had not thought of this.  Then imagine the chilly
thrill that shot through us when it finally occurred to us, far in the
night, that since the last faint trace of the wheel-tracks had long ago
been buried from sight, we might now be wandering down a mere sage-brush
avenue, miles away from the road and diverging further and further away
from it all the time.  Having a cake of ice slipped down one's back is
placid comfort compared to it.  There was a sudden leap and stir of blood
that had been asleep for an hour, and as sudden a rousing of all the
drowsing activities in our minds and bodies.  We were alive and awake at
once--and shaking and quaking with consternation, too.  There was an
instant halting and dismounting, a bending low and an anxious scanning of
the road-bed.  Useless, of course; for if a faint depression could not be
discerned from an altitude of four or five feet above it, it certainly
could not with one's nose nearly against it.




CHAPTER XXXII.

We seemed to be in a road, but that was no proof.  We tested this by
walking off in various directions--the regular snow-mounds and the
regular avenues between them convinced each man that he had found the
true road, and that the others had found only false ones.  Plainly the
situation was desperate.  We were cold and stiff and the horses were
tired.  We decided to build a sage-brush fire and camp out till morning.
This was wise, because if we were wandering from the right road and the
snow-storm continued another day our case would be the next thing to
hopeless if we kept on.

All agreed that a camp fire was what would come nearest to saving us,
now, and so we set about building it.  We could find no matches, and so
we tried to make shift with the pistols.  Not a man in the party had ever
tried to do such a thing before, but not a man in the party doubted that
it could be done, and without any trouble--because every man in the party
had read about it in books many a time and had naturally come to believe
it, with trusting simplicity, just as he had long ago accepted and
believed that other common book-fraud about Indians and lost hunters
making a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together.

We huddled together on our knees in the deep snow, and the horses put
their noses together and bowed their patient heads over us; and while the
feathery flakes eddied down and turned us into a group of white statuary,
we proceeded with the momentous experiment.  We broke twigs from a sage
bush and piled them on a little cleared place in the shelter of our
bodies.  In the course of ten or fifteen minutes all was ready, and then,
while conversation ceased and our pulses beat low with anxious suspense,
Ollendorff applied his revolver, pulled the trigger and blew the pile
clear out of the county!  It was the flattest failure that ever was.

This was distressing, but it paled before a greater horror--the horses
were gone!  I had been appointed to hold the bridles, but in my absorbing
anxiety over the pistol experiment I had unconsciously dropped them and
the released animals had walked off in the storm.  It was useless to try
to follow them, for their footfalls could make no sound, and one could
pass within two yards of the creatures and never see them.  We gave them
up without an effort at recovering them, and cursed the lying books that
said horses would stay by their masters for protection and companionship
in a distressful time like ours.

We were miserable enough, before; we felt still more forlorn, now.
Patiently, but with blighted hope, we broke more sticks and piled them,
and once more the Prussian shot them into annihilation.  Plainly, to
light a fire with a pistol was an art requiring practice and experience,
and the middle of a desert at midnight in a snow-storm was not a good
place or time for the acquiring of the accomplishment.  We gave it up and
tried the other.  Each man took a couple of sticks and fell to chafing
them together.  At the end of half an hour we were thoroughly chilled,
and so were the sticks.  We bitterly execrated the Indians, the hunters
and the books that had betrayed us with the silly device, and wondered
dismally what was next to be done.  At this critical moment Mr. Ballou
fished out four matches from the rubbish of an overlooked pocket.  To
have found four gold bars would have seemed poor and cheap good luck
compared to this.

One cannot think how good a match looks under such circumstances--or how
lovable and precious, and sacredly beautiful to the eye.  This time we
gathered sticks with high hopes; and when Mr. Ballou prepared to light
the first match, there was an amount of interest centred upon him that
pages of writing could not describe.  The match burned hopefully a
moment, and then went out.  It could not have carried more regret with it
if it had been a human life.  The next match simply flashed and died.
The wind puffed the third one out just as it was on the imminent verge of
success.  We gathered together closer than ever, and developed a
solicitude that was rapt and painful, as Mr. Ballou scratched our last
hope on his leg.  It lit, burned blue and sickly, and then budded into a
robust flame.  Shading it with his hands, the old gentleman bent
gradually down and every heart went with him--everybody, too, for that
matter--and blood and breath stood still.  The flame touched the sticks
at last, took gradual hold upon them--hesitated--took a stronger hold--
hesitated again--held its breath five heart-breaking seconds, then gave a
sort of human gasp and went out.

Nobody said a word for several minutes.  It was a solemn sort of silence;
even the wind put on a stealthy, sinister quiet, and made no more noise
than the falling flakes of snow.  Finally a sad-voiced conversation
began, and it was soon apparent that in each of our hearts lay the
conviction that this was our last night with the living.  I had so hoped
that I was the only one who felt so.  When the others calmly acknowledged
their conviction, it sounded like the summons itself.  Ollendorff said:

"Brothers, let us die together.  And let us go without one hard feeling
towards each other.  Let us forget and forgive bygones.  I know that you
have felt hard towards me for turning over the canoe, and for knowing too
much and leading you round and round in the snow--but I meant well;
forgive me.  I acknowledge freely that I have had hard feelings against
Mr. Ballou for abusing me and calling me a logarythm, which is a thing I
do not know what, but no doubt a thing considered disgraceful and
unbecoming in America, and it has scarcely been out of my mind and has
hurt me a great deal--but let it go; I forgive Mr. Ballou with all my
heart, and--"

Poor Ollendorff broke down and the tears came.  He was not alone, for I
was crying too, and so was Mr. Ballou.  Ollendorff got his voice again
and forgave me for things I had done and said.  Then he got out his
bottle of whisky and said that whether he lived or died he would never
touch another drop.  He said he had given up all hope of life, and
although ill-prepared, was ready to submit humbly to his fate; that he
wished he could be spared a little longer, not for any selfish reason,
but to make a thorough reform in his character, and by devoting himself
to helping the poor, nursing the sick, and pleading with the people to
guard themselves against the evils of intemperance, make his life a
beneficent example to the young, and lay it down at last with the
precious reflection that it had not been lived in vain.  He ended by
saying that his reform should begin at this moment, even here in the
presence of death, since no longer time was to be vouchsafed wherein to
prosecute it to men's help and benefit--and with that he threw away the
bottle of whisky.

Mr. Ballou made remarks of similar purport, and began the reform he could
not live to continue, by throwing away the ancient pack of cards that had
solaced our captivity during the flood and made it bearable.

He said he never gambled, but still was satisfied that the meddling with
cards in any way was immoral and injurious, and no man could be wholly
pure and blemishless without eschewing them.  "And therefore," continued
he, "in doing this act I already feel more in sympathy with that
spiritual saturnalia necessary to entire and obsolete reform."  These
rolling syllables touched him as no intelligible eloquence could have
done, and the old man sobbed with a mournfulness not unmingled with
satisfaction.

My own remarks were of the same tenor as those of my comrades, and I know
that the feelings that prompted them were heartfelt and sincere.  We were
all sincere, and all deeply moved and earnest, for we were in the
presence of death and without hope.  I threw away my pipe, and in doing
it felt that at last I was free of a hated vice and one that had ridden
me like a tyrant all my days.  While I yet talked, the thought of the
good I might have done in the world and the still greater good I might
now do, with these new incentives and higher and better aims to guide me
if I could only be spared a few years longer, overcame me and the tears
came again.  We put our arms about each other's necks and awaited the
warning drowsiness that precedes death by freezing.

It came stealing over us presently, and then we bade each other a last
farewell.  A delicious dreaminess wrought its web about my yielding
senses, while the snow-flakes wove a winding sheet about my conquered
body.  Oblivion came.  The battle of life was done.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

I do not know how long I was in a state of forgetfulness, but it seemed
an age.  A vague consciousness grew upon me by degrees, and then came a
gathering anguish of pain in my limbs and through all my body.  I
shuddered.  The thought flitted through my brain, "this is death--this is
the hereafter."

Then came a white upheaval at my side, and a voice said, with bitterness:

"Will some gentleman be so good as to kick me behind?"

It was Ballou--at least it was a towzled snow image in a sitting posture,
with Ballou's voice.

I rose up, and there in the gray dawn, not fifteen steps from us, were
the frame buildings of a stage station, and under a shed stood our still
saddled and bridled horses!

An arched snow-drift broke up, now, and Ollendorff emerged from it, and
the three of us sat and stared at the houses without speaking a word.
We really had nothing to say.  We were like the profane man who could not
"do the subject justice," the whole situation was so painfully ridiculous
and humiliating that words were tame and we did not know where to
commence anyhow.

The joy in our hearts at our deliverance was poisoned; well-nigh
dissipated, indeed.  We presently began to grow pettish by degrees, and
sullen; and then, angry at each other, angry at ourselves, angry at
everything in general, we moodily dusted the snow from our clothing and
in unsociable single file plowed our way to the horses, unsaddled them,
and sought shelter in the station.

I have scarcely exaggerated a detail of this curious and absurd
adventure.  It occurred almost exactly as I have stated it.  We actually
went into camp in a snow-drift in a desert, at midnight in a storm,
forlorn and hopeless, within fifteen steps of a comfortable inn.

For two hours we sat apart in the station and ruminated in disgust.
The mystery was gone, now, and it was plain enough why the horses had
deserted us.  Without a doubt they were under that shed a quarter of a
minute after they had left us, and they must have overheard and enjoyed
all our confessions and lamentations.

After breakfast we felt better, and the zest of life soon came back.
The world looked bright again, and existence was as dear to us as ever.
Presently an uneasiness came over me--grew upon me--assailed me without
ceasing.  Alas, my regeneration was not complete--I wanted to smoke!
I resisted with all my strength, but the flesh was weak.  I wandered away
alone and wrestled with myself an hour.  I recalled my promises of reform
and preached to myself persuasively, upbraidingly, exhaustively.  But it
was all vain, I shortly found myself sneaking among the snow-drifts
hunting for my pipe.  I discovered it after a considerable search, and
crept away to hide myself and enjoy it.  I remained behind the barn a
good while, asking myself how I would feel if my braver, stronger, truer
comrades should catch me in my degradation.  At last I lit the pipe, and
no human being can feel meaner and baser than I did then.  I was ashamed
of being in my own pitiful company.  Still dreading discovery, I felt
that perhaps the further side of the barn would be somewhat safer, and so
I turned the corner.  As I turned the one corner, smoking, Ollendorff
turned the other with his bottle to his lips, and between us sat
unconscious Ballou deep in a game of "solitaire" with the old greasy
cards!

Absurdity could go no farther.  We shook hands and agreed to say no more
about "reform" and "examples to the rising generation."

The station we were at was at the verge of the Twenty-six-Mile Desert.
If we had approached it half an hour earlier the night before, we must
have heard men shouting there and firing pistols; for they were expecting
some sheep drovers and their flocks and knew that they would infallibly
get lost and wander out of reach of help unless guided by sounds.

While we remained at the station, three of the drovers arrived, nearly
exhausted with their wanderings, but two others of their party were never
heard of afterward.

We reached Carson in due time, and took a rest.  This rest, together with
preparations for the journey to Esmeralda, kept us there a week, and the
delay gave us the opportunity to be present at the trial of the great
land-slide case of Hyde vs. Morgan--an episode which is famous in Nevada
to this day.  After a word or two of necessary explanation, I will set
down the history of this singular affair just as it transpired.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

The mountains are very high and steep about Carson, Eagle and Washoe
Valleys--very high and very steep, and so when the snow gets to melting
off fast in the Spring and the warm surface-earth begins to moisten and
soften, the disastrous land-slides commence.  The reader cannot know what
a land-slide is, unless he has lived in that country and seen the whole
side of a mountain taken off some fine morning and deposited down in the
valley, leaving a vast, treeless, unsightly scar upon the mountain's
front to keep the circumstance fresh in his memory all the years that he
may go on living within seventy miles of that place.

General Buncombe was shipped out to Nevada in the invoice of Territorial
officers, to be United States Attorney.  He considered himself a lawyer
of parts, and he very much wanted an opportunity to manifest it--partly
for the pure gratification of it and partly because his salary was
Territorially meagre (which is a strong expression).  Now the older
citizens of a new territory look down upon the rest of the world with a
calm, benevolent compassion, as long as it keeps out of the way--when it
gets in the way they snub it.  Sometimes this latter takes the shape of a
practical joke.

One morning Dick Hyde rode furiously up to General Buncombe's door in
Carson city and rushed into his presence without stopping to tie his
horse.  He seemed much excited.  He told the General that he wanted him
to conduct a suit for him and would pay him five hundred dollars if he
achieved a victory.  And then, with violent gestures and a world of
profanity, he poured out his grief.  He said it was pretty well known
that for some years he had been farming (or ranching as the more
customary term is) in Washoe District, and making a successful thing of
it, and furthermore it was known that his ranch was situated just in the
edge of the valley, and that Tom Morgan owned a ranch immediately above
it on the mountain side.

And now the trouble was, that one of those hated and dreaded land-slides
had come and slid Morgan's ranch, fences, cabins, cattle, barns and
everything down on top of his ranch and exactly covered up every single
vestige of his property, to a depth of about thirty-eight feet.  Morgan
was in possession and refused to vacate the premises--said he was
occupying his own cabin and not interfering with anybody else's--and said
the cabin was standing on the same dirt and same ranch it had always
stood on, and he would like to see anybody make him vacate.

"And when I reminded him," said Hyde, weeping, "that it was on top of my
ranch and that he was trespassing, he had the infernal meanness to ask me
why didn't I stay on my ranch and hold possession when I see him
a-coming!  Why didn't I stay on it, the blathering lunatic--by George,
when I heard that racket and looked up that hill it was just like the
whole world was a-ripping and a-tearing down that mountain side--
splinters, and cord-wood, thunder and lightning, hail and snow, odds and
ends of hay stacks, and awful clouds of dust!--trees going end over end
in the air, rocks as big as a house jumping 'bout a thousand feet high
and busting into ten million pieces, cattle turned inside out and
a-coming head on with their tails hanging out between their teeth!--and
in the midst of all that wrack and destruction sot that cussed Morgan on
his gate-post, a-wondering why I didn't stay and hold possession!  Laws
bless me, I just took one glimpse, General, and lit out'n the county in
three jumps exactly.

"But what grinds me is that that Morgan hangs on there and won't move
off'n that ranch--says it's his'n and he's going to keep it--likes it
better'n he did when it was higher up the hill.  Mad!  Well, I've been so
mad for two days I couldn't find my way to town--been wandering around in
the brush in a starving condition--got anything here to drink, General?
But I'm here now, and I'm a-going to law.  You hear me!"

Never in all the world, perhaps, were a man's feelings so outraged as
were the General's.  He said he had never heard of such high-handed
conduct in all his life as this Morgan's.  And he said there was no use
in going to law--Morgan had no shadow of right to remain where he was--
nobody in the wide world would uphold him in it, and no lawyer would take
his case and no judge listen to it.  Hyde said that right there was where
he was mistaken--everybody in town sustained Morgan; Hal Brayton, a very
smart lawyer, had taken his case; the courts being in vacation, it was to
be tried before a referee, and ex-Governor Roop had already been
appointed to that office and would open his court in a large public hall
near the hotel at two that afternoon.

The General was amazed.  He said he had suspected before that the people
of that Territory were fools, and now he knew it.  But he said rest easy,
rest easy and collect the witnesses, for the victory was just as certain
as if the conflict were already over.  Hyde wiped away his tears and
left.

At two in the afternoon referee Roop's Court opened and Roop appeared
throned among his sheriffs, the witnesses, and spectators, and wearing
upon his face a solemnity so awe-inspiring that some of his fellow-
conspirators had misgivings that maybe he had not comprehended, after
all, that this was merely a joke.  An unearthly stillness prevailed, for
at the slightest noise the judge uttered sternly the command:

"Order in the Court!"

And the sheriffs promptly echoed it.  Presently the General elbowed his
way through the crowd of spectators, with his arms full of law-books, and
on his ears fell an order from the judge which was the first respectful
recognition of his high official dignity that had ever saluted them, and
it trickled pleasantly through his whole system:

"Way for the United States Attorney!"

The witnesses were called--legislators, high government officers,
ranchmen, miners, Indians, Chinamen, negroes.  Three fourths of them were
called by the defendant Morgan, but no matter, their testimony invariably
went in favor of the plaintiff Hyde.  Each new witness only added new
testimony to the absurdity of a man's claiming to own another man's
property because his farm had slid down on top of it.  Then the Morgan
lawyers made their speeches, and seemed to make singularly weak ones--
they did really nothing to help the Morgan cause.  And now the General,
with exultation in his face, got up and made an impassioned effort; he
pounded the table, he banged the law-books, he shouted, and roared, and
howled, he quoted from everything and everybody, poetry, sarcasm,
statistics, history, pathos, bathos, blasphemy, and wound up with a grand
war-whoop for free speech, freedom of the press, free schools, the
Glorious Bird of America and the principles of eternal justice!
[Applause.]

When the General sat down, he did it with the conviction that if there
was anything in good strong testimony, a great speech and believing and
admiring countenances all around, Mr. Morgan's case was killed.  Ex-
Governor Roop leant his head upon his hand for some minutes, thinking,
and the still audience waited for his decision.  Then he got up and stood
erect, with bended head, and thought again.  Then he walked the floor
with long, deliberate strides, his chin in his hand, and still the
audience waited.  At last he returned to his throne, seated himself, and
began impressively:

"Gentlemen, I feel the great responsibility that rests upon me this day.
This is no ordinary case.  On the contrary it is plain that it is the
most solemn and awful that ever man was called upon to decide.
Gentlemen, I have listened attentively to the evidence, and have
perceived that the weight of it, the overwhelming weight of it, is in
favor of the plaintiff Hyde.  I have listened also to the remarks of
counsel, with high interest--and especially will I commend the masterly
and irrefutable logic of the distinguished gentleman who represents the
plaintiff.  But gentlemen, let us beware how we allow mere human
testimony, human ingenuity in argument and human ideas of equity, to
influence us at a moment so solemn as this.  Gentlemen, it ill becomes
us, worms as we are, to meddle with the decrees of Heaven.  It is plain
to me that Heaven, in its inscrutable wisdom, has seen fit to move this
defendant's ranch for a purpose.  We are but creatures, and we must
submit.  If Heaven has chosen to favor the defendant Morgan in this
marked and wonderful manner; and if Heaven, dissatisfied with the
position of the Morgan ranch upon the mountain side, has chosen to remove
it to a position more eligible and more advantageous for its owner, it
ill becomes us, insects as we are, to question the legality of the act or
inquire into the reasons that prompted it.  No--Heaven created the
ranches and it is Heaven's prerogative to rearrange them, to experiment
with them around at its pleasure.  It is for us to submit, without
repining.

"I warn you that this thing which has happened is a thing with which the
sacrilegious hands and brains and tongues of men must not meddle.
Gentlemen, it is the verdict of this court that the plaintiff, Richard
Hyde, has been deprived of his ranch by the visitation of God!  And from
this decision there is no appeal."

Buncombe seized his cargo of law-books and plunged out of the court-room
frantic with indignation.  He pronounced Roop to be a miraculous fool, an
inspired idiot.  In all good faith he returned at night and remonstrated
with Roop upon his extravagant decision, and implored him to walk the
floor and think for half an hour, and see if he could not figure out some
sort of modification of the verdict.  Roop yielded at last and got up to
walk.  He walked two hours and a half, and at last his face lit up
happily and he told Buncombe it had occurred to him that the ranch
underneath the new Morgan ranch still belonged to Hyde, that his title to
the ground was just as good as it had ever been, and therefore he was of
opinion that Hyde had a right to dig it out from under there and--

The General never waited to hear the end of it.  He was always an
impatient and irascible man, that way.  At the end of two months the fact
that he had been played upon with a joke had managed to bore itself, like
another Hoosac Tunnel, through the solid adamant of his understanding.




CHAPTER XXXV.

When we finally left for Esmeralda, horseback, we had an addition to the
company in the person of Capt. John Nye, the Governor's brother.  He had
a good memory, and a tongue hung in the middle.  This is a combination
which gives immortality to conversation.  Capt. John never suffered the
talk to flag or falter once during the hundred and twenty miles of the
journey.  In addition to his conversational powers, he had one or two
other endowments of a marked character.  One was a singular "handiness"
about doing anything and everything, from laying out a railroad or
organizing a political party, down to sewing on buttons, shoeing a horse,
or setting a broken leg, or a hen.  Another was a spirit of accommodation
that prompted him to take the needs, difficulties and perplexities of
anybody and everybody upon his own shoulders at any and all times, and
dispose of them with admirable facility and alacrity--hence he always
managed to find vacant beds in crowded inns, and plenty to eat in the
emptiest larders.  And finally, wherever he met a man, woman or child, in
camp, inn or desert, he either knew such parties personally or had been
acquainted with a relative of the same.  Such another traveling comrade
was never seen before.  I cannot forbear giving a specimen of the way in
which he overcame difficulties.  On the second day out, we arrived, very
tired and hungry, at a poor little inn in the desert, and were told that
the house was full, no provisions on hand, and neither hay nor barley to
spare for the horses--must move on.  The rest of us wanted to hurry on
while it was yet light, but Capt. John insisted on stopping awhile.
We dismounted and entered.  There was no welcome for us on any face.
Capt. John began his blandishments, and within twenty minutes he had
accomplished the following things, viz.: found old acquaintances in three
teamsters; discovered that he used to go to school with the landlord's
mother; recognized his wife as a lady whose life he had saved once in
California, by stopping her runaway horse; mended a child's broken toy
and won the favor of its mother, a guest of the inn; helped the hostler
bleed a horse, and prescribed for another horse that had the "heaves";
treated the entire party three times at the landlord's bar; produced a
later paper than anybody had seen for a week and sat himself down to read
the news to a deeply interested audience.  The result, summed up, was as
follows: The hostler found plenty of feed for our horses; we had a trout
supper, an exceedingly sociable time after it, good beds to sleep in, and
a surprising breakfast in the morning--and when we left, we left lamented
by all!  Capt. John had some bad traits, but he had some uncommonly
valuable ones to offset them with.

Esmeralda was in many respects another Humboldt, but in a little more
forward state.  The claims we had been paying assessments on were
entirely worthless, and we threw them away.  The principal one cropped
out of the top of a knoll that was fourteen feet high, and the inspired
Board of Directors were running a tunnel under that knoll to strike the
ledge.  The tunnel would have to be seventy feet long, and would then
strike the ledge at the same dept that a shaft twelve feet deep would
have reached!  The Board were living on the "assessments."  [N.B.--This
hint comes too late for the enlightenment of New York silver miners; they
have already learned all about this neat trick by experience.]  The Board
had no desire to strike the ledge, knowing that it was as barren of
silver as a curbstone.  This reminiscence calls to mind Jim Townsend's
tunnel.  He had paid assessments on a mine called the "Daley" till he was
well-nigh penniless.  Finally an assessment was levied to run a tunnel
two hundred and fifty feet on the Daley, and Townsend went up on the hill
to look into matters.

He found the Daley cropping out of the apex of an exceedingly sharp-
pointed peak, and a couple of men up there "facing" the proposed tunnel.
Townsend made a calculation.  Then he said to the men:

"So you have taken a contract to run a tunnel into this hill two hundred
and fifty feet to strike this ledge?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, do you know that you have got one of the most expensive and
arduous undertakings before you that was ever conceived by man?"

"Why no--how is that?"

"Because this hill is only twenty-five feet through from side to side;
and so you have got to build two hundred and twenty-five feet of your
tunnel on trestle-work!"

The ways of silver mining Boards are exceedingly dark and sinuous.

We took up various claims, and commenced shafts and tunnels on them, but
never finished any of them.  We had to do a certain amount of work on
each to "hold" it, else other parties could seize our property after the
expiration of ten days.  We were always hunting up new claims and doing a
little work on them and then waiting for a buyer--who never came.  We
never found any ore that would yield more than fifty dollars a ton; and
as the mills charged fifty dollars a ton for working ore and extracting
the silver, our pocket-money melted steadily away and none returned to
take its place.  We lived in a little cabin and cooked for ourselves; and
altogether it was a hard life, though a hopeful one--for we never ceased
to expect fortune and a customer to burst upon us some day.

At last, when flour reached a dollar a pound, and money could not be
borrowed on the best security at less than eight per cent a month (I
being without the security, too), I abandoned mining and went to milling.
That is to say, I went to work as a common laborer in a quartz mill, at
ten dollars a week and board.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

I had already learned how hard and long and dismal a task it is to burrow
down into the bowels of the earth and get out the coveted ore; and now I
learned that the burrowing was only half the work; and that to get the
silver out of the ore was the dreary and laborious other half of it.
We had to turn out at six in the morning and keep at it till dark.
This mill was a six-stamp affair, driven by steam.  Six tall, upright
rods of iron, as large as a man's ankle, and heavily shod with a mass of
iron and steel at their lower ends, were framed together like a gate, and
these rose and fell, one after the other, in a ponderous dance, in an
iron box called a "battery."  Each of these rods or stamps weighed six
hundred pounds.  One of us stood by the battery all day long, breaking up
masses of silver-bearing rock with a sledge and shoveling it into the
battery.  The ceaseless dance of the stamps pulverized the rock to
powder, and a stream of water that trickled into the battery turned it to
a creamy paste.  The minutest particles were driven through a fine wire
screen which fitted close around the battery, and were washed into great
tubs warmed by super-heated steam--amalgamating pans, they are called.
The mass of pulp in the pans was kept constantly stirred up by revolving
"mullers."  A quantity of quicksilver was kept always in the battery, and
this seized some of the liberated gold and silver particles and held on
to them; quicksilver was shaken in a fine shower into the pans, also,
about every half hour, through a buckskin sack.  Quantities of coarse
salt and sulphate of copper were added, from time to time to assist the
amalgamation by destroying base metals which coated the gold and silver
and would not let it unite with the quicksilver.

All these tiresome things we had to attend to constantly.  Streams of
dirty water flowed always from the pans and were carried off in broad
wooden troughs to the ravine.  One would not suppose that atoms of gold
and silver would float on top of six inches of water, but they did; and
in order to catch them, coarse blankets were laid in the troughs, and
little obstructing "riffles" charged with quicksilver were placed here
and there across the troughs also.  These riffles had to be cleaned and
the blankets washed out every evening, to get their precious
accumulations--and after all this eternity of trouble one third of the
silver and gold in a ton of rock would find its way to the end of the
troughs in the ravine at last and have to be worked over again some day.
There is nothing so aggravating as silver milling.  There never was any
idle time in that mill.  There was always something to do.  It is a pity
that Adam could not have gone straight out of Eden into a quartz mill, in
order to understand the full force of his doom to "earn his bread by the
sweat of his brow."  Every now and then, during the day, we had to scoop
some pulp out of the pans, and tediously "wash" it in a horn spoon--wash
it little by little over the edge till at last nothing was left but some
little dull globules of quicksilver in the bottom.  If they were soft and
yielding, the pan needed some salt or some sulphate of copper or some
other chemical rubbish to assist digestion; if they were crisp to the
touch and would retain a dint, they were freighted with all the silver
and gold they could seize and hold, and consequently the pan needed a
fresh charge of quicksilver.  When there was nothing else to do, one
could always "screen tailings."  That is to say, he could shovel up the
dried sand that had washed down to the ravine through the troughs and
dash it against an upright wire screen to free it from pebbles and
prepare it for working over.

The process of amalgamation differed in the various mills, and this
included changes in style of pans and other machinery, and a great
diversity of opinion existed as to the best in use, but none of the
methods employed, involved the principle of milling ore without
"screening the tailings."  Of all recreations in the world, screening
tailings on a hot day, with a long-handled shovel, is the most
undesirable.

At the end of the week the machinery was stopped and we "cleaned up."
That is to say, we got the pulp out of the pans and batteries, and washed
the mud patiently away till nothing was left but the long accumulating
mass of quicksilver, with its imprisoned treasures.  This we made into
heavy, compact snow-balls, and piled them up in a bright, luxurious heap
for inspection.  Making these snow-balls cost me a fine gold ring--that
and ignorance together; for the quicksilver invaded the ring with the
same facility with which water saturates a sponge--separated its
particles and the ring crumbled to pieces.

We put our pile of quicksilver balls into an iron retort that had a pipe
leading from it to a pail of water, and then applied a roasting heat.
The quicksilver turned to vapor, escaped through the pipe into the pail,
and the water turned it into good wholesome quicksilver again.
Quicksilver is very costly, and they never waste it.  On opening the
retort, there was our week's work--a lump of pure white, frosty looking
silver, twice as large as a man's head.  Perhaps a fifth of the mass was
gold, but the color of it did not show--would not have shown if two
thirds of it had been gold.  We melted it up and made a solid brick of it
by pouring it into an iron brick-mould.

By such a tedious and laborious process were silver bricks obtained.
This mill was but one of many others in operation at the time.  The first
one in Nevada was built at Egan Canyon and was a small insignificant
affair and compared most unfavorably with some of the immense
establishments afterwards located at Virginia City and elsewhere.

From our bricks a little corner was chipped off for the "fire-assay"--a
method used to determine the proportions of gold, silver and base metals
in the mass.  This is an interesting process.  The chip is hammered out
as thin as paper and weighed on scales so fine and sensitive that if you
weigh a two-inch scrap of paper on them and then write your name on the
paper with a course, soft pencil and weigh it again, the scales will take
marked notice of the addition.

Then a little lead (also weighed) is rolled up with the flake of silver
and the two are melted at a great heat in a small vessel called a cupel,
made by compressing bone ashes into a cup-shape in a steel mold.  The
base metals oxydize and are absorbed with the lead into the pores of the
cupel.  A button or globule of perfectly pure gold and silver is left
behind, and by weighing it and noting the loss, the assayer knows the
proportion of base metal the brick contains.  He has to separate the gold
from the silver now.  The button is hammered out flat and thin, put in
the furnace and kept some time at a red heat; after cooling it off it is
rolled up like a quill and heated in a glass vessel containing nitric
acid; the acid dissolves the silver and leaves the gold pure and ready to
be weighed on its own merits.  Then salt water is poured into the vessel
containing the dissolved silver and the silver returns to palpable form
again and sinks to the bottom.  Nothing now remains but to weigh it; then
the proportions of the several metals contained in the brick are known,
and the assayer stamps the value of the brick upon its surface.

The sagacious reader will know now, without being told, that the
speculative miner, in getting a "fire-assay" made of a piece of rock from
his mine (to help him sell the same), was not in the habit of picking out
the least valuable fragment of rock on his dump-pile, but quite the
contrary.  I have seen men hunt over a pile of nearly worthless quartz
for an hour, and at last find a little piece as large as a filbert, which
was rich in gold and silver--and this was reserved for a fire-assay!  Of
course the fire-assay would demonstrate that a ton of such rock would
yield hundreds of dollars--and on such assays many an utterly worthless
mine was sold.

Assaying was a good business, and so some men engaged in it,
occasionally, who were not strictly scientific and capable.  One assayer
got such rich results out of all specimens brought to him that in time he
acquired almost a monopoly of the business.  But like all men who achieve
success, he became an object of envy and suspicion.  The other assayers
entered into a conspiracy against him, and let some prominent citizens
into the secret in order to show that they meant fairly.  Then they broke
a little fragment off a carpenter's grindstone and got a stranger to take
it to the popular scientist and get it assayed.  In the course of an hour
the result came--whereby it appeared that a ton of that rock would yield
$1,184.40 in silver and $366.36 in gold!

Due publication of the whole matter was made in the paper, and the
popular assayer left town "between two days."

I will remark, in passing, that I only remained in the milling business
one week.  I told my employer I could not stay longer without an advance
in my wages; that I liked quartz milling, indeed was infatuated with it;
that I had never before grown so tenderly attached to an occupation in so
short a time; that nothing, it seemed to me, gave such scope to
intellectual activity as feeding a battery and screening tailings, and
nothing so stimulated the moral attributes as retorting bullion and
washing blankets--still, I felt constrained to ask an increase of salary.
He said he was paying me ten dollars a week, and thought it a good round
sum.  How much did I want?

I said about four hundred thousand dollars a month, and board, was about
all I could reasonably ask, considering the hard times.

I was ordered off the premises!  And yet, when I look back to those days
and call to mind the exceeding hardness of the labor I performed in that
mill, I only regret that I did not ask him seven hundred thousand.

Shortly after this I began to grow crazy, along with the rest of the
population, about the mysterious and wonderful "cement mine," and to make
preparations to take advantage of any opportunity that might offer to go
and help hunt for it.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

It was somewhere in the neighborhood of Mono Lake that the marvellous
Whiteman cement mine was supposed to lie.  Every now and then it would be
reported that Mr. W. had passed stealthily through Esmeralda at dead of
night, in disguise, and then we would have a wild excitement--because he
must be steering for his secret mine, and now was the time to follow him.
In less than three hours after daylight all the horses and mules and
donkeys in the vicinity would be bought, hired or stolen, and half the
community would be off for the mountains, following in the wake of
Whiteman.  But W. would drift about through the mountain gorges for days
together, in a purposeless sort of way, until the provisions of the
miners ran out, and they would have to go back home.  I have known it
reported at eleven at night, in a large mining camp, that Whiteman had
just passed through, and in two hours the streets, so quiet before, would
be swarming with men and animals.  Every individual would be trying to be
very secret, but yet venturing to whisper to just one neighbor that W.
had passed through.  And long before daylight--this in the dead of
Winter--the stampede would be complete, the camp deserted, and the whole
population gone chasing after W.

The tradition was that in the early immigration, more than twenty years
ago, three young Germans, brothers, who had survived an Indian massacre
on the Plains, wandered on foot through the deserts, avoiding all trails
and roads, and simply holding a westerly direction and hoping to find
California before they starved, or died of fatigue.  And in a gorge in
the mountains they sat down to rest one day, when one of them noticed a
curious vein of cement running along the ground, shot full of lumps of
dull yellow metal.  They saw that it was gold, and that here was a
fortune to be acquired in a single day.  The vein was about as wide as a
curbstone, and fully two thirds of it was pure gold.  Every pound of the
wonderful cement was worth well-nigh $200.

Each of the brothers loaded himself with about twenty-five pounds of it,
and then they covered up all traces of the vein, made a rude drawing of
the locality and the principal landmarks in the vicinity, and started
westward again.  But troubles thickened about them.  In their wanderings
one brother fell and broke his leg, and the others were obliged to go on
and leave him to die in the wilderness.  Another, worn out and starving,
gave up by and by, and laid down to die, but after two or three weeks of
incredible hardships, the third reached the settlements of California
exhausted, sick, and his mind deranged by his sufferings.  He had thrown
away all his cement but a few fragments, but these were sufficient to set
everybody wild with excitement.  However, he had had enough of the cement
country, and nothing could induce him to lead a party thither.  He was
entirely content to work on a farm for wages.  But he gave Whiteman his
map, and described the cement region as well as he could and thus
transferred the curse to that gentleman--for when I had my one accidental
glimpse of Mr. W. in Esmeralda he had been hunting for the lost mine, in
hunger and thirst, poverty and sickness, for twelve or thirteen years.
Some people believed he had found it, but most people believed he had
not.  I saw a piece of cement as large as my fist which was said to have
been given to Whiteman by the young German, and it was of a seductive
nature.  Lumps of virgin gold were as thick in it as raisins in a slice
of fruit cake.  The privilege of working such a mine one week would be
sufficient for a man of reasonable desires.

A new partner of ours, a Mr. Higbie, knew Whiteman well by sight, and a
friend of ours, a Mr. Van Dorn, was well acquainted with him, and not
only that, but had Whiteman's promise that he should have a private hint
in time to enable him to join the next cement expedition.  Van Dorn had
promised to extend the hint to us.  One evening Higbie came in greatly
excited, and said he felt certain he had recognized Whiteman, up town,
disguised and in a pretended state of intoxication.  In a little while
Van Dorn arrived and confirmed the news; and so we gathered in our cabin
and with heads close together arranged our plans in impressive whispers.

We were to leave town quietly, after midnight, in two or three small
parties, so as not to attract attention, and meet at dawn on the "divide"
overlooking Mono Lake, eight or nine miles distant.  We were to make no
noise after starting, and not speak above a whisper under any
circumstances.  It was believed that for once Whiteman's presence was
unknown in the town and his expedition unsuspected.  Our conclave broke
up at nine o'clock, and we set about our preparation diligently and with
profound secrecy.  At eleven o'clock we saddled our horses, hitched them
with their long riatas (or lassos), and then brought out a side of bacon,
a sack of beans, a small sack of coffee, some sugar, a hundred pounds of
flour in sacks, some tin cups and a coffee pot, frying pan and some few
other necessary articles.  All these things were "packed" on the back of
a led horse--and whoever has not been taught, by a Spanish adept, to pack
an animal, let him never hope to do the thing by natural smartness.  That
is impossible.  Higbie had had some experience, but was not perfect.  He
put on the pack saddle (a thing like a saw-buck), piled the property on
it and then wound a rope all over and about it and under it, "every which
way," taking a hitch in it every now and then, and occasionally surging
back on it till the horse's sides sunk in and he gasped for breath--but
every time the lashings grew tight in one place they loosened in another.
We never did get the load tight all over, but we got it so that it would
do, after a fashion, and then we started, in single file, close order,
and without a word.  It was a dark night.  We kept the middle of the
road, and proceeded in a slow walk past the rows of cabins, and whenever
a miner came to his door I trembled for fear the light would shine on us
an excite curiosity.  But nothing happened.  We began the long winding
ascent of the canyon, toward the "divide," and presently the cabins began
to grow infrequent, and the intervals between them wider and wider, and
then I began to breathe tolerably freely and feel less like a thief and a
murderer.  I was in the rear, leading the pack horse.  As the ascent grew
steeper he grew proportionately less satisfied with his cargo, and began
to pull back on his riata occasionally and delay progress.  My comrades
were passing out of sight in the gloom.  I was getting anxious.  I coaxed
and bullied the pack horse till I presently got him into a trot, and then
the tin cups and pans strung about his person frightened him and he ran.
His riata was wound around the pummel of my saddle, and so, as he went by
he dragged me from my horse and the two animals traveled briskly on
without me.  But I was not alone--the loosened cargo tumbled overboard
from the pack horse and fell close to me.  It was abreast of almost the
last cabin.

A miner came out and said:

"Hello!"

I was thirty steps from him, and knew he could not see me, it was so very
dark in the shadow of the mountain.  So I lay still.  Another head
appeared in the light of the cabin door, and presently the two men walked
toward me.  They stopped within ten steps of me, and one said:

"Sh!  Listen."

I could not have been in a more distressed state if I had been escaping
justice with a price on my head.  Then the miners appeared to sit down on
a boulder, though I could not see them distinctly enough to be very sure
what they did.  One said:

"I heard a noise, as plain as I ever heard anything.  It seemed to be
about there--"

A stone whizzed by my head.  I flattened myself out in the dust like a
postage stamp, and thought to myself if he mended his aim ever so little
he would probably hear another noise.  In my heart, now, I execrated
secret expeditions.  I promised myself that this should be my last,
though the Sierras were ribbed with cement veins.  Then one of the men
said:

"I'll tell you what!  Welch knew what he was talking about when he said
he saw Whiteman to-day.  I heard horses--that was the noise.  I am going
down to Welch's, right away."

They left and I was glad.  I did not care whither they went, so they
went.  I was willing they should visit Welch, and the sooner the better.

As soon as they closed their cabin door my comrades emerged from the
gloom; they had caught the horses and were waiting for a clear coast
again.  We remounted the cargo on the pack horse and got under way, and
as day broke we reached the "divide" and joined Van Dorn.  Then we
journeyed down into the valley of the Lake, and feeling secure, we halted
to cook breakfast, for we were tired and sleepy and hungry.  Three hours
later the rest of the population filed over the "divide" in a long
procession, and drifted off out of sight around the borders of the Lake!

Whether or not my accident had produced this result we never knew, but at
least one thing was certain--the secret was out and Whiteman would not
enter upon a search for the cement mine this time.  We were filled with
chagrin.

We held a council and decided to make the best of our misfortune and
enjoy a week's holiday on the borders of the curious Lake.  Mono, it is
sometimes called, and sometimes the "Dead Sea of California."  It is one
of the strangest freaks of Nature to be found in any land, but it is
hardly ever mentioned in print and very seldom visited, because it lies
away off the usual routes of travel and besides is so difficult to get at
that only men content to endure the roughest life will consent to take
upon themselves the discomforts of such a trip.  On the morning of our
second day, we traveled around to a remote and particularly wild spot on
the borders of the Lake, where a stream of fresh, ice-cold water entered
it from the mountain side, and then we went regularly into camp.  We
hired a large boat and two shot-guns from a lonely ranchman who lived
some ten miles further on, and made ready for comfort and recreation.
We soon got thoroughly acquainted with the Lake and all its
peculiarities.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Mono Lake lies in a lifeless, treeless, hideous desert, eight thousand
feet above the level of the sea, and is guarded by mountains two thousand
feet higher, whose summits are always clothed in clouds.  This solemn,
silent, sail-less sea--this lonely tenant of the loneliest spot on earth
--is little graced with the picturesque.  It is an unpretending expanse
of grayish water, about a hundred miles in circumference, with two
islands in its centre, mere upheavals of rent and scorched and blistered
lava, snowed over with gray banks and drifts of pumice-stone and ashes,
the winding sheet of the dead volcano, whose vast crater the lake has
seized upon and occupied.

The lake is two hundred feet deep, and its sluggish waters are so strong
with alkali that if you only dip the most hopelessly soiled garment into
them once or twice, and wring it out, it will be found as clean as if it
had been through the ablest of washerwomen's hands.  While we camped
there our laundry work was easy.  We tied the week's washing astern of
our boat, and sailed a quarter of a mile, and the job was complete, all
to the wringing out.  If we threw the water on our heads and gave them a
rub or so, the white lather would pile up three inches high.  This water
is not good for bruised places and abrasions of the skin.  We had a
valuable dog.  He had raw places on him.  He had more raw places on him
than sound ones.  He was the rawest dog I almost ever saw.  He jumped
overboard one day to get away from the flies.  But it was bad judgment.
In his condition, it would have been just as comfortable to jump into the
fire.

The alkali water nipped him in all the raw places simultaneously, and he
struck out for the shore with considerable interest.  He yelped and
barked and howled as he went--and by the time he got to the shore there
was no bark to him--for he had barked the bark all out of his inside, and
the alkali water had cleaned the bark all off his outside, and he
probably wished he had never embarked in any such enterprise.  He ran
round and round in a circle, and pawed  the earth and clawed the air, and
threw double somersaults, sometimes backward and sometimes forward, in
the most extraordinary manner.  He was not a demonstrative dog, as a
general thing, but rather of a grave and serious turn of mind, and I
never saw him take so much interest in anything before.  He finally
struck out over the mountains, at a gait which we estimated at about two
hundred and fifty miles an hour, and he is going yet.  This was about
nine years ago.  We look for what is left of him along here every day.

A white man cannot drink the water of Mono Lake, for it is nearly pure
lye.  It is said that the Indians in the vicinity drink it sometimes,
though.  It is not improbable, for they are among the purest liars I ever
saw.  [There will be no additional charge for this joke, except to
parties requiring an explanation of it.  This joke has received high
commendation from some of the ablest minds of the age.]

There are no fish in Mono Lake--no frogs, no snakes, no polliwigs--
nothing, in fact, that goes to make life desirable.  Millions of wild
ducks and sea-gulls swim about the surface, but no living thing exists
under the surface, except a white feathery sort of worm, one half an inch
long, which looks like a bit of white thread frayed out at the sides.  If
you dip up a gallon of water, you will get about fifteen thousand of
these.  They give to the water a sort of grayish-white appearance.  Then
there is a fly, which looks something like our house fly.  These settle
on the beach to eat the worms that wash ashore--and any time, you can see
there a belt of flies an inch deep and six feet wide, and this belt
extends clear around the lake--a belt of flies one hundred miles long.
If you throw a stone among them, they swarm up so thick that they look
dense, like a cloud.  You can hold them under water as long as you
please--they do not mind it--they are only proud of it.  When you let
them go, they pop up to the surface as dry as a patent office report, and
walk off as unconcernedly as if they had been educated especially with a
view to affording instructive entertainment to man in that particular
way.  Providence leaves nothing to go by chance.  All things have their
uses and their part and proper place in Nature's economy: the ducks eat
the flies--the flies eat the worms--the Indians eat all three--the wild
cats eat the Indians--the white folks eat the wild cats--and thus all
things are lovely.

Mono Lake is a hundred miles in a straight line from the ocean--and
between it and the ocean are one or two ranges of mountains--yet
thousands of sea-gulls go there every season to lay their eggs and rear
their young.  One would as soon expect to find sea-gulls in Kansas.
And in this connection let us observe another instance of Nature's
wisdom.  The islands in the lake being merely huge masses of lava, coated
over with ashes and pumice-stone, and utterly innocent of vegetation or
anything that would burn; and sea-gull's eggs being entirely useless to
anybody unless they be cooked, Nature has provided an unfailing spring of
boiling water on the largest island, and you can put your eggs in there,
and in four minutes you can boil them as hard as any statement I have
made during the past fifteen years.  Within ten feet of the boiling
spring is a spring of pure cold water, sweet and wholesome.

So, in that island you get your board and washing free of charge--and if
nature had gone further and furnished a nice American hotel clerk who was
crusty and disobliging, and didn't know anything about the time tables,
or the railroad routes--or--anything--and was proud of it--I would not
wish for a more desirable boarding-house.

Half a dozen little mountain brooks flow into Mono Lake, but not a stream
of any kind flows out of it.  It neither rises nor falls, apparently, and
what it does with its surplus water is a dark and bloody mystery.

There are only two seasons in the region round about Mono Lake--and these
are, the breaking up of one Winter and the beginning of the next.  More
than once (in Esmeralda) I have seen a perfectly blistering morning open
up with the thermometer at ninety degrees at eight o'clock, and seen the
snow fall fourteen inches deep and that same identical thermometer go
down to forty-four degrees under shelter, before nine o'clock at night.
Under favorable circumstances it snows at least once in every single
month in the year, in the little town of Mono.  So uncertain is the
climate in Summer that a lady who goes out visiting cannot hope to be
prepared for all emergencies unless she takes her fan under one arm and
her snow shoes under the other.  When they have a Fourth of July
procession it generally snows on them, and they do say that as a general
thing when a man calls for a brandy toddy there, the bar keeper chops it
off with a hatchet and wraps it up in a paper, like maple sugar.  And it
is further reported that the old soakers haven't any teeth--wore them out
eating gin cocktails and brandy punches.  I do not endorse that
statement--I simply give it for what it is worth--and it is worth--well,
I should say, millions, to any man who can believe it without straining
himself.  But I do endorse the snow on the Fourth of July--because I know
that to be true.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

About seven o'clock one blistering hot morning--for it was now dead
summer time--Higbie and I took the boat and started on a voyage of
discovery to the two islands.  We had often longed to do this, but had
been deterred by the fear of storms; for they were frequent, and severe
enough to capsize an ordinary row-boat like ours without great
difficulty--and once capsized, death would ensue in spite of the bravest
swimming, for that venomous water would eat a man's eyes out like fire,
and burn him out inside, too, if he shipped a sea.  It was called twelve
miles, straight out to the islands--a long pull and a warm one--but the
morning was so quiet and sunny, and the lake so smooth and glassy and
dead, that we could not resist the temptation.  So we filled two large
tin canteens with water (since we were not acquainted with the locality
of the spring said to exist on the large island), and started.  Higbie's
brawny muscles gave the boat good speed, but by the time we reached our
destination we judged that we had pulled nearer fifteen miles than
twelve.

We landed on the big island and went ashore.  We tried the water in the
canteens, now, and found that the sun had spoiled it; it was so brackish
that we could not drink it; so we poured it out and began a search for
the spring--for thirst augments fast as soon as it is apparent that one
has no means at hand of quenching it.  The island was a long, moderately
high hill of ashes--nothing but gray ashes and pumice-stone, in which we
sunk to our knees at every step--and all around the top was a forbidding
wall of scorched and blasted rocks.  When we reached the top and got
within the wall, we found simply a shallow, far-reaching basin, carpeted
with ashes, and here and there a patch of fine sand.  In places,
picturesque jets of steam shot up out of crevices, giving evidence that
although this ancient crater had gone out of active business, there was
still some fire left in its furnaces.  Close to one of these jets of
steam stood the only tree on the island--a small pine of most graceful
shape and most faultless symmetry; its color was a brilliant green, for
the steam drifted unceasingly through its branches and kept them always
moist.  It contrasted strangely enough, did this vigorous and beautiful
outcast, with its dead and dismal surroundings.  It was like a cheerful
spirit in a mourning household.

We hunted for the spring everywhere, traversing the full length of the
island (two or three miles), and crossing it twice--climbing ash-hills
patiently, and then sliding down the other side in a sitting posture,
plowing up smothering volumes of gray dust.  But we found nothing but
solitude, ashes and a heart-breaking silence.  Finally we noticed that
the wind had risen, and we forgot our thirst in a solicitude of greater
importance; for, the lake being quiet, we had not taken pains about
securing the boat.  We hurried back to a point overlooking our landing
place, and then--but mere words cannot describe our dismay--the boat was
gone!  The chances were that there was not another boat on the entire
lake.  The situation was not comfortable--in truth, to speak plainly, it
was frightful.  We were prisoners on a desolate island, in aggravating
proximity to friends who were for the present helpless to aid us; and
what was still more uncomfortable was the reflection that we had neither
food nor water.  But presently we sighted the boat.  It was drifting
along, leisurely, about fifty yards from shore, tossing in a foamy sea.
It drifted, and continued to drift, but at the same safe distance from
land, and we walked along abreast it and waited for fortune to favor us.
At the end of an hour it approached a jutting cape, and Higbie ran ahead
and posted himself on the utmost verge and prepared for the assault.  If
we failed there, there was no hope for us.  It was driving gradually
shoreward all the time, now; but whether it was driving fast enough to
make the connection or not was the momentous question.  When it got
within thirty steps of Higbie I was so excited that I fancied I could
hear my own heart beat.  When, a little later, it dragged slowly along
and seemed about to go by, only one little yard out of reach, it seemed
as if my heart stood still; and when it was exactly abreast him and began
to widen away, and he still standing like a watching statue, I knew my
heart did stop.  But when he gave a great spring, the next instant, and
lit fairly in the stern, I discharged a war-whoop that woke the
solitudes!

But it dulled my enthusiasm, presently, when he told me he had not been
caring whether the boat came within jumping distance or not, so that it
passed within eight or ten yards of him, for he had made up his mind to
shut his eyes and mouth and swim that trifling distance.  Imbecile that I
was, I had not thought of that.  It was only a long swim that could be
fatal.

The sea was running high and the storm increasing.  It was growing late,
too--three or four in the afternoon.  Whether to venture toward the
mainland or not, was a question of some moment.  But we were so
distressed by thirst that we decide to try it, and so Higbie fell to work
and I took the steering-oar.  When we had pulled a mile, laboriously,
we were evidently in serious peril, for the storm had greatly augmented;
the billows ran very high and were capped with foaming crests,
the heavens were hung with black, and the wind blew with great fury.
We would have gone back, now, but we did not dare to turn the boat
around, because as soon as she got in the trough of the sea she would
upset, of course.  Our only hope lay in keeping her head-on to the seas.
It was hard work to do this, she plunged so, and so beat and belabored
the billows with her rising and falling bows.  Now and then one of
Higbie's oars would trip on the top of a wave, and the other one would
snatch the boat half around in spite of my cumbersome steering apparatus.
We were drenched by the sprays constantly, and the boat occasionally
shipped water.  By and by, powerful as my comrade was, his great
exertions began to tell on him, and he was anxious that I should change
places with him till he could rest a little.  But I told him this was
impossible; for if the steering oar were dropped a moment while we
changed, the boat would slue around into the trough of the sea, capsize,
and in less than five minutes we would have a hundred gallons of soap-
suds in us and be eaten up so quickly that we could not even be present
at our own inquest.

But things cannot last always.  Just as the darkness shut down we came
booming into port, head on.  Higbie dropped his oars to hurrah--I dropped
mine to help--the sea gave the boat a twist, and over she went!

The agony that alkali water inflicts on bruises, chafes and blistered
hands, is unspeakable, and nothing but greasing all over will modify it--
but we ate, drank and slept well, that night, notwithstanding.

In speaking of the peculiarities of Mono Lake, I ought to have mentioned
that at intervals all around its shores stand picturesque turret-looking
masses and clusters of a whitish, coarse-grained rock that resembles
inferior mortar dried hard; and if one breaks off fragments of this rock
he will find perfectly shaped and thoroughly petrified gulls' eggs deeply
imbedded in the mass.  How did they get there?  I simply state the fact--
for it is a fact--and leave the geological reader to crack the nut at his
leisure and solve the problem after his own fashion.

At the end of a week we adjourned to the Sierras on a fishing excursion,
and spent several days in camp under snowy Castle Peak, and fished
successfully for trout in a bright, miniature lake whose surface was
between ten and eleven thousand feet above the level of the sea; cooling
ourselves during the hot August noons by sitting on snow banks ten feet
deep, under whose sheltering edges fine grass and dainty flowers
flourished luxuriously; and at night entertaining ourselves by almost
freezing to death.  Then we returned to Mono Lake, and finding that the
cement excitement was over for the present, packed up and went back to
Esmeralda.  Mr. Ballou reconnoitred awhile, and not liking the prospect,
set out alone for Humboldt.

About this time occurred a little incident which has always had a sort of
interest to me, from the fact that it came so near "instigating" my
funeral.  At a time when an Indian attack had been expected, the citizens
hid their gunpowder where it would be safe and yet convenient to hand
when wanted.  A neighbor of ours hid six cans of rifle powder in the
bake-oven of an old discarded cooking stove which stood on the open
ground near a frame out-house or shed, and from and after that day never
thought of it again.  We hired a half-tamed Indian to do some washing for
us, and he took up quarters under the shed with his tub.  The ancient
stove reposed within six feet of him, and before his face.  Finally it
occurred to him that hot water would be better than cold, and he went out
and fired up under that forgotten powder magazine and set on a kettle of
water.  Then he returned to his tub.

I entered the shed presently and threw down some more clothes, and was
about to speak to him when the stove blew up with a prodigious crash, and
disappeared, leaving not a splinter behind.  Fragments of it fell in the
streets full two hundred yards away.  Nearly a third of the shed roof
over our heads was destroyed, and one of the stove lids, after cutting a
small stanchion half in two in front of the Indian, whizzed between us
and drove partly through the weather-boarding beyond.  I was as white as
a sheet and as weak as a kitten and speechless.  But the Indian betrayed
no trepidation, no distress, not even discomfort.  He simply stopped
washing, leaned forward and surveyed the clean, blank ground a moment,
and then remarked:

"Mph!  Dam stove heap gone!"--and resumed his scrubbing as placidly as if
it were an entirely customary thing for a stove to do.  I will explain,
that "heap" is "Injun-English" for "very much."  The reader will perceive
the exhaustive expressiveness of it in the present instance.




CHAPTER XL.
I now come to a curious episode--the most curious, I think, that had yet
accented my slothful, valueless, heedless career.  Out of a hillside
toward the upper end of the town, projected a wall of reddish looking
quartz-croppings, the exposed comb of a silver-bearing ledge that
extended deep down into the earth, of course.  It was owned by a company
entitled the "Wide West."  There was a shaft sixty or seventy feet deep
on the under side of the croppings, and everybody was acquainted with the
rock that came from it--and tolerably rich rock it was, too, but nothing
extraordinary.  I will remark here, that although to the inexperienced
stranger all the quartz of a particular "district" looks about alike, an
old resident of the camp can take a glance at a mixed pile of rock,
separate the fragments and tell you which mine each came from, as easily
as a confectioner can separate and classify the various kinds and
qualities of candy in a mixed heap of the article.

All at once the town was thrown into a state of extraordinary excitement.
In mining parlance the Wide West had "struck it rich!"  Everybody went to
see the new developments, and for some days there was such a crowd of
people about the Wide West shaft that a stranger would have supposed
there was a mass meeting in session there.  No other topic was discussed
but the rich strike, and nobody thought or dreamed about anything else.
Every man brought away a specimen, ground it up in a hand mortar, washed
it out in his horn spoon, and glared speechless upon the marvelous
result.  It was not hard rock, but black, decomposed stuff which could be
crumbled in the hand like a baked potato, and when spread out on a paper
exhibited a thick sprinkling of gold and particles of "native" silver.
Higbie brought a handful to the cabin, and when he had washed it out his
amazement was beyond description.  Wide West stock soared skywards.  It
was said that repeated offers had been made for it at a thousand dollars
a foot, and promptly refused.  We have all had the "blues"--the mere sky-
blues--but mine were indigo, now--because I did not own in the Wide West.
The world seemed hollow to me, and existence a grief.  I lost my
appetite, and ceased to take an interest in anything.  Still I had to
stay, and listen to other people's rejoicings, because I had no money to
get out of the camp with.

The Wide West company put a stop to the carrying away of "specimens," and
well they might, for every handful of the ore was worth a sun of some
consequence.  To show the exceeding value of the ore, I will remark that
a sixteen-hundred-pounds parcel of it was sold, just as it lay, at the
mouth of the shaft, at one dollar a pound; and the man who bought it
"packed" it on mules a hundred and fifty or two hundred miles, over the
mountains, to San Francisco, satisfied that it would yield at a rate that
would richly compensate him for his trouble.  The Wide West people also
commanded their foreman to refuse any but their own operatives permission
to enter the mine at any time or for any purpose.  I kept up my "blue"
meditations and Higbie kept up a deal of thinking, too, but of a
different sort.  He puzzled over the "rock," examined it with a glass,
inspected it in different lights and from different points of view, and
after each experiment delivered himself, in soliloquy, of one and the
same unvarying opinion in the same unvarying formula:

"It is not Wide West rock!"

He said once or twice that he meant to have a look into the Wide West
shaft if he got shot for it.  I was wretched, and did not care whether he
got a look into it or not.  He failed that day, and tried again at night;
failed again; got up at dawn and tried, and failed again.  Then he lay in
ambush in the sage brush hour after hour, waiting for the two or three
hands to adjourn to the shade of a boulder for dinner; made a start once,
but was premature--one of the men came back for something; tried it
again, but when almost at the mouth of the shaft, another of the men rose
up from behind the boulder as if to reconnoitre, and he dropped on the
ground and lay quiet; presently he crawled on his hands and knees to the
mouth of the shaft, gave a quick glance around, then seized the rope and
slid down the shaft.

He disappeared in the gloom of a "side drift" just as a head appeared in
the mouth of the shaft and somebody shouted "Hello!"--which he did not
answer.  He was not disturbed any more.  An hour later he entered the
cabin, hot, red, and ready to burst with smothered excitement, and
exclaimed in a stage whisper:

"I knew it!  We are rich!  IT'S A BLIND LEAD!"

I thought the very earth reeled under me.  Doubt--conviction--doubt
again--exultation--hope, amazement, belief, unbelief--every emotion
imaginable swept in wild procession through my heart and brain, and I
could not speak a word.  After a moment or two of this mental fury, I
shook myself to rights, and said:

"Say it again!"

"It's blind lead!"

"Cal, let's--let's burn the house--or kill somebody!  Let's get out where
there's room to hurrah!  But what is the use?  It is a hundred times too
good to be true."

"It's a blind lead, for a million!--hanging wall--foot wall--clay
casings--everything complete!" He swung his hat and gave three cheers,
and I cast doubt to the winds and chimed in with a will.  For I was worth
a million dollars, and did not care "whether school kept or not!"

But perhaps I ought to explain.  A "blind lead" is a lead or ledge that
does not "crop out" above the surface.  A miner does not know where to
look for such leads, but they are often stumbled upon by accident in the
course of driving a tunnel or sinking a shaft.  Higbie knew the Wide West
rock perfectly well, and the more he had examined the new developments
the more he was satisfied that the ore could not have come from the Wide
West vein.  And so had it occurred to him alone, of all the camp, that
there was a blind lead down in the shaft, and that even the Wide West
people themselves did not suspect it.  He was right.  When he went down
the shaft, he found that the blind lead held its independent way through
the Wide West vein, cutting it diagonally, and that it was enclosed in
its own well-defined casing-rocks and clay.  Hence it was public
property.  Both leads being perfectly well defined, it was easy for any
miner to see which one belonged to the Wide West and which did not.

We thought it well to have a strong friend, and therefore we brought the
foreman of the Wide West to our cabin that night and revealed the great
surprise to him.  Higbie said:

"We are going to take possession of this blind lead, record it and
establish ownership, and then forbid the Wide West company to take out
any more of the rock.  You cannot help your company in this matter--
nobody can help them.  I will go into the shaft with you and prove to
your entire satisfaction that it is a blind lead.  Now we propose to take
you in with us, and claim the blind lead in our three names.  What do you
say?"

What could a man say who had an opportunity to simply stretch forth his
hand and take possession of a fortune without risk of any kind and
without wronging any one or attaching the least taint of dishonor to his
name?  He could only say, "Agreed."

The notice was put up that night, and duly spread upon the recorder's
books before ten o'clock.  We claimed two hundred feet each--six hundred
feet in all--the smallest and compactest organization in the district,
and the easiest to manage.

No one can be so thoughtless as to suppose that we slept, that night.
Higbie and I went to bed at midnight, but it was only to lie broad awake
and think, dream, scheme.  The floorless, tumble-down cabin was a palace,
the ragged gray blankets silk, the furniture rosewood and mahogany.
Each new splendor that burst out of my visions of the future whirled me
bodily over in bed or jerked me to a sitting posture just as if an
electric battery had been applied to me.  We shot fragments of
conversation back and forth at each other.  Once Higbie said:

"When are you going home--to the States?"

"To-morrow!"--with an evolution or two, ending with a sitting position.
"Well--no--but next month, at furthest."

"We'll go in the same steamer."

"Agreed."

A pause.

"Steamer of the 10th?"

"Yes.  No, the 1st."

"All right."

Another pause.

"Where are you going to live?"  said Higbie.

"San Francisco."

"That's me!"

Pause.

"Too high--too much climbing"--from Higbie.

"What is?"

"I was thinking of Russian Hill--building a house up there."

"Too much climbing?  Shan't you keep a carriage?"

"Of course.  I forgot that."

Pause.

"Cal., what kind of a house are you going to build?"

"I was thinking about that.  Three-story and an attic."

"But what kind?"

"Well, I don't hardly know.  Brick, I suppose."

"Brick--bosh."

"Why?  What is your idea?"

"Brown stone front--French plate glass--billiard-room off the dining-
room--statuary and paintings--shrubbery and two-acre grass plat--
greenhouse--iron dog on the front stoop--gray horses--landau, and a
coachman with a bug on his hat!"

"By George!"

A long pause.

"Cal., when are you going to Europe?"

"Well--I hadn't thought of that.  When are you?"

"In the Spring."

"Going to be gone all summer?"

"All summer!  I shall remain there three years."

"No--but are you in earnest?"

"Indeed I am."

"I will go along too."

"Why of course you will."

"What part of Europe shall you go to?"

"All parts.  France, England, Germany--Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Syria,
Greece, Palestine, Arabia, Persia, Egypt--all over--everywhere."

"I'm agreed."

"All right."

"Won't it be a swell trip!"

"We'll spend forty or fifty thousand dollars trying to make it one,
anyway."

Another long pause.

"Higbie, we owe the butcher six dollars, and he has been threatening to
stop our--"

"Hang the butcher!"

"Amen."

And so it went on.  By three o'clock we found it was no use, and so we
got up and played cribbage and smoked pipes till sunrise.  It was my week
to cook.  I always hated cooking--now, I abhorred it.

The news was all over town.  The former excitement was great--this one
was greater still.  I walked the streets serene and happy.  Higbie said
the foreman had been offered two hundred thousand dollars for his third
of the mine.  I said I would like to see myself selling for any such
price.  My ideas were lofty.  My figure was a million.  Still, I honestly
believe that if I had been offered it, it would have had no other effect
than to make me hold off for more.

I found abundant enjoyment in being rich.  A man offered me a three-
hundred-dollar horse, and wanted to take my simple, unendorsed note for
it.  That brought the most realizing sense I had yet had that I was
actually rich, beyond shadow of doubt.  It was followed by numerous other
evidences of a similar nature--among which I may mention the fact of the
butcher leaving us a double supply of meat and saying nothing about
money.

By the laws of the district, the "locators" or claimants of a ledge were
obliged to do a fair and reasonable amount of work on their new property
within ten days after the date of the location, or the property was
forfeited, and anybody could go and seize it that chose.  So we
determined to go to work the next day.  About the middle of the
afternoon, as I was coming out of the post office, I met a Mr. Gardiner,
who told me that Capt. John Nye was lying dangerously ill at his place
(the "Nine-Mile Ranch"), and that he and his wife were not able to give
him nearly as much care and attention as his case demanded.  I said if he
would wait for me a moment, I would go down and help in the sick room.
I ran to the cabin to tell Higbie.  He was not there, but I left a note
on the table for him, and a few minutes later I left town in Gardiner's
wagon.




CHAPTER XLI.

Captain Nye was very ill indeed, with spasmodic rheumatism.  But the old
gentleman was himself--which is to say, he was kind-hearted and agreeable
when comfortable, but a singularly violent wild-cat when things did not
go well.  He would be smiling along pleasantly enough, when a sudden
spasm of his disease would take him and he would go out of his smile into
a perfect fury.  He would groan and wail and howl with the anguish, and
fill up the odd chinks with the most elaborate profanity that strong
convictions and a fine fancy could contrive.  With fair opportunity he
could swear very well and handle his adjectives with considerable
judgment; but when the spasm was on him it was painful to listen to him,
he was so awkward.  However, I had seen him nurse a sick man himself and
put up patiently with the inconveniences of the situation, and
consequently I was willing that he should have full license now that his
own turn had come.  He could not disturb me, with all his raving and
ranting, for my mind had work on hand, and it labored on diligently,
night and day, whether my hands were idle or employed.  I was altering
and amending the plans for my house, and thinking over the propriety of
having the billard-room in the attic, instead of on the same floor with
the dining-room; also, I was trying to decide between green and blue for
the upholstery of the drawing-room, for, although my preference was blue
I feared it was a color that would be too easily damaged by dust and
sunlight; likewise while I was content to put the coachman in a modest
livery, I was uncertain about a footman--I needed one, and was even
resolved to have one, but wished he could properly appear and perform his
functions out of livery, for I somewhat dreaded so much show; and yet,
inasmuch as my late grandfather had had a coachman and such things, but
no liveries, I felt rather drawn to beat him;--or beat his ghost, at any
rate; I was also systematizing the European trip, and managed to get it
all laid out, as to route and length of time to be devoted to it--
everything, with one exception--namely, whether to cross the desert from
Cairo to Jerusalem per camel, or go by sea to Beirut, and thence down
through the country per caravan.  Meantime I was writing to the friends
at home every day, instructing them concerning all my plans and
intentions, and directing them to look up a handsome homestead for my
mother and agree upon a price for it against my coming, and also
directing them to sell my share of the Tennessee land and tender the
proceeds to the widows' and orphans' fund of the typographical union of
which I had long been a member in good standing.  [This Tennessee land
had been in the possession of the family many years, and promised to
confer high fortune upon us some day; it still promises it, but in a less
violent way.]

When I had been nursing the Captain nine days he was somewhat better,
but very feeble.  During the afternoon we lifted him into a chair and
gave him an alcoholic vapor bath, and then set about putting him on the
bed again.  We had to be exceedingly careful, for the least jar produced
pain.  Gardiner had his shoulders and I his legs; in an unfortunate
moment I stumbled and the patient fell heavily on the bed in an agony of
torture.  I never heard a man swear so in my life.  He raved like a
maniac, and tried to snatch a revolver from the table--but I got it.
He ordered me out of the house, and swore a world of oaths that he would
kill me wherever he caught me when he got on his feet again.  It was
simply a passing fury, and meant nothing.  I knew he would forget it in
an hour, and maybe be sorry for it, too; but it angered me a little, at
the moment.  So much so, indeed, that I determined to go back to
Esmeralda.  I thought he was able to get along alone, now, since he was
on the war path.  I took supper, and as soon as the moon rose, began my
nine-mile journey, on foot.

Even millionaires needed no horses, in those days, for a mere nine-mile
jaunt without baggage.

As I "raised the hill" overlooking the town, it lacked fifteen minutes of
twelve.  I glanced at the hill over beyond the canyon, and in the bright
moonlight saw what appeared to be about half the population of the
village massed on and around the Wide West croppings.  My heart gave an
exulting bound, and I said to myself, "They have made a new strike to-
night--and struck it richer than ever, no doubt."  I started over there,
but gave it up.  I said the "strick" would keep, and I had climbed hill
enough for one night.  I went on down through the town, and as I was
passing a little German bakery, a woman ran out and begged me to come in
and help her.  She said her husband had a fit.  I went in, and judged she
was right--he appeared to have a hundred of them, compressed into one.
Two Germans were there, trying to hold him, and not making much of a
success of it.  I ran up the street half a block or so and routed out a
sleeping doctor, brought him down half dressed, and we four wrestled with
the maniac, and doctored, drenched and bled him, for more than an hour,
and the poor German woman did the crying.  He grew quiet, now, and the
doctor and I withdrew and left him to his friends.

It was a little after one o'clock.  As I entered the cabin door, tired
but jolly, the dingy light of a tallow candle revealed Higbie, sitting by
the pine table gazing stupidly at my note, which he held in his fingers,
and looking pale, old, and haggard.  I halted, and looked at him.  He
looked at me, stolidly.  I said:

"Higbie, what--what is it?"

"We're ruined--we didn't do the work--THE BLIND LEAD'S RELOCATED!"

It was enough.  I sat down sick, grieved--broken-hearted, indeed.  A
minute before, I was rich and brimful of vanity; I was a pauper now, and
very meek.  We sat still an hour, busy with thought, busy with vain and
useless self-upbraidings, busy with "Why didn't I do this, and why didn't
I do that," but neither spoke a word.  Then we dropped into mutual
explanations, and the mystery was cleared away.  It came out that Higbie
had depended on me, as I had on him, and as both of us had on the
foreman.  The folly of it!  It was the first time that ever staid and
steadfast Higbie had left an important matter to chance or failed to be
true to his full share of a responsibility.

But he had never seen my note till this moment, and this moment was the
first time he had been in the cabin since the day he had seen me last.
He, also, had left a note for me, on that same fatal afternoon--had
ridden up on horseback, and looked through the window, and being in a
hurry and not seeing me, had tossed the note into the cabin through a
broken pane.  Here it was, on the floor, where it had remained
undisturbed for nine days:

      "Don't fail to do the work before the ten days expire.  W.
      has passed through and given me notice.  I am to join him at
      Mono Lake, and we shall go on from there to-night.  He says
      he will find it this time, sure.  CAL."

"W."  meant Whiteman, of course.  That thrice accursed "cement!"

That was the way of it.  An old miner, like Higbie, could no more
withstand the fascination of a mysterious mining excitement like this
"cement" foolishness, than he could refrain from eating when he was
famishing.  Higbie had been dreaming about the marvelous cement for
months; and now, against his better judgment, he had gone off and "taken
the chances" on my keeping secure a mine worth a million undiscovered
cement veins.  They had not been followed this time.  His riding out of
town in broad daylight was such a common-place thing to do that it had
not attracted any attention.  He said they prosecuted their search in the
fastnesses of the mountains during nine days, without success; they could
not find the cement.  Then a ghastly fear came over him that something
might have happened to prevent the doing of the necessary work to hold
the blind lead (though indeed he thought such a thing hardly possible),
and forthwith he started home with all speed.  He would have reached
Esmeralda in time, but his horse broke down and he had to walk a great
part of the distance.  And so it happened that as he came into Esmeralda
by one road, I entered it by another.  His was the superior energy,
however, for he went straight to the Wide West, instead of turning aside
as I had done--and he arrived there about five or ten minutes too late!
The "notice" was already up, the "relocation" of our mine completed
beyond recall, and the crowd rapidly dispersing.  He learned some facts
before he left the ground.  The foreman had not been seen about the
streets since the night we had located the mine--a telegram had called
him to California on a matter of life and death, it was said.  At any
rate he had done no work and the watchful eyes of the community were
taking note of the fact.  At midnight of this woful tenth day, the ledge
would be "relocatable," and by eleven o'clock the hill was black with men
prepared to do the relocating.  That was the crowd I had seen when I
fancied a new "strike" had been made--idiot that I was.

[We three had the same right to relocate the lead that other people had,
provided we were quick enough.] As midnight was announced, fourteen men,
duly armed and ready to back their proceedings, put up their "notice" and
proclaimed their ownership of the blind lead, under the new name of the
"Johnson."  But A. D. Allen our partner (the foreman) put in a sudden
appearance about that time, with a cocked revolver in his hand, and said
his name must be added to the list, or he would "thin out the Johnson
company some."  He was a manly, splendid, determined fellow, and known to
be as good as his word, and therefore a compromise was effected.  They
put in his name for a hundred feet, reserving to themselves the customary
two hundred feet each.  Such was the history of the night's events, as
Higbie gathered from a friend on the way home.

Higbie and I cleared out on a new mining excitement the next morning,
glad to get away from the scene of our sufferings, and after a month or
two of hardship and disappointment, returned to Esmeralda once more.
Then we learned that the Wide West and the Johnson companies had
consolidated; that the stock, thus united, comprised five thousand feet,
or shares; that the foreman, apprehending tiresome litigation, and
considering such a huge concern unwieldy, had sold his hundred feet for
ninety thousand dollars in gold and gone home to the States to enjoy it.
If the stock was worth such a gallant figure, with five thousand shares
in the corporation, it makes me dizzy to think what it would have been
worth with only our original six hundred in it.  It was the difference
between six hundred men owning a house and five thousand owning it.  We
would have been millionaires if we had only worked with pick and spade
one little day on our property and so secured our ownership!

It reads like a wild fancy sketch, but the evidence of many witnesses,
and likewise that of the official records of Esmeralda District, is
easily obtainable in proof that it is a true history.  I can always have
it to say that I was absolutely and unquestionably worth a million
dollars, once, for ten days.

A year ago my esteemed and in every way estimable old millionaire
partner, Higbie, wrote me from an obscure little mining camp in
California that after nine or ten years of buffetings and hard striving,
he was at last in a position where he could command twenty-five hundred
dollars, and said he meant to go into the fruit business in a modest way.
How such a thought would have insulted him the night we lay in our cabin
planning European trips and brown stone houses on Russian Hill!




CHAPTER XLII.

What to do next?

It was a momentous question.  I had gone out into the world to shift for
myself, at the age of thirteen (for my father had endorsed for friends;
and although he left us a sumptuous legacy of pride in his fine Virginian
stock and its national distinction, I presently found that I could not
live on that alone without occasional bread to wash it down with).  I had
gained a livelihood in various vocations, but had not dazzled anybody
with my successes; still the list was before me, and the amplest liberty
in the matter of choosing, provided I wanted to work--which I did not,
after being so wealthy.  I had once been a grocery clerk, for one day,
but had consumed so much sugar in that time that I was relieved from
further duty by the proprietor; said he wanted me outside, so that he
could have my custom.  I had studied law an entire week, and then given
it up because it was so prosy and tiresome.  I had engaged briefly in the
study of blacksmithing, but wasted so much time trying to fix the bellows
so that it would blow itself, that the master turned me adrift in
disgrace, and told me I would come to no good.  I had been a bookseller's
clerk for awhile, but the customers bothered me so much I could not read
with any comfort, and so the proprietor gave me a furlough and forgot to
put a limit to it.  I had clerked in a drug store part of a summer, but
my prescriptions were unlucky, and we appeared to sell more stomach pumps
than soda water.  So I had to go.  I had made of myself a tolerable
printer, under the impression that I would be another Franklin some day,
but somehow had missed the connection thus far.  There was no berth open
in the Esmeralda Union, and besides I had always been such a slow
compositor that I looked with envy upon the achievements of apprentices
of two years' standing; and when I took a "take," foremen were in the
habit of suggesting that it would be wanted "some time during the year."

I was a good average St. Louis and New Orleans pilot and by no means
ashamed of my abilities in that line; wages were two hundred and fifty
dollars a month and no board to pay, and I did long to stand behind a
wheel again and never roam any more--but I had been making such an ass of
myself lately in grandiloquent letters home about my blind lead and my
European excursion that I did what many and many a poor disappointed
miner had done before; said "It is all over with me now, and I will never
go back home to be pitied--and snubbed."  I had been a private secretary,
a silver miner and a silver mill operative, and amounted to less than
nothing in each, and now--

What to do next?

I yielded to Higbie's appeals and consented to try the mining once more.
We climbed far up on the mountain side and went to work on a little
rubbishy claim of ours that had a shaft on it eight feet deep.  Higbie
descended into it and worked bravely with his pick till he had loosened
up a deal of rock and dirt and then I went down with a long-handled
shovel (the most awkward invention yet contrived by man) to throw it out.
You must brace the shovel forward with the side of your knee till it is
full, and then, with a skilful toss, throw it backward over your left
shoulder.  I made the toss, and landed the mess just on the edge of the
shaft and it all came back on my head and down the back of my neck.
I never said a word, but climbed out and walked home.  I inwardly
resolved that I would starve before I would make a target of myself and
shoot rubbish at it with a long-handled shovel.

I sat down, in the cabin, and gave myself up to solid misery--so to
speak.  Now in pleasanter days I had amused myself with writing letters
to the chief paper of the Territory, the Virginia Daily Territorial
Enterprise, and had always been surprised when they appeared in print.
My good opinion of the editors had steadily declined; for it seemed to me
that they might have found something better to fill up with than my
literature.  I had found a letter in the post office as I came home from
the hill side, and finally I opened it.  Eureka!  [I never did know what
Eureka meant, but it seems to be as proper a word to heave in as any when
no other that sounds pretty offers.] It was a deliberate offer to me of
Twenty-Five Dollars a week to come up to Virginia and be city editor of
the Enterprise.

I would have challenged the publisher in the "blind lead" days--I wanted
to fall down and worship him, now.  Twenty-Five Dollars a week--it looked
like bloated luxury--a fortune a sinful and lavish waste of money.
But my transports cooled when I thought of my inexperience and consequent
unfitness for the position--and straightway, on top of this, my long
array of failures rose up before me.  Yet if I refused this place I must
presently become dependent upon somebody for my bread, a thing
necessarily distasteful to a man who had never experienced such a
humiliation since he was thirteen years old.  Not much to be proud of,
since it is so common--but then it was all I had to be proud of.  So I
was scared into being a city editor.  I would have declined, otherwise.
Necessity is the mother of "taking chances."  I do not doubt that if, at
that time, I had been offered a salary to translate the Talmud from the
original Hebrew, I would have accepted--albeit with diffidence and some
misgivings--and thrown as much variety into it as I could for the money.

I went up to Virginia and entered upon my new vocation.  I was a rusty
looking city editor, I am free to confess--coatless, slouch hat, blue
woolen shirt, pantaloons stuffed into boot-tops, whiskered half down to
the waist, and the universal navy revolver slung to my belt.  But I
secured a more Christian costume and discarded the revolver.

I had never had occasion to kill anybody, nor ever felt a desire to do
so, but had worn the thing in deference to popular sentiment, and in
order that I might not, by its absence, be offensively conspicuous, and a
subject of remark.  But the other editors, and all the printers, carried
revolvers.  I asked the chief editor and proprietor (Mr. Goodman, I will
call him, since it describes him as well as any name could do) for some
instructions with regard to my duties, and he told me to go all over town
and ask all sorts of people all sorts of questions, make notes of the
information gained, and write them out for publication.  And he added:

"Never say 'We learn' so-and-so, or 'It is reported,' or 'It is rumored,'
or 'We understand' so-and-so, but go to headquarters and get the absolute
facts, and then speak out and say 'It is so-and-so.'  Otherwise, people
will not put confidence in your news.  Unassailable certainly is the
thing that gives a newspaper the firmest and most valuable reputation."

It was the whole thing in a nut-shell; and to this day when I find a
reporter commencing his article with "We understand," I gather a
suspicion that he has not taken as much pains to inform himself as he
ought to have done.  I moralize well, but I did not always practise well
when I was a city editor; I let fancy get the upper hand of fact too
often when there was a dearth of news.  I can never forget my first day's
experience as a reporter.  I wandered about town questioning everybody,
boring everybody, and finding out that nobody knew anything.  At the end
of five hours my notebook was still barren.  I spoke to Mr. Goodman.  He
said:

"Dan used to make a good thing out of the hay wagons in a dry time when
there were no fires or inquests.  Are there no hay wagons in from the
Truckee?  If there are, you might speak of the renewed activity and all
that sort of thing, in the hay business, you know.

"It isn't sensational or exciting, but it fills up and looks business
like."

I canvassed the city again and found one wretched old hay truck dragging
in from the country.  But I made affluent use of it.  I multiplied it by
sixteen, brought it into town from sixteen different directions, made
sixteen separate items out of it, and got up such another sweat about hay
as Virginia City had never seen in the world before.

This was encouraging.  Two nonpareil columns had to be filled, and I was
getting along.  Presently, when things began to look dismal again, a
desperado killed a man in a saloon and joy returned once more.  I never
was so glad over any mere trifle before in my life.  I said to the
murderer:

"Sir, you are a stranger to me, but you have done me a kindness this day
which I can never forget.  If whole years of gratitude can be to you any
slight compensation, they shall be yours.  I was in trouble and you have
relieved me nobly and at a time when all seemed dark and drear.  Count me
your friend from this time forth, for I am not a man to forget a favor."

If I did not really say that to him I at least felt a sort of itching
desire to do it.  I wrote up the murder with a hungry attention to
details, and when it was finished experienced but one regret--namely,
that they had not hanged my benefactor on the spot, so that I could work
him up too.

Next I discovered some emigrant wagons going into camp on the plaza and
found that they had lately come through the hostile Indian country and
had fared rather roughly.  I made the best of the item that the
circumstances permitted, and felt that if I were not confined within
rigid limits by the presence of the reporters of the other papers I could
add particulars that would make the article much more interesting.
However, I found one wagon that was going on to California, and made some
judicious inquiries of the proprietor.  When I learned, through his short
and surly answers to my cross-questioning, that he was certainly going on
and would not be in the city next day to make trouble, I got ahead of the
other papers, for I took down his list of names and added his party to
the killed and wounded.  Having more scope here, I put this wagon through
an Indian fight that to this day has no parallel in history.

My two columns were filled.  When I read them over in the morning I felt
that I had found my legitimate occupation at last.  I reasoned within
myself that news, and stirring news, too, was what a paper needed, and I
felt that I was peculiarly endowed with the ability to furnish it.
Mr. Goodman said that I was as good a reporter as Dan.  I desired no
higher commendation.  With encouragement like that, I felt that I could
take my pen and murder all the immigrants on the plains if need be and
the interests of the paper demanded it.




CHAPTER XLIII.

However, as I grew better acquainted with the business and learned the
run of the sources of information I ceased to require the aid of fancy to
any large extent, and became able to fill my columns without diverging
noticeably from the domain of fact.

I struck up friendships with the reporters of the other journals, and we
swapped "regulars" with each other and thus economized work.  "Regulars"
are permanent sources of news, like courts, bullion returns, "clean-ups"
at the quartz mills, and inquests.  Inasmuch as everybody went armed, we
had an inquest about every day, and so this department was naturally set
down among the "regulars."  We had lively papers in those days.  My great
competitor among the reporters was Boggs of the Union.  He was an
excellent reporter.  Once in three or four months he would get a little
intoxicated, but as a general thing he was a wary and cautious drinker
although always ready to tamper a little with the enemy.  He had the
advantage of me in one thing; he could get the monthly public school
report and I could not, because the principal hated the Enterprise.
One snowy night when the report was due, I started out sadly wondering
how I was going to get it.  Presently, a few steps up the almost deserted
street I stumbled on Boggs and asked him where he was going.

"After the school report."

"I'll go along with you."

"No, sir.  I'll excuse you."

"Just as you say."

A saloon-keeper's boy passed by with a steaming pitcher of hot punch, and
Boggs snuffed the fragrance gratefully.  He gazed fondly after the boy
and saw him start up the Enterprise stairs.  I said:

"I wish you could help me get that school business, but since you can't,
I must run up to the Union office and see if I can get them to let me
have a proof of it after they have set it up, though I don't begin to
suppose they will.  Good night."

"Hold on a minute.  I don't mind getting the report and sitting around
with the boys a little, while you copy it, if you're willing to drop down
to the principal's with me."

"Now you talk like a rational being.  Come along."

We plowed a couple of blocks through the snow, got the report and
returned to our office.  It was a short document and soon copied.
Meantime Boggs helped himself to the punch.  I gave the manuscript back
to him and we started out to get an inquest, for we heard pistol shots
near by.  We got the particulars with little loss of time, for it was
only an inferior sort of bar-room murder, and of little interest to the
public, and then we separated.  Away at three o'clock in the morning,
when we had gone to press and were having a relaxing concert as usual--
for some of the printers were good singers and others good performers on
the guitar and on that atrocity the accordion--the proprietor of the
Union strode in and desired to know if anybody had heard anything of
Boggs or the school report.  We stated the case, and all turned out to
help hunt for the delinquent.  We found him standing on a table in a
saloon, with an old tin lantern in one hand and the school report in the
other, haranguing a gang of intoxicated Cornish miners on the iniquity of
squandering the public moneys on education "when hundreds and hundreds of
honest hard-working men are literally starving for whiskey."  [Riotous
applause.]  He had been assisting in a regal spree with those parties for
hours.  We dragged him away and put him to bed.

Of course there was no school report in the Union, and Boggs held me
accountable, though I was innocent of any intention or desire to compass
its absence from that paper and was as sorry as any one that the
misfortune had occurred.

But we were perfectly friendly.  The day that the school report was next
due, the proprietor of the "Genessee" mine furnished us a buggy and asked
us to go down and write something about the property--a very common
request and one always gladly acceded to when people furnished buggies,
for we were as fond of pleasure excursions as other people.  In due time
we arrived at the "mine"--nothing but a hole in the ground ninety feet
deep, and no way of getting down into it but by holding on to a rope and
being lowered with a windlass.  The workmen had just gone off somewhere
to dinner.  I was not strong enough to lower Boggs's bulk; so I took an
unlighted candle in my teeth, made a loop for my foot in the end of the
rope, implored Boggs not to go to sleep or let the windlass get the start
of him, and then swung out over the shaft.  I reached the bottom muddy
and bruised about the elbows, but safe.  I lit the candle, made an
examination of the rock, selected some specimens and shouted to Boggs to
hoist away.  No answer.  Presently a head appeared in the circle of
daylight away aloft, and a voice came down:

"Are you all set?"

"All set--hoist away."

"Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly."

"Could you wait a little?"

"Oh certainly--no particular hurry."

"Well--good by."

"Why?  Where are you going?"

"After the school report!"

And he did.  I staid down there an hour, and surprised the workmen when
they hauled up and found a man on the rope instead of a bucket of rock.
I walked home, too--five miles--up hill.  We had no school report next
morning; but the Union had.

Six months after my entry into journalism the grand "flush times" of
Silverland began, and they continued with unabated splendor for three
years.  All difficulty about filling up the "local department" ceased,
and the only trouble now was how to make the lengthened columns hold the
world of incidents and happenings that came to our literary net every
day.  Virginia had grown to be the "livest" town, for its age and
population, that America had ever produced.  The sidewalks swarmed with
people--to such an extent, indeed, that it was generally no easy matter
to stem the human tide.  The streets themselves were just as crowded with
quartz wagons, freight teams and other vehicles.  The procession was
endless.  So great was the pack, that buggies frequently had to wait half
an hour for an opportunity to cross the principal street.  Joy sat on
every countenance, and there was a glad, almost fierce, intensity in
every eye, that told of the money-getting schemes that were seething in
every brain and the high hope that held sway in every heart.  Money was
as plenty as dust; every individual considered himself wealthy, and a
melancholy countenance was nowhere to be seen.  There were military
companies, fire companies, brass bands, banks, hotels, theatres, "hurdy-
gurdy houses," wide-open gambling palaces, political pow-wows, civic
processions, street fights, murders, inquests, riots, a whiskey mill
every fifteen steps, a Board of Aldermen, a Mayor, a City Surveyor, a
City Engineer, a Chief of the Fire Department, with First, Second and
Third Assistants, a Chief of Police, City Marshal and a large police
force, two Boards of Mining Brokers, a dozen breweries and half a dozen
jails and station-houses in full operation, and some talk of building a
church.  The "flush times" were in magnificent flower!  Large fire-proof
brick buildings were going up in the principal streets, and the wooden
suburbs were spreading out in all directions.  Town lots soared up to
prices that were amazing.

The great "Comstock lode" stretched its opulent length straight through
the town from north to south, and every mine on it was in diligent
process of development.  One of these mines alone employed six hundred
and seventy-five men, and in the matter of elections the adage was, "as
the 'Gould and Curry' goes, so goes the city."  Laboring men's wages were
four and six dollars a day, and they worked in three "shifts" or gangs,
and the blasting and picking and shoveling went on without ceasing, night
and day.

The "city" of Virginia roosted royally midway up the steep side of Mount
Davidson, seven thousand two hundred feet above the level of the sea, and
in the clear Nevada atmosphere was visible from a distance of fifty
miles!  It claimed a population of fifteen thousand to eighteen thousand,
and all day long half of this little army swarmed the streets like bees
and the other half swarmed among the drifts and tunnels of the
"Comstock," hundreds of feet down in the earth directly under those same
streets.  Often we felt our chairs jar, and heard the faint boom of a
blast down in the bowels of the earth under the office.

The mountain side was so steep that the entire town had a slant to it
like a roof.  Each street was a terrace, and from each to the next street
below the descent was forty or fifty feet.  The fronts of the houses were
level with the street they faced, but their rear first floors were
propped on lofty stilts; a man could stand at a rear first floor window
of a C street house and look down the chimneys of the row of houses below
him facing D street.  It was a laborious climb, in that thin atmosphere,
to ascend from D to A street, and you were panting and out of breath when
you got there; but you could turn around and go down again like a house
a-fire--so to speak.  The atmosphere was so rarified, on account of the
great altitude, that one's blood lay near the surface always, and the
scratch of a pin was a disaster worth worrying about, for the chances
were that a grievous erysipelas would ensue.  But to offset this, the
thin atmosphere seemed to carry healing to gunshot wounds, and therefore,
to simply shoot your adversary through both lungs was a thing not likely
to afford you any permanent satisfaction, for he would be nearly certain
to be around looking for you within the month, and not with an opera
glass, either.

From Virginia's airy situation one could look over a vast, far-reaching
panorama of mountain ranges and deserts; and whether the day was bright
or overcast, whether the sun was rising or setting, or flaming in the
zenith, or whether night and the moon held sway, the spectacle was always
impressive and beautiful.  Over your head Mount Davidson lifted its gray
dome, and before and below you a rugged canyon clove the battlemented
hills, making a sombre gateway through which a soft-tinted desert was
glimpsed, with the silver thread of a river winding through it, bordered
with trees which many miles of distance diminished to a delicate fringe;
and still further away the snowy mountains rose up and stretched their
long barrier to the filmy horizon--far enough beyond a lake that burned
in the desert like a fallen sun, though that, itself, lay fifty miles
removed.  Look from your window where you would, there was fascination in
the picture.  At rare intervals--but very rare--there were clouds in our
skies, and then the setting sun would gild and flush and glorify this
mighty expanse of scenery with a bewildering pomp of color that held the
eye like a spell and moved the spirit like music.




CHAPTER XLIV.

My salary was increased to forty dollars a week.  But I seldom drew it.
I had plenty of other resources, and what were two broad twenty-dollar
gold pieces to a man who had his pockets full of such and a cumbersome
abundance of bright half dollars besides?  [Paper money has never come
into use on the Pacific coast.]  Reporting was lucrative, and every man
in the town was lavish with his money and his "feet."  The city and all
the great mountain side were riddled with mining shafts.  There were more
mines than miners.  True, not ten of these mines were yielding rock worth
hauling to a mill, but everybody said, "Wait till the shaft gets down
where the ledge comes in solid, and then you will see!"  So nobody was
discouraged.  These were nearly all "wild cat" mines, and wholly
worthless, but nobody believed it then.  The "Ophir," the "Gould &
Curry," the "Mexican," and other great mines on the Comstock lead in
Virginia and Gold Hill were turning out huge piles of rich rock every
day, and every man believed that his little wild cat claim was as good as
any on the "main lead" and would infallibly be worth a thousand dollars a
foot when he "got down where it came in solid."  Poor fellow, he was
blessedly blind to the fact that he never would see that day.  So the
thousand wild cat shafts burrowed deeper and deeper into the earth day by
day, and all men were beside themselves with hope and happiness.  How
they labored, prophesied, exulted!  Surely nothing like it was ever seen
before since the world began.  Every one of these wild cat mines--not
mines, but holes in the ground over imaginary mines--was incorporated and
had handsomely engraved "stock" and the stock was salable, too.  It was
bought and sold with a feverish avidity in the boards every day.  You
could go up on the mountain side, scratch around and find a ledge (there
was no lack of them), put up a "notice" with a grandiloquent name in it,
start a shaft, get your stock printed, and with nothing whatever to prove
that your mine was worth a straw, you could put your stock on the market
and sell out for hundreds and even thousands of dollars.  To make money,
and make it fast, was as easy as it was to eat your dinner.

Every man owned "feet" in fifty different wild cat mines and considered
his fortune made.  Think of a city with not one solitary poor man in it!
One would suppose that when month after month went by and still not a
wild cat mine (by wild cat I mean, in general terms, any claim not
located on the mother vein, i.e., the "Comstock") yielded a ton of rock
worth crushing, the people would begin to wonder if they were not putting
too much faith in their prospective riches; but there was not a thought
of such a thing.  They burrowed away, bought and sold, and were happy.

New claims were taken up daily, and it was the friendly custom to run
straight to the newspaper offices, give the reporter forty or fifty
"feet," and get them to go and examine the mine and publish a notice of
it.  They did not care a fig what you said about the property so you said
something.  Consequently we generally said a word or two to the effect
that the "indications" were good, or that the ledge was "six feet wide,"
or that the rock "resembled the Comstock" (and so it did--but as a
general thing the resemblance was not startling enough to knock you
down).  If the rock was moderately promising, we followed the custom of
the country, used strong adjectives and frothed at the mouth as if a very
marvel in silver discoveries had transpired.  If the mine was a
"developed" one, and had no pay ore to show (and of course it hadn't), we
praised the tunnel; said it was one of the most infatuating tunnels in
the land; driveled and driveled about the tunnel till we ran entirely out
of ecstasies--but never said a word about the rock.  We would squander
half a column of adulation on a shaft, or a new wire rope, or a dressed
pine windlass, or a fascinating force pump, and close with a burst of
admiration of the "gentlemanly and efficient Superintendent" of the mine
--but never utter a whisper about the rock.  And those people were always
pleased, always satisfied.  Occasionally we patched up and varnished our
reputation for discrimination and stern, undeviating accuracy, by giving
some old abandoned claim a blast that ought to have made its dry bones
rattle--and then somebody would seize it and sell it on the fleeting
notoriety thus conferred upon it.

There was nothing in the shape of a mining claim that was not salable.
We received presents of "feet" every day.  If we needed a hundred dollars
or so, we sold some; if not, we hoarded it away, satisfied that it would
ultimately be worth a thousand dollars a foot.  I had a trunk about half
full of "stock."  When a claim made a stir in the market and went up to a
high figure, I searched through my pile to see if I had any of its stock
--and generally found it.

The prices rose and fell constantly; but still a fall disturbed us
little, because a thousand dollars a foot was our figure, and so we were
content to let it fluctuate as much as it pleased till it reached it.
My pile of stock was not all given to me by people who wished their
claims "noticed."  At least half of it was given me by persons who had no
thought of such a thing, and looked for nothing more than a simple verbal
"thank you;" and you were not even obliged by law to furnish that.
If you are coming up the street with a couple of baskets of apples in
your hands, and you meet a friend, you naturally invite him to take a
few.  That describes the condition of things in Virginia in the "flush
times."  Every man had his pockets full of stock, and it was the actual
custom of the country to part with small quantities of it to friends
without the asking.

Very often it was a good idea to close the transaction instantly, when a
man offered a stock present to a friend, for the offer was only good and
binding at that moment, and if the price went to a high figure shortly
afterward the procrastination was a thing to be regretted.  Mr. Stewart
(Senator, now, from Nevada) one day told me he would give me twenty feet
of "Justis" stock if I would walk over to his office.  It was worth five
or ten dollars a foot.  I asked him to make the offer good for next day,
as I was just going to dinner.  He said he would not be in town; so I
risked it and took my dinner instead of the stock.  Within the week the
price went up to seventy dollars and afterward to a hundred and fifty,
but nothing could make that man yield.  I suppose he sold that stock of
mine and placed the guilty proceeds in his own pocket.  [My revenge will
be found in the accompanying portrait.]  I met three friends one
afternoon, who said they had been buying "Overman" stock at auction at
eight dollars a foot.  One said if I would come up to his office he would
give me fifteen feet; another said he would add fifteen; the third said
he would do the same.  But I was going after an inquest and could not
stop.  A few weeks afterward they sold all their "Overman" at six hundred
dollars a foot and generously came around to tell me about it--and also
to urge me to accept of the next forty-five feet of it that people tried
to force on me.

These are actual facts, and I could make the list a long one and still
confine myself strictly to the truth.  Many a time friends gave us as
much as twenty-five feet of stock that was selling at twenty-five dollars
a foot, and they thought no more of it than they would of offering a
guest a cigar.  These were "flush times" indeed!  I thought they were
going to last always, but somehow I never was much of a prophet.

To show what a wild spirit possessed the mining brain of the community,
I will remark that "claims" were actually "located" in excavations for
cellars, where the pick had exposed what seemed to be quartz veins--and
not cellars in the suburbs, either, but in the very heart of the city;
and forthwith stock would be issued and thrown on the market.  It was
small matter who the cellar belonged to--the "ledge" belonged to the
finder, and unless the United States government interfered (inasmuch as
the government holds the primary right to mines of the noble metals in
Nevada--or at least did then), it was considered to be his privilege to
work it.  Imagine a stranger staking out a mining claim among the costly
shrubbery in your front yard and calmly proceeding to lay waste the
ground with pick and shovel and blasting powder!  It has been often done
in California.  In the middle of one of the principal business streets of
Virginia, a man "located" a mining claim and began a shaft on it.  He
gave me a hundred feet of the stock and I sold it for a fine suit of
clothes because I was afraid somebody would fall down the shaft and sue
for damages.  I owned in another claim that was located in the middle of
another street; and to show how absurd people can be, that "East India"
stock (as it was called) sold briskly although there was an ancient
tunnel running directly under the claim and any man could go into it and
see that it did not cut a quartz ledge or anything that remotely
resembled one.

One plan of acquiring sudden wealth was to "salt" a wild cat claim and
sell out while the excitement was up.  The process was simple.

The schemer located a worthless ledge, sunk a shaft on it, bought a wagon
load of rich "Comstock" ore, dumped a portion of it into the shaft and
piled the rest by its side, above ground.  Then he showed the property to
a simpleton and sold it to him at a high figure.  Of course the wagon
load of rich ore was all that the victim ever got out of his purchase.
A most remarkable case of "salting" was that of the "North Ophir."
It was claimed that this vein was a "remote extension" of the original
"Ophir," a valuable mine on the "Comstock."  For a few days everybody was
talking about the rich developments in the North Ophir.  It was said that
it yielded perfectly pure silver in small, solid lumps.  I went to the
place with the owners, and found a shaft six or eight feet deep, in the
bottom of which was a badly shattered vein of dull, yellowish,
unpromising rock.  One would as soon expect to find silver in a
grindstone.  We got out a pan of the rubbish and washed it in a puddle,
and sure enough, among the sediment we found half a dozen black, bullet-
looking pellets of unimpeachable "native" silver.  Nobody had ever heard
of such a thing before; science could not account for such a queer
novelty.  The stock rose to sixty-five dollars a foot, and at this figure
the world-renowned tragedian, McKean Buchanan, bought a commanding
interest and prepared to quit the stage once more--he was always doing
that.  And then it transpired that the mine had been "salted"--and not in
any hackneyed way, either, but in a singularly bold, barefaced and
peculiarly original and outrageous fashion.  On one of the lumps of
"native" silver was discovered the minted legend, "TED STATES OF," and
then it was plainly apparent that the mine had been "salted" with melted
half-dollars!  The lumps thus obtained had been blackened till they
resembled native silver, and were then mixed with the shattered rock in
the bottom of the shaft.  It is literally true.  Of course the price of
the stock at once fell to nothing, and the tragedian was ruined.  But for
this calamity we might have lost McKean Buchanan from the stage.




CHAPTER XLV.

The "flush times" held bravely on.  Something over two years before, Mr.
Goodman and another journeyman printer, had borrowed forty dollars and
set out from San Francisco to try their fortunes in the new city of
Virginia.  They found the Territorial Enterprise, a poverty-stricken
weekly journal, gasping for breath and likely to die.  They bought it,
type, fixtures, good-will and all, for a thousand dollars, on long time.
The editorial sanctum, news-room, press-room, publication office, bed-
chamber, parlor, and kitchen were all compressed into one apartment and
it was a small one, too.  The editors and printers slept on the floor, a
Chinaman did their cooking, and the "imposing-stone" was the general
dinner table.  But now things were changed.  The paper was a great daily,
printed by steam; there were five editors and twenty-three compositors;
the subscription price was sixteen dollars a year; the advertising rates
were exorbitant, and the columns crowded.  The paper was clearing from
six to ten thousand dollars a month, and the "Enterprise Building" was
finished and ready for occupation--a stately fireproof brick.  Every day
from five all the way up to eleven columns of "live" advertisements were
left out or crowded into spasmodic and irregular "supplements."

The "Gould & Curry" company were erecting a monster hundred-stamp mill at
a cost that ultimately fell little short of a million dollars.  Gould &
Curry stock paid heavy dividends--a rare thing, and an experience
confined to the dozen or fifteen claims located on the "main lead," the
"Comstock."  The Superintendent of the Gould & Curry lived, rent free, in
a fine house built and furnished by the company.  He drove a fine pair of
horses which were a present from the company, and his salary was twelve
thousand dollars a year.  The superintendent of another of the great
mines traveled in grand state, had a salary of twenty-eight thousand
dollars a year, and in a law suit in after days claimed that he was to
have had one per cent. on the gross yield of the bullion likewise.

Money was wonderfully plenty.  The trouble was, not how to get it,--but
how to spend it, how to lavish it, get rid of it, squander it.  And so it
was a happy thing that just at this juncture the news came over the wires
that a great United States Sanitary Commission had been formed and money
was wanted for the relief of the wounded sailors and soldiers of the
Union languishing in the Eastern hospitals.  Right on the heels of it
came word that San Francisco had responded superbly before the telegram
was half a day old.  Virginia rose as one man!  A Sanitary Committee was
hurriedly organized, and its chairman mounted a vacant cart in C street
and tried to make the clamorous multitude understand that the rest of the
committee were flying hither and thither and working with all their might
and main, and that if the town would only wait an hour, an office would
be ready, books opened, and the Commission prepared to receive
contributions.  His voice was drowned and his information lost in a
ceaseless roar of cheers, and demands that the money be received now--
they swore they would not wait.  The chairman pleaded and argued, but,
deaf to all entreaty, men plowed their way through the throng and rained
checks of gold coin into the cart and skurried away for more.  Hands
clutching money, were thrust aloft out of the jam by men who hoped this
eloquent appeal would cleave a road their strugglings could not open.
The very Chinamen and Indians caught the excitement and dashed their half
dollars into the cart without knowing or caring what it was all about.
Women plunged into the crowd, trimly attired, fought their way to the
cart with their coin, and emerged again, by and by, with their apparel in
a state of hopeless dilapidation.  It was the wildest mob Virginia had
ever seen and the most determined and ungovernable; and when at last it
abated its fury and dispersed, it had not a penny in its pocket.

To use its own phraseology, it came there "flush" and went away "busted."

After that, the Commission got itself into systematic working order, and
for weeks the contributions flowed into its treasury in a generous
stream.  Individuals and all sorts of organizations levied upon
themselves a regular weekly tax for the sanitary fund, graduated
according to their means, and there was not another grand universal
outburst till the famous "Sanitary Flour Sack" came our way.  Its history
is peculiar and interesting.  A former schoolmate of mine, by the name of
Reuel Gridley, was living at the little city of Austin, in the Reese
river country, at this time, and was the Democratic candidate for mayor.
He and the Republican candidate made an agreement that the defeated man
should be publicly presented with a fifty-pound sack of flour by the
successful one, and should carry it home on his shoulder.  Gridley was
defeated.  The new mayor gave him the sack of flour, and he shouldered it
and carried it a mile or two, from Lower Austin to his home in Upper
Austin, attended by a band of music and the whole population.  Arrived
there, he said he did not need the flour, and asked what the people
thought he had better do with it.  A voice said:

"Sell it to the highest bidder, for the benefit of the Sanitary fund."

The suggestion was greeted with a round of applause, and Gridley mounted
a dry-goods box and assumed the role of auctioneer.  The bids went higher
and higher, as the sympathies of the pioneers awoke and expanded, till at
last the sack was knocked down to a mill man at two hundred and fifty
dollars, and his check taken.  He was asked where he would have the flour
delivered, and he said:

"Nowhere--sell it again."

Now the cheers went up royally, and the multitude were fairly in the
spirit of the thing.  So Gridley stood there and shouted and perspired
till the sun went down; and when the crowd dispersed he had sold the sack
to three hundred different people, and had taken in eight thousand
dollars in gold.  And still the flour sack was in his possession.

The news came to Virginia, and a telegram went back:

"Fetch along your flour sack!"

Thirty-six hours afterward Gridley arrived, and an afternoon mass meeting
was held in the Opera House, and the auction began.  But the sack had
come sooner than it was expected; the people were not thoroughly aroused,
and the sale dragged.  At nightfall only five thousand dollars had been
secured, and there was a crestfallen feeling in the community.  However,
there was no disposition to let the matter rest here and acknowledge
vanquishment at the hands of the village of Austin.  Till late in the
night the principal citizens were at work arranging the morrow's
campaign, and when they went to bed they had no fears for the result.
At eleven the next morning a procession of open carriages, attended by
clamorous bands of music and adorned with a moving display of flags,
filed along C street and was soon in danger of blockade by a huzzaing
multitude of citizens.  In the first carriage sat Gridley, with the flour
sack in prominent view, the latter splendid with bright paint and gilt
lettering; also in the same carriage sat the mayor and the recorder.
The other carriages contained the Common Council, the editors and
reporters, and other people of imposing consequence.  The crowd pressed
to the corner of C and Taylor streets, expecting the sale to begin there,
but they were disappointed, and also unspeakably surprised; for the
cavalcade moved on as if Virginia had ceased to be of importance, and
took its way over the "divide," toward the small town of Gold Hill.
Telegrams had gone ahead to Gold Hill, Silver City and Dayton, and those
communities were at fever heat and rife for the conflict.  It was a very
hot day, and wonderfully dusty.  At the end of a short half hour we
descended into Gold Hill with drums beating and colors flying, and
enveloped in imposing clouds of dust.  The whole population--men, women
and children, Chinamen and Indians, were massed in the main street, all
the flags in town were at the mast head, and the blare of the bands was
drowned in cheers.  Gridley stood up and asked who would make the first
bid for the National Sanitary Flour Sack.  Gen. W. said:

"The Yellow Jacket silver mining company offers a thousand dollars,
coin!"

A tempest of applause followed.  A telegram carried the news to Virginia,
and fifteen minutes afterward that city's population was massed in the
streets devouring the tidings--for it was part of the programme that the
bulletin boards should do a good work that day.  Every few minutes a new
dispatch was bulletined from Gold Hill, and still the excitement grew.
Telegrams began to return to us from Virginia beseeching Gridley to bring
back the flour sack; but such was not the plan of the campaign.  At the
end of an hour Gold Hill's small population had paid a figure for the
flour sack that awoke all the enthusiasm of Virginia when the grand total
was displayed upon the bulletin boards.  Then the Gridley cavalcade moved
on, a giant refreshed with new lager beer and plenty of it--for the
people brought it to the carriages without waiting to measure it--and
within three hours more the expedition had carried Silver City and Dayton
by storm and was on its way back covered with glory.  Every move had been
telegraphed and bulletined, and as the procession entered Virginia and
filed down C street at half past eight in the evening the town was abroad
in the thoroughfares, torches were glaring, flags flying, bands playing,
cheer on cheer cleaving the air, and the city ready to surrender at
discretion.  The auction began, every bid was greeted with bursts of
applause, and at the end of two hours and a half a population of fifteen
thousand souls had paid in coin for a fifty-pound sack of flour a sum
equal to forty thousand dollars in greenbacks!  It was at a rate in the
neighborhood of three dollars for each man, woman and child of the
population.  The grand total would have been twice as large, but the
streets were very narrow, and hundreds who wanted to bid could not get
within a block of the stand, and could not make themselves heard.  These
grew tired of waiting and many of them went home long before the auction
was over.  This was the greatest day Virginia ever saw, perhaps.

Gridley sold the sack in Carson city and several California towns; also
in San Francisco.  Then he took it east and sold it in one or two
Atlantic cities, I think.  I am not sure of that, but I know that he
finally carried it to St. Louis, where a monster Sanitary Fair was being
held, and after selling it there for a large sum and helping on the
enthusiasm by displaying the portly silver bricks which Nevada's donation
had produced, he had the flour baked up into small cakes and retailed
them at high prices.

It was estimated that when the flour sack's mission was ended it had been
sold for a grand total of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in
greenbacks!  This is probably the only instance on record where common
family flour brought three thousand dollars a pound in the public market.

It is due to Mr. Gridley's memory to mention that the expenses of his
sanitary flour sack expedition of fifteen thousand miles, going and
returning, were paid in large part if not entirely, out of his own
pocket.  The time he gave to it was not less than three months.
Mr. Gridley was a soldier in the Mexican war and a pioneer Californian.
He died at Stockton, California, in December, 1870, greatly regretted.




CHAPTER XLVI.

There were nabobs in those days--in the "flush times," I mean.  Every
rich strike in the mines created one or two.  I call to mind several of
these.  They were careless, easy-going fellows, as a general thing, and
the community at large was as much benefited by their riches as they were
themselves--possibly more, in some cases.

Two cousins, teamsters, did some hauling for a man and had to take a
small segregated portion of a silver mine in lieu of $300 cash.  They
gave an outsider a third to open the mine, and they went on teaming.  But
not long.  Ten months afterward the mine was out of debt and paying each
owner $8,000 to $10,000 a month--say $100,000 a year.

One of the earliest nabobs that Nevada was delivered of wore $6,000 worth
of diamonds in his bosom, and swore he was unhappy because he could not
spend his money as fast as he made it.

Another Nevada nabob boasted an income that often reached $16,000 a
month; and he used to love to tell how he had worked in the very mine
that yielded it, for five dollars a day, when he first came to the
country.

The silver and sage-brush State has knowledge of another of these pets of
fortune--lifted from actual poverty to affluence almost in a single
night--who was able to offer $100,000 for a position of high official
distinction, shortly afterward, and did offer it--but failed to get it,
his politics not being as sound as his bank account.

Then there was John Smith.  He was a good, honest, kind-hearted soul,
born and reared in the lower ranks of life, and miraculously ignorant.
He drove a team, and owned a small ranch--a ranch that paid him a
comfortable living, for although it yielded but little hay, what little
it did yield was worth from $250 to $300 in gold per ton in the market.
Presently Smith traded a few acres of the ranch for a small undeveloped
silver mine in Gold Hill.  He opened the mine and built a little
unpretending ten-stamp mill.  Eighteen months afterward he retired from
the hay business, for his mining income had reached a most comfortable
figure.  Some people said it was $30,000 a month, and others said it was
$60,000.  Smith was very rich at any rate.

And then he went to Europe and traveled.  And when he came back he was
never tired of telling about the fine hogs he had seen in England, and
the gorgeous sheep he had seen in Spain, and the fine cattle he had
noticed in the vicinity of Rome.  He was full of wonders of the old
world, and advised everybody to travel.  He said a man never imagined
what surprising things there were in the world till he had traveled.

One day, on board ship, the passengers made up a pool of $500, which was
to be the property of the man who should come nearest to guessing the run
of the vessel for the next twenty-four hours.  Next day, toward noon, the
figures were all in the purser's hands in sealed envelopes.  Smith was
serene and happy, for he had been bribing the engineer.  But another
party won the prize!  Smith said:

"Here, that won't do!  He guessed two miles wider of the mark than I did."

The purser said, "Mr. Smith, you missed it further than any man on board.
We traveled two hundred and eight miles yesterday."

"Well, sir," said Smith, "that's just where I've got you, for I guessed
two hundred and nine.  If you'll look at my figgers again you'll find a 2
and two 0's, which stands for 200, don't it?--and after 'em you'll find a
9 (2009), which stands for two hundred and nine.  I reckon I'll take that
money, if you please."

The Gould & Curry claim comprised twelve hundred feet, and it all
belonged originally to the two men whose names it bears.  Mr. Curry owned
two thirds of it--and he said that he sold it out for twenty-five hundred
dollars in cash, and an old plug horse that ate up his market value in
hay and barley in seventeen days by the watch.  And he said that Gould
sold out for a pair of second-hand government blankets and a bottle of
whisky that killed nine men in three hours, and that an unoffending
stranger that smelt the cork was disabled for life.  Four years afterward
the mine thus disposed of was worth in the San Francisco market seven
millions six hundred thousand dollars in gold coin.

In the early days a poverty-stricken Mexican who lived in a canyon
directly back of Virginia City, had a stream of water as large as a man's
wrist trickling from the hill-side on his premises.  The Ophir Company
segregated a hundred feet of their mine and traded it to him for the
stream of water.  The hundred feet proved to be the richest part of the
entire mine; four years after the swap, its market value (including its
mill) was $1,500,000.

An individual who owned twenty feet in the Ophir mine before its great
riches were revealed to men, traded it for a horse, and a very sorry
looking brute he was, too.  A year or so afterward, when Ophir stock went
up to $3,000 a foot, this man, who had not a cent, used to say he was the
most startling example of magnificence and misery the world had ever
seen--because he was able to ride a sixty-thousand-dollar horse--yet
could not scrape up cash enough to buy a saddle, and was obliged to
borrow one or ride bareback.  He said if fortune were to give him another
sixty-thousand-dollar horse it would ruin him.

A youth of nineteen, who was a telegraph operator in Virginia on a salary
of a hundred dollars a month, and who, when he could not make out German
names in the list of San Francisco steamer arrivals, used to ingeniously
select and supply substitutes for them out of an old Berlin city
directory, made himself rich by watching the mining telegrams that passed
through his hands and buying and selling stocks accordingly, through a
friend in San Francisco.  Once when a private dispatch was sent from
Virginia announcing a rich strike in a prominent mine and advising that
the matter be kept secret till a large amount of the stock could be
secured, he bought forty "feet" of the stock at twenty dollars a foot,
and afterward sold half of it at eight hundred dollars a foot and the
rest at double that figure.  Within three months he was worth $150,000,
and had resigned his telegraphic position.

Another telegraph operator who had been discharged by the company for
divulging the secrets of the office, agreed with a moneyed man in San
Francisco to furnish him the result of a great Virginia mining lawsuit
within an hour after its private reception by the parties to it in San
Francisco.  For this he was to have a large percentage of the profits on
purchases and sales made on it by his fellow-conspirator.  So he went,
disguised as a teamster, to a little wayside telegraph office in the
mountains, got acquainted with the operator, and sat in the office day
after day, smoking his pipe, complaining that his team was fagged out and
unable to travel--and meantime listening to the dispatches as they passed
clicking through the machine from Virginia.  Finally the private dispatch
announcing the result of the lawsuit sped over the wires, and as soon as
he heard it he telegraphed his friend in San Francisco:

"Am tired waiting.  Shall sell the team and go home."

It was the signal agreed upon.  The word "waiting" left out, would have
signified that the suit had gone the other way.

The mock teamster's friend picked up a deal of the mining stock, at low
figures, before the news became public, and a fortune was the result.

For a long time after one of the great Virginia mines had been
incorporated, about fifty feet of the original location were still in the
hands of a man who had never signed the incorporation papers.  The stock
became very valuable, and every effort was made to find this man, but he
had disappeared.  Once it was heard that he was in New York, and one or
two speculators went east but failed to find him.  Once the news came
that he was in the Bermudas, and straightway a speculator or two hurried
east and sailed for Bermuda--but he was not there.  Finally he was heard
of in Mexico, and a friend of his, a bar-keeper on a salary, scraped
together a little money and sought him out, bought his "feet" for a
hundred dollars, returned and sold the property for $75,000.

But why go on?  The traditions of Silverland are filled with instances
like these, and I would never get through enumerating them were I to
attempt do it.  I only desired to give, the reader an idea of a
peculiarity of the "flush times" which I could not present so strikingly
in any other way, and which some mention of was necessary to a realizing
comprehension of the time and the country.

I was personally acquainted with the majority of the nabobs I have
referred to, and so, for old acquaintance sake, I have shifted their
occupations and experiences around in such a way as to keep the Pacific
public from recognizing these once notorious men.  No longer notorious,
for the majority of them have drifted back into poverty and obscurity
again.

In Nevada there used to be current the story of an adventure of two of
her nabobs, which may or may not have occurred.  I give it for what it is
worth:

Col. Jim had seen somewhat of the world, and knew more or less of its
ways; but Col. Jack was from the back settlements of the States, had led
a life of arduous toil, and had never seen a city.  These two, blessed
with sudden wealth, projected a visit to New York,--Col. Jack to see the
sights, and Col. Jim to guard his unsophistication from misfortune.  They
reached San Francisco in the night, and sailed in the morning.  Arrived
in New York, Col.  Jack said:

"I've heard tell of carriages all my life, and now I mean to have a ride
in one; I don't care what it costs.  Come along."

They stepped out on the sidewalk, and Col. Jim called a stylish barouche.
But Col. Jack said:

"No, sir!  None of your cheap-John turn-outs for me.  I'm here to have a
good time, and money ain't any object.  I mean to have the nobbiest rig
that's going.  Now here comes the very trick.  Stop that yaller one with
the pictures on it--don't you fret--I'll stand all the expenses myself."

So Col. Jim stopped an empty omnibus, and they got in.  Said Col. Jack:

"Ain't it gay, though?  Oh, no, I reckon not!  Cushions, and windows, and
pictures, till you can't rest.  What would the boys say if they could see
us cutting a swell like this in New York?  By George, I wish they could
see us."

Then he put his head out of the window, and shouted to the driver:

"Say, Johnny, this suits me!--suits yours truly, you bet, you!  I want
this shebang all day.  I'm on it, old man!  Let 'em out!  Make 'em go!
We'll make it all right with you, sonny!"

The driver passed his hand through the strap-hole, and tapped for his
fare--it was before the gongs came into common use.  Col. Jack took the
hand, and shook it cordially.  He said:

"You twig me, old pard!  All right between gents.  Smell of that, and see
how you like it!"

And he put a twenty-dollar gold piece in the driver's hand.  After a
moment the driver said he could not make change.

"Bother the change!  Ride it out.  Put it in your pocket."

Then to Col.  Jim, with a sounding slap on his thigh:

"Ain't it style, though?  Hanged if I don't hire this thing every day for
a week."

The omnibus stopped, and a young lady got in.  Col. Jack stared a moment,
then nudged Col. Jim with his elbow:

"Don't say a word," he whispered.  "Let her ride, if she wants to.
Gracious, there's room enough."

The young lady got out her porte-monnaie, and handed her fare to Col.
Jack.

"What's this for?"  said he.

"Give it to the driver, please."

"Take back your money, madam.  We can't allow it.  You're welcome to ride
here as long as you please, but this shebang's chartered, and we can't
let you pay a cent."

The girl shrunk into a corner, bewildered.  An old lady with a basket
climbed in, and proffered her fare.

"Excuse me," said Col. Jack.  "You're perfectly welcome here, madam, but
we can't allow you to pay.  Set right down there, mum, and don't you be
the least uneasy.  Make yourself just as free as if you was in your own
turn-out."

Within two minutes, three gentlemen, two fat women, and a couple of
children, entered.

"Come right along, friends," said Col.  Jack; "don't mind us.  This is a
free blow-out."  Then he whispered to Col.  Jim,

"New York ain't no sociable place, I don't reckon--it ain't no name for
it!"

He resisted every effort to pass fares to the driver, and made everybody
cordially welcome.  The situation dawned on the people, and they pocketed
their money, and delivered themselves up to covert enjoyment of the
episode.  Half a dozen more passengers entered.

"Oh, there's plenty of room," said Col.  Jack.  "Walk right in, and make
yourselves at home.  A blow-out ain't worth anything as a blow-out,
unless a body has company."  Then in a whisper to Col.  Jim: "But ain't
these New Yorkers friendly?  And ain't they cool about it, too?  Icebergs
ain't anywhere.  I reckon they'd tackle a hearse, if it was going their
way."

More passengers got in; more yet, and still more.  Both seats were
filled, and a file of men were standing up, holding on to the cleats
overhead.  Parties with baskets and bundles were climbing up on the roof.
Half-suppressed laughter rippled up from all sides.

"Well, for clean, cool, out-and-out cheek, if this don't bang anything
that ever I saw, I'm an Injun!" whispered Col. Jack.

A Chinaman crowded his way in.

"I weaken!" said Col. Jack.  "Hold on, driver!  Keep your seats, ladies,
and gents.  Just make yourselves free--everything's paid for.  Driver,
rustle these folks around as long as they're a mind to go--friends of
ours, you know.  Take them everywheres--and if you want more money, come
to the St. Nicholas, and we'll make it all right.  Pleasant journey to
you, ladies and gents--go it just as long as you please--it shan't cost
you a cent!"

The two comrades got out, and Col. Jack said:

"Jimmy, it's the sociablest place I ever saw.  The Chinaman waltzed in as
comfortable as anybody.  If we'd staid awhile, I reckon we'd had some
niggers.  B' George, we'll have to barricade our doors to-night, or some
of these ducks will be trying to sleep with us."




CHAPTER XLVII.

Somebody has said that in order to know a community, one must observe the
style of its funerals and know what manner of men they bury with most
ceremony.  I cannot say which class we buried with most eclat in our
"flush times," the distinguished public benefactor or the distinguished
rough--possibly the two chief grades or grand divisions of society
honored their illustrious dead about equally; and hence, no doubt the
philosopher I have quoted from would have needed to see two
representative funerals in Virginia before forming his estimate of the
people.

There was a grand time over Buck Fanshaw when he died.  He was a
representative citizen.  He had "killed his man"--not in his own quarrel,
it is true, but in defence of a stranger unfairly beset by numbers.
He had kept a sumptuous saloon.  He had been the proprietor of a dashing
helpmeet whom he could have discarded without the formality of a divorce.
He had held a high position in the fire department and been a very
Warwick in politics.  When he died there was great lamentation throughout
the town, but especially in the vast bottom-stratum of society.

On the inquest it was shown that Buck Fanshaw, in the delirium of a
wasting typhoid fever, had taken arsenic, shot himself through the body,
cut his throat, and jumped out of a four-story window and broken his
neck--and after due deliberation, the jury, sad and tearful, but with
intelligence unblinded by its sorrow, brought in a verdict of death "by
the visitation of God."  What could the world do without juries?

Prodigious preparations were made for the funeral.  All the vehicles in
town were hired, all the saloons put in mourning, all the municipal and
fire-company flags hung at half-mast, and all the firemen ordered to
muster in uniform and bring their machines duly draped in black.  Now--
let us remark in parenthesis--as all the peoples of the earth had
representative adventurers in the Silverland, and as each adventurer had
brought the slang of his nation or his locality with him, the combination
made the slang of Nevada the richest and the most infinitely varied and
copious that had ever existed anywhere in the world, perhaps, except in
the mines of California in the "early days."  Slang was the language of
Nevada.  It was hard to preach a sermon without it, and be understood.
Such phrases as "You bet!"  "Oh, no, I reckon not!"  "No Irish need
apply," and a hundred others, became so common as to fall from the lips
of a speaker unconsciously--and very often when they did not touch the
subject under discussion and consequently failed to mean anything.

After Buck Fanshaw's inquest, a meeting of the short-haired brotherhood
was held, for nothing can be done on the Pacific coast without a public
meeting and an expression of sentiment.  Regretful resolutions were
passed and various committees appointed; among others, a committee of one
was deputed to call on the minister, a fragile, gentle, spiritual new
fledgling from an Eastern theological seminary, and as yet unacquainted
with the ways of the mines.  The committeeman, "Scotty" Briggs, made his
visit; and in after days it was worth something to hear the minister tell
about it.  Scotty was a stalwart rough, whose customary suit, when on
weighty official business, like committee work, was a fire helmet,
flaming red flannel shirt, patent leather belt with spanner and revolver
attached, coat hung over arm, and pants stuffed into boot tops.
He formed something of a contrast to the pale theological student.  It is
fair to say of Scotty, however, in passing, that he had a warm heart, and
a strong love for his friends, and never entered into a quarrel when he
could reasonably keep out of it.  Indeed, it was commonly said that
whenever one of Scotty's fights was investigated, it always turned out
that it had originally been no affair of his, but that out of native
good-heartedness he had dropped in of his own accord to help the man who
was getting the worst of it.  He and Buck Fanshaw were bosom friends, for
years, and had often taken adventurous "pot-luck" together.  On one
occasion, they had thrown off their coats and taken the weaker side in a
fight among strangers, and after gaining a hard-earned victory, turned
and found that the men they were helping had deserted early, and not only
that, but had stolen their coats and made off with them!  But to return
to Scotty's visit to the minister.  He was on a sorrowful mission, now,
and his face was the picture of woe.  Being admitted to the presence he
sat down before the clergyman, placed his fire-hat on an unfinished
manuscript sermon under the minister's nose, took from it a red silk
handkerchief, wiped his brow and heaved a sigh of dismal impressiveness,
explanatory of his business.

He choked, and even shed tears; but with an effort he mastered his voice
and said in lugubrious tones:

"Are you the duck that runs the gospel-mill next door?"

"Am I the--pardon me, I believe I do not understand?"

With another sigh and a half-sob, Scotty rejoined:

"Why you see we are in a bit of trouble, and the boys thought maybe you
would give us a lift, if we'd tackle you--that is, if I've got the rights
of it and you are the head clerk of the doxology-works next door."

"I am the shepherd in charge of the flock whose fold is next door."

"The which?"

"The spiritual adviser of the little company of believers whose sanctuary
adjoins these premises."

Scotty scratched his head, reflected a moment, and then said:

"You ruther hold over me, pard.  I reckon I can't call that hand.  Ante
and pass the buck."

"How? I beg pardon.  What did I understand you to say?"

"Well, you've ruther got the bulge on me.  Or maybe we've both got the
bulge, somehow.  You don't smoke me and I don't smoke you.  You see, one
of the boys has passed in his checks and we want to give him a good send-
off, and so the thing I'm on now is to roust out somebody to jerk a
little chin-music for us and waltz him through handsome."

"My friend, I seem to grow more and more bewildered.  Your observations
are wholly incomprehensible to me.  Cannot you simplify them in some way?
At first I thought perhaps I understood you, but I grope now.  Would it
not expedite matters if you restricted yourself to categorical statements
of fact unencumbered with obstructing accumulations of metaphor and
allegory?"

Another pause, and more reflection.  Then, said Scotty:

"I'll have to pass, I judge."

"How?"

"You've raised me out, pard."

"I still fail to catch your meaning."

"Why, that last lead of yourn is too many for me--that's the idea.  I
can't neither-trump nor follow suit."

The clergyman sank back in his chair perplexed.  Scotty leaned his head
on his hand and gave himself up to thought.

Presently his face came up, sorrowful but confident.

"I've got it now, so's you can savvy," he said.  "What we want is a
gospel-sharp.  See?"

"A what?"

"Gospel-sharp.  Parson."

"Oh!  Why did you not say so before?  I am a clergyman--a parson."

"Now you talk!  You see my blind and straddle it like a man.  Put it
there!"--extending a brawny paw, which closed over the minister's small
hand and gave it a shake indicative of fraternal sympathy and fervent
gratification.

"Now we're all right, pard.  Let's start fresh.  Don't you mind my
snuffling a little--becuz we're in a power of trouble.  You see, one of
the boys has gone up the flume--"

"Gone where?"

"Up the flume--throwed up the sponge, you understand."

"Thrown up the sponge?"

"Yes--kicked the bucket--"

"Ah--has departed to that mysterious country from whose bourne no
traveler returns."

"Return!  I reckon not.  Why pard, he's dead!"

"Yes, I understand."

"Oh, you do?  Well I thought maybe you might be getting tangled some
more.  Yes, you see he's dead again--"

"Again?  Why, has he ever been dead before?"

"Dead before?  No!  Do you reckon a man has got as many lives as a cat?
But you bet you he's awful dead now, poor old boy, and I wish I'd never
seen this day.  I don't want no better friend than Buck Fanshaw.
I knowed him by the back; and when I know a man and like him, I freeze to
him--you hear me.  Take him all round, pard, there never was a bullier
man in the mines.  No man ever knowed Buck Fanshaw to go back on a
friend.  But it's all up, you know, it's all up.  It ain't no use.
They've scooped him."

"Scooped him?"

"Yes--death has.  Well, well, well, we've got to give him up.  Yes
indeed.  It's a kind of a hard world, after all, ain't it?  But pard, he
was a rustler!  You ought to seen him get started once.  He was a bully
boy with a glass eye!  Just spit in his face and give him room according
to his strength, and it was just beautiful to see him peel and go in.
He was the worst son of a thief that ever drawed breath.  Pard, he was on
it!  He was on it bigger than an Injun!"

"On it?  On what?"

"On the shoot.  On the shoulder.  On the fight, you understand.
He didn't give a continental for any body.  Beg your pardon, friend, for
coming so near saying a cuss-word--but you see I'm on an awful strain, in
this palaver, on account of having to cramp down and draw everything so
mild.  But we've got to give him up.  There ain't any getting around
that, I don't reckon.  Now if we can get you to help plant him--"

"Preach the funeral discourse?  Assist at the obsequies?"

"Obs'quies is good.  Yes.  That's it--that's our little game.  We are
going to get the thing up regardless, you know.  He was always nifty
himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain't going to be no slouch--
solid silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes on the hearse, and a
nigger on the box in a biled shirt and a plug hat--how's that for high?
And we'll take care of you, pard.  We'll fix you all right.  There'll be
a kerridge for you; and whatever you want, you just 'scape out and we'll
'tend to it.  We've got a shebang fixed up for you to stand behind, in
No. 1's house, and don't you be afraid.  Just go in and toot your horn,
if you don't sell a clam.  Put Buck through as bully as you can, pard,
for anybody that knowed him will tell you that he was one of the whitest
men that was ever in the mines.  You can't draw it too strong.  He never
could stand it to see things going wrong.  He's done more to make this
town quiet and peaceable than any man in it.  I've seen him lick four
Greasers in eleven minutes, myself.  If a thing wanted regulating, he
warn't a man to go browsing around after somebody to do it, but he would
prance in and regulate it himself.  He warn't a Catholic.  Scasely.  He
was down on 'em.  His word was, 'No Irish need apply!'  But it didn't
make no difference about that when it came down to what a man's rights
was--and so, when some roughs jumped the Catholic bone-yard and started
in to stake out town-lots in it he went for 'em!  And he cleaned 'em,
too!  I was there, pard, and I seen it myself."

"That was very well indeed--at least the impulse was--whether the act was
strictly defensible or not.  Had deceased any religious convictions?
That is to say, did he feel a dependence upon, or acknowledge allegiance
to a higher power?"

More reflection.

"I reckon you've stumped me again, pard.  Could you say it over once
more, and say it slow?"

"Well, to simplify it somewhat, was he, or rather had he ever been
connected with any organization sequestered from secular concerns and
devoted to self-sacrifice in the interests of morality?"

"All down but nine--set 'em up on the other alley, pard."

"What did I understand you to say?"

"Why, you're most too many for me, you know.  When you get in with your
left I hunt grass every time.  Every time you draw, you fill; but I don't
seem to have any luck.  Lets have a new deal."

"How?  Begin again?"

"That's it."

"Very well.  Was he a good man, and--"

"There--I see that; don't put up another chip till I look at my hand.
A good man, says you?  Pard, it ain't no name for it.  He was the best
man that ever--pard, you would have doted on that man.  He could lam any
galoot of his inches in America.  It was him that put down the riot last
election before it got a start; and everybody said he was the only man
that could have done it.  He waltzed in with a spanner in one hand and a
trumpet in the other, and sent fourteen men home on a shutter in less
than three minutes.  He had that riot all broke up and prevented nice
before anybody ever got a chance to strike a blow.  He was always for
peace, and he would have peace--he could not stand disturbances.  Pard,
he was a great loss to this town.  It would please the boys if you could
chip in something like that and do him justice.  Here once when the Micks
got to throwing stones through the Methodis' Sunday school windows, Buck
Fanshaw, all of his own notion, shut up his saloon and took a couple of
six-shooters and mounted guard over the Sunday school.  Says he, 'No
Irish need apply!'  And they didn't.  He was the bulliest man in the
mountains, pard!  He could run faster, jump higher, hit harder, and hold
more tangle-foot whisky without spilling it than any man in seventeen
counties.  Put that in, pard--it'll please the boys more than anything
you could say.  And you can say, pard, that he never shook his mother."

"Never shook his mother?"

"That's it--any of the boys will tell you so."

"Well, but why should he shake her?"

"That's what I say--but some people does."

"Not people of any repute?"

"Well, some that averages pretty so-so."

"In my opinion the man that would offer personal violence to his own
mother, ought to--"

"Cheese it, pard; you've banked your ball clean outside the string.
What I was a drivin' at, was, that he never throwed off on his mother--
don't you see?  No indeedy.  He give her a house to live in, and town
lots, and plenty of money; and he looked after her and took care of her
all the time; and when she was down with the small-pox I'm d---d if he
didn't set up nights and nuss her himself!  Beg your pardon for saying
it, but it hopped out too quick for yours truly.

"You've treated me like a gentleman, pard, and I ain't the man to hurt
your feelings intentional.  I think you're white.  I think you're a
square man, pard.  I like you, and I'll lick any man that don't.  I'll
lick him till he can't tell himself from a last year's corpse!  Put it
there!" [Another fraternal hand-shake--and exit.]

The obsequies were all that "the boys" could desire.  Such a marvel of
funeral pomp had never been seen in Virginia.  The plumed hearse, the
dirge-breathing brass bands, the closed marts of business, the flags
drooping at half mast, the long, plodding procession of uniformed secret
societies, military battalions and fire companies, draped engines,
carriages of officials, and citizens in vehicles and on foot, attracted
multitudes of spectators to the sidewalks, roofs and windows; and for
years afterward, the degree of grandeur attained by any civic display in
Virginia was determined by comparison with Buck Fanshaw's funeral.

Scotty Briggs, as a pall-bearer and a mourner, occupied a prominent place
at the funeral, and when the sermon was finished and the last sentence of
the prayer for the dead man's soul ascended, he responded, in a low
voice, but with feelings:

"AMEN.  No Irish need apply."

As the bulk of the response was without apparent relevancy, it was
probably nothing more than a humble tribute to the memory of the friend
that was gone; for, as Scotty had once said, it was "his word."

Scotty Briggs, in after days, achieved the distinction of becoming the
only convert to religion that was ever gathered from the Virginia roughs;
and it transpired that the man who had it in him to espouse the quarrel
of the weak out of inborn nobility of spirit was no mean timber whereof
to construct a Christian.  The making him one did not warp his generosity
or diminish his courage; on the contrary it gave intelligent direction to
the one and a broader field to the other.

If his Sunday-school class progressed faster than the other classes, was
it matter for wonder?  I think not.  He talked to his pioneer small-fry
in a language they understood!  It was my large privilege, a month before
he died, to hear him tell the beautiful story of Joseph and his brethren
to his class "without looking at the book."  I leave it to the reader to
fancy what it was like, as it fell, riddled with slang, from the lips of
that grave, earnest teacher, and was listened to by his little learners
with a consuming interest that showed that they were as unconscious as he
was that any violence was being done to the sacred proprieties!




CHAPTER XLVIII.

The first twenty-six graves in the Virginia cemetery were occupied by
murdered men.  So everybody said, so everybody believed, and so they will
always say and believe.  The reason why there was so much slaughtering
done, was, that in a new mining district the rough element predominates,
and a person is not respected until he has "killed his man."  That was
the very expression used.

If an unknown individual arrived, they did not inquire if he was capable,
honest, industrious, but--had he killed his man?  If he had not, he
gravitated to his natural and proper position, that of a man of small
consequence; if he had, the cordiality of his reception was graduated
according to the number of his dead.  It was tedious work struggling up
to a position of influence with bloodless hands; but when a man came with
the blood of half a dozen men on his soul, his worth was recognized at
once and his acquaintance sought.

In Nevada, for a time, the lawyer, the editor, the banker, the chief
desperado, the chief gambler, and the saloon keeper, occupied the same
level in society, and it was the highest.  The cheapest and easiest way
to become an influential man and be looked up to by the community at
large, was to stand behind a bar, wear a cluster-diamond pin, and sell
whisky.  I am not sure but that the saloon-keeper held a shade higher
rank than any other member of society.  His opinion had weight.  It was
his privilege to say how the elections should go.  No great movement
could succeed without the countenance and direction of the saloon-
keepers.  It was a high favor when the chief saloon-keeper consented to
serve in the legislature or the board of aldermen.

Youthful ambition hardly aspired so much to the honors of the law, or the
army and navy as to the dignity of proprietorship in a saloon.

To be a saloon-keeper and kill a man was to be illustrious.  Hence the
reader will not be surprised to learn that more than one man was killed
in Nevada under hardly the pretext of provocation, so impatient was the
slayer to achieve reputation and throw off the galling sense of being
held in indifferent repute by his associates.  I knew two youths who
tried to "kill their men" for no other reason--and got killed themselves
for their pains.  "There goes the man that killed Bill Adams" was higher
praise and a sweeter sound in the ears of this sort of people than any
other speech that admiring lips could utter.

The men who murdered Virginia's original twenty-six cemetery-occupants
were never punished.  Why?  Because Alfred the Great, when he invented
trial by jury and knew that he had admirably framed it to secure justice
in his age of the world, was not aware that in the nineteenth century the
condition of things would be so entirely changed that unless he rose from
the grave and altered the jury plan to meet the emergency, it would prove
the most ingenious and infallible agency for defeating justice that human
wisdom could contrive.  For how could he imagine that we simpletons would
go on using his jury plan after circumstances had stripped it of its
usefulness, any more than he could imagine that we would go on using his
candle-clock after we had invented chronometers?  In his day news could
not travel fast, and hence he could easily find a jury of honest,
intelligent men who had not heard of the case they were called to try--
but in our day of telegraphs and newspapers his plan compels us to swear
in juries composed of fools and rascals, because the system rigidly
excludes honest men and men of brains.

I remember one of those sorrowful farces, in Virginia, which we call a
jury trial.  A noted desperado killed Mr. B., a good citizen, in the most
wanton and cold-blooded way.  Of course the papers were full of it, and
all men capable of reading, read about it.  And of course all men not
deaf and dumb and idiotic, talked about it.  A jury-list was made out,
and Mr. B. L., a prominent banker and a valued citizen, was questioned
precisely as he would have been questioned in any court in America:

"Have you heard of this homicide?"

"Yes."

"Have you held conversations upon the subject?"

"Yes."

"Have you formed or expressed opinions about it?"

"Yes."

"Have you read the newspaper accounts of it?"

"Yes."

"We do not want you."

A minister, intelligent, esteemed, and greatly respected; a merchant of
high character and known probity; a mining superintendent of intelligence
and unblemished reputation; a quartz mill owner of excellent standing,
were all questioned in the same way, and all set aside.  Each said the
public talk and the newspaper reports had not so biased his mind but that
sworn testimony would overthrow his previously formed opinions and enable
him to render a verdict without prejudice and in accordance with the
facts.  But of course such men could not be trusted with the case.
Ignoramuses alone could mete out unsullied justice.

When the peremptory challenges were all exhausted, a jury of twelve men
was impaneled--a jury who swore they had neither heard, read, talked
about nor expressed an opinion concerning a murder which the very cattle
in the corrals, the Indians in the sage-brush and the stones in the
streets were cognizant of!  It was a jury composed of two desperadoes,
two low beer-house politicians, three bar-keepers, two ranchmen who could
not read, and three dull, stupid, human donkeys!  It actually came out
afterward, that one of these latter thought that incest and arson were
the same thing.

The verdict rendered by this jury was, Not Guilty.  What else could one
expect?

The jury system puts a ban upon intelligence and honesty, and a premium
upon ignorance, stupidity and perjury.  It is a shame that we must
continue to use a worthless system because it was good a thousand years
ago.  In this age, when a gentleman of high social standing, intelligence
and probity, swears that testimony given under solemn oath will outweigh,
with him, street talk and newspaper reports based upon mere hearsay, he
is worth a hundred jurymen who will swear to their own ignorance and
stupidity, and justice would be far safer in his hands than in theirs.
Why could not the jury law be so altered as to give men of brains and
honesty and equal chance with fools and miscreants?  Is it right to show
the present favoritism to one class of men and inflict a disability on
another, in a land whose boast is that all its citizens are free and
equal?  I am a candidate for the legislature.  I desire to tamper with
the jury law.  I wish to so alter it as to put a premium on intelligence
and character, and close the jury box against idiots, blacklegs, and
people who do not read newspapers.  But no doubt I shall be defeated--
every effort I make to save the country "misses fire."

My idea, when I began this chapter, was to say something about
desperadoism in the "flush times" of Nevada.  To attempt a portrayal of
that era and that land, and leave out the blood and carnage, would be
like portraying Mormondom and leaving out polygamy.  The desperado
stalked the streets with a swagger graded according to the number of his
homicides, and a nod of recognition from him was sufficient to make a
humble admirer happy for the rest of the day.  The deference that was
paid to a desperado of wide reputation, and who "kept his private
graveyard," as the phrase went, was marked, and cheerfully accorded.
When he moved along the sidewalk in his excessively long-tailed frock-
coat, shiny stump-toed boots, and with dainty little slouch hat tipped
over left eye, the small-fry roughs made room for his majesty; when he
entered the restaurant, the waiters deserted bankers and merchants to
overwhelm him with obsequious service; when he shouldered his way to a
bar, the shouldered parties wheeled indignantly, recognized him, and--
apologized.

They got a look in return that froze their marrow, and by that time a
curled and breast-pinned bar keeper was beaming over the counter, proud
of the established acquaintanceship that permitted such a familiar form
of speech as:

"How're ye, Billy, old fel?  Glad to see you.  What'll you take--the old
thing?"

The "old thing" meant his customary drink, of course.

The best known names in the Territory of Nevada were those belonging to
these long-tailed heroes of the revolver.  Orators, Governors,
capitalists and leaders of the legislature enjoyed a degree of fame, but
it seemed local and meagre when contrasted with the fame of such men as
Sam Brown, Jack Williams, Billy Mulligan, Farmer Pease, Sugarfoot Mike,
Pock Marked Jake, El Dorado Johnny, Jack McNabb, Joe McGee, Jack Harris,
Six-fingered Pete, etc., etc.  There was a long list of them.  They were
brave, reckless men, and traveled with their lives in their hands.  To
give them their due, they did their killing principally among themselves,
and seldom molested peaceable citizens, for they considered it small
credit to add to their trophies so cheap a bauble as the death of a man
who was "not on the shoot," as they phrased it.  They killed each other
on slight provocation, and hoped and expected to be killed themselves--
for they held it almost shame to die otherwise than "with their boots
on," as they expressed it.

I remember an instance of a desperado's contempt for such small game as a
private citizen's life.  I was taking a late supper in a restaurant one
night, with two reporters and a little printer named--Brown, for
instance--any name will do.  Presently a stranger with a long-tailed coat
on came in, and not noticing Brown's hat, which was lying in a chair, sat
down on it.  Little Brown sprang up and became abusive in a moment.  The
stranger smiled, smoothed out the hat, and offered it to Brown with
profuse apologies couched in caustic sarcasm, and begged Brown not to
destroy him.  Brown threw off his coat and challenged the man to fight--
abused him, threatened him, impeached his courage, and urged and even
implored him to fight; and in the meantime the smiling stranger placed
himself under our protection in mock distress.  But presently he assumed
a serious tone, and said:

"Very well, gentlemen, if we must fight, we must, I suppose.  But don't
rush into danger and then say I gave you no warning.  I am more than a
match for all of you when I get started.  I will give you proofs, and
then if my friend here still insists, I will try to accommodate him."

The table we were sitting at was about five feet long, and unusually
cumbersome and heavy.  He asked us to put our hands on the dishes and
hold them in their places a moment--one of them was a large oval dish
with a portly roast on it.  Then he sat down, tilted up one end of the
table, set two of the legs on his knees, took the end of the table
between his teeth, took his hands away, and pulled down with his teeth
till the table came up to a level position, dishes and all!  He said he
could lift a keg of nails with his teeth.  He picked up a common glass
tumbler and bit a semi-circle out of it.  Then he opened his bosom and
showed us a net-work of knife and bullet scars; showed us more on his
arms and face, and said he believed he had bullets enough in his body to
make a pig of lead.  He was armed to the teeth.  He closed with the
remark that he was Mr. ---- of Cariboo--a celebrated name whereat we shook
in our shoes.  I would publish the name, but for the suspicion that he
might come and carve me.  He finally inquired if Brown still thirsted for
blood.  Brown turned the thing over in his mind a moment, and then--asked
him to supper.

With the permission of the reader, I will group together, in the next
chapter, some samples of life in our small mountain village in the old
days of desperadoism.  I was there at the time.  The reader will observe
peculiarities in our official society; and he will observe also, an
instance of how, in new countries, murders breed murders.




CHAPTER XLIX.

An extract or two from the newspapers of the day will furnish a
photograph that can need no embellishment:

      FATAL SHOOTING AFFRAY.--An affray occurred, last evening, in a
      billiard saloon on C street, between Deputy Marshal Jack Williams
      and Wm. Brown, which resulted in the immediate death of the latter.
      There had been some difficulty between the parties for several
      months.

      An inquest was immediately held, and the following testimony
      adduced:

      Officer GEO. BIRDSALL, sworn, says:--I was told Wm. Brown was drunk
      and was looking for Jack Williams; so soon as I heard that I started
      for the parties to prevent a collision; went into the billiard
      saloon; saw Billy Brown running around, saying if anybody had
      anything against him to show cause; he was talking in a boisterous
      manner, and officer Perry took him to the other end of the room to
      talk to him; Brown came back to me; remarked to me that he thought
      he was as good as anybody, and knew how to take care of himself; he
      passed by me and went to the bar; don't know whether he drank or
      not; Williams was at the end of the billiard-table, next to the
      stairway; Brown, after going to the bar, came back and said he was
      as good as any man in the world; he had then walked out to the end
      of the first billiard-table from the bar; I moved closer to them,
      supposing there would be a fight; as Brown drew his pistol I caught
      hold of it; he had fired one shot at Williams; don't know the effect
      of it; caught hold of him with one hand, and took hold of the pistol
      and turned it up; think he fired once after I caught hold of the
      pistol; I wrenched the pistol from him; walked to the end of the
      billiard-table and told a party that I had Brown's pistol, and to
      stop shooting; I think four shots were fired in all; after walking
      out, Mr. Foster remarked that Brown was shot dead.

Oh, there was no excitement about it--he merely "remarked" the small
circumstance!

Four months later the following item appeared in the same paper (the
Enterprise).  In this item the name of one of the city officers above
referred to (Deputy Marshal Jack Williams) occurs again:

      ROBBERY AND DESPERATE AFFRAY.--On Tuesday night, a German named
      Charles Hurtzal, engineer in a mill at Silver City, came to this
      place, and visited the hurdy-gurdy house on B street.  The music,
      dancing and Teutonic maidens awakened memories of Faderland until
      our German friend was carried away with rapture.  He evidently had
      money, and was spending if freely.  Late in the evening Jack
      Williams and Andy Blessington invited him down stairs to take a cup
      of coffee.  Williams proposed a game of cards and went up stairs to
      procure a deck, but not finding any returned.  On the stairway he
      met the German, and drawing his pistol knocked him down and rifled
      his pockets of some seventy dollars.  Hurtzal dared give no alarm,
      as he was told, with a pistol at his head, if he made any noise or
      exposed them, they would blow his brains out.  So effectually was he
      frightened that he made no complaint, until his friends forced him.
      Yesterday a warrant was issued, but the culprits had disappeared.

This efficient city officer, Jack Williams, had the common reputation of
being a burglar, a highwayman and a desperado.  It was said that he had
several times drawn his revolver and levied money contributions on
citizens at dead of night in the public streets of Virginia.

Five months after the above item appeared, Williams was assassinated
while sitting at a card table one night; a gun was thrust through the
crack of the door and Williams dropped from his chair riddled with balls.
It was said, at the time, that Williams had been for some time aware that
a party of his own sort (desperadoes) had sworn away his life; and it was
generally believed among the people that Williams's friends and enemies
would make the assassination memorable--and useful, too--by a wholesale
destruction of each other.

It did not so happen, but still, times were not dull during the next
twenty-four hours, for within that time a woman was killed by a pistol
shot, a man was brained with a slung shot, and a man named Reeder was
also disposed of permanently.  Some matters in the Enterprise account of
the killing of Reeder are worth nothing--especially the accommodating
complaisance of a Virginia justice of the peace.  The italics in the
following narrative are mine:

      MORE CUTTING AND SHOOTING.--The devil seems to have again broken
      loose in our town.  Pistols and guns explode and knives gleam in our
      streets as in early times.  When there has been a long season of
      quiet, people are slow to wet their hands in blood; but once blood
      is spilled, cutting and shooting come easy.  Night before last Jack
      Williams was assassinated, and yesterday forenoon we had more bloody
      work, growing out of the killing of Williams, and on the same street
      in which he met his death.  It appears that Tom Reeder, a friend of
      Williams, and George Gumbert were talking, at the meat market of the
      latter, about the killing of Williams the previous night, when
      Reeder said it was a most cowardly act to shoot a man in such a way,
      giving him "no show."  Gumbert said that Williams had "as good a
      show as he gave Billy Brown," meaning the man killed by Williams
      last March.  Reeder said it was a d---d lie, that Williams had no
      show at all.  At this, Gumbert drew a knife and stabbed Reeder,
      cutting him in two places in the back.  One stroke of the knife cut
      into the sleeve of Reeder's coat and passed downward in a slanting
      direction through his clothing, and entered his body at the small of
      the back; another blow struck more squarely, and made a much more
      dangerous wound.  Gumbert gave himself up to the officers of
      justice, and was shortly after discharged by Justice Atwill, on his
      own recognizance, to appear for trial at six o'clock in the evening.
      In the meantime Reeder had been taken into the office of Dr. Owens,
      where his wounds were properly dressed.  One of his wounds was
      considered quite dangerous, and it was thought by many that it would
      prove fatal.  But being considerably under the influence of liquor,
      Reeder did not feel his wounds as he otherwise would, and he got up
      and went into the street.  He went to the meat market and renewed
      his quarrel with Gumbert, threatening his life.  Friends tried to
      interfere to put a stop to the quarrel and get the parties away from
      each other.  In the Fashion Saloon Reeder made threats against the
      life of Gumbert, saying he would kill him, and it is said that he
      requested the officers not to arrest Gumbert, as he intended to kill
      him.  After these threats Gumbert went off and procured a double-
      barreled shot gun, loaded with buck-shot or revolver balls, and went
      after Reeder.  Two or three persons were assisting him along the
      street, trying to get him home, and had him just in front of the
      store of Klopstock & Harris, when Gumbert came across toward him
      from the opposite side of the street with his gun.  He came up
      within about ten or fifteen feet of Reeder, and called out to those
      with him to "look out! get out of the way!" and they had only time
      to heed the warning, when he fired.  Reeder was at the time
      attempting to screen himself behind a large cask, which stood
      against the awning post of Klopstock & Harris's store, but some of
      the balls took effect in the lower part of his breast, and he reeled
      around forward and fell in front of the cask.  Gumbert then raised
      his gun and fired the second barrel, which missed Reeder and entered
      the ground.  At the time that this occurred, there were a great many
      persons on the street in the vicinity, and a number of them called
      out to Gumbert, when they saw him raise his gun, to "hold on," and
      "don't shoot!"  The cutting took place about ten o'clock and the
      shooting about twelve.  After the shooting the street was instantly
      crowded with the inhabitants of that part of the town, some
      appearing much excited and laughing--declaring that it looked like
      the "good old times of '60."  Marshal Perry and officer Birdsall
      were near when the shooting occurred, and Gumbert was immediately
      arrested and his gun taken from him, when he was marched off to
      jail.  Many persons who were attracted to the spot where this bloody
      work had just taken place, looked bewildered and seemed to be asking
      themselves what was to happen next, appearing in doubt as to whether
      the killing mania had reached its climax, or whether we were to turn
      in and have a grand killing spell, shooting whoever might have given
      us offence.  It was whispered around that it was not all over yet--
      five or six more were to be killed before night.  Reeder was taken
      to the Virginia City Hotel, and doctors called in to examine his
      wounds.  They found that two or three balls had entered his right
      side; one of them appeared to have passed through the substance of
      the lungs, while another passed into the liver.  Two balls were also
      found to have struck one of his legs.  As some of the balls struck
      the cask, the wounds in Reeder's leg were probably from these,
      glancing downwards, though they might have been caused by the second
      shot fired.  After being shot, Reeder said when he got on his feet--
      smiling as he spoke--"It will take better shooting than that to kill
      me."  The doctors consider it almost impossible for him to recover,
      but as he has an excellent constitution he may survive,
      notwithstanding the number and dangerous character of the wounds he
      has received.  The town appears to be perfectly quiet at present, as
      though the late stormy times had cleared our moral atmosphere; but
      who can tell in what quarter clouds are lowering or plots ripening?

Reeder--or at least what was left of him--survived his wounds two days!
Nothing was ever done with Gumbert.

Trial by jury is the palladium of our liberties.  I do not know what a
palladium is, having never seen a palladium, but it is a good thing no
doubt at any rate.  Not less than a hundred men have been murdered in
Nevada--perhaps I would be within bounds if I said three hundred--and as
far as I can learn, only two persons have suffered the death penalty
there.  However, four or five who had no money and no political influence
have been punished by imprisonment--one languished in prison as much as
eight months, I think.  However, I do not desire to be extravagant--it
may have been less.

However, one prophecy was verified, at any rate.  It was asserted by the
desperadoes that one of their brethren (Joe McGee, a special policeman)
was known to be the conspirator chosen by lot to assassinate Williams;
and they also asserted that doom had been pronounced against McGee, and
that he would be assassinated in exactly the same manner that had been
adopted for the destruction of Williams--a prophecy which came true a
year later.  After twelve months of distress (for McGee saw a fancied
assassin in every man that approached him), he made the last of many
efforts to get out of the country unwatched.  He went to Carson and sat
down in a saloon to wait for the stage--it would leave at four in the
morning.  But as the night waned and the crowd thinned, he grew uneasy,
and told the bar-keeper that assassins were on his track.  The bar-keeper
told him to stay in the middle of the room, then, and not go near the
door, or the window by the stove.  But a fatal fascination seduced him to
the neighborhood of the stove every now and then, and repeatedly the bar-
keeper brought him back to the middle of the room and warned him to
remain there.  But he could not.  At three in the morning he again
returned to the stove and sat down by a stranger.  Before the bar-keeper
could get to him with another warning whisper, some one outside fired
through the window and riddled McGee's breast with slugs, killing him
almost instantly.  By the same discharge the stranger at McGee's side
also received attentions which proved fatal in the course of two or three
days.




CHAPTER L.

These murder and jury statistics remind me of a certain very
extraordinary trial and execution of twenty years ago; it is a scrap of
history familiar to all old Californians, and worthy to be known by other
peoples of the earth that love simple, straightforward justice
unencumbered with nonsense.  I would apologize for this digression but
for the fact that the information I am about to offer is apology enough
in itself.  And since I digress constantly anyhow, perhaps it is as well
to eschew apologies altogether and thus prevent their growing irksome.

Capt. Ned Blakely--that name will answer as well as any other fictitious
one (for he was still with the living at last accounts, and may not
desire to be famous)--sailed ships out of the harbor of San Francisco for
many years.  He was a stalwart, warm-hearted, eagle-eyed veteran, who had
been a sailor nearly fifty years--a sailor from early boyhood.  He was a
rough, honest creature, full of pluck, and just as full of hard-headed
simplicity, too.  He hated trifling conventionalities--"business" was the
word, with him.  He had all a sailor's vindictiveness against the quips
and quirks of the law, and steadfastly believed that the first and last
aim and object of the law and lawyers was to defeat justice.

He sailed for the Chincha Islands in command of a guano ship.  He had a
fine crew, but his negro mate was his pet--on him he had for years
lavished his admiration and esteem.  It was Capt. Ned's first voyage to
the Chinchas, but his fame had gone before him--the fame of being a man
who would fight at the dropping of a handkerchief, when imposed upon, and
would stand no nonsense.  It was a fame well earned.  Arrived in the
islands, he found that the staple of conversation was the exploits of one
Bill Noakes, a bully, the mate of a trading ship.  This man had created a
small reign of terror there.  At nine o'clock at night, Capt. Ned, all
alone, was pacing his deck in the starlight.  A form ascended the side,
and approached him.  Capt. Ned said:

"Who goes there?"

"I'm Bill Noakes, the best man in the islands."

"What do you want aboard this ship?"

"I've heard of Capt. Ned Blakely, and one of us is a better man than
'tother--I'll know which, before I go ashore."

"You've come to the right shop--I'm your man.  I'll learn you to come
aboard this ship without an invite."

He seized Noakes, backed him against the mainmast, pounded his face to a
pulp, and then threw him overboard.

Noakes was not convinced.  He returned the next night, got the pulp
renewed, and went overboard head first, as before.

He was satisfied.

A week after this, while Noakes was carousing with a sailor crowd on
shore, at noonday, Capt. Ned's colored mate came along, and Noakes tried
to pick a quarrel with him.  The negro evaded the trap, and tried to get
away.  Noakes followed him up; the negro began to run; Noakes fired on
him with a revolver and killed him.  Half a dozen sea-captains witnessed
the whole affair.  Noakes retreated to the small after-cabin of his ship,
with two other bullies, and gave out that death would be the portion of
any man that intruded there.  There was no attempt made to follow the
villains; there was no disposition to do it, and indeed very little
thought of such an enterprise.  There were no courts and no officers;
there was no government; the islands belonged to Peru, and Peru was far
away; she had no official representative on the ground; and neither had
any other nation.

However, Capt. Ned was not perplexing his head about such things.  They
concerned him not.  He was boiling with rage and furious for justice.
At nine o'clock at night he loaded a double-barreled gun with slugs,
fished out a pair of handcuffs, got a ship's lantern, summoned his
quartermaster, and went ashore.  He said:

"Do you see that ship there at the dock?"

"Ay-ay, sir."

"It's the Venus."

"Ay-ay, sir."

"You--you know me."

"Ay-ay, sir."

"Very well, then.  Take the lantern.  Carry it just under your chin.
I'll walk behind you and rest this gun-barrel on your shoulder, p'inting
forward--so.  Keep your lantern well up so's I can see things ahead of
you good.  I'm going to march in on Noakes--and take him--and jug the
other chaps.  If you flinch--well, you know me."

"Ay-ay, sir."

In this order they filed aboard softly, arrived at Noakes's den, the
quartermaster pushed the door open, and the lantern revealed the three
desperadoes sitting on the floor.  Capt.  Ned said:

"I'm Ned Blakely.  I've got you under fire.  Don't you move without
orders--any of you.  You two kneel down in the corner; faces to the wall
--now.  Bill Noakes, put these handcuffs on; now come up close.
Quartermaster, fasten 'em.  All right.  Don't stir, sir.  Quartermaster,
put the key in the outside of the door.  Now, men, I'm going to lock you
two in; and if you try to burst through this door--well, you've heard of
me.  Bill Noakes, fall in ahead, and march.  All set.  Quartermaster,
lock the door."

Noakes spent the night on board Blakely's ship, a prisoner under strict
guard.  Early in the morning Capt. Ned called in all the sea-captains in
the harbor and invited them, with nautical ceremony, to be present on
board his ship at nine o'clock to witness the hanging of Noakes at the
yard-arm!

"What!  The man has not been tried."

"Of course he hasn't.  But didn't he kill the nigger?"

"Certainly he did; but you are not thinking of hanging him without a
trial?"

"Trial!  What do I want to try him for, if he killed the nigger?"

"Oh, Capt.  Ned, this will never do.  Think how it will sound."

"Sound be hanged!  Didn't he kill the nigger?"

"Certainly, certainly, Capt.  Ned,--nobody denies that,--but--"

"Then I'm going to hang him, that's all.  Everybody I've talked to talks
just the same way you do.  Everybody says he killed the nigger, everybody
knows he killed the nigger, and yet every lubber of you wants him tried
for it.  I don't understand such bloody foolishness as that.  Tried!
Mind you, I don't object to trying him, if it's got to be done to give
satisfaction; and I'll be there, and chip in and help, too; but put it
off till afternoon--put it off till afternoon, for I'll have my hands
middling full till after the burying--"

"Why, what do you mean?  Are you going to hang him any how--and try him
afterward?"

"Didn't I say I was going to hang him?  I never saw such people as you.
What's the difference?  You ask a favor, and then you ain't satisfied
when you get it.  Before or after's all one--you know how the trial will
go.  He killed the nigger.  Say--I must be going.  If your mate would
like to come to the hanging, fetch him along.  I like him."

There was a stir in the camp.  The captains came in a body and pleaded
with Capt. Ned not to do this rash thing.  They promised that they would
create a court composed of captains of the best character; they would
empanel a jury; they would conduct everything in a way becoming the
serious nature of the business in hand, and give the case an impartial
hearing and the accused a fair trial.  And they said it would be murder,
and punishable by the American courts if he persisted and hung the
accused on his ship.  They pleaded hard.  Capt. Ned said:

"Gentlemen, I'm not stubborn and I'm not unreasonable.  I'm always
willing to do just as near right as I can.  How long will it take?"

"Probably only a little while."

"And can I take him up the shore and hang him as soon as you are done?"

"If he is proven guilty he shall be hanged without unnecessary delay."

"If he's proven guilty.  Great Neptune, ain't he guilty?  This beats my
time.  Why you all know he's guilty."

But at last they satisfied him that they were projecting nothing
underhanded.  Then he said:

"Well, all right.  You go on and try him and I'll go down and overhaul
his conscience and prepare him to go--like enough he needs it, and I
don't want to send him off without a show for hereafter."

This was another obstacle.  They finally convinced him that it was
necessary to have the accused in court.  Then they said they would send a
guard to bring him.

"No, sir, I prefer to fetch him myself--he don't get out of my hands.
Besides, I've got to go to the ship to get a rope, anyway."

The court assembled with due ceremony, empaneled a jury, and presently
Capt. Ned entered, leading the prisoner with one hand and carrying a
Bible and a rope in the other.  He seated himself by the side of his
captive and told the court to "up anchor and make sail."  Then he turned
a searching eye on the jury, and detected Noakes's friends, the two
bullies.

He strode over and said to them confidentially:

"You're here to interfere, you see.  Now you vote right, do you hear?--or
else there'll be a double-barreled inquest here when this trial's off,
and your remainders will go home in a couple of baskets."

The caution was not without fruit.  The jury was a unit--the verdict.
"Guilty."

Capt.  Ned sprung to his feet and said:

"Come along--you're my meat now, my lad, anyway.  Gentlemen you've done
yourselves proud.  I invite you all to come and see that I do it all
straight.  Follow me to the canyon, a mile above here."

The court informed him that a sheriff had been appointed to do the
hanging, and--

Capt.  Ned's patience was at an end.  His wrath was boundless.  The
subject of a sheriff was judiciously dropped.

When the crowd arrived at the canyon, Capt. Ned climbed a tree and
arranged the halter, then came down and noosed his man.  He opened his
Bible, and laid aside his hat.  Selecting a chapter at random, he read it
through, in a deep bass voice and with sincere solemnity.  Then he said:

"Lad, you are about to go aloft and give an account of yourself; and the
lighter a man's manifest is, as far as sin's concerned, the better for
him.  Make a clean breast, man, and carry a log with you that'll bear
inspection.  You killed the nigger?"

No reply.  A long pause.

The captain read another chapter, pausing, from time to time, to impress
the effect.  Then he talked an earnest, persuasive sermon to him, and
ended by repeating the question:

"Did you kill the nigger?"

No reply--other than a malignant scowl.  The captain now read the first
and second chapters of Genesis, with deep feeling--paused a moment,
closed the book reverently, and said with a perceptible savor of
satisfaction:

"There.  Four chapters.  There's few that would have took the pains with
you that I have."

Then he swung up the condemned, and made the rope fast; stood by and
timed him half an hour with his watch, and then delivered the body to the
court.  A little after, as he stood contemplating the motionless figure,
a doubt came into his face; evidently he felt a twinge of conscience--a
misgiving--and he said with a sigh:

"Well, p'raps I ought to burnt him, maybe.  But I was trying to do for
the best."

When the history of this affair reached California (it was in the "early
days") it made a deal of talk, but did not diminish the captain's
popularity in any degree.  It increased it, indeed.  California had a
population then that "inflicted" justice after a fashion that was
simplicity and primitiveness itself, and could therefore admire
appreciatively when the same fashion was followed elsewhere.




CHAPTER LI.

Vice flourished luxuriantly during the hey-day of our "flush times."  The
saloons were overburdened with custom; so were the police courts, the
gambling dens, the brothels and the jails--unfailing signs of high
prosperity in a mining region--in any region for that matter.  Is it not
so?  A crowded police court docket is the surest of all signs that trade
is brisk and money plenty.  Still, there is one other sign; it comes
last, but when it does come it establishes beyond cavil that the "flush
times" are at the flood.  This is the birth of the "literary" paper.
The Weekly Occidental, "devoted to literature," made its appearance in
Virginia.  All the literary people were engaged to write for it.  Mr. F.
was to edit it.  He was a felicitous skirmisher with a pen, and a man who
could say happy things in a crisp, neat way.  Once, while editor of the
Union, he had disposed of a labored, incoherent, two-column attack made
upon him by a contemporary, with a single line, which, at first glance,
seemed to contain a solemn and tremendous compliment--viz.: "THE LOGIC OF
OUR ADVERSARY RESEMBLES THE PEACE OF GOD,"--and left it to the reader's
memory and after-thought to invest the remark with another and "more
different" meaning by supplying for himself and at his own leisure the
rest of the Scripture--" in that it passeth understanding."  He once said
of a little, half-starved, wayside community that had no subsistence
except what they could get by preying upon chance passengers who stopped
over with them a day when traveling by the overland stage, that in their
Church service they had altered the Lord's Prayer to read: "Give us this
day our daily stranger!"

We expected great things of the Occidental.  Of course it could not get
along without an original novel, and so we made arrangements to hurl into
the work the full strength of the company.  Mrs. F. was an able romancist
of the ineffable school--I know no other name to apply to a school whose
heroes are all dainty and all perfect.  She wrote the opening chapter,
and introduced a lovely blonde simpleton who talked nothing but pearls
and poetry and who was virtuous to the verge of eccentricity.  She also
introduced a young French Duke of aggravated refinement, in love with the
blonde.  Mr. F. followed next week, with a brilliant lawyer who set about
getting the Duke's estates into trouble, and a sparkling young lady of
high society who fell to fascinating the Duke and impairing the appetite
of the blonde.  Mr. D., a dark and bloody editor of one of the dailies,
followed Mr. F., the third  week, introducing a mysterious Roscicrucian
who transmuted metals, held consultations with the devil in a cave at
dead of night, and cast the horoscope of the several heroes and heroines
in such a way as to provide plenty of trouble for their future careers
and breed a solemn and awful public interest in the novel.  He also
introduced a cloaked and masked melodramatic miscreant, put him on a
salary and set him on the midnight track of the Duke with a poisoned
dagger.  He also created an Irish coachman with a rich brogue and placed
him in the service of the society-young-lady with an ulterior mission to
carry billet-doux to the Duke.

About this time there arrived in Virginia a dissolute stranger with a
literary turn of mind--rather seedy he was, but very quiet and
unassuming; almost diffident, indeed.  He was so gentle, and his manners
were so pleasing and kindly, whether he was sober or intoxicated, that he
made friends of all who came in contact with him.  He applied for
literary work, offered conclusive evidence that he wielded an easy and
practiced pen, and so Mr. F. engaged him at once to help write the novel.
His chapter was to follow Mr. D.'s, and mine was to come next.  Now what
does this fellow do but go off and get drunk and then proceed to his
quarters and set to work with his imagination in a state of chaos, and
that chaos in a condition of extravagant activity.  The result may be
guessed.  He scanned the chapters of his predecessors, found plenty of
heroes and heroines already created, and was satisfied with them; he
decided to introduce no more; with all the confidence that whisky
inspires and all the easy complacency it gives to its servant, he then
launched himself lovingly into his work: he married the coachman to the
society-young-lady for the sake of the scandal; married the Duke to the
blonde's stepmother, for the sake of the sensation; stopped the
desperado's salary; created a misunderstanding between the devil and the
Roscicrucian; threw the Duke's property into the wicked lawyer's hands;
made the lawyer's upbraiding conscience drive him to drink, thence to
delirium tremens, thence to suicide; broke the coachman's neck; let his
widow succumb to contumely, neglect, poverty and consumption; caused the
blonde to drown herself, leaving her clothes on the bank with the
customary note pinned to them forgiving the Duke and hoping he would be
happy; revealed to the Duke, by means of the usual strawberry mark on
left arm, that he had married his own long-lost mother and destroyed his
long-lost sister; instituted the proper and necessary suicide of the Duke
and the Duchess in order to compass poetical justice; opened the earth
and let the Roscicrucian through, accompanied with the accustomed smoke
and thunder and smell of brimstone, and finished with the promise that in
the next chapter, after holding a general inquest, he would take up the
surviving character of the novel and tell what became of the devil!
It read with singular smoothness, and with a "dead" earnestness that was
funny enough to suffocate a body.  But there was war when it came in.
The other novelists were furious.  The mild stranger, not yet more than
half sober, stood there, under a scathing fire of vituperation, meek and
bewildered, looking from one to another of his assailants, and wondering
what he could have done to invoke such a storm.  When a lull came at
last, he said his say gently and appealingly--said he did not rightly
remember what he had written, but was sure he had tried to do the best he
could, and knew his object had been to make the novel not only pleasant
and plausible but instructive and----

The bombardment began again.  The novelists assailed his ill-chosen
adjectives and demolished them with a storm of denunciation and ridicule.
And so the siege went on.  Every time the stranger tried to appease the
enemy he only made matters worse.  Finally he offered to rewrite the
chapter.  This arrested hostilities.  The indignation gradually quieted
down, peace reigned again and the sufferer retired in safety and got him
to his own citadel.

But on the way thither the evil angel tempted him and he got drunk again.
And again his imagination went mad.  He led the heroes and heroines a
wilder dance than ever; and yet all through it ran that same convincing
air of honesty and earnestness that had marked his first work.  He got
the characters into the most extraordinary situations, put them through
the most surprising performances, and made them talk the strangest talk!
But the chapter cannot be described.  It was symmetrically crazy; it was
artistically absurd; and it had explanatory footnotes that were fully as
curious as the text.  I remember one of the "situations," and will offer
it as an example of the whole.  He altered the character of the brilliant
lawyer, and made him a great-hearted, splendid fellow; gave him fame and
riches, and set his age at thirty-three years.  Then he made the blonde
discover, through the help of the Roscicrucian and the melodramatic
miscreant, that while the Duke loved her money ardently and wanted it, he
secretly felt a sort of leaning toward the society-young-lady.  Stung to
the quick, she tore her affections from him and bestowed them with
tenfold power upon the lawyer, who responded with consuming zeal.  But
the parents would none of it.  What they wanted in the family was a Duke;
and a Duke they were determined to have; though they confessed that next
to the Duke the lawyer had their preference.  Necessarily the blonde now
went into a decline.  The parents were alarmed.  They pleaded with her to
marry the Duke, but she steadfastly refused, and pined on.  Then they
laid a plan.  They told her to wait a year and a day, and if at the end
of that time she still felt that she could not marry the Duke, she might
marry the lawyer with their full consent.  The result was as they had
foreseen: gladness came again, and the flush of returning health.  Then
the parents took the next step in their scheme.  They had the family
physician recommend a long sea voyage and much land travel for the
thorough restoration of the blonde's strength; and they invited the Duke
to be of the party.  They judged that the Duke's constant presence and
the lawyer's protracted absence would do the rest--for they did not
invite the lawyer.

So they set sail in a steamer for America--and the third day out, when
their sea-sickness called truce and permitted them to take their first
meal at the public table, behold there sat the lawyer!  The Duke and
party made the best of an awkward situation; the voyage progressed, and
the vessel neared America.

But, by and by, two hundred miles off New Bedford, the ship took fire;
she burned to the water's edge; of all her crew and passengers, only
thirty were saved.  They floated about the sea half an afternoon and all
night long.  Among them were our friends.  The lawyer, by superhuman
exertions, had saved the blonde and her parents, swimming back and forth
two hundred yards and bringing one each time--(the girl first).  The Duke
had saved himself.  In the morning two whale ships arrived on the scene
and sent their boats.  The weather was stormy and the embarkation was
attended with much confusion and excitement.  The lawyer did his duty
like a man; helped his exhausted and insensible blonde, her parents and
some others into a boat (the Duke helped himself in); then a child fell
overboard at the other end of the raft and the lawyer rushed thither and
helped half a dozen people fish it out, under the stimulus of its
mother's screams.  Then he ran back--a few seconds too late--the blonde's
boat was under way.  So he had to take the other boat, and go to the
other ship.  The storm increased and drove the vessels out of sight of
each other--drove them whither it would.

When it calmed, at the end of three days, the blonde's ship was seven
hundred miles north of Boston and the other about seven hundred south of
that port.  The blonde's captain was bound on a whaling cruise in the
North Atlantic and could not go back such a distance or make a port
without orders; such being nautical law.  The lawyer's captain was to
cruise in the North Pacific, and he could not go back or make a port
without orders.  All the lawyer's money and baggage were in the blonde's
boat and went to the blonde's ship--so his captain made him work his
passage as a common sailor.  When both ships had been cruising nearly a
year, the one was off the coast of Greenland and the other in Behring's
Strait.  The blonde had long ago been well-nigh persuaded that her lawyer
had been washed overboard and lost just before the whale ships reached
the raft, and now, under the pleadings of her parents and the Duke she
was at last beginning to nerve herself for the doom of the covenant, and
prepare for the hated marriage.

But she would not yield a day before the date set.  The weeks dragged on,
the time narrowed, orders were given to deck the ship for the wedding--a
wedding at sea among icebergs and walruses.  Five days more and all would
be over.  So the blonde reflected, with a sigh and a tear.  Oh where was
her true love--and why, why did he not come and save her?  At that moment
he was lifting his harpoon to strike a whale in Behring's Strait, five
thousand miles away, by the way of the Arctic Ocean, or twenty thousand
by the way of the Horn--that was the reason.  He struck, but not with
perfect aim--his foot slipped and he fell in the whale's mouth and went
down his throat.  He was insensible five days.  Then he came to himself
and heard voices; daylight was streaming through a hole cut in the
whale's roof.  He climbed out and astonished the sailors who were
hoisting blubber up a ship's side.  He recognized the vessel, flew
aboard, surprised the wedding party at the altar and exclaimed:

"Stop the proceedings--I'm here!  Come to my arms, my own!"

There were foot-notes to this extravagant piece of literature wherein the
author endeavored to show that the whole thing was within the
possibilities; he said he got the incident of the whale traveling from
Behring's Strait to the coast of Greenland, five thousand miles in five
days, through the Arctic Ocean, from Charles Reade's "Love Me Little Love
Me Long," and considered that that established the fact that the thing
could be done; and he instanced Jonah's adventure as proof that a man
could live in a whale's belly, and added that if a preacher could stand
it three days a lawyer could surely stand it five!

There was a fiercer storm than ever in the editorial sanctum now, and the
stranger was peremptorily discharged, and his manuscript flung at his
head.  But he had already delayed things so much that there was not time
for some one else to rewrite the chapter, and so the paper came out
without any novel in it.  It was but a feeble, struggling, stupid
journal, and the absence of the novel probably shook public confidence;
at any rate, before the first side of the next issue went to press, the
Weekly Occidental died as peacefully as an infant.

An effort was made to resurrect it, with the proposed advantage of a
telling new title, and Mr. F. said that The Phenix would be just the name
for it, because it would give the idea of a resurrection from its dead
ashes in a new and undreamed of condition of splendor; but some low-
priced smarty on one of the dailies suggested that we call it the
Lazarus; and inasmuch as the people were not profound in Scriptural
matters but thought the resurrected Lazarus and the dilapidated mendicant
that begged in the rich man's gateway were one and the same person, the
name became the laughing stock of the town, and killed the paper for good
and all.

I was sorry enough, for I was very proud of being connected with a
literary paper--prouder than I have ever been of anything since, perhaps.
I had written some rhymes for it--poetry I considered it--and it was a
great grief to me that the production was on the "first side" of the
issue that was not completed, and hence did not see the light.  But time
brings its revenges--I can put it in here; it will answer in place of a
tear dropped to the memory of the lost Occidental.  The idea (not the
chief idea, but the vehicle that bears it) was probably suggested by the
old song called "The Raging Canal," but I cannot remember now.  I do
remember, though, that at that time I thought my doggerel was one of the
ablest poems of the age:


THE AGED PILOT MAN.

On the Erie Canal, it was,
All on a summer's day,
I sailed forth with my parents
Far away to Albany.

From out the clouds at noon that day
There came a dreadful storm,
That piled the billows high about,
And filled us with alarm.

A man came rushing from a house,
Saying, "Snub up your boat I pray,
[The customary canal technicality for "tie up."]
Snub up your boat, snub up, alas,
Snub up while yet you may."

Our captain cast one glance astern,
Then forward glanced he,
And said, "My wife and little ones
I never more shall see."

Said Dollinger the pilot man,
In noble words, but few,--
"Fear not, but lean on Dollinger,
And he will fetch you through."

The boat drove on, the frightened mules
Tore through the rain and wind,
And bravely still, in danger's post,
The whip-boy strode behind.

"Come 'board, come 'board," the captain cried,
"Nor tempt so wild a storm;"
But still the raging mules advanced,
And still the boy strode on.

Then said the captain to us all,
"Alas, 'tis plain to me,
The greater danger is not there,
But here upon the sea.

"So let us strive, while life remains,
To save all souls on board,
And then if die at last we must,
Let .  .  .  .  I cannot speak the word!"

Said Dollinger the pilot man,
Tow'ring above the crew,
"Fear not, but trust in Dollinger,
And he will fetch you through."

"Low bridge!  low bridge!" all heads went down,
The laboring bark sped on;
A mill we passed, we passed church,
Hamlets, and fields of corn;
And all the world came out to see,
And chased along the shore
Crying, "Alas, alas, the sheeted rain,
The wind, the tempest's roar!
Alas, the gallant ship and crew,
Can nothing help them more?"

And from our deck sad eyes looked out
Across the stormy scene:
The tossing wake of billows aft,
The bending forests green,
The chickens sheltered under carts
In lee of barn the cows,
The skurrying swine with straw in mouth,
The wild spray from our bows!

"She balances!
She wavers!
Now let her go about!
If she misses stays and broaches to,
We're all"--then with a shout,]
"Huray!  huray!
Avast!  belay!
Take in more sail!
Lord, what a gale!
Ho, boy, haul taut on the hind mule's tail!"
"Ho!  lighten ship!  ho!  man the pump!
Ho, hostler, heave the lead!"

"A quarter-three!--'tis shoaling fast!
Three feet large!--t-h-r-e-e feet!--
Three feet scant!" I cried in fright
"Oh, is there no retreat?"

Said Dollinger, the pilot man,
As on the vessel flew,
"Fear not, but trust in Dollinger,
And he will fetch you through."

A panic struck the bravest hearts,
The boldest cheek turned pale;
For plain to all, this shoaling said
A leak had burst the ditch's bed!
And, straight as bolt from crossbow sped,
Our ship swept on, with shoaling lead,
Before the fearful gale!

"Sever the tow-line!  Cripple the mules!"
Too late!  There comes a shock!
Another length, and the fated craft
Would have swum in the saving lock!

Then gathered together the shipwrecked crew
And took one last embrace,
While sorrowful tears from despairing eyes
Ran down each hopeless face;
And some did think of their little ones
Whom they never more might see,
And others of waiting wives at home,
And mothers that grieved would be.

But of all the children of misery there
On that poor sinking frame,
But one spake words of hope and faith,
And I worshipped as they came:
Said Dollinger the pilot man,--
(O brave heart, strong and true!)--
"Fear not, but trust in Dollinger,
For he will fetch you through."

Lo!  scarce the words have passed his lips
The dauntless prophet say'th,
When every soul about him seeth
A wonder crown his faith!

And count ye all, both great and small,
As numbered with the dead:
For mariner for forty year,
On Erie, boy and man,
I never yet saw such a storm,
Or one't with it began!"

So overboard a keg of nails
And anvils three we threw,
Likewise four bales of gunny-sacks,
Two hundred pounds of glue,
Two sacks of corn, four ditto wheat,
A box of books, a cow,
A violin, Lord Byron's works,
A rip-saw and a sow.

A curve!  a curve!  the dangers grow!
"Labbord!--stabbord!--s-t-e-a-d-y!--so!--
Hard-a-port, Dol!--hellum-a-lee!
Haw the head mule!--the aft one gee!
Luff!--bring her to the wind!"

For straight a farmer brought a plank,--
(Mysteriously inspired)--
And laying it unto the ship,
In silent awe retired.

Then every sufferer stood amazed
That pilot man before;
A moment stood.  Then wondering turned,
And speechless walked ashore.




CHAPTER LII.

Since I desire, in this chapter, to say an instructive word or two about
the silver mines, the reader may take this fair warning and skip, if he
chooses.  The year 1863 was perhaps the very top blossom and culmination
of the "flush times."  Virginia swarmed with men and vehicles to that
degree that the place looked like a very hive--that is when one's vision
could pierce through the thick fog of alkali dust that was generally
blowing in summer.  I will say, concerning this dust, that if you drove
ten miles through it, you and your horses would be coated with it a
sixteenth of an inch thick and present an outside appearance that was a
uniform pale yellow color, and your buggy would have three inches of dust
in it, thrown there by the wheels.  The delicate scales used by the
assayers were inclosed in glass cases intended to be air-tight, and yet
some of this dust was so impalpable and so invisibly fine that it would
get in, somehow, and impair the accuracy of those scales.

Speculation ran riot, and yet there was a world of substantial business
going on, too.  All freights were brought over the mountains from
California (150 miles) by pack-train partly, and partly in huge wagons
drawn by such long mule teams that each team amounted to a procession,
and it did seem, sometimes, that the grand combined procession of animals
stretched unbroken from Virginia to California.  Its long route was
traceable clear across the deserts of the Territory by the writhing
serpent of dust it lifted up.  By these wagons, freights over that
hundred and fifty miles were $200 a ton for small lots (same price for
all express matter brought by stage), and $100 a ton for full loads.
One Virginia firm received one hundred tons of freight a month, and paid
$10,000 a month freightage.  In the winter the freights were much higher.
All the bullion was shipped in bars by stage to San Francisco (a bar was
usually about twice the size of a pig of lead and contained from $1,500
to $3,000 according to the amount of gold mixed with the silver), and the
freight on it (when the shipment was large) was one and a quarter per
cent. of its intrinsic value.

So, the freight on these bars probably averaged something more than $25
each.  Small shippers paid two per cent.  There were three stages a day,
each way, and I have seen the out-going stages carry away a third of a
ton of bullion each, and more than once I saw them divide a two-ton lot
and take it off.  However, these were extraordinary events.
[Mr. Valentine, Wells Fargo's agent, has handled all the bullion shipped
through the Virginia office for many a month.  To his memory--which is
excellent--we are indebted for the following exhibit of the company's
business in the Virginia office since the first of January, 1862: From
January 1st to April 1st, about $270,000 worth of bullion passed through
that office, during the next quarter, $570,000; next quarter, $800,000;
next quarter, $956,000; next quarter, $1,275,000; and for the quarter
ending on the 30th of last June, about $1,600,000.  Thus in a year and a
half, the Virginia office only shipped $5,330,000 in bullion.  During the
year 1862 they shipped $2,615,000, so we perceive the average shipments
have more than doubled in the last six months.  This gives us room to
promise for the Virginia office $500,000 a month for the year 1863
(though perhaps, judging by the steady increase in the business, we are
under estimating, somewhat).  This gives us $6,000,000 for the year.
Gold Hill and Silver City together can beat us--we will give them
$10,000,000.  To Dayton, Empire City, Ophir and Carson City, we will
allow an aggregate of $8,000,000, which is not over the mark, perhaps,
and may possibly be a little under it.  To Esmeralda we give $4,000,000.
To Reese River and Humboldt $2,000,000, which is liberal now, but may not
be before the year is out.  So we prognosticate that the yield of bullion
this year will be about $30,000,000.  Placing the number of mills in the
Territory at one hundred, this gives to each the labor of producing
$300,000 in bullion during the twelve months.  Allowing them to run three
hundred days in the year (which none of them more than do), this makes
their work average $1,000 a day.  Say the mills average twenty tons of
rock a day and this rock worth $50 as a general thing, and you have the
actual work of our one hundred mills figured down "to a spot"--$1,000 a
day each, and $30,000,000 a year in the aggregate.--Enterprise.
[A considerable over estimate--M.  T.]]

Two tons of silver bullion would be in the neighborhood of forty bars,
and the freight on it over $1,000.  Each coach always carried a deal of
ordinary express matter beside, and also from fifteen to twenty
passengers at from $25 to $30 a head.  With six stages going all the
time, Wells, Fargo and Co.'s Virginia City business was important and
lucrative.

All along under the centre of Virginia and Gold Hill, for a couple of
miles, ran the great Comstock silver lode--a vein of ore from fifty to
eighty feet thick between its solid walls of rock--a vein as wide as some
of New York's streets.  I will remind the reader that in Pennsylvania a
coal vein only eight feet wide is considered ample.

Virginia was a busy city of streets and houses above ground.  Under it
was another busy city, down in the bowels of the earth, where a great
population of men thronged in and out among an intricate maze of tunnels
and drifts, flitting hither and thither under a winking sparkle of
lights, and over their heads towered a vast web of interlocking timbers
that held the walls of the gutted Comstock apart.  These timbers were as
large as a man's body, and the framework stretched upward so far that no
eye could pierce to its top through the closing gloom.  It was like
peering up through the clean-picked ribs and bones of some colossal
skeleton.  Imagine such a framework two miles long, sixty feet wide, and
higher than any church spire in America.  Imagine this stately lattice-
work stretching down Broadway, from the St. Nicholas to Wall street, and
a Fourth of July procession, reduced to pigmies, parading on top of it
and flaunting their flags, high above the pinnacle of Trinity steeple.
One can imagine that, but he cannot well imagine what that forest of
timbers cost, from the time they were felled in the pineries beyond
Washoe Lake, hauled up and around Mount Davidson at atrocious rates of
freightage, then squared, let down into the deep maw of the mine and
built up there.  Twenty ample fortunes would not timber one of the
greatest of those silver mines.  The Spanish proverb says it requires a
gold mine to "run" a silver one, and it is true.  A beggar with a silver
mine is a pitiable pauper indeed if he cannot sell.

I spoke of the underground Virginia as a city.  The Gould and Curry is
only one single mine under there, among a great many others; yet the
Gould and Curry's streets of dismal drifts and tunnels were five miles in
extent, altogether, and its population five hundred miners.  Taken as a
whole, the underground city had some thirty miles of streets and a
population of five or six thousand.  In this present day some of those
populations are at work from twelve to sixteen hundred feet under
Virginia and Gold Hill, and the signal-bells that tell them what the
superintendent above ground desires them to do are struck by telegraph as
we strike a fire alarm.  Sometimes men fall down a shaft, there, a
thousand feet deep.  In such cases, the usual plan is to hold an inquest.

If you wish to visit one of those mines, you may walk through a tunnel
about half a mile long if you prefer it, or you may take the quicker plan
of shooting like a dart down a shaft, on a small platform.  It is like
tumbling down through an empty steeple, feet first.  When you reach the
bottom, you take a candle and tramp through drifts and tunnels where
throngs of men are digging and blasting; you watch them send up tubs full
of great lumps of stone--silver ore; you select choice specimens from the
mass, as souvenirs; you admire the world of skeleton timbering; you
reflect frequently that you are buried under a mountain, a thousand feet
below daylight; being in the bottom of the mine you climb from "gallery"
to "gallery," up endless ladders that stand straight up and down; when
your legs fail you at last, you lie down in a small box-car in a cramped
"incline" like a half-up-ended sewer and are dragged up to daylight
feeling as if you are crawling through a coffin that has no end to it.
Arrived at the top, you find a busy crowd of men receiving the ascending
cars and tubs and dumping the ore from an elevation into long rows of
bins capable of holding half a dozen tons each; under the bins are rows
of wagons loading from chutes and trap-doors in the bins, and down the
long street is a procession of these wagons wending toward the silver
mills with their rich freight.  It is all "done," now, and there you are.
You need never go down again, for you have seen it all.  If you have
forgotten the process of reducing the ore in the mill and making the
silver bars, you can go back and find it again in my Esmeralda chapters
if so disposed.

Of course these mines cave in, in places, occasionally, and then it is
worth one's while to take the risk of descending into them and observing
the crushing power exerted by the pressing weight of a settling mountain.
I published such an experience in the Enterprise, once, and from it I
will take an extract:

      AN HOUR IN THE CAVED MINES.--We journeyed down into the Ophir mine,
      yesterday, to see the earthquake.  We could not go down the deep
      incline, because it still has a propensity to cave in places.
      Therefore we traveled through the long tunnel which enters the hill
      above the Ophir office, and then by means of a series of long
      ladders, climbed away down from the first to the fourth gallery.
      Traversing a drift, we came to the Spanish line, passed five sets of
      timbers still uninjured, and found the earthquake.  Here was as
      complete a chaos as ever was seen--vast masses of earth and
      splintered and broken timbers piled confusedly together, with
      scarcely an aperture left large enough for a cat to creep through.
      Rubbish was still falling at intervals from above, and one timber
      which had braced others earlier in the day, was now crushed down out
      of its former position, showing that the caving and settling of the
      tremendous mass was still going on.  We were in that portion of the
      Ophir known as the "north mines."  Returning to the surface, we
      entered a tunnel leading into the Central, for the purpose of
      getting into the main Ophir.  Descending a long incline in this
      tunnel, we traversed a drift or so, and then went down a deep shaft
      from whence we proceeded into the fifth gallery of the Ophir.  From
      a side-drift we crawled through a small hole and got into the midst
      of the earthquake again--earth and broken timbers mingled together
      without regard to grace or symmetry.  A large portion of the second,
      third and fourth galleries had caved in and gone to destruction--the
      two latter at seven o'clock on the previous evening.

      At the turn-table, near the northern extremity of the fifth gallery,
      two big piles of rubbish had forced their way through from the fifth
      gallery, and from the looks of the timbers, more was about to come.
      These beams are solid--eighteen inches square; first, a great beam
      is laid on the floor, then upright ones, five feet high, stand on
      it, supporting another horizontal beam, and so on, square above
      square, like the framework of a window.  The superincumbent weight
      was sufficient to mash the ends of those great upright beams fairly
      into the solid wood of the horizontal ones three inches, compressing
      and bending the upright beam till it curved like a bow.  Before the
      Spanish caved in, some of their twelve-inch horizontal timbers were
      compressed in this way until they were only five inches thick!
      Imagine the power it must take to squeeze a solid log together in
      that way.  Here, also, was a range of timbers, for a distance of
      twenty feet, tilted six inches out of the perpendicular by the
      weight resting upon them from the caved galleries above.  You could
      hear things cracking and giving way, and it was not pleasant to know
      that the world overhead was slowly and silently sinking down upon
      you.  The men down in the mine do not mind it, however.

      Returning along the fifth gallery, we struck the safe part of the
      Ophir incline, and went down it to the sixth; but we found ten
      inches of water there, and had to come back.  In repairing the
      damage done to the incline, the pump had to be stopped for two
      hours, and in the meantime the water gained about a foot.  However,
      the pump was at work again, and the flood-water was decreasing.
      We climbed up to the fifth gallery again and sought a deep shaft,
      whereby we might descend to another part of the sixth, out of reach
      of the water, but suffered disappointment, as the men had gone to
      dinner, and there was no one to man the windlass.  So, having seen
      the earthquake, we climbed out at the Union incline and tunnel, and
      adjourned, all dripping with candle grease and perspiration, to
      lunch at the Ophir office.

      During the great flush year of 1863, Nevada [claims to have]
      produced $25,000,000 in bullion--almost, if not quite, a round
      million to each thousand inhabitants, which is very well,
      considering that she was without agriculture and manufactures.
      Silver mining was her sole productive industry. [Since the above was
      in type, I learn from an official source that the above figure is
      too high, and that the yield for 1863 did not exceed $20,000,000.]
      However, the day for large figures is approaching; the Sutro Tunnel
      is to plow through the Comstock lode from end to end, at a depth of
      two thousand feet, and then mining will be easy and comparatively
      inexpensive; and the momentous matters of drainage, and hoisting and
      hauling of ore will cease to be burdensome.  This vast work will
      absorb many years, and millions of dollars, in its completion; but
      it will early yield money, for that desirable epoch will begin as
      soon as it strikes the first end of the vein.  The tunnel will be
      some eight miles long, and will develop astonishing riches.  Cars
      will carry the ore through the tunnel and dump it in the mills and
      thus do away with the present costly system of double handling and
      transportation by mule teams.  The water from the tunnel will
      furnish the motive power for the mills.  Mr. Sutro, the originator
      of this prodigious enterprise, is one of the few men in the world
      who is gifted with the pluck and perseverance necessary to follow up
      and hound such an undertaking to its completion.  He has converted
      several obstinate Congresses to a deserved friendliness toward his
      important work, and has gone up and down and to and fro in Europe
      until he has enlisted a great moneyed interest in it there.




CHAPTER LIII.

Every now and then, in these days, the boys used to tell me I ought to
get one Jim Blaine to tell me the stirring story of his grandfather's old
ram--but they always added that I must not mention the matter unless Jim
was drunk at the time--just comfortably and sociably drunk.  They kept
this up until my curiosity was on the rack to hear the story.  I got to
haunting Blaine; but it was of no use, the boys always found fault with
his condition; he was often moderately but never satisfactorily drunk.
I never watched a man's condition with such absorbing interest, such
anxious solicitude; I never so pined to see a man uncompromisingly drunk
before.  At last, one evening I hurried to his cabin, for I learned that
this time his situation was such that even the most fastidious could find
no fault with it--he was tranquilly, serenely, symmetrically drunk--not a
hiccup to mar his voice, not a cloud upon his brain thick enough to
obscure his memory.  As I entered, he was sitting upon an empty powder-
keg, with a clay pipe in one hand and the other raised to command
silence.  His face was round, red, and very serious; his throat was bare
and his hair tumbled; in general appearance and costume he was a stalwart
miner of the period.  On the pine table stood a candle, and its dim light
revealed "the boys" sitting here and there on bunks, candle-boxes,
powder-kegs, etc.  They said:

"Sh--!  Don't speak--he's going to commence."


                THE STORY OF THE OLD RAM.

I found a seat at once, and Blaine said:

'I don't reckon them times will ever come again.  There never was a more
bullier old ram than what he was.  Grandfather fetched him from Illinois
--got him of a man by the name of Yates--Bill Yates--maybe you might have
heard of him; his father was a deacon--Baptist--and he was a rustler,
too; a man had to get up ruther early to get the start of old Thankful
Yates; it was him that put the Greens up to jining teams with my
grandfather when he moved west.

'Seth Green was prob'ly the pick of the flock; he married a Wilkerson--
Sarah Wilkerson--good cretur, she was--one of the likeliest heifers that
was ever raised in old Stoddard, everybody said that knowed her.  She
could heft a bar'l of flour as easy as I can flirt a flapjack.  And spin?
Don't mention it!  Independent?  Humph!  When Sile Hawkins come a
browsing around her, she let him know that for all his tin he couldn't
trot in harness alongside of her.  You see, Sile Hawkins was--no, it
warn't Sile Hawkins, after all--it was a galoot by the name of Filkins--
I disremember his first name; but he was a stump--come into pra'r meeting
drunk, one night, hooraying for Nixon, becuz he thought it was a primary;
and old deacon Ferguson up and scooted him through the window and he lit
on old Miss Jefferson's head, poor old filly.  She was a good soul--had a
glass eye and used to lend it to old Miss Wagner, that hadn't any, to
receive company in; it warn't big enough, and when Miss Wagner warn't
noticing, it would get twisted around in the socket, and look up, maybe,
or out to one side, and every which way, while t' other one was looking
as straight ahead as a spy-glass.

'Grown people didn't mind it, but it most always made the children cry, it
was so sort of scary.  She tried packing it in raw cotton, but it
wouldn't work, somehow--the cotton would get loose and stick out and look
so kind of awful that the children couldn't stand it no way.  She was
always dropping it out, and turning up her old dead-light on the company
empty, and making them oncomfortable, becuz she never could tell when it
hopped out, being blind on that side, you see.  So somebody would have to
hunch her and say, "Your game eye has fetched loose.  Miss Wagner dear"--
and then all of them would have to sit and wait till she jammed it in
again--wrong side before, as a general thing, and green as a bird's egg,
being a bashful cretur and easy sot back before company.  But being wrong
side before warn't much difference, anyway; becuz her own eye was sky-
blue and the glass one was yaller on the front side, so whichever way she
turned it it didn't match nohow.

'Old Miss Wagner was considerable on the borrow, she was.  When she had a
quilting, or Dorcas S'iety at her house she gen'ally borrowed Miss
Higgins's wooden leg to stump around on; it was considerable shorter than
her other pin, but much she minded that.  She said she couldn't abide
crutches when she had company, becuz they were so slow; said when she had
company and things had to be done, she wanted to get up and hump herself.
She was as bald as a jug, and so she used to borrow Miss Jacops's wig--
Miss Jacops was the coffin-peddler's wife--a ratty old buzzard, he was,
that used to go roosting around where people was sick, waiting for 'em;
and there that old rip would sit all day, in the shade, on a coffin that
he judged would fit the can'idate; and if it was a slow customer and kind
of uncertain, he'd fetch his rations and a blanket along and sleep in the
coffin nights.  He was anchored out that way, in frosty weather, for
about three weeks, once, before old Robbins's place, waiting for him; and
after that, for as much as two years, Jacops was not on speaking terms
with the old man, on account of his disapp'inting him.  He got one of his
feet froze, and lost money, too, becuz old Robbins took a favorable turn
and got well.  The next time Robbins got sick, Jacops tried to make up
with him, and varnished up the same old coffin and fetched it along; but
old Robbins was too many for him; he had him in, and 'peared to be
powerful weak; he bought the coffin for ten dollars and Jacops was to pay
it back and twenty-five more besides if Robbins didn't like the coffin
after he'd tried it.  And then Robbins died, and at the funeral he
bursted off the lid and riz up in his shroud and told the parson to let
up on the performances, becuz he could not stand such a coffin as that.
You see he had been in a trance once before, when he was young, and he
took the chances on another, cal'lating that if he made the trip it was
money in his pocket, and if he missed fire he couldn't lose a cent.  And
by George he sued Jacops for the rhino and got jedgment; and he set up
the coffin in his back parlor and said he 'lowed to take his time, now.
It was always an aggravation to Jacops, the way that miserable old thing
acted.  He moved back to Indiany pretty soon--went to Wellsville--
Wellsville was the place the Hogadorns was from.  Mighty fine family.
Old Maryland stock.  Old Squire Hogadorn could carry around more mixed
licker, and cuss better than most any man I ever see.  His second wife
was the widder Billings--she that was Becky Martin; her dam was deacon
Dunlap's first wife.  Her oldest child, Maria, married a missionary and
died in grace--et up by the savages.  They et him, too, poor feller--
biled him.  It warn't the custom, so they say, but they explained to
friends of his'n that went down there to bring away his things, that
they'd tried missionaries every other way and never could get any good
out of 'em--and so it annoyed all his relations to find out that that
man's life was fooled away just out of a dern'd experiment, so to speak.
But mind you, there ain't anything ever reely lost; everything that
people can't understand and don't see the reason of does good if you only
hold on and give it a fair shake; Prov'dence don't fire no blank
ca'tridges, boys.  That there missionary's substance, unbeknowns to
himself, actu'ly converted every last one of them heathens that took a
chance at the barbacue.  Nothing ever fetched them but that.  Don't tell
me it was an accident that he was biled.  There ain't no such a thing as
an accident.

'When my uncle Lem was leaning up agin a scaffolding once, sick, or drunk,
or suthin, an Irishman with a hod full of bricks fell on him out of the
third story and broke the old man's back in two places.  People said it
was an accident.  Much accident there was about that.  He didn't know
what he was there for, but he was there for a good object.  If he hadn't
been there the Irishman would have been killed.  Nobody can ever make me
believe anything different from that.  Uncle Lem's dog was there.  Why
didn't the Irishman fall on the dog?  Becuz the dog would a seen him a
coming and stood from under.  That's the reason the dog warn't appinted.
A dog can't be depended on to carry out a special providence.  Mark my
words it was a put-up thing.  Accidents don't happen, boys.  Uncle Lem's
dog--I wish you could a seen that dog.  He was a reglar shepherd--or
ruther he was part bull and part shepherd--splendid animal; belonged to
parson Hagar before Uncle Lem got him.  Parson Hagar belonged to the
Western Reserve Hagars; prime family; his mother was a Watson; one of his
sisters married a Wheeler; they settled in Morgan county, and he got
nipped by the machinery in a carpet factory and went through in less than
a quarter of a minute; his widder bought the piece of carpet that had his
remains wove in, and people come a hundred mile to 'tend the funeral.
There was fourteen yards in the piece.

'She wouldn't let them roll him up, but planted him just so--full length.
The church was middling small where they preached the funeral, and they
had to let one end of the coffin stick out of the window.  They didn't
bury him--they planted one end, and let him stand up, same as a monument.
And they nailed a sign on it and put--put on--put on it --sacred to--the
m-e-m-o-r-y--of fourteen y-a-r-d-s--of three-ply--car---pet--containing
all that was--m-o-r-t-a-l--of--of--W-i-l-l-i-a-m--W-h-e--"'

Jim Blaine had been growing gradually drowsy and drowsier--his head
nodded, once, twice, three times--dropped peacefully upon his breast, and
he fell tranquilly asleep.  The tears were running down the boys' cheeks
--they were suffocating with suppressed laughter--and had been from the
start, though I had never noticed it.  I perceived that I was "sold."
I learned then that Jim Blaine's peculiarity was that whenever he reached
a certain stage of intoxication, no human power could keep him from
setting out, with impressive unction, to tell about a wonderful adventure
which he had once had with his grandfather's old ram--and the mention of
the ram in the first sentence was as far as any man had ever heard him
get, concerning it.  He always maundered off, interminably, from one
thing to another, till his whisky got the best of him and he fell asleep.
What the thing was that happened to him and his grandfather's old ram is
a dark mystery to this day, for nobody has ever yet found out.




CHAPTER LIV.

Of course there was a large Chinese population in Virginia--it is the
case with every town and city on the Pacific coast.  They are a harmless
race when white men either let them alone or treat them no worse than
dogs; in fact they are almost entirely harmless anyhow, for they seldom
think of resenting the vilest insults or the cruelest injuries.  They are
quiet, peaceable, tractable, free from drunkenness, and they are as
industrious as the day is long.  A disorderly Chinaman is rare, and a
lazy one does not exist.  So long as a Chinaman has strength to use his
hands he needs no support from anybody; white men often complain of want
of work, but a Chinaman offers no such complaint; he always manages to
find something to do.  He is a great convenience to everybody--even to
the worst class of white men, for he bears the most of their sins,
suffering fines for their petty thefts, imprisonment for their robberies,
and death for their murders.  Any white man can swear a Chinaman's life
away in the courts, but no Chinaman can testify against a white man.
Ours is the "land of the free"--nobody denies that--nobody challenges it.
[Maybe it is because we won't let other people testify.] As I write, news
comes that in broad daylight in San Francisco, some boys have stoned an
inoffensive Chinaman to death, and that although a large crowd witnessed
the shameful deed, no one interfered.

There are seventy thousand (and possibly one hundred thousand) Chinamen
on the Pacific coast.  There were about a thousand in Virginia.  They
were penned into a "Chinese quarter"--a thing which they do not
particularly object to, as they are fond of herding together.  Their
buildings were of wood; usually only one story high, and set thickly
together along streets scarcely wide enough for a wagon to pass through.
Their quarter was a little removed from the rest of the town.  The chief
employment of Chinamen in towns is to wash clothing.  They always send a
bill, like this below, pinned to the clothes.  It is mere ceremony, for
it does not enlighten the customer much.  Their price for washing was
$2.50 per dozen--rather cheaper than white people could afford to wash
for at that time.  A very common sign on the Chinese houses was: "See
Yup, Washer and Ironer"; "Hong Wo, Washer"; "Sam Sing & Ah Hop, Washing."
The house servants, cooks, etc., in California and Nevada, were chiefly
Chinamen.  There were few white servants and no Chinawomen so employed.
Chinamen make good house servants, being quick, obedient, patient, quick
to learn and tirelessly industrious.  They do not need to be taught a
thing twice, as a general thing.  They are imitative.  If a Chinaman were
to see his master break up a centre table, in a passion, and kindle a
fire with it, that Chinaman would be likely to resort to the furniture
for fuel forever afterward.

All Chinamen can read, write and cipher with easy facility--pity but all
our petted voters could.  In California they rent little patches of
ground and do a deal of gardening.  They will raise surprising crops of
vegetables on a sand pile.  They waste nothing.  What is rubbish to a
Christian, a Chinaman carefully preserves and makes useful in one way or
another.  He gathers up all the old oyster and sardine cans that white
people throw away, and procures marketable tin and solder from them by
melting.  He gathers up old bones and turns them into manure.
In California he gets a living out of old mining claims that white men
have abandoned as exhausted and worthless--and then the officers come
down on him once a month with an exorbitant swindle to which the
legislature has given the broad, general name of "foreign" mining tax,
but it is usually inflicted on no foreigners but Chinamen.  This swindle
has in some cases been repeated once or twice on the same victim in the
course of the same month--but the public treasury was no additionally
enriched by it, probably.

Chinamen hold their dead in great reverence--they worship their departed
ancestors, in fact.  Hence, in China, a man's front yard, back yard, or
any other part of his premises, is made his family burying ground, in
order that he may visit the graves at any and all times.  Therefore that
huge empire is one mighty cemetery; it is ridged and wringled from its
centre to its circumference with graves--and inasmuch as every foot of
ground must be made to do its utmost, in China, lest the swarming
population suffer for food, the very graves are cultivated and yield a
harvest, custom holding this to be no dishonor to the dead.  Since the
departed are held in such worshipful reverence, a Chinaman cannot bear
that any indignity be offered the places where they sleep.
Mr. Burlingame said that herein lay China's bitter opposition to
railroads; a road could not be built anywhere in the empire without
disturbing the graves of their ancestors or friends.

A Chinaman hardly believes he could enjoy the hereafter except his body
lay in his beloved China; also, he desires to receive, himself, after
death, that worship with which he has honored his dead that preceded him.
Therefore, if he visits a foreign country, he makes arrangements to have
his bones returned to China in case he dies; if he hires to go to a
foreign country on a labor contract, there is always a stipulation that
his body shall be taken back to China if he dies; if the government sells
a gang of Coolies to a foreigner for the usual five-year term, it is
specified in the contract that their bodies shall be restored to China in
case of death.  On the Pacific coast the Chinamen all belong to one or
another of several great companies or organizations, and these companies
keep track of their members, register their names, and ship their bodies
home when they die.  The See Yup Company is held to be the largest of
these.  The Ning Yeong Company is next, and numbers eighteen thousand
members on the coast.  Its headquarters are at San Francisco, where it
has a costly temple, several great officers (one of whom keeps regal
state in seclusion and cannot be approached by common humanity), and a
numerous priesthood.  In it I was shown a register of its members, with
the dead and the date of their shipment to China duly marked.  Every ship
that sails from San Francisco carries away a heavy freight of Chinese
corpses--or did, at least, until the legislature, with an ingenious
refinement of Christian cruelty, forbade the shipments, as a neat
underhanded way of deterring Chinese immigration.  The bill was offered,
whether it passed or not.  It is my impression that it passed.  There was
another bill--it became a law--compelling every incoming Chinaman to be
vaccinated on the wharf and pay a duly appointed quack (no decent doctor
would defile himself with such legalized robbery) ten dollars for it.
As few importers of Chinese would want to go to an expense like that, the
law-makers thought this would be another heavy blow to Chinese
immigration.

What the Chinese quarter of Virginia was like--or, indeed, what the
Chinese quarter of any Pacific coast town was and is like--may be
gathered from this item which I printed in the Enterprise while reporting
for that paper:

      CHINATOWN.--Accompanied by a fellow reporter, we made a trip through
      our Chinese quarter the other night.  The Chinese have built their
      portion of the city to suit themselves; and as they keep neither
      carriages nor wagons, their streets are not wide enough, as a
      general thing, to admit of the passage of vehicles.  At ten o'clock
      at night the Chinaman may be seen in all his glory.  In every little
      cooped-up, dingy cavern of a hut, faint with the odor of burning
      Josh-lights and with nothing to see the gloom by save the sickly,
      guttering tallow candle, were two or three yellow, long-tailed
      vagabonds, coiled up on a sort of short truckle-bed, smoking opium,
      motionless and with their lustreless eyes turned inward from excess
      of satisfaction--or rather the recent smoker looks thus, immediately
      after having passed the pipe to his neighbor--for opium-smoking is a
      comfortless operation, and requires constant attention.  A lamp sits
      on the bed, the length of the long pipe-stem from the smoker's
      mouth; he puts a pellet of opium on the end of a wire, sets it on
      fire, and plasters it into the pipe much as a Christian would fill a
      hole with putty; then he applies the bowl to the lamp and proceeds
      to smoke--and the stewing and frying of the drug and the gurgling of
      the juices in the stem would well-nigh turn the stomach of a statue.
      John likes it, though; it soothes him, he takes about two dozen
      whiffs, and then rolls over to dream, Heaven only knows what, for we
      could not imagine by looking at the soggy creature.  Possibly in his
      visions he travels far away from the gross world and his regular
      washing, and feast on succulent rats and birds'-nests in Paradise.

Mr. Ah Sing keeps a general grocery and provision store at No.  13 Wang
street.  He lavished his hospitality upon our party in the friendliest
way.  He had various kinds of colored and colorless wines and brandies,
with unpronouncable names, imported from China in little crockery jugs,
and which he offered to us in dainty little miniature wash-basins of
porcelain.  He offered us a mess of birds'-nests; also, small, neat
sausages, of which we could have swallowed several yards if we had chosen
to try, but we suspected that each link contained the corpse of a mouse,
and therefore refrained.  Mr. Sing had in his store a thousand articles
of merchandise, curious to behold, impossible to imagine the uses of, and
beyond our ability to describe.

His ducks, however, and his eggs, we could understand; the former were
split open and flattened out like codfish, and came from China in that
shape, and the latter were plastered over with some kind of paste which
kept them fresh and palatable through the long voyage.

We found Mr. Hong Wo, No. 37 Chow-chow street, making up a lottery
scheme--in fact we found a dozen others occupied in the same way in
various parts of the quarter, for about every third Chinaman runs a
lottery, and the balance of the tribe "buck" at it.  "Tom," who speaks
faultless English, and used to be chief and only cook to the Territorial
Enterprise, when the establishment kept bachelor's hall two years ago,
said that "Sometime Chinaman buy ticket one dollar hap, ketch um two tree
hundred, sometime no ketch um anything; lottery like one man fight um
seventy--may-be he whip, may-be he get whip heself, welly good."

However, the percentage being sixty-nine against him, the chances are,
as a general thing, that "he get whip heself."  We could not see that
these lotteries differed in any respect from our own, save that the
figures being Chinese, no ignorant white man might ever hope to succeed
in telling "t'other from which;" the manner of drawing is similar to
ours.

Mr. See Yup keeps a fancy store on Live Fox street.  He sold us fans of
white feathers, gorgeously ornamented; perfumery that smelled like
Limburger cheese, Chinese pens, and watch-charms made of a stone
unscratchable with steel instruments, yet polished and tinted like the
inner coat of a sea-shell.  As tokens of his esteem, See Yup presented
the party with gaudy plumes made of gold tinsel and trimmed with
peacocks' feathers.

We ate chow-chow with chop-sticks in the celestial restaurants; our
comrade chided the moon-eyed damsels in front of the houses for their
want of feminine reserve; we received protecting Josh-lights from our
hosts and "dickered" for a pagan God or two.  Finally, we were impressed
with the genius of a Chinese book-keeper; he figured up his accounts on a
machine like a gridiron with buttons strung on its bars; the different
rows represented units, tens, hundreds and thousands.  He fingered them
with incredible rapidity--in fact, he pushed them from place to place as
fast as a musical professor's fingers travel over the keys of a piano.

They are a kindly disposed, well-meaning race, and are respected and well
treated by the upper classes, all over the Pacific coast.  No Californian
gentleman or lady ever abuses or oppresses a Chinaman, under any
circumstances, an explanation that seems to be much needed in the East.
Only the scum of the population do it--they and their children; they,
and, naturally and consistently, the policemen and politicians, likewise,
for these are the dust-licking pimps and slaves of the scum, there as
well as elsewhere in America.




CHAPTER LV.

I began to get tired of staying in one place so long.

There was no longer satisfying variety in going down to Carson to report
the proceedings of the legislature once a year, and horse-races and
pumpkin-shows once in three months; (they had got to raising pumpkins and
potatoes in Washoe Valley, and of course one of the first achievements of
the legislature was to institute a ten-thousand-dollar Agricultural Fair
to show off forty dollars' worth of those pumpkins in--however, the
territorial legislature was usually spoken of as the "asylum").  I wanted
to see San Francisco.  I wanted to go somewhere.  I wanted--I did not
know what I wanted.  I had the "spring fever" and wanted a change,
principally, no doubt.  Besides, a convention had framed a State
Constitution; nine men out of every ten wanted an office; I believed that
these gentlemen would "treat" the moneyless and the irresponsible among
the population into adopting the constitution and thus well-nigh killing
the country (it could not well carry such a load as a State government,
since it had nothing to tax that could stand a tax, for undeveloped mines
could not, and there were not fifty developed ones in the land, there was
but little realty to tax, and it did seem as if nobody was ever going to
think of the simple salvation of inflicting a money penalty on murder).
I believed that a State government would destroy the "flush times," and I
wanted to get away.  I believed that the mining stocks I had on hand
would soon be worth $100,000, and thought if they reached that before the
Constitution was adopted, I would sell out and make myself secure from
the crash the change of government was going to bring.  I considered
$100,000 sufficient to go home with decently, though it was but a small
amount compared to what I had been expecting to return with.  I felt
rather down-hearted about it, but I tried to comfort myself with the
reflection that with such a sum I could not fall into want.  About this
time a schoolmate of mine whom I had not seen since boyhood, came
tramping in on foot from Reese River, a very allegory of Poverty.
The son of wealthy parents, here he was, in a strange land, hungry,
bootless, mantled in an ancient horse-blanket, roofed with a brimless
hat, and so generally and so extravagantly dilapidated that he could have
"taken the shine out of the Prodigal Son himself," as he pleasantly
remarked.

He wanted to borrow forty-six dollars--twenty-six to take him to San
Francisco, and twenty for something else; to buy some soap with, maybe,
for he needed it.  I found I had but little more than the amount wanted,
in my pocket; so I stepped in and borrowed forty-six dollars of a banker
(on twenty days' time, without the formality of a note), and gave it him,
rather than walk half a block to the office, where I had some specie laid
up.  If anybody had told me that it would take me two years to pay back
that forty-six dollars to the banker (for I did not expect it of the
Prodigal, and was not disappointed), I would have felt injured.  And so
would the banker.

I wanted a change.  I wanted variety of some kind.  It came.  Mr. Goodman
went away for a week and left me the post of chief editor.  It destroyed
me.  The first day, I wrote my "leader" in the forenoon.  The second day,
I had no subject and put it off till the afternoon.  The third day I put
it off till evening, and then copied an elaborate editorial out of the
"American Cyclopedia," that steadfast friend of the editor, all over this
land.  The fourth day I "fooled around" till midnight, and then fell back
on the Cyclopedia again.  The fifth day I cudgeled my brain till
midnight, and then kept the press waiting while I penned some bitter
personalities on six different people.  The sixth day I labored in
anguish till far into the night and brought forth--nothing.  The paper
went to press without an editorial.  The seventh day I resigned.  On the
eighth, Mr. Goodman returned and found six duels on his hands--my
personalities had borne fruit.

Nobody, except he has tried it, knows what it is to be an editor.  It is
easy to scribble local rubbish, with the facts all before you; it is easy
to clip selections from other papers; it is easy to string out a
correspondence from any locality; but it is unspeakable hardship to write
editorials.  Subjects are the trouble--the dreary lack of them, I mean.
Every day, it is drag, drag, drag--think, and worry and suffer--all the
world is a dull blank, and yet the editorial columns must be filled.
Only give the editor a subject, and his work is done--it is no trouble to
write it up; but fancy how you would feel if you had to pump your brains
dry every day in the week, fifty-two weeks in the year.  It makes one low
spirited simply to think of it.  The matter that each editor of a daily
paper in America writes in the course of a year would fill from four to
eight bulky volumes like this book!  Fancy what a library an editor's
work would make, after twenty or thirty years' service.  Yet people often
marvel that Dickens, Scott, Bulwer, Dumas, etc., have been able to
produce so many books.  If these authors had wrought as voluminously as
newspaper editors do, the result would be something to marvel at, indeed.
How editors can continue this tremendous labor, this exhausting
consumption of brain fibre (for their work is creative, and not a mere
mechanical laying-up of facts, like reporting), day after day and year
after year, is incomprehensible.  Preachers take two months' holiday in
midsummer, for they find that to produce two sermons a week is wearing,
in the long run.  In truth it must be so, and is so; and therefore, how
an editor can take from ten to twenty texts and build upon them from ten
to twenty painstaking editorials a week and keep it up all the year
round, is farther beyond comprehension than ever.  Ever since I survived
my week as editor, I have found at least one pleasure in any newspaper
that comes to my hand; it is in admiring the long columns of editorial,
and wondering to myself how in the mischief he did it!

Mr. Goodman's return relieved me of employment, unless I chose to become
a reporter again.  I could not do that; I could not serve in the ranks
after being General of the army.  So I thought I would depart and go
abroad into the world somewhere.  Just at this juncture, Dan, my
associate in the reportorial department, told me, casually, that two
citizens had been trying to persuade him to go with them to New York and
aid in selling a rich silver mine which they had discovered and secured
in a new mining district in our neighborhood.  He said they offered to
pay his expenses and give him one third of the proceeds of the sale.
He had refused to go.  It was the very opportunity I wanted.  I abused
him for keeping so quiet about it, and not mentioning it sooner.  He said
it had not occurred to him that I would like to go, and so he had
recommended them to apply to Marshall, the reporter of the other paper.
I asked Dan if it was a good, honest mine, and no swindle.  He said the
men had shown him nine tons of the rock, which they had got out to take
to New York, and he could cheerfully say that he had seen but little rock
in Nevada that was richer; and moreover, he said that they had secured a
tract of valuable timber and a mill-site, near the mine.  My first idea
was to kill Dan.  But I changed my mind, notwithstanding I was so angry,
for I thought maybe the chance was not yet lost.  Dan said it was by no
means lost; that the men were absent at the mine again, and would not be
in Virginia to leave for the East for some ten days; that they had
requested him to do the talking to Marshall, and he had promised that he
would either secure Marshall or somebody else for them by the time they
got back; he would now say nothing to anybody till they returned, and
then fulfil his promise by furnishing me to them.

It was splendid.  I went to bed all on fire with excitement; for nobody
had yet gone East to sell a Nevada silver mine, and the field was white
for the sickle.  I felt that such a mine as the one described by Dan
would bring a princely sum in New York, and sell without delay or
difficulty.  I could not sleep, my fancy so rioted through its castles in
the air.  It was the "blind lead" come again.

Next day I got away, on the coach, with the usual eclat attending
departures of old citizens,--for if you have only half a dozen friends
out there they will make noise for a hundred rather than let you seem to
go away neglected and unregretted--and Dan promised to keep strict watch
for the men that had the mine to sell.

The trip was signalized but by one little incident, and that occurred
just as we were about to start.  A very seedy looking vagabond passenger
got out of the stage a moment to wait till the usual ballast of silver
bricks was thrown in.  He was standing on the pavement, when an awkward
express employee, carrying a brick weighing a hundred pounds, stumbled
and let it fall on the bummer's foot.  He instantly dropped on the ground
and began to howl in the most heart-breaking way.  A sympathizing crowd
gathered around and were going to pull his boot off; but he screamed
louder than ever and they desisted; then he fell to gasping, and between
the gasps ejaculated "Brandy!  for Heaven's sake, brandy!"  They poured
half a pint down him, and it wonderfully restored and comforted him.
Then he begged the people to assist him to the stage, which was done.
The express people urged him to have a doctor at their expense, but he
declined, and said that if he only had a little brandy to take along with
him, to soothe his paroxyms of pain when they came on, he would be
grateful and content.  He was quickly supplied with two bottles, and we
drove off.  He was so smiling and happy after that, that I could not
refrain from asking him how he could possibly be so comfortable with a
crushed foot.

"Well," said he, "I hadn't had a drink for twelve hours, and hadn't a
cent to my name.  I was most perishing--and so, when that duffer dropped
that hundred-pounder on my foot, I see my chance.  Got a cork leg, you
know!" and he pulled up his pantaloons and proved it.

He was as drunk as a lord all day long, and full of chucklings over his
timely ingenuity.

One drunken man necessarily reminds one of another.  I once heard a
gentleman tell about an incident which he witnessed in a Californian bar-
room.  He entitled it "Ye Modest Man Taketh a Drink."  It was nothing but
a bit of acting, but it seemed to me a perfect rendering, and worthy of
Toodles himself.  The modest man, tolerably far gone with beer and other
matters, enters a saloon (twenty-five cents is the price for anything and
everything, and specie the only money used) and lays down a half dollar;
calls for whiskey and drinks it; the bar-keeper makes change and lays the
quarter in a wet place on the counter; the modest man fumbles at it with
nerveless fingers, but it slips and the water holds it; he contemplates
it, and tries again; same result; observes that people are interested in
what he is at, blushes; fumbles at the quarter again--blushes--puts his
forefinger carefully, slowly down, to make sure of his aim--pushes the
coin toward the bar-keeper, and says with a sigh:

"Gimme a cigar!"

Naturally, another gentleman present told about another drunken man.  He
said he reeled toward home late at night; made a mistake and entered the
wrong gate; thought he saw a dog on the stoop; and it was--an iron one.

He stopped and considered; wondered if it was a dangerous dog; ventured
to say "Be (hic) begone!"  No effect.  Then he approached warily, and
adopted conciliation; pursed up his lips and tried to whistle, but
failed; still approached, saying, "Poor dog!--doggy, doggy, doggy!--poor
doggy-dog!"  Got up on the stoop, still petting with fond names; till
master of the advantages; then exclaimed, "Leave, you thief!"--planted a
vindictive kick in his ribs, and went head-over-heels overboard, of
course.  A pause; a sigh or two of pain, and then a remark in a
reflective voice:

"Awful solid dog.  What could he ben eating?  ('ic!) Rocks, p'raps.
Such animals is dangerous.--'  At's what I say--they're dangerous.  If a
man--('ic!)--if a man wants to feed a dog on rocks, let him feed him on
rocks; 'at's all right; but let him keep him at home--not have him layin'
round promiscuous, where ('ic!) where people's liable to stumble over him
when they ain't noticin'!"

It was not without regret that I took a last look at the tiny flag (it
was thirty-five feet long and ten feet wide) fluttering like a lady's
handkerchief from the topmost peak of Mount Davidson, two thousand feet
above Virginia's roofs, and felt that doubtless I was bidding a permanent
farewell to a city which had afforded me the most vigorous enjoyment of
life I had ever experienced.  And this reminds me of an incident which
the dullest memory Virginia could boast at the time it happened must
vividly recall, at times, till its possessor dies.  Late one summer
afternoon we had a rain shower.

That was astonishing enough, in itself, to set the whole town buzzing,
for it only rains (during a week or two weeks) in the winter in Nevada,
and even then not enough at a time to make it worth while for any
merchant to keep umbrellas for sale.  But the rain was not the chief
wonder.  It only lasted five or ten minutes; while the people were still
talking about it all the heavens gathered to themselves a dense blackness
as of midnight.  All the vast eastern front of Mount Davidson, over-
looking the city, put on such a funereal gloom that only the nearness and
solidity of the mountain made its outlines even faintly distinguishable
from the dead blackness of the heavens they rested against.  This
unaccustomed sight turned all eyes toward the mountain; and as they
looked, a little tongue of rich golden flame was seen waving and
quivering in the heart of the midnight, away up on the extreme summit!
In a few minutes the streets were packed with people, gazing with hardly
an uttered word, at the one brilliant mote in the brooding world of
darkness.  It flicked like a candle-flame, and looked no larger; but with
such a background it was wonderfully bright, small as it was.  It was the
flag!--though no one suspected it at first, it seemed so like a
supernatural visitor of some kind--a mysterious messenger of good
tidings, some were fain to believe.  It was the nation's emblem
transfigured by the departing rays of a sun that was entirely palled from
view; and on no other object did the glory fall, in all the broad
panorama of mountain ranges and deserts.  Not even upon the staff of the
flag--for that, a needle in the distance at any time, was now untouched
by the light and undistinguishable in the gloom.  For a whole hour the
weird visitor winked and burned in its lofty solitude, and still the
thousands of uplifted eyes watched it with fascinated interest.  How the
people were wrought up!  The superstition grew apace that this was a
mystic courier come with great news from the war--the poetry of the idea
excusing and commending it--and on it spread, from heart to heart, from
lip to lip and from street to street, till there was a general impulse to
have out the military and welcome the bright waif with a salvo of
artillery!

And all that time one sorely tried man, the telegraph operator sworn to
official secrecy, had to lock his lips and chain his tongue with a
silence that was like to rend them; for he, and he only, of all the
speculating multitude, knew the great things this sinking sun had seen
that day in the east--Vicksburg fallen, and the Union arms victorious at
Gettysburg!

But for the journalistic monopoly that forbade the slightest revealment
of eastern news till a day after its publication in the California
papers, the glorified flag on Mount Davidson would have been saluted and
re-saluted, that memorable evening, as long as there was a charge of
powder to thunder with; the city would have been illuminated, and every
man that had any respect for himself would have got drunk,--as was the
custom of the country on all occasions of public moment.  Even at this
distant day I cannot think of this needlessly marred supreme opportunity
without regret.  What a time we might have had!




CHAPTER LVI.

We rumbled over the plains and valleys, climbed the Sierras to the
clouds, and looked down upon summer-clad California.  And I will remark
here, in passing, that all scenery in California requires distance to
give it its highest charm.  The mountains are imposing in their sublimity
and their majesty of form and altitude, from any point of view--but one
must have distance to soften their ruggedness and enrich their tintings;
a Californian forest is best at a little distance, for there is a sad
poverty of variety in species, the trees being chiefly of one monotonous
family--redwood, pine, spruce, fir--and so, at a near view there is a
wearisome sameness of attitude in their rigid arms, stretched down ward
and outward in one continued and reiterated appeal to all men to "Sh!--
don't say a word!--you might disturb somebody!"  Close at hand, too,
there is a reliefless and relentless smell of pitch and turpentine; there
is a ceaseless melancholy in their sighing and complaining foliage; one
walks over a soundless carpet of beaten yellow bark and dead spines of
the foliage till he feels like a wandering spirit bereft of a footfall;
he tires of the endless tufts of needles and yearns for substantial,
shapely leaves; he looks for moss and grass to loll upon, and finds none,
for where there is no bark there is naked clay and dirt, enemies to
pensive musing and clean apparel.  Often a grassy plain in California, is
what it should be, but often, too, it is best contemplated at a distance,
because although its grass blades are tall, they stand up vindictively
straight and self-sufficient, and are unsociably wide apart, with
uncomely spots of barren sand between.

One of the queerest things I know of, is to hear tourists from "the
States" go into ecstasies over the loveliness of "ever-blooming
California."  And they always do go into that sort of ecstasies.  But
perhaps they would modify them if they knew how old Californians, with
the memory full upon them of the dust-covered and questionable summer
greens of Californian "verdure," stand astonished, and filled with
worshipping admiration, in the presence of the lavish richness, the
brilliant green, the infinite freshness, the spend-thrift variety of form
and species and foliage that make an Eastern landscape a vision of
Paradise itself.  The idea of a man falling into raptures over grave and
sombre California, when that man has seen New England's meadow-expanses
and her maples, oaks and cathedral-windowed elms decked in summer attire,
or the opaline splendors of autumn descending upon her forests, comes
very near being funny--would be, in fact, but that it is so pathetic.
No land with an unvarying climate can be very beautiful.  The tropics are
not, for all the sentiment that is wasted on them.  They seem beautiful
at first, but sameness impairs the charm by and by.  Change is the
handmaiden Nature requires to do her miracles with.  The land that has
four well-defined seasons, cannot lack beauty, or pall with monotony.
Each season brings a world of enjoyment and interest in the watching of
its unfolding, its gradual, harmonious development, its culminating
graces--and just as one begins to tire of it, it passes away and a
radical change comes, with new witcheries and new glories in its train.
And I think that to one in sympathy with nature, each season, in its
turn, seems the loveliest.

San Francisco, a truly fascinating city to live in, is stately and
handsome at a fair distance, but close at hand one notes that the
architecture is mostly old-fashioned, many streets are made up of
decaying, smoke-grimed, wooden houses, and the barren sand-hills toward
the outskirts obtrude themselves too prominently.  Even the kindly
climate is sometimes pleasanter when read about than personally
experienced, for a lovely, cloudless sky wears out its welcome by and by,
and then when the longed for rain does come it stays.  Even the playful
earthquake is better contemplated at a dis--

However there are varying opinions about that.

The climate of San Francisco is mild and singularly equable.  The
thermometer stands at about seventy degrees the year round.  It hardly
changes at all.  You sleep under one or two light blankets Summer and
Winter, and never use a mosquito bar.  Nobody ever wears Summer clothing.
You wear black broadcloth--if you have it--in August and January, just
the same.  It is no colder, and no warmer, in the one month than the
other.  You do not use overcoats and you do not use fans.  It is as
pleasant a climate as could well be contrived, take it all around, and is
doubtless the most unvarying in the whole world.  The wind blows there a
good deal in the summer months, but then you can go over to Oakland, if
you choose--three or four miles away--it does not blow there.  It has
only snowed twice in San Francisco in nineteen years, and then it only
remained on the ground long enough to astonish the children, and set them
to wondering what the feathery stuff was.

During eight months of the year, straight along, the skies are bright and
cloudless, and never a drop of rain falls.  But when the other four
months come along, you will need to go and steal an umbrella.  Because
you will require it.  Not just one day, but one hundred and twenty days
in hardly varying succession.  When you want to go visiting, or attend
church, or the theatre, you never look up at the clouds to see whether it
is likely to rain or not--you look at the almanac.  If it is Winter, it
will rain--and if it is Summer, it won't rain, and you cannot help it.
You never need a lightning-rod, because it never thunders and it never
lightens.  And after you have listened for six or eight weeks, every
night, to the dismal monotony of those quiet rains, you will wish in your
heart the thunder would leap and crash and roar along those drowsy skies
once, and make everything alive--you will wish the prisoned lightnings
would cleave the dull firmament asunder and light it with a blinding
glare for one little instant.  You would give anything to hear the old
familiar thunder again and see the lightning strike somebody.  And along
in the Summer, when you have suffered about four months of lustrous,
pitiless sunshine, you are ready to go down on your knees and plead for
rain--hail--snow--thunder and lightning--anything to break the monotony--
you will take an earthquake, if you cannot do any better.  And the
chances are that you'll get it, too.

San Francisco is built on sand hills, but they are prolific sand hills.
They yield a generous vegetation.  All the rare flowers which people in
"the States" rear with such patient care in parlor flower-pots and green-
houses, flourish luxuriantly in the open air there all the year round.
Calla lilies, all sorts of geraniums, passion flowers, moss roses--I do
not know the names of a tenth part of them.  I only know that while New
Yorkers are burdened with banks and drifts of snow, Californians are
burdened with banks and drifts of flowers, if they only keep their hands
off and let them grow.  And I have heard that they have also that rarest
and most curious of all the flowers, the beautiful Espiritu Santo, as the
Spaniards call it--or flower of the Holy Spirit--though I thought it grew
only in Central America--down on the Isthmus.  In its cup is the
daintiest little facsimile of a dove, as pure as snow.  The Spaniards
have a superstitious reverence for it.  The blossom has been conveyed to
the States, submerged in ether; and the bulb has been taken thither also,
but every attempt to make it bloom after it arrived, has failed.

I have elsewhere spoken of the endless Winter of Mono, California, and
but this moment of the eternal Spring of San Francisco.  Now if we travel
a hundred miles in a straight line, we come to the eternal Summer of
Sacramento.  One never sees Summer-clothing or mosquitoes in San
Francisco--but they can be found in Sacramento.  Not always and
unvaryingly, but about one hundred and forty-three months out of twelve
years, perhaps.  Flowers bloom there, always, the reader can easily
believe--people suffer and sweat, and swear, morning, noon and night, and
wear out their stanchest energies fanning themselves.  It gets hot there,
but if you go down to Fort Yuma you will find it hotter.  Fort Yuma is
probably the hottest place on earth.  The thermometer stays at one
hundred and twenty in the shade there all the time--except when it varies
and goes higher.  It is a U.S. military post, and its occupants get so
used to the terrific heat that they suffer without it.  There is a
tradition (attributed to John Phenix [It has been purloined by fifty
different scribblers who were too poor to invent a fancy but not ashamed
to steal one.--M.  T.]) that a very, very wicked soldier died there,
once, and of course, went straight to the hottest corner of perdition,--
and the next day he telegraphed back for his blankets.  There is no doubt
about the truth of this statement--there can be no doubt about it.  I
have seen the place where that soldier used to board.  In Sacramento it
is fiery Summer always, and you can gather roses, and eat strawberries
and ice-cream, and wear white linen clothes, and pant and perspire, at
eight or nine o'clock in the morning, and then take the cars, and at noon
put on your furs and your skates, and go skimming over frozen Donner
Lake, seven thousand feet above the valley, among snow banks fifteen feet
deep, and in the shadow of grand mountain peaks that lift their frosty
crags ten thousand feet above the level of the sea.

There is a transition for you!  Where will you find another like it in
the Western hemisphere?  And some of us have swept around snow-walled
curves of the Pacific Railroad in that vicinity, six thousand feet above
the sea, and looked down as the birds do, upon the deathless Summer of
the Sacramento Valley, with its fruitful fields, its feathery foliage,
its silver streams, all slumbering in the mellow haze of its enchanted
atmosphere, and all infinitely softened and spiritualized by distance--a
dreamy, exquisite glimpse of fairyland, made all the more charming and
striking that it was caught through a forbidden gateway of ice and snow,
and savage crags and precipices.




CHAPTER LVII.

It was in this Sacramento Valley, just referred to, that a deal of the
most lucrative of the early gold mining was done, and you may still see,
in places, its grassy slopes and levels torn and guttered and disfigured
by the avaricious spoilers of fifteen and twenty years ago.  You may see
such disfigurements far and wide over California--and in some such
places, where only meadows and forests are visible--not a living
creature, not a house, no stick or stone or remnant of a ruin, and not a
sound, not even a whisper to disturb the Sabbath stillness--you will find
it hard to believe that there stood at one time a fiercely-flourishing
little city, of two thousand or three thousand souls, with its newspaper,
fire company, brass band, volunteer militia, bank, hotels, noisy Fourth
of July processions and speeches, gambling hells crammed with tobacco
smoke, profanity, and rough-bearded men of all nations and colors, with
tables heaped with gold dust sufficient for the revenues of a German
principality--streets crowded and rife with business--town lots worth
four hundred dollars a front foot--labor, laughter, music, dancing,
swearing, fighting, shooting, stabbing--a bloody inquest and a man for
breakfast every morning--everything that delights and adorns existence--
all the appointments and appurtenances of a thriving and prosperous and
promising young city,--and now nothing is left of it all but a lifeless,
homeless solitude.  The men are gone, the houses have vanished, even the
name of the place is forgotten.  In no other land, in modern times, have
towns so absolutely died and disappeared, as in the old mining regions of
California.

It was a driving, vigorous, restless population in those days.  It was a
curious population.  It was the only population of the kind that the
world has ever seen gathered together, and it is not likely that the
world will ever see its like again.  For observe, it was an assemblage of
two hundred thousand young men--not simpering, dainty, kid-gloved
weaklings, but stalwart, muscular, dauntless young braves, brimful of
push and energy, and royally endowed with every attribute that goes to
make up a peerless and magnificent manhood--the very pick and choice of
the world's glorious ones.  No women, no children, no gray and stooping
veterans,--none but erect, bright-eyed, quick-moving, strong-handed young
giants--the strangest population, the finest population, the most gallant
host that ever trooped down the startled solitudes of an unpeopled land.
And where are they now?  Scattered to the ends of the earth--or
prematurely aged and decrepit--or shot or stabbed in street affrays--or
dead of disappointed hopes and broken hearts--all gone, or nearly all--
victims devoted upon the altar of the golden calf--the noblest holocaust
that ever wafted its sacrificial incense heavenward.  It is pitiful to
think upon.

It was a splendid population--for all the slow, sleepy, sluggish-brained
sloths staid at home--you never find that sort of people among pioneers--
you cannot build pioneers out of that sort of material.  It was that
population that gave to California a name for getting up astounding
enterprises and rushing them through with a magnificent dash and daring
and a recklessness of cost or consequences, which she bears unto this
day--and when she projects a new surprise, the grave world smiles as
usual, and says "Well, that is California all over."

But they were rough in those times!  They fairly reveled in gold, whisky,
fights, and fandangoes, and were unspeakably happy.  The honest miner
raked from a hundred to a thousand dollars out of his claim a day, and
what with the gambling dens and the other entertainments, he hadn't a
cent the next morning, if he had any sort of luck.  They cooked their own
bacon and beans, sewed on their own buttons, washed their own shirts--
blue woollen ones; and if a man wanted a fight on his hands without any
annoying delay, all he had to do was to appear in public in a white shirt
or a stove-pipe hat, and he would be accommodated.  For those people
hated aristocrats.  They had a particular and malignant animosity toward
what they called a "biled shirt."

It was a wild, free, disorderly, grotesque society!  Men--only swarming
hosts of stalwart men--nothing juvenile, nothing feminine, visible
anywhere!

In those days miners would flock in crowds to catch a glimpse of that
rare and blessed spectacle, a woman!  Old inhabitants tell how, in a
certain camp, the news went abroad early in the morning that a woman was
come!  They had seen a calico dress hanging out of a wagon down at the
camping-ground--sign of emigrants from over the great plains.  Everybody
went down there, and a shout went up when an actual, bona fide dress was
discovered fluttering in the wind!  The male emigrant was visible.  The
miners said:

"Fetch her out!"

He said: "It is my wife, gentlemen--she is sick--we have been robbed of
money, provisions, everything, by the Indians--we want to rest."

"Fetch her out!  We've got to see her!"

"But, gentlemen, the poor thing, she--"

"FETCH HER OUT!"

He "fetched her out," and they swung their hats and sent up three rousing
cheers and a tiger; and they crowded around and gazed at her, and touched
her dress, and listened to her voice with the look of men who listened to
a memory rather than a present reality--and then they collected twenty-
five hundred dollars in gold and gave it to the man, and swung their hats
again and gave three more cheers, and went home satisfied.


Once I dined in San Francisco with the family of a pioneer, and talked
with his daughter, a young lady whose first experience in San Francisco
was an adventure, though she herself did not remember it, as she was only
two or three years old at the time.  Her father said that, after landing
from the ship, they were walking up the street, a servant leading the
party with the little girl in her arms.  And presently a huge miner,
bearded, belted, spurred, and bristling with deadly weapons--just down
from a long campaign in the mountains, evidently-barred the way, stopped
the servant, and stood gazing, with a face all alive with gratification
and astonishment.  Then he said, reverently:

"Well, if it ain't a child!" And then he snatched a little leather sack
out of his pocket and said to the servant:

"There's a hundred and fifty dollars in dust, there, and I'll give it to
you to let me kiss the child!"

That anecdote is true.

But see how things change.  Sitting at that dinner-table, listening to
that anecdote, if I had offered double the money for the privilege of
kissing the same child, I would have been refused.  Seventeen added years
have far more than doubled the price.

And while upon this subject I will remark that once in Star City, in the
Humboldt Mountains, I took my place in a sort of long, post-office single
file of miners, to patiently await my chance to peep through a crack in
the cabin and get a sight of the splendid new sensation--a genuine, live
Woman!  And at the end of half of an hour my turn came, and I put my eye
to the crack, and there she was, with one arm akimbo, and tossing flap-
jacks in a frying-pan with the other.

And she was one hundred and sixty-five [Being in calmer mood, now, I
voluntarily knock off a hundred from that.--M.T.] years old, and hadn't a
tooth in her head.




CHAPTER LVIII.

For a few months I enjoyed what to me was an entirely new phase of
existence--a butterfly idleness; nothing to do, nobody to be responsible
to, and untroubled with financial uneasiness.  I fell in love with the
most cordial and sociable city in the Union.  After the sage-brush and
alkali deserts of Washoe, San Francisco was Paradise to me.  I lived at
the best hotel, exhibited my clothes in the most conspicuous places,
infested the opera, and learned to seem enraptured with music which
oftener afflicted my ignorant ear than enchanted it, if I had had the
vulgar honesty to confess it.  However, I suppose I was not greatly worse
than the most of my countrymen in that.  I had longed to be a butterfly,
and I was one at last.  I attended private parties in sumptuous evening
dress, simpered and aired my graces like a born beau, and polkad and
schottisched with a step peculiar to myself--and the kangaroo.  In a
word, I kept the due state of a man worth a hundred thousand dollars
(prospectively,) and likely to reach absolute affluence when that silver-
mine sale should be ultimately achieved in the East.  I spent money with
a free hand, and meantime watched the stock sales with an interested eye
and looked to see what might happen in Nevada.

Something very important happened.  The property holders of Nevada voted
against the State Constitution; but the folks who had nothing to lose
were in the majority, and carried the measure over their heads.  But
after all it did not immediately look like a disaster, though
unquestionably it was one I hesitated, calculated the chances, and then
concluded not to sell.  Stocks went on rising; speculation went mad;
bankers, merchants, lawyers, doctors, mechanics, laborers, even the very
washerwomen and servant girls, were putting up their earnings on silver
stocks, and every sun that rose in the morning went down on paupers
enriched and rich men beggared.  What a gambling carnival it was!  Gould
and Curry soared to six thousand three hundred dollars a foot!  And then
--all of a sudden, out went the bottom and everything and everybody went
to ruin and destruction!  The wreck was complete.

The bubble scarcely left a microscopic moisture behind it.  I was an
early beggar and a thorough one.  My hoarded stocks were not worth the
paper they were printed on.  I threw them all away.  I, the cheerful
idiot that had been squandering money like water, and thought myself
beyond the reach of misfortune, had not now as much as fifty dollars when
I gathered together my various debts and paid them.  I removed from the
hotel to a very private boarding house.  I took a reporter's berth and
went to work.  I was not entirely broken in spirit, for I was building
confidently on the sale of the silver mine in the east.  But I could not
hear from Dan.  My letters miscarried or were not answered.

One day I did not feel vigorous and remained away from the office.  The
next day I went down toward noon as usual, and found a note on my desk
which had been there twenty-four hours.  It was signed "Marshall"--the
Virginia reporter--and contained a request that I should call at the
hotel and see him and a friend or two that night, as they would sail for
the east in the morning.  A postscript added that their errand was a big
mining speculation!  I was hardly ever so sick in my life.  I abused
myself for leaving Virginia and entrusting to another man a matter I
ought to have attended to myself; I abused myself for remaining away from
the office on the one day of all the year that I should have been there.
And thus berating myself I trotted a mile to the steamer wharf and
arrived just in time to be too late.  The ship was in the stream and
under way.

I comforted myself with the thought that may be the speculation would
amount to nothing--poor comfort at best--and then went back to my
slavery, resolved to put up with my thirty-five dollars a week and forget
all about it.

A month afterward I enjoyed my first earthquake.  It was one which was
long called the "great" earthquake, and is doubtless so distinguished
till this day.  It was just after noon, on a bright October day.  I was
coming down Third street.  The only objects in motion anywhere in sight
in that thickly built and populous quarter, were a man in a buggy behind
me, and a street car wending slowly up the cross street.  Otherwise, all
was solitude and a Sabbath stillness.  As I turned the corner, around a
frame house, there was a great rattle and jar, and it occurred to me that
here was an item!--no doubt a fight in that house.  Before I could turn
and seek the door, there came a really terrific shock; the ground seemed
to roll under me in waves, interrupted by a violent joggling up and down,
and there was a heavy grinding noise as of brick houses rubbing together.
I fell up against the frame house and hurt my elbow.  I knew what it was,
now, and from mere reportorial instinct, nothing else, took out my watch
and noted the time of day; at that moment a third and still severer shock
came, and as I reeled about on the pavement trying to keep my footing,
I saw a sight!  The entire front of a tall four-story brick building in
Third street sprung outward like a door and fell sprawling across the
street, raising a dust like a great volume of smoke!  And here came the
buggy--overboard went the man, and in less time than I can tell it the
vehicle was distributed in small fragments along three hundred yards of
street.

One could have fancied that somebody had fired a charge of chair-rounds
and rags down the thoroughfare.  The street car had stopped, the horses
were rearing and plunging, the passengers were pouring out at both ends,
and one fat man had crashed half way through a glass window on one side
of the car, got wedged fast and was squirming and screaming like an
impaled madman.  Every door, of every house, as far as the eye could
reach, was vomiting a stream of human beings; and almost before one could
execute a wink and begin another, there was a massed multitude of people
stretching in endless procession down every street my position commanded.
Never was solemn solitude turned into teeming life quicker.

Of the wonders wrought by "the great earthquake," these were all that
came under my eye; but the tricks it did, elsewhere, and far and wide
over the town, made toothsome gossip for nine days.

The destruction of property was trifling--the injury to it was wide-
spread and somewhat serious.

The "curiosities" of the earthquake were simply endless.  Gentlemen and
ladies who were sick, or were taking a siesta, or had dissipated till a
late hour and were making up lost sleep, thronged into the public streets
in all sorts of queer apparel, and some without any at all.  One woman
who had been washing a naked child, ran down the street holding it by the
ankles as if it were a dressed turkey.  Prominent citizens who were
supposed to keep the Sabbath strictly, rushed out of saloons in their
shirt-sleeves, with billiard cues in their hands.  Dozens of men with
necks swathed in napkins, rushed from barber-shops, lathered to the eyes
or with one cheek clean shaved and the other still bearing a hairy
stubble.  Horses broke from stables, and a frightened dog rushed up a
short attic ladder and out on to a roof, and when his scare was over had
not the nerve to go down again the same way he had gone up.

A prominent editor flew down stairs, in the principal hotel, with nothing
on but one brief undergarment--met a chambermaid, and exclaimed:

"Oh, what shall I do!  Where shall I go!"

She responded with naive serenity:

"If you have no choice, you might try a clothing-store!"

A certain foreign consul's lady was the acknowledged leader of fashion,
and every time she appeared in anything new or extraordinary, the ladies
in the vicinity made a raid on their husbands' purses and arrayed
themselves similarly.  One man who had suffered considerably and growled
accordingly, was standing at the window when the shocks came, and the
next instant the consul's wife, just out of the bath, fled by with no
other apology for clothing than--a bath-towel!  The sufferer rose
superior to the terrors of the earthquake, and said to his wife:

"Now that is something like!  Get out your towel my dear!"

The plastering that fell from ceilings in San Francisco that day, would
have covered several acres of ground.  For some days afterward, groups of
eyeing and pointing men stood about many a building, looking at long zig-
zag cracks that extended from the eaves to the ground.  Four feet of the
tops of three chimneys on one house were broken square off and turned
around in such a way as to completely stop the draft.

A crack a hundred feet long gaped open six inches wide in the middle of
one street and then shut together again with such force, as to ridge up
the meeting earth like a slender grave.  A lady sitting in her rocking
and quaking parlor, saw the wall part at the ceiling, open and shut
twice, like a mouth, and then-drop the end of a brick on the floor like a
tooth.  She was a woman easily disgusted with foolishness, and she arose
and went out of there.  One lady who was coming down stairs was
astonished to see a bronze Hercules lean forward on its pedestal as if to
strike her with its club.  They both reached the bottom of the flight at
the same time,--the woman insensible from the fright.  Her child, born
some little time afterward, was club-footed.  However--on second
thought,--if the reader sees any coincidence in this, he must do it at
his own risk.

The first shock brought down two or three huge organ-pipes in one of the
churches.  The minister, with uplifted hands, was just closing the
services.  He glanced up, hesitated, and said:

"However, we will omit the benediction!"--and the next instant there was
a vacancy in the atmosphere where he had stood.

After the first shock, an Oakland minister said:

"Keep your seats!  There is no better place to die than this"--

And added, after the third:

"But outside is good enough!"  He then skipped out at the back door.

Such another destruction of mantel ornaments and toilet bottles as the
earthquake created, San Francisco never saw before.  There was hardly a
girl or a matron in the city but suffered losses of this kind.  Suspended
pictures were thrown down, but oftener still, by a curious freak of the
earthquake's humor, they were whirled completely around with their faces
to the wall!  There was great difference of opinion, at first, as to the
course or direction the earthquake traveled, but water that splashed out
of various tanks and buckets settled that.  Thousands of people were made
so sea-sick by the rolling and pitching of floors and streets that they
were weak and bed-ridden for hours, and some few for even days
afterward.--Hardly an individual escaped nausea entirely.

The queer earthquake--episodes that formed the staple of San Francisco
gossip for the next week would fill a much larger book than this, and so
I will diverge from the subject.

By and by, in the due course of things, I picked up a copy of the
Enterprise one day, and fell under this cruel blow:

      NEVADA MINES IN NEW YORK.--G.  M.  Marshall, Sheba Hurs and Amos H.
      Rose, who left San Francisco last July for New York City, with ores
      from mines in Pine Wood District, Humboldt County, and on the Reese
      River range, have disposed of a mine containing six thousand feet
      and called the Pine Mountains Consolidated, for the sum of
      $3,000,000.  The stamps on the deed, which is now on its way to
      Humboldt County, from New York, for record, amounted to $3,000,
      which is said to be the largest amount of stamps ever placed on one
      document.  A working capital of $1,000,000 has been paid into the
      treasury, and machinery has already been purchased for a large
      quartz mill, which will be put up as soon as possible.  The stock in
      this company is all full paid and entirely unassessable.  The ores
      of the mines in this district somewhat resemble those of the Sheba
      mine in Humboldt.  Sheba Hurst, the discoverer of the mines, with
      his friends corralled all the best leads and all the land and timber
      they desired before making public their whereabouts.  Ores from
      there, assayed in this city, showed them to be exceedingly rich in
      silver and gold--silver predominating.  There is an abundance of
      wood and water in the District.  We are glad to know that New York
      capital has been enlisted in the development of the mines of this
      region.  Having seen the ores and assays, we are satisfied that the
      mines of the District are very valuable--anything but wild-cat.

Once more native imbecility had carried the day, and I had lost a
million!  It was the "blind lead" over again.

Let us not dwell on this miserable matter.  If I were inventing these
things, I could be wonderfully humorous over them; but they are too true
to be talked of with hearty levity, even at this distant day. [True, and
yet not exactly as given in the above figures, possibly.  I saw Marshall,
months afterward, and although he had plenty of money he did not claim to
have captured an entire million.  In fact I gathered that he had not then
received $50,000.  Beyond that figure his fortune appeared to consist of
uncertain vast expectations rather than prodigious certainties.  However,
when the above item appeared in print I put full faith in it, and
incontinently wilted and went to seed under it.] Suffice it that I so
lost heart, and so yielded myself up to repinings and sighings and
foolish regrets, that I neglected my duties and became about worthless,
as a reporter for a brisk newspaper.  And at last one of the proprietors
took me aside, with a charity I still remember with considerable respect,
and gave me an opportunity to resign my berth and so save myself the
disgrace of a dismissal.




CHAPTER LIX.

For a time I wrote literary screeds for the Golden Era. C. H. Webb had
established a very excellent literary weekly called the Californian, but
high merit was no guaranty of success; it languished, and he sold out to
three printers, and Bret Harte became editor at $20 a week, and I was
employed to contribute an article a week at $12.  But the journal still
languished, and the printers sold out to Captain Ogden, a rich man and a
pleasant gentleman who chose to amuse himself with such an expensive
luxury without much caring about the cost of it.  When he grew tired of
the novelty, he re-sold to the printers, the paper presently died a
peaceful death, and I was out of work again.  I would not mention these
things but for the fact that they so aptly illustrate the ups and downs
that characterize life on the Pacific coast.  A man could hardly stumble
into such a variety of queer vicissitudes in any other country.

For two months my sole occupation was avoiding acquaintances; for during
that time I did not earn a penny, or buy an article of any kind, or pay
my board.  I became a very adept at "slinking."  I slunk from back street
to back street, I slunk away from approaching faces that looked familiar,
I slunk to my meals, ate them humbly and with a mute apology for every
mouthful I robbed my generous landlady of, and at midnight, after
wanderings that were but slinkings away from cheerfulness and light, I
slunk to my bed.  I felt meaner, and lowlier and more despicable than the
worms.  During all this time I had but one piece of money--a silver ten
cent piece--and I held to it and would not spend it on any account, lest
the consciousness coming strong upon me that I was entirely penniless,
might suggest suicide.  I had pawned every thing but the clothes I had
on; so I clung to my dime desperately, till it was smooth with handling.

However, I am forgetting.  I did have one other occupation beside that of
"slinking."  It was the entertaining of a collector (and being
entertained by him,) who had in his hands the Virginia banker's bill for
forty-six dollars which I had loaned my schoolmate, the "Prodigal."  This
man used to call regularly once a week and dun me, and sometimes oftener.
He did it from sheer force of habit, for he knew he could get nothing.
He would get out his bill, calculate the interest for me, at five per
cent a month, and show me clearly that there was no attempt at fraud in
it and no mistakes; and then plead, and argue and dun with all his might
for any sum--any little trifle--even a dollar--even half a dollar, on
account.  Then his duty was accomplished and his conscience free.  He
immediately dropped the subject there always; got out a couple of cigars
and divided, put his feet in the window, and then we would have a long,
luxurious talk about everything and everybody, and he would furnish me a
world of curious dunning adventures out of the ample store in his memory.
By and by he would clap his hat on his head, shake hands and say briskly:

"Well, business is business--can't stay with you always!"--and was off in
a second.

The idea of pining for a dun!  And yet I used to long for him to come,
and would get as uneasy as any mother if the day went by without his
visit, when I was expecting him.  But he never collected that bill, at
last nor any part of it.  I lived to pay it to the banker myself.

Misery loves company.  Now and then at night, in out-of-the way, dimly
lighted places, I found myself happening on another child of misfortune.
He looked so seedy and forlorn, so homeless and friendless and forsaken,
that I yearned toward him as a brother.  I wanted to claim kinship with
him and go about and enjoy our wretchedness together.  The drawing toward
each other must have been mutual; at any rate we got to falling together
oftener, though still seemingly by accident; and although we did not
speak or evince any recognition, I think the dull anxiety passed out of
both of us when we saw each other, and then for several hours we would
idle along contentedly, wide apart, and glancing furtively in at home
lights and fireside gatherings, out of the night shadows, and very much
enjoying our dumb companionship.

Finally we spoke, and were inseparable after that.  For our woes were
identical, almost.  He had been a reporter too, and lost his berth, and
this was his experience, as nearly as I can recollect it.  After losing
his berth he had gone down, down, down, with never a halt: from a
boarding house on Russian Hill to a boarding house in Kearney street;
from thence to Dupont; from thence to a low sailor den; and from thence
to lodgings in goods boxes and empty hogsheads near the wharves.  Then;
for a while, he had gained a meagre living by sewing up bursted sacks of
grain on the piers; when that failed he had found food here and there as
chance threw it in his way.  He had ceased to show his face in daylight,
now, for a reporter knows everybody, rich and poor, high and low, and
cannot well avoid familiar faces in the broad light of day.

This mendicant Blucher--I call him that for convenience--was a splendid
creature.  He was full of hope, pluck and philosophy; he was well read
and a man of cultivated taste; he had a bright wit and was a master of
satire; his kindliness and his generous spirit made him royal in my eyes
and changed his curb-stone seat to a throne and his damaged hat to a
crown.

He had an adventure, once, which sticks fast in my memory as the most
pleasantly grotesque that ever touched my sympathies.  He had been
without a penny for two months.  He had shirked about obscure streets,
among friendly dim lights, till the thing had become second nature to
him.  But at last he was driven abroad in daylight.  The cause was
sufficient; he had not tasted food for forty-eight hours, and he could
not endure the misery of his hunger in idle hiding.  He came along a back
street, glowering at the loaves in bake-shop windows, and feeling that he
could trade his life away for a morsel to eat.  The sight of the bread
doubled his hunger; but it was good to look at it, any how, and imagine
what one might do if one only had it.

Presently, in the middle of the street he saw a shining spot--looked
again--did not, and could not, believe his eyes--turned away, to try
them, then looked again.  It was a verity--no vain, hunger-inspired
delusion--it was a silver dime!

He snatched it--gloated over it; doubted it--bit it--found it genuine--
choked his heart down, and smothered a halleluiah.  Then he looked
around--saw that nobody was looking at him--threw the dime down where it
was before--walked away a few steps, and approached again, pretending he
did not know it was there, so that he could re-enjoy the luxury of
finding it.  He walked around it, viewing it from different points; then
sauntered about with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the signs
and now and then glancing at it and feeling the old thrill again.
Finally he took it up, and went away, fondling it in his pocket.  He
idled through unfrequented streets, stopping in doorways and corners to
take it out and look at it.  By and by he went home to his lodgings--an
empty queens-ware hogshead,--and employed himself till night trying to
make up his mind what to buy with it.  But it was hard to do.  To get the
most for it was the idea.  He knew that at the Miner's Restaurant he
could get a plate of beans and a piece of bread for ten cents; or a fish-
ball and some few trifles, but they gave "no bread with one fish-ball"
there.  At French Pete's he could get a veal cutlet, plain, and some
radishes and bread, for ten cents; or a cup of coffee--a pint at least--
and a slice of bread; but the slice was not thick enough by the eighth of
an inch, and sometimes they were still more criminal than that in the
cutting of it.  At seven o'clock his hunger was wolfish; and still his
mind was not made up.  He turned out and went up Merchant street, still
ciphering; and chewing a bit of stick, as is the way of starving men.

He passed before the lights of Martin's restaurant, the most aristocratic
in the city, and stopped.  It was a place where he had often dined, in
better days, and Martin knew him well.  Standing aside, just out of the
range of the light, he worshiped the quails and steaks in the show
window, and imagined that may be the fairy times were not gone yet and
some prince in disguise would come along presently and tell him to go in
there and take whatever he wanted.  He chewed his stick with a hungry
interest as he warmed to his subject.  Just at this juncture he was
conscious of some one at his side, sure enough; and then a finger touched
his arm.  He looked up, over his shoulder, and saw an apparition--a very
allegory of Hunger!  It was a man six feet high, gaunt, unshaven, hung
with rags; with a haggard face and sunken cheeks, and eyes that pleaded
piteously.  This phantom said:

"Come with me--please."

He locked his arm in Blucher's and walked up the street to where the
passengers were few and the light not strong, and then facing about, put
out his hands in a beseeching way, and said:

"Friend--stranger--look at me!  Life is easy to you--you go about, placid
and content, as I did once, in my day--you have been in there, and eaten
your sumptuous supper, and picked your teeth, and hummed your tune, and
thought your pleasant thoughts, and said to yourself it is a good world--
but you've never suffered!  You don't know what trouble is--you don't
know what misery is--nor hunger!  Look at me!  Stranger have pity on a
poor friendless, homeless dog!  As God is my judge, I have not tasted
food for eight and forty hours!--look in my eyes and see if I lie!  Give
me the least trifle in the world to keep me from starving--anything--
twenty-five cents!  Do it, stranger--do it, please.  It will be nothing
to you, but life to me.  Do it, and I will go down on my knees and lick
the dust before you!  I will kiss your footprints--I will worship the
very ground you walk on!  Only twenty-five cents!  I am famishing--
perishing--starving by inches!  For God's sake don't desert me!"

Blucher was bewildered--and touched, too--stirred to the depths.  He
reflected.  Thought again.  Then an idea struck him, and he said:

"Come with me."

He took the outcast's arm, walked him down to Martin's restaurant, seated
him at a marble table, placed the bill of fare before him, and said:

"Order what you want, friend.  Charge it to me, Mr. Martin."

"All right, Mr. Blucher," said Martin.

Then Blucher stepped back and leaned against the counter and watched the
man stow away cargo after cargo of buckwheat cakes at seventy-five cents
a plate; cup after cup of coffee, and porter house steaks worth two
dollars apiece; and when six dollars and a half's worth of destruction
had been accomplished, and the stranger's hunger appeased, Blucher went
down to French Pete's, bought a veal cutlet plain, a slice of bread, and
three radishes, with his dime, and set to and feasted like a king!

Take the episode all around, it was as odd as any that can be culled from
the myriad curiosities of Californian life, perhaps.




CHAPTER LX.

By and by, an old friend of mine, a miner, came down from one of the
decayed mining camps of Tuolumne, California, and I went back with him.
We lived in a small cabin on a verdant hillside, and there were not five
other cabins in view over the wide expanse of hill and forest.  Yet a
flourishing city of two or three thousand population had occupied this
grassy dead solitude during the flush times of twelve or fifteen years
before, and where our cabin stood had once been the heart of the teeming
hive, the centre of the city.  When the mines gave out the town fell into
decay, and in a few years wholly disappeared--streets, dwellings, shops,
everything--and left no sign.  The grassy slopes were as green and smooth
and desolate of life as if they had never been disturbed.  The mere
handful of miners still remaining, had seen the town spring up spread,
grow and flourish in its pride; and they had seen it sicken and die, and
pass away like a dream.  With it their hopes had died, and their zest of
life.  They had long ago resigned themselves to their exile, and ceased
to correspond with their distant friends or turn longing eyes toward
their early homes.  They had accepted banishment, forgotten the world and
been forgotten of the world.  They were far from telegraphs and
railroads, and they stood, as it were, in a living grave, dead to the
events that stirred the globe's great populations, dead to the common
interests of men, isolated and outcast from brotherhood with their kind.
It was the most singular, and almost the most touching and melancholy
exile that fancy can imagine.--One of my associates in this locality, for
two or three months, was a man who had had a university education; but
now for eighteen years he had decayed there by inches, a bearded, rough-
clad, clay-stained miner, and at times, among his sighings and
soliloquizings, he unconsciously interjected vaguely remembered Latin and
Greek sentences--dead and musty tongues, meet vehicles for the thoughts
of one whose dreams were all of the past, whose life was a failure; a
tired man, burdened with the present, and indifferent to the future; a
man without ties, hopes, interests, waiting for rest and the end.

In that one little corner of California is found a species of mining
which is seldom or never mentioned in print.  It is called "pocket
mining" and I am not aware that any of it is done outside of that little
corner.  The gold is not evenly distributed through the surface dirt, as
in ordinary placer mines, but is collected in little spots, and they are
very wide apart and exceedingly hard to find, but when you do find one
you reap a rich and sudden harvest.  There are not now more than twenty
pocket miners in that entire little region.  I think I know every one of
them personally.  I have known one of them to hunt patiently about the
hill-sides every day for eight months without finding gold enough to make
a snuff-box--his grocery bill running up relentlessly all the time--and
then find a pocket and take out of it two thousand dollars in two dips of
his shovel.  I have known him to take out three thousand dollars in two
hours, and go and pay up every cent of his indebtedness, then enter on a
dazzling spree that finished the last of his treasure before the night
was gone.  And the next day he bought his groceries on credit as usual,
and shouldered his pan and shovel and went off to the hills hunting
pockets again happy and content.  This is the most fascinating of all the
different kinds of mining, and furnishes a very handsome percentage of
victims to the lunatic asylum.

Pocket hunting is an ingenious process.  You take a spadeful of earth
from the hill-side and put it in a large tin pan and dissolve and wash it
gradually away till nothing is left but a teaspoonful of fine sediment.
Whatever gold was in that earth has remained, because, being the
heaviest, it has sought the bottom.  Among the sediment you will find
half a dozen yellow particles no larger than pin-heads.  You are
delighted.  You move off to one side and wash another pan.  If you find
gold again, you move to one side further, and wash a third pan.  If you
find no gold this time, you are delighted again, because you know you are
on the right scent.

You lay an imaginary plan, shaped like a fan, with its handle up the
hill--for just where the end of the handle is, you argue that the rich
deposit lies hidden, whose vagrant grains of gold have escaped and been
washed down the hill, spreading farther and farther apart as they
wandered.  And so you proceed up the hill, washing the earth and
narrowing your lines every time the absence of gold in the pan shows that
you are outside the spread of the fan; and at last, twenty yards up the
hill your lines have converged to a point--a single foot from that point
you cannot find any gold.  Your breath comes short and quick, you are
feverish with excitement; the dinner-bell may ring its clapper off, you
pay no attention; friends may die, weddings transpire, houses burn down,
they are nothing to you; you sweat and dig and delve with a frantic
interest--and all at once you strike it!  Up comes a spadeful of earth
and quartz that is all lovely with soiled lumps and leaves and sprays of
gold.  Sometimes that one spadeful is all--$500.  Sometimes the nest
contains $10,000, and it takes you three or four days to get it all out.
The pocket-miners tell of one nest that yielded $60,000 and two men
exhausted it in two weeks, and then sold the ground for $10,000 to a
party who never got $300 out of it afterward.

The hogs are good pocket hunters.  All the summer they root around the
bushes, and turn up a thousand little piles of dirt, and then the miners
long for the rains; for the rains beat upon these little piles and wash
them down and expose the gold, possibly right over a pocket.  Two pockets
were found in this way by the same man in one day.  One had $5,000 in it
and the other $8,000.  That man could appreciate it, for he hadn't had a
cent for about a year.

In Tuolumne lived two miners who used to go to the neighboring village in
the afternoon and return every night with household supplies.  Part of
the distance they traversed a trail, and nearly always sat down to rest
on a great boulder that lay beside the path.  In the course of thirteen
years they had worn that boulder tolerably smooth, sitting on it.  By and
by two vagrant Mexicans came along and occupied the seat.  They began to
amuse themselves by chipping off flakes from the boulder with a sledge-
hammer.  They examined one of these flakes and found it rich with gold.
That boulder paid them $800 afterward.  But the aggravating circumstance
was that these "Greasers" knew that there must be more gold where that
boulder came from, and so they went panning up the hill and found what
was probably the richest pocket that region has yet produced.  It took
three months to exhaust it, and it yielded $120,000.  The two American
miners who used to sit on the boulder are poor yet, and they take turn
about in getting up early in the morning to curse those Mexicans--and
when it comes down to pure ornamental cursing, the native American is
gifted above the sons of men.

I have dwelt at some length upon this matter of pocket mining because it
is a subject that is seldom referred to in print, and therefore I judged
that it would have for the reader that interest which naturally attaches
to novelty.




CHAPTER LXI.

One of my comrades there--another of those victims of eighteen years of
unrequited toil and blighted hopes--was one of the gentlest spirits that
ever bore its patient cross in a weary exile: grave and simple Dick
Baker, pocket-miner of Dead-House Gulch.--He was forty-six, gray as a
rat, earnest, thoughtful, slenderly educated, slouchily dressed and clay-
soiled, but his heart was finer metal than any gold his shovel ever
brought to light--than any, indeed, that ever was mined or minted.

Whenever he was out of luck and a little down-hearted, he would fall to
mourning over the loss of a wonderful cat he used to own (for where women
and children are not, men of kindly impulses take up with pets, for they
must love something).  And he always spoke of the strange sagacity of
that cat with the air of a man who believed in his secret heart that
there was something human about it--may be even supernatural.

I heard him talking about this animal once.  He said:

"Gentlemen, I used to have a cat here, by the name of Tom Quartz, which
you'd a took an interest in I reckon--most any body would.  I had him
here eight year--and he was the remarkablest cat I ever see.  He was a
large gray one of the Tom specie, an' he had more hard, natchral sense
than any man in this camp--'n' a power of dignity--he wouldn't let the
Gov'ner of Californy be familiar with him.  He never ketched a rat in his
life--'peared to be above it.  He never cared for nothing but mining.
He knowed more about mining, that cat did, than any man I ever, ever see.
You couldn't tell him noth'n 'bout placer diggin's--'n' as for pocket
mining, why he was just born for it.

"He would dig out after me an' Jim when we went over the hills
prospect'n', and he would trot along behind us for as much as five mile,
if we went so fur.  An' he had the best judgment about mining ground--why
you never see anything like it.  When we went to work, he'd scatter a
glance around, 'n' if he didn't think much of the indications, he would
give a look as much as to say, 'Well, I'll have to get you to excuse me,'
'n' without another word he'd hyste his nose into the air 'n' shove for
home.  But if the ground suited him, he would lay low 'n' keep dark till
the first pan was washed, 'n' then he would sidle up 'n' take a look, an'
if there was about six or seven grains of gold he was satisfied--he
didn't want no better prospect 'n' that--'n' then he would lay down on
our coats and snore like a steamboat till we'd struck the pocket, an'
then get up 'n' superintend.  He was nearly lightnin' on superintending.

"Well, bye an' bye, up comes this yer quartz excitement.  Every body was
into it--every body was pick'n' 'n' blast'n' instead of shovelin' dirt on
the hill side--every body was put'n' down a shaft instead of scrapin' the
surface.  Noth'n' would do Jim, but we must tackle the ledges, too, 'n'
so we did.  We commenced put'n' down a shaft, 'n' Tom Quartz he begin to
wonder what in the Dickens it was all about.  He hadn't ever seen any
mining like that before, 'n' he was all upset, as you may say--he
couldn't come to a right understanding of it no way--it was too many for
him.  He was down on it, too, you bet you--he was down on it powerful--
'n' always appeared to consider it the cussedest foolishness out.  But
that cat, you know, was always agin new fangled arrangements--somehow he
never could abide'em.  You know how it is with old habits.  But by an' by
Tom Quartz begin to git sort of reconciled a little, though he never
could altogether understand that eternal sinkin' of a shaft an' never
pannin' out any thing.  At last he got to comin' down in the shaft,
hisself, to try to cipher it out.  An' when he'd git the blues, 'n' feel
kind o'scruffy, 'n' aggravated 'n' disgusted--knowin' as he did, that the
bills was runnin' up all the time an' we warn't makin' a cent--he would
curl up on a gunny sack in the corner an' go to sleep.  Well, one day
when the shaft was down about eight foot, the rock got so hard that we
had to put in a blast--the first blast'n' we'd ever done since Tom Quartz
was born.  An' then we lit the fuse 'n' clumb out 'n' got off 'bout fifty
yards--'n' forgot 'n' left Tom Quartz sound asleep on the gunny sack.

"In 'bout a minute we seen a puff of smoke bust up out of the hole, 'n'
then everything let go with an awful crash, 'n' about four million ton of
rocks 'n' dirt 'n' smoke 'n; splinters shot up 'bout a mile an' a half
into the air, an' by George, right in the dead centre of it was old Tom
Quartz a goin' end over end, an' a snortin' an' a sneez'n', an' a clawin'
an' a reachin' for things like all possessed.  But it warn't no use, you
know, it warn't no use.  An' that was the last we see of him for about
two minutes 'n' a half, an' then all of a sudden it begin to rain rocks
and rubbage, an' directly he come down ker-whop about ten foot off f'm
where we stood Well, I reckon he was p'raps the orneriest lookin' beast
you ever see.  One ear was sot back on his neck, 'n' his tail was stove
up, 'n' his eye-winkers was swinged off, 'n' he was all blacked up with
powder an' smoke, an' all sloppy with mud 'n' slush f'm one end to the
other.

"Well sir, it warn't no use to try to apologize--we couldn't say a word.
He took a sort of a disgusted look at hisself, 'n' then he looked at us--
an' it was just exactly the same as if he had said--'Gents, may be you
think it's smart to take advantage of a cat that 'ain't had no experience
of quartz minin', but I think different'--an' then he turned on his heel
'n' marched off home without ever saying another word.

"That was jest his style.  An' may be you won't believe it, but after
that you never see a cat so prejudiced agin quartz mining as what he was.
An' by an' bye when he did get to goin' down in the shaft agin, you'd 'a
been astonished at his sagacity.  The minute we'd tetch off a blast 'n'
the fuse'd begin to sizzle, he'd give a look as much as to say: 'Well,
I'll have to git you to excuse me,' an' it was surpris'n' the way he'd
shin out of that hole 'n' go f'r a tree.  Sagacity?  It ain't no name for
it.  'Twas inspiration!"

I said, "Well, Mr. Baker, his prejudice against quartz-mining was
remarkable, considering how he came by it.  Couldn't you ever cure him of
it?"

"Cure him!  No!  When Tom Quartz was sot once, he was always sot--and you
might a blowed him up as much as three million times 'n' you'd never a
broken him of his cussed prejudice agin quartz mining."

The affection and the pride that lit up Baker's face when he delivered
this tribute to the firmness of his humble friend of other days, will
always be a vivid memory with me.

At the end of two months we had never "struck" a pocket.  We had panned
up and down the hillsides till they looked plowed like a field; we could
have put in a crop of grain, then, but there would have been no way to
get it to market.  We got many good "prospects," but when the gold gave
out in the pan and we dug down, hoping and longing, we found only
emptiness--the pocket that should have been there was as barren as our
own.--At last we shouldered our pans and shovels and struck out over the
hills to try new localities.  We prospected around Angel's Camp, in
Calaveras county, during three weeks, but had no success.  Then we
wandered on foot among the mountains, sleeping under the trees at night,
for the weather was mild, but still we remained as centless as the last
rose of summer.  That is a poor joke, but it is in pathetic harmony with
the circumstances, since we were so poor ourselves.  In accordance with
the custom of the country, our door had always stood open and our board
welcome to tramping miners--they drifted along nearly every day, dumped
their paust shovels by the threshold and took "pot luck" with us--and now
on our own tramp we never found cold hospitality.

Our wanderings were wide and in many directions; and now I could give the
reader a vivid description of the Big Trees and the marvels of the Yo
Semite--but what has this reader done to me that I should persecute him?
I will deliver him into the hands of less conscientious tourists and take
his blessing.  Let me be charitable, though I fail in all virtues else.

Note: Some of the phrases in the above are mining technicalities, purely,
and may be a little obscure to the general reader.  In "placer diggings"
the gold is scattered all through the surface dirt; in "pocket" diggings
it is concentrated in one little spot; in "quartz" the gold is in a
solid, continuous vein of rock, enclosed between distinct walls of some
other kind of stone--and this is the most laborious and expensive of all
the different kinds of mining.  "Prospecting" is hunting for a "placer";
"indications" are signs of its presence; "panning out" refers to the
washing process by which the grains of gold are separated from the dirt;
a "prospect" is what one finds in the first panful of dirt--and its value
determines whether it is a good or a bad prospect, and whether it is
worth while to tarry there or seek further.




CHAPTER LXII.

After a three months' absence, I found myself in San Francisco again,
without a cent.  When my credit was about exhausted, (for I had become
too mean and lazy, now, to work on a morning paper, and there were no
vacancies on the evening journals,) I was created San Francisco
correspondent of the Enterprise, and at the end of five months I was out
of debt, but my interest in my work was gone; for my correspondence being
a daily one, without rest or respite, I got unspeakably tired of it.
I wanted another change.  The vagabond instinct was strong upon me.
Fortune favored and I got a new berth and a delightful one.  It was to go
down to the Sandwich Islands and write some letters for the Sacramento
Union, an excellent journal and liberal with employees.

We sailed in the propeller Ajax, in the middle of winter.  The almanac
called it winter, distinctly enough, but the weather was a compromise
between spring and summer.  Six days out of port, it became summer
altogether.  We had some thirty passengers; among them a cheerful soul
by the name of Williams, and three sea-worn old whaleship captains going
down to join their vessels.  These latter played euchre in the smoking
room day and night, drank astonishing quantities of raw whisky without
being in the least affected by it, and were the happiest people I think
I ever saw.  And then there was "the old Admiral--"  a retired whaleman.
He was a roaring, terrific combination of wind and lightning and thunder,
and earnest, whole-souled profanity.  But nevertheless he was tender-
hearted as a girl.  He was a raving, deafening, devastating typhoon,
laying waste the cowering seas but with an unvexed refuge in the centre
where all comers were safe and at rest.  Nobody could know the "Admiral"
without liking him; and in a sudden and dire emergency I think no friend
of his would know which to choose--to be cursed by him or prayed for by a
less efficient person.

His Title of "Admiral" was more strictly "official" than any ever worn by
a naval officer before or since, perhaps--for it was the voluntary
offering of a whole nation, and came direct from the people themselves
without any intermediate red tape--the people of the Sandwich Islands.
It was a title that came to him freighted with affection, and honor, and
appreciation of his unpretending merit.  And in testimony of the
genuineness of the title it was publicly ordained that an exclusive flag
should be devised for him and used solely to welcome his coming and wave
him God-speed in his going.  From that time forth, whenever his ship was
signaled in the offing, or he catted his anchor and stood out to sea,
that ensign streamed from the royal halliards on the parliament house and
the nation lifted their hats to it with spontaneous accord.

Yet he had never fired a gun or fought a battle in his life.  When I knew
him on board the Ajax, he was seventy-two years old and had plowed the
salt water sixty-one of them.  For sixteen years he had gone in and out
of the harbor of Honolulu in command of a whaleship, and for sixteen more
had been captain of a San Francisco and Sandwich Island passenger packet
and had never had an accident or lost a vessel.  The simple natives knew
him for a friend who never failed them, and regarded him as children
regard a father.  It was a dangerous thing to oppress them when the
roaring Admiral was around.

Two years before I knew the Admiral, he had retired from the sea on a
competence, and had sworn a colossal nine-jointed oath that he would
"never go within smelling distance of the salt water again as long as he
lived."  And he had conscientiously kept it.  That is to say, he
considered he had kept it, and it would have been more than dangerous to
suggest to him, even in the gentlest way, that making eleven long sea
voyages, as a passenger, during the two years that had transpired since
he "retired," was only keeping the general spirit of it and not the
strict letter.

The Admiral knew only one narrow line of conduct to pursue in any and all
cases where there was a fight, and that was to shoulder his way straight
in without an inquiry as to the rights or the merits of it, and take the
part of the weaker side.--And this was the reason why he was always sure
to be present at the trial of any universally execrated criminal to
oppress and intimidate the jury with a vindictive pantomime of what he
would do to them if he ever caught them out of the box.  And this was why
harried cats and outlawed dogs that knew him confidently took sanctuary
under his chair in time of trouble.  In the beginning he was the most
frantic and bloodthirsty Union man that drew breath in the shadow of the
Flag; but the instant the Southerners began to go down before the sweep
of the Northern armies, he ran up the Confederate colors and from that
time till the end was a rampant and inexorable secessionist.

He hated intemperance with a more uncompromising animosity than any
individual I have ever met, of either sex; and he was never tired of
storming against it and beseeching friends and strangers alike to be wary
and drink with moderation.  And yet if any creature had been guileless
enough to intimate that his absorbing nine gallons of "straight" whiskey
during our voyage was any fraction short of rigid or inflexible
abstemiousness, in that self-same moment the old man would have spun him
to the uttermost parts of the earth in the whirlwind of his wrath.  Mind,
I am not saying his whisky ever affected his head or his legs, for it did
not, in even the slightest degree.  He was a capacious container, but he
did not hold enough for that.  He took a level tumblerful of whisky every
morning before he put his clothes on--"to sweeten his bilgewater," he
said.--He took another after he got the most of his clothes on, "to
settle his mind and give him his bearings."  He then shaved, and put on a
clean shirt; after which he recited the Lord's Prayer in a fervent,
thundering bass that shook the ship to her kelson and suspended all
conversation in the main cabin.  Then, at this stage, being invariably
"by the head," or "by the stern," or "listed to port or starboard," he
took one more to "put him on an even keel so that he would mind his
hellum and not miss stays and go about, every time he came up in the
wind."--And now, his state-room door swung open and the sun of his
benignant face beamed redly out upon men and women and children, and he
roared his "Shipmets a'hoy!" in a way that was calculated to wake the
dead and precipitate the final resurrection; and forth he strode, a
picture to look at and a presence to enforce attention.  Stalwart and
portly; not a gray hair; broadbrimmed slouch hat; semi-sailor toggery of
blue navy flannel--roomy and ample; a stately expanse of shirt-front and
a liberal amount of black silk neck-cloth tied with a sailor knot; large
chain and imposing seals impending from his fob; awe-inspiring feet, and
"a hand like the hand of Providence," as his whaling brethren expressed
it; wrist-bands and sleeves pushed back half way to the elbow, out of
respect for the warm weather, and exposing hairy arms, gaudy with red and
blue anchors, ships, and goddesses of liberty tattooed in India ink.
But these details were only secondary matters--his face was the lodestone
that chained the eye.  It was a sultry disk, glowing determinedly out
through a weather beaten mask of mahogany, and studded with warts, seamed
with scars, "blazed" all over with unfailing fresh slips of the razor;
and with cheery eyes, under shaggy brows, contemplating the world from
over the back of a gnarled crag of a nose that loomed vast and lonely out
of the undulating immensity that spread away from its foundations.
At his heels frisked the darling of his bachelor estate, his terrier
"Fan," a creature no larger than a squirrel.  The main part of his daily
life was occupied in looking after "Fan," in a motherly way, and
doctoring her for a hundred ailments which existed only in his
imagination.

The Admiral seldom read newspapers; and when he did he never believed
anything they said.  He read nothing, and believed in nothing, but "The
Old Guard," a secession periodical published in New York.  He carried a
dozen copies of it with him, always, and referred to them for all
required information.  If it was not there, he supplied it himself, out
of a bountiful fancy, inventing history, names, dates, and every thing
else necessary to make his point good in an argument.  Consequently he
was a formidable antagonist in a dispute.  Whenever he swung clear of the
record and began to create history, the enemy was helpless and had to
surrender.  Indeed, the enemy could not keep from betraying some little
spark of indignation at his manufactured history--and when it came to
indignation, that was the Admiral's very "best hold."  He was always
ready for a political argument, and if nobody started one he would do it
himself.  With his third retort his temper would begin to rise, and
within five minutes he would be blowing a gale, and within fifteen his
smoking-room audience would be utterly stormed away and the old man left
solitary and alone, banging the table with his fist, kicking the chairs,
and roaring a hurricane of profanity.  It got so, after a while, that
whenever the Admiral approached, with politics in his eye, the passengers
would drop out with quiet accord, afraid to meet him; and he would camp
on a deserted field.

But he found his match at last, and before a full company.  At one time
or another, everybody had entered the lists against him and been routed,
except the quiet passenger Williams.  He had never been able to get an
expression of opinion out of him on politics.  But now, just as the
Admiral drew near the door and the company were about to slip out,
Williams said:

"Admiral, are you certain about that circumstance concerning the
clergymen you mentioned the other day?"--referring to a piece of the
Admiral's manufactured history.

Every one was amazed at the man's rashness.  The idea of deliberately
inviting annihilation was a thing incomprehensible.  The retreat came to
a halt; then everybody sat down again wondering, to await the upshot of
it.  The Admiral himself was as surprised as any one.  He paused in the
door, with his red handkerchief half raised to his sweating face, and
contemplated the daring reptile in the corner.

"Certain of it?  Am I certain of it?  Do you think I've been lying about
it?  What do you take me for?  Anybody that don't know that circumstance,
don't know anything; a child ought to know it.  Read up your history!
Read it up-----, and don't come asking a man if he's certain about a bit
of ABC stuff that the very southern niggers know all about."

Here the Admiral's fires began to wax hot, the atmosphere thickened, the
coming earthquake rumbled, he began to thunder and lighten.  Within three
minutes his volcano was in full irruption and he was discharging flames
and ashes of indignation, belching black volumes of foul history aloft,
and vomiting red-hot torrents of profanity from his crater.  Meantime
Williams sat silent, and apparently deeply and earnestly interested in
what the old man was saying.  By and by, when the lull came, he said in
the most deferential way, and with the gratified air of a man who has had
a mystery cleared up which had been puzzling him uncomfortably:

"Now I understand it.  I always thought I knew that piece of history well
enough, but was still afraid to trust it, because there was not that
convincing particularity about it that one likes to have in history; but
when you mentioned every name, the other day, and every date, and every
little circumstance, in their just order and sequence, I said to myself,
this sounds something like--this is history--this is putting it in a
shape that gives a man confidence; and I said to myself afterward, I will
just ask the Admiral if he is perfectly certain about the details, and if
he is I will come out and thank him for clearing this matter up for me.
And that is what I want to do now--for until you set that matter right it
was nothing but just a confusion in my mind, without head or tail to it."

Nobody ever saw the Admiral look so mollified before, and so pleased.
Nobody had ever received his bogus history as gospel before; its
genuineness had always been called in question either by words or looks;
but here was a man that not only swallowed it all down, but was grateful
for the dose.  He was taken a back; he hardly knew what to say; even his
profanity failed him.  Now, Williams continued, modestly and earnestly:

"But Admiral, in saying that this was the first stone thrown, and that
this precipitated the war, you have overlooked a circumstance which you
are perfectly familiar with, but which has escaped your memory.  Now I
grant you that what you have stated is correct in every detail--to wit:
that on the 16th of October, 1860, two Massachusetts clergymen, named
Waite and Granger, went in disguise to the house of John Moody, in
Rockport, at dead of night, and dragged forth two southern women and
their two little children, and after tarring and feathering them conveyed
them to Boston and burned them alive in the State House square; and I
also grant your proposition that this deed is what led to the secession
of South Carolina on the 20th of December following.  Very well."  [Here
the company were pleasantly surprised to hear Williams proceed to come
back at the Admiral with his own invincible weapon--clean, pure,
manufactured history, without a word of truth in it.]  "Very well, I say.
But Admiral, why overlook the Willis and Morgan case in South Carolina?
You are too well informed a man not to know all about that circumstance.
Your arguments and your conversations have shown you to be intimately
conversant with every detail of this national quarrel.  You develop
matters of history every day that show plainly that you are no smatterer
in it, content to nibble about the surface, but a man who has searched
the depths and possessed yourself of everything that has a bearing upon
the great question.  Therefore, let me just recall to your mind that
Willis and Morgan case--though I see by your face that the whole thing is
already passing through your memory at this moment.  On the 12th of
August, 1860, two months before the Waite and Granger affair, two South
Carolina clergymen, named John H. Morgan and Winthrop L.  Willis, one a
Methodist and the other an Old School Baptist, disguised themselves, and
went at midnight to the house of a planter named Thompson--Archibald F.
Thompson, Vice President under Thomas Jefferson,--and took thence, at
midnight, his widowed aunt, (a Northern woman,) and her adopted child, an
orphan--named Mortimer Highie, afflicted with epilepsy and suffering at
the time from white swelling on one of his legs, and compelled to walk on
crutches in consequence; and the two ministers, in spite of the pleadings
of the victims, dragged them to the bush, tarred and feathered them, and
afterward burned them at the stake in the city of Charleston.  You
remember perfectly well what a stir it made; you remember perfectly well
that even the Charleston Courier stigmatized the act as being unpleasant,
of questionable propriety, and scarcely justifiable, and likewise that it
would not be matter of surprise if retaliation ensued.  And you remember
also, that this thing was the cause of the Massachusetts outrage.  Who,
indeed, were the two Massachusetts ministers?  and who were the two
Southern women they burned?  I do not need to remind you, Admiral, with
your intimate knowledge of history, that Waite was the nephew of the
woman burned in Charleston; that Granger was her cousin in the second
degree, and that the woman they burned in Boston was the wife of John H.
Morgan, and the still loved but divorced wife of Winthrop L. Willis.
Now, Admiral, it is only fair that you should acknowledge that the first
provocation came from the Southern preachers and that the Northern ones
were justified in retaliating.  In your arguments you never yet have
shown the least disposition to withhold a just verdict or be in anywise
unfair, when authoritative history condemned your position, and therefore
I have no hesitation in asking you to take the original blame from the
Massachusetts ministers, in this matter, and transfer it to the South
Carolina clergymen where it justly belongs."

The Admiral was conquered.  This sweet spoken creature who swallowed his
fraudulent history as if it were the bread of life; basked in his furious
blasphemy as if it were generous sunshine; found only calm, even-handed
justice in his rampart partisanship; and flooded him with invented
history so sugarcoated with flattery and deference that there was no
rejecting it, was "too many" for him.  He stammered some awkward, profane
sentences about the-----Willis and Morgan business having escaped his
memory, but that he "remembered it now," and then, under pretence of
giving Fan some medicine for an imaginary cough, drew out of the battle
and went away, a vanquished man.  Then cheers and laughter went up, and
Williams, the ship's benefactor was a hero.  The news went about the
vessel, champagne was ordered, and enthusiastic reception instituted in
the smoking room, and everybody flocked thither to shake hands with the
conqueror.  The wheelman said afterward, that the Admiral stood up behind
the pilot house and "ripped and cursed all to himself" till he loosened
the smokestack guys and becalmed the mainsail.

The Admiral's power was broken.  After that, if he began argument,
somebody would bring Williams, and the old man would grow weak and begin
to quiet down at once.  And as soon as he was done, Williams in his
dulcet, insinuating way, would invent some history (referring for proof,
to the old man's own excellent memory and to copies of "The Old Guard"
known not to be in his possession) that would turn the tables completely
and leave the Admiral all abroad and helpless.  By and by he came to so
dread Williams and his gilded tongue that he would stop talking when he
saw him approach, and finally ceased to mention politics altogether, and
from that time forward there was entire peace and serenity in the ship.




CHAPTER LXIII.

On a certain bright morning the Islands hove in sight, lying low on the
lonely sea, and everybody climbed to the upper deck to look.  After two
thousand miles of watery solitude the vision was a welcome one.  As we
approached, the imposing promontory of Diamond Head rose up out of the
ocean its rugged front softened by the hazy distance, and presently the
details of the land began to make themselves manifest: first the line of
beach; then the plumed coacoanut trees of the tropics; then cabins of the
natives; then the white town of Honolulu, said to contain between twelve
and fifteen thousand inhabitants spread over a dead level; with streets
from twenty to thirty feet wide, solid and level as a floor, most of them
straight as a line and few as crooked as a corkscrew.

The further I traveled through the town the better I liked it.  Every
step revealed a new contrast--disclosed something I was unaccustomed to.
In place of the grand mud-colored brown fronts of San Francisco, I saw
dwellings built of straw, adobies, and cream-colored pebble-and-shell-
conglomerated coral, cut into oblong blocks and laid in cement; also a
great number of neat white cottages, with green window-shutters; in place
of front yards like billiard-tables with iron fences around them, I saw
these homes surrounded by ample yards, thickly clad with green grass, and
shaded by tall trees, through whose dense foliage the sun could scarcely
penetrate; in place of the customary geranium, calla lily, etc.,
languishing in dust and general debility, I saw luxurious banks and
thickets of flowers, fresh as a meadow after a rain, and glowing with the
richest dyes; in place of the dingy horrors of San Francisco's pleasure
grove, the "Willows," I saw huge-bodied, wide-spreading forest trees,
with strange names and stranger appearance--trees that cast a shadow like
a thunder-cloud, and were able to stand alone without being tied to green
poles; in place of gold fish, wiggling around in glass globes, assuming
countless shades and degrees of distortion through the magnifying and
diminishing qualities of their transparent prison houses, I saw cats--
Tom-cats, Mary Ann cats, long-tailed cats, bob-tailed cats, blind cats,
one-eyed cats, wall-eyed cats, cross-eyed cats, gray cats, black cats,
white cats, yellow cats, striped cats, spotted cats, tame cats, wild
cats, singed cats, individual cats, groups of cats, platoons of cats,
companies of cats, regiments of cats, armies of cats, multitudes of cats,
millions of cats, and all of them sleek, fat, lazy and sound asleep.
I looked on a multitude of people, some white, in white coats, vests,
pantaloons, even white cloth shoes, made snowy with chalk duly laid on
every morning; but the majority of the people were almost as dark as
negroes--women with comely features, fine black eyes, rounded forms,
inclining to the voluptuous, clad in a single bright red or white garment
that fell free and unconfined from shoulder to heel, long black hair
falling loose, gypsy hats, encircled with wreaths of natural flowers of a
brilliant carmine tint; plenty of dark men in various costumes, and some
with nothing on but a battered stove-pipe hat tilted on the nose, and a
very scant breech-clout;--certain smoke-dried children were clothed in
nothing but sunshine--a very neat fitting and picturesque apparel indeed.

In place of roughs and rowdies staring and blackguarding on the corners,
I saw long-haired, saddle-colored Sandwich Island maidens sitting on the
ground in the shade of corner houses, gazing indolently at whatever or
whoever happened along; instead of wretched cobble-stone pavements, I
walked on a firm foundation of coral, built up from the bottom of the sea
by the absurd but persevering insect of that name, with a light layer of
lava and cinders overlying the coral, belched up out of fathomless
perdition long ago through the seared and blackened crater that stands
dead and harmless in the distance now; instead of cramped and crowded
street-cars, I met dusky native women sweeping by, free as the wind, on
fleet horses and astride, with gaudy riding-sashes, streaming like
banners behind them; instead of the combined stenches of Chinadom and
Brannan street slaughter-houses, I breathed the balmy fragrance of
jessamine, oleander, and the Pride of India; in place of the hurry and
bustle and noisy confusion of San Francisco, I moved in the midst of a
Summer calm as tranquil as dawn in the Garden of Eden; in place of the
Golden City's skirting sand hills and the placid bay, I saw on the one
side a frame-work of tall, precipitous mountains close at hand, clad in
refreshing green, and cleft by deep, cool, chasm-like valleys--and in
front the grand sweep of the ocean; a brilliant, transparent green near
the shore, bound and bordered by a long white line of foamy spray dashing
against the reef, and further out the dead blue water of the deep sea,
flecked with "white caps," and in the far horizon a single, lonely sail--
a mere accent-mark to emphasize a slumberous calm and a solitude that
were without sound or limit.  When the sun sunk down--the one intruder
from other realms and persistent in suggestions of them--it was tranced
luxury to sit in the perfumed air and forget that there was any world but
these enchanted islands.

It was such ecstacy to dream, and dream--till you got a bite.

A scorpion bite.  Then the first duty was to get up out of the grass and
kill the scorpion; and the next to bathe the bitten place with alcohol or
brandy; and the next to resolve to keep out of the grass in future.  Then
came an adjournment to the bed-chamber and the pastime of writing up the
day's journal with one hand and the destruction of mosquitoes with the
other--a whole community of them at a slap.  Then, observing an enemy
approaching,--a hairy tarantula on stilts--why not set the spittoon on
him?  It is done, and the projecting ends of his paws give a luminous
idea of the magnitude of his reach.  Then to bed and become a promenade
for a centipede with forty-two legs on a side and every foot hot enough
to burn a hole through a raw-hide.  More soaking with alcohol, and a
resolution to examine the bed before entering it, in future.  Then wait,
and suffer, till all the mosquitoes in the neighborhood have crawled in
under the bar, then slip out quickly, shut them in and sleep peacefully
on the floor till morning.  Meantime it is comforting to curse the
tropics in occasional wakeful intervals.

We had an abundance of fruit in Honolulu, of course.  Oranges, pine-
apples, bananas, strawberries, lemons, limes, mangoes, guavas, melons,
and a rare and curious luxury called the chirimoya, which is
deliciousness itself.  Then there is the tamarind.  I thought tamarinds
were made to eat, but that was probably not the idea.  I ate several, and
it seemed to me that they were rather sour that year.  They pursed up my
lips, till they resembled the stem-end of a tomato, and I had to take my
sustenance through a quill for twenty-four hours.

They sharpened my teeth till I could have shaved with them, and gave them
a "wire edge" that I was afraid would stay; but a citizen said "no, it
will come off when the enamel does"--which was comforting, at any rate.
I found, afterward, that only strangers eat tamarinds--but they only eat
them once.




CHAPTER LXIV.

In my diary of our third day in Honolulu, I find this:

I am probably the most sensitive man in Hawaii to-night--especially about
sitting down in the presence of my betters.  I have ridden fifteen or
twenty miles on horse-back since 5 P.M.  and to tell the honest truth, I
have a delicacy about sitting down at all.

An excursion to Diamond Head and the King's Coacoanut Grove was planned
to-day--time, 4:30 P.M.--the party to consist of half a dozen gentlemen
and three ladies.  They all started at the appointed hour except myself.
I was at the Government prison, (with Captain Fish and another whaleship-
skipper, Captain Phillips,) and got so interested in its examination that
I did not notice how quickly the time was passing.  Somebody remarked
that it was twenty minutes past five o'clock, and that woke me up.  It
was a fortunate circumstance that Captain Phillips was along with his
"turn out," as he calls a top-buggy that Captain Cook brought here in
1778, and a horse that was here when Captain Cook came.  Captain Phillips
takes a just pride in his driving and in the speed of his horse, and to
his passion for displaying them I owe it that we were only sixteen
minutes coming from the prison to the American Hotel--a distance which
has been estimated to be over half a mile.  But it took some fearful
driving.  The Captain's whip came down fast, and the blows started so
much dust out of the horse's hide that during the last half of the
journey we rode through an impenetrable fog, and ran by a pocket compass
in the hands of Captain Fish, a whaler of twenty-six years experience,
who sat there through the perilous voyage as self-possessed as if he had
been on the euchre-deck of his own ship, and calmly said, "Port your
helm--port," from time to time, and "Hold her a little free--steady--so--
so," and "Luff--hard down to starboard!" and never once lost his presence
of mind or betrayed the least anxiety by voice or manner.  When we came
to anchor at last, and Captain Phillips looked at his watch and said,
"Sixteen minutes--I told you it was in her!  that's over three miles an
hour!" I could see he felt entitled to a compliment, and so I said I had
never seen lightning go like that horse.  And I never had.

The landlord of the American said the party had been gone nearly an hour,
but that he could give me my choice of several horses that could overtake
them.  I said, never mind--I preferred a safe horse to a fast one--I
would like to have an excessively gentle horse--a horse with no spirit
whatever--a lame one, if he had such a thing.  Inside of five minutes I
was mounted, and perfectly satisfied with my outfit.  I had no time to
label him "This is a horse," and so if the public took him for a sheep I
cannot help it.  I was satisfied, and that was the main thing.  I could
see that he had as many fine points as any man's horse, and so I hung my
hat on one of them, behind the saddle, and swabbed the perspiration from
my face and started.  I named him after this island, "Oahu" (pronounced
O-waw-hee).  The first gate he came to he started in; I had neither whip
nor spur, and so I simply argued the case with him.  He resisted
argument, but ultimately yielded to insult and abuse.  He backed out of
that gate and steered for another one on the other side of the street.
I triumphed by my former process.  Within the next six hundred yards he
crossed the street fourteen times and attempted thirteen gates, and in
the meantime the tropical sun was beating down and threatening to cave
the top of my head in, and I was literally dripping with perspiration.
He abandoned the gate business after that and went along peaceably
enough, but absorbed in meditation.  I noticed this latter circumstance,
and it soon began to fill me with apprehension.  I said to my self, this
creature is planning some new outrage, some fresh deviltry or other--no
horse ever thought over a subject so profoundly as this one is doing just
for nothing.  The more this thing preyed upon my mind the more uneasy I
became, until the suspense became almost unbearable and I dismounted to
see if there was anything wild in his eye--for I had heard that the eye
of this noblest of our domestic animals is very expressive.

I cannot describe what a load of anxiety was lifted from my mind when I
found that he was only asleep.  I woke him up and started him into a
faster walk, and then the villainy of his nature came out again.  He
tried to climb over a stone wall, five or six feet high.  I saw that I
must apply force to this horse, and that I might as well begin first as
last.  I plucked a stout switch from a tamarind tree, and the moment he
saw it, he surrendered.  He broke into a convulsive sort of a canter,
which had three short steps in it and one long one, and reminded me
alternately of the clattering shake of the great earthquake, and the
sweeping plunging of the Ajax in a storm.

And now there can be no fitter occasion than the present to pronounce a
left-handed blessing upon the man who invented the American saddle.
There is no seat to speak of about it--one might as well sit in a shovel-
-and the stirrups are nothing but an ornamental nuisance.  If I were to
write down here all the abuse I expended on those stirrups, it would make
a large book, even without pictures.  Sometimes I got one foot so far
through, that the stirrup partook of the nature of an anklet; sometimes
both feet were through, and I was handcuffed by the legs; and sometimes
my feet got clear out and left the stirrups wildly dangling about my
shins.  Even when I was in proper position and carefully balanced upon
the balls of my feet, there was no comfort in it, on account of my
nervous dread that they were going to slip one way or the other in a
moment.  But the subject is too exasperating to write about.

A mile and a half from town, I came to a grove of tall cocoanut trees,
with clean, branchless stems reaching straight up sixty or seventy feet
and topped with a spray of green foliage sheltering clusters of cocoa-
nuts--not more picturesque than a forest of collossal ragged parasols,
with bunches of magnified grapes under them, would be.

I once heard a gouty northern invalid say that a cocoanut tree might be
poetical, possibly it was; but it looked like a feather-duster struck by
lightning.  I think that describes it better than a picture--and yet,
without any question, there is something fascinating about a cocoa-nut
tree--and graceful, too.

About a dozen cottages, some frame and the others of native grass,
nestled sleepily in the shade here and there.  The grass cabins are of a
grayish color, are shaped much like our own cottages, only with higher
and steeper roofs usually, and are made of some kind of weed strongly
bound together in bundles.  The roofs are very thick, and so are the
walls; the latter have square holes in them for windows.  At a little
distance these cabins have a furry appearance, as if they might be made
of bear skins.  They are very cool and pleasant inside.  The King's flag
was flying from the roof of one of the cottages, and His Majesty was
probably within.  He owns the whole concern thereabouts, and passes his
time there frequently, on sultry days "laying off."  The spot is called
"The King's Grove."

Near by is an interesting ruin--the meagre remains of an ancient heathen
temple--a place where human sacrifices were offered up in those old
bygone days when the simple child of nature, yielding momentarily to sin
when sorely tempted, acknowledged his error when calm reflection had
shown it him, and came forward with noble frankness and offered up his
grandmother as an atoning sacrifice--in those old days when the luckless
sinner could keep on cleansing his conscience and achieving periodical
happiness as long as his relations held out; long, long before the
missionaries braved a thousand privations to come and make them
permanently miserable by telling them how beautiful and how blissful a
place heaven is, and how nearly impossible it is to get there; and showed
the poor native how dreary a place perdition is and what unnecessarily
liberal facilities there are for going to it; showed him how, in his
ignorance he had gone and fooled away all his kinfolks to no purpose;
showed him what rapture it is to work all day long for fifty cents to buy
food for next day with, as compared with fishing for pastime and lolling
in the shade through eternal Summer, and eating of the bounty that nobody
labored to provide but Nature.  How sad it is to think of the multitudes
who have gone to their graves in this beautiful island and never knew
there was a hell!

This ancient temple was built of rough blocks of lava, and was simply a
roofless inclosure a hundred and thirty feet long and seventy wide--
nothing but naked walls, very thick, but not much higher than a man's
head.  They will last for ages no doubt, if left unmolested.  Its three
altars and other sacred appurtenances have crumbled and passed away years
ago.  It is said that in the old times thousands of human beings were
slaughtered here, in the presence of naked and howling savages.  If these
mute stones could speak, what tales they could tell, what pictures they
could describe, of fettered victims writhing under the knife; of massed
forms straining forward out of the gloom, with ferocious faces lit up by
the sacrificial fires; of the background of ghostly trees; of the dark
pyramid of Diamond Head standing sentinel over the uncanny scene, and the
peaceful moon looking down upon it through rifts in the cloud-rack!

When Kamehameha (pronounced Ka-may-ha-may-ah) the Great--who was a sort
of a Napoleon in military genius and uniform success--invaded this island
of Oahu three quarters of a century ago, and exterminated the army sent
to oppose him, and took full and final possession of the country, he
searched out the dead body of the King of Oahu, and those of the
principal chiefs, and impaled their heads on the walls of this temple.

Those were savage times when this old slaughter-house was in its prime.
The King and the chiefs ruled the common herd with a rod of iron; made
them gather all the provisions the masters needed; build all the houses
and temples; stand all the expenses, of whatever kind; take kicks and
cuffs for thanks; drag out lives well flavored with misery, and then
suffer death for trifling offences or yield up their lives on the
sacrificial altars to purchase favors from the gods for their hard
rulers.  The missionaries have clothed them, educated them, broken up the
tyrannous authority of their chiefs, and given them freedom and the right
to enjoy whatever their hands and brains produce with equal laws for all,
and punishment for all alike who transgress them.  The contrast is so
strong--the benefit conferred upon this people by the missionaries is so
prominent, so palpable and so unquestionable, that the frankest
compliment I can pay them, and the best, is simply to point to the
condition of the Sandwich Islanders of Captain Cook's time, and their
condition to-day.

Their work speaks for itself.




CHAPTER LXV.

By and by, after a rugged climb, we halted on the summit of a hill which
commanded a far-reaching view.  The moon rose and flooded mountain and
valley and ocean with a mellow radiance, and out of the shadows of the
foliage the distant lights of Honolulu glinted like an encampment of
fireflies.  The air was heavy with the fragrance of flowers.  The halt
was brief.--Gayly laughing and talking, the party galloped on, and I
clung to the pommel and cantered after.  Presently we came to a place
where no grass grew--a wide expanse of deep sand.  They said it was an
old battle ground.  All around everywhere, not three feet apart, the
bleached bones of men gleamed white in the moonlight.  We picked up a lot
of them for mementoes.  I got quite a number of arm bones and leg bones--
of great chiefs, may be, who had fought savagely in that fearful battle
in the old days, when blood flowed like wine where we now stood--and wore
the choicest of them out on Oahu afterward, trying to make him go.  All
sorts of bones could be found except skulls; but a citizen said,
irreverently, that there had been an unusual number of "skull-hunters"
there lately--a species of sportsmen I had never heard of before.

Nothing whatever is known about this place--its story is a secret that
will never be revealed.  The oldest natives make no pretense of being
possessed of its history.  They say these bones were here when they were
children.  They were here when their grandfathers were children--but how
they came here, they can only conjecture.  Many people believe this spot
to be an ancient battle-ground, and it is usual to call it so; and they
believe that these skeletons have lain for ages just where their
proprietors fell in the great fight.  Other people believe that
Kamehameha I.  fought his first battle here.  On this point, I have heard
a story, which may have been taken from one of the numerous books which
have been written concerning these islands--I do not know where the
narrator got it.  He said that when Kamehameha (who was at first merely a
subordinate chief on the island of Hawaii), landed here, he brought a
large army with him, and encamped at Waikiki.  The Oahuans marched
against him, and so confident were they of success that they readily
acceded to a demand of their priests that they should draw a line where
these bones now lie, and take an oath that, if forced to retreat at all,
they would never retreat beyond this boundary.  The priests told them
that death and everlasting punishment would overtake any who violated the
oath, and the march was resumed.  Kamehameha drove them back step by
step; the priests fought in the front rank and exhorted them both by
voice and inspiriting example to remember their oath--to die, if need be,
but never cross the fatal line.  The struggle was manfully maintained,
but at last the chief priest fell, pierced to the heart with a spear, and
the unlucky omen fell like a blight upon the brave souls at his back;
with a triumphant shout the invaders pressed forward--the line was
crossed--the offended gods deserted the despairing army, and, accepting
the doom their perjury had brought upon them, they broke and fled over
the plain where Honolulu stands now--up the beautiful Nuuanu Valley--
paused a moment, hemmed in by precipitous mountains on either hand and
the frightful precipice of the Pari in front, and then were driven over--
a sheer plunge of six hundred feet!

The story is pretty enough, but Mr. Jarves' excellent history says the
Oahuans were intrenched in Nuuanu Valley; that Kamehameha ousted them,
routed them, pursued them up the valley and drove them over the
precipice.  He makes no mention of our bone-yard at all in his book.

Impressed by the profound silence and repose that rested over the
beautiful landscape, and being, as usual, in the rear, I gave voice to my
thoughts.  I said:

"What a picture is here slumbering in the solemn glory of the moon!  How
strong the rugged outlines of the dead volcano stand out against the
clear sky!  What a snowy fringe marks the bursting of the surf over the
long, curved reef!  How calmly the dim city sleeps yonder in the plain!
How soft the shadows lie upon the stately mountains that border the
dream-haunted Mauoa Valley!  What a grand pyramid of billowy clouds
towers above the storied Pari!  How the grim warriors of the past seem
flocking in ghostly squadrons to their ancient battlefield again--how the
wails of the dying well up from the--"

At this point the horse called Oahu sat down in the sand.  Sat down to
listen, I suppose.  Never mind what he heard, I stopped apostrophising
and convinced him that I was not a man to allow contempt of Court on the
part of a horse.  I broke the back-bone of a Chief over his rump and set
out to join the cavalcade again.

Very considerably fagged out we arrived in town at 9 o'clock at night,
myself in the lead--for when my horse finally came to understand that he
was homeward bound and hadn't far to go, he turned his attention strictly
to business.

This is a good time to drop in a paragraph of information.  There is no
regular livery stable in Honolulu, or, indeed, in any part of the Kingdom
of Hawaii; therefore unless you are acquainted with wealthy residents
(who all have good horses), you must hire animals of the wretchedest
description from the Kanakas.  (i.e.  natives.) Any horse you hire, even
though it be from a white man, is not often of much account, because it
will be brought in for you from some ranch, and has necessarily been
leading a hard life.  If the Kanakas who have been caring for him
(inveterate riders they are) have not ridden him half to death every day
themselves, you can depend upon it they have been doing the same thing by
proxy, by clandestinely hiring him out.  At least, so I am informed.  The
result is, that no horse has a chance to eat, drink, rest, recuperate, or
look well or feel well, and so strangers go about the Islands mounted as
I was to-day.

In hiring a horse from a Kanaka, you must have all your eyes about you,
because you can rest satisfied that you are dealing with a shrewd
unprincipled rascal.  You may leave your door open and your trunk
unlocked as long as you please, and he will not meddle with your
property; he has no important vices and no inclination to commit robbery
on a large scale; but if he can get ahead of you in the horse business,
he will take a genuine delight in doing it.  This traits is
characteristic of horse jockeys, the world over, is it not?  He will
overcharge you if he can; he will hire you a fine-looking horse at night
(anybody's--may be the King's, if the royal steed be in convenient view),
and bring you the mate to my Oahu in the morning, and contend that it is
the same animal.  If you make trouble, he will get out by saying it was
not himself who made the bargain with you, but his brother, "who went out
in the country this morning."  They have always got a "brother" to shift
the responsibility upon.  A victim said to one of these fellows one day:

"But I know I hired the horse of you, because I noticed that scar on your
cheek."

The reply was not bad: "Oh, yes--yes--my brother all same--we twins!"

A friend of mine, J.  Smith, hired a horse yesterday, the Kanaka
warranting him to be in excellent condition.

Smith had a saddle and blanket of his own, and he ordered the Kanaka to
put these on the horse.  The Kanaka protested that he was perfectly
willing to trust the gentleman with the saddle that was already on the
animal, but Smith refused to use it.  The change was made; then Smith
noticed that the Kanaka had only changed the saddles, and had left the
original blanket on the horse; he said he forgot to change the blankets,
and so, to cut the bother short, Smith mounted and rode away.  The horse
went lame a mile from town, and afterward got to cutting up some
extraordinary capers.  Smith got down and took off the saddle, but the
blanket stuck fast to the horse--glued to a procession of raw places.
The Kanaka's mysterious conduct stood explained.

Another friend of mine bought a pretty good horse from a native, a day or
two ago, after a tolerably thorough examination of the animal.  He
discovered today that the horse was as blind as a bat, in one eye.  He
meant to have examined that eye, and came home with a general notion that
he had done it; but he remembers now that every time he made the attempt
his attention was called to something else by his victimizer.

One more instance, and then I will pass to something else.  I am informed
that when a certain Mr. L., a visiting stranger, was here, he bought a
pair of very respectable-looking match horses from a native.  They were
in a little stable with a partition through the middle of it--one horse
in each apartment.  Mr. L.  examined one of them critically through a
window (the Kanaka's "brother" having gone to the country with the key),
and then went around the house and examined the other through a window on
the other side.  He said it was the neatest match he had ever seen, and
paid for the horses on the spot.  Whereupon the Kanaka departed to join
his brother in the country.  The fellow had shamefully swindled L.  There
was only one "match" horse, and he had examined his starboard side
through one window and his port side through another!  I decline to
believe this story, but I give it because it is worth something as a
fanciful illustration of a fixed fact--namely, that the Kanaka horse-
jockey is fertile in invention and elastic in conscience.

You can buy a pretty good horse for forty or fifty dollars, and a good
enough horse for all practical purposes for two dollars and a half.  I
estimate "Oahu" to be worth somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-five
cents.  A good deal better animal than he is was sold here day before
yesterday for a dollar and seventy-five cents, and sold again to-day for
two dollars and twenty-five cents; Williams bought a handsome and lively
little pony yesterday for ten dollars; and about the best common horse on
the island (and he is a really good one) sold yesterday, with Mexican
saddle and bridle, for seventy dollars--a horse which is well and widely
known, and greatly respected for his speed, good disposition and
everlasting bottom.

You give your horse a little grain once a day; it comes from San
Francisco, and is worth about two cents a pound; and you give him as much
hay as he wants; it is cut and brought to the market by natives, and is
not very good it is baled into long, round bundles, about the size of a
large man; one of them is stuck by the middle on each end of a six foot
pole, and the Kanaka shoulders the pole and walks about the streets
between the upright bales in search of customers.  These hay bales, thus
carried, have a general resemblance to a colossal capital 'H.'

The hay-bundles cost twenty-five cents apiece, and one will last a horse
about a day.  You can get a horse for a song, a week's hay for another
song, and you can turn your animal loose among the luxuriant grass in
your neighbor's broad front yard without a song at all--you do it at
midnight, and stable the beast again before morning.  You have been at no
expense thus far, but when you come to buy a saddle and bridle they will
cost you from twenty to thirty-five dollars.  You can hire a horse,
saddle and bridle at from seven to ten dollars a week, and the owner will
take care of them at his own expense.

It is time to close this day's record--bed time.  As I prepare for sleep,
a rich voice rises out of the still night, and, far as this ocean rock is
toward the ends of the earth, I recognize a familiar home air.  But the
words seem somewhat out of joint:


"Waikiki lantoni oe Kaa hooly hooly wawhoo."

Translated, that means "When we were marching through Georgia."




CHAPTER LXVI.

Passing through the market place we saw that feature of Honolulu under
its most favorable auspices--that is, in the full glory of Saturday
afternoon, which is a festive day with the natives.  The native girls by
twos and threes and parties of a dozen, and sometimes in whole platoons
and companies, went cantering up and down the neighboring streets astride
of fleet but homely horses, and with their gaudy riding habits streaming
like banners behind them.  Such a troop of free and easy riders, in their
natural home, the saddle, makes a gay and graceful spectacle.  The riding
habit I speak of is simply a long, broad scarf, like a tavern table cloth
brilliantly colored, wrapped around the loins once, then apparently
passed between the limbs and each end thrown backward over the same, and
floating and flapping behind on both sides beyond the horse's tail like a
couple of fancy flags; then, slipping the stirrup-irons between her toes,
the girl throws her chest for ward, sits up like a Major General and goes
sweeping by like the wind.

The girls put on all the finery they can on Saturday afternoon--fine
black silk robes; flowing red ones that nearly put your eyes out; others
as white as snow; still others that discount the rainbow; and they wear
their hair in nets, and trim their jaunty hats with fresh flowers, and
encircle their dusky throats with home-made necklaces of the brilliant
vermillion-tinted blossom of the ohia; and they fill the markets and the
adjacent street with their bright presences, and smell like a rag factory
on fire with their offensive cocoanut oil.

Occasionally you see a heathen from the sunny isles away down in the
South Seas, with his face and neck tatooed till he looks like the
customary mendicant from Washoe who has been blown up in a mine.  Some
are tattooed a dead blue color down to the upper lip--masked, as it were
--leaving the natural light yellow skin of Micronesia unstained from
thence down; some with broad marks drawn down from hair to neck, on both
sides of the face, and a strip of the original yellow skin, two inches
wide, down the center--a gridiron with a spoke broken out; and some with
the entire face discolored with the popular mortification tint, relieved
only by one or two thin, wavy threads of natural yellow running across
the face from ear to ear, and eyes twinkling out of this darkness, from
under shadowing hat-brims, like stars in the dark of the moon.

Moving among the stirring crowds, you come to the poi merchants,
squatting in the shade on their hams, in true native fashion, and
surrounded by purchasers.  (The Sandwich Islanders always squat on their
hams, and who knows but they may be the old original "ham sandwiches?"
The thought is pregnant with interest.) The poi looks like common flour
paste, and is kept in large bowls formed of a species of gourd, and
capable of holding from one to three or four gallons.  Poi is the chief
article of food among the natives, and is prepared from the taro plant.

The taro root looks like a thick, or, if you please, a corpulent sweet
potato, in shape, but is of a light purple color when boiled.  When
boiled it answers as a passable substitute for bread.  The buck Kanakas
bake it under ground, then mash it up well with a heavy lava pestle, mix
water with it until it becomes a paste, set it aside and let if ferment,
and then it is poi--and an unseductive mixture it is, almost tasteless
before it ferments and too sour for a luxury afterward.  But nothing is
more nutritious.  When solely used, however, it produces acrid humors, a
fact which sufficiently accounts for the humorous character of the
Kanakas.  I think there must be as much of a knack in handling poi as
there is in eating with chopsticks.  The forefinger is thrust into the
mess and stirred quickly round several times and drawn as quickly out,
thickly coated, just as it it were poulticed; the head is thrown back,
the finger inserted in the mouth and the delicacy stripped off and
swallowed--the eye closing gently, meanwhile, in a languid sort of
ecstasy.  Many a different finger goes into the same bowl and many a
different kind of dirt and shade and quality of flavor is added to the
virtues of its contents.

Around a small shanty was collected a crowd of natives buying the awa
root.  It is said that but for the use of this root the destruction of
the people in former times by certain imported diseases would have been
far greater than it was, and by others it is said that this is merely a
fancy.  All agree that poi will rejuvenate a man who is used up and his
vitality almost annihilated by hard drinking, and that in some kinds of
diseases it will restore health after all medicines have failed; but all
are not willing to allow to the awa the virtues claimed for it.  The
natives manufacture an intoxicating drink from it which is fearful in its
effects when persistently indulged in.  It covers the body with dry,
white scales, inflames the eyes, and causes premature decripitude.
Although the man before whose establishment we stopped has to pay a
Government license of eight hundred dollars a year for the exclusive
right to sell awa root, it is said that he makes a small fortune every
twelve-month; while saloon keepers, who pay a thousand dollars a year for
the privilege of retailing whiskey, etc., only make a bare living.

We found the fish market crowded; for the native is very fond of fish,
and eats the article raw and alive!  Let us change the subject.

In old times here Saturday was a grand gala day indeed.  All the native
population of the town forsook their labors, and those of the surrounding
country journeyed to the city.  Then the white folks had to stay indoors,
for every street was so packed with charging cavaliers and cavalieresses
that it was next to impossible to thread one's way through the cavalcades
without getting crippled.

At night they feasted and the girls danced the lascivious hula hula--a
dance that is said to exhibit the very perfection of educated notion of
limb and arm, hand, head and body, and the exactest uniformity of
movement and accuracy of "time."  It was performed by a circle of girls
with no raiment on them to speak of, who went through an infinite variety
of motions and figures without prompting, and yet so true was their
"time," and in such perfect concert did they move that when they were
placed in a straight line, hands, arms, bodies, limbs and heads waved,
swayed, gesticulated, bowed, stooped, whirled, squirmed, twisted and
undulated as if they were part and parcel of a single individual; and it
was difficult to believe they were not moved in a body by some exquisite
piece of mechanism.

Of late years, however, Saturday has lost most of its quondam gala
features.  This weekly stampede of the natives interfered too much with
labor and the interests of the white folks, and by sticking in a law
here, and preaching a sermon there, and by various other means, they
gradually broke it up.  The demoralizing hula hula was forbidden to be
performed, save at night, with closed doors, in presence of few
spectators, and only by permission duly procured from the authorities and
the payment of ten dollars for the same.  There are few girls now-a-days
able to dance this ancient national dance in the highest perfection of
the art.

The missionaries have christianized and educated all the natives.  They
all belong to the Church, and there is not one of them, above the age of
eight years, but can read and write with facility in the native tongue.
It is the most universally educated race of people outside of China.
They have any quantity of books, printed in the Kanaka language, and all
the natives are fond of reading.  They are inveterate church-goers--
nothing can keep them away.  All this ameliorating cultivation has at
last built up in the native women a profound respect for chastity--in
other people.  Perhaps that is enough to say on that head.  The national
sin will die out when the race does, but perhaps not earlier.--But
doubtless this purifying is not far off, when we reflect that contact
with civilization and the whites has reduced the native population from
four hundred thousand (Captain Cook's estimate,) to fifty-five thousand
in something over eighty years!

Society is a queer medley in this notable missionary, whaling and
governmental centre.  If you get into conversation with a stranger and
experience that natural desire to know what sort of ground you are
treading on by finding out what manner of man your stranger is, strike
out boldly and address him as "Captain."  Watch him narrowly, and if you
see by his countenance that you are on the wrong tack, ask him where he
preaches.  It is a safe bet that he is either a missionary or captain of
a whaler.  I am now personally acquainted with seventy-two captains and
ninety-six missionaries.  The captains and ministers form one-half of the
population; the third fourth is composed of common Kanakas and mercantile
foreigners and their families, and the final fourth is made up of high
officers of the Hawaiian Government.  And there are just about cats
enough for three apiece all around.

A solemn stranger met me in the suburbs the other day, and said:

"Good morning, your reverence.  Preach in the stone church yonder, no
doubt?"

"No, I don't.  I'm not a preacher."

"Really, I beg your pardon, Captain.  I trust you had a good season.  How
much oil"--

"Oil?  What do you take me for?  I'm not a whaler."

"Oh, I beg a thousand pardons, your Excellency.

"Major General in the household troops, no doubt?  Minister of the
Interior, likely?  Secretary of war?  First Gentleman of the Bed-chamber?
Commissioner of the Royal"--

"Stuff!  I'm no official.  I'm not connected in any way with the
Government."

"Bless my life!  Then, who the mischief are you?  what the mischief are
you?  and how the mischief did you get here, and where in thunder did you
come from?"

"I'm only a private personage--an unassuming stranger--lately arrived
from America."

"No?  Not a missionary!  Not a whaler!  not a member of his Majesty's
Government!  not even Secretary of the Navy!  Ah, Heaven!  it is too
blissful to be true; alas, I do but dream.  And yet that noble, honest
countenance--those oblique, ingenuous eyes--that massive head, incapable
of--of--anything; your hand; give me your hand, bright waif.  Excuse
these tears.  For sixteen weary years I have yearned for a moment like
this, and"--

Here his feelings were too much for him, and he swooned away.  I pitied
this poor creature from the bottom of my heart.  I was deeply moved.  I
shed a few tears on him and kissed him for his mother.  I then took what
small change he had and "shoved".




CHAPTER LXVII.

I still quote from my journal:

I found the national Legislature to consist of half a dozen white men and
some thirty or forty natives.  It was a dark assemblage.  The nobles and
Ministers (about a dozen of them altogether) occupied the extreme left of
the hall, with David Kalakaua (the King's Chamberlain) and Prince William
at the head.  The President of the Assembly, His Royal Highness M.
Kekuanaoa, [Kekuanaoa is not of the blood royal.  He derives his princely
rank from his wife, who was a daughter of Kamehameha the Great.  Under
other monarchies the male line takes precedence of the female in tracing
genealogies, but here the opposite is the case--the female line takes
precedence.  Their reason for this is exceedingly sensible, and I
recommend it to the aristocracy of Europe: They say it is easy to know
who a man's mother was, but, etc., etc.] and the Vice President (the
latter a white man,) sat in the pulpit, if I may so term it.
The President is the King's father.  He is an erect, strongly built,
massive featured, white-haired, tawny old gentleman of eighty years of
age or thereabouts.  He was simply but well dressed, in a blue cloth coat
and white vest, and white pantaloons, without spot, dust or blemish upon
them.  He bears himself with a calm, stately dignity, and is a man of
noble presence.  He was a young man and a distinguished warrior under
that terrific fighter, Kamehameha I., more than half a century ago.  A
knowledge of his career suggested some such thought as this: "This man,
naked as the day he was born, and war-club and spear in hand, has charged
at the head of a horde of savages against other hordes of savages more
than a generation and a half ago, and reveled in slaughter and carnage;
has worshipped wooden images on his devout knees; has seen hundreds of
his race offered up in heathen temples as sacrifices to wooden idols, at
a time when no missionary's foot had ever pressed this soil, and he had
never heard of the white man's God; has believed his enemy could secretly
pray him to death; has seen the day, in his childhood, when it was a
crime punishable by death for a man to eat with his wife, or for a
plebeian to let his shadow fall upon the King--and now look at him; an
educated Christian; neatly and handsomely dressed; a high-minded, elegant
gentleman; a traveler, in some degree, and one who has been the honored
guest of royalty in Europe; a man practiced in holding the reins of an
enlightened government, and well versed in the politics of his country
and in general, practical information.  Look at him, sitting there
presiding over the deliberations of a legislative body, among whom are
white men--a grave, dignified, statesmanlike personage, and as seemingly
natural and fitted to the place as if he had been born in it and had
never been out of it in his life time.  How the experiences of this old
man's eventful life shame the cheap inventions of romance!"

The christianizing of the natives has hardly even weakened some of their
barbarian superstitions, much less destroyed them.  I have just referred
to one of these.  It is still a popular belief that if your enemy can get
hold of any article belonging to you he can get down on his knees over it
and pray you to death.  Therefore many a native gives up and dies merely
because he imagines that some enemy is putting him through a course of
damaging prayer.  This praying an individual to death seems absurb enough
at a first glance, but then when we call to mind some of the pulpit
efforts of certain of our own ministers the thing looks plausible.

In former times, among the Islanders, not only a plurality of wives was
customary, but a plurality of husbands likewise.  Some native women of
noble rank had as many as six husbands.  A woman thus supplied did not
reside with all her husbands at once, but lived several months with each
in turn.  An understood sign hung at her door during these months.  When
the sign was taken down, it meant "NEXT."

In those days woman was rigidly taught to "know her place."  Her place
was to do all the work, take all the cuffs, provide all the food, and
content herself with what was left after her lord had finished his
dinner.  She was not only forbidden, by ancient law, and under penalty of
death, to eat with her husband or enter a canoe, but was debarred, under
the same penalty, from eating bananas, pine-apples, oranges and other
choice fruits at any time or in any place.  She had to confine herself
pretty strictly to "poi" and hard work.  These poor ignorant heathen seem
to have had a sort of groping idea of what came of woman eating fruit in
the garden of Eden, and they did not choose to take any more chances.
But the missionaries broke up this satisfactory arrangement of things.
They liberated woman and made her the equal of man.

The natives had a romantic fashion of burying some of their children
alive when the family became larger than necessary.  The missionaries
interfered in this matter too, and stopped it.

To this day the natives are able to lie down and die whenever they want
to, whether there is anything the matter with them or not.  If a Kanaka
takes a notion to die, that is the end of him; nobody can persuade him to
hold on; all the doctors in the world could not save him.

A luxury which they enjoy more than anything else, is a large funeral.
If a person wants to get rid of a troublesome native, it is only
necessary to promise him a fine funeral and name the hour and he will be
on hand to the minute--at least his remains will.

All the natives are Christians, now, but many of them still desert to the
Great Shark God for temporary succor in time of trouble.  An irruption of
the great volcano of Kilauea, or an earthquake, always brings a deal of
latent loyalty to the Great Shark God to the surface.  It is common
report that the King, educated, cultivated and refined Christian
gentleman as he undoubtedly is, still turns to the idols of his fathers
for help when disaster threatens.  A planter caught a shark, and one of
his christianized natives testified his emancipation from the thrall of
ancient superstition by assisting to dissect the shark after a fashion
forbidden by his abandoned creed.  But remorse shortly began to torture
him.  He grew moody and sought solitude; brooded over his sin, refused
food, and finally said he must die and ought to die, for he had sinned
against the Great Shark God and could never know peace any more.  He was
proof against persuasion and ridicule, and in the course of a day or two
took to his bed and died, although he showed no symptom of disease.
His young daughter followed his lead and suffered a like fate within the
week.  Superstition is ingrained in the native blood and bone and it is
only natural that it should crop out in time of distress.  Wherever one
goes in the Islands, he will find small piles of stones by the wayside,
covered with leafy offerings, placed there by the natives to appease evil
spirits or honor local deities belonging to the mythology of former days.

In the rural districts of any of the Islands, the traveler hourly comes
upon parties of dusky maidens bathing in the streams or in the sea
without any clothing on and exhibiting no very intemperate zeal in the
matter of hiding their nakedness.  When the missionaries first took up
their residence in Honolulu, the native women would pay their families
frequent friendly visits, day by day, not even clothed with a blush.
It was found a hard matter to convince them that this was rather
indelicate.  Finally the missionaries provided them with long, loose
calico robes, and that ended the difficulty--for the women would troop
through the town, stark naked, with their robes folded under their arms,
march to the missionary houses and then  proceed to dress!--The natives
soon manifested a strong proclivity for clothing, but it was shortly
apparent that they only wanted it for grandeur.  The missionaries
imported a quantity of hats, bonnets, and other male and female wearing
apparel, instituted a general distribution, and begged the people not to
come to church naked, next Sunday, as usual.  And they did not; but the
national spirit of unselfishness led them to divide up with neighbors who
were not at the distribution, and next Sabbath the poor preachers could
hardly keep countenance before their vast congregations.  In the midst of
the reading of a hymn a brown, stately dame would sweep up the aisle with
a world of airs, with nothing in the world on but a "stovepipe" hat and a
pair of cheap gloves; another dame would follow, tricked out in a man's
shirt, and nothing else; another one would enter with a flourish, with
simply the sleeves of a bright calico dress tied around her waist and the
rest of the garment dragging behind like a peacock's tail off duty; a
stately "buck" Kanaka would stalk in with a woman's bonnet on, wrong side
before--only this, and nothing more; after him would stride his fellow,
with the legs of a pair of pantaloons tied around his neck, the rest of
his person untrammeled; in his rear would come another gentleman simply
gotten up in a fiery neck-tie and a striped vest.

The poor creatures were beaming with complacency and wholly unconscious
of any absurdity in their appearance.  They gazed at each other with
happy admiration, and it was plain to see that the young girls were
taking note of what each other had on, as naturally as if they had always
lived in a land of Bibles and knew what churches were made for; here was
the evidence of a dawning civilization.  The spectacle which the
congregation presented was so extraordinary and withal so moving, that
the missionaries found it difficult to keep to the text and go on with
the services; and by and by when the simple children of the sun began a
general swapping of garments in open meeting and produced some
irresistibly grotesque effects in the course of re-dressing, there was
nothing for it but to cut the thing short with the benediction and
dismiss the fantastic assemblage.

In our country, children play "keep house;" and in the same high-sounding
but miniature way the grown folk here, with the poor little material of
slender territory and meagre population, play "empire."  There is his
royal Majesty the King, with a New York detective's income of thirty or
thirty-five thousand dollars a year from the "royal civil list" and the
"royal domain."  He lives in a two-story frame "palace."

And there is the "royal family"--the customary hive of royal brothers,
sisters, cousins and other noble drones and vagrants usual to monarchy,--
all with a spoon in the national pap-dish, and all bearing such titles as
his or her Royal Highness the Prince or Princess So-and-so.  Few of them
can carry their royal splendors far enough to ride in carriages, however;
they sport the economical Kanaka horse or "hoof it" with the plebeians.

Then there is his Excellency the "royal Chamberlain"--a sinecure, for his
majesty dresses himself with his own hands, except when he is ruralizing
at Waikiki and then he requires no dressing.

Next we have his Excellency the Commander-in-chief of the Household
Troops, whose forces consist of about the number of soldiers usually
placed under a corporal in other lands.

Next comes the royal Steward and the Grand Equerry in Waiting--high
dignitaries with modest salaries and little to do.

Then we have his Excellency the First Gentleman of the Bed-chamber--an
office as easy as it is magnificent.

Next we come to his Excellency the Prime Minister, a renegade American
from New Hampshire, all jaw, vanity, bombast and ignorance, a lawyer of
"shyster" calibre, a fraud by nature, a humble worshiper of the sceptre
above him, a reptile never tired of sneering at the land of his birth or
glorifying the ten-acre kingdom that has adopted him--salary, $4,000 a
year, vast consequence, and no perquisites.

Then we have his Excellency the Imperial Minister of Finance, who handles
a million dollars of public money a year, sends in his annual "budget"
with great ceremony, talks prodigiously of "finance," suggests imposing
schemes for paying off the "national debt" (of $150,000,) and does it all
for $4,000 a year and unimaginable glory.

Next we have his Excellency the Minister of War, who holds sway over the
royal armies--they consist of two hundred and thirty uniformed Kanakas,
mostly Brigadier Generals, and if the country ever gets into trouble with
a foreign power we shall probably hear from them.  I knew an American
whose copper-plate visiting card bore this impressive legend:
"Lieutenant-Colonel in the Royal Infantry."  To say that he was proud of
this distinction is stating it but tamely.  The Minister of War has also
in his charge some venerable swivels on Punch-Bowl Hill wherewith royal
salutes are fired when foreign vessels of war enter the port.

Next comes his Excellency the Minister of the Navy--a nabob who rules the
"royal fleet," (a steam-tug and a sixty-ton schooner.)

And next comes his Grace the Lord Bishop of Honolulu, the chief dignitary
of the "Established Church"--for when the American Presbyterian
missionaries had completed the reduction of the nation to a compact
condition of Christianity, native royalty stepped in and erected the
grand dignity of an "Established (Episcopal) Church" over it, and
imported a cheap ready-made Bishop from England to take charge.  The
chagrin of the missionaries has never been comprehensively expressed, to
this day, profanity not being admissible.

Next comes his Excellency the Minister of Public Instruction.

Next, their Excellencies the Governors of Oahu, Hawaii, etc., and after
them a string of High Sheriffs and other small fry too numerous for
computation.

Then there are their Excellencies the Envoy Extraordinary and Minister
Plenipotentiary of his Imperial Majesty the Emperor of the French; her
British Majesty's Minister; the Minister Resident, of the United States;
and some six or eight representatives of other foreign nations, all with
sounding titles, imposing dignity and prodigious but economical state.

Imagine all this grandeur in a play-house "kingdom" whose population
falls absolutely short of sixty thousand souls!

The people are so accustomed to nine-jointed titles and colossal magnates
that a foreign prince makes very little more stir in Honolulu than a
Western Congressman does in New York.

And let it be borne in mind that there is a strictly defined "court
costume" of so "stunning" a nature that it would make the clown in a
circus look tame and commonplace by comparison; and each Hawaiian
official dignitary has a gorgeous vari-colored, gold-laced uniform
peculiar to his office--no two of them are alike, and it is hard to tell
which one is the "loudest."  The King had a "drawing-room" at stated
intervals, like other monarchs, and when these varied uniforms congregate
there--weak-eyed people have to contemplate the spectacle through smoked
glass.  Is there not a gratifying contrast between this latter-day
exhibition and the one the ancestors of some of these magnates afforded
the missionaries the Sunday after the old-time distribution of clothing?
Behold what religion and civilization have wrought!




CHAPTER LXVIII.

While I was in Honolulu I witnessed the ceremonious funeral of the King's
sister, her Royal Highness the Princess Victoria.  According to the royal
custom, the remains had lain in state at the palace thirty days, watched
day and night by a guard of honor.  And during all that time a great
multitude of natives from the several islands had kept the palace grounds
well crowded and had made the place a pandemonium every night with their
howlings and wailings, beating of tom-toms and dancing of the (at other
times) forbidden "hula-hula" by half-clad maidens to the music of songs
of questionable decency chanted in honor of the deceased.  The printed
programme of the funeral procession interested me at the time; and after
what I have just said of Hawaiian grandiloquence in the matter of
"playing empire," I am persuaded that a perusal of it may interest the
reader:

      After reading the long list of dignitaries, etc., and remembering
      the sparseness of the population, one is almost inclined to wonder
      where the material for that portion of the procession devoted to
      "Hawaiian Population Generally" is going to be procured:

Undertaker.
Royal School.  Kawaiahao School.  Roman Catholic School.  Maemae School.
Honolulu Fire Department.
Mechanics' Benefit Union.
Attending Physicians.
Knonohikis (Superintendents) of the Crown Lands, Konohikis of the Private
Lands of His Majesty Konohikis of the Private Lands of Her late Royal
Highness.
Governor of Oahu and Staff.
Hulumanu (Military Company).
Household Troops.
The Prince of Hawaii's Own (Military Company).
The King's household servants.
Servants of Her late Royal Highness.
Protestant Clergy.  The Clergy of the Roman Catholic Church.
His Lordship Louis Maigret, The Right Rev.  Bishop of Arathea, Vicar-
Apostolic of the Hawaiian Islands.
The Clergy of the Hawaiian Reformed Catholic Church.
His Lordship the Right Rev.  Bishop of Honolulu.
Her Majesty Queen Emma's Carriage.
His Majesty's Staff.
Carriage of Her late Royal Highness.
Carriage of Her Majesty the Queen Dowager.
The King's Chancellor.
Cabinet Ministers.
His Excellency the Minister Resident of the United States.
H. B. M's Commissioner.
H. B. M's Acting Commissioner.
Judges of Supreme Court.
Privy Councillors.
Members of Legislative Assembly.
Consular Corps.
Circuit Judges.
Clerks of Government Departments.
Members of the Bar.
Collector General, Custom-house Officers and Officers of the Customs.
Marshal and Sheriffs of the different Islands.
King's Yeomanry.
Foreign Residents.
Ahahui Kaahumanu.
Hawaiian Population Generally.
Hawaiian Cavalry.
Police Force.

I resume my journal at the point where the procession arrived at the
royal mausoleum:

      As the procession filed through the gate, the military deployed
      handsomely to the right and left and formed an avenue through which
      the long column of mourners passed to the tomb.  The coffin was
      borne through the door of the mausoleum, followed by the King and
      his chiefs, the great officers of the kingdom, foreign Consuls,
      Embassadors and distinguished guests (Burlingame and General Van
      Valkenburgh).  Several of the kahilis were then fastened to a frame-
      work in front of the tomb, there to remain until they decay and fall
      to pieces, or, forestalling this, until another scion of royalty
      dies.  At this point of the proceedings the multitude set up such a
      heart-broken wailing as I hope never to hear again.

The soldiers fired three volleys of musketry--the wailing being
previously silenced to permit of the guns being heard.  His Highness
Prince William, in a showy military uniform (the "true prince," this--
scion of the house over-thrown by the present dynasty--he was formerly
betrothed to the Princess but was not allowed to marry her), stood guard
and paced back and forth within the door.  The privileged few who
followed the coffin into the mausoleum remained sometime, but the King
soon came out and stood in the door and near one side of it.  A stranger
could have guessed his rank (although he was so simply and
unpretentiously dressed) by the profound deference paid him by all
persons in his vicinity; by seeing his high officers receive his quiet
orders and suggestions with bowed and uncovered heads; and by observing
how careful those persons who came out of the mausoleum were to avoid
"crowding" him (although there was room enough in the doorway for a wagon
to pass, for that matter); how respectfully they edged out sideways,
scraping their backs against the wall and always presenting a front view
of their persons to his Majesty, and never putting their hats on until
they were well out of the royal presence.

He was dressed entirely in black--dress-coat and silk hat--and looked
rather democratic in the midst of the showy uniforms about him.  On his
breast he wore a large gold star, which was half hidden by the lapel of
his coat.  He remained at the door a half hour, and occasionally gave an
order to the men who were erecting the kahilis [Ranks of long-handled
mops made of gaudy feathers--sacred to royalty.  They are stuck in the
ground around the tomb and left there.]  before the tomb.  He had the
good taste to make one of them substitute black crape for the ordinary
hempen rope he was about to tie one of them to the frame-work with.
Finally he entered his carriage and drove away, and the populace shortly
began to drop into his wake.  While he was in view there was but one man
who attracted more attention than himself, and that was Harris (the
Yankee Prime Minister).  This feeble personage had crape enough around
his hat to express the grief of an entire nation, and as usual he
neglected no opportunity of making himself conspicuous and exciting the
admiration of the simple Kanakas.  Oh! noble ambition of this modern
Richelieu!

It is interesting to contrast the funeral ceremonies of the Princess
Victoria with those of her noted ancestor Kamehameha the Conqueror, who
died fifty years ago--in 1819, the year before the first missionaries
came.

      "On the 8th of May, 1819, at the age of sixty-six, he died, as he
      had lived, in the faith of his country.  It was his misfortune not
      to have come in contact with men who could have rightly influenced
      his religious aspirations.  Judged by his advantages and compared
      with the most eminent of his countrymen he may be justly styled not
      only great, but good.  To this day his memory warms the heart and
      elevates the national feelings of Hawaiians.  They are proud of
      their old warrior King; they love his name; his deeds form their
      historical age; and an enthusiasm everywhere prevails, shared even
      by foreigners who knew his worth, that constitutes the firmest
      pillar of the throne of his dynasty.

      "In lieu of human victims (the custom of that age), a sacrifice of
      three hundred dogs attended his obsequies--no mean holocaust when
      their national value and the estimation in which they were held are
      considered.  The bones of Kamehameha, after being kept for a while,
      were so carefully concealed that all knowledge of their final
      resting place is now lost.  There was a proverb current among the
      common people that the bones of a cruel King could not be hid; they
      made fish-hooks and arrows of them, upon which, in using them, they
      vented their abhorrence of his memory in bitter execrations."

The account of the circumstances of his death, as written by the native
historians, is full of minute detail, but there is scarcely a line of it
which does not mention or illustrate some by-gone custom of the country.
In this respect it is the most comprehensive document I have yet met
with.  I will quote it entire:

      "When Kamehameha was dangerously sick, and the priests were unable
      to cure him, they said: 'Be of good courage and build a house for
      the god' (his own private god or idol), that thou mayest recover.'
      The chiefs corroborated this advice of the priests, and a place of
      worship was prepared for Kukailimoku, and consecrated in the
      evening.  They proposed also to the King, with a view to prolong his
      life, that human victims should be sacrificed to his deity; upon
      which the greater part of the people absconded through fear of
      death, and concealed themselves in hiding places till the tabu [Tabu
      (pronounced tah-boo,) means prohibition (we have borrowed it,) or
      sacred.  The tabu was sometimes permanent, sometimes temporary; and
      the person or thing placed under tabu was for the time being sacred
      to the purpose for which it was set apart.  In the above case the
      victims selected under the tabu would be sacred to the sacrifice]
      in which destruction impended, was past.  It is doubtful whether
      Kamehameha approved of the plan of the chiefs and priests to
      sacrifice men, as he was known to say, 'The men are sacred for the
      King;' meaning that they were for the service of his successor.
      This information was derived from Liholiho, his son.

      "After this, his sickness increased to such a degree that he had not
      strength to turn himself in his bed.  When another season,
      consecrated for worship at the new temple (heiau) arrived, he said
      to his son, Liholiho, 'Go thou and make supplication to thy god; I
      am not able to go, and will offer my prayers at home.'  When his
      devotions to his feathered god, Kukailimoku, were concluded, a
      certain religiously disposed individual, who had a bird god,
      suggested to the King that through its influence his sickness might
      be removed.  The name of this god was Pua; its body was made of a
      bird, now eaten by the Hawaiians, and called in their language alae.
      Kamehameha was willing that a trial should be made, and two houses
      were constructed to facilitate the experiment; but while dwelling in
      them he became so very weak as not to receive food.  After lying
      there three days, his wives, children and chiefs, perceiving that he
      was very low, returned him to his own house.  In the evening he was
      carried to the eating house,  where he took a little food in his
      mouth which he did not swallow; also a cup of water.  The chiefs
      requested him to give them his counsel; but he made no reply, and
      was carried back to the dwelling house; but when near midnight--ten
      o'clock, perhaps--he was carried again to the place to eat; but, as
      before, he merely tasted of what was presented to him.  Then
      Kaikioewa addressed him thus: 'Here we all are, your younger
      brethren, your son Liholiho and your foreigner; impart to us your
      dying charge, that Liholiho and Kaahumanu may hear.' Then Kamehameha
      inquired, 'What do you say?' Kaikioewa repeated, 'Your counsels for
      us.'

      "He then said, 'Move on in my good way and--.' He could proceed no
      further.  The foreigner, Mr. Young, embraced and kissed him.
      Hoapili also embraced him, whispering something in his ear, after
      which he was taken back to the house.  About twelve he was carried
      once more to the house for eating, into which his head entered,
      while his body was in the dwelling house immediately adjoining.  It
      should be remarked that this frequent carrying of a sick chief from
      one house to another resulted from the tabu system, then in force.
      There were at that time six houses (huts) connected with an
      establishment--one was for worship, one for the men to eat in, an
      eating house for the women, a house to sleep in, a house in which to
      manufacture kapa (native cloth) and one where, at certain intervals,
      the women might dwell in seclusion.

      "The sick was once more taken to his house, when he expired; this
      was at two o'clock, a circumstance from which Leleiohoku derived his
      name.  As he breathed his last, Kalaimoku came to the eating house
      to order those in it to go out.  There were two aged persons thus
      directed to depart; one went, the other remained on account of love
      to the King, by whom he had formerly been kindly sustained.  The
      children also were sent away.  Then Kalaimoku came to the house, and
      the chiefs had a consultation.  One of them spoke thus: 'This is my
      thought--we will eat him raw. [This sounds suspicious, in view of
      the fact that all Sandwich Island historians, white and black,
      protest that cannibalism never existed in the islands.  However,
      since they only proposed to "eat him raw" we "won't count that".
      But it would certainly have been cannibalism if they had cooked
      him.--M.  T.]  Kaahumanu (one of the dead King's widows) replied,
      'Perhaps his body is not at our disposal; that is more properly with
      his successor.  Our part in him--his breath--has departed; his
      remains will be disposed of by Liholiho.'

      "After this conversation the body was taken into the consecrated
      house for the performance of the proper rites by the priest and the
      new King.  The name of this ceremony is uko; and when the sacred hog
      was baked the priest offered it to the dead body, and it became a
      god, the King at the same time repeating the customary prayers.

      "Then the priest, addressing himself to the King and chiefs, said:
      'I will now make known to you the rules to be observed respecting
      persons to be sacrificed on the burial of this body.  If you obtain
      one man before the corpse is removed, one will be sufficient; but
      after it leaves this house four will be required.  If delayed until
      we carry the corpse to the grave there must be ten; but after it is
      deposited in the grave there must be fifteen.  To-morrow morning
      there will be a tabu, and, if the sacrifice be delayed until that
      time, forty men must die.'

      "Then the high priest, Hewahewa, inquired of the chiefs, 'Where
      shall be the residence of King Liholiho?'  They replied, 'Where,
      indeed?  You, of all men, ought to know.'  Then the priest observed,
      'There are two suitable places; one is Kau, the other is Kohala.'
      The chiefs preferred the latter, as it was more thickly inhabited.
      The priest added, 'These are proper places for the King's residence;
      but he must not remain in Kona, for it is polluted.'  This was
      agreed to.  It was now break of day.  As he was being carried to the
      place of burial the people perceived that their King was dead, and
      they wailed.  When the corpse was removed from the house to the
      tomb, a distance of one chain, the procession was met by a certain
      man who was ardently attached to the deceased.  He leaped upon the
      chiefs who were carrying the King's body; he desired to die with him
      on account of his love.  The chiefs drove him away.  He persisted in
      making numerous attempts, which were unavailing.  Kalaimoka also had
      it in his heart to die with him, but was prevented by Hookio.

      "The morning following Kamehameha's death, Liholiho and his train
      departed for Kohala, according to the suggestions of the priest, to
      avoid the defilement occasioned by the dead.  At this time if a
      chief died the land was polluted, and the heirs sought a residence
      in another part of the country until the corpse was dissected and
      the bones tied in a bundle, which being done, the season of
      defilement terminated.  If the deceased were not a chief, the house
      only was defiled which became pure again on the burial of the body.
      Such were the laws on this subject.

      "On the morning on which Liholiho sailed in his canoe for Kohala,
      the chiefs and people mourned after their manner on occasion of a
      chief's death, conducting themselves like madmen and like beasts.
      Their conduct was such as to forbid description; The priests, also,
      put into action the sorcery apparatus, that the person who had
      prayed the King to death might die; for it was not believed that
      Kamehameha's departure was the effect either of sickness or old age.
      When the sorcerers set up by their fire-places sticks with a strip
      of kapa flying at the top, the chief Keeaumoku, Kaahumaun's brother,
      came in a state of intoxication and broke the flag-staff of the
      sorcerers, from which it was inferred that Kaahumanu and her friends
      had been instrumental in the King's death.  On this account they
      were subjected to abuse."

You have the contrast, now, and a strange one it is.  This great Queen,
Kaahumanu, who was "subjected to abuse" during the frightful orgies that
followed the King's death, in accordance with ancient custom, afterward
became a devout Christian and a steadfast and powerful friend of the
missionaries.

Dogs were, and still are, reared and fattened for food, by the natives--
hence the reference to their value in one of the above paragraphs.

Forty years ago it was the custom in the Islands to suspend all law for a
certain number of days after the death of a royal personage; and then a
saturnalia ensued which one may picture to himself after a fashion, but
not in the full horror of the reality.  The people shaved their heads,
knocked out a tooth or two, plucked out an eye sometimes, cut, bruised,
mutilated or burned their flesh, got drunk, burned each other's huts,
maimed or murdered one another according to the caprice of the moment,
and both sexes gave themselves up to brutal and unbridled licentiousness.

And after it all, came a torpor from which the nation slowly emerged
bewildered and dazed, as if from a hideous half-remembered nightmare.
They were not the salt of the earth, those "gentle children of the sun."

The natives still keep up an old custom of theirs which cannot be
comforting to an invalid.  When they think a sick friend is going to die,
a couple of dozen neighbors surround his hut and keep up a deafening
wailing night and day till he either dies or gets well.  No doubt this
arrangement has helped many a subject to a shroud before his appointed
time.

They surround a hut and wail in the same heart-broken way when its
occupant returns from a journey.  This is their dismal idea of a welcome.
A very little of it would go a great way with most of us.




CHAPTER LXIX.

Bound for Hawaii (a hundred and fifty miles distant,) to visit the great
volcano and behold the other notable things which distinguish that island
above the remainder of the group, we sailed from Honolulu on a certain
Saturday afternoon, in the good schooner Boomerang.

The Boomerang was about as long as two street cars, and about as wide as
one.  She was so small (though she was larger than the majority of the
inter-island coasters) that when I stood on her deck I felt but little
smaller than the Colossus of Rhodes must have felt when he had a man-of-
war under him.  I could reach the water when she lay over under a strong
breeze.  When the Captain and my comrade (a Mr. Billings), myself and
four other persons were all assembled on the little after portion of the
deck which is sacred to the cabin passengers, it was full--there was not
room for any more quality folks.  Another section of the deck, twice as
large as ours, was full of natives of both sexes, with their customary
dogs, mats, blankets, pipes, calabashes of poi, fleas, and other luxuries
and baggage of minor importance.  As soon as we set sail the natives all
lay down on the deck as thick as negroes in a slave-pen, and smoked,
conversed, and spit on each other, and were truly sociable.

The little low-ceiled cabin below was rather larger than a hearse, and as
dark as a vault.  It had two coffins on each side--I mean two bunks.
A small table, capable of accommodating three persons at dinner, stood
against the forward bulkhead, and over it hung the dingiest whale oil
lantern that ever peopled the obscurity of a dungeon with ghostly shapes.
The floor room unoccupied was not extensive.  One might swing a cat in
it, perhaps, but not a long cat.  The hold forward of the bulkhead had
but little freight in it, and from morning till night a portly old
rooster, with a voice like Baalam's ass, and the same disposition to use
it, strutted up and down in that part of the vessel and crowed.  He
usually took dinner at six o'clock, and then, after an hour devoted to
meditation, he mounted a barrel and crowed a good part of the night.
He got hoarser all the time, but he scorned to allow any personal
consideration to interfere with his duty, and kept up his labors in
defiance of threatened diphtheria.

Sleeping was out of the question when he was on watch.  He was a source
of genuine aggravation and annoyance.  It was worse than useless to shout
at him or apply offensive epithets to him--he only took these things for
applause, and strained himself to make more noise.  Occasionally, during
the day, I threw potatoes at him through an aperture in the bulkhead, but
he only dodged and went on crowing.

The first night, as I lay in my coffin, idly watching the dim lamp
swinging to the rolling of the ship, and snuffing the nauseous odors of
bilge water, I felt something gallop over me.  I turned out promptly.
However, I turned in again when I found it was only a rat.  Presently
something galloped over me once more.  I knew it was not a rat this time,
and I thought it might be a centipede, because the Captain had killed one
on deck in the afternoon.  I turned out.  The first glance at the pillow
showed me repulsive sentinel perched upon each end of it--cockroaches as
large as peach leaves--fellows with long, quivering antennae and fiery,
malignant eyes.  They were grating their teeth like tobacco worms, and
appeared to be dissatisfied about something.  I had often heard that
these reptiles were in the habit of eating off sleeping sailors' toe
nails down to the quick, and I would not get in the bunk any more.  I lay
down on the floor.  But a rat came and bothered me, and shortly afterward
a procession of cockroaches arrived and camped in my hair.  In a few
moments the rooster was crowing with uncommon spirit and a party of fleas
were throwing double somersaults about my person in the wildest disorder,
and taking a bite every time they struck.  I was beginning to feel really
annoyed.  I got up and put my clothes on and went on deck.

The above is not overdrawn; it is a truthful sketch of inter-island
schooner life.  There is no such thing as keeping a vessel in elegant
condition, when she carries molasses and Kanakas.

It was compensation for my sufferings to come unexpectedly upon so
beautiful a scene as met my eye--to step suddenly out of the sepulchral
gloom of the cabin and stand under the strong light of the moon--in the
centre, as it were, of a glittering sea of liquid silver--to see the
broad sails straining in the gale, the ship heeled over on her side, the
angry foam hissing past her lee bulwarks, and sparkling sheets of spray
dashing high over her bows and raining upon her decks; to brace myself
and hang fast to the first object that presented itself, with hat jammed
down and coat tails whipping in the breeze, and feel that exhilaration
that thrills in one's hair and quivers down his back bone when he knows
that every inch of canvas is drawing and the vessel cleaving through the
waves at her utmost speed.  There was no darkness, no dimness, no
obscurity there.  All was brightness, every object was vividly defined.
Every prostrate Kanaka; every coil of rope; every calabash of poi; every
puppy; every seam in the flooring; every bolthead; every object; however
minute, showed sharp and distinct in its every outline; and the shadow of
the broad mainsail lay black as a pall upon the deck, leaving Billings's
white upturned face glorified and his body in a total eclipse.
Monday morning we were close to the island of Hawaii.  Two of its high
mountains were in view--Mauna Loa and Hualaiai.

The latter is an imposing peak, but being only ten thousand feet high is
seldom mentioned or heard of.  Mauna Loa is said to be sixteen thousand
feet high.  The rays of glittering snow and ice, that clasped its summit
like a claw, looked refreshing when viewed from the blistering climate we
were in.  One could stand on that mountain (wrapped up in blankets and
furs to keep warm), and while he nibbled a snowball or an icicle to
quench his thirst he could look down the long sweep of its sides and see
spots where plants are growing that grow only where the bitter cold of
Winter prevails; lower down he could see sections devoted to production
that thrive in the temperate zone alone; and at the bottom of the
mountain he could see the home of the tufted cocoa-palms and other
species of vegetation that grow only in the sultry atmosphere of eternal
Summer.  He could see all the climes of the world at a single glance of
the eye, and that glance would only pass over a distance of four or five
miles as the bird flies!

By and by we took boat and went ashore at Kailua, designing to ride
horseback through the pleasant orange and coffee region of Kona, and
rejoin the vessel at a point some leagues distant.  This journey is well
worth taking.  The trail passes along on high ground--say a thousand feet
above sea level--and usually about a mile distant from the ocean, which
is always in sight, save that occasionally you find yourself buried in
the forest in the midst of a rank tropical vegetation and a dense growth
of trees, whose great bows overarch the road and shut out sun and sea and
everything, and leave you in a dim, shady tunnel, haunted with invisible
singing birds and fragrant with the odor of flowers.  It was pleasant to
ride occasionally in the warm sun, and feast the eye upon the ever-
changing panorama of the forest (beyond and below us), with its many
tints, its softened lights and shadows, its billowy undulations sweeping
gently down from the mountain to the sea.  It was pleasant also, at
intervals, to leave the sultry sun and pass into the cool, green depths
of this forest and indulge in sentimental reflections under the
inspiration of its brooding twilight and its whispering foliage.
We rode through one orange grove that had ten thousand tree in it!
They were all laden with fruit.

At one farmhouse we got some large peaches of excellent flavor.
This fruit, as a general thing, does not do well in the Sandwich Islands.
It takes a sort of almond shape, and is small and bitter.  It needs
frost, they say, and perhaps it does; if this be so, it will have a good
opportunity to go on needing it, as it will not be likely to get it.
The trees from which the fine fruit I have spoken of, came, had been
planted and replanted sixteen times, and to this treatment the proprietor
of the orchard attributed his-success.

We passed several sugar plantations--new ones and not very extensive.
The crops were, in most cases, third rattoons.  [NOTE.--The first crop is
called "plant cane;" subsequent crops which spring from the original
roots, without replanting, are called "rattoons."] Almost everywhere on
the island of Hawaii sugar-cane matures in twelve months, both rattoons
and plant, and although it ought to be taken off as soon as it tassels,
no doubt, it is not absolutely necessary to do it until about four months
afterward.  In Kona, the average yield of an acre of ground is two tons
of sugar, they say.  This is only a moderate yield for these islands, but
would be astounding for Louisiana and most other sugar growing countries.
The plantations in Kona being on pretty high ground--up among the light
and frequent rains--no irrigation whatever is required.




CHAPTER LXX.

We stopped some time at one of the plantations, to rest ourselves and
refresh the horses.  We had a chatty conversation with several gentlemen
present; but there was one person, a middle aged man, with an absent look
in his face, who simply glanced up, gave us good-day and lapsed again
into the meditations which our coming had interrupted.  The planters
whispered us not to mind him--crazy.  They said he was in the Islands for
his health; was a preacher; his home, Michigan.  They said that if he
woke up presently and fell to talking about a correspondence which he had
some time held with Mr. Greeley about a trifle of some kind, we must
humor him and listen with interest; and we must humor his fancy that this
correspondence was the talk of the world.

It was easy to see that he was a gentle creature and that his madness had
nothing vicious in it.  He looked pale, and a little worn, as if with
perplexing thought and anxiety of mind.  He sat a long time, looking at
the floor, and at intervals muttering to himself and nodding his head
acquiescingly or shaking it in mild protest.  He was lost in his thought,
or in his memories.  We continued our talk with the planters, branching
from subject to subject.  But at last the word "circumstance," casually
dropped, in the course of conversation, attracted his attention and
brought an eager look into his countenance.  He faced about in his chair
and said:

"Circumstance?  What circumstance?  Ah, I know--I know too well.  So you
have heard of it too."  [With a sigh.] "Well, no matter--all the world
has heard of it.  All the world.  The whole world.  It is a large world,
too, for a thing to travel so far in--now isn't it?  Yes, yes--the
Greeley correspondence with Erickson has created the saddest and
bitterest controversy on both sides of the ocean--and still they keep it
up!  It makes us famous, but at what a sorrowful sacrifice!  I was so
sorry when I heard that it had caused that bloody and distressful war
over there in Italy.  It was little comfort to me, after so much
bloodshed, to know that the victors sided with me, and the vanquished
with Greeley.--It is little comfort to know that Horace Greeley is
responsible for the battle of Sadowa, and not me.

"Queen Victoria wrote me that she felt just as I did about it--she said
that as much as she was opposed to Greeley and the spirit he showed in
the correspondence with me, she would not have had Sadowa happen for
hundreds of dollars.  I can show you her letter, if you would like to see
it.  But gentlemen, much as you may think you know about that unhappy
correspondence, you cannot know the straight of it till you hear it from
my lips.  It has always been garbled in the journals, and even in
history.  Yes, even in history--think of it!  Let me--please let me, give
you the matter, exactly as it occurred.  I truly will not abuse your
confidence."

Then he leaned forward, all interest, all earnestness, and told his
story--and told it appealingly, too, and yet in the simplest and most
unpretentious way; indeed, in such a way as to suggest to one, all the
time, that this was a faithful, honorable witness, giving evidence in the
sacred interest of justice, and under oath.  He said:

"Mrs. Beazeley--Mrs. Jackson Beazeley, widow, of the village of
Campbellton, Kansas,--wrote me about a matter which was near her heart
--a matter which many might think trivial, but to her it was a thing of
deep concern.  I was living in Michigan, then--serving in the ministry.
She was, and is, an estimable woman--a woman to whom poverty and hardship
have proven incentives to industry, in place of discouragements.
Her only treasure was her son William, a youth just verging upon manhood;
religious, amiable, and sincerely attached to agriculture.  He was the
widow's comfort and her pride.  And so, moved by her love for him, she
wrote me about a matter, as I have said before, which lay near her heart
--because it lay near her boy's.  She desired me to confer with
Mr. Greeley about turnips.  Turnips were the dream of her child's young
ambition.  While other youths were frittering away in frivolous
amusements the precious years of budding vigor which God had given them
for useful preparation, this boy was patiently enriching his mind with
information concerning turnips.  The sentiment which he felt toward the
turnip was akin to adoration.  He could not think of the turnip without
emotion; he could not speak of it calmly; he could not contemplate it
without exaltation.  He could not eat it without shedding tears.  All the
poetry in his sensitive nature was in sympathy with the gracious
vegetable.  With the earliest pipe of dawn he sought his patch, and when
the curtaining night drove him from it he shut himself up with his books
and garnered statistics till sleep overcame him.  On rainy days he sat
and talked hours together with his mother about turnips.  When company
came, he made it his loving duty to put aside everything else and
converse with them all the day long of his great joy in the turnip.

"And yet, was this joy rounded and complete?  Was there no secret alloy of
unhappiness in it?  Alas, there was.  There was a canker gnawing at his
heart; the noblest inspiration of his soul eluded his endeavor--viz: he
could not make of the turnip a climbing vine.  Months went by; the bloom
forsook his cheek, the fire faded out of his eye; sighings and
abstraction usurped the place of smiles and cheerful converse.  But a
watchful eye noted these things and in time a motherly sympathy unsealed
the secret.  Hence the letter to me.  She pleaded for attention--she said
her boy was dying by inches.

"I was a stranger to Mr. Greeley, but what of that?  The matter was
urgent.  I wrote and begged him to solve the difficult problem if
possible and save the student's life.  My interest grew, until it partook
of the anxiety of the mother.  I waited in much suspense.--At last the
answer came.

"I found that I could not read it readily, the handwriting being
unfamiliar and my emotions somewhat wrought up.  It seemed to refer in
part to the boy's case, but chiefly to other and irrelevant matters--such
as paving-stones, electricity, oysters, and something which I took to be
'absolution' or 'agrarianism,' I could not be certain which; still, these
appeared to be simply casual mentions, nothing more; friendly in spirit,
without doubt, but lacking the connection or coherence necessary to make
them useful.--I judged that my understanding was affected by my feelings,
and so laid the letter away till morning.

"In the morning I read it again, but with difficulty and uncertainty
still, for I had lost some little rest and my mental vision seemed
clouded.  The note was more connected, now, but did not meet the
emergency it was expected to meet.  It was too discursive.  It appeared
to read as follows, though I was not certain of some of the words:

      "Polygamy dissembles majesty; extracts redeem polarity; causes
      hitherto exist.  Ovations pursue wisdom, or warts inherit and
      condemn.  Boston, botany, cakes, folony undertakes, but who shall
      allay?  We fear not.  Yrxwly,
                               HEVACE EVEELOJ.'

"But there did not seem to be a word about turnips.  There seemed to be
no suggestion as to how they might be made to grow like vines.  There was
not even a reference to the Beazeleys.  I slept upon the matter; I ate no
supper, neither any breakfast next morning.  So I resumed my work with a
brain refreshed, and was very hopeful.  Now the letter took a different
aspect-all save the signature, which latter I judged to be only a
harmless affectation of Hebrew.  The epistle was necessarily from Mr.
Greeley, for it bore the printed heading of The Tribune, and I had
written to no one else there.  The letter, I say, had taken a different
aspect, but still its language was eccentric and avoided the issue.  It
now appeared to say:

      "Bolivia extemporizes mackerel; borax esteems polygamy; sausages
      wither in the east.  Creation perdu, is done; for woes inherent one
      can damn.  Buttons, buttons, corks, geology underrates but we shall
      allay.  My beer's out.  Yrxwly,
                                         HEVACE EVEELOJ.'

"I was evidently overworked.  My comprehension was impaired.  Therefore I
gave two days to recreation, and then returned to my task greatly
refreshed.  The letter now took this form:

      "Poultices do sometimes choke swine; tulips reduce posterity; causes
      leather to resist.  Our notions empower wisdom, her let's afford
      while we can.  Butter but any cakes, fill any undertaker, we'll wean
      him from his filly.  We feel hot.
                                    Yrxwly, HEVACE EVEELOJ.'

"I was still not satisfied.  These generalities did not meet the
question.  They were crisp, and vigorous, and delivered with a confidence
that almost compelled conviction; but at such a time as this, with a
human life at stake, they seemed inappropriate, worldly, and in bad
taste.  At any other time I would have been not only glad, but proud, to
receive from a man like Mr. Greeley a letter of this kind, and would have
studied it earnestly and tried to improve myself all I could; but now,
with that poor boy in his far home languishing for relief, I had no heart
for learning.

"Three days passed by, and I read the note again.  Again its tenor had
changed.  It now appeared to say:

      "Potations do sometimes wake wines; turnips restrain passion; causes
      necessary to state.  Infest the poor widow; her lord's effects will
      be void.  But dirt, bathing, etc., etc., followed unfairly, will
      worm him from his folly--so swear not.
                                              Yrxwly, HEVACE EVEELOJ.'

"This was more like it.  But I was unable to proceed.  I was too much
worn.  The word 'turnips' brought temporary joy and encouragement, but my
strength was so much impaired, and the delay might be so perilous for the
boy, that I relinquished the idea of pursuing the translation further,
and resolved to do what I ought to have done at first.  I sat down and
wrote Mr. Greeley as follows:

      "DEAR SIR: I fear I do not entirely comprehend your kind note.  It
      cannot be possible, Sir, that 'turnips restrain passion'--at least
      the study or contemplation of turnips cannot--for it is this very
      employment that has scorched our poor friend's mind and sapped his
      bodily strength.--But if they do restrain it, will you bear with us
      a little further and explain how they should be prepared?  I observe
      that you say 'causes necessary to state,' but you have omitted to
      state them.

      "Under a misapprehension, you seem to attribute to me interested
      motives in this matter--to call it by no harsher term.  But I assure
      you, dear sir, that if I seem to be 'infesting the widow,' it is all
      seeming, and void of reality.  It is from no seeking of mine that I
      am in this position.  She asked me, herself, to write you.  I never
      have infested her--indeed I scarcely know her.  I do not infest
      anybody.  I try to go along, in my humble way, doing as near right
      as I can, never harming anybody, and never throwing out
      insinuations.  As for 'her lord and his effects,' they are of no
      interest to me.  I trust I have effects enough of my own--shall
      endeavor to get along with them, at any rate, and not go mousing
      around to get hold of somebody's that are 'void.'  But do you not
      see?--this woman is a widow--she has no 'lord.'  He is dead--or
      pretended to be, when they buried him.  Therefore, no amount of
      'dirt, bathing,' etc., etc., howsoever 'unfairly followed' will be
      likely to 'worm him from his folly'--if being dead and a ghost is
      'folly.'  Your closing remark is as unkind as it was uncalled for;
      and if report says true you might have applied it to yourself, sir,
      with more point and less impropriety.
                               Very Truly Yours, SIMON ERICKSON.

"In the course of a few days, Mr. Greely did what would have saved a
world of trouble, and much mental and bodily suffering and
misunderstanding, if he had done it sooner.  To wit, he sent an
intelligible rescript or translation of his original note, made in a
plain hand by his clerk.  Then the mystery cleared, and I saw that his
heart had been right, all the time.  I will recite the note in its
clarified form:

      [Translation.]
      'Potatoes do sometimes make vines; turnips remain passive: cause
      unnecessary to state.  Inform the poor widow her lad's efforts will
      be vain.  But diet, bathing, etc.  etc., followed uniformly, will
      wean him from his folly--so fear not.
                                         Yours, HORACE GREELEY.'

"But alas, it was too late, gentlemen--too late.  The criminal delay had
done its work--young Beazely was no more.  His spirit had taken its
flight to a land where all anxieties shall be charmed away, all desires
gratified, all ambitions realized.  Poor lad, they laid him to his rest
with a turnip in each hand."

So ended Erickson, and lapsed again into nodding, mumbling, and
abstraction.  The company broke up, and left him so....  But they did not
say what drove him crazy.  In the momentary confusion, I forgot to ask.




CHAPTER LXXI.

At four o'clock in the afternoon we were winding down a mountain of
dreary and desolate lava to the sea, and closing our pleasant land
journey.  This lava is the accumulation of ages; one torrent of fire
after another has rolled down here in old times, and built up the island
structure higher and higher.  Underneath, it is honey-combed with caves;
it would be of no use to dig wells in such a place; they would not hold
water--you would not find any for them to hold, for that matter.
Consequently, the planters depend upon cisterns.

The last lava flow occurred here so long ago that there are none now
living who witnessed it.  In one place it enclosed and burned down a
grove of cocoa-nut trees, and the holes in the lava where the trunks
stood are still visible; their sides retain the impression of the bark;
the trees fell upon the burning river, and becoming partly submerged,
left in it the perfect counterpart of every knot and branch and leaf,
and even nut, for curiosity seekers of a long distant day to gaze upon
and wonder at.

There were doubtless plenty of Kanaka sentinels on guard hereabouts at
that time, but they did not leave casts of their figures in the lava as
the Roman sentinels at Herculaneum and Pompeii did.  It is a pity it is
so, because such things are so interesting; but so it is.  They probably
went away.  They went away early, perhaps.  However, they had their
merits; the Romans exhibited the higher pluck, but the Kanakas showed the
sounder judgment.

Shortly we came in sight of that spot whose history is so familiar to
every school-boy in the wide world--Kealakekua Bay--the place where
Captain Cook, the great circumnavigator, was killed by the natives,
nearly a hundred years ago.  The setting sun was flaming upon it, a
Summer shower was falling, and it was spanned by two magnificent
rainbows.  Two men who were in advance of us rode through one of these
and for a moment their garments shone with a more than regal splendor.
Why did not Captain Cook have taste enough to call his great discovery
the Rainbow Islands?  These charming spectacles are present to you at
every turn; they are common in all the islands; they are visible every
day, and frequently at night also--not the silvery bow we see once in an
age in the States, by moonlight, but barred with all bright and beautiful
colors, like the children of the sun and rain.  I saw one of them a few
nights ago.  What the sailors call "raindogs"--little patches of rainbow
--are often seen drifting about the heavens in these latitudes, like
stained cathedral windows.

Kealakekua Bay is a little curve like the last kink of a snail-shell,
winding deep into the land, seemingly not more than a mile wide from
shore to shore.  It is bounded on one side--where the murder was done--by
a little flat plain, on which stands a cocoanut grove and some ruined
houses; a steep wall of lava, a thousand feet high at the upper end and
three or four hundred at the lower, comes down from the mountain and
bounds the inner extremity of it.  From this wall the place takes its
name, Kealakekua, which in the native tongue signifies "The Pathway of
the Gods."  They say, (and still believe, in spite of their liberal
education in Christianity), that the great god Lono, who used to live
upon the hillside, always traveled that causeway when urgent business
connected with heavenly affairs called him down to the seashore in a
hurry.

As the red sun looked across the placid ocean through the tall, clean
stems of the cocoanut trees, like a blooming whiskey bloat through the
bars of a city prison, I went and stood in the edge of the water on the
flat rock pressed by Captain Cook's feet when the blow was dealt which
took away his life, and tried to picture in my mind the doomed man
struggling in the midst of the multitude of exasperated savages--the men
in the ship crowding to the vessel's side and gazing in anxious dismay
toward the shore--the--but I discovered that I could not do it.

It was growing dark, the rain began to fall, we could see that the
distant Boomerang was helplessly becalmed at sea, and so I adjourned to
the cheerless little box of a warehouse and sat down to smoke and think,
and wish the ship would make the land--for we had not eaten much for ten
hours and were viciously hungry.

Plain unvarnished history takes the romance out of Captain Cook's
assassination, and renders a deliberate verdict of justifiable homicide.
Wherever he went among the islands, he was cordially received and
welcomed by the inhabitants, and his ships lavishly supplied with all
manner of food.  He returned these kindnesses with insult and ill-
treatment.  Perceiving that the people took him for the long vanished and
lamented god Lono, he encouraged them in the delusion for the sake of the
limitless power it gave him; but during the famous disturbance at this
spot, and while he and his comrades were surrounded by fifteen thousand
maddened savages, he received a hurt and betrayed his earthly origin with
a groan.  It was his death-warrant.  Instantly a shout went up: "He
groans!--he is not a god!" So they closed in upon him and dispatched him.

His flesh was stripped from the bones and burned (except nine pounds of
it which were sent on board the ships).  The heart was hung up in a
native hut, where it was found and eaten by three children, who mistook
it for the heart of a dog.  One of these children grew to be a very old
man, and died in Honolulu a few years ago.  Some of Cook's bones were
recovered and consigned to the deep by the officers of the ships.

Small blame should attach to the natives for the killing of Cook.
They treated him well.  In return, he abused them.  He and his men
inflicted bodily injury upon many of them at different times, and killed
at least three of them before they offered any proportionate retaliation.

Near the shore we found "Cook's Monument"--only a cocoanut stump, four
feet high and about a foot in diameter at the butt.  It had lava boulders
piled around its base to hold it up and keep it in its place, and it was
entirely sheathed over, from top to bottom, with rough, discolored sheets
of copper, such as ships' bottoms are coppered with.  Each sheet had a
rude inscription scratched upon it--with a nail, apparently--and in every
case the execution was wretched.  Most of these merely recorded the
visits of British naval commanders to the spot, but one of them bore this
legend:

     "Near this spot fell
      CAPTAIN JAMES COOK,
      The Distinguished Circumnavigator,
      Who Discovered these Islands
      A. D.  1778."

After Cook's murder, his second in command, on board the ship, opened
fire upon the swarms of natives on the beach, and one of his cannon balls
cut this cocoanut tree short off and left this monumental stump standing.
It looked sad and lonely enough to us, out there in the rainy twilight.
But there is no other monument to Captain Cook.  True, up on the mountain
side we had passed by a large inclosure like an ample hog-pen, built of
lava blocks, which marks the spot where Cook's flesh was stripped from
his bones and burned; but this is not properly a monument since it was
erected by the natives themselves, and less to do honor to the
circumnavigator than for the sake of convenience in roasting him.
A thing like a guide-board was elevated above this pen on a tall pole,
and formerly there was an inscription upon it describing the memorable
occurrence that had there taken place; but the sun and the wind have long
ago so defaced it as to render it illegible.

Toward midnight a fine breeze sprang up and the schooner soon worked
herself into the bay and cast anchor.  The boat came ashore for us, and
in a little while the clouds and the rain were all gone.  The moon was
beaming tranquilly down on land and sea, and we two were stretched upon
the deck sleeping the refreshing sleep and dreaming the happy dreams that
are only vouchsafed to the weary and the innocent.




CHAPTER LXXII.

In the breezy morning we went ashore and visited the ruined temple of the
last god Lono.  The high chief cook of this temple--the priest who
presided over it and roasted the human sacrifices--was uncle to Obookia,
and at one time that youth was an apprentice-priest under him.  Obookia
was a young native of fine mind, who, together with three other native
boys, was taken to New England by the captain of a whaleship during the
reign of Kamehameha I, and they were the means of attracting the
attention of the religious world to their country.  This resulted in the
sending of missionaries there.  And this Obookia was the very same
sensitive savage who sat down on the church steps and wept because his
people did not have the Bible.  That incident has been very elaborately
painted in many a charming Sunday School book--aye, and told so
plaintively and so tenderly that I have cried over it in Sunday School
myself, on general principles, although at a time when I did not know
much and could not understand why the people of the Sandwich Islands
needed to worry so much about it as long as they did not know there was a
Bible at all.

Obookia was converted and educated, and was to have returned to his
native land with the first missionaries, had he lived.  The other native
youths made the voyage, and two of them did good service, but the third,
William Kanui, fell from grace afterward, for a time, and when the gold
excitement broke out in California he journeyed thither and went to
mining, although he was fifty years old.  He succeeded pretty well, but
the failure of Page, Bacon & Co. relieved him of six thousand dollars,
and then, to all intents and purposes, he was a bankrupt in his old age
and he resumed service in the pulpit again.  He died in Honolulu in 1864.

Quite a broad tract of land near the temple, extending from the sea to
the mountain top, was sacred to the god Lono in olden times--so sacred
that if a common native set his sacrilegious foot upon it it was
judicious for him to make his will, because his time had come.  He might
go around it by water, but he could not cross it.  It was well sprinkled
with pagan temples and stocked with awkward, homely idols carved out of
logs of wood.  There was a temple devoted to prayers for rain--and with
fine sagacity it was placed at a point so well up on the mountain side
that if you prayed there twenty-four times a day for rain you would be
likely to get it every time.  You would seldom get to your Amen before
you would have to hoist your umbrella.

And there was a large temple near at hand which was built in a single
night, in the midst of storm and thunder and rain, by the ghastly hands
of dead men!  Tradition says that by the weird glare of the lightning a
noiseless multitude of phantoms were seen at their strange labor far up
the mountain side at dead of night--flitting hither and thither and
bearing great lava-blocks clasped in their nerveless fingers--appearing
and disappearing as the pallid lustre fell upon their forms and faded
away again.  Even to this day, it is said, the natives hold this dread
structure in awe and reverence, and will not pass by it in the night.

At noon I observed a bevy of nude native young ladies bathing in the sea,
and went and sat down on their clothes to keep them from being stolen.
I begged them to come out, for the sea was rising and I was satisfied
that they were running some risk.  But they were not afraid, and
presently went on with their sport.  They were finished swimmers and
divers, and enjoyed themselves to the last degree.

They swam races, splashed and ducked and tumbled each other about, and
filled the air with their laughter.  It is said that the first thing an
Islander learns is how to swim; learning to walk being a matter of
smaller consequence, comes afterward.  One hears tales of native men and
women swimming ashore from vessels many miles at sea--more miles, indeed,
than I dare vouch for or even mention.  And they tell of a native diver
who went down in thirty or forty-foot waters and brought up an anvil!
I think he swallowed the anvil afterward, if my memory serves me.
However I will not urge this point.

I have spoken, several times, of the god Lono--I may as well furnish two
or three sentences concerning him.

The idol the natives worshipped for him was a slender, unornamented staff
twelve feet long.  Tradition says he was a favorite god on the Island of
Hawaii--a great king who had been deified for meritorious services--just
our own fashion of rewarding heroes, with the difference that we would
have made him a Postmaster instead of a god, no doubt.  In an angry
moment he slew his wife, a goddess named Kaikilani Aiii.  Remorse of
conscience drove him mad, and tradition presents us the singular
spectacle of a god traveling "on the shoulder;" for in his gnawing grief
he wandered about from place to place boxing and wrestling with all whom
he met.  Of course this pastime soon lost its novelty, inasmuch as it
must necessarily have been the case that when so powerful a deity sent a
frail human opponent "to grass" he never came back any more.  Therefore,
he instituted games called makahiki, and ordered that they should be held
in his honor, and then sailed for foreign lands on a three-cornered raft,
stating that he would return some day--and that was the last of Lono.
He was never seen any more; his raft got swamped, perhaps.  But the
people always expected his return, and thus they were easily led to
accept Captain Cook as the restored god.

Some of the old natives believed Cook was Lono to the day of their death;
but many did not, for they could not understand how he could die if he
was a god.

Only a mile or so from Kealakekua Bay is a spot of historic interest--the
place where the last battle was fought for idolatry.  Of course we
visited it, and came away as wise as most people do who go and gaze upon
such mementoes of the past when in an unreflective mood.

While the first missionaries were on their way around the Horn, the
idolatrous customs which had obtained in the island, as far back as
tradition reached were suddenly broken up.  Old Kamehameha I., was dead,
and his son, Liholiho, the new King was a free liver, a roystering,
dissolute fellow, and hated the restraints of the ancient tabu.  His
assistant in the Government, Kaahumanu, the Queen dowager, was proud and
high-spirited, and hated the tabu because it restricted the privileges of
her sex and degraded all women very nearly to the level of brutes.
So the case stood.  Liholiho had half a mind to put his foot down,
Kaahumahu had a whole mind to badger him into doing it, and whiskey did
the rest.  It was probably the rest.  It was probably the first time
whiskey ever prominently figured as an aid to civilization.  Liholiho
came up to Kailua as drunk as a piper, and attended a great feast; the
determined Queen spurred his drunken courage up to a reckless pitch, and
then, while all the multitude stared in blank dismay, he moved
deliberately forward and sat down with the women!

They saw him eat from the same vessel with them, and were appalled!
Terrible moments drifted slowly by, and still the King ate, still he
lived, still the lightnings of the insulted gods were withheld!
Then conviction came like a revelation--the superstitions of a hundred
generations passed from before the people like a cloud, and a shout went
up, "the tabu is broken!  the tabu is broken!"

Thus did King Liholiho and his dreadful whiskey preach the first sermon
and prepare the way for the new gospel that was speeding southward over
the waves of the Atlantic.

The tabu broken and destruction failing to follow the awful sacrilege,
the people, with that childlike precipitancy which has always
characterized them, jumped to the conclusion that their gods were a weak
and wretched swindle, just as they formerly jumped to the conclusion that
Captain Cook was no god, merely because he groaned, and promptly killed
him without stopping to inquire whether a god might not groan as well as
a man if it suited his convenience to do it; and satisfied that the idols
were powerless to protect themselves they went to work at once and pulled
them down--hacked them to pieces--applied the torch--annihilated them!

The pagan priests were furious.  And well they might be; they had held
the fattest offices in the land, and now they were beggared; they had
been great--they had stood above the chiefs--and now they were vagabonds.
They raised a revolt; they scared a number of people into joining their
standard, and Bekuokalani, an ambitious offshoot of royalty, was easily
persuaded to become their leader.

In the first skirmish the idolaters triumphed over the royal army sent
against them, and full of confidence they resolved to march upon Kailua.
The King sent an envoy to try and conciliate them, and came very near
being an envoy short by the operation; the savages not only refused to
listen to him, but wanted to kill him.  So the King sent his men forth
under Major General Kalaimoku and the two host met a Kuamoo.  The battle
was long and fierce--men and women fighting side by side, as was the
custom--and when the day was done the rebels were flying in every
direction in hopeless panic, and idolatry and the tabu were dead in the
land!

The royalists marched gayly home to Kailua glorifying the new
dispensation.  "There is no power in the gods," said they; "they are a
vanity and a lie.  The army with idols was weak; the army without idols
was strong and victorious!"

The nation was without a religion.

The missionary ship arrived in safety shortly afterward, timed by
providential exactness to meet the emergency, and the Gospel was planted
as in a virgin soil.




CHAPTER LXXIII.

At noon, we hired a Kanaka to take us down to the ancient ruins at
Honaunan in his canoe--price two dollars--reasonable enough, for a sea
voyage of eight miles, counting both ways.

The native canoe is an irresponsible looking contrivance.  I cannot think
of anything to liken it to but a boy's sled runner hollowed out, and that
does not quite convey the correct idea.  It is about fifteen feet long,
high and pointed at both ends, is a foot and a half or two feet deep, and
so narrow that if you wedged a fat man into it you might not get him out
again.  It sits on top of the water like a duck, but it has an outrigger
and does not upset easily, if you keep still.  This outrigger is formed
of two long bent sticks like plow handles, which project from one side,
and to their outer ends is bound a curved beam composed of an extremely
light wood, which skims along the surface of the water and thus saves you
from an upset on that side, while the outrigger's weight is not so easily
lifted as to make an upset on the other side a thing to be greatly
feared.  Still, until one gets used to sitting perched upon this
knifeblade, he is apt to reason within himself that it would be more
comfortable if there were just an outrigger or so on the other side also.
I had the bow seat, and Billings sat amidships and faced the Kanaka, who
occupied the stern of the craft and did the paddling.  With the first
stroke the trim shell of a thing shot out from the shore like an arrow.
There was not much to see.  While we were on the shallow water of the
reef, it was pastime to look down into the limpid depths at the large
bunches of branching coral--the unique shrubbery of the sea.  We lost
that, though, when we got out into the dead blue water of the deep.  But
we had the picture of the surf, then, dashing angrily against the crag-
bound shore and sending a foaming spray high into the air.

There was interest in this beetling border, too, for it was honey-combed
with quaint caves and arches and tunnels, and had a rude semblance of the
dilapidated architecture of ruined keeps and castles rising out of the
restless sea.  When this novelty ceased to be a novelty, we turned our
eyes shoreward and gazed at the long mountain with its rich green forests
stretching up into the curtaining clouds, and at the specks of houses in
the rearward distance and the diminished schooner riding sleepily at
anchor.  And when these grew tiresome we dashed boldly into the midst of
a school of huge, beastly porpoises engaged at their eternal game of
arching over a wave and disappearing, and then doing it over again and
keeping it up--always circling over, in that way, like so many well-
submerged wheels.  But the porpoises wheeled themselves away, and then we
were thrown upon our own resources.  It did not take many minutes to
discover that the sun was blazing like a bonfire, and that the weather
was of a melting temperature.  It had a drowsing effect, too.
In one place we came upon a large company of naked natives, of both sexes
and all ages, amusing themselves with the national pastime of surf-
bathing.  Each heathen would paddle three or four hundred yards out to
sea, (taking a short board with him), then face the shore and wait for a
particularly prodigious billow to come along; at the right moment he
would fling his board upon its foamy crest and himself upon the board,
and here he would come whizzing by like a bombshell!  It did not seem
that a lightning express train could shoot along at a more hair-lifting
speed.  I tried surf-bathing once, subsequently, but made a failure of
it.  I got the board placed right, and at the right moment, too; but
missed the connection myself.--The board struck the shore in three
quarters of a second, without any cargo, and I struck the bottom about
the same time, with a couple of barrels of water in me.  None but natives
ever master the art of surf-bathing thoroughly.

At the end of an hour, we had made the four miles, and landed on a level
point of land, upon which was a wide extent of old ruins, with many a
tall cocoanut tree growing among them.  Here was the ancient City of
Refuge--a vast inclosure, whose stone walls were twenty feet thick at the
base, and fifteen feet high; an oblong square, a thousand and forty feet
one way and a fraction under seven hundred the other.  Within this
inclosure, in early times, has been three rude temples; each two hundred
and ten feet long by one hundred wide, and thirteen high.

In those days, if a man killed another anywhere on the island the
relatives were privileged to take the murderer's life; and then a chase
for life and liberty began--the outlawed criminal flying through pathless
forests and over mountain and plain, with his hopes fixed upon the
protecting walls of the City of Refuge, and the avenger of blood
following hotly after him!

Sometimes the race was kept up to the very gates of the temple, and the
panting pair sped through long files of excited natives, who watched the
contest with flashing eye and dilated nostril, encouraging the hunted
refugee with sharp, inspiriting ejaculations, and sending up a ringing
shout of exultation when the saving gates closed upon him and the cheated
pursuer sank exhausted at the threshold.  But sometimes the flying
criminal fell under the hand of the avenger at the very door, when one
more brave stride, one more brief second of time would have brought his
feet upon the sacred ground and barred him against all harm.  Where did
these isolated pagans get this idea of a City of Refuge--this ancient
Oriental custom?

This old sanctuary was sacred to all--even to rebels in arms and invading
armies.  Once within its walls, and confession made to the priest and
absolution obtained, the wretch with a price upon his head could go forth
without fear and without danger--he was tabu, and to harm him was death.
The routed rebels in the lost battle for idolatry fled to this place to
claim sanctuary, and many were thus saved.

Close to the corner of the great inclosure is a round structure of stone,
some six or eight feet high, with a level top about ten or twelve in
diameter.  This was the place of execution.  A high palisade of cocoanut
piles shut out the cruel scenes from the vulgar multitude.  Here
criminals were killed, the flesh stripped from the bones and burned, and
the bones secreted in holes in the body of the structure.  If the man had
been guilty of a high crime, the entire corpse was burned.

The walls of the temple are a study.  The same food for speculation that
is offered the visitor to the Pyramids of Egypt he will find here--the
mystery of how they were constructed by a people unacquainted with
science and mechanics.  The natives have no invention of their own for
hoisting heavy weights, they had no beasts of burden, and they have never
even shown any knowledge of the properties of the lever.  Yet some of the
lava blocks quarried out, brought over rough, broken ground, and built
into this wall, six or seven feet from the ground, are of prodigious size
and would weigh tons.  How did they transport and how raise them?

Both the inner and outer surfaces of the walls present a smooth front and
are very creditable specimens of masonry.  The blocks are of all manner
of shapes and sizes, but yet are fitted together with the neatest
exactness.  The gradual narrowing of the wall from the base upward is
accurately preserved.

No cement was used, but the edifice is firm and compact and is capable of
resisting storm and decay for centuries.  Who built this temple, and how
was it built, and when, are mysteries that may never be unraveled.
Outside of these ancient walls lies a sort of coffin-shaped stone eleven
feet four inches long and three feet square at the small end (it would
weigh a few thousand pounds), which the high chief who held sway over
this district many centuries ago brought thither on his shoulder one day
to use as a lounge!  This circumstance is established by the most
reliable traditions.  He used to lie down on it, in his indolent way, and
keep an eye on his subjects at work for him and see that there was no
"soldiering" done.  And no doubt there was not any done to speak of,
because he was a man of that sort of build that incites to attention to
business on the part of an employee.

He was fourteen or fifteen feet high.  When he stretched himself at full
length on his lounge, his legs hung down over the end, and when he snored
he woke the dead.  These facts are all attested by irrefragable
tradition.

On the other side of the temple is a monstrous seven-ton rock, eleven
feet long, seven feet wide and three feet thick.  It is raised a foot or
a foot and a half above the ground, and rests upon half a dozen little
stony pedestals.  The same old fourteen-footer brought it down from the
mountain, merely for fun (he had his own notions about fun), and propped
it up as we find it now and as others may find it a century hence, for it
would take a score of horses to budge it from its position.  They say
that fifty or sixty years ago the proud Queen Kaahumanu used to fly to
this rock for safety, whenever she had been making trouble with her
fierce husband, and hide under it until his wrath was appeased.  But
these Kanakas will lie, and this statement is one of their ablest
efforts--for Kaahumanu was six feet high--she was bulky--she was built
like an ox--and she could no more have squeezed herself under that rock
than she could have passed between the cylinders of a sugar mill.  What
could she gain by it, even if she succeeded?  To be chased and abused by
a savage husband could not be otherwise than humiliating to her high
spirit, yet it could never make her feel so flat as an hour's repose
under that rock would.

We walked a mile over a raised macadamized road of uniform width; a road
paved with flat stones and exhibiting in its every detail a considerable
degree of engineering skill.  Some say that that wise old pagan,
Kamehameha I planned and built it, but others say it was built so long
before his time that the knowledge of who constructed it has passed out
of the traditions.  In either case, however, as the handiwork of an
untaught and degraded race it is a thing of pleasing interest.  The
stones are worn and smooth, and pushed apart in places, so that the road
has the exact appearance of those ancient paved highways leading out of
Rome which one sees in pictures.

The object of our tramp was to visit a great natural curiosity at the
base of the foothills--a congealed cascade of lava.  Some old forgotten
volcanic eruption sent its broad river of fire down the mountain side
here, and it poured down in a great torrent from an overhanging bluff
some fifty feet high to the ground below.  The flaming torrent cooled in
the winds from the sea, and remains there to-day, all seamed, and frothed
and rippled a petrified Niagara.  It is very picturesque, and withal so
natural that one might almost imagine it still flowed.  A smaller stream
trickled over the cliff and built up an isolated pyramid about thirty
feet high, which has the semblance of a mass of large gnarled and knotted
vines and roots and stems intricately twisted and woven together.

We passed in behind the cascade and the pyramid, and found the bluff
pierced by several cavernous tunnels, whose crooked courses we followed a
long distance.

Two of these winding tunnels stand as proof of Nature's mining abilities.
Their floors are level, they are seven feet wide, and their roofs are
gently arched.  Their height is not uniform, however.  We passed through
one a hundred feet long, which leads through a spur of the hill and opens
out well up in the sheer wall of a precipice whose foot rests in the
waves of the sea.  It is a commodious tunnel, except that there are
occasional places in it where one must stoop to pass under.  The roof is
lava, of course, and is thickly studded with little lava-pointed icicles
an inch long, which hardened as they dripped.  They project as closely
together as the iron teeth of a corn-sheller, and if one will stand up
straight and walk any distance there, he can get his hair combed free of
charge.




CHAPTER LXXIV.

We got back to the schooner in good time, and then sailed down to Kau,
where we disembarked and took final leave of the vessel.  Next day we
bought horses and bent our way over the summer-clad mountain-terraces,
toward the great volcano of Kilauea (Ke-low-way-ah).  We made nearly a
two days' journey of it, but that was on account of laziness.  Toward
sunset on the second day, we reached an elevation of some four thousand
feet above sea level, and as we picked our careful way through billowy
wastes of lava long generations ago stricken dead and cold in the climax
of its tossing fury, we began to come upon signs of the near presence of
the volcano--signs in the nature of ragged fissures that discharged jets
of sulphurous vapor into the air, hot from the molten ocean down in the
bowels of the mountain.

Shortly the crater came into view.  I have seen Vesuvius since, but it
was a mere toy, a child's volcano, a soup-kettle, compared to this.
Mount Vesuvius is a shapely cone thirty-six hundred feet high; its crater
an inverted cone only three hundred feet deep, and not more than a
thousand feet in diameter, if as much as that; its fires meagre, modest,
and docile.--But here was a vast, perpendicular, walled cellar, nine
hundred feet deep in some places, thirteen hundred in others, level-
floored, and ten miles in circumference!  Here was a yawning pit upon
whose floor the armies of Russia could camp, and have room to spare.

Perched upon the edge of the crater, at the opposite end from where we
stood, was a small look-out house--say three miles away.  It assisted us,
by comparison, to comprehend and appreciate the great depth of the basin
--it looked like a tiny martin-box clinging at the eaves of a cathedral.
After some little time spent in resting and looking and ciphering, we
hurried on to the hotel.

By the path it is half a mile from the Volcano House to the lookout-
house.  After a hearty supper we waited until it was thoroughly dark and
then started to the crater.  The first glance in that direction revealed
a scene of wild beauty.  There was a heavy fog over the crater and it was
splendidly illuminated by the glare from the fires below.  The
illumination was two miles wide and a mile high, perhaps; and if you
ever, on a dark night and at a distance beheld the light from thirty or
forty blocks of distant buildings all on fire at once, reflected strongly
against over-hanging clouds, you can form a fair idea of what this looked
like.

A colossal column of cloud towered to a great height in the air
immediately above the crater, and the outer swell of every one of its
vast folds was dyed with a rich crimson luster, which was subdued to a
pale rose tint in the depressions between.  It glowed like a muffled
torch and stretched upward to a dizzy height toward the zenith.  I
thought it just possible that its like had not been seen since the
children of Israel wandered on their long march through the desert so
many centuries ago over a path illuminated by the mysterious "pillar of
fire."  And I was sure that I now had a vivid conception of what the
majestic "pillar of fire" was like, which almost amounted to a
revelation.

Arrived at the little thatched lookout house, we rested our elbows on the
railing in front and looked abroad over the wide crater and down over the
sheer precipice at the seething fires beneath us.  The view was a
startling improvement on my daylight experience.  I turned to see the
effect on the balance of the company and found the reddest-faced set of
men I almost ever saw.  In the strong light every countenance glowed like
red-hot iron, every shoulder was suffused with crimson and shaded
rearward into dingy, shapeless obscurity!  The place below looked like
the infernal regions and these men like half-cooled devils just come up
on a furlough.

I turned my eyes upon the volcano again.  The "cellar" was tolerably well
lighted up.  For a mile and a half in front of us and half a mile on
either side, the floor of the abyss was magnificently illuminated; beyond
these limits the mists hung down their gauzy curtains and cast a
deceptive gloom over all that made the twinkling fires in the remote
corners of the crater seem countless leagues removed--made them seem like
the camp-fires of a great army far away.  Here was room for the
imagination to work!  You could imagine those lights the width of a
continent away--and that hidden under the intervening darkness were
hills, and winding rivers, and weary wastes of plain and desert--and even
then the tremendous vista stretched on, and on, and on!--to the fires and
far beyond!  You could not compass it--it was the idea of eternity made
tangible--and the longest end of it made visible to the naked eye!

The greater part of the vast floor of the desert under us was as black as
ink, and apparently smooth and level; but over a mile square of it was
ringed and streaked and striped with a thousand branching streams of
liquid and gorgeously brilliant fire!  It looked like a colossal railroad
map of the State of Massachusetts done in chain lightning on a midnight
sky.  Imagine it--imagine a coal-black sky shivered into a tangled net-
work of angry fire!

Here and there were gleaming holes a hundred feet in diameter, broken in
the dark crust, and in them the melted lava--the color a dazzling white
just tinged with yellow--was boiling and surging furiously; and from
these holes branched numberless bright torrents in many directions, like
the spokes of a wheel, and kept a tolerably straight course for a while
and then swept round in huge rainbow curves, or made a long succession of
sharp worm-fence angles, which looked precisely like the fiercest jagged
lightning.  These streams met other streams, and they mingled with and
crossed and recrossed each other in every conceivable direction, like
skate tracks on a popular skating ground.  Sometimes streams twenty or
thirty feet wide flowed from the holes to some distance without dividing
--and through the opera-glasses we could see that they ran down small,
steep hills and were genuine cataracts of fire, white at their source,
but soon cooling and turning to the richest red, grained with alternate
lines of black and gold.  Every now and then masses of the dark crust
broke away and floated slowly down these streams like rafts down a river.
Occasionally the molten lava flowing under the superincumbent crust broke
through--split a dazzling streak, from five hundred to a thousand feet
long, like a sudden flash of lightning, and then acre after acre of the
cold lava parted into fragments, turned up edgewise like cakes of ice
when a great river breaks up, plunged downward and were swallowed in the
crimson cauldron.  Then the wide expanse of the "thaw" maintained a ruddy
glow for a while, but shortly cooled and became black and level again.
During a "thaw," every dismembered cake was marked by a glittering white
border which was superbly shaded inward by aurora borealis rays, which
were a flaming yellow where they joined the white border, and from thence
toward their points tapered into glowing crimson, then into a rich, pale
carmine, and finally into a faint blush that held its own a moment and
then dimmed and turned black.  Some of the streams preferred to mingle
together in a tangle of fantastic circles, and then they looked something
like the confusion of ropes one sees on a ship's deck when she has just
taken in sail and dropped anchor--provided one can imagine those ropes on
fire.

Through the glasses, the little fountains scattered about looked very
beautiful.  They boiled, and coughed, and spluttered, and discharged
sprays of stringy red fire--of about the consistency of mush, for
instance--from ten to fifteen feet into the air, along with a shower of
brilliant white sparks--a quaint and unnatural mingling of gouts of blood
and snow-flakes!

We had circles and serpents and streaks of lightning all twined and
wreathed and tied together, without a break throughout an area more than
a mile square (that amount of ground was covered, though it was not
strictly "square"), and it was with a feeling of placid exultation that
we reflected that many years had elapsed since any visitor had seen such
a splendid display--since any visitor had seen anything more than the now
snubbed and insignificant "North" and "South" lakes in action.  We had
been reading old files of Hawaiian newspapers and the "Record Book" at
the Volcano House, and were posted.

I could see the North Lake lying out on the black floor away off in the
outer edge of our panorama, and knitted to it by a web-work of lava
streams.  In its individual capacity it looked very little more
respectable than a schoolhouse on fire.  True, it was about nine hundred
feet long and two or three hundred wide, but then, under the present
circumstances, it necessarily appeared rather insignificant, and besides
it was so distant from us.

I forgot to say that the noise made by the bubbling lava is not great,
heard as we heard it from our lofty perch.  It makes three distinct
sounds--a rushing, a hissing, and a coughing or puffing sound; and if you
stand on the brink and close your eyes it is no trick at all to imagine
that you are sweeping down a river on a large low-pressure steamer, and
that you hear the hissing of the steam about her boilers, the puffing
from her escape-pipes and the churning rush of the water abaft her
wheels.  The smell of sulphur is strong, but not unpleasant to a sinner.

We left the lookout house at ten o'clock in a half cooked condition,
because of the heat from Pele's furnaces, and wrapping up in blankets,
for the night was cold, we returned to our Hotel.




CHAPTER LXXV.

The next night was appointed for a visit to the bottom of the crater, for
we desired to traverse its floor and see the "North Lake" (of fire) which
lay two miles away, toward the further wall.  After dark half a dozen of
us set out, with lanterns and native guides, and climbed down a crazy,
thousand-foot pathway in a crevice fractured in the crater wall, and
reached the bottom in safety.

The irruption of the previous evening had spent its force and the floor
looked black and cold; but when we ran out upon it we found it hot yet,
to the feet, and it was likewise riven with crevices which revealed the
underlying fires gleaming vindictively.  A neighboring cauldron was
threatening to overflow, and this added to the dubiousness of the
situation.  So the native guides refused to continue the venture, and
then every body deserted except a stranger named Marlette.  He said he
had been in the crater a dozen times in daylight and believed he could
find his way through it at night.  He thought that a run of three hundred
yards would carry us over the hottest part of the floor and leave us our
shoe-soles.  His pluck gave me back-bone.  We took one lantern and
instructed the guides to hang the other to the roof of the look-out house
to serve as a beacon for us in case we got lost, and then the party
started back up the precipice and Marlette and I made our run.
We skipped over the hot floor and over the red crevices with brisk
dispatch and reached the cold lava safe but with pretty warm feet.  Then
we took things leisurely and comfortably, jumping tolerably wide and
probably bottomless chasms, and threading our way through picturesque
lava upheavals with considerable confidence.  When we got fairly away
from the cauldrons of boiling fire, we seemed to be in a gloomy desert,
and a suffocatingly dark one, surrounded by dim walls that seemed to
tower to the sky.  The only cheerful objects were the glinting stars high
overhead.

By and by Marlette shouted "Stop!" I never stopped quicker in my life.
I asked what the matter was.  He said we were out of the path.  He said
we must not try to go on till we found it again, for we were surrounded
with beds of rotten lava through which we could easily break and plunge
down a thousand feet.  I thought eight hundred would answer for me, and
was about to say so when Marlette partly proved his statement by
accidentally crushing through and disappearing to his arm-pits.

He got out and we hunted for the path with the lantern.  He said there
was only one path and that it was but vaguely defined.  We could not find
it.  The lava surface was all alike in the lantern light.  But he was an
ingenious man.  He said it was not the lantern that had informed him that
we were out of the path, but his feet.  He had noticed a crisp grinding
of fine lava-needles under his feet, and some instinct reminded him that
in the path these were all worn away.  So he put the lantern behind him,
and began to search with his boots instead of his eyes.  It was good
sagacity.  The first time his foot touched a surface that did not grind
under it he announced that the trail was found again; and after that we
kept up a sharp listening for the rasping sound and it always warned us
in time.

It was a long tramp, but an exciting one.  We reached the North Lake
between ten and eleven o'clock, and sat down on a huge overhanging lava-
shelf, tired but satisfied.  The spectacle presented was worth coming
double the distance to see.  Under us, and stretching away before us, was
a heaving sea of molten fire of seemingly limitless extent.  The glare
from it was so blinding that it was some time before we could bear to
look upon it steadily.

It was like gazing at the sun at noon-day, except that the glare was not
quite so white.  At unequal distances all around the shores of the lake
were nearly white-hot chimneys or hollow drums of lava, four or five feet
high, and up through them were bursting gorgeous sprays of lava-gouts and
gem spangles, some white, some red and some golden--a ceaseless
bombardment, and one that fascinated the eye with its unapproachable
splendor.  The mere distant jets, sparkling up through an intervening
gossamer veil of vapor, seemed miles away; and the further the curving
ranks of fiery fountains receded, the more fairy-like and beautiful they
appeared.

Now and then the surging bosom of the lake under our noses would calm
down ominously and seem to be gathering strength for an enterprise; and
then all of a sudden a red dome of lava of the bulk of an ordinary
dwelling would heave itself aloft like an escaping balloon, then burst
asunder, and out of its heart would flit a pale-green film of vapor, and
float upward and vanish in the darkness--a released soul soaring homeward
from captivity with the damned, no doubt.  The crashing plunge of the
ruined dome into the lake again would send a world of seething billows
lashing against the shores and shaking the foundations of our perch.  By
and by, a loosened mass of the hanging shelf we sat on tumbled into the
lake, jarring the surroundings like an earthquake and delivering a
suggestion that may have been intended for a hint, and may not.  We did
not wait to see.

We got lost again on our way back, and were more than an hour hunting for
the path.  We were where we could see the beacon lantern at the look-out
house at the time, but thought it was a star and paid no attention to it.
We reached the hotel at two o'clock in the morning pretty well fagged
out.

Kilauea never overflows its vast crater, but bursts a passage for its
lava through the mountain side when relief is necessary, and then the
destruction is fearful.  About 1840 it rent its overburdened stomach and
sent a broad river of fire careering down to the sea, which swept away
forests, huts, plantations and every thing else that lay in its path.
The stream was five miles broad, in places, and two hundred feet deep,
and the distance it traveled was forty miles.  It tore up and bore away
acre-patches of land on its bosom like rafts--rocks, trees and all
intact.  At night the red glare was visible a hundred miles at sea; and
at a distance of forty miles fine print could be read at midnight.  The
atmosphere was poisoned with sulphurous vapors and choked with falling
ashes, pumice stones and cinders; countless columns of smoke rose up and
blended together in a tumbled canopy that hid the heavens and glowed with
a ruddy flush reflected from the fires below; here and there jets of lava
sprung hundreds of feet into the air and burst into rocket-sprays that
returned to earth in a crimson rain; and all the while the laboring
mountain shook with Nature's great palsy and voiced its distress in
moanings and the muffled booming of subterranean thunders.

Fishes were killed for twenty miles along the shore, where the lava
entered the sea.  The earthquakes caused some loss of human life, and a
prodigious tidal wave swept inland, carrying every thing before it and
drowning a number of natives.  The devastation consummated along the
route traversed by the river of lava was complete and incalculable.  Only
a Pompeii and a Herculaneum were needed at the foot of Kilauea to make
the story of the irruption immortal.




CHAPTER LXXVI.

We rode horseback all around the island of Hawaii (the crooked road
making the distance two hundred miles), and enjoyed the journey very
much.  We were more than a week making the trip, because our Kanaka
horses would not go by a house or a hut without stopping--whip and spur
could not alter their minds about it, and so we finally found that it
economized time to let them have their way.  Upon inquiry the mystery was
explained: the natives are such thorough-going gossips that they never
pass a house without stopping to swap news, and consequently their horses
learn to regard that sort of thing as an essential part of the whole duty
of man, and his salvation not to be compassed without it.  However, at a
former crisis of my life I had once taken an aristocratic young lady out
driving, behind a horse that had just retired from a long and honorable
career as the moving impulse of a milk wagon, and so this present
experience awoke a reminiscent sadness in me in place of the exasperation
more natural to the occasion.  I remembered how helpless I was that day,
and how humiliated; how ashamed I was of having intimated to the girl
that I had always owned the horse and was accustomed to grandeur; how
hard I tried to appear easy, and even vivacious, under suffering that was
consuming my vitals; how placidly and maliciously the girl smiled, and
kept on smiling, while my hot blushes baked themselves into a permanent
blood-pudding in my face; how the horse ambled from one side of the
street to the other and waited complacently before every third house two
minutes and a quarter while I belabored his back and reviled him in my
heart; how I tried to keep him from turning corners and failed; how I
moved heaven and earth to get him out of town, and did not succeed; how
he traversed the entire settlement and delivered imaginary milk at a
hundred and sixty-two different domiciles, and how he finally brought up
at a dairy depot and refused to budge further, thus rounding and
completing the revealment of what the plebeian service of his life had
been; how, in eloquent silence, I walked the girl home, and how, when I
took leave of her, her parting remark scorched my soul and appeared to
blister me all over: she said that my horse was a fine, capable animal,
and I must have taken great comfort in him in my time--but that if I
would take along some milk-tickets next time, and appear to deliver them
at the various halting places, it might expedite his movements a little.
There was a coolness between us after that.

In one place in the island of Hawaii, we saw a laced and ruffled cataract
of limpid water leaping from a sheer precipice fifteen hundred feet high;
but that sort of scenery finds its stanchest ally in the arithmetic
rather than in spectacular effect.  If one desires to be so stirred by a
poem of Nature wrought in the happily commingled graces of picturesque
rocks, glimpsed distances, foliage, color, shifting lights and shadows,
and failing water, that the tears almost come into his eyes so potent is
the charm exerted, he need not go away from America to enjoy such an
experience.  The Rainbow Fall, in Watkins Glen (N.Y.), on the Erie
railway, is an example.  It would recede into pitiable insignificance if
the callous tourist drew on arithmetic on it; but left to compete for the
honors simply on scenic grace and beauty--the grand, the august and the
sublime being barred the contest--it could challenge the old world and
the new to produce its peer.

In one locality, on our journey, we saw some horses that had been born
and reared on top of the mountains, above the range of running water, and
consequently they had never drank that fluid in their lives, but had been
always accustomed to quenching their thirst by eating dew-laden or
shower-wetted leaves.  And now it was destructively funny to see them
sniff suspiciously at a pail of water, and then put in their noses and
try to take a bite out of the fluid, as if it were a solid.  Finding it
liquid, they would snatch away their heads and fall to trembling,
snorting and showing other evidences of fright.  When they became
convinced at last that the water was friendly and harmless, they thrust
in their noses up to their eyes, brought out a mouthful of water, and
proceeded to chew it complacently.  We saw a man coax, kick and spur one
of them five or ten minutes before he could make it cross a running
stream.  It spread its nostrils, distended its eyes and trembled all
over, just as horses customarily do in the presence of a serpent--and for
aught I know it thought the crawling stream was a serpent.

In due course of time our journey came to an end at Kawaehae (usually
pronounced To-a-hi--and before we find fault with this elaborate
orthographical method of arriving at such an unostentatious result, let
us lop off the ugh from our word "though").  I made this horseback trip
on a mule.  I paid ten dollars for him at Kau (Kah-oo), added four to get
him shod, rode him two hundred miles, and then sold him for fifteen
dollars.  I mark the circumstance with a white stone (in the absence of
chalk--for I never saw a white stone that a body could mark anything
with, though out of respect for the ancients I have tried it often
enough); for up to that day and date it was the first strictly commercial
transaction I had ever entered into, and come out winner.  We returned to
Honolulu, and from thence sailed to the island of Maui, and spent several
weeks there very pleasantly.  I still remember, with a sense of indolent
luxury, a picnicing excursion up a romantic gorge there, called the Iao
Valley.  The trail lay along the edge of a brawling stream in the bottom
of the gorge--a shady route, for it was well roofed with the verdant
domes of forest trees.  Through openings in the foliage we glimpsed
picturesque scenery that revealed ceaseless changes and new charms with
every step of our progress.  Perpendicular walls from one to three
thousand feet high guarded the way, and were sumptuously plumed with
varied foliage, in places, and in places swathed in waving ferns.
Passing shreds of cloud trailed their shadows across these shining
fronts, mottling them with blots; billowy masses of white vapor hid the
turreted summits, and far above the vapor swelled a background of
gleaming green crags and cones that came and went, through the veiling
mists, like islands drifting in a fog; sometimes the cloudy curtain
descended till half the canon wall was hidden, then shredded gradually
away till only airy glimpses of the ferny front appeared through it--then
swept aloft and left it glorified in the sun again.  Now and then, as our
position changed, rocky bastions swung out from the wall, a mimic ruin of
castellated ramparts and crumbling towers clothed with mosses and hung
with garlands of swaying vines, and as we moved on they swung back again
and hid themselves once more in the foliage.  Presently a verdure-clad
needle of stone, a thousand feet high, stepped out from behind a corner,
and mounted guard over the mysteries of the valley.  It seemed to me that
if Captain Cook needed a monument, here was one ready made--therefore,
why not put up his sign here, and sell out the venerable cocoanut stump?

But the chief pride of Maui is her dead volcano of Haleakala--which
means, translated, "the house of the sun."  We climbed a thousand feet up
the side of this isolated colossus one afternoon; then camped, and next
day climbed the remaining nine thousand feet, and anchored on the summit,
where we built a fire and froze and roasted by turns, all night.  With
the first pallor of dawn we got up and saw things that were new to us.
Mounted on a commanding pinnacle, we watched Nature work her silent
wonders.  The sea was spread abroad on every hand, its tumbled surface
seeming only wrinkled and dimpled in the distance.  A broad valley below
appeared like an ample checker-board, its velvety green sugar plantations
alternating with dun squares of barrenness and groves of trees diminished
to mossy tufts.  Beyond the valley were mountains picturesquely grouped
together; but bear in mind, we fancied that we were looking up at these
things--not down.  We seemed to sit in the bottom of a symmetrical bowl
ten thousand feet deep, with the valley and the skirting sea lifted away
into the sky above us!  It was curious; and not only curious, but
aggravating; for it was having our trouble all for nothing, to climb ten
thousand feet toward heaven and then have to look up at our scenery.
However, we had to be content with it and make the best of it; for, all
we could do we could not coax our landscape down out of the clouds.
Formerly, when I had read an article in which Poe treated of this
singular fraud perpetrated upon the eye by isolated great altitudes,
I had looked upon the matter as an invention of his own fancy.

I have spoken of the outside view--but we had an inside one, too.  That
was the yawning dead crater, into which we now and then tumbled rocks,
half as large as a barrel, from our perch, and saw them go careering down
the almost perpendicular sides, bounding three hundred feet at a jump;
kicking up cast-clouds wherever they struck; diminishing to our view as
they sped farther into distance; growing invisible, finally, and only
betraying their course by faint little puffs of dust; and coming to a
halt at last in the bottom of the abyss, two thousand five hundred feet
down from where they started!  It was magnificent sport.  We wore
ourselves out at it.

The crater of Vesuvius, as I have before remarked, is a modest pit about
a thousand feet deep and three thousand in circumference; that of Kilauea
is somewhat deeper, and ten miles in circumference.  But what are either
of them compared to the vacant stomach of Haleakala?  I will not offer
any figures of my own, but give official ones--those of Commander Wilkes,
U.S.N., who surveyed it and testifies that it is twenty-seven miles in
circumference!  If it had a level bottom it would make a fine site for a
city like London.  It must have afforded a spectacle worth contemplating
in the old days when its furnaces gave full rein to their anger.

Presently vagrant white clouds came drifting along, high over the sea and
the valley; then they came in couples and groups; then in imposing
squadrons; gradually joining their forces, they banked themselves solidly
together, a thousand feet under us, and totally shut out land and ocean--
not a vestige of anything was left in view but just a little of the rim
of the crater, circling away from the pinnacle whereon we sat (for a
ghostly procession of wanderers from the filmy hosts without had drifted
through a chasm in the crater wall and filed round and round, and
gathered and sunk and blended together till the abyss was stored to the
brim with a fleecy fog).  Thus banked, motion ceased, and silence
reigned.  Clear to the horizon, league on league, the snowy floor
stretched without a break--not level, but in rounded folds, with shallow
creases between, and with here and there stately piles of vapory
architecture lifting themselves aloft out of the common plain--some near
at hand, some in the middle distances, and others relieving the monotony
of the remote solitudes.  There was little conversation, for the
impressive scene overawed speech.  I felt like the Last Man, neglected of
the judgment, and left pinnacled in mid-heaven, a forgotten relic of a
vanished world.

While the hush yet brooded, the messengers of the coming resurrection
appeared in the East.  A growing warmth suffused the horizon, and soon
the sun emerged and looked out over the cloud-waste, flinging bars of
ruddy light across it, staining its folds and billow-caps with blushes,
purpling the shaded troughs between, and glorifying the massy vapor-
palaces and cathedrals with a wasteful splendor of all blendings and
combinations of rich coloring.

It was the sublimest spectacle I ever witnessed, and I think the memory
of it will remain with me always.




CHAPTER LXXVII.

I stumbled upon one curious character in the Island of Mani.  He became a
sore annoyance to me in the course of time.  My first glimpse of him was
in a sort of public room in the town of Lahaina.  He occupied a chair at
the opposite side of the apartment, and sat eyeing our party with
interest for some minutes, and listening as critically to what we were
saying as if he fancied we were talking to him and expecting him to
reply.  I thought it very sociable in a stranger.  Presently, in the
course of conversation, I made a statement bearing upon the subject under
discussion--and I made it with due modesty, for there was nothing
extraordinary about it, and it was only put forth in illustration of a
point at issue.  I had barely finished when this person spoke out with
rapid utterance and feverish anxiety:

"Oh, that was certainly remarkable, after a fashion, but you ought to
have seen my chimney--you ought to have seen my chimney, sir!  Smoke!
I wish I may hang if--Mr. Jones, you remember that chimney--you must
remember that chimney!  No, no--I recollect, now, you warn't living on
this side of the island then.  But I am telling you nothing but the
truth, and I wish I may never draw another breath if that chimney didn't
smoke so that the smoke actually got caked in it and I had to dig it out
with a pickaxe!  You may smile, gentlemen, but the High Sheriff's got a
hunk of it which I dug out before his eyes, and so it's perfectly easy
for you to go and examine for yourselves."

The interruption broke up the conversation, which had already begun to
lag, and we presently hired some natives and an out-rigger canoe or two,
and went out to overlook a grand surf-bathing contest.

Two weeks after this, while talking in a company, I looked up and
detected this same man boring through and through me with his intense
eye, and noted again his twitching muscles and his feverish anxiety to
speak.  The moment I paused, he said:

"Beg your pardon, sir, beg your pardon, but it can only be considered
remarkable when brought into strong outline by isolation.  Sir,
contrasted with a circumstance which occurred in my own experience, it
instantly becomes commonplace.  No, not that--for I will not speak so
discourteously of any experience in the career of a stranger and a
gentleman--but I am obliged to say that you could not, and you would not
ever again refer to this tree as a large one, if you could behold, as I
have, the great Yakmatack tree, in the island of Ounaska, sea of
Kamtchatka--a tree, sir, not one inch less than four hundred and fifteen
feet in solid diameter!--and I wish I may die in a minute if it isn't so!
Oh, you needn't look so questioning, gentlemen; here's old Cap Saltmarsh
can say whether I know what I'm talking about or not.  I showed him the
tree."

Captain Saltmarsh--"Come, now, cat your anchor, lad--you're heaving too
taut.  You promised to show me that stunner, and I walked more than
eleven mile with you through the cussedest jungle I ever see, a hunting
for it; but the tree you showed me finally warn't as big around as a beer
cask, and you know that your own self, Markiss."

"Hear the man talk!  Of course the tree was reduced that way, but didn't
I explain it?  Answer me, didn't I?  Didn't I say I wished you could have
seen it when I first saw it?  When you got up on your ear and called me
names, and said I had brought you eleven miles to look at a sapling,
didn't I explain to you that all the whale-ships in the North Seas had
been wooding off of it for more than twenty-seven years?  And did you
s'pose the tree could last for-ever, con-found it?  I don't see why you
want to keep back things that way, and try to injure a person that's
never done you any harm."

Somehow this man's presence made me uncomfortable, and I was glad when a
native arrived at that moment to say that Muckawow, the most
companionable and luxurious among the rude war-chiefs of the Islands,
desired us to come over and help him enjoy a missionary whom he had found
trespassing on his grounds.

I think it was about ten days afterward that, as I finished a statement I
was making for the instruction of a group of friends and acquaintances,
and which made no pretence of being extraordinary, a familiar voice
chimed instantly in on the heels of my last word, and said:

"But, my dear sir, there was nothing remarkable about that horse, or the
circumstance either--nothing in the world!  I mean no sort of offence
when I say it, sir, but you really do not know anything whatever about
speed.  Bless your heart, if you could only have seen my mare Margaretta;
there was a beast!--there was lightning for you!  Trot!  Trot is no name
for it--she flew!  How she could whirl a buggy along!  I started her out
once, sir--Colonel Bilgewater, you recollect that animal perfectly well--
I started her out about thirty or thirty-five yards ahead of the
awfullest storm I ever saw in my life, and it chased us upwards of
eighteen miles!  It did, by the everlasting hills!  And I'm telling you
nothing but the unvarnished truth when I say that not one single drop of
rain fell on me--not a single drop, sir!  And I swear to it!  But my dog
was a-swimming behind the wagon all the way!"

For a week or two I stayed mostly within doors, for I seemed to meet this
person everywhere, and he had become utterly hateful to me.  But one
evening I dropped in on Captain Perkins and his friends, and we had a
sociable time.  About ten o'clock I chanced to be talking about a
merchant friend of mine, and without really intending it, the remark
slipped out that he was a little mean and parsimonious about paying his
workmen.  Instantly, through the steam of a hot whiskey punch on the
opposite side of the room, a remembered voice shot--and for a moment I
trembled on the imminent verge of profanity:

"Oh, my dear sir, really you expose yourself when you parade that as a
surprising circumstance.  Bless your heart and hide, you are ignorant of
the very A B C of meanness! ignorant as the unborn babe! ignorant as
unborn twins!  You don't know anything about it!  It is pitiable to see
you, sir, a well-spoken and prepossessing stranger, making such an
enormous pow-wow here about a subject concerning which your ignorance is
perfectly humiliating!  Look me in the eye, if you please; look me in the
eye.  John James Godfrey was the son of poor but honest parents in the
State of Mississippi--boyhood friend of mine--bosom comrade in later
years.  Heaven rest his noble spirit, he is gone from us now.  John James
Godfrey was hired by the Hayblossom Mining Company in California to do
some blasting for them--the "Incorporated Company of Mean Men," the boys
used to call it.

"Well, one day he drilled a hole about four feet deep and put in an awful
blast of powder, and was standing over it ramming it down with an iron
crowbar about nine foot long, when the cussed thing struck a spark and
fired the powder, and scat! away John Godfrey whizzed like a skyrocket,
him and his crowbar!  Well, sir, he kept on going up in the air higher
and higher, till he didn't look any bigger than a boy--and he kept going
on up higher and higher, till he didn't look any bigger than a doll--and
he kept on going up higher and higher, till he didn't look any bigger
than a little small bee--and then he went out of sight!  Presently he
came in sight again, looking like a little small bee--and he came along
down further and further, till he looked as big as a doll again--and down
further and further, till he was as big as a boy again--and further and
further, till he was a full-sized man once more; and then him and his
crowbar came a wh-izzing down and lit right exactly in the same old
tracks and went to r-ramming down, and r-ramming down, and r-ramming down
again, just the same as if nothing had happened!  Now do you know, that
poor cuss warn't gone only sixteen minutes, and yet that Incorporated
Company of Mean Men DOCKED HIM FOR THE LOST TIME!"

I said I had the headache, and so excused myself and went home.  And on
my diary I entered "another night spoiled" by this offensive loafer.
And a fervent curse was set down with it to keep the item company.  And
the very next day I packed up, out of all patience, and left the Island.

Almost from the very beginning, I regarded that man as a liar.

The line of points represents an interval of years.  At the end of which
time the opinion hazarded in that last sentence came to be gratifyingly
and remarkably endorsed, and by wholly disinterested persons.  The man
Markiss was found one morning hanging to a beam of his own bedroom (the
doors and windows securely fastened on the inside), dead; and on his
breast was pinned a paper in his own handwriting begging his friends to
suspect no innocent person of having any thing to do with his death, for
that it was the work of his own hands entirely.  Yet the jury brought in
the astounding verdict that deceased came to his death "by the hands of
some person or persons unknown!"  They explained that the perfectly
undeviating consistency of Markiss's character for thirty years towered
aloft as colossal and indestructible testimony, that whatever statement
he chose to make was entitled to instant and unquestioning acceptance as
a lie.  And they furthermore stated their belief that he was not dead,
and instanced the strong circumstantial evidence of his own word that he
was dead--and beseeched the coroner to delay the funeral as long as
possible, which was done.  And so in the tropical climate of Lahaina the
coffin stood open for seven days, and then even the loyal jury gave him
up.  But they sat on him again, and changed their verdict to "suicide
induced by mental aberration"--because, said they, with penetration, "he
said he was dead, and he was dead; and would he have told the truth if he
had been in his right mind?  No, sir."




CHAPTER LXXVIII.

After half a year's luxurious vagrancy in the islands, I took shipping in
a sailing vessel, and regretfully returned to San Francisco--a voyage in
every way delightful, but without an incident: unless lying two long
weeks in a dead calm, eighteen hundred miles from the nearest land, may
rank as an incident.  Schools of whales grew so tame that day after day
they played about the ship among the porpoises and the sharks without the
least apparent fear of us, and we pelted them with empty bottles for lack
of better sport.  Twenty-four hours afterward these bottles would be
still lying on the glassy water under our noses, showing that the ship
had not moved out of her place in all that time.  The calm was absolutely
breathless, and the surface of the sea absolutely without a wrinkle.
For a whole day and part of a night we lay so close to another ship that
had drifted to our vicinity, that we carried on conversations with her
passengers, introduced each other by name, and became pretty intimately
acquainted with people we had never heard of before, and have never heard
of since.  This was the only vessel we saw during the whole lonely
voyage.  We had fifteen passengers, and to show how hard pressed they
were at last for occupation and amusement, I will mention that the
gentlemen gave a good part of their time every day, during the calm, to
trying to sit on an empty champagne bottle (lying on its side), and
thread a needle without touching their heels to the deck, or falling
over; and the ladies sat in the shade of the mainsail, and watched the
enterprise with absorbing interest.  We were at sea five Sundays; and
yet, but for the almanac, we never would have known but that all the
other days were Sundays too.

I was home again, in San Francisco, without means and without employment.
I tortured my brain for a saving scheme of some kind, and at last a
public lecture occurred to me!  I sat down and wrote one, in a fever of
hopeful anticipation.  I showed it to several friends, but they all shook
their heads.  They said nobody would come to hear me, and I would make a
humiliating failure of it.

They said that as I had never spoken in public, I would break down in the
delivery, anyhow.  I was disconsolate now.  But at last an editor slapped
me on the back and told me to "go ahead."  He said, "Take the largest
house in town, and charge a dollar a ticket."  The audacity of the
proposition was charming; it seemed fraught with practical worldly
wisdom, however.  The proprietor of the several theatres endorsed the
advice, and said I might have his handsome new opera-house at half price
--fifty dollars.  In sheer desperation I took it--on credit, for
sufficient reasons.  In three days I did a hundred and fifty dollars'
worth of printing and advertising, and was the most distressed and
frightened creature on the Pacific coast.  I could not sleep--who could,
under such circumstances?  For other people there was facetiousness in
the last line of my posters, but to me it was plaintive with a pang when
I wrote it:

           "Doors open at 7 1/2.  The trouble will begin at 8."

That line has done good service since.  Showmen have borrowed it
frequently.  I have even seen it appended to a newspaper advertisement
reminding school pupils in vacation what time next term would begin.  As
those three days of suspense dragged by, I grew more and more unhappy.
I had sold two hundred tickets among my personal friends, but I feared
they might not come.  My lecture, which had seemed "humorous" to me, at
first, grew steadily more and more dreary, till not a vestige of fun
seemed left, and I grieved that I could not bring a coffin on the stage
and turn the thing into a funeral.  I was so panic-stricken, at last,
that I went to three old friends, giants in stature, cordial by nature,
and stormy-voiced, and said:

"This thing is going to be a failure; the jokes in it are so dim that
nobody will ever see them; I would like to have you sit in the parquette,
and help me through."

They said they would.  Then I went to the wife of a popular citizen, and
said that if she was willing to do me a very great kindness, I would be
glad if she and her husband would sit prominently in the left-hand stage-
box, where the whole house could see them.  I explained that I should
need help, and would turn toward her and smile, as a signal, when I had
been delivered of an obscure joke--"and then," I added, "don't wait to
investigate, but respond!"

She promised.  Down the street I met a man I never had seen before.  He
had been drinking, and was beaming with smiles and good nature.  He said:

"My name's Sawyer.  You don't know me, but that don't matter.  I haven't
got a cent, but if you knew how bad I wanted to laugh, you'd give me a
ticket.  Come, now, what do you say?"

"Is your laugh hung on a hair-trigger?--that is, is it critical, or can
you get it off easy?"

My drawling infirmity of speech so affected him that he laughed a
specimen or two that struck me as being about the article I wanted, and I
gave him a ticket, and appointed him to sit in the second circle, in the
centre, and be responsible for that division of the house.  I gave him
minute instructions about how to detect indistinct jokes, and then went
away, and left him chuckling placidly over the novelty of the idea.

I ate nothing on the last of the three eventful days--I only suffered.
I had advertised that on this third day the box-office would be opened
for the sale of reserved seats.  I crept down to the theater at four in
the afternoon to see if any sales had been made.  The ticket seller was
gone, the box-office was locked up.  I had to swallow suddenly, or my
heart would have got out.  "No sales," I said to myself; "I might have
known it."  I thought of suicide, pretended illness, flight.  I thought
of these things in earnest, for I was very miserable and scared.  But of
course I had to drive them away, and prepare to meet my fate.  I could
not wait for half-past seven--I wanted to face the horror, and end it--
the feeling of many a man doomed to hang, no doubt.  I went down back
streets at six o'clock, and entered the theatre by the back door.
I stumbled my way in the dark among the ranks of canvas scenery, and
stood on the stage.  The house was gloomy and silent, and its emptiness
depressing.  I went into the dark among the scenes again, and for an hour
and a half gave myself up to the horrors, wholly unconscious of
everything else.  Then I heard a murmur; it rose higher and higher, and
ended in a crash, mingled with cheers.  It made my hair raise, it was so
close to me, and so loud.

There was a pause, and then another; presently came a third, and before I
well knew what I was about, I was in the middle of the stage, staring at
a sea of faces, bewildered by the fierce glare of the lights, and quaking
in every limb with a terror that seemed like to take my life away.  The
house was full, aisles and all!

The tummult in my heart and brain and legs continued a full minute before
I could gain any command over myself.  Then I recognized the charity and
the friendliness in the faces before me, and little by little my fright
melted away, and I began to talk Within three or four minutes I was
comfortable, and even content.  My three chief allies, with three
auxiliaries, were on hand, in the parquette, all sitting together, all
armed with bludgeons, and all ready to make an onslaught upon the
feeblest joke that might show its head.  And whenever a joke did fall,
their bludgeons came down and their faces seemed to split from ear to
ear.

Sawyer, whose hearty countenance was seen looming redly in the centre of
the second circle, took it up, and the house was carried handsomely.
Inferior jokes never fared so royally before.  Presently I delivered a
bit of serious matter with impressive unction (it was my pet), and the
audience listened with an absorbed hush that gratified me more than any
applause; and as I dropped the last word of the clause, I happened to
turn and catch Mrs.--'s intent and waiting eye; my conversation with her
flashed upon me, and in spite of all I could do I smiled.  She took it
for the signal, and promptly delivered a mellow laugh that touched off
the whole audience; and the explosion that followed was the triumph of
the evening.  I thought that that honest man Sawyer would choke himself;
and as for the bludgeons, they performed like pile-drivers.  But my poor
little morsel of pathos was ruined.  It was taken in good faith as an
intentional joke, and the prize one of the entertainment, and I wisely
let it go at that.

All the papers were kind in the morning; my appetite returned; I had a
abundance of money.  All's well that ends well.




CHAPTER LXXIX.

I launched out as a lecturer, now, with great boldness.  I had the field
all to myself, for public lectures were almost an unknown commodity in
the Pacific market.  They are not so rare, now, I suppose.  I took an old
personal friend along to play agent for me, and for two or three weeks we
roamed through Nevada and California and had a very cheerful time of it.
Two days before I lectured in Virginia City, two stagecoaches were robbed
within two miles of the town.  The daring act was committed just at dawn,
by six masked men, who sprang up alongside the coaches, presented
revolvers at the heads of the drivers and passengers, and commanded a
general dismount.  Everybody climbed down, and the robbers took their
watches and every cent they had.  Then they took gunpowder and blew up
the express specie boxes and got their contents.  The leader of the
robbers was a small, quick-spoken man, and the fame of his vigorous
manner and his intrepidity was in everybody's mouth when we arrived.

The night after instructing Virginia, I walked over the desolate "divide"
and down to Gold Hill, and lectured there.  The lecture done, I stopped
to talk with a friend, and did not start back till eleven.  The "divide"
was high, unoccupied ground, between the towns, the scene of twenty
midnight murders and a hundred robberies.  As we climbed up and stepped
out on this eminence, the Gold Hill lights dropped out of sight at our
backs, and the night closed down gloomy and dismal.  A sharp wind swept
the place, too, and chilled our perspiring bodies through.

"I tell you I don't like this place at night," said Mike the agent.

"Well, don't speak so loud," I said.  "You needn't remind anybody that we
are here."

Just then a dim figure approached me from the direction of Virginia--a
man, evidently.  He came straight at me, and I stepped aside to let him
pass; he stepped in the way and confronted me again.  Then I saw that he
had a mask on and was holding something in my face--I heard a click-click
and recognized a revolver in dim outline.  I pushed the barrel aside with
my hand and said:

"Don't!"

He ejaculated sharply:

"Your watch!  Your money!"

I said:

"You can have them with pleasure--but take the pistol away from my face,
please.  It makes me shiver."

"No remarks!  Hand out your money!"

"Certainly--I--"

"Put up your hands!  Don't you go for a weapon!  Put 'em up!  Higher!"

I held them above my head.

A pause.  Then:

"Are you going to hand out your money or not?"

I dropped my hands to my pockets and said:

Certainly!  I--"

"Put up your hands!  Do you want your head blown off?  Higher!"

I put them above my head again.

Another pause.

Are you going to hand out your money or not?  Ah-ah--again?  Put up your
hands!  By George, you want the head shot off you awful bad!"

"Well, friend, I'm trying my best to please you.  You tell me to give up
my money, and when I reach for it you tell me to put up my hands.  If you
would only--.  Oh, now--don't!  All six of you at me!  That other man
will get away while.--Now please take some of those revolvers out of my
face--do, if you please!  Every time one of them clicks, my liver comes
up into my throat!  If you have a mother--any of you--or if any of you
have ever had a mother--or a--grandmother--or a--"

"Cheese it!  Will you give up your money, or have we got to--.  There--
there--none of that!  Put up your hands!"

"Gentlemen--I know you are gentlemen by your--"

"Silence!  If you want to be facetious, young man, there are times and
places more fitting.  This is a serious business."

"You prick the marrow of my opinion.  The funerals I have attended in my
time were comedies compared to it.  Now I think--"

"Curse your palaver!  Your money!--your money!--your money!  Hold!--put
up your hands!"

"Gentlemen, listen to reason.  You see how I am situated--now don't put
those pistols so close--I smell the powder.

"You see how I am situated.  If I had four hands--so that I could hold up
two and--"

"Throttle him!  Gag him!  Kill him!"

"Gentlemen, don't!  Nobody's watching the other fellow.  Why don't some
of you--.  Ouch!  Take it away, please!

"Gentlemen, you see that I've got to hold up my hands; and so I can't take
out my money--but if you'll be so kind as to take it out for me, I will
do as much for you some--"

"Search him Beauregard--and stop his jaw with a bullet, quick, if he wags
it again.  Help Beauregard, Stonewall."

Then three of them, with the small, spry leader, adjourned to Mike and
fell to searching him.  I was so excited that my lawless fancy tortured
me to ask my two men all manner of facetious questions about their rebel
brother-generals of the South, but, considering the order they had
received, it was but common prudence to keep still.  When everything had
been taken from me,--watch, money, and a multitude of trifles of small
value,--I supposed I was free, and forthwith put my cold hands into my
empty pockets and began an inoffensive jig to warm my feet and stir up
some latent courage--but instantly all pistols were at my head, and the
order came again:

They stood Mike up alongside of me, with strict orders to keep his hands
above his head, too, and then the chief highwayman said:

"Beauregard, hide behind that boulder; Phil Sheridan, you hide behind
that other one; Stonewall Jackson, put yourself behind that sage-bush
there.  Keep your pistols bearing on these fellows, and if they take down
their hands within ten minutes, or move a single peg, let them have it!"

Then three disappeared in the gloom toward the several ambushes, and the
other three disappeared down the road toward Virginia.

It was depressingly still, and miserably cold.  Now this whole thing was
a practical joke, and the robbers were personal friends of ours in
disguise, and twenty more lay hidden within ten feet of us during the
whole operation, listening.  Mike knew all this, and was in the joke, but
I suspected nothing of it.  To me it was most uncomfortably genuine.
When we had stood there in the middle of the road five minutes, like a
couple of idiots, with our hands aloft, freezing to death by inches,
Mike's interest in the joke began to wane.  He said:

"The time's up, now, aint it?"

"No, you keep still.  Do you want to take any chances with these bloody
savages?"

Presently Mike said:

"Now the time's up, anyway.  I'm freezing."

"Well freeze.  Better freeze than carry your brains home in a basket.
Maybe the time is up, but how do we know?--got no watch to tell by.
I mean to give them good measure.  I calculate to stand here fifteen
minutes or die.  Don't you move."

So, without knowing it, I was making one joker very sick of his contract.
When we took our arms down at last, they were aching with cold and
fatigue, and when we went sneaking off, the dread I was in that the time
might not yet be up and that we would feel bullets in a moment, was not
sufficient to draw all my attention from the misery that racked my
stiffened body.

The joke of these highwayman friends of ours was mainly a joke upon
themselves; for they had waited for me on the cold hill-top two full
hours before I came, and there was very little fun in that; they were so
chilled that it took them a couple of weeks to get warm again.  Moreover,
I never had a thought that they would kill me to get money which it was
so perfectly easy to get without any such folly, and so they did not
really frighten me bad enough to make their enjoyment worth the trouble
they had taken.  I was only afraid that their weapons would go off
accidentally.  Their very numbers inspired me with confidence that no
blood would be intentionally spilled.  They were not smart; they ought to
have sent only one highwayman, with a double-barrelled shot gun, if they
desired to see the author of this volume climb a tree.

However, I suppose that in the long run I got the largest share of the
joke at last; and in a shape not foreseen by the highwaymen; for the
chilly exposure on the "divide" while I was in a perspiration gave me a
cold which developed itself into a troublesome disease and kept my hands
idle some three months, besides costing me quite a sum in doctor's bills.
Since then I play no practical jokes on people and generally lose my
temper when one is played upon me.

When I returned to San Francisco I projected a pleasure journey to Japan
and thence westward around the world; but a desire to see home again
changed my mind, and I took a berth in the steamship, bade good-bye to
the friendliest land and livest, heartiest community on our continent,
and came by the way of the Isthmus to New York--a trip that was not much
of a pic-nic excursion, for the cholera broke out among us on the passage
and we buried two or three bodies at sea every day.  I found home a
dreary place after my long absence; for half the children I had known
were now wearing whiskers or waterfalls, and few of the grown people I
had been acquainted with remained at their hearthstones prosperous and
happy--some of them had wandered to other scenes, some were in jail, and
the rest had been hanged.  These changes touched me deeply, and I went
away and joined the famous Quaker City European Excursion and carried my
tears to foreign lands.

Thus, after seven years of vicissitudes, ended a "pleasure trip" to the
silver mines of Nevada which had originally been intended to occupy only
three months.  However, I usually miss my calculations further than that.


MORAL.

If the reader thinks he is done, now, and that this book has no moral to
it, he is in error.  The moral of it is this: If you are of any account,
stay at home and make your way by faithful diligence; but if you are "no
account," go away from home, and then you will have to work, whether you
want to or not.  Thus you become a blessing to your friends by ceasing to
be a nuisance to them--if the people you go among suffer by the
operation.




APPENDIX. A.

BRIEF SKETCH OF MORMON HISTORY.

Mormonism is only about forty years old, but its career has been full of
stir and adventure from the beginning, and is likely to remain so to the
end.  Its adherents have been hunted and hounded from one end of the
country to the other, and the result is that for years they have hated
all "Gentiles" indiscriminately and with all their might.  Joseph Smith,
the finder of the Book of Mormon and founder of the religion, was driven
from State to State with his mysterious copperplates and the miraculous
stones he read their inscriptions with.  Finally he instituted his
"church" in Ohio and Brigham Young joined it.  The neighbors began to
persecute, and apostasy commenced.  Brigham held to the faith and worked
hard.  He arrested desertion.  He did more--he added converts in the
midst of the trouble.  He rose in favor and importance with the brethren.
He was made one of the Twelve Apostles of the Church.  He shortly fought
his way to a higher post and a more powerful--President of the Twelve.
The neighbors rose up and drove the Mormons out of Ohio, and they settled
in Missouri.  Brigham went with them.  The Missourians drove them out and
they retreated to Nauvoo, Illinois.  They prospered there, and built a
temple which made some pretensions to architectural grace and achieved
some celebrity in a section of country where a brick court-house with a
tin dome and a cupola on it was contemplated with reverential awe.
But the Mormons were badgered and harried again by their neighbors.
All the proclamations Joseph Smith could issue denouncing polygamy and
repudiating it as utterly anti-Mormon were of no avail; the people of the
neighborhood, on both sides of the Mississippi, claimed that polygamy was
practised by the Mormons, and not only polygamy but a little of
everything that was bad.  Brigham returned from a mission to England,
where he had established a Mormon newspaper, and he brought back with him
several hundred converts to his preaching.  His influence among the
brethren augmented with every move he made.  Finally Nauvoo was invaded
by the Missouri and Illinois Gentiles, and Joseph Smith killed.  A Mormon
named Rigdon assumed the Presidency of the Mormon church and government,
in Smith's place, and even tried his hand at a prophecy or two.  But a
greater than he was at hand.  Brigham seized the advantage of the hour
and without other authority than superior brain and nerve and will,
hurled Rigdon from his high place and occupied it himself.  He did more.
He launched an elaborate curse at Rigdon and his disciples; and he
pronounced Rigdon's "prophecies" emanations from the devil, and ended by
"handing the false prophet over to the buffetings of Satan for a thousand
years"--probably the longest term ever inflicted in Illinois.  The people
recognized their master.  They straightway elected Brigham Young
President, by a prodigious majority, and have never faltered in their
devotion to him from that day to this.  Brigham had forecast--a quality
which no other prominent Mormon has probably ever possessed.
He recognized that it was better to move to the wilderness than be moved.
By his command the people gathered together their meagre effects, turned
their backs upon their homes, and their faces toward the wilderness, and
on a bitter night in February filed in sorrowful procession across the
frozen Mississippi, lighted on their way by the glare from their burning
temple, whose sacred furniture their own hands had fired!  They camped,
several days afterward, on the western verge of Iowa, and poverty, want,
hunger, cold, sickness, grief and persecution did their work, and many
succumbed and died--martyrs, fair and true, whatever else they might have
been.  Two years the remnant remained there, while Brigham and a small
party crossed the country and founded Great Salt Lake City, purposely
choosing a land which was outside the ownership and jurisdiction of the
hated American nation.  Note that.  This was in 1847.  Brigham moved his
people there and got them settled just in time to see disaster fall
again.  For the war closed and Mexico ceded Brigham's refuge to the
enemy--the United States!  In 1849 the Mormons organized a "free and
independent" government and erected the "State of Deseret," with Brigham
Young as its head.  But the very next year Congress deliberately snubbed
it and created the "Territory of Utah" out of the same accumulation of
mountains, sage-brush, alkali and general desolation,--but made Brigham
Governor of it.  Then for years the enormous migration across the plains
to California poured through the land of the Mormons and yet the church
remained staunch and true to its lord and master.  Neither hunger,
thirst, poverty, grief, hatred, contempt, nor persecution could drive the
Mormons from their faith or their allegiance; and even the thirst for
gold, which gleaned the flower of the youth and strength of many nations
was not able to entice them!  That was the final test.  An experiment
that could survive that was an experiment with some substance to it
somewhere.

Great Salt Lake City throve finely, and so did Utah.  One of the last
things which Brigham Young had done before leaving Iowa, was to appear in
the pulpit dressed to personate the worshipped and lamented prophet
Smith, and confer the prophetic succession, with all its dignities,
emoluments and authorities, upon "President Brigham Young!"  The people
accepted the pious fraud with the maddest enthusiasm, and Brigham's power
was sealed and secured for all time.  Within five years afterward he
openly added polygamy to the tenets of the church by authority of a
"revelation" which he pretended had been received nine years before by
Joseph Smith, albeit Joseph is amply on record as denouncing polygamy to
the day of his death.

Now was Brigham become a second Andrew Johnson in the small beginning and
steady progress of his official grandeur.  He had served successively as
a disciple in the ranks; home missionary; foreign missionary; editor and
publisher; Apostle; President of the Board of Apostles; President of all
Mormondom, civil and ecclesiastical; successor to the great Joseph by the
will of heaven; "prophet," "seer," "revelator."  There was but one
dignity higher which he could aspire to, and he reached out modestly and
took that--he proclaimed himself a God!

He claims that he is to have a heaven of his own hereafter, and that he
will be its God, and his wives and children its goddesses, princes and
princesses.  Into it all faithful Mormons will be admitted, with their
families, and will take rank and consequence according to the number of
their wives and children.  If a disciple dies before he has had time to
accumulate enough wives and children to enable him to be respectable in
the next world any friend can marry a few wives and raise a few children
for him after he is dead, and they are duly credited to his account and
his heavenly status advanced accordingly.

Let it be borne in mind that the majority of the Mormons have always been
ignorant, simple, of an inferior order of intellect, unacquainted with
the world and its ways; and let it be borne in mind that the wives of
these Mormons are necessarily after the same pattern and their children
likely to be fit representatives of such a conjunction; and then let it
be remembered that for forty years these creatures have been driven,
driven, driven, relentlessly!  and mobbed, beaten, and shot down; cursed,
despised, expatriated; banished to a remote desert, whither they
journeyed gaunt with famine and disease, disturbing the ancient solitudes
with their lamentations and marking the long way with graves of their
dead--and all because they were simply trying to live and worship God in
the way which they believed with all their hearts and souls to be the
true one.  Let all these things be borne in mind, and then it will not be
hard to account for the deathless hatred which the Mormons bear our
people and our government.

That hatred has "fed fat its ancient grudge" ever since Mormon Utah
developed into a self-supporting realm and the church waxed rich and
strong.  Brigham as Territorial Governor made it plain that Mormondom was
for the Mormons.  The United States tried to rectify all that by
appointing territorial officers from New England and other anti-Mormon
localities, but Brigham prepared to make their entrance into his
dominions difficult.  Three thousand United States troops had to go
across the plains and put these gentlemen in office.  And after they were
in office they were as helpless as so many stone images.  They made laws
which nobody minded and which could not be executed.  The federal judges
opened court in a land filled with crime and violence and sat as holiday
spectacles for insolent crowds to gape at--for there was nothing to try,
nothing to do nothing on the dockets!  And if a Gentile brought a suit,
the Mormon jury would do just as it pleased about bringing in a verdict,
and when the judgment of the court was rendered no Mormon cared for it
and no officer could execute it.  Our Presidents shipped one cargo of
officials after another to Utah, but the result was always the same--they
sat in a blight for awhile they fairly feasted on scowls and insults day
by day, they saw every attempt to do their official duties find its
reward in darker and darker looks, and in secret threats and warnings of
a more and more dismal nature--and at last they either succumbed and
became despised tools and toys of the Mormons, or got scared and
discomforted beyond all endurance and left the Territory.  If a brave
officer kept on courageously till his pluck was proven, some pliant
Buchanan or Pierce would remove him and appoint a stick in his place.
In 1857 General Harney came very near being appointed Governor of Utah.
And so it came very near being Harney governor and Cradlebaugh judge!--
two men who never had any idea of fear further than the sort of murky
comprehension of it which they were enabled to gather from the
dictionary.  Simply (if for nothing else) for the variety they would have
made in a rather monotonous history of Federal servility and
helplessness, it is a pity they were not fated to hold office together in
Utah.

Up to the date of our visit to Utah, such had been the Territorial
record.  The Territorial government established there had been a hopeless
failure, and Brigham Young was the only real power in the land.  He was
an absolute monarch--a monarch who defied our President--a monarch who
laughed at our armies when they camped about his capital--a monarch who
received without emotion the news that the august Congress of the United
States had enacted a solemn law against polygamy, and then went forth
calmly and married twenty-five or thirty more wives.




B.
THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS MASSACRE.

The persecutions which the Mormons suffered so long--and which they
consider they still suffer in not being allowed to govern themselves--
they have endeavored and are still endeavoring to repay.  The now almost
forgotten "Mountain Meadows massacre" was their work.  It was very famous
in its day.  The whole United States rang with its horrors.  A few items
will refresh the reader's memory.  A great emigrant train from Missouri
and Arkansas passed through Salt Lake City and a few disaffected Mormons
joined it for the sake of the strong protection it afforded for their
escape.  In that matter lay sufficient cause for hot retaliation by the
Mormon chiefs.  Besides, these one hundred and forty-five or one hundred
and fifty unsuspecting emigrants being in part from Arkansas, where a
noted Mormon missionary had lately been killed, and in part from
Missouri, a State remembered with execrations as a bitter persecutor of
the saints when they were few and poor and friendless, here were
substantial additional grounds for lack of love for these wayfarers.
And finally, this train was rich, very rich in cattle, horses, mules and
other property--and how could the Mormons consistently keep up their
coveted resemblance to the Israelitish tribes and not seize the "spoil"
of an enemy when the Lord had so manifestly "delivered it into their
hand?"

Wherefore, according to Mrs. C. V. Waite's entertaining book, "The Mormon
Prophet," it transpired that--

"A 'revelation' from Brigham Young, as Great Grand Archee or God, was
dispatched to President J. C. Haight, Bishop Higbee and J. D. Lee
(adopted son of Brigham), commanding them to raise all the forces they
could muster and trust, follow those cursed Gentiles (so read the
revelation), attack them disguised as Indians, and with the arrows of the
Almighty make a clean sweep of them, and leave none to tell the tale; and
if they needed any assistance they were commanded to hire the Indians as
their allies, promising them a share of the booty.  They were to be
neither slothful nor negligent in their duty, and to be punctual in
sending the teams back to him before winter set in, for this was the
mandate of Almighty God."

The command of the "revelation" was faithfully obeyed.  A large party of
Mormons, painted and tricked out as Indians, overtook the train of
emigrant wagons some three hundred miles south of Salt Lake City, and
made an attack.  But the emigrants threw up earthworks, made fortresses
of their wagons and defended themselves gallantly and successfully for
five days!  Your Missouri or Arkansas gentleman is not much afraid of the
sort of scurvy apologies for "Indians" which the southern part of Utah
affords.  He would stand up and fight five hundred of them.

At the end of the five days the Mormons tried military strategy.  They
retired to the upper end of the "Meadows," resumed civilized apparel,
washed off their paint, and then, heavily armed, drove down in wagons to
the beleaguered emigrants, bearing a flag of truce!  When the emigrants
saw white men coming they threw down their guns and welcomed them with
cheer after cheer!  And, all unconscious of the poetry of it, no doubt,
they lifted a little child aloft, dressed in white, in answer to the flag
of truce!

The leaders of the timely white "deliverers" were President Haight and
Bishop John D. Lee, of the Mormon Church.  Mr. Cradlebaugh, who served a
term as a Federal Judge in Utah and afterward was sent to Congress from
Nevada, tells in a speech delivered in Congress how these leaders next
proceeded:

"They professed to be on good terms with the Indians, and represented
them as being very mad.  They also proposed to intercede and settle the
matter with the Indians.  After several hours parley they, having
(apparently) visited the Indians, gave the ultimatum of the savages;
which was, that the emigrants should march out of their camp, leaving
everything behind them, even their guns.  It was promised by the Mormon
bishops that they would bring a force and guard the emigrants back to the
settlements.  The terms were agreed to, the emigrants being desirous of
saving the lives of their families.  The Mormons retired, and
subsequently appeared with thirty or forty armed men.  The emigrants were
marched out, the women and children in front and the men behind, the
Mormon guard being in the rear.  When they had marched in this way about
a mile, at a given signal the slaughter commenced.  The men were almost
all shot down at the first fire from the guard.  Two only escaped, who
fled to the desert, and were followed one hundred and fifty miles before
they were overtaken and slaughtered.  The women and children ran on, two
or three hundred yards further, when they were overtaken and with the aid
of the Indians they were slaughtered.  Seventeen individuals only, of all
the emigrant party, were spared, and they were little children, the
eldest of them being only seven years old.  Thus, on the 10th day of
September, 1857, was consummated one of the most cruel, cowardly and
bloody murders known in our history."

The number of persons butchered by the Mormons on this occasion was one
hundred and twenty.

With unheard-of temerity Judge Cradlebaugh opened his court and proceeded
to make Mormondom answer for the massacre.  And what a spectacle it must
have been to see this grim veteran, solitary and alone in his pride and
his pluck, glowering down on his Mormon jury and Mormon auditory,
deriding them by turns, and by turns "breathing threatenings and
slaughter!"

An editorial in the Territorial Enterprise of that day says of him and of
the occasion:

"He spoke and acted with the fearlessness and resolution of a Jackson;
but the jury failed to indict, or even report on the charges, while
threats of violence were heard in every quarter, and an attack on the
U.S. troops intimated, if he persisted in his course.

"Finding that nothing could be done with the juries, they were discharged
with a scathing rebuke from the judge.  And then, sitting as a committing
magistrate, he commenced his task alone.  He examined witnesses, made
arrests in every quarter, and created a consternation in the camps of the
saints greater than any they had ever witnessed before, since Mormondom
was born.  At last accounts terrified elders and bishops were decamping
to save their necks; and developments of the most starling character were
being made, implicating the highest Church dignitaries in the many
murders and robberies committed upon the Gentiles during the past eight
years."

Had Harney been Governor, Cradlebaugh would have been supported in his
work, and the absolute proofs adduced by him of Mormon guilt in this
massacre and in a number of previous murders, would have conferred
gratuitous coffins upon certain citizens, together with occasion to use
them.  But Cumming was the Federal Governor, and he, under a curious
pretense of impartiality, sought to screen the Mormons from the demands
of justice.  On one occasion he even went so far as to publish his
protest against the use of the U.S. troops in aid of Cradlebaugh's
proceedings.

Mrs. C. V. Waite closes her interesting detail of the great massacre with
the following remark and accompanying summary of the testimony--and the
summary is concise, accurate and reliable:

"For the benefit of those who may still be disposed to doubt the guilt of
Young and his Mormons in this transaction, the testimony is here collated
and circumstances given which go not merely to implicate but to fasten
conviction upon them by 'confirmations strong as proofs of Holy Writ:'

"1.  The evidence of Mormons themselves, engaged in the affair, as shown
by the statements of Judge Cradlebaugh and Deputy U.S.  Marshall Rodgers.

"2.  The failure of Brigham Young to embody any account of it in his
Report as Superintendent of Indian Affairs.  Also his failure to make any
allusion to it whatever from the pulpit, until several years after the
occurrence

"3.  The flight to the mountains of men high in authority in the Mormon
Church and State, when this affair was brought to the ordeal of a
judicial investigation.

"4.  The failure of the Deseret News, the Church organ, and the only
paper then published in the Territory, to notice the massacre until
several months afterward, and then only to deny that Mormons were engaged
in it.

"5.  The testimony of the children saved from the massacre.

"6.  The children and the property of the emigrants found in possession
of the Mormons, and that possession traced back to the very day after the
massacre.

"7.  The statements of Indians in the neighborhood of the scene of the
massacre: these statements are shown, not only by Cradlebaugh and
Rodgers, but by a number of military officers, and by J. Forney, who was,
in 1859, Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the Territory.  To all
these were such statements freely and frequently made by the Indians.

"8.  The testimony of R. P. Campbell, Capt.  2d Dragoons, who was sent in
the Spring of 1859 to Santa Clara, to protect travelers on the road to
California and to inquire into Indian depredations."




C.
CONCERNING A FRIGHTFUL ASSASSINATION THAT WAS NEVER CONSUMMATED

If ever there was a harmless man, it is Conrad Wiegand, of Gold Hill,
Nevada.  If ever there was a gentle spirit that thought itself unfired
gunpowder and latent ruin, it is Conrad Wiegand.  If ever there was an
oyster that fancied itself a whale; or a jack-o'lantern, confined to a
swamp, that fancied itself a planet with a billion-mile orbit; or a
summer zephyr that deemed itself a hurricane, it is Conrad Wiegand.
Therefore, what wonder is it that when he says a thing, he thinks the
world listens; that when he does a thing the world stands still to look;
and that when he suffers, there is a convulsion of nature?  When I met
Conrad, he was "Superintendent of the Gold Hill Assay Office"--and he was
not only its Superintendent, but its entire force.  And he was a street
preacher, too, with a mongrel religion of his own invention, whereby he
expected to regenerate the universe.  This was years ago.  Here latterly
he has entered journalism; and his journalism is what it might be
expected to be: colossal to ear, but pigmy to the eye.  It is extravagant
grandiloquence confined to a newspaper about the size of a double letter
sheet.  He doubtless edits, sets the type, and prints his paper, all
alone; but he delights to speak of the concern as if it occupies a block
and employs a thousand men.

[Something less than two years ago, Conrad assailed several people
mercilessly in his little "People's Tribune," and got himself into
trouble.  Straightway he airs the affair in the "Territorial Enterprise,"
in a communication over his own signature, and I propose to reproduce it
here, in all its native simplicity and more than human candor.  Long as
it is, it is well worth reading, for it is the richest specimen of
journalistic literature the history of America can furnish, perhaps:]

From the Territorial Enterprise, Jan. 20, 1870.

SEEMING PLOT FOR ASSASSINATION MISCARRIED.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ENTERPRISE: Months ago, when Mr. Sutro incidentally
exposed mining management on the Comstock, and among others roused me to
protest against its continuance, in great kindness you warned me that any
attempt by publications, by public meetings and by legislative action,
aimed at the correction of chronic mining evils in Storey County, must
entail upon me (a) business ruin, (b) the burden of all its costs, (c)
personal violence, and if my purpose were persisted in, then (d)
assassination, and after all nothing would be effected.

YOUR PROPHECY FULFILLING.
In large part at least your prophecies have been fulfilled, for (a)
assaying, which was well attended to in the Gold Hill Assay Office (of
which I am superintendent), in consequence of my publications, has been
taken elsewhere, so the President of one of the companies assures me.
With no reason assigned, other work has been taken away.  With but one or
two important exceptions, our assay business now consists simply of the
gleanings of the vicinity.  (b) Though my own personal donations to the
People's Tribune Association have already exceeded $1,500, outside of our
own numbers we have received (in money) less than $300 as contributions
and subscriptions for the journal.  (c) On Thursday last, on the main
street in Gold Hill, near noon, with neither warning nor cause assigned,
by a powerful blow I was felled to the ground, and while down I was
kicked by a man who it would seem had been led to believe that I had
spoken derogatorily of him.  By whom he was so induced to believe I am as
yet unable to say.  On Saturday last I was again assailed and beaten by a
man who first informed me why he did so, and who persisted in making his
assault even after the erroneous impression under which he also was at
first laboring had been clearly and repeatedly pointed out.  This same
man, after failing through intimidation to elicit from me the names of
our editorial contributors, against giving which he knew me to be
pledged, beat himself weary upon me with a raw hide, I not resisting, and
then pantingly threatened me with permanent disfiguring mayhem, if ever
again I should introduce his name into print, and who but a few minutes
before his attack upon me assured me that the only reason I was
"permitted" to reach home alive on Wednesday evening last (at which time
the PEOPLE'S TRIBUNE was issued) was, that he deems me only half-witted,
and be it remembered the very next morning I was knocked down and kicked
by a man who seemed to be prepared for flight.
[He sees doom impending:]

WHEN WILL THE CIRCLE JOIN?
How long before the whole of your prophecy will be fulfilled I cannot
say, but under the shadow of so much fulfillment in so short a time, and
with such threats from a man who is one of the most prominent exponents
of the San Francisco mining-ring staring me and this whole community
defiantly in the face and pointing to a completion of your augury, do you
blame me for feeling that this communication is the last I shall ever
write for the Press, especially when a sense alike of personal self-
respect, of duty to this money-oppressed and fear-ridden community, and
of American fealty to the spirit of true Liberty all command me, and each
more loudly than love of life itself, to declare the name of that
prominent man to be JOHN B. WINTERS, President of the Yellow Jacket
Company, a political aspirant and a military General?  The name of his
partially duped accomplice and abettor in this last marvelous assault, is
no other than PHILIP LYNCH, Editor and Proprietor of the Gold Hill News.

Despite the insult and wrong heaped upon me by John B. Winters, on
Saturday afternoon, only a glimpse of which I shall be able to afford
your readers, so much do I deplore clinching (by publicity) a serious
mistake of any one, man or woman, committed under natural and not self-
wrought passion, in view of his great apparent excitement at the time and
in view of the almost perfect privacy of the assault, I am far from sure
that I should not have given him space for repentance before exposing
him, were it not that he himself has so far exposed the matter as to make
it the common talk of the town that he has horsewhipped me.  That fact
having been made public, all the facts in connection need to be also, or
silence on my part would seem more than singular, and with many would be
proof either that I was conscious of some unworthy aim in publishing the
article, or else that my "non-combatant" principles are but a convenient
cloak alike of physical and moral cowardice.  I therefore shall try to
present a graphic but truthful picture of this whole affair, but shall
forbear all comments, presuming that the editors of our own journal, if
others do not, will speak freely and fittingly upon this subject in our
next number, whether I shall then be dead or living, for my death will
not stop, though it may suspend, the publication of the PEOPLE'S TRIBUNE.
[The "non-combatant" sticks to principle, but takes along a friend or two
of a conveniently different stripe:]

THE TRAP SET.
On Saturday morning John B. Winters sent verbal word to the Gold Hill
Assay Office that he desired to see me at the Yellow Jacket office.
Though such a request struck me as decidedly cool in view of his own
recent discourtesies to me there alike as a publisher and as a
stockholder in the Yellow Jacket mine, and though it seemed to me more
like a summons than the courteous request by one gentleman to another for
a favor, hoping that some conference with Sharon looking to the
betterment of mining matters in Nevada might arise from it, I felt
strongly inclined to overlook what possibly was simply an oversight in
courtesy.  But as then it had only been two days since I had been bruised
and beaten under a hasty and false apprehension of facts, my caution was
somewhat aroused.  Moreover I remembered sensitively his contemptuousness
of manner to me at my last interview in his office.  I therefore felt it
needful, if I went at all, to go accompanied by a friend whom he would
not dare to treat with incivility, and whose presence with me might
secure exemption from insult.  Accordingly I asked a neighbor to
accompany me.

THE TRAP ALMOST DETECTED.
Although I was not then aware of this fact, it would seem that previous
to my request this same neighbor had heard Dr. Zabriskie state publicly
in a saloon, that Mr. Winters had told him he had decided either to kill
or to horsewhip me, but had not finally decided on which.  My neighbor,
therefore, felt unwilling to go down with me until he had first called on
Mr. Winters alone.  He therefore paid him a visit.  From that interview
he assured me that he gathered the impression that he did not believe I
would have any difficulty with Mr. Winters, and that he (Winters) would
call on me at four o'clock in my own office.

MY OWN PRECAUTIONS.
As Sheriff Cummings was in Gold Hill that afternoon, and as I desired to
converse with him about the previous assault, I invited him to my office,
and he came.  Although a half hour had passed beyond four o'clock, Mr.
Winters had not called, and we both of us began preparing to go home.
Just then, Philip Lynch, Publisher of the Gold Hill News, came in and
said, blandly and cheerily, as if bringing good news:

"Hello, John B. Winters wants to see you."

I replied, "Indeed!  Why he sent me word that he would call on me here
this afternoon at four o'clock!"

"O, well, it don't do to be too ceremonious just now, he's in my office,
and that will do as well--come on in, Winters wants to consult with you
alone.  He's got something to say to you."

Though slightly uneasy at this change of programme, yet believing that in
an editor's house I ought to be safe, and anyhow that I would be within
hail of the street, I hurriedly, and but partially whispered my dim
apprehensions to Mr. Cummings, and asked him if he would not keep near
enough to hear my voice in case I should call.  He consented to do so
while waiting for some other parties, and to come in if he heard my voice
or thought I had need of protection.

On reaching the editorial part of the News office, which viewed from the
street is dark, I did not see Mr. Winters, and again my misgivings arose.
Had I paused long enough to consider the case, I should have invited
Sheriff Cummings in, but as Lynch went down stairs, he said: "This way,
Wiegand--it's best to be private," or some such remark.

[I do not desire to strain the reader's fancy, hurtfully, and yet it
would be a favor to me if he would try to fancy this lamb in battle, or
the duelling ground or at the head of a vigilance committee--M.  T.:]

I followed, and without Mr. Cummings, and without arms, which I never do
or will carry, unless as a soldier in war, or unless I should yet come to
feel I must fight a duel, or to join and aid in the ranks of a necessary
Vigilance Committee.  But by following I made a fatal mistake.  Following
was entering a trap, and whatever animal suffers itself to be caught
should expect the common fate of a caged rat, as I fear events to come
will prove.

Traps commonly are not set for benevolence.
[His body-guard is shut out:]

THE TRAP INSIDE.
I followed Lynch down stairs.  At their foot a door to the left opened
into a small room.  From that room another door opened into yet another
room, and once entered I found myself inveigled into what many will ever
henceforth regard as a private subterranean Gold Hill den, admirably
adapted in proper hands to the purposes of murder, raw or disguised, for
from it, with both or even one door closed, when too late, I saw that I
could not be heard by Sheriff Cummings, and from it, BY VIOLENCE AND BY
FORCE, I was prevented from making a peaceable exit, when I thought I saw
the studious object of this "consultation" was no other than to compass
my killing, in the presence of Philip Lynch as a witness, as soon as by
insult a proverbially excitable man should be exasperated to the point of
assailing Mr. Winters, so that Mr. Lynch, by his conscience and by his
well known tenderness of heart toward the rich and potent would be
compelled to testify that he saw Gen. John B. Winters kill Conrad Wiegand
in "self-defence."  But I am going too fast.

OUR HOST.
Mr. Lynch was present during the most of the time (say a little short of
an hour), but three times he left the room.  His testimony, therefore,
would be available only as to the bulk of what transpired.  On entering
this carpeted den I was invited to a seat near one corner of the room.
Mr. Lynch took a seat near the window.  J. B. Winters sat (at first) near
the door, and began his remarks essentially as follows:

"I have come here to exact of you a retraction, in black and white, of
those damnably false charges which you have preferred against me in that-
--infamous lying sheet of yours, and you must declare yourself their
author, that you published them knowing them to be false, and that your
motives were malicious."

"Hold, Mr. Winters.  Your language is insulting and your demand an
enormity.  I trust I was not invited here either to be insulted or
coerced.  I supposed myself here by invitation of Mr. Lynch, at your
request."

"Nor did I come here to insult you.  I have already told you that I am
here for a very different purpose."

"Yet your language has been offensive, and even now shows strong
excitement.  If insult is repeated I shall either leave the room or call
in Sheriff Cummings, whom I just left standing and waiting for me outside
the door."

"No, you won't, sir.  You may just as well understand it at once as not.
Here you are my man, and I'll tell you why!  Months ago you put your
property out of your hands, boasting that you did so to escape losing it
on prosecution for libel."

"It is true that I did convert all my immovable property into personal
property, such as I could trust safely to others, and chiefly to escape
ruin through possible libel suits."

"Very good, sir.  Having placed yourself beyond the pale of the law, may
God help your soul if you DON'T make precisely such a retraction as I
have demanded.  I've got you now, and by--before you can get out of this
room you've got to both write and sign precisely the retraction I have
demanded, and before you go, anyhow--you---low-lived--lying---, I'll
teach you what personal responsibility is outside of the law; and, by--,
Sheriff Cummings and all the friends you've got in the world besides,
can't save you, you---, etc.!  No, sir.  I'm alone now, and I'm prepared
to be shot down just here and now rather than be villified by you as I
have been, and suffer you to escape me after publishing those charges,
not only here where I am known and universally respected, but where I am
not personally known and may be injured."

I confess this speech, with its terrible and but too plainly implied
threat of killing me if I did not sign the paper he demanded, terrified
me, especially as I saw he was working himself up to the highest possible
pitch of passion, and instinct told me that any reply other than one of
seeming concession to his demands would only be fuel to a raging fire,
so I replied:

"Well, if I've got to sign--," and then I paused some time.  Resuming,
I said, "But, Mr. Winters, you are greatly excited.  Besides, I see you
are laboring under a total misapprehension.  It is your duty not to
inflame but to calm yourself.  I am prepared to show you, if you will
only point out the article that you allude to, that you regard as
'charges' what no calm and logical mind has any right to regard as such.
Show me the charges, and I will try, at all events; and if it becomes
plain that no charges have been preferred, then plainly there can be
nothing to retract, and no one could rightly urge you to demand a
retraction.  You should beware of making so serious a mistake, for
however honest a man may be, every one is liable to misapprehend.
Besides you assume that I am the author of some certain article which you
have not pointed out.  It is hasty to do so."

He then pointed to some numbered paragraphs in a TRIBUNE article, headed
"What's the Matter with Yellow Jacket?" saying "That's what I refer to."

To gain time for general reflection and resolution, I took up the paper
and looked it over for awhile, he remaining silent, and as I hoped,
cooling.  I then resumed saying, "As I supposed.  I do not admit having
written that article, nor have you any right to assume so important a
point, and then base important action upon your assumption.  You might
deeply regret it afterwards.  In my published Address to the People, I
notified the world that no information as to the authorship of any
article would be given without the consent of the writer.  I therefore
cannot honorably tell you who wrote that article, nor can you exact it."

"If you are not the author, then I do demand to know who is?"

"I must decline to say."

"Then, by--, I brand you as its author, and shall treat you accordingly."

"Passing that point, the most important misapprehension which I notice
is, that you regard them as 'charges' at all, when their context, both at
their beginning and end, show they are not.  These words introduce them:
'Such an investigation [just before indicated], we think MIGHT result in
showing some of the following points.' Then follow eleven specifications,
and the succeeding paragraph shows that the suggested investigation
'might EXONERATE those who are generally believed guilty.' You see,
therefore, the context proves they are not preferred as charges, and this
you seem to have overlooked."

While making those comments, Mr. Winters frequently interrupted me in
such a way as to convince me that he was resolved not to consider
candidly the thoughts contained in my words.  He insisted upon it that
they were charges, and "By--," he would make me take them back as
charges, and he referred the question to Philip Lynch, to whom I then
appealed as a literary man, as a logician, and as an editor, calling his
attention especially to the introductory paragraph just before quoted.
He replied, "if they are not charges, they certainly are insinuations,"
whereupon Mr. Winters renewed his demands for retraction precisely such
as he had before named, except that he would allow me to state who did
write the article if I did not myself, and this time shaking his fist in
my face with more cursings and epithets.

When he threatened me with his clenched fist, instinctively I tried to
rise from my chair, but Winters then forcibly thrust me down, as he did
every other time (at least seven or eight), when under similar imminent
danger of bruising by his fist (or for aught I could know worse than that
after the first stunning blow), which he could easily and safely to
himself have dealt me so long as he kept me down and stood over me.

This fact it was, which more than anything else, convinced me that by
plan and plot I was purposely made powerless in Mr. Winters' hands, and
that he did not mean to allow me that advantage of being afoot, which he
possessed.  Moreover, I then became convinced, that Philip Lynch (and for
what reason I wondered) would do absolutely nothing to protect me in his
own house.  I realized then the situation thoroughly.  I had found it
equally vain to protest or argue, and I would make no unmanly appeal for
pity, still less apologize.  Yet my life had been by the plainest
possible implication threatened.  I was a weak man.  I was unarmed.  I
was helplessly down, and Winters was afoot and probably armed.  Lynch was
the only "witness."  The statements demanded, if given and not explained,
would utterly sink me in my own self-respect, in my family's eyes, and in
the eyes of the community.  On the other hand, should I give the author's
name how could I ever expect that confidence of the People which I should
no longer deserve, and how much dearer to me and to my family was my life
than the life of the real author to his friends.  Yet life seemed dear
and each minute that remained seemed precious if not solemn.  I sincerely
trust that neither you nor any of your readers, and especially none with
families, may ever be placed in such seeming direct proximity to death
while obliged to decide the one question I was compelled to, viz.: What
should I do--I, a man of family, and not as Mr. Winters is, "alone."
[The reader is requested not to skip the following.--M.  T.:]

STRATEGY AND MESMERISM.
To gain time for further reflection, and hoping that by a seeming
acquiescence I might regain my personal liberty, at least till I could
give an alarm, or take advantage of some momentary inadvertence of
Winters, and then without a cowardly flight escape, I resolved to write a
certain kind of retraction, but previously had inwardly decided

First.--That I would studiously avoid every action which might be
construed into the drawing of a weapon, even by a self-infuriated man, no
matter what amount of insult might be heaped upon me, for it seemed to me
that this great excess of compound profanity, foulness and epithet must
be more than a mere indulgence, and therefore must have some object.
"Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird."  Therefore,
as before without thought, I thereafter by intent kept my hands away from
my pockets, and generally in sight and spread upon my knees.

Second.--I resolved to make no motion with my arms or hands which could
possibly be construed into aggression.

Third.--I resolved completely to govern my outward manner and suppress
indignation.  To do this, I must govern my spirit.  To do that, by force
of imagination I was obliged like actors on the boards to resolve myself
into an unnatural mental state and see all things through the eyes of an
assumed character.

Fourth.--I resolved to try on Winters, silently, and unconsciously to
himself a mesmeric power which I possess over certain kinds of people,
and which at times I have found to work even in the dark over the lower
animals.

Does any one smile at these last counts?  God save you from ever being
obliged to beat in a game of chess, whose stake is your life, you having
but four poor pawns and pieces and your adversary with his full force
unshorn.  But if you are, provided you have any strength with breadth of
will, do not despair.  Though mesmeric power may not save you, it may
help you; try it at all events.  In this instance I was conscious of
power coming into me, and by a law of nature, I know Winters was
correspondingly weakened.  If I could have gained more time I am sure he
would not even have struck me.

It takes time both to form such resolutions and to recite them.  That
time, however, I gained while thinking of my retraction, which I first
wrote in pencil, altering it from time to time till I got it to suit me,
my aim being to make it look like a concession to demands, while in fact
it should tersely speak the truth into Mr. Winters' mind.  When it was
finished, I copied it in ink, and if correctly copied from my first draft
it should read as follows.  In copying I do not think I made any material
change.

COPY.
To Philip Lynch, Editor of the Gold Hill News: I learn that Gen. John B.
Winters believes the following (pasted on) clipping from the PEOPLE'S
TRIBUNE of January to contain distinct charges of mine against him
personally, and that as such he desires me to retract them unqualifiedly.

In compliance with his request, permit me to say that, although Mr.
Winters and I see this matter differently, in view of his strong feelings
in the premises, I hereby declare that I do not know those "charges" (if
such they are) to be true, and I hope that a critical examination would
altogether disprove them.
                              CONRAD WIEGAND.
                         Gold Hill, January 15, 1870.


I then read what I had written and handed it to Mr. Lynch, whereupon Mr.
Winters said:

"That's not satisfactory, and it won't do;" and then addressing himself
to Mr. Lynch, he further said: "How does it strike you?"

"Well, I confess I don't see that it retracts anything."

"Nor do I," said Winters; "in fact, I regard it as adding insult to
injury.  Mr. Wiegand you've got to do better than that.  You are not the
man who can pull wool over my eyes."

"That, sir, is the only retraction I can write."

"No it isn't, sir, and if you so much as say so again you do it at your
peril, for I'll thrash you to within an inch of your life, and, by--,
sir, I don't pledge myself to spare you even that inch either.  I want
you to understand I have asked you for a very different paper, and that
paper you've got to sign."

"Mr. Winters, I assure you that I do not wish to irritate you, but, at
the same time, it is utterly impossible for me to write any other paper
than that which I have written.  If you are resolved to compel me to sign
something, Philip Lynch's hand must write at your dictation, and if, when
written, I can sign it I will do so, but such a document as you say you
must have from me, I never can sign.  I mean what I say."

"Well, sir, what's to be done must be done quickly, for I've been here
long enough already.  I'll put the thing in another shape (and then
pointing to the paper); don't you know those charges to be false?"

"I do not."

"Do you know them to be true?"

"Of my own personal knowledge I do not."

"Why then did you print them?"

"Because rightly considered in their connection they are not charges, but
pertinent and useful suggestions in answer to the queries of a
correspondent who stated facts which are inexplicable."

"Don't you know that I know they are false?"

"If you do, the proper course is simply to deny them and court an
investigation."

"And do YOU claim the right to make ME come out and deny anything you may
choose to write and print?"

To that question I think I made no reply, and he then further said:

"Come, now, we've talked about the matter long enough.  I want your final
answer--did you write that article or not?"

"I cannot in honor tell you who wrote it."

"Did you not see it before it was printed?"

"Most certainly, sir."

"And did you deem it a fit thing to publish?"

"Most assuredly, sir, or I would never have consented to its appearance.
Of its authorship I can say nothing whatever, but for its publication I
assume full, sole and personal responsibility."

"And do you then retract it or not?"

"Mr. Winters, if my refusal to sign such a paper as you have demanded
must entail upon me all that your language in this room fairly implies,
then I ask a few minutes for prayer."

"Prayer!---you, this is not your hour for prayer--your time to pray was
when you were writing those--lying charges.  Will you sign or not?"

"You already have my answer."

"What!  do you still refuse?"

"I do, sir."

"Take that, then," and to my amazement and inexpressible relief he drew
only a rawhide instead of what I expected--a bludgeon or pistol.  With
it, as he spoke, he struck at my left ear downwards, as if to tear it
off, and afterwards on the side of the head.  As he moved away to get a
better chance for a more effective shot, for the first time I gained a
chance under peril to rise, and I did so pitying him from the very bottom
of my soul, to think that one so naturally capable of true dignity, power
and nobility could, by the temptations of this State, and by unfortunate
associations and aspirations, be so deeply debased as to find in such
brutality anything which he could call satisfaction--but the great hope
for us all is in progress and growth, and John B.  Winters, I trust, will
yet be able to comprehend my feelings.

He continued to beat me with all his great force, until absolutely weary,
exhausted and panting for breath.  I still adhered to my purpose of non-
aggressive defence, and made no other use of my arms than to defend my
head and face from further disfigurement.  The mere pain arising from the
blows he inflicted upon my person was of course transient, and my
clothing to some extent deadened its severity, as it now hides all
remaining traces.

When I supposed he was through, taking the butt end of his weapon and
shaking it in my face, he warned me, if I correctly understood him, of
more yet to come, and furthermore said, if ever I again dared introduce
his name to print, in either my own or any other public journal, he would
cut off my left ear (and I do not think he was jesting) and send me home
to my family a visibly mutilated man, to be a standing warning to all
low-lived puppies who seek to blackmail gentlemen and to injure their
good names.  And when he did so operate, he informed me that his
implement would not be a whip but a knife.

When he had said this, unaccompanied by Mr. Lynch, as I remember it, he
left the room, for I sat down by Mr. Lynch, exclaiming: "The man is mad--
he is utterly mad--this step is his ruin--it is a mistake--it would be
ungenerous in me, despite of all the ill usage I have here received, to
expose him, at least until he has had an opportunity to reflect upon the
matter.  I shall be in no haste."

"Winters is very mad just now," replied Mr. Lynch, "but when he is
himself he is one of the finest men I ever met.  In fact, he told me the
reason he did not meet you upstairs was to spare you the humiliation of a
beating in the sight of others."

I submit that that unguarded remark of Philip Lynch convicts him of
having been privy in advance to Mr. Winters' intentions whatever they may
have been, or at least to his meaning to make an assault upon me, but I
leave to others to determine how much censure an editor deserves for
inveigling a weak, non-combatant man, also a publisher, to a pen of his
own to be horsewhipped, if no worse, for the simple printing of what is
verbally in the mouth of nine out of ten men, and women too, upon the
street.

While writing this account two theories have occurred to me as possibly
true respecting this most remarkable assault:
First--The aim may have been simply to extort from me such admissions as
in the hands of money and influence would have sent me to the
Penitentiary for libel.  This, however, seems unlikely, because any
statements elicited by fear or force could not be evidence in law or
could be so explained as to have no force.  The statements wanted so
badly must have been desired for some other purpose.
Second--The other theory has so dark and wilfully murderous a look that I
shrink from writing it, yet as in all probability my death at the
earliest practicable moment has already been decreed, I feel I should do
all I can before my hour arrives, at least to show others how to break up
that aristocratic rule and combination which has robbed all Nevada of
true freedom, if not of manhood itself.  Although I do not prefer this
hypothesis as a "charge," I feel that as an American citizen I still have
a right both to think and to speak my thoughts even in the land of Sharon
and Winters, and as much so respecting the theory of a brutal assault
(especially when I have been its subject) as respecting any other
apparent enormity.  I give the matter simply as a suggestion which may
explain to the proper authorities and to the people whom they should
represent, a well ascertained but notwithstanding a darkly mysterious
fact.  The scheme of the assault may have been:

First--To terrify me by making me conscious of my own helplessness after
making actual though not legal threats against my life.

Second--To imply that I could save my life only by writing or signing
certain specific statements which if not subsequently explained would
eternally have branded me as infamous and would have consigned my family
to shame and want, and to the dreadful compassion and patronage of the
rich.

Third--To blow my brains out the moment I had signed, thereby preventing
me from making any subsequent explanation such as could remove the
infamy.

Fourth--Philip Lynch to be compelled to testify that I was killed by John
B.  Winters in self-defence, for the conviction of Winters would bring
him in as an accomplice.  If that was the programme in John B.  Winters'
mind nothing saved my life but my persistent refusal to sign, when that
refusal seemed clearly to me to be the choice of death.

The remarkable assertion made to me by Mr. Winters, that pity only spared
my life on Wednesday evening last, almost compels me to believe that at
first he could not have intended me to leave that room alive; and why I
was allowed to, unless through mesmeric or some other invisible
influence, I cannot divine.  The more I reflect upon this matter, the
more probable as true does this horrible interpretation become.

The narration of these things I might have spared both to Mr. Winters and
to the public had he himself observed silence, but as he has both
verbally spoken and suffered a thoroughly garbled statement of facts to
appear in the Gold Hill News I feel it due to myself no less than to this
community, and to the entire independent press of America and Great
Britain, to give a true account of what even the Gold Hill News has
pronounced a disgraceful affair, and which it deeply regrets because of
some alleged telegraphic mistake in the account of it.  [Who received the
erroneous telegrams?]

Though he may not deem it prudent to take my life just now, the
publication of this article I feel sure must compel Gen. Winters (with
his peculiar views about his right to exemption from criticism by me) to
resolve on my violent death, though it may take years to compass it.
Notwithstanding I bear him no ill will; and if W. C. Ralston and William
Sharon, and other members of the San Francisco mining and milling Ring
feel that he above all other men in this State and California is the most
fitting man to supervise and control Yellow Jacket matters, until I am
able to vote more than half their stock I presume he will be retained to
grace his present post.

Meantime, I cordially invite all who know of any sort of important
villainy which only can be cured by exposure (and who would expose it if
they felt sure they would not be betrayed under bullying threats), to
communicate with the PEOPLE'S TRIBUNE; for until I am murdered, so long
as I can raise the means to publish, I propose to continue my efforts at
least to revive the liberties of the State, to curb oppression, and to
benefit man's world and God's earth.
                              CONRAD WIEGAND.


[It does seem a pity that the Sheriff was shut out, since the good sense
of a general of militia and of a prominent editor failed to teach them
that the merited castigation of this weak, half-witted child was a thing
that ought to have been done in the street, where the poor thing could
have a chance to run.  When a journalist maligns a citizen, or attacks
his good name on hearsay evidence, he deserves to be thrashed for it,
even if he is a "non-combatant" weakling; but a generous adversary would
at least allow such a lamb the use of his legs at such a time.--M.  T.]




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Roughing It
by Mark Twain






THE GILDED AGE

A Tale of Today

by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner

1873



PREFACE.

This book was not written for private circulation among friends; it was
not written to cheer and instruct a diseased relative of the author's;
it was not thrown off during intervals of wearing labor to amuse an idle
hour.  It was not written for any of these reasons, and therefore it is
submitted without the usual apologies.

It will be seen that it deals with an entirely ideal state of society;
and the chief embarrassment of the writers in this realm of the
imagination has been the want of illustrative examples.  In a State where
there is no fever of speculation, no inflamed desire for sudden wealth,
where the poor are all simple-minded and contented, and the rich are all
honest and generous, where society is in a condition of primitive purity
and politics is the occupation of only the capable and the patriotic,
there are necessarily no materials for such a history as we have
constructed out of an ideal commonwealth.

No apology is needed for following the learned custom of placing
attractive scraps of literature at the heads of our chapters.  It has
been truly observed by Wagner that such headings, with their vague
suggestions of the matter which is to follow them, pleasantly inflame the
reader's interest without wholly satisfying his curiosity, and we will
hope that it may be found to be so in the present case.

Our quotations are set in a vast number of tongues; this is done for the
reason that very few foreign nations among whom the book will circulate
can read in any language but their own; whereas we do not write for a
particular class or sect or nation, but to take in the whole world.

We do not object to criticism; and we do not expect that the critic will
read the book before writing a notice of it: We do not even expect the
reviewer of the book will say that he has not read it.  No, we have no
anticipations of anything unusual in this age of criticism.  But if the
Jupiter, Who passes his opinion on the novel, ever happens to peruse it
in some weary moment of his subsequent life, we hope that he will not be
the victim of a remorse bitter but too late.

One word more.  This is--what it pretends to be a joint production, in
the conception of the story, the exposition of the characters, and in its
literal composition.  There is scarcely a chapter that does not bear the
marks of the two writers of the book.   S. L. C.
                                        C. D. W.



[Etext Editor's Note: The following chapters were written by Mark Twain:
1-11, 24, 25, 27, 28, 30, 32-34, 36, 37, 42, 43, 45, 51-53, 57, 59-62;
and portions of 35, 49, and 56.  See Twain's letter to Dr. John Brown
Feb. 28, 1874   D.W.]



CHAPTER I.

June 18--.  Squire Hawkins sat upon the pyramid of large blocks, called
the "stile," in front of his house, contemplating the morning.

The locality was Obedstown, East Tennessee.  You would not know that
Obedstown stood on the top of a mountain, for there was nothing about the
landscape to indicate it--but it did: a mountain that stretched abroad
over whole counties, and rose very gradually.  The district was called
the "Knobs of East Tennessee," and had a reputation like Nazareth, as far
as turning out any good thing was concerned.

The Squire's house was a double log cabin, in a state of decay; two or
three gaunt hounds lay asleep about the threshold, and lifted their heads
sadly whenever Mrs. Hawkins or the children stepped in and out over their
bodies.  Rubbish was scattered about the grassless yard; a bench stood
near the door with a tin wash basin on it and a pail of water and a
gourd; a cat had begun to drink from the pail, but the exertion was
overtaxing her energies, and she had stopped to rest.  There was an ash-
hopper by the fence, and an iron pot, for soft-soap-boiling, near it.

This dwelling constituted one-fifteenth of Obedstown; the other fourteen
houses were scattered about among the tall pine trees and among the corn-
fields in such a way that a man might stand in the midst of the city and
not know but that he was in the country if he only depended on his eyes
for information.

"Squire" Hawkins got his title from being postmaster of Obedstown--not
that the title properly belonged to the office, but because in those
regions the chief citizens always must have titles of some sort, and so
the usual courtesy had been extended to Hawkins.  The mail was monthly,
and sometimes amounted to as much as three or four letters at a single
delivery.  Even a rush like this did not fill up the postmaster's whole
month, though, and therefore he "kept store" in the intervals.

The Squire was contemplating the morning.  It was balmy and tranquil,
the vagrant breezes were laden with the odor of flowers, the murmur of
bees was in the air, there was everywhere that suggestion of repose that
summer woodlands bring to the senses, and the vague, pleasurable
melancholy that such a time and such surroundings inspire.

Presently the United States mail arrived, on horseback.  There was but
one letter, and it was for the postmaster.  The long-legged youth who
carried the mail tarried an hour to talk, for there was no hurry; and in
a little while the male population of the village had assembled to help.
As a general thing, they were dressed in homespun "jeans," blue or
yellow--here were no other varieties of it; all wore one suspender and
sometimes two--yarn ones knitted at home,--some wore vests, but few wore
coats.  Such coats and vests as did appear, however, were rather
picturesque than otherwise, for they were made of tolerably fanciful
patterns of calico--a fashion which prevails thereto this day among those
of the community who have tastes above the common level and are able to
afford style.  Every individual arrived with his hands in his pockets;
a hand came out occasionally for a purpose, but it always went back again
after service; and if it was the head that was served, just the cant that
the dilapidated straw hat got by being uplifted and rooted under, was
retained until the next call altered the inclination; many' hats were
present, but none were erect and no two were canted just alike.  We are
speaking impartially of men, youths and boys.  And we are also speaking
of these three estates when we say that every individual was either
chewing natural leaf tobacco prepared on his own premises, or smoking the
same in a corn-cob pipe.  Few of the men wore whiskers; none wore
moustaches; some had a thick jungle of hair under the chin and hiding the
throat--the only pattern recognized there as being the correct thing in
whiskers; but no part of any individual's face had seen a razor for a
week.

These neighbors stood a few moments looking at the mail carrier
reflectively while he talked; but fatigue soon began to show itself,
and one after another they climbed up and occupied the top rail of the
fence, hump-shouldered and grave, like a company of buzzards assembled
for supper and listening for the death-rattle.  Old Damrell said:

"Tha hain't no news 'bout the jedge, hit ain't likely?"

"Cain't tell for sartin; some thinks he's gwyne to be 'long toreckly,
and some thinks 'e hain't.  Russ Mosely he tote ole Hanks he mought git
to Obeds tomorrer or nex' day he reckoned."

"Well, I wisht I knowed.  I got a 'prime sow and pigs in the, cote-house,
and I hain't got no place for to put 'em.  If the jedge is a gwyne to
hold cote, I got to roust 'em out, I reckon.  But tomorrer'll do, I
'spect."

The speaker bunched his thick lips together like the stem-end of a tomato
and shot a bumble-bee dead that had lit on a weed seven feet away.
One after another the several chewers expressed a charge of tobacco juice
and delivered it at the deceased with steady, aim and faultless accuracy.

"What's a stirrin', down 'bout the Forks?" continued Old Damrell.

"Well, I dunno, skasely.  Ole, Drake Higgins he's ben down to Shelby las'
week.  Tuck his crap down; couldn't git shet o' the most uv it; hit
wasn't no time for to sell, he say, so he 'fotch it back agin, 'lowin' to
wait tell fall.  Talks 'bout goin' to Mozouri--lots uv 'ems talkin' that-
away down thar, Ole Higgins say.  Cain't make a livin' here no mo', sich
times as these.  Si Higgins he's ben over to Kaintuck n' married a high-
toned gal thar, outen the fust families, an' he's come back to the Forks
with jist a hell's-mint o' whoop-jamboree notions, folks says.  He's tuck
an' fixed up the ole house like they does in Kaintuck, he say, an' tha's
ben folks come cler from Turpentine for to see it.  He's tuck an gawmed
it all over on the inside with plarsterin'."

"What's plasterin'?"

"I dono.  Hit's what he calls it.  'Ole Mam Higgins, she tole me.
She say she wasn't gwyne to hang out in no sich a dern hole like a hog.
Says it's mud, or some sich kind o' nastiness that sticks on n' covers up
everything.  Plarsterin', Si calls it."

This marvel was discussed at considerable length; and almost with
animation.  But presently there was a dog-fight over in the neighborhood
of the blacksmith shop, and the visitors slid off their perch like so
many turtles and strode to the battle-field with an interest bordering on
eagerness.  The Squire remained, and read his letter.  Then he sighed,
and sat long in meditation.  At intervals he said:

Missouri.  Missouri.  Well, well, well, everything is so uncertain."

At last he said:

"I believe I'll do it.--A man will just rot, here.  My house my yard,
everything around me, in fact, shows' that I am becoming one of these
cattle--and I used to be thrifty in other times."

He was not more than thirty-five, but he had a worn look that made him
seem older.  He left the stile, entered that part of his house which was
the store, traded a quart of thick molasses for a coonskin and a cake of
beeswax, to an old dame in linsey-woolsey, put his letter away, an went
into the kitchen.  His wife was there, constructing some dried apple
pies; a slovenly urchin of ten was dreaming over a rude weather-vane of
his own contriving; his small sister, close upon four years of age, was
sopping corn-bread in some gravy left in the bottom of a frying-pan and
trying hard not to sop over a finger-mark that divided the pan through
the middle--for the other side belonged to the brother, whose musings
made him forget his stomach for the moment; a negro woman was busy
cooking, at a vast fire-place.  Shiftlessness and poverty reigned in the
place.

"Nancy, I've made up my mind.  The world is done with me, and perhaps I
ought to be done with it.  But no matter--I can wait.  I am going to
Missouri.  I won't stay in this dead country and decay with it.  I've had
it on my mind sometime.  I'm going to sell out here for whatever I can
get, and buy a wagon and team and put you and the children in it and
start."

"Anywhere that suits you, suits me, Si.  And the children can't be any
worse off in Missouri than, they are here, I reckon."

Motioning his wife to a private conference in their own room, Hawkins
said: "No, they'll be better off.  I've looked out for them, Nancy," and
his face lighted.  "Do you see these papers?  Well, they are evidence
that I have taken up Seventy-five Thousand Acres of Land in this county-
think what an enormous fortune it will be some day!  Why, Nancy, enormous
don't express it--the word's too tame!  I tell your Nancy----"

"For goodness sake, Si----"

"Wait, Nancy, wait--let me finish--I've been secretly bailing and fuming
with this grand inspiration for weeks, and I must talk or I'll burst!
I haven't whispered to a soul--not a word--have had my countenance under
lock and key, for fear it might drop something that would tell even these
animals here how to discern the gold mine that's glaring under their
noses.  Now all that is necessary to hold this land and keep it in the
family is to pay the trifling taxes on it yearly--five or ten dollars--
the whole tract would not sell for over a third of a cent an acre now,
but some day people wild be glad to get it for twenty dollars, fifty
dollars, a hundred dollars an acre!  What should you say to" [here he
dropped his voice to a whisper and looked anxiously around to see that
there were no eavesdroppers,] "a thousand dollars an acre!

"Well you may open your eyes and stare!  But it's so.  You and I may not
see the day, but they'll see it.  Mind I tell you; they'll see it.
Nancy, you've heard of steamboats, and maybe you believed in them--of
course you did.  You've heard these cattle here scoff at them and call
them lies and humbugs,--but they're not lies and humbugs, they're a
reality and they're going to be a more wonderful thing some day than they
are now.  They're going to make a revolution in this world's affairs that
will make men dizzy to contemplate.  I've been watching--I've been
watching while some people slept, and I know what's coming.

"Even you and I will see the day that steamboats will come up that little
Turkey river to within twenty miles of this land of ours--and in high
water they'll come right to it!  And this is not all, Nancy--it isn't
even half!  There's a bigger wonder--the railroad!  These worms here have
never even heard of it--and when they do they'll not believe in it.
But it's another fact.  Coaches that fly over the ground twenty miles an
hour--heavens and earth, think of that, Nancy!  Twenty miles an hour.
It makes a main's brain whirl.  Some day, when you and I are in our
graves, there'll be a railroad stretching hundreds of miles--all the way
down from the cities of the Northern States to New Orleans--and its got
to run within thirty miles of this land--may be even touch a corner of
it.  Well; do you know, they've quit burning wood in some places in the
Eastern States?  And what do you suppose they burn?  Coal!" [He bent over
and whispered again:] "There's world--worlds of it on this land!  You
know that black stuff that crops out of the bank of the branch?--well,
that's it.  You've taken it for rocks; so has every body here; and
they've built little dams and such things with it.  One man was going to
build a chimney out of it.  Nancy I expect I turned as white as a sheet!
Why, it might have caught fire and told everything.  I showed him it was
too crumbly.  Then he was going to build it of copper ore--splendid
yellow forty-per-cent. ore!  There's fortunes upon fortunes of copper ore
on our land!  It scared me to death, the idea of this fool starting a
smelting furnace in his house without knowing it, and getting his dull
eyes opened.  And then he was going to build it of iron ore!  There's
mountains of iron ore here, Nancy--whole mountains of it.  I wouldn't
take any chances.  I just stuck by him--I haunted him--I never let him
alone till he built it of mud and sticks like all the rest of the
chimneys in this dismal country.  Pine forests, wheat land, corn land,
iron, copper, coal-wait till the railroads come, and the steamboats!
We'll never see the day, Nancy--never in the world---never, never, never,
child.  We've got to drag along, drag along, and eat crusts in toil and
poverty, all hopeless and forlorn--but they'll ride in coaches, Nancy!
They'll live like the princes of the earth; they'll be courted and
worshiped; their names will be known from ocean to ocean!  Ah, well-a-
day!  Will they ever come back here, on the railroad and the steamboat,
and say, 'This one little spot shall not be touched--this hovel shall be
sacred--for here our father and our mother suffered for us, thought for
us, laid the foundations of our future as solid as the hills!'"

"You are a great, good, noble soul, Si Hawkins, and I am an honored woman
to be the wife of such a man"--and the tears stood in her eyes when she
said it.  "We will go to Missouri.  You are out of your place, here,
among these groping dumb creatures.  We will find a higher place, where
you can walk with your own kind, and be understood when you speak--not
stared at as if you were talking some foreign tongue.  I would go
anywhere, anywhere in the wide world with you I would rather my body
would starve and die than your mind should hunger and wither away in this
lonely land."

"Spoken like yourself, my child!  But we'll not starve, Nancy.  Far from
it.  I have a letter from Beriah Sellers--just came this day.  A letter
that--I'll read you a line from it!"

He flew out of the room.  A shadow blurred the sunlight in Nancy's face--
there was uneasiness in it, and disappointment.  A procession of
disturbing thoughts began to troop through her mind.  Saying nothing
aloud, she sat with her hands in her lap; now and then she clasped them,
then unclasped them, then tapped the ends of the fingers together;
sighed, nodded, smiled--occasionally paused, shook her head.  This
pantomime was the elocutionary expression of an unspoken soliloquy which
had something of this shape:

"I was afraid of it--was afraid of it.  Trying to make our fortune in
Virginia, Beriah Sellers nearly ruined us and we had to settle in
Kentucky and start over again.  Trying to make our fortune in Kentucky he
crippled us again and we had to move here.  Trying to make our fortune
here, he brought us clear down to the ground, nearly.  He's an honest
soul, and means the very best in the world, but I'm afraid, I'm afraid
he's too flighty.  He has splendid ideas, and he'll divide his chances
with his friends with a free hand, the good generous soul, but something
does seem to always interfere and spoil everything.  I never did think he
was right well balanced.  But I don't blame my husband, for I do think
that when that man gets his head full of a new notion, he can out-talk a
machine.  He'll make anybody believe in that notion that'll listen to him
ten minutes--why I do believe he would make a deaf and dumb man believe
in it and get beside himself, if you only set him where he could see his
eyes tally and watch his hands explain.  What a head he has got!  When he
got up that idea there in Virginia of buying up whole loads of negroes in
Delaware and Virginia and Tennessee, very quiet, having papers drawn to
have them delivered at a place in Alabama and take them and pay for them,
away yonder at a certain time, and then in the meantime get a law made
stopping everybody from selling negroes to the south after a certain day
--it was somehow that way--mercy how the man would have made money!
Negroes would have gone up to four prices.  But after he'd spent money
and worked hard, and traveled hard, and had heaps of negroes all
contracted for, and everything going along just right, he couldn't get
the laws passed and down the whole thing tumbled.  And there in Kentucky,
when he raked up that old numskull that had been inventing away at a
perpetual motion machine for twenty-two years, and Beriah Sellers saw at
a glance where just one more little cog-wheel would settle the business,
why I could see it as plain as day when he came in wild at midnight and
hammered us out of bed and told the whole thing in a whisper with the
doors bolted and the candle in an empty barrel.  Oceans of money in it-
anybody could see that.  But it did cost a deal to buy the old numskull
out--and then when they put the new cog wheel in they'd overlooked
something somewhere and it wasn't any use--the troublesome thing wouldn't
go.  That notion he got up here did look as handy as anything in the
world; and how him and Si did sit up nights working at it with the
curtains down and me watching to see if any neighbors were about.  The
man did honestly believe there was a fortune in that black gummy oil that
stews out of the bank Si says is coal; and he refined it himself till it
was like water, nearly, and it did burn, there's no two ways about that;
and I reckon he'd have been all right in Cincinnati with his lamp that he
got made, that time he got a house full of rich speculators to see him
exhibit only in the middle of his speech it let go and almost blew the
heads off the whole crowd.  I haven't got over grieving for the money
that cost yet.  I am sorry enough Beriah Sellers is in Missouri, now, but
I was glad when he went.  I wonder what his letter says.  But of course
it's cheerful; he's never down-hearted--never had any trouble in his
life--didn't know it if he had.  It's always sunrise with that man, and
fine and blazing, at that--never gets noon; though--leaves off and rises
again.  Nobody can help liking the creature, he means so well--but I do
dread to come across him again; he's bound to set us all crazy, of
coarse.  Well, there goes old widow Hopkins--it always takes her a week
to buy a spool of thread and trade a hank of yarn.  Maybe Si can come
with the letter, now."

And he did:

"Widow Hopkins kept me--I haven't any patience with such tedious people.
Now listen, Nancy--just listen at this:

     "'Come right along to Missouri!  Don't wait and worry about a good
     price but sell out for whatever you can get, and come along, or you
     might be too late.  Throw away your traps, if necessary, and come
     empty-handed.  You'll never regret it.  It's the grandest country--
     the loveliest land--the purest atmosphere--I can't describe it; no
     pen can do it justice.  And it's filling up, every day--people
     coming from everywhere.  I've got the biggest scheme on earth--and
     I'll take you in; I'll take in every friend I've got that's ever
     stood by me, for there's enough for all, and to spare.  Mum's the
     word--don't whisper--keep yourself to yourself.  You'll see!  Come!
     --rush!--hurry!--don't wait for anything!'

"It's the same old boy, Nancy, jest the same old boy--ain't he?"

"Yes, I think there's a little of the old sound about his voice yet.
I suppose you--you'll still go, Si?"

"Go!  Well, I should think so, Nancy.  It's all a chance, of course, and,
chances haven't been kind to us, I'll admit--but whatever comes, old
wife, they're provided for.  Thank God for that!"

"Amen," came low and earnestly.

And with an activity and a suddenness that bewildered Obedstown and
almost took its breath away, the Hawkinses hurried through with their
arrangements in four short months and flitted out into the great
mysterious blank that lay beyond the Knobs of Tennessee.




CHAPTER II.

Toward the close of the third day's journey the wayfarers were just
beginning to think of camping, when they came upon a log cabin in the
woods.  Hawkins drew rein and entered the yard.  A boy about ten years
old was sitting in the cabin door with his face bowed in his hands.
Hawkins approached, expecting his footfall to attract attention, but it
did not.  He halted a moment, and then said:

"Come, come, little chap, you mustn't be going to sleep before sundown"

With a tired expression the small face came up out of the hands,--a face
down which tears were flowing.

"Ah, I'm sorry I spoke so, my boy.  Tell me--is anything the matter?"

The boy signified with a scarcely perceptible gesture that the trouble
was in the, house, and made room for Hawkins to pass.  Then he put his
face in his hands again and rocked himself about as one suffering a grief
that is too deep to find help in moan or groan or outcry.  Hawkins
stepped within.  It was a poverty stricken place.  Six or eight middle-
aged country people of both sexes were grouped about an object in the
middle of the room; they were noiselessly busy and they talked in
whispers when they spoke.  Hawkins uncovered and approached.  A coffin
stood upon two backless chairs.  These neighbors had just finished
disposing the body of a woman in it--a woman with a careworn, gentle face
that had more the look of sleep about it than of death.  An old lady
motioned, toward the door and said to Hawkins in a whisper:

"His mother, po' thing.  Died of the fever, last night.  Tha warn't no
sich thing as saving of her.  But it's better for her--better for her.
Husband and the other two children died in the spring, and she hain't
ever hilt up her head sence.  She jest went around broken-hearted like,
and never took no intrust in anything but Clay--that's the boy thar.
She jest worshiped Clay--and Clay he worshiped her.  They didn't 'pear to
live at all, only when they was together, looking at each other, loving
one another.  She's ben sick three weeks; and if you believe me that
child has worked, and kep' the run of the med'cin, and the times of
giving it, and sot up nights and nussed her, and tried to keep up her
sperits, the same as a grown-up person.  And last night when she kep' a
sinking and sinking, and turned away her head and didn't know him no mo',
it was fitten to make a body's heart break to see him climb onto the bed
and lay his cheek agin hern and call her so pitiful and she not answer.
But bymeby she roused up, like, and looked around wild, and then she see
him, and she made a great cry and snatched him to her breast and hilt him
close and kissed him over and over agin; but it took the last po'
strength she had, and so her eyelids begin to close down, and her arms
sort o' drooped away and then we see she was gone, po' creetur.  And
Clay, he--Oh, the po' motherless thing--I cain't talk abort it--I cain't
bear to talk about it."

Clay had disappeared from the door; but he came in, now, and the
neighbors reverently fell apart and made way for him.  He leaned upon the
open coffin and let his tears course silently.  Then he put out his small
hand and smoothed the hair and stroked the dead face lovingly.  After a
bit he brought his other hand up from behind him and laid three or four
fresh wild flowers upon the breast, bent over and kissed the unresponsive
lips time and time again, and then turned away and went out of the house
without looking at any of the company.  The old lady said to Hawkins:

"She always loved that kind o' flowers.  He fetched 'em for her every
morning, and she always kissed him.  They was from away north somers--she
kep' school when she fust come.  Goodness knows what's to become o' that
po' boy.  No father, no mother, no kin folks of no kind.  Nobody to go
to, nobody that k'yers for him--and all of us is so put to it for to get
along and families so large."

Hawkins understood.  All, eyes were turned inquiringly upon him.  He
said:

"Friends, I am not very well provided for, myself, but still I would not
turn my back on a homeless orphan.  If he will go with me I will give him
a home, and loving regard--I will do for him as I would have another do
for a child of my own in misfortune."

One after another the people stepped forward and wrung the stranger's
hand with cordial good will, and their eyes looked all that their hands
could not express or their lips speak.

"Said like a true man," said one.

"You was a stranger to me a minute ago, but you ain't now," said another.

"It's bread cast upon the waters--it'll return after many days," said the
old lady whom we have heard speak before.

"You got to camp in my house as long as you hang out here," said one.
"If tha hain't room for you and yourn my tribe'll turn out and camp in
the hay loft."

A few minutes afterward, while the preparations for the funeral were
being concluded, Mr. Hawkins arrived at his wagon leading his little waif
by the hand, and told his wife all that had happened, and asked her if he
had done right in giving to her and to himself this new care?  She said:

"If you've done wrong, Si Hawkins, it's a wrong that will shine brighter
at the judgment day than the rights that many' a man has done before you.
And there isn't any compliment you can pay me equal to doing a thing like
this and finishing it up, just taking it for granted that I'll be willing
to it.  Willing?  Come to me; you poor motherless boy, and let me take
your grief and help you carry it."

When the child awoke in the morning, it was as if from a troubled dream.
But slowly the confusion in his mind took form, and he remembered his
great loss; the beloved form in the coffin; his talk with a generous
stranger who offered him a home; the funeral, where the stranger's wife
held him by the hand at the grave, and cried with him and comforted him;
and he remembered how this, new mother tucked him in his bed in the
neighboring farm house, and coaxed him to talk about his troubles, and
then heard him say his prayers and kissed him good night, and left him
with the soreness in his heart almost healed and his bruised spirit at
rest.

And now the new mother came again, and helped him to dress, and combed
his hair, and drew his mind away by degrees from the dismal yesterday,
by telling him about the wonderful journey he was going to take and the
strange things he was going to see.  And after breakfast they two went
alone to the grave, and his heart went out to his new friend and his
untaught eloquence poured the praises of his buried idol into her ears
without let or hindrance.  Together they planted roses by the headboard
and strewed wild flowers upon the grave; and then together they went
away, hand in hand, and left the dead to the long sleep that heals all
heart-aches and ends all sorrows.




CHAPTER III.

Whatever the lagging dragging journey may have been to the rest of the
emigrants, it was a wonder and delight to the children, a world of
enchantment; and they believed it to be peopled with the mysterious
dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured in the tales the negro slaves
were in the habit of telling them nightly by the shuddering light of the
kitchen fire.

At the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near a
shabby village which was caving, house by house, into the hungry
Mississippi.  The river astonished the children beyond measure.  Its
mile-breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight,
and the vague riband of trees on the further shore, the verge of a
continent which surely none but they had ever seen before.

"Uncle Dan'l"(colored,) aged 40; his wife, "aunt Jinny," aged 30, "Young
Miss" Emily Hawkins, "Young Mars" Washington Hawkins and "Young Mars"
Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a log, after
supper, and contemplated the marvelous river and discussed it.  The moon
rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud-wreaths; the
sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled light; a deep
silence pervaded the air and was emphasized, at intervals, rather than
broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the muffled
crash of a raving bank in the distance.

The little company assembled on the log were all children (at least in
simplicity and broad and comprehensive ignorance,) and the remarks they
made about the river were in keeping with the character; and so awed were
they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before then, and by
their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits and that the
faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk
took to itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued
to a low and reverent tone.  Suddenly Uncle Dan'l exclaimed:

"Chil'en, dah's sum fin a comin!"

All crowded close together and every heart beat faster.

Uncle Dan'l pointed down the river with his bony finger.

A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded cape
that jetted into the stream a mile distant.  All in an instant a fierce
eye of fire shot out froth behind the cape and sent a long brilliant
pathway quivering athwart the dusky water.  The coughing grew louder and
louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and
still wilder.  A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from
its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled
with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness.
Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with
spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the
monster like a torchlight procession.

"What is it!  Oh, what is it, Uncle Dan'l!"

With deep solemnity the answer came:

"It's de Almighty!  Git down on yo' knees!"

It was not necessary to say it twice.  They were all kneeling, in a
moment.  And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and
stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the negro's
voice lifted up its supplications:

"O Lord', we's ben mighty wicked, an' we knows dat we 'zerve to go to de
bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we ain't ready yit, we ain't ready--
let dese po' chilen hab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance.  Take de ole
niggah if you's, got to hab somebody.--Good Lord, good deah Lord, we
don't know whah you's a gwyne to, we don't know who you's got yo' eye on,
but we knows by de way you's a comin', we knows by de way you's a tiltin'
along in yo' charyot o' fiah dat some po' sinner's a gwyne to ketch it.
But good Lord, dose chilen don't b'long heah, dey's f'm Obedstown whah
dey don't know nuffin, an' you knows, yo' own sef, dat dey ain't
'sponsible.  An' deah Lord, good Lord, it ain't like yo' mercy, it ain't
like yo' pity, it ain't like yo' long-sufferin' lovin' kindness for to
take dis kind o' 'vantage o' sick little chil'en as dose is when dey's so
many ornery grown folks chuck full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down
dah.  Oh, Lord, spah de little chil'en, don't tar de little chil'en away
f'm dey frens, jes' let 'em off jes' dis once, and take it out'n de ole
nibgah.  HEAH I IS, LORD, HEAH I IS!  De ole niggah's ready, Lord,
de ole----"

The flaming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and not
twenty steps away.  The awful thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst
forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan'l snatched a child
under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at
his heels.  And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness
and shouted, (but rather feebly:)

"Heah I is, Lord, heah I is!"

There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise and
the comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had gone
by, for its dreadful noises were receding.  Uncle Dan'l headed a cautious
reconnaissance in the direction of the log.  Sure enough "the Lord" was
just turning a point a short distance up the river, and while they looked
the lights winked out and the coughing diminished by degrees and
presently ceased altogether.

"H'wsh!  Well now dey's some folks says dey ain't no 'ficiency in prah.
Dis Chile would like to know whah we'd a ben now if it warn't fo' dat
prah?  Dat's it.  Dat's it!"

"Uncle Dan'l, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us?" said Clay.

"Does I reckon?  Don't I know it!  Whah was yo' eyes?  Warn't de Lord
jes' a cumin' chow!  chow!  CHOW!  an' a goin' on turrible--an' do de
Lord carry on dat way 'dout dey's sumfin don't suit him?  An' warn't he a
lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a reachin' for 'em?
An' d'you spec' he gwyne to let 'em off 'dout somebody ast him to do it?
No indeedy!"

"Do you reckon he saw, us, Uncle Dan'l?

"De law sakes, Chile, didn't I see him a lookin' at us?".

"Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l?"

"No sah!  When a man is 'gaged in prah, he ain't fraid o' nuffin--dey
can't nuffin tetch him."

"Well what did you run for?"

"Well, I--I--mars Clay, when a man is under de influence ob de sperit,
he do-no, what he's 'bout--no sah; dat man do-no what he's 'bout.  You
mout take an' tah de head off'n dat man an' he wouldn't scasely fine it
out.  Date's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah; dey was burnt
considable--ob coase dey was; but dey didn't know nuffin 'bout it--heal
right up agin; if dey'd ben gals dey'd missed dey long haah, (hair,)
maybe, but dey wouldn't felt de burn."

"I don't know but what they were girls.  I think they were."

"Now mars Clay, you knows bettern dat.  Sometimes a body can't tell
whedder you's a sayin' what you means or whedder you's a sayin' what you
don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way."

"But how should I know whether they were boys or girls?"

"Goodness sakes, mars Clay, don't de Good Book say?  'Sides, don't it
call 'em de HE-brew chil'en?  If dey was gals wouldn't dey be de SHE-brew
chil'en?  Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when dey
do read."

"Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that-----My!  here comes another one up the
river!  There can't be two!"

"We gone dis time--we done gone dis time, sho'!  Dey ain't two, mars
Clay--days de same one.  De Lord kin 'pear eberywhah in a second.
Goodness, how do fiah and de smoke do belch up!  Dat mean business,
honey.  He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin.  Come 'long, chil'en, time
you's gwyne to roos'.  Go 'long wid you--ole Uncle Daniel gwyne out in de
woods to rastle in prah--de ole nigger gwyne to do what he kin to sabe
you agin"

He did go to the woods and pray; but he went so far that he doubted,
himself, if the Lord heard him when He went by.




CHAPTER IV.

--Seventhly, Before his Voyage, He should make his peace with God,
satisfie his Creditors if he be in debt; Pray earnestly to God to prosper
him in his Voyage, and to keep him from danger, and, if he be 'sui juris'
he should make his last will, and wisely order all his affairs, since
many that go far abroad, return not home.  (This good and Christian
Counsel is given by Martinus Zeilerus in his Apodemical Canons before his
Itinerary of Spain and Portugal.)


Early in the morning Squire Hawkins took passage in a small steamboat,
with his family and his two slaves, and presently the bell rang, the
stage-plank; was hauled in, and the vessel proceeded up the river.
The children and the slaves were not much more at ease after finding out
that this monster was a creature of human contrivance than they were the
night before when they thought it the Lord of heaven and earth.  They
started, in fright, every time the gauge-cocks sent out an angry hiss,
and they quaked from head to foot when the mud-valves thundered.  The
shivering of the boat under the beating of the wheels was sheer misery to
them.

But of course familiarity with these things soon took away their terrors,
and then the voyage at once became a glorious adventure, a royal progress
through the very heart and home of romance, a realization of their
rosiest wonder-dreams.  They sat by the hour in the shade of the pilot
house on the hurricane deck and looked out over the curving expanses of
the river sparkling in the sunlight.  Sometimes the boat fought the mid-
stream current, with a verdant world on either hand, and remote from
both; sometimes she closed in under a point, where the dead water and the
helping eddies were, and shaved the bank so closely that the decks were
swept by the jungle of over-hanging willows and littered with a spoil of
leaves; departing from these "points" she regularly crossed the river
every five miles, avoiding the "bight" of the great binds and thus
escaping the strong current; sometimes she went out and skirted a high
"bluff" sand-bar in the middle of the stream, and occasionally followed
it up a little too far and touched upon the shoal water at its head--and
then the intelligent craft refused to run herself aground, but "smelt"
the bar, and straightway the foamy streak that streamed away from her
bows vanished, a great foamless wave rolled forward and passed her under
way, and in this instant she leaned far over on her side, shied from the
bar and fled square away from the danger like a frightened thing--and the
pilot was lucky if he managed to "straighten her up" before she drove her
nose into the opposite bank; sometimes she approached a solid wall of
tall trees as if she meant to break through it, but all of a sudden a
little crack would open just enough to admit her, and away she would go
plowing through the "chute" with just barely room enough between the
island on one side and the main land on the other; in this sluggish water
she seemed to go like a racehorse; now and then small log cabins appeared
in little clearings, with the never-failing frowsy women and girls in
soiled and faded linsey-woolsey leaning in the doors or against woodpiles
and rail fences, gazing sleepily at the passing show; sometimes she found
shoal water, going out at the head of those "chutes" or crossing the
river, and then a deck-hand stood on the bow and hove the lead, while the
boat slowed down and moved cautiously; sometimes she stopped a moment at
a landing and took on some freight or a passenger while a crowd of
slouchy white men and negroes stood on the bank and looked sleepily on
with their hands in their pantaloons pockets,--of course--for they never
took them out except to stretch, and when they did this they squirmed
about and reached their fists up into the air and lifted themselves on
tip-toe in an ecstasy of enjoyment.

When the sun went down it turned all the broad river to a national banner
laid in gleaming bars of gold and purple and crimson; and in time these
glories faded out in the twilight and left the fairy archipelagoes
reflecting their fringing foliage in the steely mirror of the stream.

At night the boat forged on through the deep solitudes of the river,
hardly ever discovering a light to testify to a human presence--mile
after mile and league after league the vast bends were guarded by
unbroken walls of forest that had never been disturbed by the voice or
the foot-fall of man or felt the edge of his sacrilegious axe.

An hour after supper the moon came up, and Clay and Washington ascended
to the hurricane deck to revel again in their new realm of enchantment.
They ran races up and down the deck; climbed about the bell; made friends
with the passenger-dogs chained under the lifeboat; tried to make friends
with a passenger-bear fastened to the verge-staff but were not
encouraged; "skinned the cat" on the hog-chains; in a word, exhausted the
amusement-possibilities of the deck.  Then they looked wistfully up at
the pilot house, and finally, little by little, Clay ventured up there,
followed diffidently by Washington.  The pilot turned presently to "get
his stern-marks," saw the lads and invited them in.  Now their happiness
was complete.  This cosy little house, built entirely of glass and
commanding a marvelous prospect in every direction was a magician's
throne to them and their enjoyment of the place was simply boundless.

They sat them down on a high bench and looked miles ahead and saw the
wooded capes fold back and reveal the bends beyond; and they looked miles
to the rear and saw the silvery highway diminish its breadth by degrees
and close itself together in the distance.  Presently the pilot said:

"By George, yonder comes the Amaranth!"

A spark appeared, close to the water, several miles down the river.  The
pilot took his glass and looked at it steadily for a moment, and said,
chiefly to himself:

"It can't be the Blue Wing.  She couldn't pick us up this way.  It's the
Amaranth, sure!"

He bent over a speaking tube and said:

"Who's on watch down there?"

A hollow, unhuman voice rumbled up through the tube in answer:

"I am.  Second engineer."

"Good!  You want to stir your stumps, now, Harry--the Amaranth's just
turned the point--and she's just a--humping herself, too!"

The pilot took hold of a rope that stretched out forward, jerked it
twice, and two mellow strokes of the big bell responded.  A voice out on
the deck shouted:

"Stand by, down there, with that labboard lead!"

"No, I don't want the lead," said the pilot, "I want you.  Roust out the
old man--tell him the Amaranth's coming.  And go and call Jim--tell him."

"Aye-aye, sir!"

The "old man" was the captain--he is always called so, on steamboats and
ships; "Jim" was the other pilot.  Within two minutes both of these men
were flying up the pilothouse stairway, three steps at a jump.  Jim was
in his shirt sleeves,--with his coat and vest on his arm.  He said:

"I was just turning in.  Where's the glass"

He took it and looked:

"Don't appear to be any night-hawk on the jack-staff--it's the Amaranth,
dead sure!"

The captain took a good long look, and only said:

"Damnation!"

George Davis, the pilot on watch, shouted to the night-watchman on deck:

"How's she loaded?"

"Two inches by the head, sir."

"'T ain't enough!"

The captain shouted, now:

"Call the mate.  Tell him to call all hands and get a lot of that sugar
forrard--put her ten inches by the head.  Lively, now!"

"Aye-aye, sir."

A riot of shouting and trampling floated up from below, presently, and
the uneasy steering of the boat soon showed that she was getting "down by
the head."

The three men in the pilot house began to talk in short, sharp sentences,
low and earnestly.  As their excitement rose, their voices went down.
As fast as one of them put down the spy-glass another took it up--but
always with a studied air of calmness.  Each time the verdict was:

"She's a gaining!"

The captain spoke through the tube:

"What steam are You carrying?"

"A hundred and forty-two, sir!  But she's getting hotter and hotter all
the time."

The boat was straining and groaning and quivering like a monster in pain.
Both pilots were at work now, one on each side of the wheel, with their
coats and vests off, their bosoms and collars wide open and the
perspiration flowing down heir faces.  They were holding the boat so
close to the shore that the willows swept the guards almost from stem to
stern.

"Stand by!" whispered George.

"All ready!" said Jim, under his breath.

"Let her come!"

The boat sprang away, from the bank like a deer, and darted in a long
diagonal toward the other shore.  She closed in again and thrashed her
fierce way along the willows as before.  The captain put down the glass:

"Lord how she walks up on us!  I do hate to be beat!"

"Jim," said George, looking straight ahead, watching the slightest yawing
of the boat and promptly meeting it with the wheel, "how'll it do to try
Murderer's Chute?"

"Well, it's--it's taking chances.  How was the cottonwood stump on the
false point below Boardman's Island this morning?"

"Water just touching the roots."

"Well it's pretty close work.  That gives six feet scant in the head of
Murderer's Chute.  We can just barely rub through if we hit it exactly
right.  But it's worth trying.  She don't dare tackle it!"--meaning the
Amaranth.

In another instant the Boreas plunged into what seemed a crooked creek,
and the Amaranth's approaching lights were shut out in a moment.  Not a
whisper was uttered, now, but the three men stared ahead into the shadows
and two of them spun the wheel back and forth with anxious watchfulness
while the steamer tore along.  The chute seemed to come to an end every
fifty yards, but always opened out in time.  Now the head of it was at
hand.  George tapped the big bell three times, two leadsmen sprang to
their posts, and in a moment their weird cries rose on the night air and
were caught up and repeated by two men on the upper deck:

"No-o bottom!"

"De-e-p four!"

"Half three!"

"Quarter three!"

"Mark under wa-a-ter three!"

"Half twain!"

"Quarter twain!-----"

Davis pulled a couple of ropes--there was a jingling of small bells far
below, the boat's speed slackened, and the pent steam began to whistle
and the gauge-cocks to scream:

"By the mark twain!"

"Quar--ter--her--er--less twain!"

"Eight and a half!"

"Eight feet!"

"Seven-ana-half!"

Another jingling of little bells and the wheels ceased turning
altogether.  The whistling of the steam was something frightful now--it
almost drowned all other noises.

"Stand by to meet her!"

George had the wheel hard down and was standing on a spoke.

"All ready!"

The, boat hesitated seemed to hold her breath, as did the captain and
pilots--and then she began to fall away to starboard and every eye
lighted:

"Now then!--meet her!  meet her!  Snatch her!"

The wheel flew to port so fast that the spokes blended into a spider-web
--the swing of the boat subsided--she steadied herself----

"Seven feet!"

"Sev--six and a half!"

"Six feet!  Six f----"

Bang!  She hit the bottom!  George shouted through the tube:

"Spread her wide open!  Whale it at her!"

Pow-wow-chow!  The escape-pipes belched snowy pillars of steam aloft, the
boat ground and surged and trembled--and slid over into----

"M-a-r-k twain!"

"Quarter-her----"

"Tap!  tap!  tap!" (to signify "Lay in the leads")

And away she went, flying up the willow shore, with the whole silver sea
of the Mississippi stretching abroad on every hand.

No Amaranth in sight!

"Ha-ha, boys, we took a couple of tricks that time!" said the captain.

And just at that moment a red glare appeared in the head of the chute and
the Amaranth came springing after them!

"Well, I swear!"

"Jim, what is the meaning of that?"

"I'll tell you what's the meaning of it.  That hail we had at Napoleon
was Wash Hastings, wanting to come to Cairo--and we didn't stop.  He's in
that pilot house, now, showing those mud turtles how to hunt for easy
water."

"That's it!  I thought it wasn't any slouch that was running that middle
bar in Hog-eye Bend.  If it's Wash Hastings--well, what he don't know
about the river ain't worth knowing--a regular gold-leaf, kid-glove,
diamond breastpin pilot Wash Hastings is.  We won't take any tricks off
of him, old man!"

"I wish I'd a stopped for him, that's all."

The Amaranth was within three hundred yards of the Boreas, and still
gaining.  The "old man" spoke through the tube:

"What is she-carrying now?"

"A hundred and sixty-five, sir!"

"How's your wood?"

"Pine all out-cypress half gone-eating up cotton-wood like pie!"

"Break into that rosin on the main deck-pile it in, the boat can pay for
it!"

Soon the boat was plunging and quivering and screaming more madly than
ever.  But the Amaranth's head was almost abreast the Boreas's stern:

"How's your steam, now, Harry?"

"Hundred and eighty-two, sir!"

"Break up the casks of bacon in the forrard hold!  Pile it in!  Levy on
that turpentine in the fantail-drench every stick of wood with it!"

The boat was a moving earthquake by this time:

"How is she now?"

"A hundred and ninety-six and still a-swelling!--water, below the middle
gauge-cocks!--carrying every pound she can stand!--nigger roosting on the
safety-valve!"

"Good!  How's your draft?"

"Bully!  Every time a nigger heaves a stick of wood into the furnace he
goes out the chimney, with it!"

The Amaranth drew steadily up till her jack-staff breasted the Boreas's
wheel-house--climbed along inch by inch till her chimneys breasted it--
crept along, further and further, till the boats were wheel to wheel--and
then they, closed up with a heavy jolt and locked together tight and fast
in the middle of the big river under the flooding moonlight!  A roar and
a hurrah went up from the crowded decks of both steamers--all hands
rushed to the guards to look and shout and gesticulate--the weight
careened the vessels over toward each other--officers flew hither and
thither cursing and storming, trying to drive the people amidships--both
captains were leaning over their railings shaking their fists, swearing
and threatening--black volumes of smoke rolled up and canopied the
scene,--delivering a rain of sparks upon the vessels--two pistol shots
rang out, and both captains dodged unhurt and the packed masses of
passengers surged back and fell apart while the shrieks of women and
children soared above the intolerable din----

And then there was a booming roar, a thundering crash, and the riddled
Amaranth dropped loose from her hold and drifted helplessly away!

Instantly the fire-doors of the Boreas were thrown open and the men began
dashing buckets of water into the furnaces--for it would have been death
and destruction to stop the engines with such a head of steam on.

As soon as possible the Boreas dropped down to the floating wreck and
took off the dead, the wounded and the unhurt--at least all that could be
got at, for the whole forward half of the boat was a shapeless ruin, with
the great chimneys lying crossed on top of it, and underneath were a
dozen victims imprisoned alive and wailing for help.  While men with axes
worked with might and main to free these poor fellows, the Boreas's boats
went about, picking up stragglers from the river.

And now a new horror presented itself.  The wreck took fire from the
dismantled furnaces!  Never did men work with a heartier will than did
those stalwart braves with the axes.  But it was of no use.  The fire ate
its way steadily, despising the bucket brigade that fought it.  It
scorched the clothes, it singed the hair of the axemen--it drove them
back, foot by foot-inch by inch--they wavered, struck a final blow in the
teeth of the enemy, and surrendered.  And as they fell back they heard
prisoned voices saying:

"Don't leave us!  Don't desert us!  Don't, don't do it!"

And one poor fellow said:

"I am Henry Worley, striker of the Amaranth!  My mother lives in St.
Louis.  Tell her a lie for a poor devil's sake, please.  Say I was killed
in an instant and never knew what hurt me--though God knows I've neither
scratch nor bruise this moment!  It's hard to burn up in a coop like this
with the whole wide world so near.  Good-bye boys--we've all got to come
to it at last, anyway!"

The Boreas stood away out of danger, and the ruined steamer went drifting
down the stream an island of wreathing and climbing flame that vomited
clouds of smoke from time to time, and glared more fiercely and sent its
luminous tongues higher and higher after each emission.  A shriek at
intervals told of a captive that had met his doom.  The wreck lodged upon
a sandbar, and when the Boreas turned the next point on her upward
journey it was still burning with scarcely abated fury.

When the boys came down into the main saloon of the Boreas, they saw a
pitiful sight and heard a world of pitiful sounds.  Eleven poor creatures
lay dead and forty more lay moaning, or pleading or screaming, while a
score of Good Samaritans moved among them doing what they could to
relieve their sufferings; bathing their chinless faces and bodies with
linseed oil and lime water and covering the places with bulging masses of
raw cotton that gave to every face and form a dreadful and unhuman
aspect.

A little wee French midshipman of fourteen lay fearfully injured, but
never uttered a sound till a physician of Memphis was about to dress his
hurts.  Then he said:

"Can I get well?  You need not be afraid to tell me."

"No--I--I am afraid you can not."

"Then do not waste your time with me--help those that can get well."

"But----"

"Help those that can get well!  It is, not for me to be a girl.  I carry
the blood of eleven generations of soldiers in my veins!"

The physician--himself a man who had seen service in the navy in his
time--touched his hat to this little hero, and passed on.

The head engineer of the Amaranth, a grand specimen of physical manhood,
struggled to his feet a ghastly spectacle and strode toward his brother,
the second engineer, who was unhurt.  He said:

"You were on watch.  You were boss.  You would not listen to me when I
begged you to reduce your steam.  Take that!--take it to my wife and tell
her it comes from me by the hand of my murderer!  Take it--and take my
curse with it to blister your heart a hundred years--and may you live so
long!"

And he tore a ring from his finger, stripping flesh and skin with it,
threw it down and fell dead!

But these things must not be dwelt upon.  The Boreas landed her dreadful
cargo at the next large town and delivered it over to a multitude of
eager hands and warm southern hearts--a cargo amounting by this time to
39 wounded persons and 22 dead bodies.  And with these she delivered a
list of 96 missing persons that had drowned or otherwise perished at the
scene of the disaster.

A jury of inquest was impaneled, and after due deliberation and inquiry
they returned the inevitable American verdict which has been so familiar
to our ears all the days of our lives--"NOBODY TO BLAME."

**[The incidents of the explosion are not invented.  They happened just
as they are told.--The Authors.]




CHAPTER V.

Il veut faire secher de la neige au four et la vendre pour du sel blanc.


When the Boreas backed away from the land to continue her voyage up the
river, the Hawkinses were richer by twenty-four hours of experience in
the contemplation of human suffering and in learning through honest hard
work how to relieve it.  And they were richer in another way also.
In the early turmoil an hour after the explosion, a little black-eyed
girl of five years, frightened and crying bitterly, was struggling
through the throng in the Boreas' saloon calling her mother and father,
but no one answered.  Something in the face of Mr. Hawkins attracted her
and she came and looked up at him; was satisfied, and took refuge with
him.  He petted her, listened to her troubles, and said he would find her
friends for her.  Then he put her in a state-room with his children and
told them to be kind to her (the adults of his party were all busy with
the wounded) and straightway began his search.

It was fruitless.  But all day he and his wife made inquiries, and hoped
against hope.  All that they could learn was that the child and her
parents came on board at New Orleans, where they had just arrived in a
vessel from Cuba; that they looked like people from the Atlantic States;
that the family name was Van Brunt and the child's name Laura.  This was
all.  The parents had not been seen since the explosion.  The child's
manners were those of a little lady, and her clothes were daintier and
finer than any Mrs. Hawkins had ever seen before.

As the hours dragged on the child lost heart, and cried so piteously for
her mother that it seemed to the Hawkinses that the moanings and the
wailings of the mutilated men and women in the saloon did not so strain
at their heart-strings as the sufferings of this little desolate
creature.  They tried hard to comfort her; and in trying, learned to love
her; they could not help it, seeing how she clung, to them and put her
arms about their necks and found-no solace but in their kind eyes and
comforting words: There was a question in both their hearts--a question
that rose up and asserted itself with more and more pertinacity as the
hours wore on--but both hesitated to give it voice--both kept silence--
and--waited.  But a time came at last when the matter would bear delay no
longer.  The boat had landed, and the dead and the wounded were being
conveyed to the shore.  The tired child was asleep in the arms of Mrs.
Hawkins.  Mr. Hawkins came into their presence and stood without
speaking.  His eyes met his wife's; then both looked at the child--and as
they looked it stirred in its sleep and nestled closer; an expression of
contentment and peace settled upon its face that touched the mother-
heart; and when the eyes of husband and wife met again, the question was
asked and answered.

When the Boreas had journeyed some four hundred miles from the time the
Hawkinses joined her, a long rank of steamboats was sighted, packed side
by side at a wharf like sardines, in a box, and above and beyond them
rose the domes and steeples and general architectural confusion of a
city--a city with an imposing umbrella of black smoke spread over it.
This was St. Louis.  The children of the Hawkins family were playing
about the hurricane deck, and the father and mother were sitting in the
lee of the pilot house essaying to keep order and not greatly grieved
that they were not succeeding.

"They're worth all the trouble they are, Nancy."

"Yes, and more, Si."

"I believe you!  You wouldn't sell one of them at a good round figure?"

"Not for all the money in the bank, Si."

"My own sentiments every time.  It is true we are not rich--but still you
are not sorry---you haven't any misgivings about the additions?"

"No.  God will provide"

"Amen.  And so you wouldn't even part with Clay? Or Laura!"

"Not for anything in the world.  I love them just the same as I love my
own: They pet me and spoil me even more than the others do, I think.
I reckon we'll get along, Si."

"Oh yes, it will all come out right, old mother.  I wouldn't be afraid to
adopt a thousand children if I wanted to, for there's that Tennessee
Land, you know--enough to make an army of them rich.  A whole army,
Nancy!  You and I will never see the day, but these little chaps will.
Indeed they will.  One of these days it will be the rich Miss Emily
Hawkins--and the wealthy Miss Laura Van Brunt Hawkins--and the Hon.
George Washington Hawkins, millionaire--and Gov. Henry Clay Hawkins,
millionaire!  That is the way the world will word it!  Don't let's ever
fret about the children, Nancy--never in the world.  They're all right.
Nancy, there's oceans and oceans of money in that land--mark my words!"

The children had stopped playing, for the moment, and drawn near to
listen.  Hawkins said:

"Washington, my boy, what will you do when you get to be one of the
richest men in the world?"

"I don't know, father.  Sometimes I think I'll have a balloon and go up
in the air; and sometimes I think I'll have ever so many books; and
sometimes I think I'll have ever so many weathercocks and water-wheels;
or have a machine like that one you and Colonel Sellers bought; and
sometimes I think I'll have--well, somehow I don't know--somehow I ain't
certain; maybe I'll get a steamboat first."

"The same old chap!--always just a little bit divided about things.--And
what will you do when you get to be one of the richest men in the world,
Clay?"

"I don't know, sir.  My mother--my other mother that's gone away--she
always told me to work along and not be much expecting to get rich, and
then I wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't get rich.  And so I reckon
it's better for me to wait till I get rich, and then by that time maybe
I'll know what I'll want--but I don't now, sir."

"Careful old head!--Governor Henry Clay Hawkins!--that's what you'll be,
Clay, one of these days.  Wise old head! weighty old head!  Go on, now,
and play--all of you.  It's a prime lot, Nancy; as the Obedstown folk say
about their hogs."

A smaller steamboat received the Hawkinses and their fortunes, and bore
them a hundred and thirty miles still higher up the Mississippi, and
landed them at a little tumble-down village on the Missouri shore in the
twilight of a mellow October day.

The next morning they harnessed up their team and for two days they
wended slowly into the interior through almost roadless and uninhabited
forest solitudes.  And when for the last time they pitched their tents,
metaphorically speaking, it was at the goal of their hopes, their new
home.

By the muddy roadside stood a new log cabin, one story high--the store;
clustered in the neighborhood were ten or twelve more cabins, some new,
some old.

In the sad light of the departing day the place looked homeless enough.
Two or three coatless young men sat in front of the store on a dry-goods
box, and whittled it with their knives, kicked it with their vast boots,
and shot tobacco-juice at various marks.  Several ragged negroes leaned
comfortably against the posts of the awning and contemplated the arrival
of the wayfarers with lazy curiosity.  All these people presently managed
to drag themselves to the vicinity of the Hawkins' wagon, and there they
took up permanent positions, hands in pockets and resting on one leg; and
thus anchored they proceeded to look and enjoy.  Vagrant dogs came
wagging around and making inquiries of Hawkins's dog, which were not
satisfactory and they made war on him in concert.  This would have
interested the citizens but it was too many on one to amount to anything
as a fight, and so they commanded the peace and the foreign dog coiled
his tail and took sanctuary under the wagon.  Slatternly negro girls and
women slouched along with pails deftly balanced on their heads, and
joined the group and stared.  Little half dressed white boys, and little
negro boys with nothing whatever on but tow-linen shirts with a fine
southern exposure, came from various directions and stood with their
hands locked together behind them and aided in the inspection.  The rest
of the population were laying down their employments and getting ready to
come, when a man burst through the assemblage and seized the new-comers
by the hands in a frenzy of welcome, and exclaimed--indeed almost
shouted:

"Well who could have believed it!  Now is it you sure enough--turn
around! hold up your heads! I want to look at you good!  Well, well,
well, it does seem most too good to be true, I declare!  Lord, I'm so
glad to see you!  Does a body's whole soul good to look at you!  Shake
hands again!  Keep on shaking hands!  Goodness gracious alive.  What will
my wife say?--Oh yes indeed, it's so!--married only last week--lovely,
perfectly lovely creature, the noblest woman that ever--you'll like her,
Nancy!  Like her?  Lord bless me you'll love her--you'll dote on her--
you'll be twins!  Well, well, well, let me look at you again!  Same old--
why bless my life it was only jest this very morning that my wife says,
'Colonel'--she will call me Colonel spite of everything I can do--she
says 'Colonel, something tells me somebody's coming!'  and sure enough
here you are, the last people on earth a body could have expected.
Why she'll think she's a prophetess--and hanged if I don't think so too--
and you know there ain't any, country but what a prophet's an honor to,
as the proverb says.  Lord bless me and here's the children, too!
Washington, Emily, don't you know me?  Come, give us a kiss.  Won't I fix
you, though!--ponies, cows, dogs, everything you can think of that'll
delight a child's heart-and--Why how's this?  Little strangers?  Well
you won't be any strangers here, I can tell you.  Bless your souls we'll
make you think you never was at home before--'deed and 'deed we will,
I can tell you!  Come, now, bundle right along with me.  You can't
glorify any hearth stone but mine in this camp, you know--can't eat
anybody's bread but mine--can't do anything but just make yourselves
perfectly at home and comfortable, and spread yourselves out and rest!
You hear me!  Here--Jim, Tom, Pete, Jake, fly around!  Take that team to
my place--put the wagon in my lot--put the horses under the shed, and get
out hay and oats and fill them up!  Ain't any hay and oats?  Well get
some--have it charged to me--come, spin around, now!  Now, Hawkins, the
procession's ready; mark time, by the left flank, forward-march!"

And the Colonel took the lead, with Laura astride his neck, and the
newly-inspired and very grateful immigrants picked up their tired limbs
with quite a spring in them and dropped into his wake.

Presently they were ranged about an old-time fire-place whose blazing
logs sent out rather an unnecessary amount of heat, but that was no
matter-supper was needed, and to have it, it had to be cooked.  This
apartment was the family bedroom, parlor, library and kitchen, all in
one.  The matronly little wife of the Colonel moved hither and thither
and in and out with her pots and pans in her hands', happiness in her
heart and a world of admiration of her husband in her eyes.  And when at
last she had spread the cloth and loaded it with hot corn bread, fried
chickens, bacon, buttermilk, coffee, and all manner of country luxuries,
Col. Sellers modified his harangue and for a moment throttled it down to
the orthodox pitch for a blessing, and then instantly burst forth again
as from a parenthesis and clattered on with might and main till every
stomach in the party was laden with all it could carry.  And when the
new-comers ascended the ladder to their comfortable feather beds on the
second floor--to wit the garret--Mrs. Hawkins was obliged to say:

"Hang the fellow, I do believe he has gone wilder than ever, but still a
body can't help liking him if they would--and what is more, they don't
ever want to try when they see his eyes and hear him talk."

Within a week or two the Hawkinses were comfortably domiciled in a new
log house, and were beginning to feel at home.  The children were put to
school; at least it was what passed for a school in those days: a place
where tender young humanity devoted itself for eight or ten hours a day
to learning incomprehensible rubbish by heart out of books and reciting
it by rote, like parrots; so that a finished education consisted simply
of a permanent headache and the ability to read without stopping to spell
the words or take breath.  Hawkins bought out the village store for a
song and proceeded to reap the profits, which amounted to but little more
than another song.

The wonderful speculation hinted at by Col. Sellers in his letter turned
out to be the raising of mules for the Southern market; and really it
promised very well.  The young stock cost but a trifle, the rearing but
another trifle, and so Hawkins was easily persuaded to embark his slender
means in the enterprise and turn over the keep and care of the animals to
Sellers and Uncle Dan'l.

All went well: Business prospered little by little.  Hawkins even built a
new house, made it two full stories high and put a lightning rod on it.
People came two or three miles to look at it.  But they knew that the rod
attracted the lightning, and so they gave the place a wide berth in a
storm, for they were familiar with marksmanship and doubted if the
lightning could hit that small stick at a distance of a mile and a half
oftener than once in a hundred and fifty times.  Hawkins fitted out his
house with "store" furniture from St. Louis, and the fame of its
magnificence went abroad in the land.  Even the parlor carpet was from
St. Louis--though the other rooms were clothed in the "rag" carpeting of
the country.  Hawkins put up the first "paling" fence that had ever
adorned the village; and he did not stop there, but whitewashed it.
His oil-cloth window-curtains had noble pictures on them of castles such
as had never been seen anywhere in the world but on window-curtains.
Hawkins enjoyed the admiration these prodigies compelled, but he always
smiled to think how poor and, cheap they were, compared to what the
Hawkins mansion would display in a future day after the Tennessee Land
should have borne its minted fruit.  Even Washington observed, once, that
when the Tennessee Land was sold he would have a "store" carpet in his
and Clay's room like the one in the parlor.  This pleased Hawkins, but it
troubled his wife.  It did not seem wise, to her, to put one's entire
earthly trust in the Tennessee Land and never think of doing any work.

Hawkins took a weekly Philadelphia newspaper and a semi-weekly St. Louis
journal--almost the only papers that came to the village, though Godey's
Lady's Book found a good market there and was regarded as the perfection
of polite literature by some of the ablest critics in the place.  Perhaps
it is only fair to explain that we are writing of a by gone age--some
twenty or thirty years ago.  In the two newspapers referred to lay the
secret of Hawkins's growing prosperity.  They kept him informed of the
condition of the crops south and east, and thus he knew which articles
were likely to be in demand and which articles were likely to be
unsalable, weeks and even months in advance of the simple folk about him.
As the months went by he came to be regarded as a wonderfully lucky man.
It did not occur to the citizens that brains were at the bottom of his
luck.

His title of "Squire" came into vogue again, but only for a season; for,
as his wealth and popularity augmented, that title, by imperceptible
stages, grew up into "Judge;" indeed' it bade fair to swell into
"General" bye and bye.  All strangers of consequence who visited the
village gravitated to the Hawkins Mansion and became guests of the
"Judge."

Hawkins had learned to like the people of his section very much.  They
were uncouth and not cultivated, and not particularly industrious; but
they were honest and straightforward, and their virtuous ways commanded
respect.  Their patriotism was strong, their pride in the flag was of the
old fashioned pattern, their love of country amounted to idolatry.
Whoever dragged the national honor in the dirt won their deathless
hatred.  They still cursed Benedict Arnold as if he were a personal
friend who had broken faith--but a week gone by.




CHAPTER VI.

We skip ten years and this history finds certain changes to record.

Judge Hawkins and Col. Sellers have made and lost two or three moderate
fortunes in the meantime and are now pinched by poverty.  Sellers has two
pairs of twins and four extras.  In Hawkins's family are six children of
his own and two adopted ones.  From time to time, as fortune smiled, the
elder children got the benefit of it, spending the lucky seasons at
excellent schools in St. Louis and the unlucky ones at home in the
chafing discomfort of straightened circumstances.

Neither the Hawkins children nor the world that knew them ever supposed
that one of the girls was of alien blood and parentage: Such difference
as existed between Laura and Emily is not uncommon in a family.  The
girls had grown up as sisters, and they were both too young at the time
of the fearful accident on the Mississippi to know that it was that which
had thrown their lives together.

And yet any one who had known the secret of Laura's birth and had seen
her during these passing years, say at the happy age of twelve or
thirteen, would have fancied that he knew the reason why she was more
winsome than her school companion.

Philosophers dispute whether it is the promise of what she will be in
the careless school-girl, that makes her attractive, the undeveloped
maidenhood, or the mere natural, careless sweetness of childhood.
If Laura at twelve was beginning to be a beauty, the thought of it had
never entered her head.  No, indeed.  Her mind wad filled with more
important thoughts.  To her simple school-girl dress she was beginning to
add those mysterious little adornments of ribbon-knots and ear-rings,
which were the subject of earnest consultations with her grown friends.

When she tripped down the street on a summer's day with her dainty hands
propped into the ribbon-broidered pockets of her apron, and elbows
consequently more or less akimbo with her wide Leghorn hat flapping down
and hiding her face one moment and blowing straight up against her fore
head the next and making its revealment of fresh young beauty; with all
her pretty girlish airs and graces in full play, and that sweet ignorance
of care and that atmosphere of innocence and purity all about her that
belong to her gracious time of life, indeed she was a vision to warm the
coldest heart and bless and cheer the saddest.

Willful, generous, forgiving, imperious, affectionate, improvident,
bewitching, in short--was Laura at this period.  Could she have remained
there, this history would not need to be written.  But Laura had grown to
be almost a woman in these few years, to the end of which we have now
come--years which had seen Judge Hawkins pass through so many trials.

When the judge's first bankruptcy came upon him, a homely human angel
intruded upon him with an offer of $1,500 for the Tennessee Land.  Mrs.
Hawkins said take it.  It was a grievous temptation, but the judge
withstood it.  He said the land was for the children--he could not rob
them of their future millions for so paltry a sum.  When the second
blight fell upon him, another angel appeared and offered $3,000 for the
land.  He was in such deep distress that he allowed his wife to persuade
him to let the papers be drawn; but when his children came into his
presence in their poor apparel, he felt like a traitor and refused to
sign.

But now he was down again, and deeper in the mire than ever.  He paced
the floor all day, he scarcely slept at night.  He blushed even to
acknowledge it to himself, but treason was in his mind--he was
meditating, at last, the sale of the land.  Mrs. Hawkins stepped into the
room.  He had not spoken a word, but he felt as guilty as if she had
caught him in some shameful act.  She said:

"Si, I do not know what we are going to do.  The children are not fit to
be seen, their clothes are in such a state.  But there's something more
serious still.--There is scarcely a bite in the house to eat"

"Why, Nancy, go to Johnson----."

"Johnson indeed!  You took that man's part when he hadn't a friend in the
world, and you built him up and made him rich.  And here's the result of
it: He lives in our fine house, and we live in his miserable log cabin.
He has hinted to our children that he would rather they wouldn't come
about his yard to play with his children,--which I can bear, and bear
easy enough, for they're not a sort we want to associate with much--but
what I can't bear with any quietness at all, is his telling Franky our
bill was running pretty high this morning when I sent him for some meal--
and that was all he said, too--didn't give him the meal--turned off and
went to talking with the Hargrave girls about some stuff they wanted to
cheapen."

"Nancy, this is astounding!"

"And so it is, I warrant you.  I've kept still, Si, as long as ever I
could.  Things have been getting worse and worse, and worse and worse,
every single day; I don't go out of the house, I feel so down; but you
had trouble enough, and I wouldn't say a word--and I wouldn't say a word
now, only things have got so bad that I don't know what to do, nor where
to turn."  And she gave way and put her face in her hands and cried.

"Poor child, don't grieve so.  I never thought that of Johnson.  I am
clear at my wit's end.  I don't know what in the world to do.  Now if
somebody would come along and offer $3,000--Uh, if somebody only would
come along and offer $3,000 for that Tennessee Land."

"You'd sell it, S!" said Mrs. Hawkins excitedly.

"Try me!"

Mrs. Hawkins was out of the room in a moment.  Within a minute she was
back again with a business-looking stranger, whom she seated, and then
she took her leave again.  Hawkins said to himself, "How can a man ever
lose faith?  When the blackest hour comes, Providence always comes with
it--ah, this is the very timeliest help that ever poor harried devil had;
if this blessed man offers but a thousand I'll embrace him like a
brother!"

The stranger said:

"I am aware that you own 75,000 acres, of land in East Tennessee, and
without sacrificing your time, I will come to the point at once.  I am
agent of an iron manufacturing company, and they empower me to offer you
ten thousand dollars for that land."

Hawkins's heart bounded within him.  His whole frame was racked and
wrenched with fettered hurrahs.  His first impulse was to shout "Done!
and God bless the iron company, too!"

But a something flitted through his mind, and his opened lips uttered
nothing.  The enthusiasm faded away from his eyes, and the look of a man
who is thinking took its place.  Presently, in a hesitating, undecided
way, he said:

"Well, I--it don't seem quite enough.  That--that is a very valuable
property--very valuable.  It's brim full of iron-ore, sir--brim full of
it!  And copper, coal,--everything--everything you can think of!  Now,
I'll tell you what I'll, do.  I'll reserve everything except the iron,
and I'll sell them the iron property for $15,000 cash, I to go in with
them and own an undivided interest of one-half the concern--or the stock,
as you may say.  I'm out of business, and I'd just as soon help run the
thing as not.  Now how does that strike you?"

"Well, I am only an agent of these people, who are friends of mine, and
I am not even paid for my services.  To tell you the truth, I have tried
to persuade them not to go into the thing; and I have come square out
with their offer, without throwing out any feelers--and I did it in the
hope that you would refuse.  A man pretty much always refuses another
man's first offer, no matter what it is.  But I have performed my duty,
and will take pleasure in telling them what you say."

He was about to rise.  Hawkins said,

"Wait a bit."

Hawkins thought again.  And the substance of his thought was: "This
is a deep man; this is a very deep man; I don't like his candor; your
ostentatiously candid business man's a deep fox--always a deep fox;
this man's that iron company himself--that's what he is; he wants that
property, too; I am not so blind but I can see that; he don't want the
company to go into this thing--O, that's very good; yes, that's very
good indeed--stuff! he'll be back here tomorrow, sure, and take my offer;
take it?  I'll risk anything he is suffering to take it now; here--I must
mind what I'm about.  What has started this sudden excitement about iron?
I wonder what is in the wind? just as sure as I'm alive this moment,
there's something tremendous stirring in iron speculation" [here Hawkins
got up and began to pace the floor with excited eyes and with gesturing
hands]--"something enormous going on in iron, without the shadow of a
doubt, and here I sit mousing in the dark and never knowing anything
about it; great heaven, what an escape I've made! this underhanded
mercenary creature might have taken me up--and ruined me! but I have
escaped, and I warrant me I'll not put my foot into--"

He stopped and turned toward the stranger; saying:

"I have made you a proposition, you have not accepted it, and I desire
that you will consider that I have made none.  At the same time my
conscience will not allow me to--.  Please alter the figures I named to
thirty thousand dollars, if you will, and let the proposition go to the
company--I will stick to it if it breaks my heart!"  The stranger looked
amused, and there was a pretty well defined touch of surprise in his
expression, too, but Hawkins never noticed it.  Indeed he scarcely
noticed anything or knew what he was about.  The man left; Hawkins flung
himself into a chair; thought a few moments, then glanced around, looked
frightened, sprang to the door----

"Too late--too late!  He's gone!  Fool that I am! always a fool!  Thirty
thousand--ass that I am!  Oh, why didn't I say fifty thousand!"

He plunged his hands into his hair and leaned his elbows on his knees,
and fell to rocking himself back and forth in anguish.  Mrs. Hawkins
sprang in, beaming:

"Well, Si?"

"Oh, con-found the con-founded--con-found it, Nancy.  I've gone and done
it, now!"

"Done what Si for mercy's sake!"

"Done everything!  Ruined everything!"

"Tell me, tell me, tell me!  Don't keep a body in such suspense.  Didn't
he buy, after all?  Didn't he make an offer?"

Offer?  He offered $10,000 for our land, and----"

"Thank the good providence from the very bottom of my heart of hearts!
What sort of ruin do you call that, Si!"

"Nancy, do you suppose I listened to such a preposterous proposition?
No!  Thank fortune I'm not a simpleton!  I saw through the pretty scheme
in a second.  It's a vast iron speculation!--millions upon millions in
it!  But fool as I am I told him he could have half the iron property for
thirty thousand--and if I only had him back here he couldn't touch it for
a cent less than a quarter of a million!"

Mrs. Hawkins looked up white and despairing:

"You threw away this chance, you let this man go, and we in this awful
trouble?  You don't mean it, you can't mean it!"

"Throw it away?  Catch me at it!  Why woman, do you suppose that man
don't know what he is about?  Bless you, he'll be back fast enough to-
morrow."

"Never, never, never.  He never will comeback.  I don't know what is to
become of us.  I don't know what in the world is to become of us."

A shade of uneasiness came into Hawkins's face.  He said:

"Why, Nancy, you--you can't believe what you are saying."

"Believe it, indeed?  I know it, Si.  And I know that we haven't a cent
in the world, and we've sent ten thousand dollars a-begging."

"Nancy, you frighten me.  Now could that man--is it possible that I--
hanged if I don't believe I have missed a chance!  Don't grieve, Nancy,
don't grieve.  I'll go right after him.  I'll take--I'll take--what a
fool I am!--I'll take anything he'll give!"

The next instant he left the house on a run.  But the man was no longer
in the town.  Nobody knew where he belonged or whither he had gone.
Hawkins came slowly back, watching wistfully but hopelessly for the
stranger, and lowering his price steadily with his sinking heart.  And
when his foot finally pressed his own threshold, the value he held the
entire Tennessee property at was five hundred dollars--two hundred down
and the rest in three equal annual payments, without interest.

There was a sad gathering at the Hawkins fireside the next night.  All
the children were present but Clay.  Mr. Hawkins said:

"Washington, we seem to be hopelessly fallen, hopelessly involved.  I am
ready to give up.  I do not know where to turn--I never have been down so
low before, I never have seen things so dismal.  There are many mouths to
feed; Clay is at work; we must lose you, also, for a little while, my
boy.  But it will not be long--the Tennessee land----"

He stopped, and was conscious of a blush.  There was silence for a
moment, and then Washington--now a lank, dreamy-eyed stripling between
twenty-two and twenty-three years of age--said:

"If Col. Sellers would come for me, I would go and stay with him a while,
till the Tennessee land is sold.  He has often wanted me to come, ever
since he moved to Hawkeye."

"I'm afraid he can't well come for you, Washington.  From what I can
hear--not from him of course, but from others--he is not far from as bad
off as we are--and his family is as large, too.  He might find something
for you to do, maybe, but you'd better try to get to him yourself,
Washington--it's only thirty miles."

"But how can I, father?  There's no stage or anything."

"And if there were, stages require money.  A stage goes from Swansea,
five miles from here.  But it would be cheaper to walk."

"Father, they must know you there, and no doubt they would credit you in
a moment, for a little stage ride like that.  Couldn't you write and ask
them?"

"Couldn't you, Washington--seeing it's you that wants the ride?  And what
do you think you'll do, Washington, when you get to Hawkeye?  Finish your
invention for making window-glass opaque?"

"No, sir, I have given that up.  I almost knew I could do it, but it was
so tedious and troublesome I quit it."

"I was afraid of it, my boy.  Then I suppose you'll finish your plan of
coloring hen's eggs by feeding a peculiar diet to the hen?"

"No, sir.  I believe I have found out the stuff that will do it, but it
kills the hen; so I have dropped that for the present, though I can take
it up again some day when I learn how to manage the mixture better."

"Well, what have you got on hand--anything?"

"Yes, sir, three or four things.  I think they are all good and can all
be done, but they are tiresome, and besides they require money.  But as
soon as the land is sold----"

"Emily, were you about to say something?" said Hawkins.

Yes, sir.  If you are willing, I will go to St. Louis.  That will make
another mouth less to feed.  Mrs. Buckner has always wanted me to come."

"But the money, child?"

"Why I think she would send it, if you would write her--and I know she
would wait for her pay till----"

"Come, Laura, let's hear from you, my girl."

Emily and Laura were about the same age--between seventeen and eighteen.
Emily was fair and pretty, girlish and diffident--blue eyes and light
hair.  Laura had a proud bearing, and a somewhat mature look; she had
fine, clean-cut features, her complexion was pure white and contrasted
vividly with her black hair and eyes; she was not what one calls pretty--
she was beautiful.  She said:

"I will go to St. Louis, too, sir.  I will find a way to get there.
I will make a way.  And I will find a way to help myself along, and do
what I can to help the rest, too."

She spoke it like a princess.  Mrs. Hawkins smiled proudly and kissed
her, saying in a tone of fond reproof:

"So one of my girls is going to turn out and work for her living!  It's
like your pluck and spirit, child, but we will hope that we haven't got
quite down to that, yet."

The girl's eyes beamed affection under her mother's caress.  Then she
straightened up, folded her white hands in her lap and became a splendid
ice-berg.  Clay's dog put up his brown nose for a little attention, and
got it.  He retired under the table with an apologetic yelp, which did
not affect the iceberg.

Judge Hawkins had written and asked Clay to return home and consult with
him upon family affairs.  He arrived the evening after this conversation,
and the whole household gave him a rapturous welcome.  He brought sadly
needed help with him, consisting of the savings of a year and a half of
work--nearly two hundred dollars in money.

It was a ray of sunshine which (to this easy household) was the earnest
of a clearing sky.

Bright and early in the morning the family were astir, and all were busy
preparing Washington for his journey--at least all but Washington
himself, who sat apart, steeped in a reverie.  When the time for his
departure came, it was easy to see how fondly all loved him and how hard
it was to let him go, notwithstanding they had often seen him go before,
in his St. Louis schooling days.  In the most matter-of-course way they
had borne the burden of getting him ready for his trip, never seeming to
think of his helping in the matter; in the same matter-of-course way Clay
had hired a horse and cart; and now that the good-byes were ended he
bundled Washington's baggage in and drove away with the exile.

At Swansea Clay paid his stage fare, stowed him away in the vehicle, and
saw him off.  Then he returned home and reported progress, like a
committee of the whole.

Clay remained at home several days.  He held many consultations with his
mother upon the financial condition of the family, and talked once with
his father upon the same subject, but only once.  He found a change in
that quarter which was distressing; years of fluctuating fortune had done
their work; each reverse had weakened the father's spirit and impaired
his energies; his last misfortune seemed to have left hope and ambition
dead within him; he had no projects, formed no plans--evidently he was a
vanquished man.  He looked worn and tired.  He inquired into Clay's
affairs and prospects, and when he found that Clay was doing pretty well
and was likely to do still better, it was plain that he resigned himself
with easy facility to look to the son for a support; and he said, "Keep
yourself informed of poor Washington's condition and movements, and help
him along all you can, Clay."

The younger children, also, seemed relieved of all fears and distresses,
and very ready and willing to look to Clay for a livelihood.  Within
three days a general tranquility and satisfaction reigned in the
household.  Clay's hundred and eighty or ninety, dollars had worked a
wonder.  The family were as contented, now, and as free from care as they
could have been with a fortune.  It was well that Mrs. Hawkins held the
purse otherwise the treasure would have lasted but a very little while.

It took but a trifle to pay Hawkins's outstanding obligations, for he had
always had a horror of debt.

When Clay bade his home good-bye and set out to return to the field of
his labors, he was conscious that henceforth he was to have his father's
family on his hands as pensioners; but he did not allow himself to chafe
at the thought, for he reasoned that his father had dealt by him with a
free hand and a loving one all his life, and now that hard fortune had
broken his spirit it ought to be a pleasure, not a pain, to work for him.
The younger children were born and educated dependents.  They had never
been taught to do anything for themselves, and it did not seem to occur
to them to make an attempt now.

The girls would not have been permitted to work for a living under any
circumstances whatever.  It was a southern family, and of good blood;
and for any person except Laura, either within or without the household
to have suggested such an idea would have brought upon the suggester the
suspicion of being a lunatic.




CHAPTER VII.

          Via, Pecunia! when she's run and gone
          And fled, and dead, then will I fetch her again
          With aqua vita, out of an old hogshead!
          While there are lees of wine, or dregs of beer,
          I'll never want her!  Coin her out of cobwebs,
          Dust, but I'll have her! raise wool upon egg-shells,
          Sir, and make grass grow out of marrow-bones,
          To make her come!
                                        B. Jonson.

Bearing Washington Hawkins and his fortunes, the stage-coach tore out of
Swansea at a fearful gait, with horn tooting gaily and half the town
admiring from doors and windows.  But it did not tear any more after it
got to the outskirts; it dragged along stupidly enough, then--till it
came in sight of the next hamlet; and then the bugle tooted gaily again
and again the vehicle went tearing by the horses.  This sort of conduct
marked every entry to a station and every exit from it; and so in those
days children grew up with the idea that stage-coaches always tore and
always tooted; but they also grew up with the idea that pirates went into
action in their Sunday clothes, carrying the black flag in one hand and
pistolling people with the other, merely because they were so represented
in the pictures--but these illusions vanished when later years brought
their disenchanting wisdom.  They learned then that the stagecoach is but
a poor, plodding, vulgar thing in the solitudes of the highway; and that
the pirate is only a seedy, unfantastic "rough," when he is out of the
pictures.

Toward evening, the stage-coach came thundering into Hawkeye with a
perfectly triumphant ostentation--which was natural and proper, for
Hawkey a was a pretty large town for interior Missouri.  Washington,
very stiff and tired and hungry, climbed out, and wondered how he was to
proceed now.  But his difficulty was quickly solved.  Col. Sellers came
down the street on a run and arrived panting for breath.  He said:

"Lord bless you--I'm glad to see you, Washington--perfectly delighted to
see you, my boy!  I got your message.  Been on the look-out for you.
Heard the stage horn, but had a party I couldn't shake off--man that's
got an enormous thing on hand--wants me to put some capital into it--and
I tell you, my boy, I could do worse, I could do a deal worse.  No, now,
let that luggage alone; I'll fix that.  Here, Jerry, got anything to do?
All right-shoulder this plunder and follow me.  Come along, Washington.
Lord I'm glad to see you!  Wife and the children are just perishing to
look at you.  Bless you, they won't know you, you've grown so.  Folks all
well, I suppose?  That's good--glad to hear that.  We're always going to
run down and see them, but I'm into so many operations, and they're not
things a man feels like trusting to other people, and so somehow we keep
putting it off.  Fortunes in them!  Good gracious, it's the country to
pile up wealth in!  Here we are--here's where the Sellers dynasty hangs
out.  Hump it on the door-step, Jerry--the blackest niggro in the State,
Washington, but got a good heart--mighty likely boy, is Jerry.  And now I
suppose you've got to have ten cents, Jerry.  That's all right--when a
man works for me--when a man--in the other pocket, I reckon--when a man--
why, where the mischief as that portmonnaie!--when a--well now that's
odd--Oh, now I remember, must have left it at the bank; and b'George I've
left my check-book, too--Polly says I ought to have a nurse--well, no
matter.  Let me have a dime, Washington, if you've got--ah, thanks.  Now
clear out, Jerry, your complexion has brought on the twilight half an
hour ahead of time.  Pretty fair joke--pretty fair.  Here he is, Polly!
Washington's come, children! come now, don't eat him up--finish him in
the house.  Welcome, my boy, to a mansion that is proud to shelter the
son of the best man that walks on the ground.  Si Hawkins has been a good
friend to me, and I believe I can say that whenever I've had a chance to
put him into a good thing I've done it, and done it pretty cheerfully,
too.  I put him into that sugar speculation--what a grand thing that was,
if we hadn't held on too long!"

True enough; but holding on too long had utterly ruined both of them;
and the saddest part of it was, that they never had had so much money to
lose before, for Sellers's sale of their mule crop that year in New
Orleans had been a great financial success.  If he had kept out of sugar
and gone back home content to stick to mules it would have been a happy
wisdom.  As it was, he managed to kill two birds with one stone--that is
to say, he killed the sugar speculation by holding for high rates till he
had to sell at the bottom figure, and that calamity killed the mule that
laid the golden egg--which is but a figurative expression and will be so
understood.  Sellers had returned home cheerful but empty-handed, and the
mule business lapsed into other hands.  The sale of the Hawkins property
by the Sheriff had followed, and the Hawkins hearts been torn to see
Uncle Dan'l and his wife pass from the auction-block into the hands of a
negro trader and depart for the remote South to be seen no more by the
family.  It had seemed like seeing their own flesh and blood sold into
banishment.

Washington was greatly pleased with the Sellers mansion.  It was a two-
story-and-a-half brick, and much more stylish than any of its neighbors.
He was borne to the family sitting room in triumph by the swarm of little
Sellerses, the parents following with their arms about each other's
waists.

The whole family were poorly and cheaply dressed; and the clothing,
although neat and clean, showed many evidences of having seen long
service.  The Colonel's "stovepipe" hat was napless and shiny with much
polishing, but nevertheless it had an almost convincing expression about
it of having been just purchased new.  The rest of his clothing was
napless and shiny, too, but it had the air of being entirely satisfied
with itself and blandly sorry for other people's clothes.  It was growing
rather dark in the house, and the evening air was chilly, too.  Sellers
said:

"Lay off your overcoat, Washington, and draw up to the stove and make
yourself at home--just consider yourself under your own shingles my boy--
I'll have a fire going, in a jiffy.  Light the lamp, Polly, dear, and
let's have things cheerful just as glad to see you, Washington, as if
you'd been lost a century and we'd found you again!"

By this time the Colonel was conveying a lighted match into a poor little
stove.  Then he propped the stove door to its place by leaning the poker
against it, for the hinges had retired from business.  This door framed
a small square of isinglass, which now warmed up with a faint glow.
Mrs. Sellers lit a cheap, showy lamp, which dissipated a good deal of the
gloom, and then everybody gathered into the light and took the stove into
close companionship.

The children climbed all over Sellers, fondled him, petted him, and were
lavishly petted in return.  Out from this tugging, laughing, chattering
disguise of legs and arms and little faces, the Colonel's voice worked
its way and his tireless tongue ran blithely on without interruption;
and the purring little wife, diligent with her knitting, sat near at hand
and looked happy and proud and grateful; and she listened as one who
listens to oracles and, gospels and whose grateful soul is being
refreshed with the bread of life.  Bye and bye the children quieted down
to listen; clustered about their father, and resting their elbows on his
legs, they hung upon his words as if he were uttering the music of the
spheres.

A dreary old hair-cloth sofa against the wall; a few damaged chairs; the
small table the lamp stood on; the crippled stove--these things
constituted the furniture of the room.  There was no carpet on the floor;
on the wall were occasional square-shaped interruptions of the general
tint of the plaster which betrayed that there used to be pictures in the
house--but there were none now.  There were no mantel ornaments, unless
one might bring himself to regard as an ornament a clock which never came
within fifteen strokes of striking the right time, and whose hands always
hitched together at twenty-two minutes past anything and traveled in
company the rest of the way home.

"Remarkable clock!" said Sellers, and got up and wound it.  "I've been
offered--well, I wouldn't expect you to believe what I've been offered
for that clock.  Old Gov. Hager never sees me but he says, 'Come, now,
Colonel, name your price--I must have that clock!'  But my goodness I'd
as soon think of selling my wife.  As I was saying to ---- silence in the
court, now, she's begun to strike!  You can't talk against her--you have
to just be patient and hold up till she's said her say.  Ah well, as I
was saying, when--she's beginning again!  Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one,
twenty-two, twen----ah, that's all.--Yes, as I was saying to old Judge--
--go it, old girl, don't mind me.--Now how is that?----isn't that a
good, spirited tone?  She can wake the dead!  Sleep?  Why you might as
well try to sleep in a thunder-factory.  Now just listen at that.  She'll
strike a hundred and fifty, now, without stopping,--you'll see.  There
ain't another clock like that in Christendom."

Washington hoped that this might be true, for the din was distracting--
though the family, one and all, seemed filled with joy; and the more the
clock "buckled down to her work" as the Colonel expressed it, and the
more insupportable the clatter became, the more enchanted they all
appeared to be.  When there was silence, Mrs Sellers lifted upon
Washington a face that beamed with a childlike pride, and said:

"It belonged to his grandmother."

The look and the tone were a plain call for admiring surprise, and
therefore Washington said (it was the only thing that offered itself at
the moment:)

"Indeed!"

"Yes, it did, didn't it father!" exclaimed one of the twins.  "She was my
great-grandmother--and George's too; wasn't she, father!  You never saw
her, but Sis has seen her, when Sis was a baby-didn't you, Sis!  Sis has
seen her most a hundred times.  She was awful deef--she's dead, now.
Aint she, father!"

All the children chimed in, now, with one general Babel of information
about deceased--nobody offering to read the riot act or seeming to
discountenance the insurrection or disapprove of it in any way--but the
head twin drowned all the turmoil and held his own against the field:

"It's our clock, now--and it's ,got wheels inside of it, and a thing that
flatters every time she strikes--don't it, father!  Great-grandmother
died before hardly any of us was born--she was an Old-School Baptist and
had warts all over her--you ask father if she didn't.  She had an uncle
once that was bald-headed and used to have fits; he wasn't our uncle,
I don't know what he was to us--some kin or another I reckon--father's
seen him a thousand times--hain't you, father!  We used to have a calf
that et apples and just chawed up dishrags like nothing, and if you stay
here you'll see lots of funerals--won't he, Sis!  Did you ever see a
house afire?  I have!  Once me and Jim Terry----"

But Sellers began to speak now, and the storm ceased.  He began to tell
about an enormous speculation he was thinking of embarking some capital
in--a speculation which some London bankers had been over to consult with
him about--and soon he was building glittering pyramids of coin, and
Washington was presently growing opulent under the magic of his
eloquence.  But at the same time Washington was not able to ignore the
cold entirely.  He was nearly as close to the stove as he could get,
and yet he could not persuade himself, that he felt the slightest heat,
notwithstanding the isinglass' door was still gently and serenely
glowing.  He tried to get a trifle closer to the stove, and the
consequence was, he tripped the supporting poker and the stove-door
tumbled to the floor.  And then there was a revelation--there was nothing
in the stove but a lighted tallow-candle!  The poor youth blushed and
felt as if lie must die with shame.  But the Colonel was only
disconcerted for a moment--he straightway found his voice again:

"A little idea of my own, Washington--one of the greatest things in the
world!  You must write and tell your father about it--don't forget that,
now.  I have been reading up some European Scientific reports--friend of
mine, Count Fugier, sent them to me--sends me all sorts of things from
Paris--he thinks the world of me, Fugier does.  Well, I saw that the
Academy of France had been testing the properties of heat, and they came
to the conclusion that it was a nonconductor or something like that,
and of course its influence must necessarily be deadly in nervous
organizations with excitable temperaments, especially where there is any
tendency toward rheumatic affections.  Bless you I saw in a moment what
was the matter with us, and says I, out goes your fires!--no more slow
torture and certain death for me, sir.  What you want is the appearance
of heat, not the heat itself--that's the idea.  Well how to do it was the
next thing.  I just put my head, to work, pegged away, a couple of days,
and here you are!  Rheumatism?  Why a man can't any more start a case of
rheumatism in this house than he can shake an opinion out of a mummy!
Stove with a candle in it and a transparent door--that's it--it has been
the salvation of this family.  Don't you fail to write your father about
it, Washington.  And tell him the idea is mine--I'm no more conceited
than most people, I reckon, but you know it is human nature for a man to
want credit for a thing like that."

Washington said with his blue lips that he would, but he said in his
secret heart that he would promote no such iniquity.  He tried to believe
in the healthfulness of the invention, and succeeded tolerably well;
but after all he could not feel that good health in a frozen, body was
any real improvement on the rheumatism.




CHAPTER VIII.

         --Whan pe horde is thynne, as of seruyse,
          Nought replenesshed with grete diuersite
          Of mete & drinke, good chere may then suffise
          With honest talkyng----
                                   The Book of Curtesye.

          MAMMON.  Come on, sir.  Now, you set your foot on shore
          In Novo Orbe; here's the rich Peru:
          And there within, sir, are the golden mines,
          Great Solomon's Ophir!----
                                   B. Jonson

The supper at Col. Sellers's was not sumptuous, in the beginning, but it
improved on acquaintance.  That is to say, that what Washington regarded
at first sight as mere lowly potatoes, presently became awe-inspiring
agricultural productions that had been reared in some ducal garden beyond
the sea, under the sacred eye of the duke himself, who had sent them to
Sellers; the bread was from corn which could be grown in only one favored
locality in the earth and only a favored few could get it; the Rio
coffee, which at first seemed execrable to the taste, took to itself an
improved flavor when Washington was told to drink it slowly and not hurry
what should be a lingering luxury in order to be fully appreciated--it
was from the private stores of a Brazilian nobleman with an
unrememberable name.  The Colonel's tongue was a magician's wand that
turned dried apples into figs and water into wine as easily as it could
change a hovel into a palace and present poverty into imminent future
riches.

Washington slept in a cold bed in a carpetless room and woke up in a
palace in the morning; at least the palace lingered during the moment
that he was rubbing his eyes and getting his bearings--and then it
disappeared and he recognized that the Colonel's inspiring talk had been
influencing his dreams.  Fatigue had made him sleep late; when he entered
the sitting room he noticed that the old hair-cloth sofa was absent; when
he sat down to breakfast the Colonel tossed six or seven dollars in bills
on the table, counted them over, said he was a little short and must call
upon his banker; then returned the bills to his wallet with the
indifferent air of a man who is used to money.  The breakfast was not an
improvement upon the supper, but the Colonel talked it up and transformed
it into an oriental feast.  Bye and bye, he said:

"I intend to look out for you, Washington, my boy.  I hunted up a place
for you yesterday, but I am not referring to that,--now--that is a mere
livelihood--mere bread and butter; but when I say I mean to look out for
you I mean something very different.  I mean to put things in your way
than will make a mere livelihood a trifling thing.  I'll put you in a way
to make more money than you'll ever know what to do with.  You'll be
right here where I can put my hand on you when anything turns up.  I've
got some prodigious operations on foot; but I'm keeping quiet; mum's the
word; your old hand don't go around pow-wowing and letting everybody see
his k'yards and find out his little game.  But all in good time,
Washington, all in good time.  You'll see.  Now there's an operation in
corn that looks well.  Some New York men are trying to get me to go into
it--buy up all the growing crops and just boss the market when they
mature--ah I tell you it's a great thing.  And it only costs a trifle;
two millions or two and a half will do it.  I haven't exactly promised
yet--there's no hurry--the more indifferent I seem, you know, the more
anxious those fellows will get.  And then there is the hog speculation--
that's bigger still.  We've got quiet men at work," [he was very
impressive here,] "mousing around, to get propositions out of all the
farmers in the whole west and northwest for the hog crop, and other
agents quietly getting propositions and terms out of all the
manufactories--and don't you see, if we can get all the hogs and all the
slaughter horses into our hands on the dead quiet--whew! it would take
three ships to carry the money.--I've looked into the thing--calculated
all the chances for and all the chances against, and though I shake my
head and hesitate and keep on thinking, apparently, I've got my mind made
up that if the thing can be done on a capital of six millions, that's the
horse to put up money on!  Why Washington--but what's the use of talking
about it--any man can see that there's whole Atlantic oceans of cash in
it, gulfs and bays thrown in.  But there's a bigger thing than that, yes
bigger----"

"Why Colonel, you can't want anything bigger!" said Washington, his eyes
blazing.  "Oh, I wish I could go into either of those speculations--I
only wish I had money--I wish I wasn't cramped and kept down and fettered
with poverty, and such prodigious chances lying right here in sight!
Oh, it is a fearful thing to be poor.  But don't throw away those things
--they are so splendid and I can see how sure they are.  Don't throw them
away for something still better and maybe fail in it!  I wouldn't,
Colonel.  I would stick to these.  I wish father were here and were his
old self again--Oh, he never in his life had such chances as these are.
Colonel; you can't improve on these--no man can improve on them!"

A sweet, compassionate smile played about the Colonel's features, and he
leaned over the table with the air of a man who is "going to show you"
and do it without the least trouble:

"Why Washington, my boy, these things are nothing.  They look large of
course--they look large to a novice, but to a man who has been all his
life accustomed to large operations--shaw!  They're well enough to while
away an idle hour with, or furnish a bit of employment that will give a
trifle of idle capital a chance to earn its bread while it is waiting for
something to do, but--now just listen a moment--just let me give you an
idea of what we old veterans of commerce call 'business.'  Here's the
Rothschild's proposition--this is between you and me, you understand----"

Washington nodded three or four times impatiently, and his glowing eyes
said, "Yes, yes--hurry--I understand----"

----"for I wouldn't have it get out for a fortune.  They want me to go in
with them on the sly--agent was here two weeks ago about it--go in on the
sly" [voice down to an impressive whisper, now,] "and buy up a hundred
and thirteen wild cat banks in Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, Illinois and
Missouri--notes of these banks are at all sorts of discount now--average
discount of the hundred and thirteen is forty-four per cent--buy them all
up, you see, and then all of a sudden let the cat out of the bag!  Whiz!
the stock of every one of those wildcats would spin up to a tremendous
premium before you could turn a handspring--profit on the speculation not
a dollar less than forty millions!" [An eloquent pause, while the
marvelous vision settled into W.'s focus.]  "Where's your hogs now?
Why my dear innocent boy, we would just sit down on the front door-steps
and peddle banks like lucifer matches!"

Washington finally got his breath and said:

"Oh, it is perfectly wonderful!  Why couldn't these things have happened
in father's day?  And I--it's of no use--they simply lie before my face
and mock me.  There is nothing for me but to stand helpless and see other
people reap the astonishing harvest."

"Never mind, Washington, don't you worry.  I'll fix you.  There's plenty
of chances.  How much money have you got?"

In the presence of so many millions, Washington could not keep from
blushing when he had to confess that he had but eighteen dollars in the
world.

"Well, all right--don't despair.  Other people have been obliged to begin
with less.  I have a small idea that may develop into something for us
both, all in good time.  Keep your money close and add to it.  I'll make
it breed.  I've been experimenting (to pass away the time), on a little
preparation for curing sore eyes--a kind of decoction nine-tenths water
and the other tenth drugs that don't cost more than a dollar a barrel;
I'm still experimenting; there's one ingredient wanted yet to perfect the
thing, and somehow I can't just manage to hit upon the thing that's
necessary, and I don't dare talk with a chemist, of course.  But I'm
progressing, and before many weeks I wager the country will ring with the
fame of Beriah Sellers' Infallible Imperial Oriental Optic Liniment and
Salvation for Sore Eyes--the Medical Wonder of the Age!  Small bottles
fifty cents, large ones a dollar.  Average cost, five and seven cents for
the two sizes.

"The first year sell, say, ten thousand bottles in Missouri, seven
thousand in Iowa, three thousand in Arkansas, four thousand in Kentucky,
six thousand in Illinois, and say twenty-five thousand in the rest of the
country.  Total, fifty five thousand bottles; profit clear of all
expenses, twenty thousand dollars at the very lowest calculation.  All
the capital needed is to manufacture the first two thousand bottles--
say a hundred and fifty dollars--then the money would begin to flow in.
The second year, sales would reach 200,000 bottles--clear profit, say,
$75,000--and in the meantime the great factory would be building in St.
Louis, to cost, say, $100,000.  The third year we could, easily sell
1,000,000 bottles in the United States and----"

"O, splendid!" said Washington.  "Let's commence right away--let's----"

"----1,000,000 bottles in the United States--profit at least $350,000--
and then it would begin to be time to turn our attention toward the real
idea of the business."

"The real idea of it!  Ain't $350,000 a year a pretty real----"

"Stuff!  Why what an infant you are, Washington--what a guileless, short-
sighted, easily-contented innocent you, are, my poor little country-bred
know-nothing!  Would I go to all that trouble and bother for the poor
crumbs a body might pick up in this country?  Now do I look like a man
who----does my history suggest that I am a man who deals in trifles,
contents himself with the narrow horizon that hems in the common herd,
sees no further than the end of his nose?  Now you know that that is not
me--couldn't be me.  You ought to know that if I throw my time and
abilities into a patent medicine, it's a patent medicine whose field of
operations is the solid earth! its clients the swarming nations that
inhabit it!  Why what is the republic of America for an eye-water
country?  Lord bless you, it is nothing but a barren highway that you've
got to cross to get to the true eye-water market!  Why, Washington, in
the Oriental countries people swarm like the sands of the desert; every
square mile of ground upholds its thousands upon thousands of struggling
human creatures--and every separate and individual devil of them's got
the ophthalmia!  It's as natural to them as noses are--and sin.  It's
born with them, it stays with them, it's all that some of them have left
when they die.  Three years of introductory trade in the orient and what
will be the result?  Why, our headquarters would be in Constantinople and
our hindquarters in Further India!  Factories and warehouses in Cairo,
Ispahan, Bagdad, Damascus, Jerusalem, Yedo, Peking, Bangkok, Delhi,
Bombay--and Calcutta!  Annual income--well, God only knows how many
millions and millions apiece!"

Washington was so dazed, so bewildered--his heart and his eyes had
wandered so far away among the strange lands beyond the seas, and such
avalanches of coin and currency had fluttered and jingled confusedly down
before him, that he was now as one who has been whirling round and round
for a time, and, stopping all at once, finds his surroundings still
whirling and all objects a dancing chaos.  However, little by little the
Sellers family cooled down and crystalized into shape, and the poor room
lost its glitter and resumed its poverty.  Then the youth found his voice
and begged Sellers to drop everything and hurry up the eye-water; and he
got his eighteen dollars and tried to force it upon the Colonel--pleaded
with him to take it--implored him to do it.  But the Colonel would not;
said he would not need the capital (in his native magnificent way he
called that eighteen dollars Capital) till the eye-water was an
accomplished fact.  He made Washington easy in his mind, though, by
promising that he would call for it just as soon as the invention was
finished, and he added the glad tidings that nobody but just they two
should be admitted to a share in the speculation.

When Washington left the breakfast table he could have worshiped that
man.  Washington was one of that kind of people whose hopes are in the
very, clouds one day and in the gutter the next.  He walked on air, now.
The Colonel was ready to take him around and introduce him to the
employment he had found for him, but Washington begged for a few moments
in which to write home; with his kind of people, to ride to-day's new
interest to death and put off yesterday's till another time, is nature
itself.  He ran up stairs and wrote glowingly, enthusiastically, to his
mother about the hogs and the corn, the banks and the eye-water--and
added a few inconsequential millions to each project.  And he said that
people little dreamed what a man Col. Sellers was, and that the world
would open its eyes when it found out.  And he closed his letter thus:

"So make yourself perfectly easy, mother-in a little while you shall have
everything you want, and more.  I am not likely to stint you in anything,
I fancy.  This money will not be for me, alone, but for all of us.
I want all to share alike; and there is going to be far more for each
than one person can spend.  Break it to father cautiously--you understand
the need of that--break it to him cautiously, for he has had such cruel
hard fortune, and is so stricken by it that great good news might
prostrate him more surely than even bad, for he is used to the bad but
is grown sadly unaccustomed to the other.  Tell Laura--tell all the
children.  And write to Clay about it if he is not with you yet.  You may
tell Clay that whatever I get he can freely share in-freely.  He knows
that that is true--there will be no need that I should swear to that to
make him believe it.  Good-bye--and mind what I say: Rest perfectly easy,
one and all of you, for our troubles are nearly at an end."

Poor lad, he could not know that his mother would cry some loving,
compassionate tears over his letter and put off the family with a
synopsis of its contents which conveyed a deal of love to then but not
much idea of his prospects or projects.  And he never dreamed that such a
joyful letter could sadden her and fill her night with sighs, and
troubled thoughts, and bodings of the future, instead of filling it with
peace and blessing it with restful sleep.

When the letter was done, Washington and the Colonel sallied forth, and
as they walked along Washington learned what he was to be.  He was to be
a clerk in a real estate office.  Instantly the fickle youth's dreams
forsook the magic eye-water and flew back to the Tennessee Land.  And the
gorgeous possibilities of that great domain straightway began to occupy
his imagination to such a degree that he could scarcely manage to keep
even enough of his attention upon the Colonel's talk to retain the
general run of what he was saying.  He was glad it was a real estate
office--he was a made man now, sure.

The Colonel said that General Boswell was a rich man and had a good and
growing business; and that Washington's work world be light and he would
get forty dollars a month and be boarded and lodged in the General's
family--which was as good as ten dollars more; and even better, for he
could not live as well even at the "City Hotel" as he would there, and
yet the hotel charged fifteen dollars a month where a man had a good
room.

General Boswell was in his office; a comfortable looking place, with
plenty of outline maps hanging about the walls and in the windows, and
a spectacled man was marking out another one on a long table.  The office
was in the principal street.  The General received Washington with a
kindly but reserved politeness.  Washington rather liked his looks.
He was about fifty years old, dignified, well preserved and well dressed.
After the Colonel took his leave, the General talked a while with
Washington--his talk consisting chiefly of instructions about the
clerical duties of the place.  He seemed satisfied as to Washington's
ability to take care of the books, he was evidently a pretty fair
theoretical bookkeeper, and experience would soon harden theory into
practice.  By and by dinner-time came, and the two walked to the
General's house; and now Washington noticed an instinct in himself that
moved him to keep not in the General's rear, exactly, but yet not at his
side--somehow the old gentleman's dignity and reserve did not inspire
familiarity.




CHAPTER IX

Washington dreamed his way along the street, his fancy flitting from
grain to hogs, from hogs to banks, from banks to eyewater, from eye-water
to Tennessee Land, and lingering but a feverish moment upon each of these
fascinations.  He was conscious of but one outward thing, to wit, the
General, and he was really not vividly conscious of him.

Arrived at the finest dwelling in the town, they entered it and were at
home.  Washington was introduced to Mrs. Boswell, and his imagination was
on the point of flitting into the vapory realms of speculation again,
when a lovely girl of sixteen or seventeen came in.  This vision swept
Washington's mind clear of its chaos of glittering rubbish in an instant.
Beauty had fascinated him before; many times he had been in love even for
weeks at a time with the same object but his heart had never suffered so
sudden and so fierce an assault as this, within his recollection.

Louise Boswell occupied his mind and drifted among his multiplication
tables all the afternoon.  He was constantly catching himself in a
reverie--reveries made up of recalling how she looked when she first
burst upon him; how her voice thrilled him when she first spoke; how
charmed the very air seemed by her presence.  Blissful as the afternoon
was, delivered up to such a revel as this, it seemed an eternity, so
impatient was he to see the girl again.  Other afternoons like it
followed.  Washington plunged into this love affair as he plunged into
everything else--upon impulse and without reflection.  As the days went
by it seemed plain that he was growing in favor with Louise,--not
sweepingly so, but yet perceptibly, he fancied.  His attentions to her
troubled her father and mother a little, and they warned Louise, without
stating particulars or making allusions to any special person, that a
girl was sure to make a mistake who allowed herself to marry anybody but
a man who could support her well.

Some instinct taught Washington that his present lack of money would be
an obstruction, though possibly not a bar, to his hopes, and straightway
his poverty became a torture to him which cast all his former sufferings
under that held into the shade.  He longed for riches now as he had ever
longed for them before.

He had been once or twice to dine with Col. Sellers, and had been
discouraged to note that the Colonel's bill of fare was falling off both
in quantity and quality--a sign, he feared, that the lacking ingredient
in the eye-water still remained undiscovered--though Sellers always
explained that these changes in the family diet had been ordered by the
doctor, or suggested by some new scientific work the Colonel had stumbled
upon.  But it always turned out that the lacking ingredient was still
lacking--though it always appeared, at the same time, that the Colonel
was right on its heels.

Every time the Colonel came into the real estate office Washington's
heart bounded and his eyes lighted with hope, but it always turned out
that the Colonel was merely on the scent of some vast, undefined landed
speculation--although he was customarily able to say that he was nearer
to the all-necessary ingredient than ever, and could almost name the hour
when success would dawn.  And then Washington's heart world sink again
and a sigh would tell when it touched bottom.

About this time a letter came, saying that Judge Hawkins had been ailing
for a fortnight, and was now considered to be seriously ill.  It was
thought best that Washington should come home.  The news filled him with
grief, for he loved and honored his father; the Boswells were touched by
the youth's sorrow, and even the General unbent and said encouraging
things to him.--There was balm in this; but when Louise bade him good-
bye, and shook his hand and said, "Don't be cast down--it will all come
out right--I know it will all come out right," it seemed a blessed thing
to be in misfortune, and the tears that welled up to his eyes were the
messengers of an adoring and a grateful heart; and when the girl saw them
and answering tears came into her own eyes, Washington could hardly
contain the excess of happiness that poured into the cavities of his
breast that were so lately stored to the roof with grief.

All the way home he nursed his woe and exalted it.  He pictured himself
as she must be picturing him: a noble, struggling young spirit persecuted
by misfortune, but bravely and patiently waiting in the shadow of a dread
calamity and preparing to meet the blow as became one who was all too
used to hard fortune and the pitiless buffetings of fate.  These thoughts
made him weep, and weep more broken-heartedly than ever; and be wished
that she could see his sufferings now.

There was nothing significant in the fact that Louise, dreamy and
distraught, stood at her bedroom bureau that night, scribbling
"Washington" here and there over a sheet of paper.  But there was
something significant in the fact that she scratched the word out every
time she wrote it; examined the erasure critically to see if anybody
could guess at what the word had been; then buried it under a maze of
obliterating lines; and finally, as if still unsatisfied, burned the
paper.

When Washington reached home, he recognized at once how serious his
father's case was.  The darkened room, the labored breathing and
occasional moanings of the patient, the tip-toeing of the attendants and
their whispered consultations, were full of sad meaning.  For three or
four nights Mrs. Hawkins and Laura had been watching by the bedside; Clay
had arrived, preceding Washington by one day, and he was now added to the
corps of watchers.  Mr. Hawkins would have none but these three, though
neighborly assistance was offered by old friends.  From this time forth
three-hour watches were instituted, and day and night the watchers kept
their vigils.  By degrees Laura and her mother began to show wear, but
neither of them would yield a minute of their tasks to Clay.  He ventured
once to let the midnight hour pass without calling Laura, but he ventured
no more; there was that about her rebuke when he tried to explain, that
taught him that to let her sleep when she might be ministering to her
father's needs, was to rob her of moments that were priceless in her
eyes; he perceived that she regarded it as a privilege to watch, not a
burden.  And, he had noticed, also, that when midnight struck, the
patient turned his eyes toward the door, with an expectancy in them which
presently grew into a longing but brightened into contentment as soon
as the door opened and Laura appeared.  And he did not need Laura's
rebuke when he heard his father say:

"Clay is good, and you are tired, poor child; but I wanted you so."

"Clay is not good, father--he did not call me.  I would not have treated
him so.  How could you do it, Clay?"

Clay begged forgiveness and promised not to break faith again; and as he
betook him to his bed, he said to himself:  "It's a steadfast little
soul; whoever thinks he is doing the Duchess a kindness by intimating
that she is not sufficient for any undertaking she puts her hand to,
makes a mistake; and if I did not know it before, I know now that there
are surer ways of pleasing her than by trying to lighten her labor when
that labor consists in wearing herself out for the sake of a person she
loves."

A week drifted by, and all the while the patient sank lower and lower.
The night drew on that was to end all suspense.  It was a wintry one.
The darkness gathered, the snow was falling, the wind wailed plaintively
about the house or shook it with fitful gusts.  The doctor had paid his
last visit and gone away with that dismal remark to the nearest friend of
the family that he "believed there was nothing more that he could do"--
a remark which is always overheard by some one it is not meant for and
strikes a lingering half-conscious hope dead with a withering shock;
the medicine phials had been removed from the bedside and put out of
sight, and all things made orderly and meet for the solemn event that was
impending; the patient, with closed eyes, lay scarcely breathing; the
watchers sat by and wiped the gathering damps from his forehead while the
silent tears flowed down their faces; the deep hush was only interrupted
by sobs from the children, grouped about the bed.

After a time--it was toward midnight now--Mr. Hawkins roused out of a
doze, looked about him and was evidently trying to speak.  Instantly
Laura lifted his head and in a failing voice he said, while something of
the old light shone in his eyes:

"Wife--children--come nearer--nearer.  The darkness grows.  Let me see
you all, once more."

The group closed together at the bedside, and their tears and sobs came
now without restraint.

"I am leaving you in cruel poverty.  I have been--so foolish--so short-
sighted.  But courage!  A better day is--is coming.  Never lose sight of
the Tennessee Land!  Be wary.  There is wealth stored up for you there--
wealth that is boundless!  The children shall hold up their heads with
the best in the land, yet.  Where are the papers?--Have you got the
papers safe?  Show them--show them to me!"

Under his strong excitement his voice had gathered power and his last
sentences were spoken with scarcely a perceptible halt or hindrance.
With an effort he had raised himself almost without assistance to a
sitting posture.  But now the fire faded out of his eyes and be fell back
exhausted.  The papers were brought and held before him, and the
answering smile that flitted across his face showed that he was
satisfied.  He closed his eyes, and the signs of approaching dissolution
multiplied rapidly.  He lay almost motionless for a little while, then
suddenly partly raised his head and looked about him as one who peers
into a dim uncertain light.  He muttered:

"Gone?  No--I see you--still.  It is--it is-over.  But you are--safe.
Safe.  The Ten-----"

The voice died out in a whisper; the sentence was never finished.  The
emaciated fingers began to pick at the coverlet, a fatal sign.  After a
time there were no sounds but the cries of the mourners within and the
gusty turmoil of the wind without.  Laura had bent down and kissed her
father's lips as the spirit left the body; but she did not sob, or utter
any ejaculation; her tears flowed silently.  Then she closed the dead
eyes, and crossed the hands upon the breast; after a season, she kissed
the forehead reverently, drew the sheet up over the face, and then walked
apart and sat down with the look of one who is done with life and has no
further interest in its joys and sorrows, its hopes or its ambitions.
Clay buried his face in the coverlet of the bed; when the other children
and the mother realized that death was indeed come at last, they threw
themselves into each others' arms and gave way to a frenzy of grief.




CHAPTER X.

Only two or three days had elapsed since the funeral, when something
happened which was to change the drift of Laura's life somewhat, and
influence in a greater or lesser degree the formation of her character.

Major Lackland had once been a man of note in the State--a man of
extraordinary natural ability and as extraordinary learning.  He had been
universally trusted and honored in his day, but had finally, fallen into
misfortune; while serving his third term in Congress, and while upon the
point of being elevated to the Senate--which was considered the summit of
earthly aggrandizement in those days--he had yielded to temptation, when
in distress for money wherewith to save his estate; and sold his vote.
His crime was discovered, and his fall followed instantly.  Nothing could
reinstate him in the confidence of the people, his ruin was
irretrievable--his disgrace complete.  All doors were closed against him,
all men avoided him.  After years of skulking retirement and dissipation,
death had relieved him of his troubles at last, and his funeral followed
close upon that of Mr. Hawkins.  He died as he had latterly lived--wholly
alone and friendless.  He had no relatives--or if he had they did not
acknowledge him.  The coroner's jury found certain memoranda upon his
body and about the premises which revealed a fact not suspected by the
villagers before-viz., that Laura was not the child of Mr. and Mrs.
Hawkins.

The gossips were soon at work.  They were but little hampered by the fact
that the memoranda referred to betrayed nothing but the bare circumstance
that Laura's real parents were unknown, and stopped there.  So far from
being hampered by this, the gossips seemed to gain all the more freedom
from it.  They supplied all the missing information themselves, they
filled up all the blanks.  The town soon teemed with histories of Laura's
origin and secret history, no two versions precisely alike, but all
elaborate, exhaustive, mysterious and interesting, and all agreeing in
one vital particular-to-wit, that there was a suspicious cloud about her
birth, not to say a disreputable one.

Laura began to encounter cold looks, averted eyes and peculiar nods and
gestures which perplexed her beyond measure; but presently the pervading
gossip found its way to her, and she understood them--then.  Her pride
was stung.  She was astonished, and at first incredulous.  She was about
to ask her mother if there was any truth in these reports, but upon
second thought held her peace.  She soon gathered that Major Lackland's
memoranda seemed to refer to letters which had passed between himself and
Judge Hawkins.  She shaped her course without difficulty the day that
that hint reached her.

That night she sat in her room till all was still, and then she stole
into the garret and began a search.  She rummaged long among boxes of
musty papers relating to business matters of no, interest to her, but at
last she found several bundles of letters.  One bundle was marked
"private," and in that she found what she wanted.  She selected six or
eight letters from the package and began to devour their contents,
heedless of the cold.

By the dates, these letters were from five to seven years old.  They were
all from Major Lackland to Mr. Hawkins.  The substance of them was, that
some one in the east had been inquiring of Major Lackland about a lost
child and its parents, and that it was conjectured that the child might
be Laura.

Evidently some of the letters were missing, for the name of the inquirer
was not mentioned; there was a casual reference to "this handsome-
featured aristocratic gentleman," as if the reader and the writer were
accustomed to speak of him and knew who was meant.

In one letter the Major said he agreed with Mr. Hawkins that the inquirer
seemed not altogether on the wrong track; but he also agreed that it
would be best to keep quiet until more convincing developments were
forthcoming.

Another letter said that "the poor soul broke completely down when be saw
Laura's picture, and declared it must be she."

Still another said:

     "He seems entirely alone in the world, and his heart is so wrapped
     up in this thing that I believe that if it proved a false hope, it
     would kill him; I have persuaded him to wait a little while and go
     west when I go."

Another letter had this paragraph in it:

     "He is better one day and worse the next, and is out of his mind a
     good deal of the time.  Lately his case has developed a something
     which is a wonder to the hired nurses, but which will not be much of
     a marvel to you if you have read medical philosophy much.  It is
     this: his lost memory returns to him when he is delirious, and goes
     away again when he is himself-just as old Canada Joe used to talk
     the French patois of his boyhood in the delirium of typhus fever,
     though he could not do it when his mind was clear.  Now this poor
     gentleman's memory has always broken down before he reached the
     explosion of the steamer; he could only remember starting up the
     river with his wife and child, and he had an idea that there was a
     race, but he was not certain; he could not name the boat he was on;
     there was a dead blank of a month or more that supplied not an item
     to his recollection.  It was not for me to assist him, of course.
     But now in his delirium it all comes out: the names of the boats,
     every incident of the explosion, and likewise the details of his
     astonishing escape--that is, up to where, just as a yawl-boat was
     approaching him (he was clinging to the starboard wheel of the
     burning wreck at the time), a falling timber struck him on the head.
     But I will write out his wonderful escape in full to-morrow or next
     day.  Of course the physicians will not let me tell him now that our
     Laura is indeed his child--that must come later, when his health is
     thoroughly restored.  His case is not considered dangerous at all;
     he will recover presently, the doctors say.  But they insist that he
     must travel a little when he gets well--they recommend a short sea
     voyage, and they say he can be persuaded to try it if we continue to
     keep him in ignorance and promise to let him see L. as soon as he
     returns."

The letter that bore the latest date of all, contained this clause:

     "It is the most unaccountable thing in the world; the mystery
     remains as impenetrable as ever; I have hunted high and low for him,
     and inquired of everybody, but in vain; all trace of him ends at
     that hotel in New York; I never have seen or heard of him since,
     up to this day; he could hardly have sailed, for his name does not
     appear upon the books of any shipping office in New York or Boston
     or Baltimore.  How fortunate it seems, now, that we kept this thing
     to ourselves; Laura still has a father in you, and it is better for
     her that we drop this subject here forever."

That was all.  Random remarks here and there, being pieced together gave
Laura a vague impression of a man of fine presence, abort forty-three or
forty-five years of age, with dark hair and eyes, and a slight limp in
his walk--it was not stated which leg was defective.  And this indistinct
shadow represented her father.  She made an exhaustive search for the
missing letters, but found none.  They had probably been burned; and she
doubted not that the ones she had ferreted out would have shared the same
fate if Mr. Hawkins had not been a dreamer, void of method, whose mind
was perhaps in a state of conflagration over some bright new speculation
when he received them.

She sat long, with the letters in her lap, thinking--and unconsciously
freezing.  She felt like a lost person who has traveled down a long lane
in good hope of escape, and, just as the night descends finds his
progress barred by a bridge-less river whose further shore, if it has
one, is lost in the darkness.  If she could only have found these letters
a month sooner!  That was her thought.  But now the dead had carried
their secrets with them.  A dreary, melancholy settled down upon her.
An undefined sense of injury crept into her heart.  She grew very
miserable.

She had just reached the romantic age--the age when there is a sad
sweetness, a dismal comfort to a girl to find out that there is a mystery
connected with her birth, which no other piece of good luck can afford.
She had more than her rightful share of practical good sense, but still
she was human; and to be human is to have one's little modicum of romance
secreted away in one's composition.  One never ceases to make a hero of
one's self, (in private,) during life, but only alters the style of his
heroism from time to time as the drifting years belittle certain gods of
his admiration and raise up others in their stead that seem greater.

The recent wearing days and nights of watching, and the wasting grief
that had possessed her, combined with the profound depression that
naturally came with the reaction of idleness, made Laura peculiarly
susceptible at this time to romantic impressions.  She was a heroine,
now, with a mysterious father somewhere.  She could not really tell
whether she wanted to find him and spoil it all or not; but still all the
traditions of romance pointed to the making the attempt as the usual and
necessary, course to follow; therefore she would some day begin the
search when opportunity should offer.

Now a former thought struck her--she would speak to Mrs. Hawkins.
And naturally enough Mrs. Hawkins appeared on the stage at that moment.

She said she knew all--she knew that Laura had discovered the secret that
Mr. Hawkins, the elder children, Col. Sellers and herself had kept so
long and so faithfully; and she cried and said that now that troubles had
begun they would never end; her daughter's love would wean itself away
from her and her heart would break.  Her grief so wrought upon Laura that
the girl almost forgot her own troubles for the moment in her compassion
for her mother's distress.  Finally Mrs. Hawkins said:

"Speak to me, child--do not forsake me.  Forget all this miserable talk.
Say I am your mother!--I have loved you so long, and there is no other.
I am your mother, in the sight of God, and nothing shall ever take you
from me!"

All barriers fell, before this appeal.  Laura put her arms about her
mother's neck and said:

"You are my mother, and always shall be.  We will be as we have always
been; and neither this foolish talk nor any other thing shall part us or
make us less to each other than we are this hour."

There was no longer any sense of separation or estrangement between them.
Indeed their love seemed more perfect now than it had ever been before.
By and by they went down stairs and sat by the fire and talked long and
earnestly about Laura's history and the letters.  But it transpired that
Mrs. Hawkins had never known of this correspondence between her husband
and Major Lackland.  With his usual consideration for his wife, Mr.
Hawkins had shielded her from the worry the matter would have caused her.

Laura went to bed at last with a mind that had gained largely in
tranquility and had lost correspondingly in morbid romantic exaltation.
She was pensive, the next day, and subdued; but that was not matter for
remark, for she did not differ from the mournful friends about her in
that respect.  Clay and Washington were the same loving and admiring
brothers now that they had always been.  The great secret was new to some
of the younger children, but their love suffered no change under the
wonderful revelation.

It is barely possible that things might have presently settled down into
their old rut and the mystery have lost the bulk of its romantic
sublimity in Laura's eyes, if the village gossips could have quieted
down.  But they could not quiet down and they did not.  Day after day
they called at the house, ostensibly upon visits of condolence, and they
pumped away at the mother and the children without seeming to know that
their questionings were in bad taste.  They meant no harm they only
wanted to know.  Villagers always want to know.

The family fought shy of the questionings, and of course that was high
testimony "if the Duchess was respectably born, why didn't they come out
and prove it?--why did they, stick to that poor thin story about picking
her up out of a steamboat explosion?"

Under this ceaseless persecution, Laura's morbid self-communing was
renewed.  At night the day's contribution of detraction, innuendo and
malicious conjecture would be canvassed in her mind, and then she would
drift into a course of thinking.  As her thoughts ran on, the indignant
tears would spring to her eyes, and she would spit out fierce little
ejaculations at intervals.  But finally she would grow calmer and say
some comforting disdainful thing--something like this:

"But who are they?--Animals!  What are their opinions to me?  Let them
talk--I will not stoop to be affected by it.  I could hate----.
Nonsense--nobody I care for or in any way respect is changed toward me,
I fancy."

She may have supposed she was thinking of many individuals, but it was
not so--she was thinking of only one.  And her heart warmed somewhat,
too, the while.  One day a friend overheard a conversation like this:--
and naturally came and told her all about it:

"Ned, they say you don't go there any more.  How is that?"

"Well, I don't; but I tell you it's not because I don't want to and it's
not because I think it is any matter who her father was or who he wasn't,
either; it's only on account of this talk, talk, talk.  I think she is a
fine girl every way, and so would you if you knew her as well as I do;
but you know how it is when a girl once gets talked about--it's all up
with her--the world won't ever let her alone, after that."

The only comment Laura made upon this revelation, was:

"Then it appears that if this trouble had not occurred I could have had
the happiness of Mr. Ned Thurston's serious attentions.  He is well
favored in person, and well liked, too, I believe, and comes of one of
the first families of the village.  He is prosperous, too, I hear; has
been a doctor a year, now, and has had two patients--no, three, I think;
yes, it was three.  I attended their funerals.  Well, other people have
hoped and been disappointed; I am not alone in that.  I wish you could
stay to dinner, Maria--we are going to have sausages; and besides,
I wanted to talk to you about Hawkeye and make you promise to come and
see us when we are settled there."

But Maria could not stay.  She had come to mingle romantic tears with
Laura's over the lover's defection and had found herself dealing with a
heart that could not rise to an appreciation of affliction because its
interest was all centred in sausages.

But as soon as Maria was gone, Laura stamped her expressive foot and
said:

"The coward!  Are all books lies?  I thought he would fly to the front,
and be brave and noble, and stand up for me against all the world, and
defy my enemies, and wither these gossips with his scorn!  Poor crawling
thing, let him go.  I do begin to despise thin world!"

She lapsed into thought.  Presently she said:

"If the time ever comes, and I get a chance, Oh, I'll----"

She could not find a word that was strong enough, perhaps.  By and by she
said:

"Well, I am glad of it--I'm glad of it.  I never cared anything for him
anyway!"

And then, with small consistency, she cried a little, and patted her foot
more indignantly than ever.



CHAPTER XI

Two months had gone by and the Hawkins family were domiciled in Hawkeye.
Washington was at work in the real estate office again, and was
alternately in paradise or the other place just as it happened that
Louise was gracious to him or seemingly indifferent--because indifference
or preoccupation could mean nothing else than that she was thinking of
some other young person.  Col. Sellers had asked him several times, to
dine with him, when he first returned to Hawkeye, but Washington, for no
particular reason, had not accepted.  No particular reason except one
which he preferred to keep to himself--viz. that he could not bear to be
away from Louise.  It occurred to him, now, that the Colonel had not
invited him lately--could he be offended?  He resolved to go that very
day, and give the Colonel a pleasant surprise.  It was a good idea;
especially as Louise had absented herself from breakfast that morning,
and torn his heart; he would tear hers, now, and let her see how it felt.

The Sellers family were just starting to dinner when Washington burst
upon them with his surprise.  For an instant the Colonel looked
nonplussed, and just a bit uncomfortable; and Mrs. Sellers looked
actually distressed; but the next moment the head of the house was
himself again, and exclaimed:

"All right, my boy, all right--always glad to see you--always glad to
hear your voice and take you by the hand.  Don't wait for special
invitations--that's all nonsense among friends.  Just come whenever you
can, and come as often as you can--the oftener the better.  You can't
please us any better than that, Washington; the little woman will tell
you so herself.  We don't pretend to style.  Plain folks, you know--plain
folks.  Just a plain family dinner, but such as it is, our friends are
always welcome, I reckon you know that yourself, Washington.  Run along,
children, run along; Lafayette,--[**In those old days the average man
called his children after his most revered literary and historical idols;
consequently there was hardly a family, at least in the West, but had a
Washington in it--and also a Lafayette, a Franklin, and six or eight
sounding names from Byron, Scott, and the Bible, if the offspring held
out.  To visit such a family, was to find one's self confronted by a
congress made up of representatives of the imperial myths and the
majestic dead of all the ages.  There was something thrilling about it,
to a stranger, not to say awe inspiring.]--stand off the cat's tail,
child, can't you see what you're doing?--Come, come, come, Roderick Dhu,
it isn't nice for little boys to hang onto young gentlemen's coat tails--
but never mind him, Washington, he's full of spirits and don't mean any
harm.  Children will be children, you know.  Take the chair next to Mrs.
Sellers, Washington--tut, tut, Marie Antoinette, let your brother have
the fork if he wants it, you are bigger than he is."

Washington contemplated the banquet, and wondered if he were in his right
mind.  Was this the plain family dinner?  And was it all present?  It was
soon apparent that this was indeed the dinner: it was all on the table:
it consisted of abundance of clear, fresh water, and a basin of raw
turnips--nothing more.

Washington stole a glance at Mrs. Sellers's face, and would have given
the world, the next moment, if he could have spared her that.  The poor
woman's face was crimson, and the tears stood in her eyes.  Washington
did not know what to do.  He wished he had never come there and spied out
this cruel poverty and brought pain to that poor little lady's heart and
shame to her cheek; but he was there, and there was no escape.  Col.
Sellers hitched back his coat sleeves airily from his wrists as who
should say "Now for solid enjoyment!" seized a fork, flourished it and
began to harpoon turnips and deposit them in the plates before him "Let
me help you, Washington--Lafyette pass this plate Washington--ah, well,
well, my boy, things are looking pretty bright, now, I tell you.
Speculation--my! the whole atmosphere's full of money.  I would'nt take
three fortunes for one little operation I've got on hand now--have
anything from the casters?  No?  Well, you're right, you're right.  Some
people like mustard with turnips, but--now there was Baron Poniatowski--
Lord, but that man did know how to live!--true Russian you know, Russian
to the back bone; I say to my wife, give me a Russian every time, for a
table comrade.  The Baron used to say, 'Take mustard, Sellers, try the
mustard,--a man can't know what turnips are in perfection without,
mustard,' but I always said, 'No, Baron, I'm a plain man and I want my
food plain--none of your embellishments for Beriah Sellers--no made
dishes for me!  And it's the best way--high living kills more than it
cures in this world, you can rest assured of that.--Yes indeed,
Washington, I've got one little operation on hand that--take some more
water--help yourself, won't you?--help yourself, there's plenty of it.
--You'll find it pretty good, I guess.  How does that fruit strike you?"

Washington said he did not know that he had ever tasted better.  He did
not add that he detested turnips even when they were cooked loathed them
in their natural state.  No, he kept this to himself, and praised the
turnips to the peril of his soul.

"I thought you'd like them.  Examine them--examine them--they'll bear it.
See how perfectly firm and juicy they are--they can't start any like them
in this part of the country, I can tell you.  These are from New Jersey
--I imported them myself.  They cost like sin, too; but lord bless me,
I go in for having the best of a thing, even if it does cost a little
more--it's the best economy, in the long run.  These are the Early
Malcolm--it's a turnip that can't be produced except in just one orchard,
and the supply never is up to the demand.  Take some more water,
Washington--you can't drink too much water with fruit--all the doctors
say that.  The plague can't come where this article is, my boy!"

"Plague?  What plague?"

"What plague, indeed?  Why the Asiatic plague that nearly depopulated
London a couple of centuries ago."

"But how does that concern us?  There is no plague here, I reckon."

"Sh! I've let it out!  Well, never mind--just keep it to yourself.
Perhaps I oughtn't said anything, but its bound to come out sooner or
later, so what is the odds?  Old McDowells wouldn't like me to--to--
bother it all, I'll jest tell the whole thing and let it go.  You see,
I've been down to St. Louis, and I happened to run across old Dr.
McDowells--thinks the world of me, does the doctor.  He's a man that
keeps himself to himself, and well he may, for he knows that he's got a
reputation that covers the whole earth--he won't condescend to open
himself out to many people, but lord bless you, he and I are just like
brothers; he won't let me go to a hotel when I'm in the city--says I'm
the only man that's company to him, and I don't know but there's some
truth in it, too, because although I never like to glorify myself and
make a great to-do over what I am or what I can do or what I know,
I don't mind saying here among friends that I am better read up in most
sciences, maybe, than the general run of professional men in these days.
Well, the other day he let me into a little secret, strictly on the
quiet, about this matter of the plague.

"You see it's booming right along in our direction--follows the Gulf
Stream, you know, just as all those epidemics do, and within three months
it will be just waltzing through this land like a whirlwind!  And whoever
it touches can make his will and contract for the funeral.  Well you
can't cure it, you know, but you can prevent it.  How?  Turnips! that's
it!  Turnips and water!  Nothing like it in the world, old McDowells
says, just fill yourself up two or three times a day, and you can snap
your fingers at the plague.  Sh!--keep mum, but just you confine yourself
to that diet and you're all right.  I wouldn't have old McDowells know
that I told about it for anything--he never would speak to me again.
Take some more water, Washington--the more water you drink, the better.
Here, let me give you some more of the turnips.  No, no, no, now, I
insist.  There, now.  Absorb those.  They're, mighty sustaining--brim
full of nutriment--all the medical books say so.  Just eat from four to
seven good-sized turnips at a meal, and drink from a pint and a half to a
quart of water, and then just sit around a couple of hours and let them
ferment.  You'll feel like a fighting cock next day."

Fifteen or twenty minutes later the Colonel's tongue was still chattering
away--he had piled up several future fortunes out of several incipient
"operations" which he had blundered into within the past week, and was
now soaring along through some brilliant expectations born of late
promising experiments upon the lacking ingredient of the eye-water.
And at such a time Washington ought to have been a rapt and enthusiastic
listener, but he was not, for two matters disturbed his mind and
distracted his attention.  One was, that he discovered, to his confusion
and shame, that in allowing himself to be helped a second time to the
turnips, he had robbed those hungry children.  He had not needed the
dreadful "fruit," and had not wanted it; and when he saw the pathetic
sorrow in their faces when they asked for more and there was no more to
give them, he hated himself for his stupidity and pitied the famishing
young things with all his heart.  The other matter that disturbed him was
the dire inflation that had begun in his stomach.  It grew and grew, it
became more and more insupportable.  Evidently the turnips were
"fermenting."  He forced himself to sit still as long as he could, but
his anguish conquered him at last.

He rose in the midst of the Colonel's talk and excused himself on the
plea of a previous engagement.  The Colonel followed him to the door,
promising over and over again that he would use his influence to get some
of the Early Malcolms for him, and insisting that he should not be such a
stranger but come and take pot-luck with him every chance he got.
Washington was glad enough to get away and feel free again.  He
immediately bent his steps toward home.

In bed he passed an hour that threatened to turn his hair gray, and then
a blessed calm settled down upon him that filled his heart with
gratitude.  Weak and languid, he made shift to turn himself about and
seek rest and sleep; and as his soul hovered upon the brink of
unconciousness, he heaved a long, deep sigh, and said to himself that in
his heart he had cursed the Colonel's preventive of rheumatism, before,
and now let the plague come if it must--he was done with preventives;
if ever any man beguiled him with turnips and water again, let him die
the death.

If he dreamed at all that night, no gossiping spirit disturbed his
visions to whisper in his ear of certain matters just then in bud in the
East, more than a thousand miles away that after the lapse of a few years
would develop influences which would profoundly affect the fate and
fortunes of the Hawkins family.




CHAPTER XII

"Oh, it's easy enough to make a fortune," Henry said.

"It seems to be easier than it is, I begin to think," replied Philip.

"Well, why don't you go into something?  You'll never dig it out of the
Astor Library."

If there be any place and time in the world where and when it seems easy
to "go into something" it is in Broadway on a spring morning, when one is
walking city-ward, and has before him the long lines of palace-shops with
an occasional spire seen through the soft haze that lies over the lower
town, and hears the roar and hum of its multitudinous traffic.

To the young American, here or elsewhere, the paths to fortune are
innumerable and all open; there is invitation in the air and success in
all his wide horizon.  He is embarrassed which to choose, and is not
unlikely to waste years in dallying with his chances, before giving
himself to the serious tug and strain of a single object.  He has no
traditions to bind him or guide him, and his impulse is to break away
from the occupation his father has followed, and make a new way for
himself.

Philip Sterling used to say that if he should seriously set himself for
ten years to any one of the dozen projects that were in his brain, he
felt that he could be a rich man.  He wanted to be rich, he had a sincere
desire for a fortune, but for some unaccountable reason he hesitated
about addressing himself to the narrow work of getting it.  He never
walked Broadway, a part of its tide of abundant shifting life, without
feeling something of the flush of wealth, and unconsciously taking the
elastic step of one well-to-do in this prosperous world.

Especially at night in the crowded theatre--Philip was too young to
remember the old Chambers' Street box, where the serious Burton led his
hilarious and pagan crew--in the intervals of the screaming comedy, when
the orchestra scraped and grunted and tooted its dissolute tunes, the
world seemed full of opportunities to Philip, and his heart exulted with
a conscious ability to take any of its prizes he chose to pluck.

Perhaps it was the swimming ease of the acting, on the stage, where
virtue had its reward in three easy acts, perhaps it was the excessive
light of the house, or the music, or the buzz of the excited talk between
acts, perhaps it was youth which believed everything, but for some reason
while Philip was at the theatre he had the utmost confidence in life and
his ready victory in it.

Delightful illusion of paint and tinsel and silk attire, of cheap
sentiment and high and mighty dialogue!  Will there not always be rosin
enough for the squeaking fiddle-bow?

Do we not all like the maudlin hero, who is sneaking round the right
entrance, in wait to steal the pretty wife of his rich and tyrannical
neighbor from the paste-board cottage at the left entrance? and when he
advances down to the foot-lights and defiantly informs the audience that,
"he who lays his hand on a woman except in the way of kindness," do we
not all applaud so as to drown the rest of the sentence?

Philip never was fortunate enough to hear what would become of a man who
should lay his hand on a woman with the exception named; but he learned
afterwards that the woman who lays her hand on a man, without any
exception whatsoever, is always acquitted by the jury.

The fact was, though Philip Sterling did not know it, that he wanted
several other things quite as much as he wanted wealth.  The modest
fellow would have liked fame thrust upon him for some worthy achievement;
it might be for a book, or for the skillful management of some great
newspaper, or for some daring expedition like that of Lt. Strain or Dr.
Kane.  He was unable to decide exactly what it should be.  Sometimes he
thought he would like to stand in a conspicuous pulpit and humbly preach
the gospel of repentance; and it even crossed his mind that it would be
noble to give himself to a missionary life to some benighted region,
where the date-palm grows, and the nightingale's voice is in tune, and
the bul-bul sings on the off nights.  If he were good enough he would
attach himself to that company of young men in the Theological Seminary,
who were seeing New York life in preparation for the ministry.

Philip was a New England boy and had graduated at Yale; he had not
carried off with him all the learning of that venerable institution, but
he knew some things that were not in the regular course of study.  A very
good use of the English language and considerable knowledge of its
literature was one of them; he could sing a song very well, not in time
to be sure, but with enthusiasm; he could make a magnetic speech at a
moment's notice in the class room, the debating society, or upon any
fence or dry-goods box that was convenient; he could lift himself by one
arm, and do the giant swing in the gymnasium; he could strike out from
his left shoulder; he could handle an oar like a professional and pull
stroke in a winning race.  Philip had a good appetite, a sunny temper,
and a clear hearty laugh.  He had brown hair, hazel eyes set wide apart,
a broad but not high forehead, and a fresh winning face.  He was six feet
high, with broad shoulders, long legs and a swinging gait; one of those
loose-jointed, capable fellows, who saunter into the world with a free
air and usually make a stir in whatever company they enter.

After he left college Philip took the advice of friends and read law.
Law seemed to him well enough as a science, but he never could discover a
practical case where it appeared to him worth while to go to law, and all
the clients who stopped with this new clerk in the ante-room of the law
office where he was writing, Philip invariably advised to settle--no
matter how, but settle--greatly to the disgust of his employer, who knew
that justice between man and man could only be attained by the recognized
processes, with the attendant fees.  Besides Philip hated the copying of
pleadings, and he was certain that a life of "whereases" and "aforesaids"
and whipping the devil round the stump, would be intolerable.

[Note: these few paragraphs are nearly an autobiography of the life of
Charles Dudley Warner whose contributions to the story start here with
Chapter XII.  D.W.]

His pen therefore, and whereas, and not as aforesaid, strayed off into
other scribbling.  In an unfortunate hour, he had two or three papers
accepted by first-class magazines, at three dollars the printed page,
and, behold, his vocation was open to him.  He would make his mark in
literature.

Life has no moment so sweet as that in which a young man believes himself
called into the immortal ranks of the masters of literature.  It is such
a noble ambition, that it is a pity it has usually such a shallow
foundation.

At the time of this history, Philip had gone to New York for a career.
With his talent he thought he should have little difficulty in getting an
editorial position upon a metropolitan newspaper; not that he knew
anything about news paper work, or had the least idea of journalism; he
knew he was not fitted for the technicalities of the subordinate
departments, but he could write leaders with perfect ease, he was sure.
The drudgery of the newspaper office was too distaste ful, and besides it
would be beneath the dignity of a graduate and a successful magazine
writer.  He wanted to begin at the top of the ladder.

To his surprise he found that every situation in the editorial department
of the journals was full, always had been full, was always likely to be
full.  It seemed to him that the newspaper managers didn't want genius,
but mere plodding and grubbing.  Philip therefore read diligently in the
Astor library, planned literary works that should compel attention, and
nursed his genius.  He had no friend wise enough to tell him to step into
the Dorking Convention, then in session, make a sketch of the men and
women on the platform, and take it to the editor of the Daily Grapevine,
and see what he could get a line for it.

One day he had an offer from some country friends, who believed in him,
to take charge of a provincial daily newspaper, and he went to consult
Mr. Gringo--Gringo who years ago managed the Atlas--about taking the
situation.

"Take it of course," says Gringo, take anything that offers, why not?"

"But they want me to make it an opposition paper."

"Well, make it that.  That party is going to succeed, it's going to elect
the next president."

"I don't believe it," said Philip, stoutly, "its wrong in principle, and
it ought not to succeed, but I don't see how I can go for a thing I don't
believe in."

"O, very well," said Gringo, turning away with a shade of contempt,
"you'll find if you are going into literature and newspaper work that you
can't afford a conscience like that."

But Philip did afford it, and he wrote, thanking his friends, and
declining because he said the political scheme would fail, and ought to
fail.  And he went back to his books and to his waiting for an opening
large enough for his dignified entrance into the literary world.

It was in this time of rather impatient waiting that Philip was one
morning walking down Broadway with Henry Brierly.  He frequently
accompanied Henry part way down town to what the latter called his office
in Broad Street, to which he went, or pretended to go, with regularity
every day.  It was evident to the most casual acquaintance that he was a
man of affairs, and that his time was engrossed in the largest sort of
operations, about which there was a mysterious air.  His liability to be
suddenly summoned to Washington, or Boston or Montreal or even to
Liverpool was always imminent.  He never was so summoned, but none of his
acquaintances would have been surprised to hear any day that he had gone
to Panama or Peoria, or to hear from him that he had bought the Bank of
Commerce.

The two were intimate at that time,--they had been class, mates--and saw
a great deal of each other.  Indeed, they lived together in Ninth Street,
in a boarding-house, there, which had the honor of lodging and partially
feeding several other young fellows of like kidney, who have since gone
their several ways into fame or into obscurity.

It was during the morning walk to which reference has been made that
Henry Brierly suddenly said, "Philip, how would you like to go to
St. Jo?"

"I think I should like it of all things," replied Philip, with some
hesitation, "but what for."

"Oh, it's a big operation.  We are going, a lot of us, railroad men,
engineers, contractors.  You know my uncle is a great railroad man.  I've
no doubt I can get you a chance to go if you'll go."

"But in what capacity would I go?"

"Well, I'm going as an engineer.  You can go as one."

"I don't know an engine from a coal cart."

"Field engineer, civil engineer.  You can begin by carrying a rod, and
putting down the figures.  It's easy enough.  I'll show you about that.
We'll get Trautwine and some of those books."

"Yes, but what is it for, what is it all about?"

"Why don't you see?  We lay out a line, spot the good land, enter it up,
know where the stations are to be, spot them, buy lots; there's heaps of
money in it.  We wouldn't engineer long."

"When do you go?" was Philip's next question, after some moments of
silence.

"To-morrow.  Is that too soon?"

"No, its not too soon.  I've been ready to go anywhere for six months.
The fact is, Henry, that I'm about tired of trying to force myself into
things, and am quite willing to try floating with the stream for a while,
and see where I will land.  This seems like a providential call; it's
sudden enough."

The two young men who were by this time full of the adventure, went down
to the Wall street office of Henry's uncle and had a talk with that wily
operator.  The uncle knew Philip very well, and was pleased with his
frank enthusiasm, and willing enough to give him a trial in the western
venture.  It was settled therefore, in the prompt way in which things are
settled in New York, that they would start with the rest of the company
next morning for the west.

On the way up town these adventurers bought books on engineering, and
suits of India-rubber, which they supposed they would need in a new and
probably damp country, and many other things which nobody ever needed
anywhere.

The night was spent in packing up and writing letters, for Philip would
not take such an important step without informing his friends.  If they
disapprove, thought he, I've done my duty by letting them know.  Happy
youth, that is ready to pack its valise, and start for Cathay on an
hour's notice.

"By the way," calls out Philip from his bed-room, to Henry, "where is
St. Jo.?"

"Why, it's in Missouri somewhere, on the frontier I think.  We'll get a
map."

"Never mind the map.  We will find the place itself.  I was afraid it was
nearer home."

Philip wrote a long letter, first of all, to his mother, full of love and
glowing anticipations of his new opening.  He wouldn't bother her with
business details, but he hoped that the day was not far off when she
would see him return, with a moderate fortune, and something to add to
the comfort of her advancing years.

To his uncle he said that he had made an arrangement with some New York
capitalists to go to Missouri, in a land and railroad operation, which
would at least give him a knowledge of the world and not unlikely offer
him a business opening.  He knew his uncle would be glad to hear that he
had at last turned his thoughts to a practical matter.

It was to Ruth Bolton that Philip wrote last.  He might never see her
again; he went to seek his fortune.  He well knew the perils of the
frontier, the savage state of society, the lurking Indians and the
dangers of fever.  But there was no real danger to a person who took care
of himself.  Might he write to her often and, tell her of his life.
If he returned with a fortune, perhaps and perhaps.  If he was
unsuccessful, or if he never returned--perhaps it would be as well.
No time or distance, however, would ever lessen his interest in her.  He
would say good-night, but not good-bye.

In the soft beginning of a Spring morning, long before New York had
breakfasted, while yet the air of expectation hung about the wharves of
the metropolis, our young adventurers made their way to the Jersey City
railway station of the Erie road, to begin the long, swinging, crooked
journey, over what a writer of a former day called a causeway of cracked
rails and cows, to the West.




CHAPTER XIII.

          What ever to say be toke in his entente,
          his langage was so fayer & pertynante,
          yt semeth unto manys herying not only the worde,
          but veryly the thyng.
                              Caxton's Book of Curtesye.

In the party of which our travelers found themselves members, was Duff
Brown, the great railroad contractor, and subsequently a well-known
member of Congress; a bluff, jovial Bost'n man, thick-set, close shaven,
with a heavy jaw and a low forehead--a very pleasant man if you were not
in his way.  He had government contracts also, custom houses and dry
docks, from Portland to New Orleans, and managed to get out of congress,
in appropriations, about weight for weight of gold for the stone
furnished.

Associated with him, and also of this party, was Rodney Schaick, a sleek
New York broker, a man as prominent in the church as in the stock
exchange, dainty in his dress, smooth of speech, the necessary complement
of Duff Brown in any enterprise that needed assurance and adroitness.

It would be difficult to find a pleasanter traveling party one that shook
off more readily the artificial restraints of Puritanic strictness, and
took the world with good-natured allowance.  Money was plenty for every
attainable luxury, and there seemed to be no doubt that its supply would
continue, and that fortunes were about to be made without a great deal of
toil.  Even Philip soon caught the prevailing spirit; Barry did not need
any inoculation, he always talked in six figures.  It was as natural for
the dear boy to be rich as it is for most people to be poor.

The elders of the party were not long in discovering the fact, which
almost all travelers to the west soon find out; that the water was poor.
It must have been by a lucky premonition of this that they all had brandy
flasks with which to qualify the water of the country; and it was no
doubt from an uneasy feeling of the danger of being poisoned that they
kept experimenting, mixing a little of the dangerous and changing fluid,
as they passed along, with the contents of the flasks, thus saving their
lives hour by hour.  Philip learned afterwards that temperance and the
strict observance of Sunday and a certain gravity of deportment are
geographical habits, which people do not usually carry with them away
from home.

Our travelers stopped in Chicago long enough to see that they could make
their fortunes there in two week's tine, but it did not seem worth while;
the west was more attractive; the further one went the wider the
opportunities opened.

They took railroad to Alton and the steamboat from there to St. Louis,
for the change and to have a glimpse of the river.

"Isn't this jolly?" cried Henry, dancing out of the barber's room, and
coming down the deck with a one, two, three step, shaven, curled and
perfumed after his usual exquisite fashion.

"What's jolly?" asked Philip, looking out upon the dreary and monotonous
waste through which the shaking steamboat was coughing its way.

"Why, the whole thing; it's immense I can tell you.  I wouldn't give that
to be guaranteed a hundred thousand cold cash in a year's time."

"Where's Mr. Brown?"

"He is in the saloon, playing poker with Schaick and that long haired
party with the striped trousers, who scrambled aboard when the stage
plank was half hauled in, and the big Delegate to Congress from out
west."

"That's a fine looking fellow, that delegate, with his glossy, black
whiskers; looks like a Washington man; I shouldn't think he'd be at
poker."

"Oh, its only five cent ante, just to make it interesting, the Delegate
said."

"But I shouldn't think a representative in Congress would play poker any
way in a public steamboat."

"Nonsense, you've got to pass the time.  I tried a hand myself, but those
old fellows are too many for me.  The Delegate knows all the points.
I'd bet a hundred dollars he will ante his way right into the United
States Senate when his territory comes in.  He's got the cheek for it."

"He has the grave and thoughtful manner of expectoration of a public man,
for one thing," added Philip.

"Harry," said Philip, after a pause, "what have you got on those big
boots for; do you expect to wade ashore?"

"I'm breaking 'em in."

The fact was Harry had got himself up in what he thought a proper costume
for a new country, and was in appearance a sort of compromise between a
dandy of Broadway and a backwoodsman.  Harry, with blue eyes, fresh
complexion, silken whiskers and curly chestnut hair, was as handsome as
a fashion plate.  He wore this morning a soft hat, a short cutaway coat,
an open vest displaying immaculate linen, a leathern belt round his
waist, and top-boots of soft leather, well polished, that came above his
knees and required a string attached to his belt to keep them up.  The
light hearted fellow gloried in these shining encasements of his well
shaped legs, and told Philip that they were a perfect protection against
prairie rattle-snakes, which never strike above the knee.

The landscape still wore an almost wintry appearance when our travelers
left Chicago.  It was a genial spring day when they landed at St. Louis;
the birds were singing, the blossoms of peach trees in city garden plots,
made the air sweet, and in the roar and tumult on the long river levee
they found an excitement that accorded with their own hopeful
anticipations.

The party went to the Southern Hotel, where the great Duff Brown was very
well known, and indeed was a man of so much importance that even the
office clerk was respectful to him.  He might have respected in him also
a certain vulgar swagger and insolence of money, which the clerk greatly
admired.

The young fellows liked the house and liked the city; it seemed to them a
mighty free and hospitable town.  Coming from the East they were struck
with many peculiarities.  Everybody smoked in the streets, for one thing,
they noticed; everybody "took a drink" in an open manner whenever he
wished to do so or was asked, as if the habit needed no concealment or
apology.  In the evening when they walked about they found people sitting
on the door-steps of their dwellings, in a manner not usual in a northern
city; in front of some of the hotels and saloons the side walks were
filled with chairs and benches--Paris fashion, said Harry--upon which
people lounged in these warm spring evenings, smoking, always smoking;
and the clink of glasses and of billiard balls was in the air.  It was
delightful.

Harry at once found on landing that his back-woods custom would not be
needed in St. Louis, and that, in fact, he had need of all the resources
of his wardrobe to keep even with the young swells of the town.  But this
did not much matter, for Harry was always superior to his clothes.
As they were likely to be detained some time in the city, Harry told
Philip that he was going to improve his time.  And he did.  It was an
encouragement to any industrious man to see this young fellow rise,
carefully dress himself, eat his breakfast deliberately, smoke his cigar
tranquilly, and then repair to his room, to what he called his work, with
a grave and occupied manner, but with perfect cheerfulness.

Harry would take off his coat, remove his cravat, roll up his shirt-
sleeves, give his curly hair the right touch before the glass, get out
his book on engineering, his boxes of instruments, his drawing paper,
his profile paper, open the book of logarithms, mix his India ink,
sharpen his pencils, light a cigar, and sit down at the table to "lay out
a line," with the most grave notion that he was mastering the details of
engineering.  He would spend half a day in these preparations without
ever working out a problem or having the faintest conception of the use
of lines or logarithms.  And when he had finished, he had the most
cheerful confidence that he had done a good day's work.

It made no difference, however, whether Harry was in his room in a hotel
or in a tent, Philip soon found, he was just the same.  In camp he would
get himself, up in the most elaborate toilet at his command, polish his
long boots to the top, lay out his work before him, and spend an hour or
longer, if anybody was looking at him, humming airs, knitting his brows,
and "working" at engineering; and if a crowd of gaping rustics were
looking on all the while it was perfectly satisfactory to him.

"You see," he says to Philip one morning at the hotel when he was thus
engaged, "I want to get the theory of this thing, so that I can have a
check on the engineers."

"I thought you were going to be an engineer yourself,"  queried Philip.

"Not many times, if the court knows herself.  There's better game.  Brown
and Schaick have, or will have, the control for the whole line of the
Salt Lick Pacific Extension, forty thousand dollars a mile over the
prairie, with extra for hard-pan--and it'll be pretty much all hardpan
I can tell you; besides every alternate section of land on this line.
There's millions in the job.  I'm to have the sub-contract for the first
fifty miles, and you can bet it's a soft thing."

"I'll tell you what you do, Philip," continued Larry, in a burst of
generosity, "if I don't get you into my contract, you'll be with the
engineers, and you jest stick a stake at the first ground marked for a
depot, buy the land of the farmer before he knows where the depot will
be, and we'll turn a hundred or so on that.  I'll advance the money for
the payments, and you can sell the lots.  Schaick is going to let me have
ten thousand just for a flyer in such operations."

"But that's a good deal of money."

"Wait till you are used to handling money.  I didn't come out here for a
bagatelle.  My uncle wanted me to stay East and go in on the Mobile
custom house, work up the Washington end of it; he said there was a
fortune in it for a smart young fellow, but I preferred to take the
chances out here.  Did I tell you I had an offer from Bobbett and Fanshaw
to go into their office as confidential clerk on a salary of ten
thousand?"

"Why didn't you take it ?" asked Philip, to whom a salary of two thousand
would have seemed wealth, before he started on this journey.

"Take it?  I'd rather operate on my own hook;" said Harry, in his most
airy manner.

A few evenings after their arrival at the Southern, Philip and Harry made
the acquaintance of a very agreeable gentleman, whom they had frequently
seen before about the hotel corridors, and passed a casual word with.  He
had the air of a man of business, and was evidently a person of
importance.

The precipitating of this casual intercourse into the more substantial
form of an acquaintanceship was the work of the gentleman himself, and
occurred in this wise.  Meeting the two friends in the lobby one evening,
he asked them to give him the time, and added:

"Excuse me, gentlemen--strangers in St. Louis?  Ah, yes-yes.  From the
East, perhaps?  Ah; just so, just so.  Eastern born myself--Virginia.
Sellers is my name--Beriah Sellers.

"Ah! by the way--New York, did you say?  That reminds me; just met some
gentlemen from your State, a week or two ago--very prominent gentlemen--
in public life they are; you must know them, without doubt.  Let me see--
let me see.  Curious those names have escaped me.  I know they were from
your State, because I remember afterward my old friend Governor Shackleby
said to me--fine man, is the Governor--one of the finest men our country
has produced--said he, 'Colonel, how did you like those New York
gentlemen?--not many such men in the world,--Colonel Sellers,' said the
Governor--yes, it was New York he said--I remember it distinctly.
I can't recall those names, somehow.  But no matter.  Stopping here,
gentlemen--stopping at the Southern?"

In shaping their reply in their minds, the title "Mr." had a place in it;
but when their turn had arrived to speak, the title "Colonel" came from
their lips instead.

They said yes, they were abiding at the Southern, and thought it a very
good house.

"Yes, yes, the Southern is fair.  I myself go to the Planter's, old,
aristocratic house.  We Southern gentlemen don't change our ways, you
know.  I always make it my home there when I run down from Hawkeye--my
plantation is in Hawkeye, a little up in the country.  You should know
the Planter's."

Philip and Harry both said they should like to see a hotel that had been
so famous in its day--a cheerful hostelrie, Philip said it must have been
where duels were fought there across the dining-room table.

"You may believe it, sir, an uncommonly pleasant lodging.  Shall we
walk?"

And the three strolled along the streets, the Colonel talking all the way
in the most liberal and friendly manner, and with a frank open-
heartedness that inspired confidence.

"Yes, born East myself, raised all along, know the West--a great country,
gentlemen.  The place for a young fellow of spirit to pick up a fortune,
simply pick it up, it's lying round loose here.  Not a day that I don't
put aside an opportunity; too busy to look into it.  Management of my own
property takes my time.  First visit?  Looking for an opening?"

"Yes, looking around," replied Harry.

"Ah, here we are.  You'd rather sit here in front than go to my
apartments?  So had I. An opening eh?"

The Colonel's eyes twinkled.  "Ah, just so.  The country is opening up,
all we want is capital to develop it.  Slap down the rails and bring the
land into market.  The richest land on God Almighty's footstool is lying
right out there.  If I had my capital free I could plant it for
millions."

"I suppose your capital is largely in your plantation?" asked Philip.

"Well, partly, sir, partly.  I'm down here now with reference to a little
operation--a little side thing merely.  By the way gentlemen, excuse the
liberty, but it's about my usual time"--

The Colonel paused, but as no movement of his acquaintances followed this
plain remark, he added, in an explanatory manner,

"I'm rather particular about the exact time--have to be in this climate."

Even this open declaration of his hospitable intention not being
understood the Colonel politely said,

"Gentlemen, will you take something?"

Col. Sellers led the way to a saloon on Fourth street under the hotel,
and the young gentlemen fell into the custom of the country.

"Not that," said the Colonel to the bar-keeper, who shoved along the
counter a bottle of apparently corn-whiskey, as if he had done it before
on the same order; "not that," with a wave of the hand.  "That Otard if
you please.  Yes.  Never take an inferior liquor, gentlemen, not in the
evening, in this climate.  There.  That's the stuff.  My respects!"

The hospitable gentleman, having disposed of his liquor, remarking that
it was not quite the thing--"when a man has his own cellar to go to, he
is apt to get a little fastidious about his liquors"--called for cigars.
But the brand offered did not suit him; he motioned the box away, and
asked for some particular Havana's, those in separate wrappers.

"I always smoke this sort, gentlemen; they are a little more expensive,
but you'll learn, in this climate, that you'd better not economize on
poor cigars"

Having imparted this valuable piece of information, the Colonel lighted
the fragrant cigar with satisfaction, and then carelessly put his fingers
into his right vest pocket.  That movement being without result, with a
shade of disappointment on his face, he felt in his left vest pocket.
Not finding anything there, he looked up with a serious and annoyed air,
anxiously slapped his right pantaloon's pocket, and then his left, and
exclaimed,

"By George, that's annoying.  By George, that's mortifying.  Never had
anything of that kind happen to me before.  I've left my pocket-book.
Hold!  Here's a bill, after all.  No, thunder, it's a receipt."

"Allow me," said Philip, seeing how seriously the Colonel was annoyed,
and taking out his purse.

The Colonel protested he couldn't think of it, and muttered something to
the barkeeper about "hanging it up," but the vender of exhilaration made
no sign, and Philip had the privilege of paying the costly shot; Col.
Sellers profusely apologizing and claiming the right "next time, next
time."

As soon as Beriah Sellers had bade his friends good night and seen them
depart, he did not retire apartments in the Planter's, but took his way
to his lodgings with a friend in a distant part of the city.




CHAPTER XIV.

The letter that Philip Sterling wrote to Ruth Bolton, on the evening of
setting out to seek his fortune in the west, found that young lady in her
own father's house in Philadelphia.  It was one of the pleasantest of the
many charming suburban houses in that hospitable city, which is
territorially one of the largest cities in the world, and only prevented
from becoming the convenient metropolis of the country by the intrusive
strip of Camden and Amboy sand which shuts it off from the Atlantic
ocean.  It is a city of steady thrift, the arms of which might well be
the deliberate but delicious terrapin that imparts such a royal flavor to
its feasts.

It was a spring morning, and perhaps it was the influence of it that made
Ruth a little restless, satisfied neither with the out-doors nor the in-
doors.  Her sisters had gone to the city to show some country visitors
Independence Hall, Girard College and Fairmount Water Works and Park,
four objects which Americans cannot die peacefully, even in Naples,
without having seen.  But Ruth confessed that she was tired of them, and
also of the Mint.  She was tired of other things.  She tried this morning
an air or two upon the piano, sang a simple song in a sweet but slightly
metallic voice, and then seating herself by the open window, read
Philip's letter.  Was she thinking about Philip, as she gazed across the
fresh lawn over the tree tops to the Chelton Hills, or of that world
which his entrance, into her tradition-bound life had been one of the
means of opening to her?  Whatever she thought, she was not idly musing,
as one might see by the expression of her face.  After a time she took
up a book; it was a medical work, and to all appearance about as
interesting to a girl of eighteen as the statutes at large; but her face
was soon aglow over its pages, and she was so absorbed in it that she did
not notice the entrance of her mother at the open door.

"Ruth?"

"Well, mother," said the young student, looking up, with a shade of
impatience.

"I wanted to talk with thee a little about thy plans."

"Mother; thee knows I couldn't stand it at Westfield; the school stifled
me, it's a place to turn young people into dried fruit."

"I know," said Margaret Bolton, with a half anxious smile, thee chafes
against all the ways of Friends, but what will thee do?  Why is thee so
discontented?"

"If I must say it, mother, I want to go away, and get out of this dead
level."

With a look half of pain and half of pity, her mother answered, "I am
sure thee is little interfered with; thee dresses as thee will, and goes
where thee pleases, to any church thee likes, and thee has music.  I had
a visit yesterday from the society's committee by way of discipline,
because we have a piano in the house, which is against the rules."

"I hope thee told the elders that father and I are responsible for the
piano, and that, much as thee loves music, thee is never in the room when
it is played.  Fortunately father is already out of meeting, so they
can't discipline him.  I heard father tell cousin Abner that he was
whipped so often for whistling when he was a boy that he was determined
to have what compensation he could get now."

"Thy ways greatly try me, Ruth, and all thy relations.  I desire thy
happiness first of all, but thee is starting out on a dangerous path.
Is thy father willing thee should go away to a school of the world's
people?"

"I have not asked him," Ruth replied with a look that might imply that
she was one of those determined little bodies who first made up her own
mind and then compelled others to make up theirs in accordance with hers.

"And when thee has got the education thee wants, and lost all relish for
the society of thy friends and the ways of thy ancestors, what then?"

Ruth turned square round to her mother, and with an impassive face and
not the slightest change of tone, said,

"Mother, I'm going to study medicine?"

Margaret Bolton almost lost for a moment her habitual placidity.

"Thee, study medicine!  A slight frail girl like thee, study medicine!
Does thee think thee could stand it six months?  And the lectures,
and the dissecting rooms, has thee thought of the dissecting rooms?"

"Mother," said Ruth calmly, "I have thought it all over.  I know I can go
through the whole, clinics, dissecting room and all.  Does thee think I
lack nerve?  What is there to fear in a person dead more than in a person
living?"

"But thy health and strength, child; thee can never stand the severe
application.  And, besides, suppose thee does learn medicine?"

"I will practice it."

"Here?"

"Here."

"Where thee and thy family are known?"

"If I can get patients."

"I hope at least, Ruth, thee will let us know when thee opens an office,"
said her mother, with an approach to sarcasm that she rarely indulged in,
as she rose and left the room.

Ruth sat quite still for a tine, with face intent and flushed.  It was
out now.  She had begun her open battle.

The sight-seers returned in high spirits from the city.  Was there any
building in Greece to compare with Girard College, was there ever such a
magnificent pile of stone devised for the shelter of poor orphans?  Think
of the stone shingles of the roof eight inches thick!  Ruth asked the
enthusiasts if they would like to live in such a sounding mausoleum, with
its great halls and echoing rooms, and no comfortable place in it for the
accommodation of any body?  If they were orphans, would they like to be
brought up in a Grecian temple?

And then there was Broad street!  Wasn't it the broadest and the longest-
street in the world?  There certainly was no end to it, and even Ruth was
Philadelphian enough to believe that a street ought not to have any end,
or architectural point upon which the weary eye could rest.

But neither St. Girard, nor Broad street, neither wonders of the Mint nor
the glories of the Hall where the ghosts of our fathers sit always
signing the Declaration; impressed the visitors so much as the splendors
of the Chestnut street windows, and the bargains on Eighth street.
The truth is that the country cousins had come to town to attend the
Yearly Meeting, and the amount of shopping that preceded that religious
event was scarcely exceeded by the preparations for the opera in more
worldly circles.

"Is thee going to the Yearly Meeting, Ruth?" asked one of the girls.

"I have nothing to wear," replied that demure person.  "If thee wants to
see new bonnets, orthodox to a shade and conformed to the letter of the
true form, thee must go to the Arch Street Meeting.  Any departure from
either color or shape would be instantly taken note of.  It has occupied
mother a long time, to find at the shops the exact shade for her new
bonnet.  Oh, thee must go by all means.  But thee won't see there a
sweeter woman than mother."

"And thee won't go?"

"Why should I?  I've been again and again.  If I go to Meeting at all I
like best to sit in the quiet old house in Germantown, where the windows
are all open and I can see the trees, and hear the stir of the leaves.
It's such a crush at the Yearly Meeting at Arch Street, and then there's
the row of sleek-looking young men who line the curbstone and stare at us
as we come out.  No, I don't feel at home there."

That evening Ruth and her father sat late by the drawing-room fire, as
they were quite apt to do at night.  It was always a time of confidences.

"Thee has another letter from young Sterling," said Eli Bolton.

"Yes.  Philip has gone to the far west."

"How far?"

"He doesn't say, but it's on the frontier, and on the map everything
beyond it is marked 'Indians' and 'desert,' and looks as desolate as a
Wednesday Meeting."

"Humph.  It was time for him to do something.  Is he going to start a
daily newspaper among the Kick-a-poos?"

"Father, thee's unjust to Philip.  He's going into business."

"What sort of business can a young man go into without capital?"

"He doesn't say exactly what it is," said Ruth a little dubiously, "but
it's something about land and railroads, and thee knows, father, that
fortunes are made nobody knows exactly how, in a new country."

"I should think so, you innocent puss, and in an old one too.  But Philip
is honest, and he has talent enough, if he will stop scribbling, to make
his way.  But thee may as well take care of theeself, Ruth, and not go
dawdling along with a young man in his adventures, until thy own mind is
a little more settled what thee wants."

This excellent advice did not seem to impress Ruth greatly, for she was
looking away with that abstraction of vision which often came into her
grey eyes, and at length she exclaimed, with a sort of impatience,

"I wish I could go west, or south, or somewhere.  What a box women are
put into, measured for it, and put in young; if we go anywhere it's in a
box, veiled and pinioned and shut in by disabilities.  Father, I should
like to break things and get loose!"

What a sweet-voiced little innocent, it was to be sure.

"Thee will no doubt break things enough when thy time comes, child; women
always have; but what does thee want now that thee hasn't?"

"I want to be something, to make myself something, to do something.  Why
should I rust, and be stupid, and sit in inaction because I am a girl?
What would happen to me if thee should lose thy property and die?  What
one useful thing could I do for a living, for the support of mother and
the children?  And if I had a fortune, would thee want me to lead a
useless life?"

"Has thy mother led a useless life?"

"Somewhat that depends upon whether her children amount to anything,"
retorted the sharp little disputant.  "What's the good, father, of a
series of human beings who don't advance any?"

Friend Eli, who had long ago laid aside the Quaker dress, and was out of
Meeting, and who in fact after a youth of doubt could not yet define his
belief, nevertheless looked with some wonder at this fierce young eagle
of his, hatched in a Friend's dove-cote.  But he only said,

"Has thee consulted thy mother about a career, I suppose it is a career
thee wants?"

Ruth did not reply directly; she complained that her mother didn't
understand her.  But that wise and placid woman understood the sweet
rebel a great deal better than Ruth understood herself.  She also had a
history, possibly, and had sometime beaten her young wings against the
cage of custom, and indulged in dreams of a new social order, and had
passed through that fiery period when it seems possible for one mind,
which has not yet tried its limits, to break up and re-arrange the world.

Ruth replied to Philip's letter in due time and in the most cordial and
unsentimental manner.  Philip liked the letter, as he did everything she
did; but he had a dim notion that there was more about herself in the
letter than about him.  He took it with him from the Southern Hotel, when
he went to walk, and read it over and again in an unfrequented street as
he stumbled along. The rather common-place and unformed hand-writing
seemed to him peculiar and characteristic, different from that of any
other woman.

Ruth was glad to hear that Philip had made a push into the world, and she
was sure that his talent and courage would make a way for him.  She
should pray for his success at any rate, and especially that the Indians,
in St. Louis, would not take his scalp.

Philip looked rather dubious at this sentence, and wished that he had
written nothing about Indians.




CHAPTER XV.

Eli Bolton and his wife talked over Ruth's case, as they had often done
before, with no little anxiety.  Alone of all their children she was
impatient of the restraints and monotony of the Friends' Society, and
wholly indisposed to accept the "inner light" as a guide into a life of
acceptance and inaction.  When Margaret told her husband of Ruth's newest
project, he did not exhibit so much surprise as she hoped for.  In fact
he said that he did not see why a woman should not enter the medical
profession if she felt a call to it.

"But," said Margaret, "consider her total inexperience of the world, and
her frail health.  Can such a slight little body endure the ordeal of the
preparation for, or the strain of, the practice of the profession?"

"Did thee ever think, Margaret, whether, she can endure being thwarted in
an, object on which she has so set her heart, as she has on this?  Thee
has trained her thyself at home, in her enfeebled childhood, and thee
knows how strong her will is, and what she has been able to accomplish in
self-culture by the simple force of her determination.  She never will be
satisfied until she has tried her own strength."

"I wish," said Margaret, with an inconsequence that is not exclusively
feminine, "that she were in the way to fall in love and marry by and by.
I think that would cure her of some of her notions.  I am not sure but if
she went away, to some distant school, into an entirely new life, her
thoughts would be diverted."

Eli Bolton almost laughed as he regarded his wife, with eyes that never
looked at her except fondly, and replied,

"Perhaps thee remembers that thee had notions also, before we were
married, and before thee became a member of Meeting.  I think Ruth comes
honestly by certain tendencies which thee has hidden under the Friend's
dress."

Margaret could not say no to this, and while she paused, it was evident
that memory was busy with suggestions to shake her present opinions.

"Why not let Ruth try the study for a time," suggested Eli; "there is a
fair beginning of a Woman's Medical College in the city.  Quite likely
she will soon find that she needs first a more general culture, and fall,
in with thy wish that she should see more of the world at some large
school."

There really seemed to be nothing else to be done, and Margaret consented
at length without approving.  And it was agreed that Ruth, in order to
spare her fatigue, should take lodgings with friends near the college and
make a trial in the pursuit of that science to which we all owe our
lives, and sometimes as by a miracle of escape.

That day Mr. Bolton brought home a stranger to dinner, Mr. Bigler of the
great firm of Pennybacker, Bigler & Small, railroad contractors.  He was
always bringing home somebody, who had a scheme; to build a road, or open
a mine, or plant a swamp with cane to grow paper-stock, or found a
hospital, or invest in a patent shad-bone separator, or start a college
somewhere on the frontier, contiguous to a land speculation.

The Bolton house was a sort of hotel for this kind of people.  They were
always coming.  Ruth had known them from childhood, and she used to say
that her father attracted them as naturally as a sugar hogshead does
flies.  Ruth had an idea that a large portion of the world lived by
getting the rest of the world into schemes.  Mr. Bolton never could say
"no" to any of them, not even, said Ruth again, to the society for
stamping oyster shells with scripture texts before they were sold at
retail.

Mr. Bigler's plan this time, about which he talked loudly, with his mouth
full, all dinner time, was the building of the Tunkhannock, Rattlesnake
and Youngwomans-town railroad, which would not only be a great highway to
the west, but would open to market inexhaustible coal-fields and untold
millions of lumber.  The plan of operations was very simple.

"We'll buy the lands," explained he, "on long time, backed by the notes
of good men; and then mortgage them for money enough to get the road well
on.  Then get the towns on the line to issue their bonds for stock, and
sell their bonds for enough to complete the road, and partly stock it,
especially if we mortgage each section as we complete it.  We can then
sell the rest of the stock on the prospect of the business of the road
through an improved country, and also sell the lands at a big advance,
on the strength of the road.  All we want," continued Mr. Bigler in his
frank manner, "is a few thousand dollars to start the surveys, and
arrange things in the legislature.  There is some parties will have to be
seen, who might make us trouble."

"It will take a good deal of money to start the enterprise," remarked Mr.
Bolton, who knew very well what "seeing" a Pennsylvania Legislature
meant, but was too polite to tell Mr. Bigler what he thought of him,
while he was his guest; "what security would one have for it?"

Mr. Bigler smiled a hard kind of smile, and said, "You'd be inside, Mr.
Bolton, and you'd have the first chance in the deal."

This was rather unintelligible to Ruth, who was nevertheless somewhat
amused by the study of a type of character she had seen before.
At length she interrupted the conversation by asking,

"You'd sell the stock, I suppose, Mr. Bigler, to anybody who was
attracted by the prospectus?"

"O, certainly, serve all alike," said Mr. Bigler, now noticing Ruth for
the first time, and a little puzzled by the serene, intelligent face that
was turned towards him.

"Well, what would become of the poor people who had been led to put their
little money into the speculation, when you got out of it and left it
half way?"

It would be no more true to say of Mr. Bigler that he was or could be
embarrassed, than to say that a brass counterfeit dollar-piece would
change color when refused; the question annoyed him a little, in Mr.
Bolton's presence.

"Why, yes, Miss, of course, in a great enterprise for the benefit of the
community there will little things occur, which, which--and, of course,
the poor ought to be looked to; I tell my wife, that the poor must be
looked to; if you can tell who are poor--there's so many impostors.  And
then, there's so many poor in the legislature to be looked after," said
the contractor with a sort of a chuckle, "isn't that so, Mr. Bolton?"

Eli Bolton replied that he never had much to do with the legislature.

"Yes," continued this public benefactor, "an uncommon poor lot this year,
uncommon.  Consequently an expensive lot.  The fact is, Mr. Bolton, that
the price is raised so high on United States Senator now, that it affects
the whole market; you can't get any public improvement through on
reasonable terms.  Simony is what I call it, Simony," repeated Mr.
Bigler, as if he had said a good thing.

Mr. Bigler went on and gave some very interesting details of the intimate
connection between railroads and politics, and thoroughly entertained
himself all dinner time, and as much disgusted Ruth, who asked no more
questions, and her father who replied in monosyllables:

"I wish," said Ruth to her father, after the guest had gone, "that you
wouldn't bring home any more such horrid men.  Do all men who wear big
diamond breast-pins, flourish their knives at table, and use bad grammar,
and cheat?"

"O, child, thee mustn't be too observing.  Mr. Bigler is one of the most
important men in the state; nobody has more influence at Harrisburg.
I don't like him any more than thee does, but I'd better lend him a
little money than to have his ill will."

"Father, I think thee'd better have his ill-will than his company.  Is it
true that he gave money to help build the pretty little church of
St. James the Less, and that he is, one of the vestrymen?"

"Yes.  He is not such a bad fellow.  One of the men in Third street asked
him the other day, whether his was a high church or a low church?  Bigler
said he didn't know; he'd been in it once, and he could touch the ceiling
in the side aisle with his hand."

"I think he's just horrid," was Ruth's final summary of him, after the
manner of the swift judgment of women, with no consideration of the
extenuating circumstances.  Mr. Bigler had no idea that he had not made a
good impression on the whole family; he certainly intended to be
agreeable.  Margaret agreed with her daughter, and though she never said
anything to such people, she was grateful to Ruth for sticking at least
one pin into him.

Such was the serenity of the Bolton household that a stranger in it would
never have suspected there was any opposition to Ruth's going to the
Medical School.  And she went quietly to take her residence in town, and
began her attendance of the lectures, as if it were the most natural
thing in the world.  She did not heed, if she heard, the busy and
wondering gossip of relations and acquaintances, gossip that has no less
currency among the Friends than elsewhere because it is whispered slyly
and creeps about in an undertone.

Ruth was absorbed, and for the first time in her life thoroughly happy;
happy in the freedom of her life, and in the keen enjoyment of the
investigation that broadened its field day by day.  She was in high
spirits when she came home to spend First Days; the house was full of her
gaiety and her merry laugh, and the children wished that Ruth would never
go away again.  But her mother noticed, with a little anxiety, the
sometimes flushed face, and the sign of an eager spirit in the kindling
eyes, and, as well, the serious air of determination and endurance in her
face at unguarded moments.

The college was a small one and it sustained itself not without
difficulty in this city, which is so conservative, and is yet the origin
of so many radical movements.  There were not more than a dozen
attendants on the lectures all together, so that the enterprise had the
air of an experiment, and the fascination of pioneering for those engaged
in it.  There was one woman physician driving about town in her carriage,
attacking the most violent diseases in all quarters with persistent
courage, like a modern Bellona in her war chariot, who was popularly
supposed to gather in fees to the amount ten to twenty thousand dollars a
year.  Perhaps some of these students looked forward to the near day when
they would support such a practice and a husband besides, but it is
unknown that any of them ever went further than practice in hospitals and
in their own nurseries, and it is feared that some of them were quite as
ready as their sisters, in emergencies, to "call a man."

If Ruth had any exaggerated expectations of a professional life, she kept
them to herself, and was known to her fellows of the class simply as a
cheerful, sincere student, eager in her investigations, and never
impatient at anything, except an insinuation that women had not as much
mental capacity for science as men.

"They really say," said one young Quaker sprig to another youth of his
age, "that Ruth Bolton is really going to be a saw-bones, attends
lectures, cuts up bodies, and all that.  She's cool enough for a surgeon,
anyway."  He spoke feelingly, for he had very likely been weighed in
Ruth's calm eyes sometime, and thoroughly scared by the little laugh that
accompanied a puzzling reply to one of his conversational nothings.  Such
young gentlemen, at this time, did not come very distinctly into Ruth's
horizon, except as amusing circumstances.

About the details of her student life, Ruth said very little to her
friends, but they had reason to know, afterwards, that it required all
her nerve and the almost complete exhaustion of her physical strength,
to carry her through.  She began her anatomical practice upon detached
portions of the human frame, which were brought into the demonstrating
room--dissecting the eye, the ear, and a small tangle of muscles and
nerves--an occupation which had not much more savor of death in it than
the analysis of a portion of a plant out of which the life went when it
was plucked up by the roots.  Custom inures the most sensitive persons to
that which is at first most repellant; and in the late war we saw the
most delicate women, who could not at home endure the sight of blood,
become so used to scenes of carnage, that they walked the hospitals and
the margins of battle-fields, amid the poor remnants of torn humanity,
with as perfect self-possession as if they were strolling in a flower
garden.

It happened that Ruth was one evening deep in a line of investigation
which she could not finish or understand without demonstration, and so
eager was she in it, that it seemed as if she could not wait till the
next day.  She, therefore, persuaded a fellow student, who was reading
that evening with her, to go down to the dissecting room of the college,
and ascertain what they wanted to know by an hour's work there.  Perhaps,
also, Ruth wanted to test her own nerve, and to see whether the power of
association was stronger in her mind than her own will.

The janitor of the shabby and comfortless old building admitted the
girls, not without suspicion, and gave them lighted candles, which they
would need, without other remark than "there's a new one, Miss," as the
girls went up the broad stairs.

They climbed to the third story, and paused before a door, which they
unlocked, and which admitted them into a long apartment, with a row of
windows on one side and one at the end.  The room was without light, save
from the stars and the candles the girls carried, which revealed to them
dimly two long and several small tables, a few benches and chairs, a
couple of skeletons hanging on the wall, a sink, and cloth-covered heaps
of something upon the tables here and there.

The windows were open, and the cool night wind came in strong enough to
flutter a white covering now and then, and to shake the loose casements.
But all the sweet odors of the night could not take from the room a faint
suggestion of mortality.

The young ladies paused a moment.  The room itself was familiar enough,
but night makes almost any chamber eerie, and especially such a room of
detention as this where the mortal parts of the unburied might--almost be
supposed to be, visited, on the sighing night winds, by the wandering
spirits of their late tenants.

Opposite and at some distance across the roofs of lower buildings, the
girls saw a tall edifice, the long upper story of which seemed to be a
dancing hall.  The windows of that were also open, and through them they
heard the scream of the jiggered and tortured violin, and the pump, pump
of the oboe, and saw the moving shapes of men and women in quick
transition, and heard the prompter's drawl.

"I wonder," said Ruth, "what the girls dancing there would think if they
saw us, or knew that there was such a room as this so near them."

She did not speak very loud, and, perhaps unconsciously, the girls drew
near to each other as they approached the long table in the centre of the
room.  A straight object lay upon it, covered with a sheet.  This was
doubtless "the new one" of which the janitor spoke.  Ruth advanced, and
with a not very steady hand lifted the white covering from the upper part
of the figure and turned it down.  Both the girls started.  It was a
negro.  The black face seemed to defy the pallor of death, and asserted
an ugly life-likeness that was frightful.

Ruth was as pale as the white sheet, and her comrade whispered, "Come
away, Ruth, it is awful."

Perhaps it was the wavering light of the candles, perhaps it was only the
agony from a death of pain, but the repulsive black face seemed to wear a
scowl that said, "Haven't you yet done with the outcast, persecuted black
man, but you must now haul him from his grave, and send even your women
to dismember his body?"

Who is this dead man, one of thousands who died yesterday, and will be
dust anon, to protest that science shall not turn his worthless carcass
to some account?

Ruth could have had no such thought, for with a pity in her sweet face,
that for the moment overcame fear and disgust, she reverently replaced
the covering, and went away to her own table, as her companion did to
hers.  And there for an hour they worked at their several problems,
without speaking, but not without an awe of the presence there, "the new
one," and not without an awful sense of life itself, as they heard the
pulsations of the music and the light laughter from the dancing-hall.

When, at length, they went away, and locked the dreadful room behind
them, and came out into the street, where people were passing, they, for
the first time, realized, in the relief they felt, what a nervous strain
they had been under.




CHAPTER XVI.

While Ruth was thus absorbed in her new occupation, and the spring was
wearing away, Philip and his friends were still detained at the Southern
Hotel.  The great contractors had concluded their business with the state
and railroad officials and with the lesser contractors, and departed for
the East.  But the serious illness of one of the engineers kept Philip
and Henry in the city and occupied in alternate watchings.

Philip wrote to Ruth of the new acquaintance they had made, Col. Sellers,
an enthusiastic and hospitable gentleman, very much interested in the
development of the country, and in their success.  They had not had an
opportunity to visit at his place "up in the country" yet, but the
Colonel often dined with them, and in confidence, confided to them his
projects, and seemed to take a great liking to them, especially to his
friend Harry.  It was true that he never seemed to have ready money,
but he was engaged in very large operations.

The correspondence was not very brisk between these two young persons,
so differently occupied; for though Philip wrote long letters, he got
brief ones in reply, full of sharp little observations however, such as
one concerning Col. Sellers, namely, that such men dined at their house
every week.

Ruth's proposed occupation astonished Philip immensely, but while he
argued it and discussed it, he did not dare hint to her his fear that it
would interfere with his most cherished plans.  He too sincerely
respected Ruth's judgment to make any protest, however, and he would have
defended her course against the world.

This enforced waiting at St. Louis was very irksome to Philip.  His money
was running away, for one thing, and he longed to get into the field,
and see for himself what chance there was for a fortune or even an
occupation.  The contractors had given the young men leave to join the
engineer corps as soon as they could, but otherwise had made no provision
for them, and in fact had left them with only the most indefinite
expectations of something large in the future.

Harry was entirely happy; in his circumstances.  He very soon knew
everybody, from the governor of the state down to the waiters at the
hotel.  He had the Wall street slang at his tongue's end; he always
talked like a capitalist, and entered with enthusiasm into all the land
and railway schemes with which the air was thick.

Col. Sellers and Harry talked together by the hour and by the day.  Harry
informed his new friend that he was going out with the engineer corps of
the Salt Lick Pacific Extension, but that wasn't his real business.

"I'm to have, with another party," said Harry, "a big contract in the
road, as soon as it is let; and, meantime, I'm with the engineers to spy
out the best land and the depot sites."

"It's everything," suggested' the Colonel, "in knowing where to invest.
I've known people throwaway their money because they  were too
consequential to take Sellers' advice.  Others, again, have made their
pile on taking it.  I've looked over the ground; I've been studying it
for twenty years.  You can't put your finger on a spot in the map of
Missouri that I don't know as if I'd made it.  When you want to place
anything," continued the Colonel, confidently, "just let Beriah Sellers
know.  That's all."

"Oh, I haven't got much in ready money I can lay my hands on now, but if
a fellow could do anything with fifteen or twenty thousand dollars,
as a beginning, I shall draw for that when I see the right opening."

"Well, that's something, that's something, fifteen or twenty thousand
dollars, say twenty--as an advance," said the Colonel reflectively, as if
turning over his mind for a project that could be entered on with such a
trifling sum.

"I'll tell you what it is--but only to you Mr. Brierly, only to you,
mind; I've got a little project that I've been keeping.  It looks small,
looks small on paper, but it's got a big future.  What should you say,
sir, to a city, built up like the rod of Aladdin had touched it, built up
in two years, where now you wouldn't expect it any more than you'd expect
a light-house on the top of Pilot Knob? and you could own the land!  It
can be done, sir.  It can be done!"

The Colonel hitched up his chair close to Harry, laid his hand on his
knee, and, first looking about him, said in a low voice, "The Salt Lick
Pacific Extension is going to run through Stone's Landing!  The Almighty
never laid out a cleaner piece of level prairie for a city; and it's the
natural center of all that region of hemp and tobacco."

"What makes you think the road will go there?  It's twenty miles, on the
map, off the straight line of the road?"

"You can't tell what is the straight line till the engineers have been
over it.  Between us, I have talked with Jeff Thompson, the division
engineer.  He understands the wants of Stone's Landing, and the claims of
the inhabitants--who are to be there.  Jeff says that a railroad is for-
the accommodation of the people and not for the benefit of gophers; and
if, he don't run this to Stone's Landing he'll be damned!  You ought to
know Jeff; he's one of the most enthusiastic engineers in this western
country, and one of the best fellows that ever looked through the bottom
of a glass."

The recommendation was not undeserved.  There was nothing that Jeff
wouldn't do, to accommodate a friend, from sharing his last dollar with
him, to winging him in a duel.  When he understood from Col. Sellers.
how the land lay at Stone's Landing, he cordially shook hands with that
gentleman, asked him to drink, and fairly roared out, "Why, God bless my
soul, Colonel, a word from one Virginia gentleman to another is 'nuff
ced.'  There's Stone's Landing been waiting for a railroad more than four
thousand years, and damme if she shan't have it."

Philip had not so much faith as Harry in Stone's Landing, when the latter
opened the project to him, but Harry talked about it as if he already
owned that incipient city.

Harry thoroughly believed in all his projects and inventions, and lived
day by day in their golden atmosphere.  Everybody liked the young fellow,
for how could they help liking one of such engaging manners and large
fortune?  The waiters at the hotel would do more for him than for any
other guest, and he made a great many acquaintances among the people of
St. Louis, who liked his sensible and liberal views about the development
of the western country, and about St. Louis.  He said it ought to be the
national capital.  Harry made partial arrangements with several of the
merchants for furnishing supplies for his contract on the Salt Lick
Pacific Extension; consulted the maps with the engineers, and went over
the profiles with the contractors, figuring out estimates for bids.
He was exceedingly busy with those things when he was not at the bedside
of his sick acquaintance, or arranging the details of his speculation
with Col. Sellers.

Meantime the days went along and the weeks, and the money in Harry's
pocket got lower and lower.  He was just as liberal with what he had as
before, indeed it was his nature to be free with his money or with that
of others, and he could lend or spend a dollar with an air that made it
seem like ten.  At length, at the end of one week, when his hotel bill
was presented, Harry found not a cent in his pocket to meet it.  He
carelessly remarked to the landlord that he was not that day in funds,
but he would draw on New York, and he sat down and wrote to the
contractors in that city a glowing letter about the prospects of the
road, and asked them to advance a hundred or two, until he got at work.
No reply came.  He wrote again, in an unoffended business like tone,
suggesting that he had better draw at three days.  A short answer came to
this, simply saying that money was very tight in Wall street just then,
and that he had better join the engineer corps as soon as he could.

But the bill had to be paid, and Harry took it to Philip, and asked him
if he thought he hadn't better draw on his uncle.  Philip had not much
faith in Harry's power of "drawing," and told him that he would pay the
bill himself.  Whereupon Harry dismissed the matter then and thereafter
from his thoughts, and, like a light-hearted good fellow as he was, gave
himself no more trouble about his board-bills.  Philip paid them, swollen
as they were with a monstrous list of extras; but he seriously counted
the diminishing bulk of his own hoard, which was all the money he had in
the world.  Had he not tacitly agreed to share with Harry to the last in
this adventure, and would not the generous fellow divide; with him if he,
Philip, were in want and Harry had anything?

The fever at length got tired of tormenting the stout young engineer, who
lay sick at the hotel, and left him, very thin, a little sallow but an
"acclimated" man.  Everybody said he was "acclimated" now, and said it
cheerfully.  What it is to be acclimated to western fevers no two persons
exactly agree.

Some say it is a sort of vaccination that renders death by some malignant
type of fever less probable.  Some regard it as a sort of initiation,
like that into the Odd Fellows, which renders one liable to his regular
dues thereafter.  Others consider it merely the acquisition of a habit of
taking every morning before breakfast a dose of bitters, composed of
whiskey and assafoetida, out of the acclimation jug.

Jeff Thompson afterwards told Philip that he once asked Senator Atchison,
then acting Vice-President: of the United States, about the possibility
of acclimation; he thought the opinion of the second officer of our great
government would be, valuable on this point.  They were sitting together
on a bench before a country tavern, in the free converse permitted by our
democratic habits.

"I suppose, Senator, that you have become acclimated to this country?"

"Well," said the Vice-President, crossing his legs, pulling his wide-
awake down over his forehead, causing a passing chicken to hop quickly
one side by the accuracy of his aim, and speaking with senatorial
deliberation, "I think I have.  I've been here twenty-five years, and
dash, dash my dash to dash, if I haven't entertained twenty-five separate
and distinct earthquakes, one a year.  The niggro is the only person who
can stand the fever and ague of this region."

The convalescence of the engineer was the signal for breaking up quarters
at St. Louis, and the young fortune-hunters started up the river in good
spirits.  It was only the second time either of them had been upon a
Mississippi steamboat, and nearly everything they saw had the charm of
novelty.  Col. Sellers was at the landing to bid thorn good-bye.

"I shall send you up that basket of champagne by the next boat; no, no;
no thanks; you'll find it not bad in camp," he cried out as the plank was
hauled in.  "My respects to Thompson.  Tell him to sight for Stone's.
Let me know, Mr. Brierly, when you are ready to locate; I'll come over
from Hawkeye.  Goodbye."

And the last the young fellows saw of the Colonel, he was waving his hat,
and beaming prosperity and good luck.

The voyage was delightful, and was not long enough to become monotonous.
The travelers scarcely had time indeed to get accustomed to the splendors
of the great saloon where the tables were spread for meals, a marvel of
paint and gilding, its ceiling hung with fancifully cut tissue-paper of
many colors, festooned and arranged in endless patterns.  The whole was
more beautiful than a barber's shop.  The printed bill of fare at dinner
was longer and more varied, the proprietors justly boasted, than that of
any hotel in New York.  It must have been the work of an author of talent
and imagination, and it surely was not his fault if the dinner itself was
to a certain extent a delusion, and if the guests got something that
tasted pretty much the same whatever dish they ordered; nor was it his
fault if a general flavor of rose in all the dessert dishes suggested
that they hid passed through the barber's saloon on their way from the
kitchen.

The travelers landed at a little settlement on the left bank, and at once
took horses for the camp in the interior, carrying their clothes and
blankets strapped behind the saddles.  Harry was dressed as we have seen
him once before, and his long and shining boots attracted not a little
the attention of the few persons they met on the road, and especially of
the bright faced wenches who lightly stepped along the highway,
picturesque in their colored kerchiefs, carrying light baskets, or riding
upon mules and balancing before them a heavier load.

Harry sang fragments of operas and talked abort their fortune.  Philip
even was excited by the sense of freedom and adventure, and the beauty of
the landscape.  The prairie, with its new grass and unending acres of
brilliant flowers--chiefly the innumerable varieties of phlox-bore the
look of years of cultivation, and the occasional open groves of white
oaks gave it a park-like appearance.  It was hardly unreasonable to
expect to see at any moment, the gables and square windows of an
Elizabethan mansion in one of the well kept groves.

Towards sunset of the third day, when the young gentlemen thought they
ought to be near the town of Magnolia, near which they had been directed
to find the engineers' camp, they descried a log house and drew up before
it to enquire the way.  Half the building was store, and half was
dwelling house.  At the door of the latter stood a regress with a bright
turban on her head, to whom Philip called,

"Can you tell me, auntie, how far it is to the town of Magnolia?"

"Why, bress you chile," laughed the woman, "you's dere now."

It was true.  This log horse was the compactly built town, and all
creation was its suburbs.  The engineers' camp was only two or three
miles distant.

"You's boun' to find it," directed auntie, "if you don't keah nuffin
'bout de road, and go fo' de sun-down."

A brisk gallop brought the riders in sight of the twinkling light of the
camp, just as the stars came out.  It lay in a little hollow, where a
small stream ran through a sparse grove of young white oaks.  A half
dozen tents were pitched under the trees, horses and oxen were corraled
at a little distance, and a group of men sat on camp stools or lay on
blankets about a bright fire.  The twang of a banjo became audible as
they drew nearer, and they saw a couple of negroes, from some neighboring
plantation, "breaking down" a juba in approved style, amid the "hi, hi's"
of the spectators.

Mr. Jeff Thompson, for it was the camp of this redoubtable engineer, gave
the travelers a hearty welcome, offered them ground room in his own tent,
ordered supper, and set out a small jug, a drop from which he declared
necessary on account of the chill of the evening.

"I never saw an Eastern man," said Jeff, "who knew how to drink from a
jug with one hand.  It's as easy as lying.  So."  He grasped the handle
with the right hand, threw the jug back upon his arm, and applied his
lips to the nozzle.  It was an act as graceful as it was simple.
"Besides," said Mr. Thompson, setting it down, "it puts every man on his
honor as to quantity."

Early to turn in was the rule of the camp, and by nine o'clock everybody
was under his blanket, except Jeff himself, who worked awhile at his
table over his field-book, and then arose, stepped outside the tent door
and sang, in a strong and not unmelodious tenor, the Star Spangled Banner
from beginning to end.  It proved to be his nightly practice to let off
the unexpended seam of his conversational powers, in the words of this
stirring song.

It was a long time before Philip got to sleep.  He saw the fire light,
he saw the clear stars through the tree-tops, he heard the gurgle of the
stream, the stamp of the horses, the occasional barking of the dog which
followed the cook's wagon, the hooting of an owl; and when these failed
he saw Jeff, standing on a battlement, mid the rocket's red glare, and
heard him sing, "Oh, say, can you see?", It was the first time he had
ever slept on the ground.




CHAPTER XVII.

         ----"We have view'd it,
          And measur'd it within all, by the scale
          The richest tract of land, love, in the kingdom!
          There will be made seventeen or eighteeen millions,
          Or more, as't may be handled!
                              The Devil is an Ass.

Nobody dressed more like an engineer than Mr. Henry Brierly.  The
completeness of his appointments was the envy of the corps, and the gay
fellow himself was the admiration of the camp servants, axemen, teamsters
and cooks.

"I reckon you didn't git them boots no wher's this side o' Sent Louis?"
queried the tall Missouri youth who acted as commissariy's assistant.

"No, New York."

"Yas, I've heern o' New York," continued the butternut lad, attentively
studying each item of Harry's dress, and endeavoring to cover his design
with interesting conversation.  "'N there's Massachusetts.",

"It's not far off."

"I've heern Massachusetts was a-----of a place.  Les, see, what state's
Massachusetts in?"

"Massachusetts," kindly replied Harry, "is in the state of Boston."

"Abolish'n wan't it?  They must a cost right smart," referring to the
boots.

Harry shouldered his rod and went to the field, tramped over the prairie
by day, and figured up results at night, with the utmost cheerfulness and
industry, and plotted the line on the profile paper, without, however,
the least idea of engineering practical or theoretical.  Perhaps there
was not a great deal of scientific knowledge in the entire corps, nor was
very much needed.  They were making, what is called a preliminary survey,
and the chief object of a preliminary survey was to get up an excitement
about the road, to interest every town in that part of the state in it,
under the belief that the road would run through it, and to get the aid
of every planter upon the prospect that a station would be on his land.

Mr. Jeff Thompson was the most popular engineer who could be found for
this work.  He did not bother himself much about details or
practicabilities of location, but ran merrily along, sighting from the
top of one divide to the top of another, and striking "plumb" every town
site and big plantation within twenty or thirty miles of his route.  In
his own language he "just went booming."

This course gave Harry an opportunity, as he said, to learn the practical
details of engineering, and it gave Philip a chance to see the country,
and to judge for himself what prospect of a fortune it offered.  Both he
and Harry got the "refusal" of more than one plantation as they went
along, and wrote urgent letters to their eastern correspondents, upon the
beauty of the land and the certainty that it would quadruple in value as
soon as the road was finally located.  It seemed strange to them that
capitalists did not flock out there and secure this land.

They had not been in the field over two weeks when Harry wrote to his
friend Col. Sellers that he'd better be on the move, for the line was
certain to go to Stone's Landing.  Any one who looked at the line on the
map, as it was laid down from day to day, would have been uncertain which
way it was going; but Jeff had declared that in his judgment the only
practicable route from the point they then stood on was to follow the
divide to Stone's Landing, and it was generally understood that that town
would be the next one hit.

"We'll make it, boys," said the chief, "if we have to go in a balloon."

And make it they did In less than a week, this indomitable engineer had
carried his moving caravan over slues and branches, across bottoms and
along divides, and pitched his tents in the very heart of the city of
Stone's Landing.

"Well, I'll be dashed," was heard the cheery voice of Mr. Thompson, as he
stepped outside the tent door at sunrise next morning.  "If this don't
get me.  I say, yon, Grayson, get out your sighting iron and see if you
can find old Sellers' town.  Blame me if we wouldn't have run plumb by it
if twilight had held on a little longer.  Oh!  Sterling, Brierly, get up
and see the city.  There's a steamboat just coming round the bend."  And
Jeff roared with laughter.  "The mayor'll be round here to breakfast."

The fellows turned out of the tents, rubbing their eyes, and stared about
them.  They were camped on the second bench of the narrow bottom of a
crooked, sluggish stream, that was some five rods wide in the present
good stage of water.  Before them were a dozen log cabins, with stick and
mud chimneys, irregularly disposed on either side of a not very well
defined road, which did not seem to know its own mind exactly, and, after
straggling through the town, wandered off over the rolling prairie in an
uncertain way, as if it had started for nowhere and was quite likely to
reach its destination.  Just as it left the town, however, it was cheered
and assisted by a guide-board, upon which was the legend "10 Mils to
Hawkeye."

The road had never been made except by the travel over it, and at this
season--the rainy June--it was a way of ruts cut in the black soil, and
of fathomless mud-holes.  In the principal street of the city, it had
received more attention; for hogs; great and small, rooted about in it
and wallowed in it, turning the street into a liquid quagmire which could
only be crossed on pieces of plank thrown here and there.

About the chief cabin, which was the store and grocery of this mart of
trade, the mud was more liquid than elsewhere, and the rude platform in
front of it and the dry-goods boxes mounted thereon were places of refuge
for all the loafers of the place.  Down by the stream was a dilapidated
building which served for a hemp warehouse, and a shaky wharf extended
out from it, into the water.  In fact a flat-boat was there moored by it,
it's setting poles lying across the gunwales.  Above the town the stream
was crossed by a crazy wooden bridge, the supports of which leaned all
ways in the soggy soil; the absence of a plank here and there in the
flooring made the crossing of the bridge faster than a walk an offense
not necessary to be prohibited by law.

"This, gentlemen," said Jeff, "is Columbus River, alias Goose Run.  If it
was widened, and deepened, and straightened, and  made, long enough, it
would be one of the finest rivers in the western country."

As the sun rose and sent his level beams along the stream, the thin
stratum of mist, or malaria, rose also and dispersed, but the light was
not able to enliven the dull water nor give any hint of its apparently
fathomless depth.  Venerable mud-turtles crawled up and roosted upon the
old logs in the stream, their backs glistening in the sun, the first
inhabitants of the metropolis to begin the active business of the day.

It was not long, however, before smoke began to issue from the city
chimnies; and before the engineers, had finished their breakfast they
were the object of the curious inspection of six or eight boys and men,
who lounged into the camp and gazed about them with languid interest,
their hands in their pockets every one.

"Good morning; gentlemen," called out the chief engineer, from the table.

"Good mawning," drawled out the spokesman of the party.  "I allow thish-
yers the railroad, I heern it was a-comin'."

"Yes, this is the railroad; all but the rails and the ironhorse."

"I reckon you kin git all the rails you want oaten my white oak timber
over, thar," replied the first speaker, who appeared to be a man of
property and willing to strike up a trade.

"You'll have to negotiate with the contractors about the rails, sir,"
said Jeff; "here's Mr. Brierly, I've no doubt would like to buy your
rails when the time comes."

"O," said the man, "I thought maybe you'd fetch the whole bilin along
with you.  But if you want rails, I've got em, haint I Eph."

"Heaps," said Eph, without taking his eyes off the group at the table.

"Well," said Mr. Thompson, rising from his seat and moving towards his
tent, "the railroad has come to Stone's Landing, sure; I move we take a
drink on it all round."

The proposal met with universal favor.  Jeff gave prosperity to Stone's
Landing and navigation to Goose Run, and the toast was washed down with
gusto, in the simple fluid of corn; and with the return compliment that a
rail road was a good thing, and that Jeff Thompson was no slouch.

About ten o'clock a horse and wagon was descried making a slow approach
to the camp over the prairie.  As it drew near, the wagon was seen to
contain a portly gentleman, who hitched impatiently forward on his seat,
shook the reins and gently touched up his horse, in the vain attempt to
communicate his own energy to that dull beast, and looked eagerly at the
tents.  When the conveyance at length drew up to Mr. Thompson's door,
the gentleman descended with great deliberation, straightened himself up,
rubbed his hands, and beaming satisfaction from every part of his radiant
frame, advanced to the group that was gathered to welcome him, and which
had saluted him by name as soon as he came within hearing.

"Welcome to Napoleon, gentlemen, welcome.  I am proud to see you here
Mr. Thompson.  You are, looking well Mr. Sterling.  This is the country,
sir.  Right glad to see you Mr. Brierly.  You got that basket of
champagne?  No?  Those blasted river thieves!  I'll never send anything
more by 'em.  The best brand, Roederer.  The last I had in my cellar,
from a lot sent me by Sir George Gore--took him out on a buffalo hunt,
when he visited our, country.  Is always sending me some trifle.  You
haven't looked about any yet, gentlemen?  It's in the rough yet, in the
rough.  Those buildings will all have to come down.  That's the place for
the public square, Court House, hotels, churches, jail--all that sort of
thing.  About where we stand, the deepo.  How does that strike your
engineering eye, Mr. Thompson?  Down yonder the business streets, running
to the wharves.  The University up there, on rising ground, sightly
place, see the river for miles.  That's Columbus river, only forty-nine
miles to the Missouri.  You see what it is, placid, steady, no current to
interfere with navigation, wants widening in places and dredging, dredge
out the harbor and raise a levee in front of the town; made by nature on
purpose for a mart.  Look at all this country, not another building
within ten miles, no other navigable stream, lay of the land points right
here; hemp, tobacco, corn, must come here.  The railroad will do it,
Napoleon won't know itself in a year."

"Don't now evidently," said Philip aside to Harry.  "Have you breakfasted
Colonel?"

"Hastily.  Cup of coffee.  Can't trust any coffee I don't import myself.
But I put up a basket of provisions,--wife would put in a few delicacies,
women always will, and a half dozen of that Burgundy, I was telling you
of Mr. Briefly.  By the way, you never got to dine with me."  And the
Colonel strode away to the wagon and looked under the seat for the
basket.

Apparently it was not there.  For the Colonel raised up the flap, looked
in front and behind, and then exclaimed,

"Confound it.  That comes of not doing a thing yourself.  I trusted to
the women folks to set that basket in the wagon, and it ain't there."

The camp cook speedily prepared a savory breakfast for the Colonel,
broiled chicken, eggs, corn-bread, and coffee, to which he did ample
justice, and topped  off with a drop of Old Bourbon, from Mr. Thompson's
private store, a brand which he said he knew well, he should think it
came from his own sideboard.

While the engineer corps went to the field, to run back a couple of miles
and ascertain, approximately, if a road could ever get down to the
Landing, and to sight ahead across the Run, and see if it could ever get
out again, Col. Sellers and Harry sat down and began to roughly map out
the city of Napoleon on a large piece of drawing paper.

"I've got the refusal of a mile square here," said the Colonel, "in our
names, for a year, with a quarter interest reserved for the four owners."

They laid out the town liberally, not lacking room, leaving space for the
railroad to come in, and for the river as it was to be when improved.

The engineers reported that the railroad could come in, by taking a
little sweep and crossing the stream on a high bridge, but the grades
would be steep.  Col. Sellers said he didn't care so much about the
grades, if the road could only be made to reach the elevators on the
river.  The next day Mr. Thompson made a hasty survey of the stream for a
mile or two, so that the Colonel and Harry were enabled to show on their
map how nobly that would accommodate the city.  Jeff took a little
writing from the Colonel and Harry for a prospective share but Philip
declined to join in, saying that he had no money, and didn't want to make
engagements he couldn't fulfill.

The next morning the camp moved on, followed till it was out of sight by
the listless eyes of the group in front of the store, one of whom
remarked that, "he'd be doggoned if he ever expected to see that railroad
any mo'."

Harry went with the Colonel to Hawkeye to complete their arrangements, a
part of which was the preparation of a petition to congress for the
improvement of the navigation of Columbus River.




CHAPTER XVIII.

Eight years have passed since the death of Mr. Hawkins.  Eight years are
not many in the life of a nation or the history of a state, but they
maybe years of destiny that shall fix the current of the century
following.  Such years were those that followed the little scrimmage on
Lexington Common.  Such years were those that followed the double-shotted
demand for the surrender of Fort Sumter.  History is never done with
inquiring of these years, and summoning witnesses about them, and trying
to understand their significance.

The eight years in America from 1860 to 1868 uprooted institutions that
were centuries old, changed the politics of a people, transformed the
social life of half the country, and wrought so profoundly upon the
entire national character that the influence cannot be measured short of
two or three generations.

As we are accustomed to interpret the economy of providence, the life of
the individual is as nothing to that of the nation or the race; but who
can say, in the broader view and the more intelligent weight of values,
that the life of one man is not more than that of a nationality, and that
there is not a tribunal where the tragedy of one human soul shall not
seem more significant than the overturning of any human institution
whatever?

When one thinks of the tremendous forces of the upper and the nether
world which play for the mastery of the soul of a woman during the few
years in which she passes from plastic girlhood to the ripe maturity of
womanhood, he may well stand in awe before the momentous drama.

What capacities she has of purity, tenderness, goodness; what capacities
of vileness, bitterness and evil.  Nature must needs be lavish with the
mother and creator of men, and centre in her all the possibilities of
life.  And a few critical years can decide whether her life is to be full
of sweetness and light, whether she is to be the vestal of a holy temple,
or whether she will be the fallen priestess of a desecrated shrine.
There are women, it is true, who seem to be capable neither of rising
much nor of falling much, and whom a conventional life saves from any
special development of character.

But Laura was not one of them.  She had the fatal gift of beauty, and
that more fatal gift which does not always accompany mere beauty, the
power of fascination, a power that may, indeed, exist without beauty.
She had will, and pride and courage and ambition, and she was left to be
very much her own guide at the age when romance comes to the aid of
passion, and when the awakening powers of her vigorous mind had little
object on which to discipline themselves.

The tremendous conflict that was fought in this girl's soul none of those
about her knew, and very few knew that her life had in it anything
unusual or romantic or strange.

Those were troublous days in Hawkeye as well as in most other Missouri
towns, days of confusion, when between Unionist and Confederate
occupations, sudden maraudings and bush-whackings and raids, individuals
escaped observation or comment in actions that would have filled the town
with scandal in quiet times.

Fortunately we only need to deal with Laura's life at this period
historically, and look back upon such portions of it as will serve to
reveal the woman as she was at the time of the arrival of Mr. Harry
Brierly in Hawkeye.

The Hawkins family were settled there, and had a hard enough struggle
with poverty and the necessity of keeping up appearances in accord with
their own family pride and the large expectations they secretly cherished
of a fortune in the Knobs of East Tennessee.  How pinched they were
perhaps no one knew but Clay, to whom they looked for almost their whole
support.  Washington had been in Hawkeye off and on, attracted away
occasionally by some tremendous speculation, from which he invariably
returned to Gen. Boswell's office as poor as he went.  He was the
inventor of no one knew how many useless contrivances, which were not
worth patenting, and his years had been passed in dreaming and planning
to no purpose; until he was now a man of about thirty, without a
profession or a permanent occupation, a tall, brown-haired, dreamy person
of the best intentions and the frailest resolution.  Probably however
the, eight years had been happier to him than to any others in his
circle, for the time had been mostly spent in a blissful dream of the
coming of enormous wealth.

He went out with a company from Hawkeye to the war, and was not wanting
in courage, but be would have been a better soldier if he had been less
engaged in contrivances for circumventing the enemy by strategy unknown
to the books.

It happened to him to be captured in one of his self-appointed
expeditions, but the federal colonel released him, after a short
examination, satisfied that he could most injure the confederate forces
opposed to the Unionists by returning him to his regiment.  Col. Sellers
was of course a prominent man during the war.  He was captain of the home
guards in Hawkeye, and he never left home except upon one occasion, when
on the strength of a rumor, he executed a flank movement and fortified
Stone's Landing, a place which no one unacquainted with the country would
be likely to find.

"Gad," said the Colonel afterwards, "the Landing is the key to upper
Missouri, and it is the only place the enemy never captured.  If other
places had been defended as well as that was, the result would have been
different, sir."

The Colonel had his own theories about war as he had in other things.
If everybody had stayed at home as he did, he said, the South never would
have been conquered.  For what would there have been to conquer?  Mr.
Jeff Davis was constantly writing him to take command of a corps in the
confederate army, but Col. Sellers said, no, his duty was at home.  And
he was by no means idle.  He was the inventor of the famous air torpedo,
which came very near destroying the Union armies in Missouri, and the
city of St. Louis itself.

His plan was to fill a torpedo with Greek fire and poisonous and deadly
missiles, attach it to a balloon, and then let it sail away over the
hostile camp and explode at the right moment, when the time-fuse burned
out.  He intended to use this invention in the capture of St. Louis,
exploding his torpedoes over the city, and raining destruction upon it
until the army of occupation would gladly capitulate.  He was unable to
procure the Greek fire, but he constructed a vicious torpedo which would
have answered the purpose, but the first one prematurely exploded in his
wood-house, blowing it clean away, and setting fire to his house.  The
neighbors helped him put out the conflagration, but they discouraged any
more experiments of that sort.

The patriotic old gentleman, however, planted so much powder and so many
explosive contrivances in the roads leading into Hawkeye, and then forgot
the exact spots of danger, that people were afraid to travel the
highways, and used to come to town across the fields, The Colonel's motto
was, "Millions for defence but not one cent for tribute."

When Laura came to Hawkeye she might have forgotten the annoyances of the
gossips of Murpheysburg and have out lived the bitterness that was
growing in her heart, if she had been thrown less upon herself, or if the
surroundings of her life had been more congenial and helpful.  But she
had little society, less and less as she grew older that was congenial to
her, and her mind preyed upon itself; and the mystery of her birth at
once chagrined her and raised in her the most extravagant expectations.
She was proud and she felt the sting of poverty.  She could not but be
conscious of her beauty also, and she was vain of that, and came to take
a sort of delight in the exercise of her fascinations upon the rather
loutish young men who came in her way and whom she despised.

There was another world opened to her--a world of books.  But it was not
the best world of that sort, for the small libraries she had access to in
Hawkeye were decidedly miscellaneous, and largely made up of romances and
fictions which fed her imagination with the most exaggerated notions of
life, and showed her men and women in a very false sort of heroism.  From
these stories she learned what a woman of keen intellect and some culture
joined to beauty and fascination of manner, might expect to accomplish in
society as she read of it; and along with these ideas she imbibed other
very crude ones in regard to the emancipation of woman.

There were also other books-histories, biographies of distinguished
people, travels in far lands, poems, especially those of Byron, Scott and
Shelley and Moore, which she eagerly absorbed, and appropriated therefrom
what was to her liking.  Nobody in Hawkeye had read so much or, after a
fashion, studied so diligently as Laura.  She passed for an accomplished
girl, and no doubt thought herself one, as she was, judged by any
standard near her.

During the war there came to Hawkeye a confederate officer, Col. Selby,
who was stationed there for a time, in command of that district.  He was
a handsome, soldierly man of thirty years, a graduate of the University
of Virginia, and of distinguished family, if his story might be believed,
and, it was evident, a man of the world and of extensive travel and
adventure.

To find in such an out of the way country place a woman like Laura was a
piece of good luck upon which Col. Selby congratulated himself.  He was
studiously polite to her and treated her with a consideration to which
she was unaccustomed.  She had read of such men, but she had never seen
one before, one so high-bred, so noble in sentiment, so entertaining in
conversation, so engaging in manner.

It is a long story; unfortunately it is an old story, and it need not be
dwelt on.  Laura loved him, and believed that his love for her was as
pure and deep as her own.  She worshipped him and would have counted her
life a little thing to give him, if he would only love her and let her
feed the hunger of her heart upon him.

The passion possessed her whole being, and lifted her up, till she seemed
to walk on air.  It was all true, then, the romances she had read, the
bliss of love she had dreamed of.  Why had she never noticed before how
blithesome the world was, how jocund with love; the birds sang it, the
trees whispered it to her as she passed, the very flowers beneath her
feet strewed the way as for a bridal march.

When the Colonel went away they were engaged to be married, as soon as he
could make certain arrangements which he represented to be necessary, and
quit the army.  He wrote to her from Harding, a small town in the
southwest corner of the state, saying that he should be held in the
service longer than he had expected, but that it would not be more than a
few months, then he should be at liberty to take her to Chicago where he
had property, and should have business, either now or as soon as the war
was over, which he thought could not last long.  Meantime why should they
be separated?  He was established in comfortable quarters, and if she
could find company and join him, they would be married, and gain so many
more months of happiness.

Was woman ever prudent when she loved?  Laura went to Harding, the
neighbors supposed to nurse Washington who had fallen ill there.
Her engagement was, of course, known in Hawkeye, and was indeed a matter
of pride to her family.  Mrs. Hawkins would have told the first inquirer
that.  Laura had gone to be married; but Laura had cautioned her; she did
not want to be thought of, she said, as going in search of a husband; let
the news come back after she was married.

So she traveled to Harding on the pretence we have mentioned, and was
married.  She was married, but something must have happened on that very
day or the next that alarmed her.  Washington did not know then or after
what it was, but Laura bound him not to send news of her marriage to
Hawkeye yet, and to enjoin her mother not to speak of it.  Whatever cruel
suspicion or nameless dread this was, Laura tried bravely to put it away,
and not let it cloud her happiness.

Communication that summer, as may be imagined, was neither regular nor
frequent between the remote confederate camp at Harding and Hawkeye, and
Laura was in a measure lost sight of--indeed, everyone had troubles
enough of his own without borrowing from his neighbors.

Laura had given herself utterly to her husband, and if he had faults, if
he was selfish, if he was sometimes coarse, if he was dissipated, she did
not or would not see it.  It was the passion of her life, the time when
her whole nature went to flood tide and swept away all barriers.  Was her
husband ever cold or indifferent?  She shut her eyes to everything but
her sense of possession of her idol.

Three months passed.  One morning her husband informed her that he had
been ordered South, and must go within two hours.

"I can be ready," said Laura, cheerfully.

"But I can't take you.  You must go back to Hawkeye."

"Can't-take-me?" Laura asked, with wonder in her eyes.  "I can't live
without you.  You said-----"

"O bother what I said,"--and the Colonel took up his sword to buckle it
on, and then continued coolly, "the fact is Laura, our romance is played
out."

Laura heard, but she did not comprehend.  She caught his arm and cried,
"George, how can you joke so cruelly?  I will go any where with you.
I will wait any where.  I can't go back to Hawkeye."

"Well, go where you like.  Perhaps," continued he with a sneer, "you
would do as well to wait here, for another colonel."

Laura's brain whirled.  She did not yet comprehend.  "What does this
mean?  Where are you going?"

"It means," said the officer, in measured words, "that you haven't
anything to show for a legal marriage, and that I am going to New
Orleans."

"It's a lie, George, it's a lie.  I am your wife.  I shall go.  I shall
follow you to New Orleans."

"Perhaps my wife might not like it!"

Laura raised her head, her eyes flamed with fire, she tried to utter a
cry, and fell senseless on the floor.

When she came to herself the Colonel was gone.  Washington Hawkins stood
at her bedside.  Did she come to herself?  Was there anything left in her
heart but hate and bitterness, a sense of an infamous wrong at the hands
of the only man she had ever loved?

She returned to Hawkeye.  With the exception of Washington and his
mother, no one knew what had happened.  The neighbors supposed that the
engagement with Col. Selby had fallen through.  Laura was ill for a long
time, but she recovered; she had that resolution in her that could
conquer death almost.  And with her health came back her beauty, and an
added fascination, a something that might be mistaken for sadness.  Is
there a beauty in the knowledge of evil, a beauty that shines out in the
face of a person whose inward life is transformed by some terrible
experience?  Is the pathos in the eyes of the Beatrice Cenci from her
guilt or her innocence?

Laura was not much changed.  The lovely woman had a devil in her heart.
That was all.




CHAPTER XIX.

Mr. Harry Brierly drew his pay as an engineer while he was living at the
City Hotel in Hawkeye.  Mr. Thompson had been kind enough to say that it
didn't make any difference whether he was with the corps or not; and
although Harry protested to the Colonel daily and to Washington Hawkins
that he must go back at once to the line and superintend the lay-out with
reference to his contract, yet he did not go, but wrote instead long
letters to Philip, instructing him to keep his eye out, and to let him
know when any difficulty occurred that required his presence.

Meantime Harry blossomed out in the society of Hawkeye, as he did in any
society where fortune cast him and he had the slightest opportunity to
expand.  Indeed the talents of a rich and accomplished young fellow like
Harry were not likely to go unappreciated in such a place.  A land
operator, engaged in vast speculations, a favorite in the select circles
of New York, in correspondence with brokers and bankers, intimate with
public men at Washington, one who could play the guitar and touch the
banjo lightly, and who had an eye for a pretty girl, and knew the
language of flattery, was welcome everywhere in Hawkeye.  Even Miss Laura
Hawkins thought it worth while to use her fascinations upon him, and to
endeavor to entangle the volatile fellow in the meshes of her
attractions.

"Gad," says Harry to the Colonel, "she's a superb creature, she'd make a
stir in New York, money or no money.  There are men I know would give her
a railroad or an opera house, or whatever she wanted--at least they'd
promise."

Harry had a way of looking at women as he looked at anything else in the
world he wanted, and he half resolved to appropriate Miss Laura, during
his stay in Hawkeye.  Perhaps the Colonel divined his thoughts, or was
offended at Harry's talk, for he replied,

"No nonsense, Mr. Brierly.  Nonsense won't do in Hawkeye, not with my
friends.  The Hawkins' blood is good blood, all the way from Tennessee.
The Hawkinses are under the weather now, but their Tennessee property is
millions when it comes into market."

"Of course, Colonel.  Not the least offense intended.  But you can see
she is a fascinating woman.  I was only thinking, as to this
appropriation, now, what such a woman could do in Washington.  All
correct, too, all correct.  Common thing, I assure you in Washington; the
wives of senators, representatives, cabinet officers, all sorts of wives,
and some who are not wives, use their influence.  You want an
appointment?  Do you go to Senator X?  Not much.  You get on the right
side of his wife.  Is it an appropriation?  You'd go 'straight to the
Committee, or to the Interior office, I suppose?  You'd learn better than
that.  It takes a woman to get any thing through the Land Office: I tell
you, Miss Laura would fascinate an appropriation right through the Senate
and the House of Representatives in one session, if she was in
Washington, as your friend, Colonel, of course as your friend."

"Would you have her sign our petition?" asked the Colonel, innocently.

Harry laughed.  "Women don't get anything by petitioning Congress; nobody
does, that's for form.  Petitions are referred somewhere, and that's the
last of them; you can't refer a handsome woman so easily, when she is
present.  They prefer 'em mostly."

The petition however was elaborately drawn up, with a glowing description
of Napoleon and the adjacent country, and a statement of the absolute
necessity to the prosperity of that region and of one of the stations on
the great through route to the Pacific, of the, immediate improvement of
Columbus River; to this was appended a map of the city and a survey of
the river.  It was signed by all the people at Stone's Landing who could
write their names, by Col. Beriah Sellers, and the Colonel agreed to have
the names headed by all the senators and representatives from the state
and by a sprinkling of ex-governors and ex-members of congress.  When
completed it was a formidable document.  Its preparation and that of more
minute plots of the new city consumed the valuable time of Sellers and
Harry for many weeks, and served to keep them both in the highest
spirits.

In the eyes of Washington Hawkins, Harry was a superior being, a man who
was able to bring things to pass in a way that excited his enthusiasm.
He never tired of listening to his stories of what he had done and of
what he was going to do.  As for Washington, Harry thought he was a man
of ability and comprehension, but "too visionary," he told the Colonel.
The Colonel said he might be right, but he had never noticed anything
visionary about him.

"He's got his plans, sir.  God bless my soul, at his age, I was full of
plans.  But experience sobers a man, I never touch any thing now that
hasn't been weighed in my judgment; and when Beriah Sellers puts his
judgment on a thing, there it is."

Whatever might have been Harry's intentions with regard to Laura, he saw
more and more of her every day, until he got to be restless and nervous
when he was not with her.

That consummate artist in passion allowed him to believe that the
fascination was mainly on his side, and so worked upon his vanity, while
inflaming his ardor, that he scarcely knew what he was about.  Her
coolness and coyness were even made to appear the simple precautions of a
modest timidity, and attracted him even more than the little tendernesses
into which she was occasionally surprised.  He could never be away from
her long, day or evening; and in a short time their intimacy was the town
talk.  She played with him so adroitly that Harry thought she was
absorbed in love for him, and yet he was amazed that he did not get on
faster in his conquest.

And when he thought of it, he was piqued as well.  A country girl, poor
enough, that was evident; living with her family in a cheap and most
unattractive frame house, such as carpenters build in America, scantily
furnished and unadorned; without the adventitious aids of dress or jewels
or the fine manners of society--Harry couldn't understand it.  But she
fascinated him, and held him just beyond the line of absolute familiarity
at the same time.  While he was with her she made him forget that the
Hawkins' house was nothing but a wooden tenement, with four small square
rooms on the ground floor and a half story; it might have been a palace
for aught he knew.

Perhaps Laura was older than Harry.  She was, at any rate, at that ripe
age when beauty in woman seems more solid than in the budding period of
girlhood, and she had come to understand her powers perfectly, and to
know exactly how much of the susceptibility and archness of the girl it
was profitable to retain.  She saw that many women, with the best
intentions, make a mistake of carrying too much girlishness into
womanhood.  Such a woman would have attracted Harry at any time, but only
a woman with a cool brain and exquisite art could have made him lose his
head in this way; for Harry thought himself a man of the world.  The
young fellow never dreamed that he was merely being experimented on; he
was to her a man of another society and another culture, different from
that she had any knowledge of except in books, and she was not unwilling
to try on him the fascinations of her mind and person.

For Laura had her dreams.  She detested the narrow limits in which her
lot was cast, she hated poverty.  Much of her reading had been of modern
works of fiction, written by her own sex, which had revealed to her
something of her own powers and given her indeed, an exaggerated notion
of the influence, the wealth, the position a woman may attain who has
beauty and talent and ambition and a little culture, and is not too
scrupulous in the use of them.  She wanted to be rich, she wanted luxury,
she wanted men at her feet, her slaves, and she had not--thanks to some
of the novels she had read--the nicest discrimination between notoriety
and reputation; perhaps she did not know how fatal notoriety usually is
to the bloom of womanhood.

With the other Hawkins children Laura had been brought up in the belief
that they had inherited a fortune in the Tennessee Lands.  She did not by
any means share all the delusion of the family; but her brain was not
seldom busy with schemes about it.  Washington seemed to her only to
dream of it and to be willing to wait for its riches to fall upon him in
a golden shower; but she was impatient, and wished she were a man to take
hold of the business.

"You men must enjoy your schemes and your activity and liberty to go
about the world," she said to Harry one day, when he had been talking of
New York and Washington and his incessant engagements.

"Oh, yes," replied that martyr to business, "it's all well enough, if you
don't have too much of it, but it only has one object."

"What is that?"

"If a woman doesn't know, it's useless to tell her.  What do you suppose
I am staying in Hawkeye for, week after week, when I ought to be with my
corps?"

"I suppose it's your business with Col. Sellers about Napoleon, you've
always told me so," answered Laura, with a look intended to contradict
her words.

"And now I tell you that is all arranged, I suppose you'll tell me I
ought to go?"

"Harry!" exclaimed Laura, touching his arm and letting her pretty hand
rest there a moment.  "Why should I want you to go away?  The only person
in Hawkeye who understands me."

"But you refuse to understand me," replied Harry, flattered but still
petulant.  "You are like an iceberg, when we are alone."

Laura looked up with wonder in her great eyes, and something like a blush
suffusing her face, followed by a look of langour that penetrated Harry's
heart as if it had been longing.

"Did I ever show any want of confidence in you, Harry?"  And she gave him
her hand, which Harry pressed with effusion--something in her manner told
him that he must be content with that favor.

It was always so.  She excited his hopes and denied him, inflamed his
passion and restrained it, and wound him in her toils day by day.  To
what purpose?  It was keen delight to Laura to prove that she had power
over men.

Laura liked to hear about life at the east, and especially about the
luxurious society in which Mr. Brierly moved when he was at home.  It
pleased her imagination to fancy herself a queen in it.

"You should be a winter in Washington," Harry said.

"But I have no acquaintances there."

"Don't know any of the families of the congressmen?  They like to have a
pretty woman staying with them."

"Not one."

"Suppose Col. Sellers should, have business there; say, about this
Columbus River appropriation?"

"Sellers!" and Laura laughed.

"You needn't laugh.  Queerer things have happened.  Sellers knows
everybody from Missouri, and from the West, too, for that matter.  He'd
introduce you to Washington life quick enough.  It doesn't need a crowbar
to break your way into society there as it does in Philadelphia.  It's
democratic, Washington is.  Money or beauty will open any door.  If I
were a handsome woman, I shouldn't want any better place than the capital
to pick up a prince or a fortune."

"Thank you," replied Laura.  "But I prefer the quiet of home, and the
love of those I know;" and her face wore a look of sweet contentment and
unworldliness that finished Mr. Harry Brierly for the day.

Nevertheless, the hint that Harry had dropped fell upon good ground, and
bore fruit an hundred fold; it worked in her mind until she had built up
a plan on it, and almost a career for herself.  Why not, she said, why
shouldn't I do as other women have done?  She took the first opportunity
to see Col. Sellers, and to sound him about the Washington visit.  How
was he getting on with his navigation scheme, would it be likely to take
him from home to Jefferson City; or to Washington, perhaps?

"Well, maybe.  If the people of Napoleon want me to go to Washington, and
look after that matter, I might tear myself from my home.  It's been
suggested to me, but--not a word of it to Mrs. Sellers and the children.
Maybe they wouldn't like to think of their father in Washington.  But
Dilworthy, Senator Dilworthy, says to me, 'Colonel, you are the man, you
could influence more votes than any one else on such a measure, an old
settler, a man of the people, you know the wants of Missouri; you've a
respect for religion too, says he, and know how the cause of the gospel
goes with improvements: Which is true enough, Miss Laura, and hasn't been
enough thought of in connection with Napoleon.  He's an able man,
Dilworthy, and a good man.  A man has got to be good to succeed as he
has.  He's only been in Congress a few years, and he must be worth a
million.  First thing in the morning when he stayed with me he asked
about family prayers, whether we had 'em before or after breakfast.
I hated to disappoint the Senator, but I had to out with it, tell him we
didn't have 'em, not steady.  He said he understood, business
interruptions and all that, some men were well enough without, but as for
him he never neglected the ordinances of religion.  He doubted if the
Columbus River appropriation would succeed if we did not invoke the
Divine Blessing on it."

Perhaps it is unnecessary to say to the reader that Senator Dilworthy had
not stayed with Col. Sellers while he was in Hawkeye; this visit to his
house being only one of the Colonel's hallucinations--one of those
instant creations of his fertile fancy, which were always flashing into
his brain and out of his mouth in the course of any conversation and
without interrupting the flow of it.

During the summer Philip rode across the country and made a short visit
in Hawkeye, giving Harry an opportunity to show him the progress that he
and the Colonel had made in their operation at Stone's Landing, to
introduce him also to Laura, and to borrow a little money when he
departed.  Harry bragged about his conquest, as was his habit, and took
Philip round to see his western prize.

Laura received Mr. Philip with a courtesy and a slight hauteur that
rather surprised and not a little interested him.  He saw at once that
she was older than Harry, and soon made up his mind that she was leading
his friend a country dance to which he was unaccustomed.  At least he
thought he saw that, and half hinted as much to Harry, who flared up at
once; but on a second visit Philip was not so sure, the young lady was
certainly kind and friendly and almost confiding with Harry, and treated
Philip with the greatest consideration.  She deferred to his opinions,
and listened attentively when he talked, and in time met his frank manner
with an equal frankness, so that he was quite convinced that whatever she
might feel towards Harry, she was sincere with him.  Perhaps his manly
way did win her liking.  Perhaps in her mind, she compared him with
Harry, and recognized in him a man to whom a woman might give her whole
soul, recklessly and with little care if she lost it.  Philip was not
invincible to her beauty nor to the intellectual charm of her presence.

The week seemed very short that he passed in Hawkeye, and when he bade
Laura good by, he seemed to have known her a year.

"We shall see you again, Mr. Sterling," she said as she gave him her
hand, with just a shade of sadness in her handsome eyes.

And when he turned away she followed him with a look that might have
disturbed his serenity, if he had not at the moment had a little square
letter in his breast pocket, dated at Philadelphia, and signed "Ruth."




CHAPTER XX.

The visit of Senator Abner Dilworthy was an event in Hawkeye.  When a
Senator, whose place is in Washington moving among the Great and guiding
the destinies of the nation, condescends to mingle among the people and
accept the hospitalities of such a place as Hawkeye, the honor is not
considered a light one.  All, parties are flattered by it and politics
are forgotten in the presence of one so distinguished among his fellows.

Senator Dilworthy, who was from a neighboring state, had been a Unionist
in the darkest days of his country, and had thriven by it, but was that
any reason why Col. Sellers, who had been a confederate and had not
thriven by it, should give him the cold shoulder?

The Senator was the guest of his old friend Gen. Boswell, but it almost
appeared that he was indebted to Col. Sellers for the unreserved
hospitalities of the town.  It was the large hearted Colonel who, in a
manner, gave him the freedom of the city.

"You are known here, sir," said the Colonel," and Hawkeye is proud of
you.  You will find every door open, and a welcome at every hearthstone.
I should insist upon your going to my house, if you were not claimed by
your older friend Gen. Boswell.  But you will mingle with our people, and
you will see here developments that will surprise you."

The Colonel was so profuse in his hospitality that he must have made the
impression upon himself that he had entertained the Senator at his own
mansion during his stay; at any rate, he afterwards always spoke of him
as his guest, and not seldom referred to the Senator's relish of certain
viands on his table.  He did, in fact, press him to dine upon the morning
of the day the Senator was going away.

Senator Dilworthy was large and portly, though not tall--a pleasant
spoken man, a popular man with the people.

He took a lively interest in the town and all the surrounding country,
and made many inquiries as to the progress of agriculture, of education,
and of religion, and especially as to the condition of the emancipated
race.

"Providence," he said, "has placed them in our hands, and although you
and I, General, might have chosen a different destiny for them, under the
Constitution, yet Providence knows best."

"You can't do much with 'em," interrupted Col. Sellers.  "They are a
speculating race, sir, disinclined to work for white folks without
security, planning how to live by only working for themselves.  Idle,
sir, there's my garden just a ruin of weeds.  Nothing practical in 'em."

"There is some truth in your observation, Colonel, but you must educate
them."

"You educate the niggro and you make him more speculating than he was
before.  If he won't stick to any industry except for himself now, what
will he do then?"

"But, Colonel, the negro when educated will be more able to make his
speculations fruitful."

"Never, sir, never.  He would only have a wider scope to injure himself.
A niggro has no grasp, sir.  Now, a white man can conceive great
operations, and carry them out; a niggro can't."

"Still," replied the Senator, "granting that he might injure himself in a
worldly point of view, his elevation through education would multiply his
chances for the hereafter--which is the important thing after all,
Colonel.  And no matter what the result is, we must fulfill our duty by
this being."

"I'd elevate his soul," promptly responded the Colonel; "that's just it;
you can't make his soul too immortal, but I wouldn't touch him, himself.
Yes, sir!  make his soul immortal, but don't disturb the niggro as he
is."

Of course one of the entertainments offered the Senator was a public
reception, held in the court house, at which he made a speech to his
fellow citizens.  Col. Sellers was master of ceremonies.  He escorted the
band from the city hotel to Gen. Boswell's; he marshalled the procession
of Masons, of Odd Fellows, and of Firemen, the Good Templars, the Sons of
Temperance, the Cadets of Temperance, the Daughters of Rebecca, the
Sunday School children, and citizens generally, which followed the
Senator to the court house; he bustled about the room long after every
one else was seated, and loudly cried "Order!" in the dead silence which
preceded the introduction of the Senator by Gen. Boswell.  The occasion
was one to call out his finest powers of personal appearance, and one he
long dwelt on with pleasure.

This not being an edition of the Congressional Globe it is impossible to
give Senator Dilworthy's speech in full.  He began somewhat as follows:

"Fellow citizens: It gives me great pleasure to thus meet and mingle with
you, to lay aside for a moment the heavy duties of an official and
burdensome station, and confer in familiar converse with my friends in
your great state.  The good opinion of my fellow citizens of all sections
is the sweetest solace in all my anxieties.  I look forward with longing
to the time when I can lay aside the cares of office--" ["dam sight,"
shouted a tipsy fellow near the door.  Cries of "put him out."]

"My friends, do not remove him.  Let the misguided man stay.  I see that
he is a victim of that evil which is swallowing up public virtue and
sapping the foundation of society.  As I was saying, when I can lay down
the cares of office and retire to the sweets of private life in some such
sweet, peaceful, intelligent, wide-awake and patriotic place as Hawkeye
(applause).  I have traveled much, I have seen all parts of our glorious
union, but I have never seen a lovelier village than yours, or one that
has more signs of commercial and industrial and religious prosperity--
(more applause)."

The Senator then launched into a sketch of our great country, and dwelt
for an hour or more upon its prosperity and the dangers which threatened
it.

He then touched reverently upon the institutions of religion, and upon
the necessity of private purity, if we were to have any public morality.
"I trust," he said, "that there are children within the sound of my
voice," and after some remarks to them, the Senator closed with an
apostrophe to "the genius of American Liberty, walking with the Sunday
School in one hand and Temperance in the other up the glorified steps of
the National Capitol."

Col. Sellers did not of course lose the opportunity to impress upon so
influential a person as the Senator the desirability of improving the
navigation of Columbus river.  He and Mr. Brierly took the Senator over
to Napoleon and opened to him their plan.  It was a plan that the Senator
could understand without a great deal of explanation, for he seemed to be
familiar with the like improvements elsewhere.  When, however, they
reached Stone's Landing the Senator looked about him and inquired,

"Is this Napoleon?"

"This is the nucleus, the nucleus," said the Colonel, unrolling his map.
"Here is the deepo, the church, the City Hall and so on."

"Ah, I see.  How far from here is Columbus River?  Does that stream
empty----"

"That, why, that's Goose Run.  Thar ain't no Columbus, thout'n it's over
to Hawkeye," interrupted one of the citizens, who had come out to stare
at the strangers.  "A railroad come here last summer, but it haint been
here no mo'."

"Yes, sir," the Colonel hastened to explain, "in the old records Columbus
River is called Goose Run.  You see how it sweeps round the town-forty-
nine miles to the Missouri; sloop navigation all the way pretty much,
drains this whole country; when it's improved steamboats will run right
up here.  It's got to be enlarged, deepened.  You see by the map.
Columbus River.  This country must have water communication!"

"You'll want a considerable appropriation, Col. Sellers.

"I should say a million; is that your figure Mr. Brierly."

"According to our surveys," said Harry, "a million would do it; a million
spent on the river would make Napoleon worth two millions at least."

"I see," nodded the Senator.  "But you'd better begin by asking only for
two or three hundred thousand, the usual way.  You can begin to sell town
lots on that appropriation you know."

The Senator, himself, to do him justice, was not very much interested in
the country or the stream, but he favored the appropriation, and he gave
the Colonel and Mr. Brierly to and understand that he would endeavor to
get it through.  Harry, who thought he was shrewd and understood
Washington, suggested an interest.

But he saw that the Senator was wounded by the suggestion.

"You will offend me by repeating such an observation," he said.
"Whatever I do will be for the public interest.  It will require a
portion of the appropriation for necessary expenses, and I am sorry to
say that there are members who will have to be seen.  But you can reckon
upon my humble services."

This aspect of the subject was not again alluded to.  The Senator
possessed himself of the facts, not from his observation of the ground,
but from the lips of Col. Sellers, and laid the appropriation scheme away
among his other plans for benefiting the public.

It was on this visit also that the Senator made the acquaintance of Mr.
Washington Hawkins, and was greatly taken with his innocence, his
guileless manner and perhaps with his ready adaptability to enter upon
any plan proposed.

Col. Sellers was pleased to see this interest that Washington had
awakened, especially since it was likely to further his expectations with
regard to the Tennessee lands; the Senator having remarked to the
Colonel, that he delighted to help any deserving young man, when the
promotion of a private advantage could at the same time be made to
contribute to the general good.  And he did not doubt that this was an
opportunity of that kind.

The result of several conferences with Washington was that the Senator
proposed that he should go to Washington with him and become his private
secretary and the secretary of his committee; a proposal which was
eagerly accepted.

The Senator spent Sunday in Hawkeye and attended church.  He cheered the
heart of the worthy and zealous minister by an expression of his sympathy
in his labors, and by many inquiries in regard to the religious state of
the region.  It was not a very promising state, and the good man felt how
much lighter his task would be, if he had the aid of such a man as
Senator Dilworthy.

"I am glad to see, my dear sir," said the Senator, "that you give them
the doctrines.  It is owing to a neglect of the doctrines, that there is
such a fearful falling away in the country.  I wish that we might have
you in Washington--as chaplain, now, in the senate."

The good man could not but be a little flattered, and if sometimes,
thereafter, in his discouraging work, he allowed the thought that he
might perhaps be called to Washington as chaplain of the Senate, to cheer
him, who can wonder.  The Senator's commendation at least did one service
for him, it elevated him in the opinion of Hawkeye.

Laura was at church alone that day, and Mr. Brierly walked home with her.
A part of their way lay with that of General Boswell and Senator
Dilworthy, and introductions were made.  Laura had her own reasons for
wishing to know the Senator, and the Senator was not a man who could be
called indifferent to charms such as hers.  That meek young lady so
commended herself to him in the short walk, that he announced his
intentions of paying his respects to her the next day, an intention which
Harry received glumly; and when the Senator was out of hearing he called
him "an old fool."

"Fie," said Laura, "I do believe you are jealous, Harry.  He is a very
pleasant man.  He said you were a young man of great promise."

The Senator did call next day, and the result of his visit was that he
was confirmed in his impression that there was something about him very
attractive to ladies.  He saw Laura again and again daring his stay, and
felt more and more the subtle influence of her feminine beauty, which
every man felt who came near her.

Harry was beside himself with rage while the Senator remained in town;
he declared that women were always ready to drop any man for higher game;
and he attributed his own ill-luck to the Senator's appearance.  The
fellow was in fact crazy about her beauty and ready to beat his brains
out in chagrin.  Perhaps Laura enjoyed his torment, but she soothed him
with blandishments that increased his ardor, and she smiled to herself to
think that he had, with all his protestations of love, never spoken of
marriage.  Probably the vivacious fellow never had thought of it.  At any
rate when he at length went away from Hawkeye he was no nearer it.  But
there was no telling to what desperate lengths his passion might not
carry him.

Laura bade him good bye with tender regret, which, however, did not
disturb her peace or interfere with her plans.  The visit of Senator
Dilworthy had become of more importance to her, and it by and by bore the
fruit she longed for, in an invitation to visit his family in the
National Capital during the winter session of Congress.




CHAPTER XXI.

                              O lift your natures up:
               Embrace our aims: work out your freedom.  Girls,
               Knowledge is now no more a fountain sealed;
               Drink deep until the habits of the slave,
               The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite
               And slander, die.
                                   The Princess.

Whether medicine is a science, or only an empirical method of getting a
living out of the ignorance of the human race, Ruth found before her
first term was over at the medical school that there were other things
she needed to know quite as much as that which is taught in medical
books, and that she could never satisfy her aspirations without more
general culture.

"Does your doctor know any thing--I don't mean about medicine, but about
things in general, is he a man of information and good sense?" once asked
an old practitioner.  "If he doesn't know any thing but medicine the
chance is he doesn't know that:"

The close application to her special study was beginning to tell upon
Ruth's delicate health also, and the summer brought with it only
weariness and indisposition for any mental effort.

In this condition of mind and body the quiet of her home and the
unexciting companionship of those about her were more than ever tiresome.

She followed with more interest Philip's sparkling account of his life
in the west, and longed for his experiences, and to know some of those
people of a world so different from here, who alternately amused and
displeased him.  He at least was learning the world, the good and the bad
of it, as must happen to every one who accomplishes anything in it.

But what, Ruth wrote, could a woman do, tied up by custom, and cast into
particular circumstances out of which it was almost impossible to
extricate herself?  Philip thought that he would go some day and
extricate Ruth, but he did not write that, for he had the instinct to
know that this was not the extrication she dreamed of, and that she must
find out by her own experience what her heart really wanted.

Philip was not a philosopher, to be sure, but he had the old fashioned
notion, that whatever a woman's theories of life might be, she would come
round to matrimony, only give her time.  He could indeed recall to mind
one woman--and he never knew a nobler--whose whole soul was devoted and
who believed that her life was consecrated to a certain benevolent
project in singleness of life, who yielded to the touch of matrimony, as
an icicle yields to a sunbeam.

Neither at home nor elsewhere did Ruth utter any complaint, or admit any
weariness or doubt of her ability to pursue the path she had marked out
for herself.  But her mother saw clearly enough her struggle with
infirmity, and was not deceived by either her gaiety or by the cheerful
composure which she carried into all the ordinary duties that fell to
her.  She saw plainly enough that Ruth needed an entire change of scene
and of occupation, and perhaps she believed that such a change, with the
knowledge of the world it would bring, would divert Ruth from a course
for which she felt she was physically entirely unfitted.

It therefore suited the wishes of all concerned, when autumn came, that
Ruth should go away to school.  She selected a large New England
Seminary, of which she had often heard Philip speak, which was attended
by both sexes and offered almost collegiate advantages of education.
Thither she went in September, and began for the second time in the year
a life new to her.

The Seminary was the chief feature of Fallkill, a village of two to three
thousand inhabitants.  It was a prosperous school, with three hundred
students, a large corps of teachers, men and women, and with a venerable
rusty row of academic buildings on the shaded square of the town.  The
students lodged and boarded in private families in the place, and so it
came about that while the school did a great deal to support the town,
the town gave the students society and the sweet influences of home life.
It is at least respectful to say that the influences of home life are
sweet.

Ruth's home, by the intervention of Philip, was in a family--one of the
rare exceptions in life or in fiction--that had never known better days.
The Montagues, it is perhaps well to say, had intended to come over in
the Mayflower, but were detained at Delft Haven by the illness of a
child.  They came over to Massachusetts Bay in another vessel, and thus
escaped the onus of that brevet nobility under which the successors of
the Mayflower Pilgrims have descended.  Having no factitious weight of
dignity to carry, the Montagues steadily improved their condition from
the day they landed, and they were never more vigorous or prosperous than
at the date of this narrative.  With character compacted by the rigid
Puritan discipline of more than two centuries, they had retained its
strength and purity and thrown off its narrowness, and were now
blossoming under the generous modern influences.  Squire Oliver Montague,
a lawyer who had retired from the practice of his profession except in
rare cases, dwelt in a square old fashioned New England mile away from
the green.  It was called a mansion because it stood alone with ample
fields about it, and had an avenue of trees leading to it from the road,
and on the west commanded a view of a pretty little lake with gentle
slopes and nodding were now blossoming under the generous modern
influences.  Squire Oliver Montague, a lawyer who had retired from the
practice of his profession except in rare cases, dwelt in a square old
fashioned New England groves.  But it was just a plain, roomy house,
capable of extending to many guests an unpretending hospitality.

The family consisted of the Squire and his wife, a son and a daughter
married and not at home, a son in college at Cambridge, another son at
the Seminary, and a daughter Alice, who was a year or more older than
Ruth.  Having only riches enough to be able to gratify reasonable
desires, and yet make their gratifications always a novelty and a
pleasure, the family occupied that just mean in life which is so rarely
attained, and still more rarely enjoyed without discontent.

If Ruth did not find so much luxury in the house as in her own home,
there were evidences of culture, of intellectual activity and of a zest
in the affairs of all the world, which greatly impressed her.  Every room
had its book-cases or book-shelves, and was more or less a library; upon
every table was liable to be a litter of new books, fresh periodicals and
daily newspapers.  There were plants in the sunny windows and some choice
engravings on the walls, with bits of color in oil or water-colors;
the piano was sure to be open and strewn with music; and there were
photographs and little souvenirs here and there of foreign travel.
An absence of any "what-pots" in the corners with rows of cheerful
shells, and Hindoo gods, and Chinese idols, and nests of use less boxes
of lacquered wood, might be taken as denoting a languidness in the family
concerning foreign missions, but perhaps unjustly.

At any rate the life of the world flowed freely into this hospitable
house, and there was always so much talk there of the news of the day,
of the new books and of authors, of Boston radicalism and New York
civilization, and the virtue of Congress, that small gossip stood a very
poor chance.

All this was in many ways so new to Ruth that she seemed to have passed
into another world, in which she experienced a freedom and a mental
exhilaration unknown to her before.  Under this influence she entered
upon her studies with keen enjoyment, finding for a time all the
relaxation she needed, in the charming social life at the Montague house.

It is strange, she wrote to Philip, in one of her occasional letters,
that you never told me more about this delightful family, and scarcely
mentioned Alice who is the life of it, just the noblest girl, unselfish,
knows how to do so many things, with lots of talent, with a dry humor,
and an odd way of looking at things, and yet quiet and even serious
often--one of your "capable" New England girls.  We shall be great
friends.  It had never occurred to Philip that there was any thing
extraordinary about the family that needed mention.  He knew dozens of
girls like Alice, he thought to himself, but only one like Ruth.

Good friends the two girls were from the beginning.  Ruth was a study to
Alice; the product of a culture entirely foreign to her experience, so
much a child in some things, so much a woman in others; and Ruth in turn,
it must be confessed, probing Alice sometimes with her serious grey eyes,
wondered what her object in life was, and whether she had any purpose
beyond living as she now saw her.  For she could scarcely conceive of a
life that should not be devoted to the accomplishment of some definite
work, and she had-no doubt that in her own case everything else would
yield to the professional career she had marked out.

"So you know Philip Sterling," said Ruth one day as the girls sat at
their sewing.  Ruth never embroidered, and never sewed when she could
avoid it.  Bless her.

"Oh yes, we are old friends.  Philip used to come to Fallkill often while
he was in college.  He was once rusticated here for a term."

"Rusticated?"

"Suspended for some College scrape.  He was a great favorite here.
Father and he were famous friends.  Father said that Philip had no end of
nonsense in him and was always blundering into something, but he was a
royal good fellow and would come out all right."

"Did you think he was fickle?"

"Why, I never thought whether he was or not," replied Alice looking up.
"I suppose he was always in love with some girl or another, as college
boys are.  He used to make me his confidant now and then, and be terribly
in the dumps."

"Why did he come to you?" pursued Ruth you were younger than he."

"I'm sure I don't know.  He was at our house a good deal.  Once at a
picnic by the lake, at the risk of his own life, he saved sister Millie
from drowning, and we all liked to have him here.  Perhaps he thought as
he had saved one sister, the other ought to help him when he was in
trouble.  I don't know."

The fact was that Alice was a person who invited confidences, because she
never betrayed them, and gave abundant sympathy in return.  There are
persons, whom we all know, to whom human confidences, troubles and heart-
aches flow as naturally its streams to a placid lake.

This is not a history of Fallkill, nor of the Montague family, worthy as
both are of that honor, and this narrative cannot be diverted into long
loitering with them.  If the reader visits the village to-day, he will
doubtless be pointed out the Montague dwelling, where Ruth lived, the
cross-lots path she traversed to the Seminary, and the venerable chapel
with its cracked bell.

In the little society of the place, the Quaker girl was a favorite, and
no considerable social gathering or pleasure party was thought complete
without her.  There was something in this seemingly transparent and yet
deep character, in her childlike gaiety and enjoyment of the society
about her, and in her not seldom absorption in herself, that would have
made her long remembered there if no events had subsequently occurred to
recall her to mind.

To the surprise of Alice, Ruth took to the small gaieties of the village
with a zest of enjoyment that seemed foreign to one who had devoted her
life to a serious profession from the highest motives.  Alice liked
society well enough, she thought, but there was nothing exciting in that
of Fallkill, nor anything novel in the attentions of the well-bred young
gentlemen one met in it.  It must have worn a different aspect to Ruth,
for she entered into its pleasures at first with curiosity, and then with
interest and finally with a kind of staid abandon that no one would have
deemed possible for her.  Parties, picnics, rowing-matches, moonlight
strolls, nutting expeditions in the October woods,--Alice declared that
it was a whirl of dissipation.  The fondness of Ruth, which was scarcely
disguised, for the company of agreeable young fellows, who talked
nothings, gave Alice opportunity for no end of banter.

"Do you look upon them as I subjects, dear?" she would ask.

And Ruth laughed her merriest laugh, and then looked sober again.
Perhaps she was thinking, after all, whether she knew herself.

If you should rear a duck in the heart of the Sahara, no doubt it would
swim if you brought it to the Nile.

Surely no one would have predicted when Ruth left Philadelphia that she
would become absorbed to this extent, and so happy, in a life so unlike
that she thought she desired.  But no one can tell how a woman will act
under any circumstances.  The reason novelists nearly always fail in
depicting women when they make them act, is that they let them do what
they have observed some woman has done at sometime or another.  And that
is where they make a mistake; for a woman will never do again what has
been done before.  It is this uncertainty that causes women, considered
as materials for fiction, to be so interesting to themselves and to
others.

As the fall went on and the winter, Ruth did not distinguish herself
greatly at the Fallkill Seminary as a student, a fact that apparently
gave her no anxiety, and did not diminish her enjoyment of a new sort of
power which had awakened within her.




CHAPTER XXII.
In mid-winter, an event occurred of unusual interest to the inhabitants
of the Montague house, and to the friends of the young ladies who sought
their society.

This was the arrival at the Sassacua Hotel of two young gentlemen from
the west.

It is the fashion in New England to give Indian names to the public
houses, not that the late lamented savage knew how to keep a hotel, but
that his warlike name may impress the traveler who humbly craves shelter
there, and make him grateful to the noble and gentlemanly clerk if he is
allowed to depart with his scalp safe.

The two young gentlemen were neither students for the Fallkill Seminary,
nor lecturers on physiology, nor yet life assurance solicitors, three
suppositions that almost exhausted the guessing power of the people at
the hotel in respect to the names of "Philip Sterling and Henry Brierly,
Missouri," on the register.  They were handsome enough fellows, that was
evident, browned by out-door exposure, and with a free and lordly way
about them that almost awed the hotel clerk himself.  Indeed, he very
soon set down Mr. Brierly as a gentleman of large fortune, with enormous
interests on his shoulders.  Harry had a way of casually mentioning
western investments, through lines, the freighting business, and the
route through the Indian territory to Lower California, which was
calculated to give an importance to his lightest word.

"You've a pleasant town here, sir, and the most comfortable looking hotel
I've seen out of New York," said Harry to the clerk; "we shall stay here
a few days if you can give us a roomy suite of apartments."

Harry usually had the best of everything, wherever he went, as such
fellows always do have in this accommodating world.  Philip would have
been quite content with less expensive quarters, but there was no
resisting Harry's generosity in such matters.

Railroad surveying and real-estate operations were at a standstill during
the winter in Missouri, and the young men had taken advantage of the lull
to come east, Philip to see if there was any disposition in his friends,
the railway contractors, to give him a share in the Salt Lick Union
Pacific Extension, and Harry to open out to his uncle the prospects of
the new city at Stone's Landing, and to procure congressional
appropriations for the harbor and for making Goose Run navigable.  Harry
had with him a map of that noble stream and of the harbor, with a perfect
net-work of railroads centering in it, pictures of wharves, crowded with
steamboats, and of huge grain-elevators on the bank, all of which grew
out of the combined imaginations of Col. Sellers and Mr. Brierly.  The
Colonel had entire confidence in Harry's influence with Wall street, and
with congressmen, to bring about the consummation of their scheme, and he
waited his return in the empty house at Hawkeye, feeding his pinched
family upon the most gorgeous expectations with a reckless prodigality.

"Don't let 'em into the thing more than is necessary," says the Colonel
to Harry; "give 'em a small interest; a lot apiece in the suburbs of the
Landing ought to do a congressman, but I reckon you'll have to mortgage a
part of the city itself to the brokers."

Harry did not find that eagerness to lend money on Stone's Landing in
Wall street which Col. Sellers had expected, (it had seen too many such
maps as he exhibited), although his uncle and some of the brokers looked
with more favor on the appropriation for improving the navigation of
Columbus River, and were not disinclined to form a company for that
purpose.  An appropriation was a tangible thing, if you could get hold of
it, and it made little difference what it was appropriated for, so long
as you got hold of it.

Pending these weighty negotiations, Philip has persuaded Harry to take a
little run up to Fallkill, a not difficult task, for that young man would
at any time have turned his back upon all the land in the West at sight
of a new and pretty face, and he had, it must be confessed, a facility in
love making which made it not at all an interference with the more
serious business of life.  He could not, to be sure, conceive how Philip
could be interested in a young lady who was studying medicine, but he had
no objection to going, for he did not doubt that there were other girls
in Fallkill who were worth a week's attention.

The young men were received at the house of the Montagues with the
hospitality which never failed there.

"We are glad to see you again," exclaimed the Squire heartily, "you are
welcome Mr. Brierly, any friend of Phil's is welcome at our house"

"It's more like home to me, than any place except my own home," cried
Philip, as he looked about the cheerful house and went through a general
hand-shaking.

"It's a long time, though, since you have been here to say so," Alice
said, with her father's frankness of manner; "and I suspect we owe the
visit now to your sudden interest in the Fallkill Seminary."

Philip's color came, as it had an awkward way of doing in his tell-tale
face, but before he could stammer a reply, Harry came in with,

"That accounts for Phil's wish to build a Seminary at Stone's Landing,
our place in Missouri, when Col. Sellers insisted it should be a
University.  Phil appears to have a weakness for Seminaries."

"It would have been better for your friend Sellers," retorted Philip,
"if he had had a weakness for district schools.  Col. Sellers, Miss
Alice, is a great friend of Harry's, who is always trying to build a
house by beginning at the top."

"I suppose it's as easy to build a University on paper as a Seminary, and
it looks better," was Harry's reflection; at which the Squire laughed,
and said he quite agreed with him.  The old gentleman understood Stone's
Landing a good deal better than he would have done after an hour's talk
with either of it's expectant proprietors.

At this moment, and while Philip was trying to frame a question that he
found it exceedingly difficult to put into words, the door opened
quietly, and Ruth entered.  Taking in the, group with a quick glance, her
eye lighted up, and with a merry smile she advanced and shook hands with
Philip.  She was so unconstrained and sincerely cordial, that it made
that hero of the west feel somehow young, and very ill at ease.

For months and months he had thought of this meeting and pictured it to
himself a hundred times, but he had never imagined it would be like this.
He should meet Ruth unexpectedly, as she was walking alone from the
school, perhaps, or entering the room where he was waiting for her, and
she would cry "Oh!  Phil," and then check herself, and perhaps blush, and
Philip calm but eager and enthusiastic, would reassure her by his warm
manner, and he would take her hand impressively, and she would look up
timidly, and, after his' long absence, perhaps he would be permitted to
Good heavens, how many times he had come to this point, and wondered if
it could happen so.  Well, well; he had never supposed that he should be
the one embarrassed, and above all by a sincere and cordial welcome.

"We heard you were at the Sassacus House," were Ruth's first words; "and
this I suppose is your friend?"

"I beg your pardon," Philip at length blundered out, "this is Mr. Brierly
of whom I have written you."

And Ruth welcomed Harry with a friendliness that Philip thought was due
to his friend, to be sure, but which seemed to him too level with her
reception of himself, but which Harry received as his due from the other
sex.

Questions were asked about the journey and about the West, and the
conversation became a general one, until Philip at length found himself
talking with the Squire in relation to land and railroads and things he
couldn't keep his mind on especially as he heard Ruth and Harry in an
animated discourse, and caught the words "New York," and "opera," and
"reception," and knew that Harry was giving his imagination full range in
the world of fashion.

Harry knew all about the opera, green room and all (at least he said so)
and knew a good many of the operas and could make very entertaining
stories of their plots, telling how the soprano came in here, and the
basso here, humming the beginning of their airs--tum-ti-tum-ti-ti--
suggesting the profound dissatisfaction of the basso recitative--down-
among-the-dead-men--and touching off the whole with an airy grace quite
captivating; though he couldn't have sung a single air through to save
himself, and he hadn't an ear to know whether it was sung correctly.  All
the same he doted on the opera, and kept a box there, into which he
lounged occasionally to hear a favorite scene and meet his society
friends.

If Ruth was ever in the city he should be happy to place his box at the
disposal of Ruth and her friends.  Needless to say that she was delighted
with the offer.

When she told Philip of it, that discreet young fellow only smiled, and
said that he hoped she would be fortunate enough to be in New York some
evening when Harry had not already given the use of his private box to
some other friend.

The Squire pressed the visitors to let him send for their trunks and
urged them to stay at his house, and Alice joined in the invitation, but
Philip had reasons for declining.  They staid to supper, however, and in;
the evening Philip had a long talk apart with Ruth, a delightful hour to
him, in which she spoke freely of herself as of old, of her studies at
Philadelphia and of her plans, and she entered into his adventures and
prospects in the West with a genuine and almost sisterly interest; an
interest, however, which did not exactly satisfy Philip--it was too
general and not personal enough to suit him.  And with all her freedom in
speaking of her own hopes, Philip could not, detect any reference to
himself in them; whereas he never undertook anything that he did not
think of Ruth in connection with it, he never made a plan that had not
reference to her, and he never thought of anything as complete if she
could not share it.  Fortune, reputation these had no value to him except
in Ruth's eyes, and there were times when it seemed to him that if Ruth
was not on this earth, he should plunge off into some remote wilderness
and live in a purposeless seclusion.

"I hoped," said Philip; "to get a little start in connection with this
new railroad, and make a little money, so that I could came east and
engage in something more suited to my tastes.  I shouldn't like to live
in the West.  Would you?

"It never occurred to me whether I would or not," was the unembarrassed
reply.  "One of our graduates went to Chicago, and has a nice practice
there.  I don't know where I shall go.  It would mortify mother
dreadfully to have me driving about Philadelphia in a doctor's gig."

Philip laughed at the idea of it.  "And does it seem as necessary to you
to do it as it did before you came to Fallkill?"

It was a home question, and went deeper than Philip knew, for Ruth at
once thought of practicing her profession among the young gentlemen and
ladies of her acquaintance in the village; but she was reluctant to admit
to herself that her notions of a career had undergone any change.

"Oh, I don't think I should come to Fallkill to practice, but I must do
something when I am through school; and why not medicine?"

Philip would like to have explained why not, but the explanation would be
of no use if it were not already obvious to Ruth.

Harry was equally in his element whether instructing Squire Montague
about the investment of capital in Missouri, the improvement of Columbus
River, the project he and some gentlemen in New York had for making a
shorter Pacific connection with the Mississippi than the present one; or
diverting Mrs. Montague with his experience in cooking in camp; or
drawing for Miss Alice an amusing picture of the social contrasts of New
England and the border where he had been. Harry was a very entertaining
fellow, having his imagination to help his memory, and telling his
stories as if he believed them--as perhaps he did. Alice was greatly
amused with Harry and listened so seriously to his romancing that he
exceeded his usual limits.  Chance allusions to his bachelor
establishment in town and the place of his family on the Hudson, could
not have been made by a millionaire, more naturally.

"I should think," queried Alice, "you would rather stay in New York than
to try the rough life at the West you have been speaking of."

"Oh, adventure," says Harry, "I get tired of New York.  And besides I
got involved in some operations that I had to see through.  Parties in
New York only last week wanted me to go down into Arizona in a big
diamond interest.  I told them, no, no speculation for me.  I've got my
interests in Missouri; and I wouldn't leave Philip, as long as he stays
there."

When the young gentlemen were on their way back to the hotel, Mr. Philip,
who was not in very good humor, broke out,

"What the deuce, Harry, did you go on in that style to the Montagues
for?"

"Go on?" cried Harry.  "Why shouldn't I try to make a pleasant evening?
And besides, ain't I going to do those things?  What difference does it
make about the mood and tense of a mere verb?  Didn't uncle tell me only
last Saturday, that I might as well go down to Arizona and hunt for
diamonds?  A fellow might as well make a good impression as a poor one."

"Nonsense.  You'll get to believing your own romancing by and by."

"Well, you'll see.  When Sellers and I get that appropriation, I'll show
you an establishment in town and another on the Hudson and a box at the
opera."

"Yes, it will be like Col. Sellers' plantation at Hawkeye.  Did you ever
see that?"

"Now, don't be cross, Phil.  She's just superb, that little woman.  You
never told me."

"Who's just superb?" growled Philip, fancying this turn of the
conversation less than the other.

"Well, Mrs. Montague, if you must know."  And Harry stopped to light a
cigar, and then puffed on in silence.  The little quarrel didn't last
over night, for Harry never appeared to cherish any ill-will half a
second, and Philip was too sensible to continue a row about nothing; and
he had invited Harry to come with him.

The young gentlemen stayed in Fallkill a week, and were every day at the
Montagues, and took part in the winter gaieties of the village.  There
were parties here and there to which the friends of Ruth and the
Montagues were of course invited, and Harry in the generosity of his
nature, gave in return a little supper at the hotel, very simple indeed,
with dancing in the hall, and some refreshments passed round.  And Philip
found the whole thing in the bill when he came to pay it.

Before the week was over Philip thought he had a new light on the
character of Ruth.  Her absorption in the small gaieties of the society
there surprised him.  He had few opportunities for serious conversation
with her.  There was always some butterfly or another flitting about,
and when Philip showed by his manner that he was not pleased, Ruth
laughed merrily enough and rallied him on his soberness--she declared he
was getting to be grim and unsocial.  He talked indeed more with Alice
than with Ruth, and scarcely concealed from her the trouble that was in
his mind.  It needed, in fact, no word from him, for she saw clearly
enough what was going forward, and knew her sex well enough to know there
was no remedy for it but time.

"Ruth is a dear girl, Philip, and has as much firmness of purpose as
ever, but don't you see she has just discovered that she is fond of
society?  Don't you let her see you are selfish about it, is my advice."

The last evening they were to spend in Fallkill, they were at the
Montagues, and Philip hoped that he would find Ruth in a different mood.
But she was never more gay, and there was a spice of mischief in her eye
and in her laugh.  "Confound it," said Philip to himself, "she's in a
perfect twitter."

He would have liked to quarrel with her, and fling himself out of the
house in tragedy style, going perhaps so far as to blindly wander off
miles into the country and bathe his throbbing brow in the chilling rain
of the stars, as people do in novels; but he had no opportunity.  For
Ruth was as serenely unconscious of mischief as women can be at times,
and fascinated him more than ever with her little demurenesses and half-
confidences.  She even said "Thee" to him once in reproach for a cutting
speech he began.  And the sweet little word made his heart beat like a
trip-hammer, for never in all her life had she said "thee" to him before.

Was she fascinated with Harry's careless 'bon homie' and gay assurance?
Both chatted away in high spirits, and made the evening whirl along in
the most mirthful manner.  Ruth sang for Harry, and that young gentleman
turned the leaves for her at the piano, and put in a bass note now and
then where he thought it would tell.

Yes, it was a merry evening, and Philip was heartily glad when it was
over, and the long leave-taking with the family was through with.

"Farewell Philip.  Good night Mr. Brierly," Ruth's clear voice sounded
after them as they went down the walk.

And she spoke Harry's name last, thought Philip.




CHAPTER XXIII.

               "O see ye not yon narrow road
               So thick beset wi' thorns and briers?
               That is the Path of Righteousness,
               Though after it but few inquires.

               "And see ye not yon braid, braid road,
               That lies across the lily leven?
               That is the Path of Wickedness,
               Though some call it the road to Heaven."

                                             Thomas the Rhymer.

Phillip and Harry reached New York in very different states of mind.
Harry was buoyant.  He found a letter from Col. Sellers urging him to go
to Washington and confer with Senator Dilworthy.  The petition was in his
hands.

It had been signed by everybody of any importance in Missouri, and would
be presented immediately.

"I should go on myself," wrote the Colonel, "but I am engaged in the
invention of a process for lighting such a city as St. Louis by means of
water; just attach my machine to the water-pipes anywhere and the
decomposition of the fluid begins, and you will have floods of light for
the mere cost of the machine.  I've nearly got the lighting part, but I
want to attach to it a heating, cooking, washing and ironing apparatus.
It's going to be the great thing, but we'd better keep this appropriation
going while I am perfecting it."

Harry took letters to several congressmen from his uncle and from Mr.
Duff Brown, each of whom had an extensive acquaintance in both houses
where they were well known as men engaged in large private operations for
the public good and men, besides, who, in the slang of the day,
understood the virtues of "addition, division and silence."

Senator Dilworthy introduced the petition into the Senate with the remark
that he knew, personally, the signers of it, that they were men
interested; it was true, in the improvement of the country, but he
believed without any selfish motive, and that so far as he knew the
signers were loyal.  It pleased him to see upon the roll the names of
many colored citizens, and it must rejoice every friend of humanity to
know that this lately emancipated race were intelligently taking part in
the development of the resources of their native land.  He moved the
reference of the petition to the proper committee.

Senator Dilworthy introduced his young friend to influential members,
as a person who was very well informed about the Salt Lick Extension of
the Pacific, and was one of the Engineers who had made a careful survey
of Columbus River; and left him to exhibit his maps and plans and to show
the connection between the public treasury, the city of Napoleon and
legislation for the benefit off the whole country.

Harry was the guest of Senator Dilworthy.  There was scarcely any good
movement in which the Senator was not interested.  His house was open to
all the laborers in the field of total abstinence, and much of his time
was taken up in attending the meetings of this cause.  He had a Bible
class in the Sunday school of the church which he attended, and he
suggested to Harry that he might take a class during the time he remained
in Washington, Mr. Washington Hawkins had a class.  Harry asked the
Senator if there was a class of young ladies for him to teach, and after
that the Senator did not press the subject.

Philip, if the truth must be told, was not well satisfied with his
western prospects, nor altogether with the people he had fallen in with.
The railroad contractors held out large but rather indefinite promises.
Opportunities for a fortune he did not doubt existed in Missouri, but for
himself he saw no better means for livelihood than the mastery of the
profession he had rather thoughtlessly entered upon.  During the summer
he had made considerable practical advance in the science of engineering;
he had been diligent, and made himself to a certain extent necessary to
the work he was engaged on.  The contractors called him into their
consultations frequently, as to the character of the country he had been
over, and the cost of constructing the road, the nature of the work, etc.

Still Philip felt that if he was going to make either reputation or money
as an engineer, he had a great deal of hard study before him, and it is
to his credit that he did not shrink from it.  While Harry was in
Washington dancing attendance upon the national legislature and making
the acquaintance of the vast lobby that encircled it, Philip devoted
himself day and night, with an energy and a concentration he was capable
of, to the learning and theory of his profession, and to the science of
railroad building.  He wrote some papers at this time for the "Plow, the
Loom and the Anvil," upon the strength of materials, and especially upon
bridge-building, which attracted considerable attention, and were copied
into the English "Practical Magazine."  They served at any rate to raise
Philip in the opinion of his friends the contractors, for practical men
have a certain superstitious estimation of ability with the pen, and
though they may a little despise the talent, they are quite ready to make
use of it.

Philip sent copies of his performances to Ruth's father and to other
gentlemen whose good opinion he coveted, but he did not rest upon his
laurels.  Indeed, so diligently had he applied himself, that when it came
time for him to return to the West, he felt himself, at least in theory,
competent to take charge of a division in the field.




CHAPTER XXIV.

The capital of the Great Republic was a new world to country-bred
Washington Hawkins.  St. Louis was a greater city, but its floating.
population did not hail from great distances, and so it had the general
family aspect of the permanent population; but Washington gathered its
people from the four winds of heaven, and so the manners, the faces and
the fashions there, presented a variety that was infinite.  Washington
had never been in "society" in St. Louis, and he knew nothing of the ways
of its wealthier citizens and had never inspected one of their dwellings.
Consequently, everything in the nature of modern fashion and grandeur was
a new and wonderful revelation to him.

Washington is an interesting city to any of us.  It seems to become more
and more interesting the oftener we visit it.  Perhaps the reader has
never been there?  Very well.  You arrive either at night, rather too
late to do anything or see anything until morning, or you arrive so early
in the morning that you consider it best to go to your hotel and sleep an
hour or two while the sun bothers along over the Atlantic.  You cannot
well arrive at a pleasant intermediate hour, because the railway
corporation that keeps the keys of the only door that leads into the town
or out of it take care of that.  You arrive in tolerably good spirits,
because it is only thirty-eight miles from Baltimore to the capital, and
so you have only been insulted three times (provided you are not in a
sleeping car--the average is higher there): once when you renewed your
ticket after stopping over in Baltimore, once when you were about to
enter the "ladies' car" without knowing it was a lady's car, and once
When you asked the conductor at what hour you would reach Washington.

You are assailed by a long rank of hackmen who shake their whips in your
face as you step out upon the sidewalk; you enter what they regard as a
"carriage," in the capital, and you wonder why they do not take it out of
service and put it in the museum: we have few enough antiquities, and
it is little to our credit that we make scarcely any effort to preserve
the few we have.  You reach your hotel, presently--and here let us draw
the curtain of charity--because of course you have gone to the wrong one.
You being a stranger, how could you do otherwise?  There are a hundred
and eighteen bad hotels, and only one good one.  The most renowned and
popular hotel of them all is perhaps the worst one known to history.

It is winter, and night.  When you arrived, it was snowing.  When you
reached the hotel, it was sleeting.  When you went to bed, it was
raining.  During the night it froze hard, and the wind blew some chimneys
down.  When you got up in the morning, it was foggy.  When you finished
your breakfast at ten o'clock and went out, the sunshine was brilliant,
the weather balmy and delicious, and the mud and slush deep and all-
pervading.  You will like the climate when you get used to it.

You naturally wish to view the city; so you take an umbrella, an
overcoat, and a fan, and go forth.  The prominent features you soon
locate and get familiar with; first you glimpse the ornamental upper
works of a long, snowy palace projecting above a grove of trees, and a
tall, graceful white dome with a statue on it surmounting the palace and
pleasantly contrasting with the background of blue sky.  That building is
the capitol; gossips will tell you that by the original estimates it was
to cost $12,000,000, and that the government did come within $21,200,000
of building it for that sum.

You stand at the back of the capitol to treat yourself to a view, and it
is a very noble one.  You understand, the capitol stands upon the verge
of a high piece of table land, a fine commanding position, and its front
looks out over this noble situation for a city--but it don't see it, for
the reason that when the capitol extension was decided upon, the property
owners at once advanced their prices to such inhuman figures that the
people went down and built the city in the muddy low marsh behind the
temple of liberty; so now the lordly front of the building, with, its
imposing colonades, its, projecting, graceful wings, its, picturesque
groups of statuary, and its long terraced ranges of steps, flowing down
in white marble waves to the ground, merely looks out upon a sorrowful
little desert of cheap boarding houses.

So you observe, that you take your view from the back of the capitol.
And yet not from the airy outlooks of the dome, by the way, because to
get there you must pass through the great rotunda: and to do that, you
would have to see the marvelous Historical Paintings that hang there,
and the bas-reliefs--and what have you done that you should suffer thus?
And besides, you might have to pass through the old part of the building,
and you could not help seeing Mr. Lincoln, as petrified by a young lady
artist for $10,000--and you might take his marble emancipation
proclamation, which he holds out in his hand and contemplates, for a
folded napkin; and you might conceive from his expression and his
attitude, that he is finding fault with the washing.  Which is not the
case.  Nobody knows what is the matter with him; but everybody feels for
him.  Well, you ought not to go into the dome anyhow, because it would be
utterly impossible to go up there without seeing the frescoes in it--and
why should you be interested in the delirium tremens of art?

The capitol is a very noble and a very beautiful building, both within
and without, but you need not examine it now.  Still, if you greatly
prefer going into the dome, go.  Now your general glance gives you
picturesque stretches of gleaming water, on your left, with a sail here
and there and a lunatic asylum on shore; over beyond the water, on a
distant elevation, you see a squat yellow temple which your eye dwells
upon lovingly through a blur of unmanly moisture, for it recalls your
lost boyhood and the Parthenons done in molasses candy which made it
blest and beautiful.  Still in the distance, but on this side of the
water and close to its edge, the Monument to the Father of his Country
towers out of the mud--sacred soil is the, customary term.  It has the
aspect of a factory chimney with the top broken off.  The skeleton of a
decaying scaffolding lingers about its summit, and tradition says that
the spirit of Washington often comes down and sits on those rafters to
enjoy this tribute of respect which the nation has reared as the symbol
of its unappeasable gratitude.  The Monument is to be finished, some day,
and at that time our Washington will have risen still higher in the
nation's veneration, and will be known as the Great-Great-Grandfather of
his Country.  The memorial Chimney stands in a quiet pastoral locality
that is full of reposeful expression.  With a glass you can see the cow-
sheds about its base, and the contented sheep nimbling pebbles in the
desert solitudes that surround it, and the tired pigs dozing in the holy
calm of its protecting shadow.

Now you wrench your gaze loose, and you look down in front of you and see
the broad Pennsylvania Avenue stretching straight ahead for a mile or
more till it brings up against the iron fence in front of a pillared
granite pile, the Treasury building-an edifice that would command respect
in any capital.  The stores and hotels that wall in this broad avenue are
mean, and cheap, and dingy, and are better left without comment.  Beyond
the Treasury is a fine large white barn, with wide unhandsome grounds
about it.  The President lives there.  It is ugly enough outside, but
that is nothing to what it is inside.  Dreariness, flimsiness, bad taste
reduced to mathematical completeness is what the inside offers to the
eye, if it remains yet what it always has been.

The front and right hand views give you the city at large.  It is a wide
stretch of cheap little brick houses, with here and there a noble
architectural pile lifting itself out of the midst-government buildings,
these.  If the thaw is still going on when you come down and go about
town, you will wonder at the short-sightedness of the city fathers, when
you come to inspect the streets, in that they do not dilute the mud a
little more and use them for canals.

If you inquire around a little, you will find that there are more
boardinghouses to the square acre in Washington than there are in any
other city in the land, perhaps.  If you apply for a home in one of them,
it will seem odd to you to have the landlady inspect you with a severe
eye and then ask you if you are a member of Congress.  Perhaps, just as a
pleasantry, you will say yes.  And then she will tell you that she is
"full."  Then you show her her advertisement in the morning paper, and
there she stands, convicted and ashamed.  She will try to blush, and it
will be only polite in you to take the effort for the deed.  She shows
you her rooms, now, and lets yon take one--but she makes you pay in
advance for it.  That is what you will get for pretending to be a member
of Congress.  If you had been content to be merely a private citizen,
your trunk would have been sufficient security for your board.  If you
are curious and inquire into this thing, the chances are that your
landlady will be ill-natured enough to say that the person and property
of a Congressman are exempt from arrest or detention, and that with the
tears in her eyes she has seen several of the people's representatives
walk off to their several States and Territories carrying her unreceipted
board bills in their pockets for keepsakes.  And before you have been in
Washington many weeks you will be mean enough to believe her, too.

Of course you contrive to see everything and find out everything.  And
one of the first and most startling things you find out is, that every
individual you encounter in the City of Washington almost--and certainly
every separate and distinct individual in the public employment, from the
highest bureau chief, clear down to the maid who scrubs Department halls,
the night watchmen of the public buildings and the darkey boy who
purifies the Department spittoons--represents Political Influence.
Unless you can get the ear of a Senator, or a Congressman, or a Chief of
a Bureau or Department, and persuade him to use his "influence" in your
behalf, you cannot get an employment of the most trivial nature in
Washington.  Mere merit, fitness and capability, are useless baggage to
you without "influence."  The population of Washington consists pretty
much entirely of government employee and the people who board them.
There are thousands of these employees, and they have gathered there from
every corner of the Union and got their berths through the intercession
(command is nearer the word) of the Senators and Representatives of their
respective States.  It would be an odd circumstance to see a girl get
employment at three or four dollars a week in one of the great public
cribs without any political grandee to back her, but merely because she
was worthy, and competent, and a good citizen of a free country that
"treats all persons alike."  Washington would be mildly thunderstruck at
such a thing as that.  If you are a member of Congress, (no offence,) and
one of your constituents who doesn't know anything, and does not want to
go into the bother of learning something, and has no money, and no
employment, and can't earn a living, comes besieging you for help, do you
say, "Come, my friend, if your services were valuable you could get
employment elsewhere--don't want you here?  "Oh, no: You take him to a
Department and say, "Here, give this person something to pass away the
time at--and a salary"--and the thing is done.  You throw him on his
country.  He is his country's child, let his country support him.  There
is something good and motherly about Washington, the grand old benevolent
National Asylum for the Helpless.

The wages received by this great hive of employees are placed at the
liberal figure meet and just for skilled and competent labor.  Such of
them as are immediately employed about the two Houses of Congress, are
not only liberally paid also, but are remembered in the customary Extra
Compensation bill which slides neatly through, annually, with the general
grab that signalizes the last night of a session, and thus twenty per
cent. is added to their wages, for--for fun, no doubt.

Washington Hawkins' new life was an unceasing delight to him.  Senator
Dilworthy lived sumptuously, and Washington's quarters were charming--
gas; running water, hot and cold; bath-room, coal-fires, rich carpets,
beautiful pictures on the walls; books on religion, temperance, public
charities and financial schemes; trim colored servants, dainty food--
everything a body could wish for.  And as for stationery, there was no
end to it; the government furnished it; postage stamps were not needed--
the Senator's frank could convey a horse through the mails, if necessary.

And then he saw such dazzling company.  Renowned generals and admirals
who had seemed but colossal myths when he was in the far west, went in
and out before him or sat at the Senator's table, solidified into
palpable flesh and blood; famous statesmen crossed his path daily; that
once rare and awe-inspiring being, a Congressman, was become a common
spectacle--a spectacle so common, indeed, that he could contemplate it
without excitement, even without embarrassment; foreign ministers were
visible to the naked eye at happy intervals; he had looked upon the
President himself, and lived.  And more; this world of enchantment teemed
with speculation--the whole atmosphere was thick with hand that indeed
was Washington Hawkins' native air; none other refreshed his lungs so
gratefully.  He had found paradise at last.

The more he saw of his chief the Senator, the more he honored him, and
the more conspicuously the moral grandeur of his character appeared to
stand out.  To possess the friendship and the kindly interest of such a
man, Washington said in a letter to Louise, was a happy fortune for a
young man whose career had been so impeded and so clouded as his.

The weeks drifted by;--Harry Brierly flirted, danced, added lustre to the
brilliant Senatorial receptions, and diligently "buzzed" and "button-
holed" Congressmen in the interest of the Columbus River scheme; meantime
Senator Dilworthy labored hard in the same interest--and in others of
equal national importance.  Harry wrote frequently to Sellers, and always
encouragingly; and from these letters it was easy to see that Harry was a
pet with all Washington, and was likely to carry the thing through; that
the assistance rendered him by "old Dilworthy" was pretty fair--pretty
fair; "and every little helps, you know," said Harry.

Washington wrote Sellers officially, now and then.  In one of his letters
it appeared that whereas no member of the House committee favored the
scheme at first, there was now needed but one more vote to compass a
majority report.  Closing sentence:

     "Providence seems to further our efforts."
          (Signed,) "ABNER DILWORTHY, U. S. S.,
                         per WASHINGTON HAWKINS, P. S."

At the end of a week, Washington was able to send the happy news,
officially, as usual,--that the needed vote had been added and the bill
favorably reported from the Committee.  Other letters recorded its perils
in Committee of the whole, and by and by its victory, by just the skin of
its teeth, on third reading and final passage.  Then came letters telling
of Mr. Dilworthy's struggles with a stubborn majority in his own
Committee in the Senate; of how these gentlemen succumbed, one by one,
till a majority was secured.

Then there was a hiatus.  Washington watched every move on the board, and
he was in a good position to do this, for he was clerk of this committee,
and also one other.  He received no salary as private secretary, but
these two clerkships, procured by his benefactor, paid him an aggregate
of twelve dollars a day, without counting the twenty percent extra
compensation which would of course be voted to him on the last night of
the session.

He saw the bill go into Committee of the whole and struggle for its life
again, and finally worry through.  In the fullness of time he noted its
second reading, and by and by the day arrived when the grand ordeal came,
and it was put upon its final passage.  Washington listened with bated
breath to the "Aye!" "No!" "No!" "Aye!" of the voters, for a few dread
minutes, and then could bear the suspense no longer.  He ran down from
the gallery and hurried home to wait.

At the end of two or three hours the Senator arrived in the bosom of his
family, and dinner was waiting.  Washington sprang forward, with the
eager question on his lips, and the Senator said:

"We may rejoice freely, now, my son--Providence has crowned our efforts
with success."




CHAPTER XXV.

Washington sent grand good news to Col. Sellers that night.  To Louise he
wrote:

"It is beautiful to hear him talk when his heart is full of thankfulness
for some manifestation of the Divine favor.  You shall know him, some day
my Louise, and knowing him you will honor him, as I do."

Harry wrote:

"I pulled it through, Colonel, but it was a tough job, there is no
question about that.  There was not a friend to the measure in the House
committee when I began, and not a friend in the Senate committee except
old Dil himself, but they were all fixed for a majority report when I
hauled off my forces.  Everybody here says you can't get a thing like
this through Congress without buying committees for straight-out cash on
delivery, but I think I've taught them a thing or two--if I could only
make them believe it.  When I tell the old residenters that this thing
went through without buying a vote or making a promise, they say, 'That's
rather too thin.'  And when I say thin or not thin it's a fact, anyway,
they say, 'Come, now, but do you really believe that?' and when I say I
don't believe anything about it, I know it, they smile and say, 'Well,
you are pretty innocent, or pretty blind, one or the other--there's no
getting around that.'  Why they really do believe that votes have been
bought--they do indeed.  But let them keep on thinking so.  I have found
out that if a man knows how to talk to women, and has a little gift in
the way of argument with men, he can afford to play for an appropriation
against a money bag and give the money bag odds in the game.  We've raked
in $200,000 of Uncle Sam's money, say what they will--and there is more
where this came from, when we want it, and I rather fancy I am the person
that can go in and occupy it, too, if I do say it myself, that shouldn't,
perhaps.  I'll be with you within a week.  Scare up all the men you can,
and put them to work at once.  When I get there I propose to make things
hum."  The great news lifted Sellers into the clouds.  He went to work on
the instant.  He flew hither and thither making contracts, engaging men,
and steeping his soul in the ecstasies of business.  He was the happiest
man in Missouri.  And Louise was the happiest woman; for presently came a
letter from Washington which said:

"Rejoice with me, for the long agony is over!  We have waited patiently
and faithfully, all these years, and now at last the reward is at hand.
A man is to pay our family $40,000 for the Tennessee Land!  It is but a
little sum compared to what we could get by waiting, but I do so long to
see the day when I can call you my own, that I have said to myself,
better take this and enjoy life in a humble way than wear out our best
days in this miserable separation.  Besides, I can put this money into
operations here that will increase it a hundred fold, yes, a thousand
fold, in a few months.  The air is full of such chances, and I know our
family would consent in a moment that I should put in their shares with
mine.  Without a doubt we shall be worth half a million dollars in a year
from this time--I put it at the very lowest figure, because it is always
best to be on the safe side--half a million at the very lowest
calculation, and then your father will give his consent and we can marry
at last.  Oh, that will be a glorious day.  Tell our friends the good
news--I want all to share it."

And she did tell her father and mother, but they said, let it be kept
still for the present.  The careful father also told her to write
Washington and warn him not to speculate with the money, but to wait a
little and advise with one or two wise old heads.  She did this.  And she
managed to keep the good news to herself, though it would seem that the
most careless observer might have seen by her springing step and her
radiant countenance that some fine piece of good fortune had descended
upon her.

Harry joined the Colonel at Stone's Landing, and that dead place sprang
into sudden life.  A swarm of men were hard at work, and the dull air was
filled with the cheery music of labor.  Harry had been constituted
engineer-in-general, and he threw the full strength of his powers into
his work.  He moved among his hirelings like a king.  Authority seemed to
invest him with a new splendor.  Col. Sellers, as general superintendent
of a great public enterprise, was all that a mere human being could be--
and more.  These two grandees went at their imposing "improvement" with
the air of men who had been charged with the work of altering the
foundations of the globe.

They turned their first attention to straightening the river just above
the Landing, where it made a deep bend, and where the maps and plans
showed that the process of straightening would not only shorten distance
but increase the "fall."  They started a cut-off canal across the
peninsula formed by the bend, and such another tearing up of the earth
and slopping around in the mud as followed the order to the men, had
never been seen in that region before.  There was such a panic among the
turtles that at the end of six hours there was not one to be found within
three miles of Stone's Landing.  They took the young and the aged, the
decrepit and the sick upon their backs and left for tide-water in
disorderly procession, the tadpoles following and the bull-frogs bringing
up the rear.

Saturday night came, but the men were obliged to wait, because the
appropriation had not come.  Harry said he had written to hurry up the
money and it would be along presently.  So the work continued, on Monday.
Stone's Landing was making quite a stir in the vicinity, by this time.
Sellers threw a lot or two on the market, "as a feeler," and they sold
well.  He re-clothed his family, laid in a good stock of provisions, and
still had money left.  He started a bank account, in a small way--and
mentioned the deposit casually to friends; and to strangers, too; to
everybody, in fact; but not as a new thing--on the contrary, as a matter
of life-long standing.  He could not keep from buying trifles every day
that were not wholly necessary, it was such a gaudy thing to get out his
bank-book and draw a check, instead of using his old customary formula,
"Charge it" Harry sold a lot or two, also--and had a dinner party or two
at Hawkeye and a general good time with the money.  Both men held on
pretty strenuously for the coming big prices, however.

At the end of a month things were looking bad.  Harry had besieged the
New York headquarters of the Columbus River Slack-water Navigation
Company with demands, then commands, and finally appeals, but to no
purpose; the appropriation did not come; the letters were not even
answered.  The workmen were clamorous, now.  The Colonel and Harry
retired to consult.

"What's to be done?" said the Colonel.

"Hang'd if I know."

"Company say anything?"

"Not a word."

"You telegraphed yesterday?"

Yes, and the day before, too."

"No answer?"

"None-confound them!"

Then there was a long pause.  Finally both spoke at once:

"I've got it!"

"I've got it!"

"What's yours?" said Harry.

"Give the boys thirty-day orders on the Company for the back pay."

"That's it-that's my own idea to a dot.  But then--but then----"

"Yes, I know," said the Colonel; "I know they can't wait for the orders
to go to New York and be cashed, but what's the reason they can't get
them discounted in Hawkeye?"

"Of course they can.  That solves the difficulty.  Everybody knows the
appropriation's been made and the Company's perfectly good."

So the orders were given and the men appeased, though they grumbled a
little at first.  The orders went well enough for groceries and such
things at a fair discount, and the work danced along gaily for a time.
Two or three purchasers put up frame houses at the Landing and moved in,
and of course a far-sighted but easy-going journeyman printer wandered
along and started the "Napoleon Weekly Telegraph and Literary
Repository"--a paper with a Latin motto from the Unabridged dictionary,
and plenty of "fat" conversational tales and double-leaded poetry--all
for two dollars a year, strictly in advance.  Of course the merchants
forwarded the orders at once to New York--and never heard of them again.

At the end of some weeks Harry's orders were a drug in the market--nobody
would take them at any discount whatever.  The second month closed with a
riot.--Sellers was absent at the time, and Harry began an active absence
himself with the mob at his heels.  But being on horseback, he had the
advantage.  He did not tarry in Hawkeye, but went on, thus missing
several appointments with creditors.  He was far on his flight eastward,
and well out of danger when the next morning dawned.  He telegraphed the
Colonel to go down and quiet the laborers--he was bound east for money--
everything would be right in a week--tell the men so--tell them to rely
on him and not be afraid.

Sellers found the mob quiet enough when he reached the Landing.
They had gutted the Navigation office, then piled the beautiful engraved
stock-books and things in the middle of the floor and enjoyed the bonfire
while it lasted.  They had a liking for the Colonel, but still they had
some idea of hanging him, as a sort of make-shift that might answer,
after a fashion, in place of more satisfactory game.

But they made the mistake of waiting to hear what he had to say first.
Within fifteen minutes his tongue had done its work and they were all
rich men.--He gave every one of them a lot in the suburbs of the city of
Stone's Landing, within a mile and a half of the future post office and
railway station, and they promised to resume work as soon as Harry got
east and started the money along.  Now things were blooming and pleasant
again, but the men had no money, and nothing to live on.  The Colonel
divided with them the money he still had in bank--an act which had
nothing surprising about it because he was generally ready to divide
whatever he had with anybody that wanted it, and it was owing to this
very trait that his family spent their days in poverty and at times were
pinched with famine.

When the men's minds had cooled and Sellers was gone, they hated
themselves for letting him beguile them with fine speeches, but it was
too late, now--they agreed to hang him another time--such time as
Providence should appoint.




CHAPTER XXVI.

Rumors of Ruth's frivolity and worldliness at Fallkill traveled to
Philadelphia in due time, and occasioned no little undertalk among the
Bolton relatives.

Hannah Shoecraft told another, cousin that, for her part, she never
believed that Ruth had so much more "mind" than other people; and Cousin
Hulda added that she always thought Ruth was fond of admiration, and that
was the reason she was unwilling to wear plain clothes and attend
Meeting.  The story that Ruth was "engaged" to a young gentleman of
fortune in Fallkill came with the other news, and helped to give point to
the little satirical remarks that went round about Ruth's desire to be a
doctor!

Margaret Bolton was too wise to be either surprised or alarmed by these
rumors.  They might be true; she knew a woman's nature too well to think
them improbable, but she also knew how steadfast Ruth was in her
purposes, and that, as a brook breaks into ripples and eddies and dances
and sports by the way, and yet keeps on to the sea, it was in Ruth's
nature to give back cheerful answer to the solicitations of friendliness
and pleasure, to appear idly delaying even, and sporting in the sunshine,
while the current of her resolution flowed steadily on.

That Ruth had this delight in the mere surface play of life that she
could, for instance, be interested in that somewhat serious by-play
called "flirtation," or take any delight in the exercise of those little
arts of pleasing and winning which are none the less genuine and charming
because they are not intellectual, Ruth, herself, had never suspected
until she went to Fallkill.  She had believed it her duty to subdue her
gaiety of temperament, and let nothing divert her from what are called
serious pursuits: In her limited experience she brought everything to the
judgment of her own conscience, and settled the affairs of all the world
in her own serene judgment hall.  Perhaps her mother saw this, and saw
also that there was nothing in the Friends' society to prevent her from
growing more and more opinionated.

When Ruth returned to Philadelphia, it must be confessed--though it would
not have been by her--that a medical career did seem a little less
necessary for her than formerly; and coming back in a glow of triumph, as
it were, and in the consciousness of the freedom and life in a lively
society and in new and sympathetic friendship, she anticipated pleasure
in an attempt to break up the stiffness and levelness of the society at
home, and infusing into it something of the motion and sparkle which were
so agreeable at Fallkill.  She expected visits from her new friends, she
would have company, the new books and the periodicals about which all the
world was talking, and, in short, she would have life.

For a little while she lived in this atmosphere which she had brought
with her.  Her mother was delighted with this change in her, with the
improvement in her health and the interest she exhibited in home affairs.
Her father enjoyed the society of his favorite daughter as he did few
things besides; he liked her mirthful and teasing ways, and not less a
keen battle over something she had read.  He had been a great reader all
his life, and a remarkable memory had stored his mind with encyclopaedic
information.  It was one of Ruth's delights to cram herself with some out
of the way subject and endeavor to catch her father; but she almost
always failed.  Mr. Bolton liked company, a house full of it, and the
mirth of young people, and he would have willingly entered into any
revolutionary plans Ruth might have suggested in relation to Friends'
society.

But custom and the fixed order are stronger than the most enthusiastic
and rebellious young lady, as Ruth very soon found.  In spite of all her
brave efforts, her frequent correspondence, and her determined animation,
her books and her music, she found herself settling into the clutches of
the old monotony, and as she realized the hopelessness of her endeavors,
the medical scheme took new hold of her, and seemed to her the only
method of escape.

"Mother, thee does not know how different it is in Fallkill, how much
more interesting the people are one meets, how much more life there is."

"But thee will find the world, child, pretty much all the same, when thee
knows it better.  I thought once as thee does now, and had as little
thought of being a Friend as thee has.  Perhaps when thee has seen more,
thee will better appreciate a quiet life."

"Thee married young.  I shall not marry young, and perhaps not at all,"
said Ruth, with a look of vast experience.

"Perhaps thee doesn't know thee own mind; I have known persons of thy
age who did not.  Did thee see anybody whom thee would like to live with
always in Fallkill?"

"Not always," replied Ruth with a little laugh.  "Mother, I think I
wouldn't say 'always' to any one until I have a profession and am as
independent as he is.  Then my love would be a free act, and not in any
way a necessity."

Margaret Bolton smiled at this new-fangled philosophy.  "Thee will find
that love, Ruth, is a thing thee won't reason about, when it comes, nor
make any bargains about.  Thee wrote that Philip Sterling was at
Fallkill."

"Yes, and Henry Brierly, a friend of his; a very amusing young fellow and
not so serious-minded as Philip, but a bit of a fop maybe."

"And thee preferred the fop to the serious-minded?"

"I didn't prefer anybody; but Henry Brierly was good company, which
Philip wasn't always."

"Did thee know thee father had been in correspondence with Philip?"

Ruth looked up surprised and with a plain question in her eyes.

"Oh, it's not about thee."

"What then?" and if there was any shade of disappointment in her tone,
probably Ruth herself did not know it.

"It's about some land up in the country.  That man Bigler has got father
into another speculation."

"That odious man!  Why will father have anything to do with him?  Is it
that railroad?"

"Yes.  Father advanced money and took land as security, and whatever has
gone with the money and the bonds, he has on his hands a large tract of
wild land."

"And what has Philip to do with that?"

"It has good timber, if it could ever be got out, and father says that
there must be coal in it; it's in a coal region.  He wants Philip to
survey it, and examine it for indications of coal."

"It's another of father's fortunes, I suppose," said Ruth.  "He has put
away so many fortunes for us that I'm afraid we never shall find them."

Ruth was interested in it nevertheless, and perhaps mainly because Philip
was to be connected with the enterprise.  Mr. Bigler came to dinner with
her father next day, and talked a great deal about Mr. Bolton's
magnificent tract of land, extolled the sagacity that led him to secure
such a property, and led the talk along to another railroad which would
open a northern communication to this very land.

"Pennybacker says it's full of coal, he's no doubt of it, and a railroad
to strike the Erie would make it a fortune."

"Suppose you take the land and work the thing up, Mr. Bigler; you may
have the tract for three dollars an acre."

"You'd throw it away, then," replied Mr. Bigler, "and I'm not the man to
take advantage of a friend.  But if you'll put a mortgage on it for the
northern road, I wouldn't mind taking an interest, if Pennybacker is
willing; but Pennybacker, you know, don't go much on land, he sticks to
the legislature."  And Mr. Bigler laughed.

When Mr. Bigler had gone, Ruth asked her father about Philip's connection
with the land scheme.

"There's nothing definite," said Mr. Bolton.  "Philip is showing aptitude
for his profession.  I hear the best reports of him in New York, though
those sharpers don't 'intend to do anything but use him.  I've written
and offered him employment in surveying and examining the land.  We want
to know what it is.  And if there is anything in it that his enterprise
can dig out, he shall have an interest.  I should be glad to give the
young fellow a lift."

All his life Eli Bolton had been giving young fellows a lift, and
shouldering the loses when things turned out unfortunately.  His ledger,
take-it-altogether, would not show a balance on the right side; but
perhaps the losses on his books will turn out to be credits in a world
where accounts are kept on a different basis.  The left hand of the
ledger will appear the right, looked at from the other side.

Philip, wrote to Ruth rather a comical account of the bursting up of the
city of Napoleon and the navigation improvement scheme, of Harry's flight
and the Colonel's discomfiture.  Harry left in such a hurry that he
hadn't even time to bid Miss Laura Hawkins good-bye, but he had no doubt
that Harry would console himself with the next pretty face he saw--
a remark which was thrown in for Ruth's benefit.  Col. Sellers had in all
probability, by this time, some other equally brilliant speculation in
his brain.

As to the railroad, Philip had made up his mind that it was merely kept
on foot for speculative purposes in Wall street, and he was about to quit
it.  Would Ruth be glad to hear, he wondered, that he was coming East?
For he was coming, in spite of a letter from Harry in New York, advising
him to hold on until he had made some arrangements in regard to
contracts, he to be a little careful about Sellers, who was somewhat
visionary, Harry said.

The summer went on without much excitement for Ruth.  She kept up a
correspondence with Alice, who promised a visit in the fall, she read,
she earnestly tried to interest herself in home affairs and such people
as came to the house; but she found herself falling more and more into
reveries, and growing weary of things as they were.  She felt that
everybody might become in time like two relatives from a Shaker
establishment in Ohio, who visited the Boltons about this time, a father
and son, clad exactly alike, and alike in manners.  The son; however,
who was not of age, was more unworldly and sanctimonious than his father;
he always addressed his parent as "Brother Plum," and bore himself,
altogether in such a superior manner that Ruth longed to put bent pins in
his chair.  Both father and son wore the long, single breasted collarless
coats of their society, without buttons, before or behind, but with a row
of hooks and eyes on either side in front.  It was Ruth's suggestion that
the coats would be improved by a single hook and eye sewed on in the
small of the back where the buttons usually are.

Amusing as this Shaker caricature of the Friends was, it oppressed Ruth
beyond measure; and increased her feeling of being stifled.

It was a most unreasonable feeling.  No home could be pleasanter than
Ruth's.  The house, a little out of the city; was one of those elegant
country residences which so much charm visitors to the suburbs of
Philadelphia.  A modern dwelling and luxurious in everything that wealth
could suggest for comfort, it stood in the midst of exquisitely kept
lawns, with groups of trees, parterres of flowers massed in colors, with
greenhouse, grapery and garden; and on one side, the garden sloped away
in undulations to a shallow brook that ran over a pebbly bottom and sang
under forest trees.  The country about teas the perfection of cultivated
landscape, dotted with cottages, and stately mansions of Revolutionary
date, and sweet as an English country-side, whether seen in the soft
bloom of May or in the mellow ripeness of late October.

It needed only the peace of the mind within, to make it a paradise.
One riding by on the Old Germantown road, and seeing a young girl
swinging in the hammock on the piazza and, intent upon some volume of old
poetry or the latest novel, would no doubt have envied a life so idyllic.
He could not have imagined that the young girl was reading a volume of
reports of clinics and longing to be elsewhere.

Ruth could not have been more discontented if all the wealth about her
had been as unsubstantial as a dream.  Perhaps she so thought it.

"I feel," she once said to her father, "as if I were living in a house of
cards."

"And thee would like to turn it into a hospital?"

"No.  But tell me father," continued Ruth, not to be put off, "is thee
still going on with that Bigler and those other men who come here and
entice thee?"

Mr. Bolton smiled, as men do when they talk with women about "business"
"Such men have their uses, Ruth.  They keep the world active, and I owe a
great many of my best operations to such men.  Who knows, Ruth, but this
new land purchase, which I confess I yielded a little too much to Bigler
in, may not turn out a fortune for thee and the rest of the children?"

"Ah, father, thee sees every thing in a rose-colored light.  I do believe
thee wouldn't have so readily allowed me to begin the study of medicine,
if it hadn't had the novelty of an experiment to thee."

"And is thee satisfied with it?"

"If thee means, if I have had enough of it, no.  I just begin to see what
I can do in it, and what a noble profession it is for a woman.  Would
thee have me sit here like a bird on a bough and wait for somebody to
come and put me in a cage?"

Mr. Bolton was not sorry to divert the talk from his own affairs, and he
did not think it worth while to tell his family of a performance that
very day which was entirely characteristic of him.

Ruth might well say that she felt as if she were living in a house of
cards, although the Bolton household had no idea of the number of perils
that hovered over them, any more than thousands of families in America
have of the business risks and contingences upon which their prosperity
and luxury hang.

A sudden call upon Mr. Bolton for a large sum of money, which must be
forthcoming at once, had found him in the midst of a dozen ventures, from
no one of which a dollar could be realized.  It was in vain that he
applied to his business acquaintances and friends; it was a period of
sudden panic and no money.  "A hundred thousand!  Mr. Bolton," said
Plumly.  "Good God, if you should ask me for ten, I shouldn't know where
to get it."

And yet that day Mr. Small (Pennybacker, Bigler and Small) came to Mr.
Bolton with a piteous story of ruin in a coal operation, if he could not
raise ten thousand dollars.  Only ten, and he was sure of a fortune.
Without it he was a beggar.  Mr. Bolton had already Small's notes for a
large amount in his safe, labeled "doubtful;" he had helped him again and
again, and always with the same result.  But Mr. Small spoke with a
faltering voice of his family, his daughter in school, his wife ignorant
of his calamity, and drew such a picture of their agony, that Mr. Bolton
put by his own more pressing necessity, and devoted the day to scraping
together, here and there, ten thousand dollars for this brazen beggar,
who had never kept a promise to him nor paid a debt.

Beautiful credit!  The foundation of modern society.  Who shall say that
this is not the golden age of mutual trust, of unlimited reliance upon
human promises?  That is a peculiar condition of society which enables a
whole nation to instantly recognize point and meaning in the familiar
newspaper anecdote, which puts into the mouth of a distinguished
speculator in lands and mines this remark:--"I wasn't worth a cent two
years ago, and now I owe two millions of dollars."




CHAPTER XXVII.

It was a hard blow to poor Sellers to see the work on his darling
enterprise stop, and the noise and bustle and confusion that had been
such refreshment to his soul, sicken and die out.  It was hard to come
down to humdrum ordinary life again after being a General Superintendent
and the most conspicuous man in the community.  It was sad to see his
name disappear from the newspapers; sadder still to see it resurrected at
intervals, shorn of its aforetime gaudy gear of compliments and clothed
on with rhetorical tar and feathers.

But his friends suffered more on his account than he did.  He was a cork
that could not be kept under the water many moments at a time.

He had to bolster up his wife's spirits every now and then.  On one of
these occasions he said:

"It's all right, my dear, all right; it will all come right in a little
while.  There's $200,000 coming, and that will set things booming again:
Harry seems to be having some difficulty, but that's to be expected--you
can't move these big operations to the tune of Fisher's Hornpipe, you
know.  But Harry will get it started along presently, and then you'll
see!  I expect the news every day now."

"But Beriah, you've been expecting it every day, all along, haven't you?"

"Well, yes; yes--I don't know but I have.  But anyway, the longer it's
delayed, the nearer it grows to the time when it will start--same as
every day you live brings you nearer to--nearer--"

"The grave?"

"Well, no--not that exactly; but you can't understand these things, Polly
dear--women haven't much head for business, you know.  You make yourself
perfectly comfortable, old lady, and you'll see how we'll trot this right
along.  Why bless you, let the appropriation lag, if it wants to--that's
no great matter--there's a bigger thing than that."

"Bigger than $200,000, Beriah?"

"Bigger, child?--why, what's $200,000?  Pocket money!  Mere pocket money!
Look at the railroad!  Did you forget the railroad?  It ain't many months
till spring; it will be coming right along, and the railroad swimming
right along behind it.  Where'll it be by the middle of summer?  Just
stop and fancy a moment--just think a little--don't anything suggest
itself?  Bless your heart, you dear women live right in the present all
the time--but a man, why a man lives----

"In the future, Beriah?  But don't we live in the future most too much,
Beriah?  We do somehow seem to manage to live on next year's crop of corn
and potatoes as a general thing while this year is still dragging along,
but sometimes it's not a robust diet,--Beriah.  But don't look that way,
dear--don't mind what I say.  I don't mean to fret, I don't mean to
worry; and I don't, once a month, do I, dear?  But when I get a little
low and feel bad, I get a bit troubled and worrisome, but it don't mean
anything in the world.  It passes right away.  I know you're doing all
you can, and I don't want to seem repining and ungrateful--for I'm not,
Beriah--you know I'm not, don't you?"

"Lord bless you, child, I know you are the very best little woman that
ever lived--that ever lived on the whole face of the Earth!  And I know
that I would be a dog not to work for you and think for you and scheme
for you with all my might.  And I'll bring things all right yet, honey--
cheer up and don't you fear.  The railroad----"

"Oh, I had forgotten the railroad, dear, but when a body gets blue, a
body forgets everything.  Yes, the railroad--tell me about the railroad."

"Aha, my girl, don't you see?  Things ain't so dark, are they?  Now I
didn't forget the railroad.  Now just think for a moment--just figure up
a little on the future dead moral certainties.  For instance, call this
waiter St. Louis.

"And we'll lay this fork (representing the railroad) from St. Louis to
this potato, which is Slouchburg:

"Then with this carving knife we'll continue the railroad from Slouchburg
to Doodleville, shown by the black pepper:

"Then we run along the--yes--the comb--to the tumbler that's Brimstone:

"Thence by the pipe to Belshazzar, which is the salt-cellar:

"Thence to, to--that quill--Catfish--hand me the pincushion, Marie
Antoinette:

"Thence right along these shears to this horse, Babylon:

"Then by the spoon to Bloody Run--thank you, the ink:

"Thence to Hail Columbia--snuffers, Polly, please move that cup and
saucer close up, that's Hail Columbia:

"Then--let me open my knife--to Hark-from-the-Tomb, where we'll put the
candle-stick--only a little distance from Hail Columbia to Hark-from-the-
Tomb--down-grade all the way.

"And there we strike Columbus River--pass me two or throe skeins of
thread to stand for the river; the sugar bowl will do for Hawkeye, and
the rat trap for Stone's Landing-Napoleon, I mean--and you can see how
much better Napoleon is located than Hawkeye.  Now here you are with your
railroad complete, and showing its continuation to Hallelujah and thence
to Corruptionville.

"Now then-them you are!  It's a beautiful road, beautiful.  Jeff Thompson
can out-engineer any civil engineer that ever sighted through an aneroid,
or a theodolite, or whatever they call it--he calls it sometimes one and
sometimes the other just whichever levels off his sentence neatest, I
reckon.  But ain't it a ripping toad, though?  I tell you, it'll make a
stir when it gets along.  Just see what a country it goes through.
There's your onions at Slouchburg--noblest onion country that graces
God's footstool; and there's your turnip country all around Doodleville--
bless my life, what fortunes are going to be made there when they get
that contrivance perfected for extracting olive oil out of turnips--if
there's any in them; and I reckon there is, because Congress has made an
appropriation of money to test the thing, and they wouldn't have done
that just on conjecture, of course.  And now we come to the Brimstone
region--cattle raised there till you can't rest--and corn, and all that
sort of thing.  Then you've got a little stretch along through Belshazzar
that don't produce anything now--at least nothing but rocks--but
irrigation will fetch it.  Then from Catfish to Babylon it's a little
swampy, but there's dead loads of peat down under there somewhere.  Next
is the Bloody Run and Hail Columbia country--tobacco enough can be raised
there to support two such railroads.  Next is the sassparilla region.
I reckon there's enough of that truck along in there on the line of the
pocket-knife, from Hail Columbia to Hark-from-the Tomb to fat up all the
consumptives in all the hospitals from Halifax to the Holy Land.  It just
grows like weeds!  I've got a little belt of sassparilla land in there
just tucked away unobstrusively waiting for my little Universal
Expectorant to get into shape in my head.  And I'll fix that, you know.
One of these days I'll have all the nations of the earth expecto--"

"But Beriah, dear--"

"Don't interrupt me; Polly--I don't want you to lose the run of the map--
well, take your toy-horse, James Fitz-James, if you must have it--and run
along with you.  Here, now--the soap will do for Babylon.  Let me see--
where was I?  Oh yes--now we run down to Stone's Lan--Napoleon--now we
run down to Napoleon.  Beautiful road.  Look at that, now.  Perfectly
straight line-straight as the way to the grave.  And see where it leaves
Hawkeye-clear out in the cold, my dear, clear out in the cold.  That
town's as bound to die as--well if I owned it I'd get its obituary ready,
now, and notify the mourners.  Polly, mark my words--in three years from
this, Hawkeye'll be a howling wilderness.  You'll see.  And just look at
that river--noblest stream that meanders over the thirsty earth!--
calmest, gentlest artery that refreshes her weary bosom!  Railroad goes
all over it and all through it--wades right along on stilts.  Seventeen
bridges in three miles and a half-forty-nine bridges from Hark-from-the-
Tomb to Stone's Landing altogether--forty nine bridges, and culverts
enough to culvert creation itself!  Hadn't skeins of thread enough to
represent them all--but you get an idea--perfect trestle-work of bridges
for seventy two miles: Jeff Thompson and I fixed all that, you know; he's
to get the contracts and I'm to put them through on the divide.  Just
oceans of money in those bridges.  It's the only part of the railroad I'm
interested in,--down along the line--and it's all I want, too.  It's
enough, I should judge. Now here we are at Napoleon.  Good enough country
plenty good enough--all it wants is population.  That's all right--that
will come.  And it's no bad country now for calmness and solitude, I can
tell you--though there's no money in that, of course.  No money, but a
man wants rest, a man wants peace--a man don't want to rip and tear
around all the time.  And here we go, now, just as straight as a string
for Hallelujah--it's a beautiful angle--handsome up grade all the way--
and then away you go to Corruptionville, the gaudiest country for early
carrots and cauliflowers that ever--good missionary field, too.  There
ain't such another missionary field outside the jungles of Central
Africa.  And patriotic?--why they named it after Congress itself.  Oh,
I warn you, my dear, there's a good time coming, and it'll be right along
before you know what you're about, too.  That railroad's fetching it.
You see what it is as far as I've got, and if I had enough bottles and
soap and boot-jacks and such things to carry it along to where it joins
onto the Union Pacific, fourteen hundred miles from here, I should
exhibit to you in that little internal improvement a spectacle of
inconceivable sublimity.  So, don't you see?  We've got the rail road to
fall back on; and in the meantime, what are we worrying about that
$200,000 appropriation for?  That's all right.  I'd be willing to bet
anything that the very next letter that comes from Harry will--"

The eldest boy entered just in the nick of time and brought a letter,
warm from the post-office.

"Things do look bright, after all, Beriah.  I'm sorry I was blue, but it
did seem as if everything had been going against us for whole ages.  Open
the letter--open it quick, and let's know all about it before we stir out
of our places.  I am all in a fidget to know what it says."

The letter was opened, without any unnecessary delay.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

Whatever may have been the language of Harry's letter to the Colonel,
the information it conveyed wars condensed or expanded, one or the other,
from the following episode of his visit to New York:

He called, with official importance in his mien, at No.--Wall street,
where a great gilt sign betokened the presence of the head-quarters of
the a Columbus River Slack-Water Navigation Company."  He entered and
gave a dressy porter his card, and was requested to wait a moment in a
sort of ante-room.  The porter returned in a minute; and asked whom he
would like to see?

"The president of the company, of course."

"He is busy with some gentlemen, sir; says he will be done with them
directly."

That a copper-plate card with "Engineer-in-Chief" on it should be
received with such tranquility as this, annoyed Mr. Brierly not a little.
But he had to submit.  Indeed his annoyance had time to augment a good
deal; for he was allowed to cool his heels a frill half hour in the ante-
room before those gentlemen emerged and he was ushered into the presence.
He found a stately dignitary occupying a very official chair behind a
long green morocco-covered table, in a room with sumptuously carpeted and
furnished, and well garnished with pictures.

"Good morning, sir; take a seat--take a seat."

"Thank you sir," said Harry, throwing as much chill into his manner as
his ruffled dignity prompted.

"We perceive by your reports and the reports of the Chief Superintendent,
that you have been making gratifying progress with the work.--We are all
very much pleased."

"Indeed?  We did not discover it from your letters--which we have not
received; nor by the treatment our drafts have met with--which were not
honored; nor by the reception of any part of the appropriation, no part
of it having come to hand."

"Why, my dear Mr. Brierly, there must be some mistake, I am sure we wrote
you and also Mr. Sellers, recently--when my clerk comes he will show
copies--letters informing you of the ten per cent. assessment."

"Oh, certainly, we got those letters.  But what we wanted was money to
carry on the work--money to pay the men."

"Certainly, certainly--true enough--but we credited you both for a large
part of your assessments--I am sure that was in our letters."

"Of course that was in--I remember that."

"Ah, very well then.  Now we begin to understand each other."

"Well, I don't see that we do.  There's two months' wages due the men,
and----"

"How?  Haven't you paid the men?"

"Paid them!  How are we going to pay them when you don't honor our
drafts?"

"Why, my dear sir, I cannot see how you can find any fault with us.  I am
sure we have acted in a perfectly straight forward business way.--Now let
us look at the thing a moment.  You subscribed for 100 shares of the
capital stock, at $1,000 a share, I believe?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"And Mr. Sellers took a like amount?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well.  No concern can get along without money.  We levied a ten per
cent. assessment.  It was the original understanding that you and Mr.
Sellers were to have the positions you now hold, with salaries of $600 a
month each, while in active service.  You were duly elected to these
places, and you accepted them.  Am I right?"

"Certainly."

"Very well.  You were given your instructions and put to work.  By your
reports it appears that you have expended the sum of $9,610 upon the said
work.  Two months salary to you two officers amounts altogether to
$2,400--about one-eighth of your ten per cent. assessment, you see; which
leaves you in debt to the company for the other seven-eighths of the
assessment--viz, something over $8,000 apiece.  Now instead of requiring
you to forward this aggregate of $16,000 or $17,000 to New York, the
company voted unanimously to let you pay it over to the contractors,
laborers from time to time, and give you credit on the books for it.
And they did it without a murmur, too, for they were pleased with the
progress you had made, and were glad to pay you that little compliment--
and a very neat one it was, too, I am sure.  The work you did fell short
of $10,000, a trifle.  Let me see--$9,640 from $20,000 salary $2;400
added--ah yes, the balance due the company from yourself and Mr. Sellers
is $7,960, which I will take the responsibility of allowing to stand for
the present, unless you prefer to draw a check now, and thus----"

"Confound it, do you mean to say that instead of the company owing us
$2,400, we owe the company $7,960?"

"Well, yes."

"And that we owe the men and the contractors nearly ten thousand dollars
besides?"

"Owe them!  Oh bless my soul, you can't mean that you have not paid these
people?"

"But I do mean it!"

The president rose and walked the floor like a man in bodily pain.  His
brows contracted, he put his hand up and clasped his forehead, and kept
saying, "Oh, it is, too bad, too bad, too bad!  Oh, it is bound to be
found out--nothing can prevent it--nothing!"

Then he threw himself into his chair and said:

"My dear Mr. Brierson, this is dreadful--perfectly dreadful.  It will be
found out.  It is bound to tarnish the good name of the company; our
credit will be seriously, most seriously impaired.  How could you be so
thoughtless--the men ought to have been paid though it beggared us all!"

"They ought, ought they?  Then why the devil--my name is not Bryerson, by
the way--why the mischief didn't the compa--why what in the nation ever
became of the appropriation?  Where is that appropriation?--if a
stockholder may make so bold as to ask."

The appropriation?--that paltry $200,000, do you mean?"

"Of course--but I didn't know that $200,000 was so very paltry.  Though I
grant, of course, that it is not a large sum, strictly speaking.  But
where is it?"

"My dear sir, you surprise me.  You surely cannot have had a large
acquaintance with this sort of thing.  Otherwise you would not have
expected much of a result from a mere INITIAL appropriation like that.
It was never intended for anything but a mere nest egg for the future and
real appropriations to cluster around."

"Indeed?  Well, was it a myth, or was it a reality?  Whatever become of
it?"

"Why the--matter is simple enough.  A Congressional appropriation costs
money.  Just reflect, for instance--a majority of the House Committee,
say $10,000 apiece--$40,000; a majority of the Senate Committee, the same
each--say $40,000; a little extra to one or two chairman of one or two
such committees, say $10,000 each--$20,000; and there's $100,000 of the
money gone, to begin with.  Then, seven male lobbyists, at $3,000 each--
$21,000; one female lobbyist, $10,000; a high moral Congressman or
Senator here and there--the high moral ones cost more, because they.
give tone to a measure--say ten of these at $3,000 each, is $30,000; then
a lot of small-fry country members who won't vote for anything whatever
without pay--say twenty at $500 apiece, is $10,000; a lot of dinners to
members--say $10,000 altogether; lot of jimcracks for Congressmen's wives
and children--those go a long way--you can't sped too much money in that
line--well, those things cost in a lump, say $10,000--along there
somewhere; and then comes your printed documents--your maps, your tinted
engravings, your pamphlets, your illuminated show cards, your
advertisements in a hundred and fifty papers at ever so much a line--
because you've got to keep the papers all light or you are gone up, you
know.  Oh, my dear sir, printing bills are destruction itself.  Ours so
far amount to--let me see--10; 52; 22; 13;--and then there's 11; 14; 33--
well, never mind the details, the total in clean numbers foots up
$118,254.42 thus far!"

"What!"

"Oh, yes indeed.  Printing's no bagatelle, I can tell you.  And then
there's your contributions, as a company, to Chicago fires and Boston
fires, and orphan asylums and all that sort of thing--head the list, you
see, with the company's full name and a thousand dollars set opposite--
great card, sir--one of the finest advertisements in the world--the
preachers mention it in the pulpit when it's a religious charity--one of
the happiest advertisements in the world is your benevolent donation.
Ours have amounted to sixteen thousand dollars and some cents up to this
time."

"Good heavens!"

"Oh, yes.  Perhaps the biggest thing we've done in the advertising line
was to get an officer of the U. S. government, of perfectly Himmalayan
official altitude, to write up our little internal improvement for a
religious paper of enormous circulation--I tell you that makes our bonds
go handsomely among the pious poor.  Your religious paper is by far the
best vehicle for a thing of this kind, because they'll 'lead' your
article and put it right in the midst of the reading matter; and if it's
got a few Scripture quotations in it, and some temperance platitudes and
a bit of gush here and there about Sunday Schools, and a sentimental
snuffle now and then about 'God's precious ones, the honest hard-handed
poor,' it works the nation like a charm, my dear sir, and never a man
suspects that it is an advertisement; but your secular paper sticks you
right into the advertising columns and of course you don't take a trick.
Give me a religious paper to advertise in, every time; and if you'll just
look at their advertising pages, you'll observe that other people think a
good deal as I do--especially people who have got little financial
schemes to make everybody rich with.  Of course I mean your great big
metropolitan religious papers that know how to serve God and make money
at the same time--that's your sort, sir, that's your sort--a religious
paper that isn't run to make money is no use to us, sir, as an
advertising medium--no use to anybody--in our line of business.  I guess
our next best dodge was sending a pleasure trip of newspaper reporters
out to Napoleon.  Never paid them a cent; just filled them up with
champagne and the fat of the land, put pen, ink and paper before them
while they were red-hot, and bless your soul when you come to read their
letters you'd have supposed they'd been to heaven.  And if a sentimental
squeamishness held one or two of them back from taking a less rosy view
of Napoleon, our hospitalities tied his tongue, at least, and he said
nothing at all and so did us no harm.  Let me see--have I stated all the
expenses I've been at?  No, I was near forgetting one or two items.
There's your official salaries--you can't get good men for nothing.
Salaries cost pretty lively.  And then there's your big high-sounding
millionaire names stuck into your advertisements as stockholders--another
card, that--and they are stockholders, too, but you have to give them the
stock and non-assessable at that--so they're an expensive lot.  Very,
very expensive thing, take it all around, is a big internal improvement
concern--but you see that yourself, Mr. Bryerman--you see that, yourself,
sir."

"But look here.  I think you are a little mistaken about it's ever having
cost anything for Congressional votes.  I happen to know something about
that.  I've let you say your say--now let me say mine.  I don't wish to
seem to throw any suspicion on anybody's statements, because we are all
liable to be mistaken.  But how would it strike you if I were to say that
I was in Washington all the time this bill was pending? and what if I
added that I put the measure through myself?  Yes, sir, I did that little
thing.  And moreover, I never paid a dollar for any man's vote and never
promised one.  There are some ways of doing a thing that are as good as
others which other people don't happen to think about, or don't have the
knack of succeeding in, if they do happen to think of them.  My dear sir,
I am obliged to knock some of your expenses in the head--for never a cent
was paid a Congressman or Senator on the part of this Navigation Company."

The president smiled blandly, even sweetly, all through this harangue,
and then said:

"Is that so?"

"Every word of it."

"Well it does seem to alter the complexion of things a little.  You are
acquainted with the members down there, of course, else you could not
have worked to such advantage?"

"I know them all, sir.  I know their wives, their children, their babies
--I even made it a point to be on good terms with their lackeys.  I know
every Congressman well--even familiarly."

"Very good.  Do you know any of their signatures?  Do you know their
handwriting?"

"Why I know their handwriting as well as I know my own--have had
correspondence enough with them, I should think.  And their signatures--
why I can tell their initials, even."

The president went to a private safe, unlocked it and got out some
letters and certain slips of paper.  Then he said:

"Now here, for instance; do you believe that that is a genuine letter?
Do you know this signature here?--and this one?  Do you know who those
initials represent--and are they forgeries?"

Harry was stupefied.  There were things there that made his brain swim.
Presently, at the bottom of one of the letters he saw a signature that
restored his equilibrium; it even brought the sunshine of a smile to his
face.

The president said:

"That one amuses you.  You never suspected him?"

"Of course I ought to have suspected him, but I don't believe it ever
really occurred to me.  Well, well, well--how did you ever have the nerve
to approach him, of all others?"

"Why my friend, we never think of accomplishing anything without his
help.  He is our mainstay.  But how do those letters strike you?"

"They strike me dumb!  What a stone-blind idiot I have been!"

"Well, take it all around, I suppose you had a pleasant time in
Washington," said the president, gathering up the letters; "of course you
must have had.  Very few men could go there and get a money bill through
without buying a single"

"Come, now, Mr. President, that's plenty of that!  I take back everything
I said on that head.  I'm a wiser man to-day than I was yesterday, I can
tell you."

"I think you are.  In fact I am satisfied you are.  But now I showed you
these things in confidence, you understand.  Mention facts as much as you
want to, but don't mention names to anybody.  I can depend on you for
that, can't I?"

"Oh, of course.  I understand the necessity of that.  I will not betray
the names.  But to go back a bit, it begins to look as if you never saw
any of that appropriation at all?"

"We saw nearly ten thousand dollars of it--and that was all.  Several of
us took turns at log-rolling in Washington, and if we had charged
anything for that service, none of that $10,000 would ever have reached
New York."

"If you hadn't levied the assessment you would have been in a close place
I judge?"

"Close?  Have you figured up the total of the disbursements I told you
of?"

"No, I didn't think of that."

"Well, lets see:

Spent in Washington, say, ........... $191,000
Printing, advertising, etc., say .... $118,000
Charity, say, .......................  $16,000

               Total, ............... $325,000

The money to do that with, comes from--
Appropriation, ...................... $200,000

Ten per cent. assessment on capital of
     $1,000,000 ..................... $100,000

               Total, ............... $300,000

"Which leaves us in debt some $25,000 at this moment.  Salaries of home
officers are still going on; also printing and advertising.  Next month
will show a state of things!"

"And then--burst up, I suppose?"

"By no means.  Levy another assessment"

"Oh, I see.  That's dismal."

"By no means."

"Why isn't it?  What's the road out?"

"Another appropriation, don't you see?"

"Bother the appropriations.  They cost more than they come to."

"Not the next one.  We'll call for half a million--get it and go for a
million the very next month."--"Yes, but the cost of it!"

The president smiled, and patted his secret letters affectionately.  He
said:

"All these people are in the next Congress.  We shan't have to pay them a
cent.  And what is more, they will work like beavers for us--perhaps it
might be to their advantage."

Harry reflected profoundly a while.  Then he said:

"We send many missionaries to lift up the benighted races of other lands.
How much cheaper and better it would be if those people could only come
here and drink of our civilization at its fountain head."

"I perfectly agree with yon, Mr. Beverly.  Must you go?  Well, good
morning.  Look in, when you are passing; and whenever I can give you any
information about our affairs and pro'spects, I shall be glad to do it."

Harry's letter was not a long one, but it contained at least the
calamitous figures that came out in the above conversation.  The Colonel
found himself in a rather uncomfortable place--no $1,200 salary
forthcoming; and himself held responsible for half of the $9,640 due the
workmen, to say nothing of being in debt to the company to the extent of
nearly $4,000.  Polly's heart was nearly broken; the "blues" returned in
fearful force, and she had to go out of the room to hide the tears that
nothing could keep back now.

There was mourning in another quarter, too, for Louise had a letter.
Washington had refused, at the last moment, to take $40,000 for the
Tennessee Land, and had demanded $150,000!  So the trade fell through,
and now Washington was wailing because he had been so foolish.  But he
wrote that his man might probably return to the city soon, and then he
meant to sell to him, sure, even if he had to take $10,000.  Louise had a
good cry-several of them, indeed--and the family charitably forebore to
make any comments that would increase her grief.

Spring blossomed, summer came, dragged its hot weeks by, and the
Colonel's spirits rose, day by day, for the railroad was making good
progress.  But by and by something happened.  Hawkeye had always declined
to subscribe anything toward the railway, imagining that her large
business would be a sufficient compulsory influence; but now Hawkeye was
frightened; and before Col. Sellers knew what he was about, Hawkeye, in a
panic, had rushed to the front and subscribed such a sum that Napoleon's
attractions suddenly sank into insignificance and the railroad concluded
to follow a comparatively straight coarse instead of going miles out of
its way to build up a metropolis in the muddy desert of Stone's Landing.

The thunderbolt fell.  After all the Colonel's deep planning; after all
his brain work and tongue work in drawing public attention to his pet
project and enlisting interest in it; after all his faithful hard toil
with his hands, and running hither and thither on his busy feet; after
all his high hopes and splendid prophecies, the fates had turned their
backs on him at last, and all in a moment his air-castles crumbled to
ruins abort him.  Hawkeye rose from her fright triumphant and rejoicing,
and down went Stone's Landing!  One by one its meagre parcel of
inhabitants packed up and moved away, as the summer waned and fall
approached.  Town lots were no longer salable, traffic ceased, a deadly
lethargy fell upon the place once more, the "Weekly Telegraph" faded into
an early grave, the wary tadpole returned from exile, the bullfrog
resumed his ancient song, the tranquil turtle sunned his back upon bank
and log and drowsed his grateful life away as in the old sweet days of
yore.




CHAPTER XXIX.

Philip Sterling was on his way to Ilium, in the state of Pennsylvania.
Ilium was the railway station nearest to the tract of wild land which
Mr. Bolton had commissioned him to examine.

On the last day of the journey as the railway train Philip was on was
leaving a large city, a lady timidly entered the drawing-room car, and
hesitatingly took a chair that was at the moment unoccupied.  Philip saw
from the window that a gentleman had put her upon the car just as it was
starting.  In a few moments the conductor entered, and without waiting an
explanation, said roughly to the lady,

"Now you can't sit there.  That seat's taken.  Go into the other car."

"I did not intend to take the seat," said the lady rising, "I only sat
down a moment till the conductor should come and give me a seat."

"There aint any.  Car's full.  You'll have to leave."

"But, sir," said the lady, appealingly, "I thought--"

"Can't help what you thought--you must go into the other car."

"The train is going very fast, let me stand here till we stop."

"The lady can have my seat," cried Philip, springing up.

The conductor turned towards Philip, and coolly and deliberately surveyed
him from head to foot, with contempt in every line of his face, turned
his back upon him without a word, and said to the lady,

"Come, I've got no time to talk.  You must go now."

The lady, entirely disconcerted by such rudeness, and frightened, moved
towards the door, opened it and stepped out.  The train was swinging
along at a rapid rate, jarring from side to side; the step was a long one
between the cars and there was no protecting grating.  The lady attempted
it, but lost her balance, in the wind and the motion of the car, and
fell!  She would inevitably have gone down under the wheels, if Philip,
who had swiftly followed her, had not caught her arm and drawn her up.
He then assisted her across, found her a seat, received her bewildered
thanks, and returned to his car.

The conductor was still there, taking his tickets, and growling something
about imposition.  Philip marched up to him, and burst out with,

"You are a brute, an infernal brute, to treat a woman that way."

"Perhaps you'd like to make a fuss about it," sneered the conductor.

Philip's reply was a blow, given so suddenly and planted so squarely in
the conductor's face, that it sent him reeling over a fat passenger, who
was looking up in mild wonder that any one should dare to dispute with a
conductor, and against the side of the car.

He recovered himself, reached the bell rope, "Damn you, I'll learn you,"
stepped to the door and called a couple of brakemen, and then, as the
speed slackened; roared out,

"Get off this train."

"I shall not get off.  I have as much right here as you."

"We'll see," said the conductor, advancing with the brakemen.  The
passengers protested, and some of them said to each other, "That's too
bad," as they always do in such cases, but none of them offered to take a
hand with Philip.  The men seized him, wrenched him from his seat,
dragged him along the aisle, tearing his clothes, thrust him from the
car, and, then flung his carpet-bag, overcoat and umbrella after him.
And the train went on.

The conductor, red in the face and puffing from his exertion, swaggered
through the car, muttering "Puppy, I'll learn him."  The passengers, when
he had gone, were loud in their indignation, and talked about signing a
protest, but they did nothing more than talk.

The next morning the Hooverville Patriot and Clarion had this "item":--


                          SLIGHTUALLY OVERBOARD.

     "We learn that as the down noon express was leaving H---- yesterday
     a lady! (God save the mark) attempted to force herself into the
     already full palatial car.  Conductor Slum, who is too old a bird to
     be caught with chaff, courteously informed her that the car was
     full, and when she insisted on remaining, he persuaded her to go
     into the car where she belonged.  Thereupon a young sprig, from the
     East, blustered like a Shanghai rooster, and began to sass the
     conductor with his chin music.  That gentleman delivered the young
     aspirant for a muss one of his elegant little left-handers, which so
     astonished him that he began to feel for his shooter.  Whereupon Mr.
     Slum gently raised the youth, carried him forth, and set him down
     just outside the car to cool off.  Whether the young blood has yet
     made his way out of Bascom's swamp, we have not learned.  Conductor
     Slum is one of the most gentlemanly and efficient officers on the
     road; but he ain't trifled with, not much.  We learn that the
     company have put a new engine on the seven o'clock train, and newly
     upholstered the drawing-room car throughout.  It spares no effort
     for the comfort of the traveling public."

Philip never had been before in Bascom's swamp, and there was nothing
inviting in it to detain him.  After the train got out of the way he
crawled out of the briars and the mud, and got upon the track.  He was
somewhat bruised, but he was too angry to mind that.  He plodded along
over the ties in a very hot condition of mind and body.  In the scuffle,
his railway check had disappeared, and he grimly wondered, as he noticed
the loss, if the company would permit him to walk over their track if
they should know he hadn't a ticket.

Philip had to walk some five miles before he reached a little station,
where he could wait for a train, and he had ample time for reflection.
At first he was full of vengeance on the company.  He would sue it.  He
would make it pay roundly.  But then it occurred to him that he did not
know the name of a witness he could summon, and that a personal fight
against a railway corporation was about the most hopeless in the world.
He then thought he would seek out that conductor, lie in wait for him at
some station, and thrash him, or get thrashed himself.

But as he got cooler, that did not seem to him a project worthy of a
gentleman exactly.  Was it possible for a gentleman to get even with such
a fellow as that conductor on the letter's own plane?  And when he came
to this point, he began to ask himself, if he had not acted very much
like a fool.  He didn't regret striking the fellow--he hoped he had left
a mark on him.  But, after all, was that the best way?  Here was he,
Philip Sterling, calling himself a gentleman, in a brawl with a vulgar
conductor, about a woman he had never seen before.  Why should he have
put himself in such a ridiculous position?  Wasn't it enough to have
offered the lady his seat, to have rescued her from an accident, perhaps
from death?  Suppose he had simply said to the conductor, "Sir, your
conduct is brutal, I shall report you."  The passengers, who saw the
affair, might have joined in a report against the conductor, and he might
really have accomplished something.  And, now!  Philip looked at leis
torn clothes, and thought with disgust of his haste in getting into a
fight with such an autocrat.

At the little station where Philip waited for the next train, he met a
man--who turned out to be a justice of the peace in that neighborhood,
and told him his adventure.  He was a kindly sort of man, and seemed very
much interested.

"Dum 'em," said he, when he had heard the story.

"Do you think any thing can be done, sir?"

"Wal, I guess tain't no use.  I hain't a mite of doubt of every word you
say.  But suin's no use.  The railroad company owns all these people
along here, and the judges on the bench too.  Spiled your clothes!  Wal,
'least said's soonest mended.'  You haint no chance with the company."

When next morning, he read the humorous account in the Patriot and
Clarion, he saw still more clearly what chance he would have had before
the public in a fight with the railroad company.

Still Philip's conscience told him that it was his plain duty to carry
the matter into the courts, even with the certainty of defeat.
He confessed that neither he nor any citizen had a right to consult his
own feelings or conscience in a case where a law of the land had been
violated before his own eyes.  He confessed that every citizen's first
duty in such case is to put aside his own business and devote his time
and his best efforts to seeing that the infraction is promptly punished;
and he knew that no country can be well governed unless its citizens as
a body keep religiously before their minds that they are the guardians
of the law, and that the law officers are only the machinery for its
execution, nothing more.  As a finality he was obliged to confess that he
was a bad citizen, and also that the general laxity of the time, and the
absence of a sense of duty toward any part of the community but the
individual himself were ingrained in him, am he was no better than the
rest of the people.

The result of this little adventure was that Philip did not reach Ilium
till daylight the next morning, when he descended sleepy and sore, from a
way train, and looked about him.  Ilium was in a narrow mountain gorge,
through which a rapid stream ran.  It consisted of the plank platform on
which he stood, a wooden house, half painted, with a dirty piazza
(unroofed) in front, and a sign board hung on a slanting pole--bearing
the legend, "Hotel. P. Dusenheimer," a sawmill further down the stream,
a blacksmith-shop, and a store, and three or four unpainted dwellings of
the slab variety.

As Philip approached the hotel he saw what appeared to be a wild beast
crouching on the piazza.  It did not stir, however, and he soon found
that it was only a stuffed skin.  This cheerful invitation to the tavern
was the remains of a huge panther which had been killed in the region a
few weeks before.  Philip examined his ugly visage and strong crooked
fore-arm, as he was waiting admittance, having pounded upon the door.

"Yait a bit.  I'll shoost--put on my trowsers," shouted a voice from the
window, and the door was soon opened by the yawning landlord.

"Morgen!  Didn't hear d' drain oncet.  Dem boys geeps me up zo spate.
Gom right in."

Philip was shown into a dirty bar-room.  It was a small room, with a
stove in the middle, set in a long shallow box of sand, for the benefit
of the "spitters," a bar across one end--a mere counter with a sliding
glass-case behind it containing a few bottles having ambitious labels,
and a wash-sink in one corner.  On the walls were the bright yellow and
black handbills of a traveling circus, with pictures of acrobats in human
pyramids, horses flying in long leaps through the air, and sylph-like
women in a paradisaic costume, balancing themselves upon the tips of
their toes on the bare backs of frantic and plunging steeds, and kissing
their hands to the spectators meanwhile.

As Philip did not desire a room at that hour, he was invited to wash
himself at the nasty sink, a feat somewhat easier than drying his face,
for the towel that hung in a roller over the sink was evidently as much a
fixture as the sink itself, and belonged, like the suspended brush and
comb, to the traveling public.  Philip managed to complete his toilet by
the use of his pocket-handkerchief, and declining the hospitality of the
landlord, implied in the remark, "You won'd dake notin'?" he went into
the open air to wait for breakfast.

The country he saw was wild but not picturesque.  The mountain before him
might be eight hundred feet high, and was only a portion of a long
unbroken range, savagely wooded, which followed the stream.  Behind the
hotel, and across the brawling brook, was another level-topped, wooded
range exactly like it.  Ilium itself, seen at a glance, was old enough to
be dilapidated, and if it had gained anything by being made a wood and
water station of the new railroad, it was only a new sort of grime and
rawness.  P. Dusenheimer, standing in the door of his uninviting
groggery, when the trains stopped for water; never received from the
traveling public any patronage except facetious remarks upon his personal
appearance.  Perhaps a thousand times he had heard the remark, "Ilium
fuit," followed in most instances by a hail to himself as "AEneas," with
the inquiry "Where is old Anchises?  "At first he had replied, "Dere
ain't no such man;" but irritated by its senseless repetition, he had
latterly dropped into the formula of, "You be dam."

Philip was recalled from the contemplation of Ilium by the rolling and
growling of the gong within the hotel, the din and clamor increasing till
the house was apparently unable to contain it; when it burst out of the
front door and informed the world that breakfast was on the table.

The dining room was long, low and narrow, and a narrow table extended its
whole length.  Upon this was spread a cloth which from appearance might
have been as long in use as the towel in the barroom.  Upon the table was
the usual service, the heavy, much nicked stone ware, the row of plated
and rusty castors, the sugar bowls with the zinc tea-spoons sticking up
in them, the piles of yellow biscuits, the discouraged-looking plates of
butter.  The landlord waited, and Philip was pleased to observe the
change in his manner.  In the barroom he was the conciliatory landlord.
Standing behind his guests at table, he had an air of peremptory
patronage, and the voice in which he shot out the inquiry, as he seized
Philip's plate, "Beefsteak or liver?" quite took away Philip's power of
choice.  He begged for a glass of milk, after trying that green hued
compound called coffee, and made his breakfast out of that and some hard
crackers which seemed to have been imported into Ilium before the
introduction of the iron horse, and to have withstood a ten years siege
of regular boarders, Greeks and others.

The land that Philip had come to look at was at least five miles distant
from Ilium station.  A corner of it touched the railroad, but the rest
was pretty much an unbroken wilderness, eight or ten thousand acres of
rough country, most of it such a mountain range as he saw at Ilium.

His first step was to hire three woodsmen to accompany him.  By their
help he built a log hut, and established a camp on the land, and then
began his explorations, mapping down his survey as he went along, noting
the timber, and the lay of the land, and making superficial observations
as to the prospect of coal.

The landlord at Ilium endeavored to persuade Philip to hire the services
of a witch-hazel professor of that region, who could walk over the land
with his wand and tell him infallibly whether it contained coal, and
exactly where the strata ran.  But Philip preferred to trust to his own
study of the country, and his knowledge of the geological formation.
He spent a month in traveling over the land and making calculations;
and made up his mind that a fine vein of coal ran through the mountain
about a mile from the railroad, and that the place to run in a tunnel was
half way towards its summit.

Acting with his usual promptness, Philip, with the consent of Mr. Bolton,
broke ground there at once, and, before snow came, had some rude
buildings up, and was ready for active operations in the spring.  It was
true that there were no outcroppings of coal at the place, and the people
at Ilium said he "mought as well dig for plug terbaccer there;" but
Philip had great faith in the uniformity of nature's operations in ages
past, and he had no doubt that he should strike at this spot the rich
vein that had made the fortune of the Golden Briar Company.




CHAPTER XXX.

Once more Louise had good news from her Washington--Senator Dilworthy was
going to sell the Tennessee Land to the government!  Louise told Laura in
confidence.  She had told her parents, too, and also several bosom
friends; but all of these people had simply looked sad when they heard
the news, except Laura.  Laura's face suddenly brightened under it--only
for an instant, it is true, but poor Louise was grateful for even that
fleeting ray of encouragement.  When next Laura was alone, she fell into
a train of thought something like this:

If the Senator has really taken hold of this matter, I may look for that
invitation to his house at, any moment.  I am perishing to go!  I do long
to know whether I am only simply a large-sized pigmy among these pigmies
here, who tumble over so easily when one strikes them, or whether I am
really--."  Her thoughts drifted into other channels, for a season.
"Then she continued:--"He said I could be useful in the great cause of
philanthropy, and help in the blessed work of uplifting the poor and the
ignorant, if he found it feasible to take hold of our Land.  Well, that
is neither here nor there; what I want, is to go to Washington and find
out what I am.  I want money, too; and if one may judge by what she
hears, there are chances there for a--."  For a fascinating woman, she
was going to say, perhaps, but she did not.

Along in the fall the invitation came, sure enough.  It came officially
through brother Washington, the private Secretary, who appended a
postscript that was brimming with delight over the prospect of seeing the
Duchess again.  He said it would be happiness enough to look upon her
face once more--it would be almost too much happiness when to it was
added the fact that she would bring messages with her that were fresh
from Louise's lips.

In Washington's letter were several important enclosures.  For instance,
there was the Senator's check for $2,000--"to buy suitable clothing in
New York with!"  It was a loan to be refunded when the Land was sold.
Two thousand--this was fine indeed.  Louise's father was called rich, but
Laura doubted if Louise had ever had $400 worth of new clothing at one
time in her life.  With the check came two through tickets--good on the
railroad from Hawkeye to Washington via New York--and they were "dead-
head" tickets, too, which had beep given to Senator Dilworthy by the
railway companies.  Senators and representatives were paid thousands of
dollars by the government for traveling expenses, but they always
traveled "deadhead" both ways, and then did as any honorable, high-minded
men would naturally do--declined to receive the mileage tendered them by
the government.  The Senator had plenty of railway passes, and could.
easily spare two to Laura--one for herself and one for a male escort.
Washington suggested that she get some old friend of the family to come
with her, and said the Senator would "deadhead" him home again as soon as
he had grown tired, of the sights of the capital.  Laura thought the
thing over.  At first she was pleased with the idea, but presently she
began to feel differently about it.  Finally she said, "No, our staid,
steady-going Hawkeye friends' notions and mine differ about some things--
they respect me, now, and I respect them--better leave it so--I will go
alone; I am not afraid to travel by myself."  And so communing with
herself, she left the house for an afternoon walk.

Almost at the door she met Col. Sellers.  She told him about her
invitation to Washington.

"Bless me!" said the Colonel.  "I have about made up my mind to go there
myself.  You see we've got to get another appropriation through, and the
Company want me to come east and put it through Congress.  Harry's there,
and he'll do what he can, of course; and Harry's a good fellow and always
does the very best he knows how, but then he's young--rather young for
some parts of such work, you know--and besides he talks too much, talks a
good deal too much; and sometimes he appears to be a little bit
visionary, too, I think the worst thing in the world for a business man.
A man like that always exposes his cards, sooner or later.  This sort of
thing wants an old, quiet, steady hand--wants an old cool head, you know,
that knows men, through and through, and is used to large operations.
I'm expecting my salary, and also some dividends from the company, and if
they get along in time, I'll go along with you Laura--take you under my
wing--you mustn't travel alone.  Lord I wish I had the money right now.
--But there'll be plenty soon--plenty."

Laura reasoned with herself that if the kindly, simple-hearted Colonel
was going anyhow, what could she gain by traveling alone and throwing
away his company?  So she told him she accepted his offer gladly,
gratefully.  She said it would be the greatest of favors if he would go
with her and protect her--not at his own expense as far as railway fares
were concerned, of course; she could not expect him to put himself to so
much trouble for her and pay his fare besides.  But he wouldn't hear of
her paying his fare--it would be only a pleasure to him to serve her.
Laura insisted on furnishing the tickets; and finally, when argument
failed, she said the tickets cost neither her nor any one else a cent--
she had two of them--she needed but one--and if he would not take the
other she would not go with him.  That settled the matter.  He took the
ticket.  Laura was glad that she had the check for new clothing, for she
felt very certain of being able to get the Colonel to borrow a little of
the money to pay hotel bills with, here and there.

She wrote Washington to look for her and Col. Sellers toward the end of
November; and at about the time set the two travelers arrived safe in the
capital of the nation, sure enough.




CHAPTER XXXL


               She the, gracious lady, yet no paines did spare
               To doe him ease, or doe him remedy:
               Many restoratives of vertues rare
               And costly cordialles she did apply,
               To mitigate his stubborne malady.
                                        Spenser's Faerie Queens.

Mr. Henry Brierly was exceedingly busy in New York, so he wrote Col.
Sellers, but he would drop everything and go to Washington.

The Colonel believed that Harry was the prince of lobbyists, a little too
sanguine, may be, and given to speculation, but, then, he knew everybody;
the Columbus River navigation scheme was, got through almost entirely by
his aid.  He was needed now to help through another scheme, a benevolent
scheme in which Col. Sellers, through the Hawkinses, had a deep interest.

"I don't care, you know," he wrote to Harry, "so much about the niggroes.
But if the government will buy this land, it will set up the Hawkins
family--make Laura an heiress--and I shouldn't wonder if Beriah Sellers
would set up his carriage again.  Dilworthy looks at it different,
of course.  He's all for philanthropy, for benefiting the colored race.
There's old Balsam, was in the Interior--used to be the Rev. Orson Balsam
of Iowa--he's made the riffle on the Injun; great Injun pacificator and
land dealer.  Balaam'a got the Injun to himself, and I suppose that
Senator Dilworthy feels that there is nothing left him but the colored
man.  I do rechon he is the best friend the colored man has got in
Washington."

Though Harry was in a hurry to reach Washington, he stopped in
Philadelphia; and prolonged his visit day after day, greatly to the
detriment of his business both in New York and Washington.  The society
at the Bolton's might have been a valid excuse for neglecting business
much more important than his.  Philip was there; he was a partner with
Mr. Bolton now in the new coal venture, concerning which there was much
to be arranged in preparation for the Spring work, and Philip lingered
week after week in the hospitable house.  Alice was making a winter
visit.  Ruth only went to town twice a week to attend lectures, and the
household was quite to Mr. Bolton's taste, for he liked the cheer of
company and something going on evenings.  Harry was cordially asked to
bring his traveling-bag there, and he did not need urging to do so.
Not even the thought of seeing Laura at the capital made him restless in
the society of the two young ladies; two birds in hand are worth one in
the bush certainly.

Philip was at home--he sometimes wished he were not so much so.  He felt
that too much or not enough was taken for granted.  Ruth had met him,
when he first came, with a cordial frankness, and her manner continued
entirely unrestrained.  She neither sought his company nor avoided it,
and this perfectly level treatment irritated him more than any other
could have done.  It was impossible to advance much in love-making with
one who offered no obstacles, had no concealments and no embarrassments,
and whom any approach to sentimentality would be quite likely to set into
a fit of laughter.

"Why, Phil," she would say, "what puts you in the dumps to day?  You are
as solemn as the upper bench in Meeting.  I shall have to call Alice to
raise your spirits; my presence seems to depress you."

It's not your presence, but your absence when you are present," began
Philip, dolefully, with the idea that he was saying a rather deep thing.
"But you won't understand me."

"No, I confess I cannot.  If you really are so low, as to think I am
absent when I am present, it's a frightful case of aberration; I shall
ask father to bring out Dr. Jackson.  Does Alice appear to be present
when she is absent?"

"Alice has some human feeling, anyway.  She cares for something besides
musty books and dry bones.  I think, Ruth, when I die," said Philip,
intending to be very grim and sarcastic, "I'll leave you my skeleton.
You might like that."

"It might be more cheerful than you are at times," Ruth replied with a
laugh.  "But you mustn't do it without consulting Alice.  She might not.
like it."

"I don't know why you should bring Alice up on every occasion.  Do you
think I am in love with her?"

"Bless you, no.  It never entered my head.  Are you?  The thought of
Philip Sterling in love is too comical.  I thought you were only in love
with the Ilium coal mine, which you and father talk about half the time."

This is a specimen of Philip's wooing.  Confound the girl, he would say
to himself, why does she never tease Harry and that young Shepley who
comes here?

How differently Alice treated him.  She at least never mocked him, and it
was a relief to talk with one who had some sympathy with him.  And he did
talk to her, by the hour, about Ruth.  The blundering fellow poured all
his doubts and anxieties into her ear, as if she had been the impassive
occupant of one of those little wooden confessionals in the Cathedral on
Logan Square.  Has, a confessor, if she is young and pretty, any feeling?
Does it mend the matter by calling her your sister?

Philip called Alice his good sister, and talked to her about love and
marriage, meaning Ruth, as if sisters could by no possibility have any
personal concern in such things.  Did Ruth ever speak of him?  Did she
think Ruth cared for him?  Did Ruth care for anybody at Fallkill?  Did
she care for anything except her profession?  And so on.

Alice was loyal to Ruth, and if she knew anything she did not betray her
friend.  She did not, at any rate, give Philip too much encouragement.
What woman, under the circumstances, would?

"I can tell you one thing, Philip," she said, "if ever Ruth Bolton loves,
it will be with her whole soul, in a depth of passion that will sweep
everything before it and surprise even herself."

A remark that did not much console Philip, who imagined that only some
grand heroism could unlock the sweetness of such a heart; and Philip
feared that he wasn't a hero.  He did not know out of what materials a
woman can construct a hero, when she is in the creative mood.

Harry skipped into this society with his usual lightness and gaiety.
His good nature was inexhaustible, and though he liked to relate his own
exploits, he had a little tact in adapting himself to the tastes of his
hearers.  He was not long in finding out that Alice liked to hear about
Philip, and Harry launched out into the career of his friend in the West,
with a prodigality of invention that would have astonished the chief
actor.  He was the most generous fellow in the world, and picturesque
conversation was the one thing in which he never was bankrupt.  With Mr.
Bolton be was the serious man of business, enjoying the confidence of
many of the monied men in New York, whom Mr. Bolton knew, and engaged
with them in railway schemes and government contracts.  Philip, who had
so long known Harry, never could make up his mind that Harry did not
himself believe that he was a chief actor in all these large operations
of which he talked so much.

Harry did not neglect to endeavor to make himself agreeable to Mrs.
Bolton, by paying great attention to the children, and by professing the
warmest interest in the Friends' faith.  It always seemed to him the most
peaceful religion; he thought it must be much easier to live by an
internal light than by a lot of outward rules; he had a dear Quaker aunt
in Providence of whom Mrs. Bolton constantly reminded him.  He insisted
upon going with Mrs. Bolton and the children to the Friends Meeting on
First Day, when Ruth and Alice and Philip, "world's people," went to a
church in town, and he sat through the hour of silence with his hat on,
in most exemplary patience.  In short, this amazing actor succeeded so
well with Mrs. Bolton, that she said to Philip one day,

"Thy friend, Henry Brierly, appears to be a very worldly minded young
man.  Does he believe in anything?"

"Oh, yes," said Philip laughing, "he believes in more things than any
other person I ever saw."

To Ruth, Harry seemed to be very congenial.  He was never moody for one
thing, but lent himself with alacrity to whatever her fancy was.  He was
gay or grave as the need might be.  No one apparently could enter more
fully into her plans for an independent career.

"My father," said Harry, "was bred a physician, and practiced a little
before he went into Wall street.  I always had a leaning to the study.
There was a skeleton hanging in the closet of my father's study when I
was a boy, that I used to dress up in old clothes.  Oh, I got quite
familiar with the human frame."

"You must have," said Philip.  "Was that where you learned to play the
bones?  He is a master of those musical instruments, Ruth; he plays well
enough to go on the stage."

"Philip hates science of any kind, and steady application," retorted
Harry.  He didn't fancy Philip's banter, and when the latter had gone
out, and Ruth asked,

"Why don't you take up medicine, Mr. Brierly?"

Harry said, "I have it in mind.  I believe I would begin attending
lectures this winter if it weren't for being wanted in Washington.  But
medicine is particularly women's province."

"Why so?" asked Ruth, rather amused.

"Well, the treatment of disease is a good deal a matter of sympathy.
A woman's intuition is better than a man's.  Nobody knows anything,
really, you know, and a woman can guess a good deal nearer than a man."

"You are very complimentary to my sex."

"But," said Harry frankly; "I should want to choose my doctor; an ugly
woman would ruin me, the disease would be sure to strike in and kill me
at sight of her.  I think a pretty physician, with engaging manners,
would coax a fellow to live through almost anything."

"I am afraid you are a scoffer, Mr. Brierly."

"On the contrary, I am quite sincere.  Wasn't it old what's his name?
that said only the beautiful is useful?"

Whether Ruth was anything more than diverted with Harry's company; Philip
could not determine.  He scorned at any rate to advance his own interest
by any disparaging communications about Harry, both because he could not
help liking the fellow himself, and because he may have known that he
could not more surely create a sympathy for him in Ruth's mind.  That
Ruth was in no danger of any serious impression he felt pretty sure,
felt certain of it when he reflected upon her severe occupation with her
profession.  Hang it, he would say to himself, she is nothing but pure
intellect anyway.  And he only felt uncertain of it when she was in one
of her moods of raillery, with mocking mischief in her eyes.  At such
times she seemed to prefer Harry's society to his.  When Philip was
miserable about this, he always took refuge with Alice, who was never
moody, and who generally laughed him out of his sentimental nonsense.
He felt at his ease with Alice, and was never in want of something to
talk about; and he could not account for the fact that he was so often
dull with Ruth, with whom, of all persons in the world, he wanted to
appear at his best.

Harry was entirely satisfied with his own situation.  A bird of passage
is always at its ease, having no house to build, and no responsibility.
He talked freely with Philip about Ruth, an almighty fine girl, he said,
but what the deuce she wanted to study medicine for, he couldn't see.

There was a concert one night at the Musical Fund Hall and the four had
arranged to go in and return by the Germantown cars.  It was Philip's
plan, who had engaged the seats, and promised himself an evening with
Ruth, walking with her, sitting by her in the hall, and enjoying the
feeling of protecting that a man always has of a woman in a public place.
He was fond of music, too, in a sympathetic way; at least, he knew that
Ruth's delight in it would be enough for him.

Perhaps he meant to take advantage of the occasion to say some very
serious things.  His love for Ruth was no secret to Mrs. Bolton, and he
felt almost sure that he should have no opposition in the family.  Mrs.
Bolton had been cautious in what she said, but Philip inferred everything
from her reply to his own questions, one day, "Has thee ever spoken thy
mind to Ruth?"

Why shouldn't he speak his mind, and end his doubts?  Ruth had been more
tricksy than usual that day, and in a flow of spirits quite inconsistent,
it would seem, in a young lady devoted to grave studies.

Had Ruth a premonition of Philip's intention, in his manner?  It may be,
for when the girls came down stairs, ready to walk to the cars; and met
Philip and Harry in the hall, Ruth said, laughing,

"The two tallest must walk together" and before Philip knew how it
happened Ruth had taken Harry's arm, and his evening was spoiled.  He had
too much politeness and good sense and kindness to show in his manner
that he was hit.  So he said to Harry,

"That's your disadvantage in being short."  And he gave Alice no reason
to feel during the evening that she would not have been his first choice
for the excursion.  But he was none the less chagrined, and not a little
angry at the turn the affair took.

The Hall was crowded with the fashion of the town.  The concert was one
of those fragmentary drearinesses that people endure because they are
fashionable; tours de force on the piano, and fragments from operas,
which have no meaning without the setting, with weary pauses of waiting
between; there is the comic basso who is so amusing and on such familiar
terms with the audience, and always sings the Barber; the attitudinizing
tenor, with his languishing "Oh, Summer Night;" the soprano with her
"Batti Batti," who warbles and trills and runs and fetches her breath,
and ends with a noble scream that brings down a tempest of applause in
the midst of which she backs off the stage smiling and bowing.  It was
this sort of concert, and Philip was thinking that it was the most stupid
one he ever sat through, when just as the soprano was in the midst of
that touching ballad, "Comin' thro' the Rye" (the soprano always sings
"Comin' thro' the Rye" on an encore)--the Black Swan used to make it
irresistible, Philip remembered, with her arch, "If a body kiss a body"
there was a cry of "Fire!"

The hall is long and narrow, and there is only one place of egress.
Instantly the audience was on its feet, and a rush began for the door.
Men shouted, women screamed, and panic seized the swaying mass.
A second's thought would have convinced every one that getting out was
impossible, and that the only effect of a rush would be to crash people
to death.  But a second's thought was not given.  A few cried:

"Sit down, sit down," but the mass was turned towards the door.  Women
were down and trampled on in the aisles, and stout men, utterly lost to
self-control, were mounting the benches, as if to run a race over the
mass to the entrance.

Philip who had forced the girls to keep their seats saw, in a flash, the
new danger, and sprang to avert it.  In a second more those infuriated
men would be over the benches and crushing Ruth and Alice under their
boots.  He leaped upon the bench in front of them and struck out before
him with all his might, felling one man who was rushing on him, and
checking for an instant the movement, or rather parting it, and causing
it to flow on either side of him.  But it was only for an instant; the
pressure behind was too great, and, the next Philip was  dashed backwards
over the seat.

And yet that instant of arrest had probably saved the girls, for as
Philip fell, the orchestra struck up "Yankee Doodle" in the liveliest
manner.  The familiar tune caught the ear of the mass, which paused in
wonder, and gave the conductor's voice a chance to be heard--"It's a
false alarm!"

The tumult was over in a minute, and the next, laughter was heard, and
not a few said, "I knew it wasn't anything."  "What fools people are at
such a time."

The concert was over, however.  A good many people were hurt, some of
them seriously, and among them Philip Sterling was found bent across the
seat, insensible, with his left arm hanging limp and a bleeding wound on
his head.

When he was carried into the air he revived, and said it was nothing.
A surgeon was called, and it was thought best to drive at once to the
Bolton's, the surgeon supporting Philip, who did not speak the whole way.
His arm was set and his head dressed, and the surgeon said he would come
round all right in his mind by morning; he was very weak.  Alice who was
not much frightened while the panic lasted in the hall, was very much
unnerved by seeing Philip so pale and bloody.  Ruth assisted the surgeon
with the utmost coolness and with skillful hands helped to dress Philip's
wounds.  And there was a certain intentness and fierce energy in what she
did that might have revealed something to Philip if he had been in his
senses.

But he was not, or he would not have murmured "Let Alice do it, she is
not too tall."

It was Ruth's first case.




CHAPTER, XXXII.

Washington's delight in his beautiful sister was measureless.  He said
that she had always been the queenliest creature in the land, but that
she was only commonplace before, compared to what she was now, so
extraordinary was the improvement wrought by rich fashionable attire.

"But your criticisms are too full of brotherly partiality to be depended
on, Washington.  Other people will judge differently."

"Indeed they won't.  You'll see.  There will never be a woman in
Washington that can compare with you.  You'll be famous within a
fortnight, Laura.  Everybody will want to know you.  You wait--you'll
see."

Laura wished in her heart that the prophecy might come true; and
privately she even believed it might--for she had brought all the women
whom she had seen since she left home under sharp inspection, and the
result had not been unsatisfactory to her.

During a week or two Washington drove about the city every day with her
and familiarized her with all of its salient features.  She was beginning
to feel very much at home with the town itself, and she was also fast
acquiring ease with the distinguished people she met at the Dilworthy
table, and losing what little of country timidity she had brought with
her from Hawkeye.  She noticed with secret pleasure the little start of
admiration that always manifested itself in the faces of the guests when
she entered the drawing-room arrayed in evening costume: she took
comforting note of the fact that these guests directed a very liberal
share of their conversation toward her; she observed with surprise, that
famous statesmen and soldiers did not talk like gods, as a general thing,
but said rather commonplace things for the most part; and she was filled
with gratification to discover that she, on the contrary, was making a
good many shrewd speeches and now and then a really brilliant one, and
furthermore, that they were beginning to be repeated in social circles
about the town.

Congress began its sittings, and every day or two Washington escorted her
to the galleries set apart for lady members of the households of Senators
and Representatives.  Here was a larger field and a wider competition,
but still she saw that many eyes were uplifted toward her face, and that
first one person and then another called a neighbor's attention to her;
she was not too dull to perceive that the speeches of some of the younger
statesmen were delivered about as much and perhaps more at her than to
the presiding officer; and she was not sorry to see that the dapper young
Senator from Iowa came at once and stood in the open space before the
president's desk to exhibit his feet as soon as she entered the gallery,
whereas she had early learned from common report that his usual custom
was to prop them on his desk and enjoy them himself with a selfish
disregard of other people's longings.

Invitations began to flow in upon her and soon she was fairly "in
society."  "The season" was now in full bloom, and the first select
reception was at hand that is to say, a reception confined to invited
guests.  Senator Dilworthy had become well convinced; by this time, that
his judgment of the country-bred Missouri girl had not deceived him--it
was plain that she was going to be a peerless missionary in the field of
labor he designed her for, and therefore it would be perfectly safe and
likewise judicious to send her forth well panoplied for her work.--So he
had added new and still richer costumes to her wardrobe, and assisted
their attractions with costly jewelry-loans on the future land sale.

This first select reception took place at a cabinet minister's--or rather
a cabinet secretary's mansion.  When Laura and the Senator arrived, about
half past nine or ten in the evening, the place was already pretty well
crowded, and the white-gloved negro servant at the door was still
receiving streams of guests.--The drawing-rooms were brilliant with
gaslight, and as hot as ovens.  The host and hostess stood just within
the door of entrance; Laura was presented, and then she passed on into
the maelstrom of be-jeweled and richly attired low-necked ladies and
white-kid-gloved and steel pen-coated gentlemen and wherever she moved
she was followed by a buzz of admiration that was grateful to all her
senses--so grateful, indeed, that her white face was tinged and its
beauty heightened by a perceptible suffusion of color.  She caught such
remarks as, "Who is she?"  "Superb woman!"  "That is the new beauty from
the west," etc., etc.

Whenever she halted, she was presently surrounded by Ministers, Generals,
Congressmen, and all manner of aristocratic, people.  Introductions
followed, and then the usual original question, "How do you like
Washington, Miss Hawkins?" supplemented by that other usual original
question, "Is this your first visit?"

These two exciting topics being exhausted, conversation generally drifted
into calmer channels, only to be interrupted at frequent intervals by new
introductions and new inquiries as to how Laura liked the capital and
whether it was her first visit or not.  And thus for an hour or more the
Duchess moved through the crush in a rapture of happiness, for her doubts
were dead and gone, now she knew she could conquer here.  A familiar face
appeared in the midst of the multitude and Harry Brierly fought his
difficult way to her side, his eyes shouting their gratification, so to
speak:

"Oh, this is a happiness!  Tell me, my dear Miss Hawkins--"

"Sh!  I know what you are going to ask.  I do like Washington--I like it
ever so much!"

"No, but I was going to ask--"

"Yes, I am coming to it, coming to it as fast as I can.  It is my first
visit.  I think you should know that yourself."

And straightway a wave of the crowd swept her beyond his reach.

"Now what can the girl mean?  Of course she likes Washington--I'm not
such a dummy as to have to ask her that.  And as to its being her first
visit, why bang it, she knows that I knew it was.  Does she think I have
turned idiot?  Curious girl, anyway.  But how they do swarm about her!
She is the reigning belle of Washington after this night.  She'll know
five hundred of the heaviest guns in the town before this night's
nonsense is over.  And this isn't even the beginning.  Just as I used to
say--she'll be a card in the matter of--yes sir!  She shall turn the
men's heads and I'll turn the women's!  What a team that will be in
politics here.  I wouldn't take a quarter of a million for what I can do
in this present session--no indeed I wouldn't.  Now, here--I don't
altogether like this.  That insignificant secretary of legation is--why,
she's smiling on him as if he--and now on the Admiral!  Now she's
illuminating that, stuffy Congressman from Massachusetts--vulgar
ungrammatcal shovel-maker--greasy knave of spades.  I don't like this
sort of thing.  She doesn't appear to be much distressed about me--she
hasn't looked this way once.  All right, my bird of Paradise, if it suits
you, go on.  But I think I know your sex.  I'll go to smiling around a
little, too, and see what effect that will have on you"

And he did "smile around a little," and got as near to her as he could to
watch the effect, but the scheme was a failure--he could not get her
attention.  She seemed wholly unconscious of him, and so he could not
flirt with any spirit; he could only talk disjointedly; he could not keep
his eyes on the charmers he talked to; he grew irritable, jealous, and
very, unhappy.  He gave up his enterprise, leaned his shoulder against a
fluted pilaster and pouted while he kept watch upon Laura's every
movement.  His other shoulder stole the bloom from many a lovely cheek
that brushed him in the surging crush, but he noted it not.  He was too
busy cursing himself inwardly for being an egotistical imbecile.  An hour
ago he had thought to take this country lass under his protection and
show her "life" and enjoy her wonder and delight--and here she was,
immersed in the marvel up to her eyes, and just a trifle more at home in
it than he was himself.  And now his angry comments ran on again:

"Now she's sweetening old Brother Balaam; and he--well he is inviting her
to the Congressional prayer-meeting, no doubt--better let old Dilworthy
alone to see that she doesn't overlook that.  And now its Splurge, of New
York; and now its Batters of New Hampshire--and now the Vice President!
Well I may as well adjourn.  I've got enough."

But he hadn't.  He got as far as the door--and then struggled back to
take one more look, hating himself all the while for his weakness.

Toward midnight, when supper was announced, the crowd thronged to the
supper room where a long table was decked out with what seemed a rare
repast, but which consisted of things better calculated to feast the eye
than the appetite.  The ladies were soon seated in files along the wall,
and in groups here and there, and the colored waiters filled the plates
and glasses and the, male guests moved hither and thither conveying them
to the privileged sex.

Harry took an ice and stood up by the table with other gentlemen, and
listened to the buzz of conversation while he ate.

From these remarks he learned a good deal about Laura that was news to
him.  For instance, that she was of a distinguished western family; that
she was highly educated; that she was very rich and a great landed
heiress; that she was not a professor of religion, and yet was a
Christian in the truest and best sense of the word, for her whole heart
was devoted to the accomplishment of a great and noble enterprise--none
other than the sacrificing of her landed estates to the uplifting of the
down-trodden negro and the turning of his erring feet into the way of
light and righteousness.  Harry observed that as soon as one listener had
absorbed the story, he turned about and delivered it to his next neighbor
and the latter individual straightway passed it on.  And thus he saw it
travel the round of the gentlemen and overflow rearward among the ladies.
He could not trace it backward to its fountain head, and so he could not
tell who it was that started it.

One thing annoyed Harry a great deal; and that was the reflection that he
might have been in Washington days and days ago and thrown his
fascinations about Laura with permanent effect while she was new and
strange to the capital, instead of dawdling in Philadelphia to no
purpose.  He feared he had "missed a trick," as he expressed it.

He only found one little opportunity of speaking again with Laura before
the evening's festivities ended, and then, for the first time in years,
his airy self-complacency failed him, his tongue's easy confidence
forsook it in a great measure, and he was conscious of an unheroic
timidity.  He was glad to get away and find a place where he could
despise himself in private and try to grow his clipped plumes again.

When Laura reached home she was tired but exultant, and Senator Dilworthy
was pleased and satisfied.  He called Laura "my daughter," next morning,
and gave her some "pin money," as he termed it, and she sent a hundred
and fifty dollars of it to her mother and loaned a trifle to Col.
Sellers.  Then the Senator had a long private conference with Laura, and
unfolded certain plans of his for the good of the country, and religion,
and the poor, and temperance, and showed her how she could assist him in
developing these worthy and noble enterprises.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

Laura soon discovered that there were three distinct aristocracies in
Washington.  One of these, (nick-named the Antiques,) consisted of
cultivated, high-bred old families who looked back with pride upon an
ancestry that had been always great in the nation's councils and its wars
from the birth of the republic downward.  Into this select circle it was
difficult to gain admission.  No. 2 was the aristocracy of the middle
ground--of which, more anon.  No. 3 lay beyond; of it we will say a word
here.  We will call it the Aristocracy of the Parvenus--as, indeed, the
general public did.  Official position, no matter how obtained, entitled
a man to a place in it, and carried his family with him, no matter whence
they sprang.  Great wealth gave a man a still higher and nobler place in
it than did official position.  If this wealth had been acquired by
conspicuous ingenuity, with just a pleasant little spice of illegality
about it, all the better.  This aristocracy was "fast," and not averse to
ostentation.

The aristocracy of the Antiques ignored the aristocracy of the Parvenus;
the Parvenus laughed at the Antiques, (and secretly envied them.)

There were certain important "society" customs which one in Laura's
position needed to understand.  For instance, when a lady of any
prominence comes to one of our cities and takes up her residence, all the
ladies of her grade favor her in turn with an initial call, giving their
cards to the servant at the door by way of introduction.  They come
singly, sometimes; sometimes in couples; and always in elaborate full
dress.  They talk two minutes and a quarter and then go.  If the lady
receiving the call desires a further acquaintance, she must return the
visit within two weeks; to neglect it beyond that time means "let the
matter drop."  But if she does return the visit within two weeks, it then
becomes the other party's privilege to continue the acquaintance or drop
it.  She signifies her willingness to continue it by calling again any
time within twelve-months; after that, if the parties go on calling upon
each other once a year, in our large cities, that is sufficient, and the
acquaintanceship holds good.  The thing goes along smoothly, now.
The annual visits are made and returned with peaceful regularity and
bland satisfaction, although it is not necessary that the two ladies
shall actually see each other oftener than once every few years.  Their
cards preserve the intimacy and keep the acquaintanceship intact.

For instance, Mrs. A.  pays her annual visit, sits in her carriage and
sends in her card with the lower right hand corner turned down, which
signifies that she has "called in person;" Mrs. B: sends down word that
she is "engaged" or "wishes to be excused"--or if she is a Parvenu and
low-bred, she perhaps sends word that she is "not at home."  Very good;
Mrs. A.  drives, on happy and content.  If Mrs. A.'s daughter marries,
or a child is born to the family, Mrs. B. calls, sends in her card with
the upper left hand corner turned down, and then goes along about her
affairs--for that inverted corner means "Congratulations."  If Mrs. B.'s
husband falls downstairs and breaks his neck, Mrs. A. calls, leaves her
card with the upper right hand corner turned down, and then takes her
departure; this corner means "Condolence."  It is very necessary to get
the corners right, else one may unintentionally condole with a friend on
a wedding or congratulate her upon a funeral.  If either lady is about to
leave the city, she goes to the other's house and leaves her card with
"P. P. C." engraved under the name--which signifies, "Pay Parting Call."
But enough of etiquette.  Laura was early instructed in the mysteries of
society life by a competent mentor, and thus was preserved from
troublesome mistakes.

The first fashionable call she received from a member of the ancient
nobility, otherwise the Antiques, was of a pattern with all she received
from that limb of the aristocracy afterward.  This call was paid by Mrs.
Major-General Fulke-Fulkerson and daughter.  They drove up at one in the
afternoon in a rather antiquated vehicle with a faded coat of arms on the
panels, an aged white-wooled negro coachman on the box and a younger
darkey beside him--the footman.  Both of these servants were dressed in
dull brown livery that had seen considerable service.

The ladies entered the drawing-room in full character; that is to say,
with Elizabethan stateliness on the part of the dowager, and an easy
grace and dignity on the part of the young lady that had a nameless
something about it that suggested conscious superiority.  The dresses of
both ladies were exceedingly rich, as to material, but as notably modest
as to color and ornament.  All parties having seated themselves, the
dowager delivered herself of a remark that was not unusual in its form,
and yet it came from her lips with the impressiveness of Scripture:

"The weather has been unpropitious of late, Miss Hawkins."

"It has indeed," said Laura.  "The climate seems to be variable."

"It is its nature of old, here," said the daughter--stating it apparently
as a fact, only, and by her manner waving aside all personal
responsibility on account of it.  "Is it not so, mamma?"

"Quite so, my child.  Do you like winter, Miss Hawkins?"  She said "like"
as if she had, an idea that its dictionary meaning was "approve of."

"Not as well as summer--though I think all seasons have their charms."

"It is a very just remark.  The general held similar views.  He
considered snow in winter proper; sultriness in summer legitimate; frosts
in the autumn the same, and rains in spring not objectionable.  He was
not an exacting man.  And I call to mind now that he always admired
thunder.  You remember, child, your father always admired thunder?"

"He adored it."

No doubt it reminded him of battle," said Laura.

"Yes, I think perhaps it did.  He had a great respect for Nature.
He often said there was something striking about the ocean.  You remember
his saying that, daughter?"

"Yes, often, Mother.  I remember it very well."

"And hurricanes...  He took a great interest in hurricanes.  And animals.
Dogs, especially--hunting dogs.  Also comets.  I think we all have our
predilections.  I think it is this that gives variety to our tastes."

Laura coincided with this view.

"Do you find it hard and lonely to be so far from your home and friends,
Miss Hawkins?"

"I do find it depressing sometimes, but then there is so much about me
here that is novel and interesting that my days are made up more of
sunshine than shadow."

"Washington is not a dull city in the season," said the young lady.
"We have some very good society indeed, and one need not be at a loss for
means to pass the time pleasantly.  Are you fond of watering-places, Miss
Hawkins?"

"I have really had no experience of them, but I have always felt a strong
desire to see something of fashionable watering-place life."

"We of Washington are unfortunately situated in that respect," said the
dowager.  "It is a tedious distance to Newport.  But there is no help for
it."

Laura said to herself, "Long Branch and Cape May are nearer than Newport;
doubtless these places are low; I'll feel my way a little and see."  Then
she said aloud:

"Why I thought that Long Branch--"

There was no need to "feel" any further--there was that in both faces
before her which made that truth apparent.  The dowager said:

"Nobody goes there, Miss Hawkins--at least only persons of no position in
society.  And the President."  She added that with tranquility.

"Newport is damp, and cold, and windy and excessively disagreeable," said
the daughter, "but it is very select.  One cannot be fastidious about
minor matters when one has no choice."

The visit had spun out nearly three minutes, now.  Both ladies rose with
grave dignity, conferred upon Laura a formal invitation to call, aid then
retired from the conference.  Laura remained in the drawing-room and left
them to pilot themselves out of the house--an inhospitable thing,
it seemed to her, but then she was following her instructions.  She
stood, steeped in reverie, a while, and then she said:

"I think I could always enjoy icebergs--as scenery but not as company."

Still, she knew these two people by reputation, and was aware that they
were not ice-bergs when they were in their own waters and amid their
legitimate surroundings, but on the contrary were people to be respected
for their stainless characters and esteemed for their social virtues and
their benevolent impulses.  She thought it a pity that they had to be
such changed and dreary creatures on occasions of state.

The first call Laura received from the other extremity of the Washington
aristocracy followed close upon the heels of the one we have just been
describing.  The callers this time were the Hon. Mrs. Oliver Higgins,
the Hon. Mrs. Patrique Oreille (pronounced O-relay,) Miss Bridget
(pronounced Breezhay) Oreille, Mrs. Peter Gashly, Miss Gashly, and Miss
Emmeline Gashly.

The three carriages arrived at the same moment from different directions.
They were new and wonderfully shiny, and the brasses on the harness were
highly polished and bore complicated monograms.  There were showy coats
of arms, too, with Latin mottoes.  The coachmen and footmen were clad in
bright new livery, of striking colors, and they had black rosettes with
shaving-brushes projecting above them, on the sides of their stove-pipe
hats.

When the visitors swept into the drawing-room they filled the place with
a suffocating sweetness procured at the perfumer's.  Their costumes, as
to architecture, were the latest fashion intensified; they were rainbow-
hued; they were hung with jewels--chiefly diamonds.  It would have been
plain to any eye that it had cost something to upholster these women.

The Hon. Mrs. Oliver Higgins was the wife of a delegate from a distant
territory--a gentleman who had kept the principal "saloon," and sold the
best whiskey in the principal village in his wilderness, and so, of
course, was recognized as the first man of his commonwealth and its
fittest representative.

He was a man of paramount influence at home, for he was public spirited,
he was chief of the fire department, he had an admirable command of
profane language, and had killed several "parties."  His shirt fronts
were always immaculate; his boots daintily polished, and no man could
lift a foot and fire a dead shot at a stray speck of dirt on it with a
white handkerchief with a finer grace than he; his watch chain weighed a
pound; the gold in his finger ring was worth forty five dollars; he wore
a diamond cluster-pin and he parted his hair behind.  He had always been,
regarded as the most elegant gentleman in his territory, and it was
conceded by all that no man thereabouts was anywhere near his equal in
the telling of an obscene story except the venerable white-haired
governor himself.  The Hon. Higgins had not come to serve his country in
Washington for nothing.  The appropriation which he had engineered
through Congress for the maintenance, of the Indians in his Territory
would have made all those savages rich if it had ever got to them.

The Hon. Mrs. Higgins was a picturesque woman, and a fluent talker, and
she held a tolerably high station among the Parvenus.  Her English was
fair enough, as a general thing--though, being of New York origin, she
had the fashion peculiar to many natives of that city of pronouncing saw
and law as if they were spelt sawr and lawr.

Petroleum was the agent that had suddenly transformed the Gashlys from
modest hard-working country village folk into "loud" aristocrats and
ornaments of the city.

The Hon. Patrique Oreille was a wealthy Frenchman from Cork.  Not that he
was wealthy when he first came from Cork, but just the reverse.  When he
first landed in New York with his wife, he had only halted at Castle
Garden for a few minutes to receive and exhibit papers showing that he
had resided in this country two years--and then he voted the democratic
ticket and went up town to hunt a house.  He found one and then went to
work as assistant to an architect and builder, carrying a hod all day and
studying politics evenings.  Industry and economy soon enabled him to
start a low rum shop in a foul locality, and this gave him political
influence.  In our country it is always our first care to see that our
people have the opportunity of voting for their choice of men to
represent and govern them--we do not permit our great officials to
appoint the little officials.  We prefer to have so tremendous a power as
that in our own hands.  We hold it safest to elect our judges and
everybody else.  In our cities, the ward meetings elect delegates to the
nominating conventions and instruct them whom to nominate.  The publicans
and their retainers rule the ward meetings (for every body else hates the
worry of politics and stays at home); the delegates from the ward
meetings organize as a nominating convention and make up a list of
candidates--one convention offering a democratic and another a republican
list of incorruptibles; and then the great meek public come forward at
the proper time and make unhampered choice and bless Heaven that they
live in a free land where no form of despotism can ever intrude.

Patrick O'Riley (as his name then stood) created friends and influence
very, fast, for he was always on hand at the police courts to give straw
bail for his customers or establish an alibi for them in case they had
been beating anybody to death on his premises.  Consequently he presently
became a political leader, and was elected to a petty office under the
city government.  Out of a meager salary he soon saved money enough to
open quite a stylish liquor saloon higher up town, with a faro bank
attached and plenty of capital to conduct it with.  This gave him fame
and great respectability.  The position of alderman was forced upon him,
and it was just the same as presenting him a gold mine.  He had fine
horses and carriages, now, and closed up his whiskey mill.

By and by he became a large contractor for city work, and was a bosom
friend of the great and good Wm. M. Weed himself, who had stolen
$20,600,000 from the city and was a man so envied, so honored,--so
adored, indeed, that when the sheriff went to his office to arrest him as
a felon, that sheriff blushed and apologized, and one of the illustrated
papers made a picture of the scene and spoke of the matter in such a way
as to show that the editor regretted that the offense of an arrest had
been offered to so exalted a personage as Mr. Weed.

Mr. O'Riley furnished shingle nails to, the new Court House at three
thousand dollars a keg, and eighteen gross of 60-cent thermometers at
fifteen hundred dollars a dozen; the controller and the board of audit
passed the bills, and a mayor, who was simply ignorant but not criminal,
signed them.  When they were paid, Mr. O'Riley's admirers gave him a
solitaire diamond pin of the size of a filbert, in imitation of the
liberality of Mr. Weed's friends, and then Mr. O'Riley retired from
active service and amused himself with buying real estate at enormous
figures and holding it in other people's names.  By and by the newspapers
came out with exposures and called Weed and O'Riley "thieves,"--whereupon
the people rose as one man (voting repeatedly) and elected the two
gentlemen to their proper theatre of action, the New York legislature.
The newspapers clamored, and the courts proceeded to try the new
legislators for their small irregularities.  Our admirable jury system
enabled the persecuted ex-officials to secure a jury of nine gentlemen
from a neighboring asylum and three graduates from Sing-Sing, and
presently they walked forth with characters vindicated.  The legislature
was called upon to spew them forth--a thing which the legislature
declined to do.  It was like asking children to repudiate their own
father.  It was a legislature of the modern pattern.

Being now wealthy and distinguished, Mr. O'Riley, still bearing the
legislative "Hon." attached to his name (for titles never die in America,
although we do take a republican pride in poking fun at such trifles),
sailed for Europe with his family.  They traveled all about, turning
their noses up at every thing, and not finding it a difficult thing to
do, either, because nature had originally given those features a cast in
that direction; and finally they established themselves in Paris, that
Paradise of Americans of their sort.--They staid there two years and
learned to speak English with a foreign accent--not that it hadn't always
had a foreign accent (which was indeed the case) but now the nature of it
was changed.  Finally they returned home and became ultra fashionables.
They landed here as the Hon.  Patrique Oreille and family, and so are
known unto this day.

Laura provided seats for her visitors and they immediately launched forth
into a breezy, sparkling conversation with that easy confidence which is
to be found only among persons accustomed to high life.

"I've been intending to call sooner, Miss Hawkins," said the Hon. Mrs.
Oreille, "but the weather's been so horrid.  How do you like Washington?"

Laura liked it very well indeed.

Mrs. Gashly--"Is it your first visit?"

Yea, it was her first.

All--"Indeed?"

Mrs. Oreille--"I'm afraid you'll despise the weather, Miss Hawkins.
It's perfectly awful.  It always is.  I tell Mr. Oreille I can't and
I won't put up with any such a climate.  If we were obliged to do it,
I wouldn't mind it; but we are not obliged to, and so I don't see the use
of it.  Sometimes its real pitiful the way the childern pine for Parry--
don't look so sad, Bridget, 'ma chere'--poor child, she can't hear Parry
mentioned without getting the blues."

Mrs. Gashly--"Well I should think so, Mrs. Oreille.  A body lives in
Paris, but a body, only stays here.  I dote on Paris; I'd druther scrimp
along on ten thousand dollars a year there, than suffer and worry here on
a real decent income."

Miss Gashly--"Well then, I wish you'd take us back, mother; I'm sure I
hate this stoopid country enough, even if it is our dear native land."

Miss Emmeline Gashly--"What and leave poor Johnny Peterson behind?" [An
airy genial laugh applauded this sally].

Miss Gashly--"Sister, I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself!"

Miss Emmeline--"Oh, you needn't ruffle your feathers so: I was only
joking.  He don't mean anything by coming to, the house every evening--
only comes to see mother.  Of course that's all!" [General laughter].

Miss G. prettily confused--"Emmeline, how can you!"

Mrs. G.--"Let your sister alone, Emmeline.  I never saw such a tease!"

Mrs. Oreille--"What lovely corals you have, Miss Hawkins!  Just look at
them, Bridget, dear.  I've a great passion for corals--it's a pity
they're getting a little common.  I have some elegant ones--not as
elegant as yours, though--but of course I don't wear them now."

Laura--"I suppose they are rather common, but still I have a great
affection for these, because they were given to me by a dear old friend
of our family named Murphy.  He was a very charming man, but very
eccentric.  We always supposed he was an Irishman, but after be got rich
he went abroad for a year or two, and when he came back you would have
been amused to see how interested he was in a potato.  He asked what it
was!  Now you know that when Providence shapes a mouth especially for the
accommodation of a potato you can detect that fact at a glance when that
mouth is in repose--foreign travel can never remove that sign.  But he
was a very delightful gentleman, and his little foible did not hurt him
at all.  We all have our shams--I suppose there is a sham somewhere about
every individual, if we could manage to ferret it out.  I would so like
to go to France.  I suppose our society here compares very favorably with
French society does it not, Mrs. Oreille?"

Mrs. O.--"Not by any means, Miss Hawkins!  French society is much more
elegant--much more so."

Laura--"I am sorry to hear that.  I suppose ours has deteriorated of
late."

Mrs. O.--"Very much indeed.  There are people in society here that have
really no more money to live on than what some of us pay for servant
hire.  Still I won't say but what some of them are very good people--and
respectable, too."

Laura--"The old families seem to be holding themselves aloof, from what I
hear.  I suppose you seldom meet in society now, the people you used to
be familiar with twelve or fifteen years ago?"

Mrs. O.--"Oh, no-hardly ever."

Mr. O'Riley kept his first rum-mill and protected his customers from the
law in those days, and this turn of the conversation was rather
uncomfortable to madame than otherwise.

Hon. Mrs. Higgins--"Is Francois' health good now, Mrs. Oreille?"

Mrs. O.--(Thankful for the intervention)--"Not very.  A body couldn't
expect it.  He was always delicate--especially his lungs--and this odious
climate tells on him strong, now, after Parry, which is so mild."

Mrs. H:--"I should think so.  Husband says Percy'll die if he don't have
a change; and so I'm going to swap round a little and see what can be
done.  I saw a lady from Florida last week, and she recommended Key West.
I told her Percy couldn't abide winds, as he was threatened with a
pulmonary affection, and then she said try St. Augustine.  It's an awful
distance--ten or twelve hundred mile, they say but then in a case of this
kind--a body can't stand back for trouble, you know."

Mrs. O.--"No, of course that's off.  If Francois don't get better soon
we've got to look out for some other place, or else Europe.  We've
thought some of the Hot Springs, but I don't know.  It's a great
responsibility and a body wants to go cautious.  Is Hildebrand about
again, Mrs. Gashly?"

Mrs. G.--"Yes, but that's about all.  It was indigestion, you know, and
it looks as if it was chronic.  And you know I do dread dyspepsia.  We've
all been worried a good deal about him.  The doctor recommended baked
apple and spoiled meat, and I think it done him good.  It's about the
only thing that will stay on his stomach now-a-days.  We have Dr. Shovel
now.  Who's your doctor, Mrs. Higgins?"

Mrs. H.--"Well, we had Dr. Spooner a good while, but he runs so much to
emetics, which I think are weakening, that we changed off and took Dr.
Leathers.  We like him very much.  He has a fine European reputation,
too.  The first thing he suggested for Percy was to have him taken out in
the back yard for an airing, every afternoon, with nothing at all on."

Mrs. O. and Mrs. G.--"What!"

Mrs. H.--"As true as I'm sitting here.  And it actually helped him for
two or three days; it did indeed.  But after that the doctor said it
seemed to be too severe and so he has fell back on hot foot-baths at
night and cold showers in the morning.  But I don't think there, can be
any good sound help for him in such a climate as this.  I believe we are
going to lose him if we don't make a change."

Mrs. O.  "I suppose you heard of the fright we had two weeks ago last
Saturday?  No?  Why that is strange--but come to remember, you've all
been away to Richmond.  Francois tumbled from the sky light--in the
second-story hall clean down to the first floor--"

Everybody--"Mercy!"

Mrs.  O.--"Yes indeed--and broke two of his ribs--"

Everybody--"What!"

Mrs. O.  "Just as true as you live.  First we thought he must be injured
internally.  It was fifteen minutes past 8 in the evening.  Of course we
were all distracted in a moment--everybody was flying everywhere, and
nobody doing anything worth anything.  By and by I flung out next door
and dragged in Dr. Sprague; President of the Medical University no time
to go for our own doctor of course--and the minute he saw Francois he
said, 'Send for your own physician, madam;' said it as cross as a bear,
too, and turned right on his heel, and cleared out without doing a
thing!"

Everybody--"The mean, contemptible brute!"

Mrs. O--"Well you may say it.  I was nearly out of my wits by this time.
But we hurried off the servants after our own doctor and telegraphed
mother--she was in New York and rushed down on the first train; and when
the doctor got there, lo and behold you he found Francois had broke one
of his legs, too!"

Everybody--"Goodness!"

Mrs. O.--"Yes.  So he set his leg and bandaged it up, and fixed his ribs
and gave him a dose of something to quiet down his excitement and put him
to sleep--poor thing he was trembling and frightened to death and it was
pitiful to see him.  We had him in my bed--Mr. Oreille slept in the guest
room and I laid down beside Francois--but not to sleep bless you no.
Bridget and I set up all night, and the doctor staid till two in the
morning, bless his old heart.--When mother got there she was so used up
with anxiety, that she had to go to bed and have the doctor; but when she
found that Francois was not in immediate danger she rallied, and by night
she was able to take a watch herself.  Well for three days and nights we
three never left that bedside only to take an hour's nap at a time.
And then the doctor said Francois was out of danger and if ever there was
a thankful set, in this world, it was us."

Laura's respect for these, women had augmented during this conversation,
naturally enough; affection and devotion are qualities that are able to
adorn and render beautiful a character that is otherwise unattractive,
and even repulsive.

Mrs. Gashly--"I do believe I would a died if I had been in your place,
Mrs. Oreille.  The time Hildebrand was so low with the pneumonia Emmeline
and me were all, alone with him most of the time and we never took a
minute's sleep for as much as two days, and nights.  It was at Newport
and we wouldn't trust hired nurses.  One afternoon he had a fit, and
jumped up and run out on the portico of the hotel with nothing in the
world on and the wind a blowing liken ice and we after him scared to
death; and when the ladies and gentlemen saw that he had a fit, every
lady scattered for her room and not a gentleman lifted his hand to help,
the wretches!  Well after that his life hung by a thread for as much as
ten days, and the minute he was out of danger Emmeline and me just went
to bed sick and worn out.  I never want to pass through such a time
again.  Poor dear Francois--which leg did he break, Mrs. Oreille!"

Mrs. O.--"It was his right hand hind leg.  Jump down, Francois dear, and
show the ladies what a cruel limp you've got yet."

Francois demurred, but being coaxed and delivered gently upon the floor,
he performed very satisfactorily, with his "right hand hind leg" in the
air.  All were affected--even Laura--but hers was an affection of the
stomach.  The country-bred girl had not suspected that the little whining
ten-ounce black and tan reptile, clad in a red embroidered pigmy blanket
and reposing in Mrs. Oreille's lap all through the visit was the
individual whose sufferings had been stirring the dormant generosities of
her nature.  She said:

"Poor little creature!  You might have lost him!"

Mrs. O.--" O pray don't mention it, Miss Hawkins--it gives me such a
turn!"

Laura--"And Hildebrand and Percy--are they-are they like this one?"

Mrs. G.--"No, Hilly has considerable Skye blood in him, I believe."

Mrs. H.--"Percy's the same, only he is two months and ten days older and
has his ears cropped.  His father, Martin Farquhar Tupper, was sickly,
and died young, but he was the sweetest disposition.--His mother had
heart disease but was very gentle and resigned, and a wonderful ratter."
--[** As impossible and exasperating as this conversation may sound to a
person who is not an idiot, it is scarcely in any respect an exaggeration
of one which one of us actually listened to in an American drawing room--
otherwise we could not venture to put such a chapter into a book which,
professes to deal with social possibilities.--THE AUTHORS.]

So carried away had the visitors become by their interest attaching to
this discussion of family matters, that their stay had been prolonged to
a very improper and unfashionable length; but they suddenly recollected
themselves now and took their departure.

Laura's scorn was boundless.  The more she thought of these people and
their extraordinary talk, the more offensive they seemed to her; and yet
she confessed that if one must choose between the two extreme
aristocracies it might be best, on the whole, looking at things from a
strictly business point of view, to herd with the Parvenus; she was in
Washington solely to compass a certain matter and to do it at any cost,
and these people might be useful to her, while it was plain that her
purposes and her schemes for pushing them would not find favor in the
eyes of the Antiques.  If it came to choice--and it might come to that,
sooner or later--she believed she could come to a decision without much
difficulty or many pangs.

But the best aristocracy of the three Washington castes, and really the
most powerful, by far, was that of the Middle Ground: It was made up of
the families of public men from nearly every state in the Union--men who
held positions in both the executive and legislative branches of the
government, and whose characters had been for years blemishless, both at
home and at the capital.  These gentlemen and their households were
unostentatious people; they were educated and refined; they troubled
themselves but little about the two other orders of nobility, but moved
serenely in their wide orbit, confident in their own strength and well
aware of the potency of their influence.  They had no troublesome
appearances to keep up, no rivalries which they cared to distress
themselves about, no jealousies to fret over.  They could afford to mind
their own affairs and leave other combinations to do the same or do
otherwise, just as they chose.  They were people who were beyond
reproach, and that was sufficient.

Senator Dilworthy never came into collision with any of these factions.
He labored for them all and with them all.  He said that all men were
brethren and all were entitled to the honest unselfish help and
countenance of a Christian laborer in the public vineyard.

Laura concluded, after reflection, to let circumstances determine the
course it might be best for her to pursue as regarded the several
aristocracies.

Now it might occur to the reader that perhaps Laura had been somewhat
rudely suggestive in her remarks to Mrs. Oreille when the subject of
corals was under discussion, but it did not occur to Laura herself.
She was not a person of exaggerated refinement; indeed, the society and
the influences that had formed her character had not been of a nature
calculated to make her so; she thought that "give and take was fair
play," and that to parry an offensive thrust with a sarcasm was a neat
and legitimate thing to do.  She some times talked to people in a way
which some ladies would consider, actually shocking; but Laura rather
prided herself upon some of her exploits of that character.  We are sorry
we cannot make her a faultless heroine; but we cannot, for the reason
that she was human.

She considered herself a superior conversationist.  Long ago, when the
possibility had first been brought before her mind that some day she
might move in Washington society, she had recognized the fact that
practiced conversational powers would be a necessary weapon in that
field; she had also recognized the fact that since her dealings there
must be mainly with men, and men whom she supposed to be exceptionally
cultivated and able, she would need heavier shot in her magazine than
mere brilliant "society" nothings; whereupon she had at once entered upon
a tireless and elaborate course of reading, and had never since ceased to
devote every unoccupied moment to this sort of preparation.  Having now
acquired a happy smattering of various information, she used it with good
effect--she passed for a singularly well informed woman in Washington.
The quality of her literary tastes had necessarily undergone constant
improvement under this regimen, and as necessarily, also; the duality of
her language had improved, though it cannot be denied that now and then
her former condition of life betrayed itself in just perceptible
inelegancies of expression and lapses of grammar.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

When Laura had been in Washington three months, she was still the same
person, in one respect, that she was when she first arrived there--that
is to say, she still bore the name of Laura Hawkins.  Otherwise she was
perceptibly changed.--

She had arrived in a state of grievous uncertainty as to what manner of
woman she was, physically and intellectually, as compared with eastern
women; she was well satisfied, now, that her beauty was confessed, her
mind a grade above the average, and her powers of fascination rather
extraordinary.  So she, was at ease upon those points.  When she arrived,
she was possessed of habits of economy and not possessed of money; now
she dressed elaborately, gave but little thought to the cost of things,
and was very well fortified financially.  She kept her mother and
Washington freely supplied with money, and did the same by Col. Sellers--
who always insisted upon giving his note for loans--with interest; he was
rigid upon that; she must take interest; and one of the Colonel's
greatest satisfactions was to go over his accounts and note what a
handsome sum this accruing interest amounted to, and what a comfortable
though modest support it would yield Laura in case reverses should
overtake her.

In truth he could not help feeling that he was an efficient shield for
her against poverty; and so, if her expensive ways ever troubled him for
a brief moment, he presently dismissed the thought and said to himself,
"Let her go on--even if she loses everything she is still safe--this
interest will always afford her a good easy income."

Laura was on excellent terms with a great many members of Congress, and
there was an undercurrent of suspicion in some quarters that she was one
of that detested class known as "lobbyists;" but what belle could escape
slander in such a city?  Fairminded people declined to condemn her on
mere suspicion, and so the injurious talk made no very damaging headway.
She was very gay, now, and very celebrated, and she might well expect to
be assailed by many kinds of gossip.  She was growing used to celebrity,
and could already sit calm and seemingly unconscious, under the fire of
fifty lorgnettes in a theatre, or even overhear the low voice "That's
she!" as she passed along the street without betraying annoyance.

The whole air was full of a vague vast scheme which was to eventuate in
filling Laura's pockets with millions of money; some had one idea of the
scheme, and some another, but nobody had any exact knowledge upon the
subject.  All that any one felt sure about, was that Laura's landed
estates were princely in value and extent, and that the government was
anxious to get hold of them for public purposes, and that Laura was
willing to make the sale but not at all anxious about the matter and not
at all in a hurry.  It was whispered that Senator Dilworthy was a
stumbling block in the way of an immediate sale, because he was resolved
that the government should not have the lands except with the
understanding that they should be devoted to the uplifting of the negro
race; Laura did not care what they were devoted to, it was said, (a world
of very different gossip to the contrary notwithstanding,) but there were
several other heirs and they would be guided entirely by the Senator's
wishes; and finally, many people averred that while it would be easy to
sell the lands to the government for the benefit of the negro, by
resorting to the usual methods of influencing votes, Senator Dilworthy
was unwilling to have so noble a charity sullied by any taint of
corruption--he was resolved that not a vote should be bought.  Nobody
could get anything definite from Laura about these matters, and so gossip
had to feed itself chiefly upon guesses.  But the effect of it all was,
that Laura was considered to be very wealthy and likely to be vastly more
so in a little while.  Consequently she was much courted and as much
envied: Her wealth attracted many suitors.  Perhaps they came to worship
her riches, but they remained to worship her.  Some of the noblest men of
the time succumbed to her fascinations.  She frowned upon no lover when
he made his first advances, but by and by when she was hopelessly
enthralled, he learned from her own lips that she had formed a resolution
never to marry.  Then he would go away hating and cursing the whole sex,
and she would calmly add his scalp to her string, while she mused upon
the bitter day that Col. Selby trampled her love and her pride in the
dust.  In time it came to be said that her way was paved with broken
hearts.

Poor Washington gradually woke up to the fact that he too was an
intellectual marvel as well as his gifted sister.  He could not conceive
how it had come about (it did not occur to him that the gossip about his
family's great wealth had any thing to do with it). He could not account
for it by any process of reasoning, and was simply obliged to accept the
fact and give up trying to solve the riddle.  He found himself dragged
into society and courted, wondered at and envied very much as if he were
one of those foreign barbers who flit over here now and then with a self-
conferred title of nobility and marry some rich fool's absurd daughter.
Sometimes at a dinner party or a reception he would find himself the
centre of interest, and feel unutterably uncomfortable in the discovery.
Being obliged to say something, he would mine his brain and put in a
blast and when the smoke and flying debris had cleared away the result
would be what seemed to him but a poor little intellectual clod of dirt
or two, and then he would be astonished to see everybody as lost in
admiration as if he had brought up a ton or two of virgin gold.  Every
remark he made delighted his hearers and compelled their applause; he
overheard people say he was exceedingly bright--they were chiefly mammas
and marriageable young ladies.  He found that some of his good things
were being repeated about the town.  Whenever he heard of an instance of
this kind, he would keep that particular remark in mind and analyze it at
home in private.  At first he could not see that the remark was anything
better than a parrot might originate; but by and by he began to feel that
perhaps he underrated his powers; and after that he used to analyze his
good things with a deal of comfort, and find in them a brilliancy which
would have been unapparent to him in earlier days--and then he would make
a note, of that good thing and say it again the first time he found
himself in a new company.  Presently he had saved up quite a repertoire
of brilliancies; and after that he confined himself to repeating these
and ceased to originate any more, lest he might injure his reputation by
an unlucky effort.

He was constantly having young ladies thrust upon his notice at
receptions, or left upon his hands at parties, and in time he began to
feel that he was being deliberately persecuted in this way; and after
that he could not enjoy society because of his constant dread of these
female ambushes and surprises.  He was distressed to find that nearly
every time he showed a young lady a polite attention he was straightway
reported to be engaged to her; and as some of these reports got into the
newspapers occasionally, he had to keep writing to Louise that they were
lies and she must believe in him and not mind them or allow them to
grieve her.

Washington was as much in the dark as anybody with regard to the great
wealth that was hovering in the air and seemingly on the point of
tumbling into the family pocket.  Laura would give him no satisfaction.
All she would say, was:

"Wait.  Be patient.  You will see."

"But will it be soon, Laura?"

"It will not be very long, I think."

"But what makes you think so?"

"I have reasons--and good ones.  Just wait, and be patient."

"But is it going to be as much as people say it is?"

"What do they say it is?"

"Oh, ever so much.  Millions!"

"Yes, it will be a great sum."

"But how great, Laura?  Will it be millions?"

"Yes, you may call it that.  Yes, it will be millions.  There, now--does
that satisfy you?"

"Splendid!  I can wait.  I can wait patiently--ever so patiently.  Once I
was near selling the land for twenty thousand dollars; once for thirty
thousand dollars; once after that for seven thousand dollars; and once
for forty thousand dollars--but something always told me not to do it.
What a fool I would have been to sell it for such a beggarly trifle!  It
is the land that's to bring the money, isn't it Laura?  You can tell me
that much, can't you?"

"Yes, I don't mind saying that much.  It is the land.

"But mind--don't ever hint that you got it from me.  Don't mention me in
the matter at all, Washington."

"All right--I won't.  Millions!  Isn't it splendid!  I mean to look
around for a building lot; a lot with fine ornamental shrubbery and all
that sort of thing.  I will do it to-day.  And I might as well see an
architect, too, and get him to go to work at a plan for a house.  I don't
intend to spare and expense; I mean to have the noblest house that money
can build."  Then after a pause--he did not notice Laura's smiles "Laura,
would you lay the main hall in encaustic tiles, or just in fancy patterns
of hard wood?"

Laura laughed a good old-fashioned laugh that had more of her former
natural self about it than any sound that had issued from her mouth in
many weeks.  She said:

"You don't change, Washington.  You still begin to squander a fortune
right and left the instant you hear of it in the distance; you never wait
till the foremost dollar of it arrives within a hundred miles of you,"--
and she kissed her brother good bye and left him weltering in his dreams,
so to speak.

He got up and walked the floor feverishly during two hours; and when he
sat down he had married Louise, built a house, reared a family, married
them off, spent upwards of eight hundred thousand dollars on mere
luxuries, and died worth twelve millions.




CHAPTER XXXV.


Laura went down stairs, knocked at/the study door, and entered, scarcely
waiting for the response.  Senator Dilworthy was alone--with an open
Bible in his hand, upside down.  Laura smiled, and said, forgetting her
acquired correctness of speech,

"It is only me."

"Ah, come in, sit down," and the Senator closed the book and laid it
down.  "I wanted to see you.  Time to report progress from the committee
of the whole," and the Senator beamed with his own congressional wit.

"In the committee of the whole things are working very well.  We have
made ever so much progress in a week.  I believe that you and I together
could run this government beautifully, uncle."

The Senator beamed again.  He liked to be called "uncle" by this
beautiful woman.

"Did you see Hopperson last night after the congressional prayer
meeting?"

"Yes.  He came.  He's a kind of--"

"Eh? he is one of my friends, Laura.  He's a fine man, a very fine man.
I don't know any man in congress I'd sooner go to for help in any
Christian work.  What did he say?"

"Oh, he beat around a little.  He said he should like to help the negro,
his heart went out to the negro, and all that--plenty of them say that
but he was a little afraid of the Tennessee Land bill; if Senator
Dilworthy wasn't in it, he should suspect there was a fraud on the
government."

"He said that, did he?"

"Yes.  And he said he felt he couldn't vote for it.  He was shy."

"Not shy, child, cautious.  He's a very cautious man.  I have been with
him a great deal on conference committees.  He wants reasons, good ones.
Didn't you show him he was in error about the bill?"

"I did.  I went over the whole thing.  I had to tell him some of the side
arrangements, some of the--"

"You didn't mention me?"

"Oh, no.  I told him you were daft about the negro and the philanthropy
part of it, as you are."

"Daft is a little strong, Laura.  But you know that I wouldn't touch this
bill if it were not for the public good, and for the good of the colored
race; much as I am interested in the heirs of this property, and would
like to have them succeed."

Laura looked a little incredulous, and the Senator proceeded.

"Don't misunderstand me, I don't deny that it is for the interest of all
of us that this bill should go through, and it will.  I have no
concealments from you.  But I have one principle in my public life, which
I should like you to keep in mind; it has always been my guide.  I never
push a private interest if it is not Justified and ennobled by some
larger public good.  I doubt Christian would be justified in working for
his own salvation if it was not to aid in the salvation of his fellow
men."

The Senator spoke with feeling, and then added,

"I hope you showed Hopperson that our motives were pure?"

"Yes, and he seemed to have a new light on the measure: I think will vote
for it."

"I hope so; his name will give tone and strength to it.  I knew you would
only have to show him that it was just and pure, in order to secure his
cordial support."

"I think I convinced him.  Yes, I am perfectly sure he will vote right
now."

"That's good, that's good," said the Senator; smiling, and rubbing his
hands.  "Is there anything more?"

"You'll find some changes in that I guess," handing the Senator a printed
list of names.  "Those checked off are all right."

"Ah--'m--'m," running his eye down the list.  "That's encouraging.  What
is the 'C' before some of the names, and the 'B. B.'?"

"Those are my private marks.  That 'C' stands for 'convinced,' with
argument.  The 'B. B.' is a general sign for a relative.  You see it
stands before three of the Hon. Committee.  I expect to see the chairman
of the committee to-day, Mr. Buckstone."

"So, you must, he ought to be seen without any delay.  Buckstone is a
worldly sort of a fellow, but he has charitable impulses.  If we secure
him we shall have a favorable report by the committee, and it will be a
great thing to be able to state that fact quietly where it will do good."

"Oh, I saw Senator Balloon"

"He will help us, I suppose?  Balloon is a whole-hearted fellow.  I can't
help loving that man, for all his drollery and waggishness.  He puts on
an air of levity sometimes, but there aint a man in the senate knows the
scriptures as he does.  He did not make any objections?"

"Not exactly, he said--shall I tell you what he said?" asked Laura
glancing furtively at him.

"Certainly."

"He said he had no doubt it was a good thing; if Senator Dilworthy was in
it, it would pay to look into it."

The Senator laughed, but rather feebly, and said, "Balloon is always full
of his jokes."

"I explained it to him.  He said it was all right, he only wanted a word
with you,", continued Laura.  "He is a handsome old gentleman, and he is
gallant for an old man."

"My daughter," said the Senator, with a grave look, "I trust there was
nothing free in his manner?"

"Free?" repeated Laura, with indignation in her face.  "With me!"

"There, there, child.  I meant nothing, Balloon talks a little freely
sometimes, with men.  But he is right at heart.  His term expires next
year and I fear we shall lose him."

"He seemed to be packing the day I was there.  His rooms were full of dry
goods boxes, into which his servant was crowding all manner of old
clothes and stuff: I suppose he will paint 'Pub. Docs' on them and frank
them home.  That's good economy, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes, but child, all Congressmen do that.  It may not be strictly
honest, indeed it is not unless he had some public documents mixed in
with the clothes."

"It's a funny world.  Good-bye, uncle.  I'm going to see that chairman."

And humming a cheery opera air, she departed to her room to dress for
going out.  Before she did that, however, she took out her note book and
was soon deep in its contents; marking, dashing, erasing, figuring, and
talking to herself.

"Free!  I wonder what Dilworthy does think of me anyway?  One .  .  .
two.  .  .eight .  .  .  seventeen .  .  .  twenty-one,.  .  'm'm .  .  .
it takes a heap for a majority.  Wouldn't Dilworthy open his eyes if he
knew some of the things Balloon did say to me.  There.  .  .  .
Hopperson's influence ought to count twenty .  .  .  the sanctimonious
old curmudgeon.  Son-in-law.  .  .  . sinecure in the negro institution
.  .  .  .That about gauges him .  .  . The three committeemen .  .  .  .
sons-in-law.  Nothing like a son-in-law here in Washington or a brother-
in-law .  .  . And everybody has 'em .  .  .Let's see: .  .  .  sixty-
one.  .  .  .  with places .  .  .  twenty-five .  .  .  persuaded--it is
getting on; .  .  .  . we'll have two-thirds of Congress in time .  .  .
Dilworthy must surely know I understand him.  Uncle Dilworthy .  .  .  .
Uncle Balloon!--Tells very amusing stories .  .  .  when ladies are not
present .  .  . I should think so .  .  .  .'m .  .  .  'm.  Eighty-five.
There.  I must find that chairman.  Queer.  .  .  .  Buckstone acts .  .
Seemed to be in love .  .  .  .  .  I was sure of it.  He promised to
come here.  .  . and he hasn't.  .  . Strange.  Very strange .  .  .  .
I must chance to meet him to-day."

Laura dressed and went out, thinking she was perhaps too early for Mr.
Buckstone to come from the house, but as he lodged near the bookstore she
would drop in there and keep a look out for him.

While Laura is on her errand to find Mr. Buckstone, it may not be out of
the way to remark that she knew quite as much of Washington life as
Senator Dilworthy gave her credit for, and more than she thought proper
to tell him.  She was acquainted by this time with a good many of the
young fellows of Newspaper Row; and exchanged gossip with them to their
mutual advantage.

They were always talking in the Row, everlastingly gossiping, bantering
and sarcastically praising things, and going on in a style which was a
curious commingling of earnest and persiflage.  Col. Sellers liked this
talk amazingly, though he was sometimes a little at sea in it--and
perhaps that didn't lessen the relish of the conversation to the
correspondents.

It seems that they had got hold of the dry-goods box packing story about
Balloon, one day, and were talking it over when the Colonel came in.
The Colonel wanted to know all about it, and Hicks told him.  And then
Hicks went on, with a serious air,

"Colonel, if you register a letter, it means that it is of value, doesn't
it?  And if you pay fifteen cents for registering it, the government will
have to take extra care of it and even pay you back its full value if it
is lost.  Isn't that so?"

"Yes.  I suppose it's so.".

"Well Senator Balloon put fifteen cents worth of stamps on each of those
seven huge boxes of old clothes, and shipped that ton of second-hand
rubbish, old boots and pantaloons and what not through the mails as
registered matter!  It was an ingenious thing and it had a genuine touch
of humor about it, too.  I think there is more real: talent among our
public men of to-day than there was among those of old times--a far more
fertile fancy, a much happier ingenuity.  Now, Colonel, can you picture
Jefferson, or Washington or John Adams franking their wardrobes through
the mails and adding the facetious idea of making the government
responsible for the cargo for the sum of one dollar and five cents?
Statesmen were dull creatures in those days.  I have a much greater
admiration for Senator Balloon."

"Yes, Balloon is a man of parts, there is no denying it"

"I think so.  He is spoken of for the post of Minister to China, or
Austria, and I hope will be appointed.  What we want abroad is good
examples of the national character.

"John Jay and Benjamin Franklin were well enough in their day, but the
nation has made progress since then.  Balloon is a man we know and can
depend on to be true to himself."

"Yes, and Balloon has had a good deal of public experience.  He is an old
friend of mine.  He was governor of one of the territories a while, and
was very satisfactory."

"Indeed he was.  He was ex-officio Indian agent, too.  Many a man would
have taken the Indian appropriation and devoted the money to feeding and
clothing the helpless savages, whose land had been taken from them by the
white man in the interests of civilization; but Balloon knew their needs
better.  He built a government saw-mill on the reservation with the
money, and the lumber sold for enormous prices--a relative of his did all
the work free of charge--that is to say he charged nothing more than the
lumber world bring."  "But the poor Injuns--not that I care much for
Injuns--what did he do for them?"

"Gave them the outside slabs to fence in the reservation with.  Governor
Balloon was nothing less than a father to the poor Indians.  But Balloon
is not alone, we have many truly noble statesmen in our country's service
like Balloon.  The Senate is full of them.  Don't you think so Colonel?"

"Well, I dunno.  I honor my country's public servants as much as any one
can.  I meet them, Sir, every day, and the more I see of them the more I
esteem them and the more grateful I am that our institutions give us the
opportunity of securing their services.  Few lands are so blest."

"That is true, Colonel.  To be sure you can buy now and then a Senator or
a Representative but they do not know it is wrong, and so they are not
ashamed of it.  They are gentle, and confiding and childlike, and in my
opinion these are qualities that ennoble them far more than any amount of
sinful sagacity could.  I quite agree with you, Col. Sellers."

"Well"--hesitated the, Colonel--"I am afraid some of them do buy their
seats--yes, I am afraid they do--but as Senator Dilworthy himself said to
me, it is sinful,--it is very wrong--it is shameful; Heaven protect me
from such a charge.  That is what Dilworthy said.  And yet when you come
to look at it you cannot deny that we would have to go without the
services of some of our ablest men, sir, if the country were opposed to--
to--bribery.  It is a harsh term.  I do not like to use it."

The Colonel interrupted himself at this point to meet an engagement with
the Austrian minister, and took his leave with his usual courtly bow.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


In due time Laura alighted at the book store, and began to look at the
titles of the handsome array of books on the counter.  A dapper clerk of
perhaps nineteen or twenty years, with hair accurately parted and
surprisingly slick, came bustling up and leaned over with a pretty smile
and an affable--

"Can I--was there any particular book you wished to see?"

"Have you Taine's England?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Taine's Notes on England."

The young gentleman scratched the side of his nose with a cedar pencil
which he took down from its bracket on the side of his head, and
reflected a moment:

"Ah--I see," [with a bright smile]--"Train, you mean--not Taine.  George
Francis Train.  No, ma'm we--"

"I mean Taine--if I may take the liberty."

The clerk reflected again--then:

"Taine .  .  .  .  Taine .  .  .  . Is it hymns?"

"No, it isn't hymns.  It is a volume that is making a deal of talk just
now, and is very widely known--except among parties who sell it."

The clerk glanced at her face to see if a sarcasm might not lurk
somewhere in that obscure speech, but the gentle simplicity of the
beautiful eyes that met his, banished that suspicion.  He went away and
conferred with the proprietor.  Both appeared to be non-plussed.  They
thought and talked, and talked and thought by turns.  Then both came
forward and the proprietor said:

"Is it an American book, ma'm?"

"No, it is an American reprint of an English translation."

"Oh!  Yes--yes--I remember, now.  We are expecting it every day.  It
isn't out yet."

"I think you must be mistaken, because you advertised it a week ago."

"Why no--can that be so?"

"Yes, I am sure of it.  And besides, here is the book itself, on the
counter."

She bought it and the proprietor retired from the field.  Then she asked
the clerk for the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table--and was pained to see
the admiration her beauty had inspired in him fade out of his face.
He said with cold dignity, that cook books were somewhat out of their
line, but be would order it if she desired it.  She said, no, never mind.
Then she fell to conning the titles again, finding a delight in the
inspection of the Hawthornes, the Longfellows, the Tennysons, and other
favorites of her idle hours.  Meantime the clerk's eyes were busy, and no
doubt his admiration was returning again--or may be he was only gauging
her probable literary tastes by some sagacious system of admeasurement
only known to his guild.  Now he began to "assist" her in making a
selection; but his efforts met with no success--indeed they only annoyed
her and unpleasantly interrupted her meditations.  Presently, while she
was holding a copy of "Venetian Life" in her hand and running over a
familiar passage here and there, the clerk said, briskly, snatching up a
paper-covered volume and striking the counter a smart blow with it to
dislodge the dust:

"Now here is a work that we've sold a lot of.  Everybody that's read it
likes it"--and he intruded it under her nose; "it's a book that I can
recommend--'The Pirate's Doom, or the Last of the Buccaneers.'  I think
it's one of the best things that's come out this season."

Laura pushed it gently aside her hand and went on and went on filching
from "Venetian Life."

"I believe I do not want it," she said.

The clerk hunted around awhile, glancing at one title and then another,
but apparently not finding what he wanted.

However, he succeeded at last.  Said he:

"Have you ever read this, ma'm?  I am sure you'll like it.  It's by the
author of 'The Hooligans of Hackensack.' It is full of love troubles and
mysteries and all sorts of such things.  The heroine strangles her own
mother.  Just glance at the title please,--'Gonderil the Vampire, or The
Dance of Death.'  And here is 'The Jokist's Own Treasury, or, The Phunny
Phellow's Bosom Phriend.'  The funniest thing!--I've read it four times,
ma'm, and I can laugh at the very sight of it yet.  And 'Gonderil,'--
I assure you it is the most splendid book I ever read.  I know you will
like these books, ma'm, because I've read them myself and I know what
they are."

"Oh, I was perplexed--but I see how it is, now.  You must have thought
I asked you to tell me what sort of books I wanted--for I am apt to say
things which I don't really mean, when I am absent minded.  I suppose I
did ask you, didn't I?"

"No ma'm,--but I--"

"Yes, I must have done it, else you would not have offered your services,
for fear it might be rude.  But don't be troubled--it was all my fault.
I ought not to have been so heedless--I ought not to have asked you."

"But you didn't ask me, ma'm.  We always help customers all we can.
You see our experience--living right among books all the time--that sort
of thing makes us able to help a customer make a selection, you know."

"Now does it, indeed?  It is part of your business, then?"

"Yes'm, we always help."

"How good it is of you.  Some people would think it rather obtrusive,
perhaps, but I don't--I think it is real kindness--even charity.  Some
people jump to conclusions without any thought--you have noticed that?"

"O yes," said the clerk, a little perplexed as to whether to feel
comfortable or the reverse; "Oh yes, indeed, I've often noticed that,
ma'm."

"Yes, they jump to conclusions with an absurd heedlessness.  Now some
people would think it odd that because you, with the budding tastes and
the innocent enthusiasms natural to your time of life, enjoyed the
Vampires and the volume of nursery jokes, you should imagine that an
older person would delight in them too--but I do not think it odd at all.
I think it natural--perfectly natural in you.  And kind, too.  You look
like a person who not only finds a deep pleasure in any little thing in
the way of literature that strikes you forcibly, but is willing and glad
to share that pleasure with others--and that, I think, is noble and
admirable--very noble and admirable.  I think we ought all--to share our
pleasures with others, and do what we can to make each other happy, do
not you?"

"Oh, yes.  Oh, yes, indeed.  Yes, you are quite right, ma'm."

But he was getting unmistakably uncomfortable, now, notwithstanding
Laura's confiding sociability and almost affectionate tone.

"Yes, indeed.  Many people would think that what a bookseller--or perhaps
his clerk--knows about literature as literature, in contradistinction to
its character as merchandise, would hardly, be of much assistance to a
person--that is, to an adult, of course--in the selection of food for the
mind--except of course wrapping paper, or twine, or wafers, or something
like that--but I never feel that way.  I feel that whatever service you
offer me, you offer with a good heart, and I am as grateful for it as if
it were the greatest boon to me.  And it is useful to me--it is bound to
be so.  It cannot be otherwise.  If you show me a book which you have
read--not skimmed over or merely glanced at, but read--and you tell me
that you enjoyed it and that you could read it three or four times, then
I know what book I want--"

"Thank you!--th--"

--"to avoid.  Yes indeed.  I think that no information ever comes amiss
in this world.  Once or twice I have traveled in the cars--and there you
know, the peanut boy always measures you with his eye, and hands you out
a book of murders if you are fond of theology; or Tupper or a dictionary
or T. S. Arthur if you are fond of poetry; or he hands you a volume of
distressing jokes or a copy of the American Miscellany if you
particularly dislike that sort of literary fatty degeneration of the
heart--just for the world like a pleasant spoken well-meaning gentleman
in any, bookstore.  But here I am running on as if business men had
nothing to do but listen to women talk.  You must pardon me, for I was
not thinking.--And you must let me thank you again for helping me.
I read a good deal, and shall be in nearly every day and I would be sorry
to have you think me a customer who talks too much and buys too little.
Might I ask you to give me the time?  Ah-two-twenty-two.  Thank you
very much.  I will set mine while I have the opportunity."

But she could not get her watch open, apparently.  She tried, and tried
again.  Then the clerk, trembling at his own audacity, begged to be
allowed to assist.  She allowed him.  He succeeded, and was radiant under
the sweet influences of her pleased face and her seductively worded
acknowledgements with gratification.  Then he gave her the exact time
again, and anxiously watched her turn the hands slowly till they reached
the precise spot without accident or loss of life, and then he looked as
happy as a man who had helped a fellow being through a momentous
undertaking, and was grateful to know that he had not lived in vain.
Laura thanked him once more.  The words were music to his ear; but what
were they compared to the ravishing smile with which she flooded his
whole system?  When she bowed her adieu and turned away, he was no longer
suffering torture in the pillory where she had had him trussed up during
so many distressing moments, but he belonged to the list of her conquests
and was a flattered and happy thrall, with the dawn-light of love
breaking over the eastern elevations of his heart.

It was about the hour, now, for the chairman of the House Committee on
Benevolent Appropriations to make his appearance, and Laura stepped to
the door to reconnoiter.  She glanced up the street, and sure enough--




CHAPTER XXXVII.


That Chairman was nowhere in sight.  Such disappointments seldom occur in
novels, but are always happening in real life.

She was obliged to make a new plan.  She sent him a note, and asked him
to call in the evening--which he did.

She received the Hon. Mr. Buckstone with a sunny smile, and said:

"I don't know how I ever dared to send you a note, Mr. Buckstone, for you
have the reputation of not being very partial to our sex."

"Why I am sure my, reputation does me wrong, then, Miss Hawkins.  I have
been married once--is that nothing in my favor?"

"Oh, yes--that is, it may be and it may not be.  If you have known what
perfection is in woman, it is fair to argue that inferiority cannot
interest you now."

"Even if that were the case it could not affect you, Miss Hawkins," said
the chairman gallantly.  "Fame does not place you in the list of ladies
who rank below perfection."  This happy speech delighted Mr. Buckstone as
much as it seemed to delight Laura.  But it did not confuse him as much
as it apparently did her.

"I wish in all sincerity that I could be worthy of such a felicitous
compliment as that.  But I am a woman, and so I am gratified for it just
as it is, and would not have it altered."

"But it is not merely a compliment--that is, an empty complement--it is
the truth.  All men will endorse that."

Laura looked pleased, and said:

"It is very kind of you to say it.  It is a distinction indeed, for a
country-bred girl like me to be so spoken of by people of brains and
culture.  You are so kind that I know you will pardon my putting you to
the trouble to come this evening."

"Indeed it was no trouble.  It was a pleasure.  I am alone in the world
since I lost my wife, and I often long for the society of your sex, Miss
Hawkins, notwithstanding what people may say to the contrary."

"It is pleasant to hear you say that.  I am sure it must be so.  If I
feel lonely at times, because of my exile from old friends, although
surrounded by new ones who are already very dear to me, how much more
lonely must you feel, bereft as you are, and with no wholesome relief
from the cares of state that weigh you down.  For your own sake, as well
as for the sake of others, you ought to go into society oftener.
I seldom see you at a reception, and when I do you do not usually give me
very, much of your attention"

"I never imagined that you wished it or I would have been very glad to
make myself happy in that way.--But one seldom gets an opportunity to say
more than a sentence to you in a place like that.  You are always the
centre of a group--a fact which you may have noticed yourself.  But if
one might come here--"

"Indeed you would always find a hearty welcome, Mr. Buckstone.  I have
often wished you would come and tell me more about Cairo and the
Pyramids, as you once promised me you would."

"Why, do you remember that yet, Miss Hawkins?  I thought ladies' memories
were more fickle than that."

"Oh, they are not so fickle as gentlemen's promises.  And besides, if I
had been inclined to forget, I--did you not give me something by way of a
remembrancer?"

"Did I?"

"Think."

"It does seem to me that I did; but I have forgotten what it was now."

"Never, never call a lady's memory fickle again!  Do you recognize this?"

"A little spray of box!  I am beaten--I surrender.  But have you kept
that all this time?"

Laura's confusion was very, pretty.  She tried to hide it, but the more
she tried the more manifest it became and withal the more captivating to
look upon.  Presently she threw the spray of box from her with an annoyed
air, and said:

"I forgot myself.  I have been very foolish.  I beg that you will forget
this absurd thing."

Mr. Buckstone picked up the spray, and sitting down by Laura's side on
the sofa, said:

"Please let me keep it, Miss Hawkins.  I set a very high value upon it
now."

"Give it to me, Mr. Buckstone, and do not speak so.  I have been
sufficiently punished for my thoughtlessness.  You cannot take pleasure
in adding to my distress.  Please give it to me."

"Indeed I do not wish to distress you.  But do not consider the matter so
gravely; you have done yourself no wrong.  You probably forgot that you
had it; but if you had given it to me I would have kept it--and not
forgotten it."

"Do not talk so, Mr. Buckstone.  Give it to me, please, and forget the
matter."

"It would not be kind to refuse, since it troubles you so, and so I
restore it.  But if you would give me part of it and keep the rest--"

"So that you might have something to remind you of me when you wished to
laugh at my foolishness?"

"Oh, by no means, no!  Simply that I might remember that I had once
assisted to discomfort you, and be reminded to do so no more."

Laura looked up, and scanned his face a moment.  She was about to break
the twig, but she hesitated and said:

"If I were sure that you--"She threw the spray away, and continued:
"This is silly!  We will change the subject.  No, do not insist--I must
have my way in this."

Then Mr. Buckstone drew off his forces and proceeded to make a wily
advance upon the fortress under cover of carefully--contrived artifices
and stratagems of war.  But he contended with an alert and suspicious
enemy; and so at the end of two hours it was manifest to him that he had
made but little progress.  Still, he had made some; he was sure of that.

Laura sat alone and communed with herself;

"He is fairly hooked, poor thing.  I can play him at my leisure and land
him when I choose.  He was all ready to be caught, days and days ago--
I saw that, very well.  He will vote for our bill--no fear about that;
and moreover he will work for it, too, before I am done with him.  If he
had a woman's eyes he would have noticed that the spray of box had grown
three inches since he first gave it to me, but a man never sees anything
and never suspects.  If I had shown him a whole bush he would have
thought it was the same.  Well, it is a good night's work: the committee
is safe.  But this is a desperate game I am playing in these days--
a wearing, sordid, heartless game.  If I lose, I lose everything--even
myself.  And if I win the game, will it be worth its cost after all?
I do not know.  Sometimes I doubt.  Sometimes I half wish I had not
begun.  But no matter; I have begun, and I will never turn back; never
while I live."

Mr. Buckstone indulged in a reverie as he walked homeward:

"She is shrewd and deep, and plays her cards with considerable
discretion--but she will lose, for all that.  There is no hurry; I shall
come out winner, all in good time.  She is the most beautiful woman in
the world; and she surpassed herself to-night.  I suppose I must vote for
that bill, in the end maybe; but that is not a matter of much consequence
the government can stand it.  She is bent on capturing me, that is plain;
but she will find by and by that what she took for a sleeping garrison
was an ambuscade."




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

          Now this surprising news caus'd her fall in 'a trance,
          Life as she were dead, no limbs she could advance,
          Then her dear brother came, her from the ground he took
          And she spake up and said, O my poor heart is broke.

                              The Barnardcastle Tragedy.

"Don't you think he is distinguished looking?"

"What! That gawky looking person, with Miss Hawkins?"

"There.  He's just speaking to Mrs. Schoonmaker.  Such high-bred
negligence and unconsciousness.  Nothing studied.  See his fine eyes."

"Very.  They are moving this way now.  Maybe he is coming here.  But he
looks as helpless as a rag baby.  Who is he, Blanche?"

"Who is he?  And you've been here a week, Grace, and don't know?  He's
the catch of the season.  That's Washington Hawkins--her brother."

"No, is it?"

"Very old family, old Kentucky family I believe.  He's got enormous
landed property in Tennessee, I think.  The family lost everything,
slaves and that sort of thing, you know, in the war.  But they have a
great deal of land, minerals, mines and all that.  Mr. Hawkins and his
sister too are very much interested in the amelioration of the condition
of the colored race; they have some plan, with Senator Dilworthy, to
convert a large part of their property to something another for the
freedmen."

"You don't say so?  I thought he was some guy from Pennsylvania.  But he
is different from others.  Probably he has lived all his life on his
plantation."

It was a day reception of Mrs. Representative Schoonmaker, a sweet woman,
of simple and sincere manners.  Her house was one of the most popular in
Washington.  There was less ostentation there than in some others, and
people liked to go where the atmosphere reminded them of the peace and
purity of home.  Mrs. Schoonmaker was as natural and unaffected in
Washington society as she was in her own New York house, and kept up the
spirit of home-life there, with her husband and children.  And that was
the reason, probably, why people of refinement liked to go there.

Washington is a microcosm, and one can suit himself with any sort of
society within a radius of a mile.  To a large portion of the people who
frequent Washington or dwell where, the ultra fashion, the shoddy, the
jobbery are as utterly distasteful as they would he in a refined New
England City.  Schoonmaker was not exactly a leader in the House, but he
was greatly respected for his fine talents and his honesty.  No one would
have thought of offering to carry National Improvement Directors Relief
stock for him.

These day receptions were attended by more women than men, and those
interested in the problem might have studied the costumes of the ladies
present, in view of this fact, to discover whether women dress more for
the eyes of women or for effect upon men.  It is a very important
problem, and has been a good deal discussed, and its solution would form
one fixed, philosophical basis, upon which to estimate woman's character.
We are inclined to take a medium ground, and aver that woman dresses to
please herself, and in obedience to a law of her own nature.

"They are coming this way," said Blanche.  People who made way for them
to pass, turned to look at them.  Washington began to feel that the eyes
of the public were on him also, and his eyes rolled about, now towards
the ceiling, now towards the floor, in an effort to look unconscious.

"Good morning, Miss Hawkins.  Delighted.  Mr. Hawkins.  My friend, Miss
Medlar."

Mr. Hawkins, who was endeavoring to square himself for a bow, put his
foot through the train of Mrs. Senator Poplin, who looked round with a
scowl, which turned into a smile as she saw who it was.  In extricating
himself, Mr. Hawkins, who had the care of his hat as well as the
introduction on his mind, shambled against Miss Blanche, who said pardon,
with the prettiest accent, as if the awkwardness were her own.  And Mr.
Hawkins righted himself.

"Don't you find it very warm to-day, Mr. Hawkins?" said Blanche, by way
of a remark.

It's awful hot," said Washington.

"It's warm for the season," continued Blanche pleasantly.  "But I suppose
you are accustomed to it," she added, with a general idea that the
thermometer always stands at 90 deg. in all parts of the late slave
states.  "Washington weather generally cannot be very congenial to you?"

"It's congenial," said Washington brightening up, "when it's not
congealed."

"That's very good.  Did you hear, Grace, Mr. Hawkins says it's congenial
when it's not congealed."

"What is, dear?" said Grace, who was talking with Laura.

The conversation was now finely under way.  Washington launched out an
observation of his own.

"Did you see those Japs, Miss Leavitt?"

"Oh, yes, aren't they queer.  But so high-bred, so picturesque.  Do you
think that color makes any difference, Mr. Hawkins?  I used to be so
prejudiced against color."

"Did you?  I never was.  I used to think my old mammy was handsome."

"How interesting your life must have been!  I should like to hear about
it."

Washington was about settling himself into his narrative style,
when Mrs. Gen. McFingal caught his eye.

"Have you been at the Capitol to-day, Mr. Hawkins?"

Washington had not.  "Is anything uncommon going on?"

"They say it was very exciting.  The Alabama business you know.
Gen.  Sutler, of Massachusetts, defied England, and they say he wants
war."

"He wants to make himself conspicuous more like," said Laura.
"He always, you have noticed, talks with one eye on the gallery, while
the other is on the speaker."

"Well, my husband says, its nonsense to talk of war, and wicked.
He knows what war is.  If we do have war, I hope it will be for the
patriots of Cuba.  Don't you think we want Cuba, Mr. Hawkins?"

"I think we want it bad," said Washington.  "And Santo Domingo.  Senator
Dilworthy says, we are bound to extend our religion over the isles of the
sea.  We've got to round out our territory, and--"

Washington's further observations were broken off by Laura, who whisked
him off to another part of the room, and reminded him that they must make
their adieux.

"How stupid and tiresome these people are," she said.  "Let's go."

They were turning to say good-by to the hostess, when Laura's attention
was arrested by the sight of a gentleman  who was just speaking to Mrs.
Schoonmaker.  For a second her heart stopped beating.  He was a handsome
man of forty and perhaps more, with grayish hair and whiskers, and he
walked with a cane, as if he were slightly lame.  He might be less than
forty, for his face was worn into hard lines, and he was pale.

No.  It could not be, she said to herself.  It is only a resemblance.
But as the gentleman turned and she saw his full face, Laura put out her
hand and clutched Washington's arm to prevent herself from falling.

Washington, who was not minding anything, as usual, looked 'round in
wonder.  Laura's eyes were blazing fire and hatred; he had never seen her
look so before; and her face, was livid.

"Why, what is it, sis?  Your face is as white as paper."

"It's he, it's he.  Come, come," and she dragged him away.

"It's who?" asked Washington, when they had gained the carriage.

"It's nobody, it's nothing.  Did I say he?  I was faint with the heat.
Don't mention it.  Don't you speak of it," she added earnestly, grasping
his arm.

When she had gained her room she went to the glass and saw a pallid and
haggard face.

"My God," she cried, "this will never do.  I should have killed him, if I
could.  The scoundrel still lives, and dares to come here.  I ought to
kill him.  He has no right to live.  How I hate him.  And yet I loved
him.  Oh heavens, how I did love that man.  And why didn't he kill me?
He might better.  He did kill all that was good in me.  Oh, but he shall
not escape.  He shall not escape this time.  He may have forgotten.  He
will find that a woman's hate doesn't forget.  The law?  What would the
law do but protect him and make me an outcast?  How all Washington would
gather up its virtuous skirts and avoid me, if it knew.  I wonder if he
hates me as I do him?"

So Laura raved, in tears and in rage by turns, tossed in a tumult of
passion, which she gave way to with little effort to control.

A servant came to summon her to dinner.  She had a headache.  The hour
came for the President's reception.  She had a raving headache, and the
Senator must go without her.

That night of agony was like another night she recalled.  How vividly it
all came back to her.  And at that time she remembered she thought she
might be mistaken.  He might come back to her.  Perhaps he loved her,
a little, after all.  Now, she knew he did not.  Now, she knew he was a
cold-blooded scoundrel, without pity.  Never a word in all these years.
She had hoped he was dead.  Did his wife live, she wondered.  She caught
at that--and it gave a new current to her thoughts.  Perhaps, after all--
she must see him.  She could not live without seeing him.  Would he smile
as in the old days when she loved him so; or would he sneer as when she
last saw him?  If be looked so, she hated him.  If he should call her
"Laura, darling," and look SO!  She must find him.  She must end her
doubts.

Laura kept her room for two days, on one excuse and another--a nervous
headache, a cold--to the great anxiety of the Senator's household.
Callers, who went away, said she had been too gay--they did not say
"fast," though some of them may have thought it.  One so conspicuous and
successful in society as Laura could not be out of the way two days,
without remarks being made, and not all of them complimentary.

When she came down she appeared as usual, a little pale may be, but
unchanged in manner.  If there were any deepened lines about the eyes
they had been concealed.  Her course of action was quite determined.

At breakfast she asked if any one had heard any unusual noise during the
night?  Nobody had.  Washington never heard any noise of any kind after
his eyes were shut.  Some people thought he never did when they were open
either.

Senator Dilworthy said he had come in late.  He was detained in a little
consultation after the Congressional prayer meeting.  Perhaps it was his
entrance.

No, Laura said.  She heard that.  It was later.  She might have been
nervous, but she fancied somebody was trying to get into the house.

Mr. Brierly humorously suggested that it might be, as none of the members
were occupied in night session.

The Senator frowned, and said he did not like to hear that kind of
newspaper slang.  There might be burglars about.

Laura said that very likely it was only her nervousness.  But she thought
she world feel safer if Washington would let her take one of his pistols.
Washington brought her one of his revolvers, and instructed her in the
art of loading and firing it.

During the morning Laura drove down to Mrs. Schoonmaker's to pay a
friendly call.

"Your receptions are always delightful," she said to that lady, "the
pleasant people all seem to come here."

"It's pleasant to hear you say so, Miss Hawkins.  I believe my friends
like to come here.  Though society in Washington is mixed; we have a
little of everything."

"I suppose, though, you don't see much of the old rebel element?" said
Laura with a smile.

If this seemed to Mrs. Schoonmaker a singular remark for a lady to make,
who was meeting "rebels" in society every day, she did not express it in
any way, but only said,

"You know we don't say 'rebel' anymore.  Before we came to Washington I
thought rebels would look unlike other people.  I find we are very much
alike, and that kindness and good nature wear away prejudice.  And then
you know there are all sorts of common interests.  My husband sometimes
says that he doesn't see but confederates are just as eager to get at the
treasury as Unionists.  You know that Mr. Schoonmaker is on the
appropriations."

"Does he know many Southerners?"

"Oh, yes.  There were several at my reception the other day.  Among
others a confederate Colonel--a stranger--handsome man with gray hair,
probably you didn't notice him, uses a cane in walking.  A very agreeable
man.  I wondered why he called.  When my husband came home and looked
over the cards, he said he had a cotton claim.  A real southerner.
Perhaps you might know him if I could think of his name.  Yes, here's his
card--Louisiana."

Laura took the card, looked at it intently till she was sure of the
address, and then laid it down, with,

"No, he is no friend of ours."

That afternoon, Laura wrote and dispatched the following note.  It was in
a round hand, unlike her flowing style, and it was directed to a number
and street in Georgetown:--

     "A Lady at Senator Dilworthy's would like to see Col. George Selby,
     on business connected with the Cotton Claims.  Can he call Wednesday
     at three o'clock P. M.?"

On Wednesday at 3 P. M, no one of the family was likely to be in the
house except Laura.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

Col. Selby had just come to Washington, and taken lodgings in Georgetown.
His business was to get pay for some cotton that was destroyed during the
war.  There were many others in Washington on the same errand, some of
them with claims as difficult to establish as his.  A concert of action
was necessary, and he was not, therefore, at all surprised to receive the
note from a lady asking him to call at Senator Dilworthy's.

At a little after three on Wednesday he rang the bell of the Senator's
residence.  It was a handsome mansion on the Square opposite the
President's house.  The owner must be a man of great wealth, the Colonel
thought; perhaps, who knows, said he with a smile, he may have got some
of my cotton in exchange for salt and quinine after the capture of New
Orleans.  As this thought passed through his mind he was looking at the
remarkable figure of the Hero of New Orleans, holding itself by main
strength from sliding off the back of the rearing bronze horse, and
lifting its hat in the manner of one who acknowledges the playing of that
martial air: "See, the Conquering Hero Comes!"  "Gad," said the Colonel
to himself, "Old Hickory ought to get down and give his seat to Gen.
Sutler--but they'd have to tie him on."

Laura was in the drawing room.  She heard the bell, she heard the steps
in the hall, and the emphatic thud of the supporting cane.  She had risen
from her chair and was leaning against the piano, pressing her left hand
against the violent beating of her heart.  The door opened and the
Colonel entered, standing in the full light of the opposite window.
Laura was more in the shadow and stood for an instant, long enough for
the Colonel to make the inward observation that she was a magnificent
Woman.  She then advanced a step.

"Col. Selby, is it not?"

The Colonel staggered back, caught himself by a chair, and turned towards
her a look of terror.

"Laura?  My God!"

"Yes, your wife!"

"Oh, no, it can't be.  How came you here?  I thought you were--"

"You thought I was dead?  You thought you were rid of me?  Not so long as
you live, Col. Selby, not so long as you live;" Laura in her passion was
hurried on to say.

No man had ever accused Col. Selby of cowardice.  But he was a coward
before this woman.  May be he was not the man he once was.  Where was his
coolness?  Where was his sneering, imperturbable manner, with which he
could have met, and would have met, any woman he had wronged, if he had
only been forewarned.  He felt now that he must temporize, that he must
gain time.  There was danger in Laura's tone.  There was something
frightful in her calmness.  Her steady eyes seemed to devour him.

"You have ruined my life," she said; "and I was so young, so ignorant,
and loved you so.  You betrayed me, and left me mocking me and trampling
me into the dust, a soiled cast-off.  You might better have killed me
then.  Then I should not have hated you."

"Laura," said the Colonel, nerving himself, but still pale, and speaking
appealingly, "don't say that.  Reproach me.  I deserve it.  I was a
scoundrel.  I was everything monstrous.  But your beauty made me crazy.
You are right.  I was a brute in leaving you as I did.  But what could I
do?  I was married, and--"

"And your wife still lives?" asked Laura, bending a little forward in her
eagerness.

The Colonel noticed the action, and he almost said "no," but he thought
of the folly of attempting concealment.

"Yes.  She is here."

What little color had wandered back into Laura's face forsook it again.
Her heart stood still, her strength seemed going from her limbs.  Her
last hope was gone.  The room swam before her for a moment, and the
Colonel stepped towards her, but she waved him back, as hot anger again
coursed through her veins, and said,

"And you dare come with her, here, and tell me of it, here and mock me
with it!  And you think I will have it; George?  You think I will let you
live with that woman?  You think I am as powerless as that day I fell
dead at your feet?"

She raged now.  She was in a tempest of excitement.  And she advanced
towards him with a threatening mien.  She would kill me if she could,
thought the Colonel; but he thought at the same moment, how beautiful she
is.  He had recovered his head now.  She was lovely when he knew her,
then a simple country girl, Now she was dazzling, in the fullness of ripe
womanhood, a superb creature, with all the fascination that a woman of
the world has for such a man as Col. Selby.  Nothing of this was lost on
him.  He stepped quickly to her, grasped both her hands in his, and said,

"Laura, stop!  think!  Suppose I loved you yet!  Suppose I hated my fate!
What can I do?  I am broken by the war.  I have lost everything almost.
I had as lief be dead and done with it."

The Colonel spoke with a low remembered voice that thrilled through
Laura.  He was looking into her eyes as he had looked  in those old days,
when no birds of all those that sang in the groves where they walked sang
a note of warning.  He was wounded.  He had been punished.  Her strength
forsook her with her rage, and she sank upon a chair, sobbing,

"Oh!  my God, I thought I hated him!"

The Colonel knelt beside her.  He took her hand and she let him keep it.
She, looked down into his face, with a pitiable tenderness, and said in a
weak voice.

"And you do love me a little?"

The Colonel vowed and protested.  He kissed her hand and her lips.  He
swore his false soul into perdition.

She wanted love, this woman.  Was not her love for George Selby deeper
than any other woman's could be?  Had she not a right to him?  Did he
not belong to her by virtue of her overmastering passion?  His wife--she
was not his wife, except by the law.  She could not be.  Even with the
law she could have no right to stand between two souls that were one.
It was an infamous condition in society that George should be tied to
her.

Laura thought this, believed it; because she desired to believe it.  She
came to it as an original propositions founded an the requirements of her
own nature.  She may have heard, doubtless she had, similar theories that
were prevalent at that day, theories of the tyranny of marriage and of
the freedom of marriage.  She had even heard women lecturers say, that
marriage should only continue so long as it pleased either party to it--
for a year, or a month, or a day.  She had not given much heed to this,
but she saw its justice now in a dash of revealing desire.  It must be
right.  God would not have permitted her to love George Selby as she did,
and him to love her, if it was right for society to raise up a barrier
between them.  He belonged to her.  Had he not confessed it himself?

Not even the religious atmosphere of Senator Dilworthy's house had been
sufficient to instill into Laura that deep Christian principle which had
been somehow omitted in her training.  Indeed in that very house had she
not heard women, prominent before the country and besieging Congress,
utter sentiments that fully justified the course she was marking out for
herself.

They were seated now, side by side, talking with more calmness.  Laura
was happy, or thought she was.  But it was that feverish sort of
happiness which is snatched out of the black shadow of falsehood, and is
at the moment recognized as fleeting and perilous, and indulged
tremblingly.  She loved.  She was loved.  That is happiness certainly.
And the black past and the troubled present and the uncertain future
could not snatch that from her.

What did they say as they sat there?  What nothings do people usually say
in such circumstances, even if they are three-score and ten?  It was
enough for Laura to hear his voice and be near him.  It was enough for
him to be near her, and avoid committing himself as much as he could.
Enough for him was the present also.  Had there not always been some way
out of such scrapes?

And yet Laura could not be quite content without prying into tomorrow.
How could the Colonel manage to free himself from his wife?  Would it be
long?  Could he not go into some State where it would not take much time?
He could not say exactly.  That they must think of.  That they must talk
over.  And so on.  Did this seem like a damnable plot to Laura against
the life, maybe, of a sister, a woman like herself?  Probably not.
It was right that this man should be hers, and there were some obstacles
in the way.  That was all.  There are as good reasons for bad actions as
for good ones,--to those who commit them.  When one has broken the tenth
commandment, the others are not of much account.

Was it unnatural, therefore, that when George Selby departed, Laura
should watch him from the window, with an almost joyful heart as he went
down the sunny square?  "I shall see him to-morrow," she said," and the
next day, and the next.  He is mine now."

"Damn the woman," said the Colonel as he picked his way down the steps.
"Or," he added, as his thoughts took a new turn, "I wish my wife was in
New Orleans."




CHAPTER XL.

          Open your ears; for which of you will stop,
          The vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks?
          I, from the orient to the drooping west,
          Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
          The acts commenced on this ball of earth:
          Upon my tongues continual slanders ride;
          The which in every, language I pronounce,
          Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.

                                             King Henry IV.

As may be readily believed, Col. Beriah Sellers was by this time one of
the best known men in Washington.  For the first time in his life his
talents had a fair field.

He was now at the centre of the manufacture of gigantic schemes,
of speculations of all sorts, of political and social gossip.
The atmosphere was full of little and big rumors and of vast, undefined
expectations.  Everybody was in haste, too, to push on his private plan,
and feverish in his haste, as if in constant apprehension that tomorrow
would be Judgment Day.  Work while Congress is in session, said the
uneasy spirit, for in the recess there is no work and no device.

The Colonel enjoyed this bustle and confusion amazingly; he thrived in
the air of-indefinite expectation.  All his own schemes took larger shape
and more misty and majestic proportions; and in this congenial air, the
Colonel seemed even to himself to expand into something large and
mysterious.  If he respected himself before, he almost worshipped Beriah
Sellers now, as a superior being.  If he could have chosen an official
position out of the highest, he would have been embarrassed in the
selection.  The presidency of the republic seemed too limited and cramped
in the constitutional restrictions.  If he could have been Grand Llama of
the United States, that might have come the nearest to his idea of a
position.  And next to that he would have luxuriated in the irresponsible
omniscience of the Special Correspondent.

Col. Sellers knew the President very well, and had access to his presence
when officials were kept cooling their heels in the Waiting-room.  The
President liked to hear the Colonel talk, his voluble ease was a
refreshment after the decorous dullness of men who only talked business
and government, and everlastingly expounded their notions of justice and
the distribution of patronage.  The Colonel was as much a lover of
farming and of horses as Thomas Jefferson was.  He talked to the
President by the hour about his magnificent stud, and his plantation at
Hawkeye, a kind of principality--he represented it.  He urged the
President to pay him a visit during the recess, and see his stock farm.

"The President's table is well enough," he used to say, to the loafers
who gathered about him at Willard's, "well enough for a man on a salary,
but God bless my soul, I should like him to see a little old-fashioned
hospitality--open house, you know.  A person seeing me at home might
think I paid no attention to what was in the house, just let things flow
in and out.  He'd be mistaken.  What I look to is quality, sir.  The
President has variety enough, but the quality!  Vegetables of course you
can't expect here.  I'm very particular about mine.  Take celery, now--
there's only one spot in this country where celery will grow.  But I an
surprised about the wines.  I should think they were manufactured in the
New York Custom House.  I must send the President some from my cellar.
I was really mortified the other day at dinner to see Blacque Bey leave
his standing in the glasses."

When the Colonel first came to Washington he had thoughts of taking the
mission to Constantinople, in order to be on the spot to look after the
dissemination, of his Eye Water, but as that invention; was not yet quite
ready, the project shrank a little in the presence of vaster schemes.
Besides he felt that he could do the country more good by remaining at
home.  He was one of the Southerners who were constantly quoted as
heartily "accepting the situation."

"I'm whipped," he used to say with a jolly laugh, "the government was too
many for me; I'm cleaned out, done for, except my plantation and private
mansion.  We played for a big thing, and lost it, and I don't whine, for
one.  I go for putting the old flag on all the vacant lots.  I said to
the President, says I, 'Grant, why don't you take Santo Domingo, annex
the whole thing, and settle the bill afterwards.  That's my way.  I'd,
take the job to manage Congress.  The South would come into it.  You've
got to conciliate the South, consolidate the two debts, pay 'em off in
greenbacks, and go ahead.  That's my notion.  Boutwell's got the right
notion about the value of paper, but he lacks courage. I should like to
run the treasury department about six months.  I'd make things plenty,
and business look up.'"

The Colonel had access to the departments.  He knew all the senators and
representatives, and especially, the lobby.  He was consequently a great
favorite in Newspaper Row, and was often lounging in the offices there,
dropping bits of private, official information, which were immediately,
caught up and telegraphed all over the country.  But it need to surprise
even the Colonel when he read it, it was embellished to that degree that
he hardly recognized it, and the hint was not lost on him.  He began to
exaggerate his heretofore simple conversation to suit the newspaper
demand.

People used to wonder in the winters of 187- and 187-, where the
"Specials" got that remarkable information with which they every morning
surprised the country, revealing the most secret intentions of the
President and his cabinet, the private thoughts of political leaders,
the hidden meaning of every movement.  This information was furnished by
Col. Sellers.

When he was asked, afterwards, about the stolen copy of the Alabama
Treaty which got into the "New York Tribune," he only looked mysterious,
and said that neither he nor Senator Dilworthy knew anything about it.
But those whom he was in the habit of meeting occasionally felt almost
certain that he did know.

It must not be supposed that the Colonel in his general patriotic labors
neglected his own affairs.  The Columbus River Navigation Scheme absorbed
only a part of his time, so he was enabled to throw quite a strong
reserve force of energy into the Tennessee Land plan, a vast enterprise
commensurate with his abilities, and in the prosecution of which he was
greatly aided by Mr. Henry Brierly, who was buzzing about the capitol and
the hotels day and night, and making capital for it in some mysterious
way.

"We must create, a public opinion," said Senator Dilworthy.  "My only
interest in it is a public one, and if the country wants the institution,
Congress will have to yield."

It may have been after a conversation between the Colonel and Senator
Dilworthy that the following special despatch was sent to a New York
newspaper:

     "We understand that a philanthropic plan is on foot in relation to
     the colored race that will, if successful, revolutionize the whole
     character of southern industry.  An experimental institution is in
     contemplation in Tennessee which will do for that state what the
     Industrial School at Zurich did for Switzerland.  We learn that
     approaches have been made to the heirs of the late Hon. Silas
     Hawkins of Missouri, in reference to a lease of a portion of their
     valuable property in East Tennessee.  Senator Dilworthy, it is
     understood, is inflexibly opposed to any arrangement that will not
     give the government absolute control.  Private interests must give
     way to the public good.  It is to be hoped that Col. Sellers, who
     represents the heirs, will be led to see the matter in this light."

When Washington Hawkins read this despatch, he went to the Colonel in
some anxiety.  He was for a lease, he didn't want to surrender anything.
What did he think the government would offer?  Two millions?

"May be three, may be four," said the Colonel, "it's worth more than the
bank of England."

"If they will not lease," said Washington, "let 'em make it two millions
for an undivided half.  I'm not going to throw it away, not the whole of
it."

Harry told the Colonel that they must drive the thing through, he
couldn't be dallying round Washington when Spring opened.  Phil wanted
him, Phil had a great thing on hand up in Pennsylvania.

"What is that?" inquired the Colonel, always ready to interest himself in
anything large.

"A mountain of coal; that's all.  He's going to run a tunnel into it in
the Spring."

"Does he want any capital?", asked the Colonel, in the tone of a man who
is given to calculating carefully before he makes an investment.

"No.  Old man Bolton's behind him.  He has capital, but I judged that he
wanted my experience in starting."

"If he wants me, tell him I'll come, after Congress adjourns.  I should
like to give him a little lift.  He lacks enterprise--now, about that
Columbus River.  He doesn't see his chances.  But he's a good fellow, and
you can tell him that Sellers won't go back on him."

"By the way," asked Harry, "who is that rather handsome party that's
hanging 'round Laura?  I see him with her everywhere, at the Capitol, in
the horse cars, and he comes to Dilworthy's.  If he weren't lame, I
should think he was going to run off with her."

"Oh, that's nothing.  Laura knows her business.  He has a cotton claim.
Used to be at Hawkeye during the war.

"Selby's his name, was a Colonel.  Got a wife and family.
Very respectable people, the Selby's."

"Well, that's all right," said Harry, "if it's business.  But if a woman
looked at me as I've seen her at Selby, I should understand it.  And it's
talked about, I can tell you."

Jealousy had no doubt sharpened this young gentleman's observation.
Laura could not have treated him with more lofty condescension if she had
been the Queen of Sheba, on a royal visit to the great republic.  And he
resented it, and was "huffy" when he was with her, and ran her errands,
and brought her gossip, and bragged of his intimacy with the lovely
creature among the fellows at Newspaper Row.

Laura's life was rushing on now in the full stream of intrigue and
fashionable dissipation.  She was conspicuous at the balls of the fastest
set, and was suspected of being present at those doubtful suppers that
began late and ended early.  If Senator Dilworthy remonstrated about
appearances, she had a way of silencing him.  Perhaps she had some hold
on him, perhaps she was necessary to his plan for ameliorating the
condition the tube colored race.

She saw Col. Selby, when the public knew and when it did not know.
She would see him, whatever excuses he made, and however he avoided her.
She was urged on by a fever of love and hatred and jealousy, which
alternately possessed her.  Sometimes she petted him, and coaxed him and
tried all her fascinations.  And again she threatened him and reproached
him.  What was he doing?  Why had he taken no steps to free himself?
Why didn't he send his wife home?  She should have money soon.
They could go to Europe--anywhere.  What did she care for talk?

And he promised, and lied, and invented fresh excuses for delay, like a
cowardly gambler and roue as he was, fearing to break with her, and half
the time unwilling to give her up.

"That woman doesn't know what fear is," he said to himself, "and she
watches me like a hawk."

He told his wife that this woman was a lobbyist, whom he had to tolerate
and use in getting through his claims, and that he should pay her and
have done with her, when he succeeded.




CHAPTER XLI.

Henry Brierly was at the Dilwortby's constantly and on such terms of
intimacy that he came and went without question.  The Senator was not an
inhospitable man, he liked to have guests in his house, and Harry's gay
humor and rattling way entertained him; for even the most devout men and
busy statesmen must have hours of relaxation.

Harry himself believed that he was of great service in the University
business, and that the success of the scheme depended upon him to a great
degree.  He spent many hours in talking it over with the Senator after
dinner.  He went so far as to consider whether it would be worth his
while to take the professorship of civil engineering in the new
institution.

But it was not the Senator's society nor his dinners--at which this
scapegrace remarked that there was too much grace and too little wine--
which attracted him to the horse.  The fact was the poor fellow hung
around there day after day for the chance of seeing Laura for five
minutes at a time.  For her presence at dinner he would endure the long
bore of the Senator's talk afterwards, while Laura was off at some
assembly, or excused herself on the plea of fatigue.  Now and then he
accompanied her to some reception, and rarely, on off nights, he was
blessed with her company in the parlor, when he sang, and was chatty and
vivacious and performed a hundred little tricks of imitation and
ventriloquism, and made himself as entertaining as a man could be.

It puzzled him not a little that all his fascinations seemed to go for so
little with Laura; it was beyond his experience with women.  Sometimes
Laura was exceedingly kind and petted him a little, and took the trouble
to exert her powers of pleasing, and to entangle him deeper and deeper.
But this, it angered him afterwards to think, was in private; in public
she was beyond his reach, and never gave occasion to the suspicion that
she had any affair with him.  He was never permitted to achieve the
dignity of a serious flirtation with her in public.

"Why do you treat me so?" he once said, reproachfully.

"Treat you how?" asked Laura in a sweet voice, lifting her eyebrows.

"You know well enough.  You let other fellows monopolize you in society,
and you are as indifferent to me as if we were strangers."

"Can I help it if they are attentive, can I be rude?  But we are such old
friends, Mr. Brierly, that I didn't suppose you would be jealous."

"I think I must be a very old friend, then, by your conduct towards me.
By the same rule I should judge that Col. Selby must be very new."

Laura looked up quickly, as if about to return an indignant answer to
such impertinence, but she only said, "Well, what of Col. Selby, sauce-
box?"

"Nothing, probably, you'll care for.  Your being with him so much is the
town talk, that's all?"

"What do people say?" asked Laura calmly.

"Oh, they say a good many things.  You are offended, though, to have me
speak of it?"

"Not in the least.  You are my true friend.  I feel that I can trust you.
You wouldn't deceive me, Harry?"  throwing into her eyes a look of trust
and tenderness that melted away all his petulance and distrust.  "What do
they say?"

"Some say that you've lost your head about him; others that you don't
care any more for him than you do for a dozen others, but that he is
completely fascinated with you and about to desert his wife; and others
say it is nonsense to suppose you would entangle yourself with a married
man, and that your intimacy only arises from the matter of the cotton,
claims, for which he wants your influence with Dilworthy.  But you know
everybody is talked about more or less in Washington.  I shouldn't care;
but I wish you wouldn't have so much to do with Selby, Laura," continued
Harry, fancying that he was now upon such terms that his, advice, would
be heeded.

"And you believed these slanders?"

"I don't believe anything against you, Laura, but Col. Selby does not
mean you any good.  I know you wouldn't be seen with him if you knew his
reputation."

"Do you know him?"  Laura asked, as indifferently as she could.

"Only a little.  I was at his lodgings' in Georgetown a day or two ago,
with Col. Sellers.  Sellers wanted to talk with him about some patent
remedy he has, Eye Water, or something of that sort, which he wants to
introduce into Europe.  Selby is going abroad very soon."

Laura started; in spite of her self-control.

"And his wife!--Does he take his family?  Did you see his wife?"

"Yes.  A dark little woman, rather worn--must have been pretty once
though.  Has three or four children, one of them a baby.  They'll all
go of course.  She said she should be glad enough to get away from
Washington.  You know Selby has got his claim allowed, and they say he
has had a run, of luck lately at Morrissey's."

Laura heard all this in a kind of stupor, looking straight at Harry,
without seeing him.  Is it possible, she was thinking, that this base
wretch, after, all his promises, will take his wife and children and
leave me?  Is it possible the town is saying all these things about me?
And a look of bitterness coming into her face--does the fool think he can
escape so?

"You are angry with me, Laura," said Harry, not comprehending in the
least what was going on in her mind.

"Angry?" she said, forcing herself to come back to his presence.
"With you?  Oh no.  I'm angry with the cruel world, which, pursues an
independent woman as it never does a man.  I'm grateful to you Harry;
I'm grateful to you for telling me of that odious man."

And she rose from her chair and gave him her pretty hand, which the silly
fellow took, and kissed and clung to.  And he said many silly things,
before she disengaged herself gently, and left him, saying it was time to
dress, for dinner.

And Harry went away, excited, and a little hopeful, but only a little.
The happiness was only a gleam, which departed and left him thoroughly,
miserable.  She never would love him, and she was going to the devil,
besides.  He couldn't shut his eyes to what he saw, nor his ears to what
he heard of her.

What had come over this trilling young lady-killer?  It was a pity to see
such a gay butterfly broken on a wheel.  Was there something good in him,
after all, that had been touched?  He was in fact madly in love with this
woman.

It is not for us to analyze the passion and say whether it was a worthy
one.  It absorbed his whole nature and made him wretched enough.  If he
deserved punishment, what more would you have?  Perhaps this love was
kindling a new heroism in him.

He saw the road on which Laura was going clearly enough, though he did
not believe the worst he heard of her.  He  loved her too passionately to
credit that for a moment.  And it seemed to him that if he could compel
her to recognize her position, and his own devotion, she might love him,
and  that he could save her.  His love was so far ennobled, and become a
very different thing from its beginning in Hawkeye.  Whether he ever
thought that if he could save her from ruin, he could give her up
himself, is doubtful.  Such a pitch of virtue does not occur often in
real life, especially in such natures as Harry's, whose generosity and
unselfishness were matters of temperament rather than habits or
principles.

He wrote a long letter to Laura, an incoherent, passionate letter,
pouring out his love as he could not do in her presence, and warning her
as plainly as he dared of the dangers that surrounded her, and the risks
she ran of compromising herself in many ways.

Laura read the letter, with a little sigh may be, as she thought of other
days, but with contempt also, and she put it into the fire with the
thought, "They are all alike."

Harry was in the habit of writing to Philip freely, and boasting also
about his doings, as he could not help doing and remain himself.
Mixed up with his own exploits, and his daily triumphs as a lobbyist,
especially in the matter of the new University, in which Harry was to
have something handsome, were amusing sketches of Washington society,
hints about Dilworthy, stories about Col. Sellers, who had become a well-
known character, and wise remarks upon the machinery of private
legislation for the public-good, which greatly entertained Philip in his
convalescence.

Laura's name occurred very often in these letters, at first in casual
mention as the belle of the season, carrying everything before her with
her wit and beauty, and then more seriously, as if Harry did not exactly
like so much general admiration of her, and was a little nettled by her
treatment of him.

This was so different from Harry's usual tone about women, that Philip
wondered a good deal over it.  Could it be possible that he was seriously
affected?  Then came stories about Laura, town talk, gossip which Harry
denied the truth of indignantly; but he was evidently uneasy, and at
length wrote in such miserable spirits that Philip asked him squarely
what the trouble was; was he in love?

Upon this, Harry made a clean breast of it, and told Philip all he knew
about the Selby affair, and Laura's treatment of him, sometimes
encouraging him--and then throwing him off, and finally his belief that
she would go, to the bad if something was not done to arouse her from her
infatuation.  He wished Philip was in Washington.  He knew Laura, and she
had a great respect for his character, his opinions, his judgment.
Perhaps he, as an uninterested person whom she would have some
confidence, and as one of the public, could say some thing to her that
would show her where she stood.

Philip saw the situation clearly enough.  Of Laura he knew not much,
except that she was a woman of uncommon fascination, and he thought from
what he had seen of her in Hawkeye, her conduct towards him and towards
Harry, of not too much principle.  Of course he knew nothing of her
history; he knew nothing seriously against her, and if Harry was
desperately enamored of her, why should he not win her if he could.
If, however, she had already become what Harry uneasily felt she might
become, was it not his duty to go to the rescue of his friend and try to
save him from any rash act on account of a woman that might prove to be
entirely unworthy of him; for trifler and visionary as he was, Harry
deserved a better fate than this.

Philip determined to go to Washington and see for himself.  He had other
reasons also.  He began to know enough of Mr. Bolton's affairs to be
uneasy.  Pennybacker had been there several times during the winter, and
he suspected that he was involving Mr. Bolton in some doubtful scheme.
Pennybacker was in Washington, and Philip thought he might perhaps find
out something about him, and his plans, that would be of service to Mr.
Bolton.

Philip had enjoyed his winter very well, for a man with his arm broken
and his head smashed.  With two such nurses as Ruth and Alice, illness
seemed to him rather a nice holiday, and every moment of his
convalescence had been precious and all too fleeting.  With a young
fellow of the habits of Philip, such injuries cannot be counted on to
tarry long, even for the purpose of love-making, and Philip found himself
getting strong with even disagreeable rapidity.

During his first weeks of pain and weakness, Ruth was unceasing in her
ministrations; she quietly took charge of him, and with a gentle firmness
resisted all attempts of Alice or any one else to share to any great
extent the burden with her.  She was clear, decisive and peremptory in
whatever she did; but often when Philip, opened his eyes in those first
days of suffering and found her standing by his bedside, he saw a look of
tenderness in her anxious face that quickened his already feverish pulse,
a look that, remained in his heart long after he closed his eyes.
Sometimes he felt her hand on his forehead, and did not open his eyes for
fear she world take it away.  He watched for her coming to his chamber;
he could distinguish her light footstep from all others.  If this is what
is meant by women practicing medicine, thought Philip to himself, I like
it.

"Ruth," said he one day when he was getting to be quite himself,
"I believe in it?"

"Believe in what?"

"Why, in women physicians."

"Then, I'd better call in Mrs. Dr. Longstreet."

"Oh, no.  One will do, one at a time.  I think I should be well tomorrow,
if I thought I should never have any other."

"Thy physician thinks thee mustn't talk, Philip," said Ruth putting her
finger on his lips.

"But, Ruth, I want to tell you that I should wish I never had got well
if--"

"There, there, thee must not talk.  Thee is wandering again," and Ruth
closed his lips, with a smile on her own that broadened into a merry
laugh as she ran away.

Philip was not weary, however, of making these attempts, he rather
enjoyed it.  But whenever he inclined to be sentimental, Ruth would cut
him off, with some such gravely conceived speech as, "Does thee think
that thy physician will take advantage of the condition of a man who is
as weak as thee is?  I will call Alice, if thee has any dying confessions
to make."

As Philip convalesced, Alice more and more took Ruth's place as his
entertainer, and read to him by the hour, when he did not want to talk--
to talk about Ruth, as he did a good deal of the time.  Nor was this
altogether unsatisfactory to Philip.  He was always happy and contented
with Alice.  She was the most restful person he knew.  Better informed
than Ruth and with a much more varied culture, and bright and
sympathetic, he was never weary of her company, if he was not greatly
excited by it.  She had upon his mind that peaceful influence that Mrs.
Bolton had when, occasionally, she sat by his bedside with her work.
Some people have this influence, which is like an emanation.  They bring
peace to a house, they diffuse serene content in a room full of mixed
company, though they may say very little, and are apparently, unconscious
of their own power;

Not that Philip did not long for Ruth's presence all the same.  Since he
was well enough to be about the house, she was busy again with her
studies.  Now and then her teasing humor came again.  She always had a
playful shield against his sentiment.  Philip used sometimes to declare
that she had no sentiment; and then he doubted if he should be pleased
with her after all if she were at all sentimental; and he rejoiced that
she had, in such matters what he called the airy grace of sanity.  She
was the most gay serious person he ever saw.

Perhaps he waw not so much at rest or so contented with her as with
Alice.  But then he loved her.  And what have rest and contentment to do
with love?




CHAPTER XLIL

Mr. Buckstone's campaign was brief--much briefer than he supposed it
would be.  He began it purposing to win Laura without being won himself;
but his experience was that of all who had fought on that field before
him; he diligently continued his effort to win her, but he presently
found that while as yet he could not feel entirely certain of having won
her, it was very manifest that she had won him.  He had made an able
fight, brief as it was, and that at least was to his credit.  He was in
good company, now; he walked in a leash of conspicuous captives.  These
unfortunates followed Laura helplessly, for whenever she took a prisoner
he remained her slave henceforth.  Sometimes they chafed in their
bondage; sometimes they tore themselves free and said their serfdom was
ended; but sooner or later they always came back penitent and worshiping.
Laura pursued her usual course: she encouraged Mr. Buckstone by turns,
and by turns she harassed him; she exalted him to the clouds at one time,
and at another she dragged him down again.  She constituted him chief
champion of the Knobs University bill, and he accepted the position, at
first reluctantly, but later as a valued means of serving her--he even
came to look upon it as a piece of great good fortune, since it brought
him into such frequent contact with her.

Through him she learned that the Hon. Mr. Trollop was a bitter enemy of
her bill.  He urged her not to attempt to influence Mr. Trollop in any
way, and explained that whatever she might attempt in that direction
would surely be used against her and with damaging effect.

She at first said she knew Mr. Trollop, "and was aware that he had a
Blank-Blank;"--[**Her private figure of speech for Brother--or Son-in-
law]--but Mr. Buckstone said that he was not able to conceive what so
curious a phrase as Blank-Blank might mean, and had no wish to pry into
the matter, since it was probably private, he "would nevertheless venture
the blind assertion that nothing would answer in this particular case and
during this particular session but to be exceedingly wary and keep clear
away from Mr. Trollop; any other course would be fatal."

It seemed that nothing could be done.  Laura was seriously troubled.
Everything was looking well, and yet it was plain that one vigorous and
determined enemy might eventually succeed in overthrowing all her plans.
A suggestion came into her mind presently and she said:

"Can't you fight against his great Pension bill and, bring him to terms?"

"Oh, never; he and I are sworn brothers on that measure; we work in
harness and are very loving--I do everything I possibly can for him
there.  But I work with might and main against his Immigration bill,
--as pertinaciously and as vindictively, indeed, as he works against our
University.  We hate each other through half a conversation and are all
affection through the other half.  We understand each other.  He is an
admirable worker outside the capitol; he will do more for the Pension
bill than any other man could do; I wish he would make the great speech
on it which he wants to make--and then I would make another and we would
be safe."

"Well if he wants to make a great speech why doesn't he do it?"

Visitors interrupted the conversation and Mr. Buckstone took his leave.
It was not of the least moment to Laura that her question had not been
answered, inasmuch as it concerned a thing which did not interest her;
and yet, human being like, she thought she would have liked to know.
An opportunity occurring presently, she put the same question to another
person and got an answer that satisfied her.  She pondered a good while
that night, after she had gone to bed, and when she finally turned over,
to, go to sleep, she had thought out a new scheme.  The next evening at
Mrs. Gloverson's party, she said to Mr. Buckstone:

"I want Mr. Trollop to make his great speech on the Pension bill."

"Do you?  But you remember I was interrupted, and did not explain
to you--"

"Never mind, I know.  You must' make him make that speech.  I very.
particularly desire, it."

"Oh, it is easy, to say make him do it, but how am I to make him!"

"It is perfectly easy; I have thought it all out."

She then went into the details.  At length Mr. Buckstone said:

"I see now.  I can manage it, I am sure.  Indeed I wonder he never
thought of it himself--there are no end of precedents.  But how is this
going to benefit you, after I have managed it?  There is where the
mystery lies."

"But I will take care of that.  It will benefit me a great deal."

"I only wish I could see how; it is the oddest freak.  You seem to go the
furthest around to get at a thing--but you are in earnest, aren't you?"

"Yes I am, indeed."

"Very well, I will do it--but why not tell me how you imagine it is going
to help you?"

"I will, by and by.--Now there is nobody talking to him.  Go straight and
do it, there's a good fellow."

A moment or two later the two sworn friends of the Pension bill were
talking together, earnestly, and seemingly unconscious of the moving
throng about them.  They talked an hour, and then Mr. Buckstone came back
and said:

"He hardly fancied it at first, but he fell in love with it after a bit.
And we have made a compact, too.  I am to keep his secret and he is to
spare me, in future, when he gets ready to denounce the supporters of the
University bill--and I can easily believe he will keep his word on this
occasion."

A fortnight elapsed, and the University bill had gathered to itself many
friends, meantime.  Senator Dilworthy began to think the harvest was
ripe.  He conferred with Laura privately.  She was able to tell him
exactly how the House would vote.  There was a majority--the bill would
pass, unless weak members got frightened at the last, and deserted--a
thing pretty likely to occur.  The Senator said:

"I wish we had one more good strong man.  Now Trollop ought to be on our
side, for he is a friend of the negro.  But be is against us, and is our
bitterest opponent.  If he would simply vote No, but keep quiet and not
molest us, I would feel perfectly cheerful and content.  But perhaps
there is no use in thinking of that."

"Why I laid a little plan for his benefit two weeks ago.  I think he will
be tractable, maybe.  He is to come here tonight."

"Look out for him, my child!  He means mischief, sure.  It is said that
he claims to know of improper practices having been used in the interest
of this bill, and he thinks be sees a chance to make a great sensation
when the bill comes up.  Be wary.  Be very, very careful, my dear.
Do your very-ablest talking, now.  You can convince a man of anything,
when you try.  You must convince him that if anything improper has been
done, you at least are ignorant of it and sorry for it.  And if you could
only persuade him out of his hostility to the bill, too--but don't overdo
the thing; don't seem too anxious, dear."

"I won't; I'll be ever so careful.  I'll talk as sweetly to him as if he
were my own child!  You may trust me--indeed you may."

The door-bell rang.

"That is the gentleman now," said Laura.  Senator Dilworthy retired to
his study.

Laura welcomed Mr. Trollop, a grave, carefully dressed and very
respectable looking man, with a bald head, standing collar and old
fashioned watch seals.

"Promptness is a virtue, Mr. Trollop, and I perceive that you have it.
You are always prompt with me."

"I always meet my engagements, of every kind, Miss Hawkins."

"It is a quality which is rarer in the world than it has been, I believe.
I wished to see you on business, Mr. Trollop."

"I judged so.  What can I do for you?"

"You know my bill--the Knobs University bill?"

"Ah, I believe it is your bill.  I had forgotten.  Yes, I know the bill."

"Well, would you mind telling me your opinion of it?"

"Indeed, since you seem to ask it without reserve, I am obliged to say
that I do not regard it favorably.  I have not seen the bill itself, but
from what I can hear, it--it--well, it has a bad look about it.  It--"

"Speak it out--never fear."

"Well, it--they say it contemplates a fraud upon the government."

"Well?" said Laura tranquilly.

"Well!  I say 'Well?' too."

"Well, suppose it were a fraud--which I feel able to deny--would it be
the first one?"

"You take a body's breath away!  Would you--did you wish me to vote for
it?  Was that what you wanted to see me about?"

"Your instinct is correct.  I did want you--I do want you to vote for
it."

"Vote for a fr--for a measure which is generally believed to be at least
questionable?  I am afraid we cannot come to an understanding, Miss
Hawkins."

"No, I am afraid not--if you have resumed your principles, Mr. Trollop."

"Did you send for we merely to insult me?  It is time for me to take my
leave, Miss Hawkins."

"No-wait a moment.  Don't be offended at a trifle.  Do not be offish and
unsociable.  The Steamship Subsidy bill was a fraud on the government.
You voted for it, Mr. Trollop, though you always opposed the measure
until after you had an interview one evening with a certain Mrs. McCarter
at her house.  She was my agent.  She was acting for me.  Ah, that is
right--sit down again.  You can be sociable, easily enough if you have a
mind to.  Well?  I am waiting.  Have you nothing to say?"

"Miss Hawkins, I voted for that bill because when I came to examine into
it--"

"Ah yes.  When you came to examine into it.  Well, I only want you to
examine into my bill.  Mr. Trollop, you would not sell your vote on that
subsidy bill--which was perfectly right--but you accepted of some of the
stock, with the understanding that it was to stand in your brother-in-
law's name."

"There is no pr--I mean, this is, utterly groundless, Miss Hawkins."  But
the gentleman seemed somewhat uneasy, nevertheless.

"Well, not entirely so, perhaps.  I and a person whom we will call Miss
Blank (never mind the real name,) were in a closet at your elbow all the
while."

Mr. Trollop winced--then he said with dignity:

"Miss Hawkins is it possible that you were capable of such a thing as
that?"

"It was bad; I confess that.  It was bad.  Almost as bad as selling one's
vote for--but I forget; you did not sell your vote--you only accepted a
little trifle, a small token of esteem, for your brother-in-law.  Oh, let
us come out and be frank with each other: I know you, Mr. Trollop.
I have met you on business three or four times; true, I never offered to
corrupt your principles--never hinted such a thing; but always when I had
finished sounding you, I manipulated you through an agent.  Let us be
frank.  Wear this comely disguise of virtue before the public--it will
count there; but here it is out of place.  My dear sir, by and by there
is going to be an investigation into that National Internal Improvement
Directors' Relief Measure of a few years ago, and you know very well that
you will be a crippled man, as likely as not, when it is completed."

"It cannot be shown that a man is a knave merely for owning that stock.
I am not distressed about the National Improvement Relief Measure."

"Oh indeed I am not trying to distress you.  I only wished, to make good
my assertion that I knew you.  Several of you gentlemen bought of that
stack (without paying a penny down) received dividends from it, (think of
the happy idea of receiving dividends, and very large ones, too, from
stock one hasn't paid for!) and all the while your names never appeared
in the transaction; if ever you took the stock at all, you took it in
other people's names.  Now you see, you had to know one of two things;
namely, you either knew that the idea of all this preposterous generosity
was to bribe you into future legislative friendship, or you didn't know
it.  That is to say, you had to be either a knave or a--well, a fool--
there was no middle ground.  You are not a fool, Mr. Trollop."

"Miss Hawking you flatter me.  But seriously, you do not forget that some
of the best and purest men in Congress took that stock in that way?"

"Did Senator Bland?"

"Well, no--I believe not."

"Of course you believe not.  Do you suppose he was ever approached, on
the subject?"

"Perhaps not."

"If you had approached him, for instance, fortified with the fact that
some of the best men in Congress, and the purest, etc., etc.; what would
have been the result?"

"Well, what WOULD have been the result?"

"He would have shown you the door!  For Mr. Blank is neither a knave nor
a fool.  There are other men in the Senate and the House whom no one
would have been hardy enough to approach with that Relief Stock in that
peculiarly generous way, but they are not of the class that you regard as
the best and purest.  No, I say I know you Mr. Trollop.  That is to say,
one may suggest a thing to Mr. Trollop which it would not do to suggest
to Mr. Blank.  Mr. Trollop, you are pledged to support the Indigent
Congressmen's Retroactive Appropriation which is to come up, either in
this or the next session.  You do not deny that, even in public.  The man
that will vote for that bill will break the eighth commandment in any
other way, sir!"

"But he will not vote for your corrupt measure, nevertheless, madam!"
exclaimed Mr. Trollop, rising from his seat in a passion.

"Ah, but he will.  Sit down again, and let me explain why.  Oh, come,
don't behave so.  It is very unpleasant.  Now be good, and you shall
have, the missing page of your great speech.  Here it is!"--and she
displayed a sheet of manuscript.

Mr. Trollop turned immediately back from the threshold.  It might have
been gladness that flashed into his face; it might have been something
else; but at any rate there was much astonishment mixed with it.

"Good!  Where did you get it?  Give it me!"

"Now there is no hurry.  Sit down; sit down and let us talk and be
friendly."

The gentleman wavered.  Then he said:

"No, this is only a subterfuge.  I will go.  It is not the missing page."

Laura tore off a couple of lines from the bottom of the sheet.

"Now," she said, "you will know whether this is the handwriting or not.
You know it is the handwriting.  Now if you will listen, you will know
that this must be the list of statistics which was to be the 'nub' of
your great effort, and the accompanying blast the beginning of the burst
of eloquence which was continued on the next page--and you will recognize
that there was where you broke down."

She read the page.  Mr. Trollop said:

"This is perfectly astounding.  Still, what is all this to me?  It is
nothing.  It does not concern me.  The speech is made, and there an end.
I did break down for a moment, and in a rather uncomfortable place, since
I had led up to those statistics with some grandeur; the hiatus was
pleasanter to the House and the galleries than it was to me.  But it is
no matter now.  A week has passed; the jests about it ceased three or
four days ago.  The, whole thing is a matter of indifference to me, Miss
Hawkins."

"But you apologized; and promised the statistics for next day.  Why
didn't you keep your promise."

"The matter was not of sufficient consequence.  The time was gone by to
produce an effect with them."

"But I hear that other friends of the Soldiers' Pension Bill desire them
very much.  I think you ought to let them have them."

"Miss Hawkins, this silly blunder of my copyist evidently has more
interest for you than it has for me.  I will send my private secretary to
you and let him discuss the subject with you at length."

"Did he copy your speech for you?"

"Of course he did.  Why all these questions?  Tell me--how did you get
hold of that page of manuscript?  That is the only thing that stirs a
passing interest in my mind."

"I'm coming to that."  Then she said, much as if she were talking to
herself: "It does seem like taking a deal of unnecessary pains, for a
body to hire another body to construct a great speech for him and then go
and get still another body to copy it before it can be read in the
House."

"Miss Hawkins, what do yo mean by such talk as that?"

"Why I am sure I mean no harm--no harm to anybody in the world.  I am
certain that I overheard the Hon. Mr. Buckstone either promise to write
your great speech for you or else get some other competent person to do
it."

"This is perfectly absurd, madam, perfectly absurd!" and Mr. Trollop
affected a laugh of derision.

"Why, the thing has occurred before now.  I mean that I have heard that
Congressmen have sometimes hired literary grubs to build speeches for
them.--Now didn't I overhear a conversation like that I spoke of?"

"Pshaw!  Why of course you may have overheard some such jesting nonsense.
But would one be in earnest about so farcical a thing?"

"Well if it was only a joke, why did you make a serious matter of it?
Why did you get the speech written for you, and then read it in the House
without ever having it copied?"

Mr. Trollop did not laugh this time; he seemed seriously perplexed.  He
said:

"Come, play out your jest, Miss Hawkins.  I can't understand what you are
contriving--but it seems to entertain you--so please, go on."

"I will, I assure you; but I hope to make the matter entertaining to you,
too.  Your private secretary never copied your speech."

"Indeed?  Really you seem to know my affairs better than I do myself."

"I believe I do.  You can't name your own amanuensis, Mr. Trollop."

"That is sad, indeed.  Perhaps Miss Hawkins can?"

"Yes, I can.  I wrote your speech myself, and you read it from my
manuscript.  There, now!"

Mr. Trollop did not spring to his feet and smite his brow with his hand
while a cold sweat broke out all over him and the color forsook his face
--no, he only said, "Good God!" and looked greatly astonished.

Laura handed him her commonplace-book and called his attention to the
fact that the handwriting there and the handwriting of this speech were
the same.  He was shortly convinced.  He laid the book aside and said,
composedly:

"Well, the wonderful tragedy is done, and it transpires that I am
indebted to you for my late eloquence.  What of it?  What was all this
for and what does it amount to after all?  What do you propose to do
about it?"

"Oh nothing.  It is only a bit of pleasantry.  When I overheard that
conversation I took an early opportunity to ask Mr. Buckstone if he knew
of anybody who might want a speech written--I had a friend, and so forth
and so on.  I was the friend, myself; I thought I might do you a good
turn then and depend on you to do me one by and by.  I never let Mr.
Buckstone have the speech till the last moment, and when you hurried off
to the House with it, you did not know there was a missing page, of
course, but I did.

"And now perhaps you think that if I refuse to support your bill, you
will make a grand exposure?"

"Well I had not thought of that.  I only kept back the page for the mere
fun of the thing; but since you mention it, I don't know but I might do
something if I were angry."

"My dear Miss Hawkins, if you were to give out that you composed my
speech, you know very well that people would say it was only your
raillery, your fondness for putting a victim in the pillory and amusing
the public at his expense.  It is too flimsy, Miss Hawkins, for a person
of your fine inventive talent--contrive an abler device than that.
Come!"

"It is easily done, Mr. Trollop.  I will hire a man, and pin this page on
his breast, and label it, 'The Missing Fragment of the Hon. Mr. Trollop's
Great Speech--which speech was written and composed by Miss Laura Hawkins
under a secret understanding for one hundred dollars--and the money has
not been paid.'  And I will pin round about it notes in my handwriting,
which I will procure from prominent friends of mine for the occasion;
also your printed speech in the Globe, showing the connection between its
bracketed hiatus and my Fragment; and I give you my word of honor that I
will stand that human bulletin board in the rotunda of the capitol and
make him stay there a week!  You see you are premature, Mr. Trollop, the
wonderful tragedy is not done yet, by any means.  Come, now, doesn't it
improve?"

Mr Trollop opened his eyes rather widely at this novel aspect of the
case.  He got up and walked the floor and gave himself a moment for
reflection.  Then he stopped and studied Laura's face a while, and ended
by saying:

"Well, I am obliged to believe yon would be reckless enough to do that."

"Then don't put me to the test, Mr. Trollop.  But let's drop the matter.
I have had my joke and you've borne the infliction becomingly enough.
It spoils a jest to harp on it after one has had one's laugh.  I would
much rather talk about my bill."

"So would I, now, my clandestine amanuensis.  Compared with some other
subjects, even your bill is a pleasant topic to discuss."

"Very good indeed!  I thought.  I could persuade you.  Now I am sure you
will be generous to the poor negro and vote for that bill."

"Yes, I feel more tenderly toward the oppressed colored man than I did.
Shall we bury the hatchet and be good friends and respect each other's
little secrets, on condition that I vote Aye on the measure?"

"With all my heart, Mr. Trollop.  I give you my word of that."

"It is a bargain.  But isn't there something else you could give me,
too?"

Laura looked at him inquiringly a moment, and then she comprehended.

"Oh, yes!  You may have it now.  I haven't any, more use for it."  She
picked up the page of manuscript, but she reconsidered her intention of
handing it to him, and said, "But never mind; I will keep it close; no
one shall see it; you shall have it as soon as your vote is recorded."

Mr. Trollop looked disappointed.  But presently made his adieux, and had
got as far as the hall, when something occurred to Laura.  She said to
herself, "I don't simply want his vote under compulsion--he might vote
aye, but work against the bill in secret, for revenge; that man is
unscrupulous enough to do anything.  I must have his hearty co-operation
as well as his vote.  There is only one way to get that."

She called him back, and said:

"I value your vote, Mr. Trollop, but I value your influence more.  You
are able to help a measure along in many ways, if you choose.  I want to
ask you to work for the bill as well as vote for it."

"It takes so much of one's time, Miss Hawkins--and time is money, you
know."

"Yes, I know it is--especially in Congress.  Now there is no use in you
and I dealing in pretenses and going at matters in round-about ways.
We know each other--disguises are nonsense.  Let us be plain.  I will
make it an object to you to work for the bill."

"Don't make it unnecessarily plain, please.  There are little proprieties
that are best preserved.  What do you propose?"

"Well, this."  She mentioned the names of several prominent Congressmen.

"Now," said she, "these gentlemen are to vote and work for the bill,
simply out of love for the negro--and out of pure generosity I have put
in a relative of each as a member of the University incorporation.  They
will handle a million or so of money, officially, but will receive no
salaries.  A larger number of statesmen are to, vote and work for the
bill--also out of love for the negro--gentlemen of but moderate
influence, these--and out of pure generosity I am to see that relatives
of theirs have positions in the University, with salaries, and good ones,
too.  You will vote and work for the bill, from mere affection for the
negro, and I desire to testify my gratitude becomingly.  Make free
choice.  Have you any friend whom you would like to present with a
salaried or unsalaried position in our institution?"

"Well, I have a brother-in-law--"

"That same old brother-in-law, you good unselfish provider!  I have heard
of him often, through my agents.  How regularly he does 'turn up,' to be
sure.  He could deal with those millions virtuously, and withal with
ability, too--but of course you would rather he had a salaried position?"

"Oh, no," said the gentleman, facetiously, "we are very humble, very
humble in our desires; we want no money; we labor solely, for our country
and require no reward but the luxury of an applauding conscience.  Make
him one of those poor hard working unsalaried corporators and let him do
every body good with those millions--and go hungry himself!  I will try
to exert a little influence in favor of the bill."

Arrived at home, Mr. Trollop sat down and thought it all over--something
after this fashion: it is about the shape it might have taken if he had
spoken it aloud.

"My reputation is getting a little damaged, and I meant to clear it up
brilliantly with an exposure of this bill at the supreme moment, and ride
back into Congress on the eclat of it; and if I had that bit of
manuscript, I would do it yet.  It would be more money in my pocket in
the end, than my brother-in-law will get out of that incorporatorship,
fat as it is.  But that sheet of paper is out of my reach--she will never
let that get out of her hands.  And what a mountain it is!  It blocks up
my road, completely.  She was going to hand it to me, once.  Why didn't
she!  Must be a deep woman.  Deep devil!  That is what she is;
a beautiful devil--and perfectly fearless, too.  The idea of her pinning
that paper on a man and standing him up in the rotunda looks absurd at a
first glance.  But she would do it!  She is capable of doing anything.
I went there hoping she would try to bribe me--good solid capital that
would be in the exposure.  Well, my prayer was answered; she did try to
bribe me; and I made the best of a bad bargain and let her.  I am check-
mated.  I must contrive something fresh to get back to Congress on.
Very well; a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; I will work for
the bill--the incorporatorship will be a very good thing."

As soon as Mr. Trollop had taken his leave, Laura ran to Senator
Dilworthy and began to speak, but he interrupted her and said
distressfully, without even turning from his writing to look at her:

"Only half an hour!  You gave it up early, child.  However, it was best,
it was best--I'm sure it was best--and safest."

"Give it up!  I!"

The Senator sprang up, all aglow:

"My child, you can't mean that you--"

"I've made him promise on honor to think about a compromise tonight and
come and tell me his decision in the morning."

"Good!  There's hope yet that--"

Nonsense, uncle.  I've made him engage to let the Tennessee Land bill
utterly alone!"

"Impossible!  You--"

"I've made him promise to vote with us!"

"INCREDIBLE!  Abso--"

"I've made him swear that he'll work for us!"

"PRE - - - POSTEROUS!--Utterly pre--break a window, child, before I
suffocate!"

"No matter, it's true anyway.  Now we can march into Congress with drums
beating and colors flying!"

"Well--well--well.  I'm sadly bewildered, sadly bewildered.  I can't
understand it at all--the most extraordinary woman that ever--it's a
great day, it's a great day.  There--there--let me put my hand in
benediction on this precious head.  Ah, my child, the poor negro will
bless--"

"Oh bother the poor negro, uncle!  Put it in your speech.  Good-night,
good-bye--we'll marshal our forces and march with the dawn!"

Laura reflected a while, when she was alone, and then fell to laughing,
peacefully.

"Everybody works for me,"--so ran her thought.  "It was a good idea to
make Buckstone lead Mr. Trollop on to get a great speech written for him;
and it was a happy part of the same idea for me to copy the speech after
Mr. Buckstone had written it, and then keep back a page.  Mr. B.  was
very complimentary to me when Trollop's break-down in the House showed
him the object of my mysterious scheme; I think he will say, still finer
things when I tell him the triumph the sequel to it has gained for us.

"But what a coward the man was, to believe I would have exposed that page
in the rotunda, and so exposed myself.  However, I don't know--I don't
know.  I will think a moment.  Suppose he voted no; suppose the bill
failed; that is to suppose this stupendous game lost forever, that I have
played so desperately for; suppose people came around pitying me--odious!
And he could have saved me by his single voice.  Yes, I would have
exposed him!  What would I care for the talk that that would have made
about me when I was gone to Europe with Selby and all the world was busy
with my history and my dishonor?  It would be almost happiness to spite
somebody at such a time."




CHAPTER XLIII.

The very next day, sure enough, the campaign opened.  In due course, the
Speaker of the House reached that Order of Business which is termed
"Notices of Bills," and then the Hon. Mr. Buckstone rose in his place and
gave notice of a bill "To Found and Incorporate the Knobs Industrial
University," and then sat down without saying anything further.  The busy
gentlemen in the reporters' gallery jotted a line in their note-books,
ran to the telegraphic desk in a room which communicated with their own
writing-parlor, and then hurried back to their places in the gallery; and
by the time they had resumed their seats, the line which they had
delivered to the operator had been read in telegraphic offices in towns
and cities hundreds of miles away.  It was distinguished by frankness of
language as well as by brevity:

"The child is born.  Buckstone gives notice of the thieving Knobs
University job.  It is said the noses have been counted and enough votes
have been bought to pass it."

For some time the correspondents had been posting their several journals
upon the alleged disreputable nature of the bill, and furnishing daily
reports of the Washington gossip concerning it.  So the next morning,
nearly every newspaper of character in the land assailed the measure and
hurled broadsides of invective at Mr. Buckstone.  The Washington papers
were more respectful, as usual--and conciliatory, also, as usual.  They
generally supported measures, when it was possible; but when they could
not they "deprecated" violent expressions of opinion in other
journalistic quarters.

They always deprecated, when there was trouble ahead.  However, 'The
Washington Daily Love-Feast' hailed the bill with warm approbation.  This
was Senator Balaam's paper--or rather, "Brother" Balaam, as he was
popularly called, for he had been a clergyman, in his day; and he himself
and all that he did still emitted an odor of sanctity now that he had
diverged into journalism and politics.  He was a power in the
Congressional prayer meeting, and in all movements that looked to the
spread of religion and temperance.

His paper supported the new bill with gushing affection; it was a noble
measure; it was a just measure; it was a generous measure; it was a pure
measure, and that surely should recommend it in these corrupt times; and
finally, if the nature of the bill were not known at all, the 'Love
Feast' would support it anyway, and unhesitatingly, for the fact that
Senator Dilworthy was the originator of the measure was a guaranty that
it contemplated a worthy and righteous work.

Senator Dilworthy was so anxious to know what the New York papers would
say about the bill; that he had arranged to have synopses of their
editorials telegraphed to him; he could not wait for the papers
themselves to crawl along down to Washington by a mail train which has
never run over a cow since the road was built; for the reason that it has
never been able to overtake one.  It carries the usual "cow-catcher" in
front of the locomotive, but this is mere ostentation.  It ought to be
attached to the rear car, where it could do some good; but instead, no
provision is made there for the protection of the traveling public, and
hence it is not a matter of surprise that cows so frequently climb aboard
that train and among the passengers.

The Senator read his dispatches aloud at the breakfast table.  Laura was
troubled beyond measure at their tone, and said that that sort of comment
would defeat the bill; but the Senator said:

"Oh, not at all, not at all, my child.  It is just what we want.
Persecution is the one thing needful, now--all the other forces are
secured.  Give us newspaper persecution enough, and we are safe.
Vigorous persecution will alone carry a bill sometimes, dear; and when
you start with a strong vote in the first place, persecution comes in
with double effect.  It scares off some of the weak supporters, true,
but it soon turns strong ones into stubborn ones.  And then, presently,
it changes the tide of public opinion.  The great public is weak-minded;
the great public is sentimental; the great public always turns around and
weeps for an odious murderer, and prays for-him, and carries flowers to
his prison and besieges the governor with appeals to his clemency, as
soon as the papers begin to howl for that man's blood.--In a word, the
great putty-hearted public loves to 'gush,' and there is no such darling
opportunity to gush as a case of persecution affords."

"Well, uncle, dear; if your theory is right, let us go into raptures,
for nobody can ask a heartier persecution than these editorials are
furnishing."

"I am not so sure of that, my daughter.  I don't entirely like the tone
of some of these remarks.  They lack vim, they lack venom.  Here is one
calls it a 'questionable measure.'  Bah, there is no strength in that.
This one is better; it calls it 'highway robbery.'  That sounds something
like.  But now this one seems satisfied to call it an 'iniquitous
scheme'.  'Iniquitous' does not exasperate anybody; it is weak--puerile.
The ignorant will imagine it to be intended for a compliment.  But this
other one--the one I read last--has the true ring: 'This vile, dirty
effort to rob the public treasury, by the kites and vultures that now
infest the filthy den called Congress'--that is admirable, admirable!
We must have more of that sort.  But it will come--no fear of that;
they're not warmed up, yet.  A week from now you'll see."

"Uncle, you and Brother Balaam are bosom friends--why don't you get his
paper to persecute us, too?"

"It isn't worth while, my, daughter.  His support doesn't hurt a bill.
Nobody reads his editorials but himself.  But I wish the New York papers
would talk a little plainer.  It is annoying to have to wait a week for
them to warm up.  I expected better things at their hands--and time is
precious, now."

At the proper hour, according to his previous notice, Mr. Buckstone duly
introduced his bill entitled "An Act to Found and Incorporate the Knobs
Industrial University," moved its proper reference, and sat down.

The Speaker of the House rattled off this observation:

"'Fnobjectionbilltakuzhlcoixrssoreferred!'"

Habitues of the House comprehended that this long, lightning-heeled word
signified that if there was no objection, the bill would take the
customary course of a measure of its nature, and be referred to the
Committee on Benevolent Appropriations, and that it was accordingly so
referred.  Strangers merely supposed that the Speaker was taking a gargle
for some affection of the throat.

The reporters immediately telegraphed the introduction of the bill.--And
they added:

     "The assertion that the bill will pass was premature.  It is said
     that many favorers of it will desert when the storm breaks upon them
     from the public press."

The storm came, and during ten days it waxed more and more violent day by
day.  The great "Negro University Swindle" became the one absorbing topic
of conversation throughout the Union.  Individuals denounced it, journals
denounced it, public meetings denounced it, the pictorial papers
caricatured its friends, the whole nation seemed to be growing frantic
over it.  Meantime the Washington correspondents were sending such
telegrams as these abroad in the land; Under date of--

SATURDAY.  "Congressmen Jex and Fluke are wavering; it is believed they
will desert the execrable bill."

MONDAY.  "Jex and Fluke have deserted!"

THURSDAY.  "Tubbs and Huffy left the sinking ship last night"

Later on:

"Three desertions.  The University thieves are getting scared, though
they will not own it."

Later:

"The leaders are growing stubborn--they swear they can carry it, but it
is now almost certain that they no longer have a majority!"

After a day or two of reluctant and ambiguous telegrams:

"Public sentiment seems changing, a trifle in favor of the bill--
but only a trifle."

And still later:

"It is whispered that the Hon. Mr. Trollop has gone over to the pirates.
It is probably a canard.  Mr. Trollop has all along been the bravest and
most efficient champion of virtue and the people against the bill, and
the report is without doubt a shameless invention."

Next day:

"With characteristic treachery, the truckling and pusillanimous reptile,
Crippled-Speech Trollop, has gone over to the enemy.  It is contended,
now, that he has been a friend to the bill, in secret, since the day it
was introduced, and has had bankable reasons for being so; but he himself
declares that he has gone over because the malignant persecution of the
bill by the newspapers caused him to study its provisions with more care
than he had previously done, and this close examination revealed the fact
that the measure is one in every way worthy of support.  (Pretty thin!)
It cannot be denied that this desertion has had a damaging effect.  Jex
and Fluke have returned to their iniquitous allegiance, with six or eight
others of lesser calibre, and it is reported and believed that Tubbs and
Huffy are ready to go back.  It is feared that the University swindle is
stronger to-day than it has ever been before."

Later-midnight:

"It is said that the committee will report the bill back to-morrow.  Both
sides are marshaling their forces, and the fight on this bill is
evidently going to be the hottest of the session.--All Washington is
boiling."




CHAPTER XLIV.

"It's easy enough for another fellow to talk," said Harry, despondingly,
after he had put Philip in possession of his view of the case.  "It's
easy enough to say 'give her up,' if you don't care for her.  What am I
going to do to give her up?"

It seemed to Harry that it was a situation requiring some active
measures.  He couldn't realize that he had fallen hopelessly in love
without some rights accruing to him for the possession of the object of
his passion.  Quiet resignation under relinquishment of any thing he
wanted was not in his line.  And when it appeared to him that his
surrender of Laura would be the withdrawal of the one barrier that kept
her from ruin, it was unreasonable to expect that he could see how to
give her up.

Harry had the most buoyant confidence in his own projects always; he saw
everything connected with himself in a large way and in rosy lines.  This
predominance of the imagination over the judgment gave that appearance of
exaggeration to his conversation and to his communications with regard to
himself, which sometimes conveyed the impression that he was not speaking
the truth.  His acquaintances had been known to say that they invariably
allowed a half for shrinkage in his statements, and held the other half
under advisement for confirmation.

Philip in this case could not tell from Harry's story exactly how much
encouragement Laura had given him, nor what hopes he might justly have of
winning her.  He had never seen him desponding before.  The "brag"
appeared to be all taken out of him, and his airy manner only asserted
itself now and then in a comical imitation of its old self.

Philip wanted time to look about him before he decided what to do.
He was not familiar with Washington, and it was difficult to adjust his
feelings and perceptions to its peculiarities.  Coming out of the sweet
sanity of the Bolton household, this was by contrast the maddest Vanity
Fair one could conceive.  It seemed to him a feverish, unhealthy
atmosphere in which lunacy would be easily developed.  He fancied that
everybody attached to himself an exaggerated importance, from the fact of
being at the national capital, the center of political influence, the
fountain of patronage, preferment, jobs and opportunities.

People were introduced to each other as from this or that state, not from
cities or towns, and this gave a largeness to their representative
feeling.  All the women talked politics as naturally and glibly as they
talk fashion or literature elsewhere.  There was always some exciting
topic at the Capitol, or some huge slander was rising up like a miasmatic
exhalation from the Potomac, threatening to settle no one knew exactly
where.  Every other person was an aspirant for a place, or, if he had
one, for a better place, or more pay; almost every other one had some
claim or interest or remedy to urge; even the women were all advocates
for the advancement of some person, and they violently espoused or
denounced this or that measure as it would affect some relative,
acquaintance or friend.

Love, travel, even death itself, waited on the chances of the dies daily
thrown in the two Houses, and the committee rooms there.  If the measure
went through, love could afford to ripen into marriage, and longing for
foreign travel would have fruition; and it must have been only eternal
hope springing in the breast that kept alive numerous old claimants who
for years and years had besieged the doors of Congress, and who looked as
if they needed not so much an appropriation of money as six feet of
ground.  And those who stood so long waiting for success to bring them
death were usually those who had a just claim.

Representing states and talking of national and even international
affairs, as familiarly as neighbors at home talk of poor crops and the
extravagance of their ministers, was likely at first to impose upon
Philip as to the importance of the people gathered here.

There was a little newspaper editor from Phil's native town, the
assistant on a Peddletonian weekly, who made his little annual joke about
the "first egg laid on our table," and who was the menial of every
tradesman in the village and under bonds to him for frequent "puffs,"
except the undertaker, about whose employment he was recklessly
facetious.  In Washington he was an important man, correspondent, and
clerk of two house committees, a "worker" in politics, and a confident
critic of every woman and every man in Washington.  He would be a consul
no doubt by and by, at some foreign port, of the language of which he was
ignorant--though if ignorance of language were a qualification he might
have been a consul at home.  His easy familiarity with great men was
beautiful to see, and when Philip learned what a tremendous underground
influence this little ignoramus had, he no longer wondered at the queer
appointments and the queerer legislation.

Philip was not long in discovering that people in Washington did not
differ much from other people; they had the same meannesses,
generosities, and tastes: A Washington boarding house had the odor of a
boarding house the world over.

Col. Sellers was as unchanged as any one Philip saw whom he had known
elsewhere.  Washington appeared to be the native element of this man.
His pretentions were equal to any he encountered there.  He saw nothing
in its society that equalled that of Hawkeye, he sat down to no table
that could not be unfavorably contrasted with his own at home; the most
airy scheme inflated in the hot air of the capital only reached in
magnitude some of his lesser fancies, the by-play of his constructive
imagination.

"The country is getting along very well," he said to Philip, "but our
public men are too timid.  What we want is more money.  I've told
Boutwell so.  Talk about basing the currency on gold; you might as well
base it on pork.  Gold is only one product.  Base it on everything!
You've got to do something for the West.  How am I to move my crops?
We must have improvements.  Grant's got the idea.  We want a canal from
the James River to the Mississippi.  Government ought to build it."

It was difficult to get the Colonel off from these large themes when he
was once started, but Philip brought the conversation round to Laura and
her reputation in the City.

"No," he said, "I haven't noticed much.  We've been so busy about this
University.  It will make Laura rich with the rest of us, and she has
done nearly as much as if she were a man.  She has great talent, and will
make a big match.  I see the foreign ministers and that sort after her.
Yes, there is talk, always will be about a pretty woman so much in public
as she is.  Tough stories come to me, but I put'em away.  'Taint likely
one of Si Hawkins's children would do that--for she is the same as a
child of his.  I told her, though, to go slow," added the Colonel, as if
that mysterious admonition from him would set everything right.

"Do you know anything about a Col. Selby?"

"Know all about him.  Fine fellow.  But he's got a wife; and I told him,
as a friend, he'd better sheer off from Laura.  I reckon he thought
better of it and did."

But Philip was not long in learning the truth.  Courted as Laura was by a
certain class and still admitted into society, that, nevertheless, buzzed
with disreputable stories about her, she had lost character with the best
people.  Her intimacy with Selby was open gossip, and there were winks
and thrustings of the tongue in any group of men when she passed by.
It was clear enough that Harry's delusion must be broken up, and that no
such feeble obstacle as his passion could interpose would turn Laura from
her fate.  Philip determined to see her, and put himself in possession of
the truth, as he suspected it, in order to show Harry his folly.

Laura, after her last conversation with Harry, had a new sense of her
position.  She had noticed before the signs of a change in manner towards
her, a little less respect perhaps from men, and an avoidance by women.
She had attributed this latter partly to jealousy of her, for no one is
willing to acknowledge a fault in himself when a more agreeable motive
can be found for the estrangement of his acquaintances.  But now, if
society had turned on her, she would defy it.  It was not in her nature
to shrink.  She knew she had been wronged, and she knew that she had no
remedy.

What she heard of Col. Selby's proposed departure alarmed her more than
anything else, and she calmly determined that if he was deceiving her the
second time it should be the last.  Let society finish the tragedy if it
liked; she was indifferent what came after.  At the first opportunity,
she charged Selby with his intention to abandon her.  He unblushingly
denied it.

He had not thought of going to Europe.  He had only been amusing himself
with Sellers' schemes.  He swore that as soon as she succeeded with her
bill, he would fly with her to any part of the world.

She did not quite believe him, for she saw that he feared her, and she
began to suspect that his were the protestations of a coward to gain
time.  But she showed him no doubts.

She only watched his movements day by day, and always held herself ready
to act promptly.

When Philip came into the presence of this attractive woman, he could not
realize that she was the subject of all the scandal he had heard.  She
received him with quite the old Hawkeye openness and cordiality, and fell
to talking at once of their little acquaintance there; and it seemed
impossible that he could ever say to her what he had come determined to
say.  Such a man as Philip has only one standard by which to judge women.

Laura recognized that fact no doubt.  The better part of her woman's
nature saw it.  Such a man might, years ago, not now, have changed her
nature, and made the issue of her life so different, even after her cruel
abandonment.  She had a dim feeling of this, and she would like now to
stand well with him.  The spark of truth and honor that was left in her
was elicited by his presence.  It was this influence that governed her
conduct in this interview.

"I have come," said Philip in his direct manner, "from my friend
Mr. Brierly.  You are not ignorant of his feeling towards you?"

"Perhaps not."

"But perhaps you do not know, you who have so much admiration, how
sincere and overmastering his love is for you?"  Philip would not have
spoken so plainly, if he had in mind anything except to draw from Laura
something that would end Harry's passion.

"And is sincere love so rare, Mr. Sterling?" asked Laura, moving her foot
a little, and speaking with a shade of sarcasm.

"Perhaps not in Washington," replied Philip,--tempted into a similar
tone.  "Excuse my bluntness," he continued, "but would the knowledge of
his love; would his devotion, make any difference to you in your
Washington life?"

"In respect to what?" asked Laura quickly.

"Well, to others.  I won't equivocate--to Col. Selby?"

Laura's face flushed with anger, or shame; she looked steadily at Philip
and began,

"By what right, sir,--"

"By the right of friendship," interrupted Philip stoutly.  "It may matter
little to you.  It is everything to him.  He has a Quixotic notion that
you would turn back from what is before you for his sake.  You cannot be
ignorant of what all the city is talking of."  Philip said this
determinedly and with some bitterness.

It was a full minute before Laura spoke.  Both had risen, Philip as if to
go, and Laura in suppressed excitement.  When she spoke her voice was
very unsteady, and she looked down.

"Yes, I know.  I perfectly understand what you mean.  Mr. Brierly is
nothing--simply nothing.  He is a moth singed, that is all--the trifler
with women thought he was a wasp.  I have no pity for him, not the least.
You may tell him not to make a fool of himself, and to keep away.  I say
this on your account, not his.  You are not like him.  It is enough for
me that you want it so.  Mr. Sterling," she continued, looking up; and
there were tears in her eyes that contradicted the hardness of her
language, "you might not pity him if you knew my history; perhaps you
would not wonder at some things you hear.  No; it is useless to ask me
why it must be so.  You can't make a life over--society wouldn't let you
if you would--and mine must be lived as it is.  There, sir, I'm not
offended; but it is useless for you to say anything more."

Philip went away with his heart lightened about Harry, but profoundly
saddened by the glimpse of what this woman might have been.  He told
Harry all that was necessary of the conversation--she was bent on going
her own way, he had not the ghost of a chance--he was a fool, she had
said, for thinking he had.

And Harry accepted it meekly, and made up his own mind that Philip didn't
know much about women.




CHAPTER XLV.

The galleries of the House were packed, on the momentous day, not because
the reporting of an important bill back by a committee was a thing to be
excited about, if the bill were going to take the ordinary course
afterward; it would be like getting excited over the empaneling of a
coroner's jury in a murder case, instead of saving up one's emotions for
the grander occasion of the hanging of the accused, two years later,
after all the tedious forms of law had been gone through with.

But suppose you understand that this coroner's jury is going to turn out
to be a vigilance committee in disguise, who will hear testimony for an
hour and then hang the murderer on the spot?  That puts a different
aspect upon the matter.  Now it was whispered that the legitimate forms
of procedure usual in the House, and which keep a bill hanging along for
days and even weeks, before it is finally passed upon, were going to be
overruled, in this case, and short work made of the, measure; and so,
what was beginning as a mere inquest might, torn out to be something very
different.

In the course of the day's business the Order of "Reports of Committees"
was finally reached and when the weary crowds heard that glad
announcement issue from the Speaker's lips they ceased to fret at the
dragging delay, and plucked up spirit.  The Chairman of the Committee on
Benevolent Appropriations rose and made his report, and just then a blue-
uniformed brass-mounted little page put a note into his hand.

It was from Senator Dilworthy, who had appeared upon the floor of the
House for a moment and flitted away again:

     "Everybody expects a grand assault in force; no doubt you believe,
     as I certainly do, that it is the thing to do; we are strong, and
     everything is hot for the contest.  Trollop's espousal of our cause
     has immensely helped us and we grow in power constantly.  Ten of the
     opposition were called away from town about noon,(but--so it is
     said--only for one day).  Six others are sick, but expect to be
     about again tomorrow or next day, a friend tells me.  A bold
     onslaught is worth trying.  Go for a suspension of the rules!  You
     will find we can swing a two-thirds vote--I am perfectly satisfied
     of it.  The Lord's truth will prevail.
                                                  "DILWORTHY.

Mr. Buckstone had reported the bills from his committee, one by one,
leaving the bill to the last.  When the House had voted upon the
acceptance or rejection of the report upon all but it, and the question
now being upon its disposal--Mr. Buckstone begged that the House would
give its attention to a few remarks which he desired to make.  His
committee had instructed him to report the bill favorably; he wished to
explain the nature of the measure, and thus justify the committee's
action; the hostility roused by the press would then disappear, and the
bill would shine forth in its true and noble character.  He said that its
provisions were simple.  It incorporated the Knobs Industrial University,
locating it in East Tennessee, declaring it open to all persons without
distinction of sex, color or religion, and committing its management to a
board of perpetual trustees, with power to fill vacancies in their own
number.  It provided for the erection of certain buildings for the
University, dormitories, lecture-halls, museums, libraries, laboratories,
work-shops, furnaces, and mills.  It provided also for the purchase of
sixty-five thousand acres of land, (fully described) for the purposes of
the University, in the Knobs of East Tennessee.  And it appropriated
[blank] dollars for the purchase of the Land, which should be the
property of the national trustees in trust for the uses named.

Every effort had been made to secure the refusal of the whole amount of
the property of the Hawkins heirs in the Knobs, some seventy-five
thousand acres Mr. Buckstone said.  But Mr. Washington Hawkins (one of
the heirs) objected.  He was, indeed, very reluctant to sell any part of
the land at any price; and indeed--this reluctance was justifiable when
one considers how constantly and how greatly the property is rising in
value.

What the South needed, continued Mr. Buckstone, was skilled labor.
Without that it would be unable to develop its mines, build its roads,
work to advantage and without great waste its fruitful land, establish
manufactures or enter upon a prosperous industrial career.  Its laborers
were almost altogether unskilled.  Change them into intelligent, trained
workmen, and you increased at once the capital, the resources of the
entire south, which would enter upon a prosperity hitherto unknown.
In five years the increase in local wealth would not only reimburse the
government for the outlay in this appropriation, but pour untold wealth
into the treasury.

This was the material view, and the least important in the honorable
gentleman's opinion.  [Here he referred to some notes furnished him by
Senator Dilworthy, and then continued.] God had given us the care of
these colored millions.  What account should we render to Him of our
stewardship?  We had made them free.  Should we leave them ignorant?
We had cast them upon their own resources.  Should we leave them without
tools?  We could not tell what the intentions of Providence are in regard
to these peculiar people, but our duty was plain.  The Knobs Industrial
University would be a vast school of modern science and practice, worthy
of a great nation.  It would combine the advantages of Zurich, Freiburg,
Creuzot and the Sheffield Scientific.  Providence had apparently reserved
and set apart the Knobs of East Tennessee for this purpose.  What else
were they for?  Was it not wonderful that for more than thirty years,
over a generation, the choicest portion of them had remained in one
family, untouched, as if, separated for some great use!

It might be asked why the government should buy this land, when it had
millions of yes, more than the railroad companies desired, which, it
might devote to this purpose?  He answered, that the government had no
such tract of land as this.  It had nothing comparable to it for the
purposes of the University: This was to be a school of mining, of
engineering, of the working of metals, of chemistry, zoology, botany,
manufactures, agriculture, in short of all the complicated industries
that make a state great.  There was no place for the location of such a
school like the Knobs of East Tennessee.  The hills abounded in metals of
all sorts, iron in all its combinations, copper, bismuth, gold and silver
in small quantities, platinum he--believed, tin, aluminium; it was
covered with forests and strange plants; in the woods were found the
coon, the opossum, the fox, the deer and many other animals who roamed in
the domain of natural history; coal existed in enormous quantity and no
doubt oil; it was such a place for the practice of agricultural
experiments that any student who had been successful there would have an
easy task in any other portion of the country.

No place offered equal facilities for experiments in mining, metallurgy,
engineering.  He expected to live to see the day, when the youth of the
south would resort to its mines, its workshops, its labratories, its
furnaces and factories for practical instruction in all the great
industrial pursuits.

A noisy and rather ill-natured debate followed, now, and lasted hour
after hour.  The friends of the bill were instructed by the leaders to
make no efort to check it; it was deemed better strategy to tire out the
opposition; it was decided to vote down every proposition to adjourn, and
so continue the sitting into the night; opponents might desert, then, one
by one and weaken their party, for they had no personal stake in the
bill.

Sunset came, and still the fight went on; the gas was lit, the crowd in
the galleries began to thin, but the contest continued; the crowd
returned, by and by, with hunger and thirst appeased, and aggravated the
hungry and thirsty House by looking contented and comfortable; but still
the wrangle lost nothing of its bitterness.  Recesses were moved
plaintively by the opposition, and invariably voted down by the
University army.

At midnight the House presented a spectacle calculated to interest a
stranger.  The great galleries were still thronged--though only with men,
now; the bright colors that had made them look like hanging gardens were
gone, with the ladies.  The reporters' gallery, was merely occupied by
one or two watchful sentinels of the quill-driving guild; the main body
cared nothing for a debate that had dwindled to a mere vaporing of dull
speakers and now and then a brief quarrel over a point of order; but
there was an unusually large attendance of journalists in the reporters'
waiting-room, chatting, smoking, and keeping on the 'qui vive' for the
general irruption of the Congressional volcano that must come when the
time was ripe for it.  Senator Dilworthy and Philip were in the
Diplomatic Gallery; Washington sat in the public gallery, and Col.
Sellers was, not far away.  The Colonel had been flying about the
corridors and button-holing Congressmen all the evening, and believed
that he had accomplished a world of valuable service; but fatigue was
telling upon him, now, and he was quiet and speechless--for once.  Below,
a few Senators lounged upon the sofas set apart for visitors, and talked
with idle Congressmen.  A dreary member was speaking; the presiding
officer was nodding; here and there little knots of members stood in the
aisles, whispering together; all about the House others sat in all the
various attitudes that express weariness; some, tilted back, had one or
more legs disposed upon their desks; some sharpened pencils indolently;
some scribbled aimlessly; some yawned and stretched; a great many lay
upon their breasts upon the desks, sound asleep and gently snoring.
The flooding gaslight from the fancifully wrought roof poured down upon
the tranquil scene.  Hardly a sound disturbed the stillness, save the
monotonous eloquence of the gentleman who occupied the floor.  Now and
then a warrior of the opposition broke down under the pressure, gave it
up, and went home.

Mr. Buckstone began to think it might be safe, now, to "proceed to
business."  He consulted with Trollop and one or two others.  Senator
Dilworthy descended to the floor of the House and they went to meet him.
After a brief comparison of notes, the Congressmen sought their seats and
sent pages about the House with messages to friends.  These latter
instantly roused up, yawned, and began to look alert.  The moment the
floor was unoccupied, Mr. Buckstone rose, with an injured look, and said
it was evident that the opponents of the bill were merely talking against
time, hoping in this unbecoming way to tire out the friends of the
measure and so defeat it.  Such conduct might be respectable enough in a
village debating society, but it was trivial among statesmen, it was out
of place in so august an assemblage as the House of Representatives of
the United States.  The friends of the bill had been not only willing
that its opponents should express their opinions, but had strongly
desired it.  They courted the fullest and freest discussion; but it
seemed to him that this fairness was but illy appreciated, since
gentlemen were capable of taking advantage of it for selfish and unworthy
ends.  This trifling had gone far enough.  He called for the question.

The instant Mr. Buckstone sat down, the storm burst forth.  A dozen
gentlemen sprang to their feet.

"Mr. Speaker!"

"Mr. Speaker!"

"Mr. Speaker!"

"Order!  Order!  Order!  Question!  Question!"

The sharp blows of the Speaker's gavel rose above the din.

The "previous question," that hated gag, was moved and carried.  All
debate came to a sudden end, of course.  Triumph No. 1.

Then the vote was taken on the adoption of the report and it carried by a
surprising majority.

Mr. Buckstone got the floor again and moved that the rules be suspended
and the bill read a first time.

Mr. Trollop--"Second the motion!"

The Speaker--"It is moved and--"

Clamor of Voices.  "Move we adjourn!  Second the motion!  Adjourn!
Adjourn!  Order!  Order!"

The Speaker, (after using his gavel vigorously)--"It is moved and
seconded that the House do now adjourn.  All those in favor--"

Voices--"Division!  Division!  Ayes and nays!  Ayes and nays!"

It was decided to vote upon the adjournment by ayes and nays.  This was
in earnest.  The excitement was furious.  The galleries were in commotion
in an instant, the reporters swarmed to their places. Idling members of
the House flocked to their seats, nervous gentlemen sprang to their feet,
pages flew hither and thither, life and animation were visible
everywhere, all the long ranks of faces in the building were kindled.

"This thing decides it!" thought Mr. Buckstone; "but let the fight
proceed."

The voting began, and every sound.  ceased but the calling if the names
and the "Aye!"  "No!"  "No!"  "Aye!" of the responses.  There was not a
movement in the House; the people seemed to hold their breath.

The voting ceased, and then there was an interval of dead silence while
the clerk made up his count.  There was a two-thirds vote on the
University side--and two over.

The Speaker--"The rules are suspended, the motion is carried--first
reading of the bill!"

By one impulse the galleries broke forth into stormy applause, and even
some of the members of the House were not wholly able to restrain their
feelings.  The Speaker's gavel came to the rescue and his clear voice
followed:

"Order, gentlemen--!  The House will come to order!  If spectators offend
again, the Sergeant-at-arms will clear the galleries!"

Then he cast his eyes aloft and gazed at some object attentively for a
moment.  All eyes followed the direction of the Speaker's, and then there
was a general titter.  The Speaker said:

"Let the Sergeant-at Arms inform the gentleman that his conduct is an
infringement of the dignity of the House--and one which is not warranted
by the state of the weather."  Poor Sellers was the culprit.  He sat in
the front seat of the gallery, with his arms and his tired body
overflowing the balustrade--sound asleep, dead to all excitements, all
disturbances.  The fluctuations of the Washington weather had influenced
his dreams, perhaps, for during the recent tempest of applause he had
hoisted his gingham umbrella, and calmly gone on with his slumbers.
Washington Hawkins had seen the act, but was not near enough at hand to
save his friend, and no one who was near enough desired to spoil the
effect.  But a neighbor stirred up the Colonel, now that the House had
its eye upon him, and the great speculator furled his tent like the Arab.
He said:

"Bless my soul, I'm so absent-minded when I, get to thinking!  I never
wear an umbrella in the house--did anybody 'notice it'?  What-asleep?
Indeed?  And did you wake me sir?  Thank you--thank you very much indeed.
It might have fallen out of my hands and been injured.  Admirable
article, sir--present from a friend in Hong Kong; one doesn't come across
silk like that in this country--it's the real--Young Hyson, I'm told."

By this time the incident was forgotten, for the House was at war again.
Victory was almost in sight, now, and the friends of the bill threw
themselves into their work with enthusiasm.  They soon moved and carried
its second reading, and after a strong, sharp fight, carried a motion to
go into Committee of the whole.  The Speaker left his place, of course,
and a chairman was appointed.

Now the contest raged hotter than ever--for the authority that compels
order when the House sits as a House, is greatly diminished when it sits
as Committee.  The main fight came upon the filling of the blanks with
the sum to be appropriated for the purchase of the land, of course.

Buckstone--"Mr. Chairman, I move you, sir, that the words 'three millions
of' be inserted."

Mr. Hadley--"Mr. Chairman, I move that the words two and a half dollars
be inserted."

Mr. Clawson--"Mr. Chairman, I move the insertion of the words five and
twenty cents, as representing the true value of this barren and isolated
tract of desolation."

The question, according to rule, was taken upon the smallest sum first.
It was lost.

Then upon the nest smallest sum.  Lost, also.

And then upon the three millions.  After a vigorous battle that lasted a
considerable time, this motion was carried.

Then, clause by clause the bill was read, discussed, and amended in
trifling particulars, and now the Committee rose and reported.

The moment the House had resumed its functions and received the report,
Mr. Buckstone moved and carried the third reading of the bill.

The same bitter war over the sum to be paid was fought over again, and
now that the ayes and nays could be called and placed on record, every
man was compelled to vote by name on the three millions, and indeed on
every paragraph of the bill from the enacting clause straight through.
But as before, the friends of the measure stood firm and voted in a solid
body every time, and so did its enemies.

The supreme moment was come, now, but so sure was the result that not
even a voice was raised to interpose an adjournment.  The enemy were
totally demoralized.  The bill was put upon its final passage almost
without dissent, and the calling of the ayes and nays began.  When it was
ended the triumph was complete--the two-thirds vote held good, and a veto
was impossible, as far as the House was concerned!

Mr. Buckstone resolved that now that the nail was driven home, he would
clinch it on the other side and make it stay forever.  He moved a
reconsideration of the vote by which the bill had passed.  The motion was
lost, of course, and the great Industrial University act was an
accomplished fact as far as it was in the power of the House of
Representatives to make it so.

There was no need to move an adjournment.  The instant the last motion
was decided, the enemies of the University rose and flocked out of the
Hall, talking angrily, and its friends flocked after them jubilant and
congratulatory.  The galleries disgorged their burden, and presently the
house was silent and deserted.

When Col. Sellers and Washington stepped out of the building they were
surprised to find that the daylight was old and the sun well up.  Said
the Colonel:

"Give me your hand, my boy!  You're all right at last!  You're a
millionaire!  At least you're going to be.  The thing is dead sure.
Don't you bother about the Senate.  Leave me and Dilworthy to take care
of that.  Run along home, now, and tell Laura.  Lord, it's magnificent
news--perfectly magnificent!  Run, now.  I'll telegraph my wife.  She
must come here and help me build a house.  Everything's all right now!"

Washington was so dazed by his good fortune and so bewildered by the
gaudy pageant of dreams that was already trailing its long ranks through
his brain, that he wandered he knew not where, and so loitered by the way
that when at last he reached home he woke to a sudden annoyance in the
fact that his news must be old to Laura, now, for of course Senator
Dilworthy must have already been home and told her an hour before.  He
knocked at her door, but there was no answer.

"That is like the Duchess," said he.  "Always cool; a body can't excite
her-can't keep her excited, anyway.  Now she has gone off to sleep again,
as comfortably as if she were used to picking up a million dollars every
day or two"

Then he vent to bed.  But he could not sleep; so he got up and wrote a
long, rapturous letter to Louise, and another to his mother.  And he
closed both to much the same effect:

     "Laura will be queen of America, now, and she will be applauded, and
     honored and petted by the whole nation.  Her name will be in every
     one's mouth more than ever, and how they will court her and quote
     her bright speeches.  And mine, too, I suppose; though they do that
     more already, than they really seem to deserve.  Oh, the world is so
     bright, now, and so cheery; the clouds are all gone, our long
     struggle is ended, our, troubles are all over.  Nothing can ever
     make us unhappy any more.  You dear faithful ones will have the
     reward of your patient waiting now.  How father's Wisdom is proven
     at last!  And how I repent me, that there have been times when I
     lost faith and said, the blessing he stored up for us a tedious
     generation ago was but a long-drawn curse, a blight upon us all.
     But everything is well, now--we are done with poverty, sad toil,
     weariness and heart-break; all the world is filled with sunshine."




CHAPTER XLVI.

Philip left the capitol and walked up Pennsylvania Avenue in company with
Senator Dilworthy.  It was a bright spring morning, the air was soft and
inspiring; in the deepening wayside green, the pink flush of the
blossoming peach trees, the soft suffusion on the heights of Arlington,
and the breath of the warm south wind was apparent, the annual miracle of
the resurrection of the earth.

The Senator took off his hat and seemed to open his soul to the sweet
influences of the morning.  After the heat and noise of the chamber,
under its dull gas-illuminated glass canopy, and the all night struggle
of passion and feverish excitement there, the open, tranquil world seemed
like Heaven.  The Senator was not in an exultant mood, but rather in a
condition of holy joy, befitting a Christian statesman whose benevolent
plans Providence has made its own and stamped with approval.  The great
battle had been fought, but the measure had still to encounter the
scrutiny of the Senate, and Providence sometimes acts differently in the
two Houses.  Still the Senator was tranquil, for he knew that there is an
esprit de corps in the Senate which does not exist in the House, the
effect of which is to make the members complaisant towards the projects
of each other, and to extend a mutual aid which in a more vulgar body
would be called "log-rolling."

"It is, under Providence, a good night's work, Mr. Sterling.  The
government has founded an institution which will remove half the
difficulty from the southern problem.  And it is a good thing for the
Hawkins heirs, a very good thing.  Laura will be almost a millionaire."

"Do you think, Mr. Dilworthy, that the Hawkinses will get much of the
money?" asked Philip innocently, remembering the fate of the Columbus
River appropriation.

The Senator looked at his companion scrutinizingly for a moment to see if
he meant any thing personal, and then replied,

"Undoubtedly, undoubtedly.  I have had their interests greatly at heart.
There will of course be a few expenses, but the widow and orphans will
realize all that Mr. Hawkins, dreamed of for them."

The birds were singing as they crossed the Presidential Square, now
bright with its green turf and tender foliage.  After the two had gained
the steps of the Senator's house they stood a moment, looking upon the
lovely prospect:

"It is like the peace of God," said the Senator devoutly.

Entering the house, the Senator called a servant and said, "Tell Miss
Laura that we are waiting to see her.  I ought to have sent a messenger
on horseback half an hour ago," he added to Philip, "she will be
transported with our victory.  You must stop to breakfast, and see the
excitement."  The servant soon came back, with a wondering look and
reported,

"Miss Laura ain't dah, sah.  I reckon she hain't been dah all night!"

The Senator and Philip both started up.  In Laura's room there were the
marks of a confused and hasty departure, drawers half open, little
articles strewn on the floor.  The bed had not been disturbed.  Upon
inquiry it appeared that Laura had not been at dinner, excusing herself
to Mrs. Dilworthy on the plea of a violent headache; that she made a
request to the servants that she might not be disturbed.

The Senator was astounded.  Philip thought at once of Col. Selby.  Could
Laura have run away with him?  The Senator thought not.  In fact it could
not be.  Gen. Leffenwell, the member from New Orleans, had casually told
him at the house last night that Selby and his family went to New York
yesterday morning and were to sail for Europe to-day.

Philip had another idea which, he did not mention.  He seized his hat,
and saying that he would go and see what he could learn, ran to the
lodgings of Harry; whom he had not seen since yesterday afternoon, when
he left him to go to the House.

Harry was not in.  He had gone out with a hand-bag before six o'clock
yesterday, saying that he had to go to New York, but should return next
day.  In Harry's-room on the table Philip found this note:

          "Dear Mr. Brierly:--Can you meet me at the six o'clock train,
          and be my escort to New York?  I have to go about this
          University bill, the vote of an absent member we must have
          here, Senator Dilworthy cannot go.
                                             Yours,  L.  H."

"Confound it," said Phillip, "the noodle has fallen into her trap.  And
she promised she would let him alone."

He only stopped to send a note to Senator Dilworthy, telling him what he
had found, and that he should go at once to New York, and then hastened
to the railway station.  He had to wait an hour for a train, and when it
did start it seemed to go at a snail's pace.

Philip was devoured with anxiety.  Where could they, have gone?  What was
Laura's object in taking Harry?  Had the flight anything to do with
Selby?  Would Harry be such a fool as to be dragged into some public
scandal?

It seemed as if the train would never reach Baltimore.  Then there was a
long delay at Havre de Grace.  A hot box had to be cooled at Wilmington.
Would it never get on?  Only in passing around the city of Philadelphia
did the train not seem to go slow.  Philip stood upon the platform and
watched for the Boltons' house, fancied he could distinguish its roof
among the trees, and wondered how Ruth would feel if she knew he was so
near her.

Then came Jersey, everlasting Jersey, stupid irritating Jersey, where the
passengers are always asking which line they are on, and where they are
to come out, and whether they have yet reached Elizabeth.  Launched into
Jersey, one has a vague notion that he is on many lines and no one in
particular, and that he is liable at any moment to come to Elizabeth.
He has no notion what Elizabeth is, and always resolves that the next
time he goes that way, he will look out of the window and see what it is
like; but he never does.  Or if he does, he probably finds that it is
Princeton or something of that sort.  He gets annoyed, and never can see
the use of having different names for stations in Jersey.  By and by.
there is Newark, three or four Newarks apparently; then marshes; then
long rock cuttings devoted to the advertisements of 'patent medicines and
ready-made, clothing, and New York tonics for Jersey agues, and Jersey
City is reached.

On the ferry-boat Philip bought an evening paper from a boy crying
"'Ere's the Evening Gram, all about the murder," and with breathless
haste--ran his eyes over the following:

                            SHOCKING MURDER!!!

     TRAGEDY IN HIGH LIFE!!  A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN SHOOTS A DISTINGUISHED
     CONFEDERATE SOLDIER AT THE SOUTHERN HOTEL!!!  JEALOUSY THE CAUSE!!!

     This morning occurred another of those shocking murders which have
     become the almost daily food of the newspapers, the direct result of
     the socialistic doctrines and woman's rights agitations, which have
     made every woman the avenger of her own wrongs, and all society the
     hunting ground for her victims.

     About nine o'clock a lady deliberately shot a man dead in the public
     parlor of the Southern Hotel, coolly remarking, as she threw down
     her revolver and permitted herself to be taken into custody, "He
     brought it on himself."  Our reporters were immediately dispatched
     to the scene of the tragedy, and gathered the following particulars.

     Yesterday afternoon arrived at the hotel from Washington, Col.
     George Selby and family, who had taken passage and were to sail at
     noon to-day in the steamer Scotia for England.  The Colonel was a
     handsome man about forty, a gentleman Of wealth and high social
     position, a resident of New Orleans.  He served with distinction in
     the confederate army, and received a wound in the leg from which he
     has never entirely recovered, being obliged to use a cane in
     locomotion.

     This morning at about nine o'clock, a lady, accompanied by a
     gentleman, called at the office Of the hotel and asked for Col.
     Selby.  The Colonel was at breakfast.  Would the clerk tell him that
     a lady and gentleman wished to see him for a moment in the parlor?
     The clerk says that the gentleman asked her, "What do you want to
     see him for?" and that she replied, "He is going to Europe, and I
     ought to just say good by."

     Col. Selby was informed; and the lady and gentleman were shown to
     the parlor, in which were at the time three or four other persons.
     Five minutes after two shots were fired in quick succession, and
     there was a rush to the parlor from which the reports came.

     Col. Selby was found lying on the floor, bleeding, but not dead.
     Two gentlemen, who had just come in, had seized the lady, who made
     no resistance, and she was at once given in charge of a police
     officer who arrived.  The persons who were in the parlor agree
     substantially as to what occurred.  They had happened to be looking
     towards the door when the man--Col. Selby--entered with his cane,
     and they looked at him, because he stopped as if surprised and
     frightened, and made a backward movement. At the same moment the
     lady in the bonnet advanced towards him and said something like,
     "George, will you go with me?"  He replied, throwing up his hand and
     retreating, "My God I can't, don't fire," and the next instants two
     shots were heard and he fell.  The lady appeared to be beside
     herself with rage or excitement, and trembled very much when the
     gentlemen took hold of her; it was to them she said, "He brought it
     on himself."

     Col. Selby was carried at once to his room and Dr. Puffer, the
     eminent surgeon was sent for.  It was found that he was shot through
     the breast and through the abdomen.  Other aid was summoned, but the
     wounds were mortal, and Col Selby expired in an hour, in pain, but
     his mind was clear to the last and he made a full deposition.  The
     substance of it was that his murderess is a Miss Laura Hawkins, whom
     he had known at Washington as a lobbyist and had some business with
     her.  She had followed him with her attentions and solicitations,
     and had endeavored to make him desert his wife and go to Europe with
     her.  When he resisted and avoided her she had threatened him.  Only
     the day before he left Washington she had declared that he should
     never go out of the city alive without her.

     It seems to have been a deliberate and premeditated murder, the
     woman following him to Washington on purpose to commit it.

     We learn that the, murderess, who is a woman of dazzling and
     transcendent beauty and about twenty six or seven, is a niece of
     Senator Dilworthy at whose house she has been spending the winter.
     She belongs to a high Southern family, and has the reputation of
     being an heiress. Like some other great beauties and belles in
     Washington however there have been whispers that she had something
     to do with the lobby.  If we mistake not we have heard her name
     mentioned in connection with the sale of the Tennessee Lands to the
     Knobs University, the bill for which passed the House last night.

     Her companion is Mr. Harry Brierly, a New York dandy, who has been
     in Washington. His connection with her and with this tragedy is not
     known, but he was also taken into custody, and will be detained at
     least as a witness.

     P. S.  One of the persons present in the parlor says that after
     Laura Hawkins had fired twice, she turned the pistol towards
     herself, but that Brierly sprung and caught it from her hand, and
     that it was he who threw it on the floor.

     Further particulars with full biographies of all the parties in our
     next edition.

Philip hastened at once to the Southern Hotel, where he found still a
great state of excitement, and a thousand different and exaggerated
stories passing from mouth to mouth.  The witnesses of the event had told
it over so many time that they had worked it up into a most dramatic
scene, and embellished it with whatever could heighten its awfulness.
Outsiders had taken up invention also.  The Colonel's wife had gone
insane, they said.  The children had rushed into the parlor and rolled
themselves in their father's blood.  The hotel clerk said that he noticed
there was murder in the woman's eye when he saw her.  A person who had
met the woman on the stairs felt a creeping sensation.  Some thought
Brierly was an accomplice, and that he had set the woman on to kill his
rival.  Some said the woman showed the calmness and indifference of
insanity.

Philip learned that Harry and Laura had both been taken to the city
prison, and he went there; but he was not admitted.  Not being a
newspaper reporter, he could not see either of them that night; but the
officer questioned him suspiciously and asked him who he was.  He might
perhaps see Brierly in the morning.

The latest editions of the evening papers had the result of the inquest.
It was a plain enough case for the jury, but they sat over it a long
time, listening to the wrangling of the physicians.  Dr. Puffer insisted
that the man died from the effects of the wound in the chest.  Dr. Dobb
as strongly insisted that the wound in the abdomen caused death.  Dr.
Golightly suggested that in his opinion death ensued from a complication
of the two wounds and perhaps other causes.  He examined the table
waiter, as to whether Col. Selby ate any breakfast, and what he ate, and
if he had any appetite.

The jury finally threw themselves back upon the indisputable fact that
Selby was dead, that either wound would have killed him (admitted by the
doctors), and rendered a verdict that he died from pistol-shot wounds
inflicted by a pistol in the hands of Laura Hawkins.

The morning papers blazed with big type, and overflowed with details of
the murder.  The accounts in the evening papers were only the premonitory
drops to this mighty shower.  The scene was dramatically worked up in
column after column.  There were sketches, biographical and historical.
There were long "specials" from Washington, giving a full history of
Laura's career there, with the names of men with whom she was said to be
intimate, a description of Senator Dilworthy's residence and of his
family, and of Laura's room in his house, and a sketch of the Senator's
appearance and what he said.  There was a great deal about her beauty,
her accomplishments and her brilliant position in society, and her
doubtful position in society.  There was also an interview with Col.
Sellers and another with Washington Hawkins, the brother of the
murderess.  One journal had a long dispatch from Hawkeye, reporting the
excitement in that quiet village and the reception of the awful
intelligence.

All the parties had been "interviewed."  There were reports of
conversations with the clerk at the hotel; with the call-boy; with the
waiter at table with all the witnesses, with the policeman, with the
landlord (who wanted it understood that nothing of that sort had ever
happened in his house before, although it had always been frequented by
the best Southern society,) and with Mrs. Col. Selby.  There were
diagrams illustrating the scene of the shooting, and views of the hotel
and street, and portraits of the parties.  There were three minute and
different statements from the doctors about the wounds, so technically
worded that nobody could understand them.  Harry and Laura had also been
"interviewed" and there was a statement from Philip himself, which a
reporter had knocked him up out of bed at midnight to give, though how he
found him, Philip never could conjecture.

What some of the journals lacked in suitable length for the occasion,
they made up in encyclopaedic information about other similar murders and
shootings.

The statement from Laura was not full, in fact it was fragmentary, and
consisted of nine parts of, the reporter's valuable observations to one
of Laura's, and it was, as the reporter significantly remarked,
"incoherent", but it appeared that Laura claimed to be Selby's wife,
or to have been his wife, that he had deserted her and betrayed her, and
that she was going to follow him to Europe.  When the reporter asked:

"What made you shoot him Miss. Hawkins?"

Laura's only reply was, very simply,

"Did I shoot him?  Do they say I shot him?".  And she would say no more.

The news of the murder was made the excitement of the day. Talk of it
filled the town.  The facts reported were scrutinized, the standing of
the parties was discussed, the dozen different theories of the motive,
broached in the newspapers, were disputed over.

During the night subtle electricity had carried the tale over all the
wires of the continent and under the sea; and in all villages and towns
of the Union, from the.  Atlantic to the territories, and away up and
down the Pacific slope, and as far as London and Paris and Berlin, that
morning the name of Laura Hawkins was spoken by millions and millions of
people, while the owner of it--the sweet child of years ago, the
beautiful queen of Washington drawing rooms--sat shivering on her cot-bed
in the darkness of a damp cell in the Tombs.




CHAPTER XLVII.

Philip's first effort was to get Harry out of the Tombs.  He gained
permission to see him, in the presence of an officer, during the day,
and he found that hero very much cast down.

"I never intended to come to such a place as this, old fellow," he said
to Philip; "it's no place for a gentleman, they've no idea how to treat a
gentleman.  Look at that provender," pointing to his uneaten prison
ration.  "They tell me I am detained as a witness, and I passed the night
among a lot of cut-throats and dirty rascals--a pretty witness I'd be in
a month spent in such company."

"But what under heavens," asked Philip, "induced you to come to New York
with Laura!  What was it for?"

"What for?  Why, she wanted me to come.  I didn't know anything about
that cursed Selby.  She said it was lobby business for the University.
I'd no idea what she was dragging me into that confounded hotel for.
I suppose she knew that the Southerners all go there, and thought she'd
find her man.  Oh!  Lord, I wish I'd taken your advice.  You might as
well murder somebody and have the credit of it, as get into the
newspapers the way I have.  She's pure devil, that girl.  You ought to
have seen how sweet she was on me; what an ass I am."

"Well, I'm not going to dispute a poor, prisoner.  But the first thing is
to get you out of this.  I've brought the note Laura wrote you, for one
thing, and I've seen your uncle, and explained the truth of the case to
him.  He will be here soon."

Harry's uncle came, with; other friends, and in the course of the day
made such a showing to the authorities that Harry was released, on giving
bonds to appear as a witness when wanted.  His spirits rose with their
usual elasticity as soon as he was out of Centre Street, and he insisted
on giving Philip and his friends a royal supper at Delmonico's, an excess
which was perhaps excusable in the rebound of his feelings, and which was
committed with his usual reckless generosity.  Harry ordered, the supper,
and it is perhaps needless to say, that Philip paid the bill.

Neither of the young men felt like attempting to see Laura that day,
and she saw no company except the newspaper reporters, until the arrival
of  Col. Sellers and Washington Hawkins, who had hastened to New York
with all speed.

They found Laura in a cell in the upper tier of the women's department.
The cell was somewhat larger than those in the men's department, and
might be eight feet by ten square, perhaps a little longer.  It was of
stone, floor and all, and tile roof was oven shaped.  A narrow slit in
the roof admitted sufficient light, and was the only means of
ventilation; when the window was opened there was nothing to prevent the
rain coming in.  The only means of heating being from the corridor, when
the door was ajar, the cell was chilly and at this time damp.  It was
whitewashed and clean, but it had a slight jail odor; its only furniture
was a narrow iron bedstead, with a tick of straw and some blankets, not
too clean.

When Col. Sellers was conducted to this cell by the matron and looked
in, his emotions quite overcame him, the tears rolled down his cheeks and
his voice trembled so that he could hardly speak.  Washington was unable
to say anything; he looked from Laura to the miserable creatures who were
walking in the corridor with unutterable disgust.  Laura was alone calm
and self-contained, though she was not unmoved by the sight of the grief
of her friends.

"Are you comfortable, Laura?" was the first word the Colonel could get
out.

"You see," she replied.  "I can't say it's exactly comfortable."

"Are you cold?"

"It is pretty chilly.  The stone floor is like ice.  It chills me through
to step on it.  I have to sit on the bed."

"Poor thing, poor thing.  And can you eat any thing?"

"No, I am not hungry.  I don't know that I could eat any thing, I can't
eat that."

"Oh dear," continued the Colonel, "it's dreadful.  But cheer up, dear,
cheer up;" and the Colonel broke down entirely.

"But," he went on, "we'll stand by you.  We'll do everything for you.
I know you couldn't have meant to do it, it must have been insanity, you
know, or something of that sort.  You never did anything of the sort
before."

Laura smiled very faintly and said,

"Yes, it was something of that sort.  It's all a whirl.  He was a
villain; you don't know."

"I'd rather have killed him myself, in a duel you know, all fair.  I wish
I had.  But don't you be down.  We'll get you the best counsel, the
lawyers in New York can do anything; I've read of cases.  But you must be
comfortable now.  We've brought some of your clothes, at the hotel.  What
else, can we get for you?"

Laura suggested that she would like some sheets for her bed, a piece of
carpet to step on, and her meals sent in; and some books and writing
materials if it was allowed.  The Colonel and Washington promised to
procure all these things, and then took their sorrowful leave, a great
deal more affected than the criminal was, apparently, by her situation.

The colonel told the matron as he went away that if she would look to
Laura's comfort a little it shouldn't be the worse for her; and to the
turnkey who let them out he patronizingly said,

"You've got a big establishment here, a credit to the city.  I've got a
friend in there--I shall see you again, sir."

By the next day something more of Laura's own story began to appear in
the newspapers, colored and heightened by reporters' rhetoric.  Some of
them cast a lurid light upon the Colonel's career, and represented his
victim as a beautiful avenger of her murdered innocence; and others
pictured her as his willing paramour and pitiless slayer.  Her
communications to the reporters were stopped by her lawyers as soon as
they were retained and visited her, but this fact did not prevent--it may
have facilitated--the appearance of casual paragraphs here and there
which were likely to beget popular sympathy for the poor girl.

The occasion did not pass without "improvement" by the leading journals;
and Philip preserved the editorial comments of three or four of them
which pleased him most.  These he used to read aloud to his friends
afterwards and ask them to guess from which journal each of them had been
cut.  One began in this simple manner:--

     History never repeats itself, but the Kaleidoscopic combinations of
     the pictured present often seem to be constructed out of the broken
     fragments of antique legends.  Washington is not Corinth, and Lais,
     the beautiful daughter of Timandra, might not have been the
     prototype of the ravishing Laura, daughter of the plebeian house of
     Hawkins; but the orators add statesmen who were the purchasers of
     the favors of the one, may have been as incorruptible as the
     Republican statesmen who learned how to love and how to vote from
     the sweet lips of the Washington lobbyist; and perhaps the modern
     Lais would never have departed from the national Capital if there
     had been there even one republican Xenocrates who resisted her
     blandishments.  But here the parallel: fails.  Lais, wandering away
     with the youth Rippostratus, is slain by the women who are jealous
     of her charms. Laura, straying into her Thessaly with the youth
     Brierly, slays her other lover and becomes the champion of the
     wrongs of her sex.

Another journal began its editorial with less lyrical beauty, but with
equal force.  It closed as follows:--

     With Laura Hawkins, fair, fascinating and fatal, and with the
     dissolute Colonel of a lost cause, who has reaped the harvest he
     sowed, we have nothing to do.  But as the curtain rises on this
     awful tragedy, we catch a glimpse of the society at the capital
     under this Administration, which we cannot contemplate without alarm
     for the fate of the Republic.

A third newspaper took up the subject in a different tone.  It said:--

     Our repeated predictions are verified.  The pernicious doctrines
     which we have announced as prevailing in American society have been
     again illustrated.  The name of the city is becoming a reproach.
     We may have done something in averting its ruin in our resolute
     exposure of the Great Frauds; we shall not be deterred from
     insisting that the outraged laws for the protection of human life
     shall be vindicated now, so that a person can walk the streets or
     enter the public houses, at least in the day-time, without the risk
     of a bullet through his brain.

A fourth journal began its remarks as follows:--

     The fullness with which we present our readers this morning the
     details of the Selby-Hawkins homicide is a miracle of modern
     journalism.  Subsequent investigation can do little to fill out the
     picture.  It is the old story.  A beautiful woman shoots her
     absconding lover in cold-blood; and we shall doubtless learn in due
     time that if she was not as mad as a hare in this month of March,
     she was at least laboring under what is termed "momentary insanity."

It would not be too much to say that upon the first publication of the
facts of the tragedy, there was an almost universal feeling of rage
against the murderess in the Tombs, and that reports of her beauty only
heightened the indignation.  It was as if she presumed upon that and upon
her sex, to defy the law; and there was a fervent, hope that the law
would take its plain course.

Yet Laura was not without friends, and some of them very influential too.
She had in keeping a great many secrets and a great many reputations,
perhaps.  Who shall set himself up to judge human motives.  Why, indeed,
might we not feel pity for a woman whose brilliant career had been so
suddenly extinguished in misfortune and crime?  Those who had known her
so well in Washington might find it impossible to believe that the
fascinating woman could have had murder in her heart, and would readily
give ear to the current sentimentality about the temporary aberration of
mind under the stress of personal calamity.

Senator Dilworthy, was greatly shocked, of course, but he was full of
charity for the erring.

"We shall all need mercy," he said.  "Laura as an inmate of my family was
a most exemplary female, amiable, affectionate and truthful, perhaps too
fond of gaiety, and neglectful of the externals of religion, but a woman
of principle.  She may have had experiences of which I am ignorant, but
she could not have gone to this extremity if she had been in her own
right mind."

To the Senator's credit be it said, he was willing to help Laura and her
family in this dreadful trial.  She, herself, was not without money, for
the Washington lobbyist is not seldom more fortunate than the Washington
claimant, and she was able to procure a good many luxuries to mitigate
the severity of her prison life.  It enabled her also to have her own
family near her, and to see some of them daily.  The tender solicitude of
her mother, her childlike grief, and her firm belief in the real
guiltlessness of her daughter, touched even the custodians of the Tombs
who are enured to scenes of pathos.

Mrs. Hawkins had hastened to her daughter as soon as she received money
for the journey.  She had no reproaches, she had only tenderness and
pity.  She could not shut out the dreadful facts of the case, but it had
been enough for her that Laura had said, in their first interview,
"mother, I did not know what I was doing."  She obtained lodgings near,
the prison and devoted her life to her daughter, as if she had been
really her own child.  She would have remained in the prison day and
night if it had been permitted.  She was aged and feeble, but this great
necessity seemed to give her new life.

The pathetic story of the old lady's ministrations, and her simplicity
and faith, also got into the newspapers in time, and probably added to
the pathos of this wrecked woman's fate, which was beginning to be felt
by the public.  It was certain that she had champions who thought that
her wrongs ought to be placed against her crime, and expressions of this
feeling came to her in various ways.  Visitors came to see her, and gifts
of fruit and flowers were sent, which brought some cheer into her hard
and gloomy cell.

Laura had declined to see either Philip or Harry, somewhat to the
former's relief, who had a notion that she would necessarily feel
humiliated by seeing him after breaking faith with him, but to the
discomfiture of Harry, who still felt her fascination, and thought her
refusal heartless.  He told Philip that of course he had got through with
such a woman, but he wanted to see her.

Philip, to keep him from some new foolishness, persuaded him to go with
him to Philadelphia; and, give his valuable services in the mining
operations at Ilium.

The law took its course with Laura.  She was indicted for murder in the
first degree and held for trial at the summer term.  The two most
distinguished criminal lawyers in the city had been retained for her
defence, and to that the resolute woman devoted her days with a courage
that rose as she consulted with her counsel and understood the methods of
criminal procedure in New York.

She was greatly depressed, however, by the news from Washington.
Congress adjourned and her bill had failed to pass the Senate.  It must
wait for the next session.




CHAPTER XLVIII

It had been a bad winter, somehow, for the firm of Pennybacker, Bigler
and Small.  These celebrated contractors usually made more money during
the session of the legislature at Harrisburg than upon all their summer
work, and this winter had been unfruitful.  It was unaccountable to
Bigler.

"You see, Mr. Bolton," he said, and Philip was present at the
conversation, "it puts us all out.  It looks as if politics was played
out.  We'd counted on the year of Simon's re-election.  And, now, he's
reelected, and I've yet to see the first man who's the better for it."

"You don't mean to say," asked Philip, "that he went in without paying
anything?"

"Not a cent, not a dash cent, as I can hear," repeated Mr. Bigler,
indignantly.  "I call it a swindle on the state.  How it was done gets
me.  I never saw such a tight time for money in Harrisburg."

"Were there no combinations, no railroad jobs, no mining schemes put
through in connection with the election?

"Not that I knew," said Bigler, shaking his head in disgust.  "In fact it
was openly said, that there was no money in the election.  It's perfectly
unheard of."

"Perhaps," suggested Philip, "it was effected on what the insurance
companies call the 'endowment,' or the 'paid up' plan, by which a policy
is secured after a certain time without further payment."

"You think then," said Mr. Bolton smiling, "that a liberal and sagacious
politician might own a legislature after a time, and not be bothered with
keeping up his payments?"

"Whatever it is," interrupted Mr. Bigler, "it's devilish ingenious and
goes ahead of my calculations; it's cleaned me out, when I thought we had
a dead sure thing.  I tell you what it is, gentlemen, I shall go in for
reform.  Things have got pretty mixed when a legislature will give away a
United States senatorship."

It was melancholy, but Mr. Bigler was not a man to be crushed by one
misfortune, or to lose his confidence in human nature, on one exhibition
of apparent honesty.  He was already on his feet again, or would be if
Mr. Bolton could tide him over shoal water for ninety days.

"We've got something with money in it," he explained to Mr. Bolton,
"got hold of it by good luck.  We've got the entire contract for Dobson's
Patent Pavement for the city of Mobile.  See here."

Mr. Bigler made some figures; contract so; much, cost of work and
materials so much, profits so much.  At the end of three months the city
would owe the company three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars-two
hundred thousand of that would be profits.  The whole job was worth at
least a million to the company--it might be more.  There could be no
mistake in these figures; here was the contract, Mr. Bolton knew what
materials were worth and what the labor would cost.

Mr. Bolton knew perfectly well from sore experience that there was always
a mistake in figures when Bigler or Small made them, and he knew that he
ought to send the fellow about his business.  Instead of that, he let him
talk.

They only wanted to raise fifty thousand dollars to carry on the
contract--that expended they would have city bonds.  Mr. Bolton said he
hadn't the money.  But Bigler could raise it on his name.  Mr. Bolton
said he had no right to put his family to that risk.  But the entire
contract could be assigned to him--the security was ample--it was a
fortune to him if it was forfeited.  Besides Mr. Bigler had been
unfortunate, he didn't know where to look for the necessaries of life for
his family.  If he could only have one more chance, he was sure he could
right himself.  He begged for it.

And Mr. Bolton yielded.  He could never refuse such appeals.  If he had
befriended a man once and been cheated by him, that man appeared to have
a claim upon him forever.  He shrank, however, from telling his wife what
he had done on this occasion, for he knew that if any person was more
odious than Small to his family it was Bigler.

"Philip tells me," Mrs. Bolton said that evening, "that the man Bigler
has been with thee again to-day.  I hope thee will have nothing more to
do with him."

He has been very unfortunate," replied Mr. Bolton, uneasily.

"He is always unfortunate, and he is always getting thee into trouble.
But thee didn't listen to him again?"

"Well, mother, his family is in want, and I lent him my name--but I took
ample security.  The worst that can happen will be a little
inconvenience."

Mrs. Bolton looked grave and anxious, but she did not complain or
remonstrate; she knew what a "little inconvenience" meant, but she knew
there was no help for it.  If Mr. Bolton had been on his way to market to
buy a dinner for his family with the only dollar he had in the world in
his pocket, he would have given it to a chance beggar who asked him for
it.  Mrs. Bolton only asked (and the question showed that she was no mere
provident than her husband where her heart was interested),

"But has thee provided money for Philip to use in opening the coal mine?"

"Yes, I have set apart as much as it ought to cost to open the mine,
as much as we can afford to lose if no coal is found.  Philip has the
control of it, as equal partner in the venture, deducting the capital
invested.  He has great confidence in his success, and I hope for his
sake he won't be disappointed."

Philip could not but feel that he was treated very much like one of the
Bolton-family--by all except Ruth.  His mother, when he went home after
his recovery from his accident, had affected to be very jealous of Mrs.
Bolton, about whom and Ruth she asked a thousand questions--
an affectation of jealousy which no doubt concealed a real heartache,
which comes to every mother when her son goes out into the world and
forms new ties.  And to Mrs. Sterling; a widow, living on a small income
in a remote Massachusetts village, Philadelphia was a city of many
splendors.  All its inhabitants seemed highly favored, dwelling in ease
and surrounded by superior advantages.  Some of her neighbors had
relations living in Philadelphia, and it seemed to them somehow a
guarantee of respectability to have relations in Philadelphia.
Mrs. Sterling was not sorry to have Philip make his way among such well-
to-do people, and she was sure that no good fortune could be too good for
his deserts.

"So, sir," said Ruth, when Philip came from New York, "you have been
assisting in a pretty tragedy.  I saw your name in the papers.  Is this
woman a specimen of your western friends?"

"My only assistance," replied Philip, a little annoyed, was in trying to
keep Harry out of a bad scrape, and I failed after all.  He walked into
her trap, and he has been punished for it.  I'm going to take him up to
Ilium to see if he won't work steadily at one thing, and quit his
nonsense."

"Is she as beautiful as the newspapers say she is?"

"I don't know, she has a kind of beauty--she is not like--'

"Not like Alice?"

"Well, she is brilliant; she was called the handsomest woman in
Washington--dashing, you know, and sarcastic and witty.  Ruth, do you
believe a woman ever becomes a devil?"

"Men do, and I don't know why women shouldn't.  But I never saw one."

"Well, Laura Hawkins comes very near it.  But it is dreadful to think of
her fate."

"Why, do you suppose they will hang a woman?  Do you suppose they will be
so barbarous as that?"

"I wasn't thinking of that--it's doubtful if a New York jury would find a
woman guilty of any such crime.  But to think of her life if she is
acquitted."

"It is dreadful," said Ruth, thoughtfully, "but the worst of it is that
you men do not want women educated to do anything, to be able to earn an
honest living by their own exertions.  They are educated as if they were
always to be petted and supported, and there was never to be any such
thing as misfortune.  I suppose, now, that you would all choose to have
me stay idly at home, and give up my profession."

"Oh, no," said Philip, earnestly, "I  respect your resolution.  But,
Ruth, do you think you would be happier or do more good in following your
profession than in having a home of your own?"

"What is to hinder having a home of my, own?"

"Nothing, perhaps, only you never would be in it--you would be away day
and night, if you had any practice; and what sort of a home would that
make for your husband?"

"What sort of a home is it for the wife whose husband is always away
riding about in his doctor's gig?"

"Ah, you know that is not fair.  The woman makes the home."

Philip and Ruth often had this sort of discussion, to which Philip was
always trying to give a personal turn.  He was now about to go to Ilium
for the season, and he did not like to go without some assurance from
Ruth that she might perhaps love him some day; when he was worthy of it,
and when he could offer her something better than a partnership in his
poverty.

"I should work with a great deal better heart, Ruth," he said the morning
he was taking leave, "if I knew you cared for me a little."

Ruth was looking down; the color came faintly to her cheeks, and she
hesitated.  She needn't be looking down, he thought, for she was ever so
much shorter than tall Philip.

"It's not much of a place, Ilium," Philip went on, as if a little
geographical remark would fit in here as well as anything else, "and I
shall have plenty of time to think over the responsibility I have taken,
and--" his observation did not seem to be coming out any where.

But Ruth looked up, and there was a light in her eyes that quickened
Phil's pulse.  She took his hand, and said with serious sweetness:

"Thee mustn't lose heart, Philip."  And then she added, in another mood,
"Thee knows I graduate in the summer and shall have my diploma.  And if
any thing happens--mines explode sometimes--thee can send for me.
Farewell."

The opening of the Ilium coal mine was begun with energy, but without
many omens of success.  Philip was running a tunnel into the breast of
the mountain, in faith that the coal stratum ran there as it ought to.
How far he must go in he believed he knew, but no one could tell exactly.
Some of the miners said that they should probably go through the
mountain, and that the hole could be used for a railway tunnel.  The
mining camp was a busy place at any rate.  Quite a settlement of board
and log shanties had gone up, with a blacksmith shop, a small machine
shop, and a temporary store for supplying the wants of the workmen.
Philip and Harry pitched a commodious tent, and lived in the full
enjoyment of the free life.

There is no difficulty in digging a bole in the ground, if you have money
enough to pay for the digging, but those who try this sort of work are
always surprised at the large amount of money necessary to make a small
hole.  The earth is never willing to yield one product, hidden in her
bosom, without an equivalent for it.  And when a person asks of her coal,
she is quite apt to require gold in exchange.

It was exciting work for all concerned in it.  As the tunnel advanced
into the rock every day promised to be the golden day.  This very blast
might disclose the treasure.

The work went on week after week, and at length during the night as well
as the daytime.  Gangs relieved each other, and the tunnel was every
hour, inch by inch and foot by foot, crawling into the mountain.  Philip
was on the stretch of hope and excitement.  Every pay day he saw his
funds melting away, and still there was only the faintest show of what
the miners call "signs."

The life suited Harry, whose buoyant hopefulness was never disturbed.
He made endless calculations, which nobody could understand, of the
probable position of the vein.  He stood about among the workmen with the
busiest air.  When he was down at Ilium he called himself the engineer of
the works, and he used to spend hours smoking his pipe with the Dutch
landlord on the hotel porch, and astonishing the idlers there with the
stories of his railroad operations in Missouri.  He talked with the
landlord, too, about enlarging his hotel, and about buying some village
lots, in the prospect of a rise, when the mine was opened.  He taught the
Dutchman how to mix a great many cooling drinks for the summer time, and
had a bill at the hotel, the growing length of which Mr. Dusenheimer
contemplated with pleasant anticipations.  Mr. Brierly was a very useful
and cheering person wherever he went.

Midsummer arrived: Philip could report to Mr. Bolton only progress, and
this was not a cheerful message for him to send to Philadelphia in reply
to inquiries that he thought became more and more anxious.  Philip
himself was a prey to the constant fear that the money would give out
before the coal was struck.

At this time Harry was summoned to New York, to attend the trial of Laura
Hawkins.  It was possible that Philip would have to go also, her lawyer
wrote, but they hoped for a postponement.  There was important evidence
that they could not yet obtain, and he hoped the judge would not force
them to a trial unprepared.  There were many reasons for a delay, reasons
which of course are never mentioned, but which it would seem that a New
York judge sometimes must understand, when he grants a postponement upon
a motion that seems to the public altogether inadequate.

Harry went, but he soon came back.  The trial was put off.  Every week we
can gain, said the learned counsel, Braham, improves our chances.  The
popular rage never lasts long.




CHAPTER XLIX.

"We've struck it!"

This was the announcement at the tent door that woke Philip out of a
sound sleep at dead of night, and shook all the sleepiness out of him in
a trice.

"What!  Where is it?  When?  Coal?  Let me see it.  What quality is it?"
were some of the rapid questions that Philip poured out as he hurriedly
dressed.  "Harry, wake up, my boy, the coal train is coming.  Struck it,
eh?  Let's see?"

The foreman put down his lantern, and handed Philip a black lump.  There
was no mistake about it, it was the hard, shining anthracite, and its
freshly fractured surface, glistened in the light like polished steel.
Diamond never shone with such lustre in the eyes of Philip.

Harry was exuberant, but Philip's natural caution found expression in his
next remark.

"Now, Roberts, you are sure about this?"

"What--sure that it's coal?"

"O, no, sure that it's the main vein."

"Well, yes.  We took it to be that"

"Did you from the first?"

"I can't say we did at first.  No, we didn't.  Most of the indications
were there, but not all of them, not all of them.  So we thought we'd
prospect a bit."

"Well?"

"It was tolerable thick, and looked as if it might be the vein--looked as
if it ought to be the vein.  Then we went down on it a little.  Looked
better all the time."

"When did you strike it?"

"About ten o'clock."

"Then you've been prospecting about four hours."

"Yes, been sinking on it something over four hours."

"I'm afraid you couldn't go down very far in four hours--could you?"

"O yes--it's a good deal broke up, nothing but picking and gadding
stuff."

"Well, it does look encouraging, sure enough--but then the lacking
indications--"

"I'd rather we had them, Mr. Sterling, but I've seen more than one good
permanent mine struck without 'em in my time."

"Well, that is encouraging too."

"Yes, there was the Union, the Alabama and the Black Mohawk--all good,
sound mines, you know--all just exactly like this one when we first
struck them."

"Well, I begin to feel a good deal more easy.  I guess we've really got
it.  I remember hearing them tell about the Black Mohawk."

"I'm free to say that I believe it, and the men all think so too.  They
are all old hands at this business."

"Come Harry, let's go up and look at it, just for the comfort of it,"
said Philip.  They came back in the course of an hour, satisfied and
happy.

There was no more sleep for them that night.  They lit their pipes, put a
specimen of the coal on the table, and made it a kind of loadstone of
thought and conversation.

"Of course," said Harry, "there will have to be a branch track built, and
a 'switch-back' up the hill."

"Yes, there will be no trouble about getting the money for that now.  We
could sell-out tomorrow for a handsome sum.  That sort of coal doesn't go
begging within a mile of a rail-road.  I wonder if Mr. Bolton' would
rather sell out or work it?"

"Oh, work it," says Harry, "probably the whole mountain is coal now
you've got to it."

"Possibly it might not be much of a vein after all," suggested Philip.

"Possibly it is; I'll bet it's forty feet thick.  I told you.  I knew the
sort of thing as soon as I put my eyes on it."

Philip's next thought was to write to his friends and announce their good
fortune.  To Mr. Bolton he wrote a short, business letter, as calm as he
could make it.  They had found coal of excellent quality, but they could
not yet tell with absolute certainty what the vein was.  The prospecting
was still going on.  Philip also wrote to Ruth; but though this letter
may have glowed, it was not with the heat of burning anthracite.  He
needed no artificial heat to warm his pen and kindle his ardor when he
sat down to write to Ruth.  But it must be confessed that the words never
flowed so easily before, and he ran on for an hour disporting in all the
extravagance of his imagination.  When Ruth read it, she doubted if the
fellow had not gone out of his senses.  And it was not until she reached
the postscript that she discovered the cause of the exhilaration.
"P. S.--We have found coal."

The news couldn't have come to Mr. Bolton in better time.  He had never
been so sorely pressed.  A dozen schemes which he had in hand, any one
of which might turn up a fortune, all languished, and each needed just
a little more, money to save that which had been invested.  He hadn't
a piece of real estate that was not covered with mortgages, even to the
wild tract which Philip was experimenting on, and which had, no
marketable value above the incumbrance on it.

He had come home that day early, unusually dejected.

"I am afraid," he said to his wife, "that we shall have to give up our
house.  I don't care for myself, but for thee and the children."

"That will be the least of misfortunes," said Mrs. Bolton, cheerfully,
"if thee can clear thyself from debt and anxiety, which is wearing thee
out, we can live any where.  Thee knows we were never happier than when
we were in a much humbler home."

"The truth is, Margaret, that affair of Bigler and Small's has come on me
just when I couldn't stand another ounce.  They have made another failure
of it.  I might have known they would; and the sharpers, or fools, I
don't know which, have contrived to involve me for three times as much as
the first obligation.  The security is in my hands, but it is good for
nothing to me.  I have not the money to do anything with the contract."

Ruth heard this dismal news without great surprise.  She had long felt
that they were living on a volcano, that might go in to active operation
at any hour.  Inheriting from her father an active brain and the courage
to undertake new things, she had little of his sanguine temperament which
blinds one to difficulties and possible failures.  She had little
confidence in the many schemes which had been about to lift her father
out of all his embarrassments and into great wealth, ever since she was
a child; as she grew older, she rather wondered that they were as
prosperous as they seemed to be, and that they did not all go to smash
amid so many brilliant projects.  She was nothing but a woman, and did
not know how much of the business prosperity of the world is only a,
bubble of credit and speculation, one scheme helping to float another
which is no better than it, and the whole liable to come to naught and
confusion as soon as the busy brain that conceived them ceases its power
to devise, or when some accident produces a sudden panic.

"Perhaps, I shall be the stay of the family, yet," said Ruth, with an
approach to gaiety; "When we move into a little house in town, will thee
let me put a little sign on the door: DR. RUTH BOLTON?
Mrs. Dr. Longstreet, thee knows, has a great income."

"Who will pay for the sign, Ruth?" asked Mr. Bolton.

A servant entered with the afternoon mail from the office.  Mr. Bolton
took his letters listlessly, dreading to open them.  He knew well what
they contained, new difficulties, more urgent demands fox money.

"Oh, here is one from Philip.  Poor fellow.  I shall feel his
disappointment as much as my own bad luck.  It is hard to bear when one
is young."

He opened the letter and read.  As he read his face lightened, and he
fetched such a sigh of relief, that Mrs. Bolton and Ruth both exclaimed.

"Read that," he cried, "Philip has found coal!"

The world was changed in a moment.  One little sentence had done it.
There was no more trouble.  Philip had found coal.  That meant relief.
That meant fortune.  A great weight was taken off, and the spirits of the
whole household rose magically.  Good Money! beautiful demon of Money,
what an enchanter thou art!  Ruth felt that she was of less consequence
in the household, now that Philip had found Coal, and perhaps she was not
sorry to feel so.

Mr. Bolton was ten years younger the next morning.  He went into the
city, and showed his letter on change.  It was the sort of news his
friends were quite willing to listen to.  They took a new interest in
him.  If it was confirmed, Bolton would come right up again.  There would
be no difficulty about his getting all the money he wanted.  The money
market did not seem to be half so tight as it was the day before.
Mr. Bolton spent a very pleasant day in his office, and went home
revolving some new plans, and the execution of some projects he had long
been prevented from entering upon by the lack of money.

The day had been spent by Philip in no less excitement.  By daylight,
with Philip's letters to the mail, word had gone down to Ilium that coal
had been found, and very early a crowd of eager spectators had come up to
see for themselves.

The "prospecting" continued day and night for upwards of a week, and
during the first four or five days the indications grew more and more
promising, and the telegrams and letters kept Mr. Bolton duly posted.
But at last a change came, and the promises began to fail with alarming
rapidity.  In the end it was demonstrated without the possibility of a
doubt that the great "find" was nothing but a worthless seam.

Philip was cast down, all the more so because he had been so foolish as
to send the news to Philadelphia before he knew what he was writing
about.  And now he must contradict it.  "It turns out to be only a mere
seam," he wrote, "but we look upon it as an indication of better further
in."

Alas!  Mr. Bolton's affairs could not wait for "indications."  The future
might have a great deal in store, but the present was black and hopeless.
It was doubtful if any sacrifice could save him from ruin.  Yet sacrifice
he must make, and that instantly, in the hope of saving something from
the wreck of his fortune.

His lovely country home must go.  That would bring the most ready money.
The house that he had built with loving thought for each one of his
family, as he planned its luxurious apartments and adorned it; the
grounds that he had laid out, with so much delight in following the
tastes of his wife, with whom the country, the cultivation of rare trees
and flowers, the care of garden and lawn and conservatories were a
passion almost; this home, which he had hoped his children would enjoy
long after he had done with it, must go.

The family bore the sacrifice better than he did.  They declared in fact
--women are such hypocrites--that they quite enjoyed the city (it was in
August) after living so long in the country, that it was a thousand tunes
more convenient in every respect; Mrs. Bolton said it was a relief from
the worry of a large establishment, and Ruth reminded her father that she
should have had to come to town anyway before long.

Mr. Bolton was relieved, exactly as a water-logged ship is lightened by
throwing overboard the most valuable portion of the cargo--but the leak
was not stopped.  Indeed his credit was injured instead of helped by the
prudent step be had taken.  It was regarded as a sure evidence of his
embarrassment, and it was much more difficult for him to obtain help than
if he had, instead of retrenching, launched into some new speculation.

Philip was greatly troubled, and exaggerated his own share in the
bringing about of the calamity.

"You must not look at it so!" Mr. Bolton wrote him.  "You have neither
helped nor hindered--but you know you may help by and by.  It would have
all happened just so, if we had never begun to dig that hole.  That is
only a drop.  Work away.  I still have hope that something will occur to
relieve me.  At any rate we must not give up the mine, so long as we have
any show."

Alas!  the relief did not come.  New misfortunes came instead.  When the
extent of the Bigler swindle was disclosed there was no more hope that
Mr. Bolton could extricate himself, and he had, as an honest man, no
resource except to surrender all his property for the benefit of his
creditors.

The Autumn came and found Philip working with diminished force but still
with hope.  He had again and again been encouraged by good "indications,"
but he had again and again been disappointed.  He could not go on much
longer, and almost everybody except himself had thought it was useless to
go on as long as he had been doing.

When the news came of Mr. Bolton's failure, of course the work stopped.
The men were discharged, the tools were housed, the hopeful noise of
pickman and driver ceased, and the mining camp had that desolate and
mournful aspect which always hovers over a frustrated enterprise.

Philip sat down amid the ruins, and almost wished he were buried in them.
How distant Ruth was now from him, now, when she might need him most.
How changed was all the Philadelphia world, which had hitherto stood for
the exemplification of happiness and prosperity.

He still had faith that there was coal in that mountain.  He made
a picture of himself living there a hermit in a shanty by the tunnel,
digging away with solitary pick and wheelbarrow, day after day and year
after year, until he grew gray and aged, and was known in all that region
as the old man of the mountain.  Perhaps some day--he felt it must be so
some day--he should strike coal.  But what if he did?  Who would be alive
to care for it then?  What would he care for it then?  No, a man wants
riches in his youth, when the world is fresh to him.  He wondered why
Providence could not have reversed the usual process, and let the
majority of men begin with wealth and gradually spend it, and die poor
when they no longer needed it.

Harry went back to the city.  It was evident that his services were no
longer needed.  Indeed, he had letters from his uncle, which he did not
read to Philip, desiring him to go to San Francisco to look after some
government contracts in the harbor there.

Philip had to look about him for something to do; he was like Adam;
the world was all before him whereto choose.  He made, before he went
elsewhere, a somewhat painful visit to Philadelphia, painful but yet not
without its sweetnesses.  The family had never shown him so much
affection before; they all seemed to think his disappointment of more
importance than their own misfortune.  And there was that in Ruth's
manner--in what she gave him and what she withheld--that would have made
a hero of a very much less promising character than Philip Sterling.

Among the assets of the Bolton property, the Ilium tract was sold, and
Philip bought it in at the vendue, for a song, for no one cared to even
undertake the mortgage on it except himself.  He went away the owner of
it, and had ample time before he reached home in November, to calculate
how much poorer he was by possessing it.




CHAPTER L.

It is impossible for the historian, with even the best intentions,
to control events or compel the persons of his narrative to act wisely
or to be successful.  It is easy to see how things might have been better
managed; a very little change here and there would have made a very,
different history of this one now in hand.

If Philip had adopted some regular profession, even some trade, he might
now be a prosperous editor or a conscientious plumber, or an honest
lawyer, and have borrowed money at the saving's bank and built a cottage,
and be now furnishing it for the occupancy of Ruth and himself.  Instead
of this, with only a smattering of civil engineering, he is at his
mother's house, fretting and fuming over his ill-luck, and the hardness
and, dishonesty of men, and thinking of nothing but how to get the coal
out of the Ilium hills.

If Senator Dilworthy had not made that visit to Hawkeye, the Hawkins
family and Col. Sellers would not now be dancing attendance upon
Congress, and endeavoring to tempt that immaculate body into one of those
appropriations, for the benefit of its members, which the members find it
so difficult to explain to their constituents; and Laura would not be
lying in the Tombs, awaiting her trial for murder, and doing her best,
by the help of able counsel, to corrupt the pure fountain of criminal
procedure in New York.

If Henry Brierly had been blown up on the first Mississippi steamboat he
set foot on, as the chances were that he would be, he and Col. Sellers
never would have gone into the Columbus Navigation scheme, and probably
never into the East Tennessee Land scheme, and he would not now be
detained in New York from very important business operations on the
Pacific coast, for the sole purpose of giving evidence to convict of
murder the only woman he ever loved half as much as he loves himself.
If Mr. Bolton had said the little word "no" to Mr. Bigler, Alice Montague
might now be spending the winter in Philadelphia, and Philip also
(waiting to resume his mining operations in the spring); and Ruth would
not be an assistant in a Philadelphia hospital, taxing her strength with
arduous routine duties, day by day, in order to lighten a little the
burdens that weigh upon her unfortunate family.

It is altogether a bad business.  An honest historian, who had progressed
thus far, and traced everything to such a condition of disaster and
suspension, might well be justified in ending his narrative and writing--
"after this the deluge."  His only consolation would be in the reflection
that he was not responsible for either characters or events.

And the most annoying thought is that a little money, judiciously
applied, would relieve the burdens and anxieties of most of these people;
but affairs seem to be so arranged that money is most difficult to get
when people need it most.

A little of what Mr. Bolton has weakly given to unworthy people would now
establish his family in a sort of comfort, and relieve Ruth of the
excessive toil for which she inherited no adequate physical vigor.
A little money would make a prince of Col. Sellers; and a little more
would calm the anxiety of Washington Hawkins about Laura, for however the
trial ended, he could feel sure of extricating her in the end.  And if
Philip had a little money he could unlock the stone door in the mountain
whence would issue a stream of shining riches.  It needs a golden wand to
strike that rock.  If the Knobs University bill could only go through,
what a change would be wrought in the condition of most of the persons in
this history.  Even Philip himself would feel the good effects of it;
for Harry would have something and Col. Sellers would have something;
and have not both these cautious people expressed a determination to take
an interest in the Ilium mine when they catch their larks?

Philip could not resist the inclination to pay a visit to Fallkill.  He
had not been at the Montague's since the tune he saw Ruth there, and he
wanted to consult the Squire about an occupation.  He was determined now
to waste no more time in waiting on Providence, but to go to work at
something, if it were nothing better, than teaching in the Fallkill
Seminary, or digging clams on Hingham beach.  Perhaps he could read law
in Squire Montague's office while earning his bread as a teacher in the
Seminary.

It was not altogether Philip's fault, let us own, that he was in this
position.  There are many young men like him in American society, of his
age, opportunities, education and abilities, who have really been
educated for nothing and have let themselves drift, in the hope that they
will find somehow, and by some sudden turn of good luck, the golden road
to fortune.  He was not idle or lazy, he had energy and a disposition to
carve his own way.  But he was born into a time when all young men of his
age caught the fever of speculation, and expected to get on in the world
by the omission of some of the regular processes which have been
appointed from of old.  And examples were not wanting to encourage him.
He saw people, all around him, poor yesterday, rich to-day, who had come
into sudden opulence by some means which they could not have classified
among any of the regular occupations of life.  A war would give such a
fellow a career and very likely fame.  He might have been a "railroad
man," or a politician, or a land speculator, or one of those mysterious
people who travel free on all rail-roads and steamboats, and are
continually crossing and recrossing the Atlantic, driven day and night
about nobody knows what, and make a great deal of money by so doing.
Probably, at last, he sometimes thought with a whimsical smile, he should
end by being an insurance agent, and asking people to insure their lives
for his benefit.

Possibly Philip did not think how much the attractions of Fallkill were
increased by the presence of Alice there.  He had known her so long, she
had somehow grown into his life by habit, that he would expect the
pleasure of her society without thinking mach about it.  Latterly he
never thought of her without thinking of Ruth, and if he gave the subject
any attention, it was probably in an undefined consciousness that, he had
her sympathy in his love, and that she was always willing to hear him
talk about it.  If he ever wondered that Alice herself was not in love
and never spoke of the possibility of her own marriage, it was a
transient thought for love did not seem necessary, exactly, to one so
calm and evenly balanced and with so many resources in her herself.

Whatever her thoughts may have been they were unknown to Philip, as they
are to these historians; if she was seeming to be what she was not, and
carrying a burden heavier than any one else carried, because she had to
bear it alone, she was only doing what thousands of women do, with a
self-renunciation and heroism, of which men, impatient and complaining,
have no conception.  Have not these big babies with beards filled all
literature with their outcries, their griefs and their lamentations?  It
is always the gentle sex which is hard and cruel and fickle and
implacable.

"Do you think you would be contented to live in Fallkill, and attend the
county Court?" asked Alice, when Philip had opened the budget of his new
programme.

"Perhaps not always," said Philip, "I might go and practice in Boston
maybe, or go to Chicago."

"Or you might get elected to Congress."

Philip looked at Alice to see if she was in earnest and not chaffing him.
Her face was quite sober.  Alice was one of those patriotic women in the
rural districts, who think men are still selected for Congress on account
of qualifications for the office.

"No," said Philip, "the chances are that a man cannot get into congress
now without resorting to arts and means that should render hint unfit to
go there; of course there are exceptions; but do you know that I could
not go into politics if I were a lawyer, without losing standing somewhat
in my profession, and without raising at least a suspicion of my
intentions and unselfishness?  Why, it is telegraphed all over the
country and commented on as something wonderful if a congressman votes
honestly and unselfishly and refuses to take advantage of his position to
steal from the government."

"But," insisted Alice, "I should think it a noble ambition to go to
congress, if it is so bad, and help reform it.  I don't believe it is as
corrupt as the English parliament used to be, if there is any truth in
the novels, and I suppose that is reformed."

"I'm sure I don't know where the reform is to begin.  I've seen a
perfectly capable, honest man, time and again, run against an illiterate
trickster, and get beaten.  I suppose if the people wanted decent members
of congress they would elect them.  Perhaps," continued Philip with a
smile, "the women will have to vote."

"Well, I should be willing to, if it were a necessity, just as I would go
to war and do what I could, if the country couldn't be saved otherwise,"
said Alice, with a spirit that surprised Philip, well as he thought he
knew her.  "If I were a young gentleman in these times--"

Philip laughed outright.  "It's just what Ruth used to say, 'if she were
a man.' I wonder if all the young ladies are contemplating a change of
sex."

"No, only a changed sex," retorted Alice; "we contemplate for the most
part young men who don't care for anything they ought to care for."

"Well," said Philip, looking humble, "I care for some things, you and
Ruth for instance; perhaps I ought not to.  Perhaps I ought to care for
Congress and that sort of thing."

"Don't be a goose, Philip.  I heard from Ruth yesterday."

"Can I see her letter?"

"No, indeed.  But I am afraid her hard work is telling on her, together
with her anxiety about her father."

"Do you think, Alice," asked Philip with one of those selfish thoughts
that are not seldom mixed with real love, "that Ruth prefers her
profession to--to marriage?"

"Philip," exclaimed Alice, rising to quit the room, and speaking
hurriedly as if the words were forced from her, "you are as blind as a
bat; Ruth would cut off her right hand for you this minute."

Philip never noticed that Alice's face was flushed and that her voice was
unsteady; he only thought of the delicious words he had heard.  And the
poor girl, loyal to Ruth, loyal to Philip, went straight to her room,
locked the door, threw herself on the bed and sobbed as if her heart
world break.  And then she prayed that her Father in Heaven would give
her strength.  And after a time she was calm again, and went to her
bureau drawer and took from a hiding place a little piece of paper,
yellow with age.  Upon it was pinned a four-leaved clover, dry and yellow
also.  She looked long at this foolish memento.  Under the clover leaf
was written in a school-girl's hand--"Philip, June, 186-."

Squire Montague thought very well of Philip's proposal.  It would have
been better if he had begun the study of the law as soon as he left
college, but it was not too late now, and besides he had gathered some
knowledge of the world.

"But," asked the Squire, "do you mean to abandon your land in
Pennsylvania?"  This track of land seemed an immense possible fortune to
this New England lawyer-farmer.  Hasn't it good timber, and doesn't the
railroad almost touch it?"

"I can't do anything with it now.  Perhaps I can sometime."

"What is your reason for supposing that there is coal there?"

"The opinion of the best geologist I could consult, my own observation
of the country, and the little veins of it we found.  I feel certain it
is there.  I shall find it some day.  I know it.  If I can only keep the
land till I make money enough to try again."

Philip took from his pocket a map of the anthracite coal region, and
pointed out the position of the Ilium mountain which he had begun to
tunnel.

"Doesn't it look like it?"

"It certainly does," said the Squire, very much interested.  It is not
unusual for a quiet country gentleman to be more taken with such a
venture than a speculator who, has had more experience in its
uncertainty.  It was astonishing how many New England clergymen, in the
time of the petroleum excitement, took chances in oil.  The Wall street
brokers are said to do a good deal of small business for country
clergymen, who are moved no doubt with the laudable desire of purifying
the New York stock board.

"I don't see that there is much risk," said the Squire, at length.
"The timber is worth more than the mortgage; and if that coal seam does
run there, it's a magnificent fortune.  Would you like to try it again in
the spring, Phil?"

Like to try it!  If he could have a little help, he would work himself,
with pick and barrow, and live on a crust.  Only give him one more
chance.

And this is how it came about that the cautious old Squire Montague was
drawn into this young fellow's speculation, and began to have his serene
old age disturbed by anxieties and by the hope of a great stroke of luck.

"To be sure, I only care about it for the boy," he said.  The Squire was
like everybody else; sooner or later he must "take a chance."

It is probably on account of the lack of enterprise in women that they
are not so fond of stock speculations and mine ventures as men.  It is
only when woman becomes demoralized that she takes to any sort of
gambling.  Neither Alice nor Ruth were much elated with the prospect of
Philip's renewal of his mining enterprise.

But Philip was exultant.  He wrote to Ruth as if his fortune were already
made, and as if the clouds that lowered over the house of Bolton were
already in the deep bosom of a coal mine buried.  Towards spring he went
to Philadelphia with his plans all matured for a new campaign.  His
enthusiasm was irresistible.

"Philip has come, Philip has come," cried the children, as if some great
good had again come into the household; and the refrain even sang itself
over in Ruth's heart as she went the weary hospital rounds.  Mr. Bolton
felt more courage than he had had in months, at the sight of his manly
face and the sound of his cheery voice.

Ruth's course was vindicated now, and it certainly did not become Philip,
who had nothing to offer but a future chance against the visible result
of her determination and industry, to open an argument with her.  Ruth
was never more certain that she was right and that she was sufficient
unto herself.  She, may be, did not much heed the still small voice that
sang in her maiden heart as she went about her work, and which lightened
it and made it easy, "Philip has come."

"I am glad for father's sake," she said to Philip, that thee has come.
I can see that he depends greatly upon what thee can do.  He thinks women
won't hold out long," added Ruth with the smile that Philip never exactly
understood.

"And aren't you tired sometimes of the struggle?"

"Tired?  Yes, everybody is tired I suppose.  But it is a glorious
profession.  And would you want me to be dependent, Philip?"

"Well, yes, a little," said Philip, feeling his way towards what he
wanted to say.

"On what, for instance, just now?" asked Ruth, a little maliciously
Philip thought.

"Why, on--" he couldn't quite say it, for it occurred to him that he was
a poor stick for any body to lean on in the present state of his fortune,
and that the woman before him was at least as independent as he was.

"I don't mean depend," he began again.  "But I love you, that's all.  Am
I nothing--to you?" And Philip looked a little defiant, and as if he had
said something that ought to brush away all the sophistries of obligation
on either side, between man and woman.

Perhaps Ruth saw this.  Perhaps she saw that her own theories of a
certain equality of power, which ought to precede a union of two hearts,
might be pushed too far.  Perhaps she had felt sometimes her own weakness
and the need after all of so dear a sympathy and so tender an interest
confessed, as that which Philip could give.  Whatever moved her--the
riddle is as old as creation--she simply looked up to Philip and said in
a low voice, "Everything."

And Philip clasping both her hands in his, and looking down into her
eyes, which drank in all his tenderness with the thirst of a true woman's
nature--

"Oh! Philip, come out here," shouted young Eli, throwing the door wide
open.

And Ruth escaped away to her room, her heart singing again, and now as if
it would burst for joy, "Philip has come."

That night Philip received a dispatch from Harry--"The trial begins
tomorrow."




CHAPTER, LI

December 18--, found Washington Hawkins and Col. Sellers once more at the
capitol of the nation, standing guard over the University bill.  The
former gentleman was despondent, the latter hopeful.  Washington's
distress of mind was chiefly on Laura's account.  The court would soon
sit to try her, case, he said, and consequently a great deal of ready
money would be needed in the engineering of it.  The University bill was
sure to pass this, time, and that would make money plenty, but might not
the, help come too late?  Congress had only just assembled, and delays
were to be feared.

"Well," said the Colonel, "I don't know but you are more or less right,
there.  Now let's figure up a little on, the preliminaries.  I think
Congress always tries to do as near right as it can, according to its
lights.  A man can't ask any fairer, than that.  The first preliminary it
always starts out on, is, to clean itself, so to speak.  It will arraign
two or three dozen of its members, or maybe four or five dozen, for
taking bribes to vote for this and that and the other bill last winter."

"It goes up into the dozens, does it?"

"Well, yes; in a free country likes ours, where any man can run for
Congress and anybody can vote for him, you can't expect immortal purity
all the time--it ain't in nature.  Sixty or eighty or a hundred and fifty
people are bound to get in who are not angels in disguise, as young Hicks
the correspondent says; but still it is a very good average; very good
indeed.  As long as it averages as well as that, I think we can feel very
well satisfied.  Even in these days, when people growl so much and the
newspapers are so out of patience, there is still a very respectable
minority of honest men in Congress."

"Why a respectable minority of honest men can't do any good, Colonel."

"Oh, yes it can, too"

"Why, how?"

"Oh, in many ways, many ways."

"But what are the ways?"

"Well--I don't know--it is a question that requires time; a body can't
answer every question right off-hand.  But it does do good.  I am
satisfied of that."

"All right, then; grant that it does good; go on with the preliminaries."

"That is what I am coming to.  First, as I said, they will try a lot of
members for taking money for votes.  That will take four weeks."

"Yes, that's like last year; and it is a sheer waste of the time for
which the nation pays those men to work--that is what that is.  And it
pinches when a body's got a bill waiting."

"A waste of time, to purify the fountain of public law?  Well, I never
heard anybody express an idea like that before.  But if it were, it would
still be the fault of the minority, for the majority don't institute
these proceedings.  There is where that minority becomes an obstruction--
but still one can't say it is on the wrong side.--Well, after they have
finished the bribery cases, they will take up cases of members who have
bought their seats with money.  That will take another four weeks."

"Very good; go on.  You have accounted for two-thirds of the session."

"Next they will try each other for various smaller irregularities, like
the sale of appointments to West Point cadetships, and that sort of
thing--mere trifling pocket-money enterprises that might better, be
passed over in silence, perhaps, but then one of our Congresses can never
rest easy till it has thoroughly purified itself of all blemishes--and
that is a thing to be applauded."

"How long does it take to disinfect itself of these minor impurities?"

"Well, about two weeks, generally."

"So Congress always lies helpless in quarantine ten weeks of a session.
That's encouraging.  Colonel, poor Laura will never get any benefit from
our bill.  Her trial will be over before Congress has half purified
itself.--And doesn't it occur to you that by the time it has expelled all
its impure members there, may not be enough members left to do business
legally?"

"Why I did not say Congress would expel anybody."

"Well won't it expel anybody?"

"Not necessarily.  Did it last year?  It never does.  That would not be
regular."

"Then why waste all the session in that tomfoolery of trying members?"

"It is usual; it is customary; the country requires it."

"Then the country is a fool, I think."

"Oh, no.  The country thinks somebody is going to be expelled."

"Well, when nobody is expelled, what does the country think then?"

"By that time, the thing has strung out so long that the country is sick
and tired of it and glad to have a change on any terms.  But all that
inquiry is not lost.  It has a good moral effect."

"Who does it have a good moral effect on?"

"Well--I don't know.  On foreign countries, I think.  We have always been
under the gaze of foreign countries.  There is no country in the world,
sir, that pursues corruption as inveterately as we do.  There is no
country in the world whose representatives try each other as much as ours
do, or stick to it as long on a stretch.  I think there is something
great in being a model for the whole civilized world, Washington"

"You don't mean a model; you mean an example."

"Well, it's all the same; it's just the same thing.  It shows that a man
can't be corrupt in this country without sweating for it, I can tell you
that."

"Hang it, Colonel, you just said we never punish anybody for villainous
practices."

"But good God we try them, don't we!  Is it nothing to show a disposition
to sift things and bring people to a strict account?  I tell you it has
its effect."

"Oh, bother the effect!--What is it they do do?  How do they proceed?
You know perfectly well--and it is all bosh, too.  Come, now, how do they
proceed?"

"Why they proceed right and regular--and it ain't bosh, Washington, it
ain't bosh.  They appoint a committee to investigate, and that committee
hears evidence three weeks, and all the witnesses on one side swear that
the accused took money or stock or something for his vote.  Then the
accused stands up and testifies that he may have done it, but he was
receiving and handling a good deal of money at the time and he doesn't
remember this particular circumstance--at least with sufficient
distinctness to enable him to grasp it tangibly.  So of course the thing
is not proven--and that is what they say in the verdict.  They don't
acquit, they don't condemn.  They just say, 'Charge not proven.'  It
leaves the accused is a kind of a shaky condition before the country,
it purifies Congress, it satisfies everybody, and it doesn't seriously
hurt anybody.  It has taken a long time to perfect our system, but it is
the most admirable in the world, now."

"So one of those long stupid investigations always turns out in that lame
silly way.  Yes, you are correct.  I thought maybe you viewed the matter
differently from other people.  Do you think a Congress of ours could
convict the devil of anything if he were a member?"

"My dear boy, don't let these damaging delays prejudice you against
Congress.  Don't use such strong language; you talk like a newspaper.
Congress has inflicted frightful punishments on its members--now you know
that.  When they tried Mr. Fairoaks, and a cloud of witnesses proved him
to be--well, you know what they proved him to be--and his own testimony
and his own confessions gave him the same character, what did Congress do
then?--come!"

"Well, what did Congress do?"

"You know what Congress did, Washington.  Congress intimated plainly
enough, that they considered him almost a stain upon their body; and
without waiting ten days, hardly, to think the thing over, the rose up
and hurled at him a resolution declaring that they disapproved of his
conduct!  Now you know that, Washington."

"It was a terrific thing--"there is no denying that.  If he had been
proven guilty of theft, arson, licentiousness, infanticide, and defiling
graves, I believe they would have suspended him for two days."

"You can depend on it, Washington.  Congress is vindictive, Congress is
savage, sir, when it gets waked up once.  It will go to any length to
vindicate its honor at such a time."

"Ah well, we have talked the morning through, just as usual in these
tiresome days of waiting, and we have reached the same old result; that
is to say, we are no better off than when we began.  The land bill is
just as far away as ever, and the trial is closer at hand.  Let's give up
everything and die."

"Die and leave the Duchess to fight it out all alone?  Oh, no, that won't
do.  Come, now, don't talk so.  It is all going to come out right.  Now
you'll see."

"It never will, Colonel, never in the world.  Something tells me that.
I get more tired and more despondent every day.  I don't see any hope;
life is only just a trouble.  I am so miserable, these days!"

The Colonel made Washington get up and walk the floor with him, arm in
arm.  The good old speculator wanted to comfort him, but he hardly knew
how to go about it.  He made many attempts, but they were lame; they
lacked spirit; the words were encouraging; but they were only words--he
could not get any heart into them.  He could not always warm up, now,
with the old Hawkeye fervor.  By and by his lips trembled and his voice
got unsteady.  He said:

"Don't give up the ship, my boy--don't do it.  The wind's bound to fetch
around and set in our favor.  I know it."

And the prospect was so cheerful that he wept.  Then he blew a trumpet-
blast that started the meshes of his handkerchief, and said in almost his
breezy old-time way:

"Lord bless us, this is all nonsense!  Night doesn't last always; day has
got to break some time or other.  Every silver lining has a cloud behind
it, as the poet says; and that remark has always cheered me; though--
I never could see any meaning to it.  Everybody uses it, though, and
everybody gets comfort out of it.  I wish they would start something
fresh.  Come, now, let's cheer up; there's been as good fish in the sea
as there are now.  It shall never be said that Beriah Sellers--
Come in?"

It was the telegraph boy.  The Colonel reached for the message and
devoured its contents:

"I said it!  Never give up the ship!  The trial's, postponed till
February, and we'll save the child yet.  Bless my life, what lawyers
they, have in New-York!  Give them money to fight with; and the ghost of
an excuse, and they: would manage to postpone anything in this world,
unless it might be the millennium or something like that.  Now for work
again my boy.  The trial will last to the middle of March, sure; Congress
ends the fourth of March.  Within three days of the end of the session
they will be done putting through the preliminaries then they will be
ready for national business:  Our bill will go through in forty-eight
hours, then, and we'll telegraph a million dollar's to the jury--to the
lawyers, I mean--and the verdict of the jury will be 'Accidental murder
resulting from justifiable insanity'--or something to, that effect,
something to that effect.--Everything is dead sure, now.  Come, what is
the matter?  What are you wilting down like that, for?  You mustn't be a
girl, you know."

"Oh, Colonel, I am become so used to troubles, so used to failures,
disappointments, hard luck of all kinds, that a little good news breaks
me right down.  Everything has been so hopeless that now I can't stand
good news at all.  It is too good to be true, anyway.  Don't you see how
our bad luck has worked on me?  My hair is getting gray, and many nights
I don't sleep at all.  I wish it was all over and we could rest.  I wish
we could lie, down and just forget everything, and let it all be just a
dream that is done and can't come back to trouble us any more.  I am so
tired."

"Ah, poor child, don't talk like that-cheer up--there's daylight ahead.
Don't give, up.  You'll have Laura again, and--Louise, and your mother,
and oceans and oceans of money--and then you can go away, ever so far
away somewhere, if you want to, and forget all about this infernal place.
And by George I'll go with you!  I'll go with you--now there's my word on
it.  Cheer up.  I'll run out and tell the friends the news."

And he wrung Washington's hand and was about to hurry away when his
companion, in a burst of grateful admiration said:

"I think you are the best soul and the noblest I ever knew, Colonel
Sellers! and if the people only knew you as I do, you would not be
tagging around here a nameless man--you would be in Congress."

The gladness died out of the Colonel's face, and he laid his hand upon
Washington's shoulder and said gravely:

"I have always been a friend of your family, Washington, and I think I
have always tried to do right as between man and man, according to my
lights.  Now I don't think there has ever been anything in my conduct
that should make you feel Justified in saying a thing like that."

He turned, then, and walked slowly out, leaving Washington abashed and
somewhat bewildered.  When Washington had presently got his thoughts into
line again, he said to himself, "Why, honestly, I only meant to
compliment him--indeed I would not have hurt him for the world."




CHAPTER LII.

The weeks drifted by monotonously enough, now.  The "preliminaries"
continued to drag along in Congress, and life was a dull suspense to
Sellers and Washington, a weary waiting which might have broken their
hearts, maybe, but for the relieving change which they got out of am
occasional visit to New York to see Laura.  Standing guard in Washington
or anywhere else is not an exciting business in time of peace, but
standing guard was all that the two friends had to do; all that was
needed of them was that they should be on hand and ready for any
emergency that might come up.  There was no work to do; that was all
finished; this was but the second session of the last winter's Congress,
and its action on the bill could have but one result--its passage.  The
house must do its work over again, of course, but the same membership was
there to see that it did it.--The Senate was secure--Senator Dilworthy
was able to put all doubts to rest on that head.  Indeed it was no secret
in Washington that a two-thirds vote in the Senate was ready and waiting
to be cast for the University bill as soon as it should come before that
body.

Washington did not take part in the gaieties of "the season," as he had
done the previous winter.  He had lost his interest in such things; he
was oppressed with cares, now.  Senator Dilworthy said to Washington that
an humble deportment, under punishment, was best, and that there was but
one way in which the troubled heart might find perfect repose and peace.
The suggestion found a response in Washington's breast, and the Senator
saw the sign of it in his face.

From that moment one could find the youth with the Senator even oftener
than with Col. Sellers.  When the statesman presided at great temperance
meetings, he placed Washington in the front rank of impressive
dignitaries that gave tone to the occasion and pomp to the platform.
His bald headed surroundings made the youth the more conspicuous.

When the statesman made remarks in these meetings, he not infrequently
alluded with effect to the encouraging spectacle of one of the wealthiest
and most brilliant young favorites of society forsaking the light
vanities of that butterfly existence to nobly and self-sacrificingly
devote his talents and his riches to the cause of saving his hapless
fellow creatures from shame and misery here and eternal regret hereafter.
At the prayer meetings the Senator always brought Washington up the aisle
on his arm and seated him prominently; in his prayers he referred to him
in the cant terms which the Senator employed, perhaps unconsciously, and
mistook, maybe, for religion, and in other ways brought him into notice.
He had him out at gatherings for the benefit of the negro, gatherings for
the benefit of the Indian, gatherings for the benefit of the heathen in
distant lands.  He had him out time and again, before Sunday Schools,
as an example for emulation.  Upon all these occasions the Senator made
casual references to many benevolent enterprises which his ardent young
friend was planning against the day when the passage of the University
bill should make his means available for the amelioration of the
condition of the unfortunate among his fellow men of all nations and all.
climes.  Thus as the weeks rolled on Washington grew up, into an imposing
lion once more, but a lion that roamed the peaceful fields of religion
and temperance, and revisited the glittering domain of fashion no more.
A great moral influence was thus brought, to bear in favor of the bill;
the  weightiest of friends flocked to its standard; its most energetic
enemies said it was useless to fight longer; they had tacitly surrendered
while as yet the day of battle was not come.




CHAPTER LIII.

The session was drawing toward its close.  Senator Dilworthy thought he
would run out west and shake hands with his constituents and let them
look at him.  The legislature whose duty it would be to re-elect him to
the United States Senate, was already in session.  Mr. Dilworthy
considered his re-election certain, but he was a careful, painstaking
man, and if, by visiting his State he could find the opportunity to
persuade a few more legislators to vote for him, he held the journey to
be well worth taking.  The University bill was safe, now; he could leave
it without fear; it needed his presence and his watching no longer.
But there was a person in his State legislature who did need watching--
a person who, Senator Dilworthy said, was a narrow, grumbling,
uncomfortable malcontent--a person who was stolidly opposed to reform,
and progress and him,--a person who, he feared, had been bought with
money to combat him, and through him the commonwealth's welfare and its
politics' purity.

"If this person Noble," said Mr. Dilworthy, in a little speech at a
dinner party given him by some of his admirers, "merely desired to
sacrifice me.--I would willingly offer up my political life on the altar
of my dear State's weal, I would be glad and grateful to do it; but when
he makes of me but a cloak to hide his deeper designs, when he proposes
to strike through me at the heart of my beloved State, all the lion in me
is roused--and I say here I stand, solitary and alone, but unflinching,
unquailing, thrice armed with my sacred trust; and whoso passes, to do
evil to this fair domain that looks to me for protection, must do so over
my dead body."

He further said that if this Noble were a pure man, and merely misguided,
he could bear it, but that he should succeed in his wicked designs
through, a base use of money would leave a blot upon his State which
would work untold evil to the morals of the people, and that he would not
suffer; the public morals must not be contaminated.  He would seek this
man Noble; he would argue, he would persuade, he would appeal to his
honor.

When he arrived on the ground he found his friends unterrified; they were
standing firmly by him and were full of courage.  Noble was working hard,
too, but matters were against him, he was not making much progress.
Mr. Dilworthy took an early opportunity to send for Mr. Noble; he had a
midnight interview with him, and urged him to forsake his evil ways; he
begged him to come again and again, which he did.  He finally sent the
man away at 3 o'clock one morning; and when he was gone, Mr. Dilworthy
said to himself,

"I feel a good deal relieved, now, a great deal relieved."

The Senator now turned his attention to matters touching the souls of his
people.  He appeared in church; he took a leading part in prayer
meetings; he met and encouraged the temperance societies; he graced the
sewing circles of the ladies with his presence, and even took a needle
now and then and made a stitch or two upon a calico shirt for some poor
Bibleless pagan of the South Seas, and this act enchanted the ladies,
who regarded the garments thus honored as in a manner sanctified.
The Senator wrought in Bible classes, and nothing could keep him away
from the Sunday Schools--neither sickness nor storms nor weariness.
He even traveled a tedious thirty miles in a poor little rickety
stagecoach to comply with the desire of the miserable hamlet of
Cattleville that he would let its Sunday School look upon him.

All the town was assembled at the stage office when he arrived,
two bonfires were burning, and a battery of anvils was popping exultant
broadsides; for a United States Senator was a sort of god in the
understanding of these people who never had seen any creature mightier
than a county judge.  To them a United States Senator was a vast, vague
colossus, an awe inspiring unreality.

Next day everybody was at the village church a full half hour before time
for Sunday School to open; ranchmen and farmers had come with their
families from five miles around, all eager to get a glimpse of the great
man--the man who had been to Washington; the man who had seen the
President of the United States, and had even talked with him; the man who
had seen the actual Washington Monument--perhaps touched it with his
hands.

When the Senator arrived the Church was crowded, the windows were full,
the aisles were packed, so was the vestibule, and so indeed was the yard
in front of the building.  As he worked his way through to the pulpit on
the arm of the minister and followed by the envied officials of the
village, every neck was stretched and, every eye twisted around
intervening obstructions to get a glimpse.  Elderly people directed each
other's attention and, said, "There! that's him, with the grand, noble
forehead!"  Boys nudged each other and said, "Hi, Johnny, here he is,
there, that's him, with the peeled head!"

The Senator took his seat in the pulpit, with the minister' on one side
of him and the Superintendent of the Sunday School on the other.
The town dignitaries sat in an impressive row within the altar railings
below.  The Sunday School children occupied ten of the front benches.
dressed in their best and most uncomfortable clothes, and with hair
combed and faces too clean to feel natural.  So awed were they by the
presence of a living United States Senator, that during three minutes not
a "spit ball" was thrown.  After that they began to come to themselves by
degrees, and presently the spell was wholly gone and they were reciting
verses and pulling hair.

The usual Sunday School exercises were hurried through, and then the
minister, got up and bored the house with a speech built on the customary
Sunday School plan; then the Superintendent put in his oar; then the town
dignitaries had their say.  They all made complimentary reference to
"their friend the, Senator," and told what a great and illustrious man he
was and what he had done for his country and for religion and temperance,
and exhorted the little boys to be good and diligent and try to become
like him some day.  The speakers won the deathless hatred of the house by
these delays, but at last there was an end and hope revived; inspiration
was about to find utterance.

Senator Dilworthy rose and beamed upon the assemblage for a full minute
in silence.  Then he smiled with an access of sweetness upon the children
and began:

"My little friends--for I hope that all these bright-faced little people
are my friends and will let me be their friend--my little friends, I have
traveled much, I have been in many cities and many States, everywhere in
our great and noble country, and by the blessing of Providence I have
been permitted to see many gatherings like this--but I am proud, I am
truly proud to say that I never have looked upon so much intelligence,
so much grace, such sweetness of disposition as I see in the charming
young countenances I see before me at this moment.  I have been asking
myself as I sat here, Where am I?  Am I in some far-off monarchy, looking
upon little princes and princesses?  No.  Am I in some populous centre of
my own country, where the choicest children of the land have been
selected and brought together as at a fair for a prize?  No.  Am I in
some strange foreign clime where the children are marvels that we know
not of?  No.  Then where am I?  Yes--where am I?  I am in a simple,
remote, unpretending settlement of my own dear State, and these are the
children of the noble and virtuous men who have made me what I am!
My soul is lost in wonder at the thought!  And I humbly thank Him to whom
we are but as worms of the dust, that he has been pleased to call me to
serve such men!  Earth has no higher, no grander position for me.  Let
kings and emperors keep their tinsel crowns, I want them not; my heart is
here!

"Again I thought, Is this a theatre?  No.  Is it a concert or a gilded
opera?  No.  Is it some other vain, brilliant, beautiful temple of soul-
staining amusement and hilarity?  No.  Then what is it?  What did my
consciousness reply?  I ask you, my little friends, What did my
consciousness reply?  It replied, It is the temple of the Lord!  Ah,
think of that, now.  I could hardly beep the tears back, I was so
grateful.  Oh, how beautiful it is to see these ranks of sunny little
faces assembled here to learn the way of life; to learn to be good; to
learn to be useful; to learn to be pious; to learn to be great and
glorious men and women; to learn to be props and pillars of the State and
shining lights in the councils and the households of the nation; to be
bearers of the banner and soldiers of the cross in the rude campaigns of
life, and raptured souls in the happy fields of Paradise hereafter.

"Children, honor your parents and be grateful to them for providing for
you the precious privileges of a Sunday School.

"Now my dear little friends, sit up straight and pretty--there, that's
it--and give me your attention and let me tell you about a poor little
Sunday School scholar I once knew.--He lived in the far west, and his
parents were poor.  They could not give him a costly education; but they
were good and wise and they sent him to the Sunday School.  He loved the
Sunday School.  I hope you love your Sunday School--ah, I see by your
faces that you do!  That is right!

"Well, this poor little boy was always in his place when the bell rang,
and he always knew his lesson; for his teachers wanted him to learn and
he loved his teachers dearly.  Always love your teachers, my children,
for they love you more than you can know, now.  He would not let bad boys
persuade him to go to play on Sunday.  There was one little bad boy who
was always trying to persuade him, but he never could.

"So this poor little boy grew up to be a man, and had to go out in the
world, far from home and friends to earn his living.  Temptations lay all
about him, and sometimes he was about to yield, but he would think of
some precious lesson he learned in his Sunday School a long time ago, and
that would save him.  By and by he was elected to the legislature--Then
he did everything he could for Sunday Schools.  He got laws passed for
them; he got Sunday Schools established wherever he could.

"And by and by the people made him governor--and he said it was all owing
to the Sunday School.

"After a while the people elected him a Representative to the Congress of
the United States, and he grew very famous.--Now temptations assailed him
on every hand.  People tried to get him to drink wine; to dance, to go to
theatres; they even tried to buy his vote; but no, the memory of his
Sunday School saved him from all harm; he remembered the fate of the bad
little boy who used to try to get him to play on Sunday, and who grew up
and became a drunkard and was hanged.  He remembered that, and was glad
he never yielded and played on Sunday.

"Well, at last, what do you think happened?  Why the people gave him a
towering, illustrious position, a grand, imposing position.  And what do
you think it was?  What should you say it was, children?  It was Senator
of the United States!  That poor little boy that loved his Sunday School
became that man.  That man stands before you!  All that he is, he owes to
the Sunday School.

"My precious children, love your parents, love your teachers, love your
Sunday School, be pious, be obedient, be honest, be diligent, and then
you will succeed in life and be honored of all men.  Above all things,
my children, be honest.  Above all things be pure-minded as the snow.
Let us join in prayer."

When Senator Dilworthy departed from Cattleville, he left three dozen
boys behind him arranging a campaign of life whose objective point was
the United States Senate.

When be arrived at the State capital at midnight Mr. Noble came and held
a three-hours' conference with him, and then as he was about leaving
said:

"I've worked hard, and I've got them at last.  Six of them haven't got
quite back-bone enough to slew around and come right out for you on the
first ballot to-morrow; but they're going to vote against you on the
first for the sake of appearances, and then come out for you all in a
body on the second--I've fixed all that!  By supper time to-morrow you'll
be re-elected.  You can go to bed and sleep easy on that."

After Mr. Noble was gone, the Senator said:

"Well, to bring about a complexion of things like this was worth coming
West for."




CHAPTER LIV.

The case of the State of New York against Laura Hawkins was finally set
down for trial on the 15th day of February, less than a year after the
shooting of George Selby.

If the public had almost forgotten the existence of Laura and her crime,
they were reminded of all the details of the murder by the newspapers,
which for some days had been announcing the approaching trial.  But they
had not forgotten.  The sex, the age, the beauty of the prisoner; her
high social position in Washington, the unparalled calmness with which
the crime was committed had all conspired to fix the event in the public
mind, although nearly three hundred and sixty-five subsequent murders had
occurred to vary the monotony of metropolitan life.

No, the public read from time to time of the lovely prisoner, languishing
in the city prison, the tortured victim of the law's delay; and as the
months went by it was natural that the horror of her crime should become
a little indistinct in memory, while the heroine of it should be invested
with a sort of sentimental interest.  Perhaps her counsel had calculated
on this.  Perhaps it was by their advice that Laura had interested
herself in the unfortunate criminals who shared her prison confinement,
and had done not a little to relieve, from her own purse, the necessities
of some of the poor creatures.  That she had done this, the public read
in the journals of the day, and the simple announcement cast a softening
light upon her character.

The court room was crowded at an early hour, before the arrival of
judges, lawyers and prisoner.  There is no enjoyment so keen to certain
minds as that of looking upon the slow torture of a human being on trial
for life, except it be an execution; there is no display of human
ingenuity, wit and power so fascinating as that made by trained lawyers
in the trial of an important case, nowhere else is exhibited such
subtlety, acumen, address, eloquence.

All the conditions of intense excitement meet in a murder trial.  The
awful issue at stake gives significance to the lightest word or look.
How the quick eyes of the spectators rove from the stolid jury to the
keen lawyers, the impassive judge, the anxious prisoner.  Nothing is
lost of the sharp wrangle of the counsel on points of law, the measured
decision's of the bench; the duels between the attorneys and the
witnesses.  The crowd sways with the rise and fall of the shifting,
testimony, in sympathetic interest, and hangs upon the dicta of the
judge in breathless silence.  It speedily takes sides for or against
the accused, and recognizes as quickly its favorites among the lawyers.
Nothing delights it more than the sharp retort of a witness and the
discomfiture of an obnoxious attorney.  A joke, even if it be a lame,
one, is no where so keenly relished or quickly applauded as in a murder
trial.

Within the bar the young lawyers and the privileged hangers-on filled all
the chairs except those reserved at the table for those engaged in the
case.  Without, the throng occupied all the seats, the window ledges and
the standing room.  The atmosphere was already something horrible.
It was the peculiar odor of a criminal court, as if it were tainted by
the presence, in different persons, of all the crimes that men and women
can commit.

There was a little stir when the Prosecuting Attorney, with two
assistants, made his way in, seated himself at the table, and spread his
papers before him.  There was more stir when the counsel of the defense
appeared.  They were Mr. Braham, the senior, and Mr. Quiggle and Mr.
O'Keefe, the juniors.

Everybody in the court room knew Mr. Braham, the great criminal lawyer,
and he was not unaware that he was the object of all eyes as he moved to
his place, bowing to his friends in the bar.  A large but rather spare
man, with broad shoulders and a massive head, covered with chestnut curls
which fell down upon his coat collar and which he had a habit of shaking
as a lion is supposed to shake his mane.  His face was clean shaven,
and he had a wide mouth and rather small dark eyes, set quite too near
together: Mr. Braham wore a brown frock coat buttoned across his breast,
with a rose-bud in the upper buttonhole, and light pantaloons.
A diamond stud was seen to flash from his bosom; and as he seated himself
and drew off his gloves a heavy seal ring was displayed upon his white
left hand.  Mr. Braham having seated himself, deliberately surveyed the
entire house, made a remark to one of his assistants, and then taking an
ivory-handled knife from his pocket began to pare his finger nails,
rocking his chair backwards and forwards slowly.

A moment later Judge O'Shaunnessy entered at the rear door and took his
seat in one of the chairs behind the bench; a gentleman in black
broadcloth, with sandy hair, inclined to curl, a round; reddish and
rather jovial face, sharp rather than intellectual, and with a self-
sufficient air.  His career had nothing remarkable in it.  He was
descended from a long line of Irish Kings, and he was the first one of
them who had ever come into his kingdom--the kingdom of such being the
city of New York.  He had, in fact, descended so far and so low that he
found himself, when a boy, a sort of street Arab in that city; but he had
ambition and native shrewdness, and he speedily took to boot-polishing,
and newspaper hawking, became the office and errand boy of a law firm,
picked up knowledge enough to get some employment in police courts, was
admitted to the bar, became a rising young politician, went to the
legislature, and was finally elected to the bench which he now honored.
In this democratic country he was obliged to conceal his royalty under
a plebeian aspect.  Judge O'Shaunnessy never had a lucrative practice nor
a large salary but he had prudently laid away money-believing that
a dependant judge can never be impartial--and he had lands and houses
to the value of three or four hundred thousand dollars.  Had he not
helped to build and furnish this very Court House?  Did he not know that
the very "spittoon" which his judgeship used cost the city the sum of one
thousand dollars?

As soon as the judge was seated, the court was opened, with the "oi yis,
oi yis" of the officer in his native language, the case called, and the
sheriff was directed to bring in the prisoner.  In the midst of a
profound hush Laura entered, leaning on the arm of the officer, and was
conducted to a seat by her counsel.  She was followed by her mother and
by Washington Hawkins, who were given seats near her.

Laura was very pale, but this pallor heightened the lustre of her large
eyes and gave a touching sadness to her expressive face.  She was dressed
in simple black, with exquisite taste, and without an ornament.  The thin
lace vail which partially covered her face did not so much conceal as
heighten her beauty.  She would not have entered a drawing room with more
self-poise, nor a church with more haughty humility.  There was in her
manner or face neither shame nor boldness, and when she took her seat in
fall view of half the spectators, her eyes were downcast.  A murmur of
admiration ran through the room.  The newspaper reporters made their
pencils fly.  Mr. Braham again swept his eyes over the house as if in
approval.  When Laura at length raised her eyes a little, she saw Philip
and Harry within the bar, but she gave no token of recognition.

The clerk then read the indictment, which was in the usual form.  It
charged Laura Hawkins, in effect, with the premeditated murder of George
Selby, by shooting him with a pistol, with a revolver, shotgun, rifle,
repeater, breech-loader, cannon, six-shooter, with a gun, or some other,
weapon; with killing him with a slung-shot, a bludgeon, carving knife,
bowie knife, pen knife, rolling pin, car, hook, dagger, hair pin, with a
hammer, with a screw-driver; with a nail, and with all other weapons and
utensils whatsoever, at the Southern hotel and in all other hotels and
places wheresoever, on the thirteenth day of March and all other days of
the Christian era wheresoever.

Laura stood while the long indictment was read; and at the end, in
response to the inquiry, of the judge, she said in a clear, low voice;
"Not guilty."  She sat down and the court proceeded to impanel a jury.

The first man called was Michael Lanigan, saloon keeper.

"Have you formed or expressed any opinion on this case, and do you know
any of the parties?"

"Not any," said Mr. Lanigan.

"Have you any conscientious objections to capital punishment?"

"No, sir, not to my knowledge."

"Have you read anything about this case?"

"To be sure, I read the papers, y'r Honor."

Objected to by Mr. Braham, for cause, and discharged.

Patrick Coughlin.

"What is your business?"

"Well--I haven't got any particular business."

"Haven't any particular business, eh?  Well, what's your general
business?  What do you do for a living?"

"I own some terriers, sir."

"Own some terriers, eh?  Keep a rat pit?"

"Gentlemen comes there to have a little sport.  I never fit 'em, sir."

"Oh, I see--you are probably the amusement committee of the city council.
Have you ever heard of this case?"

"Not till this morning, sir."

"Can you read?"

"Not fine print, y'r Honor."

The man was about to be sworn, when Mr. Braham asked,

"Could your father read?"

"The old gentleman was mighty handy at that, sir."

Mr. Braham submitted that the man was disqualified Judge thought not.
Point argued.  Challenged peremptorily, and set aside.

Ethan Dobb, cart-driver.

"Can you read?"

"Yes, but haven't a habit of it."

"Have you heard of this case?"

"I think so--but it might be another.  I have no opinion about it."

Dist. A.  "Tha--tha--there!  Hold on a bit?  Did anybody tell you to say
you had no opinion about it?"

"N--n--o, sir."

Take care now, take care.  Then what suggested it to you to volunteer
that remark?"

"They've always asked that, when I was on juries."

All right, then.  Have you any conscientious scruples about capital
punishment?"

"Any which?"

"Would you object to finding a person guilty--of murder on evidence?"

"I might, sir, if I thought he wan't guilty."

The district attorney thought he saw a point.

"Would this feeling rather incline you against a capital conviction?"

The juror said he hadn't any feeling, and didn't know any of the parties.
Accepted and sworn.

Dennis Lafin, laborer.  Have neither formed nor expressed an opinion.
Never had heard of the case.  Believed in hangin' for them that deserved
it.  Could read if it was necessary.

Mr. Braham objected.  The man was evidently bloody minded.  Challenged
peremptorily.

Larry O'Toole, contractor.  A showily dressed man of the style known as
"vulgar genteel," had a sharp eye and a ready tongue.  Had read the
newspaper reports of the case, but they made no impression on him.
Should be governed by the evidence.  Knew no reason why he could not be
an impartial juror.

Question by District Attorney.

"How is it that the reports made no impression on you?"

"Never believe anything I see in the newspapers."

(Laughter from the crowd, approving smiles from his Honor and Mr.
Braham.) Juror sworn in.  Mr. Braham whispered to O'Keefe, "that's the
man."

Avery Hicks, pea-nut peddler.  Did he ever hear of this case?  The man
shook his head.

"Can you read?"

"No."  "Any scruples about capital punishment?"

"No."

He was about to be sworn, when the district attorney turning to him
carelessly, remarked,

"Understand the nature of an oath?"

"Outside," said the man, pointing to the door.

"I say, do you know what an oath is?"

"Five cents," explained the man.

"Do you mean to insult me?" roared the prosecuting officer. "Are you an
idiot?"

"Fresh baked.  I'm deefe.  I don't hear a word you say."

The man was discharged.  "He wouldn't have made a bad juror, though,"
whispered Braham.  "I saw him looking at the prisoner sympathizingly.
That's a point you want to watch for."

The result of the whole day's work was the selection of only two jurors.
These however were satisfactory to Mr. Braham.  He had kept off all those
he did not know.  No one knew better than this great criminal lawyer that
the battle was fought on the selection of the jury.  The subsequent
examination of witnesses, the eloquence expended on the jury are all for
effect outside.  At least that is the theory of Mr. Braham.  But human
nature is a queer thing, he admits; sometimes jurors are unaccountably
swayed, be as careful as you can in choosing them.

It was four weary days before this jury was made up, but when it was
finally complete, it did great credit to the counsel for the defence.
So far as Mr. Braham knew, only two could read, one of whom was the
foreman, Mr. Braham's friend, the showy contractor.  Low foreheads and
heavy faces they all had; some had a look of animal cunning, while the
most were only stupid.  The entire panel formed that boasted heritage
commonly described as the "bulwark of our liberties."

The District Attorney, Mr.McFlinn, opened the case for the state.  He
spoke with only the slightest accent, one that had been inherited but not
cultivated.  He contented himself with a brief statement of the case.
The state would prove that Laura Hawkins, the prisoner at the bar, a
fiend in the form of a beautiful woman, shot dead George Selby, a
Southern gentleman, at the, time and place described.  That the murder
was in cold blood, deliberate and without provocation; that it had been
long premeditated and threatened; that she had followed the deceased-from
Washington to commit it.  All this would be proved by unimpeachable
witnesses.  The attorney added that the duty of the jury, however painful
it might be, would be plain and simple.  They were citizens, husbands,
perhaps fathers.  They knew how insecure life had become in the
metropolis.  Tomorrow our own wives might be widows, their own children
orphans, like the bereaved family in yonder hotel, deprived of husband
and father by the jealous hand of some murderous female.  The attorney
sat down, and the clerk called?"

"Henry Brierly."




CHAPTER LV.

Henry Brierly took the stand.  Requested by the District Attorney to tell
the jury all he knew about the killing, he narrated the circumstances
substantially as the reader already knows them.

He accompanied Miss Hawkins to New York at her request, supposing she was
coming in relation to a bill then pending in Congress, to secure the
attendance of absent members.  Her note to him was here shown.  She
appeared to be very much excited at the Washington station.  After she
had asked the conductor several questions, he heard her say, "He can't
escape."  Witness asked her "Who?" and she replied "Nobody."  Did not see
her during the night.  They traveled in a sleeping car.  In the morning
she appeared not to have slept, said she had a headache.  In crossing the
ferry she asked him about the shipping in sight; he pointed out where the
Cunarders lay when in port.  They took a cup of coffee that morning at a
restaurant.  She said she was anxious to reach the Southern Hotel where
Mr. Simons, one of the absent members, was staying, before he went out.
She was entirely self-possessed, and beyond unusual excitement did not
act unnaturally.  After she had fired twice at Col. Selby, she turned the
pistol towards her own breast, and witness snatched it from her.  She had
seen a great deal with Selby in Washington, appeared to be infatuated
with him.

(Cross-examined by Mr. Braham.) "Mist-er.....er Brierly!" (Mr. Braham had
in perfection this lawyer's trick of annoying a witness, by drawling out
the "Mister," as if unable to recall the name, until the witness is
sufficiently aggravated, and then suddenly, with a rising inflection,
flinging his name at him with startling unexpectedness.) "Mist-er.....er
Brierly!  What is your occupation?"

"Civil Engineer, sir."

"Ah, civil engineer, (with a glance at the jury).  Following that
occupation with Miss Hawkins?" (Smiles by the jury).

"No, sir," said Harry, reddening.

"How long have you known the prisoner?"

"Two years, sir.  I made her acquaintance in Hawkeye, Missouri."

"M.....m...m.  Mist-er.....er Brierly!  Were you not a lover of Miss
Hawkins?"

Objected to.  "I submit, your Honor, that I have the right to establish
the relation of this unwilling witness to the prisoner."  Admitted.

"Well, sir," said Harry hesitatingly, "we were friends."

"You act like a friend!" (sarcastically.) The jury were beginning to hate
this neatly dressed young sprig.  "Mister......er....Brierly!  Didn't
Miss Hawkins refuse you?"

Harry blushed and stammered and looked at the judge.  "You must answer,
sir," said His Honor.

"She--she--didn't accept me."

"No.  I should think not.  Brierly do you dare tell the jury that you had
not an interest in the removal of your rival, Col. Selby?" roared Mr.
Braham in a voice of thunder.

"Nothing like this, sir, nothing like this," protested the witness.

"That's all, sir," said Mr. Braham severely.

"One word," said the District Attorney.  "Had you the least suspicion of
the prisoner's intention, up to the moment of the shooting?"

"Not the least," answered Harry earnestly.

"Of course not, of course-not," nodded Mr. Braham to the jury.

The prosecution then put upon the stand the other witnesses of the
shooting at the hotel, and the clerk and the attending physicians.  The
fact of the homicide was clearly established.  Nothing new was elicited,
except from the clerk, in reply to a question by Mr. Braham, the fact
that when the prisoner enquired for Col. Selby she appeared excited and
there was a wild look in her eyes.

The dying deposition of Col. Selby was then produced.  It set forth
Laura's threats, but there was a significant addition to it, which the
newspaper report did not have.  It seemed that after the deposition was
taken as reported, the Colonel was told for the first time by his
physicians that his wounds were mortal.  He appeared to be in great
mental agony and fear; and said he had not finished his deposition.
He added, with great difficulty and long pauses these words.  "I--have--
not--told--all.  I must tell--put--it--down--I--wronged--her.  Years--
ago--I--can't see--O--God--I--deserved----"  That was all.  He fainted
and did not revive again.

The Washington railway conductor testified that the prisoner had asked
him if a gentleman and his family went out on the evening train,
describing the persons he had since learned were Col. Selby and family.

Susan Cullum, colored servant at Senator Dilworthy's, was sworn.  Knew
Col. Selby.  Had seen him come to the house often, and be alone in the
parlor with Miss Hawkins.  He came the day but one before he was shot.
She let him in.  He appeared flustered like.  She heard talking in the
parlor, I peared like it was quarrelin'.  Was afeared sumfin' was wrong:
Just put her ear to--the--keyhole of the back parlor-door.  Heard a man's
voice, "I--can't--I can't, Good God, quite beggin' like.  Heard--young
Miss' voice, "Take your choice, then.  If you 'bandon me, you knows what
to 'spect."  Then he rushes outen the house, I goes in--and I says,
"Missis did you ring?"  She was a standin' like a tiger, her eyes
flashin'.  I come right out.

This was the substance of Susan's testimony, which was not shaken in the
least by severe cross-examination.  In reply to Mr. Braham's question, if
the prisoner did not look insane, Susan said, "Lord; no, sir, just mad as
a hawnet."

Washington Hawkins was sworn.  The pistol, identified by the officer as
the one used in the homicide, was produced Washington admitted that it
was his.  She had asked him for it one morning, saying she thought she
had heard burglars the night before.  Admitted that he never had heard
burglars in the house.  Had anything unusual happened just before that.

Nothing that he remembered.  Did he accompany her to a reception at Mrs.
Shoonmaker's a day or two before?  Yes.  What occurred?  Little by little
it was dragged out of the witness that Laura had behaved strangely there,
appeared to be sick, and he had taken her home.  Upon being pushed he
admitted that she had afterwards confessed that she saw Selby there.
And Washington volunteered the statement that Selby, was a black-hearted
villain.

The District Attorney said, with some annoyance; "There--there! That will
do."

The defence declined to examine Mr. Hawkins at present.  The case for the
prosecution was closed.  Of the murder there could not be the least
doubt, or that the prisoner followed the deceased to New York with a
murderous intent:  On the evidence the jury must convict, and might do so
without leaving their seats.  This was the condition of the case
two days after the jury had been selected.  A week had passed since the
trial opened; and a Sunday had intervened.

The public who read the reports of the evidence saw no chance for the
prisoner's escape.  The crowd of spectators who had watched the trial
were moved with the most profound sympathy for Laura.

Mr. Braham opened the case for the defence.  His manner was subdued, and
he spoke in so low a voice that it was only by reason of perfect silence
in the court room that he could be heard.  He spoke very distinctly,
however, and if his nationality could be discovered in his speech it was
only in a certain richness and breadth of tone.

He began by saying that he trembled at the responsibility he had
undertaken; and he should, altogether despair, if he did not see before
him a jury of twelve men of rare intelligence, whose acute minds would
unravel all the sophistries of the prosecution, men with a sense, of
honor, which would revolt at the remorseless persecution of this hunted
woman by the state, men with hearts to feel for the wrongs of which she
was the victim.  Far be it from him to cast any suspicion upon the
motives of the able, eloquent and ingenious lawyers of the state; they
act officially; their business is to convict.  It is our business,
gentlemen, to see that justice is done.

"It is my duty, gentlemen, to untold to you one of the most affecting
dramas in all, the history of misfortune.  I shall have to show you a
life, the sport of fate and circumstances, hurried along through shifting
storm and sun, bright with trusting innocence and anon black with
heartless villainy, a career which moves on in love and desertion and
anguish, always hovered over by the dark spectre of INSANITY--an insanity
hereditary and induced by mental torture,--until it ends, if end it must
in your verdict, by one of those fearful accidents, which are inscrutable
to men and of which God alone knows the secret.

"Gentlemen, I, shall ask you to go with me away from this court room and
its minions of the law, away from the scene of this tragedy, to a
distant, I wish I could say a happier day.  The story I have to tell is
of a lovely little girl, with sunny hair and laughing eyes, traveling
with her parents, evidently people of wealth and refinement, upon a
Mississippi steamboat.  There is an explosion, one of those terrible
catastrophes which leave the imprint of an unsettled mind upon the
survivors.  Hundreds of mangled remains are sent into eternity.  When the
wreck is cleared away this sweet little girl is found among the panic
stricken survivors in the midst of a scene of horror enough to turn the
steadiest brain.  Her parents have disappeared.  Search even for their
bodies is in vain.  The bewildered, stricken child--who can say what
changes the fearful event wrought in her tender brain--clings to the
first person who shows her sympathy.  It is Mrs. Hawkins, this good lady
who is still her loving friend.  Laura is adopted into the Hawkins
family.  Perhaps she forgets in time that she is not their child.  She is
an orphan.  No, gentlemen, I will not deceive you, she is not an orphan.
Worse than that.  There comes another day of agony.  She knows that her
father lives.  Who is he, where is he?  Alas, I cannot tell you.  Through
the scenes of this painful history he flits here and there a lunatic!
If he, seeks his daughter, it is the purposeless search of a lunatic, as
one who wanders bereft of reason, crying where is my child?  Laura seeks
her father.  In vain just as she is about to find him, again and again-he
disappears, he is gone, he vanishes.

"But this is only the prologue to the tragedy.  Bear with me while I
relate it.  (Mr. Braham takes out a handkerchief, unfolds it slowly;
crashes it in his nervous hand, and throws it on the table).  Laura grew
up in her humble southern home, a beautiful creature, the joy, of the
house, the pride of the neighborhood, the loveliest flower in all the
sunny south.  She might yet have been happy; she was happy.  But the
destroyer came into this paradise.  He plucked the sweetest bud that grew
there, and having enjoyed its odor, trampled it in the mire beneath his
feet.  George Selby, the deceased, a handsome, accomplished Confederate
Colonel, was this human fiend.  He deceived her with a mock marriage;
after some months he brutally, abandoned her, and spurned her as if she
were a contemptible thing; all the time he had a wife in New Orleans.
Laura was crushed.  For weeks, as I shall show you by the testimony of
her adopted mother and brother, she hovered over death in delirium.
Gentlemen, did she ever emerge from this delirium?  I shall show you that
when she recovered her health, her mind was changed, she was not what she
had been.  You can judge yourselves whether the tottering reason ever
recovered its throne.

"Years pass.  She is in Washington, apparently the happy favorite of a
brilliant society.  Her family have become enormously rich by one of
those sudden turns, in fortune that the inhabitants of America are
familiar with--the discovery of immense mineral wealth in some wild lands
owned by them.  She is engaged in a vast philanthropic scheme for the
benefit of the poor, by, the use of this wealth.  But, alas, even here
and now, the same, relentless fate pursued her.  The villain Selby
appears again upon the scene, as if on purpose to complete the ruin of
her life.  He appeared to taunt her with her dishonor, he threatened
exposure if she did not become again the mistress of his passion.
Gentlemen, do you wonder if this woman, thus pursued, lost her reason,
was beside herself with fear, and that her wrongs preyed upon her mind
until she was no longer responsible for her acts?  I turn away my head as
one who would not willingly look even upon the just vengeance of Heaven.
(Mr.Braham paused as if overcome by his emotions.  Mrs. Hawkins and
Washington were in tears, as were many of the spectators also.  The jury
looked scared.)

"Gentlemen, in this condition of affairs it needed but a spark--I do not
say a suggestion, I do not say a hint--from this butterfly Brierly; this
rejected rival, to cause the explosion.  I make no charges, but if this
woman was in her right mind when she fled from Washington and reached
this city in company--with Brierly, then I do not know what insanity is."

When Mr. Braham sat down, he felt that he had the jury with him.  A burst
of applause followed, which the officer promptly, suppressed.  Laura,
with tears in her eyes, turned a grateful look upon her counsel.  All the
women among the spectators saw the tears and wept also.  They thought as
they also looked at Mr. Braham; how handsome he is!

Mrs. Hawkins took the stand.  She was somewhat confused to be the target
of so many, eyes, but her honest and good face at once told in Laura's
favor.

"Mrs. Hawkins," said Mr. Braham, "will you' be kind enough to state the
circumstances of your finding Laura?"

"I object," said Mr. McFlinn; rising to his feet.  "This has nothing
whatever to do with the case, your honor.  I am surprised at it, even
after the extraordinary speech of my learned friend."

"How do you propose to connect it, Mr. Braham?" asked the judge.

"If it please the court," said Mr. Braham, rising impressively, "your
Honor has permitted the prosecution, and I have submitted without a word;
to go into the most extraordinary testimony to establish a motive.  Are
we to be shut out from showing that the motive attributed to us could not
by reason of certain mental conditions exist?  I purpose, may, it please
your Honor, to show the cause and the origin of an aberration of mind,
to follow it up, with other like evidence, connecting it with the very
moment of the homicide, showing a condition of the intellect, of the
prisoner that precludes responsibility."

"The State must insist upon its objections," said the District Attorney.
"The purpose evidently is to open the door to a mass of irrelevant
testimony, the object of which is to produce an effect upon the jury your
Honor well understands."

"Perhaps," suggested the judge, "the court ought to hear the testimony,
and exclude it afterwards, if it is irrelevant."

"Will your honor hear argument on that!"

"Certainly."

And argument his honor did hear, or pretend to, for two whole days,
from all the counsel in turn, in the course of which the lawyers read
contradictory decisions enough to perfectly establish both sides, from
volume after volume, whole libraries in fact, until no mortal man could
say what the rules were.  The question of insanity in all its legal
aspects was of course drawn into the discussion, and its application
affirmed and denied.  The case was felt to turn upon the admission or
rejection of this evidence.  It was a sort of test trial of strength
between the lawyers.  At the end the judge decided to admit the
testimony, as the judge usually does in such cases, after a sufficient
waste of time in what are called arguments.

Mrs. Hawkins was allowed to go on.




CHAPTER LVI.

Mrs. Hawkins slowly and conscientiously, as if every detail of her family
history was important, told the story of the steamboat explosion, of the
finding and adoption of Laura.  Silas, that its Mr. Hawkins, and she
always loved Laura, as if she had been their own, child.

She then narrated the circumstances of Laura's supposed marriage, her
abandonment and long illness, in a manner that touched all hearts.  Laura
had been a different woman since then.

Cross-examined.  At the time of first finding Laura on the steamboat,
did she notice that Laura's mind was at all deranged?  She couldn't say
that she did.  After the recovery of Laura from her long illness, did
Mrs. Hawkins think there, were any signs of insanity about her?  Witness
confessed that she did not think of it then.

Re-Direct examination.  "But she was different after that?"

"O, yes, sir."

Washington Hawkins corroborated his mother's testimony as to Laura's
connection with Col. Selby.  He was at Harding during the time of her
living there with him.  After Col. Selby's desertion she was almost dead,
never appeared to know anything rightly for weeks.  He added that he
never saw such a scoundrel as Selby.  (Checked by District attorney.)
Had he noticed any change in, Laura after her illness?  Oh, yes.
Whenever, any allusion was made that might recall Selby to mind, she
looked awful--as if she could kill him.

"You mean," said Mr. Braham, "that there was an unnatural, insane gleam
in her eyes?"

"Yes, certainly," said Washington in confusion.

All this was objected to by the district attorney, but it was got before
the jury, and Mr. Braham did not care how much it was ruled out after
that.

"Beriah Sellers was the next witness called.  The Colonel made his way to
the stand with majestic, yet bland deliberation.  Having taken the oath
and kissed the Bible with a smack intended to show his great respect for
that book, he bowed to his Honor with dignity, to the jury with
familiarity, and then turned to the lawyers and stood in an attitude of
superior attention.

"Mr. Sellers, I believe?" began Mr. Braham.

"Beriah Sellers, Missouri," was the courteous acknowledgment that the
lawyer was correct.

"Mr. Sellers; you know the parties here, you are a friend of the family?"

"Know them all, from infancy, sir.  It was me, sir, that induced Silas
Hawkins, Judge Hawkins, to come to Missouri, and make his fortune.
It was by my advice and in company with me, sir, that he went into the
operation of--"

"Yes, yes.  Mr. Sellers, did you know a Major Lackland?"

"Knew him, well, sir, knew him and honored him, sir.  He was one of the
most remarkable men of our country, sir.  A member of congress.  He was
often at my mansion sir, for weeks.  He used to say to me, 'Col. Sellers,
if you would go into politics, if I had you for a colleague, we should
show Calhoun and Webster that the brain of the country didn't lie east of
the Alleganies.  But I said--"

"Yes, yes.  I believe Major Lackland is not living, Colonel?"

There was an almost imperceptible sense of pleasure betrayed in the
Colonel's face at this prompt acknowledgment of his title.

"Bless you, no.  Died years ago, a miserable death, sir, a ruined man,
a poor sot.  He was suspected of selling his vote in Congress, and
probably he did; the disgrace killed' him, he was an outcast, sir,
loathed by himself and by his constituents.  And I think; sir"----

The Judge.  "You will confine yourself, Col. Sellers to the questions of
the counsel."

"Of course, your honor.  This," continued the Colonel in confidential
explanation, "was twenty years ago.  I shouldn't have thought of referring
to such a trifling circumstance now.  If I remember rightly, sir"--

A bundle of letters was here handed to the witness.

"Do you recognize, that hand-writing?"

"As if it was my own, sir. It's Major Lackland's. I was knowing to these
letters when Judge Hawkins received them.  [The Colonel's memory was a
little at fault here.  Mr. Hawkins had never gone into detail's with him
on this subject.]  He used to show them to me, and say, 'Col, Sellers
you've a mind to untangle this sort of thing.'  Lord, how everything
comes back to me.  Laura was a little thing then. 'The Judge and I were
just laying our plans to buy the Pilot Knob, and--"

"Colonel, one moment.  Your Honor, we put these letters in evidence."

The letters were a portion of the correspondence of Major Lackland with
Silas Hawkins; parts of them were missing and important letters were
referred to that were not here.  They related, as the reader knows, to
Laura's father.  Lackland had come upon the track of a man who was
searching for a lost child in a Mississippi steamboat explosion years
before.  The man was lame in one leg, and appeared to be flitting from
place to place.  It seemed that Major Lackland got so close track of him
that he was able to describe his personal appearance and learn his name.
But the letter containing these particulars was lost.  Once he heard of
him at a hotel in Washington; but the man departed, leaving an empty
trunk, the day before the major went there.  There was something very
mysterious in all his movements.

Col. Sellers, continuing his testimony, said that he saw this lost
letter, but could not now recall the name.  Search for the supposed
father had been continued by Lackland, Hawkins and himself for several
years, but Laura was not informed of it till after the death of Hawkins,
for fear of raising false hopes in her mind.

Here the Distract Attorney arose and said,

"Your Honor, I must positively object to letting the witness wander off
into all these irrelevant details."

Mr. Braham.  "I submit your honor, that we cannot be interrupted in this
manner we have suffered the state to have full swing.  Now here is a
witness, who has known the prisoner from infancy, and is competent to
testify upon the one point vital to her safety.  Evidently he is a
gentleman of character, and his knowledge of the case cannot be shut out
without increasing the aspect of persecution which the State's attitude
towards the prisoner already has assumed."

The wrangle continued, waxing hotter and hotter.  The Colonel seeing the
attention of the counsel and Court entirely withdrawn from him, thought
he perceived here his opportunity, turning and beaming upon the jury, he
began simply to talk, but as the grandeur of his position grew upon him--
talk broadened unconsciously into an oratorical vein.

"You see how she was situated, gentlemen; poor child, it might have
broken her, heart to let her mind get to running on such a thing as that.
You see, from what we could make out her father was lame in the left leg
and had a deep scar on his left forehead.  And so ever since the day she
found out she had another father, she never could, run across a lame
stranger without being taken all over with a shiver, and almost fainting
where she, stood. And the next minute she would go right after that man.
Once she stumbled on a stranger with a game leg; and she was the most
grateful thing in this world--but it was the wrong leg, and it was days
and days before she could leave her bed. Once she found a man with a scar
on his forehead and she was just going to throw herself into his arms,`
but he stepped out just then, and there wasn't anything the matter with
his legs.  Time and time again, gentlemen of the jury, has this poor
suffering orphan flung herself on her knees with all her heart's
gratitude in her eyes before some scarred and crippled veteran, but
always, always to be disappointed, always to be plunged into new
despair--if his legs were right his scar was wrong, if his scar was right
his legs were wrong.  Never could find a man that would fill the bill.
Gentlemen of the jury; you have hearts, you have feelings, you have warm
human sympathies; you can feel for this poor suffering child. Gentlemen
of the jury, if I had time, if I had the opportunity, if I might be
permitted to go on and tell you the thousands and thousands and thousands
of mutilated strangers this poor girl has started out of cover, and
hunted from city to city, from state to state, from continent to
continent, till she has run them down and found they wan't the ones; I
know your hearts--"

By this time the Colonel had become so warmed up, that his voice, had
reached a pitch above that of the contending counsel; the lawyers
suddenly stopped, and they and the Judge turned towards the Colonel and
remained far several seconds too surprised at this novel exhibition to
speak.  In this interval of silence, an appreciation of the situation
gradually stole over the, audience, and an explosion of laughter
followed, in which even the Court and the bar could hardly keep from
joining.

Sheriff.  "Order in the Court."

The Judge.  "The witness will confine his remarks to answers to
questions."

The Colonel turned courteously to the Judge and said,

"Certainly, your Honor--certainly.  I am not well acquainted with the
forms of procedure in the courts of New York, but in the West, sir, in
the West--"

The Judge.  "There, there, that will do, that will do!

"You see, your Honor, there were no questions asked me, and I thought I
would take advantage of the lull in the proceedings to explain to the,
jury a very significant train of--"

The Judge.  "That will DO sir!  Proceed Mr. Braham."

"Col. Sellers, have you any, reason to suppose that this man is still
living?"

"Every reason, sir, every reason.

"State why"

"I have never heard of his death, sir.  It has never come to my
knowledge.  In fact, sir, as I once said to Governor--"

"Will you state to the jury what has been the effect of the knowledge of
this wandering and evidently unsettled being, supposed to be her father,
upon the mind of Miss Hawkins for so many years!"

Question objected to.  Question ruled out.

Cross-examined.  "Major Sellers, what is your occupation?"

The Colonel looked about him loftily, as if casting in his mind what
would be the proper occupation of a person of such multifarious interests
and then said with dignity:

"A gentleman, sir.  My father used to always say, sir"--

"Capt. Sellers, did you; ever see this man, this supposed father?"

"No, Sir. But upon one occasion, old Senator Thompson said to me, its my
opinion, Colonel Sellers"--

"Did you ever see any body who had seen him?"

"No, sir: It was reported around at one time, that"--

"That is all."

The defense then sent a day in the examination of medical experts in
insanity who testified, on the evidence heard, that sufficient causes had
occurred to produce an insane mind in the prisoner.  Numerous cases were
cited to sustain this opinion.  There was such a thing as momentary
insanity, in which the person, otherwise rational to all appearances,
was for the time actually bereft of reason, and not responsible for his
acts.  The causes of this momentary possession could often be found in
the person's life.  [It afterwards came out that the chief expert for the
defense, was paid a thousand dollars for looking into the case.]

The prosecution consumed another day in the examination of experts
refuting the notion of insanity. These causes might have produced
insanity, but there was no evidence that they have produced it in this
case, or that the prisoner was not at the time of the commission of the
crime in full possession of her ordinary faculties.

The trial had now lasted two weeks. It required four days now for the
lawyers to "sum up." These arguments of the counsel were very important
to their friends, and greatly enhanced their reputation at the bar but
they have small interest to us.  Mr. Braham in his closing speech
surpassed himself; his effort is still remembered as the greatest in the
criminal annals of New York.

Mr. Braham re-drew for the jury the picture, of Laura's early life; he
dwelt long upon that painful episode of the pretended marriage and the
desertion.  Col. Selby, he said, belonged, gentlemen; to what is called
the "upper classes:"  It is the privilege of the "upper classes" to prey
upon the sons and daughters of the people.  The Hawkins family, though
allied to the best blood of the South, were at the time in humble
circumstances.  He commented upon her parentage.  Perhaps her agonized
father, in his intervals of sanity, was still searching for his lost
daughter.  Would he one day hear that she had died a felon's death?
Society had pursued her, fate had pursued her, and in a moment of
delirium she had turned and defied fate and society.  He dwelt upon the
admission of base wrong in Col. Selby's dying statement.  He drew a
vivid, picture of the villain at last overtaken by the vengeance of
Heaven.  Would the jury say that this retributive justice, inflicted by
an outraged, and deluded woman, rendered irrational by the most cruel
wrongs, was in the nature of a foul, premeditated murder?  "Gentlemen;
it is enough for me to look upon the life of this most beautiful and
accomplished of her sex, blasted by the heartless villainy of man,
without seeing, at the-end of it; the horrible spectacle of a gibbet.
Gentlemen, we are all human, we have all sinned, we all have need of
mercy.  But I do not ask mercy of you who are the guardians of society
and of the poor waifs, its sometimes wronged victims; I ask only that
justice which you and I shall need in that last, dreadful hour, when
death will be robbed of half its terrors if we can reflect that we have
never wronged a human being.  Gentlemen, the life of this lovely and once
happy girl, this now stricken woman, is in your hands."

The jury were risibly affected. Half the court room was in tears.  If a
vote of both spectators and jury could have been taken then, the verdict
would have been, "let her go, she has suffered enough."

But the district attorney had the closing argument.  Calmly and without
malice or excitement he reviewed the testimony.  As the cold facts were
unrolled, fear settled upon the listeners.  There was no escape from the
murder or its premeditation.  Laura's character as a lobbyist in
Washington which had been made to appear incidentally in the evidence was
also against her: the whole body of the testimony of the defense was
shown to be irrelevant, introduced only to excite sympathy, and not
giving a color of probability to the absurd supposition of insanity.
The attorney then dwelt upon, the insecurity of life in the city, and the
growing immunity with which women committed murders.  Mr. McFlinn made a
very able speech; convincing the reason without touching the feelings.

The Judge in his charge reviewed the, testimony with great show of
impartiality.  He ended by saying that the verdict must be acquital or
murder in the first, degree.  If you find that the prisoner committed a
homicide, in possession of her reason and with premeditation, your
verdict will be accordingly.  If you find she was not in her right mind,
that she was the victim of insanity, hereditary or momentary, as it has
been explained, your verdict will take that into account.

As the Judge finished his charge, the spectators anxiously watched the
faces of the jury.  It was not a remunerative study.  In the court room
the general feeling was in favor of Laura, but whether this feeling
extended to the jury, their stolid faces did not reveal.  The public
outside hoped for a conviction, as it always does; it wanted an example;
the newspapers trusted the jury would have the courage to do its duty.
When Laura was convicted, then the public would tern around and abuse the
governor if he did; not pardon her.

The jury went out.  Mr. Braham preserved his serene confidence, but
Laura's friends were dispirited.  Washington and Col. Sellers had been
obliged to go to Washington, and they had departed under the unspoken
fear the verdict would be unfavorable, a disagreement was the best they
could hope for, and money was needed.  The necessity of the passage of
the University bill was now imperative.

The Court waited, for, some time, but the jury gave no signs of coming
in.  Mr. Braham said it was extraordinary.  The Court then took a recess
for a couple of hours.  Upon again coming in, word was brought that the
jury had not yet agreed.

But the, jury, had a question.  The point upon which, they wanted
instruction was this.  They wanted to know if Col. Sellers was related to
the Hawkins famiry.  The court then adjourned till morning.

Mr. Braham, who was in something of a pet, remarked to Mr. O'Toole that
they must have been deceived, that juryman with the broken nose could
read!




CHAPTER LVII.

The momentous day was at hand--a day that promised to make or mar the
fortunes of  Hawkins family for all time.  Washington Hawkins and Col.
Sellers were both up early, for neither of them could sleep.  Congress
was expiring, and was passing bill after bill as if they were gasps and
each likely to be its last.  The University was on file for its third
reading this day, and to-morrow Washington would be a millionaire and
Sellers no longer, impecunious but this day, also, or at farthest the
next, the jury  in Laura's Case would come to a decision of some kind or
other--they would find her guilty, Washington secretly feared, and then
the care and the trouble would all come back again, and these would be
wearing months of besieging judges for new trials; on this day, also, the
re-election of Mr. Dilworthy to the Senate would take place.  So
Washington's mind was in a state of turmoil; there were more interests at
stake than it could handle with serenity. He exulted when he thought of
his millions; he was filled with dread when he thought of Laura. But
Sellers was excited and happy. He said:

"Everything is going right, everything's going perfectly right.  Pretty
soon the telegrams will begin to rattle in, and then you'll see, my boy.
Let the jury do what they please; what difference is it going to make?
To-morrow we can send a million to New York and set the lawyers at work
on the judges; bless your heart they will go before judge after judge and
exhort and beseech and pray and shed tears.  They always do; and they
always win, too.  And they will win this time.  They will get a writ of
habeas corpus, and a stay of proceedings, and a supersedeas, and a new
trial and a nolle prosequi, and there you are!  That's the routine, and
it's no trick at all to a New York lawyer.  That's the regular routine
--everything's red tape and routine in the law, you see; it's all Greek
to you, of course, but to a man who is acquainted with those things it's
mere--I'll explain it to you sometime.  Everything's going to glide right
along easy and comfortable now.  You'll see, Washington, you'll see how
it will be.  And then, let me think ..... Dilwortby will be elected
to-day, and by day, after to-morrow night be will be in New York ready to
put in his shovel--and you haven't lived in Washington all this time not
to know that the people who walk right by a Senator whose term is up
without hardly seeing him will be down at the deepo to say 'Welcome back
and God bless you; Senator, I'm glad to see yon, sir!' when he comes
along back re-elected, you know.  Well, you see, his influence was
naturally running low when he left here, but now he has got a new six-
years' start, and his suggestions will simply just weigh a couple of tons
a-piece day after tomorrow.  Lord bless you he could rattle through that
habeas corpus and supersedeas and all those things for Laura all by
himself if he wanted to, when he gets back."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Washington, brightening, but it is so.
A newly-elected Senator is a power, I know that."

"Yes indeed he is.--Why it, is just human nature.  Look at me. When we
first carne here, I was Mr. Sellers, and Major Sellers, Captain Sellers,
but nobody could ever get it right, somehow; but the minute our bill
went, through the House, I was Col. Sellers every time.  And nobody could
do enough for me, and whatever I said was wonderful, Sir, it was always
wonderful; I never seemed to say any flat things at all. It was Colonel,
won't you come and dine with us; and Colonel why don't we ever see you at
our house; and the Colonel says this; and the Colonel says that; and we
know such-and-such is so-and-so because my husband heard Col. Sellers say
so. Don't you see?  Well, the Senate adjourned and left our bill high,
and dry, and I'll be hanged if I warn't Old Sellers from that day, till
our bill passed the House again last week.  Now I'm the Colonel again;
and if I were to eat all the dinners I am invited to, I reckon I'd wear
my teeth down level with my gums in a couple of weeks."

"Well I do wonder what you will be to-morrow; Colonel, after the
President signs the bill!"

"General, sir?--General, without a doubt. Yes, sir, tomorrow it will be
General, let me congratulate you, sir; General, you've done a great work,
sir;--you've done a great work for the niggro; Gentlemen allow me the
honor to introduce my friend General Sellers, the humane friend of the
niggro.  Lord bless me; you'll' see the newspapers say, General Sellers
and servants arrived in the city last night and is stopping at the Fifth
Avenue; and General Sellers has accepted a reception and banquet by the
Cosmopolitan Club; you'll see the General's opinions quoted, too--
and what the General has to say about the propriety of a new trial and
a habeas corpus for the unfortunate Miss Hawkins will not be without
weight in influential quarters, I can tell you."

"And I want to be the first to shake your faithful old hand and salute
you with your new honors, and I want to do it now--General!" said
Washington, suiting the action to the word, and accompanying it with all
the meaning that a cordial grasp and eloquent eyes could give it.

The Colonel was touched; he was pleased and proud, too; his face answered
for that.

Not very long after breakfast the telegrams began to arrive.  The first
was from Braham, and ran thus:

     "We feel certain that the verdict will be rendered to-day.  Be it
     good or bad, let it find us ready to make the next move instantly,
     whatever it may be:"

That's the right talk," said Sellers.  That Graham's a wonderful man.
He was the only man there that really understood me; he told me so
himself, afterwards."

The next telegram was from Mr. Dilworthy:

     "I have not only brought over the Great Invincible, but through him
     a dozen more of the opposition.  Shall be re-elected to-day by an
     overwhelming majority."

"Good again!" said the Colonel.  "That man's talent for organization is
something marvelous. He wanted me to go out there and engineer that
thing, but I said, No, Dilworthy, I must be on hand here,--both on
Laura's account and the bill's--but you've no trifling genius for
organization yourself, said I--and I was right.  You go ahead, said I--
you can fix it--and so he has.  But I claim no credit for that--if I
stiffened up his back-bone a little, I simply put him in the way to make
his fight--didn't undertake it myself.  He has captured Noble--.
I consider that a splendid piece of diplomacy--Splendid, Sir!"

By and by came another dispatch from New York:

"Jury still out. Laura calm and firm as a statue.  The report that the
jury have brought her in guilty is false and premature."

"Premature!" gasped Washington, turning white.  "Then they all expect
that sort of a verdict, when it comes in."

And so did he; but he had not had courage enough to put it into words.
He had been preparing himself for the worst, but after all his
preparation the bare suggestion of the possibility of such a verdict
struck him cold as death.

The friends grew impatient, now; the telegrams did not come fast enough:
even the lightning could not keep up with their anxieties.  They walked
the floor talking disjointedly and listening for the door-bell.  Telegram
after telegram came.  Still no result.  By and by there was one which
contained a single line:

"Court now coming in after brief recess to hear verdict. Jury ready."

"Oh, I wish they would finish!" said Washington. "This suspense is
killing me by inches!"

Then came another telegram:

"Another hitch somewhere. Jury want a little more time and further
instructions."

"Well, well, well, this is trying," said the Colonel.  And after a pause,
"No dispatch from Dilworthy for two hours, now.  Even a dispatch from him
would be better than nothing, just to vary this thing."

They waited twenty minutes. It seemed twenty hours.

"Come!" said Washington. "I can't wait for the telegraph boy to come all
the way up here. Let's go down to Newspaper Row--meet him on the way."

While they were passing along the Avenue, they saw someone putting up a
great display-sheet on the bulletin board of a newspaper office, and an
eager crowd of men was collecting abort the place. Washington and the
Colonel ran to the spot and read this:

"Tremendous Sensation! Startling news from Saint's Rest!  On first ballot
for U. S. Senator, when voting was about to begin, Mr. Noble rose in his
place and drew forth a package, walked forward and laid it on the
Speaker's desk, saying, 'This contains $7,000 in bank bills and was given
me by Senator Dilworthy in his bed-chamber at midnight last night to buy
--my vote for him--I wish the Speaker to count the money and retain it to
pay the expense of prosecuting this infamous traitor for bribery.  The
whole legislature was stricken speechless with dismay and astonishment.
Noble further said that there were fifty members present with money in
their pockets, placed there by Dilworthy to buy their votes.  Amidst
unparalleled excitement the ballot was now taken, and J. W. Smith elected
U. S. Senator; Dilworthy receiving not one vote!  Noble promises damaging
exposures concerning Dilworthy and certain measures of his now pending in
Congress.

"Good heavens and earth!" exclaimed the Colonel.

"To the Capitol!" said Washington. "Fly!"

And they did fly.  Long before they got there the newsboys were running
ahead of them with Extras, hot from the press, announcing the astounding
news.

Arrived in the gallery of the Senate, the friends saw a curious spectacle
very Senator held an Extra in his hand and looked as interested as if it
contained news of the destruction of the earth.  Not a single member was
paying the least attention to the business of the hour.

The Secretary, in a loud voice, was just beginning to read the title of a
bill:

"House-Bill--No.4,231,--An-Act-to-Found-and-Incorporate-the Knobs-
Industrial-University!--Read-first-and-second-time-considered-in-
committee-of-the-whole-ordered-engrossed and-passed-to-third-reading-and-
final passage!"

The President--"Third reading of the bill!"

The two friends shook in their shoes.  Senators threw down their extras
and snatched a word or two with each other in whispers. Then the gavel
rapped to command silence while the names were called on the ayes and
nays.  Washington grew paler and paler, weaker and weaker while the
lagging list progressed; and when it was finished, his head fell
helplessly forward on his arms.  The fight was fought, the long struggle
was over, and he was a pauper.  Not a man had voted for the bill!

Col. Sellers was bewildered and well nigh paralyzed, himself. But no man
could long consider his own troubles in the presence of such suffering as
Washington's.  He got him up and supported him--almost carried him
indeed--out of the building and into a carriage.  All the way home
Washington lay with his face against the Colonel's shoulder and merely
groaned and wept.  The Colonel tried as well as he could under the dreary
circumstances to hearten him a little, but it was of no use.  Washington
was past all hope of cheer, now.  He only said:

"Oh, it is all over--it is all over for good, Colonel. We must beg our
bread, now.  We never can get up again.  It was our last chance, and it
is gone.  They will hang Laura!  My God they will hang her!  Nothing can
save the poor girl now.  Oh, I wish with all my soul they would hang me
instead!"

Arrived at home, Washington fell into a chair and buried his face in his
hands and gave full way to his misery.  The Colonel did not know where to
turn nor what to do.  The servant maid knocked at the door and passed in
a telegram, saying it had come while they were gone.

The Colonel tore it open and read with the voice of a man-of-war's
broadside:

"VERDICT OF JURY, NOT GUILTY AND LAURA IS FREE!"




CHAPTER LVIII.

The court room was packed on the morning on which the verdict of the jury
was expected, as it had been every day of the trial, and by the same
spectators, who had followed its progress with such intense interest.

There is a delicious moment of excitement which the frequenter of trials
well knows, and which he would not miss for the world.  It is that
instant when the foreman of the jury stands up to give the verdict,
and before he has opened his fateful lips.

The court assembled and waited.  It was an obstinate jury.

It even had another question--this intelligent jury--to ask the judge
this morning.

The question was this: "Were the doctors clear that the deceased had no
disease which might soon have carried him off, if he had not been shot?"
There was evidently one jury man who didn't want to waste life, and was
willing to stake a general average, as the jury always does in a civil
case, deciding not according to the evidence but reaching the verdict by
some occult mental process.

During the delay the spectators exhibited unexampled patience, finding
amusement and relief in the slightest movements of the court, the
prisoner and the lawyers.  Mr. Braham divided with Laura the attention
of the house.  Bets were made by the Sheriff's deputies on the verdict,
with large odds in favor of a disagreement.

It was afternoon when it was announced that the jury was coming in.
The reporters took their places and were all attention; the judge and
lawyers were in their seats; the crowd swayed and pushed in eager
expectancy, as the jury walked in and stood up in silence.

Judge.  "Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?"

Foreman.  "We have."

Judge.  "What is it?"

Foreman.  "NOT GUILTY."

A shout went up from the entire room and a tumult of cheering which the
court in vain attempted to quell.  For a few moments all order was lost.
The spectators crowded within the bar and surrounded Laura who, calmer
than anyone else, was supporting her aged mother, who had almost fainted
from excess of joy.

And now occurred one of those beautiful incidents which no fiction-writer
would dare to imagine, a scene of touching pathos, creditable to our
fallen humanity.  In the eyes of the women of the audience Mr. Braham was
the hero of the occasion; he had saved the life of the prisoner; and
besides he was such a handsome man.  The women could not restrain their
long pent-up emotions.  They threw themselves upon Mr. Braham in a
transport of gratitude; they kissed him again and again, the young as
well as the advanced in years, the married as well as the ardent single
women; they improved the opportunity with a touching self-sacrifice; in
the words of a newspaper of the day they "lavished him with kisses."

It was something sweet to do; and it would be sweet for a woman to
remember in after years, that she had kissed Braham!  Mr. Braham himself
received these fond assaults with the gallantry of his nation, enduring
the ugly, and heartily paying back beauty in its own coin.

This beautiful scene is still known in New York as "the kissing of
Braham."

When the tumult of congratulation had a little spent itself, and order
was restored, Judge O'Shaunnessy said that it now became his duty to
provide for the proper custody and treatment of the acquitted.  The
verdict of the jury having left no doubt that the woman was of an unsound
mind, with a kind of insanity dangerous to the safety of the community,
she could not be permitted to go at large.  "In accordance with the
directions of the law in such cases," said the Judge, "and in obedience
to the dictates of a wise humanity, I hereby commit Laura Hawkins to the
care of the Superintendent of the State Hospital for Insane Criminals, to
be held in confinement until the State Commissioners on Insanity shall
order her discharge.  Mr. Sheriff, you will attend at once to the
execution of this decree."

Laura was overwhelmed and terror-stricken.  She had expected to walk
forth in freedom in a few moments.  The revulsion was terrible.  Her
mother appeared like one shaken with an ague fit.  Laura insane!  And
about to be locked up with madmen!  She had never contemplated this.
Mr. Graham said he should move at once for a writ of 'habeas corpus'.

But the judge could not do less than his duty, the law must have its way.
As in the stupor of a sudden calamity, and not fully comprehending it,
Mrs. Hawkins saw Laura led away by the officer.

With little space for thought she was, rapidly driven to the railway
station, and conveyed to the Hospital for Lunatic Criminals.  It was only
when she was within this vast and grim abode of madness that she realized
the horror of her situation.  It was only when she was received by the
kind physician and read pity in his eyes, and saw his look of hopeless
incredulity when she attempted to tell him that she was not insane; it
was only when she passed through the ward to which she was consigned and
saw the horrible creatures, the victims of a double calamity, whose
dreadful faces she was hereafter to see daily, and was locked into the
small, bare room that was to be her home, that all her fortitude forsook
her.  She sank upon the bed, as soon as she was left alone--she had been
searched by the matron--and tried to think.  But her brain was in a
whirl.  She recalled Braham's speech, she recalled the testimony
regarding her lunacy.  She wondered if she were not mad; she felt that
she soon should be among these loathsome creatures.  Better almost to
have died, than to slowly go mad in this confinement.

--We beg the reader's pardon.  This is not history, which has just been
written.  It is really what would have occurred if this were a novel.
If this were a work of fiction, we should not dare to dispose of Laura
otherwise.  True art and any attention to dramatic proprieties required
it.  The novelist who would turn loose upon society an insane murderess
could not escape condemnation.  Besides, the safety of society, the
decencies of criminal procedure, what we call our modern civilization,
all would demand that Laura should be disposed of in the manner we have
described.  Foreigners, who read this sad story, will be unable to
understand any other termination of it.

But this is history and not fiction.  There is no such law or custom as
that to which his Honor is supposed to have referred; Judge O'Shaunnessy
would not probably pay any attention to it if there were.  There is no
Hospital for Insane Criminals; there is no State commission of lunacy.
What actually occurred when the tumult in the court room had subsided the
sagacious reader will now learn.

Laura left the court room, accompanied by her mother and other friends,
amid the congratulations of those assembled, and was cheered as she
entered a carriage, and drove away.  How sweet was the sunlight, how
exhilarating the sense of freedom!  Were not these following cheers the
expression of popular approval and affection?  Was she not the heroine of
the hour?

It was with a feeling of triumph that Laura reached her hotel, a scornful
feeling of victory over society with its own weapons.

Mrs. Hawkins shared not at all in this feeling; she was broken with the
disgrace and the long anxiety.

"Thank God, Laura," she said, "it is over.  Now we will go away from this
hateful city.  Let us go home at once."

"Mother," replied Laura, speaking with some tenderness, "I cannot go with
you.  There, don't cry, I cannot go back to that life."

Mrs. Hawkins was sobbing.  This was more cruel than anything else, for
she had a dim notion of what it would be to leave Laura to herself.

"No, mother, you have been everything to me.  You know how dearly I love
you.  But I cannot go back."

A boy brought in a telegraphic despatch.  Laura took it and read:

"The bill is lost.  Dilworthy ruined.  (Signed) WASHINGTON."

For a moment the words swam before her eyes.  The next her eyes flashed
fire as she handed the dispatch to her m other and bitterly said,

"The world is against me.  Well, let it be, let it.  I am against it."

"This is a cruel disappointment," said Mrs. Hawkins, to whom one grief
more or less did not much matter now, "to you and, Washington; but we
must humbly bear it."

"Bear it;"  replied Laura scornfully, "I've all my life borne it, and fate
has thwarted me at every step."

A servant came to the door to say that there was a gentleman below who
wished to speak with Miss Hawkins.  "J. Adolphe Griller" was the name
Laura read on the card.  "I do not know such a person.  He probably comes
from Washington.  Send him up."

Mr. Griller entered.  He was a small man, slovenly in dress, his tone
confidential, his manner wholly void of animation, all his features below
the forehead protruding--particularly the apple of his throat--hair
without a kink in it, a hand with no grip, a meek, hang-dog countenance.
a falsehood done in flesh and blood; for while every visible sign about
him proclaimed him a poor, witless, useless weakling, the truth was that
he had the brains to plan great enterprises and the pluck to carry them
through.  That was his reputation, and it was a deserved one.  He softly
said:

"I called to see you on business, Miss Hawkins.  You have my card?"

Laura bowed.

Mr. Griller continued to purr, as softly as before.

"I will proceed to business.  I am a business man.  I am a lecture-agent,
Miss Hawkins, and as soon as I saw that you were acquitted, it occurred
to me that an early interview would be mutually beneficial."

"I don't understand you, sir," said Laura coldly.

"No?  You see, Miss Hawkins, this is your opportunity.  If you will enter
the lecture field under good auspices, you will carry everything before
you."

"But, sir, I never lectured, I haven't any lecture, I don't know anything
about it."

"Ah, madam, that makes no difference--no real difference.  It is not
necessary to be able to lecture in order to go into the lecture tour.
If ones name is celebrated all over the land, especially, and, if she is
also beautiful, she is certain to draw large audiences."

"But what should I lecture about?" asked Laura, beginning in spite of
herself to be a little interested as well as amused.

"Oh, why; woman--something about woman, I should say; the marriage
relation, woman's fate, anything of that sort.  Call it The Revelations
of a Woman's Life; now, there's a good title.  I wouldn't want any better
title than that.  I'm prepared to make you an offer, Miss Hawkins,
a liberal offer,--twelve thousand dollars for thirty nights."

Laura thought.  She hesitated.  Why not?  It would give her employment,
money.  She must do something.

"I will think of it, and let you know soon.  But still, there is very
little likelihood that I--however, we will not discuss it further now."

"Remember, that the sooner we get to work the better, Miss Hawkins,
public curiosity is so fickle.  Good day, madam."

The close of the trial released Mr. Harry Brierly and left him free to
depart upon his long talked of Pacific-coast mission.  He was very
mysterious about it, even to Philip.

"It's confidential, old boy," he said, "a little scheme we have hatched
up.  I don't mind telling you that it's a good deal bigger thing than
that in Missouri, and a sure thing.  I wouldn't take a half a million
just for my share.  And it will open something for you, Phil.  You will
hear from me."

Philip did hear, from Harry a few months afterward.  Everything promised
splendidly, but there was a little delay.  Could Phil let him have a
hundred, say, for ninety days?

Philip himself hastened to Philadelphia, and, as soon as the spring
opened, to the mine at Ilium, and began transforming the loan he had
received from Squire Montague into laborers' wages.  He was haunted with
many anxieties; in the first place, Ruth was overtaxing her strength in
her hospital labors, and Philip felt as if he must move heaven and earth
to save her from such toil and suffering.  His increased pecuniary
obligation oppressed him.  It seemed to him also that he had been one
cause of the misfortune to the Bolton family, and that he was dragging
into loss and ruin everybody who associated with him.  He worked on day
after day and week after week, with a feverish anxiety.

It would be wicked, thought Philip, and impious, to pray for luck; he
felt that perhaps he ought not to ask a blessing upon the sort of labor
that was only a venture; but yet in that daily petition, which this very
faulty and not very consistent young Christian gentleman put up, he
prayed earnestly enough for Ruth and for the Boltons and for those whom
he loved and who trusted in him, and that his life might not be a
misfortune to them and a failure to himself.

Since this young fellow went out into the world from his New England
home, he had done some things that he would rather his mother should not
know, things maybe that he would shrink from telling Ruth.  At a certain
green age young gentlemen are sometimes afraid of being called milksops,
and Philip's associates had not always been the most select, such as
these historians would have chosen for him, or whom at a later, period he
would have chosen for himself.  It seemed inexplicable, for instance,
that his life should have been thrown so much with his college
acquaintance, Henry Brierly.

Yet, this was true of Philip, that in whatever company he had been he had
never been ashamed to stand up for the principles he learned from his
mother, and neither raillery nor looks of wonder turned him from that
daily habit had learned at his mother's knees.--Even flippant Harry
respected this, and perhaps it was one of the reasons why Harry and all
who knew Philip trusted him implicitly.  And yet it must be confessed
that Philip did not convey the impression to the world of a very serious
young man, or of a man who might not rather easily fall into temptation.
One looking for a real hero would have to go elsewhere.

The parting between Laura and her mother was exceedingly painful to both.
It was as if two friends parted on a wide plain, the one to journey
towards the setting and the other towards the rising sun, each
comprehending that every, step henceforth must separate their lives,
wider and wider.




CHAPTER LIX.

When Mr. Noble's bombshell fell, in Senator Dilworthy's camp, the
statesman was disconcerted for a moment. For a moment; that was all.
The next moment he was calmly up and doing.  From the centre of our
country to its circumference, nothing was talked of but Mr. Noble's
terrible revelation, and the people were furious.  Mind, they were not
furious because bribery was uncommon in our public life, but merely
because here was another case.  Perhaps it did not occur to the nation of
good and worthy people that while they continued to sit comfortably at
home and leave the true source of our political power (the "primaries,")
in the hands of saloon-keepers, dog-fanciers and hod-carriers, they could
go on expecting "another" case of this kind, and even dozens and hundreds
of them, and never be disappointed.  However, they may have thought that
to sit at home and grumble would some day right the evil.

Yes, the nation was excited, but Senator Dilworthy was calm--what was
left of him after the explosion of the shell.  Calm, and up and doing.
What did he do first?  What would you do first, after you had tomahawked
your mother at the breakfast table for putting too much sugar in your
coffee?  You would "ask for a suspension of public opinion."  That is
what Senator Dilworthy did.  It is the custom.  He got the usual amount
of suspension.  Far and wide he was called a thief, a briber, a promoter
of steamship subsidies, railway swindles, robberies of the government in
all possible forms and fashions.  Newspapers and everybody else called
him a pious hypocrite, a sleek, oily fraud, a reptile who manipulated
temperance movements, prayer meetings, Sunday schools, public charities,
missionary enterprises, all for his private benefit.  And as these
charges were backed up by what seemed to be good and sufficient,
evidence, they were believed with national unanimity.

Then Mr. Dilworthy made another move.  He moved instantly to Washington
and "demanded an investigation."  Even this could not pass without,
comment.  Many papers used language to this effect:

     "Senator Dilworthy's remains have demanded an investigation.  This
     sounds fine and bold and innocent; but when we reflect that they
     demand it at the hands of the Senate of the United States, it simply
     becomes matter for derision.  One might as well set the gentlemen
     detained in the public prisons to trying each other.  This
     investigation is likely to be like all other Senatorial
     investigations--amusing but not useful.  Query.  Why does the Senate
     still stick to this pompous word, 'Investigation?'  One does not
     blindfold one's self in order to investigate an object."

Mr. Dilworthy appeared in his place in the Senate and offered a
resolution appointing a committee to investigate his case.  It carried,
of course, and the committee was appointed.  Straightway the newspapers
said:

     "Under the guise of appointing a committee to investigate the late
     Mr. Dilworthy, the Senate yesterday appointed a committee to
     investigate his accuser, Mr. Noble.  This is the exact spirit and
     meaning of the resolution, and the committee cannot try anybody but
     Mr. Noble without overstepping its authority.  That Dilworthy had
     the effrontery to offer such a resolution will surprise no one, and
     that the Senate could entertain it without blushing and pass it
     without shame will surprise no one.  We are now reminded of a note
     which we have received from the notorious burglar Murphy, in which
     he finds fault with a statement of ours to the effect that he had
     served one term in the penitentiary and also one in the U. S.
     Senate.  He says, 'The latter statement is untrue and does me great
     injustice.'  After an unconscious sarcasm like that, further comment
     is unnecessary."

And yet the Senate was roused by the Dilworthy trouble.  Many speeches
were made.  One Senator (who was accused in the public prints of selling
his chances of re-election to his opponent for $50,000 and had not yet
denied the charge) said that, "the presence in the Capital of such a
creature as this man Noble, to testify against a brother member of their
body, was an insult to the Senate."

Another Senator said, "Let the investigation go on and let it make an
example of this man Noble; let it teach him and men like him that they
could not attack the reputation of a United States-Senator with
impunity."

Another said he was glad the investigation was to be had, for it was high
time that the Senate should crush some cur like this man Noble, and thus
show his kind that it was able and resolved to uphold its ancient
dignity.

A by-stander laughed, at this finely delivered peroration; and said:

"Why, this is the Senator who franked his, baggage home through the mails
last week-registered, at that.  However, perhaps he was merely engaged in
'upholding the ancient dignity of the Senate,'--then."

"No, the modern dignity of it," said another by-stander.  "It don't
resemble its ancient dignity but it fits its modern style like a glove."

There being no law against making offensive remarks about U. S.
Senators, this conversation, and others like it, continued without let or
hindrance.  But our business is with the investigating committee.

Mr. Noble appeared before the Committee of the Senate; and testified to
the following effect:

He said that he was a member of the State legislature of the
Happy-Land-of-Canaan; that on the --- day of ------ he assembled himself
together at the city of Saint's Rest, the capital of the State, along
with his brother legislators; that he was known to be a political enemy
of Mr. Dilworthy and bitterly opposed to his re-election; that Mr.
Dilworthy came to Saint's Rest and reported to be buying pledges of votes
with money; that the said Dilworthy sent for him to come to his room in
the hotel at night, and he went; was introduced to Mr. Dilworthy; called
two or three times afterward at Dilworthy's request--usually after
midnight; Mr. Dilworthy urged him to vote for him Noble declined;
Dilworthy argued; said he was bound to be elected, and could then ruin
him (Noble) if he voted no; said he had every railway and every public
office and stronghold of political power in the State under his thumb,
and could set up or pull down any man he chose; gave instances showing
where and how he had used this power; if Noble would vote for him he
would make him a Representative in Congress; Noble still declined to
vote, and said he did not believe Dilworthy was going to be elected;
Dilworthy showed a list of men who would vote for him--a majority of the
legislature; gave further proofs of his power by telling Noble everything
the opposing party had done or said in secret caucus; claimed that his
spies reported everything to him, and that--

Here a member of the Committee objected that this evidence was irrelevant
and also in opposition to the spirit of the Committee's instructions,
because if these things reflected upon any one it was upon Mr. Dilworthy.
The chairman said, let the person proceed with his statement--the
Committee could exclude evidence that did not bear upon the case.

Mr. Noble continued.  He said that his party would cast him out if he
voted for Mr, Dilworthy; Dilwortby said that that would inure to his
benefit because he would then be a recognized friend of his (Dilworthy's)
and he could consistently exalt him politically and make his fortune;
Noble said he was poor, and it was hard to tempt him so; Dilworthy said
he would fix that; he said, "Tell, me what you want, and say you will vote
for me;" Noble could not say; Dilworthy said "I will give you $5,000."

A Committee man said, impatiently, that this stuff was all outside the
case, and valuable time was being wasted; this was all, a plain
reflection upon a brother Senator.  The Chairman said it was the quickest
way to proceed, and the evidence need have no weight.

Mr. Noble continued.  He said he told Dilworthy that $5,000 was not much
to pay for a man's honor, character and everything that was worth having;
Dilworthy said he was surprised; he considered $5,000 a fortune--for some
men; asked what Noble's figure was; Noble said he could not think $10,000
too little; Dilworthy said it was a great deal too much; he would not do
it for any other man, but he had conceived a liking for Noble, and where
he liked a man his heart yearned to help him; he was aware that Noble was
poor, and had a family to support, and that he bore an unblemished
reputation at home; for such a man and such a man's influence he could do
much, and feel that to help such a man would be an act that would have
its reward; the struggles of the poor always touched him; he believed
that Noble would make a good use of this money and that it would cheer
many a sad heart and needy home; he would give the, $10,000; all he
desired in return was that when the balloting began, Noble should cast
his vote for him and should explain to the legislature that upon looking
into the charges against Mr. Dilworthy of bribery, corruption, and
forwarding stealing measures in Congress he had found them to be base
calumnies upon a man whose motives were pure and whose character was
stainless; he then took from his pocket $2,000 in bank bills and handed
them to Noble, and got another package containing $5,000 out of his trunk
and gave to him also.  He----

A Committee man jumped up, and said:

"At last, Mr. Chairman, this shameless person has arrived at the point.
This is sufficient and conclusive.  By his own confession he has received
a bribe, and did it deliberately.

"This is a grave offense, and cannot be passed over in silence, sir.  By
the terms of our instructions we can now proceed to mete out to him such
punishment as is meet for one who has maliciously brought disrespect upon
a Senator of the United States.  We have no need to hear the rest of his
evidence."

The Chairman said it would be better and more regular to proceed with the
investigation according to the usual forms.  A note would be made of
Mr. Noble's admission.

Mr. Noble continued.  He said that it was now far past midnight; that he
took his leave and went straight to certain legislators, told them
everything, made them count the money, and also told them of the exposure
he would make in joint convention; he made that exposure, as all the
world knew.  The rest of the $10,000 was to be paid the day after
Dilworthy was elected.

Senator Dilworthy was now asked to take the stand and tell what he knew
about the man Noble.  The Senator wiped his mouth with his handkerchief,
adjusted his white cravat, and said that but for the fact that public
morality required an example, for the warning of future Nobles, he would
beg that in Christian charity this poor misguided creature might be
forgiven and set free.  He said that it was but too evident that this
person had approached him in the hope of obtaining a bribe; he had
intruded himself time and again, and always with moving stories of his
poverty.  Mr. Dilworthy said that his heart had bled for him--insomuch
that he had several times been on the point of trying to get some one to
do something for him.  Some instinct had told him from the beginning that
this was a bad man, an evil-minded man, but his inexperience of such had
blinded him to his real motives, and hence he had never dreamed that his
object was to undermine the purity of a United States Senator.
He regretted that it was plain, now, that such was the man's object and
that punishment could not with safety to the Senate's honor be withheld.
He grieved to say that one of those mysterious dispensations of an
inscrutable Providence which are decreed from time to time by His wisdom
and for His righteous, purposes, had given this conspirator's tale a
color of plausibility,--but this would soon disappear under the clear
light of truth which would now be thrown upon the case.

It so happened, (said the Senator,) that about the time in question, a
poor young friend of mine, living in a distant town of my State, wished
to establish a bank; he asked me to lend him the necessary money; I said
I had no, money just then, but world try to borrow it.  The day before
the election a friend said to me that my election expenses must be very
large specially my hotel bills, and offered to lend me some money.
Remembering my young, friend, I said I would like a few thousands now,
and a few more by and by; whereupon he gave me two packages of bills said
to contain $2,000 and $5,000 respectively; I did not open the packages or
count the money; I did not give any note or receipt for the same; I made
no memorandum of the transaction, and neither did my friend.  That night
this evil man Noble came troubling me again: I could not rid myself of
him, though my time was very precious.  He mentioned my young friend and
said he was very anxious to have the $7000 now to begin his banking
operations with, and could wait a while for the rest.  Noble wished to
get the money and take it to him. I finally gave him the two packages of
bills; I took no note or receipt from him, and made no memorandum of the
matter.  I no more look for duplicity and deception in another man than I
would look for it in myself.  I never thought of this man again until I
was overwhelmed the next day by learning what a shameful use he had made
of the confidence I had reposed in him and the money I had entrusted to
his care. This is all, gentlemen.  To the absolute truth of every detail
of my statement I solemnly swear, and I call Him to witness who is the
Truth and the loving Father of all whose lips abhor false speaking; I
pledge my honor as a Senator, that I have spoken but the truth.  May God
forgive this wicked man as I do.

Mr. Noble--"Senator Dilworthy, your bank account shows that up to that
day, and even on that very day, you conducted all your financial business
through the medium of checks instead of bills, and so kept careful record
of every moneyed transaction.  Why did you deal in bank bills on this
particular occasion?"

The Chairman--"The gentleman will please to remember that the Committee
is conducting this investigation."

Mr. Noble--"Then will the Committee ask the question?"

The Chairman--"The Committee will--when it desires to know."

Mr. Noble--"Which will not be daring this century perhaps."

The Chairman--"Another remark like that, sir, will procure you the
attentions of the Sergeant-at-arms."

Mr. Noble--"D--n the Sergeant-at-arms, and the Committee too!"

Several Committeemen--"Mr. Chairman, this is Contempt!"

Mr. Noble--"Contempt of whom?"

"Of the Committee!  Of the Senate of the United States!"

Mr. Noble--"Then I am become the acknowledged representative of a nation.
You know as well as I do that the whole nation hold as much as three-
fifths of the United States Senate in entire contempt.--Three-fifths of
you are Dilworthys."

The Sergeant-at-arms very soon put a quietus upon the observations of the
representative of the nation, and convinced him that he was not, in the
over-free atmosphere of his Happy-Land-of-Canaan:

The statement of Senator Dilworthy naturally carried conviction to the
minds of the committee.--It was close, logical, unanswerable; it bore
many internal evidences of its, truth.  For instance, it is customary in
all countries for business men to loan large sums of money in bank bills
instead of checks.  It is customary for the lender to make no memorandum
of the transaction.  It is customary, for the borrower to receive the
money without making a memorandum of it, or giving a note or a receipt
for it's use--the borrower is not likely to die or forget about it.
It is customary to lend nearly anybody money to start a bank with
especially if you have not the money to lend him and have to borrow it
for the purpose.  It is customary to carry large sums of money in bank
bills about your person or in your trunk.  It is customary to hand a
large sure in bank bills to a man you have just been introduced to (if he
asks you to do it,) to be conveyed to a distant town and delivered to
another party.  It is not customary to make a memorandum of this
transaction; it is not customary for the conveyor to give a note or a
receipt for the money; it is not customary to require that he shall get a
note or a receipt from the man he is to convey it to in the distant town.
It would be at least singular in you to say to the proposed conveyor,
"You might be robbed; I will deposit the money in a bank and send a check
for it to my friend through the mail."

Very well.  It being plain that Senator Dilworthy's statement was rigidly
true, and this fact being strengthened by his adding to it the support of
"his honor as a Senator," the Committee rendered a verdict of "Not proven
that a bribe had been offered and accepted."  This in a manner exonerated
Noble and let him escape.

The Committee made its report to the Senate, and that body proceeded to
consider its acceptance.  One Senator indeed, several Senators--objected
that the Committee had failed of its duty; they had proved this man Noble
guilty of nothing, they had meted out no punishment to him; if the report
were accepted, he would go forth free and scathless, glorying in his
crime, and it would be a tacit admission that any blackguard could insult
the Senate of the United States and conspire against the sacred
reputation of its members with impunity; the Senate owed it to the
upholding of its ancient dignity to make an example of this man Noble--
he should be crushed.

An elderly Senator got up and took another view of the case.  This was a
Senator of the worn-out and obsolete pattern; a man still lingering among
the cobwebs of the past, and behind the spirit of the age.  He said that
there seemed to be a curious misunderstanding of the case.  Gentlemen
seemed exceedingly anxious to preserve and maintain the honor and dignity
of the Senate.

Was this to be done by trying an obscure adventurer for attempting to
trap a Senator into bribing him?  Or would not the truer way be to find
out whether the Senator was capable of being entrapped into so shameless
an act, and then try him?  Why, of course.  Now the whole idea of the
Senate seemed to be to shield the Senator and turn inquiry away from him.
The true way to uphold the honor of the Senate was to have none but
honorable men in its body.  If this Senator had yielded to temptation and
had offered a bribe, he was a soiled man and ought to be instantly
expelled; therefore he wanted the Senator tried, and not in the usual
namby-pamby way, but in good earnest.  He wanted to know the truth of
this matter.  For himself, he believed that the guilt of Senator
Dilworthy was established beyond the shadow of a doubt; and he considered
that in trifling with his case and shirking it the Senate was doing a
shameful and cowardly thing--a thing which suggested that in its
willingness to sit longer in the company of such a man, it was
acknowledging that it was itself of a kind with him and was therefore not
dishonored by his presence.  He desired that a rigid examination be made
into Senator Dilworthy's case, and that it be continued clear into the
approaching extra session if need be.  There was no dodging this thing
with the lame excuse of want of time.

In reply, an honorable Senator said that he thought it would be as well
to drop the matter and accept the Committee's report.  He said with some
jocularity that the more one agitated this thing, the worse it was for
the agitator.  He was not able to deny that he believed Senator Dilworthy
to be guilty--but what then?  Was it such an extraordinary case?  For his
part, even allowing the Senator to be guilty, he did not think his
continued presence during the few remaining days of the Session would
contaminate the Senate to a dreadful degree.  [This humorous sally was
received with smiling admiration--notwithstanding it was not wholly new,
having originated with the Massachusetts General in the House a day or
two before, upon the occasion of the proposed expulsion of a member for
selling his vote for money.]

The Senate recognized the fact that it could not be contaminated by
sitting a few days longer with Senator Dilworthy, and so it accepted the
committee's report and dropped the unimportant matter.

Mr. Dilworthy occupied his seat to the last hour of the session.  He said
that his people had reposed a trust in him, and it was not for him to
desert them.  He would remain at his post till he perished, if need be.

His voice was lifted up and his vote cast for the last time, in support
of an ingenious measure contrived by the General from Massachusetts
whereby the President's salary was proposed to be doubled and every
Congressman paid several thousand dollars extra for work previously done,
under an accepted contract, and already paid for once and receipted for.

Senator Dilworthy was offered a grand ovation by his friends at home, who
said that their affection for him and their confidence in him were in no
wise impaired by the persecutions that had pursued him, and that he was
still good enough for them.

--[The $7,000 left by Mr. Noble with his state legislature was placed in
safe keeping to await the claim of the legitimate owner.  Senator
Dilworthy made one little effort through his protege the embryo banker
to recover it, but there being no notes of hand or, other memoranda to
support the claim, it failed.  The moral of which is, that when one loans
money to start a bank with, one ought to take the party's written
acknowledgment of the fact.]




CHAPTER LX.

For some days Laura had been a free woman once more.  During this time,
she had experienced--first, two or three days of triumph, excitement,
congratulations, a sort of sunburst of gladness, after a long night of
gloom and anxiety; then two or three days of calming down, by degrees--
a receding of tides, a quieting of the storm-wash to a murmurous surf-
beat, a diminishing of devastating winds to a refrain that bore the
spirit of a truce-days given to solitude, rest, self-communion, and the
reasoning of herself into a realization of the fact that she was actually
done with bolts and bars, prison, horrors and impending, death; then came
a day whose hours filed slowly by her, each laden with some remnant,
some remaining fragment of the dreadful time so lately ended--a day
which, closing at last, left the past a fading shore behind her and
turned her eyes toward the broad sea of the future.  So speedily do we
put the dead away and come back to our place in the ranks to march in the
pilgrimage of life again.

And now the sun rose once more and ushered in the first day of what Laura
comprehended and accepted as a new life.

The past had sunk below the horizon, and existed no more for her;
she was done with it for all time.  She was gazing out over the trackless
expanses of the future, now, with troubled eyes.  Life must be begun
again--at eight and twenty years of age.  And where to begin?  The page
was blank, and waiting for its first record; so this was indeed a
momentous day.

Her thoughts drifted back, stage by stage, over her career.  As far as
the long highway receded over the plain of her life, it was lined with
the gilded and pillared splendors of her ambition all crumbled to ruin
and ivy-grown; every milestone marked a disaster; there was no green spot
remaining anywhere in memory of a hope that had found its fruition; the
unresponsive earth had uttered no voice of flowers in testimony that one
who was blest had gone that road.

Her life had been a failure.  That was plain, she said.  No more of that.
She would now look the future in the face; she would mark her course upon
the chart of life, and follow it; follow it without swerving, through
rocks and shoals, through storm and calm, to a haven of rest and peace or
shipwreck.  Let the end be what it might, she would mark her course now--
to-day--and follow it.

On her table lay six or seven notes.  They were from lovers; from some of
the prominent names in the land; men whose devotion had survived even the
grisly revealments of her character which the courts had uncurtained;
men who knew her now, just as she was, and yet pleaded as for their lives
for the dear privilege of calling the murderess wife.

As she read these passionate, these worshiping, these supplicating
missives, the woman in her nature confessed itself; a strong yearning
came upon her to lay her head upon a loyal breast and find rest from the
conflict of life, solace for her griefs, the healing of love for her
bruised heart.

With her forehead resting upon her hand, she sat thinking, thinking,
while the unheeded moments winged their flight.  It was one of those
mornings in early spring when nature seems just stirring to a half
consciousness out of a long, exhausting lethargy; when the first faint
balmy airs go wandering about, whispering the secret of the coming
change; when the abused brown grass, newly relieved of snow, seems
considering whether it can be worth the trouble and worry of contriving
its green raiment again only to fight the inevitable fight with the
implacable winter and be vanquished and buried once more; when the sun
shines out and a few birds venture forth and lift up a forgotten song;
when a strange stillness and suspense pervades the waiting air.  It is a
time when one's spirit is subdued and sad, one knows not why; when the
past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the
future but a way to death.  It is a time when one is filled with vague
longings; when one dreams of flight to peaceful islands in the remote
solitudes of the sea, or folds his hands and says, What is the use of
struggling, and toiling and worrying any more? let us give it all up.

It was into such a mood as this that Laura had drifted from the musings
which the letters of her lovers had called up.  Now she lifted her head
and noted with surprise how the day had wasted.  She thrust the letters
aside, rose up and went and stood at the window.  But she was soon
thinking again, and was only gazing into vacancy.

By and by she turned; her countenance had cleared; the dreamy look was
gone out of her face, all indecision had vanished; the poise of her head
and the firm set of her lips told that her resolution was formed.
She moved toward the table with all the old dignity in her carriage,
and all the old pride in her mien.  She took up each letter in its turn,
touched a match to it and watched it slowly consume to ashes.  Then she
said:

"I have landed upon a foreign shore, and burned my ships behind me.
These letters were the last thing that held me in sympathy with any
remnant or belonging of the old life.  Henceforth that life and all that
appertains to it are as dead to me and as far removed from me as if I
were become a denizen of another world."

She said that love was not for her--the time that it could have satisfied
her heart was gone by and could not return; the opportunity was lost,
nothing could restore it.  She said there could be no love without
respect, and she would only despise a man who could content himself with
a thing like her.  Love, she said, was a woman's first necessity: love
being forfeited; there was but one thing left that could give a passing
zest to a wasted life, and that was fame, admiration, the applause of the
multitude.

And so her resolution was taken.  She would turn to that final resort of
the disappointed of her sex, the lecture platform.  She would array
herself in fine attire, she would adorn herself with jewels, and stand in
her isolated magnificence before massed, audiences and enchant them with
her eloquence and amaze them with her unapproachable beauty.  She would
move from city to city like a queen of romance, leaving marveling
multitudes behind her and impatient multitudes awaiting her coming.
Her life, during one hour of each day, upon the platform, would be a
rapturous intoxication--and when the curtain fell; and the lights were
out, and the people gone, to nestle in their homes and forget her, she
would find in sleep oblivion of her homelessness, if she could, if not
she would brave out the night in solitude and wait for the next day's
hour of ecstasy.

So, to take up life and begin again was no great evil.  She saw her way.
She would be brave and strong; she would make the best of, what was left
for her among the possibilities.

She sent for the lecture agent, and matters were soon arranged.

Straightway, all the papers were filled with her name, and all the dead
walls flamed with it.  The papers called down imprecations upon her head;
they reviled her without stint; they wondered if all sense of decency was
dead in this shameless murderess, this brazen lobbyist, this heartless
seducer of the affections of weak and misguided men; they implored the
people, for the sake of their pure wives, their sinless daughters, for
the sake of decency, for the sake of public morals, to give this wretched
creature such a rebuke as should be an all-sufficient evidence to her and
to such as her, that there was a limit where the flaunting of their foul
acts and opinions before the world must stop; certain of them, with a
higher art, and to her a finer cruelty, a sharper torture, uttered no
abuse, but always spoke of her in terms of mocking eulogy and ironical
admiration.  Everybody talked about the new wonder, canvassed the theme
of her proposed discourse, and marveled how she would handle it.

Laura's few friends wrote to her or came and talked with her, and pleaded
with her to retire while it was yet time, and not attempt to face the
gathering storm.  But it was fruitless.  She was stung to the quick by
the comments of the newspapers; her spirit was roused, her ambition was
towering, now.  She was more determined than ever.  She would show these
people what a hunted and persecuted woman could do.

The eventful night came.  Laura arrived before the great lecture hall in
a close carriage within five minutes of the time set for the lecture to
begin.  When she stepped out of the vehicle her heart beat fast and her
eyes flashed with exultation: the whole street was packed with people,
and she could hardly force her way to the hall!  She reached the ante-
room, threw off her wraps and placed herself before the dressing-glass.
She turned herself this way and that--everything was satisfactory, her
attire was perfect.  She smoothed her hair, rearranged a jewel here and
there, and all the while her heart sang within her, and her face was
radiant.  She had not been so happy for ages and ages, it seemed to her.
Oh, no, she had never been so overwhelmingly grateful and happy in her
whole life before.  The lecture agent appeared at the door.  She waved
him away and said:

"Do not disturb me.  I want no introduction.  And do not fear for me; the
moment the hands point to eight I will step upon the platform."

He disappeared.  She held her watch before her.  She was so impatient
that the second-hand seemed whole tedious minutes dragging its way around
the circle.  At last the supreme moment came, and with head erect and the
bearing of an empress she swept through the door and stood upon the
stage.  Her eyes fell upon only a vast, brilliant emptiness--there were
not forty people in the house!  There were only a handful of coarse men
and ten or twelve still coarser women, lolling upon the benches and
scattered about singly and in couples.

Her pulses stood still, her limbs quaked, the gladness went out of her
face.  There was a moment of silence, and then a brutal laugh and an
explosion of cat-calls and hisses saluted her from the audience.  The
clamor grew stronger and louder, and insulting speeches were shouted at
her.  A half-intoxicated man rose up and threw something, which missed
her but bespattered a chair at her side, and this evoked an outburst of
laughter and boisterous admiration.  She was bewildered, her strength was
forsaking her.  She reeled away from the platform, reached the ante-room,
and dropped helpless upon a sofa.  The lecture agent ran in, with a
hurried question upon his lips; but she put forth her hands, and with the
tears raining from her eyes, said:

"Oh, do not speak!  Take me away-please take me away, out of this.
dreadful place!  Oh, this is like all my life--failure, disappointment,
misery--always misery, always failure.  What have I done, to be so
pursued!  Take me away, I beg of you, I implore you!"

Upon the pavement she was hustled by the mob, the surging masses roared
her name and accompanied it with every species of insulting epithet;
they thronged after the carriage, hooting, jeering, cursing, and even
assailing the vehicle with missiles.  A stone crushed through a blind,
wounding Laura's forehead, and so stunning her that she hardly knew what
further transpired during her flight.

It was long before her faculties were wholly restored, and then she found
herself lying on the floor by a sofa in her own sitting-room, and alone.
So she supposed she must have sat down upon the sofa and afterward
fallen.  She raised herself up, with difficulty, for the air was chilly
and her limbs were stiff.  She turned up the gas and sought the glass.
She hardly knew herself, so worn and old she looked, and so marred with
blood were her features.  The night was far spent, and a dead stillness
reigned.  She sat down by her table, leaned her elbows upon it and put
her face in her hands.

Her thoughts wandered back over her old life again and her tears flowed
unrestrained.  Her pride was humbled, her spirit was broken.  Her memory
found but one resting place; it lingered about her young girlhood with a
caressing regret; it dwelt upon it as the one brief interval of her life
that bore no curse.  She saw herself again in the budding grace of her
twelve years, decked in her dainty pride of ribbons, consorting with the
bees and the butterflies, believing in fairies, holding confidential
converse with the flowers, busying herself all day long with airy trifles
that were as weighty to her as the affairs that tax the brains of
diplomats and emperors.  She was without sin, then, and unacquainted with
grief; the world was full of sunshine and her heart was full of music.
From that--to this!

"If I could only die!" she said.  "If I could only go back, and be as I
was then, for one hour--and hold my father's hand in mine again, and see
all the household about me, as in that old innocent time--and then die!
My God, I am humbled, my pride is all gone, my stubborn heart repents--
have pity!"

When the spring morning dawned, the form still sat there, the elbows
resting upon the table and the face upon the hands.  All day long the
figure sat there, the sunshine enriching its costly raiment and flashing
from its jewels; twilight came, and presently the stars, but still the
figure remained; the moon found it there still, and framed the picture
with the shadow of the window sash, and flooded, it with mellow light; by
and by the darkness swallowed it up, and later the gray dawn revealed it
again; the new day grew toward its prime, and still the forlorn presence
was undisturbed.

But now the keepers of the house had become uneasy; their periodical
knockings still finding no response, they burst open the door.

The jury of inquest found that death had resulted from heart disease, and
was instant and painless.  That was all.  Merely heart disease.




CHAPTER LXI.

Clay Hawkins, years gone by, had yielded, after many a struggle, to the
migratory and speculative instinct of our age and our people, and had
wandered further and further westward upon trading ventures.  Settling
finally in Melbourne, Australia, he ceased to roam, became a steady-going
substantial merchant, and prospered greatly.  His life lay beyond the
theatre of this tale.

His remittances had supported the Hawkins family, entirely, from the time
of his father's death until latterly when Laura by her efforts in
Washington had been able to assist in this work.  Clay was away on a long
absence in some of the eastward islands when Laura's troubles began,
trying (and almost in vain,) to arrange certain interests which had
become disordered through a dishonest agent, and consequently he knew
nothing of the murder till he returned and read his letters and papers.
His natural impulse was to hurry to the States and save his sister if
possible, for he loved her with a deep and abiding affection.  His
business was so crippled now, and so deranged, that to leave it would be
ruin; therefore he sold out at a sacrifice that left him considerably
reduced in worldly possessions, and began his voyage to San Francisco.
Arrived there, he perceived by the newspapers that the trial was near its
close.  At Salt Lake later telegrams told him of the acquittal, and his
gratitude was boundless--so boundless, indeed, that sleep was driven from
his eyes by the pleasurable excitement almost as effectually as preceding
weeks of anxiety had done it.  He shaped his course straight for Hawkeye,
now, and his meeting with his mother and the rest of the household was
joyful--albeit he had been away so long that he seemed almost a stranger
in his own home.

But the greetings and congratulations were hardly finished when all the
journals in the land clamored the news of Laura's miserable death.
Mrs. Hawkins was prostrated by this last blow, and it was well that Clay
was at her side to stay her with comforting words and take upon himself
the ordering of the household with its burden of labors and cares.

Washington Hawkins had scarcely more than entered upon that decade which
carries one to the full blossom of manhood which we term the beginning:
of middle age, and yet a brief sojourn at the capital of the nation had
made him old.  His hair was already turning gray when the late session of
Congress began its sittings; it grew grayer still, and rapidly, after the
memorable day that saw Laura proclaimed a murderess; it waxed grayer and
still grayer during the lagging suspense that succeeded it and after the
crash which ruined  his last hope--the failure of his bill in the Senate
and the destruction of its champion, Dilworthy.  A few days later, when
he stood uncovered while the last prayer was pronounced over Laura's
grave, his hair was whiter and his face hardly less old than the
venerable minister's whose words were sounding in his ears.

A week after this, be was sitting in a double-bedded room in a cheap
boarding house in Washington, with Col. Sellers.  The two had been living
together lately, and this mutual cavern of theirs the Colonel sometimes
referred to as their "premises" and sometimes as their "apartments"--more
particularly when conversing with persons outside.  A canvas-covered
modern trunk, marked "G. W. H."  stood on end by the door, strapped and
ready for a journey; on it lay a small morocco satchel, also marked "G.
W. H."  There was another trunk close by--a worn, and scarred, and
ancient hair relic, with "B. S."  wrought in brass nails on its top;
on it lay a pair of saddle-bags that probably knew more about the last
century than they could tell.  Washington got up and walked the floor a
while in a restless sort of way, and finally was about to sit down on the
hair trunk.

"Stop, don't sit down on that!" exclaimed the Colonel: "There, now that's
all right--the chair's better.  I couldn't get another trunk like that--
not another like it in America, I reckon."

"I am afraid not," said Washington, with a faint attempt at a smile.

"No indeed; the man is dead that made that trunk and that saddle-bags."


"Are his great-grand-children still living?" said Washington, with levity
only in the words, not in the tone.

"Well, I don't know--I hadn't thought of that--but anyway they can't make
trunks and saddle-bags like that, if they are--no man can," said the
Colonel with honest simplicity.  "Wife didn't like to see me going off
with that trunk--she said it was nearly certain to be stolen."

"Why?"

"Why?  Why, aren't trunks always being stolen?"

"Well, yes--some kinds of trunks are."

"Very well, then; this is some kind of a trunk--and an almighty rare
kind, too."

"Yes, I believe it is."

"Well, then, why shouldn't a man want to steal it if he got a chance?"

"Indeed I don't know.--Why should he?"

"Washington, I never heard anybody talk like you.  Suppose you were a
thief, and that trunk was lying around and nobody watching--wouldn't you
steal it?  Come, now, answer fair--wouldn't you steal it?

"Well, now, since you corner me, I would take it,--but I wouldn't
consider it stealing.

"You wouldn't!  Well, that beats me.  Now what would you call stealing?"

"Why, taking property is stealing."

"Property!  Now what a way to talk that is: What do you suppose that
trunk is worth?"

"Is it in good repair?"

"Perfect.  Hair rubbed off a little, but the main structure is perfectly
sound."

"Does it leak anywhere?"

"Leak?  Do you want to carry water in it?  What do you mean by does it
leak?"

"Why--a--do the clothes fall out of it when it is--when it is
stationary?"

"Confound it, Washington, you are trying to make fun of me.  I don't know
what has got into you to-day; you act mighty curious.  What is the matter
with you?"

"Well, I'll tell you, old friend.  I am almost happy.  I am, indeed.
It wasn't Clay's telegram that hurried me up so and got me ready to start
with you.  It was a letter from Louise."

"Good!  What is it?  What does she say?"

"She says come home--her father has consented, at last."

"My boy, I want to congratulate you; I want to shake you by the hand!
It's a long turn that has no lane at the end of it, as the proverb says,
or somehow that way.  You'll be happy yet, and Beriah Sellers will be
there to see, thank God!"

"I believe it.  General Boswell is pretty nearly a poor man, now.  The
railroad that was going to build up Hawkeye made short work of him, along
with the rest.  He isn't so opposed to a son-in-law without a fortune,
now."

"Without a fortune, indeed!  Why that Tennessee Land--"

"Never mind the Tennessee Land, Colonel.  I am done with that, forever
and forever--"

"Why no!  You can't mean to say--"

"My father, away back yonder, years ago, bought it for a blessing for his
children, and--"

"Indeed he did!  Si Hawkins said to me--"

"It proved a curse to him as long as he lived, and never a curse like it
was inflicted upon any man's heirs--"

"I'm bound to say there's more or less truth--"

"It began to curse me when I was a baby, and it has cursed every hour of
my life to this day--"

"Lord, lord, but it's so!  Time and again my wife--"

"I depended on it all through my boyhood and never tried to do an honest
stroke of work for my living--"

"Right again--but then you--"

"I have chased it years and years as children chase butterflies.  We
might all have been prosperous, now; we might all have been happy, all
these heart-breaking years, if we had accepted our poverty at first and
gone contentedly to work and built up our own wealth by our own toil and
sweat--"

"It's so, it's so; bless my soul, how often I've told Si Hawkins--"

"Instead of that, we have suffered more than the damned themselves
suffer!  I loved my father, and I honor his memory and recognize his good
intentions; but I grieve for his mistaken ideas of conferring happiness
upon his children.  I am going to begin my life over again, and begin it
and end it with good solid work!  I'll leave my children no Tennessee
Land!"

"Spoken like a man, sir, spoken like a man!  Your hand, again my boy!
And always remember that when a word of advice from Beriah Sellers can
help, it is at your service.  I'm going to begin again, too!"

"Indeed!"

"Yes, sir.  I've seen enough to show me where my mistake was.  The law is
what I was born for.  I shall begin the study of the law.  Heavens and
earth, but that Brabant's a wonderful man--a wonderful man sir!  Such a
head!  And such a way with him!  But I could see that he was jealous of
me.  The little licks I got in in the course of my argument before the
jury--"

"Your argument!  Why, you were a witness."

"Oh, yes, to the popular eye, to the popular eye--but I knew when I was
dropping information and when I was letting drive at the court with an
insidious argument.  But the court knew it, bless you, and weakened every
time!  And Brabant knew it.  I just reminded him of it in a quiet way,
and its final result, and he said in a whisper, 'You did it, Colonel, you
did it, sir--but keep it mum for my sake; and I'll tell you what you do,'
says he, 'you go into the law, Col. Sellers--go into the law, sir; that's
your native element!'  And into the law the subscriber is going.  There's
worlds of money in it!--whole worlds of money!  Practice first in
Hawkeye, then in Jefferson, then in St. Louis, then in New York!  In the
metropolis of the western world!  Climb, and climb, and climb--and wind
up on the Supreme bench.  Beriah Sellers, Chief Justice of the Supreme
Court of the United States, sir!  A made man for all time and eternity!
That's the way I block it out, sir--and it's as clear as day--clear as
the rosy-morn!"

Washington had heard little of this.  The first reference to Laura's
trial had brought the old dejection to his face again, and he stood
gazing out of the window at nothing, lost in reverie.

There was a knock-the postman handed in a letter.  It was from Obedstown.
East Tennessee, and was for Washington.  He opened it.  There was a note
saying that enclosed he would please find a bill for the current year's
taxes on the 75,000 acres of Tennessee Land belonging to the estate of
Silas Hawkins, deceased, and added that the money must be paid within
sixty days or the land would be sold at public auction for the taxes, as
provided by law.  The bill was for $180--something more than twice the
market value of the land, perhaps.

Washington hesitated.  Doubts flitted through his mind.  The old instinct
came upon him to cling to the land just a little longer and give it one
more chance.  He walked the floor feverishly, his mind tortured by
indecision.  Presently he stopped, took out his pocket book and counted
his money.  Two hundred and thirty dollars--it was all he had in the
world.

"One hundred and eighty .  .  .  .  .  .  .  from two hundred and
thirty," he said to himself.  "Fifty left .  .  .  .  .  .  It is enough
to get me home .  .  .  ..  .  .  Shall I do it, or shall I not?  .  .  .
.  .  .  .  I wish I had somebody to decide for me."

The pocket book lay open in his hand, with Louise's small letter in view.
His eye fell upon that, and it decided him.

"It shall go for taxes," he said, "and never tempt me or mine any more!"

He opened the window and stood there tearing the tax bill to bits and
watching the breeze waft them away, till all were gone.

"The spell is broken, the life-long curse is ended!" he said.  "Let us
go."

The baggage wagon had arrived; five minutes later the two friends were
mounted upon their luggage in it, and rattling off toward the station,
the Colonel endeavoring to sing "Homeward Bound," a song whose words he
knew, but whose tune, as he rendered it, was a trial to auditors.





CHAPTER LXII


Philip Sterling's circumstances were becoming straightened.  The prospect
was gloomy.  His long siege of unproductive labor was beginning to tell
upon his spirits; but what told still more upon them was the undeniable
fact that the promise of ultimate success diminished every day, now.
That is to say, the tunnel had reached a point in the hill which was
considerably beyond where the coal vein should pass (according to all his
calculations) if there were a coal vein there; and so, every foot that
the tunnel now progressed seemed to carry it further away from the object
of the search.

Sometimes he ventured to hope that he had made a mistake in estimating
the direction which the vein should naturally take after crossing the
valley and entering the hill.  Upon such occasions he would go into the
nearest mine on the vein he was hunting for, and once more get the
bearings of the deposit and mark out its probable course; but the result
was the same every time; his tunnel had manifestly pierced beyond the
natural point of junction; and then his, spirits fell a little lower.
His men had already lost faith, and he often overheard them saying it was
perfectly plain that there was no coal in the hill.

Foremen and laborers from neighboring mines, and no end of experienced
loafers from the village, visited the tunnel from time to time, and their
verdicts were always the same and always disheartening--"No coal in that
hill."  Now and then Philip would sit down and think it all over and
wonder what the mystery meant; then he would go into the tunnel and ask
the men if there were no signs yet?  None--always "none."

He would bring out a piece of rock and examine it, and say to himself,
"It is limestone--it has crinoids and corals in it--the rock is right"
Then he would throw it down with a sigh, and say, "But that is nothing;
where coal is, limestone with these fossils in it is pretty certain to
lie against its foot casing; but it does not necessarily follow that
where this peculiar rock is coal must lie above it or beyond it; this
sign is not sufficient."

The thought usually followed:--"There is one infallible sign--if I could
only strike that!"

Three or four tines in as many weeks he said to himself, "Am I a
visionary? I must be a visionary; everybody is in these days; everybody
chases butterflies: everybody seeks sudden fortune and will not lay one
up by slow toil.  This is not right, I will discharge the men and go at
some honest work.  There is no coal here.  What a fool I have been; I
will give it up."

But he never could do it.  A half hour of profound thinking always
followed; and at the end of it he was sure to get up and straighten
himself and say: "There is coal there; I will not give it up; and coal
or no coal I will drive the tunnel clear through the hill; I will not
surrender while I am alive."

He never thought of asking Mr. Montague for more money.  He said there
was now but one chance of finding coal against nine hundred and ninety
nine that he would not find it, and so it would be wrong in him to make
the request and foolish in Mr. Montague to grant it.

He had been working three shifts of men.  Finally, the settling of a
weekly account exhausted his means.  He could not afford to run in debt,
and therefore he gave the men their discharge.  They came into his cabin
presently, where he sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his
hands--the picture of discouragement and their spokesman said:

"Mr. Sterling, when Tim was down a week with his fall you kept him on
half-wages and it was a mighty help to his family; whenever any of us was
in trouble you've done what you could to help us out; you've acted fair
and square with us every time, and I reckon we are men and know a man
when we see him.  We haven't got any faith in that hill, but we have a
respect for a man that's got the pluck that you've showed; youv'e fought
a good fight, with everybody agin you and if we had grub to go on, I'm d-
--d if we wouldn't stand by you till the cows come home!  That is what
the boys say.  Now we want to put in one parting blast for luck.  We want
to work three days more; if we don't find anything, we won't bring in no
bill against you.  That is what we've come to say."

Philip was touched.  If he had had money enough to buy three days' "grub"
he would have accepted the generous offer, but as it was, he could not
consent to be less magnanimous than the men, and so he declined in a
manly speech; shook hands all around and resumed his solitary communings.
The men went back to the tunnel and "put in a parting blast for luck"
anyhow.  They did a full day's work and then took their leave.  They
called at his cabin and gave him good-bye, but were not able to tell him
their day's effort had given things a mere promising look.

The next day Philip sold all the tools but two or three sets; he also
sold one of the now deserted cabins as old, lumber, together with its
domestic wares; and made up his mind that he would buy, provisions with
the trifle of money thus gained and continue his work alone.  About the
middle of the after noon he put on his roughest clothes and went to the
tunnel. He lit a candle and groped his way in.  Presently he heard the
sound of a pick or a drill, and wondered, what it meant. A spark of light
now appeared in the far end of the tunnel, and when he arrived there he
found the man Tim at work. Tim said:

"I'm to have a job in the Golden Brier mine by and by--in a week or ten
days--and I'm going to work here till then.  A man might as well be at
some thing, and besides I consider that I owe you what you paid me when I
was laid up."

Philip said,  Oh, no, he didn't owe anything; but Tim persisted, and then
Philip said he had a little provision now, and would share.  So for
several days Philip held the drill and Tim did the striking.  At first
Philip was impatient to see the result of every blast, and was always
back and peering among the smoke the moment after the explosion.  But
there was never any encouraging result; and therefore he finally lost
almost all interest, and hardly troubled himself to inspect results at
all.  He simply labored on, stubbornly and with little hope.

Tim staid with him till the last moment, and then took up his job at the
Golden Brier, apparently as depressed by the continued barrenness of
their mutual labors as Philip was himself.  After that, Philip fought his
battle alone, day after day, and slow work it was; he could scarcely see
that he made any progress.

Late one afternoon he finished drilling a hole which he had been at work
at for more than two hours; he swabbed it out, and poured in the powder
and inserted the fuse; then filled up the rest of the hole with dirt and
small fragments of stone; tamped it down firmly, touched his candle to
the fuse, and ran.  By and by the I dull report came, and he was about to
walk back mechanically and see what was accomplished; but he halted;
presently turned on his heel and thought, rather than said:

"No, this is useless, this is absurd.  If I found anything it would only
be one of those little aggravating seams of coal which doesn't mean
anything, and--"

By this time he was walking out of the tunnel.  His thought ran on:

"I am conquered .  .  .  .  .  .  I am out of provisions, out of money.
.  .  .  .  I have got to give it up .  .  .  .  .  .  All this hard work
lost!  But I am not conquered!  I will go and work for money, and come
back and have another fight with fate.  Ah me, it may be years, it may,
be years."

Arrived at the mouth of the tunnel, he threw his coat upon the ground,
sat down on, a stone, and his eye sought the westering sun and dwelt upon
the charming landscape which stretched its woody ridges, wave upon wave,
to the golden horizon.

Something was taking place at his feet which did not attract his
attention.

His reverie continued, and its burden grew more and more gloomy.
Presently he rose up and, cast a look far away toward the valley, and his
thoughts took a new direction:

"There it is!  How good it looks! But down there is not up here.  Well,
I will go home and pack up--there is nothing else to do"

He moved off moodily toward his cabin.  He had gone some distance before
he thought of his coat; then he was about to turn back, but he smiled at
the thought, and continued his journey--such a coat as that could be of
little use in a civilized land; a little further on, he remembered that
there were some papers of value in one of the pockets of the relic, and
then with a penitent ejaculation he turned back picked up the coat and
put it on.

He made a dozen steps, and then stopped very suddenly.  He stood still a
moment, as one who is trying to believe something and cannot.  He put a
hand up over his shoulder and felt his back, and a great thrill shot
through him.  He grasped the skirt of the coat impulsively and another
thrill followed.  He snatched the coat from his back, glanced at it,
threw it from him and flew back to the tunnel.  He sought the spot where
the coat had lain--he had to look close, for the light was waning--then
to make sure, he put his hand to the ground and a little stream of water
swept against his fingers:

"Thank God, I've struck it at last!"

He lit a candle and ran into the tunnel; he picked up a piece of rubbish
cast out by the last blast, and said:

"This clayey stuff is what I've longed for--I know what is behind it."

He swung his pick with hearty good will till long after the darkness had
gathered upon the earth, and when he trudged home at length he knew he
had a coal vein and that it was seven feet thick from wall to wall.

He found a yellow envelope lying on his rickety table, and recognized
that it was of a family sacred to the transmission of telegrams.

He opened it, read it, crushed it in his hand and threw it down.  It
simply said:

"Ruth is very ill."




CHAPTER LXIII.

It was evening when Philip took the cars at the Ilium station.  The news
of, his success had preceded him, and while he waited for the train, he
was the center of a group of eager questioners, who asked him a hundred
things about the mine, and magnified his good fortune.  There was no
mistake this time.

Philip, in luck, had become suddenly a person of consideration, whose
speech was freighted with meaning, whose looks were all significant.
The words of the proprietor of a rich coal mine have a golden sound,
and his common sayings are repeated as if they were solid wisdom.

Philip wished to be alone; his good fortune at this moment seemed an
empty mockery, one of those sarcasms of fate, such as that which spreads
a dainty banquet for the man who has no appetite.  He had longed for
success principally for Ruth's sake; and perhaps now, at this very moment
of his triumph, she was dying.

"Shust what I said, Mister Sderling," the landlord of the Ilium hotel
kept repeating.  "I dold Jake Schmidt he find him dere shust so sure as
noting."

"You ought to have taken a share, Mr.  Dusenheimer," said Philip.

"Yaas, I know.  But d'old woman, she say 'You sticks to your pisiness.
So I sticks to'em.  Und I makes noting.  Dat Mister Prierly, he don't
never come back here no more, ain't it?"

"Why?" asked Philip.

"Vell, dere is so many peers, and so many oder dhrinks, I got 'em all set
down, ven he coomes back."

It was a long night for Philip, and a restless one.  At any other time
the swing of the cars would have lulled him to sleep, and the rattle and
clank of wheels and rails, the roar of the whirling iron would have only
been cheerful reminders of swift and safe travel.  Now they were voices
of warning and taunting; and instead of going rapidly the train seemed to
crawl at a snail's pace.  And it not only crawled, but it frequently
stopped; and when it stopped it stood dead still and there was an ominous
silence.  Was anything the matter, he wondered.  Only a station probably.
Perhaps, he thought, a telegraphic station.  And then he listened
eagerly.  Would the conductor open the door and ask for Philip Sterling,
and hand him a fatal dispatch?

How long they seemed to wait.  And then slowly beginning to move, they
were off again, shaking, pounding, screaming through the night.  He drew
his curtain from time to time and looked out.  There was the lurid sky
line of the wooded range along the base of which they were crawling.
There was the Susquehannah, gleaming in the moon-light.  There was a
stretch of level valley with silent farm houses, the occupants all at
rest, without trouble, without anxiety.  There was a church, a graveyard,
a mill, a village; and now, without pause or fear, the train had mounted
a trestle-work high in air and was creeping along the top of it while a
swift torrent foamed a hundred feet below.

What would the morning bring? Even while he was flying to her, her gentle
spirit might have gone on another flight, whither he could not follow
her.  He was full of foreboding.  He fell at length into a restless doze.
There was a noise in his ears as of a rushing torrent when a stream is
swollen by a freshet in the spring.  It was like the breaking up of life;
he was struggling in the consciousness of coming death: when Ruth stood
by his side, clothed in white, with a face like that of an angel,
radiant, smiling, pointing to the sky, and saying, "Come."  He awoke with
a cry--the train was roaring through a bridge, and it shot out into
daylight.

When morning came the train was industriously toiling along through the
fat lands of Lancaster, with its broad farms of corn and wheat, its mean
houses of stone, its vast barns and granaries, built as if, for storing
the riches of Heliogabalus.  Then came the smiling fields of Chester,
with their English green, and soon the county of Philadelphia itself, and
the increasing signs of the approach to a great city.  Long trains of
coal cars, laden and unladen, stood upon sidings; the tracks of other
roads were crossed; the smoke of other locomotives was seen on parallel
lines; factories multiplied; streets appeared; the noise of a busy city
began to fill the air;--and with a slower and slower clank on the
connecting rails and interlacing switches the train rolled into the
station and stood still.

It was a hot August morning.  The broad streets glowed in the sun, and
the white-shuttered houses stared at the hot thoroughfares like closed
bakers' ovens set along the highway.  Philip was oppressed with the heavy
air; the sweltering city lay as in a swoon.  Taking a street car, he rode
away to the northern part of the city, the newer portion, formerly the
district of Spring Garden, for in this the Boltons now lived, in a small
brick house, befitting their altered fortunes.

He could scarcely restrain his impatience when he came in sight of the
house.  The window shutters were not "bowed"; thank God, for that.  Ruth
was still living, then.  He ran up the steps and rang.  Mrs.  Bolton met
him at the door.

"Thee is very welcome, Philip."

"And Ruth?"

"She is very ill, but quieter than, she has been, and the fever is a
little abating.  The most dangerous time will be when the fever leaves
her.  The doctor fears she will not have strength enough to rally from
it.  Yes, thee can see her."

Mrs.  Bolton led the way to the little chamber where Ruth lay.  "Oh,"
said her mother, "if she were only in her cool and spacious room in our
old home.  She says that seems like heaven."

Mr. Bolton sat by Ruth's bedside, and he rose and silently pressed
Philip's hand.  The room had but one window; that was wide open to admit
the air, but the air that came in was hot and lifeless.  Upon the table
stood a vase of flowers.  Ruth's eyes were closed; her cheeks were
flushed with fever, and she moved her head restlessly as if in pain.

"Ruth," said her mother, bending over her, "Philip is here."

Ruth's eyes unclosed, there was a gleam of recognition in them, there was
an attempt at a smile upon her face, and she tried to raise her thin
hand, as Philip touched her forehead with his lips; and he heard her
murmur,

"Dear Phil."

There was nothing to be done but to watch and wait for the cruel fever to
burn itself out.  Dr. Longstreet told Philip that the fever had
undoubtedly been contracted in the hospital, but it was not malignant,
and would be little dangerous if Ruth were not so worn down with work,
or if she had a less delicate constitution.

"It is only her indomitable will that has kept her up for weeks.  And if
that should leave her now, there will be no hope.  You can do more for
her now, sir, than I can?"

"How?" asked Philip eagerly.

"Your presence, more than anything else, will inspire her with the desire
to live."

When the fever turned, Ruth was in a very critical condition.  For two
days her life was like the fluttering of a lighted candle in the wind.
Philip was constantly by her side, and she seemed to be conscious of his
presence, and to cling to him, as one borne away by a swift stream clings
to a stretched-out hand from the shore.  If he was absent a moment her
restless eyes sought something they were disappointed not to find.

Philip so yearned to bring her back to life, he willed it so strongly and
passionately, that his will appeared to affect hers and she seemed slowly
to draw life from his.

After two days of this struggle with the grasping enemy, it was evident
to Dr. Longstreet that Ruth's will was beginning to issue its orders to
her body with some force, and that strength was slowly coming back.
In another day there was a decided improvement.  As Philip sat holding
her weak hand and watching the least sign of resolution in her face, Ruth
was able to whisper,

"I so want to live, for you, Phil!"

"You will; darling, you must," said Philip in a tone of faith and courage
that carried a thrill of determination--of command--along all her nerves.

Slowly Philip drew her back to life.  Slowly she came back, as one
willing but well nigh helpless.  It was new for Ruth to feel this
dependence on another's nature, to consciously draw strength of will from
the will of another.  It was a new but a dear joy, to be lifted up and
carried back into the happy world, which was now all aglow with the light
of love; to be lifted and carried by the one she loved more than her own
life.

"Sweetheart," she said to Philip, "I would not have cared to come back
but for thy love."

"Not for thy profession?"

"Oh, thee may be glad enough of that some day, when thy coal bed is dug
out and thee and father are in the air again."

When Ruth was able to ride she was taken into the country, for the pure
air was necessary to her speedy recovery.  The family went with her.
Philip could not be spared from her side, and Mr.  Bolton had gone up to
Ilium to look into that wonderful coal mine and to make arrangements for
developing it, and bringing its wealth to market.  Philip had insisted on
re-conveying the Ilium property to Mr. Bolton, retaining only the share
originally contemplated for himself, and Mr.  Bolton, therefore, once
more found himself engaged in business and a person of some consequence
in Third street.  The mine turned out even better than was at first
hoped, and would, if judiciously managed, be a fortune to them all.
This also seemed to be the opinion of Mr. Bigler, who heard of it as soon
as anybody, and, with the impudence of his class called upon Mr. Bolton
for a little aid in a patent car-wheel he had bought an interest in.
That rascal, Small, he said, had swindled him out of all he had.

Mr. Bolton told him he was very sorry, and recommended him to sue Small.

Mr. Small also came with a similar story about Mr. Bigler; and Mr.
Bolton had the grace to give him like advice.  And he added, "If you and
Bigler will procure the indictment of each other, you may have the
satisfaction of putting each other in the penitentiary for the forgery of
my acceptances."

Bigler and Small did not quarrel however.  They both attacked Mr. Bolton
behind his back as a swindler, and circulated the story that he had made
a fortune by failing.

In the pure air of the highlands, amid the golden glories of ripening
September, Ruth rapidly came back to health.  How beautiful the world is
to an invalid, whose senses are all clarified, who has been so near the
world of spirits that she is sensitive to the finest influences, and
whose frame responds with a thrill to the subtlest ministrations of
soothing nature.  Mere life is a luxury, and the color of the grass, of
the flowers, of the sky, the wind in the trees, the outlines of the
horizon, the forms of clouds, all give a pleasure as exquisite as the
sweetest music to the ear famishing for it.  The world was all new and
fresh to Ruth, as if it had just been created for her, and love filled
it, till her heart was overflowing with happiness.

It was golden September also at Fallkill.  And Alice sat by the open
window in her room at home, looking out upon the meadows where the
laborers were cutting the second crop of clover.  The fragrance of it
floated to her nostrils.  Perhaps she did not mind it.  She was thinking.
She had just been writing to Ruth, and on the table before her was a
yellow piece of paper with a faded four-leaved clover pinned on it--only
a memory now.  In her letter to Ruth she had poured out her heartiest
blessings upon them both, with her dear love forever and forever.

"Thank God," she said, "they will never know"

They never would know.  And the world never knows how many women there
are like Alice, whose sweet but lonely lives of self-sacrifice, gentle,
faithful, loving souls, bless it continually.

"She is a dear girl," said Philip, when Ruth showed him the letter.

"Yes, Phil, and we can spare a great deal of love for her, our own lives
are so full."




APPENDIX.

Perhaps some apology to the reader is necessary in view of our failure to
find Laura's father.  We supposed, from the ease with which lost persons
are found in novels, that it would not be difficult.  But it was; indeed,
it was impossible; and therefore the portions of the narrative containing
the record of the search have been stricken out.  Not because they were
not interesting--for they were; but inasmuch as the man was not found,
after all, it did not seem wise to harass and excite the reader to no
purpose.

THE AUTHORS




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Gilded Age,
by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner






SKETCHES NEW AND OLD

by Mark Twain



CONTENTS:

PREFACE
MY WATCH
POLITICAL ECONOMY
THE JUMPING FROG
JOURNALISM IN TENNESSEE
THE STORY OF THE BAD LITTLE BOY
THE STORY OF THE GOOD LITTLE BOY
A COUPLE OF POEMS BY TWAIN AND MOORE
NIAGARA
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS
TO RAISE POULTRY
EXPERIENCE OF THE MCWILLIAMSES WITH MEMBRANOUS CROUP
MY FIRST LITERARY VENTURE
HOW THE AUTHOR WAS SOLD IN NEWARK
THE OFFICE BORE
JOHNNY GREER
THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF THE GREAT BEEF CONTRACT
THE CASE OF GEORGE FISHER
DISGRACEFUL PERSECUTION OF A BOY
THE JUDGES "SPIRITED WOMAN"
INFORMATION WANTED
SOME LEARNED FABLES, FOR GOOD OLD BOYS AND GIRLS
MY LATE SENATORIAL SECRETARYSHIP
A FASHION ITEM
RILEY-NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENT
A FINE OLD MAN
SCIENCE vs. LUCK
THE LATE BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
MR. BLOKE'S ITEM
A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE
PETITION CONCERNING COPYRIGHT
AFTER-DINNER SPEECH
LIONIZING MURDERERS
A NEW CRIME
A CURIOUS DREAM
A TRUE STORY
THE SIAMESE TWINS
SPEECH AT THE SCOTTISH BANQUET IN LONDON
A GHOST STORY
THE CAPITOLINE VENUS
SPEECH ON ACCIDENT INSURANCE
JOHN CHINAMAN IN NEW YORK
HOW I EDITED AN AGRICULTURAL PAPER
THE PETRIFIED MAN
MY BLOODY MASSACRE
THE UNDERTAKER'S CHAT
CONCERNING CHAMBERMAIDS
AURELIA'S UNFORTUNATE YOUNG MAN
"AFTER" JENKINS
ABOUT BARBERS
"PARTY CRIES" IN IRELAND
THE FACTS CONCERNING THE RECENT RESIGNATION
HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF
HONORED AS A CURIOSITY
FIRST INTERVIEW WITH ARTEMUS WARD
CANNIBALISM IN THE CARS
THE KILLING OF JULIUS CAESAR "LOCALIZED"
THE WIDOW'S PROTEST
THE SCRIPTURAL PANORAMIST
CURING A COLD
A CURIOUS PLEASURE EXCURSION
RUNNING FOR GOVERNOR
A MYSTERIOUS VISIT




PREFACE

I have scattered through this volume a mass of matter which has never
been in print before (such as "Learned Fables for Good Old Boys and
Girls," the "Jumping Frog restored to the English tongue after martyrdom
in the French," the "Membranous Croup" sketch, and many others which I
need not specify): not doing this in order to make an advertisement of
it, but because these things seemed instructive.

HARTFORD, 1875.
                                             MARK TWAIN.






SKETCHES NEW AND OLD




MY WATCH--[Written about 1870.]

AN INSTRUCTIVE LITTLE TALE

My beautiful new watch had run eighteen months without losing or gaining,
and without breaking any part of its machinery or stopping.  I had come
to believe it infallible in its judgments about the time of day, and to
consider its constitution and its anatomy imperishable.  But at last, one
night, I let it run down.  I grieved about it as if it were a recognized
messenger and forerunner of calamity.  But by and by I cheered up, set
the watch by guess, and commanded my bodings and superstitions to depart.
Next day I stepped into the chief jeweler's to set it by the exact time,
and the head of the establishment took it out of my hand and proceeded to
set it for me.  Then he said, "She is four minutes slow-regulator wants
pushing up."  I tried to stop him--tried to make him understand that the
watch kept perfect time.  But no; all this human cabbage could see was
that the watch was four minutes slow, and the regulator must be pushed up
a little; and so, while I danced around him in anguish, and implored him
to let the watch alone, he calmly and cruelly did the shameful deed.  My
watch began to gain.  It gained faster and faster day by day.  Within the
week it sickened to a raging fever, and its pulse went up to a hundred
and fifty in the shade.  At the end of two months it had left all the
timepieces of the town far in the rear, and was a fraction over thirteen
days ahead of the almanac.  It was away into November enjoying the snow,
while the October leaves were still turning.  It hurried up house rent,
bills payable, and such things, in such a ruinous way that I could not
abide it.  I took it to the watchmaker to be regulated.  He asked me if I
had ever had it repaired.  I said no, it had never needed any repairing.
He looked a look of vicious happiness and eagerly pried the watch open,
and then put a small dice-box into his eye and peered into its machinery.
He said it wanted cleaning and oiling, besides regulating--come in a
week.  After being cleaned and oiled, and regulated, my watch slowed down
to that degree that it ticked like a tolling bell.  I began to be left by
trains, I failed all appointments, I got to missing my dinner; my watch
strung out three days' grace to four and let me go to protest;
I gradually drifted back into yesterday, then day before, then into last
week, and by and by the comprehension came upon me that all solitary and
alone I was lingering along in week before last, and the world was out of
sight.  I seemed to detect in myself a sort of sneaking fellow-feeling
for the mummy in the museum, and a desire to swap news with him.  I went
to a watchmaker again.  He took the watch all to pieces while I waited,
and then said the barrel was "swelled."  He said he could reduce it in
three days.  After this the watch averaged well, but nothing more.  For
half a day it would go like the very mischief, and keep up such a barking
and wheezing and whooping and sneezing and snorting, that I could not
hear myself think for the disturbance; and as long as it held out there
was not a watch in the land that stood any chance against it.  But the
rest of the day it would keep on slowing down and fooling along until all
the clocks it had left behind caught up again.  So at last, at the end of
twenty-four hours, it would trot up to the judges' stand all right and
just in time.  It would show a fair and square average, and no man could
say it had done more or less than its duty.  But a correct average is
only a mild virtue in a watch, and I took this instrument to another
watchmaker.  He said the king-bolt was broken.  I said I was glad it was
nothing more serious.  To tell the plain truth, I had no idea what the
king-bolt was, but I did not choose to appear ignorant to a stranger.
He repaired the king-bolt, but what the watch gained in one way it lost
in another.  It would run awhile and then stop awhile, and then run
awhile again, and so on, using its own discretion about the intervals.
And every time it went off it kicked back like a musket.  I padded my
breast for a few days, but finally took the watch to another watchmaker.
He picked it all to pieces, and turned the ruin over and over under his
glass; and then he said there appeared to be something the matter with
the hair-trigger.  He fixed it, and gave it a fresh start.  It did well
now, except that always at ten minutes to ten the hands would shut
together like a pair of scissors, and from that time forth they would
travel together.  The oldest man in the world could not make head or tail
of the time of day by such a watch, and so I went again to have the thing
repaired.  This person said that the crystal had got bent, and that the
mainspring was not straight.  He also remarked that part of the works
needed half-soling.  He made these things all right, and then my
timepiece performed unexceptionably, save that now and then, after
working along quietly for nearly eight hours, everything inside would let
go all of a sudden and begin to buzz like a bee, and the hands would
straightway begin to spin round and round so fast that their
individuality was lost completely, and they simply seemed a delicate
spider's web over the face of the watch.  She would reel off the next
twenty-four hours in six or seven minutes, and then stop with a bang.
I went with a heavy heart to one more watchmaker, and looked on while he
took her to pieces.  Then I prepared to cross-question him rigidly, for
this thing was getting serious.  The watch had cost two hundred dollars
originally, and I seemed to have paid out two or three thousand for
repairs.  While I waited and looked on I presently recognized in this
watchmaker an old acquaintance--a steamboat engineer of other days, and
not a good engineer, either.  He examined all the parts carefully, just
as the other watchmakers had done, and then delivered his verdict with
the same confidence of manner.

He said:

"She makes too much steam-you want to hang the monkey-wrench on the
safety-valve!"

I brained him on the spot, and had him buried at my own expense.

My uncle William (now deceased, alas!) used to say that a good horse was,
a good horse until it had run away once, and that a good watch was a good
watch until the repairers got a chance at it.  And he used to wonder what
became of all the unsuccessful tinkers, and gunsmiths, and shoemakers,
and engineers, and blacksmiths; but nobody could ever tell him.






POLITICAL ECONOMY

     Political Economy is the basis of all good government.  The wisest
     men of all ages have brought to bear upon this subject the--

[Here I was interrupted and informed that a stranger wished to see me
down at the door.  I went and confronted him, and asked to know his
business, struggling all the time to keep a tight rein on my seething
political-economy ideas, and not let them break away from me or get
tangled in their harness.  And privately I wished the stranger was in the
bottom of the canal with a cargo of wheat on top of him.  I was all in a
fever, but he was cool.  He said he was sorry to disturb me, but as he
was passing he noticed that I needed some lightning-rods.  I said, "Yes,
yes--go on--what about it?"  He said there was nothing about it, in
particular--nothing except that he would like to put them up for me.
I am new to housekeeping; have been used to hotels and boarding-houses
all my life.  Like anybody else of similar experience, I try to appear
(to strangers) to be an old housekeeper; consequently I said in an
offhand way that I had been intending for some time to have six or eight
lightning-rods put up, but--The stranger started, and looked inquiringly
at me, but I was serene.  I thought that if I chanced to make any
mistakes, he would not catch me by my countenance.  He said he would
rather have my custom than any man's in town.  I said, "All right," and
started off to wrestle with my great subject again, when he called me
back and said it would be necessary to know exactly how many "points" I
wanted put up, what parts of the house I wanted them on, and what quality
of rod I preferred.  It was close quarters for a man not used to the
exigencies of housekeeping; but I went through creditably, and he
probably never suspected that I was a novice.  I told him to put up eight
"points," and put them all on the roof, and use the best quality of rod.
He said he could furnish the "plain" article at 20 cents a foot;
"coppered," 25 cents; "zinc-plated spiral-twist," at 30 cents, that would
stop a streak of lightning any time, no matter where it was bound, and
"render its errand harmless and its further progress apocryphal."  I said
apocryphal was no slouch of a word, emanating from the source it did,
but, philology aside, I liked the spiral-twist and would take that brand.
Then he said he could make two hundred and fifty feet answer; but to do
it right, and make the best job in town of it, and attract the admiration
of the just and the unjust alike, and compel all parties to say they
never saw a more symmetrical and hypothetical display of lightning-rods
since they were born, he supposed he really couldn't get along without
four hundred, though he was not vindictive, and trusted he was willing to
try.  I said, go ahead and use four hundred, and make any kind of a job
he pleased out of it, but let me get back to my work.  So I got rid of
him at last; and now, after half an hour spent in getting my train of
political-economy thoughts coupled together again, I am ready to go on
once more.]

     richest treasures of their genius, their experience of life, and
     their learning.  The great lights of commercial jurisprudence,
     international confraternity, and biological deviation, of all ages,
     all civilizations, and all nationalities, from Zoroaster down to
     Horace Greeley, have--

[Here I was interrupted again, and required to go down and confer further
with that lightning-rod man.  I hurried off, boiling and surging with
prodigious thoughts wombed in words of such majesty that each one of them
was in itself a straggling procession of syllables that might be fifteen
minutes passing a given point, and once more I confronted him--he so calm
and sweet, I so hot and frenzied.  He was standing in the contemplative
attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes, with one foot on my infant tuberose,
and the other among my pansies, his hands on his hips, his hat-brim
tilted forward, one eye shut and the other gazing critically and
admiringly in the direction of my principal chimney.  He said now there
was a state of things to make a man glad to be alive; and added, "I leave
it to you if you ever saw anything more deliriously picturesque than
eight lightning-rods on one chimney?"  I said I had no present
recollection of anything that transcended it.  He said that in his
opinion nothing on earth but Niagara Falls was superior to it in the way
of natural scenery.  All that was needed now, he verily believed, to make
my house a perfect balm to the eye, was to kind of touch up the other
chimneys a little, and thus "add to the generous 'coup d'oeil' a soothing
uniformity of achievement which would allay the excitement naturally
consequent upon the 'coup d'etat.'"  I asked him if he learned to talk
out of a book, and if I could borrow it anywhere?  He smiled pleasantly,
and said that his manner of speaking was not taught in books, and that
nothing but familiarity with lightning could enable a man to handle his
conversational style with impunity.  He then figured up an estimate, and
said that about eight more rods scattered about my roof would about fix
me right, and he guessed five hundred feet of stuff would do it; and
added that the first eight had got a little the start of him, so to
speak, and used up a mere trifle of material more than he had calculated
on--a hundred feet or along there.  I said I was in a dreadful hurry,
and I wished we could get this business permanently mapped out, so that I
could go on with my work.  He said, "I could have put up those eight
rods, and marched off about my business--some men would have done it.
But no; I said to myself, this man is a stranger to me, and I will die
before I'll wrong him; there ain't lightning-rods enough on that house,
and for one I'll never stir out of my tracks till I've done as I would be
done by, and told him so.  Stranger, my duty is accomplished; if the
recalcitrant and dephlogistic messenger of heaven strikes your--"
"There, now, there," I said, "put on the other eight--add five hundred
feet of spiral-twist--do anything and everything you want to do; but calm
your sufferings, and try to keep your feelings where you can reach them
with the dictionary.  Meanwhile, if we understand each other now, I will
go to work again."

I think I have been sitting here a full hour this time, trying to get
back to where I was when my train of thought was broken up by the last
interruption; but I believe I have accomplished it at last, and may
venture to proceed again.]

     wrestled with this great subject, and the greatest among them have
     found it a worthy adversary, and one that always comes up fresh and
     smiling after every throw.  The great Confucius said that he would
     rather be a profound political economist than chief of police.
     Cicero frequently said that political economy was the grandest
     consummation that the human mind was capable of consuming; and even
     our own Greeley had said vaguely but forcibly that "Political--

[Here the lightning-rod man sent up another call for me.  I went down in
a state of mind bordering on impatience.  He said he would rather have
died than interrupt me, but when he was employed to do a job, and that
job was expected to be done in a clean, workmanlike manner, and when it
was finished and fatigue urged him to seek the rest and recreation he
stood so much in need of, and he was about to do it, but looked up and
saw at a glance that all the calculations had been a little out, and if a
thunder-storm were to come up, and that house, which he felt a personal
interest in, stood there with nothing on earth to protect it but sixteen
lightning-rods--"Let us have peace!" I shrieked.  "Put up a hundred and
fifty!  Put some on the kitchen!  Put a dozen on the barn!  Put a couple
on the cow!  Put one on the cook!--scatter them all over the persecuted
place till it looks like a zinc-plated, spiral-twisted, silver-mounted
canebrake!  Move!  Use up all the material you can get your hands on, and
when you run out of lightning-rods put up ramrods, cam-rods, stair-rods,
piston-rods--anything that will pander to your dismal appetite for
artificial scenery, and bring respite to my raging brain and healing to
my lacerated soul!"  Wholly unmoved--further than to smile sweetly--this
iron being simply turned back his wrist-bands daintily, and said he would
now proceed to hump himself.  Well, all that was nearly three hours ago.
It is questionable whether I am calm enough yet to write on the noble
theme of political economy, but I cannot resist the desire to try, for it
is the one subject that is nearest to my heart and dearest to my brain of
all this world's philosophy.]

     economy is heaven's best boon to man."  When the loose but gifted
     Byron lay in his Venetian exile he observed that, if it could be
     granted him to go back and live his misspent life over again, he
     would give his lucid and unintoxicated intervals to the composition,
     not of frivolous rhymes, but of essays upon political economy.
     Washington loved this exquisite science; such names as Baker,
     Beckwith, Judson, Smith, are imperishably linked with it; and even
     imperial Homer, in the ninth book of the Iliad, has said:

                    Fiat justitia, ruat coelum,
                    Post mortem unum, ante bellum,
                    Hic facet hoc, ex-parte res,
                    Politicum e-conomico est.

     The grandeur of these conceptions of the old poet, together with the
     felicity of the wording which clothes them, and the sublimity of the
     imagery whereby they are illustrated, have singled out that stanza,
     and made it more celebrated than any that ever--

["Now, not a word out of you--not a single word.  Just state your bill
and relapse into impenetrable silence for ever and ever on these
premises.  Nine hundred, dollars?  Is that all?  This check for the
amount will be honored at any respectable bank in America.  What is that
multitude of people gathered in the street for?  How?--'looking at the
lightning-rods!'  Bless my life, did they never see any lightning-rods
before?  Never saw 'such a stack of them on one establishment,' did I
understand you to say?  I will step down and critically observe this
popular ebullition of ignorance."]

THREE DAYS LATER.--We are all about worn out.  For four-and-twenty hours
our bristling premises were the talk and wonder of the town.  The
theaters languished, for their happiest scenic inventions were tame and
commonplace compared with my lightning-rods.  Our street was blocked
night and day with spectators, and among them were many who came from
the country to see.  It was a blessed relief on the second day when a
thunderstorm came up and the lightning began to "go for" my house, as the
historian Josephus quaintly phrases it.  It cleared the galleries, so to
speak.  In five minutes there was not a spectator within half a mile of
my place; but all the high houses about that distance away were full,
windows, roof, and all.  And well they might be, for all the falling
stars and Fourth-of-July fireworks of a generation, put together and
rained down simultaneously out of heaven in one brilliant shower upon one
helpless roof, would not have any advantage of the pyrotechnic display
that was making my house so magnificently conspicuous in the general
gloom of the storm.

By actual count, the lightning struck at my establishment seven
hundred and sixty-four times in forty minutes, but tripped on one of
those faithful rods every time, and slid down the spiral-twist and shot
into the earth before it probably had time to be surprised at the way the
thing was done. And through all that bombardment only one patch of slates
was ripped up, and that was because, for a single instant, the rods in
the vicinity were transporting all the lightning they could possibly
accommodate.  Well, nothing was ever seen like it since the world began.
For one whole day and night not a member of my family stuck his head out
of the window but he got the hair snatched off it as smooth as a
billiard-ball; and; if the reader will believe me, not one of us ever
dreamt of stirring abroad.  But at last the awful siege came to an
end-because there was absolutely no more electricity left in the clouds
above us within grappling distance of my insatiable rods.  Then I sallied
forth, and gathered daring workmen together, and not a bite or a nap did
we take till the premises were utterly stripped of all their terrific
armament except just three rods on the house, one on the kitchen, and one
on the barn--and, behold, these remain there even unto this day.  And
then, and not till then, the people ventured to use our street again.
I will remark here, in passing, that during that fearful time I did not
continue my essay upon political economy.  I am not even yet settled
enough in nerve and brain to resume it.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.--Parties having need of three thousand two
hundred and eleven feet of best quality zinc-plated spiral-twist
lightning-rod stuff, and sixteen hundred and thirty-one silver-tipped
points, all in tolerable repair (and, although much worn by use, still
equal to any ordinary emergency), can hear of a bargains by addressing
the publisher.






THE JUMPING FROG [written about 1865]

IN ENGLISH.  THEN IN FRENCH.  THEN CLAWED BACK INTO A CIVILIZED LANGUAGE
ONCE MORE BY PATIENT, UNREMUNERATED TOIL.

Even a criminal is entitled to fair play; and certainly when a man who
has done no harm has been unjustly treated, he is privileged to do his
best to right himself.  My attention has just beep called to an article
some three years old in a French Magazine entitled, 'Revue des Deux
Mondes' (Review of Some Two Worlds), wherein the writer treats of "Les
Humoristes Americaines" (These Humorist Americans).  I am one of these
humorists American dissected by him, and hence the complaint I am making.

This gentleman's article is an able one (as articles go, in the French,
where they always tangle up everything to that degree that when you start
into a sentence you never know whether you are going to come out alive or
not).  It is a very good article and the writer says all manner of kind
and complimentary things about me--for which I am sure thank him with all
my heart; but then why should he go and spoil all his praise by one
unlucky experiment?  What I refer to is this: he says my jumping Frog is
a funny story, but still he can't see why it should ever really convulse
any one with laughter--and straightway proceeds to translate it into
French in order to prove to his nation that there is nothing so very
extravagantly funny about it.  Just there is where my complaint
originates.  He has not translated it at all; he has simply mixed it all
up; it is no more like the jumping Frog when he gets through with it than
I am like a meridian of longitude.  But my mere assertion is not proof;
wherefore I print the French version, that all may see that I do not
speak falsely; furthermore, in order that even the unlettered may know my
injury and give me their compassion, I have been at infinite pains and
trouble to retranslate this French version back into English; and to tell
the truth I have well-nigh worn myself out at it, having scarcely rested
from my work during five days and nights.  I cannot speak the French
language, but I can translate very well, though not fast, I being self-
educated.  I ask the reader to run his eye over the original English
version of the jumping Frog, and then read the French or my
retranslation, and kindly take notice how the Frenchman has riddled the
grammar.  I think it is the worst I ever saw; and yet the French are
called a polished nation.  If I had a boy that put sentences together as
they do, I would polish him to some purpose.  Without further
introduction, the jumping Frog, as I originally wrote it, was as follows
[after it will be found the French version--(French version is deleted
from this edition)--, and after the latter my retranslation from the
French]




THE NOTORIOUS JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY [Pronounced Cal-e-va-ras]

In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the
East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired
after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I
hereunto append the result.  I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas W.
Smiley is a myth that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he
on conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him
of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me to death
with some exasperating reminiscence him as long and as tedious as it
should be useless to me.  If that was the design, it succeeded.

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of the
dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp Angel's, and I noticed that
he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness
and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance.  He roused up, and gave me
good day.  I told him that a friend of mine had commissioned me to make
some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named Leonidas
W. Smiley--Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, a young minister of the Gospel, who
he had heard was at one time resident of Angel's Camp.  I added that if
Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley,
I would feel under many obligations to him.

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his
chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which
follows this paragraph.  He never smiled he never frowned, he never
changed his voice from the gentle flowing key to which he tuned his
initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of
enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein
of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that,
so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny
about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired
its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in 'finesse.'  I let him go
on in his own way, and never interrupted him once.

"Rev. Leonidas W.  H'm, Reverend Le--well, there was a feller here, once
by the name of Jim Smiley, in the winter of '49--or maybe it was the
spring of '50--I don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me
think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume warn't
finished when he first come to the camp; but anyway, he was the
curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever
see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he couldn't
he'd change sides.  Any way that suited the other man would suit him any
way just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied.  But still he was lucky,
uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner.  He was always ready and
laying for a chance; there couldn't be no solit'ry thing mentioned but
that feller'd offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as I was
just telling you.  If there was a horse-race, you'd find him flush or
you'd find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd
bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a
chicken-fight, he'd bet on it; why, if there was two birds setting on a
fence, he would bet you which one would fly first; or if there was a
camp-meeting, he would be there reg'lar to bet on Parson Walker, which he
judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was too, and a good
man.  If he even see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet
you how long it would take him to get to--to wherever he was going to,
and if you took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but
what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the
road.  Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley, and can tell you about
him.  Why, it never made no difference to him--he'd bet on any thing--the
dangdest feller.  Parson Walker's wife laid very sick once, for a good
while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save her; but one morning
he come in, and Smiley up and asked him how she was, and he said she was
considerable better--thank the Lord for his inf'nite mercy--and coming on
so smart that with the blessing of Prov'dence she'd get well yet; and
Smiley, before he thought, says, 'Well, I'll resk two-and-a-half she
don't anyway.'

"Thish-yer Smiley had a mare--the boys called her the fifteen-minute nag,
but that was only in fun, you know, because of course she was faster than
that--and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and
always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something
of that kind.  They used to give her two or three hundred yards' start,
and then pass her under way; but always at the fag end of the race she
get excited and desperate like, and come cavorting and straddling up,
and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and
sometimes out to one side among the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust
and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her
nose--and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near
as you could cipher it down.

"And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look at him you'd think he
warn't worth a cent but to set around and look ornery and lay for a
chance to steal something.  But as soon as money was up on him he was a
different dog; his under-jaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'castle of
a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover and shine like the furnaces.
And a dog might tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite him, and throw him
over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson--which was the
name of the pup--Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was
satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else--and the bets being doubled
and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up;
and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j'int
of his hind leg and freeze to it--not chaw, you understand, but only just
grip and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year.
Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once
that didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off in a
circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money
was all up, and he come to make a snatch for his pet holt, he see in a
minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the
door, so to speak, and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter
discouraged-like and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got
shucked out bad.  He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was
broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind
legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight,
and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died.  It was a good
pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if
he'd lived, for the stuff was in him and he had genius--I know it,
because he hadn't no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to
reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them
circumstances if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when
I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.

"Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and tomcats
and all them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't
fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you.  He ketched a frog
one day, and took him home, and said he cal'lated to educate him; and so
he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn
that frog to jump. And you bet you he did learn him, too. He'd give him a
little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling in
the air like a doughnut--see him turn one summerset, or maybe a couple,
if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a
cat. He got him up so in the matter of ketching flies, and kep' him in
practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as fur as he could
see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do
'most anything--and I believe him.  Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster
down here on this floor--Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog--and sing
out, 'Flies, Dan'l, flies!' and quicker'n you could wink he'd spring
straight up and snake a fly off'n the counter there, and flop down on the
floor ag'in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of
his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd
been doin' any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest
and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted.  And when it
come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more
ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see.
Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it
come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red.
Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers
that had traveled and been everywheres all said he laid over any frog
that ever they see.

"Well, Smiley kep' the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to
fetch him down-town sometimes and lay for a bet.  One day a feller
--a stranger in the camp, he was--come acrost him with his box, and says:

"'What might it be that you've got in the box?'

"And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, 'It might be a parrot, or it
might be a canary, maybe, but it ain't--it's only just a frog.'

"And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round
this way and that, and says, 'H'm--so 'tis.  Well, what's HE good for.

"'Well,' Smiley says, easy and careless, 'he's good enough for one thing,
I should judge--he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.

"The feller took the box again, and took another long, partiular look,
and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate,  'Well,' he says,
'I don't see no pints about that frog that's any better'n any other
frog.'

"'Maybe you don't,' Smiley says.  'Maybe you understand frogs and maybe
you don't understand 'em; maybe you've had experience, and maybe you
ain't only a amature, as it were.  Anyways, I've got my opinion, and I'll
resk forty dollars the he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.'

"And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad-like, 'Well,
I'm only a, stranger here, and I ain't got no frog; but if I had a frog,
I'd bet you.

"And then Smiley says, 'That's all right--that's all right if you'll hold
my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog.'  Any so the feller took the
box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley's, and set down to
wait.

"So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to himself and then
he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon and
filled him full of quail-shot-filled him pretty near up to his chin--and
set him on the floor.  Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in
the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him
in, and give him to this feller and says:

"'Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his fore paws
just even with Dan'l's, and I'll give the word.' Then he says, 'One-two-
three--git' and him and the feller touches up the frogs from behind, and
the new frog hopped off lively but Dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his
shoulders---so-like a Frenchman, but it warn't no use--he couldn't budge;
he was planted as solid as a church, and he couldn't no more stir than if
he was anchored out.  Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was
disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter was of course.

"The Teller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at
the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder--so--at Dan'l, and
says again, very deliberate, 'Well,' he says, 'I don't see no pints about
that frog that's any better'n any other frog.'

"Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long
time, and at last he says, 'I do wonder what in the nation that frog
throw'd off for--I wonder if there ain't something the matter with him
--he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.'  And he ketched Dan'l by the
nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, 'Why blame my cats if he don't
weigh five pound!' and turned him upside down and he belched out a double
handful of shot.  And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man
--he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never
ketched him.  And--"

[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got up
to see what was wanted.]  And turning to me as he moved away, he said:
"Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy--I ain't going to be
gone a second."

But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history of
the enterprising vagabond Jim Smiley would be likely to afford me much
information concerning the Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I started
away.

At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he buttonholed me
and recommenced:

"Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller one-eyed cow that didn't have no
tail, only just a short stump like a bannanner, and--"

However, lacking both time and inclination, I did not wait to hear about
the afflicted cow, but took my leave.


Now let the learned look upon this picture and say if iconoclasm can
further go:

[From the Revue des Deux Mondes, of July 15th, 1872.]

          .......................


THE JUMPING FROG

"--Il y avait, une fois ici un individu connu sous le nom de Jim Smiley:
c'etait dans l'hiver de 49, peut-etre bien au printemps de 50, je ne me
reappelle pas exactement.  Ce qui me fait croire que c'etait l'un ou
l'autre, c'est que je me souviens que le grand bief n'etait pas acheve
lorsqu'il arriva au camp pour la premiere fois, mais de toutes facons il
etait l'homme le plus friand de paris qui se put voir, pariant sur tout
ce qui se presentaat, quand il pouvait trouver un adversaire, et, quand
n'en trouvait pas il passait du cote oppose.  Tout ce qui convenaiat
l'autre lui convenait; pourvu qu'il eut un pari, Smiley etait satisfait.
Et il avait une chance! une chance inouie:  presque toujours il gagnait.
It faut dire qu'il etait toujours pret a'exposer, qu'on ne pouvait
mentionner la moindre chose sans que ce gaillard offrit de parier la-
dessus n'importe quoi et de prendre le cote que l'on voudrait, comme je
vous le disais tout a l'heure.  S'il y avait des courses, vous le
trouviez riche ou ruine a la fin; s'il y avait un combat de chiens, il
apportait son enjeu; il l'apportait pour un combat de chats, pour un
combat de coqs;--parbleu! si vous aviez vu deux oiseaux sur une haie il
vous aurait offert de parier lequel s'envolerait le premier, et s'il y
aviat 'meeting' au camp, il venait parier regulierement pour le cure
Walker, qu'il jugeait etre le meilleur predicateur des environs, et qui
l'etait en effet, et un brave homme.  Il aurai rencontre une punaise de
bois en chemin, qu'il aurait parie sur le temps qu'il lui faudrait pour
aller ou elle voudrait aller, et si vous l'aviez pris au mot, it aurait
suivi la punaise jusqu'au Mexique, sans se soucier d'aller si loin, ni du
temps qu'il y perdrait.  Une fois la femme du cure Walker fut tres malade
pendant longtemps, il semblait qu'on ne la sauverait pas; mai un matin le
cure arrive, et Smiley lui demande comment ella va et il dit qu'elle est
bien mieux, grace a l'infinie misericorde tellement mieux qu'avec la
benediction de la Providence elle s'en tirerait, et voila que, sans y
penser, Smiley repond:--Eh bien! ye gage deux et demi qu'elle mourra tout
de meme.

"Ce Smiley avait une jument que les gars appelaient le bidet du quart
d'heure, mais seulement pour plaisanter, vous comprenez, parse que, bien
entendu, elle etait plus vite que ca!  Et il avait coutume de gagner de
l'argent avec cette bete, quoi-qu'elle fut poussive, cornarde, toujours
prise d'asthme, de colique ou de consomption, ou de quelque chose
d'approchant. On lui donnait 2 ou 300 'yards' au depart, puffs on la
depassait sans peine; mais jamais a la fin elle ne manquait de
s'echauffer, de s'exasperer et elle arrivait, s'ecartant, se defendant,
ses jambes greles en l'ai devant les obstacles, quelquefois les evitant
et faisant avec cela plus de poussiare qu'aucun cheval, plus de bruit
surtout avec ses eternumens et reniflemens.---crac! elle arrivaat donc
toujour premiere d'une tete, aussi juste qu'on peut le mesurer.  Et il
avait un petit bouledogue qui, a le voir, ne valait pas un sou; on aurait
cru que parier contre lui c'etait voler, tant il etait ordinaire; mais
aussitot les enjeux faits, il devenait un autre chien.  Sa machoire
inferieure commencait a ressortir comme un gaillard d'avant, ses dents se
decouvcraient brillantes commes des fournaises, et un chien pouvait le
taquiner, l'exciter, le mordre, le jeter deux ou trois fois par-dessus
son epaule, Andre Jackson, c'etait le nom du chien, Andre Jackson prenait
cela tranquillement, comme s'il ne se fut jamais attendu a autre chose,
et quand les paris etaient doubles et redoubles contre lui, il vous
saisissait l'autre chien juste a l'articulation de la jambe de derriere,
et il ne la lachait plus, non pas qu'il la machat, vous concevez, mais il
s'y serait tenu pendu jusqu'a ce qu'on jetat l'eponge en l'air, fallut-il
attendre un an.  Smiley gagnait toujours avec cette bete-la;
malheureusement ils ont fini par dresser un chien qui n'avait pas de
pattes de derriere, parce qu'on les avait sciees, et quand les choses
furent au point qu'il voulait, et qu'il en vint a se jeter sur son
morceau favori, le pauvre chien comprit en un instant qu'on s'etait moque
de lui, et que l'autre le tenait.  Vous n'avez jamais vu personne avoir
l'air plus penaud et plus decourage; il ne fit aucun effort pour gagner
le combat et fut rudement secoue, de sorte que, regardant Smiley comme
pour lui dire:--Mon coeur est brise, c'est to faute; pourquoi m'avoir
livre a un chien qui n'a pas de pattes de derriere, puisque c'est par la
que je les bats?--il s'en alla en clopinant, et se coucha pour mourir.
Ah! c'etait un bon chien, cet Andre Jackson, et il se serait fait un nom,
s'il avait vecu, car il y avait de l'etoffe en lui, il avait du genie,
je la sais, bien que de grandes occasions lui aient manque; mais il est
impossible de supposer qu'un chien capable de se battre comme lui,
certaines circonstances etant donnees, ait manque de talent.  Je me sens
triste toutes les fois que je pense a son dernier combat et au denoument
qu'il a eu.  Eh bien! ce Smiley nourrissait des terriers a rats, et des
coqs combat, et des chats, et toute sorte de choses, au point qu'il etait
toujours en mesure de vous tenir tete, et qu'avec sa rage de paris on
n'avait plus de repos. Il attrapa un jour une grenouille et l'emporta
chez lui, disant qu'il pretendait faire son Education; vous me croirez si
vous voulez, mais pendant trois mois il n'a rien fait que lui apprendre a
sauter dans une cour retire de sa maison. Et je vous reponds qu'il avait
reussi.  Il lui donnait un petit coup par derriere, et l'instant d'apres
vous voyiez la grenouille tourner en l'air comme un beignet au-dessus de
la poele, faire une culbute, quelquefois deux, lorsqu'elle etait bien
partie, et retomber sur ses pattes comme un chat.  Il l'avait dressee
dans l'art de gober des mouches, er l'y exercait continuellement, si bien
qu'une mouche, du plus loin qu'elle apparaissait, etait une mouche
perdue. Smiley avait coutume de dire que tout ce qui manquait a une
grenouille, c'etait l'education, qu'avec l'education elle pouvait faire
presque tout, et je le crois.  Tenez, je l'ai vu poser Daniel Webster la
sur se plancher,--Daniel Webster etait le nom de la grenouille,--et lui
chanter: Des mouches! Daniel, des mouches!--En un clin d'oeil, Daniel
avait bondi et saisi une mouche ici sur le comptoir, puis saute de
nouveau par terre, ou il restait vraiment a se gratter la tete avec sa
patte de derriere, comme s'il n'avait pas eu la moindre idee de sa
superiorite.  Jamais vous n'avez grenouille vu de aussi modeste, aussi
naturelle, douee comme elle l'etait!  Et quand il s'agissait de sauter
purement et simplement sur terrain plat, elle faisait plus de chemin en
un saut qu'aucune bete de son espece que vous puissiez connaitre. Sauter
a plat, c'etait son fort! Quand il s'agissait de cela, Smiley en tassait
les enjeux sur elle tant qu'il lui, restait un rouge liard. Il faut le
reconnaitre, Smiley etait monstrueusement fier de sa grenouille, et il en
avait le droit, car des gens qui avaient voyage, qui avaient tout vu,
disaient qu'on lui ferait injure de la comparer a une autre; de facon que
Smiley gardait Daniel dans une petite boite a claire-voie qu'il emportait
parfois a la Ville pour quelque pari.

"Un jour, un individu etranger au camp l'arrete aver sa boite et lui
dit:--Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc serre la dedans?

"Smiley dit d'un air indifferent:--Cela pourrait etre un perroquet ou un
serin, mais ce n'est rien de pareil, ce n'est qu'une grenouille.

"L'individu la prend, la regarde avec soin, la tourne d'un cote et de
l'autre puis il dit.--Tiens! en effet!  A quoi estelle bonne?

"--Mon Dieu! repond Smiley, toujours d'un air degage, elle est bonne pour
une chose a mon avis, elle peut battre en sautant toute grenouille du
comte de Calaveras.

"L'individu reprend la boite, l'examine de nouveau longuement, et la rend
a Smiley en disant d'un air delibere:--Eh bien! je ne vois pas que cette
grenouille ait rien de mieux qu'aucune grenouille.

"--Possible qua vous ne le voyiez pat, dit Smiley, possible que vous vous
entendiez en grenouilles, possible que vous ne vous y entendez point,
possible qua vous avez de l'experience, et possible que vous ne soyez
qu'un amateur.  De toute maniere, je parie quarante dollars qu'elle
battra en sautant n'importe quelle grenouille du comte de Calaveras.

"L'individu reflechit one seconde et dit comma attriste:--Je ne suis
qu'un etranger ici, je n'ai pas de grenouille; mais, si j'en
avais une, je tiendrais le pari.

"--Fort bien! repond Smiley.  Rien de plus facile. Si vous voulez tenir
ma boite one minute, j'irai vous chercher une grenouille.--Voile donc
l'individu qui garde la boite, qui met ses quarante dollars sur ceux de
Smiley et qui attend.  Il attend assez longtemps, reflechissant tout
seul, et figurez-vous qu'il prend Daniel, lui ouvre la bouche de force at
avec une cuiller a the l'emplit de menu plomb de chasse, mail l'emplit
jusqu'au menton, puis il le pose par terre.  Smiley pendant ce temps
etait a barboter dans une mare.  Finalement il attrape une grenouille,
l'apporte cet individu et dit:--Maintenant, si vous etes pret, mettez-la
tout contra Daniel, avec leurs pattes de devant sur la meme ligne, et je
donnerai le signal; puis il ajoute:--Un, deux, trois, sautez!

"Lui et l'individu touchent leurs grenouilles par derriere, et la
grenouille neuve se met h sautiller, mais Daniel se souleve lourdement,
hausse les epaules ainsi, comma un Francais; a quoi bon? il ne pouvait
bouger, il etait plante solide comma une enclume, il n'avancait pas plus
que si on l'eut mis a l'ancre. Smiley fut surpris et degoute, mais il ne
se doutait pas du tour, bien entendu.  L'individu empoche l'argent, s'en
va, et en s'en allant est-ce qu'il ne donna pas un coup de pouce par-
dessus l'epaule, comma ca, au pauvre Daniel, en disant de son air
delibere:--Eh bien! je ne vois pas qua cette grenouille ait rien de muiex
qu'une autre.

"Smiley se gratta longtemps la tete, les yeux fixes Sur Daniel; jusqu'a
ce qu'enfin il dit:--je me demande comment diable il se fait qua cette
bite ait refuse, . . . Est-ce qu'elle aurait quelque chose? . . . On
croirait qu'elle est enflee.

"Il empoigne Daniel par la peau du coo, le souleve et dit:--Le loup me
croque, s'il ne pese pas cinq livres.

"Il le retourne, et le malheureux crache deux poignees de plomb.  Quand
Smiley reconnut ce qui en etait, il fut comme fou.  Vous le voyez d'ici
poser sa grenouille par terra et courir apres cet individu, mais il ne le
rattrapa jamais, et ...."



[Translation of the above back from the French:]

THE FROG JUMPING OF THE COUNTY OF CALAVERAS

It there was one time here an individual known under the name of Jim
Smiley; it was in the winter of '89, possibly well at the spring of '50,
I no me recollect not exactly.  This which me makes to believe that it
was the one or the other, it is that I shall remember that the grand
flume is not achieved when he arrives at the camp for the first time, but
of all sides he was the man the most fond of to bet which one have seen,
betting upon all that which is presented, when he could find an
adversary; and when he not of it could not, he passed to the side
opposed.  All that which convenienced to the other to him convenienced
also; seeing that he had a bet Smiley was satisfied.  And he had a
chance! a chance even worthless; nearly always he gained.  It must to say
that he was always near to himself expose, but one no could mention the
least thing without that this gaillard offered to bet the bottom, no
matter what, and to take the side that one him would, as I you it said
all at the hour (tout a l'heure).  If it there was of races, you him find
rich or ruined at the end; if it, here is a combat of dogs, he bring his
bet; he himself laid always for a combat of cats, for a combat of cocks
--by-blue!  If you have see two birds upon a fence, he you should have
offered of to bet which of those birds shall fly the first; and if there
is meeting at the camp (meeting au camp) he comes to bet regularly for
the cure Walker, which he judged to be the best predicator of the
neighborhood (predicateur des environs) and which he was in effect, and a
brave man.  He would encounter a bug of wood in the road, whom he will
bet upon the time which he shall take to go where she would go--and if
you him have take at the word, he will follow the bug as far as Mexique,
without himself caring to go so far; neither of the time which he there
lost.  One time the woman of the cure Walker is very sick during long
time, it seemed that one not her saved not; but one morning the cure
arrives, and Smiley him demanded how she goes, and he said that she is
well better, grace to the infinite misery (lui demande comment elle va,
et il dit qu'elle est bien mieux, grace a l'infinie misericorde) so much
better that with the benediction of the Providence she herself of it
would pull out (elle s'en tirerait); and behold that without there
thinking Smiley responds: "Well, I gage two-and-half that she will die
all of same."

This Smiley had an animal which the boys called the nag of the quarter of
hour, but solely for pleasantry, you comprehend, because, well
understand, she was more fast as that! [Now why that exclamation?--M. T.]
And it was custom of to gain of the silver with this beast,
notwithstanding she was poussive, cornarde, always taken of asthma, of
colics or of consumption, or something of approaching.  One him would
give two or three hundred yards at the departure, then one him passed
without pain; but never at the last she not fail of herself echauffer,
of herself exasperate, and she arrives herself ecartant, se defendant,
her legs greles in the air before the obstacles, sometimes them elevating
and making with this more of dust than any horse, more of noise above
with his eternumens and reniflemens--crac! she arrives then always first
by one head, as just as one can it measure.  And he had a small bulldog
(bouledogue!) who, to him see, no value, not a cent; one would believe
that to bet against him it was to steal, so much he was ordinary; but as
soon as the game made, she becomes another dog.  Her jaw inferior
commence to project like a deck of before, his teeth themselves discover
brilliant like some furnaces, and a dog could him tackle (le taquiner),
him excite, him murder (le mordre), him throw two or three times over his
shoulder, Andre Jackson--this was the name of the dog--Andre Jackson
takes that tranquilly, as if he not himself was never expecting other
thing, and when the bets were doubled and redoubled against him, he you
seize the other dog just at the articulation of the leg of behind, and he
not it leave more, not that he it masticate, you conceive, but he himself
there shall be holding during until that one throws the sponge in the
air, must he wait a year.  Smiley gained always with this beast-la;
unhappily they have finished by elevating a dog who no had not of feet of
behind, because one them had sawed; and when things were at the point
that he would, and that he came to himself throw upon his morsel
favorite, the poor dog comprehended in an instant that he himself was
deceived in him, and that the other dog him had.  You no have never seen
person having the air more penaud and more discouraged; he not made no
effort to gain the combat, and was rudely shucked.

Eh bien! this Smiley nourished some terriers a rats, and some cocks of
combat, and some pats, and all sorts of things; and with his rage of
betting one no had more of repose.  He trapped one day a frog and him
imported with him (et l'emporta chez lui) saying that he pretended to
make his education.  You me believe if you will, but during three months
he not has nothing done but to him apprehend to jump (apprendre a sauter)
in a court retired of her mansion (de sa maison).  And I you respond that
he have succeeded.  He him gives a small blow by behind, and the instant
after you shall see the frog turn in the air like a grease-biscuit, make
one summersault, sometimes two, when she was well started, and refall
upon his feet like a cat.  He him had accomplished in the art of to
gobble the flies (gober des mouches), and him there exercised continually
--so well that a fly at the most far that she appeared was a fly lost.
Smiley had custom to say that all which lacked to a frog it was the
education, but with the education she could do nearly all--and I him
believe.  Tenez, I him have seen pose Daniel Webster there upon this
plank--Daniel Webster was the name of the frog--and to him sing, "Some
flies, Daniel, some fifes!"--in a flash of the eye Daniel 30
had bounded and seized a fly here upon the counter, then jumped anew at
the earth, where he rested truly to himself scratch the head with his
behind foot, as if he no had not the least idea of his superiority.
Never you not have seen frog as modest, as natural, sweet as she was.
And when he himself agitated to jump purely and simply upon plain earth,
she does more ground in one jump than any beast of his species than you
can know.  To jump plain-this was his strong.  When he himself agitated
for that, Smiley multiplied the bets upon her as long as there to him
remained a red.  It must to know, Smiley was monstrously proud of his
frog, and he of it was right, for some men who were traveled, who had all
seen, said that they to him would be injurious to him compare, to another
frog.  Smiley guarded Daniel in a little box latticed which he carried
bytimes to the village for some bet.

One day an individual stranger at the camp him arrested with his box and
him said:

"What is this that you have them shut up there within?"

Smiley said, with an air indifferent:

"That could be a paroquet, or a syringe (ou un serin), but this no is
nothing of such, it not is but a frog."

The individual it took, it regarded with care, it turned from one side
and from the other, then he said:

"Tiens! in effect!--At what is she good?"

"My God!" respond Smiley, always with an air disengaged, "she is good for
one thing, to my notice (A mon avis), she can better in jumping (elle pent
battre en sautant) all frogs of the county of Calaveras."

The individual retook the box, it examined of new longly, and it rendered
to Smiley in saying with an air deliberate:

"Eh bien! I no saw not that that frog had nothing of better than each
frog."  (Je ne vois pas que cette grenouille ait rien de mieux qu'aucune
grenouille.) [If that isn't grammar gone to seed, then I count myself no
judge.--M.  T.]

"Possible that you not it saw not," said Smiley, "possible that you--you
comprehend frogs; possible that you not you there comprehend nothing;
possible that you had of the experience, and possible that you not be but
an amateur.  Of all manner (De toute maniere) I bet forty dollars that
she better in jumping no matter which frog of the county of Calaveras."

The individual reflected a second, and said like sad:

"I not am but a stranger here, I no have not a frog; but if I of it had
one, I would embrace the bet."

"Strong well!" respond Smiley; "nothing of more facility.  If you will
hold my box a minute, I go you to search a frog (j'irai vous chercher)."

Behold, then, the individual, who guards the box, who puts his forty
dollars upon those of Smiley, and who attends (et qui attend).  He
attended enough long times, reflecting all solely.  And figure you that
he takes Daniel, him opens the mouth by force and with a teaspoon him
fills with shot of the hunt, even him fills just to the chin, then he him
puts by the earth.  Smiley during these times was at slopping in a swamp.
Finally he trapped (attrape) a frog, him carried to that individual, and
said:

"Now if you be ready, put him all against Daniel with their before feet
upon the same line, and I give the signal"--then he added: "One, two,
three--advance!"

Him and the individual touched their frogs by behind, and the frog new
put to jump smartly, but Daniel himself lifted ponderously, exalted the
shoulders thus, like a Frenchman--to what good?  he not could budge, he
is planted solid like a church he not advance no more than if one him had
put at the anchor.

Smiley was surprised and disgusted, but he no himself doubted not of the
turn being intended (mais il ne se doutait pas du tour, bien entendu).
The individual empocketed the silver, himself with it went, and of it
himself in going is it that he no gives not a jerk of thumb over the
shoulder--like that--at the poor Daniel, in saying with his air
deliberate--(L'individu empoche l'argent, s'en va et en s'en allant est-
ce qu'il ne donne pas un coup d pouce par-dessus l'epaule, comme ga, au
pauvre Daniel, en disant de son air delibere):

"Eh bien! I no see not that that frog has nothin of better than another."

Smiley himself scratched longtimes the head, the eyes fixed upon Daniel,
until that which at last he said:

"I me demand how the devil it makes itself that this beast has refused.
Is it that she had something?  One would believe that she is stuffed."

He grasped Daniel by the skin of the neck, him lifted and said:

"The wolf me bite if he no weigh not five pounds:"

He him reversed and the unhappy belched two handfuls of shot (et le
malheureux, etc.).  When Smiley recognized how it was, he was like mad.
He deposited his frog by the earth and ran after that individual, but he
not him caught never.


Such is the jumping Frog, to the distorted French eye.  I claim that I
never put together such an odious mixture of bad grammar and delirium
tremens in my life.  And what has a poor foreigner like me done, to be
abused and misrepresented like this?  When I say, "Well, I don't see no
pints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog," is it kind,
is it just, for this Frenchman to try to make it appear that I said, "Eh
bien! I no saw not that that frog had nothing of better than each frog"?
I have no heart to write more.  I never felt so about anything before.

HARTFORD, March, 1875,






JOURNALISM IN TENNESSEE--[Written about 1871.]

     The editor of the Memphis Avalanche swoops thus mildly down upon a
     correspondent who posted him as a Radical:--"While he was writing
     the first word, the middle, dotting his i's, crossing his t's, and
     punching his period, he knew he was concocting a sentence that was
     saturated with infamy and reeking with falsehood."--Exchange.

I was told by the physician that a Southern climate would improve my
health, and so I went down to Tennessee, and got a berth on the Morning
Glory and Johnson County War-Whoop as associate editor.  When I went on
duty I found the chief editor sitting tilted back in a three-legged chair
with his feet on a pine table.  There was another pine table in the room
and another afflicted chair, and both were half buried under newspapers
and scraps and sheets of manuscript.  There was a wooden box of sand,
sprinkled with cigar stubs and "old soldiers," and a stove with a door
hanging by its upper hinge.  The chief editor had a long-tailed black
cloth frock-coat on, and white linen pants.  His boots were small and
neatly blacked.  He wore a ruffled shirt, a large seal-ring, a standing
collar of obsolete pattern, and a checkered neckerchief with the ends
hanging down.  Date of costume about 1848.  He was smoking a cigar, and
trying to think of a word, and in pawing his hair he had rumpled his
locks a good deal.  He was scowling fearfully, and I judged that he was
concocting a particularly knotty editorial.  He told me to take the
exchanges and skim through them and write up the "Spirit of the Tennessee
Press," condensing into the article all of their contents that seemed of
interest.

I wrote as follows:

                    SPIRIT OF THE TENNESSEE PRESS

     The editors of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake evidently labor under a
     misapprehension with regard to the Dallyhack railroad.  It is not
     the object of the company to leave Buzzardville off to one side.
     On the contrary, they consider it one of the most important points
     along the line, and consequently can have no desire to slight it.
     The gentlemen of the Earthquake will, of course, take pleasure in
     making the correction.

     John W. Blossom, Esq., the able editor of the Higginsville
     Thunderbolt and Battle Cry of Freedom, arrived in the city
     yesterday.  He is stopping at the Van Buren House.

     We observe that our contemporary of the Mud Springs Morning Howl has
     fallen into the error of supposing that the election of Van Werter
     is not an established fact, but he will have discovered his mistake
     before this reminder reaches him, no doubt.  He was doubtless misled
     by incomplete election returns.

     It is pleasant to note that the city of Blathersville is endeavoring
     to contract with some New York gentlemen to pave its well-nigh
     impassable streets with the Nicholson pavement.  The Daily Hurrah
     urges the measure with ability, and seems confident of ultimate
     success.

I passed my manuscript over to the chief editor for acceptance,
alteration, or destruction.  He glanced at it and his face clouded.  He
ran his eye down the pages, and his countenance grew portentous.  It was
easy to see that something was wrong.  Presently he sprang up and said:

"Thunder and lightning! Do you suppose I am going to speak of those
cattle that way?  Do you suppose my subscribers are going to stand such
gruel as that?  Give me the pen!"

I never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way so viciously, or plow
through another man's verbs and adjectives so relentlessly.  While he was
in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him through the open window,
and marred the symmetry of my ear.

"Ah," said he, "that is that scoundrel Smith, of the Moral Volcano--he
was due yesterday."  And he snatched a navy revolver from his belt and
fired--Smith dropped, shot in the thigh.  The shot spoiled Smith's aim,
who was just taking a second chance and he crippled a stranger.  It was
me.  Merely a finger shot off.

Then the chief editor went on with his erasure; and interlineations.
Just as he finished them a hand grenade came down the stove-pipe, and the
explosion shivered the stove into a thousand fragments.  However, it did
no further damage, except that a vagrant piece knocked a couple of my
teeth out.

"That stove is utterly ruined," said the chief editor.

I said I believed it was.

"Well, no matter--don't want it this kind of weather.  I know the man
that did it.  I'll get him.  Now, here is the way this stuff ought to be
written."

I took the manuscript.  It was scarred with erasures and interlineations
till its mother wouldn't have known it if it had had one.  It now read as
follows:

                    SPIRIT OF THE TENNESSEE PRESS

     The inveterate liars of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake are evidently
     endeavoring to palm off upon a noble and chivalrous people another
     of their vile and brutal falsehoods with regard to that most
     glorious conception of the nineteenth century, the Ballyhack
     railroad.  The idea that Buzzardville was to be left off at one side
     originated in their own fulsome brains--or rather in the settlings
     which they regard as brains.  They had better, swallow this lie if
     they want to save their abandoned reptile carcasses the cowhiding
     they so richly deserve.

     That ass, Blossom, of the Higginsville Thunderbolt and Battle Cry of
     Freedom, is down here again sponging at the Van Buren.

     We observe that the besotted blackguard of the Mud Springs Morning
     Howl is giving out, with his usual propensity for lying, that Van
     Werter is not elected.  The heaven-born mission of journalism is to
     disseminate truth; to eradicate error; to educate, refine, and
     elevate the tone of public morals and manners, and make all men more
     gentle, more virtuous, more charitable, and in all ways better, and
     holier, and happier; and yet this blackhearted scoundrel degrades
     his great office persistently to the dissemination of falsehood,
     calumny, vituperation, and vulgarity.

     Blathersville wants a Nicholson pavement--it wants a jail and a
     poorhouse more.  The idea of a pavement in a one-horse town composed
     of two gin-mills, a blacksmith shop, and that mustard-plaster of a
     newspaper, the Daily Hurrah!  The crawling insect, Buckner, who
     edits the Hurrah, is braying about his business with his customary
     imbecility, and imagining that he is talking sense.


"Now that is the way to write--peppery and to the point.  Mush-and-milk
journalism gives me the fan-tods."

About this time a brick came through the window with a splintering crash,
and gave me a considerable of a jolt in the back.  I moved out of range
--I began to feel in the way.

The chief said, "That was the Colonel, likely.  I've been expecting him
for two days.  He will be up now right away."

He was correct.  The Colonel appeared in the door a moment afterward with
a dragoon revolver in his hand.

He said, "Sir, have I the honor of addressing the poltroon who edits this
mangy sheet?"

"You have.  Be seated, sir.  Be careful of the chair, one of its legs is
gone.  I believe I have the honor of addressing the putrid liar, Colonel
Blatherskite Tecumseh?"

"Right, Sir.  I have a little account to settle with you.  If you are at
leisure we will begin."

"I have an article on the 'Encouraging Progress of Moral and Intellectual
Development in America' to finish, but there is no hurry.  Begin."

Both pistols rang out their fierce clamor at the same instant.  The chief
lost a lock of his hair, and the Colonel's bullet ended its career in the
fleshy part of my thigh.  The Colonel's left shoulder was clipped a
little.  They fired again.  Both missed their men this time, but I got my
share, a shot in the arm.  At the third fire both gentlemen were wounded
slightly, and I had a knuckle chipped.  I then said, I believed I would
go out and take a walk, as this was a private matter, and I had a
delicacy about participating in it further.  But both gentlemen begged me
to keep my seat, and assured me that I was not in the way.

They then talked about the elections and the crops while they reloaded,
and I fell to tying up my wounds.  But presently they opened fire again
with animation, and every shot took effect--but it is proper to remark
that five out of the six fell to my share.  The sixth one mortally
wounded the Colonel, who remarked, with fine humor, that he would have to
say good morning now, as he had business uptown.  He then inquired the
way to the undertaker's and left.

The chief turned to me and said, "I am expecting company to dinner, and
shall have to get ready.  It will be a favor to me if you will read proof
and attend to the customers."

I winced a little at the idea of attending to the customers, but I was
too bewildered by the fusillade that was still ringing in my ears to
think of anything to say.

He continued, "Jones will be here at three--cowhide him.  Gillespie will
call earlier, perhaps--throw him out of the window.  Ferguson will be
along about four--kill him.  That is all for today, I believe.  If you
have any odd time, you may write a blistering article on the police--give
the chief inspector rats.  The cowhides are under the table; weapons in
the drawer--ammunition there in the corner--lint and bandages up there in
the pigeonholes.  In case of accident, go to Lancet, the surgeon, down-
stairs.  He advertises--we take it out in trade."

He was gone.  I shuddered.  At the end of the next three hours I had been
through perils so awful that all peace of mind and all cheerfulness were
gone from me.  Gillespie had called and thrown me out of the window.
Jones arrived promptly, and when I got ready to do the cowhiding he took
the job off my hands.  In an encounter with a stranger, not in the bill
of fare, I had lost my scalp.  Another stranger, by the name of Thompson,
left me a mere wreck and ruin of chaotic rags.  And at last, at bay in
the corner, and beset by an infuriated mob of editors, blacklegs,
politicians, and desperadoes, who raved and swore and flourished their
weapons about my head till the air shimmered with glancing flashes of
steel, I was in the act of resigning my berth on the paper when the chief
arrived, and with him a rabble of charmed and enthusiastic friends.  Then
ensued a scene of riot and carnage such as no human pen, or steel one
either, could describe.  People were shot, probed, dismembered, blown up,
thrown out of the window.  There was a brief tornado of murky blasphemy,
with a confused and frantic war-dance glimmering through it, and then all
was over.  In five minutes there was silence, and the gory chief and I
sat alone and surveyed the sanguinary ruin that strewed the floor around
us.

He said, "You'll like this place when you get used to it."

I said, "I'll have to get you to excuse me; I think maybe I might write
to suit you after a while; as soon as I had had some practice and learned
the language I am confident I could.  But, to speak the plain truth, that
sort of energy of expression has its inconveniences, and a, man is liable
to interruption.

"You see that yourself.  Vigorous writing is calculated to elevate the
public, no doubt, but then I do not like to attract so much attention as
it calls forth.  I can't write with comfort when I am interrupted so much
as I have been to-day.  I like this berth well enough, but I don't like
to be left here to wait on the customers.  The experiences are novel,
I grant you, and entertaining, too, after a fashion, but they are not
judiciously distributed.  A gentleman shoots at you through the window
and cripples me; a bombshell comes down the stovepipe for your
gratification and sends the stove door down my throat; a friend drops in
to swap compliments with you, and freckles me with bullet-holes till my
skin won't hold my principles; you go to dinner, and Jones comes with his
cowhide, Gillespie throws me out of the window, Thompson tears all my
clothes off, and an entire stranger takes my scalp with the easy freedom
of an old acquaintance; and in less than five minutes all the blackguards
in the country arrive in their war-paint, and proceed to scare the rest
of me to death with their tomahawks.  Take it altogether, I never had
such a spirited time in all my life as I have had to-day.  No; I like
you, and I like your calm unruffled way of explaining things to the
customers, but you see I am not used to it.  The Southern heart is too
impulsive; Southern hospitality is too lavish with the stranger.  The
paragraphs which I have written to-day, and into whose cold sentences
your masterly hand has infused the fervent spirit of Tennesseean
journalism, will wake up another nest of hornets.  All that mob of
editors will come--and they will come hungry, too, and want somebody for
breakfast.  I shall have to bid you adieu.  I decline to be present at
these festivities.  I came South for my health, I will go back on the
same errand, and suddenly.  Tennesseean journalism is too stirring for
me."

After which we parted with mutual regret, and I took apartments at the
hospital.






THE STORY OF THE BAD LITTLE BOY--[Written about 1865]

Once there was a bad little boy whose name was Jim--though, if you will
notice, you will find that bad little boys are nearly always called James
in your Sunday-school books.  It was strange, but still it was true, that
this one was called Jim.

He didn't have any sick mother, either--a sick mother who was pious and
had the consumption, and would be glad to lie down in the grave and be at
rest but for the strong love she bore her boy, and the anxiety she felt
that the world might be harsh and cold toward him when she was gone.
Most bad boys in the Sunday books are named James, and have sick mothers,
who teach them to say, "Now, I lay me down," etc., and sing them to sleep
with sweet, plaintive voices, and then kiss them good night, and kneel
down by the bedside and weep.  But it was different with this fellow.
He was named Jim, and there wasn't anything the matter with his mother
--no consumption, nor anything of that kind.  She was rather stout than
otherwise, and she was not pious; moreover, she was not anxious on Jim's
account.  She said if he were to break his neck it wouldn't be much loss.
She always spanked Jim to sleep, and she never kissed him good night; on
the contrary, she boxed his ears when she was ready to leave him.

Once this little bad boy stole the key of the pantry, and slipped in
there and helped himself to some jam, and filled up the vessel with tar,
so that his mother would never know the difference; but all at once a
terrible feeling didn't come over him, and something didn't seem to
whisper to him, "Is it right to disobey my mother?  Isn't it sinful to do
this?  Where do bad little boys go who gobble up their good kind mother's
jam?" and then he didn't kneel down all alone and promise never to be
wicked any more, and rise up with a light, happy heart, and go and tell
his mother all about it, and beg her forgiveness, and be blessed by her
with tears of pride and thankfulness in her eyes.  No; that is the way
with all other bad boys in the books; but it happened otherwise with this
Jim, strangely enough.  He ate that jam, and said it was bully, in his
sinful, vulgar way; and he put in the tar, and said that was bully also,
and laughed, and observed "that the old woman would get up and snort"
when she found it out; and when she did find it out, he denied knowing
anything about it, and she whipped him severely, and he did the crying
himself.  Everything about this boy was curious--everything turned out
differently with him from the way it does to the bad Jameses in the
books.

Once he climbed up in Farmer Acorn's apple tree to steal apples, and the
limb didn't break, and he didn't fall and break his arm, and get torn by
the farmer's great dog, and then languish on a sickbed for weeks, and
repent and become good.  Oh, no; he stole as many apples as he wanted and
came down all right; and he was all ready for the dog, too, and knocked
him endways with a brick when he came to tear him.  It was very strange
--nothing like it ever happened in those mild little books with marbled
backs, and with pictures in them of men with swallow-tailed coats and
bell-crowned hats, and pantaloons that are short in the legs, and women
with the waists of their dresses under their arms, and no hoops on.
Nothing like it in any of the Sunday-school books.

Once he stole the teacher's penknife, and, when he was afraid it would be
found out and he would get whipped, he slipped it into George Wilson's
cap poor Widow Wilson's son, the moral boy, the good little boy of the
village, who always obeyed his mother, and never told an untruth, and was
fond of his lessons, and infatuated with Sunday-school.  And when the
knife dropped from the cap, and poor George hung his head and blushed,
as if in conscious guilt, and the grieved teacher charged the theft upon
him, and was just in the very act of bringing the switch down upon his
trembling shoulders, a white-haired, improbable justice of the peace did
not suddenly appear in their midst, and strike an attitude and say,
"Spare this noble boy--there stands the cowering culprit!  I was passing
the school door at recess, and, unseen myself, I saw the theft
committed!"  And then Jim didn't get whaled, and the venerable justice
didn't read the tearful school a homily, and take George by the hand and
say such boy deserved to be exalted, and then tell him come and make his
home with him, and sweep out the office, and make fires, and run errands,
and chop wood, and study law, and help his wife do household labors, and
have all the balance of the time to play and get forty cents a month, and
be happy.  No it would have happened that way in the books, but didn't
happen that way to Jim.  No meddling old clam of a justice dropped in to
make trouble, and so the model boy George got thrashed, and Jim was glad
of it because, you know, Jim hated moral boys.  Jim said he was "down on
them milksops."  Such was the coarse language of this bad, neglected boy.

But the strangest thing that ever happened to Jim was the time he went
boating on Sunday, and didn't get drowned, and that other time that he
got caught out in the storm when he was fishing on Sunday and didn't get
struck by lightning.  Why, you might look, and look, all through the
Sunday-school books from now till next Christmas, and you would never
come across anything like this.  Oh, no; you would find that all the bad
boys who go boating on Sunday invariably get drowned; and all the bad
boys who get caught out in storms when they are fishing on Sunday
infallibly get struck by lightning.  Boats with bad boys in them always
upset on Sunday, and it always storms when bad boys go fishing on the
Sabbath.  How this Jim ever escaped is a  mystery to me.

This Jim bore a charmed life--that must have been the way of it.  Nothing
could hurt him.  He even gave the elephant in the menagerie a plug of
tobacco, and the elephant didn't knock the top of his head off with his
trunk.  He browsed around the cupboard after essence-of peppermint, and
didn't make a mistake and drink aqua fortis.  He stole his father's gun
and went hunting on the Sabbath, and didn't shoot three or four of his
fingers off.  He struck his little sister on the temple with his fist
when he was angry, and she didn't linger in pain through long summer
days, and die with sweet words of forgiveness upon her lips that
redoubled the anguish of his breaking heart.  No; she got over it.  He
ran off and went to sea at last, and didn't come back and find himself
sad and alone in the world, his loved ones sleeping in the quiet
churchyard, and the vine-embowered home of his boyhood tumbled down and
gone to decay.  Ah, no; he came home as drunk as a piper, and got into
the station-house the first thing.

And he grew up and married, and raised a large family, and brained them
all with an ax one night, and got wealthy by all manner of cheating and
rascality; and now he is the infernalest wickedest scoundrel in his
native village, and is universally respected, and belongs to the
legislature.

So you see there never was a bad James in the Sunday-school books that
had such a streak of luck as this sinful Jim with the charmed life.






THE STORY OF THE GOOD LITTLE BOY--[Witten about 1865]

Once there was a good little boy by the name of Jacob Blivens.  He always
obeyed his parents, no matter how absurd and unreasonable their demands
were; and he always learned his book, and never was late at Sabbath-
school.  He would not play hookey, even when his sober judgment told him
it was the most profitable thing he could do.  None of the other boys
could ever make that boy out, he acted so strangely.  He wouldn't lie, no
matter how convenient it was.  He just said it was wrong to lie, and that
was sufficient for him.  And he was so honest that he was simply
ridiculous.  The curious ways that that Jacob had, surpassed everything.
He wouldn't play marbles on Sunday, he wouldn't rob birds' nests, he
wouldn't give hot pennies to organ-grinders' monkeys; he didn't seem to
take any interest in any kind of rational amusement.  So the other boys
used to try to reason it out and come to an understanding of him, but
they couldn't arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.  As I said before,
they could only figure out a sort of vague idea that he was "afflicted,"
and so they took him under their protection, and never allowed any harm
to come to him.

This good little boy read all the Sunday-school books; they were his
greatest delight.  This was the whole secret of it.  He believed in the
gold little boys they put in the Sunday-school book; he had every
confidence in them.  He longed to come across one of them alive once;
but he never did.  They all died before his time, maybe.  Whenever he
read about a particularly good one he turned over quickly to the end to
see what became of him, because he wanted to travel thousands of miles
and gaze on him; but it wasn't any use; that good little boy always died
in the last chapter, and there was a picture of the funeral, with all his
relations and the Sunday-school children standing around the grave in
pantaloons that were too short, and bonnets that were too large, and
everybody crying into handkerchiefs that had as much as a yard and a half
of stuff in them.  He was always headed off in this way.  He never could
see one of those good little boys on account of his always dying in the
last chapter.

Jacob had a noble ambition to be put in a Sunday school book.  He wanted
to be put in, with pictures representing him gloriously declining to lie
to his mother, and her weeping for joy about it; and pictures
representing him standing on the doorstep giving a penny to a poor
beggar-woman with six children, and telling her to spend it freely, but
not to be extravagant, because extravagance is a sin; and pictures of him
magnanimously refusing to tell on the bad boy who always lay in wait for
him around the corner as he came from school, and welted him so over the
head with a lath, and then chased him home, saying, "Hi! hi!" as he
proceeded.  That was the ambition of young Jacob Blivens.  He wished to
be put in a Sunday-school book.  It made him feel a lithe uncomfortable
sometimes when he reflected that the good little boys always died.  He
loved to live, you know, and this was the most unpleasant feature about
being a Sunday-school-boo boy.  He knew it was not healthy to be good.
He knew it was more fatal than consumption to be so supernaturally good
as the boys in the books were he knew that none of them had ever been
able to stand it long, and it pained him to think that if they put him in
a book he wouldn't ever see it, or even if they did get the book out
before he died it wouldn't be popular without any picture of his funeral
in the back part of it.  It couldn't be much of a Sunday-school book that
couldn't tell about the advice he gave to the community when he was
dying.  So at last, of course, he had to make up his mind to do the best
he could under the circumstances--to live right, and hang on as long as
he could and have his dying speech all ready when his time came.

But somehow nothing ever went right with the good little boy; nothing
ever turned out with him the way it turned out with the good little boys
in the books.  They always had a good time, and the bad boys had the
broken legs; but in his case there was a screw loose somewhere, and it
all happened just the other way.  When he found Jim Blake stealing
apples, and went under the tree to read to him about the bad little boy
who fell out of a neighbor's apple tree and broke his arm, Jim fell out
of the tree, too, but he fell on him and broke his arm, and Jim wasn't
hurt at all.  Jacob couldn't understand that.  There wasn't anything in
the books like it.

And once, when some bad boys pushed a blind man over in the mud, and
Jacob ran to help him up and receive his blessing, the blind man did not
give him any blessing at all, but whacked him over the head with his
stick and said he would like to catch him shoving him again, and then
pretending to help him up.  This was not in accordance with any of the
books.  Jacob looked them all over to see.

One thing that Jacob wanted to do was to find a lame dog that hadn't any
place to stay, and was hungry and persecuted, and bring him home and pet
him and have that dog's imperishable gratitude.  And at last he found one
and was happy; and he brought him home and fed him, but when he was going
to pet him the dog flew at him and tore all the clothes off him except
those that were in front, and made a spectacle of him that was
astonishing.  He examined authorities, but he could not understand the
matter.  It was of the same breed of dogs that was in the books, but it
acted very differently.  Whatever this boy did he got into trouble.  The
very things the boys in the books got rewarded for turned out to be about
the most unprofitable things he could invest in.

Once, when he was on his way to Sunday-school, he saw some bad boys
starting off pleasuring in a sailboat.  He was filled with consternation,
because he knew from his reading that boys who went sailing on Sunday
invariably got drowned.  So he ran out on a raft to warn them, but a log
turned with him and slid him into the river.  A man got him out pretty
soon, and the doctor pumped the water out of him, and gave him a fresh
start with his bellows, but he caught cold and lay sick abed nine weeks.
But the most unaccountable thing about it was that the bad boys in the
boat had a good time all day, and then reached home alive and well in the
most surprising manner.  Jacob Blivens said there was nothing like these
things in the books.  He was perfectly dumfounded.

When he got well he was a little discouraged, but he resolved to keep on
trying anyhow.  He knew that so far his experiences wouldn't do to go in
a book, but he hadn't yet reached the allotted term of life for good
little boys, and he hoped to be able to make a record yet if he could
hold on till his time was fully up.  If everything else failed he had his
dying speech to fall back on.

He examined his authorities, and found that it was now time for him to go
to sea as a cabin-boy.  He called on a ship-captain and made his
application, and when the captain asked for his recommendations he
proudly drew out a tract and pointed to the word, "To Jacob Blivens, from
his affectionate teacher."  But the captain was a coarse, vulgar man, and
he said, "Oh, that be blowed! that wasn't any proof that he knew how to
wash dishes or handle a slush-bucket, and he guessed he didn't want him."
This was altogether the most extraordinary thing that ever happened to
Jacob in all his life.  A compliment from a teacher, on a tract, had
never failed to move the tenderest emotions of ship-captains, and open
the way to all offices of honor and profit in their gift it never had in
any book that ever he had read.  He could hardly believe his senses.

This boy always had a hard time of it.  Nothing ever came out according
to the authorities with him.  At last, one day, when he was around
hunting up bad little boys to admonish, he found a lot of them in the old
iron-foundry fixing up a little joke on fourteen or fifteen dogs, which
they had tied together in long procession, and were going to ornament
with empty nitroglycerin cans made fast to their tails.  Jacob's heart
was touched.  He sat down on one of those cans (for he never minded
grease when duty was before him), and he took hold of the foremost dog by
the collar, and turned his reproving eye upon wicked Tom Jones.  But just
at that moment Alderman McWelter, full of wrath, stepped in.  All the bad
boys ran away, but Jacob Blivens rose in conscious innocence and began
one of those stately little Sunday-school-book speeches which always
commence with "Oh, sir!" in dead opposition to the fact that no boy, good
or bad, ever starts a remark with "Oh, sir."  But the alderman never
waited to hear the rest.  He took Jacob Blivens by the ear and turned him
around, and hit him a whack in the rear with the flat of his hand; and in
an instant that good little boy shot out through the roof and soared away
toward the sun with the fragments of those fifteen dogs stringing after
him like the tail of a kite.  And there wasn't a sign of that alderman or
that old iron-foundry left on the face of the earth; and, as for young
Jacob Blivens, he never got a chance to make his last dying speech after
all his trouble fixing it up, unless he made it to the birds; because,
although the bulk of him came down all right in a tree-top in an
adjoining county, the rest of him was apportioned around among four
townships, and so they had to hold five inquests on him to find out
whether he was dead or not, and how it occurred.  You never saw a boy
scattered so.--[This glycerin catastrophe is borrowed from a floating
newspaper item, whose author's name I would give if I knew it.--M. T.]

Thus perished the good little boy who did the best he could, but didn't
come out according to the books.  Every boy who ever did as he did
prospered except him.  His case is truly remarkable.  It will probably
never be accounted for.






A COUPLE OF POEMS BY TWAIN AND MOORE--[Written about 1865]


                         THOSE EVENING BELLS

                           BY THOMAS MOORE

               Those evening bells!  those evening bells!
               How many a tale their music tells
               Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
               When last I heard their soothing chime.

               Those joyous hours are passed away;
               And many a heart that then was gay,
               Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
               And hears no more those evening bells.

               And so 'twill be when I am gone
               That tuneful peal will still ring on;
               While other bards shall walk these dells,
               And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.


                         THOSE ANNUAL BILLS

                           BY MARK TWAIN

               These annual bills! these annual bills!
               How many a song their discord trills
               Of "truck" consumed, enjoyed, forgot,
               Since I was skinned by last year's lot!

               Those joyous beans are passed away;
               Those onions blithe, O where are they?
               Once loved, lost, mourned--now vexing ILLS
               Your shades troop back in annual bills!

               And so 'twill be when I'm aground
               These yearly duns will still go round,
               While other bards, with frantic quills,
               Shall damn and damn these annual bills!






NIAGARA [ Written about 1871.]

Niagara Falls is a most enjoyable place of resort.  The hotels are
excellent, and the prices not at all exorbitant.  The opportunities for
fishing are not surpassed in the country; in fact, they are not even
equaled elsewhere.  Because, in other localities, certain places in the
streams are much better than others; but at Niagara one place is just as
good as another, for the reason that the fish do not bite anywhere, and
so there is no use in your walking five miles to fish, when you can
depend on being just as unsuccessful nearer home.  The advantages of this
state of things have never heretofore been properly placed before the
public.

The weather is cool in summer, and the walks and drives are all pleasant
and none of them fatiguing.  When you start out to "do" the Falls you
first drive down about a mile, and pay a small sum for the privilege of
looking down from a precipice into the narrowest part of the Niagara
River.  A railway "cut" through a hill would be as comely if it had the
angry river tumbling and foaming through its bottom.  You can descend a
staircase here a hundred and fifty feet down, and stand at the edge of
the water.  After you have done it, you will wonder why you did it; but
you will then be too late.

The guide will explain to you, in his blood-curdling way, how he saw the
little steamer, Maid of the Mist, descend the fearful rapids--how first
one paddle-box was out of sight behind the raging billows and then the
other, and at what point it was that her smokestack toppled overboard,
and where her planking began to break and part asunder--and how she did
finally live through the trip, after accomplishing the incredible feat of
traveling seventeen miles in six minutes, or six miles in seventeen
minutes, I have really forgotten which.  But it was very extraordinary,
anyhow.  It is worth the price of admission to hear the guide tell the
story nine times in succession to different parties, and never miss a
word or alter a sentence or a gesture.

Then you drive over to Suspension Bridge, and divide your misery between
the chances of smashing down two hundred feet into the river below, and
the chances of having the railway-train overhead smashing down onto you.
Either possibility is discomforting taken by itself, but, mixed together,
they amount in the aggregate to positive unhappiness.

On the Canada side you drive along the chasm between long ranks of
photographers standing guard behind their cameras, ready to make an
ostentatious frontispiece of you and your decaying ambulance, and your
solemn crate with a hide on it, which you are expected to regard in the
light of a horse, and a diminished and unimportant background of sublime
Niagara; and a great many people have the incredible effrontery or the
native depravity to aid and abet this sort of crime.

Any day, in the hands of these photographers, you may see stately
pictures of papa and mamma, Johnny and Bub and Sis or a couple of country
cousins, all smiling vacantly, and all disposed in studied and
uncomfortable attitudes in their carriage, and all looming up in their
awe-inspiring imbecility before the snubbed and diminished presentment of
that majestic presence whose ministering spirits are the rainbows, whose
voice is the thunder, whose awful front is veiled in clouds, who was
monarch here dead and forgotten ages before this hackful of small
reptiles was deemed temporarily necessary to fill a crack in the world's
unnoted myriads, and will still be monarch here ages and decades of ages
after they shall have gathered themselves to their blood-relations, the
other worms, and been mingled with the unremembering dust.

There is no actual harm in making Niagara a background whereon to display
one's marvelous insignificance in a good strong light, but it requires a
sort of superhuman self-complacency to enable one to do it.

When you have examined the stupendous Horseshoe Fall till you are
satisfied you cannot improve on it, you return to America by the new
Suspension Bridge, and follow up the bank to where they exhibit the Cave
of the Winds.

Here I followed instructions, and divested myself of all my clothing, and
put on a waterproof jacket and overalls.  This costume is picturesque,
but not beautiful.  A guide, similarly dressed, led the way down a flight
of winding stairs, which wound and wound, and still kept on winding long
after the thing ceased to be a novelty, and then terminated long before
it had begun to be a pleasure.  We were then well down under the
precipice, but still considerably above the level of the river.

We now began to creep along flimsy bridges of a single plank, our persons
shielded from destruction by a crazy wooden railing, to which I clung
with both hands--not because I was afraid, but because I wanted to.
Presently the descent became steeper and the bridge flimsier, and sprays
from the American Fall began to rain down on us in fast increasing sheets
that soon became blinding, and after that our progress was mostly in the
nature of groping.  Nova a furious wind began to rush out from behind the
waterfall, which seemed determined to sweep us from the bridge, and
scatter us on the rocks and among the torrents below.  I remarked that I
wanted to go home; but it was too late.  We were almost under the
monstrous wall of water thundering down from above, and speech was in
vain in the midst of such a pitiless crash of sound.

In another moment the guide disappeared behind the deluge, and bewildered
by the thunder, driven helplessly by the wind, and smitten by the arrowy
tempest of rain, I followed.  All was darkness.  Such a mad storming,
roaring, and bellowing of warring wind and water never crazed my ears
before.  I bent my head, and seemed to receive the Atlantic on my back.
The world seemed going to destruction.  I could not see anything, the
flood poured down savagely.  I raised my head, with open mouth, and the
most of the American cataract went down my throat.  If I had sprung a
leak now I had been lost.  And at this moment I discovered that the
bridge had ceased, and we must trust for a foothold to the slippery and
precipitous rocks.  I never was so scared before and survived it.  But we
got through at last, and emerged into the open day, where we could stand
in front of the laced and frothy and seething world of descending water,
and look at it.  When I saw how much of it there was, and how fearfully
in earnest it was, I was sorry I had gone behind it.

The noble Red Man has always been a friend and darling of mine.  I love
to read about him in tales and legends and romances.  I love to read of
his inspired sagacity, and his love of the wild free life of mountain and
forest, and his general nobility of character, and his stately
metaphorical manner of speech, and his chivalrous love for the dusky
maiden, and the picturesque pomp of his dress and accoutrements.
Especially the picturesque pomp of his dress and accoutrements.  When I
found the shops at Niagara Falls full of dainty Indian beadwork, and
stunning moccasins, and equally stunning toy figures representing human
beings who carried their weapons in holes bored through their arms and
bodies, and had feet shaped like a pie, I was filled with emotion.
I knew that now, at last, I was going to come face to face with the noble
Red Man.

A lady clerk in a shop told me, indeed, that all her grand array of
curiosities were made by the Indians, and that they were plenty about the
Falls, and that they were friendly, and it would not be dangerous to
speak to them.  And sure enough, as I approached the bridge leading over
to Luna Island, I came upon a noble Son of the Forest sitting under a
tree, diligently at work on a bead reticule.  He wore a slouch hat and
brogans, and had a short black pipe in his mouth.  Thus does the baneful
contact with our effeminate civilization dilute the picturesque pomp
which is so natural to the Indian when far removed from us in his native
haunts.  I addressed the relic as follows:

"Is the Wawhoo-Wang-Wang of the Whack-a-Whack happy?  Does the great
Speckled Thunder sigh for the war-path, or is his heart contented with
dreaming of the dusky maiden, the Pride of the Forest?  Does the mighty
Sachem yearn to drink the blood of his enemies, or is he satisfied to
make bead reticules for the pappooses of the paleface?  Speak, sublime
relic of bygone grandeur--venerable ruin, speak!"

The relic said:

"An' is it mesilf, Dennis Hooligan, that ye'd be takon' for a dirty
Injin, ye drawlin', lantern-jawed, spider-legged divil!  By the piper
that played before Moses, I'll ate ye!"

I went away from there.

By and by, in the neighborhood of the Terrapin Tower, I came upon a
gentle daughter of the aborigines in fringed and beaded buckskin
moccasins and leggins, seated on a bench with her pretty wares about her.
She had just carved out a wooden chief that had a strong family
resemblance to a clothes-pin, and was now boring a hole through his
abdomen to put his bow through.  I hesitated a moment, and then addressed
her:

"Is the heart of the forest maiden heavy?  Is the Laughing Tadpole
lonely?  Does she mourn over the extinguished council-fires of her race,
and the vanished glory of her ancestors?  Or does her sad spirit wander
afar toward the hunting-grounds whither her brave Gobbler-of-the-
Lightnings is gone?  Why is my daughter silent?  Has she ought against
the paleface stranger?"

The maiden said:

"Faix, an' is it Biddy Malone ye dare to be callin' names?  Lave this, or
I'll shy your lean carcass over the cataract, ye sniveling blaggard!"

I adjourned from there also.

"Confound these Indians!" I said.  "They told me they were tame; but, if
appearances go for anything, I should say they were all on the warpath."

I made one more attempt to fraternize with them, and only one.  I came
upon a camp of them gathered in the shade of a great tree, making wampum
and moccasins, and addressed them in the language of friendship:

"Noble Red Men, Braves, Grand Sachems, War Chiefs, Squaws, and High Muck-
a-Mucks, the paleface from the land of the setting sun greets you! You,
Beneficent Polecat--you, Devourer of Mountains--you, Roaring Thundergust
--you, Bully Boy with a Glass eye--the paleface from beyond the great
waters greets you all! War and pestilence have thinned your ranks and
destroyed your once proud nation.  Poker and seven-up, and a vain modern
expense for soap, unknown to your glorious ancestors, have depleted your
purses.  Appropriating, in your simplicity, the property of others has
gotten you into trouble.  Misrepresenting facts, in your simple
innocence, has damaged your reputation with the soulless usurper.
Trading for forty-rod whisky, to enable you to get drunk and happy and
tomahawk your families, has played the everlasting mischief with the
picturesque pomp of your dress, and here you are, in the broad light of
the nineteenth century, gotten up like the ragtag and bobtail of the
purlieus of New York.  For shame!  Remember your ancestors!  Recall their
mighty deeds!  Remember Uncas!--and Red jacket! and Hole in the Day!--
and Whoopdedoodledo!  Emulate their achievements!  Unfurl yourselves
under my banner, noble savages, illustrious guttersnipes--"

"Down wid him!"  "Scoop the blaggard!"  "Burn him!"  "Bang him!"
"Dhround him!"

It was the quickest operation that ever was.  I simply saw a sudden flash
in the air of clubs, brickbats, fists, bead-baskets, and moccasins--a
single flash, and they all appeared to hit me at once, and no two of them
in the same place.  In the next instant the entire tribe was upon me.
They tore half the clothes off me; they broke my arms and legs; they gave
me a thump that dented the top of my head till it would hold coffee like
a saucer; and, to crown their disgraceful proceedings and add insult to
injury, they threw me over the Niagara Falls, and I got wet.

About ninety or a hundred feet from the top, the remains of my vest
caught on a projecting rock, and I was almost drowned before I could get
loose.  I finally fell, and brought up in a world of white foam at the
foot of the Fall, whose celled and bubbly masses towered up several
inches above my head.  Of course I got into the eddy.  I sailed round and
round in it forty-four times--chasing a chip and gaining on it--each
round trip a half-mile--reaching for the same bush on the bank forty-four
times, and just exactly missing it by a hair's-breadth every time.

At last a man walked down and sat down close to that bush, and put a pipe
in his mouth, and lit a match, and followed me with one eye and kept the
other on the match, while he sheltered it in his hands from the wind.
Presently a puff of wind blew it out.  The next time I swept around he
said:

"Got a match?"

"Yes; in my other vest.  Help me out, please."

"Not for Joe."

When I came round again, I said:

"Excuse the seemingly impertinent curiosity of a drowning man, but will
you explain this singular conduct of yours?"

"With pleasure.  I am the coroner.  Don't hurry on my account.  I can
wait for you.  But I wish I had a match."

I said: "Take my place, and I'll go and get you one."

He declined.  This lack of confidence on his part created a coldness
between us, and from that time forward I avoided him.  It was my idea,
in case anything happened to me, to so time the occurrence as to throw my
custom into the hands of the opposition coroner on the American side.

At last a policeman came along, and arrested me for disturbing the peace
by yelling at people on shore for help.  The judge fined me, but had the
advantage of him.  My money was with my pantaloons, and my pantaloons
were with the Indians.

Thus I escaped.  I am now lying in a very critical condition.  At least I
am lying anyway---critical or not critical.  I am hurt all over, but I
cannot tell the full extent yet, because the doctor is not done taking
inventory.  He will make out my manifest this evening.  However, thus far
he thinks only sixteen of my wounds are fatal.  I don't mind the others.

Upon regaining my right mind, I said:

"It is an awful savage tribe of Indians that do the beadwork and
moccasins for Niagara Falls, doctor.  Where are they from?"

"Limerick, my son."






ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS--[Written about 1865.]

"MORAL STATISTICIAN."--I don't want any of your statistics; I took your
whole batch and lit my pipe with it.  I hate your kind of people.  You
are always ciphering out how much a man's health is injured, and how much
his intellect is impaired, and how many pitiful dollars and cents he
wastes in the course of ninety-two years' indulgence in the fatal
practice of smoking; and in the equally fatal practice of drinking
coffee; and in playing billiards occasionally; and in taking a glass of
wine at dinner, etc., etc., etc.  And you are always figuring out how
many women have been burned to death because of the dangerous fashion of
wearing expansive hoops, etc., etc., etc.  You never see more than one
side of the question.  You are blind to the fact that most old men in
America smoke and drink coffee, although, according to your theory, they
ought to have died young; and that hearty old Englishmen drink wine and
survive it, and portly old Dutchmen both drink and smoke freely, and yet
grow older and fatter all the time.  And you never by to find out how
much solid comfort, relaxation, and enjoyment a man derives from smoking
in the course of a lifetime (which is worth ten times the money he would
save by letting it alone), nor the appalling aggregate of happiness lost
in a lifetime your kind of people from not smoking.  Of course you can
save money by denying yourself all the little vicious enjoyments for
fifty years; but then what can you do with it?  What use can you put it
to?  Money can't save your infinitesimal soul.  All the use that money
can be put to is to purchase comfort and enjoyment in this life;
therefore, as you are an enemy to comfort and enjoyment, where is the use
of accumulating cash?  It won't do for you say that you can use it to
better purpose in furnishing a good table, and in charities, and in
supporting tract societies, because you know yourself that you people who
have no petty vices are never known to give away a cent, and that you
stint yourselves so in the matter of food that you are always feeble and
hungry.  And you never dare to laugh in the daytime for fear some poor
wretch, seeing you in a good humor, will try to borrow a dollar of you;
and in church you are always down on your knees, with your eyes buried in
the cushion, when the contribution-box comes around; and you never give
the revenue officer: full statement of your income.  Now you know these
things yourself, don't you?  Very well, then what is the use of your
stringing out your miserable lives to a lean and withered old age?  What
is the use of your saving money that is so utterly worthless to you?  In
a word, why don't you go off somewhere and die, and not be always trying
to seduce people into becoming as "ornery" and unlovable as you are
yourselves, by your villainous "moral statistics"?  Now I don't approve
of dissipation, and I don't indulge in it, either; but I haven't a
particle of confidence in a man who has no redeeming petty vices, and so
I don't want to hear from you any more.  I think you are the very same
man who read me a long lecture last week about the degrading vice of
smoking cigars, and then came back, in my absence, with your
reprehensible fireproof gloves on, and carried off my beautiful parlor
stove.


"YOUNG AUTHOR."--Yes, Agassiz does recommend authors to eat fish, because
the phosphorus in it makes brain.  So far you are correct.  But I cannot
help you to a decision about the amount you need to eat--at least, not
with certainty.  If the specimen composition you send is about your fair
usual average, I should judge that perhaps a couple of whales would be
all you would want for the present.  Not the largest kind, but simply
good, middling-sized whales.


"SIMON WHEELER," Sonora.--The following simple and touching remarks and
accompanying poem have just come to hand from the rich gold-mining region
of Sonora:

     To Mr. Mark Twain: The within parson, which I have set to poetry
     under the name and style of "He Done His Level Best," was one among
     the whitest men I ever see, and it ain't every man that knowed him
     that can find it in his heart to say he's glad the poor cuss is
     busted and gone home to the States.  He was here in an early day,
     and he was the handyest man about takin' holt of anything that come
     along you most ever see, I judge.  He was a cheerful, stirnn'
     cretur, always doin' somethin', and no man can say he ever see him
     do anything by halvers.  Preachin was his nateral gait, but he
     warn't a man to lay back a twidle his thumbs because there didn't
     happen to be nothin' do in his own especial line--no, sir, he was a
     man who would meander forth and stir up something for hisself.  His
     last acts was to go his pile on "Kings-and" (calkatin' to fill, but
     which he didn't fill), when there was a "flush" out agin him, and
     naterally, you see, he went under.  And so he was cleaned out as you
     may say, and he struck the home-trail, cheerful but flat broke.  I
     knowed this talonted man in Arkansaw, and if you would print this
     humbly tribute to his gorgis abilities, you would greatly obleege
     his onhappy friend.

                    HE DONE HIS LEVEL BEST
                    Was he a mining on the flat--
                    He done it with a zest;
                    Was he a leading of the choir--
                    He done his level best.

                    If he'd a reg'lar task to do,
                    He never took no rest;
                    Or if 'twas off-and-on-the same--
                    He done his level best.

                    If he was preachin' on his beat,
                    He'd tramp from east to west,
                    And north to south-in cold and heat
                    He done his level best.

                    He'd yank a sinner outen (Hades),**
                    And land him with the blest;
                    Then snatch a prayer'n waltz in again,
                    And do his level best.

     **Here I have taken a slight liberty with the original MS.  "Hades"
     does not make such good meter as the other word of one syllable, but
     it sounds better.

                    He'd cuss and sing and howl and pray,
                    And dance and drink and jest,
                    And lie and steal-all one to him--
                    He done his level best.

                    Whate'er this man was sot to do,
                    He done it with a zest;
                    No matter what his contract was,
                    HE'D DO HIS LEVEL BEST.

Verily, this man was gifted with "gorgis abilities," and it is a
happiness to me to embalm the memory of their luster in these columns.
If it were not that the poet crop is unusually large and rank in
California this year, I would encourage you to continue writing, Simon
Wheeler; but, as it is, perhaps it might be too risky in you to enter
against so much opposition.


"PROFESSIONAL BEGGAR."--NO; you are not obliged to take greenbacks at
par.


"MELTON MOWBRAY," Dutch Flat.--This correspondent sends a lot of
doggerel, and says it has been regarded as very good in Dutch Flat.  I
give a specimen verse:

          The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,
          And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold;
          And the sheen of his spears was like stars on the sea,
          When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.**

     **This piece of pleasantry, published in a San Francisco paper, was
     mistaken by the country journals for seriousness, and many and loud
     were the denunciations of the ignorance of author and editor, in not
     knowing that the lines in question were "written by Byron."

There, that will do.  That may be very good Dutch Flat poetry, but it
won't do in the metropolis.  It is too smooth and blubbery; it reads like
butter milk gurgling from a jug.  What the people ought to have is
something spirited--something like "Johnny Comes Marching Home."  However
keep on practising, and you may succeed yet.  There is genius in you, but
too much blubber.


     "ST. CLAIR HIGGINS." Los Angeles.--"My life is a failure; I have
     adored, wildly, madly, and she whom I love has turned coldly from me
     and shed her affections upon another.  What would you advise me to
     do?"

You should set your affections on another also--or on several, if there
are enough to go round.  Also, do everything you can to make your former
flame unhappy.  There is an absurd idea disseminated in novels, that the
happier a girl is with another man, the happier it makes the old lover
she has blighted.  Don't allow yourself to believe any such nonsense as
that.  The more cause that girl finds to regret that she did not marry
you, the more comfortable you will feel over it.  It isn't poetical, but
it is mighty sound doctrine.


     "ARITHMETICUS." Virginia, Nevada.--"If it would take a cannon-ball
     3 and 1/3 seconds to travel four miles, and 3 and 3/8 seconds to
     travel the next four, and 3 and 5/8 to travel the next four, and if
     its rate of progress continued to diminish in the same ratio, how
     long would it take it to go fifteen hundred million miles?"

I don't know.


"AMBITIOUS LEARNER," Oakland.--Yes; you are right America was not
discovered by Alexander Selkirk.


     "DISCARDED LOVER."--"I loved, and still love, the beautiful Edwitha
     Howard, and intended to marry her.  Yet, during my temporary absence
     at Benicia, last week, alas! she married Jones.  Is my happiness to
     be thus blasted for life? Have I no redress?"

Of course you have.  All the law, written and unwritten, is on your side.
The intention and not the act constitutes crime--in other words,
constitutes the deed.  If you call your bosom friend a fool, and intend
it for an insult, it is an insult; but if you do it playfully, and
meaning no insult, it is not an insult.  If you discharge a pistol
accidentally, and kill a man, you can go free, for you have done no
murder; but if you try to kill a man, and manifestly intend to kill him,
but fail utterly to do it, the law still holds that the intention
constituted the crime, and you are guilty of murder.  Ergo, if you had
married Edwitha accidentally, and without really intending to do it, you
would not actually be married to her at all, because the act of marriage
could not be complete without the intention.  And ergo, in the strict
spirit of the law, since you deliberately intended to marry Edwitha, and
didn't do it, you are married to her all the same--because, as I said
before, the intention constitutes the crime.  It is as clear as day that
Edwitha is your wife, and your redress lies in taking a club and
mutilating Jones with it as much as you can.  Any man has a right to
protect his own wife from the advances of other men.  But you have
another alternative--you were married to Edwitha first, because of your
deliberate intention, and now you can prosecute her for bigamy, in
subsequently marrying Jones.  But there is another phase in this
complicated case:  You intended to marry Edwitha, and consequently,
according to law, she is your wife--there is no getting around that; but
she didn't marry you, and if she never intended to marry you, you are not
her husband, of course.  Ergo, in marrying Jones, she was guilty of
bigamy, because she was the wife of another man at the time; which is all
very well as far as it goes--but then, don't you see, she had no other
husband when she married Jones, and consequently she was not guilty of
bigamy.  Now, according to this view of the case, Jones married a
spinster, who was a widow at the same time and another man's wife at the
same time, and yet who had no husband and never had one, and never had
any intention of getting married, and therefore, of course, never had
been married; and by the same reasoning you are a bachelor, because you
have never been any one's husband; and a married man, because you have a
wife living; and to all intents and purposes a widower, because you have
been deprived of that wife; and a consummate ass for going off to Benicia
in the first place, while things were so mixed.  And by this time I have
got myself so tangled up in the intricacies of this extraordinary case
that I shall have to give up any further attempt to advise you--I might
get confused and fail to make myself understood.  I think I could take up
the argument where I left off, and by following it closely awhile,
perhaps I could prove to your satisfaction, either that you never existed
at all, or that you are dead now, and consequently don't need the
faithless Edwitha--I think I could do that, if it would afford you any
comfort.


"ARTHUR AUGUSTUS."--No; you are wrong; that is the proper way to throw a
brickbat or a tomahawk; but it doesn't answer so well for a bouquet; you
will hurt somebody if you keep it up.  Turn your nosegay upside down,
take it by the stems, and toss it with an upward sweep.  Did you ever
pitch quoits? that is the idea.  The practice of recklessly heaving
immense solid bouquets, of the general size and weight of prize cabbages,
from the dizzy altitude of the galleries, is dangerous and very
reprehensible.  Now, night before last, at the Academy of Music, just
after Signorina had finished that exquisite melody, "The Last Rose of
Summer," one of these floral pile-drivers came cleaving down through the
atmosphere of applause, and if she hadn't deployed suddenly to the right,
it would have driven her into the floor like a shinglenail.  Of course
that bouquet was well meant; but how would you like to have been the
target?  A sincere compliment is always grateful to a lady, so long as
you don't try to knock her down with it.


"YOUNG MOTHER."--And so you think a baby is a thing of beauty and a joy
forever?  Well, the idea is pleasing, but not original; every cow thinks
the same of its own calf. Perhaps the cow may not think it so elegantly,
but still she thinks it nevertheless.  I honor the cow for it.  We all
honor this touching maternal instinct wherever we find it, be it in the
home of luxury or in the humble cove-shed.  But really, madam, when I
come to examine the matter in all its bearings, I find that the
correctness of your assertion does not assert itself in all cases.
A soiled baby, with a neglected nose, cannot be conscientiously regarded
as a thing of beauty; and inasmuch as babyhood spans but three short
years, no baby is competent to be a joy "forever."  It pains me thus to
demolish two-thirds of your pretty sentiment in a single sentence; but
the position I hold in this chair requires that I shall not permit you to
deceive and mislead the public with your plausible figures of speech.
I know a female baby, aged eighteen months, in this city, which cannot
hold out as a "joy" twenty-four hours on a stretch, let alone "forever."
And it possesses some of the most remarkable eccentricities of character
and appetite that have ever fallen under my notice.  I will set down here
a statement of this infant's operations (conceived, planned, and earned
out by itself, and without suggestion or assistance from its mother or
any one else), during a single day; and what I shall say can be
substantiated by the sworn testimony of witnesses.

It commenced by eating one dozen large blue-mass pills, box and all; then
it fell down a flight of stairs, and arose with a blue and purple knot on
its forehead, after which it proceeded in quest of further refreshment
and amusement. It found a glass trinket ornamented with brass-work
--smashed up and ate the glass, and then swallowed the brass.
Then it drank about twenty drops of laudanum, and more than a dozen
tablespoonfuls of strong spirits of camphor.  The reason why it took no
more laudanum was because there was no more to take.  After this it lay
down on its back, and shoved five or six, inches of a silver-headed
whalebone cane down its throat; got it fast there, and it was all its
mother could do to pull the cane out again, without pulling out some of
the child with it.  Then, being hungry for glass again, it broke up
several wine glasses, and fell to eating and swallowing the fragments,
not minding a cut or two.  Then it ate a quantity of butter, pepper,
salt, and California matches, actually taking a spoonful of butter, a
spoonful of salt, a spoonful of pepper, and three or four lucifer matches
at each mouthful. (I will remark here that this thing of beauty likes
painted German lucifers, and eats all she can get of them; but she
prefers California matches, which I regard as a compliment to our home
manufactures of more than ordinary value, coming, as it does, from one
who is too young to flatter.)  Then she washed her head with soap and
water, and afterward ate what soap was left, and drank as much of the
suds as she had room for; after which she sallied forth and took the cow
familiarly by the tail, and got kicked heels over head.  At odd times
during the day, when this joy forever happened to have nothing particular
on hand, she put in the time by climbing up on places, and falling down
off them, uniformly damaging her self in the operation.  As young as she
is, she speaks many words tolerably distinctly; and being plain spoken in
other respects, blunt and to the point, she opens conversation with all
strangers, male or female, with the same formula, "How do, Jim?"

Not being familiar with the ways of children, it is possible that I have
been magnifying into matter of surprise things which may not strike any
one who is familiar with infancy as being at all astonishing.  However, I
cannot believe that such is the case, and so I repeat that my report of
this baby's performances is strictly true; and if any one doubts it,
I can produce the child.  I will further engage that she will devour
anything that is given her (reserving to myself only the right to exclude
anvils), and fall down from any place to which she may be elevated
(merely stipulating that her preference for alighting on her head shall
be respected, and, therefore, that the elevation chosen shall be high
enough to enable her to accomplish this to her satisfaction).  But I find
I have wandered from my subject; so, without further argument, I will
reiterate my conviction that not all babies are things of beauty and joys
forever.


     "ARITHMETICUS." Virginia, Nevada.--"I am an enthusiastic student of
     mathematics, and it is so vexatious to me to find my progress
     constantly impeded by these mysterious arithmetical technicalities.
     Now do tell me what the difference is between geometry and
     conchology?"

Here you come again with your arithmetical conundrums, when I am
suffering death with a cold in the head.  If you could have seen the
expression of scorn that darkened my countenance a moment ago, and was
instantly split from the center in every direction like a fractured
looking-glass by my last sneeze, you never would have written that
disgraceful question.  Conchology is a science which has nothing to do
with mathematics; it relates only to shells.  At the same time, however,
a man who opens oysters for a hotel, or shells a fortified town, or sucks
eggs, is not, strictly speaking, a conchologist-a fine stroke of sarcasm
that, but it will be lost on such an unintellectual clam as you.  Now
compare conchology and geometry together, and you will see what the
difference is, and your question will be answered.  But don't torture me
with any more arithmetical horrors until you know I am rid of my cold.  I
feel the bitterest animosity toward you at this moment-bothering me in
this way, when I can do nothing but sneeze and rage and snort pocket-
handkerchiefs to atoms.  If I had you in range of my nose now I would
blow your brains out.






TO RAISE POULTRY

--[Being a letter written to a Poultry Society that had conferred a
complimentary membership upon the author.  Written about 1870.]

Seriously, from early youth I have taken an especial interest in the
subject of poultry-raising, and so this membership touches a ready
sympathy in my breast.  Even as a schoolboy, poultry-raising was a study
with me, and I may say without egotism that as early as the age of
seventeen I was acquainted with all the best and speediest methods of
raising chickens, from raising them off a roost by burning lucifer
matches under their noses, down to lifting them off a fence on a frosty
night by insinuating the end of a warm board under their heels.  By the
time I was twenty years old, I really suppose I had raised more poultry
than any one individual in all the section round about there.  The very
chickens came to know my talent by and by.  The youth of both sexes
ceased to paw the earth for worms, and old roosters that came to crow,
"remained to pray," when I passed by.

I have had so much experience in the raising of fowls that I cannot but
think that a few hints from me might be useful to the society.  The two
methods I have already touched upon are very simple, and are only used in
the raising of the commonest class of fowls; one is for summer, the other
for winter.  In the one case you start out with a friend along about
eleven o'clock' on a summer's night (not later, because in some states--
especially in California and Oregon--chickens always rouse up just at
midnight and crow from ten to thirty minutes, according to the ease or
difficulty they experience in getting the public waked up), and your
friend carries with him a sack.  Arrived at the henroost (your
neighbor's, not your own), you light a match and hold it under first one
and then another pullet's nose until they are willing to go into that bag
without making any trouble about it.  You then return home, either taking
the bag with you or leaving it behind, according as circumstances shall
dictate.  N. B.--I have seen the time when it was eligible and
appropriate to leave the sack behind and walk off with considerable
velocity, without ever leaving any word where to send it.

In the case of the other method mentioned for raising poultry, your
friend takes along a covered vessel with a charcoal fire in it, and you
carry a long slender plank.  This is a frosty night, understand.  Arrived
at the tree, or fence, or other henroost (your own if you are an idiot),
you warm the end of your plank in your friend's fire vessel, and then
raise it aloft and ease it up gently against a slumbering chicken's foot.
If the subject of your attentions is a true bird, he will infallibly
return thanks with a sleepy cluck or two, and step out and take up
quarters on the plank, thus becoming so conspicuously accessory before
the fact to his own murder as to make it a grave question in our minds as
it once was in the mind of Blackstone, whether he is not really and
deliberately, committing suicide in the second degree.  [But you enter
into a contemplation of these legal refinements subsequently not then.]

When you wish to raise a fine, large, donkey voiced Shanghai rooster, you
do it with a lasso, just as you would a bull.  It is because he must
choked, and choked effectually, too.  It is the only good, certain way,
for whenever he mentions a matter which he is cordially interested in,
the chances are ninety-nine in a hundred that he secures somebody else's
immediate attention to it too, whether it day or night.

The Black Spanish is an exceedingly fine bird and a costly one.  Thirty-
five dollars is the usual figure and fifty a not uncommon price for a
specimen.  Even its eggs are worth from a dollar to a dollar and a half
apiece, and yet are so unwholesome that the city physician seldom or
never orders them for the workhouse.  Still I have once or twice procured
as high as a dozen at a time for nothing, in the dark of the moon.  The
best way to raise the Black Spanish fowl is to go late in the evening and
raise coop and all.  The reason I recommend this method is that, the
birds being so valuable, the owners do not permit them to roost around
promiscuously, they put them in a coop as strong as a fireproof safe and
keep it in the kitchen at night.  The method I speak of is not always a
bright and satisfying success, and yet there are so many little articles
of vertu about a kitchen, that if you fail on the coop you can generally
bring away something else.  I brought away a nice steel trap one night,
worth ninety cents.

But what is the use in my pouring out my whole intellect on this subject?
I have shown the Western New York Poultry Society that they have taken to
their bosom a party who is not a spring chicken by any means, but a man
who knows all about poultry, and is just as high up in the most efficient
methods of raising it as the president of the institution himself.
I thank these gentlemen for the honorary membership they have conferred
upon me, and shall stand at all times ready and willing to testify my
good feeling and my official zeal by deeds as well as by this hastily
penned advice and information.  Whenever they are ready to go to raising
poultry, let them call for me any evening after eleven o'clock,






EXPERIENCE OF THE McWILLIAMSES WITH MEMBRANOUS CROUP

[As related to the author of this book by Mr. McWilliams, a pleasant New
York gentleman whom the said author met by chance on a journey.]

Well, to go back to where I was before I digressed to explain to you how
that frightful and incurable disease, membranous croup,[Diphtheria D.W.]
was ravaging the town and driving all mothers mad with terror, I called
Mrs. McWilliams's attention to little Penelope, and said:

"Darling, I wouldn't let that child be chewing that pine stick if I were
you."

"Precious, where is the harm in it?"  said she, but at the same time
preparing to take away the stick for women cannot receive even the most
palpably judicious suggestion without arguing it, that is married women.

I replied:

"Love, it is notorious that pine is the least nutritious wood that a
child can eat."

My wife's hand paused, in the act of taking the stick, and returned
itself to her lap.  She bridled perceptibly, and said:

"Hubby, you know better than that.  You know you do.  Doctors all say
that the turpentine in pine wood is good for weak back and the kidneys."

"Ah--I was under a misapprehension.  I did not know that the child's
kidneys and spine were affected, and that the family physician had
recommended--"

"Who said the child's spine and kidneys were affected?"

"My love, you intimated it."

"The idea!  I never intimated anything of the kind."

"Why, my dear, it hasn't been two minutes since you said--"

"Bother what I said!  I don't care what I did say.  There isn't any harm
in the child's chewing a bit of pine stick if she wants to, and you know
it perfectly well.  And she shall chew it, too.  So there, now!"

"Say no more, my dear.  I now see the force of your reasoning, and I will
go and order two or three cords of the best pine wood to-day.  No child
of mine shall want while I--"

"Oh, please go along to your office and let me have some peace.  A body
can never make the simplest remark but you must take it up and go to
arguing and arguing and arguing till you don't know what you are talking
about, and you never do."

"Very well, it shall be as you say.  But there is a want of logic in your
last remark which--"

However, she was gone with a flourish before I could finish, and had
taken the child with her.  That night at dinner she confronted me with a
face a white as a sheet:

"Oh, Mortimer, there's another!  Little Georgi Gordon is taken."

"Membranous croup?"

"Membranous croup."

"Is there any hope for him?"

"None in the wide world.  Oh, what is to be come of us!"

By and by a nurse brought in our Penelope to say good night and offer the
customary prayer at the mother's knee.  In the midst of "Now I lay me
down to sleep," she gave a slight cough!  My wife fell back like one
stricken with death.  But the next moment she was up and brimming with
the activities which terror inspires.

She commanded that the child's crib be removed from the nursery to our
bedroom; and she went along to see the order executed.  She took me with
her, of course.  We got matters arranged with speed.  A cot-bed was put
up in my wife's dressing room for the nurse.  But now Mrs. McWilliams
said we were too far away from the other baby, and what if he were to
have the symptoms in the night--and she blanched again, poor thing.

We then restored the crib and the nurse to the nursery and put up a bed
for ourselves in a room adjoining.

Presently, however, Mrs. McWilliams said suppose the baby should catch it
from Penelope?  This thought struck a new panic to her heart, and the
tribe of us could not get the crib out of the nursery again fast enough
to satisfy my wife, though she assisted in her own person and well-nigh
pulled the crib to pieces in her frantic hurry.

We moved down-stairs; but there was no place there to stow the nurse, and
Mrs. McWilliams said the nurse's experience would be an inestimable help.
So we returned, bag and baggage, to our own bedroom once more, and felt a
great gladness, like storm-buffeted birds that have found their nest
again.

Mrs. McWilliams sped to the nursery to see how things were going on
there.  She was back in a moment with a new dread.  She said:

"What can make Baby sleep so?"

I said:

"Why, my darling, Baby always sleeps like a graven image."

"I know.  I know; but there's something peculiar about his sleep now.
He seems to--to--he seems to breathe so regularly.  Oh, this is
dreadful."

"But, my dear, he always breathes regularly."

"Oh, I know it, but there's something frightful about it now.  His nurse
is too young and inexperienced.  Maria shall stay there with her, and be
on hand if anything happens."

"That is a good idea, but who will help you?"

"You can help me all I want.  I wouldn't allow anybody to do anything but
myself, anyhow, at such a time as this."

I said I would feel mean to lie abed and sleep, and leave her to watch
and toil over our little patient all the weary night.  But she reconciled
me to it.  So old Maria departed and took up her ancient quarters in the
nursery.

Penelope coughed twice in her sleep.

"Oh, why don't that doctor come!  Mortimer, this room is too warm.  This
room is certainly too warm.  Turn off the register-quick!"

I shut it off, glancing at the thermometer at the same time, and
wondering to myself if 70 was too warm for a sick child.

The coachman arrived from down-town now with the news that our physician
was ill and confined to his bed.  Mrs. McWilliams turned a dead eye upon
me, and said in a dead voice:

"There is a Providence in it.  It is foreordained.  He never was sick
before.  Never.  We have not been living as we ought to live, Mortimer.
Time and time again I have told you so.  Now you see the result.  Our
child will never get well.  Be thankful if you can forgive yourself; I
never can forgive myself."

I said, without intent to hurt, but with heedless choice of words, that I
could not see that we had been living such an abandoned life.

"Mortimer!  Do you want to bring the judgment upon Baby, too!"

Then she began to cry, but suddenly exclaimed:

"The doctor must have sent medicines!"

I said:

"Certainly.  They are here.  I was only waiting for you to give me a
chance."

"Well do give them to me!  Don't you know that every moment is precious
now?  But what was the use in sending medicines, when he knows that the
disease is incurable?"

I said that while there was life there was hope.

"Hope!  Mortimer, you know no more what you are talking about than the
child unborn.  If you would--As I live, the directions say give one
teaspoonful once an hour!  Once an hour!--as if we had a whole year
before us to save the child in!  Mortimer, please hurry.  Give the poor
perishing thing a tablespoonful, and try to be quick!"

"Why, my dear, a tablespoonful might--"

"Don't drive me frantic!  .  .  .  There, there, there, my precious, my
own; it's nasty bitter stuff, but it's good for Nelly--good for mother's
precious darling; and it will make her well.  There, there, there, put
the little head on mamma's breast and go to sleep, and pretty soon--oh,
I know she can't live till morning!  Mortimer, a tablespoonful every
half-hour will--Oh, the child needs belladonna, too; I know she does--and
aconite.  Get them, Mortimer.  Now do let me have my way.  You know
nothing about these things."

We now went to bed, placing the crib close to my wife's pillow.  All this
turmoil had worn upon me, and within two minutes I was something more
than half asleep.  Mrs. McWilliams roused me:

"Darling, is that register turned on?"

"No."

"I thought as much.  Please turn it on at once.  This room is cold."

I turned it on, and presently fell asleep again.  I was aroused once
more:

"Dearie, would you mind moving the crib to your side of the bed?  It is
nearer the register."

I moved it, but had a collision with the rug and woke up the child.  I
dozed off once more, while my wife quieted the sufferer.  But in a little
while these words came murmuring remotely through the fog of my
drowsiness:

"Mortimer, if we only had some goose grease--will you ring?"

I climbed dreamily out, and stepped on a cat, which responded with a
protest and would have got a convincing kick for it if a chair had not
got it instead.

"Now, Mortimer, why do you want to turn up the gas and wake up the child
again?"

"Because I want to see how much I am hurt, Caroline."

"Well, look at the chair, too--I have no doubt it is ruined.  Poor cat,
suppose you had--"

"Now I am not going to suppose anything about the cat.  It never would
have occurred if Maria had been allowed to remain here and attend to
these duties, which are in her line and are not in mine."

"Now, Mortimer, I should think you would be ashamed to make a remark like
that.  It is a pity if you cannot do the few little things I ask of you
at such an awful time as this when our child--"

"There, there, I will do anything you want.  But I can't raise anybody
with this bell.  They're all gone to bed.  Where is the goose grease?"

"On the mantelpiece in the nursery.  If you'll step there and speak to
Maria--"

I fetched the goose grease and went to sleep again.  Once more I was
called:

"Mortimer, I so hate to disturb you, but the room is still too cold for
me to try to apply this stuff.  Would you mind lighting the fire?  It is
all ready to touch a match to."

I dragged myself out and lit the fire, and then sat down disconsolate.

"Mortimer, don't sit there and catch your death of cold.  Come to bed."

As I was stepping in she said:

"But wait a moment.  Please give the child some more of the medicine."

Which I did.  It was a medicine which made a child more or less lively;
so my wife made use of its waking interval to strip it and grease it all
over with the goose oil.  I was soon asleep once more, but once more I
had to get up.

"Mortimer, I feel a draft.  I feel it distinctly.  There is nothing so
bad for this disease as a draft.  Please move the crib in front of the
fire."

I did it; and collided with the rug again, which I threw in the fire.
Mrs. McWilliams sprang out of bed and rescued it and we had some words.
I had another trifling interval of sleep, and then got up, by request,
and constructed a flax-seed poultice.  This was placed upon the child's
breast and left there to do its healing work.

A wood-fire is not a permanent thing.  I got up every twenty minutes and
renewed ours, and this gave Mrs. McWilliams the opportunity to shorten
the times of giving the medicines by ten minutes, which was a great
satisfaction to her.  Now and then, between times, I reorganized the
flax-seed poultices, and applied sinapisms and other sorts of blisters
where unoccupied places could be found upon the child.  Well, toward
morning the wood gave out and my wife wanted me to go down cellar and get
some more.  I said:

"My dear, it is a laborious job, and the child must be nearly warm
enough, with her extra clothing.  Now mightn't we put on another layer of
poultices and--"

I did not finish, because I was interrupted.  I lugged wood up from below
for some little time, and then turned in and fell to snoring as only a
man can whose strength is all gone and whose soul is worn out.  Just at
broad daylight I felt a grip on my shoulder that brought me to my senses
suddenly.  My wife was glaring down upon me and gasping.  As soon as she
could command her tongue she said:

"It is all over!  All over!  The child's perspiring!  What shall we do?"

"Mercy, how you terrify me!  I don't know what we ought to do.  Maybe if
we scraped her and put her in the draft again--"

"Oh, idiot!  There is not a moment to lose!  Go for the doctor.
Go yourself.  Tell him he must come, dead or alive."

I dragged that poor sick man from his bed and brought him.  He looked at
the child and said she was not dying.  This was joy unspeakable to me,
but it made my wife as mad as if he had offered her a personal affront.
Then he said the child's cough was only caused by some trifling
irritation or other in the throat.  At this I thought my wife had a mind
to show him the door.  Now the doctor said he would make the child cough
harder and dislodge the trouble.  So he gave her something that sent her
into a spasm of coughing, and presently up came a little wood splinter or
so.

"This child has no membranous croup," said he.  "She has been chewing a
bit of pine shingle or something of the kind, and got some little slivers
in her throat.  They won't do her any hurt."

"No," said I, "I can well believe that.  Indeed, the turpentine that is
in them is very good for certain sorts of diseases that are peculiar to
children.  My wife will tell you so."

But she did not.  She turned away in disdain and left the room; and since
that time there is one episode in our life which we never refer to.
Hence the tide of our days flows by in deep and untroubled serenity.

[Very few married men have such an experience as McWilliams's, and so the
author of this book thought that maybe the novelty of it would give it a
passing interest to the reader.]






MY FIRST LITERARY VENTURE

I was a very smart child at the age of thirteen--an unusually smart
child, I thought at the time.  It was then that I did my first newspaper
scribbling, and most unexpectedly to me it stirred up a fine sensation in
the community.  It did, indeed, and I was very proud of it, too.  I was a
printer's "devil," and a progressive and aspiring one.  My uncle had me
on his paper (the Weekly Hannibal journal, two dollars a year in advance
--five hundred subscribers, and they paid in cordwood, cabbages, and
unmarketable turnips), and on a lucky summer's day he left town to be
gone a week, and asked me if I thought I could edit one issue of the
paper judiciously.  Ah! didn't I want to try!  Higgins was the editor on
the rival paper.  He had lately been jilted, and one night a friend found
an open note on the poor fellow's bed, in which he stated that he could
not longer endure life and had drowned himself in Bear Creek.  The friend
ran down there and discovered Higgins wading back to shore.  He had
concluded he wouldn't.  The village was full of it for several days,
but Higgins did not suspect it.  I thought this was a fine opportunity.
I wrote an elaborately wretched account of the whole matter, and then
illustrated it with villainous cuts engraved on the bottoms of wooden
type with a jackknife--one of them a picture of Higgins wading out into
the creek in his shirt, with a lantern, sounding the depth of the water
with a walking-stick.  I thought it was desperately funny, and was
densely unconscious that there was any moral obliquity about such a
publication.  Being satisfied with this effort I looked around for other
worlds to conquer, and it struck me that it would make good, interesting
matter to charge the editor of a neighboring country paper with a piece
of gratuitous rascality and "see him squirm."

I did it, putting the article into the form of a parody on the "Burial of
Sir John Moore"--and a pretty crude parody it was, too.

Then I lampooned two prominent citizens outrageously--not because they
had done anything to deserve, but merely because I thought it was my duty
to make the paper lively.

Next I gently touched up the newest stranger--the lion of the day, the
gorgeous journeyman tailor from Quincy.  He was a simpering coxcomb of
the first water, and the "loudest" dressed man in the state.  He was an
inveterate woman-killer.  Every week he wrote lushy "poetry" for the
journal, about his newest conquest.  His rhymes for my week were headed,
"To MARY IN H--l," meaning to Mary in Hannibal, of course.  But while
setting up the piece I was suddenly riven from head to heel by what I
regarded as a perfect thunderbolt of humor, and I compressed it into a
snappy footnote at the bottom--thus: "We will let this thing pass, just
this once; but we wish Mr. J. Gordon Runnels to understand distinctly
that we have a character to sustain, and from this time forth when he
wants to commune with his friends in h--l, he must select some other
medium than the columns of this journal!"

The paper came out, and I never knew any little thing attract so much
attention as those playful trifles of mine.

For once the Hannibal Journal was in demand--a novelty it had not
experienced before.  The whole town was stirred.  Higgins dropped in with
a double-barreled shotgun early in the forenoon.  When he found that it
was an infant (as he called me) that had done him the damage, he simply
pulled my ears and went away; but he threw up his situation that night
and left town for good.  The tailor came with his goose and a pair of
shears; but he despised me, too, and departed for the South that night.
The two lampooned citizens came with threats of libel, and went away
incensed at my insignificance.  The country editor pranced in with a war-
whoop next day, suffering for blood to drink; but he ended by forgiving
me cordially and inviting me down to the drug store to wash away all
animosity in a friendly bumper of "Fahnestock's Vermifuge."  It was his
little joke.  My uncle was very angry when he got back--unreasonably so,
I thought, considering what an impetus I had given the paper, and
considering also that gratitude for his preservation ought to have been
uppermost in his mind, inasmuch as by his delay he had so wonderfully
escaped dissection, tomahawking, libel, and getting his head shot off.

But he softened when he looked at the accounts and saw that I had
actually booked the unparalleled number of thirty-three new subscribers,
and had the vegetables to show for it, cordwood, cabbage, beans, and
unsalable turnips enough to run the family for two dears!






HOW THE AUTHOR WAS SOLD IN NEWARK--[Written about 1869.]

It is seldom pleasant to tell on oneself, but some times it is a sort of
relief to a man to make a confession.  I wish to unburden my mind now,
and yet I almost believe that I am moved to do it more because I long to
bring censure upon another man than because I desire to pour balm upon my
wounded heart. (I don't know what balm is, but I believe it is the
correct expression to use in this connection--never having seen any
balm.) You may remember that I lectured in Newark lately for the young
gentlemen of the-----Society?  I did at any rate.  During the afternoon
of that day I was talking with one of the young gentlemen just referred
to, and he said he had an uncle who, from some cause or other, seemed to
have grown permanently bereft of all emotion.  And with tears in his
eyes, this young man said, "Oh, if I could only see him laugh once more!
Oh, if I could only see him weep!"  I was touched.  I could never
withstand distress.

I said: "Bring him to my lecture.  I'll start him for you."

"Oh, if you could but do it!  If you could but do it, all our family
would bless you for evermore--for he is so very dear to us.  Oh, my
benefactor, can you make him laugh? can you bring soothing tears to those
parched orbs?"

I was profoundly moved.  I said: "My son, bring the old party round.
I have got some jokes in that lecture that will make him laugh if there
is any laugh in him; and if they miss fire, I have got some others that
will make him cry or kill him, one or the other."  Then the young man
blessed me, and wept on my neck, and went after his uncle.  He placed him
in full view, in the second row of benches, that night, and I began on
him.  I tried him with mild jokes, then with severe ones; I dosed him
with bad jokes and riddled him with good ones; I fired old stale jokes
into him, and peppered him fore and aft with red-hot new ones; I warmed
up to my work, and assaulted him on the right and left, in front and
behind; I fumed and sweated and charged and ranted till I was hoarse and
sick and frantic and furious; but I never moved him once--I never started
a smile or a tear!  Never a ghost of a smile, and never a suspicion of
moisture!  I was astounded.  I closed the lecture at last with one
despairing shriek--with one wild burst of humor, and hurled a joke of
supernatural atrocity full at him!

Then I sat down bewildered and exhausted.

The president of the society came up and bathed my head with cold water,
and said: "What made you carry on so toward the last?"

I said: "I was trying to make that confounded old fool laugh, in the
second row."

And he said: "Well, you were wasting your time, because he is deaf and
dumb, and as blind as a badger!"

Now, was that any way for that old man's nephew to impose on a stranger
and orphan like me?  I ask you as a man and brother, if that was any way
for him to do?






THE OFFICE BORE--[Written about 1869]

He arrives just as regularly as the clock strikes nine in the morning.
And so he even beats the editor sometimes, and the porter must leave his
work and climb two or three pairs of stairs to unlock the "Sanctum" door
and let him in.  He lights one of the office pipes--not reflecting,
perhaps, that the editor may be one of those "stuck-up" people who would
as soon have a stranger defile his tooth-brush as his pipe-stem.  Then he
begins to loll--for a person who can consent to loaf his useless life
away in ignominious indolence has not the energy to sit up straight.
He stretches full length on the sofa awhile; then draws up to half
length; then gets into a chair, hangs his head back and his arms abroad,
and stretches his legs till the rims of his boot-heels rest upon the
floor; by and by sits up and leans forward, with one leg or both over the
arm of the chair.  But it is still observable that with all his changes
of position, he never assumes the upright or a fraudful affectation of
dignity.  From time to time he yawns, and stretches, and scratches
himself with a tranquil, mangy enjoyment, and now and then he grunts a
kind of stuffy, overfed grunt, which is full of animal contentment.  At
rare and long intervals, however, he sighs a sigh that is the eloquent
expression of a secret confession, to wit "I am useless and a nuisance,
a cumberer of the earth."  The bore and his comrades--for there are
usually from two to four on hand, day and night--mix into the
conversation when men come in to see the editors for a moment on
business; they hold noisy talks among themselves about politics in
particular, and all other subjects in general--even warming up, after a
fashion, sometimes, and seeming to take almost a real interest in what
they are discussing.  They ruthlessly call an editor from his work with
such a remark as: "Did you see this, Smith, in the Gazette?" and proceed
to read the paragraph while the sufferer reins in his impatient pen and
listens; they often loll and sprawl round the office hour after hour,
swapping anecdotes and relating personal experiences to each other--
hairbreadth escapes, social encounters with distinguished men, election
reminiscences, sketches of odd characters, etc.  And through all those
hours they never seem to comprehend that they are robbing the editors of
their time, and the public of journalistic excellence in next day's
paper.  At other times they drowse, or dreamily pore over exchanges, or
droop limp and pensive over the chair-arms for an hour.  Even this solemn
silence is small respite to the editor, for the next uncomfortable thing
to having people look over his shoulders, perhaps, is to have them sit by
in silence and listen to the scratching of his pen.  If a body desires to
talk private business with one of the editors, he must call him outside,
for no hint milder than blasting-powder or nitroglycerin would be likely
to move the bores out of listening-distance.  To have to sit and endure
the presence of a bore day after day; to feel your cheerful spirits begin
to sink as his footstep sounds on the stair, and utterly vanish away as
his tiresome form enters the door; to suffer through his anecdotes and
die slowly to his reminiscences; to feel always the fetters of his
clogging presence; to long hopelessly for one single day's privacy; to
note with a shudder, by and by, that to contemplate his funeral in fancy
has ceased to soothe, to imagine him undergoing in strict and fearful
detail the tortures of the ancient Inquisition has lost its power to
satisfy the heart, and that even to wish him millions and millions and
millions of miles in Tophet is able to bring only a fitful gleam of joy;
to have to endure all this, day after day, and week after week, and month
after month, is an affliction that transcends any other that men suffer.
Physical pain is pastime to it, and hanging a pleasure excursion.






JOHNNY GREER

"The church was densely crowded that lovely summer Sabbath," said the
Sunday-school superintendent, "and all, as their eyes rested upon the
small coffin, seemed impressed by the poor black boy's fate.  Above the
stillness the pastor's voice rose, and chained the interest of every ear
as he told, with many an envied compliment, how that the brave, noble,
daring little Johnny Greer, when he saw the drowned body sweeping down
toward the deep part of the river whence the agonized parents never could
have recovered it in this world, gallantly sprang into the stream, and,
at the risk of his life, towed the corpse to shore, and held it fast till
help came and secured it.  Johnny Greer was sitting just in front of me.
A ragged street-boy, with eager eye, turned upon him instantly, and said
in a hoarse whisper

"'No; but did you, though?'

"'Yes.'

"'Towed the carkiss ashore and saved it yo'self?'

"'Yes.'

"'Cracky!  What did they give you?'

"'Nothing.'

"'W-h-a-t [with intense disgust]!  D'you know what I'd 'a' done?  I'd 'a'
anchored him out in the stream, and said, Five dollars, gents, or you
carn't have yo' nigger.'"






THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF THE GREAT BEEF CONTRACT--[Written about 1867.]

In as few words as possible I wish to lay before the nation what's here,
howsoever small, I have had in this matter--this matter which has so
exercised the public mind, engendered so much ill-feeling, and so filled
the newspapers of both continents with distorted statements and
extravagant comments.

The origin of this distressful thing was this--and I assert here that
every fact in the following resume can be amply proved by the official
records of the General Government.

John Wilson Mackenzie, of Rotterdam, Chemung County, New Jersey,
deceased, contracted with the General Government, on or about the 10th
day of October, 1861, to furnish to General Sherman the sum total of
thirty barrels of beef.

Very well.

He started after Sherman with the beef, but when he got to Washington
Sherman had gone to Manassas; so he took the beef and followed him there,
but arrived too late; he followed him to Nashville, and from Nashville to
Chattanooga, and from Chattanooga to Atlanta--but he never could overtake
him.  At Atlanta he took a fresh start and followed him clear through his
march to the sea.  He arrived too late again by a few days; but hearing
that Sherman was going out in the Quaker City excursion to the Holy Land,
he took shipping for Beirut, calculating to head off the other vessel.
When he arrived in Jerusalem with his beef, he learned that Sherman had
not sailed in the Quaker City, but had gone to the Plains to fight the
Indians.  He returned to America and started for the Rocky Mountains.
After sixty-eight days of arduous travel on the Plains, and when he had
got within four miles of Sherman's headquarters, he was tomahawked and
scalped, and the Indians got the beef.  They got all of it but one
barrel.  Sherman's army captured that, and so, even in death, the bold
navigator partly fulfilled his contract.  In his will, which he had kept
like a journal, he bequeathed the contract to his son Bartholomew W.
Bartholomew W.  made out the following bill, and then died:

     THE UNITED STATES

               In account with JOHN WILSON MACKENZIE, of New Jersey,
               deceased, .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .          Dr.

     To thirty barrels of beef for General Sherman, at $100, $3,000
     To traveling expenses and transportation .  .  .  .  .  14,000

               Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  $17,000
               Rec'd Pay't.


He died then; but he left the contract to Wm. J. Martin, who tried to
collect it, but died before he got through.  He left it to Barker J.
Allen, and he tried to collect it also.  He did not survive.  Barker J.
Allen left it to Anson G. Rogers, who attempted to collect it, and got
along as far as the Ninth Auditor's Office, when Death, the great
Leveler, came all unsummoned, and foreclosed on him also.  He left the
bill to a relative of his in Connecticut, Vengeance Hopkins by name, who
lasted four weeks and two days, and made the best time on record, coming
within one of reaching the Twelfth Auditor.  In his will he gave the
contract bill to his uncle, by the name of O-be-joyful Johnson.  It was
too undermining for joyful.  His last words were: "Weep not for me--I am
willing to go."  And so he was, poor soul.  Seven people inherited the
contract after that; but they all died.  So it came into my hands at
last.  It fell to me through a relative by the name of, Hubbard--
Bethlehem Hubbard, of Indiana.  He had had a grudge against me for a long
time; but in his last moments he sent for me, and forgave me everything,
and, weeping, gave me the beef contract.

This ends the history of it up to the time that I succeeded to the
property.  I will now endeavor to set myself straight before the nation
in everything that concerns my share in the matter.  I took this beef
contract, and the bill for mileage and transportation, to the President
of the United States.

He said, "Well, sir, what can I do for you?"

I said, "Sire, on or about the l0th day of October, 1861, John Wilson
Mackenzie, of Rotterdam, Chemung County, New Jersey, deceased, contracted
with the General Government to furnish to General Sherman the sum total
of thirty barrels of beef--"

He stopped me there, and dismissed me from hi presence--kindly, but
firmly.  The next day called on the Secretary of State.

He said, "Well, sir?"

I said, "Your Royal Highness: on or about the 10th day of October, 1861,
John Wilson Mackenzie of Rotterdam, Chemung County, New Jersey, deceased,
contracted with the General Government to furnish to General Sherman the
sum total of thirty barrels of beef--"

"That will do, sir--that will do; this office has nothing to do with
contracts for beef."

I was bowed out.  I thought the matter all over and finally, the
following day, I visited the Secretary of the Navy, who said, "Speak
quickly, sir; do not keep me waiting."

I said, "Your Royal Highness, on or about the 10th day of October, 1861,
John Wilson Mackenzie of Rotterdam, Chemung County, New Jersey, deceased,
contracted with the General Government to General Sherman the sum total
of thirty barrels of beef--"

Well, it was as far as I could get.  He had nothing to do with beef
contracts for General Sherman either.  I began to think it was a curious
kind of government.  It looked somewhat as if they wanted to get out of
paying for that beef.  The following day I went to the Secretary of the
Interior.

I said, "Your Imperial Highness, on or about the 10th day of October--"

"That is sufficient, sir.  I have heard of you before.  Go, take your
infamous beef contract out of this establishment.  The Interior
Department has nothing whatever to do with subsistence for the army."

I went away.  But I was exasperated now.  I said I would haunt them;
I would infest every department of this iniquitous government till that
contract business was settled.  I would collect that bill, or fall, as
fell my predecessors, trying.  I assailed the Postmaster-General;
I besieged the Agricultural Department; I waylaid the Speaker of the
House of Representatives.  They had nothing to do with army contracts for
beef.  I moved upon the Commissioner of the Patent Office.

I said, "Your August Excellency, on or about--"

"Perdition! have you got here with your incendiary beef contract, at
last?  We have nothing to do with beef contracts for the army, my dear
sir."

"Oh, that is all very well--but somebody has got to pay for that beef.
It has got to be paid now, too, or I'll confiscate this old Patent Office
and everything in it."

"But, my dear sir--"

"It don't make any difference, sir.  The Patent Office is liable for that
beef, I reckon; and, liable or not liable, the Patent Office has got to
pay for it."

Never mind the details.  It ended in a fight.  The Patent Office won.
But I found out something to my advantage.  I was told that the Treasury
Department was the proper place for me to go to.  I went there.  I waited
two hours and a half, and then I was admitted to the First Lord of the
Treasury.

I said, "Most noble, grave, and reverend Signor, on or about the 10th day
of October, 1861, John Wilson Macken--"

"That is sufficient, sir.  I have heard of you.  Go to the First Auditor
of the Treasury."

I did so.  He sent me to the Second Auditor.  The Second Auditor sent me
to the Third, and the Third sent me to the First Comptroller of the Corn-
Beef Division.  This began to look like business.  He examined his books
and all his loose papers, but found no minute of the beef contract.  I
went to the Second Comptroller of the Corn-Beef Division.  He examined
his books and his loose papers, but with no success.  I was encouraged.
During that week I got as far as the Sixth Comptroller in that division;
the next week I got through the Claims Department; the third week I began
and completed the Mislaid Contracts Department, and got a foothold in the
Dead Reckoning Department.  I finished that in three days.  There was
only one place left for it now.  I laid siege to the Commissioner of Odds
and Ends.  To his clerk, rather--he was not there himself.  There were
sixteen beautiful young ladies in the room, writing in books, and there
were seven well-favored young clerks showing them how.  The young women
smiled up over their shoulders, and the clerks smiled back at them, and
all went merry as a marriage bell.  Two or three clerks that were reading
the newspapers looked at me rather hard, but went on reading, and nobody
said anything.  However, I had been used to this kind of alacrity from
Fourth Assistant Junior Clerks all through my eventful career, from the
very day I entered the first office of the Corn-Beef Bureau clear till I
passed out of the last one in the Dead Reckoning Division.  I had got so
accomplished by this time that I could stand on one foot from the moment
I entered an office till a clerk spoke to me, without changing more than
two, or maybe three, times.

So I stood there till I had changed four different times.  Then I said to
one of the clerks who was reading:

"Illustrious Vagrant, where is the Grand Turk?"

"What do you mean, sir? whom do you mean?  If you mean the Chief of the
Bureau, he is out."

"Will he visit the harem to-day?"

The young man glared upon me awhile, and then went on reading his paper.
But I knew the ways of those clerks.  I knew I was safe if he got through
before another New York mail arrived.  He only had two more papers left.
After a while he finished them, and then he yawned and asked me what I
wanted.

"Renowned and honored Imbecile: on or about--"

"You are the beef-contract man.  Give me your papers."

He took them, and for a long time he ransacked his odds and ends.
Finally he found the Northwest Passage, as I regarded it--he found the
long lost record of that beef contract--he found the rock upon which so
many of my ancestors had split before they ever got to it.  I was deeply
moved.  And yet I rejoiced--for I had survived.  I said with emotion,
"Give it me.  The government will settle now."  He waved me back, and
said there was something yet to be done first.

"Where is this John Wilson Mackenzie?"  said he.

"Dead."

"When did he die?"

"He didn't die at all--he was killed."

"How?"

"Tomahawked."

"Who tomahawked him?"

"Why, an Indian, of course.  You didn't suppose it was the superintendent
of a Sunday-school, did you?"

"No.  An Indian, was it?"

"The same."

"Name of the Indian?"

"His name?  I don't know his name."

"Must have his name.  Who saw the tomahawking done?"

"I don't know."

"You were not present yourself, then?"

"Which you can see by my hair.  I was absent.

"Then how do you know that Mackenzie is dead?"

"Because he certainly died at that time, and have every reason to believe
that he has been dead ever since.  I know he has, in fact."

"We must have proofs.  Have you got this Indian?"

"Of course not."

"Well, you must get him.  Have you got the tomahawk?"

"I never thought of such a thing."

"You must get the tomahawk.  You must produce the Indian and the
tomahawk.  If Mackenzie's death can be proven by these, you can then go
before the commission appointed to audit claims with some show of getting
your bill under such headway that your children may possibly live to
receive the money and enjoy it.  But that man's death must be proven.
However, I may as well tell you that the government will never pay that
transportation and those traveling expenses of the lamented Mackenzie.
It may possibly pay for the barrel of beef that Sherman's soldiers
captured, if you can get a relief bill through Congress making an
appropriation for that purpose; but it will not pay for the twenty-nine
barrels the Indians ate."

"Then there is only a hundred dollars due me, and that isn't certain!
After all Mackenzie's travels in Europe, Asia, and America with that
beef; after all his trials and tribulations and transportation; after the
slaughter of all those innocents that tried to collect that bill!  Young
man, why didn't the First Comptroller of the Corn-Beef Division tell me
this?"

"He didn't know anything about the genuineness of your claim."

"Why didn't the Second tell me? why didn't the, Third? why didn't all
those divisions and departments tell me?"

"None of them knew.  We do things by routine here.  You have followed the
routine and found out what you wanted to know.  It is the best way.
It is the only way.  It is very regular, and very slow, but it is very
certain."

"Yes, certain death.  It has been, to the most of our tribe.  I begin to
feel that I, too, am called."

"Young man, you love the bright creature yonder with the gentle blue eyes
and the steel pens behind her ears--I see it in your soft glances; you
wish to marry her--but you are poor.  Here, hold out your hand--here is
the beef contract; go, take her and be happy Heaven bless you, my
children!"

This is all I know about the great beef contract that has created so much
talk in the community.  The clerk to whom I bequeathed it died.  I know
nothing further about the contract, or any one connected with it.  I only
know that if a man lives long enough he can trace a thing through the
Circumlocution Office of Washington and find out, after much labor and
trouble and delay, that which he could have found out on the first day if
the business of the Circumlocution Office were as ingeniously
systematized as it would be if it were a great private mercantile
institution.






THE CASE OF GEORGE FISHER

--[Some years ago, about 1867, when this was first published, few people
believed it, but considered it a mere extravaganza.  In these latter days
it seems hard to realize that there was ever a time when the robbing of
our government was a novelty.  The very man who showed me where to find
the documents for this case was at that very time spending hundreds of
thousands of dollars in Washington for a mail steamship concern, in the
effort to procure a subsidy for the company-a fact which was a long time
in coming to the surface, but leaked out at last and underwent
Congressional investigation.]

This is history.  It is not a wild extravaganza, like "John Wilson
Mackenzie's Great Beef Contract," but is a plain statement of facts and
circumstances with which the Congress of the United States has interested
itself from time to time during the long period of half a century.

I will not call this matter of George Fisher's a great deathless and
unrelenting swindle upon the government and people of the United States-
for it has never been so decided, and I hold that it is a grave and
solemn wrong for a writer to cast slurs or call names when such is the
case--but will simply present the evidence and let the reader deduce his
own verdict.  Then we shall do nobody injustice, and our consciences
shall be clear.

On or about the 1st day of September, 1813, the Creek war being then in
progress in Florida, the crops, herds, and houses of Mr. George Fisher,
a citizen, were destroyed, either by the Indians or by the United States
troops in pursuit of them.  By the terms of the law, if the Indians
destroyed the property, there was no relief for Fisher; but if the troops
destroyed it, the Government of the United States was debtor to Fisher
for the amount involved.

George Fisher must have considered that the Indians destroyed the
property, because, although he lived several years afterward, he does not
appear to have ever made any claim upon the government.

In the course of time Fisher died, and his widow married again.
And by and by, nearly twenty years after that dimly remembered raid upon
Fisher's corn-fields, the widow Fisher's new husband petitioned Congress
for pay for the property, and backed up the petition with many
depositions and affidavits which purported to prove that the troops,
and not the Indians, destroyed the property; that the troops, for some
inscrutable reason, deliberately burned down "houses" (or cabins) valued
at $600, the same belonging to a peaceable private citizen, and also
destroyed various other property belonging to the same citizen.  But
Congress declined to believe that the troops were such idiots (after
overtaking and scattering a band of Indians proved to have been found
destroying Fisher's property) as to calmly continue the work of
destruction themselves; and make a complete job of what the Indians had
only commenced.  So Congress denied the petition of the heirs of George
Fisher in 1832, and did not pay them a cent.

We hear no more from them officially until 1848, sixteen years after
their first attempt on the Treasury, and a full generation after the
death of the man whose fields were destroyed.  The new generation of
Fisher heirs then came forward and put in a bill for damages.  The Second
Auditor awarded them $8,873, being half the damage sustained by Fisher.
The Auditor said the testimony showed that at least half the destruction
was done by the Indians "before the troops started in pursuit," and of
course the government was not responsible for that half.

2.  That was in April, 1848.  In December, 1848, the heirs of George
Fisher, deceased, came forward and pleaded for a "revision" of their bill
of damages.  The revision was made, but nothing new could be found in
their favor except an error of $100 in the former calculation.  However,
in order to keep up the spirits of the Fisher family, the Auditor
concluded to go back and allow interest from the date of the first
petition (1832) to the date when the bill of damages was awarded.  This
sent the Fishers home happy with sixteen years' interest on $8,873--the
same amounting to $8,997.94.  Total, $17,870.94.

3.  For an entire year the suffering Fisher family remained quiet--even
satisfied, after a fashion.  Then they swooped down upon the government
with their wrongs once more.  That old patriot, Attorney-General Toucey,
burrowed through the musty papers of the Fishers and discovered one more
chance for the desolate orphans--interest on that original award of
$8,873 from date of destruction of the property (1813) up to 1832!
Result, $110,004.89 for the indigent Fishers.  So now we have: First,
$8,873 damages; second, interest on it from 1832 to 1848, $8997.94;
third, interest on it dated back to 1813, $10,004.89.  Total, $27,875.83!
What better investment for a great-grandchild than to get the Indians to
burn a corn-field for him sixty or seventy years before his birth, and
plausibly lay it on lunatic United States troops?

4.  Strange as it may seem, the Fishers let Congress alone for five
years--or, what is perhaps more likely, failed to make themselves heard
by Congress for that length of time.  But at last, in 1854, they got a
hearing.  They persuaded Congress to pass an act requiring the Auditor to
re-examine their case.  But this time they stumbled upon the misfortune
of an honest Secretary of the Treasury (Mr. James Guthrie), and he
spoiled everything.  He said in very plain language that the Fishers were
not only not entitled to another cent, but that those children of many
sorrows and acquainted with grief had been paid too much already.

5.  Therefore another interval of rest and silent ensued-an interval
which lasted four years--viz till 1858.  The "right man in the right
place" was then Secretary of War--John B. Floyd, of peculiar renown!
Here was a master intellect; here was the very man to succor the
suffering heirs of dead and forgotten Fisher.  They came up from Florida
with a rush--a great tidal wave of Fishers freighted with the same old
musty documents about the same in immortal corn-fields of their ancestor.
They straight-way got an act passed transferring the Fisher matter from
the dull Auditor to the ingenious Floyd.  What did Floyd do?  He said,
"IT WAS PROVED that the Indians destroyed everything they could before
the troops entered in pursuit."  He considered, therefore, that what they
destroyed must have consisted of "the houses with all their contents, and
the liquor" (the most trifling part of the destruction, and set down at
only $3,200 all told), and that the government troops then drove them off
and calmly proceeded to destroy--

Two hundred and twenty acres of corn in the field, thirty-five acres of
wheat, and nine hundred and eighty-six head of live stock!  [What a
singularly intelligent army we had in those days, according to Mr. Floyd
--though not according to the Congress of 1832.]

So Mr. Floyd decided that the Government was not responsible for that
$3,200 worth of rubbish which the Indians destroyed, but was responsible
for the property destroyed by the troops--which property consisted of (I
quote from the printed United States Senate document):

                                             Dollars
     Corn at Bassett's Creek, ............... 3,000
     Cattle, ................................ 5,000
     Stock hogs, ............................ 1,050
     Drove hogs, ............................ 1,204
     Wheat, .................................   350
     Hides, ................................. 4,000
     Corn on the Alabama River, ............. 3,500

                         Total, .............18,104

That sum, in his report, Mr. Floyd calls the "full value of the property
destroyed by the troops."

He allows that sum to the starving Fishers, TOGETHER WITH INTEREST FROM
1813.  From this new sum total the amounts already paid to the Fishers
were deducted, and then the cheerful remainder (a fraction under forty
thousand dollars) was handed to then and again they retired to Florida in
a condition of temporary tranquillity.  Their ancestor's farm had now
yielded them altogether nearly sixty-seven thousand dollars in cash.

6.  Does the reader suppose that that was the end of it?  Does he suppose
those diffident Fishers we: satisfied?  Let the evidence show.  The
Fishers were quiet just two years.  Then they came swarming up out of the
fertile swamps of Florida with their same old documents, and besieged
Congress once more.  Congress capitulated on the 1st of June, 1860, and
instructed Mr. Floyd to overhaul those papers again, and pay that bill.
A Treasury clerk was ordered to go through those papers and report to Mr.
Floyd what amount was still due the emaciated Fishers.  This clerk (I can
produce him whenever he is wanted) discovered what was apparently a
glaring and recent forgery in the paper; whereby a witness's testimony as
to the price of corn in Florida in 1813 was made to name double the
amount which that witness had originally specified as the price!  The
clerk not only called his superior's attention to this thing, but in
making up his brief of the case called particular attention to it in
writing.  That part of the brief never got before Congress, nor has
Congress ever yet had a hint of forgery existing among the Fisher papers.
Nevertheless, on the basis of the double prices (and totally ignoring the
clerk's assertion that the figures were manifestly and unquestionably a
recent forgery), Mr. Floyd remarks in his new report that "the testimony,
particularly in regard to the corn crops, DEMANDS A MUCH HIGHER ALLOWANCE
than any heretofore made by the Auditor or myself."  So he estimates the
crop at sixty bushels to the acre (double what Florida acres produce),
and then virtuously allows pay for only half the crop, but allows two
dollars and a half a bushel for that half, when there are rusty old books
and documents in the Congressional library to show just what the Fisher
testimony showed before the forgery--viz., that in the fall of 1813 corn
was only worth from $1.25 to $1.50 a bushel.  Having accomplished this,
what does Mr. Floyd do next?  Mr. Floyd ("with an earnest desire to
execute truly the legislative will," as he piously remarks) goes to work
and makes out an entirely new bill of Fisher damages, and in this new
bill he placidly ignores the Indians altogether puts no particle of the
destruction of the Fisher property upon them, but, even repenting him of
charging them with burning the cabins and drinking the whisky and
breaking the crockery, lays the entire damage at the door of the imbecile
United States troops down to the very last item!  And not only that, but
uses the forgery to double the loss of corn at "Bassett's Creek," and
uses it again to absolutely treble the loss of corn on the "Alabama
River."  This new and ably conceived and executed bill of Mr. Floyd's
figures up as follows (I copy again from the printed United States Senate
document):

      The United States in account with the legal representatives
                      of George Fisher, deceased.
                                                             DOL.C
1813.--To 550 head of cattle, at 10 dollars, ............. 5,500.00
       To 86 head of drove hogs, ......................... 1,204.00
       To 350 head of stock hogs, ........................ 1,750.00
       To 100 ACRES OF CORN ON BASSETT'S CREEK, .......... 6,000.00
       To 8 barrels of whisky, ...........................   350.00
       To 2 barrels of brandy, ...........................   280.00
       To 1 barrel of rum, ...............................    70.00
       To dry-goods and merchandise in store, ............ 1,100.00
       To 35 acres of wheat, .............................   350.00
       To 2,000 hides, ................................... 4,000.00
       To furs and hats in store, ........................   600.00
       To crockery ware in store, ........................   100.00
       To smith's and carpenter's tools, .................   250.00
       To houses burned and destroyed, ...................   600.00
       To 4 dozen bottles of wine, .......................    48.00
1814.--To 120 acres of corn on Alabama River, ............ 9,500.00
       To crops of peas, fodder, etc. .................... 3,250.00

                         Total, ..........................34,952.00

       To interest on $22,202, from July 1813
          to November 1860, 47 years and 4 months, .......63,053.68
       To interest on $12,750, from September
          1814 to November 1860, 46 years and 2 months, ..35,317.50

                         Total, ........................ 133,323.18

He puts everything in this time.  He does not even allow that the Indians
destroyed the crockery or drank the four dozen bottles of (currant) wine.
When it came to supernatural comprehensiveness in "gobbling," John B.
Floyd was without his equal, in his own or any other generation.
Subtracting from the above total the $67,000 already paid to
George Fisher's implacable heirs, Mr. Floyd announced that the government
was still indebted to them in the sum of sixty-six thousand five hundred
and nineteen dollars and eighty-five cents, "which," Mr. Floyd
complacently remarks, "will be paid, accordingly, to the administrator of
the estate of George Fisher, deceased, or to his attorney in fact."

But, sadly enough for the destitute orphans, a new President came in just
at this time, Buchanan and Floyd went out, and they never got their
money.  The first thing Congress did in 1861 was to rescind the
resolution of June 1, 1860, under which Mr. Floyd had been ciphering.
Then Floyd (and doubtless the heirs of George Fisher likewise) had to
give up financial business for a while, and go into the Confederate army
and serve their country.

Were the heirs of George Fisher killed?  No.  They are back now at this
very time (July, 1870), beseeching Congress through that blushing and
diffident creature, Garrett Davis, to commence making payments again on
their interminable and insatiable bill of damages for corn and whisky
destroyed by a gang of irresponsible Indians, so long ago that even
government red-tape has failed to keep consistent and intelligent track
of it.

Now the above are facts.  They are history.  Any one who doubts it can
send to the Senate Document Department of the Capitol for H. R. Ex. Doc.
No. 21, 36th Congress, 2d Session; and for S. Ex. Doc. No. 106, 41st
Congress, 2d Session, and satisfy himself.  The whole case is set forth
in the first volume of the Court of Claims Reports.

It is my belief that as long as the continent of America holds together,
the heirs of George Fisher, deceased, will still make pilgrimages to
Washington from the swamps of Florida, to plead for just a little more
cash on their bill of damages (even when they received the last of that
sixty-seven thousand dollars, they said it was only one fourth what the
government owed them on that fruitful corn-field), and as long as they
choose to come they will find Garrett Davises to drag their vampire
schemes before Congress.  This is not the only hereditary fraud (if fraud
it is--which I have before repeatedly remarked is not proven) that is
being quietly handed down from generation to generation of fathers and
sons, through the persecuted Treasury of the United States.






DISGRACEFUL PERSECUTION OF A BOY

In San Francisco, the other day, "A well-dressed boy, on his way to
Sunday-school, was arrested and thrown into the city prison for stoning
Chinamen."

What a commentary is this upon human justice!  What sad prominence it
gives to our human disposition to tyrannize over the weak!  San Francisco
has little right to take credit to herself for her treatment of this poor
boy.  What had the child's education been?  How should he suppose it was
wrong to stone a Chinaman?  Before we side against him, along with
outraged San Francisco, let us give him a chance--let us hear the
testimony for the defense.

He was a "well-dressed" boy, and a Sunday-school scholar, and therefore
the chances are that his parents were intelligent, well-to-do people,
with just enough natural villainy in their composition to make them yearn
after the daily papers, and enjoy them; and so this boy had opportunities
to learn all through the week how to do right, as well as on Sunday.

It was in this way that he found out that the great commonwealth of
California imposes an unlawful mining-tax upon John the foreigner, and
allows Patrick the foreigner to dig gold for nothing--probably because
the degraded Mongol is at no expense for whisky, and the refined Celt
cannot exist without it.

It was in this way that he found out that a respectable number of the
tax-gatherers--it would be unkind to say all of them--collect the tax
twice, instead of once; and that, inasmuch as they do it solely to
discourage Chinese immigration into the mines, it is a thing that is much
applauded, and likewise regarded as being singularly facetious.

It was in this way that he found out that when a white man robs a sluice-
box (by the term white man is meant Spaniards, Mexicans, Portuguese,
Irish, Hondurans, Peruvians, Chileans, etc., etc.), they make him leave
the camp; and when a Chinaman does that thing, they hang him.

It was in this way that he found out that in many districts of the vast
Pacific coast, so strong is the wild, free love of justice in the hearts
of the people, that whenever any secret and mysterious crime is
committed, they say, "Let justice be done, though the heavens fall," and
go straightway and swing a Chinaman.

It was in this way that he found out that by studying one half of each
day's "local items," it would appear that the police of San Francisco
were either asleep or dead, and by studying the other half it would seem
that the reporters were gone mad with admiration of the energy, the
virtue, the high effectiveness, and the dare-devil intrepidity of that
very police-making exultant mention of how "the Argus-eyed officer So-
and-so" captured a wretched knave of a Chinaman who was stealing
chickens, and brought him gloriously to the city prison; and how "the
gallant officer Such-and-such-a-one" quietly kept an eye on the movements
of an "unsuspecting, almond-eyed son of Confucius" (your reporter is
nothing if not facetious), following him around with that far-off look.
of vacancy and unconsciousness always so finely affected by that
inscrutable being, the forty-dollar policeman, during a waking interval,
and captured him at last in the very act of placing his hands in a
suspicious manner upon a paper of tacks, left by the owner in an exposed
situation; and how one officer performed this prodigious thing, and
another officer that, and another the other--and pretty much every one of
these performances having for a dazzling central incident a Chinaman
guilty of a shilling's worth of crime, an unfortunate, whose misdemeanor
must be hurrahed into something enormous in order to keep the public from
noticing how many really important rascals went uncaptured in the mean
time, and how overrated those glorified policemen actually are.

It was in this way that the boy found out that the legislature, being
aware that the Constitution has made America, an asylum for the poor and
the oppressed of all nations, and that, therefore, the poor and oppressed
who fly to our shelter must not be charged a disabling admission fee,
made a law that every Chinaman, upon landing, must be vaccinated upon the
wharf, and pay to the state's appointed officer ten dollars for the
service, when there are plenty of doctors in San Francisco who would be
glad enough to do it for him for fifty cents.

It was in this way that the boy found out that a Chinaman had no rights
that any man was bound to respect; that he had no sorrows that any man
was bound to pity; that neither his life nor his liberty was worth the
purchase of a penny when a white man needed a scapegoat; that nobody
loved Chinamen, nobody befriended them, nobody spared them suffering when
it was convenient to inflict it; everybody, individuals, communities, the
majesty of the state itself, joined in hating, abusing, and persecuting
these humble strangers.

And, therefore, what could have been more natural than for this sunny-
hearted-boy, tripping along to Sunday-school, with his mind teeming with
freshly learned incentives to high and virtuous action, to say
to himself:

"Ah, there goes a Chinaman!  God will not love me if I do not stone him."

And for this he was arrested and put in the city jail.

Everything conspired to teach him that it was a high and holy thing to
stone a Chinaman, and yet he no sooner attempts to do his duty than he is
punished for it--he, poor chap, who has been aware all his life that one
of the principal recreations of the police, out toward the Gold Refinery,
is to look on with tranquil enjoyment while the butchers of Brannan
Street set their dogs on unoffending Chinamen, and make them flee for
their lives.

--[I have many such memories in my mind, but am thinking just at present
of one particular one, where the Brannan Street butchers set their dogs
on a Chinaman who was quietly passing with a basket of clothes on his
head; and while the dogs mutilated his flesh, a butcher increased the
hilarity of the occasion by knocking some of the Chinaman's teeth down
his throat with half a brick.  This incident sticks in my memory with a
more malevolent tenacity, perhaps, on account of the fact that I was in
the employ of a San Francisco journal at the time, and was not allowed to
publish it because it might offend some of the peculiar element that
subscribed for the paper.]

Keeping in mind the tuition in the humanities which the entire "Pacific
coast" gives its youth, there is a very sublimity of incongruity in the
virtuous flourish with which the good city fathers of San Francisco
proclaim (as they have lately done) that "The police are positively
ordered to arrest all boys, of every description and wherever found, who
engage in assaulting Chinamen."

Still, let us be truly glad they have made the order, notwithstanding its
inconsistency; and let us rest perfectly confident the police are glad,
too.  Because there is no personal peril in arresting boys, provided they
be of the small kind, and the reporters will have to laud their
performances just as loyally as ever, or go without items.

The new form for local items in San Francisco will now be: "The ever-
vigilant and efficient officer So-and-so succeeded, yesterday afternoon,
in arresting Master Tommy Jones, after a determined resistance," etc.,
etc., followed by the customary statistics and final hurrah, with its
unconscious sarcasm: "We are happy in being able to state that this is
the forty-seventh boy arrested by this gallant officer since the new
ordinance went into effect.  The most extraordinary activity prevails in
the police department.  Nothing like it has been seen since we can
remember."






THE JUDGE'S "SPIRITED WOMAN"

"I was sitting here," said the judge, "in this old pulpit, holding court,
and we were trying a big, wicked-looking Spanish desperado for killing
the husband of a bright, pretty Mexican woman. It was a lazy summer day,
and an awfully long one, and the witnesses were tedious.  None of us took
any interest in the trial except that nervous, uneasy devil of a Mexican
woman because you know how they love and how they hate, and this one had
loved her husband with all her might, and now she had boiled it all down
into hate, and stood here spitting it at that Spaniard with her eyes;
and I tell you she would stir me up, too, with a little of her summer
lightning, occasionally.  Well, I had my coat off and my heels up,
lolling and sweating, and smoking one of those cabbage cigars the San
Francisco people used to think were good enough for us in those times;
and the lawyers they all had their coats off, and were smoking and
whittling, and the witnesses the same, and so was the prisoner.  Well,
the fact is, there warn't any interest in a murder trial then, because
the fellow was always brought in 'not guilty,' the jury expecting him to
do as much for them some time; and, although the evidence was straight
and square against this Spaniard, we knew we could not convict him
without seeming to be rather high-handed and sort of reflecting on every
gentleman in the community; for there warn't any carriages and liveries
then, and so the only 'style' there was, was to keep your private
graveyard.  But that woman seemed to have her heart set on hanging that
Spaniard; and you'd ought to have seen how she would glare on him a
minute, and then look up at me in her pleading way, and then turn and for
the next five minutes search the jury's faces, and by and by drop her
face in her hands for just a little while as if she was most ready to
give up; but out she'd come again directly, and be as live and anxious as
ever.  But when the jury announced the verdict--Not Guilty--and I told
the prisoner he was acquitted and free to go, that woman rose up till she
appeared to be as tall and grand as a seventy-four-gun ship, and says
she:

"'Judge, do I understand you to say that this man is not guilty that
murdered my husband without any cause before my own eyes and my little
children's, and that all has been done to him that ever justice and the
law can do?'

"'The same,' says I.

"And then what do you reckon she did?  Why, she turned on that smirking
Spanish fool like a wildcat, and out with a 'navy' and shot him dead in
open court!"

"That was spirited, I am willing to admit."

"Wasn't it, though?" said the judge admiringly.

"I wouldn't have missed it for anything.  I adjourned court right on the
spot, and we put on our coats and went out and took up a collection for
her and her cubs, and sent them over the mountains to their friends.
Ah, she was a spirited wench!"






INFORMATION WANTED

                              "WASHINGTON, December 10, 1867.

"Could you give me any information respecting such islands, if any, as
the government is going to purchase?"

It is an uncle of mine that wants to know.  He is an industrious man and
well disposed, and wants to make a living in an honest, humble way, but
more especially he wants to be quiet.  He wishes to settle down, and be
quiet and unostentatious.  He has been to the new island St. Thomas, but
he says he thinks things are unsettled there.  He went there early with
an attache of the State Department, who was sent down with money to pay
for the island.  My uncle had his money in the same box, and so when they
went ashore, getting a receipt, the sailors broke open the box and took
all the money, not making any distinction between government money, which
was legitimate money to be stolen, and my uncle's, which was his own
private property, and should have been respected.  But he came home and
got some more and went back.  And then he took the fever.  There are
seven kinds of fever down there, you know; and, as his blood was out of
order by reason of loss of sleep and general wear and tear of mind, he
failed to cure the first fever, and then somehow he got the other six.
He is not a kind of man that enjoys fevers, though he is well meaning and
always does what he thinks is right, and so he was a good deal annoyed
when it appeared he was going to die.

But he worried through, and got well and started a farm.  He fenced it
in, and the next day that great storm came on and washed the most of it
over to Gibraltar, or around there somewhere.  He only said, in his
patient way, that it was gone, and he wouldn't bother about trying to
find out where it went to, though it was his opinion it went to
Gibraltar.

Then he invested in a mountain, and started a farm up there, so as to be
out of the way when the sea came ashore again.  It was a good mountain,
and a good farm, but it wasn't any use; an earthquake came the next night
and shook it all down.  It was all fragments, you know, and so mixed up
with another man's property that he could not tell which were his
fragments without going to law; and he would not do that, because his
main object in going to St. Thomas was to be quiet.  All that he wanted
was to settle down and be quiet.

He thought it all over, and finally he concluded to try the low ground
again, especially as he wanted to start a brickyard this time.  He bought
a flat, and put out a hundred thousand bricks to dry preparatory to
baking them.  But luck appeared to be against him.  A volcano shoved
itself through there that night, and elevated his brickyard about two
thousand feet in the air.  It irritated him a good deal.  He has been up
there, and he says the bricks are all baked right enough, but he can't
get them down.  At first, he thought maybe the government would get the
bricks down for him, because since government bought the island, it ought
to protect the property where a man has invested in good faith; but all
he wants is quiet, and so he is not going to apply for the subsidy he was
thinking about.

He went back there last week in a couple of ships of war, to prospect
around the coast for a safe place for a farm where he could be quiet;
but a great "tidal wave" came, and hoisted both of the ships out into one
of the interior counties, and he came near losing his life.  So he has
given up prospecting in a ship, and is discouraged.

Well, now he don't know what to do.  He has tried Alaska; but the bears
kept after him so much, and kept him so much on the jump, as it were,
that he had to leave the country.  He could not be quiet there with those
bears prancing after him all the time.  That is how he came to go to the
new island we have bought--St. Thomas.  But he is getting to think St.
Thomas is not quiet enough for a man of his turn of mind, and that is why
he wishes me to find out if government is likely to buy some more islands
shortly.  He has heard that government is thinking about buying Porto
Rico.  If that is true, he wishes to try Porto Rico, if it is a quiet
place.  How is Porto Rico for his style of man?  Do you think the
government will buy it?






SOME LEARNED FABLES, FOR GOOD OLD BOYS AND GIRLS

IN THREE PARTS


PART FIRST

HOW THE ANIMALS OF THE WOOD SENT OUT A SCIENTIFIC EXPEDITION

Once the creatures of the forest held a great convention and appointed a
commission consisting of the most illustrious scientists among them to go
forth, clear beyond the forest and out into the unknown and unexplored
world, to verify the truth of the matters already taught in their schools
and colleges and also to make discoveries.  It was the most imposing
enterprise of the kind the nation had ever embarked in.  True, the
government had once sent Dr. Bull Frog, with a picked crew, to hunt for a
northwesterly passage through the swamp to the right-hand corner of the
wood, and had since sent out many expeditions to hunt for Dr. Bull Frog;
but they never could find him, and so government finally gave him up and
ennobled his mother to show its gratitude for the services her son had
rendered to science.  And once government sent Sir Grass Hopper to hunt
for the sources of the rill that emptied into the swamp; and afterward
sent out many expeditions to hunt for Sir Grass, and at last they were
successful--they found his body, but if he had discovered the sources
meantime, he did not let on.  So government acted handsomely by deceased,
and many envied his funeral.

But these expeditions were trifles compared with the present one; for
this one comprised among its servants the very greatest among the
learned; and besides it was to go to the utterly unvisited regions
believed to lie beyond the mighty forest--as we have remarked before.
How the members were banqueted, and glorified, and talked about!
Everywhere that one of them showed himself, straightway there was a crowd
to gape and stare at him.

Finally they set off, and it was a sight to see the long procession of
dry-land Tortoises heavily laden with savants, scientific instruments,
Glow-Worms and Fire-Flies for signal service, provisions, Ants and
Tumble-Bugs to fetch and carry and delve, Spiders to carry the surveying
chain and do other engineering duty, and so forth and so on; and after
the Tortoises came another long train of ironclads--stately and spacious
Mud Turtles for marine transportation service; and from every Tortoise
and every Turtle flaunted a flaming gladiolus or other splendid banner;
at the head of the column a great band of Bumble-Bees, Mosquitoes,
Katy-Dids, and Crickets discoursed martial music; and the entire train
was under the escort and protection of twelve picked regiments of the
Army Worm.

At the end of three weeks the expedition emerged from the forest and
looked upon the great Unknown World.  Their eyes were greeted with an
impressive spectacle.  A vast level plain stretched before them, watered
by a sinuous stream; and beyond there towered up against the sky along
and lofty barrier of some kind, they did not know what.  The Tumble-Bug
said he believed it was simply land tilted up on its edge, because he
knew he could see trees on it.  But Professor Snail and the others said:

"You are hired to dig, sir--that is all.  We need your muscle, not your
brains.  When we want your opinion on scientific matters, we will hasten
to let you know.  Your coolness is intolerable, too--loafing about here
meddling with august matters of learning, when the other laborers are
pitching camp.  Go along and help handle the baggage."

The Tumble-Bug turned on his heel uncrushed, unabashed, observing to
himself, "If it isn't land tilted up, let me die the death of the
unrighteous."

Professor Bull Frog (nephew of the late explorer) said he believed the
ridge was the wall that inclosed the earth.  He continued:

"Our fathers have left us much learning, but they had not traveled far,
and so we may count this a noble new discovery.  We are safe for renown
now, even though our labors began and ended with this single achievement.
I wonder what this wall is built of?  Can it be fungus?  Fungus is an
honorable good thing to build a wall of."

Professor Snail adjusted his field-glass and examined the rampart
critically.  Finally he said:

"'The fact that it is not diaphanous convinces me that it is a dense
vapor formed by the calorification of ascending moisture dephlogisticated
by refraction.  A few endiometrical experiments would confirm this, but
it is not necessary.  The thing is obvious."

So he shut up his glass and went into his shell to make a note of the
discovery of the world's end, and the nature of it.

"Profound mind!" said Professor Angle-Worm to Professor Field-Mouse;
"profound mind! nothing can long remain a mystery to that august brain."

Night drew on apace, the sentinel crickets were posted, the Glow-Worm and
Fire-Fly lamps were lighted, and the camp sank to silence and sleep.
After breakfast in the morning, the expedition moved on.  About noon a
great avenue was reached, which had in it two endless parallel bars of
some kind of hard black substance, raised the height of the tallest Bull
Frog, above the general level.  The scientists climbed up on these and
examined and tested them in various ways.  They walked along them for a
great distance, but found no end and no break in them.  They could arrive
at no decision.  There was nothing in the records of science that
mentioned anything of this kind.  But at last the bald and venerable
geographer, Professor Mud Turtle, a person who, born poor, and of a
drudging low family, had, by his own native force raised himself to the
headship of the geographers of his generation, said:

"'My friends, we have indeed made a discovery here.  We have found in a
palpable, compact, and imperishable state what the wisest of our fathers
always regarded as a mere thing of the imagination.  Humble yourselves,
my friends, for we stand in a majestic presence.  These are parallels of
latitude!"

Every heart and every head was bowed, so awful, so sublime was the
magnitude of the discovery.  Many shed tears.

The camp was pitched and the rest of the day given up to writing
voluminous accounts of the marvel, and correcting astronomical tables to
fit it.  Toward midnight a demoniacal shriek was heard, then a clattering
and rumbling noise, and the next instant a vast terrific eye shot by,
with a long tail attached, and disappeared in the gloom, still uttering
triumphant shrieks.

The poor damp laborers were stricken to the heart with fright, and
stampeded for the high grass in a body.  But not the scientists.  They
had no superstitions.  They calmly proceeded to exchange theories.
The ancient geographer's opinion was asked.  He went into his shell and
deliberated long and profoundly.  When he came out at last, they all knew
by his worshiping countenance that he brought light.  Said he:

"Give thanks for this stupendous thing which we have been permitted to
witness.  It is the Vernal Equinox!"

There were shoutings and great rejoicings.

"But," said the Angle-Worm, uncoiling after reflection, "this is dead
summer-time."

"Very well," said the Turtle, "we are far from our region; the season
differs with the difference of time between the two points."

"Ah, true:  True enough.  But it is night.  How should the sun pass in
the night?"

"In these distant regions he doubtless passes always in the night at this
hour."

"Yes, doubtless that is true.  But it being night, how is it that we
could see him?"

"It is a great mystery.  I grant that.  But I am persuaded that the
humidity of the atmosphere in these remote regions is such that particles
of daylight adhere to the disk and it was by aid of these that we were
enabled to see the sun in the dark."

This was deemed satisfactory, and due entry was made of the decision.

But about this moment those dreadful shriekings were heard again; again
the rumbling and thundering came speeding up out of the night; and once
more a flaming great eye flashed by and lost itself in gloom and
distance.

The camp laborers gave themselves up for lost.  The savants were sorely
perplexed.  Here was a marvel hard to account for.  They thought and they
talked, they talked and they thought.  Finally the learned and aged Lord
Grand-Daddy-Longlegs, who had been sitting in deep study, with his
slender limbs crossed and his stemmy arms folded, said:

"Deliver your opinions, brethren, and then I will tell my thought--for I
think I have solved this problem."

"So be it, good your lordship," piped the weak treble of the wrinkled and
withered Professor Woodlouse, "for we shall hear from your lordship's
lips naught but wisdom."  [Here the speaker threw in a mess of trite,
threadbare, exasperating quotations from the ancient poets and
philosophers, delivering them with unction in the sounding grandeurs of
the original tongues, they being from the Mastodon, the Dodo, and other
dead languages.]  "Perhaps I ought not to presume to meddle with matters
pertaining to astronomy at all, in such a presence as this, I who have
made it the business of my life to delve only among the riches of the
extinct languages and unearth the opulence of their ancient lore; but
still, as unacquainted as I am with the noble science of astronomy, I beg
with deference and humility to suggest that inasmuch as the last of these
wonderful apparitions proceeded in exactly the opposite direction from
that pursued by the first, which you decide to be the Vernal Equinox,
and greatly resembled it in all particulars, is it not possible, nay
certain, that this last is the Autumnal Equi--"

" O-o-o!"  "O-o-o! go to bed! go to bed!" with annoyed derision from
everybody.  So the poor old Woodlouse retreated out of sight, consumed
with shame.

Further discussion followed, and then the united voice of the commission
begged Lord Longlegs to speak.  He said:

"Fellow-scientists, it is my belief that we have witnessed a thing which
has occurred in perfection but once before in the knowledge of created
beings.  It is a phenomenon of inconceivable importance and interest,
view it as one may, but its interest to us is vastly heightened by an
added knowledge of its nature which no scholar has heretofore possessed
or even suspected.  This great marvel which we have just witnessed,
fellow-savants (it almost takes my breath away), is nothing less than the
transit of Venus!"

Every scholar sprang to his feet pale with astonishment.  Then ensued
tears, handshakings, frenzied embraces, and the most extravagant
jubilations of every sort.  But by and by, as emotion began to retire
within bounds, and reflection to return to the front, the accomplished
Chief Inspector Lizard observed:

"But how is this?  Venus should traverse the sun's surface, not the
earth's."

The arrow went home.  It earned sorrow to the breast of every apostle of
learning there, for none could deny that this was a formidable criticism.
But tranquilly the venerable Duke crossed his limbs behind his ears and
said:

"My friend has touched the marrow of our mighty discovery.  Yes--all that
have lived before us thought a transit of Venus consisted of a flight
across the sun's face; they thought it, they maintained it, they honestly
believed it, simple hearts, and were justified in it by the limitations
of their knowledge; but to us has been granted the inestimable boon of
proving that the transit occurs across the earth's face, for we have SEEN
it!"

The assembled wisdom sat in speechless adoration of this imperial
intellect.  All doubts had instantly departed, like night before the
lightning.

The Tumble-Bug had just intruded, unnoticed.  He now came reeling forward
among the scholars, familiarly slapping first one and then another on the
shoulder, saying "Nice ('ic) nice old boy!" and smiling a smile of
elaborate content.  Arrived at a good position for speaking, he put his
left arm akimbo with his knuckles planted in his hip just under the edge
of his cut-away coat, bent his right leg, placing his toe on the ground
and resting his heel with easy grace against his left shin, puffed out
his aldermanic stomach, opened his lips, leaned his right elbow on
Inspector Lizard's shoulder, and--

But the shoulder was indignantly withdrawn and the hard-handed son of
toil went to earth.  He floundered a bit, but came up smiling, arranged
his attitude with the same careful detail as before, only choosing
Professor Dogtick's shoulder for a support, opened his lips and--

Went to earth again.  He presently scrambled up once more, still smiling,
made a loose effort to brush the dust off his coat and legs, but a smart
pass of his hand missed entirely, and the force of the unchecked impulse
stewed him suddenly around, twisted his legs together, and projected him,
limber and sprawling, into the lap of the Lord Longlegs.  Two or three
scholars sprang forward, flung the low creature head over heels into a
corner, and reinstated the patrician, smoothing his ruffled dignity with
many soothing and regretful speeches.  Professor Bull Frog roared out:

"No more of this, sirrah Tumble-Bug!  Say your say and then get you about
your business with speed!  Quick--what is your errand?  Come move off a
trifle; you smell like a stable; what have you been at?"

"Please ('ic!) please your worship I chanced to light upon a find.  But
no m(e-uck!) matter 'bout that.  There's b('ic !) been another find
which--beg pardon, your honors, what was that th('ic!) thing that ripped
by here first?"

"It was the Vernal Equinox."

"Inf('ic!)fernal equinox.  'At's all right.  D('ic !) Dunno him.  What's
other one?"

"The transit of Venus.

"G('ic !) Got me again.  No matter.  Las' one dropped something."

"Ah, indeed!  Good luck!  Good news!  Quick what is it?"

"M('ic!) Mosey out 'n' see.  It'll pay."

No more votes were taken for four-and-twenty hours.  Then the following
entry was made:

"The commission went in a body to view the find.  It was found to consist
of a hard, smooth, huge object with a rounded summit surmounted by a
short upright projection resembling a section of a cabbage stalk divided
transversely.  This projection was not solid, but was a hollow cylinder
plugged with a soft woody substance unknown to our region--that is, it
had been so plugged, but unfortunately this obstruction had been
heedlessly removed by Norway Rat, Chief of the Sappers and Miners, before
our arrival.  The vast object before us, so mysteriously conveyed from
the glittering domains of space, was found to be hollow and nearly filled
with a pungent liquid of a brownish hue, like rainwater that has stood
for some time.  And such a spectacle as met our view!  Norway Rat was
perched upon the summit engaged in thrusting his tail into the
cylindrical projection, drawing it out dripping, permitting the
struggling multitude of laborers to suck the end of it, then straightway
reinserting it and delivering the fluid to the mob as before.  Evidently
this liquor had strangely potent qualities; for all that partook of it
were immediately exalted with great and pleasurable emotions, and went
staggering about singing ribald songs, embracing, fighting, dancing,
discharging irruptions of profanity, and defying all authority.  Around
us struggled a massed and uncontrolled mob--uncontrolled and likewise
uncontrollable, for the whole army, down to the very sentinels, were mad
like the rest, by reason of the drink.  We were seized upon by these
reckless creatures, and within the hour we, even we, were
undistinguishable from the rest--the demoralization was complete and
universal.  In time the camp wore itself out with its orgies and sank
into a stolid and pitiable stupor, in whose mysterious bonds rank was
forgotten and strange bedfellows made, our eyes, at the resurrection,
being blasted and our souls petrified with the incredible spectacle of
that intolerable stinking scavenger, the Tumble-Bug, and the illustrious
patrician my Lord Grand Daddy, Duke of Longlegs, lying soundly steeped in
sleep, and clasped lovingly in each other's arms, the like whereof hath
not been seen in all the ages that tradition compasseth, and doubtless
none shall ever in this world find faith to master the belief of it save
only we that have beheld the damnable and unholy vision.  Thus
inscrutable be the ways of God, whose will be done!

"This day, by order, did the engineer-in-chief, Herr Spider, rig the
necessary tackle for the overturning of the vast reservoir, and so its
calamitous contents were discharged in a torrent upon the thirsty earth,
which drank it up, and now there is no more danger, we reserving but a
few drops for experiment and scrutiny, and to exhibit to the king and
subsequently preserve among the wonders of the museum.  What this liquid
is has been determined.  It is without question that fierce and most
destructive fluid called lightning.  It was wrested, in its container,
from its storehouse in the clouds, by the resistless might of the flying
planet, and hurled at our feet as she sped by.  An interesting discovery
here results.  Which is, that lightning, kept to itself, is quiescent; it
is the assaulting contact of the thunderbolt that releases it from
captivity, ignites its awful fires, and so produces an instantaneous
combustion and explosion which spread disaster and desolation far and
wide in the earth."

After another day devoted to rest and recovery, the expedition proceeded
upon its way.  Some days later it went into camp in a pleasant part of
the plain, and the savants sallied forth to see what they might find.
Their reward was at hand.  Professor Bull Frog discovered a strange tree,
and called his comrades.  They inspected it with profound interest.  It
was very tall and straight, and wholly devoid of bark, limbs, or foliage.
By triangulation Lord Longlegs determined its altitude; Herr Spider
measured its circumference at the base and computed the circumference at
its top by a mathematical demonstration based upon the warrant furnished
by the uniform degree of its taper upward.  It was considered a very
extraordinary find; and since it was a tree of a hitherto unknown
species, Professor Woodlouse gave it a name of a learned sound, being
none other than that of Professor Bull Frog translated into the ancient
Mastodon language, for it had always been the custom with discoverers to
perpetuate their names and honor themselves by this sort of connection
with their discoveries.

Now Professor Field-Mouse having placed his sensitive ear to the tree,
detected a rich, harmonious sound issuing from it.  This surprising thing
was tested and enjoyed by each scholar in turn, and great was the
gladness and astonishment of all.  Professor Woodlouse was requested to
add to and extend the tree's name so as to make it suggest the musical
quality it possessed--which he did, furnishing the addition Anthem
Singer, done into the Mastodon tongue.

By this time Professor Snail was making some telescopic inspections.
He discovered a great number of these trees, extending in a single rank,
with wide intervals between, as far as his instrument would carry, both
southward and northward.  He also presently discovered that all these
trees were bound together, near their tops, by fourteen great ropes, one
above another, which ropes were continuous, from tree to tree, as far as
his vision could reach.  This was surprising.  Chief Engineer Spider ran
aloft and soon reported that these ropes were simply a web hung thereby
some colossal member of his own species, for he could see its prey
dangling here and there from the strands, in the shape of mighty shreds
and rags that had a woven look about their texture and were no doubt the
discarded skins of prodigious insects which had been caught and eaten.
And then he ran along one of the ropes to make a closer inspection, but
felt a smart sudden burn on the soles of his feet, accompanied by a
paralyzing shock, wherefore he let go and swung himself to the earth by a
thread of his own spinning, and advised all to hurry at once to camp,
lest the monster should appear and get as much interested in the savants
as they were in him and his works.  So they departed with speed, making
notes about the gigantic web as they went.  And that evening the
naturalist of the expedition built a beautiful model of the colossal
spider, having no need to see it in order to do this, because he had
picked up a fragment of its vertebra by the tree, and so knew exactly
what the creature looked like and what its habits and its preferences
were by this simple evidence alone.  He built it with a tail, teeth,
fourteen legs, and a snout, and said it ate grass, cattle, pebbles, and
dirt with equal enthusiasm.  This animal was regarded as a very precious
addition to science.  It was hoped a dead one might be found to stuff.
Professor Woodlouse thought that he and his brother scholars, by lying
hid and being quiet, might maybe catch a live one.  He was advised to try
it.  Which was all the attention that was paid to his suggestion.  The
conference ended with the naming the monster after the naturalist, since
he, after God, had created it.

"And improved it, mayhap," muttered the Tumble-Bug, who was intruding
again, according to his idle custom and his unappeasable curiosity.

END OF PART FIRST




SOME LEARNED FABLES FOR GOOD OLD BOYS AND GIRLS

PART SECOND

HOW THE ANIMALS OF THE WOOD COMPLETED THEIR SCIENTIFIC LABORS

A week later the expedition camped in the midst of a collection of
wonderful curiosities.  These were a sort of vast caverns of stone that
rose singly and in bunches out of the plain by the side of the river
which they had first seen when they emerged from the forest.  These
caverns stood in long, straight rows on opposite sides of broad aisles
that were bordered with single ranks of trees.  The summit of each cavern
sloped sharply both ways.  Several horizontal rows of great square holes,
obstructed by a thin, shiny, transparent substance, pierced the frontage
of each cavern.  Inside were caverns within caverns; and one might ascend
and visit these minor compartments by means of curious winding ways
consisting of continuous regular terraces raised one above another.
There were many huge, shapeless objects in each compartment which were
considered to have been living creatures at one time, though now the thin
brown skin was shrunken and loose, and rattled when disturbed.  Spiders
were here in great number, and their cobwebs, stretched in all directions
and wreathing the great skinny dead together, were a pleasant spectacle,
since they inspired with life and wholesome cheer a scene which would
otherwise have brought to the mind only a sense of forsakenness and
desolation.  Information was sought of these spiders, but in vain.  They
were of a different nationality from those with the expedition, and their
language seemed but a musical, meaningless jargon.  They were a timid,
gentle race, but ignorant, and heathenish worshipers of unknown gods.
The expedition detailed a great detachment of missionaries to teach them
the true religion, and in a week's time a precious work had been wrought
among those darkened creatures, not three families being by that time at
peace with each other or having a settled belief in any system of
religion whatever.  This encouraged the expedition to establish a colony
of missionaries there permanently, that the work of grace might go on.

But let us not outrun our narrative.  After close examination of the
fronts of the caverns, and much thinking and exchanging of theories, the
scientists determined the nature of these singular formations.  They said
that each belonged mainly to the Old Red Sandstone period; that the
cavern fronts rose in innumerable and wonderfully regular strata high in
the air, each stratum about five frog-spans thick, and that in the
present discovery lay an overpowering refutation of all received geology;
for between every two layers of Old Red Sandstone reposed a thin layer of
decomposed limestone; so instead of there having been but one Old Red
Sandstone period there had certainly been not less than a hundred and
seventy-five!  And by the same token it was plain that there had also
been a hundred and seventy-five floodings of the earth and depositings of
limestone strata!  The unavoidable deduction from which pair of facts was
the overwhelming truth that the world, instead of being only two hundred
thousand years old, was older by millions upon millions of years!  And
there was another curious thing: every stratum of Old Red Sandstone was
pierced and divided at mathematically regular intervals by vertical
strata of limestone.  Up-shootings of igneous rock through fractures in
water formations were common; but here was the first instance where
water-formed rock had been so projected.  It was a great and noble
discovery, and its value to science was considered to be inestimable.

A critical examination of some of the lower strata demonstrated the
presence of fossil ants and tumble-bugs (the latter accompanied by their
peculiar goods), and with high gratification the fact was enrolled upon
the scientific record; for this was proof that these vulgar laborers
belonged to the first and lowest orders of created beings, though at the
same time there was something repulsive in the reflection that the
perfect and exquisite creature of the modern uppermost order owed its
origin to such ignominious beings through the mysterious law of
Development of Species.

The Tumble-Bug, overhearing this discussion, said he was willing that the
parvenus of these new times should find what comfort they might in their
wise-drawn theories, since as far as he was concerned he was content to
be of the old first families and proud to point back to his place among
the old original aristocracy of the land.

"Enjoy your mushroom dignity, stinking of the varnish of yesterday's
veneering, since you like it," said he; "suffice it for the Tumble-Bugs
that they come of a race that rolled their fragrant spheres down the
solemn aisles of antiquity, and left their imperishable works embalmed in
the Old Red Sandstone to proclaim it to the wasting centuries as they
file along the highway of Time!"

"Oh, take a walk!" said the chief of the expedition, with derision.

The summer passed, and winter approached.  In and about many of the
caverns were what seemed to be inscriptions.  Most of the scientists said
they were inscriptions, a few said they were not.  The chief philologist,
Professor Woodlouse, maintained that they were writings, done in a
character utterly unknown to scholars, and in a language equally unknown.
He had early ordered his artists and draftsmen to make facsimiles of all
that were discovered; and had set himself about finding the key to the
hidden tongue.  In this work he had followed the method which had always
been used by decipherers previously.  That is to say, he placed a number
of copies of inscriptions before him and studied them both collectively
and in detail.  To begin with, he placed the following copies together:

     THE AMERICAN HOTEL.      MEALS AT ALL HOURS.
     THE SHADES.              NO SMOKING.
     BOATS FOR HIRE CHEAP     UNION PRAYER MEETING, 6 P.M.
     BILLIARDS.               THE WATERSIDE JOURNAL.
     THE A1 BARBER SHOP.      TELEGRAPH OFFICE.
     KEEP OFF THE GRASS.      TRY BRANDRETH'S PILLS.
     COTTAGES FOR RENT DURING THE WATERING SEASON.
     FOR SALE CHEAP.          FOR SALE CHEAP.
     FOR SALE CHEAP.          FOR SALE CHEAP.

At first it seemed to the professor that this was a sign-language, and
that each word was represented by a distinct sign; further examination
convinced him that it was a written language, and that every letter of
its alphabet was represented by a character of its own; and finally he
decided that it was a language which conveyed itself partly by letters,
and partly by signs or hieroglyphics.  This conclusion was forced upon
him by the discovery of several specimens of the following nature:

He observed that certain inscriptions were met with in greater frequency
than others.  Such as "FOR SALE CHEAP"; "BILLIARDS"; "S. T.--1860--X";
"KENO"; "ALE ON DRAUGHT."  Naturally, then, these must be religious
maxims.  But this idea was cast aside by and by, as the mystery of the
strange alphabet began to clear itself.  In time, the professor was
enabled to translate several of the inscriptions with considerable
plausibility, though not to the perfect satisfaction of all the scholars.
Still, he made constant and encouraging progress.

Finally a cavern was discovered with these inscriptions upon it:

                           WATERSIDE MUSEUM.
                           Open at All Hours.
                          Admission 50 cents.
                        WONDERFUL COLLECTION OF
                      WAX-WORKS, ANCIENT FOSSILS,
                                  ETC.

Professor Woodlouse affirmed that the word "Museum" was equivalent to the
phrase "lumgath molo," or "Burial Place."  Upon entering, the scientists
were well astonished.  But what they saw may be best conveyed in the
language of their own official report:

"Erect, in a row, were a sort of rigid great figures which struck us
instantly as belonging to the long extinct species of reptile called MAN,
described in our ancient records.  This was a peculiarly gratifying
discovery, because of late times it has become fashionable to regard this
creature as a myth and a superstition, a work of the inventive
imaginations of our remote ancestors.  But here, indeed, was Man,
perfectly preserved, in a fossil state.  And this was his burial place,
as already ascertained by the inscription.  And now it began to be
suspected that the caverns we had been inspecting had been his ancient
haunts in that old time that he roamed the earth--for upon the breast of
each of these tall fossils was an inscription in the character heretofore
noticed.  One read, 'CAPTAIN KIDD THE PIRATE'; another, 'QUEEN VICTORIA';
another, 'ABE LINCOLN'; another, 'GEORGE WASHINGTON,' etc.

"With feverish interest we called for our ancient scientific records to
discover if perchance the description of Man there set down would tally
with the fossils before us.  Professor Woodlouse read it aloud in its
quaint and musty phraseology, to wit:

"'In ye time of our fathers Man still walked ye earth, as by tradition we
know.  It was a creature of exceeding great size, being compassed about
with a loose skin, sometimes of one color, sometimes of many, the which
it was able to cast at will; which being done, the hind legs were
discovered to be armed with short claws like to a mole's but broader, and
ye forelegs with fingers of a curious slimness and a length much more
prodigious than a frog's, armed also with broad talons for scratching in
ye earth for its food.  It had a sort of feathers upon its head such as
hath a rat, but longer, and a beak suitable for seeking its food by ye
smell thereof.  When it was stirred with happiness, it leaked water from
its eyes; and when it suffered or was sad, it manifested it with a
horrible hellish cackling clamor that was exceeding dreadful to hear and
made one long that it might rend itself and perish, and so end its
troubles.  Two Mans being together, they uttered noises at each other
like this: "Haw-haw-haw--dam good, dam good," together with other sounds
of more or less likeness to these, wherefore ye poets conceived that they
talked, but poets be always ready to catch at any frantic folly, God he
knows.  Sometimes this creature goeth about with a long stick ye which it
putteth to its face and bloweth fire and smoke through ye same with a
sudden and most damnable bruit and noise that doth fright its prey to
death, and so seizeth it in its talons and walketh away to its habitat,
consumed with a most fierce and devilish joy.'

"Now was the description set forth by our ancestors wonderfully indorsed
and confirmed by the fossils before us, as shall be seen.  The specimen
marked 'Captain Kidd' was examined in detail.  Upon its head and part of
its face was a sort of fur like that upon the tail of a horse.  With
great labor its loose skin was removed, whereupon its body was discovered
to be of a polished white texture, thoroughly petrified.  The straw it
had eaten, so many ages gone by, was still in its body, undigested--and
even in its legs.

"Surrounding these fossils were objects that would mean nothing to the
ignorant, but to the eye of science they were a revelation.  They laid
bare the secrets of dead ages.  These musty Memorials told us when Man
lived, and what were his habits.  For here, side by side with Man, were
the evidences that he had lived in the earliest ages of creation, the
companion of the other low orders of life that belonged to that forgotten
time.  Here was the fossil nautilus that sailed the primeval seas; here
was the skeleton of the mastodon, the ichthyosaurus, the cave-bear, the
prodigious elk.  Here, also, were the charred bones of some of these
extinct animals and of the young of Man's own species, split lengthwise,
showing that to his taste the marrow was a toothsome luxury.  It was
plain that Man had robbed those bones of their contents, since no tooth-
mark of any beast was upon them albeit the Tumble-Bug intruded the remark
that 'no beast could mark a bone with its teeth, anyway.'  Here were
proofs that Man had vague, groveling notions of art; for this fact was
conveyed by certain things marked with the untranslatable words, 'FLINT
HATCHETS, KNIVES, ARROW--HEADS, AND BONE ORNAMENTS OF PRIMEVAL MAN.'
Some of these seemed to be rude weapons chipped out of flint, and in a
secret place was found some more in process of construction, with this
untranslatable legend, on a thin, flimsy material, lying by:

     "'Jones, if you don't want to be discharged from the Musseum, make
     the next primeaveal weppons more careful--you couldn't even fool one
     of these sleepy old syentific grannys from the Coledge with the last
     ones.  And mind you the animles you carved on some of the Bone
     Ornaments is a blame sight too good for any primeaveal man that was
     ever fooled.--Varnum, Manager.'

"Back of the burial place was a mass of ashes, showing that Man always
had a feast at a funeral--else why the ashes in such a place; and
showing, also, that he believed in God and the immortality of the soil
--else why these solemn ceremonies?

"To, sum up.  We believe that Man had a written language.  We know that
he indeed existed at one time, and is not a myth; also, that he was the
companion of the cave-bear, the mastodon, and other extinct species; that
he cooked and ate them and likewise the young of his own kind; also, that
he bore rude weapons, and knew something of art; that he imagined he had
a soul, and pleased himself with the fancy that it was immortal.  But let
us not laugh; there may be creatures in existence to whom we and our
vanities and profundities may seem as ludicrous."

END OF PART SECOND




SOME LEARNED FABLES FOR GOOD OLD BOYS AND GIRLS

PART THIRD

Near the margin of the great river the scientists presently found a huge,
shapely stone, with this inscription:

     "In 1847, in the spring, the river overflowed its banks and covered
     the whole township.  The depth was from two to six feet.  More than
     900 head of cattle were lost, and many homes destroyed.  The Mayor
     ordered this memorial to be erected to perpetuate the event.  God
     spare us the repetition of it!"

With infinite trouble, Professor Woodlouse succeeded in making a
translation of this inscription, which was sent home, and straightway an
enormous excitement was created about it.  It confirmed, in a remarkable
way, certain treasured traditions of the ancients.  The translation was
slightly marred by one or two untranslatable words, but these did not
impair the general clearness of the meaning.  It is here presented:

     "One thousand eight hundred and forty-seven years ago, the (fires?)
     descended and consumed the whole city.  Only some nine hundred souls
     were saved, all others destroyed.  The (king?) commanded this stone
     to be set up to .  .  .  (untranslatable) .  .  .  prevent the
     repetition of it."

This was the first successful and satisfactory translation that had been
made of the mysterious character let behind him by extinct man, and it
gave Professor Woodlouse such reputation that at once every seat of
learning in his native land conferred a degree of the most illustrious
grade upon him, and it was believed that if he had been a soldier and had
turned his splendid talents to the extermination of a remote tribe of
reptiles, the king would have ennobled him and made him rich.  And this,
too, was the origin of that school of scientists called Manologists,
whose specialty is the deciphering of the ancient records of the extinct
bird termed Man.  [For it is now decided that Man was a bird and not a
reptile.]  But Professor Woodlouse began and remained chief of these, for
it was granted that no translations were ever so free from error as his.
Others made mistakes he seemed incapable of it.  Many a memorial of the
lost race was afterward found, but none ever attained to the renown and
veneration achieved by the "Mayoritish Stone" it being so called from the
word "Mayor" in it, which, being translated "King," "Mayoritish Stone"
was but another way of saying "King Stone."

Another time the expedition made a great "find."  It was a vast round
flattish mass, ten frog-spans in diameter and five or six high.
Professor Snail put on his spectacles and examined it all around, and
then climbed up and inspected the top.  He said:

"The result of my perlustration and perscontation of this isoperimetrical
protuberance is a belief at it is one of those rare and wonderful
creation left by the Mound Builders.  The fact that this one is
lamellibranchiate in its formation, simply adds to its interest as being
possibly of a different kind from any we read of in the records of
science, but yet in no manner marring its authenticity.  Let the
megalophonous grasshopper sound a blast and summon hither the perfunctory
and circumforaneous Tumble-Bug, to the end that excavations may be made
and learning gather new treasures."

Not a Tumble-Bug could be found on duty, so the Mound was excavated by a
working party of Ants.  Nothing was discovered.  This would have been a
great disappointment, had not the venerable Longlegs explained the
matter.  He said:

"It is now plain to me that the mysterious and forgotten race of Mound
Builders did not always erect these edifices as mausoleums, else in this
case, as in all previous cases, their skeletons would be found here,
along with the rude implements which the creatures used in life.  Is not
this manifest?"

"True! true!" from everybody.

"Then we have made a discovery of peculiar value here; a discovery which
greatly extends our knowledge of this creature in place of diminishing
it; a discovery which will add luster to the achievements of this
expedition and win for us the commendations of scholars everywhere.
For the absence of the customary relics here means nothing less than
this: The Mound Builder, instead of being the ignorant, savage reptile we
have been taught to consider him, was a creature of cultivation and high
intelligence, capable of not only appreciating worthy achievements of the
great and noble of his species, but of commemorating them!  Fellow-
scholars, this stately Mound is not a sepulcher, it is a monument!"

A profound impression was produced by this.

But it was interrupted by rude and derisive laughter--and the Tumble-Bug
appeared.

"A monument!" quoth he.  "A monument setup by a Mound Builder!  Aye, so
it is!  So it is, indeed, to the shrewd keen eye of science; but to an,
ignorant poor devil who has never seen a college, it is not a Monument,
strictly speaking, but is yet a most rich and noble property; and with
your worship's good permission I will proceed to manufacture it into
spheres of exceedings grace and--"

The Tumble-Bug was driven away with stripes, and the draftsmen of the
expedition were set to making views of the Monument from different
standpoints, while Professor Woodlouse, in a frenzy of scientific zeal,
traveled all over it and all around it hoping to find an inscription.
But if there had ever been one, it had decayed or been removed by some
vandal as a relic.

The views having been completed, it was now considered safe to load the
precious Monument itself upon the backs of four of the largest Tortoises
and send it home to the king's museum, which was done; and when it
arrived it was received with enormous Mat and escorted to its future
abiding-place by thousands of enthusiastic citizens, King Bullfrog XVI.
himself attending and condescending to sit enthroned upon it throughout
the progress.

The growing rigor of the weather was now admonishing the scientists to
close their labors for the present, so they made preparations to journey
homeward.  But even their last day among the Caverns bore fruit; for one
of the scholars found in an out-of-the-way corner of the Museum or
"Burial Place" a most strange and extraordinary thing.  It was nothing
less than a double Man-Bird lashed together breast to breast by a natural
ligament, and labeled with the untranslatable words, "Siamese Twins."
The official report concerning this thing closed thus:

"Wherefore it appears that there were in old times two distinct species
of this majestic fowl, the one being single and the other double.  Nature
has a reason for all things.  It is plain to the eye of science that the
Double-Man originally inhabited a region where dangers abounded; hence he
was paired together to the end that while one part slept the other might
watch; and likewise that, danger being discovered, there might always be
a double instead of a single power to oppose it.  All honor to the
mystery-dispelling eye of godlike Science!"

And near the Double Man-Bird was found what was plainly an ancient record
of his, marked upon numberless sheets of a thin white substance and bound
together.  Almost the first glance that Professor Woodlouse threw into it
revealed this following sentence, which he instantly translated and laid
before the scientists, in a tremble, and it uplifted every soul there
with exultation and astonishment:

"In truth it is believed by many that the lower animals reason and talk
together."

When the great official report of the expedition appeared, the above
sentence bore this comment:

"Then there are lower animals than Man!  This remarkable passage can mean
nothing else.  Man himself is extinct, but they may still exist.  What
can they be?  Where do they inhabit?  One's enthusiasm bursts all bounds
in the contemplation of the brilliant field of discovery and
investigation here thrown open to science.  We close our labors with the
humble prayer that your Majesty will immediately appoint a commission and
command it to rest not nor spare expense until the search for this
hitherto unsuspected race of the creatures of God shall be crowned with
success."

The expedition then journeyed homeward after its long absence and its
faithful endeavors, and was received with a mighty ovation by the whole
grateful country.  There were vulgar, ignorant carpers, of course, as
there always are and always will be; and naturally one of these was the
obscene Tumble-Bug.  He said that all he had learned by his travels was
that science only needed a spoonful of supposition to build a mountain of
demonstrated fact out of; and that for the future he meant to be content
with the knowledge that nature had made free to all creatures and not go
prying into the august secrets of the Deity.






MY LATE SENATORIAL SECRETARYSHIP--[Written about 1867.]

I am not a private secretary to a senator any more I now.  I held the
berth two months in security and in great cheerfulness of spirit, but my
bread began to return from over the waters then--that is to say, my works
came back and revealed themselves.  I judged it best to resign.  The way
of it was this.  My employer sent for me one morning tolerably early,
and, as soon as I had finished inserting some conundrums clandestinely
into his last great speech upon finance, I entered the presence.  There
was something portentous in his appearance.  His cravat was untied, his
hair was in a state of disorder, and his countenance bore about it the
signs of a suppressed storm.  He held a package of letters in his tense
grasp, and I knew that the dreaded Pacific mail was in.  He said:

"I thought you were worthy of confidence."

I said, "Yes, sir."

He said, "I gave you a letter from certain of my constituents in the
State of Nevada, asking the establishment of a post-office at Baldwin's
Ranch, and told you to answer it, as ingeniously as you could, with
arguments which should persuade them that there was no real necessity for
as office at that place."

I felt easier.  "Oh, if that is all, sir, I did do that."

"Yes, you did.  I will read your answer for your own humiliation:

                                        'WASHINGTON, Nov. 24
     'Messrs. Smith, Jones, and others.

     'GENTLEMEN:  What the mischief do you suppose you want with a
     post-office at Baldwin's Ranch?  It would not do you any good.
     If any letters came there, you couldn't read them, you know; and,
     besides, such letters as ought to pass through, with money in them,
     for other localities, would not be likely to get through, you must
     perceive at once; and that would make trouble for us all.  No, don't
     bother about a post-office in your camp.  I have your best interests
     at heart, and feel that it would only be an ornamental folly.  What
     you want is a nice jail, you know--a nice, substantial jail and a
     free school.  These will be a lasting benefit to you.  These will
     make you really contented and happy.  I will move in the matter at
     once.
                    'Very truly, etc.,
                              Mark Twain,
                    'For James W. N------, U. S. Senator.'

"That is the way you answered that letter.  Those people say they will
hang me, if I ever enter that district again; and I am perfectly
satisfied they will, too."

"Well, sir, I did not know I was doing any harm.  I only wanted to
convince them."

"Ah.  Well, you did convince them, I make no manner of doubt.  Now, here
is another specimen.  I gave you a petition from certain gentlemen of
Nevada, praying that I would get a bill through Congress incorporating
the Methodist Episcopal Church of the State of Nevada.  I told you to
say, in reply, that the creation of such a law came more properly within
the province of the state legislature; and to endeavor to show them that,
in the present feebleness of the religious element in that new
commonwealth, the expediency of incorporating the church was
questionable.  What did you write?

                                        "'WASHINGTON, Nov. 24.

     "'Rev. John Halifax and others.

     "'GENTLEMEN: You will have to go to the state legislature about that
     speculation of yours--Congress don't know anything about religion.
     But don't you hurry to go there, either; because this thing you
     propose to do out in that new country isn't expedient--in fact, it
     is ridiculous.  Your religious people there are too feeble, in
     intellect, in morality, in piety in everything, pretty much.  You
     had better drop this--you can't make it work.  You can't issue stock
     on an incorporation like that--or if you could, it would only keep
     you in trouble all the time.  The other denominations would abuse
     it, and "bear" it, and "sell it short," and break it down.  They
     would do with it just as they would with one of your silver-mines
     out there--they would try to make all the world believe it was
     "wildcat."  You ought not to do anything that is calculated to bring
     a sacred thing into disrepute.  You ought to be ashamed of
     yourselves that is what I think about it.  You close your petition
     with the words: "And we will ever pray."  I think you had better you
     need to do it.
                         "'Very truly, etc.,
                                   "'MARK TWAIN,
                         "'For James W. N-----, U. S. Senator.'


"That luminous epistle finishes me with the religious element among my
constituents.  But that my political murder might be made sure, some evil
instinct prompted me to hand you this memorial from the grave company of
elders composing the board of aldermen of the city of San Francisco, to
try your hand upon a, memorial praying that the city's right to the
water-lots upon the city front might be established by law of Congress.
I told you this was a dangerous matter to move in.  I told you to write a
non-committal letter to the aldermen--an ambiguous letter--a letter that
should avoid, as far as possible, all real consideration and discussion
of the water-lot question.  If there is any feeling left in you--any
shame--surely this letter you wrote, in obedience to that order, ought to
evoke it, when its words fall upon your ears:

                                        'WASHINGTON, Nov. 27

     'The Honorable Board of Aldermen, etc.

     'GENTLEMEN: George Washington, the revered Father of his Country,
     is dead.  His long and brilliant career is closed, alas! forever.
     He was greatly respected in this section of the country, and his
     untimely decease cast a gloom over the whole community.  He died on
     the 14th day of December, 1799.  He passed peacefully away from the
     scene of his honors and his great achievements, the most lamented
     hero and the best beloved that ever earth hath yielded unto Death.
     At such a time as this, you speak of water-lots! what a lot was his!

     'What is fame!  Fame is an accident.  Sir Isaac Newton discovered
     an apple falling to the ground--a trivial discovery, truly, and one
     which a million men had made before him--but his parents were
     influential, and so they tortured that small circumstance into
     something wonderful, and, lo! the simple world took up the shout
     and, in almost the twinkling of an eye, that man was famous.
     Treasure these thoughts.

     'Poesy, sweet poesy, who shall estimate what the world owes to
     thee!

     "Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow--
     And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go."

                    "Jack and Gill went up the hill
                    To draw a pail of water;
                    Jack fell down and broke his crown,
                    And Gill came tumbling after."

     'For simplicity, elegance of diction, and freedom from immoral
     tendencies, I regard those two poems in the light of gems.  They
     are suited to all grades of intelligence, to every sphere of life
    --to the field, to the nursery, to the guild.  Especially should
     no Board of Aldermen be without them.

     'Venerable fossils! write again.  Nothing improves one so much as
     friendly correspondence.  Write again--and if there is anything in
     this memorial of yours that refers to anything in particular, do
     not be backward about explaining it.  We shall always be happy to
     hear you chirp.
                         'Very truly, etc.,
                                   "'MARK TWAIN,
                         'For James W. N-----, U. S. Senator.'


"That is an atrocious, a ruinous epistle!  Distraction!"

"Well, sir, I am really sorry if there is anything wrong about it--but
--but it appears to me to dodge the water-lot question."

"Dodge the mischief!  Oh!--but never mind.  As long as destruction must
come now, let it be complete.  Let it be complete--let this last of your
performances, which I am about to read, make a finality of it.  I am a
ruined man.  I had my misgivings when I gave you the letter from
Humboldt, asking that the post route from Indian Gulch to Shakespeare Gap
and intermediate points be changed partly to the old Mormon trail.  But I
told you it was a delicate question, and warned you to deal with it
deftly--to answer it dubiously, and leave them a little in the dark.
And your fatal imbecility impelled you to make this disastrous reply.
I should think you would stop your ears, if you are not dead to all
shame:

                                        "'WASHINGTON, Nov. 30.

     "'Messes. Perkins, Wagner, et at.

     "'GENTLEMEN: It is a delicate question about this Indian trail, but,
     handled with proper deftness and dubiousness, I doubt not we shall
     succeed in some measure or otherwise, because the place where the
     route leaves the Lassen Meadows, over beyond where those two Shawnee
     chiefs, Dilapidated Vengeance and Biter-of-the-Clouds, were scalped
     last winter, this being the favorite direction to some, but others
     preferring something else in consequence of things, the Mormon trail
     leaving Mosby's at three in the morning, and passing through Jaw
     bone Flat to Blucher, and then down by Jug-Handle, the road passing
     to the right of it, and naturally leaving it on the right, too, and
     Dawson's on the left of the trail where it passes to the left of
     said Dawson's and onward thence to Tomahawk, thus making the route
     cheaper, easier of access to all who can get at it, and compassing
     all the desirable objects so considered by others, and, therefore,
     conferring the most good upon the greatest number, and,
     consequently, I am encouraged to hope we shall.  However, I shall be
     ready, and happy, to afford you still further information upon the
     subject, from time to time, as you may desire it and the Post-office
     Department be enabled to furnish it to me.
                              "'Very truly, etc.,
                                        "'MARK TWAIN,
                              "'For James W. N-----, U. S. Senator.'


"There--now what do you think of that?"

"Well, I don't know, sir.  It--well, it appears to me--to be dubious
enough."

"Du--leave the house!  I am a ruined man. Those Humboldt savages never
will forgive me for tangling their brains up with this inhuman letter.
I have lost the respect of the Methodist Church, the board of aldermen--"

"Well, I haven't anything to say about that, because I may have missed it
a little in their cases, but I was too many for the Baldwin's Ranch
people, General!"

"Leave the house!  Leave it forever and forever, too."

I regarded that as a sort of covert intimation that my service could be
dispensed with, and so I resigned.  I never will be a private secretary
to a senator again.  You can't please that kind of people.  They don't
know anything.  They can't appreciate a party's efforts.






A FASHION ITEM--[Written about 1867.]

At General G----'s reception the other night, the most fashionably
dressed lady was Mrs. G. C.  She wore a pink satin dress, plain in front
but with a good deal of rake to it--to the train, I mean; it was said to
be two or three yards long.  One could see it creeping along the floor
some little time after the woman was gone.  Mrs. C. wore also a white
bodice, cut bias, with Pompadour sleeves, flounced with ruches; low neck,
with the inside handkerchief not visible, with white kid gloves.  She had
on a pearl necklace, which glinted lonely, high up the midst of that
barren waste of neck and shoulders.  Her hair was frizzled into a tangled
chaparral, forward of her ears, aft it was drawn together, and compactly
bound and plaited into a stump like a pony's tail, and furthermore was
canted upward at a sharp angle, and ingeniously supported by a red velvet
crupper, whose forward extremity was made fast with a half-hitch around a
hairpin on the top of her head.  Her whole top hamper was neat and
becoming.  She had a beautiful complexion when she first came, but it
faded out by degrees in an unaccountable way.  However, it is not lost
for good.  I found the most of it on my shoulder afterward.  (I stood
near the door when she squeezed out with the throng.)  There were other
ladies present, but I only took notes of one as a specimen.  I would
gladly enlarge upon the subject were I able to do it justice.






RILEY-NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENT

One of the best men in Washington--or elsewhere--is RILEY, correspondent
of one of the great San Francisco dailies.

Riley is full of humor, and has an unfailing vein of irony, which makes
his conversation to the last degree entertaining (as long as the remarks
are about somebody else).  But notwithstanding the possession of these
qualities, which should enable a man to write a happy and an appetizing
letter, Riley's newspaper letters often display a more than earthly
solemnity, and likewise an unimaginative devotion to petrified facts,
which surprise and distress all men who know him in his unofficial
character.  He explains this curious thing by saying that his employers
sent him to Washington to write facts, not fancy, and that several times
he has come near losing his situation by inserting humorous remarks
which, not being looked for at headquarters, and consequently not
understood, were thought to be dark and bloody speeches intended to
convey signals and warnings to murderous secret societies, or something
of that kind, and so were scratched out with a shiver and a prayer and
cast into the stove.  Riley says that sometimes he is so afflicted with
a yearning to write a sparkling and absorbingly readable letter that he
simply cannot resist it, and so he goes to his den and revels in the
delight of untrammeled scribbling; and then, with suffering such as only
a mother can know, he destroys the pretty children of his fancy and
reduces his letter to the required dismal accuracy.  Having seen Riley do
this very thing more than once, I know whereof I speak.  Often I have
laughed with him over a happy passage, and grieved to see him plow his
pen through it.  He would say, "I had to write that or die; and I've got
to scratch it out or starve.  They wouldn't stand it, you know."

I think Riley is about the most entertaining company I ever saw.  We
lodged together in many places in Washington during the winter of '67-8,
moving comfortably from place to place, and attracting attention by
paying our board--a course which cannot fail to make a person conspicuous
in Washington.  Riley would tell all about his trip to California in the
early days, by way of the Isthmus and the San Juan River; and about his
baking bread in San Francisco to gain a living, and setting up tenpins,
and practising law, and opening oysters, and delivering lectures, and
teaching French, and tending bar, and reporting for the newspapers, and
keeping dancing-schools, and interpreting Chinese in the courts--which
latter was lucrative, and Riley was doing handsomely and laying up a
little money when people began to find fault because his translations
were too "free," a thing for which Riley considered he ought not to be
held responsible, since he did not know a word of the Chinese tongue, and
only adopted interpreting as a means of gaining an honest livelihood.
Through the machinations of enemies he was removed from the position of
official interpreter, and a man put in his place who was familiar with
the Chinese language, but did not know any English.  And Riley used to
tell about publishing a newspaper up in what is Alaska now, but was only
an iceberg then, with a population composed of bears, walruses, Indians,
and other animals; and how the iceberg got adrift at last, and left all
his paying subscribers behind, and as soon as the commonwealth floated
out of the jurisdiction of Russia the people rose and threw off their
allegiance and ran up the English flag, calculating to hook on and become
an English colony as they drifted along down the British Possessions; but
a land breeze and a crooked current carried them by, and they ran up the
Stars and Stripes and steered for California, missed the connection again
and swore allegiance to Mexico, but it wasn't any use; the anchors came
home every time, and away they went with the northeast trades drifting
off sideways toward the Sandwich Islands, whereupon they ran up the
Cannibal flag and had a grand human barbecue in honor of it, in which it
was noticed that the better a man liked a friend the better he enjoyed
him; and as soon as they got fairly within the tropics the weather got so
fearfully hot that the iceberg began to melt, and it got so sloppy under
foot that it was almost impossible for ladies to get about at all; and at
last, just as they came in sight of the islands, the melancholy remnant
of the once majestic iceberg canted first to one side and then to the
other, and then plunged under forever, carrying the national archives
along with it--and not only the archives and the populace, but some
eligible town lots which had increased in value as fast as they
diminished in size in the tropics, and which Riley could have sold at
thirty cents a pound and made himself rich if he could have kept the
province afloat ten hours longer and got her into port.

Riley is very methodical, untiringly accommodating, never forgets
anything that is to be attended to, is a good son, a stanch friend, and a
permanent reliable enemy.  He will put himself to any amount of trouble
to oblige a body, and therefore always has his hands full of things to be
done for the helpless and the shiftless.  And he knows how to do nearly
everything, too.  He is a man whose native benevolence is a well-spring
that never goes dry.  He stands always ready to help whoever needs help,
as far as he is able--and not simply with his money, for that is a cheap
and common charity, but with hand and brain, and fatigue of limb and
sacrifice of time.  This sort of men is rare.

Riley has a ready wit, a quickness and aptness at selecting and applying
quotations, and a countenance that is as solemn and as blank as the back
side of a tombstone when he is delivering a particularly exasperating
joke.  One night a negro woman was burned to death in a house next door
to us, and Riley said that our landlady would be oppressively emotional
at breakfast, because she generally made use of such opportunities as
offered, being of a morbidly sentimental turn, and so we should find it
best to let her talk along and say nothing back--it was the only way to
keep her tears out of the gravy.  Riley said there never was a funeral in
the neighborhood but that the gravy was watery for a week.

And, sure enough, at breakfast the landlady was down in the very sloughs
of woe--entirely brokenhearted.  Everything she looked at reminded her of
that poor old negro woman, and so the buckwheat cakes made her sob, the
coffee forced a groan, and when the beefsteak came on she fetched a wail
that made our hair rise.  Then she got to talking about deceased, and
kept up a steady drizzle till both of us were soaked through and through.
Presently she took a fresh breath and said, with a world of sobs:

"Ah, to think of it, only to think of it!--the poor old faithful
creature.  For she was so faithful.  Would you believe it, she had been a
servant in that selfsame house and that selfsame family for twenty seven
years come Christmas, and never a cross word and never a lick!  And, oh,
to think she should meet such a death at last!--a-sitting over the red
hot stove at three o'clock in the morning and went to sleep and fell on
it and was actually roasted!  Not just frizzled up a bit, but literally
roasted to a crisp!  Poor faithful creature, how she was cooked!  I am
but a poor woman, but even if I have to scrimp to do it, I will put up a
tombstone over that lone sufferer's grave--and Mr. Riley if you would
have the goodness to think up a little epitaph to put on it which would
sort of describe the awful way in which she met her--"

"Put it, 'Well done, good and faithful servant,'" said Riley, and never
smiled.






A FINE OLD MAN

John Wagner, the oldest man in Buffalo--one hundred and four years old
--recently walked a mile and a half in two weeks.

He is as cheerful and bright as any of these other old men that charge
around so persistently and tiresomely in the newspapers, and in every way
as remarkable.

Last November he walked five blocks in a rainstorm, without any shelter
but an umbrella, and cast his vote for Grant, remarking that he had voted
for forty-seven presidents--which was a lie.

His "second crop" of rich brown hair arrived from New York yesterday, and
he has a new set of teeth coming from Philadelphia.

He is to be married next week to a girl one hundred and two years old,
who still takes in washing.

They have been engaged eighty years, but their parents persistently
refused their consent until three days ago.

John Wagner is two years older than the Rhode Island veteran, and yet has
never tasted a drop of liquor in his life--unless-unless you count
whisky.






SCIENCE V.S. LUCK--[Written about 1867.]

At that time, in Kentucky (said the Hon. Mr. K-----); the law was very
strict against what is termed "games of chance."  About a dozen of the
boys were detected playing "seven up" or "old sledge" for money, and the
grand jury found a true bill against them.  Jim Sturgis was retained to
defend them when the case came up, of course. The more he studied over
the matter, and looked into the evidence, the plainer it was that he must
lose a case at last--there was no getting around that painful fact.
Those boys had certainly been betting money on a game of chance.  Even
public sympathy was roused in behalf of Sturgis.  People said it was a
pity to see him mar his successful career with a big prominent case like
this, which must go against him.

But after several restless nights an inspired idea flashed upon Sturgis,
and he sprang out of bed delighted.  He thought he saw his way through.
The next day he whispered around a little among his clients and a few
friends, and then when the case came up in court he acknowledged the
seven-up and the betting, and, as his sole defense, had the astounding
effrontery to put in the plea that old sledge was not a game of chance!
There was the broadest sort of a smile all over the faces of that
sophisticated audience.  The judge smiled with the rest.  But Sturgis
maintained a countenance whose earnestness was even severe.  The opposite
counsel tried to ridicule him out of his position, and did not succeed.
The judge jested in a ponderous judicial way about the thing, but did not
move him.  The matter was becoming grave.  The judge lost a little of his
patience, and said the joke had gone far enough.  Jim Sturgis said he
knew of no joke in the matter--his clients could not be punished for
indulging in what some people chose to consider a game of chance until it
was proven that it was a game of chance.  Judge and counsel said that
would be an easy matter, and forthwith called Deacons Job, Peters, Burke,
and Johnson, and Dominies Wirt and Miggles, to testify; and they
unanimously and with strong feeling put down the legal quibble of Sturgis
by pronouncing that old sledge was a game of chance.

"What do you call it now?" said the judge.

"I call it a game of science!" retorted Sturgis; "and I'll prove it,
too!"

They saw his little game.

He brought in a cloud of witnesses, and produced an overwhelming mass of
testimony, to show that old sledge was not a game of chance but a game of
science.

Instead of being the simplest case in the world, it had somehow turned
out to be an excessively knotty one.  The judge scratched his head over
it awhile, and said there was no way of coming to a determination,
because just as many men could be brought into court who would testify on
one side as could be found to testify on the other.  But he said he was
willing to do the fair thing by all parties, and would act upon any
suggestion Mr. Sturgis would make for the solution of the difficulty.

Mr. Sturgis was on his feet in a second.

"Impanel a jury of six of each, Luck versus Science.  Give them candles
and a couple of decks of cards.  Send them into the jury-room, and just
abide by the result!"

There was no disputing the fairness of the proposition.  The four deacons
and the two dominies were sworn in as the "chance" jurymen, and six
inveterate old seven-up professors were chosen to represent the "science"
side of the issue.  They retired to the jury-room.

In about two hours Deacon Peters sent into court to borrow three dollars
from a friend.  [Sensation.]  In about two hours more Dominie Miggles
sent into court to borrow a "stake" from a friend.  [Sensation.]  During
the next three or four hours the other dominie and the other deacons sent
into court for small loans.  And still the packed audience waited, for it
was a prodigious occasion in Bull's Corners, and one in which every
father of a family was necessarily interested.

The rest of the story can be told briefly.  About daylight the jury came
in, and Deacon Job, the foreman, read the following:

     VERDICT:

     We, the jury in the case of the Commonwealth of Kentucky vs. John
     Wheeler et al., have carefully considered the points of the case,
     and tested the merits of the several theories advanced, and do
     hereby unanimously decide that the game commonly known as old sledge
     or seven-up is eminently a game of science and not of chance.  In
     demonstration whereof it is hereby and herein stated, iterated,
     reiterated, set forth, and made manifest that, during the entire
     night, the "chance" men never won a game or turned a jack, although
     both feats were common and frequent to the opposition; and
     furthermore, in support of this our verdict, we call attention to
     the significant fact that the "chance" men are all busted, and the
     "science" men have got the money.  It is the deliberate opinion of
     this jury, that the "chance" theory concerning seven-up is a
     pernicious doctrine, and calculated to inflict untold suffering and
     pecuniary loss upon any community that takes stock in it.

"That is the way that seven-up came to be set apart and particularized in
the statute-books of Kentucky as being a game not of chance but of
science, and therefore not punishable under the law," said Mr. K-----.
"That verdict is of record, and holds good to this day."






THE LATE BENJAMIN FRANKLIN--[Written about 1870.]

["Never put off till to-morrow what you can do day after to-morrow just
as well."--B. F.]

This party was one of those persons whom they call Philosophers.  He was
twins, being born simultaneously in two different houses in the city of
Boston.  These houses remain unto this day, and have signs upon them
worded in accordance with the facts.  The signs are considered well
enough to have, though not necessary, because the inhabitants point out
the two birthplaces to the stranger anyhow, and sometimes as often as
several times in the same day.  The subject of this memoir was of a
vicious disposition, and early prostituted his talents to the invention
of maxims and aphorisms calculated to inflict suffering upon the rising
generation of all subsequent ages.  His simplest acts, also, were
contrived with a view to their being held up for the emulation of boys
forever--boys who might otherwise have been happy.  It was in this spirit
that he became the son of a soap-boiler, and probably for no other reason
than that the efforts of all future boys who tried to be anything might
be looked upon with suspicion unless they were the sons of soap-boilers.
With a malevolence which is without parallel in history, he would work
all day, and then sit up nights, and let on to be studying algebra by the
light of a smoldering fire, so that all other boys might have to do that
also, or else have Benjamin Franklin thrown up to them.  Not satisfied
with these proceedings, he had a fashion of living wholly on bread and
water, and studying astronomy at meal-time--a thing which has brought
affliction to millions of boys since, whose fathers had read Franklin's
pernicious biography.

His maxims were full of animosity toward boys.  Nowadays a boy cannot
follow out a single natural instinct without tumbling over some of those
everlasting aphorisms and hearing from Franklin, on the spot.  If he buys
two cents' worth of peanuts, his father says, "Remember what Franklin has
said, my son--'A grout a day's a penny a year"'; and the comfort is all
gone out of those peanuts.  If he wants to spin his top when he has done
work, his father quotes, "Procrastination is the thief of time."  If he
does a virtuous action, he never gets anything for it, because "Virtue is
its own reward."  And that boy is hounded to death and robbed of his
natural rest, because Franklin, said once, in one of his inspired flights
of malignity:

               Early to bed and early to rise
               Makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise.

As if it were any object to a boy to be healthy and wealthy and wise on
such terms.  The sorrow that that maxim has cost me, through my parents,
experimenting on me with it, tongue cannot tell. The legitimate result is
my present state of general debility, indigence, and mental aberration.
My parents used to have me up before nine o'clock in the morning
sometimes when I was a boy.  If they had let me take my natural rest
where would I have been now?  Keeping store, no doubt, and respected by
all.

And what an adroit old adventurer the subject of this memoir was!
In order to get a chance to fly his kite on Sunday he used to hang a key
on the string and let on to be fishing for lightning.  And a guileless
public would go home chirping about the "wisdom" and the "genius" of the
hoary Sabbath-breaker.  If anybody caught him playing "mumblepeg" by
himself, after the age of sixty, he would immediately appear to be
ciphering out how the grass grew--as if it was any of his business.
My grandfather knew him well, and he says Franklin was always
fixed--always ready.  If a body, during his old age, happened on him
unexpectedly when he was catching flies, or making mud-pies, or sliding
on a cellar door, he would immediately look wise, and rip out a maxim,
and walk off with his nose in the air and his cap turned wrong side
before, trying to appear absent-minded and eccentric.  He was a hard lot.

He invented a stove that would smoke your head off in four hours by the
clock.  One can see the almost devilish satisfaction he took in it by his
giving it his name.

He was always proud of telling how he entered Philadelphia for the first
time, with nothing in the world but two shillings in his pocket and four
rolls of bread under his arm.  But really, when you come to examine it
critically, it was nothing.  Anybody could have done it.

To the subject of this memoir belongs the honor of recommending the army
to go back to bows and arrows in place of bayonets and muskets.
He observed, with his customary force, that the bayonet was very well
under some circumstances, but that he doubted whether it could be used
with accuracy at a long range.

Benjamin Franklin did a great many notable things for his country,
and made her young name to be honored in many lands as the mother of such
a son.  It is not the idea of this memoir to ignore that or cover it up.
No; the simple idea of it is to snub those pretentious maxims of his,
which he worked up with a great show of originality out of truisms that
had become wearisome platitudes as early as the dispersion from Babel;
and also to snub his stove, and his military inspirations, his unseemly
endeavor to make himself conspicuous when he entered Philadelphia, and
his flying his kite and fooling away his time in all sorts of such ways
when he ought to have been foraging for soap-fat, or constructing
candles.  I merely desired to do away with somewhat of the prevalent
calamitous idea among heads of families that Franklin acquired his great
genius by working for nothing, studying by moonlight, and getting up in
the night instead of waiting till morning like a Christian; and that this
program, rigidly inflicted, will make a Franklin of every father's fool.
It is time these gentlemen were finding out that these execrable
eccentricities of instinct and conduct are only the evidences of genius,
not the creators of it.  I wish I had been the father of my parents long
enough to make them comprehend this truth, and thus prepare them to let
their son have an easier time of it.  When I was a child I had to boil
soap, notwithstanding my father was wealthy, and I had to get up early
and study geometry at breakfast, and peddle my own poetry, and do
everything just as Franklin did, in the solemn hope that I would be a
Franklin some day.  And here I am.






MR. BLOKE'S ITEM--[Written about 1865.]

Our esteemed friend, Mr. John William Bloke, of Virginia City, walked
into the office where we are sub-editor at a late hour last night, with
an expression of profound and heartfelt suffering upon his countenance,
and, sighing heavily, laid the following item reverently upon the desk,
and walked slowly out again.  He paused a moment at the door, and seemed
struggling to command his feelings sufficiently to enable him to speak,
and then, nodding his head toward his manuscript, ejaculated in a broken
voice, "Friend of mine--oh! how sad!" and burst into tears.  We were so
moved at his distress that we did not think to call him back and endeavor
to comfort him until he was gone, and it was too late.  The paper had
already gone to press, but knowing that our friend would consider the
publication of this item important, and cherishing the hope that to print
it would afford a melancholy satisfaction to his sorrowing heart, we
stopped, the press at once and inserted it in our columns:

     DISTRESSING ACCIDENT.--Last evening, about six o'clock, as Mr.
     William Schuyler, an old and respectable citizen of South Park, was
     leaving his residence to go down-town, as has been his usual custom
     for many years with the exception only of a short interval in the
     spring of 1850, during which he was confined to his bed by injuries
     received in attempting to stop a runaway horse by thoughtlessly
     placing himself directly in its wake and throwing up his hands and
     shouting, which if he had done so even a single moment sooner, must
     inevitably have frightened the animal still more instead of checking
     its speed, although disastrous enough to himself as it was, and
     rendered more melancholy and distressing by reason of the presence
     of his wife's mother, who was there and saw the sad occurrence
     notwithstanding it is at least likely, though not necessarily so,
     that she should be reconnoitering in another direction when
     incidents occur, not being vivacious and on the lookout, as a
     general thing, but even the reverse, as her own mother is said to
     have stated, who is no more, but died in the full hope of a glorious
     resurrection, upwards of three years ago; aged eighty-six, being a
     Christian woman and without guile, as it were, or property, in
     consequence of the fire of 1849, which destroyed every single thing
     she had in the world.  But such is life.  Let us all take warning by
     this solemn occurrence, and let us endeavor so to conduct ourselves
     that when we come to die we can do it.  Let us place our hands upon
     our heart, and say with earnestness and sincerity that from this day
     forth we will beware of the intoxicating bowl.--'First Edition of
     the Californian.'

The head editor has been in here raising the mischief, and tearing his
hair and kicking the furniture about, and abusing me like a pickpocket.
He says that every time he leaves me in charge of the paper for half an
hour I get imposed upon by the first infant or the first idiot that comes
along.  And he says that that distressing item of Mr. Bloke's is nothing
but a lot of distressing bash, and has no point to it, and no sense in
it, and no information in it, and that there was no sort of necessity for
stopping the press to publish it.

Now all this comes of being good-hearted.  If I had been as
unaccommodating and unsympathetic as some people, I would have told
Mr. Bloke that I wouldn't receive his communication at such a late hour;
but no, his snuffling distress touched my heart, and I jumped at the
chance of doing something to modify his misery.  I never read his item to
see whether there was anything wrong about it, but hastily wrote the few
lines which preceded it, and sent it to the printers.  And what has my
kindness done for me?  It has done nothing but bring down upon me a storm
of abuse and ornamental blasphemy.

Now I will read that item myself, and see if there is any foundation for
all this fuss.  And if there is, the author of it shall hear from me.

I have read it, and I am bound to admit that it seems a little mixed at a
first glance.  However, I will peruse it once more.

I have read it again, and it does really seem a good deal more mixed than
ever.

I have read it over five times, but if I can get at the meaning of it I
wish I may get my just deserts.  It won't bear analysis.  There are
things about it which I cannot understand at all.  It don't say whatever
became of William Schuyler.  It just says enough about him to get one
interested in his career, and then drops him.  Who is William Schuyler,
anyhow, and what part of South Park did he live in, and if he started
down-town at six o'clock, did he ever get there, and if he did, did
anything happen to him?  Is he the individual that met with the
"distressing accident"?  Considering the elaborate circumstantiality of
detail observable in the item, it seems to me that it ought to contain
more information than it does.  On the contrary, it is obscure and not
only obscure, but utterly incomprehensible.  Was the breaking of Mr.
Schuyler's leg, fifteen years ago, the "distressing accident" that
plunged Mr. Bloke into unspeakable grief, and caused him to come up here
at dead of night and stop our press to acquaint the world with the
circumstance?  Or did the "distressing accident" consist in the
destruction of Schuyler's mother-in-law's property in early times?
Or did it consist in the death of that person herself three years ago
(albeit it does not appear that she died by accident)?  In a word, what
did that "distressing accident" consist in?  What did that driveling ass
of a Schuyler stand in the wake of a runaway horse for, with his shouting
and gesticulating, if he wanted to stop him?  And how the mischief could
he get run over by a horse that had already passed beyond him?  And what
are we to take "warning" by?  And how is this extraordinary chapter of
incomprehensibilities going to be a "lesson" to us?  And, above all, what
has the intoxicating "bowl" got to do with it, anyhow?  It is not stated
that Schuyler drank, or that his wife drank, or that his mother-in-law
drank, or that the horse drank wherefore, then, the reference to the
intoxicating bowl?  It does seem to me that if Mr. Bloke had let the
intoxicating bowl alone himself, he never would have got into so much
trouble about this exasperating imaginary accident.  I have read this.
absurd item over and over again, with all its insinuating plausibility,
until my head swims; but I can make neither head nor tail of it.  There
certainly seems to have been an accident of some kind or other, but it is
impossible to determine what the nature of it was, or who was the
sufferer by it.  I do not like to do it, but I feel compelled to request
that the next time anything happens to one of Mr. Bloke's friends, he
will append such explanatory notes to his account of it as will enable me
to find out what sort of an accident it was and whom it happened to.  I
had rather all his friends should die than that I should be driven to the
verge of lunacy again in trying to cipher out the meaning of another such
production as the above.






A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE


CHAPTER I

THE SECRET REVEALED.

It was night.  Stillness reigned in the grand old feudal castle of
Klugenstein.  The year 1222 was drawing to a close.  Far away up in the
tallest of the castle's towers a single light glimmered.  A secret
council was being held there.  The stern old lord of Klugenstein sat in
a chair of state meditating.  Presently he, said, with a tender
accent:

"My daughter!"

A young man of noble presence, clad from head to heel in knightly mail,
answered:

"Speak, father!"

"My daughter, the time is come for the revealing of the mystery that hath
puzzled all your young life.  Know, then, that it had its birth in the
matters which I shall now unfold.  My brother Ulrich is the great Duke of
Brandenburgh.  Our father, on his deathbed, decreed that if no son were
born to Ulrich, the succession should pass to my house, provided a son
were born to me.  And further, in case no son, were born to either, but
only daughters, then the succession should pass to Ulrich's daughter,
if she proved stainless; if she did not, my daughter should succeed,
if she retained a blameless name.  And so I, and my old wife here, prayed
fervently for the good boon of a son, but the prayer was vain.  You were
born to us.  I was in despair.  I saw the mighty prize slipping from my
grasp, the splendid dream vanishing away.  And I had been so hopeful!
Five years had Ulrich lived in wedlock, and yet his wife had borne no
heir of either sex.

"'But hold,' I said, 'all is not lost.'  A saving scheme had shot athwart
my brain.  You were born at midnight.  Only the leech, the nurse, and six
waiting-women knew your sex.  I hanged them every one before an hour had
sped.  Next morning all the barony went mad with rejoicing over the
proclamation that a son was born to Klugenstein, an heir to mighty
Brandenburgh!  And well the secret has been kept.  Your mother's own
sister nursed your infancy, and from that time forward we feared nothing.

"When you were ten years old, a daughter was born to Ulrich.  We grieved,
but hoped for good results from measles, or physicians, or other natural
enemies of infancy, but were always disappointed.  She lived, she throve-
-Heaven's malison upon her!  But it is nothing.  We are safe.  For,
Ha-ha! have we not a son?  And is not our son the future Duke?  Our well-
beloved Conrad, is it not so?--for, woman of eight-and-twenty years--as
you are, my child, none other name than that hath ever fallen to you!

"Now it hath come to pass that age hath laid its hand upon my brother,
and he waxes feeble.  The cares of state do tax him sore.  Therefore he
wills that you shall come to him and be already Duke--in act, though not
yet in name.  Your servitors are ready--you journey forth to-night.

"Now listen well.  Remember every word I say.  There is a law as old as
Germany that if any woman sit for a single instant in the great ducal
chair before she hath been absolutely crowned in presence of the people,
SHE SHALL DIE! So heed my words.  Pretend humility.  Pronounce your
judgments from the Premier's chair, which stands at the foot of the
throne.  Do this until you are crowned and safe.  It is not likely that
your sex will ever be discovered; but still it is the part of wisdom to
make all things as safe as may be in this treacherous earthly life."

"Oh; my father, is it for this my life hath been a lie!  Was it that I
might cheat my unoffending cousin of her rights?  Spare me, father,
spare your child!"

"What, huzzy!  Is this my reward for the august fortune my brain has
wrought for thee?  By the bones of my father, this puling sentiment of
thine but ill accords with my humor.

"Betake thee to the Duke, instantly!  And beware how thou meddlest with my
purpose!"

Let this suffice, of the conversation.  It is enough for us to know that
the prayers, the entreaties and the tears of the gentle-natured girl
availed nothing.  They nor anything could move the stout old lord of
Klugenstein.  And so, at last, with a heavy heart, the daughter saw the
castle gates close behind her, and found herself riding away in the
darkness surrounded by a knightly array of armed, vassals and a brave
following of servants.

The old baron sat silent for many minutes after his daughter's departure,
and then he turned to his sad wife and said:

"Dame, our matters seem speeding fairly.  It is full three months since I
sent the shrewd and handsome Count Detzin on his devilish mission to my
brother's daughter Constance.  If he fail, we are not wholly safe; but if
he do succeed, no power can bar our girl from being Duchess e'en though
ill-fortune should decree she never should be Duke!"

"My heart is full of bodings, yet all may still be well."

"Tush, woman! Leave the owls to croak.  To bed with ye, and dream of
Brandenburgh and grandeur!"




CHAPTER II.

FESTIVITY AND TEARS

Six days after the occurrences related in the above chapter, the
brilliant capital of the Duchy of Brandenburgh was resplendent with
military pageantry, and noisy with the rejoicings of loyal multitudes;
for Conrad, the young heir to the crown, was come.  The old Duke's, heart
was full of happiness, for Conrad's handsome person and graceful bearing
had won his love at once.  The great halls of tie palace were thronged
with nobles, who welcomed Conrad bravely; and so bright and happy did all
things seem, that he felt his fears and sorrows passing away and giving
place to a comforting contentment.

But in a remote apartment of the palace a scene of a different nature
was, transpiring.  By a window stood the Duke's only child, the Lady
Constance.  Her eyes were red and swollen, and full of tears.  She was
alone.  Presently she fell to weeping anew, and said aloud:

"The villain Detzin is gone--has fled the dukedom!  I could not believe
it at first, but alas! it is too true.  And I loved him so.  I dared to
love him though I knew the Duke my father would never let me wed him.
I loved him--but now I hate him!  With all, my soul I hate him!  Oh, what
is to become of me!  I am lost, lost, lost!.  I shall go mad!"




CHAPTER III.

THE PLOT THICKENS.

Few months drifted by.  All men published the praises of the young
Conrad's government and extolled the wisdom of his judgments, the
mercifulness of his sentences, and the modesty with which he bore himself
in his great office.  The old Duke soon gave everything into his hands,
and sat apart and listened with proud satisfaction while his heir
delivered the decrees of the crown from the seat of the premier.
It seemed plain that one so loved and praised and honored of all men
as Conrad was, could not be otherwise than happy.  But strange enough,
he was not.  For he saw with dismay that the Princess Constance had begun
to love him!  The love of, the rest of the world was happy fortune for
him, but this was freighted with danger!  And he saw, moreover, that the
delighted Duke had discovered his daughter's passion likewise, and was
already dreaming of a marriage.  Every day somewhat of the deep sadness
that had been in the princess' face faded away; every day hope and
animation beamed brighter from her eye; and by and by even vagrant smiles
visited the face that had been so troubled.

Conrad was appalled.  He bitterly cursed himself for having yielded to
the instinct that had made him seek the companionship of one of his own
sex when he was new and a stranger in the palace--when he was sorrowful
and yearned for a sympathy such as only women can give or feel.  He now
began to avoid, his cousin.  But this only made matters worse, for,
naturally enough, the more he avoided her, the more she cast herself in
his way.  He marveled at this at first; and next it startled him.  The
girl haunted him; she hunted him; she happened upon him at all times and
in all places, in the night as well as in the day.  She seemed singularly
anxious.  There was surely a mystery somewhere.

This could not go on forever.  All the world was talking about it.  The
Duke was beginning to look perplexed.  Poor Conrad was becoming a very
ghost through dread and dire distress.  One day as he was emerging from a
private ante-room attached to the picture gallery, Constance confronted
him, and seizing both his hands, in hers, exclaimed:

"Oh, why, do you avoid me?  What have I done--what have I said, to lose
your kind opinion of me--for, surely I had it once?  Conrad, do not
despise me, but pity a tortured heart?  I cannot,--cannot hold the words
unspoken longer, lest they kill me--I LOVE you, CONRAD!  There, despise
me if you must, but they would be uttered!"

Conrad was speechless.  Constance hesitated a moment, and then,
misinterpreting his silence, a wild gladness flamed in her eyes, and she
flung her arms about his neck and said:

"You relent! you relent! You can love me--you will love me! Oh, say you
will, my own, my worshipped Conrad!'"

"Conrad groaned aloud.  A sickly pallor overspread his countenance, and
he trembled like an aspen.  Presently, in desperation, he thrust the poor
girl from him, and cried:

"You know not what you ask!  It is forever and ever impossible!"  And then
he fled like a criminal and left the princess stupefied with amazement.
A minute afterward she was crying and sobbing there, and Conrad was
crying and sobbing in his chamber.  Both were in despair.  Both save ruin
staring them in the face.

By and by Constance rose slowly to her feet and moved away, saying:

"To think that he was despising my love at the very moment that I thought
it was melting his cruel heart!  I hate him!  He spurned me--did this
man--he spurned me from him like a dog!"




CHAPTER IV

THE AWFUL REVELATION.

Time passed on.  A settled sadness rested once more upon the countenance
of the good Duke's daughter.  She and Conrad were seen together no more
now.  The Duke grieved at this.  But as the weeks wore away, Conrad's
color came back to his cheeks and his old-time vivacity to his eye, and
he administered the government with a clear and steadily ripening wisdom.

Presently a strange whisper began to be heard about the palace.  It grew
louder; it spread farther.  The gossips of the city got hold-of it.  It
swept the dukedom.  And this is what the whisper said:

"The Lady Constance hath given birth to a child!"

When the lord of Klugenstein heard it, he swung his plumed helmet thrice
around his head and shouted:

"Long live.  Duke Conrad!--for lo, his crown is sure, from this day
forward!  Detzin has done his errand well, and the good scoundrel shall
be rewarded!"

And he spread, the tidings far and wide, and for eight-and-forty hours no
soul in all the barony but did dance and sing, carouse and illuminate, to
celebrate the great event, and all at proud and happy old Klugenstein's
expense.




CHAPTER V.

THE FRIGHTFUL CATASTROPHE.

The trial was at hand.  All the great lords and barons of Brandenburgh
were assembled in the Hall of Justice in the ducal palace.  No space was
left unoccupied where there was room for a spectator to stand or sit.
Conrad, clad in purple and ermine, sat in the premier's chair, and on
either side sat the great judges of the realm.  The old Duke had sternly
commanded that the trial of his daughter should proceed, without favor,
and then had taken to his bed broken-hearted.  His days were numbered.
Poor Conrad had begged, as for his very life, that he might be spared the
misery of sitting in judgment upon his cousin's crime, but it did not
avail.

The saddest heart in all that great assemblage was in Conrad's breast.

The gladdest was in his father's.  For, unknown to his daughter "Conrad,"
the old Baron Klugenstein was come, and was among the crowd of nobles,
triumphant in the swelling fortunes of his house.

After the heralds had made due proclamation and the other preliminaries
had followed, the venerable Lord Chief justice said:

"Prisoner, stand forth!"

The unhappy princess rose and stood unveiled before the vast multitude.
The Lord Chief Justice continued:

"Most noble lady, before the great judges of this realm it hath been
charged and proven that out of holy wedlock your Grace hath given birth
unto a child; and by our ancient law the penalty is death, excepting in
one sole contingency, whereof his Grace the acting Duke, our good Lord
Conrad, will advertise you in his solemn sentence now; wherefore, give
heed."

Conrad stretched forth the reluctant sceptre, and in the self-same moment
the womanly heart beneath his robe yearned pityingly toward the doomed
prisoner, and the tears came into his eyes.  He opened his lips to speak,
but the Lord Chief Justice said quickly:

"Not there, your Grace, not there!  It is not lawful to pronounce
judgment upon any of the ducal line SAVE FROM THE DUCAL THRONE!"

A shudder went to the heart of poor Conrad, and a tremor shook the iron
frame of his old father likewise.  CONRAD HAD NOT BEEN CROWNED--dared he
profane the throne? He hesitated and turned pale with fear.  But it must
be done.  Wondering eyes were already upon him.  They would be suspicious
eyes if he hesitated longer.  He ascended the throne.  Presently he
stretched forth the sceptre again, and said:

"Prisoner, in the name of our sovereign lord, Ulrich, Duke of
Brandenburgh, I proceed to the solemn duty that hath devolved upon me.
Give heed to my words.  By the ancient law of the land, except you
produce the partner of your guilt and deliver him up to the executioner,
you must surely die.  Embrace this opportunity--save yourself while yet
you may.  Name the father of your child!"

A solemn hush fell upon the great court--a silence so profound that men
could hear their own hearts beat.  Then the princess slowly turned, with
eyes gleaming with hate, and pointing her finger straight at Conrad,
said:

"Thou art the man!"

An appalling conviction of his helpless, hopeless peril struck a chill to
Conrad's heart like the chill of death itself.  What power on earth could
save him!  To disprove the charge, he must reveal that he was a woman;
and for an uncrowned woman to sit in the ducal chair was death!  At one
and the same moment, he and his grim old father swooned and fell to, the
ground.

[The remainder of this thrilling and eventful story will NOT be found in
this or any other publication, either now or at any future time.]

The truth is, I have got my hero (or heroine) into such a particularly
close place, that I do not see how I am ever going to get him (or her)
out of it again--and therefore I will wash my hands of the whole
business, and leave that person to get out the best way that offers--or
else stay there.  I thought it was going to be easy enough to straighten
out that little difficulty, but it looks different now.






PETITION CONCERNING COPYRIGHT

TO THE HONORABLE THE SENATE AND HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES
IN CONGRESS ASSEMBLED:

Whereas, The Constitution guarantees equal rights to all, backed by the
Declaration of Independence; and

Whereas, Under our laws, the right of property in real estate is
perpetual; and

Whereas, Under our laws, the right of property in the literary result of
a citizen's intellectual labor is restricted to forty-two years; and

Whereas, Forty-two years seems an exceedingly just and righteous term,
and a sufficiently long one for the retention of property;

Therefore, Your petitioner, having the good of his country solely at
heart, humbly prays that "equal rights" and fair and equal treatment may
be meted out to all citizens, by the restriction of rights in all
property, real estate included, to the beneficent term of forty-two
years.  Then shall all men bless your honorable body and be happy.  And
for this will your petitioner ever pray.
                                             MARK TWAIN.


A PARAGRAPH NOT ADDED TO THE PETITION

The charming absurdity of restricting property-rights in books to
forty-two years sticks prominently out in the fact that hardly any man's
books ever live forty-two years, or even the half of it; and so, for the
sake of getting a shabby advantage of the heirs of about one Scott or
Burns or Milton in a hundred years, the lawmakers of the "Great" Republic
are content to leave that poor little pilfering edict upon the
statute-books.  It is like an emperor lying in wait to rob a Phenix's
nest, and waiting the necessary century to get the chance.






AFTER-DINNER SPEECH

[AT A FOURTH OF JULY GATHERING, IN LONDON, OF AMERICANS]

MR. CHAIRMAN AND LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: I thank you for the compliment
which has just been tendered me, and to show my appreciation of it I will
not afflict you with many words.  It is pleasant to celebrate in this
peaceful way, upon this old mother soil, the anniversary of an experiment
which was born of war with this same land so long ago, and wrought out to
a successful issue by the devotion of our ancestors.  It has taken nearly
a hundred years to bring the English and Americans into kindly and
mutually appreciative relations, but I believe it has been accomplished
at last.  It was a great step when the two last misunderstandings were
settled by arbitration instead of cannon.  It is another great step when
England adopts our sewing-machines without claiming the invention--as
usual.  It was another when they imported one of our sleeping-cars the
other day.  And it warmed my heart more than I can tell, yesterday, when
I witnessed the spectacle of an Englishman ordering an American sherry
cobbler of his own free will and accord--and not only that but with a
great brain and a level head reminding the barkeeper not to forget the
strawberries.  With a common origin, a common language, a common
literature, a common religion and--common drinks, what is longer needful
to the cementing of the two nations together in a permanent bond of
brotherhood?

This is an age of progress, and ours is a progressive land.  A great and
glorious land, too--a land which has developed a Washington, a Franklin,
a William M. Tweed, a Longfellow, a Motley, a Jay Gould, a Samuel C.
Pomeroy, a recent Congress which has never had its equal (in some
respects), and a United States Army which conquered sixty Indians in
eight months by tiring them out--which is much better than uncivilized
slaughter, God knows.  We have a criminal jury system which is superior
to any in the world; and its efficiency is only marred by the difficulty
of finding twelve men every day who don't know anything and can't read.
And I may observe that we have an insanity plea that would have saved
Cain.  I think I can say,--and say with pride, that we have some
legislatures that bring higher prices than any in the world.

I refer with effusion to our railway system, which consents to let us
live, though it might do the opposite, being our owners.  It only
destroyed three thousand and seventy lives last year by collisions, and
twenty-seven thousand two hundred and sixty by running over heedless and
unnecessary people at crossings.  The companies seriously regretted the
killing of these thirty thousand people, and went so far as to pay for
some of them--voluntarily, of course, for the meanest of us would not
claim that we possess a court treacherous enough to enforce a law against
a railway company.  But, thank Heaven, the railway companies are
generally disposed to do the right and kindly thing without compulsion.
I know of an instance which greatly touched me at the time.  After an
accident the company sent home the remains of a dear distant old relative
of mine in a basket, with the remark, "Please state what figure you hold
him at--and return the basket."  Now there couldn't be anything
friendlier than that.

But I must not stand here and brag all night.  However, you won't mind a
body bragging a little about his country on the fourth of July.  It is a
fair and legitimate time to fly the eagle.  I will say only one more word
of brag--and a hopeful one.  It is this.  We have a form of government
which gives each man a fair chance and no favor.  With us no individual
is born with a right to look down upon his neighbor and hold him in
contempt.  Let such of us as are not dukes find our consolation in that.
And we may find hope for the future in the fact that as unhappy as is the
condition of our political morality to-day, England has risen up out of
a far fouler since the days when Charles I. ennobled courtesans and all
political place was a matter of bargain and sale.  There is hope for us
yet.

     [At least the above is the speech which I was going to make, but our
     minister, General Schenck, presided, and after the blessing, got up
     and made a great long inconceivably dull harangue, and wound up by
     saying that inasmuch as speech-making did not seem to exhilarate the
     guests much, all further oratory would be dispensed with during the
     evening, and we could just sit and talk privately to our elbow-
     neighbors and have a good sociable time.  It is known that in
     consequence of that remark forty-four perfected speeches died in the
     womb.  The depression, the gloom, the solemnity that reigned over
     the banquet from that time forth will be a lasting memory with many
     that were there.  By that one thoughtless remark General Schenck
     lost forty-four of the best friends he had in England.  More than
     one said that night, "And this is the sort of person that is sent to
     represent us in a great sister empire!"]






LIONIZING MURDERERS

I had heard so much about the celebrated fortune-teller Madame-----, that
I went to see her yesterday.  She has a dark complexion naturally, and
this effect is heightened by artificial aids which cost her nothing.
She wears curls--very black ones, and I had an impression that she gave
their native attractiveness a lift with rancid butter.  She wears a
reddish check handkerchief, cast loosely around her neck, and it was
plain that her other one is slow getting back from the wash.  I presume
she takes snuff.  At any rate, something resembling it had lodged among
the hairs sprouting from her upper lip.  I know she likes garlic--I knew
that as soon as she sighed.  She looked at me searchingly for nearly a
minute, with her black eyes, and then said:

"It is enough.  Come!"

She started down a very dark and dismal corridor--I stepping close after
her.  Presently she stopped, and said that, as the way was so crooked and
dark, perhaps she had better get a light.  But it seemed ungallant to
allow a woman to put herself to so much trouble for me, and so I said:

"It is not worth while, madam.  If you will heave another sigh, I think I
can follow it."

So we got along all right.  Arrived at her official and mysterious den,
she asked me to tell her the date of my birth, the exact hour of that
occurrence, and the color of my grandmother's hair.  I answered as
accurately as I could.  Then she said:

"Young man, summon your fortitude--do not tremble.  I am about to reveal
the past."

"Information concerning the future would be, in a general way, more--"

"Silence!  You have had much trouble, some joy, some good fortune, some
bad.  Your great grandfather was hanged."

"That is a l--"

"Silence!  Hanged sir.  But it was not his fault.  He could not help it."

"I am glad you do him justice."

"Ah--grieve, rather, that the jury did.  He was hanged.  His star crosses
yours in the fourth division, fifth sphere.  Consequently you will be
hanged also."

"In view of this cheerful--"

"I must have silence.  Yours was not, in the beginning, a criminal
nature, but circumstances changed it.  At the age of nine you stole
sugar.  At the age of fifteen you stole money.  At twenty you stole
horses.  At twenty-five you committed arson.  At thirty, hardened in
crime, you became an editor.  You are now a public lecturer.  Worse
things are in store for you.  You will be sent to Congress.  Next, to the
penitentiary.  Finally, happiness will come again--all will be well--you
will be hanged."

I was now in tears.  It seemed hard enough to go to Congress; but to be
hanged--this was too sad, too dreadful.  The woman seemed surprised at my
grief.  I told her the thoughts that were in my mind.  Then she comforted
me.

"Why, man," she said, "hold up your head--you have nothing to grieve
about.  Listen.

--[In this paragraph the fortune-teller details the exact history of the
Pike-Brown assassination case in New Hampshire, from the succoring and
saving of the stranger Pike by the Browns, to the subsequent hanging and
coffining of that treacherous miscreant.  She adds nothing, invents
nothing, exaggerates nothing (see any New England paper for November,
1869).  This Pike-Brown case is selected merely as a type, to illustrate
a custom that prevails, not in New Hampshire alone, but in every state in
the Union--I mean the sentimental custom of visiting, petting,
glorifying, and snuffling over murderers like this Pike, from the day
they enter the jail under sentence of death until they swing from the
gallows.  The following extract from the Temple Bar (1866) reveals the
fact that this custom is not confined to the United States.--"on December
31, 1841, a man named John Johnes, a shoemaker, murdered his sweetheart,
Mary Hallam, the daughter of a respectable laborer, at Mansfield, in the
county of Nottingham.  He was executed on March 23, 1842.  He was a man
of unsteady habits, and gave way to violent fits of passion.  The girl
declined his addresses, and he said if he did not have her no one else
should.  After he had inflicted the first wound, which was not
immediately fatal, she begged for her life, but seeing him resolved,
asked for time to pray.  He said that he would pray for both, and
completed the crime.  The wounds were inflicted by a shoemaker's knife,
and her throat was cut barbarously.  After this he dropped on his knees
some time, and prayed God to have mercy on two unfortunate lovers.
He made no attempt to escape, and confessed the crime.  After his
imprisonment he behaved in a most decorous manner; he won upon the good
opinion of the jail chaplain, and he was visited by the Bishop of
Lincoln.  It does not appear that he expressed any contrition for the
crime, but seemed to pass away with triumphant certainty that he was
going to rejoin his victim in heaven.  He was visited by some pious and
benevolent ladies of Nottingham, some of whom declared he was a child of
God, if ever there was one.  One of the ladies sent him a while camellia
to wear at his execution."]

"You will live in New Hampshire.  In your sharp need and distress the
Brown family will succor you--such of them as Pike the assassin left
alive.  They will be benefactors to you.  When you shall have grown fat
upon their bounty, and are grateful and happy, you will desire to make
some modest return for these things, and so you will go to the house some
night and brain the whole family with an ax.  You will rob the dead
bodies of your benefactors, and disburse your gains in riotous living
among the rowdies and courtesans of Boston.  Then you will, be arrested,
tried, condemned to be hanged, thrown into prison.  Now is your happy
day.  You will be converted--you will be converted just as soon as
every effort to compass pardon, commutation, or reprieve has failed--and
then!--Why, then, every morning and every afternoon, the best and purest
young ladies of the village will assemble in your cell and sing hymns.
This will show that assassination is respectable.  Then you will write a
touching letter, in which you will forgive all those recent Browns.  This
will excite the public admiration.  No public can withstand magnanimity.
Next, they will take you to the scaffold, with great eclat, at the head
of an imposing procession composed of clergymen, officials, citizens
generally, and young ladies walking pensively two and two, and bearing
bouquets and immortelles.  You will mount the scaffold, and while the
great concourse stand uncovered in your presence, you will read your
sappy little speech which the minister has written for you.  And then, in
the midst of a grand and impressive silence, they will swing you into
per--Paradise, my son.  There will not be a dry eye on the ground.  You
will be a hero!  Not a rough there but will envy you.  Not a rough there
but will resolve to emulate you.  And next, a great procession will
follow you to the tomb--will weep over your remains--the young ladies
will sing again the hymns made dear by sweet associations connected with
the jail, and, as a last tribute of affection, respect, and appreciation
of your many sterling qualities, they will walk two and two around your
bier, and strew wreaths of flowers on it.  And lo! you are canonized.
Think of it, son-ingrate, assassin, robber of the dead, drunken brawler
among thieves and harlots in the slums of Boston one month, and the pet
of the pure and innocent daughters of the land the next!  A bloody and
hateful devil--a bewept, bewailed, and sainted martyr--all in a month!
Fool!--so noble a fortune, and yet you sit here grieving!"

"No, madam," I said, "you do me wrong, you do, indeed.  I am perfectly
satisfied.  I did not know before that my great-grandfather was hanged,
but it is of no consequence.  He has probably ceased to bother about it
by this time--and I have not commenced yet.  I confess, madam, that I do
something in the way of editing and lecturing, but the other crimes you
mention have escaped my memory.  Yet I must have committed them--you
would not deceive a stranger.  But let the past be as it was, and let the
future be as it may--these are nothing.  I have only cared for one thing.
I have always felt that I should be hanged some day, and somehow the
thought has annoyed me considerably; but if you can only assure me that I
shall be hanged in New Hampshire--"

"Not a shadow of a doubt!"

"Bless you, my benefactress!--excuse this embrace--you have removed a
great load from my breast.  To be hanged in New Hampshire is happiness
--it leaves an honored name behind a man, and introduces him at once into
the best New Hampshire society in the other world."

I then took leave of the fortune-teller.  But, seriously, is it well to
glorify a murderous villain on the scaffold, as Pike was glorified in New
Hampshire?  Is it well to turn the penalty for a bloody crime into a
reward?  Is it just to do it?  Is, it safe?






A NEW CRIME

LEGISLATION NEEDED

This country, during the last thirty or forty years, has produced some of
the most remarkable cases of insanity of which there is any mention in
history.  For instance, there was the Baldwin case, in Ohio, twenty-two
years ago.  Baldwin, from his boyhood up, had been of a vindictive,
malignant, quarrelsome nature.  He put a boy's eye out once, and never
was heard upon any occasion to utter a regret for it.  He did many such
things.  But at last he did something that was serious.  He called at a
house just after dark one evening, knocked, and when the occupant came to
the door, shot him dead, and then tried to escape, but was captured.
Two days before, he had wantonly insulted a helpless cripple, and the man
he afterward took swift vengeance upon with an assassin bullet had
knocked him down.  Such was the Baldwin case.  The trial was long and
exciting; the community was fearfully wrought up.  Men said this
spiteful, bad-hearted villain had caused grief enough in his time, and
now he should satisfy the law.  But they were mistaken; Baldwin was
insane when he did the deed--they had not thought of that.  By the
argument of counsel it was shown that at half past ten in the morning on
the day of the murder, Baldwin became insane, and remained so for eleven
hours and a half exactly.  This just covered the case comfortably, and he
was acquitted.  Thus, if an unthinking and excited community had been
listened to instead of the arguments of counsel, a poor crazy creature
would have been held to a fearful responsibility for a mere freak of
madness.  Baldwin went clear, and although his relatives and friends were
naturally incensed against the community for their injurious suspicions
and remarks, they said let it go for this time, and did not prosecute.
The Baldwins were very wealthy.  This same Baldwin had momentary fits of
insanity twice afterward, and on both occasions killed people he had
grudges against.  And on both these occasions the circumstances of the
killing were so aggravated, and the murders so seemingly heartless and
treacherous, that if Baldwin had not been insane he would have been
hanged without the shadow of a doubt.  As it was, it required all his
political and family influence to get him clear in one of the cases, and
cost him not less than ten thousand dollars to get clear in the other.
One of these men he had notoriously been threatening to kill for twelve
years.  The poor creature happened, by the merest piece of ill fortune,
to come along a dark alley at the very moment that Baldwin's insanity
came upon him, and so he was shot in the back with a gun loaded with
slugs.

Take the case of Lynch Hackett, of Pennsylvania.  Twice, in public, he
attacked a German butcher by the name of Bemis Feldner, with a cane, and
both times Feldner whipped him with his fists.  Hackett was a vain,
wealthy, violent gentleman, who held his blood and family in high esteem,
and believed that a reverent respect was due to his great riches.  He
brooded over the shame of his chastisement for two weeks, and then, in a
momentary fit of insanity, armed himself to the teeth, rode into town,
waited a couple of hours until he saw Feldner coming down the street with
his wife on his arm, and then, as the couple passed the doorway in which
he had partially concealed himself, he drove a knife into Feldner's neck,
killing him instantly.  The widow caught the limp form and eased it to
the earth.  Both were drenched with blood.  Hackett jocosely remarked to
her that as a professional butcher's recent wife she could appreciate the
artistic neatness of the job that left her in condition to marry again,
in case she wanted to.  This remark, and another which he made to a
friend, that his position in society made the killing of an obscure
citizen simply an "eccentricity" instead of a crime, were shown to be
evidences of insanity, and so Hackett escaped punishment.  The jury were
hardly inclined to accept these as proofs at first, inasmuch as the
prisoner had never been insane before the murder, and under the
tranquilizing effect of the butchering had immediately regained his right
mind; but when the defense came to show that a third cousin of Hackett's
wife's stepfather was insane, and not only insane, but had a nose the
very counterpart of Hackett's, it was plain that insanity was hereditary
in the family, and Hackett had come by it by legitimate inheritance.

Of course the jury then acquitted him.  But it was a merciful providence
that Mrs. H.'s people had been afflicted as shown, else Hackett would
certainly have been hanged.

However, it is not possible to recount all the marvelous cases of
insanity that have come under the public notice in the last thirty or
forty years.  There was the Durgin case in New Jersey three years ago.
The servant girl, Bridget Durgin, at dead of night, invaded her
mistress's bedroom and carved the lady literally to pieces with a knife.
Then she dragged the body to the middle of the floor, and beat and banged
it with chairs and such things.  Next she opened the feather beds, and
strewed the contents around, saturated everything with kerosene, and set
fire to the general wreck.  She now took up the young child of the
murdered woman in her blood smeared hands and walked off, through the
snow, with no shoes on, to a neighbor's house a quarter of a mile off,
and told a string of wild, incoherent stories about some men coming and
setting fire to the house; and then she cried piteously, and without
seeming to think there was anything suggestive about the blood upon her
hands, her clothing, and the baby, volunteered the remark that she was
afraid those men had murdered her mistress!  Afterward, by her own
confession and other testimony, it was proved that the mistress had
always been kind to the girl, consequently there was no revenge in the
murder; and it was also shown that the girl took nothing away from the
burning house, not even her own shoes, and consequently robbery was not
the motive.

Now, the reader says, "Here comes that same old plea of insanity again."
But the reader has deceived himself this time.  No such plea was offered
in her defense.  The judge sentenced her, nobody persecuted the governor
with petitions for her pardon, and she was promptly hanged.

There was that youth in Pennsylvania, whose curious confession was
published some years ago.  It was simply a conglomeration of incoherent
drivel from beginning to end; and so was his lengthy speech on the
scaffold afterward.  For a whole year he was haunted with a desire to
disfigure a certain young woman, so that no one would marry her.  He did
not love her himself, and did not want to marry her, but he did not want
anybody else to do it.  He would not go anywhere with her, and yet was
opposed to anybody else's escorting her.  Upon one occasion he declined
to go to a wedding with her, and when she got other company, lay in wait
for the couple by the road, intending to make them go back or kill the
escort.  After spending sleepless nights over his ruling desire for a
full year, he at last attempted its execution--that is, attempted to
disfigure the young woman.  It was a success.  It was permanent.  In
trying to shoot her cheek (as she sat at the supper-table with her
parents and brothers and sisters) in such a manner as to mar its
comeliness, one of his bullets wandered a little out of the course, and
she dropped dead.  To the very last moment of his life he bewailed the
ill luck that made her move her face just at the critical moment.  And so
he died, apparently about half persuaded that somehow it was chiefly her
own fault that she got killed.  This idiot was hanged.  The plea, of
insanity was not offered.

Insanity certainly is on the increase in the world, and crime is dying
out.  There are no longer any murders--none worth mentioning, at any
rate.  Formerly, if you killed a man, it was possible that you were
insane--but now, if you, having friends and money, kill a mate, it is
evidence that you are a lunatic.  In these days, too, if a person of good
family and high social standing steals anything, they call it
kleptomania, and send him to the lunatic asylum.  If a person of high
standing squanders his fortune in dissipation, and closes his career with
strychnine or a bullet, "Temporary Aberration" is what was the trouble
with him.

Is not this insanity plea becoming rather common?  Is it not so common
that the reader confidently expects to see it offered in every criminal
case that comes before the courts?  And is it not so cheap, and so
common, and often so trivial, that the reader smiles in derision when the
newspaper mentions it?

And is it not curious to note how very often it wins acquittal for the
prisoner?  Of late years it does not seem possible for a man to so
conduct himself, before killing another man, as not to be manifestly
insane.  If he talks about the stars, he is insane.  If he appears
nervous and uneasy an hour before the killing, he is insane.  If he weeps
over a great grief, his friends shake their heads, and fear that he is
"not right."  If, an hour after the murder, he seems ill at ease,
preoccupied, and excited, he is, unquestionably insane.

Really, what we want now, is not laws against crime, but a law against
insanity.  There is where the true evil lies.






A CURIOUS DREAM

CONTAINING A MORAL

Night before last I had a singular dream.  I seemed to be sitting on a
doorstep (in no particular city perhaps) ruminating, and the time of
night appeared to be about twelve or one o'clock.  The weather was balmy
and delicious.  There was no human sound in the air, not even a footstep.
There was no sound of any kind to emphasize the dead stillness, except
the occasional hollow barking of a dog in the distance and the fainter
answer of a further dog.  Presently up the street I heard a bony
clack-clacking, and guessed it was the castanets of a serenading party.
In a minute more a tall skeleton, hooded, and half clad in a tattered and
moldy shroud, whose shreds were flapping about the ribby latticework of
its person, swung by me with a stately stride and disappeared in the gray
gloom of the starlight.  It had a broken and worm-eaten coffin on its
shoulder and a bundle of something in its hand.  I knew what the
clack-clacking was then; it was this party's joints working together,
and his elbows knocking against his sides as he walked.  I may say I was
surprised.  Before I could collect my thoughts and enter upon any
speculations as to what this apparition might portend, I heard another
one coming for I recognized his clack-clack.  He had two-thirds of a
coffin on his shoulder, and some foot and head boards under his arm.
I mightily wanted, to peer under his hood and speak to him, but when he
turned and smiled upon me with his cavernous sockets and his projecting
grin as he went by, I thought I would not detain him.  He was hardly gone
when I heard the clacking again, and another one issued from the shadowy
half-light.  This one was bending under a heavy gravestone, and dragging
a shabby coffin after him by a string.  When he got to me he gave me a
steady look for a moment or two, and then rounded to and backed up to me,
saying:

"Ease this down for a fellow, will you?"

I eased the gravestone down till it rested on the ground, and in doing so
noticed that it bore the name of "John Baxter Copmanhurst," with "May,
1839," as the date of his death.  Deceased sat wearily down by me, and
wiped his os frontis with his major maxillary--chiefly from former habit
I judged, for I could not see that he brought away any perspiration.

"It is too bad, too bad," said he, drawing the remnant of the shroud
about him and leaning his jaw pensively on his hand.  Then he put his
left foot up on his knee and fell to scratching his anklebone absently
with a rusty nail which he got out of his coffin.

"What is too bad, friend?"

"Oh, everything, everything.  I almost wish I never had died."

"You surprise me.  Why do you say this?  Has anything gone wrong?  What
is the matter?"

"Matter!  Look at this shroud-rags.  Look at this gravestone, all
battered up.  Look at that disgraceful old coffin.  All a man's property
going to ruin and destruction before his eyes, and ask him if anything is
wrong?  Fire and brimstone!"

"Calm yourself, calm yourself," I said.  "It is too bad-it is certainly
too bad, but then I had not supposed that you would much mind such
matters situated as you are."

"Well, my dear sir, I do mind them.  My pride is hurt, and my comfort is
impaired--destroyed, I might say.  I will state my case--I will put it to
you in such a way that you can comprehend it, if you will let me," said
the poor skeleton, tilting the hood of his shroud back, as if he were
clearing for action, and thus unconsciously giving himself a jaunty and
festive air very much at variance with the grave character of his
position in life--so to speak--and in prominent contrast with his
distressful mood.

"Proceed," said I.

"I reside in the shameful old graveyard a block or two above you here,
in this street--there, now, I just expected that cartilage would let go!-
-third rib from the bottom, friend, hitch the end of it to my spine with
a string, if you have got such a thing about you, though a bit of silver
wire is a deal pleasanter, and more durable and becoming, if one keeps it
polished--to think of shredding out and going to pieces in this way, just
on account of the indifference and neglect of one's posterity!"--and the
poor ghost grated his teeth in a way that gave me a wrench and a shiver
--for the effect is mightily increased by the absence of muffling flesh
and cuticle.  "I reside in that old graveyard, and have for these thirty
years; and I tell you things are changed since I first laid this old
tired frame there, and turned over, and stretched out for a long sleep,
with a delicious sense upon me of being done with bother, and grief,
and anxiety, and doubt, and fear, forever and ever, and listening with
comfortable and increasing satisfaction to the sexton's work, from the
startling clatter of his first spadeful on my coffin till it dulled away
to the faint patting that shaped the roof of my new home-delicious!  My!
I wish you could try it to-night!" and out of my reverie deceased fetched
me a rattling slap with a bony hand.

"Yes, sir, thirty years ago I laid me down there, and was happy.  For it
was out in the country then--out in the breezy, flowery, grand old woods,
and the lazy winds gossiped with the leaves, and the squirrels capered
over us and around us, and the creeping things visited us, and the birds
filled the tranquil solitude with music.  Ah, it was worth ten years of a
man's life to be dead then!  Everything was pleasant.  I was in a good
neighborhood, for all the dead people that lived near me belonged to the
best families in the city.  Our posterity appeared to think the world of
us.  They kept our graves in the very best condition; the fences were
always in faultless repair, head-boards were kept painted or whitewashed,
and were replaced with new ones as soon as they began to look rusty or
decayed; monuments were kept upright, railings intact and bright, the
rose-bushes and shrubbery trimmed, trained, and free from blemish, the
walks clean and smooth and graveled.  But that day is gone by.  Our
descendants have forgotten us.  My grandson lives in a stately house
built with money made by these old hands of mine, and I sleep in a
neglected grave with invading vermin that gnaw my shroud to build them
nests withal!  I and friends that lie with me founded and secured the
prosperity of this fine city, and the stately bantling of our loves
leaves us to rot in a dilapidated cemetery which neighbors curse and
strangers scoff at.  See the difference between the old time and this
--for instance: Our graves are all caved in now; our head-boards have
rotted away and tumbled down; our railings reel this way and that, with
one foot in the air, after a fashion of unseemly levity; our monuments
lean wearily, and our gravestones bow their heads discouraged; there be
no adornments any more--no roses, nor shrubs, nor graveled walks, nor
anything that is a comfort to the eye; and even the paintless old board
fence that did make a show of holding us sacred from companionship with
beasts and the defilement of heedless feet, has tottered till it
overhangs the street, and only advertises the presence of our dismal
resting-place and invites yet more derision to it.  And now we cannot
hide our poverty and tatters in the friendly woods, for the city has
stretched its withering arms abroad and taken us in, and all that remains
of the cheer of our old home is the cluster of lugubrious forest trees
that stand, bored and weary of a city life, with their feet in our
coffins, looking into the hazy distance and wishing they were there.
I tell you it is disgraceful!

"You begin to comprehend--you begin to see how it is.  While our
descendants are living sumptuously on our money, right around us in the
city, we have to fight hard to keep skull and bones together.  Bless you,
there isn't a grave in our cemetery that doesn't leak not one.  Every
time it rains in the night we have to climb out and roost in the trees
and sometimes we are wakened suddenly by the chilly water trickling down
the back of our necks.  Then I tell you there is a general heaving up of
old graves and kicking over of old monuments, and scampering of old
skeletons for the trees!  Bless me, if you had gone along there some such
nights after twelve you might have seen as many as fifteen of us roosting
on one limb, with our joints rattling drearily and the wind wheezing
through our ribs!  Many a time we have perched there for three or four
dreary hours, and then come down, stiff and chilled through and drowsy,
and borrowed each other's skulls to bail out our graves with--if you will
glance up in my mouth now as I tilt my head back, you can see that my
head-piece is half full of old dry sediment how top-heavy and stupid it
makes me sometimes!  Yes, sir, many a time if you had happened to come
along just before the dawn you'd have caught us bailing out the graves
and hanging our shrouds on the fence to dry.  Why, I had an elegant
shroud stolen from there one morning--think a party by the name of Smith
took it, that resides in a plebeian graveyard over yonder--I think so
because the first time I ever saw him he hadn't anything on but a check
shirt, and the last time I saw him, which was at a social gathering in
the new cemetery, he was the best-dressed corpse in the company--and it
is a significant fact that he left when he saw me; and presently an old
woman from here missed her coffin--she generally took it with her when
she went anywhere, because she was liable to take cold and bring on the
spasmodic rheumatism that originally killed her if she exposed herself to
the night air much.  She was named Hotchkiss--Anna Matilda Hotchkiss--you
might know her?  She has two upper front teeth, is tall, but a good deal
inclined to stoop, one rib on the left side gone, has one shred of rusty
hair hanging from the left side of her head, and one little tuft just
above and a little forward of her right ear, has her underjaw wired on
one side where it had worked loose, small bone of left forearm gone--lost
in a fight has a kind of swagger in her gait and a 'gallus' way of going
with: her arms akimbo and her nostrils in the air has been pretty free
and easy, and is all damaged and battered up till she looks like a
queensware crate in ruins--maybe you have met her?"

"God forbid!" I involuntarily ejaculated, for somehow I was not looking
for that form of question, and it caught me a little off my guard.  But I
hastened to make amends for my rudeness, and say, "I simply meant I had
not had the honor--for I would not deliberately speak discourteously of a
friend of yours.  You were saying that you were robbed--and it was a
shame, too--but it appears by what is left of the shroud you have on that
it was a costly one in its day.  How did--"

A most ghastly expression began to develop among the decayed features and
shriveled integuments of my guest's face, and I was beginning to grow
uneasy and distressed, when he told me he was only working up a deep,
sly smile, with a wink in it, to suggest that about the time he acquired
his present garment a ghost in a neighboring cemetery missed one.  This
reassured me, but I begged him to confine himself to speech thenceforth,
because his facial expression was uncertain.  Even with the most
elaborate care it was liable to miss fire.  Smiling should especially be
avoided.  What he might honestly consider a shining success was likely to
strike me in a very different light.  I said I liked to see a skeleton
cheerful, even decorously playful, but I did not think smiling was a
skeleton's best hold.

"Yes, friend," said the poor skeleton, "the facts are just as I have
given them to you.  Two of these old graveyards--the one that I resided
in and one further along have been deliberately neglected by our
descendants of to-day until there is no occupying them any longer.  Aside
from the osteological discomfort of it--and that is no light matter this
rainy weather--the present state of things is ruinous to property.  We
have got to move or be content to see our effects wasted away and utterly
destroyed.

"Now, you will hardly believe it, but it is true, nevertheless, that there
isn't a single coffin in good repair among all my acquaintance--now that
is an absolute fact.  I do not refer to low people who come in a pine box
mounted on an express-wagon, but I am talking about your high-toned,
silver-mounted burial-case, your monumental sort, that travel under black
plumes at the head of a procession and have choice of cemetery lots--
I mean folks like the Jarvises, and the Bledsoes and Burlings, and such.
They are all about ruined.  The most substantial people in our set, they
were.  And now look at them--utterly used up and poverty-stricken.  One
of the Bledsoes actually traded his monument to a late barkeeper for some
fresh shavings to put under his head.  I tell you it speaks volumes, for
there is nothing a corpse takes so much pride in as his monument.  He
loves to read the inscription.  He comes after a while to believe what it
says himself, and then you may see him sitting on the fence night after
night enjoying it.  Epitaphs are cheap, and they do a poor chap a world
of good after he is dead, especially if he had hard luck while he was
alive.  I wish they were used more.  Now I don't complain, but
confidentially I do think it was a little shabby in my descendants to
give me nothing but this old slab of a gravestone--and all the more that
there isn't a compliment on it.  It used to have:

                    'GONE TO HIS JUST REWARD'

"on it, and I was proud when I first saw it, but by and by I noticed that
whenever an old friend of mine came along he would hook his chin on the
railing and pull a long face and read along down till he came to that,
and then he would chuckle to himself and walk off, looking satisfied and
comfortable.  So I scratched it off to get rid of those fools.  But a
dead man always takes a deal of pride in his monument.  Yonder goes half
a dozen of the Jarvises now, with the family monument along.  And
Smithers and some hired specters went by with his awhile ago.  Hello,
Higgins, good-by, old friend!  That's Meredith Higgins--died in '44--
belongs to our set in the cemetery--fine old family--great-grand mother
was an Injun--I am on the most familiar terms with him he didn't hear me
was the reason he didn't answer me.  And I am sorry, too, because I would
have liked to introduce you.  You would admire him.  He is the most
disjointed, sway-backed, and generally distorted old skeleton you ever
saw, but he is full of fun.  When he laughs it sounds like rasping two
stones together, and he always starts it off with a cheery screech like
raking a nail across a window-pane.  Hey, Jones!  That is old Columbus
Jones--shroud cost four hundred dollars entire trousseau, including
monument, twenty-seven hundred.  This was in the spring of '26.  It was
enormous style for those days.  Dead people came all the way from the
Alleghanies to see his things--the party that occupied the grave next to
mine remembers it well.  Now do you see that individual going along with
a piece of a head-board under his arm, one leg-bone below his knee gone,
and not a thing in the world on?  That is Barstow Dalhousie, and next to
Columbus Jones he was the most sumptuously outfitted person that ever
entered our cemetery.  We are all leaving.  We cannot tolerate the
treatment we are receiving at the hands of our descendants.  They open
new cemeteries, but they leave us to our ignominy.  They mend the
streets, but they never mend anything that is about us or belongs to us.
Look at that coffin of mine--yet I tell you in its day it was a piece of
furniture that would have attracted attention in any drawing-room in this
city.  You may have it if you want it--I can't afford to repair it.
Put a new bottom in her, and part of a new top, and a bit of fresh lining
along the left side, and you'll find her about as comfortable as any
receptacle of her species you ever tried.  No thanks no, don't mention it
you have been civil to me, and I would give you all the property I have
got before I would seem ungrateful.  Now this winding-sheet is a kind of
a sweet thing in its way, if you would like to--No?  Well, just as you
say, but I wished to be fair and liberal there's nothing mean about me.
Good-by, friend, I must be going.  I may have a good way to go to-night
--don't know.  I only know one thing for certain, and that is that I am
on the emigrant trail now, and I'll never sleep in that crazy old
cemetery again.  I will travel till I fiend respectable quarters, if I
have to hoof it to New Jersey.  All the boys are going.  It was decided
in public conclave, last night, to emigrate, and by the time the sun
rises there won't be a bone left in our old habitations.  Such cemeteries
may suit my surviving friends, but they do not suit the remains that have
the honor to make these remarks.  My opinion is the general opinion.
If you doubt it, go and see how the departing ghosts upset things before
they started.  They were almost riotous in their demonstrations of
distaste.  Hello, here are some of the Bledsoes, and if you will give me
a lift with this tombstone I guess I will join company and jog along with
them--mighty respectable old family, the Bledsoes, and used to always
come out in six-horse hearses and all that sort of thing fifty years ago
when I walked these streets in daylight.  Good-by, friend."

And with his gravestone on his shoulder he joined the grisly procession,
dragging his damaged coffin after him, for notwithstanding he pressed it
upon me so earnestly, I utterly refused his hospitality.  I suppose that
for as much as two hours these sad outcasts went clacking by, laden with
their dismal effects, and all that time I sat pitying them.  One or two
of the youngest and least dilapidated among them inquired about midnight
trains on the railways, but the rest seemed unacquainted with that mode
of travel, and merely asked about common public roads to various towns
and cities, some of which are not on the map now, and vanished from it
and from the earth as much as thirty years ago, and some few of them
never had existed anywhere but on maps, and private ones in real-estate
agencies at that.  And they asked about the condition of the cemeteries
in these towns and cities, and about the reputation the citizens bore as
to reverence for the dead.

This whole matter interested me deeply, and likewise compelled my
sympathy for these homeless ones.  And it all seeming real, and I not
knowing it was a dream, I mentioned to one shrouded wanderer an idea that
had entered my head to publish an account of this curious and very
sorrowful exodus, but said also that I could not describe it truthfully,
and just as it occurred, without seeming to trifle with a grave subject
and exhibit an irreverence for the dead that would shock and distress
their surviving friends.  But this bland and stately remnant of a former
citizen leaned him far over my gate and whispered in my ear, and said:

"Do not let that disturb you.  The community that can stand such
graveyards as those we are emigrating from can stand anything a body can
say about the neglected and forsaken dead that lie in them."

At that very moment a cock crowed, and the weird procession vanished and
left not a shred or a bone behind.  I awoke, and found myself lying with
my head out of the bed and "sagging" downward considerably--a position
favorable to dreaming dreams with morals in them, maybe, but not poetry.

NOTE.--The reader is assured that if the cemeteries in his town are kept
in good order, this Dream is not leveled at his town at all, but is
leveled particularly and venomously at the next town.






A TRUE STORY

REPEATED WORD FOR WORD AS I HEARD IT--[Written about 1876]

It was summer-time, and twilight.  We were sitting on the porch of the
farmhouse, on the summit of the hill, and "Aunt Rachel" was sitting
respectfully below our level, on the steps-for she was our Servant, and
colored.  She was of mighty frame and stature; she was sixty years old,
but her eye was undimmed and her strength unabated.  She was a cheerful,
hearty soul, and it was no more trouble for her to laugh than it is for a
bird to sing.  She was under fire now, as usual when the day was done.
That is to say, she was being chaffed without mercy, and was enjoying it.
She would let off peal after of laughter, and then sit with her face in
her hands and shake with throes of enjoyment which she could no longer
get breath enough to express.  It such a moment as this a thought
occurred to me, and I said:

"Aunt Rachel, how is it that you've lived sixty years and never had any
trouble?"

She stopped quaking.  She paused, and there was moment of silence.  She
turned her face over her shoulder toward me, and said, without even a
smile her voice:

"Misto C-----, is you in 'arnest?"

It surprised me a good deal; and it sobered my manner and my speech, too.
I said:

"Why, I thought--that is, I meant--why, you can't have had any trouble.
I've never heard you sigh, and never seen your eye when there wasn't a
laugh in it."

She faced fairly around now, and was full earnestness.

"Has I had any trouble? Misto C-----, I's gwyne to tell you, den I leave
it to you.  I was bawn down 'mongst de slaves; I knows all 'bout slavery,
'case I ben one of 'em my own se'f.  Well sah, my ole man--dat's my
husban'--he was lov an' kind to me, jist as kind as you is to yo' own
wife.  An' we had chil'en--seven chil'en--an' loved dem chil'en jist de
same as you loves yo' chil'en.  Dey was black, but de Lord can't make
chil'en so black but what dey mother loves 'em an' wouldn't give 'em up,
no, not for anything dat's in dis whole world.

"Well, sah, I was raised in ole Fo'ginny, but mother she was raised in
Maryland; an' my souls she was turrible when she'd git started!  My lan!
but she'd make de fur fly!  When she'd git into dem tantrums, she always
had one word dat she said.  She'd straighten herse'f up an' put her fists
in her hips an' say, 'I want you to understan' dat I wa'n't bawn in the
mash to be fool' by trash!  I's one o' de ole Blue Hen's Chickens, I is!'
'Ca'se you see, dat's what folks dat's bawn in Maryland calls deyselves,
an' dey's proud of it.  Well, dat was her word.  I don't ever forgit it,
beca'se she said it so much, an' beca'se she said it one day when my
little Henry tore his wris' awful, and most busted 'is head, right up at
de top of his forehead, an' de niggers didn't fly aroun' fas' enough to
'tend to him.  An' when dey talk' back at her, she up an' she says,
'Look-a-heah!' she says, 'I want you niggers to understan' dat I wa'n't
bawn in de mash be fool' by trash! I's one o' de ole Blue Hen's chickens,
I is!' an' den she clar' dat kitchen an' bandage' up de chile herse'f.
So I says dat word, too, when I's riled.

"Well, bymeby my ole mistis say she's broke, an she got to sell all de
niggers on de place.  An' when I heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all off at
oction in Richmon', oh, de good gracious! I know what dat mean!"

Aunt Rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed to her subject, and now
she towered above us, black against the stars.

"Dey put chains on us an' put us on a stan' as high as dis po'ch--twenty
foot high-an' all de people stood aroun', crowds 'an' crowds.  An' dey'd
come up dah an' look at us all roun', an' squeeze our arm, an' make us
git up an' walk, an' den say, Dis one too ole,' or 'Dis one lame,' or
'Dis one don't 'mount to much.' An' dey sole my ole man, an' took him
away, an' dey begin to sell my chil'en an' take dem away, an' I begin to
cry; an' de man say, 'Shet up yo' damn blubberin',' an' hit me on de mouf
wid his han'.  An' when de las' one was gone but my little Henry, I grab'
him clost up to my breas' so, an' I ris up an' says, 'You sha'nt take him
away,' I says; 'I'll kill de man dat tetch him!' I says.  But my little
Henry whisper an' say 'I gwyne to run away, an' den I work an' buy yo'
freedom' Oh, bless de chile, he always so good!  But dey got him--dey got
him, de men did; but I took and tear de clo'es mos' off of 'em an' beat
'em over de head wid my chain; an' dey give it to me too, but I didn't
mine dat.

"Well, dah was my ole man gone, an' all my chil'en, all my seven chil'en
--an' six of 'em I hain't set eyes on ag'in to dis day, an' dat's
twenty-two year ago las' Easter.  De man dat bought me b'long' in
Newbern, an' he took me dah.  Well, bymeby de years roll on an' de waw
come.  My marster he was a Confedrit colonel, an' I was his family's
cook.  So when de Unions took dat town dey all run away an' lef' me all
by myse'f wid de other niggers in dat mons'us big house.  So de big Union
officers move in dah, an' dey ask me would I cook for dem.  'Lord bless
you,' says I, 'dat what I's for.'

"Dey wa'n't no small-fry officers, mine you, de was de biggest dey is;
an' de way dey made dem sojers mosey roun'!  De Gen'l he tole me to boss
dat kitchen; an' he say, 'If anybody come meddlin' wid you, you jist make
'em walk chalk; don't you be afeared,' he say; 'you's 'mong frens now.'

"Well, I thinks to myse'f, if my little Henry ever got a chance to run
away, he'd make to de Norf, o' course.  So one day I comes in dah whar de
big officers was, in de parlor, an' I drops a kurtchy, so, an' I up an'
tole 'em 'bout my Henry, dey a-listenin' to my troubles jist de same as
if I was white folks; an' I says, 'What I come for is beca'se if he got
away and got up Norf whar you gemmen comes from, you might 'a' seen him,
maybe, an' could tell me so as I could fine him ag'in; he was very
little, an' he had a sk-yar on his lef' wris' an' at de top of his
forehead.' Den dey look mournful, an' de Gen'l says, 'How long sence you
los' him?' an' I say, 'Thirteen year.   Den de Gen'l say, 'He wouldn't be
little no mo' now--he's a man!'

"I never thought o' dat befo'!  He was only dat little feller to me yit.
I never thought 'bout him growin' up an' bein' big.  But I see it den.
None o' de gemmen had run acrost him, so dey couldn't do nothin' for me.
But all dat time, do' I didn't know it, my Henry was run off to de Norf,
years an' years, an' he was a barber, too, an' worked for hisse'f.  An'
bymeby, when de waw come he ups an' he says: 'I's done barberin',' he
says, 'I's gwyne to fine my ole mammy, less'n she's dead.'  So he sole
out an' went to whar dey was recruitin', an' hired hisse'f out to de
colonel for his servant an' den he went all froo de battles everywhah,
huntin' for his ole mammy; yes, indeedy, he'd hire to fust one officer
an' den another, tell he'd ransacked de whole Souf; but you see I didn't
know nuffin 'bout dis.  How was I gwyne to know it?

"Well, one night we had a big sojer ball; de sojers dah at Newbern was
always havin' balls an' carryin' on.  Dey had 'em in my kitchen, heaps o'
times, 'ca'se it was so big.  Mine you, I was down on sich doin's;
beca'se my place was wid de officers, an' it rasp me to have dem common
sojers cavortin' roun' in my kitchen like dat.  But I alway' stood aroun'
an kep' things straight, I did; an' sometimes dey'd git my dander up, an'
den I'd make 'em clar dat kitchen mine I tell you!

"Well, one night--it was a Friday night--dey comes a whole platoon f'm a
nigger ridgment da was on guard at de house--de house was head quarters,
you know-an' den I was jist a-bilin' mad?  I was jist a-boomin'!  I
swelled aroun', an swelled aroun'; I jist was a-itchin' for 'em to do
somefin for to start me.  An' dey was a-waltzin' an a dancin'! my but dey
was havin' a time! an I jist a-swellin' an' a-swellin' up!  Pooty soon,
'long comes sich a spruce young nigger a-sailin' down de room wid a
yaller wench roun' de wais'; an' roun an' roun' an roun' dey went, enough
to make a body drunk to look at 'em; an' when dey got abreas' o' me, dey
went to kin' o' balancin' aroun' fust on one leg an' den on t'other, an'
smilin' at my big red turban, an' makin' fun, an' I ups an' says 'Git
along wid you!--rubbage!'  De young man's face kin' o' changed, all of a
sudden, for 'bout a second but den he went to smilin' ag'in, same as he
was befo'.  Well, 'bout dis time, in comes some niggers dat played music
and b'long' to de ban', an' dey never could git along widout puttin' on
airs.  An de very fust air dey put on dat night, I lit into em!  Dey
laughed, an' dat made me wuss.  De res' o' de niggers got to laughin',
an' den my soul alive but I was hot!  My eye was jist a-blazin'!  I jist
straightened myself up so--jist as I is now, plum to de ceilin', mos'--
an' I digs my fists into my hips, an' I says, 'Look-a-heah!' I says, 'I
want you niggers to understan' dat I wa'n't bawn in de mash to be fool'
by trash!  I's one o' de ole Blue hen's Chickens, I is!' an' den I see
dat young man stan' a-starin' an' stiff, lookin' kin' o' up at de ceilin'
like he fo'got somefin, an' couldn't 'member it no mo'.  Well, I jist
march' on dem niggers--so, lookin' like a gen'l--an' dey jist cave' away
befo' me an' out at de do'.  An' as dis young man a-goin' out, I heah him
say to another nigger, 'Jim,' he says, 'you go 'long an' tell de cap'n I
be on han' 'bout eight o'clock in de mawnin'; dey's somefin on my mine,'
he says; 'I don't sleep no mo' dis night.  You go 'long,' he says, 'an'
leave me by my own se'f.'

"Dis was 'bout one o'clock in de mawnin'.  Well, 'bout seven, I was up
an' on han', gittin' de officers' breakfast.  I was a-stoopin' down by de
stove jist so, same as if yo' foot was de stove--an' I'd opened de stove
do' wid my right han'--so, pushin' it back, jist as I pushes yo' foot--
an' I'd jist got de pan o' hot biscuits in my han' an' was 'bout to raise
up, when I see a black face come aroun' under mine, an' de eyes a-lookin'
up into mine, jist as I's a-lookin' up clost under yo' face now; an' I
jist stopped right dah, an' never budged! jist gazed an' gazed so; an' de
pan begin to tremble, an' all of a sudden I knowed!  De pan drop' on de
flo' an' I grab his lef' han' an' shove back his sleeve--jist so, as I's
doin' to you--an' den I goes for his forehead an' push de hair back so,
an' 'Boy!' I says, 'if you an't my Henry, what is you doin' wid dis welt
on yo' wris' an' dat sk-yar on yo' forehead?  De Lord God ob heaven be
praise', I got my own ag'in!'

     "Oh no' Misto C-----, I hain't had no trouble.  An' no joy!"






THE SIAMESE TWINS--[Written about 1868.]

I do not wish to write of the personal habits of these strange creatures
solely, but also of certain curious details of various kinds concerning
them, which, belonging only to their private life, have never crept into
print.  Knowing the Twins intimately, I feel that I am peculiarly well
qualified for the task I have taken upon myself.

The Siamese Twins are naturally tender and affectionate indisposition,
and have clung to each other with singular fidelity throughout a long and
eventful life.  Even as children they were inseparable companions; and it
was noticed that they always seemed to prefer each other's society to
that of any other persons.  They nearly always played together; and, so
accustomed was their mother to this peculiarity, that, whenever both of
them chanced to be lost, she usually only hunted for one of them--
satisfied that when she found that one she would find his brother
somewhere in the immediate neighborhood.  And yet these creatures were
ignorant and unlettered-barbarians themselves and the offspring of
barbarians, who knew not the light of philosophy and science.  What a
withering rebuke is this to our boasted civilization, with its
quarrelings, its wranglings, and its separations of brothers!

As men, the Twins have not always lived in perfect accord; but still
there has always been a bond between them which made them unwilling to go
away from each other and dwell apart.  They have even occupied the same
house, as a general thing, and it is believed that they have never failed
to even sleep together on any night since they were born.  How surely do
the habits of a lifetime become second nature to us!  The Twins always go
to bed at the same time; but Chang usually gets up about an hour before
his brother.  By an understanding between themselves, Chang does all the
indoor work and Eng runs all the errands.  This is because Eng likes to
go out; Chang's habits are sedentary.  However, Chang always goes along.
Eng is a Baptist, but Chang is a Roman Catholic; still, to please his
brother, Chang consented to be baptized at the same time that Eng was, on
condition that it should not "count."  During the war they were strong
partisans, and both fought gallantly all through the great struggle--Eng
on the Union side and Chang on the Confederate.  They took each other
prisoners at Seven Oaks, but the proofs of capture were so evenly
balanced in favor of each, that a general army court had to be assembled
to determine which one was properly the captor and which the captive.
The jury was unable to agree for a long time; but the vexed question was
finally decided by agreeing to consider them both prisoners, and then
exchanging them.  At one time Chang was convicted of disobedience of
orders, and sentenced to ten days in the guard-house, but Eng, in spite
of all arguments, felt obliged to share his imprisonment, notwithstanding
he himself was entirely innocent; and so, to save the blameless brother
from suffering, they had to discharge both from custody--the just reward
of faithfulness.

Upon one occasion the brothers fell out about something, and Chang
knocked Eng down, and then tripped and fell on him, whereupon both
clinched and began to beat and gouge each other without mercy.  The
bystanders interfered, and tried to separate them, but they could not do
it, and so allowed them to fight it out.  In the end both were disabled,
and were carried to the hospital on one and the same shutter.

Their ancient habit of going always together had its drawbacks when they
reached man's estate, and entered upon the luxury of courting.  Both fell
in love with the same girl.  Each tried to steal clandestine interviews
with her, but at the critical moment the other would always turn up.
By and by Eng saw, with distraction, that Chang had won the girl's
affections; and, from that day forth, he had to bear with the agony of
being a witness to all their dainty billing and cooing.  But with a
magnanimity that did him infinite credit, he succumbed to his fate, and
gave countenance and encouragement to a state of things that bade fair to
sunder his generous heart-strings.  He sat from seven every evening until
two in the morning, listening to the fond foolishness of the two lovers,
and to the concussion of hundreds of squandered kisses--for the privilege
of sharing only one of which he would have given his right hand.  But he
sat patiently, and waited, and gaped, and yawned, and stretched, and
longed for two o'clock to come.  And he took long walks with the lovers
on moonlight evenings--sometimes traversing ten miles, notwithstanding he
was usually suffering from rheumatism.  He is an inveterate smoker; but
he could not smoke on these occasions, because the young lady was
painfully sensitive to the smell of tobacco.  Eng cordially wanted them
married, and done with it; but although Chang often asked the momentous
question, the young lady could not gather sufficient courage to answer it
while Eng was by.  However, on one occasion, after having walked some
sixteen miles, and sat up till nearly daylight, Eng dropped asleep, from
sheer exhaustion, and then the question was asked and answered.  The
lovers were married.  All acquainted with the circumstance applauded the
noble brother-in-law.  His unwavering faithfulness was the theme of every
tongue.  He had stayed by them all through their long and arduous
courtship; and when at last they were married, he lifted his hands above
their heads, and said with impressive unction, "Bless ye, my children, I
will never desert ye!" and he kept his word.  Fidelity like this is all
too rare in this cold world.

By and by Eng fell in love with his sister-in-law's sister, and married
her, and since that day they have all lived together, night and day, in
an exceeding sociability which is touching and beautiful to behold, and
is a scathing rebuke to our boasted civilization.

The sympathy existing between these two brothers is so close and so
refined that the feelings, the impulses, the emotions of the one are
instantly experienced by the other.  When one is sick, the other is sick;
when one feels pain, the other feels it; when one is angered, the other's
temper takes fire.  We have already seen with what happy facility they
both fell in love with the same girl.  Now Chang is bitterly opposed to
all forms of intemperance, on principle; but Eng is the reverse--for,
while these men's feelings and emotions are so closely wedded, their
reasoning faculties are unfettered; their thoughts are free.  Chang
belongs to the Good Templars, and is a hard--working, enthusiastic
supporter of all temperance reforms.  But, to his bitter distress, every
now and then Eng gets drunk, and, of course, that makes Chang drunk too.
This unfortunate thing has been a great sorrow to Chang, for it almost
destroys his usefulness in his favorite field of effort.  As sure as he
is to head a great temperance procession Eng ranges up alongside of him,
prompt to the minute, and drunk as a lord; but yet no more dismally and
hopelessly drunk than his brother, who has not tasted a drop.  And so the
two begin to hoot and yell, and throw mud and bricks at the Good
Templars; and, of course, they break up the procession.  It would be
manifestly wrong to punish Chang for what Eng does, and, therefore, the
Good Templars accept the untoward situation, and suffer in silence and
sorrow.  They have officially and deliberately examined into the matter,
and find Chang blameless.  They have taken the two brothers and filled
Chang full of warm water and sugar and Eng full of whisky, and in twenty-
five minutes it was not possible to tell which was the drunkest.  Both
were as drunk as loons--and on hot whisky punches, by the smell of their
breath.  Yet all the while Chang's moral principles were unsullied, his
conscience clear; and so all just men were forced to confess that he was
not morally, but only physically, drunk.  By every right and by every
moral evidence the man was strictly sober; and, therefore, it caused his
friends all the more anguish to see him shake hands with the pump and try
to wind his watch with his night-key.

There is a moral in these solemn warnings--or, at least, a warning in
these solemn morals; one or the other.  No matter, it is somehow.  Let us
heed it; let us profit by it.

I could say more of an instructive nature about these interesting beings,
but let what I have written suffice.

Having forgotten to mention it sooner, I will remark in conclusion that
the ages of the Siamese Twins are respectively fifty-one and fifty-three
years.






SPEECH AT THE SCOTTISH BANQUET IN LONDON--[Written about 1872.]

On the anniversary festival of the Scottish Corporation of London on
Monday evening, in response to the toast of "The Ladies," MARK TWAIN
replied.  The following is his speech as reported in the London Observer:

I am proud, indeed, of the distinction of being chosen to respond to this
especial toast, to 'The Ladies,' or to women if you please, for that is
the preferable term, perhaps; it is certainly the older, and therefore
the more entitled to reverence [Laughter.]  I have noticed that the
Bible, with that plain, blunt honesty which is such a conspicuous
characteristic of the Scriptures, is always particular to never refer to
even the illustrious mother of all mankind herself as a 'lady,' but
speaks of her as a woman, [Laughter.]  It is odd, but you will find it is
so.  I am peculiarly proud of this honor, because I think that the toast
to women is one which, by right and by every rule of gallantry, should
take precedence of all others--of the army, of the navy, of even royalty
itself perhaps, though the latter is not necessary in this day and in
this land, for the reason that, tacitly, you do drink a broad general
health to all good women when you drink the health of the Queen of
England and the Princess of Wales.  [Loud cheers.]  I have in mind a poem
just now which is familiar to you all, familiar to everybody.  And what
an inspiration that was (and how instantly the present toast recalls the
verses to all our minds) when the most noble, the most gracious, the
purest, and sweetest of all poets says:

                         "Woman!  O woman!--er--
                         Wom--"

[Laughter.]  However, you remember the lines; and you remember how
feelingly, how daintily, how almost imperceptibly the verses raise up
before you, feature by feature, the ideal of a true and perfect woman;
and how, as you contemplate the finished marvel, your homage grows into
worship of the intellect that could create so fair a thing out of mere
breath, mere words.  And you call to mind now, as I speak, how the poet,
with stern fidelity to the history of all humanity, delivers this
beautiful child of his heart and his brain over to the trials and sorrows
that must come to all, sooner or later, that abide in the earth, and how
the pathetic story culminates in that apostrophe--so wild, so regretful,
so full of mournful retrospection.  The lines run thus:

                    "Alas!--alas!--a--alas!
                    ----Alas!--------alas!"

--and so on.  [Laughter.] I do not remember the rest; but, taken
together, it seems to me that poem is the noblest tribute to woman that
human genius has ever brought forth--[laughter]--and I feel that if I
were to talk hours I could not do my great theme completer or more
graceful justice than I have now done in simply quoting that poet's
matchless words.  [Renewed laughter.] The phases of the womanly nature
are infinite in their variety.  Take any type of woman, and you shall
find in it something to respect, something to admire, something to love.
And you shall find the whole joining you heart and hand.  Who was more
patriotic than Joan of Arc?  Who was braver?  Who has given us a grander
instance of self-sacrificing devotion?  Ah! you remember, you remember
well, what a throb of pain, what a great tidal wave of grief swept over
us all when Joan of Arc fell at Waterloo.  [Much laughter.]  Who does not
sorrow for the loss of Sappho, the sweet singer of Israel?  [Laughter.]
Who among us does not miss the gentle ministrations, the softening
influences, the humble piety of Lucretia Borgia?  [Laughter.]  Who can
join in the heartless libel that says woman is extravagant in dress when
he can look back and call to mind our simple and lowly mother Eve arrayed
in her modification of the Highland costume.  [Roars of laughter.]
Sir, women have been soldiers, women have been painters, women have been
poets.  As long as language lives the name of Cleopatra will live.

And, not because she conquered George III. [laughter]--but because she
wrote those divine lines:

                    "Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
                    For God hath made them so."

[More laughter.]  The story of the world is adorned with the names of
illustrious ones of our own sex--some of them sons of St.  Andrew, too--
Scott, Bruce, Burns, the warrior Wallace, Ben Nevis--[laughter]--the
gifted Ben Lomond, and the great new Scotchman, Ben Disraeli.  [Great
laughter.]  Out of the great plains of history tower whole mountain
ranges of sublime women--the Queen of Sheba, Josephine, Semiramis, Sairey
Gamp; the list is endless--[laughter]--but I will not call the mighty
roll, the names rise up in your own memories at the mere suggestion,
luminous with the glory of deeds that cannot die, hallowed by the loving
worship of the good and the true of all epochs and all climes.  [Cheers.]
Suffice it for our pride and our honor that we in our day have added to
it such names as those of Grace Darling and Florence Nightingale.
[Cheers.]  Woman is all that she should be-gentle, patient, long
suffering, trustful, unselfish, full of generous impulses.  It is her
blessed mission to comfort the sorrowing, plead for the erring, encourage
the faint of purpose, succor the distressed, uplift the fallen, befriend
the friendless in a word, afford the healing of her sympathies and a home
in her heart for all the bruised and persecuted children of misfortune
that knock at its hospitable door. [Cheers.]  And when I say, God bless
her, there is none among us who has known the ennobling affection of a
wife, or the steadfast devotion of a mother, but in his heart will say,
Amen!  [Loud and prolonged cheering.]

--[Mr.  Benjamin Disraeli, at that time Prime Minister of England, had
just been elected Lord Rector of Glasgow University, and had made a
speech which gave rise to a world of discussion.]






A GHOST STORY

I took a large room, far up Broadway, in a huge old building whose upper
stories had been wholly unoccupied for years until I came.  The place had
long been given up to dust and cobwebs, to solitude and silence.
I seemed groping among the tombs and invading the privacy of the dead,
that first night I climbed up to my quarters.  For the first time in my
life a superstitious dread came over me; and as I turned a dark angle of
the stairway and an invisible cobweb swung its slazy woof in my face and
clung there, I shuddered as one who had encountered a phantom.

I was glad enough when I reached my room and locked out the mold and the
darkness.  A cheery fire was burning in the grate, and I sat down before
it with a comforting sense of relief.  For two hours I sat there,
thinking of bygone times; recalling old scenes, and summoning half-
forgotten faces out of the mists of the past; listening, in fancy, to
voices that long ago grew silent for all time, and to once familiar songs
that nobody sings now.  And as my reverie softened down to a sadder and
sadder pathos, the shrieking of the winds outside softened to a wail, the
angry beating of the rain against the panes diminished to a tranquil
patter, and one by one the noises in the street subsided, until the
hurrying footsteps of the last belated straggler died away in the
distance and left no sound behind.

The fire had burned low.  A sense of loneliness crept over me.  I arose
and undressed, moving on tiptoe about the room, doing stealthily what I
had to do, as if I were environed by sleeping enemies whose slumbers it
would be fatal to break.  I covered up in bed, and lay listening to the
rain and wind and the faint creaking of distant shutters, till they
lulled me to sleep.

I slept profoundly, but how long I do not know.  All at once I found
myself awake, and filled with a shuddering expectancy.  All was still.
All but my own heart--I could hear it beat.  Presently the bedclothes
began to slip away slowly toward the foot of the bed, as if some one were
pulling them!  I could not stir; I could not speak.  Still the blankets
slipped deliberately away, till my breast was uncovered.  Then with a
great effort I seized them and drew them over my head.  I waited,
listened, waited.  Once more that steady pull began, and once more I lay
torpid a century of dragging seconds till my breast was naked again.  At
last I roused my energies and snatched the covers back to their place and
held them with a strong grip.  I waited.  By and by I felt a faint tug,
and took a fresh grip.  The tug strengthened to a steady strain--it grew
stronger and stronger.  My hold parted, and for the third time the
blankets slid away.  I groaned.  An answering groan came from the foot of
the bed!  Beaded drops of sweat stood upon my forehead.  I was more dead
than alive.  Presently I heard a heavy footstep in my room--the step of
an elephant, it seemed to me--it was not like anything human.  But it was
moving from me--there was relief in that.  I heard it approach the door--
pass out without moving bolt or lock--and wander away among the dismal
corridors, straining the floors and joists till they creaked again as it
passed--and then silence reigned once more.

When my excitement had calmed, I said to myself, "This is a dream--simply
a hideous dream."  And so I lay thinking it over until I convinced myself
that it was a dream, and then a comforting laugh relaxed my lips and I
was happy again.  I got up and struck a light; and when I found that the
locks and bolts were just as I had left them, another soothing laugh
welled in my heart and rippled from my lips.  I took my pipe and lit it,
and was just sitting down before the fire, when-down went the pipe out of
my nerveless fingers, the blood forsook my cheeks, and my placid
breathing was cut short with a gasp!  In the ashes on the hearth, side by
side with my own bare footprint, was another, so vast that in comparison
mine was but an infant's!  Then I had had a visitor, and the elephant
tread was explained.

I put out the light and returned to bed, palsied with fear.  I lay a long
time, peering into the darkness, and listening.--Then I heard a grating
noise overhead, like the dragging of a heavy body across the floor; then
the throwing down of the body, and the shaking of my windows in response
to the concussion.  In distant parts of the building I heard the muffled
slamming of doors.  I heard, at intervals, stealthy footsteps creeping in
and out among the corridors, and up and down the stairs.  Sometimes these
noises approached my door, hesitated, and went away again.  I heard the
clanking of chains faintly, in remote passages, and listened while the
clanking grew nearer--while it wearily climbed the stairways, marking
each move by the loose surplus of chain that fell with an accented rattle
upon each succeeding step as the goblin that bore it advanced.  I heard
muttered sentences; half-uttered screams that seemed smothered violently;
and the swish of invisible garments, the rush of invisible wings.  Then I
became conscious that my chamber was invaded--that I was not alone.
I heard sighs and breathings about my bed, and mysterious whisperings.
Three little spheres of soft phosphorescent light appeared on the ceiling
directly over my head, clung and glowed there a moment, and then dropped
--two of them upon my face and one upon the pillow.  They, spattered,
liquidly, and felt warm.  Intuition told me they had--turned to gouts of
blood as they fell--I needed no light to satisfy myself of that.  Then I
saw pallid faces, dimly luminous, and white uplifted hands, floating
bodiless in the air--floating a moment and then disappearing.
The whispering ceased, and the voices and the sounds, anal a solemn
stillness followed.  I waited and listened.  I felt that I must have
light or die.  I was weak with fear.  I slowly raised myself toward a
sitting posture, and my face came in contact with a clammy hand!
All strength went from me apparently, and I fell back like a stricken
invalid.  Then I heard the rustle of a garment it seemed to pass to the
door and go out.

When everything was still once more, I crept out of bed, sick and feeble,
and lit the gas with a hand that trembled as if it were aged with a
hundred years.  The light brought some little cheer to my spirits.  I sat
down and fell into a dreamy contemplation of that great footprint in the
ashes.  By and by its outlines began to waver and grow dim.  I glanced up
and the broad gas-flame was slowly wilting away.  In the same moment I
heard that elephantine tread again.  I noted its approach, nearer and
nearer, along the musty halls, and dimmer and dimmer the light waned.
The tread reached my very door and paused--the light had dwindled to a
sickly blue, and all things about me lay in a spectral twilight.  The
door did not open, and yet I felt a faint gust of air fan my cheek, and
presently was conscious of a huge, cloudy presence before me.  I watched
it with fascinated eyes.  A pale glow stole over the Thing; gradually its
cloudy folds took shape--an arm appeared, then legs, then a body, and
last a great sad face looked out of the vapor.  Stripped of its filmy
housings, naked, muscular and comely, the majestic Cardiff Giant loomed
above me!

All my misery vanished--for a child might know that no harm could come
with that benignant countenance.  My cheerful spirits returned at once,
and in sympathy with them the gas flamed up brightly again.  Never a
lonely outcast was so glad to welcome company as I was to greet the
friendly giant.  I said:

"Why, is it nobody but you?  Do you know, I have been scared to death for
the last two or three hours?  I am most honestly glad to see you.  I wish
I had a chair--Here, here, don't try to sit down in that thing--"

But it was too late.  He was in it before I could stop him and down he
went--I never saw a chair shivered so in my life.

"Stop, stop, you'll ruin ev--"

Too late again.  There was another crash, and another chair was resolved
into its original elements.

"Confound it, haven't you got any judgment at' all?  Do you want to ruin
all the furniture on the place?  Here, here, you petrified fool--"

But it was no use.  Before I could arrest him he had sat down on the bed,
and it was a melancholy ruin.

"Now what sort of a way is that to do?  First you come lumbering about
the place bringing a legion of vagabond goblins along with you to worry
me to death, and then when I overlook an indelicacy of costume which
would not be tolerated anywhere by cultivated people except in a
respectable theater, and not even there if the nudity were of your sex,
you repay me by wrecking all the furniture you can find to sit down on.
And why will you?  You damage yourself as much as you do me.  You have
broken off the end of your spinal column, and littered up the floor with
chips of your hams till the place looks like a marble yard.  You ought to
be ashamed of yourself--you are big enough to know better."

"Well, I will not break any more furniture.  But what am I to do?  I have
not had a chance to sit down for a century."  And the tears came into his
eyes.

"Poor devil," I said, "I should not have been so harsh with you.  And you
are an orphan, too, no doubt.  But sit down on the floor here--nothing
else can stand your weight--and besides, we cannot be sociable with you
away up there above me; I want you down where I can perch on this high
counting-house stool and gossip with you face to face."  So he sat down
on the floor, and lit a pipe which I gave him, threw one of my red
blankets over his shoulders, inverted my sitz-bath on his head, helmet
fashion, and made himself picturesque and comfortable.  Then he crossed
his ankles, while I renewed the fire, and exposed the flat, honeycombed
bottoms of his prodigious feet to the grateful warmth.

"What is the matter with the bottom of your feet and the back of your
legs, that they are gouged up so?"

"Infernal chilblains--I caught them clear up to the back of my head,
roosting out there under Newell's farm.  But I love the place; I love it
as one loves his old home.  There is no peace for me like the peace I
feel when I am there."

We talked along for half an hour, and then I noticed that he looked
tired, and spoke of it.

"Tired?" he said.  "Well, I should think so.  And now I will tell you all
about it, since you have treated me so well.  I am the spirit of the
Petrified Man that lies across the street there in the museum. I am the
ghost of the Cardiff Giant.  I can have no rest, no peace, till they have
given that poor body burial again.  Now what was the most natural thing
for me to do, to make men satisfy this wish?  Terrify them into it!
haunt the place where the body lay!  So I haunted the museum night after
night.  I even got other spirits to help me.  But it did no good, for
nobody ever came to the museum at midnight.  Then it occurred to me to
come over the way and haunt this place a little.  I felt that if I ever
got a hearing I must succeed, for I had the most efficient company that
perdition could furnish.  Night after night we have shivered around
through these mildewed halls, dragging chains, groaning, whispering,
tramping up and down stairs, till, to tell you the truth, I am almost
worn out.  But when I saw a light in your room to-night I roused my
energies again and went at it with a deal of the old freshness.  But I am
tired out--entirely fagged out.  Give me, I beseech you, give me some
hope!"  I lit off my perch in a burst of excitement, and exclaimed:

"This transcends everything!  everything that ever did occur!  Why you
poor blundering old fossil, you have had all your trouble for nothing--
you have been haunting a plaster cast of yourself--the real Cardiff Giant
is in Albany!--[A fact.  The original fraud was ingeniously and
fraudfully duplicated, and exhibited in New York as the "only genuine"
Cardiff Giant (to the unspeakable disgust of the owners of the real
colossus) at the very same time that the latter was drawing crowds at a
museum is Albany,]--Confound it, don't you know your own remains?"

I never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable humiliation,
overspread a countenance before.

The Petrified Man rose slowly to his feet, and said:

"Honestly, is that true?"

"As true as I am sitting here."

He took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the mantel, then stood
irresolute a moment (unconsciously, from old habit, thrusting his hands
where his pantaloons pockets should have been, and meditatively dropping
his chin on his breast); and finally said:

"Well-I never felt so absurd before.  The Petrified Man has sold
everybody else, and now the mean fraud has ended by selling its own
ghost!  My son, if there is any charity left in your heart for a poor
friendless phantom like me, don't let this get out.  Think how you would
feel if you had made such an ass of yourself."

I heard his stately tramp die away, step by step down the stairs and out
into the deserted street, and felt sorry that he was gone, poor fellow--
and sorrier still that he had carried off my red blanket and my bath-tub.






THE CAPITOLINE VENUS

CHAPTER I

[Scene-An Artist's Studio in Rome.]

"Oh, George, I do love you!"

"Bless your dear heart, Mary, I know that--why is your father so
obdurate?"

"George, he means well, but art is folly to him--he only understands
groceries.  He thinks you would starve me."

"Confound his wisdom--it savors of inspiration.  Why am I not a money-
making bowelless grocer, instead of a divinely gifted sculptor with
nothing to eat?"

"Do not despond, Georgy, dear--all his prejudices will fade away as soon
as you shall have acquired fifty thousand dol--"

"Fifty thousand demons!  Child, I am in arrears for my board!"



CHAPTER II

[Scene-A Dwelling in Rome.]

"My dear sir, it is useless to talk.  I haven't anything against you, but
I can't let my daughter marry a hash of love, art, and starvation--I
believe you have nothing else to offer."

"Sir, I am poor, I grant you.  But is fame nothing?  The Hon. Bellamy
Foodle of Arkansas says that my new statue of America, is a clever piece
of sculpture, and he is satisfied that my name will one day be famous."

"Bosh!  What does that Arkansas ass know about it?  Fame's nothing--the
market price of your marble scarecrow is the thing to look at.  It took
you six months to chisel it, and you can't sell it for a hundred dollars.
No, sir!  Show me fifty thousand dollars and you can have my daughter--
otherwise she marries young Simper.  You have just six months to raise
the money in.  Good morning, sir."

"Alas!  Woe is me!"



CHAPTER III

[ Scene-The Studio.]

"Oh, John, friend of my boyhood, I am the unhappiest of men."

"You're a simpleton!"

"I have nothing left to love but my poor statue of America--and see, even
she has no sympathy for me in her cold marble countenance--so beautiful
and so heartless!"

"You're a dummy!"

"Oh, John!"

Oh, fudge!  Didn't you say you had six months to raise the money in?"

"Don't deride my agony, John.  If I had six centuries what good would it
do?  How could it help a poor wretch without name, capital, or friends?"

"Idiot!  Coward!  Baby!  Six months to raise the money in--and five will
do!"

"Are you insane?"

"Six months--an abundance.  Leave it to me.  I'll raise it."

"What do you mean, John?  How on earth can you raise such a monstrous sum
for me?"

"Will you let that be my business, and not meddle?  Will you leave the
thing in my hands?  Will you swear to submit to whatever I do?  Will you
pledge me to find no fault with my actions?"

"I am dizzy--bewildered--but I swear."

John took up a hammer and deliberately smashed the nose of America!  He
made another pass and two of her fingers fell to the floor--another, and
part of an ear came away--another, and a row of toes was mangled and
dismembered--another, and the left leg, from the knee down, lay a
fragmentary ruin!

John put on his hat and departed.

George gazed speechless upon the battered and grotesque nightmare before
him for the space of thirty seconds, and then wilted to the floor and
went into convulsions.

John returned presently with a carriage, got the broken-hearted artist
and the broken-legged statue aboard, and drove off, whistling low and
tranquilly.

He left the artist at his lodgings, and drove off and disappeared down
the Via Quirinalis with the statue.



CHAPTER IV

[Scene--The Studio.]

"The six months will be up at two o'clock to-day!  Oh, agony!  My life is
blighted.  I would that I were dead.  I had no supper yesterday.  I have
had no breakfast to-day.  I dare not enter an eating-house.  And hungry?
--don't mention it!  My bootmaker duns me to death--my tailor duns me--
my landlord haunts me.  I am miserable.  I haven't seen John since that
awful day.  She smiles on me tenderly when we meet in the great
thoroughfares, but her old flint of a father makes her look in the other
direction in short order.  Now who is knocking at that door?  Who is come
to persecute me?  That malignant villain the bootmaker, I'll warrant.
Come in!"

"Ah, happiness attend your highness--Heaven be propitious to your grace!
I have brought my lord's new boots--ah, say nothing about the pay, there
is no hurry, none in the world.  Shall be proud if my noble lord will
continue to honor me with his custom--ah, adieu!"

"Brought the boots himself!  Don't wait his pay!  Takes his leave with a
bow and a scrape fit to honor majesty withal!  Desires a continuance of
my custom!  Is the world coming to an end?  Of all the--come in!"

"Pardon, signore, but I have brought your new suit of clothes for--"

"Come in!"

"A thousand pardons for this intrusion, your worship.  But I have
prepared the beautiful suite of rooms below for you--this wretched den is
but ill suited to--"

"Come in!"

"I have called to say that your credit at our bank, some time since
unfortunately interrupted, is entirely and most satisfactorily restored,
and we shall be most happy if you will draw upon us for any--"

"COME IN!"

"My noble boy, she is yours!  She'll be here in a moment!  Take her--
marry her--love her--be happy!--God bless you both!  Hip, hip, hur--"

"COME IN!!!!!"

"Oh, George, my own darling, we are saved!"

"Oh, Mary, my own darling, we are saved--but I'll swear I don't know why
nor how!"



CHAPTER V

[Scene-A Roman Cafe.]

One of a group of American gentlemen reads and translates from the weekly
edition of 'Il Slangwhanger di Roma' as follows:

WONDERFUL DISCOVERY--Some six months ago Signor John Smitthe, an American
gentleman now some years a resident of Rome, purchased for a trifle a
small piece of ground in the Campagna, just beyond the tomb of the Scipio
family, from the owner, a bankrupt relative of the Princess Borghese.
Mr. Smitthe afterward went to the Minister of the Public Records and had
the piece of ground transferred to a poor American artist named George
Arnold, explaining that he did it as payment and satisfaction for
pecuniary damage accidentally done by him long since upon property
belonging to Signor Arnold, and further observed that he would make
additional satisfaction by improving the ground for Signor A., at his own
charge and cost.  Four weeks ago, while making some necessary excavations
upon the property, Signor Smitthe unearthed the most remarkable ancient
statue that has ever bees added to the opulent art treasures of Rome.
It was an exquisite figure of a woman, and though sadly stained by the
soil and the mold of ages, no eye can look unmoved upon its ravishing
beauty.  The nose, the left leg from the knee down, an ear, and also the
toes of the right foot and two fingers of one of the hands were gone,
but otherwise the noble figure was in a remarkable state of preservation.
The government at once took military possession of the statue, and
appointed a commission of art-critics, antiquaries, and cardinal princes
of the church to assess its value and determine the remuneration that
must go to the owner of the ground in which it was found.  The whole
affair was kept a profound secret until last night.  In the mean time the
commission sat with closed doors and deliberated.  Last night they
decided unanimously that the statue is a Venus, and the work of some
unknown but sublimely gifted artist of the third century before Christ.
They consider it the most faultless work of art the world has any
knowledge of.

At midnight they held a final conference and, decided that the Venus was
worth the enormous sum of ten million francs!  In accordance with Roman
law and Roman usage, the government being half-owner in all works of art
found in the Campagna, the State has naught to do but pay five million
francs to Mr.  Arnold and take permanent possession of the beautiful
statue.  This morning the Venus will be removed to the Capitol, there to
remain, and at noon the commission will wait upon Signor Arnold with His
Holiness the Pope's order upon the Treasury for the princely sum of five
million francs is gold!

Chorus of Voices.--"Luck!  It's no name for it!"

Another Voice.--" Gentlemen, I propose that we immediately form an
American joint-stock company for the purchase of lands and excavations of
statues here, with proper connections in Wall Street to bull and bear the
stock."

All.--"Agreed."



CHAPTER VI

[Scene--The Roman Capitol Ten Years Later.]

"Dearest Mary, this is the most celebrated statue in the world.  This is
the renowned 'Capitoline Venus' you've heard so much about.  Here she is
with her little blemishes 'restored' (that is, patched) by the most noted
Roman artists--and the mere fact that they did the humble patching of so
noble a creation will make their names illustrious while the world
stands.  How strange it seems this place!  The day before I last stood
here, ten happy years ago, I wasn't a rich man bless your soul, I hadn't
a cent.  And yet I had a good deal to do with making Rome mistress of
this grandest work of ancient art the world contains."

"The worshiped, the illustrious Capitoline Venus--and what a sum she is
valued at!  Ten millions of francs!"

"Yes--now she is."

"And oh, Georgy, how divinely beautiful she is!"

"Ah, yes but nothing to what she was before that blessed John Smith broke
her leg and battered her nose.  Ingenious Smith!--gifted Smith!--noble
Smith!  Author of all our bliss!  Hark!  Do you know what that wheeze
means?  Mary, that cub has got the whooping-cough.  Will you never learn
to take care of the children!"

THE END


The Capitoline Venus is still in the Capitol at Rome, and is still the
most charming and most illustrious work of ancient art the world can
boast of.  But if ever it shall be your fortune to stand before it and go
into the customary ecstasies over it, don't permit this true and secret
history of its origin to mar your bliss--and when you read about a
gigantic Petrified man being dug up near Syracuse, in the State of New
York, or near any other place, keep your own counsel--and if the Barnum
that buried him there offers to sell to you at an enormous sum, don't you
buy.  Send him to the Pope!


[NOTE.--The above sketch was written at the time the famous swindle of
the
"Petrified Giant" was the sensation of the day in the United States]






SPEECH ON ACCIDENT INSURANCE

DELIVERED IN HARTFORD, AT A DINNER TO CORNELIUS WALFORD, OF LONDON

GENTLEMEN: I am glad, indeed, to assist in welcoming the distinguished
guest of this occasion to a city whose fame as an insurance center has
extended to all lands, and given us the name of being a quadruple band of
brothers working sweetly hand in hand--the Colt's Arms Company making the
destruction of our race easy and convenient, our life insurance citizens
paying for the victims when they pass away, Mr. Batterson perpetuating
their memory with his stately monuments, and our fire-insurance comrades
taking care of their hereafter.  I am glad to assist in welcoming our
guest first, because he is an Englishman, and I owe a heavy debt of
hospitality to certain of his fellow-countrymen; and secondly, because he
is in sympathy with insurance and has been the means of making may other
men cast their sympathies in the same direction.

Certainly there is no nobler field for human effort than the insurance
line of business--especially accident insurance.  Ever since I have been
a director in an accident-insurance company I have felt that I am a
better man.  Life has seemed more precious.  Accidents have assumed a
kindlier aspect.  Distressing special providences have lost half their
horror.  I look upon a cripple now with affectionate interest--as an
advertisement.  I do not seem to care for poetry any more.  I do not care
for politics--even agriculture does not excite me.  But to me now there
is a charm about a railway collision that is unspeakable.

There is nothing more beneficent than accident insurance.  I have seen an
entire family lifted out of poverty and into affluence by the simple boon
of a broken leg.  I have had people come to me on crutches, with tears in
their eyes, to bless this beneficent institution.  In all my experience
of life, I have seen nothing so seraphic as the look that comes into a
freshly mutilated man's face when he feels in his vest pocket with his
remaining hand and finds his accident ticket all right.  And I have seen
nothing so sad as the look that came into another splintered customer's
face when he found he couldn't collect on a wooden leg.

I will remark here, by way of advertisement, that that noble charity
which we have named the HARTFORD ACCIDENT INSURANCE COMPANY--[The
speaker is a director of the company named.]--is an institution which is
peculiarly to be depended upon.  A man is bound to prosper who gives it
his custom.

No man can take out a policy in it and not get crippled before the year
is out.  Now there was one indigent man who had been disappointed so
often with other companies that he had grown disheartened, his appetite
left him, he ceased to smile--life was but a weariness.  Three weeks ago
I got him to insure with us, and now he is the brightest, happiest spirit
in this land has a good steady income and a stylish suit of new bandages
every day, and travels around on a shutter.

I will say, in conclusion, that my share of the welcome to our guest is
none the less hearty because I talk so much nonsense, and I know that I
can say the same for the rest of the speakers.






JOHN CHINAMAN IN NEW YORK

As I passed along by one of those monster American tea stores in New
York, I found a Chinaman sitting before it acting in the capacity of a
sign.  Everybody that passed by gave him a steady stare as long as their
heads would twist over their shoulders without dislocating their necks,
and a group had stopped to stare deliberately.

Is it not a shame that we, who prate so much about civilization and
humanity, are content to degrade a fellow-being to such an office as
this?  Is it not time for reflection when we find ourselves willing to
see in such a being matter for frivolous curiosity instead of regret and
grave reflection?  Here was a poor creature whom hard fortune had exiled
from his natural home beyond the seas, and whose troubles ought to have
touched these idle strangers that thronged about him; but did it?
Apparently not.  Men calling themselves the superior race, the race of
culture and of gentle blood, scanned his quaint Chinese hat, with peaked
roof and ball on top, and his long queue dangling down his back; his
short silken blouse, curiously frogged and figured (and, like the rest of
his raiment, rusty, dilapidated, and awkwardly put on); his blue cotton,
tight-legged pants, tied close around the ankles; and his clumsy blunt-
toed shoes with thick cork soles; and having so scanned him from head to
foot, cracked some unseemly joke about his outlandish attire or his
melancholy face, and passed on.  In my heart I pitied the friendless
Mongol.  I wondered what was passing behind his sad face, and what
distant scene his vacant eye was dreaming of.  Were his thoughts with his
heart, ten thousand miles away, beyond the billowy wastes of the Pacific?
among the ricefields and the plumy palms of China? under the shadows of
remembered mountain peaks, or in groves of bloomy shrubs and strange
forest trees unknown to climes like ours?  And now and then, rippling
among his visions and his dreams, did he hear familiar laughter and half-
forgotten voices, and did he catch fitful glimpses of the friendly faces
of a bygone time?  A cruel fate it is, I said, that is befallen this
bronzed wanderer.  In order that the group of idlers might be touched at
least by the words of the poor fellow, since the appeal of his pauper
dress and his dreary exile was lost upon them, I touched him on the
shoulder and said:

"Cheer up--don't be downhearted.  It is not America that treats you in
this way, it is merely one citizen, whose greed of gain has eaten the
humanity out of his heart.  America has a broader hospitality for the
exiled and oppressed.  America and Americans are always ready to help the
unfortunate.  Money shall be raised--you shall go back to China you shall
see your friends again.  What wages do they pay you here?"

"Divil a cint but four dollars a week and find meself; but it's aisy,
barrin' the troublesome furrin clothes that's so expinsive."

The exile remains at his post.  The New York tea merchants who need
picturesque signs are not likely to run out of Chinamen.






HOW I EDITED AN AGRICULTURAL PAPER--[Written abort 1870.]

I did not take temporary editorship of an agricultural paper without
misgivings.  Neither would a landsman take command of a ship without
misgivings.  But I was in circumstances that made the salary an object.
The regular editor of the paper was going off for a holiday, and I
accepted the terms he offered, and took his place.

The sensation of being at work again was luxurious, and I wrought all the
week with unflagging pleasure.  We went to press, and I waited a day with
some solicitude to see whether my effort was going to attract any notice.
As I left the office, toward sundown, a group of men and boys at the foot
of the stairs dispersed with one impulse, and gave me passageway, and I
heard one or two of them say: "That's him!"  I was naturally pleased by
this incident.  The next morning I found a similar group at the foot of
the stairs, and scattering couples and individuals standing here and
there in the street and over the way, watching me with interest.  The
group separated and fell back as I approached, and I heard a man say,
"Look at his eye!"  I pretended not to observe the notice I was
attracting, but secretly I was pleased with it, and was purposing to
write an account of it to my aunt.  I went up the short flight of stairs,
and heard cheery voices and a ringing laugh as I drew near the door,
which I opened, and caught a glimpse of two young rural-looking men,
whose faces blanched and lengthened when they saw me, and then they both
plunged through the window with a great crash.  I was surprised.

In about half an hour an old gentleman, with a flowing beard and a fine
but rather austere face, entered, and sat down at my invitation.  He
seemed to have something on his mind.  He took off his hat and set it on
the floor, and got out of it a red silk handkerchief and a copy of our
paper.

He put the paper on his lap, and while he polished his spectacles with
his handkerchief he said, "Are you the new editor?"

I said I was.

"Have you ever edited an agricultural paper before?"

"No," I said; "this is my first attempt."

"Very likely.  Have you had any experience in agriculture practically?"

"No; I believe I have not."

"Some instinct told me so," said the old gentleman, putting on his
spectacles, and looking over them at me with asperity, while he folded
his paper into a convenient shape.  "I wish to read you what must have
made me have that instinct.  It was this editorial.  Listen, and see if
it was you that wrote it:

     "'Turnips should never be pulled, it injures them.  It is much
     better to send a boy up and let him shake the tree.'

"Now, what do you think of that?  for I really suppose you wrote it?"

"Think of it?  Why, I think it is good.  I think it is sense.  I have no
doubt that every year millions and millions of bushels of turnips are
spoiled in this township alone by being pulled in a half-ripe condition,
when, if they had sent a boy up to shake the tree--"

"Shake your grandmother!  Turnips don't grow on trees!"

"Oh, they don't, don't they?  Well, who said they did?  The language was
intended to be figurative, wholly figurative.  Anybody that knows
anything will know that I meant that the boy should shake the vine."

Then this old person got up and tore his paper all into small shreds, and
stamped on them, and broke several things with his cane, and said I did
not know as much as a cow; and then went--out and banged the door after
him, and, in short, acted in such a way that I fancied he was displeased
about something.  But not knowing what the trouble was, I could not be
any help to him.

Pretty soon after this a long, cadaverous creature, with lanky locks
hanging down to his shoulders, and a week's stubble bristling from the
hills and valleys of his face, darted within the door, and halted,
motionless, with finger on lip, and head and body bent in listening
attitude.  No sound was heard.

Still he listened.  No sound.  Then he turned the key in the door, and
came elaborately tiptoeing toward me till he was within long reaching
distance of me, when he stopped and, after scanning my face with intense
interest for a while, drew a folded copy of our paper from his bosom, and
said:

"There, you wrote that.  Read it to me--quick!  Relieve me.  I suffer."

I read as follows; and as the sentences fell from my lips I could see the
relief come, I could see the drawn muscles relax, and the anxiety go out
of the face, and rest and peace steal over the features like the merciful
moonlight over a desolate landscape:

     The guano is a fine bird, but great care is necessary in rearing it.
     It should not be imported earlier than June or later than September.
     In the winter it should be kept in a warm place, where it can hatch
     out its young.

     It is evident that we are to have a backward season for grain.
     Therefore it will be well for the farmer to begin setting out his
     corn-stalks and planting his buckwheat cakes in July instead of
     August.

     Concerning the pumpkin.  This berry is a favorite with the natives
     of the interior of New England, who prefer it to the gooseberry for
     the making of fruit-cake, and who likewise give it the preference
     over the raspberry for feeding cows, as being more filling and fully
     as satisfying.  The pumpkin is the only esculent of the orange
     family that will thrive in the North, except the gourd and one or
     two varieties of the squash.  But the custom of planting it in the
     front yard with the shrubbery is fast going out of vogue, for it is
     now generally conceded that, the pumpkin as a shade tree is a
     failure.

     Now, as the warm weather approaches, and the ganders begin to
     spawn--


The excited listener sprang toward me to shake hands, and said:

"There, there--that will do.  I know I am all right now, because you have
read it just as I did, word, for word.  But, stranger, when I first read
it this morning, I said to myself, I never, never believed it before,
notwithstanding my friends kept me under watch so strict, but now I
believe I am crazy; and with that I fetched a howl that you might have
heard two miles, and started out to kill somebody--because, you know,
I knew it would come to that sooner or later, and so I might as well
begin.  I read one of them paragraphs over again, so as to be certain,
and then I burned my house down and started.  I have crippled several
people, and have got one fellow up a tree, where I can get him if I want
him.  But I thought I would call in here as I passed along and make the
thing perfectly certain; and now it is certain, and I tell you it is
lucky for the chap that is in the tree.  I should have killed him sure,
as I went back.  Good-by, sir, good-by; you have taken a great load off
my mind.  My reason has stood the strain of one of your agricultural
articles, and I know that nothing can ever unseat it now.  Good-by, sir."

I felt a little uncomfortable about the cripplings and arsons this person
had been entertaining himself with, for I could not help feeling remotely
accessory to them.  But these thoughts were quickly banished, for the
regular editor walked in!  [I thought to myself, Now if you had gone to
Egypt as I recommended you to, I might have had a chance to get my hand
in; but you wouldn't do it, and here you are.  I sort of expected you.]

The editor was looking sad and perplexed and dejected.

He surveyed the wreck which that old rioter and those two young farmers
had made, and then said "This is a sad business--a very sad business.
There is the mucilage-bottle broken, and six panes of glass, and a
spittoon, and two candlesticks.  But that is not the worst.  The
reputation of the paper is injured--and permanently, I fear.  True, there
never was such a call for the paper before, and it never sold such a
large edition or soared to such celebrity; but does one want to be famous
for lunacy, and prosper upon the infirmities of his mind?  My friend, as
I am an honest man, the street out here is full of people, and others are
roosting on the fences, waiting to get a glimpse of you, because they
think you are crazy.  And well they might after reading your editorials.
They are a disgrace to journalism.  Why, what put it into your head that
you could edit a paper of this nature?  You do not seem to know the first
rudiments of agriculture.  You speak of a furrow and a harrow as being
the same thing; you talk of the moulting season for cows; and you
recommend the domestication of the pole-cat on account of its playfulness
and its excellence as a ratter!  Your remark that clams will lie quiet if
music be played to them was superfluous--entirely superfluous.  Nothing
disturbs clams.  Clams always lie quiet.  Clams care nothing whatever
about music.  Ah, heavens and earth, friend! if you had made the
acquiring of ignorance the study of your life, you could not have
graduated with higher honor than you could to-day.  I never saw anything
like it.  Your observation that the horse-chestnut as an article of
commerce is steadily gaining in favor is simply calculated to destroy
this journal.  I want you to throw up your situation and go.  I want no
more holiday--I could not enjoy it if I had it.  Certainly not with you
in my chair.  I would always stand in dread of what you might be going to
recommend next.  It makes me lose all patience every time I think of your
discussing oyster-beds under the head of 'Landscape Gardening.'  I want
you to go.  Nothing on earth could persuade me to take another holiday.
Oh! why didn't you tell me you didn't know anything about agriculture?"

"Tell you, you corn-stalk, you cabbage, you son of a cauliflower?  It's
the first time I ever heard such an unfeeling remark.  I tell you I have
been in the editorial business going on fourteen years, and it is the
first time I ever heard of a man's having to know anything in order to
edit a newspaper.  You turnip!  Who write the dramatic critiques for the
second-rate papers?  Why, a parcel of promoted shoemakers and apprentice
apothecaries, who know just as much about good acting as I do about good
farming and no more.  Who review the books?  People who never wrote one.
Who do up the heavy leaders on finance?  Parties who have had the largest
opportunities for knowing nothing about it.  Who criticize the Indian
campaigns?  Gentlemen who do not know a war-whoop from a wigwam, and who
never have had to run a foot-race with a tomahawk, or pluck arrows out of
the several members of their families to build the evening camp-fire
with.  Who write the temperance appeals, and clamor about the flowing
bowl?  Folks who will never draw another sober breath till they do it in
the grave.  Who edit the agricultural papers, you--yam?  Men, as a
general thing, who fail in the poetry line, yellow-colored novel line,
sensation, drama line, city-editor line, and finally fall back on
agriculture as a temporary reprieve from the poorhouse.  You try to tell
me anything about the newspaper business!  Sir, I have been through it
from Alpha to Omaha, and I tell you that the less a man knows the bigger
the noise he makes and the higher the salary he commands.  Heaven knows
if I had but been ignorant instead of cultivated, and impudent instead of
diffident, I could have made a name for myself in this cold, selfish
world.  I take my leave, sir.  Since I have been treated as you have
treated me, I am perfectly willing to go.  But I have done my duty.  I
have fulfilled my contract as far as I was permitted to do it.  I said I
could make your paper of interest to all classes--and I have.  I said I
could run your circulation up to twenty thousand copies, and if I had had
two more weeks I'd have done it.  And I'd have given you the best class
of readers that ever an agricultural paper had--not a farmer in it, nor a
solitary individual who could tell a watermelon-tree from a peach-vine to
save his life.  You are the loser by this rupture, not me, Pie-plant.
Adios."

I then left.






THE PETRIFIED MAN

Now, to show how really hard it is to foist a moral or a truth upon an
unsuspecting public through a burlesque without entirely and absurdly
missing one's mark, I will here set down two experiences of my own in
this thing.  In the fall of 1862, in Nevada and California, the people
got to running wild about extraordinary petrifactions and other natural
marvels.  One could scarcely pick up a paper without finding in it one or
two glorified discoveries of this kind.  The mania was becoming a little
ridiculous.  I was a brand-new local editor in Virginia City, and I felt
called upon to destroy this growing evil; we all have our benignant,
fatherly moods at one time or another, I suppose.  I chose to kill the
petrifaction mania with a delicate, a very delicate satire.  But maybe it
was altogether too delicate, for nobody ever perceived the satire part of
it at all.  I put my scheme in the shape of the discovery of a remarkably
petrified man.

I had had a temporary falling out with Mr.----, the new coroner and
justice of the peace of Humboldt, and thought I might as well touch him
up a little at the same time and make him ridiculous, and thus combine
pleasure with business.  So I told, in patient, belief-compelling detail,
all about the finding of a petrified-man at Gravelly Ford (exactly a
hundred and twenty miles, over a breakneck mountain trail from where----
lived); how all the savants of the immediate neighborhood had been to
examine it (it was notorious that there was not a living creature within
fifty miles of there, except a few starving Indians; some crippled
grasshoppers, and four or five buzzards out of meat and too feeble to get
away); how those savants all pronounced the petrified man to have been in
a state of complete petrifaction for over ten generations; and then, with
a seriousness that I ought to have been ashamed to assume, I stated that
as soon as Mr.----heard the news he summoned a jury, mounted his mule,
and posted off, with noble reverence for official duty, on that awful
five days' journey, through alkali, sage brush, peril of body, and
imminent starvation, to hold an inquest on this man that had been dead
and turned to everlasting stone for more than three hundred years!
And then, my hand being "in," so to speak, I went on, with the same
unflinching gravity, to state that the jury returned a verdict that
deceased came to his death from protracted exposure.  This only moved me
to higher flights of imagination, and I said that the jury, with that
charity so characteristic of pioneers, then dug a grave, and were about
to give the petrified man Christian burial, when they found that for ages
a limestone sediment had been trickling down the face of the stone
against which he was sitting, and this stuff had run under him and
cemented him fast to the "bed-rock"; that the jury (they were all silver-
miners) canvassed the difficulty a moment, and then got out their powder
and fuse, and proceeded to drill a hole under him, in order to blast him
from his position, when Mr.----, "with that delicacy so characteristic of
him, forbade them, observing that it would be little less than sacrilege
to do such a thing."

From beginning to end the "Petrified Man" squib was a string of roaring
absurdities, albeit they were told with an unfair pretense of truth that
even imposed upon me to some extent, and I was in some danger of
believing in my own fraud.  But I really had no desire to deceive
anybody, and no expectation of doing it.  I depended on the way the
petrified man was sitting to explain to the public that he was a swindle.
Yet I purposely mixed that up with other things, hoping to make it
obscure--and I did.  I would describe the position of one foot, and then
say his right thumb was against the side of his nose; then talk about his
other foot, and presently come back and say the fingers of his right hand
were spread apart; then talk about the back of his head a little, and
return and say the left thumb was hooked into the right little finger;
then ramble off about something else, and by and by drift back again and
remark that the fingers of the left hand were spread like those of the
right.  But I was too ingenious.  I mixed it up rather too much; and so
all that description of the attitude, as a key to the humbuggery of the
article, was entirely lost, for nobody but me ever discovered and
comprehended the peculiar and suggestive position of the petrified man's
hands.

As a satire on the petrifaction mania, or anything else, my petrified Man
was a disheartening failure; for everybody received him in innocent good
faith, and I was stunned to see the creature I had begotten to pull down
the wonder-business with, and bring derision upon it, calmly exalted to
the grand chief place in the list of the genuine marvels our Nevada had
produced.  I was so disappointed at the curious miscarriage of my scheme,
that at first I was angry, and did not like to think about it; but by and
by, when the exchanges began to come in with the Petrified Man copied and
guilelessly glorified, I began to feel a soothing secret satisfaction;
and as my gentleman's field of travels broadened, and by the exchanges I
saw that he steadily and implacably penetrated territory after territory,
state after state, and land after land, till he swept the great globe and
culminated in sublime and unimpeached legitimacy in the august London
Lancet, my cup was full, and I said I was glad I had done it.  I think
that for about eleven months, as nearly as I can remember, Mr.----'s
daily mail-bag continued to be swollen by the addition of half a bushel
of newspapers hailing from many climes with the Petrified Man in them,
marked around with a prominent belt of ink.  I sent them to him.  I did
it for spite, not for fun.

He used to shovel them into his back yard and curse.  And every day
during all those months the miners, his constituents (for miners never
quit joking a person when they get started), would call on him and ask if
he could tell them where they could get hold of a paper with the
Petrified Man in it.  He could have accommodated a continent with them.
I hated-----in those days, and these things pacified me and pleased me.
I could not have gotten more real comfort out of him without killing him.






MY BLOODY MASSACRE

The other burlesque I have referred to was my fine satire upon the
financial expedients of "cooking dividends," a thing which became
shamefully frequent on the Pacific coast for a while.  Once more, in my
self-complacent simplicity I felt that the time had arrived for me to
rise up and be a reformer.  I put this reformatory satire, in the shape
of a fearful "Massacre at Empire City."  The San Francisco papers were
making a great outcry about the iniquity of the Daney Silver-Mining
Company, whose directors had declared a "cooked" or false dividend, for
the purpose of increasing the value of their stock, so that they could
sell out at a comfortable figure, and then scramble from under the
tumbling concern.  And while abusing the Daney, those papers did not
forget to urge the public to get rid of all their silver stocks and
invest in, sound and safe San Francisco stocks, such as the Spring Valley
Water Company, etc.  But right at this unfortunate juncture, behold the
Spring Valley cooked a dividend too!  And so, under the insidious mask of
an invented "bloody massacre," I stole upon the public unawares with my
scathing satire upon the dividend cooking system.  In about half a column
of imaginary human carnage I told how a citizen hard murdered his wife
and nine children, and then committed suicide.  And I said slyly, at the
bottom, that the sudden madness of which this melancholy massacre was the
result had been brought about by his having allowed himself to be
persuaded by the California papers to sell his sound and lucrative Nevada
silver stocks, and buy into Spring Valley just in time to get cooked
along with that company's fancy dividend, and sink every cent he had in
the world.

Ah, it was a deep, deep satire, and most ingeniously contrived.  But I
made the horrible details so carefully and conscientiously interesting
that the public devoured them greedily, and wholly overlooked the
following distinctly stated facts, to wit: The murderer was perfectly
well known to every creature in the land as a bachelor, and consequently
he could not murder his wife and nine children; he murdered them "in his
splendid dressed-stone mansion just in the edge of the great pine forest
between Empire City and Dutch Nick's," when even the very pickled oysters
that came on our tables knew that there was not a "dressed-stone mansion"
in all Nevada Territory; also that, so far from there being a "great pine
forest between Empire City and Dutch Nick's," there wasn't a solitary
tree within fifteen miles of either place; and, finally, it was patent
and notorious that Empire City and Dutch Nick's were one and the same
place, and contained only six houses anyhow, and consequently there could
be no forest between them; and on top of all these absurdities I stated
that this diabolical murderer, after inflicting a wound upon himself that
the reader ought to have seen would kill an elephant in the twinkling of
an eye, jumped on his horse and rode four miles, waving his wife's
reeking scalp in the air, and thus performing entered Carson City with
tremendous eclat, and dropped dead in front of the chief saloon, the envy
and admiration of all beholders.

Well, in all my life I never saw anything like the sensation that little
satire created.  It was the talk of the town, it was the talk of the
territory.  Most of the citizens dropped gently into it at breakfast, and
they never finished their meal.  There was something about those minutely
faithful details that was a sufficing substitute for food.  Few people
that were able to read took food that morning.  Dan and I (Dan was my
reportorial associate) took our seats on either side of our customary
table in the "Eagle Restaurant," and, as I unfolded the shred they used
to call a napkin in that establishment, I saw at the next table two
stalwart innocents with that sort of vegetable dandruff sprinkled about
their clothing which was the sign and evidence that they were in from the
Truckee with a load of hay.  The one facing me had the morning paper
folded to a long, narrow strip, and I knew, without any telling, that
that strip represented the column that contained my pleasant financial
satire.  From the way he was excitedly mumbling, I saw that the heedless
son of a hay-mow was skipping with all his might, in order to get to the
bloody details as quickly as possible; and so he was missing the guide-
boards I had set up to warn him that the whole thing was a fraud.
Presently his eyes spread wide open, just as his jaws swung asunder to
take in a potato approaching it on a fork; the potato halted, the face
lit up redly, and the whole man was on fire with excitement.  Then he
broke into a disjointed checking off of the particulars--his potato
cooling in mid-air meantime, and his mouth making a reach for it
occasionally; but always bringing up suddenly against a new and still
more direful performance of my hero.  At last he looked his stunned and
rigid comrade impressively in the face, and said, with an expression of
concentrated awe:

"Jim, he b'iled his baby, and he took the old 'oman's skelp.  Cuss'd if I
want any breakfast!"

And he laid his lingering potato reverently down, and he and his friend
departed from the restaurant empty but satisfied.

He never got down to where the satire part of it began.  Nobody ever did.
They found the thrilling particulars sufficient.  To drop in with a poor
little moral at the fag-end of such a gorgeous massacre was like
following the expiring sun with a candle and hope to attract the world's
attention to it.

The idea that anybody could ever take my massacre for a genuine
occurrence never once suggested itself to me, hedged about as it was by
all those telltale absurdities and impossibilities concerning the "great
pine forest," the "dressed-stone mansion," etc.  But I found out then,
and never have forgotten since, that we never read the dull explanatory
surroundings of marvelously exciting things when we have no occasion to
suppose that some irresponsible scribbler is trying to defraud us; we
skip all that, and hasten to revel in the blood-curdling particulars and
be happy.







THE UNDERTAKER'S CHAT

"Now that corpse," said the undertaker, patting the folded hands of
deceased approvingly, was a brick-every way you took him he was a brick.
He was so real accommodating, and so modest-like and simple in his last
moments.  Friends wanted metallic burial-case--nothing else would do.
I couldn't get it.  There warn't going to be time--anybody could see
that.

"Corpse said never mind, shake him up some kind of a box he could stretch
out in comfortable, he warn't particular 'bout the general style of it.
Said he went more on room than style, anyway in a last final container.

"Friends wanted a silver door-plate on the coffin, signifying who he was
and wher' he was from.  Now you know a fellow couldn't roust out such a
gaily thing as that in a little country-town like this.  What did corpse
say?

"Corpse said, whitewash his old canoe and dob his address and general
destination onto it with a blacking-brush and a stencil-plate, 'long with
a verse from some likely hymn or other, and pint him for the tomb, and
mark him C. O. D., and just let him flicker.  He warn't distressed any
more than you be--on the contrary, just as ca,'m and collected as a
hearse-horse; said he judged that wher' he was going to a body would find
it considerable better to attract attention by a picturesque moral
character than a natty burial-case with a swell door-plate on it.

"Splendid man, he was.  I'd druther do for a corpse like that 'n any I've
tackled in seven year.  There's some satisfaction in buryin' a man like
that.  You feel that what you're doing is appreciated.  Lord bless you,
so's he got planted before he sp'iled, he was perfectly satisfied; said
his relations meant well, perfectly well, but all them preparations was
bound to delay the thing more or less, and he didn't wish to be kept
layin' around.  You never see such a clear head as what he had--and so
ca,'m and so cool.  Jist a hunk of brains--that is what he was.
Perfectly awful.  It was a ripping distance from one end of that man's
head to t'other.  Often and over again he's had brain-fever a-raging in
one place, and the rest of the pile didn't know anything about it--didn't
affect it any more than an Injun Insurrection in Arizona affects the
Atlantic States.  "Well, the relations they wanted a big funeral, but
corpse said he was down on flummery--didn,'t want any procession--fill
the hearse full of mourners, and get out a stern line and tow him behind.
He was the most down on style of any remains I ever struck.  A beautiful,
simpleminded creature it was what he was, you can depend on that.  He was
just set on having things the way he wanted them, and he took a solid
comfort in laying his little plans.  He had me measure him and take a
whole raft of directions; then he had the minister stand up behind along
box with a table--cloth over it, to represent the coffin, and read his
funeral sermon, saying 'Angcore, angcore!' at the good places, and making
him scratch out every bit of brag about him, and all the hifalutin; and
then he made them trot out the choir, so's he could help them pick out
the tunes for the occasion, and he got them to sing 'Pop Goes the
Weasel,' because he'd always liked that tune when he was downhearted, and
solemn music made him sad; and when they sung that with tears in their
eyes (because they all loved him), and his relations grieving around, he
just laid there as happy as a bug, and trying to beat time and showing
all over how much he enjoyed it; and presently he got worked up and
excited, and tried to join in, for, mind you, he was pretty proud of his
abilities in the singing line; but the first time he opened his mouth and
was just going to spread himself his breath took a walk.

"I never see a man snuffed out so sudden.  Ah, it was a great loss--a,
powerful loss to this poor little one-horse town.  Well, well, well, I
hain't got time to be palavering along here--got to nail on the lid and
mosey along with him; and if you'll just give me a lift we'll skeet him
into the hearse and meander along.  Relations bound to have it so--don't
pay no attention to dying injunctions, minute a corpse's gone; but, if I
had my way, if I didn't respect his last wishes and tow him behind the
hearse I'll be cuss'd.  I consider that whatever a corpse wants done for
his comfort is little enough matter, and a man hain't got no right to
deceive him or take advantage of him; and whatever a corpse trusts me to
do I'm a-going to do, you know, even if it's to stuff him and paint him
yaller and keep him for a keepsake--you hear me!"

He cracked his whip and went lumbering away with his ancient ruin of a
hearse, and I continued my walk with a valuable lesson learned--that a
healthy and wholesome cheerfulness is not necessarily impossible to any
occupation.  The lesson is likely to be lasting, for it will take many
months to obliterate the memory of the remarks and circumstances that
impressed it.






CONCERNING CHAMBERMAIDS

Against all chambermaids, of whatsoever age or nationality, I launch the
curse of bachelordom!  Because:

They always put the pillows at the opposite end of the bed from the gas-
burner, so that while you read and smoke before sleeping (as is the
ancient and honored custom of bachelors), you have to hold your book
aloft, in an uncomfortable position, to keep the light from dazzling your
eyes.

When they find the pillows removed to the other end of the bed in the
morning, they receive not the suggestion in a friendly spirit; but,
glorying in their absolute sovereignty, and unpitying your helplessness,
they make the bed just as it was originally, and gloat in secret over the
pang their tyranny will cause you.

Always after that, when they find you have transposed the pillows, they
undo your work, and thus defy and seek to embitter the life that God has
given you.

If they cannot get the light in an inconvenient position any other way,
they move the bed.

If you pull your trunk out six inches from the wall, so that the lid will
stay up when you open it, they always shove that trunk back again.  They
do it on purpose.

If you want the spittoon in a certain spot, where it will be handy, they
don't, and so they move it.

They always put your other boots into inaccessible places.  They chiefly
enjoy depositing them as far under the bed as the wall will permit.  It
is because this compels you to get down in an undignified attitude and
make wild sweeps for them in the dark with the bootjack, and swear.

They always put the matchbox in some other place.  They hunt up a new
place for it every day, and put up a bottle, or other perishable glass
thing, where the box stood before.  This is to cause you to break that
glass thing, groping in the dark, and get yourself into trouble.

They are for ever and ever moving the furniture.  When you come in in the
night you can calculate on finding the bureau where the wardrobe was in
the morning.  And when you go out in the morning, if you leave the slop-
bucket by the door and rocking-chair by the window, when you come in at
midnight or thereabout, you will fall over that rocking-chair, and you
will proceed toward the window and sit down in that slop-tub.  This will
disgust you.  They like that.

No matter where you put anything, they are not going to let it stay
there.  They will take it and move it the first chance they get.  It is
their nature.  And, besides, it gives them pleasure to be mean and
contrary this way.  They would die if they couldn't be villains.

They always save up all the old scraps of printed rubbish you throw on
the floor, and stack them up carefully on the table, and start the fire
with your valuable manuscripts.  If there is any one particular old scrap
that you are more down on than any other, and which you are gradually
wearing your life out trying to get rid of, you may take all the pains
you possibly can in that direction, but it won't be of any use, because
they will always fetch that old scrap back and put it in the same old
place again every time.  It does them good.

And they use up more hair-oil than any six men.  If charged with
purloining the same, they lie about it.  What do they care about a
hereafter?  Absolutely nothing.

If you leave the key in the door for convenience' sake, they will carry
it down to the office and give it to the clerk.  They do this under the
vile pretense of trying to protect your property from thieves; but
actually they do it because they want to make you tramp back down-stairs
after it when you come home tired, or put you to the trouble of sending a
waiter for it, which waiter will expect you to pay him something.  In
which case I suppose the degraded creatures divide.

They keep always trying to make your bed before you get up, thus
destroying your rest and inflicting agony upon you; but after you get up,
they don't come any more till next day.

They do all the mean things they can think of, and they do them just out
of pure cussedness, and nothing else.

Chambermaids are dead to every human instinct.

If I can get a bill through the legislature abolishing chambermaids, I
mean to do it.






AURELIA'S UNFORTUNATE YOUNG MAN--[Written about 1865.]

The facts in the following case came to me by letter from a young lady
who lives in the beautiful city of San Jose; she is perfectly unknown to
me, and simply signs herself "Aurelia Maria," which may possibly be a
fictitious name.  But no matter, the poor girl is almost heartbroken by
the misfortunes she has undergone, and so confused by the conflicting
counsels of misguided friends and insidious enemies that she does not
know what course to pursue in order to extricate herself from the web of
difficulties in which she seems almost hopelessly involved.  In this
dilemma she turns to me for help, and supplicates for my guidance and
instruction with a moving eloquence that would touch the heart of a
statue.  Hear her sad story:

She says that when she was sixteen years old she met and loved, with all
the devotion of a passionate nature, a young man from New Jersey, named
Williamson Breckinridge Caruthers, who was some six years her senior.
They were engaged, with the free consent of their friends and relatives,
and for a time it seemed as if their career was destined to, be
characterized by an immunity from sorrow beyond the usual lot of
humanity.  But at last the tide of fortune turned; young Caruthers became
infect with smallpox of the most virulent type, and when he recovered
from his illness his face was pitted like a waffle-mold, and his
comeliness gone forever.  Aurelia thought to break off the engagement at
first, but pity for her unfortunate lover caused her to postpone the
marriage-day for a season, and give him another trial.

The very day before the wedding was to have taken place, Breckinridge,
while absorbed in watching the flight of a balloon, walked into a well
and fractured one of his legs, and it had to be taken off above the knee.
Again Aurelia was moved to break the engagement, but again love
triumphed, and she set the day forward and gave him another chance to
reform.

And again misfortune overtook the unhappy youth.  He lost one arm by the
premature discharge of a Fourth of July cannon, and within three months
he got the other pulled out by a carding-machine.  Aurelia's heart was
almost crushed by these latter calamities.  She could not but be deeply
grieved to see her lover passing from her by piecemeal, feeling, as she
did, that he could not last forever under this disastrous process of
reduction, yet knowing of no way to stop its dreadful career, and in her
tearful despair she almost regretted, like brokers who hold on and lose,
that she had not taken him at first, before he had suffered such an
alarming depreciation.  Still, her brave soul bore her up, and she
resolved to bear with her friend's unnatural disposition yet a little
longer.

Again the wedding-day approached, and again disappointment overshadowed
it; Caruthers fell ill with the erysipelas, and lost the use of one of
his eyes entirely.  The friends and relatives of the bride, considering
that she had already put up with more than could reasonably be expected
of her, now came forward and insisted that the match should be broken
off; but after wavering awhile, Aurelia, with a generous spirit which did
her credit, said she had reflected calmly upon the matter, and could not
discover that Breckinridge was to blame.

So she extended the time once more, and he broke his other leg.

It was a sad day for the poor girl when, she saw the surgeons reverently
bearing away the sack whose uses she had learned by previous experience,
and her heart told her the bitter truth that some more of her lover was
gone.  She felt that the field of her affections was growing more and
more circumscribed every day, but once more she frowned down her
relatives and renewed her betrothal.

Shortly before the time set for the nuptials another disaster occurred.
There was but one man scalped by the Owens River Indians last year.  That
man was Williamson Breckinridge Caruthers of New Jersey.  He was hurrying
home with happiness in his heart, when he lost his hair forever, and in
that hour of bitterness he almost cursed the mistaken mercy that had
spared his head.

At last Aurelia is in serious perplexity as to what she ought to do.  She
still loves her Breckinridge, she writes, with truly womanly feeling--she
still loves what is left of him but her parents are bitterly opposed to
the match, because he has no property and is disabled from working, and
she has not sufficient means to support both comfortably.  "Now, what
should she do?" she asked with painful and anxious solicitude.

It is a delicate question; it is one which involves the lifelong
happiness of a woman, and that of nearly two-thirds of a man, and I feel
that it would be assuming too great a responsibility to do more than make
a mere suggestion in the case.  How would it do to build to him?  If
Aurelia can afford the expense, let her furnish her mutilated lover with
wooden arms and wooden legs, and a glass eye and a wig, and give him
another show; give him ninety days, without grace, and if he does not
break his neck in the mean time, marry him and take the chances.  It does
not seem to me that there is much risk, anyway, Aurelia, because if he
sticks to his singular propensity for damaging himself every time he sees
a good opportunity, his next experiment is bound to finish him, and then
you are safe, married or single.  If married, the wooden legs and such
other valuables as he may possess revert to the widow, and you see you
sustain no actual loss save the cherished fragment of a noble but most
unfortunate husband, who honestly strove to do right, but whose
extraordinary instincts were against him.  Try it, Maria. I have thought
the matter over carefully and well, and it is the only chance I see for
you.  It would have been a happy conceit on the part of Caruthers if he
had started with his neck and broken that first; but since he has seen
fit to choose a different policy and string himself out as long as
possible, I do not think we ought to upbraid him for it if he has enjoyed
it.  We must do the best we can under the circumstances, and try not to
feel exasperated at him.






"AFTER" JENKINS

A grand affair of a ball--the Pioneers'--came off at the Occidental some
time ago.  The following notes of the costumes worn by the belles of the
occasion may not be uninteresting to the general reader, and Jerkins may
get an idea therefrom:

Mrs. W. M. was attired in an elegant 'pate de foie gras,' made expressly
for her, and was greatly admired.  Miss S. had her hair done up.  She was
the center of attraction for the envy of all the ladies.  Mrs. G. W. was
tastefully dressed in a 'tout ensemble,' and was greeted with deafening
applause wherever she went.  Mrs. C. N. was superbly arrayed in white kid
gloves.  Her modest and engaging manner accorded well with the
unpretending simplicity of her costume and caused her to be regarded with
absorbing interest by every one.

The charming Miss M. M. B. appeared in a thrilling waterfall, whose
exceeding grace and volume compelled the homage of pioneers and emigrants
alike.  How beautiful she was!

The queenly Mrs. L. R.  was attractively attired in her new and beautiful
false teeth, and the 'bon jour' effect they naturally produced was
heightened by her enchanting and well-sustained smile.

Miss R. P., with that repugnance to ostentation in dress which is so
peculiar to her, was attired in a simple white lace collar, fastened with
a neat pearl-button solitaire.  The fine contrast between the sparkling
vivacity of her natural optic, and the steadfast attentiveness of her
placid glass eye, was the subject of general and enthusiastic remark.

Miss C. L. B.  had her fine nose elegantly enameled, and the easy grace
with which she blew it from time to time marked her as a cultivated and
accomplished woman of the world; its exquisitely modulated tone excited
the admiration of all who had the happiness to hear it.






ABOUT BARBERS

All things change except barbers, the ways of barbers, and the
surroundings of barbers.  These never change.  What one experiences in a
barber's shop the first time he enters one is what he always experiences
in barbers' shops afterward till the end of his days.  I got shaved this
morning as usual.  A man approached the door from Jones Street as I
approached it from Main--a thing that always happens.  I hurried up, but
it was of no use; he entered the door one little step ahead of me, and I
followed in on his heels and saw him take the only vacant chair, the one
presided over by the best barber.  It always happens so.  I sat down,
hoping that I might fall heir to the chair belonging to the better of the
remaining two barbers, for he had already begun combing his man's hair,
while his comrade was not yet quite done rubbing up and oiling his
customer's locks.  I watched the probabilities with strong interest.
When I saw that No. 2 was gaining on No. 1 my interest grew to
solicitude.  When No. 1 stopped a moment to make change on a bath ticket
for a new-comer, and lost ground in the race, my solicitude rose to
anxiety.  When No. 1 caught up again, and both he and his comrade were
pulling the towels away and brushing the powder from their customers'
cheeks, and it was about an even thing which one would say "Next!" first,
my very breath stood still with the suspense.  But when at the
culminating moment No. 1 stopped to pass a comb a couple of times through
his customer's eyebrows, I saw that he had lost the race by a single
instant, and I rose indignant and quitted the shop, to keep from falling
into the hands of No. 2; for I have none of that enviable firmness that
enables a man to look calmly into the eyes of a waiting barber and tell
him he will wait for his fellow-barber's chair.

I stayed out fifteen minutes, and then went back, hoping for better luck.
Of course all the chairs were occupied now, and four men sat waiting,
silent, unsociable, distraught, and looking bored, as men always do who
are waiting their turn in a barber's shop.  I sat down in one of the
iron-armed compartments of an old sofa, and put in the time far a while
reading the framed advertisements of all sorts of quack nostrums for
dyeing and coloring the hair.  Then I read the greasy names on the
private bayrum bottles; read the names and noted the numbers on the
private shaving-cups in the pigeonholes; studied the stained and damaged
cheap prints on the walls, of battles, early Presidents, and voluptuous
recumbent sultanas, and the tiresome and everlasting young girl putting
her grandfather's spectacles on; execrated in my heart the cheerful
canary and the distracting parrot that few barbers' shops are without.
Finally, I searched out the least dilapidated of last year's illustrated
papers that littered the foul center-table, and conned their
unjustifiable misrepresentations of old forgotten events.

At last my turn came.  A voice said "Next!" and I surrendered to--No.  2,
of course.  It always happens so.  I said meekly that I was in a hurry,
and it affected him as strongly as if he had never heard it.  He shoved
up my head, and put a napkin under it.  He plowed his fingers into my
collar and fixed a towel there.  He explored my hair with his claws and
suggested that it needed trimming.  I said I did not want it trimmed.  He
explored again and said it was pretty long for the present style--better
have a little taken off; it needed it behind especially.  I said I had
had it cut only a week before.  He yearned over it reflectively a moment,
and then asked with a disparaging manner, who cut it?  I came back at him
promptly with a "You did!" I had him there.  Then he fell to stirring up
his lather and regarding himself in the glass, stopping now and then to
get close and examine his chin critically or inspect a pimple.  Then he
lathered one side of my face thoroughly, and was about to lather the
other, when a dog-fight attracted his attention, and he ran to the window
and stayed and saw it out, losing two shillings on the result in bets
with the other barbers, a thing which gave me great satisfaction.  He
finished lathering, and then began to rub in the suds with his hand.

He now began to sharpen his razor on an old suspender, and was delayed a
good deal on account of a controversy about a cheap masquerade ball he
had figured at the night before, in red cambric and bogus ermine, as some
kind of a king.  He was so gratified with being chaffed about some damsel
whom he had smitten with his charms that he used every means to continue
the controversy by pretending to be annoyed at the chaffings of his
fellows.  This matter begot more surveyings of himself in the glass, and
he put down his razor and brushed his hair with elaborate care,
plastering an inverted arch of it down on his forehead, accomplishing an
accurate "Part" behind, and brushing the two wings forward over his ears
with nice exactness.  In the mean time the lather was drying on my face,
and apparently eating into my vitals.

Now he began to shave, digging his fingers into my countenance to stretch
the skin and bundling and tumbling my head this way and that as
convenience in shaving demanded.  As long as he was on the tough sides of
my face I did not suffer; but when he began to rake, and rip, and tug at
my chin, the tears came.  He now made a handle of my nose, to assist him
shaving the corners of my upper lip, and it was by this bit of
circumstantial evidence that I discovered that a part of his duties in
the shop was to clean the kerosene-lamps.  I had often wondered in an
indolent way whether the barbers did that, or whether it was the boss.

About this time I was amusing myself trying to guess where he would be
most likely to cut me this time, but he got ahead of me, and sliced me on
the end of the chin before I had got my mind made up.  He immediately
sharpened his razor--he might have done it before.  I do not like a close
shave, and would not let him go over me a second time.  I tried to get
him to put up his razor, dreading that he would make for the side of my
chin, my pet tender spot, a place which a razor cannot touch twice
without making trouble; but he said he only wanted to just smooth off one
little roughness, and in the same moment he slipped his razor along the
forbidden ground, and the dreaded pimple-signs of a close shave rose up
smarting and answered to the call.  Now he soaked his towel in bay rum,
and slapped it all over my face nastily; slapped it over as if a human
being ever yet washed his face in that way.  Then he dried it by slapping
with the dry part of the towel, as if a human being ever dried his face
in such a fashion; but a barber seldom rubs you like a Christian.  Next
he poked bay ruin into the cut place with his towel, then choked the
wound with powdered starch, then soaked it with bay rum again, and would
have gone on soaking and powdering it forevermore, no doubt, if I had not
rebelled and begged off.  He powdered my whole face now, straightened me
up, and began to plow my hair thoughtfully with his hands.  Then he
suggested a shampoo, and said my hair needed it badly, very badly.
I observed that I shampooed it myself very thoroughly in the bath
yesterday.  I "had him" again.  He next recommended some of "Smith's Hair
Glorifier," and offered to sell me a bottle.  I declined.  He praised the
new perfume, "Jones's Delight of the Toilet," and proposed to sell me
some of that.  I declined again.  He tendered me a tooth-wash atrocity of
his own invention, and when I declined offered to trade knives with me.

He returned to business after the miscarriage of this last enterprise,
sprinkled me all over, legs and all, greased my hair in defiance of my
protest against it, rubbed and scrubbed a good deal of it out by the
roots, and combed and brushed the rest, parting it behind, and plastering
the eternal inverted arch of hair down on my forehead, and then, while
combing my scant eyebrows and defiling them with pomade, strung out an
account of the achievements of a six-ounce black-and-tan terrier of his
till I heard the whistles blow for noon, and knew I was five minutes too
late for the train.  Then he snatched away the towel, brushed it lightly
about my face, passed his comb through my eyebrows once more, and gaily
sang out "Next!"

This barber fell down and died of apoplexy two hours later.  I am waiting
over a day for my revenge--I am going to attend his funeral.






"PARTY CRIES" IN IRELAND

Belfast is a peculiarly religious community.  This may be said of the
whole of the North of Ireland.  About one-half of the people are
Protestants and the other half Catholics.  Each party does all it can to
make its own doctrines popular and draw the affections of the irreligious
toward them.  One hears constantly of the most touching instances of this
zeal.  A week ago a vast concourse of Catholics assembled at Armagh to
dedicate a new Cathedral; and when they started home again the roadways
were lined with groups of meek and lowly Protestants who stoned them till
all the region round about was marked with blood.  I thought that only
Catholics argued in that way, but it seems to be a mistake.

Every man in the community is a missionary and carries a brick to
admonish the erring with.  The law has tried to break this up, but not
with perfect success.  It has decreed that irritating "party cries" shall
not be indulged in, and that persons uttering them shall be fined forty
shillings and costs.  And so, in the police court reports every day, one
sees these fines recorded.  Last week a girl of twelve years old was
fined the usual forty shillings and costs for proclaiming in the public
streets that she was "a Protestant."  The usual cry is, "To hell with the
Pope!" or "To hell with the Protestants!" according to the utterer's
system of salvation.

One of Belfast's local jokes was very good.  It referred to the uniform
and inevitable fine of forty shillings and costs for uttering a party
cry--and it is no economical fine for a poor man, either, by the way.
They say that a policeman found a drunken man lying on the ground, up a
dark alley, entertaining himself with shouting, "To hell with!"  "To hell
with!"  The officer smelt a fine--informers get half.

"What's that you say?"

"To hell with!"

"To hell with who?  To hell with what?"

"Ah, bedad, ye can finish it yourself--it's too expansive for me!"

I think the seditious disposition, restrained by the economical instinct,
is finely put in that.






THE FACTS CONCERNING THE RECENT RESIGNATION

WASHINGTON, December, 1867.

I have resigned.  The government appears to go on much the same, but
there is a spoke out of its wheel, nevertheless.  I was clerk of the
Senate Committee on Conchology, and I have thrown up the position.
I could see the plainest disposition on the part of the other members of
the government to debar me from having any voice in the counsels of the
nation, and so I could no longer hold office and retain my self-respect.
If I were to detail all the outrages that were heaped upon me during the
six days that I was connected with the government in an official
capacity, the narrative would fill a volume.  They appointed me clerk of
that Committee on Conchology and then allowed me no amanuensis to play
billiards with.  I would have borne that, lonesome as it was, if I had
met with that courtesy from the other members of the Cabinet which was my
due.  But I did not.  Whenever I observed that the head of a department
was pursuing a wrong course, I laid down everything and went and tried to
set him right, as it was my duty to do; and I never was thanked for it in
a single instance.  I went, with the best intentions in the world, to the
Secretary of the Navy, and said:

"Sir, I cannot see that Admiral Farragut is doing anything but
skirmishing around there in Europe, having a sort of picnic.  Now, that
may be all very well, but it does not exhibit itself to me in that light.
If there is no fighting for him to do, let him come home.  There is no
use in a man having a whole fleet for a pleasure excursion.  It is too
expensive.  Mind, I do not object to pleasure excursions for the naval
officers--pleasure excursions that are in reason--pleasure excursions
that are economical.  Now, they might go down the Mississippi
on a raft--"

You ought to have heard him storm!  One would have supposed I had
committed a crime of some kind.  But I didn't mind.  I said it was cheap,
and full of republican simplicity, and perfectly safe.  I said that, for
a tranquil pleasure excursion, there was nothing equal to a raft.

Then the Secretary of the Navy asked me who I was; and when I told him I
was connected with the government, he wanted to know in what capacity.  I
said that, without remarking upon the singularity of such a question,
coming, as it did, from a member of that same government, I would inform
him that I was clerk of the Senate Committee on Conchology.  Then there
was a fine storm!  He finished by ordering me to leave the premises, and
give my attention strictly to my own business in future.  My first
impulse was to get him removed.  However, that would harm others besides
himself, and do me no real good, and so I let him stay.

I went next to the Secretary of War, who was not inclined to see me at
all until he learned that I was connected with the government.  If I had
not been on important business, I suppose I could not have got in.
I asked him for alight (he was smoking at the time), and then I told him
I had no fault to find with his defending the parole stipulations of
General Lee and his comrades in arms, but that I could not approve of his
method of fighting the Indians on the Plains.  I said he fought too
scattering.  He ought to get the Indians more together--get them together
in some convenient place, where he could have provisions enough for both
parties, and then have a general massacre.  I said there was nothing so
convincing to an Indian as a general massacre.  If he could not approve
of the massacre, I said the next surest thing for an Indian was soap and
education.  Soap and education are not as sudden as a massacre, but they
are more deadly in the long run; because a half-massacred Indian may
recover, but if you educate him and wash him, it is bound to finish him
some time or other.  It undermines his constitution; it strikes at the
foundation of his being.  "Sir," I said, "the time has come when blood-
curdling cruelty has become necessary.  Inflict soap and a spelling-book
on every Indian that ravages the Plains, and let them die!"

The Secretary of War asked me if I was a member of the Cabinet, and I
said I was.  He inquired what position I held, and I said I was clerk of
the Senate Committee on Conchology.  I was then ordered under arrest for
contempt of court, and restrained of my liberty for the best part of the
day.

I almost resolved to be silent thenceforward, and let the Government get
along the best way it could.  But duty called, and I obeyed.  I called on
the Secretary of the Treasury.  He said:

"What will you have?"

The question threw me off my guard.  I said, "Rum punch."

He said: "If you have got any business here, sir, state it--and in as few
words as possible."

I then said that I was sorry he had seen fit to change the subject so
abruptly, because such conduct was very offensive to me; but under the
circumstances I would overlook the matter and come to the point.  I now
went into an earnest expostulation with him upon the extravagant length
of his report.  I said it was expensive, unnecessary, and awkwardly
constructed; there were no descriptive passages in it, no poetry, no
sentiment no heroes, no plot, no pictures--not even wood-cuts.  Nobody
would read it, that was a clear case.  I urged him not to ruin his
reputation by getting out a thing like that.  If he ever hoped to succeed
in literature he must throw more variety into his writings.  He must
beware of dry detail.  I said that the main popularity of the almanac was
derived from its poetry and conundrums, and that a few conundrums
distributed around through his Treasury report would help the sale of it
more than all the internal revenue he could put into it.  I said these
things in the kindest spirit, and yet the Secretary of the Treasury fell
into a violent passion.  He even said I was an ass.  He abused me in the
most vindictive manner, and said that if I came there again meddling with
his business he would throw me out of the window.  I said I would take my
hat and go, if I could not be treated with the respect due to my office,
and I did go.  It was just like a new author.  They always think they
know more than anybody else when they are getting out their first book.
Nobody can tell them anything.

During the whole time that I was connected with the government it seemed
as if I could not do anything in an official capacity without getting
myself into trouble.  And yet I did nothing, attempted nothing, but what
I conceived to be for the good of my country.  The sting of my wrongs may
have driven me to unjust and harmful conclusions, but it surely seemed to
me that the Secretary of State, the Secretary of War, the Secretary of
the Treasury, and others of my confreres had conspired from the very
beginning to drive me from the Administration.  I never attended but one
Cabinet meeting while I was connected with the government.  That was
sufficient for me.  The servant at the White House door did not seem
disposed to make way for me until I asked if the other members of the
Cabinet had arrived.  He said they had, and I entered.  They were all
there; but nobody offered me a seat.  They stared at me as if I had been
an intruder.  The President said:

"Well, sir, who are you?"

I handed him my card, and he read: "The HON.  MARK TWAIN, Clerk of the
Senate Committee on Conchology."  Then he looked at me from head to foot,
as if he had never heard of me before.  The Secretary of the Treasury
said:

"This is the meddlesome ass that came to recommend me to put poetry and
conundrums in my report, as if it were an almanac."

The Secretary of War said: "It is the same visionary that came to me
yesterday with a scheme to educate a portion of the Indians to death,
and massacre the balance."

The Secretary of the Navy said: "I recognize this youth as the person who
has been interfering with my business time and again during the week.  He
is distressed about Admiral Farragut's using a whole fleet for a pleasure
excursion, as he terms it.  His proposition about some insane pleasure
excursion on a raft is too absurd to repeat."

I said: "Gentlemen, I perceive here a disposition to throw discredit
upon every act of my official career; I perceive, also, a disposition to
debar me from all voice in the counsels of the nation.  No notice
whatever was sent to me to-day.  It was only by the merest chance that I
learned that there was going to be a Cabinet meeting.  But let these
things pass.  All I wish to know is, is this a Cabinet meeting or is it
not?"

The President said it was.

"Then," I said, "let us proceed to business at once, and not fritter away
valuable time in unbecoming fault-findings with each other's official
conduct."

The Secretary of State now spoke up, in his benignant way, and said,
"Young man, you are laboring under a mistake.  The clerks of the
Congressional committees are not members of the Cabinet.  Neither are the
doorkeepers of the Capitol, strange as it may seem.  Therefore, much as
we could desire your more than human wisdom in our deliberations, we
cannot lawfully avail ourselves of it.  The counsels of the nation must
proceed without you; if disaster follows, as follow full well it may, be
it balm to your sorrowing spirit that by deed and voice you did what in
you lay to avert it.  You have my blessing.  Farewell."

These gentle words soothed my troubled breast, and I went away.  But the
servants of a nation can know no peace.  I had hardly reached my den in
the Capitol, and disposed my feet on the table like a representative,
when one of the Senators on the Conchological Committee came in in a
passion and said:

"Where have you been all day?"

I observed that, if that was anybody's affair but my own, I had been to a
Cabinet meeting.

"To a Cabinet meeting?  I would like to know what business you had at a
Cabinet meeting?"

I said I went there to consult--allowing for the sake of argument that he
was in any wise concerned in the matter.  He grew insolent then, and
ended by saying he had wanted me for three days past to copy a report on
bomb-shells, egg-shells, clamshells, and I don't know what all, connected
with conchology, and nobody had been able to find me.

This was too much.  This was the feather that broke the clerical camel's
back.  I said, "Sir, do you suppose that I am going to work for six
dollars a day?  If that is the idea, let me recommend the Senate
Committee on Conchology to hire somebody else.  I am the slave of no
faction!  Take back your degrading commission.  Give me liberty, or give
me death!"

From that hour I was no longer connected with the government.  Snubbed by
the department, snubbed by the Cabinet, snubbed at last by the chairman
of a committee I was endeavoring to adorn, I yielded to persecution, cast
far from me the perils and seductions of my great office, and forsook my
bleeding country in the hour of her peril.

But I had done the state some service, and I sent in my bill:

     The United States of America in account with
     the Hon. Clerk of the Senate Committee on Conchology,   Dr.
          To consultation with Secretary of War ............ $50
          To consultation with Secretary of Navy ........... $50
          To consultation with Secretary of the Treasury ... $50
          Cabinet consultation ...................No charge.
          To mileage to and from Jerusalem, via Egypt,
               Algiers, Gibraltar, and Cadiz,
               14,000 miles, at 20c. a mile ............. $2,800
          To salary as Clerk of Senate Committee
          on Conchology, six days, at $6 per day ........... $36

                         Total .......................... $2,986

--[Territorial delegates charge mileage both ways, although they never go
back when they get here once.  Why my mileage is denied me is more than I
can understand.]

Not an item of this bill has been paid, except that trifle of thirty-six
dollars for clerkship salary.  The Secretary of the Treasury, pursuing me
to the last, drew his pen through all the other items, and simply marked
in the margin "Not allowed."  So, the dread alternative is embraced at
last.  Repudiation has begun!  The nation is lost.

I am done with official life for the present.  Let those clerks who are
willing to be imposed on remain.  I know numbers of them in the
departments who are never informed when there is to be a Cabinet meeting,
whose advice is never asked about war, or finance, or commerce, by the
heads of the nation, any more than if they were not connected with the
government, and who actually stay in their offices day after day and
work!  They know their importance to the nation, and they unconsciously
show it in their bearing, and the way they order their sustenance at the
restaurant--but they work.  I know one who has to paste all sorts of
little scraps from the newspapers into a scrapbook--sometimes as many as
eight or ten scraps a day.  He doesn't do it well, but he does it as well
as he can.  It is very fatiguing.  It is exhausting to the intellect.
Yet he only gets eighteen hundred dollars a year.  With a brain like his,
that young man could amass thousands and thousands of dollars in some
other pursuit, if he chose to do it.  But no--his heart is with his
country, and he will serve her as long as she has got a scrapbook left.
And I know clerks that don't know how to write very well, but such
knowledge as they possess they nobly lay at the feet of their country,
and toil on and suffer for twenty-five hundred dollars a year.  What they
write has to be written over again by other clerks sometimes; but when a
man has done his best for his country, should his country complain?  Then
there are clerks that have no clerkships, and are waiting, and waiting,
and waiting for a vacancy--waiting patiently for a chance to help their
country out--and while they, are waiting, they only get barely two
thousand dollars a year for it.  It is sad it is very, very sad.  When a
member of Congress has a friend who is gifted, but has no employment
wherein his great powers may be brought to bear, he confers him upon his
country, and gives him a clerkship in a department.  And there that man
has to slave his life out, fighting documents for the benefit of a nation
that never thinks of him, never sympathizes with him--and all for two
thousand or three thousand dollars a year.  When I shall have completed
my list of all the clerks in the several departments, with my statement
of what they have to do, and what they get for it, you will see that
there are not half enough clerks, and that what there are do not get half
enough pay.






HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF

The following I find in a Sandwich Island paper which some friend has
sent me from that tranquil far-off retreat.  The coincidence between my
own experience and that here set down by the late Mr. Benton is so
remarkable that I cannot forbear publishing and commenting upon the
paragraph.  The Sandwich Island paper says:

How touching is this tribute of the late Hon. T. H. Benton to his
mother's influence:--'My mother asked me never to use tobacco; I have
never touched it from that time to the present day.  She asked me not to
gamble, and I have never gambled.  I cannot tell who is losing in games
that are being played.  She admonished me, too, against liquor-drinking,
and whatever capacity for endurance I have at present, and whatever
usefulness I may have attained through life, I attribute to having
complied with her pious and correct wishes.  When I was seven years of
age she asked me not to drink, and then I made a resolution of total
abstinence; and that I have adhered to it through all time I owe to my
mother.'

I never saw anything so curious.  It is almost an exact epitome of my own
moral career--after simply substituting a grandmother for a mother.  How
well I remember my grandmother's asking me not to use tobacco, good old
soul!  She said, "You're at it again, are you, you whelp?  Now don't ever
let me catch you chewing tobacco before breakfast again, or I lay I'll
blacksnake you within an inch of your life!"  I have never touched it at
that hour of the morning from that time to the present day.

She asked me not to gamble.  She whispered and said, "Put up those wicked
cards this minute!--two pair and a jack, you numskull, and the other
fellow's got a flush!"

I never have gambled from that day to this--never once--without a "cold
deck" in my pocket.  I cannot even tell who is going to lose in games
that are being played unless I deal myself.

When I was two years of age she asked me not to drink, and then I made a
resolution of total abstinence.  That I have adhered to it and enjoyed
the beneficent effects of it through all time, I owe to my grandmother.
I have never drunk a drop from that day to this of any kind of water.






HONORED AS A CURIOSITY

If you get into conversation with a stranger in Honolulu, and experience
that natural desire to know what sort of ground you are treading on by
finding out what manner of man your stranger is, strike out boldly and
address him as "Captain."  Watch him narrowly, and if you see by his
countenance that you are on the wrong track, ask him where he preaches.
It is a safe bet that he is either a missionary or captain of a whaler.
I became personally acquainted with seventy-two captains and ninety-six
missionaries.  The captains and ministers form one-half of the
population; the third fourth is composed of common Kanakas and mercantile
foreigners and their families; and the final fourth is made up of high
officers of the Hawaiian Government.  And there are just about cats
enough for three apiece all around.

A solemn stranger met me in the suburbs one day, and said:

"Good morning, your reverence.  Preach in the stone church yonder, no
doubt!"

"No, I don't.  I'm not a preacher."

"Really, I beg your pardon, captain.  I trust you had a good season.  How
much oil--"

"Oil!  Why, what do you take me for?  I'm not a whaler."

"Oh!  I beg a thousand pardons, your Excellency.  Major-General in the
household troops, no doubt?  Minister of the Interior, likely?  Secretary
of War?  First Gentleman of the Bedchamber?  Commissioner of the Royal--"

"Stuff, man!  I'm not connected in any way with the government."

"Bless my life!  Then who the mischief are you? what the mischief are
you? and how the mischief did you get here? and where in thunder did you
come from?"

"I'm only a private personage--an unassuming stranger--lately arrived
from America."

" No!  Not a missionary! not a whaler! not a member of his Majesty's
government! not even a Secretary of the Navy!  Ah!  Heaven! it is too
blissful to be true, alas! I do but dream.  And yet that noble, honest
countenance--those oblique, ingenuous eyes--that massive head, incapable
of--of anything; your hand; give me your hand, bright waif.  Excuse these
tears.  For sixteen weary years I have yearned for a moment like this,
and--"

Here his feelings were too much for him, and he swooned away.  I pitied
this poor creature from the bottom of my heart.  I was deeply moved.
I shed a few tears on him, and kissed him for his mother.  I then took
what small change he had, and "shoved."






FIRST INTERVIEW WITH ARTEMUS WARD--[Written about 1870.]

I had never seen him before.  He brought letters of introduction from
mutual friends in San Francisco, and by invitation I breakfasted with
him.  It was almost religion, there in the silver-mines, to precede such
a meal with whisky cocktails.  Artemus, with the true cosmopolitan
instinct, always deferred to the customs of the country he was in, and so
he ordered three of those abominations.  Hingston was present.  I said I
would rather not drink a whisky cocktail.  I said it would go right to my
head, and confuse me so that I would be in a helpless tangle in ten
minutes.  I did not want to act like a lunatic before strangers.  But
Artemus gently insisted, and I drank the treasonable mixture under
protest, and felt all the time that I was doing a thing I might be sorry
for.  In a minute or two I began to imagine that my ideas were clouded.
I waited in great anxiety for the conversation to open, with a sort of
vague hope that my understanding would prove clear, after all, and my
misgivings groundless.

Artemus dropped an unimportant remark or two, and then assumed a look of
superhuman earnestness, and made the following astounding speech.  He
said:

"Now there is one thing I ought to ask you about before I forget it.  You
have been here in Silver land--here in Nevada--two or three years, and,
of course, your position on the daily press has made it necessary for you
to go down in the mines and examine them carefully in detail, and
therefore you know all about the silver-mining business.  Now what I want
to get at is--is, well, the way the deposits of ore are made, you know.
For instance.  Now, as I understand it, the vein which contains the
silver is sandwiched in between casings of granite, and runs along the
ground, and sticks up like a curb stone.  Well, take a vein forty feet
thick, for example, or eighty, for that matter, or even a hundred--say
you go down on it with a shaft, straight down, you know, or with what you
call 'incline' maybe you go down five hundred feet, or maybe you don't go
down but two hundred--anyway, you go down, and all the time this vein
grows narrower, when the casings come nearer or approach each other, you
may say--that is, when they do approach, which, of course, they do not
always do, particularly in cases where the nature of the formation is
such that they stand apart wider than they otherwise would, and which
geology has failed to account for, although everything in that science
goes to prove that, all things being equal, it would if it did not, or
would not certainly if it did, and then, of course, they are.  Do not you
think it is?"

I said to myself:

"Now I just knew how it would be--that whisky cocktail has done the
business for me; I don't understand any more than a clam."

And then I said aloud:

"I--I--that is--if you don't mind, would you--would you say that over
again?  I ought--"

"Oh, certainly, certainly!  You see I am very unfamiliar with the
subject, and perhaps I don't present my case clearly, but I--"

"No, no-no, no-you state it plain enough, but that cocktail has muddled
me a little.  But I will no, I do understand for that matter; but I would
get the hang of it all the better if you went over it again-and I'll pay
better attention this time."

He said; "Why, what I was after was this."

[Here he became even more fearfully impressive than ever, and emphasized
each particular point by checking it off on his finger-ends.]

"This vein, or lode, or ledge, or whatever you call it, runs along
between two layers of granite, just the same as if it were a sandwich.
Very well.  Now suppose you go down on that, say a thousand feet, or
maybe twelve hundred (it don't really matter) before you drift, and then
you start your drifts, some of them across the ledge, and others along
the length of it, where the sulphurets--I believe they call them
sulphurets, though why they should, considering that, so far as I can
see, the main dependence of a miner does not so lie, as some suppose, but
in which it cannot be successfully maintained, wherein the same should
not continue, while part and parcel of the same ore not committed to
either in the sense referred to, whereas, under different circumstances,
the most inexperienced among us could not detect it if it were, or might
overlook it if it did, or scorn the very idea of such a thing, even
though it were palpably demonstrated as such.  Am I not right?"

I said, sorrowfully: "I feel ashamed of myself, Mr.  Ward.  I know I
ought to understand you perfectly well, but you see that treacherous
whisky cocktail has got into my head, and now I cannot understand even
the simplest proposition.  I told you how it would be."

"Oh, don't mind it, don't mind it; the fault was my own, no doubt--though
I did think it clear enough for--"

"Don't say a word.  Clear!  Why, you stated it as clear as the sun to
anybody but an abject idiot; but it's that confounded cocktail that has
played the mischief."

"No; now don't say that.  I'll begin it all over again, and--"

"Don't now--for goodness' sake, don't do anything of the kind, because I
tell you my head is in such a condition that I don't believe I could
understand the most trifling question a man could ask me.

"Now don't you be afraid.  I'll put it so plain this time that you can't
help but get the hang of it.  We will begin at the very beginning."
[Leaning far across the table, with determined impressiveness wrought
upon his every feature, and fingers prepared to keep tally of each point
enumerated; and I, leaning forward with painful interest, resolved to
comprehend or perish.]  "You know the vein, the ledge, the thing that
contains the metal, whereby it constitutes the medium between all other
forces, whether of present or remote agencies, so brought to bear in
favor of the former against the latter, or the latter against the former
or all, or both, or compromising the relative differences existing within
the radius whence culminate the several degrees of similarity to which--"

I said: "Oh, hang my wooden head, it ain't any use!--it ain't any use to
try--I can't understand anything.  The plainer you get it the more I
can't get the hang of it."

I heard a suspicious noise behind me, and turned in time to see Hingston
dodging behind a newspaper, and quaking with a gentle ecstasy of
laughter.  I looked at Ward again, and he had thrown off his dread
solemnity and was laughing also.  Then I saw that I had been sold--that I
had been made a victim of a swindle in the way of a string of plausibly
worded sentences that didn't mean anything under the sun.  Artemus Ward
was one of the best fellows in the world, and one of the most
companionable.  It has been said that he was not fluent in conversation,
but, with the above experience in my mind, I differ.






CANNIBALISM IN THE CARS--[Written abort 1867.]

I visited St. Louis lately, and on my way West, after changing cars at
Terre Haute, Indiana, a mild, benevolent-looking gentleman of about
forty-five, or maybe fifty, came in at one of the way-stations and sat
down beside me.  We talked together pleasantly on various subjects for an
hour, perhaps, and I found him exceedingly intelligent and entertaining.
When he learned that I was from Washington, he immediately began to ask
questions about various public men, and about Congressional affairs; and
I saw very shortly that I was conversing with a man who was perfectly
familiar with the ins and outs of political life at the Capital, even to
the ways and manners, and customs of procedure of Senators and
Representatives in the Chambers of the national Legislature.  Presently
two men halted near us for a single moment, and one said to the other:

"Harris, if you'll do that for me, I'll never forget you, my boy."

My new comrade's eye lighted pleasantly.  The words had touched upon a
happy memory, I thought.  Then his face settled into thoughtfulness--
almost into gloom.  He turned to me and said,

"Let me tell you a story; let me give you a secret chapter of my life--
a chapter that has never been referred to by me since its events
transpired.  Listen patiently, and promise that you will not interrupt
me."

I said I would not, and he related the following strange adventure,
speaking sometimes with animation, sometimes with melancholy, but always
with feeling and earnestness.


                         THE STRANGER'S NARRATIVE

"On the 19th of December, 1853, I started from St. Louis on the evening
train bound for Chicago.  There were only twenty-four passengers, all
told.  There were no ladies and no children.  We were in excellent
spirits, and pleasant acquaintanceships were soon formed.  The journey
bade fair to be a happy one; and no individual in the party, I think, had
even the vaguest presentiment of the horrors we were soon to undergo.

"At 11 P.m.  it began to snow hard.  Shortly after leaving the small
village of Welden, we entered upon that tremendous prairie solitude that
stretches its leagues on leagues of houseless dreariness far away toward
the jubilee Settlements.  The winds, unobstructed by trees or hills, or
even vagrant rocks, whistled fiercely across the level desert, driving
the falling snow before it like spray from the crested waves of a stormy
sea.  The snow was deepening fast; and we knew, by the diminished speed
of the train, that the engine was plowing through it with steadily
increasing difficulty.  Indeed, it almost came to a dead halt sometimes,
in the midst of great drifts that piled themselves like colossal graves
across the track.  Conversation began to flag.  Cheerfulness gave place
to grave concern.  The possibility of being imprisoned in the snow, on
the bleak prairie, fifty miles from any house, presented itself to every
mind, and extended its depressing influence over every spirit.

"At two o'clock in the morning I was aroused out of an uneasy slumber by
the ceasing of all motion about me.  The appalling truth flashed upon me
instantly--we were captives in a snow-drift!  'All hands to the rescue!'
Every man sprang to obey.  Out into the wild night, the pitchy darkness,
the billowy snow, the driving storm, every soul leaped, with the
consciousness that a moment lost now might bring destruction to us all.
Shovels, hands, boards--anything, everything that could displace snow,
was brought into instant requisition.  It was a weird picture, that small
company of frantic men fighting the banking snows, half in the blackest
shadow and half in the angry light of the locomotive's reflector.

"One short hour sufficed to prove the utter uselessness of our efforts.
The storm barricaded the track with a dozen drifts while we dug one away.
And worse than this, it was discovered that the last grand charge the
engine had made upon the enemy had broken the fore-and-aft shaft of the
driving-wheel!  With a free track before us we should still have been
helpless.  We entered the car wearied with labor, and very sorrowful.
We gathered about the stoves, and gravely canvassed our situation.  We
had no provisions whatever--in this lay our chief distress.  We could not
freeze, for there was a good supply of wood in the tender.  This was our
only comfort.  The discussion ended at last in accepting the
disheartening decision of the conductor, viz., that it would be death for
any man to attempt to travel fifty miles on foot through snow like that.
We could not send for help, and even if we could it would not come.  We
must submit, and await, as patiently as we might, succor or starvation!
I think the stoutest heart there felt a momentary chill when those words
were uttered.

"Within the hour conversation subsided to a low murmur here and there
about the car, caught fitfully between the rising and falling of the
blast; the lamps grew dim; and the majority of the castaways settled
themselves among the flickering shadows to think--to forget the present,
if they could--to sleep, if they might.

"The eternal night-it surely seemed eternal to us-wore its lagging hours
away at last, and the cold gray dawn broke in the east.  As the light
grew stronger the passengers began to stir and give signs of life, one
after another, and each in turn pushed his slouched hat up from his
forehead, stretched his stiffened limbs, and glanced out of the windows
upon the cheerless prospect.  It was cheer less, indeed!-not a living
thing visible anywhere, not a human habitation; nothing but a vast white
desert; uplifted sheets of snow drifting hither and thither before the
wind--a world of eddying flakes shutting out the firmament above.

"All day we moped about the cars, saying little, thinking much.  Another
lingering dreary night--and hunger.

"Another dawning--another day of silence, sadness, wasting hunger,
hopeless watching for succor that could not come.  A night of restless
slumber, filled with dreams of feasting--wakings distressed with the
gnawings of hunger.

"The fourth day came and went--and the fifth!  Five days of dreadful
imprisonment!  A savage hunger looked out at every eye.  There was in it
a sign of awful import--the foreshadowing of a something that was vaguely
shaping itself in every heart--a something which no tongue dared yet to
frame into words.

"The sixth day passed--the seventh dawned upon as gaunt and haggard and
hopeless a company of men as ever stood in the shadow of death.  It must
out now!  That thing which had been growing up in every heart was ready
to leap from every lip at last!  Nature had been taxed to the utmost--she
must yield.  RICHARD H. GASTON of Minnesota, tall, cadaverous, and pale,
rose up.  All knew what was coming.  All prepared--every emotion, every
semblance of excitement--was smothered--only a calm, thoughtful
seriousness appeared in the eyes that were lately so wild.

"'Gentlemen: It cannot be delayed longer!  The time is at hand!  We must
determine which of us shall die to furnish food for the rest!'

"MR. JOHN J. WILLIAMS of Illinois rose and said: 'Gentlemen--I nominate
the Rev. James Sawyer of Tennessee.'

"MR. Wm. R. ADAMS of Indiana said: 'I nominate Mr. Daniel Slote of New
York.'

"MR. CHARLES J. LANGDON: 'I nominate Mr. Samuel A.  Bowen of St. Louis.'

"MR. SLOTE: 'Gentlemen--I desire to decline in favor of Mr. John A. Van
Nostrand, Jun., of New Jersey.'

"MR. GASTON: 'If there be no objection, the gentleman's desire will be
acceded to.'

"MR. VAN NOSTRAND objecting, the resignation of Mr. Slote was rejected.
The resignations of Messrs. Sawyer and Bowen were also offered, and
refused upon the same grounds.

"MR. A. L. BASCOM of Ohio: 'I move that the nominations now close, and
that the House proceed to an election by ballot.'

"MR. SAWYER: 'Gentlemen--I protest earnestly against these proceedings.
They are, in every way, irregular and unbecoming.  I must beg to move
that they be dropped at once, and that we elect a chairman of the meeting
and proper officers to assist him, and then we can go on with the
business before us understandingly.'

"MR. BELL of Iowa: 'Gentlemen--I object.  This is no time to stand upon
forms and ceremonious observances.  For more than seven days we have been
without food.  Every moment we lose in idle discussion increases our
distress.  I am satisfied with the nominations that have been made--every
gentleman present is, I believe--and I, for one, do not see why we should
not proceed at once to elect one or more of them.  I wish to offer a
resolution--'

"MR. GASTON: 'It would be objected to, and have to lie over one day under
the rules, thus bringing about the very delay you wish to avoid.  The
gentleman from New Jersey--'

"MR. VAN NOSTRAND: 'Gentlemen--I am a stranger among you; I have not
sought the distinction that has been conferred upon me, and I feel a
delicacy--'

"MR. MORGAN Of Alabama (interrupting): 'I move the previous question.'

"The motion was carried, and further debate shut off, of course.  The
motion to elect officers was passed, and under it Mr. Gaston was chosen
chairman, Mr. Blake, secretary, Messrs.  Holcomb, Dyer, and Baldwin a
committee on nominations, and Mr. R. M. Howland, purveyor, to assist the
committee in making selections.

"A recess of half an hour was then taken, and some little caucusing
followed.  At the sound of the gavel the meeting reassembled, and the
committee reported in favor of Messrs. George Ferguson of Kentucky,
Lucien Herrman of Louisiana, and W. Messick of Colorado as candidates.
The report was accepted.

"MR. ROGERS of Missouri: 'Mr. President The report being properly before
the House now, I move to amend it by substituting for the name of Mr.
Herrman that of Mr. Lucius Harris of St.  Louis, who is well and
honorably known to us all.  I do not wish to be understood as casting the
least reflection upon the high character and standing of the gentleman
from Louisiana far from it.  I respect and esteem him as much as any
gentleman here present possibly can; but none of us can be blind to the
fact that he has lost more flesh during the week that we have lain here
than any among us--none of us can be blind to the fact that the committee
has been derelict in its duty, either through negligence or a graver
fault, in thus offering for our suffrages a gentleman who, however pure
his own motives may be, has really less nutriment in him--'

"THE CHAIR: 'The gentleman from Missouri will take his seat.  The Chair
cannot allow the integrity of the committee to be questioned save by the
regular course, under the rules.  What action will the House take upon
the gentleman's motion?'

"MR. HALLIDAY of Virginia: 'I move to further amend the report by
substituting Mr. Harvey Davis of Oregon for Mr. Messick.  It may be urged
by gentlemen that the hardships and privations of a frontier life have
rendered Mr.  Davis tough; but, gentlemen, is this a time to cavil at
toughness?  Is this a time to be fastidious concerning trifles?  Is this
a time to dispute about matters of paltry significance?  No, gentlemen,
bulk is what we desire--substance, weight, bulk--these are the supreme
requisites now--not talent, not genius, not education.  I insist upon my
motion.'

"MR. MORGAN (excitedly): 'Mr.  Chairman--I do most strenuously object to
this amendment.  The gentleman from Oregon is old, and furthermore is
bulky only in bone--not in flesh.  I ask the gentleman from Virginia if
it is soup we want instead of solid sustenance? if he would delude us
with shadows?  if he would mock our suffering with an Oregonian specter?
I ask him if he can look upon the anxious faces around him, if he can
gaze into our sad eyes, if he can listen to the beating of our expectant
hearts, and still thrust this famine-stricken fraud upon us?  I ask him
if he can think of our desolate state, of our past sorrows, of our dark
future, and still unpityingly foist upon us this wreck, this ruin, this
tottering swindle, this gnarled and blighted and sapless vagabond from
Oregon's hospitable shores?  Never!' [Applause.]

"The amendment was put to vote, after a fiery debate, and lost.  Mr.
Harris was substituted on the first amendment.  The balloting then began.
Five ballots were held without a choice.  On the sixth, Mr.  Harris was
elected, all voting for him but himself.  It was then moved that his
election should be ratified by acclamation, which was lost, in
consequence of his again voting against himself.

"MR. RADWAY moved that the House now take up the remaining candidates,
and go into an election for breakfast.  This was carried.

"On the first ballot--there was a tie, half the members favoring one
candidate on account of his youth, and half favoring the other on account
of his superior size.  The President gave the casting vote for the
latter, Mr. Messick.  This decision created considerable dissatisfaction
among the friends of Mr. Ferguson, the defeated candidate, and there was
some talk of demanding a new ballot; but in the midst of it a motion to
adjourn was carried, and the meeting broke up at once.

"The preparations for supper diverted the attention of the Ferguson
faction from the discussion of their grievance for a long time, and then,
when they would have taken it up again, the happy announcement that Mr.
Harris was ready drove all thought of it to the winds.

"We improvised tables by propping up the backs of car-seats, and sat down
with hearts full of gratitude to the finest supper that had blessed our
vision for seven torturing days.  How changed we were from what we had
been a few short hours before!  Hopeless, sad-eyed misery, hunger,
feverish anxiety, desperation, then; thankfulness, serenity, joy too deep
for utterance now.  That I know was the cheeriest hour of my eventful
life.  The winds howled, and blew the snow wildly about our prison house,
but they were powerless to distress us any more.  I liked Harris.  He
might have been better done, perhaps, but I am free to say that no man
ever agreed with me better than Harris, or afforded me so large a degree
of satisfaction.  Messick was very well, though rather high-flavored,
but for genuine nutritiousness and delicacy of fiber, give me Harris.
Messick had his good points--I will not attempt to deny it, nor do I wish
to do it but he was no more fitted for breakfast than a mummy would be,
sir--not a bit.  Lean?--why, bless me!--and tough?  Ah, he was very
tough!  You could not imagine it--you could never imagine anything like
it."

"Do you mean to tell me that--"

"Do not interrupt me, please.  After breakfast we elected a man by the
name of Walker, from Detroit, for supper.  He was very good.  I wrote his
wife so afterward.  He was worthy of all praise.  I shall always remember
Walker.  He was a little rare, but very good.  And then the next morning
we had Morgan of Alabama for breakfast. He was one of the finest men I
ever sat down to handsome, educated, refined, spoke several languages
fluently a perfect gentleman he was a perfect gentleman, and singularly
juicy.  For supper we had that Oregon patriarch, and he was a fraud,
there is no question about it--old, scraggy, tough, nobody can picture
the reality.  I finally said, gentlemen, you can do as you like, but I
will wait for another election.  And Grimes of Illinois said, 'Gentlemen,
I will wait also.  When you elect a man that has something to recommend
him, I shall be glad to join you again.'  It soon became evident that
there was general dissatisfaction with Davis of Oregon, and so, to
preserve the good will that had prevailed so pleasantly since we had had
Harris, an election was called, and the result of it was that Baker of
Georgia was chosen.  He was splendid!  Well, well--after that we had
Doolittle, and Hawkins, and McElroy (there was some complaint about
McElroy, because he was uncommonly short and thin), and Penrod, and two
Smiths, and Bailey (Bailey had a wooden leg, which was clear loss, but he
was otherwise good), and an Indian boy, and an organ-grinder, and a
gentleman by the name of Buckminster--a poor stick of a vagabond that
wasn't any good for company and no account for breakfast.  We were glad
we got him elected before relief came."

"And so the blessed relief did come at last?"

"Yes, it came one bright, sunny morning, just after election.  John
Murphy was the choice, and there never was a better, I am willing to
testify; but John Murphy came home with us, in the train that came to
succor us, and lived to marry the widow Harris--"

"Relict of--"

"Relict of our first choice.  He married her, and is happy and respected
and prosperous yet.  Ah, it was like a novel, sir--it was like a romance.
This is my stopping-place, sir; I must bid you goodby.  Any time that you
can make it convenient to tarry a day or two with me, I shall be glad to
have you.  I like you, sir; I have conceived an affection for you.
I could like you as well as I liked Harris himself, sir.  Good day, sir,
and a pleasant journey."

He was gone.  I never felt so stunned, so distressed, so bewildered in my
life.  But in my soul I was glad he was gone.  With all his gentleness of
manner and his soft voice, I shuddered whenever he turned his hungry eye
upon me; and when I heard that I had achieved his perilous affection, and
that I stood almost with the late Harris in his esteem, my heart fairly
stood still!

I was bewildered beyond description.  I did not doubt his word; I could
not question a single item in a statement so stamped with the earnestness
of truth as his; but its dreadful details overpowered me, and threw my
thoughts into hopeless confusion.  I saw the conductor looking at me.
I said, "Who is that man?"

"He was a member of Congress once, and a good one.  But he got caught in
a snow-drift in the cars, and like to have been starved to death.  He got
so frost-bitten and frozen up generally, and used up for want of
something to eat, that he was sick and out of his head two or three
months afterward.  He is all right now, only he is a monomaniac, and when
he gets on that old subject he never stops till he has eat up that whole
car-load of people he talks about.  He would have finished the crowd by
this time, only he had to get out here.  He has got their names as pat as
A B C.  When he gets them all eat up but himself, he always says: 'Then
the hour for the usual election for breakfast having arrived; and there
being no opposition, I was duly elected, after which, there being no
objections offered, I resigned.  Thus I am here.'"

I felt inexpressibly relieved to know that I had only been listening to
the harmless vagaries of a madman instead of the genuine experiences of a
bloodthirsty cannibal.






THE KILLING OF JULIUS CAESAR "LOCALIZED"--[Written about 1865.]

Being the only true and reliable account ever published; taken from the
Roman "Daily Evening Fasces," of the date of that tremendous occurrence.

Nothing in the world affords a newspaper reporter so much satisfaction as
gathering up the details of a bloody and mysterious murder and writing
them up with aggravating circumstantiality.  He takes a living delight in
this labor of love--for such it is to him, especially if he knows that
all the other papers have gone to press, and his will be the only one
that will contain the dreadful intelligence.  A feeling of regret has
often come over me that I was not reporting in Rome when Caesar was
killed--reporting on an evening paper, and the only one in the city, and
getting at least twelve hours ahead of the morning-paper boys with this
most magnificent "item" that ever fell to the lot of the craft.  Other
events have happened as startling as this, but none that possessed so
peculiarly all the characteristics of the favorite "item" of the present
day, magnified into grandeur and sublimity by the high rank, fame, and
social and political standing of the actors in it.

However, as I was not permitted to report Caesar's assassination in the
regular way, it has at least afforded me rare satisfaction to translate
the following able account of it from the original Latin of the Roman
Daily Evening Fasces of that date--second edition:


Our usually quiet city of Rome was thrown into a state of wild excitement
yesterday by the occurrence of one of those bloody affrays which sicken
the heart and fill the soul with fear, while they inspire all thinking
men with forebodings for the future of a city where human life is held so
cheaply and the gravest laws are so openly set at defiance.  As the
result of that affray, it is our painful duty, as public journalists, to
record the death of one of our most esteemed citizens--a man whose name
is known wherever this paper circulates, and where fame it has been our
pleasure and our privilege to extend, and also to protect from the tongue
of slander and falsehood, to the best of our poor ability.  We refer to
Mr. J. Caesar, the Emperor-elect.

The facts of the case, as nearly as our reporter could determine them
from the conflicting statements of eye-witnesses, were about as follows:-
The affair was an election row, of course.  Nine-tenths of the ghastly
butcheries that disgrace the city nowadays grow out of the bickerings and
jealousies and animosities engendered by these accursed elections.  Rome
would be the gainer by it if her very constables were elected to serve a
century; for in our experience we have never even been able to choose a
dog-pelter without celebrating the event with a dozen knockdowns and a
general cramming of the station-house with drunken vagabonds overnight.
It is said that when the immense majority for Caesar at the polls in the
market was declared the other day, and the crown was offered to that
gentleman, even his amazing unselfishness in refusing it three times was
not sufficient to save him from the whispered insults of such men as
Casca, of the Tenth Ward, and other hirelings of the disappointed
candidate, hailing mostly from the Eleventh and Thirteenth and other
outside districts, who were overheard speaking ironically and
contemptuously of Mr. Caesar's conduct upon that occasion.

We are further informed that there are many among us who think they are
justified in believing that the assassination of Julius Caesar was a put-
up thing--a cut-and-dried arrangement, hatched by Marcus Brutus and a lot
of his hired roughs, and carried out only too faithfully according to the
program.  Whether there be good grounds for this suspicion or not, we
leave to the people to judge for themselves, only asking that they will
read the following account of the sad occurrence carefully and
dispassionately before they render that judgment.

The Senate was already in session, and Caesar was coming down the street
toward the capitol, conversing with some personal friends, and followed,
as usual, by a large number of citizens.  Just as he was passing in front
of Demosthenes and Thucydides' drug store, he was observing casually to a
gentleman, who, our informant thinks, is a fortune-teller, that the Ides
of March were come.  The reply was, "Yes, they are come, but not gone
yet."  At this moment Artemidorus stepped up and passed the time of day,
and asked Caesar to read a schedule or a tract or something of the kind,
which he had brought for his perusal.  Mr. Decius Brutus also said
something about an "humble suit" which he wanted read.  Artexnidorus
begged that attention might be paid to his first, because it was of
personal consequence to Caesar.  The latter replied that what concerned
himself should be read last, or words to that effect.  Artemidorus begged
and beseeched him to read the paper instantly!--[Mark that: It is hinted
by William Shakespeare, who saw the beginning and the end of the
unfortunate affray, that this "schedule" was simply a note discovering to
Caesar that a plot was brewing to take his life.]--However, Caesar
shook him off, and refused to read any petition in the street.  He then
entered the capitol, and the crowd followed him.

About this time the following conversation was overheard, and we consider
that, taken in connection with the events which succeeded it, it bears an
appalling significance:  Mr. Papilius Lena remarked to George W. Cassias
(commonly known as the "Nobby Boy of the Third Ward"), a bruiser in the
pay of the Opposition, that he hoped his enterprise to-day might thrive;
and when Cassias asked "What enterprise?" he only closed his left eye
temporarily and said with simulated indifference, "Fare you well," and
sauntered toward Caesar.  Marcus Brutus, who is suspected of being the
ringleader of the band that killed Caesar, asked what it was that Lena
had said.  Cassias told him, and added in a low tone, "I fear our purpose
is discovered."

Brutus told his wretched accomplice to keep an eye on Lena, and a moment
after Cassias urged that lean and hungry vagrant, Casca, whose reputation
here is none of the best, to be sudden, for he feared prevention.  He
then turned to Brutus, apparently much excited, and asked what should be
done, and swore that either he or Caesar would never turn back--he would
kill himself first.  At this time Caesar was talking to some of the back-
country members about the approaching fall elections, and paying little
attention to what was going on around him.  Billy Trebonius got into
conversation with the people's friend and Caesar's--Mark Antony--and
under some pretense or other got him away, and Brutus, Decius, Casca,
Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and others of the gang of infamous desperadoes
that infest Rome at present, closed around the doomed Caesar.  Then
Metellus Cimber knelt down and begged that his brother might be recalled
from banishment, but Caesar rebuked him for his fawning conduct, and
refused to grant his petition.  Immediately, at Cimber's request, first
Brutus and then Cassias begged for the return of the banished Publius;
but Caesar still refused.  He said he could not be moved; that he was as
fixed as the North Star, and proceeded to speak in the most complimentary
terms of the firmness of that star and its steady character.  Then he
said he was like it, and he believed he was the only man in the country
that was; therefore, since he was "constant" that Cimber should be
banished, he was also "constant" that he should stay banished, and he'd
be hanged if he didn't keep him so!

Instantly seizing upon this shallow pretext for a fight, Casca sprang at
Caesar and struck him with a dirk, Caesar grabbing him by the arm with
his right hand, and launching a blow straight from the shoulder with his
left, that sent the reptile bleeding to the earth.  He then backed up
against Pompey's statue, and squared himself to receive his assailants.
Cassias and Cimber and Cinna rushed, upon him with their daggers drawn,
and the former succeeded in inflicting a wound upon his body; but before
he could strike again, and before either of the others could strike at
all, Caesar stretched the three miscreants at his feet with as many blows
of his powerful fist.  By this time the Senate was in an indescribable
uproar; the throng of citizens is the lobbies had blockaded the doors in
their frantic efforts to escape from the building, the sergeant-at-arms
and his assistants were struggling with the assassins, venerable senators
had cast aside their encumbering robes, and were leaping over benches and
flying down the aisles in wild confusion toward the shelter of the
committee-rooms, and a thousand voices were shouting "Po-lice!  Po-lice!"
in discordant tones that rose above the frightful din like shrieking
winds above the roaring of a tempest.  And amid it all great Caesar stood
with his back against the statue, like a lion at bay, and fought his
assailants weaponless and hand to hand, with the defiant bearing and the
unwavering courage which he had shown before on many a bloody field.
Billy Trebonius and Caius Legarius struck him with their daggers and
fell, as their brother-conspirators before them had fallen.  But at last,
when Caesar saw his old friend Brutus step forward armed with a murderous
knife, it is said he seemed utterly overpowered with grief and amazement,
and, dropping his invincible left arm by his side, he hid his face in the
folds of his mantle and received the treacherous blow without an effort
to stay the hand that gave it.  He only said, "Et tu, Brute?" and fell
lifeless on the marble pavement.

We learn that the coat deceased had on when he was killed was the same
one he wore in his tent on the afternoon of the day he overcame the
Nervii, and that when it was removed from the corpse it was found to be
cut and gashed in no less than seven different places.  There was nothing
in the pockets.  It will be exhibited at the coroner's inquest, and will
be damning proof of the fact of the killing.  These latter facts may be
relied on, as we get them from Mark Antony, whose position enables him to
learn every item of news connected with the one subject of absorbing
interest of-to-day.

LATER: While the coroner was summoning a jury, Mark Antony and other
friends of the late Caesar got hold of the body, and lugged it off to the
Forum, and at last accounts Antony and Brutus were making speeches over
it and raising such a row among the people that, as we go to press, the
chief of police is satisfied there is going to be a riot, and is taking
measures accordingly.






THE WIDOW'S PROTEST

One of the saddest things that ever came under my notice (said the
banker's clerk) was there in Corning during the war.  Dan Murphy enlisted
as a private, and fought very bravely.  The boys all liked him, and when
a wound by and by weakened him down till carrying a musket was too heavy
work for him, they clubbed together and fixed him up as a sutler.  He
made money then, and sent it always to his wife to bank for him.  She was
a washer and ironer, and knew enough by hard experience to keep money
when she got it.  She didn't waste a penny.

On the contrary, she began to get miserly as her bank-account grew.  She
grieved to part with a cent, poor creature, for twice in her hard-working
life she had known what it was to be hungry, cold, friendless, sick, and
without a dollar in the world, and she had a haunting dread of suffering
so again.  Well, at last Dan died; and the boys, in testimony of their
esteem and respect for him, telegraphed to Mrs. Murphy to know if she
would like to have him embalmed and sent home; when you know the usual
custom was to dump a poor devil like him into a shallow hole, and then
inform his friends what had become of him.  Mrs.  Murphy jumped to the
conclusion that it would only cost two or three dollars to embalm her
dead husband, and so she telegraphed "Yes."  It was at the "wake" that
the bill for embalming arrived and was presented to the widow.

She uttered a wild, sad wail that pierced every heart, and said,
"Sivinty-foive dollars for stooffin' Dan, blister their sowls!  Did thim
divils suppose I was goin' to stairt a Museim, that I'd be dalin' in such
expinsive curiassities !"

The banker's clerk said there was not a dry eye in the house.






THE SCRIPTURAL PANORAMIST--[Written about 1866.]

There was a fellow traveling around in that country," said Mr.
Nickerson, "with a moral-religious show--a sort of scriptural panorama--
and he hired a wooden-headed old slab to play the piano for him.  After
the first night's performance the showman says:

"'My friend, you seem to know pretty much all the tunes there are, and
you worry along first rate.  But then, didn't you notice that sometimes
last night the piece you happened to be playing was a little rough on the
proprieties, so to speak--didn't seem to jibe with the general gait of
the picture that was passing at the time, as it were--was a little
foreign to the subject, you know--as if you didn't either trump or follow
suit, you understand?'

"'Well, no,' the fellow said; 'he hadn't noticed, but it might be; he had
played along just as it came handy.'

"So they put it up that the simple old dummy was to keep his eye on the
panorama after that, and as soon as a stunning picture was reeled out he
was to fit it to a dot with a piece of music that would help the audience
to get the idea of the subject, and warm them up like a camp-meeting
revival.  That sort of thing would corral their sympathies, the showman
said.

"There was a big audience that night-mostly middle-aged and old people
who belong to the church, and took a strong interest in Bible matters,
and the balance were pretty much young bucks and heifers--they always
come out strong on panoramas, you know, because it gives them a chance to
taste one another's complexions in the dark.

"Well, the showman began to swell himself up for his lecture, and the old
mud-Jobber tackled the piano and ran his fingers up and down once or
twice to see that she was all right, and the fellows behind the curtain
commenced to grind out the panorama.  The showman balanced his weight on
his right foot, and propped his hands over his hips, and flung his eyes
over his shoulder at the scenery, and said:

"'Ladies and gentlemen, the painting now before you illustrates the
beautiful and touching parable of the Prodigal Son.  Observe the happy
expression just breaking over the features of the poor, suffering youth--
so worn and weary with his long march; note also the ecstasy beaming from
the uplifted countenance of the aged father, and the joy that sparkles in
the eyes of the excited group of youths and maidens, and seems ready to
burst into the welcoming chorus from their lips.  The lesson, my friends,
is as solemn and instructive as the story is tender and beautiful.'

"The mud-Jobber was all ready, and when the second speech was finished,
struck up:

                    "Oh, we'll all get blind drunk
                    When Johnny comes marching home!

"Some of the people giggled, and some groaned a little.  The showman
couldn't say a word; he looked at the pianist sharp, but he was all
lovely and serene--he didn't know there was anything out of gear.

"The panorama moved on, and the showman drummed up his grit and started
in fresh.

"'Ladies and gentlemen, the fine picture now unfolding itself to your
gaze exhibits one of the most notable events in Bible history--our
Saviour and His disciples upon the Sea of Galilee.  How grand, how awe-
inspiring are the reflections which the subject invokes!  What sublimity
of faith is revealed to us in this lesson from the sacred writings!  The
Saviour rebukes the angry waves, and walks securely upon the bosom of the
deep!'

"All around the house they were whispering, 'Oh, how lovely, how
beautiful!' and the orchestra let himself out again:

                    "A life on the ocean wave,
                    And a home on the rolling deep!

"There was a good deal of honest snickering turned on this time, and
considerable groaning, and one or two old deacons got up and went out.
The showman grated his teeth, and cursed the piano man to himself; but
the fellow sat there like a knot on a log, and seemed to think he was
doing first-rate.

"After things got quiet the showman thought he would make one more
stagger at it, anyway, though his confidence was beginning to get mighty
shaky.  The supes started the panorama grinding along again, and he says:

"'Ladies and gentlemen, this exquisite painting represents the raising of
Lazarus from the dead by our Saviour.  The subject has been handled with
marvelous skill by the artist, and such touching sweetness and tenderness
of expression has he thrown into it that I have known peculiarly
sensitive persons to be even affected to tears by looking at it.  Observe
the half-confused, half-inquiring look upon the countenance of the
awakened Lazarus.  Observe, also, the attitude and expression of the
Saviour, who takes him gently by the sleeve of his shroud with one hand,
while He points with the other toward the distant city.'

"Before anybody could get off an opinion in the case the innocent old ass
at the piano struck up:

                    "Come rise up, William Ri-i-ley,
                    And go along with me!

"Whe-ew!  All the solemn old flats got up in a huff to go, and everybody
else laughed till the windows rattled.

"The showman went down and grabbed the orchestra and shook him up and
says:

"'That lets you out, you know, you chowder-headed old clam.  Go to the
doorkeeper and get your money, and cut your stick--vamose the ranch!
Ladies and gentlemen, circumstances over which I have no control compel
me prematurely to dismiss the house.'"






CURING A COLD--[Written about 1864]

It is a good thing, perhaps, to write for the amusement of the public,
but it is a far higher and nobler thing to write for their instruction,
their profit, their actual and tangible benefit.  The latter is the sole
object of this article.  If it prove the means of restoring to health one
solitary sufferer among my race, of lighting up once more the fire of
hope and joy in his faded eyes, or bringing back to his dead heart again
the quick, generous impulses of other days, I shall be amply rewarded for
my labor; my soul will be permeated with the sacred delight a Christian.
feels when he has done a good, unselfish deed.

Having led a pure and blameless life, I am justified in believing that no
man who knows me will reject the suggestions I am about to make, out of
fear that I am trying to deceive him.  Let the public do itself the honor
to read my experience in doctoring a cold, as herein set forth, and then
follow in my footsteps.

When the White House was burned in Virginia City, I lost my home, my
happiness, my constitution, and my trunk.  The loss of the two first
named articles was a matter of no great consequence, since a home without
a mother, or a sister, or a distant young female relative in it, to
remind you, by putting your soiled linen out of sight and taking your
boots down off the mantelpiece, that there are those who think about you
and care for you, is easily obtained.  And I cared nothing for the loss
of my happiness, because, not being a poet, it could not be possible that
melancholy would abide with me long.  But to lose a good constitution and
a better trunk were serious misfortunes.  On the day of the fire my
constitution succumbed to a severe cold, caused by undue exertion in
getting ready to do something.  I suffered to no purpose, too, because
the plan I was figuring at for the extinguishing of the fire was so
elaborate that I never got it completed until the middle of the following
week.

The first time I began to sneeze, a friend told me to go and bathe my
feet in hot water and go to bed.  I did so.  Shortly afterward, another
friend advised me to get up and take a cold shower-bath.  I did that
also.  Within the hour, another friend assured me that it was policy to
"feed a cold and starve a fever."  I had both.  So I thought it best to
fill myself up for the cold, and then keep dark and let the fever starve
awhile.

In a case of, this kind, I seldom do things by halves; I ate pretty
heartily; I conferred my custom upon a stranger who had just opened his
restaurant that morning; he waited near me in respectful silence until I
had finished feeding my cold, when he inquired if the people about
Virginia City were much afflicted with colds?  I told him I thought they
were.  He then went out and took in his sign.

I started down toward the office, and on the way encountered another
bosom friend, who told me that a quart of salt-water, taken warm, would
come as near curing a cold as anything in the world.  I hardly thought I
had room for it, but I tried it anyhow.  The result was surprising.  I
believed I had thrown up my immortal soul.

Now, as I am giving my experience only for the benefit of those who are
troubled with the distemper I am writing about, I feel that they will see
the propriety of my cautioning them against following such portions of it
as proved inefficient with me, and acting upon this conviction, I warn
them against warm salt-water.  It may be a good enough remedy, but I
think it is too severe.  If I had another cold in the head, and there
were no course left me but to take either an earthquake or a quart of
warm saltwater, I would take my chances on the earthquake.

After the storm which had been raging in my stomach had subsided, and no
more good Samaritans happening along, I went on borrowing handkerchiefs
again and blowing them to atoms, as had been my custom in the early
stages of my cold, until I came across a lady who had just arrived from
over the plains, and who said she had lived in a part of the country
where doctors were scarce, and had from necessity acquired considerable
skill in the treatment of simple "family complaints."  I knew she must
have had much experience, for she appeared to be a hundred and fifty
years old.

She mixed a decoction composed of molasses, aquafortis, turpentine, and
various other drugs, and instructed me to take a wine-glass full of it
every fifteen minutes.  I never took but one dose; that was enough; it
robbed me of all moral principle, and awoke every unworthy impulse of my
nature.  Under its malign influence my brain conceived miracles of
meanness, but my hands were too feeble to execute them; at that time, had
it not been that my strength had surrendered to a succession of assaults
from infallible remedies for my cold, I am satisfied that I would have
tried to rob the graveyard.  Like most other people, I often feel mean,
and act accordingly; but until I took that medicine I had never reveled
in such supernatural depravity, and felt proud of it.  At the end of two
days I was ready to go to doctoring again.  I took a few more unfailing
remedies, and finally drove my cold from my head to my lungs.

I got to coughing incessantly, and my voice fell below zero; I conversed
in a thundering bass, two octaves below my natural tone; I could only
compass my regular nightly repose by coughing myself down to a state of
utter exhaustion, and then the moment I began to talk in my sleep, my
discordant voice woke me up again.

My case grew more and more serious every day.  A Plain gin was
recommended; I took it.  Then gin and molasses; I took that also.  Then
gin and onions; I added the onions, and took all three.  I detected no
particular result, however, except that I had acquired a breath like a
buzzard's.

I found I had to travel for my health.  I went to Lake Bigler with my
reportorial comrade, Wilson.  It is gratifying to me to reflect that we
traveled in considerable style; we went in the Pioneer coach, and my
friend took all his baggage with him, consisting of two excellent silk
handkerchiefs and a daguerreotype of his grandmother.  We sailed and
hunted and fished and danced all day, and I doctored my cough all night.
By managing in this way, I made out to improve every hour in the twenty-
four.  But my disease continued to grow worse.

A sheet-bath was recommended.  I had never refused a remedy yet, and it
seemed poor policy to commence then; therefore I determined to take a
sheet-bath, notwithstanding I had no idea what sort of arrangement it
was.  It was administered at midnight, and the weather was very frosty.
My breast and back were bared, and a sheet (there appeared to be a
thousand yards of it) soaked in ice-water, was wound around me until I
resembled a swab for a Columbiad.

It is a cruel expedient.  When the chilly rag touches one's warm flesh,
it makes him start with sudden violence, and gasp for breath just as men
do in the death-agony.  It froze the marrow in my bones and stopped the
beating of my heart.  I thought my time had come.

Young Wilson said the circumstance reminded him of an anecdote about a
negro who was being baptized, and who slipped from the parson's grasp,
and came near being drowned.  He floundered around, though, and finally
rose up out of the water considerably strangled and furiously angry, and
started ashore at once, spouting water like a whale, and remarking, with
great asperity, that "one o' dese days some gen'l'man's nigger gwyne to
get killed wid jis' such damn foolishness as dis!"

Never take a sheet-bath-never.  Next to meeting a lady acquaintance who,
for reasons best known to herself, don't see you when she looks at you,
and don't know you when she does see you, it is the most uncomfortable
thing in the world.

But, as I was saying, when the sheet-bath failed to cure my cough,
a lady friend recommended the application of a mustard plaster to my
breast.  I believe that would have cured me effectually, if it had not
been for young Wilson.  When I went to bed, I put my mustard plaster--
which was a very gorgeous one, eighteen inches square--where I could
reach it when I was ready for it.  But young Wilson got hungry in the
night, and here is food for the imagination.

After sojourning a week at Lake Bigler, I went to Steamboat Springs, and,
besides the steam-baths, I took a lot of the vilest medicines that were
ever concocted.  They would have cured me, but I had to go back to
Virginia City, where, notwithstanding the variety of new remedies I
absorbed every day, I managed to aggravate my disease by carelessness and
undue exposure.

I finally concluded to visit San Francisco, and the, first day I got
there a lady at the hotel told me to drink a quart of whisky every
twenty-four hours, and a friend up-town recommended precisely the same
course.  Each advised me to take a quart; that made half a gallon.  I did
it, and still live.

Now, with the kindest motives in the world, I offer for the consideration
of consumptive patients the variegated course of treatment I have lately
gone through.  Let them try it; if it don't cure, it can't more than kill
them.






A CURIOUS PLEASURE EXCURSION

--[Published at the time of the "Comet Scare" in the summer of 1874]

[We have received the following advertisement, but, inasmuch as it
concerns a matter of deep and general interest, we feel fully justified
in inserting it in our reading-columns.  We are confident that our
conduct in this regard needs only explanation, not apology.--Ed., N. Y.
Herald.]


ADVERTISEMENT

This is to inform the public that in connection with Mr. Barnum I have
leased the comet for a term, of years; and I desire also to solicit the
public patronage in favor of a beneficial enterprise which we have in
view.

We propose to fit up comfortable, and even luxurious, accommodations in
the comet for as many persons as will honor us with their patronage, and
make an extended excursion among the heavenly bodies.  We shall prepare
1,000,000 state-rooms in the tail of the comet (with hot and cold water,
gas, looking-glass, parachute, umbrella, etc., in each), and shall
construct more if we meet with a sufficiently generous encouragement.
We shall have billiard-rooms, card-rooms, music-rooms, bowling-alleys and
many spacious theaters and free libraries; and on the main deck we
propose to have a driving park, with upward of 100,000 miles of roadway
in it.  We shall publish daily newspapers also.


                          DEPARTURE OF THE COMET

The comet will leave New York at 10 P.M.  on the 20th inst., and
therefore it will be desirable that the passengers be on board by eight
at the latest, to avoid confusion in getting under way.  It is not known
whether passports will be necessary or not, but it is deemed best that
passengers provide them, and so guard against all contingencies.  No dogs
will be allowed on board.  This rule has been made in deference to the
existing state of feeling regarding these animals, and will be strictly
adhered to.  The safety of the passengers will in all ways be jealously
looked to.  A substantial iron railing will be put up all around the
comet, and no one will be allowed to go to the edge and look over unless
accompanied by either my partner or myself.


                            THE POSTAL SERVICE

will be of the completest character.  Of course the telegraph, and the
telegraph only, will be employed; consequently friends occupying state-
rooms 20,000,000 and even 30,000,000 miles apart will be able to send a
message and receive a reply inside of eleven days.  Night messages will
be half-rate.  The whole of this vast postal system will be under the
personal superintendence of Mr. Hale of Maine.  Meals served at all
hours.  Meals served in staterooms charged extra.

Hostility is not apprehended from any great planet, but we have thought
it best to err on the safe side, and therefore have provided a proper
number of mortars, siege-guns, and boarding-pikes.  History shows that
small, isolated communities, such as the people of remote islands, are
prone to be hostile to strangers, and so the same may be the case with


                         THE INHABITANTS OF STARS

of the tenth or twentieth magnitude.  We shall in no case wantonly offend
the people of any star, but shall treat all alike with urbanity and
kindliness, never conducting ourselves toward an asteroid after a fashion
which we could not venture to assume toward Jupiter or Saturn.  I repeat
that we shall not wantonly offend any star; but at the same time we shall
promptly resent any injury that may be done us, or any insolence offered
us, by parties or governments residing in any star in the firmament.
Although averse to the shedding of blood, we shall still hold this course
rigidly and fearlessly, not only toward single stars, but toward
constellations.  We shall hope to leave a good impression of America
behind us in every nation we visit, from Venus to Uranus.  And, at all
events, if we cannot inspire love we shall at least compel respect for
our country wherever we go.  We shall take with us, free of charge,


                      A GREAT FORCE OF MISSIONARIES,

and shed the true light upon all the celestial orbs which, physically
aglow, are yet morally in darkness.  Sunday-schools will be established
wherever practicable.  Compulsory education will also be introduced.

The comet will visit Mars first, and proceed to Mercury, Jupiter, Venus,
and Saturn.  Parties connected with the government of the District of
Columbia and with the former city government of New York, who may desire
to inspect the rings, will be allowed time and every facility.  Every
star of prominent magnitude will be visited, and time allowed for
excursions to points of interest inland.


                               THE DOG STAR

has been stricken from the program.  Much time will be spent in the Great
Bear, and, indeed, in every constellation of importance.  So, also, with
the Sun and Moon and the Milky Pay, otherwise the Gulf Stream of the
Skies.  Clothing suitable for wear in the sun should be provided.  Our
program has been so arranged that we shall seldom go more than
100,000,000 of miles at a time without stopping at some star.  This will
necessarily make the stoppages frequent and preserve the interest of the
tourist.  Baggage checked through to any point on the route.  Parties
desiring to make only a part of the proposed tour, and thus save expense,
may stop over at any star they choose and wait for the return voyage.

After visiting all the most celebrated stars and constellations in our
system and personally, inspecting the remotest sparks that even the most
powerful telescope can now detect in the firmament, we shall proceed with
good heart upon


                           A STUPENDOUS VOYAGE

of discovery among the countless whirling worlds that make turmoil in the
mighty wastes of space that stretch their solemn solitudes, their
unimaginable vastness billions upon billions of miles away beyond the
farthest verge of telescopic vision, till by comparison the little
sparkling vault we used to gaze at on Earth shall seem like a remembered
phosphorescent flash of spangles which some tropical voyager's prow
stirred into life for a single instant, and which ten thousand miles of
phosphorescent seas and tedious lapse of time had since diminished to an
incident utterly trivial in his recollection.  Children occupying seats
at the first table will be charged full fare.


                             FIRST-CLASS FARE

from the Earth to Uranus, including visits to the Sun and Moon and all
the principal planets on the route, will be charged at the low rate of
$2 for every 50,000,000 miles of actual travel.  A great reduction will
be made where parties wish to make the round trip.  This comet is new and
in thorough repair and is now on her first voyage.  She is confessedly
the fastest on the line.  She makes 20,000,000 miles a day, with her
present facilities; but, with a picked American crew and good weather,
we are confident we can get 40,000,000 out of her.  Still, we shall never
push her to a dangerous speed, and we shall rigidly prohibit racing with
other comets.  Passengers desiring to diverge at any point or return will
be transferred to other comets.  We make close connections at all
principal points with all reliable lines.  Safety can be depended upon.
It is not to be denied that the heavens are infested with


                          OLD RAMSHACKLE COMETS

that have not been inspected or overhauled in 10,000 years, and which
ought long ago to have been destroyed or turned into hail-barges, but
with these we have no connection whatever.  Steerage passengers not
allowed abaft the main hatch.

Complimentary round-trip tickets have been tendered to General Butler,
Mr. Shepherd, Mr. Richardson, and other eminent gentlemen, whose public
services have entitled them to the rest and relaxation of a voyage of
this kind.  Parties desiring to make the round trip will have extra
accommodation.  The entire voyage will be completed, and the passengers
landed in New York again, on the 14th of December, 1991.  This is, at
least, forty years quicker than any other comet can do it in.  Nearly all
the back-pay members contemplate making the round trip with us in case
their constituents will allow them a holiday.  Every harmless amusement
will be allowed on board, but no pools permitted on the run of the comet
--no gambling of any kind.  All fixed stars will be respected by us, but
such stars as seem, to need fixing we shall fix.  If it makes trouble, we
shall be sorry, but firm.

Mr. Coggia having leased his comet to us, she will no longer be called by
his name, but by my partner's.  N. B.--Passengers by paying double fare
will be entitled to a share in all the new stars, suns, moons, comets,
meteors, and magazines of thunder and lightning we may discover.  Patent-
medicine people will take notice that


                         WE CARRY BULLETIN-BOARDS

and a paint-brush along for use in the constellations, and are open to
terms.  Cremationists are reminded that we are going straight to--some
hot places--and are open to terms.  To other parties our enterprise is a
pleasure excursion, but individually we mean business.  We shall fly our
comet for all it is worth.


                         FOR FURTHER PARTICULARS,

or for freight or passage, apply on board, or to my partner, but not to
me, since I do not take charge of the comet until she is under way.
It is necessary, at a time like this, that my mind should not be burdened
with small business details.

                                                       MARK TWAIN.






RUNNING FOR GOVERNOR--[Written about 1870.]

A few months ago I was nominated for Governor of the great state of New
York, to run against Mr. John T. Smith and Mr. Blank J. Blank on an
independent ticket.  I somehow felt that I had one prominent advantage
over these gentlemen, and that was--good character.  It was easy to see
by the newspapers that if ever they had known what it was to bear a good
name, that time had gone by.  It was plain that in these latter years
they had become familiar with all manner of shameful crimes.  But at the
very moment that I was exalting my advantage and joying in it in secret,
there was a muddy undercurrent of discomfort "riling" the deeps of my
happiness, and that was--the having to hear my name bandied about in
familiar connection with those of such people.  I grew more and more
disturbed.  Finally I wrote my grandmother about it.  Her answer came
quick and sharp.  She said:

     You have never done one single thing in all your life to be ashamed
     of--not one.  Look at the newspapers--look at them and comprehend
     what sort of characters Messrs.  Smith and Blank are, and then see
     if you are willing to lower yourself to their level and enter a
     public canvass with them.

It was my very thought!  I did not sleep a single moment that night.
But, after all, I could not recede.

I was fully committed, and must go on with the fight.  As I was looking
listlessly over the papers at breakfast I came across this paragraph,
and I may truly say I never was so confounded before.

     PERJURY.--Perhaps, now that Mr. Mark Twain is before the people as a
     candidate for Governor, he will condescend to explain how he came to
     be convicted of perjury by thirty-four witnesses in Wakawak, Cochin
     China, in 1863, the intent of which perjury being to rob a poor
     native widow and her helpless family of a meager plantain-patch,
     their only stay and support in their bereavement and desolation.
     Mr. Twain owes it to himself, as well as to the great people whose
     suffrages he asks, to clear this matter up.  Will he do it?

I thought I should burst with amazement!  Such a cruel, heartless charge!
I never had seen Cochin China!  I never had heard of Wakawak!  I didn't
know a plantain-patch from a kangaroo!  I did not know what to do.  I was
crazed and helpless.  I let the day slip away without doing anything at
all.  The next morning the same paper had this--nothing more:

     SIGNIFICANT.--Mr.  Twain, it will be observed, is suggestively
     silent about the Cochin China perjury.

[Mem.--During the rest of the campaign this paper never referred to me in
any other way than as "the infamous perjurer Twain."]

Next came the Gazette, with this:

     WANTED TO KNOW.--Will the new candidate for Governor deign to
     explain to certain of his fellow-citizens (who are suffering to vote
     for him!) the little circumstance of his cabin-mates in Montana
     losing small valuables from time to time, until at last, these
     things having been invariably found on Mr. Twain's person or in his
     "trunk" (newspaper he rolled his traps in), they felt compelled to
     give him a friendly admonition for his own good, and so tarred and
     feathered him, and rode him on a rail; and then advised him to leave
     a permanent vacuum in the place he usually occupied in the camp.
     Will he do this?

Could anything be more deliberately malicious than that?  For I never was
in Montana in my life.

[After this, this journal customarily spoke of me as, "Twain, the Montana
Thief."]

I got to picking up papers apprehensively--much as one would lift a
desired blanket which he had some idea might have a rattlesnake under it.
One day this met my eye:

     THE LIE NAILED.--By the sworn affidavits of Michael O'Flanagan,
     Esq., of the Five Points, and Mr. Snub Rafferty and Mr. Catty
     Mulligan, of Water Street, it is established that Mr. Mark Twain's
     vile statement that the lamented grandfather of our noble standard-
     bearer, Blank J. Blank, was hanged for highway robbery, is a brutal
     and gratuitous LIE, without a shadow of foundation in fact.  It is
     disheartening to virtuous men to see such shameful means resorted to
     to achieve political success as the attacking of the dead in their
     graves, and defiling their honored names with slander.  When we
     think of the anguish this miserable falsehood must cause the
     innocent relatives and friends of the deceased, we are almost driven
     to incite an outraged and insulted public to summary and unlawful
     vengeance upon the traducer.  But no! let us leave him to the agony
     of a lacerated conscience (though if passion should get the better
     of the public, and in its blind fury they should do the traducer
     bodily injury, it is but too obvious that no jury could convict and
     no court punish the perpetrators of the deed).

The ingenious closing sentence had the effect of moving me out of bed
with despatch that night, and out at the back door also, while the
"outraged and insulted public" surged in the front way, breaking
furniture and windows in their righteous indignation as they came,
and taking off such property as they could carry when they went.
And yet I can lay my hand upon the Book and say that I never slandered
Mr. Blank's grandfather.  More: I had never even heard of him or
mentioned him up to that day and date.

[I will state, in passing, that the journal above quoted from always
referred to me afterward as "Twain, the Body-Snatcher."]

The next newspaper article that attracted my attention was the following:

     A SWEET CANDIDATE.--Mr.  Mark Twain, who was to make such a
     blighting speech at the mass-meeting of the Independents last night,
     didn't come to time!  A telegram from his physician stated that he
     had been knocked down by a runaway team, and his leg broken in two
     places--sufferer lying in great agony, and so forth, and so forth,
     and a lot more bosh of the same sort.  And the Independents tried
     hard to swallow the wretched subterfuge, and pretend that they did
     not know what was the real reason of the absence of the abandoned
     creature whom they denominate their standard-bearer.  A certain man
     was seen to reel into Mr.  Twain's hotel last night in a state of
     beastly intoxication.  It is the imperative duty of the Independents
     to prove that this besotted brute was not Mark Twain himself.  We
     have them at last!  This is a case that admits of no shirking.  The
     voice of the people demands in thunder tones, "WHO WAS THAT MAN?"

It was incredible, absolutely incredible, for a moment, that it was
really my name that was coupled with this disgraceful suspicion.  Three
long years had passed over my head since I had tasted ale, beer, wine or
liquor or any kind.

[It shows what effect the times were having on me when I say that I saw
myself, confidently dubbed "Mr. Delirium Tremens Twain" in the next issue
of that journal without a pang--notwithstanding I knew that with
monotonous fidelity the paper would go on calling me so to the very end.]

By this time anonymous letters were getting to be an important part of my
mail matter.  This form was common

     How about that old woman you kiked of your premises which
     was beging.                             POL. PRY.

And this:

     There is things which you Have done which is unbeknowens to anybody
     but me.  You better trot out a few dots, to yours truly, or you'll
     hear through the papers from
                                             HANDY ANDY.

This is about the idea.  I could continue them till the reader was
surfeited, if desirable.

Shortly the principal Republican journal "convicted" me of wholesale
bribery, and the leading Democratic paper "nailed" an aggravated case of
blackmailing to me.

[In this way I acquired two additional names: "Twain the Filthy
Corruptionist" and "Twain the Loathsome Embracer."]

By this time there had grown to be such a clamor for an "answer" to all
the dreadful charges that were laid to me that the editors and leaders of
my party said it would be political ruin for me to remain silent any
longer.   As if to make their appeal the more imperative, the following
appeared in one of the papers the very next day:

     BEHOLD THE MAN!--The independent candidate still maintains silence.
     Because he dare not speak.  Every accusation against him has been
     amply proved, and they have been indorsed and reindorsed by his own
     eloquent silence, till at this day he stands forever convicted.
     Look upon your candidate, Independents!  Look upon the Infamous
     Perjurer!  the Montana Thief!  the Body-Snatcher!  Contemplate your
     incarnate Delirium Tremens!  your Filthy Corruptionist!  your
     Loathsome Embracer!  Gaze upon him--ponder him well--and then say if
     you can give your honest votes to a creature who has earned this
     dismal array of titles by his hideous crimes, and dares not open his
     mouth in denial of any one of them!

There was no possible way of getting out of it, and so, in deep
humiliation, I set about preparing to "answer" a mass of baseless charges
and mean and wicked falsehoods.  But I never finished the task, for the
very next morning a paper came out with a new horror, a fresh malignity,
and seriously charged me with burning a lunatic asylum with all its
inmates, because it obstructed the view from my house.  This threw me
into a sort of panic.  Then came the charge of poisoning my uncle to get
his property, with an imperative demand that the grave should be opened.
This drove me to the verge of distraction.  On top of this I was accused
of employing toothless and incompetent old relatives to prepare the food
for the foundling' hospital when I warden.  I was wavering--wavering.
And at last, as a due and fitting climax to the shameless persecution
that party rancor had inflicted upon me, nine little toddling children,
of all shades of color and degrees of raggedness, were taught to rush
onto the platform at a public meeting, and clasp me around the legs and
call me PA!

I gave it up.  I hauled down my colors and surrendered.  I was not equal
to the requirements of a Gubernatorial campaign in the state of New York,
and so I sent in my withdrawal from the candidacy, and in bitterness of
spirit signed it, "Truly yours, once a decent man, but now

                    "MARK TWAIN, LP., M.T., B.S., D.T., F.C., and L.E."






A MYSTERIOUS VISIT


The first notice that was taken of me when I "settled down" recently was
by a gentleman who said he was an assessor, and connected with the U. S.
Internal Revenue Department.  I said I had never heard of his branch of
business before, but I was very glad to see him all the same.  Would he
sit down?  He sat down.  I did not know anything particular to say, and
yet I felt that people who have arrived at the dignity of keeping house
must be conversational, must be easy and sociable in company.  So, in
default of anything else to say, I asked him if he was opening his shop
in our neighborhood.

He said he was.  [I did not wish to appear ignorant, but I had hoped he
would mention what he had for sale.]

I ventured to ask him "How was trade?"  And he said "So-so."

I then said we would drop in, and if we liked his house as well as any
other, we would give him our custom.

He said he thought we would like his establishment well enough to confine
ourselves to it--said he never saw anybody who would go off and hunt up
another man in his line after trading with him once.

That sounded pretty complacent, but barring that natural expression of
villainy which we all have, the man looked honest enough.

I do not know how it came about exactly, but gradually we appeared to
melt down and run together, conversationally speaking, and then
everything went along as comfortably as clockwork.

We talked, and talked, and talked--at least I did; and we laughed, and
laughed, and laughed--at least he did.  But all the time I had my
presence of mind about me--I had my native shrewdness turned on "full
head," as the engineers say.  I was determined to find out all about his
business in spite of his obscure answers--and I was determined I would
have it out of him without his suspecting what I was at.  I meant to trap
him with a deep, deep ruse.  I would tell him all about my own business,
and he would naturally so warm to me during this seductive burst of
confidence that he would forget himself, and tell me all about his
affairs before he suspected what I was about.  I thought to myself, My
son, you little know what an old fox you are dealing with.  I said:

"Now you never would guess what I made lecturing this winter and last
spring?"

"No--don't believe I could, to save me.  Let me see--let me see.   About
two thousand dollars, maybe?  But no; no, sir, I know you couldn't have
made that much.   Say seventeen hundred, maybe?"

"Ha! ha!  I knew you couldn't.  My lecturing receipts for last spring and
this winter were fourteen thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars.  What
do you think of that?"

"Why, it is amazing-perfectly amazing.  I will make a note of it.  And
you say even this wasn't all?"

"All!  Why bless you, there was my income from the Daily Warwhoop for
four months--about--about--well, what should you say to about eight
thousand dollars, for instance?"

"Say!  Why, I should say I should like to see myself rolling in just such
another ocean of affluence.  Eight thousand!  I'll make a note of it.
Why man!--and on top of all this am I to understand that you had still
more income?"

"Ha! ha! ha!  Why, you're only in the suburbs of it, so to speak.
There's my book, The Innocents Abroad price $3.50 to $5, according to the
binding.  Listen to me.  Look me in the eye.  During the last four months
and a half, saying nothing of sales before that, but just simply during
the four months and a half, we've sold ninety-five thousand copies of
that book.  Ninety-five thousand!  Think of it.  Average four dollars a
copy, say.  It's nearly four hundred thousand dollars, my son.  I get
half."

"The suffering Moses!  I'll set that down.  Fourteen-seven-fifty--eight-
two hundred.  Total, say--well, upon my word, the grand total is about
two hundred and thirteen or fourteen thousand dollars!  Is that
possible?"

"Possible!  If there's any mistake it's the other way.  Two hundred and
fourteen thousand, cash, is my income for this year if I know how to
cipher."

Then the gentleman got up to go.  It came over me most uncomfortably that
maybe I had made my revelations for nothing, besides being flattered into
stretching them considerably by the stranger's astonished exclamations.
But no; at the last moment the gentleman handed me a large envelope, and
said it contained his advertisement; and that I would find out all about
his business in it; and that he would be happy to have my custom-would,
in fact, be proud to have the custom of a man of such prodigious income;
and that he used to think there were several wealthy men in the city, but
when they came to trade with him he discovered that they barely had
enough to live on; and that, in truth, it had been such a weary, weary
age since he had seen a rich man face to face, and talked to him, and
touched him with his hands, that he could hardly refrain from embracing
me--in fact, would esteem it a great favor if I would let him embrace me.

This so pleased me that I did not try to resist, but allowed this simple-
hearted stranger to throw his arms about me and weep a few tranquilizing
tears down the back of my neck.  Then he went his way.

As soon as he was gone I opened his advertisement.  I studied it
attentively for four minutes.  I then called up the cook, and said:

"Hold me while I faint!  Let Marie turn the griddle-cakes."

By and by, when I came to, I sent down to the rum-mill on the corner and
hired an artist by the week to sit up nights and curse that stranger, and
give me a lift occasionally in the daytime when I came to a hard place.

Ah, what a miscreant he was!  His "advertisement"  was nothing in the
world but a wicked tax-return--a string of impertinent questions about
my private affairs, occupying the best part of four fools-cap pages of
fine print-questions, I may remark, gotten up with such marvelous
ingenuity that the oldest man in the world couldn't understand what the
most of them were driving at--questions, too, that were calculated to
make a man report about four times his actual income to keep from
swearing to a falsehood.  I looked for a loophole, but there did not
appear to be any.  Inquiry No. 1 covered my case as generously and as
amply as an umbrella could cover an ant-hill:

     What were your profits, during the past year, from any trade,
     business, or vocation, wherever carried on?

And that inquiry was backed up by thirteen others of an equally searching
nature, the most modest of which required information as to whether I had
committed any burglary or highway robbery, or, by any arson or other
secret source of emolument had acquired property which was not enumerated
in my statement of income as set opposite to inquiry No. 1.

It was plain that that stranger had enabled me to make a goose of myself.
It was very, very plain; and so I went out and hired another artist.
By working on my vanity, the stranger had seduced me into declaring an
income of two hundred and fourteen thousand dollars.  By law, one
thousand dollars of this was exempt from income tax--the only relief I
could see, and it was only a drop in the ocean.  At the legal five per
cent., I must pay to the government the sum of ten thousand six hundred
and fifty dollars, income tax!

[I may remark, in this place, that I did not do it.]

I am acquainted with a very opulent man, whose house is a palace, whose
table is regal, whose outlays are enormous, yet a man who has no income,
as I have often noticed by the revenue returns; and to him I went for
advice in my distress.  He took my dreadful exhibition of receipts, he
put on his glasses, he took his pen, and presto!--I was a pauper!  It was
the neatest thing that ever was.  He did it simply by deftly manipulating
the bill of "DEDUCTIONS."  He set down my "State, national, and municipal
taxes" at so much; my "losses by shipwreck; fire, etc.," at so much; my
"losses on sales of real estate"--on "live stock sold"--on "payments for
rent of homestead"--on "repairs, improvements, interest"--on "previously
taxed salary as an officer of the United States army, navy, revenue
service," and other things.  He got astonishing "deductions" out of each
and every one of these matters--each and every one of them.  And when he
was done he handed me the paper, and I saw at a glance that during the
year my income, in the way of profits, had been one thousand two hundred
and fifty dollars and forty cents.

"Now," said he, "the thousand dollars is exempt by law.  What you want to
do is to go and swear this document in and pay tax on the two hundred and
fifty dollars."

[While he was making this speech his little boy Willie lifted a two-
dollar greenback out of his vest pocket and vanished with it, and I would
wager; anything that if my stranger were to call on that little boy to-
morrow he would make a false return of his income.]

"Do you," said I, "do you always work up the 'deductions' after this
fashion in your own case, sir?"

"Well, I should say so!  If it weren't for those eleven saving clauses
under the head of 'Deductions' I should be beggared every year to support
this hateful and wicked, this extortionate and tyrannical government."

This gentleman stands away up among the very best of the solid men of the
city--the men of moral weight, of commercial integrity, of unimpeachable,
social spotlessness--and so I bowed to his example.  I went down to the
revenue office, and under the accusing eyes of my old visitor I stood up
and swore to lie after lie, fraud after fraud, villainy after villainy,
till my soul was coated inches and inches thick with perjury, and my
self-respect gone for ever and ever.

But what of it?  It is nothing more than thousands of the richest and
proudest, and most respected, honored, and courted men in America do
every year.  And so I don't care.  I am not ashamed.  I shall simply,
for the present, talk little and eschew fire-proof gloves, lest I fall
into certain dreadful habits irrevocably.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Sketches New and Old,
by Mark Twain






CURIOUS REPUBLIC OF GONDOUR

by Mark Twain




THE CURIOUS REPUBLIC OF GONDOUR AND OTHER WHIMSICAL SKETCHES


NOTE:

Most of the sketches in this volume were taken from a series the author
wrote for The Galaxy from May, 1870, to April, 1871.  The rest appeared
in The Buffalo Express.





TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE CURIOUS REPUBLIC OF GONDOUR
A MEMORY
INTRODUCTORY TO "MEMORANDA".
ABOUT SMELLS
A COUPLE OF SAD EXPERIENCES
DAN MURPHY
THE "TOURNAMENT" IN A.D. 1870
CURIOUS RELIC FOR SALE
A REMINISCENCE OF THE BACK SETTLEMENTS
A ROYAL COMPLIMENT
THE APPROACHING EPIDEMIC
THE TONE-IMPARTING COMMITTEE
OUR PRECIOUS LUNATIC
THE EUROPEAN WAR
THE WILD MAN INTERVIEWED
LAST WORDS OF GREAT MEN






THE CURIOUS REPUBLIC OF GONDOUR

As soon as I had learned to speak the language a little, I became greatly
interested in the people and the system of government.

I found that the nation had at first tried universal suffrage pure and
simple, but had thrown that form aside because the result was not
satisfactory.  It had seemed to deliver all power into the hands of the
ignorant and non-tax-paying classes; and of a necessity the responsible
offices were filled from these classes also.

A remedy was sought.  The people believed they had found it; not in the
destruction of universal suffrage, but in the enlargement of it.  It was
an odd idea, and ingenious.  You must understand, the constitution gave
every man a vote; therefore that vote was a vested right, and could not
be taken away.  But the constitution did not say that certain individuals
might not be given two votes, or ten!  So an amendatory clause was
inserted in a quiet way; a clause which authorised the enlargement of the
suffrage in certain cases to be specified by statute.  To offer to
"limit" the suffrage might have made instant trouble; the offer to
"enlarge" it had a pleasant aspect.  But of course the newspapers soon
began to suspect; and then out they came!  It was found, however, that
for once--and for the first time in the history of the republic--
property, character, and intellect were able to wield a political
influence; for once, money, virtue, and intelligence took a vital and a
united interest in a political question; for once these powers went to
the "primaries" in strong force; for once the best men in the nation were
put forward as candidates for that parliament whose business it should be
to enlarge the suffrage.  The weightiest half of the press quickly joined
forces with the new movement, and left the other half to rail about the
proposed "destruction of the liberties" of the bottom layer of society,
the hitherto governing class of the community.

The victory was complete.  The new law was framed and passed.  Under it
every citizen, howsoever poor or ignorant, possessed one vote,
so universal suffrage still reigned; but if a man possessed a good
common-school education and no money, he had two votes; a high-school
education gave him four; if he had property like wise, to the value of
three thousand 'sacos,' he wielded one more vote; for every fifty
thousand 'sacos' a man added to his property, he was entitled to another
vote; a university education entitled a man to nine votes, even though he
owned no property.  Therefore, learning being more prevalent and more
easily acquired than riches, educated men became a wholesome check upon
wealthy men, since they could outvote them.  Learning goes usually with
uprightness, broad views, and humanity; so the learned voters, possessing
the balance of power, became the vigilant and efficient protectors of the
great lower rank of society.

And now a curious thing developed itself--a sort of emulation, whose
object was voting power!  Whereas formerly a man was honored only
according to the amount of money he possessed, his grandeur was measured
now by the number of votes he wielded.  A man with only one vote was
conspicuously respectful to his neighbor who possessed three.  And if he
was a man above the common-place, he was as conspicuously energetic in
his determination to acquire three for himself.  This spirit of emulation
invaded all ranks.  Votes based upon capital were commonly called
"mortal" votes, because they could be lost; those based upon learning
were called "immortal," because they were permanent, and because of their
customarily imperishable character they were naturally more valued than
the other sort.  I say "customarily" for the reason that these votes were
not absolutely imperishable, since insanity could suspend them.

Under this system, gambling and speculation almost ceased in the
republic.  A man honoured as the possessor of great voting power could
not afford to risk the loss of it upon a doubtful chance.

It was curious to observe the manners and customs which the enlargement
plan produced.  Walking the street with a friend one day he delivered a
careless bow to a passer-by, and then remarked that that person possessed
only one vote and would probably never earn another; he was more
respectful to the next acquaintance he met; he explained that this salute
was a four-vote bow.  I tried to "average" the importance of the people
he accosted after that, by the-nature of his bows, but my success was
only partial, because of the somewhat greater homage paid to the
immortals than to the mortals.  My friend explained.  He said there was
no law to regulate this thing, except that most powerful of all laws,
custom.  Custom had created these varying bows, and in time they had
become easy and natural.  At this moment he delivered himself of a very
profound salute, and then said, "Now there's a man who began life as a
shoemaker's apprentice, and without education; now he swings twenty-two
mortal votes and two immortal ones; he expects to pass a high-school
examination this year and climb a couple of votes higher among the
immortals; mighty valuable citizen."

By and by my friend met a venerable personage, and not only made him a
most elaborate bow, but also took off his hat.  I took off mine, too,
with a mysterious awe.  I was beginning to be infected.

"What grandee is that?"

"That is our most illustrious astronomer.  He hasn't any money, but is
fearfully learned.  Nine immortals is his political weight!  He would
swing a hundred and fifty votes if our system were perfect."

"Is there any altitude of mere moneyed: grandeur that you take off your
hat to?"

"No.  Nine immortal votes is the only power we uncover for that is, in
civil life.  Very great officials receive that mark of homage, of
course."

It was common to hear people admiringly mention men who had begun life on
the lower levels and in time achieved great voting-power.  It was also
common to hear youths planning a future of ever so many votes for
themselves.  I heard shrewd mammas speak of certain young men as good
"catches" because they possessed such-and-such a number of votes.  I knew
of more than one case where an heiress was married to a youngster who had
but one vote; the argument being that he was gifted with such excellent
parts that in time he would acquire a good voting strength, and perhaps
in the long run be able to outvote his wife, if he had luck.

Competitive examinations were the rule and in all official grades.  I
remarked that the questions asked the candidates were wild, intricate,
and often required a sort of knowledge not needed in the office sought.

"Can a fool or an ignoramus answer them?" asked the person I was talking
with.

"Certainly not."

"Well, you will not find any fools or ignoramuses among our officials."

I felt rather cornered, but made shift to say:

"But these questions cover a good deal more ground than is necessary."

"No matter; if candidates can answer these it is tolerably fair evidence
that they can answer nearly any other question you choose to ask them."

There were some things in Gondour which one could not shut his eyes to.
One was, that ignorance and incompetence had no place in the government.
Brains and property managed the state.  A candidate for office must have
marked ability, education, and high character, or he stood no sort of
chance of election.  If a hod-carrier possessed these, he could succeed;
but the mere fact that he was a hod-carrier could not elect him, as in
previous times.

It was now a very great honour to be in the parliament or in office;
under the old system such distinction had only brought suspicion upon a
man and made him a helpless mark for newspaper contempt and scurrility.
Officials did not need to steal now, their salaries being vast in
comparison with the pittances paid in the days when parliaments were
created by hod-carriers, who viewed official salaries from a hod-carrying
point of view and compelled that view to be respected by their obsequious
servants.  Justice was wisely and rigidly administered; for a judge,
after once reaching his place through the specified line of promotions,
was a permanency during good behaviour.  He was not obliged to modify his
judgments according to the effect they might have upon the temper of a
reigning political party.

The country was mainly governed by a ministry which went out with the
administration that created it.  This was also the case with the chiefs
of the great departments.  Minor officials ascended to their several
positions through well-earned promotions, and not by a jump from gin-
mills or the needy families and friends of members of parliament.  Good
behaviour measured their terms of office.

The head of the governments the Grand Caliph, was elected for a term of
twenty years.  I questioned the wisdom of this.  I was answered that he
could do no harm, since the ministry and the parliament governed the
land, and he was liable to impeachment for misconduct.  This great office
had twice been ably filled by women, women as aptly fitted for it as some
of the sceptred queens of history.  Members of the cabinet, under many
administrations, had been women.

I found that the pardoning power was lodged in a court of pardons,
consisting of several great judges.  Under the old regime, this important
power was vested in a single official, and he usually took care to have a
general jail delivery in time for the next election.

I inquired about public schools.  There were plenty of them, and of free
colleges too.  I inquired about compulsory education.  This was received
with a smile, and the remark:

"When a man's child is able to make himself powerful and honoured
according to the amount of education he acquires, don't you suppose that
that parent will apply the compulsion himself?  Our free schools and free
colleges require no law to fill them."

There was a loving pride of country about this person's way of speaking
which annoyed me.  I had long been unused to the sound of it in my own.
The Gondour national airs were forever dinning in my ears; therefore I
was glad to leave that country and come back to my dear native land,
where one never hears that sort of music.






A MEMORY,

When I say that I never knew my austere father to be enamoured of but one
poem in all the long half century that he lived, persons who knew him
will easily believe me; when I say that I have never composed but one
poem in all the long third of a century that I have lived, persons who
know me will be sincerely grateful; and finally, when I say that the poem
which I composed was not the one which my father was enamoured of,
persons who may have known us both will not need to have this truth shot
into them with a mountain howitzer before they can receive it.  My father
and I were always on the most distant terms when I was a boy--a sort of
armed neutrality so to speak.  At irregular intervals this neutrality was
broken, and suffering ensued; but I will be candid enough to say that the
breaking and the suffering were always divided up with, strict
impartiality between us--which is to say, my father did the breaking, and
I did the suffering.  As a general thing I was a backward, cautious,
unadventurous boy; but I once jumped off a two-story table; another time
I gave an elephant a "plug" of tobacco and retired without waiting for an
answer; and still another time I pretended to be talking in my sleep, and
got off a portion of a very wretched original conundrum in the hearing of
my father.  Let us not pry into the result; it was of no consequence to
any one but me.

But the poem I have referred to as attracting my father's attention and
achieving his favour was "Hiawatha."  Some man who courted a sudden and
awful death presented him an early copy, and I never lost faith in my own
senses until I saw him sit down and go to reading it in cold blood--saw
him open the book, and heard him read these following lines, with the
same inflectionless judicial frigidity with which he always read his
charge to the jury, or administered an oath to a witness:

                   "Take your bow,
                    O Hiawatha,
                    Take your arrows, jasper-headed,
                    Take your war-club, Puggawaugun,
                    And your mittens, Minjekahwan,
                    And your birch canoe for sailing,
                    And the oil of Mishe-Nama."

Presently my father took out of his breast pocket an imposing "Warranty
Deed," and fixed his eyes upon it and dropped into meditation.  I knew
what it was.  A Texan lady and gentleman had given my half-brother, Orrin
Johnson, a handsome property in a town in the North, in gratitude to him
for having saved their lives by an act of brilliant heroism.

By and by my father looked towards me and sighed.  Then he said:

"If I had such a son as this poet, here were a subject worthier than the
traditions of these Indians."

"If you please, sir, where?"

"In this deed."

"Yes--in this very deed," said my father, throwing it on the table.
"There is more poetry, more romance, more sublimity, more splendid
imagery hidden away in that homely document than could be found in all
the traditions of all the savages that live."

"Indeed, sir?  Could I--could I get it out, sir?  Could I compose the
poem, sir, do you think?"

"You?"

I wilted.

Presently my father's face softened somewhat, and he said:

"Go and try.  But mind, curb folly.  No poetry at the expense of truth.
Keep strictly to the facts."

I said I would, and bowed myself out, and went upstairs.

"Hiawatha" kept droning in my head--and so did my father's remarks about
the sublimity and romance hidden in my subject, and also his injunction
to beware of wasteful and exuberant fancy.  I noticed, just here, that I
had heedlessly brought the deed away with me; now at this moment came to
me one of those rare moods of daring recklessness, such as I referred to
a while ago.  Without another thought, and in plain defiance of the fact
that I knew my father meant me to write the romantic story of my half-
brother's adventure and subsequent good fortune, I ventured to heed
merely the letter of his remarks and ignore their spirit.  I took the
stupid "Warranty Deed" itself and chopped it up into Hiawathian blank
verse without altering or leaving out three words, and without
transposing six.  It required loads of courage to go downstairs and face
my father with my performance.  I started three or four times before I
finally got my pluck to where it would stick.  But at last I said I would
go down and read it to him if he threw me over the church for it.
I stood up to begin, and he told me to come closer.  I edged up a little,
but still left as much neutral ground between us as I thought he would
stand.  Then I began.  It would be useless for me to try to tell what
conflicting emotions expressed themselves upon his face, nor how they
grew more and more intense, as I proceeded; nor how a fell darkness
descended upon his countenance, and he began to gag and swallow, and his
hands began to work and twitch, as I reeled off line after line, with the
strength ebbing out of me, and my legs trembling under me:

                    THE STORY OF A GALLANT DEED

                    THIS INDENTURE, made the tenth
                    Day of November, in the year
                    Of our Lord one thousand eight
                    Hundred six-and-fifty,

                    Between Joanna S. E. Gray
                    And Philip Gray, her husband,
                    Of Salem City in the State
                    Of Texas, of the first part,

                    And O. B. Johnson, of the town
                    Of Austin, ditto, WITNESSETH:
                    That said party of first part,
                    For and in consideration

                    Of the sum of Twenty Thousand
                    Dollars, lawful money of
                    The U. S.  of Americay,
                    To them in hand now paid by said

                    Party of the second part,
                    The due receipt whereof is here-
                    By confessed and acknowledg-ed
                    Having Granted, Bargained, Sold, Remised,

                    Released and Aliened and Conveyed,
                    Confirmed, and by these presents do
                    Grant and Bargain, Sell, Remise,
                    Alien, Release, Convey, and Con-

                    Firm unto the said aforesaid
                    Party of the second part,
                    And to his heirs and assigns
                    Forever and ever ALL

                    That certain lot or parcel of
                    LAND situate in city of
                    Dunkirk, County of Chautauqua,
                    And likewise furthermore in York State

                    Bounded and described, to-wit,
                    As follows, herein, namely
                    BEGINNING at the distance of
                    A hundred two-and-forty feet,

                    North-half-east, north-east-by north,
                    East-north-east and northerly
                    Of the northerly line of Mulligan street
                    On the westerly line of Brannigan street,

                    And running thence due northerly
                    On Brannigan street 200 feet,
                    Thence at right angles westerly,
                    North-west-by-west-and-west-half-west,

                    West-and-by-north, north-west-by-west,
                    About--

I kind of dodged, and the boot-jack broke the looking-glass.  I could
have waited to see what became of the other missiles if I had wanted to,
but I took no interest in such things.






INTRODUCTORY TO "MEMORANDA"

In taking upon myself the burden of editing a department in THE GALAXY
magazine, I have been actuated by a conviction that I was needed, almost
imperatively, in this particular field of literature.  I have long felt
that while the magazine literature of the day had much to recommend it,
it yet lacked stability, solidity, weight.  It seemed plain to me that
too much space was given to poetry and romance, and not enough to
statistics and agriculture.  This defect it shall be my earnest endeavour
to remedy.  If I succeed, the simple consciousness that I have done a
good deed will be a sufficient reward.**--[**Together with salary.]

In this department of mine the public may always rely upon finding
exhaustive statistical tables concerning the finances of the country,
the ratio of births and deaths; the percentage of increase of population,
etc., etc.--in a word, everything in the realm of statistics that can
make existence bright and beautiful.

Also, in my department will always be found elaborate condensations of
the Patent Office Reports, wherein a faithful endeavour will at all times
be made to strip the nutritious facts bare of that effulgence of
imagination and sublimity of diction which too often mar the excellence
of those great works.**--[** N. B.--No other magazine in the country
makes a specialty of the Patent Office Reports.]

In my department will always be found ample excerpts from those able
dissertations upon Political Economy which I have for a long time been
contributing to a great metropolitan journal, and which, for reasons
utterly incomprehensible to me, another party has chosen to usurp the
credit of composing.

And, finally, I call attention with pride to the fact that in my
department of the magazine the farmer will always find full market
reports, and also complete instructions about farming, even from the
grafting of the seed to the harrowing of the matured crop.  I shall throw
a pathos into the subject of Agriculture that will surprise and delight
the world.

Such is my programme; and I am persuaded that by adhering to it with
fidelity I shall succeed in materially changing the character of this
magazine.  Therefore I am emboldened to ask the assistance and
encouragement of all whose sympathies are with Progress and Reform.

In the other departments of the magazine will be found poetry, tales, and
other frothy trifles, and to these the reader can turn for relaxation
from time to time, and thus guard against overstraining the powers of his
mind.
                                                  M. T.

P. S.--1.  I have not sold out of the "Buffalo Express," and shall not;
neither shall I stop writing for it.  This remark seems necessary in a
business point of view.

2.  These MEMORANDA are not a "humorous" department.  I would not conduct
an exclusively and professedly humorous department for any one.  I would
always prefer to have the privilege of printing a serious and sensible
remark, in case one occurred to me, without the reader's feeling obliged
to consider himself outraged.  We cannot keep the same mood day after
day.  I am liable, some day, to want to print my opinion on
jurisprudence, or Homeric poetry, or international law, and I shall do
it.  It will be of small consequence to me whether the reader survive or
not.  I shall never go straining after jokes when in a cheerless mood, so
long as the unhackneyed subject of international law is open to me.
I will leave all that straining to people who edit professedly and
inexorably "humorous" departments and publications.

3.  I have chosen the general title of MEMORANDA for this department
because it is plain and simple, and makes no fraudulent promises.  I can
print under it statistics, hotel arrivals, or anything that comes handy,
without violating faith with the reader.

4.  Puns cannot be allowed a place in this department.  Inoffensive
ignorance, benignant stupidity, and unostentatious imbecility will always
be welcomed and cheerfully accorded a corner, and even the feeblest
humour will be admitted, when we can do no better; but no circumstances,
however dismal, will ever be considered a sufficient excuse for the
admission of that last--and saddest evidence of intellectual poverty, the
Pun.






ABOUT SMELLS

In a recent issue of the "Independent," the Rev. T. De Witt Talmage, of
Brooklyn, has the following utterance on the subject of "Smells":

     I have a good Christian friend who, if he sat in the front pew in
     church, and a working man should enter the door at the other end,
     would smell him instantly.  My friend is not to blame for the
     sensitiveness of his nose, any more than you would flog a pointer
     for being keener on the scent than a stupid watch dog.  The fact is,
     if you, had all the churches free, by reason of the mixing up of the
     common people with the uncommon, you would keep one-half of
     Christendom sick at their stomach.  If you are going to kill the
     church thus with bad smells, I will have nothing to do with this
     work of evangelization.

We have reason to believe that there will be labouring men in heaven; and
also a number of negroes, and Esquimaux, and Terra del Fuegans, and
Arabs, and a few Indians, and possibly even some Spaniards and
Portuguese.  All things are possible with God.  We shall have all these
sorts of people in heaven; but, alas! in getting them we shall lose the
society of Dr. Talmage.  Which is to say, we shall lose the company of
one who could give more real "tone" to celestial society than any other
contribution Brooklyn could furnish.  And what would eternal happiness be
without the Doctor?  Blissful, unquestionably--we know that well enough
but would it be 'distingue,' would it be 'recherche' without him?  St.
Matthew without stockings or sandals; St. Jerome bare headed, and with a
coarse brown blanket robe dragging the ground; St. Sebastian with
scarcely any raiment at all--these we should see, and should enjoy seeing
them; but would we not miss a spike-tailed coat and kids, and turn away
regretfully, and say to parties from the Orient: "These are well enough,
but you ought to see Talmage of Brooklyn."  I fear me that in the better
world we shall not even have Dr. Talmage's "good Christian friend."

For if he were sitting under the glory of the Throne, and the keeper of
the keys admitted a Benjamin Franklin or other labouring man, that
"friend," with his fine natural powers infinitely augmented by
emancipation from hampering flesh, would detect him with a single sniff,
and immediately take his hat and ask to be excused.

To all outward seeming, the Rev. T. De Witt Talmage is of the same
material as that used in the construction of his early predecessors in
the ministry; and yet one feels that there must be a difference somewhere
between him and the Saviour's first disciples.  It may be because here,
in the nineteenth century, Dr. T.  has had advantages which Paul and
Peter and the others could not and did not have.  There was a lack of
polish about them, and a looseness of etiquette, and a want of
exclusiveness, which one cannot help noticing.  They healed the very
beggars, and held intercourse with people of a villainous odour every
day.  If the subject of these remarks had been chosen among the original
Twelve Apostles, he would not have associated with the rest, because he
could not have stood the fishy smell of some of his comrades who came
from around the Sea of Galilee.  He would have resigned his commission
with some such remark as he makes in the extract quoted above: "Master,
if thou art going to kill the church thus with bad smells, I will have
nothing to do with this work of evangelization."  He is a disciple, and
makes that remark to the Master; the only difference is, that he makes it
in the nineteenth instead of the first century.

Is there a choir in Mr. T.'s church?  And does it ever occur that they
have no better manners than to sing that hymn which is so suggestive of
labourers and mechanics:

          "Son of the Carpenter! receive
          This humble work of mine?"

Now, can it be possible that in a handful of centuries the Christian
character has fallen away from an imposing heroism that scorned even the
stake, the cross, and the axe, to a poor little effeminacy that withers
and wilts under an unsavoury smell?  We are not prepared to believe so,
the reverend Doctor and his friend to the contrary notwithstanding.






A COUPLE OF SAD EXPERIENCES

When I published a squib recently in which I said I was going to edit an
Agricultural Department in this magazine, I certainly did not desire to
deceive anybody.  I had not the remotest desire to play upon any one's
confidence with a practical joke, for he is a pitiful creature indeed who
will degrade the dignity of his humanity to the contriving of the witless
inventions that go by that name.  I purposely wrote the thing as absurdly
and as extravagantly as it could be written, in order to be sure and not
mislead hurried or heedless readers: for I spoke of launching a triumphal
barge upon a desert, and planting a tree of prosperity in a mine--a tree
whose fragrance should slake the thirst of the naked, and whose branches
should spread abroad till they washed the chorea of, etc., etc.  I
thought that manifest lunacy like that would protect the reader.  But to
make assurance absolute, and show that I did not and could not seriously
mean to attempt an Agricultural Department, I stated distinctly in my
postscript that I did not know anything about Agriculture.  But alas!
right there is where I made my worst mistake--for that remark seems to
have recommended my proposed Agriculture more than anything else.  It
lets a little light in on me, and I fancy I perceive that the farmers
feel a little bored, sometimes, by the oracular profundity of
agricultural editors who "know it all."  In fact, one of my
correspondents suggests this (for that unhappy squib has deluged me with
letters about potatoes, and cabbages, and hominy, and vermicelli, and
maccaroni, and all the other fruits, cereals, and vegetables that ever
grew on earth; and if I get done answering questions about the best way
of raising these things before I go raving crazy, I shall be thankful,
and shall never write obscurely for fun any more).

Shall I tell the real reason why I have unintentionally succeeded in
fooling so many people?  It is because some of them only read a little of
the squib I wrote and jumped to the conclusion that it was serious, and
the rest did not read it at all, but heard of my agricultural venture at
second-hand.  Those cases I could not guard against, of course.  To write
a burlesque so wild that its pretended facts will not be accepted in
perfect good faith by somebody, is, very nearly an impossible thing to
do.  It is because, in some instances, the reader is a person who never
tries to deceive anybody himself, and therefore is not expecting any one
to wantonly practise a deception upon him; and in this case the only
person dishonoured is the man who wrote the burlesque.  In other
instances the "nub" or moral of the burlesque--if its object be to
enforce a truth--escapes notice in the superior glare of something in the
body of the burlesque itself.  And very often this "moral" is tagged on
at the bottom, and the reader, not knowing that it is the key of the
whole thing and the only important paragraph in the article, tranquilly
turns up his nose at it and leaves it unread.  One can deliver a satire
with telling force through the insidious medium of a travesty, if he is
careful not to overwhelm the satire with the extraneous interest of the
travesty, and so bury it from the reader's sight and leave him a joked
and defrauded victim, when the honest intent was to add to either his
knowledge or his wisdom.  I have had a deal of experience in burlesques
and their unfortunate aptness to deceive the public, and this is why I
tried hard to make that agricultural one so broad and so perfectly
palpable that even a one-eyed potato could see it; and yet, as I speak
the solemn truth, it fooled one of the ablest agricultural editors in
America!






DAN MURPHY

One of the saddest things that ever came under my notice (said the
banker's clerk) was there in Corning, during the war.  Dan Murphy
enlisted as a private, and fought very bravely.  The boys all liked him,
and when a wound by and by weakened him down till carrying a musket was
too heavy work for him, they clubbed together and fixed him up as a
sutler.  He made money then, and sent it always to his wife to bank for
him.  She was a washer and ironer, and knew enough by hard experience to
keep money when she got it.  She didn't waste a penny.  On the contrary,
she began to get miserly as her bank account grew.  She grieved to part
with a cent, poor creature, for twice in her hard-working life she had
known what it was to be hungry, cold, friendless, sick, and without a
dollar in the world, and she had a haunting dread of suffering so again.
Well, at last Dan died; and the boys, in testimony of their esteem and
respect for him, telegraphed to Mrs.  Murphy to know if she would like to
have him embalmed and sent home, when you know the usual custom was to
dump a poor devil like him into a shallow hole, and then inform his
friends what had become of him.  Mrs.  Murphy jumped to the conclusion
that it would only cost two or three dollars to embalm her dead husband,
and so she telegraphed "Yes."  It was at the "wake" that the bill for
embalming arrived and was presented to the widow.  She uttered a wild,
sad wail, that pierced every heart, and said: "Sivinty-foive dollars for
stoofhn' Dan, blister their sowls!  Did thim divils suppose I was goin'
to stairt a Museim, that I'd be dalin' in such expinsive curiassities!"

The banker's clerk said there was not a dry eye in the house.






THE "TOURNAMENT" IN A. D. 1870

Lately there appeared an item to this effect, and the same went the
customary universal round of the press:

     A telegraph station has just been established upon the traditional
     site of the Garden of Eden.

As a companion to that, nothing fits so aptly and so perfectly as this:

     Brooklyn has revived the knightly tournament of the Middle Ages.

It is hard to tell which is the most startling, the idea of that highest
achievement of human genius and intelligence, the telegraph, prating away
about the practical concerns of the world's daily life in the heart and
home of ancient indolence, ignorance, and savagery, or the idea of that
happiest expression of the brag, vanity, and mock-heroics of our
ancestors, the "tournament," coming out of its grave to flaunt its tinsel
trumpery and perform its "chivalrous" absurdities in the high noon of the
nineteenth century, and under the patronage of a great, broad-awake city
and an advanced civilisation.

A "tournament" in Lynchburg is a thing easily within the comprehension of
the average mind; but no commonly gifted person can conceive of such a
spectacle in Brooklyn without straining his powers.  Brooklyn is part and
parcel of the city of New York, and there is hardly romance enough in the
entire metropolis to re-supply a Virginia "knight" with "chivalry," in
case he happened to run out of it.  Let the reader calmly and
dispassionately picture to himself "lists" in Brooklyn; heralds,
pursuivants, pages, garter king-at-arms--in Brooklyn; the marshalling of
the fantastic hosts of "chivalry" in slashed doublets, velvet trunks,
ruffles, and plumes--in Brooklyn; mounted on omnibus and livery-stable
patriarchs, promoted, and referred to in cold blood as "steeds,"
"destriers," and "chargers," and divested of their friendly, humble names
these meek old "Jims" and "Bobs" and "Charleys," and renamed "Mohammed,"
"Bucephalus," and "Saladin"--in Brooklyn; mounted thus, and armed with
swords and shields and wooden lances, and cased in paste board hauberks,
morions, greaves, and gauntlets, and addressed as "Sir" Smith, and "Sir"
Jones, and bearing such titled grandeurs as "The Disinherited Knight,"
the "Knight of Shenandoah," the "Knight of the Blue Ridge," the "Knight
of Maryland," and the "Knight of the Secret Sorrow"--in Brooklyn; and at
the toot of the horn charging fiercely upon a helpless ring hung on a
post, and prodding at it in trepidly with their wooden sticks, and by and
by skewering it and cavorting back to the judges' stand covered with
glory this in Brooklyn; and each noble success like this duly and
promptly announced by an applauding toot from the herald's horn, and "the
band playing three bars of an old circus tune"--all in Brooklyn, in broad
daylight.  And let the reader remember, and also add to his picture, as
follows, to wit: when the show was all over, the party who had shed the
most blood and overturned and hacked to pieces the most knights, or at
least had prodded the most muffin-rings, was accorded the ancient
privilege of naming and crowning the Queen of Love and Beauty--which
naming had in reality been done for, him by the "cut-and-dried" process,
and long in advance, by a committee of ladies, but the crowning he did in
person, though suffering from loss of blood, and then was taken to the
county hospital on a shutter to have his wounds dressed--these curious
things all occurring in Brooklyn, and no longer ago than one or two
yesterdays.  It seems impossible, and yet it is true.

This was doubtless the first appearance of the "tournament" up here among
the rolling-mills and factories, and will probably be the last.  It will
be well to let it retire permanently to the rural districts of Virginia,
where, it is said, the fine mailed and plumed, noble-natured, maiden-
rescuing, wrong-redressing, adventure-seeking knight of romance is
accepted and believed in by the peasantry with pleasing simplicity, while
they reject with scorn the plain, unpolished verdict whereby history
exposes him as a braggart, a ruffian, a fantastic vagabond; and an
ignoramus.

All romance aside, what shape would our admiration of the heroes of Ashby
de la Zouch be likely to take, in this practical age, if those worthies
were to rise up and come here and perform again the chivalrous deeds of
that famous passage of arms?  Nothing but a New York jury and the
insanity plea could save them from hanging, from the amiable Bois-
Guilbert and the pleasant Front-de-Boeuf clear down to the nameless
ruffians that entered the riot with unpictured shields and did their
first murder and acquired their first claim to respect that day.  The
doings of the so-called "chivalry" of the Middle Ages were absurd enough,
even when they were brutally and bloodily in earnest, and when their
surroundings of castles and donjons, savage landscapes and half-savage
peoples, were in keeping; but those doings gravely reproduced with tinsel
decorations and mock pageantry, by bucolic gentlemen with broomstick
lances, and with muffin-rings to represent the foe, and all in the midst
of the refinement and dignity of a carefully-developed modern
civilisation, is absurdity gone crazy.

Now, for next exhibition, let us have a fine representation of one of
those chivalrous wholesale butcheries and burnings of Jewish women and
children, which the crusading heroes of romance used to indulge in in
their European homes, just before starting to the Holy Land, to seize and
take to their protection the Sepulchre and defend it from "pollution."






CURIOUS RELIC FOR SALE

     "For sale, for the benefit of the Fund for the Relief of the Widows
     and Orphans of Deceased Firemen, a Curious Ancient Bedouin Pipe,
     procured at the city of Endor in Palestine, and believed to have
     once belonged to the justly-renowned Witch of Endor.  Parties
     desiring to examine this singular relic with a view to purchasing,
     can do so by calling upon Daniel S.. 119 and 121 William street, New
     York"

As per advertisement in the "Herald."  A curious old relic indeed, as I
had a good personal right to know.  In a single instant of time, a long
drawn panorama of sights and scenes in the Holy Land flashed through my
memory--town and grove, desert, camp, and caravan clattering after each
other and disappearing, leaping me with a little of the surprised and
dizzy feeling which I have experienced at sundry times when a long
express train has overtaken me at some quiet curve and gone whizzing, car
by car, around the corner and out of sight.  In that prolific instant I
saw again all the country from the Sea of Galilee and Nazareth clear to
Jerusalem, and thence over the hills of Judea and through the Vale of
Sharon to Joppa, down by the ocean.  Leaving out unimportant stretches of
country and details of incident, I saw and experienced the following-
described matters and things.  Immediately three years fell away from my
age, and a vanished time was restored to me September, 1867.  It was a
flaming Oriental day--this one that had come up out of the past and
brought along its actors, its stage-properties, and scenic effects--and
our party had just ridden through the squalid hive of human vermin which
still holds the ancient Biblical name of Endor; I was bringing up the
rear on my grave four-dollar steed, who was about beginning to compose
himself for his usual noon nap.  My! only fifteen minutes before how the
black, mangy, nine-tenths naked, ten-tenths filthy, ignorant, bigoted,
besotted, hungry, lazy, malignant, screeching, crowding, struggling,
wailing, begging, cursing, hateful spawn of the original Witch had
swarmed out of the caves in the rocks and the holes and crevices in the
earth, and blocked our horses' way, besieged us, threw themselves in the
animals' path, clung to their manes, saddle-furniture, and tails, asking,
beseeching, demanding "bucksheesh!  bucksheesh!  BUCKSHEESH!"  We had
rained small copper Turkish coins among them, as fugitives fling coats
and hats to pursuing wolves, and then had spurred our way through as they
stopped to scramble for the largess.  I was fervently thankful when we
had gotten well up on the desolate hillside and outstripped them and left
them jawing and gesticulating in the rear.  What a tempest had seemingly
gone roaring and crashing by me and left its dull thunders pulsing in my
ears!

I was in the rear, as I was saying.  Our pack-mules and Arabs were far
ahead, and Dan, Jack, Moult, Davis, Denny, Church, and Birch (these names
will do as well as any to represent the boys) were following close after
them.  As my horse nodded to rest, I heard a sort of panting behind me,
and turned and saw that a tawny youth from the village had overtaken me
--a true remnant and representative of his ancestress the Witch--a
galvanised scurvy, wrought into the human shape and garnished with
ophthalmia and leprous scars--an airy creature with an invisible shirt-
front that reached below the pit of his stomach, and no other clothing to
speak of except a tobacco-pouch, an ammunition-pocket, and a venerable
gun, which was long enough to club any game with that came within
shooting distance, but far from efficient as an article of dress.

I thought to myself, "Now this disease with a human heart in it is going
to shoot me."  I smiled in derision at the idea of a Bedouin daring to
touch off his great-grandfather's rusty gun and getting his head blown
off for his pains.  But then it occurred to me, in simple school-boy
language, "Suppose he should take deliberate aim and 'haul off' and fetch
me with the butt-end of it?"  There was wisdom in that view of it, and I
stopped to parley.  I found he was only a friendly villain who wanted a
trifle of bucksheesh, and after begging what he could get in that way,
was perfectly willing to trade off everything he had for more.  I believe
he would have parted with his last shirt for bucksheesh if he had had
one.  He was smoking the "humbliest" pipe I ever saw--a dingy, funnel-
shaped, red-clay thing, streaked and grimed with oil and tears of
tobacco, and with all the different kinds of dirt there are, and thirty
per cent. of them peculiar and indigenous to Endor and perdition.  And
rank?  I never smelt anything like it.  It withered a cactus that stood
lifting its prickly hands aloft beside the trail.  It even woke up my
horse.  I said I would take that.  It cost me a franc, a Russian kopek,
a brass button, and a slate pencil; and my spendthrift lavishness so won
upon the son of the desert that he passed over his pouch of most
unspeakably villainous tobacco to me as a free gift.  What a pipe it was,
to be sure!  It had a rude brass-wire cover to it, and a little coarse
iron chain suspended from the bowl, with an iron splinter attached to
loosen up the tobacco and pick your teeth with.  The stem looked like the
half of a slender walking-stick with the bark on.

I felt that this pipe had belonged to the original Witch of Endor as soon
as I saw it; and as soon as I smelt it, I knew it.  Moreover, I asked the
Arab cub in good English if it was not so, and he answered in good Arabic
that it was.  I woke up my horse and went my way, smoking.  And presently
I said to myself reflectively, "If there is anything that could make a
man deliberately assault a dying cripple, I reckon may be an unexpected
whiff from this pipe would do it."  I smoked along till I found I was
beginning to lie, and project murder, and steal my own things out of one
pocket and hide them in another; and then I put up my treasure, took off
my spurs and put them under my horse's tail, and shortly came tearing
through our caravan like a hurricane.

From that time forward, going to Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, and the Jordan,
Bethany, Bethlehem, and everywhere, I loafed contentedly in the rear and
enjoyed my infamous pipe and revelled in imaginary villany.  But at the
end of two weeks we turned our faces toward the sea and journeyed over
the Judean hills, and through rocky defiles, and among the scenes that
Samson knew in his youth, and by and by we touched level ground just at
night, and trotted off cheerily over the plain of Sharon.  It was
perfectly jolly for three hours, and we whites crowded along together,
close after the chief Arab muleteer (all the pack-animals and the other
Arabs were miles in the rear), and we laughed, and chatted, and argued
hotly about Samson, and whether suicide was a sin or not, since Paul
speaks of Samson distinctly as being saved and in heaven.  But by and by
the night air, and the duskiness, and the weariness of eight hours in the
saddle, began to tell, and conversation flagged and finally died out
utterly.  The squeak-squeaking of the saddles grew very distinct;
occasionally somebody sighed, or started to hum a tune and gave it up;
now and then a horse sneezed.  These things only emphasised the solemnity
and the stillness.  Everybody got so listless that for once I and my
dreamer found ourselves in the lead.  It was a glad, new sensation, and
I longed to keep the place forevermore.  Every little stir in the dingy
cavalcade behind made me nervous.  Davis and I were riding side by side,
right after the Arab.  About 11 o'clock it had become really chilly, and
the dozing boys roused up and began to inquire how far it was to Ramlah
yet, and to demand that the Arab hurry along faster.  I gave it up then,
and my heart sank within me, because of course they would come up to
scold the Arab.  I knew I had to take the rear again.  In my sorrow I
unconsciously took to my pipe, my only comfort.  As I touched the match
to it the whole company came lumbering up and crowding my horse's rump
and flanks.  A whiff of smoke drifted back over my shoulder, and--

"The suffering Moses!"

"Whew!"

"By George, who opened that graveyard?"

"Boys, that Arab's been swallowing something dead!"

Right away there was a gap behind us.  Whiff after whiff sailed airily
back, and each one widened the breach.  Within fifteen seconds the
barking, and gasping, and sneezing, and coughing of the boys, and their
angry abuse of the Arab guide, had dwindled to a murmur, and Davis and I
were alone with the leader.  Davis did not know what the matter was, and
don't to this day.  Occasionally he caught a faint film of the smoke and
fell to scolding at the Arab and wondering how long he had been decaying
in that way.  Our boys kept on dropping back further and further, till at
last they were only in hearing, not in sight.  And every time they
started gingerly forward to reconnoitre or shoot the Arab, as they
proposed to do--I let them get within good fair range of my relic (she
would carry seventy yards with wonderful precision), and then wafted a
whiff among them that sent them gasping and strangling to the rear again.
I kept my gun well charged and ready, and twice within the hour I decoyed
the boys right up to my horse's tail, and then with one malarious blast
emptied the saddles, almost.  I never heard an Arab abused so in my life.
He really owed his preservation to me, because for one entire hour I
stood between him and certain death.  The boys would have killed him if
they could have got by me.

By and by, when the company were far in the rear, I put away my pipe--
I was getting fearfully dry and crisp about the gills and rather blown
with good diligent work--and spurred my animated trance up alongside the
Arab and stopped him and asked for water.  He unslung his little gourd-
shaped earthenware jug, and I put it under my moustache and took a long,
glorious, satisfying draught.  I was going to scour the mouth of the jug
a little, but I saw that I had brought the whole train together once more
by my delay, and that they were all anxious to drink too-and would have
been long ago if the Arab had not pretended that he was out of water.
So I hastened to pass the vessel to Davis.  He took a mouthful, and never
said a word, but climbed off his horse and lay down calmly in the road.
I felt sorry for Davis.  It was too late now, though, and Dan was
drinking.  Dan got down too, and hunted for a soft place.  I thought I
heard Dan say, "That Arab's friends ought to keep him in alcohol or else
take him out and bury him somewhere."  All the boys took a drink and
climbed down.  It is not well to go into further particulars.  Let us
draw the curtain upon this act.

               ..............................

Well, now, to think that after three changing years I should hear from
that curious old relic again, and see Dan advertising it for sale for the
benefit of a benevolent object.  Dan is not treating that present right.
I gave that pipe to him for a keepsake.  However, he probably finds that
it keeps away custom and interferes with business.  It is the most
convincing inanimate object in all this part of the world, perhaps.  Dan
and I were roommates in all that long "Quaker City" voyage, and whenever
I desired to have a little season of privacy I used to fire up on that
pipe and persuade Dan to go out; and he seldom waited to change his
clothes, either.  In about a quarter, or from that to three-quarters of a
minute, be would be propping up the smoke-stack on the upper deck and
cursing.  I wonder how the faithful old relic is going to sell?






A REMINISCENCE OF THE BACK SETTLEMENTS

"Now that corpse [said the undertaker, patting the folded hands of the
deceased approvingly] was a brick-every way you took him he was a brick.
He was so real accommodating, and so modest-like and simple in his last
moments.  Friends wanted metallic burial case--nothing else would do.
I couldn't get it.  There warn't going to be time anybody could see that.
Corpse said never mind, shake him up some kind of a box he could stretch
out in comfortable, he warn't particular 'bout the general style of it.
Said he went more on room than style, any way, in the last final
container.  Friends wanted a silver door-plate on the coffin, signifying
who he was and wher, he was from.  Now you know a fellow couldn't roust
out such a gaily thing as that in a little country town like this.  What
did corpse say?  Corpse said, whitewash his old canoe and dob his address
and general destination onto it with a blacking brush and a stencil
plate, long with a verse from some likely hymn or other, and pint him for
the tomb, and mark him C. O. D., and just let him skip along.  He warn't
distressed any more than you be--on the contrary just as carm and
collected as a hearse-horse; said he judged that wher' he was going to,
a body would find it considerable better to attract attention by a
picturesque moral character than a natty burial case with a swell
doorplate on it.  Splendid man, he was.  I'd druther do for a corpse like
that 'n any I've tackled in seven year.  There's some satisfaction in
buryin' a man like that.  You feel that what you're doing is appreciated.
Lord bless you, so's he got planted before he sp'iled, he was perfectly
satisfied; said his relations meant well, perfectly well, but all them
preparations was bound to delay the thing more or less, and he didn't
wish to be kept layin' round.  You never see such a clear head as what he
had--and so carm and so cool.  Just a hunk of brains that is what he was.
Perfectly awful.  It was a ripping distance from one end of that man's
head to t'other.  Often and over again he's had brain fever a-raging in
one place, and the rest of the pile didn't know anything about it--didn't
affect it any more than an Injun insurrection in Arizona affects the
Atlantic States.  Well, the relations they wanted a big funeral, but
corpse said he was down on flummery--didn't want any procession--fill the
hearse full of mourners, and get out a stern line and tow him behind.
He was the most down on style of any remains I ever struck.  A beautiful,
simple-minded creature--it was what he was, you can depend on that.  He
was just set on having things the way he wanted them, and he took a solid
comfort in laying his little plans.  He had me measure him and take a
whole raft of directions; then he had a minister stand up behind a long
box with a tablecloth over it and read his funeral sermon, saying
'Angcore, angcore!' at the good places, and making him scratch out every
bit of brag about him, and all the hifalutin; and then he made them trot
out the choir so's he could help them pick out the tunes for the
occasion, and he got them to sing 'Pop Goes the Weasel,' because he'd
always liked that tune when he was downhearted, and solemn music made him
sad; and when they sung that with tears in their eyes (because they all
loved him), and his relations grieving around, he just laid there as
happy as a bug, and trying to beat time and showing all over how much he
enjoyed it; and presently he got worked up and excited; and tried to join
in, for mind you he was pretty proud of his abilities in the singing
line; but the first time he opened his mouth and was just going to spread
himself, his breath took a walk.  I never see a man snuffed out so
sudden.  Ah, it was a great loss--it was a powerful loss to this poor
little one-horse town.  Well, well, well, I hain't got time to be
palavering along here--got to nail on the lid and mosey along with' him;
and if you'll just give me a lift we'll skeet him into the hearse and
meander along.  Relations bound to have it so--don't pay no attention to
dying injunctions, minute a corpse's gone; but if I had my way, if I
didn't respect his last wishes and tow him behind the hearse, I'll be
cuss'd.  I consider that whatever a corpse wants done for his comfort is
a little enough matter, and a man hain't got no right to deceive him or
take advantage of him--and whatever a corpse trusts me to do I'm a-going
to do, you know, even if it's to stuff him and paint him yaller and keep
him for a keepsake--you hear me!"

He cracked his whip and went lumbering away with his ancient ruin of a
hearse, and I continued my walk with a valuable lesson learned--that a
healthy and wholesome cheerfulness is not necessarily impossible to any
occupation.  The lesson is likely to be lasting, for it will take many
months to obliterate the memory of the remarks and circumstances that
impressed it.






A ROYAL COMPLIMENT

     The latest report about the Spanish crown is, that it will now be
     offered to Prince Alfonso, the second son of the King of Portugal,
     who is but five years of age.  The Spaniards have hunted through all
     the nations of Europe for a King.  They tried to get a Portuguese in
     the person of Dom-Luis, who is an old ex-monarch; they tried to get
     an Italian, in the person of Victor Emanuel's young son, the Duke of
     Genoa; they tried to get a Spaniard, in the person of Espartero, who
     is an octogenarian.  Some of them desired a French Bourbon,
     Montpensier; some of them a Spanish Bourbon, the Prince of Asturias;
     some of them an English prince, one of the sons of Queen Victoria.
     They have just tried to get the German Prince Leopold; but they have
     thought it better to give him up than take a war along with him.
     It is a long time since we first suggested to them to try an
     American ruler.  We can offer them a large number of able and
     experienced sovereigns to pick from-men skilled in statesmanship,
     versed in the science of government, and adepts in all the arts of
     administration--men who could wear the crown with dignity and rule
     the kingdom at a reasonable expense.

     There is not the least danger of Napoleon threatening them if they
     take an American sovereign; in fact, we have no doubt he would be
     pleased to support such a candidature.  We are unwilling to mention
     names--though we have a man in our eye whom we wish they had in
     theirs.--New York Tribune.

It would be but an ostentation of modesty to permit such a pointed
reference to myself to pass unnoticed.  This is the second time that 'The
Tribune' (no doubt sincerely looking to the best interests of Spain and
the world at large) has done me the great and unusual honour to propose
me as a fit person to fill the Spanish throne.  Why 'The Tribune' should
single me out in this way from the midst of a dozen Americans of higher
political prominence, is a problem which I cannot solve.  Beyond a
somewhat intimate knowledge of Spanish history and a profound veneration
for its great names and illustrious deeds, I feel that I possess no merit
that should peculiarly recommend me to this royal distinction.  I cannot
deny that Spanish history has always been mother's milk to me.  I am
proud of every Spanish achievement, from Hernando Cortes's victory at
Thermopylae down to Vasco Nunez de Balboa's discovery of the Atlantic
ocean; and of every splendid Spanish name, from Don Quixote and the Duke
of Wellington down to Don Caesar de Bazan.  However, these little graces
of erudition are of small consequence, being more showy than serviceable.

In case the Spanish sceptre is pressed upon me--and the indications
unquestionably are that it will be--I shall feel it necessary to have
certain things set down and distinctly understood beforehand.  For
instance:  My salary must be paid quarterly in advance.  In these
unsettled times it will not do to trust.  If Isabella had adopted this
plan, she would be roosting on her ancestral throne to-day, for the
simple reason that her subjects never could have raised three months of a
royal salary in advance, and of course they could not have discharged her
until they had squared up with her.  My salary must be paid in gold; when
greenbacks are fresh in a country, they are too fluctuating.  My salary
has got to be put at the ruling market rate; I am not going to cut under
on the trade, and they are not going to trail me a long way from home and
then practise on my ignorance and play me for a royal North Adams
Chinaman, by any means.  As I understand it, imported kings generally get
five millions a year and house-rent free.  Young George of Greece gets
that.  As the revenues only yield two millions, he has to take the
national note for considerable; but even with things in that sort of
shape he is better fixed than he was in Denmark, where he had to
eternally stand up because he had no throne to sit on, and had to give
bail for his board, because a royal apprentice gets no salary there while
he is learning his trade.  England is the place for that.  Fifty thousand
dollars a year Great Britain pays on each royal child that is born, and
this is increased from year to year as the child becomes more and more
indispensable to his country.  Look at Prince Arthur.  At first he only
got the usual birth-bounty; but now that he has got so that he can dance,
there is simply no telling what wages he gets.

I should have to stipulate that the Spanish people wash more and
endeavour to get along with less quarantine.  Do you know, Spain keeps
her ports fast locked against foreign traffic three-fourths of each year,
because one day she is scared about the cholera, and the next about the
plague, and next the measles, next the hooping cough, the hives, and the
rash? but she does not mind leonine leprosy and elephantiasis any more
than a great and enlightened civilisation minds freckles.  Soap would
soon remove her anxious distress about foreign distempers.  The reason
arable land is so scarce in Spain is because the people squander so much
of it on their persons, and then when they die it is improvidently buried
with them.

I should feel obliged to stipulate that Marshal Serrano be reduced to the
rank of constable, or even roundsman.  He is no longer fit to be City
Marshal.  A man who refused to be king because he was too old and feeble,
is ill qualified to help sick people to the station-house when they are
armed and their form of delirium tremens is of the exuberant and
demonstrative kind.

I should also require that a force be sent to chase the late Queen
Isabella out of France.  Her presence there can work no advantage to
Spain, and she ought to be made to move at once; though, poor thing, she
has been chaste enough heretofore--for a Spanish woman.

I should also require that--

I am at this moment authoritatively informed that "The Tribune" did not
mean me, after all.  Very well, I do not care two cents.






THE APPROACHING EPIDEMIC

One calamity to which the death of Mr. Dickens dooms this country has not
awakened the concern to which its gravity entitles it.  We refer to the
fact that the nation is to be lectured to death and read to death all
next winter, by Tom, Dick, and Harry, with poor lamented Dickens for a
pretext.  All the vagabonds who can spell will afflict the people with
"readings" from Pickwick and Copperfield, and all the insignificants who
have been ennobled by the notice of the great novelist or transfigured by
his smile will make a marketable commodity of it now, and turn the sacred
reminiscence to the practical use of procuring bread and butter.  The
lecture rostrums will fairly swarm with these fortunates.  Already the
signs of it are perceptible.  Behold how the unclean creatures are
wending toward the dead lion and gathering to the feast:

"Reminiscences of Dickens."  A lecture.  By John Smith, who heard him
read eight times.

"Remembrances of Charles Dickens."  A lecture.  By John Jones, who saw
him once in a street car and twice in a barber shop.

"Recollections of Mr. Dickens."  A lecture.  By John Brown, who gained a
wide fame by writing deliriously appreciative critiques and rhapsodies
upon the great author's public readings; and who shook hands with the
great author upon various occasions, and held converse with him several
times.

"Readings from Dickens."  By John White, who has the great delineator's
style and manner perfectly, having attended all his readings in this
country and made these things a study, always practising each reading
before retiring, and while it was hot from the great delineator's lips.
Upon this occasion Mr. W. will exhibit the remains of a cigar which he
saw Mr. Dickens smoke.  This Relic is kept in a solid silver box made
purposely for it.

"Sights and Sounds of the Great Novelist."  A popular lecture.  By John
Gray, who waited on his table all the time he was at the Grand Hotel,
New York, and still has in his possession and will exhibit to the
audience a fragment of the Last Piece of Bread which the lamented author
tasted in this country.

"Heart Treasures of Precious Moments with Literature's Departed Monarch."
A lecture.  By Miss Serena Amelia Tryphenia McSpadden, who still wears,
and will always wear, a glove upon the hand made sacred by the clasp of
Dickens.  Only Death shall remove it.

"Readings from Dickens."  By Mrs. J. O'Hooligan Murphy, who washed for
him.

"Familiar Talks with the Great Author."  A narrative lecture.  By John
Thomas, for two weeks his valet in America.

And so forth, and so on.  This isn't half the list.  The man who has a
"Toothpick once used by Charles Dickens" will have to have a hearing; and
the man who "once rode in an omnibus with Charles Dickens;" and the lady
to whom Charles Dickens "granted the hospitalities of his umbrella during
a storm;" and the person who "possesses a hole which once belonged in a
handkerchief owned by Charles Dickens."  Be patient and long-suffering,
good people, for even this does not fill up the measure of what you must
endure next winter.  There is no creature in all this land who has had
any personal relations with the late Mr. Dickens, however slight or
trivial, but will shoulder his way to the rostrum and inflict his
testimony upon his helpless countrymen.  To some people it is fatal to be
noticed by greatness.







THE TONE-IMPARTING COMMITTEE

I get old and ponderously respectable, only one thing will be able to
make me truly happy, and that will be to be put on the Venerable Tone-
Imparting committee of the city of New York, and have nothing to do but
sit on the platform, solemn and imposing, along with Peter Cooper, Horace
Greeley, etc., etc., and shed momentary fame at second hand on obscure
lecturers, draw public attention to lectures which would otherwise clack
eloquently to sounding emptiness, and subdue audiences into respectful
hearing of all sorts of unpopular and outlandish dogmas and isms.  That
is what I desire for the cheer and gratification of my gray hairs.  Let
me but sit up there with those fine relics of the Old Red Sandstone
Period and give Tone to an intellectual entertainment twice a week, and
be so reported, and my happiness will be complete.  Those men have been
my envy for long, long time.  And no memories of my life are so pleasant
as my reminiscence of their long and honorable career in the Tone-
imparting service.  I can recollect that first time I ever saw them on
the platforms just as well as I can remember the events of yesterday.
Horace Greeley sat on the right, Peter Cooper on the left, and Thomas
Jefferson, Red Jacket, Benjamin Franklin, and John Hancock sat between
them.  This was on the 22d of December, 1799, on the occasion of the
state' funeral of George Washington in New York.  It was a great day,
that--a great day, and a very, very sad one.  I remember that Broadway
was one mass of black crape from Castle Garden nearly up to where the
City Hall now stands.  The next time I saw these gentlemen officiate was
at a ball given for the purpose of procuring money and medicines for the
sick and wounded soldiers and sailors.  Horace Greeley occupied one side
of the platform on which the musicians were exalted, and Peter Cooper the
other.  There were other Tone-imparters attendant upon the two chiefs,
but I have forgotten their names now.  Horace Greeley, gray-haired and
beaming, was in sailor costume--white duck pants, blue shirt, open at the
breast, large neckerchief, loose as an ox-bow, and tied with a jaunty
sailor knot, broad turnover collar with star in the corner, shiny black
little tarpaulin hat roosting daintily far back on head, and flying two
gallant long ribbons.  Slippers on ample feet, round spectacles on
benignant nose, and pitchfork in hand, completed Mr.  Greeley, and made
him, in my boyish admiration, every inch a sailor, and worthy to be the
honored great-grandfather of the Neptune he was so ingeniously
representing.  I shall never forget him.  Mr. Cooper was dressed as a
general of militia, and was dismally and oppressively warlike.  I
neglected to remark, in the proper place, that the soldiers and sailors
in whose aid the ball was given had just been sent in from Boston--this
was during the war of 1812.  At the grand national reception of
Lafayette, in 1824, Horace  Greeley sat on the right and Peter Cooper to
the left.  The other Tone-imparters of the day are sleeping the sleep of
the just now.  I was in the audience when Horace Greeley Peter Cooper,
and other chief citizens imparted tone to the great meetings in favor of
French liberty, in 1848.  Then I never saw them any more until here
lately; but now that I am living tolerably near the city, I run down
every time I see it announced that "Horace Greeley, Peter Cooper, and
several other distinguished citizens will occupy seats on the platform;"
and next morning, when I read in the first paragraph of the phonographic
report that "Horace Greeley, Peter Cooper, and several other
distinguished citizens occupied seats on the platform," I say to myself,
"Thank God, I was present."  Thus I have been enabled to see these
substantial old friends of mine sit on the platform and give tone to
lectures on anatomy, and lectures on agriculture, and lectures on
stirpiculture, and lectures on astronomy, on chemistry, on miscegenation,
on "Is Man Descended from the Kangaroo?" on, veterinary matters, on all
kinds of religion, and several kinds of politics; and have seen them give
tone and grandeur to the Four-legged Girl, the Siamese Twins, the Great
Egyptian Sword Swallower, and the Old Original Jacobs.  Whenever somebody
is to lecture on a subject not of general interest, I know that my
venerated Remains of the Old Red Sandstone Period will be on the
platform; whenever a lecturer is to appear whom nobody has heard of
before, nor will be likely to seek to see, I know that the real
benevolence of my old friends will be taken advantage of, and that they
will be on the platform (and in the bills) as an advertisement; and
whenever any new and obnoxious deviltry in philosophy, morals, or
politics is to be sprung upon the people, I know perfectly well that
these intrepid old heroes will be on the platform too, in the interest
of full and free discussion, and to crush down all narrower and less
generous souls with the solid dead weight of their awful respectability.
And let us all remember that while these inveterate and imperishable
presiders (if you please) appear on the platform every night in the year
as regularly as the volunteered piano from Steinway's or Chickering's,
and have bolstered up and given tone to a deal of questionable merit and
obscure emptiness in their time, they have also diversified this
inconsequential service by occasional powerful uplifting and upholding of
great progressive ideas which smaller men feared to meddle with or
countenance.






OUR PRECIOUS LUNATIC

[From the Buffalo Express, Saturday, May 14, 1870.]

                                             New YORK, May 10.

The Richardson-McFarland jury had been out one hour and fifty minutes.
A breathless silence brooded over court and auditory--a silence and a
stillness so absolute, notwithstanding the vast multitude of human beings
packed together there, that when some one far away among the throng under
the northeast balcony cleared his throat with a smothered little cough it
startled everybody uncomfortably, so distinctly did it grate upon the
pulseless air.  At that imposing moment the bang of a door was heard,
then the shuffle of approaching feet, and then a sort of surging and
swaying disorder among the heads at the entrance from the jury-room told
them that the Twelve were coming.  Presently all was silent again, and
the foreman of the jury rose and said:

"Your  Honor and Gentleman:  We, the jury charged with the duty of
determining whether the prisoner at the bar, Daniel McFarland, has been
guilty of murder, in taking by surprise an unarmed man and shooting him
to death, or whether the prisoner is afflicted with a sad but
irresponsible insanity which at times can be cheered only by violent
entertainment with firearms, do find as follows, namely:

"That the prisoner, Daniel McFarland, is insane as above described.
Because:

"1.  His great grandfather's stepfather was tainted with insanity, and
frequently killed people who were distasteful to him.  Hence, insanity is
hereditary in the family.

"2.  For nine years the prisoner at the bar did not adequately support his
family.  Strong circumstantial evidence of insanity.

"3.  For nine years he made of his home, as a general thing, a poor-house;
sometimes (but very rarely) a cheery, happy habitation; frequently the
den of a beery, drivelling, stupefied animal; but never, as far as
ascertained, the abiding place of a gentleman.  These be evidences of
insanity.

"4.  He once took his young unmarried sister-in-law to the museum; while
there his hereditary insanity came upon him to such a degree that he
hiccupped and staggered; and afterward, on the way home, even made love
to the young girl he was protecting.  These are the acts of a person not
in his right mind.

"5.  For a good while his sufferings were so great that he had to submit
to the inconvenience of having his wife give public readings for the
family support; and at times, when he handed these shameful earnings to
the barkeeper, his haughty soul was so torn with anguish that he could
hardly stand without leaning against something.  At such times he has
been known to shed tears into his sustenance till it diluted to utter
inefficiency.  Inattention of this nature is not the act of a Democrat
unafflicted in mind.

"6.  He never spared expense in making his wife comfortable during her
occasional confinements.  Her father is able to testify to this.  There
was always an element of unsoundness about the prisoner's generosities
that is very suggestive at this time and before this court.

"7.  Two years ago the prisoner came fearlessly up behind Richardson in
the dark, and shot him in the leg.  The prisoner's brave and protracted
defiance of an adversity that for years had left him little to depend
upon for support but a wife who sometimes earned scarcely anything for
weeks at a time, is evidence that he would have appeared in front of
Richardson and shot him in the stomach if he had not been insane at the
time of the shooting.

"8.  Fourteen months ago the prisoner told Archibald Smith that he was
going to kill Richardson.  This is insanity.

"9.  Twelve months ago he told Marshall P. Jones that he was going to kill
Richardson.  Insanity.

"10.  Nine months ago he was lurking about Richardson's home in New
Jersey, and said he was going to kill Richardson.  Insanity.

"11.  Seven months ago he showed a pistol to Seth Brown and said that that
was for Richardson.  He said Brown testified that at that time it seemed
plain that something was the matter with McFarland, for he crossed the
street diagonally nine times in fifty yards, apparently without any
settled reason for doing so, and finally fell in the gutter and went to
sleep.  He remarked at the time that McFarland acted strange--believed he
was insane.  Upon hearing Brown's evidence, John W. Galen, M.D., affirmed
at once that McFarland was insane.

"12.  Five months ago, McFarland showed his customary pistol, in his
customary way, to his bed-fellow, Charles A. Dana, and told him he was
going to kill Richardson the first time an opportunity offered.  Evidence
of insanity.

"13.  Five months and two weeks ago McFarland asked John Morgan the time
of day, and turned and walked rapidly away without waiting for an answer.
Almost indubitable evidence of insanity.  And--

"14.  It is remarkable that exactly one week after this circumstance, the
prisoner, Daniel McFarland, confronted Albert D. Richardson suddenly and
without warning, and shot him dead.  This is manifest insanity.
Everything we know of the prisoner goes to show that if he had been sane
at the time, he would have shot his victim from behind.

"15.  There is an absolutely overwhelming mass of testimony to show that
an hour before the shooting, McFarland was ANXIOUS AND UNEASY, and that
five minutes after it he was EXCITED.  Thus the accumulating conjectures
and evidences of insanity culminate in this sublime and unimpeachable
proof of it.  Therefore--

"Your Honor and Gentlemen--We the jury pronounce the said Daniel McFarland
INNOCENT OF MURDER, BUT CALAMITOUSLY INSANE."

The scene that ensued almost defies description.  Hats, handkerchiefs and
bonnets were frantically waved above the massed heads in the courtroom,
and three tremendous cheers and a tiger told where the sympathies of the
court and people were.  Then a hundred pursed lips were advanced to kiss
the liberated prisoner, and many a hand thrust out to give him a
congratulatory shake--but presto! with a maniac's own quickness and a
maniac's own fury the lunatic assassin of Richardson fell upon his
friends with teeth and nails, boots and office furniture, and the amazing
rapidity with which he broke heads and limbs, and rent and sundered
bodies, till nearly a hundred citizens were reduced to mere quivering
heaps of fleshy odds and ends and crimson rags, was like nothing in this
world but the exultant frenzy of a plunging, tearing, roaring devil of a
steam machine when it snatches a human being and spins him and whirls him
till he shreds away to nothingness like a "Four o'clock" before the
breath of a child.

The destruction was awful.  It is said that within the space of eight
minutes McFarland killed and crippled some six score persons and tore
down a large portion of the City Hall building, carrying away and casting
into Broadway six or seven marble columns fifty-four feet long and
weighing nearly two tons each.  But he was finally captured and sent in
chains to the lunatic asylum for life.

(By late telegrams it appears that this is a mistake.--Editor Express.)

But the really curious part of this whole matter is yet to be told.  And
that is, that McFarland's most intimate friends believe that the very
next time that it ever occurred to him that the insanity plea was not a
mere politic pretense, was when the verdict came in.  They think that the
startling thought burst upon him then, that if twelve good and true men,
able to comprehend all the baseness of perjury, proclaimed under oath
that he was a lunatic, there was no gainsaying such evidence and that he
UNQUESTIONABLY WAS INSANE!

Possibly that was really the way of it.  It is dreadful to think that
maybe the most awful calamity that can befall a man, namely, loss of
reason, was precipitated upon this poor prisoner's head by a jury that
could have hanged him instead, and so done him a mercy and his country a
service.

                             POSTSCRIPT-LATER

May 11--I do not expect anybody to believe so astounding a thing, and yet
it is the solemn truth that instead of instantly sending the dangerous
lunatic to the insane asylum (which I naturally supposed they would do,
and so I prematurely said they had) the court has actually SET HIM AT
LIBERTY.  Comment is unnecessary.       M.  T.






THE EUROPEAN WARS--[From the Buffalo Express, July 25, 1870.]

                               First Day
                          THE EUROPEAN WAR!!!

                            NO BATTLE YET!!!
                        HOSTILITIES IMMINENT!!!
                         TREMENDOUS EXCITEMENT.
                            AUSTRIA ARMING!
                                                  BERLIN, Tuesday.

No battle has been fought yet.  But hostilities may burst forth any week.

There is tremendous excitement here over news from the front that two
companies of French soldiers are assembling there.

It is rumoured that Austria is arming--what with, is not known.

                         .......................

                               Second Day
                            THE EUROPEAN WAR

                             NO BATTLE YET!
                           FIGHTING IMMINENT.
                           AWFUL EXCITEMENT.
                       RUSSIA SIDES WITH PRUSSIA!
                           ENGLAND NEUTRAL!!
                          AUSTRIA NOT ARMING.
                                                  BERLIN, Wednesday.

No battle has been fought yet.  However, all thoughtful men feel that the
land may be drenched with blood before the Summer is over.

There is an awful excitement here over the rumour that two companies of
Prussian troops have concentrated on the border.  German confidence
remains unshaken!!

There is news to the effect that Russia espouses the cause of Prussia and
will bring 4,000,000 men to the field.

England proclaims strict neutrality.

The report that Austria is arming needs confirmation.

                         .........................

                               Third Day
                            THE EUROPEAN WAR

                             NO BATTLE YET!
                          BLOODSHED IMMINENT!!
                         ENORMOUS EXCITEMENT!!
                         INVASION OF PRUSSIA!!
                          INVASION OF FRANCE!!
                       RUSSIA SIDES WITH FRANCE.
                         ENGLAND STILL NEUTRAL!
                             FIRING HEARD!
                      THE EMPEROR TO TAKE COMMAND.
                                                  PARIS, Thursday.

No battle has been fought yet.  But Field Marshal McMahon telegraphs thus
to the Emperor:

"If the Frinch army survoives until Christmas there'll be throuble.
Forninst this fact it would be sagacious if the divil wint the rounds of
his establishment to prepare for the occasion, and tuk the precaution to
warrum up the Prussian depairtment a bit agin the day.
                                                  MIKE."

There is an enormous state of excitement here over news from the front to
the effect that yesterday France and Prussia were simultaneously invaded
by the two bodies of troops which lately assembled on the border.  Both
armies conducted their invasions secretly and are now hunting around for
each other on opposite sides of the border.

Russia espouses the cause of France.  She will bring 200,000 men to the
field.

England continues to remain neutral.

Firing was heard yesterday in the direction of Blucherberg, and for a
while the excitement was intense.  However the people reflected that the
country in that direction is uninhabitable, and impassable by anything
but birds, they became quiet again.

The Emperor sends his troops to the field with immense enthusiasm.  He
will lead them in person, when they return.

                         .....................

                               Fourth Day
                           THE EUROPEAN WAR!

                            NO BATTLE YET!!
                        THE TROOPS GROWING OLD!
                      BUT BITTER STRIFE IMMINENT!
                         PRODIGIOUS EXCITEMENT!
                THE INVASIONS SUCCESSFULLY ACCOMPLISHED
                         AND THE INVADERS SAFE!
                      RUSSIA SIDES WITH BOTH SIDES
                        ENGLAND WILL FIGHT BOTH!
                                                  LONDON, Friday.

No battle has been fought thus far, but a million impetuous soldiers are
gritting their teeth at each other across the border, and the most
serious fears entertained that if they do not die of old age first, there
will be bloodshed in this war yet.

The prodigious patriotic excitement goes on.  In Prussia, per Prussian
telegrams, though contradicted from France.  In France, per French
telegrams, though contradicted from Prussia.

The Prussian invasion of France was a magnificent success.  The military
failed to find the French, but made good their return to Prussia without
the loss of a single man.  The French invasion of Prussia is also
demonstrated to have been a brilliant and successful achievement.  The
army failed to find the Prussians, but made good their return to the
Vaterland without bloodshed, after having invaded as much as they wanted
to.

There is glorious news from Russia to the effect that she will side with
both sides.

Also from England--she will fight both sides.

                         ....................

LONDON, Thursday evening.

I rushed over too soon.  I shall return home on Tuesday's steamer and
wait until the war begins.         M. T.






THE WILD MAN INTERVIEWED
[From the Buffalo Express, September 18, 1869.]

There has been so much talk about the mysterious "wild man" out there in
the West for some time, that I finally felt it was my duty to go out and
interview him.  There was something peculiarly and touchingly romantic
about the creature and his strange actions, according to the newspaper
reports.  He was represented as being hairy, long-armed, and of great
strength and stature; ugly and cumbrous; avoiding men, but appearing
suddenly and unexpectedly to women and children; going armed with a club,
but never molesting any creature, except sheep, or other prey; fond of
eating and drinking, and not particular about the quality, quantity, or
character of the beverages and edibles; living in the woods like a wild
beast, but never angry; moaning, and sometimes howling, but never
uttering articulate sounds.

Such was "Old Shep" as the papers painted him.  I felt that the story of
his life must be a sad one--a story of suffering, disappointment, and
exile--a story of man's inhumanity to man in some shape or other--and I
longed to persuade the secret from him.

                         .....................

"Since you say you are a member of the press," said the wild man, "I am
willing to tell you all you wish to know.  Bye and bye you will
comprehend why it is that I wish to unbosom myself to a newspaper man
when I have so studiously avoided conversation with other people.  I will
now unfold my strange story.  I was born with the world we live upon,
almost.  I am the son of Cain."

"What?"

"I was present when the flood was announced."

"Which?"

"I am the father of the Wandering Jew."

"Sir?"

I moved out of range of his club, and went on taking notes, but keeping a
wary eye on him all the while.  He smiled a melancholy smile and resumed:

"When I glance back over the dreary waste of ages, I see many a
glimmering and mark that is familiar to my memory.  And oh, the leagues
I have travelled! the things I have seen! the events I have helped to
emphasise!  I was at the assassination of Caesar.  I marched upon Mecca
with Mahomet.  I was in the Crusades, and stood with Godfrey when he
planted the banner of the cross on the battlements of Jerusalem.  I--"

"One moment, please.  Have you given these items to any other journal?
Can I--"

"Silence.  I was in the Pinta's shrouds with Columbus when America burst
upon his vision. I saw Charles I beheaded.  I was in London when the
Gunpowder Plot was discovered.  I was present at the trial of Warren
Hastings.  I was on American soil when the battle of Lexington was fought
when the declaration was promulgated--when Cornwallis surrendered--
When Washington died.  I entered Paris with Napoleon after Elba.  I was
present when you mounted your guns and manned your fleets for the war of
1812--when the South fired upon Sumter--when Richmond fell--when the
President's life was taken.  In all the ages I have helped to celebrate
the triumphs of genius, the achievements of arms, the havoc of storm,
fire, pestilence, famine."

"Your career has been a stirring one.  Might I ask how you came to locate
in these dull Kansas woods, when you have been so accustomed to
excitement during what I might term so protracted a period, not to put
too fine a point on it?"

"Listen.  Once I was the honoured servitor of the noble and illustrious"
(here he heaved a sigh, and passed his hairy hand across his eyes) "but
in these degenerate days I am become the slave of quack doctors and
newspapers.  I am driven from pillar to post and hurried up and down,
sometimes with stencil-plate and paste-brush to defile the fences with
cabalistic legends, and sometimes in grotesque and extravagant character
at the behest of some driving journal.  I attended to that Ocean Bank
robbery some weeks ago, when I was hardly rested from finishing up the
pow-wow about the completion of the Pacific Railroad; immediately I was
spirited off to do an atrocious, murder for the benefit of the New York
papers; next to attend the wedding of a patriarchal millionaire; next to
raise a hurrah about the great boat race; and then, just when I had begun
to hope that my old bones would have a rest, I am bundled off to this
howling wilderness to strip, and jibber, and be ugly and hairy, and pull
down fences and waylay sheep, and waltz around with a club, and play
'Wild Man' generally--and all to gratify the whim of a bedlam of crazy
newspaper scribblers?  From one end of the continent to the other, I am
described as a gorilla, with a sort of human seeming about me--and all to
gratify this quill-driving scum of the earth!"

"Poor old carpet bagger!"

"I have been served infamously, often, in modern and semi-modern times.
I have been compelled by base men to create fraudulent history, and to
perpetrate all sorts of humbugs.  I wrote those crazy Junius letters, I
moped in a French dungeon for fifteen years, and wore a ridiculous Iron
Mask; I poked around your Northern forests, among your vagabond Indians,
a solemn French idiot, personating the ghost of a dead Dauphin, that the
gaping world might wonder if we had 'a Bourbon among us'; I have played
sea-serpent off Nahant, and Woolly-Horse and What-is-it for the museums;
I have interviewed politicians for the Sun, worked up all manner of
miracles for the Herald, ciphered up election returns for the World,
and thundered Political Economy through the Tribune.  I have done all the
extravagant things that the wildest invention could contrive, and done
them well, and this is my reward--playing Wild Man in Kansas without a
shirt!"

"Mysterious being, a light dawns vaguely upon me--it grows apace--what
--what is your name."

"SENSATION!"

"Hence, horrible shape!"

It spoke again:

"Oh pitiless fate, my destiny hounds me once more.  I am called.  I go.
Alas, is there no rest for me?"

In a moment the Wild Man's features seemed to soften and refine, and his
form to assume a more human grace and symmetry.  His club changed to a
spade, and he shouldered it and started away sighing profoundly and
shedding tears.

"Whither, poor shade?"

"TO DIG UP THE BYRON FAMILY!"

Such was the response that floated back upon the wind as the sad spirit
shook its ringlets to the breeze, flourished its shovel aloft, and
disappeared beyond the brow of the hill.

All of which is in strict accordance with the facts.

                                                            M. T.




LAST WORDS OF GREAT MEN--[From the Buffalo Express, September 11, 1889.]

     Marshal Neil's last words were: "L'armee fran-caise!" (The French
     army.)--Exchange.

What a sad thing it is to see a man close a grand career with a
plagiarism in his mouth.  Napoleon's last words were: "Tete d'armee."
(Head of the army.)  Neither of those remarks amounts to anything as
"last words," and reflect little credit upon the utterers.

A distinguished man should be as particular about his last words as he is
about his last breath.  He should write them out on a slip of paper and
take the judgment of his friends on them.  He should never leave such a
thing to the last hour of his life, and trust to an intellectual spirit
at the last moment to enable him to say something smart with his latest
gasp and launch into eternity with grandeur.  No--a man is apt to be too
much fagged and exhausted, both in body and mind, at such a time, to be
reliable; and maybe the very thing he wants to say, he cannot think of to
save him; and besides there are his weeping friends bothering around;
and worse than all as likely as not he may have to deliver his last gasp
before he is expecting to.  A man cannot always expect to think of a
natty thing to say under such circumstances, and so it is pure egotistic
ostentation to put it off.  There is hardly a case on record where a man
came to his last moment unprepared and said a good thing hardly a case
where a man trusted to that last moment and did not make a solemn botch
of it and go out of the world feeling absurd.

Now there was Daniel Webster.  Nobody could tell him anything.  He was
not afraid.  He could do something neat when the time came.  And how did
it turn out?  Why, his will had to be fixed over; and then all the
relations came; and first one thing and then another interfered, till at
last he only had a chance to say, "I still live," and up he went.

Of course he didn't still live, because he died--and so he might as well
have kept his last words to himself as to have gone and made such a
failure of it as that.  A week before that fifteen minutes of calm
reflection would have enabled that man to contrive some last words that
would have been a credit to himself and a comfort to his family for
generations to come.

And there was John Quincy Adams.  Relying on his splendid abilities and
his coolness in emergencies, he trusted to a happy hit at the last moment
to carry him through, and what was the result?  Death smote him in the
House of Representatives, and he observed, casually, "This is the last of
earth."  The last of earth!  Why "the last of earth" when there was so
much more left?  If he had said it was the last rose of summer or the
last run of shad, it would have had as much point in it.  What he meant
to say was, "Adam was the first and Adams is the last of earth," but he
put it off a trifle too long, and so he had to go with that unmeaning
observation on his lips.

And there we have Napoleon's "Tete d'armee."  That don't mean anything.
Taken by itself, "Head of the army," is no more important than "Head of
the police."  And yet that was a man who could have said a good thing if
he had barred out the doctor and studied over it a while.  Marshal Neil,
with half a century at his disposal, could not dash off anything better
in his last moments than a poor plagiarism of another man's words, which
were not worth plagiarizing in the first place.  "The French army."
Perfectly irrelevant--perfectly flat utterly pointless.  But if he had
closed one eye significantly, and said, "The subscriber has made it
lively for the French army," and then thrown a little of the comic into
his last gasp, it would have been a thing to remember with satisfaction
all the rest of his life.  I do wish our great men would quit saying
these flat things just at the moment they die.  Let us have their next-
to-the-last words for a while, and see if we cannot patch up from them
something that will be more satisfactory.

The public does not wish to be outraged in this way all the time.

But when we come to call to mind the last words of parties who took the
trouble to make the proper preparation for the occasion, we immediately
notice a happy difference in the result.

There was Chesterfield.  Lord Chesterfield had laboured all his life to
build up the most shining reputation for affability and elegance of
speech and manners the world has ever seen.  And could you suppose he
failed to appreciate the efficiency of characteristic "last words," in
the matter of seizing the successfully driven nail of such a reputation
and clinching on the other side for ever?  Not he.  He prepared himself.
He kept his eye on the clock and his finger on his pulse.  He awaited his
chance.  And at last, when he knew his time was come, he pretended to
think a new visitor had entered, and so, with the rattle in his throat
emphasised for dramatic effect, he said to the servant, "Shin around,
John, and get the gentleman a chair."  And so he died, amid thunders of
applause.

Next we have Benjamin Franklin.  Franklin, the author of Poor Richard's
quaint sayings; Franklin the immortal axiom-builder, who used to sit up
at nights reducing the rankest old threadbare platitudes to crisp and
snappy maxims that had a nice, varnished, original look in their
regimentals; who said, "Virtue is its own reward;" who said,
"Procrastination is the thief of time;" who said, "Time and tide wait for
no man" and "Necessity is the mother of invention;" good old Franklin,
the Josh Billings of the eighteenth century--though, sooth to say, the
latter transcends him in proverbial originality as much as he falls short
of him in correctness of orthography.  What sort of tactics did Franklin
pursue?  He pondered over his last words for as much as two weeks, and
then when the time came, he said, "None but the brave deserve the fair,"
and died happy.  He could not have said a sweeter thing if he had lived
till he was an idiot.

Byron made a poor business of it, and could not think of anything to say,
at the last moment but, "Augusta--sister--Lady Byron--tell Harriet
Beecher Stowe"--etc., etc.,--but Shakespeare was ready and said, "England
expects every man to do his duty!" and went off with splendid eclat.

And there are other instances of sagacious preparation for a felicitous
closing remark.  For instance:

Joan of Arc said, "Tramp, tramp, tramp the boys are marching."

Alexander the Great said, "Another of those Santa Cruz punches, if you
please."

The Empress Josephine said, "Not for Jo-" and could get no further.

Cleopatra said, "The Old Guard dies, but never surrenders."

Sir Walter Raleigh said, "Executioner, can I take your whetstone a
moment, please?" though what for is not clear.

John Smith said, "Alas, I am the last of my race."

Queen Elizabeth said, "Oh, I would give my kingdom for one moment more--
I have forgotten my last words."

And Red Jacket, the noblest Indian brave that ever wielded a tomahawk in
defence of a friendless and persecuted race, expired with these touching
words upon his lips, "Wawkawampanoosucwinnebayowallazvsagamoresa-
skatchewan."  There was not a dry eye in the wigwam.

Let not this lesson be lost upon our public men.  Let them take a healthy
moment for preparation, and contrive some last words that shall be neat
and to the point.  Let Louis Napoleon say,

"I am content to follow my uncle--still, I do not wish to improve upon
his last word.  Put me down for 'Tete d'armee.'"

And Garret Davis, "Let me recite the unabridged dictionary."

And H. G., "I desire, now, to say a few words on political economy."

And Mr. Bergh, "Only take part of me at a time, if the load will be
fatiguing to the hearse horses."

And Andrew Johnson, "I have been an alderman, Member of Congress,
Governor, Senator, Pres--adieu, you know the rest."

And Seward., "Alas!-ka."

And Grant, "O."

All of which is respectfully submitted, with the most honorable
intentions.
                                                       M. T.

P. S.--I am obliged to leave out the illustrations.  The artist finds it
impossible to make a picture of people's last words.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Curious Republic of Gondour
by Mark Twain






1601

by Mark Twain


                              MARK TWAIN'S
                              [Date, 1601]

                              Conversation
                    As it was by the Social Fireside
                       in the Time of the Tudors


INTRODUCTION

"Born irreverent," scrawled Mark Twain on a scratch pad, "--like all
other people I have ever known or heard of--I am hoping to remain so
while there are any reverent irreverences left to make fun of."
--[Holograph manuscript of Samuel L.  Clemens, in the collection of the
F. J. Meine]

Mark Twain was just as irreverent as he dared be, and 1601 reveals his
richest expression of sovereign contempt for overstuffed language,
genteel literature, and conventional idiocies.  Later, when a magazine
editor apostrophized, "O that we had a Rabelais!"  Mark impishly and
anonymously--submitted 1601; and that same editor, a praiser of Rabelais,
scathingly abused it and the sender.  In this episode, as in many others,
Mark Twain, the "bad boy" of American literature, revealed his huge
delight in blasting the shams of contemporary hypocrisy.  Too, there was
always the spirit of Tom Sawyer deviltry in Mark's make-up that prompted
him, as he himself boasted, to see how much holy indignation he could
stir up in the world.


WHO WROTE 1601?

The correct and complete title of 1601, as first issued, was: [Date,
1601.] 'Conversation, as it was by the Social Fireside, in the Time of
the Tudors.'  For many years after its anonymous first issue in 1880,
its authorship was variously conjectured and widely disputed.  In Boston,
William T. Ball, one of the leading theatrical critics during the late
go's, asserted that it was originally written by an English actor (name
not divulged) who gave it to him.  Ball's original, it was said, looked
like a newspaper strip in the way it was printed, and may indeed have
been a proof pulled in some newspaper office.  In St. Louis, William
Marion Reedy, editor of the St. Louis Mirror, had seen this famous tour
de force circulated in the early 80's in galley-proof form; he first
learned from Eugene Field that it was from the pen of Mark Twain.

"Many people," said Reedy, "thought the thing was done by Field and
attributed, as a joke, to Mark Twain.  Field had a perfect genius for
that sort of thing, as many extant specimens attest, and for that sort of
practical joke; but to my thinking the humor of the piece is too mellow
--not hard and bright and bitter--to be Eugene Field's."  Reedy's opinion
hits off the fundamental difference between these two great humorists;
one half suspects that Reedy was thinking of Field's French Crisis.

But Twain first claimed his bantling from the fog of anonymity in 1906,
in a letter addressed to Mr. Charles Orr, librarian of Case Library,
Cleveland.  Said Clemens, in the course of his letter, dated July 30,
1906, from Dublin, New Hampshire:

"The title of the piece is 1601.  The piece is a supposititious
conversation which takes place in Queen Elizabeth's closet in that year,
between the Queen, Ben Jonson, Beaumont, Sir Walter Raleigh, the Duchess
of Bilgewater, and one or two others, and is not, as John Hay mistakenly
supposes, a serious effort to bring back our literature and philosophy to
the sober and chaste Elizabeth's time; if there is a decent word findable
in it, it is because I overlooked it.  I hasten to assure you that it is
not printed in my published writings."


TWITTING THE REV. JOSEPH TWICHELL

The circumstances of how 1601 came to be written have since been
officially revealed by Albert Bigelow Paine in 'Mark Twain,
A Bibliography' (1912), and in the publication of Mark Twain's Notebook
(1935).

1601 was written during the summer of 1876 when the Clemens family had
retreated to Quarry Farm in Elmira County, New York.  Here Mrs. Clemens
enjoyed relief from social obligations, the children romped over the
countryside, and Mark retired to his octagonal study, which, perched high
on the hill, looked out upon the valley below.  It was in the famous
summer of 1876, too, that Mark was putting the finishing touches to Tom
Sawyer.  Before the close of the same year he had already begun work on
'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn', published in 1885.  It is
interesting to note the use of the title, the "Duke of Bilgewater," in
Huck Finn when the "Duchess of Bilgewater" had already made her
appearance in 1601.  Sandwiched between his two great masterpieces, Tom
Sawyer and Huck Finn, the writing of 1601 was indeed a strange interlude.

During this prolific period Mark wrote many minor items, most of them
rejected by Howells, and read extensively in one of his favorite books,
Pepys' Diary.  Like many another writer Mark was captivated by Pepys'
style and spirit, and "he determined," says Albert Bigelow Paine in his
'Mark Twain, A Biography', "to try his hand on an imaginary record of
conversation and court manners of a bygone day, written in the phrase of
the period.  The result was 'Fireside Conversation in the Time of Queen
Elizabeth', or as he later called it, '1601'.  The 'conversation'
recorded by a supposed Pepys of that period, was written with all the
outspoken coarseness and nakedness of that rank day, when fireside
sociabilities were limited only to the loosened fancy, vocabulary, and
physical performance, and not by any bounds of convention."

"It was written as a letter," continues Paine, "to that robust divine,
Rev. Joseph Twichell, who, unlike Howells, had no scruples about Mark's
'Elizabethan breadth of parlance.'"

The Rev.  Joseph Twichell, Mark's most intimate friend for over forty
years, was pastor of the Asylum Hill Congregational Church of Hartford,
which Mark facetiously called the "Church of the Holy Speculators,"
because of its wealthy parishioners.  Here Mark had first met "Joe" at a
social, and their meeting ripened into a glorious, life long friendship.
Twichell was a man of about Mark's own age, a profound scholar, a devout
Christian, "yet a man with an exuberant sense of humor, and a profound
understanding of the frailties of mankind."  The Rev. Mr. Twichell
performed the marriage ceremony for Mark Twain and solemnized the births
of his children; "Joe," his friend, counseled him on literary as well as
personal matters for the remainder of Mark's life.  It is important to
catch this brief glimpse of the man for whom this masterpiece was
written, for without it one can not fully understand the spirit in which
1601 was written, or the keen enjoyment which Mark and "Joe" derived from
it.


"SAVE ME ONE."

The story of the first issue of 1601 is one of finesse, state diplomacy,
and surreptitious printing.

The Rev. "Joe" Twichell, for whose delectation the piece had been
written, apparently had pocketed the document for four long years.  Then,
in 1880, it came into the hands of John Hay, later Secretary of State,
presumably sent to him by Mark Twain.  Hay pronounced the sketch a
masterpiece, and wrote immediately to his old Cleveland friend, Alexander
Gunn, prince of connoisseurs in art and literature.  The following
correspondence reveals the fine diplomacy which made the name of John Hay
known throughout the world.


                          DEPARTMENT OF STATE
                               Washington

                                                       June 21, 1880.
Dear Gunn:

Are you in Cleveland for all this week?  If you will say yes by return
mail, I have a masterpiece to submit to your consideration which is only
in my hands for a few days.

Yours, very much worritted by the depravity of Christendom,

                                        Hay


The second letter discloses Hay's own high opinion of the effort and his
deep concern for its safety.



                                                       June 24, 1880
My dear Gunn:

Here it is.  It was written by Mark Twain in a serious effort to bring
back our literature and philosophy to the sober and chaste Elizabethan
standard.  But the taste of the present day is too corrupt for anything
so classic.  He has not yet been able even to find a publisher.  The
Globe has not yet recovered from Downey's inroad, and they won't touch
it.

I send it to you as one of the few lingering relics of that race of
appreciative critics, who know a good thing when they see it.

Read it with reverence and gratitude and send it back to me; for Mark is
impatient to see once more his wandering offspring.

                                        Yours,
                                                  Hay.


In his third letter one can almost hear Hay's chuckle in the certainty
that his diplomatic, if somewhat wicked, suggestion would bear fruit.


                                                       Washington, D. C.
                                                       July 7, 1880
My dear Gunn:

I have your letter, and the proposition which you make to pull a few
proofs of the masterpiece is highly attractive, and of course highly
immoral.  I cannot properly consent to it, and I am afraid the great many
would think I was taking an unfair advantage of his confidence.  Please
send back the document as soon as you can, and if, in spite of my
prohibition, you take these proofs, save me one.

                              Very truly yours,
                                             John Hay.



Thus was this Elizabethan dialogue poured into the moulds of cold type.
According to Merle Johnson, Mark Twain's bibliographer, it was issued in
pamphlet form, without wrappers or covers; there were 8 pages of text and
the pamphlet measured 7 by 8 1/2 inches.  Only four copies are believed to
have been printed, one for Hay, one for Gunn, and two for Twain.

"In the matter of humor," wrote Clemens, referring to Hay's delicious
notes, "what an unsurpassable touch John Hay had!"


HUMOR AT WEST POINT

The first printing of 1601 in actual book form was "Donne at ye Academie
Press," in 1882, West Point, New York, under the supervision of Lieut.  C.
E. S. Wood, then adjutant of the U. S. Military Academy.

In 1882 Mark Twain and Joe Twichell visited their friend Lieut. Wood at
West Point, where they learned that Wood, as Adjutant, had under his
control a small printing establishment.  On Mark's return to Hartford,
Wood received a letter asking if he would do Mark a great favor by
printing something he had written, which he did not care to entrust to
the ordinary printer.  Wood replied that he would be glad to oblige.
On April 3, 1882, Mark sent the manuscript:

"I enclose the original of 1603 [sic] as you suggest.  I am afraid there
are errors in it, also, heedlessness in antiquated spelling--e's stuck on
often at end of words where they are not strickly necessary, etc.....
I would go through the manuscript but I am too much driven just now, and
it is not important anyway.  I wish you would do me the kindness to make
any and all corrections that suggest themselves to you.

                                   "Sincerely yours,
                                             "S.  L.  Clemens."


Charles Erskine Scott Wood recalled in a foreword, which he wrote for the
limited edition of 1601 issued by the Grabhorn Press, how he felt when he
first saw the original manuscript.  "When I read it," writes Wood,
"I felt that the character of it would be carried a little better by a
printing which pretended to the eye that it was contemporaneous with the
pretended 'conversation.'

"I wrote Mark that for literary effect I thought there should be a
species of forgery, though of course there was no effort to actually
deceive a scholar.  Mark answered that I might do as I liked;--that his
only object was to secure a number of copies, as the demand for it was
becoming burdensome, but he would be very grateful for any interest I
brought to the doing.

"Well, Tucker [foreman of the printing shop] and I soaked some handmade
linen paper in weak coffee, put it as a wet bundle into a warm room to
mildew, dried it to a dampness approved by Tucker and he printed the
'copy' on a hand press.  I had special punches cut for such Elizabethan
abbreviations as the a, e, o and u, when followed by m or n--and for the
(commonly and stupidly pronounced ye).

"The only editing I did was as to the spelling and a few old English
words introduced.  The spelling, if I remember correctly, is mine, but
the text is exactly as written by Mark.  I wrote asking his view of
making the spelling of the period and he was enthusiastic--telling me to
do whatever I thought best and he was greatly pleased with the result."

Thus was printed in a de luxe edition of fifty copies the most curious
masterpiece of American humor, at one of America's most dignified
institutions, the United States Military Academy at West Point.

"1601 was so be-praised by the archaeological scholars of a quarter of a
century ago," wrote Clemens in his letter to Charles Orr, "that I was
rather inordinately vain of it.  At that time it had been privately
printed in several countries, among them Japan.  A sumptuous edition on
large paper, rough-edged, was made by Lieut. C. E. S. Wood at West Point
--an edition of 50 copies--and distributed among popes and kings and such
people.  In England copies of that issue were worth twenty guineas when I
was there six years ago, and none to be had."


FROM THE DEPTHS

Mark Twain's irreverence should not be misinterpreted: it was an
irreverence which bubbled up from a deep, passionate insight into the
well-springs of human nature.  In 1601, as in 'The Man That Corrupted
Hadleyburg,' and in 'The Mysterious Stranger,' he tore the masks off
human beings and left them cringing before the public view.  With the
deftness of a master surgeon Clemens dealt with human emotions and
delighted in exposing human nature in the raw.

The spirit and the language of the Fireside Conversation were rooted deep
in Mark Twain's nature and in his life, as C. E. S. Wood, who printed
1601 at West Point, has pertinently observed,

"If I made a guess as to the intellectual ferment out of which 1601 rose
I would say that Mark's intellectual structure and subconscious graining
was from Anglo-Saxons as primitive as the common man of the Tudor period.
He came from the banks of the Mississippi--from the flatboatmen, pilots,
roustabouts, farmers and village folk of a rude, primitive people--as
Lincoln did.

"He was finished in the mining camps of the West among stage drivers,
gamblers and the men of '49.  The simple roughness of a frontier people
was in his blood and brain.

"Words vulgar and offensive to other ears were a common language to him.
Anyone who ever knew Mark heard him use them freely, forcibly,
picturesquely in his unrestrained conversation.  Such language is
forcible as all primitive words are.  Refinement seems to make for
weakness--or let us say a cutting edge--but the old vulgar monosyllabic
words bit like the blow of a pioneer's ax--and Mark was like that.  Then
I think 1601 came out of Mark's instinctive humor, satire and hatred of
puritanism.  But there is more than this; with all its humor there is a
sense of real delight in what may be called obscenity for its own sake.
Whitman and the Bible are no more obscene than Nature herself--no more
obscene than a manure pile, out of which come roses and cherries.  Every
word used in 1601 was used by our own rude pioneers as a part of their
vocabulary--and no word was ever invented by man with obscene intent, but
only as language to express his meaning.  No act of nature is obscene in
itself--but when such words and acts are dragged in for an ulterior
purpose they become offensive, as everything out of place is offensive.
I think he delighted, too, in shocking--giving resounding slaps on what
Chaucer would quite simply call 'the bare erse.'"

Quite aside from this Chaucerian "erse" slapping, Clemens had also a
semi-serious purpose, that of reproducing a past time as he saw it in
Shakespeare, Dekker, Jonson, and other writers of the Elizabethan era.
Fireside Conversation was an exercise in scholarship illumined by a keen
sense of character.  It was made especially effective by the artistic
arrangement of widely-gathered material into a compressed picture of a
phase of the manners and even the minds of the men and women "in the
spacious times of great Elizabeth."

Mark Twain made of 1601 a very smart and fascinating performance, carried
over almost to grotesqueness just to show it was not done for mere
delight in the frank naturalism of the functions with which it deals.
That Mark Twain had made considerable study of this frankness is apparent
from chapter four of 'A Yankee At King Arthur's Court,' where he refers
to the conversation at the famous Round Table thus:

"Many of the terms used in the most matter-of-fact way by this great
assemblage of the first ladies and gentlemen of the land would have made
a Comanche blush.  Indelicacy is too mild a term to convey the idea.
However, I had read Tom Jones and Roderick Random and other books of that
kind and knew that the highest and first ladies and gentlemen in England
had remained little or no cleaner in their talk, and in the morals and
conduct which such talk implies, clear up to one hundred years ago; in
fact clear into our own nineteenth century--in which century, broadly
speaking, the earliest samples of the real lady and the real gentleman
discoverable in English history,--or in European history, for that
matter--may be said to have made their appearance.  Suppose Sir Walter
[Scott] instead of putting the conversation into the mouths of his
characters, had allowed the characters to speak for themselves?  We
should have had talk from Rebecca and Ivanhoe and the soft lady Rowena
which would embarrass a tramp in our day.  However, to the unconsciously
indelicate all things are delicate."

Mark Twain's interest in history and in the depiction of historical
periods and characters is revealed through his fondness for historical
reading in preference to fiction, and through his other historical
writings.  Even in the hilarious, youthful days in San Francisco, Paine
reports that "Clemens, however, was never quite ready for sleep.  Then,
as ever, he would prop himself up in bed, light his pipe, and lose
himself in English or French history until his sleep conquered."  Paine
tells us, too, that Lecky's 'European Morals' was an old favorite.

The notes to 'The Prince and the Pauper' show again how carefully Clemens
examined his historical background, and his interest in these materials.
Some of the more important sources are noted: Hume's 'History of
England', Timbs' 'Curiosities of London', J. Hammond Trumbull's 'Blue
Laws, True and False'.  Apparently Mark Twain relished it, for as Bernard
DeVoto points out, "The book is always Mark Twain.  Its parodies of Tudor
speech lapse sometimes into a callow satisfaction in that idiom--Mark
hugely enjoys his nathlesses and beshrews and marrys."  The writing of
1601 foreshadows his fondness for this treatment.

     "Do you suppose the liberties and the Brawn of These States have to
     do only with delicate lady-words?  with gloved gentleman words"
                              Walt Whitman, 'An American Primer'.

Although 1601 was not matched by any similar sketch in his published
works, it was representative of Mark Twain the man.  He was no emaciated
literary tea-tosser.  Bronzed and weatherbeaten son of the West, Mark was
a man's man, and that significant fact is emphasized by the several
phases of Mark's rich life as steamboat pilot, printer, miner, and
frontier journalist.

On the Virginia City Enterprise Mark learned from editor R. M. Daggett
that "when it was necessary to call a man names, there were no expletives
too long or too expressive to be hurled in rapid succession to emphasize
the utter want of character of the man assailed....  There were
typesetters there who could hurl anathemas at bad copy which would have
frightened a Bengal tiger.  The news editor could damn a mutilated
dispatch in twenty-four languages."

In San Francisco in the sizzling sixties we catch a glimpse of Mark Twain
and his buddy, Steve Gillis, pausing in doorways to sing "The Doleful
Ballad of the Neglected Lover," an old piece of uncollected erotica.
One morning, when a dog began to howl, Steve awoke "to find his room-mate
standing in the door that opened out into a back garden, holding a big
revolver, his hand shaking with cold and excitement," relates Paine in
his Biography.

"'Come here, Steve,' he said.  'I'm so chilled through I can't get a bead
on him.'

"'Sam,' said Steve, 'don't shoot him.  Just swear at him.  You can easily
kill him at any range with your profanity.'

"Steve Gillis declares that Mark Twain let go such a scorching, singeing
blast that the brute's owner sold him the next day for a Mexican hairless
dog."

Nor did Mark's "geysers of profanity" cease spouting after these gay and
youthful days in San Francisco.  With Clemens it may truly be said that
profanity was an art--a pyrotechnic art that entertained nations.

"It was my duty to keep buttons on his shirts," recalled Katy Leary,
life-long housekeeper and friend in the Clemens menage, "and he'd swear
something terrible if I didn't.  If he found a shirt in his drawer
without a button on, he'd take every single shirt out of that drawer and
throw them right out of the window, rain or shine--out of the bathroom
window they'd go.  I used to look out every morning to see the
snowflakes--anything white.  Out they'd fly....  Oh! he'd swear at
anything when he was on a rampage.  He'd swear at his razor if it didn't
cut right, and Mrs. Clemens used to send me around to the bathroom door
sometimes to knock and ask him what was the matter.  Well, I'd go and
knock; I'd say, 'Mrs.  Clemens wants to know what's the matter.'  And
then he'd say to me (kind of low) in a whisper like, 'Did she hear me
Katy?'  'Yes,' I'd say, 'every word.'  Oh, well, he was ashamed then, he
was afraid of getting scolded for swearing like that, because Mrs.
Clemens hated swearing."  But his swearing never seemed really bad to
Katy Leary, "It was sort of funny, and a part of him, somehow," she said.
"Sort of amusing it was--and gay--not like real swearing, 'cause he swore
like an angel."

In his later years at Stormfield Mark loved to play his favorite
billiards.  "It was sometimes a wonderful and fearsome thing to watch Mr.
Clemens play billiards," relates Elizabeth Wallace.  "He loved the game,
and he loved to win, but he occasionally made a very bad stroke, and then
the varied, picturesque, and unorthodox vocabulary, acquired in his more
youthful years, was the only thing that gave him comfort.  Gently,
slowly, with no profane inflexions of voice, but irresistibly as though
they had the headwaters of the Mississippi for their source, came this
stream of unholy adjectives and choice expletives."

Mark's vocabulary ran the whole gamut of life itself.  In Paris, in his
appearance in 1879 before the Stomach Club, a jolly lot of gay wags,
Mark's address, reports Paine, "obtained a wide celebrity among the clubs
of the world, though no line of it, not even its title, has ever found
its way into published literature." It is rumored to have been called
"Some Remarks on the Science of Onanism."

In Berlin, Mark asked Henry W.  Fisher to accompany him on an exploration
of the Berlin Royal Library, where the librarian, having learned that
Clemens had been the Kaiser's guest at dinner, opened the secret treasure
chests for the famous visitor.  One of these guarded treasures was a
volume of grossly indecent verses by Voltaire, addressed to Frederick the
Great.  "Too much is enough," Mark is reported to have said, when Fisher
translated some of the verses, "I would blush to remember any of these
stanzas except to tell Krafft-Ebing about them when I get to Vienna."
When Fisher had finished copying a verse for him Mark put it into his
pocket, saying, "Livy [Mark's wife, Olivia] is so busy mispronouncing
German these days she can't even attempt to get at this."

In his letters, too, Howells observed, "He had the Southwestern, the
Lincolnian, the Elizabethan breadth of parlance, which I suppose one
ought not to call coarse without calling one's self prudish; and I was
often hiding away in discreet holes and corners the letters in which he
had loosed his bold fancy to stoop on rank suggestion; I could not bear
to burn them, and I could not, after the first reading, quite bear to
look at them.  I shall best give my feeling on this point by saying that
in it he was Shakespearean."

          "With a nigger squat on her safety-valve"
                         John Hay, Pike County Ballads.

"Is there any other explanation," asks Van Wyck Brooks, "'of his
Elizabethan breadth of parlance?'  Mr.  Howells confesses that he
sometimes blushed over Mark Twain's letters, that there were some which,
to the very day when he wrote his eulogy on his dead friend, he could not
bear to reread.  Perhaps if he had not so insisted, in former years,
while going over Mark Twain's proofs, upon 'having that swearing out in
an instant,' he would never had had cause to suffer from his having
'loosed his bold fancy to stoop on rank suggestion.'  Mark Twain's verbal
Rabelaisianism was obviously the expression of that vital sap which, not
having been permitted to inform his work, had been driven inward and left
thereto ferment.  No wonder he was always indulging in orgies of
forbidden words.  Consider the famous book, 1601, that fireside
conversation in the time of Queen Elizabeth: is there any obsolete verbal
indecency in the English language that Mark Twain has not painstakingly
resurrected and assembled there?  He, whose blood was in constant ferment
and who could not contain within the narrow bonds that had been set for
him the roitous exuberance of his nature, had to have an escape-valve,
and he poured through it a fetid stream of meaningless obscenity--the
waste of a priceless psychic material!"  Thus, Brooks lumps 1601 with
Mark Twain's "bawdry," and interprets it simply as another indication of
frustration.


FIGS FOR FIG LEAVES!

Of course, the writing of such a piece as 1601 raised the question of
freedom of expression for the creative artist.

Although little discussed at that time, it was a question which intensely
interested Mark, and for a fuller appreciation of Mark's position one
must keep in mind the year in which 1601 was written, 1876.  There had
been nothing like it before in American literature; there had appeared no
Caldwells, no Faulkners, no Hemingways.  Victorian England was gushing
Tennyson.  In the United States polite letters was a cult of the Brahmins
of Boston, with William Dean Howells at the helm of the Atlantic.  Louisa
May Alcott published Little Women in 1868-69, and Little Men in 1871.  In
1873 Mark Twain led the van of the debunkers, scraping the gilt off the
lily in the Gilded Age.

In 1880 Mark took a few pot shots at license in Art and Literature in his
Tramp Abroad, "I wonder why some things are?  For instance, Art is
allowed as much indecent license to-day as in earlier times--but the
privileges of Literature in this respect have been sharply curtailed
within the past eighty or ninety years.  Fielding and Smollet could
portray the beastliness of their day in the beastliest language; we have
plenty of foul subjects to deal with in our day, but we are not allowed
to approach them very near, even with nice and guarded forms of speech.
But not so with Art.  The brush may still deal freely with any subject;
however revolting or indelicate.  It makes a body ooze sarcasm at every
pore, to go about Rome and Florence and see what this last generation has
been doing with the statues.  These works, which had stood in innocent
nakedness for ages, are all fig-leaved now.  Yes, every one of them.
Nobody noticed their nakedness before, perhaps; nobody can help noticing
it now, the fig-leaf makes it so conspicuous.  But the comical thing
about it all, is, that the fig-leaf is confined to cold and pallid
marble, which would be still cold and unsuggestive without this sham and
ostentatious symbol of modesty, whereas warm-blooded paintings which do
really need it have in no case been furnished with it.

"At the door of the Ufizzi, in Florence, one is confronted by statues of
a man and a woman, noseless, battered, black with accumulated grime--they
hardly suggest human beings--yet these ridiculous creatures have been
thoughtfully and conscientiously fig-leaved by this fastidious
generation.  You enter, and proceed to that most-visited little gallery
that exists in the world....  and there, against the wall, without
obstructing rag or leaf, you may look your fill upon the foulest, the
vilest, the obscenest picture the world possesses--Titian's Venus.  It
isn't that she is naked and stretched out on a bed--no, it is the
attitude of one of her arms and hand.  If I ventured to describe the
attitude, there would be a fine howl--but there the Venus lies, for
anybody to gloat over that wants to--and there she has a right to lie,
for she is a work of art, and Art has its privileges.  I saw young girls
stealing furtive glances at her; I saw young men gaze long and absorbedly
at her; I saw aged, infirm men hang upon her charms with a pathetic
interest.  How I should like to describe her--just to see what a holy
indignation I could stir up in the world--just to hear the unreflecting
average man deliver himself about my grossness and coarseness, and all
that.

"In every gallery in Europe there are hideous pictures of blood, carnage,
oozing brains, putrefaction--pictures portraying intolerable suffering--
pictures alive with every conceivable horror, wrought out in dreadful
detail--and similar pictures are being put on the canvas every day and
publicly exhibited--without a growl from anybody--for they are innocent,
they are inoffensive, being works of art.  But suppose a literary artist
ventured to go into a painstaking and elaborate description of one of
these grisly things--the critics would skin him alive.  Well, let it go,
it cannot be helped; Art retains her privileges, Literature has lost
hers.  Somebody else may cipher out the whys and the wherefores and the
consistencies of it--I haven't got time."


PROFESSOR SCENTS PORNOGRAPHY

Unfortunately, 1601 has recently been tagged by Professor Edward
Wagenknecht as "the most famous piece of pornography in American
literature."  Like many another uninformed, Prof. W. is like the little
boy who is shocked to see "naughty" words chalked on the back fence,
and thinks they are pornography.  The initiated, after years of wading
through the mire, will recognize instantly the significant difference
between filthy filth and funny "filth."  Dirt for dirt's sake is
something else again.  Pornography, an eminent American jurist has
pointed out, is distinguished by the "leer of the sensualist."

"The words which are criticised as dirty," observed justice John M.
Woolsey in the United States District Court of New York, lifting the ban
on Ulysses by James Joyce, "are old Saxon words known to almost all men
and, I venture, to many women, and are such words as would be naturally
and habitually used, I believe, by the types of folk whose life, physical
and mental, Joyce is seeking to describe."  Neither was there
"pornographic intent," according to justice Woolsey, nor was Ulysses
obscene within the legal definition of that word.

"The meaning of the word 'obscene,'" the Justice indicated, "as legally
defined by the courts is: tending to stir the sex impulses or to lead to
sexually impure and lustful thoughts.

"Whether a particular book would tend to excite such impulses and
thoughts must be tested by the court's opinion as to its effect on a
person with average sex instincts--what the French would call 'l'homme
moyen sensuel'--who plays, in this branch of legal inquiry, the same role
of hypothetical reagent as does the 'reasonable man' in the law of torts
and 'the learned man in the art' on questions of invention in patent
law."

Obviously, it is ridiculous to say that the "leer of the sensualist"
lurks in the pages of Mark Twain's 1601.


DROLL STORY

"In a way," observed William Marion Reedy, "1601 is to Twain's whole
works what the 'Droll Stories' are to Balzac's.  It is better than the
privately circulated ribaldry and vulgarity of Eugene Field; is, indeed,
an essay in a sort of primordial humor such as we find in Rabelais, or in
the plays of some of the lesser stars that drew their light from
Shakespeare's urn.  It is humor or fun such as one expects, let us say,
from the peasants of Thomas Hardy, outside of Hardy's books.  And, though
it be filthy, it yet hath a splendor of mere animalism of good spirits...
I would say it is scatalogical rather than erotic, save for one touch
toward the end.  Indeed, it seems more of Rabelais than of Boccaccio or
Masuccio or Aretino--is brutally British rather than lasciviously
latinate, as to the subjects, but sumptuous as regards the language."

Immediately upon first reading, John Hay, later Secretary of State, had
proclaimed 1601 a masterpiece.  Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain's
biographer, likewise acknowledged its greatness, when he said, "1601 is a
genuine classic, as classics of that sort go.  It is better than the
gross obscenities of Rabelais, and perhaps in some day to come, the taste
that justified Gargantua and the Decameron will give this literary
refugee shelter and setting among the more conventional writing of Mark
Twain.  Human taste is a curious thing; delicacy is purely a matter of
environment and point of view."

"It depends on who writes a thing whether it is coarse or not," wrote
Clemens in his notebook in 1879.  "I built a conversation which could
have happened--I used words such as were used at that time--1601.  I sent
it anonymously to a magazine, and how the editor abused it and the
sender!"

But that man was a praiser of Rabelais and had been saying, 'O that we
had a Rabelais!' I judged that I could furnish him one.

"Then I took it to one of the greatest, best and most learned of Divines
[Rev. Joseph H. Twichell] and read it to him.  He came within an ace of
killing himself with laughter (for between you and me the thing was
dreadfully funny.  I don't often write anything that I laugh at myself,
but I can hardly think of that thing without laughing).  That old Divine
said it was a piece of the finest kind of literary art--and David Gray of
the Buffalo Courier said it ought to be printed privately and left behind
me when I died, and then my fame as a literary artist would last."

FRANKLIN J. MEINE





THE FIRST PRINTING
     Verbatim Reprint


[Date, 1601.]

CONVERSATION, AS IT WAS BY THE SOCIAL FIRESIDE, IN THE TIME OF THE
TUDORS.

[Mem.--The following is supposed to be an extract from the diary of the
Pepys of that day, the same being Queen Elizabeth's cup-bearer.  He is
supposed to be of ancient and noble lineage; that he despises these
literary canaille; that his soul consumes with wrath, to see the queen
stooping to talk with such; and that the old man feels that his nobility
is defiled by contact with Shakespeare, etc., and yet he has got to stay
there till her Majesty chooses to dismiss him.]



YESTERNIGHT
toke her maiste ye queene a fantasie such as she sometimes hath, and had
to her closet certain that doe write playes, bokes, and such like, these
being my lord Bacon, his worship Sir Walter Ralegh, Mr. Ben Jonson, and
ye child Francis Beaumonte, which being but sixteen, hath yet turned his
hand to ye doing of ye Lattin masters into our Englishe tong, with grete
discretion and much applaus.  Also came with these ye famous Shaxpur.  A
righte straunge mixing truly of mighty blode with mean, ye more in
especial since ye queenes grace was present, as likewise these following,
to wit: Ye Duchess of Bilgewater, twenty-two yeres of age; ye Countesse
of Granby, twenty-six; her doter, ye Lady Helen, fifteen; as also these
two maides of honor, to-wit, ye Lady Margery Boothy, sixty-five, and ye
Lady Alice Dilberry, turned seventy, she being two yeres ye queenes
graces elder.

I being her maites cup-bearer, had no choice but to remaine and beholde
rank forgot, and ye high holde converse wh ye low as uppon equal termes,
a grete scandal did ye world heare thereof.

In ye heat of ye talk it befel yt one did breake wind, yielding an
exceding mightie and distresfull stink, whereat all did laugh full sore,
and then--

Ye Queene.--Verily in mine eight and sixty yeres have I not heard the
fellow to this fart.  Meseemeth, by ye grete sound and clamour of it, it
was male; yet ye belly it did lurk behinde shoulde now fall lean and flat
against ye spine of him yt hath bene delivered of so stately and so waste
a bulk, where as ye guts of them yt doe quiff-splitters bear, stand
comely still and rounde.  Prithee let ye author confess ye offspring.
Will my Lady Alice testify?

Lady Alice.--Good your grace, an' I had room for such a thundergust
within mine ancient bowels, 'tis not in reason I coulde discharge ye same
and live to thank God for yt He did choose handmaid so humble whereby to
shew his power.  Nay, 'tis not I yt have broughte forth this rich
o'ermastering fog, this fragrant gloom, so pray you seeke ye further.

Ye Queene.--Mayhap ye Lady Margery hath done ye companie this favor?

Lady Margery.--So please you madam, my limbs are feeble wh ye weighte and
drouth of five and sixty winters, and it behoveth yt I be tender unto
them.  In ye good providence of God, an' I had contained this wonder,
forsoothe wolde I have gi'en 'ye whole evening of my sinking life to ye
dribbling of it forth, with trembling and uneasy soul, not launched it
sudden in its matchless might, taking mine own life with violence,
rending my weak frame like rotten rags.  It was not I, your maisty.

Ye Queene.--O' God's name, who hath favored us?  Hath it come to pass yt
a fart shall fart itself?  Not such a one as this, I trow.  Young Master
Beaumont--but no; 'twould have wafted him to heaven like down of goose's
boddy.  'Twas not ye little Lady Helen--nay, ne'er blush, my child;
thoul't tickle thy tender maidenhedde with many a mousie-squeak before
thou learnest to blow a harricane like this.  Wasn't you, my learned and
ingenious Jonson?

Jonson.--So fell a blast hath ne'er mine ears saluted, nor yet a stench
so all-pervading and immortal.  'Twas not a novice did it, good your
maisty, but one of veteran experience--else hadde he failed of
confidence.  In sooth it was not I.

Ye Queene.--My lord Bacon?

Lord Bacon.-Not from my leane entrailes hath this prodigy burst forth, so
please your grace.  Naught doth so befit ye grete as grete performance;
and haply shall ye finde yt 'tis not from mediocrity this miracle hath
issued.

[Tho' ye subjoct be but a fart, yet will this tedious sink of learning
pondrously phillosophize.  Meantime did the foul and deadly stink pervade
all places to that degree, yt never smelt I ye like, yet dare I not to
leave ye presence, albeit I was like to suffocate.]

Ye Queene.--What saith ye worshipful Master Shaxpur?

Shaxpur.--In the great hand of God I stand and so proclaim mine
innocence.  Though ye sinless hosts of heaven had foretold ye coming of
this most desolating breath, proclaiming it a work of uninspired man, its
quaking thunders, its firmament-clogging rottenness his own achievement
in due course of nature, yet had not I believed it; but had said the pit
itself hath furnished forth the stink, and heaven's artillery hath shook
the globe in admiration of it.

[Then was there a silence, and each did turn him toward the worshipful
Sr Walter Ralegh, that browned, embattled, bloody swashbuckler, who
rising up did smile, and simpering say,]

Sr W.--Most gracious maisty, 'twas I that did it, but indeed it was so
poor and frail a note, compared with such as I am wont to furnish, yt in
sooth I was ashamed to call the weakling mine in so august a presence.
It was nothing--less than nothing, madam--I did it but to clear my nether
throat; but had I come prepared, then had I delivered something worthy.
Bear with me, please your grace, till I can make amends.

[Then delivered he himself of such a godless and rock-shivering blast
that all were fain to stop their ears, and following it did come so dense
and foul a stink that that which went before did seem a poor and trifling
thing beside it.  Then saith he, feigning that he blushed and was
confused, I perceive that I am weak to-day, and cannot justice do unto my
powers; and sat him down as who should say, There, it is not much yet he
that hath an arse to spare, let him fellow that, an' he think he can.  By
God, an' I were ye queene, I would e'en tip this swaggering braggart out
o' the court, and let him air his grandeurs and break his intolerable
wind before ye deaf and such as suffocation pleaseth.]

Then fell they to talk about ye manners and customs of many peoples, and
Master Shaxpur spake of ye boke of ye sieur Michael de Montaine, wherein
was mention of ye custom of widows of Perigord to wear uppon ye
headdress, in sign of widowhood, a jewel in ye similitude of a man's
member wilted and limber, whereat ye queene did laugh and say widows in
England doe wear prickes too, but betwixt the thighs, and not wilted
neither, till coition hath done that office for them.  Master Shaxpur did
likewise observe how yt ye sieur de Montaine hath also spoken of a
certain emperor of such mighty prowess that he did take ten maidenheddes
in ye compass of a single night, ye while his empress did entertain two
and twenty lusty knights between her sheetes, yet was not satisfied;
whereat ye merrie Countess Granby saith a ram is yet ye emperor's
superior, sith he wil tup above a hundred yewes 'twixt sun and sun; and
after, if he can have none more to shag, will masturbate until he hath
enrich'd whole acres with his seed.

Then spake ye damned windmill, Sr Walter, of a people in ye uttermost
parts of America, yt capulate not until they be five and thirty yeres of
age, ye women being eight and twenty, and do it then but once in seven
yeres.

Ye Queene.--How doth that like my little Lady Helen?  Shall we send thee
thither and preserve thy belly?

Lady Helen.--Please your highnesses grace, mine old nurse hath told me
there are more ways of serving God than by locking the thighs together;
yet am I willing to serve him yt way too, sith your highnesses grace hath
set ye ensample.

Ye Queene.--God' wowndes a good answer, childe.

Lady Alice.--Mayhap 'twill weaken when ye hair sprouts below ye navel.

Lady Helen.--Nay, it sprouted two yeres syne; I can scarce more than
cover it with my hand now.

Ye Queene.--Hear Ye that, my little Beaumonte?  Have ye not a little
birde about ye that stirs at hearing tell of so sweete a neste?

Beaumonte.--'Tis not insensible, illustrious madam; but mousing owls and
bats of low degree may not aspire to bliss so whelming and ecstatic as is
found in ye downy nests of birdes of Paradise.

Ye Queene.--By ye gullet of God, 'tis a neat-turned compliment.  With
such a tongue as thine, lad, thou'lt spread the ivory thighs of many a
willing maide in thy good time, an' thy cod-piece be as handy as thy
speeche.

Then spake ye queene of how she met old Rabelais when she was turned of
fifteen, and he did tell her of a man his father knew that had a double
pair of bollocks, whereon a controversy followed as concerning the most
just way to spell the word, ye contention running high betwixt ye learned
Bacon and ye ingenious Jonson, until at last ye old Lady Margery,
wearying of it all, saith, 'Gentles, what mattereth it how ye shall spell
the word?  I warrant Ye when ye use your bollocks ye shall not think of
it; and my Lady Granby, be ye content; let the spelling be, ye shall
enjoy the beating of them on your buttocks just the same, I trow.  Before
I had gained my fourteenth year I had learnt that them that would explore
a cunt stop'd not to consider the spelling o't.'

Sr W.--In sooth, when a shift's turned up, delay is meet for naught but
dalliance.  Boccaccio hath a story of a priest that did beguile a maid
into his cell, then knelt him in a corner to pray for grace to be rightly
thankful for this tender maidenhead ye Lord had sent him; but ye abbot,
spying through ye key-hole, did see a tuft of brownish hair with fair
white flesh about it, wherefore when ye priest's prayer was done, his
chance was gone, forasmuch as ye little maid had but ye one cunt, and
that was already occupied to her content.

Then conversed they of religion, and ye mightie work ye old dead Luther
did doe by ye grace of God.  Then next about poetry, and Master Shaxpur
did rede a part of his King Henry IV., ye which, it seemeth unto me,
is not of ye value of an arsefull of ashes, yet they praised it bravely,
one and all.

Ye same did rede a portion of his "Venus and Adonis," to their prodigious
admiration, whereas I, being sleepy and fatigued withal, did deme it but
paltry stuff, and was the more discomforted in that ye blody bucanier had
got his wind again, and did turn his mind to farting with such villain
zeal that presently I was like to choke once more.  God damn this windy
ruffian and all his breed.  I wolde that hell mighte get him.

They talked about ye wonderful defense which old Sr. Nicholas Throgmorton
did make for himself before ye judges in ye time of Mary; which was
unlucky matter to broach, sith it fetched out ye quene with a 'Pity yt
he, having so much wit, had yet not enough to save his doter's
maidenhedde sound for her marriage-bed.'  And ye quene did give ye damn'd
Sr. Walter a look yt made hym wince--for she hath not forgot he was her
own lover it yt olde day.  There was silent uncomfortableness now; 'twas
not a good turn for talk to take, sith if ye queene must find offense in
a little harmless debauching, when pricks were stiff and cunts not loathe
to take ye stiffness out of them, who of this company was sinless;
behold, was not ye wife of Master Shaxpur four months gone with child
when she stood uppe before ye altar?  Was not her Grace of Bilgewater
roger'd by four lords before she had a husband?  Was not ye little Lady
Helen born on her mother's wedding-day?  And, beholde, were not ye Lady
Alice and ye Lady Margery there, mouthing religion, whores from ye
cradle?

In time came they to discourse of Cervantes, and of the new painter,
Rubens, that is beginning to be heard of.  Fine words and dainty-wrought
phrases from the ladies now, one or two of them being, in other days,
pupils of that poor ass, Lille, himself; and I marked how that Jonson and
Shaxpur did fidget to discharge some venom of sarcasm, yet dared they not
in the presence, the queene's grace being ye very flower of ye Euphuists
herself.  But behold, these be they yt, having a specialty, and admiring
it in themselves, be jealous when a neighbor doth essaye it, nor can
abide it in them long.  Wherefore 'twas observable yt ye quene waxed
uncontent; and in time labor'd grandiose speeche out of ye mouth of Lady
Alice, who manifestly did mightily pride herself thereon, did quite
exhauste ye quene's endurance, who listened till ye gaudy speeche was
done, then lifted up her brows, and with vaste irony, mincing saith 'O
shit!' Whereat they alle did laffe, but not ye Lady Alice, yt olde
foolish bitche.

Now was Sr. Walter minded of a tale he once did hear ye ingenious
Margrette of Navarre relate, about a maid, which being like to suffer
rape by an olde archbishoppe, did smartly contrive a device to save her
maidenhedde, and said to him, First, my lord, I prithee, take out thy
holy tool and piss before me; which doing, lo his member felle, and would
not rise again.






                               FOOTNOTES
                              To Frivolity

The historical consistency of 1601 indicates that Twain must have given
the subject considerable thought.  The author was careful to speak only
of men who conceivably might have been in the Virgin Queen's closet and
engaged in discourse with her.


THE CHARACTERS

At this time (1601) Queen Elizabeth was 68 years old.  She speaks of
having talked to "old Rabelais" in her youth.  This might have been
possible as Rabelais died in 1552, when the Queen was 19 years old.

Among those in the party were Shakespeare, at that time 37 years old; Ben
Jonson, 27; and Sir Walter Raleigh, 49.  Beaumont at the time was 17, not
16.  He was admitted as a member of the Inner Temple in 1600, and his
first translations, those from Ovid, were first published in 1602.
Therefore, if one were holding strictly to the year date, neither by age
nor by fame would Beaumont have been eligible to attend such a gathering
of august personages in the year 1601; but the point is unimportant.


THE ELIZABETHAN WRITERS

In the Conversation Shakespeare speaks of Montaigne's Essays.  These were
first published in 1580 and successive editions were issued in the years
following, the third volume being published in 1588.  "In England
Montaigne was early popular.  It was long supposed that the autograph of
Shakespeare in a copy of Florio's translation showed his study of the
Essays.  The autograph has been disputed, but divers passages, and
especially one in The Tempest, show that at first or second hand the poet
was acquainted with the essayist." (Encyclopedia Brittanica.)

The company at the Queen's fireside discoursed of Lilly (or Lyly),
English dramatist and novelist of the Elizabethan era, whose novel,
Euphues, published in two parts, 'Euphues', or the 'Anatomy of Wit'
(1579) and 'Euphues and His England' (1580) was a literary sensation.
It is said to have influenced literary style for more than a quarter of a
century, and traces of its influence are found in Shakespeare.  (Columbia
Encyclopedia).

The introduction of Ben Jonson into the party was wholly appropriate,
if one may call to witness some of Jonson's writings.  The subject under
discussion was one that Jonson was acquainted with, in The Alchemist:


Act. I, Scene I,

FACE:  Believe't I will.

SUBTLE:  Thy worst.  I fart at thee.

DOL COMMON:  Have you your wits?  Why, gentlemen, for love----


Act. 2, Scene I,

SIR EPICURE MAMMON: ....and then my poets, the same that writ so subtly
of the fart, whom I shall entertain still for that subject and again in
Bartholomew Fair

NIGHTENGALE: (sings a ballad)
     Hear for your love, and buy for your money.
     A delicate ballad o' the ferret and the coney.
     A preservative again' the punk's evil.
     Another goose-green starch, and the devil.
     A dozen of divine points, and the godly garter
     The fairing of good counsel, of an ell and three-quarters.
     What is't you buy?
     The windmill blown down by the witche's fart,
     Or Saint George, that, O! did break the dragon's heart.


GOOD OLD ENGLISH CUSTOM

That certain types of English society have not changed materially in
their freedom toward breaking wind in public can be noticed in some
comparatively recent literature.  Frank Harris in My Life, Vol. 2,
Ch. XIII, tells of Lady Marriott, wife of a judge Advocate General,
being compelled to leave her own table, at which she was entertaining Sir
Robert Fowler, then the Lord Mayor of London, because of the suffocating
and nauseating odors there.  He also tells of an instance in parliament,
and of a rather brilliant bon mot spoken upon that occasion.

"While Fowler was speaking Finch-Hatton had shewn signs of restlessness;
towards the end of the speech he had moved some three yards away from the
Baronet.  As soon as Fowler sat down Finch-Hatton sprang up holding his
handkerchief to his nose:

"'Mr. Speaker,' he began, and was at once acknowledged by the Speaker,
for it was a maiden speech, and as such was entitled to precedence by the
courteous custom of the House, 'I know why the Right Honourable Member
from the City did not conclude his speech with a proposal.  The only way
to conclude such a speech appropriately would be with a motion!'"


AEOLIAN CREPITATIONS

But society had apparently degenerated sadly in modern times, and even in
the era of Elizabeth, for at an earlier date it was a serious--nay,
capital--offense to break wind in the presence of majesty.  The Emperor
Claudius, hearing that one who had suppressed the urge while paying him
court had suffered greatly thereby, "intended to issue an edict, allowing
to all people the liberty of giving vent at table to any distension
occasioned by flatulence:"

Martial, too (Book XII, Epigram LXXVII), tells of the embarrassment of
one who broke wind while praying in the Capitol,

"One day, while standing upright, addressing his prayers to Jupiter,
Aethon farted in the Capitol.  Men laughed, but the Father of the Gods,
offended, condemned the guilty one to dine at home for three nights.
Since that time, miserable Aethon, when he wishes to enter the Capitol,
goes first to Paterclius' privies and farts ten or twenty times.  Yet, in
spite of this precautionary crepitation, he salutes Jove with constricted
buttocks."  Martial also (Book IV, Epigram LXXX), ridicules a woman who
was subject to the habit, saying,

"Your Bassa, Fabullus, has always a child at her side, calling it her
darling and her plaything; and yet--more wonder--she does not care for
children.  What is the reason then.  Bassa is apt to fart.  (For which
she could blame the unsuspecting infant.)"

The tale is told, too, of a certain woman who performed an aeolian
crepitation at a dinner attended by the witty Monsignieur Dupanloup,
Bishop of Orleans, and that when, to cover up her lapse, she began to
scrape her feet upon the floor, and to make similar noises, the Bishop
said, "Do not trouble to find a rhyme, Madam!"

Nay, worthier names than those of any yet mentioned have discussed the
matter.  Herodotus tells of one such which was the precursor to the fall
of an empire and a change of dynasty--that which Amasis discharges while
on horseback, and bids the envoy of Apries, King of Egypt, catch and
deliver to his royal master.  Even the exact manner and posture of
Amasis, author of this insult, is described.

St. Augustine (The City of God, XIV:24) cites the instance of a man who
could command his rear trumpet to sound at will, which his learned
commentator fortifies with the example of one who could do so in tune!

Benjamin Franklin, in his "Letter to the Royal Academy of Brussels" has
canvassed suggested remedies for alleviating the stench attendant upon
these discharges:

"My Prize Question therefore should be:  To discover some Drug, wholesome
and--not disagreeable, to be mixed with our common food, or sauces, that
shall render the natural discharges of Wind from our Bodies not only
inoffensive, but agreeable as Perfumes.

"That this is not a Chimerical Project & altogether impossible, may
appear from these considerations.  That we already have some knowledge of
means capable of varying that smell.  He that dines on stale Flesh,
especially with much Addition of Onions, shall be able to afford a stink
that no Company can tolerate; while he that has lived for some time on
Vegetables only, shall have that Breath so pure as to be insensible of
the most delicate Noses; and if he can manage so as to avoid the Report,
he may anywhere give vent to his Griefs, unnoticed.  But as there are
many to whom an entire Vegetable Diet would be inconvenient, & as a
little quick Lime thrown into a Jakes will correct the amazing Quantity
of fetid Air arising from the vast Mass of putrid Matter contained in
such Places, and render it pleasing to the Smell, who knows but that a
little Powder of Lime (or some other equivalent) taken in our Food, or
perhaps a Glass of Lime Water drank at Dinner, may have the same Effect
on the Air produced in and issuing from our Bowels?"

One curious commentary on the text is that Elizabeth should be so fond of
investigating into the authorship of the exhalation in question, when she
was inordinately fond of strong and sweet perfumes; in fact, she was
responsible for the tremendous increase in importations of scents into
England during her reign.


"YE BOKE OF YE SIEUR MICHAEL DE MONTAINE"

There is a curious admixture of error and misunderstanding in this part
of the sketch.  In the first place, the story is borrowed from Montaigne,
where it is told inaccurately, and then further corrupted in the telling.

It was not the good widows of Perigord who wore the phallus upon their
coifs; it was the young married women, of the district near Montaigne's
home, who paraded it to view upon their foreheads, as a symbol, says our
essayist, "of the joy they derived therefrom." If they became widows,
they reversed its position, and covered it up with the rest of their
head-dress.

The "emperor" mentioned was not an emperor; he was Procolus, a native of
Albengue, on the Genoese coast, who, with Bonosus, led the unsuccessful
rebellion in Gaul against Emperor Probus.  Even so keen a commentator as
Cotton has failed to note the error.

The empress (Montaigne does not say "his empress") was Messalina, third
wife of the Emperor Claudius, who was uncle of Caligula and foster-father
to Nero.  Furthermore, in her case the charge is that she copulated with
twenty-five in a single night, and not twenty-two, as appears in the
text.  Montaigne is right in his statistics, if original sources are
correct, whereas the author erred in transcribing the incident.

As for Proculus, it has been noted that he was associated with Bonosus,
who was as renowned in the field of Bacchus as was Proculus in that of
Venus (Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire).  The feat of
Proculus is told in his own words, in Vopiscus, (Hist. Augustine, p. 246)
where he recounts having captured one hundred Sarmatian virgins, and
unmaidened ten of them in one night, together with the happenings
subsequent thereto.

Concerning Messalina, there appears to be no question but that she was a
nymphomaniac, and that, while Empress of Rome, she participated in some
fearful debaucheries.  The question is what to believe, for much that we
have heard about her is almost certainly apocryphal.

The author from whom Montaigne took his facts is the elder Pliny, who,
in his Natural History, Book X, Chapter 83, says, "Other animals become
sated with veneral pleasures; man hardly knows any satiety.  Messalina,
the wife of Claudius Caesar, thinking this a palm quite worthy of an
empress, selected for the purpose of deciding the question, one of the
most notorious women who followed the profession of a hired prostitute;
and the empress outdid her, after continuous intercourse, night and day,
at the twenty-fifth embrace."

But Pliny, notwithstanding his great attainments, was often a retailer of
stale gossip, and in like case was Aurelius Victor, another writer who
heaped much odium on her name.  Again, there is a great hiatus in the
Annals of Tacitus, a true historian, at the period covering the earlier
days of the Empress; while Suetonius, bitter as he may be, is little more
than an anecdotist.  Juvenal, another of her detractors, is a prejudiced
witness, for he started out to satirize female vice, and naturally aimed
at high places.  Dio also tells of Messalina's misdeeds, but his work is
under the same limitations as that of Suetonius.  Furthermore, none but
Pliny mentions the excess under consideration.

However, "where there is much smoke there must be a little fire," and
based upon the superimposed testimony of the writers of the period, there
appears little doubt but that Messalina was a nymphomaniac, that she
prostituted herself in the public stews, naked, and with gilded nipples,
and that she did actually marry her chief adulterer, Silius, while
Claudius was absent at Ostia, and that the wedding was consummated in the
presence of a concourse of witnesses.  This was "the straw that broke the
camel's back."  Claudius hastened back to Rome, Silius was dispatched,
and Messalina, lacking the will-power to destroy herself, was killed when
an officer ran a sword through her abdomen, just as it appeared that
Claudius was about to relent.


"THEN SPAKE YE DAMNED WINDMILL, SIR WALTER"

Raleigh is thoroughly in character here; this observation is quite in
keeping with the general veracity of his account of his travels in
Guiana, one of the most mendacious accounts of adventure ever told.
Naturally, the scholarly researches of Westermarck have failed to
discover this people; perhaps Lady Helen might best be protected among
the Jibaros of Ecuador, where the men marry when approaching forty.

Ben Jonson in his Conversations observed "That Sr. W. Raughlye esteemed
more of fame than of conscience."


YE VIRGIN QUEENE

Grave historians have debated for centuries the pretensions of Elizabeth
to the title, "The Virgin Queen," and it is utterly impossible to dispose
of the issue in a note.  However, the weight of opinion appears to be in
the negative.  Many and great were the difficulties attending the
marriage of a Protestant princess in those troublous times, and Elizabeth
finally announced that she would become wedded to the English nation,
and she wore a ring in token thereof until her death.  However, more or
less open liaisons with Essex and Leicester, as well as a host of lesser
courtiers, her ardent temperament, and her imperious temper, are
indications that cannot be denied in determining any estimate upon the
point in question.

Ben Jonson in his Conversations with William Drummond of Hawthornden
says,

"Queen Elizabeth never saw herself after she became old in a true glass;
they painted her, and sometymes would vermillion her nose.  She had
allwayes about Christmass evens set dice that threw sixes or five, and
she knew not they were other, to make her win and esteame herself
fortunate.  That she had a membrana on her, which made her uncapable of
man, though for her delight she tried many.  At the comming over of
Monsieur, there was a French Chirurgion who took in hand to cut it, yett
fear stayed her, and his death."

It was a subject which again intrigued Clemens when he was abroad with
W. H. Fisher, whom Mark employed to "nose up" everything pertaining to
Queen Elizabeth's manly character.


"'BOCCACCIO HATH A STORY"

The author does not pay any great compliment to Raleigh's memory here.
There is no such tale in all Boccaccio.  The nearest related incident
forms the subject matter of Dineo's novel (the fourth) of the First day
of the Decameron.


OLD SR. NICHOLAS THROGMORTON

The incident referred to appears to be Sir Nicholas Throgmorton's trial
for complicity in the attempt to make Lady Jane Grey Queen of England,
a charge of which he was acquitted.  This so angered Queen Mary that she
imprisoned him in the Tower, and fined the jurors from one to two
thousand pounds each.  Her action terrified succeeding juries, so that
Sir Nicholas's brother was condemned on no stronger evidence than that
which had failed to prevail before.  While Sir Nicholas's defense may
have been brilliant, it must be admitted that the evidence was weak.
He was later released from the Tower, and under Elizabeth was one of a
group of commissioners sent by that princess into Scotland, to foment
trouble with Mary, Queen of Scots.  When the attempt became known,
Elizabeth repudiated the acts of her agents, but Sir Nicholas, having
anticipated this possibility, had sufficient foresight to secure
endorsement of his plan by the Council, and so outwitted Elizabeth, who
was playing a two-faced role, and Cecil, one of the greatest statesmen
who ever held the post of principal minister.  Perhaps it was this
incident to which the company referred, which might in part explain
Elizabeth's rejoinder.  However, he had been restored to confidence ere
this, and had served as ambassador to France.


"TO SAVE HIS DOTER'S MAIDENHEDDE"

Elizabeth Throckmorton (or Throgmorton), daughter of Sir Nicholas, was
one of Elizabeth's maids of honor.  When it was learned that she had been
debauched by Raleigh, Sir Walter was recalled from his command at sea by
the Queen, and compelled to marry the girl.  This was not "in that olde
daie," as the text has it, for it happened only eight years before the
date of this purported "conversation," when Elizabeth was sixty years
old.






PARTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

The various printings of 1601 reveal how Mark Twain's 'Fireside
Conversation' has become a part of the American printer's lore.  But more
important, its many printings indicate that it has become a popular bit
of American folklore, particularly for men and women who have a feeling
for Mark Twain.  Apparently it appeals to the typographer, who devotes to
it his worthy art, as well as to the job printer, who may pull a crudely
printed proof.  The gay procession of curious printings of 1601 is unique
in the history of American printing.

Indeed, the story of the various printings of 1601 is almost legendary.
In the days of the "jour." printer, so I am told, well-thumbed copies
were carried from print shop to print shop.  For more than a quarter
century now it has been one of the chief sources of enjoyment for
printers' devils; and many a young rascal has learned about life from
this Fireside Conversation.  It has been printed all over the country,
and if report is to be believed, in foreign countries as well.  Because
of the many surreptitious and anonymous printings it is exceedingly
difficult, if not impossible, to compile a complete bibliography.  Many
printings lack the name of the publisher, the printer, the place or date
of printing.  In many instances some of the data, through the patient
questioning of fellow collectors, has been obtained and supplied.


1.  [Date, 1601.] Conversation, as it was by the Social Fireside, in the
Time of the Tudors.

DESCRIPTION: Pamphlet, pp. [ 1 ]-8, without wrappers or cover, measuring
7x8 inches.  The title is Set in caps. and small caps.

The excessively rare first printing, printed in Cleveland, 1880, at the
instance of Alexander Gunn, friend of John Hay.  Only four copies are
believed to have been printed, of which, it is said now, the only known
copy is located in the Willard S. Morse collection.


2.  Date 1601.  Conversation, as it was by the Social Fireside, in the
time of the Tudors.

(Mem.--The following is supposed to be an extract from the diary of the
Pepys of that day, the same being cup-bearer to Queen Elizabeth.  It is
supposed that he is of ancient and noble lineage; that he despises these
literary canaille; that his soul consumes with wrath to see the Queen
stooping to talk with such; and that the old man feels his nobility
defiled by contact with Shakespeare, etc., and yet he has got to stay
there till Her Majesty chooses to dismiss him.)

DESCRIPTION: Title as above, verso blank; pp. [i]-xi, text; verso p. xi
blank.  About 8 x 10 inches, printed on handmade linen paper soaked in
weak coffee, wrappers.  The title is set in caps and small caps.

COLOPHON: at the foot of p. xi: Done Att Ye Academie Preffe; M DCCC LXXX
II.

The privately printed West Point edition, the first printing of the text
authorized by Mark Twain, of which but fifty copies were printed.  The
story of this printing is fully told in the Introduction.


3.  Conversation As It Was By The Social Fire-side In The Time Of The
Tudors from Ye Diary of Ye Cupbearer to her Maisty Queen Elizabeth.
[design] Imprinted by Ye Puritan Press At Ye Sign of Ye Jolly Virgin
1601.

DESCRIPTION: 2 blank leaves; p. [i] blank, p. [ii] fronds., p. [iii]
title [as above], p. [iv] "Mem.", pp. 1-[25] text, I blank leaf.  4 3/4
by 6 1/4 inches, printed in a modern version of the Caxton black letter
type, on M.B.M.  French handmade paper.  The frontispiece, a woodcut by
A. E. Curtis, is a portrait of the cup-bearer.  Bound in buff-grey
boards, buckram back.  Cover title reads, in pale red ink, Caxton type,
Conversation As It Was By The Social Fire-side In The Time Of The Tudors.
[The Byway Press, Cincinnati, Ohio, 1901, 120 copies.]

Probably the first published edition.

Later, in 1916, a facsimile edition of this printing was published in
Chicago from plates.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of 1601
by Mark Twain






CARNIVAL OF CRIME IN CT.

by Mark Twain



THE FACTS CONCERNING THE RECENT CARNIVAL OF CRIME IN CONNECTICUT

I was feeling blithe, almost jocund.  I put a match to my cigar, and just
then the morning's mail was handed in.  The first superscription I
glanced at was in a handwriting that sent a thrill of pleasure through
and through me.  It was Aunt Mary's; and she was the person I loved and
honored most in all the world, outside of my own household.  She had been
my boyhood's idol; maturity, which is fatal to so many enchantments, had
not been able to dislodge her from her pedestal; no, it had only
justified her right to be there, and placed her dethronement permanently
among the impossibilities.  To show how strong her influence over me was,
I will observe that long after everybody else's "do-stop-smoking" had
ceased to affect me in the slightest degree, Aunt Mary could still stir
my torpid conscience into faint signs of life when she touched upon the
matter.  But all things have their limit in this world.  A happy day came
at last, when even Aunt Mary's words could no longer move me.  I was not
merely glad to see that day arrive; I was more than glad--I was grateful;
for when its sun had set, the one alloy that was able to mar my enjoyment
of my aunt's society was gone.  The remainder of her stay with us that
winter was in every way a delight.  Of course she pleaded with me just as
earnestly as ever, after that blessed day, to quit my pernicious habit,
but to no purpose whatever; the moment she opened the subject I at once
became calmly, peacefully, contentedly indifferent--absolutely,
adamantinely indifferent.  Consequently the closing weeks of that
memorable visit melted away as pleasantly as a dream, they were so
freighted for me with tranquil satisfaction.  I could not have enjoyed my
pet vice more if my gentle tormentor had been a smoker herself, and an
advocate of the practice.  Well, the sight of her handwriting reminded me
that I way getting very hungry to see her again.  I easily guessed what I
should find in her letter.  I opened it.  Good! just as I expected; she
was coming!  Coming this very day, too, and by the morning train; I might
expect her any moment.

I said to myself, "I am thoroughly happy and content now.  If my most
pitiless enemy could appear before me at this moment, I would freely
right any wrong I may have done him."

Straightway the door opened, and a shriveled, shabby dwarf entered.  He
was not more than two feet high.  He seemed to be about forty years old.
Every feature and every inch of him was a trifle out of shape; and so,
while one could not put his finger upon any particular part and say,
"This is a conspicuous deformity," the spectator perceived that this
little person was a deformity as a whole--a vague, general, evenly
blended, nicely adjusted deformity.  There was a fox-like cunning in the
face and the sharp little eyes, and also alertness and malice.  And yet,
this vile bit of human rubbish seemed to bear a sort of remote and
ill-defined resemblance to me!  It was dully perceptible in the mean
form, the countenance, and even the clothes, gestures, manner, and
attitudes of the creature.  He was a farfetched, dim suggestion of a
burlesque upon me, a caricature of me in little.  One thing about him
struck me forcibly and most unpleasantly: he was covered all over with a
fuzzy, greenish mold, such as one sometimes sees upon mildewed bread.
The sight of it was nauseating.

He stepped along with a chipper air, and flung himself into a doll's
chair in a very free-and-easy way, without waiting to be asked.  He
tossed his hat into the waste-basket.  He picked up my old chalk pipe
from the floor, gave the stem a wipe or two on his knee, filled the bowl
from the tobacco-box at his side, and said to me in a tone of pert
command:

"Gimme a match!"

I blushed to the roots of my hair; partly with indignation, but mainly
because it somehow seemed to me that this whole performance was very like
an exaggeration of conduct which I myself had sometimes been guilty of in
my intercourse with familiar friends--but never, never with strangers, I
observed to myself.  I wanted to kick the pygmy into the fire, but some
incomprehensible sense of being legally and legitimately under his
authority forced me to obey his order.  He applied the match to the pipe,
took a contemplative whiff or two, and remarked, in an irritatingly
familiar way:

"Seems to me it's devilish odd weather for this time of year."

I flushed again, and in anger and humiliation as before; for the language
was hardly an exaggeration of some that I have uttered in my day, and
moreover was delivered in a tone of voice and with an exasperating drawl
that had the seeming of a deliberate travesty of my style.  Now there is
nothing I am quite so sensitive about as a mocking imitation of my
drawling infirmity of speech.  I spoke up sharply and said:

"Look here, you miserable ash-cat!  you will have to give a little more
attention to your manners, or I will throw you out of the window!"

The manikin smiled a smile of malicious content and security, puffed a
whiff of smoke contemptuously toward me, and said, with a still more
elaborate drawl:

"Come--go gently now; don't put on too many airs with your betters."

This cool snub rasped me all over, but it seemed to subjugate me, too,
for a moment.  The pygmy contemplated me awhile with his weasel eyes,
and then said, in a peculiarly sneering way:

"You turned a tramp away from your door this morning."

I said crustily:

"Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn't.  How do you know?"

"Well, I know.  It isn't any matter how I know."

"Very well.  Suppose I did turn a tramp away from the door--what of it?"

"Oh, nothing; nothing in particular.  Only you lied to him."

"I didn't! That is, I--"

"Yes, but you did; you lied to him."

I felt a guilty pang--in truth, I had felt it forty times before that
tramp had traveled a block from my door--but still I resolved to make a
show of feeling slandered; so I said:

"This is a baseless impertinence.  I said to the tramp--"

"There--wait.  You were about to lie again.  I know what you said to him.
You said the cook was gone down-town and there was nothing left from
breakfast.  Two lies.  You knew the cook was behind the door, and plenty
of provisions behind her."

This astonishing accuracy silenced me; and it filled me with wondering
speculations, too, as to how this cub could have got his information.
Of course he could have culled the conversation from the tramp, but by
what sort of magic had he contrived to find out about the concealed cook?
Now the dwarf spoke again:

"It was rather pitiful, rather small, in you to refuse to read that poor
young woman's manuscript the other day, and give her an opinion as to its
literary value; and she had come so far, too, and so hopefully.  Now
wasn't it?"

I felt like a cur!  And I had felt so every time the thing had recurred
to my mind, I may as well confess.  I flushed hotly and said:

"Look here, have you nothing better to do than prowl around prying into
other people's business?   Did that girl tell you that?"

"Never mind whether she did or not.  The main thing is, you did that
contemptible thing.  And you felt ashamed of it afterward.  Aha! you feel
ashamed of it now!"

This was a sort of devilish glee.  With fiery earnestness I responded:

"I told that girl, in the kindest, gentlest way, that I could not consent
to deliver judgment upon any one's manuscript, because an individual's
verdict was worthless.  It might underrate a work of high merit and lose
it to the world, or it might overrate a trashy production and so open the
way for its infliction upon the world: I said that the great public was
the only tribunal competent to sit in judgment upon a literary effort,
and therefore it must be best to lay it before that tribunal in the
outset, since in the end it must stand or fall by that mighty court's
decision anyway."

"Yes, you said all that.  So you did, you juggling, small-souled
shuffler!  And yet when the happy hopefulness faded out of that poor
girl's face, when you saw her furtively slip beneath her shawl the scroll
she had so patiently and honestly scribbled at--so ashamed of her darling
now, so proud of it before--when you saw the gladness go out of her eyes
and the tears come there, when she crept away so humbly who had come
so--"

"Oh, peace!  peace! peace!  Blister your merciless tongue, haven't all
these thoughts tortured me enough without your coming here to fetch them
back again!"

Remorse! remorse!  It seemed to me that it would eat the very heart out
of me!  And yet that small fiend only sat there leering at me with joy
and contempt, and placidly chuckling.  Presently he began to speak again.
Every sentence was an accusation, and every accusation a truth.  Every
clause was freighted with sarcasm and derision, every slow-dropping word
burned like vitriol.  The dwarf reminded me of times when I had flown at
my children in anger and punished them for faults which a little inquiry
would have taught me that others, and not they, had committed.
He reminded me of how I had disloyally allowed old friends to be traduced
in my hearing, and been too craven to utter a word in their defense.
He reminded me of many dishonest things which I had done; of many which I
had procured to be done by children and other irresponsible persons; of
some which I had planned, thought upon, and longed to do, and been kept
from the performance by fear of consequences only.  With exquisite
cruelty he recalled to my mind, item by item, wrongs and unkindnesses I
had inflicted and humiliations I had put upon friends since dead, "who
died thinking of those injuries, maybe, and grieving over them," he
added, by way of poison to the stab.

"For instance," said he, "take the case of your younger brother, when you
two were boys together, many a long year ago.  He always lovingly trusted
in you with a fidelity that your manifold treacheries were not able to
shake.  He followed you about like a dog, content to suffer wrong and
abuse if he might only be with you; patient under these injuries so long
as it was your hand that inflicted them.  The latest picture you have of
him in health and strength must be such a comfort to you!  You pledged
your honor that if he would let you blindfold him no harm should come to
him; and then, giggling and choking over the rare fun of the joke, you
led him to a brook thinly glazed with ice, and pushed him in; and how you
did laugh!  Man, you will never forget the gentle, reproachful look he
gave you as he struggled shivering out, if you live a thousand years!
Oh! you see it now, you see it now!"

"Beast, I have seen it a million times, and shall see it a million more!
and may you rot away piecemeal, and suffer till doomsday what I suffer
now, for bringing it back to me again!"

The dwarf chuckled contentedly, and went on with his accusing history of
my career.  I dropped into a moody, vengeful state, and suffered in
silence under the merciless lash.  At last this remark of his gave me a
sudden rouse:

"Two months ago, on a Tuesday, you woke up, away in the night, and fell
to thinking, with shame, about a peculiarly mean and pitiful act of yours
toward a poor ignorant Indian in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains in the
winter of eighteen hundred and--"

"Stop a moment, devil!  Stop!  Do you mean to tell me that even my very
thoughts are not hidden from you?"

"It seems to look like that.  Didn't you think the thoughts I have just
mentioned?"

"If I didn't, I wish I may never breathe again!  Look here, friend--look
me in the eye.  Who are you?"

"Well, who do you think?"

"I think you are Satan himself.  I think you are the devil."

"No."

"No?  Then who can you be?"

"Would you really like to know?"

"Indeed I would."

"Well, I am your Conscience!"

In an instant I was in a blaze of joy and exultation.  I sprang at the
creature, roaring:

"Curse you, I have wished a hundred million times that you were tangible,
and that I could get my hands on your throat once!  Oh, but I will wreak
a deadly vengeance on--"

Folly!  Lightning does not move more quickly than my Conscience did!
He darted aloft so suddenly that in the moment my fingers clutched the
empty air he was already perched on the top of the high bookcase, with
his thumb at his nose in token of derision.  I flung the poker at him,
and missed.  I fired the bootjack.  In a blind rage I flew from place to
place, and snatched and hurled any missile that came handy; the storm of
books, inkstands, and chunks of coal gloomed the air and beat about the
manikin's perch relentlessly, but all to no purpose; the nimble figure
dodged every shot; and not only that, but burst into a cackle of
sarcastic and triumphant laughter as I sat down exhausted.  While I
puffed and gasped with fatigue and excitement, my Conscience talked to
this effect:

"My good slave, you are curiously witless--no, I mean characteristically
so.  In truth, you are always consistent, always yourself, always an ass.
Other wise it must have occurred to you that if you attempted this murder
with a sad heart and a heavy conscience, I would droop under the
burdening in influence instantly.  Fool, I should have weighed a ton, and
could not have budged from the floor; but instead, you are so cheerfully
anxious to kill me that your conscience is as light as a feather; hence I
am away up here out of your reach.  I can almost respect a mere ordinary
sort of fool; but you pah!"

I would have given anything, then, to be heavyhearted, so that I could
get this person down from there and take his life, but I could no more be
heavy-hearted over such a desire than I could have sorrowed over its
accomplishment.  So I could only look longingly up at my master, and rave
at the ill luck that denied me a heavy conscience the one only time that
I had ever wanted such a thing in my life.  By and by I got to musing
over the hour's strange adventure, and of course my human curiosity began
to work.  I set myself to framing in my mind some questions for this
fiend to answer.  Just then one of my boys entered, leaving the door open
behind him, and exclaimed:

"My!  what has been going on here?  The bookcase is all one riddle of--"

I sprang up in consternation, and shouted:

"Out of this!  Hurry!  jump!  Fly!  Shut the door!  Quick, or my
Conscience will get away!"

The door slammed to, and I locked it.  I glanced up and was grateful, to
the bottom of my heart, to see that my owner was still my prisoner.  I
said:

"Hang you, I might have lost you!  Children are the heedlessest
creatures.  But look here, friend, the boy did not seem to notice you at
all; how is that?"

"For a very good reason.  I am invisible to all but you."

I made a mental note of that piece of information with a good deal of
satisfaction.  I could kill this miscreant now, if I got a chance, and no
one would know it.  But this very reflection made me so lighthearted that
my Conscience could hardly keep his seat, but was like to float aloft
toward the ceiling like a toy balloon.  I said, presently:

"Come, my Conscience, let us be friendly.  Let us fly a flag of truce for
a while.  I am suffering to ask you some questions."

"Very well.  Begin."

"Well, then, in the first place, why were you never visible to me
before?"

"Because you never asked to see me before; that is, you never asked in
the right spirit and the proper form before.  You were just in the right
spirit this time, and when you called for your most pitiless enemy I was
that person by a very large majority, though you did not suspect it."

"Well, did that remark of mine turn you into flesh and blood?"

"No.  It only made me visible to you.  I am unsubstantial, just as other
spirits are."

This remark prodded me with a sharp misgiving.

If he was unsubstantial, how was I going to kill him?  But I dissembled,
and said persuasively:

"Conscience, it isn't sociable of you to keep at such a distance.  Come
down and take another smoke."

This was answered with a look that was full of derision, and with this
observation added:

"Come where you can get at me and kill me?  The invitation is declined
with thanks."

"All right," said I to myself; "so it seems a spirit can be killed, after
all; there will be one spirit lacking in this world, presently, or I lose
my guess."  Then I said aloud:

"Friend--"

"There; wait a bit.  I am not your friend.  I am your enemy; I am not
your equal, I am your master, Call me 'my lord,' if you please.  You are
too familiar."

"I don't like such titles.  I am willing to call you, sir.  That is as
far as--"

"We will have no argument about this.  Just obey, that is all.  Go on
with your chatter."

"Very well, my lord--since nothing but my lord will suit you--I was going
to ask you how long you will be visible to me?"

"Always!"

I broke out with strong indignation: "This is simply an outrage.  That is
what I think of it!  You have dogged, and dogged, and dogged me, all the
days of my life, invisible.  That was misery enough, now to have such a
looking thing as you tagging after me like another shadow all the rest of
my day is an intolerable prospect.  You have my opinion my lord, make the
most of it."

"My lad, there was never so pleased a conscience in this world as I was
when you made me visible.  It gives me an inconceivable advantage.  Now I
can look you straight in the eye, and call you names, and leer at you,
jeer at you, sneer at you; and you know what eloquence there is in
visible gesture and expression, more especially when the effect is
heightened by audible speech.  I shall always address you henceforth in
your o-w-n  s-n-i-v-e-l-i-n-g  d-r-a-w-l--baby!"

I let fly with the coal-hod.  No result.  My lord said:

"Come, come!  Remember the flag of truce!"

"Ah, I forgot that.  I will try to be civil; and you try it, too, for a
novelty.  The idea of a civil conscience!  It is a good joke; an
excellent joke.  All the consciences I have ever heard of were nagging,
badgering, fault-finding, execrable savages!  Yes; and always in a sweat
about some poor little insignificant trifle or other--destruction catch
the lot of them, I say!  I would trade mine for the smallpox and seven
kinds of consumption, and be glad of the chance.  Now tell me, why is it
that a conscience can't haul a man over the coals once, for an offense,
and then let him alone?  Why is it that it wants to keep on pegging at
him, day and night and night and day, week in and week out, forever and
ever, about the same old thing?  There is no sense in that, and no reason
in it.  I think a conscience that will act like that is meaner than the
very dirt itself."

"Well, WE like it; that suffices."

"Do you do it with the honest intent to improve a man?"

That question produced a sarcastic smile, and this reply:

"No, sir.  Excuse me.  We do it simply because it is 'business.'  It is
our trade.  The purpose of it is to improve the man, but we are merely
disinterested agents.  We are appointed by authority, and haven't
anything to say in the matter.  We obey orders and leave the consequences
where they belong.  But I am willing to admit this much: we do crowd the
orders a trifle when we get a chance, which is most of the time.
We enjoy it.  We are instructed to remind a man a few times of an error;
and I don't mind acknowledging that we try to give pretty good measure.
And when we get hold of a man of a peculiarly sensitive nature, oh, but
we do haze him!  I have consciences to come all the way from China and
Russia to see a person of that kind put through his paces, on a special
occasion.  Why, I knew a man of that sort who had accidentally crippled a
mulatto baby; the news went abroad, and I wish you may never commit
another sin if the consciences didn't flock from all over the earth to
enjoy the fun and help his master exorcise him.  That man walked the
floor in torture for forty-eight hours, without eating or sleeping, and
then blew his brains out.  The child was perfectly well again in three
weeks."

"Well, you are a precious crew, not to put it too strong.  I think I
begin to see now why you have always been a trifle inconsistent with me.
In your anxiety to get all the juice you can out of a sin, you make a man
repent of it in three or four different ways.  For instance, you found
fault with me for lying to that tramp, and I suffered over that.  But it
was only yesterday that I told a tramp the square truth, to wit, that,
it being regarded as bad citizenship to encourage vagrancy, I would give
him nothing.  What did you do then: Why, you made me say to myself, 'Ah,
it would have been so much kinder and more blameless to ease him off with
a little white lie, and send him away feeling that if he could not have
bread, the gentle treatment was at least something to be grateful for!'
Well, I suffered all day about that.  Three days before I had fed a
tramp, and fed him freely, supposing it a virtuous act.  Straight off you
said, 'Oh, false citizen, to have fed a tramp!' and I suffered as usual.
I gave a tramp work; you objected to it--after the contract was made,
of course; you never speak up beforehand.  Next, I refused a tramp work;
you objected to that.  Next, I proposed to kill a tramp; you kept me
awake all night, oozing remorse at every pore.  Sure I was going to be
right this time, I sent the next tramp away with my benediction; and I
wish you may live as long as I do, if you didn't make me smart all night
again because I didn't kill him.  Is there any way of satisfying that
malignant invention which is called a conscience?"

"Ha, ha! this is luxury!  Go on!"

"But come, now, answer me that question.  Is there any way?"

"Well, none that I propose to tell you, my son.  Ass!  I don't care what
act you may turn your hand to, I can straightway whisper a word in your
ear and make you think you have committed a dreadful meanness.  It is my
business--and my joy--to make you repent of everything you do.  If I have
fooled away any opportunities it was not intentional; I beg to assure you
it was not intentional!"

"Don't worry; you haven't missed a trick that I know of.  I never did a
thing in all my life, virtuous or otherwise, that I didn't repent of in
twenty-four hours.  In church last Sunday I listened to a charity sermon.
My first impulse was to give three hundred and fifty dollars; I repented
of that and reduced it a hundred; repented of that and reduced it another
hundred; repented of that and reduced it another hundred; repented of
that and reduced the remaining fifty to twenty-five; repented of that and
came down to fifteen; repented of that and dropped to two dollars and a
half; when the plate came around at last, I repented once more and
contributed ten cents.  Well, when I got home, I did wish to goodness I
had that ten cents back again!  You never did let me get through a
charity sermon without having something to sweat about."

"Oh, and I never shall, I never shall.  You can always depend on me."

"I think so.  Many and many's the restless night I've wanted to take you
by the neck.  If I could only get hold of you now!"

"Yes, no doubt.  But I am not an ass; I am only the saddle of an ass.
But go on, go on.  You entertain me more than I like to confess."

I am glad of that.  (You will not mind my lying a little, to keep in
practice.)  Look here; not to be too personal, I think you are about the
shabbiest and most contemptible little shriveled-up reptile that can be
imagined.  I am grateful enough that you are invisible to other people,
for I should die with shame to be seen with such a mildewed monkey of a
conscience as you are.  Now if you were five or six feet high, and--"

"Oh, come! who is to blame?"

"I don't know."

"Why, you are; nobody else."

"Confound you, I wasn't consulted about your personal appearance."

"I don't care, you had a good deal to do with it, nevertheless.  When you
were eight or nine years old, I was seven feet high, and as pretty as a
picture."

"I wish you had died young!  So you have grown the wrong way, have you?"

"Some of us grow one way and some the other.  You had a large conscience
once; if you've a small conscience now I reckon there are reasons for it.
However, both of us are to blame, you and I.  You see, you used to be
conscientious about a great many things; morbidly so, I may say.  It was
a great many years ago.  You probably do not remember it now.  Well,
I took a great interest in my work, and I so enjoyed the anguish which
certain pet sins of yours afflicted you with that I kept pelting at you
until I rather overdid the matter.  You began to rebel.  Of course I
began to lose ground, then, and shrivel a little--diminish in stature,
get moldy, and grow deformed.  The more I weakened, the more stubbornly
you fastened on to those particular sins; till at last the places on my
person that represent those vices became as callous as shark-skin.  Take
smoking, for instance.  I played that card a little too long, and I lost.
When people plead with you at this late day to quit that vice, that old
callous place seems to enlarge and cover me all over like a shirt of
mail.  It exerts a mysterious, smothering effect; and presently I, your
faithful hater, your devoted Conscience, go sound asleep!  Sound?  It is
no name for it.  I couldn't hear it thunder at such a time.  You have
some few other vices--perhaps eighty, or maybe ninety--that affect me in
much the same way."

"This is flattering; you must be asleep a good part of your time."

"Yes, of late years.  I should be asleep all the time but for the help I
get."

"Who helps you?"

"Other consciences.  Whenever a person whose conscience I am acquainted
with tries to plead with you about the vices you are callous to, I get my
friend to give his client a pang concerning some villainy of his own,
and that shuts off his meddling and starts him off to hunt personal
consolation.  My field of usefulness is about trimmed down to tramps,
budding authoresses, and that line of goods now; but don't you worry
--I'll harry you on theirs while they last!  Just you put your trust in
me."

"I think I can.  But if you had only been good enough to mention these
facts some thirty years ago, I should have turned my particular attention
to sin, and I think that by this time I should not only have had you
pretty permanently asleep on the entire list of human vices, but reduced
to the size of a homeopathic pill, at that.  That is about the style of
conscience I am pining for.  If I only had you shrunk you down to a
homeopathic pill, and could get my hands on you, would I put you in a
glass case for a keepsake?  No, sir.  I would give you to a yellow dog!
That is where you ought to be--you and all your tribe.  You are not fit
to be in society, in my opinion.  Now another question.  Do you know a
good many consciences in this section?"

"Plenty of them."

"I would give anything to see some of them!  Could you bring them here?
And would they be visible to me?"

"Certainly not."

"I suppose I ought to have known that without asking.  But no matter, you
can describe them.  Tell me about my neighbor Thompson's conscience,
please."

"Very well.  I know him intimately; have known him many years.  I knew
him when he was eleven feet high and of a faultless figure.  But he is
very pasty and tough and misshapen now, and hardly ever interests himself
about anything.  As to his present size--well, he sleeps in a cigar-box."

"Likely enough.  There are few smaller, meaner men in this region than
Hugh Thompson.  Do you know Robinson's conscience?"

"Yes.  He is a shade under four and a half feet high; used to be a blond;
is a brunette now, but still shapely and comely."

"Well, Robinson is a good fellow.  Do you know Tom Smith's conscience?"

"I have known him from childhood.  He was thirteen inches high, and
rather sluggish, when he was two years old--as nearly all of us are at
that age.  He is thirty-seven feet high now, and the stateliest figure in
America.  His legs are still racked with growing-pains, but he has a good
time, nevertheless.  Never sleeps.  He is the most active and energetic
member of the New England Conscience Club; is president of it.  Night and
day you can find him pegging away at Smith, panting with his labor,
sleeves rolled up, countenance all alive with enjoyment.  He has got his
victim splendidly dragooned now.  He can make poor Smith imagine that the
most innocent little thing he does is an odious sin; and then he sets to
work and almost tortures the soul out of him about it."

"Smith is the noblest man in all this section, and the purest; and yet is
always breaking his heart because he cannot be good!  Only a conscience
could find pleasure in heaping agony upon a spirit like that.  Do you
know my aunt Mary's conscience?"

"I have seen her at a distance, but am not acquainted with her.  She
lives in the open air altogether, because no door is large enough to
admit her."

"I can believe that.  Let me see.  Do you know the conscience of that
publisher who once stole some sketches of mine for a 'series' of his, and
then left me to pay the law expenses I had to incur in order to choke him
off?"

"Yes.  He has a wide fame.  He was exhibited, a month ago, with some
other antiquities, for the benefit of a recent Member of the Cabinet's
conscience that was starving in exile.  Tickets and fares were high, but
I traveled for nothing by pretending to be the conscience of an editor,
and got in for half-price by representing myself to be the conscience of
a clergyman.  However, the publisher's conscience, which was to have been
the main feature of the entertainment, was a failure--as an exhibition.
He was there, but what of that?  The management had provided a microscope
with a magnifying power of only thirty thousand diameters, and so nobody
got to see him, after all.  There was great and general dissatisfaction,
of course, but--"

Just here there was an eager footstep on the stair; I opened the door,
and my aunt Mary burst into the room.  It was a joyful meeting and a
cheery bombardment of questions and answers concerning family matters
ensued.  By and by my aunt said:

"But I am going to abuse you a little now.  You promised me, the day I
saw you last, that you would look after the needs of the poor family
around the corner as faithfully as I had done it myself.  Well, I found
out by accident that you failed of your promise.  Was that right?"

In simple truth, I never had thought of that family a second time!  And
now such a splintering pang of guilt shot through me!  I glanced up at my
Conscience.  Plainly, my heavy heart was affecting him.  His body was
drooping forward; he seemed about to fall from the bookcase.  My aunt
continued:

"And think how you have neglected my poor protege at the almshouse, you
dear, hard-hearted promise-breaker!"  I blushed scarlet, and my tongue
was tied.  As the sense of my guilty negligence waxed sharper and
stronger, my Conscience began to sway heavily back and forth; and when my
aunt, after a little pause, said in a grieved tone, "Since you never once
went to see her, maybe it will not distress you now to know that that
poor child died, months ago, utterly friendless and forsaken!"
My Conscience could no longer bear up under the weight of my sufferings,
but tumbled headlong from his high perch and struck the floor with a
dull, leaden thump.  He lay there writhing with pain and quaking with
apprehension, but straining every muscle in frantic efforts to get up.
In a fever of expectancy I sprang to the door, locked it, placed my back
against it, and bent a watchful gaze upon my struggling master.  Already
my fingers were itching to begin their murderous work.

"Oh, what can be the matter!" exclaimed by aunt, shrinking from me, and
following with her frightened eyes the direction of mine.  My breath was
coming in short, quick gasps now, and my excitement was almost
uncontrollable.  My aunt cried out:

"Oh, do not look so!  You appal me!  Oh, what can the matter be?  What is
it you see?  Why do you stare so?  Why do you work your fingers like
that?"

"Peace, woman!"  I said, in a hoarse whisper. "Look elsewhere; pay no
attention to me; it is nothing--nothing.  I am often this way.  It will
pass in a moment.  It comes from smoking too much."

My injured lord was up, wild-eyed with terror, and trying to hobble
toward the door.  I could hardly breathe, I was so wrought up.  My aunt
wrung her hands, and said:

"Oh, I knew how it would be; I knew it would come to this at last!
Oh, I implore you to crush out that fatal habit while it may yet be time!
You must not, you shall not be deaf to my supplications longer!"
My struggling Conscience showed sudden signs of weariness!  "Oh, promise
me you will throw off this hateful slavery of tobacco!"  My Conscience
began to reel drowsily, and grope with his hands--enchanting spectacle!
"I beg you, I beseech you, I implore you!  Your reason is deserting you!
There is madness in your eye!  It flames with frenzy!  Oh, hear me, hear
me, and be saved!  See, I plead with you on my very knees!"  As she sank
before me my Conscience reeled again, and then drooped languidly to the
floor, blinking toward me a last supplication for mercy, with heavy eyes.
"Oh, promise, or you are lost!  Promise, and be redeemed!  Promise!
Promise and live!"  With a long-drawn sigh my conquered Conscience closed
his eyes and fell fast asleep!

With an exultant shout I sprang past my aunt, and in an instant I had my
lifelong foe by the throat.  After so many years of waiting and longing,
he was mine at last.  I tore him to shreds and fragments.  I rent the
fragments to bits.  I cast the bleeding rubbish into the fire, and drew
into my nostrils the grateful incense of my burnt-offering.  At last, and
forever, my Conscience was dead!

I was a free man!  I turned upon my poor aunt, who was almost petrified
with terror, and shouted:

"Out of this with your paupers, your charities, your reforms, your
pestilent morals!  You behold before you a man whose life-conflict is
done, whose soul is at peace; a man whose heart is dead to sorrow, dead
to suffering, dead to remorse; a man WITHOUT A CONSCIENCE!  In my joy I
spare you, though I could throttle you and never feel a pang!  Fly!"

She fled.  Since that day my life is all bliss.  Bliss, unalloyed bliss.
Nothing in all the world could persuade me to have a conscience again.
I settled all my old outstanding scores, and began the world anew.
I killed thirty-eight persons during the first two weeks--all of them on
account of ancient grudges.  I burned a dwelling that interrupted my
view.  I swindled a widow and some orphans out of their last cow, which
is a very good one, though not thoroughbred, I believe.  I have also
committed scores of crimes, of various kinds, and have enjoyed my work
exceedingly, whereas it would formerly have broken my heart and turned my
hair gray, I have no doubt.

In conclusion, I wish to state, by way of advertisement, that medical
colleges desiring assorted tramps for scientific purposes, either by the
gross, by cord measurement, or per ton, will do well to examine the lot
in my cellar before purchasing elsewhere, as these were all selected and
prepared by myself, and can be had at a low rate, because I wish to
clear, out my stock and get ready for the spring trade.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Carnival of Crime in CT.
by Mark Twain






   The INTERNET WIRETAP First Electronic Edition of

            THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER
                         BY
                     MARK TWAIN
             (Samuel Langhorne Clemens)


    Electronic Edition by <dell@wiretap.spies.com>
           Released to the public June 1993



                   P R E F A C E

MOST of the adventures recorded in this book
really occurred; one or two were experiences of
my own, the rest those of boys who were schoolmates
of mine. Huck Finn is drawn from life; Tom Sawyer
also, but not from an individual -- he is a combina-
tion of the characteristics of three boys whom I knew,
and therefore belongs to the composite order of archi-
tecture.

The odd superstitions touched upon were all preva-
lent among children and slaves in the West at the
period of this story -- that is to say, thirty or
forty years ago.

Although my book is intended mainly for the en-
tertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be
shunned by men and women on that account, for
part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind
adults of what they once were themselves, and of
how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer
enterprises they sometimes engaged in.

                               THE AUTHOR.

HARTFORD, 1876.



                T O M   S A W Y E R


CHAPTER I

"TOM!"

No answer.

"TOM!"

No answer.

"What's gone with that boy,  I wonder? You TOM!"

No answer.

The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked
over them about the room; then she put them up and
looked out under them. She seldom or never looked
THROUGH them for so small a thing as a boy; they were
her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built
for "style," not service -- she could have seen through
a pair of stove-lids just as well. She looked perplexed
for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still
loud enough for the furniture to hear:

"Well, I lay if I get hold of you I'll --"

She did not finish, for by this time she was bending
down and punching under the bed with the broom,
and so she needed breath to punctuate the punches
with. She resurrected nothing but the cat.

"I never did see the beat of that boy!"

She went to the open door and stood in it and looked
out among the tomato vines and "jimpson" weeds that
constituted the garden. No Tom. So she lifted up
her voice at an angle calculated for distance and
shouted:

"Y-o-u-u TOM!"

There was a slight noise behind her and she turned
just in time to seize a small boy by the slack of his
roundabout and arrest his flight.

"There! I might 'a' thought of that closet. What
you been doing in there?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at
your mouth. What IS that truck?"

"I don't know, aunt."

"Well, I know. It's jam -- that's what it is. Forty
times I've said if you didn't let that jam alone I'd skin
you. Hand me that switch."

The switch hovered in the air -- the peril was des-
perate --

"My! Look behind you, aunt!"

The old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts
out of danger. The lad fled on the instant, scrambled
up the high board-fence, and disappeared over it.

His aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and then
broke into a gentle laugh.

"Hang the boy, can't I never learn anything? Ain't
he played me tricks enough like that for me to be look-
ing out for him by this time? But old fools is the big-
gest fools there is. Can't learn an old dog new tricks,
as the saying is. But my goodness, he never plays
them alike, two days, and how is a body to know what's
coming? He 'pears to know just how long he can
torment me before I get my dander up, and he knows
if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make
me laugh, it's all down again and I can't hit him a lick.
I ain't doing my duty by that boy, and that's the Lord's
truth, goodness knows. Spare the rod and spile the
child, as the Good Book says. I'm a laying up sin and
suffering for us both, I know. He's full of the Old
Scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my own dead sister's boy,
poor thing, and I ain't got the heart to lash him, some-
how. Every time I let him off, my conscience does
hurt me so, and every time I hit him my old heart most
breaks. Well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of
few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and
I reckon it's so. He'll play hookey this evening, * and
[* Southwestern for "afternoon"]
I'll just be obleeged to make him work, to-morrow, to
punish him. It's mighty hard to make him work
Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he
hates work more than he hates anything else, and I've
GOT to do some of my duty by him, or I'll be the ruination
of the child."

Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time.
He got back home barely in season to help Jim, the
small colored boy, saw next-day's wood and split the
kindlings before supper -- at least he was there in
time to tell his adventures to Jim while Jim did
three-fourths of the work. Tom's younger brother
(or rather half-brother) Sid was already through
with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he
was a quiet boy, and had no adventurous, trouble-
some ways.

While Tom was eating his supper, and stealing
sugar as opportunity offered, Aunt Polly asked him
questions that were full of guile, and very deep -- for
she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments.
Like many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet
vanity to believe she was endowed with a talent for
dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to con-
template her most transparent devices as marvels of
low cunning. Said she:

"Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't
it?"

"Yes'm."

"Powerful warm, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Didn't you want to go in a-swimming, Tom?"

A bit of a scare shot through Tom -- a touch of
uncomfortable suspicion. He searched Aunt Polly's
face, but it told him nothing. So he said:

"No'm -- well, not very much."

The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom's
shirt, and said:

"But you ain't too warm now, though." And
it flattered her to reflect that she had discovered that
the shirt was dry without anybody knowing that that
was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her,
Tom knew where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled
what might be the next move:

"Some of us pumped on our heads -- mine's damp
yet. See?"

Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked
that bit of circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick.
Then she had a new inspiration:

"Tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar
where I sewed it, to pump on your head, did you?
Unbutton your jacket!"

The trouble vanished out of Tom's face. He opened
his jacket. His shirt collar was securely sewed.

"Bother! Well, go 'long with you. I'd made sure
you'd played hookey and been a-swimming. But I
forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you're a kind of a singed
cat, as the saying is -- better'n you look. THIS time."

She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and
half glad that Tom had stumbled into obedient con-
duct for once.

But Sidney said:

"Well, now, if I didn't think you sewed his collar
with white thread, but it's black."

"Why, I did sew it with white! Tom!"

But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out
at the door he said:

"Siddy, I'll lick you for that."

In a safe place Tom examined two large needles
which were thrust into the lapels of his jacket, and
had thread bound about them -- one needle carried
white thread and the other black. He said:

"She'd never noticed if it hadn't been for Sid.
Confound it! sometimes she sews it with white, and
sometimes she sews it with black. I wish to gee-
miny she'd stick to one or t'other -- I can't keep the
run of 'em. But I bet you I'll lam Sid for that. I'll
learn him!"

He was not the Model Boy of the village. He
knew the model boy very well though -- and loathed
him.

Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten
all his troubles. Not because his troubles were one
whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man's are to a
man, but because a new and powerful interest bore
them down and drove them out of his mind for the time
-- just as men's misfortunes are forgotten in the excite-
ment of new enterprises. This new interest was a
valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired
from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it un-
disturbed. It consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a
sort of liquid warble, produced by touching the tongue
to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of
the music -- the reader probably remembers how to
do it, if he has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention
soon gave him the knack of it, and he strode down the
street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full
of gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer feels who
has discovered a new planet -- no doubt, as far as strong,
deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage
was with the boy, not the astronomer.

The summer evenings were long. It was not dark,
yet. Presently Tom checked his whistle. A stranger
was before him -- a boy a shade larger than himself.
A new-comer of any age or either sex was an im-
pressive curiosity in the poor little shabby village of
St. Petersburg. This boy was well dressed, too --
well dressed on a week-day. This was simply as-
tounding. His cap was a dainty thing, his close-
buttoned blue cloth roundabout was new and natty,
and so were his pantaloons. He had shoes on --
and it was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a
bright bit of ribbon. He had a citified air about him
that ate into Tom's vitals. The more Tom stared at
the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose
at his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own
outfit seemed to him to grow. Neither boy spoke. If
one moved, the other moved -- but only sidewise, in a
circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye all the time.
Finally Tom said:

"I can lick you!"

"I'd like to see you try it."

"Well, I can do it."

"No you can't, either."

"Yes I can."

"No you can't."

"I can."

"You can't."

"Can!"

"Can't!"

An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said:

"What's your name?"

"'Tisn't any of your business, maybe."

"Well I 'low I'll MAKE it my business."

"Well why don't you?"

"If you say much, I will."

"Much -- much -- MUCH. There now."

"Oh, you think you're mighty smart, DON'T you?
I could lick you with one hand tied behind me, if I
wanted to."

"Well why don't you DO it? You SAY you can do it."

"Well I WILL, if you fool with me."

"Oh yes -- I've seen whole families in the same fix."

"Smarty! You think you're SOME, now, DON'T you?
Oh, what a hat!"

"You can lump that hat if you don't like it. I dare
you to knock it off -- and anybody that'll take a dare
will suck eggs."

"You're a liar!"

"You're another."

"You're a fighting liar and dasn't take it up."

"Aw -- take a walk!"

"Say -- if you give me much more of your sass I'll
take and bounce a rock off'n your head."

"Oh, of COURSE you will."

"Well I WILL."

"Well why don't you DO it then? What do you
keep SAYING you will for? Why don't you DO it? It's
because you're afraid."

"I AIN'T afraid."

"You are."

"I ain't."

"You are."

Another pause, and more eying and sidling around
each other. Presently they were shoulder to shoulder.
Tom said:

"Get away from here!"

"Go away yourself!"

"I won't."

"I won't either."

So they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle
as a brace, and both shoving with might and main,
and glowering at each other with hate. But neither
could get an advantage. After struggling till both
were hot and flushed, each relaxed his strain with
watchful caution, and Tom said:

"You're a coward and a pup. I'll tell my big
brother on you, and he can thrash you with his little
finger, and I'll make him do it, too."

"What do I care for your big brother? I've got
a brother that's bigger than he is -- and what's more,
he can throw him over that fence, too." [Both brothers
were imaginary.]

"That's a lie."

"YOUR saying so don't make it so."

Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and
said:

"I dare you to step over that, and I'll lick you till
you can't stand up. Anybody that'll take a dare will
steal sheep."

The new boy stepped over promptly, and said:

"Now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it."

"Don't you crowd me now; you better look out."

"Well, you SAID you'd do it -- why don't you do it?"

"By jingo! for two cents I WILL do it."

The new boy took two broad coppers out of his
pocket and held them out with derision. Tom struck
them to the ground. In an instant both boys were
rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like
cats; and for the space of a minute they tugged and tore
at each other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched
each other's nose, and covered themselves with dust
and glory. Presently the confusion took form, and
through the fog of battle Tom appeared, seated astride
the new boy, and pounding him with his fists.
"Holler 'nuff!" said he.

The boy only struggled to free himself. He was
crying -- mainly from rage.

"Holler 'nuff!" -- and the pounding went on.

At last the stranger got out a smothered "'Nuff!"
and Tom let him up and said:

"Now that'll learn you. Better look out who you're
fooling with next time."

The new boy went off brushing the dust from his
clothes, sobbing, snuffling, and occasionally looking
back and shaking his head and threatening what he
would do to Tom the "next time he caught him out."
To which Tom responded with jeers, and started off
in high feather, and as soon as his back was turned the
new boy snatched up a stone, threw it and hit him be-
tween the shoulders and then turned tail and ran like
an antelope. Tom chased the traitor home, and thus
found out where he lived. He then held a position at
the gate for some time, daring the enemy to come out-
side, but the enemy only made faces at him through
the window and declined. At last the enemy's mother
appeared, and called Tom a bad, vicious, vulgar child,
and ordered him away. So he went away; but he
said he "'lowed" to "lay" for that boy.

He got home pretty late that night, and when he
climbed cautiously in at the window, he uncovered
an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt; and when
she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution
to turn his Saturday holiday into captivity at hard
labor became adamantine in its firmness.


CHAPTER II

SATURDAY morning was come, and all
the summer world was bright and fresh,
and brimming with life. There was a
song in every heart; and if the heart was
young the music issued at the lips. There
was cheer in every face and a spring in
every step. The locust-trees were in bloom and the
fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff
Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with
vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem
a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of
whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed
the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep mel-
ancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards
of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed
hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he
dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank;
repeated the operation; did it again; compared the in-
significant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching
continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a
tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at the
gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing
water from the town pump had always been hateful
work in Tom's eyes, before, but now it did not strike
him so. He remembered that there was company
at the pump. White, mulatto, and negro boys and
girls were always there waiting their turns, resting,
trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking.
And he remembered that although the pump was only
a hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never got back with
a bucket of water under an hour -- and even then some-
body generally had to go after him. Tom said:

"Say, Jim, I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash
some."

Jim shook his head and said:

"Can't, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I
got to go an' git dis water an' not stop foolin' roun'
wid anybody. She say she spec' Mars Tom gwine
to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long
an' 'tend to my own business -- she 'lowed SHE'D 'tend
to de whitewashin'."

"Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's
the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket -- I
won't be gone only a a minute. SHE won't ever know."

"Oh, I dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole missis she'd take
an' tar de head off'n me. 'Deed she would."

"SHE! She never licks anybody -- whacks 'em over
the head with her thimble -- and who cares for that,
I'd like to know. She talks awful, but talk don't
hurt -- anyways it don't if she don't cry. Jim, I'll give
you a marvel. I'll give you a white alley!"

Jim began to waver.

"White alley, Jim! And it's a bully taw."

"My! Dat's a mighty gay marvel, I tell you!
But Mars Tom I's powerful 'fraid ole missis --"

"And besides, if you will I'll show you my sore
toe."

Jim was only human -- this attraction was too much
for him. He put down his pail, took the white alley,
and bent over the toe with absorbing interest while the
bandage was being unwound. In another moment he
was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling
rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt
Polly was retiring from the field with a slipper in her
hand and triumph in her eye.

But Tom's energy did not last. He began to think
of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows
multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping
along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they
would make a world of fun of him for having to work
-- the very thought of it burnt him like fire. He got
out his worldly wealth and examined it -- bits of toys,
marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange of WORK,
maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an
hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened
means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying
to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless moment
an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a
great, magnificent inspiration.

He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work.
Ben Rogers hove in sight presently -- the very boy,
of all boys, whose ridicule he had been dreading.
Ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump -- proof enough
that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He
was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious
whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding-
dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a
steamboat. As he drew near, he slackened speed,
took the middle of the street, leaned far over to star-
board and rounded to ponderously and with laborious
pomp and circumstance -- for he was personating the
Big Missouri, and considered himself to be drawing
nine feet of water. He was boat and captain and
engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself
standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders
and executing them:

"Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!" The headway ran
almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.

"Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!" His arms
straightened and stiffened down his sides.

"Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling!
Chow! ch-chow-wow! Chow!" His right hand, mean-
time, describing stately circles -- for it was representing
a forty-foot wheel.

"Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-
ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!" The left hand began
to describe circles.

"Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the
labboard! Come ahead on the stabboard! Stop her!
Let your outside turn over slow! Ting-a-ling-ling!
Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! LIVELY now!
Come -- out with your spring-line -- what're you about
there! Take a turn round that stump with the bight
of it! Stand by that stage, now -- let her go! Done
with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! SH'T! S'H'T!
SH'T!" (trying the gauge-cocks).

Tom went on whitewashing -- paid no attention to
the steamboat. Ben stared a moment and then said:
"Hi-YI! YOU'RE up a stump, ain't you!"

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the
eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle
sweep and surveyed the result, as before. Ben ranged
up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the
apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said:

"Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"

Tom wheeled suddenly and said:

"Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."

"Say -- I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't
you wish you could? But of course you'd druther
WORK -- wouldn't you? Course you would!"

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:

"What do you call work?"

"Why, ain't THAT work?"

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered care-
lessly:

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know,
is, it suits Tom Sawyer."

"Oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you
LIKE it?"

The brush continued to move.

"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it.
Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped
nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily
back and forth -- stepped back to note the effect --
added a touch here and there -- criticised the effect
again -- Ben watching every move and getting more
and more interested, more and more absorbed. Pres-
ently he said:

"Say, Tom, let ME whitewash a little."

Tom considered, was about to consent; but he
altered his mind:

"No -- no -- I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben.
You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this
fence -- right here on the street, you know -- but if it
was the back fence I wouldn't mind and SHE wouldn't.
Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to
be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a
thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way
it's got to be done."

"No -- is that so? Oh come, now -- lemme just
try. Only just a little -- I'd let YOU, if you was me,
Tom."

"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly
-- well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him;
Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn't let Sid. Now
don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this
fence and anything was to happen to it --"

"Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try.
Say -- I'll give you the core of my apple."

"Well, here -- No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard --"

"I'll give you ALL of it!"

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face,
but alacrity in his heart. And while the late steamer
Big Missouri worked and sweated in the sun, the
retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by,
dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the
slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack
of material; boys happened along every little while;
they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By
the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next
chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and
when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a
dead rat and a string to swing it with -- and so on, and
so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the
afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken
boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth.
He had besides the things before mentioned, twelve
marbles, part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass
to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't
unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper
of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six
fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-
knob, a dog-collar -- but no dog -- the handle of a knife,
four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window
sash.

He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while --
plenty of company -- and the fence had three coats of
whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash he
would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow
world, after all. He had discovered a great law of
human action, without knowing it -- namely, that in
order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only
necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If
he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the
writer of this book, he would now have comprehended
that Work consists of whatever a body is OBLIGED to
do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not
obliged to do. And this would help him to understand
why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a
tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing
Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy
gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger-
coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the
summer, because the privilege costs them considerable
money; but if they were offered wages for the service,
that would turn it into work and then they would
resign.

The boy mused awhile over the substantial change
which had taken place in his worldly circumstances,
and then wended toward headquarters to report.


CHAPTER III

TOM presented himself before Aunt Polly,
who was sitting by an open window in a
pleasant rearward apartment, which was
bedroom, breakfast-room, dining-room,
and library, combined. The balmy sum-
mer air, the restful quiet, the odor of the
flowers, and the drowsing murmur of the bees had
had their effect, and she was nodding over her knit-
ting -- for she had no company but the cat, and it was
asleep in her lap. Her spectacles were propped up
on her gray head for safety. She had thought that of
course Tom had deserted long ago, and she wondered
at seeing him place himself in her power again in this
intrepid way. He said: "Mayn't I go and play now,
aunt?"

"What, a'ready? How much have you done?"

"It's all done, aunt."

"Tom, don't lie to me -- I can't bear it."

"I ain't, aunt; it IS all done."

Aunt Polly placed small trust in such evidence.
She went out to see for herself; and she would have
been content to find twenty per cent. of Tom's state-
ment true. When she found the entire fence white-
washed, and not only whitewashed but elaborately
coated and recoated, and even a streak added to the
ground, her astonishment was almost unspeakable.
She said:

"Well, I never! There's no getting round it, you
can work when you're a mind to, Tom." And then
she diluted the compliment by adding, "But it's power-
ful seldom you're a mind to, I'm bound to say. Well,
go 'long and play; but mind you get back some time in
a week, or I'll tan you."

She was so overcome by the splendor of his achieve-
ment that she took him into the closet and selected a
choice apple and delivered it to him, along with an
improving lecture upon the added value and flavor
a treat took to itself when it came without sin through
virtuous effort. And while she closed with a happy
Scriptural flourish, he "hooked" a doughnut.

Then he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up
the outside stairway that led to the back rooms on
the second floor. Clods were handy and the air was
full of them in a twinkling. They raged around Sid
like a hail-storm; and before Aunt Polly could collect
her surprised faculties and sally to the rescue, six or
seven clods had taken personal effect, and Tom was
over the fence and gone. There was a gate, but as a
general thing he was too crowded for time to make use
of it. His soul was at peace, now that he had settled
with Sid for calling attention to his black thread and
getting him into trouble.

Tom skirted the block, and came round into a
muddy alley that led by the back of his aunt's cow-
stable. He presently got safely beyond the reach
of capture and punishment, and hastened toward the
public square of the village, where two "military"
companies of boys had met for conflict, according
to previous appointment. Tom was General of one
of these armies, Joe Harper (a bosom friend) General
of the other. These two great commanders did not
condescend to fight in person -- that being better suited
to the still smaller fry -- but sat together on an eminence
and conducted the field operations by orders delivered
through aides-de-camp. Tom's army won a great
victory, after a long and hard-fought battle. Then
the dead were counted, prisoners exchanged, the terms
of the next disagreement agreed upon, and the day
for the necessary battle appointed; after which the
armies fell into line and marched away, and Tom turned
homeward alone.

As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher
lived, he saw a new girl in the garden -- a lovely little
blue-eyed creature with yellow hair plaited into two
long-tails, white summer frock and embroidered pan-
talettes. The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing
a shot. A certain Amy Lawrence vanished out of his
heart and left not even a memory of herself behind.
He had thought he loved her to distraction; he had
regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it was
only a poor little evanescent partiality. He had been
months winning her; she had confessed hardly a week
ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest boy in
the world only seven short days, and here in one instant
of time she had gone out of his heart like a casual
stranger whose visit is done.

He worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till
he saw that she had discovered him; then he pre-
tended he did not know she was present, and began
to "show off" in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in
order to win her admiration. He kept up this grotesque
foolishness for some time; but by-and-by, while he was
in the midst of some dangerous gymnastic performances,
he glanced aside and saw that the little girl was wending
her way toward the house. Tom came up to the
fence and leaned on it, grieving, and hoping she would
tarry yet awhile longer. She halted a moment on the
steps and then moved toward the door. Tom heaved
a great sigh as she put her foot on the threshold. But
his face lit up, right away, for she tossed a pansy over the
fence a moment before she disappeared.

The boy ran around and stopped within a foot or
two of the flower, and then shaded his eyes with his
hand and began to look down street as if he had dis-
covered something of interest going on in that direction.
Presently he picked up a straw and began trying to
balance it on his nose, with his head tilted far back;
and as he moved from side to side, in his efforts, he
edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy; finally his
bare foot rested upon it, his pliant toes closed upon it,
and he hopped away with the treasure and disappeared
round the corner. But only for a minute -- only while
he could button the flower inside his jacket, next his
heart -- or next his stomach, possibly, for he was not
much posted in anatomy, and not hypercritical, any-
way.

He returned, now, and hung about the fence till
nightfall, "showing off," as before; but the girl never
exhibited herself again, though Tom comforted him-
self a little with the hope that she had been near some
window, meantime, and been aware of his attentions.
Finally he strode home reluctantly, with his poor head
full of visions.

All through supper his spirits were so high that
his aunt wondered "what had got into the child." He
took a good scolding about clodding Sid, and did not
seem to mind it in the least. He tried to steal sugar
under his aunt's very nose, and got his knuckles rapped
for it. He said:

"Aunt, you don't whack Sid when he takes it."

"Well, Sid don't torment a body the way you do.
You'd be always into that sugar if I warn't watching
you."

Presently she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid,
happy in his immunity, reached for the sugar-bowl --
a sort of glorying over Tom which was wellnigh un-
bearable. But Sid's fingers slipped and the bowl
dropped and broke. Tom was in ecstasies. In such
ecstasies that he even controlled his tongue and was
silent. He said to himself that he would not speak
a word, even when his aunt came in, but would sit per-
fectly still till she asked who did the mischief; and then
he would tell, and there would be nothing so good in
the world as to see that pet model "catch it." He was
so brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold him-
self when the old lady came back and stood above the
wreck discharging lightnings of wrath from over her
spectacles. He said to himself, "Now it's coming!"
And the next instant he was sprawling on the floor!
The potent palm was uplifted to strike again when
Tom cried out:

"Hold on, now, what 'er you belting ME for? -- Sid
broke it!"

Aunt Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom looked
for healing pity. But when she got her tongue again,
she only said:

"Umf! Well, you didn't get a lick amiss, I reckon.
You been into some other audacious mischief when I
wasn't around, like enough."

Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned
to say something kind and loving; but she judged
that this would be construed into a confession that she
had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that.
So she kept silence, and went about her affairs with
a troubled heart. Tom sulked in a corner and exalted
his woes. He knew that in her heart his aunt was on
her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the
consciousness of it. He would hang out no signals, he
would take notice of none. He knew that a yearning
glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of
tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured him-
self lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him
beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would
turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid.
Ah, how would she feel then? And he pictured himself
brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all
wet, and his sore heart at rest. How she would throw
herself upon him, and how her tears would fall like
rain, and her lips pray God to give her back her boy
and she would never, never abuse him any more!
But he would lie there cold and white and make no
sign -- a poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an
end. He so worked upon his feelings with the pathos
of these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he
was so like to choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of
water, which overflowed when he winked, and ran
down and trickled from the end of his nose. And such
a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he
could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any
grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred
for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin
Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home
again after an age-long visit of one week to the country,
he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at
one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the
other.

He wandered far from the accustomed haunts of
boys, and sought desolate places that were in har-
mony with his spirit. A log raft in the river invited
him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and
contemplated the dreary vastness of the stream, wish-
ing, the while, that he could only be drowned, all at
once and unconsciously, without undergoing the un-
comfortable routine devised by nature. Then he
thought of his flower. He got it out, rumpled and
wilted, and it mightily increased his dismal felicity.
He wondered if she would pity him if she knew?
Would she cry, and wish that she had a right to put
her arms around his neck and comfort him? Or
would she turn coldly away like all the hollow world?
This picture brought such an agony of pleasurable suf-
fering that he worked it over and over again in his mind
and set it up in new and varied lights, till he wore it
threadbare. At last he rose up sighing and departed
in the darkness.

About half-past nine or ten o'clock he came along
the deserted street to where the Adored Unknown
lived; he paused a moment; no sound fell upon his
listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon
the curtain of a second-story window. Was the
sacred presence there? He climbed the fence, threaded
his stealthy way through the plants, till he stood under
that window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion;
then he laid him down on the ground under it, dis-
posing himself upon his back, with his hands clasped
upon his breast and holding his poor wilted flower.
And thus he would die -- out in the cold world, with no
shelter over his homeless head, no friendly hand to
wipe the death-damps from his brow, no loving face to
bend pityingly over him when the great agony came.
And thus SHE would see him when she looked out upon
the glad morning, and oh! would she drop one little
tear upon his poor, lifeless form, would she heave
one little sigh to see a bright young life so rudely blight-
ed, so untimely cut down?

The window went up, a maid-servant's discordant
voice profaned the holy calm, and a deluge of water
drenched the prone martyr's remains!

The strangling hero sprang up with a relieving
snort. There was a whiz as of a missile in the air,
mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound as of
shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went
over the fence and shot away in the gloom.

Not long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed, was
surveying his drenched garments by the light of a
tallow dip, Sid woke up; but if he had any dim idea of
making any "references to allusions," he thought better
of it and held his peace, for there was danger in Tom's
eye.

Tom turned in without the added vexation of prayers,
and Sid made mental note of the omission.


CHAPTER IV

THE sun rose upon a tranquil world, and
beamed down upon the peaceful village
like a benediction. Breakfast over, Aunt
Polly had family worship: it began with a
prayer built from the ground up of solid
courses of Scriptural quotations, welded
together with a thin mortar of originality; and from
the summit of this she delivered a grim chapter of the
Mosaic Law, as from Sinai.

Then Tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and
went to work to "get his verses." Sid had learned
his lesson days before. Tom bent all his energies to
the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part of
the Sermon on the Mount, because he could find no
verses that were shorter. At the end of half an hour
Tom had a vague general idea of his lesson, but no
more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of
human thought, and his hands were busy with dis-
tracting recreations. Mary took his book to hear
him recite, and he tried to find his way through the
fog:

"Blessed are the -- a -- a --"

"Poor" --

"Yes -- poor; blessed are the poor -- a -- a --"

"In spirit --"

"In spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they --
they --"

"THEIRS --"

"For THEIRS. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs
is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn,
for they -- they --"

"Sh --"

"For they -- a --"

"S, H, A --"

"For they S, H -- Oh, I don't know what it is!"

"SHALL!"

"Oh, SHALL! for they shall -- for they shall -- a -- a --
shall mourn -- a-- a -- blessed are they that shall -- they
that -- a -- they that shall mourn, for they shall -- a -- shall
WHAT? Why don't you tell me, Mary? -- what do you
want to be so mean for?"

"Oh, Tom, you poor thick-headed thing, I'm not
teasing you. I wouldn't do that. You must go and
learn it again. Don't you be discouraged, Tom, you'll
manage it -- and if you do, I'll give you something ever
so nice. There, now, that's a good boy."

"All right! What is it, Mary, tell me what it is."

"Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it's
nice, it is nice."

"You bet you that's so, Mary. All right, I'll tackle
it again."

And he did "tackle it again" -- and under the double
pressure of curiosity and prospective gain he did it
with such spirit that he accomplished a shining success.
Mary gave him a brand-new "Barlow" knife worth
twelve and a half cents; and the convulsion of delight
that swept his system shook him to his foundations.
True, the knife would not cut anything, but it was a
"sure-enough" Barlow, and there was inconceivable
grandeur in that -- though where the Western boys ever
got the idea that such a weapon could possibly be
counterfeited to its injury is an imposing mystery and
will always remain so, perhaps. Tom contrived to
scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging to begin
on the bureau, when he was called off to dress for
Sunday-school.

Mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of
soap, and he went outside the door and set the basin
on a little bench there; then he dipped the soap in
the water and laid it down; turned up his sleeves;
poured out the water on the ground, gently, and then
entered the kitchen and began to wipe his face diligently
on the towel behind the door. But Mary removed
the towel and said:

"Now ain't you ashamed, Tom. You mustn't be
so bad. Water won't hurt you."

Tom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was
refilled, and this time he stood over it a little while,
gathering resolution; took in a big breath and began.
When he entered the kitchen presently, with both
eyes shut and groping for the towel with his hands,
an honorable testimony of suds and water was dripping
from his face. But when he emerged from the towel,
he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory
stopped short at his chin and his jaws, like a mask;
below and beyond this line there was a dark expanse
of unirrigated soil that spread downward in front and
backward around his neck. Mary took him in hand,
and when she was done with him he was a man and a
brother, without distinction of color, and his saturated
hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls wrought
into a dainty and symmetrical general effect. [He
privately smoothed out the curls, with labor and dif-
ficulty, and plastered his hair close down to his head;
for he held curls to be effeminate, and his own filled his
life with bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of
his clothing that had been used only on Sundays during
two years -- they were simply called his "other clothes"
-- and so by that we know the size of his wardrobe.
The girl "put him to rights" after he had dressed him-
self; she buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin,
turned his vast shirt collar down over his shoulders,
brushed him off and crowned him with his speckled
straw hat. He now looked exceedingly improved and
uncomfortable. He was fully as uncomfortable as he
looked; for there was a restraint about whole clothes
and cleanliness that galled him. He hoped that Mary
would forget his shoes, but the hope was blighted; she
coated them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom,
and brought them out. He lost his temper and said
he was always being made to do everything he didn't
want to do. But Mary said, persuasively:

"Please, Tom -- that's a good boy."

So he got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon
ready, and the three children set out for Sunday-school
-- a place that Tom hated with his whole heart; but Sid
and Mary were fond of it.

Sabbath-school hours were from nine to half-past
ten; and then church service. Two of the children
always remained for the sermon voluntarily, and the
other always remained too -- for stronger reasons.
The church's high-backed, uncushioned pews would
seat about three hundred persons; the edifice was but
a small, plain affair, with a sort of pine board tree-box
on top of it for a steeple. At the door Tom dropped
back a step and accosted a Sunday-dressed comrade:

"Say, Billy, got a yaller ticket?"

"Yes."

"What'll you take for her?"

"What'll you give?"

"Piece of lickrish and a fish-hook."

"Less see 'em."

Tom exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the
property changed hands. Then Tom traded a couple
of white alleys for three red tickets, and some small
trifle or other for a couple of blue ones. He waylaid
other boys as they came, and went on buying tickets
of various colors ten or fifteen minutes longer. He
entered the church, now, with a swarm of clean and
noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started
a quarrel with the first boy that came handy. The
teacher, a grave, elderly man, interfered; then turned his
back a moment and Tom pulled a boy's hair in the next
bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy
turned around; stuck a pin in another boy, presently,
in order to hear him say "Ouch!" and got a new
reprimand from his teacher. Tom's whole class were
of a pattern -- restless, noisy, and troublesome. When
they came to recite their lessons, not one of them knew
his verses perfectly, but had to be prompted all along.
However, they worried through, and each got his reward
-- in small blue tickets, each with a passage of Scripture
on it; each blue ticket was pay for two verses of the
recitation. Ten blue tickets equalled a red one, and
could be exchanged for it; ten red tickets equalled a
yellow one; for ten yellow tickets the superintendent
gave a very plainly bound Bible (worth forty cents in
those easy times) to the pupil. How many of my
readers would have the industry and application to
memorize two thousand verses, even for a Dore Bible?
And yet Mary had acquired two Bibles in this way -- it
was the patient work of two years -- and a boy of Ger-
man parentage had won four or five. He once recited
three thousand verses without stopping; but the strain
upon his mental faculties was too great, and he was
little better than an idiot from that day forth -- a
grievous misfortune for the school, for on great occa-
sions, before company, the superintendent (as Tom
expressed it) had always made this boy come out
and "spread himself." Only the older pupils managed
to keep their tickets and stick to their tedious work long
enough to get a Bible, and so the delivery of one of these
prizes was a rare and noteworthy circumstance; the
successful pupil was so great and conspicuous for that
day that on the spot every scholar's heart was fired with
a fresh ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks.
It is possible that Tom's mental stomach had never
really hungered for one of those prizes, but unques-
tionably his entire being had for many a day longed for
the glory and the eclat that came with it.

In due course the superintendent stood up in front
of the pulpit, with a closed hymn-book in his hand
and his forefinger inserted between its leaves, and
commanded attention. When a Sunday-school superin-
tendent makes his customary little speech, a hymn-book
in the hand is as necessary as is the inevitable sheet of
music in the hand of a singer who stands forward on
the platform and sings a solo at a concert -- though
why, is a mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the
sheet of music is ever referred to by the sufferer. This
superintendent was a slim creature of thirty-five, with
a sandy goatee and short sandy hair; he wore a stiff
standing-collar whose upper edge almost reached his
ears and whose sharp points curved forward abreast the
corners of his mouth -- a fence that compelled a straight
lookout ahead, and a turning of the whole body when a
side view was required; his chin was propped on a
spreading cravat which was as broad and as long as a
bank-note, and had fringed ends; his boot toes were
turned sharply up, in the fashion of the day, like sleigh-
runners -- an effect patiently and laboriously produced
by the young men by sitting with their toes pressed
against a wall for hours together. Mr. Walters was
very earnest of mien, and very sincere and honest at
heart; and he held sacred things and places in such
reverence, and so separated them from worldly matters,
that unconsciously to himself his Sunday-school voice
had acquired a peculiar intonation which was wholly
absent on week-days. He began after this fashion:

"Now, children, I want you all to sit up just as
straight and pretty as you can and give me all your
attention for a minute or two. There -- that is it.
That is the way good little boys and girls should do.
I see one little girl who is looking out of the window
-- I am afraid she thinks I am out there somewhere --
perhaps up in one of the trees making a speech to the
little birds. [Applausive titter.] I want to tell you
how good it makes me feel to see so many bright, clean
little faces assembled in a place like this, learning to
do right and be good." And so forth and so on. It
is not necessary to set down the rest of the oration.
It was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it is
familiar to us all.

The latter third of the speech was marred by the
resumption of fights and other recreations among
certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings and whis-
perings that extended far and wide, washing even to
the bases of isolated and incorruptible rocks like
Sid and Mary. But now every sound ceased suddenly,
with the subsidence of Mr. Walters' voice, and the con-
clusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent
gratitude.

A good part of the whispering had been occasioned
by an event which was more or less rare -- the entrance
of visitors: lawyer Thatcher, accompanied by a very
feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged gentle-
man with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was
doubtless the latter's wife. The lady was leading a
child. Tom had been restless and full of chafings and
repinings; conscience-smitten, too -- he could not meet
Amy Lawrence's eye, he could not brook her loving
gaze. But when he saw this small new-comer his soul
was all ablaze with bliss in a moment. The next
moment he was "showing off" with all his might --
cuffing boys, pulling hair, making faces -- in a word,
using every art that seemed likely to fascinate a girl and
win her applause. His exaltation had but one alloy
-- the memory of his humiliation in this angel's garden
-- and that record in sand was fast washing out, under
the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it now.

The visitors were given the highest seat of honor,
and as soon as Mr. Walters' speech was finished, he
introduced them to the school. The middle-aged
man turned out to be a prodigious personage -- no less
a one than the county judge -- altogether the most
august creation these children had ever looked upon --
and they wondered what kind of material he was made
of -- and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were
half afraid he might, too. He was from Constantinople,
twelve miles away -- so he had travelled, and seen the
world -- these very eyes had looked upon the county
court-house -- which was said to have a tin roof. The
awe which these reflections inspired was attested by the
impressive silence and the ranks of staring eyes. This
was the great Judge Thatcher, brother of their own
lawyer. Jeff Thatcher immediately went forward, to
be familiar with the great man and be envied by the
school. It would have been music to his soul to hear
the whisperings:

"Look at him, Jim! He's a going up there. Say --
look! he's a going to shake hands with him -- he IS
shaking hands with him! By jings, don't you wish you
was Jeff?"

Mr. Walters fell to "showing off," with all sorts of
official bustlings and activities, giving orders, de-
livering judgments, discharging directions here, there,
everywhere that he could find a target. The librarian
"showed off" -- running hither and thither with his arms
full of books and making a deal of the splutter and
fuss that insect authority delights in. The young lady
teachers "showed off" -- bending sweetly over pupils
that were lately being boxed, lifting pretty warning
fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones lovingly.
The young gentlemen teachers "showed off" with
small scoldings and other little displays of authority
and fine attention to discipline -- and most of the
teachers, of both sexes, found business up at the library,
by the pulpit; and it was business that frequently had
to be done over again two or three times (with much
seeming vexation). The little girls "showed off" in
various ways, and the little boys "showed off" with such
diligence that the air was thick with paper wads and
the murmur of scufflings. And above it all the great
man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all
the house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own
grandeur -- for he was "showing off," too.

There was only one thing wanting to make Mr.
Walters' ecstasy complete, and that was a chance to
deliver a Bible-prize and exhibit a prodigy. Several
pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough
-- he had been around among the star pupils inquiring.
He would have given worlds, now, to have that German
lad back again with a sound mind.

And now at this moment, when hope was dead,
Tom Sawyer came forward with nine yellow tickets,
nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded a
Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky.
Walters was not expecting an application from this
source for the next ten years. But there was no
getting around it -- here were the certified checks,
and they were good for their face. Tom was there-
fore elevated to a place with the Judge and the other
elect, and the great news was announced from head-
quarters. It was the most stunning surprise of the
decade, and so profound was the sensation that it
lifted the new hero up to the judicial one's altitude,
and the school had two marvels to gaze upon in place
of one. The boys were all eaten up with envy -- but
those that suffered the bitterest pangs were those who
perceived too late that they themselves had contributed
to this hated splendor by trading tickets to Tom for
the wealth he had amassed in selling whitewashing
privileges. These despised themselves, as being the
dupes of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the grass.

The prize was delivered to Tom with as much
effusion as the superintendent could pump up under
the circumstances; but it lacked somewhat of the true
gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him that there
was a mystery here that could not well bear the light,
perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had
warehoused two thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom
on his premises -- a dozen would strain his capacity,
without a doubt.

Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to
make Tom see it in her face -- but he wouldn't look.
She wondered; then she was just a grain troubled; next
a dim suspicion came and went -- came again; she
watched; a furtive glance told her worlds -- and then
her heart broke, and she was jealous, and angry, and
the tears came and she hated everybody. Tom most of
all (she thought).

Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue
was tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart
quaked -- partly because of the awful greatness of
the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He
would have liked to fall down and worship him, if it
were in the dark. The Judge put his hand on Tom's
head and called him a fine little man, and asked him
what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and
got it out:

"Tom."

"Oh, no, not Tom -- it is --"

"Thomas."

"Ah, that's it. I thought there was more to it,
maybe. That's very well. But you've another one
I daresay, and you'll tell it to me, won't you?"

"Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas,"
said Walters, "and say sir. You mustn't forget
your manners."

"Thomas Sawyer -- sir."

"That's it! That's a good boy. Fine boy. Fine,
manly little fellow. Two thousand verses is a great
many -- very, very great many. And you never can be
sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for knowl-
edge is worth more than anything there is in the world;
it's what makes great men and good men; you'll be a
great man and a good man yourself, some day, Thomas,
and then you'll look back and say, It's all owing to the
precious Sunday-school privileges of my boyhood -- it's
all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn
-- it's all owing to the good superintendent, who en-
couraged me, and watched over me, and gave me
a beautiful Bible -- a splendid elegant Bible -- to keep
and have it all for my own, always -- it's all owing to
right bringing up! That is what you will say, Thomas
-- and you wouldn't take any money for those two
thousand verses -- no indeed you wouldn't. And now
you wouldn't mind telling me and this lady some of
the things you've learned -- no, I know you wouldn't
-- for we are proud of little boys that learn. Now, no
doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples.
Won't you tell us the names of the first two that were
appointed?"

Tom was tugging at a button-hole and looking
sheepish. He blushed, now, and his eyes fell. Mr.
Walters' heart sank within him. He said to himself,
it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest
question -- why DID the Judge ask him? Yet he felt
obliged to speak up and say:

"Answer the gentleman, Thomas -- don't be afraid."

Tom still hung fire.

"Now I know you'll tell me," said the lady. "The
names of the first two disciples were --"

"DAVID AND GOLIAH!"

Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of
the scene.


CHAPTER V

ABOUT half-past ten the cracked bell of
the small church began to ring, and pres-
ently the people began to gather for the
morning sermon. The Sunday-school
children distributed themselves about the
house and occupied pews with their par-
ents, so as to be under supervision. Aunt Polly came,
and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her -- Tom being
placed next the aisle, in order that he might be as
far away from the open window and the seductive
outside summer scenes as possible. The crowd filed
up the aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who
had seen better days; the mayor and his wife -- for
they had a mayor there, among other unnecessaries;
the justice of the peace; the widow Douglass, fair,
smart, and forty, a generous, good-hearted soul and
well-to-do, her hill mansion the only palace in the
town, and the most hospitable and much the most
lavish in the matter of festivities that St. Petersburg
could boast; the bent and venerable Major and Mrs.
Ward; lawyer Riverson, the new notable from a dis-
tance; next the belle of the village, followed by a troop
of lawn-clad and ribbon-decked young heart-breakers;
then all the young clerks in town in a body -- for they
had stood in the vestibule sucking their cane-heads, a
circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till the
last girl had run their gantlet; and last of all came
the Model Boy, Willie Mufferson, taking as heedful
care of his mother as if she were cut glass. He always
brought his mother to church, and was the pride of all
the matrons. The boys all hated him, he was so good.
And besides, he had been "thrown up to them" so
much. His white handkerchief was hanging out of his
pocket behind, as usual on Sundays -- accidentally.
Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys
who had as snobs.

The congregation being fully assembled, now, the
bell rang once more, to warn laggards and stragglers,
and then a solemn hush fell upon the church which
was only broken by the tittering and whispering of
the choir in the gallery. The choir always tittered
and whispered all through service. There was once
a church choir that was not ill-bred, but I have for-
gotten where it was, now. It was a great many years
ago, and I can scarcely remember anything about it,
but I think it was in some foreign country.

The minister gave out the hymn, and read it through
with a relish, in a peculiar style which was much ad-
mired in that part of the country. His voice began
on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached
a certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon
the topmost word and then plunged down as if from a
spring-board:

  Shall I be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow'ry BEDS
     of ease,

  Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro' BLOOD-
     y seas?

He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church
"sociables" he was always called upon to read poetry;
and when he was through, the ladies would lift up their
hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps, and
"wall" their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as
to say, "Words cannot express it; it is too beautiful,
TOO beautiful for this mortal earth."

After the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague
turned himself into a bulletin-board, and read off
"notices" of meetings and societies and things till it
seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of
doom -- a queer custom which is still kept up in America,
even in cities, away here in this age of abundant news-
papers. Often, the less there is to justify a traditional
custom, the harder it is to get rid of it.

And now the minister prayed. A good, generous
prayer it was, and went into details: it pleaded for
the church, and the little children of the church; for
the other churches of the village; for the village itself;
for the county; for the State; for the State officers; for
the United States; for the churches of the United States;
for Congress; for the President; for the officers of the
Government; for poor sailors, tossed by stormy seas;
for the oppressed millions groaning under the heel of
European monarchies and Oriental despotisms; for such
as have the light and the good tidings, and yet have not
eyes to see nor ears to hear withal; for the heathen in the
far islands of the sea; and closed with a supplication that
the words he was about to speak might find grace and
favor, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding
in time a grateful harvest of good. Amen.

There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing
congregation sat down. The boy whose history this
book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only en-
dured it -- if he even did that much. He was restive
all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer,
unconsciously -- for he was not listening, but he knew
the ground of old, and the clergyman's regular route
over it -- and when a little trifle of new matter was in-
terlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature re-
sented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoun-
drelly. In the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the
back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit
by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its
head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that
it seemed to almost part company with the body, and
the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view;
scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing
them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going
through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was
perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom's
hands itched to grab for it they did not dare -- he believed
his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such
a thing while the prayer was going on. But with
the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal
forward; and the instant the "Amen" was out the fly
was a prisoner of war. His aunt detected the act and
made him let it go.

The minister gave out his text and droned along
monotonously through an argument that was so prosy
that many a head by and by began to nod -- and yet
it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and
brimstone and thinned the predestined elect down to a
company so small as to be hardly worth the saving.
Tom counted the pages of the sermon; after church he
always knew how many pages there had been, but he
seldom knew anything else about the discourse. How-
ever, this time he was really interested for a little while.
The minister made a grand and moving picture of the
assembling together of the world's hosts at the millen-
nium when the lion and the lamb should lie down to-
gether and a little child should lead them. But the
pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were
lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuous-
ness of the principal character before the on-looking
nations; his face lit with the thought, and he said to
himself that he wished he could be that child, if it was
a tame lion.

Now he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argu-
ment was resumed. Presently he bethought him of a
treasure he had and got it out. It was a large black
beetle with formidable jaws -- a "pinchbug," he called
it. It was in a percussion-cap box. The first thing
the beetle did was to take him by the finger. A natural
fillip followed, the beetle went floundering into the
aisle and lit on its back, and the hurt finger went into
the boy's mouth. The beetle lay there working its
helpless legs, unable to turn over. Tom eyed it, and
longed for it; but it was safe out of his reach. Other
people uninterested in the sermon found relief in the
beetle, and they eyed it too. Presently a vagrant poodle
dog came idling along, sad at heart, lazy with the
summer softness and the quiet, weary of captivity, sigh-
ing for change. He spied the beetle; the drooping tail
lifted and wagged. He surveyed the prize; walked
around it; smelt at it from a safe distance; walked around
it again; grew bolder, and took a closer smell; then
lifted his lip and made a gingerly snatch at it, just
missing it; made another, and another; began to enjoy
the diversion; subsided to his stomach with the beetle
between his paws, and continued his experiments; grew
weary at last, and then indifferent and absent-minded.
His head nodded, and little by little his chin descended
and touched the enemy, who seized it. There was a
sharp yelp, a flirt of the poodle's head, and the beetle
fell a couple of yards away, and lit on its back once
more. The neighboring spectators shook with a gentle
inward joy, several faces went behind fans and hand-
kerchiefs, and Tom was entirely happy. The dog
looked foolish, and probably felt so; but there was
resentment in his heart, too, and a craving for revenge.
So he went to the beetle and began a wary attack on it
again; jumping at it from every point of a circle, light-
ing with his fore-paws within an inch of the creature,
making even closer snatches at it with his teeth, and
jerking his head till his ears flapped again. But he
grew tired once more, after a while; tried to amuse him-
self with a fly but found no relief; followed an ant around,
with his nose close to the floor, and quickly wearied of
that; yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and sat
down on it. Then there was a wild yelp of agony and
the poodle went sailing up the aisle; the yelps continued,
and so did the dog; he crossed the house in front of the
altar; he flew down the other aisle; he crossed before
the doors; he clamored up the home-stretch; his
anguish grew with his progress, till presently he was
but a woolly comet moving in its orbit with the gleam
and the speed of light. At last the frantic sufferer
sheered from its course, and sprang into its master's
lap; he flung it out of the window, and the voice of
distress quickly thinned away and died in the dis-
tance.

By this time the whole church was red-faced and
suffocating with suppressed laughter, and the sermon
had come to a dead standstill. The discourse was
resumed presently, but it went lame and halting, all
possibility of impressiveness being at an end; for even
the gravest sentiments were constantly being received
with a smothered burst of unholy mirth, under cover
of some remote pew-back, as if the poor parson had
said a rarely facetious thing. It was a genuine relief
to the whole congregation when the ordeal was over
and the benediction pronounced.

Tom Sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking
to himself that there was some satisfaction about
divine service when there was a bit of variety in it.
He had but one marring thought; he was willing that
the dog should play with his pinchbug, but he did not
think it was upright in him to carry it off.


CHAPTER VI

MONDAY morning found Tom Sawyer
miserable. Monday morning always
found him so -- because it began another
week's slow suffering in school. He gen-
erally began that day with wishing he had
had no intervening holiday, it made the go-
ing into captivity and fetters again so much more odious.

Tom lay thinking. Presently it occurred to him
that he wished he was sick; then he could stay home
from school. Here was a vague possibility. He can-
vassed his system. No ailment was found, and he
investigated again. This time he thought he could
detect colicky symptoms, and he began to encourage
them with considerable hope. But they soon grew
feeble, and presently died wholly away. He reflected
further. Suddenly he discovered something. One of
his upper front teeth was loose. This was lucky; he
was about to begin to groan, as a "starter," as he called
it, when it occurred to him that if he came into court
with that argument, his aunt would pull it out, and that
would hurt. So he thought he would hold the tooth in
reserve for the present, and seek further. Nothing of-
fered for some little time, and then he remembered
hearing the doctor tell about a certain thing that laid
up a patient for two or three weeks and threatened to
make him lose a finger. So the boy eagerly drew his
sore toe from under the sheet and held it up for in-
spection. But now he did not know the necessary
symptoms. However, it seemed well worth while to
chance it, so he fell to groaning with considerable
spirit.

But Sid slept on unconscious.

Tom groaned louder, and fancied that he began to
feel pain in the toe.

No result from Sid.

Tom was panting with his exertions by this time.
He took a rest and then swelled himself up and fetched
a succession of admirable groans.

Sid snored on.

Tom was aggravated. He said, "Sid, Sid!" and
shook him. This course worked well, and Tom began
to groan again. Sid yawned, stretched, then brought
himself up on his elbow with a snort, and began to stare
at Tom. Tom went on groaning. Sid said:

"Tom! Say, Tom!" [No response.] "Here, Tom!
TOM! What is the matter, Tom?" And he shook
him and looked in his face anxiously.

Tom moaned out:

"Oh, don't, Sid. Don't joggle me."

"Why, what's the matter, Tom? I must call
auntie."

"No -- never mind. It'll be over by and by, maybe.
Don't call anybody."

"But I must! DON'T groan so, Tom, it's awful.
How long you been this way?"

"Hours. Ouch! Oh, don't stir so, Sid, you'll kill
me."

"Tom, why didn't you wake me sooner ? Oh, Tom,
DON'T! It makes my flesh crawl to hear you. Tom,
what is the matter?"

"I forgive you everything, Sid. [Groan.] Every-
thing you've ever done to me. When I'm gone --"

"Oh, Tom, you ain't dying, are you? Don't, Tom
-- oh, don't. Maybe --"

"I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell 'em so,
Sid. And Sid, you give my window-sash and my cat
with one eye to that new girl that's come to town, and
tell her --"

But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom
was suffering in reality, now, so handsomely was his
imagination working, and so his groans had gathered
quite a genuine tone.

Sid flew down-stairs and said:

"Oh, Aunt Polly, come! Tom's dying!"

"Dying!"

"Yes'm. Don't wait -- come quick!"

"Rubbage! I don't believe it!"

But she fled up-stairs, nevertheless, with Sid and
Mary at her heels. And her face grew white, too,
and her lip trembled. When she reached the bed-
side she gasped out:

"You, Tom! Tom, what's the matter with you?"

"Oh, auntie, I'm --"

"What's the matter with you -- what is the matter
with you, child?"

"Oh, auntie, my sore toe's mortified!"

The old lady sank down into a chair and laughed
a little, then cried a little, then did both together.
This restored her and she said:

"Tom, what a turn you did give me. Now you
shut up that nonsense and climb out of this."

The groans ceased and the pain vanished from the
toe. The boy felt a little foolish, and he said:

"Aunt Polly, it SEEMED mortified, and it hurt so I
never minded my tooth at all."

"Your tooth, indeed! What's the matter with your
tooth?"

"One of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful."

"There, there, now, don't begin that groaning again.
Open your mouth. Well -- your tooth IS loose, but
you're not going to die about that. Mary, get me a
silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen."

Tom said:

"Oh, please, auntie, don't pull it out. It don't
hurt any more. I wish I may never stir if it does.
Please don't, auntie. I don't want to stay home
from school."

"Oh, you don't, don't you? So all this row was
because you thought you'd get to stay home from
school and go a-fishing? Tom, Tom, I love you
so, and you seem to try every way you can to break
my old heart with your outrageousness." By this
time the dental instruments were ready. The old
lady made one end of the silk thread fast to Tom's
tooth with a loop and tied the other to the bedpost.
Then she seized the chunk of fire and suddenly thrust
it almost into the boy's face. The tooth hung dangling
by the bedpost, now.

But all trials bring their compensations. As Tom
wended to school after breakfast, he was the envy of
every boy he met because the gap in his upper row
of teeth enabled him to expectorate in a new and
admirable way. He gathered quite a following of
lads interested in the exhibition; and one that had
cut his finger and had been a centre of fascination
and homage up to this time, now found himself sud-
denly without an adherent, and shorn of his glory.
His heart was heavy, and he said with a disdain which
he did not feel that it wasn't anything to spit like
Tom Sawyer; but another boy said, "Sour grapes!"
and he wandered away a dismantled hero.

Shortly Tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the
village, Huckleberry Finn, son of the town drunkard.
Huckleberry was cordially hated and dreaded by all
the mothers of the town, because he was idle and law-
less and vulgar and bad -- and because all their children
admired him so, and delighted in his forbidden society,
and wished they dared to be like him. Tom was like
the rest of the respectable boys, in that he envied
Huckleberry his gaudy outcast condition, and was un-
der strict orders not to play with him. So he played
with him every time he got a chance. Huckleberry
was always dressed in the cast-off clothes of full-grown
men, and they were in perennial bloom and fluttering
with rags. His hat was a vast ruin with a wide crescent
lopped out of its brim; his coat, when he wore one,
hung nearly to his heels and had the rearward buttons
far down the back; but one suspender supported his
trousers; the seat of the trousers bagged low and con-
tained nothing, the fringed legs dragged in the dirt
when not rolled up.

Huckleberry came and went, at his own free will.
He slept on doorsteps in fine weather and in empty
hogsheads in wet; he did not have to go to school or
to church, or call any being master or obey anybody;
he could go fishing or swimming when and where he
chose, and stay as long as it suited him; nobody forbade
him to fight; he could sit up as late as he pleased; he
was always the first boy that went barefoot in the spring
and the last to resume leather in the fall; he never had
to wash, nor put on clean clothes; he could swear
wonderfully. In a word, everything that goes to make
life precious that boy had. So thought every harassed,
hampered, respectable boy in St. Petersburg.

Tom hailed the romantic outcast:

"Hello, Huckleberry!"

"Hello yourself, and see how you like it."

"What's that you got?"

"Dead cat."

"Lemme see him, Huck. My, he's pretty stiff.
Where'd you get him ?"

"Bought him off'n a boy."

"What did you give?"

"I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the
slaughter-house."

"Where'd you get the blue ticket?"

"Bought it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a
hoop-stick."

"Say -- what is dead cats good for, Huck?"

"Good for? Cure warts with."

"No! Is that so? I know something that's better."

"I bet you don't. What is it?"

"Why, spunk-water."

"Spunk-water! I wouldn't give a dern for spunk-
water."

"You wouldn't, wouldn't you? D'you ever try it?"

"No, I hain't. But Bob Tanner did."

"Who told you so!"

"Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny
Baker, and Johnny told Jim Hollis, and Jim told
Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and the nigger
told me. There now!"

"Well, what of it? They'll all lie. Leastways all
but the nigger. I don't know HIM. But I never see a
nigger that WOULDN'T lie. Shucks! Now you tell me
how Bob Tanner done it, Huck."

"Why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten
stump where the rain-water was."

"In the daytime?"

"Certainly."

"With his face to the stump?"

"Yes. Least I reckon so."

"Did he say anything?"

"I don't reckon he did. I don't know."

"Aha! Talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-
water such a blame fool way as that! Why, that ain't
a-going to do any good. You got to go all by yourself,
to the middle of the woods, where you know there's
a spunk-water stump, and just as it's midnight you back
up against the stump and jam your hand in and say:

  'Barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal shorts,
   Spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller these warts,'

and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your
eyes shut, and then turn around three times and walk
home without speaking to anybody. Because if you
speak the charm's busted."

"Well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain't
the way Bob Tanner done."

"No, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the
wartiest boy in this town; and he wouldn't have a
wart on him if he'd knowed how to work spunk-
water. I've took off thousands of warts off of my
hands that way, Huck. I play with frogs so much
that I've always got considerable many warts. Some-
times I take 'em off with a bean."

"Yes, bean's good. I've done that."

"Have you? What's your way?"

"You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so
as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on
one piece of the bean and take and dig a hole and
bury it 'bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark
of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean.
You see that piece that's got the blood on it will keep
drawing and drawing, trying to fetch the other piece to
it, and so that helps the blood to draw the wart, and
pretty soon off she comes."

"Yes, that's it, Huck -- that's it; though when you're
burying it if you say 'Down bean; off wart; come no
more to bother me!' it's better. That's the way Joe
Harper does, and he's been nearly to Coonville and
most everywheres. But say -- how do you cure 'em
with dead cats?"

"Why, you take your cat and go and get in the grave-
yard 'long about midnight when somebody that was
wicked has been buried; and when it's midnight a devil
will come, or maybe two or three, but you can't see
'em, you can only hear something like the wind, or
maybe hear 'em talk; and when they're taking that feller
away, you heave your cat after 'em and say, 'Devil
follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, I'm
done with ye!' That'll fetch ANY wart."

"Sounds right. D'you ever try it, Huck?"

"No, but old Mother Hopkins told me."

"Well, I reckon it's so, then. Becuz they say she's
a witch."

"Say! Why, Tom, I KNOW she is. She witched
pap. Pap says so his own self. He come along one
day, and he see she was a-witching him, so he took up
a rock, and if she hadn't dodged, he'd a got her. Well,
that very night he rolled off'n a shed wher' he was a
layin drunk, and broke his arm."

"Why, that's awful. How did he know she was
a-witching him?"

"Lord, pap can tell, easy. Pap says when they
keep looking at you right stiddy, they're a-witching
you. Specially if they mumble. Becuz when they
mumble they're saying the Lord's Prayer backards."

"Say, Hucky, when you going to try the cat?"

"To-night. I reckon they'll come after old Hoss
Williams to-night."

"But they buried him Saturday. Didn't they get
him Saturday night?"

"Why, how you talk! How could their charms
work till midnight? -- and THEN it's Sunday. Dev-
ils don't slosh around much of a Sunday, I don't
reckon."

"I never thought of that. That's so. Lemme go
with you?"

"Of course -- if you ain't afeard."

"Afeard! 'Tain't likely. Will you meow?"

"Yes -- and you meow back, if you get a chance.
Last time, you kep' me a-meowing around till old
Hays went to throwing rocks at me and says 'Dern
that cat!' and so I hove a brick through his window
-- but don't you tell."

"I won't. I couldn't meow that night, becuz auntie
was watching me, but I'll meow this time. Say --
what's that?"

"Nothing but a tick."

"Where'd you get him?"

"Out in the woods."

"What'll you take for him?"

"I don't know. I don't want to sell him."

"All right. It's a mighty small tick, anyway."

"Oh, anybody can run a tick down that don't belong
to them. I'm satisfied with it. It's a good enough
tick for me."

"Sho, there's ticks a plenty. I could have a thou-
sand of 'em if I wanted to."

"Well, why don't you? Becuz you know mighty
well you can't. This is a pretty early tick, I reckon.
It's the first one I've seen this year."

"Say, Huck -- I'll give you my tooth for him."

"Less see it."

Tom got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled
it. Huckleberry viewed it wistfully. The tempta-
tion was very strong. At last he said:

"Is it genuwyne?"

Tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.

"Well, all right," said Huckleberry, "it's a trade."

Tom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box
that had lately been the pinchbug's prison, and the
boys separated, each feeling wealthier than before.

When Tom reached the little isolated frame school-
house, he strode in briskly, with the manner of one
who had come with all honest speed. He hung his
hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with busi-
ness-like alacrity. The master, throned on high in his
great splint-bottom arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the
drowsy hum of study. The interruption roused him.

"Thomas Sawyer!"

Tom knew that when his name was pronounced in
full, it meant trouble.

"Sir!"

"Come up here. Now, sir, why are you late again,
as usual?"

Tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he
saw two long tails of yellow hair hanging down a back
that he recognized by the electric sympathy of love;
and by that form was THE ONLY VACANT PLACE on the
girls' side of the school-house. He instantly said:

"I STOPPED TO TALK WITH HUCKLEBERRY FINN!"

The master's pulse stood still, and he stared help-
lessly. The buzz of study ceased. The pupils won-
dered if this foolhardy boy had lost his mind. The
master said:

"You -- you did what?"

"Stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn."

There was no mistaking the words.

"Thomas Sawyer, this is the most astounding con-
fession I have ever listened to. No mere ferule will
answer for this offence. Take off your jacket."

The master's arm performed until it was tired and
the stock of switches notably diminished. Then the
order followed:

"Now, sir, go and sit with the girls! And let this
be a warning to you."

The titter that rippled around the room appeared
to abash the boy, but in reality that result was caused
rather more by his worshipful awe of his unknown
idol and the dread pleasure that lay in his high good
fortune. He sat down upon the end of the pine bench
and the girl hitched herself away from him with a toss
of her head. Nudges and winks and whispers traversed
the room, but Tom sat still, with his arms upon the
long, low desk before him, and seemed to study his book.

By and by attention ceased from him, and the ac-
customed school murmur rose upon the dull air once
more. Presently the boy began to steal furtive glances
at the girl. She observed it, "made a mouth" at him
and gave him the back of her head for the space of a
minute. When she cautiously faced around again,
a peach lay before her. She thrust it away. Tom
gently put it back. She thrust it away again, but with
less animosity. Tom patiently returned it to its place.
Then she let it remain. Tom scrawled on his slate,
"Please take it -- I got more." The girl glanced at the
words, but made no sign. Now the boy began to draw
something on the slate, hiding his work with his left
hand. For a time the girl refused to notice; but her
human curiosity presently began to manifest itself by
hardly perceptible signs. The boy worked on, ap-
parently unconscious. The girl made a sort of non-
committal attempt to see, but the boy did not betray
that he was aware of it. At last she gave in and hesi-
tatingly whispered:

"Let me see it."

Tom partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a
house with two gable ends to it and a corkscrew of
smoke issuing from the chimney. Then the girl's
interest began to fasten itself upon the work and she
forgot everything else. When it was finished, she
gazed a moment, then whispered:

"It's nice -- make a man."

The artist erected a man in the front yard, that
resembled a derrick. He could have stepped over
the house; but the girl was not hypercritical; she was
satisfied with the monster, and whispered:

"It's a beautiful man -- now make me coming
along."

Tom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and straw
limbs to it and armed the spreading fingers with a
portentous fan. The girl said:

"It's ever so nice -- I wish I could draw."

"It's easy," whispered Tom, "I'll learn you."

"Oh, will you? When?"

"At noon. Do you go home to dinner?"

"I'll stay if you will."

"Good -- that's a whack. What's your name?"

"Becky Thatcher. What's yours? Oh, I know.
It's Thomas Sawyer."

"That's the name they lick me by. I'm Tom when
I'm good. You call me Tom, will you?"

"Yes."

Now Tom began to scrawl something on the slate,
hiding the words from the girl. But she was not
backward this time. She begged to see. Tom said:

"Oh, it ain't anything."

"Yes it is."

"No it ain't. You don't want to see."

"Yes I do, indeed I do. Please let me."

"You'll tell."

"No I won't -- deed and deed and double deed
won't."

"You won't tell anybody at all? Ever, as long as
you live?"

"No, I won't ever tell ANYbody. Now let me."

"Oh, YOU don't want to see!"

"Now that you treat me so, I WILL see." And she
put her small hand upon his and a little scuffle ensued,
Tom pretending to resist in earnest but letting his hand
slip by degrees till these words were revealed: "I LOVE
YOU."

"Oh, you bad thing!" And she hit his hand a
smart rap, but reddened and looked pleased, never-
theless.

Just at this juncture the boy felt a slow, fateful
grip closing on his ear, and a steady lifting impulse.
In that vise he was borne across the house and de-
posited in his own seat, under a peppering fire of
giggles from the whole school. Then the master
stood over him during a few awful moments, and
finally moved away to his throne without saying a
word. But although Tom's ear tingled, his heart
was jubilant.

As the school quieted down Tom made an honest
effort to study, but the turmoil within him was too
great. In turn he took his place in the reading class
and made a botch of it; then in the geography class
and turned lakes into mountains, mountains into rivers,
and rivers into continents, till chaos was come again;
then in the spelling class, and got "turned down," by
a succession of mere baby words, till he brought up at
the foot and yielded up the pewter medal which he had
worn with ostentation for months.


CHAPTER VII

THE harder Tom tried to fasten his mind
on his book, the more his ideas wandered.
So at last, with a sigh and a yawn, he gave
it up. It seemed to him that the noon
recess would never come. The air was
utterly dead. There was not a breath
stirring. It was the sleepiest of sleepy days. The
drowsing murmur of the five and twenty studying
scholars soothed the soul like the spell that is in the
murmur of bees. Away off in the flaming sunshine,
Cardiff Hill lifted its soft green sides through a shim-
mering veil of heat, tinted with the purple of distance;
a few birds floated on lazy wing high in the air; no other
living thing was visible but some cows, and they were
asleep. Tom's heart ached to be free, or else to have
something of interest to do to pass the dreary time.
His hand wandered into his pocket and his face lit up
with a glow of gratitude that was prayer, though he did
not know it. Then furtively the percussion-cap box
came out. He released the tick and put him on the
long flat desk. The creature probably glowed with a
gratitude that amounted to prayer, too, at this moment,
but it was premature: for when he started thankfully
to travel off, Tom turned him aside with a pin and made
him take a new direction.

Tom's bosom friend sat next him, suffering just
as Tom had been, and now he was deeply and grate-
fully interested in this entertainment in an instant.
This bosom friend was Joe Harper. The two boys
were sworn friends all the week, and embattled enemies
on Saturdays. Joe took a pin out of his lapel and
began to assist in exercising the prisoner. The sport
grew in interest momently. Soon Tom said that they
were interfering with each other, and neither getting
the fullest benefit of the tick. So he put Joe's slate on
the desk and drew a line down the middle of it from top
to bottom.

"Now," said he, "as long as he is on your side you
can stir him up and I'll let him alone; but if you let him
get away and get on my side, you're to leave him alone
as long as I can keep him from crossing over."

"All right, go ahead; start him up."

The tick escaped from Tom, presently, and crossed
the equator. Joe harassed him awhile, and then he
got away and crossed back again. This change of
base occurred often. While one boy was worrying the
tick with absorbing interest, the other would look on
with interest as strong, the two heads bowed together
over the slate, and the two souls dead to all things else.
At last luck seemed to settle and abide with Joe. The
tick tried this, that, and the other course, and got as
excited and as anxious as the boys themselves, but time
and again just as he would have victory in his very
grasp, so to speak, and Tom's fingers would be twitching
to begin, Joe's pin would deftly head him off, and keep
possession. At last Tom could stand it no longer.
The temptation was too strong. So he reached out
and lent a hand with his pin. Joe was angry in a
moment. Said he:

"Tom, you let him alone."

"I only just want to stir him up a little, Joe."

"No, sir, it ain't fair; you just let him alone."

"Blame it, I ain't going to stir him much."

"Let him alone, I tell you."

"I won't!"

"You shall -- he's on my side of the line."

"Look here, Joe Harper, whose is that tick?"

"I don't care whose tick he is -- he's on my side of
the line, and you sha'n't touch him."

"Well, I'll just bet I will, though. He's my tick
and I'll do what I blame please with him, or die!"

A tremendous whack came down on Tom's shoul-
ders, and its duplicate on Joe's; and for the space
of two minutes the dust continued to fly from the
two jackets and the whole school to enjoy it. The
boys had been too absorbed to notice the hush that had
stolen upon the school awhile before when the master
came tiptoeing down the room and stood over them.
He had contemplated a good part of the performance
before he contributed his bit of variety to it.

When school broke up at noon, Tom flew to Becky
Thatcher, and whispered in her ear:

"Put on your bonnet and let on you're going home;
and when you get to the corner, give the rest of 'em
the slip, and turn down through the lane and come back.
I'll go the other way and come it over 'em the same
way."

So the one went off with one group of scholars, and
the other with another. In a little while the two met
at the bottom of the lane, and when they reached the
school they had it all to themselves. Then they sat
together, with a slate before them, and Tom gave Becky
the pencil and held her hand in his, guiding it, and so
created another surprising house. When the interest
in art began to wane, the two fell to talking. Tom
was swimming in bliss. He said:

"Do you love rats?"

"No! I hate them!"

"Well, I do, too -- LIVE ones. But I mean dead
ones, to swing round your head with a string."

"No, I don't care for rats much, anyway. What
I like is chewing-gum."

"Oh, I should say so! I wish I had some now."

"Do you? I've got some. I'll let you chew it
awhile, but you must give it back to me."

That was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about,
and dangled their legs against the bench in excess of
contentment.

"Was you ever at a circus?" said Tom.

"Yes, and my pa's going to take me again some
time, if I'm good."

"I been to the circus three or four times -- lots of
times. Church ain't shucks to a circus. There's
things going on at a circus all the time. I'm going
to be a clown in a circus when I grow up."

"Oh, are you! That will be nice. They're so
lovely, all spotted up."

"Yes, that's so. And they get slathers of money
-- most a dollar a day, Ben Rogers says. Say, Becky,
was you ever engaged?"

"What's that?"

"Why, engaged to be married."

"No."

"Would you like to?"

"I reckon so. I don't know. What is it like?"

"Like? Why it ain't like anything. You only
just tell a boy you won't ever have anybody but him,
ever ever ever, and then you kiss and that's all. Any-
body can do it."

"Kiss? What do you kiss for?"

"Why, that, you know, is to -- well, they always
do that."

"Everybody?"

"Why, yes, everybody that's in love with each
other. Do you remember what I wrote on the slate?"

"Ye -- yes."

"What was it?"

"I sha'n't tell you."

"Shall I tell YOU?"

"Ye -- yes -- but some other time."

"No, now."

"No, not now -- to-morrow."

"Oh, no, NOW. Please, Becky -- I'll whisper it,
I'll whisper it ever so easy."

Becky hesitating, Tom took silence for consent,
and passed his arm about her waist and whispered
the tale ever so softly, with his mouth close to her
ear. And then he added:

"Now you whisper it to me -- just the same."

She resisted, for a while, and then said:

"You turn your face away so you can't see, and
then I will. But you mustn't ever tell anybody --
WILL you, Tom? Now you won't, WILL you?"

"No, indeed, indeed I won't. Now, Becky."

He turned his face away. She bent timidly around
till her breath stirred his curls and whispered, "I --
love -- you!"

Then she sprang away and ran around and around
the desks and benches, with Tom after her, and took
refuge in a corner at last, with her little white apron to
her face. Tom clasped her about her neck and pleaded:

"Now, Becky, it's all done -- all over but the kiss.
Don't you be afraid of that -- it ain't anything at all.
Please, Becky." And he tugged at her apron and the
hands.

By and by she gave up, and let her hands drop;
her face, all glowing with the struggle, came up and
submitted. Tom kissed the red lips and said:

"Now it's all done, Becky. And always after this,
you know, you ain't ever to love anybody but me, and
you ain't ever to marry anybody but me, ever never
and forever. Will you?"

"No, I'll never love anybody but you, Tom, and
I'll never marry anybody but you -- and you ain't to
ever marry anybody but me, either."

"Certainly. Of course. That's PART of it. And
always coming to school or when we're going home,
you're to walk with me, when there ain't anybody
looking -- and you choose me and I choose you at
parties, because that's the way you do when you're
engaged."

"It's so nice. I never heard of it before."

"Oh, it's ever so gay! Why, me and Amy
Lawrence --"

The big eyes told Tom his blunder and he stopped,
confused.

"Oh, Tom! Then I ain't the first you've ever
been engaged to!"

The child began to cry. Tom said:

"Oh, don't cry, Becky, I don't care for her any
more."

"Yes, you do, Tom -- you know you do."

Tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she
pushed him away and turned her face to the wall,
and went on crying. Tom tried again, with sooth-
ing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again.
Then his pride was up, and he strode away and went
outside. He stood about, restless and uneasy, for a
while, glancing at the door, every now and then,
hoping she would repent and come to find him. But
she did not. Then he began to feel badly and fear
that he was in the wrong. It was a hard struggle
with him to make new advances, now, but he nerved
himself to it and entered. She was still standing back
there in the corner, sobbing, with her face to the wall.
Tom's heart smote him. He went to her and stood a
moment, not knowing exactly how to proceed. Then
he said hesitatingly:

"Becky, I -- I don't care for anybody but you."

No reply -- but sobs.

"Becky" -- pleadingly. "Becky, won't you say some-
thing?"

More sobs.

Tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from
the top of an andiron, and passed it around her so
that she could see it, and said:

"Please, Becky, won't you take it?"

She struck it to the floor. Then Tom marched
out of the house and over the hills and far away, to
return to school no more that day. Presently Becky
began to suspect. She ran to the door; he was not
in sight; she flew around to the play-yard; he was
not there. Then she called:

"Tom! Come back, Tom!"

She listened intently, but there was no answer.
She had no companions but silence and loneliness.
So she sat down to cry again and upbraid herself;
and by this time the scholars began to gather again,
and she had to hide her griefs and still her broken
heart and take up the cross of a long, dreary, aching
afternoon, with none among the strangers about her
to exchange sorrows with.


CHAPTER VIII

TOM dodged hither and thither through
lanes until he was well out of the track
of returning scholars, and then fell into a
moody jog. He crossed a small "branch"
two or three times, because of a prevailing
juvenile superstition that to cross water
baffled pursuit. Half an hour later he was disappear-
ing behind the Douglas mansion on the summit
of Cardiff Hill, and the school-house was hardly dis-
tinguishable away off in the valley behind him. He
entered a dense wood, picked his pathless way to the
centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a
spreading oak. There was not even a zephyr stirring;
the dead noonday heat had even stilled the songs of
the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken by no
sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a wood-
pecker, and this seemed to render the pervading silence
and sense of loneliness the more profound. The boy's
soul was steeped in melancholy; his feelings were in
happy accord with his surroundings. He sat long with
his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands,
meditating. It seemed to him that life was but a
trouble, at best, and he more than half envied Jimmy
Hodges, so lately released; it must be very peaceful, he
thought, to lie and slumber and dream forever and
ever, with the wind whispering through the trees and
caressing the grass and the flowers over the grave,
and nothing to bother and grieve about, ever any
more. If he only had a clean Sunday-school record
he could be willing to go, and be done with it all.
Now as to this girl. What had he done? Nothing.
He had meant the best in the world, and been treated
like a dog -- like a very dog. She would be sorry some
day -- maybe when it was too late. Ah, if he could only
die TEMPORARILY!

But the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed
into one constrained shape long at a time. Tom
presently began to drift insensibly back into the con-
cerns of this life again. What if he turned his back,
now, and disappeared mysteriously? What if he went
away -- ever so far away, into unknown countries beyond
the seas -- and never came back any more! How
would she feel then! The idea of being a clown
recurred to him now, only to fill him with disgust.
For frivolity and jokes and spotted tights were an
offense, when they intruded themselves upon a spirit
that was exalted into the vague august realm of the
romantic. No, he would be a soldier, and return after
long years, all war-worn and illustrious. No -- better
still, he would join the Indians, and hunt buffaloes
and go on the warpath in the mountain ranges and the
trackless great plains of the Far West, and away in
the future come back a great chief, bristling with
feathers, hideous with paint, and prance into Sunday-
school, some drowsy summer morning, with a blood-
curdling war-whoop, and sear the eyeballs of all his
companions with unappeasable envy. But no, there
was something gaudier even than this. He would be
a pirate! That was it! NOW his future lay plain
before him, and glowing with unimaginable splendor.
How his name would fill the world, and make people
shudder! How gloriously he would go plowing the
dancing seas, in his long, low, black-hulled racer, the
Spirit of the Storm, with his grisly flag flying at
the fore! And at the zenith of his fame, how he would
suddenly appear at the old village and stalk into church,
brown and weather-beaten, in his black velvet doublet
and trunks, his great jack-boots, his crimson sash, his
belt bristling with horse-pistols, his crime-rusted cut-
lass at his side, his slouch hat with waving plumes,
his black flag unfurled, with the skull and crossbones
on it, and hear with swelling ecstasy the whisperings,
"It's Tom Sawyer the Pirate! -- the Black Avenger of
the Spanish Main!"

Yes, it was settled; his career was determined.
He would run away from home and enter upon it.
He would start the very next morning. Therefore
he must now begin to get ready. He would collect
his resources together. He went to a rotten log near
at hand and began to dig under one end of it with his
Barlow knife. He soon struck wood that sounded
hollow. He put his hand there and uttered this in-
cantation impressively:

"What hasn't come here, come! What's here, stay
here!"

Then he scraped away the dirt, and exposed a pine
shingle. He took it up and disclosed a shapely little
treasure-house whose bottom and sides were of shingles.
In it lay a marble. Tom's astonishment was bound-
less! He scratched his head with a perplexed air,
and said:

"Well, that beats anything!"

Then he tossed the marble away pettishly, and
stood cogitating. The truth was, that a superstition
of his had failed, here, which he and all his comrades
had always looked upon as infallible. If you buried
a marble with certain necessary incantations, and
left it alone a fortnight, and then opened the place
with the incantation he had just used, you would find
that all the marbles you had ever lost had gathered
themselves together there, meantime, no matter how
widely they had been separated. But now, this thing
had actually and unquestionably failed. Tom's whole
structure of faith was shaken to its foundations. He
had many a time heard of this thing succeeding but
never of its failing before. It did not occur to him
that he had tried it several times before, himself, but
could never find the hiding-places afterward. He
puzzled over the matter some time, and finally decided
that some witch had interfered and broken the charm.
He thought he would satisfy himself on that point; so
he searched around till he found a small sandy spot
with a little funnel-shaped depression in it. He laid
himself down and put his mouth close to this de-
pression and called --

"Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to
know! Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want
to know!"

The sand began to work, and presently a small
black bug appeared for a second and then darted
under again in a fright.

"He dasn't tell! So it WAS a witch that done it. I
just knowed it."

He well knew the futility of trying to contend against
witches, so he gave up discouraged. But it occurred
to him that he might as well have the marble he had
just thrown away, and therefore he went and made
a patient search for it. But he could not find it.
Now he went back to his treasure-house and carefully
placed himself just as he had been standing when he
tossed the marble away; then he took another marble
from his pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying:

"Brother, go find your brother!"

He watched where it stopped, and went there and
looked. But it must have fallen short or gone too
far; so he tried twice more. The last repetition was
successful. The two marbles lay within a foot of each
other.

Just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly
down the green aisles of the forest. Tom flung off his
jacket and trousers, turned a suspender into a belt,
raked away some brush behind the rotten log, dis-
closing a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin
trumpet, and in a moment had seized these things
and bounded away, barelegged, with fluttering shirt.
He presently halted under a great elm, blew an answer-
ing blast, and then began to tiptoe and look warily out,
this way and that. He said cautiously -- to an imag-
inary company:

"Hold, my merry men! Keep hid till I blow."

Now appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and elab-
orately armed as Tom. Tom called:

"Hold! Who comes here into Sherwood Forest
without my pass?"

"Guy of Guisborne wants no man's pass. Who
art thou that -- that --"

"Dares to hold such language," said Tom, prompt-
ing -- for they talked "by the book," from memory.

"Who art thou that dares to hold such language?"

"I, indeed! I am Robin Hood, as thy caitiff carcase
soon shall know."

"Then art thou indeed that famous outlaw? Right
gladly will I dispute with thee the passes of the merry
wood. Have at thee!"

They took their lath swords, dumped their other
traps on the ground, struck a fencing attitude, foot
to foot, and began a grave, careful combat, "two
up and two down." Presently Tom said:

"Now, if you've got the hang, go it lively!"

So they "went it lively," panting and perspiring
with the work. By and by Tom shouted:

"Fall! fall! Why don't you fall?"

"I sha'n't! Why don't you fall yourself? You're
getting the worst of it."

"Why, that ain't anything. I can't fall; that ain't
the way it is in the book. The book says, 'Then with
one back-handed stroke he slew poor Guy of Guis-
borne.' You're to turn around and let me hit you in
the back."

There was no getting around the authorities, so Joe
turned, received the whack and fell.

"Now," said Joe, getting up, "you got to let me
kill YOU. That's fair."

"Why, I can't do that, it ain't in the book."

"Well, it's blamed mean -- that's all."

"Well, say, Joe, you can be Friar Tuck or Much
the miller's son, and lam me with a quarter-staff; or
I'll be the Sheriff of Nottingham and you be Robin
Hood a little while and kill me."

This was satisfactory, and so these adventures
were carried out. Then Tom became Robin Hood
again, and was allowed by the treacherous nun to
bleed his strength away through his neglected wound.
And at last Joe, representing a whole tribe of weeping
outlaws, dragged him sadly forth, gave his bow into
his feeble hands, and Tom said, "Where this arrow
falls, there bury poor Robin Hood under the green-
wood tree." Then he shot the arrow and fell back
and would have died, but he lit on a nettle and sprang
up too gaily for a corpse.

The boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutre-
ments, and went off grieving that there were no out-
laws any more, and wondering what modern civiliza-
tion could claim to have done to compensate for their
loss. They said they would rather be outlaws a year
in Sherwood Forest than President of the United
States forever.


CHAPTER IX

AT half-past nine, that night, Tom and
Sid were sent to bed, as usual. They
said their prayers, and Sid was soon
asleep. Tom lay awake and waited, in
restless impatience. When it seemed to
him that it must be nearly daylight, he
heard the clock strike ten! This was despair. He
would have tossed and fidgeted, as his nerves demanded,
but he was afraid he might wake Sid. So he lay
still, and stared up into the dark. Everything was
dismally still. By and by, out of the stillness, little,
scarcely preceptible noises began to emphasize them-
selves. The ticking of the clock began to bring it-
self into notice. Old beams began to crack mysteri-
ously. The stairs creaked faintly. Evidently spirits
were abroad. A measured, muffled snore issued
from Aunt Polly's chamber. And now the tiresome
chirping of a cricket that no human ingenuity could
locate, began. Next the ghastly ticking of a death-
watch in the wall at the bed's head made Tom shudder
-- it meant that somebody's days were numbered.
Then the howl of a far-off dog rose on the night air,
and was answered by a fainter howl from a remoter
distance. Tom was in an agony. At last he was
satisfied that time had ceased and eternity begun; he
began to doze, in spite of himself; the clock chimed
eleven, but he did not hear it. And then there came,
mingling with his half-formed dreams, a most mel-
ancholy caterwauling. The raising of a neighboring
window disturbed him. A cry of "Scat! you devil!"
and the crash of an empty bottle against the back of
his aunt's woodshed brought him wide awake, and a
single minute later he was dressed and out of the win-
dow and creeping along the roof of the "ell" on all
fours. He "meow'd" with caution once or twice, as
he went; then jumped to the roof of the woodshed and
thence to the ground. Huckleberry Finn was there,
with his dead cat. The boys moved off and disap-
peared in the gloom. At the end of half an hour they
were wading through the tall grass of the graveyard.

It was a graveyard of the old-fashioned Western
kind. It was on a hill, about a mile and a half from
the village. It had a crazy board fence around it,
which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest
of the time, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and
weeds grew rank over the whole cemetery. All the
old graves were sunken in, there was not a tombstone
on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards stag-
gered over the graves, leaning for support and finding
none. "Sacred to the memory of" So-and-So had been
painted on them once, but it could no longer have been
read, on the most of them, now, even if there had
been light.

A faint wind moaned through the trees, and Tom
feared it might be the spirits of the dead, complain-
ing at being disturbed. The boys talked little, and
only under their breath, for the time and the place
and the pervading solemnity and silence oppressed
their spirits. They found the sharp new heap they
were seeking, and ensconced themselves within the
protection of three great elms that grew in a bunch
within a few feet of the grave.

Then they waited in silence for what seemed a long
time. The hooting of a distant owl was all the sound
that troubled the dead stillness. Tom's reflections
grew oppressive. He must force some talk. So he
said in a whisper:

"Hucky, do you believe the dead people like it for
us to be here?"

Huckleberry whispered:

"I wisht I knowed. It's awful solemn like, AIN'T it?"

"I bet it is."

There was a considerable pause, while the boys
canvassed this matter inwardly. Then Tom whis-
pered:

"Say, Hucky -- do you reckon Hoss Williams hears
us talking?"

"O' course he does. Least his sperrit does."

Tom, after a pause:

"I wish I'd said Mister Williams. But I never
meant any harm. Everybody calls him Hoss."

"A body can't be too partic'lar how they talk 'bout
these-yer dead people, Tom."

This was a damper, and conversation died again.

Presently Tom seized his comrade's arm and said:

"Sh!"

"What is it, Tom?" And the two clung together
with beating hearts.

"Sh! There 'tis again! Didn't you hear it?"

"I --"

"There! Now you hear it."

"Lord, Tom, they're coming! They're coming,
sure. What'll we do?"

"I dono. Think they'll see us?"

"Oh, Tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats.
I wisht I hadn't come."

"Oh, don't be afeard. I don't believe they'll bother
us. We ain't doing any harm. If we keep perfectly
still, maybe they won't notice us at all."

"I'll try to, Tom, but, Lord, I'm all of a shiver."

"Listen!"

The boys bent their heads together and scarcely
breathed. A muffled sound of voices floated up from
the far end of the graveyard.

"Look! See there!" whispered Tom. "What is it?"

"It's devil-fire. Oh, Tom, this is awful."

Some vague figures approached through the gloom,
swinging an old-fashioned tin lantern that freckled
the ground with innumerable little spangles of light.
Presently Huckleberry whispered with a shudder:

"It's the devils sure enough. Three of 'em! Lordy,
Tom, we're goners! Can you pray?"

"I'll try, but don't you be afeard. They ain't going
to hurt us. 'Now I lay me down to sleep, I --'"

"Sh!"

"What is it, Huck?"

"They're HUMANS! One of 'em is, anyway. One
of 'em's old Muff Potter's voice."

"No -- 'tain't so, is it?"

"I bet I know it. Don't you stir nor budge. He
ain't sharp enough to notice us. Drunk, the same as
usual, likely -- blamed old rip!"

"All right, I'll keep still. Now they're stuck.
Can't find it. Here they come again. Now they're
hot. Cold again. Hot again. Red hot! They're
p'inted right, this time. Say, Huck, I know another
o' them voices; it's Injun Joe."

"That's so -- that murderin' half-breed! I'd druther
they was devils a dern sight. What kin they be up
to?"

The whisper died wholly out, now, for the three
men had reached the grave and stood within a few
feet of the boys' hiding-place.

"Here it is," said the third voice; and the owner
of it held the lantern up and revealed the face of young
Doctor Robinson.

Potter and Injun Joe were carrying a handbarrow
with a rope and a couple of shovels on it. They cast
down their load and began to open the grave. The
doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave and came
and sat down with his back against one of the elm trees.
He was so close the boys could have touched him.

"Hurry, men!" he said, in a low voice; "the moon
might come out at any moment."

They growled a response and went on digging.
For some time there was no noise but the grating
sound of the spades discharging their freight of mould
and gravel. It was very monotonous. Finally a spade
struck upon the coffin with a dull woody accent, and
within another minute or two the men had hoisted it
out on the ground. They pried off the lid with their
shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the
ground. The moon drifted from behind the clouds
and exposed the pallid face. The barrow was got ready
and the corpse placed on it, covered with a blanket,
and bound to its place with the rope. Potter took out
a large spring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the
rope and then said:

"Now the cussed thing's ready, Sawbones, and
you'll just out with another five, or here she stays."

"That's the talk!" said Injun Joe.

"Look here, what does this mean?" said the doctor.
"You required your pay in advance, and I've paid
you."

"Yes, and you done more than that," said Injun
Joe, approaching the doctor, who was now standing.
"Five years ago you drove me away from your father's
kitchen one night, when I come to ask for something
to eat, and you said I warn't there for any good; and
when I swore I'd get even with you if it took a hundred
years, your father had me jailed for a vagrant. Did
you think I'd forget? The Injun blood ain't in me for
nothing. And now I've GOT you, and you got to SETTLE,
you know!"

He was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his
face, by this time. The doctor struck out suddenly and
stretched the ruffian on the ground. Potter dropped
his knife, and exclaimed:

"Here, now, don't you hit my pard!" and the next
moment he had grappled with the doctor and the two
were struggling with might and main, trampling the
grass and tearing the ground with their heels. Injun
Joe sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion,
snatched up Potter's knife, and went creeping, catlike
and stooping, round and round about the combatants,
seeking an opportunity. All at once the doctor flung
himself free, seized the heavy headboard of Williams'
grave and felled Potter to the earth with it -- and in the
same instant the half-breed saw his chance and drove
the knife to the hilt in the young man's breast. He
reeled and fell partly upon Potter, flooding him with his
blood, and in the same moment the clouds blotted out the
dreadful spectacle and the two frightened boys went
speeding away in the dark.

Presently, when the moon emerged again, Injun
Joe was standing over the two forms, contemplating
them. The doctor murmured inarticulately, gave a
long gasp or two and was still. The half-breed mut-
tered:

"THAT score is settled -- damn you."

Then he robbed the body. After which he put
the fatal knife in Potter's open right hand, and sat
down on the dismantled coffin. Three -- four -- five
minutes passed, and then Potter began to stir and
moan. His hand closed upon the knife; he raised
it, glanced at it, and let it fall, with a shudder. Then
he sat up, pushing the body from him, and gazed at it,
and then around him, confusedly. His eyes met Joe's.

"Lord, how is this, Joe?" he said.

"It's a dirty business," said Joe, without moving.

"What did you do it for?"

"I! I never done it!"

"Look here! That kind of talk won't wash."

Potter trembled and grew white.

"I thought I'd got sober. I'd no business to drink
to-night. But it's in my head yet -- worse'n when we
started here. I'm all in a muddle; can't recollect any-
thing of it, hardly. Tell me, Joe -- HONEST, now, old
feller -- did I do it? Joe, I never meant to -- 'pon my
soul and honor, I never meant to, Joe. Tell me how
it was, Joe. Oh, it's awful -- and him so young and
promising."

"Why, you two was scuffling, and he fetched you
one with the headboard and you fell flat; and then
up you come, all reeling and staggering like, and
snatched the knife and jammed it into him, just as
he fetched you another awful clip -- and here you've
laid, as dead as a wedge til now."

"Oh, I didn't know what I was a-doing. I wish
I may die this minute if I did. It was all on account
of the whiskey and the excitement, I reckon. I never
used a weepon in my life before, Joe. I've fought, but
never with weepons. They'll all say that. Joe, don't
tell! Say you won't tell, Joe -- that's a good feller. I
always liked you, Joe, and stood up for you, too. Don't
you remember? You WON'T tell, WILL you, Joe?" And
the poor creature dropped on his knees before the stolid
murderer, and clasped his appealing hands.

"No, you've always been fair and square with me,
Muff Potter, and I won't go back on you. There, now,
that's as fair as a man can say."

"Oh, Joe, you're an angel. I'll bless you for this
the longest day I live." And Potter began to cry.

"Come, now, that's enough of that. This ain't any
time for blubbering. You be off yonder way and I'll
go this. Move, now, and don't leave any tracks be-
hind you."

Potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a
run. The half-breed stood looking after him. He
muttered:

"If he's as much stunned with the lick and fud-
dled with the rum as he had the look of being, he
won't think of the knife till he's gone so far he'll be
afraid to come back after it to such a place by him-
self -- chicken-heart!"

Two or three minutes later the murdered man, the
blanketed corpse, the lidless coffin, and the open grave
were under no inspection but the moon's. The still-
ness was complete again, too.


CHAPTER X

THE two boys flew on and on, toward the
village, speechless with horror. They
glanced backward over their shoulders
from time to time, apprehensively, as
if they feared they might be followed.
Every stump that started up in their path
seemed a man and an enemy, and made them catch
their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cot-
tages that lay near the village, the barking of the
aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet.

"If we can only get to the old tannery before we
break down!" whispered Tom, in short catches be-
tween breaths. "I can't stand it much longer."

Huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply,
and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes
and bent to their work to win it. They gained steadily
on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through
the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the
sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses
slowed down, and Tom whispered:

"Huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of this?"

"If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging'll come
of it."

"Do you though?"

"Why, I KNOW it, Tom."

Tom thought a while, then he said:

"Who'll tell? We?"

"What are you talking about? S'pose something
happened and Injun Joe DIDN'T hang? Why, he'd
kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're
a laying here."

"That's just what I was thinking to myself, Huck."

"If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he's fool
enough. He's generally drunk enough."

Tom said nothing -- went on thinking. Presently
he whispered:

"Huck, Muff Potter don't know it. How can he
tell?"

"What's the reason he don't know it?"

"Because he'd just got that whack when Injun
Joe done it. D'you reckon he could see anything?
D'you reckon he knowed anything?"

"By hokey, that's so, Tom!"

"And besides, look-a-here -- maybe that whack done
for HIM!"

"No, 'taint likely, Tom. He had liquor in him;
I could see that; and besides, he always has. Well,
when pap's full, you might take and belt him over
the head with a church and you couldn't phase him.
He says so, his own self. So it's the same with Muff
Potter, of course. But if a man was dead sober,
I reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; I
dono."

After another reflective silence, Tom said:

"Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?"

"Tom, we GOT to keep mum. You know that.
That Injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownd-
ing us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout
this and they didn't hang him. Now, look-a-here,
Tom, less take and swear to one another -- that's what
we got to do -- swear to keep mum."

"I'm agreed. It's the best thing. Would you
just hold hands and swear that we --"

"Oh no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good
enough for little rubbishy common things -- specially
with gals, cuz THEY go back on you anyway, and blab
if they get in a huff -- but there orter be writing 'bout
a big thing like this. And blood."

Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was
deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circum-
stances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it.
He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moon-
light, took a little fragment of "red keel" out of his
pocket, got the moon on his work, and painfully scrawl-
ed these lines, emphasizing each slow down-stroke by
clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up
the pressure on the up-strokes. [See next page.]

   "Huck Finn and
    Tom Sawyer swears
    they will keep mum
    about This and They
    wish They may Drop
    down dead in Their
    Tracks if They ever
    Tell and Rot.

Huckleberry was filled with admiration of Tom's
facility in writing, and the sublimity of his language.
He at once took a pin from his lapel and was going
to prick his flesh, but Tom said:

"Hold on! Don't do that. A pin's brass. It
might have verdigrease on it."

"What's verdigrease?"

"It's p'ison. That's what it is. You just swaller
some of it once -- you'll see."

So Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles,
and each boy pricked the ball of his thumb and squeezed
out a drop of blood. In time, after many squeezes,
Tom managed to sign his initials, using the ball of his
little finger for a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry
how to make an H and an F, and the oath was com-
plete. They buried the shingle close to the wall, with
some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and the
fetters that bound their tongues were considered to be
locked and the key thrown away.

A figure crept stealthily through a break in the
other end of the ruined building, now, but they did
not notice it.

"Tom," whispered Huckleberry, "does this keep
us from EVER telling -- ALWAYS?"

"Of course it does. It don't make any difference
WHAT happens, we got to keep mum. We'd drop
down dead -- don't YOU know that?"

"Yes, I reckon that's so."

They continued to whisper for some little time.
Presently a dog set up a long, lugubrious howl just
outside -- within ten feet of them. The boys clasped
each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.

"Which of us does he mean?" gasped Huckle-
berry.

"I dono -- peep through the crack. Quick!"

"No, YOU, Tom!"

"I can't -- I can't DO it, Huck!"

"Please, Tom. There 'tis again!"

"Oh, lordy, I'm thankful!" whispered Tom. "I
know his voice. It's Bull Harbison." *

[* If Mr. Harbison owned a slave named Bull, Tom
would have spoken of him as "Harbison's Bull," but
a son or a dog of that name was "Bull Harbison."]

"Oh, that's good -- I tell you, Tom, I was most
scared to death; I'd a bet anything it was a STRAY dog."

The dog howled again. The boys' hearts sank
once more.

"Oh, my! that ain't no Bull Harbison!" whispered
Huckleberry. "DO, Tom!"

Tom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye
to the crack. His whisper was hardly audible when
he said:

"Oh, Huck, IT S A STRAY DOG!"

"Quick, Tom, quick! Who does he mean?"

"Huck, he must mean us both -- we're right to-
gether."

"Oh, Tom, I reckon we're goners. I reckon there
ain't no mistake 'bout where I'LL go to. I been so
wicked."

"Dad fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and
doing everything a feller's told NOT to do. I might a
been good, like Sid, if I'd a tried -- but no, I wouldn't,
of course. But if ever I get off this time, I lay I'll just
WALLER in Sunday-schools!" And Tom began to snuffle
a little.

"YOU bad!" and Huckleberry began to snuffle too.
"Consound it, Tom Sawyer, you're just old pie, 'long-
side o' what I am. Oh, LORDY, lordy, lordy, I wisht I
only had half your chance."

Tom choked off and whispered:

"Look, Hucky, look! He's got his BACK to us!"

Hucky looked, with joy in his heart.

"Well, he has, by jingoes! Did he before?"

"Yes, he did. But I, like a fool, never thought.
Oh, this is bully, you know. NOW who can he mean?"

The howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.

"Sh! What's that?" he whispered.

"Sounds like -- like hogs grunting. No -- it's some-
body snoring, Tom."

"That IS it! Where 'bouts is it, Huck?"

"I bleeve it's down at 'tother end. Sounds so,
anyway. Pap used to sleep there, sometimes, 'long
with the hogs, but laws bless you, he just lifts things
when HE snores. Besides, I reckon he ain't ever com-
ing back to this town any more."

The spirit of adventure rose in the boys' souls once
more.

"Hucky, do you das't to go if I lead?"

"I don't like to, much. Tom, s'pose it's Injun Joe!"

Tom quailed. But presently the temptation rose
up strong again and the boys agreed to try, with the
understanding that they would take to their heels if
the snoring stopped. So they went tiptoeing stealth-
ily down, the one behind the other. When they had
got to within five steps of the snorer, Tom stepped on
a stick, and it broke with a sharp snap. The man
moaned, writhed a little, and his face came into the
moonlight. It was Muff Potter. The boys' hearts
had stood still, and their hopes too, when the man
moved, but their fears passed away now. They tip-
toed out, through the broken weather-boarding, and
stopped at a little distance to exchange a parting word.
That long, lugubrious howl rose on the night air again!
They turned and saw the strange dog standing within
a few feet of where Potter was lying, and FACING Potter,
with his nose pointing heavenward.

"Oh, geeminy, it's HIM!" exclaimed both boys, in a
breath.

"Say, Tom -- they say a stray dog come howling
around Johnny Miller's house, 'bout midnight, as
much as two weeks ago; and a whippoorwill come
in and lit on the banisters and sung, the very same
evening; and there ain't anybody dead there yet."

"Well, I know that. And suppose there ain't.
Didn't Gracie Miller fall in the kitchen fire and burn
herself terrible the very next Saturday?"

"Yes, but she ain't DEAD. And what's more, she's
getting better, too."

"All right, you wait and see. She's a goner, just
as dead sure as Muff Potter's a goner. That's what
the niggers say, and they know all about these kind
of things, Huck."

Then they separated, cogitating. When Tom crept
in at his bedroom window the night was almost spent.
He undressed with excessive caution, and fell asleep
congratulating himself that nobody knew of his esca-
pade. He was not aware that the gently-snoring Sid
was awake, and had been so for an hour.

When Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone.
There was a late look in the light, a late sense in the
atmosphere. He was startled. Why had he not been
called -- persecuted till he was up, as usual? The
thought filled him with bodings. Within five minutes
he was dressed and down-stairs, feeling sore and
drowsy. The family were still at table, but they had
finished breakfast. There was no voice of rebuke;
but there were averted eyes; there was a silence and an
air of solemnity that struck a chill to the culprit's heart.
He sat down and tried to seem gay, but it was up-hill
work; it roused no smile, no response, and he lapsed
into silence and let his heart sink down to the depths.

After breakfast his aunt took him aside, and Tom
almost brightened in the hope that he was going to
be flogged; but it was not so. His aunt wept over
him and asked him how he could go and break her
old heart so; and finally told him to go on, and ruin
himself and bring her gray hairs with sorrow to the
grave, for it was no use for her to try any more. This
was worse than a thousand whippings, and Tom's
heart was sorer now than his body. He cried, he
pleaded for forgiveness, promised to reform over and
over again, and then received his dismissal, feeling that
he had won but an imperfect forgiveness and established
but a feeble confidence.

He left the presence too miserable to even feel re-
vengeful toward Sid; and so the latter's prompt retreat
through the back gate was unnecessary. He moped
to school gloomy and sad, and took his flogging, along
with Joe Harper, for playing hookey the day before,
with the air of one whose heart was busy with heavier
woes and wholly dead to trifles. Then he betook him-
self to his seat, rested his elbows on his desk and his
jaws in his hands, and stared at the wall with the stony
stare of suffering that has reached the limit and can
no further go. His elbow was pressing against some
hard substance. After a long time he slowly and
sadly changed his position, and took up this object
with a sigh. It was in a paper. He unrolled it. A
long, lingering, colossal sigh followed, and his heart
broke. It was his brass andiron knob!

This final feather broke the camel's back.


CHAPTER XI

CLOSE upon the hour of noon the whole
village was suddenly electrified with the
ghastly news. No need of the as yet un-
dreamed-of telegraph; the tale flew from
man to man, from group to group, from
house to house, with little less than tele-
graphic speed. Of course the schoolmaster gave holi-
day for that afternoon; the town would have thought
strangely of him if he had not.

A gory knife had been found close to the murdered
man, and it had been recognized by somebody as be-
longing to Muff Potter -- so the story ran. And it was
said that a belated citizen had come upon Potter wash-
ing himself in the "branch" about one or two o'clock
in the morning, and that Potter had at once sneaked
off -- suspicious circumstances, especially the washing
which was not a habit with Potter. It was also said
that the town had been ransacked for this "murderer"
(the public are not slow in the matter of sifting evidence
and arriving at a verdict), but that he could not be
found. Horsemen had departed down all the roads
in every direction, and the Sheriff "was confident"
that he would be captured before night.

All the town was drifting toward the graveyard.
Tom's heartbreak vanished and he joined the pro-
cession, not because he would not a thousand times
rather go anywhere else, but because an awful, un-
accountable fascination drew him on. Arrived at the
dreadful place, he wormed his small body through
the crowd and saw the dismal spectacle. It seemed
to him an age since he was there before. Somebody
pinched his arm. He turned, and his eyes met Huckle-
berry's. Then both looked elsewhere at once, and
wondered if anybody had noticed anything in their
mutual glance. But everybody was talking, and intent
upon the grisly spectacle before them.

"Poor fellow!" "Poor young fellow!" "This ought
to be a lesson to grave robbers!" "Muff Potter'll hang
for this if they catch him!" This was the drift of re-
mark; and the minister said, "It was a judgment; His
hand is here."

Now Tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye
fell upon the stolid face of Injun Joe. At this moment
the crowd began to sway and struggle, and voices
shouted, "It's him! it's him! he's coming himself!"

"Who? Who?" from twenty voices.

"Muff Potter!"

"Hallo, he's stopped! -- Look out, he's turning!
Don't let him get away!"

People in the branches of the trees over Tom's head
said he wasn't trying to get away -- he only looked
doubtful and perplexed.

"Infernal impudence!" said a bystander; "wanted
to come and take a quiet look at his work, I reckon --
didn't expect any company."

The crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came
through, ostentatiously leading Potter by the arm.
The poor fellow's face was haggard, and his eyes
showed the fear that was upon him. When he stood
before the murdered man, he shook as with a palsy,
and he put his face in his hands and burst into tears.

"I didn't do it, friends," he sobbed; "'pon my word
and honor I never done it."

"Who's accused you?" shouted a voice.

This shot seemed to carry home. Potter lifted his
face and looked around him with a pathetic hope-
lessness in his eyes. He saw Injun Joe, and exclaimed:

"Oh, Injun Joe, you promised me you'd never --"

"Is that your knife?" and it was thrust before him
by the Sheriff.

Potter would have fallen if they had not caught him
and eased him to the ground. Then he said:

"Something told me 't if I didn't come back and
get --" He shuddered; then waved his nerveless hand
with a vanquished gesture and said, "Tell 'em, Joe,
tell 'em -- it ain't any use any more."

Then Huckleberry and Tom stood dumb and star-
ing, and heard the stony-hearted liar reel off his se-
rene statement, they expecting every moment that the
clear sky would deliver God's lightnings upon his head,
and wondering to see how long the stroke was delayed.
And when he had finished and still stood alive and
whole, their wavering impulse to break their oath and
save the poor betrayed prisoner's life faded and vanished
away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself to
Satan and it would be fatal to meddle with the property
of such a power as that.

"Why didn't you leave? What did you want to
come here for?" somebody said.

"I couldn't help it -- I couldn't help it," Potter
moaned. "I wanted to run away, but I couldn't seem
to come anywhere but here." And he fell to sobbing
again.

Injun Joe repeated his statement, just as calmly,
a few minutes afterward on the inquest, under oath;
and the boys, seeing that the lightnings were still
withheld, were confirmed in their belief that Joe had
sold himself to the devil. He was now become, to
them, the most balefully interesting object they had
ever looked upon, and they could not take their fas-
cinated eyes from his face.

They inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when
opportunity should offer, in the hope of getting a glimpse
of his dread master.

Injun Joe helped to raise the body of the murdered
man and put it in a wagon for removal; and it was
whispered through the shuddering crowd that the
wound bled a little! The boys thought that this happy
circumstance would turn suspicion in the right direction;
but they were disappointed, for more than one villager
remarked:

"It was within three feet of Muff Potter when it
done it."

Tom's fearful secret and gnawing conscience dis-
turbed his sleep for as much as a week after this; and
at breakfast one morning Sid said:

"Tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so
much that you keep me awake half the time."

Tom blanched and dropped his eyes.

"It's a bad sign," said Aunt Polly, gravely. "What
you got on your mind, Tom?"

"Nothing. Nothing 't I know of." But the boy's
hand shook so that he spilled his coffee.

"And you do talk such stuff," Sid said. "Last
night you said, 'It's blood, it's blood, that's what it is!'
You said that over and over. And you said, 'Don't
torment me so -- I'll tell!' Tell WHAT? What is it you'll
tell?"

Everything was swimming before Tom. There is
no telling what might have happened, now, but luckily
the concern passed out of Aunt Polly's face and she
came to Tom's relief without knowing it. She said:

"Sho! It's that dreadful murder. I dream about
it most every night myself. Sometimes I dream it's
me that done it."

Mary said she had been affected much the same
way. Sid seemed satisfied. Tom got out of the
presence as quick as he plausibly could, and after that
he complained of toothache for a week, and tied up
his jaws every night. He never knew that Sid lay
nightly watching, and frequently slipped the bandage
free and then leaned on his elbow listening a good while
at a time, and afterward slipped the bandage back to
its place again. Tom's distress of mind wore off
gradually and the toothache grew irksome and was
discarded. If Sid really managed to make anything
out of Tom's disjointed mutterings, he kept it to him-
self.

It seemed to Tom that his schoolmates never would
get done holding inquests on dead cats, and thus
keeping his trouble present to his mind. Sid noticed
that Tom never was coroner at one of these inquiries,
though it had been his habit to take the lead in all
new enterprises; he noticed, too, that Tom never acted
as a witness -- and that was strange; and Sid did not
overlook the fact that Tom even showed a marked
aversion to these inquests, and always avoided them
when he could. Sid marvelled, but said nothing. How-
ever, even inquests went out of vogue at last, and ceased
to torture Tom's conscience.

Every day or two, during this time of sorrow, Tom
watched his opportunity and went to the little grated
jail-window and smuggled such small comforts through
to the "murderer" as he could get hold of. The jail
was a trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at
the edge of the village, and no guards were afforded for
it; indeed, it was seldom occupied. These offerings
greatly helped to ease Tom's conscience.

The villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather
Injun Joe and ride him on a rail, for body-snatching,
but so formidable was his character that nobody could
be found who was willing to take the lead in the matter,
so it was dropped. He had been careful to begin both
of his inquest-statements with the fight, without con-
fessing the grave-robbery that preceded it; therefore
it was deemed wisest not to try the case in the courts
at present.


CHAPTER XII

ONE of the reasons why Tom's mind had
drifted away from its secret troubles was,
that it had found a new and weighty
matter to interest itself about. Becky
Thatcher had stopped coming to school.
Tom had struggled with his pride a few
days, and tried to "whistle her down the wind," but
failed. He began to find himself hanging around her
father's house, nights, and feeling very miserable. She
was ill. What if she should die! There was dis-
traction in the thought. He no longer took an interest
in war, nor even in piracy. The charm of life was
gone; there was nothing but dreariness left. He put
his hoop away, and his bat; there was no joy in them
any more. His aunt was concerned. She began to try
all manner of remedies on him. She was one of those
people who are infatuated with patent medicines and
all new-fangled methods of producing health or mending
it. She was an inveterate experimenter in these things.
When something fresh in this line came out she was in a
fever, right away, to try it; not on herself, for she was
never ailing, but on anybody else that came handy.
She was a subscriber for all the "Health" periodicals
and phrenological frauds; and the solemn ignorance
they were inflated with was breath to her nostrils.
All the "rot" they contained about ventilation, and
how to go to bed, and how to get up, and what to
eat, and what to drink, and how much exercise to
take, and what frame of mind to keep one's self in,
and what sort of clothing to wear, was all gospel to
her, and she never observed that her health-journals
of the current month customarily upset everything
they had recommended the month before. She was
as simple-hearted and honest as the day was long,
and so she was an easy victim. She gathered together
her quack periodicals and her quack medicines, and
thus armed with death, went about on her pale horse,
metaphorically speaking, with "hell following after."
But she never suspected that she was not an angel of
healing and the balm of Gilead in disguise, to the
suffering neighbors.

The water treatment was new, now, and Tom's low
condition was a windfall to her. She had him out at
daylight every morning, stood him up in the wood-
shed and drowned him with a deluge of cold water;
then she scrubbed him down with a towel like a
file, and so brought him to; then she rolled him
up in a wet sheet and put him away under blank-
ets till she sweated his soul clean and "the yel-
low stains of it came through his pores" -- as Tom
said.

Yet notwithstanding all this, the boy grew more
and more melancholy and pale and dejected. She
added hot baths, sitz baths, shower baths, and plunges.
The boy remained as dismal as a hearse. She began
to assist the water with a slim oatmeal diet and blister-
plasters. She calculated his capacity as she would a
jug's, and filled him up every day with quack cure-alls.

Tom had become indifferent to persecution by this
time. This phase filled the old lady's heart with
consternation. This indifference must be broken up
at any cost. Now she heard of Pain-killer for the
first time. She ordered a lot at once. She tasted it
and was filled with gratitude. It was simply fire in a
liquid form. She dropped the water treatment and
everything else, and pinned her faith to Pain-killer.
She gave Tom a teaspoonful and watched with the
deepest anxiety for the result. Her troubles were in-
stantly at rest, her soul at peace again; for the "in-
difference" was broken up. The boy could not have
shown a wilder, heartier interest, if she had built a fire
under him.

Tom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of
life might be romantic enough, in his blighted con-
dition, but it was getting to have too little sentiment
and too much distracting variety about it. So he
thought over various plans for relief, and finally hit
pon that of professing to be fond of Pain-killer. He
asked for it so often that he became a nuisance, and
his aunt ended by telling him to help himself and quit
bothering her. If it had been Sid, she would have had
no misgivings to alloy her delight; but since it was Tom,
she watched the bottle clandestinely. She found that
the medicine did really diminish, but it did not occur
to her that the boy was mending the health of a crack
in the sitting-room floor with it.

One day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack
when his aunt's yellow cat came along, purring, ey-
ing the teaspoon avariciously, and begging for a taste.
Tom said:

"Don't ask for it unless you want it, Peter."

But Peter signified that he did want it.

"You better make sure."

Peter was sure.

"Now you've asked for it, and I'll give it to you,
because there ain't anything mean about me; but
if you find you don't like it, you mustn't blame any-
body but your own self."

Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth
open and poured down the Pain-killer. Peter sprang
a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered a
war-whoop and set off round and round the room,
banging against furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and
making general havoc. Next he rose on his hind
feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment,
with his head over his shoulder and his voice pro-
claiming his unappeasable happiness. Then he went
tearing around the house again spreading chaos and
destruction in his path. Aunt Polly entered in time
to see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a
final mighty hurrah, and sail through the open window,
carrying the rest of the flower-pots with him. The
old lady stood petrified with astonishment, peering
over her glasses; Tom lay on the floor expiring with
laughter.

"Tom, what on earth ails that cat?"

"I don't know, aunt," gasped the boy.

"Why, I never see anything like it. What did make
him act so?"

"Deed I don't know, Aunt Polly; cats always act
so when they're having a good time."

"They do, do they?" There was something in the
tone that made Tom apprehensive.

"Yes'm. That is, I believe they do."

"You DO?"

"Yes'm."

The old lady was bending down, Tom watching,
with interest emphasized by anxiety. Too late he
divined her "drift." The handle of the telltale tea-
spoon was visible under the bed-valance. Aunt Polly
took it, held it up. Tom winced, and dropped his eyes.
Aunt Polly raised him by the usual handle -- his ear --
and cracked his head soundly with her thimble.

"Now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor
dumb beast so, for?"

"I done it out of pity for him -- because he hadn't
any aunt."

"Hadn't any aunt! -- you numskull. What has that
got to do with it?"

"Heaps. Because if he'd had one she'd a burnt
him out herself! She'd a roasted his bowels out of him
'thout any more feeling than if he was a human!"

Aunt Polly felt a sudden pang of remorse. This
was putting the thing in a new light; what was cruelty
to a cat MIGHT be cruelty to a boy, too. She began to
soften; she felt sorry. Her eyes watered a little, and
she put her hand on Tom's head and said gently:

"I was meaning for the best, Tom. And, Tom, it
DID do you good."

Tom looked up in her face with just a perceptible
twinkle peeping through his gravity.

"I know you was meaning for the best, aunty, and
so was I with Peter. It done HIM good, too. I never
see him get around so since --"

"Oh, go 'long with you, Tom, before you aggravate
me again. And you try and see if you can't be a good
boy, for once, and you needn't take any more medicine."

Tom reached school ahead of time. It was noticed
that this strange thing had been occurring every day
latterly. And now, as usual of late, he hung about
the gate of the schoolyard instead of playing with his
comrades. He was sick, he said, and he looked it.
He tried to seem to be looking everywhere but whither
he really was looking -- down the road. Presently
Jeff Thatcher hove in sight, and Tom's face lighted;
he gazed a moment, and then turned sorrowfully away.
When Jeff arrived, Tom accosted him; and "led up"
warily to opportunities for remark about Becky, but
the giddy lad never could see the bait. Tom watched
and watched, hoping whenever a frisking frock came in
sight, and hating the owner of it as soon as he saw she
was not the right one. At last frocks ceased to appear,
and he dropped hopelessly into the dumps; he entered
the empty schoolhouse and sat down to suffer. Then
one more frock passed in at the gate, and Tom's heart
gave a great bound. The next instant he was out,
and "going on" like an Indian; yelling, laughing,
chasing boys, jumping over the fence at risk of life and
limb, throwing handsprings, standing on his head --
doing all the heroic things he could conceive of, and
keeping a furtive eye out, all the while, to see if Becky
Thatcher was noticing. But she seemed to be un-
conscious of it all; she never looked. Could it be
possible that she was not aware that he was there?
He carried his exploits to her immediate vicinity; came
war-whooping around, snatched a boy's cap, hurled it
to the roof of the schoolhouse, broke through a group
of boys, tumbling them in every direction, and fell
sprawling, himself, under Becky's nose, almost upsetting
her -- and she turned, with her nose in the air, and he
heard her say: "Mf! some people think they're mighty
smart -- always showing off!"

Tom's cheeks burned. He gathered himself up and
sneaked off, crushed and crestfallen.


CHAPTER XIII

TOM'S mind was made up now. He was
gloomy and desperate. He was a for-
saken, friendless boy, he said; nobody
loved him; when they found out what they
had driven him to, perhaps they would
be sorry; he had tried to do right and get
along, but they would not let him; since nothing would
do them but to be rid of him, let it be so; and let them
blame HIM for the consequences -- why shouldn't they?
What right had the friendless to complain? Yes, they
had forced him to it at last: he would lead a life of crime.
There was no choice.

By this time he was far down Meadow Lane, and
the bell for school to "take up" tinkled faintly upon his
ear. He sobbed, now, to think he should never, never
hear that old familiar sound any more -- it was very
hard, but it was forced on him; since he was driven out
into the cold world, he must submit -- but he forgave
them. Then the sobs came thick and fast.

Just at this point he met his soul's sworn comrade,
Joe Harper -- hard-eyed, and with evidently a great
and dismal purpose in his heart. Plainly here were
"two souls with but a single thought." Tom, wiping
his eyes with his sleeve, began to blubber out something
about a resolution to escape from hard usage and lack
of sympathy at home by roaming abroad into the great
world never to return; and ended by hoping that Joe
would not forget him.

But it transpired that this was a request which Joe
had just been going to make of Tom, and had come
to hunt him up for that purpose. His mother had
whipped him for drinking some cream which he had
never tasted and knew nothing about; it was plain
that she was tired of him and wished him to go; if
she felt that way, there was nothing for him to do but
succumb; he hoped she would be happy, and never
regret having driven her poor boy out into the unfeeling
world to suffer and die.

As the two boys walked sorrowing along, they
made a new compact to stand by each other and be
brothers and never separate till death relieved them
of their troubles. Then they began to lay their plans.
Joe was for being a hermit, and living on crusts in a
remote cave, and dying, some time, of cold and want
and grief; but after listening to Tom, he conceded that
there were some conspicuous advantages about a life
of crime, and so he consented to be a pirate.

Three miles below St. Petersburg, at a point where
the Mississippi River was a trifle over a mile wide,
there was a long, narrow, wooded island, with a shallow
bar at the head of it, and this offered well as a ren-
dezvous. It was not inhabited; it lay far over toward
the further shore, abreast a dense and almost wholly
unpeopled forest. So Jackson's Island was chosen.
Who were to be the subjects of their piracies was a
matter that did not occur to them. Then they hunted
up Huckleberry Finn, and he joined them promptly,
for all careers were one to him; he was indifferent.
They presently separated to meet at a lonely spot on
the river-bank two miles above the village at the favorite
hour -- which was midnight. There was a small log
raft there which they meant to capture. Each would
bring hooks and lines, and such provision as he could
steal in the most dark and mysterious way -- as became
outlaws. And before the afternoon was done, they
had all managed to enjoy the sweet glory of spreading
the fact that pretty soon the town would "hear some-
thing." All who got this vague hint were cautioned to
"be mum and wait."

About midnight Tom arrived with a boiled ham
and a few trifles, and stopped in a dense undergrowth
on a small bluff overlooking the meeting-place. It
was starlight, and very still. The mighty river lay
like an ocean at rest. Tom listened a moment, but no
sound disturbed the quiet. Then he gave a low,
distinct whistle. It was answered from under the
bluff. Tom whistled twice more; these signals were
answered in the same way. Then a guarded voice
said:

"Who goes there?"

"Tom Sawyer, the Black Avenger of the Spanish
Main. Name your names."

"Huck Finn the Red-Handed, and Joe Harper the
Terror of the Seas." Tom had furnished these titles,
from his favorite literature.

"'Tis well. Give the countersign."

Two hoarse whispers delivered the same awful word
simultaneously to the brooding night:

"BLOOD!"

Then Tom tumbled his ham over the bluff and let
himself down after it, tearing both skin and clothes
to some extent in the effort. There was an easy, com-
fortable path along the shore under the bluff, but it
lacked the advantages of difficulty and danger so val-
ued by a pirate.

The Terror of the Seas had brought a side of bacon,
and had about worn himself out with getting it there.
Finn the Red-Handed had stolen a skillet and a quan-
tity of half-cured leaf tobacco, and had also brought a
few corn-cobs to make pipes with. But none of the
pirates smoked or "chewed" but himself. The Black
Avenger of the Spanish Main said it would never do to
start without some fire. That was a wise thought;
matches were hardly known there in that day. They
saw a fire smouldering upon a great raft a hundred
yards above, and they went stealthily thither and helped
themselves to a chunk. They made an imposing ad-
venture of it, saying, "Hist!" every now and then, and
suddenly halting with finger on lip; moving with hands
on imaginary dagger-hilts; and giving orders in dismal
whispers that if "the foe" stirred, to "let him have it
to the hilt," because "dead men tell no tales." They
knew well enough that the raftsmen were all down at
the village laying in stores or having a spree, but still
that was no excuse for their conducting this thing in an
unpiratical way.

They shoved off, presently, Tom in command, Huck
at the after oar and Joe at the forward. Tom stood
amidships, gloomy-browed, and with folded arms, and
gave his orders in a low, stern whisper:

"Luff, and bring her to the wind!"

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"Steady, steady-y-y-y!"

"Steady it is, sir!"

"Let her go off a point!"

"Point it is, sir!"

As the boys steadily and monotonously drove the
raft toward mid-stream it was no doubt under-
stood that these orders were given only for "style,"
and were not intended to mean anything in par-
ticular.

"What sail's she carrying?"

"Courses, tops'ls, and flying-jib, sir."

"Send the r'yals up! Lay out aloft, there, half a
dozen of ye -- foretopmaststuns'l! Lively, now!"

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"Shake out that maintogalans'l! Sheets and braces!
NOW my hearties!"

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"Hellum-a-lee -- hard a port! Stand by to meet
her when she comes! Port, port! NOW, men! With
a will! Stead-y-y-y!"

"Steady it is, sir!"

The raft drew beyond the middle of the river; the
boys pointed her head right, and then lay on their
oars. The river was not high, so there was not more
than a two or three mile current. Hardly a word was
said during the next three-quarters of an hour. Now
the raft was passing before the distant town. Two or
three glimmering lights showed where it lay, peacefully
sleeping, beyond the vague vast sweep of star-gemmed
water, unconscious of the tremendous event that was
happening. The Black Avenger stood still with folded
arms, "looking his last" upon the scene of his former
joys and his later sufferings, and wishing "she" could
see him now, abroad on the wild sea, facing peril and
death with dauntless heart, going to his doom with a
grim smile on his lips. It was but a small strain on his
imagination to remove Jackson's Island beyond eye-
shot of the village, and so he "looked his last" with a
broken and satisfied heart. The other pirates were
looking their last, too; and they all looked so long
that they came near letting the current drift them out
of the range of the island. But they discovered the
danger in time, and made shift to avert it. About two
o'clock in the morning the raft grounded on the bar
two hundred yards above the head of the island, and
they waded back and forth until they had landed their
freight. Part of the little raft's belongings consisted
of an old sail, and this they spread over a nook in the
bushes for a tent to shelter their provisions; but they
themselves would sleep in the open air in good weather,
as became outlaws.

They built a fire against the side of a great log twenty
or thirty steps within the sombre depths of the forest,
and then cooked some bacon in the frying-pan for sup-
per, and used up half of the corn "pone" stock they had
brought. It seemed glorious sport to be feasting in
that wild, free way in the virgin forest of an unex-
plored and uninhabited island, far from the haunts of
men, and they said they never would return to civiliza-
tion. The climbing fire lit up their faces and threw its
ruddy glare upon the pillared tree-trunks of their forest
temple, and upon the varnished foliage and festooning
vines.

When the last crisp slice of bacon was gone, and the
last allowance of corn pone devoured, the boys stretched
themselves out on the grass, filled with contentment.
They could have found a cooler place, but they would
not deny themselves such a romantic feature as the
roasting camp-fire.

"AIN'T it gay?" said Joe.

"It's NUTS!" said Tom. "What would the boys say
if they could see us?"

"Say? Well, they'd just die to be here -- hey,
Hucky!"

"I reckon so," said Huckleberry; "anyways, I'm
suited. I don't want nothing better'n this. I don't
ever get enough to eat, gen'ally -- and here they can't
come and pick at a feller and bullyrag him so."

"It's just the life for me," said Tom. "You don't
have to get up, mornings, and you don't have to go to
school, and wash, and all that blame foolishness. You
see a pirate don't have to do ANYTHING, Joe, when he's
ashore, but a hermit HE has to be praying considerable,
and then he don't have any fun, anyway, all by himself
that way."

"Oh yes, that's so," said Joe, "but I hadn't thought
much about it, you know. I'd a good deal rather be a
pirate, now that I've tried it."

"You see," said Tom, "people don't go much on
hermits, nowadays, like they used to in old times, but
a pirate's always respected. And a hermit's got to
sleep on the hardest place he can find, and put sackcloth
and ashes on his head, and stand out in the rain, and --"

"What does he put sackcloth and ashes on his head
for?" inquired Huck.

"I dono. But they've GOT to do it. Hermits always
do. You'd have to do that if you was a hermit."

"Dern'd if I would," said Huck.

"Well, what would you do?"

"I dono. But I wouldn't do that."

"Why, Huck, you'd HAVE to. How'd you get around
it?"

"Why, I just wouldn't stand it. I'd run away."

"Run away! Well, you WOULD be a nice old slouch
of a hermit. You'd be a disgrace."

The Red-Handed made no response, being better
employed. He had finished gouging out a cob, and
now he fitted a weed stem to it, loaded it with tobacco,
and was pressing a coal to the charge and blowing a
cloud of fragrant smoke -- he was in the full bloom of
luxurious contentment. The other pirates envied him
this majestic vice, and secretly resolved to acquire it
shortly. Presently Huck said:

"What does pirates have to do?"

Tom said:

"Oh, they have just a bully time -- take ships and
burn them, and get the money and bury it in awful
places in their island where there's ghosts and things to
watch it, and kill everybody in the ships -- make 'em
walk a plank."

"And they carry the women to the island," said Joe;
"they don't kill the women."

"No," assented Tom, "they don't kill the women --
they're too noble. And the women's always beautiful,
too.

"And don't they wear the bulliest clothes! Oh no!
All gold and silver and di'monds," said Joe, with
enthusiasm.

"Who?" said Huck.

"Why, the pirates."

Huck scanned his own clothing forlornly.

"I reckon I ain't dressed fitten for a pirate," said
he, with a regretful pathos in his voice; "but I ain't
got none but these."

But the other boys told him the fine clothes would
come fast enough, after they should have begun their
adventures. They made him understand that his poor
rags would do to begin with, though it was customary
for wealthy pirates to start with a proper wardrobe.

Gradually their talk died out and drowsiness began
to steal upon the eyelids of the little waifs. The pipe
dropped from the fingers of the Red-Handed, and he
slept the sleep of the conscience-free and the weary.
The Terror of the Seas and the Black Avenger of the
Spanish Main had more difficulty in getting to sleep.
They said their prayers inwardly, and lying down, since
there was nobody there with authority to make them
kneel and recite aloud; in truth, they had a mind not
to say them at all, but they were afraid to proceed to
such lengths as that, lest they might call down a sudden
and special thunderbolt from heaven. Then at once
they reached and hovered upon the imminent verge of
sleep -- but an intruder came, now, that would not
"down." It was conscience. They began to feel a
vague fear that they had been doing wrong to run
away; and next they thought of the stolen meat, and
then the real torture came. They tried to argue it
away by reminding conscience that they had purloined
sweetmeats and apples scores of times; but conscience
was not to be appeased by such thin plausibilities;
it seemed to them, in the end, that there was no getting
around the stubborn fact that taking sweetmeats was
only "hooking," while taking bacon and hams and
such valuables was plain simple stealing -- and there was
a command against that in the Bible. So they inwardly
resolved that so long as they remained in the business,
their piracies should not again be sullied with the crime
of stealing. Then conscience granted a truce, and
these curiously inconsistent pirates fell peacefully to
sleep.


CHAPTER XIV

WHEN Tom awoke in the morning, he
wondered where he was. He sat up and
rubbed his eyes and looked around. Then
he comprehended. It was the cool gray
dawn, and there was a delicious sense of
repose and peace in the deep pervading
calm and silence of the woods. Not a leaf stirred; not a
sound obtruded upon great Nature's meditation. Bead-
ed dewdrops stood upon the leaves and grasses. A
white layer of ashes covered the fire, and a thin blue
breath of smoke rose straight into the air. Joe and
Huck still slept.

Now, far away in the woods a bird called; another
answered; presently the hammering of a woodpecker
was heard. Gradually the cool dim gray of the morn-
ing whitened, and as gradually sounds multiplied and
life manifested itself. The marvel of Nature shaking
off sleep and going to work unfolded itself to the musing
boy. A little green worm came crawling over a dewy
leaf, lifting two-thirds of his body into the air from time
to time and "sniffing around," then proceeding again --
for he was measuring, Tom said; and when the worm
approached him, of its own accord, he sat as still as a
stone, with his hopes rising and falling, by turns, as the
creature still came toward him or seemed inclined to
go elsewhere; and when at last it considered a painful
moment with its curved body in the air and then came
decisively down upon Tom's leg and began a journey
over him, his whole heart was glad -- for that meant
that he was going to have a new suit of clothes -- without
the shadow of a doubt a gaudy piratical uniform. Now
a procession of ants appeared, from nowhere in par-
ticular, and went about their labors; one struggled man-
fully by with a dead spider five times as big as itself in
its arms, and lugged it straight up a tree-trunk. A
brown spotted lady-bug climbed the dizzy height of a
grass blade, and Tom bent down close to it and said,
"Lady-bug, lady-bug, fly away home, your house is on
fire, your children's alone," and she took wing and went
off to see about it -- which did not surprise the boy, for
he knew of old that this insect was credulous about
conflagrations, and he had practised upon its simplicity
more than once. A tumblebug came next, heaving
sturdily at its ball, and Tom touched the creature, to
see it shut its legs against its body and pretend to be
dead. The birds were fairly rioting by this time. A
catbird, the Northern mocker, lit in a tree over Tom's
head, and trilled out her imitations of her neighbors in
a rapture of enjoyment; then a shrill jay swept down,
a flash of blue flame, and stopped on a twig almost
within the boy's reach, cocked his head to one side and
eyed the strangers with a consuming curiosity; a gray
squirrel and a big fellow of the "fox" kind came
skurrying along, sitting up at intervals to inspect and
chatter at the boys, for the wild things had probably
never seen a human being before and scarcely knew
whether to be afraid or not. All Nature was wide
awake and stirring, now; long lances of sunlight pierced
down through the dense foliage far and near, and a
few butterflies came fluttering upon the scene.

Tom stirred up the other pirates and they all clattered
away with a shout, and in a minute or two were stripped
and chasing after and tumbling over each other in the
shallow limpid water of the white sandbar. They felt
no longing for the little village sleeping in the distance
beyond the majestic waste of water. A vagrant cur-
rent or a slight rise in the river had carried off their
raft, but this only gratified them, since its going was
something like burning the bridge between them and
civilization.

They came back to camp wonderfully refreshed,
glad-hearted, and ravenous; and they soon had the
camp-fire blazing up again. Huck found a spring of
clear cold water close by, and the boys made cups of
broad oak or hickory leaves, and felt that water, sweet-
ened with such a wildwood charm as that, would be a
good enough substitute for coffee. While Joe was
slicing bacon for breakfast, Tom and Huck asked him
to hold on a minute; they stepped to a promising nook
in the river-bank and threw in their lines; almost im-
mediately they had reward. Joe had not had time to
get impatient before they were back again with some
handsome bass, a couple of sun-perch and a small
catfish -- provisions enough for quite a family. They
fried the fish with the bacon, and were astonished; for no
fish had ever seemed so delicious before. They did not
know that the quicker a fresh-water fish is on the fire
after he is caught the better he is; and they reflected
little upon what a sauce open-air sleeping, open-air
exercise, bathing, and a large ingredient of hunger
make, too.

They lay around in the shade, after breakfast, while
Huck had a smoke, and then went off through the woods
on an exploring expedition. They tramped gayly along,
over decaying logs, through tangled underbrush, among
solemn monarchs of the forest, hung from their crowns
to the ground with a drooping regalia of grape-vines.
Now and then they came upon snug nooks carpeted
with grass and jeweled with flowers.

They found plenty of things to be delighted with, but
nothing to be astonished at. They discovered that the
island was about three miles long and a quarter of a
mile wide, and that the shore it lay closest to was only
separated from it by a narrow channel hardly two hun-
dred yards wide. They took a swim about every hour,
so it was close upon the middle of the afternoon when
they got back to camp. They were too hungry to stop
to fish, but they fared sumptuously upon cold ham, and
then threw themselves down in the shade to talk. But
the talk soon began to drag, and then died. The
stillness, the solemnity that brooded in the woods, and
the sense of loneliness, began to tell upon the spirits
of the boys. They fell to thinking. A sort of unde-
fined longing crept upon them. This took dim shape,
presently -- it was budding homesickness. Even Finn
the Red-Handed was dreaming of his doorsteps and
empty hogsheads. But they were all ashamed of their
weakness, and none was brave enough to speak his
thought.

For some time, now, the boys had been dully con-
scious of a peculiar sound in the distance, just as one
sometimes is of the ticking of a clock which he takes no
distinct note of. But now this mysterious sound be-
came more pronounced, and forced a recognition. The
boys started, glanced at each other, and then each as-
sumed a listening attitude. There was a long silence,
profound and unbroken; then a deep, sullen boom
came floating down out of the distance.

"What is it!" exclaimed Joe, under his breath.

"I wonder," said Tom in a whisper.

"'Tain't thunder," said Huckleberry, in an awed
tone, "becuz thunder --"

"Hark!" said Tom. "Listen -- don't talk."

They waited a time that seemed an age, and then the
same muffled boom troubled the solemn hush.

"Let's go and see."

They sprang to their feet and hurried to the shore
toward the town. They parted the bushes on the bank
and peered out over the water. The little steam ferry-
boat was about a mile below the village, drifting with the
current. Her broad deck seemed crowded with people.
There were a great many skiffs rowing about or floating
with the stream in the neighborhood of the ferryboat,
but the boys could not determine what the men in them
were doing. Presently a great jet of white smoke burst
from the ferryboat's side, and as it expanded and rose
in a lazy cloud, that same dull throb of sound was borne
to the listeners again.

"I know now!" exclaimed Tom; "somebody's
drownded!"

"That's it!" said Huck; "they done that last summer,
when Bill Turner got drownded; they shoot a cannon
over the water, and that makes him come up to the top.
Yes, and they take loaves of bread and put quicksilver
in 'em and set 'em afloat, and wherever there's anybody
that's drownded, they'll float right there and stop."

"Yes, I've heard about that," said Joe. "I wonder
what makes the bread do that."

"Oh, it ain't the bread, so much," said Tom; "I
reckon it's mostly what they SAY over it before they start
it out."

"But they don't say anything over it," said Huck.
"I've seen 'em and they don't."

"Well, that's funny," said Tom. "But maybe
they say it to themselves. Of COURSE they do. Any-
body might know that."

The other boys agreed that there was reason in what
Tom said, because an ignorant lump of bread, un-
instructed by an incantation, could not be expected to
act very intelligently when set upon an errand of such
gravity.

"By jings, I wish I was over there, now," said Joe.

"I do too" said Huck "I'd give heaps to know
who it is."

The boys still listened and watched. Presently a
revealing thought flashed through Tom's mind, and
he exclaimed:

"Boys, I know who's drownded -- it's us!"

They felt like heroes in an instant. Here was a
gorgeous triumph; they were missed; they were mourned;
hearts were breaking on their account; tears were being
shed; accusing memories of unkindness to these poor
lost lads were rising up, and unavailing regrets and re-
morse were being indulged; and best of all, the depart-
ed were the talk of the whole town, and the envy of
all the boys, as far as this dazzling notoriety was con-
cerned. This was fine. It was worth while to be a
pirate, after all.

As twilight drew on, the ferryboat went back to her
accustomed business and the skiffs disappeared. The
pirates returned to camp. They were jubilant with
vanity over their new grandeur and the illustrious
trouble they were making. They caught fish, cooked
supper and ate it, and then fell to guessing at what the
village was thinking and saying about them; and the
pictures they drew of the public distress on their ac-
count were gratifying to look upon -- from their point
of view. But when the shadows of night closed them
in, they gradually ceased to talk, and sat gazing into the
fire, with their minds evidently wandering elsewhere.
The excitement was gone, now, and Tom and Joe could
not keep back thoughts of certain persons at home who
were not enjoying this fine frolic as much as they were.
Misgivings came; they grew troubled and unhappy;
a sigh or two escaped, unawares. By and by Joe
timidly ventured upon a roundabout "feeler" as to
how the others might look upon a return to civilization
-- not right now, but --

Tom withered him with derision! Huck, being un-
committed as yet, joined in with Tom, and the waverer
quickly "explained," and was glad to get out of the
scrape with as little taint of chicken-hearted home-
sickness clinging to his garments as he could. Mutiny
was effectually laid to rest for the moment.

As the night deepened, Huck began to nod, and
presently to snore. Joe followed next. Tom lay
upon his elbow motionless, for some time, watching
the two intently. At last he got up cautiously, on
his knees, and went searching among the grass and
the flickering reflections flung by the camp-fire. He
picked up and inspected several large semi-cylinders
of the thin white bark of a sycamore, and finally chose
two which seemed to suit him. Then he knelt by the
fire and painfully wrote something upon each of these
with his "red keel"; one he rolled up and put in his
jacket pocket, and the other he put in Joe's hat and
removed it to a little distance from the owner. And
he also put into the hat certain schoolboy treasures of
almost inestimable value -- among them a lump of
chalk, an India-rubber ball, three fishhooks, and one of
that kind of marbles known as a "sure 'nough crystal."
Then he tiptoed his way cautiously among the trees
till he felt that he was out of hearing, and straightway
broke into a keen run in the direction of the sandbar.


CHAPTER XV

A FEW minutes later Tom was in the shoal
water of the bar, wading toward the
Illinois shore. Before the depth reached
his middle he was half-way over; the cur-
rent would permit no more wading, now,
so he struck out confidently to swim the
remaining hundred yards. He swam quartering up-
stream, but still was swept downward rather faster
than he had expected. However, he reached the shore
finally, and drifted along till he found a low place and
drew himself out. He put his hand on his jacket pocket,
found his piece of bark safe, and then struck through
the woods, following the shore, with streaming garments.
Shortly before ten o'clock he came out into an open
place opposite the village, and saw the ferryboat lying
in the shadow of the trees and the high bank. Every-
thing was quiet under the blinking stars. He crept
down the bank, watching with all his eyes, slipped into
the water, swam three or four strokes and climbed into
the skiff that did "yawl" duty at the boat's stern. He
laid himself down under the thwarts and waited, panting.

Presently the cracked bell tapped and a voice gave
the order to "cast off." A minute or two later the
skiff's head was standing high up, against the boat's
swell, and the voyage was begun. Tom felt happy in
his success, for he knew it was the boat's last trip for
the night. At the end of a long twelve or fifteen minutes
the wheels stopped, and Tom slipped overboard and
swam ashore in the dusk, landing fifty yards down-
stream, out of danger of possible stragglers.

He flew along unfrequented alleys, and shortly found
himself at his aunt's back fence. He climbed over,
approached the "ell," and looked in at the sitting-room
window, for a light was burning there. There sat
Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, and Joe Harper's mother,
grouped together, talking. They were by the bed, and
the bed was between them and the door. Tom went
to the door and began to softly lift the latch; then he
pressed gently and the door yielded a crack; he con-
tinued pushing cautiously, and quaking every time it
creaked, till he judged he might squeeze through on his
knees; so he put his head through and began, warily.

"What makes the candle blow so?" said Aunt
Polly. Tom hurried up. "Why, that door's open,
I believe. Why, of course it is. No end of strange
things now. Go 'long and shut it, Sid."

Tom disappeared under the bed just in time. He
lay and "breathed" himself for a time, and then crept
to where he could almost touch his aunt's foot.

"But as I was saying," said Aunt Polly, "he warn't
BAD, so to say -- only mischEEvous. Only just giddy,
and harum-scarum, you know. He warn't any more
responsible than a colt. HE never meant any harm,
and he was the best-hearted boy that ever was" -- and
she began to cry.

"It was just so with my Joe -- always full of his
devilment, and up to every kind of mischief, but he
was just as unselfish and kind as he could be -- and
laws bless me, to think I went and whipped him for
taking that cream, never once recollecting that I
throwed it out myself because it was sour, and I never
to see him again in this world, never, never, never, poor
abused boy!" And Mrs. Harper sobbed as if her
heart would break.

"I hope Tom's better off where he is," said Sid,
"but if he'd been better in some ways --"

"SID!" Tom felt the glare of the old lady's eye,
though he could not see it. "Not a word against my
Tom, now that he's gone! God'll take care of HIM --
never you trouble YOURself, sir! Oh, Mrs. Harper, I
don't know how to give him up! I don't know how to
give him up! He was such a comfort to me, although
he tormented my old heart out of me, 'most."

"The Lord giveth and the Lord hath taken away
-- Blessed be the name of the Lord! But it's so hard
-- Oh, it's so hard! Only last Saturday my Joe busted
a firecracker right under my nose and I knocked him
sprawling. Little did I know then, how soon -- Oh,
if it was to do over again I'd hug him and bless him
for it."

"Yes, yes, yes, I know just how you feel, Mrs.
Harper, I know just exactly how you feel. No longer
ago than yesterday noon, my Tom took and filled the
cat full of Pain-killer, and I did think the cretur would
tear the house down. And God forgive me, I cracked
Tom's head with my thimble, poor boy, poor dead boy.
But he's out of all his troubles now. And the last words
I ever heard him say was to reproach --"

But this memory was too much for the old lady,
and she broke entirely down. Tom was snuffling, now,
himself -- and more in pity of himself than anybody
else. He could hear Mary crying, and putting in a
kindly word for him from time to time. He began to
have a nobler opinion of himself than ever before.
Still, he was sufficiently touched by his aunt's grief to
long to rush out from under the bed and overwhelm
her with joy -- and the theatrical gorgeousness of the
thing appealed strongly to his nature, too, but he re-
sisted and lay still.

He went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends
that it was conjectured at first that the boys had got
drowned while taking a swim; then the small raft had
been missed; next, certain boys said the missing lads
had promised that the village should "hear some-
thing" soon; the wise-heads had "put this and that
together" and decided that the lads had gone off on
that raft and would turn up at the next town below,
presently; but toward noon the raft had been found,
lodged against the Missouri shore some five or six miles
below the village -- and then hope perished; they must
be drowned, else hunger would have driven them home
by nightfall if not sooner. It was believed that the
search for the bodies had been a fruitless effort merely
because the drowning must have occurred in mid-
channel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would
otherwise have escaped to shore. This was Wednesday
night. If the bodies continued missing until Sunday,
all hope would be given over, and the funerals would
be preached on that morning. Tom shuddered.

Mrs. Harper gave a sobbing good-night and turned
to go. Then with a mutual impulse the two bereaved
women flung themselves into each other's arms and had
a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt Polly
was tender far beyond her wont, in her good-night to
Sid and Mary. Sid snuffled a bit and Mary went off
crying with all her heart.

Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touch-
ingly, so appealingly, and with such measureless love
in her words and her old trembling voice, that he was
weltering in tears again, long before she was through.

He had to keep still long after she went to bed, for
she kept making broken-hearted ejaculations from time
to time, tossing unrestfully, and turning over. But at
last she was still, only moaning a little in her sleep.
Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside,
shaded the candle-light with his hand, and stood re-
garding her. His heart was full of pity for her. He
took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the candle.
But something occurred to him, and he lingered con-
sidering. His face lighted with a happy solution of his
thought; he put the bark hastily in his pocket. Then
he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and straightway
made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him.

He threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found
nobody at large there, and walked boldly on board the
boat, for he knew she was tenantless except that there
was a watchman, who always turned in and slept like
a graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern,
slipped into it, and was soon rowing cautiously up-
stream. When he had pulled a mile above the village,
he started quartering across and bent himself stoutly to
his work. He hit the landing on the other side neatly,
for this was a familiar bit of work to him. He was
moved to capture the skiff, arguing that it might be
considered a ship and therefore legitimate prey for a
pirate, but he knew a thorough search would be made
for it and that might end in revelations. So he stepped
ashore and entered the woods.

He sat down and took a long rest, torturing him-
self meanwhile to keep awake, and then started warily
down the home-stretch. The night was far spent.
It was broad daylight before he found himself fairly
abreast the island bar. He rested again until the sun
was well up and gilding the great river with its splendor,
and then he plunged into the stream. A little later he
paused, dripping, upon the threshold of the camp,
and heard Joe say:

"No, Tom's true-blue, Huck, and he'll come back.
He won't desert. He knows that would be a disgrace
to a pirate, and Tom's too proud for that sort of thing.
He's up to something or other. Now I wonder what?"

"Well, the things is ours, anyway, ain't they?"

Pretty near, but not yet, Huck. The writing says
they are if he ain't back here to breakfast."

"Which he is!" exclaimed Tom, with fine dramatic
effect, stepping grandly into camp.

A sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly
provided, and as the boys set to work upon it, Tom
recounted (and adorned) his adventures. They were
a vain and boastful company of heroes when the tale
was done. Then Tom hid himself away in a shady
nook to sleep till noon, and the other pirates got ready
to fish and explore.


CHAPTER XVI

AFTER dinner all the gang turned out to
hunt for turtle eggs on the bar. They
went about poking sticks into the sand,
and when they found a soft place they
went down on their knees and dug with
their hands. Sometimes they would take
fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole. They were perfectly
round white things a trifle smaller than an English
walnut. They had a famous fried-egg feast that night,
and another on Friday morning.

After breakfast they went whooping and prancing
out on the bar, and chased each other round and
round, shedding clothes as they went, until they were
naked, and then continued the frolic far away up the
shoal water of the bar, against the stiff current, which
latter tripped their legs from under them from time
to time and greatly increased the fun. And now and
then they stooped in a group and splashed water in
each other's faces with their palms, gradually approach-
ing each other, with averted faces to avoid the stran-
gling sprays, and finally gripping and struggling till the
best man ducked his neighbor, and then they all went
under in a tangle of white legs and arms and came up
blowing, sputtering, laughing, and gasping for breath
at one and the same time.

When they were well exhausted, they would run
out and sprawl on the dry, hot sand, and lie there and
cover themselves up with it, and by and by break for
the water again and go through the original perform-
ance once more. Finally it occurred to them that their
naked skin represented flesh-colored "tights" very
fairly; so they drew a ring in the sand and had a
circus -- with three clowns in it, for none would yield
this proudest post to his neighbor.

Next they got their marbles and played "knucks"
and "ring-taw" and "keeps" till that amusement
grew stale. Then Joe and Huck had another swim,
but Tom would not venture, because he found that
in kicking off his trousers he had kicked his string
of rattlesnake rattles off his ankle, and he wondered
how he had escaped cramp so long without the pro-
tection of this mysterious charm. He did not vent-
ure again until he had found it, and by that time
the other boys were tired and ready to rest. They
gradually wandered apart, dropped into the "dumps,"
and fell to gazing longingly across the wide river to
where the village lay drowsing in the sun. Tom found
himself writing "BECKY" in the sand with his big toe;
he scratched it out, and was angry with himself for his
weakness. But he wrote it again, nevertheless; he
could not help it. He erased it once more and then took
himself out of temptation by driving the other boys
together and joining them.

But Joe's spirits had gone down almost beyond
resurrection. He was so homesick that he could hardly
endure the misery of it. The tears lay very near the
surface. Huck was melancholy, too. Tom was down-
hearted, but tried hard not to show it. He had a secret
which he was not ready to tell, yet, but if this mutinous
depression was not broken up soon, he would have to
bring it out. He said, with a great show of cheerfulness:

"I bet there's been pirates on this island before,
boys. We'll explore it again. They've hid treasures
here somewhere. How'd you feel to light on a rotten
chest full of gold and silver -- hey?"

But it roused only faint enthusiasm, which faded
out, with no reply. Tom tried one or two other
seductions; but they failed, too. It was discouraging
work. Joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and
looking very gloomy. Finally he said:

"Oh, boys, let's give it up. I want to go home.
It's so lonesome."

"Oh no, Joe, you'll feel better by and by," said
Tom. "Just think of the fishing that's here."

"I don't care for fishing. I want to go home."

"But, Joe, there ain't such another swimming-place
anywhere."

"Swimming's no good. I don't seem to care for
it, somehow, when there ain't anybody to say I sha'n't
go in. I mean to go home."

"Oh, shucks! Baby! You want to see your mother,
I reckon."

"Yes, I DO want to see my mother -- and you would,
too, if you had one. I ain't any more baby than you
are." And Joe snuffled a little.

"Well, we'll let the cry-baby go home to his mother,
won't we, Huck? Poor thing -- does it want to see its
mother? And so it shall. You like it here, don't you,
Huck? We'll stay, won't we?"

Huck said, "Y-e-s" -- without any heart in it.

"I'll never speak to you again as long as I live,"
said Joe, rising. "There now!" And he moved
moodily away and began to dress himself.

"Who cares!" said Tom. "Nobody wants you to.
Go 'long home and get laughed at. Oh, you're a nice
pirate. Huck and me ain't cry-babies. We'll stay,
won't we, Huck? Let him go if he wants to. I reckon
we can get along without him, per'aps."

But Tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed
to see Joe go sullenly on with his dressing. And then
it was discomforting to see Huck eying Joe's prepara-
tions so wistfully, and keeping up such an ominous
silence. Presently, without a parting word, Joe began
to wade off toward the Illinois shore. Tom's heart
began to sink. He glanced at Huck. Huck could
not bear the look, and dropped his eyes. Then he
said:

"I want to go, too, Tom. It was getting so lone-
some anyway, and now it'll be worse. Let's us go,
too, Tom."

"I won't! You can all go, if you want to. I mean
to stay."

"Tom, I better go."

"Well, go 'long -- who's hendering you."

Huck began to pick up his scattered clothes. He
said:

"Tom, I wisht you'd come, too. Now you think it
over. We'll wait for you when we get to shore."

"Well, you'll wait a blame long time, that's all."

Huck started sorrowfully away, and Tom stood
looking after him, with a strong desire tugging at his
heart to yield his pride and go along too. He hoped
the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on.
It suddenly dawned on Tom that it was become very
lonely and still. He made one final struggle with his
pride, and then darted after his comrades, yelling:

"Wait! Wait! I want to tell you something!"

They presently stopped and turned around. When
he got to where they were, he began unfolding his
secret, and they listened moodily till at last they saw
the "point" he was driving at, and then they set
up a war-whoop of applause and said it was "splen-
did!" and said if he had told them at first, they wouldn't
have started away. He made a plausible excuse; but
his real reason had been the fear that not even the
secret would keep them with him any very great length
of time, and so he had meant to hold it in reserve as a
last seduction.

The lads came gayly back and went at their sports
again with a will, chattering all the time about Tom's
stupendous plan and admiring the genius of it. After
a dainty egg and fish dinner, Tom said he wanted to
learn to smoke, now. Joe caught at the idea and said
he would like to try, too. So Huck made pipes and
filled them. These novices had never smoked anything
before but cigars made of grape-vine, and they "bit"
the tongue, and were not considered manly anyway.

Now they stretched themselves out on their elbows
and began to puff, charily, and with slender confi-
dence. The smoke had an unpleasant taste, and
they gagged a little, but Tom said:

"Why, it's just as easy! If I'd a knowed this was
all, I'd a learnt long ago."

"So would I," said Joe. "It's just nothing."

"Why, many a time I've looked at people smoking,
and thought well I wish I could do that; but I never
thought I could," said Tom.

"That's just the way with me, hain't it, Huck?
You've heard me talk just that way -- haven't you,
Huck? I'll leave it to Huck if I haven't."

"Yes -- heaps of times," said Huck.

"Well, I have too," said Tom; "oh, hundreds of
times. Once down by the slaughter-house. Don't
you remember, Huck? Bob Tanner was there, and
Johnny Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it.
Don't you remember, Huck, 'bout me saying that?"

"Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the day
after I lost a white alley. No, 'twas the day before."

"There -- I told you so," said Tom. "Huck rec-
ollects it."

"I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe.
"I don't feel sick."

"Neither do I," said Tom. "I could smoke it all
day. But I bet you Jeff Thatcher couldn't."

"Jeff Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with two
draws. Just let him try it once. HE'D see!"

"I bet he would. And Johnny Miller -- I wish
could see Johnny Miller tackle it once."

"Oh, don't I!" said Joe. "Why, I bet you Johnny
Miller couldn't any more do this than nothing. Just
one little snifter would fetch HIM."

"'Deed it would, Joe. Say -- I wish the boys could
see us now."

"So do I."

"Say -- boys, don't say anything about it, and some
time when they're around, I'll come up to you and
say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.' And you'll
say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll
say, 'Yes, I got my OLD pipe, and another one, but my
tobacker ain't very good.' And I'll say, 'Oh, that's all
right, if it's STRONG enough.' And then you'll out with
the pipes, and we'll light up just as ca'm, and then just
see 'em look!"

"By jings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was
NOW!"

"So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when
we was off pirating, won't they wish they'd been
along?"

"Oh, I reckon not! I'll just BET they will!"

So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag
a trifle, and grow disjointed. The silences widened;
the expectoration marvellously increased. Every pore
inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting fountain;
they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their
tongues fast enough to prevent an inundation; little
overflowings down their throats occurred in spite of all
they could do, and sudden retchings followed every
time. Both boys were looking very pale and miserable,
now. Joe's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers.
Tom's followed. Both fountains were going furiously
and both pumps bailing with might and main. Joe
said feebly:

"I've lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it."

Tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance:

"I'll help you. You go over that way and I'll hunt
around by the spring. No, you needn't come, Huck --
we can find it."

So Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then
he found it lonesome, and went to find his comrades.
They were wide apart in the woods, both very pale, both
fast asleep. But something informed him that if they
had had any trouble they had got rid of it.

They were not talkative at supper that night. They
had a humble look, and when Huck prepared his pipe
after the meal and was going to prepare theirs, they
said no, they were not feeling very well -- something they
ate at dinner had disagreed with them.

About midnight Joe awoke, and called the boys.
There was a brooding oppressiveness in the air that
seemed to bode something. The boys huddled them-
selves together and sought the friendly companionship
of the fire, though the dull dead heat of the breathless
atmosphere was stifling. They sat still, intent and
waiting. The solemn hush continued. Beyond the
light of the fire everything was swallowed up in the
blackness of darkness. Presently there came a quiver-
ing glow that vaguely revealed the foliage for a moment
and then vanished. By and by another came, a little
stronger. Then another. Then a faint moan came
sighing through the branches of the forest and the boys
felt a fleeting breath upon their cheeks, and shuddered
with the fancy that the Spirit of the Night had gone by.
There was a pause. Now a weird flash turned night
into day and showed every little grass-blade, separate
and distinct, that grew about their feet. And it showed
three white, startled faces, too. A deep peal of thunder
went rolling and tumbling down the heavens and lost
itself in sullen rumblings in the distance. A sweep of
chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves and snow-
ing the flaky ashes broadcast about the fire. Another
fierce glare lit up the forest and an instant crash followed
that seemed to rend the tree-tops right over the boys'
heads. They clung together in terror, in the thick
gloom that followed. A few big rain-drops fell patter-
ing upon the leaves.

"Quick! boys, go for the tent!" exclaimed Tom.

They sprang away, stumbling over roots and among
vines in the dark, no two plunging in the same direction.
A furious blast roared through the trees, making every-
thing sing as it went. One blinding flash after another
came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder. And now
a drenching rain poured down and the rising hurricane
drove it in sheets along the ground. The boys cried
out to each other, but the roaring wind and the boom-
ing thunder-blasts drowned their voices utterly. How-
ever, one by one they straggled in at last and took
shelter under the tent, cold, scared, and streaming
with water; but to have company in misery seemed
something to be grateful for. They could not talk, the
old sail flapped so furiously, even if the other noises
would have allowed them. The tempest rose higher
and higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its
fastenings and went winging away on the blast. The
boys seized each others' hands and fled, with many
tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that
stood upon the river-bank. Now the battle was at its
highest. Under the ceaseless conflagration of lightning
that flamed in the skies, everything below stood out in
clean-cut and shadowless distinctness: the bending
trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the driving
spray of spume-flakes, the dim outlines of the high
bluffs on the other side, glimpsed through the drifting
cloud-rack and the slanting veil of rain. Every little
while some giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing
through the younger growth; and the unflagging thunder-
peals came now in ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen
and sharp, and unspeakably appalling. The storm
culminated in one matchless effort that seemed likely
to tear the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the
tree-tops, blow it away, and deafen every creature in it,
all at one and the same moment. It was a wild night
for homeless young heads to be out in.

But at last the battle was done, and the forces re-
tired with weaker and weaker threatenings and grum-
blings, and peace resumed her sway. The boys went
back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there
was still something to be thankful for, because the great
sycamore, the shelter of their beds, was a ruin, now,
blasted by the lightnings, and they were not under it
when the catastrophe happened.

Everything in camp was drenched, the camp-fire
as well; for they were but heedless lads, like their
generation, and had made no provision against rain.
Here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked
through and chilled. They were eloquent in their dis-
tress; but they presently discovered that the fire had
eaten so far up under the great log it had been built
against (where it curved upward and separated itself
from the ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had
escaped wetting; so they patiently wrought until, with
shreds and bark gathered from the under sides of shel-
tered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again. Then
they piled on great dead boughs till they had a roar-
ing furnace, and were glad-hearted once more. They
dried their boiled ham and had a feast, and after that
they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified their
midnight adventure until morning, for there was not a
dry spot to sleep on, anywhere around.

As the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness
came over them, and they went out on the sandbar and
lay down to sleep. They got scorched out by and by,
and drearily set about getting breakfast. After the
meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little home-
sick once more. Tom saw the signs, and fell to cheer-
ing up the pirates as well as he could. But they cared
nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming, or any-
thing. He reminded them of the imposing secret, and
raised a ray of cheer. While it lasted, he got them in-
terested in a new device. This was to knock off being
pirates, for a while, and be Indians for a change. They
were attracted by this idea; so it was not long before
they were stripped, and striped from head to heel with
black mud, like so many zebras -- all of them chiefs,
of course -- and then they went tearing through the
woods to attack an English settlement.

By and by they separated into three hostile tribes,
and darted upon each other from ambush with dread-
ful war-whoops, and killed and scalped each other by
thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was
an extremely satisfactory one.

They assembled in camp toward supper-time, hungry
and happy; but now a difficulty arose -- hostile Indians
could not break the bread of hospitality together with-
out first making peace, and this was a simple im-
possibility without smoking a pipe of peace. There
was no other process that ever they had heard of. Two
of the savages almost wished they had remained pirates.
However, there was no other way; so with such show of
cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the
pipe and took their whiff as it passed, in due form.

And behold, they were glad they had gone into
savagery, for they had gained something; they found
that they could now smoke a little without having to go
and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough
to be seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely
to fool away this high promise for lack of effort. No,
they practised cautiously, after supper, with right fair
success, and so they spent a jubilant evening. They
were prouder and happier in their new acquirement than
they would have been in the scalping and skinning of the
Six Nations. We will leave them to smoke and chat-
ter and brag, since we have no further use for them at
present.


CHAPTER XVII

BUT there was no hilarity in the little town
that same tranquil Saturday afternoon.
The Harpers, and Aunt Polly's family,
were being put into mourning, with great
grief and many tears. An unusual quiet
possessed the village, although it was or-
dinarily quiet enough, in all conscience. The villagers
conducted their concerns with an absent air, and
talked little; but they sighed often. The Saturday
holiday seemed a burden to the children. They had
no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them up.

In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself
moping about the deserted schoolhouse yard, and
feeling very melancholy. But she found nothing there
to comfort her. She soliloquized:

"Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob again! But
I haven't got anything now to remember him by."
And she choked back a little sob.

Presently she stopped, and said to herself:

"It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again,
I wouldn't say that -- I wouldn't say it for the whole
world. But he's gone now; I'll never, never, never see
him any more."

This thought broke her down, and she wandered
away, with tears rolling down her cheeks. Then quite
a group of boys and girls -- playmates of Tom's and Joe's
-- came by, and stood looking over the paling fence
and talking in reverent tones of how Tom did so-and-so
the last time they saw him, and how Joe said this and
that small trifle (pregnant with awful prophecy, as they
could easily see now!) -- and each speaker pointed out
the exact spot where the lost lads stood at the time, and
then added something like "and I was a-standing just
so -- just as I am now, and as if you was him -- I was as
close as that -- and he smiled, just this way -- and then
something seemed to go all over me, like -- awful, you
know -- and I never thought what it meant, of course,
but I can see now!"

Then there was a dispute about who saw the dead
boys last in life, and many claimed that dismal dis-
tinction, and offered evidences, more or less tampered
with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided
who DID see the departed last, and exchanged the last
words with them, the lucky parties took upon them-
selves a sort of sacred importance, and were gaped at
and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had no
other grandeur to offer, said with tolerably manifest
pride in the remembrance:

"Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once."

But that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the
boys could say that, and so that cheapened the dis-
tinction too much. The group loitered away, still re-
calling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.

When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next
morning, the bell began to toll, instead of ringing in
the usual way. It was a very still Sabbath, and the
mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing
hush that lay upon nature. The villagers began to
gather, loitering a moment in the vestibule to converse
in whispers about the sad event. But there was no
whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of
dresses as the women gathered to their seats disturbed
the silence there. None could remember when the
little church had been so full before. There was finally
a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt
Polly entered, followed by Sid and Mary, and they by
the Harper family, all in deep black, and the whole
congregation, the old minister as well, rose reverently
and stood until the mourners were seated in the front
pew. There was another communing silence, broken
at intervals by muffled sobs, and then the minister
spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving hymn
was sung, and the text followed: "I am the Resurrection
and the Life."

As the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such
pictures of the graces, the winning ways, and the rare
promise of the lost lads that every soul there, thinking
he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in remembering
that he had persistently blinded himself to them always
before, and had as persistently seen only faults and
flaws in the poor boys. The minister related many a
touching incident in the lives of the departed, too, which
illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the people
could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those
episodes were, and remembered with grief that at the
time they occurred they had seemed rank rascalities,
well deserving of the cowhide. The congregation be-
came more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went
on, till at last the whole company broke down and joined
the weeping mourners in a chorus of anguished sobs,
the preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and
crying in the pulpit.

There was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody
noticed; a moment later the church door creaked; the
minister raised his streaming eyes above his hand-
kerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and then
another pair of eyes followed the minister's, and then
almost with one impulse the congregation rose and
stared while the three dead boys came marching up
the aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin
of drooping rags, sneaking sheepishly in the rear!
They had been hid in the unused gallery listening to
their own funeral sermon!

Aunt Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw themselves
upon their restored ones, smothered them with kisses
and poured out thanksgivings, while poor Huck stood
abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what
to do or where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes.
He wavered, and started to slink away, but Tom seized
him and said:

"Aunt Polly, it ain't fair. Somebody's got to be glad
to see Huck."

"And so they shall. I'm glad to see him, poor
motherless thing!" And the loving attentions Aunt
Polly lavished upon him were the one thing capable of
making him more uncomfortable than he was before.

Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice:
"Praise God from whom all blessings flow -- SING! --
and put your hearts in it!"

And they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a
triumphant burst, and while it shook the rafters Tom
Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the envying
juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this
was the proudest moment of his life.

As the "sold" congregation trooped out they said
they would almost be willing to be made ridiculous
again to hear Old Hundred sung like that once more.

Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day -- according
to Aunt Polly's varying moods -- than he had earned
before in a year; and he hardly knew which expressed
the most gratefulness to God and affection for himself.


CHAPTER XVIII

THAT was Tom's great secret -- the scheme
to return home with his brother pirates
and attend their own funerals. They had
paddled over to the Missouri shore on
a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five
or six miles below the village; they had
slept in the woods at the edge of the town till nearly day-
light, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys
and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church
among a chaos of invalided benches.

At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and
Mary were very loving to Tom, and very attentive to
his wants. There was an unusual amount of talk. In
the course of it Aunt Polly said:

"Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine joke, Tom, to keep
everybody suffering 'most a week so you boys had a
good time, but it is a pity you could be so hard-hearted
as to let me suffer so. If you could come over on a log
to go to your funeral, you could have come over and
give me a hint some way that you warn't dead, but only
run off."

"Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said Mary;
"and I believe you would if you had thought of it."

"Would you, Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face light-
ing wistfully. "Say, now, would you, if you'd thought
of it?"

"I -- well, I don't know. 'Twould 'a' spoiled every-
thing."

"Tom, I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt
Polly, with a grieved tone that discomforted the boy.
"It would have been something if you'd cared enough
to THINK of it, even if you didn't DO it."

"Now, auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded Mary;
"it's only Tom's giddy way -- he is always in such a rush
that he never thinks of anything."

"More's the pity. Sid would have thought. And
Sid would have come and DONE it, too. Tom, you'll
look back, some day, when it's too late, and wish you'd
cared a little more for me when it would have cost you
so little."

"Now, auntie, you know I do care for you," said
Tom.

"I'd know it better if you acted more like it."

"I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a re-
pentant tone; "but I dreamt about you, anyway.
That's something, ain't it?"

"It ain't much -- a cat does that much -- but it's bet-
ter than nothing. What did you dream?"

"Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was
sitting over there by the bed, and Sid was sitting by
the woodbox, and Mary next to him."

"Well, so we did. So we always do. I'm glad
your dreams could take even that much trouble about
us."

"And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here."

"Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?"

"Oh, lots. But it's so dim, now."

"Well, try to recollect -- can't you?"

"Somehow it seems to me that the wind -- the wind
blowed the -- the --"

"Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something.
Come!"

Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious
minute, and then said:

"I've got it now! I've got it now! It blowed the
candle!"

"Mercy on us! Go on, Tom -- go on!"

"And it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I believe
that that door --'"

"Go ON, Tom!"

"Just let me study a moment -- just a moment. Oh,
yes -- you said you believed the door was open."

"As I'm sitting here, I did! Didn't I, Mary! Go on!"

"And then -- and then -- well I won't be certain, but
it seems like as if you made Sid go and -- and --"

"Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom?
What did I make him do?"

"You made him -- you -- Oh, you made him shut it."

"Well, for the land's sake! I never heard the beat
of that in all my days! Don't tell ME there ain't
anything in dreams, any more. Sereny Harper shall
know of this before I'm an hour older. I'd like to see
her get around THIS with her rubbage 'bout superstition.
Go on, Tom!"

"Oh, it's all getting just as bright as day, now.
Next you said I warn't BAD, only mischeevous and
harum-scarum, and not any more responsible than --
than -- I think it was a colt, or something."

"And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on,
Tom!"

"And then you began to cry."

"So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither.
And then --"

"Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe
was just the same, and she wished she hadn't whipped
him for taking cream when she'd throwed it out her
own self --"

"Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a
prophesying -- that's what you was doing! Land alive,
go on, Tom!"

"Then Sid he said -- he said --"

"I don't think I said anything," said Sid.

"Yes you did, Sid," said Mary.

"Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did
he say, Tom?"

"He said -- I THINK he said he hoped I was better
off where I was gone to, but if I'd been better some-
times --"

"THERE, d'you hear that! It was his very words!"

"And you shut him up sharp."

"I lay I did! There must 'a' been an angel there.
There WAS an angel there, somewheres!"

"And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with
a firecracker, and you told about Peter and the Pain-
killer --"

"Just as true as I live!"

"And then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout drag-
ging the river for us, and 'bout having the funeral
Sunday, and then you and old Miss Harper hugged
and cried, and she went."

"It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure
as I'm a-sitting in these very tracks. Tom, you couldn't
told it more like if you'd 'a' seen it! And then what?
Go on, Tom!"

"Then I thought you prayed for me -- and I could
see you and hear every word you said. And you went
to bed, and I was so sorry that I took and wrote on a
piece of sycamore bark, 'We ain't dead -- we are only
off being pirates,' and put it on the table by the candle;
and then you looked so good, laying there asleep, that
I thought I went and leaned over and kissed you on
the lips."

"Did you, Tom, DID you! I just forgive you every-
thing for that!" And she seized the boy in a crushing
embrace that made him feel like the guiltiest of villains.

"It was very kind, even though it was only a --
dream," Sid soliloquized just audibly.

"Shut up, Sid! A body does just the same in a
dream as he'd do if he was awake. Here's a big
Milum apple I've been saving for you, Tom, if you
was ever found again -- now go 'long to school. I'm
thankful to the good God and Father of us all I've got
you back, that's long-suffering and merciful to them
that believe on Him and keep His word, though good-
ness knows I'm unworthy of it, but if only the worthy
ones got His blessings and had His hand to help them
over the rough places, there's few enough would smile
here or ever enter into His rest when the long night
comes. Go 'long Sid, Mary, Tom -- take yourselves
off -- you've hendered me long enough."

The children left for school, and the old lady to call
on Mrs. Harper and vanquish her realism with Tom's
marvellous dream. Sid had better judgment than to
utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the
house. It was this: "Pretty thin -- as long a dream as
that, without any mistakes in it!"

What a hero Tom was become, now! He did not
go skipping and prancing, but moved with a dignified
swagger as became a pirate who felt that the public
eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not to
seem to see the looks or hear the remarks as he passed
along, but they were food and drink to him. Smaller
boys than himself flocked at his heels, as proud to be
seen with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been
the drummer at the head of a procession or the elephant
leading a menagerie into town. Boys of his own size
pretended not to know he had been away at all; but
they were consuming with envy, nevertheless. They
would have given anything to have that swarthy sun-
tanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and
Tom would not have parted with either for a circus.

At school the children made so much of him and of
Joe, and delivered such eloquent admiration from their
eyes, that the two heroes were not long in becoming in-
sufferably "stuck-up." They began to tell their ad-
ventures to hungry listeners -- but they only began; it
was not a thing likely to have an end, with imaginations
like theirs to furnish material. And finally, when they
got out their pipes and went serenely puffing around,
the very summit of glory was reached.

Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky
Thatcher now. Glory was sufficient. He would live
for glory. Now that he was distinguished, maybe she
would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her -- she
should see that he could be as indifferent as some other
people. Presently she arrived. Tom pretended not to
see her. He moved away and joined a group of boys
and girls and began to talk. Soon he observed that she
was tripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and
dancing eyes, pretending to be busy chasing school-
mates, and screaming with laughter when she made a
capture; but he noticed that she always made her capt-
ures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a con-
scious eye in his direction at such times, too. It grati-
fied all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so,
instead of winning him, it only "set him up" the more
and made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that
he knew she was about. Presently she gave over sky-
larking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or
twice and glancing furtively and wistfully toward Tom.
Then she observed that now Tom was talking more
particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else.
She felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy
at once. She tried to go away, but her feet were
treacherous, and carried her to the group instead. She
said to a girl almost at Tom's elbow -- with sham
vivacity:

"Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn't you
come to Sunday-school?"

"I did come -- didn't you see me?"

"Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?"

"I was in Miss Peters' class, where I always go.
I saw YOU."

"Did you? Why, it's funny I didn't see you. I
wanted to tell you about the picnic."

"Oh, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?"

"My ma's going to let me have one."

"Oh, goody; I hope she'll let ME come."

"Well, she will. The picnic's for me. She'll let any-
body come that I want, and I want you."

"That's ever so nice. When is it going to be?"

"By and by. Maybe about vacation."

"Oh, won't it be fun! You going to have all the
girls and boys?"

"Yes, every one that's friends to me -- or wants to
be"; and she glanced ever so furtively at Tom, but he
talked right along to Amy Lawrence about the terrible
storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the great
sycamore tree "all to flinders" while he was "standing
within three feet of it."

"Oh, may I come?" said Grace Miller.

"Yes."

"And me?" said Sally Rogers.

"Yes."

"And me, too?" said Susy Harper. "And Joe?"

"Yes."

And so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the
group had begged for invitations but Tom and Amy.
Then Tom turned coolly away, still talking, and took
Amy with him. Becky's lips trembled and the tears
came to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety
and went on chattering, but the life had gone out of the
picnic, now, and out of everything else; she got away as
soon as she could and hid herself and had what her sex
call "a good cry." Then she sat moody, with wounded
pride, till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with a
vindictive cast in her eye, and gave her plaited tails a
shake and said she knew what SHE'D do.

At recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy
with jubilant self-satisfaction. And he kept drifting
about to find Becky and lacerate her with the per-
formance. At last he spied her, but there was a
sudden falling of his mercury. She was sitting cosily
on a little bench behind the schoolhouse looking at a
picture-book with Alfred Temple -- and so absorbed
were they, and their heads so close together over
the book, that they did not seem to be conscious of
anything in the world besides. Jealousy ran red-hot
through Tom's veins. He began to hate himself for
throwing away the chance Becky had offered for a
reconciliation. He called himself a fool, and all the
hard names he could think of. He wanted to cry with
vexation. Amy chatted happily along, as they walked,
for her heart was singing, but Tom's tongue had lost
its function. He did not hear what Amy was saying, and
whenever she paused expectantly he could only stammer
an awkward assent, which was as often misplaced as
otherwise. He kept drifting to the rear of the school-
house, again and again, to sear his eyeballs with the
hateful spectacle there. He could not help it. And
it maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that
Becky Thatcher never once suspected that he was even
in the land of the living. But she did see, nevertheless;
and she knew she was winning her fight, too, and was
glad to see him suffer as she had suffered.

Amy's happy prattle became intolerable. Tom hint-
ed at things he had to attend to; things that must
be done; and time was fleeting. But in vain -- the
girl chirped on. Tom thought, "Oh, hang her, ain't
I ever going to get rid of her?" At last he must be
attending to those things -- and she said artlessly that
she would be "around" when school let out. And he
hastened away, hating her for it.

"Any other boy!" Tom thought, grating his teeth.
"Any boy in the whole town but that Saint Louis
smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is aristocracy!
Oh, all right, I licked you the first day you ever saw this
town, mister, and I'll lick you again! You just wait
till I catch you out! I'll just take and --"

And he went through the motions of thrashing an
imaginary boy -- pummelling the air, and kicking and
gouging. "Oh, you do, do you? You holler 'nough,
do you? Now, then, let that learn you!" And so the
imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction.

Tom fled home at noon. His conscience could
not endure any more of Amy's grateful happiness, and
his jealousy could bear no more of the other distress.
Becky resumed her picture inspections with Alfred,
but as the minutes dragged along and no Tom came to
suffer, her triumph began to cloud and she lost inter-
est; gravity and absent-mindedness followed, and then
melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her ear
at a footstep, but it was a false hope; no Tom came.
At last she grew entirely miserable and wished she
hadn't carried it so far. When poor Alfred, seeing
that he was losing her, he did not know how, kept ex-
claiming: "Oh, here's a jolly one! look at this!" she lost
patience at last, and said, "Oh, don't bother me! I
don't care for them!" and burst into tears, and got up
and walked away.

Alfred dropped alongside and was going to try to
comfort her, but she said:

"Go away and leave me alone, can't you! I hate
you!"

So the boy halted, wondering what he could have
done -- for she had said she would look at pictures all
through the nooning -- and she walked on, crying.
Then Alfred went musing into the deserted school-
house. He was humiliated and angry. He easily
guessed his way to the truth -- the girl had simply made
a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom
Sawyer. He was far from hating Tom the less when
this thought occurred to him. He wished there was
some way to get that boy into trouble without much
risk to himself. Tom's spelling-book fell under his
eye. Here was his opportunity. He gratefully opened
to the lesson for the afternoon and poured ink upon the
page.

Becky, glancing in at a window behind him at the
moment, saw the act, and moved on, without discover-
ing herself. She started homeward, now, intending to
find Tom and tell him; Tom would be thankful and
their troubles would be healed. Before she was half
way home, however, she had changed her mind. The
thought of Tom's treatment of her when she was talking
about her picnic came scorching back and filled her
with shame. She resolved to let him get whipped on
the damaged spelling-book's account, and to hate him
forever, into the bargain.


CHAPTER XIX

TOM arrived at home in a dreary mood,
and the first thing his aunt said to him
showed him that he had brought his
sorrows to an unpromising market:

"Tom, I've a notion to skin you alive!"

"Auntie, what have I done?"

"Well, you've done enough. Here I go over to Se-
reny Harper, like an old softy, expecting I'm going to
make her believe all that rubbage about that dream,
when lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that
you was over here and heard all the talk we had that
night. Tom, I don't know what is to become of a boy
that will act like that. It makes me feel so bad to think
you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make such a
fool of myself and never say a word."

This was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness
of the morning had seemed to Tom a good joke be-
fore, and very ingenious. It merely looked mean and
shabby now. He hung his head and could not think
of anything to say for a moment. Then he said:

"Auntie, I wish I hadn't done it -- but I didn't think."

"Oh, child, you never think. You never think of
anything but your own selfishness. You could think
to come all the way over here from Jackson's Island in
the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think
to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't
ever think to pity us and save us from sorrow."

"Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn't
mean to be mean. I didn't, honest. And besides, I
didn't come over here to laugh at you that night."

"What did you come for, then?"

"It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, be-
cause we hadn't got drownded."

"Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this
world if I could believe you ever had as good a thought
as that, but you know you never did -- and I know it,
Tom."

"Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie -- I wish I may never
stir if I didn't."

"Oh, Tom, don't lie -- don't do it. It only makes
things a hundred times worse."

"It ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. I wanted to
keep you from grieving -- that was all that made me
come."

"I'd give the whole world to believe that -- it would
cover up a power of sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd
run off and acted so bad. But it ain't reasonable; be-
cause, why didn't you tell me, child?"

"Why, you see, when you got to talking about the
funeral, I just got all full of the idea of our coming and
hiding in the church, and I couldn't somehow bear to
spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my pocket and
kept mum."

"What bark?"

"The bark I had wrote on to tell you we'd gone
pirating. I wish, now, you'd waked up when I kissed
you -- I do, honest."

The hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sud-
den tenderness dawned in her eyes.

"DID you kiss me, Tom?"

"Why, yes, I did."

"Are you sure you did, Tom?"

"Why, yes, I did, auntie -- certain sure."

"What did you kiss me for, Tom?"

"Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning
and I was so sorry."

The words sounded like truth. The old lady could
not hide a tremor in her voice when she said:

"Kiss me again, Tom! -- and be off with you to
school, now, and don't bother me any more."

The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and
got out the ruin of a jacket which Tom had gone
pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her hand,
and said to herself:

"No, I don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied
about it -- but it's a blessed, blessed lie, there's such a
comfort come from it. I hope the Lord -- I KNOW the
Lord will forgive him, because it was such good-
heartedness in him to tell it. But I don't want to find
out it's a lie. I won't look."

She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a
minute. Twice she put out her hand to take the
garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more
she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with
the thought: "It's a good lie -- it's a good lie -- I won't
let it grieve me." So she sought the jacket pocket. A
moment later she was reading Tom's piece of bark
through flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the
boy, now, if he'd committed a million sins!"


CHAPTER XX

THERE was something about Aunt Polly's
manner, when she kissed Tom, that swept
away his low spirits and made him light-
hearted and happy again. He started to
school and had the luck of coming upon
Becky Thatcher at the head of Meadow
Lane. His mood always determined his manner.
Without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and said:

"I acted mighty mean to-day, Becky, and I'm so
sorry. I won't ever, ever do that way again, as long
as ever I live -- please make up, won't you?"

The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the
face:

"I'll thank you to keep yourself TO yourself, Mr.
Thomas Sawyer. I'll never speak to you again."

She tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so
stunned that he had not even presence of mind enough
to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until the right time
to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he
was in a fine rage, nevertheless. He moped into the
schoolyard wishing she were a boy, and imagining
how he would trounce her if she were. He presently
encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he
passed. She hurled one in return, and the angry
breach was complete. It seemed to Becky, in her hot
resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to
"take in," she was so impatient to see Tom flogged for
the injured spelling-book. If she had had any linger-
ing notion of exposing Alfred Temple, Tom's offensive
fling had driven it entirely away.

Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was near-
ing trouble herself. The master, Mr. Dobbins, had
reached middle age with an unsatisfied ambition. The
darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty
had decreed that he should be nothing higher than a
village schoolmaster. Every day he took a mysterious
book out of his desk and absorbed himself in it at times
when no classes were reciting. He kept that book un-
der lock and key. There was not an urchin in school
but was perishing to have a glimpse of it, but the chance
never came. Every boy and girl had a theory about
the nature of that book; but no two theories were alike,
and there was no way of getting at the facts in the case.
Now, as Becky was passing by the desk, which stood
near the door, she noticed that the key was in the lock!
It was a precious moment. She glanced around;
found herself alone, and the next instant she had the
book in her hands. The title-page -- Professor Some-
body's ANATOMY -- carried no information to her mind;
so she began to turn the leaves. She came at once upon
a handsomely engraved and colored frontispiece -- a hu-
man figure, stark naked. At that moment a shadow
fell on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the
door and caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky
snatched at the book to close it, and had the hard luck
to tear the pictured page half down the middle. She
thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and
burst out crying with shame and vexation.

"Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can
be, to sneak up on a person and look at what they're
looking at."

"How could I know you was looking at anything?"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer;
you know you're going to tell on me, and oh, what shall
I do, what shall I do! I'll be whipped, and I never was
whipped in school."

Then she stamped her little foot and said:

"BE so mean if you want to! I know something
that's going to happen. You just wait and you'll see!
Hateful, hateful, hateful!" -- and she flung out of the
house with a new explosion of crying.

Tom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught.
Presently he said to himself:

"What a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never
been licked in school! Shucks! What's a licking!
That's just like a girl -- they're so thin-skinned and
chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain't going to tell
old Dobbins on this little fool, because there's other
ways of getting even on her, that ain't so mean; but
what of it? Old Dobbins will ask who it was tore his
book. Nobody'll answer. Then he'll do just the way
he always does -- ask first one and then t'other, and
when he comes to the right girl he'll know it, without
any telling. Girls' faces always tell on them. They
ain't got any backbone. She'll get licked. Well, it's
a kind of a tight place for Becky Thatcher, because there
ain't any way out of it." Tom conned the thing a
moment longer, and then added: "All right, though;
she'd like to see me in just such a fix -- let her sweat it
out!"

Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside.
In a few moments the master arrived and school "took
in." Tom did not feel a strong interest in his studies.
Every time he stole a glance at the girls' side of the
room Becky's face troubled him. Considering all
things, he did not want to pity her, and yet it was all
he could do to help it. He could get up no exultation
that was really worthy the name. Presently the spell-
ing-book discovery was made, and Tom's mind was en-
tirely full of his own matters for a while after that.
Becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and
showed good interest in the proceedings. She did not
expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying
that he spilt the ink on the book himself; and she was
right. The denial only seemed to make the thing worse
for Tom. Becky supposed she would be glad of that,
and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found
she was not certain. When the worst came to the
worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on Alfred
Temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to
keep still -- because, said she to herself, "he'll tell about
me tearing the picture sure. I wouldn't say a word,
not to save his life!"

Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat
not at all broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible
that he had unknowingly upset the ink on the spelling-
book himself, in some skylarking bout -- he had denied
it for form's sake and because it was custom, and had
stuck to the denial from principle.

A whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in
his throne, the air was drowsy with the hum of study.
By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened himself up, yawn-
ed, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book,
but seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it.
Most of the pupils glanced up languidly, but there were
two among them that watched his movements with in-
tent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently for
a while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair
to read! Tom shot a glance at Becky. He had seen a
hunted and helpless rabbit look as she did, with a gun
levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot his quarrel
with her. Quick -- something must be done! done in a
flash, too! But the very imminence of the emergency
paralyzed his invention. Good! -- he had an inspira-
tion! He would run and snatch the book, spring
through the door and fly. But his resolution shook
for one little instant, and the chance was lost -- the
master opened the volume. If Tom only had the
wasted opportunity back again! Too late. There was
no help for Becky now, he said. The next moment the
master faced the school. Every eye sank under his gaze.
There was that in it which smote even the innocent
with fear. There was silence while one might count ten
-- the master was gathering his wrath. Then he spoke:
"Who tore this book?"

There was not a sound. One could have heard a
pin drop. The stillness continued; the master searched
face after face for signs of guilt.

"Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?"

A denial. Another pause.

"Joseph Harper, did you?"

Another denial. Tom's uneasiness grew more and
more intense under the slow torture of these proceedings.
The master scanned the ranks of boys -- considered a
while, then turned to the girls:

"Amy Lawrence?"

A shake of the head.

"Gracie Miller?"

The same sign.

"Susan Harper, did you do this?"

Another negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher.
Tom was trembling from head to foot with excitement
and a sense of the hopelessness of the situation.

"Rebecca Thatcher" [Tom glanced at her face -- it
was white with terror] -- "did you tear -- no, look me
in the face" [her hands rose in appeal] -- "did you tear
this book?"

A thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain.
He sprang to his feet and shouted -- "I done it!"

The school stared in perplexity at this incredible
folly. Tom stood a moment, to gather his dismem-
bered faculties; and when he stepped forward to go
to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the
adoration that shone upon him out of poor Becky's
eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred floggings.
Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without
an outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr.
Dobbins had ever administered; and also received with
indifference the added cruelty of a command to remain
two hours after school should be dismissed -- for he
knew who would wait for him outside till his captivity
was done, and not count the tedious time as loss, either.

Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance
against Alfred Temple; for with shame and repentance
Becky had told him all, not forgetting her own treachery;
but even the longing for vengeance had to give way,
soon, to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last
with Becky's latest words lingering dreamily in his ear --

"Tom, how COULD you be so noble!"


CHAPTER XXI

VACATION was approaching. The school-
master, always severe, grew severer and
more exacting than ever, for he wanted
the school to make a good showing on
"Examination" day. His rod and his
ferule were seldom idle now -- at least
among the smaller pupils. Only the biggest boys, and
young ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing.
Mr. Dobbins' lashings were very vigorous ones, too; for
although he carried, under his wig, a perfectly bald
and shiny head, he had only reached middle age, and
there was no sign of feebleness in his muscle. As
the great day approached, all the tyranny that was
in him came to the surface; he seemed to take a vin-
dictive pleasure in punishing the least shortcomings.
The consequence was, that the smaller boys spent their
days in terror and suffering and their nights in plotting
revenge. They threw away no opportunity to do the
master a mischief. But he kept ahead all the time.
The retribution that followed every vengeful success
was so sweeping and majestic that the boys always
retired from the field badly worsted. At last they con-
spired together and hit upon a plan that promised a
dazzling victory. They swore in the sign-painter's boy,
told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had his
own reasons for being delighted, for the master boarded
in his father's family and had given the boy ample
cause to hate him. The master's wife would go on a visit
to the country in a few days, and there would be nothing
to interfere with the plan; the master always pre-
pared himself for great occasions by getting pretty well
fuddled, and the sign-painter's boy said that when the
dominie had reached the proper condition on Examina-
tion Evening he would "manage the thing" while he
napped in his chair; then he would have him awakened
at the right time and hurried away to school.

In the fulness of time the interesting occasion ar-
rived. At eight in the evening the schoolhouse was
brilliantly lighted, and adorned with wreaths and fes-
toons of foliage and flowers. The master sat throned
in his great chair upon a raised platform, with his
blackboard behind him. He was looking tolerably
mellow. Three rows of benches on each side and six
rows in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of
the town and by the parents of the pupils. To his left,
back of the rows of citizens, was a spacious temporary
platform upon which were seated the scholars who were
to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of
small boys, washed and dressed to an intolerable state
of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys; snowbanks of
girls and young ladies clad in lawn and muslin and
conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their grand-
mothers' ancient trinkets, their bits of pink and blue
ribbon and the flowers in their hair. All the rest of
the house was filled with non-participating scholars.

The exercises began. A very little boy stood up and
sheepishly recited, "You'd scarce expect one of my
age to speak in public on the stage," etc. -- accompany-
ing himself with the painfully exact and spasmodic
gestures which a machine might have used -- supposing
the machine to be a trifle out of order. But he got
through safely, though cruelly scared, and got a fine
round of applause when he made his manufactured
bow and retired.

A little shamefaced girl lisped, "Mary had a little
lamb," etc., performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy,
got her meed of applause, and sat down flushed and
happy.

Tom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited con-
fidence and soared into the unquenchable and inde-
structible "Give me liberty or give me death" speech,
with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down
in the middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him,
his legs quaked under him and he was like to choke.
True, he had the manifest sympathy of the house but
he had the house's silence, too, which was even worse
than its sympathy. The master frowned, and this com-
pleted the disaster. Tom struggled awhile and then
retired, utterly defeated. There was a weak attempt
at applause, but it died early.

"The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck" followed;
also "The Assyrian Came Down," and other declama-
tory gems. Then there were reading exercises, and a
spelling fight. The meagre Latin class recited with
honor. The prime feature of the evening was in order,
now -- original "compositions" by the young ladies.
Each in her turn stepped forward to the edge of the
platform, cleared her throat, held up her manuscript
(tied with dainty ribbon), and proceeded to read, with
labored attention to "expression" and punctuation.
The themes were the same that had been illuminated
upon similar occasions by their mothers before them,
their grandmothers, and doubtless all their ancestors in
the female line clear back to the Crusades. "Friend-
ship" was one; "Memories of Other Days"; "Religion
in History"; "Dream Land"; "The Advantages of
Culture"; "Forms of Political Government Compared
and Contrasted"; "Melancholy"; "Filial Love";
"Heart Longings," etc., etc.

A prevalent feature in these compositions was a
nursed and petted melancholy; another was a wasteful
and opulent gush of "fine language"; another was a
tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words
and phrases until they were worn entirely out; and
a peculiarity that conspicuously marked and marred
them was the inveterate and intolerable sermon that
wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every
one of them. No matter what the subject might be, a
brain-racking effort was made to squirm it into some
aspect or other that the moral and religious mind could
contemplate with edification. The glaring insincerity
of these sermons was not sufficient to compass the
banishment of the fashion from the schools, and it is
not sufficient to-day; it never will be sufficient while
the world stands, perhaps. There is no school in all
our land where the young ladies do not feel obliged to
close their compositions with a sermon; and you will
find that the sermon of the most frivolous and the least
religious girl in the school is always the longest and the
most relentlessly pious. But enough of this. Homely
truth is unpalatable.

Let us return to the "Examination." The first
composition that was read was one entitled "Is this,
then, Life?" Perhaps the reader can endure an ex-
tract from it:

  "In the common walks of life, with what delightful
   emotions does the youthful mind look forward to some
   anticipated scene of festivity! Imagination is busy
   sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. In fancy, the
   voluptuous votary of fashion sees herself amid the
   festive throng, 'the observed of all observers.' Her
   graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is whirling
   through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is
   brightest, her step is lightest in the gay assembly.

  "In such delicious fancies time quickly glides by,
   and the welcome hour arrives for her entrance into
   the Elysian world, of which she has had such bright
   dreams. How fairy-like does everything appear to
   her enchanted vision! Each new scene is more charming
   than the last. But after a while she finds that
   beneath this goodly exterior, all is vanity, the
   flattery which once charmed her soul, now grates
   harshly upon her ear; the ball-room has lost its
   charms; and with wasted health and imbittered heart,
   she turns away with the conviction that earthly
   pleasures cannot satisfy the longings of the soul!"

And so forth and so on. There was a buzz of grati-
fication from time to time during the reading, accom-
panied by whispered ejaculations of "How sweet!"
"How eloquent!" "So true!" etc., and after the thing
had closed with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the
applause was enthusiastic.

Then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had
the "interesting" paleness that comes of pills and indi-
gestion, and read a "poem." Two stanzas of it will do:

   "A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA

   "Alabama, good-bye! I love thee well!
      But yet for a while do I leave thee now!
    Sad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell,
      And burning recollections throng my brow!
    For I have wandered through thy flowery woods;
      Have roamed and read near Tallapoosa's stream;
    Have listened to Tallassee's warring floods,
      And wooed on Coosa's side Aurora's beam.

   "Yet shame I not to bear an o'er-full heart,
      Nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes;
    'Tis from no stranger land I now must part,
      'Tis to no strangers left I yield these sighs.
    Welcome and home were mine within this State,
      Whose vales I leave -- whose spires fade fast from me
    And cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tete,
      When, dear Alabama! they turn cold on thee!"

There were very few there who knew what "tete"
meant, but the poem was very satisfactory, nevertheless.

Next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed,
black-haired young lady, who paused an impressive
moment, assumed a tragic expression, and began to
read in a measured, solemn tone:

  "A VISION

   "Dark and tempestuous was night. Around the
   throne on high not a single star quivered; but
   the deep intonations of the heavy thunder
   constantly vibrated upon the ear; whilst the
   terrific lightning revelled in angry mood
   through the cloudy chambers of heaven, seeming
   to scorn the power exerted over its terror by
   the illustrious Franklin! Even the boisterous
   winds unanimously came forth from their mystic
   homes, and blustered about as if to enhance by
   their aid the wildness of the scene.

   "At such a time,so dark,so dreary, for human
   sympathy my very spirit sighed; but instead thereof,

   "'My dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter
   and guide -- My joy in grief, my second bliss
   in joy,' came to my side. She moved like one of
   those bright beings pictured in the sunny walks
   of fancy's Eden by the romantic and young, a
   queen of beauty unadorned save by her own
   transcendent loveliness. So soft was her step, it
   failed to make even a sound, and but for the
   magical thrill imparted by her genial touch, as
   other unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided
   away un-perceived -- unsought. A strange sadness
   rested upon her features, like icy tears upon
   the robe of December, as she pointed to the
   contending elements without, and bade me contemplate
   the two beings presented."

This nightmare occupied some ten pages of manu-
script and wound up with a sermon so destructive of
all hope to non-Presbyterians that it took the first prize.
This composition was considered to be the very finest
effort of the evening. The mayor of the village, in
delivering the prize to the author of it, made a warm
speech in which he said that it was by far the most
"eloquent" thing he had ever listened to, and that
Daniel Webster himself might well be proud of it.

It may be remarked, in passing, that the number
of compositions in which the word "beauteous" was
over-fondled, and human experience referred to as
"life's page," was up to the usual average.

Now the master, mellow almost to the verge of
geniality, put his chair aside, turned his back to the
audience, and began to draw a map of America on
the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon.
But he made a sad business of it with his unsteady hand,
and a smothered titter rippled over the house. He
knew what the matter was, and set himself to right it.
He sponged out lines and remade them; but he only
distorted them more than ever, and the tittering was
more pronounced. He threw his entire attention upon
his work, now, as if determined not to be put down by
the mirth. He felt that all eyes were fastened upon
him; he imagined he was succeeding, and yet the titter-
ing continued; it even manifestly increased. And well
it might. There was a garret above, pierced with a
scuttle over his head; and down through this scuttle
came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a
string; she had a rag tied about her head and jaws
to keep her from mewing; as she slowly descended she
curved upward and clawed at the string, she swung
downward and clawed at the intangible air. The
tittering rose higher and higher -- the cat was within
six inches of the absorbed teacher's head -- down, down,
a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with her desperate
claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the garret
in an instant with her trophy still in her possession!
And how the light did blaze abroad from the master's
bald pate -- for the sign-painter's boy had GILDED it!

That broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged.
Vacation had come.

   NOTE:-- The pretended "compositions" quoted in
   this chapter are taken without alteration from a
   volume entitled "Prose and Poetry, by a Western
   Lady" -- but they are exactly and precisely after
   the schoolgirl pattern, and hence are much
   happier than any mere imitations could be.


CHAPTER XXII

TOM joined the new order of Cadets of
Temperance, being attracted by the showy
character of their "regalia." He promised
to abstain from smoking, chewing, and
profanity as long as he remained a mem-
ber. Now he found out a new thing --
namely, that to promise not to do a thing is the surest
way in the world to make a body want to go and do that
very thing. Tom soon found himself tormented with a
desire to drink and swear; the desire grew to be so
intense that nothing but the hope of a chance to dis-
play himself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing
from the order. Fourth of July was coming; but he
soon gave that up -- gave it up before he had worn his
shackles over forty-eight hours -- and fixed his hopes
upon old Judge Frazer, justice of the peace, who was
apparently on his deathbed and would have a big
public funeral, since he was so high an official. Dur-
ing three days Tom was deeply concerned about the
Judge's condition and hungry for news of it. Some-
times his hopes ran high -- so high that he would venture
to get out his regalia and practise before the looking-
glass. But the Judge had a most discouraging way
of fluctuating. At last he was pronounced upon the
mend -- and then convalescent. Tom was disgusted;
and felt a sense of injury, too. He handed in his res-
ignation at once -- and that night the Judge suffered a
relapse and died. Tom resolved that he would never
trust a man like that again.

The funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded
in a style calculated to kill the late member with envy.
Tom was a free boy again, however -- there was some-
thing in that. He could drink and swear, now -- but
found to his surprise that he did not want to. The
simple fact that he could, took the desire away, and
the charm of it.

Tom presently wondered to find that his coveted
vacation was beginning to hang a little heavily on his
hands.

He attempted a diary -- but nothing happened dur-
ing three days, and so he abandoned it.

The first of all the negro minstrel shows came to
town, and made a sensation. Tom and Joe Harper
got up a band of performers and were happy for two
days.

Even the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a failure,
for it rained hard, there was no procession in con-
sequence, and the greatest man in the world (as Tom
supposed), Mr. Benton, an actual United States Senator,
proved an overwhelming disappointment -- for he was
not twenty-five feet high, nor even anywhere in the
neighborhood of it.

A circus came. The boys played circus for three
days afterward in tents made of rag carpeting -- ad-
mission, three pins for boys, two for girls -- and then
circusing was abandoned.

A phrenologist and a mesmerizer came -- and went
again and left the village duller and drearier than
ever.

There were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they
were so few and so delightful that they only made the
aching voids between ache the harder.

Becky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople
home to stay with her parents during vacation -- so
there was no bright side to life anywhere.

The dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic
misery. It was a very cancer for permanency and
pain.

Then came the measles.

During two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner, dead
to the world and its happenings. He was very ill, he
was interested in nothing. When he got upon his feet
at last and moved feebly down-town, a melancholy
change had come over everything and every creature.
There had been a "revival," and everybody had "got
religion," not only the adults, but even the boys and
girls. Tom went about, hoping against hope for the
sight of one blessed sinful face, but disappointment
crossed him everywhere. He found Joe Harper study-
ing a Testament, and turned sadly away from the de-
pressing spectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found
him visiting the poor with a basket of tracts. He hunted
up Jim Hollis, who called his attention to the precious
blessing of his late measles as a warning. Every boy
he encountered added another ton to his depression;
and when, in desperation, he flew for refuge at last to
the bosom of Huckleberry Finn and was received with
a Scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept
home and to bed realizing that he alone of all the town
was lost, forever and forever.

And that night there came on a terrific storm, with
driving rain, awful claps of thunder and blinding sheets
of lightning. He covered his head with the bedclothes
and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for he
had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was
about him. He believed he had taxed the forbearance
of the powers above to the extremity of endurance and
that this was the result. It might have seemed to him
a waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a
battery of artillery, but there seemed nothing incon-
gruous about the getting up such an expensive thunder-
storm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like
himself.

By and by the tempest spent itself and died without
accomplishing its object. The boy's first impulse was
to be grateful, and reform. His second was to wait
-- for there might not be any more storms.

The next day the doctors were back; Tom had re-
lapsed. The three weeks he spent on his back this time
seemed an entire age. When he got abroad at last he
was hardly grateful that he had been spared, remem-
bering how lonely was his estate, how companionless
and forlorn he was. He drifted listlessly down the
street and found Jim Hollis acting as judge in a juvenile
court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence
of her victim, a bird. He found Joe Harper and Huck
Finn up an alley eating a stolen melon. Poor lads!
they -- like Tom -- had suffered a relapse.


CHAPTER XXIII

AT last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred --
and vigorously: the murder trial came on
in the court. It became the absorbing
topic of village talk immediately. Tom
could not get away from it. Every ref-
erence to the murder sent a shudder to
his heart, for his troubled conscience and fears almost
persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his
hearing as "feelers"; he did not see how he could be
suspected of knowing anything about the murder, but
still he could not be comfortable in the midst of this
gossip. It kept him in a cold shiver all the time. He
took Huck to a lonely place to have a talk with him.
It would be some relief to unseal his tongue for a little
while; to divide his burden of distress with another suf-
ferer. Moreover, he wanted to assure himself that
Huck had remained discreet.

"Huck, have you ever told anybody about -- that?"

"'Bout what?"

"You know what."

"Oh -- 'course I haven't."

"Never a word?"

"Never a solitary word, so help me. What makes
you ask?"

"Well, I was afeard."

"Why, Tom Sawyer, we wouldn't be alive two days
if that got found out. YOU know that."

Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause:

"Huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could
they?"

"Get me to tell? Why, if I wanted that half-breed
devil to drownd me they could get me to tell. They
ain't no different way."

"Well, that's all right, then. I reckon we're safe
as long as we keep mum. But let's swear again, any-
way. It's more surer."

"I'm agreed."

So they swore again with dread solemnities.

"What is the talk around, Huck? I've heard a
power of it."

"Talk? Well, it's just Muff Potter, Muff Potter,
Muff Potter all the time. It keeps me in a sweat, con-
stant, so's I want to hide som'ers."

"That's just the same way they go on round me.
I reckon he's a goner. Don't you feel sorry for him,
sometimes?"

"Most always -- most always. He ain't no account;
but then he hain't ever done anything to hurt anybody.
Just fishes a little, to get money to get drunk on -- and
loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do that --
leastways most of us -- preachers and such like. But
he's kind of good -- he give me half a fish, once, when
there warn't enough for two; and lots of times he's kind
of stood by me when I was out of luck."

"Well, he's mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted
hooks on to my line. I wish we could get him out of
there."

"My! we couldn't get him out, Tom. And besides,
'twouldn't do any good; they'd ketch him again."

"Yes -- so they would. But I hate to hear 'em abuse
him so like the dickens when he never done -- that."

"I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say he's the
bloodiest looking villain in this country, and they won-
der he wasn't ever hung before."

"Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I've heard
'em say that if he was to get free they'd lynch him."

"And they'd do it, too."

The boys had a long talk, but it brought them little
comfort. As the twilight drew on, they found them-
selves hanging about the neighborhood of the little
isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that
something would happen that might clear away their
difficulties. But nothing happened; there seemed to
be no angels or fairies interested in this luckless
captive.

The boys did as they had often done before -- went
to the cell grating and gave Potter some tobacco and
matches. He was on the ground floor and there were
no guards.

His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their
consciences before -- it cut deeper than ever, this time.
They felt cowardly and treacherous to the last degree
when Potter said:

"You've been mighty good to me, boys -- better'n any-
body else in this town. And I don't forget it, I don't.
Often I says to myself, says I, 'I used to mend all the
boys' kites and things, and show 'em where the good
fishin' places was, and befriend 'em what I could, and
now they've all forgot old Muff when he's in trouble;
but Tom don't, and Huck don't -- THEY don't forget him,
says I, 'and I don't forget them.' Well, boys, I done
an awful thing -- drunk and crazy at the time -- that's
the only way I account for it -- and now I got to swing
for it, and it's right. Right, and BEST, too, I reckon --
hope so, anyway. Well, we won't talk about that. I
don't want to make YOU feel bad; you've befriended me.
But what I want to say, is, don't YOU ever get drunk --
then you won't ever get here. Stand a litter furder west
-- so -- that's it; it's a prime comfort to see faces that's
friendly when a body's in such a muck of trouble, and
there don't none come here but yourn. Good friendly
faces -- good friendly faces. Git up on one another's
backs and let me touch 'em. That's it. Shake hands
-- yourn'll come through the bars, but mine's too big.
Little hands, and weak -- but they've helped Muff
Potter a power, and they'd help him more if they
could."

Tom went home miserable, and his dreams that
night were full of horrors. The next day and the day
after, he hung about the court-room, drawn by an al-
most irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself
to stay out. Huck was having the same experience.
They studiously avoided each other. Each wandered
away, from time to time, but the same dismal fascina-
tion always brought them back presently. Tom kept
his ears open when idlers sauntered out of the court-
room, but invariably heard distressing news -- the toils
were closing more and more relentlessly around poor
Potter. At the end of the second day the village talk
was to the effect that Injun Joe's evidence stood firm
and unshaken, and that there was not the slightest ques-
tion as to what the jury's verdict would be.

Tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through
the window. He was in a tremendous state of excite-
ment. It was hours before he got to sleep. All the
village flocked to the court-house the next morning, for
this was to be the great day. Both sexes were about
equally represented in the packed audience. After a
long wait the jury filed in and took their places; shortly
afterward, Potter, pale and haggard, timid and hopeless,
was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where
all the curious eyes could stare at him; no less con-
spicuous was Injun Joe, stolid as ever. There was an-
other pause, and then the judge arrived and the sheriff
proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual whis-
perings among the lawyers and gathering together of
papers followed. These details and accompanying
delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation that
was as impressive as it was fascinating.

Now a witness was called who testified that he found
Muff Potter washing in the brook, at an early hour of
the morning that the murder was discovered, and that
he immediately sneaked away. After some further ques-
tioning, counsel for the prosecution said:

"Take the witness."

The prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but
dropped them again when his own counsel said:

"I have no questions to ask him."

The next witness proved the finding of the knife
near the corpse. Counsel for the prosecution said:

"Take the witness."

"I have no questions to ask him," Potter's lawyer
replied.

A third witness swore he had often seen the knife in
Potter's possession.

"Take the witness."

Counsel for Potter declined to question him. The
faces of the audience began to betray annoyance.
Did this attorney mean to throw away his client's life
without an effort?

Several witnesses deposed concerning Potter's guilty
behavior when brought to the scene of the murder.
They were allowed to leave the stand without being
cross-questioned.

Every detail of the damaging circumstances that
occurred in the graveyard upon that morning which
all present remembered so well was brought out by
credible witnesses, but none of them were cross-
examined by Potter's lawyer. The perplexity and
dissatisfaction of the house expressed itself in mur-
murs and provoked a reproof from the bench. Counsel
for the prosecution now said:

"By the oaths of citizens whose simple word is
above suspicion, we have fastened this awful crime,
beyond all possibility of question, upon the unhappy
prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here."

A groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his
face in his hands and rocked his body softly to and
fro, while a painful silence reigned in the court-room.
Many men were moved, and many women's com-
passion testified itself in tears. Counsel for the de-
fence rose and said:

"Your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this
trial, we foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our
client did this fearful deed while under the influence
of a blind and irresponsible delirium produced by drink.
We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that
plea." [Then to the clerk:] "Call Thomas Sawyer!"

A puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the
house, not even excepting Potter's. Every eye fast-
ened itself with wondering interest upon Tom as he
rose and took his place upon the stand. The boy
looked wild enough, for he was badly scared. The
oath was administered.

"Thomas Sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth
of June, about the hour of midnight?"

Tom glanced at Injun Joe's iron face and his tongue
failed him. The audience listened breathless, but the
words refused to come. After a few moments, however,
the boy got a little of his strength back, and managed
to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the
house hear:

"In the graveyard!"

"A little bit louder, please. Don't be afraid. You
were --"

"In the graveyard."

A contemptuous smile flitted across Injun Joe's face.

"Were you anywhere near Horse Williams' grave?"

"Yes, sir."

"Speak up -- just a trifle louder. How near were
you?"

"Near as I am to you."

"Were you hidden, or not?"

"I was hid."

"Where?"

"Behind the elms that's on the edge of the grave."

Injun Joe gave a barely perceptible start.

"Any one with you?"

"Yes, sir. I went there with --"

"Wait -- wait a moment. Never mind mentioning
your companion's name. We will produce him at the
proper time. Did you carry anything there with you."

Tom hesitated and looked confused.

"Speak out, my boy -- don't be diffident. The truth
is always respectable. What did you take there?"

"Only a -- a -- dead cat."

There was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.

"We will produce the skeleton of that cat. Now,
my boy, tell us everything that occurred -- tell it in
your own way -- don't skip anything, and don't be
afraid."

Tom began -- hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed
to his subject his words flowed more and more easily;
in a little while every sound ceased but his own voice;
every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips and
bated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking
no note of time, rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the
tale. The strain upon pent emotion reached its climax
when the boy said:

"-- and as the doctor fetched the board around and
Muff Potter fell, Injun Joe jumped with the knife
and --"

Crash! Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang
for a window, tore his way through all opposers, and
was gone!


CHAPTER XXIV

TOM was a glittering hero once more -- the
pet of the old, the envy of the young.
His name even went into immortal print,
for the village paper magnified him.
There were some that believed he would
be President, yet, if he escaped hanging.

As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff
Potter to its bosom and fondled him as lavishly as it
had abused him before. But that sort of conduct is
to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find
fault with it.

Tom's days were days of splendor and exultation
to him, but his nights were seasons of horror. Injun
Joe infested all his dreams, and always with doom
in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade
the boy to stir abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck
was in the same state of wretchedness and terror, for
Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer the night
before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore
afraid that his share in the business might leak out,
yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe's flight had saved
him the suffering of testifying in court. The poor
fellow had got the attorney to promise secrecy, but
what of that? Since Tom's harassed conscience had
managed to drive him to the lawyer's house by night
and wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed
with the dismalest and most formidable of oaths,
Huck's confidence in the human race was well-nigh
obliterated.

Daily Muff Potter's gratitude made Tom glad he
had spoken; but nightly he wished he had sealed up
his tongue.

Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would
never be captured; the other half he was afraid he
would be. He felt sure he never could draw a safe
breath again until that man was dead and he had
seen the corpse.

Rewards had been offered, the country had been
scoured, but no Injun Joe was found. One of those
omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a detective,
came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his
head, looked wise, and made that sort of astounding
success which members of that craft usually achieve.
That is to say, he "found a clew." But you can't
hang a "clew" for murder, and so after that detec-
tive had got through and gone home, Tom felt just
as insecure as he was before.

The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it
a slightly lightened weight of apprehension.


CHAPTER XXV

THERE comes a time in every rightly-
constructed boy's life when he has a
raging desire to go somewhere and dig
for hidden treasure. This desire sud-
denly came upon Tom one day. He sal-
lied out to find Joe Harper, but failed
of success. Next he sought Ben Rogers; he had gone
fishing. Presently he stumbled upon Huck Finn the
Red-Handed. Huck would answer. Tom took him to
a private place and opened the matter to him confi-
dentially. Huck was willing. Huck was always willing
to take a hand in any enterprise that offered enter-
tainment and required no capital, for he had a troub-
lesome superabundance of that sort of time which is
not money. "Where'll we dig?" said Huck.

"Oh, most anywhere."

"Why, is it hid all around?"

"No, indeed it ain't. It's hid in mighty particular
places, Huck -- sometimes on islands, sometimes in rot-
ten chests under the end of a limb of an old dead tree,
just where the shadow falls at midnight; but mostly
under the floor in ha'nted houses."

"Who hides it?"

"Why, robbers, of course -- who'd you reckon? Sun-
day-school sup'rintendents?"

"I don't know. If 'twas mine I wouldn't hide it;
I'd spend it and have a good time."

"So would I. But robbers don't do that way. They
always hide it and leave it there."

"Don't they come after it any more?"

"No, they think they will, but they generally forget
the marks, or else they die. Anyway, it lays there a
long time and gets rusty; and by and by somebody
finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the
marks -- a paper that's got to be ciphered over about a
week because it's mostly signs and hy'roglyphics."

"HyroQwhich?"

"Hy'roglyphics -- pictures and things, you know, that
don't seem to mean anything."

"Have you got one of them papers, Tom?"

"No."

"Well then, how you going to find the marks?"

"I don't want any marks. They always bury it
under a ha'nted house or on an island, or under a
dead tree that's got one limb sticking out. Well,
we've tried Jackson's Island a little, and we can try
it again some time; and there's the old ha'nted house
up the Still-House branch, and there's lots of dead-
limb trees -- dead loads of 'em."

"Is it under all of them?"

"How you talk! No!"

"Then how you going to know which one to go for?"

"Go for all of 'em!"

"Why, Tom, it'll take all summer."

"Well, what of that? Suppose you find a brass
pot with a hundred dollars in it, all rusty and gray, or
rotten chest full of di'monds. How's that?"

Huck's eyes glowed.

"That's bully. Plenty bully enough for me. Just
you gimme the hundred dollars and I don't want no
di'monds."

"All right. But I bet you I ain't going to throw
off on di'monds. Some of 'em's worth twenty dol-
lars apiece -- there ain't any, hardly, but's worth six
bits or a dollar."

"No! Is that so?"

"Cert'nly -- anybody'll tell you so. Hain't you ever
seen one, Huck?"

"Not as I remember."

"Oh, kings have slathers of them."

"Well, I don' know no kings, Tom."

"I reckon you don't. But if you was to go to
Europe you'd see a raft of 'em hopping around."

"Do they hop?"

"Hop? -- your granny! No!"

"Well, what did you say they did, for?"

"Shucks, I only meant you'd SEE 'em -- not hopping,
of course -- what do they want to hop for? -- but I mean
you'd just see 'em -- scattered around, you know, in a
kind of a general way. Like that old humpbacked
Richard."

"Richard? What's his other name?"

"He didn't have any other name. Kings don't
have any but a given name."

"No?"

"But they don't."

"Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don't want
to be a king and have only just a given name, like a
nigger. But say -- where you going to dig first?"

"Well, I don't know. S'pose we tackle that old
dead-limb tree on the hill t'other side of Still-House
branch?"

"I'm agreed."

So they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set
out on their three-mile tramp. They arrived hot and
panting, and threw themselves down in the shade of a
neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.

"I like this," said Tom.

"So do I."

"Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you
going to do with your share?"

"Well, I'll have pie and a glass of soda every day,
and I'll go to every circus that comes along. I bet I'll
have a gay time."

"Well, ain't you going to save any of it?"

"Save it? What for?"

"Why, so as to have something to live on, by and
by."

"Oh, that ain't any use. Pap would come back to
thish-yer town some day and get his claws on it if I
didn't hurry up, and I tell you he'd clean it out pretty
quick. What you going to do with yourn, Tom?"

"I'm going to buy a new drum, and a sure-'nough
sword, and a red necktie and a bull pup, and get mar-
ried."

"Married!"

"That's it."

"Tom, you -- why, you ain't in your right mind."

"Wait -- you'll see."

"Well, that's the foolishest thing you could do.
Look at pap and my mother. Fight! Why, they used
to fight all the time. I remember, mighty well."

"That ain't anything. The girl I'm going to marry
won't fight."

"Tom, I reckon they're all alike. They'll all comb
a body. Now you better think 'bout this awhile. I
tell you you better. What's the name of the gal?"

"It ain't a gal at all -- it's a girl."

"It's all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some
says girl -- both's right, like enough. Anyway, what's
her name, Tom?"

"I'll tell you some time -- not now."

"All right -- that'll do. Only if you get married I'll
be more lonesomer than ever."

"No you won't. You'll come and live with me.
Now stir out of this and we'll go to digging."

They worked and sweated for half an hour. No
result. They toiled another half-hour. Still no result.
Huck said:

"Do they always bury it as deep as this?"

"Sometimes -- not always. Not generally. I reckon
we haven't got the right place."

So they chose a new spot and began again. The
labor dragged a little, but still they made progress.
They pegged away in silence for some time. Finally
Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops
from his brow with his sleeve, and said:

"Where you going to dig next, after we get this
one?"

"I reckon maybe we'll tackle the old tree that's
over yonder on Cardiff Hill back of the widow's."

"I reckon that'll be a good one. But won't the
widow take it away from us, Tom? It's on her land."

"SHE take it away! Maybe she'd like to try it once.
Whoever finds one of these hid treasures, it belongs
to him. It don't make any difference whose land
it's on."

That was satisfactory. The work went on. By
and by Huck said:

"Blame it, we must be in the wrong place again.
What do you think?"

"It is mighty curious, Huck. I don't understand it.
Sometimes witches interfere. I reckon maybe that's
what's the trouble now."

"Shucks! Witches ain't got no power in the day-
time."

"Well, that's so. I didn't think of that. Oh, I
know what the matter is! What a blamed lot of fools
we are! You got to find out where the shadow of the
limb falls at midnight, and that's where you dig!"

"Then consound it, we've fooled away all this work
for nothing. Now hang it all, we got to come back
in the night. It's an awful long way. Can you get
out?"

"I bet I will. We've got to do it to-night, too, be-
cause if somebody sees these holes they'll know in a
minute what's here and they'll go for it."

"Well, I'll come around and maow to-night."

"All right. Let's hide the tools in the bushes."

The boys were there that night, about the appoint-
ed time. They sat in the shadow waiting. It was a
lonely place, and an hour made solemn by old traditions.
Spirits whispered in the rustling leaves, ghosts lurked
in the murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated
up out of the distance, an owl answered with his
sepulchral note. The boys were subdued by these
solemnities, and talked little. By and by they judged
that twelve had come; they marked where the shadow
fell, and began to dig. Their hopes commenced to rise.
Their interest grew stronger, and their industry kept
pace with it. The hole deepened and still deepened,
but every time their hearts jumped to hear the pick
strike upon something, they only suffered a new disap-
pointment. It was only a stone or a chunk. At last
Tom said:

"It ain't any use, Huck, we're wrong again."

"Well, but we CAN'T be wrong. We spotted the
shadder to a dot."

"I know it, but then there's another thing."

"What's that?".

"Why, we only guessed at the time. Like enough
it was too late or too early."

Huck dropped his shovel.

"That's it," said he. "That's the very trouble.
We got to give this one up. We can't ever tell the
right time, and besides this kind of thing's too awful,
here this time of night with witches and ghosts a-flut-
tering around so. I feel as if something's behind
me all the time;  and I'm afeard to turn around,
becuz maybe there's others in front a-waiting for a
chance. I been creeping all over, ever since I got
here."

"Well, I've been pretty much so, too, Huck. They
most always put in a dead man when they bury a
treasure under a tree, to look out for it."

"Lordy!"

"Yes, they do. I've always heard that."

"Tom, I don't like to fool around much where
there's dead people. A body's bound to get into
trouble with 'em, sure."

"I don't like to stir 'em up, either. S'pose this one
here was to stick his skull out and say something!"

"Don't Tom! It's awful."

"Well, it just is. Huck, I don't feel comfortable
a bit."

"Say, Tom, let's give this place up, and try some-
wheres else."

"All right, I reckon we better."

"What'll it be?"

Tom considered awhile; and then said:

"The ha'nted house. That's it!"

"Blame it, I don't like ha'nted houses, Tom. Why,
they're a dern sight worse'n dead people. Dead people
might talk, maybe, but they don't come sliding around
in a shroud, when you ain't noticing, and peep over
your shoulder all of a sudden and grit their teeth, the
way a ghost does. I couldn't stand such a thing as that,
Tom -- nobody could."

"Yes, but, Huck, ghosts don't travel around only
at night. They won't hender us from digging there in
the daytime."

"Well, that's so. But you know mighty well people
don't go about that ha'nted house in the day nor the
night."

"Well, that's mostly because they don't like to go
where a man's been murdered, anyway -- but nothing's
ever been seen around that house except in the night --
just some blue lights slipping by the windows -- no
regular ghosts."

"Well, where you see one of them blue lights flicker-
ing around, Tom, you can bet there's a ghost mighty
close behind it. It stands to reason. Becuz you know
that they don't anybody but ghosts use 'em."

"Yes, that's so. But anyway they don't come
around in the daytime, so what's the use of our being
afeard?"

"Well, all right. We'll tackle the ha'nted house
if you say so -- but I reckon it's taking chances."

They had started down the hill by this time. There
in the middle of the moonlit valley below them stood
the "ha'nted" house, utterly isolated, its fences gone
long ago, rank weeds smothering the very doorsteps,
the chimney crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes
vacant, a corner of the roof caved in. The boys gazed
awhile, half expecting to see a blue light flit past a
window; then talking in a low tone, as befitted the time
and the circumstances, they struck far off to the right,
to give the haunted house a wide berth, and took their
way homeward through the woods that adorned the
rearward side of Cardiff Hill.


CHAPTER XXVI

ABOUT noon the next day the boys ar-
rived at the dead tree; they had come
for their tools. Tom was impatient
to go to the haunted house; Huck
was measurably so, also -- but suddenly
said:

"Lookyhere, Tom, do you know what day it is?"

Tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and
then quickly lifted his eyes with a startled look in
them --

"My! I never once thought of it, Huck!"

"Well, I didn't neither, but all at once it popped
onto me that it was Friday."

"Blame it, a body can't be too careful, Huck. We
might 'a' got into an awful scrape, tackling such a thing
on a Friday."

"MIGHT! Better say we WOULD! There's some lucky
days, maybe, but Friday ain't."

"Any fool knows that. I don't reckon YOU was the
first that found it out, Huck."

"Well, I never said I was, did I? And Friday ain't
all, neither. I had a rotten bad dream last night --
dreampt about rats."

"No! Sure sign of trouble. Did they fight?"

"No."

"Well, that's good, Huck. When they don't fight
it's only a sign that there's trouble around, you know.
All we got to do is to look mighty sharp and keep out of
it. We'll drop this thing for to-day, and play. Do
you know Robin Hood, Huck?"

"No. Who's Robin Hood?"

"Why, he was one of the greatest men that was
ever in England -- and the best. He was a rob-
ber."

"Cracky, I wisht I was. Who did he rob?"

"Only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings,
and such like. But he never bothered the poor. He
loved 'em. He always divided up with 'em perfectly
square."

"Well, he must 'a' been a brick."

"I bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the noblest
man that ever was. They ain't any such men now, I
can tell you. He could lick any man in England, with
one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew
bow and plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a
half."

"What's a YEW bow?"

"I don't know. It's some kind of a bow, of course.
And if he hit that dime only on the edge he would set
down and cry -- and curse. But we'll play Robin Hood
-- it's nobby fun. I'll learn you."

"I'm agreed."

So they played Robin Hood all the afternoon, now
and then casting a yearning eye down upon the haunted
house and passing a remark about the morrow's pros-
pects and possibilities there. As the sun began to sink
into the west they took their way homeward athwart the
long shadows of the trees and soon were buried from
sight in the forests of Cardiff Hill.

On Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were
at the dead tree again. They had a smoke and a
chat in the shade, and then dug a little in their last
hole, not with great hope, but merely because Tom
said there were so many cases where people had given
up a treasure after getting down within six inches of it,
and then somebody else had come along and turned
it up with a single thrust of a shovel. The thing failed
this time, however, so the boys shouldered their tools
and went away feeling that they had not trifled with
fortune, but had fulfilled all the requirements that be-
long to the business of treasure-hunting.

When they reached the haunted house there was
something so weird and grisly about the dead silence
that reigned there under the baking sun, and some-
thing so depressing about the loneliness and desola-
tion of the place, that they were afraid, for a mo-
ment, to venture in. Then they crept to the door and
took a trembling peep. They saw a weed-grown,
floorless room, unplastered, an ancient fireplace, va-
cant windows, a ruinous staircase; and here, there,
and everywhere hung ragged and abandoned cobwebs.
They presently entered, softly, with quickened pulses,
talking in whispers, ears alert to catch the slightest
sound, and muscles tense and ready for instant retreat.

In a little while familiarity modified their fears and
they gave the place a critical and interested exam-
ination, rather admiring their own boldness, and won-
dering at it, too. Next they wanted to look up-stairs.
This was something like cutting off retreat, but they got
to daring each other, and of course there could be but
one result -- they threw their tools into a corner and made
the ascent. Up there were the same signs of decay.
In one corner they found a closet that promised mystery,
but the promise was a fraud -- there was nothing in it.
Their courage was up now and well in hand. They
were about to go down and begin work when --

"Sh!" said Tom.

"What is it?" whispered Huck, blanching with fright.

"Sh! ... There! ... Hear it?"

"Yes! ... Oh, my! Let's run!"

"Keep still! Don't you budge! They're coming
right toward the door."

The boys stretched themselves upon the floor with
their eyes to knot-holes in the planking, and lay wait-
ing, in a misery of fear.

"They've stopped.... No -- coming.... Here they
are. Don't whisper another word, Huck. My good-
ness, I wish I was out of this!"

Two men entered. Each boy said to himself:
"There's the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's been
about town once or twice lately -- never saw t'other
man before."

"T'other" was a ragged, unkempt creature, with
nothing very pleasant in his face. The Spaniard was
wrapped in a serape; he had bushy white whiskers; long
white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and he
wore green goggles. When they came in, "t'other" was
talking in a low voice; they sat down on the ground,
facing the door, with their backs to the wall, and the
speaker continued his remarks. His manner became
less guarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded:

"No," said he, "I've thought it all over, and I don't
like it. It's dangerous."

"Dangerous!" grunted the "deaf and dumb" Span-
iard -- to the vast surprise of the boys. "Milksop!"

This voice made the boys gasp and quake. It was
Injun Joe's! There was silence for some time. Then
Joe said:

"What's any more dangerous than that job up yon-
der -- but nothing's come of it."

"That's different. Away up the river so, and not
another house about. 'Twon't ever be known that we
tried, anyway, long as we didn't succeed."

"Well, what's more dangerous than coming here in
the daytime! -- anybody would suspicion us that saw us."

"I know that. But there warn't any other place as
handy after that fool of a job. I want to quit this
shanty. I wanted to yesterday, only it warn't any use
trying to stir out of here, with those infernal boys play-
ing over there on the hill right in full view."

"Those infernal boys" quaked again under the in-
spiration of this remark, and thought how lucky it was
that they had remembered it was Friday and concluded
to wait a day. They wished in their hearts they had
waited a year.

The two men got out some food and made a luncheon.
After a long and thoughtful silence, Injun Joe said:

"Look here, lad -- you go back up the river where
you belong. Wait there till you hear from me. I'll
take the chances on dropping into this town just once
more, for a look. We'll do that 'dangerous' job after
I've spied around a little and think things look well for
it. Then for Texas! We'll leg it together!"

This was satisfactory. Both men presently fell to
yawning, and Injun Joe said:

"I'm dead for sleep! It's your turn to watch."

He curled down in the weeds and soon began to
snore. His comrade stirred him once or twice and he
became quiet. Presently the watcher began to nod;
his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to
snore now.

The boys drew a long, grateful breath. Tom whis-
pered:

"Now's our chance -- come!"

Huck said:

"I can't -- I'd die if they was to wake."

Tom urged -- Huck held back. At last Tom rose
slowly and softly, and started alone. But the first
step he made wrung such a hideous creak from the
crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright.
He never made a second attempt. The boys lay there
counting the dragging moments till it seemed to them
that time must be done and eternity growing gray; and
then they were grateful to note that at last the sun was
setting.

Now one snore ceased. Injun Joe sat up, stared
around -- smiled grimly upon his comrade, whose head
was drooping upon his knees -- stirred him up with his
foot and said:

"Here! YOU'RE a watchman, ain't you! All right,
though -- nothing's happened."

"My! have I been asleep?"

"Oh, partly, partly. Nearly time for us to be mov-
ing, pard. What'll we do with what little swag we've
got left?"

"I don't know -- leave it here as we've always done,
I reckon. No use to take it away till we start
south. Six hundred and fifty in silver's something to
carry."

"Well -- all right -- it won't matter to come here once
more."

"No -- but I'd say come in the night as we used to do
-- it's better."

"Yes: but look here; it may be a good while before
I get the right chance at that job; accidents might hap-
pen; 'tain't in such a very good place; we'll just regularly
bury it -- and bury it deep."

"Good idea," said the comrade, who walked across
the room, knelt down, raised one of the rearward hearth-
stones and took out a bag that jingled pleasantly. He
subtracted from it twenty or thirty dollars for himself
and as much for Injun Joe, and passed the bag to the
latter, who was on his knees in the corner, now, digging
with his bowie-knife.

The boys forgot all their fears, all their miseries
in an instant. With gloating eyes they watched every
movement. Luck! -- the splendor of it was beyond all
imagination! Six hundred dollars was money enough
to make half a dozen boys rich! Here was treasure-
hunting under the happiest auspices -- there would not
be any bothersome uncertainty as to where to dig.
They nudged each other every moment -- eloquent
nudges and easily understood, for they simply meant --
"Oh, but ain't you glad NOW we're here!"

Joe's knife struck upon something.

"Hello!" said he.

"What is it?" said his comrade.

"Half-rotten plank -- no, it's a box, I believe. Here --
bear a hand and we'll see what it's here for. Never
mind, I've broke a hole."

He reached his hand in and drew it out --

"Man, it's money!"

The two men examined the handful of coins. They
were gold. The boys above were as excited as them-
selves, and as delighted.

Joe's comrade said:

"We'll make quick work of this. There's an old
rusty pick over amongst the weeds in the corner the
other side of the fireplace -- I saw it a minute ago."

He ran and brought the boys' pick and shovel. Injun
Joe took the pick, looked it over critically, shook his
head, muttered something to himself, and then began
to use it. The box was soon unearthed. It was not
very large; it was iron bound and had been very strong
before the slow years had injured it. The men con-
templated the treasure awhile in blissful silence.

"Pard, there's thousands of dollars here," said Injun
Joe.

"'Twas always said that Murrel's gang used to be
around here one summer," the stranger observed.

"I know it," said Injun Joe; "and this looks like it,
I should say."

"Now you won't need to do that job."

The half-breed frowned. Said he:

"You don't know me. Least you don't know all
about that thing. 'Tain't robbery altogether -- it's
REVENGE!" and a wicked light flamed in his eyes. "I'll
need your help in it. When it's finished -- then Texas.
Go home to your Nance and your kids, and stand by
till you hear from me."

"Well -- if you say so; what'll we do with this -- bury
it again?"

"Yes. [Ravishing delight overhead.] NO! by the
great Sachem, no! [Profound distress overhead.] I'd
nearly forgot. That pick had fresh earth on it! [The
boys were sick with terror in a moment.] What busi-
ness has a pick and a shovel here? What business with
fresh earth on them? Who brought them here -- and
where are they gone? Have you heard anybody? --
seen anybody? What! bury it again and leave them to
come and see the ground disturbed? Not exactly -- not
exactly. We'll take it to my den."

"Why, of course! Might have thought of that be-
fore. You mean Number One?"

"No -- Number Two -- under the cross. The other
place is bad -- too common."

"All right. It's nearly dark enough to start."

Injun Joe got up and went about from window to
window cautiously peeping out. Presently he said:

"Who could have brought those tools here? Do
you reckon they can be up-stairs?"

The boys' breath forsook them. Injun Joe put his
hand on his knife, halted a moment, undecided, and
then turned toward the stairway. The boys thought
of the closet, but their strength was gone. The steps
came creaking up the stairs -- the intolerable distress
of the situation woke the stricken resolution of the lads
-- they were about to spring for the closet, when there
was a crash of rotten timbers and Injun Joe landed on
the ground amid the debris of the ruined stairway. He
gathered himself up cursing, and his comrade said:

"Now what's the use of all that? If it's anybody,
and they're up there, let them STAY there -- who cares?
If they want to jump down, now, and get into trouble,
who objects? It will be dark in fifteen minutes -- and
then let them follow us if they want to. I'm willing.
In my opinion, whoever hove those things in here caught
a sight of us and took us for ghosts or devils or some-
thing. I'll bet they're running yet."

Joe grumbled awhile; then he agreed with his friend
that what daylight was left ought to be economized in
getting things ready for leaving. Shortly afterward
they slipped out of the house in the deepening twilight,
and moved toward the river with their precious box.

Tom and Huck rose up, weak but vastly relieved,
and stared after them through the chinks between the
logs of the house. Follow? Not they. They were
content to reach ground again without broken necks,
and take the townward track over the hill. They did
not talk much. They were too much absorbed in hating
themselves -- hating the ill luck that made them take
the spade and the pick there. But for that, Injun Joe
never would have suspected. He would have hidden
the silver with the gold to wait there till his "revenge"
was satisfied, and then he would have had the mis-
fortune to find that money turn up missing. Bitter,
bitter luck that the tools were ever brought there!

They resolved to keep a lookout for that Spaniard
when he should come to town spying out for chances
to do his revengeful job, and follow him to "Number
Two," wherever that might be. Then a ghastly thought
occurred to Tom.

"Revenge? What if he means US, Huck!"

"Oh, don't!" said Huck, nearly fainting.

They talked it all over, and as they entered town they
agreed to believe that he might possibly mean somebody
else -- at least that he might at least mean nobody but
Tom, since only Tom had testified.

Very, very small comfort it was to Tom to be alone
in danger! Company would be a palpable improve-
ment, he thought.


CHAPTER XXVII

THE adventure of the day mightily tor-
mented Tom's dreams that night. Four
times he had his hands on that rich
treasure and four times it wasted to
nothingness in his fingers as sleep for-
sook him and wakefulness brought back
the hard reality of his misfortune. As he lay in the
early morning recalling the incidents of his great ad-
venture, he noticed that they seemed curiously subdued
and far away -- somewhat as if they had happened in
another world, or in a time long gone by. Then it oc-
curred to him that the great adventure itself must be
a dream! There was one very strong argument in favor
of this idea -- namely, that the quantity of coin he had
seen was too vast to be real. He had never seen as
much as fifty dollars in one mass before, and he was
like all boys of his age and station in life, in that he
imagined that all references to "hundreds" and "thou-
sands" were mere fanciful forms of speech, and that
no such sums really existed in the world. He never had
supposed for a moment that so large a sum as a hun-
dred dollars was to be found in actual money in any
one's possession. If his notions of hidden treasure had
been analyzed, they would have been found to consist of
a handful of real dimes and a bushel of vague, splen-
did, ungraspable dollars.

But the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly
sharper and clearer under the attrition of thinking them
over, and so he presently found himself leaning to the
impression that the thing might not have been a dream,
after all. This uncertainty must be swept away. He
would snatch a hurried breakfast and go and find Huck.
Huck was sitting on the gunwale of a flatboat, list-
lessly dangling his feet in the water and looking very
melancholy. Tom concluded to let Huck lead up to
the subject. If he did not do it, then the adventure
would be proved to have been only a dream.

"Hello, Huck!"

"Hello, yourself."

Silence, for a minute.

"Tom, if we'd 'a' left the blame tools at the dead
tree, we'd 'a' got the money. Oh, ain't it awful!"

"'Tain't a dream, then, 'tain't a dream! Somehow
I most wish it was. Dog'd if I don't, Huck."

"What ain't a dream?"

"Oh, that thing yesterday. I been half thinking
it was."

"Dream! If them stairs hadn't broke down you'd
'a' seen how much dream it was! I've had dreams
enough all night -- with that patch-eyed Spanish devil
going for me all through 'em -- rot him!"

"No, not rot him. FIND him! Track the money!"

"Tom, we'll never find him. A feller don't have
only one chance for such a pile -- and that one's lost.
I'd feel mighty shaky if I was to see him, anyway."

"Well, so'd I; but I'd like to see him, anyway --
and track him out -- to his Number Two."

"Number Two -- yes, that's it. I been thinking
'bout that. But I can't make nothing out of it. What
do you reckon it is?"

"I dono. It's too deep. Say, Huck -- maybe it's
the number of a house!"

"Goody! ... No, Tom, that ain't it. If it is, it ain't
in this one-horse town. They ain't no numbers here."

"Well, that's so. Lemme think a minute. Here --
it's the number of a room -- in a tavern, you know!"

"Oh, that's the trick! They ain't only two taverns.
We can find out quick."

"You stay here, Huck, till I come."

Tom was off at once. He did not care to have
Huck's company in public places. He was gone half
an hour. He found that in the best tavern, No. 2
had long been occupied by a young lawyer, and was
still so occupied. In the less ostentatious house, No. 2
was a mystery. The tavern-keeper's young son said
it was kept locked all the time, and he never saw any-
body go into it or come out of it except at night; he
did not know any particular reason for this state of
things; had had some little curiosity, but it was rather
feeble; had made the most of the mystery by enter-
taining himself with the idea that that room was
"ha'nted"; had noticed that there was a light in there
the night before.

"That's what I've found out, Huck. I reckon
that's the very No. 2 we're after."

"I reckon it is, Tom. Now what you going to do?"

"Lemme think."

Tom thought a long time. Then he said:

"I'll tell you. The back door of that No. 2 is
the door that comes out into that little close alley
between the tavern and the old rattle trap of a brick
store. Now you get hold of all the door-keys you
can find, and I'll nip all of auntie's, and the first dark
night we'll go there and try 'em. And mind you,
keep a lookout for Injun Joe, because he said he was
going to drop into town and spy around once more
for a chance to get his revenge. If you see him, you
just follow him; and if he don't go to that No. 2,
that ain't the place."

"Lordy, I don't want to foller him by myself!"

"Why, it'll be night, sure. He mightn't ever see
you -- and if he did, maybe he'd never think anything."

"Well, if it's pretty dark I reckon I'll track him.
I dono -- I dono. I'll try."

"You bet I'll follow him, if it's dark, Huck. Why,
he might 'a' found out he couldn't get his revenge,
and be going right after that money."

"It's so, Tom, it's so. I'll foller him; I will, by
jingoes!"

"Now you're TALKING! Don't you ever weaken,
Huck, and I won't."


CHAPTER XXVIII

THAT night Tom and Huck were ready
for their adventure. They hung about
the neighborhood of the tavern until
after nine, one watching the alley at a
distance and the other the tavern door.
Nobody entered the alley or left it; no-
body resembling the Spaniard entered or left the tavern
door. The night promised to be a fair one; so Tom
went home with the understanding that if a consider-
able degree of darkness came on, Huck was to come
and "maow," whereupon he would slip out and try
the keys. But the night remained clear, and Huck
closed his watch and retired to bed in an empty sugar
hogshead about twelve.

Tuesday the boys had the same ill luck. Also
Wednesday. But Thursday night promised better.
Tom slipped out in good season with his aunt's old
tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with.
He hid the lantern in Huck's sugar hogshead and the
watch began. An hour before midnight the tavern
closed up and its lights (the only ones thereabouts)
were put out. No Spaniard had been seen. Nobody
had entered or left the alley. Everything was auspi-
cious. The blackness of darkness reigned, the perfect
stillness was interrupted only by occasional mutterings
of distant thunder.

Tom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped
it closely in the towel, and the two adventurers crept
in the gloom toward the tavern. Huck stood sentry
and Tom felt his way into the alley. Then there was
a season of waiting anxiety that weighed upon Huck's
spirits like a mountain. He began to wish he could
see a flash from the lantern -- it would frighten him, but
it would at least tell him that Tom was alive yet. It
seemed hours since Tom had disappeared. Surely
he must have fainted; maybe he was dead; maybe
his heart had burst under terror and excitement. In
his uneasiness Huck found himself drawing closer
and closer to the alley; fearing all sorts of dreadful
things, and momentarily expecting some catastrophe
to happen that would take away his breath. There
was not much to take away, for he seemed only able
to inhale it by thimblefuls, and his heart would soon
wear itself out, the way it was beating. Suddenly
there was a flash of light and Tom came tearing by
him:
.
"Run!" said he; "run, for your life!"

He needn't have repeated it; once was enough;
Huck was making thirty or forty miles an hour before
the repetition was uttered. The boys never stopped
till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-
house at the lower end of the village. Just as they got
within its shelter the storm burst and the rain poured
down. As soon as Tom got his breath he said:

"Huck, it was awful! I tried two of the keys, just
as soft as I could; but they seemed to make such a
power of racket that I couldn't hardly get my breath
I was so scared. They wouldn't turn in the lock,
either. Well, without noticing what I was doing, I
took hold of the knob, and open comes the door! It
warn't locked! I hopped in, and shook off the towel,
and, GREAT CAESAR'S GHOST!"

"What! -- what'd you see, Tom?"

"Huck, I most stepped onto Injun Joe's hand!"

"No!"

"Yes! He was lying there, sound asleep on the
floor, with his old patch on his eye and his arms spread
out."

"Lordy, what did you do? Did he wake up?"

"No, never budged. Drunk, I reckon. I just
grabbed that towel and started!"

"I'd never 'a' thought of the towel, I bet!"

"Well, I would. My aunt would make me mighty
sick if I lost it."

"Say, Tom, did you see that box?"

"Huck, I didn't wait to look around. I didn't see
the box, I didn't see the cross. I didn't see anything
but a bottle and a tin cup on the floor by Injun Joe;
yes, I saw two barrels and lots more bottles in the
room. Don't you see, now, what's the matter with
that ha'nted room?"

"How?"

"Why, it's ha'nted with whiskey! Maybe ALL the
Temperance Taverns have got a ha'nted room, hey,
Huck?"

"Well, I reckon maybe that's so. Who'd 'a' thought
such a thing? But say, Tom, now's a mighty good
time to get that box, if Injun Joe's drunk."

"It is, that! You try it!"

Huck shuddered.

"Well, no -- I reckon not."

"And I reckon not, Huck. Only one bottle along-
side of Injun Joe ain't enough. If there'd been three,
he'd be drunk enough and I'd do it."

There was a long pause for reflection, and then
Tom said:

"Lookyhere, Huck, less not try that thing any
more till we know Injun Joe's not in there. It's too
scary. Now, if we watch every night, we'll be dead
sure to see him go out, some time or other, and then
we'll snatch that box quicker'n lightning."

"Well, I'm agreed. I'll watch the whole night long,
and I'll do it every night, too, if you'll do the other part
of the job."

"All right, I will. All you got to do is to trot up
Hooper Street a block and maow -- and if I'm asleep,
you throw some gravel at the window and that'll
fetch me."

"Agreed, and good as wheat!"

"Now, Huck, the storm's over, and I'll go home.
It'll begin to be daylight in a couple of hours. You go
back and watch that long, will you?"

"I said I would, Tom, and I will. I'll ha'nt that
tavern every night for a year! I'll sleep all day and
I'll stand watch all night."

"That's all right. Now, where you going to sleep?"

"In Ben Rogers' hayloft. He lets me, and so does
his pap's nigger man, Uncle Jake. I tote water for
Uncle Jake whenever he wants me to, and any time I
ask him he gives me a little something to eat if he
can spare it. That's a mighty good nigger, Tom. He
likes me, becuz I don't ever act as if I was above him.
Sometime I've set right down and eat WITH him. But
you needn't tell that. A body's got to do things when
he's awful hungry he wouldn't want to do as a steady
thing."

"Well, if I don't want you in the daytime, I'll let
you sleep. I won't come bothering around. Any
time you see something's up, in the night, just skip
right around and maow."


CHAPTER XXIX

THE first thing Tom heard on Friday
morning was a glad piece of news --
Judge Thatcher's family had come back
to town the night before. Both Injun
Joe and the treasure sunk into second-
ary importance for a moment, and Becky
took the chief place in the boy's interest. He saw her
and they had an exhausting good time playing "hi-
spy" and "gully-keeper" with a crowd of their school-
mates. The day was completed and crowned in a pe-
culiarly satisfactory way: Becky teased her mother to
appoint the next day for the long-promised and long-
delayed picnic, and she consented. The child's delight
was boundless; and Tom's not more moderate. The
invitations were sent out before sunset, and straightway
the young folks of the village were thrown into a fever
of preparation and pleasurable anticipation. Tom's
excitement enabled him to keep awake until a pretty
late hour, and he had good hopes of hearing Huck's
"maow," and of having his treasure to astonish Becky
and the picnickers with, next day; but he was dis-
appointed. No signal came that night.

Morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven
o'clock a giddy and rollicking company were gathered
at Judge Thatcher's, and everything was ready for a
start. It was not the custom for elderly people to
mar the picnics with their presence. The children
were considered safe enough under the wings of a
few young ladies of eighteen and a few young gentlemen
of twenty-three or thereabouts. The old steam ferry-
boat was chartered for the occasion; presently the
gay throng filed up the main street laden with provision-
baskets. Sid was sick and had to miss the fun; Mary
remained at home to entertain him. The last thing
Mrs. Thatcher said to Becky, was:

"You'll not get back till late. Perhaps you'd better
stay all night with some of the girls that live near the
ferry-landing, child."

"Then I'll stay with Susy Harper, mamma."

"Very well. And mind and behave yourself and
don't be any trouble."

Presently, as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky:

"Say -- I'll tell you what we'll do. 'Stead of going
to Joe Harper's we'll climb right up the hill and stop
at the Widow Douglas'. She'll have ice-cream! She
has it most every day -- dead loads of it. And she'll be
awful glad to have us."

"Oh, that will be fun!"

Then Becky reflected a moment and said:

"But what will mamma say?"

"How'll she ever know?"

The girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said
reluctantly:

"I reckon it's wrong -- but --"

"But shucks! Your mother won't know, and so
what's the harm? All she wants is that you'll be safe;
and I bet you she'd 'a' said go there if she'd 'a' thought
of it. I know she would!"

The Widow Douglas' splendid hospitality was a
tempting bait. It and Tom's persuasions presently
carried the day. So it was decided to say nothing
anybody about the night's programme. Presently
it occurred to Tom that maybe Huck might come
this very night and give the signal. The thought took
a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations. Still he
could not bear to give up the fun at Widow Douglas'.
And why should he give it up, he reasoned -- the signal
did not come the night before, so why should it be any
more likely to come to-night? The sure fun of the
evening outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-
like, he determined to yield to the stronger inclination
and not allow himself to think of the box of money
another time that day.

Three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at
the mouth of a woody hollow and tied up. The
crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest distances
and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings
and laughter. All the different ways of getting hot
and tired were gone through with, and by-and-by the
rovers straggled back to camp fortified with responsible
appetites, and then the destruction of the good things
began. After the feast there was a refreshing season
of rest and chat in the shade of spreading oaks. By-
and-by somebody shouted:

"Who's ready for the cave?"

Everybody was. Bundles of candles were procured,
and straightway there was a general scamper up the
hill. The mouth of the cave was up the hillside -- an
opening shaped like a letter A. Its massive oaken
door stood unbarred. Within was a small chamber,
chilly as an ice-house, and walled by Nature with
solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. It
was romantic and mysterious to stand here in the
deep gloom and look out upon the green valley shining
in the sun. But the impressiveness of the situation
quickly wore off, and the romping began again. The
moment a candle was lighted there was a general rush
upon the owner of it; a struggle and a gallant defence
followed, but the candle was soon knocked down or
blown out, and then there was a glad clamor of laughter
and a new chase. But all things have an end. By-and-
by the procession went filing down the steep descent
of the main avenue, the flickering rank of lights dimly
revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point
of junction sixty feet overhead. This main avenue
was not more than eight or ten feet wide. Every few
steps other lofty and still narrower crevices branched
from it on either hand -- for McDougal's cave was but
a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each
other and out again and led nowhere. It was said that
one might wander days and nights together through
its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never find
the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and
down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just
the same -- labyrinth under labyrinth, and no end to
any of them. No man "knew" the cave. That was
an impossible thing. Most of the young men knew a
portion of it, and it was not customary to venture much
beyond this known portion. Tom Sawyer knew as
much of the cave as any one.

The procession moved along the main avenue
some three-quarters of a mile, and then groups and
couples began to slip aside into branch avenues, fly
along the dismal corridors, and take each other by
surprise at points where the corridors joined again.
Parties were able to elude each other for the space of
half an hour without going beyond the "known"
ground.

By-and-by, one group after another came straggling
back to the mouth of the cave, panting, hilarious,
smeared from head to foot with tallow drippings,
daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the
success of the day. Then they were astonished to
find that they had been taking no note of time and
that night was about at hand. The clanging bell had
been calling for half an hour. However, this sort of
close to the day's adventures was romantic and there-
fore satisfactory. When the ferryboat with her wild
freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence
for the wasted time but the captain of the craft.

Huck was already upon his watch when the ferry-
boat's lights went glinting past the wharf. He heard
no noise on board, for the young people were as sub-
dued and still as people usually are who are nearly
tired to death. He wondered what boat it was, and
why she did not stop at the wharf -- and then he dropped
her out of his mind and put his attention upon his
business. The night was growing cloudy and dark.
Ten o'clock came, and the noise of vehicles ceased,
scattered lights began to wink out, all straggling foot-
passengers disappeared, the village betook itself to
its slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the
silence and the ghosts. Eleven o'clock came, and the
tavern lights were put out; darkness everywhere, now.
Huck waited what seemed a weary long time, but noth-
ing happened. His faith was weakening. Was there
any use? Was there really any use? Why not give
it up and turn in?

A noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in
an instant. The alley door closed softly. He sprang
to the corner of the brick store. The next moment
two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have
something under his arm. It must be that box! So
they were going to remove the treasure. Why call
Tom now? It would be absurd -- the men would get
away with the box and never be found again. No, he
would stick to their wake and follow them; he would
trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So
communing with himself, Huck stepped out and glided
along behind the men, cat-like, with bare feet, allowing
them to keep just far enough ahead not to be invisible.

They moved up the river street three blocks, then
turned to the left up a cross-street. They went straight
ahead, then, until they came to the path that led up
Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the old
Welshman's house, half-way up the hill, without hesi-
tating, and still climbed upward. Good, thought Huck,
they will bury it in the old quarry. But they never
stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the sum-
mit. They plunged into the narrow path between the
tall sumach bushes, and were at once hidden in the
gloom. Huck closed up and shortened his distance,
now, for they would never be able to see him. He
trotted along awhile; then slackened his pace, fearing
he was gaining too fast; moved on a piece, then stopped
altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that he
seemed to hear the beating of his own heart. The
hooting of an owl came over the hill -- ominous sound!
But no footsteps. Heavens, was everything lost! He
was about to spring with winged feet, when a man
cleared his throat not four feet from him! Huck's
heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it again;
and then he stood there shaking as if a dozen agues
had taken charge of him at once, and so weak that he
thought he must surely fall to the ground. He knew
where he was. He knew he was within five steps of
the stile leading into Widow Douglas' grounds. Very
well, he thought, let them bury it there; it won't be
hard to find.

Now there was a voice -- a very low voice -- Injun
Joe's:

"Damn her, maybe she's got company -- there's
lights, late as it is."

"I can't see any."

This was that stranger's voice -- the stranger of the
haunted house. A deadly chill went to Huck's heart --
this, then, was the "revenge" job! His thought was,
to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow Douglas
had been kind to him more than once, and maybe these
men were going to murder her. He wished he dared
venture to warn her; but he knew he didn't dare -- they
might come and catch him. He thought all this and
more in the moment that elapsed between the stranger's
remark and Injun Joe's next -- which was --

"Because the bush is in your way. Now -- this way
-- now you see, don't you?"

"Yes. Well, there IS company there, I reckon.
Better give it up."

"Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever!
Give it up and maybe never have another chance. I
tell you again, as I've told you before, I don't care
for her swag -- you may have it. But her husband
was rough on me -- many times he was rough on me
-- and mainly he was the justice of the peace that
jugged me for a vagrant. And that ain't all. It
ain't a millionth part of it! He had me HORSEWHIPPED!
-- horsewhipped in front of the jail, like a nigger! --
with all the town looking on! HORSEWHIPPED! -- do
you understand? He took advantage of me and died.
But I'll take it out of HER."

"Oh, don't kill her! Don't do that!"

"Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would
kill HIM if he was here; but not her. When you want
to get revenge on a woman you don't kill her -- bosh!
you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils -- you notch
her ears like a sow!"

"By God, that's --"

"Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest
for you. I'll tie her to the bed. If she bleeds to
death, is that my fault? I'll not cry, if she does. My
friend, you'll help me in this thing -- for MY sake --
that's why you're here -- I mightn't be able alone. If
you flinch, I'll kill you. Do you understand that?
And if I have to kill you, I'll kill her -- and then I
reckon nobody'll ever know much about who done
this business."

"Well, if it's got to be done, let's get at it. The
quicker the better -- I'm all in a shiver."

"Do it NOW? And company there? Look here --
I'll get suspicious of you, first thing you know. No
-- we'll wait till the lights are out -- there's no hurry."

Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue -- a
thing still more awful than any amount of murderous
talk; so he held his breath and stepped gingerly back;
planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing,
one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling
over, first on one side and then on the other. He
took another step back, with the same elaboration
and the same risks; then another and another, and
-- a twig snapped under his foot! His breath stopped
and he listened. There was no sound -- the stillness
was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now he
turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach
bushes -- turned himself as carefully as if he were a
ship -- and then stepped quickly but cautiously along.
When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so he
picked up his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he
sped, till he reached the Welshman's. He banged at
the door, and presently the heads of the old man and
his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows.

"What's the row there? Who's banging? What
do you want?"

"Let me in -- quick! I'll tell everything."

"Why, who are you?"

"Huckleberry Finn -- quick, let me in!"

"Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain't a name to
open many doors, I judge! But let him in, lads, and
let's see what's the trouble."

"Please don't ever tell I told you," were Huck's
first words when he got in. "Please don't -- I'd be
killed, sure -- but the widow's been good friends to
me sometimes, and I want to tell -- I WILL tell if you'll
promise you won't ever say it was me."

"By George, he HAS got something to tell, or he
wouldn't act so!" exclaimed the old man; "out with
it and nobody here'll ever tell, lad."

Three minutes later the old man and his sons, well
armed, were up the hill, and just entering the sumach
path on tiptoe, their weapons in their hands. Huck
accompanied them no further. He hid behind a great
bowlder and fell to listening. There was a lagging,
anxious silence, and then all of a sudden there was
an explosion of firearms and a cry.

Huck waited for no particulars. He sprang away
and sped down the hill as fast as his legs could carry
him.


CHAPTER XXX

AS the earliest suspicion of dawn appeared
on Sunday morning, Huck came groping
up the hill and rapped gently at the old
Welshman's door. The inmates were
asleep, but it was a sleep that was set on
a hair-trigger, on account of the exciting
episode of the night. A call came from a window:

"Who's there!"

Huck's scared voice answered in a low tone:

"Please let me in! It's only Huck Finn!"

"It's a name that can open this door night or day,
lad! -- and welcome!"

These were strange words to the vagabond boy's
ears, and the pleasantest he had ever heard. He
could not recollect that the closing word had ever been
applied in his case before. The door was quickly
unlocked, and he entered. Huck was given a seat
and the old man and his brace of tall sons speedily
dressed themselves.

"Now, my boy, I hope you're good and hungry,
because breakfast will be ready as soon as the sun's
up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too -- make your-
self easy about that! I and the boys hoped you'd
turn up and stop here last night."

"I was awful scared," said Huck, "and I run. I
took out when the pistols went off, and I didn't stop
for three mile. I've come now becuz I wanted to know
about it, you know; and I come before daylight becuz
I didn't want to run across them devils, even if they
was dead."

"Well, poor chap, you do look as if you'd had a
hard night of it -- but there's a bed here for you when
you've had your breakfast. No, they ain't dead, lad
-- we are sorry enough for that. You see we knew
right where to put our hands on them, by your de-
scription; so we crept along on tiptoe till we got
within fifteen feet of them -- dark as a cellar that sumach
path was -- and just then I found I was going to sneeze.
It was the meanest kind of luck! I tried to keep it
back, but no use -- 'twas bound to come, and it did
come! I was in the lead with my pistol raised, and
when the sneeze started those scoundrels a-rustling to
get out of the path, I sung out, 'Fire boys!' and blazed
away at the place where the rustling was. So did the
boys. But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and
we after them, down through the woods. I judge we
never touched them. They fired a shot apiece as they
started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn't do us
any harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their feet
we quit chasing, and went down and stirred up the
constables. They got a posse together, and went off
to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is light the
sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the woods. My
boys will be with them presently. I wish we had
some sort of description of those rascals -- 'twould help
a good deal. But you couldn't see what they were
like, in the dark, lad, I suppose?"

"Oh yes; I saw them down-town and follered
them."

"Splendid! Describe them -- describe them, my
boy!"

"One's the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's ben
around here once or twice, and t'other's a mean-looking,
ragged --"

"That's enough, lad, we know the men! Hap-
pened on them in the woods back of the widow's one
day, and they slunk away. Off with you, boys, and
tell the sheriff -- get your breakfast to-morrow morning!"

The Welshman's sons departed at once. As they
were leaving the room Huck sprang up and exclaimed:

"Oh, please don't tell ANYbody it was me that
blowed on them! Oh, please!"

"All right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to
have the credit of what you did."

"Oh no, no! Please don't tell!"

When the young men were gone, the old Welshman
said:

"They won't tell -- and I won't. But why don't
you want it known?"

Huck would not explain, further than to say that
he already knew too much about one of those men
and would not have the man know that he knew any-
thing against him for the whole world -- he would be
killed for knowing it, sure.

The old man promised secrecy once more, and
said:

"How did you come to follow these fellows, lad?
Were they looking suspicious?"

Huck was silent while he framed a duly cautious
reply. Then he said:

"Well, you see, I'm a kind of a hard lot, -- least
everybody says so, and I don't see nothing agin it --
and sometimes I can't sleep much, on account of think-
ing about it and sort of trying to strike out a new
way of doing. That was the way of it last night. I
couldn't sleep, and so I come along up-street 'bout
midnight, a-turning it all over, and when I got to that
old shackly brick store by the Temperance Tavern,
I backed up agin the wall to have another think. Well,
just then along comes these two chaps slipping along
close by me, with something under their arm, and I
reckoned they'd stole it. One was a-smoking, and
t'other one wanted a light; so they stopped right before
me and the cigars lit up their faces and I see that the
big one was the deaf and dumb Spaniard, by his white
whiskers and the patch on his eye, and t'other one
was a rusty, ragged-looking devil."

"Could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?"

This staggered Huck for a moment. Then he
said:

"Well, I don't know -- but somehow it seems as if
I did."

"Then they went on, and you --"

"Follered 'em -- yes. That was it. I wanted to see
what was up -- they sneaked along so. I dogged 'em
to the widder's stile, and stood in the dark and heard
the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard
swear he'd spile her looks just as I told you and your
two --"

"What! The DEAF AND DUMB man said all that!"

Huck had made another terrible mistake! He was
trying his best to keep the old man from getting the
faintest hint of who the Spaniard might be, and yet
his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble
in spite of all he could do. He made several efforts
to creep out of his scrape, but the old man's eye was
upon him and he made blunder after blunder. Pres-
ently the Welshman said:

"My boy, don't be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt
a hair of your head for all the world. No -- I'd pro-
tect you -- I'd protect you. This Spaniard is not deaf
and dumb; you've let that slip without intending it;
you can't cover that up now. You know something
about that Spaniard that you want to keep dark.
Now trust me -- tell me what it is, and trust me -- I
won't betray you."

Huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment,
then bent over and whispered in his ear:

"'Tain't a Spaniard -- it's Injun Joe!"

The Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In
a moment he said:

"It's all plain enough, now. When you talked
about notching ears and slitting noses I judged that
that was your own embellishment, because white
men don't take that sort of revenge. But an Injun!
That's a different matter altogether."

During breakfast the talk went on, and in the course
of it the old man said that the last thing which he and
his sons had done, before going to bed, was to get a
lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks
of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky
bundle of --

"Of WHAT?"

If the words had been lightning they could not
have leaped with a more stunning suddenness from
Huck's blanched lips. His eyes were staring wide,
now, and his breath suspended -- waiting for the answer.
The Welshman started -- stared in return -- three seconds
-- five seconds -- ten -- then replied:

"Of burglar's tools. Why, what's the MATTER with
you?"

Huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, un-
utterably grateful. The Welshman eyed him gravely,
curiously -- and presently said:

"Yes, burglar's tools. That appears to relieve
you a good deal. But what did give you that turn?
What were YOU expecting we'd found?"

Huck was in a close place -- the inquiring eye was
upon him -- he would have given anything for material
for a plausible answer -- nothing suggested itself -- the
inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper -- a sense-
less reply offered -- there was no time to weigh it, so
at a venture he uttered it -- feebly:

"Sunday-school books, maybe."

Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old
man laughed loud and joyously, shook up the details
of his anatomy from head to foot, and ended by saying
that such a laugh was money in a-man's pocket, be-
cause it cut down the doctor's bill like everything.
Then he added:

"Poor old chap, you're white and jaded -- you ain't
well a bit -- no wonder you're a little flighty and off
your balance. But you'll come out of it. Rest and
sleep will fetch you out all right, I hope."

Huck was irritated to think he had been such a
goose and betrayed such a suspicious excitement, for
he had dropped the idea that the parcel brought from
the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard
the talk at the widow's stile. He had only thought
it was not the treasure, however -- he had not known
that it wasn't -- and so the suggestion of a captured
bundle was too much for his self-possession. But on
the whole he felt glad the little episode had happened,
for now he knew beyond all question that that bundle
was not THE bundle, and so his mind was at rest and
exceedingly comfortable. In fact, everything seemed
to be drifting just in the right direction, now; the
treasure must be still in No. 2, the men would be
captured and jailed that day, and he and Tom could
seize the gold that night without any trouble or any
fear of interruption.

Just as breakfast was completed there was a knock
at the door. Huck jumped for a hiding-place, for
he had no mind to be connected even remotely with
the late event. The Welshman admitted several
ladies and gentlemen, among them the Widow Douglas,
and noticed that groups of citizens were climbing up
the hill -- to stare at the stile. So the news had spread.
The Welshman had to tell the story of the night
to the visitors. The widow's gratitude for her preser-
vation was outspoken.

"Don't say a word about it, madam. There's
another that you're more beholden to than you are
to me and my boys, maybe, but he don't allow me
to tell his name. We wouldn't have been there but
for him."

Of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it
almost belittled the main matter -- but the Welshman
allowed it to eat into the vitals of his visitors, and
through them be transmitted to the whole town, for
he refused to part with his secret. When all else had
been learned, the widow said:

"I went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight
through all that noise. Why didn't you come and
wake me?"

"We judged it warn't worth while. Those fellows
warn't likely to come again -- they hadn't any tools
left to work with, and what was the use of waking
you up and scaring you to death? My three negro
men stood guard at your house all the rest of the night.
They've just come back."

More visitors came, and the story had to be told
and retold for a couple of hours more.

There was no Sabbath-school during day-school
vacation, but everybody was early at church. The
stirring event was well canvassed. News came that
not a sign of the two villains had been yet discovered.
When the sermon was finished, Judge Thatcher's
wife dropped alongside of Mrs. Harper as she moved
down the aisle with the crowd and said:

"Is my Becky going to sleep all day? I just ex-
pected she would be tired to death."

"Your Becky?"

"Yes," with a startled look -- "didn't she stay with
you last night?"

"Why, no."

Mrs. Thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew,
just as Aunt Polly, talking briskly with a friend, passed
by. Aunt Polly said:

"Good-morning, Mrs. Thatcher. Good-morning,
Mrs. Harper. I've got a boy that's turned up missing.
I reckon my Tom stayed at your house last night --
one of you. And now he's afraid to come to church.
I've got to settle with him."

Mrs. Thatcher shook her head feebly and turned
paler than ever.

"He didn't stay with us," said Mrs. Harper, be-
ginning to look uneasy. A marked anxiety came into
Aunt Polly's face.

"Joe Harper, have you seen my Tom this morning?"

"No'm."

"When did you see him last?"

Joe tried to remember, but was not sure he could
say. The people had stopped moving out of church.
Whispers passed along, and a boding uneasiness took
possession of every countenance. Children were anx-
iously questioned, and young teachers. They all said
they had not noticed whether Tom and Becky were on
board the ferryboat on the homeward trip; it was dark;
no one thought of inquiring if any one was missing.
One young man finally blurted out his fear that they
were still in the cave! Mrs. Thatcher swooned away.
Aunt Polly fell to crying and wringing her hands.

The alarm swept from lip to lip, from group to
group, from street to street, and within five minutes
the bells were wildly clanging and the whole town was
up! The Cardiff Hill episode sank into instant in-
significance, the burglars were forgotten, horses were
saddled, skiffs were manned, the ferryboat ordered out,
and before the horror was half an hour old, two hundred
men were pouring down highroad and river toward the
cave.

All the long afternoon the village seemed empty
and dead. Many women visited Aunt Polly and Mrs.
Thatcher and tried to comfort them. They cried
with them, too, and that was still better than words.
All the tedious night the town waited for news; but
when the morning dawned at last, all the word that
came was, "Send more candles -- and send food." Mrs.
Thatcher was almost crazed; and Aunt Polly, also.
Judge Thatcher sent messages of hope and encourage-
ment from the cave, but they conveyed no real cheer.

The old Welshman came home toward daylight,
spattered with candle-grease, smeared with clay, and
almost worn out. He found Huck still in the bed
that had been provided for him, and delirious with
fever. The physicians were all at the cave, so the
Widow Douglas came and took charge of the patient.
She said she would do her best by him, because, whether
he was good, bad, or indifferent, he was the Lord's,
and nothing that was the Lord's was a thing to be
neglected. The Welshman said Huck had good spots
in him, and the widow said:

"You can depend on it. That's the Lord's mark.
He don't leave it off. He never does. Puts it some-
where on every creature that comes from his hands."

Early in the forenoon parties of jaded men began
to straggle into the village, but the strongest of the
citizens continued searching. All the news that could
be gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were
being ransacked that had never been visited before;
that every corner and crevice was going to be thoroughly
searched; that wherever one wandered through the
maze of passages, lights were to be seen flitting hither
and thither in the distance, and shoutings and pistol-
shots sent their hollow reverberations to the ear down
the sombre aisles. In one place, far from the section
usually traversed by tourists, the names "BECKY &
TOM" had been found traced upon the rocky wall
with candle-smoke, and near at hand a grease-soiled
bit of ribbon. Mrs. Thatcher recognized the ribbon
and cried over it. She said it was the last relic she
should ever have of her child; and that no other
memorial of her could ever be so precious, because
this one parted latest from the living body before the
awful death came. Some said that now and then, in
the cave, a far-away speck of light would glimmer, and
then a glorious shout would burst forth and a score of
men go trooping down the echoing aisle -- and then a
sickening disappointment always followed; the children
were not there; it was only a searcher's light.

Three dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious
hours along, and the village sank into a hopeless
stupor. No one had heart for anything. The acci-
dental discovery, just made, that the proprietor of the
Temperance Tavern kept liquor on his premises,
scarcely fluttered the public pulse, tremendous as the
fact was. In a lucid interval, Huck feebly led up to
the subject of taverns, and finally asked -- dimly
dreading the worst -- if anything had been discovered
at the Temperance Tavern since he had been ill.

"Yes," said the widow.

Huck started up in bed, wild-eyed:

"What? What was it?"

"Liquor! -- and the place has been shut up. Lie
down, child -- what a turn you did give me!"

"Only tell me just one thing -- only just one -- please!
Was it Tom Sawyer that found it?"

The widow burst into tears. "Hush, hush, child,
hush! I've told you before, you must NOT talk. You
are very, very sick!"

Then nothing but liquor had been found; there
would have been a great powwow if it had been the
gold. So the treasure was gone forever -- gone forever!
But what could she be crying about? Curious that
she should cry.

These thoughts worked their dim way through Huck's
mind, and under the weariness they gave him he fell
asleep. The widow said to herself:

"There -- he's asleep, poor wreck. Tom Sawyer
find it! Pity but somebody could find Tom Sawyer!
Ah, there ain't many left, now, that's got hope enough,
or strength enough, either, to go on searching."


CHAPTER XXXI

NOW to return to Tom and Becky's share
in the picnic. They tripped along the
murky aisles with the rest of the com-
pany, visiting the familiar wonders of the
cave -- wonders dubbed with rather over-
descriptive names, such as "The Draw-
ing-Room," "The Cathedral," "Aladdin's Palace," and
so on. Presently the hide-and-seek frolicking began,
and Tom and Becky engaged in it with zeal until the
exertion began to grow a trifle wearisome; then they
wandered down a sinuous avenue holding their candles
aloft and reading the tangled web-work of names,
dates, post-office addresses, and mottoes with which
the rocky walls had been frescoed (in candle-smoke).
Still drifting along and talking, they scarcely noticed
that they were now in a part of the cave whose walls
were not frescoed. They smoked their own names
under an overhanging shelf and moved on. Presently
they came to a place where a little stream of water,
trickling over a ledge and carrying a limestone sediment
with it, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a laced
and ruffled Niagara in gleaming and imperishable stone.
Tom squeezed his small body behind it in order to
illuminate it for Becky's gratification. He found that
it curtained a sort of steep natural stairway which was
enclosed between narrow walls, and at once the ambi-
tion to be a discoverer seized him. Becky responded
to his call, and they made a smoke-mark for future
guidance, and started upon their quest. They wound
this way and that, far down into the secret depths of
the cave, made another mark, and branched off in
search of novelties to tell the upper world about. In
one place they found a spacious cavern, from whose
ceiling depended a multitude of shining stalactites of
the length and circumference of a man's leg; they
walked all about it, wondering and admiring, and
presently left it by one of the numerous passages that
opened into it. This shortly brought them to a be-
witching spring, whose basin was incrusted with a
frostwork of glittering crystals; it was in the midst of
a cavern whose walls were supported by many fan-
tastic pillars which had been formed by the joining
of great stalactites and stalagmites together, the result
of the ceaseless water-drip of centuries. Under the
roof vast knots of bats had packed themselves together,
thousands in a bunch; the lights disturbed the creat-
ures and they came flocking down by hundreds,
squeaking and darting furiously at the candles. Tom
knew their ways and the danger of this sort of conduct.
He seized Becky's hand and hurried her into the first
corridor that offered; and none too soon, for a bat
struck Becky's light out with its wing while she was
passing out of the cavern. The bats chased the children
a good distance; but the fugitives plunged into every
new passage that offered, and at last got rid of the
perilous things. Tom found a subterranean lake,
shortly, which stretched its dim length away until its
shape was lost in the shadows. He wanted to explore
its borders, but concluded that it would be best to sit
down and rest awhile, first. Now, for the first time,
the deep stillness of the place laid a clammy hand
upon the spirits of the children. Becky said:

"Why, I didn't notice, but it seems ever so long since
I heard any of the others."

"Come to think, Becky, we are away down below
them -- and I don't know how far away north, or south,
or east, or whichever it is. We couldn't hear them
here."

Becky grew apprehensive.

"I wonder how long we've been down here, Tom?
We better start back."

"Yes, I reckon we better. P'raps we better."

"Can you find the way, Tom? It's all a mixed-up
crookedness to me."

"I reckon I could find it -- but then the bats. If
they put our candles out it will be an awful fix. Let's
try some other way, so as not to go through there."

"Well. But I hope we won't get lost. It would
be so awful!" and the girl shuddered at the thought
of the dreadful possibilities.

They started through a corridor, and traversed it
in silence a long way, glancing at each new opening,
to see if there was anything familiar about the look of
it; but they were all strange. Every time Tom made
an examination, Becky would watch his face for an
encouraging sign, and he would say cheerily:

"Oh, it's all right. This ain't the one, but we'll
come to it right away!"

But he felt less and less hopeful with each failure,
and presently began to turn off into diverging avenues
at sheer random, in desperate hope of finding the one
that was wanted. He still said it was "all right,"
but there was such a leaden dread at his heart that the
words had lost their ring and sounded just as if he had
said, "All is lost!" Becky clung to his side in an
anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back the tears,
but they would come. At last she said:

"Oh, Tom, never mind the bats, let's go back that
way! We seem to get worse and worse off all the time."

"Listen!" said he.

Profound silence; silence so deep that even their
breathings were conspicuous in the hush. Tom shout-
ed. The call went echoing down the empty aisles and
died out in the distance in a faint sound that resembled
a ripple of mocking laughter.

"Oh, don't do it again, Tom, it is too horrid," said
Becky.

"It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear
us, you know," and he shouted again.

The "might" was even a chillier horror than the
ghostly laughter, it so confessed a perishing hope.
The children stood still and listened; but there was
no result. Tom turned upon the back track at once,
and hurried his steps. It was but a little while be-
fore a certain indecision in his manner revealed an-
other fearful fact to Becky -- he could not find his way
back!

"Oh, Tom, you didn't make any marks!"

"Becky, I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never
thought we might want to come back! No -- I can't
find the way. It's all mixed up."

"Tom, Tom, we're lost! we're lost! We never can
get out of this awful place! Oh, why DID we ever leave
the others!"

She sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy
of crying that Tom was appalled with the idea that
she might die, or lose her reason. He sat down by
her and put his arms around her; she buried her face
in his bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her
terrors, her unavailing regrets, and the far echoes turned
them all to jeering laughter. Tom begged her to pluck
up hope again, and she said she could not. He fell
to blaming and abusing himself for getting her into
this miserable situation; this had a better effect. She
said she would try to hope again, she would get up and
follow wherever he might lead if only he would not
talk like that any more. For he was no more to blame
than she, she said.

So they moved on again -- aimlessly -- simply at
random -- all they could do was to move, keep moving.
For a little while, hope made a show of reviving -- not
with any reason to back it, but only because it is its
nature to revive when the spring has not been taken
out of it by age and familiarity with failure.

By-and-by Tom took Becky's candle and blew it
out. This economy meant so much! Words were
not needed. Becky understood, and her hope died
again. She knew that Tom had a whole candle and
three or four pieces in his pockets -- yet he must econ-
omize.

By-and-by, fatigue began to assert its claims; the
children tried to pay attention, for it was dreadful
to think of sitting down when time was grown to be so
precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction,
was at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit
down was to invite death and shorten its pursuit.

At last Becky's frail limbs refused to carry her
farther. She sat down. Tom rested with her, and
they talked of home, and the friends there, and the
comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky
cried, and Tom tried to think of some way of comfort-
ing her, but all his encouragements were grown thread-
bare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue
bore so heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off to
sleep. Tom was grateful. He sat looking into her
drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural under
the influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a
smile dawned and rested there. The peaceful face
reflected somewhat of peace and healing into his own
spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone
times and dreamy memories. While he was deep in
his musings, Becky woke up with a breezy little laugh
-- but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan
followed it.

"Oh, how COULD I sleep! I wish I never, never
had waked! No! No, I don't, Tom! Don't look
so! I won't say it again."

"I'm glad you've slept, Becky; you'll feel rested,
now, and we'll find the way out."

"We can try, Tom; but I've seen such a beautiful
country in my dream. I reckon we are going there."

"Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and
let's go on trying."

They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand
and hopeless. They tried to estimate how long they
had been in the cave, but all they knew was that it
seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this
could not be, for their candles were not gone yet. A
long time after this -- they could not tell how long --
Tom said they must go softly and listen for dripping
water -- they must find a spring. They found one
presently, and Tom said it was time to rest again.
Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky said she thought
she could go a little farther. She was surprised to
hear Tom dissent. She could not understand it.
They sat down, and Tom fastened his candle to the
wall in front of them with some clay. Thought was
soon busy; nothing was said for some time. Then
Becky broke the silence:

"Tom, I am so hungry!"

Tom took something out of his pocket.

"Do you remember this?" said he.

Becky almost smiled.

"It's our wedding-cake, Tom."

"Yes -- I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all
we've got."

"I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on,
Tom, the way grown-up people do with wedding-
cake -- but it'll be our --"

She dropped the sentence where it was. Tom
divided the cake and Becky ate with good appetite,
while Tom nibbled at his moiety. There was abun-
dance of cold water to finish the feast with. By-and-by
Becky suggested that they move on again. Tom was
silent a moment. Then he said:

"Becky, can you bear it if I tell you something?"

Becky's face paled, but she thought she could.

"Well, then, Becky, we must stay here, where there's
water to drink. That little piece is our last candle!"

Becky gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom did
what he could to comfort her, but with little effect.
At length Becky said:

"Tom!"

"Well, Becky?"

"They'll miss us and hunt for us!"

"Yes, they will! Certainly they will!"

"Maybe they're hunting for us now, Tom."

"Why, I reckon maybe they are. I hope they are."

"When would they miss us, Tom?"

"When they get back to the boat, I reckon."

"Tom, it might be dark then -- would they notice
we hadn't come?"

"I don't know. But anyway, your mother would
miss you as soon as they got home."

A frightened look in Becky's face brought Tom to
his senses and he saw that he had made a blunder.
Becky was not to have gone home that night! The
children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment
a new burst of grief from Becky showed Tom that
the thing in his mind had struck hers also -- that the
Sabbath morning might be half spent before Mrs.
Thatcher discovered that Becky was not at Mrs.
Harper's.

The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of
candle and watched it melt slowly and pitilessly away;
saw the half inch of wick stand alone at last; saw the
feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin column of
smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then -- the
horror of utter darkness reigned!

How long afterward it was that Becky came to a
slow consciousness that she was crying in Tom's arms,
neither could tell. All that they knew was, that after
what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke
out of a dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries
once more. Tom said it might be Sunday, now --
maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk, but her
sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone.
Tom said that they must have been missed long ago,
and no doubt the search was going on. He would
shout and maybe some one would come. He tried
it; but in the darkness the distant echoes sounded so
hideously that he tried it no more.

The hours wasted away, and hunger came to tor-
ment the captives again. A portion of Tom's half of
the cake was left; they divided and ate it. But they
seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of
food only whetted desire.

By-and-by Tom said:

"SH! Did you hear that?"

Both held their breath and listened. There was a
sound like the faintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom
answered it, and leading Becky by the hand, started
groping down the corridor in its direction. Presently
he listened again; again the sound was heard, and
apparently a little nearer.

"It's them!" said Tom; "they're coming! Come
along, Becky -- we're all right now!"

The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming.
Their speed was slow, however, because pitfalls were
somewhat common, and had to be guarded against.
They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might
be three feet deep, it might be a hundred -- there was no
passing it at any rate. Tom got down on his breast
and reached as far down as he could. No bottom.
They must stay there and wait until the searchers came.
They listened; evidently the distant shoutings were
growing more distant! a moment or two more and they
had gone altogether. The heart-sinking misery of
it! Tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of
no use. He talked hopefully to Becky; but an age
of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again.

The children groped their way back to the spring.
The weary time dragged on; they slept again, and
awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom believed it
must be Tuesday by this time.

Now an idea struck him. There were some side
passages near at hand. It would be better to explore
some of these than bear the weight of the heavy time in
idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it
to a projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the
lead, unwinding the line as he groped along. At the
end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a "jumping-
off place." Tom got down on his knees and felt below,
and then as far around the corner as he could reach
with his hands conveniently; he made an effort to
stretch yet a little farther to the right, and at that
moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand,
holding a candle, appeared from behind a rock! Tom
lifted up a glorious shout, and instantly that hand was
followed by the body it belonged to -- Injun Joe's!
Tom was paralyzed; he could not move. He was
vastly gratified the next moment, to see the "Spaniard"
take to his heels and get himself out of sight. Tom
wondered that Joe had not recognized his voice and
come over and killed him for testifying in court. But
the echoes must have disguised the voice. Without
doubt, that was it, he reasoned. Tom's fright weak-
ened every muscle in his body. He said to himself
that if he had strength enough to get back to the
spring he would stay there, and nothing should tempt
him to run the risk of meeting Injun Joe again. He
was careful to keep from Becky what it was he had
seen. He told her he had only shouted "for luck."

But hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears
in the long run. Another tedious wait at the spring
and another long sleep brought changes. The chil-
dren awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom
believed that it must be Wednesday or Thursday or
even Friday or Saturday, now, and that the search
had been given over. He proposed to explore another
passage. He felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all
other terrors. But Becky was very weak. She had
sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be roused.
She said she would wait, now, where she was, and die
-- it would not be long. She told Tom to go with the
kite-line and explore if he chose; but she implored him
to come back every little while and speak to her; and
she made him promise that when the awful time came,
he would stay by her and hold her hand until all was
over.

Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his
throat, and made a show of being confident of finding
the searchers or an escape from the cave; then he
took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down
one of the passages on his hands and knees, distressed
with hunger and sick with bodings of coming doom.


CHAPTER XXXII

TUESDAY afternoon came, and waned to
the twilight. The village of St. Peters-
burg still mourned. The lost children
had not been found. Public prayers
had been offered up for them, and many
and many a private prayer that had the
petitioner's whole heart in it; but still no good news
came from the cave. The majority of the searchers
had given up the quest and gone back to their daily
avocations, saying that it was plain the children could
never be found. Mrs. Thatcher was very ill, and a
great part of the time delirious. People said it was
heartbreaking to hear her call her child, and raise her
head and listen a whole minute at a time, then lay it
wearily down again with a moan. Aunt Polly had
drooped into a settled melancholy, and her gray hair
had grown almost white. The village went to its rest
on Tuesday night, sad and forlorn.

Away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst
from the village bells, and in a moment the streets were
swarming with frantic half-clad people, who shouted,
"Turn out! turn out! they're found! they're found!"
Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the popula-
tion massed itself and moved toward the river, met
the children coming in an open carriage drawn by
shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its home-
ward march, and swept magnificently up the main
street roaring huzzah after huzzah!

The village was illuminated; nobody went to bed
again; it was the greatest night the little town had
ever seen. During the first half-hour a procession of
villagers filed through Judge Thatcher's house, seized
the saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatch-
er's hand, tried to speak but couldn't -- and drifted out
raining tears all over the place.

Aunt Polly's happiness was complete, and Mrs.
Thatcher's nearly so. It would be complete, how-
ever, as soon as the messenger dispatched with the
great news to the cave should get the word to her
husband. Tom lay upon a sofa with an eager audi-
tory about him and told the history of the wonderful
adventure, putting in many striking additions to adorn
it withal; and closed with a description of how he
left Becky and went on an exploring expedition; how
he followed two avenues as far as his kite-line would
reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch
of the kite-line, and was about to turn back when he
glimpsed a far-off speck that looked like daylight;
dropped the line and groped toward it, pushed his
head and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the
broad Mississippi rolling by! And if it had only hap-
pened to be night he would not have seen that speck
of daylight and would not have explored that passage
any more! He told how he went back for Becky and
broke the good news and she told him not to fret her
with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was
going to die, and wanted to. He described how he
labored with her and convinced her; and how she
almost died for joy when she had groped to where she
actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed
his way out at the hole and then helped her out; how
they sat there and cried for gladness; how some men
came along in a skiff and Tom hailed them and told
them their situation and their famished condition; how
the men didn't believe the wild tale at first, "because,"
said they, "you are five miles down the river below the
valley the cave is in" -- then took them aboard, rowed to
a house, gave them supper, made them rest till two or
three hours after dark and then brought them home.

Before day-dawn, Judge Thatcher and the handful
of searchers with him were tracked out, in the cave, by
the twine clews they had strung behind them, and
informed of the great news.

Three days and nights of toil and hunger in the
cave were not to be shaken off at once, as Tom and
Becky soon discovered. They were bedridden all of
Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow more
and more tired and worn, all the time. Tom got
about, a little, on Thursday, was down-town Friday,
and nearly as whole as ever Saturday; but Becky
did not leave her room until Sunday, and then she
looked as if she had passed through a wasting illness.

Tom learned of Huck's sickness and went to see
him on Friday, but could not be admitted to the
bedroom; neither could he on Saturday or Sunday.
He was admitted daily after that, but was warned to
keep still about his adventure and introduce no ex-
citing topic. The Widow Douglas stayed by to see
that he obeyed. At home Tom learned of the Cardiff
Hill event; also that the "ragged man's" body had
eventually been found in the river near the ferry-
landing; he had been drowned while trying to escape,
perhaps.

About a fortnight after Tom's rescue from the
cave, he started off to visit Huck, who had grown
plenty strong enough, now, to hear exciting talk, and
Tom had some that would interest him, he thought.
Judge Thatcher's house was on Tom's way, and he
stopped to see Becky. The Judge and some friends
set Tom to talking, and some one asked him ironically
if he wouldn't like to go to the cave again. Tom said
he thought he wouldn't mind it. The Judge said:

"Well, there are others just like you, Tom, I've not
the least doubt. But we have taken care of that.
Nobody will get lost in that cave any more."

"Why?"

"Because I had its big door sheathed with boiler
iron two weeks ago, and triple-locked -- and I've got
the keys."

Tom turned as white as a sheet.

"What's the matter, boy! Here, run, somebody!
Fetch a glass of water!"

The water was brought and thrown into Tom's
face.

"Ah, now you're all right. What was the matter
with you, Tom?"

"Oh, Judge, Injun Joe's in the cave!"


CHAPTER XXXIII

WITHIN a few minutes the news had
spread, and a dozen skiff-loads of men
were on their way to McDougal's cave,
and the ferryboat, well filled with pas-
sengers, soon followed. Tom Sawyer was
in the skiff that bore Judge Thatcher.

When the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful
sight presented itself in the dim twilight of the place.
Injun Joe lay stretched upon the ground, dead, with
his face close to the crack of the door, as if his longing
eyes had been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the
light and the cheer of the free world outside. Tom
was touched, for he knew by his own experience how
this wretch had suffered. His pity was moved, but
nevertheless he felt an abounding sense of relief and
security, now, which revealed to him in a degree which
he had not fully appreciated before how vast a weight
of dread had been lying upon him since the day he
lifted his voice against this bloody-minded outcast.

Injun Joe's bowie-knife lay close by, its blade
broken in two. The great foundation-beam of the
door had been chipped and hacked through, with
tedious labor; useless labor, too, it was, for the native
rock formed a sill outside it, and upon that stubborn
material the knife had wrought no effect; the only
damage done was to the knife itself. But if there had
been no stony obstruction there the labor would have
been useless still, for if the beam had been wholly cut
away Injun Joe could not have squeezed his body
under the door, and he knew it. So he had only hacked
that place in order to be doing something -- in order to
pass the weary time -- in order to employ his tortured
faculties. Ordinarily one could find half a dozen bits
of candle stuck around in the crevices of this vestibule,
left there by tourists; but there were none now. The
prisoner had searched them out and eaten them. He
had also contrived to catch a few bats, and these,
also, he had eaten, leaving only their claws. The
poor unfortunate had starved to death. In one place,
near at hand, a stalagmite had been slowly growing
up from the ground for ages, builded by the water-drip
from a stalactite overhead. The captive had broken
off the stalagmite, and upon the stump had placed a
stone, wherein he had scooped a shallow hollow to
catch the precious drop that fell once in every three
minutes with the dreary regularity of a clock-tick -- a
dessertspoonful once in four and twenty hours. That
drop was falling when the Pyramids were new; when
Troy fell; when the foundations of Rome were laid
when Christ was crucified; when the Conqueror
created the British empire; when Columbus sailed;
when the massacre at Lexington was "news." It is
falling now; it will still be falling when all these things
shall have sunk down the afternoon of history, and
the twilight of tradition, and been swallowed up in
the thick night of oblivion. Has everything a purpose
and a mission? Did this drop fall patiently during
five thousand years to be ready for this flitting human
insect's need? and has it another important object to
accomplish ten thousand years to come? No matter.
It is many and many a year since the hapless half-breed
scooped out the stone to catch the priceless drops, but
to this day the tourist stares longest at that pathetic
stone and that slow-dropping water when he comes
to see the wonders of McDougal's cave. Injun Joe's
cup stands first in the list of the cavern's marvels; even
"Aladdin's Palace" cannot rival it.

Injun Joe was buried near the mouth of the cave;
and people flocked there in boats and wagons from
the towns and from all the farms and hamlets for
seven miles around; they brought their children, and
all sorts of provisions, and confessed that they had
had almost as satisfactory a time at the funeral as they
could have had at the hanging.

This funeral stopped the further growth of one
thing -- the petition to the governor for Injun Joe's
pardon. The petition had been largely signed; many
tearful and eloquent meetings had been held, and a
committee of sappy women been appointed to go in
deep mourning and wail around the governor, and
implore him to be a merciful ass and trample his duty
under foot. Injun Joe was believed to have killed five
citizens of the village, but what of that? If he had been
Satan himself there would have been plenty of weak-
lings ready to scribble their names to a pardon-petition,
and drip a tear on it from their permanently impaired
and leaky water-works.

The morning after the funeral Tom took Huck to
a private place to have an important talk. Huck had
learned all about Tom's adventure from the Welsh-
man and the Widow Douglas, by this time, but
Tom said he reckoned there was one thing they
had not told him; that thing was what he wanted
to talk about now. Huck's face saddened. He
said:

"I know what it is. You got into No. 2 and never
found anything but whiskey. Nobody told me it was
you; but I just knowed it must 'a' ben you, soon as
I heard 'bout that whiskey business; and I knowed you
hadn't got the money becuz you'd 'a' got at me some
way or other and told me even if you was mum to
everybody else. Tom, something's always told me
we'd never get holt of that swag."

"Why, Huck, I never told on that tavern-keeper.
YOU know his tavern was all right the Saturday I went
to the picnic. Don't you remember you was to watch
there that night?"

"Oh yes! Why, it seems 'bout a year ago. It
was that very night that I follered Injun Joe to the
widder's."

"YOU followed him?"

"Yes -- but you keep mum. I reckon Injun Joe's
left friends behind him, and I don't want 'em souring
on me and doing me mean tricks. If it hadn't ben for
me he'd be down in Texas now, all right."

Then Huck told his entire adventure in confidence
to Tom, who had only heard of the Welshman's part
of it before.

"Well," said Huck, presently, coming back to the
main question, "whoever nipped the whiskey in No. 2,
nipped the money, too, I reckon -- anyways it's a goner
for us, Tom."

"Huck, that money wasn't ever in No. 2!"

"What!" Huck searched his comrade's face keenly.
"Tom, have you got on the track of that money again?"

"Huck, it's in the cave!"

Huck's eyes blazed.

"Say it again, Tom."

"The money's in the cave!"

"Tom -- honest injun, now -- is it fun, or earnest?"

"Earnest, Huck -- just as earnest as ever I was in
my life. Will you go in there with me and help get
it out?"

"I bet I will! I will if it's where we can blaze our
way to it and not get lost."

"Huck, we can do that without the least little bit
of trouble in the world."

"Good as wheat! What makes you think the
money's --"

"Huck, you just wait till we get in there. If we
don't find it I'll agree to give you my drum and every
thing I've got in the world. I will, by jings."

"All right -- it's a whiz. When do you say?"

"Right now, if you say it. Are you strong enough?"

"Is it far in the cave? I ben on my pins a little,
three or four days, now, but I can't walk more'n a
mile, Tom -- least I don't think I could."

"It's about five mile into there the way anybody
but me would go, Huck, but there's a mighty short
cut that they don't anybody but me know about.
Huck, I'll take you right to it in a skiff. I'll float
the skiff down there, and I'll pull it back again all by
myself. You needn't ever turn your hand over."

"Less start right off, Tom."

"All right. We want some bread and meat, and
our pipes, and a little bag or two, and two or three
kite-strings, and some of these new-fangled things
they call lucifer matches. I tell you, many's the
time I wished I had some when I was in there before."

A trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff
from a citizen who was absent, and got under way
at once. When they were several miles below "Cave
Hollow," Tom said:

"Now you see this bluff here looks all alike all the
way down from the cave hollow -- no houses, no wood-
yards, bushes all alike. But do you see that white
place up yonder where there's been a landslide?
Well, that's one of my marks. We'll get ashore,
now."

They landed.

"Now, Huck, where we're a-standing you could
touch that hole I got out of with a fishing-pole. See
if you can find it."

Huck searched all the place about, and found
nothing. Tom proudly marched into a thick clump of
sumach bushes and said:

"Here you are! Look at it, Huck; it's the snuggest
hole in this country. You just keep mum about it.
All along I've been wanting to be a robber, but I knew
I'd got to have a thing like this, and where to run across
it was the bother. We've got it now, and we'll keep it
quiet, only we'll let Joe Harper and Ben Rogers in --
because of course there's got to be a Gang, or else
there wouldn't be any style about it. Tom Sawyer's
Gang -- it sounds splendid, don't it, Huck?"

"Well, it just does, Tom. And who'll we rob?"

"Oh, most anybody. Waylay people -- that's mostly
the way."

"And kill them?"

"No, not always. Hive them in the cave till they
raise a ransom."

"What's a ransom?"

"Money. You make them raise all they can, off'n
their friends; and after you've kept them a year, if
it ain't raised then you kill them. That's the general
way. Only you don't kill the women. You shut up
the women, but you don't kill them. They're always
beautiful and rich, and awfully scared. You take
their watches and things, but you always take your
hat off and talk polite. They ain't anybody as polite
as robbers -- you'll see that in any book. Well, the
women get to loving you, and after they've been in the
cave a week or two weeks they stop crying and after
that you couldn't get them to leave. If you drove
them out they'd turn right around and come back.
It's so in all the books."

"Why, it's real bully, Tom. I believe it's better'n
to be a pirate."

"Yes, it's better in some ways, because it's close to
home and circuses and all that."

By this time everything was ready and the boys
entered the hole, Tom in the lead. They toiled their
way to the farther end of the tunnel, then made their
spliced kite-strings fast and moved on. A few steps
brought them to the spring, and Tom felt a shudder
quiver all through him. He showed Huck the frag-
ment of candle-wick perched on a lump of clay against
the wall, and described how he and Becky had watched
the flame struggle and expire.

The boys began to quiet down to whispers, now,
for the stillness and gloom of the place oppressed their
spirits. They went on, and presently entered and
followed Tom's other corridor until they reached the
"jumping-off place." The candles revealed the fact
that it was not really a precipice, but only a steep
clay hill twenty or thirty feet high. Tom whis-
pered:

"Now I'll show you something, Huck."

He held his candle aloft and said:

"Look as far around the corner as you can. Do
you see that? There -- on the big rock over yonder
-- done with candle-smoke."

"Tom, it's a CROSS!"

"NOW where's your Number Two? 'UNDER THE
CROSS,' hey? Right yonder's where I saw Injun Joe
poke up his candle, Huck!"

Huck stared at the mystic sign awhile, and then said
with a shaky voice:

"Tom, less git out of here!"

"What! and leave the treasure?"

"Yes -- leave it. Injun Joe's ghost is round about
there, certain."

"No it ain't, Huck, no it ain't. It would ha'nt the
place where he died -- away out at the mouth of the
cave -- five mile from here."

"No, Tom, it wouldn't. It would hang round the
money. I know the ways of ghosts, and so do you."

Tom began to fear that Huck was right. Mis-
givings gathered in his mind. But presently an idea
occurred to him --

"Lookyhere, Huck, what fools we're making of
ourselves! Injun Joe's ghost ain't a going to come
around where there's a cross!"

The point was well taken. It had its effect.

"Tom, I didn't think of that. But that's so. It's
luck for us, that cross is. I reckon we'll climb down
there and have a hunt for that box."

Tom went first, cutting rude steps in the clay hill
as he descended. Huck followed. Four avenues
opened out of the small cavern which the great rock
stood in. The boys examined three of them with no
result. They found a small recess in the one nearest
the base of the rock, with a pallet of blankets spread
down in it; also an old suspender, some bacon rind,
and the well-gnawed bones of two or three fowls. But
there was no money-box. The lads searched and re-
searched this place, but in vain. Tom said:

"He said UNDER the cross. Well, this comes nearest
to being under the cross. It can't be under the rock
itself, because that sets solid on the ground."

They searched everywhere once more, and then
sat down discouraged. Huck could suggest nothing.
By-and-by Tom said:

"Lookyhere, Huck, there's footprints and some can-
dle-grease on the clay about one side of this rock,
but not on the other sides. Now, what's that for?
I bet you the money IS under the rock. I'm going to
dig in the clay."

"That ain't no bad notion, Tom!" said Huck with
animation.

Tom's "real Barlow" was out at once, and he had
not dug four inches before he struck wood.

"Hey, Huck! -- you hear that?"

Huck began to dig and scratch now. Some boards
were soon uncovered and removed. They had con-
cealed a natural chasm which led under the rock. Tom
got into this and held his candle as far under the rock
as he could, but said he could not see to the end of the
rift. He proposed to explore. He stooped and passed
under; the narrow way descended gradually. He
followed its winding course, first to the right, then to
the left, Huck at his heels. Tom turned a short curve,
by-and-by, and exclaimed:

"My goodness, Huck, lookyhere!"

It was the treasure-box, sure enough, occupying a
snug little cavern, along with an empty powder-keg,
a couple of guns in leather cases, two or three pairs of
old moccasins, a leather belt, and some other rubbish
well soaked with the water-drip.

"Got it at last!" said Huck, ploughing among the tar-
nished coins with his hand. "My, but we're rich, Tom!"

"Huck, I always reckoned we'd get it. It's just
too good to believe, but we HAVE got it, sure! Say --
let's not fool around here. Let's snake it out. Lemme
see if I can lift the box."

It weighed about fifty pounds. Tom could lift it,
after an awkward fashion, but could not carry it
conveniently.

"I thought so," he said; "THEY carried it like it
was heavy, that day at the ha'nted house. I noticed
that. I reckon I was right to think of fetching the
little bags along."

The money was soon in the bags and the boys took
it up to the cross rock.

"Now less fetch the guns and things," said Huck.

"No, Huck -- leave them there. They're just the
tricks to have when we go to robbing. We'll keep them
there all the time, and we'll hold our orgies there, too.
It's an awful snug place for orgies."

"What orgies?"

"I dono. But robbers always have orgies, and of
course we've got to have them, too. Come along,
Huck, we've been in here a long time. It's getting
late, I reckon. I'm hungry, too. We'll eat and smoke
when we get to the skiff."

They presently emerged into the clump of sumach
bushes, looked warily out, found the coast clear, and
were soon lunching and smoking in the skiff. As
the sun dipped toward the horizon they pushed out
and got under way. Tom skimmed up the shore
through the long twilight, chatting cheerily with Huck,
and landed shortly after dark.

"Now, Huck," said Tom, "we'll hide the money
in the loft of the widow's woodshed, and I'll come
up in the morning and we'll count it and divide, and
then we'll hunt up a place out in the woods for it
where it will be safe. Just you lay quiet here and
watch the stuff till I run and hook Benny Taylor's
little wagon; I won't be gone a minute."

He disappeared, and presently returned with the
wagon, put the two small sacks into it, threw some
old rags on top of them, and started off, dragging his
cargo behind him. When the boys reached the Welsh-
man's house, they stopped to rest. Just as they were
about to move on, the Welshman stepped out and said:

"Hallo, who's that?"

"Huck and Tom Sawyer."

"Good! Come along with me, boys, you are keep-
ing everybody waiting. Here -- hurry up, trot ahead --
I'll haul the wagon for you. Why, it's not as light as
it might be. Got bricks in it? -- or old metal?"

"Old metal," said Tom.

"I judged so; the boys in this town will take more
trouble and fool away more time hunting up six bits'
worth of old iron to sell to the foundry than they would
to make twice the money at regular work. But that's
human nature -- hurry along, hurry along!"

The boys wanted to know what the hurry was about.

"Never mind; you'll see, when we get to the Widow
Douglas'."

Huck said with some apprehension -- for he was
long used to being falsely accused:

"Mr. Jones, we haven't been doing nothing."

The Welshman laughed.

"Well, I don't know, Huck, my boy. I don't know
about that. Ain't you and the widow good friends?"

"Yes. Well, she's ben good friends to me, anyway."

"All right, then. What do you want to be afraid
for?"

This question was not entirely answered in Huck's
slow mind before he found himself pushed, along
with Tom, into Mrs. Douglas' drawing-room. Mr.
Jones left the wagon near the door and followed.

The place was grandly lighted, and everybody that
was of any consequence in the village was there. The
Thatchers were there, the Harpers, the Rogerses, Aunt
Polly, Sid, Mary, the minister, the editor, and a great
many more, and all dressed in their best. The widow
received the boys as heartily as any one could well
receive two such looking beings. They were covered
with clay and candle-grease. Aunt Polly blushed
crimson with humiliation, and frowned and shook her
head at Tom. Nobody suffered half as much as the
two boys did, however. Mr. Jones said:

"Tom wasn't at home, yet, so I gave him up; but
I stumbled on him and Huck right at my door, and so
I just brought them along in a hurry."

"And you did just right," said the widow. "Come
with me, boys."

She took them to a bedchamber and said:

"Now wash and dress yourselves. Here are two
new suits of clothes -- shirts, socks, everything complete.
They're Huck's -- no, no thanks, Huck -- Mr. Jones
bought one and I the other. But they'll fit both of
you. Get into them. We'll wait -- come down when
you are slicked up enough."

Then she left.


CHAPTER XXXIV

HUCK said: "Tom, we can slope, if we
can find a rope. The window ain't high
from the ground."

"Shucks! what do you want to slope
for?"

"Well, I ain't used to that kind of a
crowd. I can't stand it. I ain't going down there, Tom."

"Oh, bother! It ain't anything. I don't mind it
a bit. I'll take care of you."

Sid appeared.

"Tom," said he, "auntie has been waiting for you
all the afternoon. Mary got your Sunday clothes
ready, and everybody's been fretting about you. Say
-- ain't this grease and clay, on your clothes?"

"Now, Mr. Siddy, you jist 'tend to your own business.
What's all this blow-out about, anyway?"

"It's one of the widow's parties that she's always
having. This time it's for the Welshman and his
sons, on account of that scrape they helped her out
of the other night. And say -- I can tell you something,
if you want to know."

"Well, what?"

"Why, old Mr. Jones is going to try to spring some-
thing on the people here to-night, but I overheard him
tell auntie to-day about it, as a secret, but I reckon
it's not much of a secret now. Everybody knows --
the widow, too, for all she tries to let on she don't.
Mr. Jones was bound Huck should be here -- couldn't
get along with his grand secret without Huck, you
know!"

"Secret about what, Sid?"

"About Huck tracking the robbers to the widow's.
I reckon Mr. Jones was going to make a grand time
over his surprise, but I bet you it will drop pretty flat."

Sid chuckled in a very contented and satisfied way.

"Sid, was it you that told?"

"Oh, never mind who it was. SOMEBODY told -- that's
enough."

"Sid, there's only one person in this town mean
enough to do that, and that's you. If you had been in
Huck's place you'd 'a' sneaked down the hill and never
told anybody on the robbers. You can't do any but
mean things, and you can't bear to see anybody praised
for doing good ones. There -- no thanks, as the widow
says" -- and Tom cuffed Sid's ears and helped him to
the door with several kicks. "Now go and tell auntie
if you dare -- and to-morrow you'll catch it!"

Some minutes later the widow's guests were at the
supper-table, and a dozen children were propped up
at little side-tables in the same room, after the fashion
of that country and that day. At the proper time
Mr. Jones made his little speech, in which he thanked
the widow for the honor she was doing himself and his
sons, but said that there was another person whose
modesty --

And so forth and so on. He sprung his secret
about Huck's share in the adventure in the finest
dramatic manner he was master of, but the surprise it
occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as clamorous
and effusive as it might have been under happier
circumstances. However, the widow made a pretty
fair show of astonishment, and heaped so many com-
pliments and so much gratitude upon Huck that he
almost forgot the nearly intolerable discomfort of his
new clothes in the entirely intolerable discomfort of
being set up as a target for everybody's gaze and
everybody's laudations.

The widow said she meant to give Huck a home
under her roof and have him educated; and that
when she could spare the money she would start him
in business in a modest way. Tom's chance was
come. He said:

"Huck don't need it. Huck's rich."

Nothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners
of the company kept back the due and proper com-
plimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. But the silence
was a little awkward. Tom broke it:

"Huck's got money. Maybe you don't believe it,
but he's got lots of it. Oh, you needn't smile -- I reckon
I can show you. You just wait a minute."

Tom ran out of doors. The company looked at
each other with a perplexed interest -- and inquiringly
at Huck, who was tongue-tied.

"Sid, what ails Tom?" said Aunt Polly. "He -- well,
there ain't ever any making of that boy out. I never --"

Tom entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks,
and Aunt Polly did not finish her sentence. Tom
poured the mass of yellow coin upon the table and said:

"There -- what did I tell you? Half of it's Huck's
and half of it's mine!"

The spectacle took the general breath away. All
gazed, nobody spoke for a moment. Then there was a
unanimous call for an explanation. Tom said he could
furnish it, and he did. The tale was long, but brimful
of interest. There was scarcely an interruption from
any one to break the charm of its flow. When he had
finished, Mr. Jones said:

"I thought I had fixed up a little surprise for this
occasion, but it don't amount to anything now. This
one makes it sing mighty small, I'm willing to allow."

The money was counted. The sum amounted to
a little over twelve thousand dollars. It was more
than any one present had ever seen at one time before,
though several persons were there who were worth
considerably more than that in property.


CHAPTER XXXV

THE reader may rest satisfied that Tom's
and Huck's windfall made a mighty stir
in the poor little village of St. Petersburg.
So vast a sum, all in actual cash, seemed
next to incredible. It was talked about,
gloated over, glorified, until the reason of
many of the citizens tottered under the strain of the
unhealthy excitement. Every "haunted" house in St.
Petersburg and the neighboring villages was dissected,
plank by plank, and its foundations dug up and ran-
sacked for hidden treasure -- and not by boys, but men
-- pretty grave, unromantic men, too, some of them.
Wherever Tom and Huck appeared they were courted,
admired, stared at. The boys were not able to remem-
ber that their remarks had possessed weight before;
but now their sayings were treasured and repeated;
everything they did seemed somehow to be regarded as
remarkable; they had evidently lost the power of doing
and saying commonplace things; moreover, their past
history was raked up and discovered to bear marks of
conspicuous originality. The village paper published
biographical sketches of the boys.

The Widow Douglas put Huck's money out at six
per cent., and Judge Thatcher did the same with
Tom's at Aunt Polly's request. Each lad had an in-
come, now, that was simply prodigious -- a dollar for
every week-day in the year and half of the Sundays.
It was just what the minister got -- no, it was what he
was promised -- he generally couldn't collect it. A
dollar and a quarter a week would board, lodge, and
school a boy in those old simple days -- and clothe him
and wash him, too, for that matter.

Judge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of
Tom. He said that no commonplace boy would ever
have got his daughter out of the cave. When Becky
told her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had
taken her whipping at school, the Judge was visibly
moved; and when she pleaded grace for the mighty
lie which Tom had told in order to shift that whipping
from her shoulders to his own, the Judge said with a
fine outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a mag-
nanimous lie -- a lie that was worthy to hold up its head
and march down through history breast to breast with
George Washington's lauded Truth about the hatchet!
Becky thought her father had never looked so tall and
so superb as when he walked the floor and stamped
his foot and said that. She went straight off and told
Tom about it.

Judge Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great lawyer or
a great soldier some day. He said he meant to look
to it that Tom should be admitted to the National
Military Academy and afterward trained in the best
law school in the country, in order that he might be
ready for either career or both.

Huck Finn's wealth and the fact that he was now
under the Widow Douglas' protection introduced him
into society -- no, dragged him into it, hurled him into
it -- and his sufferings were almost more than he could
bear. The widow's servants kept him clean and neat,
combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in
unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot or
stain which he could press to his heart and know for
a friend. He had to eat with a knife and fork; he had
to use napkin, cup, and plate; he had to learn his book,
he had to go to church; he had to talk so properly that
speech was become insipid in his mouth; whitherso-
ever he turned, the bars and shackles of civilization
shut him in and bound him hand and foot.

He bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then
one day turned up missing. For forty-eight hours the
widow hunted for him everywhere in great distress.
The public were profoundly concerned; they searched
high and low, they dragged the river for his body.
Early the third morning Tom Sawyer wisely went
poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind
the abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them
he found the refugee. Huck had slept there; he had
just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of
food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe.
He was unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old
ruin of rags that had made him picturesque in the days
when he was free and happy. Tom routed him out,
told him the trouble he had been causing, and urged
him to go home. Huck's face lost its tranquil content,
and took a melancholy cast. He said:

"Don't talk about it, Tom. I've tried it, and it
don't work; it don't work, Tom. It ain't for me;
I ain't used to it. The widder's good to me, and
friendly; but I can't stand them ways. She makes
me get up just at the same time every morning; she
makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder; she
won't let me sleep in the woodshed; I got to wear
them blamed clothes that just smothers me, Tom;
they don't seem to any air git through 'em, somehow;
and they're so rotten nice that I can't set down, nor
lay down, nor roll around anywher's; I hain't slid on
a cellar-door for -- well, it 'pears to be years; I got
to go to church and sweat and sweat -- I hate them
ornery sermons! I can't ketch a fly in there, I can't
chaw. I got to wear shoes all Sunday. The widder
eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits up
by a bell -- everything's so awful reg'lar a body can't
stand it."

"Well, everybody does that way, Huck."

"Tom, it don't make no difference. I ain't every-
body, and I can't STAND it. It's awful to be tied up so.
And grub comes too easy -- I don't take no interest in
vittles, that way. I got to ask to go a-fishing; I got
to ask to go in a-swimming -- dern'd if I hain't got to
ask to do everything. Well, I'd got to talk so nice it
wasn't no comfort -- I'd got to go up in the attic and
rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in my mouth,
or I'd a died, Tom. The widder wouldn't let me
smoke; she wouldn't let me yell, she wouldn't let me
gape, nor stretch, nor scratch, before folks --" [Then
with a spasm of special irritation and injury] -- "And
dad fetch it, she prayed all the time! I never see such
a woman! I HAD to shove, Tom -- I just had to. And
besides, that school's going to open, and I'd a had to
go to it -- well, I wouldn't stand THAT, Tom. Looky-
here, Tom, being rich ain't what it's cracked up to be.
It's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and
a-wishing you was dead all the time. Now these
clothes suits me, and this bar'l suits me, and I ain't
ever going to shake 'em any more. Tom, I wouldn't
ever got into all this trouble if it hadn't 'a' ben for
that money; now you just take my sheer of it along
with your'n, and gimme a ten-center sometimes -- not
many times, becuz I don't give a dern for a thing
'thout it's tollable hard to git -- and you go and beg off
for me with the widder."

"Oh, Huck, you know I can't do that. 'Tain't
fair; and besides if you'll try this thing just a while
longer you'll come to like it."

"Like it! Yes -- the way I'd like a hot stove if I
was to set on it long enough. No, Tom, I won't be
rich, and I won't live in them cussed smothery houses.
I like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and
I'll stick to 'em, too. Blame it all! just as we'd got
guns, and a cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this
dern foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!"

Tom saw his opportunity --

"Lookyhere, Huck, being rich ain't going to keep
me back from turning robber."

"No! Oh, good-licks; are you in real dead-wood
earnest, Tom?"

"Just as dead earnest as I'm sitting here. But
Huck, we can't let you into the gang if you ain't re-
spectable, you know."

Huck's joy was quenched.

"Can't let me in, Tom? Didn't you let me go for
a pirate?"

"Yes, but that's different. A robber is more high-
toned than what a pirate is -- as a general thing. In
most countries they're awful high up in the nobility --
dukes and such."

"Now, Tom, hain't you always ben friendly to me?
You wouldn't shet me out, would you, Tom? You
wouldn't do that, now, WOULD you, Tom?"

"Huck, I wouldn't want to, and I DON'T want to --
but what would people say? Why, they'd say, 'Mph!
Tom Sawyer's Gang! pretty low characters in it!'
They'd mean you, Huck. You wouldn't like that, and
I wouldn't."

Huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental
struggle. Finally he said:

"Well, I'll go back to the widder for a month and
tackle it and see if I can come to stand it, if you'll
let me b'long to the gang, Tom."

"All right, Huck, it's a whiz! Come along, old
chap, and I'll ask the widow to let up on you a little,
Huck."

"Will you, Tom -- now will you? That's good. If
she'll let up on some of the roughest things, I'll smoke
private and cuss private, and crowd through or bust.
When you going to start the gang and turn robbers?"

"Oh, right off. We'll get the boys together and
have the initiation to-night, maybe."

"Have the which?"

"Have the initiation."

"What's that?"

"It's to swear to stand by one another, and never
tell the gang's secrets, even if you're chopped all to
flinders, and kill anybody and all his family that hurts
one of the gang."

"That's gay -- that's mighty gay, Tom, I tell you."

"Well, I bet it is. And all that swearing's got to
be done at midnight, in the lonesomest, awfulest place
you can find -- a ha'nted house is the best, but they're
all ripped up now."

"Well, midnight's good, anyway, Tom."

"Yes, so it is. And you've got to swear on a coffin,
and sign it with blood."

"Now, that's something LIKE! Why, it's a million
times bullier than pirating. I'll stick to the widder
till I rot, Tom; and if I git to be a reg'lar ripper of a
robber, and everybody talking 'bout it, I reckon she'll
be proud she snaked me in out of the wet."


CONCLUSION

SO endeth this chronicle. It being strictly
a history of a BOY, it must stop here; the
story could not go much further without
becoming the history of a MAN. When
one writes a novel about grown people, he
knows exactly where to stop -- that is,
with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles, he
must stop where he best can.

Most of the characters that perform in this book
still live, and are prosperous and happy. Some day
it may seem worth while to take up the story of the
younger ones again and see what sort of men and
women they turned out to be; therefore it will be
wisest not to reveal any of that part of their lives at
present.

***

End of the Wiretap/Project Gutenberg Etext of
Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain [Samuel Langhorne Clemens






ALONZO FITZ AND OTHER STORIES

by Mark Twain



CONTENTS OF THIS VOLUME:

THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON
ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING
ABOUT MAGNANIMOUS-INCIDENT LITERATURE
     THE GRATEFUL POODLE
     THE BENEVOLENT AUTHOR
     THE GRATEFUL HUSBAND
PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH
THE GREAT REVOLUTION IN PITCAIRN
THE CANVASSER'S TALE
AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER
PARIS NOTES
LEGEND OF SAGENFELD, IN GERMANY
SPEECH ON THE BABIES
SPEECH ON THE WEATHER
CONCERNING THE AMERICAN LANGUAGE
ROGERS




THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON


It was well along in the forenoon of a bitter winter's day.  The town of
Eastport, in the state of Maine, lay buried under a deep snow that was
newly fallen.  The customary bustle in the streets was wanting.  One
could look long distances down them and see nothing but a dead-white
emptiness, with silence to match.  Of course I do not mean that you could
see the silence--no, you could only hear it.  The sidewalks were merely
long, deep ditches, with steep snow walls on either side.  Here and there
you might hear the faint, far scrape of a wooden shovel, and if you were
quick enough you might catch a glimpse of a distant black figure stooping
and disappearing in one of those ditches, and reappearing the next moment
with a motion which you would know meant the heaving out of a shovelful
of snow.  But you needed to be quick, for that black figure would not
linger, but would soar drop that shovel and scud for the house, thrashing
itself with its arms to warm them.  Yes, it was too venomously cold for
snow-shovelers or anybody else to stay out long.

Presently the sky darkened; then the wind rose and began to blow in
fitful, vigorous gusts, which sent clouds of powdery snow aloft, and
straight ahead, and everywhere.  Under the impulse of one of these gusts,
great white drifts banked themselves like graves across the streets; a
moment later another gust shifted them around the other way, driving a
fine spray of snow from their sharp crests, as the gale drives the spume
flakes from wave-crests at sea; a third gust swept that place as clean as
your hand, if it saw fit.  This was fooling, this was play; but each and
all of the gusts dumped some snow into the sidewalk ditches, for that was
business.

Alonzo Fitz Clarence was sitting in his snug and elegant little parlor,
in a lovely blue silk dressing-gown, with cuffs and facings of crimson
satin, elaborately quilted.  The remains of his breakfast were before
him, and the dainty and costly little table service added a harmonious
charm to the grace, beauty, and richness of the fixed appointments of the
room.  A cheery fire was blazing on the hearth.

A furious gust of wind shook the windows, and a great wave of snow washed
against them with a drenching sound, so to speak.  The handsome young
bachelor murmured:

"That means, no going out to-day.  Well, I am content.  But what to do
for company?  Mother is well enough, Aunt Susan is well enough; but
these, like the poor, I have with me always.  On so grim a day as this,
one needs a new interest, a fresh element, to whet the dull edge of
captivity.  That was very neatly said, but it doesn't mean anything.
One doesn't want the edge of captivity sharpened up, you know, but just
the reverse."

He glanced at his pretty French mantel-clock.

"That clock's wrong again.  That clock hardly ever knows what time it is;
and when it does know, it lies about it--which amounts to the same thing.
Alfred!"

There was no answer.

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

Alonzo touched an electric bell button in the wall.  He waited a moment,
then touched it again; waited a few moments more, and said:

"Battery out of order, no doubt.  But now that I have started, I will
find out what time it is."  He stepped to a speaking-tube in the wall,
blew its whistle, and called, "Mother!" and repeated it twice.

"Well, that's no use.  Mother's battery is out of order, too.  Can't
raise anybody down-stairs--that is plain."

He sat down at a rosewood desk, leaned his chin on the left-hand edge of
it and spoke, as if to the floor: "Aunt Susan!"

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

"Yes.  I'm too lazy and comfortable to go downstairs; I am in extremity,
and I can't seem to scare up any help."

"Dear me, what is the matter?"

"Matter enough, I can tell you!"

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

"I want to know what time it is."

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

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

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

"Thanks.  It wouldn't have impoverished me, aunty, nor so enriched you
that you could live without other means."

He got up, murmuring, "Just five minutes after nine," and faced his
clock.  "Ah," said he, "you are doing better than usual.  You are only
thirty-four minutes wrong.  Let me see .  .  , let me see.  .  .  .
Thirty-three and twenty-one are fifty-four; four times fifty-four are two
hundred and thirty-six.  One off, leaves two hundred and thirty-five.
That's right."

He turned the hands of his clock forward till they marked twenty-five
minutes to one, and said, "Now see if you can't keep right for a while
--else I'll raffle you!"

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

"Yes, dear."

"Had breakfast?"

"Yes, indeed, an hour ago."

"Busy?"

"No--except sewing.  Why?"

"Got any company?"

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

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

"Very well, talk to me."

"But this is very private."

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

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

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

"I feel it, aunt, but this is very serious.  It affects me deeply--me,
and all the family---even the whole community."

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

"Aunt, if I might dare--"

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

"The weather!"

"Plague take the weather!  I don't see how you can have the heart to
serve me so, Lon."

"There, there, aunty dear, I'm sorry; I am, on my honor.  I won't do it
again.  Do you forgive me?"

"Yes, since you seem so sincere about it, though I know I oughtn't to.
You will fool me again as soon as I have forgotten this time."

"No, I won't, honor bright.  But such weather, oh, such weather!  You've
got to keep your spirits up artificially.  It is snowy, and blowy, and
gusty, and bitter cold!  How is the weather with you?"

"Warm and rainy and melancholy.  The mourners go about the streets with
their umbrellas running streams from the end of every whalebone.  There's
an elevated double pavement of umbrellas, stretching down the sides of
the streets as far as I can see.  I've got a fire for cheerfulness, and
the windows open to keep cool.  But it is vain, it is useless: nothing
comes in but the balmy breath of December, with its burden of mocking
odors from the flowers that possess the realm outside, and rejoice in
their lawless profusion whilst the spirit of man is low, and flaunt their
gaudy splendors in his face while his soul is clothed in sackcloth and
ashes and his heart breaketh."

Alonzo opened his lips to say, "You ought to print that, and get it
framed," but checked himself, for he heard his aunt speaking to some one
else.  He went and stood at the window and looked out upon the wintry
prospect.  The storm was driving the snow before it more furiously than
ever; window-shutters were slamming and banging; a forlorn dog, with
bowed head and tail withdrawn from service, was pressing his quaking body
against a windward wall for shelter and protection; a young girl was
plowing knee-deep through the drifts, with her face turned from the
blast, and the cape of her waterproof blowing straight rearward over her
head.  Alonzo shuddered, and said with a sigh, "Better the slop, and the
sultry rain, and even the insolent flowers, than this!"

He turned from the window, moved a step, and stopped in a listening
attitude.  The faint, sweet notes of a familiar song caught his ear.  He
remained there, with his head unconsciously bent forward, drinking in the
melody, stirring neither hand nor foot, hardly breathing.  There was a
blemish in the execution of the song, but to Alonzo it seemed an added
charm instead of a defect.  This blemish consisted of a marked flatting
of the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh notes of the refrain or
chorus of the piece.  When the music ended, Alonzo drew a deep breath,
and said, "Ah, I never have heard 'In the Sweet By-and-by' sung like that
before!"

He stepped quickly to the desk, listened a moment, and said in a guarded,
confidential voice, "Aunty, who is this divine singer?"

"She is the company I was expecting.  Stays with me a month or two.
I will introduce you.  Miss--"

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

He flew to his bedchamber, and returned in a moment perceptibly changed
in his outward appearance, and remarking, snappishly:

"Hang it, she would have introduced me to this angel in that sky-blue
dressing-gown with red-hot lapels!  Women never think, when they get
a-going."

He hastened and stood by the desk, and said eagerly, "Now, Aunty, I am
ready," and fell to smiling and bowing with all the persuasiveness and
elegance that were in him.

"Very well.  Miss Rosannah Ethelton, let me introduce to you my favorite
nephew, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence.  There!  You are both good people, and
I like you; so I am going to trust you together while I attend to a few
household affairs.  Sit down, Rosannah; sit down, Alonzo.  Good-by; I
sha'n't be gone long."

Alonzo had been bowing and smiling all the while, and motioning imaginary
young ladies to sit down in imaginary chairs, but now he took a seat
himself, mentally saying, "Oh, this is luck!  Let the winds blow now, and
the snow drive, and the heavens frown!  Little I care!"

While these young people chat themselves into an acquaintanceship, let us
take the liberty of inspecting the sweeter and fairer of the two.  She
sat alone, at her graceful ease, in a richly furnished apartment which
was manifestly the private parlor of a refined and sensible lady,
if signs and symbols may go for anything.  For instance, by a low,
comfortable chair stood a dainty, top-heavy workstand, whose summit was a
fancifully embroidered shallow basket, with varicolored crewels, and
other strings and odds, and ends protruding from under the gaping lid and
hanging down in negligent profusion.  On the floor lay bright shreds of
Turkey red, Prussian blue, and kindred fabrics, bits of ribbon, a spool
or two, a pair of scissors, and a roll or so of tinted silken stuffs.
On a luxurious sofa, upholstered with some sort of soft Indian goods
wrought in black and gold threads interwebbed with other threads not so
pronounced in color, lay a great square of coarse white stuff, upon whose
surface a rich bouquet of flowers was growing, under the deft cultivation
of the crochet-needle.  The household cat was asleep on this work of art.
In a bay-window stood an easel with an unfinished picture on it, and a
palette and brushes on a chair beside it.  There were books everywhere:
Robertson's Sermons, Tennyson, Moody and Sankey, Hawthorne, Rab and His
Friends, cook-books, prayer-books, pattern-books--and books about all
kinds of odious and exasperating pottery, of course.  There was a piano,
with a deck-load of music, and more in a tender.  There was a great
plenty of pictures on the walls, on the shelves of the mantelpiece, and
around generally; where coigns of vantage offered were statuettes, and
quaint and pretty gimcracks, and rare and costly specimens of peculiarly
devilish china.  The bay-window gave upon a garden that was ablaze with
foreign and domestic flowers and flowering shrubs.

But the sweet young girl was the daintiest thing these premises, within
or without, could offer for contemplation: delicately chiseled features,
of Grecian cast; her complexion the pure snow of a japonica that is
receiving a faint reflected enrichment from some scarlet neighbor of the
garden; great, soft blue eyes fringed with long, curving lashes; an
expression made up of the trustfulness of a child and the gentleness of
a fawn; a beautiful head crowned with its own prodigal gold; a lithe and
rounded figure, whose every attitude and movement was instinct with
native grace.

Her dress and adornment were marked by that exquisite harmony that can
come only of a fine natural taste perfected by culture.  Her gown was of
a simple magenta tulle, cut bias, traversed by three rows of light-blue
flounces, with the selvage edges turned up with ashes-of-roses chenille;
overdress of dark bay tarlatan with scarlet satin lambrequins; corn-
colored polonaise, en zanier, looped with mother-of-pearl buttons and
silver cord, and hauled aft and made fast by buff velvet lashings; basque
of lavender reps, picked out with valenciennes; low neck, short sleeves;
maroon velvet necktie edged with delicate pink silk; inside handkerchief
of some simple three-ply ingrain fabric of a soft saffron tint; coral
bracelets and locket-chain; coiffure of forget-me-nots and lilies-of-the
-valley massed around a noble calla.

This was all; yet even in this subdued attire she was divinely beautiful.
Then what must she have been when adorned for the festival or the ball?

All this time she had been busily chatting with Alonzo, unconscious of
our inspection.  The minutes still sped, and still she talked.  But by
and by she happened to look up, and saw the clock.  A crimson blush sent
its rich flood through her cheeks, and she exclaimed:

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

She sprang from her chair with such haste that she hardly heard the young
man's answering good-by.  She stood radiant, graceful, beautiful, and
gazed, wondering, upon the accusing clock.  Presently her pouting lips
parted, and she said:

"Five minutes after eleven!  Nearly two hours, and it did not seem twenty
minutes!  Oh, dear, what will he think of me!"

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

"Twenty-five minutes to three!  Nearly two hours, and I didn't believe it
was two minutes!  Is it possible that this clock is humbugging again?
Miss Ethelton!  Just one moment, please.  Are you there yet?"

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

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

The girl blushed again, murmured to herself, "It's right down cruel of
him to ask me!" and then spoke up and answered with admirably
counterfeited unconcern, "Five minutes after eleven."

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

"I'm sorry."

No reply.

"Miss Ethelton!"

"Well?"

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

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

"Well, I--well, nothing in particular.  It's very lonesome here.  It's
asking a great deal, I know, but would you mind talking with me again by
and by--that is, if it will not trouble you too much?"

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

"Oh, thanks!  Miss Ethelton!  .  .  .  Ah, me, she's gone, and here are
the black clouds and the whirling snow and the raging winds come again!
But she said good-by.  She didn't say good morning, she said good-by!....
The clock was right, after all.  What a lightning-winged two hours it
was!"

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

"How wonderful it is!  Two little hours ago I was a free man, and now my
heart's in San Francisco!"

About that time Rosannah Ethelton, propped in the window-seat of her
bedchamber, book in hand, was gazing vacantly out over the rainy seas
that washed the Golden Gate, and whispering to herself, "How different he
is from poor Burley, with his empty head and his single little antic
talent of mimicry!"


II

Four weeks later Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley was entertaining a gay
luncheon company, in a sumptuous drawing-room on Telegraph Hill, with
some capital imitations of the voices and gestures of certain popular
actors and San Franciscan literary people and Bonanza grandees.  He was
elegantly upholstered, and was a handsome fellow, barring a trifling cast
in his eye.  He seemed very jovial, but nevertheless he kept his eye on
the door with an expectant and uneasy watchfulness.  By and by a nobby.
lackey appeared, and delivered a message to the mistress, who nodded her
head understandingly.  That seemed to settle the thing for Mr. Burley;
his vivacity decreased little by little, and a dejected look began to
creep into one of his eyes and a sinister one into the other.

The rest of the company departed in due time, leaving him with the
mistress, to whom he said:

"There is no longer any question about it.  She avoids me.  She
continually excuses herself.  If I could see her, if I could speak to her
only a moment but this suspense--"

"Perhaps her seeming avoidance is mere accident, Mr. Burley.  Go to the
small drawing-room up-stairs and amuse yourself a moment.  I will
despatch a household order that is on my mind, and then I will go to her
room.  Without doubt she will be persuaded to see you."

Mr. Burley went up-stairs, intending to go to the small drawing-room, but
as he was passing "Aunt Susan's" private parlor, the door of which stood
slightly ajar, he heard a joyous laugh which he recognized; so without
knock or announcement he stepped confidently in.  But before he could
make his presence known he heard words that harrowed up his soul and
chilled his young blood, die heard a voice say:

"Darling, it has come!"

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

"So has yours, dearest!"

He saw her bowed form bend lower; he heard her kiss something--not merely
once, but again and again!  His soul raged within him.  The heartbreaking
conversation went on:

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

"Alonzo, it is such happiness to hear you say it.  I know it is not true,
but I am so grateful to have you think it is, nevertheless!  I knew you
must have a noble face, but the grace and majesty of the reality beggar
the poor creation of my fancy."

Burley heard that rattling shower of kisses again.

"Thank you, my Rosannah!  The photograph flatters me, but you must not
allow yourself to think of that.  Sweetheart?"

"Yes, Alonzo."

"I am so happy, Rosannah."

"Oh, Alonzo, none that have gone before me knew what love was, none that
come after me will ever know what happiness is.  I float in a gorgeous
cloud land, a boundless firmament of enchanted and bewildering ecstasy!"

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

"Wholly, oh, wholly yours, Alonzo, now and forever!  All the day long,
and all through my nightly dreams, one song sings itself, and its sweet
burden is, 'Alonzo Fitz Clarence, Alonzo Fitz Clarence, Eastport, state
of Maine!'"

"Curse him, I've got his address, anyway!" roared Burley, inwardly, and
rushed from the place.

Just behind the unconscious Alonzo stood his mother, a picture of
astonishment.  She was so muffled from head to heel in furs that nothing
of herself was visible but her eyes and nose.  She was a good allegory of
winter, for she was powdered all over with snow.

Behind the unconscious Rosannah stood "Aunt' Susan," another picture of
astonishment.  She was a good allegory of summer, for she was lightly
clad, and was vigorously cooling the perspiration on her face with a fan.

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

"Soho!" exclaimed Mrs.  Fitz Clarence, "this explains why nobody has been
able to drag you out of your room for six weeks, Alonzo!"

"So ho!" exclaimed Aunt Susan, "this explains why you have been a hermit
for the past six weeks, Rosannah!"

The young couple were on their feet in an instant, abashed, and standing
like detected dealers in stolen goods awaiting judge Lynch's doom.

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

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

Then was there a mingling of hearts and of tears of rejoicing on
Telegraph Hill and in Eastport Square.

Servants were called by the elders, in both places.  Unto one was given
the order, "Pile this fire high, with hickory wood, and bring me a
roasting-hot lemonade."

Unto the other was given the order, "Put out this, fire, and bring me two
palm-leaf fans and a pitcher of ice-water."

Then the young people were dismissed, and the elders sat down to talk the
sweet surprise over and make the wedding plans.

Some minutes before this Mr. Burley rushed from the mansion on Telegraph
Hill without meeting or taking formal leave of anybody.  He hissed
through his teeth, in unconscious imitation of a popular favorite in
melodrama, "Him shall she never wed!  I have sworn it!  Ere great Nature
shall have doffed her winter's ermine to don the emerald gauds of spring,
she shall be mine!"


III

Two weeks later.  Every few hours, during same three or four days, a very
prim and devout-looking Episcopal clergyman, with a cast in his eye, had
visited Alonzo.  According to his card, he was the Rev. Melton Hargrave,
of Cincinnati.  He said he had retired from the ministry on account of
his health.  If he had said on account of ill-health, he would probably
have erred, to judge by his wholesome looks and firm build.  He was the
inventor of an improvement in telephones, and hoped to make his bread by
selling the privilege of using it.  "At present," he continued, "a man
may go and tap a telegraph wire which is conveying a song or a concert
from one state to another, and he can attach his private telephone and
steal a hearing of that music as it passes along.  My invention will stop
all that."

"Well," answered Alonzo, "if the owner of the music could not miss what
was stolen, why should he care?"

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

"Well?" said Alonzo, inquiringly.

"Suppose," replied the Reverend, "suppose that, instead of music that was
passing along and being stolen, the burden of the wire was loving
endearments of the most private and sacred nature?"

Alonzo shuddered from head to heel.  "Sir, it is a priceless invention,"
said he; "I must have it at any cost."

But the invention was delayed somewhere on the road from Cincinnati, most
unaccountably.  The impatient Alonzo could hardly wait.  The thought of
Rosannah's sweet words being shared with him by some ribald thief was
galling to him.  The Reverend came frequently and lamented the delay, and
told of measures he had taken to hurry things up.  This was some little
comfort to Alonzo.

One forenoon the Reverend ascended the stairs and knocked at Alonzo's
door.  There was no response.  He entered, glanced eagerly around,.
closed the door softly, then ran to the telephone.  The exquisitely soft
and remote strains of the "Sweet By-and-by" came floating through the
instrument.  The singer was flatting, as usual, the five notes that
follow the first two in the chorus, when the Reverend interrupted her
with this word, in a voice which was an exact imitation of Alonzo's, with
just the faintest flavor of impatience added:

"Sweetheart?"

"Yes, Alonzo?"

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

The agile step that goes with a happy heart was heard on the stairs, and
the Reverend, smiling diabolically, sought sudden refuge behind the heavy
folds of the velvet windowcurtains.  Alonzo entered and flew to the
telephone.  Said he:

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

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

"Yes, if you prefer."

"Sing it yourself, if you like!"

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

"Rosarmah, that was not like you."

"I suppose it becomes me as much as your very polite speech became you,
Mr. Fitz Clarence."

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

"Oh, indeed!  Of course, then, I misunderstood you, and I most humbly beg
your pardon, ha-ha-ha!  No doubt you said, 'Don't sing it any more
to-day.'"

"Sing what any more to-day?"

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

"I never mentioned any song."

"Oh, you didn't?"

"No, I didn't!"

"I am compelled to remark that you did."

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

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

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

"Oh, Rosannah, unsay those words!  There is some dreadful mystery here,
some hideous mistake.  I am utterly earnest and sincere when I say I
never said anything about any song.  I would not hurt you for the whole
world .  .  .  .  Rosannah, dear speak to me, won't you?"

There was a pause; then Alonzo heard the girl's sobbings retreating, and
knew she had gone from the telephone.  He rose with a heavy sigh, and
hastened from the room, saying to himself, "I will ransack the charity
missions and the haunts of the poor for my mother.  She will persuade her
that I never meant to wound her."

A minute later the Reverend was crouching over the telephone like a cat
that knoweth the ways of the prey.  He had not very many minutes to wait.
A soft, repentant voice, tremulous with tears, said:

"Alonzo, dear, I have been wrong.  You could not have said so cruel a
thing.  It must have been some one who imitated your voice in malice or
in jest."

The Reverend coldly answered, in Alonzo's tones:

"You have said all was over between us.  So let it be.  I spurn your
proffered repentance, and despise it!"

Then he departed, radiant with fiendish triumph, to return no more with
his imaginary telephonic invention forever.

Four hours afterward Alonzo arrived with his mother from her favorite
haunts of poverty and vice.  They summoned the San Francisco household;
but there was no reply.  They waited, and continued to wait, upon the
voiceless telephone.

At length, when it was sunset in San Francisco, and three hours and a
half after dark in Eastport, an answer to the oft-repeated cry of
"Rosannah!"

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

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

The watchers waited two minutes--five minutes--ten minutes.  Then came
these fatal words, in a frightened tone:

"She is gone, and her baggage with her.  To visit another friend, she
told the servants.  But I found this note on the table in her room.
Listen: 'I am gone; seek not to trace me out; my heart is broken; you
will never see me more.  Tell him I shall always think of him when I sing
my poor "Sweet By-and-by," but never of the unkind words he said about
it.' That is her note.  Alonzo, Alonzo, what does it mean?  What has
happened?"

But Alonzo sat white and cold as the dead.  His mother threw back the
velvet curtains and opened a window.  The cold air refreshed the
sufferer, and he told his aunt his dismal story.  Meantime his mother was
inspecting a card which had disclosed itself upon the floor when she cast
the curtains back.  It read, "Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley, San Francisco."

"The miscreant!" shouted Alonzo, and rushed forth to seek the false
Reverend and destroy him; for the card explained everything, since in the
course of the lovers' mutual confessions they had told each other all
about all the sweethearts they had ever had, and thrown no end of mud at
their failings and foibles for lovers always do that.  It has a
fascination that ranks next after billing and cooing.


IV

During the next two months many things happened.  It had early transpired
that Rosannah, poor suffering orphan, had neither returned to her
grandmother in Portland, Oregon, nor sent any word to her save a
duplicate of the woeful note she had left in the mansion on Telegraph
Hill.  Whosoever was sheltering her--if she was still alive--had been
persuaded not to betray her whereabouts, without doubt; for all efforts
to find trace of her had failed.

Did Alonzo give her up?  Not he.  He said to himself, "She will sing that
sweet song when she is sad; I shall find her."  So he took his carpet-
sack and a portable telephone, and shook the snow of his native city from
his arctics, and went forth into the world.  He wandered far and wide and
in many states.  Time and again, strangers were astounded to see a
wasted, pale, and woe-worn man laboriously climb a telegraph-pole in
wintry and lonely places, perch sadly there an hour, with his ear at a
little box, then come sighing down, and wander wearily away.  Sometimes
they shot at him, as peasants do at aeronauts, thinking him mad and
dangerous.  Thus his clothes were much shredded by bullets and his person
grievously lacerated.  But he bore it all patiently.

In the beginning of his pilgrimage he used often to say, "Ah, if I could
but hear the 'Sweet By-and-by'!"  But toward the end of it he used to
shed tears of anguish and say, "Ah, if I could but hear something else!"

Thus a month and three weeks drifted by, and at last some humane people
seized him and confined him in a private mad-house in New York.  He made
no  moan, for his strength was all gone, and with it all heart and all
hope.  The superintendent, in pity, gave up his own comfortable parlor
and bedchamber to him and nursed him with affectionate devotion.

At the end of a week the patient was able to leave his bed for the first
time.  He was lying, comfortably pillowed, on a sofa, listening to the
plaintive Miserere of the bleak March winds and the muffled sound of
tramping feet in the street below for it was about six in the evening,
and New York was going home from work.  He had a bright fire and the
added cheer of a couple of student-lamps.  So it was warm and snug
within, though bleak and raw without; it was light and bright within,
though outside it was as dark and dreary as if the world had been lit
with Hartford gas.  Alonzo smiled feebly to think how his loving vagaries
had made him a maniac in the eyes of the world, and was proceeding to
pursue his line of thought further, when a faint, sweet strain, the very
ghost of sound, so remote and attenuated it seemed, struck upon his ear.
His pulses stood still; he listened with parted lips and bated breath.
The song flowed on he waiting, listening, rising slowly and unconsciously
from his recumbent position.  At last he exclaimed:

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

He dragged himself eagerly to the corner whence the sounds proceeded,
tore aside a curtain, and discovered a telephone.  He bent over, and as
the last note died away he burst forthwith the exclamation:

"Oh, thank Heaven, found at last!  Speak tome, Rosannah, dearest!  The
cruel mystery has been unraveled; it was the villain Burley who mimicked
my voice and wounded you with insolent speech!"

There was a breathless pause, a waiting age to Alonzo; then a faint sound
came, framing itself into language:

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

"They are the truth, the veritable truth, my Rosannah, and you shall have
the proof, ample and abundant proof!"

"Oh; Alonzo, stay by me!  Leave me not for a moment!  Let me feel that
you are near me!  Tell me we shall never be parted more!  Oh, this happy
hour, this blessed hour, this memorable hour!"

"We will make record of it, my Rosannah; every year, as this dear hour
chimes from the clock, we will celebrate it with thanksgivings, all the
years of our life."

"We will, we will, Alonzo!"

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

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

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

"In Honolulu, Sandwich Islands.  And where are you?  Stay by me; do not
leave me for a moment.  I cannot bear it.  Are you at home?"

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

An agonizing shriek came buzzing to Alonzo's ear, like the sharp buzzing
of a hurt gnat; it lost power in traveling five thousand miles.  Alonzo
hastened to say:

"Calm--yourself, my child.  It is nothing.  Already I am getting well
under the sweet healing of your presence.  Rosannah?"

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

"Name the happy day, Rosannah!"

There was a little pause.  Then a diffident small voice replied,
"I blush--but it is with pleasure, it is with happiness.  Would--would
you like to have it soon?"

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

"Oh, you impatient creature!  I have nobody here but my good old uncle,
a missionary for a generation, and now retired from service--nobody but
him and his wife.  I would so dearly like it if your mother and your Aunt
Susan--"

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

"Yes, our mother and our Aunt Susan--I am content to word it so if it
pleases you; I would so like to have them present."

"So would I.  Suppose you telegraph Aunt Susan.  How long would it take
her to come?"

"The steamer leaves San Francisco day after tomorrow.  The passage is
eight days.  She would be here the 31st of March."

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

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

"So we be the happiest ones that that day's suit looks down upon in the
whole broad expanse of the globe, why need we care?  Call it the 1st of
April, dear."

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

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

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

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

There was a feeble but frantic sound for some little time, as if
wool-upped, disembodied spirits were exchanging kisses; then Rosannah
said, "Excuse me just a moment, dear; I have an appointment, and am
called to meet it."

The young girl sought a large parlor and took her place at a window which
looked out upon a beautiful scene.  To the left one could view the
charming Nuuana Valley, fringed with its ruddy flush of tropical flowers
and its plumed and graceful cocoa palms; its rising foothills clothed in
the shining green of lemon, citron, and orange groves; its storied
precipice beyond, where the first Kamehameha drove his defeated foes over
to their destruction, a spot that had forgotten its grim history, no
doubt, for now it was smiling, as almost always at noonday, under the
glowing arches of a succession of rainbows. In front of the window one
could see the quaint town, and here and there a picturesque group of
dusky natives, enjoying the blistering weather; and far to the right lay
the restless ocean, tossing its white mane in the sunshine.

Rosannah stood there, in her filmy white raiment, fanning her flushed and
heated face, waiting.  A Kanaka boy, clothed in a damaged blue necktie
and part of a silk hat, thrust his head in at the door, and announced,
"'Frisco haole!"

"Show him in," said the girl, straightening herself up and assuming a
meaning dignity.  Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley entered, clad from head to
heel in dazzling snow--that is to say, in the lightest and whitest of
Irish linen.  He moved eagerly forward, but the girl made a gesture and
gave him a look which checked him suddenly.  She said, coldly, "I am
here, as I promised.  I believed your assertions, I yielded to your
importune lies, and said I would name the day.  I name the 1st of April-
-eight in the morning.  NOW GO!"

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

"Not a word.  Spare me all sight of you, all communication with you,
until that hour.  No-no supplications; I will have it so."

When he was gone, she sank exhausted in a chair, for the long siege of
troubles she had undergone had wasted her strength.  Presently she said,
"What a narrow escape!  If the hour appointed had been an hour earlier
--Oh, horror, what an escape I have made!  And to think I had come to
imagine I was loving this beguiling, this truthless, this treacherous
monster!  Oh, he shall repent his villainy!"

Let us now draw this history to a close, for little more needs to be
told.  On the 2d of the ensuing April, the Honolulu Advertiser contained
this notice:

     MARRIED.--In this city, by telephone, yesterday morning,--at eight
     o'clock, by Rev. Nathan Hays, assisted by Rev. Nathaniel Davis, of
     New York, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence, of Eastport, Maine, U. S., and
     Miss Rosannah Ethelton, of Portland, Oregon, U. S.  Mrs. Susan
     Howland, of San Francisco, a friend of the bride, was present, she
     being the guest of the Rev. Mr. Hays and wife, uncle and aunt of the
     bride.  Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley, of San Francisco, was also
     present but did not remain till the conclusion of the marriage
     service.  Captain Hawthorne's beautiful yacht, tastefully decorated,
     was in waiting, and the happy bride and her friends immediately
     departed on a bridal trip to Lahaina and Haleakala.

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

     MARRIED.--In this city, yesterday, by telephone, at half-past two in
     the morning, by Rev.  Nathaniel Davis, assisted by Rev. Nathan Hays,
     of Honolulu, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence, of Eastport, Maine, and Miss
     Rosannah Ethelton, of Portland, Oregon.  The parents and several
     friends of the bridegroom were present, and enjoyed a sumptuous
     breakfast and much festivity until nearly sunrise, and then departed
     on a bridal trip to the Aquarium, the bridegroom's state of health
     not admitting of a more extended journey.

Toward the close of that memorable day Mr. and Mrs. Alonzo Fitz Clarence
were buried in sweet converse concerning the pleasures of their several
bridal tours, when suddenly the young wife exclaimed: "Oh, Lonny, I
forgot!  I did what I said I would."

"Did you, dear?"

"Indeed, I did.  I made him the April fool!  And I told him so, too!
Ah, it was a charming surprise!  There he stood, sweltering in a black
dress-suit, with the mercury leaking out of the top of the thermometer,
waiting to be married.  You should have seen the look he gave when I
whispered it in his ear.  Ah, his wickedness cost me many a heartache and
many a tear, but the score was all squared up, then.  So the vengeful
feeling went right out of my heart, and I begged him to stay, and said I
forgave him everything.  But he wouldn't.  He said he would live to be
avenged; said he would make our lives a curse to us.  But he can't, can
he, dear?"

"Never in this world, my Rosannah!"

Aunt Susan, the Oregonian grandmother, and the young couple and their
Eastport parents, are all happy at this writing, and likely to remain so.
Aunt Susan brought the bride from the islands, accompanied her across our
continent, and had the happiness of witnessing the rapturous meeting
between an adoring husband and wife who had never seen each other until
that moment.

A word about the wretched Burley, whose wicked machinations came so near
wrecking the hearts and lives of our poor young friends, will be
sufficient.  In a murderous attempt to seize a crippled and helpless
artisan who he fancied had done him some small offense, he fell into a
caldron of boiling oil and expired before he could be extinguished.






ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING

ESSAY, FOR DISCUSSION, READ AT A MEETING OF THE HISTORICAL AND
ANTIQUARIAN CLUB OF HARTFORD, AND OFFERED FOR THE THIRTY-DOLLAR PRIZE.
NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.--[Did not take the prize]

Observe, I do not mean to suggest that the custom of lying has suffered
any decay or interruption--no, for the Lie, as a Virtue, a Principle, is
eternal; the Lie, as a recreation, a solace, a refuge in time of need,
the fourth Grace, the tenth Muse, man's best and surest friend, is
immortal, and cannot perish from the earth while this Club remains.  My
complaint simply concerns the decay of the art of lying.  No high-minded
man, no man of right feeling, can contemplate the lumbering and slovenly
lying of the present day without grieving to see a noble art so
prostituted.  In this veteran presence I naturally enter upon this scheme
with diffidence; it is like an old maid trying to teach nursery matters
to the mothers in Israel.  It would not become me to criticize you,
gentlemen, who are nearly all my elders--and my superiors, in this thing-
-and so, if I should here and there seem to do it, I trust it will in
most cases be more in a spirit of admiration than of fault-finding;
indeed, if this finest of the fine arts had everywhere received the
attention, encouragement, and conscientious practice and development
which this Club has devoted to it I should not need to utter this lament
or shed a single tear.  I do not say this to flatter: I say it in a
spirit of just and appreciative recognition.

[It had been my intention, at this point, to mention names and give
illustrative specimens, but indications observable about me admonished me
to beware of particulars and confine myself to generalities.]

No fact is more firmly established than that lying is a necessity of our
circumstances--the deduction that it is then a Virtue goes without
saying.  No virtue can reach its highest usefulness without careful and
diligent cultivation--therefore, it goes without saying that this one
ought to be taught in the public schools--at the fireside--even in the
newspapers.  What chance has the ignorant, uncultivated liar against the
educated expert?  What chance have I against Mr. Per-- against a lawyer?
Judicious lying is what the world needs.  I sometimes think it were even
better and safer not to lie at all than to lie injudiciously.  An
awkward, unscientific lie is often as ineffectual as the truth.

Now let us see what the philosophers say.  Note that venerable proverb:
Children and fools always speak the truth.  The deduction is plain
--adults and wise persons never speak it.  Parkman, the historian, says,
"The principle of truth may itself be carried into an absurdity." In
another place in the same chapter he says, "The saying is old that truth
should not be spoken at all times; and those whom a sick conscience
worries into habitual violation of the maxim are imbeciles and
nuisances."  It is strong language, but true.  None of us could live with
an habitual truth-teller; but, thank goodness, none of us has to.  An
habitual truth-teller is simply an impossible creature; he does not
exist; he never has existed.  Of course there are people who think they
never lie, but it is not so--and this ignorance is one of the very things
that shame our so-called civilization.  Everybody lies--every day; every
hour; awake; asleep; in his dreams; in his joy; in his mourning; if he
keeps his tongue still, his hands, his feet, his eyes, his attitude, will
convey deception--and purposely.  Even in sermons--but that is a
platitude.

In a far country where I once lived the ladies used to go around paying
calls, under the humane and kindly pretense of wanting to see each other;
and when they returned home, they would cry out with a glad voice,
saying, "We made sixteen calls and found fourteen of them out"--not
meaning that they found out anything against the fourteen--no, that was
only a colloquial phrase to signify that they were not at home--and their
manner of saying it--expressed their lively satisfaction in that fact.
Now, their pretense of wanting to see the fourteen--and the other two
whom they had been less lucky with--was that commonest and mildest form
of lying which is sufficiently described as a deflection from the truth.
Is it justifiable?  Most certainly.  It is beautiful, it is noble; for
its object is, not to reap profit, but to convey a pleasure to the
sixteen.  The iron-souled truth-monger would plainly manifest, or even
utter the fact, that he didn't want to see those people--and he would be
an ass, and inflict a totally unnecessary pain.  And next, those ladies
in that far country--but never mind, they had a thousand pleasant ways of
lying, that grew out of gentle impulses, and were a credit to their
intelligence and at honor to their hearts.  Let the particulars go.

The men in that far country were liars; every one.  Their mere howdy-do
was a lie, because they didn't care how you did, except they were
undertakers.  To the ordinary inquirer you lied in return; for you made
no conscientious diagnosis of your case, but answered at random, and
usually missed it considerably.  You lied to the undertaker, and said
your health was failing--a wholly commendable lie, since it cost you
nothing and pleased the other man.  If a stranger called and interrupted
you, you said with your hearty tongue, "I'm glad to see you," and said
with your heartier soul, "I wish you were with the cannibals and it was
dinner-time."  When he went, you said regretfully, "Must you go?" and
followed it with a "Call again"; but you did no harm, for you did not
deceive anybody nor inflict any hurt, whereas the truth would have made
you both unhappy.

I think that all this courteous lying is a sweet and loving art, and
should be cultivated, The highest perfection of politeness is only a
beautiful edifice, built, from the base to the dome, of graceful and
gilded forms of charitable and unselfish lying.

What I bemoan is the growing prevalence of the brutal truth.  Let us do
what we can to eradicate it.  An injurious truth has no merit over an
injurious lie.  Neither should ever be uttered.  The man who speaks an
injurious truth, lest his soul be not saved if he do otherwise, should
reflect that that sort of a soul is not strictly worth saving.  The man
who tells a lie to help a poor devil out of trouble is one of whom the
angels doubtless say, "Lo, here is an heroic soul who casts his own
welfare into jeopardy to succor his neighbor's; let us exalt this
magnanimous liar."

An injurious lie is an uncommendable thing; and so, also, and in the same
degree, is an injurious truth--a fact which is recognized by the law of
libel.

Among other common lies, we have the silent lie the deception which one
conveys by simply keeping still and concealing the truth.  Many obstinate
truth-mongers indulge in this dissipation, imagining that if they speak
no lie, they lie not at all.  In that far country where I once lived,
there was a lovely spirit, a lady whose impulses were always high and
pure, and whose character answered to them.  One day I was there at
dinner, and remarked, in a general way, that we are all liars.  She was
amazed, and said, "Not all!"  It was before "Pinafore's" time so I did
not make the response which would naturally follow in our day, but
frankly said, "Yes, all--we are all liars; there are no exceptions."
She looked almost offended, and said, "Why, do you include me?"
"Certainly," I said, "I think you even rank as an expert." She said,
"'Sh!--'sh! the children!"

So the subject was changed in deference to the children's presence, and
we went on talking about other things.  But as soon as the young people
were out of the way, the lady came warmly back to the matter and said,
"I have made it the rule of my life to never tell a lie; and I have never
departed from it in a single instance."  I said, "I don't mean the least
harm or disrespect, but really you have been lying like smoke ever since
I've been sitting here.  It has caused me a good deal of pain, because I
am not used to it."  She required of me an instance--just a single
instance.  So I said:

"Well, here is the unfilled duplicate of the blank which the Oakland
hospital people sent to you by the hand of the sick-nurse when she came
here to nurse your little nephew through his dangerous illness.  This
blank asks all manner of questions as to the conduct of that sick-nurse:
'Did she ever sleep on her watch?  Did she ever forget to give the
medicine?' and so forth and so on.  You are warned to be very careful and
explicit in your answers, for the welfare of the service requires that
the nurses be promptly fined or otherwise punished for derelictions.
You told me you were perfectly delighted with that nurse--that she had a
thousand perfections and only one fault: you found you never could depend
on her wrapping Johnny up half sufficiently while he waited in a chilly
chair for her to rearrange the warm bed.  You filled up the duplicate of
this paper, and sent it back to the hospital by the hand of the nurse.
How did you answer this question--'Was the nurse at any time guilty of a
negligence which was likely to result in the patient's taking cold?'
Come--everything is decided by a bet here in California: ten dollars to
ten cents you lied when you answered that question."  She said, "I
didn't; I left it blank!"  "Just so--you have told a silent lie; you have
left it to be inferred that you had no fault to find in that matter."
She said, "Oh, was that a lie?  And how could I mention her one single
fault, and she so good?--it would have been cruel."  I said, "One ought
always to lie when one can do good by it; your impulse was right, but,
your judgment was crude; this comes of unintelligent practice.  Now
observe the result of this inexpert deflection of yours.  You know Mr.
Jones's Willie is lying very low with scarlet fever; well, your
recommendation was so enthusiastic that that girl is there nursing him,
and the worn-out family have all been trustingly sound asleep for the
last fourteen hours, leaving their darling with full confidence in those
fatal hands, because you, like young George Washington, have a reputa--
However, if you are not going to have anything to do, I will come around
to-morrow and we'll attend the funeral together, for, of course, you'll
naturally feel a peculiar interest in Willie's case--as personal a one,
in fact, as the undertaker."

But that was all lost.  Before I was half-way through she was in a
carriage and making thirty miles an hour toward the Jones mansion to save
what was left of Willie and tell all she knew about the deadly nurse.
All of which was unnecessary, as Willie wasn't sick; I had been lying
myself.  But that same day, all the same, she sent a line to the hospital
which filled up the neglected blank, and stated the facts, too, in the
squarest possible manner.

Now, you see, this lady's fault was not in lying, but only in lying
injudiciously.  She should have told the, truth, there, and made it up to
the nurse with a fraudulent compliment further along in the paper.  She
could have said, "In one respect the sick-nurse is perfection--when she
is on watch, she never snores."  Almost any little pleasant lie would
have taken the sting out of that troublesome but necessary expression of
the truth.

Lying is universal we all do it; we all must do it.  Therefore, the wise
thing is for us diligently to train ourselves to lie thoughtfully,
judiciously; to lie with a good object, and not an evil one; to lie for
others' advantage, and not our own; to lie healingly, charitably,
humanely, not cruelly, hurtfully, maliciously; to lie gracefully and
graciously, not awkwardly and clumsily; to lie firmly, frankly, squarely,
with head erect, not haltingly, tortuously, with pusillanimous mien, as
being ashamed of our high calling.  Then shall we be rid of the rank and
pestilent truth that is rotting the land; then shall we be great and good
and beautiful, and worthy dwellers in a world where even benign Nature
habitually lies, except when she promises execrable weather.  Then--But
I am but a new and feeble student in this gracious art; I can not
instruct this Club.

Joking aside, I think there is much need of wise examination into what
sorts of lies are best and wholesomest to be indulged, seeing we must all
lie and do all lie, and what sorts it may be best to avoid--and this is a
thing which I feel I can confidently put into the hands of this
experienced Club--a ripe body, who may be termed, in this regard, and
without undue flattery, Old Masters.






ABOUT MAGNANIMOUS-INCIDENT LITERATURE

All my life, from boyhood up, I have had the habit of reading a certain
set of anecdotes, written in the quaint vein of The World's ingenious
Fabulist, for the lesson they taught me and the pleasure they gave me.
They lay always convenient to my hand, and whenever I thought meanly of
my kind I turned to them, and they banished that sentiment; whenever I
felt myself to be selfish, sordid, and ignoble I turned to them, and they
told me what to do to win back my self-respect.  Many times I wished that
the charming anecdotes had not stopped with their happy climaxes, but had
continued the pleasing history of the several benefactors and
beneficiaries.  This wish rose in my breast so persistently that at last
I determined to satisfy it by seeking out the sequels of those anecdotes
myself.  So I set about it, and after great labor and tedious research
accomplished my task.  I will lay the result before you, giving you each
anecdote in its turn, and following it with its sequel as I gathered it
through my investigations.


                           THE GRATEFUL POODLE

One day a benevolent physician (who had read the books) having found a
stray poodle suffering from a broken leg, conveyed the poor creature to
his home, and after setting and bandaging the injured limb gave the
little outcast its liberty again, and thought no more about the matter.
But how great was his surprise, upon opening his door one morning, some
days later, to find the grateful poodle patiently waiting there, and in
its company another stray dog, one of whose legs, by some accident, had
been broken.  The kind physician at once relieved the distressed animal,
nor did he forget to admire the inscrutable goodness and mercy of God,
who had been willing to use so humble an instrument as the poor outcast
poodle for the inculcating of, etc., etc., etc.


                                  SEQUEL

The next morning the benevolent physician found the two dogs, beaming
with gratitude, waiting at his door, and with them two other
dogs-cripples.  The cripples were speedily healed, and the four went
their way, leaving the benevolent physician more overcome by pious wonder
than ever.  The day passed, the morning came.  There at the door sat now
the four reconstructed dogs, and with them four others requiring
reconstruction.  This day also passed, and another morning came; and now
sixteen dogs, eight of them newly crippled, occupied the sidewalk, and
the people were going around.  By noon the broken legs were all set, but
the pious wonder in the good physician's breast was beginning to get
mixed with involuntary profanity.  The sun rose once more, and exhibited
thirty-two dogs, sixteen of them with broken legs, occupying the sidewalk
and half of the street; the human spectators took up the rest of the
room.  The cries of the wounded, the songs of the healed brutes, and the
comments of the onlooking citizens made great and inspiring cheer, but
traffic was interrupted in that street.  The good physician hired a
couple of assistant surgeons and got through his benevolent work before
dark, first taking the precaution to cancel his church-membership, so
that he might express himself with the latitude which the case required.

But some things have their limits.  When once more the morning dawned,
and the good physician looked out upon a massed and far-reaching
multitude of clamorous and beseeching dogs, he said, "I might as well
acknowledge it, I have been fooled by the books; they only tell the
pretty part of the story, and then stop.  Fetch me the shotgun; this
thing has gone along far enough."

He issued forth with his weapon, and chanced to step upon the tail of the
original poodle, who promptly bit him in the leg.  Now the great and good
work which this poodle had been engaged in had engendered in him such a
mighty and augmenting enthusiasm as to turn his weak head at last and
drive him mad.  A month later, when the benevolent physician lay in the
death-throes of hydrophobia, he called his weeping friends about him, and
said:

"Beware of the books.  They tell but half of the story.  Whenever a poor
wretch asks you for help, and you feel a doubt as to what result may flow
from your benevolence, give yourself the benefit of the doubt and kill
the applicant."

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



                          THE BENEVOLENT AUTHOR

A poor and young literary beginner had tried in vain to get his
manuscripts accepted.  At last, when the horrors of starvation were
staring him in the face, he laid his sad case before a celebrated author,
beseeching his counsel and assistance.  This generous man immediately put
aside his own matters and proceeded to peruse one of the despised
manuscripts.  Having completed his kindly task, he shook the poor young
man cordially by the hand, saying, "I perceive merit in this; come again
to me on Monday."  At the time specified, the celebrated author, with a
sweet smile, but saying nothing, spread open a magazine which was damp
from the press.  What was the poor young man's astonishment to discover
upon the printed page his own article.  "How can I ever," said he,
falling upon his knees and bursting into tears, "testify my gratitude for
this noble conduct!"

The celebrated author was the renowned Snodgrass; the poor young beginner
thus rescued from obscurity and starvation was the afterward equally
renowned Snagsby.  Let this pleasing incident admonish us to turn a
charitable ear to all beginners that need help.

                                  SEQUEL

The next week Snagsby was back with five rejected manuscripts.  The
celebrated author was a little surprised, because in the books the young
struggler had needed but one lift, apparently.  However, he plowed
through these papers, removing unnecessary flowers and digging up some
acres of adjective stumps, and then succeeded in getting two of the
articles accepted.

A week or so drifted by, and the grateful Snagsby arrived with another
cargo.  The celebrated author had felt a mighty glow of satisfaction
within himself the first time he had successfully befriended the poor
young struggler, and had compared himself with the generous people in the
books with high gratification; but he was beginning to suspect now that
he had struck upon something fresh in the noble-episode line.  His
enthusiasm took a chill.  Still, he could not bear to repulse this
struggling young author, who clung to him with such pretty simplicity and
trustfulness.

Well, the upshot of it all was that the celebrated author presently found
himself permanently freighted with the poor young beginner.  All his mild
efforts to unload this cargo went for nothing.  He had to give daily
counsel, daily encouragement; he had to keep on procuring magazine
acceptances, and then revamping the manuscripts to make them presentable.
When the young aspirant got a start at last, he rode into sudden fame by
describing the celebrated author's private life with such a caustic humor
and such minuteness of blistering detail that the book sold a prodigious
edition, and broke the celebrated author's heart with mortification.
With his latest gasp he said, "Alas, the books deceived me; they do not
tell the whole story.  Beware of the struggling young author, my friends.
Whom God sees fit to starve, let not man presumptuously rescue to his own
undoing."



                           THE GRATEFUL HUSBAND

One day a lady was driving through the principal street of a great city
with her little boy, when the horses took fright and dashed madly away,
hurling the coachman from his box and leaving the occupants of the
carnage paralyzed with terror.  But a brave youth who was driving a
grocery-wagon threw himself before the plunging animals, and succeeded in
arresting their flight at the peril of his own.--[This is probably a
misprint.--M. T.]--The grateful lady took his number, and upon arriving
at her home she related the heroic act to her husband (who had read the
books), who listened with streaming eyes to the moving recital, and who,
after returning thanks, in conjunction with his restored loved ones, to
Him who suffereth not even a sparrow to fall to the ground unnoticed,
sent for the brave young person, and, placing a check for five hundred
dollars in his hand, said, "Take this as a reward for your noble act,
William Ferguson, and if ever you shall need a, friend, remember that
Thompson McSpadden has a grateful heart."  Let us learn from this that
a good deed cannot fail to benefit the doer, however humble he may be.

                                  SEQUEL

William Ferguson called the next week and asked Mr. McSpadden to use his
influence to get him a higher employment, he feeling capable of better
things than driving a grocer's wagon.  Mr. McSpadden got him an
underclerkship at a good salary.

Presently William Ferguson's mother fell sick, and William--Well, to cut
the story short, Mr. McSpadden consented to take her into his house.
Before long she yearned for the society of her younger children; so Mary
and Julia were admitted also, and little Jimmy, their brother.  Jimmy had
a pocket knife, and he wandered into the drawing-room with it one day,
alone, and reduced ten thousand dollars' worth of furniture to an
indeterminable value in rather less than three-quarters of an hour.
A day or two later he fell down-stairs and broke his neck, and seventeen
of his family's relatives came to the house to attend the funeral.  This
made them acquainted, and they kept the kitchen occupied after that, and
likewise kept the McSpaddens busy hunting-up situations of various sorts
for them, and hunting up more when they wore these out.  The old woman
drank a good deal and swore a good deal; but the grateful McSpaddens knew
it was their duty to reform her, considering what her son had done for
them, so they clave nobly to their generous task.  William came often and
got decreasing sums of money, and asked for higher and more lucrative
employments--which the grateful McSpadden more or less promptly procured
for him.  McSpadden consented also, after some demur, to fit William for
college; but when the first vacation came and the hero requested to be
sent to Europe for his health, the persecuted McSpadden rose against the
tyrant and revolted.  He plainly and squarely refused.  William
Ferguson's mother was so astounded that she let her gin-bottle drop, and
her profane lips refused to do their office.  When she recovered she said
in a half-gasp, "Is this your gratitude?  Where would your wife and boy
be now, but for my son?"

William said, "Is this your gratitude?  Did I save your wife's life or
not?  Tell me that!"

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

William's sisters stared, bewildered, and said, "And this is his grat--"
but were interrupted by their mother, who burst into tears and exclaimed,

"To think that my sainted little Jimmy threw away his life in the service
of such a reptile!"

Then the pluck of the revolutionary McSpadden rose to the occasion, and
he replied with fervor, "Out of my house, the whole beggarly tribe of
you!  I was beguiled by the books, but shall never be beguiled again
--once is sufficient for me."  And turning to William he shouted, "Yes,
you did save my, wife's life, and the next man that does it shall die in
his tracks!"


Not being a clergyman, I place my text at the end of my sermon instead of
at the beginning.  Here it is, from Mr. Noah Brooks's Recollections of
President Lincoln in Scribners Monthly:

     J.  H.  Hackett, in his part of Falstaff, was an actor who gave Mr.
     Lincoln great delight.  With his usual desire to signify to others
     his sense of obligation, Mr. Lincoln wrote a genial little note to
     the actor expressing his pleasure at witnessing his performance.
     Mr. Hackett, in reply, sent a book of some sort; perhaps it was one
     of his own authorship.  He also wrote several notes to the
     President.  One night, quite late, when the episode had passed out
     of my mind, I went to the white House in answer to a message.
     Passing into the President's office, I noticed, to my surprise,
     Hackett sitting in the anteroom as if waiting for an audience.  The
     President asked me if any one was outside.  On being told, he said,
     half sadly, "Oh, I can't see him, I can't see him; I was in hopes he
     had gone away."  Then he added, "Now this just illustrates the
     difficulty of having pleasant friends and acquaintances in this
     place.  You know how I liked Hackett as an actor, and how I wrote to
     tell him so.  He sent me that book, and there I thought the matter
     would end.  He is a master of his place in the profession, I
     suppose, and well fixed in it; but just because we had a little
     friendly correspondence, such as any two men might have, he wants
     something.  What do you suppose he wants?"  I could not guess, and
     Mr. Lincoln added, "well, he wants to be consul to London.  Oh,
     dear!"

I will observe, in conclusion, that the William Ferguson incident
occurred, and within my personal knowledge--though I have changed the
nature of the details, to keep William from recognizing himself in it.

All the readers of this article have in some sweet and gushing hour of
their lives played the role of Magnanimous-Incident hero.  I wish I knew
how many there are among them who are willing to talk about that episode
and like to be reminded of the consequences that flowed from it.






PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH

Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines, and see
if he can discover anything harmful in them?

               Conductor, when you receive a fare,
               Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
               A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
               A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,
               A pink trip slip for a three-cent, fare,
               Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

               CHORUS

               Punch, brothers!  punch with care!
               Punch in the presence of the passenjare!


I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago,
and read them a couple of times.  They took instant and entire possession
of me.  All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and
when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had
eaten anything or not.  I had carefully laid out my day's work the day
before--thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing.  I went to my
den to begin my deed of blood.  I took up my pen, but all I could get it
to say was, "Punch in the presence of the passenjare."  I fought hard for
an hour, but it was useless.  My head kept humming, "A blue trip slip for
an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare," and so on and
so on, without peace or respite.  The day's work was ruined--I could see
that plainly enough.  I gave up and drifted down-town, and presently
discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle.
When I could stand it no longer I altered my step.  But it did no good;
those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and went on
harassing me just as before.  I returned home, and suffered all the
afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner;
suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and
rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at
midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon
the whirling page except "Punch! punch in the presence of the
passenjare."  By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and
was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings--"'Punch! oh, punch!
punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went
forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev.  Mr.------,
to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant.  He stared at me, but
asked no questions.  We started. Mr.------talked, talked, talked as is
his wont.  I said nothing; I heard nothing.  At the end of a mile,
Mr.------ said  "Mark, are you sick?  I never saw a man look so haggard
and worn and absent-minded.  Say something, do!"

Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: "Punch brothers, punch with care!
Punch in the presence o the passenjare!"

My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, they said:

"I do not think I get your drift, Mark.  Then does not seem to be any
relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet--maybe it
was the way you said the words--I never heard anything that sounded so
pathetic.  What is--"

But I heard no more.  I was already far away with my pitiless,
heartbreaking "blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip for
a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in the
presence of the passenjare."  I do not know what occurred during the
other nine miles.  However, all of a sudden Mr.------ laid his hand on my
shoulder and shouted:

"Oh, wake up!  wake up!  wake up!  Don't sleep all day!  Here we are at
the Tower, man!  I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind, and never
got a response.  Just look at this magnificent autumn landscape!  Look at
it!  look at it!  Feast your eye on it!  You have traveled; you have seen
boaster landscapes elsewhere.  Come, now, deliver an honest opinion.
What do you say to this?"

I sighed wearily; and murmured:

"A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent
fare, punch in the presence of the passenjare."

Rev.  Mr. ------ stood there, very grave, full of concern, apparently, and
looked long at me; then he said:

"Mark, there is something about this that I cannot understand.  Those are
about the same words you said before; there does not seem to be anything
in them, and yet they nearly break my heart when you say them.  Punch in
the--how is it they go?"

I began at the beginning and repeated all the lines.

My friend's face lighted with interest.  He said:

"Why, what a captivating jingle it is!  It is almost music.  It flows
along so nicely.  I have nearly caught the rhymes myself.  Say them over
just once more, and then I'll have them, sure."

I said them over.  Then Mr.------  said them.  He made one little
mistake, which I corrected.  The next time and the next he got them
right.  Now a great burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders.  That
torturing jingle departed out of my brain, and a grateful sense of rest
and peace descended upon me.  I was light-hearted enough to sing; and I
did sing for half an hour, straight along, as we went jogging homeward.
Then my freed tongue found blessed speech again, and the pent talk of
many a weary hour began to gush and flow.  It flowed on and on, joyously,
jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry.  As I wrung my friend's
hand at parting, I said:

"Haven't we had a royal good time!  But now I remember, you haven't said
a word for two hours.  Come, come, out with something!"

The Rev.  Mr.------ turned a lack-luster eye upon me, drew a deep sigh,
and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness:

"Punch, brothers, punch with care!  Punch in the presence of the
passenjare!"

A pang shot through me as I said to myself, "Poor fellow, poor fellow!
he has got it, now."

I did not see Mr.------ for two or three days after that.  Then, on
Tuesday evening, he staggered into my presence and sank dejectedly into a
seat.  He was pale, worn; he was a wreck.  He lifted his faded eyes to my
face and said:

"Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those heartless
rhymes.  They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and night, hour after
hour, to this very moment.  Since I saw you I have suffered the torments
of the lost.  Saturday evening I had a sudden call, by telegraph, and
took the night train for Boston.  The occasion was the death of a valued
old friend who had requested that I should preach his funeral sermon.
I took my seat in the cars and set myself to framing the discourse.  But
I never got beyond the opening paragraph; for then the train started and
the car-wheels began their 'clack, clack-clack-clack-clack! clack-clack!
--clack-clack-clack!' and right away those odious rhymes fitted
themselves to that accompaniment.  For an hour I sat there and set a
syllable of those rhymes to every separate and distinct clack the
car-wheels made.  Why, I was as fagged out, then, as if I had been
chopping wood all day.  My skull was splitting with headache.  It seemed
to me that I must go mad if I sat there any longer; so I undressed and
went to bed.  I stretched myself out in my berth, and--well, you know
what the result was.  The thing went right along, just the same.
'Clack-clack clack, a blue trip slip, clack-clack-clack, for an eight
cent fare; clack-clack-clack, a buff trip slip, clack clack-clack, for a
six-cent fare, and so on, and so on, and so on punch in the presence of
the passenjare!'  Sleep?  Not a single wink!  I was almost a lunatic when
I got to Boston.  Don't ask me about the funeral.  I did the best I
could, but every solemn individual sentence was meshed and tangled and
woven in and out with 'Punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the
presence of the passenjare.'  And the most distressing thing was that my
delivery dropped into the undulating rhythm of those pulsing rhymes, and
I could actually catch absent-minded people nodding time to the swing of
it with their stupid heads.  And, Mark, you may believe it or not, but
before I got through the entire assemblage were placidly bobbing their
heads in solemn unison, mourners, undertaker, and all.  The moment I had
finished, I fled to the anteroom in a state bordering on frenzy.  Of
course it would be my luck to find a sorrowing and aged maiden aunt of
the deceased there, who had arrived from Springfield too late to get into
the church.  She began to sob, and said:

"'Oh, oh, he is gone, he is gone, and I didn't see him before he died!'

"'Yes!' I said, 'he is gone, he is gone, he is gone--oh, will this
suffering never cease!'

"'You loved him, then!  Oh, you too loved him!'

"'Loved him!  Loved who?'

"'Why, my poor George! my poor nephew!'

"'Oh--him!  Yes--oh, yes, yes.  Certainly--certainly.  Punch--punch--oh,
this misery will kill me!'

"'Bless you!  bless you, sir, for these sweet words!  I, too, suffer in
this dear loss.  Were you present during his last moments?'

"'Yes.  I--whose last moments?'

"'His.  The dear departed's.'

"'Yes!  Oh, yes--yes--yes!  I suppose so, I think so, I don't know!  Oh,
certainly--I was there I was there!'

"'Oh, what a privilege!  what a precious privilege!  And his last words-
-oh, tell me, tell me his last words!  What did he say?'

"'He said--he said-oh, my head, my head, my head!  He said--he said--he
never said anything but Punch, punch, punch in the presence of the
passenjare!  Oh, leave me, madam!  In the name of all that is generous,
leave me to my madness, my misery, my despair! --a buff trip slip for a
six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent fare--endu--rance can no
fur--ther go!--PUNCH in the presence of the passenjare!"

My friend's hopeless eyes rested upon mine a pregnant minute, and then he
said impressively:

"Mark, you do not say anything.  You do not offer me any hope.  But, ah
me, it is just as well--it is just as well.  You could not do me any
good.  The time has long gone by when words could comfort me.  Something
tells me that my tongue is doomed to wag forever to the jigger of that
remorseless jingle, There--there it is coming on me again: a blue trip
slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a--"

Thus murmuring faint and fainter, my friend sank into a peaceful trance
and forgot his sufferings in a blessed respite.

How did I finally save him from an asylum?  I took him to a neighboring
university and made him discharge the burden of his persecuting rhymes
into the eager ears of the poor, unthinking students.  How is it with
them, now?  The result is too sad to tell.  Why did I write this article?
It was for a worthy, even a noble, purpose.  It was to warn you, reader,
if you should came across those merciless rhymes, to avoid them--avoid
them as you would a pestilence.






THE GREAT REVOLUTION IN PITCAIRN

Let me refresh the reader's memory a little.  Nearly a hundred years ago
the crew of the British ship bounty mutinied, set the captain and his
officers adrift upon the open sea, took possession of the ship, and
sailed southward.  They procured wives for themselves among the natives
of Tahiti, then proceeded to a lonely little rock in mid-Pacific, called
Pitcairn's Island, wrecked the vessel, stripped her of everything that
might be useful to a new colony, and established themselves on shore.
Pitcairn's is so far removed from the track of commerce that it was many
years before another vessel touched there.  It had always been considered
an uninhabited island; so when a ship did at last drop its anchor there,
in 1808, the captain was greatly surprised to find the place peopled.
Although the mutineers had fought among themselves, and gradually killed
each other off until only two or three of the original stock remained,
these tragedies had not occurred before a number of children had been
born; so in 1808 the island had a population of twenty-seven persons.
John Adams, the chief mutineer, still survived, and was to live many
years yet, as governor and patriarch of the flock.  From being mutineer
and homicide, he had turned Christian and teacher, and his nation of
twenty-seven persons was now the purest and devoutest in Christendom.
Adams had long ago hoisted the British flag and constituted his island an
appanage of the British crown.

To-day the population numbers ninety persons--sixteen men, nineteen
women, twenty-five boys, and thirty girls--all descendants of the
mutineers, all bearing the family names of those mutineers, and all
speaking English, and English only.  The island stands high up out of the
sea, and has precipitous walls.  It is about three-quarters of a mile
long, and in places is as much as half a mile wide.  Such arable land as
it affords is held by the several families, according to a division made
many years ago.  There is some live stock--goats, pigs, chickens, and
cats; but no dogs, and no large animals.  There is one church-building
used also as a capitol, a schoolhouse, and a public library.  The title
of the governor has been, for a generation or two, "Magistrate and Chief
Ruler, in subordination to her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain."  It
was his province to make the laws, as well as execute them.  His office
was elective; everybody over seventeen years old had a vote--no matter
about the sex.

The sole occupations of the people were farming and fishing; their sole
recreation, religious services.  There has never been a shop in the
island, nor any money.  The habits and dress of the people have always
been primitive, and their laws simple to puerility.  They have lived in a
deep Sabbath tranquillity, far from the world and its ambitions and
vexations, and neither knowing nor caring what was going on in the mighty
empires that lie beyond their limitless ocean solitudes.  Once in three
or four years a ship touched there, moved them with aged news of bloody
battles, devastating epidemics, fallen thrones, and ruined dynasties,
then traded them some soap and flannel for some yams and breadfruit, and
sailed away, leaving them to retire into their peaceful dreams and pious
dissipations once more.

On the 8th of last September, Admiral de Horsey, commander-in-chief of
the British fleet in the Pacific, visited Pitcairn's Island, and speaks
as follows in his official report to the admiralty:

     They have beans, carrots, turnips, cabbages, and a little maize;
     pineapples, fig trees, custard-apples, and oranges; lemons, and
     cocoanuts.  Clothing is obtained alone from passing ships, in barter
     for refreshments.  There are no springs on the island, but as it
     rains generally once a month they have plenty of water, although at
     times in former years they have suffered from drought.  No alcoholic
     liquors, except for medicinal purposes, are used, and a drunkard is
     unknown....

     The necessary articles required by the islanders are best shown by
     those we furnished in barter for refreshments: namely, flannel,
     serge, drill, half-boots, combs, tobacco, and soap.  They also stand
     much in need of maps and slates for their school, and tools of any
     kind are most acceptable.  I caused them to be supplied from the
     public stores with a Union jack: for display on the arrival of
     ships, and a pit-saw, of which they were greatly in need.  This, I
     trust, will meet the approval of their lordships.  If the munificent
     people of England were only aware of the wants of this most
     deserving little colony, they would not long go unsupplied....

     Divine service is held every Sunday at 10.30 A.M.  and at 3 P.M.,
     in the house built and used by John Adams for that purpose until he
     died in 1829.  It is conducted strictly in accordance with the
     liturgy of the Church of England, by Mr. Simon Young, their selected
     pastor, who is much respected.  A Bible class is held every
     Wednesday, when all who conveniently can attend.  There is also a
     general meeting for prayer on the first Friday in every month.
     Family prayers are said in every house the first thing in the
     morning and the last thing in the evening, and no food is partaken
     of without asking God's blessing before and afterward.  Of these
     islanders' religious attributes no one can speak without deep
     respect.  A people whose greatest pleasure and privilege is to
     commune in prayer with their God, and to join in hymns of praise,
     and who are, moreover, cheerful, diligent, and probably freer from
     vice than any other community, need no priest among them.

Now I come to a sentence in the admiral's report which he dropped
carelessly from his pen, no doubt, and never gave the matter a second
thought.  He little imagined what a freight of tragic prophecy it bore!
This is the sentence:

     One stranger, an American, has settled on the island--a doubtful
     acquisition.

A doubtful acquisition, indeed!  Captain Ormsby, in the American ship
Hornet, touched at Pitcairn's nearly four months after the admiral's
visit, and from the facts which he gathered there we now know all about
that American.  Let us put these facts together in historical form.  The
American's name was Butterworth Stavely.  As soon as he had become well
acquainted with all the people--and this took but a few days, of course
--he began to ingratiate himself with them by all the arts he could
command.  He became exceedingly popular, and much looked up to; for one
of the first things he did was to forsake his worldly way of life, and
throw all his energies into religion.  He was always reading his Bible,
or praying, or singing hymns, or asking blessings.  In prayer, no one had
such "liberty" as he, no one could pray so long or so well.

At last, when he considered the time to be ripe, he began secretly to sow
the seeds of discontent among the people.  It was his deliberate purpose,
from the beginning, to subvert the government, but of course he kept that
to himself for a time.  He used different arts with different
individuals.  He awakened dissatisfaction in one quarter by calling
attention to the shortness of the Sunday services; he argued that there
should be three three-hour services on Sunday instead of only two.  Many
had secretly held this opinion before; they now privately banded
themselves into a party to work for it.  He showed certain of the women
that they were not allowed sufficient voice in the prayer-meetings; thus
another party was formed.  No weapon was beneath his notice; he even
descended to the children, and awoke discontent in their breasts
because--as he discovered for them--they had not enough Sunday-school.
This created a third party.

Now, as the chief of these parties, he found himself the strongest power
in the community.  So he proceeded to his next move-a no less important
one than the impeachment of the chief magistrate, James Russell Nickoy;
a man of character and ability, and possessed of great wealth, he being
the owner of a house with a parlor to it, three acres and a half of yam-
land, and the only boat in Pitcairn's, a whaleboat; and, most
unfortunately, a pretext for this impeachment offered itself at just the
right time.

One of the earliest and most precious laws of the island was the law
against trespass.  It was held in great reverence, and was regarded as
the palladium of the people's liberties.  About thirty years ago an
important case came before the courts under this law, in this wise: a
chicken belonging to Elizabeth Young (aged, at that time, fifty-eight,
a daughter of John Mills, one of the mutineers of the Bounty) trespassed
upon the grounds of Thursday October Christian (aged twenty-nine, a
grandson of Fletcher Christian, one of the mutineers).  Christian killed
the chicken. According to the law, Christian could keep the chicken; or,
if he preferred, he could restore its remains to the owner and receive
damages in "produce" to an amount equivalent to the waste and injury
wrought by the trespasser.  The court records set forth that "the said
Christian aforesaid did deliver the aforesaid remains to the said Eliza
beth Young, and did demand one bushel of yams in satisfaction of the
damage done."  But Elizabeth Young considered the demand exorbitant; the
parties could not agree; therefore Christian brought suit in the courts.
He lost his case in the justice's court; at least, he was awarded only a
half-peck of yams, which he considered insufficient, and in the nature of
a defeat.  He appealed.  The case lingered several years in an ascending
grade of courts, and always resulted in decrees sustaining the original
verdict; and finally the thing got into the supreme court, and there it
stuck for twenty years.  But last summer, even the supreme court managed
to arrive at a decision at last.  Once more the original verdict was
sustained.  Christian then said he was satisfied; but Stavely was
present, and whispered to him and to his lawyer, suggesting, "as a mere
form," that the original law be exhibited, in order to make sure that it
still existed.  It seemed an odd idea, but an ingenious one.  So the
demand was made.  A messenger was sent to the magistrate's house; he
presently returned with the tidings that it had disappeared from among
the state archives.

The court now pronounced its late decision void, since it had been made
under a law which had no actual existence.

Great excitement ensued immediately.  The news swept abroad over the
whole island that the palladium of the public liberties was lost--maybe
treasonably destroyed.  Within thirty minutes almost the entire nation
were in the court-room--that is to say, the church.  The impeachment of
the chief magistrate followed, upon Stavely's motion.  The accused met
his misfortune with the dignity which became his great office.  He did
not plead, or even argue; he offered the simple defense that he had not
meddled with the missing law; that he had kept the state archives in the
same candle-box that had been used as their depository from the
beginning; and that he was innocent of the removal or destruction of the
lost document.

But nothing could save him; he was found guilty of misprision of treason,
and degraded from his office, and all his property was confiscated.

The lamest part of the whole shameful matter was the reason suggested by
his enemies for his destruction of the law, to wit: that he did it to
favor Christian, because Christian was his cousin!  Whereas Stavely was
the only individual in the entire nation who was not his cousin.  The
reader must remember that all these people are the descendants of half a
dozen men; that the first children intermarried together and bore
grandchildren to the mutineers; that these grandchildren intermarried;
after them, great and great-great-grandchildren intermarried; so that to-
day everybody is blood kin to everybody.  Moreover, the relationships are
wonderfully, even astoundingly, mixed up and complicated.  A stranger,
for instance, says to an islander:

"You speak of that young woman as your cousin; a while ago you called her
your aunt."

"Well, she is my aunt, and my cousin, too.  And also my stepsister, my
niece, my fourth cousin, my thirty-third cousin, my forty-second cousin,
my great-aunt, my grandmother, my widowed sister-in-law--and next week
she will be my wife."

So the charge of nepotism against the chief magistrate was weak.  But no
matter; weak or strong, it suited Stavely.  Stavely was immediately
elected to the vacant magistracy, and, oozing reform from every pore, he
went vigorously to work.  In no long time religious services raged
everywhere and unceasingly.  By command, the second prayer of the Sunday
morning service, which had customarily endured some thirty-five or forty
minutes, and had pleaded for the world, first by continent and then by
national and tribal detail, was extended to an hour and a half, and made
to include supplications in behalf of the possible peoples in the several
planets.  Everybody was pleased with this; everybody said, "Now this is
something like."  By command, the usual three-hour sermons were doubled
in length.  The nation came in a body to testify their gratitude to the
new magistrate.  The old law forbidding cooking on the Sabbath was
extended to the prohibition of eating, also.  By command, Sunday-school
was privileged to spread over into the week.  The joy of all classes was
complete.  In one short month the new magistrate had become the people's
idol!

The time was ripe for this man's next move.  He began, cautiously at
first, to poison the public mind against England.  He took the chief
citizens aside, one by one, and conversed with them on this topic.
Presently he grew bolder, and spoke out.  He said the nation owed it to
itself, to its honor, to its great traditions, to rise in its might and
throw off "this galling English yoke."

But the simple islanders answered:

"We had not noticed that it galled.  How does it gall?  England sends a
ship once in three or four years to give us soap and clothing, and things
which we sorely need and gratefully receive; but she never troubles us;
she lets us go our own way."

"She lets you go your own way!  So slaves have felt and spoken in all the
ages!  This speech shows how fallen you are, how base, how brutalized you
have become, under this grinding tyranny!  What! has all manly pride
forsaken you?  Is liberty nothing?  Are you content to be a mere
appendage to a foreign and hateful sovereignty, when you might rise up
and take your rightful place in the august family of nations, great,
free, enlightened, independent, the minion of no sceptered master, but
the arbiter of your own destiny, and a voice and a power in decreeing the
destinies of your sister-sovereignties of the world?"

Speeches like this produced an effect by and by.  Citizens began to feel
the English yoke; they did not know exactly how or whereabouts they felt
it, but they were perfectly certain they did feel it.  They got to
grumbling a good deal, and chafing under their chains, and longing for
relief and release.  They presently fell to hating the English flag, that
sign and symbol of their nation's degradation; they ceased to glance up
at it as they passed the capitol, but averted their eyes and grated their
teeth; and one morning, when it was found trampled into the mud at the
foot of the staff, they left it there, and no man put his hand to it to
hoist it again.  A certain thing which was sure to happen sooner or later
happened now.  Some of the chief citizens went to the magistrate by
night, and said:

"We can endure this hated tyranny no longer.  How can we cast it off?"

"By a coup d'etat."

"How?"

"A coup d'etat.  It is like this: everything is got ready, and at the
appointed moment I, as the official head of the nation, publicly and
solemnly proclaim its independence, and absolve it from allegiance to any
and all other powers whatsoever."

"That sounds simple and easy.  We can do that right away.  Then what will
be the next thing to do?"

"Seize all the defenses and public properties of all kinds, establish
martial law, put the army and navy on a war footing, and proclaim the
empire!"

This fine program dazzled these innocents.  They said:

"This is grand--this is splendid; but will not England resist?"

"Let her.  This rock is a Gibraltar."

"True.  But about the empire?  Do we need an empire and an emperor?"

"What you need, my friends, is unification.  Look at Germany; look at
Italy.  They are unified.  Unification is the thing.  It makes living
dear.  That constitutes progress.  We must have a standing army and a
navy.  Taxes follow, as a matter of course.  All these things summed up
make grandeur.  With unification and grandeur, what more can you want?
Very well--only the empire can confer these boons."

So on the 8th day of December Pitcairn's Island was proclaimed a free and
independent nation; and on the same day the solemn coronation of
Butterworth I, Emperor of Pitcairn's Island, took place, amid great
rejoicings and festivities.  The entire nation, with the exception of
fourteen persons, mainly little children, marched past the throne in
single file, with banners and music, the procession being upward of
ninety feet long; and some said it was as much as three-quarters of a
minute passing a given point.  Nothing like it had ever been seen in the
history of the island before.  Public enthusiasm was measureless.

Now straightway imperial reforms began.  Orders of nobility were
instituted.  A minister of the navy was appointed, and the whale-boat put
in commission.  A minister of war was created, and ordered to proceed at
once with the formation of a standing army.  A first lord of the treasury
was named, and commanded to get up a taxation scheme, and also open
negotiations for treaties, offensive, defensive, and commercial, with
foreign powers.  Some generals and admirals were appointed; also some
chamberlains, some equerries in waiting, and some lords of the
bedchamber.

At this point all the material was used up.  The Grand Duke of Galilee,
minister of war, complained that all the sixteen grown men in the empire
had been given great offices, and consequently would not consent to serve
in the ranks; wherefore his standing army was at a standstill.  The
Marquis of Ararat, minister of the navy, made a similar complaint.  He
said he was willing to steer the whale-boat himself, but he must have
somebody to man her.

The emperor did the best he could in the circumstances: he took all the
boys above the age of ten years away from their mothers, and pressed them
into the army, thus constructing a corps of seventeen privates, officered
by one lieutenant-general and two major-generals.  This pleased the
minister of war, but procured the enmity of all the mothers in the land;
for they said their precious ones must now find bloody graves in the
fields of war, and he would be answerable for it.  Some of the more
heartbroken and unappeasable among them lay constantly wait for the
emperor and threw yams at him, unmindful of the body-guard.

On account of the extreme scarcity of material, it was found necessary to
require the Duke of Bethany postmaster-general, to pull stroke-oar in the
navy and thus sit in the rear of a noble of lower degree namely, Viscount
Canaan, lord justice of the common pleas.  This turned the Duke of
Bethany into tolerably open malcontent and a secret conspirator--a thing
which the emperor foresaw, but could not help.

Things went from bad to worse.  The emperor raised Nancy Peters to the
peerage on one day, and married her the next, notwithstanding, for
reasons of state, the cabinet had strenuously advised him to marry
Emmeline, eldest daughter of the Archbishop of Bethlehem.  This caused
trouble in a powerful quarter--the church.  The new empress secured the
support and friendship of two-thirds of the thirty-six grown women in the
nation by absorbing them into her court as maids of honor; but this made
deadly enemies of the remaining twelve.  The families of the maids of
honor soon began to rebel, because there was nobody at home to keep
house.  The twelve snubbed women refused to enter the imperial kitchen as
servants; so the empress had to require the Countess of Jericho and other
great court dames to fetch water, sweep the palace, and perform other
menial and equally distasteful services.  This made bad blood in that
department.

Everybody fell to complaining that the taxes levied for the support of
the army, the navy, and the rest of the imperial establishment were
intolerably burdensome, and were reducing the nation to beggary.  The
emperor's reply--"Look--Look at Germany; look at Italy.  Are you better
than they? and haven't you unification?"---did not satisfy them.  They
said, "People can't eat unification, and we are starving.  Agriculture
has ceased.  Everybody is in the army, everybody is in the navy,
everybody is in the public service, standing around in a uniform, with
nothing whatever to do, nothing to eat, and nobody to till the fields--"

"Look at Germany; look at Italy.  It is the same there.  Such is
unification, and there's no other way to get it--no other way to keep it
after you've got it," said the poor emperor always.

But the grumblers only replied, "We can't stand the taxes--we can't stand
them."

Now right on top of this the cabinet reported a national debt amounting
to upward of forty-five dollars--half a dollar to every individual in the
nation.  And they proposed to fund something.  They had heard that this
was always done in such emergencies.  They proposed duties on exports;
also on imports.  And they wanted to issue bonds; also paper money,
redeemable in yams and cabbages in fifty years.  They said the pay of the
army and of the navy and of the whole governmental machine was far in
arrears, and unless something was done, and done immediately, national
bankruptcy must ensue, and possibly insurrection and revolution.  The
emperor at once resolved upon a high-handed measure, and one of a nature
never before heard of in Pitcairn's Island.  He went in state to the
church on Sunday morning, with the army at his back, and commanded the
minister of the treasury to take up a collection.

That was the feather that broke the camel's back.  First one citizen, and
then another, rose and refused to submit to this unheard-of outrage
--and each refusal was followed by the immediate confiscation of the
malcontent's property.  This vigor soon stopped the refusals, and the
collection proceeded amid a sullen and ominous silence.  As the emperor
withdrew with the troops, he said, "I will teach you who is master here."
Several persons shouted, "Down with unification!"  They were at once
arrested and torn from the arms of their weeping friends by the soldiery.

But in the mean time, as any prophet might have foreseen, a Social
Democrat had been developed.  As the emperor stepped into the gilded
imperial wheelbarrow at the church door, the social democrat stabbed at
him fifteen or sixteen times with a harpoon, but fortunately with such a
peculiarly social democratic unprecision of aim as to do no damage.

That very night the convulsion came.  The nation rose as one man--though
forty-nine of the revolutionists were of the other sex.  The infantry
threw down their pitchforks; the artillery cast aside their cocoanuts;
the navy revolted; the emperor was seized, and bound hand and foot in his
palace.  He was very much depressed.  He said:

"I freed you from a grinding tyranny; I lifted yon up out of your
degradation, and made you a nation among nations; I gave you a strong,
compact, centralized government; and, more than all, I gave you the
blessing of blessings--unification.  I have done all this, and my reward
is hatred, insult, and these bonds.  Take me; do with me as you will.
I here resign my crown and all my dignities, and gladly do I release
myself from their too heavy burden.  For your sake I took them up; for
your sake I lay them down.  The imperial jewel is no more; now bruise and
defile as ye will the useless setting."

By a unanimous voice the people condemned the ex-emperor and the social
democrat to perpetual banishment from church services, or to perpetual
labor as galley-slaves in the whale-boat--whichever they might prefer.
The next day the nation assembled again, and rehoisted the British flag,
reinstated the British tyranny, reduced the nobility to the condition of
commoners again, and then straightway turned their diligent attention to
the weeding of the ruined and neglected yam patches, and the
rehabilitation of the old useful industries and the old healing and
solacing pieties.  The ex-emperor restored the lost trespass law, and
explained that he had stolen it not to injure any one, but to further his
political projects.  Therefore the nation gave the late chief magistrate
his office again, and also his alienated Property.

Upon reflection, the ex-emperor and the social democrat chose perpetual
banishment from religious services in preference to perpetual labor as
galley slaves "with perpetual religious services," as they phrased it;
wherefore the people believed that the poor fellows' troubles had
unseated their reason, and so they judged it best to confine them for the
present.  Which they did.

Such is the history of Pitcairn's "doubtful acquisition."






THE CANVASSER'S TALE

Poor, sad-eyed stranger!  There was that about his humble mien, his tired
look, his decayed-gentility clothes, that almost reached the mustard,
seed of charity that still remained, remote and lonely, in the empty
vastness of my heart, notwithstanding I observed a portfolio under his
arm, and said to myself, Behold, Providence hath delivered his servant
into the hands of another canvasser.

Well, these people always get one interested.  Before I well knew how it
came about, this one was telling me his history, and I was all attention
and sympathy.  He told it something like this:

My parents died, alas, when I was a little, sinless child.  My uncle
Ithuriel took me to his heart and reared me as his own.  He was my only
relative in the wide world; but he was good and rich and generous.  He
reared me in the lap of luxury.  I knew no want that money could satisfy.

In the fullness of time I was graduated, and went with two of my
servants--my chamberlain and my valet--to travel in foreign countries.
During four years I flitted upon careless wing amid the beauteous gardens
of the distant strand, if you will permit this form of speech in one
whose tongue was ever attuned to poesy; and indeed I so speak with
confidence, as one unto his kind, for I perceive by your eyes that you
too, sir, are gifted with the divine inflation.  In those far lands I
reveled in the ambrosial food that fructifies the soul, the mind, the
heart.  But of all things, that which most appealed to my inborn esthetic
taste was the prevailing custom there, among the rich, of making
collections of elegant and costly rarities, dainty objets de vertu, and
in an evil hour I tried to uplift my uncle Ithuriel to a plane of
sympathy with this exquisite employment.

I wrote and told him of one gentleman's vast collection of shells;
another's noble collection of meerschaum pipes; another's elevating and
refining collection of undecipherable autographs; another's priceless
collection of old china; another's enchanting collection of postage-
stamps--and so forth and so on.  Soon my letters yielded fruit.  My uncle
began to look about for something to make a collection of.  You may know,
perhaps, how fleetly a taste like this dilates.  His soon became a raging
fever, though I knew it not.  He began to neglect his great pork
business; presently he wholly retired and turned an elegant leisure into
a rabid search for curious things.  His wealth was vast, and he spared it
not.  First he tried cow-bells.  He made a collection which filled five
large salons, and comprehended all the different sorts of cow-bells that
ever had been contrived, save one.  That one--an antique, and the only
specimen extant--was possessed by another collector.  My uncle offered
enormous sums for it, but the gentleman would not sell.  Doubtless you
know what necessarily resulted.  A true collector attaches no value to
a collection that is not complete.  His great heart breaks, he sells his
hoard, he turns his mind to some field that seems unoccupied.

Thus did my uncle.  He next tried brickbats.  After piling up a vast and
intensely interesting collection, the former difficulty supervened; his
great heart broke again; he sold out his soul's idol to the retired
brewer who possessed the missing brick.  Then he tried flint hatchets and
other implements of Primeval Man, but by and by discovered that the
factory where they were made was supplying other collectors as well as
himself.  He tried Aztec inscriptions and stuffed whales--another
failure, after incredible labor and expense.  When his collection seemed
at last perfect, a stuffed whale arrived from Greenland and an Aztec
inscription from the Cundurango regions of Central America that made all
former specimens insignificant.  My uncle hastened to secure these noble
gems.  He got the stuffed whale, but another collector got the
inscription.  A real Cundurango, as possibly you know, is a possession of
such supreme value that, when once a collector gets it, he will rather
part with his family than with it.  So my uncle sold out, and saw his
darlings go forth, never more to return; and his coal-black hair turned
white as snow in a single night.

Now he waited, and thought.  He knew another disappointment might kill
him.  He was resolved that he would choose things next time that no other
man was collecting.  He carefully made up his mind, and once more entered
the field-this time to make a collection of echoes.

"Of what?" said I.

Echoes, sir.  His first purchase was an echo in Georgia that repeated
four times; his next was a six-repeater in Maryland; his next was a
thirteen-repeater in Maine; his next was a nine-repeater in Kansas; his
next was a twelve-repeater in Tennessee, which he got cheap, so to speak,
because it was out of repair, a portion of the crag which reflected it
having tumbled down.  He believed he could repair it at a cost of a few
thousand dollars, and, by increasing the elevation with masonry, treble
the repeating capacity; but the architect who undertook the job had never
built an echo before, and so he utterly spoiled this one.  Before he
meddled with it, it used to talk back like a mother-in-law, but now it
was only fit for the deaf-and-dumb asylum.  Well, next he bought a lot of
cheap little double-barreled echoes, scattered around over various states
and territories; he got them at twenty per cent. off by taking the lot.
Next he bought a perfect Gatling-gun of an echo in Oregon, and it cost a
fortune, I can tell you.  You may know, sir, that in the echo market the
scale of prices is cumulative, like the carat-scale in diamonds; in fact,
the same phraseology is used.  A single-carat echo is worth but ten
dollars over and above the value of the land it is on; a two-carat or
double-barreled echo is worth thirty dollars; a five-carat is worth nine
hundred and fifty; a ten-carat is worth thirteen thousand.  My uncle's
Oregon-echo, which he called the Great Pitt Echo, was a twenty-two carat
gem, and cost two hundred and sixteen thousand dollars--they threw the
land in, for it was four hundred miles from a settlement.

Well, in the mean time my path was a path of roses.  I was the accepted
suitor of the only and lovely daughter of an English earl, and was
beloved to distraction.  In that dear presence I swam in seas of bliss.
The family were content, for it was known that I was sole heir to an
uncle held to be worth five millions of dollars.  However, none of us
knew that my uncle had become a collector, at least in anything more than
a small way, for esthetic amusement.

Now gathered the clouds above my unconscious head.  That divine echo,
since known throughout the world as the Great Koh-i-noor, or Mountain of
Repetitions, was discovered.  It was a sixty-five carat gem.  You could
utter a word and it would talk back at you for fifteen minutes, when the
day was otherwise quiet.  But behold, another fact came to light at the
same time: another echo-collector was in the field.  The two rushed to
make the peerless purchase.  The property consisted of a couple of small
hills with a shallow swale between, out yonder among the back settlements
of New York State.  Both men arrived on the ground at the same time, and
neither knew the other was there.  The echo was not all owned by one man;
a person by the name of Williamson Bolivar Jarvis owned the east hill,
and a person by the name of Harbison J. Bledso owned the west hill; the
swale between was the dividing-line.  So while my uncle was buying
Jarvis's hill for three million two hundred and eighty-five thousand
dollars, the other party was buying Bledso's hill for a shade over three
million.

Now, do you perceive the natural result?  Why, the noblest collection of
echoes on earth was forever and ever incomplete, since it possessed but
the one-half of the king echo of the universe.  Neither man was content
with this divided ownership, yet neither would sell to the other.  There
were jawings, bickerings, heart-burnings.  And at last that other
collector, with a malignity which only a collector can ever feel toward a
man and a brother, proceeded to cut down his hill!

You see, as long as he could not have the echo, he was resolved that
nobody should have it.  He would remove his hill, and then there would be
nothing to reflect my uncle's echo.  My uncle remonstrated with him, but
the man said, "I own one end of this echo; I choose to kill my end; you
must take care of your own end yourself."

Well, my uncle got an injunction put an him.  The other man appealed and
fought it in a higher court.  They carried it on up, clear to the Supreme
Court of the United States.  It made no end of trouble there.  Two of the
judges believed that an echo was personal property, because it was
impalpable to sight and touch, and yet was purchasable, salable, and
consequently taxable; two others believed that an echo was real estate,
because it was manifestly attached to the land, and was not removable
from place to place; other of the judges contended that an echo was not
property at all.

It was finally decided that the echo was property; that the hills were
property; that the two men were separate and independent owners of the
two hills, but tenants in common in the echo; therefore defendant was at
full liberty to cut down his hill, since it belonged solely to him, but
must give bonds in three million dollars as indemnity for damages which
might result to my uncle's half of the echo.  This decision also debarred
my uncle from using defendant's hill to reflect his part of the echo,
without defendant's consent; he must use only his own hill; if his part
of the echo would not go, under these circumstances, it was sad, of
course, but the court could find no remedy.  The court also debarred
defendant from using my uncle's hill to reflect his end of the echo,
without consent.  You see the grand result!  Neither man would give
consent, and so that astonishing and most noble echo had to cease from
its great powers; and since that day that magnificent property is tied up
and unsalable.

A week before my wedding-day, while I was still swimming in bliss and the
nobility were gathering from far and near to honor our espousals, came
news of my uncle's death, and also a copy of his will, making me his sole
heir.  He was gone; alas, my dear benefactor was no more.  The thought
surcharges my heart even at this remote day.  I handed the will to the
earl; I could not read it for the blinding tears.  The earl read it; then
he sternly said, "Sir, do you call this wealth?--but doubtless you do in
your inflated country.  Sir, you are left sole heir to a vast collection
of echoes--if a thing can be called a collection that is scattered far
and wide over the huge length and breadth of the American continent; sir,
this is not all; you are head and ears in debt; there is not an echo in
the lot but has a mortgage on it; sir, I am not a hard man, but I must
look to my child's interest; if you had but one echo which you could
honestly call your own, if you had but one echo which was free from
incumbrance, so that you could retire to it with my child, and by humble,
painstaking industry cultivate and improve it, and thus wrest from it a
maintenance, I would not say you nay; but I cannot marry my child to a
beggar.  Leave his side, my darling; go, sir, take your mortgage-ridden
echoes and quit my sight forever."

My noble Celestine clung to me in tears, with loving arms, and swore she
would willingly, nay gladly, marry me, though I had not an echo in the
world.  But it could not be.  We were torn asunder, she to pine and die
within the twelvemonth, I to toil life's long journey sad and alone,
praying daily, hourly, for that release which shall join us together
again in that dear realm where the wicked cease from troubling and the
weary are at rest.  Now, sir, if you will be so kind as to look at these
maps and plans in my portfolio, I am sure I can sell you an echo for less
money than any man in the trade.  Now this one, which cost my uncle ten
dollars, thirty years ago, and is one of the sweetest things in Texas, I
will let you have for--

"Let me interrupt you," I said.  "My friend, I have not had a moment's
respite from canvassers this day.  I have bought a sewing-machine which I
did not want; I have bought a map which is mistaken in all its details;
I have bought a clock which will not go; I have bought a moth poison
which the moths prefer to any other beverage; I have bought no end of
useless inventions, and now I have had enough of this foolishness.
I would not have one of your echoes if you were even to give it to me.
I would not let it stay on the place.  I always hate a man that tries to
sell me echoes.  You see this gun?  Now take your collection and move on;
let us not have bloodshed."

But he only smiled a sad, sweet smile, and got out some more diagrams.
You know the result perfectly well, because you know that when you have
once opened the door to a canvasser, the trouble is done and you have got
to suffer defeat.

I compromised with this man at the end of an intolerable hour.  I bought
two double-barreled echoes in good condition, and he threw in another,
which he said was not salable because it only spoke German.  He said,
"She was a perfect polyglot once, but somehow her palate got down."






AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER

The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and
said he was connected with the Daily Thunderstorm, and added:

"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you."

"Come to what?"

"Interview you."

"Ah!  I see.  Yes--yes.  Um!  Yes--yes."

I was not feeling bright that morning.  Indeed, my powers seemed a bit
under a cloud.  However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been
looking six or seven minutes I found I was obliged to refer to the young
man.  I said:

"How do you spell it?"

"Spell what?"

"Interview."

"Oh, my goodness! what do you want to spell it for?"

"I don't want to spell it; I want to see what it means."

"Well, this is astonishing, I must say.  I can tell you what it means, if
you--if you--"

"Oh, all right!  That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."

"In, in, ter, ter, inter--"

"Then you spell it with an h"

Why certainly!"

"Oh, that is what took me so long."

"Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with?"

"Well, I--I--hardly know.  I had the Unabridged, and I was ciphering
around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures.
But it's a very old edition."

"Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it in even the latest
e---  My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world, but you
do not look as--as--intelligent as I had expected you would.  No harm--
I mean no harm at all."

"Oh, don't mention it!  It has often been said, and by people who would
not flatter and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite
remarkable in that way.  Yes--yes; they always speak of it with rapture."

"I can easily imagine it.  But about this interview.  You know it is the
custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."

"Indeed, I had not heard of it before.  It must be very interesting.
What do you do it with?"

"Ah, well--well--well--this is disheartening.  It ought to be done with a
club in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking
questions and the interviewed answering them.  It is all the rage now.
Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the
salient points of your public and private history?"

"Oh, with pleasure--with pleasure.  I have a very bad memory, but I hope
you will not mind that.  That is to say, it is an irregular memory--
singularly irregular.  Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it
will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point.  This is a great
grief to me."

"Oh, it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can."

"I will.  I will put my whole mind on it."

"Thanks.  Are you ready to begin?"

"Ready."

Q.  How old are you?

A.  Nineteen, in June.

Q.  Indeed.  I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six.  Where were
you born?

A.  In Missouri.

Q.  When did you begin to write?

A.  In 1836.

Q.  Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now?

A.  I don't know.  It does seem curious, somehow.

Q.  It does, indeed.  Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you
ever met?

A.  Aaron Burr.

Q.  But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen
years!

A.  Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?

Q.  Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more.  How did you happen to
meet Burr?

A.  Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day, and he asked me to
make less noise, and--

Q.  But, good heavens!  if you were at his funeral, he must have been
dead, and if he was dead how could he care whether you made a noise or
not?

A.  I don't know.  He was always a particular kind of a man that way.

Q.  Still, I don't understand it at all, You say he spoke to you, and
that he was dead.

A.  I didn't say he was dead.

Q.  But wasn't he dead?

A.  Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't.

Q.  What did you think?

A.  Oh, it was none of my business!  It wasn't any of my funeral.

Q.  Did you--However, we can never get this matter straight.  Let me ask
about something else.  What was the date of your birth?

A.  Monday, October 31, 1693.

Q.  What!  Impossible!  That would make you a hundred and eighty years
old.  How do you account for that?

A.  I don't account for it at all.

Q.  But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make
yourself out to be one hundred and eighty.  It is an awful discrepancy.

A.  Why, have you noticed that?  (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has
seemed to me like a discrepancy, but somehow I couldn't make up my mind.
How quick you notice a thing!

Q.  Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes.  Had you, or have
you, any brothers or sisters?

A.  Eh!  I--I--I think so--yes--but I don't remember.

Q.  Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard!

A.  Why, what makes you think that?

Q.  How could I think otherwise?  Why, look here!  Who is this a picture
of on the wall?  Isn't that a brother of yours?

A.  Oh, yes, yes, yes!  Now you remind me of it; that was a brother of
mine.  That's William--Bill we called him.  Poor old Bill!

Q.  Why?  Is he dead, then?

A.  Ah!  well, I suppose so.  We never could tell.  There was a great
mystery about it.

Q.  That is sad, very sad.  He disappeared, then?

A.  Well, yes, in a sort of general way.  We buried him.

Q.  Buried him!  Buried him, without knowing whether he was dead or not?

A.  Oh, no!  Not that.  He was dead enough.

Q.  Well, I confess that I can't understand this.  If you buried him, and
you knew he was dead

A.  No!  no!  We only thought he was.

Q.  Oh, I see!  He came to life again?

A.  I bet he didn't.

Q.  Well, I never heard anything like this.  Somebody was dead.  Somebody
was buried.  Now, where was the mystery?

A.  Ah!  that's just it!  That's it exactly.  You see, we were twins--
defunct--and I--and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two
weeks old, and one of us was drowned.  But we didn't know which.  Some
think it was Bill.  Some think it was me.

Q.  Well, that is remarkable.  What do you think?

A.  Goodness knows!  I would give whole worlds to know.  This solemn,
this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life.  But I will tell
you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before.
One of us had a peculiar mark--a large mole on the back of his left hand;
that was me.  That child was the one that was drowned!

Q.  Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it,
after all.

A.  You don't?  Well, I do.  Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have
been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child.  But, 'sh!
--don't mention it where the family can hear of it.  Heaven knows they
have heartbreaking troubles enough without adding this.

Q.  Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present, and I am
very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken.  But I was a good
deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral.  Would you mind
telling me what particular circumstance it was that made you think Burr
was such a remarkable man?

A.  Oh!  it was a mere trifle!  Not one man in fifty would have noticed
it at all.  When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to
start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he
said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery, and so he got up and
rode with the driver.

Then the young man reverently withdrew.  He was very pleasant company,
and I was sorry to see him go.






PARIS NOTES

--[Crowded out of "A Tramp Abroad" to make room for more vital
statistics.--M. T.]

The Parisian travels but little, he knows no language but his own, reads
no literature but his own, and consequently he is pretty narrow and
pretty self-sufficient.  However, let us not be too sweeping; there are
Frenchmen who know languages not their own: these are the waiters.  Among
the rest, they know English; that is, they know it on the European plan--
which is to say, they can speak it, but can't understand it.  They easily
make themselves understood, but it is next to impossible to word an
English sentence in such away as to enable them to comprehend it.  They
think they comprehend it; they pretend they do; but they don't.  Here is
a conversation which I had with one of these beings; I wrote it down at
the time, in order to have it exactly correct.

I.  These are fine oranges.  Where are they grown?

He.  More?  Yes, I will bring them.

I.  No, do not bring any more; I only want to know where they are from
where they are raised.

He.  Yes?  (with imperturbable mien and rising inflection.)

I.  Yes.  Can you tell me what country they are from?

He.  Yes?  (blandly, with rising inflection.)

I. (disheartened).  They are very nice.

He.  Good night.  (Bows, and retires, quite satisfied with himself.)

That young man could have become a good English scholar by taking the
right sort of pains, but he was French, and wouldn't do that.  How
different is the case with our people; they utilize every means that
offers.  There are some alleged French Protestants in Paris, and they
built a nice little church on one of the great avenues that lead away
from the Arch of Triumph, and proposed to listen to the correct thing,
preached in the correct way, there, in their precious French tongue, and
be happy.  But their little game does not succeed.  Our people are always
there ahead of them Sundays, and take up all the room.  When the minister
gets up to preach, he finds his house full of devout foreigners, each
ready and waiting, with his little book in his hand--a morocco-bound
Testament, apparently.  But only apparently; it is Mr. Bellows's
admirable and exhaustive little French-English dictionary, which in look
and binding and size is just like a Testament and those, people are there
to study French.  The building has been nicknamed "The Church of the
Gratis French Lesson."

These students probably acquire more language than general information,
for I am told that a French sermon is like a French speech--it never
names a historical event, but only the date of it; if you are not up in
dates, you get left.  A French speech is something like this:

     Comrades, citizens, brothers, noble parts of the only sublime and
     perfect nation, let us not forget that the 21st January cast off our
     chains; that the 10th August relieved us of the shameful presence of
     foreign spies; that the 5th September was its own justification
     before heaven and humanity; that the 18th Brumaire contained the
     seeds of its own punishment; that the 14th July was the mighty voice
     of liberty proclaiming the resurrection, the new day, and inviting
     the oppressed peoples of the earth to look upon the divine face of
     France and live; and let us here record our everlasting curse
     against the man of the 2d December, and declare in thunder tones,
     the native tones of France, that but for him there had been no 17th
     March in history, no 12th October, no 19th January, no 22d April,
     no 16th November, no 30th September, no 2d July, no 14th February,
     no 29th June, no 15th August, no 31st May--that but for him, France
     the pure, the grand, the peerless, had had a serene and vacant
     almanac today!

I have heard of one French sermon which closed in this odd yet eloquent
way:

     My hearers, we have sad cause to remember the man of the 13th
     January.  The results of the vast crime of the 13th January have
     been in just proportion to the magnitude of the set itself.  But for
     it there had been no 30 November--sorrowful spectacle!  The grisly
     deed of the 16th June had not been done but for it, nor had the man
     of the 16th June known existence; to it alone the 3d September was
     due, also the fatal 12th October.  Shall we, then, be grateful for
     the 13th January, with its freight of death for you and me and all
     that breathe?  Yes, my friends, for it gave us also that which had
     never come but for it, and it atone--the blessed 25th December.

It may be well enough to explain, though in the case of many of my
readers this will hardly be necessary.  The man of the 13th January is
Adam; the crime of that date was the eating of the apple; the sorrowful
spectacle of the 30th November was the expulsion from Eden; the grisly
deed of the 16th June was the murder of Abel; the act of the 3d September
was the beginning of the journey to the land of Nod; the 12th day of
October, the last mountain-tops disappeared under the flood.  When you go
to church in France, you want to take your almanac with you--annotated.






LEGEND OF SAGENFELD, IN GERMANY

[Left out of "A Tramp Abroad" because its authenticity seemed doubtful,
and could not at that time be proved.--M. T.]

More than a thousand years ago this small district was a kingdom
--a little bit of a kingdom, a sort of dainty little toy kingdom, as one
might say.  It was far removed from the jealousies, strifes, and turmoils
of that old warlike day, and so its life was a simple life, its people a
gentle and guileless race; it lay always in a deep dream of peace, a soft
Sabbath tranquillity; there was no malice, there was no envy, there was
no ambition, consequently there were no heart-burnings, there was no
unhappiness in the land.

In the course of time the old king died and his little son Hubert came to
the throne.  The people's love for him grew daily; he was so good and so
pure and so noble, that by and by his love became a passion, almost a
worship.  Now at his birth the soothsayers had diligently studied the
stars and found something written in that shining book to this effect:

     In Hubert's fourteenth year a pregnant event will happen; the animal
     whose singing shall sound sweetest in Hubert's ear shall save
     Hubert's life.  So long as the king and the nation shall honor this
     animal's race for this good deed, the ancient dynasty shall not fail
     of an heir, nor the nation know war or pestilence or poverty.  But
     beware an erring choice!

All through the king's thirteenth year but one thing was talked of by the
soothsayers, the statesmen, the little parliament, and the general
people.  That one thing was this: How is the last sentence of the
prophecy to be understood?  What goes before seems to mean that the
saving animal will choose itself at the proper time; but the closing
sentence seems to mean that the king must choose beforehand, and say what
singer among the animals pleases him best, and that if he choose wisely
the chosen animal will save his life, his dynasty, his people, but that
if he should make "an erring choice"--beware!

By the end of the year there were as many opinions about this matter as
there had been in the beginning; but a majority of the wise and the
simple were agreed that the safest plan would be for the little king to
make choice beforehand, and the earlier the better.  So an edict was sent
forth commanding all persons who owned singing creatures to bring them to
the great hall of the palace in the morning of the first day of the new
year.  This command was obeyed.  When everything was in readiness for the
trial, the king made his solemn entry with the great officers of the
crown, all clothed in their robes of state.  The king mounted his golden
throne and prepared to give judgment.  But he presently said:

"These creatures all sing at once; the noise is unendurable; no one can
choose in such a turmoil.  Take them all away, and bring back one at a
time."

This was done.  One sweet warbler after another charmed the young king's
ear and was removed to make way for another candidate.  The precious
minutes slipped by; among so many bewitching songsters he found it hard
to choose, and all the harder because the promised penalty for an error
was so terrible that it unsettled his judgment and made him afraid to
trust his own ears.  He grew nervous and his face showed distress.  His
ministers saw this, for they never took their eyes from him a moment.
Now they began to say in their hearts:

"He has lost courage--the cool head is gone--he will err--he and his
dynasty and his people are doomed!"

At the end of an hour the king sat silent awhile, and then said:

"Bring back the linnet."

The linnet trilled forth her jubilant music.  In the midst of it the king
was about to uplift his scepter in sign of choice, but checked himself
and said:

"But let us be sure.  Bring back the thrush; let them sing together."

The thrush was brought, and the two birds poured out their marvels of
song together.  The king wavered, then his inclination began to settle
and strengthen--one could see it in his countenance.  Hope budded in the
hearts of the old ministers, their pulses began to beat quicker, the
scepter began to rise slowly, when:  There was a hideous interruption!
It was a sound like this--just at the door:

"Waw .  .  .  he!  waw .  .  .  he!  waw-he!-waw
he!-waw-he!"

Everybody was sorely startled--and enraged at himself for showing it.

The next instant the dearest, sweetest, prettiest little peasant-maid of
nine years came tripping in, her brown eyes glowing with childish
eagerness; but when she saw that august company and those angry faces she
stopped and hung her head and put her poor coarse apron to her eyes.
Nobody gave her welcome, none pitied her.  Presently she looked up
timidly through her tears, and said:

"My lord the king, I pray you pardon me, for I meant no wrong.  I have no
father and no mother, but I have a goat and a donkey, and they are all in
all to me.  My goat gives me the sweetest milk, and when my dear good
donkey brays it seems to me there is no music like to it.  So when my
lord the king's jester said the sweetest singer among all the animals
should save the crown and nation, and moved me to bring him here--"

All the court burst into a rude laugh, and the child fled away crying,
without trying to finish her speech.  The chief minister gave a private
order that she and her disastrous donkey be flogged beyond the precincts
of the palace and commanded to come within them no more.

Then the trial of the birds was resumed.  The two birds sang their best,
but the scepter lay motionless in the king's hand.  Hope died slowly out
in the breasts of all.  An hour went by; two hours, still no decision.
The day waned to its close, and the waiting multitudes outside the palace
grew crazed with anxiety and apprehension.  The twilight came on, the
shadows fell deeper and deeper.  The king and his court could no longer
see each other's faces.  No one spoke--none called for lights.  The great
trial had been made; it had failed; each and all wished to hide their
faces from the light and cover up their deep trouble in their own hearts.

Finally-hark!  A rich, full strain of the divinest melody streamed forth
from a remote part of the hall the nightingale's voice!

"Up!" shouted the king, "let all the bells make proclamation to the
people, for the choice is made and we have not erred.  King, dynasty,
and nation are saved.  From henceforth let the nightingale be honored
throughout the land forever.  And publish it among all the people that
whosoever shall insult a nightingale, or injure it, shall suffer death.
The king hath spoken."

All that little world was drunk with joy.  The castle and the city blazed
with bonfires all night long, the people danced and drank and sang; and
the triumphant clamor of the bells never ceased.

From that day the nightingale was a sacred bird.  Its song was heard in
every house; the poets wrote its praises; the painters painted it; its
sculptured image adorned every arch and turret and fountain and public
building.  It was even taken into the king's councils; and no grave
matter of state was decided until the soothsayers had laid the thing
before the state nightingale and translated to the ministry what it was
that the bird had sung about it.


II

The young king was very fond of the chase.  When the summer was come he
rode forth with hawk and hound, one day, in a brilliant company of his
nobles.  He got separated from them by and by, in a great forest, and
took what he imagined a neat cut, to find them again; but it was a
mistake.  He rode on and on, hopefully at first, but with sinking courage
finally.  Twilight came on, and still he was plunging through a lonely
and unknown land.  Then came a catastrophe.  In the dim light he forced
his horse through a tangled thicket overhanging a steep and rocky
declivity.  When horse and rider reached the bottom, the former had a
broken neck and the latter a broken leg.  The poor little king lay there
suffering agonies of pain, and each hour seemed a long month to him.
He kept his ear strained to heat any sound that might promise hope of
rescue; but he heard no voice, no sound of horn or bay of hound.  So at
last he gave up all hope, and said, "Let death come, four come it must."

Just then the deep, sweet song of a nightingale swept across the still
wastes of the night.

"Saved!" the king said.  "Saved!  It is the sacred bird, and the prophecy
is come true.  The gods themselves protected me from error in the
choice."

He could hardly contain his joy; he could not word his gratitude.  Every
few moments, now he thought he caught the sound of approaching succor.
But each time it was a disappointment; no succor came.  The dull hours
drifted on.  Still no help came--but still the sacred bird sang on.  He
began to have misgivings about his choice, but he stifled them.  Toward
dawn the bird ceased.  The morning came, and with it thirst and hunger;
but no succor.  The day waxed and waned.  At last the king cursed the
nightingale.

Immediately the song of the thrush came from out the wood.  The king said
in his heart, "This was the true-bird--my choice was false--succor will
come now."

But it did not come.  Then he lay many hours insensible.  When he came to
himself, a linnet was singing.  He listened-with apathy.  His faith was
gone.  "These birds," he said, "can bring no help; I and my house and my
people are doomed."  He turned him about to die; for he was grown very
feeble from hunger and thirst and suffering, and felt that his end was
near.  In truth, he wanted to die, and be released from pain.  For long
hours he lay without thought or feeling or motion.  Then his senses
returned.  The dawn of the third morning was breaking.  Ah, the world
seemed very beautiful to those worn eyes.  Suddenly a great longing to
live rose up in the lad's heart, and from his soul welled a deep and
fervent prayer that Heaven would have mercy upon him and let him see his
home and his friends once more.  In that instant a soft, a faint, a far-
off sound, but oh, how inexpressibly sweet to his waiting ear, came
floating out of the distance:

"Waw .  .  .  he!  waw .  .  .  he!  waw-he!--waw-he!--waw-he!"

"That, oh, that song is sweeter, a thousand times sweeter than the voice
of the nightingale, thrush, or linnet, for it brings not mere hope, but
certainty of succor; and now, indeed, am I saved!  The sacred singer has
chosen itself, as the oracle intended; the prophecy is fulfilled, and my
life, my house, and my people are redeemed.  The ass shall be sacred from
this day!"

The divine music grew nearer and nearer, stronger and stronger and ever
sweeter and sweeter to the perishing sufferer's ear.  Down the declivity
the docile little donkey wandered, cropping herbage and singing as he
went; and when at last he saw the dead horse and the wounded king, he
came and snuffed at them with simple and marveling curiosity.  The king
petted him, and he knelt down as had been his wont when his little
mistress desired to mount.  With great labor and pain the lad drew
himself upon the creature's back, and held himself there by aid of the
generous ears.  The ass went singing forth from the place and carried the
king to the little peasant-maid's hut.  She gave him her pallet for a
bed, refreshed him with goat's milk, and then flew to tell the great news
to the first scouting-party of searchers she might meet.

The king got well.  His first act was to proclaim the sacredness and
inviolability of the ass; his second was to add this particular ass to
his cabinet and make him chief minister of the crown; his third was to
have all the statues and effigies of nightingales throughout his kingdom
destroyed, and replaced by statues and effigies of the sacred donkey;
and, his fourth was to announce that when the little peasant maid should
reach her fifteenth year he would make her his queen and he kept his
word.

Such is the legend.  This explains why the moldering image of the ass
adorns all these old crumbling walls and arches; and it explains why,
during many centuries, an ass was always the chief minister in that royal
cabinet, just as is still the case in most cabinets to this day; and it
also explains why, in that little kingdom, during many centuries, all
great poems, all great speeches, all great books, all public solemnities,
and all royal proclamations, always began with these stirring words:

"Waw .  .  .  he!  waw .  .  , he!--waw he!  Waw-he!"






SPEECH ON THE BABIES

AT THE BANQUET, IN CHICAGO, GIVEN BY THE ARMY OF THE TENNESSEE TO THEIR
FIRST COMMANDER, GENERAL U. S. GRANT, NOVEMBER, 1879

     The fifteenth regular toast was "The Babies--as they comfort us in
     our sorrows, let us not forget them in our festivities."

I like that.  We have not all had the good for tune to be ladies.  We
have not all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast
works down to the babies, we stand on common ground.  It is a shame that
for a thousand years the world's banquets have utterly ignored the baby,
as if he didn't amount to anything.  If you will stop and think a minute
--if you will go back fifty or one hundred years to your early married
life and recontemplate your first baby--you will remember that he
amounted to a great deal, and even something over.  You soldiers all know
that when the little fellow arrived at family, headquarters you had to
hand in your resignation.  He took entire command.  You became his
lackey, his mere body servant, and you had to stand around, too.  He was
not a commander who made allowances far time, distance, weather, or
anything else.  You had to execute his order whether it was possible or
mot.  And there was only one form of marching in his manual of tactics,
and that was the double-quick.  He treated you with every sort of
insolence and disrespect, and the bravest of you didn't dare to say a
word.  You could face the death-storm at Donelson and Vicksburg, and give
back blow for blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your
hair, and twisted your nose, you had to take it.  When the thunders of
war were sounding in your ears you set your faces toward the batteries,
and advanced with steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his
war-whoop you advanced in the other direction, and mighty glad of the
chance, too.  When he called for soothing-syrup, did you venture to throw
out any side remarks about certain services being unbecoming an officer
and a gentleman?  No.  You got up and got it.  When he ordered his pap-
bottle and it was not warm, did you talk back?  Not you.  You went to
work and warmed it.  You even descended so far in your menial office as
to take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was
right--three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the
colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those hiccoughs.  I can taste
that stuff yet.  And how many things you learned as you went along!
Sentimental young folks still take stock in that beautiful old saying
that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the angels are
whispering to him.  Very pretty, but too thin--simply wind on the
stomach, my friends.  If the baby proposed to take a walk at his usual
hour, two o'clock in the morning, didn't you rise up promptly and remark,
with a mental addition which would not improve a Sunday-school book much,
that that was the very thing you were about to propose yourself?  Oh!
you were under good discipline, and as you went fluttering up and down
the room in your undress uniform, you not only prattled undignified baby-
talk, but even tuned up your martial voices and tried to sing!--" Rock-a-
by baby in the treetop," for instance.  What a spectacle for an Army of
the Tennessee!  And what an affliction for the neighbors, too; for it is
not everybody within a mile around that likes military music at three in
the morning:  And when you had been keeping this sort of thing up two or
three hours, and your little velvet-head intimated that nothing suited
him like exercise and noise, what did you do?  ["Go on!"] You simply went
on until you dropped in the last ditch.  The idea that a baby doesn't
amount to anything!  Why, one baby is just a house and a front yard full
by itself.  One baby can furnish more business than you and your whole
Interior Department can attend to.  He is enterprising, irrepressible,
brimful of lawless activities.  Do what you please, you can't make him
stay on the reservation.  Sufficient unto the day is one baby.  As long
as you are in your right mind don't you ever pray for twins.  Twins
amount to a permanent riot.  And there ain't any real difference between
triplets and an insurrection.

Yes, it was high time for a toast-master to recognize the importance of
the babies.  Think what is in store for the present crop!  Fifty years
from now we shall all be dead, I trust, and then this flag, if it still
survive (and let us hope it may), will be floating over a Republic
numbering 200,000,000 souls, according to the settled laws of our
increase.  Our present schooner of State will have grown into a political
leviathan--a Great Eastern.  The cradled babies of to-day will be on
deck.  Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract
on their hands.  Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in
the land are some which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred
things, if we could know which ones they are.  In one of them cradles the
unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething--think of
it!--and putting in a world of dead earnest, unarticulated, but perfectly
justifiable profanity over it, too.  In another the future renowned
astronomer is blinking at the shining Milky Way with but a languid
interest--poor little chap!--and wondering what has become of that other
one they call the wet-nurse.  In another the future great historian is
lying--and doubtless will continue to lie until his earthly mission is
ended.  In another the future President is busying himself with no
profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of his hair
so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now some
60,000 future office-seekers, getting ready to furnish him occasion to
grapple with that same old problem a second time.  And in still one more
cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious commander-in-
chief of the American armies is so little burdened with his approaching
grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole strategic mind
at this moment to trying to find out some way to get his big toe into his
mouth--an achievement which, meaning no disrespect, the illustrious guest
of this evening turned his entire attention to some fifty-six years ago;
and if the child is but a prophecy of the man, there are mighty few who
will doubt that he succeeded.






SPEECH ON THE WEATHER

AT THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY'S SEVENTY-FIRST ANNUAL DINNER, NEW YORK CITY

     The next toast was: "The Oldest Inhabitant--The Weather of New
     England."

                    Who can lose it and forget it?
                    Who can have it and regret it?

                    Be interposes 'twixt us Twain.
                                   Merchant of Venice.

     To this Samuel L. Clemens (Mark Twain) replied as follows:--


I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in
New England but the weather.  I don't know who makes that, but I think it
must be raw apprentices in the weather-clerk's factory who experiment and
learn how, in New England, for board and clothes, and then are promoted
to make weather for countries that require a good article, and will take
their custom elsewhere if they don't get it.  There is a sumptuous
variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger's
admiration--and regret.  The weather is always doing something there;
always attending strictly to business; always getting up new designs and
trying them on the people to see how they will go.  But it gets through
more business in spring than in any other season.  In the spring I have
counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of
four-and-twenty hours.  It was I that made the fame and fortune of that
man that had that marvelous collection of weather on exhibition at the
Centennial, that so astounded the foreigners.  He was going to travel all
over the world and get specimens from all the climes.  I said, "Don't you
do it; you come to New England on a favorable spring day."  I told him
what we could do in the way of style, variety, and quantity.  Well, he
came and he made his collection in four days.  As to variety, why, he
confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of weather that he had never
heard of before.  And as to quantity--well, after he had picked out and
discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not only had weather
enough, but weather to spare; weather to hire out; weather to sell; to
deposit; weather to invest; weather to give to the poor.  The people of
New England are by nature patient and forbearing, but there are some
things which they will not stand.  Every year they kill a lot of poets
for writing about "Beautiful Spring."  These are generally casual
visitors, who bring their notions of spring from somewhere else, and
cannot, of course, know how the natives feel about spring.  And so the
first thing they know the opportunity to inquire how they feel has
permanently gone by.  Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for
accurate prophecy, and thoroughly well deserves it.  You take up the
paper and observe how crisply and confidently he checks off what to-day's
weather is going to be on the Pacific, down South, in the Middle States,
in the Wisconsin region.  See him sail along in the joy and pride of his
power till he gets to New England, and then see-his tail drop.  He
doesn't know what the weather is going to be in New England.  Well, he
mulls over it, and by and by he gets out something about like this:
Probable northeast to southwest minds, varying to the southward and
westward and eastward, and points between, high and low barometer
swapping around from place to place; probable areas of rain, snow, hail,
and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes, with thunder and
lightning.  Then he jots down this postscript from his wandering mind, to
cover accidents:  "But it is possible that the program may be wholly
changed in the mean time."  Yes, one of the brightest gems in the New
England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it.  There is only one
thing certain about it: you are certain there is going to be plenty of
it--a perfect grand review; but you never can tell which end of the
procession is going to move first.  You fix up for the drought; you leave
your umbrella in the house and sally out, and two to one you get drowned.
You make up your mind that the earthquake is due; you stand from under,
and take hold of something to steady yourself, and the first thing you
know you get struck by lightning.  These are great disappointments; but
they can't be helped.  The lightning there is peculiar; it is so
convincing, that when it strikes a thing it doesn't leave enough of that
thing behind for you to tell whether--Well, you'd think it was something
valuable, and a Congressman had been there.  And the thunder.  When the
thunder begins to merely tune up and scrape and saw, and key up the
instruments for the performance, strangers say, "Why, what awful thunder
you have here!"  But when the baton is raised and the real concert
begins, you'll find that stranger down in the cellar with his head in the
ash-barrel.  Now as to the size of the weather in New England lengthways,
I mean.  It is utterly disproportioned to the size of that little
country.  Half the time, when it is packed as full as it can stick, you
will see that New England weather sticking out beyond the edges and
projecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles over the neighboring
states.  She can't hold a tenth part of her weather.  You can see cracks
all about where she has strained herself trying to do it.  I could speak
volumes about the inhuman perversity of the New England weather, but I
will give but a single specimen.  I like to hear rain on a tin roof.
So I covered part of my roof with tin, with an eye to that luxury. Well,
sir, do you think it ever rains on that tin? No, sir; skips it every
time.  Mind, in this speech I have been trying merely to do honor to the
New England weather--no language could do it justice.  But, after all,
there is at least one or two things about that weather (or, if you
please, effects produced, by it) which we residents would not like to
part with.  If we hadn't our bewitching autumn foliage, we should still
have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for all its
bullying vagaries the ice-storm: when a leafless tree is clothed with ice
from the bottom to the top--ice that is as bright and clear as crystal;
when every bough and twig is strung with ice-beads, frozen dewdrops, and
the whole tree sparkles cold and white, like the Shah of Persia's diamond
plume.  Then the wind waves the branches and the sun comes out and turns
all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms that glow and burn and
flash with all manner of colored fires, which change and change again
with inconceivable rapidity from blue to red, from red to green, and
green to gold--the tree becomes a spraying fountain, a very explosion of
dazzling jewels; and it stands there the acme, the climax, the supremest
possibility in art or nature, of bewildering, intoxicating, intolerable
magnificence.  One cannot make the words too strong.






CONCERNING THE AMERICAN LANGUAGE

--[Being part of a chapter which was crowded out of "A Tramp Abroad."--
M.T.]

There was as Englishman in our compartment, and he complimented me on--
on what?  But you would never guess.  He complimented me on my English.
He said Americans in general did not speak the English language as
correctly as I did.  I said I was obliged to him for his compliment,
since I knew he meant it for one, but that I was not fairly entitled to
it, for I did not speak English at all--I only spoke American.

He laughed, and said it was a distinction without a difference.  I said
no, the difference was not prodigious, but still it was considerable.
We fell into a friendly dispute over the matter.  I put my case as well
as I could, and said:

"The languages were identical several generations ago, but our changed
conditions and the spread of our people far to the south and far to the
west have made many alterations in our pronunciation, and have introduced
new words among us and changed the meanings of many old ones.  English
people talk through their noses; we do not.  We say know, English people
say nao; we say cow, the Briton says kaow; we--"

"Oh, come!  that is pure Yankee; everybody knows that."

"Yes, it is pure Yankee; that is true.  One cannot hear it in America
outside of the little corner called New England, which is Yankee land.
The English themselves planted it there, two hundred and fifty years ago,
and there it remains; it has never spread.  But England talks through her
nose yet; the Londoner and the backwoods New-Englander pronounce 'know'
and 'cow' alike, and then the Briton unconsciously satirizes himself by
making fun of the Yankee's pronunciation."

We argued this point at some length; nobody won; but no matter, the fact
remains Englishmen say nao and kaow for "know" and "cow," and that is
what the rustic inhabitant of a very small section of America does.

"You conferred your 'a' upon New England, too, and there it remains; it
has not traveled out of the narrow limits of those six little states in
all these two hundred and fifty years.  All England uses it, New
England's small population-say four millions-use it, but we have forty-
five millions who do not use it.  You say 'glahs of wawtah,' so does New
England; at least, New England says 'glahs.'  America at large flattens
the 'a', and says 'glass of water.' These sounds are pleasanter than
yours; you may think they are not right--well, in English they are not
right, but 'American' they are.  You say 'flahsk' and 'bahsket,' and
'jackahss'; we say 'flask,' 'basket,' 'jackass'--sounding the 'a' as it
is in 'tallow,' 'fallow,' and so on.  'Up to as late as 1847 Mr.
Webster's Dictionary had the impudence to still pronounce 'basket'
bahsket, when he knew that outside of his little New England all America
shortened the 'a' and paid no attention to his English broadening of it.
However, it called itself an English Dictionary, so it was proper enough
that it should stick to English forms, perhaps.  It still calls itself an
English Dictionary today, but it has quietly ceased to pronounce 'basket'
as if it were spelt 'bahsket.'  In the American language the 'h' is
respected; the 'h' is not dropped or added improperly."

"The same is the case in England--I mean among the educated classes, of
course."

"Yes, that is true; but a nation's language is a very large matter.
It is not simply a manner of speech obtaining among the educated handful;
the manner obtaining among the vast uneducated multitude must be
considered also.  Your uneducated masses speak English, you will not deny
that; our uneducated masses speak American it won't be fair for you to
deny that, for you can see, yourself, that when your stable-boy says,
'It isn't the 'unting that 'urts the 'orse, but the 'ammer, 'ammer,
'ammer on the 'ard 'ighway,' and our stable-boy makes the same remark
without suffocating a single h, these two people are manifestly talking
two different languages.  But if the signs are to be trusted, even your
educated classes used to drop the 'h.'  They say humble, now, and heroic,
and historic etc., but I judge that they used to drop those h's because
your writers still keep up  the fashion of patting an before those words
instead of a.  This is what Mr.  Darwin might call a 'rudimentary' sign
that as an was justifiable once, and useful when your educated classes
used to say 'umble, and 'eroic, and 'istorical.  Correct writers of the
American language do not put an before three words."

The English gentleman had something to say upon this matter, but never
mind what he said--I'm not arguing his case.  I have him at a
disadvantage, now.  I proceeded:

"In England you encourage an orator by exclaiming, 'H'yaah!  h'yaah!'
We pronounce it heer in some sections, 'h'yer' in others, and so on; but
our whites do not say 'h'yaah,' pronouncing the a's like the a in ah.
I have heard English ladies say 'don't you'--making two separate and
distinct words of it; your Mr. Burnand has satirized it.  But we always
say 'dontchu.'  This is much better.  Your ladies say, 'Oh, it's oful
nice!'  Ours say, 'Oh, it's awful nice!'  We say, 'Four hundred,' you say
'For'--as in the word or.  Your clergymen speak of 'the Lawd,' ours of
'the Lord'; yours speak of 'the gawds of the heathen,' ours of 'the gods
of the heathen.' When you are exhausted, you say you are 'knocked up.'
We don't.  When you say you will do a thing 'directly,' you mean
'immediately'; in the American language--generally speaking--the word
signifies 'after a little.'  When you say 'clever,' you mean 'capable';
with us the word used to mean 'accommodating,' but I don't know what it
means now.  Your word 'stout' means 'fleshy'; our word 'stout' usually
means 'strong.'  Your words 'gentleman' and 'lady' have a very restricted
meaning; with us they include the barmaid, butcher, burglar, harlot, and
horse-thief.  You say, 'I haven't got any stockings on,' 'I haven't got
any memory,' 'I haven't got any money in my purse; we usually say, 'I
haven't any stockings on,' 'I haven't any memory!' 'I haven't any money
in my purse.'  You say 'out of window'; we always put in a the.  If one
asks 'How old is that man?' the Briton answers, 'He will be about forty';
in the American language we should say, 'He is about forty.'  However,
I won't tire you, sir; but if I wanted to, I could pile up differences
here until I not only convinced you that English and American are
separate languages, but that when I speak my native tongue in its utmost
purity an Englishman can't understand me at all."

"I don't wish to flatter you, but it is about all I can do to understand
you now."

That was a very pretty compliment, and it put us on the pleasantest terms
directly--I use the word in the English sense.

[Later--1882.  Esthetes in many of our schools are now beginning to teach
the pupils to broaden the 'a,' and to say "don't you," in the elegant
foreign way.]






ROGERS

This Man Rogers happened upon me and introduced himself at the town
of -----, in the South of England, where I stayed awhile.  His stepfather
had married a distant relative of mine who was afterward hanged; and so
he seemed to think a blood relationship existed between us.  He came in
every day and sat down and talked.  Of all the bland, serene human
curiosities I ever saw, I think he was the chiefest.  He desired to look
at my new chimney-pot hat.  I was very willing, for I thought he would
notice the name of the great Oxford Street hatter in it, and respect me
accordingly.  But he turned it about with a sort of grave compassion,
pointed out two or three blemishes, and said that I, being so recently
arrived, could not be expected to know where to supply myself.  Said he
would send me the address of his hatter.  Then he said, "Pardon me," and
proceeded to cut a neat circle of red tissue paper; daintily notched the
edges of it; took the mucilage and pasted it in my hat so as to cover the
manufacturer's name.  He said, "No one will know now where you got it.
I will send you a hat-tip of my hatter, and you can paste it over this
tissue circle."  It was the calmest, coolest thing--I never admired a man
so much in my life.  Mind, he did this while his own hat sat offensively
near our noses, on the table--an ancient extinguisher of the "slouch"
pattern, limp and shapeless with age, discolored by vicissitudes of the
weather, and banded by an equator of bear's grease that had stewed
through.

Another time he examined my coat.  I had no terrors, for over my tailor's
door was the legend, "By Special Appointment Tailor to H. R. H. the
Prince of Wales," etc.  I did not know at the time that the most of the
tailor shops had the same sign out, and that whereas it takes nine
tailors to make an ordinary man, it takes a hundred and fifty to make a
prince.  He was full of compassion for my coat.  Wrote down the address
of his tailor for me.  Did not tell me to mention my nom de plume and the
tailor would put his best work on my garment, as complimentary people
sometimes do, but said his tailor would hardly trouble himself for an
unknown person (unknown person, when I thought I was so celebrated in
England!--that was the cruelest cut), but cautioned me to mention his
name, and it would be all right.  Thinking to be facetious, I said:

"But he might sit up all night and injure his health."

"Well, let him," said Rogers; "I've done enough for him, for him to show
some appreciation of it."

I might as well have tried to disconcert a mummy with my facetiousness.
Said Rogers: "I get all my coats there--they're the only coats fit to be
seen in."

I made one more attempt.  I said, "I wish you had brought one with you--
I would like to look at it."

"Bless your heart, haven't I got one on?--this article is Morgan's make."

I examined it.  The coat had been bought ready-made, of a Chatham Street
Jew, without any question--about 1848.  It probably cost four dollars
when it was new.  It was ripped, it was frayed, it was napless and
greasy.  I could not resist showing him where it was ripped.  It so
affected him that I was almost sorry I had done it.  First he seemed
plunged into a bottomless abyss of grief.  Then he roused himself, made a
feint with his hands as if waving off the pity of a nation, and said--
with what seemed to me a manufactured emotion--"No matter; no matter;
don't mind me; do not bother about it.  I can get another."

When he was thoroughly restored, so that he could examine the rip and
command his feelings, he said, ah, now he understood it--his servant must
have done it while dressing him that morning.

His servant! There was something awe-inspiring in effrontery like this.

Nearly every day he interested himself in some article of my clothing.
One would hardly have expected this sort of infatuation in a man who
always wore the same suit, and it a suit that seemed coeval with the
Conquest.

It was an unworthy ambition, perhaps, but I did wish I could make this
man admire something about me or something I did--you would have felt the
same way.  I saw my opportunity: I was about to return to London, and had
"listed" my soiled linen for the, wash. It made quite au imposing
mountain in the corner of the room--fifty-four pieces. I hoped he would
fancy it was the accumulation of a single week.  I took up the wash-list,
as if to see that it was all right, and then tossed it on the table, with
pretended forgetfulness.  Sure enough, he took it. up and ran his eye
along down to the grand total.  Then he said, "You get off easy," and
laid it down again.

His gloves were the saddest ruin, but he told me where I could get some
like them.  His shoes would hardly hold walnuts without leaking, but he
liked to put his feet up on the mantelpiece and contemplate them.
He wore a dim glass breastpin, which he called a "morphylitic diamond"--
whatever that may mean--and said only two of them had ever been found
--the Emperor of China had the other one.

Afterward, in London, it was a pleasure to me to see this fantastic
vagabond come marching into the lobby of the hotel in his grand-ducal
way, for he always had some new imaginary grandeur to develop--there was
nothing stale about him but his clothes.  If he addressed me when
strangers were about, he always raised his voice a little and called me
"Sir Richard," or "General," or "Your Lordship"--and when people began to
stare and look deferential, he would fall to inquiring in a casual way
why I disappointed the Duke of Argyll the night before; and then remind
me of our engagement at the Duke of Westminster's for the following day.
I think that for the time being these things were realities to him.  He
once came and invited me to go with him and spend the evening with the
Earl of Warwick at his town house.  I said I had received no formal
invitation.  He said that that was of no consequence, the Earl had no
formalities for him or his friends.  I asked if I could go just as I was.
He said no, that would hardly do; evening dress was requisite at night in
any gentleman's house.  He said he would wait while I dressed, and then
we would go to his apartments and I could take a bottle of champagne and
a cigar while he dressed.  I was very willing to see how this enterprise
would turn out, so I dressed, and we started to his lodgings.  He said if
I didn't mind we would walk.  So we tramped some four miles through the
mud and fog, and finally found his "apartments"; they consisted of a
single room over a barber's shop in a back street.  Two chairs, a small
table, an ancient valise, a wash-basin and pitcher (both on the floor in
a corner), an unmade bed, a fragment of a looking-glass, and a flower-
pot, with a perishing little rose geranium in it, which he called a
century plant, and said it had not bloomed now for upward of two
centuries--given to him by the late Lord Palmerston (been offered a
prodigious sum for it)--these were the contents of the room.  Also a
brass candlestick and a part of a candle.  Rogers lit the candle, and
told me to sit down and make myself at home.  He said he hoped I was
thirsty, because he would surprise my palate with an article of champagne
that seldom got into a commoner's system; or would I prefer sherry, or
port?  Said he had port in bottles that were swathed in stratified
cobwebs, every stratum representing a generation.  And as for his cigars-
-well, I should judge of them myself.  Then he put his head out at the
door and called:

"Sackville!"  No answer.

"Hi-Sackville!"  No answer.

"Now what the devil can have become of that butler?  I never allow a
servant to--Oh, confound that idiot, he's got the keys.  Can't get into
the other rooms without the keys."

(I was just wondering at his intrepidity in still keeping up the delusion
of the champagne, and trying to imagine how he was going to get out of
the difficulty.)

Now he stopped calling Sackville and began to call "Anglesy."  But
Anglesy didn't come.  He said, "This is the second time that that equerry
has been absent without leave.  To-morrow I'll discharge him."  Now he
began to whoop for "Thomas," but Thomas didn't answer.  Then for
"Theodore," but no Theodore replied.

"Well, I give it up," said Rogers.  "The servants never expect me at this
hour, and so they're all off on a lark.  Might get along without the
equerry and the page, but can't have any wine or cigars without the
butler, and can't dress without my valet."

I offered to help him dress, but he would not hear of it; and besides, he
said he would not feel comfortable unless dressed by a practised hand.
However, he finally concluded that he was such old friends with the Earl
that it would not make any difference how he was dressed.  So we took a
cab, he gave the driver some directions, and we started.  By and by we
stopped before a large house and got out.  I never had seen this man with
a collar on.  He now stepped under a lamp and got a venerable paper
collar out of his coat pocket, along with a hoary cravat, and put them
on.  He ascended the stoop, and entered.  Presently he reappeared,
descended rapidly, and said:

"Come-quick!"

We hurried away, and turned the corner.

"Now we're safe," he said, and took off his collar and cravat and
returned them to his pocket.

"Made a mighty narrow escape," said he.

"How?" said I.

"B' George, the Countess was there!"

"Well, what of that?--don't she know you?"

"Know me?  Absolutely worships me.  I just did happen to catch a glimpse
of her before she saw me--and out I shot.  Haven't seen her for two
months--to rush in on her without any warning might have been fatal.
She could not have stood it.  I didn't know she was in town--thought she
was at the castle.  Let me lean on you--just a moment--there; now I am
better--thank you; thank you ever so much.  Lord bless me, what an
escape!"

So I never got to call on the Earl, after all.  But I marked the house
for future reference.  It proved to be an ordinary family hotel, with
about a thousand plebeians roosting in it.

In most things Rogers was by no means a fool.  In some things it was
plain enough that he was a fool, but he certainly did not know it.
He was in the "deadest" earnest in these matters.  He died at sea, last
summer, as the "Earl of Ramsgate."




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Alonzo Fitz and Others,
by Mark Twain






SOME RAMBLING NOTES OF AN IDLE EXCURSION

by Mark Twain



All the journeyings I had ever done had been purely in the way of
business.  The pleasant May weather suggested a novelty namely, a trip
for pure recreation, the bread-and-butter element left out.  The Reverend
said he would go, too; a good man, one of the best of men, although a
clergyman.  By eleven at night we were in New Haven and on board the New
York boat.  We bought our tickets, and then went wandering around here
and there, in the solid comfort of being free and idle, and of putting
distance between ourselves and the mails and telegraphs.

After a while I went to my stateroom and undressed, but the night was too
enticing for bed.  We were moving down the bay now, and it was pleasant
to stand at the window and take the cool night breeze and watch the
gliding lights on shore.  Presently, two elderly men sat down under that
window and began a conversation.  Their talk was properly no business of
mine, yet I was feeling friendly toward the world and willing to be
entertained.  I soon gathered that they were brothers, that they were
from a small Connecticut village, and that the matter in hand concerned
the cemetery.  Said one:

"Now, John, we talked it all over amongst ourselves, and this is what
we've done.  You see, everybody was a-movin' from the old buryin'-ground,
and our folks was 'most about left to theirselves, as you may say.  They
was crowded, too, as you know; lot wa'n't big enough in the first place;
and last year, when Seth's wife died, we couldn't hardly tuck her in.
She sort o' overlaid Deacon Shorb's lot, and he soured on her, so to
speak, and on the rest of us, too.  So we talked it over, and I was for a
lay out in the new simitery on the hill.  They wa'n't unwilling, if it
was cheap.  Well, the two best and biggest plots was No. 8 and No. 9--
both of a size; nice comfortable room for twenty-six--twenty-six
full-growns, that is; but you reckon in children and other shorts, and
strike an everage, and I should say you might lay in thirty, or maybe
thirty-two or three, pretty genteel--no crowdin' to signify."

"That's a plenty, William.  Which one did you buy?"

"Well, I'm a-comin' to that, John.  You see, No. 8 was thirteen dollars,
No. 9 fourteen--"

"I see.  So's't you took No. 8."

"You wait.  I took No. 9.  And I'll tell you for why.  In the first
place, Deacon Shorb wanted it.  Well, after the way he'd gone on about
Seth's wife overlappin' his prem'ses, I'd 'a' beat him out of that No. 9
if I'd 'a' had to stand two dollars extra, let alone one.  That's the way
I felt about it.  Says I, what's a dollar, anyway?  Life's on'y a
pilgrimage, says I; we ain't here for good, and we can't take it with us,
says I.  So I just dumped it down, knowin' the Lord don't suffer a good
deed to go for nothin', and cal'latin' to take it out o' somebody in the
course o' trade.  Then there was another reason, John.  No. 9's a long
way the handiest lot in the simitery, and the likeliest for situation.
It lays right on top of a knoll in the dead center of the buryin' ground;
and you can see Millport from there, and Tracy's, and Hopper Mount, and a
raft o' farms, and so on.  There ain't no better outlook from a
buryin'-plot in the state.  Si Higgins says so, and I reckon he ought to
know.  Well, and that ain't all.  'Course Shorb had to take No. 8; wa'n't
no help for 't.  Now, No. 8 jines onto No. 9, but it's on the slope of
the hill, and every time it rains it 'll soak right down onto the Shorbs.
Si Higgins says 't when the deacon's time comes, he better take out fire
and marine insurance both on his remains."

Here there was the sound of a low, placid, duplicate chuckle of
appreciation and satisfaction.

"Now, John, here's a little rough draft of the ground that I've made on a
piece of paper.  Up here in the left-hand corner we've bunched the
departed; took them from the old graveyard and stowed them one alongside
o' t'other, on a first-come-first-served plan, no partialities, with
Gran'ther Jones for a starter, on'y because it happened so, and windin'
up indiscriminate with Seth's twins.  A little crowded towards the end of
the lay-out, maybe, but we reckoned 'twa'n't best to scatter the twins.
Well, next comes the livin'.  Here, where it's marked A, we're goin' to
put Mariar and her family, when they're called; B, that's for Brother
Hosea and hisn; C, Calvin and tribe.  What's left is these two lots
here--just the gem of the whole patch for general style and outlook;
they're for me and my folks, and you and yourn.  Which of them would you
rather be buried in?"

"I swan, you've took me mighty unexpected, William!  It sort of started
the shivers.  Fact is, I was thinkin' so busy about makin' things
comfortable for the others, I hadn't thought about being buried myself."

"Life's on'y a fleetin' show, John, as the sayin' is.  We've all got to
go, sooner or later.  To go with a clean record's the main thing.  Fact
is, it's the on'y thing worth strivin' for, John."

"Yes, that's so, William, that's so; there ain't no getting around it.
Which of these lots would you recommend?"

"Well, it depends, John.  Are you particular about outlook?"

"I don't say I am, William, I don't say I ain't.  Reely, I don't know.
But mainly, I reckon, I'd set store by a south exposure."

"That's easy fixed, John.  They're both south exposure.  They take the
sun, and the Shorbs get the shade."

"How about site, William?"

"D's a sandy sile, E's mostly loom."

"You may gimme E, then; William; a sandy sile caves in, more or less, and
costs for repairs."

"All right, set your name down here, John, under E.  Now, if you don't
mind payin' me your share of the fourteen dollars, John, while we're on
the business, everything's fixed."

After some Niggling and sharp bargaining the money was paid, and John
bade his brother good night and took his leave.  There was silence for
some moments; then a soft chuckle welled up from the lonely William, and
he muttered: "I declare for 't, if I haven't made a mistake!  It's D
that's mostly loom, not E.  And John's booked for a sandy site after
all."

There was another soft chuckle, and William departed to his rest also.

The next day, in New York, was a hot one.  Still we managed to get more
or less entertainment out of it.  Toward the middle of the afternoon we
arrived on board the stanch steamship Bermuda, with bag and baggage, and
hunted for a shady place.  It was blazing summer weather, until we were
half-way down the harbor.  Then I buttoned my coat closely; half an hour
later I put on a spring overcoat and buttoned that.  As we passed the
light-ship I added an ulster and tied a handkerchief around the collar to
hold it snug to my neck.  So rapidly had the summer gone and winter come
again?

By nightfall we were far out at sea, with no land in sight.  No telegrams
could come here, no letters, no news.  This was an uplifting thought.  It
was still more uplifting to reflect that the millions of harassed people
on shore behind us were suffering just as usual.

The next day brought us into the midst of the Atlantic solitudes--out of
smoke-colored sounding into fathomless deep blue; no ships visible
anywhere over the wide ocean; no company but Mother Carey's chickens
wheeling, darting, skimming the waves in the sun.  There were some
seafaring men among the passengers, and conversation drifted into matter
concerning ships and sailors.  One said that "true as the needle to the
pole" was a bad figure, since the needle seldom pointed to the pole.
He said a ship's compass was not faithful to any particular point, but
was the most fickle and treacherous of the servants of man.  It was
forever changing.  It changed every day in the year; consequently the
amount of the daily variation had to be ciphered out and allowance made
for it, else the mariner would go utterly astray.  Another said there was
a vast fortune waiting for the genius who should invent a compass that
would not be affected by the local influences of an iron ship.  He said
there was only one creature more fickle than a wooden ship's compass,
and that was the compass of an iron ship.  Then came reference to the
well known fact that an experienced mariner can look at the compass of a
new iron vessel, thousands of mile from her birthplace, and tell which
way her head was pointing when she was in process of building.

Now an ancient whale-ship master fell to talking about the sort of crews
they used to have in his early days.  Said he:

"Sometimes we'd have a batch of college students Queer lot.  Ignorant?
Why, they didn't know the catheads from the main brace.  But if you took
them for fools you'd get bit, sure.  They'd learn more in a month than
another man would in a year.  We had one, once, in the Mary Ann, that
came aboard with gold spectacles on.  And besides, he was rigged out from
main truck to keelson in the nobbiest clothes that ever saw a fo'castle.
He had a chestful, too: cloaks, and broadcloth coats, and velvet vests;
everything swell, you know; and didn't the saltwater fix them out for
him?  I guess not!  Well, going to sea, the mate told him to go aloft and
help shake out the foreto'gallants'l.  Up he shins to the foretop, with
his spectacles on, and in a minute down he comes again, looking insulted.
Says the mate, 'What did you come down for?' Says the chap, 'P'r'aps you
didn't notice that there ain't any ladders above there.'  You see we
hadn't any shrouds above the foretop.  The men bursted out in a laugh
such as I guess you never heard the like of.  Next night, which was dark
and rainy, the mate ordered this chap to go aloft about something, and
I'm dummed if he didn't start up with an umbrella and a lantern!  But no
matter; he made a mighty good sailor before the voyage was done, and we
had to hunt up something else to laugh at.  Years afterwards, when I had
forgot all about him, I comes into Boston, mate of a ship, and was
loafing around town with the second mate, and it so happened that we
stepped into the Revere House, thinking maybe we would chance the
salt-horse in that big diningroom for a flyer, as the boys say.  Some
fellows were talking just at our elbow, and one says, 'Yonder's the new
governor of Massachusetts--at that table over there with the ladies.'
We took a good look my mate and I, for we hadn't either of us ever see a
governor before.  I looked and looked at that face and then all of a
sudden it popped on me!  But didn't give any sign.  Says I, 'Mate, I've a
notion to go over and shake hands with him.'  Says he 'I think I see you
doing it, Tom.'  Says I, 'Mate I'm a-going to do it.'  Says he, 'Oh, yes,
I guess so.  Maybe you don't want to bet you will, Tom?'  Say I, 'I don't
mind going a V on it, mate.'  Says he 'Put it up.'  'Up she goes,' says
I, planking the cash.  This surprised him.  But he covered it, and say.
pretty sarcastic, 'Hadn't you better take your grub with the governor and
the ladies, Tom?'  Says I 'Upon second thoughts, I will.'  Says he, 'Well
Tom, you aye a dum fool.'  Says I, 'Maybe I am maybe I ain't; but the
main question is, do you wan to risk two and a half that I won't do it?'
'Make it a V,' says he.  'Done,' says I.  I started, him a giggling and
slapping his hand on his thigh, he felt so good.  I went over there and
leaned my knuckle: on the table a minute and looked the governor in the
face, and says I, 'Mr. Gardner, don't you know me?  He stared, and I
stared, and he stared.  Then all of a sudden he sings out, 'Tom Bowling,
by the holy poker!  Ladies, it's old Tom Bowling, that you've heard me
talk about--shipmate of mine in the Mary Ann.'  He rose up and shook
hands with me ever so hearty--I sort of glanced around and took a
realizing sense of my mate's saucer eyes--and then says the governor,
'Plant yourself, Tom, plant yourself; you can't cat your anchor again
till you've had a feed with me and the ladies!'  I planted myself
alongside the governor, and canted my eye around toward my mate.  Well,
sir, his dead-lights were bugged out like tompions; and his mouth stood
that wide open that you could have laid a ham in it without him noticing
it."

There was great applause at the conclusion of the old captain's story;
then, after a moment's silence, a grave, pale young man said:

"Had you ever met the governor before?"

The old captain looked steadily at this inquirer awhile, and then got up
and walked aft without making any reply.  One passenger after another
stole a furtive glance at the inquirer; but failed to make him out, and
so gave him up.  It took some little work to get the talk-machinery to
running smoothly again after this derangement; but at length a
conversation sprang up about that important and jealously guarded
instrument, a ship's timekeeper, its exceeding delicate accuracy, and the
wreck and destruction that have sometimes resulted from its varying a few
seemingly trifling moments from the true time; then, in due course, my
comrade, the Reverend, got off on a yarn, with a fair wind and everything
drawing.  It was a true story, too--about Captain Rounceville's shipwreck
--true in every detail.  It was to this effect:

Captain Rounceville's vessel was lost in mid-Atlantic, and likewise his
wife and his two little children.  Captain Rounceville and seven seamen
escaped with life, but with little else.  A small, rudely constructed
raft was to be their home for eight days.  They had neither provisions
nor water.  They had scarcely any clothing; no one had a coat but the
captain.  This coat was changing hands all the time, for the weather was
very cold.  Whenever a man became exhausted with the cold, they put the
coat on him and laid him down between two shipmates until the garment and
their bodies had warmed life into him again.  Among the sailors was a
Portuguese who knew no English.  He seemed to have no thought of his own
calamity, but was concerned only about the captain's bitter loss of wife
and children.  By day he would look his dumb compassion in the captain's
face; and by night, in the darkness and the driving spray and rain, he
would seek out the captain and try to comfort him with caressing pats on
the shoulder.  One day, when hunger and thirst were making their sure
inroad; upon the men's strength and spirits, a floating barrel was seen
at a distance.  It seemed a great find, for doubtless it contained food
of some sort.  A brave fellow swam to it, and after long and exhausting
effort got it to the raft.  It was eagerly opened.  It was a barrel of
magnesia!  On the fifth day an onion was spied.  A sailor swam off and
got it.  Although perishing with hunger, he brought it in its integrity
and put it into the captain's hand.  The history of the sea teaches that
among starving, shipwrecked men selfishness is rare, and a wonder-
compelling magnanimity the rule.  The onion was equally divided into
eight parts, and eaten with deep thanksgivings.  On the eighth day a
distant ship was sighted.  Attempts were made to hoist an oar, with
Captain Rounceville's coat on it for a signal.  There were many failures,
for the men were but skeletons now, and strengthless.  At last success
was achieved, but the signal brought no help.  The ship faded out of
sight and left despair behind her.  By and by another ship appeared,
and passed so near that the castaways, every eye eloquent with gratitude,
made ready to welcome the boat that would be sent to save them.  But this
ship also drove on, and left these men staring their unutterable surprise
and dismay into each other's ashen faces.  Late in the day, still another
ship came up out of the distance, but the men noted with a pang that her
course was one which would not bring her nearer.  Their remnant of life
was nearly spent; their lips and tongues were swollen, parched, cracked
with eight days' thirst; their bodies starved; and here was their last
chance gliding relentlessly from them; they would not be alive when the
next sun rose.  For a day or two past the men had lost their voices, but
now Captain Rounceville whispered, "Let us pray."  The Portuguese patted
him on the shoulder in sign of deep approval.  All knelt at the base of
the oar that was waving the signal-coat aloft, and bowed their heads.
The sea was tossing; the sun rested, a red, rayless disk, on the sea-line
in the west.  When the men presently raised their heads they would have
roared a hallelujah if they had had a voice--the ship's sails lay
wrinkled and flapping against her masts--she was going about!  Here was
rescue at last, and in the very last instant of time that was left for
it.  No, not rescue yet--only the imminent prospect of it.  The red disk
sank under the sea, and darkness blotted out the ship.  By and by came a
pleasant sound-oars moving in a boat's rowlocks.  Nearer it came, and
nearer-within thirty steps, but nothing visible.  Then a deep voice:
"Hol-lo!"  The castaways could not answer; their swollen tongues refused
voice.  The boat skirted round and round the raft, started away--the
agony of it!--returned, rested the oars, close at hand, listening, no
doubt.  The deep voice again: "Hol-lo!  Where are ye, shipmates?"
Captain Rounceville whispered to his men, saying: "Whisper your best,
boys! now-all at once!"  So they sent out an eightfold whisper in hoarse
concert: "Here!", There was life in it if it succeeded; death if it
failed.  After that supreme moment Captain Rounceville was conscious of
nothing until he came to himself on board the saving ship.  Said the
Reverend, concluding:

"There was one little moment of time in which that raft could be visible
from that ship, and only one.  If that one little fleeting moment had
passed unfruitful, those men's doom was sealed.  As close as that does
God shave events foreordained from the beginning of the world.  When the
sun reached the water's edge that day, the captain of that ship was
sitting on deck reading his prayer-book.  The book fell; he stooped to
pick it up, and happened to glance at the sun.  In that instant that far-
off raft appeared for a second against the red disk, its needlelike oar
and diminutive signal cut sharp and black against the bright surface, and
in the next instant was thrust away into the dusk again.  But that ship,
that captain, and that pregnant instant had had their work appointed for
them in the dawn of time and could not fail of the performance.  The
chronometer of God never errs!"

There was deep, thoughtful silence for some moments.  Then the grave,
pale young man said:

"What is the chronometer of God?"



II

At dinner, six o'clock, the same people assembled whom we had talked with
on deck and seen at luncheon and breakfast this second day out, and at
dinner the evening before.  That is to say, three journeying ship-
masters, a Boston merchant, and a returning Bermudian who had been absent
from his Bermuda thirteen years; these sat on the starboard side.  On the
port side sat the Reverend in the seat of honor; the pale young man next
to him; I next; next to me an aged Bermudian, returning to his sunny
islands after an absence of twenty-seven years.  Of course, our captain
was at the head of the table, the purser at the foot of it.  A small
company, but small companies are pleasantest.

No racks upon the table; the sky cloudless, the sun brilliant, the blue
sea scarcely ruffled; then what had become of the four married couples,
the three bachelors, and the active and obliging doctor from the rural
districts of Pennsylvania?--for all these were on deck when we sailed
down New York harbor.  This is the explanation.  I quote from my note-
book:

     Thursday, 3.30 P.M.  Under way, passing the Battery.  The large
     party, of four married couples, three bachelors, and a cheery,
     exhilarating doctor from the wilds of Pennsylvania, are evidently
     traveling together.  All but the doctor grouped in camp-chairs on
     deck.

     Passing principal fort.  The doctor is one of those people who has
     an infallible preventive of seasickness; is flitting from friend to
     friend administering it and saying, "Don't you be afraid; I know
     this medicine; absolutely infallible; prepared under my own
     supervision."  Takes a dose himself, intrepidly.

     4.15 P.M.  Two of those ladies have struck their colors,
     notwithstanding the "infallible."  They have gone below.  The other
     two begin to show distress.

     5 P.M.  Exit one husband and one bachelor.  These still had their
     infallible in cargo when they started, but arrived at the
     companionway without it.

     5.10.  Lady No. 3, two bachelors, and one married man have gone
     below with their own opinion of the infallible.

     5.20.  Passing Quarantine Hulk.  The infallible has done the
     business for all the party except the Scotchman's wife and the
     author of that formidable remedy.

     Nearing the Light-Ship.  Exit the Scotchman's wife, head drooped on
     stewardess's shoulder.

     Entering the open sea.  Exit doctor!


The rout seems permanent; hence the smallness of the company at table
since the voyage began.  Our captain is a grave, handsome Hercules of
thirty-five, with a brown hand of such majestic size that one cannot eat
for admiring it and wondering if a single kid or calf could furnish
material for gloving it.

Conversation not general; drones along between couples.  One catches a
sentence here and there. Like this, from Bermudian of thirteen years'
absence: "It is the nature of women to ask trivial, irrelevant, and
pursuing questions--questions that pursue you from a beginning in nothing
to a run-to-cover in nowhere."  Reply of Bermudian of twenty-seven years'
absence:  "Yes; and to think they have logical, analytical minds and
argumentative ability.  You see 'em begin to whet up whenever they smell
argument in the air."  Plainly these be philosophers.

Twice since we left port our engines have stopped for a couple of minutes
at a time.  Now they stop again.  Says the pale young man, meditatively,
"There!--that engineer is sitting down to rest again."

Grave stare from the captain, whose mighty jaws cease to work, and whose
harpooned potato stops in midair on its way to his open, paralyzed mouth.
Presently he says in measured tones, "Is it your idea that the engineer
of this ship propels her by a crank turned by his own hands?"

The pale young man studies over this a moment, then lifts up his
guileless eyes, and says, "Don't he?"

Thus gently falls the death-blow to further conversation, and the dinner
drags to its close in a reflective silence, disturbed by no sounds but
the murmurous wash of the sea and the subdued clash of teeth.

After a smoke and a promenade on deck, where is no motion to discompose
our steps, we think of a game of whist.  We ask the brisk and capable
stewardess from Ireland if there are any cards in the ship.

"Bless your soul, dear, indeed there is.  Not a whole pack, true for ye,
but not enough missing to signify."

However, I happened by accident to bethink me of a new pack in a morocco
case, in my trunk, which I had placed there by mistake, thinking it to be
a flask of something.  So a party of us conquered the tedium of the
evening with a few games and were ready for bed at six bells, mariner's
time, the signal for putting out the lights.

There was much chat in the smoking-cabin on the upper deck after luncheon
to-day, mostly whaler yarns from those old sea-captains.  Captain Tom
Bowling was garrulous.  He had that garrulous attention to minor detail
which is born of secluded farm life or life at sea on long voyages, where
there is little to do and time no object.  He would sail along till he
was right in the most exciting part of a yarn, and then say, "Well, as I
was saying, the rudder was fouled, ship driving before the gale, head-on,
straight for the iceberg, all hands holding their breath, turned to
stone, top-hamper giving 'way, sails blown to ribbons, first one stick
going, then another, boom! smash! crash! duck your head and stand from
under! when up comes Johnny Rogers, capstan-bar in hand, eyes a-blazing,
hair a-flying .  .  .  no, 'twa'n't Johnny Rogers.  .  .  lemme see .  .
seems to me Johnny Rogers wa'n't along that voyage; he was along one
voyage, I know that mighty well, but somehow it seems to me that he
signed the articles for this voyage, but--but--whether he come along or
not, or got left, or something happened--"

And so on and so on till the excitement all cooled down and nobody cared
whether the ship struck the iceberg or not.

In the course of his talk he rambled into a criticism upon New England
degrees of merit in ship building.  Said he, "You get a vessel built away
down Maine-way; Bath, for instance; what's the result?  First thing you
do, you want to heave her down for repairs--that's the result!  Well,
sir, she hain't been hove down a week till you can heave a dog through
her seams.  You send that vessel to sea, and what's the result?  She wets
her oakum the first trip!  Leave it to any man if 'tain't so.  Well, you
let our folks build you a vessel--down New Bedford-way.  What's the
result?  Well, sir, you might take that ship and heave her down, and keep
her hove down six months, and she'll never shed a tear!"

Everybody, landsmen and all, recognized the descriptive neatness of that
figure, and applauded, which greatly pleased the old man.  A moment
later, the meek eyes of the pale young fellow heretofore mentioned came
up slowly, rested upon the old man's face a moment, and the meek mouth
began to open.

"Shet your head!" shouted the old mariner.

It was a rather startling surprise to everybody, but it was effective in
the matter of its purpose.  So the conversation flowed on instead of
perishing.

There was some talk about the perils of the sea, and a landsman delivered
himself of the customary nonsense about the poor mariner wandering in far
oceans, tempest-tossed, pursued by dangers, every storm-blast and
thunderbolt in the home skies moving the friends by snug firesides to
compassion for that poor mariner, and prayers for his succor.  Captain
Bowling put up with this for a while, and then burst out with a new view
of the matter.

"Come, belay there!  I have read this kind of rot all my life in poetry
and tales and such-like rubbage.  Pity for the poor mariner! sympathy for
the poor mariner!  All right enough, but not in the way the poetry puts
it.  Pity for the mariner's wife! all right again, but not in the way the
poetry puts it.  Look-a here! whose life's the safest in the whole world
The poor mariner's.  You look at the statistics, you'll see.  So don't
you fool away any sympathy on the poor mariner's dangers and privations
and sufferings.  Leave that to the poetry muffs.  Now you look at the
other side a minute.  Here is Captain Brace, forty years old, been at sea
thirty.  On his way now to take command of his ship and sail south from
Bermuda.  Next week he'll be under way; easy times; comfortable quarters;
passengers, sociable company; just enough to do to keep his mind healthy
and not tire him; king over his ship, boss of everything and everybody;
thirty years' safety to learn him that his profession ain't a dangerous
one.  Now you look back at his home.  His wife's a feeble woman; she's a
stranger in New York; shut up in blazing hot or freezing cold lodgings,
according to the season; don't know anybody hardly; no company but her
lonesomeness and her thoughts; husband gone six months at a time.  She
has borne eight children; five of them she has buried without her husband
ever setting eyes on them.  She watches them all the long nights till
they died--he comfortable on the sea; she followed them to the grave she
heard the clods fall that broke her heart he comfortable on the sea; she
mourned at home, weeks and weeks, missing them every day and every hour--
he cheerful at sea, knowing nothing about it.  Now look at it a minute
--turn it over in your mind and size it: five children born, she among
strangers, and him not by to hearten her; buried, and him not by to
comfort her; think of that!  Sympathy for the poor mariner's perils is
rot; give it to his wife's hard lines, where it belongs!  Poetry makes
out that all the wife worries about is the dangers her husband's running.
She's got substantialer things to worry over, I tell you.  Poetry's
always pitying the poor mariner on account of his perils at sea; better a
blamed sight pity him for the nights he can't sleep for thinking of how
he had to leave his wife in her very birth pains, lonesome and
friendless, in the thick of disease and trouble and death.  If there's
one thing that can make me madder than another, it's this sappy, damned
maritime poetry!"

Captain Brace was a patient, gentle, seldom speaking man, with a pathetic
something in his bronzed face that had been a mystery up to this time,
but stood interpreted now since we had heard his story.  He had voyaged
eighteen times to the Mediterranean, seven times to India, once to the
arctic pole in a discovery-ship, and "between times" had visited all the
remote seas and ocean corners of the globe.  But he said that twelve
years ago, on account of his family, he "settled down," and ever since
then had ceased to roam.  And what do you suppose was this simple-
hearted, lifelong wanderer's idea of settling down and ceasing to roam?
Why, the making of two five-month voyages a year between Surinam and
Boston for sugar and molasses!

Among other talk to-day, it came out that whale-ships carry no doctor.
The captain adds the doctorship to his own duties.  He not only gives
medicines, but sets broken limbs after notions of his own, or saws them
off and sears the stump when amputation seems best.  The captain is
provided with a medicine-chest, with the medicines numbered instead of
named.  A book of directions goes with this.  It describes diseases and
symptoms, and says, "Give a teaspoonful of No. 9 once an hour," or "Give
ten grains of No. 12 every half-hour," etc.  One of our sea-captains came
across a skipper in the North Pacific who was in a state of great
surprise and perplexity.  Said he:

"There's something rotten about this medicine-chest business.  One of my
men was sick--nothing much the matter.  I looked in the book: it said
give him a teaspoonful of No. 15.  I went to the medicine-chest, and I
see I was out of No. 15.  I judged I'd got to get up a combination
somehow that would fill the bill; so I hove into the fellow half a
teaspoonful of No. 8 and half a teaspoonful of No. 7, and I'll be hanged
if it didn't kill him in fifteen minutes!  There's something about this
medicine-chest system that's too many for me!"

There was a good deal of pleasant gossip about old Captain "Hurricane"
Jones, of the Pacific Ocean--peace to his ashes!  Two or three of us
present had known him; I particularly well, for I had made four sea-
voyages with him.  He was a very remarkable man.  He was born in a ship;
he picked up what little education he had among his shipmates; he began
life in the forecastle, and climbed grade by grade to the captaincy.
More than fifty years of his sixty-five were spent at sea.  He had sailed
all oceans, seen all lands, and borrowed a tint from all climates.  When
a man has been fifty years at sea he necessarily knows nothing of men,
nothing of the world but its surface, nothing of the world's thought,
nothing of the world's learning but it's a B C, and that blurred and
distorted by the unfocused lenses of an untrained mind.  Such a man is
only a gray and bearded child.  That is what old Hurricane Jones was--
simply an innocent, lovable old infant.  When his spirit was in repose he
was as sweet and gentle as a girl; when his wrath was up he was a
hurricane that made his nickname seem tamely descriptive.  He was
formidable in a fight, for he was of powerful build and dauntless
courage.  He was frescoed from head to heel with pictures and mottoes
tattooed in red and blue India ink.  I was with him one voyage when he
got his last vacant space tattooed; this vacant space was around his left
ankle.  During three days he stumped about the ship with his ankle bare
and swollen, and this legend gleaming red and angry out from a clouding
of India ink: "Virtue is its own R'd."  (There was a lack of room.) He
was deeply and sincerely pious, and swore like a fishwoman.  He
considered swearing blameless, because sailors would not understand an
order unillumined by it.  He was a profound biblical scholar--that is,
he thought he was.  He believed everything in the Bible, but he had his
own methods of arriving at his beliefs.  He was of the "advanced" school
of thinkers, and applied natural laws to the interpretation of all
miracles, somewhat on the plan of the people who make the six days of
creation six geological epochs, and so forth.  Without being aware of it,
he was a rather severe satire on modern scientific religionists.  Such a
man as I have been describing is rabidly fond of disquisition and
argument; one knows that without being told it.

One trip the captain had a clergyman on board, but did not know he was a
clergyman, since the passenger-list did not betray the fact.  He took a
great liking to this Reverend Mr. Peters, and talked with him a great
deal; told him yarns, gave him toothsome scraps of personal history, and
wove a glittering streak of profanity through his garrulous fabric that
was refreshing to a spirit weary of the dull neutralities of undecorated
speech.  One day the captain said, "Peters, do you ever read the Bible?"

"Well--yes."

"I judge it ain't often, by the way you say it.  Now, you tackle it in
dead earnest once, and you'll find it 'll pay.  Don't you get
discouraged, but hang right on.  First, you won't understand it; but by
and by things will begin to clear up, and then you wouldn't lay it down
to eat."

"Yes, I have heard that said."

"And it's so, too.  There ain't a book that begins with it.  It lays over
'm all, Peters.  There's some pretty tough things in it--there ain't any
getting around that--but you stick to them and think them out, and when
once you get on the inside everything's plain as day."

"The miracles, too, captain?"

"Yes, sir!  the miracles, too.  Every one of them.  Now, there's that
business with the prophets of Baal; like enough that stumped you?"

"Well, I don't know but--"

"Own up now; it stumped you.  Well, I don't wonder.  You hadn't had any
experience in raveling such things out, and naturally it was too many for
you.  Would you like to have me explain that thing to you, and show you
how to get at the meat of these matters?"

"Indeed, I would, captain, if you don't mind."

Then the captain proceeded as follows: "I'll do it with pleasure.  First,
you see, I read and read, and thought and thought, till I got to
understand what sort of people they were in the old Bible times, and then
after that it was all clear and easy.  Now this was the way I put it up,
concerning Isaac--[This is the captain's own mistake]--and the prophets
of Baal.  There was some mighty sharp men among the public characters of
that old ancient day, and Isaac was one of them.  Isaac had his failings
--plenty of them, too; it ain't for me to apologize for Isaac; he played
it on the prophets of Baal, and like enough he was justifiable,
considering the odds that was against him.  No, all I say is, 'twa'n't
any miracle, and that I'll show you so's't you can see it yourself.

"Well, times had been getting rougher and rougher for prophets--that is,
prophets of Isaac's denomination.  There was four hundred and fifty
prophets of Baal in the community, and only one Presbyterian; that is,
if Isaac was a Presbyterian, which I reckon he was, but it don't say.
Naturally, the prophets of Baal took all the trade.  Isaac was pretty
low-spirited, I reckon, but he was a good deal of a man, and no doubt he
went a-prophesying around, letting on to be doing a land-office business,
but 'twa'n't any use; he couldn't run any opposition to amount to
anything.  By and by things got desperate with him; he sets his head to
work and thinks it all out, and then what does he do?  Why, he begins to
throw out hints that the other parties are this and that and t'other-
nothing very definite, maybe, but just kind of undermining their
reputation in a quiet way.  This made talk, of course, and finally got to
the king.  The king asked Isaac what he meant by his talk.  Says Isaac,
'Oh, nothing particular; only, can they pray-down fire from heaven on an
altar?  It ain't much, maybe, your majesty, only can they do it?  That's
the idea.'  So the king was a good deal disturbed, and he went to the
prophets of Baal, and they said, pretty airy, that if he had an altar
ready, they were ready; and they intimated he better get it insured, too.

"So next morning all the children of Israel and their parents and the
other people gathered themselves together.  Well, here was that great
crowd of prophets of Baal packed together on one side, and Isaac walking
up and down all alone on the other, putting up his job.  When time was
called, Isaac let on to be comfortable and indifferent; told the other
team to take the first innings.  So they went at it, the whole four
hundred and fifty, praying around the altar, very hopeful, and doing
their level best.  They prayed an hour--two hours--three hours--and so
on, plumb till noon.  It wa'n't any use; they hadn't took a trick.  Of
course they felt kind of ashamed before all those people, and well they
might.  Now, what would a magnanimous man do?  Keep still, wouldn't he?
Of course.  What did Isaac do?  He graveled the prophets of Baal every
way he could think of.  Says he, 'You don't speak up loud enough; your
god's asleep, like enough, or maybe he's taking a walk; you want to
holler, you know'--or words to that effect; I don't recollect the exact
language.  Mind, I don't apologize for Isaac; he had his faults.

"Well, the prophets of Baal prayed along the best they knew how all the
afternoon, and never raised, a spark.  At last, about sundown, they were
all tuckered out, and they owned up and quit.

"What does Isaac do now?  He steps up and says to some friends of his
there, 'Pour four barrels of water on the altar!'  Everybody was
astonished; for the other side had prayed at it dry, you know, and got
whitewashed.  They poured it on.  Says he, 'Heave on four more barrels.'
Then he says, 'Heave on four more.'  Twelve barrels, you see, altogether.
The water ran all over the altar, and all down the sides, and filled up a
trench around it that would hold a couple of hogsheads-'measures,' it
says; I reckon it means about a hogshead.  Some of the people were going
to put on their things and go, for they allowed he was crazy.  They
didn't know Isaac.  Isaac knelt down and began to pray; he strung along,
and strung along, about the heathen in distant lands, and about the
sister churches, and about the state and the country at large, and about
those that's in authority in the government, and all the usual program,
you know, till everybody had got tired and gone to thinking about
something else, and then, all of a sudden, when nobody was noticing, he
outs with a match and rakes it on the under side of his leg, and pff! up
the whole thing blazes like a house afire!  Twelve barrels of water?
Petroleum, sir, PETROLEUM! that's what it was!"

"Petroleum, captain?"

"Yes, sir, the country was full of it.  Isaac knew all about that.
You read the Bible.  Don't you worry about the tough places.  They ain't
tough when you come to think them out and throw light on them.  There
ain't a thing in the Bible but what is true; all you want is to go
prayerfully to work and cipher out how 'twas done."

At eight o'clock on the third morning out from New York, land was
sighted.  Away across the sunny waves one saw a faint dark stripe
stretched along under the horizon-or pretended to see it, for the credit
of his eyesight.  Even the Reverend said he saw it, a thing which was
manifestly not so.  But I never have seen any one who was morally strong
enough to confess that he could not see land when others claimed that
they could.

By and by the Bermuda Islands were easily visible.  The principal one lay
upon the water in the distance, a long, dull-colored body; scalloped with
slight hills and valleys.  We could not go straight at it, but had to
travel all the way around it, sixteen miles from shore, because it is
fenced with an invisible coral reef.  At last we sighted buoys, bobbing
here and there, and then we glided into a narrow channel among them,
"raised the reef," and came upon shoaling blue water that soon further
shoaled into pale green, with a surface scarcely rippled.  Now came the
resurrection hour; the berths gave up their dead.  Who are these pale
specters in plug-hats and silken flounces that file up the companionway
in melancholy procession and step upon the deck?  These are they which
took the infallible preventive of seasickness in New York harbor and then
disappeared and were forgotten.  Also there came two or three faces not
seen before until this moment.  One's impulse is to ask, "Where did you
come aboard?"

We followed the narrow channel a long time, with land on both sides-low
hills that might have been green and grassy, but had a faded look
instead.  However, the land-locked water was lovely, at any rate, with
its glittering belts of blue and green where moderate soundings were, and
its broad splotches of rich brown where the rocks lay near the surface.
Everybody was feeling so well that even the grave, pale young man (who,
by a sort of kindly common consent, had come latterly to be referred to
as "The Ass") received frequent and friendly notice--which was right
enough, for there was no harm in him.

At last we steamed between two island points whose rocky jaws allowed
only just enough room for the vessel's body, and now before us loomed
Hamilton on her clustered hillsides and summits, the whitest mass of
terraced architecture that exists in the world, perhaps.

It was Sunday afternoon, and on the pier were gathered one or two hundred
Bermudians, half of them black, half of them white, and all of them
nobbily dressed, as the poet says.

Several boats came off to the ship, bringing citizens.  One of these
citizens was a faded, diminutive old gentleman, who approached our most
ancient passenger with a childlike joy in his twinkling eyes, halted
before him, folded his arms, and said, smiling with all his might and
with all the simple delight that was in him, "You don't know me, John!
Come, out with it now; you know you don't!"

The ancient passenger scanned him perplexedly, scanned the napless,
threadbare costume of venerable fashion that had done Sunday service no
man knows how many years, contemplated the marvelous stovepipe hat of
still more ancient and venerable pattern, with its poor, pathetic old
stiff brim canted up "gallusly" in the wrong places, and said, with a
hesitation that indicated strong internal effort to "place" the gentle
old apparition, "Why .  .  .  let me see .  .  .  plague on it .  .  .
there's something about you that .  .  .  er .  .  .  er .  .  .  but
I've been gone from Bermuda for twenty-seven years, and .  .  .  hum, hum
.  .  .  I don't seem to get at it, somehow, but there's something about
you that is just as familiar to me as--"

"Likely it might be his hat," murmured the Ass, with innocent,
sympathetic interest.

So the Reverend and I had at last arrived at Hamilton, the principal town
in the Bermuda Islands.  A wonderfully white town; white as snow itself.
White as marble; white as flour.  Yet looking like none of these,
exactly.  Never mind, we said; we shall hit upon a figure by and by that
will describe this peculiar white.

It was a town that was compacted together upon the sides and tops of a
cluster of small hills.  Its outlying borders fringed off and thinned
away among the cedar forests, and there was no woody distance of curving
coast or leafy islet sleeping upon the dimpled, painted sea, but was
flecked with shining white points--half-concealed houses peeping out of
the foliage.  The architecture of the town was mainly Spanish, inherited
from the colonists of two hundred and fifty years ago.  Some ragged-
topped cocoa-palms, glimpsed here and there, gave the land a tropical
aspect.

There was an ample pier of heavy masonry; upon this, under shelter, were
some thousands of barrels containing that product which has carried the
fame of Bermuda to many lands, the potato.  With here and there an onion.
That last sentence is facetious; for they grow at least two onions in
Bermuda to one potato.  The onion is the pride and joy of Bermuda.  It is
her jewel, her gem of gems.  In her conversation, her pulpit, her
literature, it is her most frequent and eloquent figure.  In Bermuda
metaphor it stands for perfection-perfection absolute.

The Bermudian weeping over the departed exhausts praise when he says, "He
was an onion!"  The Bermudian extolling the living hero bankrupts
applause when he says, "He is an onion!"  The Bermudian setting his son
upon the stage of life to dare and do for himself climaxes all counsel,
supplication, admonition, comprehends all ambition, when he says, "Be an
onion!"

When parallel with the pier, and ten or fifteen steps outside it, we
anchored.  It was Sunday, bright and sunny.  The groups upon the pier-
men, youths, and boys-were whites and blacks in about equal proportion.
All were well and neatly dressed; many of them nattily, a few of them
very stylishly.  One would have to travel far before he would find
another town of twelve thousand inhabitants that could represent itself
so respectably, in the matter of clothes, on a freight-pier, without
premeditation or effort.  The women and young girls, black and white, who
occasionally passed by, were nicely clad, and many were elegantly and
fashionably so.  The men did not affect summer clothing much, but the
girls and women did, and their white garments were good to look at, after
so many months of familiarity with somber colors.

Around one isolated potato-barrel stood four young gentlemen, two black,
two white, becomingly dressed, each with the head of a slender cane
pressed against his teeth, and each with a foot propped up on the barrel.
Another young gentleman came up, looked longingly at the barrel, but saw
no rest for his foot there, and turned pensively away to seek another
barrel.  He wandered here and there, but without result.  Nobody sat upon
a barrel, as is the custom of the idle in other lands, yet all the
isolated barrels were humanly occupied.  Whosoever had a foot to spare
put it on a barrel, if all the places on it were not already taken.  The
habits of all peoples are determined by their circumstances.  The
Bermudians lean upon barrels because of the scarcity of lamp-posts.

Many citizens came on board and spoke eagerly to the officers--inquiring
about the Turco-Russian war news, I supposed.  However, by listening
judiciously I found that this was not so.  They said, "What is the price
of onions?" or, "How's onions?"  Naturally enough this was their first
interest; but they dropped into the war the moment it was satisfied.

We went ashore and found a novelty of a pleasant nature: there were no
hackmen, hacks, or omnibuses on the pier or about it anywhere, and nobody
offered his services to us, or molested us in any way.  I said it was
like being in heaven.  The Reverend rebukingly and rather pointedly
advised me to make the most of it, then.  We knew of a boarding-house,
and what we needed now was somebody to pilot us to it.  Presently a
little barefooted colored boy came along, whose raggedness was
conspicuously not Bermudian.  His rear was so marvelously bepatched with
colored squares and triangles that one was half persuaded he had got it
out of an atlas.  When the sun struck him right, he was as good to follow
as a lightning-bug.  We hired him and dropped into his wake.  He piloted
us through one picturesque street after another, and in due course
deposited us where we belonged.  He charged nothing for his map, and but
a trifle for his services: so the Reverend doubled it.  The little chap
received the money with a beaming applause in his eye which plainly said,
"This man's an onion!"

We had brought no letters of introduction; our names had been misspelled
in the passenger-list; nobody knew whether we were honest folk or
otherwise.  So we were expecting to have a good private time in case
there was nothing in our general aspect to close boarding-house doors
against us.  We had no trouble.  Bermuda has had but little experience of
rascals, and is not suspicious.  We got large, cool, well-lighted rooms
on a second floor, overlooking a bloomy display of flowers and flowering
shrubscalia and annunciation lilies, lantanas, heliotrope, jasmine,
roses, pinks, double geraniums, oleanders, pomegranates, blue morning-
glories of a great size, and many plants that were unknown to me.

We took a long afternoon walk, and soon found out that that exceedingly
white town was built of blocks of white coral.  Bermuda is a coral
island, With a six-inch crust of soil on top of it, and every man has a
quarry on his own premises.  Everywhere you go you see square recesses
gut into the hillsides, with perpendicular walls unmarred by crack or
crevice, and perhaps you fancy that a house grew out of the ground there,
and has been removed in a single piece from the mold.  If you do, you
err.  But the material for a house has been quarried there.  They cut
right down through the coral, to any depth that is convenient--ten to
twenty feet--and take it out in great square blocks.  This cutting is
done with a chisel that has a handle twelve or fifteen feet long, and is
used as one uses a crowbar when he is drilling a hole, or a dasher when
he is churning.  Thus soft is this stone.  Then with a common handsaw
they saw the great blocks into handsome, huge bricks that are two feet
long, a foot wide, and about six inches thick.  These stand loosely piled
during a month to harden; then the work of building begins.

The house is built of these blocks; it is roofed with broad coral slabs
an inch thick, whose edges lap upon each other, so that the roof looks
like a succession of shallow steps or terraces; the chimneys are built of
the coral blocks, and sawed into graceful and picturesque patterns; the
ground-floor veranda is paved with coral blocks; also the walk to the
gate; the fence is built of coral blocks--built in massive panels, with
broad capstones and heavy gate-posts, and the whole trimmed into easy
lines and comely shape with the saw.  Then they put a hard coat of
whitewash, as thick as your thumb-nail, on the fence and all over the
house, roof, chimneys, and all; the sun comes out and shines on this
spectacle, and it is time for you to shut your unaccustomed eyes, lest
they be put out.  It is the whitest white you can conceive of, and the
blindingest.  A Bermuda house does not look like marble; it is a much
intenser white than that; and, besides, there is a dainty, indefinable
something else about its look that is not marble-like.  We put in a great
deal of solid talk and reflection over this matter of trying to find a
figure that would describe the unique white of a Bermuda house, and we
contrived to hit upon it at last.  It is exactly the white of the icing
of a cake, and has the same unemphasized and scarcely perceptible polish.
The white of marble is modest and retiring compared with it.

After the house is cased in its hard scale of whitewash, not a crack, or
sign of a seam, or joining of the blocks is detectable, from base-stone
to chimney-top; the building looks as if it had been carved from a single
block of stone, and the doors and windows sawed out afterward.  A white
marble house has a cold, tomb-like, unsociable look, and takes the
conversation out of a body and depresses him.  Not so with a Bermuda
house.  There is something exhilarating, even hilarious, about its vivid
whiteness when the sun plays upon it.  If it be of picturesque shape and
graceful contour--and many of the Bermudian dwellings are--it will so
fascinate you that you will keep your eyes on it until they ache.  One of
those clean-cut, fanciful chimneys--too pure and white for this world--
with one side glowing in the sun and the other touched with a soft
shadow, is an object that will charm one's gaze by the hour.  I know of
no other country that has chimneys worthy to be gazed at and gloated
over.  One of those snowy houses, half concealed and half glimpsed
through green foliage, is a pretty thing to see; and if it takes one by
surprise and suddenly, as he turns a sharp corner of a country road, it
will wring an exclamation from him, sure.

Wherever you go, in town or country, you find those snowy houses, and
always with masses of bright-colored flowers about them, but with no
vines climbing their walls; vines cannot take hold of the smooth, hard
whitewash.  Wherever you go, in the town or along the country roads,
among little potato farms and patches or expensive country-seats, these
stainless white dwellings, gleaming out from flowers and foliage, meet
you at every turn.  The least little bit of a cottage is as white and
blemishless as the stateliest mansion.  Nowhere is there dirt or stench,
puddle or hog-wallow, neglect, disorder, or lack of trimness and
neatness.  The roads, the streets, the dwellings, the people, the
clothes--this neatness extends to everything that falls under the eye.
It is the tidiest country in the world.  And very much the tidiest, too.

Considering these things, the question came up, Where do the poor live?
No answer was arrived at.  Therefore, we agreed to leave this conundrum
for future statesmen to wrangle over.

What a bright and startling spectacle one of those blazing white country
palaces, with its brown-tinted window-caps and ledges, and green
shutters, and its wealth of caressing flowers and foliage, would be in
black London!  And what a gleaming surprise it would be in nearly any
American city one could mention, too!

Bermuda roads are made by cutting down a few inches into the solid white
coral--or a good many feet, where a hill intrudes itself--and smoothing
off the surface of the road-bed.  It is a simple and easy process.  The
grain of the coral is coarse and porous; the road-bed has the look of
being made of coarse white sugar.  Its excessive cleanness and whiteness
are a trouble in one way: the sun is reflected into your eyes with such
energy as you walk along that you want to sneeze all the time.  Old
Captain Tom Bowling found another difficulty.  He joined us in our walk,
but kept wandering unrestfully to the roadside.  Finally he explained.
Said he, "Well, I chew, you know, and the road's so plagued clean."

We walked several miles that afternoon in the bewildering glare of the
sun, the white roads, and the white buildings.  Our eyes got to paining
us a good deal.  By and by a soothing, blessed twilight spread its cool
balm around.  We looked up in pleased surprise and saw that it proceeded
from an intensely black negro who was going by.  We answered his military
salute in the grateful gloom of his near presence, and then passed on
into the pitiless white glare again.

The colored women whom we met usually bowed and spoke; so did the
children.  The colored men commonly gave the military salute.  They
borrow this fashion from the soldiers, no doubt; England has kept a
garrison here for generations.  The younger men's custom of carrying
small canes is also borrowed from the soldiers, I suppose, who always
carry a cane, in Bermuda as everywhere else in Britain's broad dominions.

The country roads curve and wind hither and thither in the delightfulest
way, unfolding pretty surprises at every turn: billowy masses of oleander
that seem to float out from behind distant projections like, the pink
cloud-banks of sunset; sudden plunges among cottages and gardens, life
and activity, followed by as sudden plunges into the somber twilight and
stillness of the woods; flitting visions of white fortresses and beacon
towers pictured against the sky on remote hilltops; glimpses of shining
green sea caught for a moment through opening headlands, then lost again;
more woods and solitude; and by and by another turn lays bare, without
warning, the full sweep of the inland ocean, enriched with its bars of
soft color and graced with its wandering sails.

Take any road you please, you may depend upon it you will not stay in it
half a mile. Your road is everything that a road ought to be: it is
bordered with trees, and with strange plants and flowers; it is shady and
pleasant, or sunny and still pleasant; it carries you by the prettiest
and peacefulest and most homelike of homes, and through stretches of
forest that lie in a deep hush sometimes, and sometimes are alive with
the music of birds; it curves always, which is a continual promise,
whereas straight roads reveal everything at a glance and kill interest.
Your road is all this, and yet you will not stay in it half a mile, for
the reason that little seductive, mysterious roads are always branching
out from it on either hand, and as these curve sharply also and hide what
is beyond, you cannot resist the temptation to desert your own chosen
road and explore them.  You are usually paid for your trouble;
consequently, your walk inland always turns out to be one of the most
crooked, involved, purposeless, and interesting experiences a body can
imagine. There is enough of variety.  Sometimes you are in the level
open, with marshes thick grown with flag-lances that are ten feet high on
the one hand, and potato and onion orchards on the other; next, you are
on a hilltop, with the ocean and the islands spread around you; presently
the road winds through a deep cut, shut in by perpendicular walls thirty
or forty feet high, marked with the oddest and abruptest stratum lines,
suggestive of sudden and eccentric old upheavals, and garnished with here
and there a clinging adventurous flower, and here and there a dangling
vine; and by and by your way is along the sea edge, and you may look down
a fathom or two through the transparent water and watch the diamond-like
flash and play of the light upon the rocks and sands on the bottom until
you are tired of it--if you are so constituted as to be able to get tired
of it.

You may march the country roads in maiden meditation, fancy free, by
field and farm, for no dog will plunge out at you from unsuspected gate,
with breath-taking surprise of ferocious bark, notwithstanding it is a
Christian land and a civilized.  We saw upward of a million cats in
Bermuda, but the people are very abstemious in the matter of dogs.  Two
or three nights we prowled the country far and wide, and never once were
accosted by a dog.  It is a great privilege to visit such a land.  The
cats were no offense when properly distributed, but when piled they
obstructed travel.

As we entered the edge of the town that Sunday afternoon, we stopped at a
cottage to get a drink of water.  The proprietor, a middle-aged man with
a good face, asked us to sit down and rest.  His dame brought chairs, and
we grouped ourselves in the shade of the trees by the door.  Mr. Smith--
that was not his name, but it will answer--questioned us about ourselves
and our country, and we answered him truthfully, as a general thing, and
questioned him in return.  It was all very simple and pleasant and
sociable.  Rural, too; for there was a pig and a small donkey and a hen
anchored out, close at hand, by cords to their legs, on a spot that
purported to be grassy.  Presently, a woman passed along, and although
she coldly said nothing she changed the drift of our talk.  Said Smith:

"She didn't look this way, you noticed?  Well, she is our next neighbor
on one side, and there's another family that's our next neighbors on the
other side; but there's a general coolness all around now, and we don't
speak.  Yet these three families, one generation and another, have lived
here side by side and been as friendly as weavers for a hundred and fifty
years, till about a year ago."

"Why, what calamity could have been powerful enough to break up so old a
friendship?"

"Well, it was too bad, but it couldn't be helped.  It happened like this:
About a year or more ago, the rats got to pestering my place a good deal,
and I set up a steel trap in my back yard.  Both of these neighbors run
considerable to cats, and so I warned them about the trap, because their
cats were pretty sociable around here nights, and they might get into
trouble without my intending it.  Well, they shut up their cats for a
while, but you know how it is with people; they got careless, and sure
enough one night the trap took Mrs.  Jones's principal tomcat into camp
and finished him up.  In the morning Mrs. Jones comes here with the
corpse in her arms, and cries and takes on the same as if it was a child.
It was a cat by the name of Yelverton--Hector G. Yelverton--a troublesome
old rip, with no more principle than an Injun, though you couldn't make
her believe it.  I said all a man could to comfort her, but no, nothing
would do but I must pay for him.  Finally, I said I warn't investing in
cats now as much as I was, and with that she walked off in a huff,
carrying the remains with her.  That closed our intercourse with the
Joneses.  Mrs. Jones joined another church and took her tribe with her.
She said she would not hold fellowship with assassins.  Well, by and by
comes Mrs. Brown's turn--she that went by here a minute ago.  She had a
disgraceful old yellow cat that she thought as much of as if he was
twins, and one night he tried that trap on his neck, and it fitted him
so, and was so sort of satisfactory, that he laid down and curled up and
stayed with it.  Such was the end of Sir John Baldwin."

"Was that the name of the cat?"

"The same.  There's cats around here with names that would surprise you.
"Maria" (to his wife), "what was that cat's name that eat a keg of
ratsbane by mistake over at Hooper's, and started home and got struck by
lightning and took the blind staggers and fell in the well and was 'most
drowned.  before they could fish him out?"

"That was that colored Deacon Jackson's cat.  I only remember the last
end of its name, which was Hold-The-Fort-For-I-Am-Coming Jackson."

"Sho! that ain't the one.  That's the one that eat up an entire box of
Seidlitz powders, and then hadn't any more judgment than to go and take a
drink.  He was considered to be a great loss, but I never could see it.
Well, no matter about the names.  Mrs. Brown wanted to be reasonable, but
Mrs. Jones wouldn't let her.  She put her up to going to law for damages.
So to law she went, and had the face to claim seven shillings and
sixpence.  It made a great stir.  All the neighbors went to court.
Everybody took sides.  It got hotter and hotter, and broke up all the
friendships for three hundred yards around friendships that had lasted
for generations and generations.

"Well, I proved by eleven witnesses that the cat was of a low character
and very ornery, and warn't worth a canceled postage-stamp, anyway,
taking the average of cats here; but I lost the case.  What could I
expect?  The system is all wrong here, and is bound to make revolution
and bloodshed some day.  You see, they give the magistrate a poor little
starvation salary, and then turn him loose on the public to gouge for
fees and costs to live on.  What is the natural result?  Why, he never
looks into the justice of a case--never once.  All he looks at is which
client has got the money.  So this one piled the fees and costs and
everything on to me.  I could pay specie, don't you see? and he knew
mighty well that if he put the verdict on to Mrs. Brown, where it
belonged, he'd have to take his swag in currency."

"Currency?  Why, has Bermuda a currency?"

"Yes-onions.  And they were forty per cent. discount, too, then, because
the season had been over as much as three months.  So I lost my case.
I had to pay for that cat.  But the general trouble the case made was the
worst thing about it.  Broke up so much good feeling.  The neighbors
don't speak to each other now.  Mrs. Brown had named a child after me.
But she changed its name right away.  She is a Baptist.  Well, in the
course of baptizing it over again it got drowned.  I was hoping we might
get to be friendly again some time or other, but of course this drowning
the child knocked that all out of the question.  It would have saved a
world of heartbreak and ill blood if she had named it dry."

I knew by the sigh that this was honest.  All this trouble and all this
destruction of confidence in the purity of the bench on account of a
seven-shilling lawsuit about a cat!  Somehow, it seemed to "size" the
country.

At this point we observed that an English flag had just been placed at
half-mast on a building a hundred yards away.  I and my friends were busy
in an instant trying to imagine whose death, among the island
dignitaries, could command such a mark of respect as this.  Then a
shudder shook them and me at the same moment, and I knew that we had
jumped to one and the same conclusion: "The governor has gone to England;
it is for the British admiral!"

At this moment Mr. Smith noticed the flag.  He said with emotion:

"That's on a boarding-house.  I judge there's a boarder dead."

A dozen other flags within view went to half-mast.

"It's a boarder, sure," said Smith.

"But would they half-mast the flags here for a boarder, Mr. Smith?"

"Why, certainly they would, if he was dead."

That seemed to size the country again.



IV

The early twilight of a Sunday evening in Hamilton, Bermuda, is an
alluring time.  There is just enough of whispering breeze, fragrance of
flowers, and sense of repose to raise one's thoughts heavenward; and just
enough amateur piano music to keep him, reminded of the other place.
There are many venerable pianos in Hamilton, and they all play at
twilight.  Age enlarges and enriches the powers of some musical
instruments--notably those of the violin--but it seems to set a piano's
teeth on edge.  Most of the music in vogue there is the same that those
pianos prattled in their innocent infancy; and there is something very
pathetic about it when they go over it now, in their asthmatic second
childhood, dropping a note here and there where a tooth is gone.

We attended evening service at the stately Episcopal church on the hill,
where five or six hundred people, half of them white and the other half
black, according to the usual Bermudian proportions; and all well
dressed--a thing which is also usual in Bermuda and to be confidently
expected.  There was good music, which we heard, and doubtless--a good
sermon, but there was a wonderful deal of coughing, and so only the high
parts of the argument carried over it.  As we came out, after service,
I overheard one young girl say to another:

"Why, you don't mean to say you pay duty on gloves and laces!  I only pay
postage; have them done up and sent in the Boston Advertiser."

There are; those that believe that the most difficult thing to create is
a woman who can comprehend that it is wrong to smuggle; and that an
impossible thing to create is a woman who will not smuggle, whether or
no, when she gets a chance.  But these may be errors.

We went wandering off toward the country, and were soon far down in the
lonely black depths of a road that was roofed over with the dense foliage
of a double rank of great cedars.  There was no sound of any kind there;
it was perfectly still.  And it was so dark that one could detect nothing
but somber outlines.  We strode farther and farther down this tunnel,
cheering the way with chat.

Presently the chat took this shape: "How insensibly the character of the
people and of a government makes its impress upon a stranger, and gives
him a sense of security or of insecurity without his taking deliberate
thought upon the matter or asking anybody a question!  We have been in
this land half a day; we have seen none but honest faces; we have noted
the British flag flying, which means efficient government and good order;
so without inquiry we plunge unarmed and with perfect confidence into
this dismal place, which in almost any other country would swarm with
thugs and garroters--"

'Sh!  What was that?  Stealthy footsteps!  Low voices!  We gasp, we close
up together, and wait.  A vague shape glides out of the dusk and
confronts us.  A voice speaks--demands money!

"A shilling, gentlemen, if you please, to help build the new Methodist
church."

Blessed sound!  Holy sound!  We contribute with thankful avidity to the
new Methodist church, and are happy to think how lucky it was that those
little colored Sunday-school scholars did not seize upon everything we
had with violence, before we recovered from our momentary helpless
condition.  By the light of cigars we write down the names of weightier
philanthropists than ourselves on the contribution cards, and then pass
on into the farther darkness, saying, What sort of a government do they
call this, where they allow little black pious children, with
contribution cards, to plunge out upon peaceable strangers in the dark
and scare them to death?

We prowled on several hours, sometimes by the seaside, sometimes inland,
and finally managed to get lost, which is a feat that requires talent in
Bermuda.  I had on new shoes.  They were No. 7's when I started, but were
not more than 5's now, and still diminishing.  I walked two hours in
those shoes after that, before we reached home.  Doubtless I could have
the reader's sympathy for the asking.  Many people have never had the
headache or the toothache, and I am one of those myself; but every body
has worn tight shoes for two or three hours, and known the luxury of
taking them off in a retired place and seeing his feet swell up and
obscure the firmament.  Once when I was a callow, bashful cub, I took a
plain, unsentimental country girl to a comedy one night.  I had known her
a day; she seemed divine; I wore my new boots.  At the end of the first
half-hour she said, "Why do you fidget so with your feet?"  I said, "Did
I?"  Then I put my attention there and kept still.  At the end of another
half-hour she said, "Why do you say, 'Yes, oh yes!' and 'Ha, ha, oh,
certainly!  very true!' to everything I say, when half the time those are
entirely irrelevant answers?"  I blushed, and explained that I had been a
little absent-minded.  At the end of another half-hour she said, "Please,
why do you grin so steadfastly at vacancy, and yet look so sad?"
I explained that I always did that when I was reflecting.  An hour
passed, and then she turned and contemplated me with her earnest eyes and
said, "Why do you cry all the time?"  I explained that very funny
comedies always made me cry.  At last human nature surrendered, and I
secretly slipped my boots off.  This was a mistake.  I was not able to
get them on any more.  It was a rainy night; there were no omnibuses
going our way; and as I walked home, burning up with shame, with the girl
on one arm and my boots under the other, I was an object worthy of some
compassion--especially in those moments of martyrdom when I had to pass
through the glare that fell upon the pavement from street-lamps.
Finally, this child of the forest said, "Where are your boots?" and being
taken unprepared, I put a fitting finish to the follies of the evening
with the stupid remark, "The higher classes do not wear them to the
theater."

The Reverend had been an army chaplain during the war, and while we were
hunting for a road that would lead to Hamilton he told a story about two
dying soldiers which interested me in spite of my feet.  He said that in
the Potomac hospitals rough pine coffins were furnished by government,
but that it was not always possible to keep up with the demand; so, when
a man died, if there was no coffin at hand he was buried without one.
One night, late, two soldiers lay dying in a ward.  A man came in with a
coffin on his shoulder, and stood trying to make up his mind which of
these two poor fellows would be likely to need it first.  Both of them
begged for it with their fading eyes--they were past talking.  Then one
of them protruded a wasted hand from his blankets and made a feeble
beckoning sign with the fingers, to signify, "Be a good fellow; put it
under my bed, please."  The man did it, and left.  The lucky soldier
painfully turned himself in his bed until he faced the other warrior,
raised himself partly on his elbow, and began to work up a mysterious
expression of some kind in his face.  Gradually, irksomely, but surely
and steadily, it developed, and at last it took definite form as a pretty
successful wink.  The sufferer fell back exhausted with his labor, but
bathed in glory.  Now entered a personal friend of No. 2, the despoiled
soldier.  No. 2 pleaded with him with eloquent eyes, till presently he
understood, and removed the coffin from under No. 1's bed and put it
under No. 2's.  No. 2 indicated his joy, and made some more signs; the
friend understood again, and put his arm under No. 2's shoulders and
lifted him partly up.  Then the dying hero turned the dim exultation of
his eye upon No. 1, and began a slow and labored work with his hands;
gradually he lifted one hand up toward his face; it grew weak and dropped
back again; once more he made the effort, but failed again.  He took a
rest; he gathered all the remnant of his strength, and this time he
slowly but surely carried his thumb to the side of his nose, spread the
gaunt fingers wide in triumph, and dropped back dead.  That picture
sticks by me yet.  The "situation" is unique.

The next morning, at what seemed a very early hour, the little white
table-waiter appeared suddenly in my room and shot a single word out of
himself "Breakfast!"

This was a remarkable boy in many ways.  He was about eleven years old;
he had alert, intent black eyes; he was quick of movement; there was no
hesitation, no uncertainty about him anywhere; there was a military
decision in his lip, his manner, his speech, that was an astonishing
thing to see in a little chap like him; he wasted no words; his answers
always came so quick and brief that they seemed to be part of the
question that had been asked instead of a reply to it.  When he stood at
table with his fly-brush, rigid, erect, his face set in a cast-iron
gravity, he was a statue till he detected a dawning want in somebody's
eye; then he pounced down, supplied it, and was instantly a statue again.
When he was sent to the kitchen for anything, he marched upright till he
got to the door; he turned hand-springs the rest of the way.

"Breakfast!"

I thought I would make one more effort to get some conversation out of
this being.

"Have you called the Reverend, or are--"

"Yes s'r!"

"Is it early, or is--"

"Eight-five."

"Do you have to do all the 'chores,' or is there somebody to give
you a--"

"Colored girl."

"Is there only one parish in this island, or are there--"

"Eight!"

"Is the big church on the hill a parish church, or is it--"

"Chapel-of-ease!"

"Is taxation here classified into poll, parish, town, and--"

"Don't know!"

Before I could cudgel another question out of my head, he was below,
hand-springing across the back yard.  He had slid down the balusters,
headfirst.  I gave up trying to provoke a discussion with him.  The
essential element of discussion had been left out of him; his answers
were so final and exact that they did not leave a doubt to hang
conversation on.  I suspect that there is the making of a mighty man or a
mighty rascal in this boy--according to circumstances--but they are going
to apprentice him to a carpenter.  It is the way the world uses its
opportunities.

During this day and the next we took carriage drives about the island and
over to the town of St. George's, fifteen or twenty miles away.  Such
hard, excellent roads to drive over are not to be found elsewhere out of
Europe.  An intelligent young colored man drove us, and acted as guide-
book.  In the edge of the town we saw five or six mountain-cabbage palms
(atrocious name!) standing in a straight row, and equidistant from each
other.  These were not the largest or the tallest trees I have ever seen,
but they were the stateliest, the most majestic.  That row of them must
be the nearest that nature has ever come to counterfeiting a colonnade.
These trees are all the same height, say sixty feet; the trunks as gray
as granite, with a very gradual and perfect taper; without sign of branch
or knot or flaw; the surface not looking like bark, but like granite that
has been dressed and not polished.  Thus all the way up the diminishing
shaft for fifty feet; then it begins to take the appearance of being
closely wrapped, spool-fashion, with gray cord, or of having been turned
in a lathe.  Above this point there is an outward swell, and thence
upward for six feet or more the cylinder is a bright, fresh green, and is
formed of wrappings like those of an ear of green Indian corn.  Then
comes the great, spraying palm plume, also green.  Other palm trees
always lean out of the perpendicular, or have a curve in them.  But the
plumb-line could not detect a deflection in any individual of this
stately row; they stand as straight as the colonnade of Baalbec; they
have its great height, they have its gracefulness, they have its dignity;
in moonlight or twilight, and shorn of their plumes, they would duplicate
it.

The birds we came across in the country were singularly tame; even that
wild creature, the quail, would pick around in the grass at ease while we
inspected it and talked about it at leisure.  A small bird of the canary
species had to be stirred up with the butt-end of the whip before it
would move, and then it moved only a couple of feet.  It is said that
even the suspicious flea is tame and sociable in Bermuda, and will allow
himself to be caught and caressed without misgivings.  This should be
taken with allowance, for doubtless there is more or less brag about it.
In San Francisco they used to claim that their native flea could kick a
child over, as if it were a merit in a flea to be able to do that; as if
the knowledge of it trumpeted abroad ought to entice immigration.  Such a
thing in nine cases out of ten would be almost sure to deter a thinking
man from coming.

We saw no bugs or reptiles to speak of, and so I was thinking of saying
in print, in a general way, that there were none at all; but one night
after I had gone to bed, the Reverend came into my room carrying
something, and asked, "Is this your boot?"  I said it was, and he said he
had met a spider going off with it.  Next morning he stated that just at
dawn the same spider raised his window and was coming in to get a shirt,
but saw him and fled.

I inquired, "Did he get the shirt?"

"No."

"How did you know it was a shirt he was after?"

"I could see it in his eye."

We inquired around, but could hear of no Bermudian spider capable of
doing these things.  Citizens said that their largest spiders could not
more than spread their legs over an ordinary saucer, and that they had
always been considered honest.  Here was testimony of a clergyman against
the testimony of mere worldlings--interested ones, too.  On the whole, I
judged it best to lock up my things.

Here and there on the country roads we found lemon, papaw, orange, lime,
and fig trees; also several sorts of palms, among them the cocoa, the
date, and the palmetto.  We saw some bamboos forty feet high, with stems
as thick as a man's arm.  Jungles of the mangrove tree stood up out of
swamps; propped on their interlacing roots as upon a tangle of stilts.
In drier places the noble tamarind sent down its grateful cloud of shade.
Here and there the blossomy tamarisk adorned the roadside.  There was a
curious gnarled and twisted black tree, without a single leaf on, it.
It might have passed itself off for a dead apple tree but for the fact
that it had a a star-like, red-hot flower sprinkled sparsely over its
person.  It had the scattery red glow that a constellation might have
when glimpsed through smoked glass, It is possible that our
constellations have been so constructed as to be invisible through smoked
glass; if this is so it is a great mistake.

We saw a tree that bears grapes, and just as calmly and unostentatiously
as a vine would do it.  We saw an India-rubber tree, but out of season,
possibly, so there were no shoes on it, nor suspenders, nor anything that
a person would properly expect to find there.  This gave it an
impressively fraudulent look.  There was exactly one mahogany tree on the
island.  I know this to be reliable, because I saw a man who said he had
counted it many a time and could not be mistaken.  He was a man with a
harelip and a pure heart, and everybody said he was as true as steel.
Such men are all too few.

One's eye caught near and far the pink cloud of the oleander and the red
blaze of the pomegranate blossom.  In one piece of wild wood the morning-
glory vines had wrapped the trees to their very tops, and decorated them
all over with couples and clusters of great bluebells-a fine and striking
spectacle, at a little distance.  But the dull cedar is everywhere, and
is the prevailing foliage.  One does not appreciate how dull it is until
the varnished, bright green attire of the infrequent lemon tree
pleasantly intrudes its contrast.  In one thing Bermuda is eminently
tropical--was in May, at least--the unbrilliant, slightly faded,
unrejoicing look of the landscape.  For forests arrayed in a blemishless
magnificence of glowing green foliage that seems to exult in its own
existence and can move the beholder to an enthusiasm that will make him
either shout or cry, one must go to countries that have malignant
winters.

We saw scores of colored farmers digging their crops of potatoes and
onions, their wives and children helping--entirely contented and
comfortable, if looks go for anything.  We never met a man, or woman, or
child anywhere in this sunny island who seemed to be unprosperous, or
discontented, or sorry about anything.  This sort of monotony became very
tiresome presently, and even something worse.  The spectacle of an entire
nation groveling in contentment is an infuriating thing.  We felt the
lack of something in this community--a vague, an indefinable, an elusive
something, and yet a lack.  But after considerable thought we made out
what it was--tramps.  Let them go there, right now, in a body.  It is
utterly virgin soil.  Passage is cheap.  Every true patriot in America
will help buy tickets.  Whole armies of these excellent beings can be
spared from our midst and our polls; they will find a delicious climate
and a green, kind-hearted people.  There are potatoes and onions for all,
and a generous welcome for the first batch that arrives, and elegant
graves for the second.

It was the Early Rose potato the people were digging.  Later in the year
they have another crop, which they call the Garnet.  We buy their
potatoes (retail) at fifteen dollars a barrel; and those colored farmers
buy ours for a song, and live on them.  Havana might exchange cigars with
Connecticut in the same advantageous way, if she thought of it.

We passed a roadside grocery with a sign up, "Potatoes Wanted."  An
ignorant stranger, doubtless.  He could not have gone thirty steps from
his place without finding plenty of them.

In several fields the arrowroot crop was already sprouting.  Bermuda used
to make a vast annual profit out of this staple before firearms came into
such general use.

The island is not large.  Somewhere in the interior a man ahead of us had
a very slow horse.  I suggested that we had better go by him; but the
driver said the man had but a little way to go.  I waited to see,
wondering how he could know.  Presently the man did turn down another
road.  I asked, "How did you know he would?"

"Because I knew the man, and where he lived."

I asked him, satirically, if he knew everybody in the island; he
answered, very simply, that he did.  This gives a body's mind a good
substantial grip on the dimensions of the place.

At the principal hotel at St. George's, a young girl, with a sweet,
serious face, said we could not be furnished with dinner, because we had
not been expected, and no preparation had been made.  Yet it was still an
hour before dinner-time.  We argued, she yielded not; we supplicated, she
was serene.  The hotel had not been expecting an inundation of two
people, and so it seemed that we should have to go home dinnerless.
I said we were not very hungry a fish would do.  My little maid answered,
it was not the market-day for fish.  Things began to look serious; but
presently the boarder who sustained the hotel came in, and when the case
was laid before him he was cheerfully willing to divide.  So we had much
pleasant chat at table about St. George's chief industry, the repairing
of damaged ships; and in between we had a soup that had something in it
that seemed to taste like the hereafter, but it proved to be only pepper
of a particularly vivacious kind.  And we had an iron-clad chicken that
was deliciously cooked, but not in the right way.  Baking was not the
thing to convince this sort.  He ought to have been put through a quartz-
mill until the "tuck" was taken out of him, and then boiled till we came
again.  We got a good deal of sport out of him, but not enough sustenance
to leave the victory on our side.  No matter; we had potatoes and a pie
and a sociable good time.  Then a ramble through the town, which is a
quaint one, with interesting, crooked streets, and narrow, crooked lanes,
with here and there a grain of dust.  Here, as in Hamilton, the dwellings
had Venetian blinds of a very sensible pattern.  They were not double
shutters, hinged at the sides, but a single broad shutter, hinged at the
top; you push it outward, from the bottom, and fasten it at any angle
required by the sun or desired by yourself.

All about the island one sees great white scars on the hill-slopes.
These are dished spaces where the soil has been scraped off and the coral
exposed and glazed with hard whitewash.  Some of these are a quarter-acre
in size.  They catch and carry the rainfall to reservoirs; for the wells
are few and poor, and there are no natural springs and no brooks.

They say that the Bermuda climate is mild and equable, with never any
snow or ice, and that one may be very comfortable in spring clothing the
year round, there.  We had delightful and decided summer weather in May,
with a flaming sun that permitted the thinnest of raiment, and yet there
was a constant breeze; consequently we were never discomforted by heat.
At four or five in the afternoon the mercury began to go down, and then
it became necessary to change to thick garments.  I went to St. George's
in the morning clothed in the thinnest of linen, and reached home at five
in the afternoon with two overcoats on.  The nights are said to be always
cool and bracing.  We had mosquito-nets, and the Reverend said the
mosquitoes persecuted him a good deal.  I often heard him slapping and
banging at these imaginary creatures with as much zeal as if they had
been real.  There are no mosquitoes in the Bermudas in May.

The poet Thomas Moore spent several months in Bermuda more than seventy
years ago.  He was sent out to be registrar of the admiralty.  I am not
quite clear as to the function of a registrar of the admiralty of
Bermuda, but I think it is his duty to keep a record of all the admirals
born there.  I will inquire into this.  There was not much doing in
admirals, and Moore got tired and went away.  A reverently preserved
souvenir of him is still one of the treasures of the islands: I gathered
the idea, vaguely, that it was a jug, but was persistently thwarted in
the twenty-two efforts I made to visit it.  However, it was no matter,
for I found out afterward that it was only a chair.

There are several "sights" in the Bermudas, of course, but they are
easily avoided.  This is a great advantage--one cannot have it in Europe.
Bermuda is the right country for a jaded man to "loaf" in.  There are no
harassments; the deep peace and quiet of the country sink into one's body
and bones and give his conscience a rest, and chloroform the legion of
invisible small devils that are always trying to whitewash his hair.
A good many Americans go there about the first of March and remain until
the early spring weeks have finished their villainies at home.

The Bermudians are hoping soon to have telegraphic communication with the
world.  But even after they shall have acquired this curse it will still
be a good country to go to for a vacation, for there are charming little
islets scattered about the inclosed sea where one could live secure from
interruption.  The telegraph-boy would have to come in a boat, and one
could easily kill him while he was making his landing.

We had spent four days in Bermuda--three bright ones out of doors and one
rainy one in the house, we being disappointed about getting a yacht for a
sail; and now our furlough was ended, and we entered into the ship again
and sailed homeward.

We made the run home to New York quarantine in three days and five hours,
and could have gone right along up to the city if we had had a health
permit.  But health permits are not granted after seven in the evening,
partly because a ship cannot be inspected and overhauled with exhaustive,
thoroughness except in daylight, and partly because health-officers are
liable to catch cold if they expose themselves to the night air.  Still,
you can buy a permit after hours for five dollars extra, and the officer
will do the inspecting next week.  Our ship and passengers lay under
expense and in humiliating captivity all night, under the very nose of
the little official reptile who is supposed to protect New York from
pestilence by his vigilant "inspections."  This imposing rigor gave
everybody a solemn and awful idea of the beneficent watchfulness of our
government, and there were some who wondered if anything finer could be
found in other countries.

In the morning we were all a-tiptoe to witness the intricate ceremony of
inspecting the ship.  But it was a disappointing thing.  The health-
officer's tug ranged alongside for a moment, our purser handed the lawful
three-dollar permit fee to the health-officer's bootblack, who passed us
a folded paper in a forked stick, and away we went.  The entire
"inspection" did not occupy thirteen seconds.

The health-officer's place is worth a hundred thousand dollars a year to
him.  His system of inspection is perfect, and therefore cannot be
improved on; but it seems to me that his system of collecting his fees
might be amended.  For a great ship to lie idle all night is a most
costly loss of time; for her passengers to have to do the same thing
works to them the same damage, with the addition of an amount of
exasperation and bitterness of soul that the spectacle of that health-
officer's ashes on a shovel could hardly sweeten.  Now why would it not
be better and simpler to let the ships pass in unmolested, and the fees
and permits be exchanged once a year by post.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Rambling Idle Excursion
by Mark Twain






THE STOLEN WHITE ELEPHANT

by Mark Twain



[Left out of A Tramp Abroad, because it was feared that some of the
particulars had been exaggerated, and that others were not true.  Before
these suspicions had been proven groundless, the book had gone to press.
--M.  T.]



The following curious history was related to me by a chance railway
acquaintance.  He was a gentleman more than seventy years of age, and his
thoroughly good and gentle face and earnest and sincere manner imprinted
the unmistakable stamp of truth upon every statement which fell from his
lips.  He said:

You know in what reverence the royal white elephant of Siam is held by
the people of that country.  You know it is sacred to kings, only kings
may possess it, and that it is, indeed, in a measure even superior to
kings, since it receives not merely honor but worship.  Very well; five
years ago, when the troubles concerning the frontier line arose between
Great Britain and Siam, it was presently manifest that Siam had been in
the wrong.  Therefore every reparation was quickly made, and the British
representative stated that he was satisfied and the past should be
forgotten.  This greatly relieved the King of Siam, and partly as a token
of gratitude, partly also, perhaps, to wipe out any little remaining
vestige of unpleasantness which England might feel toward him, he wished
to send the Queen a present--the sole sure way of propitiating an enemy,
according to Oriental ideas.  This present ought not only to be a royal
one, but transcendently royal.  Wherefore, what offering could be so meet
as that of a white elephant?  My position in the Indian civil service was
such that I was deemed peculiarly worthy of the honor of conveying the
present to her Majesty.  A ship was fitted out for me and my servants and
the officers and attendants of the elephant, and in due time I arrived in
New York harbor and placed my royal charge in admirable quarters in
Jersey City.  It was necessary to remain awhile in order to recruit, the
animal's health before resuming the voyage.

All went well during a fortnight--then my calamities began.  The white
elephant was stolen!  I was called up at dead of night and informed of
this fearful misfortune.  For some moments I was beside myself with
terror and anxiety; I was helpless.  Then I grew calmer and collected my
faculties.  I soon saw my course--for, indeed, there was but the one;
course for an intelligent man to pursue.  Late as it was, I flew to New
York and got a policeman to conduct me to the headquarters of the
detective force.  Fortunately I arrived in time, though the chief of the
force, the celebrated Inspector Blunt was just on the point of leaving
for his home.  He was a man of middle size and compact frame, and when he
was thinking deeply he had a way of kniting his brows and tapping his
forehead reflectively with his finger, which impressed you at once with
the conviction that you stood in the presence of a person of no common
order.  The very sight of him gave me confidence and made me hopeful.
I stated my errand.  It did not flurry him in the least; it had no more
visible effect upon his iron self-possession than if I had told him
somebody had stolen my dog.  He motioned me to a seat, and said, calmly:

"Allow me to think a moment, please."

So saying, he sat down at his office table and leaned his head upon his
hand.  Several clerks were at work at the other end of the room; the
scratching of their pens was all the sound I heard during the next six or
seven minutes.  Meantime the inspector sat there, buried in thought.
Finally he raised his head, and there was that in the firm lines of his
face which showed me that his brain had done its work and his plan was
made.  Said he--and his voice was low and impressive:

"This is no ordinary case.  Every step must be warily taken; each step
must be made sure before the next is ventured.  And secrecy must be
observed--secrecy profound and absolute.  Speak to no one about the
matter, not even the reporters.  I will take care of them; I will see
that they get only what it may suit my ends to let them know."  He
touched a bell; a youth appeared.  "Alaric, tell the reporters to remain
for the present."  The boy retired.  "Now let us proceed to business--and
systematically.  Nothing can be accomplished in this trade of mine
without strict and minute method."

He took a pen and some paper.  "Now--name of the elephant?"

"Hassan Ben Ali Ben Selim Abdallah Mohammed Moist Alhammal
Jamsetjejeebhoy Dhuleep Sultan Ebu Bhudpoor."

"Very well.  Given name?"

"Jumbo."

"Very well.  Place of birth?"

"The capital city of Siam."

"Parents living?"

"No--dead."

"Had they any other issue besides this one?"

"None.  He was an only child."

"Very well.  These matters are sufficient under that head.  Now please
describe the elephant, and leave out no particular, however
insignificant--that is, insignificant from your point of view.  To me in
my profession there are no insignificant particulars; they do not exist."

I described he wrote.  When I was done, he said:

"Now listen.  If I have made any mistakes, correct me."

He read as follows:

"Height, 19 feet; length from apex of forehead insertion of tail, 26
feet; length of trunk, 16 feet; length of tail, 6 feet; total length,
including trunk, and tail, 48 feet; length of tusks, 9 feet; ears
keeping with these dimensions; footprint resembles the mark left when one
up-ends a barrel in the snow; the color of the elephant, a dull white;
has a hole the size of a plate in each ear for the insertion of jewelry
and possesses the habit in a remarkable degree of squirting water upon
spectators and of maltreating with his trunk not only such persons as he
is acquainted with, but even entire strangers; limps slightly with his
right hind leg, and has a small scar in his left armpit caused by a
former boil; had on, when stolen, a castle containing seats for fifteen
persons, and a gold-cloth saddle-blanket the size of an ordinary carpet."

There were no mistakes.  The inspector touched the bell, handed the
description to Alaric, and said:

"Have fifty thousand copies of this printed at once and mailed to every
detective office and pawnbroker's shop on the continent."  Alaric
retired.  "There--so far, so good.  Next, I must have a photograph of the
property."

I gave him one.  He examined it critically, and said:

"It must do, since we can do no better; but he has his trunk curled up
and tucked into his mouth.  That is unfortunate, and is calculated to
mislead, for of course he does not usually have it in that position."
He touched his bell.

"Alaric, have fifty thousand copies of this photograph made the first
thing in the morning, and mail them with the descriptive circulars."

Alaric retired to execute his orders.  The inspector said:

"It will be necessary to offer a reward, of course.  Now as to the
amount?"

"What sum would you suggest?"

"To begin with, I should say--well, twenty-five thousand dollars.  It is
an intricate and difficult business; there are a thousand avenues of
escape and opportunities of concealment.  These thieves have friends and
pals everywhere--"

"Bless me, do you know who they are?"

The wary face, practised in concealing the thoughts and feelings within,
gave me no token, nor yet the replying words, so quietly uttered:

"Never mind about that.  I may, and I may not.  We generally gather a
pretty shrewd inkling of who our man is by the manner of his work and the
size of the game he goes after.  We are not dealing with a pickpocket or
a hall thief now, make up your mind to that.  This property was not
'lifted' by a novice.  But, as I was saying, considering the amount of
travel which will have to be done, and the diligence with which the
thieves will cover up their traces as they move along, twenty-five
thousand may be too small a sum to offer, yet I think it worth while to
start with that."

So we determined upon that figure as a beginning.  Then this man, whom
nothing escaped which could by any possibility be made to serve as a
clue, said:

"There are cases in detective history to show that criminals have been
detected through peculiarities, in their appetites.  Now, what does this
elephant eat, and how much?"

"Well, as to what he eats--he will eat anything.  He will eat a man, he
will eat a Bible--he will eat anything between a man and a Bible."

"Good very good, indeed, but too general.  Details are necessary--details
are the only valuable things in our trade.  Very well--as to men.  At one
meal--or, if you prefer, during one day--how man men will he eat, if
fresh?"

"He would not care whether they were fresh or not; at a single meal he
would eat five ordinary men.

"Very good; five men; we will put that down.  What nationalities would he
prefer?"

"He is indifferent about nationalities.  He prefers acquaintances, but is
not prejudiced against strangers."

"Very good.  Now, as to Bibles.  How many Bibles would he eat at a meal?"

"He would eat an entire edition."

"It is hardly succinct enough.  Do you mean the ordinary octavo, or the
family illustrated?"

"I think he would be indifferent to illustrations that is, I think he
would not value illustrations above simple letterpress."

"No, you do not get my idea.  I refer to bulk.  The ordinary octavo Bible
weighs about two pound; and a half, while the great quarto with the
illustrations weighs ten or twelve.  How many Dore Bibles would he eat at
a meal?"

"If you knew this elephant, you could not ask.  He would take what they
had."

"Well, put it in dollars and cents, then.  We must get at it somehow.
The Dore costs a hundred dollars a copy, Russia leather, beveled."

"He would require about fifty thousand dollars worth--say an edition of
five hundred copies."

"Now that is more exact.  I will put that down.  Very well; he likes men
and Bibles; so far, so good.  What else will he eat?  I want
particulars."

"He will leave Bibles to eat bricks, he will leave bricks to eat bottles,
he will leave bottles to eat clothing, he will leave clothing to eat
cats, he will leave cats to eat oysters, he will leave oysters to eat
ham, he will leave ham to eat sugar, he will leave sugar to eat pie, he
will leave pie to eat potatoes, he will leave potatoes to eat bran; he
will leave bran to eat hay, he will leave hay to eat oats, he will leave
oats to eat rice, for he was mainly raised on it.  There is nothing
whatever that he will not eat but European butter, and he would eat that
if he could taste it."

"Very good.  General quantity at a meal--say about--"

"Well, anywhere from a quarter to half a ton."

"And he drinks--"

"Everything that is fluid.  Milk, water, whisky, molasses, castor oil,
camphene, carbolic acid--it is no use to go into particulars; whatever
fluid occurs to you set it down.  He will drink anything that is fluid,
except European coffee."

"Very good.  As to quantity?"

"Put it down five to fifteen barrels--his thirst varies; his other
appetites do not."

"These things are unusual.  They ought to furnish quite good clues toward
tracing him."

He touched the bell.

"Alaric; summon Captain Burns."

Burns appeared.  Inspector Blunt unfolded the whole matter to him, detail
by detail.  Then he said in the clear, decisive tones of a man whose
plans are clearly defined in his head and who is accustomed to command:

"Captain Burns, detail Detectives Jones, Davis, Halsey, Bates, and
Hackett to shadow the elephant."

"Yes, sir."

"Detail Detectives Moses, Dakin, Murphy, Rogers, Tupper, Higgins, and
Bartholomew to shadow the thieves."

"Yes, sir."

"Place a strong guard--A guard of thirty picked men, with a relief of
thirty--over the place from whence the elephant was stolen, to keep
strict watch there night and day, and allow none to approach--except
reporters--without written authority from me."

"Yes, sir."

"Place detectives in plain clothes in the railway; steamship, and ferry
depots, and upon all roadways leading out of Jersey City, with orders to
search all suspicious persons."

"Yes, sir."

"Furnish all these men with photograph and accompanying description of
the elephant, and instruct them to search all trains and outgoing
ferryboats and other vessels."

"Yes, sir."

"If the elephant should be found, let him be seized, and the information
forwarded to me by telegraph."

"Yes, sir."

"Let me be informed at once if any clues should be found footprints of
the animal, or anything of that kind."

"Yes, sir."

"Get an order commanding the harbor police to patrol the frontages
vigilantly."

"Yes, sir."

"Despatch detectives in plain clothes over all the railways, north as far
as Canada, west as far as Ohio, south as far as Washington."

"Yes, sir."

"Place experts in all the telegraph offices to listen in to all messages;
and let them require that all cipher despatches be interpreted to them."

"Yes, sir."

"Let all these things be done with the utmost's secrecy--mind, the most
impenetrable secrecy."

"Yes, sir."

"Report to me promptly at the usual hour."

"Yes, Sir."

"Go!"

"Yes, sir."

He was gone.

Inspector Blunt was silent and thoughtful a moment, while the fire in his
eye cooled down and faded out.  Then he turned to me and said in a placid
voice:

"I am not given to boasting, it is not my habit; but--we shall find the
elephant."

I shook him warmly by the hand and thanked him; and I felt my thanks,
too.  The more I had seen of the man the more I liked him and the more I
admired him and marveled over the mysterious wonders of his profession.
Then we parted for the night, and I went home with a far happier heart
than I had carried with me to his office.


II

Next morning it was all in the newspapers, in the minutest detail.  It
even had additions--consisting of Detective This, Detective That, and
Detective The Other's "Theory" as to how the robbery was done, who the
robbers were, and whither they had flown with their booty.  There were
eleven of these theories, and they covered all the possibilities; and
this single fact shows what independent thinkers detectives are.  No two
theories were alike, or even much resembled each other, save in one
striking particular, and in that one all the other eleven theories were
absolutely agreed.  That was, that although the rear of my building was
torn out and the only door remained locked, the elephant had not been
removed through the rent, but by some other (undiscovered) outlet.
All agreed that the robbers had made that rent only to mislead the
detectives.  That never would have occurred to me or to any other layman,
perhaps, but it had not deceived the detectives for a moment.  Thus, what
I had supposed was the only thing that had no mystery about it was in
fact the very thing I had gone furthest astray in.  The eleven theories
all named the supposed robbers, but no two named the same robbers; the
total number of suspected persons was thirty-seven.  The various
newspaper accounts all closed with the most important opinion of all--
that of Chief Inspector Blunt.  A portion of this statement read as
follows:

     The chief knows who the two principals are, namely," Brick" Daffy
     and "Red" McFadden.  Ten days before the robbery was achieved he was
     already aware that it was to be attempted, and had quietly proceeded
     to shadow these two noted villains; but unfortunately on the night
     in question their track was lost, and before it could be found again
     the bird was flown--that is, the elephant.

     Daffy and McFadden are the boldest scoundrels in the profession; the
     chief has reasons for believing that they are the men who stole the
     stove out of the detective headquarters on a bitter night last
     winter--in consequence of which the chief and every detective
     present were in the hands of the physicians before morning, some
     with frozen feet, others with frozen fingers, ears, and other
     members.

When I read the first half of that I was more astonished than ever at the
wonderful sagacity of this strange man.  He not only saw everything in
the present with a clear eye, but even the future could not be hidden
from him.  I was soon at his office, and said I could not help wishing he
had had those men arrested, and so prevented the trouble and loss; but
his reply was simple and unanswerable:

"It is not our province to prevent crime, but to punish it.  We cannot
punish it until it is committed."

I remarked that the secrecy with which we had begun had been marred by
the newspapers; not only all our facts but all our plans and purposes had
been revealed; even all the suspected persons had been named; these would
doubtless disguise themselves now, or go into hiding.

"Let them.  They will find that when I am ready for them my hand will
descend upon them, in their secret places, as unerringly as the hand of
fate.  As to the newspapers, we must keep in with them.  Fame,
reputation, constant public mention--these are the detective's bread and
butter.  He must publish his facts, else he will be supposed to have
none; he must publish his theory, for nothing is so strange or striking
as a detective's theory, or brings him so much wonderful respect; we must
publish our plans, for these the journals insist upon having, and we
could not deny them without offending.  We must constantly show the
public what we are doing, or they will believe we are doing nothing.
It is much pleasanter to have a newspaper say, 'Inspector Blunt's
ingenious and extraordinary theory is as follows,' than to have it say
some harsh thing, or, worse still, some sarcastic one."

"I see the force of what you say.  But I noticed that in one part of your
remarks in the papers this morning you refused to reveal your opinion
upon a certain minor point."

"Yes, we always do that; it has a good effect.  Besides, I had not formed
any opinion on that point, anyway."

I deposited a considerable sum of money with the inspector, to meet
current expenses, and sat down to wait for news.  We were expecting the
telegrams to begin to arrive at any moment now.  Meantime I reread the
newspapers and also our descriptive circular, and observed that our
twenty-five thousand dollars reward seemed to be offered only to
detectives.  I said I thought it ought to be offered to anybody who would
catch the elephant.  The inspector said:

"It is the detectives who will find the elephant; hence the reward will
go to the right place.  If other people found the animal, it would only
be by watching the detectives and taking advantage of clues and
indications stolen from them, and that would entitle the detectives to
the reward, after all.  The proper office of a reward is to stimulate the
men who deliver up their time and their trained sagacities to this sort
of work, and not to confer benefits upon chance citizens who stumble upon
a capture without having earned the benefits by their own merits and
labors."

This was reasonable enough, certainly.  Now the telegraphic machine in
the corner began to click, and the following despatch was the result:

                         FLOWER STATION, N. Y., 7.30 A.M.
     Have got a clue.  Found a succession of deep tracks across a farm
     near here.  Followed them two miles east without result; think
     elephant went west.  Shall now shadow him in that direction.
                         DARLEY, Detective.

"Darley's one of the best men on the force," said the inspector.  "We
shall hear from him again before long."

Telegram No. 2 came:

                         BARKER'S, N. J., 7.40 A.M.
     Just arrived.  Glass factory broken open here during night, and
     eight hundred bottles taken.  Only water in large quantity near here
     is five miles distant.  Shall strike for there.  Elephant will be
     thirsty.  Bottles were empty.
                         DARLEY, Detective.

"That promises well, too," said the inspector.

"I told you the creature's appetites would not be bad clues."

Telegram No. 3:

                         TAYLORVILLE, L. I. 8.15 A.M.
     A haystack near here disappeared during night.  Probably eaten.
     Have got a clue, and am off.
                         HUBBARD, Detective.

"How he does move around!" said the inspector "I knew we had a difficult
job on hand, but we shall catch him yet."

                         FLOWER STATION, N. Y., 9 A.M.
     Shadowed the tracks three miles westward.  Large, deep, and ragged.
     Have just met a farmer who says they are not elephant-tracks.  Says
     they are holes where he dug up saplings for shade-trees when ground
     was frozen last winter.  Give me orders how to proceed.
                         DARLEY, Detective.

"Aha!  a confederate of the thieves!  The thing, grows warm," said the
inspector.

He dictated the following telegram to Darley:

     Arrest the man and force him to name his pals.  Continue to follow
     the tracks to the Pacific, if necessary.
                         Chief BLUNT.

Next telegram:

                         CONEY POINT, PA., 8.45 A.M.
     Gas office broken open here during night and three month; unpaid gas
     bills taken.  Have got a clue and am away.
                         MURPHY, Detective.

"Heavens!" said the inspector; "would he eat gas bills?"

"Through ignorance--yes; but they cannot support life.  At least,
unassisted."

Now came this exciting telegram:

                         IRONVILLE, N. Y., 9.30 A.M.
     Just arrived.  This village in consternation.  Elephant passed
     through here at five this morning.  Some say he went east some say
     west, some north, some south--but all say they did not wait to
     notice, particularly.  He killed a horse; have secure a piece of it
     for a clue.  Killed it with his trunk; from style of blow, think he
     struck it left-handed.  From position in which horse lies, think
     elephant traveled northward along line Berkley Railway.  Has four
     and a half hours' start, but I move on his track at once.
                         HAWES, Detective

I uttered exclamations of joy.  The inspector was as self-contained as a
graven image.  He calmly touched his bell.

"Alaric, send Captain Burns here."

Burns appeared.

"How many men are ready for instant orders?"

"Ninety-six, sir."

"Send them north at once.  Let them concentrate along the line of the
Berkley road north of Ironville."

"Yes, sir."

"Let them conduct their movements with the utmost secrecy.  As fast as
others are at liberty, hold them for orders."

"Yes, sir."

"Go!"

"Yes, sir."

Presently came another telegram:

                         SAGE CORNERS, N. Y., 10.30.
     Just arrived.  Elephant passed through here at 8.15.  All escaped
     from the town but a policeman.  Apparently elephant did not strike
     at policeman, but at the lamp-post.  Got both.  I have secured a
     portion of the policeman as clue.
                         STUMM, Detective.

"So the elephant has turned westward," said the inspector.  "However, he
will not escape, for my men are scattered all over that region."

The next telegram said:

                         GLOVER'S, 11.15
Just arrived.  Village deserted, except sick and aged.  Elephant passed
through three-quarters of an hour ago.  The anti-temperance mass-meeting
was in session; he put his trunk in at a window and washed it out with
water from cistern.  Some swallowed it--since dead; several drowned.
Detectives Cross and O'Shaughnessy were passing through town, but going
south--so missed elephant.  Whole region for many miles around in terror-
-people flying from their homes.  Wherever they turn they meet elephant,
and many are killed.
                         BRANT, Detective.

I could have shed tears, this havoc so distressed me.  But the inspector
only said:

"You see--we are closing in on him.  He feels our presence; he has turned
eastward again."

Yet further troublous news was in store for us.  The telegraph brought
this:

                         HOGANSPORT, 12.19.
     Just arrived.  Elephant passed through half an hour ago, creating
     wildest fright and excitement.  Elephant raged around streets; two
     plumbers going by, killed one--other escaped.  Regret general.
                         O'FLAHERTY, Detective.

"Now he is right in the midst of my men," said the inspector.  "Nothing
can save him."

A succession of telegrams came from detectives who were scattered through
New Jersey and Pennsylvania, and who were following clues consisting of
ravaged barns, factories, and Sunday-school libraries, with high
hopes-hopes amounting to certainties, indeed.  The inspector said:

"I wish I could communicate with them and order them north, but that is
impossible.  A detective only visits a telegraph office to send his
report; then he is off again, and you don't know where to put your hand
on him."

Now came this despatch:

                         BRIDGEPORT, CT., 12.15.
     Barnum offers rate of $4,000 a year for exclusive privilege of using
     elephant as traveling advertising medium from now till detectives
     find him.  Wants to paste circus-posters on him. Desires immediate
     answer.
                         BOGGS, Detective.

"That is perfectly absurd!" I exclaimed.

"Of course it is," said the inspector.  "Evidently Mr. Barnum, who thinks
he is so sharp, does not know me--but I know him."

Then he dictated this answer to the despatch:

     Mr. Barnum's offer declined.  Make it $7,000 or nothing.
                         Chief BLUNT.

"There.  We shall not have to wait long for an answer.  Mr.  Barnum is
not at home; he is in the telegraph office--it is his way when he has
business on hand.  Inside of three--"

     Done.--P. T. BARNUM.

So interrupted the clicking telegraphic instrument.  Before I could make
a comment upon this extraordinary episode, the following despatch carried
my thoughts into another and very distressing channel:

                         BOLIVIA, N. Y., 12.50.
     Elephant arrived here from the south and passed through toward the
     forest at 11.50, dispersing a funeral on the way, and diminishing
     the mourners by two.  Citizens fired some small cannon-balls into
     him, and they fled.  Detective Burke and I arrived ten minutes
     later, from the north, but mistook some excavations for footprints,
     and so lost a good deal of time; but at last we struck the right
     trail and followed it to the woods.  We then got down on our hands
     and knees and continued to keep a sharp eye on the track, and so
     shadowed it into the brush.  Burke was in advance.  Unfortunately
     the animal had stopped to rest; therefore, Burke having his head
     down, intent upon the track, butted up against the elephant's hind
     legs before he was aware of his vicinity.  Burke instantly arose to
     his feet, seized the tail, and exclaimed joyfully, "I claim the re--
     "but got no further, for a single blow of the huge trunk laid the
     brave fellow's fragments low in death.  I fled rearward, and the
     elephant turned and shadowed me to the edge of the wood, making
     tremendous speed, and I should inevitably have been lost, but that
     the remains of the funeral providentially intervened again and
     diverted his attention.  I have just learned that nothing of that
     funeral is now left; but this is no loss, for there is abundance of
     material for another.  Meantime, the elephant has disappeared again.
                         MULROONEY, Detective.

We heard no news except from the diligent and confident detectives
scattered about New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Virginia--who
were all following fresh and encouraging clues--until shortly after
2 P.M., when this telegram came:

                         BAXTER CENTER, 2.15.
     Elephant been here, plastered over with circus-bills, any broke up a
     revival, striking down and damaging many who were on the point of
     entering upon a better life.  Citizens penned him up and established
     a guard.  When Detective Brown and I arrived, some time after, we
     entered inclosure and proceeded to identify elephant by photograph
     and description.  All masks tallied exactly except one, which we
     could not see--the boil-scar under armpit.  To make sure, Brown
     crept under to look, and was immediately brained--that is, head
     crushed and destroyed, though nothing issued from debris.  All fled
     so did elephant, striking right and left with much effect.  He
     escaped, but left bold blood-track from cannon-wounds.  Rediscovery
     certain.  He broke southward, through a dense forest.
                         BRENT, Detective.

That was the last telegram.  At nightfall a fog shut down which was so
dense that objects but three feet away could not be discerned.  This
lasted all night.  The ferry-boats and even the omnibuses had to stop
running.



III

Next morning the papers were as full of detective theories as before;
they had all our tragic facts in detail also, and a great many more which
they had received from their telegraphic correspondents.  Column after
column was occupied, a third of its way down, with glaring head-lines,
which it made my heart sick to read.  Their general tone was like this:

     THE WHITE ELEPHANT AT LARGE!  HE MOVES UPON HIS FATAL MARCH WHOLE
     VILLAGES DESERTED BY THEIR FRIGHT-STRICKEN OCCUPANTS!  PALE TERROR
     GOES BEFORE HIM, DEATH AND DEVASTATION FOLLOW AFTER!  AFTER THESE,
     THE DETECTIVES!  BARNS DESTROYED, FACTORIES GUTTED, HARVESTS
     DEVOURED, PUBLIC ASSEMBLAGES DISPERSED, ACCOMPANIED BY SCENES OF
     CARNAGE IMPOSSIBLE TO DESCRIBE!  THEORIES OF THIRTY-FOUR OF THE MOST
     DISTINGUISHED DETECTIVES ON THE FORCES!  THEORY OF CHIEF BLUNT!

"There!" said Inspector Blunt, almost betrayed into excitement, "this is
magnificent!  This is the greatest windfall that any detective
organization ever had.  The fame of it will travel to the ends of the
earth, and endure to the end of time, and my name with it."

But there was no joy for me.  I felt as if I had committed all those red
crimes, and that the elephant was only my irresponsible agent.  And how
the list had grown!  In one place he had "interfered with an election and
killed five repeaters."  He had followed this act with the destruction of
two pool fellows, named O'Donohue and McFlannigan, who had "found a
refuge in the home of the oppressed of all lands only the day before, and
were in the act of exercising for the first time the noble right of
American citizens at the polls, when stricken down by the relentless hand
of the Scourge of Siam."  In another, he had "found a crazy sensation-
preacher preparing his next season's heroic attacks on the dance, the
theater, and other things which can't strike back, and had stepped on
him."  And in still another place he had "killed a lightning-rod agent."
And so the list went on, growing redder and redder, and more and more
heartbreaking.  Sixty persons had been killed, and two hundred and forty
wounded.  All the accounts bore just testimony to the activity and
devotion of the detectives, and all closed with the remark that "three
hundred thousand citizen; and four detectives saw the dread creature, and
two of the latter he destroyed."

I dreaded to hear the telegraphic instrument begin to click again.
By and by the messages began to pour in, but I was happily disappointed
in they nature.  It was soon apparent that all trace of the elephant was
lost.  The fog had enabled him to search out a good hiding-place
unobserved.  Telegrams from the most absurdly distant points reported
that a dim vast mass had been glimpsed there through the fog at such and
such an hour, and was "undoubtedly the elephant."  This dim vast mass had
been glimpsed in New Haven, in New Jersey, in Pennsylvania, in interior
New York, in Brooklyn, and even in the city of New York itself!  But in
all cases the dim vast mass had vanished quickly and left no trace.
Every detective of the large force scattered over this huge extent of
country sent his hourly report, and each and every one of them had a
clue, and was shadowing something, and was hot upon the heels of it.

But the day passed without other result.

The next day the same.

The next just the same.

The newspaper reports began to grow monotonous with facts that amounted
to nothing, clues which led to nothing, and theories which had nearly
exhausted the elements which surprise and delight and dazzle.

By advice of the inspector I doubled the reward.

Four more dull days followed.  Then came a bitter blow to the poor,
hard-working detectives--the journalists declined to print their
theories, and coldly said, "Give us a rest."

Two weeks after the elephant's disappearance I raised the reward to
seventy-five thousand dollars by the inspector's advice.  It was a great
sum, but I felt that I would rather sacrifice my whole private fortune
than lose my credit with my government.  Now that the detectives were in
adversity, the newspapers turned upon them, and began to fling the most
stinging sarcasms at them.  This gave the minstrels an idea, and they
dressed themselves as detectives and hunted the elephant on the stage in
the most extravagant way.  The caricaturists made pictures of detectives
scanning the country with spy-glasses, while the elephant, at their
backs, stole apples out of their pockets.  And they made all sorts of
ridiculous pictures of the detective badge--you have seen that badge
printed in gold on the back of detective novels, no doubt it is a
wide-staring eye, with the legend, "WE NEVER SLEEP."  When detectives
called for a drink, the would-be facetious barkeeper resurrected an
obsolete form of expression and said, "Will you have an eye-opener?"
All the air was thick with sarcasms.

But there was one man who moved calm, untouched, unaffected, through it
all.  It was that heart of oak, the chief inspector.  His brave eye never
drooped, his serene confidence never wavered.  He always said:

"Let them rail on; he laughs best who laughs last."

My admiration for the man grew into a species of worship.  I was at his
side always.  His office had become an unpleasant place to me, and now
became daily more and more so.  Yet if he could endure it I meant to do
so also--at least, as long as I could.  So I came regularly, and stayed
--the only outsider who seemed to be capable of it.  Everybody wondered
how I could; and often it seemed to me that I must desert, but at such
times I looked into that calm and apparently unconscious face, and held
my ground.

About three weeks after the elephant's disappearance I was about to say,
one morning, that I should have to strike my colors and retire, when the
great detective arrested the thought by proposing one more superb and
masterly move.

This was to compromise with the robbers.  The fertility of this man's
invention exceeded anything I have ever seen, and I have had a wide
intercourse with the world's finest minds.  He said he was confident he
could compromise for one hundred thousand dollars and recover the
elephant.  I said I believed I could scrape the amount together, but what
would become of the poor detectives who had worked so faithfully?  He
said:

"In compromises they always get half."

This removed my only objection.  So the inspector wrote two notes, in
this form:

     DEAR MADAM,--Your husband can make a large sum of money (and be
     entirely protected from the law) by making an immediate, appointment
     with me.                           Chief BLUNT.

He sent one of these by his confidential messenger to the "reputed wife"
of Brick Duffy, and the other to the reputed wife of Red McFadden.

Within the hour these offensive answers came:

     YE OWLD FOOL: brick Duffys bin ded 2 yere.
                                        BRIDGET MAHONEY.

     CHIEF BAT,--Red McFadden is hung and in heving 18 month.  Any Ass
     but a detective know that.
                                        MARY O'HOOLIGAN.

"I had long suspected these facts," said the inspector; "this testimony
proves the unerring accuracy of my instinct."

The moment one resource failed him he was ready with another.  He
immediately wrote an advertisement for the morning papers, and I kept a
copy of it:

     A.--xWhlv.  242 ht.  Tjnd--fz328wmlg.  Ozpo,--2 m!  2m!.  M! ogw.

He said that if the thief was alive this would bring him to the usual
rendezvous.  He further explained that the usual rendezvous was a glare
where all business affairs between detectives and criminals were
conducted.  This meeting would take place at twelve the next night.

We could do nothing till then, and I lost no time in getting out of the
office, and was grateful indeed for the privilege.

At eleven the next night I brought one hundred thousand dollars in
bank-notes and put them into the chief's hands, and shortly afterward he
took his leave, with the brave old undimmed confidence in his eye.
An almost intolerable hour dragged to a close; then I heard his welcome
tread, and rose gasping and tottered to meet him.  How his fine eyes
flamed with triumph!  He said:

"We've compromised!  The jokers will sing a different tune to-morrow!
Follow me!"

He took a lighted candle and strode down into the vast vaulted basement
where sixty detectives always slept, and where a score were now playing
cards to while the time.  I followed close after him.  He walked swiftly
down to the dim and remote end of the place, and just as I succumbed to
the pangs of suffocation and was swooning away he stumbled and fell over
the outlying members of a mighty object, and I heard him exclaim as he
went down:

"Our noble profession is vindicated.  Here is your elephant!"

I was carried to the office above and restored with carbolic acid.  The
whole detective force swarmed in, and such another season of triumphant
rejoicing ensued as I had never witnessed before.  The reporters were
called, baskets of champagne were opened, toasts were drunk, the
handshakings and congratulations were continuous and enthusiastic.
Naturally the chief was the hero of the hour, and his happiness was so
complete and had been so patiently and worthily and bravely won that it
made me happy to see it, though I stood there a homeless beggar, my
priceless charge dead, and my position in my country's service lost to me
through what would always seem my fatally careless execution of a great
trust.  Many an eloquent eye testified its deep admiration for the chief,
and many a detective's voice murmured, "Look at him--just the king of the
profession; only give him a clue, it's all he wants, and there ain't
anything hid that he can't find."  The dividing of the fifty thousand
dollars made great pleasure; when it was finished the chief made a little
speech while he put his share in his pocket, in which he said, "Enjoy it,
boys, for you've earned it; and, more than that, you've earned for the
detective profession undying fame."

A telegram arrived, which read:

                         MONROE, MICH., 10 P.M.
First time I've struck a telegraph office in over three weeks.  Have
followed those footprints, horseback, through the woods, a thousand miles
to here, and they get stronger and bigger and fresher every day.  Don't
worry-inside of another week I'll have the elephant.  This is dead sure.
                         DARLEY, Detective.

The chief ordered three cheers for "Darley, one of the finest minds on
the force," and then commanded that he be telegraphed to come home and
receive his share of the reward.

So ended that marvelous episode of the stolen elephant.  The newspapers
were pleasant with praises once more, the next day, with one contemptible
exception.  This sheet said, "Great is the detective!  He may be a little
slow in finding a little thing like a mislaid elephant he may hunt him
all day and sleep with his rotting carcass all night for three weeks, but
he will find him at last if he can get the man who mislaid him to show
him the place!"

Poor Hassan was lost to me forever.  The cannonshots had wounded him
fatally, he had crept to that unfriendly place in the fog, and there,
surrounded by his enemies and in constant danger of detection, he had
wasted away with hunger and suffering till death gave him peace.

The compromise cost me one hundred thousand dollars; my detective
expenses were forty-two thousand dollars more; I never applied for a
place again under my government; I am a ruined man and a wanderer on the
earth but my admiration for that man, whom I believe to be the greatest
detective the world has ever produced, remains undimmed to this day, and
will so remain unto the end.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Stolen White Elephant,
by Mark Twain





                    A TRAMP ABROAD

                     By Mark Twain
                  (Samuel L. Clemens)

                First published in 1880

                      * * * * * *


[Transcriber's Note for edition 12: on the advice of two
German-speaking volunteers, the German letters a, o, and u with
umlauts have been rendered as ae, oe, and ue instead of as,
variously, :a, a", :o, o" and :u, u" as in previous editions.]




CHAPTER I
[The Knighted Knave of Bergen]

One day it occurred to me that it had been many years
since the world had been afforded the spectacle of a man
adventurous enough to undertake a journey through Europe
on foot.  After much thought, I decided that I was
a person fitted to furnish to mankind this spectacle.
So I determined to do it.  This was in March, 1878.

I looked about me for the right sort of person to
accompany me in the capacity of agent, and finally
hired a Mr. Harris for this service.

It was also my purpose to study art while in Europe.
Mr. Harris was in sympathy with me in this.  He was as much
of an enthusiast in art as I was, and not less anxious
to learn to paint.  I desired to learn the German language;
so did Harris.

Toward the middle of April we sailed in the HOLSATIA,
Captain Brandt, and had a very peasant trip, indeed.

After a brief rest at Hamburg, we made preparations for
a long pedestrian trip southward in the soft spring weather,
but at the last moment we changed the program,
for private reasons, and took the express-train.

We made a short halt at Frankfort-on-the-Main, and found
it an interesting city.  I would have liked to visit
the birthplace of Gutenburg, but it could not be done,
as no memorandum of the site of the house has been kept.
So we spent an hour in the Goethe mansion instead.
The city permits this house to belong to private parties,
instead of gracing and dignifying herself with the honor
of possessing and protecting it.

Frankfort is one of the sixteen cities which have
the distinction of being the place where the following
incident occurred.  Charlemagne, while chasing the Saxons
(as HE said), or being chased by them (as THEY said),
arrived at the bank of the river at dawn, in a fog.
The enemy were either before him or behind him;
but in any case he wanted to get across, very badly.
He would have given anything for a guide, but none was to
be had.  Presently he saw a deer, followed by her young,
approach the water.  He watched her, judging that she
would seek a ford, and he was right.  She waded over,
and the army followed.  So a great Frankish victory or
defeat was gained or avoided; and in order to commemorate
the episode, Charlemagne commanded a city to be built there,
which he named Frankfort--the ford of the Franks.
None of the other cities where this event happened were
named for it.  This is good evidence that Frankfort was
the first place it occurred at.

Frankfort has another distinction--it is the birthplace
of the German alphabet; or at least of the German word
for alphabet --BUCHSTABEN. They say that the first movable
types were made on birch sticks--BUCHSTABE--hence the name.

I was taught a lesson in political economy in Frankfort.
I had brought from home a box containing a thousand
very cheap cigars.  By way of experiment, I stepped
into a little shop in a queer old back street, took four
gaily decorated boxes of wax matches and three cigars,
and laid down a silver piece worth 48 cents.  The man gave
me 43 cents change.

In Frankfort everybody wears clean clothes, and I think we
noticed that this strange thing was the case in Hamburg, too,
and in the villages along the road.  Even in the narrowest
and poorest and most ancient quarters of Frankfort neat
and clean clothes were the rule.  The little children
of both sexes were nearly always nice enough to take into
a body's lap.  And as for the uniforms of the soldiers,
they were newness and brightness carried to perfection.
One could never detect a smirch or a grain of dust
upon them.  The street-car conductors and drivers wore
pretty uniforms which seemed to be just out of the bandbox,
and their manners were as fine as their clothes.

In one of the shops I had the luck to stumble upon a book
which has charmed me nearly to death.  It is entitled
THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE FROM BASLE TO ROTTERDAM,
by F. J. Kiefer; translated by L. W. Garnham, B.A.

All tourists MENTION the Rhine legends--in that sort of way
which quietly pretends that the mentioner has been familiar
with them all his life, and that the reader cannot possibly
be ignorant of them--but no tourist ever TELLS them.
So this little book fed me in a very hungry place; and I,
in my turn, intend to feed my reader, with one or two
little lunches from the same larder.  I shall not mar
Garnharn's translation by meddling with its English;
for the most toothsome thing about it is its quaint
fashion of building English sentences on the German plan--
and punctuating them accordingly to no plan at all.

In the chapter devoted to "Legends of Frankfort,"
I find the following:

"THE KNAVE OF BERGEN"

"In Frankfort at the Romer was a great mask-ball, at
the coronation festival, and in the illuminated saloon,
the clanging music invited to dance, and splendidly
appeared the rich toilets and charms of the ladies,
and the festively costumed Princes and Knights.
All seemed pleasure, joy, and roguish gaiety, only one of the
numerous guests had a gloomy exterior; but exactly the black
armor in which he walked about excited general attention,
and his tall figure, as well as the noble propriety of
his movements, attracted especially the regards of the ladies.
Who the Knight was? Nobody could guess, for his Vizier
was well closed, and nothing made him recognizable.
Proud and yet modest he advanced to the Empress; bowed on
one knee before her seat, and begged for the favor of a
waltz with the Queen of the festival.  And she allowed
his request.  With light and graceful steps he danced
through the long saloon, with the sovereign who thought
never to have found a more dexterous and excellent dancer.
But also by the grace of his manner, and fine conversation
he knew to win the Queen, and she graciously accorded him
a second dance for which he begged, a third, and a fourth,
as well as others were not refused him.  How all regarded
the happy dancer, how many envied him the high favor;
how increased curiosity, who the masked knight could be.

"Also the Emperor became more and more excited with curiosity,
and with great suspense one awaited the hour, when according
to mask-law, each masked guest must make himself known.
This moment came, but although all other unmasked;
the secret knight still refused to allow his features
to be seen, till at last the Queen driven by curiosity,
and vexed at the obstinate refusal; commanded him to open
his Vizier.  He opened it, and none of the high ladies
and knights knew him.  But from the crowded spectators,
2 officials advanced, who recognized the black dancer,
and horror and terror spread in the saloon, as they said who
the supposed knight was.  It was the executioner of Bergen.
But glowing with rage, the King commanded to seize the
criminal and lead him to death, who had ventured to dance,
with the queen; so disgraced the Empress, and insulted
the crown.  The culpable threw himself at the Emperor,
and said--

"'Indeed I have heavily sinned against all noble guests
assembled here, but most heavily against you my sovereign
and my queen.  The Queen is insulted by my haughtiness
equal to treason, but no punishment even blood, will not
be able to wash out the disgrace, which you have suffered
by me.  Therefore oh King! allow me to propose a remedy,
to efface the shame, and to render it as if not done.
Draw your sword and knight me, then I will throw down
my gauntlet, to everyone who dares to speak disrespectfully
of my king.'

"The Emperor was surprised at this bold proposal,
however it appeared the wisest to him; 'You are a knave
he replied after a moment's consideration, however your
advice is good, and displays prudence, as your offense
shows adventurous courage.  Well then, and gave him the
knight-stroke so I raise you to nobility, who begged for
grace for your offense now kneels before me, rise as knight;
knavish you have acted, and Knave of Bergen shall you
be called henceforth, and gladly the Black knight rose;
three cheers were given in honor of the Emperor,
and loud cries of joy testified the approbation with
which the Queen danced still once with the Knave of Bergen."



CHAPTER II
Heidelberg
[Landing a Monarch at Heidelberg]

We stopped at a hotel by the railway-station. Next morning,
as we sat in my room waiting for breakfast to come up,
we got a good deal interested in something which was
going on over the way, in front of another hotel.
First, the personage who is called the PORTIER (who is
not the PORTER, but is a sort of first-mate of a hotel)
[1. See Appendix A] appeared at the door in a spick-and-span
new blue cloth uniform, decorated with shining brass buttons,
and with bands of gold lace around his cap and wristbands;
and he wore white gloves, too.  He shed an official glance
upon the situation, and then began to give orders.
Two women-servants came out with pails and brooms
and brushes, and gave the sidewalk a thorough scrubbing;
meanwhile two others scrubbed the four marble steps
which led up to the door; beyond these we could see some
men-servants taking up the carpet of the grand staircase.
This carpet was carried away and the last grain of dust
beaten and banged and swept out of it; then brought back
and put down again.  The brass stair-rods received an
exhaustive polishing and were returned to their places.
Now a troop of servants brought pots and tubs
of blooming plants and formed them into a beautiful
jungle about the door and the base of the staircase.
Other servants adorned all the balconies of the various
stories with flowers and banners; others ascended
to the roof and hoisted a great flag on a staff there.
Now came some more chamber-maids and retouched the sidewalk,
and afterward wiped the marble steps with damp cloths
and finished by dusting them off with feather brushes.
Now a broad black carpet was brought out and laid down the
marble steps and out across the sidewalk to the curbstone.
The PORTIER cast his eye along it, and found it was not
absolutely straight; he commanded it to be straightened;
the servants made the effort--made several efforts,
in fact--but the PORTIER was not satisfied.  He finally
had it taken up, and then he put it down himself and got
it right.

At this stage of the proceedings, a narrow bright
red carpet was unrolled and stretched from the top
of the marble steps to the curbstone, along the center
of the black carpet.  This red path cost the PORTIER
more trouble than even the black one had done.  But he
patiently fixed and refixed it until it was exactly right
and lay precisely in the middle of the black carpet.
In New York these performances would have gathered a mighty
crowd of curious and intensely interested spectators;
but here it only captured an audience of half a dozen
little boys who stood in a row across the pavement,
some with their school-knapsacks on their backs and their
hands in their pockets, others with arms full of bundles,
and all absorbed in the show.  Occasionally one of them
skipped irreverently over the carpet and took up a position
on the other side.  This always visibly annoyed the PORTIER.

Now came a waiting interval.  The landlord, in plain clothes,
and bareheaded, placed himself on the bottom marble step,
abreast the PORTIER, who stood on the other end of the
same steps; six or eight waiters, gloved, bareheaded,
and wearing their whitest linen, their whitest cravats,
and their finest swallow-tails, grouped themselves
about these chiefs, but leaving the carpetway clear.
Nobody moved or spoke any more but only waited.

In a short time the shrill piping of a coming train was heard,
and immediately groups of people began to gather in the street.
Two or three open carriages arrived, and deposited some
maids of honor and some male officials at the hotel.
Presently another open carriage brought the Grand Duke
of Baden, a stately man in uniform, who wore the handsome
brass-mounted, steel-spiked helmet of the army on his head.
Last came the Empress of Germany and the Grand Duchess
of Baden in a closed carriage; these passed through the
low-bowing groups of servants and disappeared in the hotel,
exhibiting to us only the backs of their heads, and then
the show was over.

It appears to be as difficult to land a monarch as it
is to launch a ship.

But as to Heidelberg.  The weather was growing pretty warm,
--very warm, in fact.  So we left the valley and took
quarters at the Schloss Hotel, on the hill, above the Castle.

Heidelberg lies at the mouth of a narrow gorge--a gorge
the shape of a shepherd's crook; if one looks up it he
perceives that it is about straight, for a mile and a half,
then makes a sharp curve to the right and disappears.
This gorge--along whose bottom pours the swift Neckar--
is confined between (or cloven through) a couple of long,
steep ridges, a thousand feet high and densely wooded
clear to their summits, with the exception of one section
which has been shaved and put under cultivation.
These ridges are chopped off at the mouth of the gorge
and form two bold and conspicuous headlands, with Heidelberg
nestling between them; from their bases spreads away
the vast dim expanse of the Rhine valley, and into this
expanse the Neckar goes wandering in shining curves and is
presently lost to view.

Now if one turns and looks up the gorge once more, he will
see the Schloss Hotel on the right perched on a precipice
overlooking the Neckar--a precipice which is so sumptuously
cushioned and draped with foliage that no glimpse of the
rock appears.  The building seems very airily situated.
It has the appearance of being on a shelf half-way up
the wooded mountainside; and as it is remote and isolated,
and very white, it makes a strong mark against the lofty
leafy rampart at its back.

This hotel had a feature which was a decided novelty,
and one which might be adopted with advantage by any house
which is perched in a commanding situation.  This feature
may be described as a series of glass-enclosed parlors
CLINGING TO THE OUTSIDE OF THE HOUSE, one against each
and every bed-chamber and drawing-room. They are like long,
narrow, high-ceiled bird-cages hung against the building.
My room was a corner room, and had two of these things,
a north one and a west one.

From the north cage one looks up the Neckar gorge;
from the west one he looks down it.  This last affords
the most extensive view, and it is one of the loveliest
that can be imagined, too.  Out of a billowy upheaval of
vivid green foliage, a rifle-shot removed, rises the huge
ruin of Heidelberg Castle, [2. See Appendix B] with empty window
arches,
ivy-mailed battlements, moldering towers--the Lear of
inanimate nature--deserted, discrowned, beaten by the storms,
but royal still, and beautiful.  It is a fine sight to see
the evening sunlight suddenly strike the leafy declivity
at the Castle's base and dash up it and drench it as with
a luminous spray, while the adjacent groves are in deep shadow.

Behind the Castle swells a great dome-shaped hill,
forest-clad, and beyond that a nobler and loftier one.
The Castle looks down upon the compact brown-roofed town;
and from the town two picturesque old bridges span
the river.  Now the view broadens; through the gateway
of the sentinel headlands you gaze out over the wide
Rhine plain, which stretches away, softly and richly tinted,
grows gradually and dreamily indistinct, and finally melts
imperceptibly into the remote horizon.

I have never enjoyed a view which had such a serene
and satisfying charm about it as this one gives.

The first night we were there, we went to bed and to
sleep early; but I awoke at the end of two or three hours,
and lay a comfortable while listening to the soothing
patter of the rain against the balcony windows.
I took it to be rain, but it turned out to be only the
murmur of the restless Neckar, tumbling over her dikes
and dams far below, in the gorge.  I got up and went
into the west balcony and saw a wonderful sight.
Away down on the level under the black mass of the Castle,
the town lay, stretched along the river, its intricate
cobweb of streets jeweled with twinkling lights;
there were rows of lights on the bridges; these flung
lances of light upon the water, in the black shadows
of the arches; and away at the extremity of all this
fairy spectacle blinked and glowed a massed multitude
of gas-jets which seemed to cover acres of ground;
it was as if all the diamonds in the world had been spread
out there.  I did not know before, that a half-mile
of sextuple railway-tracks could be made such an adornment.

One thinks Heidelberg by day--with its surroundings--
is the last possibility of the beautiful; but when he
sees Heidelberg by night, a fallen Milky Way, with that
glittering railway constellation pinned to the border,
he requires time to consider upon the verdict.

One never tires of poking about in the dense woods that
clothe all these lofty Neckar hills to their beguiling
and impressive charm in any country; but German legends
and fairy tales have given these an added charm.
They have peopled all that region with gnomes, and dwarfs,
and all sorts of mysterious and uncanny creatures.
At the time I am writing of, I had been reading so much
of this literature that sometimes I was not sure but I
was beginning to believe in the gnomes and fairies
as realities.

One afternoon I got lost in the woods about a mile from
the hotel, and presently fell into a train of dreamy thought
about animals which talk, and kobolds, and enchanted folk,
and the rest of the pleasant legendary stuff; and so,
by stimulating my fancy, I finally got to imagining I
glimpsed small flitting shapes here and there down the
columned aisles of the forest.  It was a place which was
peculiarly meet for the occasion.  It was a pine wood,
with so thick and soft a carpet of brown needles that one's
footfall made no more sound than if he were treading
on wool; the tree-trunks were as round and straight
and smooth as pillars, and stood close together;
they were bare of branches to a point about twenty-five
feet above-ground, and from there upward so thick with
boughs that not a ray of sunlight could pierce through.
The world was bright with sunshine outside, but a deep
and mellow twilight reigned in there, and also a deep
silence so profound that I seemed to hear my own breathings.

When I had stood ten minutes, thinking and imagining,
and getting my spirit in tune with the place, and in the
right mood to enjoy the supernatural, a raven suddenly
uttered a horse croak over my head.  It made me start;
and then I was angry because I started.  I looked up,
and the creature was sitting on a limb right over me,
looking down at me.  I felt something of the same sense
of humiliation and injury which one feels when he finds
that a human stranger has been clandestinely inspecting
him in his privacy and mentally commenting upon him.
I eyed the raven, and the raven eyed me.  Nothing was said
during some seconds.  Then the bird stepped a little way
along his limb to get a better point of observation,
lifted his wings, stuck his head far down below his
shoulders toward me and croaked again--a croak with a
distinctly insulting expression about it.  If he had
spoken in English he could not have said any more plainly
that he did say in raven, "Well, what do YOU want here?"
I felt as foolish as if I had been caught in some mean act
by a responsible being, and reproved for it.  However, I
made no reply; I would not bandy words with a raven.
The adversary waited a while, with his shoulders still lifted,
his head thrust down between them, and his keen bright eye
fixed on me; then he threw out two or three more insults,
which I could not understand, further than that I
knew a portion of them consisted of language not used
in church.

I still made no reply.  Now the adversary raised his head
and called.  There was an answering croak from a little
distance in the wood--evidently a croak of inquiry.
The adversary explained with enthusiasm, and the other raven
dropped everything and came.  The two sat side by side
on the limb and discussed me as freely and offensively
as two great naturalists might discuss a new kind of bug.
The thing became more and more embarrassing.  They called
in another friend.  This was too much.  I saw that they
had the advantage of me, and so I concluded to get out
of the scrape by walking out of it.  They enjoyed my
defeat as much as any low white people could have done.
They craned their necks and laughed at me (for a raven
CAN laugh, just like a man), they squalled insulting remarks
after me as long as they could see me.  They were nothing
but ravens--I knew that--what they thought of me could
be a matter of no consequence--and yet when even a raven
shouts after you, "What a hat!" "Oh, pull down your vest!"
and that sort of thing, it hurts you and humiliates you,
and there is no getting around it with fine reasoning and
pretty arguments.

Animals talk to each other, of course.  There can be no
question about that; but I suppose there are very few
people who can understand them.  I never knew but one man
who could.  I knew he could, however, because he told
me so himself.  He was a middle-aged, simple-hearted
miner who had lived in a lonely corner of California,
among the woods and mountains, a good many years,
and had studied the ways of his only neighbors, the beasts
and the birds, until he believed he could accurately
translate any remark which they made.  This was Jim Baker.
According to Jim Baker, some animals have only a
limited education, and some use only simple words,
and scarcely ever a comparison or a flowery figure;
whereas, certain other animals have a large vocabulary,
a fine command of language and a ready and fluent delivery;
consequently these latter talk a great deal; they like it;
they are so conscious of their talent, and they enjoy
"showing off." Baker said, that after long and careful
observation, he had come to the conclusion that the bluejays
were the best talkers he had found among birds and beasts.  Said
he:

"There's more TO a bluejay than any other creature.
He has got more moods, and more different kinds
of feelings than other creatures; and, mind you,
whatever a bluejay feels, he can put into language.
And no mere commonplace language, either, but rattling,
out-and-out book-talk--and bristling with metaphor,
too--just bristling! And as for command of language--why
YOU never see a bluejay get stuck for a word.  No man
ever did.  They just boil out of him! And another thing:
I've noticed a good deal, and there's no bird, or cow,
or anything that uses as good grammar as a bluejay.
You may say a cat uses good grammar.  Well, a cat
does--but you let a cat get excited once; you let a cat
get to pulling fur with another cat on a shed, nights,
and you'll hear grammar that will give you the lockjaw.
Ignorant people think it's the NOISE which fighting
cats make that is so aggravating, but it ain't so;
it's the sickening grammar they use.  Now I've never heard
a jay use bad grammar but very seldom; and when they do,
they are as ashamed as a human; they shut right down
and leave.

"You may call a jay a bird.  Well, so he is, in a measure--
but he's got feathers on him, and don't belong to no church,
perhaps; but otherwise he is just as much human as you be.
And I'll tell you for why.  A jay's gifts, and instincts,
and feelings, and interests, cover the whole ground.
A jay hasn't got any more principle than a Congressman.
A jay will lie, a jay will steal, a jay will deceive,
a jay will betray; and four times out of five, a jay
will go back on his solemnest promise.  The sacredness
of an obligation is such a thing which you can't cram
into no bluejay's head.  Now, on top of all this,
there's another thing; a jay can out-swear any gentleman
in the mines.  You think a cat can swear.  Well, a cat can;
but you give a bluejay a subject that calls for his
reserve-powers, and where is your cat? Don't talk to ME--I
know too much about this thing; in the one little particular
of scolding--just good, clean, out-and-out scolding--
a bluejay can lay over anything, human or divine.
Yes, sir, a jay is everything that a man is.  A jay can cry,
a jay can laugh, a jay can feel shame, a jay can reason
and plan and discuss, a jay likes gossip and scandal,
a jay has got a sense of humor, a jay knows when he is
an ass just as well as you do--maybe better.  If a jay
ain't human, he better take in his sign, that's all.
Now I'm going to tell you a perfectly true fact about
some bluejays.



CHAPTER III
Baker's Bluejay Yarn
[What Stumped the Blue Jays]

"When I first begun to understand jay language correctly,
there was a little incident happened here.  Seven years ago,
the last man in this region but me moved away.  There stands
his house--been empty ever since; a log house, with a plank
roof--just one big room, and no more; no ceiling--nothing
between the rafters and the floor.  Well, one Sunday
morning I was sitting out here in front of my cabin,
with my cat, taking the sun, and looking at the blue hills,
and listening to the leaves rustling so lonely in the trees,
and thinking of the home away yonder in the states,
that I hadn't heard from in thirteen years, when a bluejay
lit on that house, with an acorn in his mouth, and says,
'Hello, I reckon I've struck something.' When he spoke,
the acorn dropped out of his mouth and rolled down the roof,
of course, but he didn't care; his mind was all on the
thing he had struck.  It was a knot-hole in the roof.
He cocked his head to one side, shut one eye and put the
other one to the hole, like a possum looking down a jug;
then he glanced up with his bright eyes, gave a wink
or two with his wings--which signifies gratification,
you understand--and says, 'It looks like a hole,
it's located like a hole--blamed if I don't believe it IS
a hole!'

"Then he cocked his head down and took another look;
he glances up perfectly joyful, this time; winks his wings
and his tail both, and says, 'Oh, no, this ain't no fat thing,
I reckon! If I ain't in luck! --Why it's a perfectly
elegant hole!' So he flew down and got that acorn,
and fetched it up and dropped it in, and was just tilting
his head back, with the heavenliest smile on his face,
when all of a sudden he was paralyzed into a listening
attitude and that smile faded gradually out of his
countenance like breath off'n a razor, and the queerest
look of surprise took its place.  Then he says, 'Why, I
didn't hear it fall!' He cocked his eye at the hole again,
and took a long look; raised up and shook his head;
stepped around to the other side of the hole and took
another look from that side; shook his head again.
He studied a while, then he just went into the Details--
walked round and round the hole and spied into it from every
point of the compass.  No use.  Now he took a thinking
attitude on the comb of the roof and scratched the back
of his head with his right foot a minute, and finally says,
'Well, it's too many for ME, that's certain; must be
a mighty long hole; however, I ain't got no time to fool
around here, I got to "tend to business"; I reckon it's
all right--chance it, anyway.'

"So he flew off and fetched another acorn and dropped
it in, and tried to flirt his eye to the hole quick
enough to see what become of it, but he was too late.
He held his eye there as much as a minute; then he raised
up and sighed, and says, 'Confound it, I don't seem
to understand this thing, no way; however, I'll tackle
her again.' He fetched another acorn, and done his level
best to see what become of it, but he couldn't. He says,
'Well, I never struck no such a hole as this before;
I'm of the opinion it's a totally new kind of a hole.'
Then he begun to get mad.  He held in for a spell,
walking up and down the comb of the roof and shaking
his head and muttering to himself; but his feelings got
the upper hand of him, presently, and he broke loose
and cussed himself black in the face.  I never see a bird
take on so about a little thing.  When he got through he
walks to the hole and looks in again for half a minute;
then he says, 'Well, you're a long hole, and a deep hole,
and a mighty singular hole altogether--but I've started
in to fill you, and I'm damned if I DON'T fill you, if it
takes a hundred years!'

"And with that, away he went.  You never see a bird work
so since you was born.  He laid into his work like a nigger,
and the way he hove acorns into that hole for about
two hours and a half was one of the most exciting and
astonishing spectacles I ever struck.  He never stopped
to take a look anymore--he just hove 'em in and went
for more.  Well, at last he could hardly flop his wings,
he was so tuckered out.  He comes a-dropping down, once more,
sweating like an ice-pitcher, dropped his acorn in and says,
'NOW I guess I've got the bulge on you by this time!'
So he bent down for a look.  If you'll believe me,
when his head come up again he was just pale with rage.
He says, 'I've shoveled acorns enough in there to keep
the family thirty years, and if I can see a sign of one
of 'em I wish I may land in a museum with a belly full
of sawdust in two minutes!'

"He just had strength enough to crawl up on to the
comb and lean his back agin the chimbly, and then he
collected his impressions and begun to free his mind.
I see in a second that what I had mistook for profanity
in the mines was only just the rudiments, as you may say.

"Another jay was going by, and heard him doing his devotions,
and stops to inquire what was up.  The sufferer told him
the whole circumstance, and says, 'Now yonder's the hole,
and if you don't believe me, go and look for yourself.'
So this fellow went and looked, and comes back and says,
"How many did you say you put in there?' 'Not any less
than two tons,' says the sufferer.  The other jay went
and looked again.  He couldn't seem to make it out, so he
raised a yell, and three more jays come.  They all examined
the hole, they all made the sufferer tell it over again,
then they all discussed it, and got off as many leather-headed
opinions about it as an average crowd of humans could
have done.

"They called in more jays; then more and more, till pretty
soon this whole region 'peared to have a blue flush about it.
There must have been five thousand of them; and such
another jawing and disputing and ripping and cussing,
you never heard.  Every jay in the whole lot put his
eye to the hole and delivered a more chuckle-headed
opinion about the mystery than the jay that went there
before him.  They examined the house all over, too.
The door was standing half open, and at last one old jay
happened to go and light on it and look in.  Of course,
that knocked the mystery galley-west in a second.
There lay the acorns, scattered all over the floor..
He flopped his wings and raised a whoop.  'Come here!'
he says, 'Come here, everybody; hang'd if this fool hasn't
been trying to fill up a house with acorns!' They all came
a-swooping down like a blue cloud, and as each fellow
lit on the door and took a glance, the whole absurdity
of the contract that that first jay had tackled hit him
home and he fell over backward suffocating with laughter,
and the next jay took his place and done the same.

"Well, sir, they roosted around here on the housetop
and the trees for an hour, and guffawed over that thing
like human beings.  It ain't any use to tell me a bluejay
hasn't got a sense of humor, because I know better.
And memory, too.  They brought jays here from all over
the United States to look down that hole, every summer
for three years.  Other birds, too.  And they could all
see the point except an owl that come from Nova Scotia
to visit the Yo Semite, and he took this thing in on
his way back.  He said he couldn't see anything funny
in it.  But then he was a good deal disappointed about
Yo Semite, too."



CHAPTER IV
Student Life
[The Laborious Beer King]

The summer semester was in full tide; consequently the
most frequent figure in and about Heidelberg was
the student.  Most of the students were Germans,
of course, but the representatives of foreign lands
were very numerous.  They hailed from every corner
of the globe--for instruction is cheap in Heidelberg,
and so is living, too.  The Anglo-American Club,
composed of British and American students, had twenty-five
members, and there was still much material left to draw from.

Nine-tenths of the Heidelberg students wore no badge
or uniform; the other tenth wore caps of various colors,
and belonged to social organizations called "corps." There
were five corps, each with a color of its own; there were
white caps, blue caps, and red, yellow, and green ones.
The famous duel-fighting is confined to the "corps" boys.
The "KNEIP" seems to be a specialty of theirs, too.
Kneips are held, now and then, to celebrate great occasions,
like the election of a beer king, for instance.
The solemnity is simple; the five corps assemble at night,
and at a signal they all fall loading themselves with beer,
out of pint-mugs, as fast as possible, and each man keeps
his own count--usually by laying aside a lucifer match
for each mud he empties.  The election is soon decided.
When the candidates can hold no more, a count is instituted
and the one who has drank the greatest number of pints is
proclaimed king.  I was told that the last beer king elected
by the corps--or by his own capabilities--emptied his mug
seventy-five times.  No stomach could hold all that quantity
at one time, of course--but there are ways of frequently
creating a vacuum, which those who have been much at sea
will understand.

One sees so many students abroad at all hours, that he
presently begins to wonder if they ever have any
working-hours. Some of them have, some of them haven't.
Each can choose for himself whether he will work or play;
for German university life is a very free life;
it seems to have no restraints.  The student does not live
in the college buildings, but hires his own lodgings,
in any locality he prefers, and he takes his meals when
and where he pleases.  He goes to bed when it suits him,
and does not get up at all unless he wants to.
He is not entered at the university for any particular
length of time; so he is likely to change about.
He passes no examinations upon entering college.
He merely pays a trifling fee of five or ten dollars,
receives a card entitling him to the privileges of
the university, and that is the end of it.  He is now ready
for business--or play, as he shall prefer.  If he elects
to work, he finds a large list of lectures to choose from.
He selects the subjects which he will study, and enters
his name for these studies; but he can skip attendance.

The result of this system is, that lecture-courses upon
specialties of an unusual nature are often delivered
to very slim audiences, while those upon more practical
and every-day matters of education are delivered to very
large ones.  I heard of one case where, day after day,
the lecturer's audience consisted of three students--and always
the same three.  But one day two of them remained away.
The lecturer began as usual --

"Gentlemen," --then, without a smile, he corrected himself,
saying --

"Sir," --and went on with his discourse.

It is said that the vast majority of the Heidelberg students
are hard workers, and make the most of their opportunities;
that they have no surplus means to spend in dissipation,
and no time to spare for frolicking.  One lecture follows
right on the heels of another, with very little time
for the student to get out of one hall and into the next;
but the industrious ones manage it by going on a trot.
The professors assist them in the saving of their time
by being promptly in their little boxed-up pulpits when the
hours strike, and as promptly out again when the hour finishes.
I entered an empty lecture-room one day just before the
clock struck.  The place had simple, unpainted pine desks
and benches for about two hundred persons.

About a minute before the clock struck, a hundred
and fifty students swarmed in, rushed to their seats,
immediately spread open their notebooks and dipped their
pens in ink.  When the clock began to strike, a burly
professor entered, was received with a round of applause,
moved swiftly down the center aisle, said "Gentlemen,"
and began to talk as he climbed his pulpit steps; and by
the time he had arrived in his box and faced his audience,
his lecture was well under way and all the pens were going.
He had no notes, he talked with prodigious rapidity and
energy for an hour--then the students began to remind
him in certain well-understood ways that his time was up;
he seized his hat, still talking, proceeded swiftly down
his pulpit steps, got out the last word of his discourse
as he struck the floor; everybody rose respectfully,
and he swept rapidly down the aisle and disappeared.
An instant rush for some other lecture-room followed,
and in a minute I was alone with the empty benches
once more.

Yes, without doubt, idle students are not the rule.
Out of eight hundred in the town, I knew the faces of only
about fifty; but these I saw everywhere, and daily.
They walked about the streets and the wooded hills,
they drove in cabs, they boated on the river, they sipped
beer and coffee, afternoons, in the Schloss gardens.
A good many of them wore colored caps of the corps.
They were finely and fashionably dressed, their manners
were quite superb, and they led an easy, careless,
comfortable life.  If a dozen of them sat together and a lady
or a gentleman passed whom one of them knew and saluted,
they all rose to their feet and took off their caps.
The members of a corps always received a fellow-member
in this way, too; but they paid no attention to members
of other corps; they did not seem to see them.  This was not
a discourtesy; it was only a part of the elaborate and rigid
corps etiquette.

There seems to be no chilly distance existing between the
German students and the professor; but, on the contrary,
a companionable intercourse, the opposite of chilliness
and reserve.  When the professor enters a beer-hall
in the evening where students are gathered together,
these rise up and take off their caps, and invite the old
gentleman to sit with them and partake.  He accepts,
and the pleasant talk and the beer flow for an hour or two,
and by and by the professor, properly charged and comfortable,
gives a cordial good night, while the students stand
bowing and uncovered; and then he moves on his happy
way homeward with all his vast cargo of learning afloat
in his hold.  Nobody finds fault or feels outraged;
no harm has been done.

It seemed to be a part of corps etiquette to keep a dog
or so, too.  I mean a corps dog--the common property of
the organization, like the corps steward or head servant;
then there are other dogs, owned by individuals.

On a summer afternoon in the Castle gardens, I have
seen six students march solemnly into the grounds,
in single file, each carrying a bright Chinese parasol
and leading a prodigious dog by a string.  It was a very
imposing spectacle.  Sometimes there would be as many
dogs around the pavilion as students; and of all breeds
and of all degrees of beauty and ugliness.  These dogs
had a rather dry time of it; for they were tied to the
benches and had no amusement for an hour or two at a time
except what they could get out of pawing at the gnats,
or trying to sleep and not succeeding.  However, they got
a lump of sugar occasionally--they were fond of that.

It seemed right and proper that students should indulge in dogs;
but everybody else had them, too--old men and young ones,
old women and nice young ladies.  If there is one spectacle
that is unpleasanter than another, it is that of an
elegantly dressed young lady towing a dog by a string.
It is said to be the sign and symbol of blighted love.
It seems to me that some other way of advertising it might
be devised, which would be just as conspicuous and yet
not so trying to the proprieties.

It would be a mistake to suppose that the easy-going
pleasure-seeking student carries an empty head.
Just the contrary.  He has spent nine years in the gymnasium,
under a system which allowed him no freedom, but vigorously
compelled him to work like a slave.  Consequently, he has
left the gymnasium with an education which is so extensive
and complete, that the most a university can do for it
is to perfect some of its profounder specialties.
It is said that when a pupil leaves the gymnasium, he not
only has a comprehensive education, but he KNOWS what he
knows--it is not befogged with uncertainty, it is burnt
into him so that it will stay.  For instance, he does not
merely read and write Greek, but speaks it; the same with
the Latin.  Foreign youth steer clear of the gymnasium;
its rules are too severe.  They go to the university
to put a mansard roof on their whole general education;
but the German student already has his mansard roof, so he
goes there to add a steeple in the nature of some specialty,
such as a particular branch of law, or diseases of the eye,
or special study of the ancient Gothic tongues.
So this German attends only the lectures which belong
to the chosen branch, and drinks his beer and tows his dog
around and has a general good time the rest of the day.
He has been in rigid bondage so long that the large liberty
of the university life is just what he needs and likes
and thoroughly appreciates; and as it cannot last forever,
he makes the most of it while it does last, and so lays
up a good rest against the day that must see him put on
the chains once more and enter the slavery of official
or professional life.



CHAPTER V
At the Students' Dueling-Ground
[Dueling by Wholesale]

One day in the interest of science my agent obtained
permission to bring me to the students' dueling-place. We
crossed the river and drove up the bank a few hundred yards,
then turned to the left, entered a narrow alley, followed it
a hundred yards and arrived at a two-story public house;
we were acquainted with its outside aspect, for it was
visible from the hotel.  We went upstairs and passed into
a large whitewashed apartment which was perhaps fifty feet
long by thirty feet wide and twenty or twenty-five high.
It was a well-lighted place.  There was no carpet.
Across one end and down both sides of the room extended a row
of tables, and at these tables some fifty or seventy-five
students [1. See Appendix C] were sitting.

Some of them were sipping wine, others were playing cards,
others chess, other groups were chatting together,
and many were smoking cigarettes while they waited for
the coming duels.  Nearly all of them wore colored caps;
there were white caps, green caps, blue caps, red caps,
and bright-yellow ones; so, all the five corps were
present in strong force.  In the windows at the vacant
end of the room stood six or eight, narrow-bladed swords
with large protecting guards for the hand, and outside
was a man at work sharpening others on a grindstone.
He understood his business; for when a sword left his hand
one could shave himself with it.

It was observable that the young gentlemen neither bowed
to nor spoke with students whose caps differed in color
from their own.  This did not mean hostility, but only an
armed neutrality.  It was considered that a person could
strike harder in the duel, and with a more earnest interest,
if he had never been in a condition of comradeship with
his antagonist; therefore, comradeship between the corps
was not permitted.  At intervals the presidents of the five
corps have a cold official intercourse with each other,
but nothing further.  For example, when the regular
dueling-day of one of the corps approaches, its president
calls for volunteers from among the membership to
offer battle; three or more respond--but there must not
be less than three; the president lays their names before
the other presidents, with the request that they furnish
antagonists for these challengers from among their corps.
This is promptly done.  It chanced that the present
occasion was the battle-day of the Red Cap Corps.
They were the challengers, and certain caps of other colors
had volunteered to meet them.  The students fight duels
in the room which I have described, TWO DAYS IN EVERY WEEK
DURING SEVEN AND A HALF OR EIGHT MONTHS IN EVERY YEAR.
This custom had continued in Germany two hundred and fifty years.


To return to my narrative.  A student in a white cap
met us and introduced us to six or eight friends of his
who also wore white caps, and while we stood conversing,
two strange-looking figures were led in from another room.
They were students panoplied for the duel.  They were bareheaded;
their eyes were protected by iron goggles which projected
an inch or more, the leather straps of which bound
their ears flat against their heads were wound around
and around with thick wrappings which a sword could not
cut through; from chin to ankle they were padded thoroughly
against injury; their arms were bandaged and rebandaged,
layer upon layer, until they looked like solid black logs.
These weird apparitions had been handsome youths,
clad in fashionable attire, fifteen minutes before,
but now they did not resemble any beings one ever sees
unless in nightmares.  They strode along, with their arms
projecting straight out from their bodies; they did
not hold them out themselves, but fellow-students walked
beside them and gave the needed support.

There was a rush for the vacant end of the room, now,
and we followed and got good places.  The combatants were
placed face to face, each with several members of his own
corps about him to assist; two seconds, well padded,
and with swords in their hands, took their stations;
a student belonging to neither of the opposing corps
placed himself in a good position to umpire the combat;
another student stood by with a watch and a memorandum-book
to keep record of the time and the number and nature of
the wounds; a gray-haired surgeon was present with his lint,
his bandages, and his instruments.  After a moment's pause
the duelists saluted the umpire respectfully, then one
after another the several officials stepped forward,
gracefully removed their caps and saluted him also,
and returned to their places.  Everything was ready now;
students stood crowded together in the foreground,
and others stood behind them on chairs and tables.
Every face was turned toward the center of attraction.

The combatants were watching each other with alert eyes;
a perfect stillness, a breathless interest reigned.
I felt that I was going to see some wary work.  But not so.
The instant the word was given, the two apparitions
sprang forward and began to rain blows down upon each
other with such lightning rapidity that I could not quite
tell whether I saw the swords or only flashes they made
in the air; the rattling din of these blows as they struck
steel or paddings was something wonderfully stirring,
and they were struck with such terrific force that I could
not understand why the opposing sword was not beaten
down under the assault.  Presently, in the midst of the
sword-flashes, I saw a handful of hair skip into the air
as if it had lain loose on the victim's head and a breath
of wind had puffed it suddenly away.

The seconds cried "Halt!" and knocked up the combatants'
swords with their own.  The duelists sat down; a student
official stepped forward, examined the wounded head
and touched the place with a sponge once or twice;
the surgeon came and turned back the hair from the wound--
and revealed a crimson gash two or three inches long,
and proceeded to bind an oval piece of leather and a bunch
of lint over it; the tally-keeper stepped up and tallied
one for the opposition in his book.

Then the duelists took position again; a small stream of
blood was flowing down the side of the injured man's head,
and over his shoulder and down his body to the floor,
but he did not seem to mind this.  The word was given,
and they plunged at each other as fiercely as before;
once more the blows rained and rattled and flashed;
every few moments the quick-eyed seconds would notice
that a sword was bent--then they called "Halt!" struck up
the contending weapons, and an assisting student straightened
the bent one.

The wonderful turmoil went on--presently a bright spark
sprung from a blade, and that blade broken in several pieces,
sent one of its fragments flying to the ceiling.
A new sword was provided and the fight proceeded.
The exercise was tremendous, of course, and in time
the fighters began to show great fatigue.  They were
allowed to rest a moment, every little while; they got
other rests by wounding each other, for then they could
sit down while the doctor applied the lint and bandages.
The laws is that the battle must continue fifteen minutes
if the men can hold out; and as the pauses do not count,
this duel was protracted to twenty or thirty minutes,
I judged.  At last it was decided that the men were too much
wearied to do battle longer.  They were led away drenched
with crimson from head to foot.  That was a good fight,
but it could not count, partly because it did not last
the lawful fifteen minutes (of actual fighting), and
partly because neither man was disabled by his wound.
It was a drawn battle, and corps law requires that drawn
battles shall be refought as soon as the adversaries are
well of their hurts.

During the conflict, I had talked a little, now and then,
with a young gentleman of the White Cap Corps, and he
had mentioned that he was to fight next--and had also
pointed out his challenger, a young gentleman who was
leaning against the opposite wall smoking a cigarette
and restfully observing the duel then in progress.

My acquaintanceship with a party to the coming contest
had the effect of giving me a kind of personal interest
in it; I naturally wished he might win, and it was
the reverse of pleasant to learn that he probably
would not, because, although he was a notable swordsman,
the challenger was held to be his superior.

The duel presently began and in the same furious way
which had marked the previous one.  I stood close by,
but could not tell which blows told and which did not,
they fell and vanished so like flashes of light.  They all
seemed to tell; the swords always bent over the opponents'
heads, from the forehead back over the crown, and seemed
to touch, all the way; but it was not so--a protecting
blade, invisible to me, was always interposed between.
At the end of ten seconds each man had struck twelve
or fifteen blows, and warded off twelve or fifteen,
and no harm done; then a sword became disabled, and a short
rest followed whilst a new one was brought.  Early in the
next round the White Corps student got an ugly wound on
the side of his head and gave his opponent one like it.
In the third round the latter received another bad wound
in the head, and the former had his under-lip divided.
After that, the White Corps student gave many severe wounds,
but got none of the consequence in return.  At the end
of five minutes from the beginning of the duel the surgeon
stopped it; the challenging party had suffered such
injuries that any addition to them might be dangerous.
These injuries were a fearful spectacle, but are better
left undescribed.  So, against expectation, my acquaintance
was the victor.



CHAPTER VI
[A Sport that Sometimes Kills]

The third duel was brief and bloody.  The surgeon stopped
it when he saw that one of the men had received such bad
wounds that he could not fight longer without endangering
his life.

The fourth duel was a tremendous encounter; but at the end
of five or six minutes the surgeon interfered once more:
another man so severely hurt as to render it unsafe to add
to his harms.  I watched this engagement as I watched
the others--with rapt interest and strong excitement,
and with a shrink and a shudder for every blow that laid
open a cheek or a forehead; and a conscious paling of my
face when I occasionally saw a wound of a yet more shocking
nature inflicted.  My eyes were upon the loser of this
duel when he got his last and vanquishing wound--it
was in his face and it carried away his--but no matter,
I must not enter into details.  I had but a glance, and then
turned quickly, but I would not have been looking at all if I
had known what was coming.  No, that is probably not true;
one thinks he would not look if he knew what was coming,
but the interest and the excitement are so powerful that
they would doubtless conquer all other feelings; and so,
under the fierce exhilaration of the clashing steel,
he would yield and look after all.  Sometimes spectators
of these duels faint--and it does seem a very reasonable
thing to do, too.

Both parties to this fourth duel were badly hurt so much
that the surgeon was at work upon them nearly or quite an
hour--a fact which is suggestive.  But this waiting interval
was not wasted in idleness by the assembled students.
It was past noon, therefore they ordered their landlord,
downstairs, to send up hot beefsteaks, chickens, and such things,
and these they ate, sitting comfortable at the several tables,
whilst they chatted, disputed and laughed.  The door to
the surgeon's room stood open, meantime, but the cutting,
sewing, splicing, and bandaging going on in there in
plain view did not seem to disturb anyone's appetite.
I went in and saw the surgeon labor awhile, but could
not enjoy; it was much less trying to see the wounds
given and received than to see them mended; the stir
and turmoil, and the music of the steel, were wanting
here--one's nerves were wrung by this grisly spectacle,
whilst the duel's compensating pleasurable thrill was lacking.

Finally the doctor finished, and the men who were to fight
the closing battle of the day came forth.  A good many
dinners were not completed, yet, but no matter, they could
be eaten cold, after the battle; therefore everybody
crowded forth to see.  This was not a love duel, but a
"satisfaction" affair.  These two students had quarreled,
and were here to settle it.  They did not belong to any of
the corps, but they were furnished with weapons and armor,
and permitted to fight here by the five corps as a courtesy.
Evidently these two young men were unfamiliar with the
dueling ceremonies, though they were not unfamiliar with
the sword.  When they were placed in position they thought
it was time to begin--and then did begin, too, and with
a most impetuous energy, without waiting for anybody
to give the word.  This vastly amused the spectators,
and even broke down their studied and courtly gravity
and surprised them into laughter.  Of course the seconds
struck up the swords and started the duel over again.
At the word, the deluge of blows began, but before long
the surgeon once more interfered--for the only reason
which ever permits him to interfere--and the day's
war was over.  It was now two in the afternoon, and I
had been present since half past nine in the morning.
The field of battle was indeed a red one by this time;
but some sawdust soon righted that.  There had been one
duel before I arrived.  In it one of the men received
many injuries, while the other one escaped without
a scratch.

I had seen the heads and faces of ten youths gashed
in every direction by the keen two-edged blades, and yet
had not seen a victim wince, nor heard a moan, or detected
any fleeting expression which confessed the sharp pain
the hurts were inflicting.  This was good fortitude,
indeed.  Such endurance is to be expected in savages
and prize-fighters, for they are born and educated to it;
but to find it in such perfection in these gently bred
and kindly natured young fellows is matter for surprise.
It was not merely under the excitement of the sword-play
that this fortitude was shown; it was shown in the surgeon's
room where an uninspiring quiet reigned, and where there
was no audience.  The doctor's manipulations brought
out neither grimaces nor moans.  And in the fights
it was observable that these lads hacked and slashed
with the same tremendous spirit, after they were covered
with streaming wounds, which they had shown in the beginning.

The world in general looks upon the college duels as very
farcical affairs: true, but considering that the college
duel is fought by boys; that the swords are real swords;
and that the head and face are exposed, it seems to me
that it is a farce which had quite a grave side to it.
People laugh at it mainly because they think the student
is so covered up with armor that he cannot be hurt.
But it is not so; his eyes are ears are protected,
but the rest of his face and head are bare.  He can not only
be badly wounded, but his life is in danger; and he would
sometimes lose it but for the interference of the surgeon.
It is not intended that his life shall be endangered.
Fatal accidents are possible, however.  For instance,
the student's sword may break, and the end of it fly
up behind his antagonist's ear and cut an artery which
could not be reached if the sword remained whole.
This has happened, sometimes, and death has resulted
on the spot.  Formerly the student's armpits were not
protected--and at that time the swords were pointed,
whereas they are blunt, now; so an artery in the armpit
was sometimes cut, and death followed.  Then in the days
of sharp-pointed swords, a spectator was an occasional
victim--the end of a broken sword flew five or ten
feet and buried itself in his neck or his heart,
and death ensued instantly.  The student duels in Germany
occasion two or three deaths every year, now, but this
arises only from the carelessness of the wounded men;
they eat or drink imprudently, or commit excesses in the
way of overexertion; inflammation sets in and gets such
a headway that it cannot be arrested.  Indeed, there is
blood and pain and danger enough about the college duel
to entitle it to a considerable degree of respect.

All the customs, all the laws, all the details,
pertaining to the student duel are quaint and naive.
The grave, precise, and courtly ceremony with which the
thing is conducted, invests it with a sort of antique charm.

This dignity and these knightly graces suggest the tournament,
not the prize-fight. The laws are as curious as they
are strict.  For instance, the duelist may step forward
from the line he is placed upon, if he chooses, but never
back of it.  If he steps back of it, or even leans back,
it is considered that he did it to avoid a blow or contrive
an advantage; so he is dismissed from his corps in disgrace.
It would seem natural to step from under a descending
sword unconsciously, and against one's will and intent--yet
this unconsciousness is not allowed.  Again: if under the
sudden anguish of a wound the receiver of it makes a grimace,
he falls some degrees in the estimation of his fellows;
his corps are ashamed of him: they call him "hare foot,"
which is the German equivalent for chicken-hearted.



CHAPTER VII
[How Bismark Fought]

In addition to the corps laws, there are some corps
usages which have the force of laws.

Perhaps the president of a corps notices that one of the
membership who is no longer an exempt--that is a freshman--
has remained a sophomore some little time without volunteering
to fight; some day, the president, instead of calling
for volunteers, will APPOINT this sophomore to measure
swords with a student of another corps; he is free
to decline--everybody says so--there is no compulsion.
This is all true--but I have not heard of any student
who DID decline; to decline and still remain in the corps
would make him unpleasantly conspicuous, and properly so,
since he knew, when he joined, that his main business,
as a member, would be to fight.  No, there is no law
against declining--except the law of custom, which is
confessedly stronger than written law, everywhere.

The ten men whose duels I had witnessed did not go away
when their hurts were dressed, as I had supposed they would,
but came back, one after another, as soon as they were free
of the surgeon, and mingled with the assemblage in the
dueling-room. The white-cap student who won the second
fight witnessed the remaining three, and talked with us
during the intermissions.  He could not talk very well,
because his opponent's sword had cut his under-lip in two,
and then the surgeon had sewed it together and overlaid it
with a profusion of white plaster patches; neither could
he eat easily, still he contrived to accomplish a slow
and troublesome luncheon while the last duel was preparing.
The man who was the worst hurt of all played chess
while waiting to see this engagement.  A good part of
his face was covered with patches and bandages, and all
the rest of his head was covered and concealed by them.
It is said that the student likes to appear on the street
and in other public places in this kind of array,
and that this predilection often keeps him out when
exposure to rain or sun is a positive danger for him.
Newly bandaged students are a very common spectacle
in the public gardens of Heidelberg.  It is also said
that the student is glad to get wounds in the face,
because the scars they leave will show so well there;
and it is also said that these face wounds are so prized
that youths have even been known to pull them apart
from time to time and put red wine in them to make
them heal badly and leave as ugly a scar as possible.
It does not look reasonable, but it is roundly asserted
and maintained, nevertheless; I am sure of one thing--scars
are plenty enough in Germany, among the young men;
and very grim ones they are, too.  They crisscross the face
in angry red welts, and are permanent and ineffaceable.
Some of these scars are of a very strange and dreadful aspect;
and the effect is striking when several such accent
the milder ones, which form a city map on a man's face;
they suggest the "burned district" then.  We had often
noticed that many of the students wore a colored silk
band or ribbon diagonally across their breasts.
It transpired that this signifies that the wearer has
fought three duels in which a decision was reached--duels
in which he either whipped or was whipped--for drawn
battles do not count.  [1] After a student has received
his ribbon, he is "free"; he can cease from fighting,
without reproach--except some one insult him; his president
cannot appoint him to fight; he can volunteer if he
wants to, or remain quiescent if he prefers to do so.
Statistics show that he does NOT prefer to remain quiescent.
They show that the duel has a singular fascination about
it somewhere, for these free men, so far from resting upon
the privilege of the badge, are always volunteering.
A corps student told me it was of record that Prince
Bismarck fought thirty-two of these duels in a single summer
term when he was in college.  So he fought twenty-nine
after his badge had given him the right to retire from
the field.

1.  FROM MY DIARY.--Dined in a hotel a few miles up the Neckar,
    in a room whose walls were hung all over with framed
    portrait-groups of the Five Corps; some were recent,
    but many antedated photography, and were pictured in
    lithography--the dates ranged back to forty or fifty
    years ago.  Nearly every individual wore the ribbon across
    his breast.  In one portrait-group representing (as each
    of these pictures did) an entire Corps, I took pains
    to count the ribbons: there were twenty-seven members,
    and twenty-one of them wore that significant badge.

The statistics may be found to possess interest in
several particulars.  Two days in every week are devoted
to dueling.  The rule is rigid that there must be three
duels on each of these days; there are generally more,
but there cannot be fewer.  There were six the day
I was present; sometimes there are seven or eight.
It is insisted that eight duels a week--four for each
of the two days--is too low an average to draw a
calculation from, but I will reckon from that basis,
preferring an understatement to an overstatement of the case.
This requires about four hundred and eighty or five hundred
duelists a year--for in summer the college term is about
three and a half months, and in winter it is four months
and sometimes longer.  Of the seven hundred and fifty
students in the university at the time I am writing of,
only eighty belonged to the five corps, and it is only
these corps that do the dueling; occasionally other
students borrow the arms and battleground of the five corps
in order to settle a quarrel, but this does not happen
every dueling-day. [2] Consequently eighty youths furnish
the material for some two hundred and fifty duels a year.
This average gives six fights a year to each of the eighty.
This large work could not be accomplished if the badge-holders
stood upon their privilege and ceased to volunteer.

2.  They have to borrow the arms because they could not
    get them elsewhere or otherwise.  As I understand it,
    the public authorities, all over Germany, allow the five
    Corps to keep swords, but DO NOT ALLOW THEM TO USE THEM.
    This is law is rigid; it is only the execution of it that
    is lax.

Of course, where there is so much fighting, the students
make it a point to keep themselves in constant practice
with the foil.  One often sees them, at the tables in the
Castle grounds, using their whips or canes to illustrate
some new sword trick which they have heard about;
and between the duels, on the day whose history I
have been writing, the swords were not always idle;
every now and then we heard a succession of the keen
hissing sounds which the sword makes when it is being
put through its paces in the air, and this informed us
that a student was practicing.  Necessarily, this unceasing
attention to the art develops an expert occasionally.
He becomes famous in his own university, his renown spreads
to other universities.  He is invited to Goettingen,
to fight with a Goettingen expert; if he is victorious,
he will be invited to other colleges, or those colleges will
send their experts to him.  Americans and Englishmen often
join one or another of the five corps.  A year or two ago,
the principal Heidelberg expert was a big Kentuckian;
he was invited to the various universities and left
a wake of victory behind him all about Germany;
but at last a little student in Strasburg defeated him.
There was formerly a student in Heidelberg who had picked
up somewhere and mastered a peculiar trick of cutting up
under instead of cleaving down from above.  While the trick
lasted he won in sixteen successive duels in his university;
but by that time observers had discovered what his charm was,
and how to break it, therefore his championship ceased.

A rule which forbids social intercourse between members
of different corps is strict.  In the dueling-house, in
the parks, on the street, and anywhere and everywhere that
the students go, caps of a color group themselves together.
If all the tables in a public garden were crowded
but one, and that one had two red-cap students at it
and ten vacant places, the yellow-caps, the blue-caps,
the white caps, and the green caps, seeking seats,
would go by that table and not seem to see it, nor seem
to be aware that there was such a table in the grounds.
The student by whose courtesy we had been enabled to visit
the dueling-place, wore the white cap--Prussian Corps.
He introduced us to many white caps, but to none of
another color.  The corps etiquette extended even to us,
who were strangers, and required us to group with the white
corps only, and speak only with the white corps, while we
were their guests, and keep aloof from the caps of the
other colors.  Once I wished to examine some of the swords,
but an American student said, "It would not be quite polite;
these now in the windows all have red hilts or blue;
they will bring in some with white hilts presently,
and those you can handle freely.  "When a sword was broken
in the first duel, I wanted a piece of it; but its hilt
was the wrong color, so it was considered best and politest
to await a properer season.  It was brought to me after
the room was cleared, and I will now make a "life-size"
sketch of it by tracing a line around it with my pen,
to show the width of the weapon.  [Figure 1] The length of
these swords is about three feet, and they are quite heavy.
One's disposition to cheer, during the course of the
duels or at their close, was naturally strong, but corps
etiquette forbade any demonstrations of this sort.
However brilliant a contest or a victory might be,
no sign or sound betrayed that any one was moved.
A dignified gravity and repression were maintained at
all times.

When the dueling was finished and we were ready to go,
the gentlemen of the Prussian Corps to whom we had been
introduced took off their caps in the courteous German way,
and also shook hands; their brethren of the same order
took off their caps and bowed, but without shaking hands;
the gentlemen of the other corps treated us just as
they would have treated white caps--they fell apart,
apparently unconsciously, and left us an unobstructed pathway,
but did not seem to see us or know we were there.
If we had gone thither the following week as guests of
another corps, the white caps, without meaning any offense,
would have observed the etiquette of their order and ignored
our presence.

[How strangely are comedy and tragedy blended in this life!
I had not been home a full half-hour, after witnessing
those playful sham-duels, when circumstances made it
necessary for me to get ready immediately to assist
personally at a real one--a duel with no effeminate
limitation in the matter of results, but a battle
to the death.  An account of it, in the next chapter,
will show the reader that duels between boys, for fun,
and duels between men in earnest, are very different affairs.]



CHAPTER VIII
The Great French Duel
[I Second Gambetta in a Terrific Duel]

Much as the modern French duel is ridiculed by certain
smart people, it is in reality one of the most dangerous
institutions of our day.  Since it is always fought in the
open air, the combatants are nearly sure to catch cold.
M. Paul de Cassagnac, the most inveterate of the French
duelists, had suffered so often in this way that he is at
last a confirmed invalid; and the best physician in Paris
has expressed the opinion that if he goes on dueling for
fifteen or twenty years more--unless he forms the habit
of fighting in a comfortable room where damps and draughts
cannot intrude--he will eventually endanger his life.
This ought to moderate the talk of those people who are
so stubborn in maintaining that the French duel is the
most health-giving of recreations because of the open-air
exercise it affords.  And it ought also to moderate that
foolish talk about French duelists and socialist-hated
monarchs being the only people who are immoral.

But it is time to get at my subject.  As soon as I heard
of the late fiery outbreak between M. Gambetta and M. Fourtou
in the French Assembly, I knew that trouble must follow.
I knew it because a long personal friendship with
M. Gambetta revealed to me the desperate and implacable
nature of the man.  Vast as are his physical proportions,
I knew that the thirst for revenge would penetrate
to the remotest frontiers of his person.

I did not wait for him to call on me, but went at once
to him.  As I had expected, I found the brave fellow
steeped in a profound French calm.  I say French calm,
because French calmness and English calmness have points
of difference.  He was moving swiftly back and forth
among the debris of his furniture, now and then staving
chance fragments of it across the room with his foot;
grinding a constant grist of curses through his set teeth;
and halting every little while to deposit another handful
of his hair on the pile which he had been building of it on
the table.

He threw his arms around my neck, bent me over his stomach
to his breast, kissed me on both cheeks, hugged me four
or five times, and then placed me in his own arm-chair.
As soon as I had got well again, we began business at once.

I said I supposed he would wish me to act as his second,
and he said, "Of course." I said I must be allowed
to act under a French name, so that I might be shielded
from obloquy in my country, in case of fatal results.
He winced here, probably at the suggestion that dueling was
not regarded with respect in America.  However, he agreed
to my requirement.  This accounts for the fact that in all
the newspaper reports M. Gambetta's second was apparently
a Frenchman.

First, we drew up my principal's will.  I insisted upon this,
and stuck to my point.  I said I had never heard of a man
in his right mind going out to fight a duel without
first making his will.  He said he had never heard
of a man in his right mind doing anything of the kind.
When he had finished the will, he wished to proceed
to a choice of his "last words." He wanted to know
how the following words, as a dying exclamation, struck me:

"I die for my God, for my country, for freedom of speech,
for progress, and the universal brotherhood of man!"

I objected that this would require too lingering a death;
it was a good speech for a consumptive, but not suited
to the exigencies of the field of honor.  We wrangled
over a good many ante-mortem outbursts, but I finally got
him to cut his obituary down to this, which he copied
into his memorandum-book, purposing to get it by heart:

"I DIE THAT FRANCE MIGHT LIVE."

I said that this remark seemed to lack relevancy; but he
said relevancy was a matter of no consequence in last words,
what you wanted was thrill.

The next thing in order was the choice of weapons.
My principal said he was not feeling well, and would leave
that and the other details of the proposed meeting to me.
Therefore I wrote the following note and carried it to
M. Fourtou's friend:

Sir: M. Gambetta accepts M. Fourtou's challenge,
and authorizes me to propose Plessis-Piquet as the place
of meeting; tomorrow morning at daybreak as the time;
and axes as the weapons.

I am, sir, with great respect,

Mark Twain.

M. Fourtou's friend read this note, and shuddered.
Then he turned to me, and said, with a suggestion of
severity in his tone:

"Have you considered, sir, what would be the inevitable
result of such a meeting as this?"

"Well, for instance, what WOULD it be?"

"Bloodshed!"

"That's about the size of it," I said.  "Now, if it is
a fair question, what was your side proposing to shed?"

I had him there.  He saw he had made a blunder, so he hastened
to explain it away.  He said he had spoken jestingly.
Then he added that he and his principal would enjoy axes,
and indeed prefer them, but such weapons were barred
by the French code, and so I must change my proposal.

I walked the floor, turning the thing over in my mind,
and finally it occurred to me that Gatling-guns at fifteen
paces would be a likely way to get a verdict on the field
of honor.  So I framed this idea into a proposition.

But it was not accepted.  The code was in the way again.
I proposed rifles; then double-barreled shotguns;
then Colt's navy revolvers.  These being all rejected,
I reflected awhile, and sarcastically suggested brickbats
at three-quarters of a mile.  I always hate to fool away
a humorous thing on a person who has no perception of humor;
and it filled me with bitterness when this man went soberly
away to submit the last proposition to his principal.

He came back presently and said his principal was charmed
with the idea of brickbats at three-quarters of a mile,
but must decline on account of the danger to disinterested
parties passing between them.  Then I said:

"Well, I am at the end of my string, now.  Perhaps YOU
would be good enough to suggest a weapon? Perhaps you
have even had one in your mind all the time?"

His countenance brightened, and he said with alacrity:

"Oh, without doubt, monsieur!"

So he fell to hunting in his pockets--pocket after pocket,
and he had plenty of them--muttering all the while,
"Now, what could I have done with them?"

At last he was successful.  He fished out of his vest pocket
a couple of little things which I carried to the light
and ascertained to be pistols.  They were single-barreled
and silver-mounted, and very dainty and pretty.
I was not able to speak for emotion.  I silently hung
one of them on my watch-chain, and returned the other.
My companion in crime now unrolled a postage-stamp
containing several cartridges, and gave me one of them.
I asked if he meant to signify by this that our men were
to be allowed but one shot apiece.  He replied that the
French code permitted no more.  I then begged him to go
and suggest a distance, for my mind was growing weak
and confused under the strain which had been put upon it.
He named sixty-five yards.  I nearly lost my patience.
I said:

"Sixty-five yards, with these instruments? Squirt-guns
would be deadlier at fifty.  Consider, my friend,
you and I are banded together to destroy life, not make
it eternal."

But with all my persuasions, all my arguments, I was only
able to get him to reduce the distance to thirty-five yards;
and even this concession he made with reluctance,
and said with a sigh, "I wash my hands of this slaughter;
on your head be it."

There was nothing for me but to go home to my old
lion-heart and tell my humiliating story.  When I entered,
M. Gambetta was laying his last lock of hair upon the altar.
He sprang toward me, exclaiming:

"You have made the fatal arrangements--I see it in your eye!"

"I have."

His face paled a trifle, and he leaned upon the table
for support.  He breathed thick and heavily for a moment
or two, so tumultuous were his feelings; then he hoarsely
whispered:

"The weapon, the weapon! Quick! what is the weapon?"

"This!" and I displayed that silver-mounted thing.
He cast but one glance at it, then swooned ponderously
to the floor.

When he came to, he said mournfully:

"The unnatural calm to which I have subjected myself
has told upon my nerves.  But away with weakness!
I will confront my fate like a man and a Frenchman."

He rose to his feet, and assumed an attitude which
for sublimity has never been approached by man,
and has seldom been surpassed by statues.  Then he said,
in his deep bass tones:

"Behold, I am calm, I am ready; reveal to me the distance."

"Thirty-five yards." ...

I could not lift him up, of course; but I rolled him over,
and poured water down his back.  He presently came to,
and said:

"Thirty-five yards--without a rest? But why ask? Since
murder was that man's intention, why should he palter
with small details? But mark you one thing: in my fall
the world shall see how the chivalry of France meets death."

After a long silence he asked:

"Was nothing said about that man's family standing
up with him, as an offset to my bulk? But no matter;
I would not stoop to make such a suggestion; if he is
not noble enough to suggest it himself, he is welcome
to this advantage, which no honorable man would take."

He now sank into a sort of stupor of reflection,
which lasted some minutes; after which he broke silence with:

"The hour--what is the hour fixed for the collision?"

"Dawn, tomorrow."

He seemed greatly surprised, and immediately said:

"Insanity! I never heard of such a thing.  Nobody is
abroad at such an hour."

"That is the reason I named it.  Do you mean to say you
want an audience?"

"It is no time to bandy words.  I am astonished that M. Fourtou
should ever have agreed to so strange an innovation.
Go at once and require a later hour."

I ran downstairs, threw open the front door, and almost
plunged into the arms of M. Fourtou's second.  He said:

"I have the honor to say that my principal strenuously
objects to the hour chosen, and begs you will consent
to change it to half past nine."

"Any courtesy, sir, which it is in our power to extend
is at the service of your excellent principal.  We agree
to the proposed change of time."

"I beg you to accept the thanks of my client." Then he
turned to a person behind him, and said, "You hear, M. Noir,
the hour is altered to half past nine."  Whereupon
M. Noir bowed, expressed his thanks, and went away.
My accomplice continued:

"If agreeable to you, your chief surgeons and ours shall
proceed to the field in the same carriage as is customary."

"It is entirely agreeable to me, and I am obliged
to you for mentioning the surgeons, for I am afraid
I should not have thought of them.  How many shall
I want? I supposed two or three will be enough?"

"Two is the customary number for each party.  I refer
to 'chief' surgeons; but considering the exalted positions
occupied by our clients, it will be well and decorous
that each of us appoint several consulting surgeons,
from among the highest in the profession.  These will
come in their own private carriages.  Have you engaged
a hearse?"

"Bless my stupidity, I never thought of it! I will attend
to it right away.  I must seem very ignorant to you;
but you must try to overlook that, because I have never
had any experience of such a swell duel as this before.
I have had a good deal to do with duels on the Pacific coast,
but I see now that they were crude affairs.  A hearse--sho!
we used to leave the elected lying around loose, and let
anybody cord them up and cart them off that wanted to.
Have you anything further to suggest?"

"Nothing, except that the head undertakers shall ride together,
as is usual.  The subordinates and mutes will go on foot,
as is also usual.  I will see you at eight o'clock
in the morning, and we will then arrange the order
of the procession.  I have the honor to bid you a good day."

I returned to my client, who said, "Very well;
at what hour is the engagement to begin?"

"Half past nine."

"Very good indeed.; Have you sent the fact to the newspapers?"

"SIR! If after our long and intimate friendship you can
for a moment deem me capable of so base a treachery--"

"Tut, tut! What words are these, my dear friend? Have I
wounded you? Ah, forgive me; I am overloading you with labor.
Therefore go on with the other details, and drop this
one from your list.  The bloody-minded Fourtou will be
sure to attend to it.  Or I myself--yes, to make certain,
I will drop a note to my journalistic friend, M. Noir--"

"Oh, come to think of it, you may save yourself the trouble;
that other second has informed M. Noir."

"H'm! I might have known it.  It is just like that Fourtou,
who always wants to make a display."

At half past nine in the morning the procession approached
the field of Plessis-Piquet in the following order: first
came our carriage--nobody in it but M. Gambetta and myself;
then a carriage containing M. Fourtou and his second;
then a carriage containing two poet-orators who did
not believe in God, and these had MS.  funeral orations
projecting from their breast pockets; then a carriage
containing the head surgeons and their cases of instruments;
then eight private carriages containing consulting surgeons;
then a hack containing a coroner; then the two hearses;
then a carriage containing the head undertakers;
then a train of assistants and mutes on foot; and after
these came plodding through the fog a long procession
of camp followers, police, and citizens generally.
It was a noble turnout, and would have made a fine display
if we had had thinner weather.

There was no conversation.  I spoke several times to
my principal, but I judge he was not aware of it, for he
always referred to his note-book and muttered absently,
"I die that France might live."

Arrived on the field, my fellow-second and I paced off
the thirty-five yards, and then drew lots for choice
of position.  This latter was but an ornamental ceremony,
for all the choices were alike in such weather.
These preliminaries being ended, I went to my principal
and asked him if he was ready.  He spread himself out
to his full width, and said in a stern voice, "Ready! Let
the batteries be charged."

The loading process was done in the presence of duly
constituted witnesses.  We considered it best to perform
this delicate service with the assistance of a lantern,
on account of the state of the weather.  We now placed
our men.

At this point the police noticed that the public had massed
themselves together on the right and left of the field;
they therefore begged a delay, while they should put
these poor people in a place of safety.

The request was granted.

The police having ordered the two multitudes to take
positions behind the duelists, we were once more ready.
The weather growing still more opaque, it was agreed between
myself and the other second that before giving the fatal
signal we should each deliver a loud whoop to enable
the combatants to ascertain each other's whereabouts.

I now returned to my principal, and was distressed
to observe that he had lost a good deal of his spirit.
I tried my best to hearten him.  I said, "Indeed, sir,
things are not as bad as they seem.  Considering the character
of the weapons, the limited number of shots allowed,
the generous distance, the impenetrable solidity of the fog,
and the added fact that one of the combatants is one-eyed
and the other cross-eyed and near-sighted, it seems to me
that this conflict need not necessarily be fatal.  There are
chances that both of you may survive.  Therefore, cheer up;
do not be downhearted."

This speech had so good an effect that my principal
immediately stretched forth his hand and said, "I am
myself again; give me the weapon."

I laid it, all lonely and forlorn, in the center of the vast
solitude of his palm.  He gazed at it and shuddered.
And still mournfully contemplating it, he murmured in a
broken voice:

"Alas, it is not death I dread, but mutilation."

I heartened him once more, and with such success that he
presently said, "Let the tragedy begin.  Stand at my back;
do not desert me in this solemn hour, my friend."

I gave him my promise.  I now assisted him to point
his pistol toward the spot where I judged his adversary
to be standing, and cautioned him to listen well and
further guide himself by my fellow-second's whoop.
Then I propped myself against M. Gambetta's back,
and raised a rousing "Whoop-ee!" This was answered from
out the far distances of the fog, and I immediately shouted:

"One--two--three--FIRE!"

Two little sounds like SPIT! SPIT! broke upon my ear,
and in the same instant I was crushed to the earth under
a mountain of flesh.  Bruised as I was, I was still able
to catch a faint accent from above, to this effect:

"I die for... for ... perdition take it,
what IS it I die for? ... oh, yes--FRANCE! I die
that France may live!"

The surgeons swarmed around with their probes in
their hands, and applied their microscopes to the whole
area of M. Gambetta's person, with the happy result of
finding nothing in the nature of a wound.  Then a scene
ensued which was in every way gratifying and inspiriting.

The two gladiators fell upon each other's neck, with floods
of proud and happy tears; that other second embraced me;
the surgeons, the orators, the undertakers, the police,
everybody embraced, everybody congratulated, everybody cried,
and the whole atmosphere was filled with praise and with
joy unspeakable.

It seems to me then that I would rather be a hero
of a French duel than a crowned and sceptered monarch.

When the commotion had somewhat subsided, the body
of surgeons held a consultation, and after a good deal
of debate decided that with proper care and nursing there
was reason to believe that I would survive my injuries.
My internal hurts were deemed the most serious, since it
was apparent that a broken rib had penetrated my left lung,
and that many of my organs had been pressed out so far
to one side or the other of where they belonged, that it
was doubtful if they would ever learn to perform their
functions in such remote and unaccustomed localities.
They then set my left arm in two places, pulled my right
hip into its socket again, and re-elevated my nose.
I was an object of great interest, and even admiration;
and many sincere and warm-hearted persons had themselves
introduced to me, and said they were proud to know
the only man who had been hurt in a French duel in
forty years.

I was placed in an ambulance at the very head of the procession;
and thus with gratifying 'ECLAT I was marched into Paris,
the most conspicuous figure in that great spectacle,
and deposited at the hospital.

The cross of the Legion of Honor has been conferred
upon me.  However, few escape that distinction.

Such is the true version of the most memorable private
conflict of the age.

I have no complaints to make against any one.  I acted
for myself, and I can stand the consequences.

Without boasting, I think I may say I am not afraid
to stand before a modern French duelist, but as long
as I keep in my right mind I will never consent to stand
behind one again.



CHAPTER IX
[What the Beautiful Maiden Said]

One day we took the train and went down to Mannheim
to see "King Lear" played in German.  It was a mistake.
We sat in our seats three whole hours and never understood
anything but the thunder and lightning; and even that
was reversed to suit German ideas, for the thunder came
first and the lightning followed after.

The behavior of the audience was perfect.  There were
no rustlings, or whisperings, or other little disturbances;
each act was listened to in silence, and the applauding
was done after the curtain was down.  The doors opened at
half past four, the play began promptly at half past five,
and within two minutes afterward all who were coming were
in their seats, and quiet reigned.  A German gentleman
in the train had said that a Shakespearian play was an
appreciated treat in Germany and that we should find the
house filled.  It was true; all the six tiers were filled,
and remained so to the end--which suggested that it is
not only balcony people who like Shakespeare in Germany,
but those of the pit and gallery, too.

Another time, we went to Mannheim and attended a shivaree--
otherwise an opera--the one called "Lohengrin." The
banging and slamming and booming and crashing were
something beyond belief.  The racking and pitiless
pain of it remains stored up in my memory alongside
the memory of the time that I had my teeth fixed.
There were circumstances which made it necessary for me
to stay through the hour hours to the end, and I stayed;
but the recollection of that long, dragging, relentless season
of suffering is indestructible.  To have to endure it
in silence, and sitting still, made it all the harder.
I was in a railed compartment with eight or ten strangers,
of the two sexes, and this compelled repression;
yet at times the pain was so exquisite that I could hardly
keep the tears back.  At those times, as the howlings
and wailings and shrieking of the singers, and the ragings
and roarings and explosions of the vast orchestra rose
higher and higher, and wilder and wilder, and fiercer
and fiercer, I could have cried if I had been alone.
Those strangers would not have been surprised to see
a man do such a thing who was being gradually skinned,
but they would have marveled at it here, and made remarks
about it no doubt, whereas there was nothing in the
present case which was an advantage over being skinned.
There was a wait of half an hour at the end of the first act,
and I could not trust myself to do it, for I felt that I
should desert to stay out.  There was another wait
of half an hour toward nine o'clock, but I had gone
through so much by that time that I had no spirit left,
and so had no desire but to be let alone.

I do not wish to suggest that the rest of the people there
were like me, for, indeed, they were not.  Whether it
was that they naturally liked that noise, or whether it
was that they had learned to like it by getting used to it,
I did not at the time know; but they did like--this was
plain enough.  While it was going on they sat and looked
as rapt and grateful as cats do when one strokes their backs;
and whenever the curtain fell they rose to their feet,
in one solid mighty multitude, and the air was snowed thick
with waving handkerchiefs, and hurricanes of applause
swept the place.  This was not comprehensible to me.
Of course, there were many people there who were not
under compulsion to stay; yet the tiers were as full at
the close as they had been at the beginning.  This showed
that the people liked it.

It was a curious sort of a play.  In the manner
of costumes and scenery it was fine and showy enough;
but there was not much action.  That is to say,
there was not much really done, it was only talked about;
and always violently.  It was what one might call a
narrative play.  Everybody had a narrative and a grievance,
and none were reasonable about it, but all in an offensive
and ungovernable state.  There was little of that sort
of customary thing where the tenor and the soprano stand
down by the footlights, warbling, with blended voices,
and keep holding out their arms toward each other and drawing
them back and spreading both hands over first one breast
and then the other with a shake and a pressure--no,
it was every rioter for himself and no blending.
Each sang his indictive narrative in turn, accompanied by
the whole orchestra of sixty instruments, and when this had
continued for some time, and one was hoping they might come
to an understanding and modify the noise, a great chorus
composed entirely of maniacs would suddenly break forth,
and then during two minutes, and sometimes three, I lived
over again all that I suffered the time the orphan asylum burned
down.

We only had one brief little season of heaven and heaven's
sweet ecstasy and peace during all this long and diligent
and acrimonious reproduction of the other place.
This was while a gorgeous procession of people marched around
and around, in the third act, and sang the Wedding Chorus.
To my untutored ear that was music--almost divine music.
While my seared soul was steeped in the healing balm
of those gracious sounds, it seemed to me that I could
almost resuffer the torments which had gone before,
in order to be so healed again.  There is where the deep
ingenuity of the operatic idea is betrayed.  It deals so
largely in pain that its scattered delights are prodigiously
augmented by the contrasts.  A pretty air in an opera is
prettier there than it could be anywhere else, I suppose,
just as an honest man in politics shines more than he
would elsewhere.

I have since found out that there is nothing the Germans
like so much as an opera.  They like it, not in a mild
and moderate way, but with their whole hearts.
This is a legitimate result of habit and education.
Our nation will like the opera, too, by and by, no doubt.
One in fifty of those who attend our operas likes
it already, perhaps, but I think a good many of the other
forty-nine go in order to learn to like it, and the
rest in order to be able to talk knowingly about it.
The latter usually hum the airs while they are being sung,
so that their neighbors may perceive that they have been
to operas before.  The funerals of these do not occur
often enough.

A gentle, old-maidish person and a sweet young girl
of seventeen sat right in front of us that night at the
Mannheim opera.  These people talked, between the acts,
and I understood them, though I understood nothing
that was uttered on the distant stage.  At first they
were guarded in their talk, but after they had heard
my agent and me conversing in English they dropped their
reserve and I picked up many of their little confidences;
no, I mean many of HER little confidences--meaning
the elder party--for the young girl only listened,
and gave assenting nods, but never said a word.  How pretty
she was, and how sweet she was! I wished she would speak.
But evidently she was absorbed in her own thoughts,
her own young-girl dreams, and found a dearer pleasure
in silence.  But she was not dreaming sleepy dreams--no,
she was awake, alive, alert, she could not sit still
a moment.  She was an enchanting study.  Her gown was
of a soft white silky stuff that clung to her round
young figure like a fish's skin, and it was rippled
over with the gracefulest little fringy films of lace;
she had deep, tender eyes, with long, curved lashes;
and she had peachy cheeks, and a dimpled chin, and such
a dear little rosebud of a mouth; and she was so dovelike,
so pure, and so gracious, so sweet and so bewitching.
For long hours I did mightily wish she would speak.
And at last she did; the red lips parted, and out leaps her
thought--and with such a guileless and pretty enthusiasm,
too: "Auntie, I just KNOW I've got five hundred fleas
on me!"

That was probably over the average.  Yes, it must have been
very much over the average.  The average at that time
in the Grand Duchy of Baden was forty-five to a young
person (when alone), according to the official estimate
of the home secretary for that year; the average for older
people was shifty and indeterminable, for whenever a
wholesome young girl came into the presence of her elders
she immediately lowered their average and raised her own.
She became a sort of contribution-box. This dear young
thing in the theater had been sitting there unconsciously
taking up a collection.  Many a skinny old being in our
neighborhood was the happier and the restfuler for her coming.

In that large audience, that night, there were eight very
conspicuous people.  These were ladies who had their hats
or bonnets on.  What a blessed thing it would be if a lady
could make herself conspicuous in our theaters by wearing
her hat.  It is not usual in Europe to allow ladies
and gentlemen to take bonnets, hats, overcoats, canes,
or umbrellas into the auditorium, but in Mannheim this
rule was not enforced because the audiences were largely
made up of people from a distance, and among these were
always a few timid ladies who were afraid that if they had
to go into an anteroom to get their things when the play
was over, they would miss their train.  But the great mass
of those who came from a distance always ran the risk
and took the chances, preferring the loss of a train
to a breach of good manners and the discomfort of being
unpleasantly conspicuous during a stretch of three or four hours.




CHAPTER X
[How Wagner Operas Bang Along]

Three or four hours.  That is a long time to sit in one place,
whether one be conspicuous or not, yet some of Wagner's
operas bang along for six whole hours on a stretch!
But the people sit there and enjoy it all, and wish it
would last longer.  A German lady in Munich told me
that a person could not like Wagner's music at first,
but must go through the deliberate process of learning
to like it--then he would have his sure reward;
for when he had learned to like it he would hunger
for it and never be able to get enough of it.  She said
that six hours of Wagner was by no means too much.
She said that this composer had made a complete revolution
in music and was burying the old masters one by one.
And she said that Wagner's operas differed from all others
in one notable respect, and that was that they were not
merely spotted with music here and there, but were ALL music,
from the first strain to the last.  This surprised me.
I said I had attended one of his insurrections, and found
hardly ANY music in it except the Wedding Chorus.
She said "Lohengrin" was noisier than Wagner's other operas,
but that if I would keep on going to see it I would find
by and by that it was all music, and therefore would
then enjoy it.  I COULD have said, "But would you advise
a person to deliberately practice having a toothache
in the pit of his stomach for a couple of years in order
that he might then come to enjoy it?" But I reserved
that remark.

This lady was full of the praises of the head-tenor
who had performed in a Wagner opera the night before,
and went on to enlarge upon his old and prodigious fame,
and how many honors had been lavished upon him by the
princely houses of Germany.  Here was another surprise.
I had attended that very opera, in the person of my agent,
and had made close and accurate observations.  So I
said:

"Why, madam, MY experience warrants me in stating
that that tenor's voice is not a voice at all,
but only a shriek--the shriek of a hyena."

"That is very true," she said; "he cannot sing now;
it is already many years that he has lost his voice,
but in other times he sang, yes, divinely! So whenever
he comes now, you shall see, yes, that the theater
will not hold the people.  JAWOHL BEI GOTT! his voice
is WUNDERSCHOEN in that past time."

I said she was discovering to me a kindly trait in the
Germans which was worth emulating.  I said that over
the water we were not quite so generous; that with us,
when a singer had lost his voice and a jumper had lost
his legs, these parties ceased to draw.  I said I had been
to the opera in Hanover, once, and in Mannheim once,
and in Munich (through my authorized agent) once, and this
large experience had nearly persuaded me that the Germans
PREFERRED singers who couldn't sing.  This was not such
a very extravagant speech, either, for that burly Mannheim
tenor's praises had been the talk of all Heidelberg for
a week before his performance took place--yet his voice
was like the distressing noise which a nail makes when you
screech it across a window-pane. I said so to Heidelberg
friends the next day, and they said, in the calmest and
simplest way, that that was very true, but that in earlier
times his voice HAD been wonderfully fine.  And the tenor
in Hanover was just another example of this sort.
The English-speaking German gentleman who went with me
to the opera there was brimming with enthusiasm over that tenor.
He said:

"ACH GOTT! a great man! You shall see him.  He is so celebrate
in all Germany--and he has a pension, yes, from the government.
He not obliged to sing now, only twice every year;
but if he not sing twice each year they take him his pension
away."

Very well, we went.  When the renowned old tenor appeared,
I got a nudge and an excited whisper:

"Now you see him!"

But the "celebrate" was an astonishing disappointment to me.
If he had been behind a screen I should have supposed
they were performing a surgical operation on him.
I looked at my friend--to my great surprise he seemed
intoxicated with pleasure, his eyes were dancing
with eager delight.  When the curtain at last fell,
he burst into the stormiest applause, and kept it up--as
did the whole house--until the afflictive tenor had
come three times before the curtain to make his bow.
While the glowing enthusiast was swabbing the perspiration
from his face, I said:

"I don't mean the least harm, but really, now, do you
think he can sing?"

"Him? NO! GOTT IM HIMMEL, ABER, how he has been able to
sing twenty-five years ago?" [Then pensively.] "ACH, no,
NOW he not sing any more, he only cry.  When he think
he sing, now, he not sing at all, no, he only make
like a cat which is unwell."

Where and how did we get the idea that the Germans
are a stolid, phlegmatic race? In truth, they are
widely removed from that.  They are warm-hearted,
emotional, impulsive, enthusiastic, their tears come
at the mildest touch, and it is not hard to move them
to laughter.  They are the very children of impulse.
We are cold and self-contained, compared to the Germans.
They hug and kiss and cry and shout and dance and sing;
and where we use one loving, petting expressions they pour
out a score.  Their language is full of endearing diminutives;
nothing that they love escapes the application of a petting
diminutive--neither the house, nor the dog, nor the horse,
nor the grandmother, nor any other creature, animate or
inanimate.

In the theaters at Hanover, Hamburg, and Mannheim,
they had a wise custom.  The moment the curtain went up,
the light in the body of the house went down.
The audience sat in the cool gloom of a deep twilight,
which greatly enhanced the glowing splendors of the stage.
It saved gas, too, and people were not sweated to death.

When I saw "King Lear" played, nobody was allowed to see
a scene shifted; if there was nothing to be done but slide
a forest out of the way and expose a temple beyond, one did
not see that forest split itself in the middle and go
shrieking away, with the accompanying disenchanting spectacle
of the hands and heels of the impelling impulse--no,
the curtain was always dropped for an instant--one heard
not the least movement behind it--but when it went up,
the next instant, the forest was gone.  Even when the
stage was being entirely reset, one heard no noise.
During the whole time that "King Lear" was playing
the curtain was never down two minutes at any one time.
The orchestra played until the curtain was ready to go up
for the first time, then they departed for the evening.
Where the stage waits never each two minutes there is no
occasion for music.  I had never seen this two-minute
business between acts but once before, and that was when
the "Shaughraun" was played at Wallack's.

I was at a concert in Munich one night, the people
were streaming in, the clock-hand pointed to seven,
the music struck up, and instantly all movement in
the body of the house ceased--nobody was standing,
or walking up the aisles, or fumbling with a seat,
the stream of incomers had suddenly dried up at its source.
I listened undisturbed to a piece of music that was fifteen
minutes long--always expecting some tardy ticket-holders
to come crowding past my knees, and being continuously and
pleasantly disappointed--but when the last note was struck,
here came the stream again.  You see, they had made
those late comers wait in the comfortable waiting-parlor
from the time the music had begin until it was ended.

It was the first time I had ever seen this sort of
criminals denied the privilege of destroying the comfort
of a house full of their betters.  Some of these were
pretty fine birds, but no matter, they had to tarry
outside in the long parlor under the inspection of
a double rank of liveried footmen and waiting-maids
who supported the two walls with their backs and held
the wraps and traps of their masters and mistresses on their
arms.

We had no footmen to hold our things, and it was not
permissible to take them into the concert-room; but there
were some men and women to take charge of them for us.
They gave us checks for them and charged a fixed price,
payable in advance--five cents.

In Germany they always hear one thing at an opera
which has never yet been heard in America, perhaps--I
mean the closing strain of a fine solo or duet.
We always smash into it with an earthquake of applause.
The result is that we rob ourselves of the sweetest
part of the treat; we get the whiskey, but we don't get
the sugar in the bottom of the glass.

Our way of scattering applause along through an act seems
to me to be better than the Mannheim way of saving it
all up till the act is ended.  I do not see how an actor
can forget himself and portray hot passion before a cold
still audience.  I should think he would feel foolish.
It is a pain to me to this day, to remember how that old
German Lear raged and wept and howled around the stage,
with never a response from that hushed house, never a
single outburst till the act was ended.  To me there was
something unspeakably uncomfortable in the solemn dead
silences that always followed this old person's tremendous
outpourings of his feelings.  I could not help putting
myself in his place--I thought I knew how sick and flat
he felt during those silences, because I remembered a case
which came under my observation once, and which--but I
will tell the incident:

One evening on board a Mississippi steamboat, a boy of ten
years lay asleep in a berth--a long, slim-legged boy,
he was, encased in quite a short shirt; it was the first
time he had ever made a trip on a steamboat, and so he
was troubled, and scared, and had gone to bed with his
head filled with impending snaggings, and explosions,
and conflagrations, and sudden death.  About ten o'clock
some twenty ladies were sitting around about the ladies'
saloon, quietly reading, sewing, embroidering, and so on,
and among them sat a sweet, benignant old dame with round
spectacles on her nose and her busy knitting-needles
in her hands.  Now all of a sudden, into the midst of this
peaceful scene burst that slim-shanked boy in the brief shirt,
wild-eyed, erect-haired, and shouting, "Fire, fire!
JUMP AND RUN, THE BOAT'S AFIRE AND THERE AIN'T A MINUTE
TO LOSE!" All those ladies looked sweetly up and smiled,
nobody stirred, the old lady pulled her spectacles down,
looked over them, and said, gently:

"But you mustn't catch cold, child.  Run and put on
your breastpin, and then come and tell us all about it."

It was a cruel chill to give to a poor little devil's
gushing vehemence.  He was expecting to be a sort of
hero--the creator of a wild panic--and here everybody
sat and smiled a mocking smile, and an old woman made
fun of his bugbear.  I turned and crept away--for I
was that boy--and never even cared to discover whether
I had dreamed the fire or actually seen it.

I am told that in a German concert or opera, they hardly
ever encore a song; that though they may be dying to hear
it again, their good breeding usually preserves them
against requiring the repetition.

Kings may encore; that is quite another matter;
it delights everybody to see that the King is pleased;
and as to the actor encored, his pride and gratification
are simply boundless.  Still, there are circumstances
in which even a royal encore--

But it is better to illustrate.  The King of Bavaria is
a poet, and has a poet's eccentricities--with the advantage
over all other poets of being able to gratify them,
no matter what form they may take.  He is fond of opera,
but not fond of sitting in the presence of an audience;
therefore, it has sometimes occurred, in Munich,
that when an opera has been concluded and the players
were getting off their paint and finery, a command has
come to them to get their paint and finery on again.
Presently the King would arrive, solitary and alone,
and the players would begin at the beginning and do the
entire opera over again with only that one individual
in the vast solemn theater for audience.  Once he took
an odd freak into his head.  High up and out of sight,
over the prodigious stage of the court theater is a maze
of interlacing water-pipes, so pierced that in case
of fire, innumerable little thread-like streams of
water can be caused to descend; and in case of need,
this discharge can be augmented to a pouring flood.
American managers might want to make a note of that.
The King was sole audience.  The opera proceeded,
it was a piece with a storm in it; the mimic thunder
began to mutter, the mimic wind began to wail and sough,
and the mimic rain to patter.  The King's interest rose
higher and higher; it developed into enthusiasm.  He cried
out:

"It is very, very good, indeed! But I will have real
rain! Turn on the water!"

The manager pleaded for a reversal of the command; said it
would ruin the costly scenery and the splendid costumes,
but the King cried:

"No matter, no matter, I will have real rain! Turn
on the water!"

So the real rain was turned on and began to descend in
gossamer lances to the mimic flower-beds and gravel walks
of the stage.  The richly dressed actresses and actors
tripped about singing bravely and pretending not to mind it.
The King was delighted--his enthusiasm grew higher.
He cried out:

"Bravo, bravo! More thunder! more lightning! turn
on more rain!"

The thunder boomed, the lightning glared, the storm-winds raged,
the deluge poured down.  The mimic royalty on the stage,
with their soaked satins clinging to their bodies,
slopped about ankle-deep in water, warbling their sweetest
and best, the fiddlers under the eaves of the state sawed
away for dear life, with the cold overflow spouting down
the backs of their necks, and the dry and happy King sat
in his lofty box and wore his gloves to ribbons applauding.

"More yet!" cried the King; "more yet--let loose all
the thunder, turn on all the water! I will hang the man
that raises an umbrella!"

When this most tremendous and effective storm that had
ever been produced in any theater was at last over,
the King's approbation was measureless.  He cried:

"Magnificent, magnificent! ENCORE! Do it again!"

But the manager succeeded in persuading him to recall
the encore, and said the company would feel sufficiently
rewarded and complimented in the mere fact that the
encore was desired by his Majesty, without fatiguing
him with a repetition to gratify their own vanity.

During the remainder of the act the lucky performers
were those whose parts required changes of dress;
the others were a soaked, bedraggled, and uncomfortable lot,
but in the last degree picturesque.  The stage scenery
was ruined, trap-doors were so swollen that they wouldn't
work for a week afterward, the fine costumes were spoiled,
and no end of minor damages were done by that remarkable storm.

It was royal idea--that storm--and royally carried out.
But observe the moderation of the King; he did not
insist upon his encore.  If he had been a gladsome,
unreflecting American opera-audience, he probably would
have had his storm repeated and repeated until he drowned
all those people.



CHAPTER XI
[I Paint a "Turner"]

The summer days passed pleasantly in Heidelberg.
We had a skilled trainer, and under his instructions we
were getting our legs in the right condition for the
contemplated pedestrian tours; we were well satisfied
with the progress which we had made in the German language,
[1. See Appendix D for information concerning this
fearful tongue.] and more than satisfied with what we had
accomplished in art.  We had had the best instructors in
drawing and painting in Germany--Haemmerling, Vogel, Mueller,
Dietz, and Schumann.  Haemmerling taught us landscape-painting.
Vogel taught us figure-drawing, Mueller taught us to do
still-life, and Dietz and Schumann gave us a finishing
course in two specialties--battle-pieces and shipwrecks.
Whatever I am in Art I owe to these men.  I have something
of the manner of each and all of them; but they all said that I
had also a manner of my own, and that it was conspicuous.
They said there was a marked individuality about my
style--insomuch that if I ever painted the commonest
type of a dog, I should be sure to throw a something
into the aspect of that dog which would keep him from
being mistaken for the creation of any other artist.
Secretly I wanted to believe all these kind sayings,
but I could not; I was afraid that my masters'
partiality for me, and pride in me, biased their judgment.
So I resolved to make a test.  Privately, and unknown
to any one, I painted my great picture, "Heidelberg Castle
Illuminated"--my first really important work in oils--and
had it hung up in the midst of a wilderness of oil-pictures
in the Art Exhibition, with no name attached to it.  To my
great gratification it was instantly recognized as mine.
All the town flocked to see it, and people even came from
neighboring localities to visit it.  It made more stir than
any other work in the Exhibition.  But the most gratifying
thing of all was, that chance strangers, passing through,
who had not heard of my picture, were not only drawn to it,
as by a lodestone, the moment they entered the gallery,
but always took it for a "Turner."

Apparently nobody had ever done that.  There were ruined
castles on the overhanging cliffs and crags all the way;
these were said to have their legends, like those on the Rhine,
and what was better still, they had never been in print.
There was nothing in the books about that lovely region;
it had been neglected by the tourist, it was virgin soil for
the literary pioneer.

Meantime the knapsacks, the rough walking-suits and the stout
walking-shoes which we had ordered, were finished and brought
to us.  A Mr. X and a young Mr. Z had agreed to go with us.
We went around one evening and bade good-by to our friends,
and afterward had a little farewell banquet at the hotel.
We got to bed early, for we wanted to make an early start,
so as to take advantage of the cool of the morning.

We were out of bed at break of day, feeling fresh
and vigorous, and took a hearty breakfast, then plunged
down through the leafy arcades of the Castle grounds,
toward the town.  What a glorious summer morning it was,
and how the flowers did pour out their fragrance,
and how the birds did sing! It was just the time for a
tramp through the woods and mountains.

We were all dressed alike: broad slouch hats, to keep the
sun off; gray knapsacks; blue army shirts; blue overalls;
leathern gaiters buttoned tight from knee down to ankle;
high-quarter coarse shoes snugly laced.  Each man had
an opera-glass, a canteen, and a guide-book case slung
over his shoulder, and carried an alpenstock in one hand
and a sun-umbrella in the other.  Around our hats were
wound many folds of soft white muslin, with the ends
hanging and flapping down our backs--an idea brought
from the Orient and used by tourists all over Europe.
Harris carried the little watch-like machine called
a "pedometer," whose office is to keep count of a man's
steps and tell how far he has walked.  Everybody stopped
to admire our costumes and give us a hearty "Pleasant march
to you!"

When we got downtown I found that we could go by rail to
within five miles of Heilbronn.  The train was just starting,
so we jumped aboard and went tearing away in splendid spirits.
It was agreed all around that we had done wisely,
because it would be just as enjoyable to walk DOWN the Neckar
as up it, and it could not be needful to walk both ways.
There were some nice German people in our compartment.
I got to talking some pretty private matters presently,
and Harris became nervous; so he nudged me and said:

"Speak in German--these Germans may understand English."

I did so, it was well I did; for it turned out that there
was not a German in that party who did not understand
English perfectly.  It is curious how widespread our language
is in Germany.  After a while some of those folks got out
and a German gentleman and his two young daughters got in.
I spoke in German of one of the latter several times,
but without result.  Finally she said:

"ICH VERSTEHE NUR DEUTCH UND ENGLISHE,"--or words to
that effect.  That is, "I don't understand any language
but German and English."

And sure enough, not only she but her father and sister
spoke English.  So after that we had all the talk we wanted;
and we wanted a good deal, for they were agreeable people.
They were greatly interested in our customs; especially
the alpenstocks, for they had not seen any before.
They said that the Neckar road was perfectly level, so we
must be going to Switzerland or some other rugged country;
and asked us if we did not find the walking pretty fatiguing
in such warm weather.  But we said no.

We reached Wimpfen--I think it was Wimpfen--in about
three hours, and got out, not the least tired; found a
good hotel and ordered beer and dinner--then took
a stroll through the venerable old village.  It was very
picturesque and tumble-down, and dirty and interesting.
It had queer houses five hundred years old in it,
and a military tower 115 feet high, which had stood there
more than ten centuries.  I made a little sketch of it.
I kept a copy, but gave the original to the Burgomaster.
I think the original was better than the copy, because it
had more windows in it and the grass stood up better and had
a brisker look.  There was none around the tower, though;
I composed the grass myself, from studies I made in a field
by Heidelberg in Haemmerling's time.  The man on top,
looking at the view, is apparently too large, but I found
he could not be made smaller, conveniently.  I wanted
him there, and I wanted him visible, so I thought out a
way to manage it; I composed the picture from two points
of view; the spectator is to observe the man from bout
where that flag is, and he must observe the tower itself
from the ground.  This harmonizes the seeming discrepancy.
[Figure 2]

Near an old cathedral, under a shed, were three crosses
of stone--moldy and damaged things, bearing life-size
stone figures.  The two thieves were dressed in the fanciful
court costumes of the middle of the sixteenth century,
while the Saviour was nude, with the exception of a cloth
around the loins.

We had dinner under the green trees in a garden belonging
to the hotel and overlooking the Neckar; then, after a smoke,
we went to bed.  We had a refreshing nap, then got up
about three in the afternoon and put on our panoply.
As we tramped gaily out at the gate of the town,
we overtook a peasant's cart, partly laden with odds and
ends of cabbages and similar vegetable rubbish, and drawn
by a small cow and a smaller donkey yoked together.
It was a pretty slow concern, but it got us into Heilbronn
before dark--five miles, or possibly it was seven.

We stopped at the very same inn which the famous old
robber-knight and rough fighter Goetz von Berlichingen,
abode in after he got out of captivity in the Square Tower
of Heilbronn between three hundred and fifty and four hundred
years ago.  Harris and I occupied the same room which he
had occupied and the same paper had not quite peeled off
the walls yet.  The furniture was quaint old carved stuff,
full four hundred years old, and some of the smells
were over a thousand.  There was a hook in the wall,
which the landlord said the terrific old Goetz used to
hang his iron hand on when he took it off to go to bed.
This room was very large--it might be called immense--
and it was on the first floor; which means it was in
the second story, for in Europe the houses are so high
that they do not count the first story, else they
would get tired climbing before they got to the top.
The wallpaper was a fiery red, with huge gold figures in it,
well smirched by time, and it covered all the doors.
These doors fitted so snugly and continued the figures
of the paper so unbrokenly, that when they were closed
one had to go feeling and searching along the wall
to find them.  There was a stove in the corner--one
of those tall, square, stately white porcelain things
that looks like a monument and keeps you thinking
of death when you ought to be enjoying your travels.
The windows looked out on a little alley, and over that
into a stable and some poultry and pig yards in the rear
of some tenement-houses. There were the customary two beds
in the room, one in one end, the other in the other,
about an old-fashioned brass-mounted, single-barreled
pistol-shot apart.  They were fully as narrow as the usual
German bed, too, and had the German bed's ineradicable
habit of spilling the blankets on the floor every time
you forgot yourself and went to sleep.

A round table as large as King Arthur's stood in the
center of the room; while the waiters were getting
ready to serve our dinner on it we all went out to see
the renowned clock on the front of the municipal buildings.



CHAPTER XII
[What the Wives Saved]

The RATHHAUS, or municipal building, is of the quaintest
and most picturesque Middle-Age architecture.  It has a
massive portico and steps, before it, heavily balustraded,
and adorned with life-sized rusty iron knights in
complete armor.  The clock-face on the front of the building
is very large and of curious pattern.  Ordinarily, a gilded
angel strikes the hour on a big bell with a hammer;
as the striking ceases, a life-sized figure of Time raises
its hour-glass and turns it; two golden rams advance
and butt each other; a gilded cock lifts its wings;
but the main features are two great angels, who stand
on each side of the dial with long horns at their lips;
it was said that they blew melodious blasts on these
horns every hour--but they did not do it for us.
We were told, later, than they blew only at night,
when the town was still.

Within the RATHHAUS were a number of huge wild boars'
heads, preserved, and mounted on brackets along the wall;
they bore inscriptions telling who killed them and how many
hundred years ago it was done.  One room in the building
was devoted to the preservation of ancient archives.
There they showed us no end of aged documents; some were
signed by Popes, some by Tilly and other great generals,
and one was a letter written and subscribed by Goetz von
Berlichingen in Heilbronn in 1519 just after his release
from the Square Tower.

This fine old robber-knight was a devoutly and sincerely
religious man, hospitable, charitable to the poor,
fearless in fight, active, enterprising, and possessed
of a large and generous nature.  He had in him a
quality of being able to overlook moderate injuries,
and being able to forgive and forget mortal ones as
soon as he had soundly trounced the authors of them.
He was prompt to take up any poor devil's quarrel and risk
his neck to right him.  The common folk held him dear,
and his memory is still green in ballad and tradition.
He used to go on the highway and rob rich wayfarers;
and other times he would swoop down from his high castle
on the hills of the Neckar and capture passing cargoes
of merchandise.  In his memoirs he piously thanks the
Giver of all Good for remembering him in his needs and
delivering sundry such cargoes into his hands at times
when only special providences could have relieved him.
He was a doughty warrior and found a deep joy in battle.
In an assault upon a stronghold in Bavaria when he was
only twenty-three years old, his right hand was shot away,
but he was so interested in the fight that he did not
observe it for a while.  He said that the iron hand
which was made for him afterward, and which he wore for
more than half a century, was nearly as clever a member
as the fleshy one had been.  I was glad to get a facsimile
of the letter written by this fine old German Robin Hood,
though I was not able to read it.  He was a better artist
with his sword than with his pen.

We went down by the river and saw the Square Tower.
It was a very venerable structure, very strong,
and very ornamental.  There was no opening near the ground.
They had to use a ladder to get into it, no doubt.

We visited the principal church, also--a curious
old structure, with a towerlike spire adorned with all
sorts of grotesque images.  The inner walls of the church
were placarded with large mural tablets of copper,
bearing engraved inscriptions celebrating the merits
of old Heilbronn worthies of two or three centuries ago,
and also bearing rudely painted effigies of themselves
and their families tricked out in the queer costumes of
those days.  The head of the family sat in the foreground,
and beyond him extended a sharply receding and diminishing
row of sons; facing him sat his wife, and beyond
her extended a low row of diminishing daughters.
The family was usually large, but the perspective bad.

Then we hired the hack and the horse which Goetz von
Berlichingen used to use, and drove several miles into
the country to visit the place called WEIBERTREU--Wife's
Fidelity I suppose it means.  It was a feudal castle
of the Middle Ages.  When we reached its neighborhood we
found it was beautifully situated, but on top of a mound,
or hill, round and tolerably steep, and about two hundred
feet high.  Therefore, as the sun was blazing hot,
we did not climb up there, but took the place on trust,
and observed it from a distance while the horse leaned up
against a fence and rested.  The place has no interest
except that which is lent it by its legend, which is
a very pretty one--to this effect:

THE LEGEND

In the Middle Ages, a couple of young dukes, brothers,
took opposite sides in one of the wars, the one fighting
for the Emperor, the other against him.  One of them
owned the castle and village on top of the mound which I
have been speaking of, and in his absence his brother
came with his knights and soldiers and began a siege.
It was a long and tedious business, for the people
made a stubborn and faithful defense.  But at last
their supplies ran out and starvation began its work;
more fell by hunger than by the missiles of the enemy.
They by and by surrendered, and begged for charitable terms.
But the beleaguering prince was so incensed against them
for their long resistance that he said he would spare none
but the women and children--all men should be put to the
sword without exception, and all their goods destroyed.
Then the women came and fell on their knees and begged for
the lives of their husbands.

"No," said the prince, "not a man of them shall escape alive;
you yourselves shall go with your children into houseless
and friendless banishment; but that you may not starve
I grant you this one grace, that each woman may bear
with her from this place as much of her most valuable
property as she is able to carry."

Very well, presently the gates swung open and out filed
those women carrying their HUSBANDS on their shoulders.
The besiegers, furious at the trick, rushed forward
to slaughter the men, but the Duke stepped between and
said:

"No, put up your swords--a prince's word is inviolable."

When we got back to the hotel, King Arthur's Round Table
was ready for us in its white drapery, and the head waiter
and his first assistant, in swallow-tails and white cravats,
brought in the soup and the hot plates at once.

Mr. X had ordered the dinner, and when the wine came on,
he picked up a bottle, glanced at the label, and then turned
to the grave, the melancholy, the sepulchral head waiter
and said it was not the sort of wine he had asked for.
The head waiter picked up the bottle, cast his undertaker-eye
on it and said:

"It is true; I beg pardon." Then he turned on his
subordinate and calmly said, "Bring another label."

At the same time he slid the present label off with his hand
and laid it aside; it had been newly put on, its paste
was still wet.  When the new label came, he put it on;
our French wine being now turned into German wine,
according to desire, the head waiter went blandly about his
other duties, as if the working of this sort of miracle
was a common and easy thing to him.

Mr. X said he had not known, before, that there were
people honest enough to do this miracle in public,
but he was aware that thousands upon thousands of labels
were imported into America from Europe every year,
to enable dealers to furnish to their customers in a quiet
and inexpensive way all the different kinds of foreign
wines they might require.

We took a turn around the town, after dinner, and found
it fully as interesting in the moonlight as it had been
in the daytime.  The streets were narrow and roughly paved,
and there was not a sidewalk or a street-lamp anywhere.
The dwellings were centuries old, and vast enough for hotels.
They widened all the way up; the stories projected
further and further forward and aside as they ascended,
and the long rows of lighted windows, filled with little bits
of panes, curtained with figured white muslin and adorned
outside with boxes of flowers, made a pretty effect.
The moon was bright, and the light and shadow very strong;
and nothing could be more picturesque than those curving
streets, with their rows of huge high gables leaning
far over toward each other in a friendly gossiping way,
and the crowds below drifting through the alternating blots
of gloom and mellow bars of moonlight.  Nearly everybody
was abroad, chatting, singing, romping, or massed in lazy
comfortable attitudes in the doorways.

In one place there was a public building which was
fenced about with a thick, rusty chain, which sagged
from post to post in a succession of low swings.
The pavement, here, was made of heavy blocks of stone.
In the glare of the moon a party of barefooted children
were swinging on those chains and having a noisy good time.
They were not the first ones who have done that;
even their great-great-grandfathers had not been the first
to do it when they were children.  The strokes of the bare
feet had worn grooves inches deep in the stone flags;
it had taken many generations of swinging children to
accomplish that.  Everywhere in the town were the mold
and decay that go with antiquity, and evidence of it;
but I do not know that anything else gave us so vivid
a sense of the old age of Heilbronn as those footworn
grooves in the paving-stones.



CHAPTER XIII
[My Long Crawl in the Dark]

When we got back to the hotel I wound and set the
pedometer and put it in my pocket, for I was to carry
it next day and keep record of the miles we made.
The work which we had given the instrument to do during
the day which had just closed had not fatigued it perceptibly.

We were in bed by ten, for we wanted to be up and away on
our tramp homeward with the dawn.  I hung fire, but Harris
went to sleep at once.  I hate a man who goes to sleep
at once; there is a sort of indefinable something about it
which is not exactly an insult, and yet is an insolence;
and one which is hard to bear, too.  I lay there fretting
over this injury, and trying to go to sleep; but the harder
I tried, the wider awake I grew.  I got to feeling very lonely
in the dark, with no company but an undigested dinner.
My mind got a start by and by, and began to consider the
beginning of every subject which has ever been thought of;
but it never went further than the beginning; it was touch
and go; it fled from topic to topic with a frantic speed.
At the end of an hour my head was in a perfect whirl and I
was dead tired, fagged out.

The fatigue was so great that it presently began to make some
head against the nervous excitement; while imagining myself
wide awake, I would really doze into momentary unconsciousness,
and come suddenly out of it with a physical jerk which nearly
wrenched my joints apart--the delusion of the instant
being that I was tumbling backward over a precipice.
After I had fallen over eight or nine precipices and thus
found out that one half of my brain had been asleep eight
or nine times without the wide-awake, hard-working other
half suspecting it, the periodical unconsciousnesses
began to extend their spell gradually over more of my
brain-territory, and at last I sank into a drowse which
grew deeper and deeper and was doubtless just on the very
point of being a solid, blessed dreamless stupor, when--what was
that?

My dulled faculties dragged themselves partly back to life
and took a receptive attitude.  Now out of an immense,
a limitless distance, came a something which grew and grew,
and approached, and presently was recognizable as a sound--
it had rather seemed to be a feeling, before.  This sound
was a mile away, now--perhaps it was the murmur of a storm;
and now it was nearer--not a quarter of a mile away;
was it the muffled rasping and grinding of distant
machinery? No, it came still nearer; was it the measured
tramp of a marching troop? But it came nearer still,
and still nearer--and at last it was right in the room: it
was merely a mouse gnawing the woodwork.  So I had held my
breath all that time for such a trifle.

Well, what was done could not be helped; I would go
to sleep at once and make up the lost time.  That was
a thoughtless thought.  Without intending it--hardly
knowing it--I fell to listening intently to that sound,
and even unconsciously counting the strokes of the mouse's
nutmeg-grater. Presently I was deriving exquisite suffering
from this employment, yet maybe I could have endured
it if the mouse had attended steadily to his work;
but he did not do that; he stopped every now and then,
and I suffered more while waiting and listening for
him to begin again than I did while he was gnawing.
Along at first I was mentally offering a reward
of five--six--seven--ten--dollars for that mouse;
but toward the last I was offering rewards which were
entirely beyond my means.  I close-reefed my ears--
that is to say, I bent the flaps of them down and furled
them into five or six folds, and pressed them against
the hearing-orifice--but it did no good: the faculty
was so sharpened by nervous excitement that it was become
a microphone and could hear through the overlays without trouble.


My anger grew to a frenzy.  I finally did what all persons
before me have done, clear back to Adam,--resolved to
throw something.  I reached down and got my walking-shoes,
then sat up in bed and listened, in order to exactly locate
the noise.  But I couldn't do it; it was as unlocatable
as a cricket's noise; and where one thinks that that is,
is always the very place where it isn't. So I presently
hurled a shoe at random, and with a vicious vigor.
It struck the wall over Harris's head and fell down on him;
I had not imagined I could throw so far.  It woke Harris,
and I was glad of it until I found he was not angry;
then I was sorry.  He soon went to sleep again,
which pleased me; but straightway the mouse began again,
which roused my temper once more.  I did not want to wake
Harris a second time, but the gnawing continued until I
was compelled to throw the other shoe.  This time I broke
a mirror--there were two in the room--I got the largest one,
of course.  Harris woke again, but did not complain,
and I was sorrier than ever.  I resolved that I would
suffer all possible torture before I would disturb him a
third time.

The mouse eventually retired, and by and by I was sinking
to sleep, when a clock began to strike; I counted till
it was done, and was about to drowse again when another
clock began; I counted; then the two great RATHHAUS clock
angels began to send forth soft, rich, melodious blasts
from their long trumpets.  I had never heard anything
that was so lovely, or weird, or mysterious--but when they
got to blowing the quarter-hours, they seemed to me to be
overdoing the thing.  Every time I dropped off for the moment,
a new noise woke me.  Each time I woke I missed my coverlet,
and had to reach down to the floor and get it again.

At last all sleepiness forsook me.  I recognized the fact
that I was hopelessly and permanently wide awake.
Wide awake, and feverish and thirsty.  When I had lain
tossing there as long as I could endure it, it occurred
to me that it would be a good idea to dress and go out in
the great square and take a refreshing wash in the fountain,
and smoke and reflect there until the remnant of the night
was gone.

I believed I could dress in the dark without waking Harris.
I had banished my shoes after the mouse, but my slippers
would do for a summer night.  So I rose softly, and gradually
got on everything--down to one sock.  I couldn't seem
to get on the track of that sock, any way I could fix it.
But I had to have it; so I went down on my hands and knees,
with one slipper on and the other in my hand, and began to
paw gently around and rake the floor, but with no success.
I enlarged my circle, and went on pawing and raking.
With every pressure of my knee, how the floor creaked!
and every time I chanced to rake against any article,
it seemed to give out thirty-five or thirty-six times
more noise than it would have done in the daytime.
In those cases I always stopped and held my breath till I
was sure Harris had not awakened--then I crept along again.
I moved on and on, but I could not find the sock;
I could not seem to find anything but furniture.
I could not remember that there was much furniture
in the room when I went to bed, but the place was alive
with it now --especially chairs--chairs everywhere--
had a couple of families moved in, in the mean time? And
I never could seem to GLANCE on one of those chairs,
but always struck it full and square with my head.
My temper rose, by steady and sure degrees, and as I
pawed on and on, I fell to making vicious comments under
my breath.

Finally, with a venomous access of irritation, I said I
would leave without the sock; so I rose up and made straight
for the door--as I supposed--and suddenly confronted my
dim spectral image in the unbroken mirror.  It startled
the breath out of me, for an instant; it also showed me
that I was lost, and had no sort of idea where I was.
When I realized this, I was so angry that I had to sit
down on the floor and take hold of something to keep
from lifting the roof off with an explosion of opinion.
If there had been only one mirror, it might possibly have
helped to locate me; but there were two, and two were as
bad as a thousand; besides, these were on opposite sides
of the room.  I could see the dim blur of the windows,
but in my turned-around condition they were exactly
where they ought not to be, and so they only confused me
instead of helping me.

I started to get up, and knocked down an umbrella;
it made a noise like a pistol-shot when it struck
that hard, slick, carpetless floor; I grated my teeth
and held my breath--Harris did not stir.  I set the
umbrella slowly and carefully on end against the wall,
but as soon as I took my hand away, its heel slipped
from under it, and down it came again with another bang.
I shrunk together and listened a moment in silent fury--
no harm done, everything quiet.  With the most painstaking
care and nicety, I stood the umbrella up once more,
took my hand away, and down it came again.

I have been strictly reared, but if it had not been
so dark and solemn and awful there in that lonely,
vast room, I do believe I should have said something
then which could not be put into a Sunday-school book
without injuring the sale of it.  If my reasoning powers
had not been already sapped dry by my harassments,
I would have known better than to try to set an umbrella
on end on one of those glassy German floors in the dark;
it can't be done in the daytime without four failures
to one success.  I had one comfort, though--Harris was
yet still and silent--he had not stirred.

The umbrella could not locate me--there were four
standing around the room, and all alike.  I thought I
would feel along the wall and find the door in that way.
I rose up and began this operation, but raked down
a picture.  It was not a large one, but it made noise
enough for a panorama.  Harris gave out no sound, but I
felt that if I experimented any further with the pictures
I should be sure to wake him.  Better give up trying to
get out.  Yes, I would find King Arthur's Round Table once
more--I had already found it several times--and use it
for a base of departure on an exploring tour for my bed;
if I could find my bed I could then find my water pitcher;
I would quench my raging thirst and turn in.  So I started
on my hands and knees, because I could go faster that way,
and with more confidence, too, and not knock down things.
By and by I found the table--with my head--rubbed the
bruise a little, then rose up and started, with hands
abroad and fingers spread, to balance myself.  I found
a chair; then a wall; then another chair; then a sofa;
then an alpenstock, then another sofa; this confounded me,
for I had thought there was only one sofa.  I hunted
up the table again and took a fresh start; found some
more chairs.

It occurred to me, now, as it ought to have done before,
that as the table was round, it was therefore of no
value as a base to aim from; so I moved off once more,
and at random among the wilderness of chairs and sofas--
wandering off into unfamiliar regions, and presently knocked
a candlestick and knocked off a lamp, grabbed at the lamp
and knocked off a water pitcher with a rattling crash,
and thought to myself, "I've found you at last--I
judged I was close upon you." Harris shouted "murder,"
and "thieves," and finished with "I'm absolutely drowned."

The crash had roused the house.  Mr. X pranced in,
in his long night-garment, with a candle, young Z after him
with another candle; a procession swept in at another door,
with candles and lanterns--landlord and two German guests
in their nightgowns and a chambermaid in hers.

I looked around; I was at Harris's bed, a Sabbath-day's
journey from my own.  There was only one sofa; it was against
the wall; there was only one chair where a body could get
at it--I had been revolving around it like a planet,
and colliding with it like a comet half the night.

I explained how I had been employing myself, and why.
Then the landlord's party left, and the rest of us set
about our preparations for breakfast, for the dawn was
ready to break.  I glanced furtively at my pedometer,
and found I had made 47 miles.  But I did not care, for I
had come out for a pedestrian tour anyway.



CHAPTER XIV
[Rafting Down the Neckar]

When the landlord learned that I and my agents were artists,
our party rose perceptibly in his esteem; we rose still
higher when he learned that we were making a pedestrian
tour of Europe.

He told us all about the Heidelberg road, and which
were the best places to avoid and which the best ones
to tarry at; he charged me less than cost for the things
I broke in the night; he put up a fine luncheon for us
and added to it a quantity of great light-green plums,
the pleasantest fruit in Germany; he was so anxious to do us
honor that he would not allow us to walk out of Heilbronn,
but called up Goetz von Berlichingen's horse and cab
and made us ride.

I made a sketch of the turnout.  It is not a Work, it is only
what artists call a "study"--a thing to make a finished
picture from.  This sketch has several blemishes in it;
for instance, the wagon is not traveling as fast as the
horse is.  This is wrong.  Again, the person trying to get
out of the way is too small; he is out of perspective,
as we say.  The two upper lines are not the horse's back,
they are the reigns; there seems to be a wheel missing--
this would be corrected in a finished Work, of course.
This thing flying out behind is not a flag, it is a curtain.
That other thing up there is the sun, but I didn't get
enough distance on it.  I do not remember, now, what that
thing is that is in front of the man who is running,
but I think it is a haystack or a woman.  This study
was exhibited in the Paris Salon of 1879, but did not
take any medal; they do not give medals for studies.
[Figure 3]

We discharged the carriage at the bridge.  The river was
full of logs--long, slender, barkless pine logs--and we
leaned on the rails of the bridge, and watched the men put
them together into rafts.  These rafts were of a shape
and construction to suit the crookedness and extreme
narrowness of the Neckar.  They were from fifty to one
hundred yards long, and they gradually tapered from a
nine-log breadth at their sterns, to a three-log breadth
at their bow-ends. The main part of the steering is done
at the bow, with a pole; the three-log breadth there
furnishes room for only the steersman, for these little logs
are not larger around than an average young lady's waist.
The connections of the several sections of the raft are
slack and pliant, so that the raft may be readily bent
into any sort of curve required by the shape of the river.

The Neckar is in many places so narrow that a person
can throw a dog across it, if he has one; when it is
also sharply curved in such places, the raftsman has
to do some pretty nice snug piloting to make the turns.
The river is not always allowed to spread over its whole
bed--which is as much as thirty, and sometimes forty yards
wide--but is split into three equal bodies of water,
by stone dikes which throw the main volume, depth, and current
into the central one.  In low water these neat narrow-edged
dikes project four or five inches above the surface,
like the comb of a submerged roof, but in high water
they are overflowed.  A hatful of rain makes high water
in the Neckar, and a basketful produces an overflow.

There are dikes abreast the Schloss Hotel, and the current
is violently swift at that point.  I used to sit for hours
in my glass cage, watching the long, narrow rafts slip
along through the central channel, grazing the right-bank
dike and aiming carefully for the middle arch of the stone
bridge below; I watched them in this way, and lost all this
time hoping to see one of them hit the bridge-pier and wreck
itself sometime or other, but was always disappointed.
One was smashed there one morning, but I had just stepped
into my room a moment to light a pipe, so I lost it.

While I was looking down upon the rafts that morning
in Heilbronn, the daredevil spirit of adventure came
suddenly upon me, and I said to my comrades:

"_I_ am going to Heidelberg on a raft.  Will you venture
with me?"

Their faces paled a little, but they assented with as
good a grace as they could.  Harris wanted to cable his
mother--thought it his duty to do that, as he was all
she had in this world--so, while he attended to this,
I went down to the longest and finest raft and hailed
the captain with a hearty "Ahoy, shipmate!" which put us
upon pleasant terms at once, and we entered upon business.
I said we were on a pedestrian tour to Heidelberg,
and would like to take passage with him.  I said this
partly through young Z, who spoke German very well,
and partly through Mr. X, who spoke it peculiarly.  I can
UNDERSTAND German as well as the maniac that invented it,
but I TALK it best through an interpreter.

The captain hitched up his trousers, then shifted
his quid thoughtfully.  Presently he said just what I
was expecting he would say--that he had no license
to carry passengers, and therefore was afraid the law
would be after him in case the matter got noised about
or any accident happened.  So I CHARTERED the raft
and the crew and took all the responsibilities on myself.

With a rattling song the starboard watch bent to their
work and hove the cable short, then got the anchor home,
and our bark moved off with a stately stride, and soon
was bowling along at about two knots an hour.

Our party were grouped amidships.  At first the talk was
a little gloomy, and ran mainly upon the shortness of life,
the uncertainty of it, the perils which beset it, and the
need and wisdom of being always prepared for the worst;
this shaded off into low-voiced references to the dangers
of the deep, and kindred matters; but as the gray east
began to redden and the mysterious solemnity and silence
of the dawn to give place to the joy-songs of the birds,
the talk took a cheerier tone, and our spirits began to
rise steadily.

Germany, in the summer, is the perfection of the beautiful,
but nobody has understood, and realized, and enjoyed
the utmost possibilities of this soft and peaceful
beauty unless he has voyaged down the Neckar on a raft.
The motion of a raft is the needful motion; it is gentle,
and gliding, and smooth, and noiseless; it calms down
all feverish activities, it soothes to sleep all nervous
hurry and impatience; under its restful influence all the
troubles and vexations and sorrows that harass the mind
vanish away, and existence becomes a dream, a charm,
a deep and tranquil ecstasy.  How it contrasts with hot
and perspiring pedestrianism, and dusty and deafening
railroad rush, and tedious jolting behind tired horses
over blinding white roads!

We went slipping silently along, between the green and
fragrant banks, with a sense of pleasure and contentment
that grew, and grew, all the time.  Sometimes the banks
were overhung with thick masses of willows that wholly
hid the ground behind; sometimes we had noble hills on
one hand, clothed densely with foliage to their tops,
and on the other hand open levels blazing with poppies,
or clothed in the rich blue of the corn-flower;
sometimes we drifted in the shadow of forests, and sometimes
along the margin of long stretches of velvety grass,
fresh and green and bright, a tireless charm to the eye.
And the birds!--they were everywhere; they swept back
and forth across the river constantly, and their jubilant
music was never stilled.

It was a deep and satisfying pleasure to see the sun
create the new morning, and gradually, patiently,
lovingly, clothe it on with splendor after splendor,
and glory after glory, till the miracle was complete.
How different is this marvel observed from a raft,
from what it is when one observes it through the dingy
windows of a railway-station in some wretched village
while he munches a petrified sandwich and waits for the train.



CHAPTER XV
Down the River
[Charming Waterside Pictures]

Men and women and cattle were at work in the dewy fields
by this time.  The people often stepped aboard the raft,
as we glided along the grassy shores, and gossiped with us
and with the crew for a hundred yards or so, then stepped
ashore again, refreshed by the ride.

Only the men did this; the women were too busy.
The women do all kinds of work on the continent.  They dig,
they hoe, they reap, they sow, they bear monstrous burdens
on their backs, they shove similar ones long distances
on wheelbarrows, they drag the cart when there is no dog
or lean cow to drag it--and when there is, they assist
the dog or cow.  Age is no matter--the older the woman
the stronger she is, apparently.  On the farm a woman's
duties are not defined--she does a little of everything;
but in the towns it is different, there she only does
certain things, the men do the rest.  For instance,
a hotel chambermaid has nothing to do but make beds and
fires in fifty or sixty rooms, bring towels and candles,
and fetch several tons of water up several flights of stairs,
a hundred pounds at a time, in prodigious metal pitchers.
She does not have to work more than eighteen or twenty hours
a day, and she can always get down on her knees and scrub
the floors of halls and closets when she is tired and needs
a rest.

As the morning advanced and the weather grew hot, we took
off our outside clothing and sat in a row along the edge
of the raft and enjoyed the scenery, with our sun-umbrellas
over our heads and our legs dangling in the water.
Every now and then we plunged in and had a swim.
Every projecting grassy cape had its joyous group
of naked children, the boys to themselves and the girls
to themselves, the latter usually in care of some motherly
dame who sat in the shade of a tree with her knitting.
The little boys swam out to us, sometimes, but the little
maids stood knee-deep in the water and stopped their splashing
and frolicking to inspect the raft with their innocent
eyes as it drifted by.  Once we turned a corner suddenly
and surprised a slender girl of twelve years or upward,
just stepping into the water.  She had not time to run,
but she did what answered just as well; she promptly
drew a lithe young willow bough athwart her white body
with one hand, and then contemplated us with a simple and
untroubled interest.  Thus she stood while we glided by.
She was a pretty creature, and she and her willow bough
made a very pretty picture, and one which could not
offend the modesty of the most fastidious spectator.
Her white skin had a low bank of fresh green willows for
background and effective contrast--for she stood against
them--and above and out of them projected the eager faces
and white shoulders of two smaller girls.

Toward noon we heard the inspiring cry:

"Sail ho!"

"Where away?" shouted the captain.

"Three points off the weather bow!"

We ran forward to see the vessel.  It proved to be
a steamboat--for they had begun to run a steamer up
the Neckar, for the first time in May.  She was a tug,
and one of a very peculiar build and aspect.  I had
often watched her from the hotel, and wondered how she
propelled herself, for apparently she had no propeller
or paddles.  She came churning along, now, making a deal
of noise of one kind or another, and aggravating it every
now and then by blowing a hoarse whistle.  She had nine
keel-boats hitched on behind and following after her
in a long, slender rank.  We met her in a narrow place,
between dikes, and there was hardly room for us both in the
cramped passage.  As she went grinding and groaning by,
we perceived the secret of her moving impulse.  She did
not drive herself up the river with paddles or propeller,
she pulled herself by hauling on a great chain.
This chain is laid in the bed of the river and is only
fastened at the two ends.  It is seventy miles long.
It comes in over the boat's bow, passes around a drum,
and is payed out astern.  She pulls on that chain,
and so drags herself up the river or down it.  She has
neither bow or stern, strictly speaking, for she has a
long-bladed rudder on each end and she never turns around.
She uses both rudders all the time, and they are powerful
enough to enable her to turn to the right or the left
and steer around curves, in spite of the strong resistance
of the chain.  I would not have believed that that impossible
thing could be done; but I saw it done, and therefore I
know that there is one impossible thing which CAN be done.
What miracle will man attempt next?

We met many big keel-boats on their way up, using sails,
mule power, and profanity--a tedious and laborious business.
A wire rope led from the foretopmast to the file of mules
on the tow-path a hundred yards ahead, and by dint
of much banging and swearing and urging, the detachment
of drivers managed to get a speed of two or three miles
an hour out of the mules against the stiff current.
The Neckar has always been used as a canal, and thus
has given employment to a great many men and animals;
but now that this steamboat is able, with a small crew
and a bushel or so of coal, to take nine keel-boats farther
up the river in one hour than thirty men and thirty mules
can do it in two, it is believed that the old-fashioned
towing industry is on its death-bed. A second steamboat
began work in the Neckar three months after the first one
was put in service.  [Figure 4]

At noon we stepped ashore and bought some bottled beer
and got some chickens cooked, while the raft waited;
then we immediately put to sea again, and had our
dinner while the beer was cold and the chickens hot.
There is no pleasanter place for such a meal than a raft
that is gliding down the winding Neckar past green meadows
and wooded hills, and slumbering villages, and craggy
heights graced with crumbling towers and battlements.

In one place we saw a nicely dressed German gentleman
without any spectacles.  Before I could come to anchor
he had got underway.  It was a great pity.  I so wanted
to make a sketch of him.  The captain comforted me
for my loss, however, by saying that the man was without
any doubt a fraud who had spectacles, but kept them
in his pocket in order to make himself conspicuous.

Below Hassmersheim we passed Hornberg, Goetz von Berlichingen's
old castle.  It stands on a bold elevation two hundred feet
above the surface of the river; it has high vine-clad walls
enclosing trees, and a peaked tower about seventy-five
feet high.  The steep hillside, from the castle clear
down to the water's edge, is terraced, and clothed thick
with grape vines.  This is like farming a mansard roof.
All the steeps along that part of the river which furnish
the proper exposure, are given up to the grape.  That region
is a great producer of Rhine wines.  The Germans are
exceedingly fond of Rhine wines; they are put up in tall,
slender bottles, and are considered a pleasant beverage.
One tells them from vinegar by the label.

The Hornberg hill is to be tunneled, and the new railway
will pass under the castle.

THE CAVE OF THE SPECTER

Two miles below Hornberg castle is a cave in a low cliff,
which the captain of the raft said had once been occupied
by a beautiful heiress of Hornberg--the Lady Gertrude--
in the old times.  It was seven hundred years ago.
She had a number of rich and noble lovers and one poor
and obscure one, Sir Wendel Lobenfeld.  With the native
chuckleheadedness of the heroine of romance, she preferred
the poor and obscure lover.  With the native sound judgment
of the father of a heroine of romance, the von Berlichingen
of that day shut his daughter up in his donjon keep,
or his oubliette, or his culverin, or some such place,
and resolved that she should stay there until she selected
a husband from among her rich and noble lovers.  The latter
visited her and persecuted her with their supplications,
but without effect, for her heart was true to her poor
despised Crusader, who was fighting in the Holy Land.
Finally, she resolved that she would endure the attentions
of the rich lovers no longer; so one stormy night she escaped
and went down the river and hid herself in the cave on
the other side.  Her father ransacked the country for her,
but found not a trace of her.  As the days went by,
and still no tidings of her came, his conscience began
to torture him, and he caused proclamation to be made
that if she were yet living and would return, he would
oppose her no longer, she might marry whom she would.
The months dragged on, all hope forsook the old man,
he ceased from his customary pursuits and pleasures,
he devoted himself to pious works, and longed for the
deliverance of death.

Now just at midnight, every night, the lost heiress stood
in the mouth of her cave, arrayed in white robes, and sang
a little love ballad which her Crusader had made for her.
She judged that if he came home alive the superstitious
peasants would tell him about the ghost that sang in the cave,
and that as soon as they described the ballad he would know
that none but he and she knew that song, therefore he would
suspect that she was alive, and would come and find her.
As time went on, the people of the region became sorely
distressed about the Specter of the Haunted Cave.
It was said that ill luck of one kind or another always
overtook any one who had the misfortune to hear that song.
Eventually, every calamity that happened thereabouts was
laid at the door of that music.  Consequently, no boatmen
would consent to pass the cave at night; the peasants
shunned the place, even in the daytime.

But the faithful girl sang on, night after night,
month after month, and patiently waited; her reward
must come at last.  Five years dragged by, and still,
every night at midnight, the plaintive tones floated out
over the silent land, while the distant boatmen and peasants
thrust their fingers into their ears and shuddered out a prayer.

And now came the Crusader home, bronzed and battle-scarred,
but bringing a great and splendid fame to lay at the feet
of his bride.  The old lord of Hornberg received him as
his son, and wanted him to stay by him and be the comfort
and blessing of his age; but the tale of that young
girl's devotion to him and its pathetic consequences
made a changed man of the knight.  He could not enjoy
his well-earned rest.  He said his heart was broken,
he would give the remnant of his life to high deeds
in the cause of humanity, and so find a worthy death
and a blessed reunion with the brave true heart whose
love had more honored him than all his victories in war.

When the people heard this resolve of his, they came and told
him there was a pitiless dragon in human disguise in the
Haunted Cave, a dread creature which no knight had yet been
bold enough to face, and begged him to rid the land of its
desolating presence.  He said he would do it.  They told
him about the song, and when he asked what song it was,
they said the memory of it was gone, for nobody had been
hardy enough to listen to it for the past four years and more.

Toward midnight the Crusader came floating down the river
in a boat, with his trusty cross-bow in his hands.
He drifted silently through the dim reflections of the
crags and trees, with his intent eyes fixed upon the low
cliff which he was approaching.  As he drew nearer,
he discerned the black mouth of the cave.  Now--is that
a white figure? Yes.  The plaintive song begins to well
forth and float away over meadow and river--the cross-bow
is slowly raised to position, a steady aim is taken,
the bolt flies straight to the mark--the figure sinks down,
still singing, the knight takes the wool out of his ears,
and recognizes the old ballad--too late! Ah, if he had
only not put the wool in his ears!

The Crusader went away to the wars again, and presently
fell in battle, fighting for the Cross.  Tradition says
that during several centuries the spirit of the unfortunate
girl sang nightly from the cave at midnight, but the music
carried no curse with it; and although many listened
for the mysterious sounds, few were favored, since only
those could hear them who had never failed in a trust.
It is believed that the singing still continues, but it is
known that nobody has heard it during the present century.



CHAPTER XVI
An Ancient Legend of the Rhine
[The Lorelei]

The last legend reminds one of the "Lorelei"--a legend
of the Rhine.  There is a song called "The Lorelei."

Germany is rich in folk-songs, and the words and airs of
several of them are peculiarly beautiful--but "The Lorelei"
is the people's favorite.  I could not endure it at first,
but by and by it began to take hold of me, and now there
is no tune which I like so well.

It is not possible that it is much known in America, else I
should have heard it there.  The fact that I never heard
it there, is evidence that there are others in my country
who have fared likewise; therefore, for the sake of these,
I mean to print the words and music in this chapter.
And I will refresh the reader's memory by printing the legend
of the Lorelei, too.  I have it by me in the LEGENDS OF
THE RHINE, done into English by the wildly gifted Garnham,
Bachelor of Arts.  I print the legend partly to refresh
my own memory, too, for I have never read it before.

THE LEGEND

Lore (two syllables) was a water nymph who used to sit
on a high rock called the Ley or Lei (pronounced like our
word LIE) in the Rhine, and lure boatmen to destruction
in a furious rapid which marred the channel at that spot.
She so bewitched them with her plaintive songs and her
wonderful beauty that they forgot everything else to gaze
up at her, and so they presently drifted among the broken
reefs and were lost.

In those old, old times, the Count Bruno lived in a great
castle near there with his son, the Count Hermann, a youth
of twenty.  Hermann had heard a great deal about the
beautiful Lore, and had finally fallen very deeply in love
with her without having seen her.  So he used to wander
to the neighborhood of the Lei, evenings, with his Zither
and "Express his Longing in low Singing," as Garnham says.
On one of these occasions, "suddenly there hovered around
the top of the rock a brightness of unequaled clearness
and color, which, in increasingly smaller circles thickened,
was the enchanting figure of the beautiful Lore.

"An unintentional cry of Joy escaped the Youth, he let
his Zither fall, and with extended arms he called out
the name of the enigmatical Being, who seemed to stoop
lovingly to him and beckon to him in a friendly manner;
indeed, if his ear did not deceive him, she called his
name with unutterable sweet Whispers, proper to love.
Beside himself with delight the youth lost his Senses
and sank senseless to the earth."

After that he was a changed person.  He went dreaming about,
thinking only of his fairy and caring for naught else
in the world.  "The old count saw with affliction this
changement in his son," whose cause he could not divine,
and tried to divert his mind into cheerful channels,
but to no purpose.  Then the old count used authority.
He commanded the youth to betake himself to the camp.
Obedience was promised.  Garnham says:

"It was on the evening before his departure, as he
wished still once to visit the Lei and offer to the
Nymph of the Rhine his Sighs, the tones of his Zither,
and his Songs.  He went, in his boat, this time accompanied
by a faithful squire, down the stream.  The moon shed
her silvery light over the whole country; the steep
bank mountains appeared in the most fantastical shapes,
and the high oaks on either side bowed their Branches
on Hermann's passing.  As soon as he approached the Lei,
and was aware of the surf-waves, his attendant was seized
with an inexpressible Anxiety and he begged permission
to land; but the Knight swept the strings of his Guitar
and sang:

"Once I saw thee in dark night, In supernatural Beauty bright;
Of Light-rays, was the Figure wove, To share its light,
locked-hair strove.

"Thy Garment color wave-dove By thy hand the sign of love,
Thy eyes sweet enchantment, Raying to me, oh! enchantment.

"O, wert thou but my sweetheart, How willingly thy love
to part! With delight I should be bound To thy rocky
house in deep ground."

That Hermann should have gone to that place at all,
was not wise; that he should have gone with such a song
as that in his mouth was a most serious mistake.  The Lorelei
did not "call his name in unutterable sweet Whispers"
this time.  No, that song naturally worked an instant
and thorough "changement" in her; and not only that,
but it stirred the bowels of the whole afflicted region
around about there--for--

"Scarcely had these tones sounded, everywhere there
began tumult and sound, as if voices above and below
the water.  On the Lei rose flames, the Fairy stood above,
at that time, and beckoned with her right hand clearly
and urgently to the infatuated Knight, while with a staff
in her left hand she called the waves to her service.
They began to mount heavenward; the boat was upset,
mocking every exertion; the waves rose to the gunwale,
and splitting on the hard stones, the Boat broke into Pieces.
The youth sank into the depths, but the squire was thrown on
shore by a powerful wave."

The bitterest things have been said about the Lorelei
during many centuries, but surely her conduct upon this
occasion entitles her to our respect.  One feels drawn
tenderly toward her and is moved to forget her many crimes
and remember only the good deed that crowned and closed
her career.

"The Fairy was never more seen; but her enchanting tones have
often been heard.  In the beautiful, refreshing, still nights
of spring, when the moon pours her silver light over the Country,
the listening shipper hears from the rushing of the waves,
the echoing Clang of a wonderfully charming voice,
which sings a song from the crystal castle, and with sorrow
and fear he thinks on the young Count Hermann, seduced by the
Nymph."

Here is the music, and the German words by Heinrich Heine.
This song has been a favorite in Germany for forty years,
and will remain a favorite always, maybe.  [Figure 5]

I have a prejudice against people who print things
in a foreign language and add no translation.
When I am the reader, and the author considers me
able to do the translating myself, he pays me quite
a nice compliment--but if he would do the translating
for me I would try to get along without the compliment.

If I were at home, no doubt I could get a translation of
this poem, but I am abroad and can't; therefore I will make
a translation myself.  It may not be a good one, for poetry
is out of my line, but it will serve my purpose--which is,
to give the unGerman young girl a jingle of words to hang
the tune on until she can get hold of a good version,
made by some one who is a poet and knows how to convey
a poetical thought from one language to another.

THE LORELEI

I cannot divine what it meaneth, This haunting nameless
pain: A tale of the bygone ages Keeps brooding through
my brain:

The faint air cools in the glooming, And peaceful flows
the Rhine, The thirsty summits are drinking The sunset's
flooding wine;

The loveliest maiden is sitting High-throned in yon blue air,
Her golden jewels are shining, She combs her golden hair;

She combs with a comb that is golden, And sings a weird
refrain That steeps in a deadly enchantment The list'ner's
ravished brain:

The doomed in his drifting shallop, Is tranced with
the sad sweet tone, He sees not the yawning breakers,
He sees but the maid alone:

The pitiless billows engulf him!--So perish sailor and bark;
And this, with her baleful singing, Is the Lorelei's
gruesome work.

I have a translation by Garnham, Bachelor of Arts,
in the LEGENDS OF THE RHINE, but it would not answer
the purpose I mentioned above, because the measure is too
nobly irregular; it don't fit the tune snugly enough;
in places it hangs over at the ends too far, and in other
places one runs out of words before he gets to the end
of a bar.  Still, Garnham's translation has high merits,
and I am not dreaming of leaving it out of my book.
I believe this poet is wholly unknown in America and England;
I take peculiar pleasure in bringing him forward because I
consider that I discovered him:

THE LORELEI

Translated by L. W. Garnham, B.A.

I do not know what it signifies.  That I am so sorrowful?
A fable of old Times so terrifies, Leaves my heart
so thoughtful.

The air is cool and it darkens, And calmly flows the Rhine;
The summit of the mountain hearkens In evening sunshine line.

The most beautiful Maiden entrances Above wonderfully there,
Her beautiful golden attire glances, She combs her
golden hair.

With golden comb so lustrous, And thereby a song sings,
It has a tone so wondrous, That powerful melody rings.

The shipper in the little ship It effects with woe sad might;
He does not see the rocky slip, He only regards dreaded height.

I believe the turbulent waves Swallow the last shipper
and boat; She with her singing craves All to visit her
magic moat.

No translation could be closer.  He has got in all
the facts; and in their regular order, too.  There is not
a statistic wanting.  It is as succinct as an invoice.
That is what a translation ought to be; it should exactly
reflect the thought of the original.  You can't SING "Above
wonderfully there," because it simply won't go to the tune,
without damaging the singer; but it is a most clingingly exact
translation of DORT OBEN WUNDERBAR--fits it like a blister.
Mr. Garnham's reproduction has other merits--a hundred
of them--but it is not necessary to point them out.
They will be detected.

No one with a specialty can hope to have a monopoly of it.
Even Garnham has a rival.  Mr. X had a small pamphlet
with him which he had bought while on a visit to Munich.
It was entitled A CATALOGUE OF PICTURES IN THE OLD PINACOTEK,
and was written in a peculiar kind of English.  Here are
a few extracts:

"It is not permitted to make use of the work
in question to a publication of the same contents
as well as to the pirated edition of it."

"An evening landscape.  In the foreground near a pond
and a group of white beeches is leading a footpath
animated by travelers."

"A learned man in a cynical and torn dress holding an open
book in his hand."

"St. Bartholomew and the Executioner with the knife
to fulfil the martyr."

"Portrait of a young man.  A long while this picture
was thought to be Bindi Altoviti's portrait; now somebody
will again have it to be the self-portrait of Raphael."

"Susan bathing, surprised by the two old man.
In the background the lapidation of the condemned."

("Lapidation" is good; it is much more elegant than
"stoning.")

"St. Rochus sitting in a landscape with an angel who looks
at his plague-sore, whilst the dog the bread in his mouth
attents him."

"Spring. The Goddess Flora, sitting.  Behind her a fertile
valley perfused by a river."

"A beautiful bouquet animated by May-bugs, etc."

"A warrior in armor with a gypseous pipe in his hand leans
against a table and blows the smoke far away of himself."

"A Dutch landscape along a navigable river which perfuses
it till to the background."

"Some peasants singing in a cottage.  A woman lets drink
a child out of a cup."

"St. John's head as a boy--painted in fresco on a brick."
(Meaning a tile.)

"A young man of the Riccio family, his hair cut off
right at the end, dressed in black with the same cap.
Attributed to Raphael, but the signation is false."

"The Virgin holding the Infant.  It is very painted
in the manner of Sassoferrato."

"A Larder with greens and dead game animated by a cook-maid
and two kitchen-boys."

However, the English of this catalogue is at least
as happy as that which distinguishes an inscription
upon a certain picture in Rome--to wit:

"Revelations-View. St. John in Patterson's Island."

But meanwhile the raft is moving on.



CHAPTER XVII
[Why Germans Wear Spectacles]

A mile or two above Eberbach we saw a peculiar ruin projecting
above the foliage which clothed the peak of a high and
very steep hill.  This ruin consisted of merely a couple
of crumbling masses of masonry which bore a rude resemblance
to human faces; they leaned forward and touched foreheads,
and had the look of being absorbed in conversation.  This ruin
had nothing very imposing or picturesque about it, and there
was no great deal of it, yet it was called the "Spectacular
Ruin."

LEGEND OF THE "SPECTACULAR RUIN"

The captain of the raft, who was as full of history as he
could stick, said that in the Middle Ages a most prodigious
fire-breathing dragon used to live in that region,
and made more trouble than a tax-collector. He was as long
as a railway-train, and had the customary impenetrable
green scales all over him.  His breath bred pestilence
and conflagration, and his appetite bred famine.  He ate
men and cattle impartially, and was exceedingly unpopular.
The German emperor of that day made the usual offer:
he would grant to the destroyer of the dragon, any one
solitary thing he might ask for; for he had a surplusage
of daughters, and it was customary for dragon-killers
to take a daughter for pay.

So the most renowned knights came from the four corners
of the earth and retired down the dragon's throat one after
the other.  A panic arose and spread.  Heroes grew cautious.
The procession ceased.  The dragon became more destructive
than ever.  The people lost all hope of succor, and fled
to the mountains for refuge.

At last Sir Wissenschaft, a poor and obscure knight,
out of a far country, arrived to do battle with the monster.
A pitiable object he was, with his armor hanging in rags
about him, and his strange-shaped knapsack strapped
upon his back.  Everybody turned up their noses at him,
and some openly jeered him.  But he was calm.  He simply
inquired if the emperor's offer was still in force.
The emperor said it was--but charitably advised him to go
and hunt hares and not endanger so precious a life as his
in an attempt which had brought death to so many of the
world's most illustrious heroes.

But this tramp only asked--"Were any of these heroes
men of science?" This raised a laugh, of course,
for science was despised in those days.  But the tramp
was not in the least ruffled.  He said he might be a
little in advance of his age, but no matter--science
would come to be honored, some time or other.  He said
he would march against the dragon in the morning.
Out of compassion, then, a decent spear was offered him,
but he declined, and said, "spears were useless to men
of science." They allowed him to sup in the servants'
hall, and gave him a bed in the stables.

When he started forth in the morning, thousands were
gathered to see.  The emperor said:

"Do not be rash, take a spear, and leave off your knapsack."

But the tramp said:

"It is not a knapsack," and moved straight on.

The dragon was waiting and ready.  He was breathing forth
vast volumes of sulphurous smoke and lurid blasts of flame.
The ragged knight stole warily to a good position,
then he unslung his cylindrical knapsack--which was simply
the common fire-extinguisher known to modern times--
and the first chance he got he turned on his hose and shot
the dragon square in the center of his cavernous mouth.
Out went the fires in an instant, and the dragon curled up
and died.

This man had brought brains to his aid.  He had reared
dragons from the egg, in his laboratory, he had watched
over them like a mother, and patiently studied them
and experimented upon them while they grew.  Thus he had
found out that fire was the life principle of a dragon;
put out the dragon's fires and it could make steam
no longer, and must die.  He could not put out a fire
with a spear, therefore he invented the extinguisher.
The dragon being dead, the emperor fell on the hero's neck
and said:

"Deliverer, name your request," at the same time beckoning
out behind with his heel for a detachment of his daughters
to form and advance.  But the tramp gave them no observance.
He simply said:

"My request is, that upon me be conferred the monopoly
of the manufacture and sale of spectacles in Germany."

The emperor sprang aside and exclaimed:

"This transcends all the impudence I ever heard! A
modest demand, by my halidome! Why didn't you ask
for the imperial revenues at once, and be done with it?"

But the monarch had given his word, and he kept it.
To everybody's surprise, the unselfish monopolist immediately
reduced the price of spectacles to such a degree that a
great and crushing burden was removed from the nation.
The emperor, to commemorate this generous act, and to
testify his appreciation of it, issued a decree commanding
everybody to buy this benefactor's spectacles and wear them,
whether they needed them or not.

So originated the wide-spread custom of wearing
spectacles in Germany; and as a custom once established
in these old lands is imperishable, this one remains
universal in the empire to this day.  Such is the legend
of the monopolist's once stately and sumptuous castle,
now called the "Spectacular Ruin."

On the right bank, two or three miles below the Spectacular
Ruin, we passed by a noble pile of castellated buildings
overlooking the water from the crest of a lofty elevation.
A stretch of two hundred yards of the high front wall
was heavily draped with ivy, and out of the mass of
buildings within rose three picturesque old towers.
The place was in fine order, and was inhabited by a
family of princely rank.  This castle had its legend,
too, but I should not feel justified in repeating
it because I doubted the truth of some of its minor details.

Along in this region a multitude of Italian laborers
were blasting away the frontage of the hills to make
room for the new railway.  They were fifty or a hundred
feet above the river.  As we turned a sharp corner they
began to wave signals and shout warnings to us to look
out for the explosions.  It was all very well to warn us,
but what could WE do? You can't back a raft upstream,
you can't hurry it downstream, you can't scatter out
to one side when you haven't any room to speak of,
you won't take to the perpendicular cliffs on the other
shore when they appear to be blasting there, too.
Your resources are limited, you see.  There is simply
nothing for it but to watch and pray.

For some hours we had been making three and a half or four
miles an hour and we were still making that.  We had been
dancing right along until those men began to shout;
then for the next ten minutes it seemed to me that I had
never seen a raft go so slowly.  When the first blast went
off we raised our sun-umbrellas and waited for the result.
No harm done; none of the stones fell in the water.
Another blast followed, and another and another.
Some of the rubbish fell in the water just astern
of us.

We ran that whole battery of nine blasts in a row, and it
was certainly one of the most exciting and uncomfortable
weeks I ever spent, either aship or ashore.  Of course
we frequently manned the poles and shoved earnestly
for a second or so, but every time one of those spurts
of dust and debris shot aloft every man dropped his pole
and looked up to get the bearings of his share of it.
It was very busy times along there for a while.
It appeared certain that we must perish, but even that was
not the bitterest thought; no, the abjectly unheroic nature
of the death--that was the sting--that and the bizarre
wording of the resulting obituary: "SHOT WITH A ROCK,
ON A RAFT." There would be no poetry written about it.
None COULD be written about it.  Example:

NOT by war's shock, or war's shaft,--SHOT, with a rock,
on a raft.

No poet who valued his reputation would touch such a
theme as that.  I should be distinguished as the only
"distinguished dead" who went down to the grave unsonneted,
in 1878.

But we escaped, and I have never regretted it.
The last blast was peculiarly strong one, and after
the small rubbish was done raining around us and we
were just going to shake hands over our deliverance,
a later and larger stone came down amongst our little
group of pedestrians and wrecked an umbrella.  It did
no other harm, but we took to the water just the same.

It seems that the heavy work in the quarries and the
new railway gradings is done mainly by Italians.
That was a revelation.  We have the notion in our country
that Italians never do heavy work at all, but confine
themselves to the lighter arts, like organ-grinding,
operatic singing, and assassination.  We have blundered,
that is plain.

All along the river, near every village, we saw little
station-houses for the future railway.  They were
finished and waiting for the rails and business.
They were as trim and snug and pretty as they could be.
They were always of brick or stone; they were of graceful
shape, they had vines and flowers about them already,
and around them the grass was bright and green,
and showed that it was carefully looked after.  They were
a decoration to the beautiful landscape, not an offense.
Wherever one saw a pile of gravel or a pile of broken stone,
it was always heaped as trimly and exactly as a new grave
or a stack of cannon-balls; nothing about those stations
or along the railroad or the wagon-road was allowed
to look shabby or be unornamental.  The keeping a country
in such beautiful order as Germany exhibits, has a wise
practical side to it, too, for it keeps thousands of people
in work and bread who would otherwise be idle and mischievous.

As the night shut down, the captain wanted to tie up,
but I thought maybe we might make Hirschhorn, so we went on.
Presently the sky became overcast, and the captain came
aft looking uneasy.  He cast his eye aloft, then shook
his head, and said it was coming on to blow.  My party
wanted to land at once--therefore I wanted to go on.
The captain said we ought to shorten sail anyway,
out of common prudence.  Consequently, the larboard watch
was ordered to lay in his pole.  It grew quite dark,
now, and the wind began to rise.  It wailed through
the swaying branches of the trees, and swept our decks
in fitful gusts.  Things were taking on an ugly look.
The captain shouted to the steersman on the forward
log:

"How's she landing?"

The answer came faint and hoarse from far forward:

"Nor'-east-and-by-nor'--east-by-east, half-east, sir."

"Let her go off a point!"

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"What water have you got?"

"Shoal, sir.  Two foot large, on the stabboard,
two and a half scant on the labboard!"

"Let her go off another point!"

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"Forward, men, all of you! Lively, now! Stand by to crowd
her round the weather corner!"

"Aye-aye, sir!"

Then followed a wild running and trampling and hoarse shouting,
but the forms of the men were lost in the darkness and
the sounds were distorted and confused by the roaring
of the wind through the shingle-bundles. By this time
the sea was running inches high, and threatening every
moment to engulf the frail bark.  Now came the mate,
hurrying aft, and said, close to the captain's ear,
in a low, agitated voice:

"Prepare for the worst, sir--we have sprung a leak!"

"Heavens! where?"

"Right aft the second row of logs."

"Nothing but a miracle can save us! Don't let the men know,
or there will be a panic and mutiny! Lay her in shore
and stand by to jump with the stern-line the moment
she touches.  Gentlemen, I must look to you to second
my endeavors in this hour of peril.  You have hats--go
forward and bail for your lives!"

Down swept another mighty blast of wind, clothed in
spray and thick darkness.  At such a moment as this,
came from away forward that most appalling of all cries
that are ever heard at sea:

"MAN OVERBOARD!"

The captain shouted:

"Hard a-port! Never mind the man! Let him climb aboard
or wade ashore!"

Another cry came down the wind:

"Breakers ahead!"

"Where away?"

"Not a log's length off her port fore-foot!"

We had groped our slippery way forward, and were now
bailing with the frenzy of despair, when we heard
the mate's terrified cry, from far aft:

"Stop that dashed bailing, or we shall be aground!"

But this was immediately followed by the glad shout:

"Land aboard the starboard transom!"

"Saved!" cried the captain.  "Jump ashore and take a turn
around a tree and pass the bight aboard!"

The next moment we were all on shore weeping and embracing
for joy, while the rain poured down in torrents.
The captain said he had been a mariner for forty years
on the Neckar, and in that time had seen storms to make
a man's cheek blanch and his pulses stop, but he had never,
never seen a storm that even approached this one.
How familiar that sounded! For I have been at sea a good
deal and have heard that remark from captains with a
frequency accordingly.

We framed in our minds the usual resolution of thanks
and admiration and gratitude, and took the first
opportunity to vote it, and put it in writing and
present it to the captain, with the customary speech.
We tramped through the darkness and the drenching summer
rain full three miles, and reached "The Naturalist Tavern"
in the village of Hirschhorn just an hour before midnight,
almost exhausted from hardship, fatigue, and terror.
I can never forget that night.

The landlord was rich, and therefore could afford to be
crusty and disobliging; he did not at all like being
turned out of his warm bed to open his house for us.
But no matter, his household got up and cooked a quick
supper for us, and we brewed a hot punch for ourselves,
to keep off consumption.  After supper and punch we
had an hour's soothing smoke while we fought the naval
battle over again and voted the resolutions; then we
retired to exceedingly neat and pretty chambers upstairs
that had clean, comfortable beds in them with heirloom
pillowcases most elaborately and tastefully embroidered
by hand.

Such rooms and beds and embroidered linen are as frequent
in German village inns as they are rare in ours.
Our villages are superior to German villages in
more merits, excellences, conveniences, and privileges
than I can enumerate, but the hotels do not belong in the list.

"The Naturalist Tavern" was not a meaningless name; for all
the halls and all the rooms were lined with large glass
cases which were filled with all sorts of birds and animals,
glass-eyed, ably stuffed, and set up in the most natural
eloquent and dramatic attitudes.  The moment we were abed,
the rain cleared away and the moon came out.  I dozed off
to sleep while contemplating a great white stuffed owl
which was looking intently down on me from a high perch
with the air of a person who thought he had met me before,
but could not make out for certain.

But young Z did not get off so easily.  He said that as he was
sinking deliciously to sleep, the moon lifted away the shadows
and developed a huge cat, on a bracket, dead and stuffed,
but crouching, with every muscle tense, for a spring,
and with its glittering glass eyes aimed straight at him.
It made Z uncomfortable.  He tried closing his own eyes,
but that did not answer, for a natural instinct kept
making him open them again to see if the cat was still
getting ready to launch at him--which she always was.
He tried turning his back, but that was a failure;
he knew the sinister eyes were on him still.  So at
last he had to get up, after an hour or two of worry
and experiment, and set the cat out in the hall.  So he won,
that time.



CHAPTER XVIII
[The Kindly Courtesy of Germans]

In the morning we took breakfast in the garden,
under the trees, in the delightful German summer fashion.
The air was filled with the fragrance of flowers
and wild animals; the living portion of the menagerie
of the "Naturalist Tavern" was all about us.  There were
great cages populous with fluttering and chattering
foreign birds, and other great cages and greater wire pens,
populous with quadrupeds, both native and foreign.
There were some free creatures, too, and quite sociable
ones they were.  White rabbits went loping about the place,
and occasionally came and sniffed at our shoes and shins;
a fawn, with a red ribbon on its neck, walked up and
examined us fearlessly; rare breeds of chickens and
doves begged for crumbs, and a poor old tailless raven
hopped about with a humble, shamefaced mein which said,
"Please do not notice my exposure--think how you would
feel in my circumstances, and be charitable." If he
was observed too much, he would retire behind something
and stay there until he judged the party's interest had
found another object.  I never have seen another dumb
creature that was so morbidly sensitive.  Bayard Taylor,
who could interpret the dim reasonings of animals,
and understood their moral natures better than most men,
would have found some way to make this poor old chap forget
his troubles for a while, but we have not his kindly art,
and so had to leave the raven to his griefs.

After breakfast we climbed the hill and visited the ancient
castle of Hirschhorn, and the ruined church near it.
There were some curious old bas-reliefs leaning against
the inner walls of the church--sculptured lords of
Hirschhorn in complete armor, and ladies of Hirschhorn
in the picturesque court costumes of the Middle Ages.
These things are suffering damage and passing to decay,
for the last Hirschhorn has been dead two hundred years,
and there is nobody now who cares to preserve the family relics.
In the chancel was a twisted stone column, and the captain
told us a legend about it, of course, for in the matter
of legends he could not seem to restrain himself; but I
do not repeat his tale because there was nothing plausible
about it except that the Hero wrenched this column into its
present screw-shape with his hands --just one single wrench.
All the rest of the legend was doubtful.

But Hirschhorn is best seen from a distance, down the river.
Then the clustered brown towers perched on the green hilltop,
and the old battlemented stone wall, stretching up and over
the grassy ridge and disappearing in the leafy sea beyond,
make a picture whose grace and beauty entirely satisfy
the eye.

We descended from the church by steep stone stairways
which curved this way and that down narrow alleys
between the packed and dirty tenements of the village.
It was a quarter well stocked with deformed, leering,
unkempt and uncombed idiots, who held out hands or caps
and begged piteously.  The people of the quarter were not
all idiots, of course, but all that begged seemed to be,
and were said to be.

I was thinking of going by skiff to the next town,
Necharsteinach; so I ran to the riverside in advance of
the party and asked a man there if he had a boat to hire.
I suppose I must have spoken High German--Court German--I
intended it for that, anyway--so he did not understand me.
I turned and twisted my question around and about,
trying to strike that man's average, but failed.
He could not make out what I wanted.  Now Mr. X arrived,
faced this same man, looked him in the eye, and emptied
this sentence on him, in the most glib and confident way:
"Can man boat get here?"

The mariner promptly understood and promptly answered.
I can comprehend why he was able to understand that
particular sentence, because by mere accident all the
words in it except "get" have the same sound and the same
meaning in German that they have in English; but how he
managed to understand Mr. X's next remark puzzled me.
I will insert it, presently.  X turned away a moment,
and I asked the mariner if he could not find a board,
and so construct an additional seat.  I spoke in the
purest German, but I might as well have spoken in the
purest Choctaw for all the good it did.  The man tried
his best to understand me; he tried, and kept on trying,
harder and harder, until I saw it was really of no use,
and said:

"There, don't strain yourself--it is of no consequence."

Then X turned to him and crisply said:

"MACHEN SIE a flat board."

I wish my epitaph may tell the truth about me if the man
did not answer up at once, and say he would go and borrow
a board as soon as he had lit the pipe which he was filling.

We changed our mind about taking a boat, so we did not have
to go.  I have given Mr. X's two remarks just as he made them.
Four of the five words in the first one were English,
and that they were also German was only accidental,
not intentional; three out of the five words in the second
remark were English, and English only, and the two German
ones did not mean anything in particular, in such a connection.

X always spoke English to Germans, but his plan was
to turn the sentence wrong end first and upside down,
according to German construction, and sprinkle in a German
word without any essential meaning to it, here and there,
by way of flavor.  Yet he always made himself understood.
He could make those dialect-speaking raftsmen understand
him, sometimes, when even young Z had failed with them;
and young Z was a pretty good German scholar.  For one thing,
X always spoke with such confidence--perhaps that helped.
And possibly the raftsmen's dialect was what is called
PLATT-DEUTSCH, and so they found his English more familiar
to their ears than another man's German.  Quite indifferent
students of German can read Fritz Reuter's charming
platt-Deutch tales with some little facility because many
of the words are English.  I suppose this is the tongue
which our Saxon ancestors carried to England with them.
By and by I will inquire of some other philologist.

However, in the mean time it had transpired that the men
employed to calk the raft had found that the leak was not
a leak at all, but only a crack between the logs--a crack
that belonged there, and was not dangerous, but had been
magnified into a leak by the disordered imagination of
the mate.  Therefore we went aboard again with a good degree
of confidence, and presently got to sea without accident.
As we swam smoothly along between the enchanting shores,
we fell to swapping notes about manners and customs
in Germany and elsewhere.

As I write, now, many months later, I perceive that each of us,
by observing and noting and inquiring, diligently and day
by day, had managed to lay in a most varied and opulent
stock of misinformation.  But this is not surprising;
it is very difficult to get accurate details in any country.
For example, I had the idea once, in Heidelberg,
to find out all about those five student-corps. I started
with the White Cap corps.  I began to inquire of this
and that and the other citizen, and here is what I found
out:

1.  It is called the Prussian Corps, because none
but Prussians are admitted to it.

2.  It is called the Prussian Corps for no particular reason.
It has simply pleased each corps to name itself after
some German state.

3.  It is not named the Prussian Corps at all, but only
the White Cap Corps.

4.  Any student can belong to it who is a German by birth.

5.  Any student can belong to it who is European by birth.

6.  Any European-born student can belong to it, except he
be a Frenchman.

7.  Any student can belong to it, no matter where he
was born.

8.  No student can belong to it who is not of noble blood.

9.  No student can belong to it who cannot show three full
generations of noble descent.

10.  Nobility is not a necessary qualification.

11.  No moneyless student can belong to it.

12.  Money qualification is nonsense--such a thing has
never been thought of.

I got some of this information from students themselves--
students who did not belong to the corps.

I finally went to headquarters--to the White Caps--where I
would have gone in the first place if I had been acquainted.
But even at headquarters I found difficulties; I perceived
that there were things about the White Cap Corps which
one member knew and another one didn't. It was natural;
for very few members of any organization know ALL that can
be known about it.  I doubt there is a man or a woman
in Heidelberg who would not answer promptly and confidently
three out of every five questions about the White Cap Corps
which a stranger might ask; yet it is a very safe bet
that two of the three answers would be incorrect every time.

There is one German custom which is universal--the bowing
courteously to strangers when sitting down at table or
rising up from it.  This bow startles a stranger out of his
self-possession, the first time it occurs, and he is likely
to fall over a chair or something, in his embarrassment,
but it pleases him, nevertheless.  One soon learns to expect
this bow and be on the lookout and ready to return it;
but to learn to lead off and make the initial bow
one's self is a difficult matter for a diffident man.
One thinks, "If I rise to go, and tender my box,
and these ladies and gentlemen take it into their heads
to ignore the custom of their nation, and not return it,
how shall I feel, in case I survive to feel anything."
Therefore he is afraid to venture.  He sits out the dinner,
and makes the strangers rise first and originate the bowing.
A table d'ho^te dinner is a tedious affair for a man
who seldom touches anything after the three first courses;
therefore I used to do some pretty dreary waiting
because of my fears.  It took me months to assure myself
that those fears were groundless, but I did assure myself
at last by experimenting diligently through my agent.
I made Harris get up and bow and leave; invariably his bow
was returned, then I got up and bowed myself and retired.

Thus my education proceeded easily and comfortably for me,
but not for Harris.  Three courses of a table d'ho^te
dinner were enough for me, but Harris preferred thirteen.

Even after I had acquired full confidence, and no longer needed
the agent's help, I sometimes encountered difficulties.
Once at Baden-Baden I nearly lost a train because I could
not be sure that three young ladies opposite me at table
were Germans, since I had not heard them speak; they might
be American, they might be English, it was not safe to venture
a bow; but just as I had got that far with my thought,
one of them began a German remark, to my great relief
and gratitude; and before she got out her third word,
our bows had been delivered and graciously returned,
and we were off.

There is a friendly something about the German character
which is very winning.  When Harris and I were making
a pedestrian tour through the Black Forest, we stopped at
a little country inn for dinner one day; two young ladies
and a young gentleman entered and sat down opposite us.
They were pedestrians, too.  Our knapsacks were strapped
upon our backs, but they had a sturdy youth along to carry
theirs for them.  All parties were hungry, so there was
no talking.  By and by the usual bows were exchanged,
and we separated.

As we sat at a late breakfast in the hotel at Allerheiligen,
next morning, these young people and took places
near us without observing us; but presently they saw
us and at once bowed and smiled; not ceremoniously,
but with the gratified look of people who have found
acquaintances where they were expecting strangers.
Then they spoke of the weather and the roads.  We also
spoke of the weather and the roads.  Next, they said they
had had an enjoyable walk, notwithstanding the weather.
We said that that had been our case, too.  Then they said
they had walked thirty English miles the day before,
and asked how many we had walked.  I could not lie, so I
told Harris to do it.  Harris told them we had made thirty
English miles, too.  That was true; we had "made" them,
though we had had a little assistance here and there.

After breakfast they found us trying to blast some
information out of the dumb hotel clerk about routes,
and observing that we were not succeeding pretty well,
they went and got their maps and things, and pointed
out and explained our course so clearly that even a New
York detective could have followed it.  And when we
started they spoke out a hearty good-by and wished us
a pleasant journey.  Perhaps they were more generous
with us than they might have been with native wayfarers
because we were a forlorn lot and in a strange land;
I don't know; I only know it was lovely to be treated so.

Very well, I took an American young lady to one of the fine
balls in Baden-Baden, one night, and at the entrance-door
upstairs we were halted by an official--something about Miss
Jones's dress was not according to rule; I don't remember
what it was, now; something was wanting--her back hair,
or a shawl, or a fan, or a shovel, or something.
The official was ever so polite, and every so sorry,
but the rule was strict, and he could not let us in.
It was very embarrassing, for many eyes were on us.
But now a richly dressed girl stepped out of the ballroom,
inquired into the trouble, and said she could fix it in
a moment.  She took Miss Jones to the robing-room, and soon
brought her back in regulation trim, and then we entered
the ballroom with this benefactress unchallenged.

Being safe, now, I began to puzzle through my sincere
but ungrammatical thanks, when there was a sudden mutual
recognition --the benefactress and I had met at Allerheiligen.
Two weeks had not altered her good face, and plainly
her heart was in the right place yet, but there was such
a difference between these clothes and the clothes I
had seen her in before, when she was walking thirty miles
a day in the Black Forest, that it was quite natural
that I had failed to recognize her sooner.  I had on MY
other suit, too, but my German would betray me to a person
who had heard it once, anyway.  She brought her brother
and sister, and they made our way smooth for that evening.

Well--months afterward, I was driving through the streets
of Munich in a cab with a German lady, one day, when she
said:

"There, that is Prince Ludwig and his wife, walking along there."

Everybody was bowing to them--cabmen, little children,
and everybody else--and they were returning all the bows
and overlooking nobody, when a young lady met them and made
a deep courtesy.

"That is probably one of the ladies of the court,"
said my German friend.

I said:

"She is an honor to it, then.  I know her.  I don't know
her name, but I know HER.  I have known her at Allerheiligen
and Baden-Baden. She ought to be an Empress, but she
may be only a Duchess; it is the way things go in this way."

If one asks a German a civil question, he will be quite
sure to get a civil answer.  If you stop a German in the
street and ask him to direct you to a certain place,
he shows no sign of feeling offended.  If the place be
difficult to find, ten to one the man will drop his own
matters and go with you and show you.

In London, too, many a time, strangers have walked several
blocks with me to show me my way.

There is something very real about this sort of politeness.
Quite often, in Germany, shopkeepers who could not furnish
me the article I wanted have sent one of their employees
with me to show me a place where it could be had.



CHAPTER XIX
[The Deadly Jest of Dilsberg]

However, I wander from the raft.  We made the port
of Necharsteinach in good season, and went to the hotel
and ordered a trout dinner, the same to be ready
against our return from a two-hour pedestrian excursion
to the village and castle of Dilsberg, a mile distant,
on the other side of the river.  I do not mean that we
proposed to be two hours making two miles--no, we meant
to employ most of the time in inspecting Dilsberg.

For Dilsberg is a quaint place.  It is most quaintly
and picturesquely situated, too.  Imagine the beautiful
river before you; then a few rods of brilliant green sward
on its opposite shore; then a sudden hill--no preparatory
gently rising slopes, but a sort of instantaneous hill--
a hill two hundred and fifty or three hundred feet high,
as round as a bowl, with the same taper upward that an
inverted bowl has, and with about the same relation
of height to diameter that distinguishes a bowl of good
honest depth--a hill which is thickly clothed with
green bushes--a comely, shapely hill, rising abruptly
out of the dead level of the surrounding green plains,
visible from a great distance down the bends of the river,
and with just exactly room on the top of its head
for its steepled and turreted and roof-clustered cap
of architecture, which same is tightly jammed and compacted
within the perfectly round hoop of the ancient village wall.

There is no house outside the wall on the whole hill,
or any vestige of a former house; all the houses are
inside the wall, but there isn't room for another one.
It is really a finished town, and has been finished
a very long time.  There is no space between the wall
and the first circle of buildings; no, the village wall
is itself the rear wall of the first circle of buildings,
and the roofs jut a little over the wall and thus
furnish it with eaves.  The general level of the massed
roofs is gracefully broken and relieved by the dominating
towers of the ruined castle and the tall spires of a
couple of churches; so, from a distance Dilsberg has
rather more the look of a king's crown than a cap.
That lofty green eminence and its quaint coronet form
quite a striking picture, you may be sure, in the flush
of the evening sun.

We crossed over in a boat and began the ascent by a narrow,
steep path which plunged us at once into the leafy deeps
of the bushes.  But they were not cool deeps by any means,
for the sun's rays were weltering hot and there was
little or no breeze to temper them.  As we panted up
the sharp ascent, we met brown, bareheaded and barefooted
boys and girls, occasionally, and sometimes men;
they came upon us without warning, they gave us good day,
flashed out of sight in the bushes, and were gone as
suddenly and mysteriously as they had come.  They were
bound for the other side of the river to work.  This path
had been traveled by many generations of these people.
They have always gone down to the valley to earn their bread,
but they have always climbed their hill again to eat it,
and to sleep in their snug town.

It is said that the Dilsbergers do not emigrate much;
they find that living up there above the world, in their
peaceful nest, is pleasanter than living down in the
troublous world.  The seven hundred inhabitants are all
blood-kin to each other, too; they have always been blood-kin
to each other for fifteen hundred years; they are simply
one large family, and they like the home folks better than
they like strangers, hence they persistently stay at home.
It has been said that for ages Dilsberg has been merely
a thriving and diligent idiot-factory. I saw no idiots there,
but the captain said, "Because of late years the government
has taken to lugging them off to asylums and otherwheres;
and government wants to cripple the factory, too, and is
trying to get these Dilsbergers to marry out of the family,
but they don't like to."

The captain probably imagined all this, as modern science
denies that the intermarrying of relatives deteriorates
the stock.

Arrived within the wall, we found the usual village
sights and life.  We moved along a narrow, crooked lane
which had been paved in the Middle Ages.  A strapping,
ruddy girl was beating flax or some such stuff in a little
bit of a good-box of a barn, and she swung her flail
with a will--if it was a flail; I was not farmer enough
to know what she was at; a frowsy, barelegged girl was
herding half a dozen geese with a stick--driving them
along the lane and keeping them out of the dwellings;
a cooper was at work in a shop which I know he did not make
so large a thing as a hogshead in, for there was not room.
In the front rooms of dwellings girls and women were
cooking or spinning, and ducks and chickens were waddling
in and out, over the threshold, picking up chance crumbs
and holding pleasant converse; a very old and wrinkled man
sat asleep before his door, with his chin upon his breast
and his extinguished pipe in his lap; soiled children
were playing in the dirt everywhere along the lane,
unmindful of the sun.

Except the sleeping old man, everybody was at work,
but the place was very still and peaceful, nevertheless;
so still that the distant cackle of the successful hen smote
upon the ear but little dulled by intervening sounds.
That commonest of village sights was lacking here--the
public pump, with its great stone tank or trough of
limpid water, and its group of gossiping pitcher-bearers;
for there is no well or fountain or spring on this tall hill;
cisterns of rain-water are used.

Our alpenstocks and muslin tails compelled attention,
and as we moved through the village we gathered a considerable
procession of little boys and girls, and so went in some
state to the castle.  It proved to be an extensive pile of
crumbling walls, arches, and towers, massive, properly grouped
for picturesque effect, weedy, grass-grown, and satisfactory.
The children acted as guides; they walked us along the top
of the highest walls, then took us up into a high tower
and showed us a wide and beautiful landscape, made up
of wavy distances of woody hills, and a nearer prospect
of undulating expanses of green lowlands, on the one hand,
and castle-graced crags and ridges on the other,
with the shining curves of the Neckar flowing between.
But the principal show, the chief pride of the children,
was the ancient and empty well in the grass-grown court
of the castle.  Its massive stone curb stands up three
or four feet above-ground, and is whole and uninjured.
The children said that in the Middle Ages this well was
four hundred feet deep, and furnished all the village
with an abundant supply of water, in war and peace.
They said that in the old day its bottom was below the level
of the Neckar, hence the water-supply was inexhaustible.

But there were some who believed it had never been a well
at all, and was never deeper than it is now--eighty feet;
that at that depth a subterranean passage branched from it
and descended gradually to a remote place in the valley,
where it opened into somebody's cellar or other hidden recess,
and that the secret of this locality is now lost.
Those who hold this belief say that herein lies the
explanation that Dilsberg, besieged by Tilly and many
a soldier before him, was never taken: after the longest
and closest sieges the besiegers were astonished to
perceive that the besieged were as fat and hearty as ever,
and were well furnished with munitions of war--therefore
it must be that the Dilsbergers had been bringing these
things in through the subterranean passage all the time.

The children said that there was in truth a subterranean
outlet down there, and they would prove it.  So they set
a great truss of straw on fire and threw it down the well,
while we leaned on the curb and watched the glowing
mass descend.  It struck bottom and gradually burned out.
No smoke came up.  The children clapped their hands and
said:

"You see! Nothing makes so much smoke as burning straw--now
where did the smoke go to, if there is no subterranean outlet?"

So it seemed quite evident that the subterranean outlet
indeed existed.  But the finest thing within the ruin's
limits was a noble linden, which the children said was
four hundred years old, and no doubt it was.  It had
a mighty trunk and a mighty spread of limb and foliage.
The limbs near the ground were nearly the thickness
of a barrel.

That tree had witnessed the assaults of men in mail--
how remote such a time seems, and how ungraspable is the
fact that real men ever did fight in real armor!--and it
had seen the time when these broken arches and crumbling
battlements were a trim and strong and stately fortress,
fluttering its gay banners in the sun, and peopled with vigorous
humanity--how impossibly long ago that seems!--and here
it stands yet, and possibly may still be standing here,
sunning itself and dreaming its historical dreams,
when today shall have been joined to the days called "ancient."

Well, we sat down under the tree to smoke, and the captain
delivered himself of his legend:

THE LEGEND OF DILSBERG CASTLE

It was to this effect.  In the old times there was once
a great company assembled at the castle, and festivity
ran high.  Of course there was a haunted chamber
in the castle, and one day the talk fell upon that.
It was said that whoever slept in it would not wake again
for fifty years.  Now when a young knight named Conrad
von Geisberg heard this, he said that if the castle were
his he would destroy that chamber, so that no foolish
person might have the chance to bring so dreadful
a misfortune upon himself and afflict such as loved
him with the memory of it.  Straightway, the company
privately laid their heads together to contrive some
way to get this superstitious young man to sleep in that chamber.


And they succeeded--in this way.  They persuaded
his betrothed, a lovely mischievous young creature,
niece of the lord of the castle, to help them in their plot.
She presently took him aside and had speech with him.
She used all her persuasions, but could not shake him;
he said his belief was firm, that if he should sleep
there he would wake no more for fifty years, and it made
him shudder to think of it.  Catharina began to weep.
This was a better argument; Conrad could not out against it.
He yielded and said she should have her wish if she would only
smile and be happy again.  She flung her arms about his neck,
and the kisses she gave him showed that her thankfulness
and her pleasure were very real.  Then she flew to tell
the company her success, and the applause she received
made her glad and proud she had undertaken her mission,
since all alone she had accomplished what the multitude had
failed in.

At midnight, that night, after the usual feasting,
Conrad was taken to the haunted chamber and left there.
He fell asleep, by and by.

When he awoke again and looked about him, his heart
stood still with horror! The whole aspect of the chamber
was changed.  The walls were moldy and hung with
ancient cobwebs; the curtains and beddings were rotten;
the furniture was rickety and ready to fall to pieces.
He sprang out of bed, but his quaking knees sunk under
him and he fell to the floor.

"This is the weakness of age," he said.

He rose and sought his clothing.  It was clothing no longer.
The colors were gone, the garments gave way in many places
while he was putting them on.  He fled, shuddering,
into the corridor, and along it to the great hall.  Here he
was met by a middle-aged stranger of a kind countenance,
who stopped and gazed at him with surprise.  Conrad said:

"Good sir, will you send hither the lord Ulrich?"

The stranger looked puzzled a moment, then said:

"The lord Ulrich?"

"Yes--if you will be so good."

The stranger called--"Wilhelm!" A young serving-man came,
and the stranger said to him:

"Is there a lord Ulrich among the guests?"

"I know none of the name, so please your honor."

Conrad said, hesitatingly:

"I did not mean a guest, but the lord of the castle, sir."

The stranger and the servant exchanged wondering glances.
Then the former said:

"I am the lord of the castle."

"Since when, sir?"

"Since the death of my father, the good lord Ulrich
more than forty years ago."

Conrad sank upon a bench and covered his face with his
hands while he rocked his body to and fro and moaned.
The stranger said in a low voice to the servant:

"I fear me this poor old creature is mad.  Call some one."

In a moment several people came, and grouped themselves about,
talking in whispers.  Conrad looked up and scanned
the faces about him wistfully.

Then he shook his head and said, in a grieved voice:

"No, there is none among ye that I know.  I am old and alone
in the world.  They are dead and gone these many years
that cared for me.  But sure, some of these aged ones I see
about me can tell me some little word or two concerning them."

Several bent and tottering men and women came nearer
and answered his questions about each former friend
as he mentioned the names.  This one they said had been
dead ten years, that one twenty, another thirty.
Each succeeding blow struck heavier and heavier.
At last the sufferer said:

"There is one more, but I have not the courage to--O
my lost Catharina!"

One of the old dames said:

"Ah, I knew her well, poor soul.  A misfortune overtook
her lover, and she died of sorrow nearly fifty years ago.
She lieth under the linden tree without the court."

Conrad bowed his head and said:

"Ah, why did I ever wake! And so she died of grief for me,
poor child.  So young, so sweet, so good! She never wittingly
did a hurtful thing in all the little summer of her life.
Her loving debt shall be repaid--for I will die of grief
for her."

His head drooped upon his breast.  In the moment there
was a wild burst of joyous laughter, a pair of round
young arms were flung about Conrad's neck and a sweet
voice cried:

"There, Conrad mine, thy kind words kill me--the farce
shall go no further! Look up, and laugh with us--'twas
all a jest!"

And he did look up, and gazed, in a dazed wonderment--
for the disguises were stripped away, and the aged
men and women were bright and young and gay again.
Catharina's happy tongue ran on:

"'Twas a marvelous jest, and bravely carried out.
They gave you a heavy sleeping-draught before you went
to bed, and in the night they bore you to a ruined chamber
where all had fallen to decay, and placed these rags
of clothing by you.  And when your sleep was spent and you
came forth, two strangers, well instructed in their parts,
were here to meet you; and all we, your friends,
in our disguises, were close at hand, to see and hear,
you may be sure.  Ah, 'twas a gallant jest! Come, now,
and make thee ready for the pleasures of the day.
How real was thy misery for the moment, thou poor lad!
Look up and have thy laugh, now!"

He looked up, searched the merry faces about him
in a dreamy way, then sighed and said:

"I am aweary, good strangers, I pray you lead me to her grave."

All the smile vanished away, every cheek blanched,
Catharina sunk to the ground in a swoon.

All day the people went about the castle with troubled faces,
and communed together in undertones.  A painful hush
pervaded the place which had lately been so full of
cheery life.  Each in his turn tried to arouse Conrad
out of his hallucination and bring him to himself;
but all the answer any got was a meek, bewildered stare,
and then the words:

"Good stranger, I have no friends, all are at rest these
many years; ye speak me fair, ye mean me well, but I know
ye not; I am alone and forlorn in the world--prithee
lead me to her grave."

During two years Conrad spent his days, from the
early morning till the night, under the linden tree,
mourning over the imaginary grave of his Catharina.
Catharina was the only company of the harmless madman.
He was very friendly toward her because, as he said,
in some ways she reminded him of his Catharina whom he had
lost "fifty years ago." He often said:

"She was so gay, so happy-hearted--but you never smile;
and always when you think I am not looking, you cry."

When Conrad died, they buried him under the linden,
according to his directions, so that he might rest
"near his poor Catharina." Then Catharina sat under
the linden alone, every day and all day long, a great
many years, speaking to no one, and never smiling;
and at last her long repentance was rewarded with death,
and she was buried by Conrad's side.

Harris pleased the captain by saying it was good legend;
and pleased him further by adding:

"Now that I have seen this mighty tree, vigorous with
its four hundred years, I feel a desire to believe
the legend for ITS sake; so I will humor the desire,
and consider that the tree really watches over those poor
hearts and feels a sort of human tenderness for them."

We returned to Necharsteinach, plunged our hot heads
into the trough at the town pump, and then went to the
hotel and ate our trout dinner in leisurely comfort,
in the garden, with the beautiful Neckar flowing at our feet,
the quaint Dilsberg looming beyond, and the graceful
towers and battlements of a couple of medieval castles
(called the "Swallow's Nest" [1] and "The Brothers.")
assisting the rugged scenery of a bend of the river
down to our right.  We got to sea in season to make the
eight-mile run to Heidelberg before the night shut down.
We sailed by the hotel in the mellow glow of sunset,
and came slashing down with the mad current into the narrow
passage between the dikes.  I believed I could shoot the
bridge myself, and I went to the forward triplet of logs
and relieved the pilot of his pole and his responsibility.

1.  The seeker after information is referred to Appendix
    E for our captain's legend of the "Swallow's Nest"
    and "The Brothers."

We went tearing along in a most exhilarating way, and I
performed the delicate duties of my office very well indeed
for a first attempt; but perceiving, presently, that I
really was going to shoot the bridge itself instead
of the archway under it, I judiciously stepped ashore.
The next moment I had my long-coveted desire: I saw
a raft wrecked.  It hit the pier in the center and went
all to smash and scatteration like a box of matches
struck by lightning.

I was the only one of our party who saw this grand sight;
the others were attitudinizing, for the benefit of the long
rank of young ladies who were promenading on the bank,
and so they lost it.  But I helped to fish them out of
the river, down below the bridge, and then described it
to them as well as I could.

They were not interested, though.  They said they were
wet and felt ridiculous and did not care anything for
descriptions of scenery.  The young ladies, and other people,
crowded around and showed a great deal of sympathy,
but that did not help matters; for my friends said they
did not want sympathy, they wanted a back alley and solitude.



CHAPTER XX
[My Precious, Priceless Tear-Jug]

Next morning brought good news--our trunks had arrived
from Hamburg at last.  Let this be a warning to the reader.
The Germans are very conscientious, and this trait makes
them very particular.  Therefore if you tell a German you
want a thing done immediately, he takes you at your word;
he thinks you mean what you say; so he does that thing
immediately--according to his idea of immediately--
which is about a week; that is, it is a week if it refers
to the building of a garment, or it is an hour and a half
if it refers to the cooking of a trout.  Very well; if you
tell a German to send your trunk to you by "slow freight,"
he takes you at your word; he sends it by "slow freight,"
and you cannot imagine how long you will go on enlarging
your admiration of the expressiveness of that phrase
in the German tongue, before you get that trunk.
The hair on my trunk was soft and thick and youthful,
when I got it ready for shipment in Hamburg; it was baldheaded
when it reached Heidelberg.  However, it was still sound,
that was a comfort, it was not battered in the least;
the baggagemen seemed to be conscientiously careful,
in Germany, of the baggage entrusted to their hands.
There was nothing now in the way of our departure, therefore we
set about our preparations.

Naturally my chief solicitude was about my collection
of Ceramics.  Of course I could not take it with me,
that would be inconvenient, and dangerous besides.
I took advice, but the best brick-a-brackers were divided
as to the wisest course to pursue; some said pack the
collection and warehouse it; others said try to get it
into the Grand Ducal Museum at Mannheim for safe keeping.
So I divided the collection, and followed the advice of
both parties.  I set aside, for the Museum, those articles
which were the most frail and precious.

Among these was my Etruscan tear-jug. I have made a little
sketch of it here; [Figure 6] that thing creeping up
the side is not a bug, it is a hole.  I bought this
tear-jug of a dealer in antiquities for four hundred
and fifty dollars.  It is very rare.  The man said the
Etruscans used to keep tears or something in these things,
and that it was very hard to get hold of a broken one, now.
I also set aside my Henri II.  plate.  See sketch
from my pencil; [Figure 7] it is in the main correct,
though I think I have foreshortened one end of it a little
too much, perhaps.  This is very fine and rare; the shape
is exceedingly beautiful and unusual.  It has wonderful
decorations on it, but I am not able to reproduce them.
It cost more than the tear-jug, as the dealer said
there was not another plate just like it in the world.
He said there was much false Henri II ware around,
but that the genuineness of this piece was unquestionable.
He showed me its pedigree, or its history, if you please;
it was a document which traced this plate's movements
all the way down from its birth--showed who bought it,
from whom, and what he paid for it--from the first buyer
down to me, whereby I saw that it had gone steadily up
from thirty-five cents to seven hundred dollars.  He said
that the whole Ceramic world would be informed that it
was now in my possession and would make a note of it,
with the price paid.  [Figure 8]

There were Masters in those days, but, alas--it is not so now.
Of course the main preciousness of this piece lies in its color;
it is that old sensuous, pervading, ramifying, interpolating,
transboreal blue which is the despair of modern art.
The little sketch which I have made of this gem cannot
and does not do it justice, since I have been obliged
to leave out the color.  But I've got the expression, though.

However, I must not be frittering away the reader's time
with these details.  I did not intend to go into any
detail at all, at first, but it is the failing of the
true ceramiker, or the true devotee in any department
of brick-a-brackery, that once he gets his tongue or his
pen started on his darling theme, he cannot well stop
until he drops from exhaustion.  He has no more sense
of the flight of time than has any other lover when talking
of his sweetheart.  The very "marks" on the bottom
of a piece of rare crockery are able to throw me into
a gibbering ecstasy; and I could forsake a drowning
relative to help dispute about whether the stopple
of a departed Buon Retiro scent-bottle was genuine or spurious.

Many people say that for a male person, bric-a-brac hunting
is about as robust a business as making doll-clothes,
or decorating Japanese pots with decalcomanie butterflies
would be, and these people fling mud at the elegant Englishman,
Byng, who wrote a book called THE BRIC-A-BRAC HUNTER,
and make fun of him for chasing around after what they choose
to call "his despicable trifles"; and for "gushing" over
these trifles; and for exhibiting his "deep infantile delight"
in what they call his "tuppenny collection of beggarly
trivialities"; and for beginning his book with a picture
of himself seated, in a "sappy, self-complacent attitude,
in the midst of his poor little ridiculous bric-a-brac junk
shop."

It is easy to say these things; it is easy to revile us,
easy to despise us; therefore, let these people rail on;
they cannot feel as Byng and I feel--it is their loss,
not ours.  For my part I am content to be a brick-a-bracker
and a ceramiker--more, I am proud to be so named.
I am proud to know that I lose my reason as immediately
in the presence of a rare jug with an illustrious mark
on the bottom of it, as if I had just emptied that jug.
Very well; I packed and stored a part of my collection,
and the rest of it I placed in the care of the Grand Ducal
Museum in Mannheim, by permission.  My Old Blue China
Cat remains there yet.  I presented it to that excellent
institution.

I had but one misfortune with my things.  An egg which I
had kept back from breakfast that morning, was broken
in packing.  It was a great pity.  I had shown it to the
best connoisseurs in Heidelberg, and they all said it
was an antique.  We spent a day or two in farewell visits,
and then left for Baden-Baden. We had a pleasant
trip to it, for the Rhine valley is always lovely.
The only trouble was that the trip was too short.
If I remember rightly it only occupied a couple of hours,
therefore I judge that the distance was very little,
if any, over fifty miles.  We quitted the train at Oos,
and walked the entire remaining distance to Baden-Baden,
with the exception of a lift of less than an hour which we
got on a passing wagon, the weather being exhaustingly warm.
We came into town on foot.

One of the first persons we encountered, as we walked
up the street, was the Rev. Mr. ------, an old friend
from America--a lucky encounter, indeed, for his is
a most gentle, refined, and sensitive nature, and his
company and companionship are a genuine refreshment.
We knew he had been in Europe some time, but were not
at all expecting to run across him.  Both parties burst
forth into loving enthusiasms, and Rev. Mr. ------said:

"I have got a brimful reservoir of talk to pour out
on you, and an empty one ready and thirsting to receive
what you have got; we will sit up till midnight
and have a good satisfying interchange, for I leave
here early in the morning." We agreed to that, of course.

I had been vaguely conscious, for a while, of a person
who was walking in the street abreast of us; I had glanced
furtively at him once or twice, and noticed that he
was a fine, large, vigorous young fellow, with an open,
independent countenance, faintly shaded with a pale
and even almost imperceptible crop of early down,
and that he was clothed from head to heel in cool and
enviable snow-white linen.  I thought I had also noticed
that his head had a sort of listening tilt to it.
Now about this time the Rev. Mr. ------said:

"The sidewalk is hardly wide enough for three, so I will
walk behind; but keep the talk going, keep the talk going,
there's no time to lose, and you may be sure I will do
my share." He ranged himself behind us, and straightway that
stately snow-white young fellow closed up to the sidewalk
alongside him, fetched him a cordial slap on the shoulder
with his broad palm, and sung out with a hearty cheeriness:

"AMERICANS for two-and-a-half and the money up! HEY?"

The Reverend winced, but said mildly:

"Yes--we are Americans."

"Lord love you, you can just bet that's what _I_ am,
every time! Put it there!"

He held out his Sahara of his palm, and the Reverend laid
his diminutive hand in it, and got so cordial a shake
that we heard his glove burst under it.

"Say, didn't I put you up right?"

"Oh, yes."

"Sho! I spotted you for MY kind the minute I heard
your clack.  You been over here long?"

"About four months.  Have you been over long?"

"LONG? Well, I should say so! Going on two YEARS,
by geeminy! Say, are you homesick?"

"No, I can't say that I am.  Are you?"

"Oh, HELL, yes!" This with immense enthusiasm.

The Reverend shrunk a little, in his clothes, and we
were aware, rather by instinct than otherwise, that he
was throwing out signals of distress to us; but we did
not interfere or try to succor him, for we were quite happy.

The young fellow hooked his arm into the Reverend's, now,
with the confiding and grateful air of a waif who has
been longing for a friend, and a sympathetic ear,
and a chance to lisp once more the sweet accents of the
mother-tongue--and then he limbered up the muscles
of his mouth and turned himself loose--and with such a
relish! Some of his words were not Sunday-school words,
so I am obliged to put blanks where they occur.

"Yes indeedy! If _I_ ain't an American there AIN'T
any Americans, that's all.  And when I heard you fellows
gassing away in the good old American language, I'm ------
if it wasn't all I could do to keep from hugging you! My
tongue's all warped with trying to curl it around these
------forsaken wind-galled nine-jointed German words here;
now I TELL you it's awful good to lay it over a Christian
word once more and kind of let the old taste soak it.
I'm from western New York.  My name is Cholley Adams.
I'm a student, you know.  Been here going on two years.
I'm learning to be a horse-doctor! I LIKE that part of it,
you know, but ------these people, they won't learn a fellow
in his own language, they make him learn in German; so before
I could tackle the horse-doctoring I had to tackle this
miserable language.

"First off, I thought it would certainly give me
the botts, but I don't mind now.  I've got it where the
hair's short, I think; and dontchuknow, they made me
learn Latin, too.  Now between you and me, I wouldn't
give a ------for all the Latin that was ever jabbered;
and the first thing _I_ calculate to do when I get through,
is to just sit down and forget it.  'Twon't take me long,
and I don't mind the time, anyway.  And I tell you what!
the difference between school-teaching over yonder and
school-teaching over here--sho! WE don't know anything
about it! Here you're got to peg and peg and peg and there
just ain't any let-up--and what you learn here, you've got
to KNOW, dontchuknow --or else you'll have one of these
------spavined, spectacles, ring-boned, knock-kneed old
professors in your hair.  I've been here long ENOUGH,
and I'm getting blessed tired of it, mind I TELL you.
The old man wrote me that he was coming over in June,
and said he'd take me home in August, whether I was done
with my education or not, but durn him, he didn't come;
never said why; just sent me a hamper of Sunday-school
books, and told me to be good, and hold on a while.
I don't take to Sunday-school books, dontchuknow--I
don't hanker after them when I can get pie--but I
READ them, anyway, because whatever the old man tells
me to do, that's the thing that I'm a-going to DO,
or tear something, you know.  I buckled in and read
all those books, because he wanted me to; but that kind
of thing don't excite ME, I like something HEARTY.
But I'm awful homesick.  I'm homesick from ear-socket
to crupper, and from crupper to hock-joint; but it ain't
any use, I've got to stay here, till the old man drops
the rag and give the word--yes, SIR, right here in this
------country I've got to linger till the old man says
COME!--and you bet your bottom dollar, Johnny, it AIN'T
just as easy as it is for a cat to have twins!"

At the end of this profane and cordial explosion he
fetched a prodigious "WHOOSH!" to relieve his lungs
and make recognition of the heat, and then he straightway
dived into his narrative again for "Johnny's" benefit,
beginning, "Well, ------it ain't any use talking,
some of those old American words DO have a kind
of a bully swing to them; a man can EXPRESS himself
with 'em--a man can get at what he wants to SAY, dontchuknow."

When we reached our hotel and it seemed that he was
about to lose the Reverend, he showed so much sorrow,
and begged so hard and so earnestly that the Reverend's heart
was not hard enough to hold out against the pleadings--
so he went away with the parent-honoring student, like a
right Christian, and took supper with him in his lodgings,
and sat in the surf-beat of his slang and profanity
till near midnight, and then left him--left him pretty
well talked out, but grateful "clear down to his frogs,"
as he expressed it.  The Reverend said it had transpired
during the interview that "Cholley" Adams's father
was an extensive dealer in horses in western New York;
this accounted for Cholley's choice of a profession.
The Reverend brought away a pretty high opinion of
Cholley as a manly young fellow, with stuff in him for
a useful citizen; he considered him rather a rough gem,
but a gem, nevertheless.



CHAPTER XXI
[Insolent Shopkeepers and Gabbling Americans]

Baden-Baden sits in the lap of the hills, and the natural
and artificial beauties of the surroundings are combined
effectively and charmingly.  The level strip of ground
which stretches through and beyond the town is laid
out in handsome pleasure grounds, shaded by noble trees
and adorned at intervals with lofty and sparkling
fountain-jets. Thrice a day a fine band makes music
in the public promenade before the Conversation House,
and in the afternoon and evening that locality is populous
with fashionably dressed people of both sexes, who march
back and forth past the great music-stand and look very
much bored, though they make a show of feeling otherwise.
It seems like a rather aimless and stupid existence.
A good many of these people are there for a real
purpose, however; they are racked with rheumatism,
and they are there to stew it out in the hot baths.
These invalids looked melancholy enough, limping about on
their canes and crutches, and apparently brooding over
all sorts of cheerless things.  People say that Germany,
with her damp stone houses, is the home of rheumatism.
If that is so, Providence must have foreseen that it
would be so, and therefore filled the land with the
healing baths.  Perhaps no other country is so generously
supplied with medicinal springs as Germany.  Some of
these baths are good for one ailment, some for another;
and again, peculiar ailments are conquered by combining
the individual virtues of several different baths.
For instance, for some forms of disease, the patient drinks
the native hot water of Baden-Baden, with a spoonful
of salt from the Carlsbad springs dissolved in it.
That is not a dose to be forgotten right away.

They don't SELL this hot water; no, you go into the
great Trinkhalle, and stand around, first on one foot
and then on the other, while two or three young girls
sit pottering at some sort of ladylike sewing-work
in your neighborhood and can't seem to see you --polite
as three-dollar clerks in government offices.

By and by one of these rises painfully, and
"stretches"--stretches
fists and body heavenward till she raises her heels from
the floor, at the same time refreshing herself with a yawn
of such comprehensiveness that the bulk of her face disappears
behind her upper lip and one is able to see how she is
constructed inside--then she slowly closes her cavern,
brings down her fists and her heels, comes languidly forward,
contemplates you contemptuously, draws you a glass of hot water
and sets it down where you can get it by reaching for it.  You
take it and say:

"How much?"--and she returns you, with elaborate indifference,
a beggar's answer:

"NACH BELIEBE" (what you please.)

This thing of using the common beggar's trick and the common
beggar's shibboleth to put you on your liberality when you
were expecting a simple straightforward commercial transaction,
adds a little to your prospering sense of irritation.
You ignore her reply, and ask again:

"How much?"

--and she calmly, indifferently, repeats:

"NACH BELIEBE."

You are getting angry, but you are trying not to show it;
you resolve to keep on asking your question till she changes
her answer, or at least her annoyingly indifferent manner.
Therefore, if your case be like mine, you two fools
stand there, and without perceptible emotion of any kind,
or any emphasis on any syllable, you look blandly into each
other's eyes, and hold the following idiotic conversation:

"How much?"

"NACH BELIEBE."

"How much?"

"NACH BELIEBE."

"How much?"

"NACH BELIEBE."

"How much?"

"NACH BELIEBE."

"How much?"

"NACH BELIEBE."

"How much?"

"NACH BELIEBE."

I do not know what another person would have done,
but at this point I gave up; that cast-iron indifference,
that tranquil contemptuousness, conquered me, and I struck
my colors.  Now I knew she was used to receiving about a
penny from manly people who care nothing about the opinions
of scullery-maids, and about tuppence from moral cowards;
but I laid a silver twenty-five cent piece within her
reach and tried to shrivel her up with this sarcastic
speech:

"If it isn't enough, will you stoop sufficiently from
your official dignity to say so?"

She did not shrivel.  Without deigning to look at me at all,
she languidly lifted the coin and bit it!--to see if it
was good.  Then she turned her back and placidly waddled
to her former roost again, tossing the money into an open
till as she went along.  She was victor to the last,
you see.

I have enlarged upon the ways of this girl because they
are typical; her manners are the manners of a goodly
number of the Baden-Baden shopkeepers.  The shopkeeper
there swindles you if he can, and insults you whether
he succeeds in swindling you or not.  The keepers of
baths also take great and patient pains to insult you.
The frowsy woman who sat at the desk in the lobby
of the great Friederichsbad and sold bath tickets,
not only insulted me twice every day, with rigid fidelity
to her great trust, but she took trouble enough to cheat
me out of a shilling, one day, to have fairly entitled
her to ten.  Baden-Baden's splendid gamblers are gone,
only her microscopic knaves remain.

An English gentleman who had been living there
several years, said:

"If you could disguise your nationality, you would not
find any insolence here.  These shopkeepers detest the
English and despise the Americans; they are rude to both,
more especially to ladies of your nationality and mine.
If these go shopping without a gentleman or a man-servant,
they are tolerably sure to be subjected to petty insolences--
insolences of manner and tone, rather than word,
though words that are hard to bear are not always wanting.
I know of an instance where a shopkeeper tossed a coin back
to an American lady with the remark, snappishly uttered,
'We don't take French money here.' And I know of a case
where an English lady said to one of these shopkeepers,
'Don't you think you ask too much for this article?'
and he replied with the question, 'Do you think you are
obliged to buy it?' However, these people are not impolite
to Russians or Germans.  And as to rank, they worship that,
for they have long been used to generals and nobles.
If you wish to see what abysses servility can descend,
present yourself before a Baden-Baden shopkeeper in the
character of a Russian prince."

It is an inane town, filled with sham, and petty fraud,
and snobbery, but the baths are good.  I spoke with
many people, and they were all agreed in that.  I had
the twinges of rheumatism unceasingly during three years,
but the last one departed after a fortnight's bathing there,
and I have never had one since.  I fully believe I left my
rheumatism in Baden-Baden. Baden-Baden is welcome to it.
It was little, but it was all I had to give.  I would
have preferred to leave something that was catching,
but it was not in my power.

There are several hot springs there, and during two
thousand years they have poured forth a never-diminishing
abundance of the healing water.  This water is conducted
in pipe to the numerous bath-houses, and is reduced to
an endurable temperature by the addition of cold water.
The new Friederichsbad is a very large and beautiful building,
and in it one may have any sort of bath that has ever
been invented, and with all the additions of herbs and
drugs that his ailment may need or that the physician
of the establishment may consider a useful thing to put
into the water.  You go there, enter the great door,
get a bow graduated to your style and clothes from the
gorgeous portier, and a bath ticket and an insult from
the frowsy woman for a quarter; she strikes a bell and a
serving-man conducts you down a long hall and shuts you
into a commodious room which has a washstand, a mirror,
a bootjack, and a sofa in it, and there you undress
at your leisure.

The room is divided by a great curtain; you draw this
curtain aside, and find a large white marble bathtub,
with its rim sunk to the level of the floor,
and with three white marble steps leading down to it.
This tub is full of water which is as clear as crystal,
and is tempered to 28 degrees Re'aumur (about 95 degrees
Fahrenheit). Sunk into the floor, by the tub, is a covered
copper box which contains some warm towels and a sheet.
You look fully as white as an angel when you are stretched
out in that limpid bath.  You remain in it ten minutes,
the first time, and afterward increase the duration from
day to day, till you reach twenty-five or thirty minutes.
There you stop.  The appointments of the place are
so luxurious, the benefit so marked, the price so moderate,
and the insults so sure, that you very soon find yourself
adoring the Friederichsbad and infesting it.

We had a plain, simple, unpretending, good hotel,
in Baden-Baden--the Ho^tel de France--and alongside my room
I had a giggling, cackling, chattering family who always
went to bed just two hours after me and always got up two
hours ahead of me.  But this is common in German hotels;
the people generally go to bed long after eleven and get
up long before eight.  The partitions convey sound
like a drum-head, and everybody knows it; but no matter,
a German family who are all kindness and consideration
in the daytime make apparently no effort to moderate
their noises for your benefit at night.  They will sing,
laugh, and talk loudly, and bang furniture around in a most
pitiless way.  If you knock on your wall appealingly,
they will quiet down and discuss the matter softly among
themselves for a moment--then, like the mice, they fall
to persecuting you again, and as vigorously as before.
They keep cruelly late and early hours, for such noisy folk.

Of course, when one begins to find fault with foreign
people's ways, he is very likely to get a reminder to look
nearer home, before he gets far with it.  I open my note-book
to see if I can find some more information of a valuable
nature about Baden-Baden, and the first thing I fall upon is
this:

"BADEN-BADEN (no date). Lot of vociferous Americans
at breakfast this morning.  Talking AT everybody,
while pretending to talk among themselves.  On their
first travels, manifestly.  Showing off.  The usual
signs--airy, easy-going references to grand distances
and foreign places.  'Well GOOD-by, old fellow--
if I don't run across you in Italy, you hunt me up in
London before you sail.'"

The next item which I find in my note-book is this one:

"The fact that a band of 6,000 Indians are now murdering
our frontiersmen at their impudent leisure, and that we
are only able to send 1,200 soldiers against them,
is utilized here to discourage emigration to America.
The common people think the Indians are in New Jersey."

This is a new and peculiar argument against keeping our army
down to a ridiculous figure in the matter of numbers.
It is rather a striking one, too.  I have not distorted
the truth in saying that the facts in the above item,
about the army and the Indians, are made use of to
discourage emigration to America.  That the common
people should be rather foggy in their geography,
and foggy as to the location of the Indians, is a matter
for amusement, maybe, but not of surprise.

There is an interesting old cemetery in Baden-Baden, and
we spent several pleasant hours in wandering through it
and spelling out the inscriptions on the aged tombstones.
Apparently after a man has laid there a century or two,
and has had a good many people buried on top of him,
it is considered that his tombstone is not needed by him
any longer.  I judge so from the fact that hundreds
of old gravestones have been removed from the graves
and placed against the inner walls of the cemetery.
What artists they had in the old times! They chiseled angels
and cherubs and devils and skeletons on the tombstones
in the most lavish and generous way--as to supply--but
curiously grotesque and outlandish as to form.  It is not
always easy to tell which of the figures belong among
the blest and which of them among the opposite party.
But there was an inscription, in French, on one of those
old stones, which was quaint and pretty, and was plainly
not the work of any other than a poet.  It was to this
effect:

    Here Reposes in God, Caroline de Clery, a Religieuse
    of St. Denis aged 83 years--and blind.  The light
    was restored to her in Baden the 5th of January, 1839

We made several excursions on foot to the neighboring villages,
over winding and beautiful roads and through enchanting
woodland scenery.  The woods and roads were similar to those
at Heidelberg, but not so bewitching.  I suppose that roads
and woods which are up to the Heidelberg mark are rare in the
world.

Once we wandered clear away to La Favorita Palace,
which is several miles from Baden-Baden. The grounds
about the palace were fine; the palace was a curiosity.
It was built by a Margravine in 1725, and remains as she
left it at her death.  We wandered through a great many
of its rooms, and they all had striking peculiarities
of decoration.  For instance, the walls of one room were
pretty completely covered with small pictures of the
Margravine in all conceivable varieties of fanciful costumes,
some of them male.

The walls of another room were covered with grotesquely
and elaborately figured hand-wrought tapestry.
The musty ancient beds remained in the chambers,
and their quilts and curtains and canopies were decorated
with curious handwork, and the walls and ceilings frescoed
with historical and mythological scenes in glaring colors.
There was enough crazy and rotten rubbish in the building
to make a true brick-a-bracker green with envy.
A painting in the dining-hall verged upon the indelicate--
but then the Margravine was herself a trifle indelicate.

It is in every way a wildly and picturesquely decorated house,
and brimful of interest as a reflection of the character
and tastes of that rude bygone time.

In the grounds, a few rods from the palace, stands the
Margravine's chapel, just as she left it--a coarse
wooden structure, wholly barren of ornament.  It is said
that the Margravine would give herself up to debauchery
and exceedingly fast living for several months at a time,
and then retire to this miserable wooden den and spend
a few months in repenting and getting ready for another
good time.  She was a devoted Catholic, and was perhaps
quite a model sort of a Christian as Christians went then,
in high life.

Tradition says she spent the last two years of her life in the
strange den I have been speaking of, after having indulged
herself in one final, triumphant, and satisfying spree.
She shut herself up there, without company, and without
even a servant, and so abjured and forsook the world.
In her little bit of a kitchen she did her own cooking;
she wore a hair shirt next the skin, and castigated herself
with whips--these aids to grace are exhibited there yet.
She prayed and told her beads, in another little room,
before a waxen Virgin niched in a little box against the wall;
she bedded herself like a slave.

In another small room is an unpainted wooden table,
and behind it sit half-life-size waxen figures of the
Holy Family, made by the very worst artist that ever
lived, perhaps, and clothed in gaudy, flimsy drapery.
[1] The margravine used to bring her meals to this table
and DINE WITH THE HOLY FAMILY.  What an idea that was!
What a grisly spectacle it must have been! Imagine it:
Those rigid, shock-headed figures, with corpsy complexions
and fish glass eyes, occupying one side of the table
in the constrained attitudes and dead fixedness that
distinguish all men that are born of wax, and this wrinkled,
smoldering old fire-eater occupying the other side,
mumbling her prayers and munching her sausages in the ghostly
stillness and shadowy indistinctness of a winter twilight.
It makes one feel crawly even to think of it.

1.  The Savior was represented as a lad of about fifteen
    years of age.  This figure had lost one eye.

In this sordid place, and clothed, bedded, and fed like
a pauper, this strange princess lived and worshiped during
two years, and in it she died.  Two or three hundred
years ago, this would have made the poor den holy ground;
and the church would have set up a miracle-factory there
and made plenty of money out of it.  The den could be moved
into some portions of France and made a good property even now.



CHAPTER XXII
[The Black Forest and Its Treasures]

From Baden-Baden we made the customary trip into the
Black Forest.  We were on foot most of the time.  One cannot
describe those noble woods, nor the feeling with which they
inspire him.  A feature of the feeling, however, is a deep
sense of contentment; another feature of it is a buoyant,
boyish gladness; and a third and very conspicuous feature
of it is one's sense of the remoteness of the work-day
world and his entire emancipation from it and its affairs.

Those woods stretch unbroken over a vast region;
and everywhere they are such dense woods, and so still,
and so piney and fragrant.  The stems of the trees are trim
and straight, and in many places all the ground is hidden
for miles under a thick cushion of moss of a vivid green color,
with not a decayed or ragged spot in its surface, and not
a fallen leaf or twig to mar its immaculate tidiness.
A rich cathedral gloom pervades the pillared aisles;
so the stray flecks of sunlight that strike a trunk
here and a bough yonder are strongly accented,
and when they strike the moss they fairly seem to burn.
But the weirdest effect, and the most enchanting is that
produced by the diffused light of the low afternoon sun;
no single ray is able to pierce its way in, then, but the
diffused light takes color from moss and foliage,
and pervades the place like a faint, greet-tinted mist,
the theatrical fire of fairyland.  The suggestion of mystery
and the supernatural which haunts the forest at all times
is intensified by this unearthly glow.

We found the Black Forest farmhouses and villages
all that the Black Forest stories have pictured them.
The first genuine specimen which we came upon was
the mansion of a rich farmer and member of the Common
Council of the parish or district.  He was an important
personage in the land and so was his wife also,
of course.  His daughter was the "catch" of the region,
and she may be already entering into immortality as the
heroine of one of Auerbach's novels, for all I know.
We shall see, for if he puts her in I shall recognize her
by her Black Forest clothes, and her burned complexion,
her plump figure, her fat hands, her dull expression,
her gentle spirit, her generous feet, her bonnetless head,
and the plaited tails of hemp-colored hair hanging down
her back.

The house was big enough for a hotel; it was a hundred
feet long and fifty wide, and ten feet high, from ground
to eaves; but from the eaves to the comb of the mighty roof
was as much as forty feet, or maybe even more.  This roof
was of ancient mud-colored straw thatch a foot thick,
and was covered all over, except in a few trifling spots,
with a thriving and luxurious growth of green vegetation,
mainly moss.  The mossless spots were places where
repairs had been made by the insertion of bright new
masses of yellow straw.  The eaves projected far down,
like sheltering, hospitable wings.  Across the gable that
fronted the road, and about ten feet above the ground,
ran a narrow porch, with a wooden railing; a row of
small windows filled with very small panes looked upon
the porch.  Above were two or three other little windows,
one clear up under the sharp apex of the roof.
Before the ground-floor door was a huge pile of manure.
The door of the second-story room on the side of the house
was open, and occupied by the rear elevation of a cow.
Was this probably the drawing-room? All of the front
half of the house from the ground up seemed to be
occupied by the people, the cows, and the chickens,
and all the rear half by draught-animals and hay.
But the chief feature, all around this house, was the big
heaps of manure.

We became very familiar with the fertilizer in the Forest.
We fell unconsciously into the habit of judging of a man's
station in life by this outward and eloquent sign.
Sometimes we said, "Here is a poor devil, this is manifest."
When we saw a stately accumulation, we said, "Here is
a banker." When we encountered a country-seat surrounded
by an Alpine pomp of manure, we said, "Doubtless a duke
lives here."

The importance of this feature has not been properly
magnified in the Black Forest stories.  Manure is evidently
the Black-Forester's main treasure--his coin, his jewel,
his pride, his Old Master, his ceramics, his bric-a-brac,
his darling, his title to public consideration,
envy, veneration, and his first solicitude when he gets
ready to make his will.  The true Black Forest novel,
if it is ever written, will be skeletoned somewhat in this way:

SKELETON FOR A BLACK FOREST NOVEL

Rich old farmer, named Huss.  Has inherited great wealth
of manure, and by diligence has added to it.  It is
double-starred in Baedeker.  [1] The Black forest artist
paints it--his masterpiece.  The king comes to see it.
Gretchen Huss, daughter and heiress.  Paul Hoch,
young neighbor, suitor for Gretchen's hand--ostensibly;
he really wants the manure.  Hoch has a good many cart-loads
of the Black Forest currency himself, and therefore is a
good catch; but he is sordid, mean, and without sentiment,
whereas Gretchen is all sentiment and poetry.
Hans Schmidt, young neighbor, full of sentiment,
full of poetry, loves Gretchen, Gretchen loves him.
But he has no manure.  Old Huss forbids him in the house.
His heart breaks, he goes away to die in the woods,
far from the cruel world--for he says, bitterly, "What is man,
without manure?"

1.  When Baedeker's guide-books mention a thing and put
    two stars (**) after it, it means well worth visiting.
    M.T.

[Interval of six months.]

Paul Hoch comes to old Huss and says, "I am at last
as rich as you required--come and view the pile."
Old Huss views it and says, "It is sufficient--take
her and be happy,"--meaning Gretchen.

[Interval of two weeks.]

Wedding party assembled in old Huss's drawing-room. Hoch
placid and content, Gretchen weeping over her hard fate.
Enter old Huss's head bookkeeper.  Huss says fiercely,
"I gave you three weeks to find out why your books
don't balance, and to prove that you are not a defaulter;
the time is up--find me the missing property or you go
to prison as a thief." Bookkeeper: "I have found it."
"Where?" Bookkeeper (sternly--tragically): "In the bridegroom's
pile!--behold the thief--see him blench and tremble!"
[Sensation.] Paul Hoch: Lost, lost!"--falls over the cow
in a swoon and is handcuffed.  Gretchen: "Saved!" Falls
over the calf in a swoon of joy, but is caught in the arms
of Hans Schmidt, who springs in at that moment.  Old Huss:
"What, you here, varlet? Unhand the maid and quit the place."
Hans (still supporting the insensible girl): "Never! Cruel
old man, know that I come with claims which even you
cannot despise."

Huss: "What, YOU? name them."

Hans: "Listen then.  The world has forsaken me, I forsook
the world, I wandered in the solitude of the forest,
longing for death but finding none.  I fed upon roots,
and in my bitterness I dug for the bitterest,
loathing the sweeter kind.  Digging, three days agone,
I struck a manure mine!--a Golconda, a limitless Bonanza,
of solid manure! I can buy you ALL, and have mountain
ranges of manure left! Ha-ha, NOW thou smilest a smile!"
[Immense sensation.] Exhibition of specimens from the mine.
Old Huss (enthusiastically): "Wake her up, shake her up,
noble young man, she is yours!" Wedding takes place on
the spot; bookkeeper restored to his office and emoluments;
Paul Hoch led off to jail.  The Bonanza king of the Black
Forest lives to a good old age, blessed with the love of his
wife and of his twenty-seven children, and the still sweeter
envy of everybody around.

We took our noon meal of fried trout one day at the Plow Inn,
in a very pretty village (Ottenhoefen), and then went into
the public room to rest and smoke.  There we found nine
or ten Black Forest grandees assembled around a table.
They were the Common Council of the parish.  They had
gathered there at eight o'clock that morning to elect
a new member, and they had now been drinking beer four
hours at the new member's expense.  They were men of fifty
or sixty years of age, with grave good-natured faces,
and were all dressed in the costume made familiar to us
by the Black Forest stories; broad, round-topped black felt
hats with the brims curled up all round; long red waistcoats
with large metal buttons, black alpaca coats with the
waists up between the shoulders.  There were no speeches,
there was but little talk, there were no frivolities;
the Council filled themselves gradually, steadily, but surely,
with beer, and conducted themselves with sedate decorum,
as became men of position, men of influence, men of manure.

We had a hot afternoon tramp up the valley, along the grassy
bank of a rushing stream of clear water, past farmhouses,
water-mills, and no end of wayside crucifixes and saints
and Virgins.  These crucifixes, etc., are set up in
memory of departed friends, by survivors, and are almost
as frequent as telegraph-poles are in other lands.

We followed the carriage-road, and had our usual luck;
we traveled under a beating sun, and always saw the shade
leave the shady places before we could get to them.
In all our wanderings we seldom managed to strike
a piece of road at its time for being shady.  We had a
particularly hot time of it on that particular afternoon,
and with no comfort but what we could get out of the fact
that the peasants at work away up on the steep mountainsides
above our heads were even worse off than we were.
By and by it became impossible to endure the intolerable
glare and heat any longer; so we struck across the ravine
and entered the deep cool twilight of the forest, to hunt
for what the guide-book called the "old road."

We found an old road, and it proved eventually to be the
right one, though we followed it at the time with the conviction
that it was the wrong one.  If it was the wrong one there
could be no use in hurrying; therefore we did not hurry,
but sat down frequently on the soft moss and enjoyed
the restful quiet and shade of the forest solitudes.
There had been distractions in the carriage-road--
school-children, peasants, wagons, troops of
pedestrianizing students from all over Germany--
but we had the old road to ourselves.

Now and then, while we rested, we watched the laborious
ant at his work.  I found nothing new in him--certainly
nothing to change my opinion of him.  It seems to me that
in the matter of intellect the ant must be a strangely
overrated bird.  During many summers, now, I have watched him,
when I ought to have been in better business, and I have
not yet come across a living ant that seemed to have any
more sense than a dead one.  I refer to the ordinary ant,
of course; I have had no experience of those wonderful
Swiss and African ones which vote, keep drilled armies,
hold slaves, and dispute about religion.  Those particular
ants may be all that the naturalist paints them,
but I am persuaded that the average ant is a sham.
I admit his industry, of course; he is the hardest-working
creature in the world--when anybody is looking--but his
leather-headedness is the point I make against him.
He goes out foraging, he makes a capture, and then what
does he do? Go home? No--he goes anywhere but home.
He doesn't know where home is.  His home may be only
three feet away--no matter, he can't find it.  He makes
his capture, as I have said; it is generally something
which can be of no sort of use to himself or anybody else;
it is usually seven times bigger than it ought to be;
he hunts out the awkwardest place to take hold of it;
he lifts it bodily up in the air by main force, and starts;
not toward home, but in the opposite direction; not calmly
and wisely, but with a frantic haste which is wasteful
of his strength; he fetches up against a pebble, and instead
of going around it, he climbs over it backward dragging
his booty after him, tumbles down on the other side,
jumps up in a passion, kicks the dust off his clothes,
moistens his hands, grabs his property viciously, yanks it
this way, then that, shoves it ahead of him a moment,
turns tail and lugs it after him another moment, gets madder
and madder, then presently hoists it into the air and goes
tearing away in an entirely new direction; comes to a weed;
it never occurs to him to go around it; no, he must climb it;
and he does climb it, dragging his worthless property
to the top--which is as bright a thing to do as it would
be for me to carry a sack of flour from Heidelberg to Paris
by way of Strasburg steeple; when he gets up there he
finds that that is not the place; takes a cursory glance
at the scenery and either climbs down again or tumbles down,
and starts off once more--as usual, in a new direction.
At the end of half an hour, he fetches up within six inches
of the place he started from and lays his burden down;
meantime he has been over all the ground for two yards around,
and climbed all the weeds and pebbles he came across.
Now he wipes the sweat from his brow, strokes his limbs,
and then marches aimlessly off, in as violently a hurry
as ever.  He does not remember to have ever seen it before;
he looks around to see which is not the way home, grabs his
bundle and starts; he goes through the same adventures he
had before; finally stops to rest, and a friend comes along.
Evidently the friend remarks that a last year's grasshopper
leg is a very noble acquisition, and inquires where he
got it.  Evidently the proprietor does not remember
exactly where he did get it, but thinks he got it "around
here somewhere." Evidently the friend contracts to help
him freight it home.  Then, with a judgment peculiarly
antic (pun not intended), then take hold of opposite ends
of that grasshopper leg and begin to tug with all their
might in opposite directions.  Presently they take a rest
and confer together.  They decide that something is wrong,
they can't make out what.  Then they go at it again,
just as before.  Same result.  Mutual recriminations follow.
Evidently each accuses the other of being an obstructionist.
They lock themselves together and chew each other's jaws
for a while; then they roll and tumble on the ground till
one loses a horn or a leg and has to haul off for repairs.
They make up and go to work again in the same old insane way,
but the crippled ant is at a disadvantage; tug as he may,
the other one drags off the booty and him at the end of it.
Instead of giving up, he hangs on, and gets his shins
bruised against every obstruction that comes in the way.
By and by, when that grasshopper leg has been dragged
all over the same old ground once more, it is finally
dumped at about the spot where it originally lay,
the two perspiring ants inspect it thoughtfully and decide
that dried grasshopper legs are a poor sort of property
after all, and then each starts off in a different
direction to see if he can't find an old nail or something
else that is heavy enough to afford entertainment and at
the same time valueless enough to make an ant want to own it.

There in the Black Forest, on the mountainside,
I saw an ant go through with such a performance as this
with a dead spider of fully ten times his own weight.
The spider was not quite dead, but too far gone to resist.
He had a round body the size of a pea.  The little ant--
observing that I was noticing--turned him on his back,
sunk his fangs into his throat, lifted him into the air and
started vigorously off with him, stumbling over little pebbles,
stepping on the spider's legs and tripping himself up,
dragging him backward, shoving him bodily ahead, dragging him
up stones six inches high instead of going around them,
climbing weeds twenty times his own height and jumping
from their summits--and finally leaving him in the middle
of the road to be confiscated by any other fool of an
ant that wanted him.  I measured the ground which this
ass traversed, and arrived at the conclusion that what he
had accomplished inside of twenty minutes would constitute
some such job as this--relatively speaking--for a man;
to wit: to strap two eight-hundred-pound horses together,
carry them eighteen hundred feet, mainly over (not around)
boulders averaging six feet high, and in the course
of the journey climb up and jump from the top of one
precipice like Niagara, and three steeples, each a hundred
and twenty feet high; and then put the horses down,
in an exposed place, without anybody to watch them,
and go off to indulge in some other idiotic miracle for
vanity's sake.

Science has recently discovered that the ant does not
lay up anything for winter use.  This will knock him
out of literature, to some extent.  He does not work,
except when people are looking, and only then when the
observer has a green, naturalistic look, and seems to be
taking notes.  This amounts to deception, and will injure
him for the Sunday-schools. He has not judgment enough
to know what is good to eat from what isn't. This amounts
to ignorance, and will impair the world's respect for him.
He cannot stroll around a stump and find his way home again.
This amounts to idiocy, and once the damaging fact
is established, thoughtful people will cease to look
up to him, the sentimental will cease to fondle him.
His vaunted industry is but a vanity and of no effect,
since he never gets home with anything he starts with.
This disposes of the last remnant of his reputation
and wholly destroys his main usefulness as a moral agent,
since it will make the sluggard hesitate to go to him
any more.  It is strange, beyond comprehension, that so
manifest a humbug as the ant has been able to fool so
many nations and keep it up so many ages without being
found out.

The ant is strong, but we saw another strong thing,
where we had not suspected the presence of much muscular
power before.  A toadstool--that vegetable which springs
to full growth in a single night--had torn loose and
lifted a matted mass of pine needles and dirt of twice
its own bulk into the air, and supported it there,
like a column supporting a shed.  Ten thousand toadstools,
with the right purchase, could lift a man, I suppose.
But what good would it do?

All our afternoon's progress had been uphill.  About five
or half past we reached the summit, and all of a sudden
the dense curtain of the forest parted and we looked
down into a deep and beautiful gorge and out over a
wide panorama of wooded mountains with their summits
shining in the sun and their glade-furrowed sides dimmed
with purple shade.  The gorge under our feet--called
Allerheiligen--afforded room in the grassy level at its
head for a cozy and delightful human nest, shut away
from the world and its botherations, and consequently
the monks of the old times had not failed to spy it out;
and here were the brown and comely ruins of their church
and convent to prove that priests had as fine an instinct
seven hundred years ago in ferreting out the choicest
nooks and corners in a land as priests have today.

A big hotel crowds the ruins a little, now, and drives
a brisk trade with summer tourists.  We descended
into the gorge and had a supper which would have been
very satisfactory if the trout had not been boiled.
The Germans are pretty sure to boil a trout or anything
else if left to their own devices.  This is an argument
of some value in support of the theory that they were
the original colonists of the wild islands of the coast
of Scotland.  A schooner laden with oranges was wrecked
upon one of those islands a few years ago, and the gentle
savages rendered the captain such willing assistance
that he gave them as many oranges as they wanted.
Next day he asked them how they liked them.  They shook
their heads and said:

"Baked, they were tough; and even boiled, they warn't
things for a hungry man to hanker after."

We went down the glen after supper.  It is beautiful--a
mixture of sylvan loveliness and craggy wildness.
A limpid torrent goes whistling down the glen, and toward
the foot of it winds through a narrow cleft between lofty
precipices and hurls itself over a succession of falls.
After one passes the last of these he has a backward
glimpse at the falls which is very pleasing--they rise
in a seven-stepped stairway of foamy and glittering cascades,
and make a picture which is as charming as it is unusual.



CHAPTER XXIII
[Nicodemus Dodge and the Skeleton]

We were satisfied that we could walk to Oppenau in
one day, now that we were in practice; so we set out
the next morning after breakfast determined to do it.
It was all the way downhill, and we had the loveliest
summer weather for it.  So we set the pedometer and then
stretched away on an easy, regular stride, down through
the cloven forest, drawing in the fragrant breath
of the morning in deep refreshing draughts, and wishing
we might never have anything to do forever but walk
to Oppenau and keep on doing it and then doing it over again.

Now, the true charm of pedestrianism does not lie
in the walking, or in the scenery, but in the talking.
The walking is good to time the movement of the tongue by,
and to keep the blood and the brain stirred up and active;
the scenery and the woodsy smells are good to bear in upon
a man an unconscious and unobtrusive charm and solace
to eye and soul and sense; but the supreme pleasure comes
from the talk.  It is no matter whether one talks wisdom
or nonsense, the case is the same, the bulk of the enjoyment
lies in the wagging of the gladsome jaw and the flapping
of the sympathetic ear.

And what motley variety of subjects a couple of people will
casually rake over in the course of a day's tramp! There
being no constraint, a change of subject is always in order,
and so a body is not likely to keep pegging at a single
topic until it grows tiresome.  We discussed everything
we knew, during the first fifteen or twenty minutes,
that morning, and then branched out into the glad, free,
boundless realm of the things we were not certain about.

Harris said that if the best writer in the world once got
the slovenly habit of doubling up his "haves" he could
never get rid of it while he lived.  That is to say,
if a man gets the habit of saying "I should have liked
to have known more about it" instead of saying simply
and sensibly, "I should have liked to know more about it,"
that man's disease is incurable.  Harris said that his sort
of lapse is to be found in every copy of every newspaper
that has ever been printed in English, and in almost all
of our books.  He said he had observed it in Kirkham's
grammar and in Macaulay.  Harris believed that milk-teeth
are commoner in men's mouths than those "doubled-up haves." [1]

1.  I do not know that there have not been moments in the
    course of the present session when I should have been
    very glad to have accepted the proposal of my noble friend,
    and to have exchanged parts in some of our evenings
    of work.--[From a Speech of the English Chancellor
    of the Exchequer, August, 1879.]

That changed the subject to dentistry.  I said I believed
the average man dreaded tooth-pulling more than amputation,
and that he would yell quicker under the former operation
than he would under the latter.  The philosopher Harris
said that the average man would not yell in either case
if he had an audience.  Then he continued:

"When our brigade first went into camp on the Potomac,
we used to be brought up standing, occasionally, by an
ear-splitting howl of anguish.  That meant that a soldier
was getting a tooth pulled in a tent.  But the surgeons
soon changed that; they instituted open-air dentistry.
There never was a howl afterward--that is, from the man
who was having the tooth pulled.  At the daily dental
hour there would always be about five hundred soldiers
gathered together in the neighborhood of that dental chair
waiting to see the performance--and help; and the moment
the surgeon took a grip on the candidate's tooth and began
to lift, every one of those five hundred rascals would
clap his hand to his jaw and begin to hop around on one
leg and howl with all the lungs he had! It was enough
to raise your hair to hear that variegated and enormous
unanimous caterwaul burst out! With so big and so derisive
an audience as that, a suffer wouldn't emit a sound though
you pulled his head off.  The surgeons said that pretty
often a patient was compelled to laugh, in the midst
of his pangs, but that had never caught one crying out,
after the open-air exhibition was instituted."

Dental surgeons suggested doctors, doctors suggested death,
death suggested skeletons--and so, by a logical process
the conversation melted out of one of these subjects
and into the next, until the topic of skeletons raised up
Nicodemus Dodge out of the deep grave in my memory where he
had lain buried and forgotten for twenty-five years.
When I was a boy in a printing-office in Missouri,
a loose-jointed, long-legged, tow-headed, jeans-clad
countrified cub of about sixteen lounged in one day,
and without removing his hands from the depths
of his trousers pockets or taking off his faded ruin
of a slouch hat, whose broken rim hung limp and ragged
about his eyes and ears like a bug-eaten cabbage leaf,
stared indifferently around, then leaned his hip
against the editor's table, crossed his mighty brogans,
aimed at a distant fly from a crevice in his upper teeth,
laid him low, and said with composure:

"Whar's the boss?"

"I am the boss," said the editor, following this curious
bit of architecture wonderingly along up to its clock-face
with his eye.

"Don't want anybody fur to learn the business, 'tain't likely?"

"Well, I don't know.  Would you like to learn it?"

"Pap's so po' he cain't run me no mo', so I want to git
a show somers if I kin, 'taint no diffunce what--I'm strong
and hearty, and I don't turn my back on no kind of work,
hard nur soft."

"Do you think you would like to learn the printing business?"

"Well, I don't re'ly k'yer a durn what I DO learn,
so's I git a chance fur to make my way.  I'd jist as soon
learn print'n's anything."

"Can you read?"

"Yes--middlin'."

"Write?"

"Well, I've seed people could lay over me thar."

"Cipher?"

"Not good enough to keep store, I don't reckon,
but up as fur as twelve-times-twelve I ain't no slouch.
'Tother side of that is what gits me."

"Where is your home?"

"I'm f'm old Shelby."

"What's your father's religious denomination?"

"Him? Oh, he's a blacksmith."

"No, no--I don't mean his trade.  What's his RELIGIOUS
DENOMINATION?"

"OH--I didn't understand you befo'. He's a Freemason."

"No, no, you don't get my meaning yet.  What I mean is,
does he belong to any CHURCH?"

"NOW you're talkin'! Couldn't make out what you was a-tryin'
to git through yo' head no way.  B'long to a CHURCH! Why,
boss, he's ben the pizenest kind of Free-will Babtis'
for forty year.  They ain't no pizener ones 'n what HE is.
Mighty good man, pap is.  Everybody says that.  If they
said any diffrunt they wouldn't say it whar _I_ wuz--
not MUCH they wouldn't."

"What is your own religion?"

"Well, boss, you've kind o' got me, there--and yit
you hain't got me so mighty much, nuther.  I think 't
if a feller he'ps another feller when he's in trouble,
and don't cuss, and don't do no mean things, nur noth'n'
he ain' no business to do, and don't spell the Saviour's
name with a little g, he ain't runnin' no resks--he's
about as saift as he b'longed to a church."

"But suppose he did spell it with a little g--what then?"

"Well, if he done it a-purpose, I reckon he wouldn't
stand no chance--he OUGHTN'T to have no chance, anyway,
I'm most rotten certain 'bout that."

"What is your name?"

"Nicodemus Dodge."

"I think maybe you'll do, Nicodemus.  We'll give you
a trial, anyway."

"All right."

"When would you like to begin?"

"Now."

So, within ten minutes after we had first glimpsed this
nondescript he was one of us, and with his coat off
and hard at it.

Beyond that end of our establishment which was furthest
from the street, was a deserted garden, pathless,
and thickly grown with the bloomy and villainous "jimpson"
weed and its common friend the stately sunflower.
In the midst of this mournful spot was a decayed and aged
little "frame" house with but one room, one window, and no
ceiling--it had been a smoke-house a generation before.
Nicodemus was given this lonely and ghostly den as a bedchamber.

The village smarties recognized a treasure in Nicodemus,
right away--a butt to play jokes on.  It was easy to see
that he was inconceivably green and confiding.  George Jones
had the glory of perpetrating the first joke on him;
he gave him a cigar with a firecracker in it and winked
to the crowd to come; the thing exploded presently and swept
away the bulk of Nicodemus's eyebrows and eyelashes.
He simply said:

"I consider them kind of seeg'yars dangersome,"--and
seemed to suspect nothing.  The next evening Nicodemus
waylaid George and poured a bucket of ice-water over him.

One day, while Nicodemus was in swimming, Tom McElroy
"tied" his clothes.  Nicodemus made a bonfire of Tom's
by way of retaliation.

A third joke was played upon Nicodemus a day or two later--he
walked up the middle aisle of the village church, Sunday night,
with a staring handbill pinned between his shoulders.
The joker spent the remainder of the night, after church,
in the cellar of a deserted house, and Nicodemus sat on
the cellar door till toward breakfast-time to make sure
that the prisoner remembered that if any noise was made,
some rough treatment would be the consequence.  The cellar
had two feet of stagnant water in it, and was bottomed
with six inches of soft mud.

But I wander from the point.  It was the subject of
skeletons that brought this boy back to my recollection.
Before a very long time had elapsed, the village smarties
began to feel an uncomfortable consciousness of not having
made a very shining success out of their attempts on the
simpleton from "old Shelby." Experimenters grew scarce
and chary.  Now the young doctor came to the rescue.
There was delight and applause when he proposed to scare
Nicodemus to death, and explained how he was going to do it.
He had a noble new skeleton--the skeleton of the late
and only local celebrity, Jimmy Finn, the village
drunkard--a grisly piece of property which he had bought
of Jimmy Finn himself, at auction, for fifty dollars,
under great competition, when Jimmy lay very sick in
the tan-yard a fortnight before his death.  The fifty
dollars had gone promptly for whiskey and had considerably
hurried up the change of ownership in the skeleton.
The doctor would put Jimmy Finn's skeleton in Nicodemus's
bed!

This was done--about half past ten in the evening.
About Nicodemus's usual bedtime--midnight--the village
jokers came creeping stealthily through the jimpson
weeds and sunflowers toward the lonely frame den.
They reached the window and peeped in.  There sat the
long-legged pauper, on his bed, in a very short shirt,
and nothing more; he was dangling his legs contentedly
back and forth, and wheezing the music of "Camptown Races"
out of a paper-overlaid comb which he was pressing
against his mouth; by him lay a new jewsharp, a new top,
and solid india-rubber ball, a handful of painted marbles,
five pounds of "store" candy, and a well-gnawed slab of
gingerbread as big and as thick as a volume of sheet-music.
He had sold the skeleton to a traveling quack for three
dollars and was enjoying the result!

Just as we had finished talking about skeletons and were
drifting into the subject of fossils, Harris and I heard
a shout, and glanced up the steep hillside.  We saw men
and women standing away up there looking frightened,
and there was a bulky object tumbling and floundering
down the steep slope toward us.  We got out of the way,
and when the object landed in the road it proved to be a boy.
He had tripped and fallen, and there was nothing for him
to do but trust to luck and take what might come.

When one starts to roll down a place like that, there is
no stopping till the bottom is reached.  Think of people
FARMING on a slant which is so steep that the best you can
say of it--if you want to be fastidiously accurate--is,
that it is a little steeper than a ladder and not quite
so steep as a mansard roof.  But that is what they do.
Some of the little farms on the hillside opposite Heidelberg
were stood up "edgeways." The boy was wonderfully jolted up,
and his head was bleeding, from cuts which it had got from
small stones on the way.

Harris and I gathered him up and set him on a stone,
and by that time the men and women had scampered down
and brought his cap.

Men, women, and children flocked out from neighboring
cottages and joined the crowd; the pale boy was petted,
and stared at, and commiserated, and water was
brought for him to drink and bathe his bruises in.
And such another clatter of tongues! All who had seen
the catastrophe were describing it at once, and each
trying to talk louder than his neighbor; and one youth
of a superior genius ran a little way up the hill,
called attention, tripped, fell, rolled down among us,
and thus triumphantly showed exactly how the thing had been done.


Harris and I were included in all the descriptions;
how we were coming along; how Hans Gross shouted;
how we looked up startled; how we saw Peter coming like
a cannon-shot; how judiciously we got out of the way,
and let him come; and with what presence of mind we
picked him up and brushed him off and set him on a rock
when the performance was over.  We were as much heroes
as anybody else, except Peter, and were so recognized;
we were taken with Peter and the populace to Peter's
mother's cottage, and there we ate bread and cheese,
and drank milk and beer with everybody, and had a most
sociable good time; and when we left we had a handshake
all around, and were receiving and shouting back LEB'
WOHL's until a turn in the road separated us from our
cordial and kindly new friends forever.

We accomplished our undertaking.  At half past eight
in the evening we stepped into Oppenau, just eleven
hours and a half out of Allerheiligen--one hundred
and forty-six miles.  This is the distance by pedometer;
the guide-book and the Imperial Ordinance maps make
it only ten and a quarter--a surprising blunder,
for these two authorities are usually singularly accurate
in the matter of distances.



CHAPTER XXIV
[I Protect the Empress of Germany]

That was a thoroughly satisfactory walk--and the only
one we were ever to have which was all the way downhill.
We took the train next morning and returned to Baden-Baden
through fearful fogs of dust.  Every seat was crowded, too;
for it was Sunday, and consequently everybody was taking
a "pleasure" excursion.  Hot! the sky was an oven--and
a sound one, too, with no cracks in it to let in any air.
An odd time for a pleasure excursion, certainly!

Sunday is the great day on the continent--the free day,
the happy day.  One can break the Sabbath in a hundred
ways without committing any sin.

We do not work on Sunday, because the commandment forbids it;
the Germans do not work on Sunday, because the commandment
forbids it.  We rest on Sunday, because the commandment
requires it; the Germans rest on Sunday because the
commandment requires it.  But in the definition
of the word "rest" lies all the difference.  With us,
its Sunday meaning is, stay in the house and keep still;
with the Germans its Sunday and week-day meanings seem
to be the same--rest the TIRED PART, and never mind the
other parts of the frame; rest the tired part, and use
the means best calculated to rest that particular part.
Thus: If one's duties have kept him in the house all the week,
it will rest him to be out on Sunday; if his duties
have required him to read weighty and serious matter all
the week, it will rest him to read light matter on Sunday;
if his occupation has busied him with death and funerals
all the week, it will rest him to go to the theater Sunday
night and put in two or three hours laughing at a comedy;
if he is tired with digging ditches or felling trees
all the week, it will rest him to lie quiet in the house
on Sunday; if the hand, the arm, the brain, the tongue,
or any other member, is fatigued with inanition,
it is not to be rested by added a day's inanition;
but if a member is fatigued with exertion, inanition is
the right rest for it.  Such is the way in which the Germans
seem to define the word "rest"; that is to say, they rest
a member by recreating, recuperating, restore its forces.
But our definition is less broad.  We all rest alike
on Sunday--by secluding ourselves and keeping still,
whether that is the surest way to rest the most of us
or not.  The Germans make the actors, the preachers,
etc., work on Sunday.  We encourage the preachers,
the editors, the printers, etc., to work on Sunday,
and imagine that none of the sin of it falls upon us;
but I do not know how we are going to get around the fact
that if it is wrong for the printer to work at his trade
on Sunday it must be equally wrong for the preacher to
work at his, since the commandment has made no exception
in his favor.  We buy Monday morning's paper and read it,
and thus encourage Sunday printing.  But I shall never do
it again.

The Germans remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy,
by abstaining from work, as commanded; we keep it
holy by abstaining from work, as commanded, and by
also abstaining from play, which is not commanded.
Perhaps we constructively BREAK the command to rest,
because the resting we do is in most cases only a name,
and not a fact.

These reasonings have sufficed, in a measure, to mend
the rent in my conscience which I made by traveling to
Baden-Baden that Sunday.  We arrived in time to furbish
up and get to the English church before services began.
We arrived in considerable style, too, for the landlord
had ordered the first carriage that could be found,
since there was no time to lose, and our coachman was
so splendidly liveried that we were probably mistaken
for a brace of stray dukes; why else were we honored
with a pew all to ourselves, away up among the very elect
at the left of the chancel? That was my first thought.
In the pew directly in front of us sat an elderly lady,
plainly and cheaply dressed; at her side sat a young
lady with a very sweet face, and she also was quite
simply dressed; but around us and about us were clothes
and jewels which it would do anybody's heart good to
worship in.

I thought it was pretty manifest that the elderly lady
was embarrassed at finding herself in such a conspicuous
place arrayed in such cheap apparel; I began to feel sorry
for her and troubled about her.  She tried to seem very busy
with her prayer-book and her responses, and unconscious
that she was out of place, but I said to myself, "She is
not succeeding--there is a distressed tremulousness
in her voice which betrays increasing embarrassment."
Presently the Savior's name was mentioned, and in her flurry
she lost her head completely, and rose and courtesied,
instead of making a slight nod as everybody else did.
The sympathetic blood surged to my temples and I turned and gave
those fine birds what I intended to be a beseeching look,
but my feelings got the better of me and changed it into
a look which said, "If any of you pets of fortune laugh
at this poor soul, you will deserve to be flayed for it."
Things went from bad to worse, and I shortly found myself
mentally taking the unfriended lady under my protection.
My mind was wholly upon her.  I forgot all about the sermon.
Her embarrassment took stronger and stronger hold upon her;
she got to snapping the lid of her smelling-bottle--it
made a loud, sharp sound, but in her trouble she snapped
and snapped away, unconscious of what she was doing.
The last extremity was reached when the collection-plate
began its rounds; the moderate people threw in pennies,
the nobles and the rich contributed silver, but she laid
a twenty-mark gold piece upon the book-rest before her
with a sounding slap! I said to myself, "She has parted
with all her little hoard to buy the consideration of these
unpitying people--it is a sorrowful spectacle." I did not
venture to look around this time; but as the service closed,
I said to myself, "Let them laugh, it is their opportunity;
but at the door of this church they shall see her step
into our fine carriage with us, and our gaudy coachman
shall drive her home."

Then she rose--and all the congregation stood while she
walked down the aisle.  She was the Empress of Germany!

No--she had not been so much embarrassed as I had supposed.
My imagination had got started on the wrong scent, and that
is always hopeless; one is sure, then, to go straight
on misinterpreting everything, clear through to the end.
The young lady with her imperial Majesty was a maid of
honor--and I had been taking her for one of her boarders,
all the time.

This is the only time I have ever had an Empress under
my personal protection; and considering my inexperience,
I wonder I got through with it so well.  I should have
been a little embarrassed myself if I had known earlier
what sort of a contract I had on my hands.

We found that the Empress had been in Baden-Baden
several days.  It is said that she never attends
any but the English form of church service.

I lay abed and read and rested from my journey's fatigues
the remainder of that Sunday, but I sent my agent to represent
me at the afternoon service, for I never allow anything
to interfere with my habit of attending church twice every
Sunday.

There was a vast crowd in the public grounds that night
to hear the band play the "Fremersberg." This piece tells
one of the old legends of the region; how a great noble
of the Middle Ages got lost in the mountains, and wandered
about with his dogs in a violent storm, until at last
the faint tones of a monastery bell, calling the monks
to a midnight service, caught his ear, and he followed
the direction the sounds came from and was saved.
A beautiful air ran through the music, without ceasing,
sometimes loud and strong, sometimes so soft that it
could hardly be distinguished--but it was always there;
it swung grandly along through the shrill whistling
of the storm-wind, the rattling patter of the rain,
and the boom and crash of the thunder; it wound soft
and low through the lesser sounds, the distant ones,
such as the throbbing of the convent bell, the melodious
winding of the hunter's horn, the distressed bayings
of his dogs, and the solemn chanting of the monks;
it rose again, with a jubilant ring, and mingled itself
with the country songs and dances of the peasants assembled
in the convent hall to cheer up the rescued huntsman
while he ate his supper.  The instruments imitated all
these sounds with a marvelous exactness.  More than one
man started to raise his umbrella when the storm burst
forth and the sheets of mimic rain came driving by;
it was hardly possible to keep from putting your hand
to your hat when the fierce wind began to rage and shriek;
and it was NOT possible to refrain from starting when
those sudden and charmingly real thunder-crashes were
let loose.

I suppose the "Fremersberg" is a very low-grade music;
I know, indeed, that it MUST be low-grade music, because it
delighted me, warmed me, moved me, stirred me, uplifted me,
enraptured me, that I was full of cry all the time,
and mad with enthusiasm.  My soul had never had such a
scouring out since I was born.  The solemn and majestic
chanting of the monks was not done by instruments,
but by men's voices; and it rose and fell, and rose again
in that rich confusion of warring sounds, and pulsing bells,
and the stately swing of that ever-present enchanting air,
and it seemed to me that nothing but the very lowest
of low-grade music COULD be so divinely beautiful.
The great crowd which the "Fremersberg" had called out was
another evidence that it was low-grade music; for only
the few are educated up to a point where high-grade music
gives pleasure.  I have never heard enough classic music
to be able to enjoy it.  I dislike the opera because I want
to love it and can't.

I suppose there are two kinds of music--one kind which
one feels, just as an oyster might, and another sort
which requires a higher faculty, a faculty which must
be assisted and developed by teaching.  Yet if base music
gives certain of us wings, why should we want any other?
But we do.  We want it because the higher and better
like it.  We want it without giving it the necessary
time and trouble; so we climb into that upper tier,
that dress-circle, by a lie; we PRETEND we like it.
I know several of that sort of people--and I propose
to be one of them myself when I get home with my fine
European education.

And then there is painting.  What a red rag is to a bull,
Turner's "Slave Ship" was to me, before I studied art.
Mr. Ruskin is educated in art up to a point where that
picture throws him into as mad an ecstasy of pleasure
as it used to throw me into one of rage, last year,
when I was ignorant.  His cultivation enables him--and me,
now--to see water in that glaring yellow mud, and natural
effects in those lurid explosions of mixed smoke and flame,
and crimson sunset glories; it reconciles him--and me,
now--to the floating of iron cable-chains and other
unfloatable things; it reconciles us to fishes swimming
around on top of the mud--I mean the water.  The most of
the picture is a manifest impossibility--that is to say,
a lie; and only rigid cultivation can enable a man to find
truth in a lie.  But it enabled Mr. Ruskin to do it,
and it has enabled me to do it, and I am thankful for it.
A Boston newspaper reporter went and took a look at the Slave
Ship floundering about in that fierce conflagration of reds
and yellows, and said it reminded him of a tortoise-shell
cat having a fit in a platter of tomatoes.  In my then
uneducated state, that went home to my non-cultivation,
and I thought here is a man with an unobstructed eye.
Mr. Ruskin would have said: This person is an ass.
That is what I would say, now. [1]

1.  Months after this was written, I happened into the National
    Gallery in London, and soon became so fascinated with the
    Turner pictures that I could hardly get away from the place.
    I went there often, afterward, meaning to see the rest
    of the gallery, but the Turner spell was too strong;
    it could not be shaken off.  However, the Turners
    which attracted me most did not remind me of the Slave Ship.

However, our business in Baden-Baden this time,
was to join our courier.  I had thought it best
to hire one, as we should be in Italy, by and by,
and we did not know the language.  Neither did he.
We found him at the hotel, ready to take charge of us.
I asked him if he was "all fixed." He said he was.
That was very true.  He had a trunk, two small satchels,
and an umbrella.  I was to pay him fifty-five dollars
a month and railway fares.  On the continent the railway
fare on a trunk is about the same it is on a man.
Couriers do not have to pay any board and lodging.
This seems a great saving to the tourist--at first.
It does not occur to the tourist that SOMEBODY pays that
man's board and lodging.  It occurs to him by and by,
however, in one of his lucid moments.



CHAPTER XXV
[Hunted by the Little Chamois]

Next morning we left in the train for Switzerland,
and reached Lucerne about ten o'clock at night.
The first discovery I made was that the beauty of the lake
had not been exaggerated.  Within a day or two I made
another discovery.  This was, that the lauded chamois
is not a wild goat; that it is not a horned animal;
that it is not shy; that it does not avoid human society;
and that there is no peril in hunting it.  The chamois is
a black or brown creature no bigger than a mustard seed;
you do not have to go after it, it comes after you;
it arrives in vast herds and skips and scampers all over
your body, inside your clothes; thus it is not shy,
but extremely sociable; it is not afraid of man, on the
contrary, it will attack him; its bite is not dangerous,
but neither is it pleasant; its activity has not been
overstated --if you try to put your finger on it,
it will skip a thousand times its own length at one jump,
and no eye is sharp enough to see where it lights.
A great deal of romantic nonsense has been written
about the Swiss chamois and the perils of hunting it,
whereas the truth is that even women and children
hunt it, and fearlessly; indeed, everybody hunts it;
the hunting is going on all the time, day and night,
in bed and out of it.  It is poetic foolishness to hunt
it with a gun; very few people do that; there is not
one man in a million who can hit it with a gun.
It is much easier to catch it than it is to shoot it,
and only the experienced chamois-hunter can do either.
Another common piece of exaggeration is that about the
"scarcity" of the chamois.  It is the reverse of scarce.
Droves of one hundred million chamois are not unusual
in the Swiss hotels.  Indeed, they are so numerous
as to be a great pest.  The romancers always dress up
the chamois-hunter in a fanciful and picturesque costume,
whereas the best way to hut this game is to do it without
any costume at all.  The article of commerce called
chamois-skin is another fraud; nobody could skin a chamois,
it is too small.  The creature is a humbug in every way,
and everything which has been written about it is
sentimental exaggeration.  It was no pleasure to me to find
the chamois out, for he had been one of my pet illusions;
all my life it had been my dream to see him in his native
wilds some day, and engage in the adventurous sport
of chasing him from cliff to cliff.  It is no pleasure
to me to expose him, now, and destroy the reader's delight
in him and respect for him, but still it must be done,
for when an honest writer discovers an imposition it
is his simple duty to strip it bare and hurl it down
from its place of honor, no matter who suffers by it;
any other course would render him unworthy of the public
confidence.

Lucerne is a charming place.  It begins at the water's edge,
with a fringe of hotels, and scrambles up and spreads
itself over two or three sharp hills in a crowded,
disorderly, but picturesque way, offering to the eye
a heaped-up confusion of red roofs, quaint gables,
dormer windows, toothpick steeples, with here and there
a bit of ancient embattled wall bending itself over
the ridges, worm-fashion, and here and there an old square
tower of heavy masonry.  And also here and there a town
clock with only one hand--a hand which stretches across
the dial and has no joint in it; such a clock helps out
the picture, but you cannot tell the time of day by it.
Between the curving line of hotels and the lake is a broad
avenue with lamps and a double rank of low shade trees.
The lake-front is walled with masonry like a pier,
and has a railing, to keep people from walking overboard.
All day long the vehicles dash along the avenue, and nurses,
children, and tourists sit in the shade of the trees,
or lean on the railing and watch the schools of fishes
darting about in the clear water, or gaze out over the lake
at the stately border of snow-hooded mountains peaks.
Little pleasure steamers, black with people, are coming
and going all the time; and everywhere one sees young
girls and young men paddling about in fanciful rowboats,
or skimming along by the help of sails when there is any wind.
The front rooms of the hotels have little railed balconies,
where one may take his private luncheon in calm,
cool comfort and look down upon this busy and pretty
scene and enjoy it without having to do any of the work
connected with it.

Most of the people, both male and female, are in walking
costume, and carry alpenstocks.  Evidently, it is not
considered safe to go about in Switzerland, even in town,
without an alpenstock.  If the tourist forgets and
comes down to breakfast without his alpenstock he goes
back and gets it, and stands it up in the corner.
When his touring in Switzerland is finished, he does not
throw that broomstick away, but lugs it home with him,
to the far corners of the earth, although this costs him
more trouble and bother than a baby or a courier could.
You see, the alpenstock is his trophy; his name
is burned upon it; and if he has climbed a hill,
or jumped a brook, or traversed a brickyard with it,
he has the names of those places burned upon it, too.
Thus it is his regimental flag, so to speak, and bears
the record of his achievements.  It is worth three francs
when he buys it, but a bonanza could not purchase it
after his great deeds have been inscribed upon it.
There are artisans all about Switzerland whose trade it is
to burn these things upon the alpenstock of the tourist.
And observe, a man is respected in Switzerland according
to his alpenstock.  I found I could get no attention there,
while I carried an unbranded one.  However, branding is
not expected, so I soon remedied that.  The effect
upon the next detachment of tourists was very marked.
I felt repaid for my trouble.

Half of the summer horde in Switzerland is made up of
English people; the other half is made up of many nationalities,
the Germans leading and the Americans coming next.
The Americans were not as numerous as I had expected
they would be.

The seven-thirty table d'ho^te at the great Schweitzerhof
furnished a mighty array and variety of nationalities,
but it offered a better opportunity to observe costumes
than people, for the multitude sat at immensely long tables,
and therefore the faces were mainly seen in perspective;
but the breakfasts were served at small round tables,
and then if one had the fortune to get a table in the
midst of the assemblage he could have as many faces
to study as he could desire.  We used to try to guess out
the nationalities, and generally succeeded tolerably well.
Sometimes we tried to guess people's names; but that was
a failure; that is a thing which probably requires a good
deal of practice.  We presently dropped it and gave our
efforts to less difficult particulars.  One morning I
said:

"There is an American party."

Harris said:

"Yes--but name the state."

I named one state, Harris named another.  We agreed upon
one thing, however--that the young girl with the party
was very beautiful, and very tastefully dressed.
But we disagreed as to her age.  I said she was eighteen,
Harris said she was twenty.  The dispute between us
waxed warm, and I finally said, with a pretense of being
in earnest:

"Well, there is one way to settle the matter--I will go
and ask her."

Harris said, sarcastically, "Certainly, that is the thing
to do.  All you need to do is to use the common formula
over here: go and say, 'I'm an American!' Of course she
will be glad to see you."

Then he hinted that perhaps there was no great danger
of my venturing to speak to her.

I said, "I was only talking--I didn't intend to approach her,
but I see that you do not know what an intrepid person
I am.  I am not afraid of any woman that walks.
I will go and speak to this young girl."

The thing I had in my mind was not difficult.
I meant to address her in the most respectful way and ask
her to pardon me if her strong resemblance to a former
acquaintance of mine was deceiving me; and when she should
reply that the name I mentioned was not the name she bore,
I meant to beg pardon again, most respectfully, and retire.
There would be no harm done.  I walked to her table,
bowed to the gentleman, then turned to her and was about
to begin my little speech when she exclaimed:

"I KNEW I wasn't mistaken--I told John it was you!
John said it probably wasn't, but I knew I was right.
I said you would recognize me presently and come over;
and I'm glad you did, for I shouldn't have felt much flattered
if you had gone out of this room without recognizing me.
Sit down, sit down--how odd it is--you are the last person I
was ever expecting to see again."

This was a stupefying surprise.  It took my wits
clear away, for an instant.  However, we shook hands
cordially all around, and I sat down.  But truly this
was the tightest place I ever was in.  I seemed to vaguely
remember the girl's face, now, but I had no idea where I
had seen it before, or what named belonged with it.
I immediately tried to get up a diversion about Swiss scenery,
to keep her from launching into topics that might
betray that I did not know her, but it was of no use,
she went right along upon matters which interested her more:

"Oh dear, what a night that was, when the sea washed
the forward boats away--do you remember it?"

"Oh, DON'T I!" said I--but I didn't. I wished the sea
had washed the rudder and the smoke-stack and the captain
away--then I could have located this questioner.

"And don't you remember how frightened poor Mary was,
and how she cried?"

"Indeed I do!" said I. "Dear me, how it all comes back!"

I fervently wished it WOULD come back--but my memory was
a blank.  The wise way would have been to frankly own up;
but I could not bring myself to do that, after the young
girl had praised me so for recognizing her; so I went on,
deeper and deeper into the mire, hoping for a chance clue
but never getting one.  The Unrecognizable continued,
with vivacity:

"Do you know, George married Mary, after all?"

"Why, no! Did he?"

"Indeed he did.  He said he did not believe she was half
as much to blame as her father was, and I thought he
was right.  Didn't you?"

"Of course he was.  It was a perfectly plain case.
I always said so."

"Why, no you didn't!--at least that summer."

"Oh, no, not that summer.  No, you are perfectly right
about that.  It was the following winter that I said it."

"Well, as it turned out, Mary was not in the least
to blame --it was all her father's fault--at least
his and old Darley's."

It was necessary to say something--so I said:

"I always regarded Darley as a troublesome old thing."

"So he was, but then they always had a great affection
for him, although he had so many eccentricities.
You remember that when the weather was the least cold,
he would try to come into the house."

I was rather afraid to proceed.  Evidently Darley was not
a man--he must be some other kind of animal--possibly
a dog, maybe an elephant.  However, tails are common
to all animals, so I ventured to say:

"And what a tail he had!"

"ONE! He had a thousand!"

This was bewildering.  I did not quite know what to say,
so I only said:

"Yes, he WAS rather well fixed in the matter of tails."

"For a negro, and a crazy one at that, I should say he was,"
said she.

It was getting pretty sultry for me.  I said to myself,
"Is it possible she is going to stop there, and wait for
me to speak? If she does, the conversation is blocked.
A negro with a thousand tails is a topic which a person
cannot talk upon fluently and instructively without more
or less preparation.  As to diving rashly into such a
vast subject--"

But here, to my gratitude, she interrupted my thoughts
by saying:

"Yes, when it came to tales of his crazy woes, there was
simply no end to them if anybody would listen.  His own
quarters were comfortable enough, but when the weather
was cold, the family were sure to have his company--nothing
could keep him out of the house.  But they always bore it
kindly because he had saved Tom's life, years before.
You remember Tom?

"Oh, perfectly.  Fine fellow he was, too."

"Yes he was.  And what a pretty little thing his child was!"

"You may well say that.  I never saw a prettier child."

"I used to delight to pet it and dandle it and play
with it."

"So did I."

"You named it.  What WAS that name? I can't call it
to mind."

It appeared to me that the ice was getting pretty
thin, here.  I would have given something to know
what the child's was.  However, I had the good luck
to think of a name that would fit either sex--so I brought it
out:

"I named it Frances."

"From a relative, I suppose? But you named the one that died,
too--one that I never saw.  What did you call that one?"

I was out of neutral names, but as the child was dead
and she had never seen it, I thought I might risk a name
for it and trust to luck.  Therefore I said:

"I called that one Thomas Henry."

She said, musingly:

"That is very singular ... very singular."

I sat still and let the cold sweat run down.  I was
in a good deal of trouble, but I believed I could worry
through if she wouldn't ask me to name any more children.
I wondered where the lightning was going to strike next.
She was still ruminating over that last child's title,
but presently she said:

"I have always been sorry you were away at the time--I
would have had you name my child."

"YOUR child! Are you married?"

"I have been married thirteen years."

"Christened, you mean."

`"No, married.  The youth by your side is my son."

"It seems incredible--even impossible.  I do not mean
any harm by it, but would you mind telling me if you
are any over eighteen?--that is to say, will you tell
me how old you are?"

"I was just nineteen the day of the storm we were
talking about.  That was my birthday."

That did not help matters, much, as I did not know
the date of the storm.  I tried to think of some
non-committal thing to say, to keep up my end of the talk,
and render my poverty in the matter of reminiscences
as little noticeable as possible, but I seemed to be
about out of non-committal things.  I was about to say,
"You haven't changed a bit since then"--but that was risky.
I thought of saying, "You have improved ever so much
since then"--but that wouldn't answer, of course.
I was about to try a shy at the weather, for a saving change,
when the girl slipped in ahead of me and said:

"How I have enjoyed this talk over those happy old times--
haven't you?"

"I never have spent such a half-hour in all my life before!"
said I, with emotion; and I could have added, with a
near approach to truth, "and I would rather be scalped
than spend another one like it." I was holily grateful
to be through with the ordeal, and was about to make
my good-bys and get out, when the girl said:

"But there is one thing that is ever so puzzling to me."

"Why, what is that?"

"That dead child's name.  What did you say it was?"

Here was another balmy place to be in: I had forgotten the
child's name; I hadn't imagined it would be needed again.
However, I had to pretend to know, anyway, so I said:

"Joseph William."

The youth at my side corrected me, and said:

"No, Thomas Henry."

I thanked him--in words--and said, with trepidation:

"O yes--I was thinking of another child that I named--I
have named a great many, and I get them confused--this
one was named Henry Thompson--"

"Thomas Henry," calmly interposed the boy.

I thanked him again--strictly in words--and stammered
out:

"Thomas Henry--yes, Thomas Henry was the poor child's name.
I named him for Thomas--er--Thomas Carlyle, the great author,
you know--and Henry--er--er--Henry the Eight.  The parents
were very grateful to have a child named Thomas Henry."

"That makes it more singular than ever," murmured my
beautiful friend.

"Does it? Why?"

"Because when the parents speak of that child now,
they always call it Susan Amelia."

That spiked my gun.  I could not say anything.  I was entirely
out of verbal obliquities; to go further would be to lie,
and that I would not do; so I simply sat still and suffered
--sat mutely and resignedly there, and sizzled--for I
was being slowly fried to death in my own blushes.
Presently the enemy laughed a happy laugh and said:

"I HAVE enjoyed this talk over old times, but you have not.
I saw very soon that you were only pretending to know me,
and so as I had wasted a compliment on you in the beginning,
I made up my mind to punish you.  And I have succeeded
pretty well.  I was glad to see that you knew George and Tom
and Darley, for I had never heard of them before and therefore
could not be sure that you had; and I was glad to learn
the names of those imaginary children, too.  One can get
quite a fund of information out of you if one goes at
it cleverly.  Mary and the storm, and the sweeping away
of the forward boats, were facts--all the rest was fiction.
Mary was my sister; her full name was Mary ------. NOW
do you remember me?"

"Yes," I said, "I do remember you now; and you are as
hard-headed as you were thirteen years ago in that ship,
else you wouldn't have punished me so.  You haven't
change your nature nor your person, in any way at all;
you look as young as you did then, you are just as beautiful
as you were then, and you have transmitted a deal
of your comeliness to this fine boy.  There--if that
speech moves you any, let's fly the flag of truce,
with the understanding that I am conquered and confess it."

All of which was agreed to and accomplished, on the spot.
When I went back to Harris, I said:

"Now you see what a person with talent and address can do."

"Excuse me, I see what a person of colossal ignorance and
simplicity can do.  The idea of your going and intruding
on a party of strangers, that way, and talking for half
an hour; why I never heard of a man in his right mind
doing such a thing before.  What did you say to them?"

I never said any harm.  I merely asked the girl what her
name was."

"I don't doubt it.  Upon my word I don't. I think you
were capable of it.  It was stupid in me to let you go
over there and make such an exhibition of yourself.
But you know I couldn't really believe you would do such
an inexcusable thing.  What will those people think
of us? But how did you say it?--I mean the manner of it.
I hope you were not abrupt."

"No, I was careful about that.  I said, 'My friend and I
would like to know what your name is, if you don't mind.'"

"No, that was not abrupt.  There is a polish about it that
does you infinite credit.  And I am glad you put me in;
that was a delicate attention which I appreciate at its
full value.  What did she do?"

"She didn't do anything in particular.  She told me
her name."

"Simply told you her name.  Do you mean to say she did
not show any surprise?"

"Well, now I come to think, she did show something;
maybe it was surprise; I hadn't thought of that--I took
it for gratification."

"Oh, undoubtedly you were right; it must have been gratification;
it could not be otherwise than gratifying to be assaulted
by a stranger with such a question as that.  Then what did you
do?"

"I offered my hand and the party gave me a shake."

"I saw it! I did not believe my own eyes, at the time.
Did the gentleman say anything about cutting your throat?"

"No, they all seemed glad to see me, as far as I could judge."

"And do you know, I believe they were.  I think they said
to themselves, 'Doubtless this curiosity has got away from
his keeper--let us amuse ourselves with him.' There is
no other way of accounting for their facile docility.
You sat down.  Did they ASK you to sit down?"

"No, they did not ask me, but I suppose they did not think
of it."

"You have an unerring instinct.  What else did you do?
What did you talk about?"

"Well, I asked the girl how old she was."

"UNdoubtedly. Your delicacy is beyond praise.  Go on,
go on--don't mind my apparent misery--I always look
so when I am steeped in a profound and reverent joy.
Go on--she told you her age?"

"Yes, she told me her age, and all about her mother,
and her grandmother, and her other relations, and all
about herself."

"Did she volunteer these statistics?"

"No, not exactly that.  I asked the questions and she
answered them."

"This is divine.  Go on--it is not possible that you
forgot to inquire into her politics?"

"No, I thought of that.  She is a democrat, her husband
is a republican, and both of them are Baptists."

"Her husband? Is that child married?"

"She is not a child.  She is married, and that is her
husband who is there with her."

"Has she any children."

"Yes--seven and a half."

"That is impossible."

"No, she has them.  She told me herself."

"Well, but seven and a HALF? How do you make out the half?
Where does the half come in?"

"There is a child which she had by another husband--
not this one but another one--so it is a stepchild,
and they do not count in full measure."

"Another husband? Has she another husband?"

"Yes, four.  This one is number four."

"I don't believe a word of it.  It is impossible,
upon its face.  Is that boy there her brother?"

"No, that is her son.  He is her youngest.  He is not
as old as he looked; he is only eleven and a half."

"These things are all manifestly impossible.  This is a
wretched business.  It is a plain case: they simply took
your measure, and concluded to fill you up.  They seem
to have succeeded.  I am glad I am not in the mess;
they may at least be charitable enough to think there
ain't a pair of us.  Are they going to stay here long?"

"No, they leave before noon."

"There is one man who is deeply grateful for that.
How did you find out? You asked, I suppose?"

"No, along at first I inquired into their plans, in a
general way, and they said they were going to be here
a week, and make trips round about; but toward the end
of the interview, when I said you and I would tour around
with them with pleasure, and offered to bring you over
and introduce you, they hesitated a little, and asked
if you were from the same establishment that I was.
I said you were, and then they said they had changed
their mind and considered it necessary to start at once
and visit a sick relative in Siberia."

"Ah, me, you struck the summit! You struck the loftiest
altitude of stupidity that human effort has ever reached.
You shall have a monument of jackasses' skulls as high
as the Strasburg spire if you die before I do.
They wanted to know I was from the same 'establishment'
that you hailed from, did they? What did they mean by
'establishment'?"

"I don't know; it never occurred to me to ask."

"Well _I_ know.  they meant an asylum--an IDIOT asylum,
do you understand? So they DO think there's a pair of us,
after all.  Now what do you think of yourself?"

"Well, I don't know.  I didn't know I was doing any harm;
I didn't MEAN to do any harm.  They were very nice people,
and they seemed to like me."

Harris made some rude remarks and left for his bedroom--
to break some furniture, he said.  He was a singularly
irascible man; any little thing would disturb his temper.

I had been well scorched by the young woman, but no matter,
I took it out on Harris.  One should always "get even"
in some way, else the sore place will go on hurting.



CHAPTER XXVI
[The Nest of the Cuckoo-clock]

The Hofkirche is celebrated for its organ concerts.
All summer long the tourists flock to that church about six
o'clock in the evening, and pay their franc, and listen
to the noise.  They don't stay to hear all of it, but get up
and tramp out over the sounding stone floor, meeting late
comers who tramp in in a sounding and vigorous way.
This tramping back and forth is kept up nearly all the time,
and is accented by the continuous slamming of the door,
and the coughing and barking and sneezing of the crowd.
Meantime, the big organ is booming and crashing and
thundering away, doing its best to prove that it is
the biggest and best organ in Europe, and that a tight
little box of a church is the most favorable place
to average and appreciate its powers in.  It is true,
there were some soft and merciful passages occasionally,
but the tramp-tramp of the tourists only allowed one to get
fitful glimpses of them, so to speak.  Then right away
the organist would let go another avalanche.

The commerce of Lucerne consists mainly in gimcrackery of the
souvenir sort; the shops are packed with Alpine crystals,
photographs of scenery, and wooden and ivory carvings.
I will not conceal the fact that miniature figures of the
Lion of Lucerne are to be had in them.  Millions of them.
But they are libels upon him, every one of them.
There is a subtle something about the majestic pathos
of the original which the copyist cannot get.  Even the sun
fails to get it; both the photographer and the carver give
you a dying lion, and that is all.  The shape is right,
the attitude is right, the proportions are right, but that
indescribable something which makes the Lion of Lucerne
the most mournful and moving piece of stone in the world,
is wanting.

The Lion lies in his lair in the perpendicular face of a low
cliff--for he is carved from the living rock of the cliff.
His size is colossal, his attitude is noble.  How head
is bowed, the broken spear is sticking in his shoulder,
his protecting paw rests upon the lilies of France.
Vines hang down the cliff and wave in the wind, and a clear
stream trickles from above and empties into a pond at the base,
and in the smooth surface of the pond the lion is mirrored,
among the water-lilies.

Around about are green trees and grass.  The place is
a sheltered, reposeful woodland nook, remote from noise
and stir and confusion--and all this is fitting, for lions
do die in such places, and not on granite pedestals
in public squares fenced with fancy iron railings.
The Lion of Lucerne would be impressive anywhere,
but nowhere so impressive as where he is.

Martyrdom is the luckiest fate that can befall some people.
Louis XVI did not die in his bed, consequently history is
very gentle with him; she is charitable toward his failings,
and she finds in him high virtues which are not usually
considered to be virtues when they are lodged in kings.
She makes him out to be a person with a meek and modest
spirit, the heart of a female saint, and a wrong head.
None of these qualities are kingly but the last.
Taken together they make a character which would have fared
harshly at the hands of history if its owner had had the ill
luck to miss martyrdom.  With the best intentions to do
the right thing, he always managed to do the wrong one.
Moreover, nothing could get the female saint out of him.
He knew, well enough, that in national emergencies he must
not consider how he ought to act, as a man, but how he
ought to act as a king; so he honestly tried to sink
the man and be the king--but it was a failure, he only
succeeded in being the female saint.  He was not instant
in season, but out of season.  He could not be persuaded
to do a thing while it could do any good--he was iron,
he was adamant in his stubbornness then--but as soon as
the thing had reached a point where it would be positively
harmful to do it, do it he would, and nothing could
stop him.  He did not do it because it would be harmful,
but because he hoped it was not yet too late to achieve
by it the good which it would have done if applied earlier.
His comprehension was always a train or two behindhand.
If a national toe required amputating, he could not see
that it needed anything more than poulticing; when others
saw that the mortification had reached the knee, he first
perceived that the toe needed cutting off--so he cut it off;
and he severed the leg at the knee when others saw that the
disease had reached the thigh.  He was good, and honest,
and well meaning, in the matter of chasing national diseases,
but he never could overtake one.  As a private man,
he would have been lovable; but viewed as a king, he was
strictly contemptible.

His was a most unroyal career, but the most pitiable
spectacle in it was his sentimental treachery to his
Swiss guard on that memorable 10th of August, when he
allowed those heroes to be massacred in his cause,
and forbade them to shed the "sacred French blood"
purporting to be flowing in the veins of the red-capped
mob of miscreants that was raging around the palace.
He meant to be kingly, but he was only the female saint
once more.  Some of his biographers think that upon this
occasion the spirit of Saint Louis had descended upon him.
It must have found pretty cramped quarters.  If Napoleon
the First had stood in the shoes of Louis XVI that day,
instead of being merely a casual and unknown looker-on,
there would be no Lion of Lucerne, now, but there would
be a well-stocked Communist graveyard in Paris which would
answer just as well to remember the 10th of August by.

Martyrdom made a saint of Mary Queen of Scots three
hundred years ago, and she has hardly lost all of her
saintship yet.  Martyrdom made a saint of the trivial
and foolish Marie Antoinette, and her biographers still
keep her fragrant with the odor of sanctity to this day,
while unconsciously proving upon almost every page they write
that the only calamitous instinct which her husband lacked,
she supplied--the instinct to root out and get rid of
an honest, able, and loyal official, wherever she found him.
The hideous but beneficent French Revolution would have
been deferred, or would have fallen short of completeness,
or even might not have happened at all, if Marie
Antoinette had made the unwise mistake of not being born.
The world owes a great deal to the French Revolution,
and consequently to its two chief promoters, Louis the
Poor in Spirit and his queen.

We did not buy any wooden images of the Lion, nor any ivory
or ebony or marble or chalk or sugar or chocolate ones,
or even any photographic slanders of him.  The truth is,
these copies were so common, so universal, in the shops
and everywhere, that they presently became as intolerable
to the wearied eye as the latest popular melody usually
becomes to the harassed ear.  In Lucerne, too, the wood
carvings of other sorts, which had been so pleasant to look
upon when one saw them occasionally at home, soon began
to fatigue us.  We grew very tired of seeing wooden quails
and chickens picking and struting around clock-faces,
and still more tired of seeing wooden images of the alleged
chamois skipping about wooden rocks, or lying upon them
in family groups, or peering alertly up from behind them.
The first day, I would have bought a hundred and fifty
of these clocks if I had the money--and I did buy three--
but on the third day the disease had run its course,
I had convalesced, and was in the market once more--trying
to sell.  However, I had no luck; which was just as well,
for the things will be pretty enough, no doubt, when I get
them home.

For years my pet aversion had been the cuckoo clock;
now here I was, at last, right in the creature's home;
so wherever I went that distressing "HOO'hoo! HOO'hoo!
HOO'hoo!" was always in my ears.  For a nervous man,
this was a fine state of things.  Some sounds are hatefuler
than others, but no sound is quite so inane, and silly,
and aggravating as the "HOO'hoo" of a cuckoo clock, I think.
I bought one, and am carrying it home to a certain person;
for I have always said that if the opportunity ever happened,
I would do that man an ill turn.  What I meant, was, that I
would break one of his legs, or something of that sort;
but in Lucerne I instantly saw that I could impair his mind.
That would be more lasting, and more satisfactory every way.
So I bought the cuckoo clock; and if I ever get home
with it, he is "my meat," as they say in the mines.
I thought of another candidate--a book-reviewer whom
I could name if I wanted to--but after thinking
it over, I didn't buy him a clock.  I couldn't injure
his mind.

We visited the two long, covered wooden bridges which span
the green and brilliant Reuss just below where it goes
plunging and hurrahing out of the lake.  These rambling,
sway-backed tunnels are very attractive things, with their
alcoved outlooks upon the lovely and inspiriting water.
They contain two or three hundred queer old pictures,
by old Swiss masters--old boss sign-painters, who flourished
before the decadence of art.

The lake is alive with fishes, plainly visible to the eye,
for the water is very clear.  The parapets in front of the
hotels were usually fringed with fishers of all ages.
One day I thought I would stop and see a fish caught.
The result brought back to my mind, very forcibly,
a circumstance which I had not thought of before for
twelve years.  This one:

THE MAN WHO PUT UP AT GADSBY'S

When my odd friend Riley and I were newspaper correspondents
in Washington, in the winter of '67, we were coming down
Pennsylvania Avenue one night, near midnight, in a driving
storm of snow, when the flash of a street-lamp fell upon a man
who was eagerly tearing along in the opposite direction.
"This is lucky! You are Mr. Riley, ain't you?"

Riley was the most self-possessed and solemnly deliberate
person in the republic.  He stopped, looked his man
over from head to foot, and finally said:

"I am Mr. Riley.  Did you happen to be looking for me?"

"That's just what I was doing," said the man, joyously,
"and it's the biggest luck in the world that I've found you.
My name is Lykins.  I'm one of the teachers of the high
school--San Francisco.  As soon as I heard the San Francisco
postmastership was vacant, I made up my mind to get it--and here
I am."

"Yes," said Riley, slowly, "as you have remarked ...
Mr. Lykins ... here you are.  And have you got it?"

"Well, not exactly GOT it, but the next thing to it.
I've brought a petition, signed by the Superintendent
of Public Instruction, and all the teachers, and by more
than two hundred other people.  Now I want you, if you'll
be so good, to go around with me to the Pacific delegation,
for I want to rush this thing through and get along home."

"If the matter is so pressing, you will prefer that we
visit the delegation tonight," said Riley, in a voice
which had nothing mocking in it--to an unaccustomed ear.

"Oh, tonight, by all means! I haven't got any time to
fool around.  I want their promise before I go to bed--
I ain't the talking kind, I'm the DOING kind!"

"Yes ... you've come to the right place for that.
When did you arrive?"

"Just an hour ago."

"When are you intending to leave?"

"For New York tomorrow evening--for San Francisco
next morning."

"Just so....  What are you going to do tomorrow?"

"DO! Why, I've got to go to the President with the petition
and the delegation, and get the appointment, haven't I?"

"Yes ... very true ... that is correct.  And then what?"

"Executive session of the Senate at 2 P.M.--got to get
the appointment confirmed--I reckon you'll grant that?"

"Yes ... yes," said Riley, meditatively, "you are
right again.  Then you take the train for New York in
the evening, and the steamer for San Francisco next morning?"

"That's it--that's the way I map it out!"

Riley considered a while, and then said:

"You couldn't stay ... a day ... well, say two
days longer?"

"Bless your soul, no! It's not my style.  I ain't a man
to go fooling around--I'm a man that DOES things,
I tell you."

The storm was raging, the thick snow blowing in gusts.
Riley stood silent, apparently deep in a reverie,
during a minute or more, then he looked up and said:

"Have you ever heard about that man who put up at Gadsby's,
once? ... But I see you haven't."

He backed Mr. Lykins against an iron fence, buttonholed him,
fastened him with his eye, like the Ancient Mariner,
and proceeded to unfold his narrative as placidly
and peacefully as if we were all stretched comfortably
in a blossomy summer meadow instead of being persecuted
by a wintry midnight tempest:

"I will tell you about that man.  It was in Jackson's time.
Gadsby's was the principal hotel, then.  Well, this man
arrived from Tennessee about nine o'clock, one morning,
with a black coachman and a splendid four-horse carriage and
an elegant dog, which he was evidently fond of and proud of;
he drove up before Gadsby's, and the clerk and the landlord
and everybody rushed out to take charge of him, but he said,
'Never mind,' and jumped out and told the coachman
to wait--said he hadn't time to take anything to eat,
he only had a little claim against the government to collect,
would run across the way, to the Treasury, and fetch
the money, and then get right along back to Tennessee,
for he was in considerable of a hurry.

"Well, about eleven o'clock that night he came back
and ordered a bed and told them to put the horses
up--said he would collect the claim in the morning.
This was in January, you understand--January, 1834--
the 3d of January--Wednesday.

"Well, on the 5th of February, he sold the fine carriage,
and bought a cheap second-hand one--said it would answer
just as well to take the money home in, and he didn't care
for style.

"On the 11th of August he sold a pair of the fine horses--
said he'd often thought a pair was better than four,
to go over the rough mountain roads with where a body
had to be careful about his driving--and there wasn't
so much of his claim but he could lug the money home
with a pair easy enough.

"On the 13th of December he sold another horse--said
two warn't necessary to drag that old light vehicle
with--in fact, one could snatch it along faster than
was absolutely necessary, now that it was good solid
winter weather and the roads in splendid condition.

"On the 17th of February, 1835, he sold the old carriage
and bought a cheap second-hand buggy--said a buggy
was just the trick to skim along mushy, slushy early
spring roads with, and he had always wanted to try
a buggy on those mountain roads, anyway.

"On the 1st August he sold the buggy and bought the
remains of an old sulky--said he just wanted to see
those green Tennesseans stare and gawk when they saw
him come a-ripping along in a sulky--didn't believe
they'd ever heard of a sulky in their lives.

"Well, on the 29th of August he sold his colored
coachman--said he didn't need a coachman for a sulky--
wouldn't be room enough for two in it anyway--and,
besides, it wasn't every day that Providence sent a man
a fool who was willing to pay nine hundred dollars for
such a third-rate negro as that--been wanting to get
rid of the creature for years, but didn't like to THROW him away.


"Eighteen months later--that is to say, on the 15th
of February, 1837--he sold the sulky and bought
a saddle--said horseback-riding was what the doctor
had always recommended HIM to take, and dog'd if he
wanted to risk HIS neck going over those mountain roads
on wheels in the dead of winter, not if he knew himself.

"On the 9th of April he sold the saddle--said he wasn't
going to risk HIS life with any perishable saddle-girth
that ever was made, over a rainy, miry April road,
while he could ride bareback and know and feel he was
safe--always HAD despised to ride on a saddle, anyway.

"On the 24th of April he sold his horse--said 'I'm just
fifty-seven today, hale and hearty--it would be a PRETTY
howdy-do for me to be wasting such a trip as that and such
weather as this, on a horse, when there ain't anything
in the world so splendid as a tramp on foot through
the fresh spring woods and over the cheery mountains,
to a man that IS a man--and I can make my dog carry my
claim in a little bundle, anyway, when it's collected.
So tomorrow I'll be up bright and early, make my little
old collection, and mosey off to Tennessee, on my own
hind legs, with a rousing good-by to Gadsby's.'

"On the 22d of June he sold his dog--said 'Dern a dog,
anyway, where you're just starting off on a rattling bully
pleasure tramp through the summer woods and hills--perfect
nuisance--chases the squirrels, barks at everything,
goes a-capering and splattering around in the fords--
man can't get any chance to reflect and enjoy nature--
and I'd a blamed sight ruther carry the claim myself,
it's a mighty sight safer; a dog's mighty uncertain
in a financial way- -always noticed it--well, GOOD-by,
boys--last call--I'm off for Tennessee with a good
leg and a gay heart, early in the morning.'"

There was a pause and a silence--except the noise
of the wind and the pelting snow.  Mr. Lykins said,
impatiently:

"Well?"

Riley said:

"Well,--that was thirty years ago."

"Very well, very well--what of it?"

"I'm great friends with that old patriarch.  He comes
every evening to tell me good-by. I saw him an hour ago--
he's off for Tennessee early tomorrow morning--as usual;
said he calculated to get his claim through and be off
before night-owls like me have turned out of bed.
The tears were in his eyes, he was so glad he was going
to see his old Tennessee and his friends once more."

Another silent pause.  The stranger broke it:

"Is that all?"

"That is all."

"Well, for the TIME of night, and the KIND of night,
it seems to me the story was full long enough.  But what's
it all FOR?"

"Oh, nothing in particular."

"Well, where's the point of it?"

"Oh, there isn't any particular point to it.  Only, if you
are not in TOO much of a hurry to rush off to San Francisco
with that post-office appointment, Mr. Lykins, I'd advise
you to 'PUT UP AT GADSBY'S' for a spell, and take it easy.
Good-by. GOD bless you!"

So saying, Riley blandly turned on his heel and left
the astonished school-teacher standing there, a musing
and motionless snow image shining in the broad glow
of the street-lamp.

He never got that post-office.

To go back to Lucerne and its fishers, I concluded,
after about nine hours' waiting, that the man who proposes
to tarry till he sees something hook one of those well-fed
and experienced fishes will find it wisdom to "put up
at Gadsby's" and take it easy.  It is likely that a fish
has not been caught on that lake pier for forty years;
but no matter, the patient fisher watches his cork there
all the day long, just the same, and seems to enjoy it.
One may see the fisher-loafers just as thick and contented
and happy and patient all along the Seine at Paris,
but tradition says that the only thing ever caught there
in modern times is a thing they don't fish for at all--the
recent dog and the translated cat.



CHAPTER XXVII
[I Spare an Awful Bore]

Close by the Lion of Lucerne is what they call the
"Glacier Garden"--and it is the only one in the world.
It is on high ground.  Four or five years ago,
some workmen who were digging foundations for a house
came upon this interesting relic of a long-departed age.
Scientific men perceived in it a confirmation of their
theories concerning the glacial period; so through
their persuasions the little tract of ground was bought
and permanently protected against being built upon.
The soil was removed, and there lay the rasped and guttered
track which the ancient glacier had made as it moved
along upon its slow and tedious journey.  This track
was perforated by huge pot-shaped holes in the bed-rock,
formed by the furious washing-around in them of boulders
by the turbulent torrent which flows beneath all glaciers.
These huge round boulders still remain in the holes;
they and the walls of the holes are worn smooth by
the long-continued chafing which they gave each other
in those old days.  It took a mighty force to churn
these big lumps of stone around in that vigorous way.
The neighboring country had a very different shape,
at that time--the valleys have risen up and become hills,
since, and the hills have become valleys.  The boulders
discovered in the pots had traveled a great distance,
for there is no rock like them nearer than the distant
Rhone Glacier.

For some days we were content to enjoy looking at the blue
lake Lucerne and at the piled-up masses of snow-mountains
that border it all around--an enticing spectacle,
this last, for there is a strange and fascinating beauty
and charm about a majestic snow-peak with the sun blazing
upon it or the moonlight softly enriching it--but finally
we concluded to try a bit of excursioning around on
a steamboat, and a dash on foot at the Rigi.  Very well,
we had a delightful trip to Fluelen, on a breezy, sunny day.
Everybody sat on the upper deck, on benches, under an awning;
everybody talked, laughed, and exclaimed at the wonder scenery;
in truth, a trip on that lake is almost the perfection
of pleasuring.  The mountains were a never-ceasing marvel.
Sometimes they rose straight up out of the lake,
and towered aloft and overshadowed our pygmy steamer
with their prodigious bulk in the most impressive way.
Not snow-clad mountains, these, yet they climbed high
enough toward the sky to meet the clouds and veil their
foreheads in them.  They were not barren and repulsive,
but clothed in green, and restful and pleasant to the eye.
And they were so almost straight-up-and-down, sometimes,
that one could not imagine a man being able to keep
his footing upon such a surface, yet there are paths,
and the Swiss people go up and down them every day.

Sometimes one of these monster precipices had the slight
inclination of the huge ship-houses in dockyards--
then high aloft, toward the sky, it took a little
stronger inclination, like that of a mansard roof--and
perched on this dizzy mansard one's eye detected little
things like martin boxes, and presently perceived that
these were the dwellings of peasants--an airy place
for a home, truly.  And suppose a peasant should walk
in his sleep, or his child should fall out of the front
yard?--the friends would have a tedious long journey down
out of those cloud-heights before they found the remains.
And yet those far-away homes looked ever so seductive,
they were so remote from the troubled world, they dozed
in such an atmosphere of peace and dreams--surely no one
who has learned to live up there would ever want
to live on a meaner level.

We swept through the prettiest little curving arms
of the lake, among these colossal green walls,
enjoying new delights, always, as the stately panorama
unfolded itself before us and rerolled and hid itself
behind us; and now and then we had the thrilling surprise
of bursting suddenly upon a tremendous white mass like the
distant and dominating Jungfrau, or some kindred giant,
looming head and shoulders above a tumbled waste of lesser Alps.

Once, while I was hungrily taking in one of these surprises,
and doing my best to get all I possibly could of it while it
should last, I was interrupted by a young and care-free voice:

"You're an American, I think--so'm I."

He was about eighteen, or possibly nineteen; slender and
of medium height; open, frank, happy face; a restless
but independent eye; a snub nose, which had the air
of drawing back with a decent reserve from the silky
new-born mustache below it until it should be introduced;
a loosely hung jaw, calculated to work easily in the sockets.
He wore a low-crowned, narrow-brimmed straw hat,
with a broad blue ribbon around it which had a white
anchor embroidered on it in front; nobby short-tailed
coat, pantaloons, vest, all trim and neat and up with
the fashion; red-striped stockings, very low-quarter
patent-leather shoes, tied with black ribbon; blue ribbon
around his neck, wide-open collar; tiny diamond studs;
wrinkleless kids; projecting cuffs, fastened with large
oxidized silver sleeve-buttons, bearing the device
of a dog's face--English pug.  He carries a slim cane,
surmounted with an English pug's head with red glass eyes.
Under his arm he carried a German grammar--Otto's. His hair
was short, straight, and smooth, and presently when he turned
his head a moment, I saw that it was nicely parted behind.
He took a cigarette out of a dainty box, stuck it into
a meerschaum holder which he carried in a morocco case,
and reached for my cigar.  While he was lighting, I said:

"Yes--I am an American."

"I knew it--I can always tell them.  What ship did you
come over in?"

"HOLSATIA."

"We came in the BATAVIA--Cunard, you know.  What kind
of passage did you have?"

"Tolerably rough."

"So did we.  Captain said he'd hardly ever seen it rougher.
Where are you from?"

"New England."

"So'm I. I'm from New Bloomfield.  Anybody with you?"

"Yes--a friend."

"Our whole family's along.  It's awful slow, going around
alone--don't you think so?"

"Rather slow."

"Ever been over here before?"

"Yes."

"I haven't. My first trip.  But we've been all around--Paris
and everywhere.  I'm to enter Harvard next year.
Studying German all the time, now.  Can't enter till I
know German.  I know considerable French--I get along
pretty well in Paris, or anywhere where they speak French.
What hotel are you stopping at?"

"Schweitzerhof."

"No! is that so? I never see you in the reception-room.
I go to the reception-room a good deal of the time,
because there's so many Americans there.  I make lots
of acquaintances.  I know an American as soon as I see
him--and so I speak to him and make his acquaintance.
I like to be always making acquaintances--don't you?"

"Lord, yes!"

"You see it breaks up a trip like this, first rate.
I never got bored on a trip like this, if I can
make acquaintances and have somebody to talk to.
But I think a trip like this would be an awful bore,
if a body couldn't find anybody to get acquainted with
and talk to on a trip like this.  I'm fond of talking,
ain't you?

"Passionately."

"Have you felt bored, on this trip?"

"Not all the time, part of it."

"That's it!--you see you ought to go around and get acquainted,
and talk.  That's my way.  That's the way I always do--I
just go 'round, 'round, 'round and talk, talk, talk--I
never get bored.  You been up the Rigi yet?"

"No."

"Going?"

"I think so."

"What hotel you going to stop at?"

"I don't know.  Is there more than one?"

"Three. You stop at the Schreiber--you'll find it full
of Americans.  What ship did you say you came over in?"

"CITY OF ANTWERP."

"German, I guess.  You going to Geneva?"

"Yes."

"What hotel you going to stop at?"

"Hotel de l''Ecu de G'en`eve."

"Don't you do it! No Americans there! You stop at one
of those big hotels over the bridge--they're packed
full of Americans."

"But I want to practice my Arabic."

"Good gracious, do you speak Arabic?"

"Yes--well enough to get along."

"Why, hang it, you won't get along in Geneva--THEY don't
speak Arabic, they speak French.  What hotel are you
stopping at here?"

"Hotel Pension-Beaurivage."

"Sho, you ought to stop at the Schweitzerhof.  Didn't you
know the Schweitzerhof was the best hotel in Switzerland?--
look at your Baedeker."

"Yes, I know--but I had an idea there warn't any
Americans there."

"No Americans! Why, bless your soul, it's just alive with
them! I'm in the great reception-room most all the time.
I make lots of acquaintances there.  Not as many as I did
at first, because now only the new ones stop in there--
the others go right along through.  Where are you from?"

"Arkansaw."

"Is that so? I'm from New England--New Bloomfield's my town
when I'm at home.  I'm having a mighty good time today,
ain't you?"

"Divine."

"That's what I call it.  I like this knocking around,
loose and easy, and making acquaintances and talking.
I know an American, soon as I see him; so I go and speak
to him and make his acquaintance.  I ain't ever bored,
on a trip like this, if I can make new acquaintances and talk.
I'm awful fond of talking when I can get hold of the right
kind of a person, ain't you?"

"I prefer it to any other dissipation."

"That's my notion, too.  Now some people like to take
a book and sit down and read, and read, and read, or moon
around yawping at the lake or these mountains and things,
but that ain't my way; no, sir, if they like it, let 'em do it,
I don't object; but as for me, talking's what _I_ like.
You been up the Rigi?"

"Yes."

"What hotel did you stop at?"

"Schreiber."

"That's the place!--I stopped there too.  FULL of Americans,
WASN'T it? It always is--always is.  That's what they say.
Everybody says that.  What ship did you come over in?"

"VILLE DE PARIS."

"French, I reckon.  What kind of a passage did ... excuse me
a minute, there's some Americans I haven't seen before."

And away he went.  He went uninjured, too--I had the murderous
impulse to harpoon him in the back with my alpenstock,
but as I raised the weapon the disposition left me;
I found I hadn't the heart to kill him, he was such
a joyous, innocent, good-natured numbskull.

Half an hour later I was sitting on a bench inspecting,
with strong interest, a noble monolith which we were
skimming by--a monolith not shaped by man, but by Nature's
free great hand--a massy pyramidal rock eighty feet high,
devised by Nature ten million years ago against the day
when a man worthy of it should need it for his monument.
The time came at last, and now this grand remembrancer
bears Schiller's name in huge letters upon its face.
Curiously enough, this rock was not degraded or defiled
in any way.  It is said that two years ago a stranger let
himself down from the top of it with ropes and pulleys,
and painted all over it, in blue letters bigger than those in
Schiller's name, these words:

"Try Sozodont;" "Buy Sun Stove Polish;" "Helmbold's Buchu;"
"Try Benzaline for the Blood."

He was captured and it turned out that he was an American.
Upon his trial the judge said to him:

"You are from a land where any insolent that wants to is
privileged to profane and insult Nature, and, through her,
Nature's God, if by so doing he can put a sordid penny
in his pocket.  But here the case is different.  Because you
are a foreigner and ignorant, I will make your sentence light;
if you were a native I would deal strenuously with you.
Hear and obey: --You will immediately remove every trace
of your offensive work from the Schiller monument; you pay
a fine of ten thousand francs; you will suffer two years'
imprisonment at hard labor; you will then be horsewhipped,
tarred and feathered, deprived of your ears, ridden on a
rail to the confines of the canton, and banished forever.
The severest penalties are omitted in your case--not as
a grace to you, but to that great republic which had the
misfortune to give you birth."

The steamer's benches were ranged back to back across
the deck.  My back hair was mingling innocently with
the back hair of a couple of ladies.  Presently they
were addressed by some one and I overheard this conversation:

"You are Americans, I think? So'm I."

"Yes--we are Americans."

"I knew it--I can always tell them.  What ship did you
come over in?"

"CITY OF CHESTER."

"Oh, yes--Inman line.  We came in the BATAVIA--Cunard
you know.  What kind of a passage did you have?"

"Pretty fair."

"That was luck.  We had it awful rough.  Captain said
he'd hardly seen it rougher.  Where are you from?"

"New Jersey."

"So'm I. No--I didn't mean that; I'm from New England.
New Bloomfield's my place.  These your children?--belong
to both of you?"

"Only to one of us; they are mine; my friend is not married."

"Single, I reckon? So'm I. Are you two ladies traveling alone?"

"No--my husband is with us."

"Our whole family's along.  It's awful slow, going around
alone--don't you think so?"

"I suppose it must be."

"Hi, there's Mount Pilatus coming in sight again.
Named after Pontius Pilate, you know, that shot the apple
off of William Tell's head.  Guide-book tells all about it,
they say.  I didn't read it--an American told me.  I don't
read when I'm knocking around like this, having a good time.
Did you ever see the chapel where William Tell used
to preach?"

"I did not know he ever preached there."

"Oh, yes, he did.  That American told me so.  He don't
ever shut up his guide-book. He knows more about this lake
than the fishes in it.  Besides, they CALL it 'Tell's
Chapel'--you know that yourself.  You ever been over here
before?"

"Yes."

"I haven't. It's my first trip.  But we've been all around
--Paris and everywhere.  I'm to enter Harvard next year.
Studying German all the time now.  Can't enter till I
know German.  This book's Otto's grammar.  It's a mighty
good book to get the ICH HABE GEHABT HABEN's out of.
But I don't really study when I'm knocking around this way.
If the notion takes me, I just run over my little
old ICH HABE GEHABT, DU HAST GEHABT, ER HAT GEHABT,
WIR HABEN GEHABT, IHR HABEN GEHABT, SIE HABEN GEHABT
--kind of 'Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep' fashion, you know,
and after that, maybe I don't buckle to it for three days.
It's awful undermining to the intellect, German is;
you want to take it in small doses, or first you know
your brains all run together, and you feel them sloshing
around in your head same as so much drawn butter.
But French is different; FRENCH ain't anything.  I ain't
any more afraid of French than a tramp's afraid of pie; I can
rattle off my little J'AI, TU AS, IL A, and the rest of it,
just as easy as a-b-c. I get along pretty well in Paris,
or anywhere where they speak French.  What hotel are you
stopping at?"

"The Schweitzerhof."

"No! is that so? I never see you in the big reception-room.
I go in there a good deal of the time, because there's
so many Americans there.  I make lots of acquaintances.
You been up the Rigi yet?"

"No."

"Going?"

"We think of it."

"What hotel you going to stop at?"

"I don't know."

"Well, then you stop at the Schreiber--it's full of Americans.
What ship did you come over in?"

"CITY OF CHESTER."

"Oh, yes, I remember I asked you that before.  But I
always ask everybody what ship they came over in, and so
sometimes I forget and ask again.  You going to Geneva?"

"Yes."

"What hotel you going to stop at?"

"We expect to stop in a pension."

"I don't hardly believe you'll like that; there's very few
Americans in the pensions.  What hotel are you stopping
at here?"

"The Schweitzerhof."

"Oh, yes.  I asked you that before, too.  But I always
ask everybody what hotel they're stopping at, and so I've
got my head all mixed up with hotels.  But it makes talk,
and I love to talk.  It refreshes me up so--don't it
you--on a trip like this?"

"Yes--sometimes."

"Well, it does me, too.  As long as I'm talking I never
feel bored--ain't that the way with you?"

"Yes--generally. But there are exception to the rule."

"Oh, of course.  _I_ don't care to talk to everybody, MYSELF.
If a person starts in to jabber-jabber-jabber about scenery,
and history, and pictures, and all sorts of tiresome things,
I get the fan-tods mighty soon.  I say 'Well, I must be going
now--hope I'll see you again'--and then I take a walk.  Where you
from?"

"New Jersey."

"Why, bother it all, I asked you THAT before, too.
Have you seen the Lion of Lucerne?"

"Not yet."

"Nor I, either.  But the man who told me about
Mount Pilatus says it's one of the things to see.
It's twenty-eight feet long.  It don't seem reasonable,
but he said so, anyway.  He saw it yesterday; said it
was dying, then, so I reckon it's dead by this time.
But that ain't any matter, of course they'll stuff it.
Did you say the children are yours--or HERS?"

"Mine."

"Oh, so you did.  Are you going up the ... no, I asked
you that.  What ship ... no, I asked you that, too.
What hotel are you ... no, you told me that.
Let me see ... um ....  Oh, what kind of voy ... no,
we've been over that ground, too.  Um ... um ... well,
I believe that is all.  BONJOUR--I am very glad to have
made your acquaintance, ladies.  GUTEN TAG."



CHAPTER XXVIII
[The Jodel and Its Native Wilds]

The Rigi-Kulm is an imposing Alpine mass, six thousand
feet high, which stands by itself, and commands a mighty
prospect of blue lakes, green valleys, and snowy mountains--
a compact and magnificent picture three hundred miles
in circumference.  The ascent is made by rail, or horseback,
or on foot, as one may prefer.  I and my agent panoplied
ourselves in walking-costume, one bright morning,
and started down the lake on the steamboat; we got ashore
at the village of Waeggis; three-quarters of an hour distant
from Lucerne.  This village is at the foot of the mountain.

We were soon tramping leisurely up the leafy mule-path,
and then the talk began to flow, as usual.  It was
twelve o'clock noon, and a breezy, cloudless day;
the ascent was gradual, and the glimpses, from under
the curtaining boughs, of blue water, and tiny sailboats,
and beetling cliffs, were as charming as glimpses of dreamland.
All the circumstances were perfect--and the anticipations,
too, for we should soon be enjoying, for the first time,
that wonderful spectacle, an Alpine sunrise--the object
of our journey.  There was (apparently) no real need
for hurry, for the guide-book made the walking-distance
from Waeggis to the summit only three hours and a quarter.
I say "apparently," because the guide-book had already
fooled us once--about the distance from Allerheiligen
to Oppenau--and for aught I knew it might be getting ready
to fool us again.  We were only certain as to the altitudes--
we calculated to find out for ourselves how many hours
it is from the bottom to the top.  The summit is six
thousand feet above the sea, but only forty-five hundred
feet above the lake.  When we had walked half an hour,
we were fairly into the swing and humor of the undertaking,
so we cleared for action; that is to say, we got a boy whom
we met to carry our alpenstocks and satchels and overcoats
and things for us; that left us free for business.
I suppose we must have stopped oftener to stretch out
on the grass in the shade and take a bit of a smoke
than this boy was used to, for presently he asked if it
had been our idea to hire him by the job, or by the year?
We told him he could move along if he was in a hurry.
He said he wasn't in such a very particular hurry,
but he wanted to get to the top while he was young.
We told him to clear out, then, and leave the things at
the uppermost hotel and say we should be along presently.
He said he would secure us a hotel if he could, but if they
were all full he would ask them to build another one
and hurry up and get the paint and plaster dry against
we arrived.  Still gently chaffing us, he pushed ahead,
up the trail, and soon disappeared.  By six o'clock we
were pretty high up in the air, and the view of lake
and mountains had greatly grown in breadth and interest.
We halted awhile at a little public house, where we
had bread and cheese and a quart or two of fresh milk,
out on the porch, with the big panorama all before us--and
then moved on again.

Ten minutes afterward we met a hot, red-faced man plunging
down the mountain, making mighty strides, swinging his
alpenstock ahead of him, and taking a grip on the ground
with its iron point to support these big strides.
He stopped, fanned himself with his hat, swabbed the
perspiration from his face and neck with a red handkerchief,
panted a moment or two, and asked how far to Waeggis.
I said three hours.  He looked surprised, and said:

"Why, it seems as if I could toss a biscuit into the lake
from here, it's so close by.  Is that an inn, there?"

I said it was.

"Well," said he, "I can't stand another three hours,
I've had enough today; I'll take a bed there."

I asked:

"Are we nearly to the top?"

"Nearly to the TOP? Why, bless your soul, you haven't
really started, yet."

I said we would put up at the inn, too.  So we turned
back and ordered a hot supper, and had quite a jolly
evening of it with this Englishman.

The German landlady gave us neat rooms and nice beds,
and when I and my agent turned in, it was with the resolution
to be up early and make the utmost of our first Alpine sunrise.
But of course we were dead tired, and slept like policemen;
so when we awoke in the morning and ran to the window it
was already too late, because it was half past eleven.
It was a sharp disappointment.  However, we ordered
breakfast and told the landlady to call the Englishman,
but she said he was already up and off at daybreak--and
swearing like mad about something or other.  We could not
find out what the matter was.  He had asked the landlady
the altitude of her place above the level of the lake,
and she told him fourteen hundred and ninety-five feet.
That was all that was said; then he lost his temper.
He said that between ------fools and guide-books, a man
could acquire ignorance enough in twenty-four hours in a
country like this to last him a year.  Harris believed
our boy had been loading him up with misinformation;
and this was probably the case, for his epithet described
that boy to a dot.

We got under way about the turn of noon, and pulled out
for the summit again, with a fresh and vigorous step.
When we had gone about two hundred yards, and stopped
to rest, I glanced to the left while I was lighting my pipe,
and in the distance detected a long worm of black smoke
crawling lazily up the steep mountain.  Of course that was
the locomotive.  We propped ourselves on our elbows at once,
to gaze, for we had never seen a mountain railway yet.
Presently we could make out the train.  It seemed incredible
that that thing should creep straight up a sharp slant
like the roof of a house--but there it was, and it was doing
that very miracle.

In the course of a couple hours we reached a fine breezy
altitude where the little shepherd huts had big stones
all over their roofs to hold them down to the earth when
the great storms rage.  The country was wild and rocky
about here, but there were plenty of trees, plenty of moss,
and grass.

Away off on the opposite shore of the lake we could
see some villages, and now for the first time we could
observe the real difference between their proportions
and those of the giant mountains at whose feet they slept.
When one is in one of those villages it seems spacious,
and its houses seem high and not out of proportion to the
mountain that overhands them--but from our altitude,
what a change! The mountains were bigger and grander
than ever, as they stood there thinking their solemn
thoughts with their heads in the drifting clouds,
but the villages at their feet--when the painstaking
eye could trace them up and find them--were so reduced,
almost invisible, and lay so flat against the ground,
that the exactest simile I can devise is to compare
them to ant-deposits of granulated dirt overshadowed
by the huge bulk of a cathedral.  The steamboats skimming
along under the stupendous precipices were diminished
by distance to the daintiest little toys, the sailboats
and rowboats to shallops proper for fairies that keep
house in the cups of lilies and ride to court on the backs
of bumblebees.

Presently we came upon half a dozen sheep nibbling grass
in the spray of a stream of clear water that sprang
from a rock wall a hundred feet high, and all at once
our ears were startled with a melodious "Lul ...
l ... l l l llul-lul-LAhee-o-o-o!" pealing joyously
from a near but invisible source, and recognized that we
were hearing for the first time the famous Alpine JODEL
in its own native wilds.  And we recognized, also,
that it was that sort of quaint commingling of baritone
and falsetto which at home we call "Tyrolese warbling."

The jodeling (pronounced yOdling--emphasis on the O)
continued, and was very pleasant and inspiriting to hear.
Now the jodeler appeared--a shepherd boy of sixteen--
and in our gladness and gratitude we gave him a franc
to jodel some more.  So he jodeled and we listened.
We moved on, presently, and he generously jodeled us
out of sight.  After about fifteen minutes we came across
another shepherd boy who was jodeling, and gave him half
a franc to keep it up.  He also jodeled us out of sight.
After that, we found a jodeler every ten minutes;
we gave the first one eight cents, the second one
six cents, the third one four, the fourth one a penny,
contributed nothing to Nos.  5, 6, and 7, and during
the remainder of the day hired the rest of the jodelers,
at a franc apiece, not to jodel any more.  There is somewhat
too much of the jodeling in the Alps.

About the middle of the afternoon we passed through
a prodigious natural gateway called the Felsenthor,
formed by two enormous upright rocks, with a third lying
across the top.  There was a very attractive little
hotel close by, but our energies were not conquered yet,
so we went on.

Three hours afterward we came to the railway-track. It
was planted straight up the mountain with the slant
of a ladder that leans against a house, and it seemed
to us that man would need good nerves who proposed
to travel up it or down it either.

During the latter part of the afternoon we cooled our
roasting interiors with ice-cold water from clear streams,
the only really satisfying water we had tasted since we
left home, for at the hotels on the continent they
merely give you a tumbler of ice to soak your water in,
and that only modifies its hotness, doesn't make it cold.
Water can only be made cold enough for summer comfort by
being prepared in a refrigerator or a closed ice-pitcher.
Europeans say ice-water impairs digestion.  How do they
know?--they never drink any.

At ten minutes past six we reached the Kaltbad station,
where there is a spacious hotel with great verandas which
command a majestic expanse of lake and mountain scenery.
We were pretty well fagged out, now, but as we did
not wish to miss the Alpine sunrise, we got through our
dinner as quickly as possible and hurried off to bed.
It was unspeakably comfortable to stretch our weary limbs
between the cool, damp sheets.  And how we did sleep!--for
there is no opiate like Alpine pedestrianism.

In the morning we both awoke and leaped out of bed at the
same instant and ran and stripped aside the window-curtains;
but we suffered a bitter disappointment again: it
was already half past three in the afternoon.

We dressed sullenly and in ill spirits, each accusing
the other of oversleeping.  Harris said if we had brought
the courier along, as we ought to have done, we should
not have missed these sunrises.  I said he knew very well
that one of us would have to sit up and wake the courier;
and I added that we were having trouble enough to take
care of ourselves, on this climb, without having to take
care of a courier besides.

During breakfast our spirits came up a little, since we
found by this guide-book that in the hotels on the summit
the tourist is not left to trust to luck for his sunrise,
but is roused betimes by a man who goes through the halls
with a great Alpine horn, blowing blasts that would
raise the dead.  And there was another consoling thing:
the guide-book said that up there on the summit the guests
did not wait to dress much, but seized a red bed blanket
and sailed out arrayed like an Indian.  This was good;
this would be romantic; two hundred and fifty people
grouped on the windy summit, with their hair flying and
their red blankets flapping, in the solemn presence of the
coming sun, would be a striking and memorable spectacle.
So it was good luck, not ill luck, that we had missed
those other sunrises.

We were informed by the guide-book that we were now
3,228 feet above the level of the lake--therefore
full two-thirds of our journey had been accomplished.
We got away at a quarter past four, P.M.; a hundred yards
above the hotel the railway divided; one track went
straight up the steep hill, the other one turned square
off to the right, with a very slight grade.  We took
the latter, and followed it more than a mile, turned a
rocky corner, and came in sight of a handsome new hotel.
If we had gone on, we should have arrived at the summit,
but Harris preferred to ask a lot of questions--as usual,
of a man who didn't know anything--and he told us to go
back and follow the other route.  We did so.  We could ill
afford this loss of time.

We climbed and climbed; and we kept on climbing; we reached about
forty summits, but there was always another one just ahead.
It came on to rain, and it rained in dead earnest.
We were soaked through and it was bitter cold.  Next a
smoky fog of clouds covered the whole region densely,
and we took to the railway-ties to keep from getting lost.
Sometimes we slopped along in a narrow path on the left-hand
side of the track, but by and by when the fog blew as aside
a little and we saw that we were treading the rampart
of a precipice and that our left elbows were projecting
over a perfectly boundless and bottomless vacancy,
we gasped, and jumped for the ties again.

The night shut down, dark and drizzly and cold.
About eight in the evening the fog lifted and showed us
a well-worn path which led up a very steep rise to the left.
We took it, and as soon as we had got far enough from the
railway to render the finding it again an impossibility,
the fog shut down on us once more.

We were in a bleak, unsheltered place, now, and had
to trudge right along, in order to keep warm, though we
rather expected to go over a precipice, sooner or later.
About nine o'clock we made an important discovery--
that we were not in any path.  We groped around a while
on our hands and knees, but we could not find it;
so we sat down in the mud and the wet scant grass to wait.

We were terrified into this by being suddenly confronted
with a vast body which showed itself vaguely for an instant
and in the next instant was smothered in the fog again.
It was really the hotel we were after, monstrously magnified
by the fog, but we took it for the face of a precipice,
and decided not to try to claw up it.

We sat there an hour, with chattering teeth and quivering bodies,
and quarreled over all sorts of trifles, but gave most
of our attention to abusing each other for the stupidity
of deserting the railway-track. We sat with our backs
to the precipice, because what little wind there was
came from that quarter.  At some time or other the fog
thinned a little; we did not know when, for we were facing
the empty universe and the thinness could not show;
but at last Harris happened to look around, and there stood
a huge, dim, spectral hotel where the precipice had been.
One could faintly discern the windows and chimneys,
and a dull blur of lights.  Our first emotion was deep,
unutterable gratitude, our next was a foolish rage,
born of the suspicion that possibly the hotel had been
visible three-quarters of an hour while we sat there
in those cold puddles quarreling.

Yes, it was the Rigi-Kulm hotel--the one that occupies
the extreme summit, and whose remote little sparkle
of lights we had often seen glinting high aloft among
the stars from our balcony away down yonder in Lucerne.
The crusty portier and the crusty clerks gave us the surly
reception which their kind deal out in prosperous times,
but by mollifying them with an extra display of obsequiousness
and servility we finally got them to show us to the room
which our boy had engaged for us.

We got into some dry clothing, and while our supper was
preparing we loafed forsakenly through a couple of vast
cavernous drawing-rooms, one of which had a stove in it.
This stove was in a corner, and densely walled around
with people.  We could not get near the fire, so we moved
at large in the artic spaces, among a multitude of people
who sat silent, smileless, forlorn, and shivering--thinking
what fools they were to come, perhaps.  There were some
Americans and some Germans, but one could see that the
great majority were English.

We lounged into an apartment where there was a great crowd,
to see what was going on.  It was a memento-magazine.
The tourists were eagerly buying all sorts and styles of
paper-cutters, marked "Souvenir of the Rigi," with handles
made of the little curved horn of the ostensible chamois;
there were all manner of wooden goblets and such things,
similarly marked.  I was going to buy a paper-cutter, but I
believed I could remember the cold comfort of the Rigi-Kulm
without it, so I smothered the impulse.

Supper warmed us, and we went immediately to bed--but first,
as Mr. Baedeker requests all tourists to call his attention
to any errors which they may find in his guide-books, I
dropped him a line to inform him he missed it by just
about three days.  I had previously informed him of his
mistake about the distance from Allerheiligen to Oppenau,
and had also informed the Ordnance Depart of the German
government of the same error in the imperial maps.
I will add, here, that I never got any answer to those letters,
or any thanks from either of those sources; and, what is still
more discourteous, these corrections have not been made,
either in the maps or the guide-books. But I will write
again when I get time, for my letters may have miscarried.

We curled up in the clammy beds, and went to sleep without
rocking.
We were so sodden with fatigue that we never stirred nor
turned over till the blooming blasts of the Alpine horn
aroused us.  It may well be imagined that we did not lose
any time.  We snatched on a few odds and ends of clothing,
cocooned ourselves in the proper red blankets, and plunged
along the halls and out into the whistling wind bareheaded.
We saw a tall wooden scaffolding on the very peak
of the summit, a hundred yards away, and made for it.
We rushed up the stairs to the top of this scaffolding,
and stood there, above the vast outlying world, with hair
flying and ruddy blankets waving and cracking in the fierce
breeze.

"Fifteen minutes too late, at last!" said Harris,
in a vexed voice.  "The sun is clear above the horizon."

"No matter," I said, "it is a most magnificent spectacle,
and we will see it do the rest of its rising anyway."

In a moment we were deeply absorbed in the marvel before us,
and dead to everything else.  The great cloud-barred disk
of the sun stood just above a limitless expanse of tossing
white-caps--so to speak--a billowy chaos of massy mountain
domes and peaks draped in imperishable snow, and flooded
with an opaline glory of changing and dissolving splendors,
while through rifts in a black cloud-bank above the sun,
radiating lances of diamond dust shot to the zenith.
The cloven valleys of the lower world swam in a tinted
mist which veiled the ruggedness of their crags and ribs
and ragged forests, and turned all the forbidding region
into a soft and rich and sensuous paradise.

We could not speak.  We could hardly breathe.
We could only gaze in drunken ecstasy and drink in it.
Presently Harris exclaimed:

"Why--nation, it's going DOWN!"

Perfectly true.  We had missed the MORNING hornblow,
and slept all day.  This was stupefying.

Harris said:

"Look here, the sun isn't the spectacle--it's US--stacked
up here on top of this gallows, in these idiotic blankets,
and two hundred and fifty well-dressed men and women down
here gawking up at us and not caring a straw whether the sun
rises or sets, as long as they've got such a ridiculous
spectacle as this to set down in their memorandum-books.
They seem to be laughing their ribs loose, and there's
one girl there at appears to be going all to pieces.
I never saw such a man as you before.  I think you are
the very last possibility in the way of an ass."

"What have _I_ done?" I answered, with heat.

"What have you done? You've got up at half past seven
o'clock in the evening to see the sun rise, that's what
you've done."

"And have you done any better, I'd like to know? I've
always used to get up with the lark, till I came under
the petrifying influence of your turgid intellect."

"YOU used to get up with the lark--Oh, no doubt--
you'll get up with the hangman one of these days.
But you ought to be ashamed to be jawing here like this,
in a red blanket, on a forty-foot scaffold on top
of the Alps.  And no end of people down here to boot;
this isn't any place for an exhibition of temper."

And so the customary quarrel went on.  When the sun
was fairly down, we slipped back to the hotel in the
charitable gloaming, and went to bed again.  We had
encountered the horn-blower on the way, and he had tried
to collect compensation, not only for announcing the sunset,
which we did see, but for the sunrise, which we had
totally missed; but we said no, we only took our solar
rations on the "European plan"--pay for what you get.
He promised to make us hear his horn in the morning,
if we were alive.



CHAPTER XXIX
[Looking West for Sunrise]

He kept his word.  We heard his horn and instantly got up.
It was dark and cold and wretched.  As I fumbled around
for the matches, knocking things down with my quaking hands,
I wished the sun would rise in the middle of the day,
when it was warm and bright and cheerful, and one
wasn't sleepy.  We proceeded to dress by the gloom of a
couple sickly candles, but we could hardly button anything,
our hands shook so.  I thought of how many happy people
there were in Europe, Asia, and America, and everywhere,
who were sleeping peacefully in their beds, and did not
have to get up and see the Rigi sunrise--people who did
not appreciate their advantage, as like as not, but would
get up in the morning wanting more boons of Providence.
While thinking these thoughts I yawned, in a rather ample way,
and my upper teeth got hitched on a nail over the door,
and while I was mounting a chair to free myself, Harris drew
the window-curtain, and said:

"Oh, this is luck! We shan't have to go out at all--
yonder are the mountains, in full view."

That was glad news, indeed.  It made us cheerful right away.
One could see the grand Alpine masses dimly outlined
against the black firmament, and one or two faint stars
blinking through rifts in the night.  Fully clothed,
and wrapped in blankets, and huddled ourselves up,
by the window, with lighted pipes, and fell into chat,
while we waited in exceeding comfort to see how an Alpine
sunrise was going to look by candlelight.  By and by
a delicate, spiritual sort of effulgence spread itself
by imperceptible degrees over the loftiest altitudes of
the snowy wastes--but there the effort seemed to stop.
I said, presently:

"There is a hitch about this sunrise somewhere.
It doesn't seem to go.  What do you reckon is the matter
with it?"

"I don't know.  It appears to hang fire somewhere.
I never saw a sunrise act like that before.  Can it be
that the hotel is playing anything on us?"

"Of course not.  The hotel merely has a property interest
in the sun, it has nothing to do with the management of it.
It is a precarious kind of property, too; a succession
of total eclipses would probably ruin this tavern.
Now what can be the matter with this sunrise?"

Harris jumped up and said:

"I've got it! I know what's the matter with it! We've
been looking at the place where the sun SET last night!"

"It is perfectly true! Why couldn't you have thought of
that sooner? Now we've lost another one! And all through
your blundering.  It was exactly like you to light a pipe
and sit down to wait for the sun to rise in the west."

"It was exactly like me to find out the mistake, too.
You never would have found it out.  I find out all the mistakes."

"You make them all, too, else your most valuable faculty
would be wasted on you.  But don't stop to quarrel,
now--maybe we are not too late yet."

But we were.  The sun was well up when we got to the
exhibition-ground.

On our way up we met the crowd returning--men and women
dressed in all sorts of queer costumes, and exhibiting
all degrees of cold and wretchedness in their gaits
and countenances.  A dozen still remained on the ground
when we reached there, huddled together about the scaffold
with their backs to the bitter wind.  They had their red
guide-books open at the diagram of the view, and were
painfully picking out the several mountains and trying
to impress their names and positions on their memories.
It was one of the saddest sights I ever saw.

Two sides of this place were guarded by railings,
to keep people from being blown over the precipices.
The view, looking sheer down into the broad valley,
eastward, from this great elevation--almost a perpendicular
mile--was very quaint and curious.  Counties, towns,
hilly ribs and ridges, wide stretches of green meadow,
great forest tracts, winding streams, a dozen blue lakes,
a block of busy steamboats--we saw all this little
world in unique circumstantiality of detail--saw it
just as the birds see it--and all reduced to the smallest
of scales and as sharply worked out and finished as a
steel engraving.  The numerous toy villages, with tiny
spires projecting out of them, were just as the children
might have left them when done with play the day before;
the forest tracts were diminished to cushions of moss;
one or two big lakes were dwarfed to ponds, the smaller
ones to puddles--though they did not look like puddles,
but like blue teardrops which had fallen and lodged
in slight depressions, conformable to their shapes,
among the moss-beds and the smooth levels of dainty
green farm-land; the microscopic steamboats glided along,
as in a city reservoir, taking a mighty time to cover
the distance between ports which seemed only a yard apart;
and the isthmus which separated two lakes looked as if
one might stretch out on it and lie with both elbows
in the water, yet we knew invisible wagons were toiling
across it and finding the distance a tedious one.
This beautiful miniature world had exactly the appearance
of those "relief maps" which reproduce nature precisely,
with the heights and depressions and other details graduated
to a reduced scale, and with the rocks, trees, lakes,
etc., colored after nature.

I believed we could walk down to Waeggis or Vitznau
in a day, but I knew we could go down by rail in about
an hour, so I chose the latter method.  I wanted to see
what it was like, anyway.  The train came along about
the middle of the afternoon, and an odd thing it was.
The locomotive-boiler stood on end, and it and the whole
locomotive were tilted sharply backward.  There were
two passenger-cars, roofed, but wide open all around.
These cars were not tilted back, but the seats were;
this enables the passenger to sit level while going down a
steep incline.

There are three railway-tracks; the central one is cogged;
the "lantern wheel" of the engine grips its way along
these cogs, and pulls the train up the hill or retards its
motion on the down trip.  About the same speed--three miles
an hour--is maintained both ways.  Whether going up or down,
the locomotive is always at the lower end of the train.
It pushes in the one case, braces back in the other.
The passenger rides backward going up, and faces forward
going down.

We got front seats, and while the train moved along
about fifty yards on level ground, I was not the
least frightened; but now it started abruptly downstairs,
and I caught my breath.  And I, like my neighbors,
unconsciously held back all I could, and threw my weight
to the rear, but, of course, that did no particular good.
I had slidden down the balusters when I was a boy,
and thought nothing of it, but to slide down the balusters
in a railway-train is a thing to make one's flesh creep.
Sometimes we had as much as ten yards of almost level
ground, and this gave us a few full breaths in comfort;
but straightway we would turn a corner and see a long steep
line of rails stretching down below us, and the comfort
was at an end.  One expected to see the locomotive pause,
or slack up a little, and approach this plunge cautiously,
but it did nothing of the kind; it went calmly on, and went
it reached the jumping-off place it made a sudden bow,
and went gliding smoothly downstairs, untroubled by
the circumstances.

It was wildly exhilarating to slide along the edge of
the precipices, after this grisly fashion, and look straight
down upon that far-off valley which I was describing a while ago.


There was no level ground at the Kaltbad station;
the railbed was as steep as a roof; I was curious
to see how the stop was going to be managed.
But it was very simple; the train came sliding down,
and when it reached the right spot it just stopped--that
was all there was "to it"--stopped on the steep incline,
and when the exchange of passengers and baggage had
been made, it moved off and went sliding down again.
The train can be stopped anywhere, at a moment's notice.

There was one curious effect, which I need not take the
trouble to describe--because I can scissor a description
of it out of the railway company's advertising pamphlet,
and save my ink:

"On the whole tour, particularly at the Descent, we undergo
an optical illusion which often seems to be incredible.
All the shrubs, fir trees, stables, houses, etc., seem to be bent
in a slanting direction, as by an immense pressure of air.
They are all standing awry, so much awry that the chalets
and cottages of the peasants seem to be tumbling down.
It is the consequence of the steep inclination of the line.
Those who are seated in the carriage do not observe that they
are doing down a declivity of twenty to twenty-five degrees
(their seats being adapted to this course of proceeding
and being bent down at their backs). They mistake their
carriage and its horizontal lines for a proper measure
of the normal plain, and therefore all the objects outside
which really are in a horizontal position must show a
disproportion of twenty to twenty-five degrees declivity,
in regard to the mountain."

By the time one reaches Kaltbad, he has acquired confidence
in the railway, and he now ceases to try to ease the
locomotive by holding back.  Thenceforth he smokes his
pipe in serenity, and gazes out upon the magnificent
picture below and about him with unfettered enjoyment.
There is nothing to interrupt the view or the breeze;
it is like inspecting the world on the wing.  However--to be
exact--there is one place where the serenity lapses for a while;
this is while one is crossing the Schnurrtobel Bridge,
a frail structure which swings its gossamer frame down
through the dizzy air, over a gorge, like a vagrant
spider-strand.

One has no difficulty in remembering his sins while
the train is creeping down this bridge; and he repents
of them, too; though he sees, when he gets to Vitznau,
that he need not have done it, the bridge was perfectly safe.

So ends the eventual trip which we made to the Rigi-Kulm
to see an Alpine sunrise.



CHAPTER XXX
[Harris Climbs Mountains for Me]

An hour's sail brought us to Lucerne again.  I judged
it best to go to bed and rest several days, for I knew
that the man who undertakes to make the tour of Europe
on foot must take care of himself.

Thinking over my plans, as mapped out, I perceived that
they did not take in the Furka Pass, the Rhone Glacier,
the Finsteraarhorn, the Wetterhorn, etc.  I immediately
examined the guide-book to see if these were important,
and found they were; in fact, a pedestrian tour of Europe
could not be complete without them.  Of course that decided
me at once to see them, for I never allow myself to do
things by halves, or in a slurring, slipshod way.

I called in my agent and instructed him to go without delay
and make a careful examination of these noted places,
on foot, and bring me back a written report of the result,
for insertion in my book.  I instructed him to go to Hospenthal
as quickly as possible, and make his grand start from there;
to extend his foot expedition as far as the Giesbach fall,
and return to me from thence by diligence or mule.
I told him to take the courier with him.

He objected to the courier, and with some show of reason,
since he was about to venture upon new and untried ground;
but I thought he might as well learn how to take care of
the courier now as later, therefore I enforced my point.
I said that the trouble, delay, and inconvenience
of traveling with a courier were balanced by the deep
respect which a courier's presence commands, and I must
insist that as much style be thrown into my journeys
as possible.

So the two assumed complete mountaineering costumes
and departed.  A week later they returned, pretty well
used up, and my agent handed me the following

Official Report

OF A VISIT TO THE FURKA REGION.  BY H. HARRIS, AGENT

About seven o'clock in the morning, with perfectly
fine weather, we started from Hospenthal, and arrived at
the MAISON on the Furka in a little under QUATRE hours.
The want of variety in the scenery from Hospenthal made
the KAHKAHPONEEKA wearisome; but let none be discouraged;
no one can fail to be completely R'ECOMPENS'EE for
his fatigue, when he sees, for the first time, the monarch
of the Oberland, the tremendous Finsteraarhorn.  A moment
before all was dullness, but a PAS further has placed us
on the summit of the Furka; and exactly in front of us,
at a HOPOW of only fifteen miles, this magnificent mountain
lifts its snow-wreathed precipices into the deep blue sky.
The inferior mountains on each side of the pass form
a sort of frame for the picture of their dread lord,
and close in the view so completely that no other prominent
feature in the Oberland is visible from this BONG-A-BONG;
nothing withdraws the attention from the solitary grandeur
of the Finsteraarhorn and the dependent spurs which form
the abutments of the central peak.

With the addition of some others, who were also bound
for the Grimsel, we formed a large XHVLOJ as we descended
the STEG which winds round the shoulder of a mountain
toward the Rhone Glacier.  We soon left the path and took
to the ice; and after wandering amongst the crevices UN PEU,
to admire the wonders of these deep blue caverns, and hear
the rushing of waters through their subglacial channels,
we struck out a course toward L'AUTRE CO^T'E and crossed
the glacier successfully, a little above the cave from
which the infant Rhone takes its first bound from under
the grand precipice of ice.  Half a mile below this
we began to climb the flowery side of the Meienwand.
One of our party started before the rest, but the HITZE
was so great, that we found IHM quite exhausted,
and lying at full length in the shade of a large GESTEIN.
We sat down with him for a time, for all felt the heat
exceedingly in the climb up this very steep BOLWOGGOLY,
and then we set out again together, and arrived at last
near the Dead Man's Lake, at the foot of the Sidelhorn.
This lonely spot, once used for an extempore burying-place,
after a sanguinary BATTUE between the French and Austrians,
is the perfection of desolation; there is nothing in sight
to mark the hand of man, except the line of weather-beaten
whitened posts, set up to indicate the direction of the pass
in the OWDAWAKK of winter.  Near this point the footpath joins
the wider track, which connects the Grimsel with the head
of the Rhone SCHNAWP; this has been carefully constructed,
and leads with a tortuous course among and over LES PIERRES,
down to the bank of the gloomy little SWOSH-SWOSH, which
almost washes against the walls of the Grimsel Hospice.
We arrived a little before four o'clock at the end
of our day's journey, hot enough to justify the step,
taking by most of the PARTIE, of plunging into the crystal
water of the snow-fed lake.

The next afternoon we started for a walk up the Unteraar glacier,
with the intention of, at all events, getting as far
as the HUETTE which is used as a sleeping-place by most
of those who cross the Strahleck Pass to Grindelwald.
We got over the tedious collection of stones and DE'BRIS
which covers the PIED of the GLETCHER, and had walked
nearly three hours from the Grimsel, when, just as
we were thinking of crossing over to the right,
to climb the cliffs at the foot of the hut, the clouds,
which had for some time assumed a threatening appearance,
suddenly dropped, and a huge mass of them, driving toward
us from the Finsteraarhorn, poured down a deluge of
HABOOLONG and hail.  Fortunately, we were not far from
a very large glacier-table; it was a huge rock balanced
on a pedestal of ice high enough to admit of our all
creeping under it for GOWKARAK.  A stream of PUCKITTYPUKK
had furrowed a course for itself in the ice at its base,
and we were obliged to stand with one FUSS on each side
of this, and endeavor to keep ourselves CHAUD by cutting
steps in the steep bank of the pedestal, so as to get
a higher place for standing on, as the WASSER rose rapidly
in its trench.  A very cold BZZZZZZZZEEE accompanied
the storm, and made our position far from pleasant;
and presently came a flash of BLITZEN, apparently in the
middle of our little party, with an instantaneous clap
of YOKKY, sounding like a large gun fired close to our ears;
the effect was startling; but in a few seconds our attention
was fixed by the roaring echoes of the thunder against
the tremendous mountains which completely surrounded us.
This was followed by many more bursts, none of WELCHE,
however, was so dangerously near; and after waiting a long
DEMI-hour in our icy prison, we sallied out to talk through
a HABOOLONG which, though not so heavy as before, was quite
enough to give us a thorough soaking before our arrival at the
Hospice.

The Grimsel is CERTAINEMENT a wonderful place; situated at
the bottom of a sort of huge crater, the sides of which
are utterly savage GEBIRGE, composed of barren rocks
which cannot even support a single pine ARBRE, and afford
only scanty food for a herd of GMWKWLLOLP, it looks as
if it must be completely BEGRABEN in the winter snows.
Enormous avalanches fall against it every spring,
sometimes covering everything to the depth of thirty
or forty feet; and, in spite of walls four feet thick,
and furnished with outside shutters, the two men who stay here
when the VOYAGEURS are snugly quartered in their distant homes
can tell you that the snow sometimes shakes the house to its
foundations.

Next morning the HOGGLEBUMGULLUP still continued bad,
but we made up our minds to go on, and make the best of it.
Half an hour after we started, the REGEN thickened unpleasantly,
and we attempted to get shelter under a projecting rock,
but being far to NASS already to make standing at all
AGRE'ABLE, we pushed on for the Handeck, consoling ourselves
with the reflection that from the furious rushing
of the river Aar at our side, we should at all events
see the celebrated WASSERFALL in GRANDE PERFECTION.
Nor were we NAPPERSOCKET in our expectation; the water
was roaring down its leap of two hundred and fifty feet
in a most magnificent frenzy, while the trees which cling
to its rocky sides swayed to and fro in the violence of the
hurricane which it brought down with it; even the stream,
which falls into the main cascade at right angles,
and TOUTEFOIS forms a beautiful feature in the scene,
was now swollen into a raging torrent; and the violence
of this "meeting of the waters," about fifty feet below
the frail bridge where we stood, was fearfully grand.
While we were looking at it, GLUECKLICHEWEISE a gleam
of sunshine came out, and instantly a beautiful rainbow
was formed by the spray, and hung in mid-air suspended over
the awful gorge.

On going into the CHALET above the fall, we were
informed that a BRUECKE had broken down near Guttanen,
and that it would be impossible to proceed for some time;
accordingly we were kept in our drenched condition for
EIN STUNDE, when some VOYAGEURS arrived from Meiringen,
and told us that there had been a trifling accident,
ABER that we could now cross.  On arriving at the spot,
I was much inclined to suspect that the whole story was a ruse
to make us SLOWWK and drink the more at the Handeck Inn,
for only a few planks had been carried away, and though
there might perhaps have been some difficulty with mules,
the gap was certainly not larger than a MMBGLX might cross
with a very slight leap.  Near Guttanen the HABOOLONG
happily ceased, and we had time to walk ourselves tolerably
dry before arriving at Reichenback, WO we enjoyed a good DINE'
at the Hotel des Alps.

Next morning we walked to Rosenlaui, the BEAU ID'EAL
of Swiss scenery, where we spent the middle of the day
in an excursion to the glacier.  This was more beautiful
than words can describe, for in the constant progress
of the ice it has changed the form of its extremity
and formed a vast cavern, as blue as the sky above,
and rippled like a frozen ocean.  A few steps cut
in the WHOOPJAMBOREEHOO enabled us to walk completely
under this, and feast our eyes upon one of the loveliest
objects in creation.  The glacier was all around divided
by numberless fissures of the same exquisite color,
and the finest wood-ERDBEEREN were growing in abundance
but a few yards from the ice.  The inn stands in a CHARMANT
spot close to the C^OTE DE LA RIVIE`RE, which, lower down,
forms the Reichenbach fall, and embosomed in the richest
of pine woods, while the fine form of the Wellhorn
looking down upon it completes the enchanting BOPPLE.
In the afternoon we walked over the Great Scheideck
to Grindelwald, stopping to pay a visit to the Upper
glacier by the way; but we were again overtaken by bad
HOGGLEBUMGULLUP and arrived at the hotel in a SOLCHE
a state that the landlord's wardrobe was in great request.

The clouds by this time seemed to have done their worst,
for a lovely day succeeded, which we determined to devote
to an ascent of the Faulhorn.  We left Grindelwald just as
a thunder-storm was dying away, and we hoped to find GUTEN
WETTER up above; but the rain, which had nearly ceased,
began again, and we were struck by the rapidly increasing
FROID as we ascended.  Two-thirds of the way up were
completed when the rain was exchanged for GNILLIC,
with which the BODEN was thickly covered, and before we
arrived at the top the GNILLIC and mist became so thick
that we could not see one another at more than twenty
POOPOO distance, and it became difficult to pick our way over
the rough and thickly covered ground.  Shivering with cold,
we turned into bed with a double allowance of clothes,
and slept comfortably while the wind howled AUTOUR DE
LA MAISON; when I awoke, the wall and the window looked
equally dark, but in another hour I found I could just
see the form of the latter; so I jumped out of bed,
and forced it open, though with great difficulty from
the frost and the quantities of GNILLIC heaped up against it.

A row of huge icicles hung down from the edge of the roof,
and anything more wintry than the whole ANBLICK could
not well be imagined; but the sudden appearance of the
great mountains in front was so startling that I felt no
inclination to move toward bed again.  The snow which had
collected upon LA FENE^TRE had increased the FINSTERNISS
ODER DER DUNKELHEIT, so that when I looked out I was
surprised to find that the daylight was considerable,
and that the BALRAGOOMAH would evidently rise before long.
Only the brightest of LES E'TOILES were still shining;
the sky was cloudless overhead, though small curling
mists lay thousands of feet below us in the valleys,
wreathed around the feet of the mountains, and adding
to the splendor of their lofty summits.  We were soon
dressed and out of the house, watching the gradual approach
of dawn, thoroughly absorbed in the first near view
of the Oberland giants, which broke upon us unexpectedly
after the intense obscurity of the evening before.
"KABAUGWAKKO SONGWASHEE KUM WETTERHORN SNAWPO!" cried some one,
as that grand summit gleamed with the first rose of dawn;
and in a few moments the double crest of the Schreckhorn
followed its example; peak after peak seemed warmed
with life, the Jungfrau blushed even more beautifully
than her neighbors, and soon, from the Wetterhorn in the
east to the Wildstrubel in the west, a long row of fires
glowed upon mighty altars, truly worthy of the gods.
The WLGW was very severe; our sleeping-place could
hardly be DISTINGUEE' from the snow around it, which had
fallen to a depth of a FLIRK during the past evening,
and we heartily enjoyed a rough scramble EN BAS to the
Giesbach falls, where we soon found a warm climate.
At noon the day before Grindelwald the thermometer could
not have stood at less than 100 degrees Fahr.  in the sun;
and in the evening, judging from the icicles formed,
and the state of the windows, there must have been at least
twelve DINGBLATTER of frost, thus giving a change of 80
degrees during a few hours.

I said:

"You have done well, Harris; this report is concise,
compact, well expressed; the language is crisp,
the descriptions are vivid and not needlessly elaborated;
your report goes straight to the point, attends strictly
to business, and doesn't fool around.  It is in many
ways an excellent document.  But it has a fault--it
is too learned, it is much too learned.  What is 'DINGBLATTER'?

"'DINGBLATTER' is a Fiji word meaning 'degrees.'"

"You knew the English of it, then?"

"Oh, yes."

"What is 'GNILLIC'?

"That is the Eskimo term for 'snow.'"

"So you knew the English for that, too?"

"Why, certainly."

"What does 'MMBGLX' stand for?"

"That is Zulu for 'pedestrian.'"

"'While the form of the Wellhorn looking down upon it
completes the enchanting BOPPLE.' What is 'BOPPLE'?"

"'Picture.' It's Choctaw."

"What is 'SCHNAWP'?"

"'Valley.' That is Choctaw, also."

"What is 'BOLWOGGOLY'?"

"That is Chinese for 'hill.'"

"'KAHKAHPONEEKA'?"

"'Ascent.' Choctaw."

"'But we were again overtaken by bad HOGGLEBUMGULLUP.'
What does 'HOGGLEBUMGULLUP' mean?"

"That is Chinese for 'weather.'"

"Is 'HOGGLEBUMGULLUP' better than the English word? Is
it any more descriptive?"

"No, it means just the same."

"And 'DINGBLATTER' and 'GNILLIC,' and 'BOPPLE,'
and 'SCHNAWP'--are they better than the English words?"

"No, they mean just what the English ones do."

"Then why do you use them? Why have you used all this
Chinese and Choctaw and Zulu rubbish?"

"Because I didn't know any French but two or three words,
and I didn't know any Latin or Greek at all."

"That is nothing.  Why should you want to use foreign words,
anyhow?"

"They adorn my page.  They all do it."

"Who is 'all'?"

"Everybody. Everybody that writes elegantly.  Anybody has
a right to that wants to."

"I think you are mistaken." I then proceeded in the following
scathing manner.  "When really learned men write books
for other learned men to read, they are justified in using
as many learned words as they please--their audience
will understand them; but a man who writes a book for the
general public to read is not justified in disfiguring
his pages with untranslated foreign expressions.
It is an insolence toward the majority of the purchasers,
for it is a very frank and impudent way of saying,
'Get the translations made yourself if you want them,
this book is not written for the ignorant classes.' There are
men who know a foreign language so well and have used it
so long in their daily life that they seem to discharge whole
volleys of it into their English writings unconsciously,
and so they omit to translate, as much as half the time.
That is a great cruelty to nine out of ten of the
man's readers.  What is the excuse for this? The writer
would say he only uses the foreign language where the
delicacy of his point cannot be conveyed in English.
Very well, then he writes his best things for the tenth man,
and he ought to warn the nine other not to buy his book.
However, the excuse he offers is at least an excuse;
but there is another set of men who are like YOU;
they know a WORD here and there, of a foreign language,
or a few beggarly little three-word phrases, filched from
the back of the Dictionary, and these are continually
peppering into their literature, with a pretense of
knowing that language--what excuse can they offer? The
foreign words and phrases which they use have their exact
equivalents in a nobler language--English; yet they think
they 'adorn their page' when they say STRASSE for street,
and BAHNHOF for railway-station, and so on--flaunting
these fluttering rags of poverty in the reader's face
and imagining he will be ass enough to take them for the
sign of untold riches held in reserve.  I will let your
'learning' remain in your report; you have as much right,
I suppose, to 'adorn your page' with Zulu and Chinese
and Choctaw rubbish as others of your sort have to adorn
theirs with insolent odds and ends smouched from half
a dozen learned tongues whose A-B ABS they don't even know."

When the musing spider steps upon the red-hot shovel,
he first exhibits a wild surprise, then he shrivels up.
Similar was the effect of these blistering words upon the
tranquil and unsuspecting Agent.  I can be dreadfully rough
on a person when the mood takes me.



CHAPTER XXXI
[Alp-scaling by Carriage]

We now prepared for a considerable walk--from Lucerne
to Interlaken, over the Bruenig Pass.  But at the last moment
the weather was so good that I changed my mind and hired
a four-horse carriage.  It was a huge vehicle, roomy, as easy
in its motion as a palanquin, and exceedingly comfortable.

We got away pretty early in the morning, after a hot breakfast,
and went bowling over a hard, smooth road, through the summer
loveliness of Switzerland, with near and distant lakes
and mountains before and about us for the entertainment
of the eye, and the music of multitudinous birds to charm
the ear.  Sometimes there was only the width of the road
between the imposing precipices on the right and the clear
cool water on the left with its shoals of uncatchable
fish skimming about through the bars of sun and shadow;
and sometimes, in place of the precipices, the grassy land
stretched away, in an apparently endless upward slant,
and was dotted everywhere with snug little chalets,
the peculiarly captivating cottage of Switzerland.

The ordinary chalet turns a broad, honest gable end
to the road, and its ample roof hovers over the home
in a protecting, caressing way, projecting its sheltering
eaves far outward.  The quaint windows are filled with
little panes, and garnished with white muslin curtains,
and brightened with boxes of blooming flowers.
Across the front of the house, and up the spreading eaves
and along the fanciful railings of the shallow porch,
are elaborate carvings--wreaths, fruits, arabesques,
verses from Scripture, names, dates, etc.  The building
is wholly of wood, reddish brown in tint, a very
pleasing color.  It generally has vines climbing over it.
Set such a house against the fresh green of the hillside,
and it looks ever so cozy and inviting and picturesque,
and is a decidedly graceful addition to the landscape.

One does not find out what a hold the chalet has taken
upon him, until he presently comes upon a new house--
a house which is aping the town fashions of Germany
and France, a prim, hideous, straight-up-and-down thing,
plastered all over on the outside to look like stone,
and altogether so stiff, and formal, and ugly, and forbidding,
and so out of tune with the gracious landscape, and so deaf
and dumb and dead to the poetry of its surroundings,
that it suggests an undertaker at a picnic, a corpse at
a wedding, a puritan in Paradise.

In the course of the morning we passed the spot where Pontius
Pilate is said to have thrown himself into the lake.
The legend goes that after the Crucifixion his conscience
troubled him, and he fled from Jerusalem and wandered
about the earth, weary of life and a prey to tortures of
the mind.  Eventually, he hid himself away, on the heights
of Mount Pilatus, and dwelt alone among the clouds and
crags for years; but rest and peace were still denied him,
so he finally put an end to his misery by drowning himself.

Presently we passed the place where a man of better odor
was born.  This was the children's friend, Santa Claus,
or St. Nicholas.  There are some unaccountable reputations
in the world.  This saint's is an instance.  He has
ranked for ages as the peculiar friend of children,
yet it appears he was not much of a friend to his own.
He had ten of them, and when fifty years old he left them,
and sought out as dismal a refuge from the world as possible,
and became a hermit in order that he might reflect upon
pious themes without being disturbed by the joyous and other
noises from the nursery, doubtless.

Judging by Pilate and St. Nicholas, there exists no rule
for the construction of hermits; they seem made out of all
kinds of material.  But Pilate attended to the matter of
expiating his sin while he was alive, whereas St. Nicholas
will probably have to go on climbing down sooty chimneys,
Christmas eve, forever, and conferring kindness on other
people's children, to make up for deserting his own.
His bones are kept in a church in a village (Sachseln)
which we visited, and are naturally held in great reverence.
His portrait is common in the farmhouses of the region,
but is believed by many to be but an indifferent likeness.
During his hermit life, according to legend, he partook
of the bread and wine of the communion once a month,
but all the rest of the month he fasted.

A constant marvel with us, as we sped along the bases
of the steep mountains on this journey, was, not that
avalanches occur, but that they are not occurring all
the time.  One does not understand why rocks and landslides
do not plunge down these declivities daily.  A landslip
occurred three quarters of a century ago, on the route
from Arth to Brunnen, which was a formidable thing.
A mass of conglomerate two miles long, a thousand feet broad,
and a hundred feet thick, broke away from a cliff three
thousand feet high and hurled itself into the valley below,
burying four villages and five hundred people, as in a grave.

We had such a beautiful day, and such endless pictures
of limpid lakes, and green hills and valleys,
and majestic mountains, and milky cataracts dancing
down the steeps and gleaming in the sun, that we could
not help feeling sweet toward all the world; so we tried
to drink all the milk, and eat all the grapes and apricots
and berries, and buy all the bouquets of wild flowers
which the little peasant boys and girls offered for sale;
but we had to retire from this contract, for it was too heavy.

At short distances--and they were entirely too short--all
along the road, were groups of neat and comely children,
with their wares nicely and temptingly set forth
in the grass under the shade trees, and as soon as we
approached they swarmed into the road, holding out their
baskets and milk bottles, and ran beside the carriage,
barefoot and bareheaded, and importuned us to buy.
They seldom desisted early, but continued to run and
insist--beside the wagon while they could, and behind
it until they lost breath.  Then they turned and chased
a returning carriage back to their trading-post again.
After several hours of this, without any intermission,
it becomes almost annoying.  I do not know what we
should have done without the returning carriages to draw
off the pursuit.  However, there were plenty of these,
loaded with dusty tourists and piled high with luggage.
Indeed, from Lucerne to Interlaken we had the spectacle,
among other scenery, of an unbroken procession of
fruit-peddlers and tourists carriages.

Our talk was mostly anticipatory of what we should see
on the down-grade of the Bruenig, by and by, after we
should pass the summit.  All our friends in Lucerne had
said that to look down upon Meiringen, and the rushing
blue-gray river Aar, and the broad level green valley;
and across at the mighty Alpine precipices that rise
straight up to the clouds out of that valley; and up
at the microscopic chalets perched upon the dizzy eaves
of those precipices and winking dimly and fitfully
through the drifting veil of vapor; and still up and up,
at the superb Oltschiback and the other beautiful cascades
that leap from those rugged heights, robed in powdery spray,
ruffled with foam, and girdled with rainbows--to look upon
these things, they say, was to look upon the last possibility
of the sublime and the enchanting.  Therefore, as I say,
we talked mainly of these coming wonders; if we were conscious
of any impatience, it was to get there in favorable season;
if we felt any anxiety, it was that the day might
remain perfect, and enable us to see those marvels at their best.


As we approached the Kaiserstuhl, a part of the harness gave way.

We were in distress for a moment, but only a moment.
It was the fore-and-aft gear that was broken--the thing
that leads aft from the forward part of the horse and is
made fast to the thing that pulls the wagon.  In America
this would have been a heavy leathern strap; but, all over
the continent it is nothing but a piece of rope the size
of your little finger--clothes-line is what it is.
Cabs use it, private carriages, freight-carts and wagons,
all sorts of vehicles have it.  In Munich I afterward saw
it used on a long wagon laden with fifty-four half-barrels
of beer; I had before noticed that the cabs in Heidelberg
used it--not new rope, but rope that had been in use
since Abraham's time --and I had felt nervous, sometimes,
behind it when the cab was tearing down a hill.  But I
had long been accustomed to it now, and had even become
afraid of the leather strap which belonged in its place.
Our driver got a fresh piece of clothes-line out of his
locker and repaired the break in two minutes.

So much for one European fashion.  Every country has its
own ways.  It may interest the reader to know how they "put
horses to" on the continent.  The man stands up the horses
on each side of the thing that projects from the front end
of the wagon, and then throws the tangled mess of gear
forward through a ring, and hauls it aft, and passes the
other thing through the other ring and hauls it aft on the
other side of the other horse, opposite to the first one,
after crossing them and bringing the loose end back,
and then buckles the other thing underneath the horse,
and takes another thing and wraps it around the thing I spoke
of before, and puts another thing over each horse's head,
with broad flappers to it to keep the dust out of his eyes,
and puts the iron thing in his mouth for him to grit his
teeth on, uphill, and brings the ends of these things aft
over his back, after buckling another one around under
his neck to hold his head up, and hitching another thing
on a thing that goes over his shoulders to keep his head
up when he is climbing a hill, and then takes the slack
of the thing which I mentioned a while ago, and fetches it
aft and makes it fast to the thing that pulls the wagon,
and hands the other things up to the driver to steer with.
I never have buckled up a horse myself, but I do not think
we do it that way.

We had four very handsome horses, and the driver was very proud
of his turnout.  He would bowl along on a reasonable trot,
on the highway, but when he entered a village he did it on
a furious run, and accompanied it with a frenzy of ceaseless
whip-crackings that sounded like volleys of musketry.
He tore through the narrow streets and around the sharp
curves like a moving earthquake, showering his volleys
as he went, and before him swept a continuous tidal wave
of scampering children, ducks, cats, and mothers clasping
babies which they had snatched out of the way of the
coming destruction; and as this living wave washed aside,
along the walls, its elements, being safe, forgot their fears
and turned their admiring gaze upon that gallant driver
till he thundered around the next curve and was lost to sight.

He was a great man to those villagers, with his gaudy
clothes and his terrific ways.  Whenever he stopped
to have his cattle watered and fed with loaves of bread,
the villagers stood around admiring him while he
swaggered about, the little boys gazed up at his face with
humble homage, and the landlord brought out foaming mugs
of beer and conversed proudly with him while he drank.
Then he mounted his lofty box, swung his explosive whip,
and away he went again, like a storm.  I had not seen
anything like this before since I was a boy, and the
stage used to flourish the village with the dust flying
and the horn tooting.

When we reached the base of the Kaiserstuhl, we took
two more horses; we had to toil along with difficulty
for an hour and a half or two hours, for the ascent
was not very gradual, but when we passed the backbone
and approached the station, the driver surpassed all
his previous efforts in the way of rush and clatter.
He could not have six horses all the time, so he made
the most of his chance while he had it.

Up to this point we had been in the heart of the William
Tell region.  The hero is not forgotten, by any means,
or held in doubtful veneration.  His wooden image,
with his bow drawn, above the doors of taverns, was a
frequent feature of the scenery.

About noon we arrived at the foot of the Bruenig Pass,
and made a two-hour stop at the village hotel, another of
those clean, pretty, and thoroughly well-kept inns which are
such an astonishment to people who are accustomed to hotels
of a dismally different pattern in remote country-towns.
There was a lake here, in the lap of the great mountains,
the green slopes that rose toward the lower crags
were graced with scattered Swiss cottages nestling
among miniature farms and gardens, and from out a leafy
ambuscade in the upper heights tumbled a brawling cataract.

Carriage after carriage, laden with tourists and trunks,
arrived, and the quiet hotel was soon populous.
We were early at the table d'ho^te and saw the people
all come in.  There were twenty-five, perhaps.  They were
of various nationalities, but we were the only Americans.
Next to me sat an English bride, and next to her sat her
new husband, whom she called "Neddy," though he was big
enough and stalwart enough to be entitled to his full name.
They had a pretty little lovers' quarrel over what wine
they should have.  Neddy was for obeying the guide-book
and taking the wine of the country; but the bride said:

"What, that nahsty stuff!"

"It isn't nahsty, pet, it's quite good."

"It IS nahsty."

"No, it ISN'T nahsty."

"It's Oful nahsty, Neddy, and I shahn't drink it."

Then the question was, what she must have.  She said he
knew very well that she never drank anything but champagne.

She added:

"You know very well papa always has champagne on his table,
and I've always been used to it."

Neddy made a playful pretense of being distressed about
the expense, and this amused her so much that she nearly
exhausted herself with laughter--and this pleased HIM
so much that he repeated his jest a couple of times,
and added new and killing varieties to it.  When the bride
finally recovered, she gave Neddy a love-box on the arm
with her fan, and said with arch severity:

"Well, you would HAVE me--nothing else would do--
so you'll have to make the best of a bad bargain.
DO order the champagne, I'm Oful dry."

So with a mock groan which made her laugh again,
Neddy ordered the champagne.

The fact that this young woman had never moistened
the selvedge edge of her soul with a less plebeian
tipple than champagne, had a marked and subduing effect
on Harris.  He believed she belonged to the royal family.
But I had my doubts.

We heard two or three different languages spoken by
people at the table and guessed out the nationalities
of most of the guests to our satisfaction, but we
failed with an elderly gentleman and his wife and a
young girl who sat opposite us, and with a gentleman
of about thirty-five who sat three seats beyond Harris.
We did not hear any of these speak.  But finally the
last-named gentleman left while we were not noticing,
but we looked up as he reached the far end of the table.
He stopped there a moment, and made his toilet with a
pocket comb.  So he was a German; or else he had lived
in German hotels long enough to catch the fashion.
When the elderly couple and the young girl rose to leave,
they bowed respectfully to us.  So they were Germans, too.
This national custom is worth six of the other one,
for export.

After dinner we talked with several Englishmen, and they
inflamed our desire to a hotter degree than ever,
to see the sights of Meiringen from the heights of
the Bruenig Pass.  They said the view was marvelous,
and that one who had seen it once could never forget it.
They also spoke of the romantic nature of the road over
the pass, and how in one place it had been cut through
a flank of the solid rock, in such a way that the mountain
overhung the tourist as he passed by; and they furthermore
said that the sharp turns in the road and the abruptness
of the descent would afford us a thrilling experience,
for we should go down in a flying gallop and seem to be
spinning around the rings of a whirlwind, like a drop
of whiskey descending the spirals of a corkscrew.
I got all the information out of these gentlemen that we
could need; and then, to make everything complete, I asked
them if a body could get hold of a little fruit and milk
here and there, in case of necessity.  They threw up their
hands in speechless intimation that the road was simply paved
with refreshment-peddlers. We were impatient to get away,
now, and the rest of our two-hour stop rather dragged.
But finally the set time arrived and we began the ascent.
Indeed it was a wonderful road.  It was smooth, and compact,
and clean, and the side next the precipices was guarded
all along by dressed stone posts about three feet high,
placed at short distances apart.  The road could not have
been better built if Napoleon the First had built it.
He seems to have been the introducer of the sort of roads
which Europe now uses.  All literature which describes
life as it existed in England, France, and Germany up
to the close of the last century, is filled with pictures
of coaches and carriages wallowing through these three
countries in mud and slush half-wheel deep; but after
Napoleon had floundered through a conquered kingdom he
generally arranged things so that the rest of the world
could follow dry-shod.

We went on climbing, higher and higher, and curving hither
and thither, in the shade of noble woods, and with a rich
variety and profusion of wild flowers all about us;
and glimpses of rounded grassy backbones below us occupied
by trim chalets and nibbling sheep, and other glimpses
of far lower altitudes, where distance diminished the
chalets to toys and obliterated the sheep altogether;
and every now and then some ermined monarch of the Alps
swung magnificently into view for a moment, then drifted
past an intervening spur and disappeared again.

It was an intoxicating trip altogether; the exceeding
sense of satisfaction that follows a good dinner added
largely to the enjoyment; the having something especial
to look forward to and muse about, like the approaching
grandeurs of Meiringen, sharpened the zest.  Smoking was
never so good before, solid comfort was never solider;
we lay back against the thick cushions silent, meditative,
steeped in felicity.

I rubbed my eyes, opened them, and started.  I had been
dreaming I was at sea, and it was a thrilling surprise to wake
up and find land all around me.  It took me a couple seconds
to "come to," as you may say; then I took in the situation.
The horses were drinking at a trough in the edge of a town,
the driver was taking beer, Harris was snoring at my side,
the courier, with folded arms and bowed head, was sleeping
on the box, two dozen barefooted and bareheaded children
were gathered about the carriage, with their hands
crossed behind, gazing up with serious and innocent
admiration at the dozing tourists baking there in the sun.
Several small girls held night-capped babies nearly
as big as themselves in their arms, and even these fat
babies seemed to take a sort of sluggish interest in us.

We had slept an hour and a half and missed all the scenery!
I did not need anybody to tell me that.  If I had been
a girl, I could have cursed for vexation.  As it was,
I woke up the agent and gave him a piece of my mind.
Instead of being humiliated, he only upbraided me for being
so wanting in vigilance.  He said he had expected to improve
his mind by coming to Europe, but a man might travel to the
ends of the earth with me and never see anything, for I
was manifestly endowed with the very genius of ill luck.
He even tried to get up some emotion about that poor courier,
who never got a chance to see anything, on account of
my heedlessness.  But when I thought I had borne about
enough of this kind of talk, I threatened to make Harris
tramp back to the summit and make a report on that scenery,
and this suggestion spiked his battery.

We drove sullenly through Brienz, dead to the seductions
of its bewildering array of Swiss carvings and the
clamorous HOO-hooing of its cuckoo clocks, and had not
entirely recovered our spirits when we rattled across
a bridge over the rushing blue river and entered the
pretty town of Interlaken.  It was just about sunset,
and we had made the trip from Lucerne in ten hours.



CHAPTER XXXII
[The Jungfrau, the Bride, and the Piano]

We located ourselves at the Jungfrau Hotel, one of those
huge establishments which the needs of modern travel
have created in every attractive spot on the continent.
There was a great gathering at dinner, and, as usual,
one heard all sorts of languages.

The table d'ho^te was served by waitresses dressed
in the quaint and comely costume of the Swiss peasants.
This consists of a simple gros de laine, trimmed with ashes
of roses, with overskirt of scare bleu ventre saint gris,
cut bias on the off-side, with facings of petit polonaise
and narrow insertions of pa^te de foie gras backstitched
to the mise en sce`ne in the form of a jeu d'esprit. It gives
to the wearer a singularly piquant and alluring aspect.

One of these waitresses, a woman of forty,
had side-whiskers reaching half-way down her jaws.
They were two fingers broad, dark in color, pretty thick,
and the hairs were an inch long.  One sees many women on
the continent with quite conspicuous mustaches, but this
was the only woman I saw who had reached the dignity of whiskers.


After dinner the guests of both sexes distributed themselves
about the front porches and the ornamental grounds belonging
to the hotel, to enjoy the cool air; but, as the twilight
deepened toward darkness, they gathered themselves together
in that saddest and solemnest and most constrained of
all places, the great blank drawing-room which is the chief
feature of all continental summer hotels.  There they
grouped themselves about, in couples and threes, and mumbled
in bated voices, and looked timid and homeless and forlorn.

There was a small piano in this room, a clattery, wheezy,
asthmatic thing, certainly the very worst miscarriage
in the way of a piano that the world has seen.  In turn,
five or six dejected and homesick ladies approached
it doubtingly, gave it a single inquiring thump, and retired
with the lockjaw.  But the boss of that instrument was
to come, nevertheless; and from my own country--from Arkansaw.

She was a brand-new bride, innocent, girlish, happy in herself
and her grave and worshiping stripling of a husband; she was
about eighteen, just out of school, free from affections,
unconscious of that passionless multitude around her;
and the very first time she smote that old wreck one
recognized that it had met its destiny.  Her stripling
brought an armful of aged sheet-music from their room--
for this bride went "heeled," as you might say--and bent
himself lovingly over and got ready to turn the pages.

The bride fetched a swoop with her fingers from one end
of the keyboard to the other, just to get her bearings,
as it were, and you could see the congregation set their teeth
with the agony of it.  Then, without any more preliminaries,
she turned on all the horrors of the "Battle of Prague,"
that venerable shivaree, and waded chin-deep in the blood
of the slain.  She made a fair and honorable average
of two false notes in every five, but her soul was in arms
and she never stopped to correct.  The audience stood it
with pretty fair grit for a while, but when the cannonade
waxed hotter and fiercer, and the discord average
rose to four in five, the procession began to move.
A few stragglers held their ground ten minutes longer,
but when the girl began to wring the true inwardness out
of the "cries of the wounded," they struck their colors
and retired in a kind of panic.

There never was a completer victory; I was the only
non-combatant left on the field.  I would not have
deserted my countrywoman anyhow, but indeed I had no
desires in that direction.  None of us like mediocrity,
but we all reverence perfection.  This girl's music
was perfection in its way; it was the worst music that
had ever been achieved on our planet by a mere human being.

I moved up close, and never lost a strain.  When she
got through, I asked her to play it again.  She did it
with a pleased alacrity and a heightened enthusiasm.
She made it ALL discords, this time.  She got an amount
of anguish into the cries of the wounded that shed a new
light on human suffering.  She was on the war-path all
the evening.  All the time, crowds of people gathered on
the porches and pressed their noses against the windows
to look and marvel, but the bravest never ventured in.
The bride went off satisfied and happy with her young fellow,
when her appetite was finally gorged, and the tourists
swarmed in again.

What a change has come over Switzerland, and in fact
all Europe, during this century! Seventy or eighty years
ago Napoleon was the only man in Europe who could really
be called a traveler; he was the only man who had devoted
his attention to it and taken a powerful interest in it;
he was the only man who had traveled extensively;
but now everybody goes everywhere; and Switzerland,
and many other regions which were unvisited and unknown
remotenesses a hundred years ago, are in our days
a buzzing hive of restless strangers every summer.
But I digress.

In the morning, when we looked out of our windows,
we saw a wonderful sight.  Across the valley,
and apparently quite neighborly and close at hand,
the giant form of the Jungfrau rose cold and white into
the clear sky, beyond a gateway in the nearer highlands.
It reminded me, somehow, of one of those colossal billows
which swells suddenly up beside one's ship, at sea,
sometimes, with its crest and shoulders snowy white, and the
rest of its noble proportions streaked downward with creamy foam.


I took out my sketch-book and made a little picture
of the Jungfrau, merely to get the shape.  [Figure 9]

I do not regard this as one of my finished works, in fact I
do not rank it among my Works at all; it is only a study;
it is hardly more than what one might call a sketch.
Other artists have done me the grace to admire it; but I
am severe in my judgments of my own pictures, and this
one does not move me.

It was hard to believe that that lofty wooded rampart on
the left which so overtops the Jungfrau was not actually
the higher of the two, but it was not, of course.
It is only two or three thousand feet high, and of course
has no snow upon it in summer, whereas the Jungfrau is not
much shorter of fourteen thousand feet high and therefore
that lowest verge of snow on her side, which seems nearly
down to the valley level, is really about seven thousand feet
higher up in the air than the summit of that wooded rampart.
It is the distance that makes the deception.  The wooded
height is but four or five miles removed from us,
but the Jungfrau is four or five times that distance away.

Walking down the street of shops, in the fore-noon, I
was attracted by a large picture, carved, frame and all,
from a single block of chocolate-colored wood.
There are people who know everything.  Some of these had
told us that continental shopkeepers always raise their
prices on English and Americans.  Many people had told
us it was expensive to buy things through a courier,
whereas I had supposed it was just the reverse.
When I saw this picture, I conjectured that it was worth
more than the friend I proposed to buy it for would
like to pay, but still it was worth while to inquire;
so I told the courier to step in and ask the price, as if he
wanted it for himself; I told him not to speak in English,
and above all not to reveal the fact that he was a courier.
Then I moved on a few yards, and waited.

The courier came presently and reported the price.
I said to myself, "It is a hundred francs too much,"
and so dismissed the matter from my mind.  But in
the afternoon I was passing that place with Harris,
and the picture attracted me again.  We stepped in,
to see how much higher broken German would raise the price.
The shopwoman named a figure just a hundred francs lower
than the courier had named.  This was a pleasant surprise.
I said I would take it.  After I had given directions as to
where it was to be shipped, the shopwoman said, appealingly:

"If you please, do not let your courier know you bought it."

This was an unexpected remark.  I said:

"What makes you think I have a courier?"

"Ah, that is very simple; he told me himself."

"He was very thoughtful.  But tell me--why did you charge
him more than you are charging me?"

"That is very simple, also: I do not have to pay you
a percentage."

"Oh, I begin to see.  You would have had to pay the courier
a percentage."

"Undoubtedly. The courier always has his percentage.
In this case it would have been a hundred francs."

"Then the tradesman does not pay a part of it--
the purchaser pays all of it?"

"There are occasions when the tradesman and the courier
agree upon a price which is twice or thrice the value of
the article, then the two divide, and both get a percentage."

"I see.  But it seems to me that the purchaser does
all the paying, even then."

"Oh, to be sure! It goes without saying."

"But I have bought this picture myself; therefore why
shouldn't the courier know it?"

The woman exclaimed, in distress:

"Ah, indeed it would take all my little profit! He would
come and demand his hundred francs, and I should have
to pay."

"He has not done the buying.  You could refuse."

"I could not dare to refuse.  He would never bring
travelers here again.  More than that, he would denounce me
to the other couriers, they would divert custom from me,
and my business would be injured."

I went away in a thoughtful frame of mind.  I began to see why
a courier could afford to work for fifty-five dollars a month
and his fares.  A month or two later I was able to understand
why a courier did not have to pay any board and lodging,
and why my hotel bills were always larger when I had him
with me than when I left him behind, somewhere, for a few days.

Another thing was also explained, now, apparently.
In one town I had taken the courier to the bank to do
the translating when I drew some money.  I had sat
in the reading-room till the transaction was finished.
Then a clerk had brought the money to me in person,
and had been exceedingly polite, even going so far as to
precede me to the door and holding it open for me and bow
me out as if I had been a distinguished personage.
It was a new experience.  Exchange had been in my favor
ever since I had been in Europe, but just that one time.
I got simply the face of my draft, and no extra francs,
whereas I had expected to get quite a number of them.
This was the first time I had ever used the courier at
the bank.  I had suspected something then, and as long
as he remained with me afterward I managed bank matters
by myself.

Still, if I felt that I could afford the tax, I would
never travel without a courier, for a good courier is
a convenience whose value cannot be estimated in dollars
and cents.  Without him, travel is a bitter harassment,
a purgatory of little exasperating annoyances, a ceaseless
and pitiless punishment--I mean to an irascible man
who has no business capacity and is confused by details.

Without a courier, travel hasn't a ray of pleasure
in it, anywhere; but with him it is a continuous and
unruffled delight.  He is always at hand, never has to be
sent for; if your bell is not answered promptly--and it
seldom is--you have only to open the door and speak,
the courier will hear, and he will have the order attended
to or raise an insurrection.  You tell him what day
you will start, and whither you are going--leave all
the rest to him.  You need not inquire about trains,
or fares, or car changes, or hotels, or anything else.
At the proper time he will put you in a cab or an omnibus,
and drive you to the train or the boat; he has packed your
luggage and transferred it, he has paid all the bills.
Other people have preceded you half an hour to scramble
for impossible places and lose their tempers, but you can
take your time; the courier has secured your seats for you,
and you can occupy them at your leisure.

At the station, the crowd mash one another to pulp in the
effort to get the weigher's attention to their trunks;
they dispute hotly with these tyrants, who are cool
and indifferent; they get their baggage billets, at last,
and then have another squeeze and another rage over the
disheartening business of trying to get them recorded and
paid for, and still another over the equally disheartening
business of trying to get near enough to the ticket
office to buy a ticket; and now, with their tempers gone
to the dogs, they must stand penned up and packed together,
laden with wraps and satchels and shawl-straps, with the
weary wife and babies, in the waiting-room, till the doors
are thrown open--and then all hands make a grand final
rush to the train, find it full, and have to stand on
the platform and fret until some more cars are put on.
They are in a condition to kill somebody by this time.
Meantime, you have been sitting in your car, smoking,
and observing all this misery in the extremest comfort.

On the journey the guard is polite and watchful--won't
allow anybody to get into your compartment--tells them
you are just recovering from the small-pox and do not
like to be disturbed.  For the courier has made everything
right with the guard.  At way-stations the courier comes
to your compartment to see if you want a glass of water,
or a newspaper, or anything; at eating-stations he sends
luncheon out to you, while the other people scramble
and worry in the dining-rooms. If anything breaks about
the car you are in, and a station-master proposes to pack
you and your agent into a compartment with strangers,
the courier reveals to him confidentially that you are
a French duke born deaf and dumb, and the official comes
and makes affable signs that he has ordered a choice car
to be added to the train for you.

At custom-houses the multitude file tediously through,
hot and irritated, and look on while the officers
burrow into the trunks and make a mess of everything;
but you hand your keys to the courier and sit still.
Perhaps you arrive at your destination in a rain-storm
at ten at night--you generally do.  The multitude
spend half an hour verifying their baggage and getting
it transferred to the omnibuses; but the courier puts
you into a vehicle without a moment's loss of time,
and when you reach your hotel you find your rooms have been
secured two or three days in advance, everything is ready,
you can go at once to bed.  Some of those other people will
have to drift around to two or three hotels, in the rain,
before they find accommodations.

I have not set down half of the virtues that are
vested in a good courier, but I think I have set down
a sufficiency of them to show that an irritable man
who can afford one and does not employ him is not a
wise economist.  My courier was the worst one in Europe,
yet he was a good deal better than none at all.
It could not pay him to be a better one than he was,
because I could not afford to buy things through him.
He was a good enough courier for the small amount he
got out of his service.  Yes, to travel with a courier
is bliss, to travel without one is the reverse.

I have had dealings with some very bad couriers; but I have also
had dealings with one who might fairly be called perfection.
He was a young Polander, named Joseph N. Verey.  He spoke
eight languages, and seemed to be equally at home in all
of them; he was shrewd, prompt, posted, and punctual;
he was fertile in resources, and singularly gifted in
the matter of overcoming difficulties; he not only knew
how to do everything in his line, but he knew the best ways
and the quickest; he was handy with children and invalids;
all his employer needed to do was to take life easy
and leave everything to the courier.  His address is,
care of Messrs.  Gay & Son, Strand, London; he was formerly
a conductor of Gay's tourist parties.  Excellent couriers
are somewhat rare; if the reader is about to travel,
he will find it to his advantage to make a note of this one.



CHAPTER XXXIII
[We Climb Far--by Buggy]

The beautiful Giesbach Fall is near Interlaken, on the
other side of the lake of Brienz, and is illuminated
every night with those gorgeous theatrical fires whose
name I cannot call just at this moment.  This was said
to be a spectacle which the tourist ought by no means
to miss.  I was strongly tempted, but I could not go
there with propriety, because one goes in a boat.
The task which I had set myself was to walk over Europe
on foot, not skim over it in a boat.  I had made a tacit
contract with myself; it was my duty to abide by it.
I was willing to make boat trips for pleasure, but I could
not conscientiously make them in the way of business.

It cost me something of a pang to lose that fine sight,
but I lived down the desire, and gained in my self-respect
through the triumph.  I had a finer and a grander sight,
however, where I was.  This was the mighty dome of the Jungfrau
softly outlined against the sky and faintly silvered by
the starlight.  There was something subduing in the influence
of that silent and solemn and awful presence; one seemed
to meet the immutable, the indestructible, the eternal,
face to face, and to feel the trivial and fleeting nature
of his own existence the more sharply by the contrast.
One had the sense of being under the brooding contemplation
of a spirit, not an inert mass of rocks and ice--a spirit
which had looked down, through the slow drift of the ages,
upon a million vanished races of men, and judged them;
and would judge a million more--and still be there,
watching, unchanged and unchangeable, after all life
should be gone and the earth have become a vacant desolation.

While I was feeling these things, I was groping,
without knowing it, toward an understanding of what the
spell is which people find in the Alps, and in no other
mountains--that strange, deep, nameless influence, which,
once felt, cannot be forgotten--once felt, leaves always
behind it a restless longing to feel it again--a longing
which is like homesickness; a grieving, haunting yearning
which will plead, implore, and persecute till it has its will.
I met dozens of people, imaginative and unimaginative,
cultivated and uncultivated, who had come from far countries
and roamed through the Swiss Alps year after year--they
could not explain why.  They had come first, they said,
out of idle curiosity, because everybody talked about it;
they had come since because they could not help it, and they
should keep on coming, while they lived, for the same reason;
they had tried to break their chains and stay away,
but it was futile; now, they had no desire to break them.
Others came nearer formulating what they felt; they said they
could find perfect rest and peace nowhere else when they
were troubled: all frets and worries and chafings sank to
sleep in the presence of the benignant serenity of the Alps;
the Great Spirit of the Mountain breathed his own peace
upon their hurt minds and sore hearts, and healed them;
they could not think base thoughts or do mean and sordid
things here, before the visible throne of God.

Down the road a piece was a Kursaal--whatever that may be--
and we joined the human tide to see what sort of enjoyment
it might afford.  It was the usual open-air concert,
in an ornamental garden, with wines, beer, milk, whey,
grapes, etc.--the whey and the grapes being necessaries
of life to certain invalids whom physicians cannot repair,
and who only continue to exist by the grace of whey
or grapes.  One of these departed spirits told me,
in a sad and lifeless way, that there is no way for him
to live but by whey, and dearly, dearly loved whey,
he didn't know whey he did, but he did.  After making
this pun he died--that is the whey it served him.

Some other remains, preserved from decomposition
by the grape system, told me that the grapes were of
a peculiar breed, highly medicinal in their nature,
and that they were counted out and administered by the
grape-doctors as methodically as if they were pills.
The new patient, if very feeble, began with one grape
before breakfast, took three during breakfast, a couple
between meals, five at luncheon, three in the afternoon,
seven at dinner, four for supper, and part of a grape
just before going to bed, by way of a general regulator.
The quantity was gradually and regularly increased,
according to the needs and capacities of the patient,
until by and by you would find him disposing of his one
grape per second all the day long, and his regular barrel
per day.

He said that men cured in this way, and enabled to discard
the grape system, never afterward got over the habit
of talking as if they were dictating to a slow amanuensis,
because they always made a pause between each two words
while they sucked the substance out of an imaginary grape.
He said these were tedious people to talk with.
He said that men who had been cured by the other process
were easily distinguished from the rest of mankind
because they always tilted their heads back, between every
two words, and swallowed a swig of imaginary whey.
He said it was an impressive thing to observe two men,
who had been cured by the two processes, engaged in
conversation--said their pauses and accompanying movements
were so continuous and regular that a stranger would think
himself in the presence of a couple of automatic machines.
One finds out a great many wonderful things, by traveling,
if he stumbles upon the right person.

I did not remain long at the Kursaal; the music was
good enough, but it seemed rather tame after the cyclone
of that Arkansaw expert.  Besides, my adventurous spirit
had conceived a formidable enterprise--nothing less
than a trip from Interlaken, by the Gemmi and Visp,
clear to Zermatt, on foot! So it was necessary to plan
the details, and get ready for an early start.  The courier
(this was not the one I have just been speaking of)
thought that the portier of the hotel would be able
to tell us how to find our way.  And so it turned out.
He showed us the whole thing, on a relief-map, and we could
see our route, with all its elevations and depressions,
its villages and its rivers, as clearly as if we were sailing
over it in a balloon.  A relief-map is a great thing.
The portier also wrote down each day's journey and the
nightly hotel on a piece of paper, and made our course
so plain that we should never be able to get lost without
high-priced outside help.

I put the courier in the care of a gentleman who was
going to Lausanne, and then we went to bed, after laying
out the walking-costumes and putting them into condition
for instant occupation in the morning.

However, when we came down to breakfast at 8 A.M., it
looked so much like rain that I hired a two-horse top-buggy
for the first third of the journey.  For two or three hours
we jogged along the level road which skirts the beautiful
lake of Thun, with a dim and dreamlike picture of watery
expanses and spectral Alpine forms always before us,
veiled in a mellowing mist.  Then a steady downpour
set in, and hid everything but the nearest objects.
We kept the rain out of our faces with umbrellas, and away
from our bodies with the leather apron of the buggy;
but the driver sat unsheltered and placidly soaked the weather
in and seemed to like it.  We had the road to ourselves,
and I never had a pleasanter excursion.

The weather began to clear while we were driving up
a valley called the Kienthal, and presently a vast black
cloud-bank in front of us dissolved away and uncurtained
the grand proportions and the soaring loftiness of the
Blumis Alp.  It was a sort of breath-taking surprise;
for we had not supposed there was anything behind
that low-hung blanket of sable cloud but level valley.
What we had been mistaking for fleeting glimpses of sky
away aloft there, were really patches of the Blumis's
snowy crest caught through shredded rents in the drifting
pall of vapor.

We dined in the inn at Frutigen, and our driver ought
to have dined there, too, but he would not have had
time to dine and get drunk both, so he gave his mind
to making a masterpiece of the latter, and succeeded.
A German gentleman and his two young-lady daughters had
been taking their nooning at the inn, and when they left,
just ahead of us, it was plain that their driver was
as drunk as ours, and as happy and good-natured, too,
which was saying a good deal.  These rascals overflowed
with attentions and information for their guests, and with
brotherly love for each other.  They tied their reins,
and took off their coats and hats, so that they might
be able to give unencumbered attention to conversation
and to the gestures necessary for its illustration.

The road was smooth; it led up and over and down a continual
succession of hills; but it was narrow, the horses were
used to it, and could not well get out of it anyhow;
so why shouldn't the drivers entertain themselves and us?
The noses of our horses projected sociably into the rear
of the forward carriage, and as we toiled up the long
hills our driver stood up and talked to his friend,
and his friend stood up and talked back to him, with his
rear to the scenery.  When the top was reached and we
went flying down the other side, there was no change in
the program.  I carry in my memory yet the picture of that
forward driver, on his knees on his high seat, resting his
elbows on its back, and beaming down on his passengers,
with happy eye, and flying hair, and jolly red face,
and offering his card to the old German gentleman while he
praised his hack and horses, and both teams were whizzing
down a long hill with nobody in a position to tell whether
we were bound to destruction or an undeserved safety.

Toward sunset we entered a beautiful green valley dotted
with chalets, a cozy little domain hidden away from the busy
world in a cloistered nook among giant precipices topped
with snowy peaks that seemed to float like islands above
the curling surf of the sea of vapor that severed them from
the lower world.  Down from vague and vaporous heights,
little ruffled zigzag milky currents came crawling,
and found their way to the verge of one of those tremendous
overhanging walls, whence they plunged, a shaft of silver,
shivered to atoms in mid-descent and turned to an air puff
of luminous dust.  Here and there, in grooved depressions
among the snowy desolations of the upper altitudes,
one glimpsed the extremity of a glacier, with its sea-green
and honeycombed battlements of ice.

Up the valley, under a dizzy precipice, nestled the
village of Kandersteg, our halting-place for the night.
We were soon there, and housed in the hotel.  But the waning
day had such an inviting influence that we did not remain
housed many moments, but struck out and followed a roaring
torrent of ice-water up to its far source in a sort of
little grass-carpeted parlor, walled in all around by vast
precipices and overlooked by clustering summits of ice.
This was the snuggest little croquet-ground imaginable;
it was perfectly level, and not more than a mile long
by half a mile wide.  The walls around it were so gigantic,
and everything about it was on so mighty a scale that it
was belittled, by contrast, to what I have likened it
to--a cozy and carpeted parlor.  It was so high above
the Kandersteg valley that there was nothing between it
and the snowy-peaks. I had never been in such intimate
relations with the high altitudes before; the snow-peaks
had always been remote and unapproachable grandeurs,
hitherto, but now we were hob-a-nob--if one may use
such a seemingly irreverent expression about creations
so august as these.

We could see the streams which fed the torrent we
had followed issuing from under the greenish ramparts
of glaciers; but two or three of these, instead of flowing
over the precipices, sank down into the rock and sprang
in big jets out of holes in the mid-face of the walls.

The green nook which I have been describing is called
the Gasternthal.  The glacier streams gather and flow through
it in a broad and rushing brook to a narrow cleft between
lofty precipices; here the rushing brook becomes a mad torrent
and goes booming and thundering down toward Kandersteg,
lashing and thrashing its way over and among monster boulders,
and hurling chance roots and logs about like straws.
There was no lack of cascades along this route.
The path by the side of the torrent was so narrow
that one had to look sharp, when he heard a cow-bell,
and hunt for a place that was wide enough to accommodate
a cow and a Christian side by side, and such places were
not always to be had at an instant's notice.  The cows
wear church-bells, and that is a good idea in the cows,
for where that torrent is, you couldn't hear an ordinary
cow-bell any further than you could hear the ticking of a watch.

I needed exercise, so I employed my agent in setting
stranded logs and dead trees adrift, and I sat on a
boulder and watched them go whirling and leaping head
over heels down the boiling torrent.  It was a wonderfully
exhilarating spectacle.  When I had had enough exercise,
I made the agent take some, by running a race with one
of those logs.  I made a trifle by betting on the log.

After dinner we had a walk up and down the Kandersteg valley,
in the soft gloaming, with the spectacle of the dying lights
of day playing about the crests and pinnacles of the still
and solemn upper realm for contrast, and text for talk.
There were no sounds but the dulled complaining of the
torrent and the occasional tinkling of a distant bell.
The spirit of the place was a sense of deep, pervading peace;
one might dream his life tranquilly away there, and not miss
it or mind it when it was gone.

The summer departed with the sun, and winter came with
the stars.  It grew to be a bitter night in that little hotel,
backed up against a precipice that had no visible top to it,
but we kept warm, and woke in time in the morning to find
that everybody else had left for Gemmi three hours before--
so our little plan of helping that German family (principally
the old man) over the pass, was a blocked generosity.



CHAPTER XXXIV
[The World's Highest Pig Farm]

We hired the only guide left, to lead us on our way.
He was over seventy, but he could have given me nine-tenths
of his strength and still had all his age entitled him to.
He shouldered our satchels, overcoats, and alpenstocks,
and we set out up the steep path.  It was hot work.
The old man soon begged us to hand over our coats
and waistcoats to him to carry, too, and we did it;
one could not refuse so little a thing to a poor old man
like that; he should have had them if he had been a hundred
and fifty.

When we began that ascent, we could see a microscopic
chalet perched away up against heaven on what seemed
to be the highest mountain near us.  It was on our right,
across the narrow head of the valley.  But when we got
up abreast it on its own level, mountains were towering
high above on every hand, and we saw that its altitude
was just about that of the little Gasternthal which we had
visited the evening before.  Still it seemed a long way up
in the air, in that waste and lonely wilderness of rocks.
It had an unfenced grass-plot in front of it which seemed
about as big as a billiard-table, and this grass-plot
slanted so sharply downward, and was so brief, and ended
so exceedingly soon at the verge of the absolute precipice,
that it was a shuddery thing to think of a person's venturing
to trust his foot on an incline so situated at all.
Suppose a man stepped on an orange peel in that yard;
there would be nothing for him to seize; nothing could
keep him from rolling; five revolutions would bring him
to the edge, and over he would go.  What a frightful distance
he would fall!--for there are very few birds that fly
as high as his starting-point. He would strike and bounce,
two or three times, on his way down, but this would be
no advantage to him.  I would as soon taking an airing
on the slant of a rainbow as in such a front yard.
I would rather, in fact, for the distance down would be about
the same, and it is pleasanter to slide than to bounce.
I could not see how the peasants got up to that chalet--
the region seemed too steep for anything but a balloon.

As we strolled on, climbing up higher and higher, we were
continually bringing neighboring peaks into view and lofty
prominence which had been hidden behind lower peaks before;
so by and by, while standing before a group of these giants,
we looked around for the chalet again; there it was,
away down below us, apparently on an inconspicuous ridge
in the valley! It was as far below us, now, as it had been
above us when we were beginning the ascent.

After a while the path led us along a railed precipice,
and we looked over--far beneath us was the snug parlor again,
the little Gasternthal, with its water jets spouting
from the face of its rock walls.  We could have dropped
a stone into it.  We had been finding the top of the world
all along--and always finding a still higher top stealing
into view in a disappointing way just ahead; when we looked
down into the Gasternthal we felt pretty sure that we
had reached the genuine top at last, but it was not so;
there were much higher altitudes to be scaled yet.
We were still in the pleasant shade of forest trees,
we were still in a region which was cushioned with beautiful
mosses and aglow with the many-tinted luster of innumerable
wild flowers.

We found, indeed, more interest in the wild flowers
than in anything else.  We gathered a specimen or two
of every kind which we were unacquainted with; so we
had sumptuous bouquets.  But one of the chief interests
lay in chasing the seasons of the year up the mountain,
and determining them by the presence of flowers and
berries which we were acquainted with.  For instance,
it was the end of August at the level of the sea;
in the Kandersteg valley at the base of the pass,
we found flowers which would not be due at the sea-level
for two or three weeks; higher up, we entered October,
and gathered fringed gentians.  I made no notes, and have
forgotten the details, but the construction of the floral
calendar was very entertaining while it lasted.

In the high regions we found rich store of the splendid
red flower called the Alpine rose, but we did not find
any examples of the ugly Swiss favorite called Edelweiss.
Its name seems to indicate that it is a noble flower
and that it is white.  It may be noble enough,
but it is not attractive, and it is not white.
The fuzzy blossom is the color of bad cigar ashes,
and appears to be made of a cheap quality of gray plush.
It has a noble and distant way of confining itself to the
high altitudes, but that is probably on account of its looks;
it apparently has no monopoly of those upper altitudes,
however, for they are sometimes intruded upon by some
of the loveliest of the valley families of wild flowers.
Everybody in the Alps wears a sprig of Edelweiss in his hat.
It is the native's pet, and also the tourist's.

All the morning, as we loafed along, having a good time,
other pedestrians went staving by us with vigorous strides,
and with the intent and determined look of men who were
walking for a wager.  These wore loose knee-breeches, long
yarn stockings, and hobnailed high-laced walking-shoes.
They were gentlemen who would go home to England or Germany
and tell how many miles they had beaten the guide-book
every day.  But I doubted if they ever had much real fun,
outside of the mere magnificent exhilaration of the
tramp through the green valleys and the breezy heights;
for they were almost always alone, and even the finest
scenery loses incalculably when there is no one to enjoy
it with.

All the morning an endless double procession of mule-mounted
tourists filed past us along the narrow path--the one
procession going, the other coming.  We had taken
a good deal of trouble to teach ourselves the kindly
German custom of saluting all strangers with doffed hat,
and we resolutely clung to it, that morning, although it
kept us bareheaded most of the time and was not always
responded to.  Still we found an interest in the thing,
because we naturally liked to know who were English
and Americans among the passers-by. All continental
natives responded of course; so did some of the English
and Americans, but, as a general thing, these two races
gave no sign.  Whenever a man or a woman showed us
cold neglect, we spoke up confidently in our own tongue
and asked for such information as we happened to need,
and we always got a reply in the same language.
The English and American folk are not less kindly than
other races, they are only more reserved, and that comes
of habit and education.  In one dreary, rocky waste,
away above the line of vegetation, we met a procession
of twenty-five mounted young men, all from America.
We got answering bows enough from these, of course,
for they were of an age to learn to do in Rome as Rome does,
without much effort.

At one extremity of this patch of desolation, overhung by bare
and forbidding crags which husbanded drifts of everlasting
snow in their shaded cavities, was a small stretch
of thin and discouraged grass, and a man and a family
of pigs were actually living here in some shanties.
Consequently this place could be really reckoned as
"property"; it had a money value, and was doubtless taxed.
I think it must have marked the limit of real estate
in this world.  It would be hard to set a money value
upon any piece of earth that lies between that spot
and the empty realm of space.  That man may claim the
distinction of owning the end of the world, for if there
is any definite end to the world he has certainly found it.

From here forward we moved through a storm-swept
and smileless desolation.  All about us rose gigantic
masses, crags, and ramparts of bare and dreary rock,
with not a vestige or semblance of plant or tree or
flower anywhere, or glimpse of any creature that had life.
The frost and the tempests of unnumbered ages had battered
and hacked at these cliffs, with a deathless energy,
destroying them piecemeal; so all the region about
their bases was a tumbled chaos of great fragments
which had been split off and hurled to the ground.
Soiled and aged banks of snow lay close about our path.
The ghastly desolation of the place was as tremendously
complete as if Dor'e had furnished the working-plans
for it.  But every now and then, through the stern
gateways around us we caught a view of some neighboring
majestic dome, sheathed with glittering ice, and displaying
its white purity at an elevation compared to which
ours was groveling and plebeian, and this spectacle
always chained one's interest and admiration at once,
and made him forget there was anything ugly in the world.

I have just said that there was nothing but death
and desolation in these hideous places, but I forgot.
In the most forlorn and arid and dismal one of all,
where the racked and splintered debris was thickest,
where the ancient patches of snow lay against the very path,
where the winds blew bitterest and the general aspect was
mournfulest and dreariest, and furthest from any suggestion
of cheer or hope, I found a solitary wee forget-me-not
flourishing away, not a droop about it anywhere,
but holding its bright blue star up with the prettiest
and gallantest air in the world, the only happy spirit,
the only smiling thing, in all that grisly desert.
She seemed to say, "Cheer up!--as long as we are here,
let us make the best of it." I judged she had earned
a right to a more hospitable place; so I plucked her up
and sent her to America to a friend who would respect
her for the fight she had made, all by her small self,
to make a whole vast despondent Alpine desolation stop
breaking its heart over the unalterable, and hold up its
head and look at the bright side of things for once.

We stopped for a nooning at a strongly built little inn
called the Schwarenbach.  It sits in a lonely spot among
the peaks, where it is swept by the trailing fringes
of the cloud-rack, and is rained on, and snowed on,
and pelted and persecuted by the storms, nearly every day
of its life.  It was the only habitation in the whole
Gemmi Pass.

Close at hand, now, was a chance for a blood-curdling
Alpine adventure.  Close at hand was the snowy mass
of the Great Altels cooling its topknot in the sky
and daring us to an ascent.  I was fired with the idea,
and immediately made up my mind to procure the necessary
guides, ropes, etc., and undertake it.  I instructed
Harris to go to the landlord of the inn and set him
about our preparations.  Meantime, I went diligently
to work to read up and find out what this much-talked-of
mountain-climbing was like, and how one should go about
it--for in these matters I was ignorant.  I opened
Mr. Hinchliff's SUMMER MONTHS AMONG THE ALPS (published
1857), and selected his account of his ascent of Monte Rosa.

It began:

    "It is very difficult to free the mind from excitement
    on the evening before a grand expedition--"

I saw that I was too calm; so I walked the room a while
and worked myself into a high excitement; but the book's
next remark --that the adventurer must get up at two
in the morning--came as near as anything to flatting it
all out again.  However, I reinforced it, and read on,
about how Mr. Hinchliff dressed by candle-light and was "soon
down among the guides, who were bustling about in the passage,
packing provisions, and making every preparation for the start";
and how he glanced out into the cold clear night and saw that--

"The whole sky was blazing with stars, larger and brighter
than they appear through the dense atmosphere breathed
by inhabitants of the lower parts of the earth.
They seemed actually suspended from the dark vault
of heaven, and their gentle light shed a fairylike gleam
over the snow-fields around the foot of the Matterhorn,
which raised its stupendous pinnacle on high, penetrating to
the heart of the Great Bear, and crowning itself with a
diadem of his magnificent stars.  Not a sound disturbed
the deep tranquillity of the night, except the distant
roar of streams which rush from the high plateau of the
St. Theodule glacier, and fall headlong over precipitous
rocks till they lose themselves in the mazes of
the Gorner glacier."

He took his hot toast and coffee, and then about
half past three his caravan of ten men filed away
from the Riffel Hotel, and began the steep climb.
At half past five he happened to turn around, and "beheld
the glorious spectacle of the Matterhorn, just touched
by the rosy-fingered morning, and looking like a huge
pyramid of fire rising out of the barren ocean of ice
and rock around it." Then the Breithorn and the Dent
Blanche caught the radiant glow; but "the intervening
mass of Monte Rosa made it necessary for us to climb many
long hours before we could hope to see the sun himself,
yet the whole air soon grew warmer after the splendid
birth of the day."

He gazed at the lofty crown of Monte Rosa and the wastes
of snow that guarded its steep approaches, and the chief
guide delivered the opinion that no man could conquer
their awful heights and put his foot upon that summit.
But the adventurers moved steadily on, nevertheless.

They toiled up, and up, and still up; they passed
the Grand Plateau; then toiled up a steep shoulder
of the mountain, clinging like flies to its rugged face;
and now they were confronted by a tremendous wall from
which great blocks of ice and snow were evidently in the
habit of falling.  They turned aside to skirt this wall,
and gradually ascended until their way was barred by a "maze
of gigantic snow crevices,"--so they turned aside again,
and "began a long climb of sufficient steepness to make
a zigzag course necessary."

Fatigue compelled them to halt frequently, for a moment
or two.  At one of these halts somebody called out,
"Look at Mont Blanc!" and "we were at once made aware
of the very great height we had attained by actually seeing
the monarch of the Alps and his attendant satellites
right over the top of the Breithorn, itself at least
14,000 feet high!"

These people moved in single file, and were all tied
to a strong rope, at regular distances apart, so that if
one of them slipped on those giddy heights, the others
could brace themselves on their alpenstocks and save him
from darting into the valley, thousands of feet below.
By and by they came to an ice-coated ridge which was tilted
up at a sharp angle, and had a precipice on one side of it.
They had to climb this, so the guide in the lead cut
steps in the ice with his hatchet, and as fast as he
took his toes out of one of these slight holes, the toes
of the man behind him occupied it.

"Slowly and steadily we kept on our way over this dangerous
part of the ascent, and I dare say it was fortunate for
some of us that attention was distracted from the head
by the paramount necessity of looking after the feet;
FOR, WHILE ON THE LEFT THE INCLINE OF ICE WAS SO STEEP
THAT IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE FOR ANY MAN TO SAVE HIMSELF
IN CASE OF A SLIP, UNLESS THE OTHERS COULD HOLD HIM UP,
ON THE RIGHT WE MIGHT DROP A PEBBLE FROM THE HAND OVER
PRECIPICES OF UNKNOWN EXTENT DOWN UPON THE TREMENDOUS
GLACIER BELOW.

"Great caution, therefore, was absolutely necessary,
and in this exposed situation we were attacked by all
the fury of that grand enemy of aspirants to Monte
Rosa--a severe and bitterly cold wind from the north.
The fine powdery snow was driven past us in the clouds,
penetrating the interstices of our clothes, and the pieces
of ice which flew from the blows of Peter's ax were
whisked into the air, and then dashed over the precipice.
We had quite enough to do to prevent ourselves from being
served in the same ruthless fashion, and now and then,
in the more violent gusts of wind, were glad to stick our
alpenstocks into the ice and hold on hard."

Having surmounted this perilous steep, they sat down and
took a brief rest with their backs against a sheltering
rock and their heels dangling over a bottomless abyss;
then they climbed to the base of another ridge--a more
difficult and dangerous one still:

"The whole of the ridge was exceedingly narrow, and the
fall on each side desperately steep, but the ice in some
of these intervals between the masses of rock assumed
the form of a mere sharp edge, almost like a knife;
these places, though not more than three or four short
paces in length, looked uncommonly awkward; but, like the
sword leading true believers to the gates of Paradise,
they must needs be passed before we could attain to
the summit of our ambition.  These were in one or two
places so narrow, that in stepping over them with toes
well turned out for greater security, ONE END OF THE
FOOT PROJECTED OVER THE AWFUL PRECIPICE ON THE RIGHT,
WHILE THE OTHER WAS ON THE BEGINNING OF THE ICE SLOPE ON
THE LEFT, WHICH WAS SCARCELY LESS STEEP THAN THE ROCKS.
On these occasions Peter would take my hand, and each
of us stretching as far as we could, he was thus enabled
to get a firm footing two paces or rather more from me,
whence a spring would probably bring him to the rock
on the other side; then, turning around, he called
to me to come, and, taking a couple of steps carefully,
I was met at the third by his outstretched hand ready
to clasp mine, and in a moment stood by his side.
The others followed in much the same fashion.  Once my
right foot slipped on the side toward the precipice,
but I threw out my left arm in a moment so that it caught
the icy edge under my armpit as I fell, and supported
me considerably; at the same instant I cast my eyes
down the side on which I had slipped, and contrived
to plant my right foot on a piece of rock as large as a
cricket-ball, which chanced to protrude through the ice,
on the very edge of the precipice.  Being thus anchored
fore and aft, as it were, I believe I could easily have
recovered myself, even if I had been alone, though it must
be confessed the situation would have been an awful one;
as it was, however, a jerk from Peter settled the matter
very soon, and I was on my legs all right in an instant.
The rope is an immense help in places of this kind."

Now they arrived at the base of a great knob or dome
veneered with ice and powdered with snow--the utmost,
summit, the last bit of solidity between them and the hollow
vault of heaven.  They set to work with their hatchets,
and were soon creeping, insectlike, up its surface, with their
heels projecting over the thinnest kind of nothingness,
thickened up a little with a few wandering shreds and
films of cloud moving in a lazy procession far below.
Presently, one man's toe-hold broke and he fell! There he
dangled in mid-air at the end of the rope, like a spider,
till his friends above hauled him into place again.

A little bit later, the party stood upon the wee pedestal
of the very summit, in a driving wind, and looked out
upon the vast green expanses of Italy and a shoreless
ocean of billowy Alps.

When I had read thus far, Harris broke into the room
in a noble excitement and said the ropes and the guides
were secured, and asked if I was ready.  I said I
believed I wouldn't ascend the Altels this time.
I said Alp-climbing was a different thing from what I had
supposed it was, and so I judged we had better study its
points a little more before we went definitely into it.
But I told him to retain the guides and order them to
follow us to Zermatt, because I meant to use them there.
I said I could feel the spirit of adventure beginning
to stir in me, and was sure that the fell fascination
of Alp-climbing would soon be upon me.  I said he could
make up his mind to it that we would do a deed before we
were a week older which would make the hair of the timid
curl with fright.

This made Harris happy, and filled him with ambitious
anticipations.  He went at once to tell the guides to
follow us to Zermatt and bring all their paraphernalia
with them.



CHAPTER XXXV
[Swindling the Coroner]

A great and priceless thing is a new interest! How
it takes possession of a man! how it clings to him,
how it rides him! I strode onward from the Schwarenbach
hostelry a changed man, a reorganized personality.
I walked into a new world, I saw with new eyes.
I had been looking aloft at the giant show-peaks only as
things to be worshiped for their grandeur and magnitude,
and their unspeakable grace of form; I looked up at
them now, as also things to be conquered and climbed.
My sense of their grandeur and their noble beauty
was neither lost nor impaired; I had gained a new
interest in the mountains without losing the old ones.
I followed the steep lines up, inch by inch, with my eye,
and noted the possibility or impossibility of following
them with my feet.  When I saw a shining helmet of ice
projecting above the clouds, I tried to imagine I saw
files of black specks toiling up it roped together with a
gossamer thread.

We skirted the lonely little lake called the Daubensee,
and presently passed close by a glacier on the right--
a thing like a great river frozen solid in its flow
and broken square off like a wall at its mouth.
I had never been so near a glacier before.

Here we came upon a new board shanty, and found some men
engaged in building a stone house; so the Schwarenbach was
soon to have a rival.  We bought a bottle or so of beer here;
at any rate they called it beer, but I knew by the price
that it was dissolved jewelry, and I perceived by the
taste that dissolved jewelry is not good stuff to drink.

We were surrounded by a hideous desolation.  We stepped
forward to a sort of jumping-off place, and were confronted
by a startling contrast: we seemed to look down into fairyland.
Two or three thousand feet below us was a bright green level,
with a pretty town in its midst, and a silvery stream
winding among the meadows; the charming spot was walled
in on all sides by gigantic precipices clothed with pines;
and over the pines, out of the softened distances,
rose the snowy domes and peaks of the Monte Rosa region.
How exquisitely green and beautiful that little valley
down there was! The distance was not great enough to
obliterate details, it only made them little, and mellow,
and dainty, like landscapes and towns seen through the
wrong end of a spy-glass.

Right under us a narrow ledge rose up out of the valley,
with a green, slanting, bench-shaped top, and grouped
about upon this green-baize bench were a lot of black
and white sheep which looked merely like oversized worms.
The bench seemed lifted well up into our neighborhood,
but that was a deception--it was a long way down to it.

We began our descent, now, by the most remarkable road I
have ever seen.  It wound its corkscrew curves down the face
of the colossal precipice--a narrow way, with always
the solid rock wall at one elbow, and perpendicular
nothingness at the other.  We met an everlasting procession
of guides, porters, mules, litters, and tourists climbing
up this steep and muddy path, and there was no room
to spare when you had to pass a tolerably fat mule.
I always took the inside, when I heard or saw the
mule coming, and flattened myself against the wall.
I preferred the inside, of course, but I should have had
to take it anyhow, because the mule prefers the outside.
A mule's preference--on a precipice--is a thing to
be respected.  Well, his choice is always the outside.
His life is mostly devoted to carrying bulky panniers
and packages which rest against his body--therefore he
is habituated to taking the outside edge of mountain paths,
to keep his bundles from rubbing against rocks or banks
on the other.  When he goes into the passenger business he
absurdly clings to his old habit, and keeps one leg of his
passenger always dangling over the great deeps of the lower
world while that passenger's heart is in the highlands,
so to speak.  More than once I saw a mule's hind foot
cave over the outer edge and send earth and rubbish into
the bottom abyss; and I noticed that upon these occasions
the rider, whether male or female, looked tolerably unwell.

There was one place where an eighteen-inch breadth of
light masonry had been added to the verge of the path,
and as there was a very sharp turn here, a panel of fencing
had been set up there at some time, as a protection.
This panel was old and gray and feeble, and the light
masonry had been loosened by recent rains.  A young
American girl came along on a mule, and in making the turn
the mule's hind foot caved all the loose masonry and one
of the fence-posts overboard; the mule gave a violent lurch
inboard to save himself, and succeeded in the effort,
but that girl turned as white as the snows of Mont Blanc
for a moment.

The path was simply a groove cut into the face of
the precipice; there was a four-foot breadth of solid rock
under the traveler, and four-foot breadth of solid rock
just above his head, like the roof of a narrow porch;
he could look out from this gallery and see a sheer
summitless and bottomless wall of rock before him,
across a gorge or crack a biscuit's toss in width--
but he could not see the bottom of his own precipice
unless he lay down and projected his nose over the edge.
I did not do this, because I did not wish to soil my clothes.

Every few hundred yards, at particularly bad places,
one came across a panel or so of plank fencing; but they
were always old and weak, and they generally leaned
out over the chasm and did not make any rash promises
to hold up people who might need support.  There was one
of these panels which had only its upper board left;
a pedestrianizing English youth came tearing down the path,
was seized with an impulse to look over the precipice,
and without an instant's thought he threw his weight
upon that crazy board.  It bent outward a foot! I never
made a gasp before that came so near suffocating me.
The English youth's face simply showed a lively surprise,
but nothing more.  He went swinging along valleyward again,
as if he did not know he had just swindled a coroner by the
closest kind of a shave.

The Alpine litter is sometimes like a cushioned box
made fast between the middles of two long poles,
and sometimes it is a chair with a back to it and a support
for the feet.  It is carried by relays of strong porters.
The motion is easier than that of any other conveyance.
We met a few men and a great many ladies in litters;
it seemed to me that most of the ladies looked pale
and nauseated; their general aspect gave me the idea
that they were patiently enduring a horrible suffering.
As a rule, they looked at their laps, and left the scenery
to take care of itself.

But the most frightened creature I saw, was a led horse
that overtook us.  Poor fellow, he had been born and reared
in the grassy levels of the Kandersteg valley and had
never seen anything like this hideous place before.
Every few steps he would stop short, glance wildly out from
the dizzy height, and then spread his red nostrils wide
and pant as violently as if he had been running a race;
and all the while he quaked from head to heel as with
a palsy.  He was a handsome fellow, and he made a fine
statuesque picture of terror, but it was pitiful to see
him suffer so.

This dreadful path has had its tragedy.  Baedeker, with his
customary overterseness, begins and ends the tale thus:

"The descent on horseback should be avoided.
In 1861 a Comtesse d'Herlincourt fell from her saddle
over the precipice and was killed on the spot."

We looked over the precipice there, and saw the monument
which commemorates the event.  It stands in the bottom
of the gorge, in a place which has been hollowed out of
the rock to protect it from the torrent and the storms.
Our old guide never spoke but when spoken to, and then
limited himself to a syllable or two, but when we asked
him about this tragedy he showed a strong interest
in the matter.  He said the Countess was very pretty,
and very young--hardly out of her girlhood, in fact.
She was newly married, and was on her bridal tour.
The young husband was riding a little in advance; one guide
was leading the husband's horse, another was leading the
bride's.

The old man continued:

"The guide that was leading the husband's horse happened
to glance back, and there was that poor young thing sitting
up staring out over the precipice; and her face began
to bend downward a little, and she put up her two hands
slowly and met it--so,--and put them flat against her
eyes--so--and then she sank out of the saddle, with a
sharp shriek, and one caught only the flash of a dress,
and it was all over."

Then after a pause:

"Ah, yes, that guide saw these things--yes, he saw them all.
He saw them all, just as I have told you."

After another pause:

"Ah, yes, he saw them all.  My God, that was ME.
I was that guide!"

This had been the one event of the old man's life; so one
may be sure he had forgotten no detail connected with it.
We listened to all he had to say about what was done and what
happened and what was said after the sorrowful occurrence,
and a painful story it was.

When we had wound down toward the valley until we were about
on the last spiral of the corkscrew, Harris's hat blew
over the last remaining bit of precipice--a small cliff
a hundred or hundred and fifty feet high--and sailed down
toward a steep slant composed of rough chips and fragments
which the weather had flaked away from the precipices.
We went leisurely down there, expecting to find it without
any trouble, but we had made a mistake, as to that.
We hunted during a couple of hours--not because the old
straw hat was valuable, but out of curiosity to find out
how such a thing could manage to conceal itself in open
ground where there was nothing left for it to hide behind.
When one is reading in bed, and lays his paper-knife down,
he cannot find it again if it is smaller than a saber;
that hat was as stubborn as any paper-knife could have been,
and we finally had to give it up; but we found a fragment
that had once belonged to an opera-glass, and by digging
around and turning over the rocks we gradually collected
all the lenses and the cylinders and the various odds
and ends that go to making up a complete opera-glass.
We afterward had the thing reconstructed, and the owner
can have his adventurous lost-property by submitting
proofs and paying costs of rehabilitation.  We had hopes
of finding the owner there, distributed around amongst
the rocks, for it would have made an elegant paragraph;
but we were disappointed.  Still, we were far from
being disheartened, for there was a considerable area
which we had not thoroughly searched; we were satisfied he
was there, somewhere, so we resolved to wait over a day at
Leuk and come back and get him.

Then we sat down to polish off the perspiration and
arrange about what we would do with him when we got him.
Harris was for contributing him to the British Museum;
but I was for mailing him to his widow.  That is the difference
between Harris and me: Harris is all for display, I am
all for the simple right, even though I lose money by it.
Harris argued in favor of his proposition against mine,
I argued in favor of mine and against his.  The discussion
warmed into a dispute; the dispute warmed into a quarrel.
I finally said, very decidedly:

"My mind is made up.  He goes to the widow."

Harris answered sharply:

"And MY mind is made up.  He goes to the Museum."

I said, calmly:

"The museum may whistle when it gets him."

Harris retorted:

"The widow may save herself the trouble of whistling,
for I will see that she never gets him."

After some angry bandying of epithets, I said:

"It seems to me that you are taking on a good many airs
about these remains.  I don't quite see what YOU'VE got
to say about them?"

"I? I've got ALL to say about them.  They'd never have
been thought of if I hadn't found their opera-glass. The
corpse belongs to me, and I'll do as I please with him."

I was leader of the Expedition, and all discoveries
achieved by it naturally belonged to me.  I was entitled
to these remains, and could have enforced my right;
but rather than have bad blood about the matter,
I said we would toss up for them.  I threw heads and won,
but it was a barren victory, for although we spent all
the next day searching, we never found a bone.  I cannot
imagine what could ever have become of that fellow.

The town in the valley is called Leuk or Leukerbad.
We pointed our course toward it, down a verdant slope
which was adorned with fringed gentians and other flowers,
and presently entered the narrow alleys of the outskirts
and waded toward the middle of the town through liquid
"fertilizer." They ought to either pave that village or
organize a ferry.

Harris's body was simply a chamois-pasture; his person
was populous with the little hungry pests; his skin,
when he stripped, was splotched like a scarlet-fever patient's;
so, when we were about to enter one of the Leukerbad inns,
and he noticed its sign, "Chamois Hotel," he refused
to stop there.  He said the chamois was plentiful enough,
without hunting up hotels where they made a specialty of it.
I was indifferent, for the chamois is a creature that will
neither bite me nor abide with me; but to calm Harris,
we went to the Ho^tel des Alpes.

At the table d'ho^te, we had this, for an incident.
A very grave man--in fact his gravity amounted to solemnity,
and almost to austerity--sat opposite us and he was
"tight," but doing his best to appear sober.  He took up
a CORKED bottle of wine, tilted it over his glass awhile,
then set it out of the way, with a contented look, and went
on with his dinner.

Presently he put his glass to his mouth, and of course
found it empty.  He looked puzzled, and glanced furtively
and suspiciously out of the corner of his eye at a
benignant and unconscious old lady who sat at his right.
Shook his head, as much as to say, "No, she couldn't have
done it." He tilted the corked bottle over his glass again,
meantime searching around with his watery eye to see
if anybody was watching him.  He ate a few mouthfuls,
raised his glass to his lips, and of course it was
still empty.  He bent an injured and accusing side-glance
upon that unconscious old lady, which was a study to see.
She went on eating and gave no sign.  He took up his glass
and his bottle, with a wise private nod of his head,
and set them gravely on the left-hand side of his plate--
poured himself another imaginary drink--went to work
with his knife and fork once more--presently lifted
his glass with good confidence, and found it empty,
as usual.

This was almost a petrifying surprise.  He straightened
himself up in his chair and deliberately and sorrowfully
inspected the busy old ladies at his elbows, first one and
then the other.  At last he softly pushed his plate away,
set his glass directly in front of him, held on to it
with his left hand, and proceeded to pour with his right.
This time he observed that nothing came.  He turned the
bottle clear upside down; still nothing issued from it;
a plaintive look came into his face, and he said, as if
to himself,

" 'IC! THEY'VE GOT IT ALL!" Then he set the bottle down,
resignedly, and took the rest of his dinner dry.

It was at that table d'ho^te, too, that I had under inspection
the largest lady I have ever seen in private life.
She was over seven feet high, and magnificently proportioned.
What had first called my attention to her, was my stepping
on an outlying flange of her foot, and hearing, from up
toward the ceiling, a deep "Pardon, m'sieu, but you encroach!"

That was when we were coming through the hall, and the place
was dim, and I could see her only vaguely.  The thing
which called my attention to her the second time was,
that at a table beyond ours were two very pretty girls,
and this great lady came in and sat down between them
and me and blotted out my view.  She had a handsome face,
and she was very finely formed--perfected formed,
I should say.  But she made everybody around her look trivial
and commonplace.  Ladies near her looked like children,
and the men about her looked mean.  They looked like failures;
and they looked as if they felt so, too.  She sat with
her back to us.  I never saw such a back in my life.
I would have so liked to see the moon rise over it.
The whole congregation waited, under one pretext or another,
till she finished her dinner and went out; they wanted to see
her at full altitude, and they found it worth tarrying for.
She filled one's idea of what an empress ought to be,
when she rose up in her unapproachable grandeur and moved
superbly out of that place.

We were not at Leuk in time to see her at her heaviest weight.
She had suffered from corpulence and had come there to get
rid of her extra flesh in the baths.  Five weeks of soaking--
five uninterrupted hours of it every day--had accomplished
her purpose and reduced her to the right proportions.

Those baths remove fat, and also skin-diseases. The
patients remain in the great tanks for hours at a time.
A dozen gentlemen and ladies occupy a tank together,
and amuse themselves with rompings and various games.
They have floating desks and tables, and they read or lunch
or play chess in water that is breast-deep. The tourist
can step in and view this novel spectacle if he chooses.
There's a poor-box, and he will have to contribute.
There are several of these big bathing-houses, and you can
always tell when you are near one of them by the romping
noises and shouts of laughter that proceed from it.
The water is running water, and changes all the time,
else a patient with a ringworm might take the bath with only
a partial success, since, while he was ridding himself of
the ringworm, he might catch the itch.

The next morning we wandered back up the green valley,
leisurely, with the curving walls of those bare and
stupendous precipices rising into the clouds before us.
I had never seen a clean, bare precipice stretching up
five thousand feet above me before, and I never shall
expect to see another one.  They exist, perhaps, but not
in places where one can easily get close to them.
This pile of stone is peculiar.  From its base to the
soaring tops of its mighty towers, all its lines and
all its details vaguely suggest human architecture.
There are rudimentary bow-windows, cornices, chimneys,
demarcations of stories, etc.  One could sit and stare up
there and study the features and exquisite graces of this
grand structure, bit by bit, and day after day, and never
weary his interest.  The termination, toward the town,
observed in profile, is the perfection of shape.
It comes down out of the clouds in a succession of rounded,
colossal, terracelike projections--a stairway for the gods;
at its head spring several lofty storm-scarred towers,
one after another, with faint films of vapor curling
always about them like spectral banners.  If there were
a king whose realms included the whole world, here would
be the place meet and proper for such a monarch.  He would
only need to hollow it out and put in the electric light.
He could give audience to a nation at a time under its roof.

Our search for those remains having failed, we inspected with
a glass the dim and distant track of an old-time avalanche
that once swept down from some pine-grown summits behind
the town and swept away the houses and buried the people;
then we struck down the road that leads toward the Rhone,
to see the famous Ladders.  These perilous things are
built against the perpendicular face of a cliff two or
three hundred feet high.  The peasants, of both sexes,
were climbing up and down them, with heavy loads on
their backs.  I ordered Harris to make the ascent, so I
could put the thrill and horror of it in my book, and he
accomplished the feat successfully, though a subagent,
for three francs, which I paid.  It makes me shudder yet
when I think of what I felt when I was clinging there
between heaven and earth in the person of that proxy.
At times the world swam around me, and I could hardly keep
from letting go, so dizzying was the appalling danger.
Many a person would have given up and descended, but I stuck
to my task, and would not yield until I had accomplished it.
I felt a just pride in my exploit, but I would not
have repeated it for the wealth of the world.  I shall
break my neck yet with some such foolhardy performance,
for warnings never seem to have any lasting effect on me.
When the people of the hotel found that I had been
climbing those crazy Ladders, it made me an object of
considerable attention.

Next morning, early, we drove to the Rhone valley and took
the train for Visp.  There we shouldered our knapsacks
and things, and set out on foot, in a tremendous rain,
up the winding gorge, toward Zermatt.  Hour after hour we
slopped along, by the roaring torrent, and under noble
Lesser Alps which were clothed in rich velvety green
all the way up and had little atomy Swiss homes perched
upon grassy benches along their mist-dimmed heights.

The rain continued to pour and the torrent to boom, and we
continued to enjoy both.  At the one spot where this torrent
tossed its white mane highest, and thundered loudest,
and lashed the big boulders fiercest, the canton had done
itself the honor to build the flimsiest wooden bridge
that exists in the world.  While we were walking over it,
along with a party of horsemen, I noticed that even
the larger raindrops made it shake.  I called Harris's
attention to it, and he noticed it, too.  It seemed
to me that if I owned an elephant that was a keepsake,
and I thought a good deal of him, I would think twice
before I would ride him over that bridge.

We climbed up to the village of St. Nicholas, about half
past four in the afternoon, waded ankle-deep through
the fertilizer-juice, and stopped at a new and nice hotel
close by the little church.  We stripped and went to bed,
and sent our clothes down to be baked.  And the horde
of soaked tourists did the same.  That chaos of clothing
got mixed in the kitchen, and there were consequences.
I did not get back the same drawers I sent down, when our
things came up at six-fifteen; I got a pair on a new plan.
They were merely a pair of white ruffle-cuffed absurdities,
hitched together at the top with a narrow band, and they did
not come quite down to my knees.  They were pretty enough,
but they made me feel like two people, and disconnected
at that.  The man must have been an idiot that got himself
up like that, to rough it in the Swiss mountains.
The shirt they brought me was shorter than the drawers,
and hadn't any sleeves to it--at least it hadn't anything
more than what Mr. Darwin would call "rudimentary" sleeves;
these had "edging" around them, but the bosom was
ridiculously plain.  The knit silk undershirt they brought
me was on a new plan, and was really a sensible thing;
it opened behind, and had pockets in it to put your
shoulder-blades in; but they did not seem to fit mine,
and so I found it a sort of uncomfortable garment.
They gave my bobtail coat to somebody else, and sent me
an ulster suitable for a giraffe.  I had to tie my collar on,
because there was no button behind on that foolish little shirt
which I described a while ago.

When I was dressed for dinner at six-thirty, I was too loose
in some places and too tight in others, and altogether I
felt slovenly and ill-conditioned. However, the people
at the table d'ho^te were no better off than I was;
they had everybody's clothes but their own on.  A long
stranger recognized his ulster as soon as he saw the tail
of it following me in, but nobody claimed my shirt or
my drawers, though I described them as well as I was able.
I gave them to the chambermaid that night when I went
to bed, and she probably found the owner, for my own
things were on a chair outside my door in the morning.

There was a lovable English clergyman who did
not get to the table d'ho^te at all.  His breeches
had turned up missing, and without any equivalent.
He said he was not more particular than other people,
but he had noticed that a clergyman at dinner without
any breeches was almost sure to excite remark.



CHAPTER XXXVI
[The Fiendish Fun of Alp-climbing]

We did not oversleep at St. Nicholas.  The church-bell
began to ring at four-thirty in the morning, and from
the length of time it continued to ring I judged that it
takes the Swiss sinner a good while to get the invitation
through his head.  Most church-bells in the world
are of poor quality, and have a harsh and rasping
sound which upsets the temper and produces much sin,
but the St. Nicholas bell is a good deal the worst one
that has been contrived yet, and is peculiarly maddening
in its operation.  Still, it may have its right and its
excuse to exist, for the community is poor and not every
citizen can afford a clock, perhaps; but there cannot be
any excuse for our church-bells at home, for their is no
family in America without a clock, and consequently there
is no fair pretext for the usual Sunday medley of dreadful
sounds that issues from our steeples.  There is much more
profanity in America on Sunday than is all in the other six
days of the week put together, and it is of a more bitter
and malignant character than the week-day profanity, too.
It is produced by the cracked-pot clangor of the cheap
church-bells.

We build our churches almost without regard to cost;
we rear an edifice which is an adornment to the town, and we
gild it, and fresco it, and mortgage it, and do everything
we can think of to perfect it, and then spoil it all by
putting a bell on it which afflicts everybody who hears it,
giving some the headache, others St. Vitus's dance,
and the rest the blind staggers.

An American village at ten o'clock on a summer Sunday is
the quietest and peacefulest and holiest thing in nature;
but it is a pretty different thing half an hour later.
Mr. Poe's poem of the "Bells" stands incomplete to this day;
but it is well enough that it is so, for the public reciter
or "reader" who goes around trying to imitate the sounds
of the various sorts of bells with his voice would find
himself "up a stump" when he got to the church-bell--
as Joseph Addison would say.  The church is always trying
to get other people to reform; it might not be a bad idea
to reform itself a little, by way of example.  It is still
clinging to one or two things which were useful once,
but which are not useful now, neither are they ornamental.
One is the bell-ringing to remind a clock-caked town
that it is church-time, and another is the reading from
the pulpit of a tedious list of "notices" which everybody
who is interested has already read in the newspaper.
The clergyman even reads the hymn through--a relic
of an ancient time when hymn-books are scarce and costly;
but everybody has a hymn-book, now, and so the public reading
is no longer necessary.  It is not merely unnecessary,
it is generally painful; for the average clergyman could
not fire into his congregation with a shotgun and hit a worse
reader than himself, unless the weapon scattered shamefully.
I am not meaning to be flippant and irreverent, I am only
meaning to be truthful.  The average clergyman, in all
countries and of all denominations, is a very bad reader.
One would think he would at least learn how to read
the Lord's Prayer, by and by, but it is not so.  He races
through it as if he thought the quicker he got it in,
the sooner it would be answered.  A person who does not
appreciate the exceeding value of pauses, and does not know
how to measure their duration judiciously, cannot render
the grand simplicity and dignity of a composition like
that effectively.

We took a tolerably early breakfast, and tramped off
toward Zermatt through the reeking lanes of the village,
glad to get away from that bell.  By and by we had a fine
spectacle on our right.  It was the wall-like butt end of a
huge glacier, which looked down on us from an Alpine height
which was well up in the blue sky.  It was an astonishing
amount of ice to be compacted together in one mass.
We ciphered upon it and decided that it was not less than
several hundred feet from the base of the wall of solid
ice to the top of it--Harris believed it was really
twice that.  We judged that if St. Paul's, St. Peter's,
the Great Pyramid, the Strasburg Cathedral and the Capitol
in Washington were clustered against that wall, a man
sitting on its upper edge could not hang his hat on the top
of any one of them without reaching down three or four
hundred feet--a thing which, of course, no man could do.

To me, that mighty glacier was very beautiful.  I did
not imagine that anybody could find fault with it; but I
was mistaken.  Harris had been snarling for several days.
He was a rabid Protestant, and he was always saying:

"In the Protestant cantons you never see such poverty
and dirt and squalor as you do in this Catholic one;
you never see the lanes and alleys flowing with foulness;
you never see such wretched little sties of houses;
you never see an inverted tin turnip on top of a church
for a dome; and as for a church-bell, why, you never hear
a church-bell at all."

All this morning he had been finding fault, straight along.
First it was with the mud.  He said, "It ain't muddy in a
Protestant canton when it rains." Then it was with the dogs:
"They don't have those lop-eared dogs in a Protestant canton."
Then it was with the roads: "They don't leave the roads
to make themselves in a Protestant canton, the people make
them--and they make a road that IS a road, too." Next it
was the goats: "You never see a goat shedding tears
in a Protestant canton--a goat, there, is one of the
cheerfulest objects in nature." Next it was the chamois:
"You never see a Protestant chamois act like one of these--
they take a bite or two and go; but these fellows camp
with you and stay." Then it was the guide-boards: "In
a Protestant canton you couldn't get lost if you wanted to,
but you never see a guide-board in a Catholic canton."
Next, "You never see any flower-boxes in the windows,
here--never anything but now and then a cat--a torpid one;
but you take a Protestant canton: windows perfectly lovely
with flowers--and as for cats, there's just acres of them.
These folks in this canton leave a road to make itself,
and then fine you three francs if you 'trot' over it--
as if a horse could trot over such a sarcasm of a road."
Next about the goiter: "THEY talk about goiter!--I haven't
seen a goiter in this whole canton that I couldn't put
in a hat."

He had growled at everything, but I judged it would puzzle
him to find anything the matter with this majestic glacier.
I intimated as much; but he was ready, and said with surly
discontent: "You ought to see them in the Protestant cantons."

This irritated me.  But I concealed the feeling, and asked:

"What is the matter with this one?"

"Matter? Why, it ain't in any kind of condition.
They never take any care of a glacier here.  The moraine
has been spilling gravel around it, and got it all dirty."

"Why, man, THEY can't help that."

"THEY? You're right.  That is, they WON'T. They could
if they wanted to.  You never see a speck of dirt
on a Protestant glacier.  Look at the Rhone glacier.
It is fifteen miles long, and seven hundred feet think.
If this was a Protestant glacier you wouldn't see it looking
like this, I can tell you."

"That is nonsense.  What would they do with it?"

"They would whitewash it.  They always do."

I did not believe a word of this, but rather than have
trouble I let it go; for it is a waste of breath to argue
with a bigot.  I even doubted if the Rhone glacier WAS
in a Protestant canton; but I did not know, so I could
not make anything by contradicting a man who would
probably put me down at once with manufactured evidence.

About nine miles from St. Nicholas we crossed a bridge
over the raging torrent of the Visp, and came to a log
strip of flimsy fencing which was pretending to secure
people from tumbling over a perpendicular wall forty feet
high and into the river.  Three children were approaching;
one of them, a little girl, about eight years old,
was running; when pretty close to us she stumbled and fell,
and her feet shot under the rail of the fence and for a
moment projected over the stream.  It gave us a sharp shock,
for we thought she was gone, sure, for the ground slanted
steeply, and to save herself seemed a sheer impossibility;
but she managed to scramble up, and ran by us laughing.

We went forward and examined the place and saw the long
tracks which her feet had made in the dirt when they
darted over the verge.  If she had finished her trip she
would have struck some big rocks in the edge of the water,
and then the torrent would have snatched her downstream
among the half-covered boulders and she would have been
pounded to pulp in two minutes.  We had come exceedingly
near witnessing her death.

And now Harris's contrary nature and inborn selfishness
were striking manifested.  He has no spirit of self-denial.
He began straight off, and continued for an hour,
to express his gratitude that the child was not destroyed.
I never saw such a man.  That was the kind of person he was;
just so HE was gratified, he never cared anything about
anybody else.  I had noticed that trait in him, over and
over again.  Often, of course, it was mere heedlessness,
mere want of reflection.  Doubtless this may have been
the case in most instances, but it was not the less hard
to bar on that account--and after all, its bottom,
its groundwork, was selfishness.  There is no avoiding
that conclusion.  In the instance under consideration,
I did think the indecency of running on in that way might
occur to him; but no, the child was saved and he was glad,
that was sufficient--he cared not a straw for MY feelings,
or my loss of such a literary plum, snatched from my
very mouth at the instant it was ready to drop into it.
His selfishness was sufficient to place his own gratification
in being spared suffering clear before all concern for me,
his friend.  Apparently, he did not once reflect upon the
valuable details which would have fallen like a windfall
to me: fishing the child out--witnessing the surprise of
the family and the stir the thing would have made among the
peasants--then a Swiss funeral--then the roadside monument,
to be paid for by us and have our names mentioned in it.
And we should have gone into Baedeker and been immortal.
I was silent.  I was too much hurt to complain.  If he could
act so, and be so heedless and so frivolous at such a time,
and actually seem to glory in it, after all I had done for him,
I would have cut my hand off before I would let him see
that I was wounded.

We were approaching Zermatt; consequently, we were
approaching the renowned Matterhorn.  A month before,
this mountain had been only a name to us, but latterly
we had been moving through a steadily thickening double
row of pictures of it, done in oil, water, chromo, wood,
steel, copper, crayon, and photography, and so it had at
length become a shape to us--and a very distinct, decided,
and familiar one, too.  We were expecting to recognize
that mountain whenever or wherever we should run across it.
We were not deceived.  The monarch was far away when we
first saw him, but there was no such thing as mistaking him.
He has the rare peculiarity of standing by himself;
he is peculiarly steep, too, and is also most oddly shaped.
He towers into the sky like a colossal wedge, with the
upper third of its blade bent a little to the left.
The broad base of this monster wedge is planted upon
a grand glacier-paved Alpine platform whose elevation
is ten thousand feet above sea-level; as the wedge itself
is some five thousand feet high, it follows that its
apex is about fifteen thousand feet above sea-level.
So the whole bulk of this stately piece of rock, this
sky-cleaving monolith, is above the line of eternal snow.
Yet while all its giant neighbors have the look of being
built of solid snow, from their waists up, the Matterhorn
stands black and naked and forbidding, the year round,
or merely powdered or streaked with white in places,
for its sides are so steep that the snow cannot stay there.
Its strange form, its august isolation, and its majestic
unkinship with its own kind, make it--so to speak--the Napoleon
of the mountain world.  "Grand, gloomy, and peculiar,"
is a phrase which fits it as aptly as it fitted the great
captain.

Think of a monument a mile high, standing on a pedestal
two miles high! This is what the Matterhorn is--a monument.
Its office, henceforth, for all time, will be to keep
watch and ward over the secret resting-place of the young
Lord Douglas, who, in 1865, was precipitated from the
summit over a precipice four thousand feet high, and never
seen again.  No man ever had such a monument as this before;
the most imposing of the world's other monuments are
but atoms compared to it; and they will perish, and their
places will pass from memory, but this will remain. [1]

1.  The accident which cost Lord Douglas his life (see
    Chapter xii) also cost the lives of three other men.
    These three fell four-fifths of a mile, and their bodies
    were afterward found, lying side by side, upon a glacier,
    whence they were borne to Zermatt and buried in the
churchyard.
    The remains of Lord Douglas have never been found.
    The secret of his sepulture, like that of Moses, must remain
    a mystery always.

A walk from St. Nicholas to Zermatt is a wonderful experience.
Nature is built on a stupendous plan in that region.
One marches continually between walls that are piled
into the skies, with their upper heights broken into
a confusion of sublime shapes that gleam white and cold
against the background of blue; and here and there one
sees a big glacier displaying its grandeurs on the top
of a precipice, or a graceful cascade leaping and flashing
down the green declivities.  There is nothing tame,
or cheap, or trivial--it is all magnificent.  That short
valley is a picture-gallery of a notable kind, for it
contains no mediocrities; from end to end the Creator
has hung it with His masterpieces.

We made Zermatt at three in the afternoon, nine hours out
from St. Nicholas.  Distance, by guide-book, twelve miles;
by pedometer seventy-two. We were in the heart and home
of the mountain-climbers, now, as all visible things
testified.  The snow-peaks did not hold themselves aloof,
in aristocratic reserve; they nestled close around,
in a friendly, sociable way; guides, with the ropes and
axes and other implements of their fearful calling slung
about their persons, roosted in a long line upon a stone
wall in front of the hotel, and waited for customers;
sun-burnt climbers, in mountaineering costume, and followed
by their guides and porters, arrived from time to time,
from breakneck expeditions among the peaks and glaciers
of the High Alps; male and female tourists, on mules,
filed by, in a continuous procession, hotelward-bound from
wild adventures which would grow in grandeur very time
they were described at the English or American fireside,
and at last outgrow the possible itself.

We were not dreaming; this was not a make-believe home
of the Alp-climber, created by our heated imaginations;
no, for here was Mr. Girdlestone himself, the famous
Englishman who hunts his way to the most formidable Alpine
summits without a guide.  I was not equal to imagining
a Girdlestone; it was all I could do to even realize him,
while looking straight at him at short range.  I would rather
face whole Hyde Parks of artillery than the ghastly forms
of death which he has faced among the peaks and precipices
of the mountains.  There is probably no pleasure equal
to the pleasure of climbing a dangerous Alp; but it is
a pleasure which is confined strictly to people who can
find pleasure in it.  I have not jumped to this conclusion;
I have traveled to it per gravel-train, so to speak.
I have thought the thing all out, and am quite sure I
am right.  A born climber's appetite for climbing is hard
to satisfy; when it comes upon him he is like a starving
man with a feast before him; he may have other business
on hand, but it must wait.  Mr. Girdlestone had had
his usual summer holiday in the Alps, and had spent it
in his usual way, hunting for unique chances to break
his neck; his vacation was over, and his luggage packed
for England, but all of a sudden a hunger had come upon
him to climb the tremendous Weisshorn once more, for he
had heard of a new and utterly impossible route up it.
His baggage was unpacked at once, and now he and a friend,
laden with knapsacks, ice-axes, coils of rope, and canteens
of milk, were just setting out.  They would spend
the night high up among the snows, somewhere, and get
up at two in the morning and finish the enterprise.
I had a strong desire to go with them, but forced it down--
a feat which Mr. Girdlestone, with all his fortitude,
could not do.

Even ladies catch the climbing mania, and are unable to
throw it off.  A famous climber, of that sex, had attempted
the Weisshorn a few days before our arrival, and she
and her guides had lost their way in a snow-storm high up
among the peaks and glaciers and been forced to wander
around a good while before they could find a way down.
When this lady reached the bottom, she had been on her
feet twenty-three hours!

Our guides, hired on the Gemmi, were already at Zermatt
when we reached there.  So there was nothing to interfere
with our getting up an adventure whenever we should
choose the time and the object.  I resolved to devote
my first evening in Zermatt to studying up the subject
of Alpine climbing, by way of preparation.

I read several books, and here are some of the things
I found out.  One's shoes must be strong and heavy,
and have pointed hobnails in them.  The alpenstock
must be of the best wood, for if it should break,
loss of life might be the result.  One should carry an ax,
to cut steps in the ice with, on the great heights.
There must be a ladder, for there are steep bits of rock
which can be surmounted with this instrument--or this
utensil--but could not be surmounted without it;
such an obstruction has compelled the tourist to waste
hours hunting another route, when a ladder would have
saved him all trouble.  One must have from one hundred
and fifty to five hundred feet of strong rope, to be used
in lowering the party down steep declivities which are
too steep and smooth to be traversed in any other way.
One must have a steel hook, on another rope--a very
useful thing; for when one is ascending and comes to a low
bluff which is yet too high for the ladder, he swings
this rope aloft like a lasso, the hook catches at the top
of the bluff, and then the tourist climbs the rope,
hand over hand--being always particular to try and forget
that if the hook gives way he will never stop falling
till he arrives in some part of Switzerland where they
are not expecting him.  Another important thing--there
must be a rope to tie the whole party together with,
so that if one falls from a mountain or down a bottomless
chasm in a glacier, the others may brace back on the rope
and save him.  One must have a silk veil, to protect
his face from snow, sleet, hail and gale, and colored
goggles to protect his eyes from that dangerous enemy,
snow-blindness. Finally, there must be some porters,
to carry provisions, wine and scientific instruments,
and also blanket bags for the party to sleep in.

I closed my readings with a fearful adventure which
Mr. Whymper once had on the Matterhorn when he was prowling
around alone, five thousand feet above the town of Breil.
He was edging his way gingerly around the corner of a
precipice where the upper edge of a sharp declivity
of ice-glazed snow joined it.  This declivity swept
down a couple of hundred feet, into a gully which curved
around and ended at a precipice eight hundred feet high,
overlooking a glacier.  His foot slipped, and he fell.

He says:

"My knapsack brought my head down first, and I pitched into
some rocks about a dozen feet below; they caught something,
and tumbled me off the edge, head over heels, into the gully;
the baton was dashed from my hands, and I whirled downward
in a series of bounds, each longer than the last; now over ice,
now into rocks, striking my head four or five times,
each time with increased force.  The last bound sent me
spinning through the air in a leap of fifty or sixty feet,
from one side of the gully to the other, and I struck
the rocks, luckily, with the whole of my left side.
They caught my clothes for a moment, and I fell back on
to the snow with motion arrested.  My head fortunately
came the right side up, and a few frantic catches brought
me to a halt, in the neck of the gully and on the verge
of the precipice.  Baton, hat, and veil skimmed by
and disappeared, and the crash of the rocks--which I had
started--as they fell on to the glacier, told how narrow
had been the escape from utter destruction.  As it was,
I fell nearly two hundred feet in seven or eight bounds.
Ten feet more would have taken me in one gigantic leaps
of eight hundred feet on to the glacier below.

"The situation was sufficiently serious.  The rocks could
not be let go for a moment, and the blood was spurting
out of more than twenty cuts.  The most serious ones were
in the head, and I vainly tried to close them with one hand,
while holding on with the other.  It was useless;
the blood gushed out in blinding jets at each pulsation.
At last, in a moment of inspiration, I kicked out a big
lump of snow and struck it as plaster on my head.
The idea was a happy one, and the flow of blood diminished.
Then, scrambling up, I got, not a moment too soon, to a
place of safety, and fainted away.  The sun was setting
when consciousness returned, and it was pitch-dark before
the Great Staircase was descended; but by a combination
of luck and care, the whole four thousand seven hundred
feet of descent to Breil was accomplished without a slip,
or once missing the way."

His wounds kept him abed some days.  Then he got up
and climbed that mountain again.  That is the way with
a true Alp-climber; the more fun he has, the more he wants.



CHAPTER XXXVII
[Our Imposing Column Starts Upward]

After I had finished my readings, I was no longer myself;
I was tranced, uplifted, intoxicated, by the almost
incredible perils and adventures I had been following
my authors through, and the triumphs I had been sharing
with them.  I sat silent some time, then turned to Harris
and said:

"My mind is made up."

Something in my tone struck him: and when he glanced
at my eye and read what was written there, his face
paled perceptibly.  He hesitated a moment, then said:

"Speak."

I answered, with perfect calmness:

"I will ascend the Riffelberg."

If I had shot my poor friend he could not have fallen from
his chair more suddenly.  If I had been his father he could
not have pleaded harder to get me to give up my purpose.
But I turned a deaf ear to all he said.  When he perceived
at last that nothing could alter my determination,
he ceased to urge, and for a while the deep silence was
broken only by his sobs.  I sat in marble resolution,
with my eyes fixed upon vacancy, for in spirit I was already
wrestling with the perils of the mountains, and my friend
sat gazing at me in adoring admiration through his tears.
At last he threw himself upon me in a loving embrace and
exclaimed in broken tones:

"Your Harris will never desert you.  We will die together."

I cheered the noble fellow with praises, and soon his
fears were forgotten and he was eager for the adventure.
He wanted to summon the guides at once and leave at
two in the morning, as he supposed the custom was;
but I explained that nobody was looking at that hour;
and that the start in the dark was not usually made from
the village but from the first night's resting-place
on the mountain side.  I said we would leave the village
at 3 or 4 P.M. on the morrow; meantime he could notify
the guides, and also let the public know of the attempt
which we proposed to make.

I went to bed, but not to sleep.  No man can sleep when he
is about to undertake one of these Alpine exploits.
I tossed feverishly all night long, and was glad enough
when I heard the clock strike half past eleven and knew it
was time to get up for dinner.  I rose, jaded and rusty,
and went to the noon meal, where I found myself the center
of interest and curiosity; for the news was already abroad.
It is not easy to eat calmly when you are a lion; but it is
very pleasant, nevertheless.

As usual, at Zermatt, when a great ascent is about to
be undertaken, everybody, native and foreign, laid aside
his own projects and took up a good position to observe
the start.  The expedition consisted of 198 persons,
including the mules; or 205, including the cows.
As follows:

CHIEFS OF SERVICE SUBORDINATES

Myself 1 Veterinary Surgeon Mr. Harris 1 Butler 17
Guides 12 Waiters 4 Surgeons 1 Footman 1 Geologist 1
Barber 1 Botanist 1 Head Cook 3 Chaplains 9 Assistants
15 Barkeepers 1 Confectionery Artist 1 Latinist

TRANSPORTATION, ETC.

27 Porters 3 Coarse Washers and Ironers 44 Mules 1 Fine
ditto 44 Muleteers 7 Cows 2 Milkers

Total, 154 men, 51 animals.  Grand Total, 205.

RATIONS, ETC.  APPARATUS

16 Cases Hams 25 Spring Mattresses 2 Barrels Flour 2
Hair ditto 22 Barrels Whiskey Bedding for same 1 Barrel
Sugar 2 Mosquito-nets 1 Keg Lemons 29 Tents 2,000 Cigars
Scientific Instruments 1 Barrel Pies 97 Ice-axes 1 Ton
of Pemmican 5 Cases Dynamite 143 Pair Crutches 7 Cans
Nitroglycerin 2 Barrels Arnica 22 40-foot Ladders 1 Bale
of Lint 2 Miles of Rope 27 Kegs Paregoric 154 Umbrellas

It was full four o'clock in the afternoon before my cavalcade
was entirely ready.  At that hour it began to move.
In point of numbers and spectacular effect, it was the most
imposing expedition that had ever marched from Zermatt.

I commanded the chief guide to arrange the men and animals
in single file, twelve feet apart, and lash them all
together on a strong rope.  He objected that the first
two miles was a dead level, with plenty of room, and that
the rope was never used except in very dangerous places.
But I would not listen to that.  My reading had taught
me that many serious accidents had happened in the Alps
simply from not having the people tied up soon enough;
I was not going to add one to the list.  The guide then
obeyed my order.

When the procession stood at ease, roped together,
and ready to move, I never saw a finer sight.  It was 3,122
feet long--over half a mile; every man and me was on foot,
and had on his green veil and his blue goggles, and his
white rag around his hat, and his coil of rope over one
shoulder and under the other, and his ice-ax in his belt,
and carried his alpenstock in his left hand, his umbrella
(closed) in his right, and his crutches slung at his back.
The burdens of the pack-mules and the horns of the cows
were decked with the Edelweiss and the Alpine rose.

I and my agent were the only persons mounted.  We were
in the post of danger in the extreme rear, and tied
securely to five guides apiece.  Our armor-bearers carried
our ice-axes, alpenstocks, and other implements for us.
We were mounted upon very small donkeys, as a measure
of safety; in time of peril we could straighten our legs
and stand up, and let the donkey walk from under.
Still, I cannot recommend this sort of animal--at least
for excursions of mere pleasure--because his ears interrupt
the view.  I and my agent possessed the regulation
mountaineering costumes, but concluded to leave them behind.
Out of respect for the great numbers of tourists of both
sexes who would be assembled in front of the hotels
to see us pass, and also out of respect for the many
tourists whom we expected to encounter on our expedition,
we decided to make the ascent in evening dress.

We watered the caravan at the cold stream which rushes
down a trough near the end of the village, and soon
afterward left the haunts of civilization behind us.
About half past five o'clock we arrived at a bridge which
spans the Visp, and after throwing over a detachment to see
if it was safe, the caravan crossed without accident.
The way now led, by a gentle ascent, carpeted with
fresh green grass, to the church at Winkelmatten.
Without stopping to examine this edifice, I executed
a flank movement to the right and crossed the bridge
over the Findelenbach, after first testing its strength.
Here I deployed to the right again, and presently entered
an inviting stretch of meadowland which was unoccupied save
by a couple of deserted huts toward the furthest extremity.
These meadows offered an excellent camping-place. We
pitched our tents, supped, established a proper grade,
recorded the events of the day, and then went to bed.

We rose at two in the morning and dressed by candle-light. It
was a dismal and chilly business.  A few stars were shining,
but the general heavens were overcast, and the great shaft
of the Matterhorn was draped in a cable pall of clouds.
The chief guide advised a delay; he said he feared it
was going to rain.  We waited until nine o'clock, and then
got away in tolerably clear weather.

Our course led up some terrific steeps, densely wooded with
larches and cedars, and traversed by paths which the rains
had guttered and which were obstructed by loose stones.
To add to the danger and inconvenience, we were constantly
meeting returning tourists on foot and horseback,
and as constantly being crowded and battered by ascending
tourists who were in a hurry and wanted to get by.

Our troubles thickened.  About the middle of the afternoon
the seventeen guides called a halt and held a consultation.
After consulting an hour they said their first suspicion
remained intact--that is to say, they believed they
were lost.  I asked if they did not KNOW it? No, they said,
they COULDN'T absolutely know whether they were lost or not,
because none of them had ever been in that part of the
country before.  They had a strong instinct that they
were lost, but they had no proofs--except that they
did not know where they were.  They had met no tourists
for some time, and they considered that a suspicious sign.

Plainly we were in an ugly fix.  The guides were naturally
unwilling to go alone and seek a way out of the difficulty;
so we all went together.  For better security we moved
slow and cautiously, for the forest was very dense.
We did not move up the mountain, but around it, hoping to
strike across the old trail.  Toward nightfall, when we
were about tired out, we came up against a rock as big
as a cottage.  This barrier took all the remaining spirit
out of the men, and a panic of fear and despair ensued.
They moaned and wept, and said they should never see
their homes and their dear ones again.  Then they began
to upbraid me for bringing them upon this fatal expedition.
Some even muttered threats against me.

Clearly it was no time to show weakness.  So I made
a speech in which I said that other Alp-climbers had been
in as perilous a position as this, and yet by courage
and perseverance had escaped.  I promised to stand by them,
I promised to rescue them.  I closed by saying we had plenty
of provisions to maintain us for quite a siege--and did they
suppose Zermatt would allow half a mile of men and mules
to mysteriously disappear during any considerable time,
right above their noses, and make no inquiries? No,
Zermatt would send out searching-expeditions and we should be
saved.

This speech had a great effect.  The men pitched the tents
with some little show of cheerfulness, and we were snugly
under cover when the night shut down.  I now reaped
the reward of my wisdom in providing one article which is
not mentioned in any book of Alpine adventure but this.
I refer to the paregoric.  But for that beneficent drug,
would have not one of those men slept a moment during that
fearful night.  But for that gentle persuader they must
have tossed, unsoothed, the night through; for the whiskey
was for me.  Yes, they would have risen in the morning
unfitted for their heavy task.  As it was, everybody slept
but my agent and me--only we and the barkeepers.
I would not permit myself to sleep at such a time.
I considered myself responsible for all those lives.
I meant to be on hand and ready, in case of avalanches
up there, but I did not know it then.

We watched the weather all through that awful night,
and kept an eye on the barometer, to be prepared for
the least change.  There was not the slightest change
recorded by the instrument, during the whole time.
Words cannot describe the comfort that that friendly,
hopeful, steadfast thing was to me in that season
of trouble.  It was a defective barometer, and had no hand
but the stationary brass pointer, but I did not know that
until afterward.  If I should be in such a situation again,
I should not wish for any barometer but that one.

All hands rose at two in the morning and took breakfast,
and as soon as it was light we roped ourselves together
and went at that rock.  For some time we tried the hook-rope
and other means of scaling it, but without success--that is,
without perfect success.  The hook caught once, and Harris
started up it hand over hand, but the hold broke and if
there had not happened to be a chaplain sitting underneath
at the time, Harris would certainly have been crippled.
As it was, it was the chaplain.  He took to his crutches,
and I ordered the hook-rope to be laid aside.
It was too dangerous an implement where so many people
are standing around.

We were puzzled for a while; then somebody thought of
the ladders.  One of these was leaned against the rock,
and the men went up it tied together in couples.
Another ladder was sent up for use in descending.
At the end of half an hour everybody was over, and that rock
was conquered.  We gave our first grand shout of triumph.
But the joy was short-lived, for somebody asked how we were
going to get the animals over.

This was a serious difficulty; in fact, it was an impossibility.
The courage of the men began to waver immediately; once more
we were threatened with a panic.  But when the danger
was most imminent, we were saved in a mysterious way.
A mule which had attracted attention from the beginning
by its disposition to experiment, tried to eat a five-pound
can of nitroglycerin.  This happened right alongside
the rock.  The explosion threw us all to the ground,
and covered us with dirt and debris; it frightened
us extremely, too, for the crash it made was deafening,
and the violence of the shock made the ground tremble.
However, we were grateful, for the rock was gone.
Its place was occupied by a new cellar, about thirty
feet across, by fifteen feet deep.  The explosion was
heard as far as Zermatt; and an hour and a half afterward,
many citizens of that town were knocked down and quite
seriously injured by descending portions of mule meat,
frozen solid.  This shows, better than any estimate
in figures, how high the experimenter went.

We had nothing to do, now, but bridge the cellar and proceed
on our way.  With a cheer the men went at their work.
I attended to the engineering, myself.  I appointed a strong
detail to cut down trees with ice-axes and trim them for
piers to support the bridge.  This was a slow business,
for ice-axes are not good to cut wood with.  I caused
my piers to be firmly set up in ranks in the cellar,
and upon them I laid six of my forty-foot ladders,
side by side, and laid six more on top of them.
Upon this bridge I caused a bed of boughs to be spread,
and on top of the boughs a bed of earth six inches deep.
I stretched ropes upon either side to serve as railings,
and then my bridge was complete.  A train of elephants
could have crossed it in safety and comfort.  By nightfall
the caravan was on the other side and the ladders were
taken up.

Next morning we went on in good spirits for a while,
though our way was slow and difficult, by reason of the
steep and rocky nature of the ground and the thickness
of the forest; but at last a dull despondency crept into
the men's faces and it was apparent that not only they,
but even the guides, were now convinced that we were lost.
The fact that we still met no tourists was a circumstance
that was but too significant.  Another thing seemed to
suggest that we were not only lost, but very badly lost;
for there must surely be searching-parties on the road
before this time, yet we had seen no sign of them.

Demoralization was spreading; something must be done,
and done quickly, too.  Fortunately, I am not unfertile
in expedients.  I contrived one now which commended itself
to all, for it promised well.  I took three-quarters
of a mile of rope and fastened one end of it around
the waist of a guide, and told him to go find the road,
while the caravan waited.  I instructed him to guide himself
back by the rope, in case of failure; in case of success,
he was to give the rope a series of violent jerks,
whereupon the Expedition would go to him at once.
He departed, and in two minutes had disappeared among
the trees.  I payed out the rope myself, while everybody
watched the crawling thing with eager eyes.  The rope
crept away quite slowly, at times, at other times with
some briskness.  Twice or thrice we seemed to get the signal,
and a shout was just ready to break from the men's lips
when they perceived it was a false alarm.  But at last,
when over half a mile of rope had slidden away, it stopped
gliding and stood absolutely still--one minute--two
minutes--three--while we held our breath and watched.

Was the guide resting? Was he scanning the country from
some high point? Was he inquiring of a chance mountaineer?
Stop,--had he fainted from excess of fatigue and anxiety?

This thought gave us a shock.  I was in the very first act
of detailing an Expedition to succor him, when the cord
was assailed with a series of such frantic jerks that I
could hardly keep hold of it.  The huzza that went up,
then, was good to hear.  "Saved! saved!" was the word
that rang out, all down the long rank of the caravan.

We rose up and started at once.  We found the route to be
good enough for a while, but it began to grow difficult,
by and by, and this feature steadily increased.  When we
judged we had gone half a mile, we momently expected
to see the guide; but no, he was not visible anywhere;
neither was he waiting, for the rope was still moving,
consequently he was doing the same.  This argued that he
had not found the road, yet, but was marching to it
with some peasant.  There was nothing for us to do but
plod along--and this we did.  At the end of three hours
we were still plodding.  This was not only mysterious,
but exasperating.  And very fatiguing, too; for we had
tried hard, along at first, to catch up with the guide,
but had only fagged ourselves, in vain; for although he
was traveling slowly he was yet able to go faster than the
hampered caravan over such ground.

At three in the afternoon we were nearly dead with
exhaustion--and still the rope was slowly gliding out.
The murmurs against the guide had been growing steadily,
and at last they were become loud and savage.
A mutiny ensued.  The men refused to proceed.  They declared
that we had been traveling over and over the same ground
all day, in a kind of circle.  They demanded that our
end of the rope be made fast to a tree, so as to halt
the guide until we could overtake him and kill him.
This was not an unreasonable requirement, so I gave the order.

As soon as the rope was tied, the Expedition moved
forward with that alacrity which the thirst for
vengeance usually inspires.  But after a tiresome march
of almost half a mile, we came to a hill covered thick
with a crumbly rubbish of stones, and so steep that no
man of us all was now in a condition to climb it.
Every attempt failed, and ended in crippling somebody.
Within twenty minutes I had five men on crutches.
Whenever a climber tried to assist himself by the rope,
it yielded and let him tumble backward.  The frequency
of this result suggested an idea to me.  I ordered
the caravan to 'bout face and form in marching order;
I then made the tow-rope fast to the rear mule, and gave
the command:

"Mark time--by the right flank--forward--march!"

The procession began to move, to the impressive strains
of a battle-chant, and I said to myself, "Now, if the rope
don't break I judge THIS will fetch that guide into the camp."
I watched the rope gliding down the hill, and presently
when I was all fixed for triumph I was confronted
by a bitter disappointment; there was no guide tied
to the rope, it was only a very indignant old black ram.
The fury of the baffled Expedition exceeded all bounds.
They even wanted to wreak their unreasoning vengeance on this
innocent dumb brute.  But I stood between them and their prey,
menaced by a bristling wall of ice-axes and alpenstocks,
and proclaimed that there was but one road to this murder,
and it was directly over my corpse.  Even as I spoke I
saw that my doom was sealed, except a miracle supervened
to divert these madmen from their fell purpose.  I see
the sickening wall of weapons now; I see that advancing
host as I saw it then, I see the hate in those cruel eyes;
I remember how I drooped my head upon my breast,
I feel again the sudden earthquake shock in my rear,
administered by the very ram I was sacrificing myself to save;
I hear once more the typhoon of laughter that burst from
the assaulting column as I clove it from van to rear
like a Sepoy shot from a Rodman gun.

I was saved.  Yes, I was saved, and by the merciful instinct
of ingratitude which nature had planted in the breast
of that treacherous beast.  The grace which eloquence
had failed to work in those men's hearts, had been wrought
by a laugh.  The ram was set free and my life was spared.

We lived to find out that that guide had deserted us as soon
as he had placed a half-mile between himself and us.
To avert suspicion, he had judged it best that the line
should continue to move; so he caught that ram, and at
the time that he was sitting on it making the rope fast
to it, we were imagining that he was lying in a swoon,
overcome by fatigue and distress.  When he allowed the ram
to get up it fell to plunging around, trying to rid itself
of the rope, and this was the signal which we had risen
up with glad shouts to obey.  We had followed this ram
round and round in a circle all day--a thing which was
proven by the discovery that we had watered the Expedition
seven times at one and same spring in seven hours.
As expert a woodman as I am, I had somehow failed to notice
this until my attention was called to it by a hog.
This hog was always wallowing there, and as he was the
only hog we saw, his frequent repetition, together with
his unvarying similarity to himself, finally caused me
to reflect that he must be the same hog, and this led
me to the deduction that this must be the same spring,
also--which indeed it was.

I made a note of this curious thing, as showing
in a striking manner the relative difference between
glacial action and the action of the hog.  It is now
a well-established fact that glaciers move; I consider
that my observations go to show, with equal conclusiveness,
that a hog in a spring does not move.  I shall be glad
to receive the opinions of other observers upon this point.

To return, for an explanatory moment, to that guide,
and then I shall be done with him.  After leaving the ram
tied to the rope, he had wandered at large a while,
and then happened to run across a cow.  Judging that
a cow would naturally know more than a guide, he took
her by the tail, and the result justified his judgment.
She nibbled her leisurely way downhill till it was near
milking-time, then she struck for home and towed him
into Zermatt.



CHAPTER XXXVIII
[I Conquer the Gorner Grat]

We went into camp on that wild spot to which that ram
had brought us.  The men were greatly fatigued.
Their conviction that we were lost was forgotten in the cheer
of a good supper, and before the reaction had a chance
to set in, I loaded them up with paregoric and put them to bed.

Next morning I was considering in my mind our desperate
situation and trying to think of a remedy, when Harris
came to me with a Baedeker map which showed conclusively
that the mountain we were on was still in Switzerland--yes,
every part of it was in Switzerland.  So we were not lost,
after all.  This was an immense relief; it lifted the weight
of two such mountains from my breast.  I immediately
had the news disseminated and the map was exhibited.
The effect was wonderful.  As soon as the men saw with
their own eyes that they knew where they were, and that it
was only the summit that was lost and not themselves,
they cheered up instantly and said with one accord,
let the summit take care of itself.

Our distresses being at an end, I now determined to rest
the men in camp and give the scientific department of the
Expedition a chance.  First, I made a barometric observation,
to get our altitude, but I could not perceive that there
was any result.  I knew, by my scientific reading,
that either thermometers or barometers ought to be boiled,
to make them accurate; I did not know which it was,
so I boiled them both.  There was still no result;
so I examined these instruments and discovered that they
possessed radical blemishes: the barometer had no hand
but the brass pointer and the ball of the thermometer was
stuffed with tin-foil. I might have boiled those things
to rags, and never found out anything.

I hunted up another barometer; it was new and perfect.
I boiled it half an hour in a pot of bean soup which
the cooks were making.  The result was unexpected: the
instrument was not affecting at all, but there was such
a strong barometer taste to the soup that the head cook,
who was a most conscientious person, changed its name
in the bill of fare.  The dish was so greatly liked by all,
that I ordered the cook to have barometer soup every day.
It was believed that the barometer might eventually
be injured, but I did not care for that.  I had demonstrated
to my satisfaction that it could not tell how high
a mountain was, therefore I had no real use for it.
Changes in the weather I could take care of without it;
I did not wish to know when the weather was going to be good,
what I wanted to know was when it was going to be bad,
and this I could find out from Harris's corns.  Harris had
had his corns tested and regulated at the government
observatory in Heidelberg, and one could depend upon them
with confidence.  So I transferred the new barometer to
the cooking department, to be used for the official mess.
It was found that even a pretty fair article of soup could
be made from the defective barometer; so I allowed that one
to be transferred to the subordinate mess.

I next boiled the thermometer, and got a most excellent result;
the mercury went up to about 200 degrees Fahrenheit.
In the opinion of the other scientists of the Expedition,
this seemed to indicate that we had attained the extraordinary
altitude of two hundred thousand feet above sea-level.
Science places the line of eternal snow at about ten thousand
feet above sea-level. There was no snow where we were,
consequently it was proven that the eternal snow-line
ceases somewhere above the ten-thousand-foot level and
does not begin any more.  This was an interesting fact,
and one which had not been observed by any observer before.
It was as valuable as interesting, too, since it would open
up the deserted summits of the highest Alps to population
and agriculture.  It was a proud thing to be where we were,
yet it caused us a pang to reflect that but for that ram we
might just as well been two hundred thousand feet higher.

The success of my last experiment induced me to try an
experiment with my photographic apparatus.  I got it out,
and boiled one of my cameras, but the thing was a failure;
it made the wood swell up and burst, and I could not see
that the lenses were any better than they were before.

I now concluded to boil a guide.  It might improve him,
it could not impair his usefulness.  But I was not
allowed to proceed.  Guides have no feeling for science,
and this one would not consent to be made uncomfortable
in its interest.

In the midst of my scientific work, one of those
needless accidents happened which are always occurring
among the ignorant and thoughtless.  A porter shot
at a chamois and missed it and crippled the Latinist.
This was not a serious matter to me, for a Latinist's
duties are as well performed on crutches as otherwise--
but the fact remained that if the Latinist had not
happened to be in the way a mule would have got
that load.  That would have been quite another matter,
for when it comes down to a question of value there is
a palpable difference between a Latinist and a mule.
I could not depend on having a Latinist in the right
place every time; so, to make things safe, I ordered
that in the future the chamois must not be hunted within
limits of the camp with any other weapon than the forefinger.

My nerves had hardly grown quiet after this affair when
they got another shake-up--one which utterly unmanned
me for a moment: a rumor swept suddenly through the camp
that one of the barkeepers had fallen over a precipice!

However, it turned out that it was only a chaplain.
I had laid in an extra force of chaplains, purposely to
be prepared for emergencies like this, but by some
unaccountable oversight had come away rather short-handed
in the matter of barkeepers.

On the following morning we moved on, well refreshed and in
good spirits.  I remember this day with peculiar pleasure,
because it saw our road restored to us.  Yes, we found
our road again, and in quite an extraordinary way.
We had plodded along some two hours and a half, when we came
up against a solid mass of rock about twenty feet high.
I did not need to be instructed by a mule this time.
I was already beginning to know more than any mule in
the Expedition.  I at once put in a blast of dynamite,
and lifted that rock out of the way.  But to my surprise
and mortification, I found that there had been a chalet
on top of it.

I picked up such members of the family as fell in my vicinity,
and subordinates of my corps collected the rest.
None of these poor people were injured, happily, but they
were much annoyed.  I explained to the head chaleteer
just how the thing happened, and that I was only searching
for the road, and would certainly have given him timely
notice if I had known he was up there.  I said I had
meant no harm, and hoped I had not lowered myself in
his estimation by raising him a few rods in the air.
I said many other judicious things, and finally when I
offered to rebuild his chalet, and pay for the breakages,
and throw in the cellar, he was mollified and satisfied.
He hadn't any cellar at all, before; he would not have
as good a view, now, as formerly, but what he had lost
in view he had gained in cellar, by exact measurement.
He said there wasn't another hole like that in the mountains--
and he would have been right if the late mule had not tried
to eat up the nitroglycerin.

I put a hundred and sixteen men at work, and they rebuilt
the chalet from its own debris in fifteen minutes.
It was a good deal more picturesque than it was before,
too.  The man said we were now on the Feil-Stutz, above
the Schwegmatt--information which I was glad to get,
since it gave us our position to a degree of particularity
which we had not been accustomed to for a day or so.
We also learned that we were standing at the foot
of the Riffelberg proper, and that the initial chapter
of our work was completed.

We had a fine view, from here, of the energetic Visp,
as it makes its first plunge into the world from under a huge
arch of solid ice, worn through the foot-wall of the great
Gorner Glacier; and we could also see the Furggenbach,
which is the outlet of the Furggen Glacier.

The mule-road to the summit of the Riffelberg passed right
in front of the chalet, a circumstance which we almost
immediately noticed, because a procession of tourists was
filing along it pretty much all the time.  [1] The chaleteer's
business consisted in furnishing refreshments to tourists.
My blast had interrupted this trade for a few minutes,
by breaking all the bottles on the place; but I gave
the man a lot of whiskey to sell for Alpine champagne,
and a lot of vinegar which would answer for Rhine wine,
consequently trade was soon as brisk as ever.

1.  "Pretty much" may not be elegant English, but it is
    high time it was.  There is no elegant word or phrase
    which means just what it means.--M.T.

Leaving the Expedition outside to rest, I quartered myself
in the chalet, with Harris, proposing to correct my journals
and scientific observations before continuing the ascent.
I had hardly begun my work when a tall, slender, vigorous
American youth of about twenty-three, who was on his
way down the mountain, entered and came toward me with
that breeze self-complacency which is the adolescent's
idea of the well-bred ease of the man of the world.
His hair was short and parted accurately in the middle,
and he had all the look of an American person who would
be likely to begin his signature with an initial,
and spell his middle name out.  He introduced himself,
smiling a smirky smile borrowed from the courtiers
of the stage, extended a fair-skinned talon, and while
he gripped my hand in it he bent his body forward
three times at the hips, as the stage courtier does,
and said in the airiest and most condescending
and patronizing way--I quite remember his exact language:

"Very glad to make your acquaintance, 'm sure; very glad indeed,
assure you.  I've read all your little efforts and greatly
admired them, and when I heard you were here, I ..."

I indicated a chair, and he sat down.  This grandee was
the grandson of an American of considerable note in his day,
and not wholly forgotten yet--a man who came so near
being a great man that he was quite generally accounted
one while he lived.

I slowly paced the floor, pondering scientific problems,
and heard this conversation:

GRANDSON.  First visit to Europe?

HARRIS.  Mine? Yes.

G.S. (With a soft reminiscent sigh suggestive of bygone
joys that may be tasted in their freshness but once.)
Ah, I know what it is to you.  A first visit!--ah,
the romance of it! I wish I could feel it again.

H. Yes, I find it exceeds all my dreams.  It is enchantment.
I go...

G.S. (With a dainty gesture of the hand signifying "Spare
me your callow enthusiasms, good friend.") Yes, _I_ know,
I know; you go to cathedrals, and exclaim; and you drag
through league-long picture-galleries and exclaim; and you
stand here, and there, and yonder, upon historic ground,
and continue to exclaim; and you are permeated with
your first crude conceptions of Art, and are proud
and happy.  Ah, yes, proud and happy--that expresses it.
Yes-yes, enjoy it--it is right--it is an innocent revel.

H. And you? Don't you do these things now?

G.S. I! Oh, that is VERY good! My dear sir, when you
are as old a traveler as I am, you will not ask such
a question as that.  _I_ visit the regulation gallery,
moon around the regulation cathedral, do the worn round
of the regulation sights, YET?--Excuse me!

H. Well, what DO you do, then?

G.S. Do? I flit--and flit--for I am ever on the wing--but I
avoid the herd.  Today I am in Paris, tomorrow in Berlin,
anon in Rome; but you would look for me in vain in the
galleries of the Louvre or the common resorts of the
gazers in those other capitals.  If you would find me,
you must look in the unvisited nooks and corners where
others never think of going.  One day you will find me
making myself at home in some obscure peasant's cabin,
another day you will find me in some forgotten castle
worshiping some little gem or art which the careless eye
has overlooked and which the unexperienced would despise;
again you will find me as guest in the inner sanctuaries
of palaces while the herd is content to get a hurried
glimpse of the unused chambers by feeing a servant.

H. You are a GUEST in such places?

G.S. And a welcoming one.

H. It is surprising.  How does it come?

G.S. My grandfather's name is a passport to all the courts
in Europe.  I have only to utter that name and every
door is open to me.  I flit from court to court at my
own free will and pleasure, and am always welcome.
I am as much at home in the palaces of Europe as you are
among your relatives.  I know every titled person in Europe,
I think.  I have my pockets full of invitations all the time.
I am under promise to go to Italy, where I am to be the
guest of a succession of the noblest houses in the land.
In Berlin my life is a continued round of gaiety in the
imperial palace.  It is the same, wherever I go.

H. It must be very pleasant.  But it must make Boston
seem a little slow when you are at home.

G.S. Yes, of course it does.  But I don't go home much.
There's no life there--little to feed a man's higher nature.
Boston's very narrow, you know.  She doesn't know it, and you
couldn't convince her of it--so I say nothing when I'm
there: where's the use? Yes, Boston is very narrow, but she
has such a good opinion of herself that she can't see it.
A man who has traveled as much as I have, and seen as much
of the world, sees it plain enough, but he can't cure it,
you know, so the best is to leave it and seek a sphere
which is more in harmony with his tastes and culture.
I run across there, one a year, perhaps, when I have
nothing important on hand, but I'm very soon back again.
I spend my time in Europe.

H. I see.  You map out your plans and ...

G.S. No, excuse me.  I don't map out any plans.  I simply
follow the inclination of the day.  I am limited by no ties,
no requirements, I am not bound in any way.  I am too old
a traveler to hamper myself with deliberate purposes.
I am simply a traveler--an inveterate traveler--a man of
the world, in a word--I can call myself by no other name.
I do not say, "I am going here, or I am going there"--I
say nothing at all, I only act.  For instance, next week
you may find me the guest of a grandee of Spain, or you
may find me off for Venice, or flitting toward Dresden.
I shall probably go to Egypt presently; friends will say
to friends, "He is at the Nile cataracts"--and at that
very moment they will be surprised to learn that I'm away
off yonder in India somewhere.  I am a constant surprise
to people.  They are always saying, "Yes, he was in Jerusalem
when we heard of him last, but goodness knows where he
is now."

Presently the Grandson rose to leave--discovered he
had an appointment with some Emperor, perhaps.  He did
his graces over again: gripped me with one talon,
at arm's-length, pressed his hat against his stomach
with the other, bent his body in the middle three times,
murmuring:

"Pleasure, 'm sure; great pleasure, 'm sure.  Wish you
much success."

Then he removed his gracious presence.  It is a great
and solemn thing to have a grandfather.

I have not purposed to misrepresent this boy in any way,
for what little indignation he excited in me soon
passed and left nothing behind it but compassion.
One cannot keep up a grudge against a vacuum.
I have tried to repeat this lad's very words;
if I have failed anywhere I have at least not failed
to reproduce the marrow and meaning of what he said.
He and the innocent chatterbox whom I met on the Swiss
lake are the most unique and interesting specimens of
Young America I came across during my foreign tramping.
I have made honest portraits of them, not caricatures.
The Grandson of twenty-three referred to himself five
or six times as an "old traveler," and as many as three
times (with a serene complacency which was maddening)
as a "man of the world." There was something very delicious
about his leaving Boston to her "narrowness," unreproved
and uninstructed.

I formed the caravan in marching order, presently,
and after riding down the line to see that it was
properly roped together, gave the command to proceed.
In a little while the road carried us to open, grassy land.
We were above the troublesome forest, now, and had an
uninterrupted view, straight before us, of our summit--
the summit of the Riffelberg.

We followed the mule-road, a zigzag course, now to the right,
now to the left, but always up, and always crowded and
incommoded by going and coming files of reckless tourists
who were never, in a single instance, tied together.
I was obliged to exert the utmost care and caution,
for in many places the road was not two yards wide,
and often the lower side of it sloped away in slanting
precipices eight and even nine feet deep.  I had to
encourage the men constantly, to keep them from giving
way to their unmanly fears.

We might have made the summit before night, but for a
delay caused by the loss of an umbrella.  I was allowing
the umbrella to remain lost, but the men murmured,
and with reason, for in this exposed region we stood
in peculiar need of protection against avalanches;
so I went into camp and detached a strong party to go
after the missing article.

The difficulties of the next morning were severe,
but our courage was high, for our goal was near.
At noon we conquered the last impediment--we stood
at last upon the summit, and without the loss of a
single man except the mule that ate the glycerin.
Our great achievement was achieved--the possibility of
the impossible was demonstrated, and Harris and I walked
proudly into the great dining-room of the Riffelberg
Hotel and stood our alpenstocks up in the corner.

Yes, I had made the grand ascent; but it was a mistake
to do it in evening dress.  The plug hats were battered,
the swallow-tails were fluttering rags, mud added no grace,
the general effect was unpleasant and even disreputable.

There were about seventy-five tourists at the hotel--
mainly ladies and little children--and they gave us
an admiring welcome which paid us for all our privations
and sufferings.  The ascent had been made, and the names
and dates now stand recorded on a stone monument there
to prove it to all future tourists.

I boiled a thermometer and took an altitude, with a most
curious result: THE SUMMIT WAS NOT AS HIGH AS THE POINT ON
THE MOUNTAINSIDE WHERE I HAD TAKEN THE FIRST ALTITUDE.
Suspecting that I had made an important discovery,
I prepared to verify it.  There happened to be a still
higher summit (called the Gorner Grat), above the hotel,
and notwithstanding the fact that it overlooks a glacier
from a dizzy height, and that the ascent is difficult
and dangerous, I resolved to venture up there and boil
a thermometer.  So I sent a strong party, with some
borrowed hoes, in charge of two chiefs of service, to dig
a stairway in the soil all the way up, and this I ascended,
roped to the guides.  This breezy height was the summit
proper--so I accomplished even more than I had originally
purposed to do.  This foolhardy exploit is recorded on
another stone monument.

I boiled my thermometer, and sure enough, this spot,
which purported to be two thousand feet higher than the
locality of the hotel, turned out to be nine thousand
feet LOWER.  Thus the fact was clearly demonstrated that,
ABOVE A CERTAIN POINT, THE HIGHER A POINT SEEMS TO BE,
THE LOWER IT ACTUALLY IS.  Our ascent itself was a
great achievement, but this contribution to science was
an inconceivably greater matter.

Cavilers object that water boils at a lower and lower
temperature the higher and higher you go, and hence the
apparent anomaly.  I answer that I do not base my theory
upon what the boiling water does, but upon what a boiled
thermometer says.  You can't go behind the thermometer.

I had a magnificent view of Monte Rosa, and apparently
all the rest of the Alpine world, from that high place.
All the circling horizon was piled high with a mighty
tumult of snowy crests.  One might have imagined he
saw before him the tented camps of a beleaguering host
of Brobdingnagians.

But lonely, conspicuous, and superb, rose that wonderful
upright wedge, the Matterhorn.  Its precipitous sides were
powdered over with snow, and the upper half hidden in thick
clouds which now and then dissolved to cobweb films and gave
brief glimpses of the imposing tower as through a veil.
[2] A little later the Matterhorn took to himself the
semblance of a volcano; he was stripped naked to his apex--
around this circled vast wreaths of white cloud which strung
slowly out and streamed away slantwise toward the sun,
a twenty-mile stretch of rolling and tumbling vapor,
and looking just as if it were pouring out of a crater.
Later again, one of the mountain's sides was clean and clear,
and another side densely clothed from base to summit in
thick smokelike cloud which feathered off and flew around
the shaft's sharp edge like the smoke around the corners of
a burning building.  The Matterhorn is always experimenting,
and always gets up fine effects, too.  In the sunset,
when all the lower world is palled in gloom, it points
toward heaven out of the pervading blackness like a finger
of fire.  In the sunrise--well, they say it is very fine
in the sunrise.

2.  NOTE.--I had the very unusual luck to catch one little
    momentary glimpse of the Matterhorn wholly unencumbered
    by clouds.  I leveled my photographic apparatus at it
    without the loss of an instant, and should have got
    an elegant picture if my donkey had not interfered.
    It was my purpose to draw this photograph all by myself
    for my book, but was obliged to put the mountain part
    of it into the hands of the professional artist because
    I found I could not do landscape well.

Authorities agree that there is no such tremendous "layout"
of snowy Alpine magnitude, grandeur, and sublimity to be
seen from any other accessible point as the tourist may see
from the summit of the Riffelberg.  Therefore, let the
tourist rope himself up and go there; for I have shown
that with nerve, caution, and judgment, the thing can be done.

I wish to add one remark, here--in parentheses, so to speak
--suggested by the word "snowy," which I have just used.
We have all seen hills and mountains and levels with snow
on them, and so we think we know all the aspects and
effects produced by snow.  But indeed we do not until
we have seen the Alps.  Possibly mass and distance add
something--at any rate, something IS added.  Among other
noticeable things, there is a dazzling, intense whiteness
about the distant Alpine snow, when the sun is on it,
which one recognizes as peculiar, and not familiar to
the eye.  The snow which one is accustomed to has a tint
to it--painters usually give it a bluish cast--but there
is no perceptible tint to the distant Alpine snow when it
is trying to look its whitest.  As to the unimaginable
splendor of it when the sun is blazing down on it--well,
it simply IS unimaginable.



CHAPTER XXXIX
[We Travel by Glacier]

A guide-book is a queer thing.  The reader has just seen
what a man who undertakes the great ascent from Zermatt
to the Riffelberg Hotel must experience.  Yet Baedeker
makes these strange statements concerning this matter:

1.  Distance--3 hours.
2.  The road cannot be mistaken.
3.  Guide unnecessary.
4.  Distance from Riffelberg Hotel to the Gorner Grat,
    one hour and a half.
5.  Ascent simple and easy.  Guide unnecessary.
6.  Elevation of Zermatt above sea-level, 5,315 feet.
7.  Elevation of Riffelberg Hotel above sea-level,
    8,429 feet.
8.  Elevation of the Gorner Grat above sea-level, 10,289 feet.

I have pretty effectually throttled these errors by sending
him the following demonstrated facts:

1.  Distance from Zermatt to Riffelberg Hotel, 7 days.
2.  The road CAN be mistaken.  If I am the first that did it,
    I want the credit of it, too.
3.  Guides ARE necessary, for none but a native can read
    those finger-boards.
4.  The estimate of the elevation of the several localities
    above sea-level is pretty correct--for Baedeker.
    He only misses it about a hundred and eighty or ninety
    thousand feet.

I found my arnica invaluable.  My men were suffering
excruciatingly, from the friction of sitting down so much.
During two or three days, not one of them was able to do
more than lie down or walk about; yet so effective was
the arnica, that on the fourth all were able to sit up.
I consider that, more than to anything else, I owe the
success of our great undertaking to arnica and paregoric.

My men are being restored to health and strength,
my main perplexity, now, was how to get them down
the mountain again.  I was not willing to expose the
brave fellows to the perils, fatigues, and hardships
of that fearful route again if it could be helped.
First I thought of balloons; but, of course, I had to
give that idea up, for balloons were not procurable.
I thought of several other expedients, but upon
consideration discarded them, for cause.  But at last
I hit it.  I was aware that the movement of glaciers
is an established fact, for I had read it in Baedeker;
so I resolved to take passage for Zermatt on the great
Gorner Glacier.

Very good.  The next thing was, how to get down the
glacier comfortably--for the mule-road to it was long,
and winding, and wearisome.  I set my mind at work,
and soon thought out a plan.  One looks straight down
upon the vast frozen river called the Gorner Glacier,
from the Gorner Grat, a sheer precipice twelve hundred
feet high.  We had one hundred and fifty-four umbrellas--
and what is an umbrella but a parachute?

I mentioned this noble idea to Harris, with enthusiasm,
and was about to order the Expedition to form on the
Gorner Grat, with their umbrellas, and prepare for
flight by platoons, each platoon in command of a guide,
when Harris stopped me and urged me not to be too hasty.
He asked me if this method of descending the Alps had
ever been tried before.  I said no, I had not heard
of an instance.  Then, in his opinion, it was a matter
of considerable gravity; in his opinion it would not be
well to send the whole command over the cliff at once;
a better way would be to send down a single individual,
first, and see how he fared.

I saw the wisdom in this idea instantly.  I said as much,
and thanked my agent cordially, and told him to take
his umbrella and try the thing right away, and wave
his hat when he got down, if he struck in a soft place,
and then I would ship the rest right along.

Harris was greatly touched with this mark of confidence,
and said so, in a voice that had a perceptible tremble in it;
but at the same time he said he did not feel himself worthy
of so conspicuous a favor; that it might cause jealousy
in the command, for there were plenty who would not hesitate
to say he had used underhanded means to get the appointment,
whereas his conscience would bear him witness that he
had not sought it at all, nor even, in his secret heart,
desired it.

I said these words did him extreme credit, but that he must not
throw away the imperishable distinction of being the first man
to descend an Alp per parachute, simply to save the feelings
of some envious underlings.  No, I said, he MUST accept
the appointment--it was no longer an invitation, it was a
command.

He thanked me with effusion, and said that putting
the thing in this form removed every objection.
He retired, and soon returned with his umbrella, his eye
flaming with gratitude and his cheeks pallid with joy.
Just then the head guide passed along.  Harris's expression
changed to one of infinite tenderness, and he said:

"That man did me a cruel injury four days ago, and I
said in my heart he should live to perceive and confess
that the only noble revenge a man can take upon his enemy
is to return good for evil.  I resign in his favor.
Appoint him."

I threw my arms around the generous fellow and said:

"Harris, you are the noblest soul that lives.  You shall
not regret this sublime act, neither shall the world
fail to know of it.  You shall have opportunity far
transcending this one, too, if I live--remember that."

I called the head guide to me and appointed him on
the spot.  But the thing aroused no enthusiasm in him.
He did not take to the idea at all.

He said:

"Tie myself to an umbrella and jump over the Gorner
Grat! Excuse me, there are a great many pleasanter roads
to the devil than that."

Upon a discussion of the subject with him, it appeared that he
considered the project distinctly and decidedly dangerous.
I was not convinced, yet I was not willing to try the
experiment in any risky way--that is, in a way that might
cripple the strength and efficiency of the Expedition.
I was about at my wits' end when it occurred to me to try
it on the Latinist.

He was called in.  But he declined, on the plea
of inexperience, diffidence in public, lack of curiosity,
and I didn't know what all.  Another man declined
on account of a cold in the head; thought he ought
to avoid exposure.  Another could not jump well--never
COULD jump well--did not believe he could jump so far
without long and patient practice.  Another was afraid it
was going to rain, and his umbrella had a hole in it.
Everybody had an excuse.  The result was what the reader
has by this time guessed: the most magnificent idea
that was ever conceived had to be abandoned, from sheer
lack of a person with enterprise enough to carry it out.
Yes, I actually had to give that thing up--while doubtless
I should live to see somebody use it and take all the credit from
me.

Well, I had to go overland--there was no other way.
I marched the Expedition down the steep and tedious mule-path
and took up as good a position as I could upon the middle
of the glacier--because Baedeker said the middle part
travels the fastest.  As a measure of economy, however,
I put some of the heavier baggage on the shoreward parts,
to go as slow freight.

I waited and waited, but the glacier did not move.
Night was coming on, the darkness began to gather--still we
did not budge.  It occurred to me then, that there might
be a time-table in Baedeker; it would be well to find out
the hours of starting.  I called for the book--it could not
be found.  Bradshaw would certainly contain a time-table;
but no Bradshaw could be found.

Very well, I must make the best of the situation.  So I
pitched the tents, picketed the animals, milked the cows,
had supper, paregoricked the men, established the watch,
and went to bed--with orders to call me as soon as we came
in sight of Zermatt.

I awoke about half past ten next morning, and looked around.
We hadn't budged a peg! At first I could not understand it;
then it occurred to me that the old thing must be aground.
So I cut down some trees and rigged a spar on the starboard
and another on the port side, and fooled away upward of
three hours trying to spar her off.  But it was no use.
She was half a mile wide and fifteen or twenty miles long,
and there was no telling just whereabouts she WAS aground.
The men began to show uneasiness, too, and presently they
came flying to me with ashy faces, saying she had sprung
a leak.

Nothing but my cool behavior at this critical time saved us
from another panic.  I order them to show me the place.
They led me to a spot where a huge boulder lay in a deep
pool of clear and brilliant water.  It did look like
a pretty bad leak, but I kept that to myself.  I made
a pump and set the men to work to pump out the glacier.
We made a success of it.  I perceived, then, that it was not
a leak at all.  This boulder had descended from a precipice
and stopped on the ice in the middle of the glacier,
and the sun had warmed it up, every day, and consequently
it had melted its way deeper and deeper into the ice,
until at last it reposed, as we had found it, in a deep
pool of the clearest and coldest water.

Presently Baedeker was found again, and I hunted eagerly
for the time-table. There was none.  The book simply said
the glacier was moving all the time.  This was satisfactory,
so I shut up the book and chose a good position to view
the scenery as we passed along.  I stood there some time
enjoying the trip, but at last it occurred to me that we did
not seem to be gaining any on the scenery.  I said to myself,
"This confounded old thing's aground again, sure,"--and
opened Baedeker to see if I could run across any remedy
for these annoying interruptions.  I soon found a sentence
which threw a dazzling light upon the matter.  It said,
"The Gorner Glacier travels at an average rate of a little
less than an inch a day." I have seldom felt so outraged.
I have seldom had my confidence so wantonly betrayed.
I made a small calculation: One inch a day, say thirty
feet a year; estimated distance to Zermatt, three and
one-eighteenth miles.  Time required to go by glacier,
A LITTLE OVER FIVE HUNDRED YEARS! I said to myself, "I can
WALK it quicker--and before I will patronize such a fraud
as this, I will do it."

When I revealed to Harris the fact that the passenger part
of this glacier--the central part--the lightning-express part,
so to speak--was not due in Zermatt till the summer
of 2378, and that the baggage, coming along the slow edge,
would not arrive until some generations later, he burst
out with:

"That is European management, all over! An inch a day--think
of that! Five hundred years to go a trifle over three miles!
But I am not a bit surprised.  It's a Catholic glacier.
You can tell by the look of it.  And the management."

I said, no, I believed nothing but the extreme end of it
was in a Catholic canton.

"Well, then, it's a government glacier," said Harris.
"It's all the same.  Over here the government runs
everything--so everything's slow; slow, and ill-managed. But
with us, everything's done by private enterprise--and then
there ain't much lolling around, you can depend on it.
I wish Tom Scott could get his hands on this torpid old
slab once--you'd see it take a different gait from this."

I said I was sure he would increase the speed, if there
was trade enough to justify it.

"He'd MAKE trade," said Harris.  "That's the difference
between governments and individuals.  Governments don't care,
individuals do.  Tom Scott would take all the trade;
in two years Gorner stock would go to two hundred,
and inside of two more you would see all the other glaciers
under the hammer for taxes." After a reflective pause,
Harris added, "A little less than an inch a day; a little
less than an INCH, mind you.  Well, I'm losing my reverence
for glaciers."

I was feeling much the same way myself.  I have traveled
by canal-boat, ox-wagon, raft, and by the Ephesus and
Smyrna railway; but when it comes down to good solid
honest slow motion, I bet my money on the glacier.
As a means of passenger transportation, I consider
the glacier a failure; but as a vehicle of slow freight,
I think she fills the bill.  In the matter of putting
the fine shades on that line of business, I judge she
could teach the Germans something.

I ordered the men to break camp and prepare for the land
journey to Zermatt.  At this moment a most interesting
find was made; a dark object, bedded in the glacial ice,
was cut out with the ice-axes, and it proved to be a piece
of the undressed skin of some animal--a hair trunk, perhaps;
but a close inspection disabled the hair-trunk theory,
and further discussion and examination exploded it
entirely--that is, in the opinion of all the scientists
except the one who had advanced it.  This one clung
to his theory with affectionate fidelity characteristic
of originators of scientific theories, and afterward won
many of the first scientists of the age to his view,
by a very able pamphlet which he wrote, entitled, "Evidences
going to show that the hair trunk, in a wild state,
belonged to the early glacial period, and roamed the wastes
of chaos in the company with the cave-bear, primeval man,
and the other Ooelitics of the Old Silurian family."

Each of our scientists had a theory of his own, and put
forward an animal of his own as a candidate for the skin.
I sided with the geologist of the Expedition in the
belief that this patch of skin had once helped to cover
a Siberian elephant, in some old forgotten age--but we
divided there, the geologist believing that this discovery
proved that Siberia had formerly been located where
Switzerland is now, whereas I held the opinion that it
merely proved that the primeval Swiss was not the dull
savage he is represented to have been, but was a being
of high intellectual development, who liked to go to the
menagerie.

We arrived that evening, after many hardships and adventures,
in some fields close to the great ice-arch where the mad
Visp boils and surges out from under the foot of the
great Gorner Glacier, and here we camped, our perils over
and our magnificent undertaking successfully completed.
We marched into Zermatt the next day, and were received
with the most lavish honors and applause.  A document,
signed and sealed by the authorities, was given to me
which established and endorsed the fact that I had made
the ascent of the Riffelberg.  This I wear around my neck,
and it will be buried with me when I am no more.



CHAPTER XL
[Piteous Relics at Chamonix]

I am not so ignorant about glacial movement, now, as I
was when I took passage on the Gorner Glacier.
I have "read up" since.  I am aware that these vast
bodies of ice do not travel at the same rate of speed;
while the Gorner Glacier makes less than an inch a day,
the Unter-Aar Glacier makes as much as eight; and still
other glaciers are said to go twelve, sixteen, and even
twenty inches a day.  One writer says that the slowest
glacier travels twenty-give feet a year, and the fastest
four hundred.

What is a glacier? It is easy to say it looks like a
frozen river which occupies the bed of a winding gorge
or gully between mountains.  But that gives no notion
of its vastness.  For it is sometimes six hundred
feet thick, and we are not accustomed to rivers six hundred
feet deep; no, our rivers are six feet, twenty feet,
and sometimes fifty feet deep; we are not quite able
to grasp so large a fact as an ice-river six hundred feet deep.

The glacier's surface is not smooth and level, but has
deep swales and swelling elevations, and sometimes has
the look of a tossing sea whose turbulent billows were
frozen hard in the instant of their most violent motion;
the glacier's surface is not a flawless mass, but is a river
with cracks or crevices, some narrow, some gaping wide.
Many a man, the victim of a slip or a misstep, has plunged
down on of these and met his death.  Men have been
fished out of them alive; but it was when they did not
go to a great depth; the cold of the great depths would
quickly stupefy a man, whether he was hurt or unhurt.
These cracks do not go straight down; one can seldom see
more than twenty to forty feet down them; consequently men
who have disappeared in them have been sought for,
in the hope that they had stopped within helping distance,
whereas their case, in most instances, had really been
hopeless from the beginning.

In 1864 a party of tourists was descending Mont Blanc,
and while picking their way over one of the mighty glaciers
of that lofty region, roped together, as was proper,
a young porter disengaged himself from the line and
started across an ice-bridge which spanned a crevice.
It broke under him with a crash, and he disappeared.
The others could not see how deep he had gone, so it might
be worthwhile to try and rescue him.  A brave young guide
named Michel Payot volunteered.

Two ropes were made fast to his leather belt and he bore
the end of a third one in his hand to tie to the victim
in case he found him.  He was lowered into the crevice,
he descended deeper and deeper between the clear blue
walls of solid ice, he approached a bend in the crack
and disappeared under it.  Down, and still down, he went,
into this profound grave; when he had reached a depth
of eighty feet he passed under another bend in the crack,
and thence descended eighty feet lower, as between
perpendicular precipices.  Arrived at this stage of one
hundred and sixty feet below the surface of the glacier,
he peered through the twilight dimness and perceived
that the chasm took another turn and stretched away at
a steep slant to unknown deeps, for its course was lost
in darkness.  What a place that was to be in--especially
if that leather belt should break! The compression
of the belt threatened to suffocate the intrepid fellow;
he called to his friends to draw him up, but could not make
them hear.  They still lowered him, deeper and deeper.
Then he jerked his third cord as vigorously as he could;
his friends understood, and dragged him out of those icy jaws
of death.

Then they attached a bottle to a cord and sent it down
two hundred feet, but it found no bottom.  It came up
covered with congelations--evidence enough that even if
the poor porter reached the bottom with unbroken bones,
a swift death from cold was sure, anyway.

A glacier is a stupendous, ever-progressing, resistless plow.
It pushes ahead of its masses of boulders which are
packed together, and they stretch across the gorge,
right in front of it, like a long grave or a long,
sharp roof.  This is called a moraine.  It also shoves
out a moraine along each side of its course.

Imposing as the modern glaciers are, they are not so
huge as were some that once existed.  For instance,
Mr. Whymper says:

"At some very remote period the Valley of Aosta was occupied
by a vast glacier, which flowed down its entire length from
Mont Blanc to the plain of Piedmont, remained stationary,
or nearly so, at its mouth for many centuries, and deposited
there enormous masses of debris.  The length of this
glacier exceeded EIGHTY MILES, and it drained a basin
twenty-five to thirty-five miles across, bounded by the
highest mountains in the Alps.  The great peaks rose
several thousand feet above the glaciers, and then, as now,
shattered by sun and frost, poured down their showers of
rocks and stones, in witness of which there are the immense
piles of angular fragments that constitute the moraines of Ivrea.


"The moraines around Ivrea are of extraordinary dimensions.
That which was on the left bank of the glacier is
about THIRTEEN MILES long, and in some places rises
to a height of TWO THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY FEET
above the floor of the valley! The terminal moraines
(those which are pushed in front of the glaciers)
cover something like twenty square miles of country.
At the mouth of the Valley of Aosta, the thickness of
the glacier must have been at least TWO THOUSAND feet,
and its width, at that part, FIVE MILES AND A QUARTER."

It is not easy to get at a comprehension of a mass of ice
like that.  If one could cleave off the butt end of such
a glacier--an oblong block two or three miles wide
by five and a quarter long and two thousand feet thick--
he could completely hide the city of New York under it,
and Trinity steeple would only stick up into it relatively
as far as a shingle-nail would stick up into the bottom
of a Saratoga trunk.

"The boulders from Mont Blanc, upon the plain below Ivrea,
assure us that the glacier which transported them existed
for a prodigious length of time.  Their present distance from
the cliffs from which they were derived is about 420,000 feet,
and if we assume that they traveled at the rate of 400 feet
per annum, their journey must have occupied them no less
than 1,055 years! In all probability they did not travel so
fast."

Glaciers are sometimes hurried out of their characteristic
snail-pace. A marvelous spectacle is presented then.
Mr. Whymper refers to a case which occurred in Iceland
in 1721:

"It seems that in the neighborhood of the mountain Kotlugja,
large bodies of water formed underneath, or within
the glaciers (either on account of the interior heat of
the earth, or from other causes), and at length acquired
irresistible power, tore the glaciers from their mooring on
the land, and swept them over every obstacle into the sea.
Prodigious masses of ice were thus borne for a distance
of about ten miles over land in the space of a few hours;
and their bulk was so enormous that they covered the sea
for seven miles from the shore, and remained aground
in six hundred feet of water! The denudation of the land
was upon a grand scale.  All superficial accumulations were
swept away, and the bedrock was exposed.  It was described,
in graphic language, how all irregularities and depressions
were obliterated, and a smooth surface of several miles'
area laid bare, and that this area had the appearance
of having been PLANED BY A PLANE."

The account translated from the Icelandic says that the
mountainlike ruins of this majestic glacier so covered
the sea that as far as the eye could reach no open water
was discoverable, even from the highest peaks.  A monster
wall or barrier of ice was built across a considerable
stretch of land, too, by this strange irruption:

"One can form some idea of the altitude of this barrier
of ice when it is mentioned that from Hofdabrekka farm,
which lies high up on a fjeld, one could not see
Hjorleifshofdi opposite, which is a fell six hundred and
forty feet in height; but in order to do so had to clamber
up a mountain slope east of Hofdabrekka twelve hundred feet
high."

These things will help the reader to understand why it is
that a man who keeps company with glaciers comes to feel
tolerably insignificant by and by.  The Alps and the glaciers
together are able to take every bit of conceit out of a man
and reduce his self-importance to zero if he will only
remain within the influence of their sublime presence long
enough to give it a fair and reasonable chance to do its work.

The Alpine glaciers move--that is granted, now, by everybody.
But there was a time when people scoffed at the idea;
they said you might as well expect leagues of solid rock
to crawl along the ground as expect leagues of ice to do it.
But proof after proof as furnished, and the finally the
world had to believe.

The wise men not only said the glacier moved, but they
timed its movement.  They ciphered out a glacier's gait,
and then said confidently that it would travel just
so far in so many years.  There is record of a striking
and curious example of the accuracy which may be attained
in these reckonings.

In 1820 the ascent of Mont Blanc was attempted by a Russian
and two Englishmen, with seven guides.  They had reached
a prodigious altitude, and were approaching the summit,
when an avalanche swept several of the party down a
sharp slope of two hundred feet and hurled five of them
(all guides) into one of the crevices of a glacier.
The life of one of the five was saved by a long barometer
which was strapped to his back--it bridged the crevice
and suspended him until help came.  The alpenstock
or baton of another saved its owner in a similar way.
Three men were lost--Pierre Balmat, Pierre Carrier,
and Auguste Tairraz.  They had been hurled down into the
fathomless great deeps of the crevice.

Dr. Forbes, the English geologist, had made frequent visits
to the Mont Blanc region, and had given much attention
to the disputed question of the movement of glaciers.
During one of these visits he completed his estimates
of the rate of movement of the glacier which had swallowed
up the three guides, and uttered the prediction that the
glacier would deliver up its dead at the foot of the
mountain thirty-five years from the time of the accident,
or possibly forty.

A dull, slow journey--a movement imperceptible to any eye--
but it was proceeding, nevertheless, and without cessation.
It was a journey which a rolling stone would make in a
few seconds--the lofty point of departure was visible
from the village below in the valley.

The prediction cut curiously close to the truth;
forty-one years after the catastrophe, the remains
were cast forth at the foot of the glacier.

I find an interesting account of the matter in the
HISTOIRE DU MONT BLANC, by Stephen d'Arve. I will
condense this account, as follows:

On the 12th of August, 1861, at the hour of the close of mass,
a guide arrived out of breath at the mairie of Chamonix,
and bearing on his shoulders a very lugubrious burden.
It was a sack filled with human remains which he had gathered
from the orifice of a crevice in the Glacier des Bossons.
He conjectured that these were remains of the victims
of the catastrophe of 1820, and a minute inquest,
immediately instituted by the local authorities,
soon demonstrated the correctness of his supposition.
The contents of the sack were spread upon a long table,
and officially inventoried, as follows:

Portions of three human skulls.  Several tufts of black and
blonde hair.  A human jaw, furnished with fine white teeth.
A forearm and hand, all the fingers of the latter intact.
The flesh was white and fresh, and both the arm and hand
preserved a degree of flexibility in the articulations.

The ring-finger had suffered a slight abrasion, and the
stain of the blood was still visible and unchanged after
forty-one years.  A left foot, the flesh white and fresh.

Along with these fragments were portions of waistcoats, hats,
hobnailed shoes, and other clothing; a wing of a pigeon,
with black feathers; a fragment of an alpenstock;
a tin lantern; and lastly, a boiled leg of mutton,
the only flesh among all the remains that exhaled an
unpleasant odor.  The guide said that the mutton had no
odor when he took it from the glacier; an hour's exposure
to the sun had already begun the work of decomposition upon it.

Persons were called for, to identify these poor pathetic relics,
and a touching scene ensured.  Two men were still living
who had witnessed the grim catastrophe of nearly half
a century before--Marie Couttet (saved by his baton)
and Julien Davouassoux (saved by the barometer). These aged
men entered and approached the table.  Davouassoux, more than
eighty years old, contemplated the mournful remains mutely
and with a vacant eye, for his intelligence and his memory
were torpid with age; but Couttet's faculties were still
perfect at seventy-two, and he exhibited strong emotion.  He
said:

"Pierre Balmat was fair; he wore a straw hat.  This bit of skull,
with the tuft of blond hair, was his; this is his hat.
Pierre Carrier was very dark; this skull was his, and this
felt hat.  This is Balmat's hand, I remember it so well!"
and the old man bent down and kissed it reverently,
then closed his fingers upon it in an affectionate grasp,
crying out, "I could never have dared to believe that
before quitting this world it would be granted me to
press once more the hand of one of those brave comrades,
the hand of my good friend Balmat."

There is something weirdly pathetic about the picture
of that white-haired veteran greeting with his loving
handshake this friend who had been dead forty years.
When these hands had met last, they were alike in the
softness and freshness of youth; now, one was brown and
wrinkled and horny with age, while the other was still
as young and fair and blemishless as if those forty years
had come and gone in a single moment, leaving no mark
of their passage.  Time had gone on, in the one case;
it had stood still in the other.  A man who has not seen
a friend for a generation, keeps him in mind always as he
saw him last, and is somehow surprised, and is also shocked,
to see the aging change the years have wrought when he
sees him again.  Marie Couttet's experience, in finding
his friend's hand unaltered from the image of it which he
had carried in his memory for forty years, is an experience
which stands alone in the history of man, perhaps.

Couttet identified other relics:

"This hat belonged to Auguste Tairraz.  He carried
the cage of pigeons which we proposed to set free upon
the summit.  Here is the wing of one of those pigeons.
And here is the fragment of my broken baton; it was by
grace of that baton that my life was saved.  Who could
have told me that I should one day have the satisfaction
to look again upon this bit of wood that supported me above
the grave that swallowed up my unfortunate companions!"

No portions of the body of Tairraz, other than a piece
of the skull, had been found.  A diligent search was made,
but without result.  However, another search was
instituted a year later, and this had better success.
Many fragments of clothing which had belonged to the lost
guides were discovered; also, part of a lantern, and a
green veil with blood-stains on it.  But the interesting
feature was this:

One of the searchers came suddenly upon a sleeved arm
projecting from a crevice in the ice-wall, with the hand
outstretched as if offering greeting! "The nails of this white
hand were still rosy, and the pose of the extended fingers
seemed to express an eloquent welcome to the long-lost light of
day."

The hand and arm were alone; there was no trunk.
After being removed from the ice the flesh-tints quickly
faded out and the rosy nails took on the alabaster
hue of death.  This was the third RIGHT hand found;
therefore, all three of the lost men were accounted for,
beyond cavil or question.

Dr. Hamel was the Russian gentleman of the party which
made the ascent at the time of the famous disaster.
He left Chamonix as soon as he conveniently could after
the descent; and as he had shown a chilly indifference
about the calamity, and offered neither sympathy nor
assistance to the widows and orphans, he carried with
him the cordial execrations of the whole community.
Four months before the first remains were found,
a Chamonix guide named Balmat--a relative of one of
the lost men--was in London, and one day encountered
a hale old gentleman in the British Museum, who said:

"I overheard your name.  Are you from Chamonix,
Monsieur Balmat?"

"Yes, sir."

"Haven't they found the bodies of my three guides,
yet? I am Dr. Hamel."

"Alas, no, monsieur."

"Well, you'll find them, sooner or later."

"Yes, it is the opinion of Dr. Forbes and Mr. Tyndall,
that the glacier will sooner or later restore to us the
remains of the unfortunate victims."

"Without a doubt, without a doubt.  And it will be a great
thing for Chamonix, in the matter of attracting tourists.
You can get up a museum with those remains that will draw!"

This savage idea has not improved the odor of Dr. Hamel's
name in Chamonix by any means.  But after all, the man
was sound on human nature.  His idea was conveyed
to the public officials of Chamonix, and they gravely
discussed it around the official council-table. They
were only prevented from carrying it into execution by
the determined opposition of the friends and descendants
of the lost guides, who insisted on giving the remains
Christian burial, and succeeded in their purpose.

A close watch had to be kept upon all the poor remnants
and fragments, to prevent embezzlement.  A few accessory
odds and ends were sold.  Rags and scraps of the coarse
clothing were parted with at the rate equal to about
twenty dollars a yard; a piece of a lantern and one or
two other trifles brought nearly their weight in gold;
and an Englishman offered a pound sterling for a single
breeches-button.



CHAPTER XLI
[The Fearful Disaster of 1865]

One of the most memorable of all the Alpine catastrophes
was that of July, 1865, on the Matterhorn--already
sighted referred to, a few pages back.  The details
of it are scarcely known in America.  To the vast
majority of readers they are not known at all.
Mr. Whymper's account is the only authentic one.
I will import the chief portion of it into this book,
partly because of its intrinsic interest, and partly
because it gives such a vivid idea of what the perilous
pastime of Alp-climbing is.  This was Mr. Whymper's
NINTH attempt during a series of years, to vanquish
that steep and stubborn pillar or rock; it succeeded,
the other eight were failures.  No man had ever accomplished
the ascent before, though the attempts had been numerous.

MR. WHYMPER'S NARRATIVE

We started from Zermatt on the 13th of July, at half
past five, on a brilliant and perfectly cloudless morning.
We were eight in number--Croz (guide), old Peter
Taugwalder (guide) and his two sons; Lord F. Douglas,
Mr. Hadow, Rev. Mr. Hudson, and I. To insure steady
motion, one tourist and one native walked together.
The youngest Taugwalder fell to my share.  The wine-bags
also fell to my lot to carry, and throughout the day,
after each drink, I replenished them secretly with water,
so that at the next halt they were found fuller than
before! This was considered a good omen, and little short
of miraculous.

On the first day we did not intend to ascend to any
great height, and we mounted, accordingly, very leisurely.
Before twelve o'clock we had found a good position
for the tent, at a height of eleven thousand feet.
We passed the remaining hours of daylight--some basking
in the sunshine, some sketching, some collecting;
Hudson made tea, I coffee, and at length we retired,
each one to his blanket bag.

We assembled together before dawn on the 14th
and started directly it was light enough to move.
One of the young Taugwalders returned to Zermatt.
In a few minutes we turned the rib which had intercepted
the view of the eastern face from our tent platform.
The whole of this great slope was now revealed, rising for
three thousand feet like a huge natural staircase.
Some parts were more, and others were less easy, but we
were not once brought to a halt by any serious impediment,
for when an obstruction was met in front it could always
be turned to the right or to the left.  For the greater part
of the way there was no occasion, indeed, for the rope,
and sometimes Hudson led, sometimes myself.  At six-twenty we
had attained a height of twelve thousand eight hundred feet,
and halted for half an hour; we then continued the ascent
without a break until nine-fifty-five, when we stopped
for fifty minutes, at a height of fourteen thousand feet.

We had now arrived at the foot of that part which, seen from
the Riffelberg, seems perpendicular or overhanging.
We could no longer continue on the eastern side.  For a little
distance we ascended by snow upon the ARE^TE--that is,
the ridge--then turned over to the right, or northern side.
The work became difficult, and required caution.  In some places
there was little to hold; the general slope of the mountain
was LESS than forty degrees, and snow had accumulated in,
and had filled up, the interstices of the rock-face, leaving
only occasional fragments projecting here and there.
These were at times covered with a thin film of ice.
It was a place which any fair mountaineer might pass
in safety.  We bore away nearly horizontally for about four
hundred feet, then ascended directly toward the summit
for about sixty feet, then doubled back to the ridge
which descends toward Zermatt.  A long stride round
a rather awkward corner brought us to snow once more.
That last doubt vanished! The Matterhorn was ours! Nothing
but two hundred feet of easy snow remained to be surmounted.

The higher we rose, the more intense became the excitement.
The slope eased off, at length we could be detached,
and Croz and I, dashed away, ran a neck-and-neck race,
which ended in a dead heat.  At 1:40 P.M., the world was at
our feet, and the Matterhorn was conquered!

The others arrived.  Croz now took the tent-pole, and
planted it in the highest snow.  "Yes," we said, "there is
the flag-staff, but where is the flag?" "Here it is,"
he answered, pulling off his blouse and fixing it to the stick.
It made a poor flag, and there was no wind to float it out,
yet it was seen all around.  They saw it at Zermatt--at
the Riffel--in the Val Tournanche... .

We remained on the summit for one hour--

One crowded hour of glorious life.

It passed away too quickly, and we began to prepare
for the descent.

Hudson and I consulted as to the best and safest arrangement
of the party.  We agreed that it was best for Croz
to go first, and Hadow second; Hudson, who was almost
equal to a guide in sureness of foot, wished to be third;
Lord Douglas was placed next, and old Peter, the strongest
of the remainder, after him.  I suggested to Hudson
that we should attach a rope to the rocks on our arrival
at the difficult bit, and hold it as we descended,
as an additional protection.  He approved the idea,
but it was not definitely decided that it should be done.
The party was being arranged in the above order while I
was sketching the summit, and they had finished,
and were waiting for me to be tied in line, when some one
remembered that our names had not been left in a bottle.
They requested me to write them down, and moved off
while it was being done.

A few minutes afterward I tied myself to young Peter,
ran down after the others, and caught them just as they
were commencing the descent of the difficult part.
Great care was being taken.  Only one man was moving at a time;
when he was firmly planted the next advanced, and so on.
They had not, however, attached the additional rope
to rocks, and nothing was said about it.  The suggestion
was not made for my own sake, and I am not sure that it
ever occurred to me again.  For some little distance we
two followed the others, detached from them, and should
have continued so had not Lord Douglas asked me, about 3
P.M., to tie on to old Peter, as he feared, he said,
that Taugwalder would not be able to hold his ground if a
slip occurred.

A few minutes later, a sharp-eyed lad ran into the Monte
Rosa Hotel, at Zermatt, saying that he had seen an avalanche
fall from the summit of the Matterhorn onto the Matterhorn
glacier.  The boy was reproved for telling idle stories;
he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he saw.

Michel Croz had laid aside his ax, and in order to give
Mr. Hadow greater security, was absolutely taking
hold of his legs, and putting his feet, one by one,
into their proper positions.  As far as I know, no one
was actually descending.  I cannot speak with certainty,
because the two leading men were partially hidden
from my sight by an intervening mass of rock, but it
is my belief, from the movements of their shoulders,
that Croz, having done as I said, was in the act
of turning round to go down a step or two himself;
at this moment Mr. Hadow slipped, fell against him,
and knocked him over.  I heard one startled exclamation
from Croz, then saw him and Mr. Hadow flying downward;
in another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps,
and Lord Douglas immediately after him.  All this was the
work of a moment.  Immediately we heard Croz's exclamation,
old Peter and I planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks
would permit; the rope was taut between us, and the jerk
came on us both as on one man.  We held; but the rope
broke midway between Taugwalder and Lord Francis Douglas.
For a few seconds we saw our unfortunate companions sliding
downward on their backs, and spreading out their hands,
endeavoring to save themselves.  They passed from our
sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from the
precipice to precipice onto the Matterhorn glacier below,
a distance of nearly four thousand feet in height.
From the moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them.
So perished our comrades!

For more than two hours afterward I thought almost every
moment that the next would be my last; for the Taugwalders,
utterly unnerved, were not only incapable of giving assistance,
but were in such a state that a slip might have been
expected from them at any moment.  After a time we were able
to do that which should have been done at first, and fixed
rope to firm rocks, in addition to being tied together.
These ropes were cut from time to time, and were left behind.
Even with their assurance the men were afraid to proceed,
and several times old Peter turned, with ashy face
and faltering limbs, and said, with terrible emphasis,
"I CANNOT!"

About 6 P.M., we arrived at the snow upon the ridge
descending toward Zermatt, and all peril was over.
We frequently looked, but in vain, for traces of our
unfortunate companions; we bent over the ridge and cried
to them, but no sound returned.  Convinced at last that
they were neither within sight nor hearing, we ceased
from our useless efforts; and, too cast down for speech,
silently gathered up our things, and the little effects
of those who were lost, and then completed the descent.

----------

Such is Mr. Whymper's graphic and thrilling narrative.
Zermatt gossip darkly hints that the elder Taugwalder
cut the rope, when the accident occurred, in order
to preserve himself from being dragged into the abyss;
but Mr. Whymper says that the ends of the rope showed
no evidence of cutting, but only of breaking.  He adds
that if Taugwalder had had the disposition to cut the rope,
he would not have had time to do it, the accident was so
sudden and unexpected.

Lord Douglas' body has never been found.  It probably
lodged upon some inaccessible shelf in the face of the
mighty precipice.  Lord Douglas was a youth of nineteen.
The three other victims fell nearly four thousand feet,
and their bodies lay together upon the glacier when found
by Mr. Whymper and the other searchers the next morning.
Their graves are beside the little church in Zermatt.



CHAPTER XLII
[Chillon has a Nice, Roomy Dungeon]

Switzerland is simply a large, humpy, solid rock,
with a thin skin of grass stretched over it.  Consequently,
they do not dig graves, they blast them out with power
and fuse.  They cannot afford to have large graveyards,
the grass skin is too circumscribed and too valuable.
It is all required for the support of the living.

The graveyard in Zermatt occupies only about one-eighth
of an acre.  The graves are sunk in the living rock, and are
very permanent; but occupation of them is only temporary;
the occupant can only stay till his grave is needed
by a later subject, he is removed, then, for they do not
bury one body on top of another.  As I understand it,
a family owns a grave, just as it owns a house.  A man dies
and leaves his house to his son--and at the same time,
this dead father succeeds to his own father's grave.
He moves out of the house and into the grave, and his
predecessor moves out of the grave and into the cellar
of the chapel.  I saw a black box lying in the churchyard,
with skull and cross-bones painted on it, and was told that
this was used in transferring remains to the cellar.

In that cellar the bones and skulls of several hundred of
former citizens were compactly corded up.  They made a pile
eighteen feet long, seven feet high, and eight feet wide.
I was told that in some of the receptacles of this kind
in the Swiss villages, the skulls were all marked,
and if a man wished to find the skulls of his ancestors
for several generations back, he could do it by these marks,
preserved in the family records.

An English gentleman who had lived some years in this region,
said it was the cradle of compulsory education.
But he said that the English idea that compulsory
education would reduce bastardy and intemperance was an
error--it has not that effect.  He said there was more
seduction in the Protestant than in the Catholic cantons,
because the confessional protected the girls.  I wonder
why it doesn't protect married women in France and Spain?

This gentleman said that among the poorer peasants in the Valais,
it was common for the brothers in a family to cast lots
to determine which of them should have the coveted privilege
of marrying, and his brethren--doomed bachelors--heroically
banded themselves together to help support the new family.

We left Zermatt in a wagon--and in a rain-storm, too--
for St. Nicholas about ten o'clock one morning.
Again we passed between those grass-clad prodigious cliffs,
specked with wee dwellings peeping over at us from
velvety green walls ten and twelve hundred feet high.
It did not seem possible that the imaginary chamois
even could climb those precipices.  Lovers on opposite
cliffs probably kiss through a spy-glass, and correspond
with a rifle.

In Switzerland the farmer's plow is a wide shovel,
which scrapes up and turns over the thin earthy skin of his
native rock--and there the man of the plow is a hero.
Now here, by our St. Nicholas road, was a grave, and it
had a tragic story.  A plowman was skinning his farm
one morning--not the steepest part of it, but still
a steep part--that is, he was not skinning the front
of his farm, but the roof of it, near the eaves--when he
absent-mindedly let go of the plow-handles to moisten
his hands, in the usual way; he lost his balance and fell
out of his farm backward; poor fellow, he never touched
anything till he struck bottom, fifteen hundred feet below.
[1] We throw a halo of heroism around the life of the
soldier and the sailor, because of the deadly dangers they
are facing all the time.  But we are not used to looking
upon farming as a heroic occupation.  This is because we
have not lived in Switzerland.

1.  This was on a Sunday.--M.T.

From St. Nicholas we struck out for Visp--or Vispach--on foot.
The rain-storms had been at work during several days,
and had done a deal of damage in Switzerland and Savoy.
We came to one place where a stream had changed its
course and plunged down a mountain in a new place,
sweeping everything before it.  Two poor but precious farms
by the roadside were ruined.  One was washed clear away,
and the bed-rock exposed; the other was buried out of sight
under a tumbled chaos of rocks, gravel, mud, and rubbish.
The resistless might of water was well exemplified.
Some saplings which had stood in the way were bent to the ground,
stripped clean of their bark, and buried under rocky debris.
The road had been swept away, too.

In another place, where the road was high up on the mountain's
face, and its outside edge protected by flimsy masonry,
we frequently came across spots where this masonry had
carved off and left dangerous gaps for mules to get over;
and with still more frequency we found the masonry
slightly crumbled, and marked by mule-hoofs, thus showing
that there had been danger of an accident to somebody.
When at last we came to a badly ruptured bit of masonry,
with hoof-prints evidencing a desperate struggle
to regain the lost foothold, I looked quite hopefully
over the dizzy precipice.  But there was nobody down there.

They take exceedingly good care of their rivers in Switzerland
and other portions of Europe.  They wall up both banks
with slanting solid stone masonry--so that from end
to end of these rivers the banks look like the wharves
at St. Louis and other towns on the Mississippi River.

It was during this walk from St. Nicholas, in the shadow
of the majestic Alps, that we came across some little
children amusing themselves in what seemed, at first,
a most odd and original way--but it wasn't; it was in
simply a natural and characteristic way.  They were roped
together with a string, they had mimic alpenstocks and
ice-axes, and were climbing a meek and lowly manure-pile
with a most blood-curdling amount of care and caution.
The "guide" at the head of the line cut imaginary steps,
in a laborious and painstaking way, and not a monkey
budged till the step above was vacated.  If we had waited
we should have witnessed an imaginary accident, no doubt;
and we should have heard the intrepid band hurrah when they
made the summit and looked around upon the "magnificent view,"
and seen them throw themselves down in exhausted attitudes
for a rest in that commanding situation.

In Nevada I used to see the children play at silver-mining.
Of course, the great thing was an accident in a mine,
and there were two "star" parts; that of the man
who fell down the mimic shaft, and that of the daring
hero who was lowered into the depths to bring him up.
I knew one small chap who always insisted on playing
BOTH of these parts--and he carried his point.
He would tumble into the shaft and die, and then come
to the surface and go back after his own remains.

It is the smartest boy that gets the hero part everywhere;
he is head guide in Switzerland, head miner in Nevada,
head bull-fighter in Spain, etc.; but I knew a preacher's son,
seven years old, who once selected a part for himself compared
to which those just mentioned are tame and unimpressive.
Jimmy's father stopped him from driving imaginary
horse-cars one Sunday--stopped him from playing captain
of an imaginary steamboat next Sunday--stopped him
from leading an imaginary army to battle the following
Sunday--and so on.  Finally the little fellow said:

"I've tried everything, and they won't any of them do.
What CAN I play?"

"I hardly know, Jimmy; but you MUST play only things
that are suitable to the Sabbath-day."

Next Sunday the preacher stepped softly to a back-room
door to see if the children were rightly employed.
He peeped in.  A chair occupied the middle of the room,
and on the back of it hung Jimmy's cap; one of his little
sisters took the cap down, nibbled at it, then passed it
to another small sister and said, "Eat of this fruit,
for it is good." The Reverend took in the situation--alas,
they were playing the Expulsion from Eden! Yet he found
one little crumb of comfort.  He said to himself, "For once
Jimmy has yielded the chief role--I have been wronging him,
I did not believe there was so much modesty in him;
I should have expected him to be either Adam or Eve."
This crumb of comfort lasted but a very little while;
he glanced around and discovered Jimmy standing in an
imposing attitude in a corner, with a dark and deadly frown
on his face.  What that meant was very plain--HE WAS
IMPERSONATING THE DEITY! Think of the guileless sublimity of
that idea.

We reached Vispach at 8 P.M., only about seven hours
out from St. Nicholas.  So we must have made fully
a mile and a half an hour, and it was all downhill,
too, and very muddy at that.  We stayed all night at
the Ho^tel de Soleil; I remember it because the landlady,
the portier, the waitress, and the chambermaid were not
separate persons, but were all contained in one neat and
chipper suit of spotless muslin, and she was the prettiest
young creature I saw in all that region.  She was the
landlord's daughter.  And I remember that the only native
match to her I saw in all Europe was the young daughter
of the landlord of a village inn in the Black Forest.
Why don't more people in Europe marry and keep hotel?

Next morning we left with a family of English friends
and went by train to Brevet, and thence by boat across
the lake to Ouchy (Lausanne).

Ouchy is memorable to me, not on account of its beautiful
situation and lovely surroundings--although these would
make it stick long in one's memory--but as the place
where _I_ caught the London TIMES dropping into humor.
It was NOT aware of it, though.  It did not do it on purpose.
An English friend called my attention to this lapse,
and cut out the reprehensible paragraph for me.  Think of
encountering a grin like this on the face of that grim
journal:

ERRATUM.--We are requested by Reuter's Telegram Company
to correct an erroneous announcement made in their Brisbane
telegram of the 2d inst., published in our impression of the 5th
inst., stating that "Lady Kennedy had given birth to twins,
the eldest being a son." The Company explain that the message
they received contained the words "Governor of Queensland,
TWINS FIRST SON." Being, however, subsequently informed
that Sir Arthur Kennedy was unmarried and that there
must be some mistake, a telegraphic repetition was at
once demanded.  It has been received today (11th inst.)
and shows that the words really telegraphed by Reuter's
agent were "Governor Queensland TURNS FIRST SOD,"
alluding to the Maryborough-Gympic Railway in course
of construction.  The words in italics were mutilated by
the telegraph in transmission from Australia, and reaching
the company in the form mentioned above gave rise to the mistake.


I had always had a deep and reverent compassion
for the sufferings of the "prisoner of Chillon,"
whose story Byron had told in such moving verse; so I took
the steamer and made pilgrimage to the dungeons of the
Castle of Chillon, to see the place where poor Bonnivard
endured his dreary captivity three hundred years ago.
I am glad I did that, for it took away some of the pain
I was feeling on the prisoner's account.  His dungeon
was a nice, cool, roomy place, and I cannot see why he
should have been dissatisfied with it.  If he had been
imprisoned in a St. Nicholas private dwelling, where the
fertilizer prevails, and the goat sleeps with the guest,
and the chickens roost on him and the cow comes in and
bothers him when he wants to muse, it would have been
another matter altogether; but he surely could not have
had a very cheerless time of it in that pretty dungeon.
It has romantic window-slits that let in generous bars
of light, and it has tall, noble columns, carved apparently
from the living rock; and what is more, they are written
all over with thousands of names; some of them--like
Byron's and Victor Hugo's--of the first celebrity.
Why didn't he amuse himself reading these names? Then
there are the couriers and tourists--swarms of them every
day--what was to hinder him from having a good time
with them? I think Bonnivard's sufferings have been overrated.

Next, we took the train and went to Martigny, on the way
to Mont Blanc.  Next morning we started, about eight
o'clock, on foot.  We had plenty of company, in the way
of wagon-loads and mule-loads of tourists--and dust.
This scattering procession of travelers was perhaps a
mile long.  The road was uphill--interminable uphill--and
tolerably steep.  The weather was blisteringly hot,
and the man or woman who had to sit on a creeping mule,
or in a crawling wagon, and broil in the beating sun,
was an object to be pitied.  We could dodge among the bushes,
and have the relief of shade, but those people could not.
They paid for a conveyance, and to get their money's worth
they rode.

We went by the way of the Te^te Noir, and after we
reached high ground there was no lack of fine scenery.
In one place the road was tunneled through a shoulder
of the mountain; from there one looked down into a gorge
with a rushing torrent in it, and on every hand was a
charming view of rocky buttresses and wooded heights.
There was a liberal allowance of pretty waterfalls, too,
on the Te^te Noir route.

About half an hour before we reached the village of
Argentie`re a vast dome of snow with the sun blazing on it
drifted into view and framed itself in a strong V-shaped
gateway of the mountains, and we recognized Mont Blanc,
the "monarch of the Alps." With every step, after that,
this stately dome rose higher and higher into the blue sky,
and at last seemed to occupy the zenith.

Some of Mont Blanc's neighbors--bare, light-brown, steeplelike
rocks--were very peculiarly shaped.  Some were whittled
to a sharp point, and slightly bent at the upper end,
like a lady's finger; one monster sugar-loaf resembled
a bishop's hat; it was too steep to hold snow on its sides,
but had some in the division.

While we were still on very high ground, and before
the descent toward Argentie`re began, we looked up
toward a neighboring mountain-top, and saw exquisite
prismatic colors playing about some white clouds which
were so delicate as to almost resemble gossamer webs.
The faint pinks and greens were peculiarly beautiful;
none of the colors were deep, they were the lightest shades.
They were bewitching commingled.  We sat down to study and
enjoy this singular spectacle.  The tints remained during
several minutes--fitting, changing, melting into each other;
paling almost away for a moment, then reflushing--a shifting,
restless, unstable succession of soft opaline gleams,
shimmering over that air film of white cloud, and turning
it into a fabric dainty enough to clothe an angel with.

By and by we perceived what those super-delicate colors,
and their continuous play and movement, reminded us of;
it is what one sees in a soap-bubble that is drifting along,
catching changes of tint from the objects it passes.
A soap-bubble is the most beautiful thing, and the
most exquisite, in nature; that lovely phantom fabric
in the sky was suggestive of a soap-bubble split open,
and spread out in the sun.  I wonder how much it would take
to buy a soap-bubble, if there was only one in the world?
One could buy a hatful of Koh-i-Noors with the same money,
no doubt.

We made the tramp from Martigny to Argentie`re in eight hours.
We beat all the mules and wagons; we didn't usually do that.
We hired a sort of open baggage-wagon for the trip down
the valley to Chamonix, and then devoted an hour to dining.
This gave the driver time to get drunk.  He had a friend
with him, and this friend also had had time to get drunk.

When we drove off, the driver said all the tourists had
arrived and gone by while we were at dinner; "but," said he,
impressively, "be not disturbed by that--remain tranquil--give
yourselves no uneasiness--their dust rises far before us--
rest you tranquil, leave all to me--I am the king of drivers.
Behold!"

Down came his whip, and away we clattered.  I never had such
a shaking up in my life.  The recent flooding rains had
washed the road clear away in places, but we never stopped,
we never slowed down for anything.  We tore right along,
over rocks, rubbish, gullies, open fields--sometimes with
one or two wheels on the ground, but generally with none.
Every now and then that calm, good-natured madman would
bend a majestic look over his shoulder at us and say,
"Ah, you perceive? It is as I have said --I am the
king of drivers." Every time we just missed going
to destruction, he would say, with tranquil happiness,
"Enjoy it, gentlemen, it is very rare, it is very unusual--
it is given to few to ride with the king of drivers--
and observe, it is as I have said, _I_ am he."

He spoke in French, and punctuated with hiccoughs.
His friend was French, too, but spoke in German--using
the same system of punctuation, however.  The friend
called himself the "Captain of Mont Blanc," and wanted us
to make the ascent with him.  He said he had made more
ascents than any other man--forty seven--and his brother
had made thirty-seven. His brother was the best guide
in the world, except himself--but he, yes, observe him
well--he was the "Captain of Mont Blanc"--that title
belonged to none other.

The "king" was as good as his word--he overtook that long
procession of tourists and went by it like a hurricane.
The result was that we got choicer rooms at the hotel
in Chamonix than we should have done if his majesty
had been a slower artist--or rather, if he hadn't most
providentially got drunk before he left Argentie`re.



CHAPTER XLIII
[My Poor Sick Friend Disappointed]

Everybody was out-of-doors; everybody was in the
principal street of the village--not on the sidewalks,
but all over the street; everybody was lounging, loafing,
chatting, waiting, alert, expectant, interested--for it
was train-time. That is to say, it was diligence-time--
the half-dozen big diligences would soon be arriving
from Geneva, and the village was interested, in many ways,
in knowing how many people were coming and what sort of
folk they might be.  It was altogether the livest-looking
street we had seen in any village on the continent.

The hotel was by the side of a booming torrent, whose music
was loud and strong; we could not see this torrent, for it
was dark, now, but one could locate it without a light.
There was a large enclosed yard in front of the hotel,
and this was filled with groups of villagers waiting to see
the diligences arrive, or to hire themselves to excursionists
for the morrow.  A telescope stood in the yard, with its
huge barrel canted up toward the lustrous evening star.
The long porch of the hotel was populous with tourists,
who sat in shawls and wraps under the vast overshadowing
bulk of Mont Blanc, and gossiped or meditated.

Never did a mountain seem so close; its big sides seemed
at one's very elbow, and its majestic dome, and the lofty
cluster of slender minarets that were its neighbors,
seemed to be almost over one's head.  It was night
in the streets, and the lamps were sparkling everywhere;
the broad bases and shoulders of the mountains were in
a deep gloom, but their summits swam in a strange rich
glow which was really daylight, and yet had a mellow
something about it which was very different from the hard
white glare of the kind of daylight I was used to.
Its radiance was strong and clear, but at the same time
it was singularly soft, and spiritual, and benignant.
No, it was not our harsh, aggressive, realistic daylight;
it seemed properer to an enchanted land--or to heaven.

I had seen moonlight and daylight together before, but I
had not seen daylight and black night elbow to elbow before.
At least I had not seen the daylight resting upon an object
sufficiently close at hand, before, to make the contrast
startling and at war with nature.

The daylight passed away.  Presently the moon rose up
behind some of those sky-piercing fingers or pinnacles
of bare rock of which I have spoken--they were a little
to the left of the crest of Mont Blanc, and right over
our heads--but she couldn't manage to climb high
enough toward heaven to get entirely above them.
She would show the glittering arch of her upper third,
occasionally, and scrape it along behind the comblike row;
sometimes a pinnacle stood straight up, like a statuette
of ebony, against that glittering white shield, then seemed
to glide out of it by its own volition and power,
and become a dim specter, while the next pinnacle glided
into its place and blotted the spotless disk with the black
exclamation-point of its presence.  The top of one pinnacle
took the shapely, clean-cut form of a rabbit's head,
in the inkiest silhouette, while it rested against the moon.
The unillumined peaks and minarets, hovering vague and
phantom-like above us while the others were painfully
white and strong with snow and moonlight, made a peculiar effect.


But when the moon, having passed the line of pinnacles,
was hidden behind the stupendous white swell of Mont Blanc,
the masterpiece of the evening was flung on the canvas.
A rich greenish radiance sprang into the sky from behind
the mountain, and in this same airy shreds and ribbons of vapor
floated about, and being flushed with that strange tint,
went waving to and fro like pale green flames.  After a while,
radiating bars--vast broadening fan-shaped shadows--grew up
and stretched away to the zenith from behind the mountain.
It was a spectacle to take one's breath, for the wonder of it,
and the sublimity.

Indeed, those mighty bars of alternate light and shadow
streaming up from behind that dark and prodigious form
and occupying the half of the dull and opaque heavens,
was the most imposing and impressive marvel I had ever
looked upon.  There is no simile for it, for nothing
is like it.  If a child had asked me what it was,
I should have said, "Humble yourself, in this presence,
it is the glory flowing from the hidden head of the Creator."
One falls shorter of the truth than that, sometimes,
in trying to explain mysteries to the little people.
I could have found out the cause of this awe-compelling
miracle by inquiring, for it is not infrequent at Mont
Blanc,--but I did not wish to know.  We have not the
reverent feeling for the rainbow that a savage has,
because we know how it is made.  We have lost as much as we
gained by prying into the matter.

We took a walk down street, a block or two, and a
place where four streets met and the principal shops
were clustered, found the groups of men in the roadway
thicker than ever--for this was the Exchange of Chamonix.
These men were in the costumes of guides and porters,
and were there to be hired.

The office of that great personage, the Guide-in-Chief
of the Chamonix Guild of Guides, was near by.  This guild
is a close corporation, and is governed by strict laws.
There are many excursion routes, some dangerous and
some not, some that can be made safely without a guide,
and some that cannot.  The bureau determines these things.
Where it decides that a guide is necessary, you are
forbidden to go without one.  Neither are you allowed to be
a victim of extortion: the law states what you are to pay.
The guides serve in rotation; you cannot select the man
who is to take your life into his hands, you must take
the worst in the lot, if it is his turn.  A guide's fee
ranges all the way up from a half-dollar (for some trifling
excursion of a few rods) to twenty dollars, according to
the distance traversed and the nature of the ground.
A guide's fee for taking a person to the summit of Mont
Blanc and back, is twenty dollars--and he earns it.
The time employed is usually three days, and there is
enough early rising in it to make a man far more "healthy
and wealthy and wise" than any one man has any right to be.
The porter's fee for the same trip is ten dollars.
Several fools--no, I mean several tourists--usually go together,
and divide up the expense, and thus make it light;
for if only one f--tourist, I mean--went, he would have
to have several guides and porters, and that would make the
matter costly.

We went into the Chief's office.  There were maps
of mountains on the walls; also one or two lithographs
of celebrated guides, and a portrait of the scientist
De Saussure.

In glass cases were some labeled fragments of boots
and batons, and other suggestive relics and remembrances
of casualties on Mount Blanc.  In a book was a record of all
the ascents which have ever been made, beginning with Nos.
1 and 2--being those of Jacques Balmat and De Saussure,
in 1787, and ending with No. 685, which wasn't cold yet.
In fact No. 685 was standing by the official table waiting
to receive the precious official diploma which should prove
to his German household and to his descendants that he had once
been indiscreet enough to climb to the top of Mont Blanc.
He looked very happy when he got his document; in fact,
he spoke up and said he WAS happy.

I tried to buy a diploma for an invalid friend at home
who had never traveled, and whose desire all his life has
been to ascend Mont Blanc, but the Guide-in-Chief rather
insolently refused to sell me one.  I was very much offended.
I said I did not propose to be discriminated against on
the account of my nationality; that he had just sold
a diploma to this German gentleman, and my money was
a good as his; I would see to it that he couldn't keep
his shop for Germans and deny his produce to Americans;
I would have his license taken away from him at the dropping
of a handkerchief; if France refused to break him, I would
make an international matter of it and bring on a war;
the soil should be drenched with blood; and not only that,
but I would set up an opposition show and sell diplomas
at half price.

For two cents I would have done these things, too;
but nobody offered me two cents.  I tried to move that
German's feelings, but it could not be done; he would
not give me his diploma, neither would he sell it to me.
I TOLD him my friend was sick and could not come himself,
but he said he did not care a VERDAMMTES PFENNIG,
he wanted his diploma for himself--did I suppose he was
going to risk his neck for that thing and then give it
to a sick stranger? Indeed he wouldn't, so he wouldn't.
I resolved, then, that I would do all I could to injure
Mont Blanc.

In the record-book was a list of all the fatal accidents
which happened on the mountain.  It began with the one
in 1820 when the Russian Dr. Hamel's three guides were
lost in a crevice of the glacier, and it recorded the
delivery of the remains in the valley by the slow-moving
glacier forty-one years later.  The latest catastrophe
bore the date 1877.

We stepped out and roved about the village awhile.
In front of the little church was a monument to the memory
of the bold guide Jacques Balmat, the first man who ever
stood upon the summit of Mont Blanc.  He made that wild
trip solitary and alone.  He accomplished the ascent
a number of times afterward.  A stretch of nearly half
a century lay between his first ascent and his last one.
At the ripe old age of seventy-two he was climbing
around a corner of a lofty precipice of the Pic du
Midi--nobody with him--when he slipped and fell.
So he died in the harness.

He had grown very avaricious in his old age, and used to go
off stealthily to hunt for non-existent and impossible
gold among those perilous peaks and precipices.
He was on a quest of that kind when he lost his life.
There was a statue to him, and another to De Saussure,
in the hall of our hotel, and a metal plate on the door
of a room upstairs bore an inscription to the effect
that that room had been occupied by Albert Smith.
Balmat and De Saussure discovered Mont Blanc--so to
speak--but it was Smith who made it a paying property.
His articles in BLACKWOOD and his lectures on Mont Blanc
in London advertised it and made people as anxious to see it
as if it owed them money.

As we strolled along the road we looked up and saw a red
signal-light glowing in the darkness of the mountainside.
It seemed but a trifling way up--perhaps a hundred yards,
a climb of ten minutes.  It was a lucky piece of sagacity
in us that we concluded to stop a man whom we met and get
a light for our pipes from him instead of continuing the climb
to that lantern to get a light, as had been our purpose.
The man said that that lantern was on the Grands Mulets,
some sixty-five hundred feet above the valley! I know
by our Riffelberg experience, that it would have taken us
a good part of a week to go up there.  I would sooner not
smoke at all, than take all that trouble for a light.

Even in the daytime the foreshadowing effect of this
mountain's close proximity creates curious deceptions.
For instance, one sees with the naked eye a cabin up
there beside the glacier, and a little above and beyond
he sees the spot where that red light was located;
he thinks he could throw a stone from the one place to
the other.  But he couldn't, for the difference between
the two altitudes is more than three thousand feet.
It looks impossible, from below, that this can be true,
but it is true, nevertheless.

While strolling around, we kept the run of the moon all
the time, and we still kept an eye on her after we got back
to the hotel portico.  I had a theory that the gravitation
of refraction, being subsidiary to atmospheric compensation,
the refrangibility of the earth's surface would emphasize
this effect in regions where great mountain ranges occur,
and possibly so even-handed impact the odic and idyllic
forces together, the one upon the other, as to prevent
the moon from rising higher than 12,200 feet above
sea-level. This daring theory had been received with frantic
scorn by some of my fellow-scientists, and with an eager
silence by others.  Among the former I may mention
Prof. H----y; and among the latter Prof. T----l. Such
is professional jealousy; a scientist will never show
any kindness for a theory which he did not start himself.
There is no feeling of brotherhood among these people.
Indeed, they always resent it when I call them brother.
To show how far their ungenerosity can carry them, I will
state that I offered to let Prof. H----y publish my great
theory as his own discovery; I even begged him to do it;
I even proposed to print it myself as his theory.
Instead of thanking me, he said that if I tried to
fasten that theory on him he would sue me for slander.
I was going to offer it to Mr. Darwin, whom I understood
to be a man without prejudices, but it occurred to me
that perhaps he would not be interested in it since it did
not concern heraldry.

But I am glad now, that I was forced to father my intrepid
theory myself, for, on the night of which I am writing,
it was triumphantly justified and established.  Mont Blanc
is nearly sixteen thousand feet high; he hid the moon utterly;
near him is a peak which is 12,216 feet high; the moon slid
along behind the pinnacles, and when she approached that
one I watched her with intense interest, for my reputation
as a scientist must stand or fall by its decision.
I cannot describe the emotions which surged like tidal
waves through my breast when I saw the moon glide behind
that lofty needle and pass it by without exposing more
than two feet four inches of her upper rim above it;
I was secure, then.  I knew she could rise no higher,
and I was right.  She sailed behind all the peaks and
never succeeded in hoisting her disk above a single one
of them.

While the moon was behind one of those sharp fingers,
its shadow was flung athwart the vacant heavens--
a long, slanting, clean-cut, dark ray--with a streaming
and energetic suggestion of FORCE about it, such as the
ascending jet of water from a powerful fire-engine affords.
It was curious to see a good strong shadow of an earthly
object cast upon so intangible a field as the atmosphere.

We went to bed, at last, and went quickly to sleep, but I
woke up, after about three hours, with throbbing temples,
and a head which was physically sore, outside and in.
I was dazed, dreamy, wretched, seedy, unrefreshed.
I recognized the occasion of all this: it was that torrent.
In the mountain villages of Switzerland, and along the roads,
one has always the roar of the torrent in his ears.
He imagines it is music, and he thinks poetic things
about it; he lies in his comfortable bed and is lulled
to sleep by it.  But by and by he begins to notice
that his head is very sore--he cannot account for it;
in solitudes where the profoundest silence reigns,
he notices a sullen, distant, continuous roar in his ears,
which is like what he would experience if he had sea-shells
pressed against them--he cannot account for it; he is
drowsy and absent-minded; there is no tenacity to his mind,
he cannot keep hold of a thought and follow it out;
if he sits down to write, his vocabulary is empty,
no suitable words will come, he forgets what he started to do,
and remains there, pen in hand, head tilted up, eyes closed,
listening painfully to the muffled roar of a distant train
in his ears; in his soundest sleep the strain continues,
he goes on listening, always listening intently, anxiously,
and wakes at last, harassed, irritable, unrefreshed.
He cannot manage to account for these things.
Day after day he feels as if he had spent his nights
in a sleeping-car. It actually takes him weeks to find
out that it is those persecuting torrents that have been
making all the mischief.  It is time for him to get out
of Switzerland, then, for as soon as he has discovered
the cause, the misery is magnified several fold.  The roar
of the torrent is maddening, then, for his imagination
is assisting; the physical pain it inflicts is exquisite.
When he finds he is approaching one of those streams,
his dread is so lively that he is disposed to fly the track
and avoid the implacable foe.

Eight or nine months after the distress of the torrents
had departed from me, the roar and thunder of the
streets of Paris brought it all back again.  I moved
to the sixth story of the hotel to hunt for peace.
About midnight the noises dulled away, and I was
sinking to sleep, when I heard a new and curious sound;
I listened: evidently some joyous lunatic was softly
dancing a "double shuffle" in the room over my head.
I had to wait for him to get through, of course.  Five long,
long minutes he smoothly shuffled away--a pause followed,
then something fell with a thump on the floor.
I said to myself "There--he is pulling off his boots--
thank heavens he is done." Another slight pause--he went
to shuffling again! I said to myself, "Is he trying to see
what he can do with only one boot on?" Presently came
another pause and another thump on the floor.  I said
"Good, he has pulled off his other boot--NOW he is done."
But he wasn't. The next moment he was shuffling again.
I said, "Confound him, he is at it in his slippers!"
After a little came that same old pause, and right after
it that thump on the floor once more.  I said, "Hang him,
he had on TWO pair of boots!" For an hour that magician
went on shuffling and pulling off boots till he had shed
as many as twenty-five pair, and I was hovering on the verge
of lunacy.  I got my gun and stole up there.  The fellow
was in the midst of an acre of sprawling boots, and he had
a boot in his hand, shuffling it--no, I mean POLISHING it.
The mystery was explained.  He hadn't been dancing.
He was the "Boots" of the hotel, and was attending
to business.



CHAPTER XLIV
[I Scale Mont Blanc--by Telescope]

After breakfast, that next morning in Chamonix, we went
out in the yard and watched the gangs of excursioning
tourists arriving and departing with their mules and guides
and porters; then we took a look through the telescope
at the snowy hump of Mont Blanc.  It was brilliant
with sunshine, and the vast smooth bulge seemed hardly
five hundred yards away.  With the naked eye we could
dimly make out the house at the Pierre Pointue, which is
located by the side of the great glacier, and is more
than three thousand feet above the level of the valley;
but with the telescope we could see all its details.
While I looked, a woman rode by the house on a mule, and I
saw her with sharp distinctness; I could have described
her dress.  I saw her nod to the people of the house,
and rein up her mule, and put her hand up to shield
her eyes from the sun.  I was not used to telescopes;
in fact, I had never looked through a good one before;
it seemed incredible to me that this woman could be
so far away.  I was satisfied that I could see all
these details with my naked eye; but when I tried it,
that mule and those vivid people had wholly vanished,
and the house itself was become small and vague.  I tried
the telescope again, and again everything was vivid.
The strong black shadows of the mule and the woman were
flung against the side of the house, and I saw the mule's
silhouette wave its ears.

The telescopulist--or the telescopulariat--I do not know
which is right--said a party were making a grand ascent,
and would come in sight on the remote upper heights,
presently; so we waited to observe this performance.
Presently I had a superb idea.  I wanted to stand with
a party on the summit of Mont Blanc, merely to be able
to say I had done it, and I believed the telescope
could set me within seven feet of the uppermost man.
The telescoper assured me that it could.  I then asked
him how much I owed him for as far as I had got? He said,
one franc.  I asked him how much it would cost to make
the entire ascent? Three francs.  I at once determined
to make the entire ascent.  But first I inquired
if there was any danger? He said no--not by telescope;
said he had taken a great many parties to the summit,
and never lost a man.  I asked what he would charge to let
my agent go with me, together with such guides and porters
as might be necessary.  He said he would let Harris go
for two francs; and that unless we were unusually timid,
he should consider guides and porters unnecessary;
it was not customary to take them, when going by telescope,
for they were rather an encumbrance than a help.
He said that the party now on the mountain were approaching
the most difficult part, and if we hurried we should
overtake them within ten minutes, and could then join them
and have the benefit of their guides and porters without
their knowledge, and without expense to us.

I then said we would start immediately.  I believe I
said it calmly, though I was conscious of a shudder
and of a paling cheek, in view of the nature of the
exploit I was so unreflectingly engaged in.  But the old
daredevil spirit was upon me, and I said that as I
had committed myself I would not back down; I would
ascend Mont Blanc if it cost me my life.  I told the man
to slant his machine in the proper direction and let us be off.

Harris was afraid and did not want to go, but I heartened
him up and said I would hold his hand all the way; so he
gave his consent, though he trembled a little at first.
I took a last pathetic look upon the pleasant summer scene
about me, then boldly put my eye to the glass and prepared
to mount among the grim glaciers and the everlasting snows.

We took our way carefully and cautiously across the great
Glacier des Bossons, over yawning and terrific crevices
and among imposing crags and buttresses of ice which were
fringed with icicles of gigantic proportions.  The desert
of ice that stretched far and wide about us was wild and
desolate beyond description, and the perils which beset us
were so great that at times I was minded to turn back.
But I pulled my pluck together and pushed on.

We passed the glacier safely and began to mount
the steeps beyond, with great alacrity.  When we
were seven minutes out from the starting-point, we
reached an altitude where the scene took a new aspect;
an apparently limitless continent of gleaming snow was
tilted heavenward before our faces.  As my eye followed
that awful acclivity far away up into the remote skies,
it seemed to me that all I had ever seen before of sublimity
and magnitude was small and insignificant compared to this.

We rested a moment, and then began to mount with speed.
Within three minutes we caught sight of the party ahead of us,
and stopped to observe them.  They were toiling up a long,
slanting ridge of snow--twelve persons, roped together some
fifteen feet apart, marching in single file, and strongly
marked against the clear blue sky.  One was a woman.
We could see them lift their feet and put them down;
we saw them swing their alpenstocks forward in unison,
like so many pendulums, and then bear their weight
upon them; we saw the lady wave her handkerchief.
They dragged themselves upward in a worn and weary way,
for they had been climbing steadily from the Grand Mulets,
on the Glacier des Dossons, since three in the morning,
and it was eleven, now.  We saw them sink down in the
snow and rest, and drink something from a bottle.
After a while they moved on, and as they approached the final
short dash of the home-stretch we closed up on them and
joined them.

Presently we all stood together on the summit! What a view
was spread out below! Away off under the northwestern horizon
rolled the silent billows of the Farnese Oberland, their snowy
crests glinting softly in the subdued lights of distance;
in the north rose the giant form of the Wobblehorn,
draped from peak to shoulder in sable thunder-clouds;
beyond him, to the right, stretched the grand processional
summits of the Cisalpine Cordillera, drowned in a
sensuous haze; to the east loomed the colossal masses
of the Yodelhorn, the Fuddelhorn, and the Dinnerhorn,
their cloudless summits flashing white and cold in the sun;
beyond them shimmered the faint far line of the Ghauts
of Jubbelpore and the Aigulles des Alleghenies; in the
south towered the smoking peak of Popocatapetl and the
unapproachable altitudes of the peerless Scrabblehorn;
in the west-south the stately range of the Himalayas
lay dreaming in a purple gloom; and thence all around
the curving horizon the eye roved over a troubled sea
of sun-kissed Alps, and noted, here and there, the noble
proportions and the soaring domes of the Bottlehorn,
and the Saddlehorn, and the Shovelhorn, and the Powderhorn,
all bathed in the glory of noon and mottled with softly
gliding blots, the shadows flung from drifting clouds.

Overcome by the scene, we all raised a triumphant,
tremendous shout, in unison.  A startled man at my elbow
said:

"Confound you, what do you yell like that for, right here
in the street?"

That brought me down to Chamonix, like a flirt.
I gave that man some spiritual advice and disposed of him,
and then paid the telescope man his full fee, and said
that we were charmed with the trip and would remain down,
and not reascend and require him to fetch us down by telescope.
This pleased him very much, for of course we could have
stepped back to the summit and put him to the trouble
of bringing us home if we wanted to.

I judged we could get diplomas, now, anyhow; so we
went after them, but the Chief Guide put us off,
with one pretext or another, during all the time we stayed
in Chamonix, and we ended by never getting them at all.
So much for his prejudice against people's nationality.
However, we worried him enough to make him remember
us and our ascent for some time.  He even said, once,
that he wished there was a lunatic asylum in Chamonix.
This shows that he really had fears that we were going
to drive him mad.  It was what we intended to do,
but lack of time defeated it.

I cannot venture to advise the reader one way or the other,
as to ascending Mont Blanc.  I say only this: if he is at
all timid, the enjoyments of the trip will hardly make up
for the hardships and sufferings he will have to endure.
But, if he has good nerve, youth, health, and a bold,
firm will, and could leave his family comfortably provided
for in case the worst happened, he would find the ascent
a wonderful experience, and the view from the top a vision
to dream about, and tell about, and recall with exultation
all the days of his life.

While I do not advise such a person to attempt the ascent,
I do not advise him against it.  But if he elects to attempt it,
let him be warily careful of two things: chose a calm,
clear day; and do not pay the telescope man in advance.
There are dark stories of his getting advance payers on
the summit and then leaving them there to rot.

A frightful tragedy was once witnessed through the
Chamonix telescopes.  Think of questions and answers
like these, on an inquest:

CORONER.  You saw deceased lose his life?

WITNESS.  I did.

C. Where was he, at the time?

W. Close to the summit of Mont Blanc.

C. Where were you?

W. In the main street of Chamonix.

C. What was the distance between you?

W. A LITTLE OVER FIVE MILES, as the bird flies.

This accident occurred in 1866, a year and a month after the
disaster on the Matterhorn.  Three adventurous English gentlemen,
[1] of great experience in mountain-climbing, made up their
minds to ascend Mont Blanc without guides or porters.
All endeavors to dissuade them from their project failed.
Powerful telescopes are numerous in Chamonix.  These huge
brass tubes, mounted on their scaffoldings and pointed
skyward from every choice vantage-ground, have the
formidable look of artillery, and give the town the general
aspect of getting ready to repel a charge of angels.
The reader may easily believe that the telescopes
had plenty of custom on that August morning in 1866,
for everybody knew of the dangerous undertaking which was
on foot, and all had fears that misfortune would result.
All the morning the tubes remained directed toward the
mountain heights, each with its anxious group around it;
but the white deserts were vacant.

1.  Sir George Young and his brothers James and Albert.

At last, toward eleven o'clock, the people who were
looking through the telescopes cried out "There they
are!"--and sure enough, far up, on the loftiest terraces
of the Grand Plateau, the three pygmies appeared,
climbing with remarkable vigor and spirit.  They disappeared
in the "Corridor," and were lost to sight during an hour.
Then they reappeared, and were presently seen standing together
upon the extreme summit of Mont Blanc.  So, all was well.
They remained a few minutes on that highest point of land
in Europe, a target for all the telescopes, and were then
seen to begin descent.  Suddenly all three vanished.
An instant after, they appeared again, TWO THOUSAND FEET
BELOW!

Evidently, they had tripped and been shot down an almost
perpendicular slope of ice to a point where it joined
the border of the upper glacier.  Naturally, the distant
witness supposed they were now looking upon three corpses;
so they could hardly believe their eyes when they presently saw
two of the men rise to their feet and bend over the third.
During two hours and a half they watched the two busying
themselves over the extended form of their brother,
who seemed entirely inert.  Chamonix's affairs stood still;
everybody was in the street, all interest was centered
upon what was going on upon that lofty and isolated stage
five miles away.  Finally the two--one of them walking
with great difficulty--were seen to begin descent,
abandoning the third, who was no doubt lifeless.
Their movements were followed, step by step, until they
reached the "Corridor" and disappeared behind its ridge.
Before they had had time to traverse the "Corridor"
and reappear, twilight was come, and the power of the
telescope was at an end.

The survivors had a most perilous journey before
them in the gathering darkness, for they must get
down to the Grands Mulets before they would find
a safe stopping-place--a long and tedious descent,
and perilous enough even in good daylight.  The oldest
guides expressed the opinion that they could not succeed;
that all the chances were that they would lose their lives.

Yet those brave men did succeed.  They reached the Grands
Mulets in safety.  Even the fearful shock which their nerves
had sustained was not sufficient to overcome their coolness
and courage.  It would appear from the official account
that they were threading their way down through those
dangers from the closing in of twilight until two o'clock
in the morning, or later, because the rescuing party from
Chamonix reached the Grand Mulets about three in the morning
and moved thence toward the scene of the disaster under
the leadership of Sir George Young, "who had only just arrived."

After having been on his feet twenty-four hours,
in the exhausting work of mountain-climbing, Sir George
began the reascent at the head of the relief party
of six guides, to recover the corpse of his brother.
This was considered a new imprudence, as the number
was too few for the service required.  Another relief
party presently arrived at the cabin on the Grands
Mulets and quartered themselves there to await events.
Ten hours after Sir George's departure toward the summit,
this new relief were still scanning the snowy altitudes
above them from their own high perch among the ice
deserts ten thousand feet above the level of the sea,
but the whole forenoon had passed without a glimpse of any
living thing appearing up there.

This was alarming.  Half a dozen of their number set out,
then early in the afternoon, to seek and succor Sir George
and his guides.  The persons remaining at the cabin saw
these disappear, and then ensued another distressing wait.
Four hours passed, without tidings.  Then at five
o'clock another relief, consisting of three guides,
set forward from the cabin.  They carried food and
cordials for the refreshment of their predecessors;
they took lanterns with them, too; night was coming on,
and to make matters worse, a fine, cold rain had begun
to fall.

At the same hour that these three began their dangerous ascent,
the official Guide-in-Chief of the Mont Blanc region
undertook the dangerous descent to Chamonix, all alone,
to get reinforcements.  However, a couple of hours later,
at 7 P.M., the anxious solicitude came to an end,
and happily.  A bugle note was heard, and a cluster
of black specks was distinguishable against the snows
of the upper heights.  The watchers counted these specks
eagerly--fourteen--nobody was missing.  An hour and a half
later they were all safe under the roof of the cabin.
They had brought the corpse with them.  Sir George Young
tarried there but a few minutes, and then began the long
and troublesome descent from the cabin to Chamonix.
He probably reached there about two or three o'clock
in the morning, after having been afoot among the rocks
and glaciers during two days and two nights.  His endurance
was equal to his daring.

The cause of the unaccountable delay of Sir George and
the relief parties among the heights where the disaster
had happened was a thick fog--or, partly that and partly
the slow and difficult work of conveying the dead body
down the perilous steeps.

The corpse, upon being viewed at the inquest, showed
no bruises, and it was some time before the surgeons
discovered that the neck was broken.  One of the surviving
brothers had sustained some unimportant injuries,
but the other had suffered no hurt at all.  How these men
could fall two thousand feet, almost perpendicularly,
and live afterward, is a most strange and unaccountable thing.

A great many women have made the ascent of Mont Blanc.
An English girl, Miss Stratton, conceived the daring idea,
two or three years ago, of attempting the ascent in the
middle of winter.  She tried it--and she succeeded.
Moreover, she froze two of her fingers on the way up,
she fell in love with her guide on the summit,
and she married him when she got to the bottom again.
There is nothing in romance, in the way of a striking
"situation," which can beat this love scene in midheaven
on an isolated ice-crest with the thermometer at zero
and an Artic gale blowing.

The first woman who ascended Mont Blanc was a girl aged
twenty-two--Mlle. Maria Paradis--1809. Nobody was
with her but her sweetheart, and he was not a guide.
The sex then took a rest for about thirty years,
when a Mlle. d'Angeville made the ascent --1838. In
Chamonix I picked up a rude old lithograph of that day
which pictured her "in the act."

However, I value it less as a work of art than as a
fashion-plate. Miss d'Angeville put on a pair of men's
pantaloons to climb it, which was wise; but she cramped
their utility by adding her petticoat, which was idiotic.

One of the mournfulest calamities which men's disposition
to climb dangerous mountains has resulted in,
happened on Mont Blanc in September 1870.  M. D'Arve
tells the story briefly in his HISTOIRE DU MONT BLANC.
In the next chapter I will copy its chief features.



CHAPTER XLV
A Catastrophe Which Cost Eleven Lives
[Perished at the Verge of Safety]

On the 5th of September, 1870, a caravan of eleven persons
departed from Chamonix to make the ascent of Mont Blanc.
Three of the party were tourists; Messrs.  Randall and Bean,
Americans, and Mr. George Corkindale, a Scotch gentleman;
there were three guides and five porters.  The cabin
on the Grands Mulets was reached that day; the ascent
was resumed early the next morning, September 6th.
The day was fine and clear, and the movements of the party
were observed through the telescopes of Chamonix; at two
o'clock in the afternoon they were seen to reach the summit.
A few minutes later they were seen making the first steps
of the descent; then a cloud closed around them and hid
them from view.

Eight hours passed, the cloud still remained, night came,
no one had returned to the Grands Mulets.  Sylvain Couttet,
keeper of the cabin there, suspected a misfortune,
and sent down to the valley for help.  A detachment of
guides went up, but by the time they had made the tedious
trip and reached the cabin, a raging storm had set in.
They had to wait; nothing could be attempted in such
a tempest.

The wild storm lasted MORE THAN A WEEK, without ceasing;
but on the 17th, Couttet, with several guides, left the
cabin and succeeded in making the ascent.  In the snowy
wastes near the summit they came upon five bodies,
lying upon their sides in a reposeful attitude which
suggested that possibly they had fallen asleep there,
while exhausted with fatigue and hunger and benumbed with cold,
and never knew when death stole upon them.  Couttet moved
a few steps further and discovered five more bodies.
The eleventh corpse--that of a porter--was not found,
although diligent search was made for it.

In the pocket of Mr. Bean, one of the Americans, was found
a note-book in which had been penciled some sentences
which admit us, in flesh and spirit, as it were, to the
presence of these men during their last hours of life,
and to the grisly horrors which their fading vision looked
upon and their failing consciousness took cognizance of:

TUESDAY, SEPT.  6.  I have made the ascent of Mont Blanc,
with ten persons--eight guides, and Mr. Corkindale
and Mr. Randall.  We reached the summit at half past 2.
Immediately after quitting it, we were enveloped in clouds
of snow.  We passed the night in a grotto hollowed
in the snow, which afforded us but poor shelter, and I
was ill all night.

SEPT.  7--MORNING. The cold is excessive.  The snow falls
heavily and without interruption.  The guides take no rest.

EVENING.  My Dear Hessie, we have been two days on
Mont Blanc, in the midst of a terrible hurricane of snow,
we have lost our way, and are in a hole scooped in the snow,
at an altitude of 15,000 feet.  I have no longer any hope
of descending.

They had wandered around, and around, in the blinding
snow-storm, hopelessly lost, in a space only a hundred
yards square; and when cold and fatigue vanquished them
at last, they scooped their cave and lay down there
to die by inches, UNAWARE THAT FIVE STEPS MORE WOULD HAVE
BROUGHT THEM INTO THE TRUTH PATH.  They were so near
to life and safety as that, and did not suspect it.
The thought of this gives the sharpest pang that the tragic
story conveys.

The author of the HISTOIRE DU MONT BLANC introduced
the closing sentences of Mr. Bean's pathetic record thus:

"Here the characters are large and unsteady; the hand
which traces them is become chilled and torpid;
but the spirit survives, and the faith and resignation
of the dying man are expressed with a sublime simplicity."

Perhaps this note-book will be found and sent to you.
We have nothing to eat, my feet are already frozen,
and I am exhausted; I have strength to write only a few
words more.  I have left means for C's education; I know
you will employ them wisely.  I die with faith in God,
and with loving thoughts of you.  Farewell to all.
We shall meet again, in Heaven. ... I think of
you always.

It is the way of the Alps to deliver death to their victims
with a merciful swiftness, but here the rule failed.
These men suffered the bitterest death that has been
recorded in the history of those mountains, freighted as
that history is with grisly tragedies.



CHAPTER XLVI
[Meeting a Hog on a Precipice]

Mr. Harris and I took some guides and porters and ascended
to the Ho^tel des Pyramides, which is perched on the
high moraine which borders the Glacier des Bossons.
The road led sharply uphill, all the way, through grass
and flowers and woods, and was a pleasant walk,
barring the fatigue of the climb.

From the hotel we could view the huge glacier at very
close range.  After a rest we followed down a path
which had been made in the steep inner frontage
of the moraine, and stepped upon the glacier itself.
One of the shows of the place was a tunnel-like cavern,
which had been hewn in the glacier.  The proprietor
of this tunnel took candles and conducted us into it.
It was three or four feet wide and about six feet high.
Its walls of pure and solid ice emitted a soft and rich
blue light that produced a lovely effect, and suggested
enchanted caves, and that sort of thing.  When we had
proceeded some yards and were entering darkness, we turned
about and had a dainty sunlit picture of distant woods
and heights framed in the strong arch of the tunnel and seen
through the tender blue radiance of the tunnel's atmosphere.

The cavern was nearly a hundred yards long, and when we
reached its inner limit the proprietor stepped into a branch
tunnel with his candles and left us buried in the bowels
of the glacier, and in pitch-darkness. We judged his
purpose was murder and robbery; so we got out our matches
and prepared to sell our lives as dearly as possible
by setting the glacier on fire if the worst came to the
worst--but we soon perceived that this man had changed
his mind; he began to sing, in a deep, melodious voice,
and woke some curious and pleasing echoes.  By and by he
came back and pretended that that was what he had gone
behind there for.  We believed as much of that as we wanted to.

Thus our lives had been once more in imminent peril,
but by the exercise of the swift sagacity and cool courage
which had saved us so often, we had added another escape
to the long list.  The tourist should visit that ice-cavern,
by all means, for it is well worth the trouble; but I would
advise him to go only with a strong and well-armed force.
I do not consider artillery necessary, yet it would not be
unadvisable to take it along, if convenient.  The journey,
going and coming, is about three miles and a half, three of
which are on level ground.  We made it in less than a day,
but I would counsel the unpracticed--if not pressed
for time--to allow themselves two.  Nothing is gained
in the Alps by over-exertion; nothing is gained by crowding
two days' work into one for the poor sake of being able
to boast of the exploit afterward.  It will be found
much better, in the long run, to do the thing in two days,
and then subtract one of them from the narrative.
This saves fatigue, and does not injure the narrative.
All the more thoughtful among the Alpine tourists
do this.

We now called upon the Guide-in-Chief, and asked for a squadron
of guides and porters for the ascent of the Montanvert.
This idiot glared at us, and said:

"You don't need guides and porters to go to the Montanvert."

"What do we need, then?"

"Such as YOU?--an ambulance!"

I was so stung by this brutal remark that I took
my custom elsewhere.

Betimes, next morning, we had reached an altitude of five
thousand feet above the level of the sea.  Here we camped
and breakfasted.  There was a cabin there--the spot is
called the Caillet--and a spring of ice-cold water.
On the door of the cabin was a sign, in French, to the effect
that "One may here see a living chamois for fifty centimes."
We did not invest; what we wanted was to see a dead one.

A little after noon we ended the ascent and arrived at the
new hotel on the Montanvert, and had a view of six miles,
right up the great glacier, the famous Mer de Glace.
At this point it is like a sea whose deep swales and long,
rolling swells have been caught in mid-movement and
frozen solid; but further up it is broken up into wildly
tossing billows of ice.

We descended a ticklish path in the steep side of the moraine,
and invaded the glacier.  There were tourists of both
sexes scattered far and wide over it, everywhere, and it
had the festive look of a skating-rink.

The Empress Josephine came this far, once.  She ascended
the Montanvert in 1810--but not alone; a small army
of men preceded her to clear the path--and carpet it,
perhaps--and she followed, under the protection
of SIXTY-EIGHT guides.

Her successor visited Chamonix later, but in far different style.

It was seven weeks after the first fall of the Empire,
and poor Marie Louise, ex-Empress was a fugitive.
She came at night, and in a storm, with only two attendants,
and stood before a peasant's hut, tired, bedraggled,
soaked with rain, "the red print of her lost crown still
girdling her brow," and implored admittance--and was
refused! A few days before, the adulations and applauses
of a nation were sounding in her ears, and now she was come to
this!

We crossed the Mer de Glace in safety, but we had misgivings.
The crevices in the ice yawned deep and blue and mysterious,
and it made one nervous to traverse them.  The huge
round waves of ice were slippery and difficult to climb,
and the chances of tripping and sliding down them and
darting into a crevice were too many to be comfortable.

In the bottom of a deep swale between two of the biggest
of the ice-waves, we found a fraud who pretended
to be cutting steps to insure the safety of tourists.
He was "soldiering" when we came upon him, but he hopped
up and chipped out a couple of steps about big enough
for a cat, and charged us a franc or two for it.
Then he sat down again, to doze till the next party
should come along.  He had collected blackmail from two
or three hundred people already, that day, but had not
chipped out ice enough to impair the glacier perceptibly.
I have heard of a good many soft sinecures, but it seems
to me that keeping toll-bridge on a glacier is the softest
one I have encountered yet.

That was a blazing hot day, and it brought a persistent
and persecuting thirst with it.  What an unspeakable luxury
it was to slake that thirst with the pure and limpid
ice-water of the glacier! Down the sides of every great rib
of pure ice poured limpid rills in gutters carved by their
own attrition; better still, wherever a rock had lain,
there was now a bowl-shaped hole, with smooth white sides
and bottom of ice, and this bowl was brimming with water
of such absolute clearness that the careless observer would
not see it at all, but would think the bowl was empty.
These fountains had such an alluring look that I often
stretched myself out when I was not thirsty and dipped my
face in and drank till my teeth ached.  Everywhere among
the Swiss mountains we had at hand the blessing--not
to be found in Europe EXCEPT in the mountains--of water
capable of quenching thirst.  Everywhere in the Swiss
highlands brilliant little rills of exquisitely cold water
went dancing along by the roadsides, and my comrade and I
were always drinking and always delivering our deep gratitude.

But in Europe everywhere except in the mountains, the water
is flat and insipid beyond the power of words to describe.
It is served lukewarm; but no matter, ice could not help it;
it is incurably flat, incurably insipid.  It is only good
to wash with; I wonder it doesn't occur to the average
inhabitant to try it for that.  In Europe the people
say contemptuously, "Nobody drinks water here." Indeed,
they have a sound and sufficient reason.  In many places
they even have what may be called prohibitory reasons.
In Paris and Munich, for instance, they say, "Don't drink
the water, it is simply poison."

Either America is healthier than Europe, notwithstanding her
"deadly" indulgence in ice-water, or she does not keep
the run of her death-rate as sharply as Europe does.
I think we do keep up the death statistics accurately;
and if we do, our cities are healthier than the cities
of Europe.  Every month the German government tabulates
the death-rate of the world and publishes it.  I scrap-booked
these reports during several months, and it was curious
to see how regular and persistently each city repeated
its same death-rate month after month.  The tables might
as well have been stereotyped, they varied so little.
These tables were based upon weekly reports showing the
average of deaths in each 1,000 population for a year.
Munich was always present with her 33 deaths in each
1,000 of her population (yearly average), Chicago was
as constant with her 15 or 17, Dublin with her 48--and
so on.

Only a few American cities appear in these tables, but they
are scattered so widely over the country that they furnish
a good general average of CITY health in the United States;
and I think it will be granted that our towns and villages
are healthier than our cities.

Here is the average of the only American cities reported
in the German tables:

Chicago, deaths in 1,000 population annually,
16; Philadelphia, 18; St. Louis, 18; San Francisco,
19; New York (the Dublin of America), 23.

See how the figures jump up, as soon as one arrives
at the transatlantic list:

Paris, 27; Glasgow, 27; London, 28; Vienna, 28;
Augsburg, 28; Braunschweig, 28; K"onigsberg, 29;
Cologne, 29; Dresden, 29; Hamburg, 29; Berlin, 30;
Bombay, 30; Warsaw, 31; Breslau, 31; Odessa, 32;
Munich, 33; Strasburg, 33, Pesth, 35; Cassel, 35;
Lisbon, 36; Liverpool, 36; Prague, 37; Madras, 37;
Bucharest, 39; St. Petersburg, 40; Trieste, 40;
Alexandria (Egypt), 43; Dublin, 48; Calcutta, 55.

Edinburgh is as healthy as New York--23; but there
is no CITY in the entire list which is healthier,
except Frankfort-on-the-Main--20. But Frankfort is not
as healthy as Chicago, San Francisco, St. Louis, or Philadelphia.


Perhaps a strict average of the world might develop the fact
that where one in 1,000 of America's population dies,
two in 1,000 of the other populations of the earth succumb.

I do not like to make insinuations, but I do think
the above statistics darkly suggest that these people
over here drink this detestable water "on the sly."

We climbed the moraine on the opposite side of the glacier,
and then crept along its sharp ridge a hundred yards or so,
in pretty constant danger of a tumble to the glacier below.
The fall would have been only one hundred feet, but it
would have closed me out as effectually as one thousand,
therefore I respected the distance accordingly, and was
glad when the trip was done.  A moraine is an ugly thing
to assault head-first. At a distance it looks like an endless
grave of fine sand, accurately shaped and nicely smoothed;
but close by, it is found to be made mainly of rough
boulders of all sizes, from that of a man's head to that of
a cottage.

By and by we came to the Mauvais Pas, or the Villainous Road,
to translate it feelingly.  It was a breakneck path
around the face of a precipice forty or fifty feet high,
and nothing to hang on to but some iron railings.
I got along, slowly, safely, and uncomfortably, and finally
reached the middle.  My hopes began to rise a little,
but they were quickly blighted; for there I met a hog--a
long-nosed, bristly fellow, that held up his snout
and worked his nostrils at me inquiringly.  A hog on
a pleasure excursion in Switzerland--think of it! It is
striking and unusual; a body might write a poem about it.
He could not retreat, if he had been disposed to do it.
It would have been foolish to stand upon our dignity
in a place where there was hardly room to stand upon
our feet, so we did nothing of the sort.  There were
twenty or thirty ladies and gentlemen behind us; we all
turned about and went back, and the hog followed behind.
The creature did not seem set up by what he had done;
he had probably done it before.

We reached the restaurant on the height called the Chapeau
at four in the afternoon.  It was a memento-factory, and
the stock was large, cheap, and varied.  I bought the usual
paper-cutter to remember the place by, and had Mont Blanc,
the Mauvais Pas, and the rest of the region branded on
my alpenstock; then we descended to the valley and walked
home without being tied together.  This was not dangerous,
for the valley was five miles wide, and quite level.

We reached the hotel before nine o'clock. Next
morning we left for Geneva on top of the diligence,
under shelter of a gay awning.  If I remember rightly,
there were more than twenty people up there.
It was so high that the ascent was made by ladder.
The huge vehicle was full everywhere, inside and out.
Five other diligences left at the same time, all full.
We had engaged our seats two days beforehand, to make sure,
and paid the regulation price, five dollars each; but the
rest of the company were wiser; they had trusted Baedeker,
and waited; consequently some of them got their seats
for one or two dollars.  Baedeker knows all about hotels,
railway and diligence companies, and speaks his mind freely.
He is a trustworthy friend of the traveler.

We never saw Mont Blanc at his best until we were many
miles away; then he lifted his majestic proportions
high into the heavens, all white and cold and solemn,
and made the rest of the world seem little and plebeian,
and cheap and trivial.

As he passed out of sight at last, an old Englishman
settled himself in his seat and said:

"Well, I am satisfied, I have seen the principal features
of Swiss scenery--Mont Blanc and the goiter--now for home!"



CHAPTER XLVII
[Queer European Manners]

We spent a few pleasant restful days at Geneva,
that delightful city where accurate time-pieces are made
for all the rest of the world, but whose own clocks
never give the correct time of day by any accident.

Geneva is filled with pretty shops, and the shops are
filled with the most enticing gimacrackery, but if one
enters one of these places he is at once pounced upon,
and followed up, and so persecuted to buy this, that,
and the other thing, that he is very grateful to get
out again, and is not at all apt to repeat his experiment.
The shopkeepers of the smaller sort, in Geneva,
are as troublesome and persistent as are the salesmen
of that monster hive in Paris, the Grands Magasins du
Louvre--an establishment where ill-mannered pestering,
pursuing, and insistence have been reduced to a science.

In Geneva, prices in the smaller shops are very elastic--
that is another bad feature.  I was looking in at a window
at a very pretty string of beads, suitable for a child.
I was only admiring them; I had no use for them; I hardly
ever wear beads.  The shopwoman came out and offered
them to me for thirty-five francs.  I said it was cheap,
but I did not need them.

"Ah, but monsieur, they are so beautiful!"

I confessed it, but said they were not suitable for one
of my age and simplicity of character.  She darted in and
brought them out and tried to force them into my hands,
saying:

"Ah, but only see how lovely they are! Surely monsieur will
take them; monsieur shall have them for thirty francs.
There, I have said it--it is a loss, but one must live."

I dropped my hands, and tried to move her to respect
my unprotected situation.  But no, she dangled the beads
in the sun before my face, exclaiming, "Ah, monsieur
CANNOT resist them!" She hung them on my coat button,
folded her hand resignedly, and said: "Gone,--and for
thirty francs, the lovely things--it is incredible!--but
the good God will sanctify the sacrifice to me."

I removed them gently, returned them, and walked away,
shaking my head and smiling a smile of silly embarrassment
while the passers-by halted to observe.  The woman leaned
out of her door, shook the beads, and screamed after me:

"Monsieur shall have them for twenty-eight!"

I shook my head.

"Twenty-seven! It is a cruel loss, it is ruin--
but take them, only take them."

I still retreated, still wagging my head.

"MON DIEU, they shall even go for twenty-six! There,
I have said it.  Come!"

I wagged another negative.  A nurse and a little English girl
had been near me, and were following me, now.  The shopwoman
ran to the nurse, thrust the beads into her hands, and said:

"Monsieur shall have them for twenty-five! Take them
to the hotel--he shall send me the money tomorrow--
next day--when he likes." Then to the child: "When thy
father sends me the money, come thou also, my angel,
and thou shall have something oh so pretty!"

I was thus providentially saved.  The nurse refused
the beads squarely and firmly, and that ended the matter.

The "sights" of Geneva are not numerous.  I made one
attempt to hunt up the houses once inhabited by those
two disagreeable people, Rousseau and Calvin, but I had
no success.  Then I concluded to go home.  I found it was
easier to propose to do that than to do it; for that town
is a bewildering place.  I got lost in a tangle of narrow
and crooked streets, and stayed lost for an hour or two.
Finally I found a street which looked somewhat familiar,
and said to myself, "Now I am at home, I judge." But I
was wrong; this was "HELL street." Presently I found
another place which had a familiar look, and said to myself,
"Now I am at home, sure." It was another error.  This was
"PURGATORY street." After a little I said, "NOW I've got the
right place, anyway ... no, this is 'PARADISE street';
I'm further from home than I was in the beginning."
Those were queer names--Calvin was the author of them,
likely.  "Hell" and "Purgatory" fitted those two streets
like a glove, but the "Paradise" appeared to be sarcastic.

I came out on the lake-front, at last, and then I knew
where I was.  I was walking along before the glittering
jewelry shops when I saw a curious performance.
A lady passed by, and a trim dandy lounged across the walk
in such an apparently carefully timed way as to bring
himself exactly in front of her when she got to him;
he made no offer to step out of the way; he did not apologize;
he did not even notice her.  She had to stop still and let
him lounge by.  I wondered if he had done that piece
of brutality purposely.  He strolled to a chair and seated
himself at a small table; two or three other males were
sitting at similar tables sipping sweetened water.
I waited; presently a youth came by, and this fellow got
up and served him the same trick.  Still, it did not seem
possible that any one could do such a thing deliberately.
To satisfy my curiosity I went around the block, and,
sure enough, as I approached, at a good round speed, he got
up and lounged lazily across my path, fouling my course
exactly at the right moment to receive all my weight.
This proved that his previous performances had not
been accidental, but intentional.

I saw that dandy's curious game played afterward, in Paris,
but not for amusement; not with a motive of any sort, indeed,
but simply from a selfish indifference to other people's
comfort and rights.  One does not see it as frequently
in Paris as he might expect to, for there the law says,
in effect, "It is the business of the weak to get out of
the way of the strong." We fine a cabman if he runs over
a citizen; Paris fines the citizen for being run over.
At least so everybody says--but I saw something which
caused me to doubt; I saw a horseman run over an old woman
one day--the police arrested him and took him away.
That looked as if they meant to punish him.

It will not do for me to find merit in American manners--
for are they not the standing butt for the jests
of critical and polished Europe? Still, I must venture
to claim one little matter of superiority in our manners;
a lady may traverse our streets all day, going and coming
as she chooses, and she will never be molested by any man;
but if a lady, unattended, walks abroad in the streets
of London, even at noonday, she will be pretty likely
to be accosted and insulted--and not by drunken sailors,
but by men who carry the look and wear the dress of gentlemen.
It is maintained that these people are not gentlemen,
but are a lower sort, disguised as gentlemen.  The case
of Colonel Valentine Baker obstructs that argument,
for a man cannot become an officer in the British army
except he hold the rank of gentleman.  This person,
finding himself alone in a railway compartment with
an unprotected girl--but it is an atrocious story,
and doubtless the reader remembers it well enough.
London must have been more or less accustomed to Bakers,
and the ways of Bakers, else London would have been
offended and excited.  Baker was "imprisoned"--in a parlor;
and he could not have been more visited, or more overwhelmed
with attentions, if he had committed six murders and then--
while the gallows was preparing--"got religion"--after
the manner of the holy Charles Peace, of saintly memory.
Arkansaw--it seems a little indelicate to be trumpeting forth
our own superiorities, and comparisons are always odious,
but still--Arkansaw would certainly have hanged Baker.
I do not say she would have tried him first, but she would have
hanged him, anyway.

Even the most degraded woman can walk our streets unmolested,
her sex and her weakness being her sufficient protection.
She will encounter less polish than she would in the
old world, but she will run across enough humanity to make
up for it.

The music of a donkey awoke us early in the morning,
and we rose up and made ready for a pretty formidable
walk--to Italy; but the road was so level that we took
the train.. We lost a good deal of time by this, but it
was no matter, we were not in a hurry.  We were four
hours going to Chamb`ery. The Swiss trains go upward
of three miles an hour, in places, but they are quite safe.

That aged French town of Chamb`ery was as quaint and crooked
as Heilbronn.  A drowsy reposeful quiet reigned in the back
streets which made strolling through them very pleasant,
barring the almost unbearable heat of the sun.
In one of these streets, which was eight feet wide,
gracefully curved, and built up with small antiquated houses,
I saw three fat hogs lying asleep, and a boy (also asleep)
taking care of them.  From queer old-fashioned windows
along the curve projected boxes of bright flowers, and over
the edge of one of these boxes hung the head and shoulders
of a cat--asleep. The five sleeping creatures were the
only living things visible in that street.  There was not
a sound; absolute stillness prevailed.  It was Sunday;
one is not used to such dreamy Sundays on the continent.
In our part of the town it was different that night.
A regiment of brown and battered soldiers had arrived home
from Algiers, and I judged they got thirsty on the way.
They sang and drank till dawn, in the pleasant open air.

We left for Turin at ten the next morning by a railway which
was profusely decorated with tunnels.  We forgot to take
a lantern along, consequently we missed all the scenery.
Our compartment was full.  A ponderous tow-headed Swiss woman,
who put on many fine-lady airs, but was evidently more
used to washing linen than wearing it, sat in a corner
seat and put her legs across into the opposite one,
propping them intermediately with her up-ended valise.
In the seat thus pirated, sat two Americans, greatly incommoded
by that woman's majestic coffin-clad feet.  One of them
begged, politely, to remove them.  She opened her wide eyes
and gave him a stare, but answered nothing.  By and by he
proferred his request again, with great respectfulness.
She said, in good English, and in a deeply offended tone,
that she had paid her passage and was not going to be
bullied out of her "rights" by ill-bred foreigners,
even if she was alone and unprotected.

"But I have rights, also, madam.  My ticket entitles me
to a seat, but you are occupying half of it."

"I will not talk with you, sir.  What right have you
to speak to me? I do not know you.  One would know
you came from a land where there are no gentlemen.
No GENTLEMAN would treat a lady as you have treated me."

"I come from a region where a lady would hardly give me
the same provocation."

"You have insulted me, sir! You have intimated that I am
not a lady--and I hope I am NOT one, after the pattern
of your country."

"I beg that you will give yourself no alarm on that head,
madam; but at the same time I must insist--always
respectfully--that you let me have my seat."

Here the fragile laundress burst into tears and sobs.

"I never was so insulted before! Never, never! It
is shameful, it is brutal, it is base, to bully and abuse
an unprotected lady who has lost the use of her limbs
and cannot put her feet to the floor without agony!"

"Good heavens, madam, why didn't you say that at first! I
offer a thousand pardons.  And I offer them most sincerely.
I did not know--I COULD not know--anything was the matter.
You are most welcome to the seat, and would have been
from the first if I had only known.  I am truly sorry it
all happened, I do assure you."

But he couldn't get a word of forgiveness out of her.
She simply sobbed and sniffed in a subdued but wholly
unappeasable way for two long hours, meantime crowding
the man more than ever with her undertaker-furniture
and paying no sort of attention to his frequent and
humble little efforts to do something for her comfort.
Then the train halted at the Italian line and she hopped
up and marched out of the car with as firm a leg as any
washerwoman of all her tribe! And how sick I was, to see
how she had fooled me.

Turin is a very fine city.  In the matter of roominess
it transcends anything that was ever dreamed of before,
I fancy.  It sits in the midst of a vast dead-level, and one
is obliged to imagine that land may be had for the asking,
and no taxes to pay, so lavishly do they use it.
The streets are extravagantly wide, the paved squares
are prodigious, the houses are huge and handsome,
and compacted into uniform blocks that stretch away as
straight as an arrow, into the distance.  The sidewalks
are about as wide as ordinary European STREETS, and are
covered over with a double arcade supported on great stone
piers or columns.  One walks from one end to the other
of these spacious streets, under shelter all the time,
and all his course is lined with the prettiest of shops
and the most inviting dining-houses.

There is a wide and lengthy court, glittering with the
most wickedly enticing shops, which is roofed with glass,
high aloft overhead, and paved with soft-toned marbles
laid in graceful figures; and at night when the place
is brilliant with gas and populous with a sauntering
and chatting and laughing multitude of pleasure-seekers,
it is a spectacle worth seeing.

Everything is on a large scale; the public buildings,
for instance--and they are architecturally imposing,
too, as well as large.  The big squares have big bronze
monuments in them.  At the hotel they gave us rooms
that were alarming, for size, and parlor to match.
It was well the weather required no fire in the parlor,
for I think one might as well have tried to warm a park.
The place would have a warm look, though, in any weather,
for the window-curtains were of red silk damask,
and the walls were covered with the same fire-hued
goods--so, also, were the four sofas and the brigade
of chairs.  The furniture, the ornaments, the chandeliers,
the carpets, were all new and bright and costly.
We did not need a parlor at all, but they said it belonged
to the two bedrooms and we might use it if we chose.
Since it was to cost nothing, we were not averse to using it,
of course.

Turin must surely read a good deal, for it has more
book-stores to the square rod than any other town I
know of.  And it has its own share of military folk.
The Italian officers' uniforms are very much the most
beautiful I have ever seen; and, as a general thing,
the men in them were as handsome as the clothes.  They were
not large men, but they had fine forms, fine features,
rich olive complexions, and lustrous black eyes.

For several weeks I had been culling all the information
I could about Italy, from tourists.  The tourists were
all agreed upon one thing--one must expect to be cheated
at every turn by the Italians.  I took an evening walk
in Turin, and presently came across a little Punch and Judy
show in one of the great squares.  Twelve or fifteen
people constituted the audience.  This miniature theater
was not much bigger than a man's coffin stood on end;
the upper part was open and displayed a tinseled
parlor--a good-sized handkerchief would have answered
for a drop-curtain; the footlights consisted of a couple
of candle-ends an inch long; various manikins the size
of dolls appeared on the stage and made long speeches at
each other, gesticulating a good deal, and they generally
had a fight before they got through.  They were worked
by strings from above, and the illusion was not perfect,
for one saw not only the strings but the brawny hand
that manipulated them--and the actors and actresses all
talked in the same voice, too.  The audience stood in front
of the theater, and seemed to enjoy the performance heartily.

When the play was done, a youth in his shirt-sleeves started
around with a small copper saucer to make a collection.
I did not know how much to put in, but thought I would
be guided by my predecessors.  Unluckily, I only had two
of these, and they did not help me much because they
did not put in anything.  I had no Italian money,
so I put in a small Swiss coin worth about ten cents.
The youth finished his collection trip and emptied
the result on the stage; he had some very animated talk
with the concealed manager, then he came working his
way through the little crowd--seeking me, I thought.
I had a mind to slip away, but concluded I wouldn't;
I would stand my ground, and confront the villainy,
whatever it was.  The youth stood before me and held
up that Swiss coin, sure enough, and said something.
I did not understand him, but I judged he was requiring
Italian money of me.  The crowd gathered close,
to listen.  I was irritated, and said--in English,
of course:

"I know it's Swiss, but you'll take that or none.
I haven't any other."

He tried to put the coin in my hand, and spoke again.
I drew my hand away, and said:

"NO, sir.  I know all about you people.  You can't play
any of your fraudful tricks on me.  If there is a discount
on that coin, I am sorry, but I am not going to make
it good.  I noticed that some of the audience didn't pay
you anything at all.  You let them go, without a word,
but you come after me because you think I'm a stranger
and will put up with an extortion rather than have a scene.
But you are mistaken this time--you'll take that Swiss
money or none."

The youth stood there with the coin in his fingers,
nonplused and bewildered; of course he had not understood
a word.  An English-speaking Italian spoke up, now, and said:

"You are misunderstanding the boy.  He does not mean any harm.
He did not suppose you gave him so much money purposely,
so he hurried back to return you the coin lest you
might get away before you discovered your mistake.
Take it, and give him a penny--that will make everything
smooth again."

I probably blushed, then, for there was occasion.
Through the interpreter I begged the boy's pardon,
but I nobly refused to take back the ten cents.  I said
I was accustomed to squandering large sums in that way--
it was the kind of person I was.  Then I retired to make
a note to the effect that in Italy persons connected
with the drama do not cheat.

The episode with the showman reminds me of a dark chapter
in my history.  I once robbed an aged and blind beggar-woman
of four dollars--in a church.  It happened this way.
When I was out with the Innocents Abroad, the ship
stopped in the Russian port of Odessa and I went ashore,
with others, to view the town.  I got separated from the rest,
and wandered about alone, until late in the afternoon,
when I entered a Greek church to see what it was like.
When I was ready to leave, I observed two wrinkled old
women standing stiffly upright against the inner wall,
near the door, with their brown palms open to receive alms.
I contributed to the nearer one, and passed out.
I had gone fifty yards, perhaps, when it occurred to me
that I must remain ashore all night, as I had heard
that the ship's business would carry her away at four
o'clock and keep her away until morning.  It was a little
after four now.  I had come ashore with only two pieces
of money, both about the same size, but differing largely
in value--one was a French gold piece worth four dollars,
the other a Turkish coin worth two cents and a half.
With a sudden and horrified misgiving, I put my hand in
my pocket, now, and sure enough, I fetched out that Turkish
penny!

Here was a situation.  A hotel would require pay in
advance --I must walk the street all night, and perhaps
be arrested as a suspicious character.  There was but one
way out of the difficulty--I flew back to the church,
and softly entered.  There stood the old woman yet,
and in the palm of the nearest one still lay my gold piece.
I was grateful.  I crept close, feeling unspeakably mean;
I got my Turkish penny ready, and was extending a trembling
hand to make the nefarious exchange, when I heard a cough
behind me.  I jumped back as if I had been accused,
and stood quaking while a worshiper entered and passed up
the aisle.

I was there a year trying to steal that money; that is,
it seemed a year, though, of course, it must have been
much less.  The worshipers went and came; there were hardly
ever three in the church at once, but there was always one
or more.  Every time I tried to commit my crime somebody
came in or somebody started out, and I was prevented;
but at last my opportunity came; for one moment there
was nobody in the church but the two beggar-women and me.
I whipped the gold piece out of the poor old pauper's palm
and dropped my Turkish penny in its place.  Poor old thing,
she murmured her thanks--they smote me to the heart.
Then I sped away in a guilty hurry, and even when I was a mile
from the church I was still glancing back, every moment,
to see if I was being pursued.

That experience has been of priceless value and benefit
to me; for I resolved then, that as long as I lived I
would never again rob a blind beggar-woman in a church;
and I have always kept my word.  The most permanent lessons
in morals are those which come, not of booky teaching,
but of experience.



CHAPTER XLVIII
[Beauty of Women--and of Old Masters]

In Milan we spent most of our time in the vast and
beautiful Arcade or Gallery, or whatever it is called.
Blocks of tall new buildings of the most sumptuous sort,
rich with decoration and graced with statues, the streets
between these blocks roofed over with glass at a great height,
the pavements all of smooth and variegated marble,
arranged in tasteful patterns--little tables all over these
marble streets, people sitting at them, eating, drinking,
or smoking--crowds of other people strolling by--such
is the Arcade.  I should like to live in it all the time.
The windows of the sumptuous restaurants stand open,
and one breakfasts there and enjoys the passing show.

We wandered all over the town, enjoying whatever was going
on in the streets.  We took one omnibus ride, and as I
did not speak Italian and could not ask the price, I held
out some copper coins to the conductor, and he took two.
Then he went and got his tariff card and showed me that he
had taken only the right sum.  So I made a note--Italian
omnibus conductors do not cheat.

Near the Cathedral I saw another instance of probity.
An old man was peddling dolls and toy fans.  Two small
American children and one gave the old man a franc
and three copper coins, and both started away; but they
were called back, and the franc and one of the coppers
were restored to them.  Hence it is plain that in Italy,
parties connected with the drama and the omnibus and the toy
interests do not cheat.

The stocks of goods in the shops were not extensive, generally.
In the vestibule of what seemed to be a clothing store,
we saw eight or ten wooden dummies grouped together,
clothed in woolen business suits and each marked with its price.
One suit was marked forty-five francs--nine dollars.
Harris stepped in and said he wanted a suit like that.
Nothing easier: the old merchant dragged in the dummy,
brushed him off with a broom, stripped him, and shipped
the clothes to the hotel.  He said he did not keep two
suits of the same kind in stock, but manufactured a second
when it was needed to reclothe the dummy.

In another quarter we found six Italians engaged
in a violent quarrel.  They danced fiercely about,
gesticulating with their heads, their arms, their legs,
their whole bodies; they would rush forward occasionally
with a sudden access of passion and shake their fists
in each other's very faces.  We lost half an hour there,
waiting to help cord up the dead, but they finally embraced
each other affectionately, and the trouble was over.
The episode was interesting, but we could not have afforded
all the time to it if we had known nothing was going
to come of it but a reconciliation.  Note made--in Italy,
people who quarrel cheat the spectator.

We had another disappointment afterward.  We approached
a deeply interested crowd, and in the midst of it
found a fellow wildly chattering and gesticulating
over a box on the ground which was covered with a piece
of old blanket.  Every little while he would bend down
and take hold of the edge of the blanket with the extreme
tips of his fingertips, as if to show there was no
deception--chattering away all the while--but always,
just as I was expecting to see a wonder feat of legerdemain,
he would let go the blanket and rise to explain further.
However, at last he uncovered the box and got out a spoon
with a liquid in it, and held it fair and frankly around,
for people to see that it was all right and he was taking
no advantage--his chatter became more excited than ever.
I supposed he was going to set fire to the liquid and
swallow it, so I was greatly wrought up and interested.
I got a cent ready in one hand and a florin in the other,
intending to give him the former if he survived and the
latter if he killed himself--for his loss would be my gain
in a literary way, and I was willing to pay a fair price
for the item --but this impostor ended his intensely
moving performance by simply adding some powder to the
liquid and polishing the spoon! Then he held it aloft,
and he could not have shown a wilder exultation if he
had achieved an immortal miracle.  The crowd applauded
in a gratified way, and it seemed to me that history
speaks the truth when it says these children of the south
are easily entertained.

We spent an impressive hour in the noble cathedral, where long
shafts of tinted light were cleaving through the solemn
dimness from the lofty windows and falling on a pillar here,
a picture there, and a kneeling worshiper yonder.
The organ was muttering, censers were swinging, candles were
glinting on the distant altar and robed priests were
filing silently past them; the scene was one to sweep all
frivolous thoughts away and steep the soul in a holy calm.
A trim young American lady paused a yard or two from me,
fixed her eyes on the mellow sparks flecking the far-off altar,
bent her head reverently a moment, then straightened up,
kicked her train into the air with her heel, caught it
deftly in her hand, and marched briskly out.

We visited the picture-galleries and the other regulation
"sights"
of Milan--not because I wanted to write about them again,
but to see if I had learned anything in twelve years.
I afterward visited the great galleries of Rome and
Florence for the same purpose.  I found I had learned
one thing.  When I wrote about the Old Masters before,
I said the copies were better than the originals.
That was a mistake of large dimensions.  The Old Masters
were still unpleasing to me, but they were truly divine
contrasted with the copies.  The copy is to the original
as the pallid, smart, inane new wax-work group is to
the vigorous, earnest, dignified group of living men
and women whom it professes to duplicate.  There is a
mellow richness, a subdued color, in the old pictures,
which is to the eye what muffled and mellowed sound
is to the ear.  That is the merit which is most loudly
praised in the old picture, and is the one which the copy
most conspicuously lacks, and which the copyist must
not hope to compass.  It was generally conceded by the
artists with whom I talked, that that subdued splendor,
that mellow richness, is imparted to the picture by AGE.
Then why should we worship the Old Master for it,
who didn't impart it, instead of worshiping Old Time,
who did? Perhaps the picture was a clanging bell,
until Time muffled it and sweetened it.

In conversation with an artist in Venice, I asked: "What
is it that people see in the Old Masters? I have been in the
Doge's palace and I saw several acres of very bad drawing,
very bad perspective, and very incorrect proportions.
Paul Veronese's dogs to not resemble dogs; all the horses
look like bladders on legs; one man had a RIGHT leg on
the left side of his body; in the large picture where
the Emperor (Barbarossa?) is prostrate before the Pope,
there are three men in the foreground who are over
thirty feet high, if one may judge by the size of a
kneeling little boy in the center of the foreground;
and according to the same scale, the Pope is seven feet
high and the Doge is a shriveled dwarf of four feet."

The artist said:

"Yes, the Old Masters often drew badly; they did not
care much for truth and exactness in minor details;
but after all, in spite of bad drawing, bad perspective,
bad proportions, and a choice of subjects which no longer
appeal to people as strongly as they did three hundred
years ago, there is a SOMETHING about their pictures
which is divine--a something which is above and beyond
the art of any epoch since--a something which would be
the despair of artists but that they never hope or expect
to attain it, and therefore do not worry about it."

That is what he said--and he said what he believed;
and not only believed, but felt.

Reasoning--especially reasoning, without technical
knowledge--must be put aside, in cases of this kind.
It cannot assist the inquirer.  It will lead him,
in the most logical progression, to what, in the eyes
of artists, would be a most illogical conclusion.
Thus: bad drawing, bad proportion, bad perspective,
indifference to truthful detail, color which gets its
merit from time, and not from the artist--these things
constitute the Old Master; conclusion, the Old Master
was a bad painter, the Old Master was not an Old Master
at all, but an Old Apprentice.  Your friend the artist
will grant your premises, but deny your conclusion;
he will maintain that notwithstanding this formidable
list of confessed defects, there is still a something
that is divine and unapproachable about the Old Master,
and that there is no arguing the fact away by any system of
reasoning whatsoever.

I can believe that.  There are women who have an
indefinable charm in their faces which makes them
beautiful to their intimates, but a cold stranger
who tried to reason the matter out and find this beauty
would fail.  He would say to one of these women: This
chin is too short, this nose is too long, this forehead
is too high, this hair is too red, this complexion is
too pallid, the perspective of the entire composition
is incorrect; conclusion, the woman is not beautiful.
But her nearest friend might say, and say truly,
"Your premises are right, your logic is faultless,
but your conclusion is wrong, nevertheless; she is an Old
Master--she is beautiful, but only to such as know her;
it is a beauty which cannot be formulated, but it is there, just
the same."

I found more pleasure in contemplating the Old Masters
this time than I did when I was in Europe in former years,
but still it was a calm pleasure; there was nothing
overheated about it.  When I was in Venice before,
I think I found no picture which stirred me much,
but this time there were two which enticed me to the Doge's
palace day after day, and kept me there hours at a time.
One of these was Tintoretto's three-acre picture in the
Great Council Chamber.  When I saw it twelve years ago I
was not strongly attracted to it--the guide told me it
was an insurrection in heaven--but this was an error.

The movement of this great work is very fine.  There are
ten thousand figures, and they are all doing something.
There is a wonderful "go" to the whole composition.
Some of the figures are driving headlong downward,
with clasped hands, others are swimming through the
cloud-shoals--some on their faces, some on their backs--great
processions of bishops, martyrs, and angels are pouring swiftly
centerward from various outlying directions--everywhere
is enthusiastic joy, there is rushing movement everywhere.
There are fifteen or twenty figures scattered here and there,
with books, but they cannot keep their attention on
their reading--they offer the books to others, but no
one wishes to read, now.  The Lion of St. Mark is there
with his book; St. Mark is there with his pen uplifted;
he and the Lion are looking each other earnestly in the face,
disputing about the way to spell a word--the Lion
looks up in rapt admiration while St. Mark spells.
This is wonderfully interpreted by the artist.
It is the master-stroke of this imcomparable painting.
[Figure 10]

I visited the place daily, and never grew tired of
looking at that grand picture.  As I have intimated,
the movement is almost unimaginable vigorous; the figures
are singing, hosannahing, and many are blowing trumpets.
So vividly is noise suggested, that spectators who become
absorbed in the picture almost always fall to shouting
comments in each other's ears, making ear-trumpets of their
curved hands, fearing they may not otherwise be heard.
One often sees a tourist, with the eloquent tears pouring
down his cheeks, funnel his hands at his wife's ear,
and hears him roar through them, "OH, TO BE THERE AND
AT REST!"

None but the supremely great in art can produce effects
like these with the silent brush.

Twelve years ago I could not have appreciated this picture.
One year ago I could not have appreciated it.  My study
of Art in Heidelberg has been a noble education to me.
All that I am today in Art, I owe to that.

The other great work which fascinated me was Bassano's
immortal Hair Trunk.  This is in the Chamber of the Council
of Ten.  It is in one of the three forty-foot pictures
which decorate the walls of the room.  The composition
of this picture is beyond praise.  The Hair Trunk is not
hurled at the stranger's head--so to speak--as the chief
feature of an immortal work so often is; no, it is
carefully guarded from prominence, it is subordinated,
it is restrained, it is most deftly and cleverly held
in reserve, it is most cautiously and ingeniously led up to,
by the master, and consequently when the spectator reaches
it at last, he is taken unawares, he is unprepared,
and it bursts upon him with a stupefying surprise.

One is lost in wonder at all the thought and care which
this elaborate planning must have cost.  A general glance
at the picture could never suggest that there was a hair
trunk in it; the Hair Trunk is not mentioned in the title
even--which is, "Pope Alexander III.  and the Doge Ziani,
the Conqueror of the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa";
you see, the title is actually utilized to help
divert attention from the Trunk; thus, as I say,
nothing suggests the presence of the Trunk, by any hint,
yet everything studiedly leads up to it, step by step.
Let us examine into this, and observe the exquisitely
artful artlessness of the plan.

At the extreme left end of the picture are a couple of women,
one of them with a child looking over her shoulder at
a wounded man sitting with bandaged head on the ground.
These people seem needless, but no, they are there
for a purpose; one cannot look at them without seeing
the gorgeous procession of grandees, bishops, halberdiers,
and banner-bearers which is passing along behind them;
one cannot see the procession without feeling the curiosity
to follow it and learn whither it is going; it leads him
to the Pope, in the center of the picture, who is talking
with the bonnetless Doge--talking tranquilly, too,
although within twelve feet of them a man is beating a drum,
and not far from the drummer two persons are blowing horns,
and many horsemen are plunging and rioting about--indeed,
twenty-two feet of this great work is all a deep and
happy holiday serenity and Sunday-school procession,
and then we come suddenly upon eleven and one-half feet
of turmoil and racket and insubordination.  This latter
state of things is not an accident, it has its purpose.
But for it, one would linger upon the Pope and the Doge,
thinking them to be the motive and supreme feature of
the picture; whereas one is drawn along, almost unconsciously,
to see what the trouble is about.  Now at the very END
of this riot, within four feet of the end of the picture,
and full thirty-six feet from the beginning of it,
the Hair Trunk bursts with an electrifying suddenness
upon the spectator, in all its matchless perfection,
and the great master's triumph is sweeping and complete.
From that moment no other thing in those forty feet of canvas
has any charm; one sees the Hair Trunk, and the Hair Trunk
only--and to see it is to worship it.  Bassano even placed
objects in the immediate vicinity of the Supreme Feature
whose pretended purpose was to divert attention from it yet
a little longer and thus delay and augment the surprise;
for instance, to the right of it he has placed a stooping
man with a cap so red that it is sure to hold the eye
for a moment--to the left of it, some six feet away,
he has placed a red-coated man on an inflated horse,
and that coat plucks your eye to that locality the next
moment--then, between the Trunk and the red horseman he
has intruded a man, naked to his waist, who is carrying
a fancy flour-sack on the middle of his back instead
of on his shoulder--this admirable feat interests you,
of course--keeps you at bay a little longer, like a sock
or a jacket thrown to the pursuing wolf--but at last,
in spite of all distractions and detentions, the eye
of even the most dull and heedless spectator is sure
to fall upon the World's Masterpiece, and in that
moment he totters to his chair or leans upon his guide
for support.

Descriptions of such a work as this must necessarily
be imperfect, yet they are of value.  The top of the Trunk
is arched; the arch is a perfect half-circle, in the Roman
style of architecture, for in the then rapid decadence
of Greek art, the rising influence of Rome was already
beginning to be felt in the art of the Republic.
The Trunk is bound or bordered with leather all around
where the lid joins the main body.  Many critics consider
this leather too cold in tone; but I consider this
its highest merit, since it was evidently made so to
emphasize by contrast the impassioned fervor of the hasp.
The highlights in this part of the work are cleverly managed,
the MOTIF is admirably subordinated to the ground tints,
and the technique is very fine.  The brass nail-heads
are in the purest style of the early Renaissance.
The strokes, here, are very firm and bold--every nail-head
is a portrait.  The handle on the end of the Trunk has
evidently been retouched--I think, with a piece of chalk--
but one can still see the inspiration of the Old Master
in the tranquil, almost too tranquil, hang of it.  The hair
of this Trunk is REAL hair--so to speak--white in patched,
brown in patches.  The details are finely worked out;
the repose proper to hair in a recumbent and inactive
attitude is charmingly expressed.  There is a feeling
about this part of the work which lifts it to the highest
altitudes of art; the sense of sordid realism vanishes
away--one recognizes that there is SOUL here.

View this Trunk as you will, it is a gem, it is a marvel,
it is a miracle.  Some of the effects are very daring,
approaching even to the boldest flights of the rococo,
the sirocco, and the Byzantine schools--yet the master's hand
never falters--it moves on, calm, majestic, confident--and,
with that art which conceals art, it finally casts over
the TOUT ENSEMBLE, by mysterious methods of its own,
a subtle something which refines, subdues, etherealizes the
arid components and endures them with the deep charm
and gracious witchery of poesy.

Among the art-treasures of Europe there are pictures
which approach the Hair Trunk--there are two which may
be said to equal it, possibly--but there is none that
surpasses it.  So perfect is the Hair Trunk that it moves
even persons who ordinarily have no feeling for art.
When an Erie baggagemaster saw it two years ago, he could
hardly keep from checking it; and once when a customs
inspector was brought into its presence, he gazed upon
it in silent rapture for some moments, then slowly
and unconsciously placed one hand behind him with the
palm uppermost, and got out his chalk with the other.
These facts speak for themselves.



CHAPTER XLIX
[Hanged with a Golden Rope]

One lingers about the Cathedral a good deal, in Venice.
There is a strong fascination about it--partly because
it is so old, and partly because it is so ugly.
Too many of the world's famous buildings fail of one
chief virtue--harmony; they are made up of a methodless
mixture of the ugly and the beautiful; this is bad;
it is confusing, it is unrestful.  One has a sense
of uneasiness, of distress, without knowing why.  But one
is calm before St. Mark's, one is calm in the cellar;
for its details are masterfully ugly, no misplaced
and impertinent beauties are intruded anywhere; and the
consequent result is a grand harmonious whole, of soothing,
entrancing, tranquilizing, soul-satisfying ugliness.
One's admiration of a perfect thing always grows,
never declines; and this is the surest evidence to him
that it IS perfect.  St. Mark's is perfect.  To me it
soon grew to be so nobly, so augustly ugly, that it was
difficult to stay away from it, even for a little while.
Every time its squat domes disappeared from my view,
I had a despondent feeling; whenever they reappeared,
I felt an honest rapture--I have not known any happier hours
than those I daily spent in front of Florian's, looking
across the Great Square at it.  Propped on its long row
of low thick-legged columns, its back knobbed with domes,
it seemed like a vast warty bug taking a meditative walk.

St. Mark's is not the oldest building in the world, of course,
but it seems the oldest, and looks the oldest--especially inside.

When the ancient mosaics in its walls become damaged,
they are repaired but not altered; the grotesque old
pattern is preserved.  Antiquity has a charm of its own,
and to smarten it up would only damage it.  One day I
was sitting on a red marble bench in the vestibule looking
up at an ancient piece of apprentice-work, in mosaic,
illustrative of the command to "multiply and replenish
the earth." The Cathedral itself had seemed very old;
but this picture was illustrating a period in history
which made the building seem young by comparison.
But I presently found an antique which was older than either
the battered Cathedral or the date assigned to the piece
of history; it was a spiral-shaped fossil as large as
the crown of a hat; it was embedded in the marble bench,
and had been sat upon by tourists until it was worn smooth.
Contrasted with the inconceivable antiquity of this
modest fossil, those other things were flippantly
modern--jejune--mere matters of day-before-yesterday.
The sense of the oldness of the Cathedral vanished away
under the influence of this truly venerable presence.

St. Mark's is monumental; it is an imperishable remembrancer
of the profound and simply piety of the Middle Ages.
Whoever could ravish a column from a pagan temple,
did it and contributed his swag to this Christian one.
So this fane is upheld by several hundred acquisitions
procured in that peculiar way.  In our day it would be
immoral to go on the highway to get bricks for a church,
but it was no sin in the old times.  St. Mark's was itself
the victim of a curious robbery once.  The thing is set
down in the history of Venice, but it might be smuggled
into the Arabian Nights and not seem out of place
there:

Nearly four hundred and fifty years ago, a Candian
named Stammato, in the suite of a prince of the house
of Este, was allowed to view the riches of St. Mark's.
His sinful eye was dazzled and he hid himself behind
an altar, with an evil purpose in his heart, but a priest
discovered him and turned him out.  Afterward he got
in again--by false keys, this time.  He went there,
night after night, and worked hard and patiently, all alone,
overcoming difficulty after difficulty with his toil,
and at last succeeded in removing a great brick of the marble
paneling which walled the lower part of the treasury;
this block he fixed so that he could take it out and put
it in at will.  After that, for weeks, he spent all
his midnights in his magnificent mine, inspecting it
in security, gloating over its marvels at his leisure,
and always slipping back to his obscure lodgings before dawn,
with a duke's ransom under his cloak.  He did not need
to grab, haphazard, and run--there was no hurry.
He could make deliberate and well-considered selections;
he could consult his esthetic tastes.  One comprehends
how undisturbed he was, and how safe from any danger
of interruption, when it is stated that he even carried off
a unicorn's horn--a mere curiosity--which would not pass
through the egress entire, but had to be sawn in two--
a bit of work which cost him hours of tedious labor.
He continued to store up his treasures at home until his
occupation lost the charm of novelty and became monotonous;
then he ceased from it, contented.  Well he might be;
for his collection, raised to modern values, represented nearly
fifty million dollars!

He could have gone home much the richest citizen of his country,
and it might have been years before the plunder was missed;
but he was human--he could not enjoy his delight alone,
he must have somebody to talk about it with.  So he
exacted a solemn oath from a Candian noble named Crioni,
then led him to his lodgings and nearly took his breath
away with a sight of his glittering hoard.  He detected
a look in his friend's face which excited his suspicion,
and was about to slip a stiletto into him when Crioni
saved himself by explaining that that look was only
an expression of supreme and happy astonishment.
Stammato made Crioni a present of one of the state's
principal jewels--a huge carbuncle, which afterward
figured in the Ducal cap of state--and the pair parted.
Crioni went at once to the palace, denounced the criminal,
and handed over the carbuncle as evidence.
Stammato was arrested, tried, and condemned, with the
old-time Venetian promptness.  He was hanged between
the two great columns in the Piazza--with a gilded rope,
out of compliment to his love of gold, perhaps.  He got
no good of his booty at all--it was ALL recovered.

In Venice we had a luxury which very seldom fell to our lot
on the continent--a home dinner with a private family.
If one could always stop with private families,
when traveling, Europe would have a charm which it
now lacks.  As it is, one must live in the hotels,
of course, and that is a sorrowful business.
A man accustomed to American food and American domestic
cookery would not starve to death suddenly in Europe;
but I think he would gradually waste away, and eventually die.

He would have to do without his accustomed morning meal.
That is too formidable a change altogether; he would
necessarily suffer from it.  He could get the shadow,
the sham, the base counterfeit of that meal; but it would
do him no good, and money could not buy the reality.

To particularize: the average American's simplest and
commonest form of breakfast consists of coffee and beefsteak;
well, in Europe, coffee is an unknown beverage.  You can
get what the European hotel-keeper thinks is coffee, but it
resembles the real thing as hypocrisy resembles holiness.
It is a feeble, characterless, uninspiring sort of stuff,
and almost as undrinkable as if it had been made in an
American hotel.  The milk used for it is what the French
call "Christian" milk--milk which has been baptized.

After a few months' acquaintance with European "coffee,"
one's mind weakens, and his faith with it, and he begins
to wonder if the rich beverage of home, with its clotted
layer of yellow cream on top of it, is not a mere dream,
after all, and a thing which never existed.

Next comes the European bread--fair enough, good enough,
after a fashion, but cold; cold and tough, and unsympathetic;
and never any change, never any variety--always the same
tiresome thing.

Next, the butter--the sham and tasteless butter; no salt
in it, and made of goodness knows what.

Then there is the beefsteak.  They have it in Europe, but they
don't know how to cook it.  Neither will they cut it right.
It comes on the table in a small, round pewter platter.
It lies in the center of this platter, in a bordering
bed of grease-soaked potatoes; it is the size, shape,
and thickness of a man's hand with the thumb and fingers
cut off.  It is a little overdone, is rather dry,
it tastes pretty insipidly, it rouses no enthusiasm.

Imagine a poor exile contemplating that inert thing;
and imagine an angel suddenly sweeping down out of a better
land and setting before him a mighty porterhouse steak an
inch and a half thick, hot and sputtering from the griddle;
dusted with a fragrant pepper; enriched with little
melting bits of butter of the most unimpeachable freshness
and genuineness; the precious juices of the meat trickling
out and joining the gravy, archipelagoed with mushrooms;
a township or two of tender, yellowish fat gracing
an outlying district of this ample county of beefsteak;
the long white bone which divides the sirloin from the
tenderloin still in its place; and imagine that the angel
also adds a great cup of American home-made coffee,
with a cream a-froth on top, some real butter, firm and
yellow and fresh, some smoking hot-biscuits, a plate
of hot buckwheat cakes, with transparent syrup--could
words describe the gratitude of this exile?

The European dinner is better than the European breakfast,
but it has its faults and inferiorities; it does not satisfy.
He comes to the table eager and hungry; he swallows his
soup--there is an undefinable lack about it somewhere;
thinks the fish is going to be the thing he wants--
eats it and isn't sure; thinks the next dish is perhaps
the one that will hit the hungry place--tries it,
and is conscious that there was a something wanting
about it, also.  And thus he goes on, from dish to dish,
like a boy after a butterfly which just misses getting
caught every time it alights, but somehow doesn't get caught
after all; and at the end the exile and the boy have fared
about alike; the one is full, but grievously unsatisfied,
the other has had plenty of exercise, plenty of interest,
and a fine lot of hopes, but he hasn't got any butterfly.
There is here and there an American who will say he can remember
rising from a European table d'ho^te perfectly satisfied;
but we must not overlook the fact that there is also here
and there an American who will lie.

The number of dishes is sufficient; but then it is such
a monotonous variety of UNSTRIKING dishes.  It is an inane
dead-level of "fair-to-middling." There is nothing to
ACCENT it.  Perhaps if the roast of mutton or of beef--a big,
generous one--were brought on the table and carved in full
view of the client, that might give the right sense of
earnestness and reality to the thing; but they don't do that,
they pass the sliced meat around on a dish, and so you
are perfectly calm, it does not stir you in the least.
Now a vast roast turkey, stretched on the broad of his back,
with his heels in the air and the rich juices oozing
from his fat sides ... but I may as well stop there,
for they would not know how to cook him.  They can't
even cook a chicken respectably; and as for carving it,
they do that with a hatchet.

This is about the customary table d'ho^te bill in summer:

Soup (characterless).

Fish--sole, salmon, or whiting--usually tolerably good.

Roast--mutton or beef--tasteless--and some last year's potatoes.

A pa^te, or some other made dish--usually good--"considering."

One vegetable--brought on in state, and all alone--usually
insipid lentils, or string-beans, or indifferent asparagus.

Roast chicken, as tasteless as paper.

Lettuce-salad--tolerably good.

Decayed strawberries or cherries.

Sometimes the apricots and figs are fresh, but this is
no advantage, as these fruits are of no account anyway.

The grapes are generally good, and sometimes there
is a tolerably good peach, by mistake.

The variations of the above bill are trifling.  After a
fortnight one discovers that the variations are only apparent,
not real; in the third week you get what you had the first,
and in the fourth the week you get what you had the second.
Three or four months of this weary sameness will kill
the robustest appetite.

It has now been many months, at the present writing,
since I have had a nourishing meal, but I shall soon
have one--a modest, private affair, all to myself.
I have selected a few dishes, and made out a little bill
of fare, which will go home in the steamer that precedes me,
and be hot when I arrive--as follows:

Radishes. Baked apples, with cream
Fried oysters; stewed oysters. Frogs.
American coffee, with real cream.
American butter.
Fried chicken, Southern style.
Porter-house steak.
Saratoga potatoes.
Broiled chicken, American style.
Hot biscuits, Southern style.
Hot wheat-bread, Southern style.
Hot buckwheat cakes.
American toast. Clear maple syrup.
Virginia bacon, broiled.
Blue points, on the half shell.
Cherry-stone clams.
San Francisco mussels, steamed.
Oyster soup.   Clam Soup.
Philadelphia Terapin soup.
Oysters roasted in shell-Northern style.
Soft-shell crabs.   Connecticut shad.
Baltimore perch.
Brook trout, from Sierra Nevadas.
Lake trout, from Tahoe.
Sheep-head and croakers, from New Orleans.
Black bass from the Mississippi.
American roast beef.
Roast turkey, Thanksgiving style.
Cranberry sauce. Celery.
Roast wild turkey.  Woodcock.
Canvas-back-duck, from Baltimore.
Prairie liens, from Illinois.
Missouri partridges, broiled.
'Possum. Coon.
Boston bacon and beans.
Bacon and greens, Southern style.
Hominy. Boiled onions. Turnips.
Pumpkin. Squash. Asparagus.
Butter beans.  Sweet potatoes.
Lettuce. Succotash. String beans.
Mashed potatoes. Catsup.
Boiled potatoes, in their skins.
New potatoes, minus the skins.
Early rose potatoes, roasted in the ashes, Southern style, served hot.
Sliced tomatoes, with sugar or vinegar. Stewed tomatoes.
Green corn, cut from the ear and served with butter and pepper.
Green corn, on the ear.
Hot corn-pone, with chitlings, Southern style.
Hot hoe-cake, Southern style.
Hot egg-bread, Southern style.
Hot light-bread, Southern style.
Buttermilk. Iced sweet milk.
Apple dumplings, with real cream.
Apple pie.  Apple fritters.
Apple puffs, Southern style.
Peach cobbler, Southern style
Peach pie.  American mince pie.
Pumpkin pie.  Squash pie.
All sorts of American pastry.

Fresh American fruits of all sorts, including strawberries which
are not to be doled out as if they were jewelry, but in a more
liberal way. Ice-water--not prepared in the ineffectual goblet,
but in the sincere and capable refrigerator.

Americans intending to spend a year or so in European hotels
will do well to copy this bill and carry it along.  They will
find it an excellent thing to get up an appetite with,
in the dispiriting presence of the squalid table d'ho^te.

Foreigners cannot enjoy our food, I suppose, any more than we
can enjoy theirs.  It is not strange; for tastes are made,
not born.  I might glorify my bill of fare until I was tired;
but after all, the Scotchman would shake his head and say,
"Where's your haggis?" and the Fijian would sigh and say,
"Where's your missionary?"

I have a neat talent in matters pertaining to nourishment.
This has met with professional recognition.  I have often
furnished recipes for cook-books. Here are some designs
for pies and things, which I recently prepared for a
friend's projected cook-book, but as I forgot to furnish
diagrams and perspectives, they had to be left out,
of course.

RECIPE FOR AN ASH-CAKE

Take a lot of water and add to it a lot of coarse
Indian-meal and about a quarter of a lot of salt.
Mix well together, knead into the form of a "pone," and let
the pone stand awhile--not on its edge, but the other way.
Rake away a place among the embers, lay it there,
and cover it an inch deep with hot ashes.  When it
is done, remove it; blow off all the ashes but one layer;
butter that one and eat.

N.B.--No household should ever be without this talisman.
It has been noticed that tramps never return for another
ash-cake.

----------

RECIPE FOR NEW ENGLISH PIE

To make this excellent breakfast dish, proceed as
follows: Take a sufficiency of water and a sufficiency
of flour, and construct a bullet-proof dough.
Work this into the form of a disk, with the edges turned
up some three-fourths of an inch.  Toughen and kiln-dry
in a couple days in a mild but unvarying temperature.
Construct a cover for this redoubt in the same way and
of the same material.  Fill with stewed dried apples;
aggravate with cloves, lemon-peel, and slabs of citron;
add two portions of New Orleans sugars, then solder
on the lid and set in a safe place till it petrifies.
Serve cold at breakfast and invite your enemy.

----------

RECIPE FOR GERMAN COFFEE

Take a barrel of water and bring it to a boil; rub a chicory
berry against a coffee berry, then convey the former
into the water.  Continue the boiling and evaporation
until the intensity of the flavor and aroma of the coffee
and chicory has been diminished to a proper degree;
then set aside to cool.  Now unharness the remains of a
once cow from the plow, insert them in a hydraulic press,
and when you shall have acquired a teaspoon of that
pale-blue juice which a German superstition regards
as milk, modify the malignity of its strength in a bucket
of tepid water and ring up the breakfast.  Mix the
beverage in a cold cup, partake with moderation, and keep
a wet rag around your head to guard against over-excitement.

----------

TO CARVE FOWLS IN THE GERMAN FASHION

Use a club, and avoid the joints.



CHAPTER L
[Titian Bad and Titian Good]

I wonder why some things are? For instance, Art is allowed
as much indecent license today as in earlier times--
but the privileges of Literature in this respect have been
sharply curtailed within the past eighty or ninety years.
Fielding and Smollett could portray the beastliness
of their day in the beastliest language; we have plenty
of foul subjects to deal with in our day, but we are
not allowed to approach them very near, even with nice
and guarded forms of speech.  But not so with Art.
The brush may still deal freely with any subject,
however revolting or indelicate.  It makes a body ooze
sarcasm at every pore, to go about Rome and Florence and see
what this last generation has been doing with the statues.
These works, which had stood in innocent nakedness for ages,
are all fig-leaved now.  Yes, every one of them.
Nobody noticed their nakedness before, perhaps; nobody can
help noticing it now, the fig-leaf makes it so conspicuous.
But the comical thing about it all, is, that the fig-leaf
is confined to cold and pallid marble, which would be still
cold and unsuggestive without this sham and ostentatious
symbol of modesty, whereas warm-blood paintings which do
really need it have in no case been furnished with it.

At the door of the Uffizzi, in Florence, one is confronted
by statues of a man and a woman, noseless, battered, black with
accumulated grime--they hardly suggest human beings--
yet these ridiculous creatures have been thoughtfully and
conscientiously fig-leaved by this fastidious generation.
You enter, and proceed to that most-visited little
gallery that exists in the world--the Tribune--and there,
against the wall, without obstructing rag or leaf,
you may look your fill upon the foulest, the vilest,
the obscenest picture the world possesses--Titian's Venus.
It isn't that she is naked and stretched out on a bed--no,
it is the attitude of one of her arms and hand.  If I
ventured to describe that attitude, there would be a fine
howl--but there the Venus lies, for anybody to gloat
over that wants to--and there she has a right to lie,
for she is a work of art, and Art has its privileges.
I saw young girls stealing furtive glances at her; I saw
young men gaze long and absorbedly at her; I saw aged,
infirm men hang upon her charms with a pathetic interest.
How I should like to describe her--just to see what a holy
indignation I could stir up in the world--just to hear
the unreflecting average man deliver himself about my
grossness and coarseness, and all that.  The world says
that no worded description of a moving spectacle is
a hundredth part as moving as the same spectacle seen
with one's own eyes--yet the world is willing to let its
son and its daughter and itself look at Titian's beast,
but won't stand a description of it in words.
Which shows that the world is not as consistent as it
might be.

There are pictures of nude women which suggest no impure
thought--I am well aware of that.  I am not railing
at such.  What I am trying to emphasize is the fact that
Titian's Venus is very far from being one of that sort.
Without any question it was painted for a bagnio and it
was probably refused because it was a trifle too strong.
In truth, it is too strong for any place but a public
Art Gallery.  Titian has two Venuses in the Tribune;
persons who have seen them will easily remember which one I am
referring to.

In every gallery in Europe there are hideous pictures
of blood, carnage, oozing brains, putrefaction--pictures
portraying intolerable suffering--pictures alive
with every conceivable horror, wrought out in dreadful
detail--and similar pictures are being put on the canvas
every day and publicly exhibited--without a growl from
anybody--for they are innocent, they are inoffensive,
being works of art.  But suppose a literary artist ventured
to go into a painstaking and elaborate description
of one of these grisly things--the critics would skin
him alive.  Well, let it go, it cannot be helped;
Art retains her privileges, Literature has lost hers.
Somebody else may cipher out the whys and the wherefores
and the consistencies of it--I haven't got time.

Titian's Venus defiles and disgraces the Tribune, there is
no softening that fact, but his "Moses" glorifies it.
The simple truthfulness of its noble work wins the heart
and the applause of every visitor, be he learned or ignorant.
After wearying one's self with the acres of stuffy,
sappy, expressionless babies that populate the canvases
of the Old Masters of Italy, it is refreshing to stand
before this peerless child and feel that thrill which tells
you you are at last in the presence of the real thing.
This is a human child, this is genuine.  You have seen him
a thousand times--you have seen him just as he is here--
and you confess, without reserve, that Titian WAS a Master.
The doll-faces of other painted babes may mean one thing,
they may mean another, but with the "Moses" the case
is different.  The most famous of all the art-critics
has said, "There is no room for doubt, here--plainly this
child is in trouble."

I consider that the "Moses" has no equal among the works
of the Old Masters, except it be the divine Hair Trunk
of Bassano.  I feel sure that if all the other Old Masters
were lost and only these two preserved, the world would
be the gainer by it.

My sole purpose in going to Florence was to see this
immortal "Moses," and by good fortune I was just in time,
for they were already preparing to remove it to a more
private and better-protected place because a fashion
of robbing the great galleries was prevailing in Europe
at the time.

I got a capable artist to copy the picture; Pannemaker,
the engraver of Dor'e's books, engraved it for me,
and I have the pleasure of laying it before the reader
in this volume.

We took a turn to Rome and some other Italian cities--
then to Munich, and thence to Paris--partly for exercise,
but mainly because these things were in our projected program,
and it was only right that we should be faithful to it.

From Paris I branched out and walked through Holland and Belgium,
procuring an occasional lift by rail or canal when tired,
and I had a tolerably good time of it "by and large."
I worked Spain and other regions through agents to save
time and shoe-leather.

We crossed to England, and then made the homeward
passage in the Cunarder GALLIA, a very fine ship.
I was glad to get home--immeasurably glad; so glad,
in fact, that it did not seem possible that anything
could ever get me out of the country again.  I had not
enjoyed a pleasure abroad which seemed to me to compare
with the pleasure I felt in seeing New York harbor again.
Europe has many advantages which we have not, but they
do not compensate for a good many still more valuable
ones which exist nowhere but in our own country.
Then we are such a homeless lot when we are over
there! So are Europeans themselves, for the matter.
They live in dark and chilly vast tombs--costly enough,
maybe, but without conveniences.  To be condemned to live
as the average European family lives would make life
a pretty heavy burden to the average American family.

On the whole, I think that short visits to Europe are
better for us than long ones.  The former preserve us from
becoming Europeanized; they keep our pride of country intact,
and at the same time they intensify our affection for our
country and our people; whereas long visits have the effect
of dulling those feelings--at least in the majority
of cases.  I think that one who mixes much with Americans
long resident abroad must arrive at this conclusion.



APPENDIX ----------

Nothing gives such weight and dignity to a book
as an Appendix.  HERODOTUS



APPENDIX A
The Portier

Omar Khay'am, the poet-prophet of Persia, writing more
than eight hundred years ago, has said:

"In the four parts of the earth are many that are able
to write learned books, many that are able to lead armies,
and many also that are able to govern kingdoms and empires;
but few there be that can keep a hotel."

A word about the European hotel PORTIER.  He is a most
admirable invention, a most valuable convenience.
He always wears a conspicuous uniform; he can always
be found when he is wanted, for he sticks closely to
his post at the front door; he is as polite as a duke;
he speaks from four to ten languages; he is your surest
help and refuge in time of trouble or perplexity.
He is not the clerk, he is not the landlord; he ranks above
the clerk, and represents the landlord, who is seldom seen.
Instead of going to the clerk for information, as we do at home,
you go to the portier.  It is the pride of our average
hotel clerk to know nothing whatever; it is the pride
of the portier to know everything.  You ask the portier
at what hours the trains leave--he tells you instantly;
or you ask him who is the best physician in town; or what
is the hack tariff; or how many children the mayor has;
or what days the galleries are open, and whether a permit
is required, and where you are to get it, and what you
must pay for it; or when the theaters open and close,
what the plays are to be, and the price of seats;
or what is the newest thing in hats; or how the bills
of mortality average; or "who struck Billy Patterson."
It does not matter what you ask him: in nine cases
out of ten he knows, and in the tenth case he will find
out for you before you can turn around three times.
There is nothing he will not put his hand to.  Suppose you
tell him you wish to go from Hamburg to Peking by the way
of Jericho, and are ignorant of routes and prices--
the next morning he will hand you a piece of paper with
the whole thing worked out on it to the last detail.
Before you have been long on European soil, you find
yourself still SAYING you are relying on Providence,
but when you come to look closer you will see that in reality
you are relying on the portier.  He discovers what is
puzzling you, or what is troubling you, or what your need is,
before you can get the half of it out, and he promptly says,
"Leave that to me." Consequently, you easily drift into
the habit of leaving everything to him.  There is a certain
embarrassment about applying to the average American
hotel clerk, a certain hesitancy, a sense of insecurity
against rebuff; but you feel no embarrassment in your
intercourse with the portier; he receives your propositions
with an enthusiasm which cheers, and plunges into their
accomplishment with an alacrity which almost inebriates.
The more requirements you can pile upon him, the better he
likes it.  Of course the result is that you cease from doing
anything for yourself.  He calls a hack when you want one;
puts you into it; tells the driver whither to take you;
receives you like a long-lost child when you return;
sends you about your business, does all the quarreling
with the hackman himself, and pays him his money out
of his own pocket.  He sends for your theater tickets,
and pays for them; he sends for any possible article
you can require, be it a doctor, an elephant, or a
postage stamp; and when you leave, at last, you will
find a subordinate seated with the cab-driver who will
put you in your railway compartment, buy your tickets,
have your baggage weighed, bring you the printed tags,
and tell you everything is in your bill and paid for.
At home you get such elaborate, excellent, and willing
service as this only in the best hotels of our large cities;
but in Europe you get it in the mere back country-towns just
as well.

What is the secret of the portier's devotion? It is
very simple: he gets FEES, AND NO SALARY.  His fee
is pretty closely regulated, too.  If you stay a week,
you give him five marks--a dollar and a quarter, or about
eighteen cents a day.  If you stay a month, you reduce
this average somewhat.  If you stay two or three months
or longer, you cut it down half, or even more than half.
If you stay only one day, you give the portier a mark.

The head waiter's fee is a shade less than the portier's;
the Boots, who not only blacks your boots and brushes
your clothes, but is usually the porter and handles your
baggage, gets a somewhat smaller fee than the head waiter;
the chambermaid's fee ranks below that of the Boots.
You fee only these four, and no one else.  A German
gentleman told me that when he remained a week in a hotel,
he gave the portier five marks, the head waiter four,
the Boots three, and the chambermaid two; and if he
stayed three months he divided ninety marks among them,
in about the above proportions.  Ninety marks make
$22.50.

None of these fees are ever paid until you leave the hotel,
though it be a year--except one of these four servants
should go away in the mean time; in that case he will
be sure to come and bid you good-by and give you the
opportunity to pay him what is fairly coming to him.
It is considered very bad policy to fee a servant while you
are still to remain longer in the hotel, because if you
gave him too little he might neglect you afterward,
and if you gave him too much he might neglect somebody
else to attend to you.  It is considered best to keep his
expectations "on a string" until your stay is concluded.

I do not know whether hotel servants in New York get any
wages or not, but I do know that in some of the hotels there
the feeing system in vogue is a heavy burden.  The waiter
expects a quarter at breakfast--and gets it.  You have
a different waiter at luncheon, and so he gets a quarter.
Your waiter at dinner is another stranger--consequently
he gets a quarter.  The boy who carries your satchel
to your room and lights your gas fumbles around and hangs
around significantly, and you fee him to get rid of him.
Now you may ring for ice-water; and ten minutes later
for a lemonade; and ten minutes afterward, for a cigar;
and by and by for a newspaper--and what is the result? Why,
a new boy has appeared every time and fooled and fumbled
around until you have paid him something.  Suppose you
boldly put your foot down, and say it is the hotel's
business to pay its servants? You will have to ring your
bell ten or fifteen times before you get a servant there;
and when he goes off to fill your order you will grow old
and infirm before you see him again.  You may struggle nobly
for twenty-four hours, maybe, if you are an adamantine
sort of person, but in the mean time you will have been
so wretchedly served, and so insolently, that you will
haul down your colors, and go to impoverishing yourself
with fees.

It seems to me that it would be a happy idea to import
the European feeing system into America.  I believe it
would result in getting even the bells of the Philadelphia
hotels answered, and cheerful service rendered.

The greatest American hotels keep a number of clerks
and a cashier, and pay them salaries which mount up
to a considerable total in the course of a year.
The great continental hotels keep a cashier on a trifling
salary, and a portier WHO PAYS THE HOTEL A SALARY.
By the latter system both the hotel and the public
save money and are better served than by our system.
One of our consuls told me that a portier of a great Berlin
hotel paid five thousand dollars a year for his position,
and yet cleared six thousand dollars for himself.
The position of portier in the chief hotels of Saratoga,
Long Branch, New York, and similar centers of resort,
would be one which the holder could afford to pay even more
than five thousand dollars for, perhaps.

When we borrowed the feeing fashion from Europe a dozen
years ago, the salary system ought to have been discontinued,
of course.  We might make this correction now, I should think.
And we might add the portier, too.  Since I first began
to study the portier, I have had opportunities to observe
him in the chief cities of Germany, Switzerland, and Italy;
and the more I have seen of him the more I have wished
that he might be adopted in America, and become there,
as he is in Europe, the stranger's guardian angel.

Yes, what was true eight hundred years ago, is just
as true today: "Few there be that can keep a hotel."
Perhaps it is because the landlords and their subordinates
have in too many cases taken up their trade without first
learning it.  In Europe the trade of hotel-keeper is taught.
The apprentice begins at the bottom of the ladder
and masters the several grades one after the other.
Just as in our country printing-offices the apprentice
first learns how to sweep out and bring water;
then learns to "roll"; then to sort "pi"; then to set type;
and finally rounds and completes his education with
job-work and press-work; so the landlord-apprentice serves
as call-boy; then as under-waiter; then as a parlor waiter;
then as head waiter, in which position he often has
to make out all the bills; then as clerk or cashier;
then as portier.  His trade is learned now, and by and
by he will assume the style and dignity of landlord,
and be found conducting a hotel of his own.

Now in Europe, the same as in America, when a man has
kept a hotel so thoroughly well during a number of years
as to give it a great reputation, he has his reward.
He can live prosperously on that reputation.  He can let
his hotel run down to the last degree of shabbiness and
yet have it full of people all the time.  For instance,
there is the Ho^tel de Ville, in Milan.  It swarms with mice
and fleas, and if the rest of the world were destroyed
it could furnish dirt enough to start another one with.
The food would create an insurrection in a poorhouse;
and yet if you go outside to get your meals that hotel
makes up its loss by overcharging you on all sorts
of trifles--and without making any denials or excuses
about it, either.  But the Ho^tel de Ville's old excellent
reputation still keeps its dreary rooms crowded with travelers
who would be elsewhere if they had only some wise friend
to warn them.



APPENDIX B
Heidelberg Castle

Heidelberg Castle must have been very beautiful before
the French battered and bruised and scorched it two hundred
years ago.  The stone is brown, with a pinkish tint,
and does not seem to stain easily.  The dainty and elaborate
ornamentation upon its two chief fronts is as delicately
carved as if it had been intended for the interior of a
drawing-room rather than for the outside of a house.
Many fruit and flower clusters, human heads and grim
projecting lions' heads are still as perfect in every detail
as if they were new.  But the statues which are ranked
between the windows have suffered.  These are life-size
statues of old-time emperors, electors, and similar
grandees, clad in mail and bearing ponderous swords.
Some have lost an arm, some a head, and one poor fellow
is chopped off at the middle.  There is a saying that if
a stranger will pass over the drawbridge and walk across
the court to the castle front without saying anything,
he can made a wish and it will be fulfilled.  But they
say that the truth of this thing has never had a chance
to be proved, for the reason that before any stranger can
walk from the drawbridge to the appointed place, the beauty
of the palace front will extort an exclamation of delight from
him.

A ruin must be rightly situated, to be effective.
This one could not have been better placed.  It stands
upon a commanding elevation, it is buried in green words,
there is no level ground about it, but, on the contrary,
there are wooded terraces upon terraces, and one looks
down through shining leaves into profound chasms and
abysses where twilight reigns and the sun cannot intrude.
Nature knows how to garnish a ruin to get the best effect.
One of these old towers is split down the middle, and one
half has tumbled aside.  It tumbled in such a way as to
establish itself in a picturesque attitude.  Then all it
lacked was a fitting drapery, and Nature has furnished that;
she has robed the rugged mass in flowers and verdure,
and made it a charm to the eye.  The standing half
exposes its arched and cavernous rooms to you, like open,
toothless mouths; there, too, the vines and flowers have
done their work of grace.  The rear portion of the tower
has not been neglected, either, but is clothed with a
clinging garment of polished ivy which hides the wounds
and stains of time.  Even the top is not left bare, but is
crowned with a flourishing group of trees and shrubs.
Misfortune has done for this old tower what it has done
for the human character sometimes--improved it.

A gentleman remarked, one day, that it might have been
fine to live in the castle in the day of its prime,
but that we had one advantage which its vanished
inhabitants lacked--the advantage of having a charming
ruin to visit and muse over.  But that was a hasty idea.
Those people had the advantage of US.  They had the fine
castle to live in, and they could cross the Rhine valley
and muse over the stately ruin of Trifels besides.
The Trifels people, in their day, five hundred years ago,
could go and muse over majestic ruins that have vanished,
now, to the last stone.  There have always been ruins,
no doubt; and there have always been pensive people to sigh
over them, and asses to scratch upon them their names
and the important date of their visit.  Within a hundred
years after Adam left Eden, the guide probably gave
the usual general flourish with his hand and said: "Place
where the animals were named, ladies and gentlemen;
place where the tree of the forbidden fruit stood;
exact spot where Adam and Eve first met; and here,
ladies and gentlemen, adorned and hallowed by the names
and addresses of three generations of tourists, we have
the crumbling remains of Cain's altar--fine old ruin!"
Then, no doubt, he taxed them a shekel apiece and let
them go.

An illumination of Heidelberg Castle is one of the
sights of Europe.  The Castle's picturesque shape;
its commanding situation, midway up the steep and
wooded mountainside; its vast size--these features combine
to make an illumination a most effective spectacle.
It is necessarily an expensive show, and consequently
rather infrequent.  Therefore whenever one of these exhibitions
is to take place, the news goes about in the papers and
Heidelberg is sure to be full of people on that night.
I and my agent had one of these opportunities, and improved it.

About half past seven on the appointed evening we
crossed the lower bridge, with some American students,
in a pouring rain, and started up the road which borders
the Neunheim side of the river.  This roadway was densely
packed with carriages and foot-passengers; the former
of all ages, and the latter of all ages and both sexes.
This black and solid mass was struggling painfully onward,
through the slop, the darkness, and the deluge.
We waded along for three-quarters of a mile, and finally
took up a position in an unsheltered beer-garden directly
opposite the Castle.  We could not SEE the Castle--or
anything else, for that matter--but we could dimly
discern the outlines of the mountain over the way,
through the pervading blackness, and knew whereabouts
the Castle was located.  We stood on one of the hundred
benches in the garden, under our umbrellas; the other
ninety-nine were occupied by standing men and women,
and they also had umbrellas.  All the region round about,
and up and down the river-road, was a dense wilderness of
humanity hidden under an unbroken pavement of carriage tops
and umbrellas.  Thus we stood during two drenching hours.
No rain fell on my head, but the converging whalebone
points of a dozen neighboring umbrellas poured little
cooling steams of water down my neck, and sometimes into
my ears, and thus kept me from getting hot and impatient.
I had the rheumatism, too, and had heard that this was
good for it.  Afterward, however, I was led to believe
that the water treatment is NOT good for rheumatism.
There were even little girls in that dreadful place.
A men held one in his arms, just in front of me, for as much
as an hour, with umbrella-drippings soaking into her clothing
all the time.

In the circumstances, two hours was a good while for us
to have to wait, but when the illumination did at last come,
we felt repaid.  It came unexpectedly, of course--things
always do, that have been long looked and longed for.
With a perfectly breath-taking suddenness several mast
sheaves of varicolored rockets were vomited skyward out
of the black throats of the Castle towers, accompanied by
a thundering crash of sound, and instantly every detail of
the prodigious ruin stood revealed against the mountainside
and glowing with an almost intolerable splendor of fire
and color.  For some little time the whole building was
a blinding crimson mass, the towers continued to spout
thick columns of rockets aloft, and overhead the sky
was radiant with arrowy bolts which clove their way to
the zenith, paused, curved gracefully downward, then burst
into brilliant fountain-sprays of richly colored sparks.
The red fires died slowly down, within the Castle,
and presently the shell grew nearly black outside;
the angry glare that shone out through the broken arches
and innumerable sashless windows, now, reproduced the
aspect which the Castle must have borne in the old time
when the French spoilers saw the monster bonfire which
they had made there fading and spoiling toward extinction.

While we still gazed and enjoyed, the ruin was suddenly
enveloped in rolling and rumbling volumes of vaporous
green fire; then in dazzling purple ones; then a mixture
of many colors followed, then drowned the great fabric
in its blended splendors.  Meantime the nearest bridge
had been illuminated, and from several rafts anchored
in the river, meteor showers of rockets, Roman candles,
bombs, serpents, and Catharine wheels were being discharged
in wasteful profusion into the sky--a marvelous sight indeed
to a person as little used to such spectacles as I was.
For a while the whole region about us seemed as bright as day,
and yet the rain was falling in torrents all the time.
The evening's entertainment presently closed, and we
joined the innumerable caravan of half-drowned strangers,
and waded home again.

The Castle grounds are very ample and very beautiful;
and as they joined the Hotel grounds, with no fences
to climb, but only some nobly shaded stone stairways
to descend, we spent a part of nearly every day in
idling through their smooth walks and leafy groves.
There was an attractive spot among the trees where were
a great many wooden tables and benches; and there one could
sit in the shade and pretend to sip at his foamy beaker
of beer while he inspected the crowd.  I say pretend,
because I only pretended to sip, without really sipping.
That is the polite way; but when you are ready to go,
you empty the beaker at a draught.  There was a brass band,
and it furnished excellent music every afternoon.
Sometimes so many people came that every seat was occupied,
every table filled.  And never a rough in the assemblace--all
nicely dressed fathers and mothers, young gentlemen
and ladies and children; and plenty of university
students and glittering officers; with here and there
a gray professor, or a peaceful old lady with her knitting;
and always a sprinkling of gawky foreigners.
Everybody had his glass of beer before him, or his cup
of coffee, or his bottle of wine, or his hot cutlet
and potatoes; young ladies chatted, or fanned themselves,
or wrought at their crocheting or embroidering;
the students fed sugar to their dogs, or discussed duels,
or illustrated new fencing tricks with their little canes;
and everywhere was comfort and enjoyment, and everywhere
peace and good-will to men.  The trees were jubilant
with birds, and the paths with rollicking children.
One could have a seat in that place and plenty of music,
any afternoon, for about eight cents, or a family ticket
for the season for two dollars.

For a change, when you wanted one, you could stroll
to the Castle, and burrow among its dungeons, or climb
about its ruined towers, or visit its interior shows--the
great Heidelberg Tun, for instance.  Everybody has heard
of the great Heidelberg Tun, and most people have seen it,
no doubt.  It is a wine-cask as big as a cottage, and some
traditions say it holds eighteen thousand bottles, and other
traditions say it holds eighteen hundred million barrels.
I think it likely that one of these statements is
a mistake, and the other is a lie.  However, the mere
matter of capacity is a thing of no sort of consequence,
since the cask is empty, and indeed has always been empty,
history says.  An empty cask the size of a cathedral could
excite but little emotion in me.  I do not see any wisdom
in building a monster cask to hoard up emptiness in,
when you can get a better quality, outside, any day,
free of expense.  What could this cask have been
built for? The more one studies over that, the more
uncertain and unhappy he becomes.  Some historians say
that thirty couples, some say thirty thousand couples,
can dance on the head of this cask at the same time.
Even this does not seem to me to account for the building
of it.  It does not even throw light on it.  A profound
and scholarly Englishman--a specialist--who had made
the great Heidelberg Tun his sole study for fifteen years,
told me he had at last satisfied himself that the ancients
built it to make German cream in.  He said that the average
German cow yielded from one to two and half teaspoons of milk,
when she was not worked in the plow or the hay-wagon
more than eighteen or nineteen hours a day.  This milk
was very sweet and good, and a beautiful transparent
bluish tint; but in order to get cream from it in the
most economical way, a peculiar process was necessary.
Now he believed that the habit of the ancients was to collect
several milkings in a teacup, pour it into the Great Tun,
fill up with water, and then skim off the cream from
time to time as the needs of the German Empire demanded.

This began to look reasonable.  It certainly began
to account for the German cream which I had encountered
and marveled over in so many hotels and restaurants.
But a thought struck me--

"Why did not each ancient dairyman take his own teacup
of milk and his own cask of water, and mix them,
without making a government matter of it?'

"Where could he get a cask large enough to contain
the right proportion of water?"

Very true.  It was plain that the Englishman had studied
the matter from all sides.  Still I thought I might catch
him on one point; so I asked him why the modern empire
did not make the nation's cream in the Heidelberg Tun,
instead of leaving it to rot away unused.  But he answered
as one prepared--

"A patient and diligent examination of the modern German cream
had satisfied me that they do not use the Great Tun now,
because they have got a BIGGER one hid away somewhere.
Either that is the case or they empty the spring milkings
into the mountain torrents and then skim the Rhine
all summer."

There is a museum of antiquities in the Castle, and among
its most treasured relics are ancient manuscripts connected
with German history.  There are hundreds of these,
and their dates stretch back through many centuries.
One of them is a decree signed and sealed by the hand
of a successor of Charlemagne, in the year 896.
A signature made by a hand which vanished out of this life
near a thousand years ago, is a more impressive thing than
even a ruined castle.  Luther's wedding-ring was shown me;
also a fork belonging to a time anterior to our era,
and an early bookjack.  And there was a plaster cast
of the head of a man who was assassinated about sixty
years ago.  The stab-wounds in the face were duplicated
with unpleasant fidelity.  One or two real hairs
still remained sticking in the eyebrows of the cast.
That trifle seemed to almost change the counterfeit into
a corpse.

There are many aged portraits--some valuable, some worthless;
some of great interest, some of none at all.  I bought a
couple--one a gorgeous duke of the olden time, and the other
a comely blue-eyed damsel, a princess, maybe.  I bought
them to start a portrait-gallery of my ancestors with.
I paid a dollar and a half for the duke and a half
for the princess.  One can lay in ancestors at even
cheaper rates than these, in Europe, if he will mouse
among old picture shops and look out for chances.



APPENDIX C
The College Prison

It seems that the student may break a good many of the public
laws without having to answer to the public authorities.
His case must come before the University for trial
and punishment.  If a policeman catches him in an unlawful
act and proceeds to arrest him, the offender proclaims that
he is a student, and perhaps shows his matriculation card,
whereupon the officer asks for his address, then goes
his way, and reports the matter at headquarters.  If the
offense is one over which the city has no jurisdiction,
the authorities report the case officially to the University,
and give themselves no further concern about it.
The University court send for the student, listen to
the evidence, and pronounce judgment.  The punishment
usually inflicted is imprisonment in the University prison.
As I understand it, a student's case is often tried
without his being present at all.  Then something
like this happens: A constable in the service of the
University visits the lodgings of the said student,
knocks, is invited to come in, does so, and says politely--

"If you please, I am here to conduct you to prison."

"Ah," says the student, "I was not expecting it.
What have I been doing?"

"Two weeks ago the public peace had the honor to be
disturbed by you."

"It is true; I had forgotten it.  Very well: I have been
complained of, tried, and found guilty--is that it?"

"Exactly. You are sentenced to two days' solitary confinement
in the College prison, and I am sent to fetch you."

STUDENT.  "O, I can't go today."

OFFICER.  "If you please--why?"

STUDENT.  "Because I've got an engagement."

OFFICER.  "Tomorrow, then, perhaps?"

STUDENT.  "No, I am going to the opera, tomorrow."

OFFICER.  "Could you come Friday?"

STUDENT.  (Reflectively.) "Let me see--Friday--Friday.
I don't seem to have anything on hand Friday."

OFFICER.  "Then, if you please, I will expect you on Friday."

STUDENT.  "All right, I'll come around Friday."

OFFICER.  "Thank you.  Good day, sir."

STUDENT.  "Good day."

So on Friday the student goes to the prison of his
own accord, and is admitted.

It is questionable if the world's criminal history can
show a custom more odd than this.  Nobody knows, now,
how it originated.  There have always been many noblemen
among the students, and it is presumed that all students
are gentlemen; in the old times it was usual to mar
the convenience of such folk as little as possible;
perhaps this indulgent custom owes its origin to this.

One day I was listening to some conversation upon this
subject when an American student said that for some time he
had been under sentence for a slight breach of the peace
and had promised the constable that he would presently
find an unoccupied day and betake himself to prison.
I asked the young gentleman to do me the kindness to go
to jail as soon as he conveniently could, so that I might
try to get in there and visit him, and see what college
captivity was like.  He said he would appoint the very
first day he could spare.

His confinement was to endure twenty-four hours.  He shortly
chose his day, and sent me word.  I started immediately.
When I reached the University Place, I saw two gentlemen
talking together, and, as they had portfolios under
their arms, I judged they were tutors or elderly students;
so I asked them in English to show me the college jail.
I had learned to take it for granted that anybody in Germany
who knows anything, knows English, so I had stopped
afflicting people with my German.  These gentlemen seemed
a trifle amused--and a trifle confused, too--but one
of them said he would walk around the corner with me
and show me the place.  He asked me why I wanted to get
in there, and I said to see a friend--and for curiosity.
He doubted if I would be admitted, but volunteered to put
in a word or two for me with the custodian.

He rang the bell, a door opened, and we stepped into a paved
way and then up into a small living-room, where we were
received by a hearty and good-natured German woman of fifty.
She threw up her hands with a surprised "ACH GOTT,
HERR PROFESSOR!" and exhibited a mighty deference for my
new acquaintance.  By the sparkle in her eye I judged
she was a good deal amused, too.  The "Herr Professor"
talked to her in German, and I understood enough of it
to know that he was bringing very plausible reasons to bear
for admitting me.  They were successful.  So the Herr
Professor received my earnest thanks and departed.
The old dame got her keys, took me up two or three flights
of stairs, unlocked a door, and we stood in the presence
of the criminal.  Then she went into a jolly and eager
description of all that had occurred downstairs, and what
the Herr Professor had said, and so forth and so on.
Plainly, she regarded it as quite a superior joke that I had
waylaid a Professor and employed him in so odd a service.
But I wouldn't have done it if I had known he was a Professor;
therefore my conscience was not disturbed.

Now the dame left us to ourselves.  The cell was not a roomy one;
still it was a little larger than an ordinary prison cell.
It had a window of good size, iron-grated; a small stove;
two wooden chairs; two oaken tables, very old and
most elaborately carved with names, mottoes, faces,
armorial bearings, etc.--the work of several generations
of imprisoned students; and a narrow wooden bedstead
with a villainous straw mattress, but no sheets, pillows,
blankets, or coverlets--for these the student must furnish
at his own cost if he wants them.  There was no carpet, of
course.

The ceiling was completely covered with names, dates,
and monograms, done with candle-smoke. The walls were
thickly covered with pictures and portraits (in profile),
some done with ink, some with soot, some with a pencil,
and some with red, blue, and green chalks; and whenever
an inch or two of space had remained between the pictures,
the captives had written plaintive verses, or names
and dates.  I do not think I was ever in a more elaborately
frescoed apartment.

Against the wall hung a placard containing the prison laws.
I made a note of one or two of these.  For instance:
The prisoner must pay, for the "privilege" of entering,
a sum equivalent to 20 cents of our money; for the privilege
of leaving, when his term had expired, 20 cents; for every
day spent in the prison, 12 cents; for fire and light,
12 cents a day.  The jailer furnishes coffee, mornings,
for a small sum; dinners and suppers may be ordered
from outside if the prisoner chooses--and he is allowed
to pay for them, too.

Here and there, on the walls, appeared the names
of American students, and in one place the American
arms and motto were displayed in colored chalks.

With the help of my friend I translated many of the inscriptions.

Some of them were cheerful, others the reverse.
I will give the reader a few specimens:

"In my tenth semester (my best one), I am cast here
through the complaints of others.  Let those who follow
me take warning."

"III TAGE OHNE GRUND ANGEBLICH AUS NEUGIERDE." Which is to say,
he had a curiosity to know what prison life was like;
so he made a breach in some law and got three days for it.
It is more than likely that he never had the same
curiosity again.

(TRANSLATION.) "E. Glinicke, four days for being too eager
a spectator of a row."

"F. Graf Bismarck--27-29, II, '74." Which means that
Count Bismarck, son of the great statesman, was a prisoner
two days in 1874.

(TRANSLATION.) "R. Diergandt--for Love--4 days."
Many people in this world have caught it heavier than
for the same indiscretion.

This one is terse.  I translate:

"Four weeks for MISINTERPRETED GALLANTRY." I wish
the sufferer had explained a little more fully.
A four-week term is a rather serious matter.

There were many uncomplimentary references, on the walls,
to a certain unpopular dignitary.  One sufferer had got
three days for not saluting him.  Another had "here two days
slept and three nights lain awake," on account of this
same "Dr. K." In one place was a picture of Dr. K. hanging
on a gallows.

Here and there, lonesome prisoners had eased the heavy time
by altering the records left by predecessors.  Leaving the
name standing, and the date and length of the captivity,
they had erased the description of the misdemeanor,
and written in its place, in staring capitals, "FOR THEFT!"
or "FOR MURDER!" or some other gaudy crime.  In one place,
all by itself, stood this blood-curdling word:

"Rache!" [1]

1.  "Revenge!"

There was no name signed, and no date.  It was an
inscription well calculated to pique curiosity.
One would greatly like to know the nature of the wrong
that had been done, and what sort of vengeance was wanted,
and whether the prisoner ever achieved it or not.
But there was no way of finding out these things.

Occasionally, a name was followed simply by the remark,
"II days, for disturbing the peace," and without comment
upon the justice or injustice of the sentence.

In one place was a hilarious picture of a student of the
green cap corps with a bottle of champagne in each hand;
and below was the legend: "These make an evil fate endurable."

There were two prison cells, and neither had space left on
walls or ceiling for another name or portrait or picture.
The inside surfaces of the two doors were completely
covered with CARTES DE VISITE of former prisoners,
ingeniously let into the wood and protected from dirt
and injury by glass.

I very much wanted one of the sorry old tables which
the prisoners had spent so many years in ornamenting
with their pocket-knives, but red tape was in the way.
The custodian could not sell one without an order from
a superior; and that superior would have to get it from
HIS superior; and this one would have to get it from
a higher one--and so on up and up until the faculty
should sit on the matter and deliver final judgment.
The system was right, and nobody could find fault with it;
but it did not seem justifiable to bother so many people,
so I proceeded no further.  It might have cost me more than
I could afford, anyway; for one of those prison tables,
which was at the time in a private museum in Heidelberg,
was afterward sold at auction for two hundred and fifty dollars.
It was not worth more than a dollar, or possibly a dollar
and half, before the captive students began their work
on it.  Persons who saw it at the auction said it was
so curiously and wonderfully carved that it was worth
the money that was paid for it.

Among them many who have tasted the college prison's
dreary hospitality was a lively young fellow from one
of the Southern states of America, whose first year's
experience of German university life was rather peculiar.
The day he arrived in Heidelberg he enrolled his name
on the college books, and was so elated with the fact
that his dearest hope had found fruition and he was
actually a student of the old and renowned university,
that he set to work that very night to celebrate the event
by a grand lark in company with some other students.
In the course of his lark he managed to make a wide
breach in one of the university's most stringent laws.
Sequel: before noon, next day, he was in the college
prison--booked for three months.  The twelve long weeks
dragged slowly by, and the day of deliverance came at last.
A great crowd of sympathizing fellow-students received
him with a rousing demonstration as he came forth,
and of course there was another grand lark--in the course
of which he managed to make a wide breach of the CITY'S
most stringent laws.  Sequel: before noon, next day,
he was safe in the city lockup--booked for three months.
This second tedious captivity drew to an end in the course
of time, and again a great crowd of sympathizing fellow
students gave him a rousing reception as he came forth;
but his delight in his freedom was so boundless that he
could not proceed soberly and calmly, but must go hopping
and skipping and jumping down the sleety street from sheer
excess of joy.  Sequel: he slipped and broke his leg,
and actually lay in the hospital during the next three
months!

When he at last became a free man again, he said he believed
he would hunt up a brisker seat of learning; the Heidelberg
lectures might be good, but the opportunities of attending
them were too rare, the educational process too slow;
he said he had come to Europe with the idea that the
acquirement of an education was only a matter of time,
but if he had averaged the Heidelberg system correctly,
it was rather a matter of eternity.



APPENDIX D
The Awful German Language

A little learning makes the whole world kin.
        --Proverbs xxxii, 7.

I went often to look at the collection of curiosities
in Heidelberg Castle, and one day I surprised the keeper
of it with my German.  I spoke entirely in that language.
He was greatly interested; and after I had talked a while
he said my German was very rare, possibly a "unique";
and wanted to add it to his museum.

If he had known what it had cost me to acquire my art,
he would also have known that it would break any
collector to buy it.  Harris and I had been hard at
work on our German during several weeks at that time,
and although we had made good progress, it had been
accomplished under great difficulty and annoyance,
for three of our teachers had died in the mean time.
A person who has not studied German can form no idea
of what a perplexing language it is.

Surely there is not another language that is so slipshod
and systemless, and so slippery and elusive to the grasp.
One is washed about in it, hither and thither, in the most
helpless way; and when at last he thinks he has captured
a rule which offers firm ground to take a rest on amid
the general rage and turmoil of the ten parts of speech,
he turns over the page and reads, "Let the pupil make
careful note of the following EXCEPTIONS." He runs his
eye down and finds that there are more exceptions to the
rule than instances of it.  So overboard he goes again,
to hunt for another Ararat and find another quicksand.
Such has been, and continues to be, my experience.
Every time I think I have got one of these four confusing
"cases" where I am master of it, a seemingly insignificant
preposition intrudes itself into my sentence, clothed with
an awful and unsuspected power, and crumbles the ground
from under me.  For instance, my book inquires after
a certain bird--(it is always inquiring after things
which are of no sort of no consequence to anybody): "Where
is the bird?" Now the answer to this question--according
to the book--is that the bird is waiting in the blacksmith
shop on account of the rain.  Of course no bird would
do that, but then you must stick to the book.  Very well,
I begin to cipher out the German for that answer.  I begin
at the wrong end, necessarily, for that is the German idea.
I say to myself, "REGEN (rain) is masculine--or maybe it
is feminine--or possibly neuter--it is too much trouble
to look now.  Therefore, it is either DER (the) Regen,
or DIE (the) Regen, or DAS (the) Regen, according to which
gender it may turn out to be when I look.  In the interest
of science, I will cipher it out on the hypothesis that it
is masculine.  Very well--then THE rain is DER Regen,
if it is simply in the quiescent state of being MENTIONED,
without enlargement or discussion--Nominative case;
but if this rain is lying around, in a kind of a general
way on the ground, it is then definitely located,
it is DOING SOMETHING--that is, RESTING (which is one
of the German grammar's ideas of doing something), and
this throws the rain into the Dative case, and makes it
DEM Regen.  However, this rain is not resting, but is
doing something ACTIVELY,--it is falling--to interfere
with the bird, likely--and this indicates MOVEMENT,
which has the effect of sliding it into the Accusative case
and changing DEM Regen into DEN Regen." Having completed
the grammatical horoscope of this matter, I answer up
confidently and state in German that the bird is staying
in the blacksmith shop "wegen (on account of) DEN Regen."
Then the teacher lets me softly down with the remark
that whenever the word "wegen" drops into a sentence,
it ALWAYS throws that subject into the GENITIVE case,
regardless of consequences--and therefore this bird stayed in
the blacksmith shop "wegen DES Regens."

N.B.--I was informed, later, by a higher authority,
that there was an "exception" which permits one to say "wegen
DEN Regen" in certain peculiar and complex circumstances,
but that this exception is not extended to anything
BUT rain.

There are ten parts of speech, and they are all troublesome.
An average sentence, in a German newspaper, is a sublime
and impressive curiosity; it occupies a quarter of a column;
it contains all the ten parts of speech--not in regular order,
but mixed; it is built mainly of compound words constructed
by the writer on the spot, and not to be found in any
dictionary--six or seven words compacted into one,
without joint or seam--that is, without hyphens;
it treats of fourteen or fifteen different subjects,
each enclosed in a parenthesis of its own, with here and
there extra parentheses, making pens with pens: finally,
all the parentheses and reparentheses are massed together
between a couple of king-parentheses, one of which is placed
in the first line of the majestic sentence and the other
in the middle of the last line of it--AFTER WHICH COMES
THE VERB, and you find out for the first time what the man
has been talking about; and after the verb--merely by way
of ornament, as far as I can make out--the writer shovels
in "HABEN SIND GEWESEN GEHABT HAVEN GEWORDEN SEIN,"
or words to that effect, and the monument is finished.
I suppose that this closing hurrah is in the nature of the
flourish to a man's signature--not necessary, but pretty.
German books are easy enough to read when you hold them
before the looking-glass or stand on your head--so as
to reverse the construction--but I think that to learn
to read and understand a German newspaper is a thing
which must always remain an impossibility to a foreigner.

Yet even the German books are not entirely free from attacks
of the Parenthesis distemper--though they are usually so mild
as to cover only a few lines, and therefore when you at
last get down to the verb it carries some meaning to your
mind because you are able to remember a good deal of what
has gone before.  Now here is a sentence from a popular
and excellent German novel--which a slight parenthesis
in it.  I will make a perfectly literal translation,
and throw in the parenthesis-marks and some hyphens
for the assistance of the reader--though in the original
there are no parenthesis-marks or hyphens, and the reader
is left to flounder through to the remote verb the best way he
can:

"But when he, upon the street, the (in-satin-and-silk-covered-
now-very-unconstrained-after-the-newest-fashioned-dressed)
government counselor's wife MET," etc., etc. [1]

1.  Wenn er aber auf der Strasse der in Sammt und Seide
    gehuellten jetz sehr ungenirt nach der neusten mode
    gekleideten Regierungsrathin begegnet.

That is from THE OLD MAMSELLE'S SECRET, by Mrs. Marlitt.
And that sentence is constructed upon the most approved
German model.  You observe how far that verb is from
the reader's base of operations; well, in a German
newspaper they put their verb away over on the next page;
and I have heard that sometimes after stringing along the
exciting preliminaries and parentheses for a column or two,
they get in a hurry and have to go to press without getting
to the verb at all.  Of course, then, the reader is left
in a very exhausted and ignorant state.

We have the Parenthesis disease in our literature, too; and one
may see cases of it every day in our books and newspapers:
but with us it is the mark and sign of an unpracticed
writer or a cloudy intellect, whereas with the Germans
it is doubtless the mark and sign of a practiced pen
and of the presence of that sort of luminous intellectual
fog which stands for clearness among these people.
For surely it is NOT clearness--it necessarily can't
be clearness.  Even a jury would have penetration enough
to discover that.  A writer's ideas must be a good
deal confused, a good deal out of line and sequence,
when he starts out to say that a man met a counselor's
wife in the street, and then right in the midst of this
so simple undertaking halts these approaching people
and makes them stand still until he jots down an inventory
of the woman's dress.  That is manifestly absurd.
It reminds a person of those dentists who secure your instant
and breathless interest in a tooth by taking a grip on it
with the forceps, and then stand there and drawl through
a tedious anecdote before they give the dreaded jerk.
Parentheses in literature and dentistry are in bad taste.

The Germans have another kind of parenthesis, which they
make by splitting a verb in two and putting half of it
at the beginning of an exciting chapter and the OTHER
HALF at the end of it.  Can any one conceive of anything
more confusing than that? These things are called
"separable verbs." The German grammar is blistered
all over with separable verbs; and the wider the two
portions of one of them are spread apart, the better
the author of the crime is pleased with his performance.
A favorite one is REISTE AB--which means departed.
Here is an example which I culled from a novel and reduced
to English:

"The trunks being now ready, he DE- after kissing his
mother and sisters, and once more pressing to his bosom
his adored Gretchen, who, dressed in simple white muslin,
with a single tuberose in the ample folds of her rich
brown hair, had tottered feebly down the stairs, still pale
from the terror and excitement of the past evening,
but longing to lay her poor aching head yet once again
upon the breast of him whom she loved more dearly than
life itself, PARTED."

However, it is not well to dwell too much on the
separable verbs.  One is sure to lose his temper early;
and if he sticks to the subject, and will not be warned,
it will at last either soften his brain or petrify it.
Personal pronouns and adjectives are a fruitful nuisance
in this language, and should have been left out.
For instance, the same sound, SIE, means YOU, and it means SHE,
and it means HER, and it means IT, and it means THEY,
and it means THEM.  Think of the ragged poverty of a
language which has to make one word do the work of six--and
a poor little weak thing of only three letters at that.
But mainly, think of the exasperation of never knowing
which of these meanings the speaker is trying to convey.
This explains why, whenever a person says SIE to me,
I generally try to kill him, if a stranger.

Now observe the Adjective.  Here was a case where simplicity
would have been an advantage; therefore, for no other reason,
the inventor of this language complicated it all he could.
When we wish to speak of our "good friend or friends,"
in our enlightened tongue, we stick to the one form and have
no trouble or hard feeling about it; but with the German
tongue it is different.  When a German gets his hands
on an adjective, he declines it, and keeps on declining
it until the common sense is all declined out of it.
It is as bad as Latin.  He says, for instance:

SINGULAR

Nominative--Mein gutER Freund, my good friend.
Genitives--MeinES GutEN FreundES, of my good friend.
Dative--MeinEM gutEN Freund, to my good friend.
Accusative--MeinEN gutEN Freund, my good friend.

PLURAL

N.--MeinE gutEN FreundE, my good friends.  G.--MeinER gutEN
FreundE, of my good friends.  D.--MeinEN gutEN FreundEN,
to my good friends.  A.--MeinE gutEN FreundE, my good friends.

Now let the candidate for the asylum try to memorize
those variations, and see how soon he will be elected.
One might better go without friends in Germany than take
all this trouble about them.  I have shown what a bother
it is to decline a good (male) friend; well this is
only a third of the work, for there is a variety of new
distortions of the adjective to be learned when the object
is feminine, and still another when the object is neuter.
Now there are more adjectives in this language than there
are black cats in Switzerland, and they must all be as
elaborately declined as the examples above suggested.
Difficult?--troublesome?--these words cannot describe it.
I heard a Californian student in Heidelberg say, in one of
his calmest moods, that he would rather decline two drinks
than one German adjective.

The inventor of the language seems to have taken pleasure
in complicating it in every way he could think of.
For instance, if one is casually referring to a house,
HAUS, or a horse, PFERD, or a dog, HUND, he spells these
words as I have indicated; but if he is referring to them
in the Dative case, he sticks on a foolish and unnecessary
E and spells them HAUSE, PFERDE, HUNDE.  So, as an added
E often signifies the plural, as the S does with us,
the new student is likely to go on for a month making
twins out of a Dative dog before he discovers his mistake;
and on the other hand, many a new student who could ill
afford loss, has bought and paid for two dogs and only
got one of them, because he ignorantly bought that dog
in the Dative singular when he really supposed he was
talking plural--which left the law on the seller's side,
of course, by the strict rules of grammar, and therefore
a suit for recovery could not lie.

In German, all the Nouns begin with a capital letter.
Now that is a good idea; and a good idea, in this language,
is necessarily conspicuous from its lonesomeness.  I consider
this capitalizing of nouns a good idea, because by reason
of it you are almost always able to tell a noun the minute
you see it.  You fall into error occasionally, because you
mistake the name of a person for the name of a thing,
and waste a good deal of time trying to dig a meaning
out of it.  German names almost always do mean something,
and this helps to deceive the student.  I translated
a passage one day, which said that "the infuriated tigress
broke loose and utterly ate up the unfortunate fir forest"
(Tannenwald). When I was girding up my loins to doubt this,
I found out that Tannenwald in this instance was a
man's name.

Every noun has a gender, and there is no sense or system
in the distribution; so the gender of each must be
learned separately and by heart.  There is no other way.
To do this one has to have a memory like a memorandum-book.
In German, a young lady has no sex, while a turnip has.
Think what overwrought reverence that shows for the turnip,
and what callous disrespect for the girl.  See how it
looks in print--I translate this from a conversation
in one of the best of the German Sunday-school books:

"Gretchen. Wilhelm, where is the turnip?

"Wilhelm. She has gone to the kitchen.

"Gretchen. Where is the accomplished and beautiful English
maiden?

"Wilhelm.  It has gone to the opera."

To continue with the German genders: a tree is male, its buds
are female, its leaves are neuter; horses are sexless,
dogs are male, cats are female--tomcats included, of course;
a person's mouth, neck, bosom, elbows, fingers, nails, feet,
and body are of the male sex, and his head is male
or neuter according to the word selected to signify it,
and NOT according to the sex of the individual who wears
it--for in Germany all the women either male heads or
sexless ones; a person's nose, lips, shoulders, breast,
hands, and toes are of the female sex; and his hair,
ears, eyes, chin, legs, knees, heart, and conscience
haven't any sex at all.  The inventor of the language
probably got what he knew about a conscience from hearsay.

Now, by the above dissection, the reader will see that in
Germany a man may THINK he is a man, but when he comes to look
into the matter closely, he is bound to have his doubts;
he finds that in sober truth he is a most ridiculous mixture;
and if he ends by trying to comfort himself with the
thought that he can at least depend on a third of this
mess as being manly and masculine, the humiliating second
thought will quickly remind him that in this respect
he is no better off than any woman or cow in the land.

In the German it is true that by some oversight of the inventor
of the language, a Woman is a female; but a Wife (Weib)
is not--which is unfortunate.  A Wife, here, has no sex;
she is neuter; so, according to the grammar, a fish
is HE, his scales are SHE, but a fishwife is neither.
To describe a wife as sexless may be called under-description;
that is bad enough, but over-description is surely worse.
A German speaks of an Englishman as the ENGLAENDER; to change
the sex, he adds INN, and that stands for Englishwoman--
ENGLAENDERINN. That seems descriptive enough, but still
it is not exact enough for a German; so he precedes the
word with that article which indicates that the creature
to follow is feminine, and writes it down thus: "die
Englaenderinn,"--which means "the she-Englishwoman."
I consider that that person is over-described.

Well, after the student has learned the sex of a great
number of nouns, he is still in a difficulty, because he
finds it impossible to persuade his tongue to refer
to things as "he" and "she," and "him" and "her," which
it has been always accustomed to refer to it as "it."
When he even frames a German sentence in his mind,
with the hims and hers in the right places, and then works
up his courage to the utterance-point, it is no use--
the moment he begins to speak his tongue files the track
and all those labored males and females come out as "its."
And even when he is reading German to himself, he always
calls those things "it," where as he ought to read in this way:

TALE OF THE FISHWIFE AND ITS SAD FATE [2]

2.  I capitalize the nouns, in the German (and
    ancient English) fashion.

It is a bleak Day.  Hear the Rain, how he pours, and the Hail,
how he rattles; and see the Snow, how he drifts along,
and of the Mud, how deep he is! Ah the poor Fishwife,
it is stuck fast in the Mire; it has dropped its Basket
of Fishes; and its Hands have been cut by the Scales
as it seized some of the falling Creatures; and one Scale
has even got into its Eye.  and it cannot get her out.
It opens its Mouth to cry for Help; but if any Sound comes
out of him, alas he is drowned by the raging of the Storm.
And now a Tomcat has got one of the Fishes and she
will surely escape with him.  No, she bites off a Fin,
she holds her in her Mouth--will she swallow her? No,
the Fishwife's brave Mother-dog deserts his Puppies and
rescues the Fin--which he eats, himself, as his Reward.
O, horror, the Lightning has struck the Fish-basket;
he sets him on Fire; see the Flame, how she licks the
doomed Utensil with her red and angry Tongue; now she
attacks the helpless Fishwife's Foot--she burns him up,
all but the big Toe, and even SHE is partly consumed;
and still she spreads, still she waves her fiery Tongues;
she attacks the Fishwife's Leg and destroys IT; she attacks
its Hand and destroys HER also; she attacks the Fishwife's Leg
and destroys HER also; she attacks its Body and consumes HIM;
she wreathes herself about its Heart and IT is consumed;
next about its Breast, and in a Moment SHE is a Cinder;
now she reaches its Neck--He goes; now its Chin--
IT goes; now its Nose--SHE goes.  In another Moment,
except Help come, the Fishwife will be no more.
Time presses--is there none to succor and save? Yes! Joy,
joy, with flying Feet the she-Englishwoman comes! But alas,
the generous she-Female is too late: where now is
the fated Fishwife? It has ceased from its Sufferings,
it has gone to a better Land; all that is left of it
for its loved Ones to lament over, is this poor smoldering
Ash-heap. Ah, woeful, woeful Ash-heap! Let us take him
up tenderly, reverently, upon the lowly Shovel, and bear
him to his long Rest, with the Prayer that when he rises
again it will be a Realm where he will have one good square
responsible Sex, and have it all to himself, instead of
having a mangy lot of assorted Sexes scattered all over him
in Spots.

-----------

There, now, the reader can see for himself that this pronoun
business is a very awkward thing for the unaccustomed tongue.
I suppose that in all languages the similarities of look
and sound between words which have no similarity in meaning
are a fruitful source of perplexity to the foreigner.
It is so in our tongue, and it is notably the case in
the German.  Now there is that troublesome word VERMAEHLT:
to me it has so close a resemblance--either real or
fancied--to three or four other words, that I never know
whether it means despised, painted, suspected, or married;
until I look in the dictionary, and then I find it means
the latter.  There are lots of such words and they are
a great torment.  To increase the difficulty there are
words which SEEM to resemble each other, and yet do not;
but they make just as much trouble as if they did.
For instance, there is the word VERMIETHEN (to let,
to lease, to hire); and the word VERHEIRATHEN (another way
of saying to marry). I heard of an Englishman who knocked
at a man's door in Heidelberg and proposed, in the best
German he could command, to "verheirathen" that house.
Then there are some words which mean one thing when you
emphasize the first syllable, but mean something very
different if you throw the emphasis on the last syllable.
For instance, there is a word which means a runaway,
or the act of glancing through a book, according to the
placing of the emphasis; and another word which signifies
to ASSOCIATE with a man, or to AVOID him, according to
where you put the emphasis--and you can generally depend
on putting it in the wrong place and getting into trouble.

There are some exceedingly useful words in this language.
SCHLAG, for example; and ZUG.  There are three-quarters
of a column of SCHLAGS in the dictonary, and a column
and a half of ZUGS.  The word SCHLAG means Blow, Stroke,
Dash, Hit, Shock, Clap, Slap, Time, Bar, Coin, Stamp, Kind,
Sort, Manner, Way, Apoplexy, Wood-cutting, Enclosure,
Field, Forest-clearing. This is its simple and EXACT
meaning--that is to say, its restricted, its fettered meaning;
but there are ways by which you can set it free,
so that it can soar away, as on the wings of the morning,
and never be at rest.  You can hang any word you please
to its tail, and make it mean anything you want to.
You can begin with SCHLAG-ADER, which means artery,
and you can hang on the whole dictionary, word by word,
clear through the alphabet to SCHLAG-WASSER, which means
bilge-water--and including SCHLAG-MUTTER, which means
mother-in-law.

Just the same with ZUG.  Strictly speaking, ZUG means Pull,
Tug, Draught, Procession, March, Progress, Flight, Direction,
Expedition, Train, Caravan, Passage, Stroke, Touch, Line,
Flourish, Trait of Character, Feature, Lineament, Chess-move,
Organ-stop, Team, Whiff, Bias, Drawer, Propensity, Inhalation,
Disposition: but that thing which it does NOT mean--when
all its legitimate pennants have been hung on, has not been
discovered yet.

One cannot overestimate the usefulness of SCHLAG and ZUG.
Armed just with these two, and the word ALSO, what cannot
the foreigner on German soil accomplish? The German word
ALSO is the equivalent of the English phrase "You know,"
and does not mean anything at all--in TALK, though it
sometimes does in print.  Every time a German opens his
mouth an ALSO falls out; and every time he shuts it he bites
one in two that was trying to GET out.

Now, the foreigner, equipped with these three noble words,
is master of the situation.  Let him talk right along,
fearlessly; let him pour his indifferent German forth,
and when he lacks for a word, let him heave a SCHLAG into
the vacuum; all the chances are that it fits it like a plug,
but if it doesn't let him promptly heave a ZUG after it;
the two together can hardly fail to bung the hole; but if,
by a miracle, they SHOULD fail, let him simply say ALSO!
and this will give him a moment's chance to think of the
needful word.  In Germany, when you load your conversational
gun it is always best to throw in a SCHLAG or two and a ZUG
or two, because it doesn't make any difference how much
the rest of the charge may scatter, you are bound to bag
something with THEM.  Then you blandly say ALSO, and load
up again.  Nothing gives such an air of grace and elegance
and unconstraint to a German or an English conversation
as to scatter it full of "Also's" or "You knows."

In my note-book I find this entry:

July 1.--In the hospital yesterday, a word of thirteen
syllables was successfully removed from a patient--a
North German from near Hamburg; but as most unfortunately
the surgeons had opened him in the wrong place, under the
impression that he contained a panorama, he died.
The sad event has cast a gloom over the whole community.

That paragraph furnishes a text for a few remarks about
one of the most curious and notable features of my
subject--the length of German words.  Some German words
are so long that they have a perspective.  Observe these
examples:

Freundschaftsbezeigungen.

Dilettantenaufdringlichkeiten.

Stadtverordnetenversammlungen.

These things are not words, they are alphabetical processions.
And they are not rare; one can open a German newspaper
at any time and see them marching majestically across
the page--and if he has any imagination he can see
the banners and hear the music, too.  They impart
a martial thrill to the meekest subject.  I take a
great interest in these curiosities.  Whenever I come
across a good one, I stuff it and put it in my museum.
In this way I have made quite a valuable collection.
When I get duplicates, I exchange with other collectors,
and thus increase the variety of my stock.  Here rare
some specimens which I lately bought at an auction sale
of the effects of a bankrupt bric-a-brac hunter:

Generalstaatsverordnetenversammlungen.

Alterthumswissenschaften.

Kinderbewahrungsanstalten.

Unabhaengigkeitserklaerungen.

Wiedererstellungbestrebungen.

Waffenstillstandsunterhandlungen.

Of course when one of these grand mountain ranges goes
stretching across the printed page, it adorns and ennobles
that literary landscape--but at the same time it is a great
distress to the new student, for it blocks up his way;
he cannot crawl under it, or climb over it, or tunnel
through it.  So he resorts to the dictionary for help,
but there is no help there.  The dictionary must draw
the line somewhere--so it leaves this sort of words out.
And it is right, because these long things are hardly
legitimate words, but are rather combinations of words,
and the inventor of them ought to have been killed.
They are compound words with the hyphens left out.
The various words used in building them are in the dictionary,
but in a very scattered condition; so you can hunt
the materials out, one by one, and get at the meaning
at last, but it is a tedious and harassing business.
I have tried this process upon some of the above examples.
"Freundshaftsbezeigungen" seems to be "Friendship
demonstrations,"
which is only a foolish and clumsy way of saying "demonstrations
of friendship." "Unabhaengigkeitserklaerungen" seems
to be "Independencedeclarations," which is no improvement
upon "Declarations of Independence," so far as I can see.
"Generalstaatsverordnetenversammlungen" seems to be
"General-statesrepresentativesmeetings," as nearly as I
can get at it--a mere rhythmical, gushy euphuism for
"meetings of the legislature," I judge.  We used to have
a good deal of this sort of crime in our literature,
but it has gone out now.  We used to speak of a things as a
"never-to-be-forgotten" circumstance, instead of cramping
it into the simple and sufficient word "memorable" and then
going calmly about our business as if nothing had happened.
In those days we were not content to embalm the thing
and bury it decently, we wanted to build a monument over it.

But in our newspapers the compounding-disease lingers
a little to the present day, but with the hyphens left out,
in the German fashion.  This is the shape it takes:
instead of saying "Mr. Simmons, clerk of the county and
district courts, was in town yesterday," the new form put
it thus: "Clerk of the County and District Courts Simmons
was in town yesterday." This saves neither time nor ink,
and has an awkward sound besides.  One often sees a remark
like this in our papers: "MRS. Assistant District Attorney
Johnson returned to her city residence yesterday for the season."
That is a case of really unjustifiable compounding;
because it not only saves no time or trouble, but confers
a title on Mrs. Johnson which she has no right to.
But these little instances are trifles indeed, contrasted
with the ponderous and dismal German system of piling
jumbled compounds together.  I wish to submit the following
local item, from a Mannheim journal, by way of illustration:

"In the daybeforeyesterdayshortlyaftereleveno'clock Night,
the inthistownstandingtavern called 'The Wagoner' was downburnt.
When the fire to the onthedownburninghouseresting Stork's
Nest reached, flew the parent Storks away.  But when
the bytheraging, firesurrounded Nest ITSELF caught Fire,
straightway plunged the quickreturning Mother-Stork into
the Flames and died, her Wings over her young ones outspread."

Even the cumbersome German construction is not able to
take the pathos out of that picture--indeed, it somehow
seems to strengthen it.  This item is dated away back
yonder months ago.  I could have used it sooner, but I
was waiting to hear from the Father-stork. I am still waiting.

"ALSO!" If I had not shown that the German is a
difficult language, I have at least intended to do so.
I have heard of an American student who was asked how he
was getting along with his German, and who answered
promptly: "I am not getting along at all.  I have worked
at it hard for three level months, and all I have got
to show for it is one solitary German phrase--'ZWEI GLAS'"
(two glasses of beer). He paused for a moment, reflectively;
then added with feeling: "But I've got that SOLID!"

And if I have not also shown that German is a harassing
and infuriating study, my execution has been at fault,
and not my intent.  I heard lately of a worn and sorely
tried American student who used to fly to a certain German
word for relief when he could bear up under his aggravations
no longer--the only word whose sound was sweet and
precious to his ear and healing to his lacerated spirit.
This was the word DAMIT.  It was only the SOUND that
helped him, not the meaning; [3] and so, at last, when he
learned that the emphasis was not on the first syllable,
his only stay and support was gone, and he faded away
and died.

3.  It merely means, in its general sense, "herewith."

I think that a description of any loud, stirring,
tumultuous episode must be tamer in German than in English.
Our descriptive words of this character have such
a deep, strong, resonant sound, while their German
equivalents do seem so thin and mild and energyless.
Boom, burst, crash, roar, storm, bellow, blow, thunder,
explosion; howl, cry, shout, yell, groan; battle, hell.
These are magnificent words; the have a force and magnitude
of sound befitting the things which they describe.
But their German equivalents would be ever so nice to sing
the children to sleep with, or else my awe-inspiring ears
were made for display and not for superior usefulness
in analyzing sounds.  Would any man want to die in a
battle which was called by so tame a term as a SCHLACHT?
Or would not a comsumptive feel too much bundled up,
who was about to go out, in a shirt-collar and a seal-ring,
into a storm which the bird-song word GEWITTER was employed
to describe? And observe the strongest of the several
German equivalents for explosion--AUSBRUCH.  Our word
Toothbrush is more powerful than that.  It seems to me
that the Germans could do worse than import it into their
language to describe particularly tremendous explosions with.
The German word for hell--Hoelle--sounds more like HELLY
than anything else; therefore, how necessary chipper,
frivolous, and unimpressive it is.  If a man were told
in German to go there, could he really rise to thee
dignity of feeling insulted?

Having pointed out, in detail, the several vices of
this language, I now come to the brief and pleasant task
of pointing out its virtues.  The capitalizing of the nouns
I have already mentioned.  But far before this virtue stands
another--that of spelling a word according to the sound of it.
After one short lesson in the alphabet, the student can tell
how any German word is pronounced without having to ask;
whereas in our language if a student should inquire of us,
"What does B, O, W, spell?" we should be obliged to reply,
"Nobody can tell what it spells when you set if off by itself;
you can only tell by referring to the context and finding
out what it signifies--whether it is a thing to shoot
arrows with, or a nod of one's head, or the forward end of a
boat."

There are some German words which are singularly
and powerfully effective.  For instance, those which
describe lowly, peaceful, and affectionate home life;
those which deal with love, in any and all forms,
from mere kindly feeling and honest good will toward
the passing stranger, clear up to courtship; those which
deal with outdoor Nature, in its softest and loveliest
aspects--with meadows and forests, and birds and flowers,
the fragrance and sunshine of summer, and the moonlight
of peaceful winter nights; in a word, those which deal with
any and all forms of rest, respose, and peace; those also
which deal with the creatures and marvels of fairyland;
and lastly and chiefly, in those words which express pathos,
is the language surpassingly rich and affective.  There are
German songs which can make a stranger to the language cry.
That shows that the SOUND of the words is correct--it
interprets the meanings with truth and with exactness;
and so the ear is informed, and through the ear, the heart.

The Germans do not seem to be afraid to repeat a word
when it is the right one.  they repeat it several times,
if they choose.  That is wise.  But in English, when we
have used a word a couple of times in a paragraph,
we imagine we are growing tautological, and so we are weak
enough to exchange it for some other word which only
approximates exactness, to escape what we wrongly fancy
is a greater blemish.  Repetition may be bad, but surely
inexactness is worse.

-----------

There are people in the world who will take a great
deal of trouble to point out the faults in a religion
or a language, and then go blandly about their business
without suggesting any remedy.  I am not that kind
of person.  I have shown that the German language
needs reforming.  Very well, I am ready to reform it.
At least I am ready to make the proper suggestions.
Such a course as this might be immodest in another; but I
have devoted upward of nine full weeks, first and last,
to a careful and critical study of this tongue, and thus
have acquired a confidence in my ability to reform it
which no mere superficial culture could have conferred
upon me.

In the first place, I would leave out the Dative case.
It confuses the plurals; and, besides, nobody ever knows
when he is in the Dative case, except he discover it
by accident--and then he does not know when or where it
was that he got into it, or how long he has been in it,
or how he is going to get out of it again.  The Dative case
is but an ornamental folly--it is better to discard it.

In the next place, I would move the Verb further up
to the front.  You may load up with ever so good a Verb,
but I notice that you never really bring down a subject
with it at the present German range--you only cripple it.
So I insist that this important part of speech should be
brought forward to a position where it may be easily seen
with the naked eye.

Thirdly, I would import some strong words from the English
tongue--to swear with, and also to use in describing
all sorts of vigorous things in a vigorous ways. [4]

4.  "Verdammt," and its variations and enlargements,
    are words which have plenty of meaning, but the SOUNDS
    are so mild and ineffectual that German ladies can use
    them without sin.  German ladies who could not be induced
    to commit a sin by any persuasion or compulsion, promptly rip
    out one of these harmless little words when they tear their
    dresses or don't like the soup.  It sounds about as wicked
    as our "My gracious." German ladies are constantly saying,
    "Ach! Gott!" "Mein Gott!" "Gott in Himmel!" "Herr Gott"
    "Der Herr Jesus!" etc.  They think our ladies have the
    same custom, perhaps; for I once heard a gentle and lovely
    old German lady say to a sweet young American girl:
    "The two languages are so alike--how pleasant that is;
    we say 'Ach! Gott!' you say 'Goddamn.'"

Fourthly, I would reorganizes the sexes, and distribute
them accordingly to the will of the creator.  This as
a tribute of respect, if nothing else.

Fifthly, I would do away with those great long
compounded words; or require the speaker to deliver
them in sections, with intermissions for refreshments.
To wholly do away with them would be best, for ideas are
more easily received and digested when they come one at
a time than when they come in bulk.  Intellectual food
is like any other; it is pleasanter and more beneficial
to take it with a spoon than with a shovel.

Sixthly, I would require a speaker to stop when he is done,
and not hang a string of those useless "haven sind gewesen
gehabt haben geworden seins" to the end of his oration.
This sort of gewgaws undignify a speech, instead of adding
a grace.  They are, therefore, an offense, and should
be discarded.

Seventhly, I would discard the Parenthesis.  Also the
reparenthesis,
the re-reparenthesis, and the re-re-re-re-re-reparentheses,
and likewise the final wide-reaching all-enclosing
king-parenthesis. I would require every individual,
be he high or low, to unfold a plain straightforward tale,
or else coil it and sit on it and hold his peace.
Infractions of this law should be punishable with death.

And eighthly, and last, I would retain ZUG and SCHLAG,
with their pendants, and discard the rest of the vocabulary.
This would simplify the language.

I have now named what I regard as the most necessary
and important changes.  These are perhaps all I could
be expected to name for nothing; but there are other
suggestions which I can and will make in case my proposed
application shall result in my being formally employed
by the government in the work of reforming the language.

My philological studies have satisfied me that a gifted person
ought to learn English (barring spelling and pronouncing)
in thirty hours, French in thirty days, and German
in thirty years.  It seems manifest, then, that the
latter tongue ought to be trimmed down and repaired.
If it is to remain as it is, it ought to be gently
and reverently set aside among the dead languages,
for only the dead have time to learn it.

A FOURTH OF JULY ORATION IN THE GERMAN TONGUE, DELIVERED AT
A BANQUET OF THE ANGLO-AMERICAN CLUB OF STUDENTS BY THE
AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK

Gentlemen: Since I arrived, a month ago, in this
old wonderland, this vast garden of Germany, my English
tongue has so often proved a useless piece of baggage
to me, and so troublesome to carry around, in a country
where they haven't the checking system for luggage, that I
finally set to work, and learned the German language.
Also! Es freut mich dass dies so ist, denn es muss,
in ein hauptsaechlich degree, hoeflich sein, dass man
auf ein occasion like this, sein Rede in die Sprache des
Landes worin he boards, aussprechen soll.  Dafuer habe ich,
aus reinische Verlegenheit--no, Vergangenheit--no, I
mean Hoflichkeit--aus reinishe Hoflichkeit habe ich
resolved to tackle this business in the German language,
um Gottes willen! Also! Sie muessen so freundlich sein,
und verzeih mich die interlarding von ein oder zwei
Englischer Worte, hie und da, denn ich finde dass die
deutsche is not a very copious language, and so when
you've really got anything to say, you've got to draw
on a language that can stand the strain.

Wenn haber man kann nicht meinem Rede Verstehen, so werde
ich ihm spaeter dasselbe uebersetz, wenn er solche Dienst
verlangen wollen haben werden sollen sein haette. (I don't
know what wollen haben werden sollen sein haette means,
but I notice they always put it at the end of a German
sentence--merely for general literary gorgeousness,
I suppose.)

This is a great and justly honored day--a day which is
worthy of the veneration in which it is held by the true
patriots of all climes and nationalities--a day which
offers a fruitful theme for thought and speech; und meinem
Freunde--no, meinEN FreundEN--meinES FreundES--well,
take your choice, they're all the same price; I don't
know which one is right--also! ich habe gehabt haben
worden gewesen sein, as Goethe says in his Paradise
Lost--ich--ich--that is to say--ich--but let us change cars.

Also! Die Anblich so viele Grossbrittanischer und Amerikanischer
hier zusammengetroffen in Bruderliche concord, ist zwar
a welcome and inspiriting spectacle.  And what has moved you
to it? Can the terse German tongue rise to the expression of
this impulse? Is it Freundschaftsbezeigungenstadtverordneten-
versammlungenfamilieneigenthuemlichkeiten? Nein,
o nein! This is a crisp and noble word, but it fails
to pierce the marrow of the impulse which has gathered
this friendly meeting and produced diese Anblick--eine
Anblich welche ist gut zu sehen--gut fuer die Augen
in a foreign land and a far country--eine Anblick solche
als in die gewoehnliche Heidelberger phrase nennt man ein
"schoenes Aussicht!" Ja, freilich natuerlich wahrscheinlich
ebensowohl! Also! Die Aussicht auf dem Koenigsstuhl
mehr groesser ist, aber geistlische sprechend nicht so
schoen, lob' Gott! Because sie sind hier zusammengetroffen,
in Bruderlichem concord, ein grossen Tag zu feirn,
whose high benefits were not for one land and one locality,
but have conferred a measure of good upon all lands
that know liberty today, and love it.  Hundert Jahre
vorueber, waren die Englaender und die Amerikaner Feinde;
aber heut sind sie herzlichen Freunde, Gott sei Dank!
May this good-fellowship endure; may these banners here
blended in amity so remain; may they never any more wave
over opposing hosts, or be stained with blood which
was kindred, is kindred, and always will be kindred,
until a line drawn upon a map shall be able to say:
"THIS bars the ancestral blood from flowing in the veins
of the descendant!"



APPENDIX E
Legend of the Castles

Called the "Swallow's Nest" and "The Brothers,"
as Condensed from the Captain's Tale

In the neighborhood of three hundred years ago the Swallow's
Nest and the larger castle between it and Neckarsteinach
were owned and occupied by two old knights who were
twin brothers, and bachelors.  They had no relatives.
They were very rich.  They had fought through the wars
and retired to private life--covered with honorable scars.
They were honest, honorable men in their dealings,
but the people had given them a couple of nicknames which
were very suggestive--Herr Givenaught and Herr Heartless.
The old knights were so proud of these names that if
a burgher called them by their right ones they would
correct them.

The most renowned scholar in Europe, at the time, was the
Herr Doctor Franz Reikmann, who lived in Heidelberg.
All Germany was proud of the venerable scholar, who lived
in the simplest way, for great scholars are always poor.
He was poor, as to money, but very rich in his sweet
young daughter Hildegarde and his library.  He had been
all his life collecting his library, book and book,
and he lived it as a miser loves his hoarded gold.
He said the two strings of his heart were rooted,
the one in his daughter, the other in his books; and that
if either were severed he must die.  Now in an evil hour,
hoping to win a marriage portion for his child, this simple
old man had entrusted his small savings to a sharper to be
ventured in a glittering speculation.  But that was not
the worst of it: he signed a paper--without reading it.
That is the way with poets and scholars; they always sign
without reading.  This cunning paper made him responsible
for heaps of things.  The rest was that one night he
found himself in debt to the sharper eight thousand
pieces of gold!--an amount so prodigious that it simply
stupefied him to think of it.  It was a night of woe in
that house.

"I must part with my library--I have nothing else.
So perishes one heartstring," said the old man.

"What will it bring, father?" asked the girl.

"Nothing! It is worth seven hundred pieces of gold;
but by auction it will go for little or nothing."

"Then you will have parted with the half of your heart
and the joy of your life to no purpose, since so mighty
of burden of debt will remain behind."

"There is no help for it, my child.  Our darlings must
pass under the hammer.  We must pay what we can."

"My father, I have a feeling that the dear Virgin will
come to our help.  Let us not lose heart."

"She cannot devise a miracle that will turn NOTHING into
eight thousand gold pieces, and lesser help will bring
us little peace."

"She can do even greater things, my father.  She will
save us, I know she will."

Toward morning, while the old man sat exhausted and asleep
in his chair where he had been sitting before his books
as one who watches by his beloved dead and prints the
features on his memory for a solace in the aftertime
of empty desolation, his daughter sprang into the room
and gently woke him, saying--

"My presentiment was true! She will save us.
Three times has she appeared to me in my dreams, and said,
'Go to the Herr Givenaught, go to the Herr Heartless,
ask them to come and bid.' There, did I not tell you she
would save us, the thrice blessed Virgin!"

Sad as the old man was, he was obliged to laugh.

"Thou mightest as well appeal to the rocks their
castles stand upon as to the harder ones that lie
in those men's breasts, my child.  THEY bid on books
writ in the learned tongues!--they can scarce read their own."

But Hildegarde's faith was in no wise shaken.
Bright and early she was on her way up the Neckar road,
as joyous as a bird.

Meantime Herr Givenaught and Herr Heartless were having
an early breakfast in the former's castle--the Sparrow's
Nest--and flavoring it with a quarrel; for although
these twins bore a love for each other which almost
amounted to worship, there was one subject upon which they
could not touch without calling each other hard names--
and yet it was the subject which they oftenest touched upon.

"I tell you," said Givenaught, "you will beggar yourself
yet with your insane squanderings of money upon
what you choose to consider poor and worthy objects.
All these years I have implored you to stop this foolish
custom and husband your means, but all in vain.
You are always lying to me about these secret benevolences,
but you never have managed to deceive me yet.  Every time
a poor devil has been set upon his feet I have detected
your hand in it--incorrigible ass!"

"Every time you didn't set him on his feet yourself,
you mean.  Where I give one unfortunate a little private lift,
you do the same for a dozen.  The idea of YOUR swelling
around the country and petting yourself with the nickname
of Givenaught--intolerable humbug! Before I would be
such a fraud as that, I would cut my right hand off.
Your life is a continual lie.  But go on, I have tried MY
best to save you from beggaring yourself by your riotous
charities--now for the thousandth time I wash my hands
of the consequences.  A maundering old fool! that's
what you are."

"And you a blethering old idiot!" roared Givenaught,
springing up.

"I won't stay in the presence of a man who has no more
delicacy than to call me such names.  Mannerless swine!"

So saying, Herr Heartless sprang up in a passion.
But some lucky accident intervened, as usual, to change
the subject, and the daily quarrel ended in the customary
daily living reconciliation.  The gray-headed old
eccentrics parted, and Herr Heartless walked off to his
own castle.

Half an hour later, Hildegarde was standing in the presence
of Herr Givenaught.  He heard her story, and said--

"I am sorry for you, my child, but I am very poor,
I care nothing for bookish rubbish, I shall not be there."

He said the hard words kindly, but they nearly broke poor
Hildegarde's heart, nevertheless.  When she was gone
the old heartbreaker muttered, rubbing his hands--

"It was a good stroke.  I have saved my brother's pocket
this time, in spite of him.  Nothing else would have
prevented his rushing off to rescue the old scholar,
the pride of Germany, from his trouble.  The poor child
won't venture near HIM after the rebuff she has received
from his brother the Givenaught."

But he was mistaken.  The Virgin had commanded,
and Hildegarde would obey.  She went to Herr Heartless
and told her story.  But he said coldly--

"I am very poor, my child, and books are nothing to me.
I wish you well, but I shall not come."

When Hildegarde was gone, he chuckled and said--

"How my fool of a soft-headed soft-hearted brother would
rage if he knew how cunningly I have saved his pocket.
How he would have flown to the old man's rescue! But the
girl won't venture near him now."

When Hildegarde reached home, her father asked her how she
had prospered.  She said--

"The Virgin has promised, and she will keep her word;
but not in the way I thought.  She knows her own ways,
and they are best."

The old man patted her on the head, and smiled a doubting
smile, but he honored her for her brave faith, nevertheless.

II

Next day the people assembled in the great hall
of the Ritter tavern, to witness the auction--for
the proprietor had said the treasure of Germany's most
honored son should be bartered away in no meaner place.
Hildegarde and her father sat close to the books,
silent and sorrowful, and holding each other's hands.
There was a great crowd of people present.  The bidding began--

"How much for this precious library, just as it stands,
all complete?" called the auctioneer.

"Fifty pieces of gold!"

"A hundred!"

"Two hundred."

"Three!"

"Four!"

"Five hundred!"

"Five twenty-five."

A brief pause.

"Five forty!"

A longer pause, while the auctioneer redoubled his persuasions.

"Five-forty-five!"

A heavy drag--the auctioneer persuaded, pleaded,
implored--it was useless, everybody remained silent--

"Well, then--going, going--one--two--"

"Five hundred and fifty!"

This in a shrill voice, from a bent old man, all hung
with rags, and with a green patch over his left eye.
Everybody in his vicinity turned and gazed at him.
It was Givenaught in disguise.  He was using a disguised
voice, too.

"Good!" cried the auctioneer.  "Going, going--one--two--"

"Five hundred and sixty!"

This, in a deep, harsh voice, from the midst of the
crowd at the other end of the room.  The people near
by turned, and saw an old man, in a strange costume,
supporting himself on crutches.  He wore a long white beard,
and blue spectacles.  It was Herr Heartless, in disguise,
and using a disguised voice.

"Good again! Going, going--one--"

"Six hundred!"

Sensation.  The crowd raised a cheer, and some one
cried out, "Go it, Green-patch!" This tickled the audience
and a score of voices shouted, "Go it, Green-patch!"

"Going--going--going--third and last call--one--two--"

"Seven hundred!"

"Huzzah!--well done, Crutches!" cried a voice.  The crowd
took it up, and shouted altogether, "Well done, Crutches!"

"Splendid, gentlemen! you are doing magnificently.
Going, going--"

"A thousand!"

"Three cheers for Green-patch! Up and at him, Crutches!"

"Going--going--"

"Two thousand!"

And while the people cheered and shouted, "Crutches" muttered,
"Who can this devil be that is fighting so to get these
useless books?--But no matter, he sha'n't have them.
The pride of Germany shall have his books if it beggars
me to buy them for him."

"Going, going, going--"

"Three thousand!"

"Come, everybody--give a rouser for Green-patch!"

And while they did it, "Green-patch" muttered, "This cripple
is plainly a lunatic; but the old scholar shall have
his books, nevertheless, though my pocket sweat for it."

"Going--going--"

"Four thousand!"

"Huzza!"

"Five thousand!"

"Huzza!"

"Six thousand!"

"Huzza!"

"Seven thousand!"

"Huzza!"

"EIGHT thousand!"

"We are saved, father! I told you the Holy Virgin
would keep her word!" "Blessed be her sacred name!"
said the old scholar, with emotion.  The crowd roared,
"Huzza, huzza, huzza--at him again, Green-patch!"

"Going--going--"

"TEN thousand!" As Givenaught shouted this, his excitement
was so great that he forgot himself and used his
natural voice.  He brother recognized it, and muttered,
under cover of the storm of cheers--

"Aha, you are there, are you, besotted old fool? Take
the books, I know what you'll do with them!"

So saying, he slipped out of the place and the auction was
at an end.  Givenaught shouldered his way to Hildegarde,
whispered a word in her ear, and then he also vanished.
The old scholar and his daughter embraced, and the former said,
"Truly the Holy Mother has done more than she promised,
child, for she has give you a splendid marriage portion--
think of it, two thousand pieces of gold!"

"And more still," cried Hildegarde, "for she has give
you back your books; the stranger whispered me that he
would none of them--'the honored son of Germany must
keep them,' so he said.  I would I might have asked
his name and kissed his hand and begged his blessing;
but he was Our Lady's angel, and it is not meet that we
of earth should venture speech with them that dwell above."



APPENDIX F
German Journals

The daily journals of Hamburg, Frankfort, Baden, Munich,
and Augsburg are all constructed on the same general plan.
I speak of these because I am more familiar with them
than with any other German papers.  They contain no
"editorials" whatever; no "personals"--and this is rather
a merit than a demerit, perhaps; no funny-paragraph column;
no police-court reports; no reports of proceedings
of higher courts; no information about prize-fights
or other dog-fights, horse-races, walking-machines,
yachting-contents, rifle-matches, or other sporting
matters of any sort; no reports of banquet speeches;
no department of curious odds and ends of floating fact
and gossip; no "rumors" about anything or anybody;
no prognostications or prophecies about anything or anybody;
no lists of patents granted or sought, or any reference
to such things; no abuse of public officials, big or little,
or complaints against them, or praises of them; no religious
columns Saturdays, no rehash of cold sermons Mondays;
no "weather indications"; no "local item" unveiling of
what is happening in town--nothing of a local nature,
indeed, is mentioned, beyond the movements of some prince,
or the proposed meeting of some deliberative body.

After so formidable a list of what one can't find
in a German daily, the question may well be asked,
What CAN be found in it? It is easily answered: A child's
handful of telegrams, mainly about European national and
international political movements; letter-correspondence about
the same things; market reports.  There you have it.
That is what a German daily is made of.  A German
daily is the slowest and saddest and dreariest of the
inventions of man.  Our own dailies infuriate the reader,
pretty often; the German daily only stupefies him.
Once a week the German daily of the highest class lightens
up its heavy columns--that is, it thinks it lightens
them up--with a profound, an abysmal, book criticism;
a criticism which carries you down, down, down into
the scientific bowels of the subject--for the German
critic is nothing if not scientific--and when you come
up at last and scent the fresh air and see the bonny
daylight once more, you resolve without a dissenting voice
that a book criticism is a mistaken way to lighten up
a German daily.  Sometimes, in place of the criticism,
the first-class daily gives you what it thinks is a gay
and chipper essay--about ancient Grecian funeral customs,
or the ancient Egyptian method of tarring a mummy,
or the reasons for believing that some of the peoples
who existed before the flood did not approve of cats.
These are not unpleasant subjects; they are not
uninteresting subjects; they are even exciting subjects--
until one of these massive scientists gets hold of them.
He soon convinces you that even these matters can
be handled in such a way as to make a person low-spirited.

As I have said, the average German daily is made up
solely of correspondences--a trifle of it by telegraph,
the rest of it by mail.  Every paragraph has the side-head,
"London," "Vienna," or some other town, and a date.
And always, before the name of the town, is placed a letter
or a sign, to indicate who the correspondent is, so that
the authorities can find him when they want to hang him.
Stars, crosses, triangles, squares, half-moons, suns--
such are some of the signs used by correspondents.

Some of the dailies move too fast, others too slowly.
For instance, my Heidelberg daily was always twenty-four
hours old when it arrived at the hotel; but one of my
Munich evening papers used to come a full twenty-four hours
before it was due.

Some of the less important dailies give one a tablespoonful
of a continued story every day; it is strung across
the bottom of the page, in the French fashion.
By subscribing for the paper for five years I judge that
a man might succeed in getting pretty much all of the story.

If you ask a citizen of Munich which is the best Munich
daily journal, he will always tell you that there is
only one good Munich daily, and that it is published
in Augsburg, forty or fifty miles away.  It is like saying
that the best daily paper in New York is published out
in New Jersey somewhere.  Yes, the Augsburg ALLGEMEINE
ZEITUNG is "the best Munich paper," and it is the one I
had in my mind when I was describing a "first-class
German daily" above.  The entire paper, opened out, is not
quite as large as a single page of the New York HERALD.
It is printed on both sides, of course; but in such large
type that its entire contents could be put, in HERALD type,
upon a single page of the HERALD--and there would still
be room enough on the page for the ZEITUNG's "supplement"
and some portion of the ZEITUNG's next day's contents.

Such is the first-class daily.  The dailies actually printed
in Munich are all called second-class by the public.
If you ask which is the best of these second-class
papers they say there is no difference; one is as good
as another.  I have preserved a copy of one of them;
it is called the MUENCHENER TAGES-ANZEIGER, and bears
date January 25, 1879.  Comparisons are odious,
but they need not be malicious; and without any malice
I wish to compare this journals of other countries.
I know of no other way to enable the reader to "size"
the thing.

A column of an average daily paper in America contains
from 1,800 to 2,500 words; the reading-matter in a
single issue consists of from 25,000 to 50,000 words.
The reading-matter in my copy of the Munich journal
consists of a total of 1,654 words --for I counted them.
That would be nearly a column of one of our dailies.
A single issue of the bulkiest daily newspaper in the
world--the London TIMES--often contains 100,000 words
of reading-matter. Considering that the DAILY ANZEIGER
issues the usual twenty-six numbers per month, the reading
matter in a single number of the London TIMES would keep it
in "copy" two months and a half.

The ANZEIGER is an eight-page paper; its page is one
inch wider and one inch longer than a foolscap page;
that is to say, the dimensions of its page are somewhere
between those of a schoolboy's slate and a lady's
pocket handkerchief.  One-fourth of the first page is
taken up with the heading of the journal; this gives it
a rather top-heavy appearance; the rest of the first page
is reading-matter; all of the second page is reading-matter;
the other six pages are devoted to advertisements.

The reading-matter is compressed into two hundred
and five small-pica lines, and is lighted up with eight
pica headlines.  The bill of fare is as follows: First,
under a pica headline, to enforce attention and respect,
is a four-line sermon urging mankind to remember that,
although they are pilgrims here below, they are yet heirs
of heaven; and that "When they depart from earth they soar
to heaven." Perhaps a four-line sermon in a Saturday paper
is the sufficient German equivalent of the eight or ten
columns of sermons which the New-Yorkers get in their
Monday morning papers.  The latest news (two days old)
follows the four-line sermon, under the pica headline
"Telegrams"--these are "telegraphed" with a pair of
scissors out of the AUGSBURGER ZEITUNG of the day before.
These telegrams consist of fourteen and two-thirds lines
from Berlin, fifteen lines from Vienna, and two and five-eights
lines from Calcutta.  Thirty-three small-pica lines news
in a daily journal in a King's Capital of one hundred and
seventy thousand inhabitants is surely not an overdose.
Next we have the pica heading, "News of the Day,"
under which the following facts are set forth: Prince
Leopold is going on a visit to Vienna, six lines;
Prince Arnulph is coming back from Russia, two lines;
the Landtag will meet at ten o'clock in the morning and
consider an election law, three lines and one word over;
a city government item, five and one-half lines;
prices of tickets to the proposed grand Charity Ball,
twenty-three lines--for this one item occupies almost
one-fourth of the entire first page; there is to be
a wonderful Wagner concert in Frankfurt-on-the-Main,
with an orchestra of one hundred and eight instruments,
seven and one-half lines.  That concludes the first page.
Eighty-five lines, altogether, on that page,
including three headlines.  About fifty of those lines,
as one perceives, deal with local matters; so the reporters
are not overworked.

Exactly one-half of the second page is occupied with
an opera criticism, fifty-three lines (three of them
being headlines), and "Death Notices," ten lines.

The other half of the second page is made up of two
paragraphs under the head of "Miscellaneous News."
One of these paragraphs tells about a quarrel between the Czar
of Russia and his eldest son, twenty-one and a half lines;
and the other tells about the atrocious destruction of a
peasant child by its parents, forty lines, or one-fifth
of the total of the reading-matter contained in the paper.

Consider what a fifth part of the reading-matter of an American
daily paper issued in a city of one hundred and seventy
thousand inhabitants amounts to! Think what a mass it is.
Would any one suppose I could so snugly tuck away such a
mass in a chapter of this book that it would be difficult
to find it again in the reader lost his place? Surely not.
I will translate that child-murder word for word,
to give the reader a realizing sense of what a fifth
part of the reading-matter of a Munich daily actually
is when it comes under measurement of the eye:

"From Oberkreuzberg, January 21st, the DONAU ZEITUNG
receives a long account of a crime, which we shortened
as follows: In Rametuach, a village near Eppenschlag,
lived a young married couple with two children, one of which,
a boy aged five, was born three years before the marriage.
For this reason, and also because a relative at Iggensbach
had bequeathed M400 ($100) to the boy, the heartless
father considered him in the way; so the unnatural
parents determined to sacrifice him in the cruelest
possible manner.  They proceeded to starve him slowly
to death, meantime frightfully maltreating him--as the
village people now make known, when it is too late.
The boy was shut in a hole, and when people passed
by he cried, and implored them to give him bread.
His long-continued tortures and deprivations destroyed
him at last, on the third of January.  The sudden (sic)
death of the child created suspicion, the more so as the
body was immediately clothed and laid upon the bier.
Therefore the coroner gave notice, and an inquest was held
on the 6th.  What a pitiful spectacle was disclosed then!
The body was a complete skeleton.  The stomach and intestines
were utterly empty; they contained nothing whatsoever.
The flesh on the corpse was not as thick as the back of
a knife, and incisions in it brought not one drop of blood.
There was not a piece of sound skin the size of a dollar
on the whole body; wounds, scars, bruises, discolored
extravasated blood, everywhere--even on the soles of
the feet there were wounds.  The cruel parents asserted
that the boy had been so bad that they had been obliged
to use severe punishments, and that he finally fell over
a bench and broke his neck.  However, they were arrested
two weeks after the inquest and put in the prison at Deggendorf."

Yes, they were arrested "two weeks after the inquest."
What a home sound that has.  That kind of police briskness
rather more reminds me of my native land than German
journalism does.

I think a German daily journal doesn't do any good to
speak of, but at the same time it doesn't do any harm.
That is a very large merit, and should not be lightly
weighted nor lightly thought of.

The German humorous papers are beautifully printed upon
fine paper, and the illustrations are finely drawn,
finely engraved, and are not vapidly funny, but deliciously so.
So also, generally speaking, are the two or three terse
sentences which accompany the pictures.  I remember one
of these pictures: A most dilapidated tramp is ruefully
contemplating some coins which lie in his open palm.
He says: "Well, begging is getting played out.  Only about
five marks ($1.25) for the whole day; many an official
makes more!" And I call to mind a picture of a commercial
traveler who is about to unroll his samples:

MERCHANT (pettishly).--NO, don't. I don't want to buy anything!

DRUMMER.--If you please, I was only going to show you--

MERCHANT.--But I don't wish to see them!

DRUMMER (after a pause, pleadingly).--But do you you mind
letting ME look at them! I haven't seen them for three weeks!





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tramp Abroad, by Mark Twain






THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER

by Mark Twain




Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester, to Lord Cromwell, on the birth
of the Prince of Wales (afterward Edward VI.).

From the National Manuscripts preserved by the British Government.

Ryght honorable, Salutem in Christo Jesu, and Syr here ys no lesse
joynge and rejossynge in thes partees for the byrth of our prynce,
hoom we hungurde for so longe, then ther was (I trow), inter
vicinos att the byrth of S. J. Baptyste, as thys berer, Master
Erance, can telle you.  Gode gyffe us alle grace, to yelde dew
thankes to our Lorde Gode, Gode of Inglonde, for verely He hathe
shoyd Hym selff Gode of Inglonde, or rather an Inglyssh Gode, yf
we consydyr and pondyr welle alle Hys procedynges with us from
tyme to tyme.  He hath over cumme alle our yllnesse with Hys
excedynge goodnesse, so that we are now moor then compellyd to
serve Hym, seke Hys glory, promott Hys wurde, yf the Devylle of
alle Devylles be natt in us.  We have now the stooppe of vayne
trustes ande the stey of vayne expectations; lett us alle pray for
hys preservatione.  Ande I for my partt wylle wyssh that hys Grace
allways have, and evyn now from the begynynge, Governares,
Instructores and offyceres of ryght jugmente, ne optimum ingenium
non optima educatione deprevetur.

Butt whatt a grett fowlle am I!  So, whatt devotione shoyth many
tymys butt lytelle dyscretione!  Ande thus the Gode of Inglonde be
ever with you in alle your procedynges.

The 19 of October.

Youres, H. L. B. of Wurcestere, now att Hartlebury.

Yf you wolde excytt thys berere to be moore hartye ayen the abuse
of ymagry or mor forwarde to promotte the veryte, ytt myght doo
goode.  Natt that ytt came of me, butt of your selffe, etc.

(Addressed)
To the Ryght Honorable Loorde P. Sealle hys synguler gode Lorde.



To those good-mannered and agreeable children
Susie and Clara Clemens
this book is affectionately inscribed by their father.



I will set down a tale as it was told to me by one who had it of
his father, which latter had it of HIS father, this last having in
like manner had it of HIS father--and so on, back and still back,
three hundred years and more, the fathers transmitting it to the
sons and so preserving it.  It may be history, it may be only a
legend, a tradition.  It may have happened, it may not have
happened:  but it COULD have happened.  It may be that the wise
and the learned believed it in the old days; it may be that only
the unlearned and the simple loved it and credited it.


Contents.

I.      The birth of the Prince and the Pauper.
II.     Tom's early life.
III.    Tom's meeting with the Prince.
IV.     The Prince's troubles begin.
V.      Tom as a patrician.
VI.     Tom receives instructions.
VII.    Tom's first royal dinner.
VIII.   The question of the Seal.
IX.     The river pageant.
X.      The Prince in the toils.
XI.     At Guildhall.
XII.    The Prince and his deliverer.
XIII.   The disappearance of the Prince.
XIV.    'Le Roi est mort--vive le Roi.'
XV.     Tom as King.
XVI.    The state dinner.
XVII.   Foo-foo the First.
XVIII.  The Prince with the tramps.
XIX.    The Prince with the peasants.
XX.     The Prince and the hermit.
XXI.    Hendon to the rescue.
XXII.   A victim of treachery.
XXIII.  The Prince a prisoner.
XXIV.   The escape.
XXV.    Hendon Hall.
XXVI.   Disowned.
XXVII.  In prison.
XXVIII. The sacrifice.
XXIX.   To London.
XXX.    Tom's progress.
XXXI.   The Recognition procession.
XXXII.  Coronation Day.
XXXIII. Edward as King.
Conclusion. Justice and Retribution.
Notes.



     'The quality of mercy . . . is twice bless'd;
      It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes;
      'Tis mightiest in the mightiest:  it becomes
      The thron-ed monarch better than his crown'.
                                   Merchant of Venice.



Chapter I. The birth of the Prince and the Pauper.

In the ancient city of London, on a certain autumn day in the
second quarter of the sixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor
family of the name of Canty, who did not want him.  On the same
day another English child was born to a rich family of the name of
Tudor, who did want him.  All England wanted him too.  England had
so longed for him, and hoped for him, and prayed God for him,
that, now that he was really come, the people went nearly mad for
joy.  Mere acquaintances hugged and kissed each other and cried.
Everybody took a holiday, and high and low, rich and poor, feasted
and danced and sang, and got very mellow; and they kept this up
for days and nights together.  By day, London was a sight to see,
with gay banners waving from every balcony and housetop, and
splendid pageants marching along.  By night, it was again a sight
to see, with its great bonfires at every corner, and its troops of
revellers making merry around them.  There was no talk in all
England but of the new baby, Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales, who
lay lapped in silks and satins, unconscious of all this fuss, and
not knowing that great lords and ladies were tending him and
watching over him--and not caring, either.  But there was no talk
about the other baby, Tom Canty, lapped in his poor rags, except
among the family of paupers whom he had just come to trouble with
his presence.



Chapter II. Tom's early life.

Let us skip a number of years.

London was fifteen hundred years old, and was a great town--for
that day.  It had a hundred thousand inhabitants--some think
double as many.  The streets were very narrow, and crooked, and
dirty, especially in the part where Tom Canty lived, which was not
far from London Bridge.  The houses were of wood, with the second
story projecting over the first, and the third sticking its elbows
out beyond the second.  The higher the houses grew, the broader
they grew.  They were skeletons of strong criss-cross beams, with
solid material between, coated with plaster.  The beams were
painted red or blue or black, according to the owner's taste, and
this gave the houses a very picturesque look.  The windows were
small, glazed with little diamond-shaped panes, and they opened
outward, on hinges, like doors.

The house which Tom's father lived in was up a foul little pocket
called Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane.  It was small, decayed,
and rickety, but it was packed full of wretchedly poor families.
Canty's tribe occupied a room on the third floor.  The mother and
father had a sort of bedstead in the corner; but Tom, his
grandmother, and his two sisters, Bet and Nan, were not
restricted--they had all the floor to themselves, and might sleep
where they chose.  There were the remains of a blanket or two, and
some bundles of ancient and dirty straw, but these could not
rightly be called beds, for they were not organised; they were
kicked into a general pile, mornings, and selections made from the
mass at night, for service.

Bet and Nan were fifteen years old--twins.  They were good-hearted
girls, unclean, clothed in rags, and profoundly ignorant.  Their
mother was like them.  But the father and the grandmother were a
couple of fiends.  They got drunk whenever they could; then they
fought each other or anybody else who came in the way; they cursed
and swore always, drunk or sober; John Canty was a thief, and his
mother a beggar.  They made beggars of the children, but failed to
make thieves of them.  Among, but not of, the dreadful rabble that
inhabited the house, was a good old priest whom the King had
turned out of house and home with a pension of a few farthings,
and he used to get the children aside and teach them right ways
secretly.  Father Andrew also taught Tom a little Latin, and how
to read and write; and would have done the same with the girls,
but they were afraid of the jeers of their friends, who could not
have endured such a queer accomplishment in them.

All Offal Court was just such another hive as Canty's house.
Drunkenness, riot and brawling were the order, there, every night
and nearly all night long.  Broken heads were as common as hunger
in that place.  Yet little Tom was not unhappy.  He had a hard
time of it, but did not know it.  It was the sort of time that all
the Offal Court boys had, therefore he supposed it was the correct
and comfortable thing.  When he came home empty-handed at night,
he knew his father would curse him and thrash him first, and that
when he was done the awful grandmother would do it all over again
and improve on it; and that away in the night his starving mother
would slip to him stealthily with any miserable scrap or crust she
had been able to save for him by going hungry herself,
notwithstanding she was often caught in that sort of treason and
soundly beaten for it by her husband.

No, Tom's life went along well enough, especially in summer.  He
only begged just enough to save himself, for the laws against
mendicancy were stringent, and the penalties heavy; so he put in a
good deal of his time listening to good Father Andrew's charming
old tales and legends about giants and fairies, dwarfs and genii,
and enchanted castles, and gorgeous kings and princes.  His head
grew to be full of these wonderful things, and many a night as he
lay in the dark on his scant and offensive straw, tired, hungry,
and smarting from a thrashing, he unleashed his imagination and
soon forgot his aches and pains in delicious picturings to himself
of the charmed life of a petted prince in a regal palace.  One
desire came in time to haunt him day and night:  it was to see a
real prince, with his own eyes.  He spoke of it once to some of
his Offal Court comrades; but they jeered him and scoffed him so
unmercifully that he was glad to keep his dream to himself after
that.

He often read the priest's old books and got him to explain and
enlarge upon them.  His dreamings and readings worked certain
changes in him, by-and-by.  His dream-people were so fine that he
grew to lament his shabby clothing and his dirt, and to wish to be
clean and better clad.  He went on playing in the mud just the
same, and enjoying it, too; but, instead of splashing around in
the Thames solely for the fun of it, he began to find an added
value in it because of the washings and cleansings it afforded.

Tom could always find something going on around the Maypole in
Cheapside, and at the fairs; and now and then he and the rest of
London had a chance to see a military parade when some famous
unfortunate was carried prisoner to the Tower, by land or boat.
One summer's day he saw poor Anne Askew and three men burned at
the stake in Smithfield, and heard an ex-Bishop preach a sermon to
them which did not interest him.  Yes, Tom's life was varied and
pleasant enough, on the whole.

By-and-by Tom's reading and dreaming about princely life wrought
such a strong effect upon him that he began to ACT the prince,
unconsciously.  His speech and manners became curiously
ceremonious and courtly, to the vast admiration and amusement of
his intimates.  But Tom's influence among these young people began
to grow now, day by day; and in time he came to be looked up to,
by them, with a sort of wondering awe, as a superior being.  He
seemed to know so much! and he could do and say such marvellous
things! and withal, he was so deep and wise!  Tom's remarks, and
Tom's performances, were reported by the boys to their elders; and
these, also, presently began to discuss Tom Canty, and to regard
him as a most gifted and extraordinary creature.  Full-grown
people brought their perplexities to Tom for solution, and were
often astonished at the wit and wisdom of his decisions.  In fact
he was become a hero to all who knew him except his own family--
these, only, saw nothing in him.

Privately, after a while, Tom organised a royal court!  He was the
prince; his special comrades were guards, chamberlains, equerries,
lords and ladies in waiting, and the royal family.  Daily the mock
prince was received with elaborate ceremonials borrowed by Tom
from his romantic readings; daily the great affairs of the mimic
kingdom were discussed in the royal council, and daily his mimic
highness issued decrees to his imaginary armies, navies, and
viceroyalties.

After which, he would go forth in his rags and beg a few
farthings, eat his poor crust, take his customary cuffs and abuse,
and then stretch himself upon his handful of foul straw, and
resume his empty grandeurs in his dreams.

And still his desire to look just once upon a real prince, in the
flesh, grew upon him, day by day, and week by week, until at last
it absorbed all other desires, and became the one passion of his
life.

One January day, on his usual begging tour, he tramped
despondently up and down the region round about Mincing Lane and
Little East Cheap, hour after hour, bare-footed and cold, looking
in at cook-shop windows and longing for the dreadful pork-pies and
other deadly inventions displayed there--for to him these were
dainties fit for the angels; that is, judging by the smell, they
were--for it had never been his good luck to own and eat one.
There was a cold drizzle of rain; the atmosphere was murky; it was
a melancholy day.  At night Tom reached home so wet and tired and
hungry that it was not possible for his father and grandmother to
observe his forlorn condition and not be moved--after their
fashion; wherefore they gave him a brisk cuffing at once and sent
him to bed.  For a long time his pain and hunger, and the swearing
and fighting going on in the building, kept him awake; but at last
his thoughts drifted away to far, romantic lands, and he fell
asleep in the company of jewelled and gilded princelings who live
in vast palaces, and had servants salaaming before them or flying
to execute their orders.  And then, as usual, he dreamed that HE
was a princeling himself.

All night long the glories of his royal estate shone upon him; he
moved among great lords and ladies, in a blaze of light, breathing
perfumes, drinking in delicious music, and answering the reverent
obeisances of the glittering throng as it parted to make way for
him, with here a smile, and there a nod of his princely head.

And when he awoke in the morning and looked upon the wretchedness
about him, his dream had had its usual effect--it had intensified
the sordidness of his surroundings a thousandfold.  Then came
bitterness, and heart-break, and tears.



Chapter III. Tom's meeting with the Prince.

Tom got up hungry, and sauntered hungry away, but with his
thoughts busy with the shadowy splendours of his night's dreams.
He wandered here and there in the city, hardly noticing where he
was going, or what was happening around him.  People jostled him,
and some gave him rough speech; but it was all lost on the musing
boy.  By-and-by he found himself at Temple Bar, the farthest from
home he had ever travelled in that direction.  He stopped and
considered a moment, then fell into his imaginings again, and
passed on outside the walls of London.  The Strand had ceased to
be a country-road then, and regarded itself as a street, but by a
strained construction; for, though there was a tolerably compact
row of houses on one side of it, there were only some scattered
great buildings on the other, these being palaces of rich nobles,
with ample and beautiful grounds stretching to the river--grounds
that are now closely packed with grim acres of brick and stone.

Tom discovered Charing Village presently, and rested himself at
the beautiful cross built there by a bereaved king of earlier
days; then idled down a quiet, lovely road, past the great
cardinal's stately palace, toward a far more mighty and majestic
palace beyond--Westminster.  Tom stared in glad wonder at the vast
pile of masonry, the wide-spreading wings, the frowning bastions
and turrets, the huge stone gateway, with its gilded bars and its
magnificent array of colossal granite lions, and other the signs
and symbols of English royalty.  Was the desire of his soul to be
satisfied at last?  Here, indeed, was a king's palace.  Might he
not hope to see a prince now--a prince of flesh and blood, if
Heaven were willing?

At each side of the gilded gate stood a living statue--that is to
say, an erect and stately and motionless man-at-arms, clad from
head to heel in shining steel armour.  At a respectful distance
were many country folk, and people from the city, waiting for any
chance glimpse of royalty that might offer.  Splendid carriages,
with splendid people in them and splendid servants outside, were
arriving and departing by several other noble gateways that
pierced the royal enclosure.

Poor little Tom, in his rags, approached, and was moving slowly
and timidly past the sentinels, with a beating heart and a rising
hope, when all at once he caught sight through the golden bars of
a spectacle that almost made him shout for joy.  Within was a
comely boy, tanned and brown with sturdy outdoor sports and
exercises, whose clothing was all of lovely silks and satins,
shining with jewels; at his hip a little jewelled sword and
dagger; dainty buskins on his feet, with red heels; and on his
head a jaunty crimson cap, with drooping plumes fastened with a
great sparkling gem.  Several gorgeous gentlemen stood near--his
servants, without a doubt.  Oh! he was a prince--a prince, a
living prince, a real prince--without the shadow of a question;
and the prayer of the pauper-boy's heart was answered at last.

Tom's breath came quick and short with excitement, and his eyes
grew big with wonder and delight.  Everything gave way in his mind
instantly to one desire:  that was to get close to the prince, and
have a good, devouring look at him.  Before he knew what he was
about, he had his face against the gate-bars.  The next instant
one of the soldiers snatched him rudely away, and sent him
spinning among the gaping crowd of country gawks and London
idlers.  The soldier said,--

"Mind thy manners, thou young beggar!"

The crowd jeered and laughed; but the young prince sprang to the
gate with his face flushed, and his eyes flashing with
indignation, and cried out,--

"How dar'st thou use a poor lad like that?  How dar'st thou use
the King my father's meanest subject so?  Open the gates, and let
him in!"

You should have seen that fickle crowd snatch off their hats then.
You should have heard them cheer, and shout, "Long live the Prince
of Wales!"

The soldiers presented arms with their halberds, opened the gates,
and presented again as the little Prince of Poverty passed in, in
his fluttering rags, to join hands with the Prince of Limitless
Plenty.

Edward Tudor said--

"Thou lookest tired and hungry:  thou'st been treated ill.  Come
with me."

Half a dozen attendants sprang forward to--I don't know what;
interfere, no doubt.  But they were waved aside with a right royal
gesture, and they stopped stock still where they were, like so
many statues.  Edward took Tom to a rich apartment in the palace,
which he called his cabinet.  By his command a repast was brought
such as Tom had never encountered before except in books.  The
prince, with princely delicacy and breeding, sent away the
servants, so that his humble guest might not be embarrassed by
their critical presence; then he sat near by, and asked questions
while Tom ate.

"What is thy name, lad?"

"Tom Canty, an' it please thee, sir."

"'Tis an odd one.  Where dost live?"

"In the city, please thee, sir.  Offal Court, out of Pudding
Lane."

"Offal Court!  Truly 'tis another odd one.  Hast parents?"

"Parents have I, sir, and a grand-dam likewise that is but
indifferently precious to me, God forgive me if it be offence to
say it--also twin sisters, Nan and Bet."

"Then is thy grand-dam not over kind to thee, I take it?"

"Neither to any other is she, so please your worship.  She hath a
wicked heart, and worketh evil all her days."

"Doth she mistreat thee?"

"There be times that she stayeth her hand, being asleep or
overcome with drink; but when she hath her judgment clear again,
she maketh it up to me with goodly beatings."

A fierce look came into the little prince's eyes, and he cried
out--

"What!  Beatings?"

"Oh, indeed, yes, please you, sir."

"BEATINGS!--and thou so frail and little.  Hark ye:  before the
night come, she shall hie her to the Tower.  The King my father"--

"In sooth, you forget, sir, her low degree.  The Tower is for the
great alone."

"True, indeed.  I had not thought of that.  I will consider of her
punishment.  Is thy father kind to thee?"

"Not more than Gammer Canty, sir."

"Fathers be alike, mayhap.  Mine hath not a doll's temper.  He
smiteth with a heavy hand, yet spareth me:  he spareth me not
always with his tongue, though, sooth to say.  How doth thy mother
use thee?"

"She is good, sir, and giveth me neither sorrow nor pain of any
sort.  And Nan and Bet are like to her in this."

"How old be these?"

"Fifteen, an' it please you, sir."

"The Lady Elizabeth, my sister, is fourteen, and the Lady Jane
Grey, my cousin, is of mine own age, and comely and gracious
withal; but my sister the Lady Mary, with her gloomy mien and--
Look you:  do thy sisters forbid their servants to smile, lest the
sin destroy their souls?"

"They?  Oh, dost think, sir, that THEY have servants?"

The little prince contemplated the little pauper gravely a moment,
then said--

"And prithee, why not?  Who helpeth them undress at night?  Who
attireth them when they rise?"

"None, sir.  Would'st have them take off their garment, and sleep
without--like the beasts?"

"Their garment!  Have they but one?"

"Ah, good your worship, what would they do with more?  Truly they
have not two bodies each."

"It is a quaint and marvellous thought!  Thy pardon, I had not
meant to laugh.  But thy good Nan and thy Bet shall have raiment
and lackeys enow, and that soon, too:  my cofferer shall look to
it.  No, thank me not; 'tis nothing.  Thou speakest well; thou
hast an easy grace in it.  Art learned?"

"I know not if I am or not, sir.  The good priest that is called
Father Andrew taught me, of his kindness, from his books."

"Know'st thou the Latin?"

"But scantly, sir, I doubt."

"Learn it, lad:  'tis hard only at first.  The Greek is harder;
but neither these nor any tongues else, I think, are hard to the
Lady Elizabeth and my cousin.  Thou should'st hear those damsels
at it!  But tell me of thy Offal Court.  Hast thou a pleasant life
there?"

"In truth, yes, so please you, sir, save when one is hungry.
There be Punch-and-Judy shows, and monkeys--oh such antic
creatures! and so bravely dressed!--and there be plays wherein
they that play do shout and fight till all are slain, and 'tis so
fine to see, and costeth but a farthing--albeit 'tis main hard to
get the farthing, please your worship."

"Tell me more."

"We lads of Offal Court do strive against each other with the
cudgel, like to the fashion of the 'prentices, sometimes."

The prince's eyes flashed.  Said he--

"Marry, that would not I mislike.  Tell me more."

"We strive in races, sir, to see who of us shall be fleetest."

"That would I like also.  Speak on."

"In summer, sir, we wade and swim in the canals and in the river,
and each doth duck his neighbour, and splatter him with water, and
dive and shout and tumble and--"

"'Twould be worth my father's kingdom but to enjoy it once!
Prithee go on."

"We dance and sing about the Maypole in Cheapside; we play in the
sand, each covering his neighbour up; and times we make mud
pastry--oh the lovely mud, it hath not its like for delightfulness
in all the world!--we do fairly wallow in the mud, sir, saving
your worship's presence."

"Oh, prithee, say no more, 'tis glorious!  If that I could but
clothe me in raiment like to thine, and strip my feet, and revel
in the mud once, just once, with none to rebuke me or forbid,
meseemeth I could forego the crown!"

"And if that I could clothe me once, sweet sir, as thou art clad--
just once--"

"Oho, would'st like it?  Then so shall it be.  Doff thy rags, and
don these splendours, lad!  It is a brief happiness, but will be
not less keen for that.  We will have it while we may, and change
again before any come to molest."

A few minutes later the little Prince of Wales was garlanded with
Tom's fluttering odds and ends, and the little Prince of Pauperdom
was tricked out in the gaudy plumage of royalty.  The two went and
stood side by side before a great mirror, and lo, a miracle:
there did not seem to have been any change made!  They stared at
each other, then at the glass, then at each other again.  At last
the puzzled princeling said--

"What dost thou make of this?"

"Ah, good your worship, require me not to answer.  It is not meet
that one of my degree should utter the thing."

"Then will _I_ utter it.  Thou hast the same hair, the same eyes,
the same voice and manner, the same form and stature, the same
face and countenance that I bear.  Fared we forth naked, there is
none could say which was you, and which the Prince of Wales.  And,
now that I am clothed as thou wert clothed, it seemeth I should be
able the more nearly to feel as thou didst when the brute soldier-
-Hark ye, is not this a bruise upon your hand?"

"Yes; but it is a slight thing, and your worship knoweth that the
poor man-at-arms--"

"Peace!  It was a shameful thing and a cruel!" cried the little
prince, stamping his bare foot.  "If the King--Stir not a step
till I come again!  It is a command!"

In a moment he had snatched up and put away an article of national
importance that lay upon a table, and was out at the door and
flying through the palace grounds in his bannered rags, with a hot
face and glowing eyes.  As soon as he reached the great gate, he
seized the bars, and tried to shake them, shouting--

"Open!  Unbar the gates!"

The soldier that had maltreated Tom obeyed promptly; and as the
prince burst through the portal, half-smothered with royal wrath,
the soldier fetched him a sounding box on the ear that sent him
whirling to the roadway, and said--

"Take that, thou beggar's spawn, for what thou got'st me from his
Highness!"

The crowd roared with laughter.  The prince picked himself out of
the mud, and made fiercely at the sentry, shouting--

"I am the Prince of Wales, my person is sacred; and thou shalt
hang for laying thy hand upon me!"

The soldier brought his halberd to a present-arms and said
mockingly--

"I salute your gracious Highness."  Then angrily--  "Be off, thou
crazy rubbish!"

Here the jeering crowd closed round the poor little prince, and
hustled him far down the road, hooting him, and shouting--

"Way for his Royal Highness!  Way for the Prince of Wales!"



Chapter IV. The Prince's troubles begin.

After hours of persistent pursuit and persecution, the little
prince was at last deserted by the rabble and left to himself.  As
long as he had been able to rage against the mob, and threaten it
royally, and royally utter commands that were good stuff to laugh
at, he was very entertaining; but when weariness finally forced
him to be silent, he was no longer of use to his tormentors, and
they sought amusement elsewhere.  He looked about him, now, but
could not recognise the locality.  He was within the city of
London--that was all he knew.  He moved on, aimlessly, and in a
little while the houses thinned, and the passers-by were
infrequent.  He bathed his bleeding feet in the brook which flowed
then where Farringdon Street now is; rested a few moments, then
passed on, and presently came upon a great space with only a few
scattered houses in it, and a prodigious church.  He recognised
this church.  Scaffoldings were about, everywhere, and swarms of
workmen; for it was undergoing elaborate repairs.  The prince took
heart at once--he felt that his troubles were at an end, now.  He
said to himself, "It is the ancient Grey Friars' Church, which the
king my father hath taken from the monks and given for a home for
ever for poor and forsaken children, and new-named it Christ's
Church.  Right gladly will they serve the son of him who hath done
so generously by them--and the more that that son is himself as
poor and as forlorn as any that be sheltered here this day, or
ever shall be."

He was soon in the midst of a crowd of boys who were running,
jumping, playing at ball and leap-frog, and otherwise disporting
themselves, and right noisily, too.  They were all dressed alike,
and in the fashion which in that day prevailed among serving-men
and 'prentices{1}--that is to say, each had on the crown of his
head a flat black cap about the size of a saucer, which was not
useful as a covering, it being of such scanty dimensions, neither
was it ornamental; from beneath it the hair fell, unparted, to the
middle of the forehead, and was cropped straight around; a
clerical band at the neck; a blue gown that fitted closely and
hung as low as the knees or lower; full sleeves; a broad red belt;
bright yellow stockings, gartered above the knees; low shoes with
large metal buckles.  It was a sufficiently ugly costume.

The boys stopped their play and flocked about the prince, who said
with native dignity--

"Good lads, say to your master that Edward Prince of Wales
desireth speech with him."

A great shout went up at this, and one rude fellow said--

"Marry, art thou his grace's messenger, beggar?"

The prince's face flushed with anger, and his ready hand flew to
his hip, but there was nothing there.  There was a storm of
laughter, and one boy said--

"Didst mark that?  He fancied he had a sword--belike he is the
prince himself."

This sally brought more laughter.  Poor Edward drew himself up
proudly and said--

"I am the prince; and it ill beseemeth you that feed upon the king
my father's bounty to use me so."

This was vastly enjoyed, as the laughter testified.  The youth who
had first spoken, shouted to his comrades--

"Ho, swine, slaves, pensioners of his grace's princely father,
where be your manners?  Down on your marrow bones, all of ye, and
do reverence to his kingly port and royal rags!"

With boisterous mirth they dropped upon their knees in a body and
did mock homage to their prey.  The prince spurned the nearest boy
with his foot, and said fiercely--

"Take thou that, till the morrow come and I build thee a gibbet!"

Ah, but this was not a joke--this was going beyond fun.  The
laughter ceased on the instant, and fury took its place.  A dozen
shouted--

"Hale him forth!  To the horse-pond, to the horse-pond!  Where be
the dogs?  Ho, there, Lion! ho, Fangs!"

Then followed such a thing as England had never seen before--the
sacred person of the heir to the throne rudely buffeted by
plebeian hands, and set upon and torn by dogs.

As night drew to a close that day, the prince found himself far
down in the close-built portion of the city.  His body was
bruised, his hands were bleeding, and his rags were all besmirched
with mud.  He wandered on and on, and grew more and more
bewildered, and so tired and faint he could hardly drag one foot
after the other.  He had ceased to ask questions of anyone, since
they brought him only insult instead of information.  He kept
muttering to himself, "Offal Court--that is the name; if I can but
find it before my strength is wholly spent and I drop, then am I
saved--for his people will take me to the palace and prove that I
am none of theirs, but the true prince, and I shall have mine own
again."  And now and then his mind reverted to his treatment by
those rude Christ's Hospital boys, and he said, "When I am king,
they shall not have bread and shelter only, but also teachings out
of books; for a full belly is little worth where the mind is
starved, and the heart.  I will keep this diligently in my
remembrance, that this day's lesson be not lost upon me, and my
people suffer thereby; for learning softeneth the heart and
breedeth gentleness and charity. {1}

The lights began to twinkle, it came on to rain, the wind rose,
and a raw and gusty night set in.  The houseless prince, the
homeless heir to the throne of England, still moved on, drifting
deeper into the maze of squalid alleys where the swarming hives of
poverty and misery were massed together.

Suddenly a great drunken ruffian collared him and said--

"Out to this time of night again, and hast not brought a farthing
home, I warrant me!  If it be so, an' I do not break all the bones
in thy lean body, then am I not John Canty, but some other."

The prince twisted himself loose, unconsciously brushed his
profaned shoulder, and eagerly said--

"Oh, art HIS father, truly?  Sweet heaven grant it be so--then
wilt thou fetch him away and restore me!"

"HIS father?  I know not what thou mean'st; I but know I am THY
father, as thou shalt soon have cause to--"

"Oh, jest not, palter not, delay not!--I am worn, I am wounded, I
can bear no more.  Take me to the king my father, and he will make
thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams.  Believe me, man, believe
me!--I speak no lie, but only the truth!--put forth thy hand and
save me!  I am indeed the Prince of Wales!"

The man stared down, stupefied, upon the lad, then shook his head
and muttered--

"Gone stark mad as any Tom o' Bedlam!"--then collared him once
more, and said with a coarse laugh and an oath, "But mad or no
mad, I and thy Gammer Canty will soon find where the soft places
in thy bones lie, or I'm no true man!"

With this he dragged the frantic and struggling prince away, and
disappeared up a front court followed by a delighted and noisy
swarm of human vermin.



Chapter V. Tom as a patrician.

Tom Canty, left alone in the prince's cabinet, made good use of
his opportunity.  He turned himself this way and that before the
great mirror, admiring his finery; then walked away, imitating the
prince's high-bred carriage, and still observing results in the
glass.  Next he drew the beautiful sword, and bowed, kissing the
blade, and laying it across his breast, as he had seen a noble
knight do, by way of salute to the lieutenant of the Tower, five
or six weeks before, when delivering the great lords of Norfolk
and Surrey into his hands for captivity.  Tom played with the
jewelled dagger that hung upon his thigh; he examined the costly
and exquisite ornaments of the room; he tried each of the
sumptuous chairs, and thought how proud he would be if the Offal
Court herd could only peep in and see him in his grandeur.  He
wondered if they would believe the marvellous tale he should tell
when he got home, or if they would shake their heads, and say his
overtaxed imagination had at last upset his reason.

At the end of half an hour it suddenly occurred to him that the
prince was gone a long time; then right away he began to feel
lonely; very soon he fell to listening and longing, and ceased to
toy with the pretty things about him; he grew uneasy, then
restless, then distressed.  Suppose some one should come, and
catch him in the prince's clothes, and the prince not there to
explain.  Might they not hang him at once, and inquire into his
case afterward?  He had heard that the great were prompt about
small matters.  His fear rose higher and higher; and trembling he
softly opened the door to the antechamber, resolved to fly and
seek the prince, and, through him, protection and release.  Six
gorgeous gentlemen-servants and two young pages of high degree,
clothed like butterflies, sprang to their feet and bowed low
before him.  He stepped quickly back and shut the door.  He said--

"Oh, they mock at me!  They will go and tell.  Oh! why came I here
to cast away my life?"

He walked up and down the floor, filled with nameless fears,
listening, starting at every trifling sound.  Presently the door
swung open, and a silken page said--

"The Lady Jane Grey."

The door closed and a sweet young girl, richly clad, bounded
toward him.  But she stopped suddenly, and said in a distressed
voice--

"Oh, what aileth thee, my lord?"

Tom's breath was nearly failing him; but he made shift to stammer
out--

"Ah, be merciful, thou!  In sooth I am no lord, but only poor Tom
Canty of Offal Court in the city.  Prithee let me see the prince,
and he will of his grace restore to me my rags, and let me hence
unhurt.  Oh, be thou merciful, and save me!"

By this time the boy was on his knees, and supplicating with his
eyes and uplifted hands as well as with his tongue.  The young
girl seemed horror-stricken.  She cried out--

"O my lord, on thy knees?--and to ME!"

Then she fled away in fright; and Tom, smitten with despair, sank
down, murmuring--

"There is no help, there is no hope.  Now will they come and take
me."

Whilst he lay there benumbed with terror, dreadful tidings were
speeding through the palace.  The whisper--for it was whispered
always--flew from menial to menial, from lord to lady, down all
the long corridors, from story to story, from saloon to saloon,
"The prince hath gone mad, the prince hath gone mad!"  Soon every
saloon, every marble hall, had its groups of glittering lords and
ladies, and other groups of dazzling lesser folk, talking
earnestly together in whispers, and every face had in it dismay.
Presently a splendid official came marching by these groups,
making solemn proclamation--

                    "IN THE NAME OF THE KING!

Let none list to this false and foolish matter, upon pain of
death, nor discuss the same, nor carry it abroad.  In the name of
the King!"

The whisperings ceased as suddenly as if the whisperers had been
stricken dumb.

Soon there was a general buzz along the corridors, of "The prince!
See, the prince comes!"

Poor Tom came slowly walking past the low-bowing groups, trying to
bow in return, and meekly gazing upon his strange surroundings
with bewildered and pathetic eyes.  Great nobles walked upon each
side of him, making him lean upon them, and so steady his steps.
Behind him followed the court-physicians and some servants.

Presently Tom found himself in a noble apartment of the palace and
heard the door close behind him.  Around him stood those who had
come with him.  Before him, at a little distance, reclined a very
large and very fat man, with a wide, pulpy face, and a stern
expression.  His large head was very grey; and his whiskers, which
he wore only around his face, like a frame, were grey also.  His
clothing was of rich stuff, but old, and slightly frayed in
places.  One of his swollen legs had a pillow under it, and was
wrapped in bandages.  There was silence now; and there was no head
there but was bent in reverence, except this man's.  This stern-
countenanced invalid was the dread Henry VIII.  He said--and his
face grew gentle as he began to speak--

"How now, my lord Edward, my prince?  Hast been minded to cozen
me, the good King thy father, who loveth thee, and kindly useth
thee, with a sorry jest?"

Poor Tom was listening, as well as his dazed faculties would let
him, to the beginning of this speech; but when the words 'me, the
good King' fell upon his ear, his face blanched, and he dropped as
instantly upon his knees as if a shot had brought him there.
Lifting up his hands, he exclaimed--

"Thou the KING?  Then am I undone indeed!"

This speech seemed to stun the King.  His eyes wandered from face
to face aimlessly, then rested, bewildered, upon the boy before
him.  Then he said in a tone of deep disappointment--

"Alack, I had believed the rumour disproportioned to the truth;
but I fear me 'tis not so."  He breathed a heavy sigh, and said in
a gentle voice, "Come to thy father, child:  thou art not well."

Tom was assisted to his feet, and approached the Majesty of
England, humble and trembling.  The King took the frightened face
between his hands, and gazed earnestly and lovingly into it
awhile, as if seeking some grateful sign of returning reason
there, then pressed the curly head against his breast, and patted
it tenderly.  Presently he said--

"Dost not know thy father, child?  Break not mine old heart; say
thou know'st me.  Thou DOST know me, dost thou not?"

"Yea:  thou art my dread lord the King, whom God preserve!"

"True, true--that is well--be comforted, tremble not so; there is
none here would hurt thee; there is none here but loves thee.
Thou art better now; thy ill dream passeth--is't not so?  Thou
wilt not miscall thyself again, as they say thou didst a little
while agone?"

"I pray thee of thy grace believe me, I did but speak the truth,
most dread lord; for I am the meanest among thy subjects, being a
pauper born, and 'tis by a sore mischance and accident I am here,
albeit I was therein nothing blameful.  I am but young to die, and
thou canst save me with one little word.  Oh speak it, sir!"

"Die?  Talk not so, sweet prince--peace, peace, to thy troubled
heart--thou shalt not die!"

Tom dropped upon his knees with a glad cry--

"God requite thy mercy, O my King, and save thee long to bless thy
land!"  Then springing up, he turned a joyful face toward the two
lords in waiting, and exclaimed, "Thou heard'st it!  I am not to
die:  the King hath said it!"  There was no movement, save that
all bowed with grave respect; but no one spoke.  He hesitated, a
little confused, then turned timidly toward the King, saying, "I
may go now?"

"Go?  Surely, if thou desirest.  But why not tarry yet a little?
Whither would'st go?"

Tom dropped his eyes, and answered humbly--

"Peradventure I mistook; but I did think me free, and so was I
moved to seek again the kennel where I was born and bred to
misery, yet which harboureth my mother and my sisters, and so is
home to me; whereas these pomps and splendours whereunto I am not
used--oh, please you, sir, to let me go!"

The King was silent and thoughtful a while, and his face betrayed
a growing distress and uneasiness.  Presently he said, with
something of hope in his voice--

"Perchance he is but mad upon this one strain, and hath his wits
unmarred as toucheth other matter.  God send it may be so!  We
will make trial."

Then he asked Tom a question in Latin, and Tom answered him lamely
in the same tongue.  The lords and doctors manifested their
gratification also.  The King said--

"'Twas not according to his schooling and ability, but showeth
that his mind is but diseased, not stricken fatally.  How say you,
sir?"

The physician addressed bowed low, and replied--

"It jumpeth with my own conviction, sire, that thou hast divined
aright."

The King looked pleased with this encouragement, coming as it did
from so excellent authority, and continued with good heart--

"Now mark ye all:  we will try him further."

He put a question to Tom in French.  Tom stood silent a moment,
embarrassed by having so many eyes centred upon him, then said
diffidently--

"I have no knowledge of this tongue, so please your majesty."

The King fell back upon his couch.  The attendants flew to his
assistance; but he put them aside, and said--

"Trouble me not--it is nothing but a scurvy faintness.  Raise me!
There, 'tis sufficient.  Come hither, child; there, rest thy poor
troubled head upon thy father's heart, and be at peace.  Thou'lt
soon be well:  'tis but a passing fantasy.  Fear thou not; thou'lt
soon be well."  Then he turned toward the company:  his gentle
manner changed, and baleful lightnings began to play from his
eyes.  He said--

"List ye all!  This my son is mad; but it is not permanent.  Over-
study hath done this, and somewhat too much of confinement.  Away
with his books and teachers! see ye to it.  Pleasure him with
sports, beguile him in wholesome ways, so that his health come
again."  He raised himself higher still, and went on with energy,
"He is mad; but he is my son, and England's heir; and, mad or
sane, still shall he reign!  And hear ye further, and proclaim it:
whoso speaketh of this his distemper worketh against the peace and
order of these realms, and shall to the gallows! . . . Give me to
drink--I burn:  this sorrow sappeth my strength. . . . There, take
away the cup. . . . Support me.  There, that is well.  Mad, is he?
Were he a thousand times mad, yet is he Prince of Wales, and I the
King will confirm it.  This very morrow shall he be installed in
his princely dignity in due and ancient form.  Take instant order
for it, my lord Hertford."

One of the nobles knelt at the royal couch, and said--

"The King's majesty knoweth that the Hereditary Great Marshal of
England lieth attainted in the Tower.  It were not meet that one
attainted--"

"Peace!  Insult not mine ears with his hated name.  Is this man to
live for ever?  Am I to be baulked of my will?  Is the prince to
tarry uninstalled, because, forsooth, the realm lacketh an Earl
Marshal free of treasonable taint to invest him with his honours?
No, by the splendour of God!  Warn my Parliament to bring me
Norfolk's doom before the sun rise again, else shall they answer
for it grievously!" {1}

Lord Hertford said--

"The King's will is law;" and, rising, returned to his former
place.

Gradually the wrath faded out of the old King's face, and he said-
-

"Kiss me, my prince.  There . . . what fearest thou?  Am I not thy
loving father?"

"Thou art good to me that am unworthy, O mighty and gracious lord:
that in truth I know.  But--but--it grieveth me to think of him
that is to die, and--"

"Ah, 'tis like thee, 'tis like thee!  I know thy heart is still
the same, even though thy mind hath suffered hurt, for thou wert
ever of a gentle spirit.  But this duke standeth between thee and
thine honours:  I will have another in his stead that shall bring
no taint to his great office.  Comfort thee, my prince:  trouble
not thy poor head with this matter."

"But is it not I that speed him hence, my liege?  How long might
he not live, but for me?"

"Take no thought of him, my prince:  he is not worthy.  Kiss me
once again, and go to thy trifles and amusements; for my malady
distresseth me.  I am aweary, and would rest.  Go with thine uncle
Hertford and thy people, and come again when my body is
refreshed."

Tom, heavy-hearted, was conducted from the presence, for this last
sentence was a death-blow to the hope he had cherished that now he
would be set free.  Once more he heard the buzz of low voices
exclaiming, "The prince, the prince comes!"

His spirits sank lower and lower as he moved between the
glittering files of bowing courtiers; for he recognised that he
was indeed a captive now, and might remain for ever shut up in
this gilded cage, a forlorn and friendless prince, except God in
his mercy take pity on him and set him free.

And, turn where he would, he seemed to see floating in the air the
severed head and the remembered face of the great Duke of Norfolk,
the eyes fixed on him reproachfully.

His old dreams had been so pleasant; but this reality was so
dreary!



Chapter VI. Tom receives instructions.

Tom was conducted to the principal apartment of a noble suite, and
made to sit down--a thing which he was loth to do, since there
were elderly men and men of high degree about him.  He begged them
to be seated also, but they only bowed their thanks or murmured
them, and remained standing.  He would have insisted, but his
'uncle' the Earl of Hertford whispered in his ear--

"Prithee, insist not, my lord; it is not meet that they sit in thy
presence."

The Lord St. John was announced, and after making obeisance to
Tom, he said--

"I come upon the King's errand, concerning a matter which
requireth privacy.  Will it please your royal highness to dismiss
all that attend you here, save my lord the Earl of Hertford?"

Observing that Tom did not seem to know how to proceed, Hertford
whispered him to make a sign with his hand, and not trouble
himself to speak unless he chose.  When the waiting gentlemen had
retired, Lord St. John said--

"His majesty commandeth, that for due and weighty reasons of
state, the prince's grace shall hide his infirmity in all ways
that be within his power, till it be passed and he be as he was
before.  To wit, that he shall deny to none that he is the true
prince, and heir to England's greatness; that he shall uphold his
princely dignity, and shall receive, without word or sign of
protest, that reverence and observance which unto it do appertain
of right and ancient usage; that he shall cease to speak to any of
that lowly birth and life his malady hath conjured out of the
unwholesome imaginings of o'er-wrought fancy; that he shall strive
with diligence to bring unto his memory again those faces which he
was wont to know--and where he faileth he shall hold his peace,
neither betraying by semblance of surprise or other sign that he
hath forgot; that upon occasions of state, whensoever any matter
shall perplex him as to the thing he should do or the utterance he
should make, he shall show nought of unrest to the curious that
look on, but take advice in that matter of the Lord Hertford, or
my humble self, which are commanded of the King to be upon this
service and close at call, till this commandment be dissolved.
Thus saith the King's majesty, who sendeth greeting to your royal
highness, and prayeth that God will of His mercy quickly heal you
and have you now and ever in His holy keeping."

The Lord St. John made reverence and stood aside.  Tom replied
resignedly--

"The King hath said it.  None may palter with the King's command,
or fit it to his ease, where it doth chafe, with deft evasions.
The King shall be obeyed."

Lord Hertford said--

"Touching the King's majesty's ordainment concerning books and
such like serious matters, it may peradventure please your
highness to ease your time with lightsome entertainment, lest you
go wearied to the banquet and suffer harm thereby."

Tom's face showed inquiring surprise; and a blush followed when he
saw Lord St. John's eyes bent sorrowfully upon him.  His lordship
said--

"Thy memory still wrongeth thee, and thou hast shown surprise--but
suffer it not to trouble thee, for 'tis a matter that will not
bide, but depart with thy mending malady.  My Lord of Hertford
speaketh of the city's banquet which the King's majesty did
promise, some two months flown, your highness should attend.  Thou
recallest it now?"

"It grieves me to confess it had indeed escaped me," said Tom, in
a hesitating voice; and blushed again.

At this moment the Lady Elizabeth and the Lady Jane Grey were
announced.  The two lords exchanged significant glances, and
Hertford stepped quickly toward the door.  As the young girls
passed him, he said in a low voice--

"I pray ye, ladies, seem not to observe his humours, nor show
surprise when his memory doth lapse--it will grieve you to note
how it doth stick at every trifle."

Meantime Lord St. John was saying in Tom's ear--

"Please you, sir, keep diligently in mind his majesty's desire.
Remember all thou canst--SEEM to remember all else.  Let them not
perceive that thou art much changed from thy wont, for thou
knowest how tenderly thy old play-fellows bear thee in their
hearts and how 'twould grieve them.  Art willing, sir, that I
remain?--and thine uncle?"

Tom signified assent with a gesture and a murmured word, for he
was already learning, and in his simple heart was resolved to
acquit himself as best he might, according to the King's command.

In spite of every precaution, the conversation among the young
people became a little embarrassing at times.  More than once, in
truth, Tom was near to breaking down and confessing himself
unequal to his tremendous part; but the tact of the Princess
Elizabeth saved him, or a word from one or the other of the
vigilant lords, thrown in apparently by chance, had the same happy
effect.  Once the little Lady Jane turned to Tom and dismayed him
with this question,--

"Hast paid thy duty to the Queen's majesty to-day, my lord?"

Tom hesitated, looked distressed, and was about to stammer out
something at hazard, when Lord St. John took the word and answered
for him with the easy grace of a courtier accustomed to encounter
delicate difficulties and to be ready for them--

"He hath indeed, madam, and she did greatly hearten him, as
touching his majesty's condition; is it not so, your highness?"

Tom mumbled something that stood for assent, but felt that he was
getting upon dangerous ground.  Somewhat later it was mentioned
that Tom was to study no more at present, whereupon her little
ladyship exclaimed--

"'Tis a pity, 'tis a pity!  Thou wert proceeding bravely.  But
bide thy time in patience:  it will not be for long.  Thou'lt yet
be graced with learning like thy father, and make thy tongue
master of as many languages as his, good my prince."

"My father!" cried Tom, off his guard for the moment.  "I trow he
cannot speak his own so that any but the swine that kennel in the
styes may tell his meaning; and as for learning of any sort
soever--"

He looked up and encountered a solemn warning in my Lord St.
John's eyes.

He stopped, blushed, then continued low and sadly: "Ah, my malady
persecuteth me again, and my mind wandereth.  I meant the King's
grace no irreverence."

"We know it, sir," said the Princess Elizabeth, taking her
'brother's' hand between her two palms, respectfully but
caressingly; "trouble not thyself as to that.  The fault is none
of thine, but thy distemper's."

"Thou'rt a gentle comforter, sweet lady," said Tom, gratefully,
"and my heart moveth me to thank thee for't, an' I may be so
bold."

Once the giddy little Lady Jane fired a simple Greek phrase at
Tom.  The Princess Elizabeth's quick eye saw by the serene
blankness of the target's front that the shaft was overshot; so
she tranquilly delivered a return volley of sounding Greek on
Tom's behalf, and then straightway changed the talk to other
matters.

Time wore on pleasantly, and likewise smoothly, on the whole.
Snags and sandbars grew less and less frequent, and Tom grew more
and more at his ease, seeing that all were so lovingly bent upon
helping him and overlooking his mistakes.  When it came out that
the little ladies were to accompany him to the Lord Mayor's
banquet in the evening, his heart gave a bound of relief and
delight, for he felt that he should not be friendless, now, among
that multitude of strangers; whereas, an hour earlier, the idea of
their going with him would have been an insupportable terror to
him.

Tom's guardian angels, the two lords, had had less comfort in the
interview than the other parties to it.  They felt much as if they
were piloting a great ship through a dangerous channel; they were
on the alert constantly, and found their office no child's play.
Wherefore, at last, when the ladies' visit was drawing to a close
and the Lord Guilford Dudley was announced, they not only felt
that their charge had been sufficiently taxed for the present, but
also that they themselves were not in the best condition to take
their ship back and make their anxious voyage all over again.  So
they respectfully advised Tom to excuse himself, which he was very
glad to do, although a slight shade of disappointment might have
been observed upon my Lady Jane's face when she heard the splendid
stripling denied admittance.

There was a pause now, a sort of waiting silence which Tom could
not understand.  He glanced at Lord Hertford, who gave him a sign-
-but he failed to understand that also.  The ready Elizabeth came
to the rescue with her usual easy grace.  She made reverence and
said--

"Have we leave of the prince's grace my brother to go?"

Tom said--

"Indeed your ladyships can have whatsoever of me they will, for
the asking; yet would I rather give them any other thing that in
my poor power lieth, than leave to take the light and blessing of
their presence hence.  Give ye good den, and God be with ye!"
Then he smiled inwardly at the thought, "'Tis not for nought I
have dwelt but among princes in my reading, and taught my tongue
some slight trick of their broidered and gracious speech withal!"

When the illustrious maidens were gone, Tom turned wearily to his
keepers and said--

"May it please your lordships to grant me leave to go into some
corner and rest me?"

Lord Hertford said--

"So please your highness, it is for you to command, it is for us
to obey.  That thou should'st rest is indeed a needful thing,
since thou must journey to the city presently."

He touched a bell, and a page appeared, who was ordered to desire
the presence of Sir William Herbert.  This gentleman came
straightway, and conducted Tom to an inner apartment.  Tom's first
movement there was to reach for a cup of water; but a silk-and-
velvet servitor seized it, dropped upon one knee, and offered it
to him on a golden salver.

Next the tired captive sat down and was going to take off his
buskins, timidly asking leave with his eye, but another silk-and-
velvet discomforter went down upon his knees and took the office
from him.  He made two or three further efforts to help himself,
but being promptly forestalled each time, he finally gave up, with
a sigh of resignation and a murmured "Beshrew me, but I marvel
they do not require to breathe for me also!"  Slippered, and
wrapped in a sumptuous robe, he laid himself down at last to rest,
but not to sleep, for his head was too full of thoughts and the
room too full of people.  He could not dismiss the former, so they
stayed; he did not know enough to dismiss the latter, so they
stayed also, to his vast regret--and theirs.


Tom's departure had left his two noble guardians alone.  They
mused a while, with much head-shaking and walking the floor, then
Lord St. John said--

"Plainly, what dost thou think?"

"Plainly, then, this.  The King is near his end; my nephew is mad-
-mad will mount the throne, and mad remain.  God protect England,
since she will need it!"

"Verily it promiseth so, indeed.  But . . . have you no misgivings
as to . . . as to . . ."

The speaker hesitated, and finally stopped.  He evidently felt
that he was upon delicate ground.  Lord Hertford stopped before
him, looked into his face with a clear, frank eye, and said--

"Speak on--there is none to hear but me.  Misgivings as to what?"

"I am full loth to word the thing that is in my mind, and thou so
near to him in blood, my lord.  But craving pardon if I do offend,
seemeth it not strange that madness could so change his port and
manner?--not but that his port and speech are princely still, but
that they DIFFER, in one unweighty trifle or another, from what
his custom was aforetime.  Seemeth it not strange that madness
should filch from his memory his father's very lineaments; the
customs and observances that are his due from such as be about
him; and, leaving him his Latin, strip him of his Greek and
French?  My lord, be not offended, but ease my mind of its
disquiet and receive my grateful thanks.  It haunteth me, his
saying he was not the prince, and so--"

"Peace, my lord, thou utterest treason!  Hast forgot the King's
command?  Remember I am party to thy crime if I but listen."

St. John paled, and hastened to say--

"I was in fault, I do confess it.  Betray me not, grant me this
grace out of thy courtesy, and I will neither think nor speak of
this thing more.  Deal not hardly with me, sir, else am I ruined."

"I am content, my lord.  So thou offend not again, here or in the
ears of others, it shall be as though thou hadst not spoken.  But
thou need'st not have misgivings.  He is my sister's son; are not
his voice, his face, his form, familiar to me from his cradle?
Madness can do all the odd conflicting things thou seest in him,
and more.  Dost not recall how that the old Baron Marley, being
mad, forgot the favour of his own countenance that he had known
for sixty years, and held it was another's; nay, even claimed he
was the son of Mary Magdalene, and that his head was made of
Spanish glass; and, sooth to say, he suffered none to touch it,
lest by mischance some heedless hand might shiver it?  Give thy
misgivings easement, good my lord.  This is the very prince--I
know him well--and soon will be thy king; it may advantage thee to
bear this in mind, and more dwell upon it than the other."

After some further talk, in which the Lord St. John covered up his
mistake as well as he could by repeated protests that his faith
was thoroughly grounded now, and could not be assailed by doubts
again, the Lord Hertford relieved his fellow-keeper, and sat down
to keep watch and ward alone.  He was soon deep in meditation, and
evidently the longer he thought, the more he was bothered.  By-
and-by he began to pace the floor and mutter.

"Tush, he MUST be the prince!  Will any he in all the land
maintain there can be two, not of one blood and birth, so
marvellously twinned?  And even were it so, 'twere yet a stranger
miracle that chance should cast the one into the other's place.
Nay, 'tis folly, folly, folly!"

Presently he said--

"Now were he impostor and called himself prince, look you THAT
would be natural; that would be reasonable.  But lived ever an
impostor yet, who, being called prince by the king, prince by the
court, prince by all, DENIED his dignity and pleaded against his
exaltation?  NO!  By the soul of St. Swithin, no!  This is the
true prince, gone mad!"



Chapter VII. Tom's first royal dinner.

Somewhat after one in the afternoon, Tom resignedly underwent the
ordeal of being dressed for dinner.  He found himself as finely
clothed as before, but everything different, everything changed,
from his ruff to his stockings.  He was presently conducted with
much state to a spacious and ornate apartment, where a table was
already set for one.  Its furniture was all of massy gold, and
beautified with designs which well-nigh made it priceless, since
they were the work of Benvenuto.  The room was half-filled with
noble servitors.  A chaplain said grace, and Tom was about to fall
to, for hunger had long been constitutional with him, but was
interrupted by my lord the Earl of Berkeley, who fastened a napkin
about his neck; for the great post of Diaperers to the Prince of
Wales was hereditary in this nobleman's family.  Tom's cupbearer
was present, and forestalled all his attempts to help himself to
wine.  The Taster to his highness the Prince of Wales was there
also, prepared to taste any suspicious dish upon requirement, and
run the risk of being poisoned.  He was only an ornamental
appendage at this time, and was seldom called upon to exercise his
function; but there had been times, not many generations past,
when the office of taster had its perils, and was not a grandeur
to be desired.  Why they did not use a dog or a plumber seems
strange; but all the ways of royalty are strange.  My Lord d'Arcy,
First Groom of the Chamber, was there, to do goodness knows what;
but there he was--let that suffice.  The Lord Chief Butler was
there, and stood behind Tom's chair, overseeing the solemnities,
under command of the Lord Great Steward and the Lord Head Cook,
who stood near.  Tom had three hundred and eighty-four servants
beside these; but they were not all in that room, of course, nor
the quarter of them; neither was Tom aware yet that they existed.

All those that were present had been well drilled within the hour
to remember that the prince was temporarily out of his head, and
to be careful to show no surprise at his vagaries.  These
'vagaries' were soon on exhibition before them; but they only
moved their compassion and their sorrow, not their mirth.  It was
a heavy affliction to them to see the beloved prince so stricken.

Poor Tom ate with his fingers mainly; but no one smiled at it, or
even seemed to observe it.  He inspected his napkin curiously, and
with deep interest, for it was of a very dainty and beautiful
fabric, then said with simplicity--

"Prithee, take it away, lest in mine unheedfulness it be soiled."

The Hereditary Diaperer took it away with reverent manner, and
without word or protest of any sort.

Tom examined the turnips and the lettuce with interest, and asked
what they were, and if they were to be eaten; for it was only
recently that men had begun to raise these things in England in
place of importing them as luxuries from Holland. {1}  His
question was answered with grave respect, and no surprise
manifested.  When he had finished his dessert, he filled his
pockets with nuts; but nobody appeared to be aware of it, or
disturbed by it.  But the next moment he was himself disturbed by
it, and showed discomposure; for this was the only service he had
been permitted to do with his own hands during the meal, and he
did not doubt that he had done a most improper and unprincely
thing.  At that moment the muscles of his nose began to twitch,
and the end of that organ to lift and wrinkle.  This continued,
and Tom began to evince a growing distress.  He looked
appealingly, first at one and then another of the lords about him,
and tears came into his eyes.  They sprang forward with dismay in
their faces, and begged to know his trouble.  Tom said with
genuine anguish--

"I crave your indulgence:  my nose itcheth cruelly.  What is the
custom and usage in this emergence?  Prithee, speed, for 'tis but
a little time that I can bear it."

None smiled; but all were sore perplexed, and looked one to the
other in deep tribulation for counsel.  But behold, here was a
dead wall, and nothing in English history to tell how to get over
it.  The Master of Ceremonies was not present:  there was no one
who felt safe to venture upon this uncharted sea, or risk the
attempt to solve this solemn problem.  Alas! there was no
Hereditary Scratcher.  Meantime the tears had overflowed their
banks, and begun to trickle down Tom's cheeks.  His twitching nose
was pleading more urgently than ever for relief.  At last nature
broke down the barriers of etiquette:  Tom lifted up an inward
prayer for pardon if he was doing wrong, and brought relief to the
burdened hearts of his court by scratching his nose himself.

His meal being ended, a lord came and held before him a broad,
shallow, golden dish with fragrant rosewater in it, to cleanse his
mouth and fingers with; and my lord the Hereditary Diaperer stood
by with a napkin for his use.  Tom gazed at the dish a puzzled
moment or two, then raised it to his lips, and gravely took a
draught.  Then he returned it to the waiting lord, and said--

"Nay, it likes me not, my lord:  it hath a pretty flavour, but it
wanteth strength."

This new eccentricity of the prince's ruined mind made all the
hearts about him ache; but the sad sight moved none to merriment.

Tom's next unconscious blunder was to get up and leave the table
just when the chaplain had taken his stand behind his chair, and
with uplifted hands, and closed, uplifted eyes, was in the act of
beginning the blessing.  Still nobody seemed to perceive that the
prince had done a thing unusual.

By his own request our small friend was now conducted to his
private cabinet, and left there alone to his own devices.  Hanging
upon hooks in the oaken wainscoting were the several pieces of a
suit of shining steel armour, covered all over with beautiful
designs exquisitely inlaid in gold.  This martial panoply belonged
to the true prince--a recent present from Madam Parr the Queen.
Tom put on the greaves, the gauntlets, the plumed helmet, and such
other pieces as he could don without assistance, and for a while
was minded to call for help and complete the matter, but bethought
him of the nuts he had brought away from dinner, and the joy it
would be to eat them with no crowd to eye him, and no Grand
Hereditaries to pester him with undesired services; so he restored
the pretty things to their several places, and soon was cracking
nuts, and feeling almost naturally happy for the first time since
God for his sins had made him a prince.  When the nuts were all
gone, he stumbled upon some inviting books in a closet, among them
one about the etiquette of the English court.  This was a prize.
He lay down upon a sumptuous divan, and proceeded to instruct
himself with honest zeal.  Let us leave him there for the present.



Chapter VIII. The question of the Seal.

About five o'clock Henry VIII. awoke out of an unrefreshing nap,
and muttered to himself, "Troublous dreams, troublous dreams!
Mine end is now at hand:  so say these warnings, and my failing
pulses do confirm it."  Presently a wicked light flamed up in his
eye, and he muttered, "Yet will not I die till HE go before."

His attendants perceiving that he was awake, one of them asked his
pleasure concerning the Lord Chancellor, who was waiting without.

"Admit him, admit him!" exclaimed the King eagerly.

The Lord Chancellor entered, and knelt by the King's couch,
saying--

"I have given order, and, according to the King's command, the
peers of the realm, in their robes, do now stand at the bar of the
House, where, having confirmed the Duke of Norfolk's doom, they
humbly wait his majesty's further pleasure in the matter."

The King's face lit up with a fierce joy.  Said he--

"Lift me up!  In mine own person will I go before my Parliament,
and with mine own hand will I seal the warrant that rids me of--"

His voice failed; an ashen pallor swept the flush from his cheeks;
and the attendants eased him back upon his pillows, and hurriedly
assisted him with restoratives.  Presently he said sorrowfully--

"Alack, how have I longed for this sweet hour! and lo, too late it
cometh, and I am robbed of this so coveted chance.  But speed ye,
speed ye! let others do this happy office sith 'tis denied to me.
I put my Great Seal in commission:  choose thou the lords that
shall compose it, and get ye to your work.  Speed ye, man!  Before
the sun shall rise and set again, bring me his head that I may see
it."

"According to the King's command, so shall it be.  Will't please
your majesty to order that the Seal be now restored to me, so that
I may forth upon the business?"

"The Seal?  Who keepeth the Seal but thou?"

"Please your majesty, you did take it from me two days since,
saying it should no more do its office till your own royal hand
should use it upon the Duke of Norfolk's warrant."

"Why, so in sooth I did:  I do remember . . . What did I with it?
. . . I am very feeble . . . So oft these days doth my memory play
the traitor with me . . . 'Tis strange, strange--"

The King dropped into inarticulate mumblings, shaking his grey
head weakly from time to time, and gropingly trying to recollect
what he had done with the Seal.  At last my Lord Hertford ventured
to kneel and offer information--

"Sire, if that I may be so bold, here be several that do remember
with me how that you gave the Great Seal into the hands of his
highness the Prince of Wales to keep against the day that--"

"True, most true!" interrupted the King.  "Fetch it!  Go:  time
flieth!"

Lord Hertford flew to Tom, but returned to the King before very
long, troubled and empty-handed.  He delivered himself to this
effect--

"It grieveth me, my lord the King, to bear so heavy and unwelcome
tidings; but it is the will of God that the prince's affliction
abideth still, and he cannot recall to mind that he received the
Seal.  So came I quickly to report, thinking it were waste of
precious time, and little worth withal, that any should attempt to
search the long array of chambers and saloons that belong unto his
royal high--"

A groan from the King interrupted the lord at this point.  After a
little while his majesty said, with a deep sadness in his tone--

"Trouble him no more, poor child.  The hand of God lieth heavy
upon him, and my heart goeth out in loving compassion for him, and
sorrow that I may not bear his burden on mine old trouble-weighted
shoulders, and so bring him peace."

He closed his eyes, fell to mumbling, and presently was silent.
After a time he opened his eyes again, and gazed vacantly around
until his glance rested upon the kneeling Lord Chancellor.
Instantly his face flushed with wrath--

"What, thou here yet!  By the glory of God, an' thou gettest not
about that traitor's business, thy mitre shall have holiday the
morrow for lack of a head to grace withal!"

The trembling Chancellor answered--

"Good your Majesty, I cry you mercy!  I but waited for the Seal."

"Man, hast lost thy wits?  The small Seal which aforetime I was
wont to take with me abroad lieth in my treasury.  And, since the
Great Seal hath flown away, shall not it suffice?  Hast lost thy
wits?  Begone!  And hark ye--come no more till thou do bring his
head."

The poor Chancellor was not long in removing himself from this
dangerous vicinity; nor did the commission waste time in giving
the royal assent to the work of the slavish Parliament, and
appointing the morrow for the beheading of the premier peer of
England, the luckless Duke of Norfolk. {1}



Chapter IX. The river pageant.

At nine in the evening the whole vast river-front of the palace
was blazing with light.  The river itself, as far as the eye could
reach citywards, was so thickly covered with watermen's boats and
with pleasure-barges, all fringed with coloured lanterns, and
gently agitated by the waves, that it resembled a glowing and
limitless garden of flowers stirred to soft motion by summer
winds.  The grand terrace of stone steps leading down to the
water, spacious enough to mass the army of a German principality
upon, was a picture to see, with its ranks of royal halberdiers in
polished armour, and its troops of brilliantly costumed servitors
flitting up and down, and to and fro, in the hurry of preparation.

Presently a command was given, and immediately all living
creatures vanished from the steps.  Now the air was heavy with the
hush of suspense and expectancy.  As far as one's vision could
carry, he might see the myriads of people in the boats rise up,
and shade their eyes from the glare of lanterns and torches, and
gaze toward the palace.

A file of forty or fifty state barges drew up to the steps.  They
were richly gilt, and their lofty prows and sterns were
elaborately carved.  Some of them were decorated with banners and
streamers; some with cloth-of-gold and arras embroidered with
coats-of-arms; others with silken flags that had numberless little
silver bells fastened to them, which shook out tiny showers of
joyous music whenever the breezes fluttered them; others of yet
higher pretensions, since they belonged to nobles in the prince's
immediate service, had their sides picturesquely fenced with
shields gorgeously emblazoned with armorial bearings.  Each state
barge was towed by a tender.  Besides the rowers, these tenders
carried each a number of men-at-arms in glossy helmet and
breastplate, and a company of musicians.

The advance-guard of the expected procession now appeared in the
great gateway, a troop of halberdiers.  'They were dressed in
striped hose of black and tawny, velvet caps graced at the sides
with silver roses, and doublets of murrey and blue cloth,
embroidered on the front and back with the three feathers, the
prince's blazon, woven in gold.  Their halberd staves were covered
with crimson velvet, fastened with gilt nails, and ornamented with
gold tassels.  Filing off on the right and left, they formed two
long lines, extending from the gateway of the palace to the
water's edge.  A thick rayed cloth or carpet was then unfolded,
and laid down between them by attendants in the gold-and-crimson
liveries of the prince.  This done, a flourish of trumpets
resounded from within.  A lively prelude arose from the musicians
on the water; and two ushers with white wands marched with a slow
and stately pace from the portal.  They were followed by an
officer bearing the civic mace, after whom came another carrying
the city's sword; then several sergeants of the city guard, in
their full accoutrements, and with badges on their sleeves; then
the Garter King-at-arms, in his tabard; then several Knights of
the Bath, each with a white lace on his sleeve; then their
esquires; then the judges, in their robes of scarlet and coifs;
then the Lord High Chancellor of England, in a robe of scarlet,
open before, and purfled with minever; then a deputation of
aldermen, in their scarlet cloaks; and then the heads of the
different civic companies, in their robes of state.  Now came
twelve French gentlemen, in splendid habiliments, consisting of
pourpoints of white damask barred with gold, short mantles of
crimson velvet lined with violet taffeta, and carnation coloured
hauts-de-chausses, and took their way down the steps.  They were
of the suite of the French ambassador, and were followed by twelve
cavaliers of the suite of the Spanish ambassador, clothed in black
velvet, unrelieved by any ornament.  Following these came several
great English nobles with their attendants.'

There was a flourish of trumpets within; and the Prince's uncle,
the future great Duke of Somerset, emerged from the gateway,
arrayed in a 'doublet of black cloth-of-gold, and a cloak of
crimson satin flowered with gold, and ribanded with nets of
silver.'  He turned, doffed his plumed cap, bent his body in a low
reverence, and began to step backward, bowing at each step.  A
prolonged trumpet-blast followed, and a proclamation, "Way for the
high and mighty the Lord Edward, Prince of Wales!"  High aloft on
the palace walls a long line of red tongues of flame leapt forth
with a thunder-crash; the massed world on the river burst into a
mighty roar of welcome; and Tom Canty, the cause and hero of it
all, stepped into view and slightly bowed his princely head.

He was 'magnificently habited in a doublet of white satin, with a
front-piece of purple cloth-of-tissue, powdered with diamonds, and
edged with ermine.  Over this he wore a mantle of white cloth-of-
gold, pounced with the triple-feathered crest, lined with blue
satin, set with pearls and precious stones, and fastened with a
clasp of brilliants.  About his neck hung the order of the Garter,
and several princely foreign orders;' and wherever light fell upon
him jewels responded with a blinding flash.  O Tom Canty, born in
a hovel, bred in the gutters of London, familiar with rags and
dirt and misery, what a spectacle is this!



Chapter X. The Prince in the toils.

We left John Canty dragging the rightful prince into Offal Court,
with a noisy and delighted mob at his heels.  There was but one
person in it who offered a pleading word for the captive, and he
was not heeded; he was hardly even heard, so great was the
turmoil.  The Prince continued to struggle for freedom, and to
rage against the treatment he was suffering, until John Canty lost
what little patience was left in him, and raised his oaken cudgel
in a sudden fury over the Prince's head.  The single pleader for
the lad sprang to stop the man's arm, and the blow descended upon
his own wrist.  Canty roared out--

"Thou'lt meddle, wilt thou?  Then have thy reward."

His cudgel crashed down upon the meddler's head:  there was a
groan, a dim form sank to the ground among the feet of the crowd,
and the next moment it lay there in the dark alone.  The mob
pressed on, their enjoyment nothing disturbed by this episode.

Presently the Prince found himself in John Canty's abode, with the
door closed against the outsiders.  By the vague light of a tallow
candle which was thrust into a bottle, he made out the main
features of the loathsome den, and also the occupants of it.  Two
frowsy girls and a middle-aged woman cowered against the wall in
one corner, with the aspect of animals habituated to harsh usage,
and expecting and dreading it now.  From another corner stole a
withered hag with streaming grey hair and malignant eyes.  John
Canty said to this one--

"Tarry!  There's fine mummeries here.  Mar them not till thou'st
enjoyed them:  then let thy hand be heavy as thou wilt.  Stand
forth, lad.  Now say thy foolery again, an thou'st not forgot it.
Name thy name.  Who art thou?"

The insulted blood mounted to the little prince's cheek once more,
and he lifted a steady and indignant gaze to the man's face and
said--

"'Tis but ill-breeding in such as thou to command me to speak.  I
tell thee now, as I told thee before, I am Edward, Prince of
Wales, and none other."

The stunning surprise of this reply nailed the hag's feet to the
floor where she stood, and almost took her breath.  She stared at
the Prince in stupid amazement, which so amused her ruffianly son,
that he burst into a roar of laughter.  But the effect upon Tom
Canty's mother and sisters was different.  Their dread of bodily
injury gave way at once to distress of a different sort.  They ran
forward with woe and dismay in their faces, exclaiming--

"Oh, poor Tom, poor lad!"

The mother fell on her knees before the Prince, put her hands upon
his shoulders, and gazed yearningly into his face through her
rising tears.  Then she said--

"Oh, my poor boy!  Thy foolish reading hath wrought its woeful
work at last, and ta'en thy wit away.  Ah! why did'st thou cleave
to it when I so warned thee 'gainst it?  Thou'st broke thy
mother's heart."

The Prince looked into her face, and said gently--

"Thy son is well, and hath not lost his wits, good dame.  Comfort
thee:  let me to the palace where he is, and straightway will the
King my father restore him to thee."

"The King thy father!  Oh, my child! unsay these words that be
freighted with death for thee, and ruin for all that be near to
thee.  Shake of this gruesome dream.  Call back thy poor wandering
memory.  Look upon me.  Am not I thy mother that bore thee, and
loveth thee?"

The Prince shook his head and reluctantly said--

"God knoweth I am loth to grieve thy heart; but truly have I never
looked upon thy face before."

The woman sank back to a sitting posture on the floor, and,
covering her eyes with her hands, gave way to heart-broken sobs
and wailings.

"Let the show go on!" shouted Canty.  "What, Nan!--what, Bet!
mannerless wenches! will ye stand in the Prince's presence?  Upon
your knees, ye pauper scum, and do him reverence!"

He followed this with another horse-laugh.  The girls began to
plead timidly for their brother; and Nan said--

"An thou wilt but let him to bed, father, rest and sleep will heal
his madness:  prithee, do."

"Do, father," said Bet; "he is more worn than is his wont.  To-
morrow will he be himself again, and will beg with diligence, and
come not empty home again."

This remark sobered the father's joviality, and brought his mind
to business.  He turned angrily upon the Prince, and said--

"The morrow must we pay two pennies to him that owns this hole;
two pennies, mark ye--all this money for a half-year's rent, else
out of this we go.  Show what thou'st gathered with thy lazy
begging."

The Prince said--

"Offend me not with thy sordid matters.  I tell thee again I am
the King's son."

A sounding blow upon the Prince's shoulder from Canty's broad palm
sent him staggering into goodwife Canty's arms, who clasped him to
her breast, and sheltered him from a pelting rain of cuffs and
slaps by interposing her own person.  The frightened girls
retreated to their corner; but the grandmother stepped eagerly
forward to assist her son.  The Prince sprang away from Mrs.
Canty, exclaiming--

"Thou shalt not suffer for me, madam.  Let these swine do their
will upon me alone."

This speech infuriated the swine to such a degree that they set
about their work without waste of time.  Between them they
belaboured the boy right soundly, and then gave the girls and
their mother a beating for showing sympathy for the victim.

"Now," said Canty, "to bed, all of ye.  The entertainment has
tired me."

The light was put out, and the family retired.  As soon as the
snorings of the head of the house and his mother showed that they
were asleep, the young girls crept to where the Prince lay, and
covered him tenderly from the cold with straw and rags; and their
mother crept to him also, and stroked his hair, and cried over
him, whispering broken words of comfort and compassion in his ear
the while.  She had saved a morsel for him to eat, also; but the
boy's pains had swept away all appetite--at least for black and
tasteless crusts.  He was touched by her brave and costly defence
of him, and by her commiseration; and he thanked her in very noble
and princely words, and begged her to go to her sleep and try to
forget her sorrows.  And he added that the King his father would
not let her loyal kindness and devotion go unrewarded.  This
return to his 'madness' broke her heart anew, and she strained him
to her breast again and again, and then went back, drowned in
tears, to her bed.

As she lay thinking and mourning, the suggestion began to creep
into her mind that there was an undefinable something about this
boy that was lacking in Tom Canty, mad or sane.  She could not
describe it, she could not tell just what it was, and yet her
sharp mother-instinct seemed to detect it and perceive it.  What
if the boy were really not her son, after all?  Oh, absurd!  She
almost smiled at the idea, spite of her griefs and troubles.  No
matter, she found that it was an idea that would not 'down,' but
persisted in haunting her.  It pursued her, it harassed her, it
clung to her, and refused to be put away or ignored.  At last she
perceived that there was not going to be any peace for her until
she should devise a test that should prove, clearly and without
question, whether this lad was her son or not, and so banish these
wearing and worrying doubts.  Ah, yes, this was plainly the right
way out of the difficulty; therefore she set her wits to work at
once to contrive that test.  But it was an easier thing to propose
than to accomplish.  She turned over in her mind one promising
test after another, but was obliged to relinquish them all--none
of them were absolutely sure, absolutely perfect; and an imperfect
one could not satisfy her.  Evidently she was racking her head in
vain--it seemed manifest that she must give the matter up.  While
this depressing thought was passing through her mind, her ear
caught the regular breathing of the boy, and she knew he had
fallen asleep.  And while she listened, the measured breathing was
broken by a soft, startled cry, such as one utters in a troubled
dream.  This chance occurrence furnished her instantly with a plan
worth all her laboured tests combined.  She at once set herself
feverishly, but noiselessly, to work to relight her candle,
muttering to herself, "Had I but seen him THEN, I should have
known!  Since that day, when he was little, that the powder burst
in his face, he hath never been startled of a sudden out of his
dreams or out of his thinkings, but he hath cast his hand before
his eyes, even as he did that day; and not as others would do it,
with the palm inward, but always with the palm turned outward--I
have seen it a hundred times, and it hath never varied nor ever
failed.  Yes, I shall soon know, now!"

By this time she had crept to the slumbering boy's side, with the
candle, shaded, in her hand.  She bent heedfully and warily over
him, scarcely breathing in her suppressed excitement, and suddenly
flashed the light in his face and struck the floor by his ear with
her knuckles.  The sleeper's eyes sprang wide open, and he cast a
startled stare about him--but he made no special movement with his
hands.

The poor woman was smitten almost helpless with surprise and
grief; but she contrived to hide her emotions, and to soothe the
boy to sleep again; then she crept apart and communed miserably
with herself upon the disastrous result of her experiment.  She
tried to believe that her Tom's madness had banished this habitual
gesture of his; but she could not do it.  "No," she said, "his
HANDS are not mad; they could not unlearn so old a habit in so
brief a time.  Oh, this is a heavy day for me!"

Still, hope was as stubborn now as doubt had been before; she
could not bring herself to accept the verdict of the test; she
must try the thing again--the failure must have been only an
accident; so she startled the boy out of his sleep a second and a
third time, at intervals--with the same result which had marked
the first test; then she dragged herself to bed, and fell
sorrowfully asleep, saying, "But I cannot give him up--oh no, I
cannot, I cannot--he MUST be my boy!"

The poor mother's interruptions having ceased, and the Prince's
pains having gradually lost their power to disturb him, utter
weariness at last sealed his eyes in a profound and restful sleep.
Hour after hour slipped away, and still he slept like the dead.
Thus four or five hours passed.  Then his stupor began to lighten.
Presently, while half asleep and half awake, he murmured--

"Sir William!"

After a moment--

"Ho, Sir William Herbert!  Hie thee hither, and list to the
strangest dream that ever . . . Sir William! dost hear?  Man, I
did think me changed to a pauper, and . . . Ho there!  Guards!
Sir William!  What! is there no groom of the chamber in waiting?
Alack! it shall go hard with--"

"What aileth thee?" asked a whisper near him.  "Who art thou
calling?"

"Sir William Herbert.  Who art thou?"

"I?  Who should I be, but thy sister Nan?  Oh, Tom, I had forgot!
Thou'rt mad yet--poor lad, thou'rt mad yet:  would I had never
woke to know it again!  But prithee master thy tongue, lest we be
all beaten till we die!"

The startled Prince sprang partly up, but a sharp reminder from
his stiffened bruises brought him to himself, and he sank back
among his foul straw with a moan and the ejaculation--

"Alas! it was no dream, then!"

In a moment all the heavy sorrow and misery which sleep had
banished were upon him again, and he realised that he was no
longer a petted prince in a palace, with the adoring eyes of a
nation upon him, but a pauper, an outcast, clothed in rags,
prisoner in a den fit only for beasts, and consorting with beggars
and thieves.

In the midst of his grief he began to be conscious of hilarious
noises and shoutings, apparently but a block or two away.  The
next moment there were several sharp raps at the door; John Canty
ceased from snoring and said--

"Who knocketh?  What wilt thou?"

A voice answered--

"Know'st thou who it was thou laid thy cudgel on?"

"No.  Neither know I, nor care."

"Belike thou'lt change thy note eftsoons.  An thou would save thy
neck, nothing but flight may stead thee.  The man is this moment
delivering up the ghost.  'Tis the priest, Father Andrew!"

"God-a-mercy!" exclaimed Canty.  He roused his family, and
hoarsely commanded, "Up with ye all and fly--or bide where ye are
and perish!"

Scarcely five minutes later the Canty household were in the street
and flying for their lives.  John Canty held the Prince by the
wrist, and hurried him along the dark way, giving him this caution
in a low voice--

"Mind thy tongue, thou mad fool, and speak not our name.  I will
choose me a new name, speedily, to throw the law's dogs off the
scent.  Mind thy tongue, I tell thee!"

He growled these words to the rest of the family--

"If it so chance that we be separated, let each make for London
Bridge; whoso findeth himself as far as the last linen-draper's
shop on the bridge, let him tarry there till the others be come,
then will we flee into Southwark together."

At this moment the party burst suddenly out of darkness into
light; and not only into light, but into the midst of a multitude
of singing, dancing, and shouting people, massed together on the
river frontage.  There was a line of bonfires stretching as far as
one could see, up and down the Thames; London Bridge was
illuminated; Southwark Bridge likewise; the entire river was aglow
with the flash and sheen of coloured lights; and constant
explosions of fireworks filled the skies with an intricate
commingling of shooting splendours and a thick rain of dazzling
sparks that almost turned night into day; everywhere were crowds
of revellers; all London seemed to be at large.

John Canty delivered himself of a furious curse and commanded a
retreat; but it was too late.  He and his tribe were swallowed up
in that swarming hive of humanity, and hopelessly separated from
each other in an instant.  We are not considering that the Prince
was one of his tribe; Canty still kept his grip upon him.  The
Prince's heart was beating high with hopes of escape, now.  A
burly waterman, considerably exalted with liquor, found himself
rudely shoved by Canty in his efforts to plough through the crowd;
he laid his great hand on Canty's shoulder and said--

"Nay, whither so fast, friend?  Dost canker thy soul with sordid
business when all that be leal men and true make holiday?"

"Mine affairs are mine own, they concern thee not," answered
Canty, roughly; "take away thy hand and let me pass."

"Sith that is thy humour, thou'lt NOT pass, till thou'st drunk to
the Prince of Wales, I tell thee that," said the waterman, barring
the way resolutely.

"Give me the cup, then, and make speed, make speed!"

Other revellers were interested by this time.  They cried out--

"The loving-cup, the loving-cup! make the sour knave drink the
loving-cup, else will we feed him to the fishes."

So a huge loving-cup was brought; the waterman, grasping it by one
of its handles, and with the other hand bearing up the end of an
imaginary napkin, presented it in due and ancient form to Canty,
who had to grasp the opposite handle with one of his hands and
take off the lid with the other, according to ancient custom. {1}
This left the Prince hand-free for a second, of course.  He wasted
no time, but dived among the forest of legs about him and
disappeared.  In another moment he could not have been harder to
find, under that tossing sea of life, if its billows had been the
Atlantic's and he a lost sixpence.

He very soon realised this fact, and straightway busied himself
about his own affairs without further thought of John Canty.  He
quickly realised another thing, too.  To wit, that a spurious
Prince of Wales was being feasted by the city in his stead.  He
easily concluded that the pauper lad, Tom Canty, had deliberately
taken advantage of his stupendous opportunity and become a
usurper.

Therefore there was but one course to pursue--find his way to the
Guildhall, make himself known, and denounce the impostor.  He also
made up his mind that Tom should be allowed a reasonable time for
spiritual preparation, and then be hanged, drawn and quartered,
according to the law and usage of the day in cases of high
treason.



Chapter XI. At Guildhall.

The royal barge, attended by its gorgeous fleet, took its stately
way down the Thames through the wilderness of illuminated boats.
The air was laden with music; the river banks were beruffled with
joy-flames; the distant city lay in a soft luminous glow from its
countless invisible bonfires; above it rose many a slender spire
into the sky, incrusted with sparkling lights, wherefore in their
remoteness they seemed like jewelled lances thrust aloft; as the
fleet swept along, it was greeted from the banks with a continuous
hoarse roar of cheers and the ceaseless flash and boom of
artillery.

To Tom Canty, half buried in his silken cushions, these sounds and
this spectacle were a wonder unspeakably sublime and astonishing.
To his little friends at his side, the Princess Elizabeth and the
Lady Jane Grey, they were nothing.

Arrived at the Dowgate, the fleet was towed up the limpid Walbrook
(whose channel has now been for two centuries buried out of sight
under acres of buildings) to Bucklersbury, past houses and under
bridges populous with merry-makers and brilliantly lighted, and at
last came to a halt in a basin where now is Barge Yard, in the
centre of the ancient city of London.  Tom disembarked, and he and
his gallant procession crossed Cheapside and made a short march
through the Old Jewry and Basinghall Street to the Guildhall.

Tom and his little ladies were received with due ceremony by the
Lord Mayor and the Fathers of the City, in their gold chains and
scarlet robes of state, and conducted to a rich canopy of state at
the head of the great hall, preceded by heralds making
proclamation, and by the Mace and the City Sword.  The lords and
ladies who were to attend upon Tom and his two small friends took
their places behind their chairs.

At a lower table the Court grandees and other guests of noble
degree were seated, with the magnates of the city; the commoners
took places at a multitude of tables on the main floor of the
hall.  From their lofty vantage-ground the giants Gog and Magog,
the ancient guardians of the city, contemplated the spectacle
below them with eyes grown familiar to it in forgotten
generations.  There was a bugle-blast and a proclamation, and a
fat butler appeared in a high perch in the leftward wall, followed
by his servitors bearing with impressive solemnity a royal baron
of beef, smoking hot and ready for the knife.

After grace, Tom (being instructed) rose--and the whole house with
him--and drank from a portly golden loving-cup with the Princess
Elizabeth; from her it passed to the Lady Jane, and then traversed
the general assemblage.  So the banquet began.

By midnight the revelry was at its height.  Now came one of those
picturesque spectacles so admired in that old day.  A description
of it is still extant in the quaint wording of a chronicler who
witnessed it:

'Space being made, presently entered a baron and an earl appareled
after the Turkish fashion in long robes of bawdkin powdered with
gold; hats on their heads of crimson velvet, with great rolls of
gold, girded with two swords, called scimitars, hanging by great
bawdricks of gold.  Next came yet another baron and another earl,
in two long gowns of yellow satin, traversed with white satin, and
in every bend of white was a bend of crimson satin, after the
fashion of Russia, with furred hats of gray on their heads; either
of them having an hatchet in their hands, and boots with pykes'
(points a foot long), 'turned up.  And after them came a knight,
then the Lord High Admiral, and with him five nobles, in doublets
of crimson velvet, voyded low on the back and before to the
cannell-bone, laced on the breasts with chains of silver; and over
that, short cloaks of crimson satin, and on their heads hats after
the dancers' fashion, with pheasants' feathers in them.  These
were appareled after the fashion of Prussia.  The torchbearers,
which were about an hundred, were appareled in crimson satin and
green, like Moors, their faces black.  Next came in a mommarye.
Then the minstrels, which were disguised, danced; and the lords
and ladies did wildly dance also, that it was a pleasure to
behold.'

And while Tom, in his high seat, was gazing upon this 'wild'
dancing, lost in admiration of the dazzling commingling of
kaleidoscopic colours which the whirling turmoil of gaudy figures
below him presented, the ragged but real little Prince of Wales
was proclaiming his rights and his wrongs, denouncing the
impostor, and clamouring for admission at the gates of Guildhall!
The crowd enjoyed this episode prodigiously, and pressed forward
and craned their necks to see the small rioter.  Presently they
began to taunt him and mock at him, purposely to goad him into a
higher and still more entertaining fury.  Tears of mortification
sprang to his eyes, but he stood his ground and defied the mob
right royally.  Other taunts followed, added mockings stung him,
and he exclaimed--

"I tell ye again, you pack of unmannerly curs, I am the Prince of
Wales!  And all forlorn and friendless as I be, with none to give
me word of grace or help me in my need, yet will not I be driven
from my ground, but will maintain it!"

"Though thou be prince or no prince, 'tis all one, thou be'st a
gallant lad, and not friendless neither!  Here stand I by thy side
to prove it; and mind I tell thee thou might'st have a worser
friend than Miles Hendon and yet not tire thy legs with seeking.
Rest thy small jaw, my child; I talk the language of these base
kennel-rats like to a very native."

The speaker was a sort of Don Caesar de Bazan in dress, aspect,
and bearing.  He was tall, trim-built, muscular.  His doublet and
trunks were of rich material, but faded and threadbare, and their
gold-lace adornments were sadly tarnished; his ruff was rumpled
and damaged; the plume in his slouched hat was broken and had a
bedraggled and disreputable look; at his side he wore a long
rapier in a rusty iron sheath; his swaggering carriage marked him
at once as a ruffler of the camp.  The speech of this fantastic
figure was received with an explosion of jeers and laughter.  Some
cried, "'Tis another prince in disguise!"  "'Ware thy tongue,
friend:  belike he is dangerous!"  "Marry, he looketh it--mark his
eye!"  "Pluck the lad from him--to the horse-pond wi' the cub!"

Instantly a hand was laid upon the Prince, under the impulse of
this happy thought; as instantly the stranger's long sword was out
and the meddler went to the earth under a sounding thump with the
flat of it.  The next moment a score of voices shouted, "Kill the
dog!  Kill him!  Kill him!" and the mob closed in on the warrior,
who backed himself against a wall and began to lay about him with
his long weapon like a madman.  His victims sprawled this way and
that, but the mob-tide poured over their prostrate forms and
dashed itself against the champion with undiminished fury.  His
moments seemed numbered, his destruction certain, when suddenly a
trumpet-blast sounded, a voice shouted, "Way for the King's
messenger!" and a troop of horsemen came charging down upon the
mob, who fled out of harm's reach as fast as their legs could
carry them.  The bold stranger caught up the Prince in his arms,
and was soon far away from danger and the multitude.

Return we within the Guildhall.  Suddenly, high above the jubilant
roar and thunder of the revel, broke the clear peal of a bugle-
note.  There was instant silence--a deep hush; then a single voice
rose--that of the messenger from the palace--and began to pipe
forth a proclamation, the whole multitude standing listening.

The closing words, solemnly pronounced, were--

"The King is dead!"

The great assemblage bent their heads upon their breasts with one
accord; remained so, in profound silence, a few moments; then all
sank upon their knees in a body, stretched out their hands toward
Tom, and a mighty shout burst forth that seemed to shake the
building--

"Long live the King!"

Poor Tom's dazed eyes wandered abroad over this stupefying
spectacle, and finally rested dreamily upon the kneeling
princesses beside him, a moment, then upon the Earl of Hertford.
A sudden purpose dawned in his face.  He said, in a low tone, at
Lord Hertford's ear--

"Answer me truly, on thy faith and honour!  Uttered I here a
command, the which none but a king might hold privilege and
prerogative to utter, would such commandment be obeyed, and none
rise up to say me nay?"

"None, my liege, in all these realms.  In thy person bides the
majesty of England.  Thou art the king--thy word is law."

Tom responded, in a strong, earnest voice, and with great
animation--

"Then shall the king's law be law of mercy, from this day, and
never more be law of blood!  Up from thy knees and away!  To the
Tower, and say the King decrees the Duke of Norfolk shall not
die!" {1}

The words were caught up and carried eagerly from lip to lip far
and wide over the hall, and as Hertford hurried from the presence,
another prodigious shout burst forth--

"The reign of blood is ended!  Long live Edward, King of England!"



Chapter XII. The Prince and his deliverer.

As soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of the
mob, they struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the
river.  Their way was unobstructed until they approached London
Bridge; then they ploughed into the multitude again, Hendon
keeping a fast grip upon the Prince's--no, the King's--wrist.  The
tremendous news was already abroad, and the boy learned it from a
thousand voices at once--"The King is dead!"  The tidings struck a
chill to the heart of the poor little waif, and sent a shudder
through his frame.  He realised the greatness of his loss, and was
filled with a bitter grief; for the grim tyrant who had been such
a terror to others had always been gentle with him.  The tears
sprang to his eyes and blurred all objects.  For an instant he
felt himself the most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken of God's
creatures--then another cry shook the night with its far-reaching
thunders:  "Long live King Edward the Sixth!" and this made his
eyes kindle, and thrilled him with pride to his fingers' ends.
"Ah," he thought, "how grand and strange it seems--I AM KING!"

Our friends threaded their way slowly through the throngs upon the
bridge.  This structure, which had stood for six hundred years,
and had been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, was
a curious affair, for a closely packed rank of stores and shops,
with family quarters overhead, stretched along both sides of it,
from one bank of the river to the other.  The Bridge was a sort of
town to itself; it had its inn, its beer-houses, its bakeries, its
haberdasheries, its food markets, its manufacturing industries,
and even its church.  It looked upon the two neighbours which it
linked together--London and Southwark--as being well enough as
suburbs, but not otherwise particularly important.  It was a close
corporation, so to speak; it was a narrow town, of a single street
a fifth of a mile long, its population was but a village
population and everybody in it knew all his fellow-townsmen
intimately, and had known their fathers and mothers before them--
and all their little family affairs into the bargain.  It had its
aristocracy, of course--its fine old families of butchers, and
bakers, and what-not, who had occupied the same old premises for
five or six hundred years, and knew the great history of the
Bridge from beginning to end, and all its strange legends; and who
always talked bridgy talk, and thought bridgy thoughts, and lied
in a long, level, direct, substantial bridgy way.  It was just the
sort of population to be narrow and ignorant and self-conceited.
Children were born on the Bridge, were reared there, grew to old
age, and finally died without ever having set a foot upon any part
of the world but London Bridge alone.  Such people would naturally
imagine that the mighty and interminable procession which moved
through its street night and day, with its confused roar of shouts
and cries, its neighings and bellowing and bleatings and its
muffled thunder-tramp, was the one great thing in this world, and
themselves somehow the proprietors of it.  And so they were, in
effect--at least they could exhibit it from their windows, and
did--for a consideration--whenever a returning king or hero gave
it a fleeting splendour, for there was no place like it for
affording a long, straight, uninterrupted view of marching
columns.

Men born and reared upon the Bridge found life unendurably dull
and inane elsewhere.  History tells of one of these who left the
Bridge at the age of seventy-one and retired to the country.  But
he could only fret and toss in his bed; he could not go to sleep,
the deep stillness was so painful, so awful, so oppressive.  When
he was worn out with it, at last, he fled back to his old home, a
lean and haggard spectre, and fell peacefully to rest and pleasant
dreams under the lulling music of the lashing waters and the boom
and crash and thunder of London Bridge.

In the times of which we are writing, the Bridge furnished 'object
lessons' in English history for its children--namely, the livid
and decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atop
of its gateways.  But we digress.

Hendon's lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge.  As he
neared the door with his small friend, a rough voice said--

"So, thou'rt come at last!  Thou'lt not escape again, I warrant
thee; and if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee
somewhat, thou'lt not keep us waiting another time, mayhap"--and
John Canty put out his hand to seize the boy.

Miles Hendon stepped in the way and said--

"Not too fast, friend.  Thou art needlessly rough, methinks.  What
is the lad to thee?"

"If it be any business of thine to make and meddle in others'
affairs, he is my son."

"'Tis a lie!" cried the little King, hotly.

"Boldly said, and I believe thee, whether thy small headpiece be
sound or cracked, my boy.  But whether this scurvy ruffian be thy
father or no, 'tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat thee
and abuse, according to his threat, so thou prefer to bide with
me."

"I do, I do--I know him not, I loathe him, and will die before I
will go with him."

"Then 'tis settled, and there is nought more to say."

"We will see, as to that!" exclaimed John Canty, striding past
Hendon to get at the boy; "by force shall he--"

"If thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, I will spit thee
like a goose!" said Hendon, barring the way and laying his hand
upon his sword hilt.  Canty drew back.  "Now mark ye," continued
Hendon, "I took this lad under my protection when a mob of such as
thou would have mishandled him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine I
will desert him now to a worser fate?--for whether thou art his
father or no--and sooth to say, I think it is a lie--a decent
swift death were better for such a lad than life in such brute
hands as thine.  So go thy ways, and set quick about it, for I
like not much bandying of words, being not over-patient in my
nature."

John Canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and was
swallowed from sight in the crowd.  Hendon ascended three flights
of stairs to his room, with his charge, after ordering a meal to
be sent thither.  It was a poor apartment, with a shabby bed and
some odds and ends of old furniture in it, and was vaguely lighted
by a couple of sickly candles.  The little King dragged himself to
the bed and lay down upon it, almost exhausted with hunger and
fatigue.  He had been on his feet a good part of a day and a night
(for it was now two or three o'clock in the morning), and had
eaten nothing meantime.  He murmured drowsily--

"Prithee call me when the table is spread," and sank into a deep
sleep immediately.

A smile twinkled in Hendon's eye, and he said to himself--

"By the mass, the little beggar takes to one's quarters and usurps
one's bed with as natural and easy a grace as if he owned them--
with never a by-your-leave or so-please-it-you, or anything of the
sort.  In his diseased ravings he called himself the Prince of
Wales, and bravely doth he keep up the character.  Poor little
friendless rat, doubtless his mind has been disordered with ill-
usage.  Well, I will be his friend; I have saved him, and it
draweth me strongly to him; already I love the bold-tongued little
rascal.  How soldier-like he faced the smutty rabble and flung
back his high defiance!  And what a comely, sweet and gentle face
he hath, now that sleep hath conjured away its troubles and its
griefs.  I will teach him; I will cure his malady; yea, I will be
his elder brother, and care for him and watch over him; and whoso
would shame him or do him hurt may order his shroud, for though I
be burnt for it he shall need it!"

He bent over the boy and contemplated him with kind and pitying
interest, tapping the young cheek tenderly and smoothing back the
tangled curls with his great brown hand.  A slight shiver passed
over the boy's form.  Hendon muttered--

"See, now, how like a man it was to let him lie here uncovered and
fill his body with deadly rheums.  Now what shall I do? 'twill
wake him to take him up and put him within the bed, and he sorely
needeth sleep."

He looked about for extra covering, but finding none, doffed his
doublet and wrapped the lad in it, saying, "I am used to nipping
air and scant apparel, 'tis little I shall mind the cold!"--then
walked up and down the room, to keep his blood in motion,
soliloquising as before.

"His injured mind persuades him he is Prince of Wales; 'twill be
odd to have a Prince of Wales still with us, now that he that WAS
the prince is prince no more, but king--for this poor mind is set
upon the one fantasy, and will not reason out that now it should
cast by the prince and call itself the king. . . If my father
liveth still, after these seven years that I have heard nought
from home in my foreign dungeon, he will welcome the poor lad and
give him generous shelter for my sake; so will my good elder
brother, Arthur; my other brother, Hugh--but I will crack his
crown an HE interfere, the fox-hearted, ill-conditioned animal!
Yes, thither will we fare--and straightway, too."

A servant entered with a smoking meal, disposed it upon a small
deal table, placed the chairs, and took his departure, leaving
such cheap lodgers as these to wait upon themselves.  The door
slammed after him, and the noise woke the boy, who sprang to a
sitting posture, and shot a glad glance about him; then a grieved
look came into his face and he murmured to himself, with a deep
sigh, "Alack, it was but a dream, woe is me!"  Next he noticed
Miles Hendon's doublet--glanced from that to Hendon, comprehended
the sacrifice that had been made for him, and said, gently--

"Thou art good to me, yes, thou art very good to me.  Take it and
put it on--I shall not need it more."

Then he got up and walked to the washstand in the corner and stood
there, waiting.  Hendon said in a cheery voice--

"We'll have a right hearty sup and bite, now, for everything is
savoury and smoking hot, and that and thy nap together will make
thee a little man again, never fear!"

The boy made no answer, but bent a steady look, that was filled
with grave surprise, and also somewhat touched with impatience,
upon the tall knight of the sword.  Hendon was puzzled, and said--

"What's amiss?"

"Good sir, I would wash me."

"Oh, is that all?  Ask no permission of Miles Hendon for aught
thou cravest.  Make thyself perfectly free here, and welcome, with
all that are his belongings."

Still the boy stood, and moved not; more, he tapped the floor once
or twice with his small impatient foot.  Hendon was wholly
perplexed.  Said he--

"Bless us, what is it?"

"Prithee pour the water, and make not so many words!"

Hendon, suppressing a horse-laugh, and saying to himself, "By all
the saints, but this is admirable!" stepped briskly forward and
did the small insolent's bidding; then stood by, in a sort of
stupefaction, until the command, "Come--the towel!" woke him
sharply up.  He took up a towel, from under the boy's nose, and
handed it to him without comment.  He now proceeded to comfort his
own face with a wash, and while he was at it his adopted child
seated himself at the table and prepared to fall to.  Hendon
despatched his ablutions with alacrity, then drew back the other
chair and was about to place himself at table, when the boy said,
indignantly--

"Forbear!  Wouldst sit in the presence of the King?"

This blow staggered Hendon to his foundations.  He muttered to
himself, "Lo, the poor thing's madness is up with the time!  It
hath changed with the great change that is come to the realm, and
now in fancy is he KING!  Good lack, I must humour the conceit,
too--there is no other way--faith, he would order me to the Tower,
else!"

And pleased with this jest, he removed the chair from the table,
took his stand behind the King, and proceeded to wait upon him in
the courtliest way he was capable of.

While the King ate, the rigour of his royal dignity relaxed a
little, and with his growing contentment came a desire to talk.
He said--"I think thou callest thyself Miles Hendon, if I heard
thee aright?"

"Yes, Sire," Miles replied; then observed to himself, "If I MUST
humour the poor lad's madness, I must 'Sire' him, I must 'Majesty'
him, I must not go by halves, I must stick at nothing that
belongeth to the part I play, else shall I play it ill and work
evil to this charitable and kindly cause."

The King warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said--
"I would know thee--tell me thy story.  Thou hast a gallant way
with thee, and a noble--art nobly born?"

"We are of the tail of the nobility, good your Majesty.  My father
is a baronet--one of the smaller lords by knight service {2}--Sir
Richard Hendon of Hendon Hall, by Monk's Holm in Kent."

"The name has escaped my memory.  Go on--tell me thy story."

"'Tis not much, your Majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short
half-hour for want of a better.  My father, Sir Richard, is very
rich, and of a most generous nature.  My mother died whilst I was
yet a boy.  I have two brothers:  Arthur, my elder, with a soul
like to his father's; and Hugh, younger than I, a mean spirit,
covetous, treacherous, vicious, underhanded--a reptile.  Such was
he from the cradle; such was he ten years past, when I last saw
him--a ripe rascal at nineteen, I being twenty then, and Arthur
twenty-two.  There is none other of us but the Lady Edith, my
cousin--she was sixteen then--beautiful, gentle, good, the
daughter of an earl, the last of her race, heiress of a great
fortune and a lapsed title.  My father was her guardian.  I loved
her and she loved me; but she was betrothed to Arthur from the
cradle, and Sir Richard would not suffer the contract to be
broken.  Arthur loved another maid, and bade us be of good cheer
and hold fast to the hope that delay and luck together would some
day give success to our several causes.  Hugh loved the Lady
Edith's fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he loved--
but then 'twas his way, alway, to say the one thing and mean the
other.  But he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive my
father, but none else.  My father loved him best of us all, and
trusted and believed him; for he was the youngest child, and
others hated him--these qualities being in all ages sufficient to
win a parent's dearest love; and he had a smooth persuasive
tongue, with an admirable gift of lying--and these be qualities
which do mightily assist a blind affection to cozen itself.  I was
wild--in troth I might go yet farther and say VERY wild, though
'twas a wildness of an innocent sort, since it hurt none but me,
brought shame to none, nor loss, nor had in it any taint of crime
or baseness, or what might not beseem mine honourable degree.

"Yet did my brother Hugh turn these faults to good account--he
seeing that our brother Arthur's health was but indifferent, and
hoping the worst might work him profit were I swept out of the
path--so--but 'twere a long tale, good my liege, and little worth
the telling.  Briefly, then, this brother did deftly magnify my
faults and make them crimes; ending his base work with finding a
silken ladder in mine apartments--conveyed thither by his own
means--and did convince my father by this, and suborned evidence
of servants and other lying knaves, that I was minded to carry off
my Edith and marry with her in rank defiance of his will.

"Three years of banishment from home and England might make a
soldier and a man of me, my father said, and teach me some degree
of wisdom.  I fought out my long probation in the continental
wars, tasting sumptuously of hard knocks, privation, and
adventure; but in my last battle I was taken captive, and during
the seven years that have waxed and waned since then, a foreign
dungeon hath harboured me.  Through wit and courage I won to the
free air at last, and fled hither straight; and am but just
arrived, right poor in purse and raiment, and poorer still in
knowledge of what these dull seven years have wrought at Hendon
Hall, its people and belongings.  So please you, sir, my meagre
tale is told."

"Thou hast been shamefully abused!" said the little King, with a
flashing eye.  "But I will right thee--by the cross will I!  The
King hath said it."

Then, fired by the story of Miles's wrongs, he loosed his tongue
and poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the ears
of his astonished listener.  When he had finished, Miles said to
himself--

"Lo, what an imagination he hath!  Verily, this is no common mind;
else, crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy a
tale as this out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wrought
this curious romaunt.  Poor ruined little head, it shall not lack
friend or shelter whilst I bide with the living.  He shall never
leave my side; he shall be my pet, my little comrade.  And he
shall be cured!--ay, made whole and sound--then will he make
himself a name--and proud shall I be to say, 'Yes, he is mine--I
took him, a homeless little ragamuffin, but I saw what was in him,
and I said his name would be heard some day--behold him, observe
him--was I right?'"

The King spoke--in a thoughtful, measured voice--

"Thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so my
crown.  Such service demandeth rich reward.  Name thy desire, and
so it be within the compass of my royal power, it is thine."

This fantastic suggestion startled Hendon out of his reverie.  He
was about to thank the King and put the matter aside with saying
he had only done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiser
thought came into his head, and he asked leave to be silent a few
moments and consider the gracious offer--an idea which the King
gravely approved, remarking that it was best to be not too hasty
with a thing of such great import.

Miles reflected during some moments, then said to himself, "Yes,
that is the thing to do--by any other means it were impossible to
get at it--and certes, this hour's experience has taught me
'twould be most wearing and inconvenient to continue it as it is.
Yes, I will propose it; 'twas a happy accident that I did not
throw the chance away."  Then he dropped upon one knee and said--

"My poor service went not beyond the limit of a subject's simple
duty, and therefore hath no merit; but since your Majesty is
pleased to hold it worthy some reward, I take heart of grace to
make petition to this effect.  Near four hundred years ago, as
your grace knoweth, there being ill blood betwixt John, King of
England, and the King of France, it was decreed that two champions
should fight together in the lists, and so settle the dispute by
what is called the arbitrament of God.  These two kings, and the
Spanish king, being assembled to witness and judge the conflict,
the French champion appeared; but so redoubtable was he, that our
English knights refused to measure weapons with him.  So the
matter, which was a weighty one, was like to go against the
English monarch by default.  Now in the Tower lay the Lord de
Courcy, the mightiest arm in England, stripped of his honours and
possessions, and wasting with long captivity.  Appeal was made to
him; he gave assent, and came forth arrayed for battle; but no
sooner did the Frenchman glimpse his huge frame and hear his
famous name but he fled away, and the French king's cause was
lost.  King John restored De Courcy's titles and possessions, and
said, 'Name thy wish and thou shalt have it, though it cost me
half my kingdom;' whereat De Courcy, kneeling, as I do now, made
answer, 'This, then, I ask, my liege; that I and my successors may
have and hold the privilege of remaining covered in the presence
of the kings of England, henceforth while the throne shall last.'
The boon was granted, as your Majesty knoweth; and there hath been
no time, these four hundred years, that that line has failed of an
heir; and so, even unto this day, the head of that ancient house
still weareth his hat or helm before the King's Majesty, without
let or hindrance, and this none other may do. {3}  Invoking this
precedent in aid of my prayer, I beseech the King to grant to me
but this one grace and privilege--to my more than sufficient
reward--and none other, to wit:  that I and my heirs, for ever,
may SIT in the presence of the Majesty of England!"

"Rise, Sir Miles Hendon, Knight," said the King, gravely--giving
the accolade with Hendon's sword--"rise, and seat thyself.  Thy
petition is granted.  Whilst England remains, and the crown
continues, the privilege shall not lapse."

His Majesty walked apart, musing, and Hendon dropped into a chair
at table, observing to himself, "'Twas a brave thought, and hath
wrought me a mighty deliverance; my legs are grievously wearied.
An I had not thought of that, I must have had to stand for weeks,
till my poor lad's wits are cured."  After a little, he went on,
"And so I am become a knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows!
A most odd and strange position, truly, for one so matter-of-fact
as I.  I will not laugh--no, God forbid, for this thing which is
so substanceless to me is REAL to him.  And to me, also, in one
way, it is not a falsity, for it reflects with truth the sweet and
generous spirit that is in him."  After a pause:  "Ah, what if he
should call me by my fine title before folk!--there'd be a merry
contrast betwixt my glory and my raiment!  But no matter, let him
call me what he will, so it please him; I shall be content."



Chapter XIII. The disappearance of the Prince.

A heavy drowsiness presently fell upon the two comrades.  The King
said--

"Remove these rags"--meaning his clothing.

Hendon disapparelled the boy without dissent or remark, tucked him
up in bed, then glanced about the room, saying to himself,
ruefully, "He hath taken my bed again, as before--marry, what
shall _I_ do?"  The little King observed his perplexity, and
dissipated it with a word.  He said, sleepily--

"Thou wilt sleep athwart the door, and guard it."  In a moment
more he was out of his troubles, in a deep slumber.

"Dear heart, he should have been born a king!" muttered Hendon,
admiringly; "he playeth the part to a marvel."

Then he stretched himself across the door, on the floor, saying
contentedly--

"I have lodged worse for seven years; 'twould be but ill gratitude
to Him above to find fault with this."

He dropped asleep as the dawn appeared.  Toward noon he rose,
uncovered his unconscious ward--a section at a time--and took his
measure with a string.  The King awoke, just as he had completed
his work, complained of the cold, and asked what he was doing.

"'Tis done, now, my liege," said Hendon; "I have a bit of business
outside, but will presently return; sleep thou again--thou needest
it.  There--let me cover thy head also--thou'lt be warm the
sooner."

The King was back in dreamland before this speech was ended.
Miles slipped softly out, and slipped as softly in again, in the
course of thirty or forty minutes, with a complete second-hand
suit of boy's clothing, of cheap material, and showing signs of
wear; but tidy, and suited to the season of the year.  He seated
himself, and began to overhaul his purchase, mumbling to himself--

"A longer purse would have got a better sort, but when one has not
the long purse one must be content with what a short one may do--

     "'There was a woman in our town,
        In our town did dwell--'

"He stirred, methinks--I must sing in a less thunderous key; 'tis
not good to mar his sleep, with this journey before him, and he so
wearied out, poor chap . . . This garment--'tis well enough--a
stitch here and another one there will set it aright.  This other
is better, albeit a stitch or two will not come amiss in it,
likewise . . . THESE be very good and sound, and will keep his
small feet warm and dry--an odd new thing to him, belike, since he
has doubtless been used to foot it bare, winters and summers the
same . . . Would thread were bread, seeing one getteth a year's
sufficiency for a farthing, and such a brave big needle without
cost, for mere love.  Now shall I have the demon's own time to
thread it!"

And so he had.  He did as men have always done, and probably
always will do, to the end of time--held the needle still, and
tried to thrust the thread through the eye, which is the opposite
of a woman's way.  Time and time again the thread missed the mark,
going sometimes on one side of the needle, sometimes on the other,
sometimes doubling up against the shaft; but he was patient,
having been through these experiences before, when he was
soldiering.  He succeeded at last, and took up the garment that
had lain waiting, meantime, across his lap, and began his work.

"The inn is paid--the breakfast that is to come, included--and
there is wherewithal left to buy a couple of donkeys and meet our
little costs for the two or three days betwixt this and the plenty
that awaits us at Hendon Hall--

     "'She loved her hus--'

"Body o' me!  I have driven the needle under my nail! . . . It
matters little--'tis not a novelty--yet 'tis not a convenience,
neither . . .We shall be merry there, little one, never doubt it!
Thy troubles will vanish there, and likewise thy sad distemper--

     "'She loved her husband dearilee,
       But another man--'

"These be noble large stitches!"--holding the garment up and
viewing it admiringly--"they have a grandeur and a majesty that do
cause these small stingy ones of the tailor-man to look mightily
paltry and plebeian--

     "'She loved her husband dearilee,
       But another man he loved she,--'

"Marry, 'tis done--a goodly piece of work, too, and wrought with
expedition.  Now will I wake him, apparel him, pour for him, feed
him, and then will we hie us to the mart by the Tabard Inn in
Southwark and--be pleased to rise, my liege!--he answereth not--
what ho, my liege!--of a truth must I profane his sacred person
with a touch, sith his slumber is deaf to speech.  What!"

He threw back the covers--the boy was gone!

He stared about him in speechless astonishment for a moment;
noticed for the first time that his ward's ragged raiment was also
missing; then he began to rage and storm and shout for the
innkeeper.  At that moment a servant entered with the breakfast.

"Explain, thou limb of Satan, or thy time is come!" roared the man
of war, and made so savage a spring toward the waiter that this
latter could not find his tongue, for the instant, for fright and
surprise.  "Where is the boy?"

In disjointed and trembling syllables the man gave the information
desired.

"You were hardly gone from the place, your worship, when a youth
came running and said it was your worship's will that the boy come
to you straight, at the bridge-end on the Southwark side.  I
brought him hither; and when he woke the lad and gave his message,
the lad did grumble some little for being disturbed 'so early,' as
he called it, but straightway trussed on his rags and went with
the youth, only saying it had been better manners that your
worship came yourself, not sent a stranger--and so--"

"And so thou'rt a fool!--a fool and easily cozened--hang all thy
breed!  Yet mayhap no hurt is done.  Possibly no harm is meant the
boy.  I will go fetch him.  Make the table ready.  Stay! the
coverings of the bed were disposed as if one lay beneath them--
happened that by accident?"

"I know not, good your worship.  I saw the youth meddle with them-
-he that came for the boy."

"Thousand deaths!  'Twas done to deceive me--'tis plain 'twas done
to gain time.  Hark ye!  Was that youth alone?"

"All alone, your worship."

"Art sure?"

"Sure, your worship."

"Collect thy scattered wits--bethink thee--take time, man."

After a moment's thought, the servant said--

"When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as
the two stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking
man plunged out from some near place; and just as he was joining
them--"

"What THEN?--out with it!" thundered the impatient Hendon,
interrupting.

"Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw
no more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a
joint that the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all
the saints to witness that to blame ME for that miscarriage were
like holding the unborn babe to judgment for sins com--"

"Out of my sight, idiot!  Thy prating drives me mad!  Hold!
Whither art flying?  Canst not bide still an instant?  Went they
toward Southwark?"

"Even so, your worship--for, as I said before, as to that
detestable joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than--
"

"Art here YET!  And prating still!  Vanish, lest I throttle thee!"
The servitor vanished.  Hendon followed after him, passed him, and
plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, "'Tis
that scurvy villain that claimed he was his son.  I have lost
thee, my poor little mad master--it is a bitter thought--and I had
come to love thee so!  No! by book and bell, NOT lost!  Not lost,
for I will ransack the land till I find thee again.  Poor child,
yonder is his breakfast--and mine, but I have no hunger now; so,
let the rats have it--speed, speed! that is the word!"  As he
wormed his swift way through the noisy multitudes upon the Bridge
he several times said to himself--clinging to the thought as if it
were a particularly pleasing one--"He grumbled, but he WENT--he
went, yes, because he thought Miles Hendon asked it, sweet lad--he
would ne'er have done it for another, I know it well."



Chapter XIV. 'Le Roi est mort--vive le Roi.'

Toward daylight of the same morning, Tom Canty stirred out of a
heavy sleep and opened his eyes in the dark.  He lay silent a few
moments, trying to analyse his confused thoughts and impressions,
and get some sort of meaning out of them; then suddenly he burst
out in a rapturous but guarded voice--

"I see it all, I see it all!  Now God be thanked, I am indeed
awake at last!  Come, joy! vanish, sorrow!  Ho, Nan! Bet! kick off
your straw and hie ye hither to my side, till I do pour into your
unbelieving ears the wildest madcap dream that ever the spirits of
night did conjure up to astonish the soul of man withal! . . . Ho,
Nan, I say!  Bet!"

A dim form appeared at his side, and a voice said--

"Wilt deign to deliver thy commands?"

"Commands? . . . O, woe is me, I know thy voice!  Speak thou--who
am I?"

"Thou?  In sooth, yesternight wert thou the Prince of Wales; to-
day art thou my most gracious liege, Edward, King of England."

Tom buried his head among his pillows, murmuring plaintively--

"Alack, it was no dream!  Go to thy rest, sweet sir--leave me to
my sorrows."

Tom slept again, and after a time he had this pleasant dream.  He
thought it was summer, and he was playing, all alone, in the fair
meadow called Goodman's Fields, when a dwarf only a foot high,
with long red whiskers and a humped back, appeared to him suddenly
and said, "Dig by that stump."  He did so, and found twelve bright
new pennies--wonderful riches!  Yet this was not the best of it;
for the dwarf said--

"I know thee.  Thou art a good lad, and a deserving; thy
distresses shall end, for the day of thy reward is come.  Dig here
every seventh day, and thou shalt find always the same treasure,
twelve bright new pennies.  Tell none--keep the secret."

Then the dwarf vanished, and Tom flew to Offal Court with his
prize, saying to himself, "Every night will I give my father a
penny; he will think I begged it, it will glad his heart, and I
shall no more be beaten.  One penny every week the good priest
that teacheth me shall have; mother, Nan, and Bet the other four.
We be done with hunger and rags, now, done with fears and frets
and savage usage."

In his dream he reached his sordid home all out of breath, but
with eyes dancing with grateful enthusiasm; cast four of his
pennies into his mother's lap and cried out--

"They are for thee!--all of them, every one!--for thee and Nan and
Bet--and honestly come by, not begged nor stolen!"

The happy and astonished mother strained him to her breast and
exclaimed--

"It waxeth late--may it please your Majesty to rise?"

Ah! that was not the answer he was expecting.  The dream had
snapped asunder--he was awake.

He opened his eyes--the richly clad First Lord of the Bedchamber
was kneeling by his couch.  The gladness of the lying dream faded
away--the poor boy recognised that he was still a captive and a
king.  The room was filled with courtiers clothed in purple
mantles--the mourning colour--and with noble servants of the
monarch.  Tom sat up in bed and gazed out from the heavy silken
curtains upon this fine company.

The weighty business of dressing began, and one courtier after
another knelt and paid his court and offered to the little King
his condolences upon his heavy loss, whilst the dressing
proceeded.  In the beginning, a shirt was taken up by the Chief
Equerry in Waiting, who passed it to the First Lord of the
Buckhounds, who passed it to the Second Gentleman of the
Bedchamber, who passed it to the Head Ranger of Windsor Forest,
who passed it to the Third Groom of the Stole, who passed it to
the Chancellor Royal of the Duchy of Lancaster, who passed it to
the Master of the Wardrobe, who passed it to Norroy King-at-Arms,
who passed it to the Constable of the Tower, who passed it to the
Chief Steward of the Household, who passed it to the Hereditary
Grand Diaperer, who passed it to the Lord High Admiral of England,
who passed it to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who passed it to
the First Lord of the Bedchamber, who took what was left of it and
put it on Tom.  Poor little wondering chap, it reminded him of
passing buckets at a fire.

Each garment in its turn had to go through this slow and solemn
process; consequently Tom grew very weary of the ceremony; so
weary that he felt an almost gushing gratefulness when he at last
saw his long silken hose begin the journey down the line and knew
that the end of the matter was drawing near.  But he exulted too
soon.  The First Lord of the Bedchamber received the hose and was
about to encase Tom's legs in them, when a sudden flush invaded
his face and he hurriedly hustled the things back into the hands
of the Archbishop of Canterbury with an astounded look and a
whispered, "See, my lord!" pointing to a something connected with
the hose.  The Archbishop paled, then flushed, and passed the hose
to the Lord High Admiral, whispering, "See, my lord!"  The Admiral
passed the hose to the Hereditary Grand Diaperer, and had hardly
breath enough in his body to ejaculate, "See, my lord!"  The hose
drifted backward along the line, to the Chief Steward of the
Household, the Constable of the Tower, Norroy King-at-Arms, the
Master of the Wardrobe, the Chancellor Royal of the Duchy of
Lancaster, the Third Groom of the Stole, the Head Ranger of
Windsor Forest, the Second Gentleman of the Bedchamber, the First
Lord of the Buckhounds,--accompanied always with that amazed and
frightened "See! see!"--till they finally reached the hands of the
Chief Equerry in Waiting, who gazed a moment, with a pallid face,
upon what had caused all this dismay, then hoarsely whispered,
"Body of my life, a tag gone from a truss-point!--to the Tower
with the Head Keeper of the King's Hose!"--after which he leaned
upon the shoulder of the First Lord of the Buckhounds to regather
his vanished strength whilst fresh hose, without any damaged
strings to them, were brought.

But all things must have an end, and so in time Tom Canty was in a
condition to get out of bed.  The proper official poured water,
the proper official engineered the washing, the proper official
stood by with a towel, and by-and-by Tom got safely through the
purifying stage and was ready for the services of the Hairdresser-
royal.  When he at length emerged from this master's hands, he was
a gracious figure and as pretty as a girl, in his mantle and
trunks of purple satin, and purple-plumed cap.  He now moved in
state toward his breakfast-room, through the midst of the courtly
assemblage; and as he passed, these fell back, leaving his way
free, and dropped upon their knees.

After breakfast he was conducted, with regal ceremony, attended by
his great officers and his guard of fifty Gentlemen Pensioners
bearing gilt battle-axes, to the throne-room, where he proceeded
to transact business of state.  His 'uncle,' Lord Hertford, took
his stand by the throne, to assist the royal mind with wise
counsel.

The body of illustrious men named by the late King as his
executors appeared, to ask Tom's approval of certain acts of
theirs--rather a form, and yet not wholly a form, since there was
no Protector as yet.  The Archbishop of Canterbury made report of
the decree of the Council of Executors concerning the obsequies of
his late most illustrious Majesty, and finished by reading the
signatures of the Executors, to wit:  the Archbishop of
Canterbury; the Lord Chancellor of England; William Lord St. John;
John Lord Russell; Edward Earl of Hertford; John Viscount Lisle;
Cuthbert Bishop of Durham--

Tom was not listening--an earlier clause of the document was
puzzling him.  At this point he turned and whispered to Lord
Hertford--

"What day did he say the burial hath been appointed for?"

"The sixteenth of the coming month, my liege."

"'Tis a strange folly.  Will he keep?"

Poor chap, he was still new to the customs of royalty; he was used
to seeing the forlorn dead of Offal Court hustled out of the way
with a very different sort of expedition.  However, the Lord
Hertford set his mind at rest with a word or two.

A secretary of state presented an order of the Council appointing
the morrow at eleven for the reception of the foreign ambassadors,
and desired the King's assent.

Tom turned an inquiring look toward Hertford, who whispered--

"Your Majesty will signify consent.  They come to testify their
royal masters' sense of the heavy calamity which hath visited your
Grace and the realm of England."

Tom did as he was bidden.  Another secretary began to read a
preamble concerning the expenses of the late King's household,
which had amounted to 28,000 pounds during the preceding six
months--a sum so vast that it made Tom Canty gasp; he gasped again
when the fact appeared that 20,000 pounds of this money was still
owing and unpaid; {4} and once more when it appeared that the
King's coffers were about empty, and his twelve hundred servants
much embarrassed for lack of the wages due them.  Tom spoke out,
with lively apprehension--

"We be going to the dogs, 'tis plain.  'Tis meet and necessary
that we take a smaller house and set the servants at large, sith
they be of no value but to make delay, and trouble one with
offices that harass the spirit and shame the soul, they
misbecoming any but a doll, that hath nor brains nor hands to help
itself withal.  I remember me of a small house that standeth over
against the fish-market, by Billingsgate--"

A sharp pressure upon Tom's arm stopped his foolish tongue and
sent a blush to his face; but no countenance there betrayed any
sign that this strange speech had been remarked or given concern.

A secretary made report that forasmuch as the late King had
provided in his will for conferring the ducal degree upon the Earl
of Hertford and raising his brother, Sir Thomas Seymour, to the
peerage, and likewise Hertford's son to an earldom, together with
similar aggrandisements to other great servants of the Crown, the
Council had resolved to hold a sitting on the 16th of February for
the delivering and confirming of these honours, and that meantime,
the late King not having granted, in writing, estates suitable to
the support of these dignities, the Council, knowing his private
wishes in that regard, had thought proper to grant to Seymour '500
pound lands,' and to Hertford's son '800 pound lands, and 300
pound of the next bishop's lands which should fall vacant,'--his
present Majesty being willing. {5}

Tom was about to blurt out something about the propriety of paying
the late King's debts first, before squandering all this money,
but a timely touch upon his arm, from the thoughtful Hertford,
saved him this indiscretion; wherefore he gave the royal assent,
without spoken comment, but with much inward discomfort.  While he
sat reflecting a moment over the ease with which he was doing
strange and glittering miracles, a happy thought shot into his
mind:  why not make his mother Duchess of Offal Court, and give
her an estate?  But a sorrowful thought swept it instantly away:
he was only a king in name, these grave veterans and great nobles
were his masters; to them his mother was only the creature of a
diseased mind; they would simply listen to his project with
unbelieving ears, then send for the doctor.

The dull work went tediously on.  Petitions were read, and
proclamations, patents, and all manner of wordy, repetitious, and
wearisome papers relating to the public business; and at last Tom
sighed pathetically and murmured to himself, "In what have I
offended, that the good God should take me away from the fields
and the free air and the sunshine, to shut me up here and make me
a king and afflict me so?"  Then his poor muddled head nodded a
while and presently drooped to his shoulder; and the business of
the empire came to a standstill for want of that august factor,
the ratifying power.  Silence ensued around the slumbering child,
and the sages of the realm ceased from their deliberations.

During the forenoon, Tom had an enjoyable hour, by permission of
his keepers, Hertford and St. John, with the Lady Elizabeth and
the little Lady Jane Grey; though the spirits of the princesses
were rather subdued by the mighty stroke that had fallen upon the
royal house; and at the end of the visit his 'elder sister'--
afterwards the 'Bloody Mary' of history--chilled him with a solemn
interview which had but one merit in his eyes, its brevity.  He
had a few moments to himself, and then a slim lad of about twelve
years of age was admitted to his presence, whose clothing, except
his snowy ruff and the laces about his wrists, was of black,--
doublet, hose, and all.  He bore no badge of mourning but a knot
of purple ribbon on his shoulder.  He advanced hesitatingly, with
head bowed and bare, and dropped upon one knee in front of Tom.
Tom sat still and contemplated him soberly a moment.  Then he
said--

"Rise, lad.  Who art thou.  What wouldst have?"

The boy rose, and stood at graceful ease, but with an aspect of
concern in his face.  He said--

"Of a surety thou must remember me, my lord.  I am thy whipping-
boy."

"My WHIPPING-boy?"

"The same, your Grace.  I am Humphrey--Humphrey Marlow."

Tom perceived that here was someone whom his keepers ought to have
posted him about.  The situation was delicate.  What should he
do?--pretend he knew this lad, and then betray by his every
utterance that he had never heard of him before?  No, that would
not do.  An idea came to his relief:  accidents like this might be
likely to happen with some frequency, now that business urgencies
would often call Hertford and St. John from his side, they being
members of the Council of Executors; therefore perhaps it would be
well to strike out a plan himself to meet the requirements of such
emergencies.  Yes, that would be a wise course--he would practise
on this boy, and see what sort of success he might achieve.  So he
stroked his brow perplexedly a moment or two, and presently said--

"Now I seem to remember thee somewhat--but my wit is clogged and
dim with suffering--"

"Alack, my poor master!" ejaculated the whipping-boy, with
feeling; adding, to himself, "In truth 'tis as they said--his mind
is gone--alas, poor soul!  But misfortune catch me, how am I
forgetting!  They said one must not seem to observe that aught is
wrong with him."

"'Tis strange how my memory doth wanton with me these days," said
Tom.  "But mind it not--I mend apace--a little clue doth often
serve to bring me back again the things and names which had
escaped me.  (And not they, only, forsooth, but e'en such as I
ne'er heard before--as this lad shall see.)  Give thy business
speech."

"'Tis matter of small weight, my liege, yet will I touch upon it,
an' it please your Grace.  Two days gone by, when your Majesty
faulted thrice in your Greek--in the morning lessons,--dost
remember it?"

"Y-e-s--methinks I do.  (It is not much of a lie--an' I had
meddled with the Greek at all, I had not faulted simply thrice,
but forty times.)  Yes, I do recall it, now--go on."

"The master, being wroth with what he termed such slovenly and
doltish work, did promise that he would soundly whip me for it--
and--"

"Whip THEE!" said Tom, astonished out of his presence of mind.
"Why should he whip THEE for faults of mine?"

"Ah, your Grace forgetteth again.  He always scourgeth me when
thou dost fail in thy lessons."

"True, true--I had forgot.  Thou teachest me in private--then if I
fail, he argueth that thy office was lamely done, and--"

"Oh, my liege, what words are these?  I, the humblest of thy
servants, presume to teach THEE?"

"Then where is thy blame?  What riddle is this?  Am I in truth
gone mad, or is it thou?  Explain--speak out."

"But, good your Majesty, there's nought that needeth simplifying.-
-None may visit the sacred person of the Prince of Wales with
blows; wherefore, when he faulteth, 'tis I that take them; and
meet it is and right, for that it is mine office and my
livelihood." {1}

Tom stared at the tranquil boy, observing to himself, "Lo, it is a
wonderful thing,--a most strange and curious trade; I marvel they
have not hired a boy to take my combings and my dressings for me--
would heaven they would!--an' they will do this thing, I will take
my lashings in mine own person, giving God thanks for the change."
Then he said aloud--

"And hast thou been beaten, poor friend, according to the
promise?"

"No, good your Majesty, my punishment was appointed for this day,
and peradventure it may be annulled, as unbefitting the season of
mourning that is come upon us; I know not, and so have made bold
to come hither and remind your Grace about your gracious promise
to intercede in my behalf--"

"With the master?  To save thee thy whipping?"

"Ah, thou dost remember!"

"My memory mendeth, thou seest.  Set thy mind at ease--thy back
shall go unscathed--I will see to it."

"Oh, thanks, my good lord!" cried the boy, dropping upon his knee
again.  "Mayhap I have ventured far enow; and yet--"

Seeing Master Humphrey hesitate, Tom encouraged him to go on,
saying he was "in the granting mood."

"Then will I speak it out, for it lieth near my heart.  Sith thou
art no more Prince of Wales but King, thou canst order matters as
thou wilt, with none to say thee nay; wherefore it is not in
reason that thou wilt longer vex thyself with dreary studies, but
wilt burn thy books and turn thy mind to things less irksome.
Then am I ruined, and mine orphan sisters with me!"

"Ruined?  Prithee how?"

"My back is my bread, O my gracious liege! if it go idle, I
starve.  An' thou cease from study mine office is gone thou'lt
need no whipping-boy.  Do not turn me away!"

Tom was touched with this pathetic distress.  He said, with a
right royal burst of generosity--

"Discomfort thyself no further, lad.  Thine office shall be
permanent in thee and thy line for ever."  Then he struck the boy
a light blow on the shoulder with the flat of his sword,
exclaiming, "Rise, Humphrey Marlow, Hereditary Grand Whipping-Boy
to the Royal House of England!  Banish sorrow--I will betake me to
my books again, and study so ill that they must in justice treble
thy wage, so mightily shall the business of thine office be
augmented."

The grateful Humphrey responded fervidly--

"Thanks, O most noble master, this princely lavishness doth far
surpass my most distempered dreams of fortune.  Now shall I be
happy all my days, and all the house of Marlow after me."

Tom had wit enough to perceive that here was a lad who could be
useful to him.  He encouraged Humphrey to talk, and he was nothing
loath.  He was delighted to believe that he was helping in Tom's
'cure'; for always, as soon as he had finished calling back to
Tom's diseased mind the various particulars of his experiences and
adventures in the royal school-room and elsewhere about the
palace, he noticed that Tom was then able to 'recall' the
circumstances quite clearly.  At the end of an hour Tom found
himself well freighted with very valuable information concerning
personages and matters pertaining to the Court; so he resolved to
draw instruction from this source daily; and to this end he would
give order to admit Humphrey to the royal closet whenever he might
come, provided the Majesty of England was not engaged with other
people.  Humphrey had hardly been dismissed when my Lord Hertford
arrived with more trouble for Tom.

He said that the Lords of the Council, fearing that some
overwrought report of the King's damaged health might have leaked
out and got abroad, they deemed it wise and best that his Majesty
should begin to dine in public after a day or two--his wholesome
complexion and vigorous step, assisted by a carefully guarded
repose of manner and ease and grace of demeanour, would more
surely quiet the general pulse--in case any evil rumours HAD gone
about--than any other scheme that could be devised.

Then the Earl proceeded, very delicately, to instruct Tom as to
the observances proper to the stately occasion, under the rather
thin disguise of 'reminding' him concerning things already known
to him; but to his vast gratification it turned out that Tom
needed very little help in this line--he had been making use of
Humphrey in that direction, for Humphrey had mentioned that within
a few days he was to begin to dine in public; having gathered it
from the swift-winged gossip of the Court.  Tom kept these facts
to himself, however.

Seeing the royal memory so improved, the Earl ventured to apply a
few tests to it, in an apparently casual way, to find out how far
its amendment had progressed.  The results were happy, here and
there, in spots--spots where Humphrey's tracks remained--and on
the whole my lord was greatly pleased and encouraged.  So
encouraged was he, indeed, that he spoke up and said in a quite
hopeful voice--

"Now am I persuaded that if your Majesty will but tax your memory
yet a little further, it will resolve the puzzle of the Great
Seal--a loss which was of moment yesterday, although of none to-
day, since its term of service ended with our late lord's life.
May it please your Grace to make the trial?"

Tom was at sea--a Great Seal was something which he was totally
unacquainted with.  After a moment's hesitation he looked up
innocently and asked--

"What was it like, my lord?"

The Earl started, almost imperceptibly, muttering to himself,
"Alack, his wits are flown again!--it was ill wisdom to lead him
on to strain them"--then he deftly turned the talk to other
matters, with the purpose of sweeping the unlucky seal out of
Tom's thoughts--a purpose which easily succeeded.



Chapter XV. Tom as King.

The next day the foreign ambassadors came, with their gorgeous
trains; and Tom, throned in awful state, received them.  The
splendours of the scene delighted his eye and fired his
imagination at first, but the audience was long and dreary, and so
were most of the addresses--wherefore, what began as a pleasure
grew into weariness and home-sickness by-and-by.  Tom said the
words which Hertford put into his mouth from time to time, and
tried hard to acquit himself satisfactorily, but he was too new to
such things, and too ill at ease to accomplish more than a
tolerable success.  He looked sufficiently like a king, but he was
ill able to feel like one.  He was cordially glad when the
ceremony was ended.

The larger part of his day was 'wasted'--as he termed it, in his
own mind--in labours pertaining to his royal office.  Even the two
hours devoted to certain princely pastimes and recreations were
rather a burden to him than otherwise, they were so fettered by
restrictions and ceremonious observances.  However, he had a
private hour with his whipping-boy which he counted clear gain,
since he got both entertainment and needful information out of it.

The third day of Tom Canty's kingship came and went much as the
others had done, but there was a lifting of his cloud in one way--
he felt less uncomfortable than at first; he was getting a little
used to his circumstances and surroundings; his chains still
galled, but not all the time; he found that the presence and
homage of the great afflicted and embarrassed him less and less
sharply with every hour that drifted over his head.

But for one single dread, he could have seen the fourth day
approach without serious distress--the dining in public; it was to
begin that day.  There were greater matters in the programme--for
on that day he would have to preside at a council which would take
his views and commands concerning the policy to be pursued toward
various foreign nations scattered far and near over the great
globe; on that day, too, Hertford would be formally chosen to the
grand office of Lord Protector; other things of note were
appointed for that fourth day, also; but to Tom they were all
insignificant compared with the ordeal of dining all by himself
with a multitude of curious eyes fastened upon him and a multitude
of mouths whispering comments upon his performance,--and upon his
mistakes, if he should be so unlucky as to make any.

Still, nothing could stop that fourth day, and so it came.  It
found poor Tom low-spirited and absent-minded, and this mood
continued; he could not shake it off.  The ordinary duties of the
morning dragged upon his hands, and wearied him.  Once more he
felt the sense of captivity heavy upon him.

Late in the forenoon he was in a large audience-chamber,
conversing with the Earl of Hertford and dully awaiting the
striking of the hour appointed for a visit of ceremony from a
considerable number of great officials and courtiers.

After a little while, Tom, who had wandered to a window and become
interested in the life and movement of the great highway beyond
the palace gates--and not idly interested, but longing with all
his heart to take part in person in its stir and freedom--saw the
van of a hooting and shouting mob of disorderly men, women, and
children of the lowest and poorest degree approaching from up the
road.

"I would I knew what 'tis about!" he exclaimed, with all a boy's
curiosity in such happenings.

"Thou art the King!" solemnly responded the Earl, with a
reverence.  "Have I your Grace's leave to act?"

"O blithely, yes!  O gladly, yes!" exclaimed Tom excitedly, adding
to himself with a lively sense of satisfaction, "In truth, being a
king is not all dreariness--it hath its compensations and
conveniences."

The Earl called a page, and sent him to the captain of the guard
with the order--

"Let the mob be halted, and inquiry made concerning the occasion
of its movement.  By the King's command!"

A few seconds later a long rank of the royal guards, cased in
flashing steel, filed out at the gates and formed across the
highway in front of the multitude.  A messenger returned, to
report that the crowd were following a man, a woman, and a young
girl to execution for crimes committed against the peace and
dignity of the realm.

Death--and a violent death--for these poor unfortunates!  The
thought wrung Tom's heart-strings.  The spirit of compassion took
control of him, to the exclusion of all other considerations; he
never thought of the offended laws, or of the grief or loss which
these three criminals had inflicted upon their victims; he could
think of nothing but the scaffold and the grisly fate hanging over
the heads of the condemned.  His concern made him even forget, for
the moment, that he was but the false shadow of a king, not the
substance; and before he knew it he had blurted out the command--

"Bring them here!"

Then he blushed scarlet, and a sort of apology sprung to his lips;
but observing that his order had wrought no sort of surprise in
the Earl or the waiting page, he suppressed the words he was about
to utter.  The page, in the most matter-of-course way, made a
profound obeisance and retired backwards out of the room to
deliver the command.  Tom experienced a glow of pride and a
renewed sense of the compensating advantages of the kingly office.
He said to himself, "Truly it is like what I was used to feel when
I read the old priest's tales, and did imagine mine own self a
prince, giving law and command to all, saying 'Do this, do that,'
whilst none durst offer let or hindrance to my will."

Now the doors swung open; one high-sounding title after another
was announced, the personages owning them followed, and the place
was quickly half-filled with noble folk and finery.  But Tom was
hardly conscious of the presence of these people, so wrought up
was he and so intensely absorbed in that other and more
interesting matter.  He seated himself absently in his chair of
state, and turned his eyes upon the door with manifestations of
impatient expectancy; seeing which, the company forbore to trouble
him, and fell to chatting a mixture of public business and court
gossip one with another.

In a little while the measured tread of military men was heard
approaching, and the culprits entered the presence in charge of an
under-sheriff and escorted by a detail of the king's guard.  The
civil officer knelt before Tom, then stood aside; the three doomed
persons knelt, also, and remained so; the guard took position
behind Tom's chair.  Tom scanned the prisoners curiously.
Something about the dress or appearance of the man had stirred a
vague memory in him.  "Methinks I have seen this man ere now . . .
but the when or the where fail me"--such was Tom's thought.  Just
then the man glanced quickly up and quickly dropped his face
again, not being able to endure the awful port of sovereignty; but
the one full glimpse of the face which Tom got was sufficient.  He
said to himself:  "Now is the matter clear; this is the stranger
that plucked Giles Witt out of the Thames, and saved his life,
that windy, bitter, first day of the New Year--a brave good deed--
pity he hath been doing baser ones and got himself in this sad
case . . . I have not forgot the day, neither the hour; by reason
that an hour after, upon the stroke of eleven, I did get a hiding
by the hand of Gammer Canty which was of so goodly and admired
severity that all that went before or followed after it were but
fondlings and caresses by comparison."

Tom now ordered that the woman and the girl be removed from the
presence for a little time; then addressed himself to the under-
sheriff, saying--

"Good sir, what is this man's offence?"

The officer knelt, and answered--

"So please your Majesty, he hath taken the life of a subject by
poison."

Tom's compassion for the prisoner, and admiration of him as the
daring rescuer of a drowning boy, experienced a most damaging
shock.

"The thing was proven upon him?" he asked.

"Most clearly, sire."

Tom sighed, and said--

"Take him away--he hath earned his death.  'Tis a pity, for he was
a brave heart--na--na, I mean he hath the LOOK of it!"

The prisoner clasped his hands together with sudden energy, and
wrung them despairingly, at the same time appealing imploringly to
the 'King' in broken and terrified phrases--

"O my lord the King, an' thou canst pity the lost, have pity upon
me!  I am innocent--neither hath that wherewith I am charged been
more than but lamely proved--yet I speak not of that; the judgment
is gone forth against me and may not suffer alteration; yet in
mine extremity I beg a boon, for my doom is more than I can bear.
A grace, a grace, my lord the King! in thy royal compassion grant
my prayer--give commandment that I be hanged!"

Tom was amazed.  This was not the outcome he had looked for.

"Odds my life, a strange BOON!  Was it not the fate intended
thee?"

"O good my liege, not so!  It is ordered that I be BOILED ALIVE!"

The hideous surprise of these words almost made Tom spring from
his chair.  As soon as he could recover his wits he cried out--

"Have thy wish, poor soul! an' thou had poisoned a hundred men
thou shouldst not suffer so miserable a death."

The prisoner bowed his face to the ground and burst into
passionate expressions of gratitude--ending with--

"If ever thou shouldst know misfortune--which God forefend!--may
thy goodness to me this day be remembered and requited!"

Tom turned to the Earl of Hertford, and said--

"My lord, is it believable that there was warrant for this man's
ferocious doom?"

"It is the law, your Grace--for poisoners.  In Germany coiners be
boiled to death in OIL--not cast in of a sudden, but by a rope let
down into the oil by degrees, and slowly; first the feet, then the
legs, then--"

"O prithee no more, my lord, I cannot bear it!" cried Tom,
covering his eyes with his hands to shut out the picture.  "I
beseech your good lordship that order be taken to change this law-
-oh, let no more poor creatures be visited with its tortures."

The Earl's face showed profound gratification, for he was a man of
merciful and generous impulses--a thing not very common with his
class in that fierce age.  He said--

"These your Grace's noble words have sealed its doom.  History
will remember it to the honour of your royal house."

The under-sheriff was about to remove his prisoner; Tom gave him a
sign to wait; then he said--

"Good sir, I would look into this matter further.  The man has
said his deed was but lamely proved.  Tell me what thou knowest."

"If the King's grace please, it did appear upon the trial that
this man entered into a house in the hamlet of Islington where one
lay sick--three witnesses say it was at ten of the clock in the
morning, and two say it was some minutes later--the sick man being
alone at the time, and sleeping--and presently the man came forth
again and went his way.  The sick man died within the hour, being
torn with spasms and retchings."

"Did any see the poison given?  Was poison found?"

"Marry, no, my liege."

"Then how doth one know there was poison given at all?"

"Please your Majesty, the doctors testified that none die with
such symptoms but by poison."

Weighty evidence, this, in that simple age.  Tom recognised its
formidable nature, and said--

"The doctor knoweth his trade--belike they were right.  The matter
hath an ill-look for this poor man."

"Yet was not this all, your Majesty; there is more and worse.
Many testified that a witch, since gone from the village, none
know whither, did foretell, and speak it privately in their ears,
that the sick man WOULD DIE BY POISON--and more, that a stranger
would give it--a stranger with brown hair and clothed in a worn
and common garb; and surely this prisoner doth answer woundily to
the bill.  Please your Majesty to give the circumstance that
solemn weight which is its due, seeing it was FORETOLD."

This was an argument of tremendous force in that superstitious
day.  Tom felt that the thing was settled; if evidence was worth
anything, this poor fellow's guilt was proved.  Still he offered
the prisoner a chance, saying--

"If thou canst say aught in thy behalf, speak."

"Nought that will avail, my King.  I am innocent, yet cannot I
make it appear.  I have no friends, else might I show that I was
not in Islington that day; so also might I show that at that hour
they name I was above a league away, seeing I was at Wapping Old
Stairs; yea more, my King, for I could show, that whilst they say
I was TAKING life, I was SAVING it.  A drowning boy--"

"Peace!  Sheriff, name the day the deed was done!"

"At ten in the morning, or some minutes later, the first day of
the New Year, most illustrious--"

"Let the prisoner go free--it is the King's will!"

Another blush followed this unregal outburst, and he covered his
indecorum as well as he could by adding--

"It enrageth me that a man should be hanged upon such idle, hare-
brained evidence!"

A low buzz of admiration swept through the assemblage.  It was not
admiration of the decree that had been delivered by Tom, for the
propriety or expediency of pardoning a convicted poisoner was a
thing which few there would have felt justified in either
admitting or admiring--no, the admiration was for the intelligence
and spirit which Tom had displayed.  Some of the low-voiced
remarks were to this effect--

"This is no mad king--he hath his wits sound."

"How sanely he put his questions--how like his former natural self
was this abrupt imperious disposal of the matter!"

"God be thanked, his infirmity is spent!  This is no weakling, but
a king.  He hath borne himself like to his own father."

The air being filled with applause, Tom's ear necessarily caught a
little of it.  The effect which this had upon him was to put him
greatly at his ease, and also to charge his system with very
gratifying sensations.

However, his juvenile curiosity soon rose superior to these
pleasant thoughts and feelings; he was eager to know what sort of
deadly mischief the woman and the little girl could have been
about; so, by his command, the two terrified and sobbing creatures
were brought before him.

"What is it that these have done?" he inquired of the sheriff.

"Please your Majesty, a black crime is charged upon them, and
clearly proven; wherefore the judges have decreed, according to
the law, that they be hanged.  They sold themselves to the devil--
such is their crime."

Tom shuddered.  He had been taught to abhor people who did this
wicked thing.  Still, he was not going to deny himself the
pleasure of feeding his curiosity for all that; so he asked--

"Where was this done?--and when?"

"On a midnight in December, in a ruined church, your Majesty."

Tom shuddered again.

"Who was there present?"

"Only these two, your grace--and THAT OTHER."

"Have these confessed?"

"Nay, not so, sire--they do deny it."

"Then prithee, how was it known?"

"Certain witness did see them wending thither, good your Majesty;
this bred the suspicion, and dire effects have since confirmed and
justified it.  In particular, it is in evidence that through the
wicked power so obtained, they did invoke and bring about a storm
that wasted all the region round about.  Above forty witnesses
have proved the storm; and sooth one might have had a thousand,
for all had reason to remember it, sith all had suffered by it."

"Certes this is a serious matter."  Tom turned this dark piece of
scoundrelism over in his mind a while, then asked--

"Suffered the woman also by the storm?"

Several old heads among the assemblage nodded their recognition of
the wisdom of this question.  The sheriff, however, saw nothing
consequential in the inquiry; he answered, with simple directness-
-

"Indeed did she, your Majesty, and most righteously, as all aver.
Her habitation was swept away, and herself and child left
shelterless."

"Methinks the power to do herself so ill a turn was dearly bought.
She had been cheated, had she paid but a farthing for it; that she
paid her soul, and her child's, argueth that she is mad; if she is
mad she knoweth not what she doth, therefore sinneth not."

The elderly heads nodded recognition of Tom's wisdom once more,
and one individual murmured, "An' the King be mad himself,
according to report, then is it a madness of a sort that would
improve the sanity of some I wot of, if by the gentle providence
of God they could but catch it."

"What age hath the child?" asked Tom.

"Nine years, please your Majesty."

"By the law of England may a child enter into covenant and sell
itself, my lord?" asked Tom, turning to a learned judge.

"The law doth not permit a child to make or meddle in any weighty
matter, good my liege, holding that its callow wit unfitteth it to
cope with the riper wit and evil schemings of them that are its
elders.  The DEVIL may buy a child, if he so choose, and the child
agree thereto, but not an Englishman--in this latter case the
contract would be null and void."

"It seemeth a rude unchristian thing, and ill contrived, that
English law denieth privileges to Englishmen to waste them on the
devil!" cried Tom, with honest heat.

This novel view of the matter excited many smiles, and was stored
away in many heads to be repeated about the Court as evidence of
Tom's originality as well as progress toward mental health.

The elder culprit had ceased from sobbing, and was hanging upon
Tom's words with an excited interest and a growing hope.  Tom
noticed this, and it strongly inclined his sympathies toward her
in her perilous and unfriended situation.  Presently he asked--

"How wrought they to bring the storm?"

"BY PULLING OFF THEIR STOCKINGS, sire."

This astonished Tom, and also fired his curiosity to fever heat.
He said, eagerly--

"It is wonderful!  Hath it always this dread effect?"

"Always, my liege--at least if the woman desire it, and utter the
needful words, either in her mind or with her tongue."

Tom turned to the woman, and said with impetuous zeal--

"Exert thy power--I would see a storm!"

There was a sudden paling of cheeks in the superstitious
assemblage, and a general, though unexpressed, desire to get out
of the place--all of which was lost upon Tom, who was dead to
everything but the proposed cataclysm.  Seeing a puzzled and
astonished look in the woman's face, he added, excitedly--

"Never fear--thou shalt be blameless.  More--thou shalt go free--
none shall touch thee.  Exert thy power."

"Oh, my lord the King, I have it not--I have been falsely
accused."

"Thy fears stay thee.  Be of good heart, thou shalt suffer no
harm.  Make a storm--it mattereth not how small a one--I require
nought great or harmful, but indeed prefer the opposite--do this
and thy life is spared--thou shalt go out free, with thy child,
bearing the King's pardon, and safe from hurt or malice from any
in the realm."

The woman prostrated herself, and protested, with tears, that she
had no power to do the miracle, else she would gladly win her
child's life alone, and be content to lose her own, if by
obedience to the King's command so precious a grace might be
acquired.

Tom urged--the woman still adhered to her declarations.  Finally
he said--

"I think the woman hath said true.  An' MY mother were in her
place and gifted with the devil's functions, she had not stayed a
moment to call her storms and lay the whole land in ruins, if the
saving of my forfeit life were the price she got!  It is argument
that other mothers are made in like mould.  Thou art free,
goodwife--thou and thy child--for I do think thee innocent.  NOW
thou'st nought to fear, being pardoned--pull off thy stockings!--
an' thou canst make me a storm, thou shalt be rich!"

The redeemed creature was loud in her gratitude, and proceeded to
obey, whilst Tom looked on with eager expectancy, a little marred
by apprehension; the courtiers at the same time manifesting
decided discomfort and uneasiness.  The woman stripped her own
feet and her little girl's also, and plainly did her best to
reward the King's generosity with an earthquake, but it was all a
failure and a disappointment.  Tom sighed, and said--

"There, good soul, trouble thyself no further, thy power is
departed out of thee.  Go thy way in peace; and if it return to
thee at any time, forget me not, but fetch me a storm." {13}



Chapter XVI. The State Dinner.

The dinner hour drew near--yet strangely enough, the thought
brought but slight discomfort to Tom, and hardly any terror.  The
morning's experiences had wonderfully built up his confidence; the
poor little ash-cat was already more wonted to his strange garret,
after four days' habit, than a mature person could have become in
a full month.  A child's facility in accommodating itself to
circumstances was never more strikingly illustrated.

Let us privileged ones hurry to the great banqueting-room and have
a glance at matters there whilst Tom is being made ready for the
imposing occasion.  It is a spacious apartment, with gilded
pillars and pilasters, and pictured walls and ceilings.  At the
door stand tall guards, as rigid as statues, dressed in rich and
picturesque costumes, and bearing halberds.  In a high gallery
which runs all around the place is a band of musicians and a
packed company of citizens of both sexes, in brilliant attire.  In
the centre of the room, upon a raised platform, is Tom's table.
Now let the ancient chronicler speak:

"A gentleman enters the room bearing a rod, and along with him
another bearing a tablecloth, which, after they have both kneeled
three times with the utmost veneration, he spreads upon the table,
and after kneeling again they both retire; then come two others,
one with the rod again, the other with a salt-cellar, a plate, and
bread; when they have kneeled as the others had done, and placed
what was brought upon the table, they too retire with the same
ceremonies performed by the first; at last come two nobles, richly
clothed, one bearing a tasting-knife, who, after prostrating
themselves three times in the most graceful manner, approach and
rub the table with bread and salt, with as much awe as if the King
had been present." {6}

So end the solemn preliminaries.  Now, far down the echoing
corridors we hear a bugle-blast, and the indistinct cry, "Place
for the King!  Way for the King's most excellent majesty!"  These
sounds are momently repeated--they grow nearer and nearer--and
presently, almost in our faces, the martial note peals and the cry
rings out, "Way for the King!"  At this instant the shining
pageant appears, and files in at the door, with a measured march.
Let the chronicler speak again:--

"First come Gentlemen, Barons, Earls, Knights of the Garter, all
richly dressed and bareheaded; next comes the Chancellor, between
two, one of which carries the royal sceptre, the other the Sword
of State in a red scabbard, studded with golden fleurs-de-lis, the
point upwards; next comes the King himself--whom, upon his
appearing, twelve trumpets and many drums salute with a great
burst of welcome, whilst all in the galleries rise in their
places, crying 'God save the King!'  After him come nobles
attached to his person, and on his right and left march his guard
of honour, his fifty Gentlemen Pensioners, with gilt battle-axes."

This was all fine and pleasant.  Tom's pulse beat high, and a glad
light was in his eye.  He bore himself right gracefully, and all
the more so because he was not thinking of how he was doing it,
his mind being charmed and occupied with the blithe sights and
sounds about him--and besides, nobody can be very ungraceful in
nicely-fitting beautiful clothes after he has grown a little used
to them--especially if he is for the moment unconscious of them.
Tom remembered his instructions, and acknowledged his greeting
with a slight inclination of his plumed head, and a courteous "I
thank ye, my good people."

He seated himself at table, without removing his cap; and did it
without the least embarrassment; for to eat with one's cap on was
the one solitary royal custom upon which the kings and the Cantys
met upon common ground, neither party having any advantage over
the other in the matter of old familiarity with it.  The pageant
broke up and grouped itself picturesquely, and remained
bareheaded.

Now to the sound of gay music the Yeomen of the Guard entered,--
"the tallest and mightiest men in England, they being carefully
selected in this regard"--but we will let the chronicler tell
about it:--

"The Yeomen of the Guard entered, bareheaded, clothed in scarlet,
with golden roses upon their backs; and these went and came,
bringing in each turn a course of dishes, served in plate.  These
dishes were received by a gentleman in the same order they were
brought, and placed upon the table, while the taster gave to each
guard a mouthful to eat of the particular dish he had brought, for
fear of any poison."

Tom made a good dinner, notwithstanding he was conscious that
hundreds of eyes followed each morsel to his mouth and watched him
eat it with an interest which could not have been more intense if
it had been a deadly explosive and was expected to blow him up and
scatter him all about the place.  He was careful not to hurry, and
equally careful not to do anything whatever for himself, but wait
till the proper official knelt down and did it for him.  He got
through without a mistake--flawless and precious triumph.

When the meal was over at last and he marched away in the midst of
his bright pageant, with the happy noises in his ears of blaring
bugles, rolling drums, and thundering acclamations, he felt that
if he had seen the worst of dining in public it was an ordeal
which he would be glad to endure several times a day if by that
means he could but buy himself free from some of the more
formidable requirements of his royal office.



Chapter XVII. Foo-foo the First.

Miles Hendon hurried along toward the Southwark end of the bridge,
keeping a sharp look-out for the persons he sought, and hoping and
expecting to overtake them presently.  He was disappointed in
this, however.  By asking questions, he was enabled to track them
part of the way through Southwark; then all traces ceased, and he
was perplexed as to how to proceed.  Still, he continued his
efforts as best he could during the rest of the day.  Nightfall
found him leg-weary, half-famished, and his desire as far from
accomplishment as ever; so he supped at the Tabard Inn and went to
bed, resolved to make an early start in the morning, and give the
town an exhaustive search.  As he lay thinking and planning, he
presently began to reason thus:  The boy would escape from the
ruffian, his reputed father, if possible; would he go back to
London and seek his former haunts?  No, he would not do that, he
would avoid recapture.  What, then, would he do?  Never having had
a friend in the world, or a protector, until he met Miles Hendon,
he would naturally try to find that friend again, provided the
effort did not require him to go toward London and danger.  He
would strike for Hendon Hall, that is what he would do, for he
knew Hendon was homeward bound and there he might expect to find
him.  Yes, the case was plain to Hendon--he must lose no more time
in Southwark, but move at once through Kent, toward Monk's Holm,
searching the wood and inquiring as he went.  Let us return to the
vanished little King now.

The ruffian whom the waiter at the inn on the bridge saw 'about to
join' the youth and the King did not exactly join them, but fell
in close behind them and followed their steps.  He said nothing.
His left arm was in a sling, and he wore a large green patch over
his left eye; he limped slightly, and used an oaken staff as a
support.  The youth led the King a crooked course through
Southwark, and by-and-by struck into the high road beyond.  The
King was irritated, now, and said he would stop here--it was
Hendon's place to come to him, not his to go to Hendon.  He would
not endure such insolence; he would stop where he was.  The youth
said--

"Thou'lt tarry here, and thy friend lying wounded in the wood
yonder?  So be it, then."

The King's manner changed at once.  He cried out--

"Wounded?  And who hath dared to do it?  But that is apart; lead
on, lead on!  Faster, sirrah!  Art shod with lead?  Wounded, is
he?  Now though the doer of it be a duke's son he shall rue it!"

It was some distance to the wood, but the space was speedily
traversed.  The youth looked about him, discovered a bough
sticking in the ground, with a small bit of rag tied to it, then
led the way into the forest, watching for similar boughs and
finding them at intervals; they were evidently guides to the point
he was aiming at.  By-and-by an open place was reached, where were
the charred remains of a farm-house, and near them a barn which
was falling to ruin and decay.  There was no sign of life
anywhere, and utter silence prevailed.  The youth entered the
barn, the King following eagerly upon his heels.  No one there!
The King shot a surprised and suspicious glance at the youth, and
asked--

"Where is he?"

A mocking laugh was his answer.  The King was in a rage in a
moment; he seized a billet of wood and was in the act of charging
upon the youth when another mocking laugh fell upon his ear.  It
was from the lame ruffian who had been following at a distance.
The King turned and said angrily--

"Who art thou?  What is thy business here?"

"Leave thy foolery," said the man, "and quiet thyself.  My
disguise is none so good that thou canst pretend thou knowest not
thy father through it."

"Thou art not my father.  I know thee not.  I am the King.  If
thou hast hid my servant, find him for me, or thou shalt sup
sorrow for what thou hast done."

John Canty replied, in a stern and measured voice--

"It is plain thou art mad, and I am loath to punish thee;  but if
thou provoke me, I must.  Thy prating doth no harm here, where
there are no ears that need to mind thy follies; yet it is well to
practise thy tongue to wary speech, that it may do no hurt when
our quarters change.  I have done a murder, and may not tarry at
home--neither shalt thou, seeing I need thy service.  My name is
changed, for wise reasons; it is Hobbs--John Hobbs; thine is Jack-
-charge thy memory accordingly.  Now, then, speak.  Where is thy
mother?  Where are thy sisters?  They came not to the place
appointed--knowest thou whither they went?"

The King answered sullenly--

"Trouble me not with these riddles.  My mother is dead; my sisters
are in the palace."

The youth near by burst into a derisive laugh, and the King would
have assaulted him, but Canty--or Hobbs, as he now called himself-
-prevented him, and said--

"Peace, Hugo, vex him not; his mind is astray, and thy ways fret
him.  Sit thee down, Jack, and quiet thyself; thou shalt have a
morsel to eat, anon."

Hobbs and Hugo fell to talking together, in low voices, and the
King removed himself as far as he could from their disagreeable
company.  He withdrew into the twilight of the farther end of the
barn, where he found the earthen floor bedded a foot deep with
straw.  He lay down here, drew straw over himself in lieu of
blankets, and was soon absorbed in thinking.  He had many griefs,
but the minor ones were swept almost into forgetfulness by the
supreme one, the loss of his father.  To the rest of the world the
name of Henry VIII. brought a shiver, and suggested an ogre whose
nostrils breathed destruction and whose hand dealt scourgings and
death; but to this boy the name brought only sensations of
pleasure; the figure it invoked wore a countenance that was all
gentleness and affection.  He called to mind a long succession of
loving passages between his father and himself, and dwelt fondly
upon them, his unstinted tears attesting how deep and real was the
grief that possessed his heart.  As the afternoon wasted away, the
lad, wearied with his troubles, sank gradually into a tranquil and
healing slumber.

After a considerable time--he could not tell how long--his senses
struggled to a half-consciousness, and as he lay with closed eyes
vaguely wondering where he was and what had been happening, he
noted a murmurous sound, the sullen beating of rain upon the roof.
A snug sense of comfort stole over him, which was rudely broken,
the next moment, by a chorus of piping cackles and coarse
laughter.  It startled him disagreeably, and he unmuffled his head
to see whence this interruption proceeded.  A grim and unsightly
picture met his eye.  A bright fire was burning in the middle of
the floor, at the other end of the barn; and around it, and lit
weirdly up by the red glare, lolled and sprawled the motliest
company of tattered gutter-scum and ruffians, of both sexes, he
had ever read or dreamed of.  There were huge stalwart men, brown
with exposure, long-haired, and clothed in fantastic rags; there
were middle-sized youths, of truculent countenance, and similarly
clad; there were blind mendicants, with patched or bandaged eyes;
crippled ones, with wooden legs and crutches; diseased ones, with
running sores peeping from ineffectual wrappings; there was a
villain-looking pedlar with his pack; a knife-grinder, a tinker,
and a barber-surgeon, with the implements of their trades; some of
the females were hardly-grown girls, some were at prime, some were
old and wrinkled hags, and all were loud, brazen, foul-mouthed;
and all soiled and slatternly; there were three sore-faced babies;
there were a couple of starveling curs, with strings about their
necks, whose office was to lead the blind.

The night was come, the gang had just finished feasting, an orgy
was beginning; the can of liquor was passing from mouth to mouth.
A general cry broke forth--

"A song! a song from the Bat and Dick and Dot-and-go-One!"

One of the blind men got up, and made ready by casting aside the
patches that sheltered his excellent eyes, and the pathetic
placard which recited the cause of his calamity.  Dot-and-go-One
disencumbered himself of his timber leg and took his place, upon
sound and healthy limbs, beside his fellow-rascal; then they
roared out a rollicking ditty, and were reinforced by the whole
crew, at the end of each stanza, in a rousing chorus.  By the time
the last stanza was reached, the half-drunken enthusiasm had risen
to such a pitch, that everybody joined in and sang it clear
through from the beginning, producing a volume of villainous sound
that made the rafters quake.  These were the inspiring words:--

     'Bien Darkman's then, Bouse Mort and Ken,
      The bien Coves bings awast,
      On Chates to trine by Rome Coves dine
      For his long lib at last.
      Bing'd out bien Morts and toure, and toure,
      Bing out of the Rome vile bine,
      And toure the Cove that cloy'd your duds,
      Upon the Chates to trine.'
                           (From 'The English Rogue.' London,
1665.)

Conversation followed; not in the thieves' dialect of the song,
for that was only used in talk when unfriendly ears might be
listening.  In the course of it, it appeared that 'John Hobbs' was
not altogether a new recruit, but had trained in the gang at some
former time.  His later history was called for, and when he said
he had 'accidentally' killed a man, considerable satisfaction was
expressed; when he added that the man was a priest, he was roundly
applauded, and had to take a drink with everybody.  Old
acquaintances welcomed him joyously, and new ones were proud to
shake him by the hand.  He was asked why he had 'tarried away so
many months.'  He answered--

"London is better than the country, and safer, these late years,
the laws be so bitter and so diligently enforced.  An' I had not
had that accident, I had stayed there.  I had resolved to stay,
and never more venture country-wards--but the accident has ended
that."

He inquired how many persons the gang numbered now.  The
'ruffler,' or chief, answered--

"Five and twenty sturdy budges, bulks, files, clapperdogeons and
maunders, counting the dells and doxies and other morts. {7}  Most
are here, the rest are wandering eastward, along the winter lay.
We follow at dawn."

"I do not see the Wen among the honest folk about me.  Where may
he be?"

"Poor lad, his diet is brimstone, now, and over hot for a delicate
taste.  He was killed in a brawl, somewhere about midsummer."

"I sorrow to hear that; the Wen was a capable man, and brave."

"That was he, truly.  Black Bess, his dell, is of us yet, but
absent on the eastward tramp; a fine lass, of nice ways and
orderly conduct, none ever seeing her drunk above four days in the
seven."

"She was ever strict--I remember it well--a goodly wench and
worthy all commendation.  Her mother was more free and less
particular; a troublesome and ugly-tempered beldame, but furnished
with a wit above the common."

"We lost her through it.  Her gift of palmistry and other sorts of
fortune-telling begot for her at last a witch's name and fame.
The law roasted her to death at a slow fire.  It did touch me to a
sort of tenderness to see the gallant way she met her lot--cursing
and reviling all the crowd that gaped and gazed around her, whilst
the flames licked upward toward her face and catched her thin
locks and crackled about her old gray head--cursing them! why an'
thou should'st live a thousand years thoud'st never hear so
masterful a cursing.  Alack, her art died with her.  There be base
and weakling imitations left, but no true blasphemy."

The Ruffler sighed; the listeners sighed in sympathy; a general
depression fell upon the company for a moment, for even hardened
outcasts like these are not wholly dead to sentiment, but are able
to feel a fleeting sense of loss and affliction at wide intervals
and under peculiarly favouring circumstances--as in cases like to
this, for instance, when genius and culture depart and leave no
heir.  However, a deep drink all round soon restored the spirits
of the mourners.

"Have any others of our friends fared hardly?" asked Hobbs.

"Some--yes.  Particularly new comers--such as small husbandmen
turned shiftless and hungry upon the world because their farms
were taken from them to be changed to sheep ranges.  They begged,
and were whipped at the cart's tail, naked from the girdle up,
till the blood ran; then set in the stocks to be pelted; they
begged again, were whipped again, and deprived of an ear; they
begged a third time--poor devils, what else could they do?--and
were branded on the cheek with a red-hot iron, then sold for
slaves; they ran away, were hunted down, and hanged.  'Tis a brief
tale, and quickly told.  Others of us have fared less hardly.
Stand forth, Yokel, Burns, and Hodge--show your adornments!"

These stood up and stripped away some of their rags, exposing
their backs, criss-crossed with ropy old welts left by the lash;
one turned up his hair and showed the place where a left ear had
once been; another showed a brand upon his shoulder--the letter V-
-and a mutilated ear; the third said--

"I am Yokel, once a farmer and prosperous, with loving wife and
kids--now am I somewhat different in estate and calling; and the
wife and kids are gone; mayhap they are in heaven, mayhap in--in
the other place--but the kindly God be thanked, they bide no more
in ENGLAND!  My good old blameless mother strove to earn bread by
nursing the sick; one of these died, the doctors knew not how, so
my mother was burnt for a witch, whilst my babes looked on and
wailed.  English law!--up, all, with your cups!--now all together
and with a cheer!--drink to the merciful English law that
delivered HER from the English hell!  Thank you, mates, one and
all.  I begged, from house to house--I and the wife--bearing with
us the hungry kids--but it was crime to be hungry in England--so
they stripped us and lashed us through three towns.  Drink ye all
again to the merciful English law!--for its lash drank deep of my
Mary's blood and its blessed deliverance came quick.  She lies
there, in the potter's field, safe from all harms.  And the kids--
well, whilst the law lashed me from town to town, they starved.
Drink, lads--only a drop--a drop to the poor kids, that never did
any creature harm.  I begged again--begged, for a crust, and got
the stocks and lost an ear--see, here bides the stump; I begged
again, and here is the stump of the other to keep me minded of it.
And still I begged again, and was sold for a slave--here on my
cheek under this stain, if I washed it off, ye might see the red S
the branding-iron left there!  A SLAVE!  Do you understand that
word?  An English SLAVE!--that is he that stands before ye.  I
have run from my master, and when I am found--the heavy curse of
heaven fall on the law of the land that hath commanded it!--I
shall hang!" {1}

A ringing voice came through the murky air--

"Thou shalt NOT!--and this day the end of that law is come!"

All turned, and saw the fantastic figure of the little King
approaching hurriedly; as it emerged into the light and was
clearly revealed, a general explosion of inquiries broke out--

"Who is it?  WHAT is it?  Who art thou, manikin?"

The boy stood unconfused in the midst of all those surprised and
questioning eyes, and answered with princely dignity--

"I am Edward, King of England."

A wild burst of laughter followed, partly of derision and partly
of delight in the excellence of the joke.  The King was stung.  He
said sharply--

"Ye mannerless vagrants, is this your recognition of the royal
boon I have promised?"

He said more, with angry voice and excited gesture, but it was
lost in a whirlwind of laughter and mocking exclamations.  'John
Hobbs' made several attempts to make himself heard above the din,
and at last succeeded--saying--

"Mates, he is my son, a dreamer, a fool, and stark mad--mind him
not--he thinketh he IS the King."

"I AM the King," said Edward, turning toward him, "as thou shalt
know to thy cost, in good time.  Thou hast confessed a murder--
thou shalt swing for it."

"THOU'LT betray me?--THOU?  An' I get my hands upon thee--"

"Tut-tut!" said the burley Ruffler, interposing in time to save
the King, and emphasising this service by knocking Hobbs down with
his fist, "hast respect for neither Kings NOR Rufflers?  An' thou
insult my presence so again, I'll hang thee up myself."  Then he
said to his Majesty, "Thou must make no threats against thy mates,
lad; and thou must guard thy tongue from saying evil of them
elsewhere.  BE King, if it please thy mad humour, but be not
harmful in it.  Sink the title thou hast uttered--'tis treason; we
be bad men in some few trifling ways, but none among us is so base
as to be traitor to his King; we be loving and loyal hearts, in
that regard.  Note if I speak truth.  Now--all together:  'Long
live Edward, King of England!'"

"LONG LIVE EDWARD, KING OF ENGLAND!"

The response came with such a thundergust from the motley crew
that the crazy building vibrated to the sound.  The little King's
face lighted with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly
inclined his head, and said with grave simplicity--

"I thank you, my good people."

This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of
merriment.  When something like quiet was presently come again,
the Ruffler said, firmly, but with an accent of good nature--

"Drop it, boy, 'tis not wise, nor well.  Humour thy fancy, if thou
must, but choose some other title."

A tinker shrieked out a suggestion--

"Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!"

The title 'took,' at once, every throat responded, and a roaring
shout went up, of--

"Long live Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!" followed by
hootings, cat-calls, and peals of laughter.

"Hale him forth, and crown him!"

"Robe him!"

"Sceptre him!"

"Throne him!"

These and twenty other cries broke out at once! and almost before
the poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned with a
tin basin, robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a barrel, and
sceptred with the tinker's soldering-iron.  Then all flung
themselves upon their knees about him and sent up a chorus of
ironical wailings, and mocking supplications, whilst they swabbed
their eyes with their soiled and ragged sleeves and aprons--

"Be gracious to us, O sweet King!"

"Trample not upon thy beseeching worms, O noble Majesty!"

"Pity thy slaves, and comfort them with a royal kick!"

"Cheer us and warm us with thy gracious rays, O flaming sun of
sovereignty!"

"Sanctify the ground with the touch of thy foot, that we may eat
the dirt and be ennobled!"

"Deign to spit upon us, O Sire, that our children's children may
tell of thy princely condescension, and be proud and happy for
ever!"

But the humorous tinker made the 'hit' of the evening and carried
off the honours.  Kneeling, he pretended to kiss the King's foot,
and was indignantly spurned; whereupon he went about begging for a
rag to paste over the place upon his face which had been touched
by the foot, saying it must be preserved from contact with the
vulgar air, and that he should make his fortune by going on the
highway and exposing it to view at the rate of a hundred shillings
a sight.  He made himself so killingly funny that he was the envy
and admiration of the whole mangy rabble.

Tears of shame and indignation stood in the little monarch's eyes;
and the thought in his heart was, "Had I offered them a deep wrong
they could not be more cruel--yet have I proffered nought but to
do them a kindness--and it is thus they use me for it!"



Chapter XVIII. The Prince with the tramps.

The troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set forward
on their march.  There was a lowering sky overhead, sloppy ground
under foot, and a winter chill in the air.  All gaiety was gone
from the company; some were sullen and silent, some were irritable
and petulant, none were gentle-humoured, all were thirsty.

The Ruffler put 'Jack' in Hugo's charge, with some brief
instructions, and commanded John Canty to keep away from him and
let him alone; he also warned Hugo not to be too rough with the
lad.

After a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted
somewhat.  The troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to
improve.  They grew more and more cheerful, and finally began to
chaff each other and insult passengers along the highway.  This
showed that they were awaking to an appreciation of life and its
joys once more.  The dread in which their sort was held was
apparent in the fact that everybody gave them the road, and took
their ribald insolences meekly, without venturing to talk back.
They snatched linen from the hedges, occasionally in full view of
the owners, who made no protest, but only seemed grateful that
they did not take the hedges, too.

By-and-by they invaded a small farmhouse and made themselves at
home while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder
clean to furnish a breakfast for them.  They chucked the housewife
and her daughters under the chin whilst receiving the food from
their hands, and made coarse jests about them, accompanied with
insulting epithets and bursts of horse-laughter.  They threw bones
and vegetables at the farmer and his sons, kept them dodging all
the time, and applauded uproariously when a good hit was made.
They ended by buttering the head of one of the daughters who
resented some of their familiarities.  When they took their leave
they threatened to come back and burn the house over the heads of
the family if any report of their doings got to the ears of the
authorities.

About noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came to a halt
behind a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable village.  An
hour was allowed for rest, then the crew scattered themselves
abroad to enter the village at different points to ply their
various trades--'Jack' was sent with Hugo.  They wandered hither
and thither for some time, Hugo watching for opportunities to do a
stroke of business, but finding none--so he finally said--

"I see nought to steal; it is a paltry place.  Wherefore we will
beg."

"WE, forsooth!  Follow thy trade--it befits thee.  But _I_ will
not beg."

"Thou'lt not beg!" exclaimed Hugo, eyeing the King with surprise.
"Prithee, since when hast thou reformed?"

"What dost thou mean?"

"Mean?  Hast thou not begged the streets of London all thy life?"

"I?  Thou idiot!"

"Spare thy compliments--thy stock will last the longer.  Thy
father says thou hast begged all thy days.  Mayhap he lied.
Peradventure you will even make so bold as to SAY he lied,"
scoffed Hugo.

"Him YOU call my father?  Yes, he lied."

"Come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate; use it for
thy amusement, not thy hurt.  An' I tell him this, he will scorch
thee finely for it."

"Save thyself the trouble.  I will tell him."

"I like thy spirit, I do in truth; but I do not admire thy
judgment.  Bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in this life,
without going out of one's way to invite them.  But a truce to
these matters; _I_ believe your father.  I doubt not he can lie; I
doubt not he DOTH lie, upon occasion, for the best of us do that;
but there is no occasion here.  A wise man does not waste so good
a commodity as lying for nought.  But come; sith it is thy humour
to give over begging, wherewithal shall we busy ourselves?  With
robbing kitchens?"

The King said, impatiently--

"Have done with this folly--you weary me!"

Hugo replied, with temper--

"Now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so be it.
But I will tell you what you WILL do.  You will play decoy whilst
_I_ beg.  Refuse, an' you think you may venture!"

The King was about to reply contemptuously, when Hugo said,
interrupting--

"Peace!  Here comes one with a kindly face.  Now will I fall down
in a fit.  When the stranger runs to me, set you up a wail, and
fall upon your knees, seeming to weep; then cry out as all the
devils of misery were in your belly, and say, 'Oh, sir, it is my
poor afflicted brother, and we be friendless; o' God's name cast
through your merciful eyes one pitiful look upon a sick, forsaken,
and most miserable wretch; bestow one little penny out of thy
riches upon one smitten of God and ready to perish!'--and mind
you, keep you ON wailing, and abate not till we bilk him of his
penny, else shall you rue it."

Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes,
and reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at
hand, down he sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to
writhe and wallow in the dirt, in seeming agony.

"O, dear, O dear!" cried the benevolent stranger, "O poor soul,
poor soul, how he doth suffer!  There--let me help thee up."

"O noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely gentleman--
but it giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am taken so.  My
brother there will tell your worship how I am racked with anguish
when these fits be upon me.  A penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a
little food; then leave me to my sorrows."

"A penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless creature"--and he
fumbled in his pocket with nervous haste and got them out.
"There, poor lad, take them and most welcome.  Now come hither, my
boy, and help me carry thy stricken brother to yon house, where--"

"I am not his brother," said the King, interrupting.

"What! not his brother?"

"Oh, hear him!" groaned Hugo, then privately ground his teeth.
"He denies his own brother--and he with one foot in the grave!"

"Boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy brother.  For
shame!--and he scarce able to move hand or foot.  If he is not thy
brother, who is he, then?"

"A beggar and a thief!  He has got your money and has picked your
pocket likewise.  An' thou would'st do a healing miracle, lay thy
staff over his shoulders and trust Providence for the rest."

But Hugo did not tarry for the miracle.  In a moment he was up and
off like the wind, the gentleman following after and raising the
hue and cry lustily as he went.  The King, breathing deep
gratitude to Heaven for his own release, fled in the opposite
direction, and did not slacken his pace until he was out of harm's
reach.  He took the first road that offered, and soon put the
village behind him.  He hurried along, as briskly as he could,
during several hours, keeping a nervous watch over his shoulder
for pursuit; but his fears left him at last, and a grateful sense
of security took their place.  He recognised, now, that he was
hungry, and also very tired.  So he halted at a farmhouse; but
when he was about to speak, he was cut short and driven rudely
away.  His clothes were against him.

He wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved to put
himself in the way of like treatment no more.  But hunger is
pride's master; so, as the evening drew near, he made an attempt
at another farmhouse; but here he fared worse than before; for he
was called hard names and was promised arrest as a vagrant except
he moved on promptly.

The night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the footsore
monarch laboured slowly on.  He was obliged to keep moving, for
every time he sat down to rest he was soon penetrated to the bone
with the cold.  All his sensations and experiences, as he moved
through the solemn gloom and the empty vastness of the night, were
new and strange to him.  At intervals he heard voices approach,
pass by, and fade into silence; and as he saw nothing more of the
bodies they belonged to than a sort of formless drifting blur,
there was something spectral and uncanny about it all that made
him shudder.  Occasionally he caught the twinkle of a light--
always far away, apparently--almost in another world; if he heard
the tinkle of a sheep's bell, it was vague, distant, indistinct;
the muffled lowing of the herds floated to him on the night wind
in vanishing cadences, a mournful sound; now and then came the
complaining howl of a dog over viewless expanses of field and
forest; all sounds were remote; they made the little King feel
that all life and activity were far removed from him, and that he
stood solitary, companionless, in the centre of a measureless
solitude.

He stumbled along, through the gruesome fascinations of this new
experience, startled occasionally by the soft rustling of the dry
leaves overhead, so like human whispers they seemed to sound; and
by-and-by he came suddenly upon the freckled light of a tin
lantern near at hand.  He stepped back into the shadows and
waited.  The lantern stood by the open door of a barn.  The King
waited some time--there was no sound, and nobody stirring.  He got
so cold, standing still, and the hospitable barn looked so
enticing, that at last he resolved to risk everything and enter.
He started swiftly and stealthily, and just as he was crossing the
threshold he heard voices behind him.  He darted behind a cask,
within the barn, and stooped down.  Two farm-labourers came in,
bringing the lantern with them, and fell to work, talking
meanwhile.  Whilst they moved about with the light, the King made
good use of his eyes and took the bearings of what seemed to be a
good-sized stall at the further end of the place, purposing to
grope his way to it when he should be left to himself.  He also
noted the position of a pile of horse blankets, midway of the
route, with the intent to levy upon them for the service of the
crown of England for one night.

By-and-by the men finished and went away, fastening the door
behind them and taking the lantern with them.  The shivering King
made for the blankets, with as good speed as the darkness would
allow; gathered them up, and then groped his way safely to the
stall.  Of two of the blankets he made a bed, then covered himself
with the remaining two.  He was a glad monarch, now, though the
blankets were old and thin, and not quite warm enough; and besides
gave out a pungent horsey odour that was almost suffocatingly
powerful.

Although the King was hungry and chilly, he was also so tired and
so drowsy that these latter influences soon began to get the
advantage of the former, and he presently dozed off into a state
of semi-consciousness.  Then, just as he was on the point of
losing himself wholly, he distinctly felt something touch him!  He
was broad awake in a moment, and gasping for breath.  The cold
horror of that mysterious touch in the dark almost made his heart
stand still.  He lay motionless, and listened, scarcely breathing.
But nothing stirred, and there was no sound.  He continued to
listen, and wait, during what seemed a long time, but still
nothing stirred, and there was no sound.  So he began to drop into
a drowse once more, at last; and all at once he felt that
mysterious touch again!  It was a grisly thing, this light touch
from this noiseless and invisible presence; it made the boy sick
with ghostly fears.  What should he do?  That was the question;
but he did not know how to answer it.  Should he leave these
reasonably comfortable quarters and fly from this inscrutable
horror?  But fly whither?  He could not get out of the barn; and
the idea of scurrying blindly hither and thither in the dark,
within the captivity of the four walls, with this phantom gliding
after him, and visiting him with that soft hideous touch upon
cheek or shoulder at every turn, was intolerable.  But to stay
where he was, and endure this living death all night--was that
better?  No.  What, then, was there left to do?  Ah, there was but
one course; he knew it well--he must put out his hand and find
that thing!

It was easy to think this; but it was hard to brace himself up to
try it.  Three times he stretched his hand a little way out into
the dark, gingerly; and snatched it suddenly back, with a gasp--
not because it had encountered anything, but because he had felt
so sure it was just GOING to.  But the fourth time, he groped a
little further, and his hand lightly swept against something soft
and warm.  This petrified him, nearly, with fright; his mind was
in such a state that he could imagine the thing to be nothing else
than a corpse, newly dead and still warm.  He thought he would
rather die than touch it again.  But he thought this false thought
because he did not know the immortal strength of human curiosity.
In no long time his hand was tremblingly groping again--against
his judgment, and without his consent--but groping persistently
on, just the same.  It encountered a bunch of long hair; he
shuddered, but followed up the hair and found what seemed to be a
warm rope; followed up the rope and found an innocent calf!--for
the rope was not a rope at all, but the calf's tail.

The King was cordially ashamed of himself for having gotten all
that fright and misery out of so paltry a matter as a slumbering
calf; but he need not have felt so about it, for it was not the
calf that frightened him, but a dreadful non-existent something
which the calf stood for; and any other boy, in those old
superstitious times, would have acted and suffered just as he had
done.

The King was not only delighted to find that the creature was only
a calf, but delighted to have the calf's company; for he had been
feeling so lonesome and friendless that the company and
comradeship of even this humble animal were welcome.  And he had
been so buffeted, so rudely entreated by his own kind, that it was
a real comfort to him to feel that he was at last in the society
of a fellow-creature that had at least a soft heart and a gentle
spirit, whatever loftier attributes might be lacking.  So he
resolved to waive rank and make friends with the calf.

While stroking its sleek warm back--for it lay near him and within
easy reach--it occurred to him that this calf might be utilised in
more ways than one.  Whereupon he re-arranged his bed, spreading
it down close to the calf; then he cuddled himself up to the
calf's back, drew the covers up over himself and his friend, and
in a minute or two was as warm and comfortable as he had ever been
in the downy couches of the regal palace of Westminster.

Pleasant thoughts came at once; life took on a cheerfuller
seeming.  He was free of the bonds of servitude and crime, free of
the companionship of base and brutal outlaws; he was warm; he was
sheltered; in a word, he was happy.  The night wind was rising; it
swept by in fitful gusts that made the old barn quake and rattle,
then its forces died down at intervals, and went moaning and
wailing around corners and projections--but it was all music to
the King, now that he was snug and comfortable:  let it blow and
rage, let it batter and bang, let it moan and wail, he minded it
not, he only enjoyed it.  He merely snuggled the closer to his
friend, in a luxury of warm contentment, and drifted blissfully
out of consciousness into a deep and dreamless sleep that was full
of serenity and peace.  The distant dogs howled, the melancholy
kine complained, and the winds went on raging, whilst furious
sheets of rain drove along the roof; but the Majesty of England
slept on, undisturbed, and the calf did the same, it being a
simple creature, and not easily troubled by storms or embarrassed
by sleeping with a king.



Chapter XIX. The Prince with the peasants.

When the King awoke in the early morning, he found that a wet but
thoughtful rat had crept into the place during the night and made
a cosy bed for itself in his bosom.  Being disturbed now, it
scampered away.  The boy smiled, and said, "Poor fool, why so
fearful?  I am as forlorn as thou.  'Twould be a sham in me to
hurt the helpless, who am myself so helpless.  Moreover, I owe you
thanks for a good omen; for when a king has fallen so low that the
very rats do make a bed of him, it surely meaneth that his
fortunes be upon the turn, since it is plain he can no lower go."

He got up and stepped out of the stall, and just then he heard the
sound of children's voices.  The barn door opened and a couple of
little girls came in.  As soon as they saw him their talking and
laughing ceased, and they stopped and stood still, gazing at him
with strong curiosity; they presently began to whisper together,
then they approached nearer, and stopped again to gaze and
whisper.  By-and-by they gathered courage and began to discuss him
aloud.  One said--

"He hath a comely face."

The other added--

"And pretty hair."

"But is ill clothed enow."

"And how starved he looketh."

They came still nearer, sidling shyly around and about him,
examining him minutely from all points, as if he were some strange
new kind of animal, but warily and watchfully the while, as if
they half feared he might be a sort of animal that would bite,
upon occasion.  Finally they halted before him, holding each
other's hands for protection, and took a good satisfying stare
with their innocent eyes; then one of them plucked up all her
courage and inquired with honest directness--

"Who art thou, boy?"

"I am the King," was the grave answer.

The children gave a little start, and their eyes spread themselves
wide open and remained so during a speechless half minute.  Then
curiosity broke the silence--

"The KING?  What King?"

"The King of England."

The children looked at each other--then at him--then at each other
again--wonderingly, perplexedly; then one said--

"Didst hear him, Margery?--he said he is the King.  Can that be
true?"

"How can it be else but true, Prissy?  Would he say a lie?  For
look you, Prissy, an' it were not true, it WOULD be a lie.  It
surely would be.  Now think on't.  For all things that be not
true, be lies--thou canst make nought else out of it."

It was a good tight argument, without a leak in it anywhere; and
it left Prissy's half-doubts not a leg to stand on.  She
considered a moment, then put the King upon his honour with the
simple remark--

"If thou art truly the King, then I believe thee."

"I am truly the King."

This settled the matter.  His Majesty's royalty was accepted
without further question or discussion, and the two little girls
began at once to inquire into how he came to be where he was, and
how he came to be so unroyally clad, and whither he was bound, and
all about his affairs.  It was a mighty relief to him to pour out
his troubles where they would not be scoffed at or doubted; so he
told his tale with feeling, forgetting even his hunger for the
time; and it was received with the deepest and tenderest sympathy
by the gentle little maids.  But when he got down to his latest
experiences and they learned how long he had been without food,
they cut him short and hurried him away to the farmhouse to find a
breakfast for him.

The King was cheerful and happy now, and said to himself, "When I
am come to mine own again, I will always honour little children,
remembering how that these trusted me and believed in me in my
time of trouble; whilst they that were older, and thought
themselves wiser, mocked at me and held me for a liar."

The children's mother received the King kindly, and was full of
pity; for his forlorn condition and apparently crazed intellect
touched her womanly heart.  She was a widow, and rather poor;
consequently she had seen trouble enough to enable her to feel for
the unfortunate.  She imagined that the demented boy had wandered
away from his friends or keepers; so she tried to find out whence
he had come, in order that she might take measures to return him;
but all her references to neighbouring towns and villages, and all
her inquiries in the same line went for nothing--the boy's face,
and his answers, too, showed that the things she was talking of
were not familiar to him.  He spoke earnestly and simply about
court matters, and broke down, more than once, when speaking of
the late King 'his father'; but whenever the conversation changed
to baser topics, he lost interest and became silent.

The woman was mightily puzzled; but she did not give up.  As she
proceeded with her cooking, she set herself to contriving devices
to surprise the boy into betraying his real secret.  She talked
about cattle--he showed no concern; then about sheep--the same
result:  so her guess that he had been a shepherd boy was an
error; she talked about mills; and about weavers, tinkers, smiths,
trades and tradesmen of all sorts; and about Bedlam, and jails,
and charitable retreats:  but no matter, she was baffled at all
points.  Not altogether, either; for she argued that she had
narrowed the thing down to domestic service.  Yes, she was sure
she was on the right track, now; he must have been a house
servant.  So she led up to that.  But the result was discouraging.
The subject of sweeping appeared to weary him; fire-building
failed to stir him; scrubbing and scouring awoke no enthusiasm.
The goodwife touched, with a perishing hope, and rather as a
matter of form, upon the subject of cooking.  To her surprise, and
her vast delight, the King's face lighted at once!  Ah, she had
hunted him down at last, she thought; and she was right proud,
too, of the devious shrewdness and tact which had accomplished it.

Her tired tongue got a chance to rest, now; for the King's,
inspired by gnawing hunger and the fragrant smells that came from
the sputtering pots and pans, turned itself loose and delivered
itself up to such an eloquent dissertation upon certain toothsome
dishes, that within three minutes the woman said to herself, "Of a
truth I was right--he hath holpen in a kitchen!"  Then he
broadened his bill of fare, and discussed it with such
appreciation and animation, that the goodwife said to herself,
"Good lack! how can he know so many dishes, and so fine ones
withal?  For these belong only upon the tables of the rich and
great.  Ah, now I see! ragged outcast as he is, he must have
served in the palace before his reason went astray; yes, he must
have helped in the very kitchen of the King himself!  I will test
him."

Full of eagerness to prove her sagacity, she told the King to mind
the cooking a moment--hinting that he might manufacture and add a
dish or two, if he chose; then she went out of the room and gave
her children a sign to follow after.  The King muttered--

"Another English king had a commission like to this, in a bygone
time--it is nothing against my dignity to undertake an office
which the great Alfred stooped to assume.  But I will try to
better serve my trust than he; for he let the cakes burn."

The intent was good, but the performance was not answerable to it,
for this King, like the other one, soon fell into deep thinkings
concerning his vast affairs, and the same calamity resulted--the
cookery got burned.  The woman returned in time to save the
breakfast from entire destruction; and she promptly brought the
King out of his dreams with a brisk and cordial tongue-lashing.
Then, seeing how troubled he was over his violated trust, she
softened at once, and was all goodness and gentleness toward him.

The boy made a hearty and satisfying meal, and was greatly
refreshed and gladdened by it.  It was a meal which was
distinguished by this curious feature, that rank was waived on
both sides; yet neither recipient of the favour was aware that it
had been extended.  The goodwife had intended to feed this young
tramp with broken victuals in a corner, like any other tramp or
like a dog; but she was so remorseful for the scolding she had
given him, that she did what she could to atone for it by allowing
him to sit at the family table and eat with his betters, on
ostensible terms of equality with them; and the King, on his side,
was so remorseful for having broken his trust, after the family
had been so kind to him, that he forced himself to atone for it by
humbling himself to the family level, instead of requiring the
woman and her children to stand and wait upon him, while he
occupied their table in the solitary state due to his birth and
dignity.  It does us all good to unbend sometimes.  This good
woman was made happy all the day long by the applauses which she
got out of herself for her magnanimous condescension to a tramp;
and the King was just as self-complacent over his gracious
humility toward a humble peasant woman.

When breakfast was over, the housewife told the King to wash up
the dishes.  This command was a staggerer, for a moment, and the
King came near rebelling; but then he said to himself, "Alfred the
Great watched the cakes; doubtless he would have washed the dishes
too--therefore will I essay it."

He made a sufficiently poor job of it; and to his surprise too,
for the cleaning of wooden spoons and trenchers had seemed an easy
thing to do.  It was a tedious and troublesome piece of work, but
he finished it at last.  He was becoming impatient to get away on
his journey now; however, he was not to lose this thrifty dame's
society so easily.  She furnished him some little odds and ends of
employment, which he got through with after a fair fashion and
with some credit.  Then she set him and the little girls to paring
some winter apples; but he was so awkward at this service that she
retired him from it and gave him a butcher knife to grind.
Afterwards she kept him carding wool until he began to think he
had laid the good King Alfred about far enough in the shade for
the present in the matter of showy menial heroisms that would read
picturesquely in story-books and histories, and so he was half-
minded to resign.  And when, just after the noonday dinner, the
goodwife gave him a basket of kittens to drown, he did resign.  At
least he was just going to resign--for he felt that he must draw
the line somewhere, and it seemed to him that to draw it at
kitten-drowning was about the right thing--when there was an
interruption.  The interruption was John Canty--with a peddler's
pack on his back--and Hugo.

The King discovered these rascals approaching the front gate
before they had had a chance to see him; so he said nothing about
drawing the line, but took up his basket of kittens and stepped
quietly out the back way, without a word.  He left the creatures
in an out-house, and hurried on, into a narrow lane at the rear.



Chapter XX. The Prince and the hermit.

The high hedge hid him from the house, now; and so, under the
impulse of a deadly fright, he let out all his forces and sped
toward a wood in the distance.  He never looked back until he had
almost gained the shelter of the forest; then he turned and
descried two figures in the distance.  That was sufficient; he did
not wait to scan them critically, but hurried on, and never abated
his pace till he was far within the twilight depths of the wood.
Then he stopped; being persuaded that he was now tolerably safe.
He listened intently, but the stillness was profound and solemn--
awful, even, and depressing to the spirits.  At wide intervals his
straining ear did detect sounds, but they were so remote, and
hollow, and mysterious, that they seemed not to be real sounds,
but only the moaning and complaining ghosts of departed ones.  So
the sounds were yet more dreary than the silence which they
interrupted.

It was his purpose, in the beginning, to stay where he was the
rest of the day; but a chill soon invaded his perspiring body, and
he was at last obliged to resume movement in order to get warm.
He struck straight through the forest, hoping to pierce to a road
presently, but he was disappointed in this.  He travelled on and
on; but the farther he went, the denser the wood became,
apparently.  The gloom began to thicken, by-and-by, and the King
realised that the night was coming on.  It made him shudder to
think of spending it in such an uncanny place; so he tried to
hurry faster, but he only made the less speed, for he could not
now see well enough to choose his steps judiciously; consequently
he kept tripping over roots and tangling himself in vines and
briers.

And how glad he was when at last he caught the glimmer of a light!
He approached it warily, stopping often to look about him and
listen.  It came from an unglazed window-opening in a shabby
little hut.  He heard a voice, now, and felt a disposition to run
and hide; but he changed his mind at once, for this voice was
praying, evidently.  He glided to the one window of the hut,
raised himself on tiptoe, and stole a glance within.  The room was
small; its floor was the natural earth, beaten hard by use; in a
corner was a bed of rushes and a ragged blanket or two; near it
was a pail, a cup, a basin, and two or three pots and pans; there
was a short bench and a three-legged stool; on the hearth the
remains of a faggot fire were smouldering; before a shrine, which
was lighted by a single candle, knelt an aged man, and on an old
wooden box at his side lay an open book and a human skull.  The
man was of large, bony frame; his hair and whiskers were very long
and snowy white; he was clothed in a robe of sheepskins which
reached from his neck to his heels.

"A holy hermit!" said the King to himself; "now am I indeed
fortunate."

The hermit rose from his knees; the King knocked.  A deep voice
responded--

"Enter!--but leave sin behind, for the ground whereon thou shalt
stand is holy!"

The King entered, and paused.  The hermit turned a pair of
gleaming, unrestful eyes upon him, and said--

"Who art thou?"

"I am the King," came the answer, with placid simplicity.

"Welcome, King!" cried the hermit, with enthusiasm.  Then,
bustling about with feverish activity, and constantly saying,
"Welcome, welcome," he arranged his bench, seated the King on it,
by the hearth, threw some faggots on the fire, and finally fell to
pacing the floor with a nervous stride.

"Welcome!  Many have sought sanctuary here, but they were not
worthy, and were turned away.  But a King who casts his crown
away, and despises the vain splendours of his office, and clothes
his body in rags, to devote his life to holiness and the
mortification of the flesh--he is worthy, he is welcome!--here
shall he abide all his days till death come."  The King hastened
to interrupt and explain, but the hermit paid no attention to him-
-did not even hear him, apparently, but went right on with his
talk, with a raised voice and a growing energy.  "And thou shalt
be at peace here.  None shall find out thy refuge to disquiet thee
with supplications to return to that empty and foolish life which
God hath moved thee to abandon.  Thou shalt pray here; thou shalt
study the Book; thou shalt meditate upon the follies and delusions
of this world, and upon the sublimities of the world to come; thou
shalt feed upon crusts and herbs, and scourge thy body with whips,
daily, to the purifying of thy soul.  Thou shalt wear a hair shirt
next thy skin; thou shalt drink water only; and thou shalt be at
peace; yes, wholly at peace; for whoso comes to seek thee shall go
his way again, baffled; he shall not find thee, he shall not
molest thee."

The old man, still pacing back and forth, ceased to speak aloud,
and began to mutter.  The King seized this opportunity to state
his case; and he did it with an eloquence inspired by uneasiness
and apprehension.  But the hermit went on muttering, and gave no
heed.  And still muttering, he approached the King and said
impressively--

"'Sh!  I will tell you a secret!"  He bent down to impart it, but
checked himself, and assumed a listening attitude.  After a moment
or two he went on tiptoe to the window-opening, put his head out,
and peered around in the gloaming, then came tiptoeing back again,
put his face close down to the King's, and whispered--

"I am an archangel!"

The King started violently, and said to himself, "Would God I were
with the outlaws again; for lo, now am I the prisoner of a
madman!"  His apprehensions were heightened, and they showed
plainly in his face.  In a low excited voice the hermit continued-
-

"I see you feel my atmosphere!  There's awe in your face!  None
may be in this atmosphere and not be thus affected; for it is the
very atmosphere of heaven.  I go thither and return, in the
twinkling of an eye.  I was made an archangel on this very spot,
it is five years ago, by angels sent from heaven to confer that
awful dignity.  Their presence filled this place with an
intolerable brightness.  And they knelt to me, King! yes, they
knelt to me! for I was greater than they.  I have walked in the
courts of heaven, and held speech with the patriarchs.  Touch my
hand--be not afraid--touch it.  There--now thou hast touched a
hand which has been clasped by Abraham and Isaac and Jacob!  For I
have walked in the golden courts; I have seen the Deity face to
face!"  He paused, to give this speech effect; then his face
suddenly changed, and he started to his feet again saying, with
angry energy, "Yes, I am an archangel; A MERE ARCHANGEL!--I that
might have been pope!  It is verily true.  I was told it from
heaven in a dream, twenty years ago; ah, yes, I was to be pope!--
and I SHOULD have been pope, for Heaven had said it--but the King
dissolved my religious house, and I, poor obscure unfriended monk,
was cast homeless upon the world, robbed of my mighty destiny!"
Here he began to mumble again, and beat his forehead in futile
rage, with his fist; now and then articulating a venomous curse,
and now and then a pathetic "Wherefore I am nought but an
archangel--I that should have been pope!"

So he went on, for an hour, whilst the poor little King sat and
suffered.  Then all at once the old man's frenzy departed, and he
became all gentleness.  His voice softened, he came down out of
his clouds, and fell to prattling along so simply and so humanly,
that he soon won the King's heart completely.  The old devotee
moved the boy nearer to the fire and made him comfortable;
doctored his small bruises and abrasions with a deft and tender
hand; and then set about preparing and cooking a supper--chatting
pleasantly all the time, and occasionally stroking the lad's cheek
or patting his head, in such a gently caressing way that in a
little while all the fear and repulsion inspired by the archangel
were changed to reverence and affection for the man.

This happy state of things continued while the two ate the supper;
then, after a prayer before the shrine, the hermit put the boy to
bed, in a small adjoining room, tucking him in as snugly and
lovingly as a mother might; and so, with a parting caress, left
him and sat down by the fire, and began to poke the brands about
in an absent and aimless way.  Presently he paused; then tapped
his forehead several times with his fingers, as if trying to
recall some thought which had escaped from his mind.  Apparently
he was unsuccessful.  Now he started quickly up, and entered his
guest's room, and said--

"Thou art King?"

"Yes," was the response, drowsily uttered.

"What King?"

"Of England."

"Of England?  Then Henry is gone!"

"Alack, it is so.  I am his son."

A black frown settled down upon the hermit's face, and he clenched
his bony hands with a vindictive energy.  He stood a few moments,
breathing fast and swallowing repeatedly, then said in a husky
voice--

"Dost know it was he that turned us out into the world houseless
and homeless?"

There was no response.  The old man bent down and scanned the
boy's reposeful face and listened to his placid breathing.  "He
sleeps--sleeps soundly;" and the frown vanished away and gave
place to an expression of evil satisfaction.  A smile flitted
across the dreaming boy's features.  The hermit muttered, "So--his
heart is happy;" and he turned away.  He went stealthily about the
place, seeking here and there for something; now and then halting
to listen, now and then jerking his head around and casting a
quick glance toward the bed; and always muttering, always mumbling
to himself.  At last he found what he seemed to want--a rusty old
butcher knife and a whetstone.  Then he crept to his place by the
fire, sat himself down, and began to whet the knife softly on the
stone, still muttering, mumbling, ejaculating.  The winds sighed
around the lonely place, the mysterious voices of the night
floated by out of the distances.  The shining eyes of venturesome
mice and rats peered out at the old man from cracks and coverts,
but he went on with his work, rapt, absorbed, and noted none of
these things.

At long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his knife,
and nodded his head with satisfaction.  "It grows sharper," he
said; "yes, it grows sharper."

He took no note of the flight of time, but worked tranquilly on,
entertaining himself with his thoughts, which broke out
occasionally in articulate speech--

"His father wrought us evil, he destroyed us--and is gone down
into the eternal fires!  Yes, down into the eternal fires!  He
escaped us--but it was God's will, yes it was God's will, we must
not repine.  But he hath not escaped the fires!  No, he hath not
escaped the fires, the consuming, unpitying, remorseless fires--
and THEY are everlasting!"

And so he wrought, and still wrought--mumbling, chuckling a low
rasping chuckle at times--and at times breaking again into words--

"It was his father that did it all.  I am but an archangel; but
for him I should be pope!"

The King stirred.  The hermit sprang noiselessly to the bedside,
and went down upon his knees, bending over the prostrate form with
his knife uplifted.  The boy stirred again; his eyes came open for
an instant, but there was no speculation in them, they saw
nothing; the next moment his tranquil breathing showed that his
sleep was sound once more.

The hermit watched and listened, for a time, keeping his position
and scarcely breathing; then he slowly lowered his arms, and
presently crept away, saying,--

"It is long past midnight; it is not best that he should cry out,
lest by accident someone be passing."

He glided about his hovel, gathering a rag here, a thong there,
and another one yonder; then he returned, and by careful and
gentle handling he managed to tie the King's ankles together
without waking him.  Next he essayed to tie the wrists; he made
several attempts to cross them, but the boy always drew one hand
or the other away, just as the cord was ready to be applied; but
at last, when the archangel was almost ready to despair, the boy
crossed his hands himself, and the next moment they were bound.
Now a bandage was passed under the sleeper's chin and brought up
over his head and tied fast--and so softly, so gradually, and so
deftly were the knots drawn together and compacted, that the boy
slept peacefully through it all without stirring.



Chapter XXI. Hendon to the rescue.

The old man glided away, stooping, stealthy, cat-like, and brought
the low bench.  He seated himself upon it, half his body in the
dim and flickering light, and the other half in shadow; and so,
with his craving eyes bent upon the slumbering boy, he kept his
patient vigil there, heedless of the drift of time, and softly
whetted his knife, and mumbled and chuckled; and in aspect and
attitude he resembled nothing so much as a grizzly, monstrous
spider, gloating over some hapless insect that lay bound and
helpless in his web.

After a long while, the old man, who was still gazing,--yet not
seeing, his mind having settled into a dreamy abstraction,--
observed, on a sudden, that the boy's eyes were open! wide open
and staring!--staring up in frozen horror at the knife.  The smile
of a gratified devil crept over the old man's face, and he said,
without changing his attitude or his occupation--

"Son of Henry the Eighth, hast thou prayed?"

The boy struggled helplessly in his bonds, and at the same time
forced a smothered sound through his closed jaws, which the hermit
chose to interpret as an affirmative answer to his question.

"Then pray again.  Pray the prayer for the dying!"

A shudder shook the boy's frame, and his face blenched.  Then he
struggled again to free himself--turning and twisting himself this
way and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately--but
uselessly--to burst his fetters; and all the while the old ogre
smiled down upon him, and nodded his head, and placidly whetted
his knife; mumbling, from time to time, "The moments are precious,
they are few and precious--pray the prayer for the dying!"

The boy uttered a despairing groan, and ceased from his struggles,
panting.  The tears came, then, and trickled, one after the other,
down his face; but this piteous sight wrought no softening effect
upon the savage old man.

The dawn was coming now; the hermit observed it, and spoke up
sharply, with a touch of nervous apprehension in his voice--

"I may not indulge this ecstasy longer!  The night is already
gone.  It seems but a moment--only a moment; would it had endured
a year!  Seed of the Church's spoiler, close thy perishing eyes,
an' thou fearest to look upon--"

The rest was lost in inarticulate mutterings.  The old man sank
upon his knees, his knife in his hand, and bent himself over the
moaning boy.

Hark!  There was a sound of voices near the cabin--the knife
dropped from the hermit's hand; he cast a sheepskin over the boy
and started up, trembling.  The sounds increased, and presently
the voices became rough and angry; then came blows, and cries for
help; then a clatter of swift footsteps, retreating.  Immediately
came a succession of thundering knocks upon the cabin door,
followed by--

"Hullo-o-o!  Open!  And despatch, in the name of all the devils!"

Oh, this was the blessedest sound that had ever made music in the
King's ears; for it was Miles Hendon's voice!

The hermit, grinding his teeth in impotent rage, moved swiftly out
of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him; and straightway
the King heard a talk, to this effect, proceeding from the
'chapel':--

"Homage and greeting, reverend sir!  Where is the boy--MY boy?"

"What boy, friend?"

"What boy!  Lie me no lies, sir priest, play me no deceptions!--I
am not in the humour for it.  Near to this place I caught the
scoundrels who I judged did steal him from me, and I made them
confess; they said he was at large again, and they had tracked him
to your door.  They showed me his very footprints.  Now palter no
more; for look you, holy sir, an' thou produce him not--Where is
the boy?"

"O good sir, peradventure you mean the ragged regal vagrant that
tarried here the night.  If such as you take an interest in such
as he, know, then, that I have sent him of an errand.  He will be
back anon."

"How soon?  How soon?  Come, waste not the time--cannot I overtake
him?  How soon will he be back?"

"Thou need'st not stir; he will return quickly."

"So be it, then.  I will try to wait.  But stop!--YOU sent him of
an errand?--you!  Verily this is a lie--he would not go.  He would
pull thy old beard, an' thou didst offer him such an insolence.
Thou hast lied, friend; thou hast surely lied!  He would not go
for thee, nor for any man."

"For any MAN--no; haply not.  But I am not a man."

"WHAT!  Now o' God's name what art thou, then?"

"It is a secret--mark thou reveal it not.  I am an archangel!"

There was a tremendous ejaculation from Miles Hendon--not
altogether unprofane--followed by--

"This doth well and truly account for his complaisance!  Right
well I knew he would budge nor hand nor foot in the menial service
of any mortal; but, lord, even a king must obey when an archangel
gives the word o' command!  Let me--'sh!  What noise was that?"

All this while the little King had been yonder, alternately
quaking with terror and trembling with hope; and all the while,
too, he had thrown all the strength he could into his anguished
moanings, constantly expecting them to reach Hendon's ear, but
always realising, with bitterness, that they failed, or at least
made no impression.  So this last remark of his servant came as
comes a reviving breath from fresh fields to the dying; and he
exerted himself once more, and with all his energy, just as the
hermit was saying--

"Noise?  I heard only the wind."

"Mayhap it was.  Yes, doubtless that was it.  I have been hearing
it faintly all the--there it is again!  It is not the wind!  What
an odd sound!  Come, we will hunt it out!"

Now the King's joy was nearly insupportable.  His tired lungs did
their utmost--and hopefully, too--but the sealed jaws and the
muffling sheepskin sadly crippled the effort.  Then the poor
fellow's heart sank, to hear the hermit say--

"Ah, it came from without--I think from the copse yonder.  Come, I
will lead the way."

The King heard the two pass out, talking; heard their footsteps
die quickly away--then he was alone with a boding, brooding, awful
silence.

It seemed an age till he heard the steps and voices approaching
again--and this time he heard an added sound,--the trampling of
hoofs, apparently.  Then he heard Hendon say--

"I will not wait longer.  I CANNOT wait longer.  He has lost his
way in this thick wood.  Which direction took he?  Quick--point it
out to me."

"He--but wait; I will go with thee."

"Good--good!  Why, truly thou art better than thy looks.  Marry I
do not think there's not another archangel with so right a heart
as thine.  Wilt ride?  Wilt take the wee donkey that's for my boy,
or wilt thou fork thy holy legs over this ill-conditioned slave of
a mule that I have provided for myself?--and had been cheated in
too, had he cost but the indifferent sum of a month's usury on a
brass farthing let to a tinker out of work."

"No--ride thy mule, and lead thine ass; I am surer on mine own
feet, and will walk."

"Then prithee mind the little beast for me while I take my life in
my hands and make what success I may toward mounting the big one."

Then followed a confusion of kicks, cuffs, tramplings and
plungings, accompanied by a thunderous intermingling of volleyed
curses, and finally a bitter apostrophe to the mule, which must
have broken its spirit, for hostilities seemed to cease from that
moment.

With unutterable misery the fettered little King heard the voices
and footsteps fade away and die out.  All hope forsook him, now,
for the moment, and a dull despair settled down upon his heart.
"My only friend is deceived and got rid of," he said; "the hermit
will return and--"  He finished with a gasp; and at once fell to
struggling so frantically with his bonds again, that he shook off
the smothering sheepskin.

And now he heard the door open!  The sound chilled him to the
marrow--already he seemed to feel the knife at his throat.  Horror
made him close his eyes; horror made him open them again--and
before him stood John Canty and Hugo!

He would have said "Thank God!" if his jaws had been free.

A moment or two later his limbs were at liberty, and his captors,
each gripping him by an arm, were hurrying him with all speed
through the forest.



Chapter XXII. A victim of treachery.

Once more 'King Foo-foo the First' was roving with the tramps and
outlaws, a butt for their coarse jests and dull-witted railleries,
and sometimes the victim of small spitefulness at the hands of
Canty and Hugo when the Ruffler's back was turned.  None but Canty
and Hugo really disliked him.  Some of the others liked him, and
all admired his pluck and spirit.  During two or three days, Hugo,
in whose ward and charge the King was, did what he covertly could
to make the boy uncomfortable; and at night, during the customary
orgies, he amused the company by putting small indignities upon
him--always as if by accident.  Twice he stepped upon the King's
toes--accidentally--and the King, as became his royalty, was
contemptuously unconscious of it and indifferent to it; but the
third time Hugo entertained himself in that way, the King felled
him to the ground with a cudgel, to the prodigious delight of the
tribe.  Hugo, consumed with anger and shame, sprang up, seized a
cudgel, and came at his small adversary in a fury.  Instantly a
ring was formed around the gladiators, and the betting and
cheering began.  But poor Hugo stood no chance whatever.  His
frantic and lubberly 'prentice-work found but a poor market for
itself when pitted against an arm which had been trained by the
first masters of Europe in single-stick, quarter-staff, and every
art and trick of swordsmanship.  The little King stood, alert but
at graceful ease, and caught and turned aside the thick rain of
blows with a facility and precision which set the motley on-
lookers wild with admiration; and every now and then, when his
practised eye detected an opening, and a lightning-swift rap upon
Hugo's head followed as a result, the storm of cheers and laughter
that swept the place was something wonderful to hear.  At the end
of fifteen minutes, Hugo, all battered, bruised, and the target
for a pitiless bombardment of ridicule, slunk from the field; and
the unscathed hero of the fight was seized and borne aloft upon
the shoulders of the joyous rabble to the place of honour beside
the Ruffler, where with vast ceremony he was crowned King of the
Game-Cocks; his meaner title being at the same time solemnly
cancelled and annulled, and a decree of banishment from the gang
pronounced against any who should thenceforth utter it.

All attempts to make the King serviceable to the troop had failed.
He had stubbornly refused to act; moreover, he was always trying
to escape.  He had been thrust into an unwatched kitchen, the
first day of his return; he not only came forth empty-handed, but
tried to rouse the housemates.  He was sent out with a tinker to
help him at his work; he would not work; moreover, he threatened
the tinker with his own soldering-iron; and finally both Hugo and
the tinker found their hands full with the mere matter of keeping
his from getting away.  He delivered the thunders of his royalty
upon the heads of all who hampered his liberties or tried to force
him to service.  He was sent out, in Hugo's charge, in company
with a slatternly woman and a diseased baby, to beg; but the
result was not encouraging--he declined to plead for the
mendicants, or be a party to their cause in any way.

Thus several days went by; and the miseries of this tramping life,
and the weariness and sordidness and meanness and vulgarity of it,
became gradually and steadily so intolerable to the captive that
he began at last to feel that his release from the hermit's knife
must prove only a temporary respite from death, at best.

But at night, in his dreams, these things were forgotten, and he
was on his throne, and master again.  This, of course, intensified
the sufferings of the awakening--so the mortifications of each
succeeding morning of the few that passed between his return to
bondage and the combat with Hugo, grew bitterer and bitterer, and
harder and harder to bear.

The morning after that combat, Hugo got up with a heart filled
with vengeful purposes against the King.  He had two plans, in
particular.  One was to inflict upon the lad what would be, to his
proud spirit and 'imagined' royalty, a peculiar humiliation; and
if he failed to accomplish this, his other plan was to put a crime
of some kind upon the King, and then betray him into the
implacable clutches of the law.

In pursuance of the first plan, he purposed to put a 'clime' upon
the King's leg; rightly judging that that would mortify him to the
last and perfect degree; and as soon as the clime should operate,
he meant to get Canty's help, and FORCE the King to expose his leg
in the highway and beg for alms.  'Clime' was the cant term for a
sore, artificially created.  To make a clime, the operator made a
paste or poultice of unslaked lime, soap, and the rust of old
iron, and spread it upon a piece of leather, which was then bound
tightly upon the leg.  This would presently fret off the skin, and
make the flesh raw and angry-looking; blood was then rubbed upon
the limb, which, being fully dried, took on a dark and repulsive
colour.  Then a bandage of soiled rags was put on in a cleverly
careless way which would allow the hideous ulcer to be seen, and
move the compassion of the passer-by. {8}

Hugo got the help of the tinker whom the King had cowed with the
soldering-iron; they took the boy out on a tinkering tramp, and as
soon as they were out of sight of the camp they threw him down and
the tinker held him while Hugo bound the poultice tight and fast
upon his leg.

The King raged and stormed, and promised to hang the two the
moment the sceptre was in his hand again; but they kept a firm
grip upon him and enjoyed his impotent struggling and jeered at
his threats.  This continued until the poultice began to bite; and
in no long time its work would have been perfected, if there had
been no interruption.  But there was; for about this time the
'slave' who had made the speech denouncing England's laws,
appeared on the scene, and put an end to the enterprise, and
stripped off the poultice and bandage.

The King wanted to borrow his deliverer's cudgel and warm the
jackets of the two rascals on the spot; but the man said no, it
would bring trouble--leave the matter till night; the whole tribe
being together, then, the outside world would not venture to
interfere or interrupt.  He marched the party back to camp and
reported the affair to the Ruffler, who listened, pondered, and
then decided that the King should not be again detailed to beg,
since it was plain he was worthy of something higher and better--
wherefore, on the spot he promoted him from the mendicant rank and
appointed him to steal!

Hugo was overjoyed.  He had already tried to make the King steal,
and failed; but there would be no more trouble of that sort, now,
for of course the King would not dream of defying a distinct
command delivered directly from head-quarters.  So he planned a
raid for that very afternoon, purposing to get the King in the
law's grip in the course of it; and to do it, too, with such
ingenious strategy, that it should seem to be accidental and
unintentional; for the King of the Game-Cocks was popular now, and
the gang might not deal over-gently with an unpopular member who
played so serious a treachery upon him as the delivering him over
to the common enemy, the law.

Very well.  All in good time Hugo strolled off to a neighbouring
village with his prey; and the two drifted slowly up and down one
street after another, the one watching sharply for a sure chance
to achieve his evil purpose, and the other watching as sharply for
a chance to dart away and get free of his infamous captivity for
ever.

Both threw away some tolerably fair-looking opportunities; for
both, in their secret hearts, were resolved to make absolutely
sure work this time, and neither meant to allow his fevered
desires to seduce him into any venture that had much uncertainty
about it.

Hugo's chance came first.  For at last a woman approached who
carried a fat package of some sort in a basket.  Hugo's eyes
sparkled with sinful pleasure as he said to himself, "Breath o' my
life, an' I can but put THAT upon him, 'tis good-den and God keep
thee, King of the Game-Cocks!"  He waited and watched--outwardly
patient, but inwardly consuming with excitement--till the woman
had passed by, and the time was ripe; then said, in a low voice--

"Tarry here till I come again," and darted stealthily after the
prey.

The King's heart was filled with joy--he could make his escape,
now, if Hugo's quest only carried him far enough away.

But he was to have no such luck.  Hugo crept behind the woman,
snatched the package, and came running back, wrapping it in an old
piece of blanket which he carried on his arm.  The hue and cry was
raised in a moment, by the woman, who knew her loss by the
lightening of her burden, although she had not seen the pilfering
done.  Hugo thrust the bundle into the King's hands without
halting, saying--

"Now speed ye after me with the rest, and cry 'Stop thief!' but
mind ye lead them astray!"

The next moment Hugo turned a corner and darted down a crooked
alley--and in another moment or two he lounged into view again,
looking innocent and indifferent, and took up a position behind a
post to watch results.

The insulted King threw the bundle on the ground; and the blanket
fell away from it just as the woman arrived, with an augmenting
crowd at her heels; she seized the King's wrist with one hand,
snatched up her bundle with the other, and began to pour out a
tirade of abuse upon the boy while he struggled, without success,
to free himself from her grip.

Hugo had seen enough--his enemy was captured and the law would get
him, now--so he slipped away, jubilant and chuckling, and wended
campwards, framing a judicious version of the matter to give to
the Ruffler's crew as he strode along.

The King continued to struggle in the woman's strong grasp, and
now and then cried out in vexation--

"Unhand me, thou foolish creature; it was not I that bereaved thee
of thy paltry goods."

The crowd closed around, threatening the King and calling him
names; a brawny blacksmith in leather apron, and sleeves rolled to
his elbows, made a reach for him, saying he would trounce him
well, for a lesson; but just then a long sword flashed in the air
and fell with convincing force upon the man's arm, flat side down,
the fantastic owner of it remarking pleasantly, at the same time--

"Marry, good souls, let us proceed gently, not with ill blood and
uncharitable words.  This is matter for the law's consideration,
not private and unofficial handling.  Loose thy hold from the boy,
goodwife."

The blacksmith averaged the stalwart soldier with a glance, then
went muttering away, rubbing his arm; the woman released the boy's
wrist reluctantly; the crowd eyed the stranger unlovingly, but
prudently closed their mouths.  The King sprang to his deliverer's
side, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, exclaiming--

"Thou hast lagged sorely, but thou comest in good season, now, Sir
Miles; carve me this rabble to rags!"



Chapter XXIII. The Prince a prisoner.

Hendon forced back a smile, and bent down and whispered in the
King's ear--

"Softly, softly, my prince, wag thy tongue warily--nay, suffer it
not to wag at all.  Trust in me--all shall go well in the end."
Then he added to himself:  "SIR Miles!  Bless me, I had totally
forgot I was a knight!  Lord, how marvellous a thing it is, the
grip his memory doth take upon his quaint and crazy fancies! . . .
An empty and foolish title is mine, and yet it is something to
have deserved it; for I think it is more honour to be held worthy
to be a spectre-knight in his Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows, than
to be held base enough to be an earl in some of the REAL kingdoms
of this world."

The crowd fell apart to admit a constable, who approached and was
about to lay his hand upon the King's shoulder, when Hendon said--

"Gently, good friend, withhold your hand--he shall go peaceably; I
am responsible for that.  Lead on, we will follow."

The officer led, with the woman and her bundle; Miles and the King
followed after, with the crowd at their heels.  The King was
inclined to rebel; but Hendon said to him in a low voice--

"Reflect, Sire--your laws are the wholesome breath of your own
royalty; shall their source resist them, yet require the branches
to respect them?  Apparently one of these laws has been broken;
when the King is on his throne again, can it ever grieve him to
remember that when he was seemingly a private person he loyally
sank the king in the citizen and submitted to its authority?"

"Thou art right; say no more; thou shalt see that whatsoever the
King of England requires a subject to suffer, under the law, he
will himself suffer while he holdeth the station of a subject."

When the woman was called upon to testify before the justice of
the peace, she swore that the small prisoner at the bar was the
person who had committed the theft; there was none able to show
the contrary, so the King stood convicted.  The bundle was now
unrolled, and when the contents proved to be a plump little
dressed pig, the judge looked troubled, whilst Hendon turned pale,
and his body was thrilled with an electric shiver of dismay; but
the King remained unmoved, protected by his ignorance.  The judge
meditated, during an ominous pause, then turned to the woman, with
the question--

"What dost thou hold this property to be worth?"

The woman courtesied and replied--

"Three shillings and eightpence, your worship--I could not abate a
penny and set forth the value honestly."

The justice glanced around uncomfortably upon the crowd, then
nodded to the constable, and said--

"Clear the court and close the doors."

It was done.  None remained but the two officials, the accused,
the accuser, and Miles Hendon.  This latter was rigid and
colourless, and on his forehead big drops of cold sweat gathered,
broke and blended together, and trickled down his face.  The judge
turned to the woman again, and said, in a compassionate voice--

"'Tis a poor ignorant lad, and mayhap was driven hard by hunger,
for these be grievous times for the unfortunate; mark you, he hath
not an evil face--but when hunger driveth--Good woman! dost know
that when one steals a thing above the value of thirteenpence
ha'penny the law saith he shall HANG for it?"

The little King started, wide-eyed with consternation, but
controlled himself and held his peace; but not so the woman.  She
sprang to her feet, shaking with fright, and cried out--

"Oh, good lack, what have I done!  God-a-mercy, I would not hang
the poor thing for the whole world!  Ah, save me from this, your
worship--what shall I do, what CAN I do?"

The justice maintained his judicial composure, and simply said--

"Doubtless it is allowable to revise the value, since it is not
yet writ upon the record."

"Then in God's name call the pig eightpence, and heaven bless the
day that freed my conscience of this awesome thing!"

Miles Hendon forgot all decorum in his delight; and surprised the
King and wounded his dignity, by throwing his arms around him and
hugging him.  The woman made her grateful adieux and started away
with her pig; and when the constable opened the door for her, he
followed her out into the narrow hall.  The justice proceeded to
write in his record book.  Hendon, always alert, thought he would
like to know why the officer followed the woman out; so he slipped
softly into the dusky hall and listened.  He heard a conversation
to this effect--

"It is a fat pig, and promises good eating; I will buy it of thee;
here is the eightpence."

"Eightpence, indeed!  Thou'lt do no such thing.  It cost me three
shillings and eightpence, good honest coin of the last reign, that
old Harry that's just dead ne'er touched or tampered with.  A fig
for thy eightpence!"

"Stands the wind in that quarter?  Thou wast under oath, and so
swore falsely when thou saidst the value was but eightpence.  Come
straightway back with me before his worship, and answer for the
crime!--and then the lad will hang."

"There, there, dear heart, say no more, I am content.  Give me the
eightpence, and hold thy peace about the matter."

The woman went off crying:  Hendon slipped back into the court
room, and the constable presently followed, after hiding his prize
in some convenient place.  The justice wrote a while longer, then
read the King a wise and kindly lecture, and sentenced him to a
short imprisonment in the common jail, to be followed by a public
flogging.  The astounded King opened his mouth, and was probably
going to order the good judge to be beheaded on the spot; but he
caught a warning sign from Hendon, and succeeded in closing his
mouth again before he lost anything out of it.  Hendon took him by
the hand, now, made reverence to the justice, and the two departed
in the wake of the constable toward the jail.  The moment the
street was reached, the inflamed monarch halted, snatched away his
hand, and exclaimed--

"Idiot, dost imagine I will enter a common jail ALIVE?"

Hendon bent down and said, somewhat sharply--

"WILL you trust in me?  Peace! and forbear to worsen our chances
with dangerous speech.  What God wills, will happen; thou canst
not hurry it, thou canst not alter it; therefore wait, and be
patient--'twill be time enow to rail or rejoice when what is to
happen has happened." {1}



Chapter XXIV. The escape.

The short winter day was nearly ended.  The streets were deserted,
save for a few random stragglers, and these hurried straight
along, with the intent look of people who were only anxious to
accomplish their errands as quickly as possible, and then snugly
house themselves from the rising wind and the gathering twilight.
They looked neither to the right nor to the left; they paid no
attention to our party, they did not even seem to see them.
Edward the Sixth wondered if the spectacle of a king on his way to
jail had ever encountered such marvellous indifference before.
By-and-by the constable arrived at a deserted market-square, and
proceeded to cross it.  When he had reached the middle of it,
Hendon laid his hand upon his arm, and said in a low voice--

"Bide a moment, good sir, there is none in hearing, and I would
say a word to thee."

"My duty forbids it, sir; prithee hinder me not, the night comes
on."

"Stay, nevertheless, for the matter concerns thee nearly.  Turn
thy back a moment and seem not to see:  LET THIS POOR LAD ESCAPE."

"This to me, sir!  I arrest thee in--"

"Nay, be not too hasty.  See thou be careful and commit no foolish
error"--then he shut his voice down to a whisper, and said in the
man's ear--"the pig thou hast purchased for eightpence may cost
thee thy neck, man!"

The poor constable, taken by surprise, was speechless, at first,
then found his tongue and fell to blustering and threatening; but
Hendon was tranquil, and waited with patience till his breath was
spent; then said--

"I have a liking to thee, friend, and would not willingly see thee
come to harm.  Observe, I heard it all--every word.  I will prove
it to thee."  Then he repeated the conversation which the officer
and the woman had had together in the hall, word for word, and
ended with--

"There--have I set it forth correctly?  Should not I be able to
set it forth correctly before the judge, if occasion required?"

The man was dumb with fear and distress, for a moment; then he
rallied, and said with forced lightness--

"'Tis making a mighty matter, indeed, out of a jest; I but plagued
the woman for mine amusement."

"Kept you the woman's pig for amusement?"

The man answered sharply--

"Nought else, good sir--I tell thee 'twas but a jest."

"I do begin to believe thee," said Hendon, with a perplexing
mixture of mockery and half-conviction in his tone; "but tarry
thou here a moment whilst I run and ask his worship--for nathless,
he being a man experienced in law, in jests, in--"

He was moving away, still talking; the constable hesitated,
fidgeted, spat out an oath or two, then cried out--

"Hold, hold, good sir--prithee wait a little--the judge!  Why,
man, he hath no more sympathy with a jest than hath a dead
corpse!--come, and we will speak further.  Ods body!  I seem to be
in evil case--and all for an innocent and thoughtless pleasantry.
I am a man of family; and my wife and little ones--  List to
reason, good your worship:  what wouldst thou of me?"

"Only that thou be blind and dumb and paralytic whilst one may
count a hundred thousand--counting slowly," said Hendon, with the
expression of a man who asks but a reasonable favour, and that a
very little one.

"It is my destruction!" said the constable despairingly.  "Ah, be
reasonable, good sir; only look at this matter, on all its sides,
and see how mere a jest it is--how manifestly and how plainly it
is so.  And even if one granted it were not a jest, it is a fault
so small that e'en the grimmest penalty it could call forth would
be but a rebuke and warning from the judge's lips."

Hendon replied with a solemnity which chilled the air about him--

"This jest of thine hath a name, in law,--wot you what it is?"

"I knew it not!  Peradventure I have been unwise.  I never dreamed
it had a name--ah, sweet heaven, I thought it was original."

"Yes, it hath a name.  In the law this crime is called Non compos
mentis lex talionis sic transit gloria mundi."

"Ah, my God!"

"And the penalty is death!"

"God be merciful to me a sinner!"

"By advantage taken of one in fault, in dire peril, and at thy
mercy, thou hast seized goods worth above thirteenpence ha'penny,
paying but a trifle for the same; and this, in the eye of the law,
is constructive barratry, misprision of treason, malfeasance in
office, ad hominem expurgatis in statu quo--and the penalty is
death by the halter, without ransom, commutation, or benefit of
clergy."

"Bear me up, bear me up, sweet sir, my legs do fail me!  Be thou
merciful--spare me this doom, and I will turn my back and see
nought that shall happen."

"Good! now thou'rt wise and reasonable.  And thou'lt restore the
pig?"

"I will, I will indeed--nor ever touch another, though heaven send
it and an archangel fetch it.  Go--I am blind for thy sake--I see
nothing.  I will say thou didst break in and wrest the prisoner
from my hands by force.  It is but a crazy, ancient door--I will
batter it down myself betwixt midnight and the morning."

"Do it, good soul, no harm will come of it; the judge hath a
loving charity for this poor lad, and will shed no tears and break
no jailer's bones for his escape."



Chapter XXV. Hendon Hall.

As soon as Hendon and the King were out of sight of the constable,
his Majesty was instructed to hurry to a certain place outside the
town, and wait there, whilst Hendon should go to the inn and
settle his account.  Half an hour later the two friends were
blithely jogging eastward on Hendon's sorry steeds.  The King was
warm and comfortable, now, for he had cast his rags and clothed
himself in the second-hand suit which Hendon had bought on London
Bridge.

Hendon wished to guard against over-fatiguing the boy; he judged
that hard journeys, irregular meals, and illiberal measures of
sleep would be bad for his crazed mind; whilst rest, regularity,
and moderate exercise would be pretty sure to hasten its cure; he
longed to see the stricken intellect made well again and its
diseased visions driven out of the tormented little head;
therefore he resolved to move by easy stages toward the home
whence he had so long been banished, instead of obeying the
impulse of his impatience and hurrying along night and day.

When he and the King had journeyed about ten miles, they reached a
considerable village, and halted there for the night, at a good
inn.  The former relations were resumed; Hendon stood behind the
King's chair, while he dined, and waited upon him; undressed him
when he was ready for bed; then took the floor for his own
quarters, and slept athwart the door, rolled up in a blanket.

The next day, and the day after, they jogged lazily along talking
over the adventures they had met since their separation, and
mightily enjoying each other's narratives.  Hendon detailed all
his wide wanderings in search of the King, and described how the
archangel had led him a fool's journey all over the forest, and
taken him back to the hut, finally, when he found he could not get
rid of him.  Then--he said--the old man went into the bedchamber
and came staggering back looking broken-hearted, and saying he had
expected to find that the boy had returned and laid down in there
to rest, but it was not so.  Hendon had waited at the hut all day;
hope of the King's return died out, then, and he departed upon the
quest again.

"And old Sanctum Sanctorum WAS truly sorry your highness came not
back," said Hendon; "I saw it in his face."

"Marry I will never doubt THAT!" said the King--and then told his
own story; after which, Hendon was sorry he had not destroyed the
archangel.

During the last day of the trip, Hendon's spirits were soaring.
His tongue ran constantly.  He talked about his old father, and
his brother Arthur, and told of many things which illustrated
their high and generous characters; he went into loving frenzies
over his Edith, and was so glad-hearted that he was even able to
say some gentle and brotherly things about Hugh.  He dwelt a deal
on the coming meeting at Hendon Hall; what a surprise it would be
to everybody, and what an outburst of thanksgiving and delight
there would be.

It was a fair region, dotted with cottages and orchards, and the
road led through broad pasture lands whose receding expanses,
marked with gentle elevations and depressions, suggested the
swelling and subsiding undulations of the sea.  In the afternoon
the returning prodigal made constant deflections from his course
to see if by ascending some hillock he might not pierce the
distance and catch a glimpse of his home.  At last he was
successful, and cried out excitedly--

"There is the village, my Prince, and there is the Hall close by!
You may see the towers from here; and that wood there--that is my
father's park.  Ah, NOW thou'lt know what state and grandeur be!
A house with seventy rooms--think of that!--and seven and twenty
servants!  A brave lodging for such as we, is it not so?  Come,
let us speed--my impatience will not brook further delay."

All possible hurry was made; still, it was after three o'clock
before the village was reached.  The travellers scampered through
it, Hendon's tongue going all the time.  "Here is the church--
covered with the same ivy--none gone, none added."  "Yonder is the
inn, the old Red Lion,--and yonder is the market-place."  "Here is
the Maypole, and here the pump--nothing is altered; nothing but
the people, at any rate; ten years make a change in people; some
of these I seem to know, but none know me."  So his chat ran on.
The end of the village was soon reached; then the travellers
struck into a crooked, narrow road, walled in with tall hedges,
and hurried briskly along it for half a mile, then passed into a
vast flower garden through an imposing gateway, whose huge stone
pillars bore sculptured armorial devices.  A noble mansion was
before them.

"Welcome to Hendon Hall, my King!" exclaimed Miles.  "Ah, 'tis a
great day!  My father and my brother, and the Lady Edith will be
so mad with joy that they will have eyes and tongue for none but
me in the first transports of the meeting, and so thou'lt seem but
coldly welcomed--but mind it not; 'twill soon seem otherwise; for
when I say thou art my ward, and tell them how costly is my love
for thee, thou'lt see them take thee to their breasts for Miles
Hendon's sake, and make their house and hearts thy home for ever
after!"

The next moment Hendon sprang to the ground before the great door,
helped the King down, then took him by the hand and rushed within.
A few steps brought him to a spacious apartment; he entered,
seated the King with more hurry than ceremony, then ran toward a
young man who sat at a writing-table in front of a generous fire
of logs.

"Embrace me, Hugh," he cried, "and say thou'rt glad I am come
again! and call our father, for home is not home till I shall
touch his hand, and see his face, and hear his voice once more!"

But Hugh only drew back, after betraying a momentary surprise, and
bent a grave stare upon the intruder--a stare which indicated
somewhat of offended dignity, at first, then changed, in response
to some inward thought or purpose, to an expression of marvelling
curiosity, mixed with a real or assumed compassion.  Presently he
said, in a mild voice--

"Thy wits seem touched, poor stranger; doubtless thou hast
suffered privations and rude buffetings at the world's hands; thy
looks and dress betoken it.  Whom dost thou take me to be?"

"Take thee?  Prithee for whom else than whom thou art?  I take
thee to be Hugh Hendon," said Miles, sharply.

The other continued, in the same soft tone--

"And whom dost thou imagine thyself to be?"

"Imagination hath nought to do with it!  Dost thou pretend thou
knowest me not for thy brother Miles Hendon?"

An expression of pleased surprise flitted across Hugh's face, and
he exclaimed--

"What! thou art not jesting? can the dead come to life?  God be
praised if it be so!  Our poor lost boy restored to our arms after
all these cruel years!  Ah, it seems too good to be true, it IS
too good to be true--I charge thee, have pity, do not trifle with
me!  Quick--come to the light--let me scan thee well!"

He seized Miles by the arm, dragged him to the window, and began
to devour him from head to foot with his eyes, turning him this
way and that, and stepping briskly around him and about him to
prove him from all points of view; whilst the returned prodigal,
all aglow with gladness, smiled, laughed, and kept nodding his
head and saying--

"Go on, brother, go on, and fear not; thou'lt find nor limb nor
feature that cannot bide the test.  Scour and scan me to thy
content, my good old Hugh--I am indeed thy old Miles, thy same old
Miles, thy lost brother, is't not so?  Ah, 'tis a great day--I
SAID 'twas a great day!  Give me thy hand, give me thy cheek--
lord, I am like to die of very joy!"

He was about to throw himself upon his brother; but Hugh put up
his hand in dissent, then dropped his chin mournfully upon his
breast, saying with emotion--

"Ah, God of his mercy give me strength to bear this grievous
disappointment!"

Miles, amazed, could not speak for a moment; then he found his
tongue, and cried out--

"WHAT disappointment?  Am I not thy brother?"

Hugh shook his head sadly, and said--

"I pray heaven it may prove so, and that other eyes may find the
resemblances that are hid from mine.  Alack, I fear me the letter
spoke but too truly."

"What letter?"

"One that came from over sea, some six or seven years ago.  It
said my brother died in battle."

"It was a lie!  Call thy father--he will know me."

"One may not call the dead."

"Dead?" Miles's voice was subdued, and his lips trembled.  "My
father dead!--oh, this is heavy news.  Half my new joy is withered
now.  Prithee let me see my brother Arthur--he will know me; he
will know me and console me."

"He, also, is dead."

"God be merciful to me, a stricken man!  Gone,--both gone--the
worthy taken and the worthless spared, in me!  Ah! I crave your
mercy!--do not say the Lady Edith--"

"Is dead?  No, she lives."

"Then, God be praised, my joy is whole again!  Speed thee,
brother--let her come to me!  An' SHE say I am not myself--but she
will not; no, no, SHE will know me, I were a fool to doubt it.
Bring her--bring the old servants; they, too, will know me."

"All are gone but five--Peter, Halsey, David, Bernard, and
Margaret."

So saying, Hugh left the room.  Miles stood musing a while, then
began to walk the floor, muttering--

"The five arch-villains have survived the two-and-twenty leal and
honest--'tis an odd thing."

He continued walking back and forth, muttering to himself; he had
forgotten the King entirely.  By-and-by his Majesty said gravely,
and with a touch of genuine compassion, though the words
themselves were capable of being interpreted ironically--

"Mind not thy mischance, good man; there be others in the world
whose identity is denied, and whose claims are derided.  Thou hast
company."

"Ah, my King," cried Hendon, colouring slightly, "do not thou
condemn me--wait, and thou shalt see.  I am no impostor--she will
say it; you shall hear it from the sweetest lips in England.  I an
impostor?  Why, I know this old hall, these pictures of my
ancestors, and all these things that are about us, as a child
knoweth its own nursery.  Here was I born and bred, my lord; I
speak the truth; I would not deceive thee; and should none else
believe, I pray thee do not THOU doubt me--I could not bear it."

"I do not doubt thee," said the King, with a childlike simplicity
and faith.

"I thank thee out of my heart!" exclaimed Hendon with a fervency
which showed that he was touched.  The King added, with the same
gentle simplicity--

"Dost thou doubt ME?"

A guilty confusion seized upon Hendon, and he was grateful that
the door opened to admit Hugh, at that moment, and saved him the
necessity of replying.

A beautiful lady, richly clothed, followed Hugh, and after her
came several liveried servants.  The lady walked slowly, with her
head bowed and her eyes fixed upon the floor.  The face was
unspeakably sad.  Miles Hendon sprang forward, crying out--

"Oh, my Edith, my darling--"

But Hugh waved him back, gravely, and said to the lady--

"Look upon him.  Do you know him?"

At the sound of Miles's voice the woman had started slightly, and
her cheeks had flushed; she was trembling now.  She stood still,
during an impressive pause of several moments; then slowly lifted
up her head and looked into Hendon's eyes with a stony and
frightened gaze; the blood sank out of her face, drop by drop,
till nothing remained but the grey pallor of death; then she said,
in a voice as dead as the face, "I know him not!" and turned, with
a moan and a stifled sob, and tottered out of the room.

Miles Hendon sank into a chair and covered his face with his
hands.  After a pause, his brother said to the servants--

"You have observed him.  Do you know him?"

They shook their heads; then the master said--

"The servants know you not, sir.  I fear there is some mistake.
You have seen that my wife knew you not."

"Thy WIFE!"  In an instant Hugh was pinned to the wall, with an
iron grip about his throat.  "Oh, thou fox-hearted slave, I see it
all!  Thou'st writ the lying letter thyself, and my stolen bride
and goods are its fruit.  There--now get thee gone, lest I shame
mine honourable soldiership with the slaying of so pitiful a
mannikin!"

Hugh, red-faced, and almost suffocated, reeled to the nearest
chair, and commanded the servants to seize and bind the murderous
stranger.  They hesitated, and one of them said--

"He is armed, Sir Hugh, and we are weaponless."

"Armed!  What of it, and ye so many?  Upon him, I say!"

But Miles warned them to be careful what they did, and added--

"Ye know me of old--I have not changed; come on, an' it like you."

This reminder did not hearten the servants much; they still held
back.

"Then go, ye paltry cowards, and arm yourselves and guard the
doors, whilst I send one to fetch the watch!" said Hugh.  He
turned at the threshold, and said to Miles, "You'll find it to
your advantage to offend not with useless endeavours at escape."

"Escape?  Spare thyself discomfort, an' that is all that troubles
thee.  For Miles Hendon is master of Hendon Hall and all its
belongings.  He will remain--doubt it not."



Chapter XXVI. Disowned.

The King sat musing a few moments, then looked up and said--

"'Tis strange--most strange.  I cannot account for it."

"No, it is not strange, my liege.  I know him, and this conduct is
but natural.  He was a rascal from his birth."

"Oh, I spake not of HIM, Sir Miles."

"Not of him?  Then of what?  What is it that is strange?"

"That the King is not missed."

"How?  Which?  I doubt I do not understand."

"Indeed?  Doth it not strike you as being passing strange that the
land is not filled with couriers and proclamations describing my
person and making search for me?  Is it no matter for commotion
and distress that the Head of the State is gone; that I am
vanished away and lost?"

"Most true, my King, I had forgot."  Then Hendon sighed, and
muttered to himself, "Poor ruined mind--still busy with its
pathetic dream."

"But I have a plan that shall right us both--I will write a paper,
in three tongues--Latin, Greek and English--and thou shalt haste
away with it to London in the morning.  Give it to none but my
uncle, the Lord Hertford; when he shall see it, he will know and
say I wrote it.  Then he will send for me."

"Might it not be best, my Prince, that we wait here until I prove
myself and make my rights secure to my domains?  I should be so
much the better able then to--"

The King interrupted him imperiously--

"Peace!  What are thy paltry domains, thy trivial interests,
contrasted with matters which concern the weal of a nation and the
integrity of a throne?"  Then, he added, in a gentle voice, as if
he were sorry for his severity, "Obey, and have no fear; I will
right thee, I will make thee whole--yes, more than whole.  I shall
remember, and requite."

So saying, he took the pen, and set himself to work.  Hendon
contemplated him lovingly a while, then said to himself--

"An' it were dark, I should think it WAS a king that spoke;
there's no denying it, when the humour's upon on him he doth
thunder and lighten like your true King; now where got he that
trick?  See him scribble and scratch away contentedly at his
meaningless pot-hooks, fancying them to be Latin and Greek--and
except my wit shall serve me with a lucky device for diverting him
from his purpose, I shall be forced to pretend to post away to-
morrow on this wild errand he hath invented for me."

The next moment Sir Miles's thoughts had gone back to the recent
episode.  So absorbed was he in his musings, that when the King
presently handed him the paper which he had been writing, he
received it and pocketed it without being conscious of the act.
"How marvellous strange she acted," he muttered.  "I think she
knew me--and I think she did NOT know me.  These opinions do
conflict, I perceive it plainly; I cannot reconcile them, neither
can I, by argument, dismiss either of the two, or even persuade
one to outweigh the other.  The matter standeth simply thus:  she
MUST have known my face, my figure, my voice, for how could it be
otherwise?  Yet she SAID she knew me not, and that is proof
perfect, for she cannot lie.  But stop--I think I begin to see.
Peradventure he hath influenced her, commanded her, compelled her
to lie.  That is the solution.  The riddle is unriddled.  She
seemed dead with fear--yes, she was under his compulsion.  I will
seek her; I will find her; now that he is away, she will speak her
true mind.  She will remember the old times when we were little
playfellows together, and this will soften her heart, and she will
no more betray me, but will confess me.  There is no treacherous
blood in her--no, she was always honest and true.  She has loved
me, in those old days--this is my security; for whom one has
loved, one cannot betray."

He stepped eagerly toward the door; at that moment it opened, and
the Lady Edith entered.  She was very pale, but she walked with a
firm step, and her carriage was full of grace and gentle dignity.
Her face was as sad as before.

Miles sprang forward, with a happy confidence, to meet her, but
she checked him with a hardly perceptible gesture, and he stopped
where he was.  She seated herself, and asked him to do likewise.
Thus simply did she take the sense of old comradeship out of him,
and transform him into a stranger and a guest.  The surprise of
it, the bewildering unexpectedness of it, made him begin to
question, for a moment, if he WAS the person he was pretending to
be, after all.  The Lady Edith said--

"Sir, I have come to warn you.  The mad cannot be persuaded out of
their delusions, perchance; but doubtless they may be persuaded to
avoid perils.  I think this dream of yours hath the seeming of
honest truth to you, and therefore is not criminal--but do not
tarry here with it; for here it is dangerous."  She looked
steadily into Miles's face a moment, then added, impressively, "It
is the more dangerous for that you ARE much like what our lost lad
must have grown to be if he had lived."

"Heavens, madam, but I AM he!"

"I truly think you think it, sir.  I question not your honesty in
that; I but warn you, that is all.  My husband is master in this
region; his power hath hardly any limit; the people prosper or
starve, as he wills.  If you resembled not the man whom you
profess to be, my husband might bid you pleasure yourself with
your dream in peace; but trust me, I know him well; I know what he
will do; he will say to all that you are but a mad impostor, and
straightway all will echo him."  She bent upon Miles that same
steady look once more, and added:  "If you WERE Miles Hendon, and
he knew it and all the region knew it--consider what I am saying,
weigh it well--you would stand in the same peril, your punishment
would be no less sure; he would deny you and denounce you, and
none would be bold enough to give you countenance."

"Most truly I believe it," said Miles, bitterly.  "The power that
can command one life-long friend to betray and disown another, and
be obeyed, may well look to be obeyed in quarters where bread and
life are on the stake and no cobweb ties of loyalty and honour are
concerned."

A faint tinge appeared for a moment in the lady's cheek, and she
dropped her eyes to the floor; but her voice betrayed no emotion
when she proceeded--

"I have warned you--I must still warn you--to go hence.  This man
will destroy you, else.  He is a tyrant who knows no pity.  I, who
am his fettered slave, know this.  Poor Miles, and Arthur, and my
dear guardian, Sir Richard, are free of him, and at rest:  better
that you were with them than that you bide here in the clutches of
this miscreant.  Your pretensions are a menace to his title and
possessions; you have assaulted him in his own house:  you are
ruined if you stay.  Go--do not hesitate.  If you lack money, take
this purse, I beg of you, and bribe the servants to let you pass.
Oh, be warned, poor soul, and escape while you may."

Miles declined the purse with a gesture, and rose up and stood
before her.

"Grant me one thing," he said.  "Let your eyes rest upon mine, so
that I may see if they be steady.  There--now answer me.  Am I
Miles Hendon?"

"No.  I know you not."

"Swear it!"

The answer was low, but distinct--

"I swear."

"Oh, this passes belief!"

"Fly!  Why will you waste the precious time?  Fly, and save
yourself."

At that moment the officers burst into the room, and a violent
struggle began; but Hendon was soon overpowered and dragged away.
The King was taken also, and both were bound and led to prison.



Chapter XXVII. In prison.

The cells were all crowded; so the two friends were chained in a
large room where persons charged with trifling offences were
commonly kept.  They had company, for there were some twenty
manacled and fettered prisoners here, of both sexes and of varying
ages,--an obscene and noisy gang.  The King chafed bitterly over
the stupendous indignity thus put upon his royalty, but Hendon was
moody and taciturn.  He was pretty thoroughly bewildered; he had
come home, a jubilant prodigal, expecting to find everybody wild
with joy over his return; and instead had got the cold shoulder
and a jail.  The promise and the fulfilment differed so widely
that the effect was stunning; he could not decide whether it was
most tragic or most grotesque.  He felt much as a man might who
had danced blithely out to enjoy a rainbow, and got struck by
lightning.

But gradually his confused and tormenting thoughts settled down
into some sort of order, and then his mind centred itself upon
Edith.  He turned her conduct over, and examined it in all lights,
but he could not make anything satisfactory out of it.  Did she
know him--or didn't she know him?  It was a perplexing puzzle, and
occupied him a long time; but he ended, finally, with the
conviction that she did know him, and had repudiated him for
interested reasons.  He wanted to load her name with curses now;
but this name had so long been sacred to him that he found he
could not bring his tongue to profane it.

Wrapped in prison blankets of a soiled and tattered condition,
Hendon and the King passed a troubled night.  For a bribe the
jailer had furnished liquor to some of the prisoners; singing of
ribald songs, fighting, shouting, and carousing was the natural
consequence.  At last, a while after midnight, a man attacked a
woman and nearly killed her by beating her over the head with his
manacles before the jailer could come to the rescue.  The jailer
restored peace by giving the man a sound clubbing about the head
and shoulders--then the carousing ceased; and after that, all had
an opportunity to sleep who did not mind the annoyance of the
moanings and groanings of the two wounded people.

During the ensuing week, the days and nights were of a monotonous
sameness as to events; men whose faces Hendon remembered more or
less distinctly, came, by day, to gaze at the 'impostor' and
repudiate and insult him; and by night the carousing and brawling
went on with symmetrical regularity.  However, there was a change
of incident at last.  The jailer brought in an old man, and said
to him--

"The villain is in this room--cast thy old eyes about and see if
thou canst say which is he."

Hendon glanced up, and experienced a pleasant sensation for the
first time since he had been in the jail.  He said to himself,
"This is Blake Andrews, a servant all his life in my father's
family--a good honest soul, with a right heart in his breast.
That is, formerly.  But none are true now; all are liars.  This
man will know me--and will deny me, too, like the rest."

The old man gazed around the room, glanced at each face in turn,
and finally said--

"I see none here but paltry knaves, scum o' the streets.  Which is
he?"

The jailer laughed.

"Here," he said; "scan this big animal, and grant me an opinion."

The old man approached, and looked Hendon over, long and
earnestly, then shook his head and said--

"Marry, THIS is no Hendon--nor ever was!"

"Right!  Thy old eyes are sound yet.  An' I were Sir Hugh, I would
take the shabby carle and--"

The jailer finished by lifting himself a-tip-toe with an imaginary
halter, at the same time making a gurgling noise in his throat
suggestive of suffocation.  The old man said, vindictively--

"Let him bless God an' he fare no worse.  An' _I_ had the handling
o' the villain he should roast, or I am no true man!"

The jailer laughed a pleasant hyena laugh, and said--

"Give him a piece of thy mind, old man--they all do it.  Thou'lt
find it good diversion."

Then he sauntered toward his ante-room and disappeared.  The old
man dropped upon his knees and whispered--

"God be thanked, thou'rt come again, my master!  I believed thou
wert dead these seven years, and lo, here thou art alive!  I knew
thee the moment I saw thee; and main hard work it was to keep a
stony countenance and seem to see none here but tuppenny knaves
and rubbish o' the streets.  I am old and poor, Sir Miles; but say
the word and I will go forth and proclaim the truth though I be
strangled for it."

"No," said Hendon; "thou shalt not.  It would ruin thee, and yet
help but little in my cause.  But I thank thee, for thou hast
given me back somewhat of my lost faith in my kind."

The old servant became very valuable to Hendon and the King; for
he dropped in several times a day to 'abuse' the former, and
always smuggled in a few delicacies to help out the prison bill of
fare; he also furnished the current news.  Hendon reserved the
dainties for the King; without them his Majesty might not have
survived, for he was not able to eat the coarse and wretched food
provided by the jailer.  Andrews was obliged to confine himself to
brief visits, in order to avoid suspicion; but he managed to
impart a fair degree of information each time--information
delivered in a low voice, for Hendon's benefit, and interlarded
with insulting epithets delivered in a louder voice for the
benefit of other hearers.

So, little by little, the story of the family came out.  Arthur
had been dead six years.  This loss, with the absence of news from
Hendon, impaired the father's health; he believed he was going to
die, and he wished to see Hugh and Edith settled in life before he
passed away; but Edith begged hard for delay, hoping for Miles's
return; then the letter came which brought the news of Miles's
death; the shock prostrated Sir Richard; he believed his end was
very near, and he and Hugh insisted upon the marriage; Edith
begged for and obtained a month's respite, then another, and
finally a third; the marriage then took place by the death-bed of
Sir Richard.  It had not proved a happy one.  It was whispered
about the country that shortly after the nuptials the bride found
among her husband's papers several rough and incomplete drafts of
the fatal letter, and had accused him of precipitating the
marriage--and Sir Richard's death, too--by a wicked forgery.
Tales of cruelty to the Lady Edith and the servants were to be
heard on all hands; and since the father's death Sir Hugh had
thrown off all soft disguises and become a pitiless master toward
all who in any way depended upon him and his domains for bread.

There was a bit of Andrew's gossip which the King listened to with
a lively interest--

"There is rumour that the King is mad.  But in charity forbear to
say _I_ mentioned it, for 'tis death to speak of it, they say."

His Majesty glared at the old man and said--

"The King is NOT mad, good man--and thou'lt find it to thy
advantage to busy thyself with matters that nearer concern thee
than this seditious prattle."

"What doth the lad mean?" said Andrews, surprised at this brisk
assault from such an unexpected quarter.  Hendon gave him a sign,
and he did not pursue his question, but went on with his budget--

"The late King is to be buried at Windsor in a day or two--the
16th of the month--and the new King will be crowned at Westminster
the 20th."

"Methinks they must needs find him first," muttered his Majesty;
then added, confidently, "but they will look to that--and so also
shall I."

"In the name of--"

But the old man got no further--a warning sign from Hendon checked
his remark.  He resumed the thread of his gossip--

"Sir Hugh goeth to the coronation--and with grand hopes.  He
confidently looketh to come back a peer, for he is high in favour
with the Lord Protector."

"What Lord Protector?" asked his Majesty.

"His Grace the Duke of Somerset."

"What Duke of Somerset?"

"Marry, there is but one--Seymour, Earl of Hertford."

The King asked sharply--

"Since when is HE a duke, and Lord Protector?"

"Since the last day of January."

"And prithee who made him so?"

"Himself and the Great Council--with help of the King."

His Majesty started violently.  "The KING!" he cried.  "WHAT king,
good sir?"

"What king, indeed! (God-a-mercy, what aileth the boy?)  Sith we
have but one, 'tis not difficult to answer--his most sacred
Majesty King Edward the Sixth--whom God preserve!  Yea, and a dear
and gracious little urchin is he, too; and whether he be mad or
no--and they say he mendeth daily--his praises are on all men's
lips; and all bless him, likewise, and offer prayers that he may
be spared to reign long in England; for he began humanely with
saving the old Duke of Norfolk's life, and now is he bent on
destroying the cruellest of the laws that harry and oppress the
people."

This news struck his Majesty dumb with amazement, and plunged him
into so deep and dismal a reverie that he heard no more of the old
man's gossip.  He wondered if the 'little urchin' was the beggar-
boy whom he left dressed in his own garments in the palace.  It
did not seem possible that this could be, for surely his manners
and speech would betray him if he pretended to be the Prince of
Wales--then he would be driven out, and search made for the true
prince.  Could it be that the Court had set up some sprig of the
nobility in his place?  No, for his uncle would not allow that--he
was all-powerful and could and would crush such a movement, of
course.  The boy's musings profited him nothing; the more he tried
to unriddle the mystery the more perplexed he became, the more his
head ached, and the worse he slept.  His impatience to get to
London grew hourly, and his captivity became almost unendurable.

Hendon's arts all failed with the King--he could not be comforted;
but a couple of women who were chained near him succeeded better.
Under their gentle ministrations he found peace and learned a
degree of patience.  He was very grateful, and came to love them
dearly and to delight in the sweet and soothing influence of their
presence.  He asked them why they were in prison, and when they
said they were Baptists, he smiled, and inquired--

"Is that a crime to be shut up for in a prison?  Now I grieve, for
I shall lose ye--they will not keep ye long for such a little
thing."

They did not answer; and something in their faces made him uneasy.
He said, eagerly--

"You do not speak; be good to me, and tell me--there will be no
other punishment?  Prithee tell me there is no fear of that."

They tried to change the topic, but his fears were aroused, and he
pursued it--

"Will they scourge thee?  No, no, they would not be so cruel!  Say
they would not.  Come, they WILL not, will they?"

The women betrayed confusion and distress, but there was no
avoiding an answer, so one of them said, in a voice choked with
emotion--

"Oh, thou'lt break our hearts, thou gentle spirit!--God will help
us to bear our--"

"It is a confession!" the King broke in.  "Then they WILL scourge
thee, the stony-hearted wretches!  But oh, thou must not weep, I
cannot bear it.  Keep up thy courage--I shall come to my own in
time to save thee from this bitter thing, and I will do it!"

When the King awoke in the morning, the women were gone.

"They are saved!" he said, joyfully; then added, despondently,
"but woe is me!--for they were my comforters."

Each of them had left a shred of ribbon pinned to his clothing, in
token of remembrance.  He said he would keep these things always;
and that soon he would seek out these dear good friends of his and
take them under his protection.

Just then the jailer came in with some subordinates, and commanded
that the prisoners be conducted to the jail-yard.  The King was
overjoyed--it would be a blessed thing to see the blue sky and
breathe the fresh air once more.  He fretted and chafed at the
slowness of the officers, but his turn came at last, and he was
released from his staple and ordered to follow the other prisoners
with Hendon.

The court or quadrangle was stone-paved, and open to the sky.  The
prisoners entered it through a massive archway of masonry, and
were placed in file, standing, with their backs against the wall.
A rope was stretched in front of them, and they were also guarded
by their officers.  It was a chill and lowering morning, and a
light snow which had fallen during the night whitened the great
empty space and added to the general dismalness of its aspect.
Now and then a wintry wind shivered through the place and sent the
snow eddying hither and thither.

In the centre of the court stood two women, chained to posts.  A
glance showed the King that these were his good friends.  He
shuddered, and said to himself, "Alack, they are not gone free, as
I had thought.  To think that such as these should know the lash!-
-in England!  Ay, there's the shame of it--not in Heathennesse,
Christian England!  They will be scourged; and I, whom they have
comforted and kindly entreated, must look on and see the great
wrong done; it is strange, so strange, that I, the very source of
power in this broad realm, am helpless to protect them.  But let
these miscreants look well to themselves, for there is a day
coming when I will require of them a heavy reckoning for this
work.  For every blow they strike now, they shall feel a hundred
then."

A great gate swung open, and a crowd of citizens poured in.  They
flocked around the two women, and hid them from the King's view.
A clergyman entered and passed through the crowd, and he also was
hidden.  The King now heard talking, back and forth, as if
questions were being asked and answered, but he could not make out
what was said.  Next there was a deal of bustle and preparation,
and much passing and repassing of officials through that part of
the crowd that stood on the further side of the women; and whilst
this proceeded a deep hush gradually fell upon the people.

Now, by command, the masses parted and fell aside, and the King
saw a spectacle that froze the marrow in his bones.  Faggots had
been piled about the two women, and a kneeling man was lighting
them!

The women bowed their heads, and covered their faces with their
hands; the yellow flames began to climb upward among the snapping
and crackling faggots, and wreaths of blue smoke to stream away on
the wind; the clergyman lifted his hands and began a prayer--just
then two young girls came flying through the great gate, uttering
piercing screams, and threw themselves upon the women at the
stake.  Instantly they were torn away by the officers, and one of
them was kept in a tight grip, but the other broke loose, saying
she would die with her mother; and before she could be stopped she
had flung her arms about her mother's neck again.  She was torn
away once more, and with her gown on fire.  Two or three men held
her, and the burning portion of her gown was snatched off and
thrown flaming aside, she struggling all the while to free
herself, and saying she would be alone in the world, now; and
begging to be allowed to die with her mother.  Both the girls
screamed continually, and fought for freedom; but suddenly this
tumult was drowned under a volley of heart-piercing shrieks of
mortal agony--the King glanced from the frantic girls to the
stake, then turned away and leaned his ashen face against the
wall, and looked no more.  He said, "That which I have seen, in
that one little moment, will never go out from my memory, but will
abide there; and I shall see it all the days, and dream of it all
the nights, till I die.  Would God I had been blind!"

Hendon was watching the King.  He said to himself, with
satisfaction, "His disorder mendeth; he hath changed, and groweth
gentler.  If he had followed his wont, he would have stormed at
these varlets, and said he was King, and commanded that the women
be turned loose unscathed.  Soon his delusion will pass away and
be forgotten, and his poor mind will be whole again.  God speed
the day!"

That same day several prisoners were brought in to remain over
night, who were being conveyed, under guard, to various places in
the kingdom, to undergo punishment for crimes committed.  The King
conversed with these--he had made it a point, from the beginning,
to instruct himself for the kingly office by questioning prisoners
whenever the opportunity offered--and the tale of their woes wrung
his heart.  One of them was a poor half-witted woman who had
stolen a yard or two of cloth from a weaver--she was to be hanged
for it.  Another was a man who had been accused of stealing a
horse; he said the proof had failed, and he had imagined that he
was safe from the halter; but no--he was hardly free before he was
arraigned for killing a deer in the King's park; this was proved
against him, and now he was on his way to the gallows.  There was
a tradesman's apprentice whose case particularly distressed the
King; this youth said he found a hawk, one evening, that had
escaped from its owner, and he took it home with him, imagining
himself entitled to it; but the court convicted him of stealing
it, and sentenced him to death.

The King was furious over these inhumanities, and wanted Hendon to
break jail and fly with him to Westminster, so that he could mount
his throne and hold out his sceptre in mercy over these
unfortunate people and save their lives.  "Poor child," sighed
Hendon, "these woeful tales have brought his malady upon him
again; alack, but for this evil hap, he would have been well in a
little time."

Among these prisoners was an old lawyer--a man with a strong face
and a dauntless mien.  Three years past, he had written a pamphlet
against the Lord Chancellor, accusing him of injustice, and had
been punished for it by the loss of his ears in the pillory, and
degradation from the bar, and in addition had been fined 3,000
pounds and sentenced to imprisonment for life.  Lately he had
repeated his offence; and in consequence was now under sentence to
lose WHAT REMAINED OF HIS EARS, pay a fine of 5,000 pounds, be
branded on both cheeks, and remain in prison for life.

"These be honourable scars," he said, and turned back his grey
hair and showed the mutilated stubs of what had once been his
ears.

The King's eye burned with passion.  He said--

"None believe in me--neither wilt thou.  But no matter--within the
compass of a month thou shalt be free; and more, the laws that
have dishonoured thee, and shamed the English name, shall be swept
from the statute books.  The world is made wrong; kings should go
to school to their own laws, at times, and so learn mercy." {1}



Chapter XXVIII. The sacrifice.

Meantime Miles was growing sufficiently tired of confinement and
inaction.  But now his trial came on, to his great gratification,
and he thought he could welcome any sentence provided a further
imprisonment should not be a part of it.  But he was mistaken
about that.  He was in a fine fury when he found himself described
as a 'sturdy vagabond' and sentenced to sit two hours in the
stocks for bearing that character and for assaulting the master of
Hendon Hall.  His pretensions as to brothership with his
prosecutor, and rightful heirship to the Hendon honours and
estates, were left contemptuously unnoticed, as being not even
worth examination.

He raged and threatened on his way to punishment, but it did no
good; he was snatched roughly along by the officers, and got an
occasional cuff, besides, for his irreverent conduct.

The King could not pierce through the rabble that swarmed behind;
so he was obliged to follow in the rear, remote from his good
friend and servant.  The King had been nearly condemned to the
stocks himself for being in such bad company, but had been let off
with a lecture and a warning, in consideration of his youth.  When
the crowd at last halted, he flitted feverishly from point to
point around its outer rim, hunting a place to get through; and at
last, after a deal of difficulty and delay, succeeded.  There sat
his poor henchman in the degrading stocks, the sport and butt of a
dirty mob--he, the body servant of the King of England!  Edward
had heard the sentence pronounced, but he had not realised the
half that it meant.  His anger began to rise as the sense of this
new indignity which had been put upon him sank home; it jumped to
summer heat, the next moment, when he saw an egg sail through the
air and crush itself against Hendon's cheek, and heard the crowd
roar its enjoyment of the episode.  He sprang across the open
circle and confronted the officer in charge, crying--

"For shame!  This is my servant--set him free!  I am the--"

"Oh, peace!" exclaimed Hendon, in a panic, "thou'lt destroy
thyself.  Mind him not, officer, he is mad."

"Give thyself no trouble as to the matter of minding him, good
man, I have small mind to mind him; but as to teaching him
somewhat, to that I am well inclined."  He turned to a subordinate
and said, "Give the little fool a taste or two of the lash, to
mend his manners."

"Half a dozen will better serve his turn," suggested Sir Hugh, who
had ridden up, a moment before, to take a passing glance at the
proceedings.

The King was seized.  He did not even struggle, so paralysed was
he with the mere thought of the monstrous outrage that was
proposed to be inflicted upon his sacred person.  History was
already defiled with the record of the scourging of an English
king with whips--it was an intolerable reflection that he must
furnish a duplicate of that shameful page.  He was in the toils,
there was no help for him; he must either take this punishment or
beg for its remission.  Hard conditions; he would take the
stripes--a king might do that, but a king could not beg.

But meantime, Miles Hendon was resolving the difficulty.  "Let the
child go," said he; "ye heartless dogs, do ye not see how young
and frail he is?  Let him go--I will take his lashes."

"Marry, a good thought--and thanks for it," said Sir Hugh, his
face lighting with a sardonic satisfaction.  "Let the little
beggar go, and give this fellow a dozen in his place--an honest
dozen, well laid on."  The King was in the act of entering a
fierce protest, but Sir Hugh silenced him with the potent remark,
"Yes, speak up, do, and free thy mind--only, mark ye, that for
each word you utter he shall get six strokes the more."

Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and
whilst the lash was applied the poor little King turned away his
face and allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks unchecked.
"Ah, brave good heart," he said to himself, "this loyal deed shall
never perish out of my memory.  I will not forget it--and neither
shall THEY!" he added, with passion.  Whilst he mused, his
appreciation of Hendon's magnanimous conduct grew to greater and
still greater dimensions in his mind, and so also did his
gratefulness for it.  Presently he said to himself, "Who saves his
prince from wounds and possible death--and this he did for me--
performs high service; but it is little--it is nothing--oh, less
than nothing!--when 'tis weighed against the act of him who saves
his prince from SHAME!"

Hendon made no outcry under the scourge, but bore the heavy blows
with soldierly fortitude.  This, together with his redeeming the
boy by taking his stripes for him, compelled the respect of even
that forlorn and degraded mob that was gathered there; and its
gibes and hootings died away, and no sound remained but the sound
of the falling blows.  The stillness that pervaded the place, when
Hendon found himself once more in the stocks, was in strong
contrast with the insulting clamour which had prevailed there so
little a while before.  The King came softly to Hendon's side, and
whispered in his ear--

"Kings cannot ennoble thee, thou good, great soul, for One who is
higher than kings hath done that for thee; but a king can confirm
thy nobility to men."  He picked up the scourge from the ground,
touched Hendon's bleeding shoulders lightly with it, and
whispered, "Edward of England dubs thee Earl!"

Hendon was touched.  The water welled to his eyes, yet at the same
time the grisly humour of the situation and circumstances so
undermined his gravity that it was all he could do to keep some
sign of his inward mirth from showing outside.  To be suddenly
hoisted, naked and gory, from the common stocks to the Alpine
altitude and splendour of an Earldom, seemed to him the last
possibility in the line of the grotesque.  He said to himself,
"Now am I finely tinselled, indeed!  The spectre-knight of the
Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows is become a spectre-earl--a dizzy
flight for a callow wing!  An' this go on, I shall presently be
hung like a very maypole with fantastic gauds and make-believe
honours.  But I shall value them, all valueless as they are, for
the love that doth bestow them.  Better these poor mock dignities
of mine, that come unasked, from a clean hand and a right spirit,
than real ones bought by servility from grudging and interested
power."

The dreaded Sir Hugh wheeled his horse about, and as he spurred
away, the living wall divided silently to let him pass, and as
silently closed together again.  And so remained; nobody went so
far as to venture a remark in favour of the prisoner, or in
compliment to him; but no matter--the absence of abuse was a
sufficient homage in itself.  A late comer who was not posted as
to the present circumstances, and who delivered a sneer at the
'impostor,' and was in the act of following it with a dead cat,
was promptly knocked down and kicked out, without any words, and
then the deep quiet resumed sway once more.



Chapter XXIX. To London.

When Hendon's term of service in the stocks was finished, he was
released and ordered to quit the region and come back no more.
His sword was restored to him, and also his mule and his donkey.
He mounted and rode off, followed by the King, the crowd opening
with quiet respectfulness to let them pass, and then dispersing
when they were gone.

Hendon was soon absorbed in thought.  There were questions of high
import to be answered.  What should he do?  Whither should he go?
Powerful help must be found somewhere, or he must relinquish his
inheritance and remain under the imputation of being an impostor
besides.  Where could he hope to find this powerful help?  Where,
indeed!  It was a knotty question.  By-and-by a thought occurred
to him which pointed to a possibility--the slenderest of slender
possibilities, certainly, but still worth considering, for lack of
any other that promised anything at all.  He remembered what old
Andrews had said about the young King's goodness and his generous
championship of the wronged and unfortunate.  Why not go and try
to get speech of him and beg for justice?  Ah, yes, but could so
fantastic a pauper get admission to the august presence of a
monarch?  Never mind--let that matter take care of itself; it was
a bridge that would not need to be crossed till he should come to
it.  He was an old campaigner, and used to inventing shifts and
expedients:  no doubt he would be able to find a way.  Yes, he
would strike for the capital.  Maybe his father's old friend Sir
Humphrey Marlow would help him--'good old Sir Humphrey, Head
Lieutenant of the late King's kitchen, or stables, or something'--
Miles could not remember just what or which.  Now that he had
something to turn his energies to, a distinctly defined object to
accomplish, the fog of humiliation and depression which had
settled down upon his spirits lifted and blew away, and he raised
his head and looked about him.  He was surprised to see how far he
had come; the village was away behind him.  The King was jogging
along in his wake, with his head bowed; for he, too, was deep in
plans and thinkings.  A sorrowful misgiving clouded Hendon's new-
born cheerfulness:  would the boy be willing to go again to a city
where, during all his brief life, he had never known anything but
ill-usage and pinching want?  But the question must be asked; it
could not be avoided; so Hendon reined up, and called out--

"I had forgotten to inquire whither we are bound.  Thy commands,
my liege!"

"To London!"

Hendon moved on again, mightily contented with the answer--but
astounded at it too.

The whole journey was made without an adventure of importance.
But it ended with one.  About ten o'clock on the night of the 19th
of February they stepped upon London Bridge, in the midst of a
writhing, struggling jam of howling and hurrahing people, whose
beer-jolly faces stood out strongly in the glare from manifold
torches--and at that instant the decaying head of some former duke
or other grandee tumbled down between them, striking Hendon on the
elbow and then bounding off among the hurrying confusion of feet.
So evanescent and unstable are men's works in this world!--the
late good King is but three weeks dead and three days in his
grave, and already the adornments which he took such pains to
select from prominent people for his noble bridge are falling.  A
citizen stumbled over that head, and drove his own head into the
back of somebody in front of him, who turned and knocked down the
first person that came handy, and was promptly laid out himself by
that person's friend.  It was the right ripe time for a free
fight, for the festivities of the morrow--Coronation Day--were
already beginning; everybody was full of strong drink and
patriotism; within five minutes the free fight was occupying a
good deal of ground; within ten or twelve it covered an acre of
so, and was become a riot.  By this time Hendon and the King were
hopelessly separated from each other and lost in the rush and
turmoil of the roaring masses of humanity.  And so we leave them.



Chapter XXX. Tom's progress.

Whilst the true King wandered about the land poorly clad, poorly
fed, cuffed and derided by tramps one while, herding with thieves
and murderers in a jail another, and called idiot and impostor by
all impartially, the mock King Tom Canty enjoyed quite a different
experience.

When we saw him last, royalty was just beginning to have a bright
side for him.  This bright side went on brightening more and more
every day:  in a very little while it was become almost all
sunshine and delightfulness.  He lost his fears; his misgivings
faded out and died; his embarrassments departed, and gave place to
an easy and confident bearing.  He worked the whipping-boy mine to
ever-increasing profit.

He ordered my Lady Elizabeth and my Lady Jane Grey into his
presence when he wanted to play or talk, and dismissed them when
he was done with them, with the air of one familiarly accustomed
to such performances.  It no longer confused him to have these
lofty personages kiss his hand at parting.

He came to enjoy being conducted to bed in state at night, and
dressed with intricate and solemn ceremony in the morning.  It
came to be a proud pleasure to march to dinner attended by a
glittering procession of officers of state and gentlemen-at-arms;
insomuch, indeed, that he doubled his guard of gentlemen-at-arms,
and made them a hundred.  He liked to hear the bugles sounding
down the long corridors, and the distant voices responding, "Way
for the King!"

He even learned to enjoy sitting in throned state in council, and
seeming to be something more than the Lord Protector's mouthpiece.
He liked to receive great ambassadors and their gorgeous trains,
and listen to the affectionate messages they brought from
illustrious monarchs who called him brother.  O happy Tom Canty,
late of Offal Court!

He enjoyed his splendid clothes, and ordered more:  he found his
four hundred servants too few for his proper grandeur, and trebled
them.  The adulation of salaaming courtiers came to be sweet music
to his ears.  He remained kind and gentle, and a sturdy and
determined champion of all that were oppressed, and he made
tireless war upon unjust laws:  yet upon occasion, being offended,
he could turn upon an earl, or even a duke, and give him a look
that would make him tremble.  Once, when his royal 'sister,' the
grimly holy Lady Mary, set herself to reason with him against the
wisdom of his course in pardoning so many people who would
otherwise be jailed, or hanged, or burned, and reminded him that
their august late father's prisons had sometimes contained as high
as sixty thousand convicts at one time, and that during his
admirable reign he had delivered seventy-two thousand thieves and
robbers over to death by the executioner, {9} the boy was filled
with generous indignation, and commanded her to go to her closet,
and beseech God to take away the stone that was in her breast, and
give her a human heart.

Did Tom Canty never feel troubled about the poor little rightful
prince who had treated him so kindly, and flown out with such hot
zeal to avenge him upon the insolent sentinel at the palace-gate?
Yes; his first royal days and nights were pretty well sprinkled
with painful thoughts about the lost prince, and with sincere
longings for his return, and happy restoration to his native
rights and splendours.  But as time wore on, and the prince did
not come, Tom's mind became more and more occupied with his new
and enchanting experiences, and by little and little the vanished
monarch faded almost out of his thoughts; and finally, when he did
intrude upon them at intervals, he was become an unwelcome
spectre, for he made Tom feel guilty and ashamed.

Tom's poor mother and sisters travelled the same road out of his
mind.  At first he pined for them, sorrowed for them, longed to
see them, but later, the thought of their coming some day in their
rags and dirt, and betraying him with their kisses, and pulling
him down from his lofty place, and dragging him back to penury and
degradation and the slums, made him shudder.  At last they ceased
to trouble his thoughts almost wholly.  And he was content, even
glad:  for, whenever their mournful and accusing faces did rise
before him now, they made him feel more despicable than the worms
that crawl.

At midnight of the 19th of February, Tom Canty was sinking to
sleep in his rich bed in the palace, guarded by his loyal vassals,
and surrounded by the pomps of royalty, a happy boy; for tomorrow
was the day appointed for his solemn crowning as King of England.
At that same hour, Edward, the true king, hungry and thirsty,
soiled and draggled, worn with travel, and clothed in rags and
shreds--his share of the results of the riot--was wedged in among
a crowd of people who were watching with deep interest certain
hurrying gangs of workmen who streamed in and out of Westminster
Abbey, busy as ants:  they were making the last preparation for
the royal coronation.



Chapter XXXI. The Recognition procession.

When Tom Canty awoke the next morning, the air was heavy with a
thunderous murmur:  all the distances were charged with it.  It
was music to him; for it meant that the English world was out in
its strength to give loyal welcome to the great day.

Presently Tom found himself once more the chief figure in a
wonderful floating pageant on the Thames; for by ancient custom
the 'recognition procession' through London must start from the
Tower, and he was bound thither.

When he arrived there, the sides of the venerable fortress seemed
suddenly rent in a thousand places, and from every rent leaped a
red tongue of flame and a white gush of smoke; a deafening
explosion followed, which drowned the shoutings of the multitude,
and made the ground tremble; the flame-jets, the smoke, and the
explosions, were repeated over and over again with marvellous
celerity, so that in a few moments the old Tower disappeared in
the vast fog of its own smoke, all but the very top of the tall
pile called the White Tower; this, with its banners, stood out
above the dense bank of vapour as a mountain-peak projects above a
cloud-rack.

Tom Canty, splendidly arrayed, mounted a prancing war-steed, whose
rich trappings almost reached to the ground; his 'uncle,' the Lord
Protector Somerset, similarly mounted, took place in his rear; the
King's Guard formed in single ranks on either side, clad in
burnished armour; after the Protector followed a seemingly
interminable procession of resplendent nobles attended by their
vassals; after these came the lord mayor and the aldermanic body,
in crimson velvet robes, and with their gold chains across their
breasts; and after these the officers and members of all the
guilds of London, in rich raiment, and bearing the showy banners
of the several corporations.  Also in the procession, as a special
guard of honour through the city, was the Ancient and Honourable
Artillery Company--an organisation already three hundred years old
at that time, and the only military body in England possessing the
privilege (which it still possesses in our day) of holding itself
independent of the commands of Parliament.  It was a brilliant
spectacle, and was hailed with acclamations all along the line, as
it took its stately way through the packed multitudes of citizens.
The chronicler says, 'The King, as he entered the city, was
received by the people with prayers, welcomings, cries, and tender
words, and all signs which argue an earnest love of subjects
toward their sovereign; and the King, by holding up his glad
countenance to such as stood afar off, and most tender language to
those that stood nigh his Grace, showed himself no less thankful
to receive the people's goodwill than they to offer it.  To all
that wished him well, he gave thanks.  To such as bade "God save
his Grace," he said in return, "God save you all!" and added that
"he thanked them with all his heart."  Wonderfully transported
were the people with the loving answers and gestures of their
King.'

In Fenchurch Street a 'fair child, in costly apparel,' stood on a
stage to welcome his Majesty to the city.  The last verse of his
greeting was in these words--

     'Welcome, O King! as much as hearts can think;
        Welcome, again, as much as tongue can tell,--
      Welcome to joyous tongues, and hearts that will not shrink:
        God thee preserve, we pray, and wish thee ever well.'

The people burst forth in a glad shout, repeating with one voice
what the child had said.  Tom Canty gazed abroad over the surging
sea of eager faces, and his heart swelled with exultation; and he
felt that the one thing worth living for in this world was to be a
king, and a nation's idol.  Presently he caught sight, at a
distance, of a couple of his ragged Offal Court comrades--one of
them the lord high admiral in his late mimic court, the other the
first lord of the bedchamber in the same pretentious fiction; and
his pride swelled higher than ever.  Oh, if they could only
recognise him now!  What unspeakable glory it would be, if they
could recognise him, and realise that the derided mock king of the
slums and back alleys was become a real King, with illustrious
dukes and princes for his humble menials, and the English world at
his feet!  But he had to deny himself, and choke down his desire,
for such a recognition might cost more than it would come to:  so
he turned away his head, and left the two soiled lads to go on
with their shoutings and glad adulations, unsuspicious of whom it
was they were lavishing them upon.

Every now and then rose the cry, "A largess! a largess!" and Tom
responded by scattering a handful of bright new coins abroad for
the multitude to scramble for.

The chronicler says, 'At the upper end of Gracechurch Street,
before the sign of the Eagle, the city had erected a gorgeous
arch, beneath which was a stage, which stretched from one side of
the street to the other.  This was an historical pageant,
representing the King's immediate progenitors.  There sat
Elizabeth of York in the midst of an immense white rose, whose
petals formed elaborate furbelows around her; by her side was
Henry VII., issuing out of a vast red rose, disposed in the same
manner:  the hands of the royal pair were locked together, and the
wedding-ring ostentatiously displayed.  From the red and white
roses proceeded a stem, which reached up to a second stage,
occupied by Henry VIII., issuing from a red and white rose, with
the effigy of the new King's mother, Jane Seymour, represented by
his side.  One branch sprang from this pair, which mounted to a
third stage, where sat the effigy of Edward VI. himself, enthroned
in royal majesty; and the whole pageant was framed with wreaths of
roses, red and white.'

This quaint and gaudy spectacle so wrought upon the rejoicing
people, that their acclamations utterly smothered the small voice
of the child whose business it was to explain the thing in
eulogistic rhymes.  But Tom Canty was not sorry; for this loyal
uproar was sweeter music to him than any poetry, no matter what
its quality might be.  Whithersoever Tom turned his happy young
face, the people recognised the exactness of his effigy's likeness
to himself, the flesh and blood counterpart; and new whirlwinds of
applause burst forth.

The great pageant moved on, and still on, under one triumphal arch
after another, and past a bewildering succession of spectacular
and symbolical tableaux, each of which typified and exalted some
virtue, or talent, or merit, of the little King's.  'Throughout
the whole of Cheapside, from every penthouse and window, hung
banners and streamers; and the richest carpets, stuffs, and cloth-
of-gold tapestried the streets--specimens of the great wealth of
the stores within; and the splendour of this thoroughfare was
equalled in the other streets, and in some even surpassed.'

"And all these wonders and these marvels are to welcome me--me!"
murmured Tom Canty.

The mock King's cheeks were flushed with excitement, his eyes were
flashing, his senses swam in a delirium of pleasure.  At this
point, just as he was raising his hand to fling another rich
largess, he caught sight of a pale, astounded face, which was
strained forward out of the second rank of the crowd, its intense
eyes riveted upon him.  A sickening consternation struck through
him; he recognised his mother! and up flew his hand, palm outward,
before his eyes--that old involuntary gesture, born of a forgotten
episode, and perpetuated by habit.  In an instant more she had
torn her way out of the press, and past the guards, and was at his
side.  She embraced his leg, she covered it with kisses, she
cried, "O my child, my darling!" lifting toward him a face that
was transfigured with joy and love.  The same instant an officer
of the King's Guard snatched her away with a curse, and sent her
reeling back whence she came with a vigorous impulse from his
strong arm.  The words "I do not know you, woman!" were falling
from Tom Canty's lips when this piteous thing occurred; but it
smote him to the heart to see her treated so; and as she turned
for a last glimpse of him, whilst the crowd was swallowing her
from his sight, she seemed so wounded, so broken-hearted, that a
shame fell upon him which consumed his pride to ashes, and
withered his stolen royalty.  His grandeurs were stricken
valueless:  they seemed to fall away from him like rotten rags.

The procession moved on, and still on, through ever augmenting
splendours and ever augmenting tempests of welcome; but to Tom
Canty they were as if they had not been.  He neither saw nor
heard.  Royalty had lost its grace and sweetness; its pomps were
become a reproach.  Remorse was eating his heart out.  He said,
"Would God I were free of my captivity!"

He had unconsciously dropped back into the phraseology of the
first days of his compulsory greatness.

The shining pageant still went winding like a radiant and
interminable serpent down the crooked lanes of the quaint old
city, and through the huzzaing hosts; but still the King rode with
bowed head and vacant eyes, seeing only his mother's face and that
wounded look in it.

"Largess, largess!"  The cry fell upon an unheeding ear.

"Long live Edward of England!"  It seemed as if the earth shook
with the explosion; but there was no response from the King.  He
heard it only as one hears the thunder of the surf when it is
blown to the ear out of a great distance, for it was smothered
under another sound which was still nearer, in his own breast, in
his accusing conscience--a voice which kept repeating those
shameful words, "I do not know you, woman!"

The words smote upon the King's soul as the strokes of a funeral
bell smite upon the soul of a surviving friend when they remind
him of secret treacheries suffered at his hands by him that is
gone.

New glories were unfolded at every turning; new wonders, new
marvels, sprang into view; the pent clamours of waiting batteries
were released; new raptures poured from the throats of the waiting
multitudes:  but the King gave no sign, and the accusing voice
that went moaning through his comfortless breast was all the sound
he heard.

By-and-by the gladness in the faces of the populace changed a
little, and became touched with a something like solicitude or
anxiety:  an abatement in the volume of the applause was
observable too.  The Lord Protector was quick to notice these
things:  he was as quick to detect the cause.  He spurred to the
King's side, bent low in his saddle, uncovered, and said--

"My liege, it is an ill time for dreaming.  The people observe thy
downcast head, thy clouded mien, and they take it for an omen.  Be
advised:  unveil the sun of royalty, and let it shine upon these
boding vapours, and disperse them.  Lift up thy face, and smile
upon the people."

So saying, the Duke scattered a handful of coins to right and
left, then retired to his place.  The mock King did mechanically
as he had been bidden.  His smile had no heart in it, but few eyes
were near enough or sharp enough to detect that.  The noddings of
his plumed head as he saluted his subjects were full of grace and
graciousness; the largess which he delivered from his hand was
royally liberal:  so the people's anxiety vanished, and the
acclamations burst forth again in as mighty a volume as before.

Still once more, a little before the progress was ended, the Duke
was obliged to ride forward, and make remonstrance.  He whispered-
-

"O dread sovereign! shake off these fatal humours; the eyes of the
world are upon thee."  Then he added with sharp annoyance,
"Perdition catch that crazy pauper! 'twas she that hath disturbed
your Highness."

The gorgeous figure turned a lustreless eye upon the Duke, and
said in a dead voice--

"She was my mother!"

"My God!" groaned the Protector as he reined his horse backward to
his post, "the omen was pregnant with prophecy.  He is gone mad
again!"



Chapter XXXII. Coronation Day.

Let us go backward a few hours, and place ourselves in Westminster
Abbey, at four o'clock in the morning of this memorable Coronation
Day.  We are not without company; for although it is still night,
we find the torch-lighted galleries already filling up with people
who are well content to sit still and wait seven or eight hours
till the time shall come for them to see what they may not hope to
see twice in their lives--the coronation of a King.  Yes, London
and Westminster have been astir ever since the warning guns boomed
at three o'clock, and already crowds of untitled rich folk who
have bought the privilege of trying to find sitting-room in the
galleries are flocking in at the entrances reserved for their
sort.

The hours drag along tediously enough.  All stir has ceased for
some time, for every gallery has long ago been packed.  We may
sit, now, and look and think at our leisure.  We have glimpses,
here and there and yonder, through the dim cathedral twilight, of
portions of many galleries and balconies, wedged full with other
people, the other portions of these galleries and balconies being
cut off from sight by intervening pillars and architectural
projections.  We have in view the whole of the great north
transept--empty, and waiting for England's privileged ones.  We
see also the ample area or platform, carpeted with rich stuffs,
whereon the throne stands.  The throne occupies the centre of the
platform, and is raised above it upon an elevation of four steps.
Within the seat of the throne is enclosed a rough flat rock--the
stone of Scone--which many generations of Scottish kings sat on to
be crowned, and so it in time became holy enough to answer a like
purpose for English monarchs.  Both the throne and its footstool
are covered with cloth of gold.

Stillness reigns, the torches blink dully, the time drags heavily.
But at last the lagging daylight asserts itself, the torches are
extinguished, and a mellow radiance suffuses the great spaces.
All features of the noble building are distinct now, but soft and
dreamy, for the sun is lightly veiled with clouds.

At seven o'clock the first break in the drowsy monotony occurs;
for on the stroke of this hour the first peeress enters the
transept, clothed like Solomon for splendour, and is conducted to
her appointed place by an official clad in satins and velvets,
whilst a duplicate of him gathers up the lady's long train,
follows after, and, when the lady is seated, arranges the train
across her lap for her.  He then places her footstool according to
her desire, after which he puts her coronet where it will be
convenient to her hand when the time for the simultaneous
coroneting of the nobles shall arrive.

By this time the peeresses are flowing in in a glittering stream,
and the satin-clad officials are flitting and glinting everywhere,
seating them and making them comfortable.  The scene is animated
enough now.  There is stir and life, and shifting colour
everywhere.  After a time, quiet reigns again; for the peeresses
are all come and are all in their places, a solid acre or such a
matter, of human flowers, resplendent in variegated colours, and
frosted like a Milky Way with diamonds.  There are all ages here:
brown, wrinkled, white-haired dowagers who are able to go back,
and still back, down the stream of time, and recall the crowning
of Richard III. and the troublous days of that old forgotten age;
and there are handsome middle-aged dames; and lovely and gracious
young matrons; and gentle and beautiful young girls, with beaming
eyes and fresh complexions, who may possibly put on their jewelled
coronets awkwardly when the great time comes; for the matter will
be new to them, and their excitement will be a sore hindrance.
Still, this may not happen, for the hair of all these ladies has
been arranged with a special view to the swift and successful
lodging of the crown in its place when the signal comes.

We have seen that this massed array of peeresses is sown thick
with diamonds, and we also see that it is a marvellous spectacle--
but now we are about to be astonished in earnest.  About nine, the
clouds suddenly break away and a shaft of sunshine cleaves the
mellow atmosphere, and drifts slowly along the ranks of ladies;
and every rank it touches flames into a dazzling splendour of
many-coloured fires, and we tingle to our finger-tips with the
electric thrill that is shot through us by the surprise and the
beauty of the spectacle!  Presently a special envoy from some
distant corner of the Orient, marching with the general body of
foreign ambassadors, crosses this bar of sunshine, and we catch
our breath, the glory that streams and flashes and palpitates
about him is so overpowering; for he is crusted from head to heel
with gems, and his slightest movement showers a dancing radiance
all around him.

Let us change the tense for convenience.  The time drifted along--
one hour--two hours--two hours and a half; then the deep booming
of artillery told that the King and his grand procession had
arrived at last; so the waiting multitude rejoiced.  All knew that
a further delay must follow, for the King must be prepared and
robed for the solemn ceremony; but this delay would be pleasantly
occupied by the assembling of the peers of the realm in their
stately robes.  These were conducted ceremoniously to their seats,
and their coronets placed conveniently at hand; and meanwhile the
multitude in the galleries were alive with interest, for most of
them were beholding for the first time, dukes, earls, and barons,
whose names had been historical for five hundred years.  When all
were finally seated, the spectacle from the galleries and all
coigns of vantage was complete; a gorgeous one to look upon and to
remember.

Now the robed and mitred great heads of the church, and their
attendants, filed in upon the platform and took their appointed
places; these were followed by the Lord Protector and other great
officials, and these again by a steel-clad detachment of the
Guard.

There was a waiting pause; then, at a signal, a triumphant peal of
music burst forth, and Tom Canty, clothed in a long robe of cloth
of gold, appeared at a door, and stepped upon the platform.  The
entire multitude rose, and the ceremony of the Recognition ensued.

Then a noble anthem swept the Abbey with its rich waves of sound;
and thus heralded and welcomed, Tom Canty was conducted to the
throne.  The ancient ceremonies went on, with impressive
solemnity, whilst the audience gazed; and as they drew nearer and
nearer to completion, Tom Canty grew pale, and still paler, and a
deep and steadily deepening woe and despondency settled down upon
his spirits and upon his remorseful heart.

At last the final act was at hand.  The Archbishop of Canterbury
lifted up the crown of England from its cushion and held it out
over the trembling mock-King's head.  In the same instant a
rainbow-radiance flashed along the spacious transept; for with one
impulse every individual in the great concourse of nobles lifted a
coronet and poised it over his or her head--and paused in that
attitude.

A deep hush pervaded the Abbey.  At this impressive moment, a
startling apparition intruded upon the scene--an apparition
observed by none in the absorbed multitude, until it suddenly
appeared, moving up the great central aisle.  It was a boy,
bareheaded, ill shod, and clothed in coarse plebeian garments that
were falling to rags.  He raised his hand with a solemnity which
ill comported with his soiled and sorry aspect, and delivered this
note of warning--

"I forbid you to set the crown of England upon that forfeited
head.  I am the King!"

In an instant several indignant hands were laid upon the boy; but
in the same instant Tom Canty, in his regal vestments, made a
swift step forward, and cried out in a ringing voice--

"Loose him and forbear!  He IS the King!"

A sort of panic of astonishment swept the assemblage, and they
partly rose in their places and stared in a bewildered way at one
another and at the chief figures in this scene, like persons who
wondered whether they were awake and in their senses, or asleep
and dreaming.  The Lord Protector was as amazed as the rest, but
quickly recovered himself, and exclaimed in a voice of authority--

"Mind not his Majesty, his malady is upon him again--seize the
vagabond!"

He would have been obeyed, but the mock-King stamped his foot and
cried out--

"On your peril!  Touch him not, he is the King!"

The hands were withheld; a paralysis fell upon the house; no one
moved, no one spoke; indeed, no one knew how to act or what to
say, in so strange and surprising an emergency.  While all minds
were struggling to right themselves, the boy still moved steadily
forward, with high port and confident mien; he had never halted
from the beginning; and while the tangled minds still floundered
helplessly, he stepped upon the platform, and the mock-King ran
with a glad face to meet him; and fell on his knees before him and
said--

"Oh, my lord the King, let poor Tom Canty be first to swear fealty
to thee, and say, 'Put on thy crown and enter into thine own
again!'"

The Lord Protector's eye fell sternly upon the new-comer's face;
but straightway the sternness vanished away, and gave place to an
expression of wondering surprise.  This thing happened also to the
other great officers.  They glanced at each other, and retreated a
step by a common and unconscious impulse.  The thought in each
mind was the same:  "What a strange resemblance!"

The Lord Protector reflected a moment or two in perplexity, then
he said, with grave respectfulness--

"By your favour, sir, I desire to ask certain questions which--"

"I will answer them, my lord."

The Duke asked him many questions about the Court, the late King,
the prince, the princesses--the boy answered them correctly and
without hesitating.  He described the rooms of state in the
palace, the late King's apartments, and those of the Prince of
Wales.

It was strange; it was wonderful; yes, it was unaccountable--so
all said that heard it.  The tide was beginning to turn, and Tom
Canty's hopes to run high, when the Lord Protector shook his head
and said--

"It is true it is most wonderful--but it is no more than our lord
the King likewise can do."  This remark, and this reference to
himself as still the King, saddened Tom Canty, and he felt his
hopes crumbling from under him.  "These are not PROOFS," added the
Protector.

The tide was turning very fast now, very fast indeed--but in the
wrong direction; it was leaving poor Tom Canty stranded on the
throne, and sweeping the other out to sea.  The Lord Protector
communed with himself--shook his head--the thought forced itself
upon him, "It is perilous to the State and to us all, to entertain
so fateful a riddle as this; it could divide the nation and
undermine the throne."  He turned and said--

"Sir Thomas, arrest this--No, hold!"  His face lighted, and he
confronted the ragged candidate with this question--

"Where lieth the Great Seal?  Answer me this truly, and the riddle
is unriddled; for only he that was Prince of Wales CAN so answer!
On so trivial a thing hang a throne and a dynasty!"

It was a lucky thought, a happy thought.  That it was so
considered by the great officials was manifested by the silent
applause that shot from eye to eye around their circle in the form
of bright approving glances.  Yes, none but the true prince could
dissolve the stubborn mystery of the vanished Great Seal--this
forlorn little impostor had been taught his lesson well, but here
his teachings must fail, for his teacher himself could not answer
THAT question--ah, very good, very good indeed; now we shall be
rid of this troublesome and perilous business in short order!  And
so they nodded invisibly and smiled inwardly with satisfaction,
and looked to see this foolish lad stricken with a palsy of guilty
confusion.  How surprised they were, then, to see nothing of the
sort happen--how they marvelled to hear him answer up promptly, in
a confident and untroubled voice, and say--

"There is nought in this riddle that is difficult."  Then, without
so much as a by-your-leave to anybody, he turned and gave this
command, with the easy manner of one accustomed to doing such
things: "My Lord St. John, go you to my private cabinet in the
palace--for none knoweth the place better than you--and, close
down to the floor, in the left corner remotest from the door that
opens from the ante-chamber, you shall find in the wall a brazen
nail-head; press upon it and a little jewel-closet will fly open
which not even you do know of--no, nor any sould else in all the
world but me and the trusty artisan that did contrive it for me.
The first thing that falleth under your eye will be the Great
Seal--fetch it hither."

All the company wondered at this speech, and wondered still more
to see the little mendicant pick out this peer without hesitancy
or apparent fear of mistake, and call him by name with such a
placidly convincing air of having known him all his life.  The
peer was almost surprised into obeying.  He even made a movement
as if to go, but quickly recovered his tranquil attitude and
confessed his blunder with a blush.  Tom Canty turned upon him and
said, sharply--

"Why dost thou hesitate?  Hast not heard the King's command?  Go!"

The Lord St. John made a deep obeisance--and it was observed that
it was a significantly cautious and non-committal one, it not
being delivered at either of the kings, but at the neutral ground
about half-way between the two--and took his leave.

Now began a movement of the gorgeous particles of that official
group which was slow, scarcely perceptible, and yet steady and
persistent--a movement such as is observed in a kaleidoscope that
is turned slowly, whereby the components of one splendid cluster
fall away and join themselves to another--a movement which, little
by little, in the present case, dissolved the glittering crowd
that stood about Tom Canty and clustered it together again in the
neighbourhood of the new-comer.  Tom Canty stood almost alone.
Now ensued a brief season of deep suspense and waiting--during
which even the few faint hearts still remaining near Tom Canty
gradually scraped together courage enough to glide, one by one,
over to the majority.  So at last Tom Canty, in his royal robes
and jewels, stood wholly alone and isolated from the world, a
conspicuous figure, occupying an eloquent vacancy.

Now the Lord St. John was seen returning.  As he advanced up the
mid-aisle the interest was so intense that the low murmur of
conversation in the great assemblage died out and was succeeded by
a profound hush, a breathless stillness, through which his
footfalls pulsed with a dull and distant sound.  Every eye was
fastened upon him as he moved along.  He reached the platform,
paused a moment, then moved toward Tom Canty with a deep
obeisance, and said--

"Sire, the Seal is not there!"

A mob does not melt away from the presence of a plague-patient
with more haste than the band of pallid and terrified courtiers
melted away from the presence of the shabby little claimant of the
Crown.  In a moment he stood all alone, without friend or
supporter, a target upon which was concentrated a bitter fire of
scornful and angry looks.  The Lord Protector called out fiercely-
-

"Cast the beggar into the street, and scourge him through the
town--the paltry knave is worth no more consideration!"

Officers of the guard sprang forward to obey, but Tom Canty waved
them off and said--

"Back!  Whoso touches him perils his life!"

The Lord Protector was perplexed in the last degree.  He said to
the Lord St. John--

"Searched you well?--but it boots not to ask that.  It doth seem
passing strange.  Little things, trifles, slip out of one's ken,
and one does not think it matter for surprise; but how so bulky a
thing as the Seal of England can vanish away and no man be able to
get track of it again--a massy golden disk--"

Tom Canty, with beaming eyes, sprang forward and shouted--

"Hold, that is enough!  Was it round?--and thick?--and had it
letters and devices graved upon it?--yes?  Oh, NOW I know what
this Great Seal is that there's been such worry and pother about.
An' ye had described it to me, ye could have had it three weeks
ago.  Right well I know where it lies; but it was not I that put
it there--first."

"Who, then, my liege?" asked the Lord Protector.

"He that stands there--the rightful King of England.  And he shall
tell you himself where it lies--then you will believe he knew it
of his own knowledge.  Bethink thee, my King--spur thy memory--it
was the last, the very LAST thing thou didst that day before thou
didst rush forth from the palace, clothed in my rags, to punish
the soldier that insulted me."

A silence ensued, undisturbed by a movement or a whisper, and all
eyes were fixed upon the new-comer, who stood, with bent head and
corrugated brow, groping in his memory among a thronging multitude
of valueless recollections for one single little elusive fact,
which, found, would seat him upon a throne--unfound, would leave
him as he was, for good and all--a pauper and an outcast.  Moment
after moment passed--the moments built themselves into minutes--
still the boy struggled silently on, and gave no sign.  But at
last he heaved a sigh, shook his head slowly, and said, with a
trembling lip and in a despondent voice--

"I call the scene back--all of it--but the Seal hath no place in
it."  He paused, then looked up, and said with gentle dignity, "My
lords and gentlemen, if ye will rob your rightful sovereign of his
own for lack of this evidence which he is not able to furnish, I
may not stay ye, being powerless.  But--"

"Oh, folly, oh, madness, my King!" cried Tom Canty, in a panic,
"wait!--think!  Do not give up!--the cause is not lost!  Nor SHALL
be, neither!  List to what I say--follow every word--I am going to
bring that morning back again, every hap just as it happened.  We
talked--I told you of my sisters, Nan and Bet--ah, yes, you
remember that; and about mine old grandam--and the rough games of
the lads of Offal Court--yes, you remember these things also; very
well, follow me still, you shall recall everything.  You gave me
food and drink, and did with princely courtesy send away the
servants, so that my low breeding might not shame me before them--
ah, yes, this also you remember."

As Tom checked off his details, and the other boy nodded his head
in recognition of them, the great audience and the officials
stared in puzzled wonderment; the tale sounded like true history,
yet how could this impossible conjunction between a prince and a
beggar-boy have come about?  Never was a company of people so
perplexed, so interested, and so stupefied, before.

"For a jest, my prince, we did exchange garments.  Then we stood
before a mirror; and so alike were we that both said it seemed as
if there had been no change made--yes, you remember that.  Then
you noticed that the soldier had hurt my hand--look! here it is, I
cannot yet even write with it, the fingers are so stiff.  At this
your Highness sprang up, vowing vengeance upon that soldier, and
ran towards the door--you passed a table--that thing you call the
Seal lay on that table--you snatched it up and looked eagerly
about, as if for a place to hide it--your eye caught sight of--"

"There, 'tis sufficient!--and the good God be thanked!" exclaimed
the ragged claimant, in a mighty excitement.  "Go, my good St.
John--in an arm-piece of the Milanese armour that hangs on the
wall, thou'lt find the Seal!"

"Right, my King! right!" cried Tom Canty; "NOW the sceptre of
England is thine own; and it were better for him that would
dispute it that he had been born dumb!  Go, my Lord St. John, give
thy feet wings!"

The whole assemblage was on its feet now, and well-nigh out of its
mind with uneasiness, apprehension, and consuming excitement.  On
the floor and on the platform a deafening buzz of frantic
conversation burst forth, and for some time nobody knew anything
or heard anything or was interested in anything but what his
neighbour was shouting into his ear, or he was shouting into his
neighbour's ear.  Time--nobody knew how much of it--swept by
unheeded and unnoted.  At last a sudden hush fell upon the house,
and in the same moment St. John appeared upon the platform, and
held the Great Seal aloft in his hand.  Then such a shout went up-
-

"Long live the true King!"

For five minutes the air quaked with shouts and the crash of
musical instruments, and was white with a storm of waving
handkerchiefs; and through it all a ragged lad, the most
conspicuous figure in England, stood, flushed and happy and proud,
in the centre of the spacious platform, with the great vassals of
the kingdom kneeling around him.

Then all rose, and Tom Canty cried out--

"Now, O my King, take these regal garments back, and give poor
Tom, thy servant, his shreds and remnants again."

The Lord Protector spoke up--

"Let the small varlet be stripped and flung into the Tower."

But the new King, the true King, said--

"I will not have it so.  But for him I had not got my crown again-
-none shall lay a hand upon him to harm him.  And as for thee, my
good uncle, my Lord Protector, this conduct of thine is not
grateful toward this poor lad, for I hear he hath made thee a
duke"--the Protector blushed--"yet he was not a king; wherefore
what is thy fine title worth now?  To-morrow you shall sue to me,
THROUGH HIM, for its confirmation, else no duke, but a simple
earl, shalt thou remain."

Under this rebuke, his Grace the Duke of Somerset retired a little
from the front for the moment.  The King turned to Tom, and said
kindly--"My poor boy, how was it that you could remember where I
hid the Seal when I could not remember it myself?"

"Ah, my King, that was easy, since I used it divers days."

"Used it--yet could not explain where it was?"

"I did not know it was THAT they wanted.  They did not describe
it, your Majesty."

"Then how used you it?"

The red blood began to steal up into Tom's cheeks, and he dropped
his eyes and was silent.

"Speak up, good lad, and fear nothing," said the King.  "How used
you the Great Seal of England?"

Tom stammered a moment, in a pathetic confusion, then got it out--

"To crack nuts with!"

Poor child, the avalanche of laughter that greeted this nearly
swept him off his feet.  But if a doubt remained in any mind that
Tom Canty was not the King of England and familiar with the august
appurtenances of royalty, this reply disposed of it utterly.

Meantime the sumptuous robe of state had been removed from Tom's
shoulders to the King's, whose rags were effectually hidden from
sight under it.  Then the coronation ceremonies were resumed; the
true King was anointed and the crown set upon his head, whilst
cannon thundered the news to the city, and all London seemed to
rock with applause.



Chapter XXXIII. Edward as King.

Miles Hendon was picturesque enough before he got into the riot on
London Bridge--he was more so when he got out of it.  He had but
little money when he got in, none at all when he got out.  The
pickpockets had stripped him of his last farthing.

But no matter, so he found his boy.  Being a soldier, he did not
go at his task in a random way, but set to work, first of all, to
arrange his campaign.

What would the boy naturally do?  Where would he naturally go?
Well--argued Miles--he would naturally go to his former haunts,
for that is the instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and
forsaken, as well as of sound ones.  Whereabouts were his former
haunts?  His rags, taken together with the low villain who seemed
to know him and who even claimed to be his father, indicated that
his home was in one or another of the poorest and meanest
districts of London.  Would the search for him be difficult, or
long?  No, it was likely to be easy and brief.  He would not hunt
for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in the centre of a big
crowd or a little one, sooner or later, he should find his poor
little friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be entertaining
itself with pestering and aggravating the boy, who would be
proclaiming himself King, as usual.  Then Miles Hendon would
cripple some of those people, and carry off his little ward, and
comfort and cheer him with loving words, and the two would never
be separated any more.

So Miles started on his quest.  Hour after hour he tramped through
back alleys and squalid streets, seeking groups and crowds, and
finding no end of them, but never any sign of the boy.  This
greatly surprised him, but did not discourage him.  To his notion,
there was nothing the matter with his plan of campaign; the only
miscalculation about it was that the campaign was becoming a
lengthy one, whereas he had expected it to be short.

When daylight arrived, at last, he had made many a mile, and
canvassed many a crowd, but the only result was that he was
tolerably tired, rather hungry and very sleepy.  He wanted some
breakfast, but there was no way to get it.  To beg for it did not
occur to him; as to pawning his sword, he would as soon have
thought of parting with his honour; he could spare some of his
clothes--yes, but one could as easily find a customer for a
disease as for such clothes.

At noon he was still tramping--among the rabble which followed
after the royal procession, now; for he argued that this regal
display would attract his little lunatic powerfully.  He followed
the pageant through all its devious windings about London, and all
the way to Westminster and the Abbey.  He drifted here and there
amongst the multitudes that were massed in the vicinity for a
weary long time, baffled and perplexed, and finally wandered off,
thinking, and trying to contrive some way to better his plan of
campaign.  By-and-by, when he came to himself out of his musings,
he discovered that the town was far behind him and that the day
was growing old.  He was near the river, and in the country; it
was a region of fine rural seats--not the sort of district to
welcome clothes like his.

It was not at all cold; so he stretched himself on the ground in
the lee of a hedge to rest and think.  Drowsiness presently began
to settle upon his senses; the faint and far-off boom of cannon
was wafted to his ear, and he said to himself, "The new King is
crowned," and straightway fell asleep.  He had not slept or
rested, before, for more than thirty hours.  He did not wake again
until near the middle of the next morning.

He got up, lame, stiff, and half famished, washed himself in the
river, stayed his stomach with a pint or two of water, and trudged
off toward Westminster, grumbling at himself for having wasted so
much time.  Hunger helped him to a new plan, now; he would try to
get speech with old Sir Humphrey Marlow and borrow a few marks,
and--but that was enough of a plan for the present; it would be
time enough to enlarge it when this first stage should be
accomplished.

Toward eleven o'clock he approached the palace; and although a
host of showy people were about him, moving in the same direction,
he was not inconspicuous--his costume took care of that.  He
watched these people's faces narrowly, hoping to find a charitable
one whose possessor might be willing to carry his name to the old
lieutenant--as to trying to get into the palace himself, that was
simply out of the question.

Presently our whipping-boy passed him, then wheeled about and
scanned his figure well, saying to himself, "An' that is not the
very vagabond his Majesty is in such a worry about, then am I an
ass--though belike I was that before.  He answereth the
description to a rag--that God should make two such would be to
cheapen miracles by wasteful repetition.  I would I could contrive
an excuse to speak with him."

Miles Hendon saved him the trouble; for he turned about, then, as
a man generally will when somebody mesmerises him by gazing hard
at him from behind; and observing a strong interest in the boy's
eyes, he stepped toward him and said--

"You have just come out from the palace; do you belong there?"

"Yes, your worship."

"Know you Sir Humphrey Marlow?"

The boy started, and said to himself, "Lord! mine old departed
father!"  Then he answered aloud, "Right well, your worship."

"Good--is he within?"

"Yes," said the boy; and added, to himself, "within his grave."

"Might I crave your favour to carry my name to him, and say I beg
to say a word in his ear?"

"I will despatch the business right willingly, fair sir."

"Then say Miles Hendon, son of Sir Richard, is here without--I
shall be greatly bounden to you, my good lad."

The boy looked disappointed.  "The King did not name him so," he
said to himself; "but it mattereth not, this is his twin brother,
and can give his Majesty news of t'other Sir-Odds-and-Ends, I
warrant."  So he said to Miles, "Step in there a moment, good sir,
and wait till I bring you word."

Hendon retired to the place indicated--it was a recess sunk in the
palace wall, with a stone bench in it--a shelter for sentinels in
bad weather.  He had hardly seated himself when some halberdiers,
in charge of an officer, passed by.  The officer saw him, halted
his men, and commanded Hendon to come forth.  He obeyed, and was
promptly arrested as a suspicious character prowling within the
precincts of the palace.  Things began to look ugly.  Poor Miles
was going to explain, but the officer roughly silenced him, and
ordered his men to disarm him and search him.

"God of his mercy grant that they find somewhat," said poor Miles;
"I have searched enow, and failed, yet is my need greater than
theirs."

Nothing was found but a document.  The officer tore it open, and
Hendon smiled when he recognised the 'pot-hooks' made by his lost
little friend that black day at Hendon Hall.  The officer's face
grew dark as he read the English paragraph, and Miles blenched to
the opposite colour as he listened.

"Another new claimant of the Crown!" cried the officer.  "Verily
they breed like rabbits, to-day.  Seize the rascal, men, and see
ye keep him fast whilst I convey this precious paper within and
send it to the King."

He hurried away, leaving the prisoner in the grip of the
halberdiers.

"Now is my evil luck ended at last," muttered Hendon, "for I shall
dangle at a rope's end for a certainty, by reason of that bit of
writing.  And what will become of my poor lad!--ah, only the good
God knoweth."

By-and-by he saw the officer coming again, in a great hurry; so he
plucked his courage together, purposing to meet his trouble as
became a man.  The officer ordered the men to loose the prisoner
and return his sword to him; then bowed respectfully, and said--

"Please you, sir, to follow me."

Hendon followed, saying to himself, "An' I were not travelling to
death and judgment, and so must needs economise in sin, I would
throttle this knave for his mock courtesy."

The two traversed a populous court, and arrived at the grand
entrance of the palace, where the officer, with another bow,
delivered Hendon into the hands of a gorgeous official, who
received him with profound respect and led him forward through a
great hall, lined on both sides with rows of splendid flunkeys
(who made reverential obeisance as the two passed along, but fell
into death-throes of silent laughter at our stately scarecrow the
moment his back was turned), and up a broad staircase, among
flocks of fine folk, and finally conducted him into a vast room,
clove a passage for him through the assembled nobility of England,
then made a bow, reminded him to take his hat off, and left him
standing in the middle of the room, a mark for all eyes, for
plenty of indignant frowns, and for a sufficiency of amused and
derisive smiles.

Miles Hendon was entirely bewildered.  There sat the young King,
under a canopy of state, five steps away, with his head bent down
and aside, speaking with a sort of human bird of paradise--a duke,
maybe.  Hendon observed to himself that it was hard enough to be
sentenced to death in the full vigour of life, without having this
peculiarly public humiliation added.  He wished the King would
hurry about it--some of the gaudy people near by were becoming
pretty offensive.  At this moment the King raised his head
slightly, and Hendon caught a good view of his face.  The sight
nearly took his breath away!--He stood gazing at the fair young
face like one transfixed; then presently ejaculated--

"Lo, the Lord of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows on his throne!"

He muttered some broken sentences, still gazing and marvelling;
then turned his eyes around and about, scanning the gorgeous
throng and the splendid saloon, murmuring, "But these are REAL--
verily these are REAL--surely it is not a dream."

He stared at the King again--and thought, "IS it a dream . . . or
IS he the veritable Sovereign of England, and not the friendless
poor Tom o' Bedlam I took him for--who shall solve me this
riddle?"

A sudden idea flashed in his eye, and he strode to the wall,
gathered up a chair, brought it back, planted it on the floor, and
sat down in it!

A buzz of indignation broke out, a rough hand was laid upon him
and a voice exclaimed--

"Up, thou mannerless clown! would'st sit in the presence of the
King?"

The disturbance attracted his Majesty's attention, who stretched
forth his hand and cried out--

"Touch him not, it is his right!"

The throng fell back, stupefied.  The King went on--

"Learn ye all, ladies, lords, and gentlemen, that this is my
trusty and well-beloved servant, Miles Hendon, who interposed his
good sword and saved his prince from bodily harm and possible
death--and for this he is a knight, by the King's voice.  Also
learn, that for a higher service, in that he saved his sovereign
stripes and shame, taking these upon himself, he is a peer of
England, Earl of Kent, and shall have gold and lands meet for the
dignity.  More--the privilege which he hath just exercised is his
by royal grant; for we have ordained that the chiefs of his line
shall have and hold the right to sit in the presence of the
Majesty of England henceforth, age after age, so long as the crown
shall endure.  Molest him not."

Two persons, who, through delay, had only arrived from the country
during this morning, and had now been in this room only five
minutes, stood listening to these words and looking at the King,
then at the scarecrow, then at the King again, in a sort of torpid
bewilderment.  These were Sir Hugh and the Lady Edith.  But the
new Earl did not see them.  He was still staring at the monarch,
in a dazed way, and muttering--

"Oh, body o' me!  THIS my pauper!  This my lunatic!  This is he
whom _I_ would show what grandeur was, in my house of seventy
rooms and seven-and-twenty servants!  This is he who had never
known aught but rags for raiment, kicks for comfort, and offal for
diet!  This is he whom _I_ adopted and would make respectable!
Would God I had a bag to hide my head in!"

Then his manners suddenly came back to him, and he dropped upon
his knees, with his hands between the King's, and swore allegiance
and did homage for his lands and titles.  Then he rose and stood
respectfully aside, a mark still for all eyes--and much envy, too.

Now the King discovered Sir Hugh, and spoke out with wrathful
voice and kindling eye--

"Strip this robber of his false show and stolen estates, and put
him under lock and key till I have need of him."

The late Sir Hugh was led away.

There was a stir at the other end of the room, now; the assemblage
fell apart, and Tom Canty, quaintly but richly clothed, marched
down, between these living walls, preceded by an usher.  He knelt
before the King, who said--

"I have learned the story of these past few weeks, and am well
pleased with thee.  Thou hast governed the realm with right royal
gentleness and mercy.  Thou hast found thy mother and thy sisters
again?  Good; they shall be cared for--and thy father shall hang,
if thou desire it and the law consent.  Know, all ye that hear my
voice, that from this day, they that abide in the shelter of
Christ's Hospital and share the King's bounty shall have their
minds and hearts fed, as well as their baser parts; and this boy
shall dwell there, and hold the chief place in its honourable body
of governors, during life.  And for that he hath been a king, it
is meet that other than common observance shall be his due;
wherefore note this his dress of state, for by it he shall be
known, and none shall copy it; and wheresoever he shall come, it
shall remind the people that he hath been royal, in his time, and
none shall deny him his due of reverence or fail to give him
salutation.  He hath the throne's protection, he hath the crown's
support, he shall be known and called by the honourable title of
the King's Ward."

The proud and happy Tom Canty rose and kissed the King's hand, and
was conducted from the presence.  He did not waste any time, but
flew to his mother, to tell her and Nan and Bet all about it and
get them to help him enjoy the great news. {1}



Conclusion. Justice and retribution.

When the mysteries were all cleared up, it came out, by confession
of Hugh Hendon, that his wife had repudiated Miles by his command,
that day at Hendon Hall--a command assisted and supported by the
perfectly trustworthy promise that if she did not deny that he was
Miles Hendon, and stand firmly to it, he would have her life;
whereupon she said, "Take it!"--she did not value it--and she
would not repudiate Miles; then the husband said he would spare
her life but have Miles assassinated!  This was a different
matter; so she gave her word and kept it.

Hugh was not prosecuted for his threats or for stealing his
brother's estates and title, because the wife and brother would
not testify against him--and the former would not have been
allowed to do it, even if she had wanted to.  Hugh deserted his
wife and went over to the continent, where he presently died; and
by-and-by the Earl of Kent married his relict.  There were grand
times and rejoicings at Hendon village when the couple paid their
first visit to the Hall.

Tom Canty's father was never heard of again.

The King sought out the farmer who had been branded and sold as a
slave, and reclaimed him from his evil life with the Ruffler's
gang, and put him in the way of a comfortable livelihood.

He also took that old lawyer out of prison and remitted his fine.
He provided good homes for the daughters of the two Baptist women
whom he saw burned at the stake, and roundly punished the official
who laid the undeserved stripes upon Miles Hendon's back.

He saved from the gallows the boy who had captured the stray
falcon, and also the woman who had stolen a remnant of cloth from
a weaver; but he was too late to save the man who had been
convicted of killing a deer in the royal forest.

He showed favour to the justice who had pitied him when he was
supposed to have stolen a pig, and he had the gratification of
seeing him grow in the public esteem and become a great and
honoured man.

As long as the King lived he was fond of telling the story of his
adventures, all through, from the hour that the sentinel cuffed
him away from the palace gate till the final midnight when he
deftly mixed himself into a gang of hurrying workmen and so
slipped into the Abbey and climbed up and hid himself in the
Confessor's tomb, and then slept so long, next day, that he came
within one of missing the Coronation altogether.  He said that the
frequent rehearsing of the precious lesson kept him strong in his
purpose to make its teachings yield benefits to his people; and
so, whilst his life was spared he should continue to tell the
story, and thus keep its sorrowful spectacles fresh in his memory
and the springs of pity replenished in his heart.

Miles Hendon and Tom Canty were favourites of the King, all
through his brief reign, and his sincere mourners when he died.
The good Earl of Kent had too much sense to abuse his peculiar
privilege; but he exercised it twice after the instance we have
seen of it before he was called from this world--once at the
accession of Queen Mary, and once at the accession of Queen
Elizabeth.  A descendant of his exercised it at the accession of
James I.  Before this one's son chose to use the privilege, near a
quarter of a century had elapsed, and the 'privilege of the Kents'
had faded out of most people's memories; so, when the Kent of that
day appeared before Charles I. and his court and sat down in the
sovereign's presence to assert and perpetuate the right of his
house, there was a fine stir indeed!  But the matter was soon
explained, and the right confirmed.  The last Earl of the line
fell in the wars of the Commonwealth fighting for the King, and
the odd privilege ended with him.

Tom Canty lived to be a very old man, a handsome, white-haired old
fellow, of grave and benignant aspect.  As long as he lasted he
was honoured; and he was also reverenced, for his striking and
peculiar costume kept the people reminded that 'in his time he had
been royal;' so, wherever he appeared the crowd fell apart, making
way for him, and whispering, one to another, "Doff thy hat, it is
the King's Ward!"--and so they saluted, and got his kindly smile
in return--and they valued it, too, for his was an honourable
history.

Yes, King Edward VI. lived only a few years, poor boy, but he
lived them worthily.  More than once, when some great dignitary,
some gilded vassal of the crown, made argument against his
leniency, and urged that some law which he was bent upon amending
was gentle enough for its purpose, and wrought no suffering or
oppression which any one need mightily mind, the young King turned
the mournful eloquence of his great compassionate eyes upon him
and answered--

"What dost THOU know of suffering and oppression?  I and my people
know, but not thou."

The reign of Edward VI. was a singularly merciful one for those
harsh times.  Now that we are taking leave of him, let us try to
keep this in our minds, to his credit.



FOOTNOTES AND TWAIN'S NOTES



{1}  For Mark Twain's note see below under the relevant chapter
heading.

{2}  He refers to the order of baronets, or baronettes; the
barones minores, as distinct from the parliamentary barons--not,
it need hardly be said, to the baronets of later creation.

{3}  The lords of Kingsale, descendants of De Courcy, still enjoy
this curious privilege.

{4}  Hume.

{5}  Ib.

{6}  Leigh Hunt's 'The Town,' p.408, quotation from an early
tourist.

{7}  Canting terms for various kinds of thieves, beggars and
vagabonds, and their female companions.

{8}  From 'The English Rogue.'  London, 1665.

{9}  Hume's England.

{10}  See Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p.
11.

NOTE 1, Chapter IV. Christ's Hospital Costume.

It is most reasonable to regard the dress as copied from the
costume of the citizens of London of that period, when long blue
coats were the common habit of apprentices and serving-men, and
yellow stockings were generally worn; the coat fits closely to the
body, but has loose sleeves, and beneath is worn a sleeveless
yellow under-coat; around the waist is a red leathern girdle; a
clerical band around the neck, and a small flat black cap, about
the size of a saucer, completes the costume.--Timbs' Curiosities
of London.

NOTE 2, Chapter IV.

It appears that Christ's Hospital was not originally founded as a
SCHOOL; its object was to rescue children from the streets, to
shelter, feed, clothe them.
--Timbs' Curiosities of London.

NOTE 3, Chapter V. The Duke of Norfolk's Condemnation commanded.

The King was now approaching fast towards his end; and fearing
lest Norfolk should escape him, he sent a message to the Commons,
by which he desired them to hasten the Bill, on pretence that
Norfolk enjoyed the dignity of Earl Marshal, and it was necessary
to appoint another, who might officiate at the ensuing ceremony of
installing his son Prince of Wales.--Hume's History of England,
vol. iii. p. 307.

NOTE 4, Chapter VII.

It was not till the end of this reign (Henry VIII.) that any
salads, carrots, turnips, or other edible roots were produced in
England.  The little of these vegetables that was used was
formerly imported from Holland and Flanders.  Queen Catherine,
when she wanted a salad, was obliged to despatch a messenger
thither on purpose.--Hume's History of England, vol. iii. p. 314.

NOTE 5, Chapter VIII. Attainder of Norfolk.

The House of Peers, without examining the prisoner, without trial
or evidence, passed a Bill of Attainder against him and sent it
down to the Commons . . . The obsequious Commons obeyed his (the
King's) directions; and the King, having affixed the Royal assent
to the Bill by commissioners, issued orders for the execution of
Norfolk on the morning of January 29 (the next day).--Hume's
History of England, vol iii. p 306.

NOTE 6, Chapter X. The Loving-cup.

The loving-cup, and the peculiar ceremonies observed in drinking
from it, are older than English history.  It is thought that both
are Danish importations.  As far back as knowledge goes, the
loving-cup has always been drunk at English banquets.  Tradition
explains the ceremonies in this way.  In the rude ancient times it
was deemed a wise precaution to have both hands of both drinkers
employed, lest while the pledger pledged his love and fidelity to
the pledgee, the pledgee take that opportunity to slip a dirk into
him!

NOTE 7, Chapter XI. The Duke of Norfolk's narrow Escape.

Had Henry VIII. survived a few hours longer, his order for the
duke's execution would have been carried into effect. 'But news
being carried to the Tower that the King himself had expired that
night, the lieutenant deferred obeying the warrant; and it was not
thought advisable by the Council to begin a new reign by the death
of the greatest nobleman in the kingdom, who had been condemned by
a sentence so unjust and tyrannical.'--Hume's History of England,
vol. iii, p. 307.

NOTE 8, Chapter XIV. The Whipping-boy.

James I. and Charles II. had whipping-boys, when they were little
fellows, to take their punishment for them when they fell short in
their lessons; so I have ventured to furnish my small prince with
one, for my own purposes.

NOTES to Chapter XV.

Character of Hertford.

The young King discovered an extreme attachment to his uncle, who
was, in the main, a man of moderation and probity.--Hume's History
of England, vol. iii.p324.

But if he (the Protector) gave offence by assuming too much state,
he deserves great praise on account of the laws passed this
session, by which the rigour of former statutes was much
mitigated, and some security given to the freedom of the
constitution.  All laws were repealed which extended the crime of
treason beyond the statute of the twenty-fifth of Edward III.; all
laws enacted during the late reign extending the crime of felony;
all the former laws against Lollardy or heresy, together with the
statute of the Six Articles.  None were to be accused for words,
but within a month after they were spoken.  By these repeals
several of the most rigorous laws that ever had passed in England
were annulled; and some dawn, both of civil and religious liberty,
began to appear to the people.  A repeal also passed of that law,
the destruction of all laws, by which the King's proclamation was
made of equal force with a statute.--Ibid. vol. iii. p. 339.

Boiling to Death.

In the reign of Henry VIII. poisoners were, by Act of Parliament,
condemned to be BOILED TO DEATH.  This Act was repealed in the
following reign.

In Germany, even in the seventeenth century, this horrible
punishment was inflicted on coiners and counterfeiters.  Taylor,
the Water Poet, describes an execution he witnessed in Hamburg in
1616.  The judgment pronounced against a coiner of false money was
that he should 'BE BOILED TO DEATH IN OIL; not thrown into the
vessel at once, but with a pulley or rope to be hanged under the
armpits, and then let down into the oil BY DEGREES; first the
feet, and next the legs, and so to boil his flesh from his bones
alive.'--Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p.
13.

The Famous Stocking Case.

A woman and her daughter, NINE YEARS OLD, were hanged in
Huntingdon for selling their souls to the devil, and raising a
storm by pulling off their stockings!--Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's
Blue Laws, True and False, p. 20.

NOTE 10, Chapter XVII. Enslaving.

So young a King and so ignorant a peasant were likely to make
mistakes; and this is an instance in point.  This peasant was
suffering from this law BY ANTICIPATION; the King was venting his
indignation against a law which was not yet in existence; for this
hideous statute was to have birth in this little King's OWN REIGN.
However, we know, from the humanity of his character, that it
could never have been suggested by him.

NOTES to Chapter XXIII. Death for Trifling Larcenies.

When Connecticut and New Haven were framing their first codes,
larceny above the value of twelve pence was a capital crime in
England--as it had been since the time of Henry I.--Dr. J. Hammond
Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p. 17.

The curious old book called The English Rogue makes the limit
thirteen pence ha'penny:  death being the portion of any who steal
a thing 'above the value of thirteen pence ha'penny.'

NOTES to Chapter XXVII.

From many descriptions of larceny the law expressly took away the
benefit of clergy:  to steal a horse, or a HAWK, or woollen cloth
from the weaver, was a hanging matter.  So it was to kill a deer
from the King's forest, or to export sheep from the kingdom.--Dr.
J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p.13.

William Prynne, a learned barrister, was sentenced (long after
Edward VI.'s time) to lose both his ears in the pillory, to
degradation from the bar, a fine of 3,000 pounds, and imprisonment
for life.  Three years afterwards he gave new offence to Laud by
publishing a pamphlet against the hierarchy.  He was again
prosecuted, and was sentenced to lose WHAT REMAINED OF HIS EARS,
to pay a fine of 5,000 pounds, to be BRANDED ON BOTH HIS CHEEKS
with the letters S. L. (for Seditious Libeller), and to remain in
prison for life.  The severity of this sentence was equalled by
the savage rigour of its execution.--Ibid. p. 12.

NOTES to Chapter XXXIII.

Christ's Hospital, or Bluecoat School, 'the noblest institution in
the world.'

The ground on which the Priory of the Grey Friars stood was
conferred by Henry VIII. on the Corporation of London (who caused
the institution there of a home for poor boys and girls).
Subsequently, Edward VI. caused the old Priory to be properly
repaired, and founded within it that noble establishment called
the Bluecoat School, or Christ's Hospital, for the EDUCATION and
maintenance of orphans and the children of indigent persons . . .
Edward would not let him (Bishop Ridley) depart till the letter
was written (to the Lord Mayor), and then charged him to deliver
it himself, and signify his special request and commandment that
no time might be lost in proposing what was convenient, and
apprising him of the proceedings.  The work was zealously
undertaken, Ridley himself engaging in it; and the result was the
founding of Christ's Hospital for the education of poor children.
(The King endowed several other charities at the same time.)
"Lord God," said he, "I yield Thee most hearty thanks that Thou
hast given me life thus long to finish this work to the glory of
Thy name!"  That innocent and most exemplary life was drawing
rapidly to its close, and in a few days he rendered up his spirit
to his Creator, praying God to defend the realm from Papistry.--J.
Heneage Jesse's London:  its Celebrated Characters and Places.

In the Great Hall hangs a large picture of King Edward VI. seated
on his throne, in a scarlet and ermined robe, holding the sceptre
in his left hand, and presenting with the other the Charter to the
kneeling Lord Mayor.  By his side stands the Chancellor, holding
the seals, and next to him are other officers of state.  Bishop
Ridley kneels before him with uplifted hands, as if supplicating a
blessing on the event; whilst the Aldermen, etc., with the Lord
Mayor, kneel on both sides, occupying the middle ground of the
picture; and lastly, in front, are a double row of boys on one
side and girls on the other, from the master and matron down to
the boy and girl who have stepped forward from their respective
rows, and kneel with raised hands before the King.--Timbs'
Curiosities of London, p. 98.

Christ's Hospital, by ancient custom, possesses the privilege of
addressing the Sovereign on the occasion of his or her coming into
the City to partake of the hospitality of the Corporation of
London.--Ibid.

The Dining Hall, with its lobby and organ-gallery, occupies the
entire storey, which is 187 feet long, 51 feet wide, and 47 feet
high; it is lit by nine large windows, filled with stained glass
on the south side; and is, next to Westminster Hall, the noblest
room in the metropolis.  Here the boys, now about 800 in number,
dine; and here are held the 'Suppings in Public,' to which
visitors are admitted by tickets issued by the Treasurer and by
the Governors of Christ's Hospital.  The tables are laid with
cheese in wooden bowls, beer in wooden piggins, poured from
leathern jacks, and bread brought in large baskets.  The official
company enter; the Lord Mayor, or President, takes his seat in a
state chair made of oak from St. Catherine's Church, by the Tower;
a hymn is sung, accompanied by the organ; a 'Grecian,' or head
boy, reads the prayers from the pulpit, silence being enforced by
three drops of a wooden hammer.  After prayer the supper
commences, and the visitors walk between the tables.  At its close
the 'trade-boys' take up the baskets, bowls, jacks, piggins, and
candlesticks, and pass in procession, the bowing to the Governors
being curiously formal.  This spectacle was witnessed by Queen
Victoria and Prince Albert in 1845.

Among the more eminent Bluecoat boys are Joshua Barnes, editor of
Anacreon and Euripides; Jeremiah Markland, the eminent critic,
particularly in Greek Literature; Camden, the antiquary; Bishop
Stillingfleet; Samuel Richardson, the novelist; Thomas Mitchell,
the translator of Aristophanes; Thomas Barnes, many years editor
of the London Times; Coleridge, Charles Lamb, and Leigh Hunt.

No boy is admitted before he is seven years old, or after he is
nine; and no boy can remain in the school after he is fifteen,
King's boys and 'Grecians' alone excepted.  There are about 500
Governors, at the head of whom are the Sovereign and the Prince of
Wales.  The qualification for a Governor is payment of 500
pounds.--Ibid.


GENERAL NOTE.


One hears much about the 'hideous Blue Laws of Connecticut,' and
is accustomed to shudder piously when they are mentioned.  There
are people in America--and even in England!--who imagine that they
were a very monument of malignity, pitilessness, and inhumanity;
whereas in reality they were about the first SWEEPING DEPARTURE
FROM JUDICIAL ATROCITY which the 'civilised' world had seen.  This
humane and kindly Blue Law Code, of two hundred and forty years
ago, stands all by itself, with ages of bloody law on the further
side of it, and a century and three-quarters of bloody English law
on THIS side of it.

There has never been a time--under the Blue Laws or any other--
when above FOURTEEN crimes were punishable by death in
Connecticut.  But in England, within the memory of men who are
still hale in body and mind, TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE crimes
were punishable by death! {10}  These facts are worth knowing--and
worth thinking about, too.





End of Project Gutenberg Etext The Prince and the Pauper, by Mark Twain






                         LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI

                              BY MARK TWAIN



                        THE 'BODY OF THE NATION'

BUT the basin of the Mississippi is the BODY OF THE NATION.
All the other parts are but members, important in themselves,
yet more important in their relations to this.  Exclusive of
the Lake basin and of 300,000 square miles in Texas and New Mexico,
which in many aspects form a part of it, this basin contains
about 1,250,000 square miles.  In extent it is the second great
valley of the world, being exceeded only by that of the Amazon.
The valley of the frozen Obi approaches it in extent;
that of La Plata comes next in space, and probably in
habitable capacity, having about eight-ninths of its area;
then comes that of the Yenisei, with about seven-ninths;
the Lena, Amoor, Hoang-ho, Yang-tse-kiang, and Nile, five-ninths;
the Ganges, less than one-half; the Indus, less than one-third;
the Euphrates, one-fifth; the Rhine, one-fifteenth. It exceeds in
extent the whole of Europe, exclusive of Russia, Norway, and Sweden.
IT WOULD CONTAIN AUSTRIA FOUR TIMES, GERMANY OR SPAIN FIVE TIMES,
FRANCE SIX TIMES, THE BRITISH ISLANDS OR ITALY TEN TIMES.
Conceptions formed from the river-basins of Western Europe
are rudely shocked when we consider the extent of the valley
of the Mississippi; nor are those formed from the sterile basins
of the great rivers of Siberia, the lofty plateaus of Central Asia,
or the mighty sweep of the swampy Amazon more adequate.
Latitude, elevation, and rainfall all combine to render every part
of the Mississippi Valley capable of supporting a dense population.
AS A DWELLING-PLACE FOR CIVILIZED MAN IT IS BY FAR THE FIRST UPON
OUR GLOBE.

EDITOR'S TABLE, HARPER'S MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 1863



                                Chapter 1
                        The River and Its History

THE Mississippi is well worth reading about.  It is not a
commonplace river, but on the contrary is in all ways remarkable.
Considering the Missouri its main branch, it is the longest
river in the world--four thousand three hundred miles.
It seems safe to say that it is also the crookedest river in the world,
since in one part of its journey it uses up one thousand three hundred
miles to cover the same ground that the crow would fly over in six
hundred and seventy-five. It discharges three times as much water
as the St. Lawrence, twenty-five times as much as the Rhine,
and three hundred and thirty-eight times as much as the Thames.
No other river has so vast a drainage-basin:  it draws its water
supply from twenty-eight States and Territories; from Delaware,
on the Atlantic seaboard, and from all the country between that and Idaho
on the Pacific slope--a spread of forty-five degrees of longitude.
The Mississippi receives and carries to the Gulf water from
fifty-four subordinate rivers that are navigable by steamboats,
and from some hundreds that are navigable by flats and keels.
The area of its drainage-basin is as great as the combined areas
of England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, France, Spain, Portugal, Germany,
Austria, Italy, and Turkey; and almost all this wide region is fertile;
the Mississippi valley, proper, is exceptionally so.

It is a remarkable river in this:  that instead of widening toward its mouth,
it grows narrower; grows narrower and deeper.  From the junction of the Ohio
to a point half way down to the sea, the width averages a mile in high water:
thence to the sea the width steadily diminishes, until, at the 'Passes,' above
the mouth, it is but little over half a mile.  At the junction of the Ohio
the Mississippi's depth is eighty-seven feet; the depth increases gradually,
reaching one hundred and twenty-nine just above the mouth.

The difference in rise and fall is also remarkable--not in the upper,
but in the lower river.  The rise is tolerably uniform down to Natchez
(three hundred and sixty miles above the mouth)--about fifty feet.
But at Bayou La Fourche the river rises only twenty-four feet;
at New Orleans only fifteen, and just above the mouth only two
and one half.

An article in the New Orleans 'Times-Democrat,' based upon reports
of able engineers, states that the river annually empties four hundred
and six million tons of mud into the Gulf of Mexico--which brings to mind
Captain Marryat's rude name for the Mississippi--'the Great Sewer.'
This mud, solidified, would make a mass a mile square and two hundred
and forty-one feet high.

The mud deposit gradually extends the land--but only gradually;
it has extended it not quite a third of a mile in the two hundred
years which have elapsed since the river took its place in history.
The belief of the scientific people is, that the mouth used to be
at Baton Rouge, where the hills cease, and that the two hundred
miles of land between there and the Gulf was built by the river.
This gives us the age of that piece of country, without any
trouble at all--one hundred and twenty thousand years.
Yet it is much the youthfullest batch of country that lies
around there anywhere.

The Mississippi is remarkable in still another way--
its disposition to make prodigious jumps by cutting through narrow
necks of land, and thus straightening and shortening itself.
More than once it has shortened itself thirty miles at
a single jump!  These cut-offs have had curious effects:
they have thrown several river towns out into the rural districts,
and built up sand bars and forests in front of them.
The town of Delta used to be three miles below Vicksburg:
a recent cutoff has radically changed the position, and Delta is now TWO
MILES ABOVE Vicksburg.

Both of these river towns have been retired to the country by that
cut-off. A cut-off plays havoc with boundary lines and jurisdictions:
for instance, a man is living in the State of Mississippi to-day,
a cut-off occurs to-night, and to-morrow the man finds himself
and his land over on the other side of the river, within the
boundaries and subject to the laws of the State of Louisiana!
Such a thing, happening in the upper river in the old times,
could have transferred a slave from Missouri to Illinois and made
a free man of him.

The Mississippi does not alter its locality by cut-offs alone:
it is always changing its habitat BODILY--is always moving bodily SIDEWISE.
At Hard Times, La., the river is two miles west of the region it
used to occupy.  As a result, the original SITE of that settlement
is not now in Louisiana at all, but on the other side of the river,
in the State of Mississippi.  NEARLY THE WHOLE OF THAT ONE THOUSAND
THREE HUNDRED MILES OF OLD MISSISSIPPI RIVER WHICH LA SALLE FLOATED DOWN
IN HIS CANOES, TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO, IS GOOD SOLID DRY GROUND NOW.
The river lies to the right of it, in places, and to the left of it
in other places.

Although the Mississippi's mud builds land but slowly, down at
the mouth, where the Gulfs billows interfere with its work,
it builds fast enough in better protected regions higher up:
for instance, Prophet's Island contained one thousand five
hundred acres of land thirty years ago; since then the river has
added seven hundred acres to it.

But enough of these examples of the mighty stream's eccentricities
for the present--I will give a few more of them further along
in the book.

Let us drop the Mississippi's physical history, and say a word
about its historical history--so to speak.  We can glance briefly
at its slumbrous first epoch in a couple of short chapters;
at its second and wider-awake epoch in a couple more; at its
flushest and widest-awake epoch in a good many succeeding chapters;
and then talk about its comparatively tranquil present epoch
in what shall be left of the book.

The world and the books are so accustomed to use, and over-use,
the word 'new' in connection with our country, that we early get and
permanently retain the impression that there is nothing old about it.
We do of course know that there are several comparatively old dates in
American history, but the mere figures convey to our minds no just idea,
no distinct realization, of the stretch of time which they represent.
To say that De Soto, the first white man who ever saw the Mississippi River,
saw it in 1542, is a remark which states a fact without interpreting it:
it is something like giving the dimensions of a sunset by astronomical
measurements, and cataloguing the colors by their scientific names;--as a
result, you get the bald fact of the sunset, but you don't see the sunset.
It would have been better to paint a picture of it.

The date 1542, standing by itself, means little or nothing to us;
but when one groups a few neighboring historical dates and facts
around it, he adds perspective and color, and then realizes that this
is one of the American dates which is quite respectable for age.

For instance, when the Mississippi was first seen by a white man, less than
a quarter of a century had elapsed since Francis I.'s defeat at Pavia;
the death of Raphael; the death of Bayard, SANS PEUR ET SANS REPROCHE;
the driving out of the Knights-Hospitallers from Rhodes by the Turks;
and the placarding of the Ninety-Five Propositions,--the act which
began the Reformation.  When De Soto took his glimpse of the river,
Ignatius Loyola was an obscure name; the order of the Jesuits was not
yet a year old; Michael Angelo's paint was not yet dry on the Last
Judgment in the Sistine Chapel; Mary Queen of Scots was not yet born,
but would be before the year closed.  Catherine de Medici was a child;
Elizabeth of England was not yet in her teens; Calvin, Benvenuto Cellini,
and the Emperor Charles V. were at the top of their fame,
and each was manufacturing history after his own peculiar fashion;
Margaret of Navarre was writing the 'Heptameron' and some religious books,--
the first survives, the others are forgotten, wit and indelicacy
being sometimes better literature preservers than holiness;
lax court morals and the absurd chivalry business were in full feather,
and the joust and the tournament were the frequent pastime of titled fine
gentlemen who could fight better than they could spell, while religion
was the passion of their ladies, and classifying their offspring
into children of full rank and children by brevet their pastime.
In fact, all around, religion was in a peculiarly blooming condition:
the Council of Trent was being called; the Spanish Inquisition was roasting,
and racking, and burning, with a free hand; elsewhere on the continent
the nations were being persuaded to holy living by the sword and fire;
in England, Henry VIII. had suppressed the monasteries, burnt Fisher
and another bishop or two, and was getting his English reformation
and his harem effectively started.  When De Soto stood on the banks
of the Mississippi, it was still two years before Luther's death;
eleven years before the burning of Servetus; thirty years before
the St. Bartholomew slaughter; Rabelais was not yet published;
'Don Quixote' was not yet written; Shakespeare was not yet born;
a hundred long years must still elapse before Englishmen would hear the name
of Oliver Cromwell.

Unquestionably the discovery of the Mississippi is a datable
fact which considerably mellows and modifies the shiny newness
of our country, and gives her a most respectable outside-aspect
of rustiness and antiquity.

De Soto merely glimpsed the river, then died and was buried
in it by his priests and soldiers.  One would expect the priests
and the soldiers to multiply the river's dimensions by ten--
the Spanish custom of the day--and thus move other adventurers
to go at once and explore it.  On the contrary, their narratives
when they reached home, did not excite that amount of curiosity.
The Mississippi was left unvisited by whites during a term
of years which seems incredible in our energetic days.
One may 'sense' the interval to his mind, after a fashion,
by dividing it up in this way:  After De Soto glimpsed the river,
a fraction short of a quarter of a century elapsed, and then
Shakespeare was born; lived a trifle more than half a century,
then died; and when he had been in his grave considerably more
than half a century, the SECOND white man saw the Mississippi.
In our day we don't allow a hundred and thirty years to elapse
between glimpses of a marvel.  If somebody should discover
a creek in the county next to the one that the North Pole is in,
Europe and America would start fifteen costly expeditions thither:
one to explore the creek, and the other fourteen to hunt
for each other.

For more than a hundred and fifty years there had been white
settlements on our Atlantic coasts.  These people were in intimate
communication with the Indians:  in the south the Spaniards
were robbing, slaughtering, enslaving and converting them;
higher up, the English were trading beads and blankets to them
for a consideration, and throwing in civilization and whiskey,
'for lagniappe;' and in Canada the French were schooling them
in a rudimentary way, missionarying among them, and drawing whole
populations of them at a time to Quebec, and later to Montreal,
to buy furs of them.  Necessarily, then, these various clusters
of whites must have heard of the great river of the far west;
and indeed, they did hear of it vaguely,--so vaguely and indefinitely,
that its course, proportions, and locality were hardly even guessable.
The mere mysteriousness of the matter ought to have fired
curiosity and compelled exploration; but this did not occur.
Apparently nobody happened to want such a river, nobody needed it,
nobody was curious about it; so, for a century and a half
the Mississippi remained out of the market and undisturbed.
When De Soto found it, he was not hunting for a river, and had
no present occasion for one; consequently he did not value it
or even take any particular notice of it.

But at last La Salle the Frenchman conceived the idea of
seeking out that river and exploring it.  It always happens
that when a man seizes upon a neglected and important idea,
people inflamed with the same notion crop up all around.
It happened so in this instance.

Naturally the question suggests itself, Why did these people want the river
now when nobody had wanted it in the five preceding generations?
Apparently it was because at this late day they thought they
had discovered a way to make it useful; for it had come to be
believed that the Mississippi emptied into the Gulf of California,
and therefore afforded a short cut from Canada to China.
Previously the supposition had been that it emptied into the Atlantic,
or Sea of Virginia.





                                Chapter 2
                       The River and Its Explorers

LA SALLE himself sued for certain high privileges, and they
were graciously accorded him by Louis XIV of inflated memory.
Chief among them was the privilege to explore, far and wide,
and build forts, and stake out continents, and hand the same over
to the king, and pay the expenses himself; receiving, in return,
some little advantages of one sort or another; among them
the monopoly of buffalo hides.  He spent several years and
about all of his money, in making perilous and painful trips
between Montreal and a fort which he had built on the Illinois,
before he at last succeeded in getting his expedition in such
a shape that he could strike for the Mississippi.

And meantime other parties had had better fortune.
In 1673 Joliet the merchant, and Marquette the priest,
crossed the country and reached the banks of the Mississippi.
They went by way of the Great Lakes; and from Green Bay,
in canoes, by way of Fox River and the Wisconsin.  Marquette had
solemnly contracted, on the feast of the Immaculate Conception,
that if the Virgin would permit him to discover the great river,
he would name it Conception, in her honor.  He kept his word.
In that day, all explorers traveled with an outfit of priests.
De Soto had twenty-four with him.  La Salle had several, also.
The expeditions were often out of meat, and scant of clothes,
but they always had the furniture and other requisites for the mass;
they were always prepared, as one of the quaint chroniclers of the time
phrased it, to 'explain hell to the savages.'

On the 17th of June, 1673, the canoes of Joliet and Marquette and their five
subordinates reached the junction of the Wisconsin with the Mississippi.
Mr. Parkman says:  'Before them a wide and rapid current coursed athwart
their way, by the foot of lofty heights wrapped thick in forests.'
He continues:  'Turning southward, they paddled down the stream, through a
solitude unrelieved by the faintest trace of man.'

A big cat-fish collided with Marquette's canoe, and startled him;
and reasonably enough, for he had been warned by the Indians that
he was on a foolhardy journey, and even a fatal one, for the river
contained a demon 'whose roar could be heard at a great distance,
and who would engulf them in the abyss where he dwelt.'
I have seen a Mississippi cat-fish that was more than six feet long,
and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds; and if Marquette's fish
was the fellow to that one, he had a fair right to think the river's
roaring demon was come.

'At length the buffalo began to appear, grazing in herds on the great prairies
which then bordered the river; and Marquette describes the fierce and stupid
look of the old bulls as they stared at the intruders through the tangled
mane which nearly blinded them.'

The voyagers moved cautiously:  'Landed at night and made a fire
to cook their evening meal; then extinguished it, embarked again,
paddled some way farther, and anchored in the stream, keeping a man
on the watch till morning.'

They did this day after day and night after night;
and at the end of two weeks they had not seen a human being.
The river was an awful solitude, then.  And it is now, over most
of its stretch.

But at the close of the fortnight they one day came upon
the footprints of men in the mud of the western bank--a Robinson
Crusoe experience which carries an electric shiver with it yet,
when one stumbles on it in print.  They had been warned that the
river Indians were as ferocious and pitiless as the river demon,
and destroyed all comers without waiting for provocation;
but no matter, Joliet and Marquette struck into the country
to hunt up the proprietors of the tracks.  They found them,
by and by, and were hospitably received and well treated--
if to be received by an Indian chief who has taken off his last rag
in order to appear at his level best is to be received hospitably;
and if to be treated abundantly to fish, porridge, and other game,
including dog, and have these things forked into one's mouth
by the ungloved fingers of Indians is to be well treated.
In the morning the chief and six hundred of his tribesmen escorted
the Frenchmen to the river and bade them a friendly farewell.

On the rocks above the present city of Alton they found some
rude and fantastic Indian paintings, which they describe.
A short distance below 'a torrent of yellow mud rushed furiously
athwart the calm blue current of the Mississippi, boiling and surging
and sweeping in its course logs, branches, and uprooted trees.'
This was the mouth of the Missouri, 'that savage river,'
which 'descending from its mad career through a vast unknown
of barbarism, poured its turbid floods into the bosom of
its gentle sister.'

By and by they passed the mouth of the Ohio; they passed cane-brakes;
they fought mosquitoes; they floated along, day after day,
through the deep silence and loneliness of the river, drowsing in
the scant shade of makeshift awnings, and broiling with the heat;
they encountered and exchanged civilities with another party
of Indians; and at last they reached the mouth of the Arkansas
(about a month out from their starting-point), where a tribe
of war-whooping savages swarmed out to meet and murder them;
but they appealed to the Virgin for help; so in place of a fight
there was a feast, and plenty of pleasant palaver and fol-de-rol.

They had proved to their satisfaction, that the Mississippi did
not empty into the Gulf of California, or into the Atlantic.
They believed it emptied into the Gulf of Mexico.
They turned back, now, and carried their great news to Canada.

But belief is not proof.  It was reserved for La Salle to furnish the proof.
He was provokingly delayed, by one misfortune after another, but at last
got his expedition under way at the end of the year 1681.  In the dead
of winter he and Henri de Tonty, son of Lorenzo Tonty, who invented
the tontine, his lieutenant, started down the Illinois, with a following
of eighteen Indians brought from New England, and twenty-three Frenchmen.
They moved in procession down the surface of the frozen river, on foot,
and dragging their canoes after them on sledges.

At Peoria Lake they struck open water, and paddled thence
to the Mississippi and turned their prows southward.
They plowed through the fields of floating ice, past the mouth
of the Missouri; past the mouth of the Ohio, by-and-by;
'and, gliding by the wastes of bordering swamp, landed on
the 24th of February near the Third Chickasaw Bluffs,'
where they halted and built Fort Prudhomme.

'Again,' says Mr. Parkman, 'they embarked; and with every stage of their
adventurous progress, the mystery of this vast new world was more
and more unveiled.  More and more they entered the realms of spring.
The hazy sunlight, the warm and drowsy air, the tender foliage,
the opening flowers, betokened the reviving life of nature.'

Day by day they floated down the great bends, in the shadow
of the dense forests, and in time arrived at the mouth
of the Arkansas.  First, they were greeted by the natives
of this locality as Marquette had before been greeted by them--
with the booming of the war drum and the flourish of arms.
The Virgin composed the difficulty in Marquette's case;
the pipe of peace did the same office for La Salle.  The white man
and the red man struck hands and entertained each other during
three days.  Then, to the admiration of the savages, La Salle set
up a cross with the arms of France on it, and took possession
of the whole country for the king--the cool fashion of the time--
while the priest piously consecrated the robbery with a hymn.
The priest explained the mysteries of the faith 'by signs,'
for the saving of the savages; thus compensating them with
possible possessions in Heaven for the certain ones on earth
which they had just been robbed of.  And also, by signs,
La Salle drew from these simple children of the forest
acknowledgments of fealty to Louis the Putrid, over the water.
Nobody smiled at these colossal ironies.

These performances took place on the site of the future town of Napoleon,
Arkansas, and there the first confiscation-cross was raised on the banks
of the great river.  Marquette's and Joliet's voyage of discovery
ended at the same spot--the site of the future town of Napoleon.
When De Soto took his fleeting glimpse of the river, away back in the dim
early days, he took it from that same spot--the site of the future town
of Napoleon, Arkansas.  Therefore, three out of the four memorable
events connected with the discovery and exploration of the mighty river,
occurred, by accident, in one and the same place.  It is a most
curious distinction, when one comes to look at it and think about it.
France stole that vast country on that spot, the future Napoleon;
and by and by Napoleon himself was to give the country back again!--
make restitution, not to the owners, but to their white American heirs.

The voyagers journeyed on, touching here and there; 'passed the sites,
since become historic, of Vicksburg and Grand Gulf,'
and visited an imposing Indian monarch in the Teche country,
whose capital city was a substantial one of sun-baked bricks
mixed with straw--better houses than many that exist there now.
The chiefs house contained an audience room forty feet square;
and there he received Tonty in State, surrounded by sixty old
men clothed in white cloaks.  There was a temple in the town,
with a mud wall about it ornamented with skulls of enemies sacrificed
to the sun.

The voyagers visited the Natchez Indians, near the site of the present
city of that name, where they found a 'religious and political despotism,
a privileged class descended from the sun, a temple and a sacred fire.'
It must have been like getting home again; it was home with an advantage,
in fact, for it lacked Louis XIV.

A few more days swept swiftly by, and La Salle stood in the shadow
of his confiscating cross, at the meeting of the waters from Delaware,
and from Itaska, and from the mountain ranges close upon the Pacific, with the
waters of the Gulf of Mexico, his task finished, his prodigy achieved.
Mr. Parkman, in closing his fascinating narrative, thus sums up:

'On that day, the realm of France received on parchment
a stupendous accession.  The fertile plains of Texas;
the vast basin of the Mississippi, from its frozen northern
springs to the sultry borders of the Gulf; from the woody ridges
of the Alleghanies to the bare peaks of the Rocky Mountains--
a region of savannas and forests, sun-cracked deserts and
grassy prairies, watered by a thousand rivers, ranged by a
thousand warlike tribes, passed beneath the scepter of the Sultan
of Versailles; and all by virtue of a feeble human voice,
inaudible at half a mile.'




                                Chapter 3
                         Frescoes from the Past

APPARENTLY the river was ready for business, now.  But no,
the distribution of a population along its banks was as calm
and deliberate and time-devouring a process as the discovery
and exploration had been.

Seventy years elapsed, after the exploration, before the
river's borders had a white population worth considering;
and nearly fifty more before the river had a commerce.
Between La Salle's opening of the river and the time when it
may be said to have become the vehicle of anything like a regular
and active commerce, seven sovereigns had occupied the throne
of England, America had become an independent nation, Louis XIV.
and Louis XV. had rotted and died, the French monarchy had gone
down in the red tempest of the revolution, and Napoleon was a name
that was beginning to be talked about.  Truly, there were snails
in those days.

The river's earliest commerce was in great barges--keelboats, broadhorns.
They floated and sailed from the upper rivers to New Orleans,
changed cargoes there, and were tediously warped and poled back
by hand.  A voyage down and back sometimes occupied nine months.
In time this commerce increased until it gave employment to hordes
of rough and hardy men; rude, uneducated, brave, suffering terrific
hardships with sailor-like stoicism; heavy drinkers, coarse frolickers
in moral sties like the Natchez-under-the-hill of that day,
heavy fighters, reckless fellows, every one, elephantinely jolly,
foul-witted, profane; prodigal of their money, bankrupt at the end
of the trip, fond of barbaric finery, prodigious braggarts;
yet, in the main, honest, trustworthy, faithful to promises and duty,
and often picturesquely magnanimous.

By and by the steamboat intruded.  Then for fifteen or twenty years,
these men continued to run their keelboats down-stream, and the steamers
did all of the upstream business, the keelboatmen selling their boats
in New Orleans, and returning home as deck passengers in the steamers.

But after a while the steamboats so increased in number and
in speed that they were able to absorb the entire commerce;
and then keelboating died a permanent death.  The keelboatman
became a deck hand, or a mate, or a pilot on the steamer;
and when steamer-berths were not open to him, he took a berth
on a Pittsburgh coal-flat, or on a pine-raft constructed
in the forests up toward the sources of the Mississippi.

In the heyday of the steamboating prosperity, the river from end
to end was flaked with coal-fleets and timber rafts, all managed
by hand, and employing hosts of the rough characters whom I
have been trying to describe.  I remember the annual processions
of mighty rafts that used to glide by Hannibal when I was a boy,--
an acre or so of white, sweet-smelling boards in each raft,
a crew of two dozen men or more, three or four wigwams scattered
about the raft's vast level space for storm-quarters,--and I
remember the rude ways and the tremendous talk of their big crews,
the ex-keelboatmen and their admiringly patterning successors;
for we used to swim out a quarter or third of a mile and get on
these rafts and have a ride.

By way of illustrating keelboat talk and manners, and that
now-departed and hardly-remembered raft-life, I will throw in,
in this place, a chapter from a book which I have been working at,
by fits and starts, during the past five or six years,
and may possibly finish in the course of five or six more.
The book is a story which details some passages in the life
of an ignorant village boy, Huck Finn, son of the town
drunkard of my time out west, there.  He has run away from
his persecuting father, and from a persecuting good widow who
wishes to make a nice, truth-telling, respectable boy of him;
and with him a slave of the widow's has also escaped.
They have found a fragment of a lumber raft (it is high
water and dead summer time), and are floating down the river
by night, and hiding in the willows by day,--bound for Cairo,--
whence the negro will seek freedom in the heart of the free States.
But in a fog, they pass Cairo without knowing it.
By and by they begin to suspect the truth, and Huck Finn is
persuaded to end the dismal suspense by swimming down to a huge
raft which they have seen in the distance ahead of them,
creeping aboard under cover of the darkness, and gathering
the needed information by eavesdropping:--

But you know a young person can't wait very well when he is
impatient to find a thing out.  We talked it over, and by and by
Jim said it was such a black night, now, that it wouldn't be no
risk to swim down to the big raft and crawl aboard and listen--
they would talk about Cairo, because they would be calculating
to go ashore there for a spree, maybe, or anyway they would
send boats ashore to buy whiskey or fresh meat or something.
Jim had a wonderful level head, for a nigger:  he could most always
start a good plan when you wanted one.

I stood up and shook my rags off and jumped into the river,
and struck out for the raft's light.  By and by, when I got
down nearly to her, I eased up and went slow and cautious.
But everything was all right--nobody at the sweeps.
So I swum down along the raft till I was most abreast the camp
fire in the middle, then I crawled aboard and inched along and got
in amongst some bundles of shingles on the weather side of the fire.
There was thirteen men there--they was the watch on deck of course.
And a mighty rough-looking lot, too.  They had a jug, and tin cups,
and they kept the jug moving.  One man was singing--roaring, you may say;
and it wasn't a nice song--for a parlor anyway.  He roared through
his nose, and strung out the last word of every line very long.
When he was done they all fetched a kind of Injun war-whoop, and then
another was sung.  It begun:--

     'There was a woman in our towdn,
       In our towdn did dwed'l (dwell,)
     She loved her husband dear-i-lee,
       But another man twyste as wed'l.

     Singing too, riloo, riloo, riloo,
       Ri-too, riloo, rilay - - - e,
     She loved her husband dear-i-lee,
       But another man twyste as wed'l.

And so on--fourteen verses.  It was kind of poor, and when he was
going to start on the next verse one of them said it was the tune
the old cow died on; and another one said, 'Oh, give us a rest.'
And another one told him to take a walk.  They made fun of him
till he got mad and jumped up and begun to cuss the crowd,
and said he could lame any thief in the lot.

They was all about to make a break for him, but the biggest man
there jumped up and says--

'Set whar you are, gentlemen.  Leave him to me; he's my meat.'

Then he jumped up in the air three times and cracked his heels
together every time.  He flung off a buckskin coat that was all hung
with fringes, and says, 'You lay thar tell the chawin-up's done;'
and flung his hat down, which was all over ribbons, and says,
'You lay thar tell his sufferin's is over.'

Then he jumped up in the air and cracked his heels together again
and shouted out--

'Whoo-oop! I'm the old original iron-jawed, brass-mounted,
copper-bellied corpse-maker from the wilds of Arkansaw!--Look at me!
I'm the man they call Sudden Death and General Desolation!
Sired by a hurricane, dam'd by an earthquake, half-brother to
the cholera, nearly related to the small-pox on the mother's side!
Look at me!  I take nineteen alligators and a bar'l of whiskey
for breakfast when I'm in robust health, and a bushel of rattlesnakes
and a dead body when I'm ailing!  I split the everlasting
rocks with my glance, and I squench the thunder when I speak!
Whoo-oop! Stand back and give me room according to my strength!
Blood's my natural drink, and the wails of the dying is music to my ear!
Cast your eye on me, gentlemen!--and lay low and hold your breath,
for I'm bout to turn myself loose!'

All the time he was getting this off, he was shaking his head
and looking fierce, and kind of swelling around in a little circle,
tucking up his wrist-bands, and now and then straightening up and
beating his breast with his fist, saying, 'Look at me, gentlemen!'
When he got through, he jumped up and cracked his heels together
three times, and let off a roaring 'Whoo-oop! I'm the bloodiest son
of a wildcat that lives!'

Then the man that had started the row tilted his old slouch
hat down over his right eye; then he bent stooping forward,
with his back sagged and his south end sticking out far,
and his fists a-shoving out and drawing in in front of him,
and so went around in a little circle about three times,
swelling himself up and breathing hard.  Then he straightened,
and jumped up and cracked his heels together three times,
before he lit again (that made them cheer), and he begun to
shout like this--

'Whoo-oop! bow your neck and spread, for the kingdom of sorrow's
a-coming! Hold me down to the earth, for I feel my powers
a-working! whoo-oop! I'm a child of sin, don't let me get a start!
Smoked glass, here, for all!  Don't attempt to look at me
with the naked eye, gentlemen!  When I'm playful I use
the meridians of longitude and parallels of latitude for a seine,
and drag the Atlantic Ocean for whales!  I scratch my head
with the lightning, and purr myself to sleep with the thunder!
When I'm cold, I bile the Gulf of Mexico and bathe in it;
when I'm hot I fan myself with an equinoctial storm;
when I'm thirsty I reach up and suck a cloud dry like a sponge;
when I range the earth hungry, famine follows in my tracks!
Whoo-oop! Bow your neck and spread!  I put my hand on the sun's
face and make it night in the earth; I bite a piece out of the moon
and hurry the seasons; I shake myself and crumble the mountains!
Contemplate me through leather--don't use the naked eye!
I'm the man with a petrified heart and biler-iron bowels!
The massacre of isolated communities is the pastime of my idle moments,
the destruction of nationalities the serious business of my life!
The boundless vastness of the great American desert is my
enclosed property, and I bury my dead on my own premises!'
He jumped up and cracked his heels together three times before he lit
(they cheered him again), and as he come down he shouted out:
'Whoo-oop! bow your neck and spread, for the pet child of
calamity's a-coming! '

Then the other one went to swelling around and blowing again--the first one--
the one they called Bob; next, the Child of Calamity chipped in again,
bigger than ever; then they both got at it at the same time, swelling round
and round each other and punching their fists most into each other's faces,
and whooping and jawing like Injuns; then Bob called the Child names,
and the Child called him names back again:  next, Bob called him a heap
rougher names and the Child come back at him with the very worst kind
of language; next, Bob knocked the Child's hat off, and the Child picked it
up and kicked Bob's ribbony hat about six foot; Bob went and got it and said
never mind, this warn't going to be the last of this thing, because he was
a man that never forgot and never forgive, and so the Child better look out,
for there was a time a-coming, just as sure as he was a living man,
that he would have to answer to him with the best blood in his body.
The Child said no man was willinger than he was for that time to come,
and he would give Bob fair warning, now, never to cross his path again,
for he could never rest till he had waded in his blood, for such was
his nature, though he was sparing him now on account of his family,
if he had one.

Both of them was edging away in different directions, growling and
shaking their heads and going on about what they was going to do;
but a little black-whiskered chap skipped up and says--

'Come back here, you couple of chicken-livered cowards,
and I'll thrash the two of ye!'

And he done it, too.  He snatched them, he jerked them this way and that,
he booted them around, he knocked them sprawling faster than they could
get up.  Why, it warn't two minutes till they begged like dogs--and how
the other lot did yell and laugh and clap their hands all the way through,
and shout 'Sail in, Corpse-Maker!' 'Hi! at him again, Child of Calamity!'
'Bully for you, little Davy!'  Well, it was a perfect pow-wow for a while.
Bob and the Child had red noses and black eyes when they got through.
Little Davy made them own up that they were sneaks and cowards and not fit
to eat with a dog or drink with a nigger; then Bob and the Child shook
hands with each other, very solemn, and said they had always respected
each other and was willing to let bygones be bygones.  So then they washed
their faces in the river; and just then there was a loud order to stand
by for a crossing, and some of them went forward to man the sweeps there,
and the rest went aft to handle the after-sweeps.

I laid still and waited for fifteen minutes, and had a smoke out of a pipe
that one of them left in reach; then the crossing was finished, and they
stumped back and had a drink around and went to talking and singing again.
Next they got out an old fiddle, and one played and another patted juba,
and the rest turned themselves loose on a regular old-fashioned keel-boat
break-down. They couldn't keep that up very long without getting winded,
so by and by they settled around the jug again.

They sung 'jolly, jolly raftman's the life for me,' with a
musing chorus, and then they got to talking about differences
betwixt hogs, and their different kind of habits; and next about
women and their different ways:  and next about the best ways
to put out houses that was afire; and next about what ought
to be done with the Injuns; and next about what a king had to do,
and how much he got; and next about how to make cats fight;
and next about what to do when a man has fits; and next about
differences betwixt clear-water rivers and muddy-water ones.
The man they called Ed said the muddy Mississippi water
was wholesomer to drink than the clear water of the Ohio;
he said if you let a pint of this yaller Mississippi water settle,
you would have about a half to three-quarters of an inch
of mud in the bottom, according to the stage of the river,
and then it warn't no better than Ohio water--what you wanted
to do was to keep it stirred up--and when the river was low,
keep mud on hand to put in and thicken the water up the way it
ought to be.

The Child of Calamity said that was so; he said there was nutritiousness
in the mud, and a man that drunk Mississippi water could grow corn in his
stomach if he wanted to.  He says--

'You look at the graveyards; that tells the tale.  Trees won't
grow worth chucks in a Cincinnati graveyard, but in a Sent
Louis graveyard they grow upwards of eight hundred foot high.
It's all on account of the water the people drunk before they laid up.
A Cincinnati corpse don't richen a soil any.'

And they talked about how Ohio water didn't like to mix with
Mississippi water.  Ed said if you take the Mississippi on a rise
when the Ohio is low, you'll find a wide band of clear water all the way
down the east side of the Mississippi for a hundred mile or more,
and the minute you get out a quarter of a mile from shore and pass
the line, it is all thick and yaller the rest of the way across.
Then they talked about how to keep tobacco from getting moldy,
and from that they went into ghosts and told about a lot that other
folks had seen; but Ed says--

'Why don't you tell something that you've seen yourselves?
Now let me have a say.  Five years ago I was on a raft as big
as this, and right along here it was a bright moonshiny night,
and I was on watch and boss of the stabboard oar forrard, and one
of my pards was a man named Dick Allbright, and he come along
to where I was sitting, forrard--gaping and stretching, he was--
and stooped down on the edge of the raft and washed his face
in the river, and come and set down by me and got out his pipe,
and had just got it filled, when he looks up and says--

' "Why looky-here," he says, "ain't that Buck Miller's place,
over yander in the bend."

' "Yes," says I, "it is--why."  He laid his pipe down and leant
his head on his hand, and says--

' "I thought we'd be furder down."  I says--

' "I thought it too, when I went off watch"--we was standing
six hours on and six off--"but the boys told me," I says,
"that the raft didn't seem to hardly move, for the last hour,"
says I, "though she's a slipping along all right, now," says I. He
give a kind of a groan, and says--

' "I've seed a raft act so before, along here," he says, " 'pears
to me the current has most quit above the head of this bend durin'
the last two years," he says.

'Well, he raised up two or three times, and looked away off
and around on the water.  That started me at it, too.  A body is
always doing what he sees somebody else doing, though there mayn't
be no sense in it.  Pretty soon I see a black something floating
on the water away off to stabboard and quartering behind us.
I see he was looking at it, too.  I says--

' "What's that?'  He says, sort of pettish,--

' "Tain't nothing but an old empty bar'l.

' "An empty bar'l!" says I, "why," says I, "a spy-glass is a fool
to your eyes.  How can you tell it's an empty bar'l?" He says--

' "I don't know; I reckon it ain't a bar'l, but I thought it
might be," says he.

' "Yes," I says, "so it might be, and it might be anything else, too; a body
can't tell nothing about it, such a distance as that," I says.

'We hadn't nothing else to do, so we kept on watching it.
By and by I says--

' "Why looky-here, Dick Allbright, that thing's a-gaining on us,
 I believe."

'He never said nothing.  The thing gained and gained,
and I judged it must be a dog that was about tired out.
Well, we swung down into the crossing, and the thing floated
across the bright streak of the moonshine, and, by George,
it was bar'l. Says I--

' "Dick Allbright, what made you think that thing was a bar'l,
when it was a half a mile off," says I. Says he--

' "I don't know."  Says I--

' "You tell me, Dick Allbright."  He says--

' "Well, I knowed it was a bar'l; I've seen it before; lots has seen it;
they says it's a haunted bar'l."

'I called the rest of the watch, and they come and stood there,
and I told them what Dick said.  It floated right along abreast,
now, and didn't gain any more.  It was about twenty foot off.
Some was for having it aboard, but the rest didn't want to.
Dick Allbright said rafts that had fooled with it had got bad luck
by it.  The captain of the watch said he didn't believe in it.
He said he reckoned the bar'l gained on us because it was in a little
better current than what we was.  He said it would leave by and by.

'So then we went to talking about other things, and we had a song,
and then a breakdown; and after that the captain of the watch called
for another song; but it was clouding up, now, and the bar'l stuck right
thar in the same place, and the song didn't seem to have much warm-up
to it, somehow, and so they didn't finish it, and there warn't any cheers,
but it sort of dropped flat, and nobody said anything for a minute.
Then everybody tried to talk at once, and one chap got off a joke,
but it warn't no use, they didn't laugh, and even the chap
that made the joke didn't laugh at it, which ain't usual.
We all just settled down glum, and watched the bar'l, and was oneasy
and oncomfortable.  Well, sir, it shut down black and still,
and then the wind begin to moan around, and next the lightning begin
to play and the thunder to grumble.  And pretty soon there was
a regular storm, and in the middle of it a man that was running aft
stumbled and fell and sprained his ankle so that he had to lay up.
This made the boys shake their heads.  And every time the lightning come,
there was that bar'l with the blue lights winking around it.
We was always on the look-out for it.  But by and by, towards dawn,
she was gone.  When the day come we couldn't see her anywhere, and we
warn't sorry, neither.

'But next night about half-past nine, when there was songs and high
jinks going on, here she comes again, and took her old roost on the
stabboard side.  There warn't no more high jinks.  Everybody got solemn;
nobody talked; you couldn't get anybody to do anything but set
around moody and look at the bar'l. It begun to cloud up again.
When the watch changed, the off watch stayed up, 'stead of turning in.
The storm ripped and roared around all night, and in the middle of it
another man tripped and sprained his ankle, and had to knock off.
The bar'l left towards day, and nobody see it go.

'Everybody was sober and down in the mouth all day.  I don't mean
the kind of sober that comes of leaving liquor alone--not that.
They was quiet, but they all drunk more than usual--not together--
but each man sidled off and took it private, by himself.

'After dark the off watch didn't turn in; nobody sung,
nobody talked; the boys didn't scatter around, neither; they sort
of huddled together, forrard; and for two hours they set there,
perfectly still, looking steady in the one direction, and heaving
a sigh once in a while.  And then, here comes the bar'l again.
She took up her old place.  She staid there all night;
nobody turned in.  The storm come on again, after midnight.
It got awful dark; the rain poured down; hail, too; the thunder
boomed and roared and bellowed; the wind blowed a hurricane;
and the lightning spread over everything in big sheets of glare,
and showed the whole raft as plain as day; and the river
lashed up white as milk as far as you could see for miles,
and there was that bar'l jiggering along, same as ever.
The captain ordered the watch to man the after sweeps for a crossing,
and nobody would go--no more sprained ankles for them, they said.
They wouldn't even walk aft.  Well then, just then the sky split
wide open, with a crash, and the lightning killed two men of the
after watch, and crippled two more.  Crippled them how, says you?
Why, sprained their ankles

'The bar'l left in the dark betwixt lightnings, towards dawn.
Well, not a body eat a bite at breakfast that morning.
After that the men loafed around, in twos and threes, and talked
low together.  But none of them herded with Dick Allbright.
They all give him the cold shake.  If he come around
where any of the men was, they split up and sidled away.
They wouldn't man the sweeps with him.  The captain had all
the skiffs hauled up on the raft, alongside of his wigwam,
and wouldn't let the dead men be took ashore to be planted;
he didn't believe a man that got ashore would come back;
and he was right.

'After night come, you could see pretty plain that there was going to be
trouble if that bar'l come again; there was such a muttering going on.
A good many wanted to kill Dick Allbright, because he'd seen the bar'l
on other trips, and that had an ugly look.  Some wanted to put him ashore.
Some said, let's all go ashore in a pile, if the bar'l comes again.

'This kind of whispers was still going on, the men being bunched
together forrard watching for the bar'l, when, lo and behold you,
here she comes again.  Down she comes, slow and steady,
and settles into her old tracks.  You could a heard a pin drop.
Then up comes the captain, and says:--

' "Boys, don't be a pack of children and fools; I don't
want this bar'l to be dogging us all the way to Orleans,
and YOU don't; well, then, how's the best way to stop it?
Burn it up,--that's the way.  I'm going to fetch it aboard," he says.
And before anybody could say a word, in he went.

'He swum to it, and as he come pushing it to the raft, the men spread
to one side.  But the old man got it aboard and busted in the head,
and there was a baby in it!  Yes, sir, a stark naked baby.
It was Dick Allbright's baby; he owned up and said so.

' "Yes," he says, a-leaning over it, "yes, it is my own
lamented darling, my poor lost Charles William Allbright deceased,"
says he,--for he could curl his tongue around the bulliest
words in the language when he was a mind to, and lay them
before you without a jint started, anywheres.  Yes, he said
he used to live up at the head of this bend, and one night
he choked his child, which was crying, not intending to
kill it,--which was prob'ly a lie,--and then he was scared,
and buried it in a bar'l, before his wife got home, and off
he went, and struck the northern trail and went to rafting;
and this was the third year that the bar'l had chased him.
He said the bad luck always begun light, and lasted till four men
was killed, and then the bar'l didn't come any more after that.
He said if the men would stand it one more night,--
and was a-going on like that,--but the men had got enough.
They started to get out a boat to take him ashore and lynch him,
but he grabbed the little child all of a sudden and jumped
overboard with it hugged up to his breast and shedding tears,
and we never see him again in this life, poor old suffering soul,
nor Charles William neither.'

'WHO was shedding tears?' says Bob; 'was it Allbright or the baby?'

'Why, Allbright, of course; didn't I tell you the baby was dead.
Been dead three years--how could it cry?'

'Well, never mind how it could cry--how could it KEEP all that time?'
says Davy.  'You answer me that.'

'I don't know how it done it,' says Ed.  'It done it though--
that's all I know about it.'

'Say--what did they do with the bar'l?' says the Child of Calamity.

'Why, they hove it overboard, and it sunk like a chunk of lead.'

'Edward, did the child look like it was choked?' says one.

'Did it have its hair parted?' says another.

'What was the brand on that bar'l, Eddy?' says a fellow they called Bill.

'Have you got the papers for them statistics, Edmund?' says Jimmy.

'Say, Edwin, was you one of the men that was killed by the lightning.'
says Davy.

'Him?  O, no, he was both of 'em,' says Bob.  Then they all haw-hawed.

'Say, Edward, don't you reckon you'd better take a pill?
You look bad--don't you feel pale?' says the Child of Calamity.

'O, come, now, Eddy,' says Jimmy, 'show up; you must a kept part of that bar'l
to prove the thing by.  Show us the bunghole--do--and we'll all believe you.'

'Say, boys,' says Bill, 'less divide it up.  Thar's thirteen of us.
I can swaller a thirteenth of the yarn, if you can worry down the rest.'

Ed got up mad and said they could all go to some place which he ripped
out pretty savage, and then walked off aft cussing to himself,
and they yelling and jeering at him, and roaring and laughing so you
could hear them a mile.

'Boys, we'll split a watermelon on that,' says the Child of Calamity;
and he come rummaging around in the dark amongst the shingle bundles
where I was, and put his hand on me.  I was warm and soft and naked;
so he says 'Ouch!' and jumped back.

'Fetch a lantern or a chunk of fire here, boys--there's a snake
here as big as a cow!'

So they run there with a lantern and crowded up and looked in on me.

'Come out of that, you beggar!' says one.

'Who are you?' says another.

'What are you after here?  Speak up prompt, or overboard you go.

'Snake him out, boys.  Snatch him out by the heels.'

I began to beg, and crept out amongst them trembling.
They looked me over, wondering, and the Child of Calamity says--

'A cussed thief!  Lend a hand and less heave him overboard!'

'No,' says Big Bob, 'less get out the paint-pot and paint him a sky
blue all over from head to heel, and then heave him over! '

'Good, that 's it.  Go for the paint, Jimmy.'

When the paint come, and Bob took the brush and was just going to begin,
the others laughing and rubbing their hands, I begun to cry, and that sort
of worked on Davy, and he says--

' 'Vast there!  He 's nothing but a cub.  'I'll paint the man
that tetches him!'

So I looked around on them, and some of them grumbled and growled,
and Bob put down the paint, and the others didn't take it up.

'Come here to the fire, and less see what you're up to here,'
says Davy.  'Now set down there and give an account of yourself.
How long have you been aboard here?'

'Not over a quarter of a minute, sir,' says I.

'How did you get dry so quick?'

'I don't know, sir.  I'm always that way, mostly.'

'Oh, you are, are you.  What's your name?'

I warn't going to tell my name.  I didn't know what to say,
so I just says--

'Charles William Allbright, sir.'

Then they roared--the whole crowd; and I was mighty glad I said that,
because maybe laughing would get them in a better humor.

When they got done laughing, Davy says--

'It won't hardly do, Charles William.  You couldn't have growed this
much in five year, and you was a baby when you come out of the bar'l,
you know, and dead at that.  Come, now, tell a straight story,
and nobody'll hurt you, if you ain't up to anything wrong.
What IS your name?'

'Aleck Hopkins, sir.  Aleck James Hopkins.'

'Well, Aleck, where did you come from, here?'

'From a trading scow.  She lays up the bend yonder.
I was born on her.  Pap has traded up and down here all his life;
and he told me to swim off here, because when you went by he said
he would like to get some of you to speak to a Mr. Jonas Turner,
in Cairo, and tell him--'

'Oh, come!'

'Yes, sir; it's as true as the world; Pap he says--'

'Oh, your grandmother!'

They all laughed, and I tried again to talk, hut they broke in on me
and stopped me.

'Now, looky-here,' says Davy; 'you're scared, and so you talk wild.
Honest, now, do you live in a scow, or is it a lie?'

'Yes, sir, in a trading scow.  She lays up at the head of the bend.
But I warn't born in her.  It's our first trip.'

'Now you're talking!  What did you come aboard here, for?  To steal?'

'No, sir, I didn't.--It was only to get a ride on the raft.
All boys does that.'

'Well, I know that.  But what did you hide for?'

'Sometimes they drive the boys off.'

'So they do.  They might steal.  Looky-here; if we let you off this time,
will you keep out of these kind of scrapes hereafter?'

''Deed I will, boss.  You try me.'

'All right, then.  You ain't but little ways from shore.
Overboard with you, and don't you make a fool of yourself
another time this way.--Blast it, boy, some raftsmen would
rawhide you till you were black and blue!'

I didn't wait to kiss good-bye, but went overboard and broke for shore.
When Jim come along by and by, the big raft was away out of sight around
the point.  I swum out and got aboard, and was mighty glad to see home again.


The boy did not get the information he was after, but his adventure
has furnished the glimpse of the departed raftsman and keelboatman
which I desire to offer in this place.

I now come to a phase of the Mississippi River life of the flush
times of steamboating, which seems to me to warrant full examination--
the marvelous science of piloting, as displayed there.
I believe there has been nothing like it elsewhere in the world.




                                Chapter 4
                           The Boys' Ambition

WHEN I was a boy, there was but one permanent ambition among my
comrades in our village<footnote [1. Hannibal, Missouri]> on the west
bank of the Mississippi River.  That was, to be a steamboatman.
We had transient ambitions of other sorts, but they were only transient.
When a circus came and went, it left us all burning to become clowns;
the first negro minstrel show that came to our section left us
all suffering to try that kind of life; now and then we had a hope
that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.
These ambitions faded out, each in its turn; but the ambition to be a
steamboatman always remained.

Once a day a cheap, gaudy packet arrived upward from St. Louis,
and another downward from Keokuk.  Before these events, the day
was glorious with expectancy; after them, the day was a dead and
empty thing.  Not only the boys, but the whole village, felt this.
After all these years I can picture that old time to myself now,
just as it was then:  the white town drowsing in the sunshine
of a summer's morning; the streets empty, or pretty nearly so;
one or two clerks sitting in front of the Water Street stores,
with their splint-bottomed chairs tilted back against the wall,
chins on breasts, hats slouched over their faces, asleep--
with shingle-shavings enough around to show what broke them down;
a sow and a litter of pigs loafing along the sidewalk,
doing a good business in watermelon rinds and seeds; two or
three lonely little freight piles scattered about the 'levee;'
a pile of 'skids' on the slope of the stone-paved wharf,
and the fragrant town drunkard asleep in the shadow of them;
two or three wood flats at the head of the wharf, but nobody
to listen to the peaceful lapping of the wavelets against them;
the great Mississippi, the majestic, the magnificent Mississippi,
rolling its mile-wide tide along, shining in the sun; the dense
forest away on the other side; the 'point' above the town,
and the 'point' below, bounding the river-glimpse and turning
it into a sort of sea, and withal a very still and brilliant
and lonely one.  Presently a film of dark smoke appears above
one of those remote 'points;' instantly a negro drayman,
famous for his quick eye and prodigious voice, lifts up
the cry, 'S-t-e-a-m-boat a-comin'!' and the scene changes!
The town drunkard stirs, the clerks wake up, a furious
clatter of drays follows, every house and store pours
out a human contribution, and all in a twinkling the dead
town is alive and moving.  Drays, carts, men, boys, all go
hurrying from many quarters to a common center, the wharf.
Assembled there, the people fasten their eyes upon the coming
boat as upon a wonder they are seeing for the first time.
And the boat IS rather a handsome sight, too.  She is long and sharp
and trim and pretty; she has two tall, fancy-topped chimneys,
with a gilded device of some kind swung between them;
a fanciful pilot-house, a glass and 'gingerbread', perched on top
of the 'texas' deck behind them; the paddle-boxes are gorgeous
with a picture or with gilded rays above the boat's name;
the boiler deck, the hurricane deck, and the texas deck
are fenced and ornamented with clean white railings;
there is a flag gallantly flying from the jack-staff;
the furnace doors are open and the fires glaring bravely;
the upper decks are black with passengers; the captain stands
by the big bell, calm, imposing, the envy of all; great volumes
of the blackest smoke are rolling and tumbling out of the chimneys--
a husbanded grandeur created with a bit of pitch pine just before
arriving at a town; the crew are grouped on the forecastle;
the broad stage is run far out over the port bow, and an envied
deckhand stands picturesquely on the end of it with a coil
of rope in his hand; the pent steam is screaming through
the gauge-cocks, the captain lifts his hand, a bell rings,
the wheels stop; then they turn back, churning the water to foam,
and the steamer is at rest.  Then such a scramble as there
is to get aboard, and to get ashore, and to take in freight
and to discharge freight, all at one and the same time;
and such a yelling and cursing as the mates facilitate it all with!
Ten minutes later the steamer is under way again, with no flag
on the jack-staff and no black smoke issuing from the chimneys.
After ten more minutes the town is dead again, and the town
drunkard asleep by the skids once more.

My father was a justice of the peace, and I supposed he possessed
the power of life and death over all men and could hang anybody that
offended him.  This was distinction enough for me as a general thing;
but the desire to be a steamboatman kept intruding, nevertheless.
I first wanted to be a cabin-boy, so that I could come out with a white
apron on and shake a tablecloth over the side, where all my old comrades
could see me; later I thought I would rather be the deckhand who stood
on the end of the stage-plank with the coil of rope in his hand,
because he was particularly conspicuous.  But these were only day-dreams,--
they were too heavenly to be contemplated as real possibilities.
By and by one of our boys went away.  He was not heard of for a long time.
At last he turned up as apprentice engineer or 'striker' on a steamboat.
This thing shook the bottom out of all my Sunday-school teachings.
That boy had been notoriously worldly, and I just the reverse;
yet he was exalted to this eminence, and I left in obscurity and misery.
There was nothing generous about this fellow in his greatness.
He would always manage to have a rusty bolt to scrub while his boat
tarried at our town, and he would sit on the inside guard and
scrub it, where we could all see him and envy him and loathe him.
And whenever his boat was laid up he would come home and swell around
the town in his blackest and greasiest clothes, so that nobody could
help remembering that he was a steamboatman; and he used all sorts
of steamboat technicalities in his talk, as if he were so used
to them that he forgot common people could not understand them.
He would speak of the 'labboard' side of a horse in an easy, natural way
that would make one wish he was dead.  And he was always talking about
'St. Looy' like an old citizen; he would refer casually to occasions
when he 'was coming down Fourth Street,' or when he was 'passing
by the Planter's House,' or when there was a fire and he took a turn
on the brakes of 'the old Big Missouri;' and then he would go on and lie
about how many towns the size of ours were burned down there that day.
Two or three of the boys had long been persons of consideration among
us because they had been to St. Louis once and had a vague general
knowledge of its wonders, but the day of their glory was over now.
They lapsed into a humble silence, and learned to disappear when the ruthless
'cub'-engineer approached.  This fellow had money, too, and hair oil.
Also an ignorant silver watch and a showy brass watch chain.
He wore a leather belt and used no suspenders.  If ever a youth
was cordially admired and hated by his comrades, this one was.
No girl could withstand his charms.  He 'cut out' every boy in the village.
When his boat blew up at last, it diffused a tranquil contentment
among us such as we had not known for months.  But when he came
home the next week, alive, renowned, and appeared in church all
battered up and bandaged, a shining hero, stared at and wondered
over by everybody, it seemed to us that the partiality of Providence
for an undeserving reptile had reached a point where it was open to
criticism.

This creature's career could produce but one result, and it
speedily followed.  Boy after boy managed to get on the river.
The minister's son became an engineer.  The doctor's and the
post-master's sons became 'mud clerks;' the wholesale liquor
dealer's son became a barkeeper on a boat; four sons of the
chief merchant, and two sons of the county judge, became pilots.
Pilot was the grandest position of all.  The pilot, even in those days
of trivial wages, had a princely salary--from a hundred and fifty
to two hundred and fifty dollars a month, and no board to pay.
Two months of his wages would pay a preacher's salary for a year.
Now some of us were left disconsolate.  We could not get on the river--
at least our parents would not let us.

So by and by I ran away.  I said I never would come home again till I
was a pilot and could come in glory.  But somehow I could not manage it.
I went meekly aboard a few of the boats that lay packed together like sardines
at the long St. Louis wharf, and very humbly inquired for the pilots,
but got only a cold shoulder and short words from mates and clerks.
I had to make the best of this sort of treatment for the time being,
but I had comforting daydreams of a future when I should be a great and
honored pilot, with plenty of money, and could kill some of these mates
and clerks and pay for them.




                                Chapter 5
                        I Want to be a Cub-pilot

MONTHS afterward the hope within me struggled to a reluctant death,
and I found myself without an ambition.  But I was ashamed to go home.
I was in Cincinnati, and I set to work to map out a new career.
I had been reading about the recent exploration of the river Amazon
by an expedition sent out by our government.  It was said that
the expedition, owing to difficulties, had not thoroughly explored a part
of the country lying about the head-waters, some four thousand miles
from the mouth of the river.  It was only about fifteen hundred miles
from Cincinnati to New Orleans, where I could doubtless get a ship.
I had thirty dollars left; I would go and complete the exploration
of the Amazon.  This was all the thought I gave to the subject.
I never was great in matters of detail.  I packed my valise, and took
passage on an ancient tub called the 'Paul Jones,' for New Orleans.
For the sum of sixteen dollars I had the scarred and tarnished splendors
of 'her' main saloon principally to myself, for she was not a creature to
attract the eye of wiser travelers.

When we presently got under way and went poking down the broad Ohio,
I became a new being, and the subject of my own admiration.
I was a traveler!  A word never had tasted so good in my mouth before.
I had an exultant sense of being bound for mysterious lands and distant
climes which I never have felt in so uplifting a degree since.
I was in such a glorified condition that all ignoble feelings departed
out of me, and I was able to look down and pity the untraveled
with a compassion that had hardly a trace of contempt in it.
Still, when we stopped at villages and wood-yards, I could not help
lolling carelessly upon the railings of the boiler deck to enjoy
the envy of the country boys on the bank.  If they did not seem
to discover me, I presently sneezed to attract their attention,
or moved to a position where they could not help seeing me.
And as soon as I knew they saw me I gaped and stretched, and gave other
signs of being mightily bored with traveling.

I kept my hat off all the time, and stayed where the wind
and the sun could strike me, because I wanted to get
the bronzed and weather-beaten look of an old traveler.
Before the second day was half gone I experienced a joy
which filled me with the purest gratitude; for I saw that
the skin had begun to blister and peel off my face and neck.
I wished that the boys and girls at home could see me now.

We reached Louisville in time--at least the neighborhood of it.
We stuck hard and fast on the rocks in the middle of the river,
and lay there four days.  I was now beginning to feel a strong
sense of being a part of the boat's family, a sort of infant
son to the captain and younger brother to the officers.
There is no estimating the pride I took in this grandeur,
or the affection that began to swell and grow in me for
those people.  I could not know how the lordly steamboatman
scorns that sort of presumption in a mere landsman.
I particularly longed to acquire the least trifle of notice
from the big stormy mate, and I was on the alert for an
opportunity to do him a service to that end.  It came at last.
The riotous powwow of setting a spar was going on down on
the forecastle, and I went down there and stood around in the way--
or mostly skipping out of it--till the mate suddenly roared
a general order for somebody to bring him a capstan bar.
I sprang to his side and said:  'Tell me where it is--
I'll fetch it!'

If a rag-picker had offered to do a diplomatic service for the Emperor
of Russia, the monarch could not have been more astounded than the mate was.
He even stopped swearing.  He stood and stared down at me.
It took him ten seconds to scrape his disjointed remains together again.
Then he said impressively:  'Well, if this don't beat hell!'
and turned to his work with the air of a man who had been confronted
with a problem too abstruse for solution.

I crept away, and courted solitude for the rest of the day.
I did not go to dinner; I stayed away from supper until everybody else
had finished.  I did not feel so much like a member of the boat's
family now as before.  However, my spirits returned, in installments,
as we pursued our way down the river.  I was sorry I hated the mate so,
because it was not in (young) human nature not to admire him.
He was huge and muscular, his face was bearded and whiskered all over;
he had a red woman and a blue woman tattooed on his right arm,--
one on each side of a blue anchor with a red rope to it;
and in the matter of profanity he was sublime.  When he was getting
out cargo at a landing, I was always where I could see and hear.
He felt all the majesty of his great position, and made the world
feel it, too.  When he gave even the simplest order, he discharged
it like a blast of lightning, and sent a long, reverberating peal
of profanity thundering after it.  I could not help contrasting
the way in which the average landsman would give an order,
with the mate's way of doing it.  If the landsman should wish
the gang-plank moved a foot farther forward, he would probably say:
'James, or William, one of you push that plank forward, please;' but put
the mate in his place and he would roar out:  'Here, now, start that
gang-plank for'ard! Lively, now!  WHAT're you about!  Snatch it!
SNATCH it!  There! there!  Aft again! aft again! don't you hear me.
Dash it to dash! are you going to SLEEP over it!  'VAST heaving.
'Vast heaving, I tell you!  Going to heave it clear astern?
WHERE're you going with that barrel!  FOR'ARD with it 'fore I make
you swallow it, you dash-dash-dash-DASHED split between a tired
mud-turtle and a crippled hearse-horse!'

I wished I could talk like that.

When the soreness of my adventure with the mate had somewhat worn off,
I began timidly to make up to the humblest official connected
with the boat--the night watchman.  He snubbed my advances
at first, but I presently ventured to offer him a new chalk pipe;
and that softened him.  So he allowed me to sit with him by the big
bell on the hurricane deck, and in time he melted into conversation.
He could not well have helped it, I hung with such homage on his
words and so plainly showed that I felt honored by his notice.
He told me the names of dim capes and shadowy islands as we glided
by them in the solemnity of the night, under the winking stars,
and by and by got to talking about himself.  He seemed
over-sentimental for a man whose salary was six dollars a week--
or rather he might have seemed so to an older person than I. But
I drank in his words hungrily, and with a faith that might
have moved mountains if it had been applied judiciously.
What was it to me that he was soiled and seedy and fragrant with gin?
What was it to me that his grammar was bad, his construction worse,
and his profanity so void of art that it was an element of weakness
rather than strength in his conversation?  He was a wronged man,
a man who had seen trouble, and that was enough for me.
As he mellowed into his plaintive history his tears dripped
upon the lantern in his lap, and I cried, too, from sympathy.
He said he was the son of an English nobleman--either an earl
or an alderman, he could not remember which, but believed was both;
his father, the nobleman, loved him, but his mother hated him
from the cradle; and so while he was still a little boy he was sent
to 'one of them old, ancient colleges'--he couldn't remember which;
and by and by his father died and his mother seized the property
and 'shook' him as he phrased it.  After his mother shook him,
members of the nobility with whom he was acquainted used their
influence to get him the position of 'loblolly-boy in a ship;'
and from that point my watchman threw off all trammels of date
and locality and branched out into a narrative that bristled all
along with incredible adventures; a narrative that was so reeking
with bloodshed and so crammed with hair-breadth escapes and the most
engaging and unconscious personal villainies, that I sat speechless,
enjoying, shuddering, wondering, worshipping.

It was a sore blight to find out afterwards that he was
a low, vulgar, ignorant, sentimental, half-witted humbug,
an untraveled native of the wilds of Illinois, who had
absorbed wildcat literature and appropriated its marvels,
until in time he had woven odds and ends of the mess into
this yarn, and then gone on telling it to fledglings like me,
until he had come to believe it himself.




                                Chapter 6
                        A Cub-pilot's Experience

WHAT with lying on the rocks four days at Louisville, and some
other delays, the poor old 'Paul Jones' fooled away about two
weeks in making the voyage from Cincinnati to New Orleans.
This gave me a chance to get acquainted with one of the pilots,
and he taught me how to steer the boat, and thus made the fascination
of river life more potent than ever for me.

It also gave me a chance to get acquainted with a youth who had taken
deck passage--more's the pity; for he easily borrowed six dollars of me
on a promise to return to the boat and pay it back to me the day after
we should arrive.  But he probably died or forgot, for he never came.
It was doubtless the former, since he had said his parents were wealthy,
and he only traveled deck passage because it was cooler.<footnote [1.
'Deck' Passage, i.e. steerage passage.]>

I soon discovered two things.  One was that a vessel would not be
likely to sail for the mouth of the Amazon under ten or twelve years;
and the other was that the nine or ten dollars still left
in my pocket would not suffice for so imposing an exploration
as I had planned, even if I could afford to wait for a ship.
Therefore it followed that I must contrive a new career.
The 'Paul Jones' was now bound for St. Louis.  I planned a siege
against my pilot, and at the end of three hard days he surrendered.
He agreed to teach me the Mississippi River from New Orleans
to St. Louis for five hundred dollars, payable out of the first
wages I should receive after graduating.  I entered upon the small
enterprise of 'learning' twelve or thirteen hundred miles of the great
Mississippi River with the easy confidence of my time of life.
If I had really known what I was about to require of my faculties,
I should not have had the courage to begin.  I supposed
that all a pilot had to do was to keep his boat in the river,
and I did not consider that that could be much of a trick,
since it was so wide.

The boat backed out from New Orleans at four in the afternoon,
and it was 'our watch' until eight.  Mr. Bixby, my chief,
'straightened her up,' plowed her along past the sterns of the other
boats that lay at the Levee, and then said, 'Here, take her;
shave those steamships as close as you'd peel an apple.'
I took the wheel, and my heart-beat fluttered up into
the hundreds; for it seemed to me that we were about to scrape
the side off every ship in the line, we were so close.
I held my breath and began to claw the boat away from the danger;
and I had my own opinion of the pilot who had known no better
than to get us into such peril, but I was too wise to express it.
In half a minute I had a wide margin of safety intervening
between the 'Paul Jones' and the ships; and within ten seconds
more I was set aside in disgrace, and Mr. Bixby was going into
danger again and flaying me alive with abuse of my cowardice.
I was stung, but I was obliged to admire the easy confidence with
which my chief loafed from side to side of his wheel, and trimmed
the ships so closely that disaster seemed ceaselessly imminent.
When he had cooled a little he told me that the easy water
was close ashore and the current outside, and therefore we must
hug the bank, up-stream, to get the benefit of the former,
and stay well out, down-stream, to take advantage of the latter.
In my own mind I resolved to be a down-stream pilot and leave
the up-streaming to people dead to prudence.

Now and then Mr. Bixby called my attention to certain things.
Said he, 'This is Six-Mile Point.'  I assented.  It was pleasant
enough information, but I could not see the bearing of it.
I was not conscious that it was a matter of any interest to me.
Another time he said, 'This is Nine-Mile Point.'
Later he said, 'This is Twelve-Mile Point.'  They were
all about level with the water's edge; they all looked
about alike to me; they were monotonously unpicturesque.
I hoped Mr. Bixby would change the subject.  But no; he would
crowd up around a point, hugging the shore with affection,
and then say:  'The slack water ends here, abreast this bunch
of China-trees; now we cross over.'  So he crossed over.
He gave me the wheel once or twice, but I had no luck.
I either came near chipping off the edge of a sugar plantation,
or I yawed too far from shore, and so dropped back into disgrace again
and got abused.

The watch was ended at last, and we took supper and went to bed.
At midnight the glare of a lantern shone in my eyes, and the
night watchman said--

'Come! turn out!'

And then he left.  I could not understand this extraordinary procedure;
so I presently gave up trying to, and dozed off to sleep.
Pretty soon the watchman was back again, and this time he was gruff.
I was annoyed.  I said:--

'What do you want to come bothering around here in the middle of
the night for.  Now as like as not I'll not get to sleep again to-night.'

The watchman said--

'Well, if this an't good, I'm blest.'

The 'off-watch' was just turning in, and I heard some brutal
laughter from them, and such remarks as 'Hello, watchman!
an't the new cub turned out yet?  He's delicate, likely.
Give him some sugar in a rag and send for the chambermaid to sing
rock-a-by-baby to him.'

About this time Mr. Bixby appeared on the scene.
Something like a minute later I was climbing the pilot-house
steps with some of my clothes on and the rest in my arms.
Mr. Bixby was close behind, commenting.  Here was something fresh--
this thing of getting up in the middle of the night to go to work.
It was a detail in piloting that had never occurred to me at all.
I knew that boats ran all night, but somehow I had never happened
to reflect that somebody had to get up out of a warm bed to run them.
I began to fear that piloting was not quite so romantic as I
had imagined it was; there was something very real and work-like
about this new phase of it.

It was a rather dingy night, although a fair number of stars were out.
The big mate was at the wheel, and he had the old tub pointed at
a star and was holding her straight up the middle of the river.
The shores on either hand were not much more than half a mile apart,
but they seemed wonderfully far away and ever so vague and indistinct.
The mate said:--

'We've got to land at Jones's plantation, sir.'

The vengeful spirit in me exulted.  I said to myself,
I wish you joy of your job, Mr. Bixby; you'll have a good
time finding Mr. Jones's plantation such a night as this;
and I hope you never WILL find it as long as you live.

Mr. Bixby said to the mate:--

'Upper end of the plantation, or the lower.?'

'Upper.'

'I can't do it.  The stumps there are out of water at this stage:
It's no great distance to the lower, and you'll have to get
along with that.'

'All right, sir.  If Jones don't like it he'll have to lump it,
 I reckon.'

And then the mate left.  My exultation began to cool and my wonder
to come up.  Here was a man who not only proposed to find this
plantation on such a night, but to find either end of it you preferred.
I dreadfully wanted to ask a question, but I was carrying about as many
short answers as my cargo-room would admit of, so I held my peace.
All I desired to ask Mr. Bixby was the simple question whether he was
ass enough to really imagine he was going to find that plantation on
a night when all plantations were exactly alike and all the same color.
But I held in.  I used to have fine inspirations of prudence
in those days.

Mr. Bixby made for the shore and soon was scraping it, just the same as if it
had been daylight.  And not only that, but singing--

     'Father in heaven, the day is declining,' etc."

It seemed to me that I had put my life in the keeping of a peculiarly
reckless outcast.  Presently he turned on me and said:--

'What's the name of the first point above New Orleans?'

I was gratified to be able to answer promptly, and I did.
I said I didn't know.

'Don't KNOW?'

This manner jolted me.  I was down at the foot again, in a moment.
But I had to say just what I had said before.

'Well, you're a smart one,' said Mr. Bixby.  'What's the name
of the NEXT point?'

Once more I didn't know.

'Well, this beats anything.  Tell me the name of ANY point or place
I told you.'

I studied a while and decided that I couldn't.

'Look here!  What do you start out from, above Twelve-Mile Point,
to cross over?'

'I--I-- don't know.'

'You--you--don't know?' mimicking my drawling manner of speech.
'What DO you know?'

'I--I-- nothing, for certain.'

'By the great Caesar's ghost, I believe you!  You're the stupidest
dunderhead I ever saw or ever heard of, so help me Moses!
The idea of you being a pilot--you!  Why, you don't know enough
to pilot a cow down a lane.'

Oh, but his wrath was up!  He was a nervous man, and he shuffled
from one side of his wheel to the other as if the floor was hot.
He would boil a while to himself, and then overflow and scald me again.

'Look here!  What do you suppose I told you the names of those points for?'

I tremblingly considered a moment, and then the devil of temptation
provoked me to say:--

'Well--to--to--be entertaining, I thought.'

This was a red rag to the bull.  He raged and stormed so (he was
crossing the river at the time) that I judge it made him blind,
because he ran over the steering-oar of a trading-scow. Of
course the traders sent up a volley of red-hot profanity.
Never was a man so grateful as Mr. Bixby was:
because he was brim full, and here were subjects who would
TALK BACK.  He threw open a window, thrust his head out,
and such an irruption followed as I never had heard before.
The fainter and farther away the scowmen's curses drifted,
the higher Mr. Bixby lifted his voice and the weightier his
adjectives grew.  When he closed the window he was empty.
You could have drawn a seine through his system and not caught curses
enough to disturb your mother with.  Presently he said to me in
the gentlest way--

'My boy, you must get a little memorandum book, and every time I
tell you a thing, put it down right away.  There's only one way
to be a pilot, and that is to get this entire river by heart.
You have to know it just like A B C.'

That was a dismal revelation to me; for my memory was never
loaded with anything but blank cartridges.  However, I did
not feel discouraged long.  I judged that it was best to make
some allowances, for doubtless Mr. Bixby was 'stretching.'
Presently he pulled a rope and struck a few strokes on the big bell.
The stars were all gone now, and the night was as black as ink.
I could hear the wheels churn along the bank, but I was not entirely
certain that I could see the shore.  The voice of the invisible
watchman called up from the hurricane deck--

'What's this, sir?'

'Jones's plantation.'

I said to myself, I wish I might venture to offer a small bet
that it isn't. But I did not chirp.  I only waited to see.
Mr. Bixby handled the engine bells, and in due time the boat's
nose came to the land, a torch glowed from the forecastle,
a man skipped ashore, a darky's voice on the bank said,
'Gimme de k'yarpet-bag, Mars' Jones,' and the next moment we
were standing up the river again, all serene.  I reflected
deeply awhile, and then said--but not aloud--'Well, the finding
of that plantation was the luckiest accident that ever happened;
but it couldn't happen again in a hundred years.'  And I fully
believed it was an accident, too.

By the time we had gone seven or eight hundred miles up the river,
I had learned to be a tolerably plucky up-stream steersman,
in daylight, and before we reached St. Louis I had made
a trifle of progress in night-work, but only a trifle.
I had a note-book that fairly bristled with the names of towns,
'points,' bars, islands, bends, reaches, etc.; but the information
was to be found only in the notebook--none of it was in my head.
It made my heart ache to think I had only got half of the river
set down; for as our watch was four hours off and four hours on,
day and night, there was a long four-hour gap in my book for every
time I had slept since the voyage began.

My chief was presently hired to go on a big New Orleans boat, and I packed
my satchel and went with him.  She was a grand affair.  When I stood
in her pilot-house I was so far above the water that I seemed perched on
a mountain; and her decks stretched so far away, fore and aft, below me,
that I wondered how I could ever have considered the little 'Paul Jones'
a large craft.  There were other differences, too.  The 'Paul Jones's'
pilot-house was a cheap, dingy, battered rattle-trap, cramped for room:
but here was a sumptuous glass temple; room enough to have a dance in;
showy red and gold window-curtains; an imposing sofa; leather cushions
and a back to the high bench where visiting pilots sit, to spin yarns
and 'look at the river;' bright, fanciful 'cuspadores' instead of a
broad wooden box filled with sawdust; nice new oil-cloth on the floor;
a hospitable big stove for winter; a wheel as high as my head,
costly with inlaid work; a wire tiller-rope; bright brass knobs
for the bells; and a tidy, white-aproned, black 'texas-tender,' to
bring up tarts and ices and coffee during mid-watch, day and night.
Now this was 'something like,' and so I began to take heart once more
to believe that piloting was a romantic sort of occupation after all.
The moment we were under way I began to prowl about the great steamer
and fill myself with joy.  She was as clean and as dainty as a drawing-room;
when I looked down her long, gilded saloon, it was like gazing through
a splendid tunnel; she had an oil-picture, by some gifted sign-painter,
on every stateroom door; she glittered with no end of prism-fringed
chandeliers; the clerk's office was elegant, the bar was marvelous,
and the bar-keeper had been barbered and upholstered at incredible cost.
The boiler deck (i.e. the second story of the boat, so to speak)
was as spacious as a church, it seemed to me; so with the forecastle;
and there was no pitiful handful of deckhands, firemen, and roustabouts
down there, but a whole battalion of men.  The fires were fiercely glaring
from a long row of furnaces, and over them were eight huge boilers!
This was unutterable pomp.  The mighty engines--but enough of this.
I had never felt so fine before.  And when I found that the regiment
of natty servants respectfully 'sir'd' me, my satisfaction was complete.




                                Chapter 7
                              A Daring Deed

WHEN I returned to the pilot-house St. Louis was gone and I was lost.
Here was a piece of river which was all down in my book,
but I could make neither head nor tail of it:  you understand,
it was turned around.  I had seen it when coming up-stream, but I
had never faced about to see how it looked when it was behind me.
My heart broke again, for it was plain that I had got to learn this
troublesome river BOTH WAYS.

The pilot-house was full of pilots, going down to 'look at the river.'
What is called the 'upper river' (the two hundred miles between St. Louis
and Cairo, where the Ohio comes in) was low; and the Mississippi changes
its channel so constantly that the pilots used to always find it
necessary to run down to Cairo to take a fresh look, when their boats
were to lie in port a week; that is, when the water was at a low stage.
A deal of this 'looking at the river' was done by poor fellows who seldom
had a berth, and whose only hope of getting one lay in their being
always freshly posted and therefore ready to drop into the shoes
of some reputable pilot, for a single trip, on account of such pilot's
sudden illness, or some other necessity.  And a good many of them
constantly ran up and down inspecting the river, not because they ever
really hoped to get a berth, but because (they being guests of the boat)
it was cheaper to 'look at the river' than stay ashore and pay board.
In time these fellows grew dainty in their tastes, and only infested
boats that had an established reputation for setting good tables.
All visiting pilots were useful, for they were always ready and willing,
winter or summer, night or day, to go out in the yawl and help buoy
the channel or assist the boat's pilots in any way they could.
They were likewise welcome because all pilots are tireless talkers,
when gathered together, and as they talk only about the river they
are always understood and are always interesting.  Your true pilot
cares nothing about anything on earth but the river, and his pride
in his occupation surpasses the pride of kings.

We had a fine company of these river-inspectors along, this trip.
There were eight or ten; and there was abundance of room for them in our
great pilot-house. Two or three of them wore polished silk hats, elaborate
shirt-fronts, diamond breast-pins, kid gloves, and patent-leather boots.
They were choice in their English, and bore themselves with a dignity
proper to men of solid means and prodigious reputation as pilots.
The others were more or less loosely clad, and wore upon their heads tall
felt cones that were suggestive of the days of the Commonwealth.

I was a cipher in this august company, and felt subdued, not to say torpid.
I was not even of sufficient consequence to assist at the wheel when it
was necessary to put the tiller hard down in a hurry; the guest that stood
nearest did that when occasion required--and this was pretty much all
the time, because of the crookedness of the channel and the scant water.
I stood in a corner; and the talk I listened to took the hope all out of me.
One visitor said to another--

'Jim, how did you run Plum Point, coming up?'

'It was in the night, there, and I ran it the way one of the boys
on the "Diana" told me; started out about fifty yards above
the wood pile on the false point, and held on the cabin
under Plum Point till I raised the reef--quarter less twain--
then straightened up for the middle bar till I got well abreast
the old one-limbed cotton-wood in the bend, then got my stern
on the cotton-wood and head on the low place above the point,
and came through a-booming--nine and a half.'

'Pretty square crossing, an't it?'

'Yes, but the upper bar 's working down fast.'

Another pilot spoke up and said--

'I had better water than that, and ran it lower down;
started out from the false point--mark twain--raised the second
reef abreast the big snag in the bend, and had quarter less twain.'

One of the gorgeous ones remarked--

'I don't want to find fault with your leadsmen, but that's a good deal
of water for Plum Point, it seems to me.'

There was an approving nod all around as this quiet snub dropped on
the boaster and 'settled' him.  And so they went on talk-talk-talking.
Meantime, the thing that was running in my mind was, 'Now if my ears
hear aright, I have not only to get the names of all the towns and islands
and bends, and so on, by heart, but I must even get up a warm personal
acquaintanceship with every old snag and one-limbed cotton-wood and obscure
wood pile that ornaments the banks of this river for twelve hundred miles;
and more than that, I must actually know where these things are in the dark,
unless these guests are gifted with eyes that can pierce through two miles
of solid blackness; I wish the piloting business was in Jericho and I had
never thought of it.'

At dusk Mr. Bixby tapped the big bell three times (the signal
to land), and the captain emerged from his drawing-room
in the forward end of the texas, and looked up inquiringly.
Mr. Bixby said--

'We will lay up here all night, captain.'

'Very well, sir.'

That was all.  The boat came to shore and was tied up for the night.
It seemed to me a fine thing that the pilot could do as he pleased,
without asking so grand a captain's permission.  I took my supper and went
immediately to bed, discouraged by my day's observations and experiences.
My late voyage's note-booking was but a confusion of meaningless names.
It had tangled me all up in a knot every time I had looked at it in
the daytime.  I now hoped for respite in sleep; but no, it reveled all
through my head till sunrise again, a frantic and tireless nightmare.

Next morning I felt pretty rusty and low-spirited. We went booming along,
taking a good many chances, for we were anxious to 'get out of the river'
(as getting out to Cairo was called) before night should overtake us.
But Mr. Bixby's partner, the other pilot, presently grounded the boat,
and we lost so much time in getting her off that it was plain that
darkness would overtake us a good long way above the mouth.  This was a
great misfortune, especially to certain of our visiting pilots, whose boats
would have to wait for their return, no matter how long that might be.
It sobered the pilot-house talk a good deal.  Coming up-stream, pilots did
not mind low water or any kind of darkness; nothing stopped them but fog.
But down-stream work was different; a boat was too nearly helpless,
with a stiff current pushing behind her; so it was not customary to run
down-stream at night in low water.

There seemed to be one small hope, however:  if we could get through
the intricate and dangerous Hat Island crossing before night, we could
venture the rest, for we would have plainer sailing and better water.
But it would be insanity to attempt Hat Island at night.
So there was a deal of looking at watches all the rest of the day,
and a constant ciphering upon the speed we were making; Hat Island
was the eternal subject; sometimes hope was high and sometimes
we were delayed in a bad crossing, and down it went again.
For hours all hands lay under the burden of this suppressed excitement;
it was even communicated to me, and I got to feeling so
solicitous about Hat Island, and under such an awful pressure
of responsibility, that I wished I might have five minutes on shore
to draw a good, full, relieving breath, and start over again.
We were standing no regular watches.  Each of our pilots ran
such portions of the river as he had run when coming up-stream,
because of his greater familiarity with it; but both remained in
the pilot house constantly.

An hour before sunset, Mr. Bixby took the wheel and Mr. W----
stepped aside.  For the next thirty minutes every man held
his watch in his hand and was restless, silent, and uneasy.
At last somebody said, with a doomful sigh--

'Well, yonder's Hat Island--and we can't make it.'
All the watches closed with a snap, everybody sighed
and muttered something about its being 'too bad, too bad--
ah, if we could only have got here half an hour sooner!'
and the place was thick with the atmosphere of disappointment.
Some started to go out, but loitered, hearing no bell-tap to land.
The sun dipped behind the horizon, the boat went on.
Inquiring looks passed from one guest to another;
and one who had his hand on the door-knob and had
turned it, waited, then presently took away his hand and let
the knob turn back again.  We bore steadily down the bend.
More looks were exchanged, and nods of surprised admiration--
but no words.  Insensibly the men drew together behind Mr. Bixby,
as the sky darkened and one or two dim stars came out.
The dead silence and sense of waiting became oppressive.
Mr. Bixby pulled the cord, and two deep, mellow notes
from the big bell floated off on the night.  Then a pause,
and one more note was struck.  The watchman's voice followed,
from the hurricane deck--

'Labboard lead, there!  Stabboard lead!'

The cries of the leadsmen began to rise out of the distance,
and were gruffly repeated by the word-passers on the hurricane deck.

'M-a-r-k three!.... M-a-r-k three!.... Quarter-less three! .... Half
twain! .... Quarter twain! .... M-a-r-k twain! .... Quarter-less--'

Mr. Bixby pulled two bell-ropes, and was answered by faint
jinglings far below in the engine room, and our speed slackened.
The steam began to whistle through the gauge-cocks. The cries of
the leadsmen went on--and it is a weird sound, always, in the night.
Every pilot in the lot was watching now, with fixed eyes, and talking
under his breath.  Nobody was calm and easy but Mr. Bixby.
He would put his wheel down and stand on a spoke, and as the steamer
swung into her (to me) utterly invisible marks--for we seemed to be in
the midst of a wide and gloomy sea--he would meet and fasten her there.
Out of the murmur of half-audible talk, one caught a coherent sentence
now and then--such as--

'There; she's over the first reef all right!'

After a pause, another subdued voice--

'Her stern's coming down just exactly right, by George!'

'Now she's in the marks; over she goes!'

Somebody else muttered--

'Oh, it was done beautiful--BEAUTIFUL!'

Now the engines were stopped altogether, and we drifted
with the current.  Not that I could see the boat drift,
for I could not, the stars being all gone by this time.
This drifting was the dismalest work; it held one's heart still.
Presently I discovered a blacker gloom than that which surrounded us.
It was the head of the island.  We were closing right down upon it.
We entered its deeper shadow, and so imminent seemed the peril
that I was likely to suffocate; and I had the strongest
impulse to do SOMETHING, anything, to save the vessel.
But still Mr. Bixby stood by his wheel, silent, intent as a cat,
and all the pilots stood shoulder to shoulder at his back.

'She'll not make it!' somebody whispered.

The water grew shoaler and shoaler, by the leadsman's cries,
till it was down to--

'Eight-and-a-half!.... E-i-g-h-t feet!.... E-i-g-h-t feet!.... Seven-and--'

Mr. Bixby said warningly through his speaking tube to the engineer--

'Stand by, now!'

'Aye-aye, sir!'

'Seven-and-a-half! Seven feet!  Six-and--'

We touched bottom!  Instantly Mr. Bixby set a lot of bells ringing,
shouted through the tube, 'NOW, let her have it--every ounce you've got!'
then to his partner, 'Put her hard down! snatch her! snatch her!'
The boat rasped and ground her way through the sand, hung upon the apex
of disaster a single tremendous instant, and then over she went!
And such a shout as went up at Mr. Bixby's back never loosened the roof of
a pilot-house before!

There was no more trouble after that.  Mr. Bixby was a hero that night;
and it was some little time, too, before his exploit ceased to be talked
about by river men.

Fully to realize the marvelous precision required in laying
the great steamer in her marks in that murky waste of water,
one should know that not only must she pick her intricate
way through snags and blind reefs, and then shave the head
of the island so closely as to brush the overhanging foliage
with her stern, but at one place she must pass almost within
arm's reach of a sunken and invisible wreck that would snatch
the hull timbers from under her if she should strike it,
and destroy a quarter of a million dollars' worth of steam-boat
and cargo in five minutes, and maybe a hundred and fifty human
lives into the bargain.

The last remark I heard that night was a compliment to Mr. Bixby,
uttered in soliloquy and with unction by one of our guests.  He said--

'By the Shadow of Death, but he's a lightning pilot!'




                                Chapter 8
                           Perplexing Lessons

At the end of what seemed a tedious while, I had managed to pack my head
full of islands, towns, bars, 'points,' and bends; and a curiously
inanimate mass of lumber it was, too.  However, inasmuch as I
could shut my eyes and reel off a good long string of these names
without leaving out more than ten miles of river in every fifty,
I began to feel that I could take a boat down to New Orleans if I
could make her skip those little gaps.  But of course my complacency
could hardly get start enough to lift my nose a trifle into the air,
before Mr. Bixby would think of something to fetch it down again.
One day he turned on me suddenly with this settler--

'What is the shape of Walnut Bend?'

He might as well have asked me my grandmother's opinion of protoplasm.
I reflected respectfully, and then said I didn't know it had any
particular shape.  My gunpowdery chief went off with a bang, of course,
and then went on loading and firing until he was out of adjectives.

I had learned long ago that he only carried just so many rounds
of ammunition, and was sure to subside into a very placable and
even remorseful old smooth-bore as soon as they were all gone.
That word 'old' is merely affectionate; he was not more than
thirty-four. I waited.  By and by he said--

'My boy, you've got to know the SHAPE of the river perfectly.
It is all there is left to steer by on a very dark night.
Everything else is blotted out and gone.  But mind you, it hasn't
the same shape in the night that it has in the day-time.'

'How on earth am I ever going to learn it, then?'

'How do you follow a hall at home in the dark.  Because you know
the shape of it.  You can't see it.'

'Do you mean to say that I've got to know all the million trifling variations
of shape in the banks of this interminable river as well as I know the shape
of the front hall at home?'

'On my honor, you've got to know them BETTER than any man ever
did know the shapes of the halls in his own house.'

'I wish I was dead!'

'Now I don't want to discourage you, but----'

'Well, pile it on me; I might as well have it now as another time.'

'You see, this has got to be learned; there isn't any getting
around it.  A clear starlight night throws such heavy shadows
that if you didn't know the shape of a shore perfectly you would
claw away from every bunch of timber, because you would take
the black shadow of it for a solid cape; and you see you would
be getting scared to death every fifteen minutes by the watch.
You would be fifty yards from shore all the time when you
ought to be within fifty feet of it.  You can't see a snag
in one of those shadows, but you know exactly where it is,
and the shape of the river tells you when you are coming to it.
Then there's your pitch-dark night; the river is a very different
shape on a pitch-dark night from what it is on a starlight night.
All shores seem to be straight lines, then, and mighty dim ones, too;
and you'd RUN them for straight lines only you know better.
You boldly drive your boat right into what seems to be a solid,
straight wall (you knowing very well that in reality there is
a curve there), and that wall falls back and makes way for you.
Then there's your gray mist.  You take a night when there's one
of these grisly, drizzly, gray mists, and then there isn't any
particular shape to a shore.  A gray mist would tangle the head
of the oldest man that ever lived.  Well, then, different kinds
of MOONLIGHT change the shape of the river in different ways.
You see----'

'Oh, don't say any more, please!  Have I got to learn the shape of the river
according to all these five hundred thousand different ways?  If I tried
to carry all that cargo in my head it would make me stoop-shouldered.'

'NO! you only learn THE shape of the river, and you learn it with such
absolute certainty that you can always steer by the shape that's IN YOUR HEAD,
and never mind the one that's before your eyes.'

'Very well, I'll try it; but after I have learned it can I depend on it.
Will it keep the same form and not go fooling around?'

Before Mr. Bixby could answer, Mr. W---- came in to take the watch,
and he said--

'Bixby, you'll have to look out for President's Island and all
that country clear away up above the Old Hen and Chickens.
The banks are caving and the shape of the shores changing
like everything.  Why, you wouldn't know the point above 40.
You can go up inside the old sycamore-snag, now.<footnote [1.
It may not be necessary, but still it can do no harm to explain
that 'inside' means between the snag and the shore.--M.T.]>

So that question was answered.  Here were leagues of shore changing shape.
My spirits were down in the mud again.  Two things seemed pretty apparent
to me.  One was, that in order to be a pilot a man had got to learn more than
any one man ought to be allowed to know; and the other was, that he must learn
it all over again in a different way every twenty-four hours.

That night we had the watch until twelve.  Now it was an ancient river
custom for the two pilots to chat a bit when the watch changed.
While the relieving pilot put on his gloves and lit his cigar,
his partner, the retiring pilot, would say something like this--

'I judge the upper bar is making down a little at Hale's Point;
had quarter twain with the lower lead and mark twain<footnote [Two fathoms.
'Quarter twain' is two-and-a-quarter fathoms, thirteen-and-a-half feet.
'Mark three' is three fathoms.]> with the other.'

'Yes, I thought it was making down a little, last trip.
Meet any boats?'

'Met one abreast the head of 21, but she was away over hugging the bar,
and I couldn't make her out entirely.  I took her for the "Sunny South"--
hadn't any skylights forward of the chimneys.'

And so on.  And as the relieving pilot took the wheel his
partner<footnote ['Partner' is a technical term for 'the other
pilot'.]> would mention that we were in such-and-such a bend,
and say we were abreast of such-and-such a man's wood-yard
or plantation.  This was courtesy; I supposed it was necessity.
But Mr. W---- came on watch full twelve minutes late on
this particular night,--a tremendous breach of etiquette;
in fact, it is the unpardonable sin among pilots.
So Mr. Bixby gave him no greeting whatever, but simply surrendered
the wheel and marched out of the pilot-house without a word.
I was appalled; it was a villainous night for blackness,
we were in a particularly wide and blind part of the river,
where there was no shape or substance to anything, and it
seemed incredible that Mr. Bixby should have left that poor
fellow to kill the boat trying to find out where he was.
But I resolved that I would stand by him any way.
He should find that he was not wholly friendless.
So I stood around, and waited to be asked where we were.
But Mr. W---- plunged on serenely through the solid firmament of black
cats that stood for an atmosphere, and never opened his mouth.
Here is a proud devil, thought I; here is a limb of Satan that
would rather send us all to destruction than put himself under
obligations to me, because I am not yet one of the salt of the earth
and privileged to snub captains and lord it over everything dead
and alive in a steamboat.  I presently climbed up on the bench;
I did not think it was safe to go to sleep while this lunatic
was on watch.

However, I must have gone to sleep in the course of time,
because the next thing I was aware of was the fact that day
was breaking, Mr. W---- gone, and Mr. Bixby at the wheel again.
So it was four o'clock and all well--but me; I felt like a skinful
of dry bones and all of them trying to ache at once.

Mr. Bixby asked me what I had stayed up there for.  I confessed
that it was to do Mr. W---- a benevolence,--tell him where he was.
It took five minutes for the entire preposterousness of the thing
to filter into Mr. Bixby's system, and then I judge it filled
him nearly up to the chin; because he paid me a compliment--
and not much of a one either.  He said,

'Well, taking you by-and-large, you do seem to be more
different kinds of an ass than any creature I ever saw before.
What did you suppose he wanted to know for?'

I said I thought it might be a convenience to him.

'Convenience D-nation! Didn't I tell you that a man's got to know the river
in the night the same as he'd know his own front hall?'

'Well, I can follow the front hall in the dark if I know it IS the front hall;
but suppose you set me down in the middle of it in the dark and not tell me
which hall it is; how am I to know?'

'Well you've GOT to, on the river!'

'All right.  Then I'm glad I never said anything to Mr. W----'

'I should say so.  Why, he'd have slammed you through the window and utterly
ruined a hundred dollars' worth of window-sash and stuff.'

I was glad this damage had been saved, for it would have made
me unpopular with the owners.  They always hated anybody
who had the name of being careless, and injuring things.

I went to work now to learn the shape of the river; and of all the eluding
and ungraspable objects that ever I tried to get mind or hands on,
that was the chief.  I would fasten my eyes upon a sharp, wooded point that
projected far into the river some miles ahead of me, and go to laboriously
photographing its shape upon my brain; and just as I was beginning to
succeed to my satisfaction, we would draw up toward it and the exasperating
thing would begin to melt away and fold back into the bank!  If there
had been a conspicuous dead tree standing upon the very point of the cape,
I would find that tree inconspicuously merged into the general forest,
and occupying the middle of a straight shore, when I got abreast of it!
No prominent hill would stick to its shape long enough for me to make up
my mind what its form really was, but it was as dissolving and changeful
as if it had been a mountain of butter in the hottest corner of the tropics.
Nothing ever had the same shape when I was coming downstream that it had
borne when I went up.  I mentioned these little difficulties to Mr. Bixby.
He said--

'That's the very main virtue of the thing.  If the shapes
didn't change every three seconds they wouldn't be of any use.
Take this place where we are now, for instance.
As long as that hill over yonder is only one hill, I can boom
right along the way I'm going; but the moment it splits at
the top and forms a V, I know I've got to scratch to starboard
in a hurry, or I'll bang this boat's brains out against a rock;
and then the moment one of the prongs of the V swings behind
the other, I've got to waltz to larboard again, or I'll have
a misunderstanding with a snag that would snatch the keelson out
of this steamboat as neatly as if it were a sliver in your hand.
If that hill didn't change its shape on bad nights there
would be an awful steamboat grave-yard around here inside
of a year.'

It was plain that I had got to learn the shape of the river
in all the different ways that could be thought of,--upside down,
wrong end first, inside out, fore-and-aft, and 'thortships,'--and then
know what to do on gray nights when it hadn't any shape at all.
So I set about it.  In the course of time I began to get the best of this
knotty lesson, and my self-complacency moved to the front once more.
Mr. Bixby was all fixed, and ready to start it to the rear again.
He opened on me after this fashion--

'How much water did we have in the middle crossing at Hole-in-the-Wall,
trip before last?'

I considered this an outrage.  I said--

'Every trip, down and up, the leadsmen are singing through
that tangled place for three-quarters of an hour on a stretch.
How do you reckon I can remember such a mess as that?'

'My boy, you've got to remember it.  You've got to remember
the exact spot and the exact marks the boat lay in when we had
the shoalest water, in everyone of the five hundred shoal places
between St. Louis and New Orleans; and you mustn't get the shoal
soundings and marks of one trip mixed up with the shoal soundings
and marks of another, either, for they're not often twice alike.
You must keep them separate.'

When I came to myself again, I said--

'When I get so that I can do that, I'll be able to raise the dead,
and then I won't have to pilot a steamboat to make a living.
I want to retire from this business.  I want a slush-bucket and a brush;
I'm only fit for a roustabout.  I haven't got brains enough to be a pilot;
and if I had I wouldn't have strength enough to carry them around,
unless I went on crutches.'

'Now drop that!  When I say I'll learn<footnote ['Teach' is
not in the river vocabulary.]> a man the river, I mean it.
And you can depend on it, I'll learn him or kill him.'




                                Chapter 9
                         Continued Perplexities

THERE was no use in arguing with a person like this.  I promptly
put such a strain on my memory that by and by even the shoal
water and the countless crossing-marks began to stay with me.
But the result was just the same.  I never could more than get
one knotty thing learned before another presented itself.
Now I had often seen pilots gazing at the water and pretending to read
it as if it were a book; but it was a book that told me nothing.
A time came at last, however, when Mr. Bixby seemed to think me far
enough advanced to bear a lesson on water-reading. So he began--

'Do you see that long slanting line on the face of the water?  Now,
that's a reef.  Moreover, it's a bluff reef.  There is a solid sand-bar
under it that is nearly as straight up and down as the side of a house.
There is plenty of water close up to it, but mighty little on top of it.
If you were to hit it you would knock the boat's brains out.
Do you see where the line fringes out at the upper end and begins to
fade away?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, that is a low place; that is the head of the reef.
You can climb over there, and not hurt anything.  Cross over,
now, and follow along close under the reef--easy water there--
not much current.'

I followed the reef along till I approached the fringed end.
Then Mr. Bixby said--

'Now get ready.  Wait till I give the word.  She won't want to mount the reef;
a boat hates shoal water.  Stand by--wait--WAIT--keep her well in hand.
NOW cramp her down!  Snatch her! snatch her!'

He seized the other side of the wheel and helped to spin
it around until it was hard down, and then we held it so.
The boat resisted, and refused to answer for a while, and next she
came surging to starboard, mounted the reef, and sent a long,
angry ridge of water foaming away from her bows.

'Now watch her; watch her like a cat, or she'll get away from you.
When she fights strong and the tiller slips a little,
in a jerky, greasy sort of way, let up on her a trifle;
it is the way she tells you at night that the water is too shoal;
but keep edging her up, little by little, toward the point.
You are well up on the bar, now; there is a bar under every point,
because the water that comes down around it forms an eddy
and allows the sediment to sink.  Do you see those fine lines
on the face of the water that branch out like the ribs of a fan.
Well, those are little reefs; you want to just miss the ends
of them, but run them pretty close.  Now look out--look out!
Don't you crowd that slick, greasy-looking place; there ain't
nine feet there; she won't stand it.  She begins to smell it;
look sharp, I tell you!  Oh blazes, there you go!
Stop the starboard wheel!  Quick!  Ship up to back!
Set her back!

The engine bells jingled and the engines answered promptly,
shooting white columns of steam far aloft out of the 'scape pipes,
but it was too late.  The boat had 'smelt' the bar in good earnest;
the foamy ridges that radiated from her bows suddenly disappeared,
a great dead swell came rolling forward and swept ahead of her,
she careened far over to larboard, and went tearing away
toward the other shore as if she were about scared to death.
We were a good mile from where we ought to have been, when we
finally got the upper hand of her again.

During the afternoon watch the next day, Mr. Bixby asked me if I
knew how to run the next few miles.  I said--

'Go inside the first snag above the point, outside the next one,
start out from the lower end of Higgins's wood-yard, make
a square crossing and----'

'That's all right.  I'll be back before you close up on the next point.'

But he wasn't. He was still below when I rounded it and entered upon
a piece of river which I had some misgivings about.  I did not know
that he was hiding behind a chimney to see how I would perform.
I went gaily along, getting prouder and prouder, for he had never
left the boat in my sole charge such a length of time before.
I even got to 'setting' her and letting the wheel go, entirely, while I
vaingloriously turned my back and inspected the stem marks and hummed a tune,
a sort of easy indifference which I had prodigiously admired in Bixby
and other great pilots.  Once I inspected rather long, and when I faced
to the front again my heart flew into my mouth so suddenly that if I hadn't
clapped my teeth together I should have lost it.  One of those frightful
bluff reefs was stretching its deadly length right across our bows!
My head was gone in a moment; I did not know which end I stood on;
I gasped and could not get my breath; I spun the wheel down with such
rapidity that it wove itself together like a spider's web; the boat
answered and turned square away from the reef, but the reef followed her!
I fled, and still it followed, still it kept--right across my bows!
I never looked to see where I was going, I only fled.
The awful crash was imminent--why didn't that villain come!
If I committed the crime of ringing a bell, I might get thrown overboard.
But better that than kill the boat.  So in blind desperation I started
such a rattling 'shivaree' down below as never had astounded an engineer
in this world before, I fancy.  Amidst the frenzy of the bells the engines
began to back and fill in a furious way, and my reason forsook its throne--
we were about to crash into the woods on the other side of the river.
Just then Mr. Bixby stepped calmly into view on the hurricane deck.
My soul went out to him in gratitude.  My distress vanished; I would have
felt safe on the brink of Niagara, with Mr. Bixby on the hurricane deck.
He blandly and sweetly took his tooth-pick out of his mouth between
his fingers, as if it were a cigar--we were just in the act of climbing
an overhanging big tree, and the passengers were scudding astern like rats--
and lifted up these commands to me ever so gently--

'Stop the starboard.  Stop the larboard.  Set her back on both.'

The boat hesitated, halted, pressed her nose among the boughs
a critical instant, then reluctantly began to back away.

'Stop the larboard.  Come ahead on it.  Stop the starboard.
Come ahead on it.  Point her for the bar.'

I sailed away as serenely as a summer's morning Mr. Bixby came in and said,
with mock simplicity--

'When you have a hail, my boy, you ought to tap the big bell three times
before you land, so that the engineers can get ready.'

I blushed under the sarcasm, and said I hadn't had any hail.

'Ah!  Then it was for wood, I suppose.  The officer of the watch
will tell you when he wants to wood up.'

I went on consuming and said I wasn't after wood.

'Indeed?  Why, what could you want over here in the bend, then?
Did you ever know of a boat following a bend up-stream at this
stage of the river?'

'No sir,--and I wasn't trying to follow it.  I was getting away
from a bluff reef.'

'No, it wasn't a bluff reef; there isn't one within three miles
of where you were.'

'But I saw it.  It was as bluff as that one yonder.'

'Just about.  Run over it!'

'Do you give it as an order?'

'Yes.  Run over it.'

'If I don't, I wish I may die.'

'All right; I am taking the responsibility.'  I was just as
anxious to kill the boat, now, as I had been to save her before.
I impressed my orders upon my memory, to be used at the inquest,
and made a straight break for the reef.  As it disappeared under
our bows I held my breath; but we slid over it like oil.

'Now don't you see the difference?  It wasn't anything but a WIND reef.
The wind does that.'

'So I see.  But it is exactly like a bluff reef.
How am I ever going to tell them apart?'

'I can't tell you.  It is an instinct.  By and by you will just naturally
KNOW one from the other, but you never will be able to explain why or how you
know them apart'

It turned out to be true.  The face of the water, in time,
became a wonderful book--a book that was a dead language to the
uneducated passenger, but which told its mind to me without reserve,
delivering its most cherished secrets as clearly as if it uttered
them with a voice.  And it was not a book to be read once
and thrown aside, for it had a new story to tell every day.
Throughout the long twelve hundred miles there was never a page
that was void of interest, never one that you could leave
unread without loss, never one that you would want to skip,
thinking you could find higher enjoyment in some other thing.
There never was so wonderful a book written by man; never one
whose interest was so absorbing, so unflagging, so sparkingly
renewed with every re-perusal. The passenger who could not read it
was charmed with a peculiar sort of faint dimple on its surface
(on the rare occasions when he did not overlook it altogether);
but to the pilot that was an ITALICIZED passage; indeed, it was
more than that, it was a legend of the largest capitals,
with a string of shouting exclamation points at the end of it;
for it meant that a wreck or a rock was buried there that could
tear the life out of the strongest vessel that ever floated.
It is the faintest and simplest expression the water ever makes,
and the most hideous to a pilot's eye.  In truth, the passenger
who could not read this book saw nothing but all manner of pretty
pictures in it painted by the sun and shaded by the clouds,
whereas to the trained eye these were not pictures at all,
but the grimmest and most dead-earnest of reading-matter.

Now when I had mastered the language of this water and had come to know
every trifling feature that bordered the great river as familiarly as I
knew the letters of the alphabet, I had made a valuable acquisition.
But I had lost something, too.  I had lost something which could never
be restored to me while I lived.  All the grace, the beauty, the poetry
had gone out of the majestic river!  I still keep in mind a certain
wonderful sunset which I witnessed when steamboating was new to me.
A broad expanse of the river was turned to blood; in the middle distance
the red hue brightened into gold, through which a solitary log came floating,
black and conspicuous; in one place a long, slanting mark lay sparkling upon
the water; in another the surface was broken by boiling, tumbling rings,
that were as many-tinted as an opal; where the ruddy flush was faintest,
was a smooth spot that was covered with graceful circles and radiating lines,
ever so delicately traced; the shore on our left was densely wooded,
and the somber shadow that fell from this forest was broken in one place
by a long, ruffled trail that shone like silver; and high above the forest
wall a clean-stemmed dead tree waved a single leafy bough that glowed
like a flame in the unobstructed splendor that was flowing from the sun.
There were graceful curves, reflected images, woody heights, soft distances;
and over the whole scene, far and near, the dissolving lights drifted
steadily, enriching it, every passing moment, with new marvels of coloring.

I stood like one bewitched.  I drank it in, in a speechless rapture.
The world was new to me, and I had never seen anything like this at home.
But as I have said, a day came when I began to cease from noting the glories
and the charms which the moon and the sun and the twilight wrought upon
the river's face; another day came when I ceased altogether to note them.
Then, if that sunset scene had been repeated, I should have looked upon
it without rapture, and should have commented upon it, inwardly, after
this fashion:  This sun means that we are going to have wind to-morrow;
that floating log means that the river is rising, small thanks to it;
that slanting mark on the water refers to a bluff reef which is going
to kill somebody's steamboat one of these nights, if it keeps on stretching
out like that; those tumbling 'boils' show a dissolving bar and a changing
channel there; the lines and circles in the slick water over yonder
are a warning that that troublesome place is shoaling up dangerously;
that silver streak in the shadow of the forest is the 'break' from a new snag,
and he has located himself in the very best place he could have found
to fish for steamboats; that tall dead tree, with a single living branch,
is not going to last long, and then how is a body ever going to get through
this blind place at night without the friendly old landmark.

No, the romance and the beauty were all gone from the river.
All the value any feature of it had for me now was the amount
of usefulness it could furnish toward compassing the safe piloting
of a steamboat.  Since those days, I have pitied doctors from my heart.
What does the lovely flush in a beauty's cheek mean to a doctor
but a 'break' that ripples above some deadly disease.
Are not all her visible charms sown thick with what are to him
the signs and symbols of hidden decay?  Does he ever see her
beauty at all, or doesn't he simply view her professionally,
and comment upon her unwholesome condition all to himself?
And doesn't he sometimes wonder whether he has gained most or lost
most by learning his trade?




                               Chapter 10
                         Completing My Education

WHOSOEVER has done me the courtesy to read my chapters which have preceded
this may possibly wonder that I deal so minutely with piloting as a science.
It was the prime purpose of those chapters; and I am not quite done yet.
I wish to show, in the most patient and painstaking way, what a wonderful
science it is.  Ship channels are buoyed and lighted, and therefore it is
a comparatively easy undertaking to learn to run them; clear-water rivers,
with gravel bottoms, change their channels very gradually, and therefore
one needs to learn them but once; but piloting becomes another matter
when you apply it to vast streams like the Mississippi and the Missouri,
whose alluvial banks cave and change constantly, whose snags are always
hunting up new quarters, whose sand-bars are never at rest, whose channels
are for ever dodging and shirking, and whose obstructions must be
confronted in all nights and all weathers without the aid of a single
light-house or a single buoy; for there is neither light nor buoy to be
found anywhere in all this three or four thousand miles of villainous
river.<footnote [True at the time referred to; not true now (1882).]>  I
feel justified in enlarging upon this great science for the reason that I
feel sure no one has ever yet written a paragraph about it who had piloted
a steamboat himself, and so had a practical knowledge of the subject.
If the theme were hackneyed, I should be obliged to deal gently with
the reader; but since it is wholly new, I have felt at liberty to take up
a considerable degree of room with it.

When I had learned the name and position of every visible
feature of the river; when I had so mastered its shape that I
could shut my eyes and trace it from St. Louis to New Orleans;
when I had learned to read the face of the water as one would
cull the news from the morning paper; and finally, when I
had trained my dull memory to treasure up an endless array
of soundings and crossing-marks, and keep fast hold of them,
I judged that my education was complete:  so I got to tilting
my cap to the side of my head, and wearing a tooth-pick in my
mouth at the wheel.  Mr. Bixby had his eye on these airs.
One day he said--

'What is the height of that bank yonder, at Burgess's?'

'How can I tell, sir.  It is three-quarters of a mile away.'

'Very poor eye--very poor.  Take the glass.'

I took the glass, and presently said--'I can't tell.
I suppose that that bank is about a foot and a half high.'

'Foot and a half!  That's a six-foot bank.  How high was the bank
along here last trip?'

'I don't know; I never noticed.'

'You didn't? Well, you must always do it hereafter.'

'Why?'

'Because you'll have to know a good many things that it tells you.
For one thing, it tells you the stage of the river--tells you whether
there's more water or less in the river along here than there
was last trip.'

'The leads tell me that.'  I rather thought I had the advantage
of him there.

'Yes, but suppose the leads lie?  The bank would tell you so,
and then you'd stir those leadsmen up a bit.  There was a ten-foot
bank here last trip, and there is only a six-foot bank now.
What does that signify?'

'That the river is four feet higher than it was last trip.'

'Very good.  Is the river rising or falling?'

'Rising.'

'No it ain't.'

'I guess I am right, sir.  Yonder is some drift-wood floating
down the stream.'

'A rise starts the drift-wood, but then it keeps on floating a while after
the river is done rising.  Now the bank will tell you about this.  Wait till
you come to a place where it shelves a little.  Now here; do you see this
narrow belt of fine sediment That was deposited while the water was higher.
You see the driftwood begins to strand, too.  The bank helps in other ways.
Do you see that stump on the false point?'

'Ay, ay, sir.'

'Well, the water is just up to the roots of it.
You must make a note of that.'

'Why?'

'Because that means that there's seven feet in the chute of 103.'

'But 103 is a long way up the river yet.'

'That's where the benefit of the bank comes in.  There is water
enough in 103 NOW, yet there may not be by the time we get there;
but the bank will keep us posted all along.  You don't run close
chutes on a falling river, up-stream, and there are precious few
of them that you are allowed to run at all down-stream. There's
a law of the United States against it.  The river may be rising
by the time we get to 103, and in that case we'll run it.
We are drawing--how much?'

'Six feet aft,--six and a half forward.'

'Well, you do seem to know something.'

'But what I particularly want to know is, if I have got to keep up an
everlasting measuring of the banks of this river, twelve hundred miles,
month in and month out?'

'Of course!'

My emotions were too deep for words for a while.
Presently I said--'

And how about these chutes.  Are there many of them?'

'I should say so.  I fancy we shan't run any of the river this trip
as you've ever seen it run before--so to speak.  If the river begins
to rise again, we'll go up behind bars that you've always seen
standing out of the river, high and dry like the roof of a house;
we'll cut across low places that you've never noticed at all,
right through the middle of bars that cover three hundred acres of river;
we'll creep through cracks where you've always thought was solid land;
we'll dart through the woods and leave twenty-five miles of river
off to one side; we'll see the hind-side of every island between New
Orleans and Cairo.'

'Then I've got to go to work and learn just as much more river
as I already know.'

'Just about twice as much more, as near as you can come at it.'

'Well, one lives to find out.  I think I was a fool when I went
into this business.'

'Yes, that is true.  And you are yet.  But you'll not be
when you've learned it.'

'Ah, I never can learn it.'

'I will see that you DO.'

By and by I ventured again--

'Have I got to learn all this thing just as I know the rest of the river--
shapes and all--and so I can run it at night?'

'Yes.  And you've got to have good fair marks from one end
of the river to the other, that will help the bank tell you
when there is water enough in each of these countless places--
like that stump, you know.  When the river first begins
to rise, you can run half a dozen of the deepest of them;
when it rises a foot more you can run another dozen;
the next foot will add a couple of dozen, and so on:
so you see you have to know your banks and marks to a dead
moral certainty, and never get them mixed; for when you start
through one of those cracks, there's no backing out again,
as there is in the big river; you've got to go through,
or stay there six months if you get caught on a falling river.
There are about fifty of these cracks which you can't run at all
except when the river is brim full and over the banks.'

'This new lesson is a cheerful prospect.'

'Cheerful enough.  And mind what I've just told you; when you
start into one of those places you've got to go through.
They are too narrow to turn around in, too crooked to back out of,
and the shoal water is always up at the head; never elsewhere.
And the head of them is always likely to be filling up, little by little,
so that the marks you reckon their depth by, this season, may not
answer for next.'

'Learn a new set, then, every year?'

'Exactly.  Cramp her up to the bar!  What are you standing up
through the middle of the river for?'

The next few months showed me strange things.  On the same day that we held
the conversation above narrated, we met a great rise coming down the river.
The whole vast face of the stream was black with drifting dead logs,
broken boughs, and great trees that had caved in and been washed away.
It required the nicest steering to pick one's way through this
rushing raft, even in the day-time, when crossing from point to point;
and at night the difficulty was mightily increased; every now and then
a huge log, lying deep in the water, would suddenly appear right
under our bows, coming head-on; no use to try to avoid it then;
we could only stop the engines, and one wheel would walk over that log
from one end to the other, keeping up a thundering racket and careening
the boat in a way that was very uncomfortable to passengers.
Now and then we would hit one of these sunken logs a rattling bang,
dead in the center, with a full head of steam, and it would stun the boat
as if she had hit a continent.  Sometimes this log would lodge, and stay
right across our nose, and back the Mississippi up before it; we would
have to do a little craw-fishing, then, to get away from the obstruction.
We often hit WHITE logs, in the dark, for we could not see them till we
were right on them; but a black log is a pretty distinct object at night.
A white snag is an ugly customer when the daylight is gone.

Of course, on the great rise, down came a swarm of prodigious
timber-rafts from the head waters of the Mississippi,
coal barges from Pittsburgh, little trading scows from everywhere,
and broad-horns from 'Posey County,' Indiana, freighted with 'fruit
and furniture'--the usual term for describing it, though in plain
English the freight thus aggrandized was hoop-poles and pumpkins.
Pilots bore a mortal hatred to these craft; and it was returned
with usury.  The law required all such helpless traders to keep
a light burning, but it was a law that was often broken.
All of a sudden, on a murky night, a light would hop up,
right under our bows, almost, and an agonized voice,
with the backwoods 'whang' to it, would wail out--

'Whar'n the ---- you goin' to!  Cain't you see nothin', you dash-dashed
aig-suckin', sheep-stealin', one-eyed son of a stuffed monkey!'

Then for an instant, as we whistled by, the red glare from our furnaces
would reveal the scow and the form of the gesticulating orator
as if under a lightning-flash, and in that instant our firemen and
deck-hands would send and receive a tempest of missiles and profanity,
one of our wheels would walk off with the crashing fragments
of a steering-oar, and down the dead blackness would shut again.
And that flatboatman would be sure to go into New Orleans and sue
our boat, swearing stoutly that he had a light burning all the time,
when in truth his gang had the lantern down below to sing and lie
and drink and gamble by, and no watch on deck.  Once, at night, in one
of those forest-bordered crevices (behind an island) which steamboatmen
intensely describe with the phrase 'as dark as the inside of a cow,'
we should have eaten up a Posey County family, fruit, furniture, and all,
but that they happened to be fiddling down below, and we just caught
the sound of the music in time to sheer off, doing no serious damage,
unfortunately, but coming so near it that we had good hopes for a moment.
These people brought up their lantern, then, of course; and as we backed
and filled to get away, the precious family stood in the light of it--
both sexes and various ages--and cursed us till everything turned blue.
Once a coalboatman sent a bullet through our pilot-house, when we borrowed a
steering oar of him in a very narrow place.




                               Chapter 11
                             The River Rises

DURING this big rise these small-fry craft were an intolerable nuisance.
We were running chute after chute,--a new world to me,--and if there was
a particularly cramped place in a chute, we would be pretty sure to meet
a broad-horn there; and if he failed to be there, we would find him in a
still worse locality, namely, the head of the chute, on the shoal water.
And then there would be no end of profane cordialities exchanged.

Sometimes, in the big river, when we would be feeling our way
cautiously along through a fog, the deep hush would suddenly
be broken by yells and a clamor of tin pans, and all in instant
a log raft would appear vaguely through the webby veil,
close upon us; and then we did not wait to swap knives,
but snatched our engine bells out by the roots and piled
on all the steam we had, to scramble out of the way!
One doesn't hit a rock or a solid log craft with a steamboat
when he can get excused.

You will hardly believe it, but many steamboat clerks always
carried a large assortment of religious tracts with them
in those old departed steamboating days.  Indeed they did.
Twenty times a day we would be cramping up around a bar,
while a string of these small-fry rascals were drifting down into
the head of the bend away above and beyond us a couple of miles.
Now a skiff would dart away from one of them, and come fighting
its laborious way across the desert of water.  It would 'ease all,'
in the shadow of our forecastle, and the panting oarsmen would shout,
'Gimme a pa-a-per!' as the skiff drifted swiftly astern.
The clerk would throw over a file of New Orleans journals.
If these were picked up without comment, you might notice that now a dozen
other skiffs had been drifting down upon us without saying anything.
You understand, they had been waiting to see how No. 1 was going to fare.
No. 1 making no comment, all the rest would bend to their oars
and come on, now; and as fast as they came the clerk would
heave over neat bundles of religious tracts, tied to shingles.
The amount of hard swearing which twelve packages of religious literature
will command when impartially divided up among twelve raftsmen's crews,
who have pulled a heavy skiff two miles on a hot day to get them,
is simply incredible.

As I have said, the big rise brought a new world under my vision.
By the time the river was over its banks we had forsaken our old paths and
were hourly climbing over bars that had stood ten feet out of water before;
we were shaving stumpy shores, like that at the foot of Madrid Bend, which I
had always seen avoided before; we were clattering through chutes like that
of 82, where the opening at the foot was an unbroken wall of timber till our
nose was almost at the very spot.  Some of these chutes were utter solitudes.
The dense, untouched forest overhung both banks of the crooked little crack,
and one could believe that human creatures had never intruded there before.
The swinging grape-vines, the grassy nooks and vistas glimpsed as we swept by,
the flowering creepers waving their red blossoms from the tops of dead trunks,
and all the spendthrift richness of the forest foliage, were wasted and thrown
away there.  The chutes were lovely places to steer in; they were deep,
except at the head; the current was gentle; under the 'points' the water
was absolutely dead, and the invisible banks so bluff that where the tender
willow thickets projected you could bury your boat's broadside in them as you
tore along, and then you seemed fairly to fly.

Behind other islands we found wretched little farms, and wretcheder
little log-cabins; there were crazy rail fences sticking a foot
or two above the water, with one or two jeans-clad, chills-racked,
yellow-faced male miserables roosting on the top-rail, elbows
on knees, jaws in hands, grinding tobacco and discharging
the result at floating chips through crevices left by lost teeth;
while the rest of the family and the few farm-animals were huddled
together in an empty wood-flat riding at her moorings close at hand.
In this flat-boat the family would have to cook and eat
and sleep for a lesser or greater number of days (or possibly
weeks), until the river should fall two or three feet and let
them get back to their log-cabin and their chills again--
chills being a merciful provision of an all-wise Providence
to enable them to take exercise without exertion.
And this sort of watery camping out was a thing which these people
were rather liable to be treated to a couple of times a year:
by the December rise out of the Ohio, and the June rise out
of the Mississippi.  And yet these were kindly dispensations,
for they at least enabled the poor things to rise from the dead
now and then, and look upon life when a steamboat went by.
They appreciated the blessing, too, for they spread their mouths
and eyes wide open and made the most of these occasions.
Now what COULD these banished creatures find to do to keep from dying
of the blues during the low-water season!

Once, in one of these lovely island chutes, we found
our course completely bridged by a great fallen tree.
This will serve to show how narrow some of the chutes were.
The passengers had an hour's recreation in a virgin wilderness,
while the boat-hands chopped the bridge away; for there was no such
thing as turning back, you comprehend.

From Cairo to Baton Rouge, when the river is over its banks, you have
no particular trouble in the night, for the thousand-mile wall of dense
forest that guards the two banks all the way is only gapped with a farm
or wood-yard opening at intervals, and so you can't 'get out of the river'
much easier than you could get out of a fenced lane; but from Baton
Rouge to New Orleans it is a different matter.  The river is more than
a mile wide, and very deep--as much as two hundred feet, in places.
Both banks, for a good deal over a hundred miles, are shorn of their timber
and bordered by continuous sugar plantations, with only here and there
a scattering sapling or row of ornamental China-trees. The timber is
shorn off clear to the rear of the plantations, from two to four miles.
When the first frost threatens to come, the planters snatch off
their crops in a hurry.  When they have finished grinding the cane,
they form the refuse of the stalks (which they call BAGASSE)
into great piles and set fire to them, though in other sugar countries
the bagasse is used for fuel in the furnaces of the sugar mills.
Now the piles of damp bagasse burn slowly, and smoke like Satan's own kitchen.

An embankment ten or fifteen feet high guards both banks of the Mississippi
all the way down that lower end of the river, and this embankment is set
back from the edge of the shore from ten to perhaps a hundred feet,
according to circumstances; say thirty or forty feet, as a general thing.
Fill that whole region with an impenetrable gloom of smoke from a hundred
miles of burning bagasse piles, when the river is over the banks, and turn
a steamboat loose along there at midnight and see how she will feel.
And see how you will feel, too!  You find yourself away out in the midst
of a vague dim sea that is shoreless, that fades out and loses itself
in the murky distances; for you cannot discern the thin rib of embankment,
and you are always imagining you see a straggling tree when you don't. The
plantations themselves are transformed by the smoke, and look like a part
of the sea.  All through your watch you are tortured with the exquisite misery
of uncertainty.  You hope you are keeping in the river, but you do not know.
All that you are sure about is that you are likely to be within six feet of
the bank and destruction, when you think you are a good half-mile from shore.
And you are sure, also, that if you chance suddenly to fetch up against
the embankment and topple your chimneys overboard, you will have the small
comfort of knowing that it is about what you were expecting to do.
One of the great Vicksburg packets darted out into a sugar plantation
one night, at such a time, and had to stay there a week.  But there was no
novelty about it; it had often been done before.

I thought I had finished this chapter, but I wish
to add a curious thing, while it is in my mind.
It is only relevant in that it is connected with piloting.
There used to be an excellent pilot on the river, a Mr. X.,
who was a somnambulist.  It was said that if his mind was
troubled about a bad piece of river, he was pretty sure
to get up and walk in his sleep and do strange things.
He was once fellow-pilot for a trip or two with George Ealer,
on a great New Orleans passenger packet.  During a considerable
part of the first trip George was uneasy, but got over it
by and by, as X. seemed content to stay in his bed when asleep.
Late one night the boat was approaching Helena, Arkansas; the water
was low, and the crossing above the town in a very blind and
tangled condition.  X. had seen the crossing since Ealer had,
and as the night was particularly drizzly, sullen, and dark,
Ealer was considering whether he had not better have X. called to
assist in running the place, when the door opened and X. walked in.
Now on very dark nights, light is a deadly enemy to piloting;
you are aware that if you stand in a lighted room, on such
a night, you cannot see things in the street to any purpose;
but if you put out the lights and stand in the gloom you can make
out objects in the street pretty well.  So, on very dark nights,
pilots do not smoke; they allow no fire in the pilot-house
stove if there is a crack which can allow the least ray
to escape; they order the furnaces to be curtained with huge
tarpaulins and the sky-lights to be closely blinded.
Then no light whatever issues from the boat.  The undefinable
shape that now entered the pilot-house had Mr. X.'s voice.
This said--

'Let me take her, George; I've seen this place since you have,
and it is so crooked that I reckon I can run it myself easier
than I could tell you how to do it.'

'It is kind of you, and I swear _I_ am willing.
I haven't got another drop of perspiration left in me.
I have been spinning around and around the wheel like a squirrel.
It is so dark I can't tell which way she is swinging till she is
coming around like a whirligig.'

So Ealer took a seat on the bench, panting and breathless.
The black phantom assumed the wheel without saying anything,
steadied the waltzing steamer with a turn or two, and then stood
at ease, coaxing her a little to this side and then to that,
as gently and as sweetly as if the time had been noonday.
When Ealer observed this marvel of steering, he wished he had
not confessed!  He stared, and wondered, and finally said--

'Well, I thought I knew how to steer a steamboat, but that was
another mistake of mine.'

X. said nothing, but went serenely on with his work.  He rang for the leads;
he rang to slow down the steam; he worked the boat carefully and neatly
into invisible marks, then stood at the center of the wheel and peered
blandly out into the blackness, fore and aft, to verify his position;
as the leads shoaled more and more, he stopped the engines entirely,
and the dead silence and suspense of 'drifting' followed when the shoalest
water was struck, he cracked on the steam, carried her handsomely over,
and then began to work her warily into the next system of shoal marks;
the same patient, heedful use of leads and engines followed, the boat
slipped through without touching bottom, and entered upon the third and
last intricacy of the crossing; imperceptibly she moved through the gloom,
crept by inches into her marks, drifted tediously till the shoalest water
was cried, and then, under a tremendous head of steam, went swinging over
the reef and away into deep water and safety!

Ealer let his long-pent breath pour out in a great, relieving sigh, and said--

'That's the sweetest piece of piloting that was ever done on
the Mississippi River!  I wouldn't believed it could be done,
if I hadn't seen it.'

There was no reply, and he added--

'Just hold her five minutes longer, partner, and let me run down and get
a cup of coffee.'

A minute later Ealer was biting into a pie, down in the 'texas,'
and comforting himself with coffee.  Just then the night watchman
happened in, and was about to happen out again, when he noticed
Ealer and exclaimed--

'Who is at the wheel, sir?'

'X.'

'Dart for the pilot-house, quicker than lightning!'

The next moment both men were flying up the pilot-house companion way,
three steps at a jump!  Nobody there!  The great steamer was
whistling down the middle of the river at her own sweet will!
The watchman shot out of the place again; Ealer seized the wheel,
set an engine back with power, and held his breath while the boat
reluctantly swung away from a 'towhead' which she was about to knock
into the middle of the Gulf of Mexico!

By and by the watchman came back and said--

'Didn't that lunatic tell you he was asleep, when he first came up here?'

'NO.'

'Well, he was.  I found him walking along on top of the railings
just as unconcerned as another man would walk a pavement;
and I put him to bed; now just this minute there he was again,
away astern, going through that sort of tight-rope deviltry
the same as before.'

'Well, I think I'll stay by, next time he has one of those fits.
But I hope he'll have them often.  You just ought to have seen him take
this boat through Helena crossing.  I never saw anything so gaudy before.
And if he can do such gold-leaf, kid-glove, diamond-breastpin piloting
when he is sound asleep, what COULDN'T he do if he was dead!'




                               Chapter 12
                                Sounding

WHEN the river is very low, and one's steamboat is 'drawing all the water'
there is in the channel,--or a few inches more, as was often the case
in the old times,--one must be painfully circumspect in his piloting.
We used to have to 'sound' a number of particularly bad places almost every
trip when the river was at a very low stage.

Sounding is done in this way.  The boat ties up at the shore, just above
the shoal crossing; the pilot not on watch takes his 'cub' or steersman
and a picked crew of men (sometimes an officer also), and goes out
in the yawl--provided the boat has not that rare and sumptuous luxury,
a regularly-devised 'sounding-boat'--and proceeds to hunt for the best water,
the pilot on duty watching his movements through a spy-glass, meantime,
and in some instances assisting by signals of the boat's whistle,
signifying 'try higher up' or 'try lower down;' for the surface of
the water, like an oil-painting, is more expressive and intelligible
when inspected from a little distance than very close at hand.
The whistle signals are seldom necessary, however; never, perhaps, except when
the wind confuses the significant ripples upon the water's surface.
When the yawl has reached the shoal place, the speed is slackened,
the pilot begins to sound the depth with a pole ten or twelve feet long,
and the steersman at the tiller obeys the order to 'hold her up
to starboard;' or, 'let her fall off to larboard;'<footnote [The
term 'larboard' is never used at sea now, to signify the left hand;
but was always used on the river in my time]> or 'steady--steady
as you go.'

When the measurements indicate that the yawl is approaching
the shoalest part of the reef, the command is given to 'ease all!'
Then the men stop rowing and the yawl drifts with the current.
The next order is, 'Stand by with the buoy!'  The moment
the shallowest point is reached, the pilot delivers the order,
'Let go the buoy!' and over she goes.  If the pilot is
not satisfied, he sounds the place again; if he finds better water
higher up or lower down, he removes the buoy to that place.
Being finally satisfied, he gives the order, and all the men
stand their oars straight up in the air, in line; a blast from
the boat's whistle indicates that the signal has been seen;
then the men 'give way' on their oars and lay the yawl
alongside the buoy; the steamer comes creeping carefully down,
is pointed straight at the buoy, husbands her power for
the coming struggle, and presently, at the critical moment,
turns on all her steam and goes grinding and wallowing over
the buoy and the sand, and gains the deep water beyond.
Or maybe she doesn't; maybe she 'strikes and swings.'
Then she has to while away several hours (or days)
sparring herself off.

Sometimes a buoy is not laid at all, but the yawl goes ahead,
hunting the best water, and the steamer follows along in its wake.
Often there is a deal of fun and excitement about sounding,
especially if it is a glorious summer day, or a blustering night.
But in winter the cold and the peril take most of the fun out of it.

A buoy is nothing but a board four or five feet long,
with one end turned up; it is a reversed school-house bench,
with one of the supports left and the other removed.
It is anchored on the shoalest part of the reef by a
rope with a heavy stone made fast to the end of it.
But for the resistance of the turned-up end of the reversed bench,
the current would pull the buoy under water.  At night, a paper
lantern with a candle in it is fastened on top of the buoy,
and this can be seen a mile or more, a little glimmering spark in
the waste of blackness.

Nothing delights a cub so much as an opportunity to go out sounding.
There is such an air of adventure about it; often there is danger;
it is so gaudy and man-of-war-like to sit up in the stern-sheets and steer
a swift yawl; there is something fine about the exultant spring of the boat
when an experienced old sailor crew throw their souls into the oars;
it is lovely to see the white foam stream away from the bows; there is
music in the rush of the water; it is deliciously exhilarating, in summer,
to go speeding over the breezy expanses of the river when the world
of wavelets is dancing in the sun.  It is such grandeur, too, to the cub,
to get a chance to give an order; for often the pilot will simply say,
'Let her go about!' and leave the rest to the cub, who instantly cries,
in his sternest tone of command, 'Ease starboard!  Strong on the larboard!
Starboard give way!  With a will, men!'  The cub enjoys sounding
for the further reason that the eyes of the passengers are watching all
the yawl's movements with absorbing interest if the time be daylight;
and if it be night he knows that those same wondering eyes are fastened
upon the yawl's lantern as it glides out into the gloom and dims away
in the remote distance.

One trip a pretty girl of sixteen spent her time in our pilot-house
with her uncle and aunt, every day and all day long.  I fell in love
with her.  So did Mr. Thornburg's cub, Tom G----. Tom and I had been
bosom friends until this time; but now a coolness began to arise.
I told the girl a good many of my river adventures, and made
myself out a good deal of a hero; Tom tried to make himself appear
to be a hero, too, and succeeded to some extent, but then he always
had a way of embroidering.  However, virtue is its own reward,
so I was a barely perceptible trifle ahead in the contest.
About this time something happened which promised handsomely for me:
the pilots decided to sound the crossing at the head of 21.
This would occur about nine or ten o'clock at night, when the
passengers would be still up; it would be Mr. Thornburg's watch,
therefore my chief would have to do the sounding.  We had a perfect
love of a sounding-boat--long, trim, graceful, and as fleet as
a greyhound; her thwarts were cushioned; she carried twelve oarsmen;
one of the mates was always sent in her to transmit orders to her crew,
for ours was a steamer where no end of 'style' was put on.

We tied up at the shore above 21, and got ready.  It was a foul night,
and the river was so wide, there, that a landsman's uneducated
eyes could discern no opposite shore through such a gloom.
The passengers were alert and interested; everything was satisfactory.
As I hurried through the engine-room, picturesquely gotten up
in storm toggery, I met Tom, and could not forbear delivering
myself of a mean speech--

'Ain't you glad YOU don't have to go out sounding?'

Tom was passing on, but he quickly turned, and said--

'Now just for that, you can go and get the sounding-pole yourself.
I was going after it, but I'd see you in Halifax, now, before I'd do it.'

'Who wants you to get it?  I don't. It's in the sounding-boat.'

'It ain't, either.  It's been new-painted; and it's been up on the ladies'
cabin guards two days, drying.'

I flew back, and shortly arrived among the crowd of watching
and wondering ladies just in time to hear the command:

'Give way, men!'

I looked over, and there was the gallant sounding-boat booming away,
the unprincipled Tom presiding at the tiller, and my chief sitting by him
with the sounding-pole which I had been sent on a fool's errand to fetch.
Then that young girl said to me--

'Oh, how awful to have to go out in that little boat on such a night!
Do you think there is any danger?'

I would rather have been stabbed.  I went off, full of venom,
to help in the pilot-house. By and by the boat's lantern disappeared,
and after an interval a wee spark glimmered upon the face of the water
a mile away.  Mr. Thornburg blew the whistle, in acknowledgment,
backed the steamer out, and made for it.  We flew along for a while,
then slackened steam and went cautiously gliding toward the spark.
Presently Mr. Thornburg exclaimed--

'Hello, the buoy-lantern's out!'

He stopped the engines.  A moment or two later he said--

'Why, there it is again!'

So he came ahead on the engines once more, and rang for the leads.
Gradually the water shoaled up, and then began to deepen again!
Mr. Thornburg muttered--

'Well, I don't understand this.  I believe that buoy has drifted
off the reef.  Seems to be a little too far to the left.
No matter, it is safest to run over it anyhow.'

So, in that solid world of darkness we went creeping down on the light.
Just as our bows were in the act of plowing over it, Mr. Thornburg seized
the bell-ropes, rang a startling peal, and exclaimed--

'My soul, it's the sounding-boat!'

A sudden chorus of wild alarms burst out far below--a pause--
and then the sound of grinding and crashing followed.
Mr. Thornburg exclaimed--

'There! the paddle-wheel has ground the sounding-boat
to lucifer matches!  Run!  See who is killed!'

I was on the main deck in the twinkling of an eye.  My chief and the third
mate and nearly all the men were safe.  They had discovered their danger
when it was too late to pull out of the way; then, when the great guards
overshadowed them a moment later, they were prepared and knew what to do;
at my chiefs order they sprang at the right instant, seized the guard,
and were hauled aboard.  The next moment the sounding-yawl swept aft
to the wheel and was struck and splintered to atoms.  Two of the men and
the cub Tom, were missing--a fact which spread like wildfire over the boat.
The passengers came flocking to the forward gangway, ladies and all,
anxious-eyed, white-faced, and talked in awed voices of the dreadful thing.
And often and again I heard them say, 'Poor fellows! poor boy, poor boy!'

By this time the boat's yawl was manned and away, to search
for the missing.  Now a faint call was heard, off to the left.
The yawl had disappeared in the other direction.  Half the people
rushed to one side to encourage the swimmer with their shouts;
the other half rushed the other way to shriek to the yawl to turn about.
By the callings, the swimmer was approaching, but some said the sound
showed failing strength.  The crowd massed themselves against
the boiler-deck railings, leaning over and staring into the gloom;
and every faint and fainter cry wrung from them such words as,
'Ah, poor fellow, poor fellow! is there no way to save him?'

But still the cries held out, and drew nearer, and presently
the voice said pluckily--

'I can make it!  Stand by with a rope!'

What a rousing cheer they gave him!  The chief mate took his stand
in the glare of a torch-basket, a coil of rope in his hand,
and his men grouped about him.  The next moment the swimmer's face
appeared in the circle of light, and in another one the owner of it
was hauled aboard, limp and drenched, while cheer on cheer went up.
It was that devil Tom.

The yawl crew searched everywhere, but found no sign of the two men.
They probably failed to catch the guard, tumbled back, and were struck
by the wheel and killed.  Tom had never jumped for the guard at all,
but had plunged head-first into the river and dived under the wheel.
It was nothing; I could have done it easy enough, and I said so;
but everybody went on just the same, making a wonderful to do over that ass,
as if he had done something great.  That girl couldn't seem to have
enough of that pitiful 'hero' the rest of the trip; but little I cared;
I loathed her, any way.

The way we came to mistake the sounding-boat's lantern for the
buoy-light was this.  My chief said that after laying the buoy
he fell away and watched it till it seemed to be secure; then he took
up a position a hundred yards below it and a little to one side of
the steamer's course, headed the sounding-boat up-stream, and waited.
Having to wait some time, he and the officer got to talking;
he looked up when he judged that the steamer was about on the reef;
saw that the buoy was gone, but supposed that the steamer had already
run over it; he went on with his talk; he noticed that the steamer
was getting very close on him, but that was the correct thing;
it was her business to shave him closely, for convenience in taking
him aboard; he was expecting her to sheer off, until the last moment;
then it flashed upon him that she was trying to run him down,
mistaking his lantern for the buoy-light; so he sang out,
'Stand by to spring for the guard, men!' and the next instant the
jump was made.




                               Chapter 13
                             A Pilot's Needs

BUT I am wandering from what I was intending to do, that is,
make plainer than perhaps appears in the previous chapters,
some of the peculiar requirements of the science of piloting.
First of all, there is one faculty which a pilot must incessantly
cultivate until he has brought it to absolute perfection.
Nothing short of perfection will do.  That faculty is memory.
He cannot stop with merely thinking a thing is so and so;
he must know it; for this is eminently one of the 'exact' sciences.
With what scorn a pilot was looked upon, in the old times,
if he ever ventured to deal in that feeble phrase 'I think,'
instead of the vigorous one 'I know!'  One cannot easily realize
what a tremendous thing it is to know every trivial detail of twelve
hundred miles of river and know it with absolute exactness.
If you will take the longest street in New York, and travel up
and down it, conning its features patiently until you know every
house and window and door and lamp-post and big and little sign
by heart, and know them so accurately that you can instantly
name the one you are abreast of when you are set down at random
in that street in the middle of an inky black night, you will then
have a tolerable notion of the amount and the exactness of a
pilot's knowledge who carries the Mississippi River in his head.
And then if you will go on until you know every street crossing,
the character, size, and position of the crossing-stones,
and the varying depth of mud in each of those numberless places,
you will have some idea of what the pilot must know in order
to keep a Mississippi steamer out of trouble.  Next, if you
will take half of the signs in that long street, and CHANGE THEIR
PLACES once a month, and still manage to know their new positions
accurately on dark nights, and keep up with these repeated changes
without making any mistakes, you will understand what is required
of a pilot's peerless memory by the fickle Mississippi.

I think a pilot's memory is about the most wonderful thing
in the world.  To know the Old and New Testaments by heart,
and be able to recite them glibly, forward or backward,
or begin at random anywhere in the book and recite both ways
and never trip or make a mistake, is no extravagant mass
of knowledge, and no marvelous facility, compared to a pilot's
massed knowledge of the Mississippi and his marvelous facility
in the handling of it.  I make this comparison deliberately,
and believe I am not expanding the truth when I do it.
Many will think my figure too strong, but pilots will not.

And how easily and comfortably the pilot's memory does its work;
how placidly effortless is its way; how UNCONSCIOUSLY it lays up
its vast stores, hour by hour, day by day, and never loses or
mislays a single valuable package of them all!  Take an instance.
Let a leadsman cry, 'Half twain! half twain! half twain! half twain!
half twain!' until it become as monotonous as the ticking of a clock;
let conversation be going on all the time, and the pilot be doing
his share of the talking, and no longer consciously listening
to the leadsman; and in the midst of this endless string of half
twains let a single 'quarter twain!' be interjected, without emphasis,
and then the half twain cry go on again, just as before:
two or three weeks later that pilot can describe with precision
the boat's position in the river when that quarter twain
was uttered, and give you such a lot of head-marks, stern-marks,
and side-marks to guide you, that you ought to be able to take
the boat there and put her in that same spot again yourself!
The cry of 'quarter twain' did not really take his mind from his talk,
but his trained faculties instantly photographed the bearings,
noted the change of depth, and laid up the important details for future
reference without requiring any assistance from him in the matter.
If you were walking and talking with a friend, and another friend
at your side kept up a monotonous repetition of the vowel sound A,
for a couple of blocks, and then in the midst interjected an R,
thus, A, A, A, A, A, R, A, A, A, etc., and gave the R no emphasis,
you would not be able to state, two or three weeks afterward,
that the R had been put in, nor be able to tell what objects you
were passing at the moment it was done.  But you could if your
memory had been patiently and laboriously trained to do that sort
of thing mechanically.

Give a man a tolerably fair memory to start with, and piloting
will develop it into a very colossus of capability.
But ONLY IN THE MATTERS IT IS DAILY DRILLED IN.
A time would come when the man's faculties could not help
noticing landmarks and soundings, and his memory could not
help holding on to them with the grip of a vise; but if you
asked that same man at noon what he had had for breakfast,
it would be ten chances to one that he could not tell you.
Astonishing things can be done with the human memory if you will
devote it faithfully to one particular line of business.

At the time that wages soared so high on the Missouri River, my chief,
Mr. Bixby, went up there and learned more than a thousand miles
of that stream with an ease and rapidity that were astonishing.
When he had seen each division once in the daytime and once at night,
his education was so nearly complete that he took out a 'daylight' license;
a few trips later he took out a full license, and went to piloting day
and night--and he ranked A 1, too.

Mr. Bixby placed me as steersman for a while under a pilot whose feats
of memory were a constant marvel to me.  However, his memory was born
in him, I think, not built.  For instance, somebody would mention a name.
Instantly Mr. Brown would break in--

'Oh, I knew HIM.  Sallow-faced, red-headed fellow, with a
little scar on the side of his throat, like a splinter under
the flesh.  He was only in the Southern trade six months.
That was thirteen years ago.  I made a trip with him.
There was five feet in the upper river then; the "Henry Blake"
grounded at the foot of Tower Island drawing four and a half;
the "George Elliott" unshipped her rudder on the wreck
of the "Sunflower"----'

'Why, the "Sunflower" didn't sink until----'

'I know when she sunk; it was three years before that, on the 2nd of December;
Asa Hardy was captain of her, and his brother John was first clerk;
and it was his first trip in her, too; Tom Jones told me these things
a week afterward in New Orleans; he was first mate of the "Sunflower."
Captain Hardy stuck a nail in his foot the 6th of July of the next year,
and died of the lockjaw on the 15th.  His brother died two years after
3rd of March,--erysipelas.  I never saw either of the Hardys,--they were
Alleghany River men,--but people who knew them told me all these things.
And they said Captain Hardy wore yarn socks winter and summer just the same,
and his first wife's name was Jane Shook--she was from New England--
and his second one died in a lunatic asylum.  It was in the blood.
She was from Lexington, Kentucky.  Name was Horton before she was married.'

And so on, by the hour, the man's tongue would go.
He could NOT forget any thing.  It was simply impossible.
The most trivial details remained as distinct and luminous in his head,
after they had lain there for years, as the most memorable events.
His was not simply a pilot's memory; its grasp was universal.
If he were talking about a trifling letter he had received seven
years before, he was pretty sure to deliver you the entire screed
from memory.  And then without observing that he was departing
from the true line of his talk, he was more than likely to hurl
in a long-drawn parenthetical biography of the writer of that letter;
and you were lucky indeed if he did not take up that writer's relatives,
one by one, and give you their biographies, too.

Such a memory as that is a great misfortune.  To it, all occurrences
are of the same size.  Its possessor cannot distinguish an interesting
circumstance from an uninteresting one.  As a talker, he is bound
to clog his narrative with tiresome details and make himself
an insufferable bore.  Moreover, he cannot stick to his subject.
He picks up every little grain of memory he discerns in his way,
and so is led aside.  Mr. Brown would start out with the honest
intention of telling you a vastly funny anecdote about a dog.
He would be 'so full of laugh' that he could hardly begin; then his
memory would start with the dog's breed and personal appearance;
drift into a history of his owner; of his owner's family,
with descriptions of weddings and burials that had occurred in it,
together with recitals of congratulatory verses and obituary poetry
provoked by the same:  then this memory would recollect that one
of these events occurred during the celebrated 'hard winter'
of such and such a year, and a minute description of that winter
would follow, along with the names of people who were frozen to death,
and statistics showing the high figures which pork and hay went up to.
Pork and hay would suggest corn and fodder; corn and fodder would
suggest cows and horses; cows and horses would suggest the circus
and certain celebrated bare-back riders; the transition from
the circus to the menagerie was easy and natural; from the elephant
to equatorial Africa was but a step; then of course the heathen
savages would suggest religion; and at the end of three or four hours'
tedious jaw, the watch would change, and Brown would go out
of the pilot-house muttering extracts from sermons he had heard
years before about the efficacy of prayer as a means of grace.
And the original first mention would be all you had learned about that dog,
after all this waiting and hungering.

A pilot must have a memory; but there are two higher qualities
which he must also have.  He must have good and quick judgment
and decision, and a cool, calm courage that no peril can shake.
Give a man the merest trifle of pluck to start with, and by the time
he has become a pilot he cannot be unmanned by any danger a steamboat
can get into; but one cannot quite say the same for judgment.
Judgment is a matter of brains, and a man must START with a good
stock of that article or he will never succeed as a pilot.

The growth of courage in the pilot-house is steady all the time,
but it does not reach a high and satisfactory condition until
some time after the young pilot has been 'standing his own watch,'
alone and under the staggering weight of all the responsibilities
connected with the position.  When an apprentice has become pretty
thoroughly acquainted with the river, he goes clattering along
so fearlessly with his steamboat, night or day, that he presently
begins to imagine that it is HIS courage that animates him;
but the first time the pilot steps out and leaves him to his
own devices he finds out it was the other man's. He discovers
that the article has been left out of his own cargo altogether.
The whole river is bristling with exigencies in a moment;
he is not prepared for them; he does not know how to meet them;
all his knowledge forsakes him; and within fifteen minutes
he is as white as a sheet and scared almost to death.
Therefore pilots wisely train these cubs by various strategic
tricks to look danger in the face a little more calmly.
A favorite way of theirs is to play a friendly swindle upon
the candidate.

Mr. Bixby served me in this fashion once, and for years afterward
I used to blush even in my sleep when I thought of it.
I had become a good steersman; so good, indeed, that I had all
the work to do on our watch, night and day; Mr. Bixby seldom
made a suggestion to me; all he ever did was to take the wheel
on particularly bad nights or in particularly bad crossings,
land the boat when she needed to be landed, play gentleman
of leisure nine-tenths of the watch, and collect the wages.
The lower river was about bank-full, and if anybody had questioned
my ability to run any crossing between Cairo and New Orleans
without help or instruction, I should have felt irreparably hurt.
The idea of being afraid of any crossing in the lot,
in the DAY-TIME, was a thing too preposterous for contemplation.
Well, one matchless summer's day I was bowling down the bend
above island 66, brimful of self-conceit and carrying my nose
as high as a giraffe's, when Mr. Bixby said--

'I am going below a while.  I suppose you know the next crossing?'

This was almost an affront.  It was about the plainest and simplest crossing
in the whole river.  One couldn't come to any harm, whether he ran it
right or not; and as for depth, there never had been any bottom there.
I knew all this, perfectly well.

'Know how to RUN it?  Why, I can run it with my eyes shut.'

'How much water is there in it?'

'Well, that is an odd question.  I couldn't get bottom there
with a church steeple.'

'You think so, do you?'

The very tone of the question shook my confidence.
That was what Mr. Bixby was expecting.  He left, without saying
anything more.  I began to imagine all sorts of things.
Mr. Bixby, unknown to me, of course, sent somebody down to
the forecastle with some mysterious instructions to the leadsmen,
another messenger was sent to whisper among the officers,
and then Mr. Bixby went into hiding behind a smoke-stack where
he could observe results.  Presently the captain stepped out on
the hurricane deck; next the chief mate appeared; then a clerk.
Every moment or two a straggler was added to my audience;
and before I got to the head of the island I had fifteen
or twenty people assembled down there under my nose.
I began to wonder what the trouble was.  As I started across,
the captain glanced aloft at me and said, with a sham uneasiness
in his voice--

'Where is Mr. Bixby?'

'Gone below, sir.'

But that did the business for me.  My imagination began to construct
dangers out of nothing, and they multiplied faster than I could keep
the run of them.  All at once I imagined I saw shoal water ahead!
The wave of coward agony that surged through me then came near dislocating
every joint in me.  All my confidence in that crossing vanished.
I seized the bell-rope; dropped it, ashamed; seized it again;
dropped it once more; clutched it tremblingly one again,
and pulled it so feebly that I could hardly hear the stroke myself.
Captain and mate sang out instantly, and both together--

'Starboard lead there! and quick about it!'

This was another shock.  I began to climb the wheel like a squirrel;
but I would hardly get the boat started to port before I would see new
dangers on that side, and away I would spin to the other; only to find
perils accumulating to starboard, and be crazy to get to port again.
Then came the leadsman's sepulchral cry--

'D-e-e-p four!'

Deep four in a bottomless crossing!  The terror of it took my breath away.

'M-a-r-k three!... M-a-r-k three... Quarter less three!...
 Half twain!'

This was frightful!  I seized the bell-ropes and stopped the engines.

'Quarter twain!  Quarter twain!  MARK twain!'

I was helpless.  I did not know what in the world to do.
I was quaking from head to foot, and I could have hung my hat on
my eyes, they stuck out so far.

'Quarter LESS twain!  Nine and a HALF!'

We were DRAWING nine!  My hands were in a nerveless flutter.
I could not ring a bell intelligibly with them.  I flew to the
speaking-tube and shouted to the engineer--

'Oh, Ben, if you love me, BACK her!  Quick, Ben!  Oh, back the immortal
SOUL out of her! '

I heard the door close gently.  I looked around, and there stood
Mr. Bixby, smiling a bland, sweet smile.  Then the audience on
the hurricane deck sent up a thundergust of humiliating laughter.
I saw it all, now, and I felt meaner than the meanest man in
human history.  I laid in the lead, set the boat in her marks,
came ahead on the engines, and said--

'It was a fine trick to play on an orphan, WASN'T it?
I suppose I'll never hear the last of how I was ass enough to heave
the lead at the head of 66.'

'Well, no, you won't, maybe.  In fact I hope you won't;
for I want you to learn something by that experience.
Didn't you KNOW there was no bottom in that crossing?'

'Yes, sir, I did.'

'Very well, then.  You shouldn't have allowed me or anybody else
to shake your confidence in that knowledge.  Try to remember that.
And another thing:  when you get into a dangerous place, don't turn coward.
That isn't going to help matters any.'

It was a good enough lesson, but pretty hardly learned.
Yet about the hardest part of it was that for months I so often had
to hear a phrase which I had conceived a particular distaste for.
It was, 'Oh, Ben, if you love me, back her!'




                               Chapter 14
                      Rank and Dignity of Piloting

IN my preceding chapters I have tried, by going into the minutiae
of the science of piloting, to carry the reader step by step
to a comprehension of what the science consists of; and at
the same time I have tried to show him that it is a very curious
and wonderful science, too, and very worthy of his attention.
If I have seemed to love my subject, it is no surprising thing,
for I loved the profession far better than any I have followed since,
and I took a measureless pride in it.  The reason is plain:
a pilot, in those days, was the only unfettered and
entirely independent human being that lived in the earth.
Kings are but the hampered servants of parliament and people;
parliaments sit in chains forged by their constituency;
the editor of a newspaper cannot be independent, but must
work with one hand tied behind him by party and patrons,
and be content to utter only half or two-thirds of his mind;
no clergyman is a free man and may speak the whole truth,
regardless of his parish's opinions; writers of all kinds are
manacled servants of the public.  We write frankly and fearlessly,
but then we 'modify' before we print.  In truth, every man and
woman and child has a master, and worries and frets in servitude;
but in the day I write of, the Mississippi pilot had none.
The captain could stand upon the hurricane deck, in the pomp
of a very brief authority, and give him five or six orders while
the vessel backed into the stream, and then that skipper's reign
was over.  The moment that the boat was under way in the river,
she was under the sole and unquestioned control of the pilot.
He could do with her exactly as he pleased, run her when and whither
he chose, and tie her up to the bank whenever his judgment said
that that course was best.  His movements were entirely free;
he consulted no one, he received commands from nobody,
he promptly resented even the merest suggestions.  Indeed, the law
of the United States forbade him to listen to commands
or suggestions, rightly considering that the pilot necessarily
knew better how to handle the boat than anybody could tell him.
So here was the novelty of a king without a keeper, an absolute monarch
who was absolute in sober truth and not by a fiction of words.
I have seen a boy of eighteen taking a great steamer serenely
into what seemed almost certain destruction, and the aged captain
standing mutely by, filled with apprehension but powerless
to interfere.  His interference, in that particular instance,
might have been an excellent thing, but to permit it would
have been to establish a most pernicious precedent.  It will
easily be guessed, considering the pilot's boundless authority,
that he was a great personage in the old steamboating days.
He was treated with marked courtesy by the captain and with marked
deference by all the officers and servants; and this deferential
spirit was quickly communicated to the passengers, too.  I think
pilots were about the only people I ever knew who failed to show,
in some degree, embarrassment in the presence of traveling
foreign princes.  But then, people in one's own grade of life
are not usually embarrassing objects.

By long habit, pilots came to put all their wishes in the form of commands.
It 'gravels' me, to this day, to put my will in the weak shape of
a request, instead of launching it in the crisp language of an order.
In those old days, to load a steamboat at St. Louis, take her to New
Orleans and back, and discharge cargo, consumed about twenty-five days,
on an average.  Seven or eight of these days the boat spent at the wharves
of St. Louis and New Orleans, and every soul on board was hard at work,
except the two pilots; they did nothing but play gentleman up town,
and receive the same wages for it as if they had been on duty.
The moment the boat touched the wharf at either city, they were ashore;
and they were not likely to be seen again till the last bell was ringing and
everything in readiness for another voyage.

When a captain got hold of a pilot of particularly high reputation,
he took pains to keep him.  When wages were four hundred dollars
a month on the Upper Mississippi, I have known a captain
to keep such a pilot in idleness, under full pay, three months
at a time, while the river was frozen up.  And one must remember
that in those cheap times four hundred dollars was a salary
of almost inconceivable splendor.  Few men on shore got such pay
as that, and when they did they were mightily looked up to.
When pilots from either end of the river wandered into our small
Missouri village, they were sought by the best and the fairest,
and treated with exalted respect.  Lying in port under wages
was a thing which many pilots greatly enjoyed and appreciated;
especially if they belonged in the Missouri River in the heyday
of that trade (Kansas times), and got nine hundred dollars a trip,
which was equivalent to about eighteen hundred dollars a month.
Here is a conversation of that day.  A chap out of the Illinois River,
with a little stern-wheel tub, accosts a couple of ornate and gilded
Missouri River pilots--

'Gentlemen, I've got a pretty good trip for the upcountry,
and shall want you about a month.  How much will it be?'

'Eighteen hundred dollars apiece.'

'Heavens and earth!  You take my boat, let me have your wages,
and I'll divide!'

I will remark, in passing, that Mississippi steamboatmen were
important in landsmen's eyes (and in their own, too, in a degree)
according to the dignity of the boat they were on.
For instance, it was a proud thing to be of the crew of such
stately craft as the 'Aleck Scott' or the 'Grand Turk.'
Negro firemen, deck hands, and barbers belonging to those boats
were distinguished personages in their grade of life, and they were
well aware of that fact too.  A stalwart darkey once gave offense
at a negro ball in New Orleans by putting on a good many airs.
Finally one of the managers bustled up to him and said--

'Who IS you, any way?  Who is you? dat's what I
wants to know!'

The offender was not disconcerted in the least, but swelled himself up
and threw that into his voice which showed that he knew he was not putting
on all those airs on a stinted capital.

'Who IS I?  Who IS I?  I let you know mighty quick who I is!
I want you niggers to understan' dat I fires de middle do'<footnote
[Door]> on de "Aleck Scott!" '

That was sufficient.

The barber of the 'Grand Turk' was a spruce young negro,
who aired his importance with balmy complacency,
and was greatly courted by the circle in which he moved.
The young colored population of New Orleans were much given
to flirting, at twilight, on the banquettes of the back streets.
Somebody saw and heard something like the following,
one evening, in one of those localities.  A middle-aged negro
woman projected her head through a broken pane and shouted
(very willing that the neighbors should hear and envy), 'You
Mary Ann, come in de house dis minute!  Stannin' out dah foolin'
'long wid dat low trash, an' heah's de barber offn de "Gran' Turk"
wants to conwerse wid you! '

My reference, a moment ago, to the fact that a pilot's peculiar
official position placed him out of the reach of criticism or command,
brings Stephen W---- naturally to my mind.  He was a gifted pilot,
a good fellow, a tireless talker, and had both wit and humor in him.
He had a most irreverent independence, too, and was deliciously
easy-going and comfortable in the presence of age, official dignity,
and even the most august wealth.  He always had work, he never
saved a penny, he was a most persuasive borrower, he was in debt
to every pilot on the river, and to the majority of the captains.
He could throw a sort of splendor around a bit of harum-scarum,
devil-may-care piloting, that made it almost fascinating--
but not to everybody.  He made a trip with good old Captain Y----
once, and was 'relieved' from duty when the boat got to New Orleans.
Somebody expressed surprise at the discharge.  Captain Y----
shuddered at the mere mention of Stephen.  Then his poor, thin old
voice piped out something like this:--

'Why, bless me!  I wouldn't have such a wild creature on my boat
for the world--not for the whole world!  He swears, he sings,
he whistles, he yells--I never saw such an Injun to yell.
All times of the night--it never made any difference to him.
He would just yell that way, not for anything in particular,
but merely on account of a kind of devilish comfort he got out of it.
I never could get into a sound sleep but he would fetch me
out of bed, all in a cold sweat, with one of those dreadful
war-whoops. A queer being--very queer being; no respect
for anything or anybody.  Sometimes he called me "Johnny."
And he kept a fiddle, and a cat.  He played execrably.
This seemed to distress the cat, and so the cat would howl.
Nobody could sleep where that man--and his family--was.
And reckless.  There never was anything like it.
Now you may believe it or not, but as sure as I am sitting here,
he brought my boat a-tilting down through those awful snags
at Chicot under a rattling head of steam, and the wind a-blowing
like the very nation, at that!  My officers will tell you so.
They saw it.  And, sir, while he was a-tearing right down
through those snags, and I a-shaking in my shoes and praying,
I wish I may never speak again if he didn't pucker up his mouth
and go to WHISTLING!  Yes, sir; whistling "Buffalo gals,
can't you come out tonight, can't you come out to-night,
can't you come out to-night;" and doing it as calmly as if we
were attending a funeral and weren't related to the corpse.
And when I remonstrated with him about it, he smiled down on me
as if I was his child, and told me to run in the house and try
to be good, and not be meddling with my superiors!"

Once a pretty mean captain caught Stephen in New Orleans out of work
and as usual out of money.  He laid steady siege to Stephen, who was
in a very 'close place,' and finally persuaded him to hire with him
at one hundred and twenty-five dollars per month, just half wages,
the captain agreeing not to divulge the secret and so bring down the contempt
of all the guild upon the poor fellow.  But the boat was not more than
a day out of New Orleans before Stephen discovered that the captain
was boasting of his exploit, and that all the officers had been told.
Stephen winced, but said nothing.  About the middle of the afternoon
the captain stepped out on the hurricane deck, cast his eye around,
and looked a good deal surprised.  He glanced inquiringly aloft at Stephen,
but Stephen was whistling placidly, and attending to business.
The captain stood around a while in evident discomfort, and once or twice
seemed about to make a suggestion; but the etiquette of the river taught
him to avoid that sort of rashness, and so he managed to hold his peace.
He chafed and puzzled a few minutes longer, then retired to his apartments.
But soon he was out again, and apparently more perplexed than ever.
Presently he ventured to remark, with deference--

'Pretty good stage of the river now, ain't it, sir?'

'Well, I should say so!  Bank-full IS a pretty liberal stage.'

'Seems to be a good deal of current here.'

'Good deal don't describe it!  It's worse than a mill-race.'

'Isn't it easier in toward shore than it is out here in the middle?'

'Yes, I reckon it is; but a body can't be too careful with a steamboat.
It's pretty safe out here; can't strike any bottom here, you can
depend on that.'

The captain departed, looking rueful enough.  At this rate,
he would probably die of old age before his boat got to St. Louis.
Next day he appeared on deck and again found Stephen faithfully
standing up the middle of the river, fighting the whole vast
force of the Mississippi, and whistling the same placid tune.
This thing was becoming serious.  In by the shore was a slower boat
clipping along in the easy water and gaining steadily; she began
to make for an island chute; Stephen stuck to the middle of the river.
Speech was WRUNG from the captain.  He said--

'Mr. W----, don't that chute cut off a good deal of distance?'

'I think it does, but I don't know.'

'Don't know!  Well, isn't there water enough in it now to go through?'

'I expect there is, but I am not certain.'

'Upon my word this is odd!  Why, those pilots on that boat yonder are going
to try it.  Do you mean to say that you don't know as much as they do?'

'THEY!  Why, THEY are two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar pilots!
But don't you be uneasy; I know as much as any man can afford
to know for a hundred and twenty-five!'

The captain surrendered.

Five minutes later Stephen was bowling through the chute and showing
the rival boat a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar pair of heels.




                               Chapter 15
                          The Pilots' Monopoly

ONE day, on board the 'Aleck Scott,' my chief, Mr. Bixby,
was crawling carefully through a close place at Cat Island,
both leads going, and everybody holding his breath.  The captain,
a nervous, apprehensive man, kept still as long as he could,
but finally broke down and shouted from the hurricane deck--

'For gracious' sake, give her steam, Mr. Bixby! give her steam!
She'll never raise the reef on this headway!'

For all the effect that was produced upon Mr. Bixby, one would have supposed
that no remark had been made.  But five minutes later, when the danger
was past and the leads laid in, he burst instantly into a consuming fury,
and gave the captain the most admirable cursing I ever listened to.
No bloodshed ensued; but that was because the captain's cause was weak;
for ordinarily he was not a man to take correction quietly.

Having now set forth in detail the nature of the science of piloting,
and likewise described the rank which the pilot held among the fraternity
of steamboatmen, this seems a fitting place to say a few words about an
organization which the pilots once formed for the protection of their guild.
It was curious and noteworthy in this, that it was perhaps the compactest,
the completest, and the strongest commercial organization ever
formed among men.

For a long time wages had been two hundred and fifty dollars a month;
but curiously enough, as steamboats multiplied and business increased,
the wages began to fall little by little.  It was easy to discover
the reason of this.  Too many pilots were being 'made.'  It was nice
to have a 'cub,' a steersman, to do all the hard work for a couple
of years, gratis, while his master sat on a high bench and smoked;
all pilots and captains had sons or nephews who wanted to be pilots.  By and
by it came to pass that nearly every pilot on the river had a steersman.
When a steersman had made an amount of progress that was satisfactory
to any two pilots in the trade, they could get a pilot's license for him
by signing an application directed to the United States Inspector.
Nothing further was needed; usually no questions were asked, no proofs
of capacity required.

Very well, this growing swarm of new pilots presently
began to undermine the wages, in order to get berths.
Too late--apparently--the knights of the tiller perceived
their mistake.  Plainly, something had to be done, and quickly;
but what was to be the needful thing.  A close organization.
Nothing else would answer.  To compass this seemed an impossibility;
so it was talked, and talked, and then dropped.
It was too likely to ruin whoever ventured to move
in the matter.  But at last about a dozen of the boldest--
and some of them the best--pilots on the river launched
themselves into the enterprise and took all the chances.
They got a special charter from the legislature, with large powers,
under the name of the Pilots' Benevolent Association;
elected their officers, completed their organization,
contributed capital, put 'association' wages up to two hundred
and fifty dollars at once--and then retired to their homes,
for they were promptly discharged from employment.
But there were two or three unnoticed trifles in their by-laws
which had the seeds of propagation in them.  For instance,
all idle members of the association, in good standing,
were entitled to a pension of twenty-five dollars per month.
This began to bring in one straggler after another from the ranks
of the new-fledged pilots, in the dull (summer) season.
Better have twenty-five dollars than starve; the initiation
fee was only twelve dollars, and no dues required
from the unemployed.

Also, the widows of deceased members in good standing could
draw twenty-five dollars per month, and a certain sum for each
of their children.  Also, the said deceased would be buried
at the association's expense.  These things resurrected all
the superannuated and forgotten pilots in the Mississippi Valley.
They came from farms, they came from interior villages, they came
from everywhere.  They came on crutches, on drays, in ambulances,--
any way, so they got there.  They paid in their twelve dollars,
and straightway began to draw out twenty-five dollars a month,
and calculate their burial bills.

By and by, all the useless, helpless pilots, and a dozen first-class ones,
were in the association, and nine-tenths of the best pilots out of it
and laughing at it.  It was the laughing-stock of the whole river.
Everybody joked about the by-law requiring members to pay ten per cent.
of their wages, every month, into the treasury for the support
of the association, whereas all the members were outcast and tabooed,
and no one would employ them.  Everybody was derisively grateful
to the association for taking all the worthless pilots out of the way
and leaving the whole field to the excellent and the deserving;
and everybody was not only jocularly grateful for that, but for a
result which naturally followed, namely, the gradual advance of wages
as the busy season approached.  Wages had gone up from the low figure
of one hundred dollars a month to one hundred and twenty-five, and in
some cases to one hundred and fifty; and it was great fun to enlarge
upon the fact that this charming thing had been accomplished by a body
of men not one of whom received a particle of benefit from it.
Some of the jokers used to call at the association rooms and have
a good time chaffing the members and offering them the charity
of taking them as steersmen for a trip, so that they could see what
the forgotten river looked like.  However, the association was content;
or at least it gave no sign to the contrary.  Now and then it
captured a pilot who was 'out of luck,' and added him to its list;
and these later additions were very valuable, for they were good pilots;
the incompetent ones had all been absorbed before.  As business freshened,
wages climbed gradually up to two hundred and fifty dollars--
the association figure--and became firmly fixed there; and still
without benefiting a member of that body, for no member was hired.
The hilarity at the association's expense burst all bounds, now.
There was no end to the fun which that poor martyr had to
put up with.

However, it is a long lane that has no turning.  Winter approached,
business doubled and trebled, and an avalanche of Missouri,
Illinois and Upper Mississippi River boats came pouring down
to take a chance in the New Orleans trade.  All of a sudden
pilots were in great demand, and were correspondingly scarce.
The time for revenge was come.  It was a bitter pill to have to
accept association pilots at last, yet captains and owners agreed
that there was no other way.  But none of these outcasts offered!
So there was a still bitterer pill to be swallowed:
they must be sought out and asked for their services.
Captain ---- was the first man who found it necessary to take
the dose, and he had been the loudest derider of the organization.
He hunted up one of the best of the association pilots and said--

'Well, you boys have rather got the best of us for a
little while, so I'll give in with as good a grace as I can.
I've come to hire you; get your trunk aboard right away.
I want to leave at twelve o'clock.'

'I don't know about that.  Who is your other pilot?'

'I've got I. S----. Why?'

'I can't go with him.  He don't belong to the association.'

'What!'

'It's so.'

'Do you mean to tell me that you won't turn a wheel with one of the very best
and oldest pilots on the river because he don't belong to your association?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Well, if this isn't putting on airs!  I supposed I was doing you
a benevolence; but I begin to think that I am the party that wants
a favor done.  Are you acting under a law of the concern?'

'Yes.'

'Show it to me.'

So they stepped into the association rooms, and the secretary
soon satisfied the captain, who said--

'Well, what am I to do?  I have hired Mr. S---- for the entire season.'

'I will provide for you,' said the secretary.  'I will detail a pilot
to go with you, and he shall be on board at twelve o'clock.'

'But if I discharge S----, he will come on me for the whole season's wages.'

'Of course that is a matter between you and Mr. S----, captain.
We cannot meddle in your private affairs.'

The captain stormed, but to no purpose.  In the end he had to discharge
S----, pay him about a thousand dollars, and take an association pilot
in his place.  The laugh was beginning to turn the other way now.
Every day, thenceforward, a new victim fell; every day some outraged
captain discharged a non-association pet, with tears and profanity,
and installed a hated association man in his berth.  In a very
little while, idle non-associationists began to be pretty plenty,
brisk as business was, and much as their services were desired.
The laugh was shifting to the other side of their mouths most palpably.
These victims, together with the captains and owners, presently ceased
to laugh altogether, and began to rage about the revenge they would take
when the passing business 'spurt' was over.

Soon all the laughers that were left were the owners
and crews of boats that had two non-association pilots.
But their triumph was not very long-lived. For this reason:
It was a rigid rule of the association that its members should never,
under any circumstances whatever, give information about the channel
to any 'outsider.'  By this time about half the boats had none
but association pilots, and the other half had none but outsiders.
At the first glance one would suppose that when it came
to forbidding information about the river these two parties
could play equally at that game; but this was not so.
At every good-sized town from one end of the river to the other,
there was a 'wharf-boat' to land at, instead of a wharf or a pier.
Freight was stored in it for transportation; waiting passengers slept
in its cabins.  Upon each of these wharf-boats the association's
officers placed a strong box fastened with a peculiar lock which was
used in no other service but one--the United States mail service.
It was the letter-bag lock, a sacred governmental thing.
By dint of much beseeching the government had been
persuaded to allow the association to use this lock.
Every association man carried a key which would open these boxes.
That key, or rather a peculiar way of holding it in the hand
when its owner was asked for river information by a stranger--
for the success of the St. Louis and New Orleans association
had now bred tolerably thriving branches in a dozen neighboring
steamboat trades--was the association man's sign and diploma
of membership; and if the stranger did not respond by producing
a similar key and holding it in a certain manner duly prescribed,
his question was politely ignored.  From the association's secretary
each member received a package of more or less gorgeous blanks,
printed like a billhead, on handsome paper, properly ruled in columns;
a bill-head worded something like this--

                         STEAMER GREAT REPUBLIC.

                            JOHN SMITH MASTER

                PILOTS, JOHN JONES AND THOMAS BROWN.

      +-------------------------------------------------------------+

      |   CROSSINGS.   |   SOUNDINGS.   |   MARKS.   |   REMARKS.   |

      +-------------------------------------------------------------+

These blanks were filled up, day by day, as the voyage
progressed, and deposited in the several wharf-boat boxes.
For instance, as soon as the first crossing, out from St. Louis,
was completed, the items would be entered upon the blank,
under the appropriate headings, thus--

'St. Louis.  Nine and a half (feet). Stern on court-house, head
on dead cottonwood above wood-yard, until you raise the first reef,
then pull up square.'  Then under head of Remarks:  'Go just outside
the wrecks; this is important.  New snag just where you straighten down;
go above it.'

The pilot who deposited that blank in the Cairo box (after adding
to it the details of every crossing all the way down from St. Louis)
took out and read half a dozen fresh reports (from upward-bound steamers)
concerning the river between Cairo and Memphis, posted himself thoroughly,
returned them to the box, and went back aboard his boat again so armed
against accident that he could not possibly get his boat into trouble
without bringing the most ingenious carelessness to his aid.

Imagine the benefits of so admirable a system in a piece of river twelve
or thirteen hundred miles long, whose channel was shifting every day!
The pilot who had formerly been obliged to put up with seeing a shoal
place once or possibly twice a month, had a hundred sharp eyes to watch it
for him, now, and bushels of intelligent brains to tell him how to run it.
His information about it was seldom twenty-four hours old.  If the reports
in the last box chanced to leave any misgivings on his mind concerning
a treacherous crossing, he had his remedy; he blew his steam-whistle
in a peculiar way as soon as he saw a boat approaching; the signal was
answered in a peculiar way if that boat's pilots were association men;
and then the two steamers ranged alongside and all uncertainties were swept
away by fresh information furnished to the inquirer by word of mouth and
in minute detail.

The first thing a pilot did when he reached New Orleans or St. Louis
was to take his final and elaborate report to the association parlors
and hang it up there,--after which he was free to visit his family.
In these parlors a crowd was always gathered together, discussing
changes in the channel, and the moment there was a fresh arrival,
everybody stopped talking till this witness had told the newest news
and settled the latest uncertainty.  Other craftsmen can 'sink the shop,'
sometimes, and interest themselves in other matters.  Not so with a pilot;
he must devote himself wholly to his profession and talk of nothing else;
for it would be small gain to be perfect one day and imperfect the next.
He has no time or words to waste if he would keep 'posted.'

But the outsiders had a hard time of it.  No particular place
to meet and exchange information, no wharf-boat reports,
none but chance and unsatisfactory ways of getting news.
The consequence was that a man sometimes had to run five hundred
miles of river on information that was a week or ten days old.
At a fair stage of the river that might have answered; but when the
dead low water came it was destructive.

Now came another perfectly logical result.  The outsiders began
to ground steamboats, sink them, and get into all sorts of trouble,
whereas accidents seemed to keep entirely away from the association men.
Wherefore even the owners and captains of boats furnished
exclusively with outsiders, and previously considered to be wholly
independent of the association and free to comfort themselves
with brag and laughter, began to feel pretty uncomfortable.
Still, they made a show of keeping up the brag, until one black day
when every captain of the lot was formally ordered to immediately
discharge his outsiders and take association pilots in their stead.
And who was it that had the dashing presumption to do that?  Alas, it came
from a power behind the throne that was greater than the throne itself.
It was the underwriters!

It was no time to 'swap knives.'  Every outsider had to take his trunk
ashore at once.  Of course it was supposed that there was collusion
between the association and the underwriters, but this was not so.
The latter had come to comprehend the excellence of the 'report' system
of the association and the safety it secured, and so they had made their
decision among themselves and upon plain business principles.

There was weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth in
the camp of the outsiders now.  But no matter, there was
but one course for them to pursue, and they pursued it.
They came forward in couples and groups, and proffered their
twelve dollars and asked for membership.  They were surprised
to learn that several new by-laws had been long ago added.
For instance, the initiation fee had been raised to fifty dollars;
that sum must be tendered, and also ten per cent.
of the wages which the applicant had received each and every
month since the founding of the association.  In many cases this
amounted to three or four hundred dollars.  Still, the association
would not entertain the application until the money was present.
Even then a single adverse vote killed the application.
Every member had to vote 'Yes' or 'No' in person and before witnesses;
so it took weeks to decide a candidacy, because many pilots
were so long absent on voyages.  However, the repentant
sinners scraped their savings together, and one by one,
by our tedious voting process, they were added to the fold.
A time came, at last, when only about ten remained outside.
They said they would starve before they would apply.
They remained idle a long while, because of course nobody could venture
to employ them.

By and by the association published the fact that upon a certain
date the wages would be raised to five hundred dollars per month.
All the branch associations had grown strong, now, and the Red
River one had advanced wages to seven hundred dollars a month.
Reluctantly the ten outsiders yielded, in view of these things,
and made application.  There was another new by-law, by this time,
which required them to pay dues not only on all the wages they
had received since the association was born, but also on what they
would have received if they had continued at work up to the time
of their application, instead of going off to pout in idleness.
It turned out to be a difficult matter to elect them, but it
was accomplished at last.  The most virulent sinner of this
batch had stayed out and allowed 'dues' to accumulate against
him so long that he had to send in six hundred and twenty-five
dollars with his application.

The association had a good bank account now, and was very strong.
There was no longer an outsider.  A by-law was added forbidding
the reception of any more cubs or apprentices for five years;
after which time a limited number would be taken, not by individuals,
but by the association, upon these terms:  the applicant must
not be less than eighteen years old, and of respectable family
and good character; he must pass an examination as to education,
pay a thousand dollars in advance for the privilege of becoming
an apprentice, and must remain under the commands of the association
until a great part of the membership (more than half, I think)
should be willing to sign his application for a pilot's license.

All previously-articled apprentices were now taken away from their
masters and adopted by the association.  The president and secretary
detailed them for service on one boat or another, as they chose,
and changed them from boat to boat according to certain rules.
If a pilot could show that he was in infirm health and needed assistance,
one of the cubs would be ordered to go with him.

The widow and orphan list grew, but so did the association's
financial resources.  The association attended its own
funerals in state, and paid for them.  When occasion demanded,
it sent members down the river upon searches for the bodies
of brethren lost by steamboat accidents; a search of this kind
sometimes cost a thousand dollars.

The association procured a charter and went into the insurance
business, also.  It not only insured the lives of its members,
but took risks on steamboats.

The organization seemed indestructible.  It was the tightest monopoly
in the world.  By the United States law, no man could become
a pilot unless two duly licensed pilots signed his application;
and now there was nobody outside of the association competent
to sign.  Consequently the making of pilots was at an end.
Every year some would die and others become incapacitated by age
and infirmity; there would be no new ones to take their places.
In time, the association could put wages up to any figure it chose;
and as long as it should be wise enough not to carry the thing
too far and provoke the national government into amending
the licensing system, steamboat owners would have to submit,
since there would be no help for it.

The owners and captains were the only obstruction that lay between
the association and absolute power; and at last this one was removed.
Incredible as it may seem, the owners and captains deliberately
did it themselves.  When the pilots' association announced,
months beforehand, that on the first day of September, 1861,
wages would be advanced to five hundred dollars per month, the owners
and captains instantly put freights up a few cents, and explained
to the farmers along the river the necessity of it, by calling their
attention to the burdensome rate of wages about to be established.
It was a rather slender argument, but the farmers did not seem to detect it.
It looked reasonable to them that to add five cents freight on a bushel
of corn was justifiable under the circumstances, overlooking the fact
that this advance on a cargo of forty thousand sacks was a good deal
more than necessary to cover the new wages.

So, straightway the captains and owners got up an association
of their own, and proposed to put captains' wages up to five
hundred dollars, too, and move for another advance in freights.
It was a novel idea, but of course an effect which had been
produced once could be produced again.  The new association decreed
(for this was before all the outsiders had been taken
into the pilots' association) that if any captain employed
a non-association pilot, he should be forced to discharge him,
and also pay a fine of five hundred dollars.  Several of these
heavy fines were paid before the captains' organization grew
strong enough to exercise full authority over its membership;
but that all ceased, presently.  The captains tried to get the pilots
to decree that no member of their corporation should serve under
a non-association captain; but this proposition was declined.
The pilots saw that they would be backed up by the captains and
the underwriters anyhow, and so they wisely refrained from entering
into entangling alliances.

As I have remarked, the pilots' association was now the compactest
monopoly in the world, perhaps, and seemed simply indestructible.
And yet the days of its glory were numbered.  First, the new
railroad stretching up through Mississippi, Tennessee, and Kentucky,
to Northern railway centers, began to divert the passenger travel
from the steamers; next the war came and almost entirely annihilated
the steamboating industry during several years, leaving most of
the pilots idle, and the cost of living advancing all the time;
then the treasurer of the St. Louis association put his hand
into the till and walked off with every dollar of the ample fund;
and finally, the railroads intruding everywhere, there was little
for steamers to do, when the war was over, but carry freights;
so straightway some genius from the Atlantic coast introduced the plan
of towing a dozen steamer cargoes down to New Orleans at the tail
of a vulgar little tug-boat; and behold, in the twinkling of an eye,
as it were, the association and the noble science of piloting were
things of the dead and pathetic past!




                               Chapter 16
                               Racing Days

IT was always the custom for the boats to leave New
Orleans between four and five o'clock in the afternoon.
From three o'clock onward they would be burning rosin and pitch pine
(the sign of preparation), and so one had the picturesque spectacle
of a rank, some two or three miles long, of tall, ascending columns
of coal-black smoke; a colonnade which supported a sable roof of
the same smoke blended together and spreading abroad over the city.
Every outward-bound boat had its flag flying at the jack-staff,
and sometimes a duplicate on the verge staff astern.
Two or three miles of mates were commanding and swearing with more
than usual emphasis; countless processions of freight barrels
and boxes were spinning athwart the levee and flying aboard
the stage-planks, belated passengers were dodging and skipping
among these frantic things, hoping to reach the forecastle
companion way alive, but having their doubts about it;
women with reticules and bandboxes were trying to keep up
with husbands freighted with carpet-sacks and crying babies,
and making a failure of it by losing their heads in the whirl
and roar and general distraction; drays and baggage-vans were
clattering hither and thither in a wild hurry, every now and
then getting blocked and jammed together, and then during ten
seconds one could not see them for the profanity, except vaguely
and dimly; every windlass connected with every forehatch,
from one end of that long array of steamboats to the other,
was keeping up a deafening whiz and whir, lowering freight
into the hold, and the half-naked crews of perspiring negroes
that worked them were roaring such songs as 'De Las' Sack!
De Las' Sack!'--inspired to unimaginable exaltation by the chaos
of turmoil and racket that was driving everybody else mad.
By this time the hurricane and boiler decks of the steamers
would be packed and black with passengers.  The 'last bells'
would begin to clang, all down the line, and then the powwow
seemed to double; in a moment or two the final warning came,--
a simultaneous din of Chinese gongs, with the cry,
'All dat ain't goin', please to git asho'!'--and behold,
the powwow quadrupled!  People came swarming ashore,
overturning excited stragglers that were trying to swarm aboard.
One more moment later a long array of stage-planks was being
hauled in, each with its customary latest passenger clinging
to the end of it with teeth, nails, and everything else,
and the customary latest procrastinator making a wild spring
shoreward over his head.

Now a number of the boats slide backward into the stream,
leaving wide gaps in the serried rank of steamers.
Citizens crowd the decks of boats that are not to go, in order
to see the sight.  Steamer after steamer straightens herself up,
gathers all her strength, and presently comes swinging by,
under a tremendous head of steam, with flag flying,
black smoke rolling, and her entire crew of firemen and deck-hands
(usually swarthy negroes) massed together on the forecastle,
the best 'voice' in the lot towering from the midst
(being mounted on the capstan), waving his hat or a flag,
and all roaring a mighty chorus, while the parting cannons boom
and the multitudinous spectators swing their hats and huzza!
Steamer after steamer falls into line, and the stately procession goes
winging its flight up the river.

In the old times, whenever two fast boats started out on a race,
with a big crowd of people looking on, it was inspiring to hear
the crews sing, especially if the time were night-fall, and the forecastle
lit up with the red glare of the torch-baskets. Racing was royal fun.
The public always had an idea that racing was dangerous; whereas the opposite
was the case--that is, after the laws were passed which restricted
each boat to just so many pounds of steam to the square inch.
No engineer was ever sleepy or careless when his heart was in a race.
He was constantly on the alert, trying gauge-cocks and watching things.
The dangerous place was on slow, plodding boats, where the engineers drowsed
around and allowed chips to get into the 'doctor' and shut off the water
supply from the boilers.

In the 'flush times' of steamboating, a race between two notoriously
fleet steamers was an event of vast importance.  The date was set
for it several weeks in advance, and from that time forward, the whole
Mississippi Valley was in a state of consuming excitement.  Politics and
the weather were dropped, and people talked only of the coming race.
As the time approached, the two steamers 'stripped' and got ready.
Every encumbrance that added weight, or exposed a resisting surface
to wind or water, was removed, if the boat could possibly do without it.
The 'spars,' and sometimes even their supporting derricks, were sent ashore,
and no means left to set the boat afloat in case she got aground.
When the 'Eclipse' and the 'A. L. Shotwell' ran their great race many
years ago, it was said that pains were taken to scrape the gilding off
the fanciful device which hung between the 'Eclipse's' chimneys, and that for
that one trip the captain left off his kid gloves and had his head shaved.
But I always doubted these things.

If the boat was known to make her best speed when drawing five and a half feet
forward and five feet aft, she was carefully loaded to that exact figure--
she wouldn't enter a dose of homoeopathic pills on her manifest after that.
Hardly any passengers were taken, because they not only add weight but they
never will 'trim boat.'  They always run to the side when there is anything
to see, whereas a conscientious and experienced steamboatman would stick to
the center of the boat and part his hair in the middle with a spirit level.

No way-freights and no way-passengers were allowed, for the racers would
stop only at the largest towns, and then it would be only 'touch and go.'
Coal flats and wood flats were contracted for beforehand, and these were
kept ready to hitch on to the flying steamers at a moment's warning.
Double crews were carried, so that all work could be quickly done.

The chosen date being come, and all things in readiness,
the two great steamers back into the stream, and lie there
jockeying a moment, and apparently watching each other's
slightest movement, like sentient creatures; flags drooping,
the pent steam shrieking through safety-valves, the black smoke
rolling and tumbling from the chimneys and darkening all the air.
People, people everywhere; the shores, the house-tops,
the steamboats, the ships, are packed with them, and you know
that the borders of the broad Mississippi are going to be
fringed with humanity thence northward twelve hundred miles,
to welcome these racers.

Presently tall columns of steam burst from the 'scape-pipes
of both steamers, two guns boom a good-bye, two red-shirted heroes
mounted on capstans wave their small flags above the massed crews
on the forecastles, two plaintive solos linger on the air a few
waiting seconds, two mighty choruses burst forth--and here they come!
Brass bands bray Hail Columbia, huzza after huzza thunders from
the shores, and the stately creatures go whistling by like the wind.

Those boats will never halt a moment between New Orleans and St. Louis,
except for a second or two at large towns, or to hitch thirty-cord
wood-boats alongside.  You should be on board when they take a couple
of those wood-boats in tow and turn a swarm of men into each;
by the time you have wiped your glasses and put them on, you will be
wondering what has become of that wood.

Two nicely matched steamers will stay in sight of each other day after day.
They might even stay side by side, but for the fact that pilots are not
all alike, and the smartest pilots will win the race.  If one of the boats has
a 'lightning' pilot, whose 'partner' is a trifle his inferior, you can tell
which one is on watch by noting whether that boat has gained ground or lost
some during each four-hour stretch.  The shrewdest pilot can delay a boat
if he has not a fine genius for steering.  Steering is a very high art.
One must not keep a rudder dragging across a boat's stem if he wants to get up
the river fast.

There is a great difference in boats, of course.  For a long time I was on
a boat that was so slow we used to forget what year it was we left port in.
But of course this was at rare intervals.  Ferryboats used to lose
valuable trips because their passengers grew old and died, waiting for us
to get by.  This was at still rarer intervals.  I had the documents
for these occurrences, but through carelessness they have been mislaid.
This boat, the 'John J. Roe,' was so slow that when she finally sunk
in Madrid Bend, it was five years before the owners heard of it.
That was always a confusing fact to me, but it is according to the record,
any way.  She was dismally slow; still, we often had pretty
exciting times racing with islands, and rafts, and such things.
One trip, however, we did rather well.  We went to St. Louis in sixteen days.
But even at this rattling gait I think we changed watches three times
in Fort Adams reach, which is five miles long.  A 'reach' is a piece
of straight river, and of course the current drives through such a place
in a pretty lively way.

That trip we went to Grand Gulf, from New Orleans, in four days
(three hundred and forty miles); the 'Eclipse' and 'Shotwell'
did it in one.  We were nine days out, in the chute of 63
(seven hundred miles); the 'Eclipse' and 'Shotwell' went
there in two days.  Something over a generation ago,
a boat called the 'J. M. White' went from New Orleans
to Cairo in three days, six hours, and forty-four minutes.
In 1853 the 'Eclipse' made the same trip in three days,
three hours, and twenty minutes.<footnote [Time disputed.
Some authorities add 1 hour and 16 minutes to this.]>  In
1870 the 'R. E. Lee' did it in three days and ONE hour.
This last is called the fastest trip on record.
I will try to show that it was not.  For this reason:
the distance between New Orleans and Cairo, when the 'J. M. White'
ran it, was about eleven hundred and six miles; consequently her
average speed was a trifle over fourteen miles per hour.
In the 'Eclipse's' day the distance between the two ports had become
reduced to one thousand and eighty miles; consequently her average
speed was a shade under fourteen and three-eighths miles per hour.
In the 'R. E. Lee's' time the distance had diminished
to about one thousand and thirty miles; consequently her
average was about fourteen and one-eighth miles per hour.
Therefore the 'Eclipse's' was conspicuously the fastest time that has
ever been made.



                          THE RECORD OF SOME FAMOUS

                                    TRIPS

                   (From Commodore Rollingpin's Almanack.)


                       FAST TIME ON THE WESTERN WATERS



                   FROM NEW ORLEANS TO NATCHEZ--268 MILES

                                       D.   H.   M.
 1814 Orleans      made the run in      6    6   40
 1814 Comet          "     "            5   10
 1815 Enterprise     "     "            4   11   20
 1817 Washington     "     "            4
 1817 Shelby         "     "            3   20
 1818 Paragon        "     "            3    8
 1828 Tecumseh       "     "            3    1   20
 1834 Tuscarora      "     "            1   21
 1838 Natchez        "     "            1   17
 1840 Ed. Shippen    "     "            1    8
 1842 Belle of the West    "            1   18
 1844 Sultana        "     "                19   45
 1851 Magnolia       "     "                19   50
 1853 A. L. Shotwell "     "                19   49
 1853 Southern Belle "     "                20    3
 1853 Princess (No. 4)     "                20   26
 1853 Eclipse        "     "                19   47
 1855 Princess (New) "     "                18   53
 1855 Natchez (New)  "     "                17   30
 1856 Princess (New) "     "                17   30
 1870 Natchez        "     "                17   17
 1870 R. E. Lee      "     "                17   11


                  FROM NEW ORLEANS TO CAIRO--1,024 MILES

                                       D.   H.   M.
 1844 J. M. White  made the run in      3    6   44
 1852 Reindeer       "     "            3   12   45
 1853 Eclipse        "     "            3    4    4
 1853 A. L. Shotwell "     "            3    3   40
 1869 Dexter         "     "            3    6   20
 1870 Natchez        "     "            3    4   34
 1870 R. E. Lee      "     "            3    1


                 FROM NEW ORLEANS TO LOUISVILLE--1,440 MILES

                                        D.   H.   M.
 1815 Enterprise   made the run in     25    2   40
 1817 Washington     "     "           25
 1817. Shelby        "     "           20    4   20
 1818 Paragon        "     "           18   10
 1828 Tecumseh       "     "            8    4
 1834 Tuscarora      "     "            7   16
 1837 Gen. Brown     "     "            6   22
 1837 Randolph       "     "            6   22
 1837 Empress        "     "            6   17
 1837 Sultana        "     "            6   15
 1840 Ed. Shippen    "     "            5   14
 1842 Belle of the West    "            6   14
 1843 Duke of Orleans"     "            5   23
 1844 Sultana        "     "            5   12
 1849 Bostona        "     "            5    8
 1851 Belle Key      "     "            3    4   23
 1852 Reindeer       "     "            4   20   45
 1852 Eclipse        "     "            4   19
 1853 A. L. Shotwell "     "            4   10   20
 1853 Eclipse        "     "            4    9   30


               FROM NEW ORLEANS TO DONALDSONVILLE--78 MILES

                                            H.   M.
 1852 A. L. Shotwell made the run in         5   42
 1852 Eclipse        "     "                 5   42
 1854 Sultana        "     "                 4   51
 1860 Atlantic       "     "                 5   11
 1860 Gen. Quitman   "     "                 5    6
 1865 Ruth           "     "                 4   43
 1870 R. E. Lee      "     "                 4   59


                FROM NEW ORLEANS TO ST. LOUIS--1,218 MILES

                                       D.   H.   M.
 1844 J. M. White  made the run in      3   23    9
 1849 Missouri       "     "            4   19
 1869 Dexter         "     "            4    9
 1870 Natchez        "     "            3   21   58
 1870 R. E. Lee      "     "            3   18   14


                 FROM LOUISVILLE TO CINCINNATI--141 MILES

                                       D.   H.   M.
 1819 Gen. Pike      made the run in    1   16
 1819 Paragon         "        "        1   14   20
 1822 Wheeling Packet "        "        1   10
 1837 Moselle         "        "            12
 1843 Duke of Orleans "        "            12
 1843 Congress        "        "            12   20
 1846 Ben Franklin (No. 6)     "            11   45
 1852 Alleghaney      "        "            10   38
 1852 Pittsburgh      "        "            10   23
 1853 Telegraph No. 3 "        "             9   52


                  FROM LOUISVILLE TO ST. LOUIS--750 MILES

                                       D.   H.   M.
 1843 Congress     made the run in      2    1
 1854 Pike           "       "          1   23
 1854 Northerner     "       "          1   22   30
 1855 Southemer      "       "          1   19


                 FROM CINCINNATI TO PITTSBURGH--490 MILES

                                       D.   H.
 1850 Telegraph No. 2 made the run in   1   17
 1851 Buckeye State     "       "       1   16
 1852 Pittsburgh        "       "       1   15


                     FROM ST. LOUIS TO ALTON--30 MILES

                                       D.    M.
 1853 Altona       made the run in      1   35
 1876 Golden Eagle   "       "          1   37
 1876 War Eagle      "       "          1   37


                           MISCELLANEOUS RUNS

In June, 1859, the St. Louis and Keokuk Packet, City of Louisiana,
made the run from St. Louis to Keokuk (214 miles) in 16 hours
and 20 minutes, the best time on record.

In 1868 the steamer Hawkeye State, of the Northern Packet Company,
made the run from St. Louis to St. Paul (800 miles) in 2 days and 20 hours.
Never was beaten.

In 1853 the steamer Polar Star made the run from St. Louis to St. Joseph,
on the Missouri River, in 64 hours.  In July, 1856, the steamer Jas.
H. Lucas, Andy Wineland, Master, made the same run in 60 hours
and 57 minutes.  The distance between the ports is 600 miles,
and when the difficulties of navigating the turbulent Missouri
are taken into consideration, the performance of the Lucas
deserves especial mention.

                      THE RUN OF THE ROBERT E. LEE

The time made by the R. E. Lee from New Orleans to St. Louis
in 1870, in her famous race with the Natchez, is the best
on record, and, inasmuch as the race created a national interest,
we give below her time table from port to port.

Left New Orleans, Thursday, June 30th, 1870, at 4 o'clock
and 55 minutes, p.m.; reached

                                 D.  H.  M.
 Carrollton                              27<half>
 Harry Hills                         1   00<half>
 Red Church                          1   39
 Bonnet Carre                        2   38
 College Point                       3   50<half>
 Donaldsonville                      4   59
 Plaquemine                          7   05<half>
 Baton Rouge                         8   25
 Bayou Sara                         10   26
 Red River                          12   56
 Stamps                             13   56
 Bryaro                             15   51<half>
 Hinderson's                        16   29
 Natchez                            17   11
 Cole's Creek                       19   21
 Waterproof                         18   53
 Rodney                             20   45
 St. Joseph                         21   02
 Grand Gulf                         22   06
 Hard Times                         22   18
 Half Mile below Warrenton       1
 Vicksburg                       1       38
 Milliken's Bend                 1   2   37
 Bailey's                        1   3   48
 Lake Providence                 1   5   47
 Greenville                      1  10   55
 Napoleon                        1  16   22
 White River                     1  16   56
 Australia                       1  19
 Helena                          1  23   25
 Half Mile Below St. Francis     2
 Memphis                         2   6    9
 Foot of Island 37               2   9
 Foot of Island 26               2  13   30
 Tow-head, Island 14             2  17   23
 New Madrid                      2  19   50
 Dry Bar No. 10                  2  20   37
 Foot of Island 8                2  21   25
 Upper Tow-head--Lucas Bend      3
 Cairo                           3   1
 St. Louis                       3  18   14

The Lee landed at St. Louis at 11.25 A.M., on July 4th, 1870--6 hours
and 36 minutes ahead of the Natchez.  The officers of the Natchez claimed
7 hours and 1 minute stoppage on account of fog and repairing machinery.
The R. E. Lee was commanded by Captain John W. Cannon, and the Natchez was in
charge of that veteran Southern boatman, Captain Thomas P. Leathers.






                               Chapter 17
                          Cut-offs and Stephen

THESE dry details are of importance in one particular.
They give me an opportunity of introducing one of the Mississippi's
oddest peculiarities,--that of shortening its length from time to time.
If you will throw a long, pliant apple-paring over your shoulder,
it will pretty fairly shape itself into an average section
of the Mississippi River; that is, the nine or ten hundred miles
stretching from Cairo, Illinois, southward to New Orleans,
the same being wonderfully crooked, with a brief straight bit
here and there at wide intervals.  The two hundred-mile stretch
from Cairo northward to St. Louis is by no means so crooked,
that being a rocky country which the river cannot cut much.

The water cuts the alluvial banks of the 'lower' river into deep
horseshoe curves; so deep, indeed, that in some places if you were to get
ashore at one extremity of the horseshoe and walk across the neck,
half or three quarters of a mile, you could sit down and rest a couple
of hours while your steamer was coming around the long elbow,
at a speed of ten miles an hour, to take you aboard again.
When the river is rising fast, some scoundrel whose plantation
is back in the country, and therefore of inferior value,
has only to watch his chance, cut a little gutter across the narrow
neck of land some dark night, and turn the water into it,
and in a wonderfully short time a miracle has happened:  to wit,
the whole Mississippi has taken possession of that little ditch,
and placed the countryman's plantation on its bank (quadrupling its
value), and that other party's formerly valuable plantation finds
itself away out yonder on a big island; the old watercourse around
it will soon shoal up, boats cannot approach within ten miles
of it, and down goes its value to a fourth of its former worth.
Watches are kept on those narrow necks, at needful times,
and if a man happens to be caught cutting a ditch across them,
the chances are all against his ever having another opportunity to
cut a ditch.

Pray observe some of the effects of this ditching business.
Once there was a neck opposite Port Hudson, Louisiana, which was only
half a mile across, in its narrowest place.  You could walk across
there in fifteen minutes; but if you made the journey around the cape
on a raft, you traveled thirty-five miles to accomplish the same thing.
In 1722 the river darted through that neck, deserted its old bed,
and thus shortened itself thirty-five miles.  In the same way it
shortened itself twenty-five miles at Black Hawk Point in 1699.
Below Red River Landing, Raccourci cut-off was made (forty or fifty
years ago, I think). This shortened the river twenty-eight miles.
In our day, if you travel by river from the southernmost of these
three cut-offs to the northernmost, you go only seventy miles.
To do the same thing a hundred and seventy-six years ago, one had
to go a hundred and fifty-eight miles!--shortening of eighty-eight
miles in that trifling distance.  At some forgotten time in the past,
cut-offs were made above Vidalia, Louisiana; at island 92; at island 84;
and at Hale's Point.  These shortened the river, in the aggregate,
seventy-seven miles.

Since my own day on the Mississippi, cut-offs have been made at
Hurricane Island; at island 100; at Napoleon, Arkansas; at Walnut Bend;
and at Council Bend.  These shortened the river, in the aggregate,
sixty-seven miles.  In my own time a cut-off was made at American Bend,
which shortened the river ten miles or more.

Therefore, the Mississippi between Cairo and New Orleans was twelve
hundred and fifteen miles long one hundred and seventy-six years ago.
It was eleven hundred and eighty after the cut-off of 1722.
It was one thousand and forty after the American Bend cut-off. It has
lost sixty-seven miles since.  Consequently its length is only nine
hundred and seventy-three miles at present.

Now, if I wanted to be one of those ponderous scientific people, and 'let on'
to prove what had occurred in the remote past by what had occurred
in a given time in the recent past, or what will occur in the far future
by what has occurred in late years, what an opportunity is here!
Geology never had such a chance, nor such exact data to argue from!
Nor 'development of species,' either!  Glacial epochs are great things,
but they are vague--vague.  Please observe:--

In the space of one hundred and seventy-six years the Lower
Mississippi has shortened itself two hundred and forty-two miles.
That is an average of a trifle over one mile and a third per year.
Therefore, any calm person, who is not blind or idiotic,
can see that in the Old Oolitic Silurian Period,' just a million
years ago next November, the Lower Mississippi River was upwards
of one million three hundred thousand miles long, and stuck out
over the Gulf of Mexico like a fishing-rod. And by the same token
any person can see that seven hundred and forty-two years from now
the Lower Mississippi will be only a mile and three-quarters long,
and Cairo and New Orleans will have joined their streets together,
and be plodding comfortably along under a single mayor and a mutual
board of aldermen.  There is something fascinating about science.
One gets such wholesale returns of conjecture out of such a trifling
investment of fact.

When the water begins to flow through one of those ditches I
have been speaking of, it is time for the people thereabouts
to move.  The water cleaves the banks away like a knife.
By the time the ditch has become twelve or fifteen feet wide,
the calamity is as good as accomplished, for no power on earth
can stop it now.  When the width has reached a hundred yards,
the banks begin to peel off in slices half an acre wide.
The current flowing around the bend traveled formerly
only five miles an hour; now it is tremendously increased
by the shortening of the distance.  I was on board the first
boat that tried to go through the cut-off at American Bend,
but we did not get through.  It was toward midnight, and a wild
night it was--thunder, lightning, and torrents of rain.
It was estimated that the current in the cut-off was making
about fifteen or twenty miles an hour; twelve or thirteen
was the best our boat could do, even in tolerably slack water,
therefore perhaps we were foolish to try the cut-off. However,
Mr. Brown was ambitious, and he kept on trying.
The eddy running up the bank, under the 'point,' was about
as swift as the current out in the middle; so we would
go flying up the shore like a lightning express train,
get on a big head of steam, and 'stand by for a surge'
when we struck the current that was whirling by the point.
But all our preparations were useless.  The instant the current hit
us it spun us around like a top, the water deluged the forecastle,
and the boat careened so far over that one could hardly keep
his feet.  The next instant we were away down the river,
clawing with might and main to keep out of the woods.
We tried the experiment four times.  I stood on the forecastle
companion way to see.  It was astonishing to observe how
suddenly the boat would spin around and turn tail the moment
she emerged from the eddy and the current struck her nose.
The sounding concussion and the quivering would have been
about the same if she had come full speed against a sand-bank.
Under the lightning flashes one could see the plantation cabins
and the goodly acres tumble into the river; and the crash they
made was not a bad effort at thunder.  Once, when we spun around,
we only missed a house about twenty feet, that had a light burning
in the window; and in the same instant that house went overboard.
Nobody could stay on our forecastle; the water swept across
it in a torrent every time we plunged athwart the current.
At the end of our fourth effort we brought up in the woods two miles
below the cut-off; all the country there was overflowed, of course.
A day or two later the cut-off was three-quarters of a mile wide,
and boats passed up through it without much difficulty, and so
saved ten miles.

The old Raccourci cut-off reduced the river's length twenty-eight miles.
There used to be a tradition connected with it.  It was said that a boat
came along there in the night and went around the enormous elbow
the usual way, the pilots not knowing that the cut-off had been made.
It was a grisly, hideous night, and all shapes were vague and distorted.
The old bend had already begun to fill up, and the boat got to
running away from mysterious reefs, and occasionally hitting one.
The perplexed pilots fell to swearing, and finally uttered the entirely
unnecessary wish that they might never get out of that place.
As always happens in such cases, that particular prayer was answered,
and the others neglected.  So to this day that phantom steamer is still
butting around in that deserted river, trying to find her way out.
More than one grave watchman has sworn to me that on drizzly,
dismal nights, he has glanced fearfully down that forgotten river
as he passed the head of the island, and seen the faint glow
of the specter steamer's lights drifting through the distant gloom,
and heard the muffled cough of her 'scape-pipes and the plaintive cry
of her leadsmen.

In the absence of further statistics, I beg to close this chapter
with one more reminiscence of 'Stephen.'

Most of the captains and pilots held Stephen's note for
borrowed sums, ranging from two hundred and fifty dollars upward.
Stephen never paid one of these notes, but he was very prompt
and very zealous about renewing them every twelve months.

Of course there came a time, at last, when Stephen could
no longer borrow of his ancient creditors; so he was
obliged to lie in wait for new men who did not know him.
Such a victim was good-hearted, simple natured young Yates
(I use a fictitious name, but the real name began, as this
one does, with a Y). Young Yates graduated as a pilot,
got a berth, and when the month was ended and he stepped
up to the clerk's office and received his two hundred
and fifty dollars in crisp new bills, Stephen was there!
His silvery tongue began to wag, and in a very little while
Yates's two hundred and fifty dollars had changed hands.
The fact was soon known at pilot headquarters, and the amusement
and satisfaction of the old creditors were large and generous.
But innocent Yates never suspected that Stephen's promise
to pay promptly at the end of the week was a worthless one.
Yates called for his money at the stipulated time;
Stephen sweetened him up and put him off a week.  He called then,
according to agreement, and came away sugar-coated again,
but suffering under another postponement.  So the thing went on.
Yates haunted Stephen week after week, to no purpose, and at last
gave it up.  And then straightway Stephen began to haunt Yates!
Wherever Yates appeared, there was the inevitable Stephen.
And not only there, but beaming with affection and gushing
with apologies for not being able to pay.  By and by,
whenever poor Yates saw him coming, he would turn and fly,
and drag his company with him, if he had company; but it
was of no use; his debtor would run him down and corner him.
Panting and red-faced, Stephen would come, with outstretched hands
and eager eyes, invade the conversation, shake both of Yates's
arms loose in their sockets, and begin--

'My, what a race I've had!  I saw you didn't see me,
and so I clapped on all steam for fear I'd miss you entirely.
And here you are! there, just stand so, and let me
look at you! just the same old noble countenance.'
[To Yates's friend:] 'Just look at him!  LOOK at him!
Ain't it just GOOD to look at him!  AIN'T it now?  Ain't he just
a picture!  SOME call him a picture; I call him a panorama!
That's what he is--an entire panorama.  And now I'm reminded!
How I do wish I could have seen you an hour earlier!
For twenty-four hours I've been saving up that two hundred
and fifty dollars for you; been looking for you everywhere.
I waited at the Planter's from six yesterday evening till two o'clock
this morning, without rest or food; my wife says, "Where have you
been all night?"  I said, "This debt lies heavy on my mind."
She says, "In all my days I never saw a man take a debt to heart
the way you do."  I said, "It's my nature; how can I change it?"
She says, "Well, do go to bed and get some rest."  I said,
"Not till that poor, noble young man has got his money."
So I set up all night, and this morning out I shot, and the first
man I struck told me you had shipped on the "Grand Turk"
and gone to New Orleans.  Well, sir, I had to lean up against
a building and cry.  So help me goodness, I couldn't help it.
The man that owned the place come out cleaning up with a rag,
and said he didn't like to have people cry against his building,
and then it seemed to me that the whole world had turned
against me, and it wasn't any use to live any more; and coming
along an hour ago, suffering no man knows what agony, I met Jim
Wilson and paid him the two hundred and fifty dollars on account;
and to think that here you are, now, and I haven't got a cent!
But as sure as I am standing here on this ground on this
particular brick,--there, I've scratched a mark on the brick
to remember it by,--I'll borrow that money and pay it over
to you at twelve o'clock sharp, tomorrow!  Now, stand so;
let me look at you just once more.'

And so on.  Yates's life became a burden to him.  He could not escape his
debtor and his debtor's awful sufferings on account of not being able to pay.
He dreaded to show himself in the street, lest he should find Stephen lying
in wait for him at the comer.

Bogart's billiard saloon was a great resort for pilots in those days.
They met there about as much to exchange river news as to play.
One morning Yates was there; Stephen was there, too, but kept out
of sight.  But by and by, when about all the pilots had arrived
who were in town, Stephen suddenly appeared in the midst, and rushed
for Yates as for a long-lost brother.

'OH, I am so glad to see you!  Oh my soul, the sight of you is
such a comfort to my eyes!  Gentlemen, I owe all of you money;
among you I owe probably forty thousand dollars.  I want to pay it;
I intend to pay it every last cent of it.  You all know,
without my telling you, what sorrow it has cost me to remain so long
under such deep obligations to such patient and generous friends;
but the sharpest pang I suffer--by far the sharpest--is from
the debt I owe to this noble young man here; and I have come to this
place this morning especially to make the announcement that I
have at last found a method whereby I can pay off all my debts!
And most especially I wanted HIM to be here when I announced it.
Yes, my faithful friend,--my benefactor, I've found the method!
I've found the method to pay off all my debts, and you'll get your money!'
Hope dawned in Yates's eye; then Stephen, beaming benignantly,
and placing his hand upon Yates's head, added, 'I am going to pay them
off in alphabetical order!'

Then he turned and disappeared.  The full significance of Stephen's 'method'
did not dawn upon the perplexed and musing crowd for some two minutes;
and then Yates murmured with a sigh--

'Well, the Y's stand a gaudy chance.  He won't get any further than the C's
in THIS world, and I reckon that after a good deal of eternity has wasted
away in the next one, I'll still be referred to up there as "that poor,
ragged pilot that came here from St. Louis in the early days!"




                               Chapter 18
                       I Take a Few Extra Lessons

DURING the two or two and a half years of my apprenticeship,
I served under many pilots, and had experience of many
kinds of steamboatmen and many varieties of steamboats;
for it was not always convenient for Mr. Bixby to have me
with him, and in such cases he sent me with somebody else.
I am to this day profiting somewhat by that experience;
for in that brief, sharp schooling, I got personally and familiarly
acquainted with about all the different types of human nature
that are to be found in fiction, biography, or history.
The fact is daily borne in upon me, that the average shore-employment
requires as much as forty years to equip a man with this sort
of an education.  When I say I am still profiting by this thing,
I do not mean that it has constituted me a judge of men--
no, it has not done that; for judges of men are born, not made.
My profit is various in kind and degree; but the feature of it
which I value most is the zest which that early experience has
given to my later reading.  When I find a well-drawn character
in fiction or biography, I generally take a warm personal
interest in him, for the reason that I have known him before--
met him on the river.

The figure that comes before me oftenest, out of the shadows of that
vanished time, is that of Brown, of the steamer 'Pennsylvania'--the man
referred to in a former chapter, whose memory was so good and tiresome.
He was a middle-aged, long, slim, bony, smooth-shaven, horse-faced, ignorant,
stingy, malicious, snarling, fault hunting, mote-magnifying tyrant.
I early got the habit of coming on watch with dread at my heart.
No matter how good a time I might have been having with the off-watch below,
and no matter how high my spirits might be when I started aloft, my soul
became lead in my body the moment I approached the pilot-house.

I still remember the first time I ever entered the presence of that man.
The boat had backed out from St. Louis and was 'straightening down;'
I ascended to the pilot-house in high feather, and very proud
to be semi-officially a member of the executive family of so fast
and famous a boat.  Brown was at the wheel.  I paused in the middle
of the room, all fixed to make my bow, but Brown did not look around.
I thought he took a furtive glance at me out of the corner of his eye,
but as not even this notice was repeated, I judged I had been mistaken.
By this time he was picking his way among some dangerous 'breaks' abreast
the woodyards; therefore it would not be proper to interrupt him; so I
stepped softly to the high bench and took a seat.

There was silence for ten minutes; then my new boss turned
and inspected me deliberately and painstakingly from head
to heel for about--as it seemed to me--a quarter of an hour.
After which he removed his countenance and I saw it no more
for some seconds; then it came around once more, and this
question greeted me--

'Are you Horace Bigsby's cub?'

'Yes, sir.'

After this there was a pause and another inspection.  Then--

'What's your name?'

I told him.  He repeated it after me.  It was probably the only
thing he ever forgot; for although I was with him many months
he never addressed himself to me in any other way than 'Here!'
and then his command followed.

'Where was you born?'

'In Florida, Missouri.'

A pause.  Then--

'Dern sight better staid there!'

By means of a dozen or so of pretty direct questions, he pumped
my family history out of me.

The leads were going now, in the first crossing.  This interrupted
the inquest.  When the leads had been laid in, he resumed--

'How long you been on the river?'

I told him.  After a pause--

'Where'd you get them shoes?'

I gave him the information.

'Hold up your foot!'

I did so.  He stepped back, examined the shoe minutely and contemptuously,
scratching his head thoughtfully, tilting his high sugar-loaf hat well forward
to facilitate the operation, then ejaculated, 'Well, I'll be dod derned!'
and returned to his wheel.

What occasion there was to be dod derned about it is a thing
which is still as much of a mystery to me now as it was then.
It must have been all of fifteen minutes--fifteen minutes
of dull, homesick silence--before that long horse-face
swung round upon me again--and then, what a change!
It was as red as fire, and every muscle in it was working.
Now came this shriek--

'Here!--You going to set there all day?'

I lit in the middle of the floor, shot there by the electric
suddenness of the surprise.  As soon as I could get my voice I said,
apologetically:--'I have had no orders, sir.'

'You've had no ORDERS!  My, what a fine bird we are!  We must have ORDERS!
Our father was a GENTLEMAN--owned slaves--and we've been to SCHOOL.
Yes, WE are a gentleman, TOO, and got to have ORDERS!  ORDERS, is it?
ORDERS is what you want!  Dod dern my skin, I'LL learn you to swell yourself
up and blow around here about your dod-derned ORDERS!  G'way from the wheel!'
(I had approached it without knowing it.)

I moved back a step or two, and stood as in a dream, all my senses
stupefied by this frantic assault.

'What you standing there for?  Take that ice-pitcher down to
the texas-tender-come, move along, and don't you be all day about it!'

The moment I got back to the pilot-house, Brown said--

'Here!  What was you doing down there all this time?'

'I couldn't find the texas-tender; I had to go all the way to the pantry.'

'Derned likely story!  Fill up the stove.'

I proceeded to do so.  He watched me like a cat.
Presently he shouted--

'Put down that shovel!  Deadest numskull I ever saw--
ain't even got sense enough to load up a stove.'

All through the watch this sort of thing went on.  Yes, and the
subsequent watches were much like it, during a stretch of months.
As I have said, I soon got the habit of coming on duty with dread.
The moment I was in the presence, even in the darkest night,
I could feel those yellow eyes upon me, and knew their owner
was watching for a pretext to spit out some venom on me.
Preliminarily he would say-

'Here!  Take the wheel.'

Two minutes later--

'WHERE in the nation you going to?  Pull her down! pull her down!'

After another moment--

'Say!  You going to hold her all day?  Let her go--meet her! meet her!'

Then he would jump from the bench, snatch the wheel from me,
and meet her himself, pouring out wrath upon me all the time.

George Ritchie was the other pilot's cub.  He was having
good times now; for his boss, George Ealer, was as kindhearted
as Brown wasn't. Ritchie had steeled for Brown the season before;
consequently he knew exactly how to entertain himself and plague me,
all by the one operation.  Whenever I took the wheel for a moment
on Ealer's watch, Ritchie would sit back on the bench and play Brown,
with continual ejaculations of 'Snatch her! snatch her!
Derndest mud-cat I ever saw!'  'Here!  Where you going NOW?
Going to run over that snag?'  'Pull her DOWN!  Don't you hear me?
Pull her DOWN!'  'There she goes!  JUST as I expected!
I TOLD you not to cramp that reef.  G'way from the wheel!'

So I always had a rough time of it, no matter whose watch it was;
and sometimes it seemed to me that Ritchie's good-natured badgering
was pretty nearly as aggravating as Brown's dead-earnest nagging.

I often wanted to kill Brown, but this would not answer.
A cub had to take everything his boss gave, in the way of
vigorous comment and criticism; and we all believed that there
was a United States law making it a penitentiary offense to
strike or threaten a pilot who was on duty.  However, I could
IMAGINE myself killing Brown; there was no law against that;
and that was the thing I used always to do the moment I was abed.
Instead of going over my river in my mind as was my duty,
I threw business aside for pleasure, and killed Brown.
I killed Brown every night for months; not in old, stale,
commonplace ways, but in new and picturesque ones;--ways that were
sometimes surprising for freshness of design and ghastliness of
situation and environment.

Brown was ALWAYS watching for a pretext to find fault;
and if he could find no plausible pretext, he would invent one.
He would scold you for shaving a shore, and for not shaving it;
for hugging a bar, and for not hugging it; for 'pulling down'
when not invited, and for not pulling down when not invited;
for firing up without orders, and for waiting FOR orders.  In a word,
it was his invariable rule to find fault with EVERYTHING you did;
and another invariable rule of his was to throw all his remarks
(to you) into the form of an insult.

One day we were approaching New Madrid, bound down and heavily laden.
Brown was at one side of the wheel, steering; I was at the other,
standing by to 'pull down' or 'shove up.'  He cast a furtive glance at me
every now and then.  I had long ago learned what that meant; viz., he was
trying to invent a trap for me.  I wondered what shape it was going to take.
By and by he stepped back from the wheel and said in his usual snarly way--

'Here!--See if you've got gumption enough to round her to.'

This was simply BOUND to be a success; nothing could prevent it;
for he had never allowed me to round the boat to before;
consequently, no matter how I might do the thing, he could
find free fault with it.  He stood back there with his greedy
eye on me, and the result was what might have been foreseen:
I lost my head in a quarter of a minute, and didn't know what I
was about; I started too early to bring the boat around,
but detected a green gleam of joy in Brown's eye, and corrected
my mistake; I started around once more while too high up,
but corrected myself again in time; I made other false moves,
and still managed to save myself; but at last I grew so confused
and anxious that I tumbled into the very worst blunder of all--
I got too far down before beginning to fetch the boat around.
Brown's chance was come.

His face turned red with passion; he made one bound,
hurled me across the house with a sweep of his arm,
spun the wheel down, and began to pour out a stream of
vituperation upon me which lasted till he was out of breath.
In the course of this speech he called me all the different
kinds of hard names he could think of, and once or twice I
thought he was even going to swear--but he didn't this time.
'Dod dern' was the nearest he ventured to the luxury of swearing,
for he had been brought up with a wholesome respect for future
fire and brimstone.

That was an uncomfortable hour; for there was a big audience
on the hurricane deck.  When I went to bed that night,
I killed Brown in seventeen different ways--all of them new.




                               Chapter 19
                    Brown and I Exchange Compliments

Two trips later, I got into serious trouble.  Brown was steering;
I was 'pulling down.'  My younger brother appeared on the hurricane deck,
and shouted to Brown to stop at some landing or other a mile or so below.
Brown gave no intimation that he had heard anything.  But that was
his way:  he never condescended to take notice of an under clerk.
The wind was blowing; Brown was deaf (although he always pretended
he wasn't), and I very much doubted if he had heard the order.
If I had two heads, I would have spoken; but as I had only one, it seemed
judicious to take care of it; so I kept still.

Presently, sure enough, we went sailing by that plantation.
Captain Klinefelter appeared on the deck, and said--

'Let her come around, sir, let her come around.
Didn't Henry tell you to land here?'

'NO, sir!'

'I sent him up to do, it.'

'He did come up; and that's all the good it done, the dod-derned fool.
He never said anything.'

'Didn't YOU hear him?' asked the captain of me.

Of course I didn't want to be mixed up in this business,
but there was no way to avoid it; so I said--

'Yes, sir.'

I knew what Brown's next remark would be, before he uttered it; it was--

'Shut your mouth! you never heard anything of the kind.'

I closed my mouth according to instructions.  An hour later,
Henry entered the pilot-house, unaware of what had been going on.
He was a thoroughly inoffensive boy, and I was sorry to see
him come, for I knew Brown would have no pity on him.
Brown began, straightway--

'Here! why didn't you tell me we'd got to land at that plantation?'

'I did tell you, Mr. Brown.'

'It's a lie!'

I said--

'You lie, yourself.  He did tell you.'

Brown glared at me in unaffected surprise; and for as much as a moment
he was entirely speechless; then he shouted to me--

'I'll attend to your case in half a minute!' then to Henry,
'And you leave the pilot-house; out with you!'

It was pilot law, and must be obeyed.  The boy started out,
and even had his foot on the upper step outside the door, when Brown,
with a sudden access of fury, picked up a ten-pound lump of coal
and sprang after him; but I was between, with a heavy stool,
and I hit Brown a good honest blow which stretched-him out.

I had committed the crime of crimes--I had lifted my hand against
a pilot on duty!  I supposed I was booked for the penitentiary sure,
and couldn't be booked any surer if I went on and squared my long account
with this person while I had the chance; consequently I stuck to him
and pounded him with my fists a considerable time--I do not know how long,
the pleasure of it probably made it seem longer than it really was;--
but in the end he struggled free and jumped up and sprang to the wheel:
a very natural solicitude, for, all this time, here was this steamboat
tearing down the river at the rate of fifteen miles an hour and nobody at
the helm!  However, Eagle Bend was two miles wide at this bank-full stage,
and correspondingly long and deep; and the boat was steering herself
straight down the middle and taking no chances.  Still, that was only luck--
a body MIGHT have found her charging into the woods.

Perceiving, at a glance, that the 'Pennsylvania' was in no danger,
Brown gathered up the big spy-glass, war-club fashion, and ordered
me out of the pilot-house with more than Comanche bluster.
But I was not afraid of him now; so, instead of going, I tarried,
and criticized his grammar; I reformed his ferocious speeches for him,
and put them into good English, calling his attention to the advantage
of pure English over the bastard dialect of the Pennsylvanian
collieries whence he was extracted.  He could have done his part
to admiration in a cross-fire of mere vituperation, of course;
but he was not equipped for this species of controversy;
so he presently laid aside his glass and took the wheel,
muttering and shaking his head; and I retired to the bench.
The racket had brought everybody to the hurricane deck, and I trembled
when I saw the old captain looking up from the midst of the crowd.
I said to myself, 'Now I AM done for!'--For although, as a rule,
he was so fatherly and indulgent toward the boat's family,
and so patient of minor shortcomings, he could be stern enough when
the fault was worth it.

I tried to imagine what he WOULD do to a cub pilot who had been guilty
of such a crime as mine, committed on a boat guard-deep with costly freight
and alive with passengers.  Our watch was nearly ended.  I thought I would
go and hide somewhere till I got a chance to slide ashore.  So I slipped
out of the pilot-house, and down the steps, and around to the texas door--
and was in the act of gliding within, when the captain confronted me!
I dropped my head, and he stood over me in silence a moment or two,
then said impressively--

'Follow me.'

I dropped into his wake; he led the way to his parlor in the forward
end of the texas.  We were alone, now.  He closed the after door;
then moved slowly to the forward one and closed that.  He sat down;
I stood before him.  He looked at me some little time, then said--

'So you have been fighting Mr. Brown?'

I answered meekly--

'Yes, sir.'

'Do you know that that is a very serious matter?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Are you aware that this boat was plowing down the river fully
five minutes with no one at the wheel?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Did you strike him first?'

'Yes, sir.'

'What with?'

'A stool, sir.'

'Hard?'

'Middling, sir.'

'Did it knock him down?'

'He--he fell, sir.'

'Did you follow it up?  Did you do anything further?'

'Yes, sir.'

'What did you do?'

'Pounded him, sir.'

'Pounded him?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Did you pound him much?--that is, severely?'

'One might call it that, sir, maybe.'

'I'm deuced glad of it!  Hark ye, never mention that I said that.
You have been guilty of a great crime; and don't you ever be
guilty of it again, on this boat.  BUT--lay for him ashore!
Give him a good sound thrashing, do you hear?  I'll pay the expenses.
Now go--and mind you, not a word of this to anybody.  Clear out with you!--
you've been guilty of a great crime, you whelp!'

I slid out, happy with the sense of a close shave and a mighty deliverance;
and I heard him laughing to himself and slapping his fat thighs after I had
closed his door.

When Brown came off watch he went straight to the captain,
who was talking with some passengers on the boiler deck,
and demanded that I be put ashore in New Orleans--and added--

'I'll never turn a wheel on this boat again while that cub stays.'

The captain said--

'But he needn't come round when you are on watch, Mr. Brown.

'I won't even stay on the same boat with him.  One of us has
got to go ashore.'

'Very well,' said the captain, 'let it be yourself;'
and resumed his talk with the passengers.

During the brief remainder of the trip, I knew how an emancipated slave feels;
for I was an emancipated slave myself.  While we lay at landings,
I listened to George Ealer's flute; or to his readings from his two bibles,
that is to say, Goldsmith and Shakespeare; or I played chess with him--
and would have beaten him sometimes, only he always took back his last move
and ran the game out differently.




                               Chapter 20
                              A Catastrophe

WE lay three days in New Orleans, but the captain did not succeed
in finding another pilot; so he proposed that I should stand
a daylight watch, and leave the night watches to George Ealer.
But I was afraid; I had never stood a watch of any sort by myself,
and I believed I should be sure to get into trouble in the head of
some chute, or ground the boat in a near cut through some bar or other.
Brown remained in his place; but he would not travel with me.
So the captain gave me an order on the captain of the 'A. T. Lacey,'
for a passage to St. Louis, and said he would find a new
pilot there and my steersman's berth could then be resumed.
The 'Lacey' was to leave a couple of days after the 'Pennsylvania.'

The night before the 'Pennsylvania' left, Henry and I sat
chatting on a freight pile on the levee till midnight.
The subject of the chat, mainly, was one which I think we
had not exploited before--steamboat disasters.  One was then
on its way to us, little as we suspected it; the water which
was to make the steam which should cause it, was washing past
some point fifteen hundred miles up the river while we talked;--
but it would arrive at the right time and the right place.
We doubted if persons not clothed with authority were of much
use in cases of disaster and attendant panic; still, they might
be of SOME use; so we decided that if a disaster ever fell
within our experience we would at least stick to the boat,
and give such minor service as chance might throw in the way.
Henry remembered this, afterward, when the disaster came,
and acted accordingly.

The 'Lacey' started up the river two days behind the 'Pennsylvania.'
We touched at Greenville, Mississippi, a couple of days out,
and somebody shouted--

'The "Pennsylvania" is blown up at Ship Island, and a hundred
and fifty lives lost!'

At Napoleon, Arkansas, the same evening, we got an extra,
issued by a Memphis paper, which gave some particulars.
It mentioned my brother, and said he was not hurt.

Further up the river we got a later extra.  My brother was
again mentioned; but this time as being hurt beyond help.
We did not get full details of the catastrophe until we reached Memphis.
This is the sorrowful story--

It was six o'clock on a hot summer morning.  The 'Pennsylvania'
was creeping along, north of Ship Island, about sixty miles below
Memphis on a half-head of steam, towing a wood-flat which was fast
being emptied.  George Ealer was in the pilot-house-alone, I think;
the second engineer and a striker had the watch in the engine room;
the second mate had the watch on deck; George Black, Mr. Wood,
and my brother, clerks, were asleep, as were also Brown and
the head engineer, the carpenter, the chief mate, and one striker;
Captain Klinefelter was in the barber's chair, and the barber was
preparing to shave him.  There were a good many cabin passengers aboard,
and three or four hundred deck passengers--so it was said at the time--
and not very many of them were astir.  The wood being nearly all out
of the flat now, Ealer rang to 'come ahead' full steam, and the next
moment four of the eight boilers exploded with a thunderous crash,
and the whole forward third of the boat was hoisted toward the sky!
The main part of the mass, with the chimneys, dropped upon the boat again,
a mountain of riddled and chaotic rubbish--and then, after a little,
fire broke out.

Many people were flung to considerable distances, and fell in the river;
among these were Mr. Wood and my brother, and the carpenter.
The carpenter was still stretched upon his mattress when he struck
the water seventy-five feet from the boat.  Brown, the pilot,
and George Black, chief clerk, were never seen or heard of after
the explosion.  The barber's chair, with Captain Klinefelter
in it and unhurt, was left with its back overhanging vacancy--
everything forward of it, floor and all, had disappeared;
and the stupefied barber, who was also unhurt, stood with one toe
projecting over space, still stirring his lather unconsciously,
and saying, not a word.

When George Ealer saw the chimneys plunging aloft in front of him,
he knew what the matter was; so he muffled his face in the lapels of
his coat, and pressed both hands there tightly to keep this protection
in its place so that no steam could get to his nose or mouth.
He had ample time to attend to these details while he was going up
and returning.  He presently landed on top of the unexploded boilers,
forty feet below the former pilot-house, accompanied by his wheel
and a rain of other stuff, and enveloped in a cloud of scalding steam.
All of the many who breathed that steam, died; none escaped.
But Ealer breathed none of it.  He made his way to the free air
as quickly as he could; and when the steam cleared away he returned
and climbed up on the boilers again, and patiently hunted
out each and every one of his chessmen and the several joints
of his flute.

By this time the fire was beginning to threaten.  Shrieks and
groans filled the air.  A great many persons had been scalded,
a great many crippled; the explosion had driven an iron crowbar
through one man's body--I think they said he was a priest.
He did not die at once, and his sufferings were very dreadful.
A young French naval cadet, of fifteen, son of a French admiral,
was fearfully scalded, but bore his tortures manfully.
Both mates were badly scalded, but they stood to their
posts, nevertheless.  They drew the wood-boat aft, and they
and the captain fought back the frantic herd of frightened
immigrants till the wounded could be brought there and placed
in safety first.

When Mr. Wood and Henry fell in the water, they struck out for shore,
which was only a few hundred yards away; but Henry presently said
he believed he was not hurt (what an unaccountable error!), and
therefore would swim back to the boat and help save the wounded.
So they parted, and Henry returned.

By this time the fire was making fierce headway, and several
persons who were imprisoned under the ruins were begging piteously
for help.  All efforts to conquer the fire proved fruitless;
so the buckets were presently thrown aside and the officers
fell-to with axes and tried to cut the prisoners out.
A striker was one of the captives; he said he was not injured,
but could not free himself; and when he saw that the fire was
likely to drive away the workers, he begged that some one would
shoot him, and thus save him from the more dreadful death.
The fire did drive the axmen away, and they had to listen,
helpless, to this poor fellow's supplications till the flames
ended his miseries.

The fire drove all into the wood-flat that could be accommodated there;
it was cut adrift, then, and it and the burning steamer floated
down the river toward Ship Island.  They moored the flat at the head
of the island, and there, unsheltered from the blazing sun,
the half-naked occupants had to remain, without food or stimulants,
or help for their hurts, during the rest of the day.  A steamer
came along, finally, and carried the unfortunates to Memphis,
and there the most lavish assistance was at once forthcoming.
By this time Henry was insensible.  The physicians examined his
injuries and saw that they were fatal, and naturally turned their
main attention to patients who could be saved.

Forty of the wounded were placed upon pallets on the floor of a great
public hall, and among these was Henry.  There the ladies of Memphis
came every day, with flowers, fruits, and dainties and delicacies
of all kinds, and there they remained and nursed the wounded.
All the physicians stood watches there, and all the medical students;
and the rest of the town furnished money, or whatever else was wanted.
And Memphis knew how to do all these things well; for many a
disaster like the 'Pennsylvania's' had happened near her doors,
and she was experienced, above all other cities on the river,
in the gracious office of the Good Samaritan'

The sight I saw when I entered that large hall was new and strange to me.
Two long rows of prostrate forms--more than forty, in all--and every face
and head a shapeless wad of loose raw cotton.  It was a gruesome spectacle.
I watched there six days and nights, and a very melancholy experience it was.
There was one daily incident which was peculiarly depressing:
this was the removal of the doomed to a chamber apart.  It was done
in order that the MORALE of the other patients might not be injuriously
affected by seeing one of their number in the death-agony. The fated one
was always carried out with as little stir as possible, and the stretcher
was always hidden from sight by a wall of assistants; but no matter:
everybody knew what that cluster of bent forms, with its muffled
step and its slow movement meant; and all eyes watched it wistfully,
and a shudder went abreast of it like a wave.

I saw many poor fellows removed to the 'death-room,' and saw them no
more afterward.  But I saw our chief mate carried thither more than once.
His hurts were frightful, especially his scalds.  He was clothed in
linseed oil and raw cotton to his waist, and resembled nothing human.
He was often out of his mind; and then his pains would make him rave
and shout and sometimes shriek.  Then, after a period of dumb exhaustion,
his disordered imagination would suddenly transform the great apartment
into a forecastle, and the hurrying throng of nurses into the crew;
and he would come to a sitting posture and shout, 'Hump yourselves,
HUMP yourselves, you petrifactions, snail-bellies, pall-bearers! going
to be all DAY getting that hatful of freight out?' and supplement
this explosion with a firmament-obliterating irruption or profanity
which nothing could stay or stop till his crater was empty.  And now
and then while these frenzies possessed him, he would tear off handfuls
of the cotton and expose his cooked flesh to view.  It was horrible.
It was bad for the others, of course--this noise and these exhibitions;
so the doctors tried to give him morphine to quiet him.  But, in his mind
or out of it, he would not take it.  He said his wife had been killed
by that treacherous drug, and he would die before he would take it.
He suspected that the doctors were concealing it in his ordinary medicines
and in his water--so he ceased from putting either to his lips.
Once, when he had been without water during two sweltering days,
he took the dipper in his hand, and the sight of the limpid fluid,
and the misery of his thirst, tempted him almost beyond his strength;
but he mastered himself and threw it away, and after that he allowed
no more to be brought near him.  Three times I saw him carried
to the death-room, insensible and supposed to be dying; but each time
he revived, cursed his attendants, and demanded to be taken back.
He lived to be mate of a steamboat again.

But he was the only one who went to the death-room and returned alive.
Dr. Peyton, a principal physician, and rich in all the attributes
that go to constitute high and flawless character, did all that
educated judgment and trained skill could do for Henry; but, as the
newspapers had said in the beginning, his hurts were past help.
On the evening of the sixth day his wandering mind busied itself with
matters far away, and his nerveless fingers 'picked at his coverlet.'
His hour had struck; we bore him to the death-room, poor boy.




                               Chapter 2I
                        A Section in My Biography

IN due course I got my license.  I was a pilot now, full fledged.
I dropped into casual employments; no misfortunes resulting,
intermittent work gave place to steady and protracted engagements.
Time drifted smoothly and prosperously on, and I supposed--and hoped--
that I was going to follow the river the rest of my days, and die
at the wheel when my mission was ended.  But by and by the war came,
commerce was suspended, my occupation was gone.

I had to seek another livelihood.  So I became a silver miner
in Nevada; next, a newspaper reporter; next, a gold miner,
in California; next, a reporter in San Francisco; next, a special
correspondent in the Sandwich Islands; next, a roving correspondent
in Europe and the East; next, an instructional torch-bearer on
the lecture platform; and, finally, I became a scribbler of books,
and an immovable fixture among the other rocks of New England.

In so few words have I disposed of the twenty-one slow-drifting
years that have come and gone since I last looked from the windows
of a pilot-house.

Let us resume, now.




                               Chapter 22
                         I Return to My Muttons

AFTER twenty-one years' absence, I felt a very strong desire
to see the river again, and the steamboats, and such of
the boys as might be left; so I resolved to go out there.
I enlisted a poet for company, and a stenographer to 'take him down,'
and started westward about the middle of April.

As I proposed to make notes, with a view to printing,
I took some thought as to methods of procedure.
I reflected that if I were recognized, on the river, I should
not be as free to go and come, talk, inquire, and spy around,
as I should be if unknown; I remembered that it was the custom
of steamboatmen in the old times to load up the confiding
stranger with the most picturesque and admirable lies, and put
the sophisticated friend off with dull and ineffectual facts:
so I concluded, that, from a business point of view, it would
be an advantage to disguise our party with fictitious names.
The idea was certainly good, but it bred infinite bother;
for although Smith, Jones, and Johnson are easy names
to remember when there is no occasion to remember them,
it is next to impossible to recollect them when they are wanted.
How do criminals manage to keep a brand-new ALIAS in mind?
This is a great mystery.  I was innocent; and yet was seldom
able to lay my hand on my new name when it was needed;
and it seemed to me that if I had had a crime on my conscience
to further confuse me, I could never have kept the name by me
at all.

We left per Pennsylvania Railroad, at 8 A.M. April 18.

'EVENING.  Speaking of dress.  Grace and picturesqueness drop
gradually out of it as one travels away from New York.'

I find that among my notes.  It makes no difference
which direction you take, the fact remains the same.
Whether you move north, south, east, or west, no matter:
you can get up in the morning and guess how far you have come,
by noting what degree of grace and picturesqueness is by
that time lacking in the costumes of the new passengers,--
I do not mean of the women alone, but of both sexes.
It may be that CARRIAGE is at the bottom of this thing;
and I think it is; for there are plenty of ladies and gentlemen
in the provincial cities whose garments are all made by the best
tailors and dressmakers of New York; yet this has no perceptible
effect upon the grand fact:  the educated eye never mistakes
those people for New-Yorkers. No, there is a godless grace,
and snap, and style about a born and bred New-Yorker which mere
clothing cannot effect.

'APRIL 19.  This morning, struck into the region of full goatees--sometimes
accompanied by a mustache, but only occasionally.'

It was odd to come upon this thick crop of an obsolete and
uncomely fashion; it was like running suddenly across a forgotten
acquaintance whom you had supposed dead for a generation.
The goatee extends over a wide extent of country; and is accompanied
by an iron-clad belief in Adam and the biblical history of creation,
which has not suffered from the assaults of the scientists.

'AFTERNOON.  At the railway stations the loafers carry BOTH
hands in their breeches pockets; it was observable, heretofore,
that one hand was sometimes out of doors,--here, never.
This is an important fact in geography.'

If the loafers determined the character of a country, it would
be still more important, of course.

'Heretofore, all along, the station-loafer has been often observed to scratch
one shin with the other foot; here, these remains of activity are wanting.
This has an ominous look.'

By and by, we entered the tobacco-chewing region.
Fifty years ago, the tobacco-chewing region covered the Union.
It is greatly restricted now.

Next, boots began to appear.  Not in strong force, however.
Later--away down the Mississippi--they became the rule.
They disappeared from other sections of the Union with the mud;
no doubt they will disappear from the river villages, also,
when proper pavements come in.

We reached St. Louis at ten o'clock at night.  At the counter
of the hotel I tendered a hurriedly-invented fictitious name,
with a miserable attempt at careless ease.  The clerk paused,
and inspected me in the compassionate way in which one inspects
a respectable person who is found in doubtful circumstances;
then he said--

'It's all right; I know what sort of a room you want.
Used to clerk at the St. James, in New York.'

An unpromising beginning for a fraudulent career.  We started to
the supper room, and met two other men whom I had known elsewhere.
How odd and unfair it is:  wicked impostors go around lecturing under
my NOM DE GUERRE and nobody suspects them; but when an honest man
attempts an imposture, he is exposed at once.

One thing seemed plain:  we must start down the river the next day,
if people who could not be deceived were going to crop up at this rate:
an unpalatable disappointment, for we had hoped to have a week in St. Louis.
The Southern was a good hotel, and we could have had a comfortable
time there.  It is large, and well conducted, and its decorations do
not make one cry, as do those of the vast Palmer House, in Chicago.
True, the billiard-tables were of the Old Silurian Period, and the cues and
balls of the Post-Pliocene; but there was refreshment in this, not discomfort;
for there is rest and healing in the contemplation of antiquities.

The most notable absence observable in the billiard-room, was the
absence of the river man.  If he was there he had taken in his sign,
he was in disguise.  I saw there none of the swell airs and graces,
and ostentatious displays of money, and pompous squanderings of it,
which used to distinguish the steamboat crowd from the dry-land crowd
in the bygone days, in the thronged billiard-rooms of St. Louis.
In those times, the principal saloons were always populous with river men;
given fifty players present, thirty or thirty-five were likely
to be from the river.  But I suspected that the ranks were thin now,
and the steamboatmen no longer an aristocracy.  Why, in my time they
used to call the 'barkeep' Bill, or Joe, or Tom, and slap him on
the shoulder; I watched for that.  But none of these people did it.
Manifestly a glory that once was had dissolved and vanished away in
these twenty-one years.

When I went up to my room, I found there the young man called Rogers, crying.
Rogers was not his name; neither was Jones, Brown, Dexter, Ferguson, Bascom,
nor Thompson; but he answered to either of these that a body found handy
in an emergency; or to any other name, in fact, if he perceived that you
meant him.  He said--

'What is a person to do here when he wants a drink of water?--
drink this slush?'

'Can't you drink it?'

'I could if I had some other water to wash it with.'

Here was a thing which had not changed; a score of years had not affected
this water's mulatto complexion in the least; a score of centuries
would succeed no better, perhaps.  It comes out of the turbulent,
bank-caving Missouri, and every tumblerful of it holds nearly an acre
of land in solution.  I got this fact from the bishop of the diocese.
If you will let your glass stand half an hour, you can separate
the land from the water as easy as Genesis; and then you will find
them both good:  the one good to eat, the other good to drink.
The land is very nourishing, the water is thoroughly wholesome.
The one appeases hunger; the other, thirst.  But the natives
do not take them separately, but together, as nature mixed them.
When they find an inch of mud in the bottom of a glass,
they stir it up, and then take the draught as they would gruel.
It is difficult for a stranger to get used to this batter, but once
used to it he will prefer it to water.  This is really the case.
It is good for steamboating, and good to drink; but it is worthless
for all other purposes, except baptizing.

Next morning, we drove around town in the rain.
The city seemed but little changed.  It WAS greatly changed,
but it did not seem so; because in St. Louis, as in London
and Pittsburgh, you can't persuade a new thing to look new;
the coal smoke turns it into an antiquity the moment you take
your hand off it.  The place had just about doubled its size,
since I was a resident of it, and was now become a city
of 400,000 inhabitants; still, in the solid business parts,
it looked about as it had looked formerly.  Yet I am sure there
is not as much smoke in St. Louis now as there used to be.
The smoke used to bank itself in a dense billowy black canopy over
the town, and hide the sky from view.  This shelter is very much
thinner now; still, there is a sufficiency of smoke there, I think.
I heard no complaint.

However, on the outskirts changes were apparent enough; notably in
dwelling-house architecture.  The fine new homes are noble and beautiful
and modern.  They stand by themselves, too, with green lawns around them;
whereas the dwellings of a former day are packed together in blocks,
and are all of one pattern, with windows all alike, set in an arched
frame-work of twisted stone; a sort of house which was handsome enough
when it was rarer.

There was another change--the Forest Park.  This was new to me.
It is beautiful and very extensive, and has the excellent merit
of having been made mainly by nature.  There are other parks,
and fine ones, notably Tower Grove and the Botanical Gardens;
for St. Louis interested herself in such improvements at an earlier
day than did the most of our cities.

The first time I ever saw St. Louis, I could have bought it for six
million dollars, and it was the mistake of my life that I did not do it.
It was bitter now to look abroad over this domed and steepled metropolis,
this solid expanse of bricks and mortar stretching away on every hand
into dim, measure-defying distances, and remember that I had allowed
that opportunity to go by.  Why I should have allowed it to go by seems,
of course, foolish and inexplicable to-day, at a first glance; yet there
were reasons at the time to justify this course.

A Scotchman, Hon. Charles Augustus Murray, writing some forty-five or fifty
years ago, said--'The streets are narrow, ill paved and ill lighted.'
Those streets are narrow still, of course; many of them are ill paved yet;
but the reproach of ill lighting cannot be repeated, now.  The 'Catholic
New Church' was the only notable building then, and Mr. Murray was confidently
called upon to admire it, with its 'species of Grecian portico, surmounted by
a kind of steeple, much too diminutive in its proportions, and surmounted
by sundry ornaments' which the unimaginative Scotchman found himself 'quite
unable to describe;' and therefore was grateful when a German tourist helped
him out with the exclamation--'By ----, they look exactly like bed-posts!'
St. Louis is well equipped with stately and noble public buildings now,
and the little church, which the people used to be so proud of, lost its
importance a long time ago.  Still, this would not surprise Mr. Murray,
if he could come back; for he prophesied the coming greatness of St. Louis
with strong confidence.

The further we drove in our inspection-tour, the more sensibly I
realized how the city had grown since I had seen it last; changes in
detail became steadily more apparent and frequent than at first, too:
changes uniformly evidencing progress, energy, prosperity.

But the change of changes was on the 'levee.'  This time,
a departure from the rule.  Half a dozen sound-asleep steamboats
where I used to see a solid mile of wide-awake ones!
This was melancholy, this was woeful.  The absence of the pervading
and jocund steamboatman from the billiard-saloon was explained.
He was absent because he is no more.  His occupation is gone,
his power has passed away, he is absorbed into the common herd,
he grinds at the mill, a shorn Samson and inconspicuous.
Half a dozen lifeless steamboats, a mile of empty wharves,
a negro fatigued with whiskey stretched asleep, in a wide and
soundless vacancy, where the serried hosts of commerce used to
contend!<footnote [Capt. Marryat, writing forty-five years ago says:
'St. Louis has 20,000 inhabitants.  THE RIVER ABREAST OF THE TOWN
IS CROWDED WITH STEAMBOATS, LYING IN TWO OR THREE TIERS.']>  Here
was desolation, indeed.

     'The old, old sea, as one in tears,
       Comes murmuring, with foamy lips,
     And knocking at the vacant piers,
       Calls for his long-lost multitude of ships.'

The towboat and the railroad had done their work, and done it
well and completely.  The mighty bridge, stretching along over
our heads, had done its share in the slaughter and spoliation.
Remains of former steamboatmen told me, with wan satisfaction,
that the bridge doesn't pay.  Still, it can be no sufficient
compensation to a corpse, to know that the dynamite that laid him
out was not of as good quality as it had been supposed to be.

The pavements along the river front were bad:  the sidewalks
were rather out of repair; there was a rich abundance of mud.
All this was familiar and satisfying; but the ancient armies of drays,
and struggling throngs of men, and mountains of freight, were gone;
and Sabbath reigned in their stead.  The immemorial mile of cheap
foul doggeries remained, but business was dull with them;
the multitudes of poison-swilling Irishmen had departed, and in
their places were a few scattering handfuls of ragged negroes,
some drinking, some drunk, some nodding, others asleep.
St. Louis is a great and prosperous and advancing city;
but the river-edge of it seems dead past resurrection.

Mississippi steamboating was born about 1812; at the end of thirty years,
it had grown to mighty proportions; and in less than thirty more,
it was dead!  A strangely short life for so majestic a creature.
Of course it is not absolutely dead, neither is a crippled octogenarian
who could once jump twenty-two feet on level ground; but as contrasted
with what it was in its prime vigor, Mississippi steamboating may
be called dead.

It killed the old-fashioned keel-boating, by reducing
the freight-trip to New Orleans to less than a week.
The railroads have killed the steamboat passenger traffic by doing
in two or three days what the steamboats consumed a week in doing;
and the towing-fleets have killed the through-freight traffic
by dragging six or seven steamer-loads of stuff down the river
at a time, at an expense so trivial that steamboat competition
was out of the question.

Freight and passenger way-traffic remains to the steamers.
This is in the hands--along the two thousand miles of river between
St. Paul and New Orleans---of two or three close corporations well
fortified with capital; and by able and thoroughly business-like
management and system, these make a sufficiency of money out
of what is left of the once prodigious steamboating industry.
I suppose that St. Louis and New Orleans have not suffered materially
by the change, but alas for the wood-yard man!

He used to fringe the river all the way; his close-ranked merchandise
stretched from the one city to the other, along the banks,
and he sold uncountable cords of it every year for cash on the nail;
but all the scattering boats that are left burn coal now,
and the seldomest spectacle on the Mississippi to-day is a wood-pile.
Where now is the once wood-yard man?




                               Chapter 23
                           Traveling Incognito

MY idea was, to tarry a while in every town between St. Louis
and New Orleans.  To do this, it would be necessary to go from place
to place by the short packet lines.  It was an easy plan to make,
and would have been an easy one to follow, twenty years ago--but not now.
There are wide intervals between boats, these days.

I wanted to begin with the interesting old French settlements
of St. Genevieve and Kaskaskia, sixty miles below St. Louis.
There was only one boat advertised for that section--
a Grand Tower packet.  Still, one boat was enough; so we went
down to look at her.  She was a venerable rack-heap, and a fraud
to boot; for she was playing herself for personal property,
whereas the good honest dirt was so thickly caked all over
her that she was righteously taxable as real estate.
There are places in New England where her hurricane deck
would be worth a hundred and fifty dollars an acre.
The soil on her forecastle was quite good--the new crop of wheat
was already springing from the cracks in protected places.
The companionway was of a dry sandy character, and would
have been well suited for grapes, with a southern exposure
and a little subsoiling.  The soil of the boiler deck
was thin and rocky, but good enough for grazing purposes.
A colored boy was on watch here--nobody else visible.
We gathered from him that this calm craft would go, as advertised,
'if she got her trip;' if she didn't get it, she would wait
for it.

'Has she got any of her trip?'

'Bless you, no, boss.  She ain't unloadened, yit.  She only come
in dis mawnin'.'

He was uncertain as to when she might get her trip, but thought it
might be to-morrow or maybe next day.  This would not answer at all;
so we had to give up the novelty of sailing down the river on a farm.
We had one more arrow in our quiver:  a Vicksburg packet, the 'Gold Dust,'
was to leave at 5 P.M. We took passage in her for Memphis, and gave
up the idea of stopping off here and there, as being impracticable.
She was neat, clean, and comfortable.  We camped on the boiler deck,
and bought some cheap literature to kill time with.  The vender was a
venerable Irishman with a benevolent face and a tongue that worked easily
in the socket, and from him we learned that he had lived in St. Louis
thirty-four years and had never been across the river during that period.
Then he wandered into a very flowing lecture, filled with classic names
and allusions, which was quite wonderful for fluency until the fact became
rather apparent that this was not the first time, nor perhaps the fiftieth,
that the speech had been delivered.  He was a good deal of a character,
and much better company than the sappy literature he was selling.
A random remark, connecting Irishmen and beer, brought this nugget of
information out of him--

They don't drink it, sir.  They can't drink it, sir.
Give an Irishman lager for a month, and he's a dead man.
An Irishman is lined with copper, and the beer corrodes it.
But whiskey polishes the copper and is the saving of him, sir.'

At eight o'clock, promptly, we backed out and crossed the river.
As we crept toward the shore, in the thick darkness, a blinding
glory of white electric light burst suddenly from our forecastle,
and lit up the water and the warehouses as with a noon-day glare.
Another big change, this--no more flickering, smoky, pitch-dripping,
ineffectual torch-baskets, now:  their day is past.  Next, instead of
calling out a score of hands to man the stage, a couple of men and a
hatful of steam lowered it from the derrick where it was suspended,
launched it, deposited it in just the right spot, and the whole thing
was over and done with before a mate in the olden time could have
got his profanity-mill adjusted to begin the preparatory services.
Why this new and simple method of handling the stages was not thought
of when the first steamboat was built, is a mystery which helps one to
realize what a dull-witted slug the average human being is.

We finally got away at two in the morning, and when I turned out
at six, we were rounding to at a rocky point where there was an old
stone warehouse--at any rate, the ruins of it; two or three decayed
dwelling-houses were near by, in the shelter of the leafy hills;
but there were no evidences of human or other animal life to be seen.
I wondered if I had forgotten the river; for I had no recollection whatever
of this place; the shape of the river, too, was unfamiliar; there was
nothing in sight, anywhere, that I could remember ever having seen before.
I was surprised, disappointed, and annoyed.

We put ashore a well-dressed lady and gentleman, and two well-dressed,
lady-like young girls, together with sundry Russia-leather bags.
A strange place for such folk!  No carriage was waiting.
The party moved off as if they had not expected any, and struck
down a winding country road afoot.

But the mystery was explained when we got under way again;
for these people were evidently bound for a large town which lay
shut in behind a tow-head (i.e., new island) a couple of miles
below this landing.  I couldn't remember that town; I couldn't
place it, couldn't call its name.  So I lost part of my temper.
I suspected that it might be St. Genevieve--and so it proved
to be.  Observe what this eccentric river had been about:
it had built up this huge useless tow-head directly
in front of this town, cut off its river communications,
fenced it away completely, and made a 'country' town of it.
It is a fine old place, too, and deserved a better fate.
It was settled by the French, and is a relic of a time when one
could travel from the mouths of the Mississippi to Quebec and be
on French territory and under French rule all the way.

Presently I ascended to the hurricane deck and cast a longing
glance toward the pilot-house.




                               Chapter 24
                        My Incognito is Exploded

AFTER a close study of the face of the pilot on watch, I was satisfied that I
had never seen him before; so I went up there.  The pilot inspected me;
I re-inspected the pilot.  These customary preliminaries over, I sat
down on the high bench, and he faced about and went on with his work.
Every detail of the pilot-house was familiar to me, with one exception,--
a large-mouthed tube under the breast-board. I puzzled over that thing a
considerable time; then gave up and asked what it was for.

'To hear the engine-bells through.'

It was another good contrivance which ought to have been invented
half a century sooner.  So I was thinking, when the pilot asked--

'Do you know what this rope is for?'

I managed to get around this question, without committing myself.

'Is this the first time you were ever in a pilot-house?'

I crept under that one.

'Where are you from?'

'New England.'

'First time you have ever been West?'

I climbed over this one.

'If you take an interest in such things, I can tell you what all
these things are for.'

I said I should like it.

'This,' putting his hand on a backing-bell rope, 'is to sound the fire-alarm;
this,' putting his hand on a go-ahead bell, 'is to call the texas-tender;
this one,' indicating the whistle-lever, 'is to call the captain'--
and so he went on, touching one object after another, and reeling off
his tranquil spool of lies.

I had never felt so like a passenger before.
I thanked him, with emotion, for each new fact, and wrote it
down in my note-book. The pilot warmed to his opportunity,
and proceeded to load me up in the good old-fashioned way.
At times I was afraid he was going to rupture his invention;
but it always stood the strain, and he pulled through all right.
He drifted, by easy stages, into revealments of the river's
marvelous eccentricities of one sort and another,
and backed them up with some pretty gigantic illustrations.
For instance-

'Do you see that little boulder sticking out of the water yonder? well,
when I first came on the river, that was a solid ridge of rock,
over sixty feet high and two miles long.  All washed away but that.'
[This with a sigh.)

I had a mighty impulse to destroy him, but it seemed to me that killing,
in any ordinary way, would be too good for him.

Once, when an odd-looking craft, with a vast coal-scuttle slanting
aloft on the end of a beam, was steaming by in the distance,
he indifferently drew attention to it, as one might to an object
grown wearisome through familiarity, and observed that it was
an 'alligator boat.'

'An alligator boat?  What's it for?'

'To dredge out alligators with.'

'Are they so thick as to be troublesome?'

'Well, not now, because the Government keeps them down.
But they used to be.  Not everywhere; but in favorite places,
here and there, where the river is wide and shoal-like Plum Point,
and Stack Island, and so on--places they call alligator beds.'

'Did they actually impede navigation?'

'Years ago, yes, in very low water; there was hardly a trip, then, that we
didn't get aground on alligators.'

It seemed to me that I should certainly have to get out my tomahawk.
However, I restrained myself and said--

'It must have been dreadful.'

'Yes, it was one of the main difficulties about piloting.
It was so hard to tell anything about the water; the damned
things shift around so--never lie still five minutes at a time.
You can tell a wind-reef, straight off, by the look of it;
you can tell a break; you can tell a sand-reef--that's all easy;
but an alligator reef doesn't show up, worth anything.
Nine times in ten you can't tell where the water is;
and when you do see where it is, like as not it ain't there
when YOU get there, the devils have swapped around so, meantime.
Of course there were some few pilots that could judge of
alligator water nearly as well as they could of any other kind,
but they had to have natural talent for it; it wasn't a thing
a body could learn, you had to be born with it.  Let me see:
there was Ben Thornburg, and Beck Jolly, and Squire Bell,
and Horace Bixby, and Major Downing, and John Stevenson,
and Billy Gordon, and Jim Brady, and George Ealer,
and Billy Youngblood--all A 1 alligator pilots.  THEY could tell
alligator water as far as another Christian could tell whiskey.
Read it?--Ah, COULDN'T they, though!  I only wish I had as many
dollars as they could read alligator water a mile and a half off.
Yes, and it paid them to do it, too.  A good alligator pilot could
always get fifteen hundred dollars a month.  Nights, other people
had to lay up for alligators, but those fellows never laid
up for alligators; they never laid up for anything but fog.
They could SMELL the best alligator water it was said;
I don't know whether it was so or not, and I think a body's got
his hands full enough if he sticks to just what he knows himself,
without going around backing up other people's say-so's,
though there's a plenty that ain't backward about doing it,
as long as they can roust out something wonderful to tell.
Which is not the style of Robert Styles, by as much as
three fathom--maybe quarter-LESS.'

[My! Was this Rob Styles?--This mustached and stately figure?-A slim
enough cub, in my time.  How he has improved in comeliness in five-and-twenty
year and in the noble art of inflating his facts.] After these musings,
I said aloud-

'I should think that dredging out the alligators wouldn't have done much good,
because they could come back again right away.'

'If you had had as much experience of alligators as I have, you wouldn't
talk like that.  You dredge an alligator once and he's CONVINCED.
It's the last you hear of HIM.  He wouldn't come back for pie.
If there's one thing that an alligator is more down on than another,
it's being dredged.  Besides, they were not simply shoved
out of the way; the most of the scoopful were scooped aboard;
they emptied them into the hold; and when they had got a trip,
they took them to Orleans to the Government works.'

'What for?'

'Why, to make soldier-shoes out of their hides.
All the Government shoes are made of alligator hide.
It makes the best shoes in the world.  They last five years,
and they won't absorb water.  The alligator fishery is a
Government monopoly.  All the alligators are Government property--
just like the live-oaks. You cut down a live-oak, and
Government fines you fifty dollars; you kill an alligator,
and up you go for misprision of treason--lucky duck if they
don't hang you, too.  And they will, if you're a Democrat.
The buzzard is the sacred bird of the South, and you can't
touch him; the alligator is the sacred bird of the Government,
and you've got to let him alone.'

'Do you ever get aground on the alligators now?'

'Oh, no! it hasn't happened for years.'

'Well, then, why do they still keep the alligator boats in service?'

'Just for police duty--nothing more.  They merely go up and down
now and then.  The present generation of alligators know them
as easy as a burglar knows a roundsman; when they see one coming,
they break camp and go for the woods.'

After rounding-out and finishing-up and polishing-off the alligator business,
he dropped easily and comfortably into the historical vein, and told of some
tremendous feats of half-a-dozen old-time steamboats of his acquaintance,
dwelling at special length upon a certain extraordinary performance of his
chief favorite among this distinguished fleet--and then adding--

'That boat was the "Cyclone,"--last trip she ever made--she sunk,
that very trip--captain was Tom Ballou, the most immortal liar that ever
I struck.  He couldn't ever seem to tell the truth, in any kind of weather.
Why, he would make you fairly shudder.  He WAS the most scandalous liar!
I left him, finally; I couldn't stand it.  The proverb says, "like master,
like man;" and if you stay with that kind of a man, you'll come under
suspicion by and by, just as sure as you live.  He paid first-class wages;
but said I, What's wages when your reputation's in danger?  So I let
the wages go, and froze to my reputation.  And I've never regretted it.
Reputation's worth everything, ain't it?  That's the way I look at it.
He had more selfish organs than any seven men in the world--all packed
in the stern-sheets of his skull, of course, where they belonged.
They weighed down the back of his head so that it made his nose tilt up
in the air.  People thought it was vanity, but it wasn't, it was malice.
If you only saw his foot, you'd take him to be nineteen feet high,
but he wasn't; it was because his foot was out of drawing.
He was intended to be nineteen feet high, no doubt, if his foot
was made first, but he didn't get there; he was only five feet ten.
That's what he was, and that's what he is.  You take the lies out of him,
and he'll shrink to the size of your hat; you take the malice out of him,
and he'll disappear.  That "Cyclone" was a rattler to go, and the sweetest
thing to steer that ever walked the waters.  Set her amidships,
in a big river, and just let her go; it was all you had to do.
She would hold herself on a star all night, if you let her alone.
You couldn't ever feel her rudder.  It wasn't any more labor to steer
her than it is to count the Republican vote in a South Carolina election.
One morning, just at daybreak, the last trip she ever made, they took
her rudder aboard to mend it; I didn't know anything about it; I backed
her out from the wood-yard and went a-weaving down the river all serene.
When I had gone about twenty-three miles, and made four horribly crooked
crossings----'

'Without any rudder?'

'Yes--old Capt. Tom appeared on the roof and began to find fault
with me for running such a dark night--'

'Such a DARK NIGHT ?--Why, you said----'

'Never mind what I said,--'twas as dark as Egypt now, though pretty
soon the moon began to rise, and----'

'You mean the SUN--because you started out just at break of---- look here!
Was this BEFORE you quitted the captain on account of his lying, or----'

'It was before--oh, a long time before.  And as I was saying, he----'

'But was this the trip she sunk, or was----'

'Oh, no!--months afterward.  And so the old man, he----'

'Then she made TWO last trips, because you said----'

He stepped back from the wheel, swabbing away his perspiration,
 and said--

'Here!' (calling me by name), 'YOU take her and lie a while--
you're handier at it than I am.  Trying to play yourself for a stranger
and an innocent!--why, I knew you before you had spoken seven words;
and I made up my mind to find out what was your little game.
It was to DRAW ME OUT.  Well, I let you, didn't I?
Now take the wheel and finish the watch; and next time play fair,
and you won't have to work your passage.'

Thus ended the fictitious-name business.  And not six hours out
from St. Louis! but I had gained a privilege, any way, for I had
been itching to get my hands on the wheel, from the beginning.
I seemed to have forgotten the river, but I hadn't forgotten
how to steer a steamboat, nor how to enjoy it, either.




                               Chapter 25
                          From Cairo to Hickman

THE scenery, from St. Louis to Cairo--two hundred miles--is varied
and beautiful.  The hills were clothed in the fresh foliage of spring now,
and were a gracious and worthy setting for the broad river flowing between.
Our trip began auspiciously, with a perfect day, as to breeze and sunshine,
and our boat threw the miles out behind her with satisfactory despatch.

We found a railway intruding at Chester, Illinois; Chester has
also a penitentiary now, and is otherwise marching on.  At Grand
Tower, too, there was a railway; and another at Cape Girardeau.
The former town gets its name from a huge, squat pillar of rock,
which stands up out of the water on the Missouri side of the river--
a piece of nature's fanciful handiwork--and is one of the
most picturesque features of the scenery of that region.
For nearer or remoter neighbors, the Tower has the Devil's
Bake Oven--so called, perhaps, because it does not powerfully
resemble anybody else's bake oven; and the Devil's Tea Table--
this latter a great smooth-surfaced mass of rock, with diminishing
wine-glass stem, perched some fifty or sixty feet above the river,
beside a beflowered and garlanded precipice, and sufficiently
like a tea-table to answer for anybody, Devil or Christian.
Away down the river we have the Devil's Elbow and the Devil's
Race-course, and lots of other property of his which I cannot now
call to mind.

The Town of Grand Tower was evidently a busier place than it
had been in old times, but it seemed to need some repairs
here and there, and a new coat of whitewash all over.
Still, it was pleasant to me to see the old coat once more.
'Uncle' Mumford, our second officer, said the place had been
suffering from high water, and consequently was not looking
its best now.  But he said it was not strange that it didn't
waste white-wash on itself, for more lime was made there,
and of a better quality, than anywhere in the West;
and added--'On a dairy farm you never can get any milk
for your coffee, nor any sugar for it on a sugar plantation;
and it is against sense to go to a lime town to hunt for white-wash.'
In my own experience I knew the first two items to be true;
and also that people who sell candy don't care for candy;
therefore there was plausibility in Uncle Mumford's final observation
that 'people who make lime run more to religion than whitewash.'
Uncle Mumford said, further, that Grand Tower was a great coaling
center and a prospering place.

Cape Girardeau is situated on a hillside, and makes a handsome appearance.
There is a great Jesuit school for boys at the foot of the town by the river.
Uncle Mumford said it had as high a reputation for thoroughness as any
similar institution in Missouri ' There was another college higher up on
an airy summit--a bright new edifice, picturesquely and peculiarly towered
and pinnacled--a sort of gigantic casters, with the cruets all complete.
Uncle Mumford said that Cape Girardeau was the Athens of Missouri,
and contained several colleges besides those already mentioned; and all of
them on a religious basis of one kind or another.  He directed my attention
to what he called the 'strong and pervasive religious look of the town,'
but I could not see that it looked more religious than the other hill
towns with the same slope and built of the same kind of bricks.
Partialities often make people see more than really exists.

Uncle Mumford has been thirty years a mate on the river.
He is a man of practical sense and a level head; has observed;
has had much experience of one sort and another; has opinions;
has, also, just a perceptible dash of poetry in his composition,
an easy gift of speech, a thick growl in his voice, and an oath
or two where he can get at them when the exigencies of his
office require a spiritual lift.  He is a mate of the blessed
old-time kind; and goes gravely damning around, when there
is work to the fore, in a way to mellow the ex-steamboatman's
heart with sweet soft longings for the vanished days that shall
come no more.  'GIT up there you!  Going to be all day?
Why d'n't you SAY you was petrified in your hind legs,
before you shipped!'

He is a steady man with his crew; kind and just, but firm;
so they like him, and stay with him.  He is still in the slouchy
garb of the old generation of mates; but next trip the Anchor
Line will have him in uniform--a natty blue naval uniform,
with brass buttons, along with all the officers of the line--
and then he will be a totally different style of scenery from what
he is now.

Uniforms on the Mississippi!  It beats all the other changes
put together, for surprise.  Still, there is another surprise--
that it was not made fifty years ago.  It is so manifestly sensible,
that it might have been thought of earlier, one would suppose.
During fifty years, out there, the innocent passenger in need
of help and information, has been mistaking the mate for
the cook, and the captain for the barber--and being roughly
entertained for it, too.  But his troubles are ended now.
And the greatly improved aspect of the boat's staff is another
advantage achieved by the dress-reform period.

Steered down the bend below Cape Girardeau.  They used to call it
'Steersman's Bend;' plain sailing and plenty of water in it, always;
about the only place in the Upper River that a new cub was allowed
to take a boat through, in low water.

Thebes, at the head of the Grand Chain, and Commerce at the foot
of it, were towns easily rememberable, as they had not undergone
conspicuous alteration.  Nor the Chain, either--in the nature
of things; for it is a chain of sunken rocks admirably
arranged to capture and kill steamboats on bad nights.
A good many steamboat corpses lie buried there, out of sight;
among the rest my first friend the 'Paul Jones;' she knocked her
bottom out, and went down like a pot, so the historian told me--
Uncle Mumford.  He said she had a gray mare aboard, and a preacher.
To me, this sufficiently accounted for the disaster; as it did,
of course, to Mumford, who added--

'But there are many ignorant people who would scoff at such
a matter, and call it superstition.  But you will always notice
that they are people who have never traveled with a gray mare
and a preacher.  I went down the river once in such company.
We grounded at Bloody Island; we grounded at Hanging Dog;
we grounded just below this same Commerce; we jolted Beaver
Dam Rock; we hit one of the worst breaks in the 'Graveyard'
behind Goose Island; we had a roustabout killed in a fight;
we burnt a boiler; broke a shaft; collapsed a flue; and went into
Cairo with nine feet of water in the hold--may have been more,
may have been less.  I remember it as if it were yesterday.
The men lost their heads with terror.  They painted the mare blue,
in sight of town, and threw the preacher overboard, or we should
not have arrived at all.  The preacher was fished out and saved.
He acknowledged, himself, that he had been to blame.
I remember it all, as if it were yesterday.'

That this combination--of preacher and gray mare--should breed calamity,
seems strange, and at first glance unbelievable; but the fact is fortified
by so much unassailable proof that to doubt is to dishonor reason.
I myself remember a case where a captain was warned by numerous friends
against taking a gray mare and a preacher with him, but persisted in his
purpose in spite of all that could be said; and the same day--it may have
been the next, and some say it was, though I think it was the same day--
he got drunk and fell down the hatchway, and was borne to his home a corpse.
This is literally true.

No vestige of Hat Island is left now; every shred of it is washed away.
I do not even remember what part of the river it used to be in,
except that it was between St. Louis and Cairo somewhere.
It was a bad region--all around and about Hat Island, in early days.
A farmer who lived on the Illinois shore there, said that twenty-nine
steamboats had left their bones strung along within sight from his house.
Between St. Louis and Cairo the steamboat wrecks average one to the mile;--
two hundred wrecks, altogether.

I could recognize big changes from Commerce down.  Beaver Dam Rock was
out in the middle of the river now, and throwing a prodigious 'break;'
it used to be close to the shore, and boats went down outside of it.
A big island that used to be away out in mid-river, has retired
to the Missouri shore, and boats do not go near it any more.
The island called Jacket Pattern is whittled down to a wedge now,
and is booked for early destruction.  Goose Island is all gone
but a little dab the size of a steamboat.  The perilous 'Graveyard,'
among whose numberless wrecks we used to pick our way so slowly
and gingerly, is far away from the channel now, and a terror to nobody.
One of the islands formerly called the Two Sisters is gone entirely;
the other, which used to lie close to the Illinois shore, is now on
the Missouri side, a mile away; it is joined solidly to the shore,
and it takes a sharp eye to see where the seam is--but it is
Illinois ground yet, and the people who live on it have to ferry
themselves over and work the Illinois roads and pay Illinois taxes:
singular state of things!

Near the mouth of the river several islands were missing--washed away.
Cairo was still there--easily visible across the long, flat point upon
whose further verge it stands; but we had to steam a long way around
to get to it.  Night fell as we were going out of the 'Upper River'
and meeting the floods of the Ohio.  We dashed along without anxiety;
for the hidden rock which used to lie right in the way has moved up
stream a long distance out of the channel; or rather, about one county
has gone into the river from the Missouri point, and the Cairo point has
'made down' and added to its long tongue of territory correspondingly.
The Mississippi is a just and equitable river; it never tumbles one man's farm
overboard without building a new farm just like it for that man's neighbor.
This keeps down hard feelings.

Going into Cairo, we came near killing a steamboat which paid
no attention to our whistle and then tried to cross our bows.
By doing some strong backing, we saved him; which was a great loss,
for he would have made good literature.

Cairo is a brisk town now; and is substantially built, and has a city
look about it which is in noticeable contrast to its former estate,
as per Mr. Dickens's portrait of it.  However, it was already
building with bricks when I had seen it last--which was when Colonel
(now General) Grant was drilling his first command there.
Uncle Mumford says the libraries and Sunday-schools have
done a good work in Cairo, as well as the brick masons.
Cairo has a heavy railroad and river trade, and her situation at
the junction of the two great rivers is so advantageous that she
cannot well help prospering.

When I turned out, in the morning, we had passed Columbus, Kentucky,
and were approaching Hickman, a pretty town, perched on a handsome hill.
Hickman is in a rich tobacco region, and formerly enjoyed a great
and lucrative trade in that staple, collecting it there in her
warehouses from a large area of country and shipping it by boat;
but Uncle Mumford says she built a railway to facilitate this commerce
a little more, and he thinks it facilitated it the wrong way--
took the bulk of the trade out of her hands by 'collaring it along
the line without gathering it at her doors.'




                               Chapter 26
                               Under Fire

TALK began to run upon the war now, for we were getting down
into the upper edge of the former battle-stretch by this time.
Columbus was just behind us, so there was a good deal said
about the famous battle of Belmont.  Several of the boat's
officers had seen active service in the Mississippi war-fleet. I
gathered that they found themselves sadly out of their element
in that kind of business at first, but afterward got accustomed
to it, reconciled to it, and more or less at home in it.
One of our pilots had his first war experience in the Belmont
fight, as a pilot on a boat in the Confederate service.
I had often had a curiosity to know how a green hand might feel,
in his maiden battle, perched all solitary and alone on high
in a pilot house, a target for Tom, Dick and Harry, and nobody at
his elbow to shame him from showing the white feather when matters
grew hot and perilous around him; so, to me his story was valuable--
it filled a gap for me which all histories had left till
that time empty.


                        THE PILOT'S FIRST BATTLE


He said--

It was the 7th of November.  The fight began at seven in the morning.
I was on the 'R. H. W. Hill.'  Took over a load of troops from Columbus.
Came back, and took over a battery of artillery.  My partner said he was going
to see the fight; wanted me to go along.  I said, no, I wasn't anxious,
I would look at it from the pilot-house. He said I was a coward, and left.

That fight was an awful sight.  General Cheatham made his men strip
their coats off and throw them in a pile, and said, 'Now follow me
to hell or victory!'  I heard him say that from the pilot-house;
and then he galloped in, at the head of his troops.  Old General Pillow,
with his white hair, mounted on a white horse, sailed in, too, leading his
troops as lively as a boy.  By and by the Federals chased the rebels back,
and here they came! tearing along, everybody for himself and Devil take
the hindmost! and down under the bank they scrambled, and took shelter.
I was sitting with my legs hanging out of the pilot-house window.
All at once I noticed a whizzing sound passing my ear.
Judged it was a bullet.  I didn't stop to think about anything,
I just tilted over backwards and landed on the floor, and staid there.
The balls came booming around.  Three cannon-balls went through the chimney;
one ball took off the corner of the pilot-house; shells were screaming
and bursting all around.  Mighty warm times--I wished I hadn't come.
I lay there on the pilot-house floor, while the shots came faster and faster.
I crept in behind the big stove, in the middle of the pilot-house.
Presently a minie-ball came through the stove, and just grazed my head,
and cut my hat.  I judged it was time to go away from there.  The captain
was on the roof with a red-headed major from Memphis--a fine-looking man.
I heard him say he wanted to leave here, but 'that pilot is killed.'
I crept over to the starboard side to pull the bell to set her back;
raised up and took a look, and I saw about fifteen shot holes
through the window panes; had come so lively I hadn't noticed them.
I glanced out on the water, and the spattering shot were like a hailstorm.
I thought best to get out of that place.  I went down the pilot-house guy,
head first--not feet first but head first--slid down--before I struck
the deck, the captain said we must leave there.  So I climbed up the guy
and got on the floor again.  About that time, they collared my partner
and were bringing him up to the pilot-house between two soldiers.
Somebody had said I was killed.  He put his head in and saw me on the floor
reaching for the backing bells.  He said, 'Oh, hell, he ain't shot,'
and jerked away from the men who had him by the collar, and ran below.
We were there until three o'clock in the afternoon, and then got away all
right.

The next time I saw my partner, I said, 'Now, come out, be honest,
and tell me the truth.  Where did you go when you went to see that battle?'
He says, 'I went down in the hold.'

All through that fight I was scared nearly to death.
I hardly knew anything, I was so frightened; but you see,
nobody knew that but me.  Next day General Polk sent for me,
and praised me for my bravery and gallant conduct.
I never said anything, I let it go at that.  I judged it wasn't so,
but it was not for me to contradict a general officer.

Pretty soon after that I was sick, and used up, and had to go
off to the Hot Springs.  When there, I got a good many
letters from commanders saying they wanted me to come back.
I declined, because I wasn't well enough or strong enough;
but I kept still, and kept the reputation I had made.

A plain story, straightforwardly told; but Mumford told me
that that pilot had 'gilded that scare of his, in spots;'
that his subsequent career in the war was proof of it.

We struck down through the chute of Island No. 8, and I went below
and fell into conversation with a passenger, a handsome man,
with easy carriage and an intelligent face.  We were approaching
Island No. 10, a place so celebrated during the war.
This gentleman's home was on the main shore in its neighborhood.
I had some talk with him about the war times; but presently
the discourse fell upon 'feuds,' for in no part of the South
has the vendetta flourished more briskly, or held out longer
between warring families, than in this particular region.
This gentleman said--

'There's been more than one feud around here, in old times, but I
reckon the worst one was between the Darnells and the Watsons.
Nobody don't know now what the first quarrel was about, it's so long ago;
the Darnells and the Watsons don't know, if there's any of them living,
which I don't think there is.  Some says it was about a horse or a cow--
anyway, it was a little matter; the money in it wasn't of no consequence--
none in the world--both families was rich.  The thing could have been
fixed up, easy enough; but no, that wouldn't do.  Rough words had been passed;
and so, nothing but blood could fix it up after that.  That horse
or cow, whichever it was, cost sixty years of killing and crippling!
Every year or so somebody was shot, on one side or the other; and as fast
as one generation was laid out, their sons took up the feud and kept
it a-going. And it's just as I say; they went on shooting each other,
year in and year out--making a kind of a religion of it, you see--
till they'd done forgot, long ago, what it was all about.  Wherever a
Darnell caught a Watson, or a Watson caught a Darnell, one of 'em was going
to get hurt--only question was, which of them got the drop on the other.
They'd shoot one another down, right in the presence of the family.
They didn't hunt for each other, but when they happened to meet,
they puffed and begun.  Men would shoot boys, boys would shoot men.
A man shot a boy twelve years old--happened on him in the woods,
and didn't give him no chance.  If he HAD 'a' given him a chance,
the boy'd 'a' shot him.  Both families belonged to the same church
(everybody around here is religious); through all this fifty or
sixty years' fuss, both tribes was there every Sunday, to worship.
They lived each side of the line, and the church was at a landing
called Compromise.  Half the church and half the aisle was in Kentucky,
the other half in Tennessee.  Sundays you'd see the families drive up,
all in their Sunday clothes, men, women, and children, and file up the aisle,
and set down, quiet and orderly, one lot on the Tennessee side of the church
and the other on the Kentucky side; and the men and boys would lean their guns
up against the wall, handy, and.  then all hands would join in with the prayer
and praise; though they say the man next the aisle didn't kneel down,
along with the rest of the family; kind of stood guard.  I don't know;
never was at that church in my life; but I remember that that's what used
to be said.

'Twenty or twenty-five years ago, one of the feud families
caught a young man of nineteen out and killed him.
Don't remember whether it was the Darnells and Watsons,
or one of the other feuds; but anyway, this young man rode up--
steamboat laying there at the time--and the first thing
he saw was a whole gang of the enemy.  He jumped down behind
a wood-pile, but they rode around and begun on him, he firing back,
and they galloping and cavorting and yelling and banging away
with all their might.  Think he wounded a couple of them;
but they closed in on him and chased him into the river;
and as he swum along down stream, they followed along the bank
and kept on shooting at him; and when he struck shore he was dead.
Windy Marshall told me about it.  He saw it.  He was captain
of the boat.

'Years ago, the Darnells was so thinned out that the old man
and his two sons concluded they'd leave the country.  They started
to take steamboat just above No. 10; but the Watsons got wind of it;
and they arrived just as the two young Darnells was walking up
the companion-way with their wives on their arms.  The fight
begun then, and they never got no further--both of them killed.
After that, old Darnell got into trouble with the man that run
the ferry, and the ferry-man got the worst of it--and died.
But his friends shot old Darnell through and through--filled him
full of bullets, and ended him.'

The country gentleman who told me these things had been reared
in ease and comfort, was a man of good parts, and was college bred.
His loose grammar was the fruit of careless habit, not ignorance.
This habit among educated men in the West is not universal, but it
is prevalent--prevalent in the towns, certainly, if not in the cities;
and to a degree which one cannot help noticing, and marveling at.
I heard a Westerner who would be accounted a highly educated man
in any country, say 'never mind, it DON'T MAKE NO DIFFERENCE, anyway.'
A life-long resident who was present heard it, but it made no impression
upon her.  She was able to recall the fact afterward, when reminded of it;
but she confessed that the words had not grated upon her ear at the time--
a confession which suggests that if educated people can hear such
blasphemous grammar, from such a source, and be unconscious of the deed,
the crime must be tolerably common--so common that the general ear has
become dulled by familiarity with it, and is no longer alert, no longer
sensitive to such affronts.

No one in the world speaks blemishless grammar; no one has
ever written it--NO one, either in the world or out of it
(taking the Scriptures for evidence on the latter point);
therefore it would not be fair to exact grammatical perfection
from the peoples of the Valley; but they and all other peoples
may justly be required to refrain from KNOWINGLY and PURPOSELY
debauching their grammar.

I found the river greatly changed at Island No. 10.
The island which I remembered was some three miles long
and a quarter of a mile wide, heavily timbered, and lay
near the Kentucky shore--within two hundred yards of it,
I should say.  Now, however, one had to hunt for it with
a spy-glass. Nothing was left of it but an insignificant
little tuft, and this was no longer near the Kentucky shore;
it was clear over against the opposite shore, a mile away.
In war times the island had been an important place,
for it commanded the situation; and, being heavily fortified,
there was no getting by it.  It lay between the upper and lower
divisions of the Union forces, and kept them separate, until a
junction was finally effected across the Missouri neck of land;
but the island being itself joined to that neck now, the wide river
is without obstruction.

In this region the river passes from Kentucky into Tennessee,
back into Missouri, then back into Kentucky, and thence into Tennessee again.
So a mile or two of Missouri sticks over into Tennessee.

The town of New Madrid was looking very unwell;
but otherwise unchanged from its former condition and aspect.
Its blocks of frame-houses were still grouped in the same
old flat plain, and environed by the same old forests.
It was as tranquil as formerly, and apparently had neither grown
nor diminished in size.  It was said that the recent high water
had invaded it and damaged its looks.  This was surprising news;
for in low water the river bank is very high there (fifty feet), and
in my day an overflow had always been considered an impossibility.
This present flood of 1882 Will doubtless be celebrated
in the river's history for several generations before a deluge
of like magnitude shall be seen.  It put all the unprotected
low lands under water, from Cairo to the mouth; it broke down
the levees in a great many places, on both sides of the river;
and in some regions south, when the flood was at its highest,
the Mississippi was SEVENTY MILES wide! a number of lives
were lost, and the destruction of property was fearful.
The crops were destroyed, houses washed away, and shelterless men
and cattle forced to take refuge on scattering elevations here
and there in field and forest, and wait in peril and suffering
until the boats put in commission by the national and local
governments and by newspaper enterprise could come and rescue them.
The properties of multitudes of people were under water for months,
and the poorer ones must have starved by the hundred if succor
had not been promptly afforded.<footnote [For a detailed and
interesting description of the great flood, written on board
of the New Orleans TIMES-DEMOCRAT'S relief-boat, see Appendix
A]> The water had been falling during a considerable time now,
yet as a rule we found the banks still under water.




                               Chapter 27
                         Some Imported Articles

WE met two steamboats at New Madrid.  Two steamboats in sight
at once! an infrequent spectacle now in the lonesome Mississippi.
The loneliness of this solemn, stupendous flood is impressive--
and depressing.  League after league, and still league after league,
it pours its chocolate tide along, between its solid forest walls,
its almost untenanted shores, with seldom a sail or a moving
object of any kind to disturb the surface and break the monotony
of the blank, watery solitude; and so the day goes, the night comes,
and again the day--and still the same, night after night
and day after day--majestic, unchanging sameness of serenity,
repose, tranquillity, lethargy, vacancy--symbol of eternity,
realization of the heaven pictured by priest and prophet,
and longed for by the good and thoughtless!

Immediately after the war of 1812, tourists began to come
to America, from England; scattering ones at first, then a sort
of procession of them--a procession which kept up its plodding,
patient march through the land during many, many years.
Each tourist took notes, and went home and published a book--
a book which was usually calm, truthful, reasonable, kind;
but which seemed just the reverse to our tender-footed progenitors.
A glance at these tourist-books shows us that in certain of its
aspects the Mississippi has undergone no change since those
strangers visited it, but remains to-day about as it was then.
The emotions produced in those foreign breasts by these aspects
were not all formed on one pattern, of course; they HAD
to be various, along at first, because the earlier tourists
were obliged to originate their emotions, whereas in older
countries one can always borrow emotions from one's predecessors.
And, mind you, emotions are among the toughest things in
the world to manufacture out of whole cloth; it is easier to
manufacture seven facts than one emotion.  Captain Basil Hall.
R.N., writing fifty-five years ago, says--


'Here I caught the first glimpse of the object I had so long wished
to behold, and felt myself amply repaid at that moment for all
the trouble I had experienced in coming so far; and stood looking at
the river flowing past till it was too dark to distinguish anything.
But it was not till I had visited the same spot a dozen times,
that I came to a right comprehension of the grandeur of the scene.'


Following are Mrs. Trollope's emotions.  She is writing a few months later
in the same year, 1827, and is coming in at the mouth of the Mississippi--


'The first indication of our approach to land was the appearance
of this mighty river pouring forth its muddy mass of waters,
and mingling with the deep blue of the Mexican Gulf.  I never beheld
a scene so utterly desolate as this entrance of the Mississippi.
Had Dante seen it, he might have drawn images of another Bolgia from
its horrors.  One only object rears itself above the eddying waters;
this is the mast of a vessel long since wrecked in attempting to cross
the bar, and it still stands, a dismal witness of the destruction
that has been, and a boding prophet of that which is to come.'


Emotions of Hon. Charles Augustus Murray (near St. Louis), seven years later--


'It is only when you ascend the mighty current for fifty or a
hundred miles, and use the eye of imagination as well as that
of nature, that you begin to understand all his might and majesty.
You see him fertilizing a boundless valley, bearing along in his course
the trophies of his thousand victories over the shattered forest--
here carrying away large masses of soil with all their growth,
and there forming islands, destined at some future period to be
the residence of man; and while indulging in this prospect,
it is then time for reflection to suggest that the current
before you has flowed through two or three thousand miles, and has
yet to travel one thousand three hundred more before reaching
its ocean destination.'


Receive, now, the emotions of Captain Marryat, R.N. author of the sea tales,
writing in 1837, three years after Mr. Murray--


'Never, perhaps, in the records of nations, was there an instance of a
century of such unvarying and unmitigated crime as is to be collected
from the history of the turbulent and blood-stained Mississippi.
The stream itself appears as if appropriate for the deeds which have
been committed.  It is not like most rivers, beautiful to the sight,
bestowing fertility in its course; not one that the eye loves
to dwell upon as it sweeps along, nor can you wander upon
its banks, or trust yourself without danger to its stream.
It is a furious, rapid, desolating torrent, loaded with alluvial soil;
and few of those who are received into its waters ever rise again,
<footnote [There was a foolish superstition of some little prevalence
in that day, that the Mississippi would neither buoy up a swimmer,
nor permit a drowned person's body to rise to the surface.]> or can
support themselves long upon its surface without assistance from
some friendly log.  It contains the coarsest and most uneatable
of fish, such as the cat-fish and such genus, and as you descend,
its banks are occupied with the fetid alligator, while the panther
basks at its edge in the cane-brakes, almost impervious to man.
Pouring its impetuous waters through wild tracks covered with
trees of little value except for firewood, it sweeps down whole
forests in its course, which disappear in tumultuous confusion,
whirled away by the stream now loaded with the masses of soil
which nourished their roots, often blocking up and changing
for a time the channel of the river, which, as if in anger at its
being opposed, inundates and devastates the whole country round;
and as soon as it forces its way through its former channel,
plants in every direction the uprooted monarchs of the forest
(upon whose branches the bird will never again perch, or the raccoon,
the opossum, or the squirrel climb) as traps to the adventurous
navigators of its waters by steam, who, borne down upon these concealed
dangers which pierce through the planks, very often have not time
to steer for and gain the shore before they sink to the bottom.
There are no pleasing associations connected with the great common sewer
of the Western America, which pours out its mud into the Mexican Gulf,
polluting the clear blue sea for many miles beyond its mouth.
It is a river of desolation; and instead of reminding you,
like other beautiful rivers, of an angel which has descended
for the benefit of man, you imagine it a devil, whose energies
have been only overcome by the wonderful power of steam.'


It is pretty crude literature for a man accustomed to
handling a pen; still, as a panorama of the emotions sent
weltering through this noted visitor's breast by the aspect
and traditions of the 'great common sewer,' it has a value.
A value, though marred in the matter of statistics by inaccuracies;
for the catfish is a plenty good enough fish for anybody,
and there are no panthers that are 'impervious to man.'


Later still comes Alexander Mackay, of the Middle Temple, Barrister at Law,
with a better digestion, and no catfish dinner aboard, and feels as follows--


'The Mississippi!  It was with indescribable emotions that I first felt myself
afloat upon its waters.  How often in my schoolboy dreams, and in my waking
visions afterwards, had my imagination pictured to itself the lordly stream,
rolling with tumultuous current through the boundless region to which it
has given its name, and gathering into itself, in its course to the ocean,
the tributary waters of almost every latitude in the temperate zone!
Here it was then in its reality, and I, at length, steaming against its tide.
I looked upon it with that reverence with which everyone must regard a great
feature of external nature.'


So much for the emotions.  The tourists, one and all, remark upon
the deep, brooding loneliness and desolation of the vast river.
Captain Basil Hall, who saw it at flood-stage, says--


'Sometimes we passed along distances of twenty or thirty miles without
seeing a single habitation.  An artist, in search of hints for a painting
of the deluge, would here have found them in abundance.'


The first shall be last, etc.  just two hundred years ago,
the old original first and gallantest of all the foreign tourists,
pioneer, head of the procession, ended his weary and tedious
discovery-voyage down the solemn stretches of the great river--
La Salle, whose name will last as long as the river itself shall last.
We quote from Mr. Parkman-


'And now they neared their journey's end.  On the sixth
of April, the river divided itself into three broad channels.
La Salle followed that of the west, and D'Autray
that of the east; while Tonty took the middle passage.
As he drifted down the turbid current, between the low
and marshy shores, the brackish water changed to brine,
and the breeze grew fresh with the salt breath of the sea.
Then the broad bosom of the great Gulf opened on his sight,
tossing its restless billows, limitless, voiceless, lonely as when
born of chaos, without a sail, without a sign of life.'


Then, on a spot of solid ground, La Salle reared a column 'bearing
the arms of France; the Frenchmen were mustered under arms;
and while the New England Indians and their squaws looked on
in wondering silence, they chanted the TE DEUM, THE EXAUDIAT,
and the DOMINE SALVUM FAC REGEM.'

Then, whilst the musketry volleyed and rejoicing shouts burst forth,
the victorious discoverer planted the column, and made proclamation
in a loud voice, taking formal possession of the river and
the vast countries watered by it, in the name of the King.
The column bore this inscription-


 LOUIS LE GRAND, ROY DE FRANCE ET DE NAVARRE, REGNE; LE NEUVIEME AVRIL,
                                  1682.


New Orleans intended to fittingly celebrate, this present year,
the bicentennial anniversary of this illustrious event;
but when the time came, all her energies and surplus money were
required in other directions, for the flood was upon the land then,
making havoc and devastation everywhere.




                               Chapter 28
                          Uncle Mumford Unloads

ALL day we swung along down the river, and had the stream almost
wholly to ourselves.  Formerly, at such a stage of the water,
we should have passed acres of lumber rafts, and dozens of big
coal barges; also occasional little trading-scows, peddling
along from farm to farm, with the peddler's family on board;
possibly, a random scow, bearing a humble Hamlet and Co.
on an itinerant dramatic trip.  But these were all absent.
Far along in the day, we saw one steamboat; just one, and no more.
She was lying at rest in the shade, within the wooded mouth
of the Obion River.  The spy-glass revealed the fact that she
was named for me--or HE was named for me, whichever you prefer.
As this was the first time I had ever encountered this species
of honor, it seems excusable to mention it, and at the same time
call the attention of the authorities to the tardiness of my
recognition of it.

Noted a big change in the river, at Island 21.  It was a very large island,
and used to be out toward mid-stream; but it is joined fast to the main
shore now, and has retired from business as an island.

As we approached famous and formidable Plum Point, darkness fell,
but that was nothing to shudder about--in these modern times.
For now the national government has turned the Mississippi
into a sort of two-thousand-mile torchlight procession.
In the head of every crossing, and in the foot of every
crossing, the government has set up a clear-burning lamp.
You are never entirely in the dark, now; there is always a beacon
in sight, either before you, or behind you, or abreast.
One might almost say that lamps have been squandered there.
Dozens of crossings are lighted which were not shoal
when they were created, and have never been shoal since;
crossings so plain, too, and also so straight, that a steamboat
can take herself through them without any help, after she has been
through once.  Lamps in such places are of course not wasted;
it is much more convenient and comfortable for a pilot to hold
on them than on a spread of formless blackness that won't
stay still; and money is saved to the boat, at the same time,
for she can of course make more miles with her rudder
amidships than she can with it squared across her stern and
holding her back.

But this thing has knocked the romance out of piloting, to a large extent.
It, and some other things together, have knocked all the romance out of it.
For instance, the peril from snags is not now what it once was.
The government's snag-boats go patrolling up and down, in these
matter-of-fact days, pulling the river's teeth; they have rooted out
all the old clusters which made many localities so formidable; and they
allow no new ones to collect.  Formerly, if your boat got away from you,
on a black night, and broke for the woods, it was an anxious time with you;
so was it also, when you were groping your way through solidified
darkness in a narrow chute; but all that is changed now--you flash out
your electric light, transform night into day in the twinkling of an eye,
and your perils and anxieties are at an end.  Horace Bixby and George
Ritchie have charted the crossings and laid out the courses by compass;
they have invented a lamp to go with the chart, and have patented the whole.
With these helps, one may run in the fog now, with considerable security,
and with a confidence unknown in the old days.

With these abundant beacons, the banishment of snags, plenty of
daylight in a box and ready to be turned on whenever needed,
and a chart and compass to fight the fog with, piloting, at a good
stage of water, is now nearly as safe and simple as driving stage,
and is hardly more than three times as romantic.

And now in these new days, these days of infinite change, the Anchor
Line have raised the captain above the pilot by giving him the bigger
wages of the two.  This was going far, but they have not stopped there.
They have decreed that the pilot shall remain at his post, and stand his
watch clear through, whether the boat be under way or tied up to the shore.
We, that were once the aristocrats of the river, can't go to bed now,
as we used to do, and sleep while a hundred tons of freight are
lugged aboard; no, we must sit in the pilot-house; and keep awake, too.
Verily we are being treated like a parcel of mates and engineers.
The Government has taken away the romance of our calling; the Company has
taken away its state and dignity.

Plum Point looked as it had always looked by night, with the
exception that now there were beacons to mark the crossings,
and also a lot of other lights on the Point and along its shore;
these latter glinting from the fleet of the United States
River Commission, and from a village which the officials have built
on the land for offices and for the employes of the service.
The military engineers of the Commission have taken upon
their shoulders the job of making the Mississippi over again--
a job transcended in size by only the original job of creating it.
They are building wing-dams here and there, to deflect the current;
and dikes to confine it in narrower bounds; and other dikes to make
it stay there; and for unnumbered miles along the Mississippi,
they are felling the timber-front for fifty yards back,
with the purpose of shaving the bank down to low-water mark
with the slant of a house roof, and ballasting it with stones;
and in many places they have protected the wasting shores with rows
of piles.  One who knows the Mississippi will promptly aver--
not aloud, but to himself--that ten thousand River Commissions,
with the mines of the world at their back, cannot tame that
lawless stream, cannot curb it or confine it, cannot say to it,
Go here, or Go there, and make it obey; cannot save a shore
which it has sentenced; cannot bar its path with an obstruction
which it will not tear down, dance over, and laugh at.
But a discreet man will not put these things into spoken words;
for the West Point engineers have not their superiors anywhere;
they know all that can be known of their abstruse science;
and so, since they conceive that they can fetter and handcuff
that river and boss him, it is but wisdom for the unscientific man
to keep still, lie low, and wait till they do it.  Captain Eads,
with his jetties, has done a work at the mouth of the Mississippi
which seemed clearly impossible; so we do not feel full confidence
now to prophesy against like impossibilities.  Otherwise one would
pipe out and say the Commission might as well bully the comets
in their courses and undertake to make them behave, as try to bully
the Mississippi into right and reasonable conduct.

I consulted Uncle Mumford concerning this and cognate matters;
and I give here the result, stenographically reported, and therefore
to be relied on as being full and correct; except that I have
here and there left out remarks which were addressed to the men,
such as 'where in blazes are you going with that barrel now?'
and which seemed to me to break the flow of the written statement,
without compensating by adding to its information or its clearness.
Not that I have ventured to strike out all such interjections;
I have removed only those which were obviously irrelevant;
wherever one occurred which I felt any question about, I have
judged it safest to let it remain.


                       UNCLE MUMFORD'S IMPRESSIONS


Uncle Mumford said--

'As long as I have been mate of a steamboat--thirty years--
I have watched this river and studied it.  Maybe I could have learnt
more about it at West Point, but if I believe it I wish I may be WHAT
ARE YOU SUCKING YOUR FINGERS THERE FOR ?--COLLAR THAT KAG OF NAILS!
Four years at West Point, and plenty of books and schooling, will learn
a man a good deal, I reckon, but it won't learn him the river.
You turn one of those little European rivers over to this Commission,
with its hard bottom and clear water, and it would just be a holiday
job for them to wall it, and pile it, and dike it, and tame it down,
and boss it around, and make it go wherever they wanted it to,
and stay where they put it, and do just as they said, every time.
But this ain't that kind of a river.  They have started in here
with big confidence, and the best intentions in the world;
but they are going to get left.  What does Ecclesiastes vii.  13 say?
Says enough to knock THEIR little game galley-west, don't it?
Now you look at their methods once.  There at Devil's Island,
in the Upper River, they wanted the water to go one way, the water wanted
to go another.  So they put up a stone wall.  But what does the river
care for a stone wall?  When it got ready, it just bulged through it.
Maybe they can build another that will stay; that is, up there--
but not down here they can't. Down here in the Lower River, they drive
some pegs to turn the water away from the shore and stop it from slicing
off the bank; very well, don't it go straight over and cut somebody
else's bank?  Certainly.  Are they going to peg all the banks?
Why, they could buy ground and build a new Mississippi cheaper.
They are pegging Bulletin Tow-head now.  It won't do any good.
If the river has got a mortgage on that island, it will foreclose,
sure, pegs or no pegs.  Away down yonder, they have driven two rows
of piles straight through the middle of a dry bar half a mile long,
which is forty foot out of the water when the river is low.
What do you reckon that is for?  If I know, I wish I may land
in-HUMP YOURSELF, YOU SON OF AN UNDERTAKER!--OUT WITH THAT COAL-OIL, NOW,
LIVELY, LIVELY!  And just look at what they are trying to do down
there at Milliken's Bend.  There's been a cut-off in that section,
and Vicksburg is left out in the cold.  It's a country town now.
The river strikes in below it; and a boat can't go up to the town
except in high water.  Well, they are going to build wing-dams in
the bend opposite the foot of 103, and throw the water over and cut
off the foot of the island and plow down into an old ditch where
the river used to be in ancient times; and they think they can persuade
the water around that way, and get it to strike in above Vicksburg,
as it used to do, and fetch the town back into the world again.
That is, they are going to take this whole Mississippi,
and twist it around and make it run several miles UP STREAM.
Well you've got to admire men that deal in ideas of that size and can
tote them around without crutches; but you haven't got to believe
they can DO such miracles, have you!  And yet you ain't absolutely
obliged to believe they can't. I reckon the safe way, where a man
can afford it, is to copper the operation, and at the same time buy
enough property in Vicksburg to square you up in case they win.
Government is doing a deal for the Mississippi, now--spending loads
of money on her.  When there used to be four thousand steamboats
and ten thousand acres of coal-barges, and rafts and trading scows,
there wasn't a lantern from St. Paul to New Orleans, and the snags
were thicker than bristles on a hog's back; and now when there's
three dozen steamboats and nary barge or raft, Government has
snatched out all the snags, and lit up the shores like Broadway,
and a boat's as safe on the river as she'd be in heaven.
And I reckon that by the time there ain't any boats left at all,
the Commission will have the old thing all reorganized, and dredged out,
and fenced in, and tidied up, to a degree that will make navigation
just simply perfect, and absolutely safe and profitable; and all
the days will be Sundays, and all the mates will be Sunday-school
su-WHAT-IN-THE-NATION-YOU-FOOLING-AROUND-THERE-FOR, YOU SONS
OF UNRIGHTEOUSNESS, HEIRS OF PERDITION !  GOING TO BE A YEAR GETTING THAT
HOGSHEAD ASHORE ?'


During our trip to New Orleans and back, we had many conversations with
river men, planters, journalists, and officers of the River Commission--
with conflicting and confusing results.  To wit:-

1.  Some believed in the Commission's scheme to arbitrarily
and permanently confine (and thus deepen) the channel,
preserve threatened shores, etc.

2.  Some believed that the Commission's money ought to be spent
only on building and repairing the great system of levees.

3.  Some believed that the higher you build your levee,
the higher the river's bottom will rise; and that consequently
the levee system is a mistake.

4.  Some believed in the scheme to relieve the river, in flood-time,
by turning its surplus waters off into Lake Borgne, etc.

5.  Some believed in the scheme of northern lake-reservoirs to replenish
the Mississippi in low-water seasons.

Wherever you find a man down there who believes in one of these
theories you may turn to the next man and frame your talk upon
the hypothesis that he does not believe in that theory; and after
you have had experience, you do not take this course doubtfully,
or hesitatingly, but with the confidence of a dying murderer--
converted one, I mean.  For you will have come to know, with a deep
and restful certainty, that you are not going to meet two people
sick of the same theory, one right after the other.  No, there will
always be one or two with the other diseases along between.
And as you proceed, you will find out one or two other things.
You will find out that there is no distemper of the lot but
is contagious; and you cannot go where it is without catching it.
You may vaccinate yourself with deterrent facts as much as you please--
it will do no good; it will seem to 'take,' but it doesn't;
the moment you rub against any one of those theorists, make up
your mind that it is time to hang out your yellow flag.

Yes, you are his sure victim:  yet his work is not all to your hurt--
only part of it; for he is like your family physician, who comes
and cures the mumps, and leaves the scarlet-fever behind.
If your man is a Lake-Borgne-relief theorist, for instance,
he will exhale a cloud of deadly facts and statistics which will lay
you out with that disease, sure; but at the same time he will cure
you of any other of the five theories that may have previously got
into your system.

I have had all the five; and had them 'bad;' but ask me not,
in mournful numbers, which one racked me hardest, or which
one numbered the biggest sick list, for I do not know.
In truth, no one can answer the latter question.
Mississippi Improvement is a mighty topic, down yonder.
Every man on the river banks, south of Cairo, talks about it
every day, during such moments as he is able to spare from
talking about the war; and each of the several chief theories
has its host of zealous partisans; but, as I have said,
it is not possible to determine which cause numbers
the most recruits.

All were agreed upon one point, however:  if Congress would make
a sufficient appropriation, a colossal benefit would result.
Very well; since then the appropriation has been made--
possibly a sufficient one, certainly not too large a one.
Let us hope that the prophecy will be amply fulfilled.

One thing will be easily granted by the reader; that an opinion from
Mr. Edward Atkinson, upon any vast national commercial matter, comes as near
ranking as authority, as can the opinion of any individual in the Union.
What he has to say about Mississippi River Improvement will be found
in the Appendix.<footnote [See Appendix B.]>

Sometimes, half a dozen figures will reveal, as with a lightning-flash,
the importance of a subject which ten thousand labored words,
with the same purpose in view, had left at last but dim and uncertain.
Here is a case of the sort--paragraph from the 'Cincinnati Commercial'-


'The towboat "Jos.  B. Williams" is on her way to New Orleans with
a tow of thirty-two barges, containing six hundred thousand bushels
(seventy-six pounds to the bushel) of coal exclusive of her own fuel,
being the largest tow ever taken to New Orleans or anywhere else
in the world.  Her freight bill, at 3 cents a bushel, amounts to
$18,000. It would take eighteen hundred cars, of three hundred and
thirty-three bushels to the car, to transport this amount of coal.
At $10 per ton, or $100 per car, which would be a fair price for
the distance by rail, the freight bill would amount to $180,000,
or $162,000 more by rail than by river.  The tow will be taken
from Pittsburg to New Orleans in fourteen or fifteen days.
It would take one hundred trains of eighteen cars to the train
to transport this one tow of six hundred thousand bushels of coal,
and even if it made the usual speed of fast freight lines, it would
take one whole summer to put it through by rail.'


When a river in good condition can enable one to save $162,000 and a whole
summer's time, on a single cargo, the wisdom of taking measures to keep
the river in good condition is made plain to even the uncommercial mind.




                               Chapter 29
                          A Few Specimen Bricks

WE passed through the Plum Point region, turned Craighead's Point,
and glided unchallenged by what was once the formidable Fort Pillow,
memorable because of the massacre perpetrated there during the war.
Massacres are sprinkled with some frequency through the histories
of several Christian nations, but this is almost the only one
that can be found in American history; perhaps it is the only one
which rises to a size correspondent to that huge and somber title.
We have the 'Boston Massacre,' where two or three people were killed;
but we must bunch Anglo-Saxon history together to find the fellow
to the Fort Pillow tragedy; and doubtless even then we must travel
back to the days and the performances of Coeur de Lion, that fine
'hero,' before we accomplish it.

More of the river's freaks.  In times past, the channel used
to strike above Island 37, by Brandywine Bar, and down towards
Island 39.  Afterward, changed its course and went from
Brandywine down through Vogelman's chute in the Devil's Elbow,
to Island 39--part of this course reversing the old order;
the river running UP four or five miles, instead of down,
and cutting off, throughout, some fifteen miles of distance.
This in 1876.  All that region is now called Centennial Island.

There is a tradition that Island 37 was one of the principal abiding
places of the once celebrated 'Murel's Gang.'  This was a colossal
combination of robbers, horse-thieves, negro-stealers, and counterfeiters,
engaged in business along the river some fifty or sixty years ago.
While our journey across the country towards St. Louis was in
progress we had had no end of Jesse James and his stirring history;
for he had just been assassinated by an agent of the Governor of Missouri,
and was in consequence occupying a good deal of space in the newspapers.
Cheap histories of him were for sale by train boys.  According to these,
he was the most marvelous creature of his kind that had ever existed.
It was a mistake.  Murel was his equal in boldness; in pluck; in rapacity;
in cruelty, brutality, heartlessness, treachery, and in general and
comprehensive vileness and shamelessness; and very much his superior
in some larger aspects.  James was a retail rascal; Murel, wholesale.
James's modest genius dreamed of no loftier flight than the planning
of raids upon cars, coaches, and country banks; Murel projected
negro insurrections and the capture of New Orleans; and furthermore,
on occasion, this Murel could go into a pulpit and edify the congregation.
What are James and his half-dozen vulgar rascals compared with this
stately old-time criminal, with his sermons, his meditated insurrections
and city-captures, and his majestic following of ten hundred men,
sworn to do his evil will!

Here is a paragraph or two concerning this big operator,
from a now forgotten book which was published half a century ago--

He appears to have been a most dexterous as well as consummate villain.
When he traveled, his usual disguise was that of an itinerant preacher;
and it is said that his discourses were very 'soul-moving'--interesting
the hearers so much that they forgot to look after their horses,
which were carried away by his confederates while he was preaching.
But the stealing of horses in one State, and selling them in another,
was but a small portion of their business; the most lucrative
was the enticing slaves to run away from their masters, that they
might sell them in another quarter.  This was arranged as follows;
they would tell a negro that if he would run away from his master,
and allow them to sell him, he should receive a portion of the money
paid for him, and that upon his return to them a second time they would
send him to a free State, where he would be safe.  The poor wretches
complied with this request, hoping to obtain money and freedom;
they would be sold to another master, and run away again, to their employers;
sometimes they would be sold in this manner three or four times,
until they had realized three or four thousand dollars by them;
but as, after this, there was fear of detection, the usual custom was
to get rid of the only witness that could be produced against them,
which was the negro himself, by murdering him, and throwing his body into
the Mississippi.  Even if it was established that they had stolen a negro,
before he was murdered, they were always prepared to evade punishment;
for they concealed the negro who had run away, until he was advertised,
and a reward offered to any man who would catch him.  An advertisement
of this kind warrants the person to take the property, if found.
And then the negro becomes a property in trust, when, therefore,
they sold the negro, it only became a breach of trust, not stealing;
and for a breach of trust, the owner of the property can only have redress
by a civil action, which was useless, as the damages were never paid.
It may be inquired, how it was that Murel escaped Lynch law under
such circumstances This will be easily understood when it is stated
that he had MORE THAN A THOUSAND SWORN CONFEDERATES, all ready at
a moment's notice to support any of the gang who might be in trouble.
The names of all the principal confederates of Murel were obtained
from himself, in a manner which I shall presently explain.
The gang was composed of two classes:  the Heads or Council, as they
were called, who planned and concerted, but seldom acted; they amounted
to about four hundred.  The other class were the active agents,
and were termed strikers, and amounted to about six hundred and fifty.
These were the tools in the hands of the others; they ran all the risk,
and received but a small portion of the money; they were in the power
of the leaders of the gang, who would sacrifice them at any time by handing
them over to justice, or sinking their bodies in the Mississippi.
The general rendezvous of this gang of miscreants was on the Arkansas
side of the river, where they concealed their negroes in the morasses and
cane-brakes.

The depredations of this extensive combination were severely felt;
but so well were their plans arranged, that although Murel,
who was always active, was everywhere suspected, there was no proof
to be obtained.  It so happened, however, that a young man of the name
of Stewart, who was looking after two slaves which Murel had decoyed
away, fell in with him and obtained his confidence, took the oath,
and was admitted into the gang as one of the General Council.
By this means all was discovered; for Stewart turned traitor,
although he had taken the oath, and having obtained every information,
exposed the whole concern, the names of all the parties, and finally
succeeded in bringing home sufficient evidence against Murel,
to procure his conviction and sentence to the Penitentiary
(Murel was sentenced to fourteen years' imprisonment); so many
people who were supposed to be honest, and bore a respectable
name in the different States, were found to be among the list
of the Grand Council as published by Stewart, that every attempt
was made to throw discredit upon his assertions--his character
was vilified, and more than one attempt was made to assassinate him.
He was obliged to quit the Southern States in consequence.
It is, however, now well ascertained to have been all true;
and although some blame Mr. Stewart for having violated his oath,
they no longer attempt to deny that his revelations were correct.
I will quote one or two portions of Murel's confessions to
Mr. Stewart, made to him when they were journeying together.
I ought to have observed, that the ultimate intentions of Murel
and his associates were, by his own account, on a very extended scale;
having no less an object in view than RAISING THE BLACKS AGAINST
THE WHITES, TAKING POSSESSION OF, AND PLUNDERING NEW ORLEANS,
AND MAKING THEMSELVES POSSESSORS OF THE TERRITORY.  The following are
a few extracts:--

'I collected all my friends about New Orleans at one of our friends'
houses in that place, and we sat in council three days before we
got all our plans to our notion; we then determined to undertake
the rebellion at every hazard, and make as many friends as we
could for that purpose.  Every man's business being assigned him,
I started to Natchez on foot, having sold my horse in New Orleans,--
with the intention of stealing another after I started.
I walked four days, and no opportunity offered for me to get a horse.
The fifth day, about twelve, I had become tired, and stopped at a creek
to get some water and rest a little.  While I was sitting on a log,
looking down the road the way that I had come, a man came in sight
riding on a good-looking horse.  The very moment I saw him, I was
determined to have his horse, if he was in the garb of a traveler.
He rode up, and I saw from his equipage that he was a traveler.
I arose and drew an elegant rifle pistol on him and ordered him to dismount.
He did so, and I took his horse by the bridle and pointed down the creek,
and ordered him to walk before me.  He went a few hundred yards
and stopped.  I hitched his horse, and then made him undress himself,
all to his shirt and drawers, and ordered him to turn his back to me.
He said, 'If you are determined to kill me, let me have time to pray
before I die,' I told him I had no time to hear him pray.  He turned around
and dropped on his knees, and I shot him through the back of the head.
I ripped open his belly and took out his entrails, and sunk him in the creek.
I then searched his pockets, and found four hundred dollars and thirty-seven
cents, and a number of papers that I did not take time to examine.
I sunk the pocket-book and papers and his hat, in the creek.
His boots were brand-new, and fitted me genteelly; and I put
them on and sunk my old shoes in the creek, to atone for them.
I rolled up his clothes and put them into his portmanteau, as they were
brand-new cloth of the best quality.  I mounted as fine a horse as ever
I straddled, and directed my course for Natchez in much better style
than I had been for the last five days.

'Myself and a fellow by the name of Crenshaw gathered four good
horses and started for Georgia.  We got in company with a young
South Carolinian just before we got to Cumberland Mountain,
and Crenshaw soon knew all about his business.  He had been
to Tennessee to buy a drove of hogs, but when he got there pork
was dearer than he calculated, and he declined purchasing.
We concluded he was a prize.  Crenshaw winked at me; I understood
his idea.  Crenshaw had traveled the road before, but I never had;
we had traveled several miles on the mountain, when he passed
near a great precipice; just before we passed it Crenshaw asked
me for my whip, which had a pound of lead in the butt; I handed
it to him, and he rode up by the side of the South Carolinian,
and gave him a blow on the side of the head and tumbled him
from his horse; we lit from our horses and fingered his pockets;
we got twelve hundred and sixty-two dollars.  Crenshaw said
he knew a place to hide him, and he gathered him under his arms,
and I by his feet, and conveyed him to a deep crevice in the brow
of the precipice, and tumbled him into it, and he went out of sight;
we then tumbled in his saddle, and took his horse with us, which was
worth two hundred dollars.

'We were detained a few days, and during that time our friend went
to a little village in the neighborhood and saw the negro advertised
(a negro in our possession), and a description of the two men of whom
he had been purchased, and giving his suspicions of the men.
It was rather squally times, but any port in a storm:
we took the negro that night on the bank of a creek which runs
by the farm of our friend, and Crenshaw shot him through the head.
We took out his entrails and sunk him in the creek.

'He had sold the other negro the third time on Arkansaw River for upwards
of five hundred dollars; and then stole him and delivered him into the hand
of his friend, who conducted him to a swamp, and veiled the tragic scene,
and got the last gleanings and sacred pledge of secrecy; as a game of that
kind will not do unless it ends in a mystery to all but the fraternity.
He sold the negro, first and last, for nearly two thousand dollars,
and then put him for ever out of the reach of all pursuers; and they can
never graze him unless they can find the negro; and that they cannot do,
for his carcass has fed many a tortoise and catfish before this time,
and the frogs have sung this many a long day to the silent repose
of his skeleton.'

We were approaching Memphis, in front of which city, and witnessed by
its people, was fought the most famous of the river battles of the Civil War.
Two men whom I had served under, in my river days, took part in that fight:
Mr. Bixby, head pilot of the Union fleet, and Montgomery, Commodore of the
Confederate fleet.  Both saw a great deal of active service during the war,
and achieved high reputations for pluck and capacity.

As we neared Memphis, we began to cast about for an excuse to stay
with the 'Gold Dust' to the end of her course--Vicksburg.  We were
so pleasantly situated, that we did not wish to make a change.
I had an errand of considerable importance to do at Napoleon, Arkansas,
but perhaps I could manage it without quitting the 'Gold Dust.'
I said as much; so we decided to stick to present quarters.

The boat was to tarry at Memphis till ten the next morning.  It is a
beautiful city, nobly situated on a commanding bluff overlooking the river.
The streets are straight and spacious, though not paved in a way to incite
distempered admiration.  No, the admiration must be reserved for the town's
sewerage system, which is called perfect; a recent reform, however, for it
was just the other way, up to a few years ago--a reform resulting from
the lesson taught by a desolating visitation of the yellow-fever. In
those awful days the people were swept off by hundreds, by thousands;
and so great was the reduction caused by flight and by death together,
that the population was diminished three-fourths, and so remained for a time.
Business stood nearly still, and the streets bore an empty Sunday aspect.

Here is a picture of Memphis, at that disastrous time,
drawn by a German tourist who seems to have been an eye-witness
of the scenes which he describes.  It is from Chapter VII,
of his book, just published, in Leipzig, 'Mississippi-Fahrten, von
Ernst von Hesse-Wartegg.'--

'In August the yellow-fever had reached its extremest height.
Daily, hundreds fell a sacrifice to the terrible epidemic.
The city was become a mighty graveyard, two-thirds of the population
had deserted the place, and only the poor, the aged and the sick,
remained behind, a sure prey for the insidious enemy.
The houses were closed:  little lamps burned in front of many--
a sign that here death had entered.  Often, several lay
dead in a single house; from the windows hung black crape.
The stores were shut up, for their owners were gone away or dead.

'Fearful evil!  In the briefest space it struck down and swept away
even the most vigorous victim.  A slight indisposition, then an hour
of fever, then the hideous delirium, then--the Yellow Death !
On the street corners, and in the squares, lay sick men, suddenly overtaken
by the disease; and even corpses, distorted and rigid.  Food failed.
Meat spoiled in a few hours in the fetid and pestiferous air,
and turned black.

'Fearful clamors issue from many houses; then after a season
they cease, and all is still:  noble, self-sacrificing men come
with the coffin, nail it up, and carry it away, to the graveyard.
In the night stillness reigns.  Only the physicians and the
hearses hurry through the streets; and out of the distance,
at intervals, comes the muffled thunder of the railway train,
which with the speed of the wind, and as if hunted by furies,
flies by the pest-ridden city without halting.'

But there is life enough there now.  The population exceeds forty thousand
and is augmenting, and trade is in a flourishing condition.  We drove
about the city; visited the park and the sociable horde of squirrels there;
saw the fine residences, rose-clad and in other ways enticing to the eye;
and got a good breakfast at the hotel.

A thriving place is the Good Samaritan City of the Mississippi:
has a great wholesale jobbing trade; foundries, machine shops;
and manufactories of wagons, carriages, and cotton-seed oil;
and is shortly to have cotton mills and elevators.

Her cotton receipts reached five hundred thousand bales last year--
an increase of sixty thousand over the year before.  Out from
her healthy commercial heart issue five trunk lines of railway;
and a sixth is being added.

This is a very different Memphis from the one which the vanished
and unremembered procession of foreign tourists used to put
into their books long time ago.  In the days of the now
forgotten but once renowned and vigorously hated Mrs. Trollope,
Memphis seems to have consisted mainly of one long street of
log-houses, with some outlying cabins sprinkled around rearward
toward the woods; and now and then a pig, and no end of mud.
That was fifty-five years ago.  She stopped at the hotel.
Plainly it was not the one which gave us our breakfast.
She says--

'The table was laid for fifty persons, and was nearly full.
They ate in perfect silence, and with such astonishing rapidity
that their dinner was over literally before ours was begun;
the only sounds heard were those produced by the knives and forks,
with the unceasing chorus of coughing, ETC.'

'Coughing, etc.'  The 'etc.'  stands for an unpleasant word there,
a word which she does not always charitably cover up, but sometimes prints.
You will find it in the following description of a steamboat dinner
which she ate in company with a lot of aristocratic planters;
wealthy, well-born, ignorant swells they were, tinselled with the usual
harmless military and judicial titles of that old day of cheap shams
and windy pretense--

'The total want of all the usual courtesies of the table;
the voracious rapidity with which the viands were seized
and devoured; the strange uncouth phrases and pronunciation;
the loathsome spitting, from the contamination of which it
was absolutely impossible to protect our dresses; the frightful
manner of feeding with their knives, till the whole blade
seemed to enter into the mouth; and the still more frightful
manner of cleaning the teeth afterward with a pocket knife,
soon forced us to feel that we were not surrounded
by the generals, colonels, and majors of the old world;
and that the dinner hour was to be anything rather than an
hour of enjoyment.'




                               Chapter 3O
                           Sketches by the Way

IT was a big river, below Memphis; banks brimming full, everywhere,
and very frequently more than full, the waters pouring out over
the land, flooding the woods and fields for miles into the interior;
and in places, to a depth of fifteen feet; signs, all about,
of men's hard work gone to ruin, and all to be done
over again, with straitened means and a weakened courage.
A melancholy picture, and a continuous one;--hundreds of miles of it.
Sometimes the beacon lights stood in water three feet deep,
in the edge of dense forests which extended for miles without farm,
wood-yard, clearing, or break of any kind; which meant that
the keeper of the light must come in a skiff a great distance
to discharge his trust,--and often in desperate weather.
Yet I was told that the work is faithfully performed,
in all weathers; and not always by men, sometimes by women,
if the man is sick or absent.  The Government furnishes oil,
and pays ten or fifteen dollars a month for the lighting and tending.
A Government boat distributes oil and pays wages once a month.

The Ship Island region was as woodsy and tenantless as ever.
The island has ceased to be an island; has joined itself compactly
to the main shore, and wagons travel, now, where the steamboats used
to navigate.  No signs left of the wreck of the 'Pennsylvania.'
Some farmer will turn up her bones with his plow one day, no doubt,
and be surprised.

We were getting down now into the migrating negro region.
These poor people could never travel when they were slaves;
so they make up for the privation now.  They stay on a plantation till
the desire to travel seizes them; then they pack up, hail a steamboat,
and clear out.  Not for any particular place; no, nearly any
place will answer; they only want to be moving.  The amount
of money on hand will answer the rest of the conundrum for them.
If it will take them fifty miles, very well; let it be fifty.
If not, a shorter flight will do.

During a couple of days, we frequently answered these hails.
Sometimes there was a group of high-water-stained, tumble-down cabins,
populous with colored folk, and no whites visible; with grassless
patches of dry ground here and there; a few felled trees,
with skeleton cattle, mules, and horses, eating the leaves and
gnawing the bark--no other food for them in the flood-wasted land.
Sometimes there was a single lonely landing-cabin; near it
the colored family that had hailed us; little and big, old and young,
roosting on the scant pile of household goods; these consisting
of a rusty gun, some bed-ticks, chests, tinware, stools, a crippled
looking-glass, a venerable arm-chair, and six or eight base-born
and spiritless yellow curs, attached to the family by strings.
They must have their dogs; can't go without their dogs.
Yet the dogs are never willing; they always object; so, one after another,
in ridiculous procession, they are dragged aboard; all four feet
braced and sliding along the stage, head likely to be pulled off;
but the tugger marching determinedly forward, bending to his work,
with the rope over his shoulder for better purchase.
Sometimes a child is forgotten and left on the bank; but never
a dog.

The usual river-gossip going on in the pilot-house. Island No. 63--
an island with a lovely 'chute,' or passage, behind it in the former times.
They said Jesse Jamieson, in the 'Skylark,' had a visiting pilot
with him one trip--a poor old broken-down, superannuated fellow--
left him at the wheel, at the foot of 63, to run off the watch.
The ancient mariner went up through the chute, and down the river outside;
and up the chute and down the river again; and yet again and again;
and handed the boat over to the relieving pilot, at the end of three
hours of honest endeavor, at the same old foot of the island where
he had originally taken the wheel!  A darkey on shore who had observed
the boat go by, about thirteen times, said, ' 'clar to gracious,
I wouldn't be s'prised if dey's a whole line o' dem Sk'ylarks! '

Anecdote illustrative of influence of reputation in the changing
of opinion.  The 'Eclipse' was renowned for her swiftness.
One day she passed along; an old darkey on shore, absorbed in
his own matters, did not notice what steamer it was.
Presently someone asked--

'Any boat gone up?'

'Yes, sah.'

'Was she going fast?'

'Oh, so-so--loafin' along.'

'Now, do you know what boat that was?'

'No, sah.'

'Why, uncle, that was the "Eclipse."  '

'No!  Is dat so?  Well, I bet it was--cause she jes' went by here a-SPARKLIN'!'

Piece of history illustrative of the violent style of some of the people
down along here, During the early weeks of high water, A's fence rails
washed down on B's ground, and B's rails washed up in the eddy and landed
on A's ground.  A said, 'Let the thing remain so; I will use your rails,
and you use mine.'  But B objected--wouldn't have it so.  One day,
A came down on B's ground to get his rails.  B said, 'I'll kill you!'
and proceeded for him with his revolver.  A said, 'I'm not armed.'
So B, who wished to do only what was right, threw down his revolver;
then pulled a knife, and cut A's throat all around, but gave his
principal attention to the front, and so failed to sever the jugular.
Struggling around, A managed to get his hands on the discarded revolver,
and shot B dead with it--and recovered from his own injuries.

Further gossip;--after which, everybody went below to get
afternoon coffee, and left me at the wheel, alone,
Something presently reminded me of our last hour in St. Louis,
part of which I spent on this boat's hurricane deck, aft.
I was joined there by a stranger, who dropped into conversation
with me--a brisk young fellow, who said he was born in a town
in the interior of Wisconsin, and had never seen a steamboat
until a week before.  Also said that on the way down from La
Crosse he had inspected and examined his boat so diligently
and with such passionate interest that he had mastered the whole
thing from stem to rudder-blade. Asked me where I was from.
I answered, New England.  'Oh, a Yank!' said he; and went
chatting straight along, without waiting for assent or denial.
He immediately proposed to take me all over the boat and tell
me the names of her different parts, and teach me their uses.
Before I could enter protest or excuse, he was already
rattling glibly away at his benevolent work; and when I
perceived that he was misnaming the things, and inhospitably
amusing himself at the expense of an innocent stranger from
a far country, I held my peace, and let him have his way.
He gave me a world of misinformation; and the further he went,
the wider his imagination expanded, and the more he enjoyed
his cruel work of deceit.  Sometimes, after palming off
a particularly fantastic and outrageous lie upon me, he was
so 'full of laugh' that he had to step aside for a minute,
upon one pretext or another, to keep me from suspecting.
I staid faithfully by him until his comedy was finished.
Then he remarked that he had undertaken to 'learn' me
all about a steamboat, and had done it; but that if he had
overlooked anything, just ask him and he would supply the lack.
'Anything about this boat that you don't know the name
of or the purpose of, you come to me and I'll tell you.'
I said I would, and took my departure; disappeared, and approached
him from another quarter, whence he could not see me.
There he sat, all alone, doubling himself up and writhing
this way and that, in the throes of unappeasable laughter.
He must have made himself sick; for he was not publicly visible
afterward for several days.  Meantime, the episode dropped out
of my mind.

The thing that reminded me of it now, when I was alone at the wheel,
was the spectacle of this young fellow standing in the pilot-house door,
with the knob in his hand, silently and severely inspecting me.
I don't know when I have seen anybody look so injured as he did.
He did not say anything--simply stood there and looked;
reproachfully looked and pondered.  Finally he shut the door,
and started away; halted on the texas a minute; came slowly back
and stood in the door again, with that grieved look in his face;
gazed upon me awhile in meek rebuke, then said--

'You let me learn you all about a steamboat, didn't you?'

'Yes,' I confessed.

'Yes, you did--DIDN'T you?'

'Yes.'

' You are the feller that--that-- --'

Language failed.  Pause--impotent struggle for further words--
then he gave it up, choked out a deep, strong oath, and departed for good.
Afterward I saw him several times below during the trip; but he was cold--
would not look at me.  Idiot, if he had not been in such a sweat
to play his witless practical joke upon me, in the beginning,
I would have persuaded his thoughts into some other direction,
and saved him from committing that wanton and silly impoliteness.

I had myself called with the four o'clock watch, mornings,
for one cannot see too many summer sunrises on the Mississippi.
They are enchanting.  First, there is the eloquence of silence;
for a deep hush broods everywhere.  Next, there is the haunting
sense of loneliness, isolation, remoteness from the worry
and bustle of the world.  The dawn creeps in stealthily;
the solid walls of black forest soften to gray, and vast
stretches of the river open up and reveal themselves; the water
is glass-smooth, gives off spectral little wreaths of white mist,
there is not the faintest breath of wind, nor stir of leaf;
the tranquillity is profound and infinitely satisfying.
Then a bird pipes up, another follows, and soon the pipings
develop into a jubilant riot of music.  You see none of the birds;
you simply move through an atmosphere of song which seems
to sing itself.  When the light has become a little stronger,
you have one of the fairest and softest pictures imaginable.
You have the intense green of the massed and crowded foliage
near by; you see it paling shade by shade in front of you;
upon the next projecting cape, a mile off or more, the tint
has lightened to the tender young green of spring; the cape
beyond that one has almost lost color, and the furthest one,
miles away under the horizon, sleeps upon the water a mere
dim vapor, and hardly separable from the sky above it
and about it.  And all this stretch of river is a mirror,
and you have the shadowy reflections of the leafage and
the curving shores and the receding capes pictured in it.
Well, that is all beautiful; soft and rich and beautiful;
and when the sun gets well up, and distributes a pink flush
here and a powder of gold yonder and a purple haze where it will
yield the best effect, you grant that you have seen something
that is worth remembering.

We had the Kentucky Bend country in the early morning--
scene of a strange and tragic accident in the old times,
Captain Poe had a small stern-wheel boat, for years the home
of himself and his wife.  One night the boat struck a snag in
the head of Kentucky Bend, and sank with astonishing suddenness;
water already well above the cabin floor when the captain got aft.
So he cut into his wife's state-room from above with an ax;
she was asleep in the upper berth, the roof a flimsier one than
was supposed; the first blow crashed down through the rotten
boards and clove her skull.

This bend is all filled up now--result of a cut-off; and the same
agent has taken the great and once much-frequented Walnut Bend,
and set it away back in a solitude far from the accustomed track
of passing steamers.

Helena we visited, and also a town I had not heard of before, it being
of recent birth--Arkansas City.  It was born of a railway; the Little Rock,
Mississippi River and Texas Railroad touches the river there.
We asked a passenger who belonged there what sort of a place it was.
'Well,' said he, after considering, and with the air of one who
wishes to take time and be accurate, 'It's a hell of a place.'
A description which was photographic for exactness.  There were
several rows and clusters of shabby frame-houses, and a supply of mud
sufficient to insure the town against a famine in that article
for a hundred years; for the overflow had but lately subsided.
There were stagnant ponds in the streets, here and there, and a dozen
rude scows were scattered about, lying aground wherever they happened
to have been when the waters drained off and people could do their
visiting and shopping on foot once more.  Still, it is a thriving place,
with a rich country behind it, an elevator in front of it,
and also a fine big mill for the manufacture of cotton-seed oil.
I had never seen this kind of a mill before.

Cotton-seed was comparatively valueless in my time; but it
is worth $12 or $13 a ton now, and none of it is thrown away.
The oil made from it is colorless, tasteless, and almost if not
entirely odorless.  It is claimed that it can, by proper manipulation,
be made to resemble and perform the office of any and all oils,
and be produced at a cheaper rate than the cheapest of the originals.
Sagacious people shipped it to Italy, doctored it, labeled it,
and brought it back as olive oil.  This trade grew to be so formidable
that Italy was obliged to put a prohibitory impost upon it to keep it
from working serious injury to her oil industry.

Helena occupies one of the prettiest situations on the Mississippi.
Her perch is the last, the southernmost group of hills which one sees
on that side of the river.  In its normal condition it is a pretty town;
but the flood (or possibly the seepage) had lately been ravaging it;
whole streets of houses had been invaded by the muddy water,
and the outsides of the buildings were still belted with a broad stain
extending upwards from the foundations.  Stranded and discarded scows lay
all about; plank sidewalks on stilts four feet high were still standing;
the board sidewalks on the ground level were loose and ruinous,--
a couple of men trotting along them could make a blind man think
a cavalry charge was coming; everywhere the mud was black and deep,
and in many places malarious pools of stagnant water were standing.
A Mississippi inundation is the next most wasting and desolating
infliction to a fire.

We had an enjoyable time here, on this sunny Sunday:
two full hours' liberty ashore while the boat discharged freight.
In the back streets but few white people were visible,
but there were plenty of colored folk--mainly women and girls;
and almost without exception upholstered in bright new clothes
of swell and elaborate style and cut--a glaring and hilarious
contrast to the mournful mud and the pensive puddles.

Helena is the second town in Arkansas, in point of population--
which is placed at five thousand.  The country about it is
exceptionally productive.  Helena has a good cotton trade;
handles from forty to sixty thousand bales annually; she has
a large lumber and grain commerce; has a foundry, oil mills,
machine shops and wagon factories--in brief has $1,000,000
invested in manufacturing industries.  She has two railways,
and is the commercial center of a broad and prosperous region.
Her gross receipts of money, annually, from all sources, are placed by
the New Orleans 'Times-Democrat' at $4,000,000.




                               Chapter 31
                    A Thumb-print and What Came of It

WE were approaching Napoleon, Arkansas.  So I began to think
about my errand there.  Time, noonday; and bright and sunny.
This was bad--not best, anyway; for mine was not
(preferably) a noonday kind of errand.  The more I thought,
the more that fact pushed itself upon me--now in one form,
now in another.  Finally, it took the form of a distinct question:
is it good common sense to do the errand in daytime, when, by a
little sacrifice of comfort and inclination, you can have night
for it, and no inquisitive eyes around.  This settled it.
Plain question and plain answer make the shortest road out
of most perplexities.

I got my friends into my stateroom, and said I was sorry to create
annoyance and disappointment, but that upon reflection it really
seemed best that we put our luggage ashore and stop over at Napoleon.
Their disapproval was prompt and loud; their language mutinous.
Their main argument was one which has always been the first to come
to the surface, in such cases, since the beginning of time:
'But you decided and AGREED to stick to this boat, etc.; as if,
having determined to do an unwise thing, one is thereby bound to go ahead
and make TWO unwise things of it, by carrying out that determination.

I tried various mollifying tactics upon them, with reasonably good success:
under which encouragement, I increased my efforts; and, to show them that I
had not created this annoying errand, and was in no way to blame for it,
I presently drifted into its history--substantially as follows:

Toward the end of last year, I spent a few months in Munich, Bavaria.
In November I was living in Fraulein Dahlweiner's PENSION,
1a, Karlstrasse; but my working quarters were a mile from there,
in the house of a widow who supported herself by taking lodgers.
She and her two young children used to drop in every morning and talk
German to me--by request.  One day, during a ramble about the city,
I visited one of the two establishments where the Government keeps and
watches corpses until the doctors decide that they are permanently dead,
and not in a trance state.  It was a grisly place, that spacious room.
There were thirty-six corpses of adults in sight, stretched on their
backs on slightly slanted boards, in three long rows--all of them
with wax-white, rigid faces, and all of them wrapped in white shrouds.
Along the sides of the room were deep alcoves, like bay windows;
and in each of these lay several marble-visaged babes, utterly hidden and
buried under banks of fresh flowers, all but their faces and crossed hands.
Around a finger of each of these fifty still forms, both great
and small, was a ring; and from the ring a wire led to the ceiling,
and thence to a bell in a watch-room yonder, where, day and night,
a watchman sits always alert and ready to spring to the aid of any
of that pallid company who, waking out of death, shall make a movement--
for any, even the slightest, movement will twitch the wire and ring
that fearful bell.  I imagined myself a death-sentinel drowsing
there alone, far in the dragging watches of some wailing, gusty night,
and having in a twinkling all my body stricken to quivering jelly by
the sudden clamor of that awful summons!  So I inquired about this thing;
asked what resulted usually? if the watchman died, and the restored
corpse came and did what it could to make his last moments easy.
But I was rebuked for trying to feed an idle and frivolous curiosity
in so solemn and so mournful a place; and went my way with
a humbled crest.

Next morning I was telling the widow my adventure, when she exclaimed--

'Come with me!  I have a lodger who shall tell you all you want to know.
He has been a night-watchman there.'

He was a living man, but he did not look it.  He was abed, and had
his head propped high on pillows; his face was wasted and colorless,
his deep-sunken eyes were shut; his hand, lying on his breast,
was talon-like, it was so bony and long-fingered. The widow
began her introduction of me.  The man's eyes opened slowly,
and glittered wickedly out from the twilight of their caverns;
he frowned a black frown; he lifted his lean hand and waved us
peremptorily away.  But the widow kept straight on, till she
had got out the fact that I was a stranger and an American.
The man's face changed at once; brightened, became even eager--
and the next moment he and I were alone together.

I opened up in cast-iron German; he responded in quite flexible English;
thereafter we gave the German language a permanent rest.

This consumptive and I became good friends.  I visited him every day, and we
talked about everything.  At least, about everything but wives and children.
Let anybody's wife or anybody's child be mentioned, and three things
always followed:  the most gracious and loving and tender light glimmered
in the man's eyes for a moment; faded out the next, and in its place came
that deadly look which had flamed there the first time I ever saw his
lids unclose; thirdly, he ceased from speech, there and then for that day;
lay silent, abstracted, and absorbed; apparently heard nothing that I said;
took no notice of my good-byes, and plainly did not know, by either sight
or hearing, when I left the room.

When I had been this Karl Ritter's daily and sole intimate during two months,
he one day said, abruptly--

'I will tell you my story.'

                        A DYING MAN S CONFESSION

Then he went on as follows:--

I have never given up, until now.  But now I have given up.
I am going to die.  I made up my mind last night that it
must be, and very soon, too.  You say you are going to
revisit your river, by-and-bye, when you find opportunity.
Very well; that, together with a certain strange experience
which fell to my lot last night, determines me to tell you
my history--for you will see Napoleon, Arkansas; and for my
sake you will stop there, and do a certain thing for me--
a thing which you will willingly undertake after you shall have
heard my narrative.

Let us shorten the story wherever we can, for it will need it, being long.
You already know how I came to go to America, and how I came to settle
in that lonely region in the South.  But you do not know that I had a wife.
My wife was young, beautiful, loving, and oh, so divinely good and
blameless and gentle!  And our little girl was her mother in miniature.
It was the happiest of happy households.

One night--it was toward the close of the war--I woke up
out of a sodden lethargy, and found myself bound and gagged,
and the air tainted with chloroform!  I saw two men in the room,
and one was saying to the other, in a hoarse whisper, 'I told
her I would, if she made a noise, and as for the child--'

The other man interrupted in a low, half-crying voice--

'You said we'd only gag them and rob them, not hurt them;
or I wouldn't have come.'

'Shut up your whining; had to change the plan when they waked up;
you done all you could to protect them, now let that satisfy you;
come, help rummage.'

Both men were masked, and wore coarse, ragged 'nigger' clothes;
they had a bull's-eye lantern, and by its light I noticed
that the gentler robber had no thumb on his right hand.
They rummaged around my poor cabin for a moment; the head bandit
then said, in his stage whisper--

'It's a waste of time--he shall tell where it's hid.
Undo his gag, and revive him up.'

The other said--

'All right--provided no clubbing.'

'No clubbing it is, then--provided he keeps still.'

They approached me; just then there was a sound outside;
a sound of voices and trampling hoofs; the robbers held their
breath and listened; the sounds came slowly nearer and nearer;
then came a shout--

'HELLO, the house!  Show a light, we want water.'

'The captain's voice, by G----!' said the stage-whispering ruffian,
and both robbers fled by the way of the back door, shutting off
their bull's-eye as they ran.

The strangers shouted several times more, then rode by--
there seemed to be a dozen of the horses--and I heard nothing more.

I struggled, but could not free myself from my bonds.
I tried to speak, but the gag was effective; I could not make a sound.
I listened for my wife's voice and my child's--listened long and intently,
but no sound came from the other end of the room where their bed was.
This silence became more and more awful, more and more ominous,
every moment.  Could you have endured an hour of it, do you think?
Pity me, then, who had to endure three.  Three hours--? it was three ages!
Whenever the clock struck, it seemed as if years had gone by since I
had heard it last.  All this time I was struggling in my bonds;
and at last, about dawn, I got myself free, and rose up and stretched
my stiff limbs.  I was able to distinguish details pretty well.
The floor was littered with things thrown there by the robbers
during their search for my savings.  The first object that caught
my particular attention was a document of mine which I had seen
the rougher of the two ruffians glance at and then cast away.
It had blood on it!  I staggered to the other end of the room.
Oh, poor unoffending, helpless ones, there they lay, their troubles ended,
mine begun!

Did I appeal to the law--I?  Does it quench the pauper's thirst if the King
drink for him?  Oh, no, no, no--I wanted no impertinent interference of
the law.  Laws and the gallows could not pay the debt that was owing to me!
Let the laws leave the matter in my hands, and have no fears:  I would
find the debtor and collect the debt.  How accomplish this, do you say?
How accomplish it, and feel so sure about it, when I had neither seen
the robbers' faces, nor heard their natural voices, nor had any idea
who they might be?  Nevertheless, I WAS sure--quite sure, quite confident.
I had a clue--a clue which you would not have valued--a clue which would
not have greatly helped even a detective, since he would lack the secret
of how to apply it.  I shall come to that, presently--you shall see.
Let us go on, now, taking things in their due order.  There was one
circumstance which gave me a slant in a definite direction to begin with:
Those two robbers were manifestly soldiers in tramp disguise; and not
new to military service, but old in it--regulars, perhaps; they did
not acquire their soldierly attitude, gestures, carriage, in a day,
nor a month, nor yet in a year.  So I thought, but said nothing.
And one of them had said, 'the captain's voice, by G----!'--the one whose
life I would have.  Two miles away, several regiments were in camp,
and two companies of U.S. cavalry.  When I learned that Captain Blakely,
of Company C had passed our way, that night, with an escort, I said nothing,
but in that company I resolved to seek my man.  In conversation I studiously
and persistently described the robbers as tramps, camp followers;
and among this class the people made useless search, none suspecting the
soldiers but me.

Working patiently, by night, in my desolated home, I made
a disguise for myself out of various odds and ends of clothing;
in the nearest village I bought a pair of blue goggles.
By-and-bye, when the military camp broke up, and Company C was
ordered a hundred miles north, to Napoleon, I secreted my small
hoard of money in my belt, and took my departure in the night.
When Company C arrived in Napoleon, I was already there.
Yes, I was there, with a new trade--fortune-teller. Not to seem partial,
I made friends and told fortunes among all the companies
garrisoned there; but I gave Company C the great bulk of my attentions.
I made myself limitlessly obliging to these particular men;
they could ask me no favor, put upon me no risk, which I would decline.
I became the willing butt of their jokes; this perfected my popularity;
I became a favorite.

I early found a private who lacked a thumb--what joy it was to me!
And when I found that he alone, of all the company, had lost
a thumb, my last misgiving vanished; I was SURE I was on
the right track.  This man's name was Kruger, a German.
There were nine Germans in the company.  I watched, to see who might
be his intimates; but he seemed to have no especial intimates.
But I was his intimate; and I took care to make the intimacy grow.
Sometimes I so hungered for my revenge that I could hardly
restrain myself from going on my knees and begging him to point
out the man who had murdered my wife and child; but I managed
to bridle my tongue.  I bided my time, and went on telling fortunes,
as opportunity offered.

My apparatus was simple:  a little red paint and a bit of white paper.
I painted the ball of the client's thumb, took a print of it on the paper,
studied it that night, and revealed his fortune to him next day.
What was my idea in this nonsense?  It was this:  When I was a youth,
I knew an old Frenchman who had been a prison-keeper for thirty years,
and he told me that there was one thing about a person which never changed,
from the cradle to the grave--the lines in the ball of the thumb;
and he said that these lines were never exactly alike in the thumbs
of any two human beings.  In these days, we photograph the new criminal,
and hang his picture in the Rogues' Gallery for future reference;
but that Frenchman, in his day, used to take a print of the ball of a new
prisoner's thumb and put that away for future reference.  He always said
that pictures were no good--future disguises could make them useless;
'The thumb's the only sure thing,' said he; 'you can't disguise that.'
And he used to prove his theory, too, on my friends and acquaintances;
it always succeeded.

I went on telling fortunes.  Every night I shut myself in, all alone,
and studied the day's thumb-prints with a magnifying-glass. Imagine
the devouring eagerness with which I pored over those mazy red spirals,
with that document by my side which bore the right-hand thumb-and-finger-marks
of that unknown murderer, printed with the dearest blood--to me--
that was ever shed on this earth!  And many and many a time I had to repeat
the same old disappointed remark, 'will they NEVER correspond!'

But my reward came at last.  It was the print of the thumb of the forty-third
man of Company C whom I had experimented on--Private Franz Adler.
An hour before, I did not know the murderer's name, or voice,
or figure, or face, or nationality; but now I knew all these things!
I believed I might feel sure; the Frenchman's repeated demonstrations
being so good a warranty.  Still, there was a way to MAKE sure.
I had an impression of Kruger's left thumb.  In the morning I took him aside
when he was off duty; and when we were out of sight and hearing of witnesses,
I said, impressively-

'A part of your fortune is so grave, that I thought it would be
better for you if I did not tell it in public.  You and another man,
whose fortune I was studying last night,--Private Adler,--
have been murdering a woman and a child!  You are being dogged:
within five days both of you will be assassinated.'

He dropped on his knees, frightened out of his wits;
and for five minutes he kept pouring out the same set of words,
like a demented person, and in the same half-crying way which
was one of my memories of that murderous night in my cabin--

'I didn't do it; upon my soul I didn't do it; and I tried
to keep HIM from doing it; I did, as God is my witness.
He did it alone.'

This was all I wanted.  And I tried to get rid of the fool; but no,
he clung to me, imploring me to save him from the assassin.  He said--

'I have money--ten thousand dollars--hid away, the fruit of loot
and thievery; save me--tell me what to do, and you shall
have it, every penny.  Two-thirds of it is my cousin Adler's;
but you can take it all.  We hid it when we first came here.
But I hid it in a new place yesterday, and have not told him--
shall not tell him.  I was going to desert, and get away with it all.
It is gold, and too heavy to carry when one is running and dodging;
but a woman who has been gone over the river two days to prepare
my way for me is going to follow me with it; and if I got no chance
to describe the hiding-place to her I was going to slip my silver
watch into her hand, or send it to her, and she would understand.
There's a piece of paper in the back of the case, which tells it all.
Here, take the watch--tell me what to do!'

He was trying to press his watch upon me, and was exposing the paper
and explaining it to me, when Adler appeared on the scene,
about a dozen yards away.  I said to poor Kruger--

'Put up your watch, I don't want it.  You shan't come
to any harm.  Go, now; I must tell Adler his fortune.
Presently I will tell you how to escape the assassin;
meantime I shall have to examine your thumbmark again.
Say nothing to Adler about this thing--say nothing to anybody.'

He went away filled with fright and gratitude, poor devil.
I told Adler a long fortune--purposely so long that I could
not finish it; promised to come to him on guard, that night,
and tell him the really important part of it--the tragical
part of it, I said--so must be out of reach of eavesdroppers.
They always kept a picket-watch outside the town--mere discipline
and ceremony--no occasion for it, no enemy around.

Toward midnight I set out, equipped with the countersign,
and picked my way toward the lonely region where Adler was
to keep his watch.  It was so dark that I stumbled right on
a dim figure almost before I could get out a protecting word.
The sentinel hailed and I answered, both at the same moment.
I added, 'It's only me--the fortune-teller.' Then I slipped to the poor
devil's side, and without a word I drove my dirk into his heart!
YA WOHL, laughed I, it WAS the tragedy part of his fortune, indeed!
As he fell from his horse, he clutched at me, and my blue goggles
remained in his hand; and away plunged the beast dragging him,
with his foot in the stirrup.

I fled through the woods, and made good my escape, leaving the accusing
goggles behind me in that dead man's hand.

This was fifteen or sixteen years ago.  Since then I have wandered
aimlessly about the earth, sometimes at work, sometimes idle;
sometimes with money, sometimes with none; but always tired of life,
and wishing it was done, for my mission here was finished, with the act
of that night; and the only pleasure, solace, satisfaction I had,
in all those tedious years, was in the daily reflection,
'I have killed him!'

Four years ago, my health began to fail.  I had wandered into Munich,
in my purposeless way.  Being out of money, I sought work,
and got it; did my duty faithfully about a year, and was then
given the berth of night watchman yonder in that dead-house
which you visited lately.  The place suited my mood.  I liked it.
I liked being with the dead--liked being alone with them.
I used to wander among those rigid corpses, and peer into
their austere faces, by the hour.  The later the time,
the more impressive it was; I preferred the late time.
Sometimes I turned the lights low:  this gave perspective, you see;
and the imagination could play; always, the dim receding ranks
of the dead inspired one with weird and fascinating fancies.
Two years ago--I had been there a year then--I was sitting all alone
in the watch-room, one gusty winter's night, chilled, numb, comfortless;
drowsing gradually into unconsciousness; the sobbing of the wind
and the slamming of distant shutters falling fainter and fainter
upon my dulling ear each moment, when sharp and suddenly
that dead-bell rang out a blood-curdling alarum over my head!
The shock of it nearly paralyzed me; for it was the first time I had
ever heard it.

I gathered myself together and flew to the corpse-room. About midway
down the outside rank, a shrouded figure was sitting upright,
wagging its head slowly from one side to the other--a grisly spectacle!
Its side was toward me.  I hurried to it and peered into its face.
Heavens, it was Adler!

Can you divine what my first thought was?  Put into words,
it was this:  'It seems, then, you escaped me once:
there will be a different result this time!'

Evidently this creature was suffering unimaginable terrors.
Think what it must have been to wake up in the midst of that
voiceless hush, and, look out over that grim congregation
of the dead!  What gratitude shone in his skinny white face
when he saw a living form before him!  And how the fervency
of this mute gratitude was augmented when his eyes fell
upon the life-giving cordials which I carried in my hands!
Then imagine the horror which came into this pinched face when I
put the cordials behind me, and said mockingly--

'Speak up, Franz Adler--call upon these dead.  Doubtless they will listen
and have pity; but here there is none else that will.'

He tried to speak, but that part of the shroud which bound his jaws,
held firm and would not let him.  He tried to lift imploring hands,
but they were crossed upon his breast and tied.  I said-

'Shout, Franz Adler; make the sleepers in the distant
streets hear you and bring help.  Shout--and lose no time,
for there is little to lose.  What, you cannot?  That is a pity;
but it is no matter--it does not always bring help.
When you and your cousin murdered a helpless woman and child
in a cabin in Arkansas--my wife, it was, and my child!--
they shrieked for help, you remember; but it did no good;
you remember that it did no good, is it not so?  Your teeth chatter--
then why cannot you shout?  Loosen the bandages with your hands--
then you can.  Ah, I see--your hands are tied, they cannot aid you.
How strangely things repeat themselves, after long years;
for MY hands were tied, that night, you remember?  Yes, tied much
as yours are now--how odd that is.  I could not pull free.
It did not occur to you to untie me; it does not occur
to me to untie you.  Sh----! there's a late footstep.
It is coming this way.  Hark, how near it is!  One can count
the footfalls--one--two--three.  There--it is just outside.
Now is the time!  Shout, man, shout!--it is the one sole chance
between you and eternity!  Ah, you see you have delayed too long--
it is gone by.  There--it is dying out.  It is gone!  Think of it--
reflect upon it--you have heard a human footstep for the last time.
How curious it must be, to listen to so common a sound as that,
and know that one will never hear the fellow to it again.'

Oh, my friend, the agony in that shrouded face was ecstasy to see!
I thought of a new torture, and applied it--assisting myself with a trifle
of lying invention--

'That poor Kruger tried to save my wife and child, and I
did him a grateful good turn for it when the time came.
I persuaded him to rob you; and I and a woman helped him to desert,
and got him away in safety.'  A look as of surprise and triumph
shone out dimly through the anguish in my victim's face.
I was disturbed, disquieted.  I said--

'What, then--didn't he escape?'

A negative shake of the head.

'No?  What happened, then?'

The satisfaction in the shrouded face was still plainer.
The man tried to mumble out some words--could not succeed;
tried to express something with his obstructed hands--failed;
paused a moment, then feebly tilted his head, in a meaning way,
toward the corpse that lay nearest him.

'Dead?'  I asked.  'Failed to escape?--caught in the act and shot?'

Negative shake of the head.

'How, then?'

Again the man tried to do something with his hands.  I watched closely,
but could not guess the intent.  I bent over and watched still more intently.
He had twisted a thumb around and was weakly punching at his breast with it.
'Ah--stabbed, do you mean?'

Affirmative nod, accompanied by a spectral smile of such
peculiar devilishness, that it struck an awakening light
through my dull brain, and I cried--

'Did I stab him, mistaking him for you?--for that stroke was meant
for none but you.'

The affirmative nod of the re-dying rascal was as joyous as his failing
strength was able to put into its expression.

'O, miserable, miserable me, to slaughter the pitying soul that,
stood a friend to my darlings when they were helpless, and would
have saved them if he could! miserable, oh, miserable, miserable me!'

I fancied I heard the muffled gurgle of a, mocking laugh.
I took my face out of my hands, and saw my enemy sinking back upon
his inclined board.

He was a satisfactory long time dying.  He had a wonderful vitality,
an astonishing constitution.  Yes, he was a pleasant long time at it.
I got a chair and a newspaper, and sat down by him and read.
Occasionally I took a sip of brandy.  This was necessary,
on account of the cold.  But I did it partly because I saw,
that along at first, whenever I reached for the bottle,
he thought I was going to give him some.  I read aloud:
mainly imaginary accounts of people snatched from the grave's
threshold and restored to life and vigor by a few spoonsful
of liquor and a warm bath.  Yes, he had a long, hard death of it--
three hours and six minutes, from the time he rang his bell.

It is believed that in all these eighteen years that have elapsed since
the institution of the corpse-watch, no shrouded occupant of the Bavarian
dead-houses has ever rung its bell.  Well, it is a harmless belief.
Let it stand at that.

The chill of that death-room had penetrated my bones.
It revived and fastened upon me the disease which had been
afflicting me, but which, up to that night, had been
steadily disappearing.  That man murdered my wife and my child;
and in three days hence he will have added me to his list.
No matter--God! how delicious the memory of it!--I caught him
escaping from his grave, and thrust him back into it.

After that night, I was confined to my bed for a week;
but as soon as I could get about, I went to the dead-house
books and got the number of the house which Adler had died in.
A wretched lodging-house, it was.  It was my idea that he would
naturally have gotten hold of Kruger's effects, being his cousin;
and I wanted to get Kruger's watch, if I could.  But while I was sick,
Adler's things had been sold and scattered, all except a few old letters,
and some odds and ends of no value.  However, through those letters,
I traced out a son of Kruger's, the only relative left.
He is a man of thirty now, a shoemaker by trade, and living at
No. 14 Konigstrasse, Mannheim--widower, with several small children.
Without explaining to him why, I have furnished two-thirds of
his support, ever since.

Now, as to that watch--see how strangely things happen!
I traced it around and about Germany for more than a year,
at considerable cost in money and vexation; and at last I got it.
Got it, and was unspeakably glad; opened it, and found nothing
in it!  Why, I might have known that that bit of paper was not
going to stay there all this time.  Of course I gave up that ten
thousand dollars then; gave it up, and dropped it out of my mind:
and most sorrowfully, for I had wanted it for Kruger's son.

Last night, when I consented at last that I must die, I began to
make ready.  I proceeded to burn all useless papers; and sure enough,
from a batch of Adler's, not previously examined with thoroughness,
out dropped that long-desired scrap!  I recognized it in a moment.
Here it is--I will translate it:

'Brick livery stable, stone foundation, middle of town, corner of Orleans
and Market.  Corner toward Court-house. Third stone, fourth row.
Stick notice there, saying how many are to come.'


There--take it, and preserve it.  Kruger explained that that stone
was removable; and that it was in the north wall of the foundation,
fourth row from the top, and third stone from the west.
The money is secreted behind it.  He said the closing sentence was
a blind, to mislead in case the paper should fall into wrong hands.
It probably performed that office for Adler.

Now I want to beg that when you make your intended journey down the river,
you will hunt out that hidden money, and send it to Adam Kruger, care of
the Mannheim address which I have mentioned.  It will make a rich man of him,
and I shall sleep the sounder in my grave for knowing that I have done
what I could for the son of the man who tried to save my wife and child--
albeit my hand ignorantly struck him down, whereas the impulse of my heart
would have been to shield and serve him.




                               Chapter 32
                        The Disposal of a Bonanza

'SUCH was Ritter's narrative,' said I to my two friends.
There was a profound and impressive silence, which lasted
a considerable time; then both men broke into a fusillade
of exciting and admiring ejaculations over the strange incidents
of the tale; and this, along with a rattling fire of questions,
was kept up until all hands were about out of breath.
Then my friends began to cool down, and draw off,
under shelter of occasional volleys, into silence and
abysmal reverie.  For ten minutes now, there was stillness.
Then Rogers said dreamily--

'Ten thousand dollars.'

Adding, after a considerable pause--

'Ten thousand.  It is a heap of money.'

Presently the poet inquired--

'Are you going to send it to him right away?'

'Yes,' I said.  'It is a queer question.'

No reply.  After a little, Rogers asked, hesitatingly:

'ALL of it?--That is--I mean----'

'Certainly, all of it.'

I was going to say more, but stopped--was stopped by a
train of thought which started up in me.  Thompson spoke,
but my mind was absent, and I did not catch what he said.
But I heard Rogers answer--

'Yes, it seems so to me.  It ought to be quite sufficient;
for I don't see that he has done anything.'

Presently the poet said--

'When you come to look at it, it is more than sufficient.  Just look at it--
five thousand dollars!  Why, he couldn't spend it in a lifetime!
And it would injure him, too; perhaps ruin him--you want to look at that.
In a little while he would throw his last away, shut up his shop, maybe take
to drinking, maltreat his motherless children, drift into other evil courses,
go steadily from bad to worse----'

'Yes, that's it,' interrupted Rogers, fervently, 'I've seen it
a hundred times--yes, more than a hundred.  You put money into
the hands of a man like that, if you want to destroy him, that's all;
just put money into his hands, it's all you've got to do;
and if it don't pull him down, and take all the usefulness out of him,
and all the self-respect and everything, then I don't know human nature--
ain't that so, Thompson?  And even if we were to give him a THIRD
of it; why, in less than six months--'

'Less than six WEEKS, you'd better say!' said I, warming up and breaking in.
'Unless he had that three thousand dollars in safe hands where he couldn't
touch it, he would no more last you six weeks than---- '

'Of COURSE he wouldn't,' said Thompson; 'I've edited books for that
kind of people; and the moment they get their hands on the royalty--
maybe it's three thousand, maybe it's two thousand----'

'What business has that shoemaker with two thousand dollars,
I should like to know?' broke in Rogers, earnestly.  'A man perhaps
perfectly contented now, there in Mannheim, surrounded by his own class,
eating his bread with the appetite which laborious industry alone
can give, enjoying his humble life, honest, upright, pure in heart;
and BLEST!--yes, I say blest! blest above all the myriads that go
in silk attire and walk the empty artificial round of social folly--
but just you put that temptation before him once! just you lay fifteen
hundred dollars before a man like that, and say----'

'Fifteen hundred devils!' cried I, 'FIVE hundred would rot his principles,
paralyze his industry, drag him to the rumshop, thence to the gutter,
thence to the almshouse, thence to----'

'WHY put upon ourselves this crime, gentlemen?' interrupted the poet
earnestly and appealingly.  'He is happy where he is, and AS he is.
Every sentiment of honor, every sentiment of charity, every sentiment
of high and sacred benevolence warns us, beseeches us, commands us to leave
him undisturbed.  That is real friendship, that is true friendship.
We could follow other courses that would be more showy; but none that would
be so truly kind and wise, depend upon it.'

After some further talk, it became evident that each of us, down in his heart,
felt some misgivings over this settlement of the matter.  It was manifest
that we all felt that we ought to send the poor shoemaker SOMETHING.
There was long and thoughtful discussion of this point; and we finally decided
to send him a chromo.

Well, now that everything seemed to be arranged satisfactorily
to everybody concerned, a new trouble broke out:  it transpired that
these two men were expecting to share equally in the money with me.
That was not my idea.  I said that if they got half of it between them
they might consider themselves lucky.  Rogers said--

'Who would have had ANY if it hadn't been for me?  I flung out the first hint--
but for that it would all have gone to the shoemaker.'

Thompson said that he was thinking of the thing himself at the very moment
that Rogers had originally spoken.

I retorted that the idea would have occurred to me plenty soon enough,
and without anybody's help.  I was slow about thinking, maybe, but I was sure.

This matter warmed up into a quarrel; then into a fight; and each man
got pretty badly battered.  As soon as I had got myself mended up after
a fashion, I ascended to the hurricane deck in a pretty sour humor.
I found Captain McCord there, and said, as pleasantly as my humor would permit--

'I have come to say good-bye, captain.  I wish to go ashore at Napoleon.'

'Go ashore where?'

'Napoleon.'

The captain laughed; but seeing that I was not in a jovial mood,
stopped that and said--

'But are you serious?'

'Serious?  I certainly am.'

The captain glanced up at the pilot-house and said--

'He wants to get off at Napoleon!'

'Napoleon ?'

'That's what he says.'

'Great Caesar's ghost!'

Uncle Mumford approached along the deck.  The captain said--

'Uncle, here's a friend of yours wants to get off at Napoleon!'

'Well, by ----?'

I said--

'Come, what is all this about?  Can't a man go ashore at Napoleon
if he wants to?'

'Why, hang it, don't you know?  There ISN'T any Napoleon any more.
Hasn't been for years and years.  The Arkansas River burst through it,
tore it all to rags, and emptied it into the Mississippi!'

'Carried the WHOLE town away?-banks, churches, jails,
newspaper-offices, court-house, theater, fire department,
livery stable EVERYTHING ?'

'Everything.  just a fifteen-minute job.'  or such a matter.
Didn't leave hide nor hair, shred nor shingle of it, except the
fag-end of a shanty and one brick chimney.  This boat is paddling
along right now, where the dead-center of that town used to be;
yonder is the brick chimney-all that's left of Napoleon.
These dense woods on the right used to be a mile back of the town.
Take a look behind you--up-stream--now you begin to recognize
this country, don't you?'

'Yes, I do recognize it now.  It is the most wonderful thing I ever heard of;
by a long shot the most wonderful--and unexpected.'

Mr. Thompson and Mr. Rogers had arrived, meantime, with satchels
and umbrellas, and had silently listened to the captain's news.
Thompson put a half-dollar in my hand and said softly--

'For my share of the chromo.'

Rogers followed suit.

Yes, it was an astonishing thing to see the Mississippi rolling
between unpeopled shores and straight over the spot where I
used to see a good big self-complacent town twenty years ago.
Town that was county-seat of a great and important county; town with
a big United States marine hospital; town of innumerable fights--
an inquest every day; town where I had used to know the prettiest girl,
and the most accomplished in the whole Mississippi Valley;
town where we were handed the first printed news of the 'Pennsylvania's'
mournful disaster a quarter of a century ago; a town no more--
swallowed up, vanished, gone to feed the fishes; nothing left but a
fragment of a shanty and a crumbling brick chimney!




                               Chapter 33
                         Refreshments and Ethics

IN regard to Island 74, which is situated not far from the former Napoleon,
a freak of the river here has sorely perplexed the laws of men and made
them a vanity and a jest.  When the State of Arkansas was chartered,
she controlled 'to the center of the river'--a most unstable line.  The State
of Mississippi claimed 'to the channel'--another shifty and unstable line.
No. 74 belonged to Arkansas.  By and by a cut-off threw this big island out
of Arkansas, and yet not within Mississippi.  'Middle of the river' on one
side of it, 'channel' on the other.  That is as I understand the problem.
Whether I have got the details right or wrong, this FACT remains:
that here is this big and exceedingly valuable island of four thousand acres,
thrust out in the cold, and belonging to neither the one State nor the other;
paying taxes to neither, owing allegiance to neither.  One man owns
the whole island, and of right is 'the man without a country.'

Island 92 belongs to Arkansas.  The river moved it over
and joined it to Mississippi.  A chap established a whiskey
shop there, without a Mississippi license, and enriched
himself upon Mississippi custom under Arkansas protection
(where no license was in those days required).

We glided steadily down the river in the usual privacy--
steamboat or other moving thing seldom seen.  Scenery as always:
stretch upon stretch of almost unbroken forest, on both sides
of the river; soundless solitude.  Here and there a cabin or two,
standing in small openings on the gray and grassless banks--
cabins which had formerly stood a quarter or half-mile farther
to the front, and gradually been pulled farther and farther back
as the shores caved in.  As at Pilcher's Point, for instance,
where the cabins had been moved back three hundred yards
in three months, so we were told; but the caving banks had
already caught up with them, and they were being conveyed
rearward once more.

Napoleon had but small opinion of Greenville, Mississippi, in the old times;
but behold, Napoleon is gone to the cat-fishes, and here is Greenville full
of life and activity, and making a considerable flourish in the Valley;
having three thousand inhabitants, it is said, and doing a gross trade of
$2,500,000 annually.  A growing town.

There was much talk on the boat about the Calhoun Land Company,
an enterprise which is expected to work wholesome results.
Colonel Calhoun, a grandson of the statesman, went to Boston
and formed a syndicate which purchased a large tract of land on
the river, in Chicot County, Arkansas--some ten thousand acres--
for cotton-growing. The purpose is to work on a cash basis:
buy at first hands, and handle their own product; supply their negro
laborers with provisions and necessaries at a trifling profit,
say 8 or 10 per cent.; furnish them comfortable quarters,
etc., and encourage them to save money and remain on the place.
If this proves a financial success, as seems quite certain,
they propose to establish a banking-house in Greenville,
and lend money at an unburdensome rate of interest--6 per cent.
is spoken of.

The trouble heretofore has been--I am quoting remarks of planters
and steamboatmen--that the planters, although owning the land,
were without cash capital; had to hypothecate both land and crop
to carry on the business.  Consequently, the commission dealer
who furnishes the money takes some risk and demands big interest--
usually 10 per cent., and 2<half> per cent.  for negotiating the loan.
The planter has also to buy his supplies through the same dealer,
paying commissions and profits.  Then when he ships his crop,
the dealer adds his commissions, insurance, etc.  So, taking it
by and large, and first and last, the dealer's share of that crop
is about 25 per cent.'<footnote ['But what can the State do
where the people are under subjection to rates of interest ranging
from 18 to 30 per cent., and are also under the necessity of
purchasing their crops in advance even of planting, at these rates,
for the privilege of purchasing all their supplies at 100 per cent.
profit?'--EDWARD ATKINSON.]>

A cotton-planter's estimate of the average margin of profit
on planting, in his section:  One man and mule will raise ten
acres of cotton, giving ten bales cotton, worth, say, $500; cost
of producing, say $350; net profit, $150, or $15 per acre.
There is also a profit now from the cotton-seed, which formerly
had little value--none where much transportation was necessary.
In sixteen hundred pounds crude cotton four hundred are lint,
worth, say, ten cents a pound; and twelve hundred pounds of seed,
worth $12 or $13 per ton.  Maybe in future even the stems will
not be thrown away.  Mr. Edward Atkinson says that for each
bale of cotton there are fifteen hundred pounds of stems,
and that these are very rich in phosphate of lime and potash;
that when ground and mixed with ensilage or cotton-seed meal
(which is too rich for use as fodder in large quantities),
the stem mixture makes a superior food, rich in all the
elements needed for the production of milk, meat, and bone.
Heretofore the stems have been considered a nuisance.

Complaint is made that the planter remains grouty toward the former slave,
since the war; will have nothing but a chill business relation with him,
no sentiment permitted to intrude, will not keep a 'store' himself,
and supply the negro's wants and thus protect the negro's pocket
and make him able and willing to stay on the place and an advantage
to him to do it, but lets that privilege to some thrifty Israelite,
who encourages the thoughtless negro and wife to buy all sorts
of things which they could do without--buy on credit, at big prices,
month after month, credit based on the negro's share of the growing crop;
and at the end of the season, the negro's share belongs to the Israelite,'
the negro is in debt besides, is discouraged, dissatisfied, restless, and both
he and the planter are injured; for he will take steamboat and migrate,
and the planter must get a stranger in his place who does not know him,
does not care for him, will fatten the Israelite a season, and follow his
predecessor per steamboat.

It is hoped that the Calhoun Company will show, by its
humane and protective treatment of its laborers, that its
method is the most profitable for both planter and negro;
and it is believed that a general adoption of that method
will then follow.

And where so many are saying their say, shall not the
barkeeper testify?  He is thoughtful, observant, never drinks;
endeavors to earn his salary, and WOULD earn it if there
were custom enough.  He says the people along here in
Mississippi and Louisiana will send up the river to buy
vegetables rather than raise them, and they will come
aboard at the landings and buy fruits of the barkeeper.
Thinks they 'don't know anything but cotton;' believes they
don't know how to raise vegetables and fruit--'at least the most
of them.'  Says 'a nigger will go to H for a watermelon'
('H' is all I find in the stenographer's report--
means Halifax probably, though that seems a good way to go
for a watermelon). Barkeeper buys watermelons for five cents
up the river, brings them down and sells them for fifty.
'Why does he mix such elaborate and picturesque drinks for the
nigger hands on the boat?'  Because they won't have any other.
'They want a big drink; don't make any difference what
you make it of, they want the worth of their money.
You give a nigger a plain gill of half-a-dollar brandy for
five cents--will he touch it?  No. Ain't size enough to it.
But you put up a pint of all kinds of worthless rubbish, and heave
in some red stuff to make it beautiful--red's the main thing--
and he wouldn't put down that glass to go to a circus.'
All the bars on this Anchor Line are rented and owned
by one firm.  They furnish the liquors from their
own establishment, and hire the barkeepers 'on salary.'
Good liquors?  Yes, on some of the boats, where there are
the kind of passengers that want it and can pay for it.
On the other boats?  No. Nobody but the deck hands and firemen
to drink it.  'Brandy?  Yes, I've got brandy, plenty of it;
but you don't want any of it unless you've made your will.'
It isn't as it used to be in the old times.  Then everybody traveled
by steamboat, everybody drank, and everybody treated everybody else.
'Now most everybody goes by railroad, and the rest don't drink.'
In the old times the barkeeper owned the bar himself, 'and was
gay and smarty and talky and all jeweled up, and was the toniest
aristocrat on the boat; used to make $2,000 on a trip.
A father who left his son a steamboat bar, left him a fortune.
Now he leaves him board and lodging; yes, and washing,
if a shirt a trip will do.  Yes, indeedy, times are changed.
Why, do you know, on the principal line of boats on
the Upper Mississippi, they don't have any bar at all!
Sounds like poetry, but it's the petrified truth.'




                               Chapter 34
                               Tough Yarns

STACK ISLAND.  I remembered Stack Island; also Lake Providence,
Louisiana--which is the first distinctly Southern-looking town
you come to, downward-bound; lies level and low, shade-trees hung
with venerable gray beards of Spanish moss; 'restful, pensive,
Sunday aspect about the place,' comments Uncle Mumford, with feeling--
also with truth.

A Mr. H. furnished some minor details of fact concerning this
region which I would have hesitated to believe if I had not
known him to be a steamboat mate.  He was a passenger of ours,
a resident of Arkansas City, and bound to Vicksburg to join his boat,
a little Sunflower packet.  He was an austere man, and had
the reputation of being singularly unworldly, for a river man.
Among other things, he said that Arkansas had been injured and kept
back by generations of exaggerations concerning the mosquitoes here.
One may smile, said he, and turn the matter off as being a small thing;
but when you come to look at the effects produced, in the way
of discouragement of immigration, and diminished values of property,
it was quite the opposite of a small thing, or thing in any wise
to be coughed down or sneered at.  These mosquitoes had been
persistently represented as being formidable and lawless;
whereas 'the truth is, they are feeble, insignificant in size,
diffident to a fault, sensitive'--and so on, and so on; you would
have supposed he was talking about his family.  But if he was soft
on the Arkansas mosquitoes, he was hard enough on the mosquitoes
of Lake Providence to make up for it--'those Lake Providence colossi,'
as he finely called them.  He said that two of them could whip a dog,
and that four of them could hold a man down; and except help come,
they would kill him--'butcher him,' as he expressed it.
Referred in a sort of casual way--and yet significant way--
to 'the fact that the life policy in its simplest form is unknown
in Lake Providence--they take out a mosquito policy besides.'
He told many remarkable things about those lawless insects.
Among others, said he had seen them try to vote.  Noticing that
this statement seemed to be a good deal of a strain on us,
he modified it a little:  said he might have been mistaken,
as to that particular, but knew he had seen them around
the polls 'canvassing.'

There was another passenger--friend of H.'s--who backed up the harsh
evidence against those mosquitoes, and detailed some stirring adventures
which he had had with them.  The stories were pretty sizable,
merely pretty sizable; yet Mr. H. was continually interrupting with
a cold, inexorable 'Wait--knock off twenty-five per cent.  of that;
now go on;' or, 'Wait--you are getting that too strong; cut it down,
cut it down--you get a leetle too much costumery on to your statements:
always dress a fact in tights, never in an ulster;' or, 'Pardon, once more:
if you are going to load anything more on to that statement, you want
to get a couple of lighters and tow the rest, because it's drawing
all the water there is in the river already; stick to facts--just stick
to the cold facts; what these gentlemen want for a book is the frozen truth--
ain't that so, gentlemen?'  He explained privately that it was necessary
to watch this man all the time, and keep him within bounds; it would
not do to neglect this precaution, as he, Mr. H., 'knew to his sorrow.'
Said he, 'I will not deceive you; he told me such a monstrous lie once,
that it swelled my left ear up, and spread it so that I was actually not able
to see out around it; it remained so for months, and people came miles to see
me fan myself with it.'




                               Chapter 35
                      Vicksburg During the Trouble

WE used to plow past the lofty hill-city, Vicksburg, down-stream;
but we cannot do that now.  A cut-off has made a country town of it,
like Osceola, St. Genevieve, and several others.  There is
currentless water--also a big island--in front of Vicksburg now.
You come down the river the other side of the island,
then turn and come up to the town; that is, in high water:
in low water you can't come up, but must land some distance below it.

Signs and scars still remain, as reminders of Vicksburg's
tremendous war experiences; earthworks, trees crippled by
the cannon balls, cave-refuges in the clay precipices, etc.
The caves did good service during the six weeks'
bombardment of the city--May 8 to July 4, 1863.  They were
used by the non-combatants--mainly by the women and children;
not to live in constantly, but to fly to for safety on occasion.
They were mere holes, tunnels, driven into the perpendicular
clay bank, then branched Y shape, within the hill.
Life in Vicksburg, during the six weeks was perhaps--but wait;
here are some materials out of which to reproduce it:--

Population, twenty-seven thousand soldiers and three
thousand non-combatants; the city utterly cut off from the world--
walled solidly in, the frontage by gunboats, the rear by soldiers
and batteries; hence, no buying and selling with the outside;
no passing to and fro; no God-speeding a parting guest,
no welcoming a coming one; no printed acres of world-wide news
to be read at breakfast, mornings--a tedious dull absence of
such matter, instead; hence, also, no running to see steamboats
smoking into view in the distance up or down, and plowing toward
the town--for none came, the river lay vacant and undisturbed;
no rush and turmoil around the railway station, no struggling
over bewildered swarms of passengers by noisy mobs of hackmen--
all quiet there; flour two hundred dollars a barrel, sugar thirty,
corn ten dollars a bushel, bacon five dollars a pound,
rum a hundred dollars a gallon; other things in proportion:
consequently, no roar and racket of drays and carriages tearing
along the streets; nothing for them to do, among that handful
of non-combatants of exhausted means; at three o'clock in
the morning, silence; silence so dead that the measured tramp
of a sentinel can be heard a seemingly impossible distance; out of
hearing of this lonely sound, perhaps the stillness is absolute:
all in a moment come ground-shaking thunder-crashes of artillery,
the sky is cobwebbed with the crisscrossing red lines streaming
from soaring bomb-shells, and a rain of iron fragments
descends upon the city; descends upon the empty streets:
streets which are not empty a moment later, but mottled with dim
figures of frantic women and children scurrying from home and bed
toward the cave dungeons--encouraged by the humorous grim soldiery,
who shout 'Rats, to your holes!' and laugh.

The cannon-thunder rages, shells scream and crash overhead, the iron
rain pours down, one hour, two hours, three, possibly six, then stops;
silence follows, but the streets are still empty; the silence continues;
by-and-bye a head projects from a cave here and there and yonder,
and reconnoitres, cautiously; the silence still continuing,
bodies follow heads, and jaded, half smothered creatures group
themselves about, stretch their cramped limbs, draw in deep draughts
of the grateful fresh air, gossip with the neighbors from the next cave;
maybe straggle off home presently, or take a lounge through the town,
if the stillness continues; and will scurry to the holes again,
by-and-bye, when the war-tempest breaks forth once more.

There being but three thousand of these cave-dwellers--
merely the population of a village--would they not come
to know each other, after a week or two, and familiarly;
insomuch that the fortunate or unfortunate experiences of one
would be of interest to all?

Those are the materials furnished by history.  From them might not almost
anybody reproduce for himself the life of that time in Vicksburg?
Could you, who did not experience it, come nearer to reproducing it
to the imagination of another non-participant than could a Vicksburger
who did experience it?  It seems impossible; and yet there are reasons
why it might not really be.  When one makes his first voyage in a ship,
it is an experience which multitudinously bristles with striking novelties;
novelties which are in such sharp contrast with all this person's former
experiences that they take a seemingly deathless grip upon his imagination
and memory.  By tongue or pen he can make a landsman live that strange
and stirring voyage over with him; make him see it all and feel it all.
But if he wait?  If he make ten voyages in succession--what then?
Why, the thing has lost color, snap, surprise; and has become commonplace.
The man would have nothing to tell that would quicken a landsman's pulse.

Years ago, I talked with a couple of the Vicksburg non-combatants--
a man and his wife.  Left to tell their story in their own way,
those people told it without fire, almost without interest.

A week of their wonderful life there would have made their tongues eloquent
for ever perhaps; but they had six weeks of it, and that wore the novelty
all out; they got used to being bomb-shelled out of home and into the ground;
the matter became commonplace.  After that, the possibility of their
ever being startlingly interesting in their talks about it was gone.
What the man said was to this effect:--

'It got to be Sunday all the time.  Seven Sundays in the week--to us, anyway.
We hadn't anything to do, and time hung heavy.  Seven Sundays, and all
of them broken up at one time or another, in the day or in the night,
by a few hours of the awful storm of fire and thunder and iron.  At first
we used to shin for the holes a good deal faster than we did afterwards.
The first time, I forgot the children, and Maria fetched them both along.
When she was all safe in the cave she fainted.  Two or three weeks afterwards,
when she was running for the holes, one morning, through a shell-shower, a big
shell burst near her, and covered her all over with dirt, and a piece of
the iron carried away her game-bag of false hair from the back of her head.
Well, she stopped to get that game-bag before she shoved along again!
Was getting used to things already, you see.  We all got so that we could
tell a good deal about shells; and after that we didn't always go under
shelter if it was a light shower.  Us men would loaf around and talk;
and a man would say, 'There she goes!' and name the kind of shell it was from
the sound of it, and go on talking--if there wasn't any danger from it.
If a shell was bursting close over us, we stopped talking and stood still;--
uncomfortable, yes, but it wasn't safe to move.  When it let go, we went
on talking again, if nobody hurt--maybe saying, 'That was a ripper!'
or some such commonplace comment before we resumed; or, maybe, we would
see a shell poising itself away high in the air overhead.  In that case,
every fellow just whipped out a sudden, 'See you again, gents!' and shoved.
Often and often I saw gangs of ladies promenading the streets, looking as
cheerful as you please, and keeping an eye canted up watching the shells;
and I've seen them stop still when they were uncertain about what a
shell was going to do, and wait and make certain; and after that they
sa'ntered along again, or lit out for shelter, according to the verdict.
Streets in some towns have a litter of pieces of paper, and odds and ends
of one sort or another lying around.  Ours hadn't; they had IRON litter.
Sometimes a man would gather up all the iron fragments and unbursted
shells in his neighborhood, and pile them into a kind of monument
in his front yard--a ton of it, sometimes.  No glass left;
glass couldn't stand such a bombardment; it was all shivered out.
Windows of the houses vacant--looked like eye-holes in a skull.
WHOLE panes were as scarce as news.

'We had church Sundays.  Not many there, along at first; but by-and-bye
pretty good turnouts.  I've seen service stop a minute, and everybody
sit quiet--no voice heard, pretty funeral-like then--and all the more
so on account of the awful boom and crash going on outside and overhead;
and pretty soon, when a body could be heard, service would go on again.
Organs and church-music mixed up with a bombardment is a powerful
queer combination--along at first.  Coming out of church, one morning,
we had an accident--the only one that happened around me on a Sunday.
I was just having a hearty handshake with a friend I hadn't seen for
a while, and saying, 'Drop into our cave to-night, after bombardment;
we've got hold of a pint of prime wh--.' Whiskey, I was going to say,
you know, but a shell interrupted.  A chunk of it cut the man's arm off,
and left it dangling in my hand.  And do you know the thing that is
going to stick the longest in my memory, and outlast everything else,
little and big, I reckon, is the mean thought I had then?  It was 'the
whiskey IS SAVED.'  And yet, don't you know, it was kind of excusable;
because it was as scarce as diamonds, and we had only just that little;
never had another taste during the siege.

'Sometimes the caves were desperately crowded, and always hot and close.
Sometimes a cave had twenty or twenty-five people packed into it;
no turning-room for anybody; air so foul, sometimes, you couldn't have made
a candle burn in it.  A child was born in one of those caves one night,
Think of that; why, it was like having it born in a trunk.

'Twice we had sixteen people in our cave; and a number of times we
had a dozen.  Pretty suffocating in there.  We always had eight;
eight belonged there.  Hunger and misery and sickness and fright
and sorrow, and I don't know what all, got so loaded into them that
none of them were ever rightly their old selves after the siege.
They all died but three of us within a couple of years.
One night a shell burst in front of the hole and caved it in and
stopped it up.  It was lively times, for a while, digging out.
Some of us came near smothering.  After that we made two openings--
ought to have thought of it at first.

'Mule meat.  No, we only got down to that the last day or two.
Of course it was good; anything is good when you are starving.

This man had kept a diary during--six weeks?  No, only the first six days.
The first day, eight close pages; the second, five; the third, one--
loosely written; the fourth, three or four lines; a line or two the fifth
and sixth days; seventh day, diary abandoned; life in terrific Vicksburg
having now become commonplace and matter of course.

The war history of Vicksburg has more about it to interest the general
reader than that of any other of the river-towns. It is full of variety,
full of incident, full of the picturesque.  Vicksburg held out longer
than any other important river-town, and saw warfare in all its phases,
both land and water--the siege, the mine, the assault, the repulse,
the bombardment, sickness, captivity, famine.

The most beautiful of all the national cemeteries is here.
Over the great gateway is this inscription:--

              "HERE REST IN PEACE 16,600 WHO DIED FOR THEIR
                   COUNTRY IN THE YEARS 1861 TO 1865"

The grounds are nobly situated; being very high and commanding a wide
prospect of land and river.  They are tastefully laid out in broad terraces,
with winding roads and paths; and there is profuse adornment in the way
of semi-tropical shrubs and flowers,' and in one part is a piece of native
wild-wood, left just as it grew, and, therefore, perfect in its charm.
Everything about this cemetery suggests the hand of the national Government.
The Government's work is always conspicuous for excellence, solidity,
thoroughness, neatness.  The Government does its work well in the first place,
and then takes care of it.

By winding-roads--which were often cut to so great a depth between
perpendicular walls that they were mere roofless tunnels--we drove
out a mile or two and visited the monument which stands upon the scene
of the surrender of Vicksburg to General Grant by General Pemberton.
Its metal will preserve it from the hackings and chippings which
so defaced its predecessor, which was of marble; but the brick
foundations are crumbling, and it will tumble down by-and-bye. It
overlooks a picturesque region of wooded hills and ravines; and is
not unpicturesque itself, being well smothered in flowering weeds.
The battered remnant of the marble monument has been removed to
the National Cemetery.

On the road, a quarter of a mile townward, an aged colored man showed us,
with pride, an unexploded bomb-shell which has lain in his yard since the day
it fell there during the siege.

'I was a-stannin' heah, an' de dog was a-stannin' heah; de dog
he went for de shell, gwine to pick a fuss wid it; but I didn't;
I says, "Jes' make you'seff at home heah; lay still whah you is,
or bust up de place, jes' as you's a mind to, but I's got business
out in de woods, I has!"'

Vicksburg is a town of substantial business streets and pleasant residences;
it commands the commerce of the Yazoo and Sunflower Rivers; is pushing
railways in several directions, through rich agricultural regions,
and has a promising future of prosperity and importance.

Apparently, nearly all the river towns, big and little, have made
up their minds that they must look mainly to railroads for wealth
and upbuilding, henceforth.  They are acting upon this idea.
The signs are, that the next twenty years will bring about some
noteworthy changes in the Valley, in the direction of increased
population and wealth, and in the intellectual advancement
and the liberalizing of opinion which go naturally with these.
And yet, if one may judge by the past, the river towns will manage to find
and use a chance, here and there, to cripple and retard their progress.
They kept themselves back in the days of steamboating supremacy,
by a system of wharfage-dues so stupidly graded as to prohibit
what may be called small RETAIL traffic in freights and passengers.
Boats were charged such heavy wharfage that they could not afford
to land for one or two passengers or a light lot of freight.
Instead of encouraging the bringing of trade to their doors, the towns
diligently and effectively discouraged it.  They could have had many
boats and low rates; but their policy rendered few boats and high
rates compulsory.  It was a policy which extended--and extends--
from New Orleans to St. Paul.

We had a strong desire to make a trip up the Yazoo and the Sunflower--
an interesting region at any time, but additionally interesting at this time,
because up there the great inundation was still to be seen in force--
but we were nearly sure to have to wait a day or more for a New Orleans boat
on our return; so we were obliged to give up the project.

Here is a story which I picked up on board the boat that night.
I insert it in this place merely because it is a good story,
not because it belongs here--for it doesn't. It was told by a passenger--
a college professor--and was called to the surface in the course
of a general conversation which began with talk about horses,
drifted into talk about astronomy, then into talk about the lynching
of the gamblers in Vicksburg half a century ago, then into talk
about dreams and superstitions; and ended, after midnight,
in a dispute over free trade and protection.




                               Chapter 36
                          The Professor's Yarn

IT was in the early days.  I was not a college professor then.
I was a humble-minded young land-surveyor, with the world before me--
to survey, in case anybody wanted it done.  I had a contract to survey
a route for a great mining-ditch in California, and I was on my way thither,
by sea--a three or four weeks' voyage.  There were a good many passengers,
but I had very little to say to them; reading and dreaming were my passions,
and I avoided conversation in order to indulge these appetites.
There were three professional gamblers on board--rough, repulsive fellows.
I never had any talk with them, yet I could not help seeing them
with some frequency, for they gambled in an upper-deck stateroom every
day and night, and in my promenades I often had glimpses of them
through their door, which stood a little ajar to let out the surplus
tobacco smoke and profanity.  They were an evil and hateful presence,
but I had to put up with it, of course,

There was one other passenger who fell under my eye a good deal,
for he seemed determined to be friendly with me, and I could not have
gotten rid of him without running some chance of hurting his feelings,
and I was far from wishing to do that.  Besides, there was something engaging
in his countrified simplicity and his beaming good-nature. The first time
I saw this Mr. John Backus, I guessed, from his clothes and his looks,
that he was a grazier or farmer from the backwoods of some western State--
doubtless Ohio--and afterward when he dropped into his personal history
and I discovered that he WAS a cattle-raiser from interior Ohio,
I was so pleased with my own penetration that I warmed toward him for
verifying my instinct.

He got to dropping alongside me every day, after breakfast,
to help me make my promenade; and so, in the course of time,
his easy-working jaw had told me everything about his business,
his prospects, his family, his relatives, his politics--
in fact everything that concerned a Backus, living or dead.
And meantime I think he had managed to get out of me everything
I knew about my trade, my tribe, my purposes, my prospects,
and myself.  He was a gentle and persuasive genius, and this thing
showed it; for I was not given to talking about my matters.
I said something about triangulation, once; the stately word
pleased his ear; he inquired what it meant; I explained;
after that he quietly and inoffensively ignored my name,
and always called me Triangle.

What an enthusiast he was in cattle!  At the bare name of a bull or a cow,
his eye would light and his eloquent tongue would turn itself loose.  As long
as I would walk and listen, he would walk and talk; he knew all breeds,
he loved all breeds, he caressed them all with his affectionate tongue.
I tramped along in voiceless misery whilst the cattle question was up;
when I could endure it no longer, I used to deftly insert a scientific topic
into the conversation; then my eye fired and his faded; my tongue fluttered,
his stopped; life was a joy to me, and a sadness to him.

One day he said, a little hesitatingly, and with somewhat of diffidence--

'Triangle, would you mind coming down to my stateroom a minute,
and have a little talk on a certain matter?'

I went with him at once.  Arrived there, he put his head out, glanced up
and down the saloon warily, then closed the door and locked it.
He sat down on the sofa, and he said--

'I'm a-going to make a little proposition to you, and if it strikes
you favorable, it'll be a middling good thing for both of us.
You ain't a-going out to Californy for fun, nuther am I--
it's business, ain't that so?  Well, you can do me a good turn,
and so can I you, if we see fit.  I've raked and scraped and saved,
a considerable many years, and I've got it all here.'
He unlocked an old hair trunk, tumbled a chaos of shabby
clothes aside, and drew a short stout bag into view for a moment,
then buried it again and relocked the trunk.  Dropping his voice
to a cautious low tone, he continued, 'She's all there--a round
ten thousand dollars in yellow-boys; now this is my little idea:
What I don't know about raising cattle, ain't worth knowing.
There's mints of money in it, in Californy.  Well, I know,
and you know, that all along a line that 's being surveyed,
there 's little dabs of land that they call "gores," that fall
to the surveyor free gratis for nothing.  All you've got to do,
on your side, is to survey in such a way that the "gores" will fall
on good fat land, then you turn 'em over to me, I stock 'em with cattle,
in rolls the cash, I plank out your share of the dollars regular,
right along, and--'

I was sorry to wither his blooming enthusiasm, but it could not be helped.
I interrupted, and said severely--

'I am not that kind of a surveyor.  Let us change the subject, Mr. Backus.'

It was pitiful to see his confusion and hear his awkward
and shamefaced apologies.  I was as much distressed as he was--
especially as he seemed so far from having suspected
that there was anything improper in his proposition.
So I hastened to console him and lead him on to forget his
mishap in a conversational orgy about cattle and butchery.
We were lying at Acapulco; and, as we went on deck, it happened
luckily that the crew were just beginning to hoist some beeves
aboard in slings.  Backus's melancholy vanished instantly,
and with it the memory of his late mistake.

'Now only look at that!' cried he; 'My goodness, Triangle, what WOULD they say
to it in OHIO.  Wouldn't their eyes bug out, to see 'em handled like that?--
wouldn't they, though?'

All the passengers were on deck to look--even the gamblers--
and Backus knew them all, and had afflicted them all with his pet topic.
As I moved away, I saw one of the gamblers approach and accost him;
then another of them; then the third.  I halted; waited; watched;
the conversation continued between the four men; it grew earnest;
Backus drew gradually away; the gamblers followed, and kept at his elbow.
I was uncomfortable.  However, as they passed me presently, I heard
Backus say, with a tone of persecuted annoyance--

'But it ain't any use, gentlemen; I tell you again, as I've
told you a half a dozen times before, I warn't raised to it,
and I ain't a-going to resk it.'

I felt relieved.  'His level head will be his sufficient protection,'
I said to myself.

During the fortnight's run from Acapulco to San Francisco I
several times saw the gamblers talking earnestly with Backus,
and once I threw out a gentle warning to him.  He chuckled
comfortably and said--

'Oh, yes! they tag around after me considerable--want me to play
a little, just for amusement, they say--but laws-a-me, if my folks
have told me once to look out for that sort of live-stock, they've
told me a thousand times, I reckon.'

By-and-bye, in due course, we were approaching San Francisco.
It was an ugly black night, with a strong wind blowing, but there
was not much sea.  I was on deck, alone.  Toward ten I started below.
A figure issued from the gamblers' den, and disappeared in the darkness.
I experienced a shock, for I was sure it was Backus.
I flew down the companion-way, looked about for him, could not
find him, then returned to the deck just in time to catch a glimpse
of him as he re-entered that confounded nest of rascality.
Had he yielded at last?  I feared it.  What had he gone below for?--
His bag of coin?  Possibly.  I drew near the door, full of bodings.
It was a-crack, and I glanced in and saw a sight that made
me bitterly wish I had given my attention to saving my poor
cattle-friend, instead of reading and dreaming my foolish time away.
He was gambling.  Worse still, he was being plied with champagne,
and was already showing some effect from it.  He praised the 'cider,'
as he called it, and said now that he had got a taste of it
he almost believed he would drink it if it was spirits, it was
so good and so ahead of anything he had ever run across before.
Surreptitious smiles, at this, passed from one rascal to another,
and they filled all the glasses, and whilst Backus honestly drained
his to the bottom they pretended to do the same, but threw the wine
over their shoulders.

I could not bear the scene, so I wandered forward and tried
to interest myself in the sea and the voices of the wind.
But no, my uneasy spirit kept dragging me back at
quarter-hour intervals; and always I saw Backus drinking his wine--
fairly and squarely, and the others throwing theirs away.
It was the painfullest night I ever spent.

The only hope I had was that we might reach our anchorage
with speed--that would break up the game.  I helped the ship
along all I could with my prayers.  At last we went booming
through the Golden Gate, and my pulses leaped for joy.
I hurried back to that door and glanced in.  Alas, there was
small room for hope--Backus's eyes were heavy and bloodshot,
his sweaty face was crimson, his speech maudlin and thick,
his body sawed drunkenly about with the weaving motion of the ship.
He drained another glass to the dregs, whilst the cards
were being dealt.

He took his hand, glanced at it, and his dull eyes lit up for a moment.
The gamblers observed it, and showed their gratification by
hardly perceptible signs.

'How many cards?'

'None! ' said Backus.

One villain--named Hank Wiley--discarded one card, the others three each.
The betting began.  Heretofore the bets had been trifling--
a dollar or two; but Backus started off with an eagle now,
Wiley hesitated a moment, then 'saw it' and 'went ten dollars better.'
The other two threw up their hands.

Backus went twenty better.  Wiley said--

'I see that, and go you a hundred better!' then smiled and reached
for the money.

'Let it alone,' said Backus, with drunken gravity.

'What! you mean to say you're going to cover it?'

'Cover it?  Well, I reckon I am--and lay another hundred on top
of it, too.'

He reached down inside his overcoat and produced the required sum.

'Oh, that's your little game, is it?  I see your raise,
and raise it five hundred!' said Wiley.

'Five hundred better.'  said the foolish bull-driver,
and pulled out the amount and showered it on the pile.
The three conspirators hardly tried to conceal their exultation.

All diplomacy and pretense were dropped now, and the sharp exclamations
came thick and fast, and the yellow pyramid grew higher and higher.
At last ten thousand dollars lay in view.  Wiley cast a bag of coin on
the table, and said with mocking gentleness--

'Five thousand dollars better, my friend from the rural districts--
what do you say NOW?'

'I CALL you!' said Backus, heaving his golden shot-bag on the pile.
'What have you got?'

'Four kings, you d--d fool!' and Wiley threw down his cards and surrounded
the stakes with his arms.

'Four ACES, you ass!' thundered Backus, covering his man
with a cocked revolver.  'I'M A PROFESSIONAL GAMBLER MYSELF,
AND I'VE BEEN LAYING FOR YOU DUFFERS ALL THIS VOYAGE!'

Down went the anchor, rumbledy-dum-dum! and the long trip was ended.

Well--well, it is a sad world.  One of the three gamblers was Backus's 'pal.'
It was he that dealt the fateful hands.  According to an understanding with
the two victims, he was to have given Backus four queens, but alas, he didn't.

A week later, I stumbled upon Backus--arrayed in the height of fashion--
in Montgomery Street.  He said, cheerily, as we were parting--

'Ah, by-the-way, you needn't mind about those gores.  I don't really
know anything about cattle, except what I was able to pick up
in a week's apprenticeship over in Jersey just before we sailed.
My cattle-culture and cattle-enthusiasm have served their turn--
I shan't need them any more.'

Next day we reluctantly parted from the 'Gold Dust' and her officers,
hoping to see that boat and all those officers again, some day.
A thing which the fates were to render tragically impossible!




                               Chapter 37
                       The End of the 'Gold Dust'

FOR, three months later, August 8, while I was writing one of these
foregoing chapters, the New York papers brought this telegram--

                          A TERRIBLE DISASTER.

SEVENTEEN PERSONS KILLED BY AN EXPLOSION ON THE STEAMER 'GOLD DUST.'

'NASHVILLE, Aug. 7.--A despatch from Hickman, Ky., says--

'The steamer "Gold Dust" exploded her boilers at
three o'clock to-day, just after leaving Hickman.
Forty-seven persons were scalded and seventeen are missing.
The boat was landed in the eddy just above the town,
and through the exertions of the citizens the cabin passengers,
officers, and part of the crew and deck passengers were
taken ashore and removed to the hotels and residences.
Twenty-four of the injured were lying in Holcomb's dry-goods
store at one time, where they received every attention before
being removed to more comfortable places.'

A list of the names followed, whereby it appeared that of the seventeen dead,
one was the barkeeper; and among the forty-seven wounded, were the captain,
chief mate, second mate, and second and third clerks; also Mr. Lem S. Gray,
pilot, and several members of the crew.

In answer to a private telegram, we learned that none of these was
severely hurt, except Mr. Gray.  Letters received afterward confirmed
this news, and said that Mr. Gray was improving and would get well.
Later letters spoke less hopefully of his case; and finally came one
announcing his death.  A good man, a most companionable and manly man,
and worthy of a kindlier fate.




                               Chapter 38
                           The House Beautiful

WE took passage in a Cincinnati boat for New Orleans; or on a Cincinnati boat--
either is correct; the former is the eastern form of putting it,
the latter the western.

Mr. Dickens declined to agree that the Mississippi steamboats
were 'magnificent,' or that they were 'floating palaces,'--
terms which had always been applied to them; terms which did not
over-express the admiration with which the people viewed them.

Mr. Dickens's position was unassailable, possibly; the people's
position was certainly unassailable.  If Mr. Dickens was
comparing these boats with the crown jewels; or with the Taj,
or with the Matterhorn; or with some other priceless or wonderful
thing which he had seen, they were not magnificent--he was right.
The people compared them with what they had seen; and, thus measured,
thus judged, the boats were magnificent--the term was the correct one,
it was not at all too strong.  The people were as right as was
Mr. Dickens.  The steamboats were finer than anything on shore.
Compared with superior dwelling-houses and first-class hotels in
the Valley, they were indubitably magnificent, they were 'palaces.'
To a few people living in New Orleans and St. Louis, they were
not magnificent, perhaps; not palaces; but to the great majority
of those populations, and to the entire populations spread over
both banks between Baton Rouge and St. Louis, they were palaces;
they tallied with the citizen's dream of what magnificence was,
and satisfied it.

Every town and village along that vast stretch of double
river-frontage had a best dwelling, finest dwelling, mansion,--
the home of its wealthiest and most conspicuous citizen.
It is easy to describe it:  large grassy yard, with paling
fence painted white--in fair repair; brick walk from gate
to door; big, square, two-story 'frame' house, painted white
and porticoed like a Grecian temple--with this difference,
that the imposing fluted columns and Corinthian capitals
were a pathetic sham, being made of white pine, and painted;
iron knocker; brass door knob--discolored, for lack
of polishing.  Within, an uncarpeted hall, of planed boards;
opening out of it, a parlor, fifteen feet by fifteen--
in some instances five or ten feet larger; ingrain carpet;
mahogany center-table; lamp on it, with green-paper shade--
standing on a gridiron, so to speak, made of high-colored yarns,
by the young ladies of the house, and called a lamp-mat;
several books, piled and disposed, with cast-iron exactness,
according to an inherited and unchangeable plan; among them,
Tupper, much penciled; also, 'Friendship's Offering,'
and 'Affection's Wreath,' with their sappy inanities illustrated
in die-away mezzotints; also, Ossian; 'Alonzo and Melissa:'
maybe 'Ivanhoe:'  also 'Album,' full of original 'poetry'
of the Thou-hast-wounded-the-spirit-that-loved-thee breed;
two or three goody-goody works--'Shepherd of Salisbury Plain,'
etc.; current number of the chaste and innocuous Godey's
'Lady's Book,' with painted fashion-plate of wax-figure
women with mouths all alike--lips and eyelids the same size--
each five-foot woman with a two-inch wedge sticking from
under her dress and letting-on to be half of her foot.
Polished air-tight stove (new and deadly invention), with
pipe passing through a board which closes up the discarded
good old fireplace.  On each end of the wooden mantel,
over the fireplace, a large basket of peaches and other fruits,
natural size, all done in plaster, rudely, or in wax,
and painted to resemble the originals--which they don't. Over
middle of mantel, engraving--Washington Crossing the Delaware;
on the wall by the door, copy of it done in thunder-and-lightning
crewels by one of the young ladies--work of art which would
have made Washington hesitate about crossing, if he could
have foreseen what advantage was going to be taken of it.
Piano--kettle in disguise--with music, bound and unbound,
piled on it, and on a stand near by:  Battle of Prague;
Bird Waltz; Arkansas Traveler; Rosin the Bow; Marseilles Hymn;
On a Lone Barren Isle (St. Helena); The Last Link is Broken;
She wore a Wreath of Roses the Night when last we met;
Go, forget me, Why should Sorrow o'er that Brow a Shadow fling;
Hours there were to Memory Dearer; Long, Long Ago; Days of Absence;
A Life on the Ocean Wave, a Home on the Rolling Deep; Bird at Sea;
and spread open on the rack, where the plaintive singer has left it,
RO-holl on, silver MOO-hoon, guide the TRAV-el-lerr his WAY, etc.
Tilted pensively against the piano, a guitar--guitar capable
of playing the Spanish Fandango by itself, if you give it a start.
Frantic work of art on the wall--pious motto, done on the premises,
sometimes in colored yarns, sometimes in faded grasses:
progenitor of the 'God Bless Our Home' of modern commerce.
Framed in black moldings on the wall, other works of arts,
conceived and committed on the premises, by the young ladies;
being grim black-and-white crayons; landscapes, mostly:
lake, solitary sail-boat, petrified clouds, pre-geological trees
on shore, anthracite precipice; name of criminal conspicuous
in the corner.  Lithograph, Napoleon Crossing the Alps.
Lithograph, The Grave at St. Helena.  Steel-plates, Trumbull's
Battle of Bunker Hill, and the Sally from Gibraltar.
Copper-plates, Moses Smiting the Rock, and Return of the
Prodigal Son.  In big gilt frame, slander of the family in oil:
papa holding a book ('Constitution of the United States');
guitar leaning against mamma, blue ribbons fluttering from its neck;
the young ladies, as children, in slippers and scalloped pantelettes,
one embracing toy horse, the other beguiling kitten with ball
of yarn, and both simpering up at mamma, who simpers back.
These persons all fresh, raw, and red--apparently skinned.
Opposite, in gilt frame, grandpa and grandma, at thirty and
twenty-two, stiff, old-fashioned, high-collared, puff-sleeved,
glaring pallidly out from a background of solid Egyptian night.
Under a glass French clock dome, large bouquet of stiff
flowers done in corpsy-white wax.  Pyramidal what-not
in the corner, the shelves occupied chiefly with bric-a-brac
of the period, disposed with an eye to best effect:
shell, with the Lord's Prayer carved on it; another shell--
of the long-oval sort, narrow, straight orifice, three inches long,
running from end to end--portrait of Washington carved on it;
not well done; the shell had Washington's mouth, originally--
artist should have built to that.  These two are memorials of
the long-ago bridal trip to New Orleans and the French Market.
Other bric-a-brac: Californian 'specimens'--quartz,
with gold wart adhering; old Guinea-gold locket, with circlet
of ancestral hair in it; Indian arrow-heads, of flint;
pair of bead moccasins, from uncle who crossed the Plains;
three 'alum' baskets of various colors--being skeleton-frame of wire,
clothed-on with cubes of crystallized alum in the rock-candy style--
works of art which were achieved by the young ladies; their doubles
and duplicates to be found upon all what-nots in the land;
convention of desiccated bugs and butterflies pinned to a card;
painted toy-dog, seated upon bellows-attachment--drops its
under jaw and squeaks when pressed upon; sugar-candy rabbit--
limbs and features merged together, not strongly defined;
pewter presidential-campaign medal; miniature card-board wood-sawyer,
to be attached to the stove-pipe and operated by the heat;
small Napoleon, done in wax; spread-open daguerreotypes
of dim children, parents, cousins, aunts, and friends,
in all attitudes but customary ones; no templed portico at back,
and manufactured landscape stretching away in the distance--
that came in later, with the photograph; all these vague figures
lavishly chained and ringed--metal indicated and secured
from doubt by stripes and splashes of vivid gold bronze;
all of them too much combed, too much fixed up; and all of them
uncomfortable in inflexible Sunday-clothes of a pattern which
the spectator cannot realize could ever have been in fashion;
husband and wife generally grouped together--husband sitting,
wife standing, with hand on his shoulder--and both preserving,
all these fading years, some traceable effect of the daguerreotypist's
brisk 'Now smile, if you please!'  Bracketed over what-not--
place of special sacredness--an outrage in water-color, done
by the young niece that came on a visit long ago, and died.
Pity, too; for she might have repented of this in time.
Horse-hair chairs, horse-hair sofa which keeps sliding from
under you.  Window shades, of oil stuff, with milk-maids
and ruined castles stenciled on them in fierce colors.
Lambrequins dependent from gaudy boxings of beaten tin, gilded.
Bedrooms with rag carpets; bedsteads of the 'corded' sort,
with a sag in the middle, the cords needing tightening;
snuffy feather-bed--not aired often enough; cane-seat chairs,
splint-bottomed rocker; looking-glass on wall, school-slate size,
veneered frame; inherited bureau; wash-bowl and pitcher, possibly--
but not certainly; brass candlestick, tallow candle, snuffers.
Nothing else in the room.  Not a bathroom in the house;
and no visitor likely to come along who has ever seen
one.

That was the residence of the principal citizen, all the way from
the suburbs of New Orleans to the edge of St. Louis.  When he stepped
aboard a big fine steamboat, he entered a new and marvelous world:
chimney-tops cut to counterfeit a spraying crown of plumes--
and maybe painted red; pilot-house, hurricane deck, boiler-deck guards,
all garnished with white wooden filigree work of fanciful patterns;
gilt acorns topping the derricks; gilt deer-horns over the big bell;
gaudy symbolical picture on the paddle-box, possibly; big roomy
boiler-deck, painted blue, and furnished with Windsor armchairs;
inside, a far-receding snow-white 'cabin;' porcelain knob and oil-picture
on every stateroom door; curving patterns of filigree-work touched
up with gilding, stretching overhead all down the converging vista;
big chandeliers every little way, each an April shower of
glittering glass-drops; lovely rainbow-light falling everywhere
from the colored glazing of the skylights; the whole a long-drawn,
resplendent tunnel, a bewildering and soul-satisfying spectacle!
In the ladies' cabin a pink and white Wilton carpet, as soft as mush,
and glorified with a ravishing pattern of gigantic flowers.
Then the Bridal Chamber--the animal that invented that idea was still
alive and unhanged, at that day--Bridal Chamber whose pretentious
flummery was necessarily overawing to the now tottering intellect
of that hosannahing citizen.  Every state-room had its couple
of cozy clean bunks, and perhaps a looking-glass and a snug closet;
and sometimes there was even a washbowl and pitcher, and part
of a towel which could be told from mosquito netting by an expert--
though generally these things were absent, and the shirt-sleeved
passengers cleansed themselves at a long row of stationary bowls
in the barber shop, where were also public towels, public combs,
and public soap.

Take the steamboat which I have just described, and you have her
in her highest and finest, and most pleasing, and comfortable,
and satisfactory estate.  Now cake her over with a layer
of ancient and obdurate dirt, and you have the Cincinnati
steamer awhile ago referred to.  Not all over--only inside;
for she was ably officered in all departments except the steward's.

But wash that boat and repaint her, and she would be about the
counterpart of the most complimented boat of the old flush times:
for the steamboat architecture of the West has undergone no change;
neither has steamboat furniture and ornamentation undergone any.




                               Chapter 39
                       Manufactures and Miscreants

WHERE the river, in the Vicksburg region, used to be corkscrewed,
it is now comparatively straight--made so by cut-off;
a former distance of seventy miles is reduced to thirty-five. It
is a change which threw Vicksburg's neighbor, Delta, Louisiana,
out into the country and ended its career as a river town.
Its whole river-frontage is now occupied by a vast sand-bar,
thickly covered with young trees--a growth which will magnify
itself into a dense forest by-and-bye, and completely hide
the exiled town.

In due time we passed Grand Gulf and Rodney, of war fame, and reached Natchez,
the last of the beautiful hill-cities--for Baton Rouge, yet to come,
is not on a hill, but only on high ground.  Famous Natchez-under-the-hill
has not changed notably in twenty years; in outward aspect--
judging by the descriptions of the ancient procession of foreign tourists--
it has not changed in sixty; for it is still small, straggling, and shabby.
It had a desperate reputation, morally, in the old keel-boating and
early steamboating times--plenty of drinking, carousing, fisticuffing,
and killing there, among the riff-raff of the river, in those days.
But Natchez-on-top-of-the-hill is attractive; has always been attractive.
Even Mrs. Trollope (1827) had to confess its charms:

'At one or two points the wearisome level line is relieved
by bluffs, as they call the short intervals of high ground.
The town of Natchez is beautifully situated on one of those high spots.
The contrast that its bright green hill forms with the dismal line of black
forest that stretches on every side, the abundant growth of the pawpaw,
palmetto and orange, the copious variety of sweet-scented flowers
that flourish there, all make it appear like an oasis in the desert.
Natchez is the furthest point to the north at which oranges
ripen in the open air, or endure the winter without shelter.
With the exception of this sweet spot, I thought all the little towns
and villages we passed wretched-looking in the extreme.'

Natchez, like her near and far river neighbors, has railways now,
and is adding to them--pushing them hither and thither into all
rich outlying regions that are naturally tributary to her.
And like Vicksburg and New Orleans, she has her ice-factory:
she makes thirty tons of ice a day.  In Vicksburg and Natchez,
in my time, ice was jewelry; none but the rich could wear it.
But anybody and everybody can have it now.  I visited one of
the ice-factories in New Orleans, to see what the polar regions
might look like when lugged into the edge of the tropics.
But there was nothing striking in the aspect of the place.
It was merely a spacious house, with some innocent steam machinery
in one end of it and some big porcelain pipes running here and there.
No, not porcelain--they merely seemed to be; they were iron,
but the ammonia which was being breathed through them had coated
them to the thickness of your hand with solid milk-white ice.
It ought to have melted; for one did not require winter clothing
in that atmosphere:  but it did not melt; the inside of the pipe
was too cold.

Sunk into the floor were numberless tin boxes, a foot square and two
feet long, and open at the top end.  These were full of clear water;
and around each box, salt and other proper stuff was packed; also, the ammonia
gases were applied to the water in some way which will always remain
a secret to me, because I was not able to understand the process.
While the water in the boxes gradually froze, men gave it a stir or
two with a stick occasionally--to liberate the air-bubbles, I think.
Other men were continually lifting out boxes whose contents had become
hard frozen.  They gave the box a single dip into a vat of boiling water,
to melt the block of ice free from its tin coffin, then they shot
the block out upon a platform car, and it was ready for market.
These big blocks were hard, solid, and crystal-clear. In certain of them,
big bouquets of fresh and brilliant tropical flowers had been frozen-in;
in others, beautiful silken-clad French dolls, and other pretty objects.
These blocks were to be set on end in a platter, in the center of
dinner-tables, to cool the tropical air; and also to be ornamental,
for the flowers and things imprisoned in them could be seen as through
plate glass.  I was told that this factory could retail its ice, by wagon,
throughout New Orleans, in the humblest dwelling-house quantities,
at six or seven dollars a ton, and make a sufficient profit.
This being the case, there is business for ice-factories in the North;
for we get ice on no such terms there, if one take less than three hundred
and fifty pounds at a delivery.

The Rosalie Yarn Mill, of Natchez, has a capacity of 6,000 spindles and
160 looms, and employs 100 hands.  The Natchez Cotton Mills Company began
operations four years ago in a two-story building of 50 x 190 feet, with 4,000
spindles and 128 looms; capital $105,000, all subscribed in the town.
Two years later, the same stockholders increased their capital to $225,000;
added a third story to the mill, increased its length to 317 feet;
added machinery to increase the capacity to 10,300 spindles and 304 looms.
The company now employ 250 operatives, many of whom are citizens of Natchez.
'The mill works 5,000 bales of cotton annually and manufactures
the best standard quality of brown shirtings and sheetings and drills,
turning out 5,000,000 yards of these goods per year.'<footnote [New
Orleans Times-Democrat, 26 Aug, 1882.]> A close corporation--stock held
at $5,000 per share, but none in the market.

The changes in the Mississippi River are great and strange,
yet were to be expected; but I was not expecting to live to see
Natchez and these other river towns become manufacturing
strongholds and railway centers.

Speaking of manufactures reminds me of a talk upon that topic
which I heard--which I overheard--on board the Cincinnati boat.
I awoke out of a fretted sleep, with a dull confusion of voices in my ears.
I listened--two men were talking; subject, apparently, the great inundation.
I looked out through the open transom.  The two men were eating
a late breakfast; sitting opposite each other; nobody else around.
They closed up the inundation with a few words--having used it,
evidently, as a mere ice-breaker and acquaintanceship-breeder--
then they dropped into business.  It soon transpired that they
were drummers--one belonging in Cincinnati, the other in New Orleans.
Brisk men, energetic of movement and speech; the dollar their god,
how to get it their religion.

'Now as to this article,' said Cincinnati, slashing into the ostensible
butter and holding forward a slab of it on his knife-blade,
'it's from our house; look at it--smell of it--taste it.
Put any test on it you want to.  Take your own time--no hurry--
make it thorough.  There now--what do you say? butter, ain't it.
Not by a thundering sight--it's oleomargarine!  Yes, sir, that's what
it is--oleomargarine.  You can't tell it from butter; by George,
an EXPERT can't. It's from our house.  We supply most of the boats
in the West; there's hardly a pound of butter on one of them.
We are crawling right along--JUMPING right along is the word.
We are going to have that entire trade.  Yes, and the hotel trade, too.
You are going to see the day, pretty soon, when you can't find
an ounce of butter to bless yourself with, in any hotel in
the Mississippi and Ohio Valleys, outside of the biggest cities.
Why, we are turning out oleomargarine NOW by the thousands of tons.
And we can sell it so dirt-cheap that the whole country has
GOT to take it--can't get around it you see.  Butter don't
stand any show--there ain't any chance for competition.
Butter's had its DAY--and from this out, butter goes to the wall.
There's more money in oleomargarine than--why, you can't
imagine the business we do.  I've stopped in every town from
Cincinnati to Natchez; and I've sent home big orders from every
one of them.'

And so-forth and so-on, for ten minutes longer, in the same fervid strain.
Then New Orleans piped up and said--

Yes, it's a first-rate imitation, that's a certainty;
but it ain't the only one around that's first-rate. For instance,
they make olive-oil out of cotton-seed oil, nowadays, so that you
can't tell them apart.'

'Yes, that's so,' responded Cincinnati, 'and it was a tip-top
business for a while.  They sent it over and brought it back from
France and Italy, with the United States custom-house mark on it
to indorse it for genuine, and there was no end of cash in it;
but France and Italy broke up the game--of course they naturally would.
Cracked on such a rattling impost that cotton-seed olive-oil couldn't
stand the raise; had to hang up and quit.'

'Oh, it DID, did it?  You wait here a minute.'

Goes to his state-room, brings back a couple of long bottles,
and takes out the corks--says:

'There now, smell them, taste them, examine the bottles, inspect the labels.
One of 'm's from Europe, the other's never been out of this country.
One's European olive-oil, the other's American cotton-seed olive-oil.
Tell 'm apart?  'Course you can't. Nobody can.  People that want to,
can go to the expense and trouble of shipping their oils to Europe and back--
it's their privilege; but our firm knows a trick worth six of that.
We turn out the whole thing--clean from the word go--in our factory
in New Orleans:  labels, bottles, oil, everything.  Well, no, not labels:
been buying them abroad--get them dirt-cheap there.  You see,
there's just one little wee speck, essence, or whatever it is,
in a gallon of cotton-seed oil, that give it a smell, or a flavor,
or something--get that out, and you're all right--perfectly easy then
to turn the oil into any kind of oil you want to, and there ain't anybody
that can detect the true from the false.  Well, we know how to get
that one little particle out--and we're the only firm that does.
And we turn out an olive-oil that is just simply perfect--undetectable!
We are doing a ripping trade, too--as I could easily show you by my
order-book for this trip.  Maybe you'll butter everybody's bread pretty soon,
but we'll cotton-seed his salad for him from the Gulf to Canada, and that's
a dead-certain thing.'

Cincinnati glowed and flashed with admiration.
The two scoundrels exchanged business-cards, and rose.
As they left the table, Cincinnati said--

'But you have to have custom-house marks, don't you?
How do you manage that?'

I did not catch the answer.

We passed Port Hudson, scene of two of the most terrific episodes of the war--
the night-battle there between Farragut's fleet and the Confederate
land batteries, April 14th, 1863; and the memorable land battle,
two months later, which lasted eight hours--eight hours of exceptionally
fierce and stubborn fighting--and ended, finally, in the repulse
of the Union forces with great slaughter.




                               Chapter 4O
                           Castles and Culture

BATON ROUGE was clothed in flowers, like a bride--no, much more so;
like a greenhouse.  For we were in the absolute South now--
no modifications, no compromises, no half-way measures.
The magnolia-trees in the Capitol grounds were lovely and fragrant,
with their dense rich foliage and huge snow-ball blossoms.
The scent of the flower is very sweet, but you want distance on it,
because it is so powerful.  They are not good bedroom blossoms--
they might suffocate one in his sleep.  We were certainly in the South
at last; for here the sugar region begins, and the plantations--
vast green levels, with sugar-mill and negro quarters clustered together
in the middle distance--were in view.  And there was a tropical sun
overhead and a tropical swelter in the air.

And at this point, also, begins the pilot's paradise:
a wide river hence to New Orleans, abundance of water from shore
to shore, and no bars, snags, sawyers, or wrecks in his road.

Sir Walter Scott is probably responsible for the Capitol building;
for it is not conceivable that this little sham castle would
ever have been built if he had not run the people mad, a couple
of generations ago, with his medieval romances.  The South has
not yet recovered from the debilitating influence of his books.
Admiration of his fantastic heroes and their grotesque
'chivalry' doings and romantic juvenilities still survives here,
in an atmosphere in which is already perceptible the wholesome
and practical nineteenth-century smell of cotton-factories
and locomotives; and traces of its inflated language and other
windy humbuggeries survive along with it.  It is pathetic enough,
that a whitewashed castle, with turrets and things--materials all
ungenuine within and without, pretending to be what they are not--
should ever have been built in this otherwise honorable place;
but it is much more pathetic to see this architectural falsehood
undergoing restoration and perpetuation in our day, when it
would have been so easy to let dynamite finish what a charitable
fire began, and then devote this restoration-money to the building
of something genuine.

Baton Rouge has no patent on imitation castles, however, and no monopoly
of them.  Here is a picture from the advertisement of the 'Female Institute'
of Columbia; Tennessee.  The following remark is from the same advertisement--

'The Institute building has long been famed as a model of striking
and beautiful architecture.  Visitors are charmed with its resemblance
to the old castles of song and story, with its towers, turreted walls,
and ivy-mantled porches.'

Keeping school in a castle is a romantic thing; as romantic as keeping
hotel in a castle.

By itself the imitation castle is doubtless harmless, and well enough;
but as a symbol and breeder and sustainer of maudlin Middle-Age romanticism
here in the midst of the plainest and sturdiest and infinitely greatest
and worthiest of all the centuries the world has seen, it is necessarily
a hurtful thing and a mistake.

Here is an extract from the prospectus of a Kentucky 'Female College.'
Female college sounds well enough; but since the phrasing it in
that unjustifiable way was done purely in the interest of brevity,
it seems to me that she-college would have been still better--
because shorter, and means the same thing:  that is, if either phrase
means anything at all--

'The president is southern by birth, by rearing, by education,
and by sentiment; the teachers are all southern in sentiment,
and with the exception of those born in Europe were born and raised
in the south.  Believing the southern to be the highest type of
civilization this continent has seen,' the young<footnote (long one)
[Illustrations of it thoughtlessly omitted by the advertiser:

KNOXVILLE, Tenn., October 19.--This morning a few minutes
after ten o'clock, General Joseph A. Mabry, Thomas O'Connor,
and Joseph A. Mabry, Jr., were killed in a shooting affray.
The difficulty began yesterday afternoon by General Mabry
attacking Major O'Connor and threatening to kill him.
This was at the fair grounds, and O'Connor told Mabry
that it was not the place to settle their difficulties.
Mabry then told O'Connor he should not live.
It seems that Mabry was armed and O'Connor was not.
The cause of the difficulty was an old feud about the transfer
of some property from Mabry to O'Connor. Later in the afternoon
Mabry sent word to O'Connor that he would kill him on sight.
This morning Major O'Connor was standing in the door of
the Mechanics' National Bank, of which he was president.
General Mabry and another gentleman walked down Gay Street on
the opposite side from the bank.  O'Connor stepped into the bank,
got a shot gun, took deliberate aim at General Mabry and fired.
Mabry fell dead, being shot in the left side.  As he fell
O'Connor fired again, the shot taking effect in Mabry's thigh.
O'Connor then reached into the bank and got another shot gun.
About this time Joseph A. Mabry, Jr., son of General Mabry,
came rushing down the street, unseen by O'Connor until within
forty feet, when the young man fired a pistol, the shot taking
effect in O'Connor's right breast, passing through the body near
the heart.  The instant Mabry shot, O'Connor turned and fired,
the load taking effect in young Mabry's right breast and side.
Mabry fell pierced with twenty buckshot, and almost instantly
O'Connor fell dead without a struggle.  Mabry tried to rise,
but fell back dead.  The whole tragedy occurred within
two minutes, and neither of the three spoke after he was shot.
General Mabry had about thirty buckshot in his body.
A bystander was painfully wounded in the thigh with a buckshot,
and another was wounded in the arm.  Four other men had their
clothing pierced by buckshot.  The affair caused great excitement,
and Gay Street was thronged with thousands of people.
General Mabry and his son Joe were acquitted only a few
days ago of the murder of Moses Lusby and Don Lusby,
father and son, whom they killed a few weeks ago.
Will Mabry was killed by Don Lusby last Christmas.  Major Thomas
O'Connor was President of the Mechanics' National Bank here,
and was the wealthiest man in the State.--ASSOCIATED PRESS
TELEGRAM.

One day last month, Professor Sharpe, of the Somerville,
Tenn., Female College, 'a quiet and gentlemanly man,' was told that
his brother-in-law, a Captain Burton, had threatened to kill him.
Burton, t seems, had already killed one man and driven his knife
into another.  The Professor armed himself with a double-barreled
shot gun, started out in search of his brother-in-law, found
him playing billiards in a saloon, and blew his brains out.
The 'Memphis Avalanche' reports that the Professor's course met
with pretty general approval in the community; knowing that the law
was powerless, in the actual condition of public sentiment,
to protect him, he protected himself.

About the same time, two young men in North Carolina quarreled
about a girl, and 'hostile messages' were exchanged.
Friends tried to reconcile them, but had their labor for their pains.
On the 24th the young men met in the public highway.
One of them had a heavy club in his hand, the other an ax.
The man with the club fought desperately for his life, but it
was a hopeless fight from the first.  A well-directed blow
sent his club whirling out of his grasp, and the next moment
he was a dead man.

About the same time, two 'highly connected' young Virginians,
clerks in a hardware store at Charlottesville, while 'skylarking,'
came to blows.  Peter Dick threw pepper in Charles Roads's eyes;
Roads demanded an apology; Dick refused to give it, and it
was agreed that a duel was inevitable, but a difficulty arose;
the parties had no pistols, and it was too late at night
to procure them.  One of them suggested that butcher-knives
would answer the purpose, and the other accepted the suggestion;
the result was that Roads fell to the floor with a gash
in his abdomen that may or may not prove fatal.
If Dick has been arrested, the news has not reached us.
He 'expressed deep regret,' and we are told by a Staunton
correspondent of the PHILADELPHIA PRESS that 'every effort has
been made to hush the matter up.'--EXTRACTS FROM THE PUBLIC
JOURNALS.]> ladies are trained according to the southern ideas
of delicacy, refinement, womanhood, religion, and propriety;
hence we offer a first-class female college for the south and
solicit southern patronage.'

What, warder, ho! the man that can blow so complacent a blast as that,
probably blows it from a castle.

From Baton Rouge to New Orleans, the great sugar plantations border
both sides of the river all the way, and stretch their league-wide
levels back to the dim forest-walls of bearded cypress in the rear.
Shores lonely no longer.  Plenty of dwellings all the way,
on both banks--standing so close together, for long distances,
that the broad river lying between the two rows, becomes a sort
of spacious street.  A most home-like and happy-looking region.
And now and then you see a pillared and porticoed great manor-house,
embowered in trees.  Here is testimony of one or two of the procession
of foreign tourists that filed along here half a century ago.
Mrs. Trollope says--

'The unbroken flatness of the banks of the Mississippi continued unvaried
for many miles above New Orleans; but the graceful and luxuriant palmetto,
the dark and noble ilex, and the bright orange, were everywhere to be seen,
and it was many days before we were weary of looking at them.'

Captain Basil Hall--

'The district of country which lies adjacent to the Mississippi,
in the lower parts of Louisiana, is everywhere thickly
peopled by sugar planters, whose showy houses, gay piazzas,
trig gardens, and numerous slave-villages, all clean and neat,
gave an exceedingly thriving air to the river scenery.

All the procession paint the attractive picture in the same way.
The descriptions of fifty years ago do not need to have a word
changed in order to exactly describe the same region as it
appears to-day--except as to the 'trigness' of the houses.
The whitewash is gone from the negro cabins now; and many,
possibly most, of the big mansions, once so shining white,
have worn out their paint and have a decayed, neglected look.
It is the blight of the war.  Twenty-one years ago everything was
trim and trig and bright along the 'coast,' just as it had been
in 1827, as described by those tourists.

Unfortunate tourists!  People humbugged them with stupid and silly lies,
and then laughed at them for believing and printing the same.
They told Mrs. Trollope that the alligators--or crocodiles, as she calls them--
were terrible creatures; and backed up the statement with a blood-curdling
account of how one of these slandered reptiles crept into a squatter
cabin one night, and ate up a woman and five children.  The woman,
by herself, would have satisfied any ordinarily-impossible alligator;
but no, these liars must make him gorge the five children besides.
One would not imagine that jokers of this robust breed would be sensitive--
but they were.  It is difficult, at this day, to understand,
and impossible to justify, the reception which the book of the grave,
honest, intelligent, gentle, manly, charitable, well-meaning Capt. Basil
Hall got.  Mrs. Trollope's account of it may perhaps entertain the reader;
therefore I have put it in the Appendix.<footnote [See Appendix C.]>




                               Chapter 41
                       The Metropolis of the South

THE approaches to New Orleans were familiar; general aspects were unchanged.
When one goes flying through London along a railway propped in the air on
tall arches, he may inspect miles of upper bedrooms through the open windows,
but the lower half of the houses is under his level and out of sight.
Similarly, in high-river stage, in the New Orleans region, the water is up
to the top of the enclosing levee-rim, the flat country behind it lies low--
representing the bottom of a dish--and as the boat swims along, high on
the flood, one looks down upon the houses and into the upper windows.
There is nothing but that frail breastwork of earth between the people
and destruction.

The old brick salt-warehouses clustered at the upper end of the city
looked as they had always looked; warehouses which had had a kind
of Aladdin's lamp experience, however, since I had seen them;
for when the war broke out the proprietor went to bed one night
leaving them packed with thousands of sacks of vulgar salt,
worth a couple of dollars a sack, and got up in the morning and found
his mountain of salt turned into a mountain of gold, so to speak,
so suddenly and to so dizzy a height had the war news sent up
the price of the article.

The vast reach of plank wharves remained unchanged, and there were
as many ships as ever:  but the long array of steamboats had vanished;
not altogether, of course, but not much of it was left.

The city itself had not changed--to the eye.  It had greatly increased
in spread and population, but the look of the town was not altered.
The dust, waste-paper-littered, was still deep in the streets;
the deep, trough-like gutters alongside the curbstones were still half
full of reposeful water with a dusty surface; the sidewalks were still--
in the sugar and bacon region--encumbered by casks and barrels
and hogsheads; the great blocks of austerely plain commercial houses
were as dusty-looking as ever.

Canal Street was finer, and more attractive and stirring than formerly,
with its drifting crowds of people, its several processions of hurrying
street-cars, and--toward evening--its broad second-story verandas crowded
with gentlemen and ladies clothed according to the latest mode.

Not that there is any 'architecture' in Canal Street:  to speak
in broad, general terms, there is no architecture in New Orleans,
except in the cemeteries.  It seems a strange thing to say of a wealthy,
far-seeing, and energetic city of a quarter of a million inhabitants,
but it is true.  There is a huge granite U.S. Custom-house--costly enough,
genuine enough, but as a decoration it is inferior to a gasometer.
It looks like a state prison.  But it was built before the war.
Architecture in America may be said to have been born since the war.
New Orleans, I believe, has had the good luck--and in a sense the bad luck--
to have had no great fire in late years.  It must be so.  If the opposite
had been the case, I think one would be able to tell the 'burnt district'
by the radical improvement in its architecture over the old forms.
One can do this in Boston and Chicago.  The 'burnt district' of Boston
was commonplace before the fire; but now there is no commercial district
in any city in the world that can surpass it--or perhaps even rival it--
in beauty, elegance, and tastefulness.

However, New Orleans has begun--just this moment, as one may say.
When completed, the new Cotton Exchange will be a stately and
beautiful building; massive, substantial, full of architectural graces;
no shams or false pretenses or uglinesses about it anywhere.
To the city, it will be worth many times its cost, for it will
breed its species.  What has been lacking hitherto, was a model
to build toward; something to educate eye and taste; a SUGGESTER,
so to speak.

The city is well outfitted with progressive men--thinking, sagacious,
long-headed men.  The contrast between the spirit of the city and
the city's architecture is like the contrast between waking and sleep.
Apparently there is a 'boom' in everything but that one dead feature.
The water in the gutters used to be stagnant and slimy, and a potent
disease-breeder; but the gutters are flushed now, two or three times a day,
by powerful machinery; in many of the gutters the water never stands still,
but has a steady current.  Other sanitary improvements have been made;
and with such effect that New Orleans claims to be (during the long
intervals between the occasional yellow-fever assaults) one of the
healthiest cities in the Union.  There's plenty of ice now for everybody,
manufactured in the town.  It is a driving place commercially, and has
a great river, ocean, and railway business.  At the date of our visit,
it was the best lighted city in the Union, electrically speaking.
The New Orleans electric lights were more numerous than those of New York,
and very much better.  One had this modified noonday not only in Canal
and some neighboring chief streets, but all along a stretch of five
miles of river frontage.  There are good clubs in the city now--
several of them but recently organized--and inviting modern-style pleasure
resorts at West End and Spanish Fort.  The telephone is everywhere.
One of the most notable advances is in journalism.  The newspapers,
as I remember them, were not a striking feature.  Now they are.
Money is spent upon them with a free hand.  They get the news, let it cost
what it may.  The editorial work is not hack-grinding, but literature.
As an example of New Orleans journalistic achievement, it may be
mentioned that the 'Times-Democrat' of August 26, 1882, contained a
report of the year's business of the towns of the Mississippi Valley,
from New Orleans all the way to St. Paul--two thousand miles.
That issue of the paper consisted of forty pages; seven columns to the page;
two hundred and eighty columns in all; fifteen hundred words to the column;
an aggregate of four hundred and twenty thousand words.  That is to say,
not much short of three times as many words as there are in this book.
One may with sorrow contrast this with the architecture of New Orleans.

I have been speaking of public architecture only.  The domestic
article in New Orleans is reproachless, notwithstanding it
remains as it always was.  All the dwellings are of wood--
in the American part of the town, I mean--and all have a
comfortable look.  Those in the wealthy quarter are spacious;
painted snow-white usually, and generally have wide verandas,
or double-verandas, supported by ornamental columns.
These mansions stand in the center of large grounds,
and rise, garlanded with roses, out of the midst of swelling
masses of shining green foliage and many-colored blossoms.
No houses could well be in better harmony with their surroundings,
or more pleasing to the eye, or more home-like and comfortable-looking.

One even becomes reconciled to the cistern presently; this is a mighty cask,
painted green, and sometimes a couple of stories high, which is propped
against the house-corner on stilts.  There is a mansion-and-brewery
suggestion about the combination which seems very incongruous at first.
But the people cannot have wells, and so they take rain-water. Neither
can they conveniently have cellars, or graves,<footnote [The Israelites
are buried in graves--by permission, I take it, not requirement;
but none else, except the destitute, who are buried at public expense.
The graves are but three or four feet deep.]> the town being built upon
'made' ground; so they do without both, and few of the living complain,
and none of the others.




                               Chapter 42
                          Hygiene and Sentiment

THEY bury their dead in vaults, above the ground.  These vaults
have a resemblance to houses--sometimes to temples; are built
of marble, generally; are architecturally graceful and shapely;
they face the walks and driveways of the cemetery; and when one
moves through the midst of a thousand or so of them and sees their
white roofs and gables stretching into the distance on every hand,
the phrase 'city of the dead' has all at once a meaning to him.
Many of the cemeteries are beautiful, and are kept in perfect order.
When one goes from the levee or the business streets near it,
to a cemetery, he observes to himself that if those people down there
would live as neatly while they are alive as they do after they are dead,
they would find many advantages in it; and besides, their quarter would
be the wonder and admiration of the business world.  Fresh flowers,
in vases of water, are to be seen at the portals of many of the vaults:
placed there by the pious hands of bereaved parents and children,
husbands and wives, and renewed daily.  A milder form of sorrow finds
its inexpensive and lasting remembrancer in the coarse and ugly
but indestructible 'immortelle'--which is a wreath or cross or some
such emblem, made of rosettes of black linen, with sometimes a yellow
rosette at the conjunction of the cross's bars--kind of sorrowful
breast-pin, so to say.  The immortelle requires no attention:
you just hang it up, and there you are; just leave it alone, it will take
care of your grief for you, and keep it in mind better than you can;
stands weather first-rate, and lasts like boiler-iron.

On sunny days, pretty little chameleons--gracefullest of legged reptiles--
creep along the marble fronts of the vaults, and catch flies.  Their changes
of color--as to variety--are not up to the creature's reputation.
They change color when a person comes along and hangs up an immortelle;
but that is nothing:  any right-feeling reptile would do that.

I will gradually drop this subject of graveyards.  I have been
trying all I could to get down to the sentimental part of it,
but I cannot accomplish it.  I think there is no genuinely
sentimental part to it.  It is all grotesque, ghastly, horrible.
Graveyards may have been justifiable in the bygone ages,
when nobody knew that for every dead body put into the ground,
to glut the earth and the plant-roots, and the air with
disease-germs, five or fifty, or maybe a hundred persons must die
before their proper time; but they are hardly justifiable now,
when even the children know that a dead saint enters upon
a century-long career of assassination the moment the earth
closes over his corpse.  It is a grim sort of a thought.
The relics of St. Anne, up in Canada, have now, after nineteen
hundred years, gone to curing the sick by the dozen.
But it is merest matter-of-course that these same relics,
within a generation after St. Anne's death and burial,
MADE several thousand people sick.  Therefore these
miracle-performances are simply compensation, nothing more.
St. Anne is somewhat slow pay, for a Saint, it is true;
but better a debt paid after nineteen hundred years,
and outlawed by the statute of limitations, than not paid at all;
and most of the knights of the halo do not pay at all.
Where you find one that pays--like St. Anne--you find
a hundred and fifty that take the benefit of the statute.
And none of them pay any more than the principal of what they owe--
they pay none of the interest either simple or compound.
A Saint can never QUITE return the principal, however;
for his dead body KILLS people, whereas his relics HEAL only--
they never restore the dead to life.  That part of the account is
always left unsettled.

'Dr. F. Julius Le Moyne, after fifty years of medical practice, wrote:
"The inhumation of human bodies, dead from infectious diseases,
results in constantly loading the atmosphere, and polluting the waters,
with not only the germs that rise from simply putrefaction, but also with
the SPECIFIC germs of the diseases from which death resulted."

'The gases (from buried corpses) will rise to the surface
through eight or ten feet of gravel, just as coal-gas will do,
and there is practically no limit to their power of escape.

'During the epidemic in New Orleans in 1853, Dr. E. H. Barton
reported that in the Fourth District the mortality was four hundred
and fifty-two per thousand--more than double that of any other.
In this district were three large cemeteries, in which during
the previous year more than three thousand bodies had been buried.
In other districts the proximity of cemeteries seemed to
aggravate the disease.

'In 1828 Professor Bianchi demonstrated how the fearful reappearance
of the plague at Modena was caused by excavations in ground where,
THREE HUNDRED YEARS PREVIOUSLY, the victims of the pestilence had
been buried.  Mr. Cooper, in explaining the causes of some epidemics,
remarks that the opening of the plague burial-grounds at Eyam resulted
in an immediate outbreak of disease.'--NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW, NO.
3, VOL.  135.

In an address before the Chicago Medical Society, in advocacy of cremation,
Dr. Charles W. Purdy made some striking comparisons to show what a burden
is laid upon society by the burial of the dead:--

'One and one-fourth times more money is expended annually in funerals in
the United States than the Government expends for public-school purposes.
Funerals cost this country in 1880 enough money to pay the liabilities
of all the commercial failures in the United States during the same year,
and give each bankrupt a capital of $8,630 with which to resume business.
Funerals cost annually more money than the value of the combined
gold and silver yield of the United States in the year 1880!
These figures do not include the sums invested in burial-grounds
and expended in tombs and monuments, nor the loss from depreciation
of property in the vicinity of cemeteries.'

For the rich, cremation would answer as well as burial;
for the ceremonies connected with it could be made as costly
and ostentatious as a Hindu suttee; while for the poor,
cremation would be better than burial, because so cheap<footnote
[Four or five dollars is the minimum cost.]>--so cheap until
the poor got to imitating the rich, which they would do
by-and-bye. The adoption of cremation would relieve us of a muck
of threadbare burial-witticisms; but, on the other hand,
it would resurrect a lot of mildewed old cremation-jokes
that have had a rest for two thousand years.

I have a colored acquaintance who earns his living by odd jobs and heavy
manual labor.  He never earns above four hundred dollars in a year,
and as he has a wife and several young children, the closest scrimping
is necessary to get him through to the end of the twelve months debtless.
To such a man a funeral is a colossal financial disaster.  While I was
writing one of the preceding chapters, this man lost a little child.
He walked the town over with a friend, trying to find a coffin that
was within his means.  He bought the very cheapest one he could find,
plain wood, stained.  It cost him twenty-six dollars.  It would have cost
less than four, probably, if it had been built to put something useful into.
He and his family will feel that outlay a good many months.




                               Chapter 43
                          The Art of Inhumation

ABOUT the same time, I encountered a man in the street,
whom I had not seen for six or seven years; and something
like this talk followed.  I said--

'But you used to look sad and oldish; you don't now.
Where did you get all this youth and bubbling cheerfulness?
Give me the address.'

He chuckled blithely, took off his shining tile, pointed to a notched
pink circlet of paper pasted into its crown, with something lettered
on it, and went on chuckling while I read, 'J. B ----, UNDERTAKER.'
Then he clapped his hat on, gave it an irreverent tilt to leeward,
and cried out--

'That's what's the matter!  It used to be rough times with me when you
knew me--insurance-agency business, you know; mighty irregular.
Big fire, all right--brisk trade for ten days while people scared;
after that, dull policy-business till next fire.  Town like this don't
have fires often enough--a fellow strikes so many dull weeks in a row
that he gets discouraged.  But you bet you, this is the business!
People don't wait for examples to die.  No, sir, they drop off
right along--there ain't any dull spots in the undertaker line.
I just started in with two or three little old coffins and
a hired hearse, and now look at the thing!  I've worked up
a business here that would satisfy any man, don't care who he is.
Five years ago, lodged in an attic; live in a swell house now,
with a mansard roof, and all the modern inconveniences.'

'Does a coffin pay so well.  Is there much profit on a coffin?'

'Go-way! How you talk!'  Then, with a confidential wink, a dropping
of the voice, and an impressive laying of his hand on my arm;
'Look here; there's one thing in this world which isn't ever cheap.
That's a coffin.  There's one thing in this world which a person don't
ever try to jew you down on.  That's a coffin.  There's one thing
in this world which a person don't say--"I'll look around a little,
and if I find I can't do better I'll come back and take it."
That's a coffin.  There's one thing in this world which a person
won't take in pine if he can go walnut; and won't take in walnut
if he can go mahogany; and won't take in mahogany if he can go an iron
casket with silver door-plate and bronze handles.  That's a coffin.
And there's one thing in this world which you don't have to worry
around after a person to get him to pay for.  And that's a coffin.
Undertaking?--why it's the dead-surest business in Christendom,
and the nobbiest.

'Why, just look at it.  A rich man won't have anything but your very best;
and you can just pile it on, too--pile it on and sock it to him--he won't
ever holler.  And you take in a poor man, and if you work him right he'll
bust himself on a single lay-out. Or especially a woman.  F'r instance:
Mrs. O'Flaherty comes in--widow--wiping her eyes and kind of moaning.
Unhandkerchiefs one eye, bats it around tearfully over the stock; says--

' "And fhat might ye ask for that wan?"

' "Thirty-nine dollars, madam," says I.

' "It 's a foine big price, sure, but Pat shall be buried like
a gintleman, as he was, if I have to work me fingers off for it.
I'll have that wan, sor."

' "Yes, madam," says I, "and it is a very good one, too; not costly,
to be sure, but in this life we must cut our garment to our clothes,
as the saying is."  And as she starts out, I heave in, kind of casually,
"This one with the white satin lining is a beauty, but I am afraid--
well, sixty-five dollars is a rather--rather--but no matter, I felt
obliged to say to Mrs. O'Shaughnessy--"

' "D'ye mane to soy that Bridget O'Shaughnessy bought the mate
to that joo-ul box to ship that dhrunken divil to Purgatory in?"

' "Yes, madam."

' "Then Pat shall go to heaven in the twin to it, if it takes
the last rap the O'Flaherties can raise; and moind you,
stick on some extras, too, and I'll give ye another dollar."

'And as I lay-in with the livery stables, of course I don't forget to mention
that Mrs. O'Shaughnessy hired fifty-four dollars' worth of hacks and flung
as much style into Dennis's funeral as if he had been a duke or an assassin.
And of course she sails in and goes the O'Shaughnessy about four hacks
and an omnibus better.  That used to be, but that's all played now;
that is, in this particular town.  The Irish got to piling up hacks so,
on their funerals, that a funeral left them ragged and hungry for
two years afterward; so the priest pitched in and broke it all up.
He don't allow them to have but two hacks now, and sometimes only one.'

'Well,' said I, 'if you are so light-hearted and jolly in ordinary times,
what must you be in an epidemic?'

He shook his head.

'No, you're off, there.  We don't like to see an epidemic.
An epidemic don't pay.  Well, of course I don't mean that, exactly;
but it don't pay in proportion to the regular thing.
Don't it occur to you, why?'

No.

'Think.'

'I can't imagine.  What is it?'

'It's just two things.'

'Well, what are they?'

'One's Embamming.'

'And what's the other?'

'Ice.'

'How is that?'

'Well, in ordinary times, a person dies, and we lay him up in ice;
one day two days, maybe three, to wait for friends to come.
Takes a lot of it--melts fast.  We charge jewelry rates for that ice,
and war-prices for attendance.  Well, don't you know, when there's
an epidemic, they rush 'em to the cemetery the minute the breath's out.
No market for ice in an epidemic.  Same with Embamming.
You take a family that's able to embam, and you've got a soft thing.
You can mention sixteen different ways to do it--though there
AIN'T only one or two ways, when you come down to the bottom facts
of it--and they'll take the highest-priced way, every time.
It's human nature--human nature in grief.  It don't reason, you see.
Time being, it don't care a dam.  All it wants is physical immortality
for deceased, and they're willing to pay for it.  All you've got
to do is to just be ca'm and stack it up--they'll stand the racket.
Why, man, you can take a defunct that you couldn't GIVE away; and get
your embamming traps around you and go to work; and in a couple of hours
he is worth a cool six hundred--that's what HE'S worth.  There ain't
anything equal to it but trading rats for di'monds in time of famine.
Well, don't you see, when there's an epidemic, people don't wait to embam.
No, indeed they don't; and it hurts the business like hell-th, as we say--
hurts it like hell-th, HEALTH, see?--Our little joke in the trade.
Well, I must be going.  Give me a call whenever you need any--I mean,
when you're going by, sometime.'

In his joyful high spirits, he did the exaggerating himself,
if any has been done.  I have not enlarged on him.

With the above brief references to inhumation, let us leave the subject.
As for me, I hope to be cremated.  I made that remark to my pastor once,
who said, with what he seemed to think was an impressive manner--

'I wouldn't worry about that, if I had your chances.'
Much he knew about it--the family all so opposed to it.




                               Chapter 44
                               City Sights

THE old French part of New Orleans--anciently the Spanish part--
bears no resemblance to the American end of the city:
the American end which lies beyond the intervening
brick business-center. The houses are massed in blocks;
are austerely plain and dignified; uniform of pattern,
with here and there a departure from it with pleasant effect;
all are plastered on the outside, and nearly all have long,
iron-railed verandas running along the several stories.
Their chief beauty is the deep, warm, varicolored stain
with which time and the weather have enriched the plaster.
It harmonizes with all the surroundings, and has as natural
a look of belonging there as has the flush upon sunset clouds.
This charming decoration cannot be successfully imitated;
neither is it to be found elsewhere in America.

The iron railings are a specialty, also.  The pattern is often
exceedingly light and dainty, and airy and graceful--with a large
cipher or monogram in the center, a delicate cobweb of baffling,
intricate forms, wrought in steel.  The ancient railings are hand-made,
and are now comparatively rare and proportionately valuable.
They are become BRIC-A-BRAC.

The party had the privilege of idling through this ancient
quarter of New Orleans with the South's finest literary genius,
the author of 'the Grandissimes.'  In him the South has found
a masterly delineator of its interior life and its history.
In truth, I find by experience, that the untrained eye and
vacant mind can inspect it, and learn of it, and judge of it,
more clearly and profitably in his books than by personal
contact with it.

With Mr. Cable along to see for you, and describe and explain and illuminate,
a jog through that old quarter is a vivid pleasure.  And you have a vivid
sense as of unseen or dimly seen things--vivid, and yet fitful and darkling;
you glimpse salient features, but lose the fine shades or catch them
imperfectly through the vision of the imagination:  a case, as it were,
of ignorant near-sighted stranger traversing the rim of wide vague horizons
of Alps with an inspired and enlightened long-sighted native.

We visited the old St. Louis Hotel, now occupied by municipal offices.
There is nothing strikingly remarkable about it; but one can say of it
as of the Academy of Music in New York, that if a broom or a shovel has ever
been used in it there is no circumstantial evidence to back up the fact.
It is curious that cabbages and hay and things do not grow in the Academy
of Music; but no doubt it is on account of the interruption of the light by
the benches, and the impossibility of hoeing the crop except in the aisles.
The fact that the ushers grow their buttonhole-bouquets on the premises
shows what might be done if they had the right kind of an agricultural head
to the establishment.

We visited also the venerable Cathedral, and the pretty square in front of it;
the one dim with religious light, the other brilliant with the worldly sort,
and lovely with orange-trees and blossomy shrubs; then we drove in the hot sun
through the wilderness of houses and out on to the wide dead level beyond,
where the villas are, and the water wheels to drain the town, and the commons
populous with cows and children; passing by an old cemetery where we were
told lie the ashes of an early pirate; but we took him on trust, and did
not visit him.  He was a pirate with a tremendous and sanguinary history;
and as long as he preserved unspotted, in retirement, the dignity of his
name and the grandeur of his ancient calling, homage and reverence were his
from high and low; but when at last he descended into politics and became
a paltry alderman, the public 'shook' him, and turned aside and wept.
When he died, they set up a monument over him; and little by little he has
come into respect again; but it is respect for the pirate, not the alderman.
To-day the loyal and generous remember only what he was, and charitably forget
what he became.

Thence, we drove a few miles across a swamp, along a raised shell road,
with a canal on one hand and a dense wood on the other; and here and there,
in the distance, a ragged and angular-limbed and moss-bearded cypress,
top standing out, clear cut against the sky, and as quaint of form as the
apple-trees in Japanese pictures--such was our course and the surroundings
of it.  There was an occasional alligator swimming comfortably along
in the canal, and an occasional picturesque colored person on the bank,
flinging his statue-rigid reflection upon the still water and watching
for a bite.

And by-and-bye we reached the West End, a collection of hotels of
the usual light summer-resort pattern, with broad verandas all around,
and the waves of the wide and blue Lake Pontchartrain lapping the thresholds.
We had dinner on a ground-veranda over the water--the chief dish the renowned
fish called the pompano, delicious as the less criminal forms of sin.

Thousands of people come by rail and carriage to West End and
to Spanish Fort every evening, and dine, listen to the bands,
take strolls in the open air under the electric lights,
go sailing on the lake, and entertain themselves in various
and sundry other ways.

We had opportunities on other days and in other places to test the pompano.
Notably, at an editorial dinner at one of the clubs in the city.
He was in his last possible perfection there, and justified his fame.
In his suite was a tall pyramid of scarlet cray-fish--large ones; as large
as one's thumb--delicate, palatable, appetizing.  Also deviled whitebait;
also shrimps of choice quality; and a platter of small soft-shell crabs
of a most superior breed.  The other dishes were what one might get
at Delmonico's, or Buckingham Palace; those I have spoken of can be had
in similar perfection in New Orleans only, I suppose.

In the West and South they have a new institution--the Broom Brigade.
It is composed of young ladies who dress in a uniform costume,
and go through the infantry drill, with broom in place of musket.
It is a very pretty sight, on private view.  When they perform
on the stage of a theater, in the blaze of colored fires,
it must be a fine and fascinating spectacle.  I saw them go through
their complex manual with grace, spirit, and admirable precision.
I saw them do everything which a human being can possibly do with a broom,
except sweep.  I did not see them sweep.  But I know they could learn.
What they have already learned proves that.  And if they ever
should learn, and should go on the war-path down Tchoupitoulas
or some of those other streets around there, those thoroughfares
would bear a greatly improved aspect in a very few minutes.
But the girls themselves wouldn't; so nothing would be really gained,
after all.

The drill was in the Washington Artillery building.
In this building we saw many interesting relics of the war.
Also a fine oil-painting representing Stonewall Jackson's
last interview with General Lee.  Both men are on horseback.
Jackson has just ridden up, and is accosting Lee.
The picture is very valuable, on account of the portraits,
which are authentic.  But, like many another historical picture,
it means nothing without its label.  And one label will fit it
as well as another--

First Interview between Lee and Jackson.

Last Interview between Lee and Jackson.

Jackson Introducing Himself to Lee.

Jackson Accepting Lee's Invitation to Dinner.

Jackson Declining Lee's Invitation to Dinner--with Thanks.

Jackson Apologizing for a Heavy Defeat.

Jackson Reporting a Great Victory.

Jackson Asking Lee for a Match.

It tells ONE story, and a sufficient one; for it says quite
plainly and satisfactorily, 'Here are Lee and Jackson together.'
The artist would have made it tell that this is Lee and Jackson's last
interview if he could have done it.  But he couldn't, for there wasn't
any way to do it.  A good legible label is usually worth, for information,
a ton of significant attitude and expression in a historical picture.
In Rome, people with fine sympathetic natures stand up and weep in front
of the celebrated 'Beatrice Cenci the Day before her Execution.'
It shows what a label can do.  If they did not know the picture,
they would inspect it unmoved, and say, 'Young girl with hay fever;
young girl with her head in a bag.'

I found the half-forgotten Southern intonations and
elisions as pleasing to my ear as they had formerly been.
A Southerner talks music.  At least it is music to me,
but then I was born in the South.  The educated Southerner
has no use for an r, except at the beginning of a word.
He says 'honah,' and 'dinnah,' and 'Gove'nuh,' and 'befo' the waw,'
and so on.  The words may lack charm to the eye, in print,
but they have it to the ear.  When did the r disappear
from Southern speech, and how did it come to disappear?
The custom of dropping it was not borrowed from the North,
nor inherited from England.  Many Southerners--most Southerners--
put a y into occasional words that begin with the k sound.
For instance, they say Mr. K'yahtah (Carter) and speak
of playing k'yahds or of riding in the k'yahs. And they
have the pleasant custom--long ago fallen into decay in
the North--of frequently employing the respectful 'Sir.'
Instead of the curt Yes, and the abrupt No, they say 'Yes, Suh',
'No, Suh.'

But there are some infelicities.  Such as 'like' for 'as,'
and the addition of an 'at' where it isn't needed.
I heard an educated gentleman say, 'Like the flag-officer did.'
His cook or his butler would have said, 'Like the flag-officer done.'
You hear gentlemen say, 'Where have you been at?'  And here is
the aggravated form--heard a ragged street Arab say it to a comrade:
'I was a-ask'n' Tom whah you was a-sett'n' at.'  The very elect
carelessly say 'will' when they mean 'shall'; and many of them say,
'I didn't go to do it,' meaning 'I didn't mean to do it.'
The Northern word 'guess'--imported from England, where it
used to be common, and now regarded by satirical Englishmen
as a Yankee original--is but little used among Southerners.
They say 'reckon.'  They haven't any 'doesn't' in their language;
they say 'don't' instead.  The unpolished often use 'went' for 'gone.'
It is nearly as bad as the Northern 'hadn't ought.'  This reminds me
that a remark of a very peculiar nature was made here in my neighborhood
(in the North) a few days ago:  'He hadn't ought to have went.'
How is that?  Isn't that a good deal of a triumph?
One knows the orders combined in this half-breed's architecture
without inquiring:  one parent Northern, the other Southern.
To-day I heard a schoolmistress ask, 'Where is John gone?'
This form is so common--so nearly universal, in fact--that if she
had used 'whither' instead of 'where,' I think it would have sounded
like an affectation.

We picked up one excellent word--a word worth traveling to New
Orleans to get; a nice limber, expressive, handy word--'lagniappe.'
They pronounce it lanny-yap. It is Spanish--so they said.
We discovered it at the head of a column of odds and ends in
the Picayune, the first day; heard twenty people use it the second;
inquired what it meant the third; adopted it and got facility
in swinging it the fourth.  It has a restricted meaning,
but I think the people spread it out a little when they choose.
It is the equivalent of the thirteenth roll in a 'baker's dozen.'
It is something thrown in, gratis, for good measure.
The custom originated in the Spanish quarter of the city.
When a child or a servant buys something in a shop--
or even the mayor or the governor, for aught I know--he finishes
the operation by saying--

'Give me something for lagniappe.'

The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of licorice-root,
gives the servant a cheap cigar or a spool of thread, gives the governor--
I don't know what he gives the governor; support, likely.

When you are invited to drink, and this does occur now and then
in New Orleans--and you say, 'What, again?--no, I've had enough;'
the other party says, 'But just this one time more--this is for lagniappe.'
When the beau perceives that he is stacking his compliments a trifle too high,
and sees by the young lady's countenance that the edifice would have been
better with the top compliment left off, he puts his 'I beg pardon--
no harm intended,' into the briefer form of 'Oh, that's for lagniappe.'
If the waiter in the restaurant stumbles and spills a gill of coffee down
the back of your neck, he says 'For lagniappe, sah,' and gets you another cup
without extra charge.




                               Chapter 45
                             Southern Sports

IN the North one hears the war mentioned, in social conversation,
once a month; sometimes as often as once a week; but as a distinct
subject for talk, it has long ago been relieved of duty.  There are
sufficient reasons for this.  Given a dinner company of six gentlemen
to-day, it can easily happen that four of them--and possibly five--
were not in the field at all.  So the chances are four to two,
or five to one, that the war will at no time during the evening
become the topic of conversation; and the chances are still greater
that if it become the topic it will remain so but a little while.
If you add six ladies to the company, you have added six people
who saw so little of the dread realities of the war that they ran
out of talk concerning them years ago, and now would soon weary of
the war topic if you brought it up.

The case is very different in the South.  There, every man you
meet was in the war; and every lady you meet saw the war.
The war is the great chief topic of conversation.  The interest in it
is vivid and constant; the interest in other topics is fleeting.
Mention of the war will wake up a dull company and set
their tongues going, when nearly any other topic would fail.
In the South, the war is what A.D. is elsewhere:  they date from it.
All day long you hear things 'placed' as having happened since the waw;
or du'in' the waw; or befo' the waw; or right aftah the waw;
or 'bout two yeahs or five yeahs or ten yeahs befo' the waw
or aftah the waw.  It shows how intimately every individual
was visited, in his own person, by that tremendous episode.
It gives the inexperienced stranger a better idea of what a vast
and comprehensive calamity invasion is than he can ever get by reading
books at the fireside.

At a club one evening, a gentleman turned to me and said,
in an aside--

'You notice, of course, that we are nearly always talking about the war.
It isn't because we haven't anything else to talk about, but because nothing
else has so strong an interest for us.  And there is another reason:
In the war, each of us, in his own person, seems to have sampled
all the different varieties of human experience; as a consequence,
you can't mention an outside matter of any sort but it will certainly
remind some listener of something that happened during the war--
and out he comes with it.  Of course that brings the talk back to the war.
You may try all you want to, to keep other subjects before the house,
and we may all join in and help, but there can be but one result:
the most random topic would load every man up with war reminiscences,
and shut him up, too; and talk would be likely to stop presently,
because you can't talk pale inconsequentialities when you've
got a crimson fact or fancy in your head that you are burning
to fetch out.'

The poet was sitting some little distance away; and presently
he began to speak--about the moon.

The gentleman who had been talking to me remarked in an 'aside:'
'There, the moon is far enough from the seat of war, but you
will see that it will suggest something to somebody about the war;
in ten minutes from now the moon, as a topic, will be shelved.'

The poet was saying he had noticed something which was a surprise
to him; had had the impression that down here, toward the equator,
the moonlight was much stronger and brighter than up North;
had had the impression that when he visited New Orleans,
many years ago, the moon--

Interruption from the other end of the room--

'Let me explain that.  Reminds me of an anecdote.
Everything is changed since the war, for better or for worse;
but you'll find people down here born grumblers, who see no
change except the change for the worse.  There was an old negro
woman of this sort.  A young New-Yorker said in her presence,
"What a wonderful moon you have down here!"  She sighed and said,
"Ah, bless yo' heart, honey, you ought to seen dat moon befo'
de waw!" '

The new topic was dead already.  But the poet resurrected it,
and gave it a new start.

A brief dispute followed, as to whether the difference between
Northern and Southern moonlight really existed or was only imagined.
Moonlight talk drifted easily into talk about artificial
methods of dispelling darkness.  Then somebody remembered
that when Farragut advanced upon Port Hudson on a dark night--
and did not wish to assist the aim of the Confederate gunners--
he carried no battle-lanterns, but painted the decks of his ships white,
and thus created a dim but valuable light, which enabled his
own men to grope their way around with considerable facility.
At this point the war got the floor again--the ten minutes not
quite up yet.

I was not sorry, for war talk by men who have been in a war
is always interesting; whereas moon talk by a poet who has
not been in the moon is likely to be dull.

We went to a cockpit in New Orleans on a Saturday afternoon.
I had never seen a cock-fight before.  There were men and boys there
of all ages and all colors, and of many languages and nationalities.
But I noticed one quite conspicuous and surprising absence:
the traditional brutal faces.  There were no brutal faces.
With no cock-fighting going on, you could have played the gathering
on a stranger for a prayer-meeting; and after it began,
for a revival--provided you blindfolded your stranger--
for the shouting was something prodigious.

A negro and a white man were in the ring; everybody else outside.
The cocks were brought in in sacks; and when time was called,
they were taken out by the two bottle-holders, stroked,
caressed, poked toward each other, and finally liberated.
The big black cock plunged instantly at the little gray one and struck
him on the head with his spur.  The gray responded with spirit.
Then the Babel of many-tongued shoutings broke out, and ceased
not thenceforth.  When the cocks had been fighting some little time,
I was expecting them momently to drop dead, for both were blind,
red with blood, and so exhausted that they frequently fell down.
Yet they would not give up, neither would they die.
The negro and the white man would pick them up every few seconds,
wipe them off, blow cold water on them in a fine spray,
and take their heads in their mouths and hold them there
a moment--to warm back the perishing life perhaps;
I do not know.  Then, being set down again, the dying
creatures would totter gropingly about, with dragging wings,
find each other, strike a guesswork blow or two, and fall
exhausted once more.

I did not see the end of the battle.  I forced myself to endure
it as long as I could, but it was too pitiful a sight;
so I made frank confession to that effect, and we retired.
We heard afterward that the black cock died in the ring,
and fighting to the last.

Evidently there is abundant fascination about this 'sport' for such
as have had a degree of familiarity with it.  I never saw people
enjoy anything more than this gathering enjoyed this fight.
The case was the same with old gray-heads and with boys of ten.
They lost themselves in frenzies of delight.  The 'cocking-main'
is an inhuman sort of entertainment, there is no question
about that; still, it seems a much more respectable and far
less cruel sport than fox-hunting--for the cocks like it;
they experience, as well as confer enjoyment; which is not
the fox's case.

We assisted--in the French sense--at a mule race, one day.
I believe I enjoyed this contest more than any other mule there.
I enjoyed it more than I remember having enjoyed any other animal
race I ever saw.  The grand-stand was well filled with the beauty
and the chivalry of New Orleans.  That phrase is not original with me.
It is the Southern reporter's. He has used it for two generations.
He uses it twenty times a day, or twenty thousand times a day;
or a million times a day--according to the exigencies.
He is obliged to use it a million times a day, if he have
occasion to speak of respectable men and women that often;
for he has no other phrase for such service except that single one.
He never tires of it; it always has a fine sound to him.
There is a kind of swell medieval bulliness and tinsel about it
that pleases his gaudy barbaric soul.  If he had been in Palestine
in the early times, we should have had no references to 'much people'
out of him.  No, he would have said 'the beauty and the chivalry
of Galilee' assembled to hear the Sermon on the Mount.
It is likely that the men and women of the South are sick enough
of that phrase by this time, and would like a change, but there is no
immediate prospect of their getting it.

The New Orleans editor has a strong, compact, direct, unflowery style;
wastes no words, and does not gush.  Not so with his average correspondent.
In the Appendix I have quoted a good letter, penned by a trained hand;
but the average correspondent hurls a style which differs from that.
For instance--

The 'Times-Democrat' sent a relief-steamer up one of the bayous, last April.
This steamer landed at a village, up there somewhere, and the Captain
invited some of the ladies of the village to make a short trip with him.
They accepted and came aboard, and the steamboat shoved out up the creek.
That was all there was 'to it.'  And that is all that the editor
of the 'Times-Democrat' would have got out of it.  There was nothing
in the thing but statistics, and he would have got nothing else out of it.
He would probably have even tabulated them, partly to secure
perfect clearness of statement, and partly to save space.
But his special correspondent knows other methods of handling statistics.
He just throws off all restraint and wallows in them--

'On Saturday, early in the morning, the beauty of the place graced our cabin,
and proud of her fair freight the gallant little boat glided up the bayou.'

Twenty-two words to say the ladies came aboard and the boat
shoved out up the creek, is a clean waste of ten good words,
and is also destructive of compactness of statement.

The trouble with the Southern reporter is--Women.  They unsettle him;
they throw him off his balance.  He is plain, and sensible,
and satisfactory, until a woman heaves in sight.  Then he goes
all to pieces; his mind totters, he becomes flowery and idiotic.
From reading the above extract, you would imagine that this student
of Sir Walter Scott is an apprentice, and knows next to nothing
about handling a pen.  On the contrary, he furnishes plenty of proofs,
in his long letter, that he knows well enough how to handle it when
the women are not around to give him the artificial-flower complaint.
For instance--

'At 4 o'clock ominous clouds began to gather in the south-east, and presently
from the Gulf there came a blow which increased in severity every moment.
It was not safe to leave the landing then, and there was a delay.
The oaks shook off long tresses of their mossy beards to the tugging
of the wind, and the bayou in its ambition put on miniature waves
in mocking of much larger bodies of water.  A lull permitted a start,
and homewards we steamed, an inky sky overhead and a heavy wind blowing.
As darkness crept on, there were few on board who did not wish
themselves nearer home.'

There is nothing the matter with that.  It is good description,
compactly put.  Yet there was great temptation, there, to drop
into lurid writing.

But let us return to the mule.  Since I left him, I have rummaged
around and found a full report of the race.  In it I find confirmation
of the theory which I broached just now--namely, that the trouble
with the Southern reporter is Women:  Women, supplemented by Walter
Scott and his knights and beauty and chivalry, and so on.
This is an excellent report, as long as the women stay out of it.
But when they intrude, we have this frantic result--

'It will be probably a long time before the ladies'
stand presents such a sea of foam-like loveliness as it
did yesterday.  The New Orleans women are always charming,
but never so much so as at this time of the year, when.
in their dainty spring costumes they bring with them a breath
of balmy freshness and an odor of sanctity unspeakable.
The stand was so crowded with them that, walking at their feet
and seeing no possibility of approach, many a man appreciated
as he never did before the Peri's feeling at the Gates of Paradise,
and wondered what was the priceless boon that would admit him
to their sacred presence.  Sparkling on their white-robed
breasts or shoulders were the colors of their favorite knights,
and were it not for the fact that the doughty heroes appeared
on unromantic mules, it would have been easy to imagine one of
King Arthur's gala-days.'

There were thirteen mules in the first heat; all sorts of mules,
they were; all sorts of complexions, gaits, dispositions, aspects.
Some were handsome creatures, some were not; some were sleek,
some hadn't had their fur brushed lately; some were innocently
gay and frisky; some were full of malice and all unrighteousness;
guessing from looks, some of them thought the matter on hand was war,
some thought it was a lark, the rest took it for a religious occasion.
And each mule acted according to his convictions.  The result was an
absence of harmony well compensated by a conspicuous presence of variety--
variety of a picturesque and entertaining sort.

All the riders were young gentlemen in fashionable society.
If the reader has been wondering why it is that the ladies of New Orleans
attend so humble an orgy as a mule-race, the thing is explained now.
It is a fashion-freak; all connected with it are people of fashion.

It is great fun, and cordially liked.  The mule-race is one of the marked
occasions of the year.  It has brought some pretty fast mules to the front.
One of these had to be ruled out, because he was so fast that he turned
the thing into a one-mule contest, and robbed it of one of its
best features--variety.  But every now and then somebody disguises him
with a new name and a new complexion, and rings him in again.

The riders dress in full jockey costumes of bright-colored silks,
satins, and velvets.

The thirteen mules got away in a body, after a couple
of false starts, and scampered off with prodigious spirit.
As each mule and each rider had a distinct opinion of his own
as to how the race ought to be run, and which side of the track
was best in certain circumstances, and how often the track ought
to be crossed, and when a collision ought to be accomplished,
and when it ought to be avoided, these twenty-six conflicting
opinions created a most fantastic and picturesque confusion,
and the resulting spectacle was killingly comical.

Mile heat; time 2:22. Eight of the thirteen mules distanced.
I had a bet on a mule which would have won if the procession
had been reversed.  The second heat was good fun; and so was
the 'consolation race for beaten mules,' which followed later;
but the first heat was the best in that respect.

I think that much the most enjoyable of all races is
a steamboat race; but, next to that, I prefer the gay
and joyous mule-rush. Two red-hot steamboats raging along,
neck-and-neck, straining every nerve--that is to say,
every rivet in the boilers--quaking and shaking and groaning
from stem to stern, spouting white steam from the pipes,
pouring black smoke from the chimneys, raining down sparks,
parting the river into long breaks of hissing foam--this is
sport that makes a body's very liver curl with enjoyment.
A horse-race is pretty tame and colorless in comparison.
Still, a horse-race might be well enough, in its way,
perhaps, if it were not for the tiresome false starts.
But then, nobody is ever killed.  At least, nobody was ever killed
when I was at a horse-race. They have been crippled, it is true;
but this is little to the purpose.




                               Chapter 46
                       Enchantments and Enchanters

THE largest annual event in New Orleans is a something which we
arrived too late to sample--the Mardi-Gras festivities.
I saw the procession of the Mystic Crew of Comus there,
twenty-four years ago--with knights and nobles and so on,
clothed in silken and golden Paris-made gorgeousnesses,
planned and bought for that single night's use; and in their
train all manner of giants, dwarfs, monstrosities, and other
diverting grotesquerie--a startling and wonderful sort of show,
as it filed solemnly and silently down the street in the light
of its smoking and flickering torches; but it is said that
in these latter days the spectacle is mightily augmented,
as to cost, splendor, and variety.  There is a chief personage--'Rex;'
and if I remember rightly, neither this king nor any of his
great following of subordinates is known to any outsider.
All these people are gentlemen of position and consequence;
and it is a proud thing to belong to the organization; so the mystery
in which they hide their personality is merely for romance's sake,
and not on account of the police.

Mardi-Gras is of course a relic of the French and Spanish occupation; but I
judge that the religious feature has been pretty well knocked out of it now.
Sir Walter has got the advantage of the gentlemen of the cowl and rosary,
and he will stay.  His medieval business, supplemented by the monsters and
the oddities, and the pleasant creatures from fairy-land, is finer to look
at than the poor fantastic inventions and performances of the reveling rabble
of the priest's day, and serves quite as well, perhaps, to emphasize the day
and admonish men that the grace-line between the worldly season and the holy
one is reached.

This Mardi-Gras pageant was the exclusive possession of New
Orleans until recently.  But now it has spread to Memphis and
St. Louis and Baltimore.  It has probably reached its limit.
It is a thing which could hardly exist in the practical North;
would certainly last but a very brief time; as brief a time
as it would last in London.  For the soul of it is the romantic,
not the funny and the grotesque.  Take away the romantic
mysteries, the kings and knights and big-sounding titles,
and Mardi-Gras would die, down there in the South.
The very feature that keeps it alive in the South--
girly-girly romance--would kill it in the North or in London.
Puck and Punch, and the press universal, would fall upon it
and make merciless fun of it, and its first exhibition would be
also its last.

Against the crimes of the French Revolution and of Bonaparte
may be set two compensating benefactions:  the Revolution
broke the chains of the ANCIEN REGIME and of the Church,
and made of a nation of abject slaves a nation of freemen;
and Bonaparte instituted the setting of merit above birth,
and also so completely stripped the divinity from royalty,
that whereas crowned heads in Europe were gods before,
they are only men, since, and can never be gods again,
but only figureheads, and answerable for their acts like common clay.
Such benefactions as these compensate the temporary harm which
Bonaparte and the Revolution did, and leave the world in debt
to them for these great and permanent services to liberty,
humanity, and progress.

Then comes Sir Walter Scott with his enchantments, and by his
single might checks this wave of progress, and even turns it back;
sets the world in love with dreams and phantoms; with decayed and swinish
forms of religion; with decayed and degraded systems of government;
with the sillinesses and emptinesses, sham grandeurs, sham gauds,
and sham chivalries of a brainless and worthless long-vanished society.
He did measureless harm; more real and lasting harm, perhaps, than any
other individual that ever wrote.  Most of the world has now
outlived good part of these harms, though by no means all of them;
but in our South they flourish pretty forcefully still.  Not so
forcefully as half a generation ago, perhaps, but still forcefully.
There, the genuine and wholesome civilization of the nineteenth
century is curiously confused and commingled with the Walter
Scott Middle-Age sham civilization; and so you have practical,
common-sense, progressive ideas, and progressive works; mixed up
with the duel, the inflated speech, and the jejune romanticism of an
absurd past that is dead, and out of charity ought to be buried.
But for the Sir Walter disease, the character of the Southerner--
or Southron, according to Sir Walter's starchier way of phrasing it--
would be wholly modern, in place of modern and medieval mixed,
and the South would be fully a generation further advanced than it is.
It was Sir Walter that made every gentleman in the South a Major
or a Colonel, or a General or a Judge, before the war; and it
was he, also, that made these gentlemen value these bogus decorations.
For it was he that created rank and caste down there, and also
reverence for rank and caste, and pride and pleasure in them.
Enough is laid on slavery, without fathering upon it these creations and
contributions of Sir Walter.

Sir Walter had so large a hand in making Southern character, as it existed
before the war, that he is in great measure responsible for the war.
It seems a little harsh toward a dead man to say that we never should have had
any war but for Sir Walter; and yet something of a plausible argument might,
perhaps, be made in support of that wild proposition.  The Southerner of
the American Revolution owned slaves; so did the Southerner of the Civil War:
but the former resembles the latter as an Englishman resembles a Frenchman.
The change of character can be traced rather more easily to Sir Walter's
influence than to that of any other thing or person.

One may observe, by one or two signs, how deeply
that influence penetrated, and how strongly it holds.
If one take up a Northern or Southern literary periodical
of forty or fifty years ago, he will find it filled with wordy,
windy, flowery 'eloquence,' romanticism, sentimentality--
all imitated from Sir Walter, and sufficiently badly done, too--
innocent travesties of his style and methods, in fact.
This sort of literature being the fashion in both sections of
the country, there was opportunity for the fairest competition;
and as a consequence, the South was able to show as many
well-known literary names, proportioned to population,
as the North could.

But a change has come, and there is no opportunity
now for a fair competition between North and South.
For the North has thrown out that old inflated style,
whereas the Southern writer still clings to it--clings to it
and has a restricted market for his wares, as a consequence.
There is as much literary talent in the South, now, as ever
there was, of course; but its work can gain but slight currency
under present conditions; the authors write for the past,
not the present; they use obsolete forms, and a dead language.
But when a Southerner of genius writes modern English,
his book goes upon crutches no longer, but upon wings;
and they carry it swiftly all about America and England,
and through the great English reprint publishing houses of Germany--
as witness the experience of Mr. Cable and Uncle Remus, two of the
very few Southern authors who do not write in the Southern style.
Instead of three or four widely-known literary names, the South
ought to have a dozen or two--and will have them when Sir Walter's
time is out.

A curious exemplification of the power of a single book for
good or harm is shown in the effects wrought by 'Don Quixote'
and those wrought by 'Ivanhoe.'  The first swept the world's
admiration for the medieval chivalry-silliness out of existence;
and the other restored it.  As far as our South is concerned,
the good work done by Cervantes is pretty nearly a dead letter,
so effectually has Scott's pernicious work undermined it.




                               Chapter 47
                        Uncle Remus and Mr. Cable

MR.  JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS ('Uncle Remus') was to arrive from Atlanta
at seven o'clock Sunday morning; so we got up and received him.
We were able to detect him among the crowd of arrivals at
the hotel-counter by his correspondence with a description
of him which had been furnished us from a trustworthy source.
He was said to be undersized, red-haired, and somewhat freckled.
He was the only man in the party whose outside tallied with this
bill of particulars.  He was said to be very shy.  He is a shy man.
Of this there is no doubt.  It may not show on the surface,
but the shyness is there.  After days of intimacy one wonders
to see that it is still in about as strong force as ever.
There is a fine and beautiful nature hidden behind it, as all know
who have read the Uncle Remus book; and a fine genius, too, as all know
by the same sign.  I seem to be talking quite freely about this neighbor;
but in talking to the public I am but talking to his personal friends,
and these things are permissible among friends.

He deeply disappointed a number of children who had flocked
eagerly to Mr. Cable's house to get a glimpse of the illustrious
sage and oracle of the nation's nurseries.  They said--

'Why, he 's white! '

They were grieved about it.  So, to console them, the book was brought,
that they might hear Uncle Remus's Tar-Baby story from the lips of Uncle
Remus himself--or what, in their outraged eyes, was left of him.
But it turned out that he had never read aloud to people, and was too shy
to venture the attempt now.  Mr. Cable and I read from books of ours,
to show him what an easy trick it was; but his immortal shyness was
proof against even this sagacious strategy, so we had to read about
Brer Rabbit ourselves.

Mr. Harris ought to be able to read the negro dialect better
than anybody else, for in the matter of writing it he is the only
master the country has produced.  Mr. Cable is the only master
in the writing of French dialects that the country has produced;
and he reads them in perfection.  It was a great treat to hear him
read about Jean-ah Poquelin, and about Innerarity and his famous
'pigshoo' representing 'Louisihanna RIF-fusing to Hanter the Union,'
along with passages of nicely-shaded German dialect from a novel
which was still in manuscript.

It came out in conversation, that in two different instances
Mr. Cable got into grotesque trouble by using, in his books,
next-to-impossible French names which nevertheless happened
to be borne by living and sensitive citizens of New Orleans.
His names were either inventions or were borrowed from
the ancient and obsolete past, I do not now remember which;
but at any rate living bearers of them turned up, and were
a good deal hurt at having attention directed to themselves
and their affairs in so excessively public a manner.

Mr. Warner and I had an experience of the same sort when we wrote the book
called 'The Gilded Age.'  There is a character in it called 'Sellers.'
I do not remember what his first name was, in the beginning;
but anyway, Mr. Warner did not like it, and wanted it improved.
He asked me if I was able to imagine a person named 'Eschol Sellers.'
Of course I said I could not, without stimulants.  He said that away
out West, once, he had met, and contemplated, and actually shaken
hands with a man bearing that impossible name--'Eschol Sellers.'
He added--

'It was twenty years ago; his name has probably carried him off
before this; and if it hasn't, he will never see the book anyhow.
We will confiscate his name.  The name you are using is common,
and therefore dangerous; there are probably a thousand Sellerses
bearing it, and the whole horde will come after us; but Eschol
Sellers is a safe name--it is a rock.'

So we borrowed that name; and when the book had been out about a week,
one of the stateliest and handsomest and most aristocratic looking
white men that ever lived, called around, with the most formidable
libel suit in his pocket that ever--well, in brief, we got his
permission to suppress an edition of ten million<footnote [Figures
taken from memory, and probably incorrect.  Think it was more.]>
copies of the book and change that name to 'Mulberry Sellers'
in future editions.




                               Chapter 48
                            Sugar and Postage

ONE day, on the street, I encountered the man whom, of all men,
I most wished to see--Horace Bixby; formerly pilot under me--
or rather, over me--now captain of the great steamer 'City of
Baton Rouge,' the latest and swiftest addition to the Anchor Line.
The same slender figure, the same tight curls, the same springy step,
the same alertness, the same decision of eye and answering decision
of hand, the same erect military bearing; not an inch gained or lost
in girth, not an ounce gained or lost in weight, not a hair turned.
It is a curious thing, to leave a man thirty-five years old, and come
back at the end of twenty-one years and find him still only thirty-five.
I have not had an experience of this kind before, I believe.
There were some crow's-feet, but they counted for next to nothing,
since they were inconspicuous.

His boat was just in.  I had been waiting several days for her,
purposing to return to St. Louis in her.  The captain and I
joined a party of ladies and gentlemen, guests of Major Wood,
and went down the river fifty-four miles, in a swift tug,
to ex-Governor Warmouth's sugar plantation.  Strung along below
the city, were a number of decayed, ram-shackly, superannuated
old steamboats, not one of which had I ever seen before.
They had all been built, and worn out, and thrown aside,
since I was here last.  This gives one a realizing sense
of the frailness of a Mississippi boat and the briefness
of its life.

Six miles below town a fat and battered brick chimney, sticking above
the magnolias and live-oaks, was pointed out as the monument erected
by an appreciative nation to celebrate the battle of New Orleans--
Jackson's victory over the British, January 8, 1815.  The war had ended,
the two nations were at peace, but the news had not yet reached New Orleans.
If we had had the cable telegraph in those days, this blood would
not have been spilt, those lives would not have been wasted;
and better still, Jackson would probably never have been president.
We have gotten over the harms done us by the war of 1812, but not over some
of those done us by Jackson's presidency.

The Warmouth plantation covers a vast deal of ground, and the hospitality
of the Warmouth mansion is graduated to the same large scale.
We saw steam-plows at work, here, for the first time.  The traction engine
travels about on its own wheels, till it reaches the required spot;
then it stands still and by means of a wire rope pulls the huge plow toward
itself two or three hundred yards across the field, between the rows of cane.
The thing cuts down into the black mold a foot and a half deep.
The plow looks like a fore-and-aft brace of a Hudson river steamer, inverted.
When the negro steersman sits on one end of it, that end tilts down near
the ground, while the other sticks up high in air.  This great see-saw goes
rolling and pitching like a ship at sea, and it is not every circus rider
that could stay on it.

The plantation contains two thousand six hundred acres;
six hundred and fifty are in cane; and there is a fruitful
orange grove of five thousand trees.  The cane is
cultivated after a modern and intricate scientific fashion,
too elaborate and complex for me to attempt to describe;
but it lost $40,000 last year.  I forget the other details.
However, this year's crop will reach ten or twelve hundred
tons of sugar, consequently last year's loss will not matter.
These troublesome and expensive scientific methods achieve a yield
of a ton and a half and from that to two tons, to the acre;
which is three or four times what the yield of an acre was
in my time.

The drainage-ditches were everywhere alive with
little crabs--'fiddlers.'  One saw them scampering sidewise
in every direction whenever they heard a disturbing noise.
Expensive pests, these crabs; for they bore into the levees,
and ruin them.

The great sugar-house was a wilderness of tubs and tanks
and vats and filters, pumps, pipes, and machinery.
The process of making sugar is exceedingly interesting.
First, you heave your cane into the centrifugals and grind out
the juice; then run it through the evaporating pan to extract
the fiber; then through the bone-filter to remove the alcohol;
then through the clarifying tanks to discharge the molasses;
then through the granulating pipe to condense it; then through
the vacuum pan to extract the vacuum.  It is now ready for market.
I have jotted these particulars down from memory.
The thing looks simple and easy.  Do not deceive yourself.
To make sugar is really one of the most difficult things
in the world.  And to make it right, is next to impossible.
If you will examine your own supply every now and then
for a term of years, and tabulate the result, you will find
that not two men in twenty can make sugar without getting sand
into it.

We could have gone down to the mouth of the river and visited Captain Eads'
great work, the 'jetties,' where the river has been compressed between walls,
and thus deepened to twenty-six feet; but it was voted useless to go,
since at this stage of the water everything would be covered up and invisible.

We could have visited that ancient and singular burg,
'Pilot-town,' which stands on stilts in the water--so they say;
where nearly all communication is by skiff and canoe, even to
the attending of weddings and funerals; and where the littlest
boys and girls are as handy with the oar as unamphibious
children are with the velocipede.

We could have done a number of other things; but on account of limited time,
we went back home.  The sail up the breezy and sparkling river was
a charming experience, and would have been satisfyingly sentimental
and romantic but for the interruptions of the tug's pet parrot,
whose tireless comments upon the scenery and the guests were always
this-worldly, and often profane.  He had also a superabundance
of the discordant, ear-splitting, metallic laugh common to his breed--
a machine-made laugh, a Frankenstein laugh, with the soul left out of it.
He applied it to every sentimental remark, and to every pathetic song.
He cackled it out with hideous energy after 'Home again, home again
from a foreign shore,' and said he 'wouldn't give a damn for a tug-load
of such rot.'  Romance and sentiment cannot long survive this sort
of discouragement; so the singing and talking presently ceased; which so
delighted the parrot that he cursed himself hoarse for joy.

Then the male members of the party moved to the forecastle,
to smoke and gossip.  There were several old steamboatmen along,
and I learned from them a great deal of what had been
happening to my former river friends during my long absence.
I learned that a pilot whom I used to steer for is become
a spiritualist, and for more than fifteen years has been
receiving a letter every week from a deceased relative,
through a New York spiritualist medium named Manchester--
postage graduated by distance:  from the local post-office
in Paradise to New York, five dollars; from New York to
St. Louis, three cents.  I remember Mr. Manchester very well.
I called on him once, ten years ago, with a couple of friends,
one of whom wished to inquire after a deceased uncle.
This uncle had lost his life in a peculiarly violent and
unusual way, half a dozen years before:  a cyclone blew him
some three miles and knocked a tree down with him which was
four feet through at the butt and sixty-five feet high.
He did not survive this triumph.  At the </s<e acute>ance/>
just referred to, my friend questioned his late uncle,
through Mr. Manchester, and the late uncle wrote down his replies,
using Mr. Manchester's hand and pencil for that purpose.
The following is a fair example of the questions asked,
and also of the sloppy twaddle in the way of answers, furnished by
Manchester under the pretense that it came from the specter.
If this man is not the paltriest fraud that lives, I owe him an
apology--

QUESTION.  Where are you?

ANSWER.  In the spirit world.

Q. Are you happy?

A. Very happy.  Perfectly happy.

Q. How do you amuse yourself?

A. Conversation with friends, and other spirits.

Q. What else?

A. Nothing else.  Nothing else is necessary.

Q. What do you talk about?

A. About how happy we are; and about friends left behind in the earth,
and how to influence them for their good.

Q. When your friends in the earth all get to the spirit land,
what shall you have to talk about then?--nothing but about
how happy you all are?

No reply.  It is explained that spirits will not answer frivolous questions.

Q. How is it that spirits that are content to spend an eternity
in frivolous employments, and accept it as happiness,
are so fastidious about frivolous questions upon the subject?

No reply.

Q. Would you like to come back?

A. No.

Q. Would you say that under oath?

A. Yes.

Q. What do you eat there?

A. We do not eat.

Q. What do you drink?

A. We do not drink.

Q. What do you smoke?

A. We do not smoke.

Q. What do you read?

A. We do not read.

Q. Do all the good people go to your place?

A. Yes.

Q. You know my present way of life.  Can you suggest any additions to it,
in the way of crime, that will reasonably insure my going to some other place.

A. No reply.

Q. When did you die?

A. I did not die, I passed away.

Q. Very well, then, when did you pass away?  How long have you
been in the spirit land?

A. We have no measurements of time here.

Q. Though you may be indifferent and uncertain as to dates
and times in your present condition and environment,
this has nothing to do with your former condition.
You had dates then.  One of these is what I ask for.
You departed on a certain day in a certain year.
Is not this true?

A. Yes.

Q. Then name the day of the month.

(Much fumbling with pencil, on the part of the medium, accompanied by
violent spasmodic jerkings of his head and body, for some little time.
Finally, explanation to the effect that spirits often forget dates,
such things being without importance to them.)

Q. Then this one has actually forgotten the date of its translation
to the spirit land?

This was granted to be the case.

Q. This is very curious.  Well, then, what year was it?

(More fumbling, jerking, idiotic spasms, on the part of the medium.
Finally, explanation to the effect that the spirit has forgotten the year.)

Q. This is indeed stupendous.  Let me put one more question,
one last question, to you, before we part to meet no more;--
for even if I fail to avoid your asylum, a meeting there will go
for nothing as a meeting, since by that time you will easily
have forgotten me and my name:  did you die a natural death,
or were you cut off by a catastrophe?

A. (After long hesitation and many throes and spasms.) NATURAL DEATH.

This ended the interview.  My friend told the medium that when his relative
was in this poor world, he was endowed with an extraordinary intellect
and an absolutely defectless memory, and it seemed a great pity that he had
not been allowed to keep some shred of these for his amusement in the realms
of everlasting contentment, and for the amazement and admiration of the rest
of the population there.

This man had plenty of clients--has plenty yet.  He receives
letters from spirits located in every part of the spirit world,
and delivers them all over this country through the United States mail.
These letters are filled with advice--advice from 'spirits' who don't
know as much as a tadpole--and this advice is religiously followed
by the receivers.  One of these clients was a man whom the spirits
(if one may thus plurally describe the ingenious Manchester)
were teaching how to contrive an improved railway car-wheel. It
is coarse employment for a spirit, but it is higher and wholesomer
activity than talking for ever about 'how happy we are.'




                               Chapter 49
                         Episodes in Pilot Life

IN the course of the tug-boat gossip, it came out that out
of every five of my former friends who had quitted the river,
four had chosen farming as an occupation.  Of course this was not
because they were peculiarly gifted, agriculturally, and thus
more likely to succeed as farmers than in other industries:
the reason for their choice must be traced to some other source.
Doubtless they chose farming because that life is private
and secluded from irruptions of undesirable strangers--
like the pilot-house hermitage.  And doubtless they also chose
it because on a thousand nights of black storm and danger
they had noted the twinkling lights of solitary farm-houses,
as the boat swung by, and pictured to themselves the serenity
and security and coziness of such refuges at such times,
and so had by-and-bye come to dream of that retired and peaceful
life as the one desirable thing to long for, anticipate, earn, and
at last enjoy.

But I did not learn that any of these pilot-farmers had astonished anybody
with their successes.  Their farms do not support them:  they support
their farms.  The pilot-farmer disappears from the river annually,
about the breaking of spring, and is seen no more till next frost.
Then he appears again, in damaged homespun, combs the hayseed
out of his hair, and takes a pilot-house berth for the winter.
In this way he pays the debts which his farming has achieved during
the agricultural season.  So his river bondage is but half broken;
he is still the river's slave the hardest half of the year.

One of these men bought a farm, but did not retire to it.
He knew a trick worth two of that.  He did not propose to pauperize
his farm by applying his personal ignorance to working it.
No, he put the farm into the hands of an agricultural
expert to be worked on shares--out of every three loads
of corn the expert to have two and the pilot the third.
But at the end of the season the pilot received no corn.
The expert explained that his share was not reached.  The farm
produced only two loads.

Some of the pilots whom I had known had had adventures--
the outcome fortunate, sometimes, but not in all cases.
Captain Montgomery, whom I had steered for when he was a pilot,
commanded the Confederate fleet in the great battle before Memphis;
when his vessel went down, he swam ashore, fought his way through
a squad of soldiers, and made a gallant and narrow escape.
He was always a cool man; nothing could disturb his serenity.
Once when he was captain of the 'Crescent City,' I was bringing
the boat into port at New Orleans, and momently expecting orders
from the hurricane deck, but received none.  I had stopped
the wheels, and there my authority and responsibility ceased.
It was evening--dim twilight--the captain's hat was perched upon
the big bell, and I supposed the intellectual end of the captain
was in it, but such was not the case.  The captain was very strict;
therefore I knew better than to touch a bell without orders.
My duty was to hold the boat steadily on her calamitous course,
and leave the consequences to take care of themselves--which I did.
So we went plowing past the sterns of steamboats and getting closer
and closer--the crash was bound to come very soon--and still that hat
never budged; for alas, the captain was napping in the texas....
Things were becoming exceedingly nervous and uncomfortable.
It seemed to me that the captain was not going to appear in time
to see the entertainment.  But he did.  Just as we were walking
into the stern of a steamboat, he stepped out on deck, and said,
with heavenly serenity, 'Set her back on both'--which I did;
but a trifle late, however, for the next moment we went smashing through
that other boat's flimsy outer works with a most prodigious racket.
The captain never said a word to me about the matter afterwards,
except to remark that I had done right, and that he hoped I would not
hesitate to act in the same way again in like circumstances.

One of the pilots whom I had known when I was on the river
had died a very honorable death.  His boat caught fire,
and he remained at the wheel until he got her safe to land.
Then he went out over the breast-board with his clothing
in flames, and was the last person to get ashore.
He died from his injuries in the course of two or three hours,
and his was the only life lost.

The history of Mississippi piloting affords six or seven instances of this
sort of martyrdom, and half a hundred instances of escapes from a like fate
which came within a second or two of being fatally too late; BUT THERE
IS NO INSTANCE OF A PILOT DESERTING HIS POST TO SAVE HIS LIFE WHILE BY
REMAINING AND SACRIFICING IT HE MIGHT SECURE OTHER LIVES FROM DESTRUCTION.
It is well worth while to set down this noble fact, and well worth while to
put it in italics, too.

The 'cub' pilot is early admonished to despise all perils
connected with a pilot's calling, and to prefer any sort
of death to the deep dishonor of deserting his post
while there is any possibility of his being useful in it.
And so effectively are these admonitions inculcated,
that even young and but half-tried pilots can be depended upon
to stick to the wheel, and die there when occasion requires.
In a Memphis graveyard is buried a young fellow who perished
at the wheel a great many years ago, in White River, to save
the lives of other men.  He said to the captain that if the fire
would give him time to reach a sand bar, some distance away,
all could be saved, but that to land against the bluff bank
of the river would be to insure the loss of many lives.
He reached the bar and grounded the boat in shallow water;
but by that time the flames had closed around him,
and in escaping through them he was fatally burned.
He had been urged to fly sooner, but had replied as became
a pilot to reply--

'I will not go.  If I go, nobody will be saved; if I stay,
no one will be lost but me.  I will stay.'

There were two hundred persons on board, and no life was lost but the pilot's.
There used to be a monument to this young fellow, in that Memphis graveyard.
While we tarried in Memphis on our down trip, I started out to look for it,
but our time was so brief that I was obliged to turn back before my
object was accomplished.

The tug-boat gossip informed me that Dick Kennet was dead--
blown up, near Memphis, and killed; that several others whom
I had known had fallen in the war--one or two of them shot
down at the wheel; that another and very particular friend,
whom I had steered many trips for, had stepped out of his house
in New Orleans, one night years ago, to collect some money
in a remote part of the city, and had never been seen again--
was murdered and thrown into the river, it was thought; that Ben
Thornburgh was dead long ago; also his wild 'cub' whom I used
to quarrel with, all through every daylight watch.  A heedless,
reckless creature he was, and always in hot water, always in mischief.
An Arkansas passenger brought an enormous bear aboard, one day,
and chained him to a life-boat on the hurricane deck.
Thornburgh's 'cub' could not rest till he had gone there and unchained
the bear, to 'see what he would do.'  He was promptly gratified.
The bear chased him around and around the deck, for miles and miles,
with two hundred eager faces grinning through the railings
for audience, and finally snatched off the lad's coat-tail
and went into the texas to chew it.  The off-watch turned
out with alacrity, and left the bear in sole possession.
He presently grew lonesome, and started out for recreation.
He ranged the whole boat--visited every part of it, with an
advance guard of fleeing people in front of him and a voiceless
vacancy behind him; and when his owner captured him at last,
those two were the only visible beings anywhere; everybody else
was in hiding, and the boat was a solitude.

I was told that one of my pilot friends fell dead at the wheel,
from heart disease, in 1869.  The captain was on the roof at the time.
He saw the boat breaking for the shore; shouted, and got no answer;
ran up, and found the pilot lying dead on the floor.

Mr. Bixby had been blown up, in Madrid bend; was not injured,
but the other pilot was lost.

George Ritchie had been blown up near Memphis--blown into
the river from the wheel, and disabled.  The water was
very cold; he clung to a cotton bale--mainly with his teeth--
and floated until nearly exhausted, when he was rescued
by some deck hands who were on a piece of the wreck.
They tore open the bale and packed him in the cotton,
and warmed the life back into him, and got him safe to Memphis.
He is one of Bixby's pilots on the 'Baton Rouge' now.

Into the life of a steamboat clerk, now dead, had dropped a bit
of romance--somewhat grotesque romance, but romance nevertheless.
When I knew him he was a shiftless young spendthrift, boisterous,
goodhearted, full of careless generosities, and pretty conspicuously
promising to fool his possibilities away early, and come to nothing.
In a Western city lived a rich and childless old foreigner and his wife;
and in their family was a comely young girl--sort of friend, sort of servant.
The young clerk of whom I have been speaking--whose name was not
George Johnson, but who shall be called George Johnson for the purposes
of this narrative--got acquainted with this young girl, and they sinned;
and the old foreigner found them out, and rebuked them.  Being ashamed,
they lied, and said they were married; that they had been privately married.
Then the old foreigner's hurt was healed, and he forgave and blessed them.
After that, they were able to continue their sin without concealment.
By-and-bye the foreigner's wife died; and presently he followed after her.
Friends of the family assembled to mourn; and among the mourners
sat the two young sinners.  The will was opened and solemnly read.
It bequeathed every penny of that old man's great wealth to MRS.
GEORGE JOHNSON!

And there was no such person.  The young sinners fled forth then,
and did a very foolish thing:  married themselves before an
obscure Justice of the Peace, and got him to antedate the thing.
That did no sort of good.  The distant relatives flocked in and exposed
the fraudful date with extreme suddenness and surprising ease,
and carried off the fortune, leaving the Johnsons very legitimately,
and legally, and irrevocably chained together in honorable marriage,
but with not so much as a penny to bless themselves withal.
Such are the actual facts; and not all novels have for a base so
telling a situation.




                               Chapter 50
                          The 'Original Jacobs'

WE had some talk about Captain Isaiah Sellers, now many years dead.
He was a fine man, a high-minded man, and greatly respected both ashore and on
the river.  He was very tall, well built, and handsome; and in his old age--
as I remember him--his hair was as black as an Indian's, and his eye
and hand were as strong and steady and his nerve and judgment as firm
and clear as anybody's, young or old, among the fraternity of pilots.
He was the patriarch of the craft; he had been a keelboat pilot before the day
of steamboats; and a steamboat pilot before any other steamboat pilot,
still surviving at the time I speak of, had ever turned a wheel.
Consequently his brethren held him in the sort of awe in which illustrious
survivors of a bygone age are always held by their associates.
He knew how he was regarded, and perhaps this fact added some trifle
of stiffening to his natural dignity, which had been sufficiently stiff
in its original state.

He left a diary behind him; but apparently it did not date back
to his first steamboat trip, which was said to be 1811, the year
the first steamboat disturbed the waters of the Mississippi.
At the time of his death a correspondent of the 'St. Louis Republican'
culled the following items from the diary--

'In February, 1825, he shipped on board the steamer "Rambler," at Florence,
Ala., and made during that year three trips to New Orleans and back--
this on the "Gen. Carrol," between Nashville and New Orleans.  It was during
his stay on this boat that Captain Sellers introduced the tap of the bell
as a signal to heave the lead, previous to which time it was the custom
for the pilot to speak to the men below when soundings were wanted.
The proximity of the forecastle to the pilot-house, no doubt, rendered this
an easy matter; but how different on one of our palaces of the present day.

'In 1827 we find him on board the "President," a boat of two
hundred and eighty-five tons burden, and plying between Smithland
and New Orleans.  Thence he joined the "Jubilee" in 1828,
and on this boat he did his first piloting in the St. Louis trade;
his first watch extending from Herculaneum to St. Genevieve.
On May 26, 1836, he completed and left Pittsburgh in charge
of the steamer "Prairie," a boat of four hundred tons, and the
first steamer with a STATE-ROOM CABIN ever seen at St. Louis.
In 1857 he introduced the signal for meeting boats, and which has,
with some slight change, been the universal custom of this day;
in fact, is rendered obligatory by act of Congress.

'As general items of river history, we quote the following marginal
notes from his general log--

'In March, 1825, Gen. Lafayette left New Orleans for St. Louis
on the low-pressure steamer "Natchez."

'In January, 1828, twenty-one steamers left the New Orleans wharf
to celebrate the occasion of Gen. Jackson's visit to that city.

'In 1830 the "North American" made the run from New Orleans
to Memphis in six days--best time on record to that date.
It has since been made in two days and ten hours.

'In 1831 the Red River cut-off formed.

'In 1832 steamer "Hudson" made the run from White River
to Helena, a distance of seventy-five miles, in twelve hours.
This was the source of much talk and speculation among
parties directly interested.

'In 1839 Great Horseshoe cut-off formed.

'Up to the present time, a term of thirty-five years, we ascertain,
by reference to the diary, he has made four hundred and sixty round
trips to New Orleans, which gives a distance of one million one hundred
and four thousand miles, or an average of eighty-six miles a day.'

Whenever Captain Sellers approached a body of gossiping pilots,
a chill fell there, and talking ceased.  For this reason:
whenever six pilots were gathered together, there would always
be one or two newly fledged ones in the lot, and the elder
ones would be always 'showing off' before these poor fellows;
making them sorrowfully feel how callow they were, how recent
their nobility, and how humble their degree, by talking
largely and vaporously of old-time experiences on the river;
always making it a point to date everything back as far as they could,
so as to make the new men feel their newness to the sharpest
degree possible, and envy the old stagers in the like degree.
And how these complacent baldheads WOULD swell, and brag, and lie,
and date back--ten, fifteen, twenty years,--and how they did enjoy
the effect produced upon the marveling and envying youngsters!

And perhaps just at this happy stage of the proceedings,
the stately figure of Captain Isaiah Sellers, that real and only
genuine Son of Antiquity, would drift solemnly into the midst.
Imagine the size of the silence that would result on the instant.
And imagine the feelings of those bald-heads, and the exultation
of their recent audience when the ancient captain would begin
to drop casual and indifferent remarks of a reminiscent nature--
about islands that had disappeared, and cutoffs that had been made,
a generation before the oldest bald-head in the company had ever set
his foot in a pilot-house!

Many and many a time did this ancient mariner appear on the scene
in the above fashion, and spread disaster and humiliation around him.
If one might believe the pilots, he always dated his islands back to
the misty dawn of river history; and he never used the same island twice;
and never did he employ an island that still existed, or give one
a name which anybody present was old enough to have heard of before.
If you might believe the pilots, he was always conscientiously particular
about little details; never spoke of 'the State of Mississippi,'
for instance--no, he would say, 'When the State of Mississippi was
where Arkansas now is," and would never speak of Louisiana or Missouri
in a general way, and leave an incorrect impression on your mind--
no, he would say, 'When Louisiana was up the river farther,' or 'When
Missouri was on the Illinois side.'

The old gentleman was not of literary turn or capacity, but he used to jot
down brief paragraphs of plain practical information about the river,
and sign them 'MARK TWAIN,' and give them to the 'New Orleans Picayune.'
They related to the stage and condition of the river, and were
accurate and valuable; and thus far, they contained no poison.
But in speaking of the stage of the river to-day, at a given point,
the captain was pretty apt to drop in a little remark about this
being the first time he had seen the water so high or so low at
that particular point for forty-nine years; and now and then he would
mention Island So-and-so, and follow it, in parentheses, with some
such observation as 'disappeared in 1807, if I remember rightly.'
In these antique interjections lay poison and bitterness for
the other old pilots, and they used to chaff the 'Mark Twain'
paragraphs with unsparing mockery.

It so chanced that one of these paragraphs<footnote [The original MS.
of it, in the captain's own hand, has been sent to me from New Orleans.
It reads as follows--

                                                  VICKSBURG May 4, 1859.

'My opinion for the benefit of the citizens of New Orleans:
The water is higher this far up than it has been since 8.
My opinion is that the water will be feet deep in Canal street
before the first of next June.  Mrs. Turner's plantation at
the head of Big Black Island is all under water, and it has not
been since 1815.

                                                         'I. Sellers.']>

became the text for my first newspaper article.  I burlesqued
it broadly, very broadly, stringing my fantastics out to the extent
of eight hundred or a thousand words.  I was a 'cub' at the time.
I showed my performance to some pilots, and they eagerly rushed it into
print in the 'New Orleans True Delta.'  It was a great pity; for it did
nobody any worthy service, and it sent a pang deep into a good man's heart.
There was no malice in my rubbish; but it laughed at the captain.
It laughed at a man to whom such a thing was new and strange and dreadful.
I did not know then, though I do now, that there is no suffering comparable
with that which a private person feels when he is for the first time
pilloried in print.

Captain Sellers did me the honor to profoundly detest me from that day forth.
When I say he did me the honor, I am not using empty words.
It was a very real honor to be in the thoughts of so great a man as
Captain Sellers, and I had wit enough to appreciate it and be proud of it.
It was distinction to be loved by such a man; but it was a much greater
distinction to be hated by him, because he loved scores of people;
but he didn't sit up nights to hate anybody but me.

He never printed another paragraph while he lived, and he never again
signed 'Mark Twain' to anything.  At the time that the telegraph
brought the news of his death, I was on the Pacific coast.
I was a fresh new journalist, and needed a nom de guerre;
so I confiscated the ancient mariner's discarded one,
and have done my best to make it remain what it was in his hands--
a sign and symbol and warrant that whatever is found in its
company may be gambled on as being the petrified truth; how I
have succeeded, it would not be modest in me to say.

The captain had an honorable pride in his profession
and an abiding love for it.  He ordered his monument
before he died, and kept it near him until he did die.
It stands over his grave now, in Bellefontaine cemetery, St. Louis.
It is his image, in marble, standing on duty at the pilot wheel;
and worthy to stand and confront criticism, for it represents a man
who in life would have stayed there till he burned to a cinder,
if duty required it.

The finest thing we saw on our whole Mississippi trip, we saw as we approached
New Orleans in the steam-tug. This was the curving frontage of the crescent
city lit up with the white glare of five miles of electric lights.
It was a wonderful sight, and very beautiful.




                               Chapter 51
                              Reminiscences

WE left for St. Louis in the 'City of Baton Rouge,' on a delightfully
hot day, but with the main purpose of my visit but lamely accomplished.
I had hoped to hunt up and talk with a hundred steamboatmen,
but got so pleasantly involved in the social life of the town that I
got nothing more than mere five-minute talks with a couple of dozen
of the craft.

I was on the bench of the pilot-house when we backed out and
'straightened up' for the start--the boat pausing for a 'good ready,'
in the old-fashioned way, and the black smoke piling out of the chimneys
equally in the old-fashioned way.  Then we began to gather momentum,
and presently were fairly under way and booming along.
It was all as natural and familiar--and so were the shoreward sights--
as if there had been no break in my river life.  There was a 'cub,'
and I judged that he would take the wheel now; and he did.
Captain Bixby stepped into the pilot-house. Presently the cub
closed up on the rank of steamships.  He made me nervous,
for he allowed too much water to show between our boat and the ships.
I knew quite well what was going to happen, because I could date
back in my own life and inspect the record.  The captain looked on,
during a silent half-minute, then took the wheel himself,
and crowded the boat in, till she went scraping along within
a band-breadth of the ships.  It was exactly the favor which he had
done me, about a quarter of a century before, in that same spot,
the first time I ever steamed out of the port of New Orleans.
It was a very great and sincere pleasure to me to see the thing repeated--
with somebody else as victim.

We made Natchez (three hundred miles) in twenty-two hours and a half--
much the swiftest passage I have ever made over that piece of water.

The next morning I came on with the four o'clock watch, and saw Ritchie
successfully run half a dozen crossings in a fog, using for his
guidance the marked chart devised and patented by Bixby and himself.
This sufficiently evidenced the great value of the chart.

By and by, when the fog began to clear off, I noticed that the reflection
of a tree in the smooth water of an overflowed bank, six hundred
yards away, was stronger and blacker than the ghostly tree itself.
The faint spectral trees, dimly glimpsed through the shredding fog,
were very pretty things to see.

We had a heavy thunder-storm at Natchez, another at Vicksburg,
and still another about fifty miles below Memphis.  They had
an old-fashioned energy which had long been unfamiliar to me.
This third storm was accompanied by a raging wind.  We tied up to the bank
when we saw the tempest coming, and everybody left the pilot-house but me.
The wind bent the young trees down, exposing the pale underside
of the leaves; and gust after gust followed, in quick succession,
thrashing the branches violently up and down, and to this side and that,
and creating swift waves of alternating green and white according
to the side of the leaf that was exposed, and these waves raced
after each other as do their kind over a wind-tossed field of oats.
No color that was visible anywhere was quite natural--all tints
were charged with a leaden tinge from the solid cloud-bank overhead.
The river was leaden; all distances the same; and even the far-reaching
ranks of combing white-caps were dully shaded by the dark,
rich atmosphere through which their swarming legions marched.
The thunder-peals were constant and deafening; explosion followed explosion
with but inconsequential intervals between, and the reports grew steadily
sharper and higher-keyed, and more trying to the ear; the lightning
was as diligent as the thunder, and produced effects which enchanted
the eye and sent electric ecstasies of mixed delight and apprehension
shivering along every nerve in the body in unintermittent procession.
The rain poured down in amazing volume; the ear-splitting thunder-peals
broke nearer and nearer; the wind increased in fury and began to wrench
off boughs and tree-tops and send them sailing away through space;
the pilot-house fell to rocking and straining and cracking and surging,
and I went down in the hold to see what time it was.

People boast a good deal about Alpine thunderstorms;
but the storms which I have had the luck to see in the Alps were not
the equals of some which I have seen in the Mississippi Valley.
I may not have seen the Alps do their best, of course,
and if they can beat the Mississippi, I don't wish to.

On this up trip I saw a little towhead (infant island) half a
mile long, which had been formed during the past nineteen years.
Since there was so much time to spare that nineteen years
of it could be devoted to the construction of a mere towhead,
where was the use, originally, in rushing this whole globe through
in six days?  It is likely that if more time had been taken,
in the first place, the world would have been made right, and this
ceaseless improving and repairing would not be necessary now.
But if you hurry a world or a house, you are nearly sure to find
out by and by that you have left out a towhead, or a broom-closet,
or some other little convenience, here and there, which has
got to be supplied, no matter how much expense and vexation
it may cost.

We had a succession of black nights, going up the river, and it was observable
that whenever we landed, and suddenly inundated the trees with the intense
sunburst of the electric light, a certain curious effect was always produced:
hundreds of birds flocked instantly out from the masses of shining
green foliage, and went careering hither and thither through the white rays,
and often a song-bird tuned up and fell to singing.  We judged that
they mistook this superb artificial day for the genuine article.
We had a delightful trip in that thoroughly well-ordered steamer,
and regretted that it was accomplished so speedily.  By means of diligence
and activity, we managed to hunt out nearly all the old friends.
One was missing, however; he went to his reward, whatever it was,
two years ago.  But I found out all about him.  His case helped me
to realize how lasting can be the effect of a very trifling occurrence.
When he was an apprentice-blacksmith in our village, and I a schoolboy,
a couple of young Englishmen came to the town and sojourned a while;
and one day they got themselves up in cheap royal finery and did
the Richard III swordfight with maniac energy and prodigious powwow,
in the presence of the village boys.  This blacksmith cub was there,
and the histrionic poison entered his bones.  This vast, lumbering, ignorant,
dull-witted lout was stage-struck, and irrecoverably.  He disappeared,
and presently turned up in St. Louis.  I ran across him there, by and by.
He was standing musing on a street corner, with his left hand on his hip,
the thumb of his right supporting his chin, face bowed and frowning,
slouch hat pulled down over his forehead--imagining himself to be Othello
or some such character, and imagining that the passing crowd marked his
tragic bearing and were awestruck.

I joined him, and tried to get him down out of the clouds,
but did not succeed.  However, he casually informed me, presently,
that he was a member of the Walnut Street theater company--
and he tried to say it with indifference, but the indifference
was thin, and a mighty exultation showed through it.
He said he was cast for a part in Julius Caesar, for that night,
and if I should come I would see him.  IF I should come!
I said I wouldn't miss it if I were dead.

I went away stupefied with astonishment, and saying to myself,
'How strange it is!  WE always thought this fellow a fool;
yet the moment he comes to a great city, where intelligence
and appreciation abound, the talent concealed in this shabby
napkin is at once discovered, and promptly welcomed and honored.'

But I came away from the theater that night disappointed and offended;
for I had had no glimpse of my hero, and his name was not in the bills.
I met him on the street the next morning, and before I could speak, he asked--

'Did you see me?'

'No, you weren't there.'

He looked surprised and disappointed.  He said--

'Yes, I was.  Indeed I was.  I was a Roman soldier.'

'Which one?'

'Why didn't you see them Roman soldiers that stood back there in a rank,
and sometimes marched in procession around the stage?'

'Do you mean the Roman army?--those six sandaled roustabouts
in nightshirts, with tin shields and helmets, that marched around
treading on each other's heels, in charge of a spider-legged
consumptive dressed like themselves? '

'That's it! that's it!  I was one of them Roman soldiers.
I was the next to the last one.  A half a year ago I used to always
be the last one; but I've been promoted.'

Well, they told me that that poor fellow remained a Roman soldier to the last--
a matter of thirty-four years.  Sometimes they cast him for a 'speaking part,'
but not an elaborate one.  He could be trusted to go and say, 'My lord,
the carriage waits,' but if they ventured to add a sentence or two to this,
his memory felt the strain and he was likely to miss fire.  Yet, poor devil,
he had been patiently studying the part of Hamlet for more than thirty years,
and he lived and died in the belief that some day he would be invited
to play it!

And this is what came of that fleeting visit of those young
Englishmen to our village such ages and ages ago!  What noble
horseshoes this man might have made, but for those Englishmen;
and what an inadequate Roman soldier he DID make!

A day or two after we reached St. Louis, I was walking along Fourth
Street when a grizzly-headed man gave a sort of start as he passed me,
then stopped, came back, inspected me narrowly, with a clouding brow,
and finally said with deep asperity--

'Look here, HAVE YOU GOT THAT DRINK YET?'

A maniac, I judged, at first.  But all in a flash I recognized him.
I made an effort to blush that strained every muscle in me,
and answered as sweetly and winningly as ever I knew how--

'Been a little slow, but am just this minute closing in on the place
where they keep it.  Come in and help.'

He softened, and said make it a bottle of champagne and he was agreeable.
He said he had seen my name in the papers, and had put all his affairs
aside and turned out, resolved to find me or die; and make me answer
that question satisfactorily, or kill me; though the most of his late
asperity had been rather counterfeit than otherwise.

This meeting brought back to me the St. Louis riots of about
thirty years ago.  I spent a week there, at that time,
in a boarding-house, and had this young fellow for a neighbor
across the hall.  We saw some of the fightings and killings;
and by and by we went one night to an armory where two
hundred young men had met, upon call, to be armed and go
forth against the rioters, under command of a military man.
We drilled till about ten o'clock at night; then news came
that the mob were in great force in the lower end of the town,
and were sweeping everything before them.  Our column moved at once.
It was a very hot night, and my musket was very heavy.
We marched and marched; and the nearer we approached the seat
of war, the hotter I grew and the thirstier I got.  I was behind
my friend; so, finally, I asked him to hold my musket while I
dropped out and got a drink.  Then I branched off and went home.
I was not feeling any solicitude about him of course,
because I knew he was so well armed, now, that he could take
care of himself without any trouble.  If I had had any doubts
about that, I would have borrowed another musket for him.
I left the city pretty early the next morning, and if this
grizzled man had not happened to encounter my name in the papers
the other day in St. Louis, and felt moved to seek me out,
I should have carried to my grave a heart-torturing uncertainty
as to whether he ever got out of the riots all right or not.
I ought to have inquired, thirty years ago; I know that.
And I would have inquired, if I had had the muskets; but, in the
circumstances, he seemed better fixed to conduct the investigations
than I was.

One Monday, near the time of our visit to St. Louis,
the 'Globe-Democrat' came out with a couple of pages of Sunday
statistics, whereby it appeared that 119,448 St. Louis people
attended the morning and evening church services the day before,
and 23,102 children attended Sunday-school. Thus 142,550 persons,
out of the city's total of 400,000 population, respected the day
religious-wise. I found these statistics, in a condensed form,
in a telegram of the Associated Press, and preserved them.
They made it apparent that St. Louis was in a higher state
of grace than she could have claimed to be in my time.
But now that I canvass the figures narrowly, I suspect
that the telegraph mutilated them.  It cannot be that there
are more than 150,000 Catholics in the town; the other 250,000
must be classified as Protestants.  Out of these 250,000,
according to this questionable telegram, only 26,362 attended
church and Sunday-school, while out of the 150,000 Catholics,
116,188 went to church and Sunday-school.




                               Chapter 52
                             A Burning Brand

ALL at once the thought came into my mind, 'I have not sought
out Mr. Brown.'

Upon that text I desire to depart from the direct line of my subject,
and make a little excursion.  I wish to reveal a secret which I have
carried with me nine years, and which has become burdensome.

Upon a certain occasion, nine years ago, I had said, with strong feeling,
'If ever I see St. Louis again, I will seek out Mr. Brown, the great
grain merchant, and ask of him the privilege of shaking him by the hand.'

The occasion and the circumstances were as follows.
A friend of mine, a clergyman, came one evening and said--

'I have a most remarkable letter here, which I want to read to you,
if I can do it without breaking down.  I must preface it with
some explanations, however.  The letter is written by an ex-thief
and ex-vagabond of the lowest origin and basest rearing, a man
all stained with crime and steeped in ignorance; but, thank God,
with a mine of pure gold hidden away in him, as you shall see.
His letter is written to a burglar named Williams, who is serving
a nine-year term in a certain State prison, for burglary.
Williams was a particularly daring burglar, and plied
that trade during a number of years; but he was caught
at last and jailed, to await trial in a town where he had
broken into a house at night, pistol in hand, and forced
the owner to hand over to him $8,000 in government bonds.
Williams was not a common sort of person, by any means; he was
a graduate of Harvard College, and came of good New England stock.
His father was a clergyman.  While lying in jail, his health
began to fail, and he was threatened with consumption.
This fact, together with the opportunity for reflection afforded
by solitary confinement, had its effect--its natural effect.
He fell into serious thought; his early training asserted itself with
power, and wrought with strong influence upon his mind and heart.
He put his old life behind him, and became an earnest Christian.
Some ladies in the town heard of this, visited him,
and by their encouraging words supported him in his good
resolutions and strengthened him to continue in his new life.
The trial ended in his conviction and sentence to the State
prison for the term of nine years, as I have before said.
In the prison he became acquainted with the poor wretch
referred to in the beginning of my talk, Jack Hunt,
the writer of the letter which I am going to read.
You will see that the acquaintanceship bore fruit for Hunt.
When Hunt's time was out, he wandered to St. Louis;
and from that place he wrote his letter to Williams.
The letter got no further than the office of the prison warden,
of course; prisoners are not often allowed to receive letters
from outside.  The prison authorities read this letter,
but did not destroy it.  They had not the heart to do it.
They read it to several persons, and eventually it fell
into the hands of those ladies of whom I spoke a while ago.
The other day I came across an old friend of mine--
a clergyman--who had seen this letter, and was full of it.
The mere remembrance of it so moved him that he could
not talk of it without his voice breaking.  He promised
to get a copy of it for me; and here it is--an exact copy,
with all the imperfections of the original preserved.
It has many slang expressions in it--thieves' argot--but their
meaning has been interlined, in parentheses, by the prison
authorities'--

                                               St. Louis, June 9th 1872.

Mr. W---- friend Charlie if i may call you so:  i no you are surprised
to get a letter from me, but i hope you won't be mad at my writing to you.
i want to tell you my thanks for the way you talked to me when i was
in prison--it has led me to try and be a better man; i guess you thought
i did not cair for what you said, & at the first go off I didn't, but i
noed you was a man who had don big work with good men & want no sucker,
nor want gasing & all the boys knod it.

I used to think at nite what you said, & for it i nocked off swearing months
before my time was up, for i saw it want no good, nohow--the day my time
was up you told me if i would shake the cross (QUIT STEALING) & live on
the square for months, it would be the best job i ever done in my life.
The state agent give me a ticket to here, & on the car i thought more of
what you said to me, but didn't make up my mind.  When we got to Chicago
on the cars from there to here, I pulled off an old woman's leather;
(ROBBED HER OF HER POCKETBOOK) i hadn't no more than got it off when i
wished i hadn't done it, for awhile before that i made up my mind
to be a square bloke, for months on your word, but forgot it when i saw
the leather was a grip (EASY TO GET)--but i kept clos to her & when she
got out of the cars at a way place i said, marm have you lost anything.
& she tumbled (DISCOVERED) her leather was off (GONE)--is this it says i,
giving it to her--well if you aint honest, says she, but i hadn't got
cheak enough to stand that sort of talk, so i left her in a hurry.
When i got here i had $1 and 25 cents left & i didn't get no work for 3
days as i aint strong enough for roust about on a steam bote (FOR A
DECK HAND)--The afternoon of the 3rd day I spent my last 10 cts for moons
(LARGE, ROUND SEA-BISCUIT) & cheese & i felt pretty rough & was thinking
i would have to go on the dipe (PICKING POCKETS) again, when i thought
of what you once said about a fellows calling on the Lord when he was
in hard luck, & i thought i would try it once anyhow, but when i tryed
it i got stuck on the start, & all i could get off wos, Lord give a poor
fellow a chance to square it for 3 months for Christ's sake, amen; & i
kept a thinking, of it over and over as i went along--about an hour after
that i was in 4th St. & this is what happened & is the cause of my being
where i am now & about which i will tell you before i get done writing.
As i was walking along herd a big noise & saw a horse running away with a
carriage with 2 children in it, & I grabed up a peace of box cover from
the side walk & run in the middle of the street, & when the horse came up i
smashed him over the head as hard as i could drive--the bord split to peces
& the horse checked up a little & I grabbed the reigns & pulled his head
down until he stopped--the gentleman what owned him came running up & soon
as he saw the children were all rite, he shook hands with me and gave
me a $50 green back, & my asking the Lord to help me come into my head,
& i was so thunderstruck i couldn't drop the reigns nor say nothing--
he saw something was up, & coming back to me said, my boy are you hurt?
& the thought come into my head just then to ask him for work; & i asked
him to take back the bill and give me a job--says he, jump in here &
lets talk about it, but keep the money--he asked me if i could take care
of horses & i said yes, for i used to hang round livery stables & often
would help clean & drive horses, he told me he wanted a man for that work,
& would give me $16 a month & bord me.  You bet i took that chance at once.
that nite in my little room over the stable i sat a long time thinking
over my past life & of what had just happened & i just got down on
my nees & thanked the Lord for the job & to help me to square it,
& to bless you for putting me up to it, & the next morning i done it
again & got me some new togs (CLOTHES) & a bible for i made up my mind
after what the Lord had done for me i would read the bible every nite
and morning, & ask him to keep an eye on me.  When I had been there
about a week Mr. Brown (that's his name) came in my room one nite and saw
me reading the bible--he asked me if i was a Christian & i told him no--
he asked me how it was i read the bible instead of papers & books--
Well Charlie i thought i had better give him a square deal in the start,
so i told him all about my being in prison & about you, & how i had almost
done give up looking for work & how the Lord got me the job when I asked him;
& the only way i had to pay him back was to read the bible & square it,
& i asked him to give me a chance for 3 months--he talked to me like a father
for a long time, & told me i could stay & then i felt better than ever
i had done in my life, for i had given Mr. Brown a fair start with me &
now i didn't fear no one giving me a back cap (EXPOSING HIS PAST LIFE)
& running me off the job--the next morning he called me into the library
& gave me another square talk, & advised me to study some every day,
& he would help me one or 2 hours every nite, & he gave me a Arithmetic,
a spelling book, a Geography & a writing book, & he hers me every nite--
he lets me come into the house to prayers every morning, & got me put in a
bible class in the Sunday School which i likes very much for it helps me
to understand my bible better.

Now, Charlie the 3 months on the square are up 2 months ago,
& as you said, it is the best job i ever did in my life,
& i commenced another of the same sort right away, only it
is to God helping me to last a lifetime Charlie--i wrote
this letter to tell you I do think God has forgiven my sins
& herd your prayers, for you told me you should pray for me--
i no i love to read his word & tell him all my troubles &
he helps me i know for i have plenty of chances to steal
but i don't feel to as i once did & now i take more pleasure
in going to church than to the theater & that wasnt so once--
our minister and others often talk with me & a month ago
they wanted me to join the church, but I said no, not now,
i may be mistaken in my feelings, i will wait awhile,
but now i feel that God has called me & on the first Sunday
in July i will join the church--dear friend i wish i could
write to you as i feel, but i cant do it yet--you no i learned
to read and write while prisons & i aint got well enough along
to write as i would talk; i no i aint spelled all the words rite
in this & lots of other mistakes but you will excuse it i no,
for you no i was brought up in a poor house until i run away,
& that i never new who my father and mother was & i dont
no my right name, & i hope you wont be mad at me, but i have
as much rite to one name as another & i have taken your name,
for you wont use it when you get out i no, & you are the man
i think most of in the world; so i hope you wont be mad--
I am doing well, i put $10 a month in bank with $25 of the $50--
if you ever want any or all of it let me know, & it is yours.
i wish you would let me send you some now.  I send you with this
a receipt for a year of Littles Living Age, i didn't know
what you would like & i told Mr. Brown & he said he thought you
would like it--i wish i was nere you so i could send you chuck
(REFRESHMENTS) on holidays; it would spoil this weather
from here, but i will send you a box next thanksgiving any way--
next week Mr. Brown takes me into his store as lite
porter & will advance me as soon as i know a little more--
he keeps a big granary store, wholesale--i forgot to tell
you of my mission school, sunday school class--the school
is in the sunday afternoon, i went out two sunday afternoons,
and picked up seven kids (LITTLE BOYS) & got them to come in.
two of them new as much as i did & i had them put in a class
where they could learn something.  i dont no much myself,
but as these kids cant read i get on nicely with them.
i make sure of them by going after them every Sunday
hour before school time, I also got 4 girls to come.
tell Mack and Harry about me, if they will come out here
when their time is up i will get them jobs at once.
i hope you will excuse this long letter & all mistakes,
i wish i could see you for i cant write as i would talk--
i hope the warm weather is doing your lungs good--
i was afraid when you was bleeding you would die--
give my respects to all the boys and tell them how i am doing--
i am doing well and every one here treats me as kind as they can--
Mr. Brown is going to write to you sometime--i hope some day
you will write to me, this letter is from your very true
friend

                                                              C----W----

                                              who you know as Jack Hunt.

I send you Mr. Brown's card.  Send my letter to him.

Here was true eloquence; irresistible eloquence;
and without a single grace or ornament to help it out.
I have seldom been so deeply stirred by any piece of writing.
The reader of it halted, all the way through, on a lame and broken voice;
yet he had tried to fortify his feelings by several private
readings of the letter before venturing into company with it.
He was practising upon me to see if there was any hope of his
being able to read the document to his prayer-meeting with
anything like a decent command over his feelings.  The result
was not promising.  However, he determined to risk it; and did.
He got through tolerably well; but his audience broke down early,
and stayed in that condition to the end.

The fame of the letter spread through the town.  A brother
minister came and borrowed the manuscript, put it bodily into
a sermon, preached the sermon to twelve hundred people on a
Sunday morning, and the letter drowned them in their own tears.
Then my friend put it into a sermon and went before his Sunday
morning congregation with it.  It scored another triumph.
The house wept as one individual.

My friend went on summer vacation up into the fishing regions
of our northern British neighbors, and carried this sermon
with him, since he might possibly chance to need a sermon.
He was asked to preach, one day.  The little church was full.
Among the people present were the late Dr. J. G. Holland,
the late Mr. Seymour of the 'New York Times,' Mr. Page,
the philanthropist and temperance advocate, and, I think,
Senator Frye, of Maine.  The marvelous letter did its wonted work;
all the people were moved, all the people wept; the tears
flowed in a steady stream down Dr. Holland's cheeks, and nearly
the same can be said with regard to all who were there.
Mr. Page was so full of enthusiasm over the letter that he said
he would not rest until he made pilgrimage to that prison,
and had speech with the man who had been able to inspire a
fellow-unfortunate to write so priceless a tract.

Ah, that unlucky Page!--and another man.  If they had only been in Jericho,
that letter would have rung through the world and stirred all the hearts of
all the nations for a thousand years to come, and nobody might ever have found
out that it was the confoundedest, brazenest, ingeniousest piece of fraud
and humbuggery that was ever concocted to fool poor confiding mortals with!

The letter was a pure swindle, and that is the truth.
And take it by and large, it was without a compeer among swindles.
It was perfect, it was rounded, symmetrical, complete, colossal!

The reader learns it at this point; but we didn't learn it
till some miles and weeks beyond this stage of the affair.
My friend came back from the woods, and he and other clergymen
and lay missionaries began once more to inundate audiences
with their tears and the tears of said audiences; I begged hard
for permission to print the letter in a magazine and tell the watery
story of its triumphs; numbers of people got copies of the letter,
with permission to circulate them in writing, but not in print;
copies were sent to the Sandwich Islands and other far regions.

Charles Dudley Warner was at church, one day, when the worn letter was read
and wept over.  At the church door, afterward, he dropped a peculiarly cold
iceberg down the clergyman's back with the question--

'Do you know that letter to be genuine?'

It was the first suspicion that had ever been voiced;
but it had that sickening effect which first-uttered suspicions
against one's idol always have.  Some talk followed--

'Why--what should make you suspect that it isn't genuine?'

'Nothing that I know of, except that it is too neat, and compact, and fluent,
and nicely put together for an ignorant person, an unpractised hand.
I think it was done by an educated man.'

The literary artist had detected the literary machinery.
If you will look at the letter now, you will detect it yourself--
it is observable in every line.

Straightway the clergyman went off, with this seed of suspicion
sprouting in him, and wrote to a minister residing in that town
where Williams had been jailed and converted; asked for light;
and also asked if a person in the literary line (meaning me)
might be allowed to print the letter and tell its history.
He presently received this answer--

Rev. -----

MY DEAR FRIEND,--In regard to that 'convict's letter' there can be
no doubt as to its genuineness.  'Williams,' to whom it was written,
lay in our jail and professed to have been converted, and Rev. Mr.----,
the chaplain, had great faith in the genuineness of the change--
as much as one can have in any such case.

The letter was sent to one of our ladies, who is a Sunday-school teacher,--
sent either by Williams himself, or the chaplain of the State's
prison, probably.  She has been greatly annoyed in having so much publicity,
lest it might seem a breach of confidence, or be an injury to Williams.
In regard to its publication, I can give no permission; though if the names
and places were omitted, and especially if sent out of the country,
I think you might take the responsibility and do it.

It is a wonderful letter, which no Christian genius, much less
one unsanctified, could ever have written.  As showing the work
of grace in a human heart, and in a very degraded and wicked one,
it proves its own origin and reproves our weak faith in its power
to cope with any form of wickedness.

'Mr. Brown' of St. Louis, some one said, was a Hartford man.
Do all whom you send from Hartford serve their Master as well?

P.S.--Williams is still in the State's prison, serving out a
long sentence--of nine years, I think.  He has been sick and threatened
with consumption, but I have not inquired after him lately.
This lady that I speak of corresponds with him, I presume,
and will be quite sure to look after him.

This letter arrived a few days after it was written--and up went
Mr. Williams's stock again.  Mr. Warner's low-down suspicion
was laid in the cold, cold grave, where it apparently belonged.
It was a suspicion based upon mere internal evidence, anyway;
and when you come to internal evidence, it's a big field and a game
that two can play at:  as witness this other internal evidence,
discovered by the writer of the note above quoted, that 'it
is a wonderful letter--which no Christian genius, much less
one unsanctified, could ever have written.'

I had permission now to print--provided I suppressed names
and places and sent my narrative out of the country.
So I chose an Australian magazine for vehicle, as being far
enough out of the country, and set myself to work on my article.
And the ministers set the pumps going again, with the letter to
work the handles.

But meantime Brother Page had been agitating.
He had not visited the penitentiary, but he had sent a copy
of the illustrious letter to the chaplain of that institution,
and accompanied it with--apparently inquiries.  He got an answer,
dated four days later than that other Brother's reassuring epistle;
and before my article was complete, it wandered into my hands.
The original is before me, now, and I here append it.
It is pretty well loaded with internal evidence of the most
solid description--

                       STATE'S PRISON, CHAPLAIN'S OFFICE, July 11, 1873.

DEAR BRO.  PAGE,--Herewith please find the letter kindly loaned me.
I am afraid its genuineness cannot be established.
It purports to be addressed to some prisoner here.  No such letter
ever came to a prisoner here.  All letters received are carefully
read by officers of the prison before they go into the hands
of the convicts, and any such letter could not be forgotten.
Again, Charles Williams is not a Christian man, but a dissolute,
cunning prodigal, whose father is a minister of the gospel.
His name is an assumed one.  I am glad to have made your acquaintance.
I am preparing a lecture upon life seen through prison bars,
and should like to deliver the same in your vicinity.

And so ended that little drama.  My poor article went into the fire;
for whereas the materials for it were now more abundant and
infinitely richer than they had previously been, there were parties
all around me, who, although longing for the publication before,
were a unit for suppression at this stage and complexion of the game.
They said:  'Wait--the wound is too fresh, yet.'  All the copies
of the famous letter except mine disappeared suddenly; and from that
time onward, the aforetime same old drought set in in the churches.
As a rule, the town was on a spacious grin for a while, but there
were places in it where the grin did not appear, and where it was
dangerous to refer to the ex-convict's letter.

A word of explanation.  'Jack Hunt,' the professed writer of the letter,
was an imaginary person.  The burglar Williams--Harvard graduate,
son of a minister--wrote the letter himself, to himself:  got it smuggled
out of the prison; got it conveyed to persons who had supported and
encouraged him in his conversion--where he knew two things would happen:
the genuineness of the letter would not be doubted or inquired into;
and the nub of it would be noticed, and would have valuable effect--
the effect, indeed, of starting a movement to get Mr. Williams pardoned
out of prison.

That 'nub' is so ingeniously, so casually, flung in, and immediately
left there in the tail of the letter, undwelt upon, that an indifferent
reader would never suspect that it was the heart and core of the epistle,
if he even took note of it at all, This is the 'nub'--

'i hope the warm weather is doing your lungs good--I WAS AFRAID
WHEN YOU WAS BLEEDING YOU WOULD DIE--give my respects,' etc.

That is all there is of it--simply touch and go--no dwelling upon it.
Nevertheless it was intended for an eye that would be swift to see it;
and it was meant to move a kind heart to try to effect the liberation of a
poor reformed and purified fellow lying in the fell grip of consumption.

When I for the first time heard that letter read, nine years ago,
I felt that it was the most remarkable one I had ever encountered.
And it so warmed me toward Mr. Brown of St. Louis that I said that if ever
I visited that city again, I would seek out that excellent man and kiss
the hem of his garment if it was a new one.  Well, I visited St. Louis,
but I did not hunt for Mr. Brown; for, alas! the investigations
of long ago had proved that the benevolent Brown, like 'Jack Hunt,'
was not a real person, but a sheer invention of that gifted rascal,
Williams--burglar, Harvard graduate, son of a clergyman.




                               Chapter 53
                            My Boyhood's Home

WE took passage in one of the fast boats of the St. Louis and St. Paul
Packet Company, and started up the river.

When I, as a boy, first saw the mouth of the Missouri River, it was twenty-two
or twenty-three miles above St. Louis, according to the estimate of pilots;
the wear and tear of the banks have moved it down eight miles since then;
and the pilots say that within five years the river will cut through and
move the mouth down five miles more, which will bring it within ten miles
of St. Louis.

About nightfall we passed the large and flourishing town
of Alton, Illinois; and before daylight next morning the town
of Louisiana, Missouri, a sleepy village in my day, but a brisk
railway center now; however, all the towns out there are
railway centers now.  I could not clearly recognize the place.
This seemed odd to me, for when I retired from the rebel army
in '61 I retired upon Louisiana in good order; at least in good
enough order for a person who had not yet learned how to retreat
according to the rules of war, and had to trust to native genius.
It seemed to me that for a first attempt at a retreat it was
not badly done.  I had done no advancing in all that campaign
that was at all equal to it.

There was a railway bridge across the river here well sprinkled
with glowing lights, and a very beautiful sight it was.

At seven in the morning we reached Hannibal, Missouri, where my boyhood
was spent.  I had had a glimpse of it fifteen years ago, and another glimpse
six years earlier, but both were so brief that they hardly counted.
The only notion of the town that remained in my mind was the memory
of it as I had known it when I first quitted it twenty-nine years ago.
That picture of it was still as clear and vivid to me as a photograph.
I stepped ashore with the feeling of one who returns out of a
dead-and-gone generation.  I had a sort of realizing sense of what
the Bastille prisoners must have felt when they used to come out
and look upon Paris after years of captivity, and note how curiously
the familiar and the strange were mixed together before them.
I saw the new houses--saw them plainly enough--but they did not
affect the older picture in my mind, for through their solid bricks
and mortar I saw the vanished houses, which had formerly stood there,
with perfect distinctness.

It was Sunday morning, and everybody was abed yet.  So I passed
through the vacant streets, still seeing the town as it was,
and not as it is, and recognizing and metaphorically shaking
hands with a hundred familiar objects which no longer exist;
and finally climbed Holiday's Hill to get a comprehensive view.
The whole town lay spread out below me then, and I could mark and fix
every locality, every detail.  Naturally, I was a good deal moved.
I said, 'Many of the people I once knew in this tranquil refuge of my
childhood are now in heaven; some, I trust, are in the other place.'
The things about me and before me made me feel like a boy again--
convinced me that I was a boy again, and that I had simply been
dreaming an unusually long dream; but my reflections spoiled all that;
for they forced me to say, 'I see fifty old houses down yonder,
into each of which I could enter and find either a man or a woman
who was a baby or unborn when I noticed those houses last, or a
grandmother who was a plump young bride at that time.'

From this vantage ground the extensive view up and down the river,
and wide over the wooded expanses of Illinois, is very beautiful--
one of the most beautiful on the Mississippi, I think; which is
a hazardous remark to make, for the eight hundred miles of river
between St. Louis and St. Paul afford an unbroken succession
of lovely pictures.  It may be that my affection for the one in
question biases my judgment in its favor; I cannot say as to that.
No matter, it was satisfyingly beautiful to me, and it had this
advantage over all the other friends whom I was about to greet again:
it had suffered no change; it was as young and fresh and comely and gracious
as ever it had been; whereas, the faces of the others would be old,
and scarred with the campaigns of life, and marked with their griefs
and defeats, and would give me no upliftings of spirit.

An old gentleman, out on an early morning walk, came along, and we
discussed the weather, and then drifted into other matters.  I could not
remember his face.  He said he had been living here twenty-eight years.
So he had come after my time, and I had never seen him before.
I asked him various questions; first about a mate of mine in Sunday school--
what became of him?

'He graduated with honor in an Eastern college, wandered off into
the world somewhere, succeeded at nothing, passed out of knowledge
and memory years ago, and is supposed to have gone to the dogs.'

'He was bright, and promised well when he was a boy.'

'Yes, but the thing that happened is what became of it all.'

I asked after another lad, altogether the brightest in our village
school when I was a boy.

'He, too, was graduated with honors, from an Eastern college;
but life whipped him in every battle, straight along, and he died
in one of the Territories, years ago, a defeated man.'

I asked after another of the bright boys.

'He is a success, always has been, always will be, I think.'

I inquired after a young fellow who came to the town to study
for one of the professions when I was a boy.

'He went at something else before he got through--went from medicine
to law, or from law to medicine--then to some other new thing;
went away for a year, came back with a young wife; fell to drinking,
then to gambling behind the door; finally took his wife and two young
children to her father's, and went off to Mexico; went from bad
to worse, and finally died there, without a cent to buy a shroud,
and without a friend to attend the funeral.'

'Pity, for he was the best-natured, and most cheery and hopeful
young fellow that ever was.'

I named another boy.

'Oh, he is all right.  Lives here yet; has a wife and children,
and is prospering.'

Same verdict concerning other boys.

I named three school-girls.

'The first two live here, are married and have children;
the other is long ago dead--never married.'

I named, with emotion, one of my early sweethearts.

'She is all right.  Been married three times; buried two husbands,
divorced from the third, and I hear she is getting ready to marry
an old fellow out in Colorado somewhere.  She's got children scattered
around here and there, most everywheres.'

The answer to several other inquiries was brief and simple--

'Killed in the war.'

I named another boy.

'Well, now, his case is curious!  There wasn't a human being
in this town but knew that that boy was a perfect chucklehead;
perfect dummy; just a stupid ass, as you may say.
Everybody knew it, and everybody said it.  Well, if that very
boy isn't the first lawyer in the State of Missouri to-day,
I'm a Democrat!'

'Is that so?'

'It's actually so.  I'm telling you the truth.'

'How do you account for it?'

'Account for it?  There ain't any accounting for it,
except that if you send a damned fool to St. Louis, and you
don't tell them he's a damned fool they'll never find it out.
There's one thing sure--if I had a damned fool I should know
what to do with him:  ship him to St. Louis--it's the noblest
market in the world for that kind of property.  Well, when you
come to look at it all around, and chew at it and think it over,
don't it just bang anything you ever heard of?'

'Well, yes, it does seem to.  But don't you think maybe it
was the Hannibal people who were mistaken about the boy,
and not the St. Louis people'

'Oh, nonsense!  The people here have known him from the very cradle--
they knew him a hundred times better than the St. Louis idiots could
have known him.  No, if you have got any damned fools that you want
to realize on, take my advice--send them to St. Louis.'

I mentioned a great number of people whom I had formerly known.
Some were dead, some were gone away, some had prospered,
some had come to naught; but as regarded a dozen or so of the lot,
the answer was comforting:

'Prosperous--live here yet--town littered with their children.'

I asked about Miss ----

Died in the insane asylum three or four years ago--never was out of it
from the time she went in; and was always suffering, too; never got
a shred of her mind back.'

If he spoke the truth, here was a heavy tragedy, indeed.
Thirty-six years in a madhouse, that some young fools might have some fun!
I was a small boy, at the time; and I saw those giddy young ladies come
tiptoeing into the room where Miss ---- sat reading at midnight by a lamp.
The girl at the head of the file wore a shroud and a doughface,
she crept behind the victim, touched her on the shoulder,
and she looked up and screamed, and then fell into convulsions.
She did not recover from the fright, but went mad.  In these days it
seems incredible that people believed in ghosts so short a time ago.
But they did.

After asking after such other folk as I could call to mind,
I finally inquired about MYSELF:

'Oh, he succeeded well enough--another case of damned fool.
If they'd sent him to St. Louis, he'd have succeeded sooner.'

It was with much satisfaction that I recognized the wisdom
of having told this candid gentleman, in the beginning,
that my name was Smith.




                               Chapter 54
                            Past and Present

Being left to myself, up there, I went on picking out old houses in the
distant town, and calling back their former inmates out of the moldy past.
Among them I presently recognized the house of the father of Lem Hackett
(fictitious name). It carried me back more than a generation in a moment,
and landed me in the midst of a time when the happenings of life were not
the natural and logical results of great general laws, but of special orders,
and were freighted with very precise and distinct purposes--partly punitive
in intent, partly admonitory; and usually local in application.

When I was a small boy, Lem Hackett was drowned--on a Sunday.
He fell out of an empty flat-boat, where he was playing.
Being loaded with sin, he went to the bottom like an anvil.
He was the only boy in the village who slept that night.
We others all lay awake, repenting.  We had not needed the information,
delivered from the pulpit that evening, that Lem's was a case
of special judgment--we knew that, already.  There was a ferocious
thunder-storm, that night, and it raged continuously until near dawn.
The winds blew, the windows rattled, the rain swept along the roof
in pelting sheets, and at the briefest of intervals the inky blackness
of the night vanished, the houses over the way glared out white
and blinding for a quivering instant, then the solid darkness shut
down again and a splitting peal of thunder followed, which seemed
to rend everything in the neighborhood to shreds and splinters.
I sat up in bed quaking and shuddering, waiting for the destruction
of the world, and expecting it.  To me there was nothing strange
or incongruous in heaven's making such an uproar about Lem Hackett.
Apparently it was the right and proper thing to do.
Not a doubt entered my mind that all the angels were grouped together,
discussing this boy's case and observing the awful bombardment
of our beggarly little village with satisfaction and approval.
There was one thing which disturbed me in the most serious way;
that was the thought that this centering of the celestial interest
on our village could not fail to attract the attention of the observers
to people among us who might otherwise have escaped notice for years.
I felt that I was not only one of those people, but the very one most
likely to be discovered.  That discovery could have but one result:
I should be in the fire with Lem before the chill of the river
had been fairly warmed out of him.  I knew that this would be
only just and fair.  I was increasing the chances against myself
all the time, by feeling a secret bitterness against Lem for having
attracted this fatal attention to me, but I could not help it--
this sinful thought persisted in infesting my breast in spite of me.
Every time the lightning glared I caught my breath, and judged I was gone.
In my terror and misery, I meanly began to suggest other boys,
and mention acts of theirs which were wickeder than mine, and peculiarly
needed punishment--and I tried to pretend to myself that I was simply
doing this in a casual way, and without intent to divert the heavenly
attention to them for the purpose of getting rid of it myself.
With deep sagacity I put these mentions into the form of sorrowing
recollections and left-handed sham-supplications that the sins of those
boys might be allowed to pass unnoticed--'Possibly they may repent.'
'It is true that Jim Smith broke a window and lied about it--
but maybe he did not mean any harm.  And although Tom Holmes
says more bad words than any other boy in the village,
he probably intends to repent--though he has never said he would.
And whilst it is a fact that John Jones did fish a little
on Sunday, once, he didn't really catch anything but only just one
small useless mud-cat; and maybe that wouldn't have been so awful
if he had thrown it back--as he says he did, but he didn't. Pity
but they would repent of these dreadful things--and maybe they will
yet.'

But while I was shamefully trying to draw attention to these poor chaps--
who were doubtless directing the celestial attention to me at the same moment,
though I never once suspected that--I had heedlessly left my candle burning.
It was not a time to neglect even trifling precautions.  There was no occasion
to add anything to the facilities for attracting notice to me--so I put
the light out.

It was a long night to me, and perhaps the most distressful one I ever spent.
I endured agonies of remorse for sins which I knew I had committed,
and for others which I was not certain about, yet was sure that they had
been set down against me in a book by an angel who was wiser than I and did
not trust such important matters to memory.  It struck me, by and by,
that I had been making a most foolish and calamitous mistake, in one respect:
doubtless I had not only made my own destruction sure by directing attention
to those other boys, but had already accomplished theirs!--Doubtless the
lightning had stretched them all dead in their beds by this time!
The anguish and the fright which this thought gave me made my previous
sufferings seem trifling by comparison.

Things had become truly serious.  I resolved to turn over
a new leaf instantly; I also resolved to connect myself
with the church the next day, if I survived to see its
sun appear.  I resolved to cease from sin in all its forms,
and to lead a high and blameless life for ever after.
I would be punctual at church and Sunday-school; visit the sick;
carry baskets of victuals to the poor (simply to fulfil
the regulation conditions, although I knew we had none among us
so poor but they would smash the basket over my head for my pains);
I would instruct other boys in right ways, and take the resulting
trouncings meekly; I would subsist entirely on tracts;
I would invade the rum shop and warn the drunkard--and finally,
if I escaped the fate of those who early become too good to live,
I would go for a missionary.

The storm subsided toward daybreak, and I dozed gradually to sleep
with a sense of obligation to Lem Hackett for going to eternal suffering
in that abrupt way, and thus preventing a far more dreadful disaster--
my own loss.

But when I rose refreshed, by and by, and found that those other boys
were still alive, I had a dim sense that perhaps the whole thing
was a false alarm; that the entire turmoil had been on Lem's account
and nobody's else.  The world looked so bright and safe that there
did not seem to be any real occasion to turn over a new leaf.
I was a little subdued, during that day, and perhaps the next;
after that, my purpose of reforming slowly dropped out of my mind,
and I had a peaceful, comfortable time again, until the next storm.

That storm came about three weeks later; and it was the most
unaccountable one, to me, that I had ever experienced;
for on the afternoon of that day, 'Dutchy' was drowned.
Dutchy belonged to our Sunday-school. He was a German
lad who did not know enough to come in out of the rain;
but he was exasperatingly good, and had a prodigious memory.
One Sunday he made himself the envy of all the youth and the talk
of all the admiring village, by reciting three thousand verses of
Scripture without missing a word; then he went off the very next day
and got drowned.

Circumstances gave to his death a peculiar impressiveness.
We were all bathing in a muddy creek which had a deep hole
in it, and in this hole the coopers had sunk a pile of green
hickory hoop poles to soak, some twelve feet under water.
We were diving and 'seeing who could stay under longest.'
We managed to remain down by holding on to the hoop poles.
Dutchy made such a poor success of it that he was hailed with
laughter and derision every time his head appeared above water.
At last he seemed hurt with the taunts, and begged us
to stand still on the bank and be fair with him and give him
an honest count--'be friendly and kind just this once, and not
miscount for the sake of having the fun of laughing at him.'
Treacherous winks were exchanged, and all said 'All right, Dutchy--
go ahead, we'll play fair.'

Dutchy plunged in, but the boys, instead of beginning to count,
followed the lead of one of their number and scampered
to a range of blackberry bushes close by and hid behind it.
They imagined Dutchy's humiliation, when he should rise after
a superhuman effort and find the place silent and vacant,
nobody there to applaud.  They were 'so full of laugh' with the idea,
that they were continually exploding into muffled cackles.
Time swept on, and presently one who was peeping through the briers,
said, with surprise--

'Why, he hasn't come up, yet!'

The laughing stopped.

'Boys, it 's a splendid dive,' said one.

'Never mind that,' said another, 'the joke on him is all the better for it.'

There was a remark or two more, and then a pause.
Talking ceased, and all began to peer through the vines.
Before long, the boys' faces began to look uneasy, then anxious,
then terrified.  Still there was no movement of the placid water.
Hearts began to beat fast, and faces to turn pale.
We all glided out, silently, and stood on the bank, our horrified
eyes wandering back and forth from each other's countenances
to the water.

'Somebody must go down and see!'

Yes, that was plain; but nobody wanted that grisly task.

'Draw straws!'

So we did--with hands which shook so, that we hardly knew
what we were about.  The lot fell to me, and I went down.
The water was so muddy I could not see anything, but I felt around
among the hoop poles, and presently grasped a limp wrist which
gave me no response--and if it had I should not have known it,
I let it go with such a frightened suddenness.

The boy had been caught among the hoop poles and entangled
there, helplessly.  I fled to the surface and told the awful news.
Some of us knew that if the boy were dragged out at once he might
possibly be resuscitated, but we never thought of that.  We did not
think of anything; we did not know what to do, so we did nothing--
except that the smaller lads cried, piteously, and we all struggled
frantically into our clothes, putting on anybody's that came handy,
and getting them wrong-side-out and upside-down, as a rule.
Then we scurried away and gave the alarm, but none of us went back to see
the end of the tragedy.  We had a more important thing to attend to:
we all flew home, and lost not a moment in getting ready to lead
a better life.

The night presently closed down.  Then came on that tremendous
and utterly unaccountable storm.  I was perfectly dazed; I could
not understand it.  It seemed to me that there must be some mistake.
The elements were turned loose, and they rattled and banged and blazed
away in the most blind and frantic manner.  All heart and hope went
out of me, and the dismal thought kept floating through my brain,
'If a boy who knows three thousand verses by heart is not satisfactory,
what chance is there for anybody else?'

Of course I never questioned for a moment that the storm was
on Dutchy's account, or that he or any other inconsequential
animal was worthy of such a majestic demonstration from on high;
the lesson of it was the only thing that troubled me;
for it convinced me that if Dutchy, with all his perfections,
was not a delight, it would be vain for me to turn over a new leaf,
for I must infallibly fall hopelessly short of that boy,
no matter how hard I might try.  Nevertheless I did turn it over--
a highly educated fear compelled me to do that--but succeeding
days of cheerfulness and sunshine came bothering around,
and within a month I had so drifted backward that again I
was as lost and comfortable as ever.

Breakfast time approached while I mused these musings and called
these ancient happenings back to mind; so I got me back into
the present and went down the hill.

On my way through town to the hotel, I saw the house which was
my home when I was a boy.  At present rates, the people who now
occupy it are of no more value than I am; but in my time they
would have been worth not less than five hundred dollars apiece.
They are colored folk.

After breakfast, I went out alone again, intending to hunt up some
of the Sunday-schools and see how this generation of pupils might
compare with their progenitors who had sat with me in those places
and had probably taken me as a model--though I do not remember
as to that now.  By the public square there had been in my day
a shabby little brick church called the 'Old Ship of Zion,'
which I had attended as a Sunday-school scholar; and I found
the locality easily enough, but not the old church; it was gone,
and a trig and rather hilarious new edifice was in its place.
The pupils were better dressed and better looking than were those
of my time; consequently they did not resemble their ancestors;
and consequently there was nothing familiar to me in their faces.
Still, I contemplated them with a deep interest and a yearning wistfulness,
and if I had been a girl I would have cried; for they were the offspring,
and represented, and occupied the places, of boys and girls some
of whom I had loved to love, and some of whom I had loved to hate,
but all of whom were dear to me for the one reason or the other,
so many years gone by--and, Lord, where be they now!

I was mightily stirred, and would have been grateful to be allowed
to remain unmolested and look my fill; but a bald-summited superintendent
who had been a tow-headed Sunday-school mate of mine on that spot
in the early ages, recognized me, and I talked a flutter of wild
nonsense to those children to hide the thoughts which were in me,
and which could not have been spoken without a betrayal of feeling
that would have been recognized as out of character with me.

Making speeches without preparation is no gift of mine;
and I was resolved to shirk any new opportunity, but in
the next and larger Sunday-school I found myself in the rear
of the assemblage; so I was very willing to go on the platform
a moment for the sake of getting a good look at the scholars.
On the spur of the moment I could not recall any of the old idiotic
talks which visitors used to insult me with when I was a pupil there;
and I was sorry for this, since it would have given me time
and excuse to dawdle there and take a long and satisfying look
at what I feel at liberty to say was an array of fresh young
comeliness not matchable in another Sunday-school of the same size.
As I talked merely to get a chance to inspect; and as I strung
out the random rubbish solely to prolong the inspection,
I judged it but decent to confess these low motives,
and I did so.

If the Model Boy was in either of these Sunday-schools, I did not see him.
The Model Boy of my time--we never had but the one--was perfect:
perfect in manners, perfect in dress, perfect in conduct, perfect in
   filial piety, perfect in exterior godliness; but at bottom he was a
   prig; and as for the contents of his skull, they could have changed
place with the contents of a pie and nobody would have been the worse off
for it but the pie.  This fellow's reproachlessness was a standing
 reproach to every lad in the village. He was the admiration of all the
 mothers, and the detestation of all their sons. I was told what became
   of him, but as it was a disappointment to me, I will not enter into
                     details. He succeeded in life.


                               Chapter 55
                       A Vendetta and Other Things

DURING my three days' stay in the town, I woke up every morning
with the impression that I was a boy--for in my dreams the faces
were all young again, and looked as they had looked in the old times--
but I went to bed a hundred years old, every night--for meantime I
had been seeing those faces as they are now.

Of course I suffered some surprises, along at first,
before I had become adjusted to the changed state of things.
I met young ladies who did not seem to have changed at all;
but they turned out to be the daughters of the young ladies
I had in mind--sometimes their grand-daughters. When you
are told that a stranger of fifty is a grandmother, there is
nothing surprising about it; but if, on the contrary, she is
a person whom you knew as a little girl, it seems impossible.
You say to yourself, 'How can a little girl be a grandmother.'
It takes some little time to accept and realize the fact that while you
have been growing old, your friends have not been standing still,
in that matter.

I noticed that the greatest changes observable were with the women,
not the men.  I saw men whom thirty years had changed but slightly;
but their wives had grown old.  These were good women; it is very wearing
to be good.

There was a saddler whom I wished to see; but he was gone.
Dead, these many years, they said.  Once or twice a day,
the saddler used to go tearing down the street, putting on his
coat as he went; and then everybody knew a steamboat was coming.
Everybody knew, also, that John Stavely was not expecting anybody
by the boat--or any freight, either; and Stavely must have known
that everybody knew this, still it made no difference to him;
he liked to seem to himself to be expecting a hundred thousand
tons of saddles by this boat, and so he went on all his life,
enjoying being faithfully on hand to receive and receipt
for those saddles, in case by any miracle they should come.
A malicious Quincy paper used always to refer to this town, in derision
as 'Stavely's Landing.'  Stavely was one of my earliest admirations;
I envied him his rush of imaginary business, and the display
he was able to make of it, before strangers, as he went flying
down the street struggling with his fluttering coat.

But there was a carpenter who was my chiefest hero.  He was a mighty liar,
but I did not know that; I believed everything he said.  He was a romantic,
sentimental, melodramatic fraud, and his bearing impressed me with awe.
I vividly remember the first time he took me into his confidence.  He was
planing a board, and every now and then he would pause and heave a deep sigh;
and occasionally mutter broken sentences--confused and not intelligible--
but out of their midst an ejaculation sometimes escaped which made me shiver
and did me good:  one was, 'O God, it is his blood!'  I sat on the tool-chest
and humbly and shudderingly admired him; for I judged he was full of crime.
At last he said in a low voice--

'My little friend, can you keep a secret?'

I eagerly said I could.

'A dark and dreadful one?'

I satisfied him on that point.

'Then I will tell you some passages in my history; for oh,
I MUST relieve my burdened soul, or I shall die! '

He cautioned me once more to be 'as silent as the grave;'
then he told me he was a 'red-handed murderer.'
He put down his plane, held his hands out before him,
contemplated them sadly, and said--

'Look--with these hands I have taken the lives of thirty human beings!'

The effect which this had upon me was an inspiration to him,
and he turned himself loose upon his subject with interest and energy.
He left generalizing, and went into details,--began with his first murder;
described it, told what measures he had taken to avert suspicion;
then passed to his second homicide, his third, his fourth, and so on.
He had always done his murders with a bowie-knife, and he made all my
hairs rise by suddenly snatching it out and showing it to me.

At the end of this first seance I went home with six of his
fearful secrets among my freightage, and found them a great
help to my dreams, which had been sluggish for a while back.
I sought him again and again, on my Saturday holidays; in fact I
spent the summer with him--all of it which was valuable to me.
His fascinations never diminished, for he threw something fresh
and stirring, in the way of horror, into each successive murder.
He always gave names, dates, places--everything.  This by and by enabled
me to note two things:  that he had killed his victims in every
quarter of the globe, and that these victims were always named Lynch.
The destruction of the Lynches went serenely on, Saturday after Saturday,
until the original thirty had multiplied to sixty--and more to be
heard from yet; then my curiosity got the better of my timidity,
and I asked how it happened that these justly punished persons all bore
the same name.

My hero said he had never divulged that dark secret to any
living being; but felt that he could trust me, and therefore
he would lay bare before me the story of his sad and blighted life.
He had loved one 'too fair for earth,' and she had reciprocated
'with all the sweet affection of her pure and noble nature.'
But he had a rival, a 'base hireling' named Archibald Lynch,
who said the girl should be his, or he would 'dye his hands
in her heart's best blood.'  The carpenter, 'innocent and
happy in love's young dream,' gave no weight to the threat,
but led his 'golden-haired darling to the altar,' and there,
the two were made one; there also, just as the minister's hands
were stretched in blessing over their heads, the fell deed was done--
with a knife--and the bride fell a corpse at her husband's feet.
And what did the husband do?  He plucked forth that knife,
and kneeling by the body of his lost one, swore to 'consecrate
his life to the extermination of all the human scum that bear
the hated name of Lynch.'

That was it.  He had been hunting down the Lynches and slaughtering them,
from that day to this--twenty years.  He had always used that same
consecrated knife; with it he had murdered his long array of Lynches,
and with it he had left upon the forehead of each victim a peculiar mark--
a cross, deeply incised.  Said he--

'The cross of the Mysterious Avenger is known in Europe, in America,
in China, in Siam, in the Tropics, in the Polar Seas, in the deserts of Asia,
in all the earth.  Wherever in the uttermost parts of the globe, a Lynch
has penetrated, there has the Mysterious Cross been seen, and those who
have seen it have shuddered and said, "It is his mark, he has been here."
You have heard of the Mysterious Avenger--look upon him, for before you
stands no less a person!  But beware--breathe not a word to any soul.
Be silent, and wait.  Some morning this town will flock aghast to view
a gory corpse; on its brow will be seen the awful sign, and men will tremble
and whisper, "He has been here--it is the Mysterious Avenger's mark!"
You will come here, but I shall have vanished; you will see me no more.'

This ass had been reading the 'Jibbenainosay,' no doubt,
and had had his poor romantic head turned by it; but as I had
not yet seen the book then, I took his inventions for truth,
and did not suspect that he was a plagiarist.

However, we had a Lynch living in the town; and the more I
reflected upon his impending doom, the more I could not sleep.
It seemed my plain duty to save him, and a still plainer
and more important duty to get some sleep for myself,
so at last I ventured to go to Mr. Lynch and tell him
what was about to happen to him--under strict secrecy.
I advised him to 'fly,' and certainly expected him to do it.
But he laughed at me; and he did not stop there; he led me
down to the carpenter's shop, gave the carpenter a jeering and
scornful lecture upon his silly pretensions, slapped his face,
made him get down on his knees and beg--then went off and
left me to contemplate the cheap and pitiful ruin of what,
in my eyes, had so lately been a majestic and incomparable hero.
The carpenter blustered, flourished his knife, and doomed this
Lynch in his usual volcanic style, the size of his fateful
words undiminished; but it was all wasted upon me; he was a hero
to me no longer, but only a poor, foolish, exposed humbug.
I was ashamed of him, and ashamed of myself; I took no further
interest in him, and never went to his shop any more.  He was a
heavy loss to me, for he was the greatest hero I had ever known.
The fellow must have had some talent; for some of his imaginary
murders were so vividly and dramatically described that I remember all
their details yet.

The people of Hannibal are not more changed than is the town.
It is no longer a village; it is a city, with a mayor, and a council,
and water-works, and probably a debt.  It has fifteen thousand people,
is a thriving and energetic place, and is paved like the rest
of the west and south--where a well-paved street and a good sidewalk
are things so seldom seen, that one doubts them when he does see them.
The customary half-dozen railways center in Hannibal now,
and there is a new depot which cost a hundred thousand dollars.
In my time the town had no specialty, and no commercial grandeur;
the daily packet usually landed a passenger and bought a catfish,
and took away another passenger and a hatful of freight; but now a huge
commerce in lumber has grown up and a large miscellaneous commerce
is one of the results.  A deal of money changes hands there now.

Bear Creek--so called, perhaps, because it was always so particularly
bare of bears--is hidden out of sight now, under islands and
continents of piled lumber, and nobody but an expert can find it.
I used to get drowned in it every summer regularly, and be
drained out, and inflated and set going again by some chance enemy;
but not enough of it is unoccupied now to drown a person in.
It was a famous breeder of chills and fever in its day.
I remember one summer when everybody in town had this
disease at once.  Many chimneys were shaken down, and all
the houses were so racked that the town had to be rebuilt.
The chasm or gorge between Lover's Leap and the hill west of it
is supposed by scientists to have been caused by glacial action.
This is a mistake.

There is an interesting cave a mile or two below Hannibal, among the bluffs.
I would have liked to revisit it, but had not time.  In my time the person
who then owned it turned it into a mausoleum for his daughter, aged fourteen.
The body of this poor child was put into a copper cylinder filled with
alcohol, and this was suspended in one of the dismal avenues of the cave.
The top of the cylinder was removable; and it was said to be a common thing
for the baser order of tourists to drag the dead face into view and examine it
and comment upon it.




                               Chapter 56
                            A Question of Law

THE slaughter-house is gone from the mouth of Bear Creek and so is
the small jail (or 'calaboose') which once stood in its neighborhood.
A citizen asked, 'Do you remember when Jimmy Finn, the town drunkard,
was burned to death in the calaboose?'

Observe, now, how history becomes defiled, through lapse of time
and the help of the bad memories of men.  Jimmy Finn was not
burned in the calaboose, but died a natural death in a tan vat,
of a combination of delirium tremens and spontaneous combustion.
When I say natural death, I mean it was a natural death for
Jimmy Finn to die.  The calaboose victim was not a citizen;
he was a poor stranger, a harmless whiskey-sodden tramp.
I know more about his case than anybody else; I knew too much of it,
in that bygone day, to relish speaking of it.  That tramp was wandering
about the streets one chilly evening, with a pipe in his mouth,
and begging for a match; he got neither matches nor courtesy;
on the contrary, a troop of bad little boys followed him
around and amused themselves with nagging and annoying him.
I assisted; but at last, some appeal which the wayfarer made
for forbearance, accompanying it with a pathetic reference to his
forlorn and friendless condition, touched such sense of shame
and remnant of right feeling as were left in me, and I went away
and got him some matches, and then hied me home and to bed,
heavily weighted as to conscience, and unbuoyant in spirit.
An hour or two afterward, the man was arrested and locked up
in the calaboose by the marshal--large name for a constable,
but that was his title.  At two in the morning, the church bells rang
for fire, and everybody turned out, of course--I with the rest.
The tramp had used his matches disastrously:  he had set his straw
bed on fire, and the oaken sheathing of the room had caught.
When I reached the ground, two hundred men, women, and children
stood massed together, transfixed with horror, and staring
at the grated windows of the jail.  Behind the iron bars,
and tugging frantically at them, and screaming for help,
stood the tramp; he seemed like a black object set against
a sun, so white and intense was the light at his back.
That marshal could not be found, and he had the only key.
A battering-ram was quickly improvised, and the thunder of its
blows upon the door had so encouraging a sound that the spectators
broke into wild cheering, and believed the merciful battle won.
But it was not so.  The timbers were too strong; they did not yield.
It was said that the man's death-grip still held fast to the bars
after he was dead; and that in this position the fires wrapped him
about and consumed him.  As to this, I do not know.  What was seen
after I recognized the face that was pleading through the bars
was seen by others, not by me.

I saw that face, so situated, every night for a long time afterward;
and I believed myself as guilty of the man's death as if I had given
him the matches purposely that he might burn himself up with them.
I had not a doubt that I should be hanged if my connection with
this tragedy were found out.  The happenings and the impressions
of that time are burnt into my memory, and the study of them
entertains me as much now as they themselves distressed me then.
If anybody spoke of that grisly matter, I was all ears in a moment,
and alert to hear what might be said, for I was always dreading
and expecting to find out that I was suspected; and so fine
and so delicate was the perception of my guilty conscience,
that it often detected suspicion in the most purposeless remarks,
and in looks, gestures, glances of the eye which had no significance,
but which sent me shivering away in a panic of fright, just the same.
And how sick it made me when somebody dropped, howsoever carelessly
and barren of intent, the remark that 'murder will out!'
For a boy of ten years, I was carrying a pretty weighty cargo.

All this time I was blessedly forgetting one thing--
the fact that I was an inveterate talker in my sleep.
But one night I awoke and found my bed-mate--my younger brother--
sitting up in bed and contemplating me by the light of the moon.
I said--

'What is the matter?'

'You talk so much I can't sleep.'

I came to a sitting posture in an instant, with my kidneys in my throat
and my hair on end.

'What did I say.  Quick--out with it--what did I say?'

'Nothing much.'

'It's a lie--you know everything.'

'Everything about what?'

'You know well enough.  About THAT.'

'About WHAT?--I don't know what you are talking about.
I think you are sick or crazy or something.  But anyway,
you're awake, and I'll get to sleep while I've got a chance.'

He fell asleep and I lay there in a cold sweat, turning this
new terror over in the whirling chaos which did duty as my mind.
The burden of my thought was, How much did I divulge?
How much does he know?--what a distress is this uncertainty!
But by and by I evolved an idea--I would wake my brother and probe him
with a supposititious case.  I shook him up, and said--

'Suppose a man should come to you drunk--'

'This is foolish--I never get drunk.'

'I don't mean you, idiot--I mean the man.  Suppose a MAN
should come to you drunk, and borrow a knife, or a tomahawk,
or a pistol, and you forgot to tell him it was loaded, and--'

'How could you load a tomahawk?'

'I don't mean the tomahawk, and I didn't say the tomahawk; I said the pistol.
Now don't you keep breaking in that way, because this is serious.
There's been a man killed.'

'What! in this town?'

'Yes, in this town.'

'Well, go on--I won't say a single word.'

'Well, then, suppose you forgot to tell him to be careful with it,
because it was loaded, and he went off and shot himself with that pistol--
fooling with it, you know, and probably doing it by accident, being drunk.
Well, would it be murder?'

'No--suicide.'

'No, no.  I don't mean HIS act, I mean yours:  would you be a murderer
for letting him have that pistol?'

After deep thought came this answer--

'Well, I should think I was guilty of something--maybe murder--
yes, probably murder, but I don't quite know.'

This made me very uncomfortable.  However, it was not a decisive verdict.
I should have to set out the real case--there seemed to be no other way.
But I would do it cautiously, and keep a watch out for suspicious effects.
I said--

'I was supposing a case, but I am coming to the real one now.
Do you know how the man came to be burned up in the calaboose?'

'No.'

'Haven't you the least idea?'

'Not the least.'

'Wish you may die in your tracks if you have?'

'Yes, wish I may die in my tracks.'

'Well, the way of it was this.  The man wanted some matches to light
his pipe.  A boy got him some.  The man set fire to the calaboose
with those very matches, and burnt himself up.'

'Is that so?'

'Yes, it is.  Now, is that boy a murderer, do you think?'

'Let me see.  The man was drunk?'

'Yes, he was drunk.'

'Very drunk?'

'Yes.'

'And the boy knew it?'

'Yes, he knew it.'

There was a long pause.  Then came this heavy verdict--

'If the man was drunk, and the boy knew it, the boy murdered that man.
This is certain.'

Faint, sickening sensations crept along all the fibers of my body,
and I seemed to know how a person feels who hears his death sentence
pronounced from the bench.  I waited to hear what my brother would say next.
I believed I knew what it would be, and I was right.  He said--

'I know the boy.'

I had nothing to say; so I said nothing.  I simply shuddered.
Then he added--

'Yes, before you got half through telling about the thing,
I knew perfectly well who the boy was; it was Ben Coontz! '

I came out of my collapse as one who rises from the dead.
I said, with admiration--

'Why, how in the world did you ever guess it?'

'You told it in your sleep.'

I said to myself, 'How splendid that is!  This is a habit
which must be cultivated.'

My brother rattled innocently on--

'When you were talking in your sleep, you kept mumbling something
about "matches," which I couldn't make anything out of; but just now,
when you began to tell me about the man and the calaboose and the matches,
I remembered that in your sleep you mentioned Ben Coontz two or three times;
so I put this and that together, you see, and right away I knew it was Ben
that burnt that man up.'

I praised his sagacity effusively.  Presently he asked--

'Are you going to give him up to the law?'

'No,' I said; 'I believe that this will be a lesson to him.
I shall keep an eye on him, of course, for that is but right;
but if he stops where he is and reforms, it shall never be said that
I betrayed him.'

'How good you are!'

'Well, I try to be.  It is all a person can do in a world like this.'

And now, my burden being shifted to other shoulders, my terrors
soon faded away.

The day before we left Hannibal, a curious thing fell under my notice--
the surprising spread which longitudinal time undergoes there.
I learned it from one of the most unostentatious of men--the colored
coachman of a friend of mine, who lives three miles from town.
He was to call for me at the Park Hotel at 7.30 P.M., and drive me out.
But he missed it considerably--did not arrive till ten.  He excused
himself by saying--

'De time is mos' an hour en a half slower in de country en
what it is in de town; you'll be in plenty time, boss.
Sometimes we shoves out early for church, Sunday, en fetches up
dah right plum in de middle er de sermon.  Diffunce in de time.
A body can't make no calculations 'bout it.'

I had lost two hours and a half; but I had learned a fact worth four.




                               Chapter 57
                              An Archangel

FROM St. Louis northward there are all the enlivening signs of
the presence of active, energetic, intelligent, prosperous, practical
nineteenth-century populations.  The people don't dream, they work.
The happy result is manifest all around in the substantial outside
aspect of things, and the suggestions of wholesome life and comfort
that everywhere appear.

Quincy is a notable example--a brisk, handsome, well-ordered city;
and now, as formerly, interested in art, letters, and other high things.

But Marion City is an exception.  Marion City has gone backwards
in a most unaccountable way.  This metropolis promised
so well that the projectors tacked 'city' to its name in the
very beginning, with full confidence; but it was bad prophecy.
When I first saw Marion City, thirty-five years ago,
it contained one street, and nearly or quite six houses.
It contains but one house now, and this one, in a state of ruin,
is getting ready to follow the former five into the river.
Doubtless Marion City was too near to Quincy.  It had
another disadvantage:  it was situated in a flat mud bottom,
below high-water mark, whereas Quincy stands high up on the slope
of a hill.

In the beginning Quincy had the aspect and ways of a model New England town:
and these she has yet:  broad, clean streets, trim, neat dwellings
and lawns, fine mansions, stately blocks of commercial buildings.
And there are ample fair-grounds, a well kept park, and many
attractive drives; library, reading-rooms, a couple of colleges,
some handsome and costly churches, and a grand court-house, with grounds
which occupy a square.  The population of the city is thirty thousand.
There are some large factories here, and manufacturing, of many sorts,
is done on a great scale.

La Grange and Canton are growing towns, but I missed Alexandria;
was told it was under water, but would come up to blow in the summer.

Keokuk was easily recognizable.  I lived there in 1857--an extraordinary
year there in real-estate matters.  The 'boom' was something wonderful.
Everybody bought, everybody sold--except widows and preachers;
they always hold on; and when the tide ebbs, they get left.
Anything in the semblance of a town lot, no matter how situated,
was salable, and at a figure which would still have been high if the ground
had been sodded with greenbacks.

The town has a population of fifteen thousand now, and is progressing with
a healthy growth.  It was night, and we could not see details, for which we
were sorry, for Keokuk has the reputation of being a beautiful city.
It was a pleasant one to live in long ago, and doubtless has advanced,
not retrograded, in that respect.

A mighty work which was in progress there in my day is finished now.
This is the canal over the Rapids.  It is eight miles long,
three hundred feet wide, and is in no place less than six feet deep.
Its masonry is of the majestic kind which the War Department
usually deals in, and will endure like a Roman aqueduct.
The work cost four or five millions.

After an hour or two spent with former friends, we started up
the river again.  Keokuk, a long time ago, was an occasional
loafing-place of that erratic genius, Henry Clay Dean.
I believe I never saw him but once; but he was much talked of
when I lived there.  This is what was said of him--

He began life poor and without education.  But he educated himself--
on the curbstones of Keokuk.  He would sit down on a curbstone
with his book, careless or unconscious of the clatter of commerce
and the tramp of the passing crowds, and bury himself in his
studies by the hour, never changing his position except to draw
in his knees now and then to let a dray pass unobstructed;
and when his book was finished, its contents, however abstruse,
had been burnt into his memory, and were his permanent possession.
In this way he acquired a vast hoard of all sorts of learning,
and had it pigeon-holed in his head where he could put his intellectual
hand on it whenever it was wanted.

His clothes differed in no respect from a 'wharf-rat's,' except that
they were raggeder, more ill-assorted and inharmonious (and therefore
more extravagantly picturesque), and several layers dirtier.
Nobody could infer the master-mind in the top of that edifice from
the edifice itself.

He was an orator--by nature in the first place, and later by the training
of experience and practice.  When he was out on a canvass, his name was
a lodestone which drew the farmers to his stump from fifty miles around.
His theme was always politics.  He used no notes, for a volcano does
not need notes.  In 1862, a son of Keokuk's late distinguished citizen,
Mr. Claggett, gave me this incident concerning Dean--

The war feeling was running high in Keokuk (in '61), and a great
mass meeting was to be held on a certain day in the new Athenaeum.
A distinguished stranger was to address the house.
After the building had been packed to its utmost capacity with
sweltering folk of both sexes, the stage still remained vacant--
the distinguished stranger had failed to connect.
The crowd grew impatient, and by and by indignant and rebellious.
About this time a distressed manager discovered Dean on a curb-stone,
explained the dilemma to him, took his book away from him,
rushed him into the building the back way, and told him to make
for the stage and save his country.

Presently a sudden silence fell upon the grumbling audience, and everybody's
eyes sought a single point--the wide, empty, carpetless stage.  A figure
appeared there whose aspect was familiar to hardly a dozen persons present.
It was the scarecrow Dean--in foxy shoes, down at the heels; socks of
odd colors, also 'down;' damaged trousers, relics of antiquity, and a world
too short, exposing some inches of naked ankle; an unbuttoned vest,
also too short, and exposing a zone of soiled and wrinkled linen
between it and the waistband; shirt bosom open; long black handkerchief,
wound round and round the neck like a bandage; bob-tailed blue coat,
reaching down to the small of the back, with sleeves which left four
inches of forearm unprotected; small, stiff-brimmed soldier-cap hung on
a corner of the bump of--whichever bump it was.  This figure moved gravely
out upon the stage and, with sedate and measured step, down to the front,
where it paused, and dreamily inspected the house, saying no word.
The silence of surprise held its own for a moment, then was broken by a just
audible ripple of merriment which swept the sea of faces like the wash
of a wave.  The figure remained as before, thoughtfully inspecting.
Another wave started--laughter, this time.  It was followed by another,
then a third--this last one boisterous.

And now the stranger stepped back one pace, took off his soldier-cap,
tossed it into the wing, and began to speak, with deliberation,
nobody listening, everybody laughing and whispering.
The speaker talked on unembarrassed, and presently delivered
a shot which went home, and silence and attention resulted.
He followed it quick and fast, with other telling things; warmed to
his work and began to pour his words out, instead of dripping them;
grew hotter and hotter, and fell to discharging lightnings
and thunder--and now the house began to break into applause,
to which the speaker gave no heed, but went hammering straight on;
unwound his black bandage and cast it away, still thundering;
presently discarded the bob tailed coat and flung it aside,
firing up higher and higher all the time; finally flung the vest
after the coat; and then for an untimed period stood there,
like another Vesuvius, spouting smoke and flame, lava and ashes,
raining pumice-stone and cinders, shaking the moral earth with
intellectual crash upon crash, explosion upon explosion, while the mad
multitude stood upon their feet in a solid body, answering back
with a ceaseless hurricane of cheers, through a thrashing snowstorm
of waving handkerchiefs.

'When Dean came,' said Claggett, 'the people thought
he was an escaped lunatic; but when he went, they thought
he was an escaped archangel.'

Burlington, home of the sparkling Burdette, is another hill city;
and also a beautiful one; unquestionably so; a fine and flourishing city,
with a population of twenty-five thousand, and belted with busy factories
of nearly every imaginable description.  It was a very sober city, too--
for the moment--for a most sobering bill was pending; a bill to forbid
the manufacture, exportation, importation, purchase, sale, borrowing,
lending, stealing, drinking, smelling, or possession, by conquest,
inheritance, intent, accident, or otherwise, in the State of Iowa, of each
and every deleterious beverage known to the human race, except water.
This measure was approved by all the rational people in the State;
but not by the bench of Judges.

Burlington has the progressive modern city's full equipment of devices
for right and intelligent government; including a paid fire department,
a thing which the great city of New Orleans is without, but still employs
that relic of antiquity, the independent system.

In Burlington, as in all these Upper-River towns, one breathes
a go-ahead atmosphere which tastes good in the nostrils.
An opera-house has lately been built there which is in strong
contrast with the shabby dens which usually do duty as theaters
in cities of Burlington's size.

We had not time to go ashore in Muscatine, but had a daylight
view of it from the boat.  I lived there awhile, many years ago,
but the place, now, had a rather unfamiliar look; so I
suppose it has clear outgrown the town which I used to know.
In fact, I know it has; for I remember it as a small place--
which it isn't now.  But I remember it best for a lunatic
who caught me out in the fields, one Sunday, and extracted
a butcher-knife from his boot and proposed to carve me up with it,
unless I acknowledged him to be the only son of the Devil.
I tried to compromise on an acknowledgment that he was the only
member of the family I had met; but that did not satisfy him;
he wouldn't have any half-measures; I must say he was the sole
and only son of the Devil--he whetted his knife on his boot.
It did not seem worth while to make trouble about a little thing
like that; so I swung round to his view of the matter and saved
my skin whole.  Shortly afterward, he went to visit his father;
and as he has not turned up since, I trust he is there yet.

And I remember Muscatine--still more pleasantly--for its summer sunsets.
I have never seen any, on either side of the ocean, that equaled them.
They used the broad smooth river as a canvas, and painted on it every
imaginable dream of color, from the mottled daintinesses and delicacies
of the opal, all the way up, through cumulative intensities, to blinding
purple and crimson conflagrations which were enchanting to the eye,
but sharply tried it at the same time.  All the Upper Mississippi
region has these extraordinary sunsets as a familiar spectacle.
It is the true Sunset Land:  I am sure no other country can show so good
a right to the name.  The sunrises are also said to be exceedingly fine.
I do not know.




                               Chapter 58
                           On the Upper River

THE big towns drop in, thick and fast, now:  and between stretch
processions of thrifty farms, not desolate solitude.  Hour by hour,
the boat plows deeper and deeper into the great and populous North-west;
and with each successive section of it which is revealed,
one's surprise and respect gather emphasis and increase.
Such a people, and such achievements as theirs, compel homage.
This is an independent race who think for themselves, and who are
competent to do it, because they are educated and enlightened;
they read, they keep abreast of the best and newest thought,
they fortify every weak place in their land with a school,
a college, a library, and a newspaper; and they live under law.
Solicitude for the future of a race like this is not in order.

This region is new; so new that it may be said to be still in its babyhood.
By what it has accomplished while still teething, one may forecast
what marvels it will do in the strength of its maturity.  It is so new
that the foreign tourist has not heard of it yet; and has not visited it.
For sixty years, the foreign tourist has steamed up and down the river
between St. Louis and New Orleans, and then gone home and written his book,
believing he had seen all of the river that was worth seeing or that
had anything to see.  In not six of all these books is there mention
of these Upper River towns--for the reason that the five or six tourists
who penetrated this region did it before these towns were projected.
The latest tourist of them all (1878) made the same old regulation trip--
he had not heard that there was anything north of St. Louis.

Yet there was.  There was this amazing region, bristling with great towns,
projected day before yesterday, so to speak, and built next morning.
A score of them number from fifteen hundred to five thousand people.
Then we have Muscatine, ten thousand; Winona, ten thousand; Moline,
ten thousand; Rock Island, twelve thousand; La Crosse, twelve thousand;
Burlington, twenty-five thousand; Dubuque, twenty-five thousand;
Davenport, thirty thousand; St. Paul, fifty-eight thousand, Minneapolis,
sixty thousand and upward.

The foreign tourist has never heard of these; there is no note of them
in his books.  They have sprung up in the night, while he slept.
So new is this region, that I, who am comparatively young,
am yet older than it is.  When I was born, St. Paul had a population
of three persons, Minneapolis had just a third as many.
The then population of Minneapolis died two years ago; and when
he died he had seen himself undergo an increase, in forty years,
of fifty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine persons.
He had a frog's fertility.

I must explain that the figures set down above, as the population of St. Paul
and Minneapolis, are several months old.  These towns are far larger now.
In fact, I have just seen a newspaper estimate which gives the former
seventy-one thousand, and the latter seventy-eight thousand.
This book will not reach the public for six or seven months yet;
none of the figures will be worth much then.

We had a glimpse of Davenport, which is another beautiful city,
crowning a hill--a phrase which applies to all these towns; for they
are all comely, all well built, clean, orderly, pleasant to the eye,
and cheering to the spirit; and they are all situated upon hills.
Therefore we will give that phrase a rest.  The Indians have a tradition
that Marquette and Joliet camped where Davenport now stands, in 1673.
The next white man who camped there, did it about a hundred and seventy
years later--in 1834.  Davenport has gathered its thirty thousand
people within the past thirty years.  She sends more children to her
schools now, than her whole population numbered twenty-three years ago.
She has the usual Upper River quota of factories, newspapers,
and institutions of learning; she has telephones, local telegraphs,
an electric alarm, and an admirable paid fire department,
consisting of six hook and ladder companies, four steam fire engines,
and thirty churches.  Davenport is the official residence of two bishops--
Episcopal and Catholic.

Opposite Davenport is the flourishing town of Rock Island,
which lies at the foot of the Upper Rapids.  A great railroad
bridge connects the two towns--one of the thirteen which fret
the Mississippi and the pilots, between St. Louis and St. Paul.

The charming island of Rock Island, three miles long and half
a mile wide, belongs to the United States, and the Government has
turned it into a wonderful park, enhancing its natural attractions
by art, and threading its fine forests with many miles of drives.
Near the center of the island one catches glimpses, through the trees,
of ten vast stone four-story buildings, each of which covers an acre
of ground.  These are the Government workshops; for the Rock Island
establishment is a national armory and arsenal.

We move up the river--always through enchanting scenery,
there being no other kind on the Upper Mississippi--
and pass Moline, a center of vast manufacturing industries;
and Clinton and Lyons, great lumber centers; and presently
reach Dubuque, which is situated in a rich mineral region.
The lead mines are very productive, and of wide extent.
Dubuque has a great number of manufacturing establishments; among them
a plow factory which has for customers all Christendom in general.
At least so I was told by an agent of the concern who was on
the boat.  He said--

'You show me any country under the sun where they really know how to plow,
and if I don't show you our mark on the plow they use, I'll eat that plow;
and I won't ask for any Woostershyre sauce to flavor it up with, either.'

All this part of the river is rich in Indian history and traditions.
Black Hawk's was once a puissant name hereabouts; as was Keokuk's,
further down.  A few miles below Dubuque is the Tete de Mort--
Death's-head rock, or bluff--to the top of which the French drove
a band of Indians, in early times, and cooped them up there,
with death for a certainty, and only the manner of it matter
of choice--to starve, or jump off and kill themselves.
Black Hawk adopted the ways of the white people, toward the end
of his life; and when he died he was buried, near Des Moines,
in Christian fashion, modified by Indian custom; that is to say,
clothed in a Christian military uniform, and with a Christian cane
in his hand, but deposited in the grave in a sitting posture.
Formerly, a horse had always been buried with a chief.
The substitution of the cane shows that Black Hawk's haughty nature
was really humbled, and he expected to walk when he got over.

We noticed that above Dubuque the water of the Mississippi was
olive-green--rich and beautiful and semi-transparent, with the sun on it.
Of course the water was nowhere as clear or of as fine a complexion as it
is in some other seasons of the year; for now it was at flood stage,
and therefore dimmed and blurred by the mud manufactured from caving banks.

The majestic bluffs that overlook the river, along through this region,
charm one with the grace and variety of their forms, and the soft
beauty of their adornment.  The steep verdant slope, whose base
is at the water's edge is topped by a lofty rampart of broken,
turreted rocks, which are exquisitely rich and mellow in color--
mainly dark browns and dull greens, but splashed with other tints.
And then you have the shining river, winding here and there and yonder,
its sweep interrupted at intervals by clusters of wooded islands
threaded by silver channels; and you have glimpses of distant villages,
asleep upon capes; and of stealthy rafts slipping along in the shade
of the forest walls; and of white steamers vanishing around remote points.
And it is all as tranquil and reposeful as dreamland, and has nothing
this-worldly about it--nothing to hang a fret or a worry upon.

Until the unholy train comes tearing along--which it presently does,
ripping the sacred solitude to rags and tatters with its devil's
warwhoop and the roar and thunder of its rushing wheels--and straightway
you are back in this world, and with one of its frets ready to hand
for your entertainment:  for you remember that this is the very road
whose stock always goes down after you buy it, and always goes up
again as soon as you sell it.  It makes me shudder to this day,
to remember that I once came near not getting rid of my stock at all.
It must be an awful thing to have a railroad left on your hands.

The locomotive is in sight from the deck of the steamboat almost
the whole way from St. Louis to St. Paul--eight hundred miles.
These railroads have made havoc with the steamboat commerce.
The clerk of our boat was a steamboat clerk before these roads
were built.  In that day the influx of population was so great,
and the freight business so heavy, that the boats were not able
to keep up with the demands made upon their carrying capacity;
consequently the captains were very independent and airy--
pretty 'biggity,' as Uncle Remus would say.  The clerk nut-shelled the
contrast between the former time and the present, thus--

'Boat used to land--captain on hurricane roof--mighty stiff and straight--
iron ramrod for a spine--kid gloves, plug tile, hair parted behind--
man on shore takes off hat and says--

' "Got twenty-eight tons of wheat, cap'n--be great favor if you
can take them."

'Captain says--

' " 'll take two of them"--and don't even condescend to look at him.

'But nowadays the captain takes off his old slouch, and smiles
all the way around to the back of his ears, and gets off a bow
which he hasn't got any ramrod to interfere with, and says--

' "Glad to see you, Smith, glad to see you--you're looking well--
haven't seen you looking so well for years--what you got for us?"

' "Nuth'n", says Smith; and keeps his hat on, and just turns
his back and goes to talking with somebody else.

'Oh, yes, eight years ago, the captain was on top; but it's Smith's turn now.
Eight years ago a boat used to go up the river with every stateroom full,
and people piled five and six deep on the cabin floor; and a solid
deck-load of immigrants and harvesters down below, into the bargain.
To get a first-class stateroom, you'd got to prove sixteen quarterings
of nobility and four hundred years of descent, or be personally
acquainted with the nigger that blacked the captain's boots.
But it's all changed now; plenty staterooms above, no harvesters below--
there's a patent self-binder now, and they don't have harvesters
any more; they've gone where the woodbine twineth--and they didn't go
by steamboat, either; went by the train.'

Up in this region we met massed acres of lumber rafts coming down--
but not floating leisurely along, in the old-fashioned way,
manned with joyous and reckless crews of fiddling,
song-singing, whiskey-drinking, breakdown-dancing rapscallions;
no, the whole thing was shoved swiftly along by a powerful
stern-wheeler, modern fashion, and the small crews were quiet,
orderly men, of a sedate business aspect, with not a suggestion
of romance about them anywhere.

Along here, somewhere, on a black night, we ran some exceedingly
narrow and intricate island-chutes by aid of the electric light.
Behind was solid blackness--a crackless bank of it; ahead, a narrow
elbow of water, curving between dense walls of foliage that almost
touched our bows on both sides; and here every individual leaf,
and every individual ripple stood out in its natural color,
and flooded with a glare as of noonday intensified.
The effect was strange, and fine, and very striking.

We passed Prairie du Chien, another of Father Marquette's camping-places;
and after some hours of progress through varied and beautiful scenery,
reached La Crosse.  Here is a town of twelve or thirteen thousand population,
with electric lighted streets, and with blocks of buildings which are stately
enough, and also architecturally fine enough, to command respect in any city.
It is a choice town, and we made satisfactory use of the hour allowed us,
in roaming it over, though the weather was rainier than necessary.




                               Chapter 59
                           Legends and Scenery

WE added several passengers to our list, at La Crosse; among others
an old gentleman who had come to this north-western region
with the early settlers, and was familiar with every part of it.
Pardonably proud of it, too.  He said--

'You'll find scenery between here and St. Paul that can give
the Hudson points.  You'll have the Queen's Bluff--seven hundred
feet high, and just as imposing a spectacle as you can find anywheres;
and Trempeleau Island, which isn't like any other island in America,
I believe, for it is a gigantic mountain, with precipitous sides,
and is full of Indian traditions, and used to be full of rattlesnakes;
if you catch the sun just right there, you will have a picture that
will stay with you.  And above Winona you'll have lovely prairies;
and then come the Thousand Islands, too beautiful for anything;
green? why you never saw foliage so green, nor packed so thick;
it's like a thousand plush cushions afloat on a looking-glass--
when the water 's still; and then the monstrous bluffs on both sides of
the river--ragged, rugged, dark-complected--just the frame that's wanted;
you always want a strong frame, you know, to throw up the nice points
of a delicate picture and make them stand out.'

The old gentleman also told us a touching Indian legend or two--
but not very powerful ones.

After this excursion into history, he came back to the scenery,
and described it, detail by detail, from the Thousand Islands
to St. Paul; naming its names with such facility, tripping along
his theme with such nimble and confident ease, slamming in a
three-ton word, here and there, with such a complacent air of 't
isn't-anything,-I-can-do-it-any-time-I-want-to, and letting off
fine surprises of lurid eloquence at such judicious intervals,
that I presently began to suspect--

But no matter what I began to suspect.  Hear him--

'Ten miles above Winona we come to Fountain City, nestling sweetly at the feet
of cliffs that lift their awful fronts, Jovelike, toward the blue depths
of heaven, bathing them in virgin atmospheres that have known no other contact
save that of angels' wings.

'And next we glide through silver waters, amid lovely and stupendous
aspects of nature that attune our hearts to adoring admiration,
about twelve miles, and strike Mount Vernon, six hundred feet high,
with romantic ruins of a once first-class hotel perched
far among the cloud shadows that mottle its dizzy heights--
sole remnant of once-flourishing Mount Vernon, town of early days,
now desolate and utterly deserted.

'And so we move on.  Past Chimney Rock we fly--noble shaft of six
hundred feet; then just before landing at Minnieska our attention is
attracted by a most striking promontory rising over five hundred feet--
the ideal mountain pyramid.  Its conic shape--thickly-wooded surface
girding its sides, and its apex like that of a cone, cause the spectator
to wonder at nature's workings.  From its dizzy heights superb views
of the forests, streams, bluffs, hills and dales below and beyond
for miles are brought within its focus.  What grander river scenery
can be conceived, as we gaze upon this enchanting landscape,
from the uppermost point of these bluffs upon the valleys below?
The primeval wildness and awful loneliness of these sublime creations
of nature and nature's God, excite feelings of unbounded admiration,
and the recollection of which can never be effaced from the memory,
as we view them in any direction.

'Next we have the Lion's Head and the Lioness's Head, carved by
nature's hand, to adorn and dominate the beauteous stream;
and then anon the river widens, and a most charming and magnificent
view of the valley before us suddenly bursts upon our vision;
rugged hills, clad with verdant forests from summit to base,
level prairie lands, holding in their lap the beautiful Wabasha,
City of the Healing Waters, puissant foe of Bright's disease,
and that grandest conception of nature's works, incomparable Lake Pepin--
these constitute a picture whereon the tourist's eye may gaze
uncounted hours, with rapture unappeased and unappeasable.

'And so we glide along; in due time encountering those majestic domes,
the mighty Sugar Loaf, and the sublime Maiden's Rock--which latter,
romantic superstition has invested with a voice; and oft-times
as the birch canoe glides near, at twilight, the dusky paddler
fancies he hears the soft sweet music of the long-departed Winona,
darling of Indian song and story.

'Then Frontenac looms upon our vision, delightful resort of jaded
summer tourists; then progressive Red Wing; and Diamond Bluff, impressive and
preponderous in its lone sublimity; then Prescott and the St. Croix;
and anon we see bursting upon us the domes and steeples of St. Paul,
giant young chief of the North, marching with seven-league stride in
the van of progress, banner-bearer of the highest and newest civilization,
carving his beneficent way with the tomahawk of commercial enterprise,
sounding the warwhoop of Christian culture, tearing off the reeking scalp
of sloth and superstition to plant there the steam-plow and the school-house--
ever in his front stretch arid lawlessness, ignorance, crime, despair;
ever in his wake bloom the jail, the gallows, and the pulpit; and ever----'

'Have you ever traveled with a panorama?'

'I have formerly served in that capacity.'

My suspicion was confirmed.

'Do you still travel with it?'

'No, she is laid up till the fall season opens.  I am helping now to work up
the materials for a Tourist's Guide which the St. Louis and St. Paul Packet
Company are going to issue this summer for the benefit of travelers who go
by that line.'

'When you were talking of Maiden's Rock, you spoke of
the long-departed Winona, darling of Indian song and story.
Is she the maiden of the rock?--and are the two connected by legend?'

'Yes, and a very tragic and painful one.  Perhaps the most celebrated,
as well as the most pathetic, of all the legends of the Mississippi.'

We asked him to tell it.  He dropped out of his conversational
vein and back into his lecture-gait without an effort,
and rolled on as follows--

'A little distance above Lake City is a famous point known
as Maiden's Rock, which is not only a picturesque spot, but is
full of romantic interest from the event which gave it its name,
Not many years ago this locality was a favorite resort for the Sioux
Indians on account of the fine fishing and hunting to be had there,
and large numbers of them were always to be found in this locality.
Among the families which used to resort here, was one belonging
to the tribe of Wabasha.  We-no-na (first-born) was the name
of a maiden who had plighted her troth to a lover belonging
to the same band.  But her stern parents had promised her hand
to another, a famous warrior, and insisted on her wedding him.
The day was fixed by her parents, to her great grief.
She appeared to accede to the proposal and accompany them to
the rock, for the purpose of gathering flowers for the feast.
On reaching the rock, We-no-na ran to its summit and standing on
its edge upbraided her parents who were below, for their cruelty,
and then singing a death-dirge, threw herself from the precipice and
dashed them in pieces on the rock below.'

'Dashed who in pieces--her parents?'

'Yes.'

'Well, it certainly was a tragic business, as you say.
And moreover, there is a startling kind of dramatic surprise
about it which I was not looking for.  It is a distinct
improvement upon the threadbare form of Indian legend.
There are fifty Lover's Leaps along the Mississippi from whose
summit disappointed Indian girls have jumped, but this is the only
jump in the lot hat turned out in the right and satisfactory way.
What became of Winona?'

'She was a good deal jarred up and jolted:  but she got herself
together and disappeared before the coroner reached the fatal spot;
and 'tis said she sought and married her true love, and wandered
with him to some distant clime, where she lived happy ever after,
her gentle spirit mellowed and chastened by the romantic incident
which had so early deprived her of the sweet guidance of a mother's
love and a father's protecting arm, and thrown her, all unfriended,
upon the cold charity of a censorious world.'

I was glad to hear the lecturer's description of the scenery,
for it assisted my appreciation of what I saw of it, and enabled
me to imagine such of it as we lost by the intrusion of night.

As the lecturer remarked, this whole region is blanketed with Indian
tales and traditions.  But I reminded him that people usually merely
mention this fact--doing it in a way to make a body's mouth water--
and judiciously stopped there.  Why?  Because the impression left,
was that these tales were full of incident and imagination--a pleasant
impression which would be promptly dissipated if the tales were told.
I showed him a lot of this sort of literature which I had been collecting,
and he confessed that it was poor stuff, exceedingly sorry rubbish;
and I ventured to add that the legends which he had himself told us
were of this character, with the single exception of the admirable
story of Winona.  He granted these facts, but said that if I would
hunt up Mr. Schoolcraft's book, published near fifty years ago,
and now doubtless out of print, I would find some Indian inventions
in it that were very far from being barren of incident and imagination;
that the tales in Hiawatha were of this sort, and they came from
Schoolcraft's book; and that there were others in the same book
which Mr. Longfellow could have turned into verse with good effect.
For instance, there was the legend of 'The Undying Head.'
He could not tell it, for many of the details had grown dim
in his memory; but he would recommend me to find it and enlarge
my respect for the Indian imagination.  He said that this tale,
and most of the others in the book, were current among the Indians
along this part of the Mississippi when he first came here;
and that the contributors to Schoolcraft's book had got them directly
from Indian lips, and had written them down with strict exactness,
and without embellishments of their own.

I have found the book.  The lecturer was right.  There are several
legends in it which confirm what he said.  I will offer two of them--'The
Undying Head,' and 'Peboan and Seegwun, an Allegory of the Seasons.'
The latter is used in Hiawatha; but it is worth reading in the original form,
if only that one may see how effective a genuine poem can be without
the helps and graces of poetic measure and rhythm--

                           PEBOAN AND SEEGWUN.

An old man was sitting alone in his lodge, by the side
of a frozen stream.  It was the close of winter, and his fire
was almost out, He appeared very old and very desolate.
His locks were white with age, and he trembled in every joint.
Day after day passed in solitude, and he heard nothing but the sound
of the tempest, sweeping before it the new-fallen snow.

One day, as his fire was just dying, a handsome young man approached
and entered his dwelling.  His cheeks were red with the blood of youth,
his eyes sparkled with animation, and a smile played upon his lips.
He walked with a light and quick step.  His forehead was bound
with a wreath of sweet grass, in place of a warrior's frontlet,
and he carried a bunch of flowers in his hand.

'Ah, my son,' said the old man, 'I am happy to see you.
Come in.  Come and tell me of your adventures, and what strange
lands you have been to see.  Let us pass the night together.
I will tell you of my prowess and exploits, and what I can perform.
You shall do the same, and we will amuse ourselves.'

He then drew from his sack a curiously wrought antique pipe,
and having filled it with tobacco, rendered mild by a mixture
of certain leaves, handed it to his guest.  When this ceremony
was concluded they began to speak.

'I blow my breath,' said the old man, 'and the stream stands still.
The water becomes stiff and hard as clear stone.'

'I breathe,' said the young man, 'and flowers spring up over the plain.'

'I shake my locks,' retorted the old man, 'and snow covers the land.
The leaves fall from the trees at my command, and my breath blows them away.
The birds get up from the water, and fly to a distant land.
The animals hide themselves from my breath, and the very ground becomes as
hard as flint.'

'I shake my ringlets,' rejoined the young man, 'and warm showers
of soft rain fall upon the earth.  The plants lift up their heads
out of the earth, like the eyes of children glistening with delight.
My voice recalls the birds.  The warmth of my breath unlocks the streams.
Music fills the groves wherever I walk, and all nature rejoices.'

At length the sun began to rise.  A gentle warmth came
over the place.  The tongue of the old man became silent.
The robin and bluebird began to sing on the top of the lodge.
The stream began to murmur by the door, and the fragrance of growing
herbs and flowers came softly on the vernal breeze.

Daylight fully revealed to the young man the character of his entertainer.
When he looked upon him, he had the icy visage of Peboan.<footnote
[Winter.]> Streams began to flow from his eyes.  As the sun increased,
he grew less and less in stature, and anon had melted completely away.
Nothing remained on the place of his lodge-fire but the miskodeed,<footnote
[The trailing arbutus.]> a small white flower, with a pink border, which is
one of the earliest species of northern plants.

'The Undying Head' is a rather long tale, but it makes up in weird conceits,
fairy-tale prodigies, variety of incident, and energy of movement,
for what it lacks in brevity.<footnote [See appendix D.]>




                               Chapter 60
                      Speculations and Conclusions

WE reached St. Paul, at the head of navigation of the Mississippi,
and there our voyage of two thousand miles from New Orleans ended.  It is
about a ten-day trip by steamer.  It can probably be done quicker by rail.
I judge so because I know that one may go by rail from St. Louis to Hannibal--
a distance of at least a hundred and twenty miles--in seven hours.
This is better than walking; unless one is in a hurry.

The season being far advanced when we were in New Orleans, the roses
and magnolia blossoms were falling; but here in St. Paul it was the snow,
In New Orleans we had caught an occasional withering breath from over
a crater, apparently; here in St. Paul we caught a frequent benumbing
one from over a glacier, apparently.


But I wander from my theme.  St. Paul is a wonderful town.
It is put together in solid blocks of honest brick and stone,
and has the air of intending to stay.  Its post-office was established
thirty-six years ago; and by and by, when the postmaster received
a letter, he carried it to Washington, horseback, to inquire what
was to be done with it.  Such is the legend.  Two frame houses were
built that year, and several persons were added to the population.
A recent number of the leading St. Paul paper, the 'Pioneer Press,'
gives some statistics which furnish a vivid contrast to that old
state of things, to wit:  Population, autumn of the present year
(1882), 71,000; number of letters handled, first half of
the year, 1,209,387; number of houses built during three-quarters
of the year, 989; their cost, $3,186,000. The increase of letters
over the corresponding six months of last year was fifty per cent.
Last year the new buildings added to the city cost above $4,500,000.
St. Paul's strength lies in her commerce--I mean his commerce.
He is a manufacturing city, of course--all the cities of that
region are--but he is peculiarly strong in the matter of commerce.
Last year his jobbing trade amounted to upwards of $52,000,000.

He has a custom-house, and is building a costly capitol to replace
the one recently burned--for he is the capital of the State.
He has churches without end; and not the cheap poor kind,
but the kind that the rich Protestant puts up, the kind that
the poor Irish 'hired-girl' delights to erect.  What a passion
for building majestic churches the Irish hired-girl has.
It is a fine thing for our architecture but too often we enjoy
her stately fanes without giving her a grateful thought.
In fact, instead of reflecting that 'every brick and every stone
in this beautiful edifice represents an ache or a pain, and a handful
of sweat, and hours of heavy fatigue, contributed by the back
and forehead and bones of poverty,' it is our habit to forget
these things entirely, and merely glorify the mighty temple itself,
without vouchsafing one praiseful thought to its humble builder,
whose rich heart and withered purse it symbolizes.

This is a land of libraries and schools.  St. Paul has three public libraries,
and they contain, in the aggregate, some forty thousand books.
He has one hundred and sixteen school-houses, and pays out more than
seventy thousand dollars a year in teachers' salaries.

There is an unusually fine railway station; so large is it,
in fact, that it seemed somewhat overdone, in the matter
of size, at first; but at the end of a few months it was
perceived that the mistake was distinctly the other way.
The error is to be corrected.

The town stands on high ground; it is about seven hundred feet
above the sea level.  It is so high that a wide view of river
and lowland is offered from its streets.

It is a very wonderful town indeed, and is not finished yet.
All the streets are obstructed with building material,
and this is being compacted into houses as fast as possible,
to make room for more--for other people are anxious to build,
as soon as they can get the use of the streets to pile up their bricks
and stuff in.

How solemn and beautiful is the thought, that the earliest pioneer
of civilization, the van-leader of civilization, is never the steamboat,
never the railroad, never the newspaper, never the Sabbath-school,
never the missionary--but always whiskey!  Such is the case.
Look history over; you will see.  The missionary comes after the whiskey--
I mean he arrives after the whiskey has arrived; next comes
the poor immigrant, with ax and hoe and rifle; next, the trader;
next, the miscellaneous rush; next, the gambler, the desperado,
the highwayman, and all their kindred in sin of both sexes; and next,
the smart chap who has bought up an old grant that covers all the land;
this brings the lawyer tribe; the vigilance committee brings the undertaker.
All these interests bring the newspaper; the newspaper starts up politics
and a railroad; all hands turn to and build a church and a jail--
and behold, civilization is established for ever in the land.
But whiskey, you see, was the van-leader in this beneficent work.
It always is.  It was like a foreigner--and excusable in a foreigner--
to be ignorant of this great truth, and wander off into astronomy
to borrow a symbol.  But if he had been conversant with the facts,
he would have said--

                Westward the Jug of Empire takes its way.

This great van-leader arrived upon the ground which St. Paul now occupies,
in June 1837.  Yes, at that date, Pierre Parrant, a Canadian, built the
first cabin, uncorked his jug, and began to sell whiskey to the Indians.
The result is before us.

All that I have said of the newness, briskness, swift progress,
wealth, intelligence, fine and substantial architecture,
and general slash and go, and energy of St. Paul, will apply
to his near neighbor, Minneapolis--with the addition
that the latter is the bigger of the two cities.

These extraordinary towns were ten miles apart, a few months ago,
but were growing so fast that they may possibly be joined now,
and getting along under a single mayor.  At any rate, within five years
from now there will be at least such a substantial ligament of buildings
stretching between them and uniting them that a stranger will not be able
to tell where the one Siamese twin leaves off and the other begins.
Combined, they will then number a population of two hundred and
fifty thousand, if they continue to grow as they are now growing.
Thus, this center of population at the head of Mississippi navigation,
will then begin a rivalry as to numbers, with that center of population
at the foot of it--New Orleans.

Minneapolis is situated at the falls of St. Anthony, which stretch across
the river, fifteen hundred feet, and have a fall of eighty-two feet--
a waterpower which, by art, has been made of inestimable value,
business-wise, though somewhat to the damage of the Falls as a spectacle,
or as a background against which to get your photograph taken.

Thirty flouring-mills turn out two million barrels of the very
choicest of flour every year; twenty sawmills produce two hundred
million feet of lumber annually; then there are woolen mills,
cotton mills, paper and oil mills; and sash, nail, furniture,
barrel, and other factories, without number, so to speak.
The great flouring-mills here and at St. Paul use the 'new process'
and mash the wheat by rolling, instead of grinding it.

Sixteen railroads meet in Minneapolis, and sixty-five passenger trains arrive
and depart daily.  In this place, as in St. Paul, journalism thrives.
Here there are three great dailies, ten weeklies, and three monthlies.

There is a university, with four hundred students--and, better still,
its good efforts are not confined to enlightening the one sex.
There are sixteen public schools, with buildings which cost $500,000;
there are six thousand pupils and one hundred and twenty-eight teachers.
There are also seventy churches existing, and a lot more projected.
The banks aggregate a capital of $3,000,000, and the wholesale jobbing trade
of the town amounts to $50,000,000 a year.

Near St. Paul and Minneapolis are several points of interest--
Fort Snelling, a fortress occupying a river-bluff a hundred
feet high; the falls of Minnehaha, White-bear Lake, and so forth.
The beautiful falls of Minnehaha are sufficiently celebrated--
they do not need a lift from me, in that direction.
The White-bear Lake is less known.  It is a lovely sheet of water,
and is being utilized as a summer resort by the wealth and fashion
of the State.  It has its club-house, and its hotel, with the modern
improvements and conveniences; its fine summer residences;
and plenty of fishing, hunting, and pleasant drives.
There are a dozen minor summer resorts around about St. Paul
and Minneapolis, but the White-bear Lake is the resort.
Connected with White-bear Lake is a most idiotic Indian legend.
I would resist the temptation to print it here, if I could,
but the task is beyond my strength.  The guide-book names the preserver
of the legend, and compliments his 'facile pen.'  Without further
comment or delay then, let us turn the said facile pen loose
upon the reader--

                      A LEGEND OF WHITE-BEAR LAKE.

Every spring, for perhaps a century, or as long as there has been a nation
of red men, an island in the middle of White-bear Lake has been visited
by a band of Indians for the purpose of making maple sugar.

Tradition says that many springs ago, while upon this island,
a young warrior loved and wooed the daughter of his chief,
and it is said, also, the maiden loved the warrior.
He had again and again been refused her hand by her parents,
the old chief alleging that he was no brave, and his old consort
called him a woman!

The sun had again set upon the 'sugar-bush,' and the bright moon rose
high in the bright blue heavens, when the young warrior took down his
flute and went out alone, once more to sing the story of his love,
the mild breeze gently moved the two gay feathers in his head-dress,
and as he mounted on the trunk of a leaning tree, the damp snow fell
from his feet heavily.  As he raised his flute to his lips, his blanket
slipped from his well-formed shoulders, and lay partly on the snow beneath.
He began his weird, wild love-song, but soon felt that he was cold,
and as he reached back for his blanket, some unseen hand laid it gently
on his shoulders; it was the hand of his love, his guardian angel.
She took her place beside him, and for the present they were happy;
for the Indian has a heart to love, and in this pride he is as noble
as in his own freedom, which makes him the child of the forest.
As the legend runs, a large white-bear, thinking, perhaps, that polar snows
and dismal winter weather extended everywhere, took up his journey southward.
He at length approached the northern shore of the lake which now bears
his name, walked down the bank and made his way noiselessly through
the deep heavy snow toward the island.  It was the same spring ensuing
that the lovers met.  They had left their first retreat, and were now
seated among the branches of a large elm which hung far over the lake.
(The same tree is still standing, and excites universal curiosity
and interest.) For fear of being detected, they talked almost in a whisper,
and now, that they might get back to camp in good time and thereby
avoid suspicion, they were just rising to return, when the maiden uttered
a shriek which was heard at the camp, and bounding toward the young brave,
she caught his blanket, but missed the direction of her foot and fell,
bearing the blanket with her into the great arms of the ferocious monster.
Instantly every man, woman, and child of the band were upon the bank,
but all unarmed.  Cries and wailings went up from every mouth.
What was to be done'? In the meantime this white and savage beast held
the breathless maiden in his huge grasp, and fondled with his precious
prey as if he were used to scenes like this.  One deafening yell from
the lover warrior is heard above the cries of hundreds of his tribe,
and dashing away to his wigwam he grasps his faithful knife,
returns almost at a single bound to the scene of fear and fright,
rushes out along the leaning tree to the spot where his treasure fell,
and springing with the fury of a mad panther, pounced upon his prey.
The animal turned, and with one stroke of his huge paw brought
the lovers heart to heart, but the next moment the warrior, with one
plunge of the blade of his knife, opened the crimson sluices of death,
and the dying bear relaxed his hold.

That night there was no more sleep for the band or the lovers,
and as the young and the old danced about the carcass of the dead monster,
the gallant warrior was presented with another plume, and ere
another moon had set he had a living treasure added to his heart.
Their children for many years played upon the skin of the white-bear--
from which the lake derives its name--and the maiden and the brave
remembered long the fearful scene and rescue that made them one,
for Kis-se-me-pa and Ka-go-ka could never forget their fearful
encounter with the huge monster that came so near sending them to
the happy hunting-ground.

It is a perplexing business.  First, she fell down out of the tree--
she and the blanket; and the bear caught her and fondled her--
her and the blanket; then she fell up into the tree again--
leaving the blanket; meantime the lover goes war-whooping
home and comes back 'heeled,' climbs the tree, jumps down on
the bear, the girl jumps down after him--apparently, for she
was up the tree--resumes her place in the bear's arms along
with the blanket, the lover rams his knife into the bear,
and saves--whom, the blanket?  No--nothing of the sort.
You get yourself all worked up and excited about that blanket,
and then all of a sudden, just when a happy climax seems
imminent you are let down flat--nothing saved but the girl.
Whereas, one is not interested in the girl; she is not
the prominent feature of the legend.  Nevertheless, there you
are left, and there you must remain; for if you live
a thousand years you will never know who got the blanket.
A dead man could get up a better legend than this one.
I don't mean a fresh dead man either; I mean a man that's been dead
weeks and weeks.

We struck the home-trail now, and in a few hours were in that
astonishing Chicago--a city where they are always rubbing the lamp,
and fetching up the genii, and contriving and achieving new impossibilities.
It is hopeless for the occasional visitor to try to keep up with Chicago--
she outgrows his prophecies faster than he can make them.
She is always a novelty; for she is never the Chicago you saw when you
passed through the last time.  The Pennsylvania road rushed us to New
York without missing schedule time ten minutes anywhere on the route;
and there ended one of the most enjoyable five-thousand-mile journeys I have
ever had the good fortune to make.




                               APPENDIX A

      (FROM THE NEW ORLEANS TIMES DEMOCRAT OF MARCH 29, 1882.)

   VOYAGE OF THE TIMES-DEMOCRAT'S RELIEF BOAT THROUGH THE INUNDATED
                                REGIONS

IT was nine o'clock Thursday morning when the 'Susie'
left the Mississippi and entered Old River, or what is
now called the mouth of the Red.  Ascending on the left,
a flood was pouring in through and over the levees on
the Chandler plantation, the most northern point in Pointe
Coupee parish.  The water completely covered the place,
although the levees had given way but a short time before.
The stock had been gathered in a large flat-boat, where,
without food, as we passed, the animals were huddled together,
waiting for a boat to tow them off.  On the right-hand side
of the river is Turnbull's Island, and on it is a large plantation
which formerly was pronounced one of the most fertile in the State.
The water has hitherto allowed it to go scot-free in usual floods,
but now broad sheets of water told only where fields were.
The top of the protecting levee could be seen here and there,
but nearly all of it was submerged.

The trees have put on a greener foliage since the water has poured in,
and the woods look bright and fresh, but this pleasant aspect to the eye
is neutralized by the interminable waste of water.  We pass mile after mile,
and it is nothing but trees standing up to their branches in water.
A water-turkey now and again rises and flies ahead into the long avenue
of silence.  A pirogue sometimes flits from the bushes and crosses
the Red River on its way out to the Mississippi, but the sad-faced
paddlers never turn their heads to look at our boat.  The puffing
of the boat is music in this gloom, which affects one most curiously.
It is not the gloom of deep forests or dark caverns, but a peculiar kind of
solemn silence and impressive awe that holds one perforce to its recognition.
We passed two negro families on a raft tied up in the willows this morning.
They were evidently of the well-to-do class, as they had a supply of meal
and three or four hogs with them.  Their rafts were about twenty feet square,
and in front of an improvised shelter earth had been placed, on which they
built their fire.

The current running down the Atchafalaya was very swift,
the Mississippi showing a predilection in that direction,
which needs only to be seen to enforce the opinion of that
river's desperate endeavors to find a short way to the Gulf.
Small boats, skiffs, pirogues, etc., are in great demand,
and many have been stolen by piratical negroes,
who take them where they will bring the greatest price.
From what was told me by Mr. C. P. Ferguson, a planter
near Red River Landing, whose place has just gone under,
there is much suffering in the rear of that place.
The negroes had given up all thoughts of a crevasse there,
as the upper levee had stood so long, and when it did
come they were at its mercy.  On Thursday a number were
taken out of trees and off of cabin roofs and brought in,
many yet remaining.

One does not appreciate the sight of earth until he has traveled
through a flood.  At sea one does not expect or look for it,
but here, with fluttering leaves, shadowy forest aisles, house-tops
barely visible, it is expected.  In fact a grave-yard, if the mounds
were above water, would be appreciated.  The river here is known
only because there is an opening in the trees, and that is all.
It is in width, from Fort Adams on the left bank of the Mississippi
to the bank of Rapides Parish, a distance of about sixty miles.
A large portion of this was under cultivation, particularly along
the Mississippi and back of the Red.  When Red River proper
was entered, a strong current was running directly across it,
pursuing the same direction as that of the Mississippi.

After a run of some hours, Black River was reached.
Hardly was it entered before signs of suffering became visible.
All the willows along the banks were stripped of their leaves.
One man, whom your correspondent spoke to, said that he had had one
hundred and fifty head of cattle and one hundred head of hogs.
At the first appearance of water he had started to drive
them to the high lands of Avoyelles, thirty-five miles off,
but he lost fifty head of the beef cattle and sixty hogs.
Black River is quite picturesque, even if its shores are under water.
A dense growth of ash, oak, gum, and hickory make the shores
almost impenetrable, and where one can get a view down some
avenue in the trees, only the dim outlines of distant trunks
can be barely distinguished in the gloom.

A few miles up this river, the depth of water on the banks
was fully eight feet, and on all sides could be seen,
still holding against the strong current, the tops of cabins.
Here and there one overturned was surrounded by drift-wood, forming
the nucleus of possibly some future island.

In order to save coal, as it was impossible to get that fuel at any point
to be touched during the expedition, a look-out was kept for a wood-pile.
On rounding a point a pirogue, skilfully paddled by a youth, shot out,
and in its bow was a girl of fifteen, of fair face, beautiful black eyes,
and demure manners.  The boy asked for a paper, which was thrown to him,
and the couple pushed their tiny craft out into the swell of the boat.

Presently a little girl, not certainly over twelve years, paddled out
in the smallest little canoe and handled it with all the deftness
of an old voyageur.  The little one looked more like an Indian
than a white child, and laughed when asked if she were afraid.
She had been raised in a pirogue and could go anywhere.
She was bound out to pick willow leaves for the stock, and she pointed
to a house near by with water three inches deep on the floors.
At its back door was moored a raft about thirty feet square,
with a sort of fence built upon it, and inside of this some sixteen
cows and twenty hogs were standing.  The family did not complain,
except on account of losing their stock, and promptly brought a
supply of wood in a flat.

From this point to the Mississippi River, fifteen miles, there is not a spot
of earth above water, and to the westward for thirty-five miles there
is nothing but the river's flood.  Black River had risen during Thursday,
the 23rd, 1<three-quarters> inches, and was going up at night still.
As we progress up the river habitations become more frequent,
but are yet still miles apart.  Nearly all of them are deserted,
and the out-houses floated off.  To add to the gloom, almost every
living thing seems to have departed, and not a whistle of a bird
nor the bark of the squirrel can be heard in this solitude.
Sometimes a morose gar will throw his tail aloft and disappear in the river,
but beyond this everything is quiet--the quiet of dissolution.
Down the river floats now a neatly whitewashed hen-house, then
a cluster of neatly split fence-rails, or a door and a bloated carcass,
solemnly guarded by a pair of buzzards, the only bird to be seen,
which feast on the carcass as it bears them along.  A picture-frame
in which there was a cheap lithograph of a soldier on horseback,
as it floated on told of some hearth invaded by the water and despoiled
of this ornament.

At dark, as it was not prudent to run, a place alongside the woods was hunted
and to a tall gum-tree the boat was made fast for the night.

A pretty quarter of the moon threw a pleasant light over forest and river,
making a picture that would be a delightful piece of landscape study,
could an artist only hold it down to his canvas.  The motion of
the engines had ceased, the puffing of the escaping steam was stilled,
and the enveloping silence closed upon us, and such silence it was!
Usually in a forest at night one can hear the piping of frogs,
the hum of insects, or the dropping of limbs; but here nature was dumb.
The dark recesses, those aisles into this cathedral, gave forth no sound,
and even the ripplings of the current die away.

At daylight Friday morning all hands were up, and up the Black we started.
The morning was a beautiful one, and the river, which is remarkably
straight, put on its loveliest garb.  The blossoms of the haw perfumed
the air deliciously, and a few birds whistled blithely along the banks.
The trees were larger, and the forest seemed of older growth than below.
More fields were passed than nearer the mouth, but the same scene
presented itself--smoke-houses drifting out in the pastures, negro quarters
anchored in confusion against some oak, and the modest residence just
showing its eaves above water.  The sun came up in a glory of carmine,
and the trees were brilliant in their varied shades of green.
Not a foot of soil is to be seen anywhere, and the water is apparently growing
deeper and deeper, for it reaches up to the branches of the largest trees.
All along, the bordering willows have been denuded of leaves, showing how long
the people have been at work gathering this fodder for their animals.  An old
man in a pirogue was asked how the willow leaves agreed with his cattle.
He stopped in his work, and with an ominous shake of his head replied:
'Well, sir, it 's enough to keep warmth in their bodies and that's
all we expect, but it's hard on the hogs, particularly the small ones.
They is dropping off powerful fast.  But what can you do?  It 's
all we've got.'

At thirty miles above the mouth of Black River the water
extends from Natchez on the Mississippi across to the pine
hills of Louisiana, a distance of seventy-three miles,
and there is hardly a spot that is not ten feet under it.
The tendency of the current up the Black is toward the west.
In fact, so much is this the case, the waters of Red River
have been driven down from toward the Calcasieu country,
and the waters of the Black enter the Red some fifteen miles
above the mouth of the former, a thing never before seen by even
the oldest steamboatmen.  The water now in sight of us is entirely
from the Mississippi.

Up to Trinity, or rather Troy, which is but a short
distance below, the people have nearly all moved out,
those remaining having enough for their present personal needs.
Their cattle, though, are suffering and dying off quite fast,
as the confinement on rafts and the food they get breeds disease.

After a short stop we started, and soon came to a section where
there were many open fields and cabins thickly scattered about.
Here were seen more pictures of distress.  On the inside of the houses
the inmates had built on boxes a scaffold on which they placed
the furniture.  The bed-posts were sawed off on top, as the ceiling
was not more than four feet from the improvised floor.  The buildings
looked very insecure, and threatened every moment to float off.
Near the houses were cattle standing breast high in the water,
perfectly impassive.  They did not move in their places, but stood
patiently waiting for help to come.  The sight was a distressing one,
and the poor creatures will be sure to die unless speedily rescued.
Cattle differ from horses in this peculiar quality.  A horse,
after finding no relief comes, will swim off in search of food,
whereas a beef will stand in its tracks until with exhaustion it drops in
the water and drowns.

At half-past twelve o'clock a hail was given from a flat-boat
inside the line of the bank.  Rounding to we ran alongside,
and General York stepped aboard.  He was just then engaged
in getting off stock, and welcomed the 'Times-Democrat'
boat heartily, as he said there was much need for her.
He said that the distress was not exaggerated in the least.
People were in a condition it was difficult even for one to imagine.
The water was so high there was great danger of their houses
being swept away.  It had already risen so high that it was
approaching the eaves, and when it reaches this point there is
always imminent risk of their being swept away.  If this occurs,
there will be great loss of life.  The General spoke of the gallant
work of many of the people in their attempts to save their stock,
but thought that fully twenty-five per cent.  had perished.
Already twenty-five hundred people had received rations from Troy,
on Black River, and he had towed out a great many cattle,
but a very great quantity remained and were in dire need.
The water was now eighteen inches higher than in 1874, and there was
no land between Vidalia and the hills of Catahoula.

At two o'clock the 'Susie' reached Troy, sixty-five miles above
the mouth of Black River.  Here on the left comes in Little River;
just beyond that the Ouachita, and on the right the Tensas.
These three rivers form the Black River.  Troy, or a portion
of it, is situated on and around three large Indian mounds,
circular in shape, which rise above the present water
about twelve feet.  They are about one hundred and fifty
feet in diameter, and are about two hundred yards apart.
The houses are all built between these mounds, and hence are all
flooded to a depth of eighteen inches on their floors.

These elevations, built by the aborigines, hundreds of years ago,
are the only points of refuge for miles.  When we arrived we found them
crowded with stock, all of which was thin and hardly able to stand up.
They were mixed together, sheep, hogs, horses, mules, and cattle.
One of these mounds has been used for many years as the grave-yard,
and to-day we saw attenuated cows lying against the marble tomb-stones,
chewing their cud in contentment, after a meal of corn furnished
by General York.  Here, as below, the remarkable skill of the women
and girls in the management of the smaller pirogues was noticed.
Children were paddling about in these most ticklish crafts with all the
nonchalance of adepts.

General York has put into operation a perfect system in regard
to furnishing relief.  He makes a personal inspection of the place
where it is asked, sees what is necessary to be done, and then,
having two boats chartered, with flats, sends them promptly
to the place, when the cattle are loaded and towed to the pine
hills and uplands of Catahoula.  He has made Troy his headquarters,
and to this point boats come for their supply of feed for cattle.
On the opposite side of Little River, which branches to the left
out of Black, and between it and the Ouachita, is situated
the town of Trinity, which is hourly threatened with destruction.
It is much lower than Troy, and the water is eight and nine
feet deep in the houses.  A strong current sweeps through it,
and it is remarkable that all of its houses have not gone before.
The residents of both Troy and Trinity have been cared for, yet some
of their stock have to be furnished with food.

As soon as the 'Susie' reached Troy, she was turned over to General York,
and placed at his disposition to carry out the work of relief more rapidly.
Nearly all her supplies were landed on one of the mounds to lighten her,
and she was headed down stream to relieve those below.  At Tom Hooper's place,
a few miles from Troy, a large flat, with about fifty head of stock on board,
was taken in tow.  The animals were fed, and soon regained some strength.
To-day we go on Little River, where the suffering is greatest.

                            DOWN BLACK RIVER

                                             Saturday Evening, March 25.

We started down Black River quite early, under the direction of General York,
to bring out what stock could be reached.  Going down river a flat
in tow was left in a central locality, and from there men poled her back
in the rear of plantations, picking up the animals wherever found.
In the loft of a gin-house there were seventeen head found, and after
a gangway was built they were led down into the flat without difficulty.
Taking a skiff with the General, your reporter was pulled up to a little
house of two rooms, in which the water was standing two feet on the floors.
In one of the large rooms were huddled the horses and cows of the place,
while in the other the Widow Taylor and her son were seated on a scaffold
raised on the floor.  One or two dug-outs were drifting about in the roam
ready to be put in service at any time.  When the flat was brought up,
the side of the house was cut away as the only means of getting
the animals out, and the cattle were driven on board the boat.
General York, in this as in every case, inquired if the family desired
to leave, informing them that Major Burke, of 'The Times-Democrat,'
has sent the 'Susie' up for that purpose.  Mrs. Taylor said she thanked
Major Burke, but she would try and hold out.  The remarkable tenacity
of the people here to their homes is beyond all comprehension.  Just below,
at a point sixteen miles from Troy, information was received that the house
of Mr. Tom Ellis was in danger, and his family were all in it.  We steamed
there immediately, and a sad picture was presented.  Looking out of the half
of the window left above water, was Mrs. Ellis, who is in feeble health,
whilst at the door were her seven children, the oldest not fourteen years.
One side of the house was given up to the work animals, some twelve head,
besides hogs.  In the next room the family lived, the water coming within two
inches of the bed-rail. The stove was below water, and the cooking was done
on a fire on top of it.  The house threatened to give way at any moment:
one end of it was sinking, and, in fact, the building looked a mere shell.
As the boat rounded to, Mr. Ellis came out in a dug-out, and General
York told him that he had come to his relief; that 'The Times-Democrat'
boat was at his service, and would remove his family at once to the hills,
and on Monday a flat would take out his stock, as, until that time,
they would be busy.  Notwithstanding the deplorable situation himself
and family were in, Mr. Ellis did not want to leave.  He said he thought
he would wait until Monday, and take the risk of his house falling.
The children around the door looked perfectly contented, seeming to care
little for the danger they were in.  These are but two instances of the many.
After weeks of privation and suffering, people still cling to their houses
and leave only when there is not room between the water and the ceiling
to build a scaffold on which to stand.  It seemed to be incomprehensible,
yet the love for the old place was stronger than that for safety.

After leaving the Ellis place, the next spot touched at
was the Oswald place.  Here the flat was towed alongside
the gin-house where there were fifteen head standing in water;
and yet, as they stood on scaffolds, their heads were above
the top of the entrance.  It was found impossible to get
them out without cutting away a portion of the front;
and so axes were brought into requisition and a gap made.
After much labor the horses and mules were securely placed
on the flat.

At each place we stop there are always three, four, or more dug-outs
arriving, bringing information of stock in other places in need.
Notwithstanding the fact that a great many had driven a part of their
stock to the hills some time ago, there yet remains a large quantity,
which General York, who is working with indomitable energy, will get
landed in the pine hills by Tuesday.

All along Black River the 'Susie' has been visited by scores
of planters, whose tales are the repetition of those already
heard of suffering and loss.  An old planter, who has lived on
the river since 1844, said there never was such a rise, and he was
satisfied more than one quarter of the stock has been lost.
Luckily the people cared first for their work stock, and when they
could find it horses and mules were housed in a place of safety.
The rise which still continues, and was two inches last night,
compels them to get them out to the hills; hence it is
that the work of General York is of such a great value.
From daylight to late at night he is going this way and that,
cheering by his kindly words and directing with calm judgment
what is to be done.  One unpleasant story, of a certain
merchant in New Orleans, is told all along the river.
It appears for some years past the planters have been dealing
with this individual, and many of them had balances in his hands.
When the overflow came they wrote for coffee, for meal, and,
in fact, for such little necessities as were required.
No response to these letters came, and others were written,
and yet these old customers, with plantations under water,
were refused even what was necessary to sustain life.  It is needless
to say he is not popular now on Back River.

The hills spoken of as the place of refuge for the people and stock on Black
River are in Catahoula parish, twenty-four miles from Black River.

After filling the flat with cattle we took on board the family
of T. S. Hooper, seven in number, who could not longer remain
in their dwelling, and we are now taking them up Little River
to the hills.

                         THE FLOOD STILL RISING

                                             Troy: March 27, 1882, noon.

The flood here is rising about three and a half inches every
twenty-four hours, and rains have set in which will increase this.
General York feels now that our efforts ought to be directed towards
saving life, as the increase of the water has jeopardized many houses.
We intend to go up the Tensas in a few minutes, and then we
will return and go down Black River to take off families.
There is a lack of steam transportation here to meet the emergency.
The General has three boats chartered, with flats in tow,
but the demand for these to tow out stock is greater than they
can meet with promptness.  All are working night and day,
and the 'Susie' hardly stops for more than an hour anywhere.
The rise has placed Trinity in a dangerous plight, and momentarily
it is expected that some of the houses will float off.
Troy is a little higher, yet all are in the water.
Reports have come in that a woman and child have been
washed away below here, and two cabins floated off.
Their occupants are the same who refused to come off day
before yesterday.  One would not believe the utter passiveness
of the people.

As yet no news has been received of the steamer 'Delia,' which is
supposed to be the one sunk in yesterday's storm on Lake Catahoula.
She is due here now, but has not arrived.  Even the mail here is
most uncertain, and this I send by skiff to Natchez to get it to you.
It is impossible to get accurate data as to past crops, etc., as
those who know much about the matter have gone, and those who remain
are not well versed in the production of this section.

General York desires me to say that the amount of rations
formerly sent should be duplicated and sent at once.
It is impossible to make any estimate, for the people are fleeing
to the hills, so rapid is the rise.  The residents here are
in a state of commotion that can only be appreciated when seen,
and complete demoralization has set in,

If rations are drawn for any particular section hereabouts, they would
not be certain to be distributed, so everything should be sent to Troy
as a center, and the General will have it properly disposed of.
He has sent for one hundred tents, and, if all go to the hills who are
in motion now, two hundred will be required.




                               APPENDIX B

                  THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER COMMISSION

THE condition of this rich valley of the Lower Mississippi,
immediately after and since the war, constituted one
of the disastrous effects of war most to be deplored.
Fictitious property in slaves was not only righteously destroyed,
but very much of the work which had depended upon the slave labor
was also destroyed or greatly impaired, especially the levee system.

It might have been expected by those who have not investigated the subject,
that such important improvements as the construction and maintenance
of the levees would have been assumed at once by the several States.
But what can the State do where the people are under subjection to
rates of interest ranging from 18 to 30 per cent., and are also under
the necessity of pledging their crops in advance even of planting,
at these rates, for the privilege of purchasing all of their supplies at 100
per cent.  profit?

It has needed but little attention to make it perfectly obvious
that the control of the Mississippi River, if undertaken at all,
must be undertaken by the national government, and cannot
be compassed by States.  The river must be treated as a unit;
its control cannot be compassed under a divided or separate
system of administration.

Neither are the States especially interested competent
to combine among themselves for the necessary operations.
The work must begin far up the river; at least as far as Cairo,
if not beyond; and must be conducted upon a consistent general plan
throughout the course of the river.

It does not need technical or scientific knowledge to comprehend the elements
of the case if one will give a little time and attention to the subject,
and when a Mississippi River commission has been constituted, as the existing
commission is, of thoroughly able men of different walks in life,
may it not be suggested that their verdict in the case should be accepted
as conclusive, so far as any a priori theory of construction or control
can be considered conclusive?

It should be remembered that upon this board are General Gilmore,
General Comstock, and General Suter, of the United States Engineers;
Professor Henry Mitchell (the most competent authority on the question
of hydrography), of the United States Coast Survey; B. B. Harrod,
the State Engineer of Louisiana; Jas.  B. Eads, whose success
with the jetties at New Orleans is a warrant of his competency,
and Judge Taylor, of Indiana.

It would be presumption on the part of any single man, however skilled,
to contest the judgment of such a board as this.

The method of improvement proposed by the commission is at
once in accord with the results of engineering experience
and with observations of nature where meeting our wants.
As in nature the growth of trees and their proneness where undermined
to fall across the slope and support the bank secures at some
points a fair depth of channel and some degree of permanence,
so in the project of the engineer the use of timber and brush
and the encouragement of forest growth are the main features.
It is proposed to reduce the width where excessive by brushwood dykes,
at first low, but raised higher and higher as the mud of the river
settles under their shelter, and finally slope them back at
the angle upon which willows will grow freely.  In this work there
are many details connected with the forms of these shelter dykes,
their arrangements so as to present a series of settling basins,
etc., a description of which would only complicate the conception.
Through the larger part of the river works of contraction
will not be required, but nearly all the banks on the concave
side of the beds must be held against the wear of the stream,
and much of the opposite banks defended at critical points.
The works having in view this conservative object may be
generally designated works of revetment; and these also
will be largely of brushwood, woven in continuous carpets,
or twined into wire-netting. This veneering process has been
successfully employed on the Missouri River; and in some cases
they have so covered themselves with sediments, and have become
so overgrown with willows, that they may be regarded as permanent.
In securing these mats rubble-stone is to be used in small quantities,
and in some instances the dressed slope between high and low river
will have to be more or less paved with stone.

Any one who has been on the Rhine will have observed operations not unlike
those to which we have just referred; and, indeed, most of the rivers
of Europe flowing among their own alluvia have required similar treatment
in the interest of navigation and agriculture.

The levee is the crowning work of bank revetment, although not necessarily
in immediate connection.  It may be set back a short distance from
the revetted bank; but it is, in effect, the requisite parapet.
The flood river and the low river cannot be brought into register,
and compelled to unite in the excavation of a single permanent channel,
without a complete control of all the stages; and even the abnormal
rise must be provided against, because this would endanger the levee,
and once in force behind the works of revetment would tear them also away.

Under the general principle that the local slope of a river
is the result and measure of the resistance of its bed, it is
evident that a narrow and deep stream should have less slope,
because it has less frictional surface in proportion to capacity;
i.e., less perimeter in proportion to area of cross section.
The ultimate effect of levees and revetments confining
the floods and bringing all the stages of the river into
register is to deepen the channel and let down the slope.
The first effect of the levees is to raise the surface;
but this, by inducing greater velocity of flow, inevitably
causes an enlargement of section, and if this enlargement
is prevented from being made at the expense of the banks,
the bottom must give way and the form of the waterway
be so improved as to admit this flow with less rise.
The actual experience with levees upon the Mississippi River,
with no attempt to hold the banks, has been favorable,
and no one can doubt, upon the evidence furnished in the reports
of the commission, that if the earliest levees had been
accompanied by revetment of banks, and made complete,
we should have to-day a river navigable at low water,
and an adjacent country safe from inundation.

Of course it would be illogical to conclude that the constrained river
can ever lower its flood slope so as to make levees unnecessary,
but it is believed that, by this lateral constraint, the river
as a conduit may be so improved in form that even those rare
floods which result from the coincident rising of many tributaries
will find vent without destroying levees of ordinary height.
That the actual capacity of a channel through alluvium depends
upon its service during floods has been often shown, but this
capacity does not include anomalous, but recurrent, floods.

It is hardly worth while to consider the projects for relieving
the Mississippi River floods by creating new outlets,
since these sensational propositions have commended themselves
only to unthinking minds, and have no support among engineers.
Were the river bed cast-iron, a resort to openings for surplus
waters might be a necessity; but as the bottom is yielding,
and the best form of outlet is a single deep channel,
as realizing the least ratio of perimeter to area of cross section,
there could not well be a more unphilosophical method of treatment
than the multiplication of avenues of escape.

In the foregoing statement the attempt has been made to condense
in as limited a space as the importance of the subject would permit,
the general elements of the problem, and the general features
of the proposed method of improvement which has been adopted
by the Mississippi River Commission.

The writer cannot help feeling that it is somewhat presumptuous on
his part to attempt to present the facts relating to an enterprise
which calls for the highest scientific skill; but it is a matter
which interests every citizen of the United States, and is one
of the methods of reconstruction which ought to be approved.
It is a war claim which implies no private gain, and no compensation
except for one of the cases of destruction incident to war,
which may well be repaired by the people of the whole country.

                                                        EDWARD ATKINSON.

Boston:  April 14, 1882.




                               APPENDIX C

     RECEPTION OF CAPTAIN BASIL HALL'S BOOK IN THE UNITED STATES

HAVING now arrived nearly at the end of our travels,
I am induced, ere I conclude, again to mention what I consider
as one of the most remarkable traits in the national character
of the Americans; namely, their exquisite sensitiveness and
soreness respecting everything said or written concerning them.
Of this, perhaps, the most remarkable example I can give is
the effect produced on nearly every class of readers by the
appearance of Captain Basil Hall's 'Travels in North America.'
In fact, it was a sort of moral earthquake, and the vibration it
occasioned through the nerves of the republic, from one corner
of the Union to the other, was by no means over when I left
the country in July 1831, a couple of years after the shock.

I was in Cincinnati when these volumes came out, but it
was not till July 1830, that I procured a copy of them.
One bookseller to whom I applied told me that he had had a few
copies before he understood the nature of the work, but that,
after becoming acquainted with it, nothing should induce
him to sell another.  Other persons of his profession must,
however, have been less scrupulous; for the book was read
in city, town, village, and hamlet, steamboat, and stage-coach,
and a sort of war-whoop was sent forth perfectly unprecedented
in my recollection upon any occasion whatever.

An ardent desire for approbation, and a delicate sensitiveness under censure,
have always, I believe, been considered as amiable traits of character;
but the condition into which the appearance of Captain Hall's work threw
the republic shows plainly that these feelings, if carried to excess,
produce a weakness which amounts to imbecility.

It was perfectly astonishing to hear men who, on other subjects,
were of some judgment, utter their opinions upon this.
I never heard of any instance in which the commonsense generally
found in national criticism was so overthrown by passion.
I do not speak of the want of justice, and of fair and
liberal interpretation:  these, perhaps, were hardly to be expected.
Other nations have been called thin-skinned, but the citizens
of the Union have, apparently, no skins at all; they wince if a
breeze blows over them, unless it be tempered with adulation.
It was not, therefore, very surprising that the acute and forcible
observations of a traveler they knew would be listened to should be
received testily.  The extraordinary features of the business were,
first, the excess of the rage into which they lashed themselves;
and, secondly, the puerility of the inventions by which they
attempted to account for the severity with which they fancied they
had been treated.

Not content with declaring that the volumes contained no word of truth,
from beginning to end (which is an assertion I heard made very nearly
as often as they were mentioned), the whole country set to work
to discover the causes why Captain Hall had visited the United States,
and why he had published his book.

I have heard it said with as much precision and gravity
as if the statement had been conveyed by an official report,
that Captain Hall had been sent out by the British Government
expressly for the purpose of checking the growing admiration
of England for the Government of the United States,--
that it was by a commission from the treasury he had come,
and that it was only in obedience to orders that he had found
anything to object to.

I do not give this as the gossip of a coterie; I am persuaded that it
is the belief of a very considerable portion of the country.
So deep is the conviction of this singular people that they cannot
be seen without being admired, that they will not admit the possibility
that any one should honestly and sincerely find aught to disapprove
in them or their country.

The American Reviews are, many of them, I believe, well known in England;
I need not, therefore, quote them here, but I sometimes wondered
that they, none of them, ever thought of translating Obadiah's
curse into classic American; if they had done so, on placing
(he, Basil Hall) between brackets, instead of (he, Obadiah)
it would have saved them a world of trouble.

I can hardly describe the curiosity with which I sat down at length
to peruse these tremendous volumes; still less can I do justice to my
surprise at their contents.  To say that I found not one exaggerated
statement throughout the work is by no means saying enough.
It is impossible for any one who knows the country not to see that
Captain Hall earnestly sought out things to admire and commend.
When he praises, it is with evident pleasure; and when he finds fault,
it is with evident reluctance and restraint, excepting where motives
purely patriotic urge him to state roundly what it is for the benefit
of his country should be known.

In fact, Captain Hall saw the country to the greatest possible advantage.
Furnished, of course, with letters of introduction to the most
distinguished individuals, and with the still more influential
recommendation of his own reputation, he was received in full
drawing-room style and state from one end of the Union to the other.
He saw the country in full dress, and had little or no opportunity
of judging of it unhouselled, unanointed, unannealed, with all its
imperfections on its head, as I and my family too often had.

Captain Hall had certainly excellent opportunities of making
himself acquainted with the form of the government and the laws;
and of receiving, moreover, the best oral commentary upon them,
in conversation with the most distinguished citizens.
Of these opportunities he made excellent use; nothing important met
his eye which did not receive that sort of analytical attention
which an experienced and philosophical traveler alone can give.
This has made his volumes highly interesting and valuable;
but I am deeply persuaded, that were a man of equal penetration
to visit the United States with no other means of becoming
acquainted with the national character than the ordinary working-day
intercourse of life, he would conceive an infinitely lower idea
of the moral atmosphere of the country than Captain Hall appears
to have done; and the internal conviction on my mind is strong,
that if Captain Hall had not placed a firm restraint on himself,
he must have given expression to far deeper indignation than any he has
uttered against many points in the American character, with which
he shows from other circumstances that he was well acquainted.
His rule appears to have been to state just so much of the truth
as would leave on the mind of his readers a correct impression,
at the least cost of pain to the sensitive folks he was writing about.
He states his own opinions and feelings, and leaves it to be
inferred that he has good grounds for adopting them; but he spares
the Americans the bitterness which a detail of the circumstances
would have produced.

If any one chooses to say that some wicked antipathy to twelve
millions of strangers is the origin of my opinion, I must
bear it; and were the question one of mere idle speculation,
I certainly would not court the abuse I must meet for stating it.
But it is not so.

                              . . . . . . .

The candor which he expresses, and evidently feels, they mistake for irony,
or totally distrust; his unwillingness to give pain to persons from
whom he has received kindness, they scornfully reject as affectation,
and although they must know right well, in their own secret hearts,
how infinitely more they lay at his mercy than he has chosen to betray;
they pretend, even to themselves, that he has exaggerated the bad points
of their character and institutions; whereas, the truth is, that he has
let them off with a degree of tenderness which may be quite suitable
for him to exercise, however little merited; while, at the same time,
he has most industriously magnified their merits, whenever he could possibly
find anything favorable.




                               APPENDIX D

                          THE UNDYING HEAD

IN a remote part of the North lived a man and his sister,
who had never seen a human being.  Seldom, if ever, had the man
any cause to go from home; for, as his wants demanded food,
he had only to go a little distance from the lodge, and there,
in some particular spot, place his arrows, with their barbs
in the ground.  Telling his sister where they had been placed,
every morning she would go in search, and never fail of
finding each stuck through the heart of a deer.  She had then
only to drag them into the lodge and prepare their food.
Thus she lived till she attained womanhood, when one day
her brother, whose name was Iamo, said to her:  'Sister, the time
is at hand when you will be ill.  Listen to my advice.
If you do not, it will probably be the cause of my death.
Take the implements with which we kindle our fires.
Go some distance from our lodge and build a separate fire.
When you are in want of food, I will tell you where to find it.
You must cook for yourself, and I will for myself.
When you are ill, do not attempt to come near the lodge,
or bring any of the utensils you use.  Be sure always
to fasten to your belt the implements you need, for you
do not know when the time will come.  As for myself, I must
do the best I can.'  His sister promised to obey him in all
he had said.

Shortly after, her brother had cause to go from home.
She was alone in her lodge, combing her hair.  She had just untied
the belt to which the implements were fastened, when suddenly
the event, to which her brother had alluded, occurred.
She ran out of the lodge, but in her haste forgot the belt.
Afraid to return, she stood for some time thinking.
Finally, she decided to enter the lodge and get it.
For, thought she, my brother is not at home, and I will
stay but a moment to catch hold of it.  She went back.
Running in suddenly, she caught hold of it, and was coming out
when her brother came in sight.  He knew what was the matter.
'Oh,' he said, 'did I not tell you to take care.
But now you have killed me.'  She was going on her way,
but her brother said to her, 'What can you do there now.
The accident has happened.  Go in, and stay where you
have always stayed.  And what will become of you?
You have killed me.'

He then laid aside his hunting-dress and accoutrements, and soon
after both his feet began to turn black, so that he could not move.
Still he directed his sister where to place the arrows,
that she might always have food.  The inflammation continued
to increase, and had now reached his first rib; and he said:
'Sister, my end is near.  You must do as I tell you.
You see my medicine-sack, and my war-club tied to it.  It contains
all my medicines, and my war-plumes, and my paints of all colors.
As soon as the inflammation reaches my breast, you will take
my war-club. It has a sharp point, and you will cut off my head.
When it is free from my body, take it, place its neck in the sack,
which you must open at one end.  Then hang it up in its former place.
Do not forget my bow and arrows.  One of the last you
will take to procure food.  The remainder, tie in my sack,
and then hang it up, so that I can look towards the door.
Now and then I will speak to you, but not often.'  His sister again
promised to obey.

In a little time his breast was affected.  'Now,' said he,
'take the club and strike off my head.'  She was afraid, but he told
her to muster courage.  'Strike,' said he, and a smile was on his face.
Mustering all her courage, she gave the blow and cut off the head.
'Now,' said the head, 'place me where I told you.'
And fearfully she obeyed it in all its commands.
Retaining its animation, it looked around the lodge as usual,
and it would command its sister to go in such places as it thought
would procure for her the flesh of different animals she needed.
One day the head said:  'The time is not distant when I shall be freed
from this situation, and I shall have to undergo many sore evils.
So the superior manito decrees, and I must bear all patiently.'
In this situation we must leave the head.

In a certain part of the country was a village inhabited by a
numerous and warlike band of Indians.  In this village was a family
of ten young men--brothers.  It was in the spring of the year
that the youngest of these blackened his face and fasted.
His dreams were propitious.  Having ended his fast, he went
secretly for his brothers at night, so that none in the village
could overhear or find out the direction they intended to go.
Though their drum was heard, yet that was a common occurrence.
Having ended the usual formalities, he told how favorable
his dreams were, and that he had called them together
to know if they would accompany him in a war excursion.
They all answered they would.  The third brother from the eldest,
noted for his oddities, coming up with his war-club when his brother
had ceased speaking, jumped up.  'Yes,' said he, 'I will go,
and this will be the way I will treat those I am going to fight;'
and he struck the post in the center of the lodge, and gave a yell.
The others spoke to him, saying:  'Slow, slow, Mudjikewis, when you
are in other people's lodges.'  So he sat down.  Then, in turn,
they took the drum, and sang their songs, and closed with a feast.
The youngest told them not to whisper their intention
to their wives, but secretly to prepare for their journey.
They all promised obedience, and Mudjikewis was the first
to say so.

The time for their departure drew near.  Word was given to
assemble on a certain night, when they would depart immediately.
Mudjikewis was loud in his demands for his moccasins.
Several times his wife asked him the reason.  'Besides,' said she,
'you have a good pair on.'  'Quick, quick,' said he, 'since you
must know, we are going on a war excursion; so be quick.'
He thus revealed the secret.  That night they met and started.
The snow was on the ground, and they traveled all night, lest others
should follow them.  When it was daylight, the leader took snow
and made a ball of it, then tossing it into the air, he said:
'It was in this way I saw snow fall in a dream, so that I could not
be tracked.'  And he told them to keep close to each other for fear
of losing themselves, as the snow began to fall in very large flakes.
Near as they walked, it was with difficulty they could see each other.
The snow continued falling all that day and the following night,
so it was impossible to track them.

They had now walked for several days, and Mudjikewis was
always in the rear.  One day, running suddenly forward,
he gave the SAW-SAW-QUAN,<footnote [War-whoop.]> and struck
a tree with his war-club, and it broke into pieces as if struck
with lightning.  'Brothers,' said he, 'this will be the way I
will serve those we are going to fight.'  The leader answered,
'Slow, slow, Mudjikewis, the one I lead you to is not to be thought
of so lightly.'  Again he fell back and thought to himself:
'What! what! who can this be he is leading us to?'
He felt fearful and was silent.  Day after day they traveled on,
till they came to an extensive plain, on the borders of which
human bones were bleaching in the sun.  The leader spoke:
'They are the bones of those who have gone before us.
None has ever yet returned to tell the sad tale of their fate.'
Again Mudjikewis became restless, and, running forward,
gave the accustomed yell.  Advancing to a large rock which
stood above the ground, he struck it, and it fell to pieces.
'See, brothers,' said he, 'thus will I treat those whom we are
going to fight.'  'Still, still,' once more said the leader;
'he to whom I am leading you is not to be compared
to the rock.'

Mudjikewis fell back thoughtful, saying to himself:  'I wonder
who this can be that he is going to attack;' and he was afraid.
Still they continued to see the remains of former warriors,
who had been to the place where they were now going,
some of whom had retreated as far back as the place where they
first saw the bones, beyond which no one had ever escaped.
At last they came to a piece of rising ground, from which they
plainly distinguished, sleeping on a distant mountain,
a mammoth bear.

The distance between them was very great, but the size of the animal
caused him to be plainly seen.  'There,' said the leader,
'it is he to whom I am leading you; here our troubles will commence,
for he is a mishemokwa and a manito.  It is he who has that we
prize so dearly (i.e. wampum), to obtain which, the warriors whose
bones we saw, sacrificed their lives.  You must not be fearful:
be manly.  We shall find him asleep.'  Then the leader went
forward and touched the belt around the animal's neck.
'This,' said he, 'is what we must get.  It contains the wampum.'
Then they requested the eldest to try and slip the belt over
the bear's head, who appeared to be fast asleep, as he was not
in the least disturbed by the attempt to obtain the belt.
All their efforts were in vain, till it came to the one
next the youngest.  He tried, and the belt moved nearly
over the monster's head, but he could get it no farther.
Then the youngest one, and the leader, made his attempt, and succeeded.
Placing it on the back of the oldest, he said, 'Now we must run,'
and off they started.  When one became fatigued with its weight,
another would relieve him.  Thus they ran till they had passed
the bones of all former warriors, and were some distance beyond,
when looking back, they saw the monster slowly rising.
He stood some time before he missed his wampum.  Soon they heard his
tremendous howl, like distant thunder, slowly filling all the sky;
and then they heard him speak and say, 'Who can it be that has
dared to steal my wampum? earth is not so large but that I
can find them;' and he descended from the hill in pursuit.
As if convulsed, the earth shook with every jump he made.
Very soon he approached the party.  They, however, kept the belt,
exchanging it from one to another, and encouraging each other;
but he gained on them fast.  'Brothers,' said the leader,
'has never any one of you, when fasting, dreamed of some friendly
spirit who would aid you as a guardian?'  A dead silence followed.
'Well,' said he, 'fasting, I dreamed of being in danger
of instant death, when I saw a small lodge, with smoke curling
from its top.  An old man lived in it, and I dreamed he helped me;
and may it be verified soon,' he said, running forward and
giving the peculiar yell, and a howl as if the sounds came
from the depths of his stomach, and what is called CHECAUDUM.
Getting upon a piece of rising ground, behold! a lodge, with smoke
curling from its top, appeared.  This gave them all new strength,
and they ran forward and entered it.  The leader spoke to
the old man who sat in the lodge, saying, 'Nemesho, help us;
we claim your protection, for the great bear will kill us.'
'Sit down and eat, my grandchildren,' said the old man.
'Who is a great manito?' said he.  'There is none but me;
but let me look,' and he opened the door of the lodge, when,
lo! at a little distance he saw the enraged animal coming on,
with slow but powerful leaps.  He closed the door.
'Yes,' said he, 'he is indeed a great manito:  my grandchildren,
you will be the cause of my losing my life; you asked my protection,
and I granted it; so now, come what may, I will protect you.
When the bear arrives at the door, you must run out of the other
door of the lodge.'  Then putting his hand to the side of
the lodge where he sat, he brought out a bag which he opened.
Taking out two small black dogs, he placed them before him.
'These are the ones I use when I fight,' said he; and he commenced
patting with both hands the sides of one of them, and he began
to swell out, so that he soon filled the lodge by his bulk;
and he had great strong teeth.  When he attained his full
size he growled, and from that moment, as from instinct,
he jumped out at the door and met the bear, who in another leap
would have reached the lodge.  A terrible combat ensued.
The skies rang with the howls of the fierce monsters.
The remaining dog soon took the field.  The brothers, at the onset,
took the advice of the old man, and escaped through the opposite
side of the lodge.  They had not proceeded far before they heard
the dying cry of one of the dogs, and soon after of the other.
'Well,' said the leader, 'the old man will share their fate:
so run; he will soon be after us.'  They started with fresh vigor,
for they had received food from the old man:  but very soon the bear
came in sight, and again was fast gaining upon them.  Again the leader
asked the brothers if they could do nothing for their safety.
All were silent.  The leader, running forward, did as before.
'I dreamed,' he cried, 'that, being in great trouble, an old
man helped me who was a manito; we shall soon see his lodge.'
Taking courage, they still went on.  After going a short distance
they saw the lodge of the old manito.  They entered immediately
and claimed his protection, telling him a manito was after them.
The old man, setting meat before them, said:  'Eat! who is a
manito? there is no manito but me; there is none whom I fear;'
and the earth trembled as the monster advanced.  The old man
opened the door and saw him coming.  He shut it slowly, and said:
'Yes, my grandchildren, you have brought trouble upon me.'
Procuring his medicine-sack, he took out his small war-clubs of
black stone, and told the young men to run through the other side
of the lodge.  As he handled the clubs, they became very large,
and the old man stepped out just as the bear reached the door.
Then striking him with one of the clubs, it broke in pieces;
the bear stumbled.  Renewing the attempt with the other
war-club, that also was broken, but the bear fell senseless.
Each blow the old man gave him sounded like a clap of thunder,
and the howls of the bear ran along till they filled the
heavens.

The young men had now run some distance, when they looked back.
They could see that the bear was recovering from the blows.
First he moved his paws, and soon they saw him rise
on his feet.  The old man shared the fate of the first,
for they now heard his cries as he was torn in pieces.
Again the monster was in pursuit, and fast overtaking them.
Not yet discouraged, the young men kept on their way;
but the bear was now so close, that the leader once more applied
to his brothers, but they could do nothing.  'Well,' said he,
'my dreams will soon be exhausted; after this I have but one more.'
He advanced, invoking his guardian spirit to aid him.
'Once,' said he, 'I dreamed that, being sorely pressed, I came to a
large lake, on the shore of which was a canoe, partly out of water,
having ten paddles all in readiness.  Do not fear,' he cried,
'we shall soon get it.'  And so it was, even as he had said.
Coming to the lake, they saw the canoe with ten paddles,
and immediately they embarked.  Scarcely had they reached the center
of the lake, when they saw the bear arrive at its borders.
Lifting himself on his hind legs, he looked all around.
Then he waded into the water; then losing his footing he turned back,
and commenced making the circuit of the lake.  Meantime the party
remained stationary in the center to watch his movements.
He traveled all around, till at last he came to the place from
whence he started.  Then he commenced drinking up the water,
and they saw the current fast setting in towards his open mouth.
The leader encouraged them to paddle hard for the opposite shore.
When only a short distance from land, the current had increased
so much, that they were drawn back by it, and all their efforts
to reach it were in vain.

Then the leader again spoke, telling them to meet their fates manfully.
'Now is the time, Mudjikewis,' said he, 'to show your prowess.
Take courage and sit at the bow of the canoe; and when it approaches
his mouth, try what effect your club will have on his head.'
He obeyed, and stood ready to give the blow; while the leader,
who steered, directed the canoe for the open mouth of the monster.

Rapidly advancing, they were just about to enter his mouth, when Mudjikewis
struck him a tremendous blow on the head, and gave the SAW-SAW-QUAN.
The bear's limbs doubled under him, and he fell, stunned by the blow.
But before Mudjikewis could renew it, the monster disgorged all
the water he had drank, with a force which sent the canoe with great
velocity to the opposite shore.  Instantly leaving the canoe,
again they fled, and on they went till they were completely exhausted.
The earth again shook, and soon they saw the monster hard
after them.  Their spirits drooped, and they felt discouraged.
The leader exerted himself, by actions and words, to cheer them up;
and once more he asked them if they thought of nothing, or could
do nothing for their rescue; and, as before, all were silent.
'Then,' he said, 'this is the last time I can apply to my guardian spirit.
Now, if we do not succeed, our fates are decided.'  He ran forward,
invoking his spirit with great earnestness, and gave the yell.
'We shall soon arrive,' said he to his brothers, 'at the place where
my last guardian spirit dwells.  In him I place great confidence.
Do not, do not be afraid, or your limbs will be fear-bound. We shall
soon reach his lodge.  Run, run,' he cried.

Returning now to Iamo, he had passed all the time in the same
condition we had left him, the head directing his sister,
in order to procure food, where to place the magic arrows,
and speaking at long intervals.  One day the sister saw the eyes
of the head brighten, as if with pleasure.  At last it spoke.
'Oh, sister,' it said, 'in what a pitiful situation you
have been the cause of placing me!  Soon, very soon, a party
of young men will arrive and apply to me for aid; but alas!
How can I give what I would have done with so much pleasure?
Nevertheless, take two arrows, and place them where you have
been in the habit of placing the others, and have meat prepared
and cooked before they arrive.  When you hear them coming
and calling on my name, go out and say, "Alas! it is long
ago that an accident befell him.  I was the cause of it."
If they still come near, ask them in, and set meat before them.
And now you must follow my directions strictly.  When the bear
is near, go out and meet him.  You will take my medicine-sack, bows
and arrows, and my head.  You must then untie the sack, and spread
out before you my paints of all colors, my war-eagle feathers,
my tufts of dried hair, and whatever else it contains.
As the bear approaches, you will take all these articles,
one by one, and say to him, "This is my deceased brother's paint,"
and so on with all the other articles, throwing each of them
as far as you can.  The virtues contained in them will cause
him to totter; and, to complete his destruction, you will take
my head, and that too you will cast as far off as you can,
crying aloud, "See, this is my deceased brother's head."
He will then fall senseless.  By this time the young men
will have eaten, and you will call them to your assistance.
You must then cut the carcass into pieces, yes, into small pieces,
and scatter them to the four winds; for, unless you do this,
he will again revive.'  She promised that all should be
done as he said.  She had only time to prepare the meat,
when the voice of the leader was heard calling upon Iamo for aid.
The woman went out and said as her brother had directed.
But the war party being closely pursued, came up to the lodge.
She invited them in, and placed the meat before them.
While they were eating, they heard the bear approaching.
Untying the medicine-sack and taking the head, she had all
in readiness for his approach.  When he came up she did
as she had been told; and, before she had expended the paints
and feathers, the bear began to totter, but, still advancing,
came close to the woman.  Saying as she was commanded, she then
took the head, and cast it as far from her as she could.
As it rolled along the ground, the blood, excited by the feelings
of the head in this terrible scene, gushed from the nose and mouth.
The bear, tottering, soon fell with a tremendous noise.
Then she cried for help, and the young men came
rushing out, having partially regained their strength and
spirits.

Mudjikewis, stepping up, gave a yell and struck him a blow upon
the head.  This he repeated, till it seemed like a mass of brains,
while the others, as quick as possible, cut him into very small pieces,
which they then scattered in every direction.  While thus employed,
happening to look around where they had thrown the meat,
wonderful to behold, they saw starting up and turning off in every
direction small black bears, such as are seen at the present day.
The country was soon overspread with these black animals.
And it was from this monster that the present race of bears
derived their origin.

Having thus overcome their pursuer, they returned to the lodge.
In the meantime, the woman, gathering the implements she had used,
and the head, placed them again in the sack.  But the head did not
speak again, probably from its great exertion to overcome the monster.

Having spent so much time and traversed so vast a country in their flight,
the young men gave up the idea of ever returning to their own country,
and game being plenty, they determined to remain where they now were.
One day they moved off some distance from the lodge for the
purpose of hunting, having left the wampum with the woman.
They were very successful, and amused themselves, as all young
men do when alone, by talking and jesting with each other.
One of them spoke and said, 'We have all this sport to ourselves;
let us go and ask our sister if she will not let us bring the head
to this place, as it is still alive.  It may be pleased to hear us talk,
and be in our company.  In the meantime take food to our sister.'
They went and requested the head.  She told them to take it,
and they took it to their hunting-grounds, and tried to amuse it,
but only at times did they see its eyes beam with pleasure.
One day, while busy in their encampment, they were unexpectedly attacked
by unknown Indians.  The skirmish was long contested and bloody;
many of their foes were slain, but still they were thirty to one.
The young men fought desperately till they were all killed.
The attacking party then retreated to a height of ground,
to muster their men, and to count the number of missing and slain.
One of their young men had stayed away, and, in endeavoring
to overtake them, came to the place where the head was hung up.
Seeing that alone retain animation, he eyed it for some time
with fear and surprise.  However, he took it down and opened
the sack, and was much pleased to see the beautiful feathers,
one of which he placed on his head.

Starting off, it waved gracefully over him till he reached his party,
when he threw down the head and sack, and told them how he had
found it, and that the sack was full of paints and feathers.
They all looked at the head and made sport of it.
Numbers of the young men took the paint and painted themselves,
and one of the party took the head by the hair and said--

'Look, you ugly thing, and see your paints on the faces of warriors.'

But the feathers were so beautiful, that numbers of them
also placed them on their heads.  Then again they used all
kinds of indignity to the head, for which they were in turn
repaid by the death of those who had used the feathers.
Then the chief commanded them to throw away all except the head.
'We will see,' said he, 'when we get home, what we can do with it.
We will try to make it shut its eyes.'

When they reached their homes they took it to the council-lodge,
and hung it up before the fire, fastening it with raw hide soaked,
which would shrink and become tightened by the action of the fire.
'We will then see,' they said, 'if we cannot make it shut its eyes.'

Meantime, for several days, the sister had been waiting for the young
men to bring back the head; till, at last, getting impatient,
she went in search of it.  The young men she found lying within
short distances of each other, dead, and covered with wounds.
Various other bodies lay scattered in different directions around them.
She searched for the head and sack, but they were nowhere to be found.
She raised her voice and wept, and blackened her face.  Then she
walked in different directions, till she came to the place from whence
the head had been taken.  Then she found the magic bow and arrows,
where the young men, ignorant of their qualities, had left them.
She thought to herself that she would find her brother's head, and came
to a piece of rising ground, and there saw some of his paints and feathers.
These she carefully put up, and hung upon the branch of a tree till
her return.

At dusk she arrived at the first lodge of a very extensive village.
Here she used a charm, common among Indians when they wish to meet
with a kind reception.  On applying to the old man and woman
of the lodge, she was kindly received.  She made known her errand.
The old man promised to aid her, and told her the head was hung up before
the council-fire, and that the chiefs of the village, with their young men,
kept watch over it continually.  The former are considered as manitoes.
She said she only wished to see it, and would be satisfied if she could only
get to the door of the lodge.  She knew she had not sufficient power to take
it by force.  'Come with me,' said the Indian, 'I will take you there.'
They went, and they took their seats near the door.  The council-lodge
was filled with warriors, amusing themselves with games, and constantly
keeping up a fire to smoke the head, as they said, to make dry meat.
They saw the head move, and not knowing what to make of it, one spoke
and said:  'Ha! ha!  It is beginning to feel the effects of the smoke.'
The sister looked up from the door, and her eyes met those of her brother,
and tears rolled down the cheeks of the head.  'Well,' said the chief,
'I thought we would make you do something at last.  Look! look at it--
shedding tears,' said he to those around him; and they all laughed and passed
their jokes upon it.  The chief, looking around, and observing the woman,
after some time said to the man who came with her:  'Who have you got there?
I have never seen that woman before in our village.'  'Yes,' replied the man,
'you have seen her; she is a relation of mine, and seldom goes out.  She stays
at my lodge, and asked me to allow her to come with me to this place.'
In the center of the lodge sat one of those young men who are always forward,
and fond of boasting and displaying themselves before others.
'Why,' said he, 'I have seen her often, and it is to this lodge I go almost
every night to court her.'  All the others laughed and continued their games.
The young man did not know he was telling a lie to the woman's advantage,
who by that means escaped.

She returned to the man's lodge, and immediately set out for her
own country.  Coming to the spot where the bodies of her adopted
brothers lay, she placed them together, their feet toward the east.
Then taking an ax which she had, she cast it up into the air,
crying out, 'Brothers, get up from under it, or it will fall on you.'
This she repeated three times, and the third time the brothers all arose
and stood on their feet.

Mudjikewis commenced rubbing his eyes and stretching himself.
'Why,' said he, 'I have overslept myself.'  'No, indeed,'
said one of the others, 'do you not know we were all killed,
and that it is our sister who has brought us to life?'
The young men took the bodies of their enemies and burned them.
Soon after, the woman went to procure wives for them,
in a distant country, they knew not where; but she returned
with ten young women, which she gave to the ten young men,
beginning with the eldest.  Mudjikewis stepped to and fro,
uneasy lest he should not get the one he liked.
But he was not disappointed, for she fell to his lot.
And they were well matched, for she was a female magician.
They then all moved into a very large lodge, and their sister
told them that the women must now take turns in going
to her brother's head every night, trying to untie it.
They all said they would do so with pleasure.  The eldest
made the first attempt, and with a rushing noise she fled
through the air.

Toward daylight she returned.  She had been unsuccessful, as she succeeded
in untying only one of the knots.  All took their turns regularly,
and each one succeeded in untying only one knot each time.
But when the youngest went, she commenced the work as soon
as she reached the lodge; although it had always been occupied,
still the Indians never could see any one.  For ten nights now,
the smoke had not ascended, but filled the lodge and drove them out.
This last night they were all driven out, and the young woman carried
off the head.

The young people and the sister heard the young woman
coming high through the air, and they heard her saying:
'Prepare the body of our brother.'  And as soon as they heard it,
they went to a small lodge where the black body of Iamo lay.
His sister commenced cutting the neck part, from which the neck
had been severed.  She cut so deep as to cause it to bleed;
and the others who were present, by rubbing the body and
applying medicines, expelled the blackness.  In the meantime,
the one who brought it, by cutting the neck of the head, caused that
also to bleed.

As soon as she arrived, they placed that close to the body,
and, by aid of medicines and various other means, succeeded in
restoring Iamo to all his former beauty and manliness.
All rejoiced in the happy termination of their troubles,
and they had spent some time joyfully together, when Iamo said:
'Now I will divide the wampum,' and getting the belt which contained
it, he commenced with the eldest, giving it in equal portions.
But the youngest got the most splendid and beautiful,
as the bottom of the belt held the richest and rarest.

They were told that, since they had all once died, and were
restored to life, they were no longer mortal, but spirits,
and they were assigned different stations in the invisible world.
Only Mudjikewis's place was, however, named.  He was to direct
the west wind, hence generally called Kebeyun, there to remain for ever.
They were commanded, as they had it in their power, to do good
to the inhabitants of the earth, and, forgetting their sufferings
in procuring the wampum, to give all things with a liberal hand.
And they were also commanded that it should also be held by them sacred;
those grains or shells of the pale hue to be emblematic of peace,
while those of the darker hue would lead to evil and war.

The spirits then, amid songs and shouts, took their flight to their
respective abodes on high; while Iamo, with his sister Iamoqua,
descended into the depths below.




End of the Project Gutenberg Edition of 'Life on the Mississippi'.






         THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN
               (Tom Sawyer's Comrade)
                         BY
                     MARK TWAIN
                (Samuel L. Clemens)


NOTICE

PERSONS attempting to find a motive in this narra-
tive will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a
moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to
find a plot in it will be shot.

                  BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,
                     Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.


EXPLANATORY

IN this book a number of dialects are used, to wit:
the Missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the
backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary "Pike
County" dialect; and four modified varieties of this
last. The shadings have not been done in a hap-
hazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly,
and with the trustworthy guidance and support of
personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.

I make this explanation for the reason that without
it many readers would suppose that all these characters
were trying to talk alike and not succeeding.

                                      THE AUTHOR.



HUCKLEBERRY FINN

Scene: The Mississippi Valley
Time: Forty to fifty years ago


CHAPTER I.

YOU don't know about me without you have read a
book by the name of The Adventures of Tom
Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. That book was
made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth,
mainly. There was things which he stretched, but
mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never
seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it
was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt
Polly -- Tom's Aunt Polly, she is -- and Mary, and
the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book,
which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as
I said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom
and me found the money that the robbers hid in the
cave, and it made us rich. We got six thousand dollars
apiece -- all gold. It was an awful sight of money
when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took
it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar
a day apiece all the year round -- more than a body
could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas she
took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize
me; but it was rough living in the house all the time,
considering how dismal regular and decent the widow
was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it
no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my
sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But
Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going
to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would
go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went
back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor
lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names,
too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me
in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing
but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well,
then, the old thing commenced again. The widow
rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time.
When you got to the table you couldn't go right to
eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck
down her head and grumble a little over the victuals,
though there warn't really anything the matter with
them, -- that is, nothing only everything was cooked
by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different;
things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps
around, and the things go better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me
about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat
to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out
that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so
then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't
take no stock in dead people.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow
to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it was a mean
practice and wasn't clean, and I must try to not do it
any more. That is just the way with some people.
They get down on a thing when they don't know
nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about
Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to any-
body, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of
fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in
it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all
right, because she done it herself.

Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid,
with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and
took a set at me now with a spelling-book. She
worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then
the widow made her ease up. I couldn't stood it
much longer. Then for an hour it was deadly dull,
and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would say, "Don't
put your feet up there, Huckleberry;" and "Don't
scrunch up like that, Huckleberry -- set up straight;"
and pretty soon she would say, "Don't gap and stretch
like that, Huckleberry -- why don't you try to be-
have?" Then she told me all about the bad place,
and I said I wished I was there. She got mad then,
but I didn't mean no harm. All I wanted was to go
somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn't
particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said;
said she wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was
going to live so as to go to the good place. Well, I
couldn't see no advantage in going where she was
going, so I made up my mind I wouldn't try for it.
But I never said so, because it would only make
trouble, and wouldn't do no good.

Now she had got a start, and she went on and told
me all about the good place. She said all a body
would have to do there was to go around all day long
with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn't
think much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if
she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she
said not by a considerable sight. I was glad about
that, because I wanted him and me to be together.

Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got
tiresome and lonesome. By and by they fetched the
niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was
off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of
candle, and put it on the table. Then I set down in a
chair by the window and tried to think of something
cheerful, but it warn't no use. I felt so lonesome I
most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and
the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and
I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about some-
body that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog cry-
ing about somebody that was going to die; and the
wind was trying to whisper something to me, and I
couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the cold
shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I
heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it
wants to tell about something that's on its mind and
can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in
its grave, and has to go about that way every night
grieving. I got so down-hearted and scared I did wish
I had some company. Pretty soon a spider went
crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit
in the candle; and before I could budge it was all
shriveled up. I didn't need anybody to tell me that
that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some
bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes
off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks
three times and crossed my breast every time; and
then I tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to
keep witches away. But I hadn't no confidence.
You do that when you've lost a horseshoe that you've
found, instead of nailing it up over the door, but I
hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep
off bad luck when you'd killed a spider.

I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my
pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as
death now, and so the widow wouldn't know. Well,
after a long time I heard the clock away off in the
town go boom -- boom -- boom -- twelve licks; and
all still again -- stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard
a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees --
something was a stirring. I set still and listened.
Directly I could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-
yow!" down there. That was good! Says I, "me-
yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put
out the light and scrambled out of the window on to
the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and
crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there
was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.


CHAPTER II.

WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees
back towards the end of the widow's garden,
stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our
heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell
over a root and made a noise. We scrouched down
and laid still. Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim,
was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him
pretty clear, because there was a light behind him.
He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute,
listening. Then he says:

"Who dah?"

He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing
down and stood right between us; we could a touched
him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes
that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close
together. There was a place on my ankle that got to
itching, but I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun
to itch; and next my back, right between my shoul-
ders. Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't scratch. Well,
I've noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are
with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to
sleep when you ain't sleepy -- if you are anywheres
where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch
all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon
Jim says:

"Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats
ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I know what I's gwyne
to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I
hears it agin."

So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom.
He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his
legs out till one of them most touched one of mine.
My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come
into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun
to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching under-
neath. I didn't know how I was going to set still.
This miserableness went on as much as six or seven
minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I
was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned
I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I set
my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim
begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore --
and then I was pretty soon comfortable again.

Tom he made a sign to me -- kind of a little noise
with his mouth -- and we went creeping away on our
hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom
whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for
fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a dis-
turbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then
Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would
slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want
him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come.
But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got
three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for
pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get
away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl
to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play
something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good
while, everything was so still and lonesome.

As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path,
around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on
the steep top of the hill the other side of the house.
Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung
it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but
he didn't wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches be-
witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all
over the State, and then set him under the trees again,
and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And
next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to
New Orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he
spread it more and more, till by and by he said they
rode him all over the world, and tired him most to
death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim
was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he
wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. Niggers
would come miles to hear Jim tell about it, and he was
more looked up to than any nigger in that country.
Strange niggers would stand with their mouths open
and look him all over, same as if he was a wonder.
Niggers is always talking about witches in the dark by
the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and
letting on to know all about such things, Jim would
happen in and say, "Hm! What you know 'bout
witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had to
take a back seat. Jim always kept that five-center
piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a
charm the devil give to him with his own hands, and
told him he could cure anybody with it and fetch
witches whenever he wanted to just by saying some-
thing to it; but he never told what it was he said to it.
Niggers would come from all around there and give
Jim anything they had, just for a sight of that five-
center piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the
devil had had his hands on it. Jim was most ruined
for a servant, because he got stuck up on account of
having seen the devil and been rode by witches.

Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hill-
top we looked away down into the village and could
see three or four lights twinkling, where there was sick
folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever
so fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole
mile broad, and awful still and grand. We went down
the hill and found Jo Harper and Ben Rogers, and
two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tanyard.
So we unhitched a skiff and pulled down the river two
mile and a half, to the big scar on the hillside, and
went ashore.

We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made
everybody swear to keep the secret, and then showed
them a hole in the hill, right in the thickest part of the
bushes. Then we lit the candles, and crawled in on
our hands and knees. We went about two hundred
yards, and then the cave opened up. Tom poked
about amongst the passages, and pretty soon ducked
under a wall where you wouldn't a noticed that there
was a hole. We went along a narrow place and got
into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold,
and there we stopped. Tom says:

"Now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it
Tom Sawyer's Gang. Everybody that wants to join
has got to take an oath, and write his name in blood."

Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of
paper that he had wrote the oath on, and read it. It
swore every boy to stick to the band, and never tell
any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything to
any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to
kill that person and his family must do it, and he
mustn't eat and he mustn't sleep till he had killed them
and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the sign
of the band. And nobody that didn't belong to the
band could use that mark, and if he did he must be
sued; and if he done it again he must be killed. And
if anybody that belonged to the band told the secrets,
he must have his throat cut, and then have his carcass
burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his
name blotted off of the list with blood and never men-
tioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it
and be forgot forever.

Everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and
asked Tom if he got it out of his own head. He said,
some of it, but the rest was out of pirate-books and
robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned
had it.

Some thought it would be good to kill the FAMILIES
of boys that told the secrets. Tom said it was a good
idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it in. Then Ben
Rogers says:

"Here's Huck Finn, he hain't got no family; what
you going to do 'bout him?"

"Well, hain't he got a father?" says Tom Sawyer.

"Yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find
him these days. He used to lay drunk with the hogs
in the tanyard, but he hain't been seen in these parts
for a year or more."

They talked it over, and they was going to rule me
out, because they said every boy must have a family
or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be fair and
square for the others. Well, nobody could think of
anything to do -- everybody was stumped, and set
still. I was most ready to cry; but all at once I
thought of a way, and so I offered them Miss Watson
-- they could kill her. Everybody said:

"Oh, she'll do. That's all right. Huck can come
in."

Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get
blood to sign with, and I made my mark on the paper.

"Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of busi-
ness of this Gang?"

"Nothing only robbery and murder," Tom said.

"But who are we going to rob? -- houses, or cattle,
or --"

"Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't rob-
bery; it's burglary," says Tom Sawyer. "We ain't
burglars. That ain't no sort of style. We are high-
waymen. We stop stages and carriages on the road,
with masks on, and kill the people and take their
watches and money."

"Must we always kill the people?"

"Oh, certainly. It's best. Some authorities think
different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them --
except some that you bring to the cave here, and keep
them till they're ransomed."

"Ransomed? What's that?"

"I don't know. But that's what they do. I've
seen it in books; and so of course that's what we've
got to do."

"But how can we do it if we don't know what it is?"

"Why, blame it all, we've GOT to do it. Don't I tell
you it's in the books? Do you want to go to doing
different from what's in the books, and get things all
muddled up?"

"Oh, that's all very fine to SAY, Tom Sawyer, but
how in the nation are these fellows going to be ran-
somed if we don't know how to do it to them? -- that's
the thing I want to get at. Now, what do you reckon
it is?"

"Well, I don't know. But per'aps if we keep them
till they're ransomed, it means that we keep them till
they're dead. "

"Now, that's something LIKE. That'll answer.
Why couldn't you said that before? We'll keep them
till they're ransomed to death; and a bothersome lot
they'll be, too -- eating up everything, and always
trying to get loose."

"How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get
loose when there's a guard over them, ready to shoot
them down if they move a peg?"

"A guard! Well, that IS good. So somebody's
got to set up all night and never get any sleep, just so
as to watch them. I think that's foolishness. Why
can't a body take a club and ransom them as soon as
they get here?"

"Because it ain't in the books so -- that's why.
Now, Ben Rogers, do you want to do things regular,
or don't you? -- that's the idea. Don't you reckon
that the people that made the books knows what's the
correct thing to do? Do you reckon YOU can learn
'em anything? Not by a good deal. No, sir, we'll
just go on and ransom them in the regular way."

"All right. I don't mind; but I say it's a fool
way, anyhow. Say, do we kill the women, too?"

"Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ignorant as you I
wouldn't let on. Kill the women? No; nobody ever
saw anything in the books like that. You fetch them
to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to them;
and by and by they fall in love with you, and never
want to go home any more."

"Well, if that's the way I'm agreed, but I don't
take no stock in it. Mighty soon we'll have the cave
so cluttered up with women, and fellows waiting to be
ransomed, that there won't be no place for the rob-
bers. But go ahead, I ain't got nothing to say."

Little Tommy Barnes was asleep now, and when
they waked him up he was scared, and cried, and said
he wanted to go home to his ma, and didn't want to
be a robber any more.

So they all made fun of him, and called him cry-
baby, and that made him mad, and he said he would
go straight and tell all the secrets. But Tom give him
five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go home
and meet next week, and rob somebody and kill some
people.

Ben Rogers said he couldn't get out much, only
Sundays, and so he wanted to begin next Sunday; but
all the boys said it would be wicked to do it on Sunday,
and that settled the thing. They agreed to get to-
gether and fix a day as soon as they could, and then
we elected Tom Sawyer first captain and Jo Harper
second captain of the Gang, and so started home.

I clumb up the shed and crept into my window just
before day was breaking. My new clothes was all
greased up and clayey, and I was dog-tired.


CHAPTER III.

WELL, I got a good going-over in the morning
from old Miss Watson on account of my
clothes; but the widow she didn't scold, but only
cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry
that I thought I would behave awhile if I could. Then
Miss Watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but
nothing come of it. She told me to pray every day,
and whatever I asked for I would get it. But it warn't
so. I tried it. Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks.
It warn't any good to me without hooks. I tried for
the hooks three or four times, but somehow I couldn't
make it work. By and by, one day, I asked Miss
Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool. She
never told me why, and I couldn't make it out no way.

I set down one time back in the woods, and had a
long think about it. I says to myself, if a body can
get anything they pray for, why don't Deacon Winn
get back the money he lost on pork? Why can't the
widow get back her silver snuffbox that was stole?
Why can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to my
self, there ain't nothing in it. I went and told the
widow about it, and she said the thing a body could
get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." This was
too many for me, but she told me what she meant -- I
must help other people, and do everything I could for
other people, and look out for them all the time, and
never think about myself. This was including Miss
Watson, as I took it. I went out in the woods and
turned it over in my mind a long time, but I couldn't
see no advantage about it -- except for the other peo-
ple; so at last I reckoned I wouldn't worry about it
any more, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow
would take me one side and talk about Providence in a
way to make a body's mouth water; but maybe next
day Miss Watson would take hold and knock it all
down again. I judged I could see that there was two
Providences, and a poor chap would stand considerable
show with the widow's Providence, but if Miss Wat-
son's got him there warn't no help for him any more.
I thought it all out, and reckoned I would belong to
the widow's if he wanted me, though I couldn't make
out how he was a-going to be any better off then than
what he was before, seeing I was so ignorant, and so
kind of low-down and ornery.

Pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and
that was comfortable for me; I didn't want to see him
no more. He used to always whale me when he was
sober and could get his hands on me; though I used
to take to the woods most of the time when he was
around. Well, about this time he was found in the
river drownded, about twelve mile above town, so
people said. They judged it was him, anyway; said
this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged,
and had uncommon long hair, which was all like pap;
but they couldn't make nothing out of the face, be-
cause it had been in the water so long it warn't much
like a face at all. They said he was floating on his
back in the water. They took him and buried him on
the bank. But I warn't comfortable long, because I
happened to think of something. I knowed mighty
well that a drownded man don't float on his back, but
on his face. So I knowed, then, that this warn't pap,
but a woman dressed up in a man's clothes. So I was
uncomfortable again. I judged the old man would
turn up again by and by, though I wished he wouldn't.

We played robber now and then about a month, and
then I resigned. All the boys did. We hadn't robbed
nobody, hadn't killed any people, but only just pre-
tended. We used to hop out of the woods and go
charging down on hog-drivers and women in carts
taking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any
of them. Tom Sawyer called the hogs "ingots," and
he called the turnips and stuff "julery," and we would
go to the cave and powwow over what we had done,
and how many people we had killed and marked. But
I couldn't see no profit in it. One time Tom sent a
boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which he
called a slogan (which was the sign for the Gang to
get together), and then he said he had got secret news
by his spies that next day a whole parcel of Spanish
merchants and rich A-rabs was going to camp in Cave
Hollow with two hundred elephants, and six hundred
camels, and over a thousand "sumter" mules, all
loaded down with di'monds, and they didn't have only
a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay
in ambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot and
scoop the things. He said we must slick up our swords
and guns, and get ready. He never could go after
even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and
guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath
and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you
rotted, and then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes
more than what they was before. I didn't believe we
could lick such a crowd of Spaniards and A-rabs, but
I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I was on
hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when
we got the word we rushed out of the woods and down
the hill. But there warn't no Spaniards and A-rabs,
and there warn't no camels nor no elephants. It
warn't anything but a Sunday-school picnic, and only
a primer-class at that. We busted it up, and chased
the children up the hollow; but we never got anything
but some doughnuts and jam, though Ben Rogers got
a rag doll, and Jo Harper got a hymn-book and a
tract; and then the teacher charged in, and made us
drop everything and cut. I didn't see no di'monds,
and I told Tom Sawyer so. He said there was loads
of them there, anyway; and he said there was A-rabs
there, too, and elephants and things. I said, why
couldn't we see them, then? He said if I warn't so
ignorant, but had read a book called Don Quixote, I
would know without asking. He said it was all done
by enchantment. He said there was hundreds of
soldiers there, and elephants and treasure, and so on,
but we had enemies which he called magicians; and
they had turned the whole thing into an infant Sunday-
school, just out of spite. I said, all right; then the
thing for us to do was to go for the magicians. Tom
Sawyer said I was a numskull.

"Why," said he, "a magician could call up a lot
of genies, and they would hash you up like nothing
before you could say Jack Robinson. They are as tall
as a tree and as big around as a church."

"Well," I says, "s'pose we got some genies to
help US -- can't we lick the other crowd then?"

"How you going to get them?"

"I don't know. How do THEY get them?"

"Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring,
and then the genies come tearing in, with the thunder
and lightning a-ripping around and the smoke a-rolling,
and everything they're told to do they up and do it.
They don't think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up
by the roots, and belting a Sunday-school superinten-
dent over the head with it -- or any other man."

"Who makes them tear around so?"

"Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. They
belong to whoever rubs the lamp or the ring, and
they've got to do whatever he says. If he tells them
to build a palace forty miles long out of di'monds, and
fill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and
fetch an emperor's daughter from China for you to
marry, they've got to do it -- and they've got to do it
before sun-up next morning, too. And more: they've
got to waltz that palace around over the country
wherever you want it, you understand."

"Well," says I, "I think they are a pack of flat-
heads for not keeping the palace themselves 'stead of
fooling them away like that. And what's more -- if I
was one of them I would see a man in Jericho before I
would drop my business and come to him for the rub-
bing of an old tin lamp."

"How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you'd HAVE to
come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or
not."

"What! and I as high as a tree and as big as a
church? All right, then; I WOULD come; but I lay
I'd make that man climb the highest tree there was in
the country."

"Shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, Huck Finn.
You don't seem to know anything, somehow -- perfect
saphead."

I thought all this over for two or three days, and
then I reckoned I would see if there was anything in it.
I got an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and went out in
the woods and rubbed and rubbed till I sweat like an
Injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it
warn't no use, none of the genies come. So then I
judged that all that stuff was only just one of Tom
Sawyer's lies. I reckoned he believed in the A-rabs
and the elephants, but as for me I think different. It
had all the marks of a Sunday-school.


CHAPTER IV.

WELL, three or four months run along, and it was
well into the winter now. I had been to school
most all the time and could spell and read and write
just a little, and could say the multiplication table up
to six times seven is thirty-five, and I don't reckon I
could ever get any further than that if I was to live
forever. I don't take no stock in mathematics, any-
way.

At first I hated the school, but by and by I got so I
could stand it. Whenever I got uncommon tired I
played hookey, and the hiding I got next day done me
good and cheered me up. So the longer I went to
school the easier it got to be. I was getting sort of
used to the widow's ways, too, and they warn't so
raspy on me. Living in a house and sleeping in a bed
pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before the cold
weather I used to slide out and sleep in the woods
sometimes, and so that was a rest to me. I liked the
old ways best, but I was getting so I liked the new
ones, too, a little bit. The widow said I was coming
along slow but sure, and doing very satisfactory. She
said she warn't ashamed of me.

One morning I happened to turn over the salt-cellar
at breakfast. I reached for some of it as quick as I
could to throw over my left shoulder and keep off the
bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead of me, and
crossed me off. She says, "Take your hands away,
Huckleberry; what a mess you are always making!"
The widow put in a good word for me, but that warn't
going to keep off the bad luck, I knowed that well
enough. I started out, after breakfast, feeling worried
and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall
on me, and what it was going to be. There is ways to
keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one
of them kind; so I never tried to do anything, but just
poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out.

I went down to the front garden and clumb over the
stile where you go through the high board fence.
There was an inch of new snow on the ground, and I
seen somebody's tracks. They had come up from the
quarry and stood around the stile a while, and then
went on around the garden fence. It was funny they
hadn't come in, after standing around so. I couldn't
make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I was
going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at
the tracks first. I didn't notice anything at first, but
next I did. There was a cross in the left boot-heel
made with big nails, to keep off the devil.

I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I
looked over my shoulder every now and then, but I
didn't see nobody. I was at Judge Thatcher's as quick
as I could get there. He said:

"Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did
you come for your interest?"

"No, sir," I says; "is there some for me?"

"Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night -- over a
hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you.
You had better let me invest it along with your six
thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it."

"No, sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I
don't want it at all -- nor the six thousand, nuther.
I want you to take it; I want to give it to you -- the
six thousand and all."

He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make
it out. He says:

"Why, what can you mean, my boy?"

I says, "Don't you ask me no questions about it,
please. You'll take it -- won't you?"

He says:

"Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?"

"Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me noth-
ing -- then I won't have to tell no lies."

He studied a while, and then he says:

"Oho-o! I think I see. You want to SELL all your
property to me -- not give it. That's the correct
idea."

Then he wrote something on a paper and read it
over, and says:

"There; you see it says 'for a consideration.' That
means I have bought it of you and paid you for it.
Here's a dollar for you. Now you sign it."

So I signed it, and left.

Miss Watson's nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball as big as
your fist, which had been took out of the fourth
stomach of an ox, and he used to do magic with it.
He said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed
everything. So I went to him that night and told him
pap was here again, for I found his tracks in the snow.
What I wanted to know was, what he was going to do,
and was he going to stay? Jim got out his hair-ball
and said something over it, and then he held it up and
dropped it on the floor. It fell pretty solid, and only
rolled about an inch. Jim tried it again, and then
another time, and it acted just the same. Jim got
down on his knees, and put his ear against it and
listened. But it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't
talk. He said sometimes it wouldn't talk without
money. I told him I had an old slick counterfeit
quarter that warn't no good because the brass showed
through the silver a little, and it wouldn't pass nohow,
even if the brass didn't show, because it was so slick
it felt greasy, and so that would tell on it every time.
(I reckoned I wouldn't say nothing about the dollar I
got from the judge.) I said it was pretty bad money,
but maybe the hair-ball would take it, because maybe
it wouldn't know the difference. Jim smelt it and bit
it and rubbed it, and said he would manage so the
hair-ball would think it was good. He said he would
split open a raw Irish potato and stick the quarter in
between and keep it there all night, and next morning
you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't feel greasy
no more, and so anybody in town would take it in a
minute, let alone a hair-ball. Well, I knowed a potato
would do that before, but I had forgot it.

Jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got
down and listened again. This time he said the hair-
ball was all right. He said it would tell my whole
fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the hair-
ball talked to Jim, and Jim told it to me. He says:

"Yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne
to do. Sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, en den agin
he spec he'll stay. De bes' way is to res' easy en let
de ole man take his own way. Dey's two angels
hoverin' roun' 'bout him. One uv 'em is white en
shiny, en t'other one is black. De white one gits him
to go right a little while, den de black one sail in en
bust it all up. A body can't tell yit which one gwyne
to fetch him at de las'. But you is all right. You
gwyne to have considable trouble in yo' life, en con-
sidable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en
sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's
gwyne to git well agin. Dey's two gals flyin' 'bout
you in yo' life. One uv 'em's light en t'other one is
dark. One is rich en t'other is po'. You's gwyne to
marry de po' one fust en de rich one by en by. You
wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin,
en don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat
you's gwyne to git hung."

When I lit my candle and went up to my room that
night there sat pap -- his own self!


CHAPTER V.

I HAD shut the door to. Then I turned around.
and there he was. I used to be scared of him all
the time, he tanned me so much. I reckoned I was
scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was mistaken
-- that is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when
my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected;
but right away after I see I warn't scared of him worth
bothring about.

He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was
long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and you
could see his eyes shining through like he was behind
vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his long,
mixed-up whiskers. There warn't no color in his face,
where his face showed; it was white; not like another
man's white, but a white to make a body sick, a white
to make a body's flesh crawl -- a tree-toad white, a
fish-belly white. As for his clothes -- just rags, that
was all. He had one ankle resting on t'other knee;
the boot on that foot was busted, and two of his toes
stuck through, and he worked them now and then.
His hat was laying on the floor -- an old black slouch
with the top caved in, like a lid.

I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at
me, with his chair tilted back a little. I set the candle
down. I noticed the window was up; so he had clumb
in by the shed. He kept a-looking me all over. By
and by he says:

"Starchy clothes -- very. You think you're a good
deal of a big-bug, DON'T you?"

"Maybe I am, maybe I ain't," I says.

"Don't you give me none o' your lip," says he.
"You've put on considerable many frills since I been
away. I'll take you down a peg before I get done
with you. You're educated, too, they say -- can read
and write. You think you're better'n your father,
now, don't you, because he can't? I'LL take it out of
you. Who told you you might meddle with such
hifalut'n foolishness, hey? -- who told you you could?"

"The widow. She told me."

"The widow, hey? -- and who told the widow she
could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none of
her business?"

"Nobody never told her."

"Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky
here -- you drop that school, you hear? I'll learn
people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own
father and let on to be better'n what HE is. You lemme
catch you fooling around that school again, you hear?
Your mother couldn't read, and she couldn't write,
nuther, before she died. None of the family couldn't
before THEY died. I can't; and here you're a-swelling
yourself up like this. I ain't the man to stand it --
you hear? Say, lemme hear you read."

I took up a book and begun something about Gen-
eral Washington and the wars. When I'd read about
a half a minute, he fetched the book a whack with his
hand and knocked it across the house. He says:

"It's so. You can do it. I had my doubts when
you told me. Now looky here; you stop that putting
on frills. I won't have it. I'll lay for you, my
smarty; and if I catch you about that school I'll tan
you good. First you know you'll get religion, too. I
never see such a son.

He took up a little blue and yaller picture of some
cows and a boy, and says:

"What's this?"

"It's something they give me for learning my
lessons good."

He tore it up, and says:

"I'll give you something better -- I'll give you a
cowhide.

He set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute,
and then he says:

"AIN'T you a sweet-scented dandy, though? A
bed; and bedclothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece
of carpet on the floor -- and your own father got to
sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. I never see such a
son. I bet I'll take some o' these frills out o' you
before I'm done with you. Why, there ain't no end to
your airs -- they say you're rich. Hey? -- how's that?"

"They lie -- that's how."

"Looky here -- mind how you talk to me; I'm a-
standing about all I can stand now -- so don't gimme
no sass. I've been in town two days, and I hain't
heard nothing but about you bein' rich. I heard
about it away down the river, too. That's why I
come. You git me that money to-morrow -- I want
it."

"I hain't got no money."

"It's a lie. Judge Thatcher's got it. You git it.
I want it."

"I hain't got no money, I tell you. You ask Judge
Thatcher; he'll tell you the same."

"All right. I'll ask him; and I'll make him pungle,
too, or I'll know the reason why. Say, how much
you got in your pocket? I want it."

"I hain't got only a dollar, and I want that to --"

"It don't make no difference what you want it for
-- you just shell it out."

He took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then
he said he was going down town to get some whisky;
said he hadn't had a drink all day. When he had got
out on the shed he put his head in again, and cussed
me for putting on frills and trying to be better than
him; and when I reckoned he was gone he come back
and put his head in again, and told me to mind about
that school, because he was going to lay for me and
lick me if I didn't drop that.

Next day he was drunk, and he went to Judge
Thatcher's and bullyragged him, and tried to make
him give up the money; but he couldn't, and then he
swore he'd make the law force him.

The judge and the widow went to law to get the
court to take me away from him and let one of them
be my guardian; but it was a new judge that had just
come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said
courts mustn't interfere and separate families if they
could help it; said he'd druther not take a child away
from its father. So Judge Thatcher and the widow
had to quit on the business.

That pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. He
said he'd cowhide me till I was black and blue if I
didn't raise some money for him. I borrowed three
dollars from Judge Thatcher, and pap took it and got
drunk, and went a-blowing around and cussing and
whooping and carrying on; and he kept it up all over
town, with a tin pan, till most midnight; then they
jailed him, and next day they had him before court,
and jailed him again for a week. But he said HE was
satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make
it warm for HIM.

When he got out the new judge said he was a-going
to make a man of him. So he took him to his
own house, and dressed him up clean and nice, and
had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the
family, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. And
after supper he talked to him about temperance and
such things till the old man cried, and said he'd been a
fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-going
to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't
be ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help
him and not look down on him. The judge said he
could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his
wife she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that had
always been misunderstood before, and the judge said
he believed it. The old man said that what a man
wanted that was down was sympathy, and the judge
said it was so; so they cried again. And when it was
bedtime the old man rose up and held out his hand,
and says:

"Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold
of it; shake it. There's a hand that was the hand of
a hog; but it ain't so no more; it's the hand of a man
that's started in on a new life, and'll die before he'll
go back. You mark them words -- don't forget I said
them. It's a clean hand now; shake it -- don't be
afeard."

So they shook it, one after the other, all around, and
cried. The judge's wife she kissed it. Then the old
man he signed a pledge -- made his mark. The judge
said it was the holiest time on record, or something
like that. Then they tucked the old man into a beauti-
ful room, which was the spare room, and in the night
some time he got powerful thirsty and clumb out on to
the porch-roof and slid down a stanchion and traded his
new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again
and had a good old time; and towards daylight he
crawled out again, drunk as a fiddler, and rolled off
the porch and broke his left arm in two places, and
was most froze to death when somebody found him
after sun-up. And when they come to look at that
spare room they had to take soundings before they
could navigate it.

The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned
a body could reform the old man with a shotgun,
maybe, but he didn't know no other way.


CHAPTER VI.

WELL, pretty soon the old man was up and around
again, and then he went for Judge Thatcher in
the courts to make him give up that money, and he
went for me, too, for not stopping school. He catched
me a couple of times and thrashed me, but I went to
school just the same, and dodged him or outrun him
most of the time. I didn't want to go to school much
before, but I reckoned I'd go now to spite pap. That
law trial was a slow business -- appeared like they
warn't ever going to get started on it; so every now
and then I'd borrow two or three dollars off of the
judge for him, to keep from getting a cowhiding.
Every time he got money he got drunk; and every
time he got drunk he raised Cain around town; and
every time he raised Cain he got jailed. He was just
suited -- this kind of thing was right in his line.

He got to hanging around the widow's too much
and so she told him at last that if he didn't quit using
around there she would make trouble for him. Well,
WASN'T he mad? He said he would show who was
Huck Finn's boss. So he watched out for me one day
in the spring, and catched me, and took me up the
river about three mile in a skiff, and crossed over to
the Illinois shore where it was woody and there warn't
no houses but an old log hut in a place where the
timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't
know where it was.

He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a
chance to run off. We lived in that old cabin, and he
always locked the door and put the key under his head
nights. He had a gun which he had stole, I reckon,
and we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived
on. Every little while he locked me in and went down
to the store, three miles, to the ferry, and traded fish
and game for whisky, and fetched it home and got
drunk and had a good time, and licked me. The
widow she found out where I was by and by, and she
sent a man over to try to get hold of me; but pap
drove him off with the gun, and it warn't long after
that till I was used to being where I was, and liked
it -- all but the cowhide part.

It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable
all day, smoking and fishing, and no books nor study.
Two months or more run along, and my clothes got to
be all rags and dirt, and I didn't see how I'd ever got
to like it so well at the widow's, where you had to
wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed
and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a
book, and have old Miss Watson pecking at you all the
time. I didn't want to go back no more. I had
stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but
now I took to it again because pap hadn't no objec-
tions. It was pretty good times up in the woods
there, take it all around.

But by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry,
and I couldn't stand it. I was all over welts. He got
to going away so much, too, and locking me in. Once
he locked me in and was gone three days. It was
dreadful lonesome. I judged he had got drowned,
and I wasn't ever going to get out any more. I was
scared. I made up my mind I would fix up some way
to leave there. I had tried to get out of that cabin
many a time, but I couldn't find no way. There
warn't a window to it big enough for a dog to get
through. I couldn't get up the chimbly; it was too
narrow. The door was thick, solid oak slabs. Pap
was pretty careful not to leave a knife or anything in
the cabin when he was away; I reckon I had hunted
the place over as much as a hundred times; well, I
was most all the time at it, because it was about the
only way to put in the time. But this time I found
something at last; I found an old rusty wood-saw
without any handle; it was laid in between a rafter
and the clapboards of the roof. I greased it up and
went to work. There was an old horse-blanket nailed
against the logs at the far end of the cabin behind the
table, to keep the wind from blowing through the
chinks and putting the candle out. I got under the
table and raised the blanket, and went to work to saw
a section of the big bottom log out -- big enough to
let me through. Well, it was a good long job, but I
was getting towards the end of it when I heard pap's
gun in the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work,
and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty
soon pap come in.

Pap warn't in a good humor -- so he was his natural
self. He said he was down town, and everything was
going wrong. His lawyer said he reckoned he would
win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got
started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it
off a long time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do
it And he said people allowed there'd be another
trial to get me away from him and give me to the
widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win
this time. This shook me up considerable, because I
didn't want to go back to the widow's any more and
be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called it.
Then the old man got to cussing, and cussed every-
thing and everybody he could think of, and then cussed
them all over again to make sure he hadn't skipped
any, and after that he polished off with a kind of a
general cuss all round, including a considerable parcel
of people which he didn't know the names of, and so
called them what's-his-name when he got to them, and
went right along with his cussing.

He said he would like to see the widow get me.
He said he would watch out, and if they tried to come
any such game on him he knowed of a place six or
seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt
till they dropped and they couldn't find me. That
made me pretty uneasy again, but only for a minute;
I reckoned I wouldn't stay on hand till he got that
chance.

The old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the
things he had got. There was a fifty-pound sack of
corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and a
four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two
newspapers for wadding, besides some tow. I toted
up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of
the skiff to rest. I thought it all over, and I reckoned
I would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take
to the woods when I run away. I guessed I wouldn't
stay in one place, but just tramp right across the
country, mostly night times, and hunt and fish to keep
alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor the
widow couldn't ever find me any more. I judged I
would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk
enough, and I reckoned he would. I got so full of it
I didn't notice how long I was staying till the old man
hollered and asked me whether I was asleep or
drownded.

I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was
about dark. While I was cooking supper the old man
took a swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and
went to ripping again. He had been drunk over in
town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a
sight to look at. A body would a thought he was
Adam -- he was just all mud. Whenever his liquor
begun to work he most always went for the govment.
his time he says:

"Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see
what it's like. Here's the law a-standing ready to take
a man's son away from him -- a man's own son, which
he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all
the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has got
that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and
begin to do suthin' for HIM and give him a rest, the law
up and goes for him. And they call THAT govment!
That ain't all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge
Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my
property. Here's what the law does: The law takes a
man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams
him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him
go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They
call that govment! A man can't get his rights in a
govment like this. Sometimes I've a mighty notion to
just leave the country for good and all. Yes, and I
TOLD 'em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots
of 'em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I,
for two cents I'd leave the blamed country and never
come a-near it agin. Them's the very words. I says
look at my hat -- if you call it a hat -- but the lid
raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below
my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more
like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove-
pipe. Look at it, says I -- such a hat for me to wear
-- one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git
my rights.

"Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful.
Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from
Ohio -- a mulatter, most as white as a white man. He
had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the
shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's
got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold
watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane -- the awful-
est old gray-headed nabob in the State. And what do
you think? They said he was a p'fessor in a college,
and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed
everything. And that ain't the wust. They said he
could VOTE when he was at home. Well, that let me
out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to? It
was 'lection day, and I was just about to go and vote
myself if I warn't too drunk to get there; but when
they told me there was a State in this country where
they'd let that nigger vote, I drawed out. I says I'll
never vote agin. Them's the very words I said; they
all heard me; and the country may rot for all me --
I'll never vote agin as long as I live. And to see the
cool way of that nigger -- why, he wouldn't a give me
the road if I hadn't shoved him out o' the way. I
says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at
auction and sold? -- that's what I want to know. And
what do you reckon they said? Why, they said he
couldn't be sold till he'd been in the State six months,
and he hadn't been there that long yet. There, now --
that's a specimen. They call that a govment that can't
sell a free nigger till he's been in the State six months.
Here's a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets
on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and
yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before
it can take a hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal,
white-shirted free nigger, and --"

Pap was agoing on so he never noticed where his
old limber legs was taking him to, so he went head over
heels over the tub of salt pork and barked both shins,
and the rest of his speech was all the hottest kind of
language -- mostly hove at the nigger and the gov-
ment, though he give the tub some, too, all along,
here and there. He hopped around the cabin con-
siderable, first on one leg and then on the other, hold-
ing first one shin and then the other one, and at last he
let out with his left foot all of a sudden and fetched
the tub a rattling kick. But it warn't good judgment,
because that was the boot that had a couple of his toes
leaking out of the front end of it; so now he raised a
howl that fairly made a body's hair raise, and down he
went in the dirt, and rolled there, and held his toes;
and the cussing he done then laid over anything he
had ever done previous. He said so his own self after-
wards. He had heard old Sowberry Hagan in his
best days, and he said it laid over him, too; but I
reckon that was sort of piling it on, maybe.

After supper pap took the jug, and said he had
enough whisky there for two drunks and one delirium
tremens. That was always his word. I judged he
would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then I
would steal the key, or saw myself out, one or t'other.
He drank and drank, and tumbled down on his
blankets by and by; but luck didn't run my way. He
didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy. He groaned
and moaned and thrashed around this way and that for
a long time. At last I got so sleepy I couldn't keep
my eyes open all I could do, and so before I knowed
what I was about I was sound asleep, and the candle
burning.

I don't know how long I was asleep, but all of a
sudden there was an awful scream and I was up.
There was pap looking wild, and skipping around every
which way and yelling about snakes. He said they
was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a
jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the
cheek -- but I couldn't see no snakes. He started
and run round and round the cabin, hollering "Take
him off! take him off! he's biting me on the neck!"
I never see a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty
soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting;
then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking
things every which way, and striking and grabbing at
the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there
was devils a-hold of him. He wore out by and by,
and laid still a while, moaning. Then he laid stiller,
and didn't make a sound. I could hear the owls and
the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terri-
ble still. He was laying over by the corner. By and
by he raised up part way and listened, with his head
to one side. He says, very low:

"Tramp -- tramp -- tramp; that's the dead; tramp
-- tramp -- tramp; they're coming after me; but I
won't go. Oh, they're here! don't touch me -- don't!
hands off -- they're cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil
alone!"

Then he went down on all fours and crawled off,
begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself
up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine
table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. I
could hear him through the blanket.

By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet
looking wild, and he see me and went for me. He
chased me round and round the place with a clasp-
knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he
would kill me, and then I couldn't come for him no
more. I begged, and told him I was only Huck; but
he laughed SUCH a screechy laugh, and roared and
cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once when I
turned short and dodged under his arm he made a
grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders,
and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of the jacket
quick as lightning, and saved myself. Pretty soon he
was all tired out, and dropped down with his back
against the door, and said he would rest a minute and
then kill me. He put his knife under him, and said
he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see
who was who.

So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the
old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as I could,
not to make any noise, and got down the gun. I
slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded,
then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing
towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to
stir. And how slow and still the time did drag along.


CHAPTER VII.

RGIT up! What you 'bout?"

I opened my eyes and looked around, trying
to make out where I was. It was after sun-up, and I
had been sound asleep. Pap was standing over me
looking sourQand sick, too. He says:

"What you doin' with this gun?"

I judged he didn't know nothing about what he had
been doing, so I says:

"Somebody tried to get in, so I was laying for
him."

"Why didn't you roust me out?"

"Well, I tried to, but I couldn't; I couldn't budge
you."

"Well, all right. Don't stand there palavering all
day, but out with you and see if there's a fish on the
lines for breakfast. I'll be along in a minute."

He unlocked the door, and I cleared out up the
river-bank. I noticed some pieces of limbs and such
things floating down, and a sprinkling of bark; so I
knowed the river had begun to rise. I reckoned I
would have great times now if I was over at the town.
The June rise used to be always luck for me; because
as soon as that rise begins here comes cordwood float-
ing down, and pieces of log rafts -- sometimes a dozen
logs together; so all you have to do is to catch them
and sell them to the wood-yards and the sawmill.

I went along up the bank with one eye out for pap
and t'other one out for what the rise might fetch
along. Well, all at once here comes a canoe; just a
beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long,
riding high like a duck. I shot head-first off of the
bank like a frog, clothes and all on, and struck out for
the canoe. I just expected there'd be somebody lay-
ing down in it, because people often done that to fool
folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out most to
it they'd raise up and laugh at him. But it warn't so
this time. It was a drift-canoe sure enough, and I
clumb in and paddled her ashore. Thinks I, the old
man will be glad when he sees this -- she's worth ten
dollars. But when I got to shore pap wasn't in sight
yet, and as I was running her into a little creek like a
gully, all hung over with vines and willows, I struck
another idea: I judged I'd hide her good, and then,
'stead of taking to the woods when I run off, I'd go
down the river about fifty mile and camp in one place
for good, and not have such a rough time tramping on
foot.

It was pretty close to the shanty, and I thought I
heard the old man coming all the time; but I got her
hid; and then I out and looked around a bunch of
willows, and there was the old man down the path
a piece just drawing a bead on a bird with his gun. So
he hadn't seen anything.

When he got along I was hard at it taking up a
"trot" line. He abused me a little for being so slow;
but I told him I fell in the river, and that was what
made me so long. I knowed he would see I was wet,
and then he would be asking questions. We got five
catfish off the lines and went home.

While we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of
us being about wore out, I got to thinking that if I could
fix up some way to keep pap and the widow from trying
to follow me, it would be a certainer thing than trust-
ing to luck to get far enough off before they missed
me; you see, all kinds of things might happen. Well,
I didn't see no way for a while, but by and by pap
raised up a minute to drink another barrel of water,
and he says:

"Another time a man comes a-prowling round here
you roust me out, you hear? That man warn't here
for no good. I'd a shot him. Next time you roust
me out, you hear?"

Then he dropped down and went to sleep again; but
what he had been saying give me the very idea I
wanted. I says to myself, I can fix it now so nobody
won't think of following me.

About twelve o'clock we turned out and went along
up the bank. The river was coming up pretty fast,
and lots of driftwood going by on the rise. By and
by along comes part of a log raft -- nine logs fast
together. We went out with the skiff and towed it
ashore. Then we had dinner. Anybody but pap
would a waited and seen the day through, so as to
catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. Nine
logs was enough for one time; he must shove right
over to town and sell. So he locked me in and took
the skiff, and started off towing the raft about half-
past three. I judged he wouldn't come back that
night. I waited till I reckoned he had got a good
start; then I out with my saw, and went to work on
that log again. Before he was t'other side of the river
I was out of the hole; him and his raft was just a
speck on the water away off yonder.

I took the sack of corn meal and took it to where
the canoe was hid, and shoved the vines and branches
apart and put it in; then I done the same with the
side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. I took all the
coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; I
took the wadding; I took the bucket and gourd; I
took a dipper and a tin cup, and my old saw and two
blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. I took
fish-lines and matches and other things -- everything
that was worth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I
wanted an axe, but there wasn't any, only the one out
at the woodpile, and I knowed why I was going to leave
that. I fetched out the gun, and now I was done.

I had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of
the hole and dragging out so many things. So I
fixed that as good as I could from the outside by
scattering dust on the place, which covered up the
smoothness and the sawdust. Then I fixed the piece
of log back into its place, and put two rocks under it
and one against it to hold it there, for it was bent up
at that place and didn't quite touch ground. If you
stood four or five foot away and didn't know it was
sawed, you wouldn't never notice it; and besides, this
was the back of the cabin, and it warn't likely anybody
would go fooling around there.

It was all grass clear to the canoe, so I hadn't left a
track. I followed around to see. I stood on the
bank and looked out over the river. All safe. So I
took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and
was hunting around for some birds when I see a wild
pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after they
had got away from the prairie farms. I shot this fel-
low and took him into camp.

I took the axe and smashed in the door. I beat it
and hacked it considerable a-doing it. I fetched the
pig in, and took him back nearly to the table and
hacked into his throat with the axe, and laid him down
on the ground to bleed; I say ground because it was
ground -- hard packed, and no boards. Well, next I
took an old sack and put a lot of big rocks in it -- all I
could drag -- and I started it from the pig, and dragged
it to the door and through the woods down to the river
and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight.
You could easy see that something had been dragged
over the ground. I did wish Tom Sawyer was there;
I knowed he would take an interest in this kind of
business, and throw in the fancy touches. Nobody
could spread himself like Tom Sawyer in such a thing
as that.

Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and blooded
the axe good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung
the axe in the corner. Then I took up the pig and held
him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn't drip)
till I got a good piece below the house and then
dumped him into the river. Now I thought of some-
thing else. So I went and got the bag of meal
and my old saw out of the canoe, and fetched
them to the house. I took the bag to where it
used to stand, and ripped a hole in the bottom of it
with the saw, for there warn't no knives and forks on
the place -- pap done everything with his clasp-knife
about the cooking. Then I carried the sack about a
hundred yards across the grass and through the willows
east of the house, to a shallow lake that was five mile
wide and full of rushes -- and ducks too, you might
say, in the season. There was a slough or a creek
leading out of it on the other side that went miles away,
I don't know where, but it didn't go to the river. The
meal sifted out and made a little track all the way to
the lake. I dropped pap's whetstone there too, so as
to look like it had been done by accident. Then I tied
up the rip in the meal sack with a string, so it wouldn't
leak no more, and took it and my saw to the canoe
again.

It was about dark now; so I dropped the canoe
down the river under some willows that hung over the
bank, and waited for the moon to rise. I made fast to
a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and by and by laid
down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan.
I says to myself, they'll follow the track of that sack-
ful of rocks to the shore and then drag the river for
me. And they'll follow that meal track to the lake
and go browsing down the creek that leads out of it to
find the robbers that killed me and took the things.
They won't ever hunt the river for anything but my
dead carcass. They'll soon get tired of that, and
won't bother no more about me. All right; I can
stop anywhere I want to. Jackson's Island is good
enough for me; I know that island pretty well, and
nobody ever comes there. And then I can paddle
over to town nights, and slink around and pick up
things I want. Jackson's Island's the place.

I was pretty tired, and the first thing I knowed I
was asleep. When I woke up I didn't know where I
was for a minute. I set up and looked around, a little
scared. Then I remembered. The river looked miles
and miles across. The moon was so bright I could a
counted the drift logs that went a-slipping along, black
and still, hundreds of yards out from shore. Every-
thing was dead quiet, and it looked late, and SMELT
late. You know what I mean -- I don't know the
words to put it in.

I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going
to unhitch and start when I heard a sound away over
the water. I listened. Pretty soon I made it out. It
was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from
oars working in rowlocks when it's a still night. I
peeped out through the willow branches, and there it
was -- a skiff, away across the water. I couldn't tell
how many was in it. It kept a-coming, and when it
was abreast of me I see there warn't but one man in it.
Think's I, maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting
him. He dropped below me with the current, and
by and by he came a-swinging up shore in the easy
water, and he went by so close I could a reached out
the gun and touched him. Well, it WAS pap, sure
enough -- and sober, too, by the way he laid his oars.

I didn't lose no time. The next minute I was a-
spinning down stream soft but quick in the shade of
the bank. I made two mile and a half, and then
struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the
middle of the river, because pretty soon I would be
passing the ferry landing, and people might see me
and hail me. I got out amongst the driftwood, and
then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her
float. I laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke
out of my pipe, looking away into the sky; not a
cloud in it. The sky looks ever so deep when you lay
down on your back in the moonshine; I never knowed
it before. And how far a body can hear on the water
such nights! I heard people talking at the ferry land-
ing. I heard what they said, too -- every word of it.
One man said it was getting towards the long days and
the short nights now. T'other one said THIS warn't
one of the short ones, he reckoned -- and then they
laughed, and he said it over again, and they laughed
again; then they waked up another fellow and told
him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out
something brisk, and said let him alone. The first
fellow said he 'lowed to tell it to his old woman -- she
would think it was pretty good; but he said that
warn't nothing to some things he had said in his time.
I heard one man say it was nearly three o'clock, and
he hoped daylight wouldn't wait more than about a
week longer. After that the talk got further and
further away, and I couldn't make out the words any
more; but I could hear the mumble, and now and then
a laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off.

I was away below the ferry now. I rose up, and
there was Jackson's Island, about two mile and a half
down stream, heavy timbered and standing up out of
the middle of the river, big and dark and solid, like a
steamboat without any lights. There warn't any signs
of the bar at the head -- it was all under water now.

It didn't take me long to get there. I shot past the
head at a ripping rate, the current was so swift, and
then I got into the dead water and landed on the side
towards the Illinois shore. I run the canoe into a deep
dent in the bank that I knowed about; I had to part
the willow branches to get in; and when I made fast
nobody could a seen the canoe from the outside.

I went up and set down on a log at the head of the
island, and looked out on the big river and the black
driftwood and away over to the town, three mile
away, where there was three or four lights twinkling.
A monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile up
stream, coming along down, with a lantern in the
middle of it. I watched it come creeping down, and
when it was most abreast of where I stood I heard a
man say, "Stern oars, there! heave her head to stab-
board!" I heard that just as plain as if the man was
by my side.

There was a little gray in the sky now; so I stepped
into the woods, and laid down for a nap before break-
fast.


CHAPTER VIII.

THE sun was up so high when I waked that I judged
it was after eight o'clock. I laid there in the
grass and the cool shade thinking about things, and
feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisfied. I
could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly
it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst
them. There was freckled places on the ground where
the light sifted down through the leaves, and the
freckled places swapped about a little, showing there
was a little breeze up there. A couple of squirrels set
on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly.

I was powerful lazy and comfortable -- didn't want
to get up and cook breakfast. Well, I was dozing off
again when I thinks I hears a deep sound of "boom!"
away up the river. I rouses up, and rests on my elbow
and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped
up, and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves,
and I see a bunch of smoke laying on the water a long
ways up -- about abreast the ferry. And there was
the ferryboat full of people floating along down. I
knowed what was the matter now. "Boom!" I see
the white smoke squirt out of the ferryboat's side.
You see, they was firing cannon over the water, trying
to make my carcass come to the top.

I was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for
me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke.
So I set there and watched the cannon-smoke and
listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide there,
and it always looks pretty on a summer morning -- so
I was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for
my remainders if I only had a bite to eat. Well, then
I happened to think how they always put quicksilver
in loaves of bread and float them off, because they
always go right to the drownded carcass and stop
there. So, says I, I'll keep a lookout, and if any of
them's floating around after me I'll give them a show.
I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see what
luck I could have, and I warn't disappointed. A big
double loaf come along, and I most got it with a long
stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further.
Of course I was where the current set in the closest to
the shore -- I knowed enough for that. But by and
by along comes another one, and this time I won. I
took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quick-
silver, and set my teeth in. It was "baker's bread"
-- what the quality eat; none of your low-down
corn-pone.

I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there
on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry-
boat, and very well satisfied. And then something
struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow or the
parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find
me, and here it has gone and done it. So there ain't
no doubt but there is something in that thing -- that is,
there's something in it when a body like the widow or
the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and I
reckon it don't work for only just the right kind.

I lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went
on watching. The ferryboat was floating with the
current, and I allowed I'd have a chance to see who
was aboard when she come along, because she would
come in close, where the bread did. When she'd got
pretty well along down towards me, I put out my pipe
and went to where I fished out the bread, and laid
down behind a log on the bank in a little open place.
Where the log forked I could peep through.

By and by she come along, and she drifted in so
close that they could a run out a plank and walked
ashore. Most everybody was on the boat. Pap, and
Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Jo Harper,
and Tom Sawyer, and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and
Mary, and plenty more. Everybody was talking about
the murder, but the captain broke in and says:

"Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest
here, and maybe he's washed ashore and got tangled
amongst the brush at the water's edge. I hope so,
anyway."

"I didn't hope so. They all crowded up and leaned
over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watch-
ing with all their might. I could see them first-rate,
but they couldn't see me. Then the captain sung out:

"Stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast
right before me that it made me deef with the noise and
pretty near blind with the smoke, and I judged I was
gone. If they'd a had some bullets in, I reckon
they'd a got the corpse they was after. Well, I see I
warn't hurt, thanks to goodness. The boat floated on
and went out of sight around the shoulder of the island.
I could hear the booming now and then, further and
further off, and by and by, after an hour, I didn't hear
it no more. The island was three mile long. I judged
they had got to the foot, and was giving it up. But
they didn't yet a while. They turned around the foot
of the island and started up the channel on the Mis-
souri side, under steam, and booming once in a while
as they went. I crossed over to that side and watched
them. When they got abreast the head of the island
they quit shooting and dropped over to the Missouri
shore and went home to the town.

I knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would
come a-hunting after me. I got my traps out of the
canoe and made me a nice camp in the thick woods. I
made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my
things under so the rain couldn't get at them. I
catched a catfish and haggled him open with my saw,
and towards sundown I started my camp fire and had
supper. Then I set out a line to catch some fish for
breakfast.

When it was dark I set by my camp fire smoking,
and feeling pretty well satisfied; but by and by it got
sort of lonesome, and so I went and set on the bank
and listened to the current swashing along, and counted
the stars and drift logs and rafts that come down, and
then went to bed; there ain't no better way to put in
time when you are lonesome; you can't stay so, you
soon get over it.

And so for three days and nights. No difference --
just the same thing. But the next day I went explor-
ing around down through the island. I was boss of it;
it all belonged to me, so to say, and I wanted to know
all about it; but mainly I wanted to put in the time.
I found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green
summer grapes, and green razberries; and the green
blackberries was just beginning to show. They would
all come handy by and by, I judged.

Well, I went fooling along in the deep woods till I
judged I warn't far from the foot of the island. I had
my gun along, but I hadn't shot nothing; it was for
protection; thought I would kill some game nigh
home. About this time I mighty near stepped on a
good-sized snake, and it went sliding off through the
grass and flowers, and I after it, trying to get a shot at
it. I clipped along, and all of a sudden I bounded
right on to the ashes of a camp fire that was still
smoking.

My heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never
waited for to look further, but uncocked my gun and
went sneaking back on my tiptoes as fast as ever I
could. Every now and then I stopped a second amongst
the thick leaves and listened, but my breath come so
hard I couldn't hear nothing else. I slunk along an-
other piece further, then listened again; and so on,
and so on. If I see a stump, I took it for a man; if I
trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a
person had cut one of my breaths in two and I only
got half, and the short half, too.

When I got to camp I warn't feeling very brash,
there warn't much sand in my craw; but I says, this
ain't no time to be fooling around. So I got all my
traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of
sight, and I put out the fire and scattered the ashes
around to look like an old last year's camp, and then
clumb a tree.

I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I
didn't see nothing, I didn't hear nothing -- I only
THOUGHT I heard and seen as much as a thousand
things. Well, I couldn't stay up there forever; so at
last I got down, but I kept in the thick woods and on
the lookout all the time. All I could get to eat was
berries and what was left over from breakfast.

By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So
when it was good and dark I slid out from shore before
moonrise and paddled over to the Illinois bank -- about
a quarter of a mile. I went out in the woods and
cooked a supper, and I had about made up my mind
I would stay there all night when I hear a PLUNKETY-
PLUNK, PLUNKETY-PLUNK, and says to myself, horses
coming; and next I hear people's voices. I got
everything into the canoe as quick as I could, and then
went creeping through the woods to see what I could
find out. I hadn't got far when I hear a man say:

"We better camp here if we can find a good place;
the horses is about beat out. Let's look around."

I didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away
easy. I tied up in the old place, and reckoned I would
sleep in the canoe.

I didn't sleep much. I couldn't, somehow, for
thinking. And every time I waked up I thought
somebody had me by the neck. So the sleep didn't
do me no good. By and by I says to myself, I can't
live this way; I'm a-going to find out who it is that's
here on the island with me; I'll find it out or bust.
Well, I felt better right off.

So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a
step or two, and then let the canoe drop along down
amongst the shadows. The moon was shining, and out-
side of the shadows it made it most as light as day. I
poked along well on to an hour, everything still as
rocks and sound asleep. Well, by this time I was
most down to the foot of the island. A little ripply,
cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as
saying the night was about done. I give her a turn
with the paddle and brung her nose to shore; then I
got my gun and slipped out and into the edge of the
woods. I sat down there on a log, and looked out
through the leaves. I see the moon go off watch, and
the darkness begin to blanket the river. But in a little
while I see a pale streak over the treetops, and knowed
the day was coming. So I took my gun and slipped
off towards where I had run across that camp fire,
stopping every minute or two to listen. But I hadn't
no luck somehow; I couldn't seem to find the place.
But by and by, sure enough, I catched a glimpse of
fire away through the trees. I went for it, cautious
and slow. By and by I was close enough to have a
look, and there laid a man on the ground. It most
give me the fantods. He had a blanket around his
head, and his head was nearly in the fire. I set there
behind a clump of bushes in about six foot of him,
and kept my eyes on him steady. It was getting gray
daylight now. Pretty soon he gapped and stretched
himself and hove off the blanket, and it was Miss
Watson's Jim! I bet I was glad to see him. I says:

"Hello, Jim!" and skipped out.

He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he
drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together
and says:

"Doan' hurt me -- don't! I hain't ever done no
harm to a ghos'. I alwuz liked dead people, en done
all I could for 'em. You go en git in de river agin,
whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at
'uz awluz yo' fren'."

Well, I warn't long making him understand I warn't
dead. I was ever so glad to see Jim. I warn't lone-
some now. I told him I warn't afraid of HIM telling
the people where I was. I talked along, but he only
set there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then
I says:

"It's good daylight. Le's get breakfast. Make up
your camp fire good."

"What's de use er makin' up de camp fire to cook
strawbries en sich truck? But you got a gun, hain't
you? Den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries."

"Strawberries and such truck," I says. "Is that
what you live on?"

"I couldn' git nuffn else," he says.

"Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?"

"I come heah de night arter you's killed."

"What, all that time?"

"Yes -- indeedy."

"And ain't you had nothing but that kind of rub-
bage to eat?"

"No, sah -- nuffn else."

"Well, you must be most starved, ain't you?"

"I reck'n I could eat a hoss. I think I could.
How long you ben on de islan'?"

"Since the night I got killed."

"No! W'y, what has you lived on? But you got
a gun. Oh, yes, you got a gun. Dat's good. Now
you kill sumfn en I'll make up de fire."

So we went over to where the canoe was, and while
he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the trees,
I fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot
and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger
was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was
all done with witchcraft. I catched a good big catfish,
too, and Jim cleaned him with his knife, and fried
him.

When breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and
eat it smoking hot. Jim laid it in with all his might,
for he was most about starved. Then when we had
got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied.
By and by Jim says:

"But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed
in dat shanty ef it warn't you?"

Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was
smart. He said Tom Sawyer couldn't get up no better
plan than what I had. Then I says:

"How do you come to be here, Jim, and how'd you
get here?"

He looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for
a minute. Then he says:

"Maybe I better not tell."

"Why, Jim?"

"Well, dey's reasons. But you wouldn' tell on me
ef I uz to tell you, would you, Huck?"

"Blamed if I would, Jim."

"Well, I b'lieve you, Huck. I -- I RUN OFF."

"Jim!"

"But mind, you said you wouldn' tell -- you know
you said you wouldn' tell, Huck."

"Well, I did. I said I wouldn't, and I'll stick to it.
Honest INJUN, I will. People would call me a low-
down Abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum --
but that don't make no difference. I ain't a-going to
tell, and I ain't a-going back there, anyways. So,
now, le's know all about it."

"Well, you see, it 'uz dis way. Ole missus -- dat's
Miss Watson -- she pecks on me all de time, en treats
me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn' sell
me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger
trader roun' de place considable lately, en I begin to
git oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do' pooty
late, en de do' warn't quite shet, en I hear old missus
tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans,
but she didn' want to, but she could git eight hund'd
dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she
couldn' resis'. De widder she try to git her to say
she wouldn' do it, but I never waited to hear de res'.
I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.

"I tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a
skift 'long de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz
people a-stirring yit, so I hid in de ole tumble-down
cooper-shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go
'way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody
roun' all de time. 'Long 'bout six in de mawnin'
skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine every
skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap
come over to de town en say you's killed. Dese las'
skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to
see de place. Sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en
take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk I got
to know all 'bout de killin'. I 'uz powerful sorry
you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no mo' now.

"I laid dah under de shavin's all day. I 'uz
hungry, but I warn't afeard; bekase I knowed ole
missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp-
meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en
dey knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so
dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey
wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. De
yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out
en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way.

"Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river
road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey
warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what
I's agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git
away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to
cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd
know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah
to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's
arter; it doan' MAKE no track.

"I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I
wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n
half way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift-
wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum
agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum
to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en 'uz
pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up en laid
down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way yonder in
de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a-
risin', en dey wuz a good current; so I reck'n'd 'at
by fo' in de mawnin' I'd be twenty-five mile down de
river, en den I'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim
asho', en take to de woods on de Illinois side.

"But I didn' have no luck. When we 'uz mos'
down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft
wid de lantern, I see it warn't no use fer to wait, so I
slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had
a notion I could lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't --
bank too bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan'
b'fo' I found' a good place. I went into de woods en
jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey
move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er
dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't
wet, so I 'uz all right."

"And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all
this time? Why didn't you get mud-turkles?"

"How you gwyne to git 'm? You can't slip up on
um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um
wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night?
En I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de
daytime."

"Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods
all the time, of course. Did you hear 'em shooting
the cannon?"

"Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um
go by heah -- watched um thoo de bushes."

Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two
at a time and lighting. Jim said it was a sign it was
going to rain. He said it was a sign when young
chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the
same way when young birds done it. I was going to
catch some of them, but Jim wouldn't let me. He
said it was death. He said his father laid mighty sick
once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old
granny said his father would die, and he did.

And Jim said you mustn't count the things you are
going to cook for dinner, because that would bring
bad luck. The same if you shook the table-cloth after
sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and
that man died, the bees must be told about it before
sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all
weaken down and quit work and die. Jim said bees
wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, be-
cause I had tried them lots of times myself, and they
wouldn't sting me.

I had heard about some of these things before, but
not all of them. Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He
said he knowed most everything. I said it looked to
me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I
asked him if there warn't any good-luck signs. He
says:

"Mighty few -- an' DEY ain't no use to a body.
What you want to know when good luck's a-comin'
for? Want to keep it off?" And he said: "Ef you's
got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's
agwyne to be rich. Well, dey's some use in a sign
like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. You see, maybe
you's got to be po' a long time fust, en so you might
git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by de
sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby."

"Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast,
Jim?"

"What's de use to ax dat question? Don't you
see I has?"

"Well, are you rich?"

"No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich
agin. Wunst I had foteen dollars, but I tuck to
specalat'n', en got busted out."

"What did you speculate in, Jim?"

"Well, fust I tackled stock."

"What kind of stock?"

"Why, live stock -- cattle, you know. I put ten
dollars in a cow. But I ain' gwyne to resk no mo'
money in stock. De cow up 'n' died on my han's."

"So you lost the ten dollars."

"No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of
it. I sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents."

"You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you
speculate any more?"

"Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat
b'longs to old Misto Bradish? Well, he sot up a
bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo'
dollars mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de niggers
went in, but dey didn't have much. I wuz de on'y
one dat had much. So I stuck out for mo' dan fo'
dollars, en I said 'f I didn' git it I'd start a bank my-
sef. Well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep me out
er de business, bekase he says dey warn't business
'nough for two banks, so he say I could put in my five
dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en' er de year.

"So I done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves' de
thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin'.
Dey wuz a nigger name' Bob, dat had ketched a wood-
flat, en his marster didn' know it; en I bought it off'n
him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de
en' er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat
dat night, en nex day de one-laigged nigger say de
bank's busted. So dey didn' none uv us git no
money."

"What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?"

"Well, I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream,
en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name'
Balum -- Balum's Ass dey call him for short; he's
one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky,
dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let
Balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me.
Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in
church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de
po' len' to de Lord, en boun' to git his money back a
hund'd times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents
to de po', en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come
of it."

"Well, what did come of it, Jim?"

"Nuffn never come of it. I couldn' manage to
k'leck dat money no way; en Balum he couldn'. I
ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout I see de
security. Boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd
times, de preacher says! Ef I could git de ten CENTS
back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst."

"Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're
going to be rich again some time or other."

"Yes; en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns
mysef, en I's wuth eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I
had de money, I wouldn' want no mo'."


CHAPTER IX.

I WANTED to go and look at a place right about the
middle of the island that I'd found when I was
exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because
the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a
mile wide.

This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge
about forty foot high. We had a rough time getting
to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so
thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it, and
by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most
up to the top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern
was as big as two or three rooms bunched together,
and Jim could stand up straight in it. It was cool in
there. Jim was for putting our traps in there right
away, but I said we didn't want to be climbing up and
down there all the time.

Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place,
and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there
if anybody was to come to the island, and they would
never find us without dogs. And, besides, he said
them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did
I want the things to get wet?

So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up
abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there.
Then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe
in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish off
of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready
for dinner.

The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a
hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor
stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place to
build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked
dinner.

We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat
our dinner in there. We put all the other things handy
at the back of the cavern. Pretty soon it darkened up,
and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was
right about it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained
like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so.
It was one of these regular summer storms. It would
get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and
lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick
that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-
webby; and here would come a blast of wind that
would bend the trees down and turn up the pale under-
side of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust
would follow along and set the branches to tossing
their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it
was just about the bluest and blackest -- FST! it was as
bright as glory, and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-
tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm,
hundreds of yards further than you could see before;
dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the
thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go rum-
bling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the
under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels
down stairs -- where it's long stairs and they bounce a
good deal, you know.

"Jim, this is nice," I says. "I wouldn't want to
be nowhere else but here. Pass me along another
hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread."

"Well, you wouldn't a ben here 'f it hadn't a ben
for Jim. You'd a ben down dah in de woods widout
any dinner, en gittn' mos' drownded, too; dat you
would, honey. Chickens knows when it's gwyne to
rain, en so do de birds, chile."

The river went on raising and raising for ten or
twelve days, till at last it was over the banks. The
water was three or four foot deep on the island in the
low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that side it
was a good many miles wide, but on the Missouri side
it was the same old distance across -- a half a mile --
because the Missouri shore was just a wall of high
bluffs.

Daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe,
It was mighty cool and shady in the deep woods, even
if the sun was blazing outside. We went winding in
and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines
hung so thick we had to back away and go some other
way. Well, on every old broken-down tree you could
see rabbits and snakes and such things; and when
the island had been overflowed a day or two they got
so tame, on account of being hungry, that you could
paddle right up and put your hand on them if you
wanted to; but not the snakes and turtles -- they would
slide off in the water. The ridge our cavern was in
was full of them. We could a had pets enough if we'd
wanted them.

One night we catched a little section of a lumber
raft -- nice pine planks. It was twelve foot wide and
about fifteen or sixteen foot long, and the top stood
above water six or seven inches -- a solid, level floor.
We could see saw-logs go by in the daylight some-
times, but we let them go; we didn't show ourselves
in daylight.

Another night when we was up at the head of the
island, just before daylight, here comes a frame-house
down, on the west side. She was a two-story, and
tilted over considerable. We paddled out and got
aboard -- clumb in at an upstairs window. But it was
too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe fast and set
in her to wait for daylight.

The light begun to come before we got to the foot
of the island. Then we looked in at the window. We
could make out a bed, and a table, and two old chairs,
and lots of things around about on the floor, and there
was clothes hanging against the wall. There was
something laying on the floor in the far corner that
looked like a man. So Jim says:

"Hello, you!"

But it didn't budge. So I hollered again, and then
Jim says:

"De man ain't asleep -- he's dead. You hold still
-- I'll go en see."

He went, and bent down and looked, and says:

"It's a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too.
He's ben shot in de back. I reck'n he's ben dead
two er three days. Come in, Huck, but doan' look at
his face -- it's too gashly."

I didn't look at him at all. Jim throwed some old
rags over him, but he needn't done it; I didn't want
to see him. There was heaps of old greasy cards
scattered around over the floor, and old whisky bottles,
and a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and
all over the walls was the ignorantest kind of words
and pictures made with charcoal. There was two old
dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some
women's underclothes hanging against the wall, and
some men's clothing, too. We put the lot into the
canoe -- it might come good. There was a boy's old
speckled straw hat on the floor; I took that, too.
And there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it
had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. We would a
took the bottle, but it was broke. There was a seedy
old chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges broke.
They stood open, but there warn't nothing left in them
that was any account. The way things was scattered
about we reckoned the people left in a hurry, and
warn't fixed so as to carry off most of their stuff.

We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife with-
out any handle, and a bran-new Barlow knife worth
two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles, and a
tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty
old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles
and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all
such truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a
fishline as thick as my little finger with some mon-
strous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin, and a
leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of
medicine that didn't have no label on them; and just
as we was leaving I found a tolerable good curry-comb,
and Jim he found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden
leg. The straps was broke off of it, but, barring that,
it was a good enough leg, though it was too long for
me and not long enough for Jim, and we couldn't find
the other one, though we hunted all around.

And so, take it all around, we made a good haul.
When we was ready to shove off we was a quarter of a
mile below the island, and it was pretty broad day; so
I made Jim lay down in the canoe and cover up with
the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was
a nigger a good ways off. I paddled over to the
Illinois shore, and drifted down most a half a mile
doing it. I crept up the dead water under the bank,
and hadn't no accidents and didn't see nobody. We
got home all safe.


CHAPTER X.

AFTER breakfast I wanted to talk about the dead
man and guess out how he come to be killed, but
Jim didn't want to. He said it would fetch bad luck;
and besides, he said, he might come and ha'nt us; he
said a man that warn't buried was more likely to go a-
ha'nting around than one that was planted and com-
fortable. That sounded pretty reasonable, so I didn't
say no more; but I couldn't keep from studying over
it and wishing I knowed who shot the man, and what
they done it for.

We rummaged the clothes we'd got, and found eight
dollars in silver sewed up in the lining of an old blanket
overcoat. Jim said he reckoned the people in that
house stole the coat, because if they'd a knowed the
money was there they wouldn't a left it. I said I
reckoned they killed him, too; but Jim didn't want to
talk about that. I says:

"Now you think it's bad luck; but what did you
say when I fetched in the snake-skin that I found on
the top of the ridge day before yesterday? You said
it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a
snake-skin with my hands. Well, here's your bad
luck! We've raked in all this truck and eight dollars
besides. I wish we could have some bad luck like this
every day, Jim."

"Never you mind, honey, never you mind. Don't
you git too peart. It's a-comin'. Mind I tell you,
it's a-comin'."

It did come, too. It was a Tuesday that we had
that talk. Well, after dinner Friday we was laying
around in the grass at the upper end of the ridge, and
got out of tobacco. I went to the cavern to get some,
and found a rattlesnake in there. I killed him, and
curled him up on the foot of Jim's blanket, ever so
natural, thinking there'd be some fun when Jim found
him there. Well, by night I forgot all about the
snake, and when Jim flung himself down on the blanket
while I struck a light the snake's mate was there, and
bit him.

He jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light
showed was the varmint curled up and ready for
another spring. I laid him out in a second with a
stick, and Jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun to
pour it down.

He was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on
the heel. That all comes of my being such a fool as
to not remember that wherever you leave a dead snake
its mate always comes there and curls around it. Jim
told me to chop off the snake's head and throw it
away, and then skin the body and roast a piece of it.
I done it, and he eat it and said it would help cure
him. He made me take off the rattles and tie them
around his wrist, too. He said that that would help.
Then I slid out quiet and throwed the snakes clear
away amongst the bushes; for I warn't going to let
Jim find out it was all my fault, not if I could help it.

Jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then
he got out of his head and pitched around and yelled;
but every time he come to himself he went to sucking
at the jug again. His foot swelled up pretty big, and
so did his leg; but by and by the drunk begun to
come, and so I judged he was all right; but I'd
druther been bit with a snake than pap's whisky.

Jim was laid up for four days and nights. Then
the swelling was all gone and he was around again. I
made up my mind I wouldn't ever take a-holt of a
snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see what
had come of it. Jim said he reckoned I would believe
him next time. And he said that handling a snake-
skin was such awful bad luck that maybe we hadn't
got to the end of it yet. He said he druther see the
new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand
times than take up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I
was getting to feel that way myself, though I've always
reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left
shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things
a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and
bragged about it; and in less than two years he got
drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, and spread him-
self out so that he was just a kind of a layer, as you
may say; and they slid him edgeways between two
barn doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they
say, but I didn't see it. Pap told me. But anyway
it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a
fool.

Well, the days went along, and the river went down
between its banks again; and about the first thing we
done was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned
rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as
a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed
over two hundred pounds. We couldn't handle him,
of course; he would a flung us into Illinois. We just
set there and watched him rip and tear around till he
drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach
and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the
ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it.
Jim said he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over
so and make a ball of it. It was as big a fish as was
ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he
hadn't ever seen a bigger one. He would a been
worth a good deal over at the village. They peddle
out such a fish as that by the pound in the market-
house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's
as white as snow and makes a good fry.

Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull,
and I wanted to get a stirring up some way. I said I
reckoned I would slip over the river and find out what
was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he said I
must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he studied
it over and said, couldn't I put on some of them old
things and dress up like a girl? That was a good
notion, too. So we shortened up one of the calico
gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my knees
and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks,
and it was a fair fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and tied
it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and
see my face was like looking down a joint of stove-
pipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in the
daytime, hardly. I practiced around all day to get
the hang of the things, and by and by I could do
pretty well in them, only Jim said I didn't walk like a
girl; and he said I must quit pulling up my gown to
get at my britches-pocket. I took notice, and done
better.

I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after
dark.

I started across to the town from a little below the
ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me
in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and started
along the bank. There was a light burning in a little
shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and I
wondered who had took up quarters there. I slipped
up and peeped in at the window. There was a woman
about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that
was on a pine table. I didn't know her face; she was
a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town
that I didn't know. Now this was lucky, because I
was weakening; I was getting afraid I had come;
people might know my voice and find me out. But if
this woman had been in such a little town two days
she could tell me all I wanted to know; so I knocked
at the door, and made up my mind I wouldn't forget I
was a girl.


CHAPTER XI.

"COME in," says the woman, and I did. She
says: "Take a cheer."

I done it. She looked me all over with her little
shiny eyes, and says:

"What might your name be?"

"Sarah Williams."

"Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighbor-
hood?'

"No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've
walked all the way and I'm all tired out."

"Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something."

"No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to
stop two miles below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry
no more. It's what makes me so late. My mother's
down sick, and out of money and everything, and I
come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the
upper end of the town, she says. I hain't ever been
here before. Do you know him?"

"No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't
lived here quite two weeks. It's a considerable ways
to the upper end of the town. You better stay here
all night. Take off your bonnet."

"No," I says; "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go
on. I ain't afeared of the dark."

She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her
husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and
a half, and she'd send him along with me. Then she
got to talking about her husband, and about her rela-
tions up the river, and her relations down the river,
and about how much better off they used to was, and
how they didn't know but they'd made a mistake
coming to our town, instead of letting well alone --
and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had made a
mistake coming to her to find out what was going on
in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap
and the murder, and then I was pretty willing to let
her clatter right along. She told about me and Tom
Sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (only she got
it ten) and all about pap and what a hard lot he was,
and what a hard lot I was, and at last she got down to
where I was murdered. I says:

"Who done it? We've heard considerable about
these goings on down in Hookerville, but we don't
know who 'twas that killed Huck Finn."

"Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of
people HERE that'd like to know who killed him. Some
think old Finn done it himself."

"No -- is that so?"

"Most everybody thought it at first. He'll never
know how nigh he come to getting lynched. But
before night they changed around and judged it was
done by a runaway nigger named Jim."

"Why HE --"

I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run
on, and never noticed I had put in at all:

"The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was
killed. So there's a reward out for him -- three hun-
dred dollars. And there's a reward out for old Finn,
too -- two hundred dollars. You see, he come to town
the morning after the murder, and told about it, and
was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right
away after he up and left. Before night they wanted
to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next
day they found out the nigger was gone; they found
out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night the
murder was done. So then they put it on him, you
see; and while they was full of it, next day, back
comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge
Thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over
Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and that
evening he got drunk, and was around till after mid-
night with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers,
and then went off with them. Well, he hain't come
back sence, and they ain't looking for him back till
this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now
that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would
think robbers done it, and then he'd get Huck's money
without having to bother a long time with a lawsuit.
People do say he warn't any too good to do it. Oh,
he's sly, I reckon. If he don't come back for a year
he'll be all right. You can't prove anything on him,
you know; everything will be quieted down then, and
he'll walk in Huck's money as easy as nothing."

"Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the
way of it. Has everybody guit thinking the nigger
done it?"

"Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he
done it. But they'll get the nigger pretty soon now,
and maybe they can scare it out of him."

"Why, are they after him yet?"

"Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three
hundred dollars lay around every day for people to
pick up? Some folks think the nigger ain't far from
here. I'm one of them -- but I hain't talked it around.
A few days ago I was talking with an old couple that
lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened
to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over
yonder that they call Jackson's Island. Don't any-
body live there? says I. No, nobody, says they. I
didn't say any more, but I done some thinking. I
was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke over there,
about the head of the island, a day or two before that,
so I says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding
over there; anyway, says I, it's worth the trouble to
give the place a hunt. I hain't seen any smoke sence,
so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but
husband's going over to see -- him and another man.
He was gone up the river; but he got back to-day,
and I told him as soon as he got here two hours ago."

I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to do
something with my hands; so I took up a needle off of
the table and went to threading it. My hands shook,
and I was making a bad job of it. When the woman
stopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at
me pretty curious and smiling a little. I put down the
needle and thread, and let on to be interested -- and I
was, too -- and says:

"Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I
wish my mother could get it. Is your husband going
over there to-night?"

"Oh, yes. He went up-town with the man I was
telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could
borrow another gun. They'll go over after midnight."

"Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till
daytime?"

"Yes. And couldn't the nigger see better, too?
After midnight he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip
around through the woods and hunt up his camp fire
all the better for the dark, if he's got one."

"I didn't think of that."

The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and
I didn't feel a bit comfortable. Pretty soon she says"

"What did you say your name was, honey?"

"M -- Mary Williams."

Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was
Mary before, so I didn't look up -- seemed to me I
said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was
afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the
woman would say something more; the longer she set
still the uneasier I was. But now she says:

"Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when
you first come in?"

"Oh, yes'm, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's
my first name. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me
Mary."

"Oh, that's the way of it?"

"Yes'm."

I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of
there, anyway. I couldn't look up yet.

Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard
times was, and how poor they had to live, and how the
rats was as free as if they owned the place, and so
forth and so on, and then I got easy again. She was
right about the rats. You'd see one stick his nose out
of a hole in the corner every little while. She said she
had to have things handy to throw at them when she
was alone, or they wouldn't give her no peace. She
showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and
said she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd
wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and didn't know
whether she could throw true now. But she watched
for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but
she missed him wide, and said "Ouch!" it hurt her
arm so. Then she told me to try for the next one. I
wanted to be getting away before the old man got
back, but of course I didn't let on. I got the thing,
and the first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and
if he'd a stayed where he was he'd a been a tolerable
sick rat. She said that was first-rate, and she reckoned
I would hive the next one. She went and got the
lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a
hank of yarn which she wanted me to help her with.
I held up my two hands and she put the hank over
them, and went on talking about her and her husband's
matters. But she broke off to say:

"Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the
lead in your lap, handy."

So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that
moment, and I clapped my legs together on it and she
went on talking. But only about a minute. Then
she took off the hank and looked me straight in the
face, and very pleasant, and says:

"Come, now, what's your real name?"

"Wh -- what, mum?"

"What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or
Bob? -- or what is it?"

I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know
hardly what to do. But I says:

"Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me,
mum. If I'm in the way here, I'll --"

"No, you won't. Set down and stay where you
are. I ain't going to hurt you, and I ain't going to
tell on you, nuther. You just tell me your secret, and
trust me. I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll help
you. So'll my old man if you want him to. You
see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. It ain't
anything. There ain't no harm in it. You've been
treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut.
Bless you, child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me all
about it now, that's a good boy."

So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any
longer, and I would just make a clean breast and tell
her everything, but she musn't go back on her promise.
Then I told her my father and mother was dead, and
the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the
country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated
me so bad I couldn't stand it no longer; he went away
to be gone a couple of days, and so I took my chance
and stole some of his daughter's old clothes and
cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the
thirty miles. I traveled nights, and hid daytimes and
slept, and the bag of bread and meat I carried from
home lasted me all the way, and I had a-plenty. I
said I believed my uncle Abner Moore would take care
of me, and so that was why I struck out for this town
of Goshen.

"Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St.
Petersburg. Goshen's ten mile further up the river.
Who told you this was Goshen?"

"Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just
as I was going to turn into the woods for my regular
sleep. He told me when the roads forked I must take
the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to
Goshen."

"He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just ex-
actly wrong."

"Well,,he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no
matter now. I got to be moving along. I'll fetch
Goshen before daylight."

"Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat.
You might want it."

So she put me up a snack, and says:

"Say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her
gets up first? Answer up prompt now -- don't stop
to study over it. Which end gets up first?"

"The hind end, mum."

"Well, then, a horse?"

"The for'rard end, mum."

"Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?"

"North side."

"If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how
many of them eats with their heads pointed the same
direction?"

"The whole fifteen, mum."

"Well, I reckon you HAVE lived in the country. I
thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again.
What's your real name, now?"

"George Peters, mum."

"Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget
and tell me it's Elexander before you go, and then get
out by saying it's George Elexander when I catch you.
And don't go about women in that old calico. You
do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men,
maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out to thread
a needle don't hold the thread still and fetch the needle
up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at
it; that's the way a woman most always does, but a
man always does t'other way. And when you throw
at a rat or anything, hitch yourself up a tiptoe and
fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you
can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw
stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot
there for it to turn on, like a girl; not from the wrist
and elbow, with your arm out to one side, like a boy.
And, mind you, when a girl tries to catch anything in
her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap
them together, the way you did when you catched the
lump of lead. Why, I spotted you for a boy when
you was threading the needle; and I contrived the
other things just to make certain. Now trot along to
your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George Elexander
Peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to
Mrs. Judith Loftus, which is me, and I'll do what I
can to get you out of it. Keep the river road all the
way, and next time you tramp take shoes and socks
with you. The river road's a rocky one, and your
feet'll be in a condition when you get to Goshen, I
reckon."

I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I
doubled on my tracks and slipped back to where my
canoe was, a good piece below the house. I jumped
in, and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far
enough to make the head of the island, and then
started across. I took off the sun-bonnet, for I didn't
want no blinders on then. When I was about the
middle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I stops
and listens; the sound come faint over the water but
clear -- eleven. When I struck the head of the island
I never waited to blow, though I was most winded, but
I shoved right into the timber where my old camp used
to be, and started a good fire there on a high and dry
spot.

Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our
place, a mile and a half below, as hard as I could go.
I landed, and slopped through the timber and up the
ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound
asleep on the ground. I roused him out and says:

"Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a
minute to lose. They're after us!"

Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word;
but the way he worked for the next half an hour
showed about how he was scared. By that time every-
thing we had in the world was on our raft, and she was
ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she
was hid. We put out the camp fire at the cavern the
first thing, and didn't show a candle outside after that.

I took the canoe out from the shore a little piece,
and took a look; but if there was a boat around I
couldn't see it, for stars and shadows ain't good to see
by. Then we got out the raft and slipped along down
in the shade, past the foot of the island dead still --
never saying a word.


CHAPTER XII.

IT must a been close on to one o'clock when we
got below the island at last, and the raft did seem
to go mighty slow. If a boat was to come along we
was going to take to the canoe and break for the
Illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come, for
we hadn't ever thought to put the gun in the canoe,
or a fishing-line, or anything to eat. We was in
ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many things.
It warn't good judgment to put EVERYTHING on the raft.

If the men went to the island I just expect they
found the camp fire I built, and watched it all night for
Jim to come. Anyways, they stayed away from us,
and if my building the fire never fooled them it warn't
no fault of mine. I played it as low down on them as
I could.

When the first streak of day began to show we tied
up to a towhead in a big bend on the Illinois side, and
hacked off cottonwood branches with the hatchet,
and covered up the raft with them so she looked like
there had been a cave-in in the bank there. A tow-
head is a sandbar that has cottonwoods on it as thick
as harrow-teeth.

We had mountains on the Missouri shore and heavy
timber on the Illinois side, and the channel was down
the Missouri shore at that place, so we warn't afraid of
anybody running across us. We laid there all day,
and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the
Missouri shore, and up-bound steamboats fight the big
river in the middle. I told Jim all about the time I
had jabbering with that woman; and Jim said she was
a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she
wouldn't set down and watch a camp fire -- no, sir,
she'd fetch a dog. Well, then, I said, why couldn't
she tell her husband to fetch a dog? Jim said he bet
she did think of it by the time the men was ready to
start, and he believed they must a gone up-town to get
a dog and so they lost all that time, or else we
wouldn't be here on a towhead sixteen or seventeen
mile below the village -- no, indeedy, we would be in
that same old town again. So I said I didn't care
what was the reason they didn't get us as long as they
didn't.

When it was beginning to come on dark we poked
our heads out of the cottonwood thicket, and looked
up and down and across; nothing in sight; so Jim
took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a
snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and
rainy, and to keep the things dry. Jim made a floor
for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or more above the
level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the traps
was out of reach of steamboat waves. Right in the
middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about
five or six inches deep with a frame around it for to
hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in
sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it
from being seen. We made an extra steering-oar,
too, because one of the others might get broke on a
snag or something. We fixed up a short forked stick
to hang the old lantern on, because we must always
light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming
down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we
wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats unless we
see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the
river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a
little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always
run the channel, but hunted easy water.

This second night we run between seven and eight
hours, with a current that was making over four mile
an hour. We catched fish and talked, and we took a
swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was
kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, lay-
ing on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't
ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often that we
laughed -- only a little kind of a low chuckle. We
had mighty good weather as a general thing, and noth-
ing ever happened to us at all -- that night, nor the
next, nor the next.

Every night we passed towns, some of them away
up on black hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of
lights; not a house could you see. The fifth night we
passed St. Louis, and it was like the whole world lit
up. In St. Petersburg they used to say there was
twenty or thirty thousand people in St. Louis, but I
never believed it till I see that wonderful spread of
lights at two o'clock that still night. There warn't a
sound there; everybody was asleep.

Every night now I used to slip ashore towards ten
o'clock at some little village, and buy ten or fifteen
cents' worth of meal or bacon or other stuff to eat;
and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn't roosting
comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said,
take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you
don't want him yourself you can easy find somebody
that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot. I never
see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but
that is what he used to say, anyway.

Mornings before daylight I slipped into cornfields
and borrowed a watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a
punkin, or some new corn, or things of that kind.
Pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if
you was meaning to pay them back some time; but
the widow said it warn't anything but a soft name for
stealing, and no decent body would do it. Jim said he
reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was partly
right; so the best way would be for us to pick out two
or three things from the list and say we wouldn't borrow
them any more -- then he reckoned it wouldn't be no
harm to borrow the others. So we talked it over all
one night, drifting along down the river, trying to
make up our minds whether to drop the watermelons,
or the cantelopes, or the mushmelons, or what. But
towards daylight we got it all settled satisfactory, and
concluded to drop crabapples and p'simmons. We
warn't feeling just right before that, but it was all
comfortable now. I was glad the way it come out,
too, because crabapples ain't ever good, and the
p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for two or three months
yet.

We shot a water-fowl now and then that got up too
early in the morning or didn't go to bed early enough
in the evening. Take it all round, we lived pretty high.

The fifth night below St. Louis we had a big storm
after midnight, with a power of thunder and lightning,
and the rain poured down in a solid sheet. We stayed
in the wigwam and let the raft take care of itself.
When the lightning glared out we could see a big
straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both
sides. By and by says I, "Hel-LO, Jim, looky yon-
der!" It was a steamboat that had killed herself on a
rock. We was drifting straight down for her. The
lightning showed her very distinct. She was leaning
over, with part of her upper deck above water, and
you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and clear,
and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat
hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come.

Well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all
so mysterious-like, I felt just the way any other boy
would a felt when I see that wreck laying there so
mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river. I
wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little,
and see what there was there. So I says:

"Le's land on her, Jim."

But Jim was dead against it at first. He says:

"I doan' want to go fool'n 'long er no wrack.
We's doin' blame' well, en we better let blame' well
alone, as de good book says. Like as not dey's a
watchman on dat wrack."

"Watchman your grandmother," I says; "there
ain't nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot-
house; and do you reckon anybody's going to resk his
life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this,
when it's likely to break up and wash off down the
river any minute?" Jim couldn't say nothing to that,
so he didn't try. "And besides," I says, "we might
borrow something worth having out of the captain's
stateroom. Seegars, I bet you -- and cost five cents
apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich,
and get sixty dollars a month, and THEY don't care a
cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they want
it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I can't rest, Jim,
till we give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom
Sawyer would ever go by this thing? Not for pie, he
wouldn't. He'd call it an adventure -- that's what
he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it was his
last act. And wouldn't he throw style into it? --
wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? Why,
you'd think it was Christopher C'lumbus discovering
Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer WAS here."

Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we
mustn't talk any more than we could help, and then
talk mighty low. The lightning showed us the wreck
again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard
derrick, and made fast there.

The deck was high out here. We went sneaking down
the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards the
texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and spreading
our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark
we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty soon we
struck the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on
to it; and the next step fetched us in front of the
captain's door, which was open, and by Jimminy,
away down through the texas-hall we see a light! and
all in the same second we seem to hear low voices in
yonder!

Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful
sick, and told me to come along. I says, all right,
and was going to start for the raft; but just then I
heard a voice wail out and say:

"Oh, please don't, boys; I swear I won't ever
tell!"

Another voice said, pretty loud:

"It's a lie, Jim Turner. You've acted this way
before. You always want more'n your share of the
truck, and you've always got it, too, because you've
swore 't if you didn't you'd tell. But this time you've
said it jest one time too many. You're the meanest,
treacherousest hound in this country."

By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just
a-biling with curiosity; and I says to myself, Tom
Sawyer wouldn't back out now, and so I won't either;
I'm a-going to see what's going on here. So I
dropped on my hands and knees in the little passage,
and crept aft in the dark till there warn't but one
stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of the texas.
Then in there I see a man stretched on the floor and
tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him,
and one of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and
the other one had a pistol. This one kept pointing
the pistol at the man's head on the floor, and saying:

"I'd LIKE to! And I orter, too -- a mean skunk!"

The man on the floor would shrivel up and say,
"Oh, please don't, Bill; I hain't ever goin' to tell."

And every time he said that the man with the lantern
would laugh and say:

"'Deed you AIN'T! You never said no truer thing
'n that, you bet you." And once he said: "Hear
him beg! and yit if we hadn't got the best of him and
tied him he'd a killed us both. And what FOR? Jist
for noth'n. Jist because we stood on our RIGHTS --
that's what for. But I lay you ain't a-goin' to threaten
nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put UP that pistol,
Bill."

Bill says:

"I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin'
him -- and didn't he kill old Hatfield jist the same
way -- and don't he deserve it?"

"But I don't WANT him killed, and I've got my
reasons for it."

"Bless yo' heart for them words, Jake Packard!
I'll never forgit you long's I live!" says the man on
the floor, sort of blubbering.

Packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up
his lantern on a nail and started towards where I was
there in the dark, and motioned Bill to come. I
crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but the
boat slanted so that I couldn't make very good time;
so to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled
into a stateroom on the upper side. The man came a-
pawing along in the dark, and when Packard got to
my stateroom, he says:

"Here -- come in here."

And in he come, and Bill after him. But before
they got in I was up in the upper berth, cornered, and
sorry I come. Then they stood there, with their hands
on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn't see
them, but I could tell where they was by the whisky
they'd been having. I was glad I didn't drink whisky;
but it wouldn't made much difference anyway, because
most of the time they couldn't a treed me because I
didn't breathe. I was too scared. And, besides, a
body COULDN'T breathe and hear such talk. They
talked low and earnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner.
He says:

"He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to
give both our shares to him NOW it wouldn't make no
difference after the row and the way we've served him.
Shore's you're born, he'll turn State's evidence; now
you hear ME. I'm for putting him out of his troubles."

"So'm I," says Packard, very quiet.

"Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasnUt.
Well, then, that's all right. Le's go and do it."

"Hold on a minute; I hain't had my say yit. You
listen to me. Shooting's good, but there's quieter
ways if the thing's GOT to be done. But what I say is
this: it ain't good sense to go court'n around after a
halter if you can git at what you're up to in some
way that's jist as good and at the same time don't
bring you into no resks. Ain't that so?"

"You bet it is. But how you goin' to manage it
this time?"

"Well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather
up whatever pickins we've overlooked in the state-
rooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. Then
we'll wait. Now I say it ain't a-goin' to be more'n
two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and washes off
down the river. See? He'll be drownded, and won't
have nobody to blame for it but his own self. I
reckon that's a considerble sight better 'n killin' of
him. I'm unfavorable to killin' a man as long as you
can git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good
morals. Ain't I right?"

"Yes, I reck'n you are. But s'pose she DON'T
break up and wash off?"

"Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see,
can't we?"

"All right, then; come along."

So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat,
and scrambled forward. It was dark as pitch there;
but I said, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "Jim !" and
he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a
moan, and I says:

"Quick, Jim, it ain't no time for fooling around
and moaning; there's a gang of murderers in yonder,
and if we don't hunt up their boat and set her drifting
down the river so these fellows can't get away from the
wreck there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix.
But if we find their boat we can put ALL of 'em in a
bad fix -- for the sheriff 'll get 'em. Quick -- hurry!
I'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard.
You start at the raft, and --"

"Oh, my lordy, lordy! RAF'? Dey ain' no raf'
no mo'; she done broke loose en gone I -- en here
we is!"


CHAPTER XIII.

WELL, I catched my breath and most fainted.
Shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that!
But it warn't no time to be sentimentering. We'd GOT
to find that boat now -- had to have it for ourselves.
So we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard
side, and slow work it was, too -- seemed a week be-
fore we got to the stern. No sign of a boat. Jim
said he didn't believe he could go any further -- so
scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said.
But I said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we
are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled again. We
struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and
then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging
on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight
was in the water. When we got pretty close to the
cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! I
could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In
another second I would a been aboard of her, but just
then the door opened. One of the men stuck his head
out only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought
I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says:

"Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!"

He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then
got in himself and set down. It was Packard. Then
Bill HE come out and got in. Packard says, in a low
voice:

"All ready -- shove off!"

I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so
weak. But Bill says:

"Hold on -- 'd you go through him?"

"No. Didn't you?"

"No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet."

"Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and
leave money."

"Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?"

"Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway.
Come along."

So they got out and went in.

The door slammed to because it was on the careened
side; and in a half second I was in the boat, and Jim
come tumbling after me. I out with my knife and cut
the rope, and away we went!

We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor
whisper, nor hardly even breathe. We went gliding
swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle-
box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more
we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the
darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we
was safe, and knowed it.

When we was three or four hundred yards down-
stream we see the lantern show like a little spark at the
texas door for a second, and we knowed by that that
the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning
to understand that they was in just as much trouble now
as Jim Turner was.

Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after
our raft. Now was the first time that I begun to worry
about the men -- I reckon I hadn't had time to before.
I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for mur-
derers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there
ain't no telling but I might come to be a murderer
myself yet, and then how would I like it? So says I
to Jim:

"The first light we see we'll land a hundred yards
below it or above it, in a place where it's a good
hiding-place for you and the skiff, and then I'll go and
fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to go
for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they
can be hung when their time comes."

But that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun
to storm again, and this time worse than ever. The
rain poured down, and never a light showed; every-
body in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down the
river, watching for lights and watching for our raft.
After a long time the rain let up, but the clouds
stayed, and the lightning kept whimpering, and by and
by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and
we made for it.

It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get
aboard of it again. We seen a light now away down
to the right, on shore. So I said I would go for it.
The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had
stole there on the wreck. We hustled it on to the raft
in a pile, and I told Jim to float along down, and show
a light when he judged he had gone about two mile,
and keep it burning till I come; then I manned my
oars and shoved for the light. As I got down towards
it three or four more showed -- up on a hillside. It
was a village. I closed in above the shore light, and
laid on my oars and floated. As I went by I see it
was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull
ferryboat. I skimmed around for the watchman, a-
wondering whereabouts he slept; and by and by I
found him roosting on the bitts forward, with his head
down between his knees. I gave his shoulder two or
three little shoves, and begun to cry.

He stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when
he see it was only me he took a good gap and stretch,
and then he says:

"Hello, what's up? Don't cry, bub. What's the
trouble?"

I says:

"Pap, and mam, and sis, and --"

Then I broke down. He says:

"Oh, dang it now, DON'T take on so; we all has to
have our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right.
What's the matter with 'em?"

"They're -- they're -- are you the watchman of the
boat?"

"Yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like.
"I'm the captain and the owner and the mate and the
pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and some-
times I'm the freight and passengers. I ain't as rich
as old Jim Hornback, and I can't be so blame' gener-
ous and good to Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he is,
and slam around money the way he does; but I've
told him a many a time 't I wouldn't trade places with
him; for, says I, a sailor's life's the life for me, and
I'm derned if I'D live two mile out o' town, where
there ain't nothing ever goin' on, not for all his spon-
dulicks and as much more on top of it. Says I --"

I broke in and says:

"They're in an awful peck of trouble, and --"

"WHO is?"

"Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker;
and if you'd take your ferryboat and go up there --"

"Up where? Where are they?"

"On the wreck."

"What wreck?"

"Why, there ain't but one."

"What, you don't mean the Walter Scott?"

"Yes."

"Good land! what are they doin' THERE, for gracious
sakes?"

"Well, they didn't go there a-purpose."

"I bet they didn't! Why, great goodness, there
ain't no chance for 'em if they don't git off mighty
quick! Why, how in the nation did they ever git into
such a scrape?"

"Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up
there to the town --"

"Yes, Booth's Landing -- go on."

"She was a-visiting there at Booth's Landing, and
just in the edge of the evening she started over with
her nigger woman in the horse-ferry to stay all night
at her friend's house, Miss What-you-may-call-herQI
disremember her name -- and they lost their steering-
oar, and swung around and went a-floating down,
stern first, about two mile, and saddle-baggsed on the
wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger woman and
the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she made a
grab and got aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour
after dark we come along down in our trading-scow,
and it was so dark we didn't notice the wreck till we
was right on it; and so WE saddle-baggsed; but all of
us was saved but Bill Whipple -- and oh, he WAS the
best cretur ! -- I most wish 't it had been me, I do."

"My George! It's the beatenest thing I ever
struck. And THEN what did you all do?"

"Well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide
there we couldn't make nobody hear. So pap said
somebody got to get ashore and get help somehow. I
was the only one that could swim, so I made a dash
for it, and Miss Hooker she said if I didn't strike help
sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he'd
fix the thing. I made the land about a mile below,
and been fooling along ever since, trying to get people
to do something, but they said, 'What, in such a night
and such a current? There ain't no sense in it; go
for the steam ferry.' Now if you'll go and --"

"By Jackson, I'd LIKE to, and, blame it, I don't
know but I will; but who in the dingnation's a-going'
to PAY for it? Do you reckon your pap --"

"Why THAT'S all right. Miss Hooker she tole me,
PARTICULAR, that her uncle Hornback --"

"Great guns! is HE her uncle? Looky here, you
break for that light over yonder-way, and turn out
west when you git there, and about a quarter of a mile
out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em to dart you
out to Jim Hornback's, and he'll foot the bill. And
don't you fool around any, because he'll want to know
the news. Tell him I'll have his niece all safe before
he can get to town. Hump yourself, now; I'm a-
going up around the corner here to roust out my
engineer."

I struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the
corner I went back and got into my skiff and bailed her
out, and then pulled up shore in the easy water about
six hundred yards, and tucked myself in among some
woodboats; for I couldn't rest easy till I could see
the ferryboat start. But take it all around, I was feel-
ing ruther comfortable on accounts of taking all this
trouble for that gang, for not many would a done it.
I wished the widow knowed about it. I judged she
would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions,
because rapscallions and dead beats is the kind the
widow and good people takes the most interest in.

Well, before long here comes the wreck, dim and
dusky, sliding along down! A kind of cold shiver
went through me, and then I struck out for her. She
was very deep, and I see in a minute there warn't much
chance for anybody being alive in her. I pulled all
around her and hollered a little, but there wasn't any
answer; all dead still. I felt a little bit heavy-hearted
about the gang, but not much, for I reckoned if they
could stand it I could.

Then here comes the ferryboat; so I shoved for the
middle of the river on a long down-stream slant; and
when I judged I was out of eye-reach I laid on my
oars, and looked back and see her go and smell around
the wreck for Miss Hooker's remainders, because the
captain would know her uncle Hornback would want
them; and then pretty soon the ferryboat give it up
and went for the shore, and I laid into my work and
went a-booming down the river.

It did seem a powerful long time before Jim's light
showed up; and when it did show it looked like it was
a thousand mile off. By the time I got there the sky
was beginning to get a little gray in the east; so we
struck for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the
skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people.


CHAPTER XIV.

BY and by, when we got up, we turned over the
truck the gang had stole off of the wreck, and
found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and all sorts of
other things, and a lot of books, and a spyglass, and
three boxes of seegars. We hadn't ever been this rich
before in neither of our lives. The seegars was prime.
We laid off all the afternoon in the woods talking, and
me reading the books, and having a general good time.
I told Jim all about what happened inside the wreck
and at the ferryboat, and I said these kinds of things
was adventures; but he said he didn't want no more
adventures. He said that when I went in the texas
and he crawled back to get on the raft and found her
gone he nearly died, because he judged it was all up
with HIM anyway it could be fixed; for if he didn't get
saved he would get drownded; and if he did get
saved, whoever saved him would send him back home
so as to get the reward, and then Miss Watson would
sell him South, sure. Well, he was right; he was
most always right; he had an uncommon level head
for a nigger.

I read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes
and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and
how much style they put on, and called each other
your majesty, and your grace, and your lordship, and
so on, 'stead of mister; and Jim's eyes bugged out,
and he was interested. He says:

"I didn' know dey was so many un um. I hain't
hearn 'bout none un um, skasely, but ole King Soller-
mun, onless you counts dem kings dat's in a pack er
k'yards. How much do a king git?"

"Get?" I says; "why, they get a thousand dollars
a month if they want it; they can have just as much
as they want; everything belongs to them."

"AIN' dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?"

"THEY don't do nothing! Why, how you talk!
They just set around."

"No; is dat so?"

"Of course it is. They just set around -- except,
maybe, when there's a war; then they go to the war.
But other times they just lazy around; or go hawking
-- just hawking and sp -- Sh! -- d' you hear a noise?"

We skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing
but the flutter of a steamboat's wheel away down,
coming around the point; so we come back.

"Yes," says I, "and other times, when things is
dull, they fuss with the parlyment; and if everybody
don't go just so he whacks their heads off. But
mostly they hang round the harem."

"Roun' de which?"

"Harem."

"What's de harem?"

"The place where he keeps his wives. Don't you
know about the harem? Solomon had one; he had
about a million wives."

"Why, yes, dat's so; I -- I'd done forgot it. A
harem's a bo'd'n-house, I reck'n. Mos' likely dey
has rackety times in de nussery. En I reck'n de wives
quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de racket. Yit dey
say Sollermun de wises' man dat ever live'. I doan'
take no stock in dat. Bekase why: would a wise man
want to live in de mids' er sich a blim-blammin' all de
time? No -- 'deed he wouldn't. A wise man 'ud take
en buil' a biler-factry; en den he could shet DOWN de
biler-factry when he want to res'."

"Well, but he WAS the wisest man, anyway; be-
cause the widow she told me so, her own self."

"I doan k'yer what de widder say, he WARN'T no
wise man nuther. He had some er de dad-fetchedes'
ways I ever see. Does you know 'bout dat chile dat
he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?"

"Yes, the widow told me all about it."

"WELL, den! Warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de
worl'? You jes' take en look at it a minute. Dah's
de stump, dah -- dat's one er de women; heah's you
-- dat's de yuther one; I's Sollermun; en dish yer
dollar bill's de chile. Bofe un you claims it. What
does I do? Does I shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors
en fine out which un you de bill DO b'long to, en han'
it over to de right one, all safe en soun', de way dat
anybody dat had any gumption would? No; I take
en whack de bill in TWO, en give half un it to you, en
de yuther half to de yuther woman. Dat's de way
Sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. Now I
want to ast you: what's de use er dat half a bill? --
can't buy noth'n wid it. En what use is a half a
chile? I wouldn' give a dern for a million un um."

"But hang it, Jim, you've clean missed the point --
blame it, you've missed it a thousand mile."

"Who? Me? Go 'long. Doan' talk to me 'bout
yo' pints. I reck'n I knows sense when I sees it; en
dey ain' no sense in sich doin's as dat. De 'spute
warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout a
whole chile; en de man dat think he kin settle a
'spute 'bout a whole chile wid a half a chile doan'
know enough to come in out'n de rain. Doan' talk
to me 'bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de back."

"But I tell you you don't get the point."

"Blame de point! I reck'n I knows what I knows.
En mine you, de REAL pint is down furder -- it's down
deeper. It lays in de way Sollermun was raised.
You take a man dat's got on'y one or two chillen; is
dat man gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? No, he
ain't; he can't 'ford it. HE know how to value 'em.
But you take a man dat's got 'bout five million chillen
runnin' roun' de house, en it's diffunt. HE as soon
chop a chile in two as a cat. Dey's plenty mo'. A
chile er two, mo' er less, warn't no consekens to
Sollermun, dad fatch him!"

I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his
head once, there warn't no getting it out again. He
was the most down on Solomon of any nigger I ever
see. So I went to talking about other kings, and let
Solomon slide. I told about Louis Sixteenth that got
his head cut off in France long time ago; and about
his little boy the dolphin, that would a been a king,
but they took and shut him up in jail, and some say he
died there.

"Po' little chap."

"But some says he got out and got away, and come
to America."

"Dat's good! But he'll be pooty lonesome -- dey
ain' no kings here, is dey, Huck?"

"No."

"Den he cain't git no situation. What he gwyne
to do?"

"Well, I don't know. Some of them gets on the
police, and some of them learns people how to talk
French."

"Why, Huck, doan' de French people talk de same
way we does?"

"NO, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they
said -- not a single word."

"Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat
come?"

"I don't know; but it's so. I got some of their
jabber out of a book. S'pose a man was to come to
you and say Polly-voo-franzy -- what would you
think?"

"I wouldn' think nuff'n; I'd take en bust him over
de head -- dat is, if he warn't white. I wouldn't 'low
no nigger to call me dat."

"Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only
saying, do you know how to talk French?"

"Well, den, why couldn't he SAY it?"

"Why, he IS a-saying it. That's a Frenchman's
WAY of saying it."

"Well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en I doan' want
to hear no mo' 'bout it. Dey ain' no sense in it."

"Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?"

"No, a cat don't."

"Well, does a cow?"

"No, a cow don't, nuther."

"Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a
cat?"

"No, dey don't."

"It's natural and right for 'em to talk different from
each other, ain't it?"

"Course."

"And ain't it natural and right for a cat and a cow
to talk different from US?"

"Why, mos' sholy it is."

"Well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a
FRENCHMAN to talk different from us? You answer me
that."

"Is a cat a man, Huck?"

"No."

"Well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a
man. Is a cow a man? -- er is a cow a cat?"

"No, she ain't either of them."

"Well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like
either one er the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a
man?"

"Yes."

"WELL, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he TALK like
a man? You answer me DAT!"

I see it warn't no use wasting words -- you can't
learn a nigger to argue. So I quit.


CHAPTER XV.

WE judged that three nights more would fetch us to
Cairo, at the bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio
River comes in, and that was what we was after. We
would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way
up the Ohio amongst the free States, and then be out
of trouble.

Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and
we made for a towhead to tie to, for it wouldn't do to
try to run in a fog; but when I paddled ahead in the
canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn't any-
thing but little saplings to tie to. I passed the line
around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank,
but there was a stiff current, and the raft come boom-
ing down so lively she tore it out by the roots and
away she went. I see the fog closing down, and it
made me so sick and scared I couldn't budge for most
a half a minute it seemed to me -- and then there warn't
no raft in sight; you couldn't see twenty yards. I
jumped into the canoe and run back to the stern, and
grabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. But
she didn't come. I was in such a hurry I hadn't
untied her. I got up and tried to untie her, but I was
so excited my hands shook so I couldn't hardly do
anything with them.

As soon as I got started I took out after the raft,
hot and heavy, right down the towhead. That was
all right as far as it went, but the towhead warn't
sixty yards long, and the minute I flew by the foot of
it I shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn't no
more idea which way I was going than a dead man.

Thinks I, it won't do to paddle; first I know I'll
run into the bank or a towhead or something; I got
to set still and float, and yet it's mighty fidgety busi-
ness to have to hold your hands still at such a time. I
whooped and listened. Away down there somewheres
I hears a small whoop, and up comes my spirits. I
went tearing after it, listening sharp to hear it again.
The next time it come I see I warn't heading for it,
but heading away to the right of it. And the next
time I was heading away to the left of it -- and not
gaining on it much either, for I was flying around, this
way and that and t'other, but it was going straight
ahead all the time.

I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan,
and beat it all the time, but he never did, and it was
the still places between the whoops that was making
the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, and directly
I hears the whoop BEHIND me. I was tangled good
now. That was somebody else's whoop, or else I was
turned around.

I throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop
again; it was behind me yet, but in a different place;
it kept coming, and kept changing its place, and I kept
answering, till by and by it was in front of me again,
and I knowed the current had swung the canoe's head
down-stream, and I was all right if that was Jim and
not some other raftsman hollering. I couldn't tell
nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don't look
natural nor sound natural in a fog.

The whooping went on, and in about a minute I
come a-booming down on a cut bank with smoky
ghosts of big trees on it, and the current throwed me
off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that
fairly roared, the currrent was tearing by them so swift.

In another second or two it was solid white and still
again. I set perfectly still then, listening to my heart
thump, and I reckon I didn't draw a breath while it
thumped a hundred.

I just give up then. I knowed what the matter was.
That cut bank was an island, and Jim had gone down
t'other side of it. It warn't no towhead that you
could float by in ten minutes. It had the big timber
of a regular island; it might be five or six miles long
and more than half a mile wide.

I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen
minutes, I reckon. I was floating along, of course,
four or five miles an hour; but you don't ever think
of that. No, you FEEL like you are laying dead still on
the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips by
you don't think to yourself how fast YOU'RE going, but
you catch your breath and think, my! how that snag's
tearing along. If you think it ain't dismal and lone-
some out in a fog that way by yourself in the night,
you try it once -- you'll see.

Next, for about a half an hour, I whoops now and
then; at last I hears the answer a long ways off, and
tries to follow it, but I couldn't do it, and directly I
judged I'd got into a nest of towheads, for I had little
dim glimpses of them on both sides of me -- sometimes
just a narrow channel between, and some that I
couldn't see I knowed was there because I'd hear the
wash of the current against the old dead brush and
trash that hung over the banks. Well, I warn't long
loosing the whoops down amongst the towheads; and
I only tried to chase them a little while, anyway, be-
cause it was worse than chasing a Jack-o'-lantern.
You never knowed a sound dodge around so, and
swap places so quick and so much.

I had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four
or five times, to keep from knocking the islands out of
the river; and so I judged the raft must be butting
into the bank every now and then, or else it would get
further ahead and clear out of hearing -- it was floating
a little faster than what I was.

Well, I seemed to be in the open river again by and
by, but I couldn't hear no sign of a whoop nowheres.
I reckoned Jim had fetched up on a snag, maybe, and
it was all up with him. I was good and tired, so I laid
down in the canoe and said I wouldn't bother no
more. I didn't want to go to sleep, of course; but I
was so sleepy I couldn't help it; so I thought I would
take jest one little cat-nap.

But I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when I
waked up the stars was shining bright, the fog was all
gone, and I was spinning down a big bend stern first.
First I didn't know where I was; I thought I was
dreaming; and when things began to come back to me
they seemed to come up dim out of last week.

It was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest
and the thickest kind of timber on both banks; just a
solid wall, as well as I could see by the stars. I looked
away down-stream, and seen a black speck on the
water. I took after it; but when I got to it it warn't
nothing but a couple of sawlogs made fast together.
Then I see another speck, and chased that; then
another, and this time I was right. It was the raft.

When I got to it Jim was setting there with his head
down between his knees, asleep, with his right arm
hanging over the steering-oar. The other oar was
smashed off, and the raft was littered up with leaves
and branches and dirt. So she'd had a rough time.

I made fast and laid down under Jim's nose on the
raft, and began to gap, and stretch my fists out against
Jim, and says:

"Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn't you
stir me up?"

"Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you
ain' dead -- you ain' drownded -- you's back agin?
It's too good for true, honey, it's too good for true.
Lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. No,
you ain' dead! you's back agin, 'live en soun', jis de
same ole Huck -- de same ole Huck, thanks to good-
ness!"

"What's the matter with you, Jim? You been a-
drinking?"

"Drinkin'? Has I ben a-drinkin'? Has I had a
chance to be a-drinkin'?"

"Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?"

"How does I talk wild?"

"HOW? Why, hain't you been talking about my
coming back, and all that stuff, as if I'd been gone
away?"

"Huck -- Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look
me in de eye. HAIN'T you ben gone away?"

"Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you
mean? I hain't been gone anywheres. Where would
I go to?"

"Well, looky here, boss, dey's sumf'n wrong, dey
is. Is I ME, or who IS I? Is I heah, or whah IS I?
Now dat's what I wants to know."

"Well, I think you're here, plain enough, but I
think you're a tangle-headed old fool, Jim."

"I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn't you
tote out de line in de canoe fer to make fas' to de tow-
head?"

"No, I didn't. What tow-head? I hain't see no
tow-head."

"You hain't seen no towhead? Looky here, didn't
de line pull loose en de raf' go a-hummin' down de
river, en leave you en de canoe behine in de fog?"

"What fog?"

"Why, de fog! -- de fog dat's been aroun' all night.
En didn't you whoop, en didn't I whoop, tell we got
mix' up in de islands en one un us got los' en t'other
one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn' know whah
he wuz? En didn't I bust up agin a lot er dem islands
en have a turrible time en mos' git drownded? Now
ain' dat so, boss -- ain't it so? You answer me dat."

"Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain't seen
no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing.
I been setting here talking with you all night till you
went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and I reckon I
done the same. You couldn't a got drunk in that
time, so of course you've been dreaming."

"Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in
ten minutes?"

"Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there
didn't any of it happen."

"But, Huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as --"

"It don't make no difference how plain it is; there
ain't nothing in it. I know, because I've been here
all the time."

Jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but
set there studying over it. Then he says:

"Well, den, I reck'n I did dream it, Huck; but
dog my cats ef it ain't de powerfullest dream I ever
see. En I hain't ever had no dream b'fo' dat's tired
me like dis one."

"Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does
tire a body like everything sometimes. But this one
was a staving dream; tell me all about it, Jim."

So Jim went to work and told me the whole thing
right through, just as it happened, only he painted it
up considerable. Then he said he must start in and
"'terpret" it, because it was sent for a warning. He
said the first towhead stood for a man that would try
to do us some good, but the current was another man
that would get us away from him. The whoops was
warnings that would come to us every now and then,
and if we didn't try hard to make out to understand
them they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keep-
ing us out of it. The lot of towheads was troubles
we was going to get into with quarrelsome people and
all kinds of mean folks, but if we minded our business
and didn't talk back and aggravate them, we would
pull through and get out of the fog and into the big
clear river, which was the free States, and wouldn't
have no more trouble.

It had clouded up pretty dark just after I got on to
the raft, but it was clearing up again now.

"Oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far
as it goes, Jim," I says; "but what does THESE things
stand for?"

It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the
smashed oar. You could see them first-rate now.

Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and
back at the trash again. He had got the dream fixed
so strong in his head that he couldn't seem to shake it
loose and get the facts back into its place again right
away. But when he did get the thing straightened
around he looked at me steady without ever smiling,
and says:

"What do dey stan' for? I'se gwyne to tell you.
When I got all wore out wid work, en wid de callin'
for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz mos' broke
bekase you wuz los', en I didn' k'yer no' mo' what
become er me en de raf'. En when I wake up en fine
you back agin, all safe en soun', de tears come, en I
could a got down on my knees en kiss yo' foot, I's so
thankful. En all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz how you
could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck dah
is TRASH; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de
head er dey fren's en makes 'em ashamed."

Then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam,
and went in there without saying anything but that.
But that was enough. It made me feel so mean I
could almost kissed HIS foot to get him to take it back.

It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up
to go and humble myself to a nigger; but I done it,
and I warn't ever sorry for it afterwards, neither. I
didn't do him no more mean tricks, and I wouldn't
done that one if I'd a knowed it would make him feel
that way.


CHAPTER XVI.

WE slept most all day, and started out at night, a
little ways behind a monstrous long raft that
was as long going by as a procession. She had four
long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried as
many as thirty men, likely. She had five big wigwams
aboard, wide apart, and an open camp fire in the mid-
dle, and a tall flag-pole at each end. There was a
power of style about her. It AMOUNTED to something
being a raftsman on such a craft as that.

We went drifting down into a big bend, and the
night clouded up and got hot. The river was very
wide, and was walled with solid timber on both sides;
you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light.
We talked about Cairo, and wondered whether we
would know it when we got to it. I said likely we
wouldn't, because I had heard say there warn't but
about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen
to have them lit up, how was we going to know we
was passing a town? Jim said if the two big rivers
joined together there, that would show. But I said
maybe we might think we was passing the foot of an
island and coming into the same old river again. That
disturbed Jim -- and me too. So the question was,
what to do? I said, paddle ashore the first time a
light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming
along with a trading-scow, and was a green hand at
the business, and wanted to know how far it was to
Cairo. Jim thought it was a good idea, so we took a
smoke on it and waited.

There warn't nothing to do now but to look out
sharp for the town, and not pass it without seeing it.
He said he'd be mighty sure to see it, because he'd be
a free man the minute he seen it, but if he missed it
he'd be in a slave country again and no more show for
freedom. Every little while he jumps up and says:

"Dah she is?"

But it warn't. It was Jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning
bugs; so he set down again, and went to watching,
same as before. Jim said it made him all over trembly
and feverish to be so close to freedom. Well, I can
tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too,
to hear him, because I begun to get it through my
head that he WAS most free -- and who was to blame
for it? Why, ME. I couldn't get that out of my con-
science, no how nor no way. It got to troubling me
so I couldn't rest; I couldn't stay still in one place.
It hadn't ever come home to me before, what this
thing was that I was doing. But now it did; and it
stayed with me, and scorched me more and more. I
tried to make out to myself that I warn't to blame,
because I didn't run Jim off from his rightful owner;
but it warn't no use, conscience up and says, every
time, "But you knowed he was running for his free-
dom, and you could a paddled ashore and told some-
body." That was so -- I couldn't get around that
noway. That was where it pinched. Conscience says
to me, "What had poor Miss Watson done to you
that you could see her nigger go off right under your
eyes and never say one single word? What did that
poor old woman do to you that you could treat her so
mean? Why, she tried to learn you your book, she tried
to learn you your manners, she tried to be good to you
every way she knowed how. THAT'S what she done."

I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished
I was dead. I fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing
myself to myself, and Jim was fidgeting up and down
past me. We neither of us could keep still. Every
time he danced around and says, "Dah's Cairo!" it
went through me like a shot, and I thought if it WAS
Cairo I reckoned I would die of miserableness.

Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking
to myself. He was saying how the first thing he
would do when he got to a free State he would go to
saving up money and never spend a single cent, and
when he got enough he would buy his wife, which was
owned on a farm close to where Miss Watson lived;
and then they would both work to buy the two chil-
dren, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd
get an Ab'litionist to go and steal them.

It most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn't
ever dared to talk such talk in his life before. Just
see what a difference it made in him the minute he
judged he was about free. It was according to the old
saying, "Give a nigger an inch and he'll take an ell."
Thinks I, this is what comes of my not thinking.
Here was this nigger, which I had as good as helped
to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying
he would steal his children -- children that belonged to
a man I didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever
done me no harm.

I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a
lowering of him. My conscience got to stirring me up
hotter than ever, until at last I says to it, "Let up on
me -- it ain't too late yet -- I'll paddle ashore at the
first light and tell." I felt easy and happy and light
as a feather right off. All my troubles was gone. I
went to looking out sharp for a light, and sort of sing-
ing to myself. By and by one showed. Jim sings
out:

"We's safe, Huck, we's safe! Jump up and crack
yo' heels! Dat's de good ole Cairo at las', I jis knows
it!"

I says:

"I'll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It
mightn't be, you know."

He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old
coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give me the
paddle; and as I shoved off, he says:

"Pooty soon I'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en I'll say,
it's all on accounts o' Huck; I's a free man, en I
couldn't ever ben free ef it hadn' ben for Huck; Huck
done it. Jim won't ever forgit you, Huck; you's de
bes' fren' Jim's ever had; en you's de ONLY fren' ole
Jim's got now."

I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but
when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck
all out of me. I went along slow then, and I warn't
right down certain whether I was glad I started or
whether I warn't. When I was fifty yards off, Jim
says:

"Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on'y white
genlman dat ever kep' his promise to ole Jim."

Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I GOT to do it -- I
can't get OUT of it. Right then along comes a skiff
with two men in it with guns, and they stopped and I
stopped. One of them says:

"What's that yonder?"

"A piece of a raft," I says.

"Do you belong on it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any men on it?"

"Only one, sir."

"Well, there's five niggers run off to-night up yon-
der, above the head of the bend. Is your man white
or black?"

I didn't answer up prompt. I tried to, but the
words wouldn't come. I tried for a second or two to
brace up and out with it, but I warn't man enough --
hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening;
so I just give up trying, and up and says:

"He's white."

"I reckon we'll go and see for ourselves."

"I wish you would," says I, "because it's pap
that's there, and maybe you'd help me tow the raft
ashore where the light is. He's sick -- and so is mam
and Mary Ann."

"Oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy. But I
s'pose we've got to. Come, buckle to your paddle,
and let's get along."

I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars.
When we had made a stroke or two, I says:

"Pap'll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can
tell you. Everybody goes away when I want them to
help me tow the raft ashore, and I can't do it by
myself."

"Well, that's infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy,
what's the matter with your father?"

"It's the -- a -- the -- well, it ain't anything much."

They stopped pulling. It warn't but a mighty little
ways to the raft now. One says:

"Boy, that's a lie. What IS the matter with your
pap? Answer up square now, and it'll be the better
for you."

"I will, sir, I will, honest -- but don't leave us,
please. It's the -- the -- Gentlemen, if you'll only
pull ahead, and let me heave you the headline, you
won't have to come a-near the raft -- please do."

"Set her back, John, set her back!" says one.
They backed water. "Keep away, boy -- keep to
looard. Confound it, I just expect the wind has
blowed it to us. Your pap's got the small-pox, and
you know it precious well. Why didn't you come out
and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?"

"Well," says I, a-blubbering, "I've told every-
body before, and they just went away and left us."

"Poor devil, there's something in that. We are
right down sorry for you, but we -- well, hang it, we
don't want the small-pox, you see. Look here, I'll
tell you what to do. Don't you try to land by your-
self, or you'll smash everything to pieces. You float
along down about twenty miles, and you'll come to a
town on the left-hand side of the river. It will be
long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help
you tell them your folks are all down with chills and
fever. Don't be a fool again, and let people guess
what is the matter. Now we're trying to do you a
kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us,
that's a good boy. It wouldn't do any good to land
yonder where the light is -- it's only a wood-yard.
Say, I reckon your father's poor, and I'm bound to
say he's in pretty hard luck. Here, I'll put a twenty-
dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it
floats by. I feel mighty mean to leave you; but my
kingdom! it won't do to fool with small-pox, don't
you see?"

"Hold on, Parker," says the other man, "here's a
twenty to put on the board for me. Good-bye, boy;
you do as Mr. Parker told you, and you'll be all
right."

"That's so, my boy -- good-bye, good-bye. If you
see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them,
and you can make some money by it."

"Good-bye, sir," says I; "I won't let no runaway
niggers get by me if I can help it."

They went off and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad
and low, because I knowed very well I had done
wrong, and I see it warn't no use for me to try to
learn to do right; a body that don't get STARTED right
when he's little ain't got no show -- when the pinch
comes there ain't nothing to back him up and keep
him to his work, and so he gets beat. Then I thought
a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose you'd a
done right and give Jim up, would you felt better than
what you do now? No, says I, I'd feel bad -- I'd feel
just the same way I do now. Well, then, says I,
what's the use you learning to do right when it's
troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do
wrong, and the wages is just the same? I was stuck.
I couldn't answer that. So I reckoned I wouldn't
bother no more about it, but after this always do
whichever come handiest at the time.

I went into the wigwam; Jim warn't there. I looked
all around; he warn't anywhere. I says:

"Jim!"

"Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o' sight yit? Don't
talk loud."

He was in the river under the stern oar, with just
his nose out. I told him they were out of sight, so he
come aboard. He says:

"I was a-listenin' to all de talk, en I slips into de
river en was gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come
aboard. Den I was gwyne to swim to de raf' agin
when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool
'em, Huck! Dat WUZ de smartes' dodge! I tell you,
chile, I'spec it save' ole Jim -- ole Jim ain't going to
forgit you for dat, honey."

Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty
good raise -- twenty dollars apiece. Jim said we could
take deck passage on a steamboat now, and the money
would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free
States. He said twenty mile more warn't far for the
raft to go, but he wished we was already there.

Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty
particular about hiding the raft good. Then he worked
all day fixing things in bundles, and getting all ready
to quit rafting.

That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights
of a town away down in a left-hand bend.

I went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty soon I
found a man out in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-
line. I ranged up and says:

"Mister, is that town Cairo?"

"Cairo? no. You must be a blame' fool."

"What town is it, mister?"

"If you want to know, go and find out. If you
stay here botherin' around me for about a half a minute
longer you'll get something you won't want."

I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed,
but I said never mind, Cairo would be the next place,
I reckoned.

We passed another town before daylight, and I was
going out again; but it was high ground, so I didn't
go. No high ground about Cairo, Jim said. I had
forgot it. We laid up for the day on a towhead
tolerable close to the left-hand bank. I begun to
suspicion something. So did Jim. I says:

"Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night."

He says:

"Doan' le's talk about it, Huck. Po' niggers can't
have no luck. I awluz 'spected dat rattlesnake-skin
warn't done wid its work."

"I wish I'd never seen that snake-skin, Jim -- I do
wish I'd never laid eyes on it."

"It ain't yo' fault, Huck; you didn' know. Don't
you blame yo'self 'bout it."

When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water
inshore, sure enough, and outside was the old regular
Muddy! So it was all up with Cairo.

We talked it all over. It wouldn't do to take to the
shore; we couldn't take the raft up the stream, of
course. There warn't no way but to wait for dark,
and start back in the canoe and take the chances. So
we slept all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so
as to be fresh for the work, and when we went back to
the raft about dark the canoe was gone!

We didn't say a word for a good while. There
warn't anything to say. We both knowed well enough
it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin; so
what was the use to talk about it? It would only look
like we was finding fault, and that would be bound to
fetch more bad luck -- and keep on fetching it, too, till
we knowed enough to keep still.

By and by we talked about what we better do, and
found there warn't no way but just to go along down
with the raft till we got a chance to buy a canoe to go
back in. We warn't going to borrow it when there
warn't anybody around, the way pap would do, for
that might set people after us.

So we shoved out after dark on the raft.

Anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness to
handle a snake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done
for us, will believe it now if they read on and see what
more it done for us.

The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at
shore. But we didn't see no rafts laying up; so we
went along during three hours and more. Well, the
night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next
meanest thing to fog. You can't tell the shape of the
river, and you can't see no distance. It got to be
very late and still, and then along comes a steamboat
up the river. We lit the lantern, and judged she would
see it. Up-stream boats didn't generly come close to
us; they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy
water under the reefs; but nights like this they bull
right up the channel against the whole river.

We could hear her pounding along, but we didn't
see her good till she was close. She aimed right for
us. Often they do that and try to see how close they
can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites
off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and
laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart. Well, here she
comes, and we said she was going to try and shave us;
but she didn't seem to be sheering off a bit. She was
a big one, and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking
like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it;
but all of a sudden she bulged out, big and scary, with
a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like
red-hot teeth, and her monstrous bows and guards
hanging right over us. There was a yell at us, and a
jingling of bells to stop the engines, a powwow of
cussing, and whistling of steam -- and as Jim went
overboard on one side and I on the other, she come
smashing straight through the raft.

I dived -- and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a
thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me, and I wanted
it to have plenty of room. I could always stay under
water a minute; this time I reckon I stayed under a
minute and a half. Then I bounced for the top in a
hurry, for I was nearly busting. I popped out to my
armpits and blowed the water out of my nose, and
puffed a bit. Of course there was a booming current;
and of course that boat started her engines again ten
seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared
much for raftsmen; so now she was churning along up
the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though I
could hear her.

I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn't
get any answer; so I grabbed a plank that touched me
while I was "treading water," and struck out for
shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made out to
see that the drift of the current was towards the left-
hand shore, which meant that I was in a crossing; so
I changed off and went that way.

It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile cross-
ings; so I was a good long time in getting over. I
made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank. I couldn't
see but a little ways, but I went poking along over
rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and
then I run across a big old-fashioned double log-house
before I noticed it. I was going to rush by and get
away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howl-
ing and barking at me, and I knowed better than to
move another peg.


CHAPTER XVII.

IN about a minute somebody spoke out of a window
without putting his head out, and says:

"Be done, boys! Who's there?"

I says:

"It's me."

"Who's me?"

"George Jackson, sir."

"What do you want?"

"I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to go
along by, but the dogs won't let me."

"What are you prowling around here this time of
night for -- hey?"

"I warn't prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off
of the steamboat."

"Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, some-
body. What did you say your name was?"

"George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy."

"Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't
be afraid -- nobody'll hurt you. But don't try to
budge; stand right where you are. Rouse out Bob
and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George
Jackson, is there anybody with you?"

"No, sir, nobody."

I heard the people stirring around in the house now,
and see a light. The man sung out:

"Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool -- ain't
you got any sense? Put it on the floor behind the
front door. Bob, if you and Tom are ready, take
your places."

"All ready."

"Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherd-
sons?"

"No, sir; I never heard of them."

"Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. Now, all
ready. Step forward, George Jackson. And mind,
don't you hurry -- come mighty slow. If there's any-
body with you, let him keep back -- if he shows him-
self he'll be shot. Come along now. Come slow;
push the door open yourself -- just enough to squeeze
in, d' you hear?"

I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a wanted to. I
took one slow step at a time and there warn't a sound,
only I thought I could hear my heart. The dogs were
as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind
me. When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard
them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting. I put
my hand on the door and pushed it a little and a little
more till somebody said, "There, that's enough -- put
your head in." I done it, but I judged they would
take it off.

The candle was on the floor, and there they all was,
looking at me, and me at them, for about a quarter of
a minute: Three big men with guns pointed at me,
which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray and
about sixty, the other two thirty or more -- all of them
fine and handsome -- and the sweetest old gray-headed
lady, and back of her two young women which I
couldn't see right well. The old gentleman says:

"There; I reckon it's all right. Come in."

As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the
door and barred it and bolted it, and told the young
men to come in with their guns, and they all went in a
big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and
got together in a corner that was out of the range of
the front windows -- there warn't none on the side.
They held the candle, and took a good look at me,
and all said, "Why, HE ain't a Shepherdson -- no,
there ain't any Shepherdson about him." Then the
old man said he hoped I wouldn't mind being searched
for arms, because he didn't mean no harm by it -- it
was only to make sure. So he didn't pry into my
pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said
it was all right. He told me to make myself easy and
at home, and tell all about myself; but the old lady
says:

"Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as
he can be; and don't you reckon it may be he's
hungry?"

"True for you, Rachel -- I forgot."

So the old lady says:

"Betsy" (this was a nigger woman), you fly around
and get him something to eat as quick as you can, poor
thing; and one of you girls go and wake up Buck and
tell him -- oh, here he is himself. Buck, take this
little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and
dress him up in some of yours that's dry."

Buck looked about as old as me -- thirteen or four-
teen or along there, though he was a little bigger than
me. He hadn't on anything but a shirt, and he was
very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and digging
one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along
with the other one. He says:

"Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?"

They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.

"Well," he says, "if they'd a ben some, I reckon
I'd a got one."

They all laughed, and Bob says:

"Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you've
been so slow in coming."

"Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right
I'm always kept down; I don't get no show."

"Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man,
"you'll have show enough, all in good time, don't
you fret about that. Go 'long with you now, and do
as your mother told you."

When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a
coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants of his, and I
put them on. While I was at it he asked me what my
name was, but before I could tell him he started to tell
me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched
in the woods day before yesterday, and he asked me
where Moses was when the candle went out. I said I
didn't know; I hadn't heard about it before, no way.

"Well, guess," he says.

"How'm I going to guess," says I, "when I never
heard tell of it before?"

"But you can guess, can't you? It's just as easy."

"WHICH candle?" I says.

"Why, any candle," he says.

"I don't know where he was," says I; "where
was he?"

"Why, he was in the DARK! That's where he was!"

"Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you
ask me for?"

"Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? Say,
how long are you going to stay here? You got to
stay always. We can just have booming times -- they
don't have no school now. Do you own a dog?
I've got a dog -- and he'll go in the river and bring
out chips that you throw in. Do you like to comb up
Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? You bet I
don't, but ma she makes me. Confound these ole
britches! I reckon I'd better put 'em on, but I'd
ruther not, it's so warm. Are you all ready? All
right. Come along, old hoss."

Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and butter-
milk -- that is what they had for me down there, and
there ain't nothing better that ever I've come across
yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob
pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and
the two young women. They all smoked and talked,
and I eat and talked. The young women had quilts
around them, and their hair down their backs. They
all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and
me and all the family was living on a little farm down
at the bottom of Arkansaw, and my sister Mary Ann
run off and got married and never was heard of no
more, and Bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard
of no more, and Tom and Mort died, and then there
warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he was
just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his
troubles; so when he died I took what there was left,
because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up
the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that
was how I come to be here. So they said I could
have a home there as long as I wanted it. Then it
was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and I
went to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the
morning, drat it all, I had forgot what my name was.
So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and
when Buck waked up I says:

"Can you spell, Buck?"

"Yes," he says.

"I bet you can't spell my name," says I.

"I bet you what you dare I can," says he.

"All right," says I, "go ahead."

"G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n -- there now," he says.

"Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think
you could. It ain't no slouch of a name to spell --
right off without studying."

I set it down, private, because somebody might want
ME to spell it next, and so I wanted to be handy with
it and rattle it off like I was used to it.

It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice
house, too. I hadn't seen no house out in the country
before that was so nice and had so much style. It
didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a
wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob
to turn, the same as houses in town. There warn't no
bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of
parlors in towns has beds in them. There was a big
fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the
bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on
them and scrubbing them with another brick; some-
times they wash them over with red water-paint that
they call Spanish-brown, same as they do in town.
They had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a saw-
log. There was a clock on the middle of the mantel-
piece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom
half of the glass front, and a round place in the middle
of it for the sun, and you could see the pendulum
swinging behind it. It was beautiful to hear that clock
tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers had
been along and scoured her up and got her in good
shape, she would start in and strike a hundred and
fifty before she got tuckered out. They wouldn't took
any money for her.

Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side
of the clock, made out of something like chalk, and
painted up gaudy. By one of the parrots was a cat
made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other;
and when you pressed down on them they squeaked,
but didn't open their mouths nor look different nor
interested. They squeaked through underneath. There
was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out
behind those things. On the table in the middle of
the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that
bad apples and oranges and peaches and grapes piled
up in it, which was much redder and yellower and
prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because
you could see where pieces had got chipped off and
showed the white chalk, or whatever it was, under-
neath.

This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth,
with a red and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a
painted border all around. It come all the way from
Philadelphia, they said. There was some books, too,
piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table.
One was a big family Bible full of pictures. One was
Pilgrim's Progress, about a man that left his family, it
didn't say why. I read considerable in it now and
then. The statements was interesting, but tough.
Another was Friendship's Offering, full of beautiful
stuff and poetry; but I didn't read the poetry. An-
other was Henry Clay's Speeches, and another was
Dr. Gunn's Family Medicine, which told you all about
what to do if a body was sick or dead. There was a
hymn book, and a lot of other books. And there was
nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too --
not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an
old basket.

They had pictures hung on the walls -- mainly
Washingtons and Lafayettes, and battles, and High-
land Marys, and one called "Signing the Declaration."
There was some that they called crayons, which one of
the daughters which was dead made her own self when
she was only fifteen years old. They was different
from any pictures I ever see before -- blacker, mostly,
than is common. One was a woman in a slim black
dress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like
a cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large
black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black veil, and white
slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very
wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning
pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a
weeping willow, and her other hand hanging down her
side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and
underneath the picture it said "Shall I Never See Thee
More Alas." Another one was a young lady with her
hair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and
knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and
she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead
bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels
up, and underneath the picture it said "I Shall Never
Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There was one
where a young lady was at a window looking up at the
moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she
had an open letter in one hand with black sealing wax
showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a
locket with a chain to it against her mouth, and under-
neath the picture it said "And Art Thou Gone Yes
Thou Art Gone Alas." These was all nice pictures, I
reckon, but I didn't somehow seem to take to them,
because if ever I was down a little they always give me
the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she died, because
she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do,
and a body could see by what she had done what they
had lost. But I reckoned that with her disposition she
was having a better time in the graveyard. She was
at work on what they said was her greatest picture
when she took sick, and every day and every night it
was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it
done, but she never got the chance. It was a picture
of a young woman in a long white gown, standing on
the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair
all down her back, and looking up to the moon, with
the tears running down her face, and she had two arms
folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in
front, and two more reaching up towards the moon --
and the idea was to see which pair would look best,
and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was
saying, she died before she got her mind made up,
and now they kept this picture over the head of the
bed in her room, and every time her birthday come
they hung flowers on it. Other times it was hid with
a little curtain. The young woman in the picture had a
kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms
it made her look too spidery, seemed to me.

This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was
alive, and used to paste obituaries and accidents and
cases of patient suffering in it out of the Presbyterian
Observer, and write poetry after them out of her own
head. It was very good poetry. This is what she
wrote about a boy by the name of Stephen Dowling
Bots that fell down a well and was drownded:

  ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D

  And did young Stephen sicken,
    And did young Stephen die?
  And did the sad hearts thicken,
    And did the mourners cry?

  No; such was not the fate of
    Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
  Though sad hearts round him thickened,
    'Twas not from sickness' shots.

  No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
    Nor measles drear with spots;
  Not these impaired the sacred name
    Of Stephen Dowling Bots.

  Despised love struck not with woe
    That head of curly knots,
  Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
    Young Stephen Dowling Bots.

  O no. Then list with tearful eye,
    Whilst I his fate do tell.
  His soul did from this cold world fly
    By falling down a well.

  They got him out and emptied him;
    Alas it was too late;
  His spirit was gone for to sport aloft
    In the realms of the good and great.

If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like
that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling
what she could a done by and by. Buck said she
could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn't ever
have to stop to think. He said she would slap down a
line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it
would just scratch it out and slap down another one,
and go ahead. She warn't particular; she could write
about anything you choose to give her to write about
just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a
woman died, or a child died, she would be on hand
with her "tribute" before he was cold. She called
them tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor
first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker -- the under-
taker never got in ahead of Emmeline but once, and
then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's
name, which was Whistler. She warn't ever the same
after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined
away and did not live long. Poor thing, many's the
time I made myself go up to the little room that used
to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and
read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me
and I had soured on her a little. I liked all that
family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let any-
thing come between us. Poor Emmeline made poetry
about all the dead people when she was alive, and it
didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make
some about her now she was gone; so I tried to sweat
out a verse or two myself, but I couldn't seem to make
it go somehow. They kept Emmeline's room trim
and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way
she liked to have them when she was alive, and nobody
ever slept there. The old lady took care of the room
herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she
sewed there a good deal and read her Bible there
mostly.

Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was
beautiful curtains on the windows: white, with pictures
painted on them of castles with vines all down the
walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There was a
little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon,
and nothing was ever so lovely as to hear the young
ladies sing "The Last Link is Broken" and play "The
Battle of Prague" on it. The walls of all the rooms
was plastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and
the whole house was whitewashed on the outside.

It was a double house, and the big open place be-
twixt them was roofed and floored, and sometimes the
table was set there in the middle of the day, and it was
a cool, comfortable place. Nothing couldn't be better.
And warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it
too!


CHAPTER XVIII.

COL. GRANGERFORD was a gentleman, you see.
He was a gentleman all over; and so was his
family. He was well born, as the saying is, and that's
worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the
Widow Douglas said, and nobody ever denied that she
was of the first aristocracy in our town; and pap he
always said it, too, though he warn't no more quality
than a mudcat himself. Col. Grangerford was very tall
and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not
a sign of red in it anywheres; he was clean shaved
every morning all over his thin face, and he had the
thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils,
and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest
kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like
they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may
say. His forehead was high, and his hair was black
and straight and hung to his shoulders. His hands
was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on
a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made
out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it;
and on Sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with brass
buttons on it. He carried a mahogany cane with a
silver head to it. There warn't no frivolishness about
him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. He was as
kind as he could be -- you could feel that, you know,
and so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled,
and it was good to see; but when he straightened him-
self up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to
flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to
climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was
afterwards. He didn't ever have to tell anybody to
mind their manners -- everybody was always good-
mannered where he was. Everybody loved to have
him around, too; he was sunshine most always -- I
mean he made it seem like good weather. When he
turned into a cloudbank it was awful dark for half a
minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing
go wrong again for a week.

When him and the old lady come down in the morn-
ing all the family got up out of their chairs and give
them good-day, and didn't set down again till they had
set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard
where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters
and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and
waited till Tom's and Bob's was mixed, and then they
bowed and said, "Our duty to you, sir, and madam;"
and THEY bowed the least bit in the world and said
thank you, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and
Tom poured a spoonful of water on the sugar and the
mite of whisky or apple brandy in the bottom of their
tumblers, and give it to me and Buck, and we drank to
the old people too.

Bob was the oldest and Tom next -- tall, beautiful
men with very broad shoulders and brown faces, and
long black hair and black eyes. They dressed in white
linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman, and
wore broad Panama hats.

Then there was Miss Charlotte; she was twenty-
five, and tall and proud and grand, but as good as she
could be when she warn't stirred up; but when she
was she had a look that would make you wilt in your
tracks, like her father. She was beautiful.

So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different
kind. She was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she
was only twenty.

Each person had their own nigger to wait on them --
Buck too. My nigger had a monstrous easy time, be-
cause I warn't used to having anybody do anything
for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the time.

This was all there was of the family now, but there
used to be more -- three sons; they got killed; and
Emmeline that died.

The old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a
hundred niggers. Sometimes a stack of people would
come there, horseback, from ten or fifteen mile around,
and stay five or six days, and have such junketings
round about and on the river, and dances and picnics
in the woods daytimes, and balls at the house nights.
These people was mostly kinfolks of the family. The
men brought their guns with them. It was a hand-
some lot of quality, I tell you.

There was another clan of aristocracy around there
-- five or six families -- mostly of the name of Shep-
herdson. They was as high-toned and well born and
rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords. The
Shepherdsons and Grangerfords used the same steam-
boat landing, which was about two mile above our
house; so sometimes when I went up there with a lot
of our folks I used to see a lot of the Shepherdsons
there on their fine horses.

One day Buck and me was away out in the woods
hunting, and heard a horse coming. We was crossing
the road. Buck says:

"Quick! Jump for the woods!"

We done it, and then peeped down the woods
through the leaves. Pretty soon a splendid young
man come galloping down the road, setting his horse
easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun across
his pommel. I had seen him before. It was young
Harney Shepherdson. I heard Buck's gun go off at
my ear, and Harney's hat tumbled off from his head.
He grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place
where we was hid. But we didn't wait. We started
through the woods on a run. The woods warn't thick,
so I looked over my shoulder to dodge the bullet, and
twice I seen Harney cover Buck with his gun; and
then he rode away the way he come -- to get his hat,
I reckon, but I couldn't see. We never stopped run-
ning till we got home. The old gentleman's eyes
blazed a minute -- 'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged --
then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says,
kind of gentle:

"I don't like that shooting from behind a bush.
Why didn't you step into the road, my boy?"

"The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always
take advantage."

Miss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen
while Buck was telling his tale, and her nostrils spread
and her eyes snapped. The two young men looked
dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia she turned
pale, but the color come back when she found the
man warn't hurt.

Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs
under the trees by ourselves, I says:

"Did you want to kill him, Buck?"

"Well, I bet I did."

"What did he do to you?"

"Him? He never done nothing to me."

"Well, then, what did you want to kill him for?"

"Why, nothing -- only it's on account of the feud."

"What's a feud?"

"Why, where was you raised? Don't you know
what a feud is?"

"Never heard of it before -- tell me about it."

"Well," says Buck, "a feud is this way: A man
has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then
that other man's brother kills HIM; then the other
brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then
the COUSINS chip in -- and by and by everybody's killed
off, and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of
slow, and takes a long time."

"Has this one been going on long, Buck?"

"Well, I should RECKON! It started thirty year ago,
or som'ers along there. There was trouble 'bout
something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and the
suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot
the man that won the suit -- which he would naturally
do, of course. Anybody would."

"What was the trouble about, Buck? -- land?"

"I reckon maybe -- I don't know."

"Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Granger-
ford or a Shepherdson?"

"Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago."

"Don't anybody know?"

"Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the
other old people; but they don't know now what the
row was about in the first place."

"Has there been many killed, Buck?"

"Yes; right smart chance of funerals. But they
don't always kill. Pa's got a few buckshot in him;
but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much, any-
way. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and
Tom's been hurt once or twice."

"Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?"

"Yes; we got one and they got one. 'Bout three
months ago my cousin Bud, fourteen year old, was
riding through the woods on t'other side of the river,
and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame'
foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse
a-coming behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson
a-linkin' after him with his gun in his hand and his
white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'stead of jumping
off and taking to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could out-
run him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or
more, the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last
Bud seen it warn't any use, so he stopped and faced
around so as to have the bullet holes in front, you
know, and the old man he rode up and shot him
down. But he didn't git much chance to enjoy his
luck, for inside of a week our folks laid HIM out."

"I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck."

"I reckon he WARN'T a coward. Not by a blame'
sight. There ain't a coward amongst them Shepherd-
sons -- not a one. And there ain't no cowards amongst
the Grangerfords either. Why, that old man kep' up
his end in a fight one day for half an hour against
three Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was
all a-horseback; he lit off of his horse and got behind
a little woodpile, and kep' his horse before him to stop
the bullets; but the Grangerfords stayed on their
horses and capered around the old man, and peppered
away at him, and he peppered away at them. Him
and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crip-
pled, but the Grangerfords had to be FETCHED home --
and one of 'em was dead, and another died the next
day. No, sir; if a body's out hunting for cowards he
don't want to fool away any time amongst them Shep-
herdsons, becuz they don't breed any of that KIND."

Next Sunday we all went to church, about three
mile, everybody a-horseback. The men took their
guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between their
knees or stood them handy against the wall. The
Shepherdsons done the same. It was pretty ornery
preaching -- all about brotherly love, and such-like
tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good ser-
mon, and they all talked it over going home, and had
such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works
and free grace and preforeordestination, and I don't
know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the
roughest Sundays I had run across yet.

About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing
around, some in their chairs and some in their rooms,
and it got to be pretty dull. Buck and a dog was
stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep. I
went up to our room, and judged I would take a nap
myself. I found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in
her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in
her room and shut the door very soft, and asked me if
I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I
would do something for her and not tell anybody,
and I said I would. Then she said she'd forgot her
Testament, and left it in the seat at church between two
other books, and would I slip out quiet and go there
and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. I
said I would. So I slid out and slipped off up the
road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except
maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock on the
door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time
because it's cool. If you notice, most folks don't go
to church only when they've got to; but a hog is
different.

Says I to myself, something's up; it ain't natural
for a girl to be in such a sweat about a Testament.
So I give it a shake, and out drops a little piece of
paper with "HALF-PAST TWO" wrote on it with a pencil.
I ransacked it, but couldn't find anything else. I
couldn't make anything out of that, so I put the paper
in the book again, and when I got home and upstairs
there was Miss Sophia in her door waiting for me.
She pulled me in and shut the door; then she looked
in the Testament till she found the paper, and as soon
as she read it she looked glad; and before a body
could think she grabbed me and give me a squeeze,
and said I was the best boy in the world, and not to
tell anybody. She was mighty red in the face for a
minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it made her
powerful pretty. I was a good deal astonished, but
when I got my breath I asked her what the paper was
about, and she asked me if I had read it, and I said
no, and she asked me if I could read writing, and I
told her "no, only coarse-hand," and then she said
the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep
her place, and I might go and play now.

I went off down to the river, studying over this
thing, and pretty soon I noticed that my nigger was
following along behind. When we was out of sight of
the house he looked back and around a second, and
then comes a-running, and says:

"Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp
I'll show you a whole stack o' water-moccasins."

Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yester-
day. He oughter know a body don't love water-
moccasins enough to go around hunting for them.
What is he up to, anyway? So I says:

"All right; trot ahead."

I followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the
swamp, and waded ankle deep as much as another
half-mile. We come to a little flat piece of land which
was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and
vines, and he says:

"You shove right in dah jist a few steps, Mars
Jawge; dah's whah dey is. I's seed 'm befo'; I
don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'."

Then he slopped right along and went away, and
pretty soon the trees hid him. I poked into the place
a-ways and come to a little open patch as big as a
bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a man
laying there asleep -- and, by jings, it was my old Jim!

I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be
a grand surprise to him to see me again, but it warn't.
He nearly cried he was so glad, but he warn't sur-
prised. Said he swum along behind me that night,
and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, be-
cause he didn't want nobody to pick HIM up and take
him into slavery again. Says he:

"I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I wuz
a considable ways behine you towards de las'; when
you landed I reck'ned I could ketch up wid you on de
lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when I see dat
house I begin to go slow. I 'uz off too fur to hear
what dey say to you -- I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but
when it 'uz all quiet agin I knowed you's in de house,
so I struck out for de woods to wait for day. Early
in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne
to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place,
whah de dogs can't track me on accounts o' de water,
en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me
how you's a-gitt'n along."

"Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here
sooner, Jim?"

"Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we
could do sumfn -- but we's all right now. I ben a-
buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as I got a chanst, en a-
patchin' up de raf' nights when --"

"WHAT raft, Jim?"

"Our ole raf'."

"You mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all
to flinders?"

"No, she warn't. She was tore up a good deal --
one en' of her was; but dey warn't no great harm
done, on'y our traps was mos' all los'. Ef we hadn'
dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night
hadn' ben so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben
sich punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'.
But it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed
up agin mos' as good as new, en we's got a new lot o'
stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'."

"Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim
-- did you catch her?"

"How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods?
No; some er de niggers foun' her ketched on a snag
along heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick
'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout
which un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat I come to
heah 'bout it pooty soon, so I ups en settles de trouble
by tellin' 'um she don't b'long to none uv um, but to
you en me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab a young
white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I
gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satis-
fied, en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come along en make
'm rich agin. Dey's mighty good to me, dese niggers
is, en whatever I wants 'm to do fur me I doan' have
to ast 'm twice, honey. Dat Jack's a good nigger, en
pooty smart."

"Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here;
told me to come, and he'd show me a lot of water-
moccasins. If anything happens HE ain't mixed up in
it. He can say he never seen us together, and it 'll
be the truth."

I don't want to talk much about the next day. I
reckon I'll cut it pretty short. I waked up about
dawn, and was a-going to turn over and go to sleep
again when I noticed how still it was -- didn't seem
to be anybody stirring. That warn't usual. Next I
noticed that Buck was up and gone. Well, I gets up,
a-wondering, and goes down stairs -- nobody around;
everything as still as a mouse. Just the same outside.
Thinks I, what does it mean? Down by the wood-
pile I comes across my Jack, and says:

"What's it all about?"

Says he:

"Don't you know, Mars Jawge?"

"No," says I, "I don't."

"Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed she has.
She run off in de night some time -- nobody don't
know jis' when; run off to get married to dat young
Harney Shepherdson, you know -- leastways, so dey
'spec. De fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour
ago -- maybe a little mo' -- en' I TELL you dey warn't
no time los'. Sich another hurryin' up guns en hosses
YOU never see! De women folks has gone for to stir
up de relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey
guns en rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat
young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost de river
wid Miss Sophia. I reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty
rough times."

"Buck went off 'thout waking me up."

"Well, I reck'n he DID! Dey warn't gwyne to mix
you up in it. Mars Buck he loaded up his gun en
'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home a Shepherdson or
bust. Well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n, en
you bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst."

I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By
and by I begin to hear guns a good ways off. When
I came in sight of the log store and the woodpile
where the steamboats lands I worked along under the
trees and brush till I got to a good place, and then I
clumb up into the forks of a cottonwood that was out
of reach, and watched. There was a wood-rank four
foot high a little ways in front of the tree, and first I
was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was
luckier I didn't.

There was four or five men cavorting around on their
horses in the open place before the log store, cussing
and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of young
chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of
the steamboat landing; but they couldn't come it.
Every time one of them showed himself on the river
side of the woodpile he got shot at. The two boys
was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they
could watch both ways.

By and by the men stopped cavorting around and
yelling. They started riding towards the store; then
up gets one of the boys, draws a steady bead over the
wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle.
All the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the
hurt one and started to carry him to the store; and
that minute the two boys started on the run. They
got half way to the tree I was in before the men
noticed. Then the men see them, and jumped on
their horses and took out after them. They gained on
the boys, but it didn't do no good, the boys had too
good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in
front of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they
had the bulge on the men again. One of the boys
was Buck, and the other was a slim young chap about
nineteen years old.

The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away.
As soon as they was out of sight I sung out to Buck
and told him. He didn't know what to make of my
voice coming out of the tree at first. He was awful
surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him
know when the men come in sight again; said they
was up to some devilment or other -- wouldn't be gone
long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I dasn't
come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed
that him and his cousin Joe (that was the other young
chap) would make up for this day yet. He said his
father and his two brothers was killed, and two or
three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons laid for
them in ambush. Buck said his father and brothers
ought to waited for their relations -- the Shepherdsons
was too strong for them. I asked him what was be-
come of young Harney and Miss Sophia. He said
they'd got across the river and was safe. I was glad
of that; but the way Buck did take on because he
didn't manage to kill Harney that day he shot at him
-- I hain't ever heard anything like it.

All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or
four guns -- the men had slipped around through the
woods and come in from behind without their horses!
The boys jumped for the river -- both of them hurt --
and as they swum down the current the men run along
the bank shooting at them and singing out, "Kill
them, kill them!" It made me so sick I most fell out
of the tree. I ain't a-going to tell ALL that happened --
it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I
wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night to see
such things. I ain't ever going to get shut of them --
lots of times I dream about them.

I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid
to come down. Sometimes I heard guns away off in
the woods; and twice I seen little gangs of men gallop
past the log store with guns; so I reckoned the trouble
was still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted; so I
made up my mind I wouldn't ever go anear that house
again, because I reckoned I was to blame, somehow.
I judged that that piece of paper meant that Miss
Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at half-past
two and run off; and I judged I ought to told her
father about that paper and the curious way she acted,
and then maybe he would a locked her up, and this
awful mess wouldn't ever happened.

When I got down out of the tree I crept along down
the river bank a piece, and found the two bodies laying
in the edge of the water, and tugged at them till I got
them ashore; then I covered up their faces, and got
away as quick as I could. I cried a little when I was
covering up Buck's face, for he was mighty good to me.

It was just dark now. I never went near the house,
but struck through the woods and made for the
swamp. Jim warn't on his island, so I tramped off in
a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows,
red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful
country. The raft was gone! My souls, but I was
scared! I couldn't get my breath for most a minute.
Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-five foot
from me says:

"Good lan'! is dat you, honey? Doan' make no
noise."

It was Jim's voice -- nothing ever sounded so good
before. I run along the bank a piece and got aboard,
and Jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so glad
to see me. He says:

"Laws bless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho' you's
dead agin. Jack's been heah; he say he reck'n you's
ben shot, kase you didn' come home no mo'; so I's
jes' dis minute a startin' de raf' down towards de mouf
er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en
leave soon as Jack comes agin en tells me for certain
you IS dead. Lawsy, I's mighty glad to git you back
again, honey.

I says:

"All right -- that's mighty good; they won't find
me, and they'll think I've been killed, and floated down
the river -- there's something up there that 'll help them
think so -- so don't you lose no time, Jim, but just
shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can."

I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below
there and out in the middle of the Mississippi. Then
we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we was
free and safe once more. I hadn't had a bite to eat
since yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers
and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage and greens --
there ain't nothing in the world so good when it's
cooked right -- and whilst I eat my supper we talked
and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get
away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get away from
the swamp. We said there warn't no home like a
raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up
and smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free
and easy and comfortable on a raft.


CHAPTER XIX.

TWO or three days and nights went by; I reckon I
might say they swum by, they slid along so quiet
and smooth and lovely. Here is the way we put in
the time. It was a monstrous big river down there --
sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and
laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most
gone we stopped navigating and tied up -- nearly
always in the dead water under a towhead; and then
cut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft
with them. Then we set out the lines. Next we slid
into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and
cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where
the water was about knee deep, and watched the day-
light come. Not a sound anywheres -- perfectly still
-- just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes
the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to
see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull
line -- that was the woods on t'other side; you
couldn't make nothing else out; then a pale place in
the sky; then more paleness spreading around; then
the river softened up away off, and warn't black any
more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting
along ever so far away -- trading scows, and such
things; and long black streaks -- rafts; sometimes
you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up
voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by
and by you could see a streak on the water which you
know by the look of the streak that there's a snag
there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes
that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl
up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the
river, and you make out a log-cabin in the edge of
the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the
river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them
cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres;
then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning
you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet to
smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but
sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish
laying around, gars and such, and they do get pretty
rank; and next you've got the full day, and every-
thing smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just
going it!

A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would
take some fish off of the lines and cook up a hot break-
fast. And afterwards we would watch the lonesome-
ness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by and
by lazy off to sleep. Wake up by and by, and look to
see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing
along up-stream, so far off towards the other side you
couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she was a
stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour there
wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see -- just
solid lonesomeness. Next you'd see a raft sliding by,
away off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping,
because they're most always doing it on a raft; you'd
see the axe flash and come down -- you don't
hear nothing; you see that axe go up again, and by
the time it's above the man's head then you hear the
K'CHUNK! -- it had took all that time to come over the
water. So we would put in the day, lazying around,
listening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog,
and the rafts and things that went by was beating tin
pans so the steamboats wouldn't run over them. A
scow or a raft went by so close we could hear them
talking and cussing and laughing -- heard them plain;
but we couldn't see no sign of them; it made you feel
crawly; it was like spirits carrying on that way in the
air. Jim said he believed it was spirits; but I says:

"No; spirits wouldn't say, 'Dern the dern fog.'"

Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got
her out to about the middle we let her alone, and let
her float wherever the current wanted her to; then we
lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and
talked about all kinds of things -- we was always
naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would
let us -- the new clothes Buck's folks made for me was
too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn't go
much on clothes, nohow.

Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves
for the longest time. Yonder was the banks and the
islands, across the water; and maybe a spark -- which
was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the
water you could see a spark or two -- on a raft or a
scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle
or a song coming over from one of them crafts. It's
lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all
speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs
and look up at them, and discuss about whether they
was made or only just happened. Jim he allowed
they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged
it would have took too long to MAKE so many. Jim
said the moon could a LAID them; well, that looked
kind of reasonable, so I didn't say nothing against it,
because I've seen a frog lay most as many, so of
course it could be done. We used to watch the stars
that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed
they'd got spoiled and was hove out of the nest.

Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat
slipping along in the dark, and now and then she
would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her
chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and
look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and
her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off
and leave the river still again; and by and by her
waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone,
and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't
hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except
maybe frogs or something.

After midnight the people on shore went to bed,
and then for two or three hours the shores was black --
no more sparks in the cabin windows. These sparks
was our clock -- the first one that showed again meant
morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and
tie up right away.

One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and
crossed over a chute to the main shore -- it was only
two hundred yards -- and paddled about a mile up a
crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I couldn't
get some berries. Just as I was passing a place where
a kind of a cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a
couple of men tearing up the path as tight as they
could foot it. I thought I was a goner, for whenever
anybody was after anybody I judged it was ME -- or
maybe Jim. I was about to dig out from there in a
hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sung
out and begged me to save their lives -- said they
hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased for
it -- said there was men and dogs a-coming. They
wanted to jump right in, but I says:

"Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses
yet; you've got time to crowd through the brush and
get up the crick a little ways; then you take to the
water and wade down to me and get in -- that'll throw
the dogs off the scent."

They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit
out for our towhead, and in about five or ten minutes
we heard the dogs and the men away off, shouting.
We heard them come along towards the crick, but
couldn't see them; they seemed to stop and fool
around a while; then, as we got further and further
away all the time, we couldn't hardly hear them at all;
by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and
struck the river, everything was quiet, and we paddled
over to the towhead and hid in the cottonwoods and
was safe.

One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards,
and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. He had
an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue
woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed
into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses -- no, he
only had one. He had an old long-tailed blue jeans
coat with slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and
both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags.

The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about
as ornery. After breakfast we all laid off and talked,
and the first thing that come out was that these chaps
didn't know one another.

"What got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to
t'other chap.

"Well, I'd been selling an article to take the tartar
off the teeth -- and it does take it off, too, and generly
the enamel along with it -- but I stayed about one
night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act of
sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side
of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged
me to help you to get off. So I told you I was ex-
pecting trouble myself, and would scatter out WITH you.
That's the whole yarn -- what's yourn?

"Well, I'd ben a-running' a little temperance revival
thar 'bout a week, and was the pet of the women
folks, big and little, for I was makin' it mighty warm
for the rummies, I TELL you, and takin' as much as five
or six dollars a night -- ten cents a head, children and
niggers free -- and business a-growin' all the time,
when somehow or another a little report got around
last night that I had a way of puttin' in my time with
a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me out
this mornin', and told me the people was getherin' on
the quiet with their dogs and horses, and they'd be
along pretty soon and give me 'bout half an hour's
start, and then run me down if they could; and if they
got me they'd tar and feather me and ride me on a
rail, sure. I didn't wait for no breakfast -- I warn't
hungry."

"Old man," said the young one, "I reckon we
might double-team it together; what do you think?"

"I ain't undisposed. What's your line -- mainly?"

"Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medi-
cines; theater-actor -- tragedy, you know; take a turn
to mesmerism and phrenology when there's a chance;
teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a
lecture sometimes -- oh, I do lots of things -- most
anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. What's
your lay?"

"I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my
time. Layin' on o' hands is my best holt -- for cancer
and paralysis, and sich things; and I k'n tell a fortune
pretty good when I've got somebody along to find out
the facts for me. Preachin's my line, too, and
workin' camp-meetin's, and missionaryin' around."

Nobody never said anything for a while; then the
young man hove a sigh and says:

"Alas!"

"What 're you alassin' about?" says the bald-
head.

"To think I should have lived to be leading such a
life, and be degraded down into such company." And
he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag.

"Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough
for you?" says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.

" Yes, it IS good enough for me; it's as good as I
deserve; for who fetched me so low when I was so
high? I did myself. I don't blame YOU, gentlemen --
far from it; I don't blame anybody. I deserve it all.
Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know --
there's a grave somewhere for me. The world may
go on just as it's always done, and take everything
from me -- loved ones, property, everything; but it
can't take that. Some day I'll lie down in it and for-
get it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest."
He went on a-wiping.

"Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead;
"what are you heaving your pore broken heart at US
f'r? WE hain't done nothing."

"No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you,
gentlemen. I brought myself down -- yes, I did it
myself. It's right I should suffer -- perfectly right --
I don't make any moan."

"Brought you down from whar? Whar was you
brought down from?"

"Ah, you would not believe me; the world never
believes -- let it pass -- 'tis no matter. The secret of
my birth --"

"The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say --"

"Gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn,
"I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confi-
dence in you. By rights I am a duke!"

Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I
reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead says:
"No! you can't mean it?"

"Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the
Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this country about the
end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of free-
dom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own
father dying about the same time. The second son of
the late duke seized the titles and estates -- the infant
real duke was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of
that infant -- I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater;
and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate,
hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged,
worn, heart-broken, and degraded to the companion-
ship of felons on a raft!"

Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We
tried to comfort him, but he said it warn't much use,
he couldn't be much comforted; said if we was a mind
to acknowledge him, that would do him more good
than most anything else; so we said we would, if he
would tell us how. He said we ought to bow when
we spoke to him, and say "Your Grace," or "My
Lord," or "Your Lordship" -- and he wouldn't mind
it if we called him plain "Bridgewater," which, he
said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one of
us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little
thing for him he wanted done.

Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through
dinner Jim stood around and waited on him, and says,
"Will yo' Grace have some o' dis or some o' dat?"
and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing
to him.

But the old man got pretty silent by and by -- didn't
have much to say, and didn't look pretty comfortable
over all that petting that was going on around that
duke. He seemed to have something on his mind.
So, along in the afternoon, he says:

"Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation
sorry for you, but you ain't the only person that's had
troubles like that."

"No?"

"No you ain't. You ain't the only person that's
ben snaked down wrongfully out'n a high place."

"Alas!"

"No, you ain't the only person that's had a secret
of his birth." And, by jings, HE begins to cry.

"Hold! What do you mean?"

"Bilgewater, kin I trust you?" says the old man,
still sort of sobbing.

"To the bitter death!" He took the old man by
the hand and squeezed it, and says, "That secret of
your being: speak!"

"Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!"

You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then
the duke says:

"You are what?"

"Yes, my friend, it is too true -- your eyes is look-
in' at this very moment on the pore disappeared
Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the Six-
teen and Marry Antonette."

"You! At your age! No! You mean you're
the late Charlemagne; you must be six or seven hun-
dred years old, at the very least."

"Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done
it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this prema-
ture balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before you,
in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled, tram-
pled-on, and sufferin' rightful King of France."

Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim
didn't know hardly what to do, we was so sorry -- and
so glad and proud we'd got him with us, too. So we
set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to
comfort HIM. But he said it warn't no use, nothing
but to be dead and done with it all could do him any
good; though he said it often made him feel easier and
better for a while if people treated him according to
his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him,
and always called him "Your Majesty," and waited
on him first at meals, and didn't set down in his
presence till he asked them. So Jim and me set to
majestying him, and doing this and that and t'other
for him, and standing up till he told us we might set
down. This done him heaps of good, and so he got
cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind of soured
on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied with the way
things was going; still, the king acted real friendly
towards him, and said the duke's great-grandfather
and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal
thought of by HIS father, and was allowed to come to
the palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a
good while, till by and by the king says:

"Like as not we got to be together a blamed long
time on this h-yer raft, Bilgewater, and so what's the
use o' your bein' sour? It 'll only make things on-
comfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't born a duke,
it ain't your fault you warn't born a king -- so what's
the use to worry? Make the best o' things the way
you find 'em, says I -- that's my motto. This ain't
no bad thing that we've struck here -- plenty grub
and an easy life -- come, give us your hand, duke, and
le's all be friends."

The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad
to see it. It took away all the uncomfortableness and
we felt mighty good over it, because it would a been a
miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the
raft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is
for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind
towards the others.

It didn't take me long to make up my mind that
these liars warn't no kings nor dukes at all, but just
low-down humbugs and frauds. But I never said
nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best
way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get
into no trouble. If they wanted us to call them kings
and dukes, I hadn't no objections, 'long as it would
keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to tell
Jim, so I didn't tell him. If I never learnt nothing
else out of pap, I learnt that the best way to get along
with his kind of people is to let them have their own
way.


CHAPTER XX.

THEY asked us considerable many questions; wanted
to know what we covered up the raft that way
for, and laid by in the daytime instead of running --
was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I:

"Goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run
SOUTH?"

No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account
for things some way, so I says:

"My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri,
where I was born, and they all died off but me and pa
and my brother Ike. Pa, he 'lowed he'd break up
and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who's got a
little one-horse place on the river, forty-four mile
below Orleans. Pa was pretty poor, and had some
debts; so when he'd squared up there warn't nothing
left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, Jim. That
warn't enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck
passage nor no other way. Well, when the river rose
pa had a streak of luck one day; he ketched this piece
of a raft; so we reckoned we'd go down to Orleans on
it. Pa's luck didn't hold out; a steamboat run over
the forrard corner of the raft one night, and we all
went overboard and dove under the wheel; Jim and
me come up all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was
only four years old, so they never come up no more.
Well, for the next day or two we had considerable
trouble, because people was always coming out in skiffs
and trying to take Jim away from me, saying they be-
lieved he was a runaway nigger. We don't run day-
times no more now; nights they don't bother us."

The duke says:

"Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run
in the daytime if we want to. I'll think the thing
over -- I'll invent a plan that'll fix it. We'll let it
alone for to-day, because of course we don't want to
go by that town yonder in daylight -- it mightn't be
healthy."

Towards night it begun to darken up and look like
rain; the heat lightning was squirting around low down
in the sky, and the leaves was beginning to shiver -- it
was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to see that.
So the duke and the king went to overhauling our
wigwam, to see what the beds was like. My bed was
a straw tickQbetter than Jim's, which was a corn-
shuck tick; there's always cobs around about in a
shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and
when you roll over the dry shucks sound like you was
rolling over in a pile of dead leaves; it makes such a
rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke allowed he
would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't.
He says:

"I should a reckoned the difference in rank would a
sejested to you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten
for me to sleep on. Your Grace 'll take the shuck
bed yourself."

Jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being
afraid there was going to be some more trouble
amongst them; so we was pretty glad when the duke
says:

"'Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire
under the iron heel of oppression. Misfortune has
broken my once haughty spirit; I yield, I submit; 'tis
my fate. I am alone in the world -- let me suffer;
can bear it."

We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The
king told us to stand well out towards the middle of
the river, and not show a light till we got a long ways
below the town. We come in sight of the little bunch
of lights by and by -- that was the town, you know --
and slid by, about a half a mile out, all right. When
we was three-quarters of a mile below we hoisted up
our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it come on
to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like every-
thing; so the king told us to both stay on watch till
the weather got better; then him and the duke crawled
into the wigwam and turned in for the night. It was
my watch below till twelve, but I wouldn't a turned in
anyway if I'd had a bed, because a body don't see
such a storm as that every day in the week, not by a
long sight. My souls, how the wind did scream along!
And every second or two there'd come a glare that lit
up the white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd
see the islands looking dusty through the rain, and the
trees thrashing around in the wind; then comes a
H-WHACK! -- bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-
bum-bum -- and the thunder would go rumbling and
grumbling away, and quit -- and then RIP comes an-
other flash and another sockdolager. The waves most
washed me off the raft sometimes, but I hadn't any
clothes on, and didn't mind. We didn't have no
trouble about snags; the lightning was glaring and
flittering around so constant that we could see them
plenty soon enough to throw her head this way or that
and miss them.

I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty
sleepy by that time, so Jim he said he would stand the
first half of it for me; he was always mighty good
that way, Jim was. I crawled into the wigwam, but
the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around
so there warn't no show for me; so I laid outside -- I
didn't mind the rain, because it was warm, and the
waves warn't running so high now. About two they
come up again, though, and Jim was going to call me;
but he changed his mind, because he reckoned they
warn't high enough yet to do any harm; but he was
mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of a sudden
along comes a regular ripper and washed me over-
board. It most killed Jim a-laughing. He was the
easiest nigger to laugh that ever was, anyway.

I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored
away; and by and by the storm let up for good and
all; and the first cabin-light that showed I rousted him
out, and we slid the raft into hiding quarters for the
day.

The king got out an old ratty deck of cards after
breakfast, and him and the duke played seven-up a
while, five cents a game. Then they got tired of it,
and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," as
they called it. The duke went down into his carpet-
bag, and fetched up a lot of little printed bills and
read them out loud. One bill said, "The celebrated
Dr. Armand de Montalban, of Paris," would "lecture
on the Science of Phrenology" at such and such a
place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admis-
sion, and "furnish charts of character at twenty-five
cents apiece." The duke said that was HIM. In an-
other bill he was the "world-renowned Shakespearian
tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane, Lon-
don." In other bills he had a lot of other names and
done other wonderful things, like finding water and
gold with a "divining-rod," "dissipating witch
spells," and so on. By and by he says:

"But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you
ever trod the boards, Royalty?"

"No," says the king.

"You shall, then, before you're three days older,
Fallen Grandeur," says the duke. "The first good
town we come to we'll hire a hall and do the sword
fight in Richard III. and the balcony scene in Romeo
and Juliet. How does that strike you?"

"I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay,
Bilgewater; but, you see, I don't know nothing about
play-actin', and hain't ever seen much of it. I was too
small when pap used to have 'em at the palace. Do
you reckon you can learn me?"

"Easy!"

"All right. I'm jist a-freezn' for something fresh,
anyway. Le's commence right away."

So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was
and who Juliet was, and said he was used to being
Romeo, so the king could be Juliet.

"But if Juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled
head and my white whiskers is goin' to look oncommon
odd on her, maybe."

"No, don't you worry; these country jakes won't
ever think of that. Besides, you know, you'll be in
costume, and that makes all the difference in the
world; Juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight
before she goes to bed, and she's got on her night-
gown and her ruffled nightcap. Here are the costumes
for the parts."

He got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which
he said was meedyevil armor for Richard III. and
t'other chap, and a long white cotton nightshirt and a
ruffled nightcap to match. The king was satisfied; so
the duke got out his book and read the parts over in
the most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around
and acting at the same time, to show how it had got to
be done; then he give the book to the king and told
him to get his part by heart.

There was a little one-horse town about three mile
down the bend, and after dinner the duke said he had
ciphered out his idea about how to run in daylight
without it being dangersome for Jim; so he allowed
he would go down to the town and fix that thing.
The king allowed he would go, too, and see if he
couldn't strike something. We was out of coffee, so
Jim said I better go along with them in the canoe and
get some.

When we got there there warn't nobody stirring;
streets empty, and perfectly dead and still, like Sun-
day. We found a sick nigger sunning himself in a
back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too
young or too sick or too old was gone to camp-
meeting, about two mile back in the woods. The king
got the directions, and allowed he'd go and work that
camp-meeting for all it was worth, and I might go,
too.

The duke said what he was after was a printing-
office. We found it; a little bit of a concern, up over
a carpenter shop -- carpenters and printers all gone to
the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a dirty,
littered-up place, and had ink marks, and handbills
with pictures of horses and runaway niggers on them,
all over the walls. The duke shed his coat and said he
was all right now. So me and the king lit out for the
camp-meeting.

We got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping,
for it was a most awful hot day. There was as much
as a thousand people there from twenty mile around.
The woods was full of teams and wagons, hitched
everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and
stomping to keep off the flies. There was sheds made
out of poles and roofed over with branches, where they
had lemonade and gingerbread to sell, and piles of
watermelons and green corn and such-like truck.

The preaching was going on under the same kinds
of sheds, only they was bigger and held crowds of
people. The benches was made out of outside slabs
of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive
sticks into for legs. They didn't have no backs.
The preachers had high platforms to stand on at one
end of the sheds. The women had on sun-bonnets;
and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham
ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico.
Some of the young men was barefooted, and some of
the children didn't have on any clothes but just a tow-
linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting, and
some of the young folks was courting on the sly.

The first shed we come to the preacher was lining
out a hymn. He lined out two lines, everybody sung
it, and it was kind of grand to hear it, there was so
many of them and they done it in such a rousing way;
then he lined out two more for them to sing -- and so
on. The people woke up more and more, and sung
louder and louder; and towards the end some begun
to groan, and some begun to shout. Then the preacher
begun to preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went
weaving first to one side of the platform and then the
other, and then a-leaning down over the front of it,
with his arms and his body going all the time, and
shouting his words out with all his might; and every
now and then he would hold up his Bible and spread it
open, and kind of pass it around this way and that,
shouting, "It's the brazen serpent in the wilderness!
Look upon it and live!" And people would shout
out, "Glory! -- A-a-MEN!" And so he went on, and
the people groaning and crying and saying amen:

"Oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black
with sin! (AMEN!) come, sick and sore! (AMEN!)
come, lame and halt and blind! (AMEN!) come, pore
and needy, sunk in shame! (A-A-MEN!) come, all
that's worn and soiled and suffering! -- come with a
broken spirit! come with a contrite heart! come in
your rags and sin and dirt! the waters that cleanse is
free, the door of heaven stands open -- oh, enter in
and be at rest!" (A-A-MEN! GLORY, GLORY HALLELUJAH!)

And so on. You couldn't make out what the
preacher said any more, on account of the shouting
and crying. Folks got up everywheres in the crowd,
and worked their way just by main strength to the
mourners' bench, with the tears running down their
faces; and when all the mourners had got up there to
the front benches in a crowd, they sung and shouted
and flung themselves down on the straw, just crazy
and wild.

Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and
you could hear him over everybody; and next he
went a-charging up on to the platform, and the
preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and
he done it. He told them he was a pirate -- been a
pirate for thirty years out in the Indian Ocean -- and
his crew was thinned out considerable last spring in a
fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh
men, and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last
night and put ashore off of a steamboat without a cent,
and he was glad of it; it was the blessedest thing that
ever happened to him, because he was a changed man
now, and happy for the first time in his life; and,
poor as he was, he was going to start right off and
work his way back to the Indian Ocean, and put in the
rest of his life trying to turn the pirates into the true
path; for he could do it better than anybody else,
being acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean;
and though it would take him a long time to get
there without money, he would get there anyway, and
every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him,
"Don't you thank me, don't you give me no credit;
it all belongs to them dear people in Pokeville camp-
meeting, natural brothers and benefactors of the race,
and that dear preacher there, the truest friend a pirate
ever had!"

And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody.
Then somebody sings out, "Take up a collection for
him, take up a collection!" Well, a half a dozen
made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, "Let
HIM pass the hat around!" Then everybody said it,
the preacher too.

So the king went all through the crowd with his hat
swabbing his eyes, and blessing the people and praising
them and thanking them for being so good to the poor
pirates away off there; and every little while the
prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down
their cheeks, would up and ask him would he let them
kiss him for to remember him by; and he always done
it; and some of them he hugged and kissed as many
as five or six times -- and he was invited to stay a
week; and everybody wanted him to live in their
houses, and said they'd think it was an honor; but he
said as this was the last day of the camp-meeting he
couldn't do no good, and besides he was in a sweat to
get to the Indian Ocean right off and go to work on
the pirates.

When we got back to the raft and he come to count
up he found he had collected eighty-seven dollars and
seventy-five cents. And then he had fetched away a
three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found under a
wagon when he was starting home through the woods.
The king said, take it all around, it laid over any day
he'd ever put in in the missionarying line. He said it
warn't no use talking, heathens don't amount to shucks
alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting with.

The duke was thinking HE'D been doing pretty well
till the king come to show up, but after that he didn't
think so so much. He had set up and printed off two
little jobs for farmers in that printing-office -- horse
bills -- and took the money, four dollars. And he
had got in ten dollars' worth of advertisements for the
paper, which he said he would put in for four dollars
if they would pay in advance -- so they done it. The
price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he took
in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on con-
dition of them paying him in advance; they were going
to pay in cordwood and onions as usual, but he said
he had just bought the concern and knocked down the
price as low as he could afford it, and was going to
run it for cash. He set up a little piece of poetry,
which he made, himself, out of his own head -- three
verses -- kind of sweet and saddish -- the name of it
was, "Yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart" --
and he left that all set up and ready to print in the
paper, and didn't charge nothing for it. Well, he
took in nine dollars and a half, and said he'd done a
pretty square day's work for it.

Then he showed us another little job he'd printed
and hadn't charged for, because it was for us. It had
a picture of a runaway nigger with a bundle on a stick
over his shoulder, and "$200 reward" under it. The
reading was all about Jim, and just described him to a
dot. It said he run away from St. Jacques' planta-
tion, forty mile below New Orleans, last winter, and
likely went north, and whoever would catch him and
send him back he could have the reward and expenses.

"Now," says the duke, "after to-night we can run
in the daytime if we want to. Whenever we see any-
body coming we can tie Jim hand and foot with a rope,
and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and
say we captured him up the river, and were too poor
to travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on
credit from our friends and are going down to get the
reward. Handcuffs and chains would look still better
on Jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story of us
being so poor. Too much like jewelry. Ropes are
the correct thing -- we must preserve the unities, as we
say on the boards."

We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there
couldn't be no trouble about running daytimes. We
judged we could make miles enough that night to get
out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the duke's
work in the printing office was going to make in that
little town; then we could boom right along if we
wanted to.

We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till
nearly ten o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away
from the town, and didn't hoist our lantern till we was
clear out of sight of it.

When Jim called me to take the watch at four in the
morning, he says:

"Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost
any mo' kings on dis trip?"

"No," I says, "I reckon not."

"Well," says he, "dat's all right, den. I doan'
mine one er two kings, but dat's enough. Dis one's
powerful drunk, en de duke ain' much better."

I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk
French, so he could hear what it was like; but he said
he had been in this country so long, and had so much
trouble, he'd forgot it.


CHAPTER XXI.

IT was after sun-up now, but we went right on and
didn't tie up. The king and the duke turned out
by and by looking pretty rusty; but after they'd
jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered them
up a good deal. After breakfast the king he took a
seat on the corner of the raft, and pulled off his boots
and rolled up his britches, and let his legs dangle in
the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit his pipe, and
went to getting his Romeo and Juliet by heart. When
he had got it pretty good him and the duke begun to
practice it together. The duke had to learn him over
and over again how to say every speech; and he made
him sigh, and put his hand on his heart, and after a
while he said he done it pretty well; "only," he says,
"you mustn't bellow out ROMEO! that way, like a
bull -- you must say it soft and sick and languishy,
so -- R-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for Juliet's a dear
sweet mere child of a girl, you know, and she doesn't
bray like a jackass."

Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that
the duke made out of oak laths, and begun to practice
the sword fight -- the duke called himself Richard
III.; and the way they laid on and pranced around
the raft was grand to see. But by and by the king
tripped and fell overboard, and after that they took a
rest, and had a talk about all kinds of adventures
they'd had in other times along the river.

After dinner the duke says:

"Well, Capet, we'll want to make this a first-class
show, you know, so I guess we'll add a little more to
it. We want a little something to answer encores
with, anyway."

"What's onkores, Bilgewater?"

The duke told him, and then says:

"I'll answer by doing the Highland fling or the
sailor's hornpipe; and you -- well, let me see -- oh,
I've got it -- you can do Hamlet's soliloquy."

"Hamlet's which?"

"Hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated
thing in Shakespeare. Ah, it's sublime, sublime! Al-
ways fetches the house. I haven't got it in the book
-- I've only got one volume -- but I reckon I can
piece it out from memory. I'll just walk up and down
a minute, and see if I can call it back from recollec-
tion's vaults."

So he went to marching up and down, thinking, and
frowning horrible every now and then; then he would
hoist up his eyebrows; next he would squeeze his hand
on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan;
next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to drop a
tear. It was beautiful to see him. By and by he got
it. He told us to give attention. Then he strikes a
most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and
his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back,
looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and
rave and grit his teeth; and after that, all through his
speech, he howled, and spread around, and swelled up
his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting
ever I see before. This is the speech -- I learned it,
easy enough, while he was learning it to the king:

   To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin
   That makes calamity of so long life;
   For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do
     come to Dunsinane,
   But that the fear of something after death
   Murders the innocent sleep,
   Great nature's second course,
   And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune
   Than fly to others that we know not of.
   There's the respect must give us pause:
   Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst;
   For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
   The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
   The law's delay, and the quietus which his
     pangs might take,
   In the dead waste and middle of the night,
     when churchyards yawn
   In customary suits of solemn black,
   But that the undiscovered country from whose
     bourne no traveler returns,
   Breathes forth contagion on the world,
   And thus the native hue of resolution, like
     the poor cat i' the adage,
   Is sicklied o'er with care,
   And all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops,
   With this regard their currents turn awry,
   And lose the name of action.
   'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
     But soft you, the fair Ophelia:
   Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws,
   But get thee to a nunnery -- go!

Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he
mighty soon got it so he could do it first-rate. It
seemed like he was just born for it; and when he had
his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely
the way he would rip and tear and rair up behind
when he was getting it off.

The first chance we got the duke he had some show-
bills printed; and after that, for two or three days as
we floated along, the raft was a most uncommon lively
place, for there warn't nothing but sword fighting and
rehearsing -- as the duke called it -- going on all the
time. One morning, when we was pretty well down
the State of Arkansaw, we come in sight of a little
one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied up about
three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a
crick which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress
trees, and all of us but Jim took the canoe and went
down there to see if there was any chance in that place
for our show.

We struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a
circus there that afternoon, and the country people was
already beginning to come in, in all kinds of old
shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus would
leave before night, so our show would have a pretty
good chance. The duke he hired the courthouse, and
we went around and stuck up our bills. They read
like this:

               Shaksperean Revival ! ! !
                 Wonderful Attraction!
                  For One Night Only!
             The world renowned tragedians,
  David Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane Theatre London,
                         and
   Edmund Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre,
   Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the
        Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime
            Shaksperean Spectacle entitled
                  The Balcony Scene
                         in
                Romeo and Juliet ! ! !
          Romeo...................Mr. Garrick
          Juliet..................Mr. Kean
      Assisted by the whole strength of the company!
        New costumes, new scenes, new appointments!
                         Also:
        The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling
                 Broad-sword conflict
                 In Richard III. ! ! !
          Richard III.............Mr. Garrick
          Richmond................Mr. Kean
                         Also:
                 (by special request)
            Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy ! !
               By The Illustrious Kean!
      Done by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris!
                  For One Night Only,
     On account of imperative European engagements!
  Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.

Then we went loafing around town. The stores and
houses was most all old, shackly, dried up frame con-
cerns that hadn't ever been painted; they was set up
three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be
out of reach of the water when the river was over-
flowed. The houses had little gardens around them,
but they didn't seem to raise hardly anything in them
but jimpson-weeds, and sunflowers, and ash piles, and
old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles,
and rags, and played-out tinware. The fences was
made of different kinds of boards, nailed on at dif-
ferent times; and they leaned every which way, and
had gates that didn't generly have but one hinge -- a
leather one. Some of the fences had been white-
washed some time or another, but the duke said it was
in Clumbus' time, like enough. There was generly
hogs in the garden, and people driving them out.

All the stores was along one street. They had
white domestic awnings in front, and the country peo-
ple hitched their horses to the awning-posts. There
was empty drygoods boxes under the awnings, and
loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them
with their Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and
gaping and yawning and stretching -- a mighty ornery
lot. They generly had on yellow straw hats most as
wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor
waistcoats, they called one another Bill, and Buck,
and Hank, and Joe, and Andy, and talked lazy and
drawly, and used considerable many cuss words.
There was as many as one loafer leaning up against
every awning-post, and he most always had his hands
in his britches-pockets, except when he fetched them
out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. What a
body was hearing amongst them all the time was:

"Gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, Hank "

"Cain't; I hain't got but one chaw left. Ask Bill."

Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and
says he ain't got none. Some of them kinds of
loafers never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of
tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by
borrowing; they say to a fellow, "I wisht you'd len'
me a chaw, Jack, I jist this minute give Ben Thompson
the last chaw I had" -- which is a lie pretty much
everytime; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but
Jack ain't no stranger, so he says:

"YOU give him a chaw, did you? So did your
sister's cat's grandmother. You pay me back the
chaws you've awready borry'd off'n me, Lafe Buckner,
then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't
charge you no back intrust, nuther."

"Well, I DID pay you back some of it wunst."

"Yes, you did -- 'bout six chaws. You borry'd
store tobacker and paid back nigger-head."

Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows
mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted. When they
borrow a chaw they don't generly cut it off with a
knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw
with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands
till they get it in two; then sometimes the one that
owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it's
handed back, and says, sarcastic:

"Here, gimme the CHAW, and you take the PLUG."

All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't
nothing else BUT mud -- mud as black as tar and nigh
about a foot deep in some places, and two or three
inches deep in ALL the places. The hogs loafed and
grunted around everywheres. You'd see a muddy
sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street
and whollop herself right down in the way, where folks
had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out and shut
her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking
her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. And
pretty soon you'd hear a loafer sing out, "Hi! SO
boy! sick him, Tige!" and away the sow would go,
squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to
each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and
then you would see all the loafers get up and watch
the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and look
grateful for the noise. Then they'd settle back again
till there was a dog fight. There couldn't anything
wake them up all over, and make them happy all over,
like a dog fight -- unless it might be putting turpentine
on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying a tin
pan to his tail and see him run himself to death.

On the river front some of the houses was sticking
out over the bank, and they was bowed and bent, and
about ready to tumble in, The people had moved out
of them. The bank was caved away under one corner
of some others, and that corner was hanging over.
People lived in them yet, but it was dangersome, be-
cause sometimes a strip of land as wide as a house
caves in at a time. Sometimes a belt of land a quarter
of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave
along till it all caves into the river in one summer.
Such a town as that has to be always moving back,
and back, and back, because the river's always gnawing
at it.

The nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and
thicker was the wagons and horses in the streets, and
more coming all the time. Families fetched their
dinners with them from the country, and eat them in
the wagons. There was considerable whisky drinking
going on, and I seen three fights. By and by some-
body sings out:

"Here comes old Boggs! -- in from the country for
his little old monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!"

All the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was
used to having fun out of Boggs. One of them says:

"Wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time.
If he'd a-chawed up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to
chaw up in the last twenty year he'd have considerable
ruputation now."

Another one says, "I wisht old Boggs 'd threaten
me, 'cuz then I'd know I warn't gwyne to die for a
thousan' year."

Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping
and yelling like an Injun, and singing out:

"Cler the track, thar. I'm on the waw-path, and
the price uv coffins is a-gwyne to raise."

He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he
was over fifty year old, and had a very red face.
Everybody yelled at him and laughed at him and sassed
him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend to them
and lay them out in their regular turns, but he couldn't
wait now because he'd come to town to kill old
Colonel Sherburn, and his motto was, "Meat first,
and spoon vittles to top off on."

He see me, and rode up and says:

"Whar'd you come f'm, boy? You prepared to
die?"

Then he rode on. I was scared, but a man says:

"He don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin'
on like that when he's drunk. He's the best natured-
est old fool in Arkansaw -- never hurt nobody, drunk
nor sober."

Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and
bent his head down so he could see under the curtain
of the awning and yells:

"Come out here, Sherburn! Come out and meet
the man you've swindled. You're the houn' I'm after,
and I'm a-gwyne to have you, too!"

And so he went on, calling Sherburn everything he
could lay his tongue to, and the whole street packed
with people listening and laughing and going on. By
and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five -- and he
was a heap the best dressed man in that town, too --
steps out of the store, and the crowd drops back on
each side to let him come. He says to Boggs, mighty
ca'm and slow -- he says:

"I'm tired of this, but I'll endure it till one o'clock.
Till one o'clock, mind -- no longer. If you open your
mouth against me only once after that time you can't
travel so far but I will find you."

Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked
mighty sober; nobody stirred, and there warn't no
more laughing. Boggs rode off blackguarding Sher-
burn as loud as he could yell, all down the street; and
pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store,
still keeping it up. Some men crowded around him
and tried to get him to shut up, but he wouldn't; they
told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen min-
utes, and so he MUST go home -- he must go right
away. But it didn't do no good. He cussed away
with all his might, and throwed his hat down in the
mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away he went
a-raging down the street again, with his gray hair a-
flying. Everybody that could get a chance at him
tried their best to coax him off of his horse so they
could lock him up and get him sober; but it warn't no
use -- up the street he would tear again, and give
Sherburn another cussing. By and by somebody says:

"Go for his daughter! -- quick, go for his daughter;
sometimes he'll listen to her. If anybody can persuade
him, she can."

So somebody started on a run. I walked down
street a ways and stopped. In about five or ten min-
utes here comes Boggs again, but not on his horse.
He was a-reeling across the street towards me, bare-
headed, with a friend on both sides of him a-holt of
his arms and hurrying him along. He was quiet, and
looked uneasy; and he warn't hanging back any, but
was doing some of the hurrying himself. Somebody
sings out:

"Boggs!"

I looked over there to see who said it, and it was
that Colonel Sherburn. He was standing perfectly
still in the street, and had a pistol raised in his right
hand -- not aiming it, but holding it out with the barrel
tilted up towards the sky. The same second I see a
young girl coming on the run, and two men with her.
Boggs and the men turned round to see who called
him, and when they see the pistol the men jumped
to one side, and the pistol-barrel come down slow
and steady to a level -- both barrels cocked. Boggs
throws up both of his hands and says, "O Lord, don't
shoot!" Bang! goes the first shot, and he staggers
back, clawing at the air -- bang! goes the second one,
and he tumbles backwards on to the ground, heavy
and solid, with his arms spread out. That young girl
screamed out and comes rushing, and down she throws
herself on her father, crying, and saying, "Oh, he's
killed him, he's killed him!" The crowd closed up
around them, and shouldered and jammed one another,
with their necks stretched, trying to see, and people
on the inside trying to shove them back and shouting,
"Back, back! give him air, give him air!"

Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol on to the
ground, and turned around on his heels and walked off.

They took Boggs to a little drug store, the crowd
pressing around just the same, and the whole town
following, and I rushed and got a good place at the
window, where I was close to him and could see in.
They laid him on the floor and put one large Bible
under his head, and opened another one and spread it
on his breast; but they tore open his shirt first, and I
seen where one of the bullets went in. He made
about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the Bible
up when he drawed in his breath, and letting it down
again when he breathed it out -- and after that he laid
still; he was dead. Then they pulled his daughter
away from him, screaming and crying, and took her
off. She was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle
looking, but awful pale and scared.

Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirm-
ing and scrouging and pushing and shoving to get at
the window and have a look, but people that had the
places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind them
was saying all the time, "Say, now, you've looked
enough, you fellows; 'tain't right and 'tain't fair for
you to stay thar all the time, and never give nobody a
chance; other folks has their rights as well as you."

There was considerable jawing back, so I slid out,
thinking maybe there was going to be trouble. The
streets was full, and everybody was excited. Every-
body that seen the shooting was telling how it hap-
pened, and there was a big crowd packed around each
one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listen-
ing. One long, lanky man, with long hair and a big
white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his head, and a
crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the
ground where Boggs stood and where Sherburn stood,
and the people following him around from one place
to t'other and watching everything he done, and bob-
bing their heads to show they understood, and stoop-
ing a little and resting their hands on their thighs to
watch him mark the places on the ground with his
cane; and then he stood up straight and stiff where
Sherburn had stood, frowning and having his hat-brim
down over his eyes, and sung out, "Boggs!" and then
fetched his cane down slow to a level, and says
"Bang!" staggered backwards, says "Bang!" again,
and fell down flat on his back. The people that had
seen the thing said he done it perfect; said it was just
exactly the way it all happened. Then as much as a
dozen people got out their bottles and treated him.

Well, by and by somebody said Sherburn ought to
be lynched. In about a minute everybody was saying
it; so away they went, mad and yelling, and snatching
down every clothes-line they come to to do the hang-
ing with.


CHAPTER XXII.

THEY swarmed up towards Sherburn's house, a-
whooping and raging like Injuns, and everything
had to clear the way or get run over and tromped to
mush, and it was awful to see. Children was heeling
it ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to get out
of the way; and every window along the road was full
of women's heads, and there was nigger boys in every
tree, and bucks and wenches looking over every fence;
and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them they
would break and skaddle back out of reach. Lots of
the women and girls was crying and taking on, scared
most to death.

They swarmed up in front of Sherburn's palings as
thick as they could jam together, and you couldn't
hear yourself think for the noise. It was a little
twenty-foot yard. Some sung out "Tear down the
fence! tear down the fence!" Then there was a
racket of ripping and tearing and smashing, and down
she goes, and the front wall of the crowd begins to
roll in like a wave.

Just then Sherburn steps out on to the roof of his
little front porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand,
and takes his stand, perfectly ca'm and deliberate, not
saying a word. The racket stopped, and the wave
sucked back.

Sherburn never said a word -- just stood there, look-
ing down. The stillness was awful creepy and uncom-
fortable. Sherburn run his eye slow along the crowd;
and wherever it struck the people tried a little to out-
gaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes
and looked sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn sort
of laughed; not the pleasant kind, but the kind that
makes you feel like when you are eating bread that's
got sand in it.

Then he says, slow and scornful:

"The idea of YOU lynching anybody! It's amusing.
The idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to
lynch a MAN! Because you're brave enough to tar and
feather poor friendless cast-out women that come along
here, did that make you think you had grit enough to
lay your hands on a MAN? Why, a MAN'S safe in the
hands of ten thousand of your kind -- as long as it's
daytime and you're not behind him.

"Do I know you? I know you clear through
was born and raised in the South, and I've lived in the
North; so I know the average all around. The
average man's a coward. In the North he lets anybody
walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays
for a humble spirit to bear it. In the South one man
all by himself, has stopped a stage full of men in the
daytime, and robbed the lot. Your newspapers call
you a brave people so much that you think you are
braver than any other people -- whereas you're just AS
brave, and no braver. Why don't your juries hang
murderers? Because they're afraid the man's friends
will shoot them in the back, in the dark -- and it's just
what they WOULD do.

"So they always acquit; and then a MAN goes in
the night, with a hundred masked cowards at his back
and lynches the rascal. Your mistake is, that you
didn't bring a man with you; that's one mistake, and
the other is that you didn't come in the dark and fetch
your masks. You brought PART of a man -- Buck
Harkness, there -- and if you hadn't had him to start
you, you'd a taken it out in blowing.

"You didn't want to come. The average man
don't like trouble and danger. YOU don't like trouble
and danger. But if only HALF a man -- like Buck
Harkness, there -- shouts 'Lynch him! lynch him!'
you're afraid to back down -- afraid you'll be found
out to be what you are -- COWARDS -- and so you raise
a yell, and hang yourselves on to that half-a-man's
coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big
things you're going to do. The pitifulest thing out is
a mob; that's what an army is -- a mob; they don't
fight with courage that's born in them, but with cour-
age that's borrowed from their mass, and from their
officers. But a mob without any MAN at the head of
it is BENEATH pitifulness. Now the thing for YOU to do
is to droop your tails and go home and crawl in a
hole. If any real lynching's going to be done it will
be done in the dark, Southern fashion; and when they
come they'll bring their masks, and fetch a MAN along.
Now LEAVE -- and take your half-a-man with you" --
tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it
when he says this.

The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all
apart, and went tearing off every which way, and Buck
Harkness he heeled it after them, looking tolerable cheap.
I could a stayed if I wanted to, but I didn't want to.

I went to the circus and loafed around the back side
till the watchman went by, and then dived in under the
tent. I had my twenty-dollar gold piece and some
other money, but I reckoned I better save it, because
there ain't no telling how soon you are going to need
it, away from home and amongst strangers that way.
You can't be too careful. I ain't opposed to spending
money on circuses when there ain't no other way, but
there ain't no use in WASTING it on them.

It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest
sight that ever was when they all come riding in, two
and two, a gentleman and lady, side by side, the men
just in their drawers and undershirts, and no shoes nor
stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy
and comfortable -- there must a been twenty of them
-- and every lady with a lovely complexion, and per-
fectly beautiful, and looking just like a gang of real
sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that cost
millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It
was a powerful fine sight; I never see anything so
lovely. And then one by one they got up and stood,
and went a-weaving around the ring so gentle and
wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy
and straight, with their heads bobbing and skimming
along, away up there under the tent-roof, and every
lady's rose-leafy dress flapping soft and silky around
her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol.

And then faster and faster they went, all of them
dancing, first one foot out in the air and then the other,
the horses leaning more and more, and the ringmaster
going round and round the center-pole, cracking his
whip and shouting "Hi! -- hi!" and the clown crack-
ing jokes behind him; and by and by all hands dropped
the reins, and every lady put her knuckles on her hips
and every gentleman folded his arms, and then how
the horses did lean over and hump themselves! And
so one after the other they all skipped off into the
ring, and made the sweetest bow I ever see, and then
scampered out, and everybody clapped their hands and
went just about wild.

Well, all through the circus they done the most
astonishing things; and all the time that clown carried
on so it most killed the people. The ringmaster
couldn't ever say a word to him but he was back at
him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body
ever said; and how he ever COULD think of so many of
them, and so sudden and so pat, was what I couldn't
noway understand. Why, I couldn't a thought of
them in a year. And by and by a drunk man tried to
get into the ring -- said he wanted to ride; said he
could ride as well as anybody that ever was. They
argued and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't
listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. Then
the people begun to holler at him and make fun of
him, and that made him mad, and he begun to rip
and tear; so that stirred up the people, and a lot of
men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm
towards the ring, saying, "Knock him down! throw
him out!" and one or two women begun to scream.
So, then, the ringmaster he made a little speech, and
said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if
the man would promise he wouldn't make no more
trouble he would let him ride if he thought he could
stay on the horse. So everybody laughed and said all
right, and the man got on. The minute he was on,
the horse begun to rip and tear and jump and cavort
around, with two circus men hanging on to his bridle
trying to hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to
his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump,
and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting
and laughing till tears rolled down. And at last, sure
enough, all the circus men could do, the horse broke
loose, and away he went like the very nation, round
and round the ring, with that sot laying down on him
and hanging to his neck, with first one leg hanging
most to the ground on one side, and then t'other one
on t'other side, and the people just crazy. It warn't
funny to me, though; I was all of a tremble to see his
danger. But pretty soon he struggled up astraddle
and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and
the next minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle
and stood! and the horse a-going like a house afire
too. He just stood up there, a-sailing around as easy
and comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in his life
-- and then he begun to pull off his clothes and sling
them. He shed them so thick they kind of clogged
up the air, and altogether he shed seventeen suits.
And, then, there he was, slim and handsome, and
dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and
he lit into that horse with his whip and made him fairly
hum -- and finally skipped off, and made his bow and
danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody just
a-howling with pleasure and astonishment.

Then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled,
and he WAS the sickest ringmaster you ever see, I
reckon. Why, it was one of his own men! He had
got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let
on to nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough to be
took in so, but I wouldn't a been in that ringmaster's
place, not for a thousand dollars. I don't know;
there may be bullier circuses than what that one was,
but I never struck them yet. Anyways, it was plenty
good enough for ME; and wherever I run across it, it
can have all of MY custom every time.

Well, that night we had OUR show; but there warn't
only about twelve people there -- just enough to pay
expenses. And they laughed all the time, and that
made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway,
before the show was over, but one boy which was
asleep. So the duke said these Arkansaw lunkheads
couldn't come up to Shakespeare; what they wanted
was low comedy -- and maybe something ruther worse
than low comedy, he reckoned. He said he could
size their style. So next morning he got some big
sheets of wrapping paper and some black paint, and
drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all over
the village. The bills said:

            AT THE COURT HOUSE!
            FOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY!
      The World-Renowned Tragedians
        DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!
                    AND
          EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!
      Of the London and Continental
                 Theatres,
      In their Thrilling Tragedy of
          THE KING'S CAMELEOPARD,
                    OR
         THE ROYAL NONESUCH ! ! !
            Admission 50 cents.

Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which
said:

LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED.

"There," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, I
don't know Arkansaw!"


CHAPTER XXIII.

WELL, all day him and the king was hard at it,
rigging up a stage and a curtain and a row of
candles for footlights; and that night the house was
jam full of men in no time. When the place couldn't
hold no more, the duke he quit tending door and went
around the back way and come on to the stage and
stood up before the curtain and made a little speech,
and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most
thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-
bragging about the tragedy, and about Edmund Kean
the Elder, which was to play the main principal part
in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's expecta-
tions up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and
the next minute the king come a-prancing out on all
fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-
streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid
as a rainbow. And -- but never mind the rest of his
outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny. The
people most killed themselves laughing; and when the
king got done capering and capered off behind the
scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and haw-
hawed till he come back and done it over again, and
after that they made him do it another time. Well, it
would make a cow laugh to see the shines that old
idiot cut.

Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to
the people, and says the great tragedy will be per-
formed only two nights more, on accounts of pressing
London engagements, where the seats is all sold already
for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another
bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them
and instructing them, he will be deeply obleeged if
they will mention it to their friends and get them to
come and see it.

Twenty people sings out:

"What, is it over? Is that ALL?"

The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time.
Everybody sings out, "Sold!" and rose up mad, and
was a-going for that stage and them tragedians. But a
big, fine looking man jumps up on a bench and
shouts:

"Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They stopped
to listen. "We are sold -- mighty badly sold. But
we don't want to be the laughing stock of this whole
town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as
long as we live. NO. What we want is to go out of
here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the REST of
the town! Then we'll all be in the same boat. Ain't
that sensible?" ("You bet it is! -- the jedge is
right!" everybody sings out.) "All right, then --
not a word about any sell. Go along home, and ad-
vise everybody to come and see the tragedy."

Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that
town but how splendid that show was. House was
jammed again that night, and we sold this crowd the
same way. When me and the king and the duke got
home to the raft we all had a supper; and by and by,
about midnight, they made Jim and me back her out
and float her down the middle of the river, and fetch
her in and hide her about two mile below town.

The third night the house was crammed again -- and
they warn't new-comers this time, but people that was
at the show the other two nights. I stood by the duke
at the door, and I see that every man that went in had
his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under
his coat -- and I see it warn't no perfumery, neither,
not by a long sight. I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel,
and rotten cabbages, and such things; and if I know
the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet I do,
there was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in
there for a minute, but it was too various for me; I
couldn't stand it. Well, when the place couldn't hold
no more people the duke he give a fellow a quarter
and told him to tend door for him a minute, and then
he started around for the stage door, I after him; but
the minute we turned the corner and was in the dark
he says:

"Walk fast now till you get away from the houses,
and then shin for the raft like the dickens was after
you!"

I done it, and he done the same. We struck the
raft at the same time, and in less than two seconds we
was gliding down stream, all dark and still, and edging
towards the middle of the river, nobody saying a word.
I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it
with the audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty
soon he crawls out from under the wigwam, and says:

"Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time,
duke?" He hadn't been up-town at all.

We never showed a light till we was about ten mile
below the village. Then we lit up and had a supper,
and the king and the duke fairly laughed their bones
loose over the way they'd served them people. The
duke says:

"Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house
would keep mum and let the rest of the town get roped
in; and I knew they'd lay for us the third night, and
consider it was THEIR turn now. Well, it IS their turn,
and I'd give something to know how much they'd take
for it. I WOULD just like to know how they're putting
in their opportunity. They can turn it into a picnic if
they want to -- they brought plenty provisions."

Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-
five dollars in that three nights. I never see money
hauled in by the wagon-load like that before.
By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim
says:

"Don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on,
Huck?"

"No," I says, "it don't."

"Why don't it, Huck?"

"Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon
they're all alike,"

"But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscal-
lions; dat's jist what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions."

"Well, that's what I'm a-saying; all kings is
mostly rapscallions, as fur as I can make out."

"Is dat so?"

"You read about them once -- you'll see. Look
at Henry the Eight; this 'n 's a Sunday-school Super-
intendent to HIM. And look at Charles Second, and
Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James Second,
and Edward Second, and Richard Third, and forty
more; besides all them Saxon heptarchies that used
to rip around so in old times and raise Cain. My,
you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when he was
in bloom. He WAS a blossom. He used to marry a
new wife every day, and chop off her head next morn-
ing. And he would do it just as indifferent as if he
was ordering up eggs. 'Fetch up Nell Gwynn,' he
says. They fetch her up. Next morning, 'Chop off
her head!' And they chop it off. 'Fetch up Jane
Shore,' he says; and up she comes, Next morning,
'Chop off her head' -- and they chop it off. 'Ring
up Fair Rosamun.' Fair Rosamun answers the bell.
Next morning, 'Chop off her head.' And he made
every one of them tell him a tale every night; and he
kept that up till he had hogged a thousand and one
tales that way, and then he put them all in a book,
and called it Domesday Book -- which was a good
name and stated the case. You don't know kings,
Jim, but I know them; and this old rip of ourn is one
of the cleanest I've struck in history. Well, Henry
he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble with
this country. How does he go at it -- give notice? --
give the country a show? No. All of a sudden he
heaves all the tea in Boston Harbor overboard, and
whacks out a declaration of independence, and dares
them to come on. That was HIS style -- he never give
anybody a chance. He had suspicions of his father,
the Duke of Wellington. Well, what did he do? Ask
him to show up? No -- drownded him in a butt of
mamsey, like a cat. S'pose people left money laying
around where he was -- what did he do? He collared
it. S'pose he contracted to do a thing, and you paid
him, and didn't set down there and see that he done
it -- what did he do? He always done the other thing.
S'pose he opened his mouth -- what then? If he
didn't shut it up powerful quick he'd lose a lie every
time. That's the kind of a bug Henry was; and if
we'd a had him along 'stead of our kings he'd a fooled
that town a heap worse than ourn done. I don't say
that ourn is lambs, because they ain't, when you come
right down to the cold facts; but they ain't nothing to
THAT old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings,
and you got to make allowances. Take them all
around, they're a mighty ornery lot. It's the way
they're raised."

"But dis one do SMELL so like de nation, Huck."

"Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way a
king smells; history don't tell no way."

"Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some
ways."

"Yes, a duke's different. But not very different.
This one's a middling hard lot for a duke. When
he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted man could tell
him from a king."

"Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un um,
Huck. Dese is all I kin stan'."

"It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got them
on our hands, and we got to remember what they are,
and make allowances. Sometimes I wish we could
hear of a country that's out of kings."

What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings
and dukes? It wouldn't a done no good; and, be-
sides, it was just as I said: you couldn't tell them from
the real kind.

I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was
my turn. He often done that. When I waked up
just at daybreak he was sitting there with his head
down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to
himself. I didn't take notice nor let on. I knowed
what it was about. He was thinking about his wife
and his children, away up yonder, and he was low and
homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from
home before in his life; and I do believe he cared just
as much for his people as white folks does for their'n.
It don't seem natural, but I reckon it's so. He was
often moaning and mourning that way nights, when
he judged I was asleep, and saying, "Po' little 'Liza-
beth! po' little Johnny! it's mighty hard; I spec' I
ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!" He
was a mighty good nigger, Jim was.

But this time I somehow got to talking to him about
his wife and young ones; and by and by he says:

"What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase I
hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a whack, er
a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time I treat my
little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She warn't on'y 'bout fo'
year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a
powful rough spell; but she got well, en one day she
was a-stannin' aroun', en I says to her, I says:

"'Shet de do'.'

"She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up
at me. It make me mad; en I says agin, mighty loud,
I says:

"'Doan' you hear me? Shet de do'!'

"She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. I
was a-bilin'! I says:

"'I lay I MAKE you mine!'

"En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de head dat
sont her a-sprawlin'. Den I went into de yuther
room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; en when I
come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open YIT, en
dat chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and
mournin', en de tears runnin' down. My, but I WUZ
mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den -- it
was a do' dat open innerds -- jis' den, 'long come de
wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-BLAM! -- en my
lan', de chile never move'! My breff mos' hop outer
me; en I feel so -- so -- I doan' know HOW I feel. I
crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en open de
do' easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile,
sof' en still, en all uv a sudden I says POW! jis' as
loud as I could yell. SHE NEVER BUDGE! Oh, Huck, I
bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my arms, en say,
'Oh, de po' little thing! De Lord God Amighty
fogive po' ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive his-
self as long's he live!' Oh, she was plumb deef en
dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb -- en I'd ben a-
treat'n her so!"


CHAPTER XXIV.

NEXT day, towards night, we laid up under a little
willow towhead out in the middle, where there
was a village on each side of the river, and the duke
and the king begun to lay out a plan for working them
towns. Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped
it wouldn't take but a few hours, because it got mighty
heavy and tiresome to him when he had to lay all day
in the wigwam tied with the rope. You see, when we
left him all alone we had to tie him, because if any-
body happened on to him all by himself and not tied
it wouldn't look much like he was a runaway nigger,
you know. So the duke said it WAS kind of hard to
have to lay roped all day, and he'd cipher out some
way to get around it.

He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he
soon struck it. He dressed Jim up in King Lear's
outfit -- it was a long curtain-calico gown, and a white
horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his
theater paint and painted Jim's face and hands and
ears and neck all over a dead, dull, solid blue, like a
man that's been drownded nine days. Blamed if he
warn't the horriblest looking outrage I ever see. Then
the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so:

  Sick Arab -- but harmless when not out of his head.

And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the
lath up four or five foot in front of the wigwam. Jim
was satisfied. He said it was a sight better than lying
tied a couple of years every day, and trembling all
over every time there was a sound. The duke told
him to make himself free and easy, and if anybody
ever come meddling around, he must hop out of the
wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or two
like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out
and leave him alone. Which was sound enough judg-
ment; but you take the average man, and he wouldn't
wait for him to howl. Why, he didn't only look like
he was dead, he looked considerable more than that.

These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again,
because there was so much money in it, but they
judged it wouldn't be safe, because maybe the news
might a worked along down by this time. They
couldn't hit no project that suited exactly; so at last
the duke said he reckoned he'd lay off and work his
brains an hour or two and see if he couldn't put up
something on the Arkansaw village; and the king he
allowed he would drop over to t'other village without
any plan, but just trust in Providence to lead him the
profitable way -- meaning the devil, I reckon. We
had all bought store clothes where we stopped last;
and now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put
mine on. I done it, of course. The king's duds was
all black, and he did look real swell and starchy. I
never knowed how clothes could change a body be-
fore. Why, before, he looked like the orneriest old
rip that ever was; but now, when he'd take off his new
white beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he
looked that grand and good and pious that you'd say
he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old
Leviticus himself. Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I
got my paddle ready. There was a big steamboat lay-
ing at the shore away up under the point, about three
mile above the town -- been there a couple of hours,
taking on freight. Says the king:

"Seein' how I'm dressed, I reckon maybe I better
arrive down from St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some
other big place. Go for the steamboat, Huckleberry;
we'll come down to the village on her."

I didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a
steamboat ride. I fetched the shore a half a mile
above the village, and then went scooting along the
bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we come to
a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on
a log swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was
powerful warm weather; and he had a couple of big
carpet-bags by him.

"Run her nose in shore," says the king. I done
it. "Wher' you bound for, young man?"

"For the steamboat; going to Orleans."

"Git aboard," says the king. "Hold on a minute,
my servant 'll he'p you with them bags. Jump out
and he'p the gentleman, Adolphus" -- meaning me, I
see.

I done so, and then we all three started on again.
The young chap was mighty thankful; said it was
tough work toting his baggage such weather. He
asked the king where he was going, and the king told
him he'd come down the river and landed at the other
village this morning, and now he was going up a few
mile to see an old friend on a farm up there. The
young fellow says:

"When I first see you I says to myself, 'It's Mr.
Wilks, sure, and he come mighty near getting here in
time.' But then I says again, 'No, I reckon it ain't
him, or else he wouldn't be paddling up the river.'
You AIN'T him, are you?"

"No, my name's Blodgett -- Elexander Blodgett --
REVEREND Elexander Blodgett, I s'pose I must say, as
I'm one o' the Lord's poor servants. But still I'm
jist as able to be sorry for Mr. Wilks for not arriving
in time, all the same, if he's missed anything by it --
which I hope he hasn't."

"Well, he don't miss any property by it, because
he'll get that all right; but he's missed seeing his
brother Peter die -- which he mayn't mind, nobody
can tell as to that -- but his brother would a give
anything in this world to see HIM before he died;
never talked about nothing else all these three weeks;
hadn't seen him since they was boys together -- and
hadn't ever seen his brother William at all -- that's the
deef and dumb one -- William ain't more than thirty
or thirty-five. Peter and George were the only ones
that come out here; George was the married brother;
him and his wife both died last year. Harvey and
William's the only ones that's left now; and, as I was
saying, they haven't got here in time."

"Did anybody send 'em word?"

"Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was
first took; because Peter said then that he sorter felt
like he warn't going to get well this time. You see,
he was pretty old, and George's g'yirls was too young
to be much company for him, except Mary Jane, the
red-headed one; and so he was kinder lonesome after
George and his wife died, and didn't seem to care
much to live. He most desperately wanted to see
Harvey -- and William, too, for that matter -- because
he was one of them kind that can't bear to make a
will. He left a letter behind for Harvey, and said
he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he
wanted the rest of the property divided up so George's
g'yirls would be all right -- for George didn't leave
nothing. And that letter was all they could get him
to put a pen to."

"Why do you reckon Harvey don't come? Wher'
does he live?"

"Oh, he lives in England -- Sheffield -- preaches
there -- hasn't ever been in this country. He hasn't
had any too much time -- and besides he mightn't a
got the letter at all, you know."

"Too bad, too bad he couldn't a lived to see his
brothers, poor soul. You going to Orleans, you say?"

"Yes, but that ain't only a part of it. I'm going
in a ship, next Wednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where
my uncle lives."

"It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely;
wisht I was a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest? How
old is the others?"

"Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's
about fourteen -- that's the one that gives herself to
good works and has a hare-lip."

"Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world
so."

"Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had
friends, and they ain't going to let them come to no
harm. There's Hobson, the Babtis' preacher; and
Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner
Shackleford, and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Rob-
inson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley, and --
well, there's a lot of them; but these are the ones that
Peter was thickest with, and used to write about some-
times, when he wrote home; so Harvey 'll know where
to look for friends when he gets here."

Well, the old man went on asking questions till he
just fairly emptied that young fellow. Blamed if he
didn't inquire about everybody and everything in that
blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and about
Peter's business -- which was a tanner; and about
George's -- which was a carpenter; and about Har-
vey's -- which was a dissentering minister; and so on,
and so on. Then he says:

"What did you want to walk all the way up to the
steamboat for?"

"Because she's a big Orleans boat, and I was afeard
she mightn't stop there. When they're deep they
won't stop for a hail. A Cincinnati boat will, but this
is a St. Louis one."

"Was Peter Wilks well off?"

"Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and
land, and it's reckoned he left three or four thousand
in cash hid up som'ers."

"When did you say he died?"

"I didn't say, but it was last night."

"Funeral to-morrow, likely?"

"Yes, 'bout the middle of the day."

"Well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go,
one time or another. So what we want to do is to be
prepared; then we're all right."

"Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to always
say that."

When we struck the boat she was about done load-
ing, and pretty soon she got off. The king never said
nothing about going aboard, so I lost my ride, after
all. When the boat was gone the king made me pad-
dle up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he
got ashore and says:

"Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up
here, and the new carpet-bags. And if he's gone over
to t'other side, go over there and git him. And tell
him to git himself up regardless. Shove along, now."

I see what HE was up to; but I never said nothing,
of course. When I got back with the duke we hid the
canoe, and then they set down on a log, and the king
told him everything, just like the young fellow had
said it -- every last word of it. And all the time he
was a-doing it he tried to talk like an Englishman;
and he done it pretty well, too, for a slouch. I can't
imitate him, and so I ain't a-going to try to; but he
really done it pretty good. Then he says:

"How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?"

The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had
played a deef and dumb person on the histronic boards.
So then they waited for a steamboat.

About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little
boats come along, but they didn't come from high
enough up the river; but at last there was a big one,
and they hailed her. She sent out her yawl, and we
went aboard, and she was from Cincinnati; and when
they found we only wanted to go four or five mile
they was booming mad, and gave us a cussing, and
said they wouldn't land us. But the king was ca'm.
He says:

"If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile
apiece to be took on and put off in a yawl, a steam-
boat kin afford to carry 'em, can't it?"

So they softened down and said it was all right;
and when we got to the village they yawled us ashore.
About two dozen men flocked down when they see the
yawl a-coming, and when the king says:

"Kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' Mr. Peter
Wilks lives?" they give a glance at one another, and
nodded their heads, as much as to say, "What d' I
tell you?" Then one of them says, kind of soft and
gentle:

"I'm sorry. sir, but the best we can do is to tell
you where he DID live yesterday evening."

Sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went an
to smash, and fell up against the man, and put his
chin on his shoulder, and cried down his back, and
says:

"Alas, alas, our poor brother -- gone, and we never
got to see him; oh, it's too, too hard!"

Then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot
of idiotic signs to the duke on his hands, and blamed
if he didn't drop a carpet-bag and bust out a-crying.
If they warn't the beatenest lot, them two frauds, that
ever I struck.

Well, the men gathered around and sympathized
with them, and said all sorts of kind things to them,
and carried their carpet-bags up the hill for them, and
let them lean on them and cry, and told the king all
about his brother's last moments, and the king he told
it all over again on his hands to the duke, and both of
them took on about that dead tanner like they'd lost
the twelve disciples. Well, if ever I struck anything
like it, I'm a nigger. It was enough to make a body
ashamed of the human race.


CHAPTER XXV.

THE news was all over town in two minutes, and
you could see the people tearing down on the
run from every which way, some of them putting on
their coats as they come. Pretty soon we was in the
middle of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping was
like a soldier march. The windows and dooryards was
full; and every minute somebody would say, over a
fence:

"Is it THEM?"

And somebody trotting along with the gang would
answer back and say:

"You bet it is."

When we got to the house the street in front of it
was packed, and the three girls was standing in the
door. Mary Jane WAS red-headed, but that don't make
no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and her
face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was so
glad her uncles was come. The king he spread his
arms, and Marsy Jane she jumped for them, and the
hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there they HAD it!
Everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to
see them meet again at last and have such good times.

Then the king he hunched the duke private -- I see
him do it -- and then he looked around and see the
coffin, over in the corner on two chairs; so then him
and the duke, with a hand across each other's shoul-
der, and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and
solemn over there, everybody dropping back to give
them room, and all the talk and noise stopping, people
saying "Sh!" and all the men taking their hats off and
drooping their heads, so you could a heard a pin fall.
And when they got there they bent over and looked in
the coffin, and took one sight, and then they bust out
a-crying so you could a heard them to Orleans, most;
and then they put their arms around each other's
necks, and hung their chins over each other's shoul-
ders; and then for three minutes, or maybe four, I
never see two men leak the way they done. And,
mind you, everybody was doing the same; and the
place was that damp I never see anything like it.
Then one of them got on one side of the coffin, and
t'other on t'other side, and they kneeled down and
rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on to pray
all to themselves. Well, when it come to that it
worked the crowd like you never see anything like it,
and everybody broke down and went to sobbing right
out loud -- the poor girls, too; and every woman,
nearly, went up to the girls, without saying a word,
and kissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then
put their hand on their head, and looked up towards
the sky, with the tears running down, and then busted
out and went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the
next woman a show. I never see anything so dis-
gusting.

Well, by and by the king he gets up and comes for-
ward a little, and works himself up and slobbers out a
speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle about its being
a sore trial for him and his poor brother to lose the
diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive after the
long journey of four thousand mile, but it's a trial
that's sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sym-
pathy and these holy tears, and so he thanks them out
of his heart and out of his brother's heart, because out
of their mouths they can't, words being too weak and
cold, and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just
sickening; and then he blubbers out a pious goody-
goody Amen, and turns himself loose and goes to cry-
ing fit to bust.

And the minute the words were out of his mouth
somebody over in the crowd struck up the doxolojer,
and everybody joined in with all their might, and it
just warmed you up and made you feel as good as
church letting out. Music is a good thing; and after
all that soul-butter and hogwash I never see it freshen
up things so, and sound so honest and bully.

Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and
says how him and his nieces would be glad if a few of
the main principal friends of the family would take
supper here with them this evening, and help set up
with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor
brother laying yonder could speak he knows who he
would name, for they was names that was very dear to
him, and mentioned often in his letters; and so he will
name the same, to wit, as follows, vizz.: -- Rev. Mr.
Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker,
and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr. Robin-
son, and their wives, and the widow Bartley.

Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the
end of the town a-hunting together -- that is, I mean
the doctor was shipping a sick man to t'other world,
and the preacher was pinting him right. Lawyer Bell
was away up to Louisville on business. But the rest
was on hand, and so they all come and shook hands
with the king and thanked him and talked to him; and
then they shook hands with the duke and didn't say
nothing, but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their
heads like a passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts
of signs with his hands and said "Goo-goo -- goo-goo-
goo" all the time, like a baby that can't talk.

So the king he blattered along, and managed to
inquire about pretty much everybody and dog in town,
by his name, and mentioned all sorts of little things
that happened one time or another in the town, or to
George's family, or to Peter. And he always let on
that Peter wrote him the things; but that was a lie:
he got every blessed one of them out of that young
flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat.

Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father
left behind, and the king he read it out loud and cried
over it. It give the dwelling-house and three thousand
dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the tanyard
(which was doing a good business), along with some
other houses and land (worth about seven thousand),
and three thousand dollars in gold to Harvey and
William, and told where the six thousand cash was hid
down cellar. So these two frauds said they'd go and
fetch it up, and have everything square and above-
board; and told me to come with a candle. We shut
the cellar door behind us, and when they found the
bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely
sight, all them yaller-boys. My, the way the king's
eyes did shine! He slaps the duke on the shoulder
and says:

"Oh, THIS ain't bully nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon
not! Why, Biljy, it beats the Nonesuch, DON'T it?"

The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-
boys, and sifted them through their fingers and let
them jingle down on the floor; and the king says:

"It ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich
dead man and representatives of furrin heirs that's got
left is the line for you and me, Bilge. Thish yer
comes of trust'n to Providence. It's the best way, in
the long run. I've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no
better way."

Most everybody would a been satisfied with the pile,
and took it on trust; but no, they must count it. So
they counts it, and it comes out four hundred and
fifteen dollars short. Says the king:

"Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four
hundred and fifteen dollars?"

They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all
around for it. Then the duke says:

"Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he
made a mistake -- I reckon that's the way of it. The
best way's to let it go, and keep still about it. We
can spare it."

"Oh, shucks, yes, we can SPARE it. I don't k'yer
noth'n 'bout that -- it's the COUNT I'm thinkin' about.
We want to be awful square and open and above-board
here, you know. We want to lug this h-yer money
up stairs and count it before everybody -- then ther'
ain't noth'n suspicious. But when the dead man says
ther's six thous'n dollars, you know, we don't want
to --"

"Hold on," says the duke. "Le's make up the
deffisit," and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out of
his pocket.

"It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke -- you HAVE
got a rattlin' clever head on you," says the king.
"Blest if the old Nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out
agin," and HE begun to haul out yaller-jackets and
stack them up.

It most busted them, but they made up the six
thousand clean and clear.

"Say," says the duke, "I got another idea. Le's
go up stairs and count this money, and then take and
GIVE IT TO THE GIRLS."

"Good land, duke, lemme hug you! It's the most
dazzling idea 'at ever a man struck. You have cert'nly
got the most astonishin' head I ever see. Oh, this is
the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout it. Let
'em fetch along their suspicions now if they want to --
this 'll lay 'em out."

When we got up-stairs everybody gethered around
the table, and the king he counted it and stacked it up,
three hundred dollars in a pile -- twenty elegant little
piles. Everybody looked hungry at it, and licked their
chops. Then they raked it into the bag again, and I
see the king begin to swell himself up for another
speech. He says:

"Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has
done generous by them that's left behind in the vale of
sorrers. He has done generous by these yer poor
little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's left
fatherless and motherless. Yes, and we that knowed
him knows that he would a done MORE generous by 'em
if he hadn't ben afeard o' woundin' his dear William
and me. Now, WOULDN'T he? Ther' ain't no question
'bout it in MY mind. Well, then, what kind o' brothers
would it be that 'd stand in his way at sech a time?
And what kind o' uncles would it be that 'd rob -- yes,
ROB -- sech poor sweet lambs as these 'at he loved so at
sech a time? If I know William -- and I THINK I do --
he -- well, I'll jest ask him." He turns around and
begins to make a lot of signs to the duke with his
hands, and the duke he looks at him stupid and leather-
headed a while; then all of a sudden he seems to catch
his meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with
all his might for joy, and hugs him about fifteen times
before he lets up. Then the king says, "I knowed
it; I reckon THAT 'll convince anybody the way HE feels
about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the
money -- take it ALL. It's the gift of him that lays
yonder, cold but joyful."

Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip
went for the duke, and then such another hugging and
kissing I never see yet. And everybody crowded up
with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands
off of them frauds, saying all the time:

"You DEAR good souls! -- how LOVELY! -- how COULD
you!"

Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking
about the diseased again, and how good he was, and
what a loss he was, and all that; and before long a big
iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside,
and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying any-
thing; and nobody saying anything to him either,
because the king was talking and they was all busy
listening. The king was saying -- in the middle of
something he'd started in on --

"-- they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased.
That's why they're invited here this evenin'; but to-
morrow we want ALL to come -- everybody; for he
respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's
fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public."

And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear
himself talk, and every little while he fetched in his
funeral orgies again, till the duke he couldn't stand it
no more; so he writes on a little scrap of paper,
"OBSEQUIES, you old fool," and folds it up, and goes
to goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to
him. The king he reads it and puts it in his pocket,
and says:

"Poor William, afflicted as he is, his HEART'S aluz
right. Asks me to invite everybody to come to the
funeral -- wants me to make 'em all welcome. But he
needn't a worried -- it was jest what I was at."

Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and
goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again every now
and then, just like he done before. And when he
done it the third time he says:

"I say orgies, not because it's the common term,
because it ain't -- obsequies bein' the common term --
but because orgies is the right term. Obsequies ain't
used in England no more now -- it's gone out. We
say orgies now in England. Orgies is better, because
it means the thing you're after more exact. It's a
word that's made up out'n the Greek ORGO, outside,
open, abroad; and the Hebrew JEESUM, to plant, cover
up; hence inTER. So, you see, funeral orgies is an
open er public funeral."

He was the WORST I ever struck. Well, the iron-
jawed man he laughed right in his face. Everybody
was shocked. Everybody says, "Why, DOCTOR!" and
Abner Shackleford says:

"Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news? This
is Harvey Wilks."

The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his
flapper, and says:

"Is it my poor brother's dear good friend and phy-
sician? I --"

"Keep your hands off of me!" says the doctor.
"YOU talk like an Englishman, DON'T you? It's the
worst imitation I ever heard. YOU Peter Wilks's
brother! You're a fraud, that's what you are!"

Well, how they all took on! They crowded around
the doctor and tried to quiet him down, and tried to
explain to him and tell him how Harvey 'd showed in
forty ways that he WAS Harvey, and knowed every-
body by name, and the names of the very dogs, and
begged and BEGGED him not to hurt Harvey's feelings
and the poor girl's feelings, and all that. But it warn't
no use; he stormed right along, and said any man that
pretended to be an Englishman and couldn't imitate
the lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a
liar. The poor girls was hanging to the king and cry-
ing; and all of a sudden the doctor ups and turns on
THEM. He says:

"I was your father's friend, and I'm your friend;
and I warn you as a friend, and an honest one that
wants to protect you and keep you out of harm and
trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel and have
nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with his
idiotic Greek and Hebrew, as he calls it. He is the
thinnest kind of an impostor -- has come here with a
lot of empty names and facts which he picked up
somewheres, and you take them for PROOFS, and are
helped to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here,
who ought to know better. Mary Jane Wilks, you
know me for your friend, and for your unselfish friend,
too. Now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out --
I BEG you to do it. Will you?"

Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she
was handsome! She says:

"HERE is my answer." She hove up the bag of
money and put it in the king's hands, and says,
"Take this six thousand dollars, and invest for me
and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give
us no receipt for it."

Then she put her arm around the king on one side,
and Susan and the hare-lip done the same on the
other. Everybody clapped their hands and stomped
on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held
up his head and smiled proud. The doctor says:

"All right; I wash MY hands of the matter. But I
warn you all that a time 's coming when you're going
to feel sick whenever you think of this day." And
away he went.

"All right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking
him; "we'll try and get 'em to send for you;" which
made them all laugh, and they said it was a prime
good hit.


CHAPTER XXVI.

WELL, when they was all gone the king he asks
Mary Jane how they was off for spare rooms,
and she said she had one spare room, which would do
for Uncle William, and she'd give her own room to
Uncle Harvey, which was a little bigger, and she would
turn into the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot;
and up garret was a little cubby, with a pallet in it.
The king said the cubby would do for his valley --
meaning me.

So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them
their rooms, which was plain but nice. She said she'd
have her frocks and a lot of other traps took out of
her room if they was in Uncle Harvey's way, but he
said they warn't. The frocks was hung along the wall,
and before them was a curtain made out of calico that
hung down to the floor. There was an old hair trunk
in one corner, and a guitar-box in another, and all
sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like
girls brisken up a room with. The king said it was all
the more homely and more pleasanter for these fixings,
and so don't disturb them. The duke's room was
pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so was my
cubby.

That night they had a big supper, and all them men
and women was there, and I stood behind the king and
the duke's chairs and waited on them, and the niggers
waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the head of
the table, with Susan alongside of her, and said how
bad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was,
and how ornery and tough the fried chickens was --
and all that kind of rot, the way women always do for
to force out compliments; and the people all knowed
everything was tiptop, and said so -- said "How DO
you get biscuits to brown so nice?" and "Where, for
the land's sake, DID you get these amaz'n pickles?"
and all that kind of humbug talky-talk, just the way
people always does at a supper, you know.

And when it was all done me and the hare-lip had
supper in the kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the others
was helping the niggers clean up the things. The
hare-lip she got to pumping me about England, and
blest if I didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin
sometimes. She says:

"Did you ever see the king?"

"Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have -- he
goes to our church." I knowed he was dead years
ago, but I never let on. So when I says he goes to
our church, she says:

"What -- regular?"

"Yes -- regular. His pew's right over opposite
ourn -- on t'other side the pulpit."

"I thought he lived in London?"

"Well, he does. Where WOULD he live?"

"But I thought YOU lived in Sheffield?"

I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get
choked with a chicken bone, so as to get time to think
how to get down again. Then I says:

"I mean he goes to our church regular when he's in
Sheffield. That's only in the summer time, when he
comes there to take the sea baths."

"Why, how you talk -- Sheffield ain't on the sea."

"Well, who said it was?"

"Why, you did."

"I DIDN'T nuther."

"You did!"

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I never said nothing of the kind."

"Well, what DID you say, then?"

"Said he come to take the sea BATHS -- that's what I
said."

"Well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if
it ain't on the sea?"

"Looky here," I says; "did you ever see any
Congress-water?"

"Yes."

"Well, did you have to go to Congress to get
it?"

"Why, no."

"Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to
the sea to get a sea bath."

"How does he get it, then?"

"Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-
water -- in barrels. There in the palace at Sheffield
they've got furnaces, and he wants his water hot.
They can't bile that amount of water away off there at
the sea. They haven't got no conveniences for it."

"Oh, I see, now. You might a said that in the first
place and saved time."

When she said that I see I was out of the woods
again, and so I was comfortable and glad. Next, she
says:

"Do you go to church, too?"

"Yes -- regular."

"Where do you set?"

"Why, in our pew."

"WHOSE pew?"

"Why, OURN -- your Uncle Harvey's."

"His'n? What does HE want with a pew?"

"Wants it to set in. What did you RECKON he wanted
with it?"

"Why, I thought he'd be in the pulpit."

Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was
up a stump again, so I played another chicken bone
and got another think. Then I says:

"Blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one
preacher to a church?"

"Why, what do they want with more?"

"What! -- to preach before a king? I never did
see such a girl as you. They don't have no less than
seventeen."

"Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out
such a string as that, not if I NEVER got to glory. It
must take 'em a week."

"Shucks, they don't ALL of 'em preach the same
day -- only ONE of 'em."


"Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?"

"Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate
-- and one thing or another. But mainly they don't
do nothing."

"Well, then, what are they FOR?"

"Why, they're for STYLE. Don't you know noth-
ing?"

"Well, I don't WANT to know no such foolishness as
that. How is servants treated in England? Do they
treat 'em better 'n we treat our niggers?"

"NO! A servant ain't nobody there. They treat
them worse than dogs."

"Don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do,
Christmas and New Year's week, and Fourth of July?"

"Oh, just listen! A body could tell YOU hain't ever
been to England by that. Why, Hare-l -- why, Joanna,
they never see a holiday from year's end to year's
end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor nigger
shows, nor nowheres."

"Nor church?"

"Nor church."

"But YOU always went to church."

Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old
man's servant. But next minute I whirled in on a
kind of an explanation how a valley was different from
a common servant and HAD to go to church whether
he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on ac-
count of its being the law. But I didn't do it pretty
good, and when I got done I see she warn't satisfied.
She says:

"Honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a
lot of lies?"

"Honest injun," says I.

"None of it at all?"

"None of it at all. Not a lie in it," says I.

"Lay your hand on this book and say it."

I see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my
hand on it and said it. So then she looked a little
better satisfied, and says:

"Well, then, I'll believe some of it; but I hope to
gracious if I'll believe the rest."

"What is it you won't believe, Joe?" says Mary
Jane, stepping in with Susan behind her. "It ain't
right nor kind for you to talk so to him, and him a
stranger and so far from his people. How would you
like to be treated so?"

"That's always your way, Maim -- always sailing in
to help somebody before they're hurt. I hain't done
nothing to him. He's told some stretchers, I reckon,
and I said I wouldn't swallow it all; and that's every
bit and grain I DID say. I reckon he can stand a little
thing like that, can't he?"

"I don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas
big; he's here in our house and a stranger, and it
wasn't good of you to say it. If you was in his place
it would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn't
to say a thing to another person that will make THEM
feel ashamed."

"Why, Maim, he said --"

"It don't make no difference what he SAID -- that
ain't the thing. The thing is for you to treat him
KIND, and not be saying things to make him remember
he ain't in his own country and amongst his own
folks."

I says to myself, THIS is a girl that I'm letting that
old reptle rob her of her money!

Then Susan SHE waltzed in; and if you'll believe
me, she did give Hare-lip hark from the tomb!

Says I to myself, and this is ANOTHER one that I'm
letting him rob her of her money!

Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went
in sweet and lovely again -- which was her way; but
when she got done there warn't hardly anything left o'
poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.

"All right, then," says the other girls; "you just
ask his pardon."

She done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She
done it so beautiful it was good to hear; and I wished
I could tell her a thousand lies, so she could do it
again.

I says to myself, this is ANOTHER one that I'm letting
him rob her of her money. And when she got through
they all jest laid theirselves out to make me feel at
home and know I was amongst friends. I felt so
ornery and low down and mean that I says to myself,
my mind's made up; I'll hive that money for them or
bust.

So then I lit out -- for bed, I said, meaning some
time or another. When I got by myself I went to
thinking the thing over. I says to myself, shall I go
to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds?
No -- that won't do. He might tell who told him;
then the king and the duke would make it warm for
me. Shall I go, private, and tell Mary Jane? No --
I dasn't do it. Her face would give them a hint,
sure; they've got the money, and they'd slide right
out and get away with it. If she was to fetch in help
I'd get mixed up in the business before it was done
with, I judge. No; there ain't no good way but one.
I got to steal that money, somehow; and I got to
steal it some way that they won't suspicion that I done
it. They've got a good thing here, and they ain't
a-going to leave till they've played this family and this
town for all they're worth, so I'll find a chance time
enough. I'll steal it and hide it; and by and by,
when I'm away down the river, I'll write a letter and
tell Mary Jane where it's hid. But I better hive it to-
night if I can, because the doctor maybe hasn't let up
as much as he lets on he has; he might scare them
out of here yet.

So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Up-
stairs the hall was dark, but I found the duke's room,
and started to paw around it with my hands; but I
recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let
anybody else take care of that money but his own self;
so then I went to his room and begun to paw around
there. But I see I couldn't do nothing without a
candle, and I dasn't light one, of course. So I judged
I'd got to do the other thing -- lay for them and
eavesdrop. About that time I hears their footsteps
coming, and was going to skip under the bed; I
reached for it, but it wasn't where I thought it would
be; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane's
frocks, so I jumped in behind that and snuggled in
amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly still.

They come in and shut the door; and the first thing
the duke done was to get down and look under the
bed. Then I was glad I hadn't found the bed when I
wanted it. And yet, you know, it's kind of natural to
hide under the bed when you are up to anything
private. They sets down then, and the king says:

"Well, what is it? And cut it middlin' short, be-
cause it's better for us to be down there a-whoopin'
up the mournin' than up here givin' 'em a chance to
talk us over."

"Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't com-
fortable. That doctor lays on my mind. I wanted to
know your plans. I've got a notion, and I think it's a
sound one."

"What is it, duke?"

"That we better glide out of this before three in the
morning, and clip it down the river with what we've
got. Specially, seeing we got it so easy -- GIVEN back
to us, flung at our heads, as you may say, when of
course we allowed to have to steal it back. I'm for
knocking off and lighting out."

That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or
two ago it would a been a little different, but now it
made me feel bad and disappointed, The king rips out
and says:

"What! And not sell out the rest o' the property?
March off like a passel of fools and leave eight or nine
thous'n' dollars' worth o' property layin' around jest
sufferin' to be scooped in? -- and all good, salable
stuff, too."

The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was
enough, and he didn't want to go no deeper -- didn't
want to rob a lot of orphans of EVERYTHING they had.

"Why, how you talk!" says the king. "We
sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at all but jest this money.
The people that BUYS the property is the suff'rers;
because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own
it -- which won't be long after we've slid -- the sale
won't be valid, and it 'll all go back to the estate.
These yer orphans 'll git their house back agin, and
that's enough for THEM; they're young and spry, and
k'n easy earn a livin'. THEY ain't a-goin to suffer.
Why, jest think -- there's thous'n's and thous'n's that
ain't nigh so well off. Bless you, THEY ain't got noth'n'
to complain of."

Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he
give in, and said all right, but said he believed it was
blamed foolishness to stay, and that doctor hanging
over them. But the king says:

"Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for HIM?
Hain't we got all the fools in town on our side? And
ain't that a big enough majority in any town?"

So they got ready to go down stairs again. The
duke says:

"I don't think we put that money in a good place."

That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I warn't
going to get a hint of no kind to help me. The king
says:

"Why?"

"Because Mary Jane 'll be in mourning from this
out; and first you know the nigger that does up the
rooms will get an order to box these duds up and put
'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run across
money and not borrow some of it?"

"Your head's level agin, duke," says the king; and
he comes a-fumbling under the curtain two or three
foot from where I was. I stuck tight to the wall and
kept mighty still, though quivery; and I wondered
what them fellows would say to me if they catched
me; and I tried to think what I'd better do if they did
catch me. But the king he got the bag before I could
think more than about a half a thought, and he never
suspicioned I was around. They took and shoved the
bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the
feather-bed, and crammed it in a foot or two amongst
the straw and said it was all right now, because a
nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and don't turn
over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it
warn't in no danger of getting stole now.

But I knowed better. I had it out of there before
they was half-way down stairs. I groped along up to
my cubby, and hid it there till I could get a chance
to do better. I judged I better hide it outside of the
house somewheres, because if they missed it they would
give the house a good ransacking: I knowed that very
well. Then I turned in, with my clothes all on; but I
couldn't a gone to sleep if I'd a wanted to, I was in
such a sweat to get through with the business. By
and by I heard the king and the duke come up; so I
rolled off my pallet and laid with my chin at the top of
my ladder, and waited to see if anything was going to
happen. But nothing did.

So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the
early ones hadn't begun yet; and then I slipped down
the ladder.


CHAPTER XXVII.

I CREPT to their doors and listened; they was snor-
ing. So I tiptoed along, and got down stairs all
right. There warn't a sound anywheres. I peeped
through a crack of the dining-room door, and see the
men that was watching the corpse all sound asleep on
their chairs. The door was open into the parlor, where
the corpse was laying, and there was a candle in both
rooms. I passed along, and the parlor door was open;
but I see there warn't nobody in there but the re-
mainders of Peter; so I shoved on by; but the front
door was locked, and the key wasn't there. Just then
I heard somebody coming down the stairs, back behind
me. I run in the parlor and took a swift look around,
and the only place I see to hide the bag was in the
coffin. The lid was shoved along about a foot, show-
ing the dead man's face down in there, with a wet
cloth over it, and his shroud on. I tucked the money-
bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his
hands was crossed, which made me creep, they was so
cold, and then I run back across the room and in
behind the door.

The person coming was Mary Jane. She went to
the coffin, very soft, and kneeled down and looked in;
then she put up her handkerchief, and I see she begun
to cry, though I couldn't hear her, and her back was
to me. I slid out, and as I passed the dining-room I
thought I'd make sure them watchers hadn't seen me;
so I looked through the crack, and everything was all
right. They hadn't stirred.

I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts
of the thing playing out that way after I had took so
much trouble and run so much resk about it. Says I,
if it could stay where it is, all right; because when we
get down the river a hundred mile or two I could write
back to Mary Jane, and she could dig him up again
and get it; but that ain't the thing that's going to
happen; the thing that's going to happen is, the
money 'll be found when they come to screw on the
lid. Then the king 'll get it again, and it 'll be a long
day before he gives anybody another chance to smouch
it from him. Of course I WANTED to slide down and
get it out of there, but I dasn't try it. Every minute
it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of
them watchers would begin to stir, and I might get
catched -- catched with six thousand dollars in my
hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take care of. I
don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that,
I says to myself.

When I got down stairs in the morning the parlor
was shut up, and the watchers was gone. There warn't
nobody around but the family and the widow Bartley
and our tribe. I watched their faces to see if anything
had been happening, but I couldn't tell.

Towards the middle of the day the undertaker come
with his man, and they set the coffin in the middle of
the room on a couple of chairs, and then set all our
chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the neighbors
till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was
full. I see the coffin lid was the way it was before,
but I dasn't go to look in under it, with folks around.

Then the people begun to flock in, and the beats
and the girls took seats in the front row at the head of
the coffin, and for a half an hour the people filed
around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the
dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a tear,
and it was all very still and solemn, only the girls and
the beats holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and keep-
ing their heads bent, and sobbing a little. There
warn't no other sound but the scraping of the feet on
the floor and blowing noses -- because people always
blows them more at a funeral than they do at other
places except church.

When the place was packed full the undertaker he
slid around in his black gloves with his softy soother-
ing ways, putting on the last touches, and getting
people and things all ship-shape and comfortable, and
making no more sound than a cat. He never spoke;
he moved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he
opened up passageways, and done it with nods, and
signs with his hands. Then he took his place over
against the wall. He was the softest, glidingest,
stealthiest man I ever see; and there warn't no more
smile to him than there is to a ham.

They had borrowed a melodeum -- a sick one; and
when everything was ready a young woman set down
and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky and colicky,
and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was the
only one that had a good thing, according to my
notion. Then the Reverend Hobson opened up, slow
and solemn, and begun to talk; and straight off the
most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body
ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most
powerful racket, and he kept it up right along; the
parson he had to stand there, over the coffin, and wait
-- you couldn't hear yourself think. It was right
down awkward, and nobody didn't seem to know what
to do. But pretty soon they see that long-legged
undertaker make a sign to the preacher as much as to
say, "Don't you worry -- just depend on me." Then
he stooped down and begun to glide along the wall,
just his shoulders showing over the people's heads.
So he glided along, and the powwow and racket get-
ting more and more outrageous all the time; and at
last, when he had gone around two sides of the room,
he disappears down cellar. Then in about two seconds
we heard a whack, and the dog he finished up with a
most amazing howl or two, and then everything was
dead still, and the parson begun his solemn talk where
he left off. In a minute or two here comes this under-
taker's back and shoulders gliding along the wall
again; and so he glided and glided around three sides
of the room, and then rose up, and shaded his mouth
with his hands, and stretched his neck out towards the
preacher, over the people's heads, and says, in a kind
of a coarse whisper, "HE HAD A RAT!" Then he
drooped down and glided along the wall again to his
place. You could see it was a great satisfaction to the
people, because naturally they wanted to know. A
little thing like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the
little things that makes a man to be looked up to and
liked. There warn't no more popular man in town
than what that undertaker was.

Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison
long and tiresome; and then the king he shoved in and
got off some of his usual rubbage, and at last the job
was through, and the undertaker begun to sneak up on
the coffin with his screw-driver. I was in a sweat
then, and watched him pretty keen. But he never
meddled at all; just slid the lid along as soft as mush,
and screwed it down tight and fast. So there I was!
I didn't know whether the money was in there or not.
So, says I, s'pose somebody has hogged that bag on
the sly? -- now how do I know whether to write to
Mary Jane or not? S'pose she dug him up and didn't
find nothing, what would she think of me? Blame it,
I says, I might get hunted up and jailed; I'd better
lay low and keep dark, and not write at all; the thing's
awful mixed now; trying to better it, I've worsened it
a hundred times, and I wish to goodness I'd just let it
alone, dad fetch the whole business!

They buried him, and we come back home, and I
went to watching faces again -- I couldn't help it, and
I couldn't rest easy. But nothing come of it; the
faces didn't tell me nothing.

The king he visited around in the evening, and
sweetened everybody up, and made himself ever so
friendly; and he give out the idea that his congrega-
tion over in England would be in a sweat about him,
so he must hurry and settle up the estate right away
and leave for home. He was very sorry he was so
pushed, and so was everybody; they wished he could
stay longer, but they said they could see it couldn't be
done. And he said of course him and William would
take the girls home with them; and that pleased every-
body too, because then the girls would be well fixed and
amongst their own relations; and it pleased the girls,
too -- tickled them so they clean forgot they ever had
a trouble in the world; and told him to sell out as
quick as he wanted to, they would be ready. Them
poor things was that glad and happy it made my heart
ache to see them getting fooled and lied to so, but I
didn't see no safe way for me to chip in and change
the general tune.

Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and
the niggers and all the property for auction straight
off -- sale two days after the funeral; but anybody
could buy private beforehand if they wanted to.

So the next day after the funeral, along about noon-
time, the girls' joy got the first jolt. A couple of
nigger traders come along, and the king sold them the
niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they called
it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to
Memphis, and their mother down the river to Orleans.
I thought them poor girls and them niggers would
break their hearts for grief; they cried around each
other, and took on so it most made me down sick to
see it. The girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of
seeing the family separated or sold away from the
town. I can't ever get it out of my memory, the
sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging
around each other's necks and crying; and I reckon I
couldn't a stood it all, but would a had to bust out
and tell on our gang if I hadn't knowed the sale warn't
no account and the niggers would be back home in a
week or two.

The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a
good many come out flatfooted and said it was scandal-
ous to separate the mother and the children that way.
It injured the frauds some; but the old fool he bulled
right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and
I tell you the duke was powerful uneasy.

Next day was auction day. About broad day in the
morning the king and the duke come up in the garret
and woke me up, and I see by their look that there
was trouble. The king says:

"Was you in my room night before last?"

"No, your majesty" -- which was the way I always
called him when nobody but our gang warn't around.

"Was you in there yisterday er last night?"

"No, your majesty."

"Honor bright, now -- no lies."

"Honor bright, your majesty, I'm telling you the
truth. I hain't been a-near your room since Miss Mary
Jane took you and the duke and showed it to you."

The duke says:

"Have you seen anybody else go in there?"

"No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe."

"Stop and think."

I studied awhile and see my chance; then I says:

"Well, I see the niggers go in there several times."

Both of them gave a little jump, and looked like
they hadn't ever expected it, and then like they HAD.
Then the duke says:

"What, all of them?"

"No -- leastways, not all at once -- that is, I don't
think I ever see them all come OUT at once but just one
time."

"Hello! When was that?"

"It was the day we had the funeral. In the morn-
ing. It warn't early, because I overslept. I was just
starting down the ladder, and I see them."

"Well, go on, GO on! What did they do? How'd
they act?"

"They didn't do nothing. And they didn't act
anyway much, as fur as I see. They tiptoed away;
so I seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved in there to
do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing
you was up; and found you WARN'T up, and so they
was hoping to slide out of the way of trouble without
waking you up, if they hadn't already waked you up."

"Great guns, THIS is a go!" says the king; and
both of them looked pretty sick and tolerable silly.
They stood there a-thinking and scratching their heads
a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a little
raspy chuckle, and says:

"It does beat all how neat the niggers played their
hand. They let on to be SORRY they was going out of
this region! And I believed they WAS sorry, and so
did you, and so did everybody. Don't ever tell ME
any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent.
Why, the way they played that thing it would fool
ANYBODY. In my opinion, there's a fortune in 'em. If
I had capital and a theater, I wouldn't want a better
lay-out than that -- and here we've gone and sold 'em
for a song. Yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song
yet. Say, where IS that song -- that draft?"

"In the bank for to be collected. Where WOULD it
be?"

"Well, THAT'S all right then, thank goodness."

Says I, kind of timid-like:

"Is something gone wrong?"

The king whirls on me and rips out:

"None o' your business! You keep your head
shet, and mind y'r own affairs -- if you got any.
Long as you're in this town don't you forgit THAT --
you hear?" Then he says to the duke, "We got to
jest swaller it and say noth'n': mum's the word for US."

As they was starting down the ladder the duke he
chuckles again, and says:

"Quick sales AND small profits! It's a good busi-
ness -- yes."

The king snarls around on him and says:

"I was trying to do for the best in sellin' 'em out
so quick. If the profits has turned out to be none,
lackin' considable, and none to carry, is it my fault
any more'n it's yourn?"

"Well, THEY'D be in this house yet and we WOULDN'T
if I could a got my advice listened to."

The king sassed back as much as was safe for him,
and then swapped around and lit into ME again. He
give me down the banks for not coming and TELLING
him I see the niggers come out of his room acting that
way -- said any fool would a KNOWED something was
up. And then waltzed in and cussed HIMSELF awhile,
and said it all come of him not laying late and taking
his natural rest that morning, and he'd be blamed if he'd
ever do it again. So they went off a-jawing; and I
felt dreadful glad I'd worked it all off on to the niggers,
and yet hadn't done the niggers no harm by it.


CHAPTER XXVIII.

BY and by it was getting-up time. So I come down
the ladder and started for down-stairs; but as I
come to the girls' room the door was open, and I see
Mary Jane setting by her old hair trunk, which was
open and she'd been packing things in it -- getting
ready to go to England. But she had stopped now
with a folded gown in her lap, and had her face in her
hands, crying. I felt awful bad to see it; of course
anybody would. I went in there and says:

"Miss Mary Jane, you can't a-bear to see people
in trouble, and I can't -- most always. Tell me
about it."

So she done it. And it was the niggers -- I just
expected it. She said the beautiful trip to England
was most about spoiled for her; she didn't know HOW
she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the
mother and the children warn't ever going to see
each other no more -- and then busted out bitterer
than ever, and flung up her hands, and says:

"Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't EVER going to
see each other any more!"

"But they WILL -- and inside of two weeks -- and I
KNOW it!" says I.

Laws, it was out before I could think! And before
I could budge she throws her arms around my neck
and told me to say it AGAIN, say it AGAIN, say it AGAIN!

I see I had spoke too sudden and said too much,
and was in a close place. I asked her to let me think
a minute; and she set there, very impatient and ex-
cited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and
eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out.
So I went to studying it out. I says to myself, I
reckon a body that ups and tells the truth when he is
in a tight place is taking considerable many resks,
though I ain't had no experience, and can't say for
certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's
a case where I'm blest if it don't look to me like the
truth is better and actuly SAFER than a lie. I must lay
it by in my mind, and think it over some time or
other, it's so kind of strange and unregular. I never
see nothing like it. Well, I says to myself at last,
I'm a-going to chance it; I'll up and tell the truth this
time, though it does seem most like setting down on a
kag of powder and touching it off just to see where
you'll go to. Then I says:

"Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a
little ways where you could go and stay three or four
days?"

"Yes; Mr. Lothrop's. Why?"

"Never mind why yet. If I'll tell you how I know
the niggers will see each other again inside of two
weeks -- here in this house -- and PROVE how I know
it -- will you go to Mr. Lothrop's and stay four days?"

"Four days!" she says; "I'll stay a year!"

"All right," I says, "I don't want nothing more
out of YOU than just your word -- I druther have it than
another man's kiss-the-Bible." She smiled and red-
dened up very sweet, and I says, "If you don't mind
it, I'll shut the door -- and bolt it."

Then I come back and set down again, and says:

"Don't you holler. Just set still and take it like a
man. I got to tell the truth, and you want to brace
up, Miss Mary, because it's a bad kind, and going to
be hard to take, but there ain't no help for it. These
uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple
of frauds -- regular dead-beats. There, now we're
over the worst of it, you can stand the rest middling
easy."

It jolted her up like everything, of course; but I
was over the shoal water now, so I went right along,
her eyes a-blazing higher and higher all the time, and
told her every blame thing, from where we first struck
that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear
through to where she flung herself on to the king's
breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or
seventeen times -- and then up she jumps, with her
face afire like sunset, and says:

"The brute! Come, don't waste a minute -- not a
SECOND -- we'll have them tarred and feathered, and
flung in the river!"

Says I:

"Cert'nly. But do you mean BEFORE you go to Mr.
Lothrop's, or --"

"Oh," she says, "what am I THINKING about!"
she says, and set right down again. "Don't mind
what I said -- please don't -- you WON'T, now, WILL
you?" Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind
of a way that I said I would die first. "I never
thought, I was so stirred up," she says; "now go on,
and I won't do so any more. You tell me what to do,
and whatever you say I'll do it."

"Well," I says, "it's a rough gang, them two
frauds, and I'm fixed so I got to travel with them a
while longer, whether I want to or not -- I druther not
tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this
town would get me out of their claws, and I'd be all
right; but there'd be another person that you don't
know about who'd be in big trouble. Well, we got
to save HIM, hain't we? Of course. Well, then, we
won't blow on them."

Saying them words put a good idea in my head. I
see how maybe I could get me and Jim rid of the
frauds; get them jailed here, and then leave. But I
didn't want to run the raft in the daytime without any-
body aboard to answer questions but me; so I didn't
want the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night.
I says:

"Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll do, and
you won't have to stay at Mr. Lothrop's so long,
nuther. How fur is it?"

"A little short of four miles -- right out in the
country, back here."

"Well, that 'll answer. Now you go along out there,
and lay low till nine or half-past to-night, and then get
them to fetch you home again -- tell them you've
thought of something. If you get here before eleven
put a candle in this window, and if I don't turn up
wait TILL eleven, and THEN if I don't turn up it means
I'm gone, and out of the way, and safe. Then you
come out and spread the news around, and get these
beats jailed."

"Good," she says, "I'll do it."

"And if it just happens so that I don't get away,
but get took up along with them, you must up and say
I told you the whole thing beforehand, and you must
stand by me all you can."

"Stand by you! indeed I will. They sha'n't touch
a hair of your head!" she says, and I see her nostrils
spread and her eyes snap when she said it, too.

"If I get away I sha'n't be here," I says, "to
prove these rapscallions ain't your uncles, and I
couldn't do it if I WAS here. I could swear they was
beats and bummers, that's all, though that's worth
something. Well, there's others can do that better than
what I can, and they're people that ain't going to be
doubted as quick as I'd be. I'll tell you how to find
them. Gimme a pencil and a piece of paper. There
-- 'Royal Nonesuch, Bricksville.' Put it away, and
don't lose it. When the court wants to find out some-
thing about these two, let them send up to Bricksville
and say they've got the men that played the Royal
Nonesuch, and ask for some witnesses -- why, you'll
have that entire town down here before you can hardly
wink, Miss Mary. And they'll come a-biling, too."

I judged we had got everything fixed about right
now. So I says:

"Just let the auction go right along, and don't
worry. Nobody don't have to pay for the things they
buy till a whole day after the auction on accounts of
the short notice, and they ain't going out of this till
they get that money; and the way we've fixed it the
sale ain't going to count, and they ain't going to get
no money. It's just like the way it was with the
niggers -- it warn't no sale, and the niggers will be
back before long. Why, they can't collect the money
for the NIGGERS yet -- they're in the worst kind of a
fix, Miss Mary."

"Well," she says, "I'll run down to breakfast now,
and then I'll start straight for Mr. Lothrop's."

"'Deed, THAT ain't the ticket, Miss Mary Jane," I
says, "by no manner of means; go BEFORE breakfast."

"Why?"

"What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all
for, Miss Mary?"

"Well, I never thought -- and come to think, I
don't know. What was it?"

"Why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-
face people. I don't want no better book than what
your face is. A body can set down and read it off
like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and
face your uncles when they come to kiss you good-
morning, and never --"

"There, there, don't! Yes, I'll go before break-
fast -- I'll be glad to. And leave my sisters with
them?"

"Yes; never mind about them. They've got to
stand it yet a while. They might suspicion something
if all of you was to go. I don't want you to see them,
nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neigh-
bor was to ask how is your uncles this morning your
face would tell something. No, you go right along,
Miss Mary Jane, and I'll fix it with all of them. I'll
tell Miss Susan to give your love to your uncles and
say you've went away for a few hours for to get a
little rest and change, or to see a friend, and you'll be
back to-night or early in the morning."

"Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won't have
my love given to them."

"Well, then, it sha'n't be." It was well enough to
tell HER so -- no harm in it. It was only a little thing
to do, and no trouble; and it's the little things that
smooths people's roads the most, down here below; it
would make Mary Jane comfortable, and it wouldn't
cost nothing. Then I says: "There's one more thing
-- that bag of money."

"Well, they've got that; and it makes me feel
pretty silly to think HOW they got it."

"No, you're out, there. They hain't got it."

"Why, who's got it?"

"I wish I knowed, but I don't. I HAD it, because I
stole it from them; and I stole it to give to you; and
I know where I hid it, but I'm afraid it ain't there no
more. I'm awful sorry, Miss Mary Jane, I'm just as
sorry as I can be; but I done the best I could; I did
honest. I come nigh getting caught, and I had to
shove it into the first place I come to, and run -- and
it warn't a good place."

"Oh, stop blaming yourself -- it's too bad to do it,
and I won't allow it -- you couldn't help it; it wasn't
your fault. Where did you hide it?"

I didn't want to set her to thinking about her
troubles again; and I couldn't seem to get my mouth
to tell her what would make her see that corpse laying
in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach.
So for a minute I didn't say nothing; then I says:

"I'd ruther not TELL you where I put it, Miss Mary
Jane, if you don't mind letting me off; but I'll write it
for you on a piece of paper, and you can read it along
the road to Mr. Lothrop's, if you want to. Do you
reckon that 'll do?"

"Oh, yes."

So I wrote: "I put it in the coffin. It was in
there when you was crying there, away in the night.
I was behind the door, and I was mighty sorry for
you, Miss Mary Jane."

It made my eyes water a little to remember her cry-
ing there all by herself in the night, and them devils
laying there right under her own roof, shaming her
and robbing her; and when I folded it up and give it
to her I see the water come into her eyes, too; and
she shook me by the hand, hard, and says:

"GOOD-bye. I'm going to do everything just as
you've told me; and if I don't ever see you again, I
sha'n't ever forget you. and I'll think of you a many
and a many a time, and I'll PRAY for you, too!" -- and
she was gone.

Pray for me! I reckoned if she knowed me she'd
take a job that was more nearer her size. But I bet
she done it, just the same -- she was just that kind.
She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the
notion -- there warn't no back-down to her, I judge.
You may say what you want to, but in my opinion
she had more sand in her than any girl I ever see; in
my opinion she was just full of sand. It sounds like
flattery, but it ain't no flattery. And when it comes
to beauty -- and goodness, too -- she lays over them
all. I hain't ever seen her since that time that I see
her go out of that door; no, I hain't ever seen her
since, but I reckon I've thought of her a many and a
many a million times, and of her saying she would
pray for me; and if ever I'd a thought it would do
any good for me to pray for HER, blamed if I wouldn't
a done it or bust.

Well, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon;
because nobody see her go. When I struck Susan
and the hare-lip, I says:

"What's the name of them people over on t'other
side of the river that you all goes to see sometimes?"

They says:

"There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly."

"That's the name," I says; "I most forgot it.
Well, Miss Mary Jane she told me to tell you she's
gone over there in a dreadful hurry -- one of them's
sick."

"Which one?"

"I don't know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I
thinks it's --"

"Sakes alive, I hope it ain't HANNER?"

"I'm sorry to say it," I says, "but Hanner's the
very one."

"My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is
she took bad?"

"It ain't no name for it. They set up with her all
night, Miss Mary Jane said, and they don't think she'll
last many hours."

"Only think of that, now! What's the matter with
her?"

I couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off
that way, so I says:

"Mumps."

"Mumps your granny! They don't set up with
people that's got the mumps."

"They don't, don't they? You better bet they do
with THESE mumps. These mumps is different. It's a
new kind, Miss Mary Jane said."

"How's it a new kind?"

"Because it's mixed up with other things."

"What other things?"

"Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas,
and consumption, and yaller janders, and brain-fever,
and I don't know what all."

"My land! And they call it the MUMPS?"

"That's what Miss Mary Jane said."

"Well, what in the nation do they call it the MUMPS
for?"

"Why, because it IS the mumps. That's what it
starts with."

"Well, ther' ain't no sense in it. A body might
stump his toe, and take pison, and fall down the well,
and break his neck, and bust his brains out, and some-
body come along and ask what killed him, and some
numskull up and say, 'Why, he stumped his TOE.'
Would ther' be any sense in that? NO. And ther'
ain't no sense in THIS, nuther. Is it ketching?"

"Is it KETCHING? Why, how you talk. Is a HARROW
catching -- in the dark? If you don't hitch on to one
tooth, you're bound to on another, ain't you? And
you can't get away with that tooth without fetching
the whole harrow along, can you? Well, these kind
of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may say -- and
it ain't no slouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to
get it hitched on good."

"Well, it's awful, I think," says the hare-lip.
"I'll go to Uncle Harvey and --"

"Oh, yes," I says, "I WOULD. Of COURSE I would.
I wouldn't lose no time."

"Well, why wouldn't you?"

"Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see.
Hain't your uncles obleegd to get along home to Eng-
land as fast as they can? And do you reckon they'd
be mean enough to go off and leave you to go all that
journey by yourselves? YOU know they'll wait for
you. So fur, so good. Your uncle Harvey's a
preacher, ain't he? Very well, then; is a PREACHER
going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to
deceive a SHIP CLERK? -- so as to get them to let Miss
Mary Jane go aboard? Now YOU know he ain't.
What WILL he do, then? Why, he'll say, 'It's a great
pity, but my church matters has got to get along the
best way they can; for my niece has been exposed to
the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps, and so it's my
bounden duty to set down here and wait the three
months it takes to show on her if she's got it.' But
never mind, if you think it's best to tell your uncle
Harvey --"

"Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we
could all be having good times in England whilst we
was waiting to find out whether Mary Jane's got it or
not? Why, you talk like a muggins."

"Well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of
the neighbors."

"Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural
stupidness. Can't you SEE that THEY'D go and tell?
Ther' ain't no way but just to not tell anybody at ALL."

"Well, maybe you're right -- yes, I judge you ARE
right."

"But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she's
gone out a while, anyway, so he won't be uneasy
about her?"

"Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that.
She says, 'Tell them to give Uncle Harvey and
William my love and a kiss, and say I've run over the
river to see Mr.' -- Mr. -- what IS the name of that
rich family your uncle Peter used to think so much
of? -- I mean the one that --"

"Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't it?"

"Of course; bother them kind of names, a body
can't ever seem to remember them, half the time,
somehow. Yes, she said, say she has run over for to
ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction
and buy this house, because she allowed her uncle
Peter would ruther they had it than anybody else;
and she's going to stick to them till they say they'll
come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's coming
home; and if she is, she'll be home in the morning
anyway. She said, don't say nothing about the Proc-
tors, but only about the Apthorps -- which 'll be per-
fectly true, because she is going there to speak about
their buying the house; I know it, because she told
me so herself."

"All right," they said, and cleared out to lay for
their uncles, and give them the love and the kisses,
and tell them the message.

Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn't
say nothing because they wanted to go to England;
and the king and the duke would ruther Mary Jane was
off working for the auction than around in reach of
Doctor Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I had
done it pretty neat -- I reckoned Tom Sawyer couldn't
a done it no neater himself. Of course he would a
throwed more style into it, but I can't do that very
handy, not being brung up to it.

Well, they held the auction in the public square,
along towards the end of the afternoon, and it strung
along, and strung along, and the old man he was on
hand and looking his level pisonest, up there longside
of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture
now and then, or a little goody-goody saying of some
kind, and the duke he was around goo-gooing for sym-
pathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself
generly.

But by and by the thing dragged through, and
everything was sold -- everything but a little old trifling
lot in the graveyard. So they'd got to work that off
-- I never see such a girafft as the king was for want-
ing to swallow EVERYTHING. Well, whilst they was at it
a steamboat landed, and in about two minutes up
comes a crowd a-whooping and yelling and laughing
and carrying on, and singing out:

"HERE'S your opposition line! here's your two sets
o' heirs to old Peter Wilks -- and you pays your
money and you takes your choice!"


CHAPTER XXIX.

THEY was fetching a very nice-looking old gentle-
man along, and a nice-looking younger one, with
his right arm in a sling. And, my souls, how the
people yelled and laughed, and kept it up. But I didn't
see no joke about it, and I judged it would strain the
duke and the king some to see any. I reckoned
they'd turn pale. But no, nary a pale did THEY turn.
The duke he never let on he suspicioned what was
up, but just went a goo-gooing around, happy and
satisfied, like a jug that's googling out buttermilk;
and as for the king, he just gazed and gazed down
sorrowful on them new-comers like it give him the
stomach-ache in his very heart to think there could be
such frauds and rascals in the world. Oh, he done it
admirable. Lots of the principal people gethered
around the king, to let him see they was on his side.
That old gentleman that had just come looked all puz-
zled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I
see straight off he pronounced LIKE an Englishman --
not the king's way, though the king's WAS pretty good
for an imitation. I can't give the old gent's words,
nor I can't imitate him; but he turned around to the
crowd, and says, about like this:

"This is a surprise to me which I wasn't looking
for; and I'll acknowledge, candid and frank, I ain't
very well fixed to meet it and answer it; for my
brother and me has had misfortunes; he's broke his
arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here
last night in the night by a mistake. I am Peter
Wilks' brother Harvey, and this is his brother William,
which can't hear nor speak -- and can't even make
signs to amount to much, now't he's only got one
hand to work them with. We are who we say we are;
and in a day or two, when I get the baggage, I can
prove it. But up till then I won't say nothing more,
but go to the hotel and wait."

So him and the new dummy started off; and the king
he laughs, and blethers out:

"Broke his arm -- VERY likely, AIN'T it? -- and very
convenient, too, for a fraud that's got to make signs,
and ain't learnt how. Lost their baggage! That's
MIGHTY good! -- and mighty ingenious -- under the
CIRCUMSTANCES!

So he laughed again; and so did everybody else,
except three or four, or maybe half a dozen. One of
these was that doctor; another one was a sharp-
looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-
fashioned kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just
come off of the steamboat and was talking to him in a
low voice, and glancing towards the king now and then
and nodding their heads -- it was Levi Bell, the lawyer
that was gone up to Louisville; and another one was
a big rough husky that come along and listened to
all the old gentleman said, and was listening to the
king now. And when the king got done this husky
up and says:

"Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when'd
you come to this town?"

"The day before the funeral, friend," says the king.

"But what time o' day?"

"In the evenin' -- 'bout an hour er two before sun-
down."

"HOW'D you come?"

"I come down on the Susan Powell from Cincin-
nati."

"Well, then, how'd you come to be up at the Pint
in the MORNIN' -- in a canoe?"

"I warn't up at the Pint in the mornin'."

"It's a lie."

Several of them jumped for him and begged him not
to talk that way to an old man and a preacher.

"Preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. He
was up at the Pint that mornin'. I live up there, don't
I? Well, I was up there, and he was up there. I see
him there. He come in a canoe, along with Tim
Collins and a boy."

The doctor he up and says:

"Would you know the boy again if you was to see
him, Hines?"

"I reckon I would, but I don't know. Why,
yonder he is, now. I know him perfectly easy."

It was me he pointed at. The doctor says:

"Neighbors, I don't know whether the new couple
is frauds or not; but if THESE two ain't frauds, I am an
idiot, that's all. I think it's our duty to see that they
don't get away from here till we've looked into this
thing. Come along, Hines; come along, the rest of
you. We'll take these fellows to the tavern and
affront them with t'other couple, and I reckon we'll
find out SOMETHING before we get through."

It was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for
the king's friends; so we all started. It was about
sundown. The doctor he led me along by the hand,
and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my
hand.

We all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up
some candles, and fetched in the new couple. First,
the doctor says:

"I don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but
I think they're frauds, and they may have complices
that we don't know nothing about. If they have,
won't the complices get away with that bag of gold
Peter Wilks left? It ain't unlikely. If these men
ain't frauds, they won't object to sending for that
money and letting us keep it till they prove they're
all right -- ain't that so?"

Everybody agreed to that. So I judged they had
our gang in a pretty tight place right at the outstart.
But the king he only looked sorrowful, and says:

"Gentlemen, I wish the money was there, for I
ain't got no disposition to throw anything in the way
of a fair, open, out-and-out investigation o' this
misable business; but, alas, the money ain't there;
you k'n send and see, if you want to."

"Where is it, then?"

"Well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her
I took and hid it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed,
not wishin' to bank it for the few days we'd be here,
and considerin' the bed a safe place, we not bein' used
to niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants in
England. The niggers stole it the very next mornin'
after I had went down stairs; and when I sold 'em I
hadn't missed the money yit, so they got clean away
with it. My servant here k'n tell you 'bout it, gentle-
men."

The doctor and several said "Shucks!" and I see
nobody didn't altogether believe him. One man asked
me if I see the niggers steal it. I said no, but I see
them sneaking out of the room and hustling away, and
I never thought nothing, only I reckoned they was
afraid they had waked up my master and was trying to
get away before he made trouble with them. That
was all they asked me. Then the doctor whirls on me
and says:

"Are YOU English, too?"

I says yes; and him and some others laughed, and
said, "Stuff!"

Well, then they sailed in on the general investiga-
tion, and there we had it, up and down, hour in, hour
out, and nobody never said a word about supper, nor
ever seemed to think about it -- and so they kept it
up, and kept it up; and it WAS the worst mixed-up
thing you ever see. They made the king tell his yarn,
and they made the old gentleman tell his'n; and any-
body but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would a SEEN
that the old gentleman was spinning truth and t'other
one lies. And by and by they had me up to tell what
I knowed. The king he give me a left-handed look
out of the corner of his eye, and so I knowed enough
to talk on the right side. I begun to tell about
Sheffield, and how we lived there, and all about the
English Wilkses, and so on; but I didn't get pretty
fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and Levi Bell, the
lawyer, says:

"Set down, my boy; I wouldn't strain myself if I
was you. I reckon you ain't used to lying, it don't
seem to come handy; what you want is practice. You
do it pretty awkward."

I didn't care nothing for the compliment, but I was
glad to be let off, anyway.

The doctor he started to say something, and turns
and says:

"If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell --
"
The king broke in and reached out his hand, and
says:

"Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend
that he's wrote so often about?"

The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer
smiled and looked pleased, and they talked right along
awhile, and then got to one side and talked low; and
at last the lawyer speaks up and says:

"That 'll fix it. I'll take the order and send it,
along with your brother's, and then they'll know it's
all right."

So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he
set down and twisted his head to one side, and chawed
his tongue, and scrawled off something; and then they
give the pen to the duke -- and then for the first time
the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote.
So then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and
says:

"You and your brother please write a line or two
and sign your names."

The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read
it. The lawyer looked powerful astonished, and says:

"Well, it beats ME -- and snaked a lot of old letters
out of his pocket, and examined them, and then ex-
amined the old man's writing, and then THEM again;
and then says: "These old letters is from Harvey
Wilks; and here's THESE two handwritings, and any-
body can see they didn't write them" (the king and
the duke looked sold and foolish, I tell you, to see
how the lawyer had took them in), "and here's THIS old
gentleman's hand writing, and anybody can tell, easy
enough, HE didn't write them -- fact is, the scratches
he makes ain't properly WRITING at all. Now, here's
some letters from --"

The new old gentleman says:

"If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read
my hand but my brother there -- so he copies for me.
It's HIS hand you've got there, not mine."

"WELL!" says the lawyer, "this IS a state of
things. I've got some of William's letters, too; so if
you'll get him to write a line or so we can com --"

"He CAN'T write with his left hand," says the old
gentleman. "If he could use his right hand, you
would see that he wrote his own letters and mine
too. Look at both, please -- they're by the same
hand."

The lawyer done it, and says:

"I believe it's so -- and if it ain't so, there's a heap
stronger resemblance than I'd noticed before, anyway.
Well, well, well! I thought we was right on the track
of a slution, but it's gone to grass, partly. But any-
way, one thing is proved -- THESE two ain't either of
'em Wilkses" -- and he wagged his head towards the
king and the duke.

Well, what do you think? That muleheaded old
fool wouldn't give in THEN! Indeed he wouldn't.
Said it warn't no fair test. Said his brother William
was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't tried
to write -- HE see William was going to play one of his
jokes the minute he put the pen to paper. And so he
warmed up and went warbling right along till he was
actuly beginning to believe what he was saying HIM-
SELF; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and
says:

"I've thought of something. Is there anybody
here that helped to lay out my br -- helped to lay out
the late Peter Wilks for burying?"

"Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done
it. We're both here."

Then the old man turns towards the king, and
says:

"Peraps this gentleman can tell me what was
tattooed on his breast?"

Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty
quick, or he'd a squshed down like a bluff bank that
the river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and,
mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make
most ANYBODY sqush to get fetched such a solid one as
that without any notice, because how was HE going to
know what was tattooed on the man? He whitened a
little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in
there, and everybody bending a little forwards and
gazing at him. Says I to myself, NOW he'll throw up
the sponge -- there ain't no more use. Well, did he?
A body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't. I
reckon he thought he'd keep the thing up till he tired
them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the
duke could break loose and get away. Anyway, he
set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says:

"Mf! It's a VERY tough question, AIN'T it! YES,
sir, I k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast. It's
jest a small, thin, blue arrow -- that's what it is; and
if you don't look clost, you can't see it. NOW what
do you say -- hey?"

Well, I never see anything like that old blister for
clean out-and-out cheek.

The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab
Turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he
judged he'd got the king THIS time, and says:

"There -- you've heard what he said! Was there
any such mark on Peter Wilks' breast?"

Both of them spoke up and says:

"We didn't see no such mark."

"Good!" says the old gentleman. "Now, what
you DID see on his breast was a small dim P, and a B
(which is an initial he dropped when he was young),
and a W, with dashes between them, so: P -- B --
W" -- and he marked them that way on a piece of
paper. "Come, ain't that what you saw?"

Both of them spoke up again, and says:

"No, we DIDN'T. We never seen any marks at all."

Well, everybody WAS in a state of mind now, and
they sings out:

"The whole BILIN' of 'm 's frauds! Le's duck
'em! le's drown 'em! le's ride 'em on a rail!" and
everybody was whooping at once, and there was a rat-
tling powwow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table
and yells, and says:

"Gentlemen -- gentleMEN! Hear me just a word --
just a SINGLE word -- if you PLEASE! There's one way
yet -- let's go and dig up the corpse and look."

That took them.

"Hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right
off; but the lawyer and the doctor sung out:

"Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and
the boy, and fetch THEM along, too!"

"We'll do it!" they all shouted; "and if we don't
find them marks we'll lynch the whole gang!"

I WAS scared, now, I tell you. But there warn't no
getting away, you know. They gripped us all, and
marched us right along, straight for the graveyard,
which was a mile and a half down the river, and the
whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough,
and it was only nine in the evening.

As we went by our house I wished I hadn't sent
Mary Jane out of town; because now if I could tip her
the wink she'd light out and save me, and blow on our
dead-beats.

Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just
carrying on like wildcats; and to make it more scary
the sky was darking up, and the lightning beginning to
wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst the
leaves. This was the most awful trouble and most
dangersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned;
everything was going so different from what I had
allowed for; stead of being fixed so I could take my
own time if I wanted to, and see all the fun, and have
Mary Jane at my back to save me and set me free
when the close-fit come, here was nothing in the
world betwixt me and sudden death but just them
tattoo-marks. If they didn't find them --

I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, some-
how, I couldn't think about nothing else. It got
darker and darker, and it was a beautiful time to give
the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the
wrist -- Hines -- and a body might as well try to give
Goliar the slip. He dragged me right along, he was so
excited, and I had to run to keep up.

When they got there they swarmed into the grave-
yard and washed over it like an overflow. And when
they got to the grave they found they had about a
hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but
nobody hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. But they
sailed into digging anyway by the flicker of the light-
ning, and sent a man to the nearest house, a half a
mile off, to borrow one.

So they dug and dug like everything; and it got
awful dark, and the rain started, and the wind swished
and swushed along, and the lightning come brisker and
brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them people
never took no notice of it, they was so full of this
business; and one minute you could see everything
and every face in that big crowd, and the shovelfuls of
dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next second
the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn't see nothing
at all.

At last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew
the lid, and then such another crowding and shoulder-
ing and shoving as there was, to scrouge in and get a
sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way, it was
awful. Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and
tugging so, and I reckon he clean forgot I was in the
world, he was so excited and panting.

All of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice
of white glare, and somebody sings out:

"By the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his
breast!"

Hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and
dropped my wrist and give a big surge to bust his way
in and get a look, and the way I lit out and shinned
for the road in the dark there ain't nobody can tell.

I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew --
leastways, I had it all to myself except the solid dark,
and the now-and-then glares, and the buzzing of the
rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splitting
of the thunder; and sure as you are born I did clip it
along!

When I struck the town I see there warn't nobody
out in the storm, so I never hunted for no back streets,
but humped it straight through the main one; and
when I begun to get towards our house I aimed my
eye and set it. No light there; the house all dark --
which made me feel sorry and disappointed, I didn't
know why. But at last, just as I was sailing by, FLASH
comes the light in Mary Jane's window! and my heart
swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second
the house and all was behind me in the dark, and
wasn't ever going to be before me no more in this
world. She WAS the best girl I ever see, and had the
most sand.

The minute I was far enough above the town to see
I could make the towhead, I begun to look sharp for
a boat to borrow, and the first time the lightning
showed me one that wasn't chained I snatched it and
shoved. It was a canoe, and warn't fastened with
nothing but a rope. The towhead was a rattling big
distance off, away out there in the middle of the river,
but I didn't lose no time; and when I struck the raft
at last I was so fagged I would a just laid down to
blow and gasp if I could afforded it. But I didn't.
As I sprung aboard I sung out:

"Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be
to goodness, we're shut of them!"

Jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms
spread, he was so full of joy; but when I glimpsed
him in the lightning my heart shot up in my mouth
and I went overboard backwards; for I forgot he was
old King Lear and a drownded A-rab all in one, and it
most scared the livers and lights out of me. But Jim
fished me out, and was going to hug me and bless me,
and so on, he was so glad I was back and we was shut
of the king and the duke, but I says:

"Not now; have it for breakfast, have it for break-
fast! Cut loose and let her slide!"

So in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the
river, and it DID seem so good to be free again and all
by ourselves on the big river, and nobody to bother
us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up and
crack my heels a few times -- I couldn't help it; but
about the third crack I noticed a sound that I knowed
mighty well, and held my breath and listened and
waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted
out over the water, here they come! -- and just a-
laying to their oars and making their skiff hum! It
was the king and the duke.

So I wilted right down on to the planks then, and
give up; and it was all I could do to keep from crying.


CHAPTER XXX.

WHEN they got aboard the king went for me, and
shook me by the collar, and says:

"Tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup!
Tired of our company, hey?"

I says:

"No, your majesty, we warn't -- PLEASE don't, your
majesty!"

"Quick, then, and tell us what WAS your idea, or
I'll shake the insides out o' you!"

"Honest, I'll tell you everything just as it hap-
pened, your majesty. The man that had a-holt of me
was very good to me, and kept saying he had a boy
about as big as me that died last year, and he was
sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when
they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and
made a rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whis-
pers, 'Heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!' and I
lit out. It didn't seem no good for ME to stay -- I
couldn't do nothing, and I didn't want to be hung if
I could get away. So I never stopped running till I
found the canoe; and when I got here I told Jim to
hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, and said I
was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and
I was awful sorry, and so was Jim, and was awful glad
when we see you coming; you may ask Jim if I
didn't."

Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut
up, and said, "Oh, yes, it's MIGHTY likely!" and
shook me up again, and said he reckoned he'd drownd
me. But the duke says:

"Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would YOU a done
any different? Did you inquire around for HIM when
you got loose? I don't remember it."

So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that
town and everybody in it. But the duke says:

"You better a blame' sight give YOURSELF a good
cussing, for you're the one that's entitled to it most.
You hain't done a thing from the start that had any
sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky with
that imaginary blue-arrow mark. That WAS bright --
it was right down bully; and it was the thing that
saved us. For if it hadn't been for that they'd a jailed
us till them Englishmen's baggage come -- and then --
the penitentiary, you bet! But that trick took 'em to
the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger
kindness; for if the excited fools hadn't let go all
holts and made that rush to get a look we'd a slept in
our cravats to-night -- cravats warranted to WEAR, too
-- longer than WE'D need 'em."

They was still a minute -- thinking; then the king
says, kind of absent-minded like:

"Mf! And we reckoned the NIGGERS stole it!"

That made me squirm!

"Yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate
and sarcastic, "WE did."

After about a half a minute the king drawls out:

"Leastways, I did."

The duke says, the same way:

"On the contrary, I did."

The king kind of ruffles up, and says:

"Looky here, Bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?"

The duke says, pretty brisk:

"When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask,
what was YOU referring to?"

"Shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but I
don't know -- maybe you was asleep, and didn't know
what you was about."

The duke bristles up now, and says:

"Oh, let UP on this cussed nonsense; do you take
me for a blame' fool? Don't you reckon I know who
hid that money in that coffin?"

"YES, sir! I know you DO know, because you done
it yourself!"

"It's a lie!" -- and the duke went for him. The
king sings out:

"Take y'r hands off! -- leggo my throat! -- I take it
all back!"

The duke says:

"Well, you just own up, first, that you DID hide
that money there, intending to give me the slip one of
these days, and come back and dig it up, and have it
all to yourself."

"Wait jest a minute, duke -- answer me this one
question, honest and fair; if you didn't put the money
there, say it, and I'll b'lieve you, and take back every-
thing I said."

"You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I
didn't. There, now!"

"Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only
jest this one more -- now DON'T git mad; didn't you
have it in your mind to hook the money and hide it?"

The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he
says:

"Well, I don't care if I DID, I didn't DO it, anyway.
But you not only had it in mind to do it, but you
DONE it."

"I wisht I never die if I done it, duke, and that's
honest. I won't say I warn't goin' to do it, because I
WAS; but you -- I mean somebody -- got in ahead o'
me."

"It's a lie! You done it, and you got to SAY you
done it, or --"

The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out:

"'Nough! -- I OWN UP!"

I was very glad to hear him say that; it made me
feel much more easier than what I was feeling before.
So the duke took his hands off and says:

"If you ever deny it again I'll drown you. It's
WELL for you to set there and blubber like a baby -- it's
fitten for you, after the way you've acted. I never
see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble every-
thing -- and I a-trusting you all the time, like you was
my own father. You ought to been ashamed of your-
self to stand by and hear it saddled on to a lot of poor
niggers, and you never say a word for 'em. It makes
me feel ridiculous to think I was soft enough to BELIEVE
that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see now why you was
so anxious to make up the deffisit -- you wanted to
get what money I'd got out of the Nonesuch and one
thing or another, and scoop it ALL!"

The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling:

"Why, duke, it was you that said make up the
deffisit; it warn't me."

"Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of
you!" says the duke. "And NOW you see what you
GOT by it. They've got all their own money back, and
all of OURN but a shekel or two BESIDES. G'long to bed,
and don't you deffersit ME no more deffersits, long 's
YOU live!"

So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to
his bottle for comfort, and before long the duke tackled
HIS bottle; and so in about a half an hour they was as
thick as thieves again, and the tighter they got the
lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring in each
other's arms. They both got powerful mellow, but I
noticed the king didn't get mellow enough to forget to
remember to not deny about hiding the money-bag
again. That made me feel easy and satisfied. Of
course when they got to snoring we had a long gabble,
and I told Jim everything.


CHAPTER XXXI.

WE dasn't stop again at any town for days and
days; kept right along down the river. We
was down south in the warm weather now, and a
mighty long ways from home. We begun to come to
trees with Spanish moss on them, hanging down from
the limbs like long, gray beards. It was the first I
ever see it growing, and it made the woods look solemn
and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was out
of danger, and they begun to work the villages again.

First they done a lecture on temperance; but they
didn't make enough for them both to get drunk on.
Then in another village they started a dancing-school;
but they didn't know no more how to dance than a
kangaroo does; so the first prance they made the
general public jumped in and pranced them out of
town. Another time they tried to go at yellocution;
but they didn't yellocute long till the audience got up
and give them a solid good cussing, and made them
skip out. They tackled missionarying, and mesmeriz-
ing, and doctoring, and telling fortunes, and a little of
everything; but they couldn't seem to have no luck.
So at last they got just about dead broke, and laid
around the raft as she floated along, thinking and
thinking, and never saying nothing, by the half a day
at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate.

And at last they took a change and begun to lay
their heads together in the wigwam and talk low and
confidential two or three hours at a time. Jim and me
got uneasy. We didn't like the look of it. We judged
they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than
ever. We turned it over and over, and at last we made
up our minds they was going to break into somebody's
house or store, or was going into the counterfeit-
money business, or something. So then we was pretty
scared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn't
have nothing in the world to do with such actions, and
if we ever got the least show we would give them the
cold shake and clear out and leave them behind.
Well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good,
safe place about two mile below a little bit of a shabby
village named Pikesville, and the king he went ashore
and told us all to stay hid whilst he went up to town
and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind
of the Royal Nonesuch there yet. ("House to rob,
you MEAN," says I to myself; "and when you get
through robbing it you'll come back here and wonder
what has become of me and Jim and the raft -- and
you'll have to take it out in wondering.") And he
said if he warn't back by midday the duke and me
would know it was all right, and we was to come along.

So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted
and sweated around, and was in a mighty sour way.
He scolded us for everything, and we couldn't seem to
do nothing right; he found fault with every little
thing. Something was a-brewing, sure. I was good
and glad when midday come and no king; we could
have a change, anyway -- and maybe a chance for THE
chance on top of it. So me and the duke went up to
the village, and hunted around there for the king, and
by and by we found him in the back room of a little
low doggery, very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyrag-
ging him for sport, and he a-cussing and a-threatening
with all his might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and
couldn't do nothing to them. The duke he begun to
abuse him for an old fool, and the king begun to sass
back, and the minute they was fairly at it I lit out and
shook the reefs out of my hind legs, and spun down
the river road like a deer, for I see our chance; and I
made up my mind that it would be a long day before
they ever see me and Jim again. I got down there all
out of breath but loaded up with joy, and sung out:

"Set her loose, Jim! we're all right now!"

But there warn't no answer, and nobody come out
of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I set up a shout --
and then another -- and then another one; and run
this way and that in the woods, whooping and screech-
ing; but it warn't no use -- old Jim was gone. Then
I set down and cried; I couldn't help it. But I
couldn't set still long. Pretty soon I went out on the
road, trying to think what I better do, and I run across
a boy walking, and asked him if he'd seen a strange
nigger dressed so and so, and he says:

"Yes."

"Whereabouts?" says I.

"Down to Silas Phelps' place, two mile below
here. He's a runaway nigger, and they've got him.
Was you looking for him?"

"You bet I ain't! I run across him in the woods
about an hour or two ago, and he said if I hollered
he'd cut my livers out -- and told me to lay down and
stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever
since; afeard to come out."

"Well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more,
becuz they've got him. He run off f'm down South,
som'ers."

"It's a good job they got him."

"Well, I RECKON! There's two hunderd dollars re-
ward on him. It's like picking up money out'n the
road."

"Yes, it is -- and I could a had it if I'd been big
enough; I see him FIRST. Who nailed him?"

"It was an old fellow -- a stranger -- and he sold
out his chance in him for forty dollars, becuz he's got
to go up the river and can't wait. Think o' that,
now! You bet I'D wait, if it was seven year."

"That's me, every time," says I. "But maybe his
chance ain't worth no more than that, if he'll sell it so
cheap. Maybe there's something ain't straight about
it."

"But it IS, though -- straight as a string. I see the
handbill myself. It tells all about him, to a dot --
paints him like a picture, and tells the plantation he's
frum, below NewrLEANS. No-sirree-BOB, they ain't no
trouble 'bout THAT speculation, you bet you. Say,
gimme a chaw tobacker, won't ye?"

I didn't have none, so he left. I went to the raft,
and set down in the wigwam to think. But I couldn't
come to nothing. I thought till I wore my head sore,
but I couldn't see no way out of the trouble. After
all this long journey, and after all we'd done for them
scoundrels, here it was all come to nothing, everything
all busted up and ruined, because they could have the
heart to serve Jim such a trick as that, and make him
a slave again all his life, and amongst strangers, too,
for forty dirty dollars.

Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times
better for Jim to be a slave at home where his family
was, as long as he'd GOT to be a slave, and so I'd better
write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to tell Miss
Watson where he was. But I soon give up that notion
for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted at his
rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so
she'd sell him straight down the river again; and if
she didn't, everybody naturally despises an ungrateful
nigger, and they'd make Jim feel it all the time, and so
he'd feel ornery and disgraced. And then think of
ME! It would get all around that Huck Finn helped a
nigger to get his freedom; and if I was ever to see
anybody from that town again I'd be ready to get
down and lick his boots for shame. That's just the
way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he
don't want to take no consequences of it. Thinks as
long as he can hide, it ain't no disgrace. That was
my fix exactly. The more I studied about this the
more my conscience went to grinding me, and the
more wicked and low-down and ornery I got to feel-
ing. And at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that
here was the plain hand of Providence slapping me in
the face and letting me know my wickedness was being
watched all the time from up there in heaven,whilst I
was stealing a poor old woman's nigger that hadn't
ever done me no harm, and now was showing me
there's One that's always on the lookout, and ain't a-
going to allow no such miserable doings to go only
just so fur and no further, I most dropped in my
tracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could
to kinder soften it up somehow for myself by saying I
was brung up wicked, and so I warn't so much to
blame; but something inside of me kept saying,
"There was the Sunday-school, you could a gone to
it; and if you'd a done it they'd a learnt you there
that people that acts as I'd been acting about that
nigger goes to everlasting fire."

It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind
to pray, and see if I couldn't try to quit being the kind
of a boy I was and be better. So I kneeled down.
But the words wouldn't come. Why wouldn't they?
It warn't no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor
from ME, neither. I knowed very well why they
wouldn't come. It was because my heart warn't right;
it was because I warn't square; it was because I was
playing double. I was letting ON to give up sin, but
away inside of me I was holding on to the biggest one
of all. I was trying to make my mouth SAY I would
do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and write
to that nigger's owner and tell where he was; but deep
down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it.
You can't pray a lie -- I found that out.

So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and
didn't know what to do. At last I had an idea; and I
says, I'll go and write the letter -- and then see if I can
pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt as light
as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all
gone. So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all
glad and excited, and set down and wrote:

   Miss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down
   here two mile below Pikesville, and Mr. Phelps
   has got him and he will give him up for the
   reward if you send.

                                  HUCK FINN.

I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first
time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I
could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but
laid the paper down and set there thinking -- thinking
how good it was all this happened so, and how near I
come to being lost and going to hell. And went on
thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the
river; and I see Jim before me all the time: in the
day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, some-
times storms, and we a-floating along, talking and
singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem
to strike no places to harden me against him, but only
the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top
of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so I could go on sleep-
ing; and see him how glad he was when I come back
out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the
swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like
times; and would always call me honey, and pet me
and do everything he could think of for me, and how
good he always was; and at last I struck the time I
saved him by telling the men we had small-pox aboard,
and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend
old Jim ever had in the world, and the ONLY one he's
got now; and then I happened to look around and see
that paper.

It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in
my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to de-
cide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I
studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then
says to myself:

"All right, then, I'll GO to hell" -- and tore it up.

It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was
said. And I let them stay said; and never thought no
more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out
of my head, and said I would take up wickedness
again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and
the other warn't. And for a starter I would go to
work and steal Jim out of slavery again; and if I could
think up anything worse, I would do that, too; be-
cause as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as
well go the whole hog.

Then I set to thinking over how to get at it, and
turned over some considerable many ways in my mind;
and at last fixed up a plan that suited me. So then I
took the bearings of a woody island that was down
the river a piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark I
crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it
there, and then turned in. I slept the night through,
and got up before it was light, and had my breakfast,
and put on my store clothes, and tied up some others
and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the
canoe and cleared for shore. I landed below where I
judged was Phelps's place, and hid my bundle in the
woods, and then filled up the canoe with water, and
loaded rocks into her and sunk her where I could find
her again when I wanted her, about a quarter of a
mile below a little steam sawmill that was on the bank.

Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the
mill I see a sign on it, "Phelps's Sawmill," and when
I come to the farm-houses, two or three hundred yards
further along, I kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see
nobody around, though it was good daylight now.
But I didn't mind, because I didn't want to see nobody
just yet -- I only wanted to get the lay of the land.
According to my plan, I was going to turn up there
from the village, not from below. So I just took a
look, and shoved along, straight for town. Well, the
very first man I see when I got there was the duke.
He was sticking up a bill for the Royal Nonesuch --
three-night performance -- like that other time. They
had the cheek, them frauds! I was right on him be-
fore I could shirk. He looked astonished, and says:

"Hel-LO! Where'd YOU come from?" Then he
says, kind of glad and eager, "Where's the raft? --
got her in a good place?"

I says:

"Why, that's just what I was going to ask your
grace."

Then he didn't look so joyful, and says:

"What was your idea for asking ME?" he says.

"Well," I says, "when I see the king in that dog-
gery yesterday I says to myself, we can't get him
home for hours, till he's soberer; so I went a-loafing
around town to put in the time and wait. A man up
and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over
the river and back to fetch a sheep, and so I went
along; but when we was dragging him to the boat, and
the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind
him to shove him along, he was too strong for me and
jerked loose and run, and we after him. We didn't
have no dog, and so we had to chase him all over the
country till we tired him out. We never got him till
dark; then we fetched him over, and I started down
for the raft. When I got there and see it was gone, I
says to myself, 'They've got into trouble and had to
leave; and they've took my nigger, which is the only
nigger I've got in the world, and now I'm in a strange
country, and ain't got no property no more, nor noth-
ing, and no way to make my living;' so I set down
and cried. I slept in the woods all night. But what
DID become of the raft, then? -- and Jim -- poor Jim!"

"Blamed if I know -- that is, what's become of the
raft. That old fool had made a trade and got forty
dollars, and when we found him in the doggery the
loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got
every cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when
I got him home late last night and found the raft gone,
we said, 'That little rascal has stole our raft and shook
us, and run off down the river.'"

"I wouldn't shake my NIGGER, would I? -- the only
nigger I had in the world, and the only property."

"We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we'd
come to consider him OUR nigger; yes, we did consider
him so -- goodness knows we had trouble enough for
him. So when we see the raft was gone and we flat
broke, there warn't anything for it but to try the
Royal Nonesuch another shake. And I've pegged
along ever since, dry as a powder-horn. Where's that
ten cents? Give it here."

I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents,
but begged him to spend it for something to eat, and
give me some, because it was all the money I had, and
I hadn't had nothing to eat since yesterday. He never
said nothing. The next minute he whirls on me and
says:

"Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us?
We'd skin him if he done that!"

"How can he blow? Hain't he run off?"

"No! That old fool sold him, and never divided
with me, and the money's gone."

"SOLD him?" I says, and begun to cry; "why, he
was MY nigger, and that was my money. Where is
he? -- I want my nigger."

"Well, you can't GET your nigger, that's all -- so
dry up your blubbering. Looky here -- do you think
YOU'D venture to blow on us? Blamed if I think I'd
trust you. Why, if you WAS to blow on us --"

He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out
of his eyes before. I went on a-whimpering, and says:

"I don't want to blow on nobody; and I ain't got
no time to blow, nohow. I got to turn out and find
my nigger."

He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his
bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up
his forehead. At last he says:

"I'll tell you something. We got to be here three
days. If you'll promise you won't blow, and won't
let the nigger blow, I'll tell you where to find him."

So I promised, and he says:

"A farmer by the name of Silas Ph----" and then
he stopped. You see, he started to tell me the truth;
but when he stopped that way, and begun to study and
think again, I reckoned he was changing his mind.
And so he was. He wouldn't trust me; he wanted to
make sure of having me out of the way the whole
three days. So pretty soon he says:

"The man that bought him is named Abram Foster
-- Abram G. Foster -- and he lives forty mile back
here in the country, on the road to Lafayette."

"All right," I says, "I can walk it in three days.
And I'll start this very afternoon."

"No you wont, you'll start NOW; and don't you
lose any time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling by
the way. Just keep a tight tongue in your head and
move right along, and then you won't get into trouble
with US, d'ye hear?"

That was the order I wanted, and that was the one I
played for. I wanted to be left free to work my plans.

"So clear out," he says; "and you can tell Mr.
Foster whatever you want to. Maybe you can get
him to believe that Jim IS your nigger -- some idiots
don't require documents -- leastways I've heard there's
such down South here. And when you tell him the
handbill and the reward's bogus, maybe he'll believe
you when you explain to him what the idea was for
getting 'em out. Go 'long now, and tell him anything
you want to; but mind you don't work your jaw any
BETWEEN here and there."

So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn't
look around, but I kinder felt like he was watching me.
But I knowed I could tire him out at that. I went
straight out in the country as much as a mile before I
stopped; then I doubled back through the woods
towards Phelps'. I reckoned I better start in on my
plan straight off without fooling around, because I
wanted to stop Jim's mouth till these fellows could get
away. I didn't want no trouble with their kind. I'd
seen all I wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely
shut of them.


CHAPTER XXXII.

WHEN I got there it was all still and Sunday-like,
and hot and sunshiny; the hands was gone to
the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings
of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lone-
some and like everybody's dead and gone; and if a
breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you
feel mournful, because you feel like it's spirits whisper-
ing -- spirits that's been dead ever so many years --
and you always think they're talking about YOU. As a
general thing it makes a body wish HE was dead, too,
and done with it all.

Phelps' was one of these little one-horse cotton plan-
tations, and they all look alike. A rail fence round a
two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed off and
up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different length, to
climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand
on when they are going to jump on to a horse; some
sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was
bare and smooth, like an old hat with the nap rubbed
off; big double log-house for the white folks -- hewed
logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar,
and these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or
another; round-log kitchen, with a big broad, open
but roofed passage joining it to the house; log smoke-
house back of the kitchen; three little log nigger-cabins
in a row t'other side the smoke-house; one little hut
all by itself away down against the back fence, and
some outbuildings down a piece the other side; ash-
hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut;
bench by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a
gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds
asleep round about; about three shade trees away off
in a corner; some currant bushes and gooseberry
bushes in one place by the fence; outside of the fence
a garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton
fields begins, and after the fields the woods.

I went around and clumb over the back stile by the
ash-hopper, and started for the kitchen. When I got
a little ways I heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel
wailing along up and sinking along down again; and
then I knowed for certain I wished I was dead -- for
that IS the lonesomest sound in the whole world.

I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan,
but just trusting to Providence to put the right words
in my mouth when the time come; for I'd noticed that
Providence always did put the right words in my mouth
if I left it alone.

When I got half-way, first one hound and then
another got up and went for me, and of course I
stopped and faced them, and kept still. And such
another powwow as they made! In a quarter of a
minute I was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may
say -- spokes made out of dogs -- circle of fifteen
of them packed together around me, with their necks
and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and
howling; and more a-coming; you could see them sail-
ing over fences and around corners from everywheres.

A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with
a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, "Begone YOU
Tige! you Spot! begone sah!" and she fetched first
one and then another of them a clip and sent them
howling, and then the rest followed; and the next
second half of them come back, wagging their tails
around me, and making friends with me. There ain't
no harm in a hound, nohow.

And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and
two little nigger boys without anything on but tow-linen
shirts, and they hung on to their mother's gown, and
peeped out from behind her at me, bashful, the way
they always do. And here comes the white woman
running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year
old, bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in her hand;
and behind her comes her little white children, acting
the same way the little niggers was going. She was
smiling all over so she could hardly stand -- and says:

"It's YOU, at last! -- AIN'T it?"

I out with a "Yes'm" before I thought.

She grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then
gripped me by both hands and shook and shook; and
the tears come in her eyes, and run down over; and
she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, and kept
saying, "You don't look as much like your mother as
I reckoned you would; but law sakes, I don't care for
that, I'm so glad to see you! Dear, dear, it does seem
like I could eat you up! Children, it's your cousin
Tom! -- tell him howdy."

But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in
their mouths, and hid behind her. So she run on:

"Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right
away -- or did you get your breakfast on the boat?"

I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started
for the house, leading me by the hand, and the children
tagging after. When we got there she set me down in
a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down on a little
low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands,
and says:

"Now I can have a GOOD look at you; and, laws-a-
me, I've been hungry for it a many and a many a time,
all these long years, and it's come at last! We been
expecting you a couple of days and more. What kep'
you? -- boat get aground?"

"Yes'm -- she --"

"Don't say yes'm -- say Aunt Sally. Where'd she
get aground?"

I didn't rightly know what to say, because I didn't
know whether the boat would be coming up the river
or down. But I go a good deal on instinct; and my
instinct said she would be coming up -- from down
towards Orleans. That didn't help me much, though;
for I didn't know the names of bars down that way. I
see I'd got to invent a bar, or forget the name of the
one we got aground on -- or -- Now I struck an idea,
and fetched it out:

"It warn't the grounding -- that didn't keep us back
but a little. We blowed out a cylinder-head."

"Good gracious! anybody hurt?"

"No'm. Killed a nigger."

"Well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get
hurt. Two years ago last Christmas your uncle Silas
was coming up from Newrleans on the old Lally Rook,
and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled a man.
And I think he died afterwards. He was a Baptist.
Your uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge
that knowed his people very well. Yes, I remember
now, he DID die. Mortification set in, and they had to
amputate him. But it didn't save him. Yes, it was
mortification -- that was it. He turned blue all over,
and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection. They
say he was a sight to look at. Your uncle's been up
to the town every day to fetch you. And he's gone
again, not more'n an hour ago; he'll be back any
minute now. You must a met him on the road, didn't
you? -- oldish man, with a --"

"No, I didn't see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat
landed just at daylight, and I left my baggage on the
wharf-boat and went looking around the town and out
a piece in the country, to put in the time and not get
here too soon; and so I come down the back way."

"Who'd you give the baggage to?"

"Nobody."

"Why, child, it 'll be stole!"

"Not where I hid it I reckon it won't," I says.

"How'd you get your breakfast so early on the
boat?"

It was kinder thin ice, but I says:

"The captain see me standing around, and told me
I better have something to eat before I went ashore;
so he took me in the texas to the officers' lunch, and
give me all I wanted."

I was getting so uneasy I couldn't listen good. I
had my mind on the children all the time; I wanted to
get them out to one side and pump them a little, and
find out who I was. But I couldn't get no show, Mrs.
Phelps kept it up and run on so. Pretty soon she made
the cold chills streak all down my back, because she
says:

"But here we're a-running on this way, and you
hain't told me a word about Sis, nor any of them.
Now I'll rest my works a little, and you start up yourn;
just tell me EVERYTHING -- tell me all about 'm all
every one of 'm; and how they are, and what they're
doing, and what they told you to tell me; and every
last thing you can think of."

Well, I see I was up a stump -- and up it good.
Providence had stood by me this fur all right, but I
was hard and tight aground now. I see it warn't a bit
of use to try to go ahead -- I'd got to throw up my
hand. So I says to myself, here's another place where
I got to resk the truth. I opened my mouth to begin;
but she grabbed me and hustled me in behind the bed,
and says:

"Here he comes! Stick your head down lower --
there, that'll do; you can't be seen now. Don't you
let on you're here. I'll play a joke on him. Children,
don't you say a word."

I see I was in a fix now. But it warn't no use to
worry; there warn't nothing to do but just hold still,
and try and be ready to stand from under when the
lightning struck.

I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman
when he come in; then the bed hid him. Mrs. Phelps
she jumps for him, and says:

"Has he come?"

"No," says her husband.

"Good-NESS gracious!" she says, "what in the
warld can have become of him?"

"I can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and
I must say it makes me dreadful uneasy."

"Uneasy!" she says; "I'm ready to go distracted!
He MUST a come; and you've missed him along the
road. I KNOW it's so -- something tells me so."

"Why, Sally, I COULDN'T miss him along the road --
YOU know that."

"But oh, dear, dear, what WILL Sis say! He must a
come! You must a missed him. He --"

"Oh, don't distress me any more'n I'm already dis-
tressed. I don't know what in the world to make of it.
I'm at my wit's end, and I don't mind acknowledging
't I'm right down scared. But there's no hope that
he's come; for he COULDN'T come and me miss him.
Sally, it's terrible -- just terrible -- something's hap-
pened to the boat, sure!"

"Why, Silas! Look yonder! -- up the road! -- ain't
that somebody coming?"

He sprung to the window at the head of the bed,
and that give Mrs. Phelps the chance she wanted. She
stooped down quick at the foot of the bed and give me
a pull, and out I come; and when he turned back
from the window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smil-
ing like a house afire, and I standing pretty meek and
sweaty alongside. The old gentleman stared, and
says:

"Why, who's that?"

"Who do you reckon 't is?"

"I hain't no idea. Who IS it?"

"It's TOM SAWYER!"

By jings, I most slumped through the floor! But
there warn't no time to swap knives; the old man
grabbed me by the hand and shook, and kept on shak-
ing; and all the time how the woman did dance around
and laugh and cry; and then how they both did fire off
questions about Sid, and Mary, and the rest of the
tribe.

But if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what I
was; for it was like being born again, I was so glad to
find out who I was. Well, they froze to me for two
hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired it
couldn't hardly go any more, I had told them more
about my family -- I mean the Sawyer family -- than
ever happened to any six Sawyer families. And I ex-
plained all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head at
the mouth of White River, and it took us three days to
fix it. Which was all right, and worked first-rate; be-
cause THEY didn't know but what it would take three
days to fix it. If I'd a called it a bolthead it would a
done just as well.

Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one
side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other. Be-
ing Tom Sawyer was easy and comfortable, and it
stayed easy and comfortable till by and by I hear a
steamboat coughing along down the river. Then I
says to myself, s'pose Tom Sawyer comes down on that
boat? And s'pose he steps in here any minute, and
sings out my name before I can throw him a wink to
keep quiet?

Well, I couldn't HAVE it that way; it wouldn't do at
all. I must go up the road and waylay him. So I
told the folks I reckoned I would go up to the town
and fetch down my baggage. The old gentleman was
for going along with me, but I said no, I could drive
the horse myself, and I druther he wouldn't take no
trouble about me.


CHAPTER XXXIII.

SO I started for town in the wagon, and when I was
half-way I see a wagon coming, and sure enough it
was Tom Sawyer, and I stopped and waited till he come
along. I says "Hold on!" and it stopped alongside,
and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and stayed so;
and he swallowed two or three times like a person that's
got a dry throat, and then says:

"I hain't ever done you no harm. You know that.
So, then, what you want to come back and ha'nt ME
for?"

I says:

"I hain't come back -- I hain't been GONE."

When he heard my voice it righted him up some, but
he warn't quite satisfied yet. He says:

"Don't you play nothing on me, because I wouldn't
on you. Honest injun, you ain't a ghost?"

"Honest injun, I ain't," I says.

"Well -- I -- I -- well, that ought to settle it, of
course; but I can't somehow seem to understand it no
way. Looky here, warn't you ever murdered AT ALL?"

"No. I warn't ever murdered at all -- I played it
on them. You come in here and feel of me if you
don't believe me."

So he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that
glad to see me again he didn't know what to do. And
he wanted to know all about it right off, because it was
a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so it hit him
where he lived. But I said, leave it alone till by and
by; and told his driver to wait, and we drove off a little
piece, and I told him the kind of a fix I was in, and what
did he reckon we better do? He said, let him alone a
minute, and don't disturb him. So he thought and
thought, and pretty soon he says:

"It's all right; I've got it. Take my trunk in your
wagon, and let on it's your'n; and you turn back and
fool along slow, so as to get to the house about the
time you ought to; and I'll go towards town a piece,
and take a fresh start, and get there a quarter or a half
an hour after you; and you needn't let on to know
me at first."

I says:

"All right; but wait a minute. There's one more
thing -- a thing that NOBODY don't know but me. And
that is, there's a nigger here that I'm a-trying to steal
out of slavery, and his name is JIM -- old Miss Wat-
son's Jim."

He says:

" What ! Why, Jim is --"

He stopped and went to studying. I says:

"I know what you'll say. You'll say it's dirty, low-
down business; but what if it is? I'm low down; and
I'm a-going to steal him, and I want you keep mum
and not let on. Will you?"

His eye lit up, and he says:

"I'll HELP you steal him!"

Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It
was the most astonishing speech I ever heard -- and
I'm bound to say Tom Sawyer fell considerable in my
estimation. Only I couldn't believe it. Tom Sawyer a
NIGGER-STEALER!

"Oh, shucks!" I says; "you're joking."

"I ain't joking, either."

"Well, then," I says, "joking or no joking, if you
hear anything said about a runaway nigger, don't for-
get to remember that YOU don't know nothing about
him, and I don't know nothing about him."

Then we took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and
he drove off his way and I drove mine. But of course
I forgot all about driving slow on accounts of being glad
and full of thinking; so I got home a heap too quick
for that length of a trip. The old gentleman was at
the door, and he says:

"Why, this is wonderful! Whoever would a
thought it was in that mare to do it? I wish we'd
a timed her. And she hain't sweated a hair -- not a
hair. It's wonderful. Why, I wouldn't take a hundred
dollars for that horse now -- I wouldn't, honest; and
yet I'd a sold her for fifteen before, and thought 'twas
all she was worth."

That's all he said. He was the innocentest, best old
soul I ever see. But it warn't surprising; because he
warn't only just a farmer, he was a preacher, too, and
had a little one-horse log church down back of the
plantation, which he built it himself at his own expense,
for a church and schoolhouse, and never charged noth-
ing for his preaching, and it was worth it, too. There
was plenty other farmer-preachers like that, and done
the same way, down South.

In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the
front stile, and Aunt Sally she see it through the win-
dow, because it was only about fifty yards, and says:

"Why, there's somebody come! I wonder who
'tis? Why, I do believe it's a stranger. Jimmy "
(that's one of the children)' "run and tell Lize to put
on another plate for dinner."

Everybody made a rush for the front door, because,
of course, a stranger don't come EVERY year, and so he
lays over the yaller-fever, for interest, when he does
come. Tom was over the stile and starting for the
house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the
village, and we was all bunched in the front door. Tom
had his store clothes on, and an audience -- and that
was always nuts for Tom Sawyer. In them circum-
stances it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an
amount of style that was suitable. He warn't a boy to
meeky along up that yard like a sheep; no, he come
ca'm and important, like the ram. When he got a-front
of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty, like it
was the lid of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and
he didn't want to disturb them, and says:

"Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?"

"No, my boy," says the old gentleman, "I'm sorry
to say 't your driver has deceived you; Nichols's place
is down a matter of three mile more. Come in, come
in."

Tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says,
"Too late -- he's out of sight."

"Yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in
and eat your dinner with us; and then we'll hitch up
and take you down to Nichols's."

"Oh, I CAN'T make you so much trouble; I couldn't
think of it. I'll walk -- I don't mind the distance."

"But we won't LET you walk -- it wouldn't be South-
ern hospitality to do it. Come right in."

"Oh, DO," says Aunt Sally; "it ain't a bit of
trouble to us, not a bit in the world. You must stay.
It's a long, dusty three mile, and we can't let you walk.
And, besides, I've already told 'em to put on another
plate when I see you coming; so you mustn't disap-
point us. Come right in and make yourself at home."

So Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome,
and let himself be persuaded, and come in; and when
he was in he said he was a stranger from Hicksville,
Ohio, and his name was William Thompson -- and he
made another bow.

Well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff
about Hicksville and everybody in it he could invent,
and I getting a little nervious, and wondering how this
was going to help me out of my scrape; and at last,
still talking along, he reached over and kissed Aunt
Sally right on the mouth, and then settled back again
in his chair comfortable, and was going on talking; but
she jumped up and wiped it off with the back of her
hand, and says:

"You owdacious puppy!"

He looked kind of hurt, and says:

"I'm surprised at you, m'am."

"You're s'rp -- Why, what do you reckon I am?
I've a good notion to take and -- Say, what do you
mean by kissing me?"

He looked kind of humble, and says:

"I didn't mean nothing, m'am. I didn't mean no
harm. I -- I -- thought you'd like it."

"Why, you born fool!" She took up the spinning
stick, and it looked like it was all she could do to keep
from giving him a crack with it. "What made you
think I'd like it?"

"Well, I don't know. Only, they -- they -- told
me you would."

"THEY told you I would. Whoever told you's
ANOTHER lunatic. I never heard the beat of it. Who's
THEY?"

"Why, everybody. They all said so, m'am."

It was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes
snapped, and her fingers worked like she wanted to
scratch him; and she says:

"Who's 'everybody'? Out with their names, or
ther'll be an idiot short."

He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his
hat, and says:

"I'm sorry, and I warn't expecting it. They told
me to. They all told me to. They all said, kiss her;
and said she'd like it. They all said it -- every one of
them. But I'm sorry, m'am, and I won't do it no
more -- I won't, honest."

"You won't, won't you? Well, I sh'd RECKON you
won't!"

"No'm, I'm honest about it; I won't ever do it
again -- till you ask me."

"Till I ASK you! Well, I never see the beat of it in
my born days! I lay you'll be the Methusalem-num-
skull of creation before ever I ask you -- or the likes of
you."

"Well," he says, "it does surprise me so. I can't
make it out, somehow. They said you would, and I
thought you would. But --" He stopped and looked
around slow, like he wished he could run across a
friendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on the old
gentleman's, and says, "Didn't YOU think she'd like
me to kiss her, sir?"

"Why, no; I -- I -- well, no, I b'lieve I didn't."

Then he looks on around the same way to me, and
says:

"Tom, didn't YOU think Aunt Sally 'd open out her
arms and say, 'Sid Sawyer --'"

"My land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for
him, "you impudent young rascal, to fool a body
so --" and was going to hug him, but he fended her
off, and says:

"No, not till you've asked me first."

So she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and
hugged him and kissed him over and over again, and
then turned him over to the old man, and he took what
was left. And after they got a little quiet again she says:

"Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We
warn't looking for YOU at all, but only Tom. Sis never
wrote to me about anybody coming but him."

"It's because it warn't INTENDED for any of us to
come but Tom," he says; "but I begged and begged,
and at the last minute she let me come, too; so, com-
ing down the river, me and Tom thought it would be
a first-rate surprise for him to come here to the house
first, and for me to by and by tag along and drop in,
and let on to be a stranger. But it was a mistake,
Aunt Sally. This ain't no healthy place for a stranger
to come."

"No -- not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to
had your jaws boxed; I hain't been so put out since I
don't know when. But I don't care, I don't mind
the terms -- I'd be willing to stand a thousand such
jokes to have you here. Well, to think of that per-
formance! I don't deny it, I was most putrified with
astonishment when you give me that smack."

We had dinner out in that broad open passage be-
twixt the house and the kitchen; and there was things
enough on that table for seven families -- and all hot,
too; none of your flabby, tough meat that's laid in a
cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a
hunk of old cold cannibal in the morning. Uncle
Silas he asked a pretty long blessing over it, but it was
worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit, neither, the way
I've seen them kind of interruptions do lots of times.
There was a considerable good deal of talk all the
afternoon, and me and Tom was on the lookout all the
time; but it warn't no use, they didn't happen to say
nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was afraid
to try to work up to it. But at supper, at night, one
of the little boys says:

"Pa, mayn't Tom and Sid and me go to the show?"

"No," says the old man, "I reckon there ain't go-
ing to be any; and you couldn't go if there was; be-
cause the runaway nigger told Burton and me all about
that scandalous show, and Burton said he would tell the
people; so I reckon they've drove the owdacious loaf-
ers out of town before this time."

So there it was! -- but I couldn't help it. Tom and
me was to sleep in the same room and bed; so, being
tired, we bid good-night and went up to bed right after
supper, and clumb out of the window and down the
lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for I didn't
believe anybody was going to give the king and the
duke a hint, and so if I didn't hurry up and give them
one they'd get into trouble sure.

On the road Tom he told me all about how it was
reckoned I was murdered, and how pap disappeared
pretty soon, and didn't come back no more, and what
a stir there was when Jim run away; and I told Tom
all about our Royal Nonesuch rapscallions, and as
much of the raft voyage as I had time to; and as we
struck into the town and up through the  -- here comes a
raging rush of people with torches, and an awful
whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blow-
ing horns; and we jumped to one side to let them go
by; and as they went by I see they had the king and
the duke astraddle of a rail -- that is, I knowed it WAS
the king and the duke, though they was all over tar and
feathers, and didn't look like nothing in the world that
was human -- just looked like a couple of monstrous
big soldier-plumes. Well, it made me sick to see it;
and I was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals, it seemed
like I couldn't ever feel any hardness against them any
more in the world. It was a dreadful thing to see.
Human beings CAN be awful cruel to one another.

We see we was too late -- couldn't do no good. We
asked some stragglers about it, and they said everybody
went to the show looking very innocent; and laid
low and kept dark till the poor old king was in the
middle of his cavortings on the stage; then somebody
give a signal, and the house rose up and went for
them.

So we poked along back home, and I warn't feeling
so brash as I was before, but kind of ornery, and
humble, and to blame, somehow -- though I hadn't
done nothing. But that's always the way; it don't
make no difference whether you do right or wrong, a
person's conscience ain't got no sense, and just goes for
him anyway. If I had a yaller dog that didn't know
no more than a person's conscience does I would pison
him. It takes up more room than all the rest of a
person's insides, and yet ain't no good, nohow. Tom
Sawyer he says the same.


CHAPTER XXXIV.

WE stopped talking, and got to thinking. By and by
Tom says:

"Looky here, Huck, what fools we are to not think
of it before! I bet I know where Jim is."

"No! Where?"

"In that hut down by the ash-hopper. Why, looky
here. When we was at dinner, didn't you see a nigger
man go in there with some vittles?"

"Yes."

"What did you think the vittles was for?"

"For a dog."

"So 'd I. Well, it wasn't for a dog."

"Why?"

"Because part of it was watermelon."

"So it was -- I noticed it. Well, it does beat all
that I never thought about a dog not eating water-
melon. It shows how a body can see and don't see at
the same time."

"Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he
went in, and he locked it again when he came out. He
fetched uncle a key about the time we got up from
table -- same key, I bet. Watermelon shows man,
lock shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two
prisoners on such a little plantation, and where the
people's all so kind and good. Jim's the prisoner.
All right -- I'm glad we found it out detective fashion;
I wouldn't give shucks for any other way. Now you
work your mind, and study out a plan to steal Jim, and
I will study out one, too; and we'll take the one we
like the best."

What a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom
Sawyer's head I wouldn't trade it off to be a duke, nor
mate of a steamboat, nor clown in a circus, nor nothing
I can think of. I went to thinking out a plan, but only
just to be doing something; I knowed very well where
the right plan was going to come from. Pretty soon
Tom says:

"Ready?"

"Yes," I says.

"All right -- bring it out."

"My plan is this," I says. "We can easy find out
if it's Jim in there. Then get up my canoe to-morrow
night, and fetch my raft over from the island. Then
the first dark night that comes steal the key out of the
old man's britches after he goes to bed, and shove off
down the river on the raft with Jim, hiding daytimes
and running nights, the way me and Jim used to do be-
fore. Wouldn't that plan work?"

"WORK? Why, cert'nly it would work, like rats
a-fighting. But it's too blame' simple; there ain't
nothing TO it. What's the good of a plan that ain't no
more trouble than that? It's as mild as goose-milk.
Why, Huck, it wouldn't make no more talk than break-
ing into a soap factory."

I never said nothing, because I warn't expecting noth-
ing different; but I knowed mighty well that whenever
he got HIS plan ready it wouldn't have none of them
objections to it.

And it didn't. He told me what it was, and I see in
a minute it was worth fifteen of mine for style, and
would make Jim just as free a man as mine would, and
maybe get us all killed besides. So I was satisfied, and
said we would waltz in on it. I needn't tell what it
was here, because I knowed it wouldn't stay the way, it
was. I knowed he would be changing it around every
which way as we went along, and heaving in new bull-
inesses wherever he got a chance. And that is what
he done.

Well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that Tom
Sawyer was in earnest, and was actuly going to help
steal that nigger out of slavery. That was the thing
that was too many for me. Here was a boy that was
respectable and well brung up; and had a character to
lose; and folks at home that had characters; and he
was bright and not leather-headed; and knowing and
not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; and yet here
he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feel-
ing, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a
shame, and his family a shame, before everybody. I
COULDN'T understand it no way at all. It was outra-
geous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell him so;
and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing
right where he was and save himself. And I DID start
to tell him; but he shut me up, and says:

"Don't you reckon I know what I'm about? Don't
I generly know what I'm about?"

"Yes."

"Didn't I SAY I was going to help steal the nigger?"

"Yes."

"WELL, then."

That's all he said, and that's all I said. It warn't no
use to say any more; because when he said he'd do a
thing, he always done it. But I couldn't make out
how he was willing to go into this thing; so I just let it
go, and never bothered no more about it. If he was
bound to have it so, I couldn't help it.

When we got home the house was all dark and still;
so we went on down to the hut by the ash-hopper for
to examine it. We went through the yard so as to see
what the hounds would do. They knowed us, and
didn't make no more noise than country dogs is always
doing when anything comes by in the night. When
we got to the cabin we took a look at the front and the
two sides; and on the side I warn't acquainted with --
which was the north side -- we found a square window-
hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed
across it. I says:

"Here's the ticket. This hole's big enough for Jim
to get through if we wrench off the board."

Tom says:

"It's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as
easy as playing hooky. I should HOPE we can find a
way that's a little more complicated than THAT, Huck
Finn."

"Well, then," I says, "how 'll it do to saw him out,
the way I done before I was murdered that time?"

"That's more LIKE," he says. "It's real mysterious,
and troublesome, and good," he says; "but I bet we
can find a way that's twice as long. There ain't no
hurry; le's keep on looking around."

Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was
a lean-to that joined the hut at the eaves, and was made
out of plank. It was as long as the hut, but narrow
-- only about six foot wide. The door to it was at the
south end, and was padlocked. Tom he went to the
soap-kettle and searched around, and fetched back the
iron thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and
prized out one of the staples. The chain fell down,
and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and
struck a match, and see the shed was only built against
a cabin and hadn't no connection with it; and there
warn't no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but some
old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and
a crippled plow. The match went out, and so did we,
and shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked
as good as ever. Tom was joyful. He says;

"Now we're all right. We'll DIG him out. It 'll
take about a week!"

Then we started for the house, and I went in the
back door -- you only have to pull a buckskin latch-
string, they don't fasten the doors -- but that warn't
romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would do
him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But after
he got up half way about three times, and missed fire
and fell every time, and the last time most busted his
brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up; but after
he was rested he allowed he would give her one more
turn for luck, and this time he made the trip.

In the morning we was up at break of day, and down
to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make friends
with the nigger that fed Jim -- if it WAS Jim that was
being fed. The niggers was just getting through break-
fast and starting for the fields; and Jim's nigger was
piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things;
and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from
the house.

This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face,
and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with
thread. That was to keep witches off. He said the
witches was pestering him awful these nights, and mak-
ing him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds
of strange words and noises, and he didn't believe he
was ever witched so long before in his life. He got
so worked up, and got to running on so about his
troubles, he forgot all about what he'd been a-going to
do. So Tom says:

"What's the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?"

The nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his
face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle,
and he says:

"Yes, Mars Sid, A dog. Cur'us dog, too. Does
you want to go en look at 'im?"

"Yes."

I hunched Tom, and whispers:

"You going, right here in the daybreak? THAT
warn't the plan."

"No, it warn't; but it's the plan NOW."

So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it
much. When we got in we couldn't hardly see any-
thing, it was so dark; but Jim was there, sure enough,
and could see us; and he sings out:

"Why, HUCK! En good LAN'! ain' dat Misto Tom?"

I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it.
I didn't know nothing to do; and if I had I couldn't
a done it, because that nigger busted in and says:

"Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genl-
men?"

We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at
the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says:

"Does WHO know us?"

"Why, dis-yer runaway nigger."

"I don't reckon he does; but what put that into
your head?"

"What PUT it dar? Didn' he jis' dis minute sing
out like he knowed you?"

Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:

"Well, that's mighty curious. WHO sung out?
WHEN did he sing out? WHAT did he sing out?"
And turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says, "Did
YOU hear anybody sing out?"

Of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one
thing; so I says:

"No; I ain't heard nobody say nothing."

Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he
never see him before, and says:

"Did you sing out?"

"No, sah," says Jim; " I hain't said nothing, sah."

"Not a word?"

"No, sah, I hain't said a word."

"Did you ever see us before?"

"No, sah; not as I knows on."

So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild
and distressed, and says, kind of severe:

"What do you reckon's the matter with you, any-
way? What made you think somebody sung out?"

"Oh, it's de dad-blame' witches, sah, en I wisht I
was dead, I do. Dey's awluz at it, sah, en dey do
mos' kill me, dey sk'yers me so. Please to don't tell
nobody 'bout it sah, er ole Mars Silas he'll scole me;
'kase he say dey AIN'T no witches. I jis' wish to good-
ness he was heah now -- DEN what would he say! I
jis' bet he couldn' fine no way to git aroun' it DIS time.
But it's awluz jis' so; people dat's SOT, stays sot; dey
won't look into noth'n'en fine it out f'r deyselves, en
when YOU fine it out en tell um 'bout it, dey doan'
b'lieve you."

Tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell no-
body; and told him to buy some more thread to tie up
his wool with; and then looks at Jim, and says:

"I wonder if Uncle Silas is going to hang this nigger.
If I was to catch a nigger that was ungrateful enough
to run away, I wouldn't give him up, I'd hang him."
And whilst the nigger stepped to the door to look at
the dime and bite it to see if it was good, he whispers
to Jim and says:

"Don't ever let on to know us. And if you hear
any digging going on nights, it's us; we're going to
set you free."

Jim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze
it; then the nigger come back, and we said we'd
come again some time if the nigger wanted us to; and
he said he would, more particular if it was dark, be-
cause the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and
it was good to have folks around then.


CHAPTER XXXV.

IT would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we left
and struck down into the woods; because Tom said
we got to have SOME light to see how to dig by, and a
lantern makes too much, and might get us into trouble;
what we must have was a lot of them rotten chunks
that's called fox-fire, and just makes a soft kind of a
glow when you lay them in a dark place. We fetched
an armful and hid it in the weeds, and set down to rest,
and Tom says, kind of dissatisfied:

"Blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and
awkward as it can be. And so it makes it so rotten
difficult to get up a difficult plan. There ain't no watch-
man to be drugged -- now there OUGHT to be a watch-
man. There ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mix-
ture to. And there's Jim chained by one leg, with a
ten-foot chain, to the leg of his bed: why, all you got
to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off the chain.
And Uncle Silas he trusts everybody; sends the key
to the punkin-headed nigger, and don't send nobody to
watch the nigger. Jim could a got out of that window-
hole before this, only there wouldn't be no use trying
to travel with a ten-foot chain on his leg. Why, drat
it, Huck, it's the stupidest arrangement I ever see.
You got to invent ALL the difficulties. Well, we can't
help it; we got to do the best we can with the materials
we've got. Anyhow, there's one thing -- there's more
honor in getting him out through a lot of difficulties
and dangers, where there warn't one of them furnished
to you by the people who it was their duty to furnish
them, and you had to contrive them all out of your
own head. Now look at just that one thing of the
lantern. When you come down to the cold facts, we
simply got to LET ON that a lantern's resky. Why, we
could work with a torchlight procession if we wanted
to, I believe. Now, whilst I think of it, we got to
hunt up something to make a saw out of the first
chance we get."

"What do we want of a saw?"

"What do we WANT of a saw? Hain't we got to
saw the leg of Jim's bed off, so as to get the chain
loose?"

"Why, you just said a body could lift up the bed-
stead and slip the chain off."

"Well, if that ain't just like you, Huck Finn. You
CAN get up the infant-schooliest ways of going at a
thing. Why, hain't you ever read any books at all?
-- Baron Trenck, nor Casanova, nor Benvenuto Chel-
leeny, nor Henri IV., nor none of them heroes? Who
ever heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an old-
maidy way as that? No; the way all the best authori-
ties does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and leave it just
so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be found, and
put some dirt and grease around the sawed place so the
very keenest seneskal can't see no sign of it's being
sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly sound. Then,
the night you're ready, fetch the leg a kick, down she
goes; slip off your chain, and there you are. Nothing
to do but hitch your rope ladder to the battlements, shin
down it, break your leg in the moat -- because a rope
ladder is nineteen foot too short, you know -- and there's
your horses and your trusty vassles, and they scoop
you up and fling you across a saddle, and away you go
to your native Langudoc, or Navarre, or wherever it is.
It's gaudy, Huck. I wish there was a moat to this
cabin. If we get time, the night of the escape,
we'll dig one."

I says:

"What do we want of a moat when we're going to
snake him out from under the cabin?"

But he never heard me. He had forgot me and
everything else. He had his chin in his hand, thinking.
Pretty soon he sighs and shakes his head; then sighs
again, and says:

"No, it wouldn't do -- there ain't necessity enough
for it."

"For what?" I says.

"Why, to saw Jim's leg off," he says.

"Good land!" I says; "why, there ain't NO neces-
sity for it. And what would you want to saw his leg
off for, anyway?"

"Well, some of the best authorities has done it.
They couldn't get the chain off, so they just cut their
hand off and shoved. And a leg would be better still.
But we got to let that go. There ain't necessity
enough in this case; and, besides, Jim's a nigger, and
wouldn't understand the reasons for it, and how it's the
custom in Europe; so we'll let it go. But there's one
thing -- he can have a rope ladder; we can tear up our
sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough. And
we can send it to him in a pie; it's mostly done that
way. And I've et worse pies."

"Why, Tom Sawyer, how you talk," I says; "Jim
ain't got no use for a rope ladder."

"He HAS got use for it. How YOU talk, you better
say; you don't know nothing about it. He's GOT to
have a rope ladder; they all do."

"What in the nation can he DO with it?"

"DO with it? He can hide it in his bed, can't he?"
That's what they all do; and HE'S got to, too.
Huck, you don't ever seem to want to do anything
that's regular; you want to be starting something fresh
all the time. S'pose he DON'T do nothing with it? ain't
it there in his bed, for a clew, after he's gone? and
don't you reckon they'll want clews? Of course they
will. And you wouldn't leave them any? That would
be a PRETTY howdy-do, WOULDN'T it! I never heard of
such a thing."

"Well," I says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's
got to have it, all right, let him have it; because I
don't wish to go back on no regulations; but there's
one thing, Tom Sawyer -- if we go to tearing up our
sheets to make Jim a rope ladder, we're going to get
into trouble with Aunt Sally, just as sure as you're
born. Now, the way I look at it, a hickry-bark ladder
don't cost nothing, and don't waste nothing, and is
just as good to load up a pie with, and hide in a straw
tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as for Jim,
he ain't had no experience, and so he don't care what
kind of a --"

"Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as
you I'd keep still -- that's what I'D do. Who ever
heard of a state prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark
ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous."

"Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if
you'll take my advice, you'll let me borrow a sheet off
of the clothesline."

He said that would do. And that gave him another
idea, and he says:

"Borrow a shirt, too."

"What do we want of a shirt, Tom?"

"Want it for Jim to keep a journal on."

"Journal your granny -- JIM can't write."

"S'pose he CAN'T write -- he can make marks on
the shirt, can't he, if we make him a pen out of
an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old iron barrel-
hoop?"

"Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose
and make him a better one; and quicker, too."

"PRISONERS don't have geese running around the
donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins. They
ALWAYS make their pens out of the hardest, toughest,
troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or some-
thing like that they can get their hands on; and it
takes them weeks and weeks and months and months
to file it out, too, because they've got to do it by rub-
bing it on the wall. THEY wouldn't use a goose-quill if
they had it. It ain't regular."

"Well, then, what'll we make him the ink out of?"

"Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but
that's the common sort and women; the best authori-
ties uses their own blood. Jim can do that; and when
he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious
message to let the world know where he's captivated,
he can write it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork
and throw it out of the window. The Iron Mask
always done that, and it's a blame' good way, too."

"Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a
pan."

"That ain't nothing; we can get him some."

"Can't nobody READ his plates."

"That ain't got anything to DO with it, Huck Finn.
All HE'S got to do is to write on the plate and throw
it out. You don't HAVE to be able to read it. Why,
half the time you can't read anything a prisoner writes
on a tin plate, or anywhere else."

"Well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?"

"Why, blame it all, it ain't the PRISONER'S plates."

"But it's SOMEBODY'S plates, ain't it?"

"Well, spos'n it is? What does the PRISONER care
whose --"

He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-
horn blowing. So we cleared out for the house.

Along during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a
white shirt off of the clothes-line; and I found an old
sack and put them in it, and we went down and got the
fox-fire, and put that in too. I called it borrowing,
because that was what pap always called it; but Tom
said it warn't borrowing, it was stealing. He said we
was representing prisoners; and prisoners don't care
how they get a thing so they get it, and nobody don't
blame them for it, either. It ain't no crime in a
prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with,
Tom said; it's his right; and so, as long as we was
representing a prisoner, we had a perfect right to steal
anything on this place we had the least use for to get
ourselves out of prison with. He said if we warn't
prisoners it would be a very different thing, and nobody
but a mean, ornery person would steal when he warn't
a prisoner. So we allowed we would steal every-
thing there was that come handy. And yet he made
a mighty fuss, one day, after that, when I stole a
watermelon out of the nigger-patch and eat it; and he
made me go and give the niggers a dime without telling
them what it was for. Tom said that what he meant
was, we could steal anything we NEEDED. Well, I says,
I needed the watermelon. But he said I didn't need it
to get out of prison with; there's where the difference
was. He said if I'd a wanted it to hide a knife in, and
smuggle it to Jim to kill the seneskal with, it would a
been all right. So I let it go at that, though I couldn't
see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if I got
to set down and chaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions
like that every time I see a chance to hog a watermelon.

Well, as I was saying, we waited that morning till
everybody was settled down to business, and nobody
in sight around the yard; then Tom he carried the
sack into the lean-to whilst I stood off a piece to keep
watch. By and by he come out, and we went and set
down on the woodpile to talk. He says:

"Everything's all right now except tools; and that's
easy fixed."

"Tools?" I says.

"Yes."

"Tools for what?"

"Why, to dig with. We ain't a-going to GNAW him
out, are we?"

"Ain't them old crippled picks and things in there
good enough to dig a nigger out with?" I says.

He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a
body cry, and says:

"Huck Finn, did you EVER hear of a prisoner having
picks and shovels, and all the modern conveniences in
his wardrobe to dig himself out with? Now I want to
ask you -- if you got any reasonableness in you at all
-- what kind of a show would THAT give him to be a
hero? Why, they might as well lend him the key and
done with it. Picks and shovels -- why, they wouldn't
furnish 'em to a king."

"Well, then," I says, "if we don't want the picks
and shovels, what do we want?"

"A couple of case-knives."

"To dig the foundations out from under that cabin
with?"

"Yes."

"Confound it, it's foolish, Tom."

"It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's
the RIGHT way -- and it's the regular way. And there
ain't no OTHER way, that ever I heard of, and I've read
all the books that gives any information about these
things. They always dig out with a case-knife -- and
not through dirt, mind you; generly it's through solid
rock. And it takes them weeks and weeks and weeks,
and for ever and ever. Why, look at one of them
prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the Castle Deef, in
the harbor of Marseilles, that dug himself out that way;
how long was HE at it, you reckon?"

"I don't know."

"Well, guess."

"I don't know. A month and a half."

"THIRTY-SEVEN YEAR -- and he come out in China.
THAT'S the kind. I wish the bottom of THIS fortress
was solid rock."

"JIM don't know nobody in China."

"What's THAT got to do with it? Neither did that
other fellow. But you're always a-wandering off on a
side issue. Why can't you stick to the main point?"

"All right -- I don't care where he comes out, so he
COMES out; and Jim don't, either, I reckon. But
there's one thing, anyway -- Jim's too old to be dug
out with a case-knife. He won't last."

"Yes he will LAST, too. You don't reckon it's going
to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a DIRT
foundation, do you?"

"How long will it take, Tom?"

"Well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to,
because it mayn't take very long for Uncle Silas to hear
from down there by New Orleans. He'll hear Jim ain't
from there. Then his next move will be to advertise Jim,
or something like that. So we can't resk being as long
digging him out as we ought to. By rights I reckon
we ought to be a couple of years; but we can't.
Things being so uncertain, what I recommend is this:
that we really dig right in, as quick as we can; and
after that, we can LET ON, to ourselves, that we was at
it thirty-seven years. Then we can snatch him out and
rush him away the first time there's an alarm. Yes, I
reckon that 'll be the best way."

"Now, there's SENSE in that," I says. "Letting on
don't cost nothing; letting on ain't no trouble; and if
it's any object, I don't mind letting on we was at it a
hundred and fifty year. It wouldn't strain me none,
after I got my hand in. So I'll mosey along now, and
smouch a couple of case-knives."

"Smouch three," he says; "we want one to make
a saw out of."

"Tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest
it," I says, "there's an old rusty saw-blade around
yonder sticking under the weather-boarding behind the
smoke-house."

He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and
says:

"It ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck.
Run along and smouch the knives -- three of them."
So I done it.


CHAPTER XXXVI.

AS soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that
night we went down the lightning-rod, and shut
ourselves up in the lean-to, and got out our pile of
fox-fire, and went to work. We cleared everything
out of the way, about four or five foot along the mid-
dle of the bottom log. Tom said we was right behind
Jim's bed now, and we'd dig in under it, and when we
got through there couldn't nobody in the cabin ever
know there was any hole there, because Jim's counter-
pin hung down most to the ground, and you'd have to
raise it up and look under to see the hole. So we dug
and dug with the case-knives till most midnight; and
then we was dog-tired, and our hands was blistered,
and yet you couldn't see we'd done anything hardly.
At last I says:

"This ain't no thirty-seven year job; this is a
thirty-eight year job, Tom Sawyer."

He never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty
soon he stopped digging, and then for a good little
while I knowed that he was thinking. Then he says:

"It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't a-going to work. If
we was prisoners it would, because then we'd have as
many years as we wanted, and no hurry; and we
wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day,
while they was changing watches, and so our hands
wouldn't get blistered, and we could keep it up right
along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the
way it ought to be done. But WE can't fool along;
we got to rush; we ain't got no time to spare. If we
was to put in another night this way we'd have to
knock off for a week to let our hands get well --
couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner."

"Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?"

"I'll tell you. It ain't right, and it ain't moral,  .
and I wouldn't like it to get out; but there ain't only
just the one way: we got to dig him out with the
picks, and LET ON it's case-knives."

"NOW you're TALKING!" I says; "your head gets
leveler and leveler all the time, Tom Sawyer," I
says. "Picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and as
for me, I don't care shucks for the morality of it,
nohow. When I start in to steal a nigger, or a water-
melon, or a Sunday-school book, I ain't no ways
particular how it's done so it's done. What I want is
my nigger; or what I want is my watermelon; or what
I want is my Sunday-school book; and if a pick's the
handiest thing, that's the thing I'm a-going to dig that
nigger or that watermelon or that Sunday-school book
out with; and I don't give a dead rat what the au-
thorities thinks about it nuther."

"Well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and
letting-on in a case like this; if it warn't so, I wouldn't
approve of it, nor I wouldn't stand by and see the
rules broke -- because right is right, and wrong is
wrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong
when he ain't ignorant and knows better. It might
answer for YOU to dig Jim out with a pick, WITHOUT any
letting on, because you don't know no better; but it
wouldn't for me, because I do know better. Gimme
a case-knife."

He had his own by him, but I handed him mine.
He flung it down, and says:

"Gimme a CASE-KNIFE."

I didn't know just what to do -- but then I thought.
I scratched around amongst the old tools, and got a
pickaxe and give it to him, and he took it and went to
work, and never said a word.

He was always just that particular. Full of principle.

So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and
shoveled, turn about, and made the fur fly. We stuck
to it about a half an hour, which was as long as we
could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to
show for it. When I got up stairs I looked out at the
window and see Tom doing his level best with the
lightning-rod, but he couldn't come it, his hands was
so sore. At last he says:

"It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you
reckon I better do? Can't you think of no way?"

"Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular.
Come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod."

So he done it.

Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass
candlestick in the house, for to make some pens for
Jim out of, and six tallow candles; and I hung around
the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three
tin plates. Tom says it wasn't enough; but I said
nobody wouldn't ever see the plates that Jim throwed
out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel and jimpson
weeds under the window-hole -- then we could tote
them back and he could use them over again. So
Tom was satisfied. Then he says:

"Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the
things to Jim."

"Take them in through the hole," I says, "when
we get it done."

He only just looked scornful, and said something
about nobody ever heard of such an idiotic idea, and
then he went to studying. By and by he said he had
ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't no
need to decide on any of them yet. Said we'd got to
post Jim first.

That night we went down the lightning-rod a little
after ten, and took one of the candles along, and
listened under the window-hole, and heard Jim snoring;
so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him. Then we
whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two
hours and a half the job was done. We crept in under
Jim's bed and into the cabin, and pawed around and
found the candle and lit it, and stood over Jim awhile,
and found him looking hearty and healthy, and then
we woke him up gentle and gradual. He was so glad to
see us he most cried; and called us honey, and all the
pet names he could think of; and was for having us
hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg
with right away, and clearing out without losing any
time. But Tom he showed him how unregular it
would be, and set down and told him all about our
plans, and how we could alter them in a minute any
time there was an alarm; and not to be the least afraid,
because we would see he got away, SURE. So Jim he
said it was all right, and we set there and talked over
old times awhile, and then Tom asked a lot of ques-
tions, and when Jim told him Uncle Silas come in
every day or two to pray with him, and Aunt Sally
come in to see if he was comfortable and had plenty to
eat, and both of them was kind as they could be, Tom
says:

"NOW I know how to fix it. We'll send you some
things by them."

I said, "Don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of
the most jackass ideas I ever struck;" but he never
paid no attention to me; went right on. It was his
way when he'd got his plans set.

So he told Jim how we'd have to smuggle in the
rope-ladder pie and other large things by Nat, the
nigger that fed him, and he must be on the lookout,
and not be surprised, and not let Nat see him open
them; and we would put small things in uncle's coat-
pockets and he must steal them out; and we would tie
things to aunt's apron-strings or put them in her
apron-pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what
they would be and what they was for. And told him
how to keep a journal on the shirt with his blood, and
all that. He told him everything. Jim he couldn't
see no sense in the most of it, but he allowed we was
white folks and knowed better than him; so he was
satisfied, and said he would do it all just as Tom said.

Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so
we had a right down good sociable time; then we
crawled out through the hole, and so home to bed,
with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. Tom
was in high spirits. He said it was the best fun he
ever had in his life, and the most intellectural; and
said if he only could see his way to it we would keep it
up all the rest of our lives and leave Jim to our children
to get out; for he believed Jim would come to like it
better and better the more he got used to it. He said
that in that way it could be strung out to as much as
eighty year, and would be the best time on record.
And he said it would make us all celebrated that had a
hand in it.

In the morning we went out to the woodpile and
chopped up the brass candlestick into handy sizes, and
Tom put them and the pewter spoon in his pocket.
Then we went to the nigger cabins, and while I got
Nat's notice off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick
into the middle of a corn-pone that was in Jim's pan,
and we went along with Nat to see how it would work,
and it just worked noble; when Jim bit into it it most
mashed all his teeth out; and there warn't ever any-
thing could a worked better. Tom said so himself.
Jim he never let on but what it was only just a piece of
rock or something like that that's always getting into
bread, you know; but after that he never bit into
nothing but what he jabbed his fork into it in three or
four places first.

And whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish
light, here comes a couple of the hounds bulging in
from under Jim's bed; and they kept on piling in till
there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly
room in there to get your breath. By jings, we forgot
to fasten that lean-to door! The nigger Nat he only
just hollered "Witches" once, and keeled over on to
the floor amongst the dogs, and begun to groan like
he was dying. Tom jerked the door open and flung
out a slab of Jim's meat, and the dogs went for it, and
in two seconds he was out himself and back again and
shut the door, and I knowed he'd fixed the other door
too. Then he went to work on the nigger, coaxing
him and petting him, and asking him if he'd been
imagining he saw something again. He raised up, and
blinked his eyes around, and says:

"Mars Sid, you'll say I's a fool, but if I didn't
b'lieve I see most a million dogs, er devils, er some'n,
I wisht I may die right heah in dese tracks. I did,
mos' sholy. Mars Sid, I FELT um -- I FELT um, sah;
dey was all over me. Dad fetch it, I jis' wisht I
could git my han's on one er dem witches jis' wunst --
on'y jis' wunst -- it's all I'd ast. But mos'ly I wisht
dey'd lemme 'lone, I does."

Tom says:

"Well, I tell you what I think. What makes them
come here just at this runaway nigger's breakfast-time?
It's because they're hungry; that's the reason. You
make them a witch pie; that's the thing for YOU to
do."

"But my lan', Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to make
'm a witch pie? I doan' know how to make it. I
hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'."

"Well, then, I'll have to make it myself."

"Will you do it, honey? -- Qwill you? I'll wusshup
de groun' und' yo' foot, I will!"

"All right, I'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've
been good to us and showed us the runaway nigger.
But you got to be mighty careful. When we come
around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've
put in the pan, don't you let on you see it at all. And
don't you look when Jim unloads the pan -- something
might happen, I don't know what. And above all,
don't you HANDLE the witch-things."

"HANNEL 'm, Mars Sid? What IS you a-talkin'
'bout? I wouldn' lay de weight er my finger on
um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars, I
wouldn't."


CHAPTER XXXVII.

THAT was all fixed. So then we went away and
went to the rubbage-pile in the back yard, where
they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of
bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck,
and scratched around and found an old tin washpan,
and stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake
the pie in, and took it down cellar and stole it full of
flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of
shingle-nails that Tom said would be handy for a
prisoner to scrabble his name and sorrows on the
dungeon walls with, and dropped one of them in Aunt
Sally's apron-pocket which was hanging on a chair,
and t'other we stuck in the band of Uncle Silas's hat,
which was on the bureau, because we heard the chil-
dren say their pa and ma was going to the runaway
nigger's house this morning, and then went to break-
fast, and Tom dropped the pewter spoon in Uncle
Silas's coat-pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn't come yet,
so we had to wait a little while.

And when she come she was hot and red and cross,
and couldn't hardly wait for the blessing; and then
she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand and
cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble
with the other, and says:

"I've hunted high and I've hunted low, and it does
beat all what HAS become of your other shirt."

My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers
and things, and a hard piece of corn-crust started down
my throat after it and got met on the road with a
cough, and was shot across the table, and took one
of the children in the eye and curled him up like a
fishing-worm, and let a cry out of him the size of a
warwhoop, and Tom he turned kinder blue around the
gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of
things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as
that, and I would a sold out for half price if there was
a bidder. But after that we was all right again -- it
was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind
of cold. Uncle Silas he says:

"It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand
it. I know perfectly well I took it OFF, because --"

"Because you hain't got but one ON. Just LISTEN at
the man! I know you took it off, and know it by a
better way than your wool-gethering memory, too,
because it was on the clo's-line yesterday -- I see it
there myself. But it's gone, that's the long and the
short of it, and you'll just have to change to a red
flann'l one till I can get time to make a new one.
And it 'll be the third I've made in two years. It just
keeps a body on the jump to keep you in shirts; and
whatever you do manage to DO with 'm all is more'n I
can make out. A body 'd think you WOULD learn to
take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life."

"I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it
oughtn't to be altogether my fault, because, you know,
I don't see them nor have nothing to do with them
except when they're on me; and I don't believe I've
ever lost one of them OFF of me."

"Well, it ain't YOUR fault if you haven't, Silas;
you'd a done it if you could, I reckon. And the shirt
ain't all that's gone, nuther. Ther's a spoon gone;
and THAT ain't all. There was ten, and now ther's only
nine. The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf
never took the spoon, THAT'S certain."

"Why, what else is gone, Sally?"

"Ther's six CANDLES gone -- that's what. The rats
could a got the candles, and I reckon they did; I
wonder they don't walk off with the whole place, the
way you're always going to stop their holes and don't
do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in your
hair, Silas -- YOU'D never find it out; but you can't lay
the SPOON on the rats, and that I know."

"Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it;
I've been remiss; but I won't let to-morrow go by
without stopping up them holes."

"Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda
Angelina Araminta PHELPS!"

Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches
her claws out of the sugar-bowl without fooling around
any. Just then the nigger woman steps on to the
passage, and says:

"Missus, dey's a sheet gone."

"A SHEET gone! Well, for the land's sake!"

"I'll stop up them holes to-day," says Uncle Silas,
looking sorrowful.

"Oh, DO shet up! -- s'pose the rats took the SHEET?
WHERE'S it gone, Lize?"

"Clah to goodness I hain't no notion, Miss' Sally.
She wuz on de clo'sline yistiddy, but she done gone:
she ain' dah no mo' now."

"I reckon the world IS coming to an end. I NEVER
see the beat of it in all my born days. A shirt, and a
sheet, and a spoon, and six can --"

"Missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a
brass cannelstick miss'n."

"Cler out from here, you hussy, er I'll take a skillet
to ye!"

Well, she was just a-biling. I begun to lay for a
chance; I reckoned I would sneak out and go for the
woods till the weather moderated. She kept a-raging
right along, running her insurrection all by herself,
and everybody else mighty meek and quiet; and at
last Uncle Silas, looking kind of foolish, fishes up that
spoon out of his pocket. She stopped, with her mouth
open and her hands up; and as for me, I wished I was
in Jeruslem or somewheres. But not long, because
she says:

"It's JUST as I expected. So you had it in your
pocket all the time; and like as not you've got the
other things there, too. How'd it get there?"

"I reely don't know, Sally," he says, kind of
apologizing, "or you know I would tell. I was a-
studying over my text in Acts Seventeen before break-
fast, and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing,
meaning to put my Testament in, and it must be so,
because my Testament ain't in; but I'll go and see;
and if the Testament is where I had it, I'll know I
didn't put it in, and that will show that I laid the
Testament down and took up the spoon, and --"

"Oh, for the land's sake! Give a body a rest!
Go 'long now, the whole kit and biling of ye; and
don't come nigh me again till I've got back my peace
of mind."

I'D a heard her if she'd a said it to herself, let alone
speaking it out; and I'd a got up and obeyed her if
I'd a been dead. As we was passing through the
setting-room the old man he took up his hat, and the
shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely
picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never
said nothing, and went out. Tom see him do it, and
remembered about the spoon, and says:

"Well, it ain't no use to send things by HIM no
more, he ain't reliable." Then he says: "But he
done us a good turn with the spoon, anyway, without
knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one without
HIM knowing it -- stop up his rat-holes."

There was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and
it took us a whole hour, but we done the job tight and
good and shipshape. Then we heard steps on the
stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here
comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a
bundle of stuff in t'other, looking as absent-minded as
year before last. He went a mooning around, first to
one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them
all. Then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-
drip off of his candle and thinking. Then he turns off
slow and dreamy towards the stairs, saying:

"Well, for the life of me I can't remember when I
done it. I could show her now that I warn't to blame
on account of the rats. But never mind -- let it go. I
reckon it wouldn't do no good."

And so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then
we left. He was a mighty nice old man. And
always is.

Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for
a spoon, but he said we'd got to have it; so he took a
think. When he had ciphered it out he told me how
we was to do; then we went and waited around the
spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then
Tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out
to one side, and I slid one of them up my sleeve, and
Tom says:

"Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons
YET."

She says:

"Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. I
know better, I counted 'm myself."

"Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and I can't
make but nine."

She looked out of all patience, but of course she
come to count -- anybody would.

"I declare to gracious ther' AIN'T but nine!" she
says. "Why, what in the world -- plague TAKE the
things, I'll count 'm again."

So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got
done counting, she says:

"Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's TEN now!"
and she looked huffy and bothered both. But Tom
says:

"Why, Aunty, I don't think there's ten."

"You numskull, didn't you see me COUNT 'm?"

"I know, but --"

"Well, I'll count 'm AGAIN."

So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same
as the other time. Well, she WAS in a tearing way --
just a-trembling all over, she was so mad. But she
counted and counted till she got that addled she'd start
to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so,
three times they come out right, and three times they
come out wrong. Then she grabbed up the basket
and slammed it across the house and knocked the cat
galley-west; and she said cle'r out and let her have
some peace, and if we come bothering around her
again betwixt that and dinner she'd skin us. So we
had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron-pocket
whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders, and Jim
got it all right, along with her shingle nail, before
noon. We was very well satisfied with this business,
and Tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it
took, because he said NOW she couldn't ever count
them spoons twice alike again to save her life; and
wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she DID;
and said that after she'd about counted her head off
for the next three days he judged she'd give it up and
offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count
them any more.

So we put the sheet back on the line that night, and
stole one out of her closet; and kept on putting it
back and stealing it again for a couple of days till she
didn't know how many sheets she had any more, and
she didn't CARE, and warn't a-going to bullyrag the rest
of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count them
again not to save her life; she druther die first.

So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the
sheet and the spoon and the candles, by the help of
the calf and the rats and the mixed-up counting; and
as to the candlestick, it warn't no consequence, it
would blow over by and by.

But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble
with that pie. We fixed it up away down in the
woods, and cooked it there; and we got it done at
last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one
day; and we had to use up three wash-pans full of
flour before we got through, and we got burnt pretty
much all over, in places, and eyes put out with the
smoke; because, you see, we didn't want nothing but
a crust, and we couldn't prop it up right, and she
would always cave in. But of course we thought of
the right way at last -- which was to cook the ladder,
too, in the pie. So then we laid in with Jim the
second night, and tore up the sheet all in little strings
and twisted them together, and long before daylight we
had a lovely rope that you could a hung a person with.
We let on it took nine months to make it.

And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods,
but it wouldn't go into the pie. Being made of a
whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough for forty
pies if we'd a wanted them, and plenty left over for
soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. We could
a had a whole dinner.

But we didn't need it. All we needed was just
enough for the pie, and so we throwed the rest away.
We didn't cook none of the pies in the wash-pan --
afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had a
noble brass warming-pan which he thought consider-
able of, because it belonged to one of his ancesters
with a long wooden handle that come over from Eng-
land with William the Conqueror in the Mayflower or
one of them early ships and was hid away up garret
with a lot of other old pots and things that was
valuable, not on account of being any account, be-
cause they warn't, but on account of them being
relicts, you know, and we snaked her out, private, and
took her down there, but she failed on the first pies,
because we didn't know how, but she come up smiling
on the last one. We took and lined her with dough,
and set her in the coals, and loaded her up with rag
rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid,
and put hot embers on top, and stood off five foot,
with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and in
fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfac-
tion to look at. But the person that et it would want
to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along, for if
that rope ladder wouldn't cramp him down to business
I don't know nothing what I'm talking about, and lay
him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next time,
too.

Nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in Jim's
pan; and we put the three tin plates in the bottom of
the pan under the vittles; and so Jim got everything
all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted
into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw
tick, and scratched some marks on a tin plate and
throwed it out of the window-hole.


CHAPTER XXXVIII.

MAKING them pens was a distressid tough job,
and so was the saw; and Jim allowed the in-
scription was going to be the toughest of all. That's
the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall.
But he had to have it; Tom said he'd GOT to; there
warn't no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his
inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms.

"Look at Lady Jane Grey," he says; "look at
Gilford Dudley; look at old Northumberland! Why,
Huck, s'pose it IS considerble trouble? -- what you
going to do? -- how you going to get around it?
Jim's GOT to do his inscription and coat of arms. They
all do."

Jim says:

"Why, Mars Tom, I hain't got no coat o' arm; I
hain't got nuffn but dish yer ole shirt, en you knows
I got to keep de journal on dat."

"Oh, you don't understand, Jim; a coat of arms is
very different."

"Well," I says, "Jim's right, anyway, when he
says he ain't got no coat of arms, because he hain't."

"I reckon I knowed that," Tom says, "but you
bet he'll have one before he goes out of this -- because
he's going out RIGHT, and there ain't going to be no
flaws in his record."

So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a
brickbat apiece, Jim a-making his'n out of the brass
and I making mine out of the spoon, Tom set to work
to think out the coat of arms. By and by he said he'd
struck so many good ones he didn't hardly know
which to take, but there was one which he reckoned
he'd decide on. He says:

"On the scutcheon we'll have a bend OR in the
dexter base, a saltire MURREY in the fess, with a dog,
couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a
chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron VERT in a
chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field
AZURE, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette
indented; crest, a runaway nigger, SABLE, with his
bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a
couple of gules for supporters, which is you and me;
motto, MAGGIORE FRETTA, MINORE OTTO. Got it out of a
book -- means the more haste the less speed."

"Geewhillikins," I says, "but what does the rest of
it mean?"

"We ain't got no time to bother over that," he
says; "we got to dig in like all git-out."

"Well, anyway," I says, "what's SOME of it?
What's a fess?"

"A fess -- a fess is -- YOU don't need to know what
a fess is. I'll show him how to make it when he gets
to it."

"Shucks, Tom," I says, "I think you might tell a
person. What's a bar sinister?"

"Oh, I don't know. But he's got to have it. All
the nobility does."

That was just his way. If it didn't suit him to ex-
plain a thing to you, he wouldn't do it. You might
pump at him a week, it wouldn't make no difference.

He'd got all that coat of arms business fixed, so
now he started in to finish up the rest of that part of
the work, which was to plan out a mournful inscrip-
tion -- said Jim got to have one, like they all done.
He made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and
read them off, so:

   1. Here a captive heart busted.
   2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world
      and friends, fretted his sorrowful life.
   3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit
      went to its rest, after thirty-seven years
      of solitary captivity.
   4. Here, homeless and friendless, after
      thirty-seven years of bitter captivity,
      perished a noble stranger, natural son of
      Louis XIV.

Tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them,
and he most broke down. When he got done he
couldn't no way make up his mind which one for Jim
to scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good; but
at last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all
on. Jim said it would take him a year to scrabble
such a lot of truck on to the logs with a nail, and he
didn't know how to make letters, besides; but Tom
said he would block them out for him, and then he
wouldn't have nothing to do but just follow the lines.
Then pretty soon he says:

"Come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they
don't have log walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the
inscriptions into a rock. We'll fetch a rock."

Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said
it would take him such a pison long time to dig them
into a rock he wouldn't ever get out. But Tom said
he would let me help him do it. Then he took a look
to see how me and Jim was getting along with the
pens. It was most pesky tedious hard work and slow,
and didn't give my hands no show to get well of the
sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly;
so Tom says:

"I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for
the coat of arms and mournful inscriptions, and we can
kill two birds with that same rock. There's a gaudy
big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch it,
and carve the things on it, and file out the pens and
the saw on it, too."

It warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no
slouch of a grindstone nuther; but we allowed we'd
tackle it. It warn't quite midnight yet, so we cleared
out for the mill, leaving Jim at work. We smouched
the grindstone, and set out to roll her home, but it
was a most nation tough job. Sometimes, do what we
could, we couldn't keep her from falling over, and she
come mighty near mashing us every time. Tom said
she was going to get one of us, sure, before we got
through. We got her half way; and then we was
plumb played out, and most drownded with sweat.
We see it warn't no use; we got to go and fetch Jim
So he raised up his bed and slid the chain off of the
bed-leg, and wrapt it round and round his neck, and
we crawled out through our hole and down there, and
Jim and me laid into that grindstone and walked
her along like nothing; and Tom superintended.
He could out-superintend any boy I ever see. He
knowed how to do everything.

Our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough to
get the grindstone through; but Jim he took the pick
and soon made it big enough. Then Tom marked out
them things on it with the nail, and set Jim to work on
them, with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt from
the rubbage in the lean-to for a hammer, and told him
to work till the rest of his candle quit on him, and then
he could go to bed, and hide the grindstone under his
straw tick and sleep on it. Then we helped him fix
his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed
ourselves. But Tom thought of something, and says:

"You got any spiders in here, Jim?"

"No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain't, Mars Tom."

"All right, we'll get you some."

"But bless you, honey, I doan' WANT none. I's
afeard un um. I jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes aroun'."

Tom thought a minute or two, and says:

"It's a good idea. And I reckon it's been done.
It MUST a been done; it stands to reason. Yes, it's a
prime good idea. Where could you keep it?"

"Keep what, Mars Tom?"

"Why, a rattlesnake."

"De goodness gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why, if
dey was a rattlesnake to come in heah I'd take en bust
right out thoo dat log wall, I would, wid my head."

Why, Jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a
little. You could tame it."

"TAME it!"

"Yes -- easy enough. Every animal is grateful for
kindness and petting, and they wouldn't THINK of hurt-
ing a person that pets them. Any book will tell you
that. You try -- that's all I ask; just try for two or
three days. Why, you can get him so in a little while
that he'll love you; and sleep with you; and won't
stay away from you a minute; and will let you wrap
him round your neck and put his head in your mouth."

"PLEASE, Mars Tom -- DOAN' talk so! I can't STAN'
it! He'd LET me shove his head in my mouf -- fer a
favor, hain't it? I lay he'd wait a pow'ful long time
'fo' I AST him. En mo' en dat, I doan' WANT him to
sleep wid me."

"Jim, don't act so foolish. A prisoner's GOT to
have some kind of a dumb pet, and if a rattlesnake
hain't ever been tried, why, there's more glory to be
gained in your being the first to ever try it than any
other way you could ever think of to save your life."

"Why, Mars Tom, I doan' WANT no sich glory.
Snake take 'n bite Jim's chin off, den WHAH is de
glory? No, sah, I doan' want no sich doin's."

"Blame it, can't you TRY? I only WANT you to try
-- you needn't keep it up if it don't work."

"But de trouble all DONE ef de snake bite me while
I's a tryin' him. Mars Tom, I's willin' to tackle mos'
anything 'at ain't onreasonable, but ef you en Huck
fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, I's
gwyne to LEAVE, dat's SHORE."

"Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-
headed about it. We can get you some garter-snakes,
and you can tie some buttons on their tails, and let on
they're rattlesnakes, and I reckon that 'll have to do."

"I k'n stan' DEM, Mars Tom, but blame' 'f I
couldn' get along widout um, I tell you dat. I never
knowed b'fo' 't was so much bother and trouble to be
a prisoner."

"Well, it ALWAYS is when it's done right. You got
any rats around here?"

"No, sah, I hain't seed none."

"Well, we'll get you some rats."

"Why, Mars Tom, I doan' WANT no rats. Dey's
de dadblamedest creturs to 'sturb a body, en rustle
roun' over 'im, en bite his feet, when he's tryin' to
sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes, 'f
I's got to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats; I hain'
got no use f'r um, skasely."

"But, Jim, you GOT to have 'em -- they all do. So
don't make no more fuss about it. Prisoners ain't
ever without rats. There ain't no instance of it. And
they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks,
and they get to be as sociable as flies. But you got to
play music to them. You got anything to play music
on?"

"I ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o'
paper, en a juice-harp; but I reck'n dey wouldn' take
no stock in a juice-harp."

"Yes they would. THEY don't care what kind of
music 'tis. A jews-harp's plenty good enough for a
rat. All animals like music -- in a prison they dote
on it. Specially, painful music; and you can't get no
other kind out of a jews-harp. It always interests
them; they come out to see what's the matter with
you. Yes, you're all right; you're fixed very well.
You want to set on your bed nights before you go to
sleep, and early in the mornings, and play your jews-
harp; play 'The Last Link is Broken' -- that's the
thing that 'll scoop a rat quicker 'n anything else; and
when you've played about two minutes you'll see all
the rats, and the snakes, and spiders, and things begin
to feel worried about you, and come. And they'll
just fairly swarm over you, and have a noble good
time."

"Yes, DEY will, I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what kine
er time is JIM havin'? Blest if I kin see de pint. But
I'll do it ef I got to. I reck'n I better keep de animals
satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house."

Tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't
nothing else; and pretty soon he says:

"Oh, there's one thing I forgot. Could you raise
a flower here, do you reckon?"

"I doan know but maybe I could, Mars Tom; but
it's tolable dark in heah, en I ain' got no use f'r no
flower, nohow, en she'd be a pow'ful sight o' trouble."

"Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners
has done it."

"One er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks would
grow in heah, Mars Tom, I reck'n, but she wouldn't
be wuth half de trouble she'd coss."

"Don't you believe it. We'll fetch you a little one
and you plant it in the corner over there, and raise it.
And don't call it mullen, call it Pitchiola -- that's its
right name when it's in a prison. And you want to
water it with your tears."

"Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom."

"You don't WANT spring water; you want to water
it with your tears. It's the way they always do."

"Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem
mullen-stalks twyste wid spring water whiles another
man's a START'N one wid tears."

"That ain't the idea. You GOT to do it with tears."

"She'll die on my han's, Mars Tom, she sholy
will; kase I doan' skasely ever cry."

So Tom was stumped. But he studied it over, and
then said Jim would have to worry along the best he
could with an onion. He promised he would go to the
nigger cabins and drop one, private, in Jim's coffee-
pot, in the morning. Jim said he would "jis' 's soon
have tobacker in his coffee;" and found so much fault
with it, and with the work and bother of raising the
mullen, and jews-harping the rats, and petting and
flattering up the snakes and spiders and things, on top
of all the other work he had to do on pens, and in-
scriptions, and journals, and things, which made it
more trouble and worry and responsibility to be a
prisoner than anything he ever undertook, that Tom
most lost all patience with him; and said he was just
loadened down with more gaudier chances than a
prisoner ever had in the world to make a name for
himself, and yet he didn't know enough to appreciate
them, and they was just about wasted on him. So
Jim he was sorry, and said he wouldn't behave so no
more, and then me and Tom shoved for bed.


CHAPTER XXXIX.

IN the morning we went up to the village and bought
a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and unstopped
the best rat-hole, and in about an hour we had fifteen
of the bulliest kind of ones; and then we took it and
put it in a safe place under Aunt Sally's bed. But
while we was gone for spiders little Thomas Franklin
Benjamin Jefferson Elexander Phelps found it there,
and opened the door of it to see if the rats would come
out, and they did; and Aunt Sally she come in, and
when we got back she was a-standing on top of the bed
raising Cain, and the rats was doing what they could to
keep off the dull times for her. So she took and
dusted us both with the hickry, and we was as much
as two hours catching another fifteen or sixteen, drat
that meddlesome cub, and they warn't the likeliest,
nuther, because the first haul was the pick of the flock.
I never see a likelier lot of rats than what that first
haul was.

We got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs,
and frogs, and caterpillars, and one thing or another;
and we like to got a hornet's nest, but we didn't. The
family was at home. We didn't give it right up, but
stayed with them as long as we could; because we
allowed we'd tire them out or they'd got to tire us
out, and they done it. Then we got allycumpain and
rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all right
again, but couldn't set down convenient. And so we
went for the snakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen
garters and house-snakes, and put them in a bag, and
put it in our room, and by that time it was supper-
time, and a rattling good honest day's work: and
hungry? -- oh, no, I reckon not! And there warn't a
blessed snake up there when we went back -- we didn't
half tie the sack, and they worked out somehow, and
left. But it didn't matter much, because they was
still on the premises somewheres. So we judged we
could get some of them again. No, there warn't no
real scarcity of snakes about the house for a consider-
able spell. You'd see them dripping from the rafters
and places every now and then; and they generly
landed in your plate, or down the back of your neck,
and most of the time where you didn't want them.
Well, they was handsome and striped, and there warn't
no harm in a million of them; but that never made no
difference to Aunt Sally; she despised snakes, be the
breed what they might, and she couldn't stand them
no way you could fix it; and every time one of them
flopped down on her, it didn't make no difference what
she was doing, she would just lay that work down and
light out. I never see such a woman. And you could
hear her whoop to Jericho. You couldn't get her to
take a-holt of one of them with the tongs. And if she
turned over and found one in bed she would scramble
out and lift a howl that you would think the house was
afire. She disturbed the old man so that he said he
could most wish there hadn't ever been no snakes
created. Why, after every last snake had been gone
clear out of the house for as much as a week Aunt
Sally warn't over it yet; she warn't near over it; when
she was setting thinking about something you could
touch her on the back of her neck with a feather and
she would jump right out of her stockings. It was
very curious. But Tom said all women was just so.
He said they was made that way for some reason or
other.

We got a licking every time one of our snakes come
in her way, and she allowed these lickings warn't noth-
ing to what she would do if we ever loaded up the
place again with them. I didn't mind the lickings,
because they didn't amount to nothing; but I minded
the trouble we had to lay in another lot. But we got
them laid in, and all the other things; and you never
see a cabin as blithesome as Jim's was when they'd all
swarm out for music and go for him. Jim didn't like
the spiders, and the spiders didn't like Jim; and so
they'd lay for him, and make it mighty warm for him.
And he said that between the rats and the snakes and
the grindstone there warn't no room in bed for him,
skasely; and when there was, a body couldn't sleep, it
was so lively, and it was always lively, he said, because
THEY never all slept at one time, but took turn about,
so when the snakes was asleep the rats was on deck,
and when the rats turned in the snakes come on watch,
so he always had one gang under him, in his way, and
t'other gang having a circus over him, and if he got
up to hunt a new place the spiders would take a chance
at him as he crossed over. He said if he ever got out
this time he wouldn't ever be a prisoner again, not for
a salary.

Well, by the end of three weeks everything was in
pretty good shape. The shirt was sent in early, in a
pie, and every time a rat bit Jim he would get up and
write a little in his journal whilst the ink was fresh; the
pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all
carved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in
two, and we had et up the sawdust, and it give us a
most amazing stomach-ache. We reckoned we was all
going to die, but didn't. It was the most undigestible
sawdust I ever see; and Tom said the same. But as I
was saying, we'd got all the work done now, at last;
and we was all pretty much fagged out, too, but mainly
Jim. The old man had wrote a couple of times to the
plantation below Orleans to come and get their run-
away nigger, but hadn't got no answer, because there
warn't no such plantation; so he allowed he would ad-
vertise Jim in the St. Louis and New Orleans papers;
and when he mentioned the St. Louis ones it give me
the cold shivers, and I see we hadn't no time to lose.
So Tom said, now for the nonnamous letters.

"What's them?" I says.

"Warnings to the people that something is up.
Sometimes it's done one way, sometimes another.
But there's always somebody spying around that gives
notice to the governor of the castle. When Louis
XVI. was going to light out of the Tooleries a servant-
girl done it. It's a very good way, and so is the
nonnamous letters. We'll use them both. And it's
usual for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with
him, and she stays in, and he slides out in her clothes.
We'll do that, too."

"But looky here, Tom, what do we want to WARN
anybody for that something's up? Let them find it
out for themselves -- it's their lookout."

"Yes, I know; but you can't depend on them.
It's the way they've acted from the very start -- left
us to do EVERYTHING. They're so confiding and mullet-
headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. So if
we don't GIVE them notice there won't be nobody nor
nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our hard
work and trouble this escape 'll go off perfectly flat;
won't amount to nothing -- won't be nothing TO it."

"Well, as for me, Tom, that's the way I'd like."

"Shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. So I
says:

"But I ain't going to make no complaint. Any
way that suits you suits me. What you going to do
about the servant-girl?"

"You'll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the
night, and hook that yaller girl's frock."

"Why, Tom, that 'll make trouble next morning;
because, of course, she prob'bly hain't got any but
that one."

"I know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes,
to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the
front door."

"All right, then, I'll do it; but I could carry it just
as handy in my own togs."

"You wouldn't look like a servant-girl THEN, would
you?"

"No, but there won't be nobody to see what I look
like, ANYWAY."

"That ain't got nothing to do with it. The thing
for us to do is just to do our DUTY, and not worry
about whether anybody SEES us do it or not. Hain't
you got no principle at all?"

"All right, I ain't saying nothing; I'm the servant-
girl. Who's Jim's mother?"

"I'm his mother. I'll hook a gown from Aunt
Sally."

"Well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when
me and Jim leaves."

"Not much. I'll stuff Jim's clothes full of straw
and lay it on his bed to represent his mother in dis-
guise, and Jim 'll take the nigger woman's gown off of
me and wear it, and we'll all evade together. When a
prisoner of style escapes it's called an evasion. It's
always called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance.
And the same with a king's son; it don't make no differ-
ence whether he's a natural one or an unnatural one."

So Tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and I
smouched the yaller wench's frock that night, and put
it on, and shoved it under the front door, the way Tom
told me to. It said:

   Beware. Trouble is brewing. Keep a sharp lookout.
                                        UNKNOWN FRIEND.

Next night we stuck a picture, which Tom drawed
in blood, of a skull and crossbones on the front door;
and next night another one of a coffin on the back
door. I never see a family in such a sweat. They
couldn't a been worse scared if the place had a been
full of ghosts laying for them behind everything and
under the beds and shivering through the air. If a
door banged, Aunt Sally she jumped and said
"ouch!" if anything fell, she jumped and said
"ouch!" if you happened to touch her, when she
warn't noticing, she done the same; she couldn't face
noway and be satisfied, because she allowed there was
something behind her every time -- so she was always
a-whirling around sudden, and saying "ouch," and
before she'd got two-thirds around she'd whirl back
again, and say it again; and she was afraid to go to bed,
but she dasn't set up. So the thing was working
very well, Tom said; he said he never see a thing
work more satisfactory. He said it showed it was
done right.

So he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very
next morning at the streak of dawn we got another
letter ready, and was wondering what we better do with
it, because we heard them say at supper they was
going to have a nigger on watch at both doors all
night. Tom he went down the lightning-rod to spy
around; and the nigger at the back door was asleep,
and he stuck it in the back of his neck and come back.
This letter said:


   Don't betray me, I wish to be your friend. There
   is a desprate gang of cut-throats from over in the
   Indian Territory going to steal your runaway
   nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare
   you so as you will stay in the house and not bother
   them. I am one of the gang, but have got religgion
   and wish to quit it and lead an honest life again,
   and will betray the helish design. They will sneak
   down from northards, along the fence, at midnight
   exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger's
   cabin to get him. I am to be off a piece and blow
   a tin horn if I see any danger; but stead of that I
   will BA like a sheep soon as they get in and not
   blow at all; then whilst they are getting his chains
   loose, you slip there and lock them in, and can
   kill them at your leasure. Don't do anything but
   just the way I am telling you; if you do they will
   suspicion something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. I
   do not wish any reward but to know I have done the
   right thing.
                                   UNKNOWN FRIEND.



CHAPTER XL.

WE was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and
took my canoe and went over the river a-fishing,
with a lunch, and had a good time, and took a look at
the raft and found her all right, and got home late to
supper, and found them in such a sweat and worry
they didn't know which end they was standing on, and
made us go right off to bed the minute we was done
supper, and wouldn't tell us what the trouble was, and
never let on a word about the new letter, but didn't
need to, because we knowed as much about it as
anybody did, and as soon as we was half up stairs and
her back was turned we slid for the cellar cubboard
and loaded up a good lunch and took it up to our
room and went to bed, and got up about half-past
eleven, and Tom put on Aunt Sally's dress that he
stole and was going to start with the lunch, but says:

"Where's the butter?"

"I laid out a hunk of it," I says, "on a piece of a
corn-pone."

"Well, you LEFT it laid out, then -- it ain't here."

"We can get along without it," I says.

"We can get along WITH it, too," he says; "just
you slide down cellar and fetch it. And then mosey
right down the lightning-rod and come along. I'll go
and stuff the straw into Jim's clothes to represent his
mother in disguise, and be ready to BA like a sheep
and shove soon as you get there."

So out he went, and down cellar went I. The hunk
of butter, big as a person's fist, was where I had left
it, so I took up the slab of corn-pone with it on, and
blowed out my light, and started up stairs very
stealthy, and got up to the main floor all right, but
here comes Aunt Sally with a candle, and I clapped
the truck in my hat, and clapped my hat on my head,
and the next second she see me; and she says:

"You been down cellar?"

"Yes'm."

"What you been doing down there?"

"Noth'n."

"NOTH'N!"

"No'm."

"Well, then, what possessed you to go down there
this time of night?"

"I don't know 'm."

"You don't KNOW? Don't answer me that way.
Tom, I want to know what you been DOING down
there."

"I hain't been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I
hope to gracious if I have."

I reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl
thing she would; but I s'pose there was so many
strange things going on she was just in a sweat about
every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight; so she
says, very decided:

"You just march into that setting-room and stay
there till I come. You been up to something you no
business to, and I lay I'll find out what it is before I'M
done with you."

So she went away as I opened the door and walked
into the setting-room. My, but there was a crowd
there! Fifteen farmers, and every one of them had a
gun. I was most powerful sick, and slunk to a chair
and set down. They was setting around, some of them
talking a little, in a low voice, and all of them fidgety
and uneasy, but trying to look like they warn't; but I
knowed they was, because they was always taking off
their hats, and putting them on, and scratching their
heads, and changing their seats, and fumbling with
their buttons. I warn't easy myself, but I didn't take
my hat off, all the same.

I did wish Aunt Sally would come, and get done
with me, and lick me, if she wanted to, and let me get
away and tell Tom how we'd overdone this thing, and
what a thundering hornet's-nest we'd got ourselves
into, so we could stop fooling around straight off, and
clear out with Jim before these rips got out of patience
and come for us.

At last she come and begun to ask me questions,
but I COULDN'T answer them straight, I didn't know
which end of me was up; because these men was in
such a fidget now that some was wanting to start right
NOW and lay for them desperadoes, and saying it warn't
but a few minutes to midnight; and others was trying
to get them to hold on and wait for the sheep-signal;
and here was Aunty pegging away at the questions,
and me a-shaking all over and ready to sink down in
my tracks I was that scared; and the place getting
hotter and hotter, and the butter beginning to melt and
run down my neck and behind my ears; and pretty
soon, when one of them says, "I'M for going and
getting in the cabin FIRST and right NOW, and catching
them when they come," I most dropped; and a streak
of butter come a-trickling down my forehead, and
Aunt Sally she see it, and turns white as a sheet, and
says:

"For the land's sake, what IS the matter with the
child? He's got the brain-fever as shore as you're
born, and they're oozing out!"

And everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my
hat, and out comes the bread and what was left of the
butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me, and
says:

"Oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad
and grateful I am it ain't no worse; for luck's against
us, and it never rains but it pours, and when I see that
truck I thought we'd lost you, for I knowed by the
color and all it was just like your brains would be if --
Dear, dear, whyd'nt you TELL me that was what you'd
been down there for, I wouldn't a cared. Now cler
out to bed, and don't lemme see no more of you till
morning!"

I was up stairs in a second, and down the lightning-
rod in another one, and shinning through the dark for
the lean-to. I couldn't hardly get my words out, I
was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I could
we must jump for it now, and not a minute to lose --
the house full of men, yonder, with guns!

His eyes just blazed; and he says:

"No! -- is that so? AIN'T it bully! Why, Huck,
if it was to do over again, I bet I could fetch two hun-
dred! If we could put it off till --"

"Hurry! HURRY!" I says. "Where's Jim?"

"Right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm
you can touch him. He's dressed, and everything's
ready. Now we'll slide out and give the sheep-
signal."

But then we heard the tramp of men coming to the
door, and heard them begin to fumble with the pad-
lock, and heard a man say:

"I TOLD you we'd be too soon; they haven't come
-- the door is locked. Here, I'll lock some of you
into the cabin, and you lay for 'em in the dark and kill
'em when they come; and the rest scatter around a
piece, and listen if you can hear 'em coming."

So in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark, and
most trod on us whilst we was hustling to get under
the bed. But we got under all right, and out through
the hole, swift but soft -- Jim first, me next, and Tom
last, which was according to Tom's orders. Now we
was in the lean-to, and heard trampings close by out-
side. So we crept to the door, and Tom stopped us
there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn't make
out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said
he would listen for the steps to get further, and when
he nudged us Jim must glide out first, and him last.
So he set his ear to the crack and listened, and
listened, and listened, and the steps a-scraping around
out there all the time; and at last he nudged us, and
we slid out, and stooped down, not breathing, and not
making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the
fence in Injun file, and got to it all right, and me and
Jim over it; but Tom's britches catched fast on a splinter
on the top rail, and then he hear the steps coming, so he
had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made
a noise; and as he dropped in our tracks and started
somebody sings out:

"Who's that? Answer, or I'll shoot!"

But we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels
and shoved. Then there was a rush, and a BANG, BANG,
BANG! and the bullets fairly whizzed around us! We
heard them sing out:

"Here they are! They've broke for the river!
After 'em, boys, and turn loose the dogs!"

So here they come, full tilt. We could hear them
because they wore boots and yelled, but we didn't wear
no boots and didn't yell. We was in the path to the
mill; and when they got pretty close on to us we
dodged into the bush and let them go by, and then
dropped in behind them. They'd had all the dogs
shut up, so they wouldn't scare off the robbers; but
by this time somebody had let them loose, and here
they come, making powwow enough for a million; but
they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till
they catched up; and when they see it warn't nobody
but us, and no excitement to offer them, they only just
said howdy, and tore right ahead towards the shouting
and clattering; and then we up-steam again, and
whizzed along after them till we was nearly to the
mill, and then struck up through the bush to where
my canoe was tied, and hopped in and pulled for dear
life towards the middle of the river, but didn't make
no more noise than we was obleeged to. Then we
struck out, easy and comfortable, for the island where
my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and
barking at each other all up and down the bank, till we
was so far away the sounds got dim and died out.
And when we stepped on to the raft I says:

"NOW, old Jim, you're a free man again, and I bet
you won't ever be a slave no more."

"En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It 'uz
planned beautiful, en it 'uz done beautiful; en dey
ain't NOBODY kin git up a plan dat's mo' mixed-up en
splendid den what dat one wuz."

We was all glad as we could be, but Tom was the
gladdest of all because he had a bullet in the calf of
his leg.

When me and Jim heard that we didn't feel so brash
as what we did before. It was hurting him consider-
able, and bleeding; so we laid him in the wigwam and
tore up one of the duke's shirts for to bandage him,
but he says:

"Gimme the rags; I can do it myself. Don't stop
now; don't fool around here, and the evasion booming
along so handsome; man the sweeps, and set her
loose! Boys, we done it elegant! -- 'deed we did. I
wish WE'D a had the handling of Louis XVI., there
wouldn't a been no 'Son of Saint Louis, ascend to
heaven!' wrote down in HIS biography; no, sir, we'd
a whooped him over the BORDER -- that's what we'd a
done with HIM -- and done it just as slick as nothing
at all, too. Man the sweeps -- man the sweeps!"

But me and Jim was consulting -- and thinking.
And after we'd thought a minute, I says:

"Say it, Jim."

So he says:

"Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef
it wuz HIM dat 'uz bein' sot free, en one er de boys
wuz to git shot, would he say, 'Go on en save me,
nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one?' Is dat
like Mars Tom Sawyer? Would he say dat? You BET
he wouldn't! WELL, den, is JIM gywne to say it?
No, sah -- I doan' budge a step out'n dis place 'dout
a DOCTOR, not if it's forty year!"

I knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he'd
say what he did say -- so it was all right now, and I
told Tom I was a-going for a doctor. He raised con-
siderable row about it, but me and Jim stuck to it and
wouldn't budge; so he was for crawling out and set-
ting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn't let him.
Then he give us a piece of his mind, but it didn't do
no good.

So when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he
says:

"Well, then, if you re bound to go, I'll tell you the
way to do when you get to the village. Shut the door
and blindfold the doctor tight and fast, and make him
swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse full of
gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all around
the back alleys and everywheres in the dark, and then
fetch him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way
amongst the islands, and search him and take his chalk
away from him, and don't give it back to him till
you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk
this raft so he can find it again. It's the way they
all do."

So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in
the woods when he see the doctor coming till he was
gone again.


CHAPTER XLI.

THE doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-look-
ing old man when I got him up. I told him
me and my brother was over on Spanish Island hunt-
ing yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a
raft we found, and about midnight he must a kicked his
gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot him in the
leg, and we wanted him to go over there and fix it and
not say nothing about it, nor let anybody know, be-
cause we wanted to come home this evening and sur-
prise the folks.

"Who is your folks?" he says.

"The Phelpses, down yonder."

"Oh," he says. And after a minute, he says:

"How'd you say he got shot?"

"He had a dream," I says, "and it shot him."

"Singular dream," he says.

So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and
we started. But when he sees the canoe he didn't like
the look of her -- said she was big enough for one, but
didn't look pretty safe for two. I says:

"Oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the
three of us easy enough."

"What three?"

"Why, me and Sid, and -- and -- and THE GUNS;
that's what I mean."

"Oh," he says.

But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her,
and shook his head, and said he reckoned he'd look
around for a bigger one. But they was all locked and
chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait
till he come back, or I could hunt around further, or
maybe I better go down home and get them ready for
the surprise if I wanted to. But I said I didn't; so
I told him just how to find the raft, and then he started.

I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself,
spos'n he can't fix that leg just in three shakes of a
sheep's tail, as the saying is? spos'n it takes him three
or four days? What are we going to do? -- lay around
there till he lets the cat out of the bag? No, sir; I
know what I'LL do. I'll wait, and when he comes back
if he says he's got to go any more I'll get down there,
too, if I swim; and we'll take and tie him, and keep
him, and shove out down the river; and when Tom's
done with him we'll give him what it's worth, or all
we got, and then let him get ashore.

So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep;
and next time I waked up the sun was away up over
my head! I shot out and went for the doctor's
house, but they told me he'd gone away in the night
some time or other, and warn't back yet. Well, thinks
I, that looks powerful bad for Tom, and I'll dig out
for the island right off. So away I shoved, and turned
the corner, and nearly rammed my head into Uncle
Silas's stomach! He says:

"Why, TOM! Where you been all this time, you
rascal?"

"I hain't been nowheres," I says, "only just hunt-
ing for the runaway nigger -- me and Sid."

"Why, where ever did you go?" he says. "Your
aunt's been mighty uneasy."

"She needn't," I says, "because we was all right.
We followed the men and the dogs, but they outrun us,
and we lost them; but we thought we heard them on
the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them
and crossed over, but couldn't find nothing of them;
so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired
and beat out; and tied up the canoe and went to sleep,
and never waked up till about an hour ago; then we
paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid's at the
post-office to see what he can hear, and I'm a-branch-
ing out to get something to eat for us, and then we're
going home."

So then we went to the post-office to get "Sid"; but
just as I suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old man
he got a letter out of the office, and we waited awhile
longer, but Sid didn't come; so the old man said,
come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he
got done fooling around -- but we would ride. I
couldn't get him to let me stay and wait for Sid; and
he said there warn't no use in it, and I must come
along, and let Aunt Sally see we was all right.

When we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to see
me she laughed and cried both, and hugged me, and
give me one of them lickings of hern that don't amount
to shucks, and said she'd serve Sid the same when he
come.

And the place was plum full of farmers and farmers'
wives, to dinner; and such another clack a body never
heard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue
was a-going all the time. She says:

"Well, Sister Phelps, I've ransacked that-air cabin
over, an' I b'lieve the nigger was crazy. I says to
Sister Damrell -- didn't I, Sister Damrell? -- s'I, he's
crazy, s'I -- them's the very words I said. You all
hearn me: he's crazy, s'I; everything shows it, s'I.
Look at that-air grindstone, s'I; want to tell ME't any
cretur 't's in his right mind 's a goin' to scrabble all
them crazy things onto a grindstone, s'I? Here sich 'n'
sich a person busted his heart; 'n' here so 'n' so
pegged along for thirty-seven year, 'n' all that --
natcherl son o' Louis somebody, 'n' sich everlast'n
rubbage. He's plumb crazy, s'I; it's what I says in
the fust place, it's what I says in the middle, 'n' it's
what I says last 'n' all the time -- the nigger's crazy --
crazy 's Nebokoodneezer, s'I."

"An' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags, Sister
Hotchkiss," says old Mrs. Damrell; "what in the
name o' goodness COULD he ever want of --"

"The very words I was a-sayin' no longer ago th'n
this minute to Sister Utterback, 'n' she'll tell you so
herself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder, sh-she;
'n' s'I, yes, LOOK at it, s'I -- what COULD he a-wanted
of it, s'I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she --"

"But how in the nation'd they ever GIT that grind-
stone IN there, ANYWAY? 'n' who dug that-air HOLE? 'n'
who --"

"My very WORDS, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin' --
pass that-air sasser o' m'lasses, won't ye? -- I was
a-sayin' to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how DID they
git that grindstone in there, s'I. Without HELP, mind
you -- 'thout HELP! THAT'S wher 'tis. Don't tell ME,
s'I; there WUZ help, s'I; 'n' ther' wuz a PLENTY help,
too, s'I; ther's ben a DOZEN a-helpin' that nigger, 'n' I
lay I'd skin every last nigger on this place but I'D find
out who done it, s'I; 'n' moreover, s'I --"

"A DOZEN says you! -- FORTY couldn't a done every
thing that's been done. Look at them case-knife saws
and things, how tedious they've been made; look at
that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's work for six
men; look at that nigger made out'n straw on the bed;
and look at --"

"You may WELL say it, Brer Hightower! It's jist as
I was a-sayin' to Brer Phelps, his own self. S'e, what
do YOU think of it, Sister Hotchkiss, s'e? Think o'
what, Brer Phelps, s'I? Think o' that bed-leg sawed
off that a way, s'e? THINK of it, s'I? I lay it never
sawed ITSELF off, s'I -- somebody SAWED it, s'I; that's
my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn't be no 'count,
s'I, but sich as 't is, it's my opinion, s'I, 'n' if any
body k'n start a better one, s'I, let him DO it, s'I,
that's all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s'I --"

"Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o'
niggers in there every night for four weeks to a done
all that work, Sister Phelps. Look at that shirt --
every last inch of it kivered over with secret African
writ'n done with blood! Must a ben a raft uv 'm at it
right along, all the time, amost. Why, I'd give two
dollars to have it read to me; 'n' as for the niggers
that wrote it, I 'low I'd take 'n' lash 'm t'll --"

"People to HELP him, Brother Marples! Well, I
reckon you'd THINK so if you'd a been in this house for
a while back. Why, they've stole everything they
could lay their hands on -- and we a-watching all the
time, mind you. They stole that shirt right off o' the
line! and as for that sheet they made the rag ladder out
of, ther' ain't no telling how many times they DIDN'T
steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks,
and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a
thousand things that I disremember now, and my new
calico dress; and me and Silas and my Sid and Tom
on the constant watch day AND night, as I was a-telling
you, and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor
sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute,
lo and behold you, they slides right in under our noses
and fools us, and not only fools US but the Injun Terri-
tory robbers too, and actuly gets AWAY with that nigger
safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twenty-
two dogs right on their very heels at that very time!
I tell you, it just bangs anything I ever HEARD of.
Why, SPERITS couldn't a done better and been no
smarter. And I reckon they must a BEEN sperits -- be-
cause, YOU know our dogs, and ther' ain't no better;
well, them dogs never even got on the TRACK of 'm
once! You explain THAT to me if you can! -- ANY of
you!"

"Well, it does beat --"

"Laws alive, I never --"

"So help me, I wouldn't a be --"

"HOUSE-thieves as well as --"

"Goodnessgracioussakes, I'd a ben afeard to live in
sich a --"

"'Fraid to LIVE! -- why, I was that scared I dasn't
hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or SET down,
Sister Ridgeway. Why, they'd steal the very -- why,
goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster I
was in by the time midnight come last night. I hope
to gracious if I warn't afraid they'd steal some o' the
family! I was just to that pass I didn't have no reason-
ing faculties no more. It looks foolish enough NOW, in
the daytime; but I says to myself, there's my two poor
boys asleep, 'way up stairs in that lonesome room, and
I declare to goodness I was that uneasy 't I crep' up
there and locked 'em in! I DID. And anybody would.
Because, you know, when you get scared that way,
and it keeps running on, and getting worse and worse
all the time, and your wits gets to addling, and you get
to doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you
think to yourself, spos'n I was a boy, and was away up
there, and the door ain't locked, and you --" She
stopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she
turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on
me -- I got up and took a walk.

Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come
to not be in that room this morning if I go out to one
side and study over it a little. So I done it. But I
dasn't go fur, or she'd a sent for me. And when it
was late in the day the people all went, and then I
come in and told her the noise and shooting waked up
me and "Sid," and the door was locked, and we
wanted to see the fun, so we went down the lightning-
rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn't never
want to try THAT no more. And then I went on and
told her all what I told Uncle Silas before; and then
she said she'd forgive us, and maybe it was all right
enough anyway, and about what a body might expect
of boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as
fur as she could see; and so, as long as no harm hadn't
come of it, she judged she better put in her time being
grateful we was alive and well and she had us still, stead
of fretting over what was past and done. So then she
kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped
into a kind of a brown study; and pretty soon jumps
up, and says:

"Why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and Sid not
come yet! What HAS become of that boy?"

I see my chance; so I skips up and says:

"I'll run right up to town and get him," I says.

"No you won't," she says. "You'll stay right
wher' you are; ONE'S enough to be lost at a time. If
he ain't here to supper, your uncle 'll go."

Well, he warn't there to supper; so right after
supper uncle went.

He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't
run across Tom's track. Aunt Sally was a good DEAL
uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said there warn't no occa-
sion to be -- boys will be boys, he said, and you'll see
this one turn up in the morning all sound and right.
So she had to be satisfied. But she said she'd set up
for him a while anyway, and keep a light burning so he
could see it.

And then when I went up to bed she come up with
me and fetched her candle, and tucked me in, and
mothered me so good I felt mean, and like I couldn't
look her in the face; and she set down on the bed and
talked with me a long time, and said what a splendid
boy Sid was, and didn't seem to want to ever stop
talking about him; and kept asking me every now and
then if I reckoned he could a got lost, or hurt, or
maybe drownded, and might be laying at this minute
somewheres suffering or dead, and she not by him to
help him, and so the tears would drip down silent, and
I would tell her that Sid was all right, and would be
home in the morning, sure; and she would squeeze my
hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say it again,
and keep on saying it, because it done her good, and
she was in so much trouble. And when she was going
away she looked down in my eyes so steady and gentle,
and says:

"The door ain't going to be locked, Tom, and
there's the window and the rod; but you'll be good,
WON'T you? And you won't go? For MY sake."

Laws knows I WANTED to go bad enough to see about
Tom, and was all intending to go; but after that I
wouldn't a went, not for kingdoms.

But she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind,
so I slept very restless. And twice I went down the
rod away in the night, and slipped around front, and
see her setting there by her candle in the window with
her eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and
I wished I could do something for her, but I couldn't,
only to swear that I wouldn't never do nothing to
grieve her any more. And the third time I waked up
at dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet, and
her candle was most out, and her old gray head was
resting on her hand, and she was asleep.


CHAPTER XLII.

THE old man was uptown again before breakfast, but
couldn't get no track of Tom; and both of them
set at the table thinking, and not saying nothing, and
looking mournful, and their coffee getting cold, and
not eating anything. And by and by the old man
says:

"Did I give you the letter?"

"What letter?"

"The one I got yesterday out of the post-office."

"No, you didn't give me no letter."

"Well, I must a forgot it."

So he rummaged his pockets, and then went off some-
wheres where he had laid it down, and fetched it, and
give it to her. She says:

"Why, it's from St. Petersburg -- it's from Sis."

I allowed another walk would do me good; but I
couldn't stir. But before she could break it open she
dropped it and run -- for she see something. And so
did I. It was Tom Sawyer on a mattress; and that old
doctor; and Jim, in HER calico dress, with his hands
tied behind him; and a lot of people. I hid the letter
behind the first thing that come handy, and rushed.
She flung herself at Tom, crying, and says:

"Oh, he's dead, he's dead, I know he's dead!"

And Tom he turned his head a little, and muttered
something or other, which showed he warn't in his
right mind; then she flung up her hands, and says:

"He's alive, thank God! And that's enough!"
and she snatched a kiss of him, and flew for the house
to get the bed ready, and scattering orders right and left
at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as her tongue
could go, every jump of the way.

I followed the men to see what they was going to do
with Jim; and the old doctor and Uncle Silas followed
after Tom into the house. The men was very huffy,
and some of them wanted to hang Jim for an example
to all the other niggers around there, so they wouldn't
be trying to run away like Jim done, and making such
a raft of trouble, and keeping a whole family scared
most to death for days and nights. But the others said,
don't do it, it wouldn't answer at all; he ain't our
nigger, and his owner would turn up and make us pay
for him, sure. So that cooled them down a little, be-
cause the people that's always the most anxious for to
hang a nigger that hain't done just right is always the
very ones that ain't the most anxious to pay for him
when they've got their satisfaction out of him.

They cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him
a cuff or two side the head once in a while, but Jim
never said nothing, and he never let on to know me,
and they took him to the same cabin, and put his own
clothes on him, and chained him again, and not to no
bed-leg this time, but to a big staple drove into the bot-
tom log, and chained his hands, too, and both legs, and
said he warn't to have nothing but bread and water to
eat after this till his owner come, or he was sold at auc-
tion because he didn't come in a certain length of time,
and filled up our hole, and said a couple of farmers
with guns must stand watch around about the cabin
every night, and a bulldog tied to the door in the day-
time; and about this time they was through with the
job and was tapering off with a kind of generl good-bye
cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes a
look, and says:

"Don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged
to, because he ain't a bad nigger. When I got to
where I found the boy I see I couldn't cut the bullet
out without some help, and he warn't in no condition
for me to leave to go and get help; and he got a little
worse and a little worse, and after a long time he went
out of his head, and wouldn't let me come a-nigh him
any more, and said if I chalked his raft he'd kill me,
and no end of wild foolishness like that, and I see I
couldn't do anything at all with him; so I says, I got
to have HELP somehow; and the minute I says it out
crawls this nigger from somewheres and says he'll help,
and he done it, too, and done it very well. Of course
I judged he must be a runaway nigger, and there I WAS!
and there I had to stick right straight along all the rest
of the day and all night. It was a fix, I tell you! I
had a couple of patients with the chills, and of course
I'd of liked to run up to town and see them, but I
dasn't, because the nigger might get away, and then I'd
be to blame; and yet never a skiff come close enough
for me to hail. So there I had to stick plumb until
daylight this morning; and I never see a nigger that
was a better nuss or faithfuller, and yet he was risking
his freedom to do it, and was all tired out, too, and I
see plain enough he'd been worked main hard lately.
I liked the nigger for that; I tell you, gentlemen, a
nigger like that is worth a thousand dollars -- and kind
treatment, too. I had everything I needed, and the
boy was doing as well there as he would a done at
home -- better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but
there I WAS, with both of 'm on my hands, and there
I had to stick till about dawn this morning; then some
men in a skiff come by, and as good luck would have
it the nigger was setting by the pallet with his head
propped on his knees sound asleep; so I motioned
them in quiet, and they slipped up on him and grabbed
him and tied him before he knowed what he was
about, and we never had no trouble. And the boy
being in a kind of a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the
oars and hitched the raft on, and towed her over very
nice and quiet, and the nigger never made the least
row nor said a word from the start. He ain't no bad
nigger, gentlemen; that's what I think about him."

Somebody says:

"Well, it sounds very good, doctor, I'm obleeged to
say."

Then the others softened up a little, too, and I was
mighty thankful to that old doctor for doing Jim that
good turn; and I was glad it was according to my judg-
ment of him, too; because I thought he had a good
heart in him and was a good man the first time I see
him. Then they all agreed that Jim had acted very
well, and was deserving to have some notice took of
it, and reward. So every one of them promised, right
out and hearty, that they wouldn't cuss him no more.

Then they come out and locked him up. I hoped
they was going to say he could have one or two of the
chains took off, because they was rotten heavy, or could
have meat and greens with his bread and water; but
they didn't think of it, and I reckoned it warn't best
for me to mix in, but I judged I'd get the doctor's yarn
to Aunt Sally somehow or other as soon as I'd got
through the breakers that was laying just ahead of me --
explanations, I mean, of how I forgot to mention about
Sid being shot when I was telling how him and me put
in that dratted night paddling around hunting the run-
away nigger.

But I had plenty time. Aunt Sally she stuck to the
sick-room all day and all night, and every time I see
Uncle Silas mooning around I dodged him.

Next morning I heard Tom was a good deal better,
and they said Aunt Sally was gone to get a nap. So
I slips to the sick-room, and if I found him awake I
reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family that
would wash. But he was sleeping, and sleeping very
peaceful, too; and pale, not fire-faced the way he was
when he come. So I set down and laid for him to
wake. In about half an hour Aunt Sally comes gliding
in, and there I was, up a stump again! She motioned
me to be still, and set down by me, and begun to
whisper, and said we could all be joyful now, because
all the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been sleeping
like that for ever so long, and looking better and peace-
fuller all the time, and ten to one he'd wake up in his
right mind.

So we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a
bit, and opened his eyes very natural, and takes a look,
and says:

"Hello! -- why, I'm at HOME! How's that?
Where's the raft?"

"It's all right," I says.

"And JIM?"

"The same," I says, but couldn't say it pretty
brash. But he never noticed, but says:

"Good! Splendid! NOW we're all right and safe!
Did you tell Aunty?"

I was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says:
"About what, Sid?"

"Why, about the way the whole thing was done."

"What whole thing?"

"Why, THE whole thing. There ain't but one; how
we set the runaway nigger free -- me and Tom."

"Good land! Set the run -- What IS the child
talking about! Dear, dear, out of his head again!"

"NO, I ain't out of my HEAD; I know all what I'm
talking about. We DID set him free -- me and Tom.
We laid out to do it, and we DONE it. And we done
it elegant, too." He'd got a start, and she never
checked him up, just set and stared and stared, and let
him clip along, and I see it warn't no use for ME to put
in. "Why, Aunty, it cost us a power of work --
weeks of it -- hours and hours, every night, whilst you
was all asleep. And we had to steal candles, and the
sheet, and the shirt, and your dress, and spoons, and
tin plates, and case-knives, and the warming-pan, and
the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things, and
you can't think what work it was to make the saws, and
pens, and inscriptions, and one thing or another, and
you can't think HALF the fun it was. And we had to
make up the pictures of coffins and things, and non-
namous letters from the robbers, and get up and down
the lightning-rod, and dig the hole into the cabin, and
made the rope ladder and send it in cooked up in a pie,
and send in spoons and things to work with in your
apron pocket --"

"Mercy sakes!"

"-- and load up the cabin with rats and snakes and
so on, for company for Jim; and then you kept Tom
here so long with the butter in his hat that you come
near spiling the whole business, because the men come
before we was out of the cabin, and we had to rush,
and they heard us and let drive at us, and I got my
share, and we dodged out of the path and let them go
by, and when the dogs come they warn't interested in
us, but went for the most noise, and we got our canoe,
and made for the raft, and was all safe, and Jim was
a free man, and we done it all by ourselves, and WASN'T
it bully, Aunty!"

"Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born
days! So it was YOU, you little rapscallions, that's been
making all this trouble, and turned everybody's wits
clean inside out and scared us all most to death. I've as
good a notion as ever I had in my life to take it out o'
you this very minute. To think, here I've been, night
after night, a -- YOU just get well once, you young
scamp, and I lay I'll tan the Old Harry out o' both o'
ye!"

But Tom, he WAS so proud and joyful, he just COULDN'T
hold in, and his tongue just WENT it -- she a-chipping
in, and spitting fire all along, and both of them going
it at once, like a cat convention; and she says:

"WELL, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it
NOW, for mind I tell you if I catch you meddling with
him again --"

"Meddling with WHO?" Tom says, dropping his
smile and looking surprised.

"With WHO? Why, the runaway nigger, of course.
Who'd you reckon?"

Tom looks at me very grave, and says:

"Tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right?
Hasn't he got away?"

"HIM?" says Aunt Sally; "the runaway nigger?
'Deed he hasn't. They've got him back, safe and
sound, and he's in that cabin again, on bread and
water, and loaded down with chains, till he's claimed
or sold!"

Tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and
his nostrils opening and shutting like gills, and sings
out to me:

"They hain't no RIGHT to shut him up! SHOVE! --
and don't you lose a minute. Turn him loose! he
ain't no slave; he's as free as any cretur that walks
this earth!"

"What DOES the child mean?"

"I mean every word I SAY, Aunt Sally, and if some-
body don't go, I'LL go. I've knowed him all his life,
and so has Tom, there. Old Miss Watson died two
months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going
to sell him down the river, and SAID so; and she set
him free in her will."

"Then what on earth did YOU want to set him free
for, seeing he was already free?"

"Well, that IS a question, I must say; and just like
women! Why, I wanted the ADVENTURE of it; and I'd
a waded neck-deep in blood to -- goodness alive, AUNT
POLLY!"

If she warn't standing right there, just inside the
door, looking as sweet and contented as an angel half
full of pie, I wish I may never!

Aunt Sally jumped for her, and most hugged the
head off of her, and cried over her, and I found a
good enough place for me under the bed, for it was
getting pretty sultry for us, seemed to me. And I
peeped out, and in a little while Tom's Aunt Polly
shook herself loose and stood there looking across at
Tom over her spectacles -- kind of grinding him into
the earth, you know. And then she says:

"Yes, you BETTER turn y'r head away -- I would if I
was you, Tom."

"Oh, deary me!" says Aunt Sally; "IS he changed
so? Why, that ain't TOM, it's Sid; Tom's -- Tom's
-- why, where is Tom? He was here a minute ago."

"You mean where's Huck FINN -- that's what you
mean! I reckon I hain't raised such a scamp as my
Tom all these years not to know him when I SEE him.
That WOULD be a pretty howdy-do. Come out from
under that bed, Huck Finn."

So I done it. But not feeling brash.

Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking
persons I ever see -- except one, and that was Uncle
Silas, when he come in and they told it all to him. It
kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he
didn't know nothing at all the rest of the day, and
preached a prayer-meeting sermon that night that gave
him a rattling ruputation, because the oldest man in
the world couldn't a understood it. So Tom's Aunt
Polly, she told all about who I was, and what; and I
had to up and tell how I was in such a tight place that
when Mrs. Phelps took me for Tom Sawyer -- she
chipped in and says, "Oh, go on and call me Aunt
Sally, I'm used to it now, and 'tain't no need to
change" -- that when Aunt Sally took me for Tom
Sawyer I had to stand it -- there warn't no other way,
and I knowed he wouldn't mind, because it would be
nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an ad-
venture out of it, and be perfectly satisfied. And so
it turned out, and he let on to be Sid, and made things
as soft as he could for me.

And his Aunt Polly she said Tom was right about
old Miss Watson setting Jim free in her will; and so,
sure enough, Tom Sawyer had gone and took all that
trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! and I
couldn't ever understand before, until that minute and
that talk, how he COULD help a body set a nigger free
with his bringing-up.

Well, Aunt Polly she said that when Aunt Sally
wrote to her that Tom and SID had come all right and
safe, she says to herself:

"Look at that, now! I might have expected it,
letting him go off that way without anybody to watch
him. So now I got to go and trapse all the way down
the river, eleven hundred mile, and find out what that
creetur's up to THIS time, as long as I couldn't seem to
get any answer out of you about it."

"Why, I never heard nothing from you," says
Aunt Sally.

"Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask
you what you could mean by Sid being here."

"Well, I never got 'em, Sis."

Aunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and
says:

"You, Tom!"

"Well -- WHAT?" he says, kind of pettish.

"Don t you what ME, you impudent thing -- hand
out them letters."

"What letters?"

"THEM letters. I be bound, if I have to take a-
holt of you I'll --"

"They're in the trunk. There, now. And they're
just the same as they was when I got them out of the
office. I hain't looked into them, I hain't touched
them. But I knowed they'd make trouble, and I
thought if you warn't in no hurry, I'd --"

"Well, you DO need skinning, there ain't no mistake
about it. And I wrote another one to tell you I was
coming; and I s'pose he --"

"No, it come yesterday; I hain't read it yet, but
IT'S all right, I've got that one."

I wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but I
reckoned maybe it was just as safe to not to. So I
never said nothing.


CHAPTER THE LAST

THE first time I catched Tom private I asked him
what was his idea, time of the evasion? -- what it
was he'd planned to do if the evasion worked all right
and he managed to set a nigger free that was already
free before? And he said, what he had planned in his
head from the start, if we got Jim out all safe, was for
us to run him down the river on the raft, and have
adventures plumb to the mouth of the river, and then
tell him about his being free, and take him back up
home on a steamboat, in style, and pay him for his
lost time, and write word ahead and get out all the
niggers around, and have them waltz him into town
with a torchlight procession and a brass-band, and then
he would be a hero, and so would we. But I reckoned
it was about as well the way it was.

We had Jim out of the chains in no time, and when
Aunt Polly and Uncle Silas and Aunt Sally found out
how good he helped the doctor nurse Tom, they made
a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up prime, and
give him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and
nothing to do. And we had him up to the sick-room,
and had a high talk; and Tom give Jim forty dollars
for being prisoner for us so patient, and doing it up so
good, and Jim was pleased most to death, and busted
out, and says:

"DAH, now, Huck, what I tell you? -- what I tell
you up dah on Jackson islan'? I TOLE you I got a
hairy breas', en what's de sign un it; en I TOLE you I
ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich AGIN; en it's
come true; en heah she is! DAH, now! doan' talk
to ME -- signs is SIGNS, mine I tell you; en I knowed
jis' 's well 'at I 'uz gwineter be rich agin as I's a-
stannin' heah dis minute!"

And then Tom he talked along and talked along,
and says, le's all three slide out of here one of these
nights and get an outfit, and go for howling adventures
amongst the Injuns, over in the Territory, for a couple
of weeks or two; and I says, all right, that suits me,
but I ain't got no money for to buy the outfit, and I
reckon I couldn't get none from home, because it's
likely pap's been back before now, and got it all away
from Judge Thatcher and drunk it up.

"No, he hain't," Tom says; "it's all there yet --
six thousand dollars and more; and your pap hain't
ever been back since. Hadn't when I come away,
anyhow."

Jim says, kind of solemn:

"He ain't a-comin' back no mo', Huck."

I says:

"Why, Jim?"

"Nemmine why, Huck -- but he ain't comin' back
no mo."

But I kept at him; so at last he says:

"Doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n down
de river, en dey wuz a man in dah, kivered up, en I
went in en unkivered him and didn' let you come in?
Well, den, you kin git yo' money when you wants it,
kase dat wuz him."

Tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his
neck on a watch-guard for a watch, and is always
seeing what time it is, and so there ain't nothing more
to write about, and I am rotten glad of it, because if
I'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I
wouldn't a tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more.
But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead
of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt
me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there
before.

                       THE END






A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT

by

MARK TWAIN
(Samuel L. Clemens)



From the Internet Wiretap collection, June 1993


[Transcriber's note for edition 12: the formatting has been
changed to current Gutenberg standards, with word-breaks
removed at line-ends. A few typos were corrected.  Both
capitals and italics were used in the original; italics
are now indicated _with underscores_, while the capitals
remain capitals. The "newsprint" and "proclamation"
sections have inverted and misplaced letters in the
original, as the work of an unskilled typesetter; the
Wiretap transcription of this to ASCII has been entirely
retained.]



PREFACE

The ungentle laws and customs touched upon in this tale are
historical, and the episodes which are used to illustrate them
are also historical.  It is not pretended that these laws and
customs existed in England in the sixth century; no, it is only
pretended that inasmuch as they existed in the English and other
civilizations of far later times, it is safe to consider that it is
no libel upon the sixth century to suppose them to have been in
practice in that day also.  One is quite justified in inferring
that whatever one of these laws or customs was lacking in that
remote time, its place was competently filled by a worse one.

The question as to whether there is such a thing as divine right
of kings is not settled in this book.  It was found too difficult.
That the executive head of a nation should be a person of lofty
character and extraordinary ability, was manifest and indisputable;
that none but the Deity could select that head unerringly, was
also manifest and indisputable; that the Deity ought to make that
selection, then, was likewise manifest and indisputable; consequently,
that He does make it, as claimed, was an unavoidable deduction.
I mean, until the author of this book encountered the Pompadour,
and Lady Castlemaine, and some other executive heads of that kind;
these were found so difficult to work into the scheme, that it
was judged better to take the other tack in this book (which
must be issued this fall), and then go into training and settle
the question in another book.  It is, of course, a thing which
ought to be settled, and I am not going to have anything particular
to do next winter anyway.

MARK TWAIN




A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT




A WORD OF EXPLANATION

It was in Warwick Castle that I came across the curious stranger
whom I am going to talk about.  He attracted me by three things:
his candid simplicity, his marvelous familiarity with ancient armor,
and the restfulness of his company--for he did all the talking.
We fell together, as modest people will, in the tail of the herd
that was being shown through, and he at once began to say things
which interested me.  As he talked along, softly, pleasantly,
flowingly, he seemed to drift away imperceptibly out of this world
and time, and into some remote era and old forgotten country;
and so he gradually wove such a spell about me that I seemed
to move among the specters and shadows and dust and mold of a gray
antiquity, holding speech with a relic of it!  Exactly as I would
speak of my nearest personal friends or enemies, or my most familiar
neighbors, he spoke of Sir Bedivere, Sir Bors de Ganis, Sir Launcelot
of the Lake, Sir Galahad, and all the other great names of the
Table Round--and how old, old, unspeakably old and faded and dry
and musty and ancient he came to look as he went on!  Presently
he turned to me and said, just as one might speak of the weather,
or any other common matter--

"You know about transmigration of souls; do you know about
transposition of epochs--and bodies?"

I said I had not heard of it.  He was so little interested--just
as when people speak of the weather--that he did not notice
whether I made him any answer or not. There was half a moment
of silence, immediately interrupted by the droning voice of the
salaried cicerone:

"Ancient hauberk, date of the sixth century, time of King Arthur
and the Round Table; said to have belonged to the knight Sir Sagramor
le Desirous; observe the round hole through the chain-mail in
the left breast; can't be accounted for; supposed to have been
done with a bullet since invention of firearms--perhaps maliciously
by Cromwell's soldiers."

My acquaintance smiled--not a modern smile, but one that must
have gone out of general use many, many centuries ago--and muttered
apparently to himself:

"Wit ye well, _I saw it done_."  Then, after a pause, added:
"I did it myself."

By the time I had recovered from the electric surprise of this
remark, he was gone.

All that evening I sat by my fire at the Warwick Arms, steeped
in a dream of the olden time, while the rain beat upon the windows,
and the wind roared about the eaves and corners.  From time to
time I dipped into old Sir Thomas Malory's enchanting book, and
fed at its rich feast of prodigies and adventures, breathed in
the fragrance of its obsolete names, and dreamed again.  Midnight
being come at length, I read another tale, for a nightcap--this
which here follows, to wit:

HOW SIR LAUNCELOT SLEW TWO GIANTS, AND MADE A CASTLE FREE

   Anon withal came there upon him two great giants,
   well armed, all save the heads, with two horrible
   clubs in their hands.  Sir Launcelot put his shield
   afore him, and put the stroke away of the one
   giant, and with his sword he clave his head asunder.
   When his fellow saw that, he ran away as he were
   wood [*demented], for fear of the horrible strokes,
   and Sir Launcelot after him with all his might,
   and smote him on the shoulder, and clave him to
   the middle.  Then Sir Launcelot went into the hall,
   and there came afore him three score ladies and
   damsels, and all kneeled unto him, and thanked
   God and him of their deliverance.  For, sir, said
   they, the most part of us have been here this
   seven year their prisoners, and we have worked all
   manner of silk works for our meat, and we are all
   great gentle-women born, and blessed be the time,
   knight, that ever thou wert born; for thou hast
   done the most worship that ever did knight in the
   world, that will we bear record, and we all pray
   you to tell us your name, that we may tell our
   friends who delivered us out of prison.  Fair
   damsels, he said, my name is Sir Launcelot du
   Lake.  And so he departed from them and betaught
   them unto God.  And then he mounted upon his
   horse, and rode into many strange and wild
   countries, and through many waters and valleys,
   and evil was he lodged.  And at the last by
   fortune him happened against a night to come to
   a fair courtilage, and therein he found an old
   gentle-woman that lodged him with a good-will,
   and there he had good cheer for him and his horse.
   And when time was, his host brought him into a
   fair garret over the gate to his bed. There
   Sir Launcelot unarmed him, and set his harness
   by him, and went to bed, and anon he fell on
   sleep. So, soon after there came one on
   horseback, and knocked at the gate in great
   haste.  And when Sir Launcelot heard this he rose
   up, and looked out at the window, and saw by the
   moonlight three knights come riding after that
   one man, and all three lashed on him at once
   with swords, and that one knight turned on them
   knightly again and defended him. Truly, said
   Sir Launcelot, yonder one knight shall I help,
   for it were shame for me to see three knights
   on one, and if he be slain I am partner of his
   death.  And therewith he took his harness and
   went out at a window by a sheet down to the four
   knights, and then Sir Launcelot said on high,
   Turn you knights unto me, and leave your
   fighting with that knight. And then they all
   three left Sir Kay, and turned unto Sir Launcelot,
   and there began great battle, for they alight
   all three, and strake many strokes at Sir
   Launcelot, and assailed him on every side. Then
   Sir Kay dressed him for to have holpen Sir
   Launcelot.  Nay, sir, said he, I will none of
   your help, therefore as ye will have my help
   let me alone with them.  Sir Kay for the pleasure
   of the knight suffered him for to do his will,
   and so stood aside. And then anon within six
   strokes Sir Launcelot had stricken them to the earth.

   And then they all three cried, Sir Knight, we
   yield us unto you as man of might matchless.  As
   to that, said Sir Launcelot, I will not take
   your yielding unto me, but so that ye yield
   you unto Sir Kay the seneschal, on that covenant
   I will save your lives and else not.  Fair knight,
   said they, that were we loath to do; for as for
   Sir Kay we chased him hither, and had overcome
   him had ye not been; therefore, to yield us unto
   him it were no reason.  Well, as to that, said
   Sir Launcelot, advise you well, for ye may
   choose whether ye will die or live, for an ye be
   yielden, it shall be unto Sir Kay.  Fair knight,
   then they said, in saving our lives we will do
   as thou commandest us.  Then shall ye, said Sir
   Launcelot, on Whitsunday next coming go unto the
   court of King Arthur, and there shall ye yield
   you unto Queen Guenever, and put you all three
   in her grace and mercy, and say that Sir Kay
   sent you thither to be her prisoners.  On the morn
   Sir Launcelot arose early, and left Sir Kay
   sleeping; and Sir Launcelot took Sir Kay's armor
   and his shield and armed him, and so he went to
   the stable and took his horse, and took his leave
   of his host, and so he departed.  Then soon after
   arose Sir Kay and missed Sir Launcelot; and
   then he espied that he had his armor and his
   horse. Now by my faith I know well that he will
   grieve some of the court of King Arthur; for on
   him knights will be bold, and deem that it is I,
   and that will beguile them; and because of his
   armor and shield I am sure I shall ride in peace.
   And then soon after departed Sir Kay, and
   thanked his host.


As I laid the book down there was a knock at the door, and my
stranger came in.  I gave him a pipe and a chair, and made him
welcome.  I also comforted him with a hot Scotch whisky; gave him
another one; then still another--hoping always for his story.
After a fourth persuader, he drifted into it himself, in a quite
simple and natural way:



THE STRANGER'S HISTORY

I am an American.  I was born and reared in Hartford, in the State
of Connecticut--anyway, just over the river, in the country.  So
I am a Yankee of the Yankees--and practical; yes, and nearly
barren of sentiment, I suppose--or poetry, in other words.  My
father was a blacksmith, my uncle was a horse doctor, and I was
both, along at first.  Then I went over to the great arms factory
and learned my real trade; learned all there was to it; learned
to make everything:  guns, revolvers, cannon, boilers, engines, all
sorts of labor-saving machinery.  Why, I could make anything
a body wanted--anything in the world, it didn't make any difference
what; and if there wasn't any quick new-fangled way to make a thing,
I could invent one--and do it as easy as rolling off a log.  I became
head superintendent; had a couple of thousand men under me.

Well, a man like that is a man that is full of fight--that goes
without saying.  With a couple of thousand rough men under one,
one has plenty of that sort of amusement.  I had, anyway.  At last
I met my match, and I got my dose.  It was during a misunderstanding
conducted with crowbars with a fellow we used to call Hercules.
He laid me out with a crusher alongside the head that made everything
crack, and seemed to spring every joint in my skull and made it
overlap its neighbor.  Then the world went out in darkness, and
I didn't feel anything more, and didn't know anything at all--
at least for a while.

When I came to again, I was sitting under an oak tree, on the
grass, with a whole beautiful and broad country landscape all
to myself--nearly.  Not entirely; for there was a fellow on a horse,
looking down at me--a fellow fresh out of a picture-book.  He was
in old-time iron armor from head to heel, with a helmet on his
head the shape of a nail-keg with slits in it; and he had a shield,
and a sword, and a prodigious spear; and his horse had armor on,
too, and a steel horn projecting from his forehead, and gorgeous
red and green silk trappings that hung down all around him like
a bedquilt, nearly to the ground.

"Fair sir, will ye just?" said this fellow.

"Will I which?"

"Will ye try a passage of arms for land or lady or for--"

"What are you giving me?" I said.  "Get along back to your circus,
or I'll report you."

Now what does this man do but fall back a couple of hundred yards
and then come rushing at me as hard as he could tear, with his
nail-keg bent down nearly to his horse's neck and his long spear
pointed straight ahead.  I saw he meant business, so I was up
the tree when he arrived.

He allowed that I was his property, the captive of his spear.
There was argument on his side--and the bulk of the advantage--
so I judged it best to humor him.  We fixed up an agreement
whereby I was to go with him and he was not to hurt me.  I came
down, and we started away, I walking by the side of his horse.
We marched comfortably along, through glades and over brooks which
I could not remember to have seen before--which puzzled me and
made me wonder--and yet we did not come to any circus or sign of
a circus.  So I gave up the idea of a circus, and concluded he was
from an asylum.  But we never came to an asylum--so I was up
a stump, as you may say.  I asked him how far we were from Hartford.
He said he had never heard of the place; which I took to be a lie,
but allowed it to go at that.  At the end of an hour we saw a
far-away town sleeping in a valley by a winding river; and beyond
it on a hill, a vast gray fortress, with towers and turrets,
the first I had ever seen out of a picture.

"Bridgeport?" said I, pointing.

"Camelot," said he.


My stranger had been showing signs of sleepiness.  He caught
himself nodding, now, and smiled one of those pathetic, obsolete
smiles of his, and said:

"I find I can't go on; but come with me, I've got it all written
out, and you can read it if you like."

In his chamber, he said:  "First, I kept a journal; then by and by,
after years, I took the journal and turned it into a book. How
long ago that was!"

He handed me his manuscript, and pointed out the place where
I should begin:

"Begin here--I've already told you what goes before."  He was
steeped in drowsiness by this time.  As I went out at his door
I heard him murmur sleepily:  "Give you good den, fair sir."

I sat down by my fire and examined my treasure.  The first part
of it--the great bulk of it--was parchment, and yellow with age.
I scanned a leaf particularly and saw that it was a palimpsest.
Under the old dim writing of the Yankee historian appeared traces
of a penmanship which was older and dimmer still--Latin words
and sentences:  fragments from old monkish legends, evidently.
I turned to the place indicated by my stranger and began to read--
as follows:




THE TALE OF THE LOST LAND




CHAPTER I

CAMELOT

"Camelot--Camelot," said I to myself.  "I don't seem to remember
hearing of it before.  Name of the asylum, likely."

It was a soft, reposeful summer landscape, as lovely as a dream,
and as lonesome as Sunday.  The air was full of the smell of
flowers, and the buzzing of insects, and the twittering of birds,
and there were no people, no wagons, there was no stir of life,
nothing going on.  The road was mainly a winding path with hoof-prints
in it, and now and then a faint trace of wheels on either side in
the grass--wheels that apparently had a tire as broad as one's hand.

Presently a fair slip of a girl, about ten years old, with a cataract
of golden hair streaming down over her shoulders, came along.
Around her head she wore a hoop of flame-red poppies. It was as
sweet an outfit as ever I saw, what there was of it.  She walked
indolently along, with a mind at rest, its peace reflected in her
innocent face.  The circus man paid no attention to her; didn't
even seem to see her.  And she--she was no more startled at his
fantastic make-up than if she was used to his like every day of
her life.  She was going by as indifferently as she might have gone
by a couple of cows; but when she happened to notice me, _then_
there was a change!  Up went her hands, and she was turned to stone;
her mouth dropped open, her eyes stared wide and timorously, she
was the picture of astonished curiosity touched with fear.  And
there she stood gazing, in a sort of stupefied fascination, till
we turned a corner of the wood and were lost to her view.  That
she should be startled at me instead of at the other man, was too
many for me; I couldn't make head or tail of it.  And that she
should seem to consider me a spectacle, and totally overlook her
own merits in that respect, was another puzzling thing, and a
display of magnanimity, too, that was surprising in one so young.
There was food for thought here.  I moved along as one in a dream.

As we approached the town, signs of life began to appear.  At
intervals we passed a wretched cabin, with a thatched roof, and
about it small fields and garden patches in an indifferent state of
cultivation.  There were people, too; brawny men, with long, coarse,
uncombed hair that hung down over their faces and made them look
like animals.  They and the women, as a rule, wore a coarse
tow-linen robe that came well below the knee, and a rude sort of
sandal, and many wore an iron collar.  The small boys and girls
were always naked; but nobody seemed to know it.  All of these
people stared at me, talked about me, ran into the huts and fetched
out their families to gape at me; but nobody ever noticed that
other fellow, except to make him humble salutation and get no
response for their pains.

In the town were some substantial windowless houses of stone
scattered among a wilderness of thatched cabins; the streets were
mere crooked alleys, and unpaved; troops of dogs and nude children
played in the sun and made life and noise; hogs roamed and rooted
contentedly about, and one of them lay in a reeking wallow in
the middle of the main thoroughfare and suckled her family.
Presently there was a distant blare of military music; it came
nearer, still nearer, and soon a noble cavalcade wound into view,
glorious with plumed helmets and flashing mail and flaunting banners
and rich doublets and horse-cloths and gilded spearheads; and
through the muck and swine, and naked brats, and joyous dogs, and
shabby huts, it took its gallant way, and in its wake we followed.
Followed through one winding alley and then another,--and climbing,
always climbing--till at last we gained the breezy height where
the huge castle stood.  There was an exchange of bugle blasts;
then a parley from the walls, where men-at-arms, in hauberk and
morion, marched back and forth with halberd at shoulder under
flapping banners with the rude figure of a dragon displayed upon
them; and then the great gates were flung open, the drawbridge
was lowered, and the head of the cavalcade swept forward under
the frowning arches; and we, following, soon found ourselves in
a great paved court, with towers and turrets stretching up into
the blue air on all the four sides; and all about us the dismount
was going on, and much greeting and ceremony, and running to and
fro, and a gay display of moving and intermingling colors, and
an altogether pleasant stir and noise and confusion.



CHAPTER II

KING ARTHUR'S COURT

The moment I got a chance I slipped aside privately and touched
an ancient common looking man on the shoulder and said, in an
insinuating, confidential way:

"Friend, do me a kindness.  Do you belong to the asylum, or are
you just on a visit or something like that?"

He looked me over stupidly, and said:

"Marry, fair sir, me seemeth--"

"That will do," I said; "I reckon you are a patient."

I moved away, cogitating, and at the same time keeping an eye
out for any chance passenger in his right mind that might come
along and give me some light.  I judged I had found one, presently;
so I drew him aside and said in his ear:

"If I could see the head keeper a minute--only just a minute--"

"Prithee do not let me."

"Let you _what_?"

"_Hinder_ me, then, if the word please thee better.  Then he went
on to say he was an under-cook and could not stop to gossip,
though he would like it another time; for it would comfort his
very liver to know where I got my clothes.  As he started away he
pointed and said yonder was one who was idle enough for my purpose,
and was seeking me besides, no doubt.  This was an airy slim boy
in shrimp-colored tights that made him look like a forked carrot,
the rest of his gear was blue silk and dainty laces and ruffles;
and he had long yellow curls, and wore a plumed pink satin cap
tilted complacently over his ear.  By his look, he was good-natured;
by his gait, he was satisfied with himself.  He was pretty enough
to frame.  He arrived, looked me over with a smiling and impudent
curiosity; said he had come for me, and informed me that he was a page.

"Go 'long," I said; "you ain't more than a paragraph."

It was pretty severe, but I was nettled.  However, it never phazed
him; he didn't appear to know he was hurt.  He began to talk and
laugh, in happy, thoughtless, boyish fashion, as we walked along,
and made himself old friends with me at once; asked me all sorts
of questions about myself and about my clothes, but never waited
for an answer--always chattered straight ahead, as if he didn't
know he had asked a question and wasn't expecting any reply, until
at last he happened to mention that he was born in the beginning
of the year 513.

It made the cold chills creep over me!  I stopped and said,
a little faintly:

"Maybe I didn't hear you just right.  Say it again--and say it
slow.  What year was it?"

"513."

"513!  You don't look it!  Come, my boy, I am a stranger and
friendless; be honest and honorable with me.  Are you in your
right mind?"

He said he was.

"Are these other people in their right minds?"

He said they were.

"And this isn't an asylum?  I mean, it isn't a place where they
cure crazy people?"

He said it wasn't.

"Well, then," I said, "either I am a lunatic, or something just
as awful has happened.  Now tell me, honest and true, where am I?"

"IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT."

I waited a minute, to let that idea shudder its way home,
and then said:

"And according to your notions, what year is it now?"

"528--nineteenth of June."

I felt a mournful sinking at the heart, and muttered:  "I shall
never see my friends again--never, never again.  They will not
be born for more than thirteen hundred years yet."

I seemed to believe the boy, I didn't know why.  _Something_ in me
seemed to believe him--my consciousness, as you may say; but my
reason didn't.  My reason straightway began to clamor; that was
natural.  I didn't know how to go about satisfying it, because
I knew that the testimony of men wouldn't serve--my reason would
say they were lunatics, and throw out their evidence.  But all
of a sudden I stumbled on the very thing, just by luck.  I knew
that the only total eclipse of the sun in the first half of the
sixth century occurred on the 21st of June, A.D. 528, O.S., and
began at 3 minutes after 12 noon.  I also knew that no total eclipse
of the sun was due in what to _me_ was the present year--i.e., 1879.
So, if I could keep my anxiety and curiosity from eating the heart
out of me for forty-eight hours, I should then find out for certain
whether this boy was telling me the truth or not.

Wherefore, being a practical Connecticut man, I now shoved this
whole problem clear out of my mind till its appointed day and hour
should come, in order that I might turn all my attention to the
circumstances of the present moment, and be alert and ready to
make the most out of them that could be made.  One thing at a time,
is my motto--and just play that thing for all it is worth, even
if it's only two pair and a jack.  I made up my mind to two things:
if it was still the nineteenth century and I was among lunatics
and couldn't get away, I would presently boss that asylum or know
the reason why; and if, on the other hand, it was really the sixth
century, all right, I didn't want any softer thing:  I would boss
the whole country inside of three months; for I judged I would
have the start of the best-educated man in the kingdom by a matter
of thirteen hundred years and upward.  I'm not a man to waste
time after my mind's made up and there's work on hand; so I said
to the page:

"Now, Clarence, my boy--if that might happen to be your name--
I'll get you to post me up a little if you don't mind.  What is
the name of that apparition that brought me here?"

"My master and thine?  That is the good knight and great lord
Sir Kay the Seneschal, foster brother to our liege the king."

"Very good; go on, tell me everything."

He made a long story of it; but the part that had immediate interest
for me was this:  He said I was Sir Kay's prisoner, and that
in the due course of custom I would be flung into a dungeon and
left there on scant commons until my friends ransomed me--unless
I chanced to rot, first.  I saw that the last chance had the best
show, but I didn't waste any bother about that; time was too
precious.  The page said, further, that dinner was about ended
in the great hall by this time, and that as soon as the sociability
and the heavy drinking should begin, Sir Kay would have me in and
exhibit me before King Arthur and his illustrious knights seated at
the Table Round, and would brag about his exploit in capturing
me, and would probably exaggerate the facts a little, but it
wouldn't be good form for me to correct him, and not over safe,
either; and when I was done being exhibited, then ho for the
dungeon; but he, Clarence, would find a way to come and see me every
now and then, and cheer me up, and help me get word to my friends.

Get word to my friends!  I thanked him; I couldn't do less; and
about this time a lackey came to say I was wanted; so Clarence
led me in and took me off to one side and sat down by me.

Well, it was a curious kind of spectacle, and interesting. It was
an immense place, and rather naked--yes, and full of loud contrasts.
It was very, very lofty; so lofty that the banners depending from
the arched beams and girders away up there floated in a sort of
twilight; there was a stone-railed gallery at each end, high up,
with musicians in the one, and women, clothed in stunning colors,
in the other.  The floor was of big stone flags laid in black and
white squares, rather battered by age and use, and needing repair.
As to ornament, there wasn't any, strictly speaking; though on
the walls hung some huge tapestries which were probably taxed
as works of art; battle-pieces, they were, with horses shaped like
those which children cut out of paper or create in gingerbread;
with men on them in scale armor whose scales are represented by
round holes--so that the man's coat looks as if it had been done
with a biscuit-punch.  There was a fireplace big enough to camp in;
and its projecting sides and hood, of carved and pillared stonework,
had the look of a cathedral door.  Along the walls stood men-at-arms,
in breastplate and morion, with halberds for their only weapon--
rigid as statues; and that is what they looked like.

In the middle of this groined and vaulted public square was an oaken
table which they called the Table Round.  It was as large as
a circus ring; and around it sat a great company of men dressed
in such various and splendid colors that it hurt one's eyes to look
at them.  They wore their plumed hats, right along, except that
whenever one addressed himself directly to the king, he lifted
his hat a trifle just as he was beginning his remark.

Mainly they were drinking--from entire ox horns; but a few were
still munching bread or gnawing beef bones.  There was about
an average of two dogs to one man; and these sat in expectant
attitudes till a spent bone was flung to them, and then they went
for it by brigades and divisions, with a rush, and there ensued
a fight which filled the prospect with a tumultuous chaos of
plunging heads and bodies and flashing tails, and the storm of
howlings and barkings deafened all speech for the time; but that
was no matter, for the dog-fight was always a bigger interest
anyway; the men rose, sometimes, to observe it the better and bet
on it, and the ladies and the musicians stretched themselves out
over their balusters with the same object; and all broke into
delighted ejaculations from time to time. In the end, the winning
dog stretched himself out comfortably with his bone between his
paws, and proceeded to growl over it, and gnaw it, and grease
the floor with it, just as fifty others were already doing; and the
rest of the court resumed their previous industries and entertainments.

As a rule, the speech and behavior of these people were gracious
and courtly; and I noticed that they were good and serious listeners
when anybody was telling anything--I mean in a dog-fightless
interval.  And plainly, too, they were a childlike and innocent lot;
telling lies of the stateliest pattern with a most gentle and
winning naivety, and ready and willing to listen to anybody else's
lie, and believe it, too.  It was hard to associate them with
anything cruel or dreadful; and yet they dealt in tales of blood
and suffering with a guileless relish that made me almost forget
to shudder.

I was not the only prisoner present.  There were twenty or more.
Poor devils, many of them were maimed, hacked, carved, in a frightful
way; and their hair, their faces, their clothing, were caked with
black and stiffened drenchings of blood.  They were suffering
sharp physical pain, of course; and weariness, and hunger and
thirst, no doubt; and at least none had given them the comfort
of a wash, or even the poor charity of a lotion for their wounds;
yet you never heard them utter a moan or a groan, or saw them show
any sign of restlessness, or any disposition to complain.  The
thought was forced upon me:  "The rascals--_they_ have served other
people so in their day; it being their own turn, now, they were
not expecting any better treatment than this; so their philosophical
bearing is not an outcome of mental training, intellectual fortitude,
reasoning; it is mere animal training; they are white Indians."



CHAPTER III

KNIGHTS OF THE TABLE ROUND

Mainly the Round Table talk was monologues--narrative accounts
of the adventures in which these prisoners were captured and their
friends and backers killed and stripped of their steeds and armor.
As a general thing--as far as I could make out--these murderous
adventures were not forays undertaken to avenge injuries, nor to
settle old disputes or sudden fallings out; no, as a rule they were
simply duels between strangers--duels between people who had never
even been introduced to each other, and between whom existed no
cause of offense whatever.  Many a time I had seen a couple of boys,
strangers, meet by chance, and say simultaneously, "I can lick you,"
and go at it on the spot; but I had always imagined until now that
that sort of thing belonged to children only, and was a sign and
mark of childhood; but here were these big boobies sticking to it
and taking pride in it clear up into full age and beyond.  Yet there
was something very engaging about these great simple-hearted
creatures, something attractive and lovable.  There did not seem
to be brains enough in the entire nursery, so to speak, to bait
a fish-hook with; but you didn't seem to mind that, after a little,
because you soon saw that brains were not needed in a society
like that, and indeed would have marred it, hindered it, spoiled
its symmetry--perhaps rendered its existence impossible.

There was a fine manliness observable in almost every face; and
in some a certain loftiness and sweetness that rebuked your
belittling criticisms and stilled them.  A most noble benignity
and purity reposed in the countenance of him they called Sir Galahad,
and likewise in the king's also; and there was majesty and greatness
in the giant frame and high bearing of Sir Launcelot of the Lake.

There was presently an incident which centered the general interest
upon this Sir Launcelot.  At a sign from a sort of master of
ceremonies, six or eight of the prisoners rose and came forward
in a body and knelt on the floor and lifted up their hands toward
the ladies' gallery and begged the grace of a word with the queen.
The most conspicuously situated lady in that massed flower-bed
of feminine show and finery inclined her head by way of assent,
and then the spokesman of the prisoners delivered himself and his
fellows into her hands for free pardon, ransom, captivity, or death,
as she in her good pleasure might elect; and this, as he said, he
was doing by command of Sir Kay the Seneschal, whose prisoners
they were, he having vanquished them by his single might and
prowess in sturdy conflict in the field.

Surprise and astonishment flashed from face to face all over
the house; the queen's gratified smile faded out at the name of
Sir Kay, and she looked disappointed; and the page whispered in
my ear with an accent and manner expressive of extravagant derision--

"Sir _Kay_, forsooth!  Oh, call me pet names, dearest, call me
a marine!  In twice a thousand years shall the unholy invention
of man labor at odds to beget the fellow to this majestic lie!"

Every eye was fastened with severe inquiry upon Sir Kay. But he
was equal to the occasion.  He got up and played his hand like
a major--and took every trick.  He said he would state the case
exactly according to the facts; he would tell the simple
straightforward tale, without comment of his own; "and then,"
said he, "if ye find glory and honor due, ye will give it unto him
who is the mightiest man of his hands that ever bare shield or
strake with sword in the ranks of Christian battle--even him that
sitteth there!" and he pointed to Sir Launcelot.  Ah, he fetched
them; it was a rattling good stroke.  Then he went on and told
how Sir Launcelot, seeking adventures, some brief time gone by,
killed seven giants at one sweep of his sword, and set a hundred
and forty-two captive maidens free; and then went further, still
seeking adventures, and found him (Sir Kay) fighting a desperate
fight against nine foreign knights, and straightway took the battle
solely into his own hands, and conquered the nine; and that night
Sir Launcelot rose quietly, and dressed him in Sir Kay's armor and
took Sir Kay's horse and gat him away into distant lands, and
vanquished sixteen knights in one pitched battle and thirty-four
in another; and all these and the former nine he made to swear
that about Whitsuntide they would ride to Arthur's court and yield
them to Queen Guenever's hands as captives of Sir Kay the Seneschal,
spoil of his knightly prowess; and now here were these half dozen,
and the rest would be along as soon as they might be healed of
their desperate wounds.

Well, it was touching to see the queen blush and smile, and look
embarrassed and happy, and fling furtive glances at Sir Launcelot
that would have got him shot in Arkansas, to a dead certainty.

Everybody praised the valor and magnanimity of Sir Launcelot; and
as for me, I was perfectly amazed, that one man, all by himself,
should have been able to beat down and capture such battalions
of practiced fighters.  I said as much to Clarence; but this mocking
featherhead only said:

"An Sir Kay had had time to get another skin of sour wine into him,
ye had seen the accompt doubled."

I looked at the boy in sorrow; and as I looked I saw the cloud of
a deep despondency settle upon his countenance.  I followed the
direction of his eye, and saw that a very old and white-bearded
man, clothed in a flowing black gown, had risen and was standing
at the table upon unsteady legs, and feebly swaying his ancient
head and surveying the company with his watery and wandering eye.
The same suffering look that was in the page's face was observable
in all the faces around--the look of dumb creatures who know that
they must endure and make no moan.

"Marry, we shall have it again," sighed the boy; "that same old
weary tale that he hath told a thousand times in the same words,
and that he _will_ tell till he dieth, every time he hath gotten his
barrel full and feeleth his exaggeration-mill a-working.  Would
God I had died or I saw this day!"

"Who is it?"

"Merlin, the mighty liar and magician, perdition singe him for
the weariness he worketh with his one tale!  But that men fear
him for that he hath the storms and the lightnings and all the
devils that be in hell at his beck and call, they would have dug
his entrails out these many years ago to get at that tale and
squelch it.  He telleth it always in the third person, making
believe he is too modest to glorify himself--maledictions light
upon him, misfortune be his dole!  Good friend, prithee call me
for evensong."

The boy nestled himself upon my shoulder and pretended to go
to sleep.  The old man began his tale; and presently the lad was
asleep in reality; so also were the dogs, and the court, the lackeys,
and the files of men-at-arms.  The droning voice droned on; a soft
snoring arose on all sides and supported it like a deep and subdued
accompaniment of wind instruments.  Some heads were bowed upon
folded arms, some lay back with open mouths that issued unconscious
music; the flies buzzed and bit, unmolested, the rats swarmed
softly out from a hundred holes, and pattered about, and made
themselves at home everywhere; and one of them sat up like a
squirrel on the king's head and held a bit of cheese in its hands
and nibbled it, and dribbled the crumbs in the king's face with
naive and impudent irreverence.  It was a tranquil scene, and
restful to the weary eye and the jaded spirit.

This was the old man's tale.  He said:

"Right so the king and Merlin departed, and went until an hermit
that was a good man and a great leech.  So the hermit searched
all his wounds and gave him good salves; so the king was there
three days, and then were his wounds well amended that he might
ride and go, and so departed.  And as they rode, Arthur said,
I have no sword.  No force* [*Footnote from M.T.: No matter.],
said Merlin, hereby is a sword that shall be yours and I may.
So they rode till they came to a lake, the which was a fair water
and broad, and in the midst of the lake Arthur was ware of an arm
clothed in white samite, that held a fair sword in that hand.
Lo, said Merlin, yonder is that sword that I spake of.  With that
they saw a damsel going upon the lake.  What damsel is that?
said Arthur.  That is the Lady of the lake, said Merlin; and within
that lake is a rock, and therein is as fair a place as any on earth,
and richly beseen, and this damsel will come to you anon, and then
speak ye fair to her that she will give you that sword.  Anon
withal came the damsel unto Arthur and saluted him, and he her
again.  Damsel, said Arthur, what sword is that, that yonder
the arm holdeth above the water?  I would it were mine, for I have
no sword.  Sir Arthur King, said the damsel, that sword is mine,
and if ye will give me a gift when I ask it you, ye shall have it.
By my faith, said Arthur, I will give you what gift ye will ask.
Well, said the damsel, go ye into yonder barge and row yourself
to the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you, and I will ask
my gift when I see my time.  So Sir Arthur and Merlin alight, and
tied their horses to two trees, and so they went into the ship,
and when they came to the sword that the hand held, Sir Arthur
took it up by the handles, and took it with him.  And the arm
and the hand went under the water; and so they came unto the land
and rode forth.  And then Sir Arthur saw a rich pavilion.  What
signifieth yonder pavilion?  It is the knight's pavilion, said
Merlin, that ye fought with last, Sir Pellinore, but he is out,
he is not there; he hath ado with a knight of yours, that hight
Egglame, and they have fought together, but at the last Egglame
fled, and else he had been dead, and he hath chased him even
to Carlion, and we shall meet with him anon in the highway.  That
is well said, said Arthur, now have I a sword, now will I wage
battle with him, and be avenged on him.  Sir, ye shall not so,
said Merlin, for the knight is weary of fighting and chasing, so
that ye shall have no worship to have ado with him; also, he will
not lightly be matched of one knight living; and therefore it is my
counsel, let him pass, for he shall do you good service in short
time, and his sons, after his days.  Also ye shall see that day
in short space ye shall be right glad to give him your sister
to wed.  When I see him, I will do as ye advise me, said Arthur.
Then Sir Arthur looked on the sword, and liked it passing well.
Whether liketh you better, said Merlin, the sword or the scabbard?
Me liketh better the sword, said Arthur.  Ye are more unwise,
said Merlin, for the scabbard is worth ten of the sword, for while
ye have the scabbard upon you ye shall never lose no blood, be ye
never so sore wounded; therefore, keep well the scabbard always
with you.  So they rode into Carlion, and by the way they met with
Sir Pellinore; but Merlin had done such a craft that Pellinore saw
not Arthur, and he passed by without any words.  I marvel, said
Arthur, that the knight would not speak.  Sir, said Merlin, he saw
you not; for and he had seen you ye had not lightly departed.  So
they came unto Carlion, whereof his knights were passing glad.
And when they heard of his adventures they marveled that he would
jeopard his person so alone.  But all men of worship said it was
merry to be under such a chieftain that would put his person in
adventure as other poor knights did."



CHAPTER IV

SIR DINADAN THE HUMORIST

It seemed to me that this quaint lie was most simply and beautifully
told; but then I had heard it only once, and that makes a difference;
it was pleasant to the others when it was fresh, no doubt.

Sir Dinadan the Humorist was the first to awake, and he soon roused
the rest with a practical joke of a sufficiently poor quality.
He tied some metal mugs to a dog's tail and turned him loose,
and he tore around and around the place in a frenzy of fright,
with all the other dogs bellowing after him and battering and
crashing against everything that came in their way and making
altogether a chaos of confusion and a most deafening din and
turmoil; at which every man and woman of the multitude laughed
till the tears flowed, and some fell out of their chairs and
wallowed on the floor in ecstasy.  It was just like so many children.
Sir Dinadan was so proud of his exploit that he could not keep
from telling over and over again, to weariness, how the immortal
idea happened to occur to him; and as is the way with humorists
of his breed, he was still laughing at it after everybody else had
got through.  He was so set up that he concluded to make a speech--
of course a humorous speech.  I think I never heard so many old
played-out jokes strung together in my life.  He was worse than
the minstrels, worse than the clown in the circus.  It seemed
peculiarly sad to sit here, thirteen hundred years before I was
born, and listen again to poor, flat, worm-eaten jokes that had
given me the dry gripes when I was a boy thirteen hundred years
afterwards.  It about convinced me that there isn't any such thing
as a new joke possible.  Everybody laughed at these antiquities--
but then they always do; I had noticed that, centuries later.
However, of course the scoffer didn't laugh--I mean the boy.  No,
he scoffed; there wasn't anything he wouldn't scoff at. He said
the most of Sir Dinadan's jokes were rotten and the rest were
petrified.  I said "petrified" was good; as I believed, myself,
that the only right way to classify the majestic ages of some of
those jokes was by geologic periods.  But that neat idea hit
the boy in a blank place, for geology hadn't been invented yet.
However, I made a note of the remark, and calculated to educate
the commonwealth up to it if I pulled through.  It is no use
to throw a good thing away merely because the market isn't ripe yet.

Now Sir Kay arose and began to fire up on his history-mill with me
for fuel.  It was time for me to feel serious, and I did.  Sir Kay
told how he had encountered me in a far land of barbarians, who
all wore the same ridiculous garb that I did--a garb that was a work
of enchantment, and intended to make the wearer secure from hurt
by human hands.  However he had nullified the force of the
enchantment by prayer, and had killed my thirteen knights in
a three hours' battle, and taken me prisoner, sparing my life
in order that so strange a curiosity as I was might be exhibited
to the wonder and admiration of the king and the court.  He spoke
of me all the time, in the blandest way, as "this prodigious giant,"
and "this horrible sky-towering monster," and "this tusked and
taloned man-devouring ogre", and everybody took in all this bosh
in the naivest way, and never smiled or seemed to notice that
there was any discrepancy between these watered statistics and me.
He said that in trying to escape from him I sprang into the top of
a tree two hundred cubits high at a single bound, but he dislodged
me with a stone the size of a cow, which "all-to brast" the most
of my bones, and then swore me to appear at Arthur's court for
sentence.  He ended by condemning me to die at noon on the 21st;
and was so little concerned about it that he stopped to yawn before
he named the date.

I was in a dismal state by this time; indeed, I was hardly enough
in my right mind to keep the run of a dispute that sprung up as
to how I had better be killed, the possibility of the killing being
doubted by some, because of the enchantment in my clothes. And yet
it was nothing but an ordinary suit of fifteen-dollar slop-shops.
Still, I was sane enough to notice this detail, to wit:  many of
the terms used in the most matter-of-fact way by this great
assemblage of the first ladies and gentlemen in the land would
have made a Comanche blush.  Indelicacy is too mild a term to convey
the idea.  However, I had read "Tom Jones," and "Roderick Random,"
and other books of that kind, and knew that the highest and first
ladies and gentlemen in England had remained little or no cleaner
in their talk, and in the morals and conduct which such talk
implies, clear up to a hundred years ago; in fact clear into our
own nineteenth century--in which century, broadly speaking,
the earliest samples of the real lady and real gentleman discoverable
in English history--or in European history, for that matter--may be
said to have made their appearance.  Suppose Sir Walter, instead
of putting the conversations into the mouths of his characters,
had allowed the characters to speak for themselves?  We should
have had talk from Rebecca and Ivanhoe and the soft lady Rowena
which would embarrass a tramp in our day.  However, to the
unconsciously indelicate all things are delicate.  King Arthur's
people were not aware that they were indecent and I had presence
of mind enough not to mention it.

They were so troubled about my enchanted clothes that they were
mightily relieved, at last, when old Merlin swept the difficulty
away for them with a common-sense hint.  He asked them why they
were so dull--why didn't it occur to them to strip me.  In half a
minute I was as naked as a pair of tongs!  And dear, dear, to think
of it: I was the only embarrassed person there.  Everybody discussed
me; and did it as unconcernedly as if I had been a cabbage.
Queen Guenever was as naively interested as the rest, and said
she had never seen anybody with legs just like mine before.  It was
the only compliment I got--if it was a compliment.

Finally I was carried off in one direction, and my perilous clothes
in another.  I was shoved into a dark and narrow cell in a dungeon,
with some scant remnants for dinner, some moldy straw for a bed,
and no end of rats for company.



CHAPTER V

AN INSPIRATION

I was so tired that even my fears were not able to keep me awake long.

When I next came to myself, I seemed to have been asleep a very
long time.  My first thought was, "Well, what an astonishing dream
I've had!  I reckon I've waked only just in time to keep from
being hanged or drowned or burned or something....  I'll nap again
till the whistle blows, and then I'll go down to the arms factory
and have it out with Hercules."

But just then I heard the harsh music of rusty chains and bolts,
a light flashed in my eyes, and that butterfly, Clarence, stood
before me!  I gasped with surprise; my breath almost got away from me.

"What!" I said, "you here yet?  Go along with the rest of
the dream! scatter!"

But he only laughed, in his light-hearted way, and fell to making
fun of my sorry plight.

"All right," I said resignedly, "let the dream go on; I'm in no hurry."

"Prithee what dream?"

"What dream?  Why, the dream that I am in Arthur's court--a person
who never existed; and that I am talking to you, who are nothing
but a work of the imagination."

"Oh, la, indeed! and is it a dream that you're to be burned
to-morrow?  Ho-ho--answer me that!"

The shock that went through me was distressing.  I now began
to reason that my situation was in the last degree serious, dream
or no dream; for I knew by past experience of the lifelike intensity
of dreams, that to be burned to death, even in a dream, would be
very far from being a jest, and was a thing to be avoided, by any
means, fair or foul, that I could contrive.  So I said beseechingly:

"Ah, Clarence, good boy, only friend I've got,--for you _are_ my
friend, aren't you?--don't fail me; help me to devise some way
of escaping from this place!"

"Now do but hear thyself!  Escape?  Why, man, the corridors are
in guard and keep of men-at-arms."

"No doubt, no doubt.  But how many, Clarence?  Not many, I hope?"

"Full a score.  One may not hope to escape."  After a pause--
hesitatingly:  "and there be other reasons--and weightier."

"Other ones? What are they?"

"Well, they say--oh, but I daren't, indeed daren't!"

"Why, poor lad, what is the matter?  Why do you blench?  Why do
you tremble so?"

"Oh, in sooth, there is need!  I do want to tell you, but--"

"Come, come, be brave, be a man--speak out, there's a good lad!"

He hesitated, pulled one way by desire, the other way by fear;
then he stole to the door and peeped out, listening; and finally
crept close to me and put his mouth to my ear and told me his
fearful news in a whisper, and with all the cowering apprehension
of one who was venturing upon awful ground and speaking of things
whose very mention might be freighted with death.

"Merlin, in his malice, has woven a spell about this dungeon, and
there bides not the man in these kingdoms that would be desperate
enough to essay to cross its lines with you!  Now God pity me,
I have told it!  Ah, be kind to me, be merciful to a poor boy who
means thee well; for an thou betray me I am lost!"

I laughed the only really refreshing laugh I had had for some time;
and shouted:

"Merlin has wrought a spell!  _Merlin_, forsooth!  That cheap old
humbug, that maundering old ass?  Bosh, pure bosh, the silliest bosh
in the world!  Why, it does seem to me that of all the childish,
idiotic, chuckle-headed, chicken-livered superstitions that ev--
oh, damn Merlin!"

But Clarence had slumped to his knees before I had half finished,
and he was like to go out of his mind with fright.

"Oh, beware!  These are awful words!  Any moment these walls
may crumble upon us if you say such things.  Oh call them back
before it is too late!"

Now this strange exhibition gave me a good idea and set me to
thinking.  If everybody about here was so honestly and sincerely
afraid of Merlin's pretended magic as Clarence was, certainly
a superior man like me ought to be shrewd enough to contrive
some way to take advantage of such a state of things.  I went
on thinking, and worked out a plan. Then I said:

"Get up.  Pull yourself together; look me in the eye.  Do you
know why I laughed?"

"No--but for our blessed Lady's sake, do it no more."

"Well, I'll tell you why I laughed.  Because I'm a magician myself."

"Thou!"  The boy recoiled a step, and caught his breath, for
the thing hit him rather sudden; but the aspect which he took
on was very, very respectful.  I took quick note of that; it
indicated that a humbug didn't need to have a reputation in this
asylum; people stood ready to take him at his word, without that.
I resumed.

"I've know Merlin seven hundred years, and he--"

"Seven hun--"

"Don't interrupt me.  He has died and come alive again thirteen
times, and traveled under a new name every time:  Smith, Jones,
Robinson, Jackson, Peters, Haskins, Merlin--a new alias every
time he turns up.  I knew him in Egypt three hundred years ago;
I knew him in India five hundred years ago--he is always blethering
around in my way, everywhere I go; he makes me tired.  He don't
amount to shucks, as a magician; knows some of the old common
tricks, but has never got beyond the rudiments, and never will.
He is well enough for the provinces--one-night stands and that
sort of thing, you know--but dear me, _he_ oughtn't to set up for
an expert--anyway not where there's a real artist.  Now look here,
Clarence, I am going to stand your friend, right along, and in
return you must be mine.  I want you to do me a favor.  I want
you to get word to the king that I am a magician myself--and the
Supreme Grand High-yu-Muck-amuck and head of the tribe, at that;
and I want him to be made to understand that I am just quietly
arranging a little calamity here that will make the fur fly in these
realms if Sir Kay's project is carried out and any harm comes
to me.  Will you get that to the king for me?"

The poor boy was in such a state that he could hardly answer me.
It was pitiful to see a creature so terrified, so unnerved, so
demoralized.  But he promised everything; and on my side he made
me promise over and over again that I would remain his friend, and
never turn against him or cast any enchantments upon him. Then
he worked his way out, staying himself with his hand along the
wall, like a sick person.

Presently this thought occurred to me:  how heedless I have been!
When the boy gets calm, he will wonder why a great magician like me
should have begged a boy like him to help me get out of this place;
he will put this and that together, and will see that I am a humbug.

I worried over that heedless blunder for an hour, and called myself
a great many hard names, meantime.  But finally it occurred to me
all of a sudden that these animals didn't reason; that _they_ never
put this and that together; that all their talk showed that they
didn't know a discrepancy when they saw it.  I was at rest, then.

But as soon as one is at rest, in this world, off he goes on
something else to worry about.  It occurred to me that I had made
another blunder:  I had sent the boy off to alarm his betters with
a threat--I intending to invent a calamity at my leisure; now
the people who are the readiest and eagerest and willingest to
swallow miracles are the very ones who are hungriest to see you
perform them; suppose I should be called on for a sample?  Suppose
I should be asked to name my calamity?  Yes, I had made a blunder;
I ought to have invented my calamity first.  "What shall I do?
what can I say, to gain a little time?"  I was in trouble again;
in the deepest kind of trouble...

"There's a footstep!--they're coming.  If I had only just a moment
to think....  Good, I've got it.  I'm all right."

You see, it was the eclipse.  It came into my mind in the nick
of time, how Columbus, or Cortez, or one of those people, played
an eclipse as a saving trump once, on some savages, and I saw my
chance.  I could play it myself, now, and it wouldn't be any
plagiarism, either, because I should get it in nearly a thousand
years ahead of those parties.

Clarence came in, subdued, distressed, and said:

"I hasted the message to our liege the king, and straightway he
had me to his presence.  He was frighted even to the marrow,
and was minded to give order for your instant enlargement, and
that you be clothed in fine raiment and lodged as befitted one so
great; but then came Merlin and spoiled all; for he persuaded
the king that you are mad, and know not whereof you speak; and
said your threat is but foolishness and idle vaporing.  They
disputed long, but in the end, Merlin, scoffing, said, 'Wherefore
hath he not _named_ his brave calamity?  Verily it is because he
cannot.'  This thrust did in a most sudden sort close the king's
mouth, and he could offer naught to turn the argument; and so,
reluctant, and full loth to do you the discourtesy, he yet prayeth
you to consider his perplexed case, as noting how the matter stands,
and name the calamity--if so be you have determined the nature
of it and the time of its coming.  Oh, prithee delay not; to delay
at such a time were to double and treble the perils that already
compass thee about.  Oh, be thou wise--name the calamity!"

I allowed silence to accumulate while I got my impressiveness
together, and then said:

"How long have I been shut up in this hole?"

"Ye were shut up when yesterday was well spent.  It is 9 of
the morning now."

"No!  Then I have slept well, sure enough.  Nine in the morning
now!  And yet it is the very complexion of midnight, to a shade.
This is the 20th, then?"

"The 20th--yes."

"And I am to be burned alive to-morrow."  The boy shuddered.

"At what hour?"

"At high noon."

"Now then, I will tell you what to say."  I paused, and stood over
that cowering lad a whole minute in awful silence; then, in a voice
deep, measured, charged with doom, I began, and rose by dramatically
graded stages to my colossal climax, which I delivered in as sublime
and noble a way as ever I did such a thing in my life:  "Go back
and tell the king that at that hour I will smother the whole world
in the dead blackness of midnight; I will blot out the sun, and he
shall never shine again; the fruits of the earth shall rot for lack
of light and warmth, and the peoples of the earth shall famish
and die, to the last man!"

I had to carry the boy out myself, he sunk into such a collapse.
I handed him over to the soldiers, and went back.



CHAPTER VI

THE ECLIPSE

In the stillness and the darkness, realization soon began to
supplement knowledge.  The mere knowledge of a fact is pale; but
when you come to _realize_ your fact, it takes on color. It is
all the difference between hearing of a man being stabbed to
the heart, and seeing it done.  In the stillness and the darkness,
the knowledge that I was in deadly danger took to itself deeper
and deeper meaning all the time; a something which was realization
crept inch by inch through my veins and turned me cold.

But it is a blessed provision of nature that at times like these,
as soon as a man's mercury has got down to a certain point there
comes a revulsion, and he rallies.  Hope springs up, and cheerfulness
along with it, and then he is in good shape to do something for
himself, if anything can be done.  When my rally came, it came with
a bound.  I said to myself that my eclipse would be sure to save me,
and make me the greatest man in the kingdom besides; and straightway
my mercury went up to the top of the tube, and my solicitudes
all vanished.  I was as happy a man as there was in the world.
I was even impatient for to-morrow to come, I so wanted to gather
in that great triumph and be the center of all the nation's wonder
and reverence.  Besides, in a business way it would be the making
of me; I knew that.

Meantime there was one thing which had got pushed into the background
of my mind.  That was the half-conviction that when the nature
of my proposed calamity should be reported to those superstitious
people, it would have such an effect that they would want to
compromise.  So, by and by when I heard footsteps coming, that
thought was recalled to me, and I said to myself, "As sure as
anything, it's the compromise.  Well, if it is good, all right,
I will accept; but if it isn't, I mean to stand my ground and play
my hand for all it is worth."

The door opened, and some men-at-arms appeared.  The leader said:

"The stake is ready. Come!"

The stake!  The strength went out of me, and I almost fell down.
It is hard to get one's breath at such a time, such lumps come into
one's throat, and such gaspings; but as soon as I could speak, I said:

"But this is a mistake--the execution is to-morrow."

"Order changed; been set forward a day.  Haste thee!"

I was lost.  There was no help for me.  I was dazed, stupefied;
I had no command over myself, I only wandered purposely about,
like one out of his mind; so the soldiers took hold of me, and
pulled me along with them, out of the cell and along the maze of
underground corridors, and finally into the fierce glare of daylight
and the upper world.  As we stepped into the vast enclosed court
of the castle I got a shock; for the first thing I saw was the stake,
standing in the center, and near it the piled fagots and a monk.
On all four sides of the court the seated multitudes rose rank
above rank, forming sloping terraces that were rich with color.
The king and the queen sat in their thrones, the most conspicuous
figures there, of course.

To note all this, occupied but a second.  The next second Clarence
had slipped from some place of concealment and was pouring news
into my ear, his eyes beaming with triumph and gladness.  He said:

"Tis through _me_ the change was wrought!  And main hard have I worked
to do it, too.  But when I revealed to them the calamity in store,
and saw how mighty was the terror it did engender, then saw I also
that this was the time to strike!  Wherefore I diligently pretended,
unto this and that and the other one, that your power against the sun
could not reach its full until the morrow; and so if any would save
the sun and the world, you must be slain to-day, while your
enchantments are but in the weaving and lack potency.  Odsbodikins,
it was but a dull lie, a most indifferent invention, but you should
have seen them seize it and swallow it, in the frenzy of their
fright, as it were salvation sent from heaven; and all the while
was I laughing in my sleeve the one moment, to see them so cheaply
deceived, and glorifying God the next, that He was content to let
the meanest of His creatures be His instrument to the saving of
thy life.  Ah how happy has the matter sped!  You will not need
to do the sun a _real_ hurt--ah, forget not that, on your soul forget
it not!  Only make a little darkness--only the littlest little
darkness, mind, and cease with that.  It will be sufficient.  They
will see that I spoke falsely,--being ignorant, as they will fancy--
and with the falling of the first shadow of that darkness you
shall see them go mad with fear; and they will set you free and
make you great!  Go to thy triumph, now!  But remember--ah, good
friend, I implore thee remember my supplication, and do the blessed
sun no hurt.  For _my_ sake, thy true friend."

I choked out some words through my grief and misery; as much as
to say I would spare the sun; for which the lad's eyes paid me back
with such deep and loving gratitude that I had not the heart
to tell him his good-hearted foolishness had ruined me and sent me
to my death.

As the soldiers assisted me across the court the stillness was
so profound that if I had been blindfold I should have supposed
I was in a solitude instead of walled in by four thousand people.
There was not a movement perceptible in those masses of humanity;
they were as rigid as stone images, and as pale; and dread sat
upon every countenance.  This hush continued while I was being
chained to the stake; it still continued while the fagots were
carefully and tediously piled about my ankles, my knees, my thighs,
my body.  Then there was a pause, and a deeper hush, if possible,
and a man knelt down at my feet with a blazing torch; the multitude
strained forward, gazing, and parting slightly from their seats
without knowing it; the monk raised his hands above my head, and
his eyes toward the blue sky, and began some words in Latin; in
this attitude he droned on and on, a little while, and then stopped.
I waited two or three moments; then looked up; he was standing
there petrified.  With a common impulse the multitude rose slowly
up and stared into the sky.  I followed their eyes, as sure as guns,
there was my eclipse beginning!  The life went boiling through
my veins; I was a new man!  The rim of black spread slowly into
the sun's disk, my heart beat higher and higher, and still the
assemblage and the priest stared into the sky, motionless.  I knew
that this gaze would be turned upon me, next.  When it was, I was
ready.  I was in one of the most grand attitudes I ever struck,
with my arm stretched up pointing to the sun.  It was a noble
effect.  You could _see_ the shudder sweep the mass like a wave.
Two shouts rang out, one close upon the heels of the other:

"Apply the torch!"

"I forbid it!"

The one was from Merlin, the other from the king.  Merlin started
from his place--to apply the torch himself, I judged.  I said:

"Stay where you are.  If any man moves--even the king--before
I give him leave, I will blast him with thunder, I will consume
him with lightnings!"

The multitude sank meekly into their seats, and I was just expecting
they would.  Merlin hesitated a moment or two, and I was on pins
and needles during that little while.  Then he sat down, and I took
a good breath; for I knew I was master of the situation now.
The king said:

"Be merciful, fair sir, and essay no further in this perilous matter,
lest disaster follow.  It was reported to us that your powers could
not attain unto their full strength until the morrow; but--"

"Your Majesty thinks the report may have been a lie?  It _was_ a lie."

That made an immense effect; up went appealing hands everywhere,
and the king was assailed with a storm of supplications that
I might be bought off at any price, and the calamity stayed.
The king was eager to comply. He said:

"Name any terms, reverend sir, even to the halving of my kingdom;
but banish this calamity, spare the sun!"

My fortune was made.  I would have taken him up in a minute, but
I couldn't stop an eclipse; the thing was out of the question.  So
I asked time to consider.  The king said:

"How long--ah, how long, good sir?  Be merciful; look, it groweth
darker, moment by moment.  Prithee how long?"

"Not long.  Half an hour--maybe an hour."

There were a thousand pathetic protests, but I couldn't shorten up
any, for I couldn't remember how long a total eclipse lasts.  I was
in a puzzled condition, anyway, and wanted to think.  Something
was wrong about that eclipse, and the fact was very unsettling.
If this wasn't the one I was after, how was I to tell whether this
was the sixth century, or nothing but a dream?  Dear me, if I could
only prove it was the latter!  Here was a glad new hope.  If the boy
was right about the date, and this was surely the 20th, it _wasn't_
the sixth century.  I reached for the monk's sleeve, in considerable
excitement, and asked him what day of the month it was.

Hang him, he said it was the _twenty-first_!  It made me turn cold
to hear him.  I begged him not to make any mistake about it; but
he was sure; he knew it was the 21st.  So, that feather-headed
boy had botched things again!  The time of the day was right
for the eclipse; I had seen that for myself, in the beginning,
by the dial that was near by.  Yes, I was in King Arthur's court,
and I might as well make the most out of it I could.

The darkness was steadily growing, the people becoming more and
more distressed.  I now said:

"I have reflected, Sir King.  For a lesson, I will let this darkness
proceed, and spread night in the world; but whether I blot out
the sun for good, or restore it, shall rest with you.  These are
the terms, to wit:  You shall remain king over all your dominions,
and receive all the glories and honors that belong to the kingship;
but you shall appoint me your perpetual minister and executive,
and give me for my services one per cent of such actual increase
of revenue over and above its present amount as I may succeed
in creating for the state.  If I can't live on that, I sha'n't ask
anybody to give me a lift.  Is it satisfactory?"

There was a prodigious roar of applause, and out of the midst
of it the king's voice rose, saying:

"Away with his bonds, and set him free! and do him homage, high
and low, rich and poor, for he is become the king's right hand,
is clothed with power and authority, and his seat is upon the highest
step of the throne!  Now sweep away this creeping night, and bring
the light and cheer again, that all the world may bless thee."

But I said:

"That a common man should be shamed before the world, is nothing;
but it were dishonor to the _king_ if any that saw his minister naked
should not also see him delivered from his shame.  If I might ask
that my clothes be brought again--"

"They are not meet," the king broke in.  "Fetch raiment of another
sort; clothe him like a prince!"

My idea worked.  I wanted to keep things as they were till the
eclipse was total, otherwise they would be trying again to get
me to dismiss the darkness, and of course I couldn't do it.  Sending
for the clothes gained some delay, but not enough.  So I had to make
another excuse.  I said it would be but natural if the king should
change his mind and repent to some extent of what he had done
under excitement; therefore I would let the darkness grow a while,
and if at the end of a reasonable time the king had kept his mind
the same, the darkness should be dismissed.  Neither the king nor
anybody else was satisfied with that arrangement, but I had
to stick to my point.

It grew darker and darker and blacker and blacker, while I struggled
with those awkward sixth-century clothes.  It got to be pitch dark,
at last, and the multitude groaned with horror to feel the cold
uncanny night breezes fan through the place and see the stars
come out and twinkle in the sky.  At last the eclipse was total,
and I was very glad of it, but everybody else was in misery; which
was quite natural. I said:

"The king, by his silence, still stands to the terms."  Then
I lifted up my hands--stood just so a moment--then I said, with
the most awful solemnity:  "Let the enchantment dissolve and
pass harmless away!"

There was no response, for a moment, in that deep darkness and
that graveyard hush.  But when the silver rim of the sun pushed
itself out, a moment or two later, the assemblage broke loose with
a vast shout and came pouring down like a deluge to smother me
with blessings and gratitude; and Clarence was not the last of
the wash, to be sure.



CHAPTER VII

MERLIN'S TOWER

Inasmuch as I was now the second personage in the Kingdom, as far
as political power and authority were concerned, much was made
of me.  My raiment was of silks and velvets and cloth of gold,
and by consequence was very showy, also uncomfortable.  But habit
would soon reconcile me to my clothes; I was aware of that.  I was
given the choicest suite of apartments in the castle, after
the king's.  They were aglow with loud-colored silken hangings,
but the stone floors had nothing but rushes on them for a carpet,
and they were misfit rushes at that, being not all of one breed.
As for conveniences, properly speaking, there weren't any.  I mean
_little_ conveniences; it is the little conveniences that make
the real comfort of life.  The big oaken chairs, graced with rude
carvings, were well enough, but that was the stopping place.
There was no soap, no matches, no looking-glass--except a metal
one, about as powerful as a pail of water.  And not a chromo.
I had been used to chromos for years, and I saw now that without
my suspecting it a passion for art had got worked into the fabric
of my being, and was become a part of me.  It made me homesick
to look around over this proud and gaudy but heartless barrenness
and remember that in our house in East Hartford, all unpretending
as it was, you couldn't go into a room but you would find an
insurance-chromo, or at least a three-color God-Bless-Our-Home
over the door; and in the parlor we had nine.  But here, even in
my grand room of state, there wasn't anything in the nature of
a picture except a thing the size of a bedquilt, which was either
woven or knitted (it had darned places in it), and nothing in it
was the right color or the right shape; and as for proportions,
even Raphael himself couldn't have botched them more formidably,
after all his practice on those nightmares they call his "celebrated
Hampton Court cartoons."  Raphael was a bird.  We had several
of his chromos; one was his "Miraculous Draught of Fishes," where
he puts in a miracle of his own--puts three men into a canoe which
wouldn't have held a dog without upsetting.  I always admired
to study R.'s art, it was so fresh and unconventional.

There wasn't even a bell or a speaking-tube in the castle.  I had
a great many servants, and those that were on duty lolled in the
anteroom; and when I wanted one of them I had to go and call for him.
There was no gas, there were no candles; a bronze dish half full
of boarding-house butter with a blazing rag floating in it was
the thing that produced what was regarded as light.  A lot of
these hung along the walls and modified the dark, just toned it
down enough to make it dismal.  If you went out at night, your
servants carried torches.  There were no books, pens, paper or
ink, and no glass in the openings they believed to be windows.
It is a little thing--glass is--until it is absent, then it becomes
a big thing.  But perhaps the worst of all was, that there wasn't
any sugar, coffee, tea, or tobacco.  I saw that I was just another
Robinson Crusoe cast away on an uninhabited island, with no society
but some more or less tame animals, and if I wanted to make life
bearable I must do as he did--invent, contrive, create, reorganize
things; set brain and hand to work, and keep them busy.  Well,
that was in my line.

One thing troubled me along at first--the immense interest which
people took in me.  Apparently the whole nation wanted a look
at me.  It soon transpired that the eclipse had scared the British
world almost to death; that while it lasted the whole country,
from one end to the other, was in a pitiable state of panic, and
the churches, hermitages, and monkeries overflowed with praying
and weeping poor creatures who thought the end of the world was
come.  Then had followed the news that the producer of this awful
event was a stranger, a mighty magician at Arthur's court; that he
could have blown out the sun like a candle, and was just going
to do it when his mercy was purchased, and he then dissolved
his enchantments, and was now recognized and honored as the man
who had by his unaided might saved the globe from destruction and
its peoples from extinction.  Now if you consider that everybody
believed that, and not only believed it, but never even dreamed
of doubting it, you will easily understand that there was not
a person in all Britain that would not have walked fifty miles
to get a sight of me.  Of course I was all the talk--all other
subjects were dropped; even the king became suddenly a person of
minor interest and notoriety.  Within twenty-four hours the
delegations began to arrive, and from that time onward for a fortnight
they kept coming.  The village was crowded, and all the countryside.
I had to go out a dozen times a day and show myself to these
reverent and awe-stricken multitudes.  It came to be a great burden,
as to time and trouble, but of course it was at the same time
compensatingly agreeable to be so celebrated and such a center
of homage.  It turned Brer Merlin green with envy and spite, which
was a great satisfaction to me.  But there was one thing I couldn't
understand--nobody had asked for an autograph.  I spoke to Clarence
about it.  By George!  I had to explain to him what it was.  Then
he said nobody in the country could read or write but a few dozen
priests.  Land! think of that.

There was another thing that troubled me a little.  Those multitudes
presently began to agitate for another miracle.  That was natural.
To be able to carry back to their far homes the boast that they
had seen the man who could command the sun, riding in the heavens,
and be obeyed, would make them great in the eyes of their neighbors,
and envied by them all; but to be able to also say they had seen
him work a miracle themselves--why, people would come a distance
to see _them_.  The pressure got to be pretty strong.  There was
going to be an eclipse of the moon, and I knew the date and hour,
but it was too far away.  Two years.  I would have given a good
deal for license to hurry it up and use it now when there was
a big market for it.  It seemed a great pity to have it wasted so,
and come lagging along at a time when a body wouldn't have any
use for it, as like as not.  If it had been booked for only a month
away, I could have sold it short; but, as matters stood, I couldn't
seem to cipher out any way to make it do me any good, so I gave up
trying.  Next, Clarence found that old Merlin was making himself
busy on the sly among those people.  He was spreading a report that
I was a humbug, and that the reason I didn't accommodate the people
with a miracle was because I couldn't.  I saw that I must do
something.  I presently thought out a plan.

By my authority as executive I threw Merlin into prison--the same
cell I had occupied myself.  Then I gave public notice by herald
and trumpet that I should be busy with affairs of state for
a fortnight, but about the end of that time I would take a moment's
leisure and blow up Merlin's stone tower by fires from heaven;
in the meantime, whoso listened to evil reports about me, let him
beware.  Furthermore, I would perform but this one miracle at
this time, and no more; if it failed to satisfy and any murmured,
I would turn the murmurers into horses, and make them useful.
Quiet ensued.

I took Clarence into my confidence, to a certain degree, and we
went to work privately.  I told him that this was a sort of miracle
that required a trifle of preparation, and that it would be sudden
death to ever talk about these preparations to anybody.  That made
his mouth safe enough.  Clandestinely we made a few bushels of
first-rate blasting powder, and I superintended my armorers while
they constructed a lightning-rod and some wires.  This old stone
tower was very massive--and rather ruinous, too, for it was Roman,
and four hundred years old.  Yes, and handsome, after a rude
fashion, and clothed with ivy from base to summit, as with a shirt
of scale mail.  It stood on a lonely eminence, in good view from
the castle, and about half a mile away.

Working by night, we stowed the powder in the tower--dug stones
out, on the inside, and buried the powder in the walls themselves,
which were fifteen feet thick at the base.  We put in a peck
at a time, in a dozen places.  We could have blown up the Tower
of London with these charges.  When the thirteenth night was come
we put up our lightning-rod, bedded it in one of the batches of
powder, and ran wires from it to the other batches.  Everybody
had shunned that locality from the day of my proclamation, but
on the morning of the fourteenth I thought best to warn the people,
through the heralds, to keep clear away--a quarter of a mile away.
Then added, by command, that at some time during the twenty-four
hours I would consummate the miracle, but would first give a brief
notice; by flags on the castle towers if in the daytime, by
torch-baskets in the same places if at night.

Thunder-showers had been tolerably frequent of late, and I was
not much afraid of a failure; still, I shouldn't have cared for
a delay of a day or two; I should have explained that I was busy
with affairs of state yet, and the people must wait.

Of course, we had a blazing sunny day--almost the first one without
a cloud for three weeks; things always happen so.  I kept secluded,
and watched the weather.  Clarence dropped in from time to time
and said the public excitement was growing and growing all the
time, and the whole country filling up with human masses as far
as one could see from the battlements.  At last the wind sprang up
and a cloud appeared--in the right quarter, too, and just at
nightfall.  For a little while I watched that distant cloud spread
and blacken, then I judged it was time for me to appear.  I ordered
the torch-baskets to be lit, and Merlin liberated and sent to me.
A quarter of an hour later I ascended the parapet and there found
the king and the court assembled and gazing off in the darkness
toward Merlin's Tower.  Already the darkness was so heavy that
one could not see far; these people and the old turrets, being
partly in deep shadow and partly in the red glow from the great
torch-baskets overhead, made a good deal of a picture.

Merlin arrived in a gloomy mood.  I said:

"You wanted to burn me alive when I had not done you any harm,
and latterly you have been trying to injure my professional
reputation.  Therefore I am going to call down fire and blow up
your tower, but it is only fair to give you a chance; now if you
think you can break my enchantments and ward off the fires, step
to the bat, it's your innings."

"I can, fair sir, and I will. Doubt it not."

He drew an imaginary circle on the stones of the roof, and burnt
a pinch of powder in it, which sent up a small cloud of aromatic
smoke, whereat everybody fell back and began to cross themselves
and get uncomfortable.  Then he began to mutter and make passes
in the air with his hands.  He worked himself up slowly and
gradually into a sort of frenzy, and got to thrashing around with
his arms like the sails of a windmill.  By this time the storm had
about reached us; the gusts of wind were flaring the torches and
making the shadows swash about, the first heavy drops of rain
were falling, the world abroad was black as pitch, the lightning
began to wink fitfully.  Of course, my rod would be loading itself
now.  In fact, things were imminent. So I said:

"You have had time enough.  I have given you every advantage,
and not interfered.  It is plain your magic is weak. It is only
fair that I begin now."

I made about three passes in the air, and then there was an awful
crash and that old tower leaped into the sky in chunks, along
with a vast volcanic fountain of fire that turned night to noonday,
and showed a thousand acres of human beings groveling on the ground
in a general collapse of consternation.  Well, it rained mortar and
masonry the rest of the week.  This was the report; but probably
the facts would have modified it.

It was an effective miracle.  The great bothersome temporary
population vanished.  There were a good many thousand tracks
in the mud the next morning, but they were all outward bound.
If I had advertised another miracle I couldn't have raised an
audience with a sheriff.

Merlin's stock was flat.  The king wanted to stop his wages; he
even wanted to banish him, but I interfered.  I said he would be
useful to work the weather, and attend to small matters like that,
and I would give him a lift now and then when his poor little
parlor-magic soured on him.  There wasn't a rag of his tower left,
but I had the government rebuild it for him, and advised him
to take boarders; but he was too high-toned for that.  And as for
being grateful, he never even said thank you.  He was a rather
hard lot, take him how you might; but then you couldn't fairly
expect a man to be sweet that had been set back so.



CHAPTER VIII

THE BOSS

To be vested with enormous authority is a fine thing; but to have
the on-looking world consent to it is a finer.  The tower episode
solidified my power, and made it impregnable.  If any were perchance
disposed to be jealous and critical before that, they experienced
a change of heart, now.  There was not any one in the kingdom
who would have considered it good judgment to meddle with my matters.

I was fast getting adjusted to my situation and circumstances.
For a time, I used to wake up, mornings, and smile at my "dream,"
and listen for the Colt's factory whistle; but that sort of thing
played itself out, gradually, and at last I was fully able to realize
that I was actually living in the sixth century, and in Arthur's
court, not a lunatic asylum.  After that, I was just as much
at home in that century as I could have been in any other; and
as for preference, I wouldn't have traded it for the twentieth.
Look at the opportunities here for a man of knowledge, brains,
pluck, and enterprise to sail in and grow up with the country.
The grandest field that ever was; and all my own; not a competitor;
not a man who wasn't a baby to me in acquirements and capacities;
whereas, what would I amount to in the twentieth century?  I should
be foreman of a factory, that is about all; and could drag a seine
down street any day and catch a hundred better men than myself.

What a jump I had made!  I couldn't keep from thinking about it,
and contemplating it, just as one does who has struck oil.  There
was nothing back of me that could approach it, unless it might be
Joseph's case; and Joseph's only approached it, it didn't equal
it, quite.  For it stands to reason that as Joseph's splendid
financial ingenuities advantaged nobody but the king, the general
public must have regarded him with a good deal of disfavor, whereas
I had done my entire public a kindness in sparing the sun, and was
popular by reason of it.

I was no shadow of a king; I was the substance; the king himself
was the shadow.  My power was colossal; and it was not a mere
name, as such things have generally been, it was the genuine
article.  I stood here, at the very spring and source of the second
great period of the world's history; and could see the trickling
stream of that history gather and deepen and broaden, and roll
its mighty tides down the far centuries; and I could note the
upspringing of adventurers like myself in the shelter of its long
array of thrones:  De Montforts, Gavestons, Mortimers, Villierses;
the war-making, campaign-directing wantons of France, and Charles
the Second's scepter-wielding drabs; but nowhere in the procession
was my full-sized fellow visible.  I was a Unique; and glad to know
that that fact could not be dislodged or challenged for thirteen
centuries and a half, for sure.  Yes, in power I was equal to
the king.  At the same time there was another power that was
a trifle stronger than both of us put together.  That was the Church.
I do not wish to disguise that fact.  I couldn't, if I wanted to.
But never mind about that, now; it will show up, in its proper
place, later on.  It didn't cause me any trouble in the beginning--
at least any of consequence.

Well, it was a curious country, and full of interest.  And the
people!  They were the quaintest and simplest and trustingest race;
why, they were nothing but rabbits.  It was pitiful for a person
born in a wholesome free atmosphere to listen to their humble
and hearty outpourings of loyalty toward their king and Church
and nobility; as if they had any more occasion to love and honor
king and Church and noble than a slave has to love and honor
the lash, or a dog has to love and honor the stranger that kicks him!
Why, dear me, _any_ kind of royalty, howsoever modified, _any_ kind
of aristocracy, howsoever pruned, is rightly an insult; but if you
are born and brought up under that sort of arrangement you probably
never find it out for yourself, and don't believe it when somebody
else tells you.  It is enough to make a body ashamed of his race
to think of the sort of froth that has always occupied its thrones
without shadow of right or reason, and the seventh-rate people
that have always figured as its aristocracies--a company of monarchs
and nobles who, as a rule, would have achieved only poverty and
obscurity if left, like their betters, to their own exertions.

The most of King Arthur's British nation were slaves, pure and
simple, and bore that name, and wore the iron collar on their
necks; and the rest were slaves in fact, but without the name;
they imagined themselves men and freemen, and called themselves
so.  The truth was, the nation as a body was in the world for one
object, and one only:  to grovel before king and Church and noble;
to slave for them, sweat blood for them, starve that they might
be fed, work that they might play, drink misery to the dregs that
they might be happy, go naked that they might wear silks and
jewels, pay taxes that they might be spared from paying them,
be familiar all their lives with the degrading language and postures
of adulation that they might walk in pride and think themselves
the gods of this world.  And for all this, the thanks they got were
cuffs and contempt; and so poor-spirited were they that they took
even this sort of attention as an honor.

Inherited ideas are a curious thing, and interesting to observe
and examine.  I had mine, the king and his people had theirs.
In both cases they flowed in ruts worn deep by time and habit,
and the man who should have proposed to divert them by reason
and argument would have had a long contract on his hands.  For
instance, those people had inherited the idea that all men without
title and a long pedigree, whether they had great natural gifts
and acquirements or hadn't, were creatures of no more consideration
than so many animals, bugs, insects; whereas I had inherited the idea
that human daws who can consent to masquerade in the peacock-shams
of inherited dignities and unearned titles, are of no good but
to be laughed at.  The way I was looked upon was odd, but it was
natural.  You know how the keeper and the public regard the elephant
in the menagerie:  well, that is the idea.  They are full of
admiration of his vast bulk and his prodigious strength; they
speak with pride of the fact that he can do a hundred marvels
which are far and away beyond their own powers; and they speak
with the same pride of the fact that in his wrath he is able
to drive a thousand men before him.  But does that make him one
of _them_?  No; the raggedest tramp in the pit would smile at
the idea.  He couldn't comprehend it; couldn't take it in; couldn't
in any remote way conceive of it.  Well, to the king, the nobles,
and all the nation, down to the very slaves and tramps, I was
just that kind of an elephant, and nothing more.  I was admired,
also feared; but it was as an animal is admired and feared.
The animal is not reverenced, neither was I; I was not even
respected.  I had no pedigree, no inherited title; so in the king's
and nobles' eyes I was mere dirt; the people regarded me with
wonder and awe, but there was no reverence mixed with it; through
the force of inherited ideas they were not able to conceive of
anything being entitled to that except pedigree and lordship.
There you see the hand of that awful power, the Roman Catholic
Church.  In two or three little centuries it had converted a nation
of men to a nation of worms.  Before the day of the Church's
supremacy in the world, men were men, and held their heads up,
and had a man's pride and spirit and independence; and what
of greatness and position a person got, he got mainly by achievement,
not by birth.  But then the Church came to the front, with an axe
to grind; and she was wise, subtle, and knew more than one way
to skin a cat--or a nation; she invented "divine right of kings,"
and propped it all around, brick by brick, with the Beatitudes--
wrenching them from their good purpose to make them fortify
an evil one; she preached (to the commoner) humility, obedience
to superiors, the beauty of self-sacrifice; she preached (to the
commoner) meekness under insult; preached (still to the commoner,
always to the commoner) patience, meanness of spirit, non-resistance
under oppression; and she introduced heritable ranks and
aristocracies, and taught all the Christian populations of the earth
to bow down to them and worship them.  Even down to my birth-century
that poison was still in the blood of Christendom, and the best
of English commoners was still content to see his inferiors
impudently continuing to hold a number of positions, such as
lordships and the throne, to which the grotesque laws of his country
did not allow him to aspire; in fact, he was not merely contented
with this strange condition of things, he was even able to persuade
himself that he was proud of it.  It seems to show that there isn't
anything you can't stand, if you are only born and bred to it.
Of course that taint, that reverence for rank and title, had been
in our American blood, too--I know that; but when I left America
it had disappeared--at least to all intents and purposes.  The
remnant of it was restricted to the dudes and dudesses.  When
a disease has worked its way down to that level, it may fairly
be said to be out of the system.

But to return to my anomalous position in King Arthur's kingdom.
Here I was, a giant among pigmies, a man among children, a master
intelligence among intellectual moles:  by all rational measurement
the one and only actually great man in that whole British world;
and yet there and then, just as in the remote England of my
birth-time, the sheep-witted earl who could claim long descent
from a king's leman, acquired at second-hand from the slums of
London, was a better man than I was.  Such a personage was fawned
upon in Arthur's realm and reverently looked up to by everybody,
even though his dispositions were as mean as his intelligence,
and his morals as base as his lineage.  There were times when
_he_ could sit down in the king's presence, but I couldn't.  I could
have got a title easily enough, and that would have raised me
a large step in everybody's eyes; even in the king's, the giver
of it.  But I didn't ask for it; and I declined it when it was
offered.  I couldn't have enjoyed such a thing with my notions;
and it wouldn't have been fair, anyway, because as far back as
I could go, our tribe had always been short of the bar sinister.
I couldn't have felt really and satisfactorily fine and proud
and set-up over any title except one that should come from the nation
itself, the only legitimate source; and such an one I hoped to win;
and in the course of years of honest and honorable endeavor, I did
win it and did wear it with a high and clean pride.  This title
fell casually from the lips of a blacksmith, one day, in a village,
was caught up as a happy thought and tossed from mouth to mouth
with a laugh and an affirmative vote; in ten days it had swept
the kingdom, and was become as familiar as the king's name.  I was
never known by any other designation afterward, whether in the
nation's talk or in grave debate upon matters of state at the
council-board of the sovereign.  This title, translated into modern
speech, would be THE BOSS.  Elected by the nation.  That suited me.
And it was a pretty high title.  There were very few THE'S, and
I was one of them.  If you spoke of the duke, or the earl, or
the bishop, how could anybody tell which one you meant?  But if
you spoke of The King or The Queen or The Boss, it was different.

Well, I liked the king, and as king I respected him--respected
the office; at least respected it as much as I was capable of
respecting any unearned supremacy; but as MEN I looked down upon
him and his nobles--privately.  And he and they liked me, and
respected my office; but as an animal, without birth or sham title,
they looked down upon me--and were not particularly private about it,
either.  I didn't charge for my opinion about them, and they didn't
charge for their opinion about me:  the account was square, the
books balanced, everybody was satisfied.



CHAPTER IX

THE TOURNAMENT

They were always having grand tournaments there at Camelot; and
very stirring and picturesque and ridiculous human bull-fights
they were, too, but just a little wearisome to the practical mind.
However, I was generally on hand--for two reasons:  a man must
not hold himself aloof from the things which his friends and his
community have at heart if he would be liked--especially as
a statesman; and both as business man and statesman I wanted
to study the tournament and see if I couldn't invent an improvement
on it.  That reminds me to remark, in passing, that the very first
official thing I did, in my administration--and it was on the very
first day of it, too--was to start a patent office; for I knew
that a country without a patent office and good patent laws was
just a crab, and couldn't travel any way but sideways or backways.

Things ran along, a tournament nearly every week; and now and then
the boys used to want me to take a hand--I mean Sir Launcelot and
the rest--but I said I would by and by; no hurry yet, and too much
government machinery to oil up and set to rights and start a-going.

We had one tournament which was continued from day to day during
more than a week, and as many as five hundred knights took part
in it, from first to last.  They were weeks gathering.  They came
on horseback from everywhere; from the very ends of the country,
and even from beyond the sea; and many brought ladies, and all
brought squires and troops of servants.  It was a most gaudy and
gorgeous crowd, as to costumery, and very characteristic of the
country and the time, in the way of high animal spirits, innocent
indecencies of language, and happy-hearted indifference to morals.
It was fight or look on, all day and every day; and sing, gamble,
dance, carouse half the night every night.  They had a most noble
good time.  You never saw such people.  Those banks of beautiful
ladies, shining in their barbaric splendors, would see a knight
sprawl from his horse in the lists with a lanceshaft the thickness
of your ankle clean through him and the blood spouting, and instead
of fainting they would clap their hands and crowd each other for a
better view; only sometimes one would dive into her handkerchief,
and look ostentatiously broken-hearted, and then you could lay
two to one that there was a scandal there somewhere and she was
afraid the public hadn't found it out.

The noise at night would have been annoying to me ordinarily, but
I didn't mind it in the present circumstances, because it kept me
from hearing the quacks detaching legs and arms from the day's
cripples.  They ruined an uncommon good old cross-cut saw for me,
and broke the saw-buck, too, but I let it pass.  And as for my
axe--well, I made up my mind that the next time I lent an axe
to a surgeon I would pick my century.

I not only watched this tournament from day to day, but detailed
an intelligent priest from my Department of Public Morals and
Agriculture, and ordered him to report it; for it was my purpose
by and by, when I should have gotten the people along far enough,
to start a newspaper.  The first thing you want in a new country,
is a patent office; then work up your school system; and after that,
out with your paper.  A newspaper has its faults, and plenty of them,
but no matter, it's hark from the tomb for a dead nation, and don't
you forget it.  You can't resurrect a dead nation without it; there
isn't any way.  So I wanted to sample things, and be finding out
what sort of reporter-material I might be able to rake together out
of the sixth century when I should come to need it.

Well, the priest did very well, considering.  He got in all
the details, and that is a good thing in a local item:  you see,
he had kept books for the undertaker-department of his church
when he was younger, and there, you know, the money's in the details;
the more details, the more swag:  bearers, mutes, candles, prayers--
everything counts; and if the bereaved don't buy prayers enough
you mark up your candles with a forked pencil, and your bill
shows up all right.  And he had a good knack at getting in the
complimentary thing here and there about a knight that was likely
to advertise--no, I mean a knight that had influence; and he also
had a neat gift of exaggeration, for in his time he had kept door
for a pious hermit who lived in a sty and worked miracles.

Of course this novice's report lacked whoop and crash and lurid
description, and therefore wanted the true ring; but its antique
wording was quaint and sweet and simple, and full of the fragrances
and flavors of the time, and these little merits made up in a measure
for its more important lacks.  Here is an extract from it:

  Then Sir Brian de les Isles and Grummore Grummorsum,
  knights of the castle, encountered with Sir Aglovale and
  Sir Tor, and Sir Tor smote down Sir Grummore Grummorsum
  to the earth.  Then came Sir Carados of the dolorous
  tower, and Sir Turquine, knights of the castle, and
  there encountered with them Sir Percivale de Galis
  and Sir Lamorak de Galis, that were two brethren, and
  there encountered Sir Percivale with Sir Carados, and
  either brake their spears unto their hands, and then
  Sir Turquine with Sir Lamorak, and either of them smote
  down other, horse and all, to the earth, and either
  parties rescued other and horsed them again.  And Sir
  Arnold, and Sir Gauter, knights of the castle,
  encountered with Sir Brandiles and Sir Kay, and these
  four knights encountered mightily, and brake their
  spears to their hands.  Then came Sir Pertolope from
  the castle, and there encountered with him Sir Lionel,
  and there Sir Pertolope the green knight smote down Sir
  Lionel, brother to Sir Launcelot.  All this was marked
  by noble heralds, who bare him best, and their names.
  Then Sir Bleobaris brake his spear upon Sir Gareth,
  but of that stroke Sir Bleobaris fell to the earth.
  When Sir Galihodin saw that, he bad Sir Gareth keep him,
  and Sir Gareth smote him to the earth.  Then Sir Galihud
  gat a spear to avenge his brother, and in the same wise
  Sir Gareth served him, and Sir Dinadan and his brother
  La Cote Male Taile, and Sir Sagramore le Disirous, and
  Sir Dodinas le Savage; all these he bare down with one
  spear.  When King Aswisance of Ireland saw Sir Gareth
  fare so he marvelled what he might be, that one time
  seemed green, and another time, at his again coming,
  he seemed blue.  And thus at every course that he rode
  to and fro he changed his color, so that there might
  neither king nor knight have ready cognizance of him.
  Then Sir Agwisance the King of Ireland encountered
  with Sir Gareth, and there Sir Gareth smote him from
  his horse, saddle and all.  And then came King Carados
  of Scotland, and Sir Gareth smote him down horse and
  man.  And in the same wise he served King Uriens of the
  land of Gore.  And then there came in Six Bagdemagus,
  and Sir Gareth smote him down horse and man to the
  earth.  And Bagdemagus's son Meliganus brake a spear
  upon Sir Gareth mightily and knightly.  And then Sir
  Galahault the noble prince cried on high, Knight with
  the many colors, well hast thou justed; now make thee
  ready that I may just with thee.  Sir Gareth heard him,
  and he gat a great spear, and so they encountered
  together, and there the prince brake his spear; but Sir
  Gareth smote him upon the left side of the helm, that
  he reeled here and there, and he had fallen down had not
  his men recovered him.  Truly, said King Arthur, that
  knight with the many colors is a good knight.  Wherefore
  the king called unto him Sir Launcelot, and prayed him
  to encounter with that knight.  Sir, said Launcelot, I
  may as well find in my heart for to forbear him at
  this time, for he hath had travail enough this day, and
  when a good knight doth so well upon some day, it is
  no good knight's part to let him of his worship, and,
  namely, when he seeth a knight hath done so great
  labour; for peradventure, said Sir Launcelot, his
  quarrel is here this day, and peradventure he is best
  beloved with this lady of all that be here, for I see
  well he paineth himself and enforceth him to do great
  deeds, and therefore, said Sir Launcelot, as for me,
  this day he shall have the honour; though it lay in my
  power to put him from it, I would not.

There was an unpleasant little episode that day, which for reasons
of state I struck out of my priest's report.  You will have noticed
that Garry was doing some great fighting in the engagement.  When
I say Garry I mean Sir Gareth.  Garry was my private pet name
for him; it suggests that I had a deep affection for him, and that
was the case.  But it was a private pet name only, and never spoken
aloud to any one, much less to him; being a noble, he would not
have endured a familiarity like that from me.  Well, to proceed:
I sat in the private box set apart for me as the king's minister.
While Sir Dinadan was waiting for his turn to enter the lists,
he came in there and sat down and began to talk; for he was always
making up to me, because I was a stranger and he liked to have
a fresh market for his jokes, the most of them having reached that
stage of wear where the teller has to do the laughing himself while
the other person looks sick.  I had always responded to his efforts
as well as I could, and felt a very deep and real kindness for him,
too, for the reason that if by malice of fate he knew the one
particular anecdote which I had heard oftenest and had most hated
and most loathed all my life, he had at least spared it me.  It was
one which I had heard attributed to every humorous person who
had ever stood on American soil, from Columbus down to Artemus Ward.
It was about a humorous lecturer who flooded an ignorant audience
with the killingest jokes for an hour and never got a laugh; and
then when he was leaving, some gray simpletons wrung him gratefully
by the hand and said it had been the funniest thing they had ever
heard, and "it was all they could do to keep from laughin' right
out in meetin'."  That anecdote never saw the day that it was
worth the telling; and yet I had sat under the telling of it
hundreds and thousands and millions and billions of times, and
cried and cursed all the way through.  Then who can hope to know
what my feelings were, to hear this armor-plated ass start in on
it again, in the murky twilight of tradition, before the dawn of
history, while even Lactantius might be referred to as "the late
Lactantius," and the Crusades wouldn't be born for five hundred
years yet?  Just as he finished, the call-boy came; so, haw-hawing
like a demon, he went rattling and clanking out like a crate of
loose castings, and I knew nothing more.  It was some minutes
before I came to, and then I opened my eyes just in time to see
Sir Gareth fetch him an awful welt, and I unconsciously out with
the prayer, "I hope to gracious he's killed!"  But by ill-luck,
before I had got half through with the words, Sir Gareth crashed
into Sir Sagramor le Desirous and sent him thundering over his
horse's crupper, and Sir Sagramor caught my remark and thought
I meant it for _him_.

Well, whenever one of those people got a thing into his head,
there was no getting it out again.  I knew that, so I saved my
breath, and offered no explanations.  As soon as Sir Sagramor
got well, he notified me that there was a little account to settle
between us, and he named a day three or four years in the future;
place of settlement, the lists where the offense had been given.
I said I would be ready when he got back.  You see, he was going
for the Holy Grail.  The boys all took a flier at the Holy Grail
now and then.  It was a several years' cruise.  They always put in
the long absence snooping around, in the most conscientious way,
though none of them had any idea where the Holy Grail really was,
and I don't think any of them actually expected to find it, or
would have known what to do with it if he _had_ run across it.
You see, it was just the Northwest Passage of that day, as you may
say; that was all.  Every year expeditions went out holy grailing,
and next year relief expeditions went out to hunt for _them_.  There
was worlds of reputation in it, but no money.  Why, they actually
wanted _me_ to put in!  Well, I should smile.



CHAPTER X

BEGINNINGS OF CIVILIZATION

The Round Table soon heard of the challenge, and of course it was
a good deal discussed, for such things interested the boys.
The king thought I ought now to set forth in quest of adventures,
so that I might gain renown and be the more worthy to meet
Sir Sagramor when the several years should have rolled away.
I excused myself for the present; I said it would take me three
or four years yet to get things well fixed up and going smoothly;
then I should be ready; all the chances were that at the end of
that time Sir Sagramor would still be out grailing, so no valuable
time would be lost by the postponement; I should then have been
in office six or seven years, and I believed my system and machinery
would be so well developed that I could take a holiday without
its working any harm.

I was pretty well satisfied with what I had already accomplished.
In various quiet nooks and corners I had the beginnings of all
sorts of industries under way--nuclei of future vast factories,
the iron and steel missionaries of my future civilization.  In these
were gathered together the brightest young minds I could find,
and I kept agents out raking the country for more, all the time.
I was training a crowd of ignorant folk into experts--experts
in every sort of handiwork and scientific calling.  These nurseries
of mine went smoothly and privately along undisturbed in their
obscure country retreats, for nobody was allowed to come into their
precincts without a special permit--for I was afraid of the Church.

I had started a teacher-factory and a lot of Sunday-schools the
first thing; as a result, I now had an admirable system of graded
schools in full blast in those places, and also a complete variety
of Protestant congregations all in a prosperous and growing
condition.  Everybody could be any kind of a Christian he wanted
to; there was perfect freedom in that matter.  But I confined public
religious teaching to the churches and the Sunday-schools, permitting
nothing of it in my other educational buildings.  I could have
given my own sect the preference and made everybody a Presbyterian
without any trouble, but that would have been to affront a law
of human nature:  spiritual wants and instincts are as various in
the human family as are physical appetites, complexions, and
features, and a man is only at his best, morally, when he is
equipped with the religious garment whose color and shape and
size most nicely accommodate themselves to the spiritual complexion,
angularities, and stature of the individual who wears it; and,
besides, I was afraid of a united Church; it makes a mighty power,
the mightiest conceivable, and then when it by and by gets into
selfish hands, as it is always bound to do, it means death to
human liberty and paralysis to human thought.

All mines were royal property, and there were a good many of them.
They had formerly been worked as savages always work mines--holes
grubbed in the earth and the mineral brought up in sacks of hide by
hand, at the rate of a ton a day; but I had begun to put the mining
on a scientific basis as early as I could.

Yes, I had made pretty handsome progress when Sir Sagramor's
challenge struck me.

Four years rolled by--and then!  Well, you would never imagine
it in the world.  Unlimited power is the ideal thing when it is in
safe hands.  The despotism of heaven is the one absolutely perfect
government.  An earthly despotism would be the absolutely perfect
earthly government, if the conditions were the same, namely, the
despot the perfectest individual of the human race, and his lease
of life perpetual.  But as a perishable perfect man must die, and
leave his despotism in the hands of an imperfect successor, an
earthly despotism is not merely a bad form of government, it is
the worst form that is possible.

My works showed what a despot could do with the resources of
a kingdom at his command.  Unsuspected by this dark land, I had
the civilization of the nineteenth century booming under its very
nose!  It was fenced away from the public view, but there it was,
a gigantic and unassailable fact--and to be heard from, yet, if
I lived and had luck.  There it was, as sure a fact and as substantial
a fact as any serene volcano, standing innocent with its smokeless
summit in the blue sky and giving no sign of the rising hell in its
bowels.  My schools and churches were children four years before;
they were grown-up now; my shops of that day were vast factories
now; where I had a dozen trained men then, I had a thousand now;
where I had one brilliant expert then, I had fifty now.  I stood
with my hand on the cock, so to speak, ready to turn it on and
flood the midnight world with light at any moment.  But I was not
going to do the thing in that sudden way.  It was not my policy.
The people could not have stood it; and, moreover, I should have
had the Established Roman Catholic Church on my back in a minute.

No, I had been going cautiously all the while.  I had had confidential
agents trickling through the country some time, whose office was
to undermine knighthood by imperceptible degrees, and to gnaw
a little at this and that and the other superstition, and so prepare
the way gradually for a better order of things.  I was turning on
my light one-candle-power at a time, and meant to continue to do so.

I had scattered some branch schools secretly about the kingdom,
and they were doing very well.  I meant to work this racket more
and more, as time wore on, if nothing occurred to frighten me.
One of my deepest secrets was my West Point--my military academy.
I kept that most jealously out of sight; and I did the same with my
naval academy which I had established at a remote seaport.  Both
were prospering to my satisfaction.

Clarence was twenty-two now, and was my head executive, my right
hand.  He was a darling; he was equal to anything; there wasn't
anything he couldn't turn his hand to.  Of late I had been training
him for journalism, for the time seemed about right for a start
in the newspaper line; nothing big, but just a small weekly for
experimental circulation in my civilization-nurseries.  He took
to it like a duck; there was an editor concealed in him, sure.
Already he had doubled himself in one way; he talked sixth century
and wrote nineteenth.  His journalistic style was climbing,
steadily; it was already up to the back settlement Alabama mark,
and couldn't be told from the editorial output of that region
either by matter or flavor.

We had another large departure on hand, too.  This was a telegraph
and a telephone; our first venture in this line.  These wires were
for private service only, as yet, and must be kept private until
a riper day should come.  We had a gang of men on the road, working
mainly by night.  They were stringing ground wires; we were afraid
to put up poles, for they would attract too much inquiry.  Ground
wires were good enough, in both instances, for my wires were
protected by an insulation of my own invention which was perfect.
My men had orders to strike across country, avoiding roads, and
establishing connection with any considerable towns whose lights
betrayed their presence, and leaving experts in charge. Nobody
could tell you how to find any place in the kingdom, for nobody
ever went intentionally to any place, but only struck it by
accident in his wanderings, and then generally left it without
thinking to inquire what its name was.  At one time and another
we had sent out topographical expeditions to survey and map the
kingdom, but the priests had always interfered and raised trouble.
So we had given the thing up, for the present; it would be poor
wisdom to antagonize the Church.

As for the general condition of the country, it was as it had been
when I arrived in it, to all intents and purposes.  I had made
changes, but they were necessarily slight, and they were not
noticeable.  Thus far, I had not even meddled with taxation,
outside of the taxes which provided the royal revenues.  I had
systematized those, and put the service on an effective and
righteous basis.  As a result, these revenues were already quadrupled,
and yet the burden was so much more equably distributed than
before, that all the kingdom felt a sense of relief, and the praises
of my administration were hearty and general.

Personally, I struck an interruption, now, but I did not mind it,
it could not have happened at a better time.  Earlier it could
have annoyed me, but now everything was in good hands and swimming
right along.  The king had reminded me several times, of late, that
the postponement I had asked for, four years before, had about
run out now.  It was a hint that I ought to be starting out to seek
adventures and get up a reputation of a size to make me worthy
of the honor of breaking a lance with Sir Sagramor, who was still
out grailing, but was being hunted for by various relief expeditions,
and might be found any year, now.  So you see I was expecting
this interruption; it did not take me by surprise.



CHAPTER XI

THE YANKEE IN SEARCH OF ADVENTURES

There never was such a country for wandering liars; and they were
of both sexes.  Hardly a month went by without one of these tramps
arriving; and generally loaded with a tale about some princess or
other wanting help to get her out of some far-away castle where
she was held in captivity by a lawless scoundrel, usually a giant.
Now you would think that the first thing the king would do after
listening to such a novelette from an entire stranger, would be
to ask for credentials--yes, and a pointer or two as to locality
of castle, best route to it, and so on.  But nobody ever thought
of so simple and common-sense a thing at that.  No, everybody
swallowed these people's lies whole, and never asked a question
of any sort or about anything.  Well, one day when I was not
around, one of these people came along--it was a she one, this
time--and told a tale of the usual pattern.  Her mistress was
a captive in a vast and gloomy castle, along with forty-four other
young and beautiful girls, pretty much all of them princesses;
they had been languishing in that cruel captivity for twenty-six
years; the masters of the castle were three stupendous brothers,
each with four arms and one eye--the eye in the center of the
forehead, and as big as a fruit.  Sort of fruit not mentioned;
their usual slovenliness in statistics.

Would you believe it?  The king and the whole Round Table were
in raptures over this preposterous opportunity for adventure.
Every knight of the Table jumped for the chance, and begged for it;
but to their vexation and chagrin the king conferred it upon me,
who had not asked for it at all.

By an effort, I contained my joy when Clarence brought me the news.
But he--he could not contain his.  His mouth gushed delight and
gratitude in a steady discharge--delight in my good fortune,
gratitude to the king for this splendid mark of his favor for me.
He could keep neither his legs nor his body still, but pirouetted
about the place in an airy ecstasy of happiness.

On my side, I could have cursed the kindness that conferred upon
me this benefaction, but I kept my vexation under the surface
for policy's sake, and did what I could to let on to be glad.
Indeed, I _said_ I was glad.  And in a way it was true; I was as
glad as a person is when he is scalped.

Well, one must make the best of things, and not waste time with
useless fretting, but get down to business and see what can be
done.  In all lies there is wheat among the chaff; I must get at
the wheat in this case:  so I sent for the girl and she came.  She
was a comely enough creature, and soft and modest, but, if signs
went for anything, she didn't know as much as a lady's watch.  I said:

"My dear, have you been questioned as to particulars?"

She said she hadn't.

"Well, I didn't expect you had, but I thought I would ask, to make
sure; it's the way I've been raised.  Now you mustn't take it
unkindly if I remind you that as we don't know you, we must go
a little slow.  You may be all right, of course, and we'll hope
that you are; but to take it for granted isn't business.  _You_
understand that.  I'm obliged to ask you a few questions; just
answer up fair and square, and don't be afraid.  Where do you
live, when you are at home?"

"In the land of Moder, fair sir."

"Land of Moder.  I don't remember hearing of it before.
Parents living?"

"As to that, I know not if they be yet on live, sith it is many
years that I have lain shut up in the castle."

"Your name, please?"

"I hight the Demoiselle Alisande la Carteloise, an it please you."

"Do you know anybody here who can identify you?"

"That were not likely, fair lord, I being come hither now for
the first time."

"Have you brought any letters--any documents--any proofs that
you are trustworthy and truthful?"

"Of a surety, no; and wherefore should I?  Have I not a tongue,
and cannot I say all that myself?"

"But _your_ saying it, you know, and somebody else's saying it,
is different."

"Different?  How might that be?  I fear me I do not understand."

"Don't _understand_?  Land of--why, you see--you see--why, great Scott,
can't you understand a little thing like that?  Can't you understand
the difference between your--_why_ do you look so innocent and idiotic!"

"I?  In truth I know not, but an it were the will of God."

"Yes, yes, I reckon that's about the size of it.  Don't mind my
seeming excited; I'm not.  Let us change the subject.  Now as
to this castle, with forty-five princesses in it, and three ogres
at the head of it, tell me--where is this harem?"

"Harem?"

"The _castle_, you understand; where is the castle?"

"Oh, as to that, it is great, and strong, and well beseen, and
lieth in a far country.  Yes, it is many leagues."

"_How_ many?"

"Ah, fair sir, it were woundily hard to tell, they are so many,
and do so lap the one upon the other, and being made all in the
same image and tincted with the same color, one may not know
the one league from its fellow, nor how to count them except
they be taken apart, and ye wit well it were God's work to do
that, being not within man's capacity; for ye will note--"

"Hold on, hold on, never mind about the distance; _whereabouts_
does the castle lie?  What's the direction from here?"

"Ah, please you sir, it hath no direction from here; by reason
that the road lieth not straight, but turneth evermore; wherefore
the direction of its place abideth not, but is some time under
the one sky and anon under another, whereso if ye be minded that
it is in the east, and wend thitherward, ye shall observe that
the way of the road doth yet again turn upon itself by the space
of half a circle, and this marvel happing again and yet again and
still again, it will grieve you that you had thought by vanities
of the mind to thwart and bring to naught the will of Him that
giveth not a castle a direction from a place except it pleaseth
Him, and if it please Him not, will the rather that even all castles
and all directions thereunto vanish out of the earth, leaving the
places wherein they tarried desolate and vacant, so warning His
creatures that where He will He will, and where He will not He--"

"Oh, that's all right, that's all right, give us a rest; never mind
about the direction, _hang_ the direction--I beg pardon, I beg
a thousand pardons, I am not well to-day; pay no attention when
I soliloquize, it is an old habit, an old, bad habit, and hard
to get rid of when one's digestion is all disordered with eating
food that was raised forever and ever before he was born; good
land! a man can't keep his functions regular on spring chickens
thirteen hundred years old.  But come--never mind about that;
let's--have you got such a thing as a map of that region about
you?  Now a good map--"

"Is it peradventure that manner of thing which of late the unbelievers
have brought from over the great seas, which, being boiled in oil,
and an onion and salt added thereto, doth--"

"What, a map?  What are you talking about?  Don't you know what
a map is?  There, there, never mind, don't explain, I hate
explanations; they fog a thing up so that you can't tell anything
about it.  Run along, dear; good-day; show her the way, Clarence."

Oh, well, it was reasonably plain, now, why these donkeys didn't
prospect these liars for details.  It may be that this girl had
a fact in her somewhere, but I don't believe you could have sluiced
it out with a hydraulic; nor got it with the earlier forms of
blasting, even; it was a case for dynamite.  Why, she was a perfect
ass; and yet the king and his knights had listened to her as if
she had been a leaf out of the gospel.  It kind of sizes up the
whole party.  And think of the simple ways of this court:  this
wandering wench hadn't any more trouble to get access to the king
in his palace than she would have had to get into the poorhouse
in my day and country.  In fact, he was glad to see her, glad
to hear her tale; with that adventure of hers to offer, she was
as welcome as a corpse is to a coroner.

Just as I was ending-up these reflections, Clarence came back.
I remarked upon the barren result of my efforts with the girl;
hadn't got hold of a single point that could help me to find
the castle.  The youth looked a little surprised, or puzzled,
or something, and intimated that he had been wondering to himself
what I had wanted to ask the girl all those questions for.

"Why, great guns," I said, "don't I want to find the castle?  And
how else would I go about it?"

"La, sweet your worship, one may lightly answer that, I ween.
She will go with thee.  They always do.  She will ride with thee."

"Ride with me?  Nonsense!"

"But of a truth she will.  She will ride with thee.  Thou shalt see."

"What?  She browse around the hills and scour the woods with me--
alone--and I as good as engaged to be married?  Why, it's scandalous.
Think how it would look."

My, the dear face that rose before me!  The boy was eager to know
all about this tender matter.  I swore him to secrecy and then
whispered her name--"Puss Flanagan."  He looked disappointed,
and said he didn't remember the countess.  How natural it was for
the little courtier to give her a rank.  He asked me where she lived.

"In East Har--" I came to myself and stopped, a little confused;
then I said, "Never mind, now; I'll tell you some time."

And might he see her?  Would I let him see her some day?

It was but a little thing to promise--thirteen hundred years
or so--and he so eager; so I said Yes.  But I sighed; I couldn't
help it.  And yet there was no sense in sighing, for she wasn't
born yet.  But that is the way we are made:  we don't reason,
where we feel; we just feel.

My expedition was all the talk that day and that night, and the
boys were very good to me, and made much of me, and seemed to have
forgotten their vexation and disappointment, and come to be as
anxious for me to hive those ogres and set those ripe old virgins
loose as if it were themselves that had the contract.  Well, they
_were_ good children--but just children, that is all.  And they
gave me no end of points about how to scout for giants, and how
to scoop them in; and they told me all sorts of charms against
enchantments, and gave me salves and other rubbish to put on my
wounds.  But it never occurred to one of them to reflect that if
I was such a wonderful necromancer as I was pretending to be,
I ought not to need salves or instructions, or charms against
enchantments, and, least of all, arms and armor, on a foray of any
kind--even against fire-spouting dragons, and devils hot from
perdition, let alone such poor adversaries as these I was after,
these commonplace ogres of the back settlements.

I was to have an early breakfast, and start at dawn, for that was
the usual way; but I had the demon's own time with my armor,
and this delayed me a little.  It is troublesome to get into, and
there is so much detail.  First you wrap a layer or two of blanket
around your body, for a sort of cushion and to keep off the cold
iron; then you put on your sleeves and shirt of chain mail--these
are made of small steel links woven together, and they form a fabric
so flexible that if you toss your shirt onto the floor, it slumps
into a pile like a peck of wet fish-net; it is very heavy and
is nearly the uncomfortablest material in the world for a night
shirt, yet plenty used it for that--tax collectors, and reformers,
and one-horse kings with a defective title, and those sorts of
people; then you put on your shoes--flat-boats roofed over with
interleaving bands of steel--and screw your clumsy spurs into
the heels.  Next you buckle your greaves on your legs, and your
cuisses on your thighs; then come your backplate and your breastplate,
and you begin to feel crowded; then you hitch onto the breastplate
the half-petticoat of broad overlapping bands of steel which hangs
down in front but is scolloped out behind so you can sit down,
and isn't any real improvement on an inverted coal scuttle, either
for looks or for wear, or to wipe your hands on; next you belt
on your sword; then you put your stove-pipe joints onto your arms,
your iron gauntlets onto your hands, your iron rat-trap onto your
head, with a rag of steel web hitched onto it to hang over the back
of your neck--and there you are, snug as a candle in a candle-mould.
This is no time to dance.  Well, a man that is packed away like
that is a nut that isn't worth the cracking, there is so little of
the meat, when you get down to it, by comparison with the shell.

The boys helped me, or I never could have got in.  Just as we
finished, Sir Bedivere happened in, and I saw that as like as not
I hadn't chosen the most convenient outfit for a long trip.  How
stately he looked; and tall and broad and grand.  He had on his
head a conical steel casque that only came down to his ears, and
for visor had only a narrow steel bar that extended down to his
upper lip and protected his nose; and all the rest of him, from
neck to heel, was flexible chain mail, trousers and all.  But
pretty much all of him was hidden under his outside garment, which
of course was of chain mail, as I said, and hung straight from his
shoulders to his ankles; and from his middle to the bottom, both
before and behind, was divided, so that he could ride and let the
skirts hang down on each side.  He was going grailing, and it was
just the outfit for it, too.  I would have given a good deal for
that ulster, but it was too late now to be fooling around.  The sun
was just up, the king and the court were all on hand to see me off
and wish me luck; so it wouldn't be etiquette for me to tarry.
You don't get on your horse yourself; no, if you tried it you
would get disappointed.  They carry you out, just as they carry
a sun-struck man to the drug store, and put you on, and help get
you to rights, and fix your feet in the stirrups; and all the while
you do feel so strange and stuffy and like somebody else--like
somebody that has been married on a sudden, or struck by lightning,
or something like that, and hasn't quite fetched around yet, and
is sort of numb, and can't just get his bearings.  Then they
stood up the mast they called a spear, in its socket by my left
foot, and I gripped it with my hand; lastly they hung my shield
around my neck, and I was all complete and ready to up anchor
and get to sea.  Everybody was as good to me as they could be,
and a maid of honor gave me the stirrup-cup her own self.  There was
nothing more to do now, but for that damsel to get up behind me on
a pillion, which she did, and put an arm or so around me to hold on.

And so we started, and everybody gave us a goodbye and waved their
handkerchiefs or helmets.  And everybody we met, going down the hill
and through the village was respectful to us, except some shabby
little boys on the outskirts.  They said:

"Oh, what a guy!"  And hove clods at us.

In my experience boys are the same in all ages.  They don't respect
anything, they don't care for anything or anybody.  They say
"Go up, baldhead" to the prophet going his unoffending way in
the gray of antiquity; they sass me in the holy gloom of the
Middle Ages; and I had seen them act the same way in Buchanan's
administration; I remember, because I was there and helped.  The
prophet had his bears and settled with his boys; and I wanted
to get down and settle with mine, but it wouldn't answer, because
I couldn't have got up again.  I hate a country without a derrick.



CHAPTER XII

SLOW TORTURE

Straight off, we were in the country.  It was most lovely and
pleasant in those sylvan solitudes in the early cool morning
in the first freshness of autumn.  From hilltops we saw fair
green valleys lying spread out below, with streams winding through
them, and island groves of trees here and there, and huge lonely
oaks scattered about and casting black blots of shade; and beyond
the valleys we saw the ranges of hills, blue with haze, stretching
away in billowy perspective to the horizon, with at wide intervals
a dim fleck of white or gray on a wave-summit, which we knew was
a castle.  We crossed broad natural lawns sparkling with dew,
and we moved like spirits, the cushioned turf giving out no sound
of footfall; we dreamed along through glades in a mist of green
light that got its tint from the sun-drenched roof of leaves
overhead, and by our feet the clearest and coldest of runlets
went frisking and gossiping over its reefs and making a sort of
whispering music, comfortable to hear; and at times we left the
world behind and entered into the solemn great deeps and rich
gloom of the forest, where furtive wild things whisked and scurried
by and were gone before you could even get your eye on the place
where the noise was; and where only the earliest birds were turning
out and getting to business with a song here and a quarrel yonder
and a mysterious far-off hammering and drumming for worms on
a tree trunk away somewhere in the impenetrable remotenesses of
the woods.  And by and by out we would swing again into the glare.

About the third or fourth or fifth time that we swung out into
the glare--it was along there somewhere, a couple of hours or so
after sun-up--it wasn't as pleasant as it had been.  It was
beginning to get hot.  This was quite noticeable.  We had a very
long pull, after that, without any shade.  Now it is curious how
progressively little frets grow and multiply after they once get
a start.  Things which I didn't mind at all, at first, I began
to mind now--and more and more, too, all the time.  The first
ten or fifteen times I wanted my handkerchief I didn't seem to care;
I got along, and said never mind, it isn't any matter, and dropped
it out of my mind.  But now it was different; I wanted it all
the time; it was nag, nag, nag, right along, and no rest; I couldn't
get it out of my mind; and so at last I lost my temper and said
hang a man that would make a suit of armor without any pockets
in it.  You see I had my handkerchief in my helmet; and some other
things; but it was that kind of a helmet that you can't take off
by yourself.  That hadn't occurred to me when I put it there;
and in fact I didn't know it.  I supposed it would be particularly
convenient there.  And so now, the thought of its being there,
so handy and close by, and yet not get-at-able, made it all the
worse and the harder to bear.  Yes, the thing that you can't get
is the thing that you want, mainly; every one has noticed that.
Well, it took my mind off from everything else; took it clear off,
and centered it in my helmet; and mile after mile, there it stayed,
imagining the handkerchief, picturing the handkerchief; and it
was bitter and aggravating to have the salt sweat keep trickling
down into my eyes, and I couldn't get at it.  It seems like a little
thing, on paper, but it was not a little thing at all; it was
the most real kind of misery.  I would not say it if it was not so.
I made up my mind that I would carry along a reticule next time,
let it look how it might, and people say what they would.  Of course
these iron dudes of the Round Table would think it was scandalous,
and maybe raise Sheol about it, but as for me, give me comfort
first, and style afterwards.  So we jogged along, and now and then
we struck a stretch of dust, and it would tumble up in clouds and
get into my nose and make me sneeze and cry; and of course I said
things I oughtn't to have said, I don't deny that.  I am not
better than others.

We couldn't seem to meet anybody in this lonesome Britain, not
even an ogre; and, in the mood I was in then, it was well for
the ogre; that is, an ogre with a handkerchief.  Most knights
would have thought of nothing but getting his armor; but so I got
his bandanna, he could keep his hardware, for all of me.

Meantime, it was getting hotter and hotter in there.  You see,
the sun was beating down and warming up the iron more and more
all the time.  Well, when you are hot, that way, every little thing
irritates you.  When I trotted, I rattled like a crate of dishes,
and that annoyed me; and moreover I couldn't seem to stand that
shield slatting and banging, now about my breast, now around my
back; and if I dropped into a walk my joints creaked and screeched
in that wearisome way that a wheelbarrow does, and as we didn't
create any breeze at that gait, I was like to get fried in that
stove; and besides, the quieter you went the heavier the iron
settled down on you and the more and more tons you seemed to weigh
every minute.  And you had to be always changing hands, and passing
your spear over to the other foot, it got so irksome for one hand
to hold it long at a time.

Well, you know, when you perspire that way, in rivers, there comes
a time when you--when you--well, when you itch.  You are inside,
your hands are outside; so there you are; nothing but iron between.
It is not a light thing, let it sound as it may.  First it is one
place; then another; then some more; and it goes on spreading and
spreading, and at last the territory is all occupied, and nobody
can imagine what you feel like, nor how unpleasant it is.  And
when it had got to the worst, and it seemed to me that I could
not stand anything more, a fly got in through the bars and settled
on my nose, and the bars were stuck and wouldn't work, and I
couldn't get the visor up; and I could only shake my head, which
was baking hot by this time, and the fly--well, you know how a fly
acts when he has got a certainty--he only minded the shaking enough
to change from nose to lip, and lip to ear, and buzz and buzz
all around in there, and keep on lighting and biting, in a way
that a person, already so distressed as I was, simply could not
stand.  So I gave in, and got Alisande to unship the helmet and
relieve me of it.  Then she emptied the conveniences out of it
and fetched it full of water, and I drank and then stood up, and
she poured the rest down inside the armor. One cannot think how
refreshing it was.  She continued to fetch and pour until I was
well soaked and thoroughly comfortable.

It was good to have a rest--and peace.  But nothing is quite
perfect in this life, at any time.  I had made a pipe a while back,
and also some pretty fair tobacco; not the real thing, but what
some of the Indians use:  the inside bark of the willow, dried.
These comforts had been in the helmet, and now I had them again,
but no matches.

Gradually, as the time wore along, one annoying fact was borne in
upon my understanding--that we were weather-bound.  An armed novice
cannot mount his horse without help and plenty of it.  Sandy was
not enough; not enough for me, anyway.  We had to wait until
somebody should come along.  Waiting, in silence, would have been
agreeable enough, for I was full of matter for reflection, and
wanted to give it a chance to work.  I wanted to try and think out
how it was that rational or even half-rational men could ever
have learned to wear armor, considering its inconveniences; and
how they had managed to keep up such a fashion for generations
when it was plain that what I had suffered to-day they had had
to suffer all the days of their lives.  I wanted to think that out;
and moreover I wanted to think out some way to reform this evil
and persuade the people to let the foolish fashion die out; but
thinking was out of the question in the circumstances.  You couldn't
think, where Sandy was.

She was a quite biddable creature and good-hearted, but she had
a flow of talk that was as steady as a mill, and made your head
sore like the drays and wagons in a city.  If she had had a cork
she would have been a comfort.  But you can't cork that kind;
they would die.  Her clack was going all day, and you would think
something would surely happen to her works, by and by; but no,
they never got out of order; and she never had to slack up for
words.  She could grind, and pump, and churn, and buzz by the week,
and never stop to oil up or blow out.  And yet the result was just
nothing but wind.  She never had any ideas, any more than a fog
has.  She was a perfect blatherskite; I mean for jaw, jaw, jaw,
talk, talk, talk, jabber, jabber, jabber; but just as good as she
could be.  I hadn't minded her mill that morning, on account of
having that hornets' nest of other troubles; but more than once
in the afternoon I had to say:

"Take a rest, child; the way you are using up all the domestic air,
the kingdom will have to go to importing it by to-morrow, and it's
a low enough treasury without that."



CHAPTER XIII

FREEMEN

Yes, it is strange how little a while at a time a person can be
contented.  Only a little while back, when I was riding and
suffering, what a heaven this peace, this rest, this sweet serenity
in this secluded shady nook by this purling stream would have
seemed, where I could keep perfectly comfortable all the time
by pouring a dipper of water into my armor now and then; yet
already I was getting dissatisfied; partly because I could not
light my pipe--for, although I had long ago started a match factory,
I had forgotten to bring matches with me--and partly because we
had nothing to eat.  Here was another illustration of the childlike
improvidence of this age and people.  A man in armor always trusted
to chance for his food on a journey, and would have been scandalized
at the idea of hanging a basket of sandwiches on his spear.  There
was probably not a knight of all the Round Table combination who
would not rather have died than been caught carrying such a thing
as that on his flagstaff.  And yet there could not be anything more
sensible.  It had been my intention to smuggle a couple of sandwiches
into my helmet, but I was interrupted in the act, and had to make
an excuse and lay them aside, and a dog got them.

Night approached, and with it a storm.  The darkness came on fast.
We must camp, of course.  I found a good shelter for the demoiselle
under a rock, and went off and found another for myself.  But
I was obliged to remain in my armor, because I could not get it off
by myself and yet could not allow Alisande to help, because it
would have seemed so like undressing before folk.  It would not
have amounted to that in reality, because I had clothes on
underneath; but the prejudices of one's breeding are not gotten
rid of just at a jump, and I knew that when it came to stripping
off that bob-tailed iron petticoat I should be embarrassed.

With the storm came a change of weather; and the stronger the wind
blew, and the wilder the rain lashed around, the colder and colder
it got.  Pretty soon, various kinds of bugs and ants and worms
and things began to flock in out of the wet and crawl down inside
my armor to get warm; and while some of them behaved well enough,
and snuggled up amongst my clothes and got quiet, the majority
were of a restless, uncomfortable sort, and never stayed still,
but went on prowling and hunting for they did not know what;
especially the ants, which went tickling along in wearisome
procession from one end of me to the other by the hour, and are
a kind of creatures which I never wish to sleep with again.
It would be my advice to persons situated in this way, to not roll
or thrash around, because this excites the interest of all the
different sorts of animals and makes every last one of them want
to turn out and see what is going on, and this makes things worse
than they were before, and of course makes you objurgate harder,
too, if you can.  Still, if one did not roll and thrash around
he would die; so perhaps it is as well to do one way as the other;
there is no real choice.  Even after I was frozen solid I could
still distinguish that tickling, just as a corpse does when he is
taking electric treatment.  I said I would never wear armor
after this trip.

All those trying hours whilst I was frozen and yet was in a living
fire, as you may say, on account of that swarm of crawlers, that
same unanswerable question kept circling and circling through my
tired head:  How do people stand this miserable armor?  How have
they managed to stand it all these generations?  How can they sleep
at night for dreading the tortures of next day?

When the morning came at last, I was in a bad enough plight:  seedy,
drowsy, fagged, from want of sleep; weary from thrashing around,
famished from long fasting; pining for a bath, and to get rid of
the animals; and crippled with rheumatism.  And how had it fared
with the nobly born, the titled aristocrat, the Demoiselle Alisande
la Carteloise?  Why, she was as fresh as a squirrel; she had slept
like the dead; and as for a bath, probably neither she nor any
other noble in the land had ever had one, and so she was not
missing it.  Measured by modern standards, they were merely modified
savages, those people.  This noble lady showed no impatience to get
to breakfast--and that smacks of the savage, too.  On their journeys
those Britons were used to long fasts, and knew how to bear them;
and also how to freight up against probable fasts before starting,
after the style of the Indian and the anaconda.  As like as not,
Sandy was loaded for a three-day stretch.

We were off before sunrise, Sandy riding and I limping along
behind.  In half an hour we came upon a group of ragged poor
creatures who had assembled to mend the thing which was regarded
as a road.  They were as humble as animals to me; and when I
proposed to breakfast with them, they were so flattered, so
overwhelmed by this extraordinary condescension of mine that
at first they were not able to believe that I was in earnest.
My lady put up her scornful lip and withdrew to one side; she said
in their hearing that she would as soon think of eating with the
other cattle--a remark which embarrassed these poor devils merely
because it referred to them, and not because it insulted or offended
them, for it didn't.  And yet they were not slaves, not chattels.
By a sarcasm of law and phrase they were freemen.  Seven-tenths
of the free population of the country were of just their class and
degree:  small "independent" farmers, artisans, etc.; which is
to say, they were the nation, the actual Nation; they were about
all of it that was useful, or worth saving, or really respect-worthy,
and to subtract them would have been to subtract the Nation and
leave behind some dregs, some refuse, in the shape of a king,
nobility and gentry, idle, unproductive, acquainted mainly with
the arts of wasting and destroying, and of no sort of use or value
in any rationally constructed world.  And yet, by ingenious
contrivance, this gilded minority, instead of being in the tail
of the procession where it belonged, was marching head up and
banners flying, at the other end of it; had elected itself to be
the Nation, and these innumerable clams had permitted it so long
that they had come at last to accept it as a truth; and not only
that, but to believe it right and as it should be.  The priests
had told their fathers and themselves that this ironical state
of things was ordained of God; and so, not reflecting upon how
unlike God it would be to amuse himself with sarcasms, and especially
such poor transparent ones as this, they had dropped the matter
there and become respectfully quiet.

The talk of these meek people had a strange enough sound in
a formerly American ear.  They were freemen, but they could not
leave the estates of their lord or their bishop without his
permission; they could not prepare their own bread, but must have
their corn ground and their bread baked at his mill and his bakery,
and pay roundly for the same; they could not sell a piece of their
own property without paying him a handsome percentage of the
proceeds, nor buy a piece of somebody else's without remembering
him in cash for the privilege; they had to harvest his grain for him
gratis, and be ready to come at a moment's notice, leaving their
own crop to destruction by the threatened storm; they had to let
him plant fruit trees in their fields, and then keep their indignation
to themselves when his heedless fruit-gatherers trampled the grain
around the trees; they had to smother their anger when his hunting
parties galloped through their fields laying waste the result of
their patient toil; they were not allowed to keep doves themselves,
and when the swarms from my lord's dovecote settled on their crops
they must not lose their temper and kill a bird, for awful would
the penalty be; when the harvest was at last gathered, then came
the procession of robbers to levy their blackmail upon it:  first
the Church carted off its fat tenth, then the king's commissioner
took his twentieth, then my lord's people made a mighty inroad
upon the remainder; after which, the skinned freeman had liberty
to bestow the remnant in his barn, in case it was worth the trouble;
there were taxes, and taxes, and taxes, and more taxes, and taxes
again, and yet other taxes--upon this free and independent pauper,
but none upon his lord the baron or the bishop, none upon the
wasteful nobility or the all-devouring Church; if the baron would
sleep unvexed, the freeman must sit up all night after his day's
work and whip the ponds to keep the frogs quiet; if the freeman's
daughter--but no, that last infamy of monarchical government is
unprintable; and finally, if the freeman, grown desperate with his
tortures, found his life unendurable under such conditions, and
sacrificed it and fled to death for mercy and refuge, the gentle
Church condemned him to eternal fire, the gentle law buried him
at midnight at the cross-roads with a stake through his back,
and his master the baron or the bishop confiscated all his property
and turned his widow and his orphans out of doors.

And here were these freemen assembled in the early morning to work
on their lord the bishop's road three days each--gratis; every
head of a family, and every son of a family, three days each,
gratis, and a day or so added for their servants.  Why, it was
like reading about France and the French, before the ever memorable
and blessed Revolution, which swept a thousand years of such
villany away in one swift tidal-wave of blood--one:  a settlement
of that hoary debt in the proportion of half a drop of blood for
each hogshead of it that had been pressed by slow tortures out of
that people in the weary stretch of ten centuries of wrong and
shame and misery the like of which was not to be mated but in hell.
There were two "Reigns of Terror," if we would but remember it
and consider it; the one wrought murder in hot passion, the other
in heartless cold blood; the one lasted mere months, the other had
lasted a thousand years; the one inflicted death upon ten thousand
persons, the other upon a hundred millions; but our shudders are
all for the "horrors" of the minor Terror, the momentary Terror,
so to speak; whereas, what is the horror of swift death by the axe,
compared with lifelong death from hunger, cold, insult, cruelty,
and heart-break?  What is swift death by lightning compared with
death by slow fire at the stake?  A city cemetery could contain the
coffins filled by that brief Terror which we have all been so
diligently taught to shiver at and mourn over; but all France could
hardly contain the coffins filled by that older and real Terror--
that unspeakably bitter and awful Terror which none of us has
been taught to see in its vastness or pity as it deserves.

These poor ostensible freemen who were sharing their breakfast
and their talk with me, were as full of humble reverence for their
king and Church and nobility as their worst enemy could desire.
There was something pitifully ludicrous about it.  I asked them
if they supposed a nation of people ever existed, who, with a free
vote in every man's hand, would elect that a single family and its
descendants should reign over it forever, whether gifted or boobies,
to the exclusion of all other families--including the voter's; and
would also elect that a certain hundred families should be raised
to dizzy summits of rank, and clothed on with offensive transmissible
glories and privileges to the exclusion of the rest of the nation's
families--_including his own_.

They all looked unhit, and said they didn't know; that they had
never thought about it before, and it hadn't ever occurred to them
that a nation could be so situated that every man _could_ have
a say in the government.  I said I had seen one--and that it would
last until it had an Established Church.  Again they were all
unhit--at first.  But presently one man looked up and asked me
to state that proposition again; and state it slowly, so it could
soak into his understanding.  I did it; and after a little he had
the idea, and he brought his fist down and said _he_ didn't believe
a nation where every man had a vote would voluntarily get down
in the mud and dirt in any such way; and that to steal from a nation
its will and preference must be a crime and the first of all crimes.
I said to myself:

"This one's a man.  If I were backed by enough of his sort, I would
make a strike for the welfare of this country, and try to prove
myself its loyalest citizen by making a wholesome change in its
system of government."

You see my kind of loyalty was loyalty to one's country, not to
its institutions or its office-holders.  The country is the real
thing, the substantial thing, the eternal thing; it is the thing
to watch over, and care for, and be loyal to; institutions are
extraneous, they are its mere clothing, and clothing can wear out,
become ragged, cease to be comfortable, cease to protect the body
from winter, disease, and death.  To be loyal to rags, to shout
for rags, to worship rags, to die for rags--that is a loyalty
of unreason, it is pure animal; it belongs to monarchy, was invented
by monarchy; let monarchy keep it.  I was from Connecticut, whose
Constitution declares "that all political power is inherent in
the people, and all free governments are founded on their authority
and instituted for their benefit; and that they have _at all times_
an undeniable and indefeasible right to _alter their form of
government_ in such a manner as they may think expedient."

Under that gospel, the citizen who thinks he sees that the
commonwealth's political clothes are worn out, and yet holds his
peace and does not agitate for a new suit, is disloyal; he is
a traitor.  That he may be the only one who thinks he sees this
decay, does not excuse him; it is his duty to agitate anyway, and
it is the duty of the others to vote him down if they do not see
the matter as he does.

And now here I was, in a country where a right to say how the
country should be governed was restricted to six persons in each
thousand of its population.  For the nine hundred and ninety-four
to express dissatisfaction with the regnant system and propose
to change it, would have made the whole six shudder as one man,
it would have been so disloyal, so dishonorable, such putrid black
treason.  So to speak, I was become a stockholder in a corporation
where nine hundred and ninety-four of the members furnished all
the money and did all the work, and the other six elected themselves
a permanent board of direction and took all the dividends.  It seemed
to me that what the nine hundred and ninety-four dupes needed was
a new deal.  The thing that would have best suited the circus side
of my nature would have been to resign the Boss-ship and get up
an insurrection and turn it into a revolution; but I knew that the
Jack Cade or the Wat Tyler who tries such a thing without first
educating his materials up to revolution grade is almost absolutely
certain to get left.  I had never been accustomed to getting left,
even if I do say it myself.  Wherefore, the "deal" which had been
for some time working into shape in my mind was of a quite different
pattern from the Cade-Tyler sort.

So I did not talk blood and insurrection to that man there who sat
munching black bread with that abused and mistaught herd of human
sheep, but took him aside and talked matter of another sort to him.
After I had finished, I got him to lend me a little ink from his
veins; and with this and a sliver I wrote on a piece of bark--

   Put him in the Man-factory--

and gave it to him, and said:

"Take it to the palace at Camelot and give it into the hands of
Amyas le Poulet, whom I call Clarence, and he will understand."

"He is a priest, then," said the man, and some of the enthusiasm
went out of his face.

"How--a priest?  Didn't I tell you that no chattel of the Church,
no bond-slave of pope or bishop can enter my Man-Factory?  Didn't
I tell you that _you_ couldn't enter unless your religion, whatever
it might be, was your own free property?"

"Marry, it is so, and for that I was glad; wherefore it liked me not,
and bred in me a cold doubt, to hear of this priest being there."

"But he isn't a priest, I tell you."

The man looked far from satisfied.  He said:

"He is not a priest, and yet can read?"

"He is not a priest and yet can read--yes, and write, too, for that
matter.  I taught him myself." The man's face cleared.  "And it is
the first thing that you yourself will be taught in that Factory--"

"I?  I would give blood out of my heart to know that art.  Why,
I will be your slave, your--"

"No you won't, you won't be anybody's slave.  Take your family
and go along.  Your lord the bishop will confiscate your small
property, but no matter.  Clarence will fix you all right."



CHAPTER XIV

"DEFEND THEE, LORD"

I paid three pennies for my breakfast, and a most extravagant
price it was, too, seeing that one could have breakfasted a dozen
persons for that money; but I was feeling good by this time, and
I had always been a kind of spendthrift anyway; and then these
people had wanted to give me the food for nothing, scant as
their provision was, and so it was a grateful pleasure to emphasize
my appreciation and sincere thankfulness with a good big financial
lift where the money would do so much more good than it would
in my helmet, where, these pennies being made of iron and not
stinted in weight, my half-dollar's worth was a good deal of a
burden to me.  I spent money rather too freely in those days,
it is true; but one reason for it was that I hadn't got the
proportions of things entirely adjusted, even yet, after so long
a sojourn in Britain--hadn't got along to where I was able to
absolutely realize that a penny in Arthur's land and a couple of
dollars in Connecticut were about one and the same thing:  just
twins, as you may say, in purchasing power.  If my start from
Camelot could have been delayed a very few days I could have paid
these people in beautiful new coins from our own mint, and that
would have pleased me; and them, too, not less.  I had adopted
the American values exclusively.  In a week or two now, cents,
nickels, dimes, quarters, and half-dollars, and also a trifle of
gold, would be trickling in thin but steady streams all through
the commercial veins of the kingdom, and I looked to see this
new blood freshen up its life.

The farmers were bound to throw in something, to sort of offset
my liberality, whether I would or no; so I let them give me a flint
and steel; and as soon as they had comfortably bestowed Sandy
and me on our horse, I lit my pipe.  When the first blast of smoke
shot out through the bars of my helmet, all those people broke
for the woods, and Sandy went over backwards and struck the ground
with a dull thud.  They thought I was one of those fire-belching
dragons they had heard so much about from knights and other
professional liars.  I had infinite trouble to persuade those people
to venture back within explaining distance.  Then I told them that
this was only a bit of enchantment which would work harm to none
but my enemies.  And I promised, with my hand on my heart, that
if all who felt no enmity toward me would come forward and pass
before me they should see that only those who remained behind would
be struck dead.  The procession moved with a good deal of promptness.
There were no casualties to report, for nobody had curiosity enough
to remain behind to see what would happen.

I lost some time, now, for these big children, their fears gone,
became so ravished with wonder over my awe-compelling fireworks
that I had to stay there and smoke a couple of pipes out before
they would let me go.  Still the delay was not wholly unproductive,
for it took all that time to get Sandy thoroughly wonted to the new
thing, she being so close to it, you know.  It plugged up her
conversation mill, too, for a considerable while, and that was
a gain.  But above all other benefits accruing, I had learned
something.  I was ready for any giant or any ogre that might come
along, now.

We tarried with a holy hermit, that night, and my opportunity
came about the middle of the next afternoon.  We were crossing
a vast meadow by way of short-cut, and I was musing absently,
hearing nothing, seeing nothing, when Sandy suddenly interrupted
a remark which she had begun that morning, with the cry:

"Defend thee, lord!--peril of life is toward!"

And she slipped down from the horse and ran a little way and stood.
I looked up and saw, far off in the shade of a tree, half a dozen
armed knights and their squires; and straightway there was bustle
among them and tightening of saddle-girths for the mount.  My pipe
was ready and would have been lit, if I had not been lost in
thinking about how to banish oppression from this land and restore
to all its people their stolen rights and manhood without disobliging
anybody.  I lit up at once, and by the time I had got a good head
of reserved steam on, here they came.  All together, too; none of
those chivalrous magnanimities which one reads so much about--
one courtly rascal at a time, and the rest standing by to see fair
play.  No, they came in a body, they came with a whirr and a rush,
they came like a volley from a battery; came with heads low down,
plumes streaming out behind, lances advanced at a level.  It was
a handsome sight, a beautiful sight--for a man up a tree.  I laid
my lance in rest and waited, with my heart beating, till the iron
wave was just ready to break over me, then spouted a column of
white smoke through the bars of my helmet.  You should have seen
the wave go to pieces and scatter!  This was a finer sight than
the other one.

But these people stopped, two or three hundred yards away, and
this troubled me.  My satisfaction collapsed, and fear came;
I judged I was a lost man.  But Sandy was radiant; and was going
to be eloquent--but I stopped her, and told her my magic had
miscarried, somehow or other, and she must mount, with all despatch,
and we must ride for life.  No, she wouldn't.  She said that my
enchantment had disabled those knights; they were not riding on,
because they couldn't; wait, they would drop out of their saddles
presently, and we would get their horses and harness.  I could not
deceive such trusting simplicity, so I said it was a mistake; that
when my fireworks killed at all, they killed instantly; no, the men
would not die, there was something wrong about my apparatus,
I couldn't tell what; but we must hurry and get away, for those
people would attack us again, in a minute.  Sandy laughed, and said:

"Lack-a-day, sir, they be not of that breed!  Sir Launcelot will
give battle to dragons, and will abide by them, and will assail
them again, and yet again, and still again, until he do conquer
and destroy them; and so likewise will Sir Pellinore and Sir Aglovale
and Sir Carados, and mayhap others, but there be none else that
will venture it, let the idle say what the idle will.  And, la,
as to yonder base rufflers, think ye they have not their fill,
but yet desire more?"

"Well, then, what are they waiting for?  Why don't they leave?
Nobody's hindering.  Good land, I'm willing to let bygones be
bygones, I'm sure."

"Leave, is it?  Oh, give thyself easement as to that.  They dream
not of it, no, not they.  They wait to yield them."

"Come--really, is that 'sooth'--as you people say?  If they want to,
why don't they?"

"It would like them much; but an ye wot how dragons are esteemed,
ye would not hold them blamable. They fear to come."

"Well, then, suppose I go to them instead, and--"

"Ah, wit ye well they would not abide your coming.  I will go."

And she did.  She was a handy person to have along on a raid.
I would have considered this a doubtful errand, myself.  I presently
saw the knights riding away, and Sandy coming back.  That was
a relief.  I judged she had somehow failed to get the first innings
--I mean in the conversation; otherwise the interview wouldn't have
been so short.  But it turned out that she had managed the business
well; in fact, admirably.  She said that when she told those people
I was The Boss, it hit them where they lived:  "smote them sore
with fear and dread" was her word; and then they were ready to
put up with anything she might require.  So she swore them to appear
at Arthur's court within two days and yield them, with horse and
harness, and be my knights henceforth, and subject to my command.
How much better she managed that thing than I should have done
it myself!  She was a daisy.



CHAPTER XV

SANDY'S TALE

"And so I'm proprietor of some knights," said I, as we rode off.
"Who would ever have supposed that I should live to list up assets
of that sort.  I shan't know what to do with them; unless I raffle
them off.  How many of them are there, Sandy?"

"Seven, please you, sir, and their squires."

"It is a good haul.  Who are they?  Where do they hang out?"

"Where do they hang out?"

"Yes, where do they live?"

"Ah, I understood thee not.  That will I tell eftsoons."  Then she
said musingly, and softly, turning the words daintily over her
tongue:  "Hang they out--hang they out--where hang--where do they
hang out; eh, right so; where do they hang out.  Of a truth the
phrase hath a fair and winsome grace, and is prettily worded
withal.  I will repeat it anon and anon in mine idlesse, whereby
I may peradventure learn it.  Where do they hang out.  Even so!
already it falleth trippingly from my tongue, and forasmuch as--"

"Don't forget the cowboys, Sandy."

"Cowboys?"

"Yes; the knights, you know:  You were going to tell me about them.
A while back, you remember.  Figuratively speaking, game's called."

"Game--"

"Yes, yes, yes!  Go to the bat.  I mean, get to work on your
statistics, and don't burn so much kindling getting your fire
started.  Tell me about the knights."

"I will well, and lightly will begin.  So they two departed and
rode into a great forest.  And--"

"Great Scott!"

You see, I recognized my mistake at once.  I had set her works
a-going; it was my own fault; she would be thirty days getting down
to those facts.  And she generally began without a preface and
finished without a result.  If you interrupted her she would either
go right along without noticing, or answer with a couple of words,
and go back and say the sentence over again.  So, interruptions
only did harm; and yet I had to interrupt, and interrupt pretty
frequently, too, in order to save my life; a person would die if
he let her monotony drip on him right along all day.

"Great Scott!" I said in my distress.  She went right back and
began over again:

"So they two departed and rode into a great forest.  And--"

"_Which_ two?"

"Sir Gawaine and Sir Uwaine.  And so they came to an abbey of monks,
and there were well lodged.  So on the morn they heard their masses
in the abbey, and so they rode forth till they came to a great
forest; then was Sir Gawaine ware in a valley by a turret, of
twelve fair damsels, and two knights armed on great horses, and
the damsels went to and fro by a tree.  And then was Sir Gawaine
ware how there hung a white shield on that tree, and ever as the
damsels came by it they spit upon it, and some threw mire upon
the shield--"

"Now, if I hadn't seen the like myself in this country, Sandy,
I wouldn't believe it.  But I've seen it, and I can just see those
creatures now, parading before that shield and acting like that.
The women here do certainly act like all possessed.  Yes, and
I mean your best, too, society's very choicest brands.  The humblest
hello-girl along ten thousand miles of wire could teach gentleness,
patience, modesty, manners, to the highest duchess in Arthur's land."

"Hello-girl?"

"Yes, but don't you ask me to explain; it's a new kind of a girl;
they don't have them here; one often speaks sharply to them when
they are not the least in fault, and he can't get over feeling
sorry for it and ashamed of himself in thirteen hundred years,
it's such shabby mean conduct and so unprovoked; the fact is,
no gentleman ever does it--though I--well, I myself, if I've got
to confess--"

"Peradventure she--"

"Never mind her; never mind her; I tell you I couldn't ever explain
her so you would understand."

"Even so be it, sith ye are so minded.  Then Sir Gawaine and
Sir Uwaine went and saluted them, and asked them why they did that
despite to the shield.  Sirs, said the damsels, we shall tell you.
There is a knight in this country that owneth this white shield,
and he is a passing good man of his hands, but he hateth all
ladies and gentlewomen, and therefore we do all this despite to
the shield.  I will say you, said Sir Gawaine, it beseemeth evil
a good knight to despise all ladies and gentlewomen, and peradventure
though he hate you he hath some cause, and peradventure he loveth
in some other places ladies and gentlewomen, and to be loved again,
and he such a man of prowess as ye speak of--"

"Man of prowess--yes, that is the man to please them, Sandy.
Man of brains--that is a thing they never think of.  Tom Sayers--
John Heenan--John L. Sullivan--pity but you could be here.  You
would have your legs under the Round Table and a 'Sir' in front
of your names within the twenty-four hours; and you could bring
about a new distribution of the married princesses and duchesses
of the Court in another twenty-four.  The fact is, it is just
a sort of polished-up court of Comanches, and there isn't a squaw
in it who doesn't stand ready at the dropping of a hat to desert
to the buck with the biggest string of scalps at his belt."

"--and he be such a man of prowess as ye speak of, said Sir Gawaine.
Now, what is his name?  Sir, said they, his name is Marhaus the
king's son of Ireland."

"Son of the king of Ireland, you mean; the other form doesn't mean
anything.  And look out and hold on tight, now, we must jump
this gully....  There, we are all right now.  This horse belongs in
the circus; he is born before his time."

"I know him well, said Sir Uwaine, he is a passing good knight as
any is on live."

"_On live_.  If you've got a fault in the world, Sandy, it is that
you are a shade too archaic.  But it isn't any matter."

"--for I saw him once proved at a justs where many knights were
gathered, and that time there might no man withstand him.  Ah, said
Sir Gawaine, damsels, methinketh ye are to blame, for it is to
suppose he that hung that shield there will not be long therefrom,
and then may those knights match him on horseback, and that is
more your worship than thus; for I will abide no longer to see
a knight's shield dishonored.  And therewith Sir Uwaine and
Sir Gawaine departed a little from them, and then were they ware
where Sir Marhaus came riding on a great horse straight toward
them.  And when the twelve damsels saw Sir Marhaus they fled into
the turret as they were wild, so that some of them fell by the way.
Then the one of the knights of the tower dressed his shield, and
said on high, Sir Marhaus defend thee.  And so they ran together
that the knight brake his spear on Marhaus, and Sir Marhaus smote
him so hard that he brake his neck and the horse's back--"

"Well, that is just the trouble about this state of things,
it ruins so many horses."

"That saw the other knight of the turret, and dressed him toward
Marhaus, and they went so eagerly together, that the knight of
the turret was soon smitten down, horse and man, stark dead--"

"_Another_ horse gone; I tell you it is a custom that ought to be
broken up.  I don't see how people with any feeling can applaud
and support it."

    .   .   .   .

"So these two knights came together with great random--"

I saw that I had been asleep and missed a chapter, but I didn't
say anything.  I judged that the Irish knight was in trouble with
the visitors by this time, and this turned out to be the case.

"--that Sir Uwaine smote Sir Marhaus that his spear brast in pieces
on the shield, and Sir Marhaus smote him so sore that horse and
man he bare to the earth, and hurt Sir Uwaine on the left side--"

"The truth is, Alisande, these archaics are a little _too_ simple;
the vocabulary is too limited, and so, by consequence, descriptions
suffer in the matter of variety; they run too much to level Saharas
of fact, and not enough to picturesque detail; this throws about
them a certain air of the monotonous; in fact the fights are all
alike:  a couple of people come together with great random--
random is a good word, and so is exegesis, for that matter, and
so is holocaust, and defalcation, and usufruct and a hundred others,
but land! a body ought to discriminate--they come together with
great random, and a spear is brast, and one party brake his shield
and the other one goes down, horse and man, over his horse-tail
and brake his neck, and then the next candidate comes randoming in,
and brast _his_ spear, and the other man brast his shield, and down
_he_ goes, horse and man, over his horse-tail, and brake _his_ neck,
and then there's another elected, and another and another and still
another, till the material is all used up; and when you come to
figure up results, you can't tell one fight from another, nor who
whipped; and as a _picture_, of living, raging, roaring battle,
sho! why, it's pale and noiseless--just ghosts scuffling in a fog.
Dear me, what would this barren vocabulary get out of the mightiest
spectacle?--the burning of Rome in Nero's time, for instance?
Why, it would merely say, 'Town burned down; no insurance; boy
brast a window, fireman brake his neck!'  Why, _that_ ain't a picture!"

It was a good deal of a lecture, I thought, but it didn't disturb
Sandy, didn't turn a feather; her steam soared steadily up again,
the minute I took off the lid:

"Then Sir Marhaus turned his horse and rode toward Gawaine with
his spear.  And when Sir Gawaine saw that, he dressed his shield,
and they aventred their spears, and they came together with all
the might of their horses, that either knight smote other so hard
in the midst of their shields, but Sir Gawaine's spear brake--"

"I knew it would."

--"but Sir Marhaus's spear held; and therewith Sir Gawaine and
his horse rushed down to the earth--"

"Just so--and brake his back."

--"and lightly Sir Gawaine rose upon his feet and pulled out
his sword, and dressed him toward Sir Marhaus on foot, and therewith
either came unto other eagerly, and smote together with their
swords, that their shields flew in cantels, and they bruised their
helms and their hauberks, and wounded either other.  But Sir Gawaine,
fro it passed nine of the clock, waxed by the space of three hours
ever stronger and stronger and thrice his might was increased.
All this espied Sir Marhaus, and had great wonder how his might
increased, and so they wounded other passing sore; and then when
it was come noon--"

The pelting sing-song of it carried me forward to scenes and
sounds of my boyhood days:

"N-e-e-ew Haven! ten minutes for refreshments--knductr'll strike
the gong-bell two minutes before train leaves--passengers for
the Shore line please take seats in the rear k'yar, this k'yar
don't go no furder--_ahh_-pls, _aw_-rnjz, b'_nan_ners,
_s-a-n-d-'ches, p--_op_-corn!"

--"and waxed past noon and drew toward evensong.  Sir Gawaine's
strength feebled and waxed passing faint, that unnethes he might
dure any longer, and Sir Marhaus was then bigger and bigger--"

"Which strained his armor, of course; and yet little would one
of these people mind a small thing like that."

--"and so, Sir Knight, said Sir Marhaus, I have well felt that
ye are a passing good knight, and a marvelous man of might as ever
I felt any, while it lasteth, and our quarrels are not great, and
therefore it were a pity to do you hurt, for I feel you are passing
feeble.  Ah, said Sir Gawaine, gentle knight, ye say the word
that I should say.  And therewith they took off their helms and
either kissed other, and there they swore together either to love
other as brethren--"

But I lost the thread there, and dozed off to slumber, thinking
about what a pity it was that men with such superb strength--
strength enabling them to stand up cased in cruelly burdensome
iron and drenched with perspiration, and hack and batter and bang
each other for six hours on a stretch--should not have been born
at a time when they could put it to some useful purpose.  Take
a jackass, for instance:  a jackass has that kind of strength, and
puts it to a useful purpose, and is valuable to this world because
he is a jackass; but a nobleman is not valuable because he is
a jackass.  It is a mixture that is always ineffectual, and should
never have been attempted in the first place.  And yet, once you
start a mistake, the trouble is done and you never know what is
going to come of it.

When I came to myself again and began to listen, I perceived that
I had lost another chapter, and that Alisande had wandered a long
way off with her people.

"And so they rode and came into a deep valley full of stones,
and thereby they saw a fair stream of water; above thereby was
the head of the stream, a fair fountain, and three damsels sitting
thereby. In this country, said Sir Marhaus, came never knight
since it was christened, but he found strange adventures--"

"This is not good form, Alisande.  Sir Marhaus the king's son of
Ireland talks like all the rest; you ought to give him a brogue,
or at least a characteristic expletive; by this means one would
recognize him as soon as he spoke, without his ever being named.
It is a common literary device with the great authors.  You should
make him say, 'In this country, be jabers, came never knight since
it was christened, but he found strange adventures, be jabers.'
You see how much better that sounds."

--"came never knight but he found strange adventures, be jabers.
Of a truth it doth indeed, fair lord, albeit 'tis passing hard
to say, though peradventure that will not tarry but better speed
with usage.  And then they rode to the damsels, and either saluted
other, and the eldest had a garland of gold about her head, and
she was threescore winter of age or more--"

"The _damsel_ was?"

"Even so, dear lord--and her hair was white under the garland--"

"Celluloid teeth, nine dollars a set, as like as not--the loose-fit
kind, that go up and down like a portcullis when you eat, and
fall out when you laugh."

"The second damsel was of thirty winter of age, with a circlet of
gold about her head.  The third damsel was but fifteen year of age--"

Billows of thought came rolling over my soul, and the voice faded
out of my hearing!

Fifteen!  Break--my heart! oh, my lost darling!  Just her age
who was so gentle, and lovely, and all the world to me, and whom
I shall never see again!  How the thought of her carries me back
over wide seas of memory to a vague dim time, a happy time, so many,
many centuries hence, when I used to wake in the soft summer
mornings, out of sweet dreams of her, and say "Hello, Central!"
just to hear her dear voice come melting back to me with a
"Hello, Hank!" that was music of the spheres to my enchanted ear.
She got three dollars a week, but she was worth it.

I could not follow Alisande's further explanation of who our
captured knights were, now--I mean in case she should ever get
to explaining who they were.  My interest was gone, my thoughts
were far away, and sad.  By fitful glimpses of the drifting tale,
caught here and there and now and then, I merely noted in a vague
way that each of these three knights took one of these three damsels
up behind him on his horse, and one rode north, another east,
the other south, to seek adventures, and meet again and lie, after
year and day.  Year and day--and without baggage.  It was of
a piece with the general simplicity of the country.

The sun was now setting.  It was about three in the afternoon when
Alisande had begun to tell me who the cowboys were; so she had made
pretty good progress with it--for her.  She would arrive some time
or other, no doubt, but she was not a person who could be hurried.

We were approaching a castle which stood on high ground; a huge,
strong, venerable structure, whose gray towers and battlements were
charmingly draped with ivy, and whose whole majestic mass was
drenched with splendors flung from the sinking sun.  It was the
largest castle we had seen, and so I thought it might be the one
we were after, but Sandy said no.  She did not know who owned it;
she said she had passed it without calling, when she went down
to Camelot.



CHAPTER XVI

MORGAN LE FAY

If knights errant were to be believed, not all castles were desirable
places to seek hospitality in.  As a matter of fact, knights errant
were _not_ persons to be believed--that is, measured by modern
standards of veracity; yet, measured by the standards of their own
time, and scaled accordingly, you got the truth.  It was very
simple:  you discounted a statement ninety-seven per cent; the rest
was fact.  Now after making this allowance, the truth remained
that if I could find out something about a castle before ringing
the door-bell--I mean hailing the warders--it was the sensible
thing to do.  So I was pleased when I saw in the distance a horseman
making the bottom turn of the road that wound down from this castle.

As we approached each other, I saw that he wore a plumed helmet,
and seemed to be otherwise clothed in steel, but bore a curious
addition also--a stiff square garment like a herald's tabard.
However, I had to smile at my own forgetfulness when I got nearer
and read this sign on his tabard:

  "Persimmon's Soap -- All the Prime-Donna Use It."

That was a little idea of my own, and had several wholesome purposes
in view toward the civilizing and uplifting of this nation.  In the
first place, it was a furtive, underhand blow at this nonsense
of knight errantry, though nobody suspected that but me.  I had
started a number of these people out--the bravest knights I could
get--each sandwiched between bulletin-boards bearing one device
or another, and I judged that by and by when they got to be numerous
enough they would begin to look ridiculous; and then, even the
steel-clad ass that _hadn't_ any board would himself begin to look
ridiculous because he was out of the fashion.

Secondly, these missionaries would gradually, and without creating
suspicion or exciting alarm, introduce a rudimentary cleanliness
among the nobility, and from them it would work down to the people,
if the priests could be kept quiet.  This would undermine the Church.
I mean would be a step toward that.  Next, education--next, freedom--
and then she would begin to crumble.  It being my conviction that
any Established Church is an established crime, an established
slave-pen, I had no scruples, but was willing to assail it in
any way or with any weapon that promised to hurt it.  Why, in my
own former day--in remote centuries not yet stirring in the womb
of time--there were old Englishmen who imagined that they had been
born in a free country:  a "free" country with the Corporation Act
and the Test still in force in it--timbers propped against men's
liberties and dishonored consciences to shore up an Established
Anachronism with.

My missionaries were taught to spell out the gilt signs on their
tabards--the showy gilding was a neat idea, I could have got the
king to wear a bulletin-board for the sake of that barbaric
splendor--they were to spell out these signs and then explain to
the lords and ladies what soap was; and if the lords and ladies
were afraid of it, get them to try it on a dog.  The missionary's
next move was to get the family together and try it on himself;
he was to stop at no experiment, however desperate, that could
convince the nobility that soap was harmless; if any final doubt
remained, he must catch a hermit--the woods were full of them;
saints they called themselves, and saints they were believed to be.
They were unspeakably holy, and worked miracles, and everybody
stood in awe of them.  If a hermit could survive a wash, and that
failed to convince a duke, give him up, let him alone.

Whenever my missionaries overcame a knight errant on the road
they washed him, and when he got well they swore him to go and
get a bulletin-board and disseminate soap and civilization the rest
of his days.  As a consequence the workers in the field were
increasing by degrees, and the reform was steadily spreading.
My soap factory felt the strain early.  At first I had only two
hands; but before I had left home I was already employing fifteen,
and running night and day; and the atmospheric result was getting
so pronounced that the king went sort of fainting and gasping
around and said he did not believe he could stand it much longer,
and Sir Launcelot got so that he did hardly anything but walk up
and down the roof and swear, although I told him it was worse up
there than anywhere else, but he said he wanted plenty of air; and
he was always complaining that a palace was no place for a soap
factory anyway, and said if a man was to start one in his house
he would be damned if he wouldn't strangle him.  There were ladies
present, too, but much these people ever cared for that; they would
swear before children, if the wind was their way when the factory
was going.

This missionary knight's name was La Cote Male Taile, and he said
that this castle was the abode of Morgan le Fay, sister of
King Arthur, and wife of King Uriens, monarch of a realm about
as big as the District of Columbia--you could stand in the middle
of it and throw bricks into the next kingdom.  "Kings" and "Kingdoms"
were as thick in Britain as they had been in little Palestine in
Joshua's time, when people had to sleep with their knees pulled up
because they couldn't stretch out without a passport.

La Cote was much depressed, for he had scored here the worst
failure of his campaign.  He had not worked off a cake; yet he had
tried all the tricks of the trade, even to the washing of a hermit;
but the hermit died.  This was, indeed, a bad failure, for this
animal would now be dubbed a martyr, and would take his place
among the saints of the Roman calendar.  Thus made he his moan,
this poor Sir La Cote Male Taile, and sorrowed passing sore.  And
so my heart bled for him, and I was moved to comfort and stay him.
Wherefore I said:

"Forbear to grieve, fair knight, for this is not a defeat.  We have
brains, you and I; and for such as have brains there are no defeats,
but only victories.  Observe how we will turn this seeming disaster
into an advertisement; an advertisement for our soap; and the
biggest one, to draw, that was ever thought of; an advertisement
that will transform that Mount Washington defeat into a Matterhorn
victory.  We will put on your bulletin-board, '_Patronized by the
elect_.'  How does that strike you?"

"Verily, it is wonderly bethought!"

"Well, a body is bound to admit that for just a modest little
one-line ad, it's a corker."

So the poor colporteur's griefs vanished away.  He was a brave
fellow, and had done mighty feats of arms in his time.  His chief
celebrity rested upon the events of an excursion like this one
of mine, which he had once made with a damsel named Maledisant,
who was as handy with her tongue as was Sandy, though in a different
way, for her tongue churned forth only railings and insult, whereas
Sandy's music was of a kindlier sort.  I knew his story well, and so
I knew how to interpret the compassion that was in his face when he
bade me farewell.  He supposed I was having a bitter hard time of it.

Sandy and I discussed his story, as we rode along, and she said
that La Cote's bad luck had begun with the very beginning of that
trip; for the king's fool had overthrown him on the first day,
and in such cases it was customary for the girl to desert to the
conqueror, but Maledisant didn't do it; and also persisted afterward
in sticking to him, after all his defeats.  But, said I, suppose
the victor should decline to accept his spoil?  She said that that
wouldn't answer--he must.  He couldn't decline; it wouldn't be
regular.  I made a note of that.  If Sandy's music got to be too
burdensome, some time, I would let a knight defeat me, on the chance
that she would desert to him.

In due time we were challenged by the warders, from the castle
walls, and after a parley admitted.  I have nothing pleasant to
tell about that visit.  But it was not a disappointment, for I knew
Mrs. le Fay by reputation, and was not expecting anything pleasant.
She was held in awe by the whole realm, for she had made everybody
believe she was a great sorceress.  All her ways were wicked, all
her instincts devilish.  She was loaded to the eyelids with cold
malice.  All her history was black with crime; and among her crimes
murder was common.  I was most curious to see her; as curious as
I could have been to see Satan.  To my surprise she was beautiful;
black thoughts had failed to make her expression repulsive, age
had failed to wrinkle her satin skin or mar its bloomy freshness.
She could have passed for old Uriens' granddaughter, she could
have been mistaken for sister to her own son.

As soon as we were fairly within the castle gates we were ordered
into her presence.  King Uriens was there, a kind-faced old man
with a subdued look; and also the son, Sir Uwaine le Blanchemains,
in whom I was, of course, interested on account of the tradition
that he had once done battle with thirty knights, and also on
account of his trip with Sir Gawaine and Sir Marhaus, which Sandy
had been aging me with.  But Morgan was the main attraction, the
conspicuous personality here; she was head chief of this household,
that was plain.  She caused us to be seated, and then she began,
with all manner of pretty graces and graciousnesses, to ask me
questions.  Dear me, it was like a bird or a flute, or something,
talking.  I felt persuaded that this woman must have been
misrepresented, lied about.  She trilled along, and trilled along,
and presently a handsome young page, clothed like the rainbow, and
as easy and undulatory of movement as a wave, came with something
on a golden salver, and, kneeling to present it to her, overdid
his graces and lost his balance, and so fell lightly against her
knee.  She slipped a dirk into him in as matter-of-course a way as
another person would have harpooned a rat!

Poor child! he slumped to the floor, twisted his silken limbs in
one great straining contortion of pain, and was dead.  Out of the
old king was wrung an involuntary "O-h!" of compassion.  The look
he got, made him cut it suddenly short and not put any more hyphens
in it.  Sir Uwaine, at a sign from his mother, went to the anteroom
and called some servants, and meanwhile madame went rippling sweetly
along with her talk.

I saw that she was a good housekeeper, for while she talked she
kept a corner of her eye on the servants to see that they made
no balks in handling the body and getting it out; when they came
with fresh clean towels, she sent back for the other kind; and
when they had finished wiping the floor and were going, she indicated
a crimson fleck the size of a tear which their duller eyes had
overlooked.  It was plain to me that La Cote Male Taile had failed
to see the mistress of the house.  Often, how louder and clearer
than any tongue, does dumb circumstantial evidence speak.

Morgan le Fay rippled along as musically as ever.  Marvelous woman.
And what a glance she had:  when it fell in reproof upon those
servants, they shrunk and quailed as timid people do when the
lightning flashes out of a cloud.  I could have got the habit
myself.  It was the same with that poor old Brer Uriens; he was
always on the ragged edge of apprehension; she could not even turn
toward him but he winced.

In the midst of the talk I let drop a complimentary word about
King Arthur, forgetting for the moment how this woman hated her
brother.  That one little compliment was enough.  She clouded up
like storm; she called for her guards, and said:

"Hale me these varlets to the dungeons."

That struck cold on my ears, for her dungeons had a reputation.
Nothing occurred to me to say--or do.  But not so with Sandy.
As the guard laid a hand upon me, she piped up with the tranquilest
confidence, and said:

"God's wounds, dost thou covet destruction, thou maniac?  It is
The Boss!"

Now what a happy idea that was!--and so simple; yet it would never
have occurred to me.  I was born modest; not all over, but in spots;
and this was one of the spots.

The effect upon madame was electrical.  It cleared her countenance
and brought back her smiles and all her persuasive graces and
blandishments; but nevertheless she was not able to entirely cover up
with them the fact that she was in a ghastly fright. She said:

"La, but do list to thine handmaid! as if one gifted with powers
like to mine might say the thing which I have said unto one who
has vanquished Merlin, and not be jesting.  By mine enchantments
I foresaw your coming, and by them I knew you when you entered
here.  I did but play this little jest with hope to surprise you
into some display of your art, as not doubting you would blast
the guards with occult fires, consuming them to ashes on the spot,
a marvel much beyond mine own ability, yet one which I have long
been childishly curious to see."

The guards were less curious, and got out as soon as they got permission.



CHAPTER XVII

A ROYAL BANQUET

Madame, seeing me pacific and unresentful, no doubt judged that
I was deceived by her excuse; for her fright dissolved away, and
she was soon so importunate to have me give an exhibition and kill
somebody, that the thing grew to be embarrassing.  However, to my
relief she was presently interrupted by the call to prayers.  I will
say this much for the nobility:  that, tyrannical, murderous,
rapacious, and morally rotten as they were, they were deeply and
enthusiastically religious.  Nothing could divert them from the
regular and faithful performance of the pieties enjoined by the
Church.  More than once I had seen a noble who had gotten his
enemy at a disadvantage, stop to pray before cutting his throat;
more than once I had seen a noble, after ambushing and despatching
his enemy, retire to the nearest wayside shrine and humbly give
thanks, without even waiting to rob the body.  There was to be
nothing finer or sweeter in the life of even Benvenuto Cellini,
that rough-hewn saint, ten centuries later.  All the nobles of
Britain, with their families, attended divine service morning and
night daily, in their private chapels, and even the worst of them
had family worship five or six times a day besides.  The credit
of this belonged entirely to the Church.  Although I was no friend
to that Catholic Church, I was obliged to admit this.  And often,
in spite of me, I found myself saying, "What would this country
be without the Church?"

After prayers we had dinner in a great banqueting hall which was
lighted by hundreds of grease-jets, and everything was as fine and
lavish and rudely splendid as might become the royal degree of the
hosts.  At the head of the hall, on a dais, was the table of the
king, queen, and their son, Prince Uwaine.  Stretching down the hall
from this, was the general table, on the floor.  At this, above
the salt, sat the visiting nobles and the grown members of their
families, of both sexes,--the resident Court, in effect--sixty-one
persons; below the salt sat minor officers of the household, with
their principal subordinates:  altogether a hundred and eighteen
persons sitting, and about as many liveried servants standing
behind their chairs, or serving in one capacity or another.  It was
a very fine show.  In a gallery a band with cymbals, horns, harps,
and other horrors, opened the proceedings with what seemed to be
the crude first-draft or original agony of the wail known to later
centuries as "In the Sweet Bye and Bye."  It was new, and ought
to have been rehearsed a little more.  For some reason or other
the queen had the composer hanged, after dinner.

After this music, the priest who stood behind the royal table said
a noble long grace in ostensible Latin.  Then the battalion of
waiters broke away from their posts, and darted, rushed, flew,
fetched and carried, and the mighty feeding began; no words
anywhere, but absorbing attention to business.  The rows of chops
opened and shut in vast unison, and the sound of it was like to
the muffled burr of subterranean machinery.

The havoc continued an hour and a half, and unimaginable was the
destruction of substantials.  Of the chief feature of the feast--
the huge wild boar that lay stretched out so portly and imposing
at the start--nothing was left but the semblance of a hoop-skirt;
and he was but the type and symbol of what had happened to all
the other dishes.

With the pastries and so on, the heavy drinking began--and the talk.
Gallon after gallon of wine and mead disappeared, and everybody
got comfortable, then happy, then sparklingly joyous--both sexes,--
and by and by pretty noisy.  Men told anecdotes that were terrific
to hear, but nobody blushed; and when the nub was sprung, the
assemblage let go with a horse-laugh that shook the fortress.
Ladies answered back with historiettes that would almost have made
Queen Margaret of Navarre or even the great Elizabeth of England
hide behind a handkerchief, but nobody hid here, but only laughed--
howled, you may say.  In pretty much all of these dreadful stories,
ecclesiastics were the hardy heroes, but that didn't worry the
chaplain any, he had his laugh with the rest; more than that, upon
invitation he roared out a song which was of as daring a sort as
any that was sung that night.

By midnight everybody was fagged out, and sore with laughing; and,
as a rule, drunk:  some weepingly, some affectionately, some
hilariously, some quarrelsomely, some dead and under the table.
Of the ladies, the worst spectacle was a lovely young duchess, whose
wedding-eve this was; and indeed she was a spectacle, sure enough.
Just as she was she could have sat in advance for the portrait of the
young daughter of the Regent d'Orleans, at the famous dinner whence
she was carried, foul-mouthed, intoxicated, and helpless, to her bed,
in the lost and lamented days of the Ancient Regime.

Suddenly, even while the priest was lifting his hands, and all
conscious heads were bowed in reverent expectation of the coming
blessing, there appeared under the arch of the far-off door at
the bottom of the hall an old and bent and white-haired lady,
leaning upon a crutch-stick; and she lifted the stick and pointed it
toward the queen and cried out:

"The wrath and curse of God fall upon you, woman without pity,
who have slain mine innocent grandchild and made desolate this
old heart that had nor chick, nor friend nor stay nor comfort in
all this world but him!"

Everybody crossed himself in a grisly fright, for a curse was an
awful thing to those people; but the queen rose up majestic, with
the death-light in her eye, and flung back this ruthless command:

"Lay hands on her!  To the stake with her!"

The guards left their posts to obey.  It was a shame; it was a
cruel thing to see.  What could be done?  Sandy gave me a look;
I knew she had another inspiration.  I said:

"Do what you choose."

She was up and facing toward the queen in a moment.  She indicated
me, and said:

"Madame, _he_ saith this may not be.  Recall the commandment, or he
will dissolve the castle and it shall vanish away like the instable
fabric of a dream!"

Confound it, what a crazy contract to pledge a person to!  What if
the queen--

But my consternation subsided there, and my panic passed off;
for the queen, all in a collapse, made no show of resistance but
gave a countermanding sign and sunk into her seat.  When she reached
it she was sober.  So were many of the others.  The assemblage rose,
whiffed ceremony to the winds, and rushed for the door like a mob;
overturning chairs, smashing crockery, tugging, struggling,
shouldering, crowding--anything to get out before I should change
my mind and puff the castle into the measureless dim vacancies of
space.  Well, well, well, they _were_ a superstitious lot.  It is
all a body can do to conceive of it.

The poor queen was so scared and humbled that she was even afraid
to hang the composer without first consulting me.  I was very sorry
for her--indeed, any one would have been, for she was really
suffering; so I was willing to do anything that was reasonable, and
had no desire to carry things to wanton extremities.  I therefore
considered the matter thoughtfully, and ended by having the
musicians ordered into our presence to play that Sweet Bye and
Bye again, which they did.  Then I saw that she was right, and
gave her permission to hang the whole band.  This little relaxation
of sternness had a good effect upon the queen.  A statesman gains
little by the arbitrary exercise of iron-clad authority upon all
occasions that offer, for this wounds the just pride of his
subordinates, and thus tends to undermine his strength.  A little
concession, now and then, where it can do no harm, is the wiser policy.

Now that the queen was at ease in her mind once more, and measurably
happy, her wine naturally began to assert itself again, and it got
a little the start of her.  I mean it set her music going--her silver
bell of a tongue.  Dear me, she was a master talker.  It would not
become me to suggest that it was pretty late and that I was a tired
man and very sleepy.  I wished I had gone off to bed when I had
the chance.  Now I must stick it out; there was no other way.  So
she tinkled along and along, in the otherwise profound and ghostly
hush of the sleeping castle, until by and by there came, as if
from deep down under us, a far-away sound, as of a muffled shriek--
with an expression of agony about it that made my flesh crawl.
The queen stopped, and her eyes lighted with pleasure; she tilted
her graceful head as a bird does when it listens.  The sound bored
its way up through the stillness again.

"What is it?" I said.

"It is truly a stubborn soul, and endureth long.  It is many hours now."

"Endureth what?"

"The rack.  Come--ye shall see a blithe sight.  An he yield not
his secret now, ye shall see him torn asunder."

What a silky smooth hellion she was; and so composed and serene,
when the cords all down my legs were hurting in sympathy with that
man's pain.  Conducted by mailed guards bearing flaring torches,
we tramped along echoing corridors, and down stone stairways dank
and dripping, and smelling of mould and ages of imprisoned night--
a chill, uncanny journey and a long one, and not made the shorter
or the cheerier by the sorceress's talk, which was about this
sufferer and his crime.  He had been accused by an anonymous
informer, of having killed a stag in the royal preserves.  I said:

"Anonymous testimony isn't just the right thing, your Highness.
It were fairer to confront the accused with the accuser."

"I had not thought of that, it being but of small consequence.
But an I would, I could not, for that the accuser came masked by
night, and told the forester, and straightway got him hence again,
and so the forester knoweth him not."

"Then is this Unknown the only person who saw the stag killed?"

"Marry, _no_ man _saw_ the killing, but this Unknown saw this hardy
wretch near to the spot where the stag lay, and came with right
loyal zeal and betrayed him to the forester."

"So the Unknown was near the dead stag, too?  Isn't it just possible
that he did the killing himself?  His loyal zeal--in a mask--looks
just a shade suspicious.  But what is your highness's idea for
racking the prisoner?  Where is the profit?"

"He will not confess, else; and then were his soul lost.  For his
crime his life is forfeited by the law--and of a surety will I see
that he payeth it!--but it were peril to my own soul to let him
die unconfessed and unabsolved.  Nay, I were a fool to fling me
into hell for _his_ accommodation."

"But, your Highness, suppose he has nothing to confess?"

"As to that, we shall see, anon.  An I rack him to death and he
confess not, it will peradventure show that he had indeed naught
to confess--ye will grant that that is sooth?  Then shall I not be
damned for an unconfessed man that had naught to confess--
wherefore, I shall be safe."

It was the stubborn unreasoning of the time.  It was useless to
argue with her.  Arguments have no chance against petrified
training; they wear it as little as the waves wear a cliff.  And
her training was everybody's.  The brightest intellect in the land
would not have been able to see that her position was defective.

As we entered the rack-cell I caught a picture that will not go
from me; I wish it would.  A native young giant of thirty or
thereabouts lay stretched upon the frame on his back, with his
wrists and ankles tied to ropes which led over windlasses at either
end.  There was no color in him; his features were contorted and
set, and sweat-drops stood upon his forehead.  A priest bent over
him on each side; the executioner stood by; guards were on duty;
smoking torches stood in sockets along the walls; in a corner
crouched a poor young creature, her face drawn with anguish,
a half-wild and hunted look in her eyes, and in her lap lay a little
child asleep.  Just as we stepped across the threshold the
executioner gave his machine a slight turn, which wrung a cry
from both the prisoner and the woman; but I shouted, and the
executioner released the strain without waiting to see who spoke.
I could not let this horror go on; it would have killed me to
see it.  I asked the queen to let me clear the place and speak
to the prisoner privately; and when she was going to object I spoke
in a low voice and said I did not want to make a scene before
her servants, but I must have my way; for I was King Arthur's
representative, and was speaking in his name.  She saw she had
to yield.  I asked her to indorse me to these people, and then
leave me.  It was not pleasant for her, but she took the pill;
and even went further than I was meaning to require.  I only wanted
the backing of her own authority; but she said:

"Ye will do in all things as this lord shall command.  It is The Boss."

It was certainly a good word to conjure with:  you could see it
by the squirming of these rats.  The queen's guards fell into line,
and she and they marched away, with their torch-bearers, and woke
the echoes of the cavernous tunnels with the measured beat of their
retreating footfalls.  I had the prisoner taken from the rack and
placed upon his bed, and medicaments applied to his hurts, and
wine given him to drink.  The woman crept near and looked on,
eagerly, lovingly, but timorously,--like one who fears a repulse;
indeed, she tried furtively to touch the man's forehead, and jumped
back, the picture of fright, when I turned unconsciously toward
her.  It was pitiful to see.

"Lord," I said, "stroke him, lass, if you want to.  Do anything
you're a mind to; don't mind me."

Why, her eyes were as grateful as an animal's, when you do it
a kindness that it understands.  The baby was out of her way and
she had her cheek against the man's in a minute and her hands
fondling his hair, and her happy tears running down.  The man
revived and caressed his wife with his eyes, which was all he
could do.  I judged I might clear the den, now, and I did; cleared
it of all but the family and myself.  Then I said:

"Now, my friend, tell me your side of this matter; I know
the other side."

The man moved his head in sign of refusal.  But the woman looked
pleased--as it seemed to me--pleased with my suggestion.  I went on--

"You know of me?"

"Yes.  All do, in Arthur's realms."

"If my reputation has come to you right and straight, you should
not be afraid to speak."

The woman broke in, eagerly:

"Ah, fair my lord, do thou persuade him!  Thou canst an thou wilt.
Ah, he suffereth so; and it is for me--for _me_!  And how can I bear it?
I would I might see him die--a sweet, swift death; oh, my Hugo,
I cannot bear this one!"

And she fell to sobbing and grovelling about my feet, and still
imploring.  Imploring what?  The man's death?  I could not quite
get the bearings of the thing.  But Hugo interrupted her and said:

"Peace!  Ye wit not what ye ask.  Shall I starve whom I love,
to win a gentle death?  I wend thou knewest me better."

"Well," I said, "I can't quite make this out.  It is a puzzle.  Now--"

"Ah, dear my lord, an ye will but persuade him!  Consider how
these his tortures wound me!  Oh, and he will not speak!--whereas,
the healing, the solace that lie in a blessed swift death--"

"What _are_ you maundering about?  He's going out from here a free
man and whole--he's not going to die."

The man's white face lit up, and the woman flung herself at me
in a most surprising explosion of joy, and cried out:

"He is saved!--for it is the king's word by the mouth of the king's
servant--Arthur, the king whose word is gold!"

"Well, then you do believe I can be trusted, after all.  Why
didn't you before?"

"Who doubted?  Not I, indeed; and not she."

"Well, why wouldn't you tell me your story, then?"

"Ye had made no promise; else had it been otherwise."

"I see, I see....  And yet I believe I don't quite see, after all.
You stood the torture and refused to confess; which shows plain
enough to even the dullest understanding that you had nothing
to confess--"

"I, my lord?  How so?  It was I that killed the deer!"

"You _did_?  Oh, dear, this is the most mixed-up business that ever--"

"Dear lord, I begged him on my knees to confess, but--"

"You _did_!  It gets thicker and thicker.  What did you want him
to do that for?"

"Sith it would bring him a quick death and save him all this
cruel pain."

"Well--yes, there is reason in that.  But _he_ didn't want the
quick death."

"He?  Why, of a surety he _did_."

"Well, then, why in the world _didn't_ he confess?"

"Ah, sweet sir, and leave my wife and chick without bread and shelter?"

"Oh, heart of gold, now I see it!  The bitter law takes the convicted
man's estate and beggars his widow and his orphans.  They could
torture you to death, but without conviction or confession they
could not rob your wife and baby.  You stood by them like a man;
and _you_--true wife and the woman that you are--you would have
bought him release from torture at cost to yourself of slow
starvation and death--well, it humbles a body to think what your
sex can do when it comes to self-sacrifice.  I'll book you both
for my colony; you'll like it there; it's a Factory where I'm going
to turn groping and grubbing automata into _men_."



CHAPTER XVIII

IN THE QUEEN'S DUNGEONS

Well, I arranged all that; and I had the man sent to his home.
I had a great desire to rack the executioner; not because he was
a good, painstaking and paingiving official,--for surely it was
not to his discredit that he performed his functions well--but to
pay him back for wantonly cuffing and otherwise distressing that
young woman.  The priests told me about this, and were generously
hot to have him punished.  Something of this disagreeable sort
was turning up every now and then.  I mean, episodes that showed
that not all priests were frauds and self-seekers, but that many,
even the great majority, of these that were down on the ground
among the common people, were sincere and right-hearted, and
devoted to the alleviation of human troubles and sufferings.
Well, it was a thing which could not be helped, so I seldom fretted
about it, and never many minutes at a time; it has never been my
way to bother much about things which you can't cure.  But I did
not like it, for it was just the sort of thing to keep people
reconciled to an Established Church.  We _must_ have a religion--
it goes without saying--but my idea is, to have it cut up into
forty free sects, so that they will police each other, as had been
the case in the United States in my time.  Concentration of power
in a political machine is bad; and and an Established Church is
only a political machine; it was invented for that; it is nursed,
cradled, preserved for that; it is an enemy to human liberty, and
does no good which it could not better do in a split-up and scattered
condition.  That wasn't law; it wasn't gospel:  it was only
an opinion--my opinion, and I was only a man, one man: so it wasn't
worth any more than the pope's--or any less, for that matter.

Well, I couldn't rack the executioner, neither would I overlook
the just complaint of the priests.  The man must be punished
somehow or other, so I degraded him from his office and made him
leader of the band--the new one that was to be started.  He begged
hard, and said he couldn't play--a plausible excuse, but too thin;
there wasn't a musician in the country that could.

The queen was a good deal outraged, next morning when she found
she was going to have neither Hugo's life nor his property.  But
I told her she must bear this cross; that while by law and custom
she certainly was entitled to both the man's life and his property,
there were extenuating circumstances, and so in Arthur the king's
name I had pardoned him.  The deer was ravaging the man's fields,
and he had killed it in sudden passion, and not for gain; and he
had carried it into the royal forest in the hope that that might make
detection of the misdoer impossible.  Confound her, I couldn't
make her see that sudden passion is an extenuating circumstance
in the killing of venison--or of a person--so I gave it up and let
her sulk it out.  I _did_ think I was going to make her see it by
remarking that her own sudden passion in the case of the page
modified that crime.

"Crime!" she exclaimed.  "How thou talkest!  Crime, forsooth!
Man, I am going to _pay_ for him!"

Oh, it was no use to waste sense on her.  Training--training is
everything; training is all there is _to_ a person.  We speak of
nature; it is folly; there is no such thing as nature; what we
call by that misleading name is merely heredity and training.
We have no thoughts of our own, no opinions of our own; they are
transmitted to us, trained into us.  All that is original in us,
and therefore fairly creditable or discreditable to us, can be
covered up and hidden by the point of a cambric needle, all the
rest being atoms contributed by, and inherited from, a procession
of ancestors that stretches back a billion years to the Adam-clam
or grasshopper or monkey from whom our race has been so tediously
and ostentatiously and unprofitably developed.  And as for me,
all that I think about in this plodding sad pilgrimage, this
pathetic drift between the eternities, is to look out and humbly
live a pure and high and blameless life, and save that one
microscopic atom in me that is truly _me_:  the rest may land in
Sheol and welcome for all I care.

No, confound her, her intellect was good, she had brains enough,
but her training made her an ass--that is, from a many-centuries-later
point of view.  To kill the page was no crime--it was her right;
and upon her right she stood, serenely and unconscious of offense.
She was a result of generations of training in the unexamined and
unassailed belief that the law which permitted her to kill a subject
when she chose was a perfectly right and righteous one.

Well, we must give even Satan his due.  She deserved a compliment
for one thing; and I tried to pay it, but the words stuck in my
throat.  She had a right to kill the boy, but she was in no wise
obliged to pay for him.  That was law for some other people, but
not for her.  She knew quite well that she was doing a large and
generous thing to pay for that lad, and that I ought in common
fairness to come out with something handsome about it, but I
couldn't--my mouth refused.  I couldn't help seeing, in my fancy,
that poor old grandma with the broken heart, and that fair young
creature lying butchered, his little silken pomps and vanities
laced with his golden blood.  How could she _pay_ for him!  _Whom_
could she pay?  And so, well knowing that this woman, trained
as she had been, deserved praise, even adulation, I was yet not
able to utter it, trained as I had been.  The best I could do was
to fish up a compliment from outside, so to speak--and the pity
of it was, that it was true:

"Madame, your people will adore you for this."

Quite true, but I meant to hang her for it some day if I lived.
Some of those laws were too bad, altogether too bad.  A master
might kill his slave for nothing--for mere spite, malice, or
to pass the time--just as we have seen that the crowned head could
do it with _his_ slave, that is to say, anybody.  A gentleman could
kill a free commoner, and pay for him--cash or garden-truck.
A noble could kill a noble without expense, as far as the law was
concerned, but reprisals in kind were to be expected.  _Any_body
could kill _some_body, except the commoner and the slave; these had
no privileges.  If they killed, it was murder, and the law wouldn't
stand murder.  It made short work of the experimenter--and of
his family, too, if he murdered somebody who belonged up among
the ornamental ranks.  If a commoner gave a noble even so much
as a Damiens-scratch which didn't kill or even hurt, he got Damiens'
dose for it just the same; they pulled him to rags and tatters
with horses, and all the world came to see the show, and crack
jokes, and have a good time; and some of the performances of the
best people present were as tough, and as properly unprintable,
as any that have been printed by the pleasant Casanova in his
chapter about the dismemberment of Louis XV's poor awkward enemy.

I had had enough of this grisly place by this time, and wanted
to leave, but I couldn't, because I had something on my mind that
my conscience kept prodding me about, and wouldn't let me forget.
If I had the remaking of man, he wouldn't have any conscience.
It is one of the most disagreeable things connected with a person;
and although it certainly does a great deal of good, it cannot
be said to pay, in the long run; it would be much better to have
less good and more comfort.  Still, this is only my opinion, and
I am only one man; others, with less experience, may think
differently.  They have a right to their view.  I only stand
to this:  I have noticed my conscience for many years, and I know
it is more trouble and bother to me than anything else I started
with.  I suppose that in the beginning I prized it, because we
prize anything that is ours; and yet how foolish it was to think so.
If we look at it in another way, we see how absurd it is:  if I had
an anvil in me would I prize it?  Of course not.  And yet when you
come to think, there is no real difference between a conscience
and an anvil--I mean for comfort.  I have noticed it a thousand
times.  And you could dissolve an anvil with acids, when you
couldn't stand it any longer; but there isn't any way that you can
work off a conscience--at least so it will stay worked off; not
that I know of, anyway.

There was something I wanted to do before leaving, but it was
a disagreeable matter, and I hated to go at it.  Well, it bothered
me all the morning.  I could have mentioned it to the old king,
but what would be the use?--he was but an extinct volcano; he had
been active in his time, but his fire was out, this good while,
he was only a stately ash-pile now; gentle enough, and kindly
enough for my purpose, without doubt, but not usable.  He was
nothing, this so-called king:  the queen was the only power there.
And she was a Vesuvius.  As a favor, she might consent to warm
a flock of sparrows for you, but then she might take that very
opportunity to turn herself loose and bury a city.  However,
I reflected that as often as any other way, when you are expecting
the worst, you get something that is not so bad, after all.

So I braced up and placed my matter before her royal Highness.
I said I had been having a general jail-delivery at Camelot and
among neighboring castles, and with her permission I would like
to examine her collection, her bric-a-brac--that is to say, her
prisoners.  She resisted; but I was expecting that.  But she finally
consented.  I was expecting that, too, but not so soon.  That about
ended my discomfort.  She called her guards and torches, and
we went down into the dungeons.  These were down under the castle's
foundations, and mainly were small cells hollowed out of the living
rock.  Some of these cells had no light at all.  In one of them was
a woman, in foul rags, who sat on the ground, and would not answer
a question or speak a word, but only looked up at us once or twice,
through a cobweb of tangled hair, as if to see what casual thing
it might be that was disturbing with sound and light the meaningless
dull dream that was become her life; after that, she sat bowed,
with her dirt-caked fingers idly interlocked in her lap, and gave
no further sign.  This poor rack of bones was a woman of middle
age, apparently; but only apparently; she had been there nine
years, and was eighteen when she entered.  She was a commoner,
and had been sent here on her bridal night by Sir Breuse Sance Pite,
a neighboring lord whose vassal her father was, and to which said
lord she had refused what has since been called le droit du
seigneur, and, moreover, had opposed violence to violence and spilt
half a gill of his almost sacred blood.  The young husband had
interfered at that point, believing the bride's life in danger,
and had flung the noble out into the midst of the humble and
trembling wedding guests, in the parlor, and left him there
astonished at this strange treatment, and implacably embittered
against both bride and groom.  The said lord being cramped for
dungeon-room had asked the queen to accommodate his two criminals,
and here in her bastile they had been ever since; hither, indeed,
they had come before their crime was an hour old, and had never
seen each other since.  Here they were, kenneled like toads in the
same rock; they had passed nine pitch dark years within fifty feet
of each other, yet neither knew whether the other was alive or not.
All the first years, their only question had been--asked with
beseechings and tears that might have moved stones, in time,
perhaps, but hearts are not stones:  "Is he alive?"  "Is she alive?"
But they had never got an answer; and at last that question was
not asked any more--or any other.

I wanted to see the man, after hearing all this.  He was thirty-four
years old, and looked sixty.  He sat upon a squared block of
stone, with his head bent down, his forearms resting on his knees,
his long hair hanging like a fringe before his face, and he was
muttering to himself.  He raised his chin and looked us slowly
over, in a listless dull way, blinking with the distress of the
torchlight, then dropped his head and fell to muttering again
and took no further notice of us.  There were some pathetically
suggestive dumb witnesses present.  On his wrists and ankles were
cicatrices, old smooth scars, and fastened to the stone on which
he sat was a chain with manacles and fetters attached; but this
apparatus lay idle on the ground, and was thick with rust.  Chains
cease to be needed after the spirit has gone out of a prisoner.

I could not rouse the man; so I said we would take him to her,
and see--to the bride who was the fairest thing in the earth to him,
once--roses, pearls, and dew made flesh, for him; a wonder-work,
the master-work of nature:  with eyes like no other eyes, and voice
like no other voice, and a freshness, and lithe young grace, and
beauty, that belonged properly to the creatures of dreams--as he
thought--and to no other.  The sight of her would set his stagnant
blood leaping; the sight of her--

But it was a disappointment.  They sat together on the ground and
looked dimly wondering into each other's faces a while, with a
sort of weak animal curiosity; then forgot each other's presence,
and dropped their eyes, and you saw that they were away again and
wandering in some far land of dreams and shadows that we know
nothing about.

I had them taken out and sent to their friends.  The queen did not
like it much.  Not that she felt any personal interest in the matter,
but she thought it disrespectful to Sir Breuse Sance Pite.  However,
I assured her that if he found he couldn't stand it I would fix him
so that he could.

I set forty-seven prisoners loose out of those awful rat-holes,
and left only one in captivity.  He was a lord, and had killed
another lord, a sort of kinsman of the queen.  That other lord
had ambushed him to assassinate him, but this fellow had got the
best of him and cut his throat.  However, it was not for that that
I left him jailed, but for maliciously destroying the only public
well in one of his wretched villages.  The queen was bound to hang
him for killing her kinsman, but I would not allow it:  it was no
crime to kill an assassin.  But I said I was willing to let her
hang him for destroying the well; so she concluded to put up with
that, as it was better than nothing.

Dear me, for what trifling offenses the most of those forty-seven
men and women were shut up there!  Indeed, some were there for
no distinct offense at all, but only to gratify somebody's spite;
and not always the queen's by any means, but a friend's.  The newest
prisoner's crime was a mere remark which he had made.  He said
he believed that men were about all alike, and one man as good
as another, barring clothes.  He said he believed that if you were
to strip the nation naked and send a stranger through the crowd, he
couldn't tell the king from a quack doctor, nor a duke from a hotel
clerk.  Apparently here was a man whose brains had not been reduced
to an ineffectual mush by idiotic training.  I set him loose and
sent him to the Factory.

Some of the cells carved in the living rock were just behind the
face of the precipice, and in each of these an arrow-slit had been
pierced outward to the daylight, and so the captive had a thin
ray from the blessed sun for his comfort.  The case of one of
these poor fellows was particularly hard.  From his dusky swallow's
hole high up in that vast wall of native rock he could peer out
through the arrow-slit and see his own home off yonder in the
valley; and for twenty-two years he had watched it, with heartache
and longing, through that crack.  He could see the lights shine
there at night, and in the daytime he could see figures go in and
come out--his wife and children, some of them, no doubt, though
he could not make out at that distance.  In the course of years
he noted festivities there, and tried to rejoice, and wondered
if they were weddings or what they might be.  And he noted funerals;
and they wrung his heart.  He could make out the coffin, but he
could not determine its size, and so could not tell whether it was
wife or child.  He could see the procession form, with priests
and mourners, and move solemnly away, bearing the secret with
them.  He had left behind him five children and a wife; and in
nineteen years he had seen five funerals issue, and none of them
humble enough in pomp to denote a servant.  So he had lost five
of his treasures; there must still be one remaining--one now
infinitely, unspeakably precious,--but _which_ one? wife, or child?
That was the question that tortured him, by night and by day,
asleep and awake.  Well, to have an interest, of some sort, and
half a ray of light, when you are in a dungeon, is a great support
to the body and preserver of the intellect.  This man was in pretty
good condition yet.  By the time he had finished telling me his
distressful tale, I was in the same state of mind that you would
have been in yourself, if you have got average human curiosity;
that is to say, I was as burning up as he was to find out which
member of the family it was that was left.  So I took him over
home myself; and an amazing kind of a surprise party it was, too--
typhoons and cyclones of frantic joy, and whole Niagaras of happy
tears; and by George! we found the aforetime young matron graying
toward the imminent verge of her half century, and the babies all
men and women, and some of them married and experimenting familywise
themselves--for not a soul of the tribe was dead!  Conceive of the
ingenious devilishness of that queen:  she had a special hatred for
this prisoner, and she had _invented_ all those funerals herself,
to scorch his heart with; and the sublimest stroke of genius of
the whole thing was leaving the family-invoice a funeral _short_,
so as to let him wear his poor old soul out guessing.

But for me, he never would have got out.  Morgan le Fay hated him
with her whole heart, and she never would have softened toward him.
And yet his crime was committed more in thoughtlessness than
deliberate depravity.  He had said she had red hair.  Well, she
had; but that was no way to speak of it.  When red-headed people
are above a certain social grade their hair is auburn.

Consider it:  among these forty-seven captives there were five
whose names, offenses, and dates of incarceration were no longer
known!  One woman and four men--all bent, and wrinkled, and
mind-extinguished patriarchs.  They themselves had long ago forgotten
these details; at any rate they had mere vague theories about them,
nothing definite and nothing that they repeated twice in the same
way.  The succession of priests whose office it had been to pray
daily with the captives and remind them that God had put them
there, for some wise purpose or other, and teach them that patience,
humbleness, and submission to oppression was what He loved to see
in parties of a subordinate rank, had traditions about these poor
old human ruins, but nothing more.  These traditions went but
little way, for they concerned the length of the incarceration only,
and not the names of the offenses.  And even by the help of
tradition the only thing that could be proven was that none of
the five had seen daylight for thirty-five years:  how much longer
this privation has lasted was not guessable.  The king and the queen
knew nothing about these poor creatures, except that they were
heirlooms, assets inherited, along with the throne, from the former
firm.  Nothing of their history had been transmitted with their
persons, and so the inheriting owners had considered them of no
value, and had felt no interest in them.  I said to the queen:

"Then why in the world didn't you set them free?"

The question was a puzzler.  She didn't know _why_ she hadn't, the
thing had never come up in her mind.  So here she was, forecasting
the veritable history of future prisoners of the Castle d'If,
without knowing it.  It seemed plain to me now, that with her
training, those inherited prisoners were merely property--nothing
more, nothing less.  Well, when we inherit property, it does not
occur to us to throw it away, even when we do not value it.

When I brought my procession of human bats up into the open world
and the glare of the afternoon sun--previously blindfolding them,
in charity for eyes so long untortured by light--they were a
spectacle to look at.  Skeletons, scarecrows, goblins, pathetic
frights, every one; legitimatest possible children of Monarchy
by the Grace of God and the Established Church.  I muttered absently:

"I _wish_ I could photograph them!"

You have seen that kind of people who will never let on that they
don't know the meaning of a new big word.  The more ignorant they
are, the more pitifully certain they are to pretend you haven't
shot over their heads.  The queen was just one of that sort, and
was always making the stupidest blunders by reason of it.  She
hesitated a moment; then her face brightened up with sudden
comprehension, and she said she would do it for me.

I thought to myself:  She? why what can she know about photography?
But it was a poor time to be thinking.  When I looked around, she
was moving on the procession with an axe!

Well, she certainly was a curious one, was Morgan le Fay.  I have
seen a good many kinds of women in my time, but she laid over them
all for variety.  And how sharply characteristic of her this episode
was.  She had no more idea than a horse of how to photograph
a procession; but being in doubt, it was just like her to try
to do it with an axe.



CHAPTER XIX

KNIGHT-ERRANTRY AS A TRADE

Sandy and I were on the road again, next morning, bright and early.
It was so good to open up one's lungs and take in whole luscious
barrels-ful of the blessed God's untainted, dew-fashioned, woodland-
scented air once more, after suffocating body and mind for two
days and nights in the moral and physical stenches of that intolerable
old buzzard-roost!  I mean, for me:  of course the place was all
right and agreeable enough for Sandy, for she had been used to
high life all her days.

Poor girl, her jaws had had a wearisome rest now for a while,
and I was expecting to get the consequences.  I was right; but she
had stood by me most helpfully in the castle, and had mightily
supported and reinforced me with gigantic foolishnesses which were
worth more for the occasion than wisdoms double their size; so
I thought she had earned a right to work her mill for a while,
if she wanted to, and I felt not a pang when she started it up:

"Now turn we unto Sir Marhaus that rode with the damsel of thirty
winter of age southward--"

"Are you going to see if you can work up another half-stretch on
the trail of the cowboys, Sandy?"

"Even so, fair my lord."

"Go ahead, then.  I won't interrupt this time, if I can help it.
Begin over again; start fair, and shake out all your reefs, and
I will load my pipe and give good attention."

"Now turn we unto Sir Marhaus that rode with the damsel of thirty
winter of age southward.  And so they came into a deep forest,
and by fortune they were nighted, and rode along in a deep way,
and at the last they came into a courtelage where abode the duke
of South Marches, and there they asked harbour.  And on the morn
the duke sent unto Sir Marhaus, and bad him make him ready.  And
so Sir Marhaus arose and armed him, and there was a mass sung
afore him, and he brake his fast, and so mounted on horseback in
the court of the castle, there they should do the battle.  So there
was the duke already on horseback, clean armed, and his six sons
by him, and every each had a spear in his hand, and so they
encountered, whereas the duke and his two sons brake their spears
upon him, but Sir Marhaus held up his spear and touched none of
them.  Then came the four sons by couples, and two of them brake
their spears, and so did the other two.  And all this while
Sir Marhaus touched them not.  Then Sir Marhaus ran to the duke,
and smote him with his spear that horse and man fell to the earth.
And so he served his sons.  And then Sir Marhaus alight down, and
bad the duke yield him or else he would slay him.  And then some
of his sons recovered, and would have set upon Sir Marhaus.  Then
Sir Marhaus said to the duke, Cease thy sons, or else I will do
the uttermost to you all.  When the duke saw he might not escape
the death, he cried to his sons, and charged them to yield them
to Sir Marhaus.  And they kneeled all down and put the pommels
of their swords to the knight, and so he received them.  And then
they holp up their father, and so by their common assent promised
unto Sir Marhaus never to be foes unto King Arthur, and thereupon
at Whitsuntide after, to come he and his sons, and put them in
the king's grace.*

[*Footnote:  The story is borrowed, language and all, from the
Morte d'Arthur. --M.T.]

"Even so standeth the history, fair Sir Boss.  Now ye shall wit
that that very duke and his six sons are they whom but few days
past you also did overcome and send to Arthur's court!"

"Why, Sandy, you can't mean it!"

"An I speak not sooth, let it be the worse for me."

"Well, well, well,--now who would ever have thought it?  One
whole duke and six dukelets; why, Sandy, it was an elegant haul.
Knight-errantry is a most chuckle-headed trade, and it is tedious
hard work, too, but I begin to see that there _is_ money in it,
after all, if you have luck.  Not that I would ever engage in it
as a business, for I wouldn't.  No sound and legitimate business
can be established on a basis of speculation.  A successful whirl
in the knight-errantry line--now what is it when you blow away
the nonsense and come down to the cold facts?  It's just a corner
in pork, that's all, and you can't make anything else out of it.
You're rich--yes,--suddenly rich--for about a day, maybe a week;
then somebody corners the market on _you_, and down goes your
bucket-shop; ain't that so, Sandy?"

"Whethersoever it be that my mind miscarrieth, bewraying simple
language in such sort that the words do seem to come endlong
and overthwart--"

"There's no use in beating about the bush and trying to get around
it that way, Sandy, it's _so_, just as I say.  I _know_ it's so.  And,
moreover, when you come right down to the bedrock, knight-errantry
is _worse_ than pork; for whatever happens, the pork's left, and
so somebody's benefited anyway; but when the market breaks, in a
knight-errantry whirl, and every knight in the pool passes in his
checks, what have you got for assets?  Just a rubbish-pile of
battered corpses and a barrel or two of busted hardware.  Can you
call _those_ assets?  Give me pork, every time.  Am I right?"

"Ah, peradventure my head being distraught by the manifold matters
whereunto the confusions of these but late adventured haps and
fortunings whereby not I alone nor you alone, but every each of us,
meseemeth--"

"No, it's not your head, Sandy.  Your head's all right, as far as
it goes, but you don't know business; that's where the trouble
is.  It unfits you to argue about business, and you're wrong
to be always trying.  However, that aside, it was a good haul,
anyway, and will breed a handsome crop of reputation in Arthur's
court.  And speaking of the cowboys, what a curious country this
is for women and men that never get old.  Now there's Morgan le Fay,
as fresh and young as a Vassar pullet, to all appearances, and
here is this old duke of the South Marches still slashing away with
sword and lance at his time of life, after raising such a family
as he has raised.  As I understand it, Sir Gawaine killed seven
of his sons, and still he had six left for Sir Marhaus and me to
take into camp.  And then there was that damsel of sixty winter
of age still excursioning around in her frosty bloom--How old
are you, Sandy?"

It was the first time I ever struck a still place in her.  The mill
had shut down for repairs, or something.



CHAPTER XX

THE OGRE'S CASTLE

Between six and nine we made ten miles, which was plenty for a
horse carrying triple--man, woman, and armor; then we stopped
for a long nooning under some trees by a limpid brook.

Right so came by and by a knight riding; and as he drew near he
made dolorous moan, and by the words of it I perceived that he
was cursing and swearing; yet nevertheless was I glad of his
coming, for that I saw he bore a bulletin-board whereon in letters
all of shining gold was writ:

    "USE PETERSON'S PROPHYLACTIC TOOTH-BRUSH--ALL THE GO."

I was glad of his coming, for even by this token I knew him for
knight of mine.  It was Sir Madok de la Montaine, a burly great
fellow whose chief distinction was that he had come within an ace
of sending Sir Launcelot down over his horse-tail once.  He was
never long in a stranger's presence without finding some pretext
or other to let out that great fact.  But there was another fact
of nearly the same size, which he never pushed upon anybody unasked,
and yet never withheld when asked:  that was, that the reason he
didn't quite succeed was, that he was interrupted and sent down
over horse-tail himself.  This innocent vast lubber did not see
any particular difference between the two facts.  I liked him,
for he was earnest in his work, and very valuable.  And he was so
fine to look at, with his broad mailed shoulders, and the grand
leonine set of his plumed head, and his big shield with its quaint
device of a gauntleted hand clutching a prophylactic tooth-brush,
with motto:  "Try Noyoudont."  This was a tooth-wash that I was
introducing.

He was aweary, he said, and indeed he looked it; but he would not
alight.  He said he was after the stove-polish man; and with this
he broke out cursing and swearing anew.  The bulletin-boarder
referred to was Sir Ossaise of Surluse, a brave knight, and of
considerable celebrity on account of his having tried conclusions
in a tournament once, with no less a Mogul than Sir Gaheris
himself--although not successfully.  He was of a light and laughing
disposition, and to him nothing in this world was serious.  It was
for this reason that I had chosen him to work up a stove-polish
sentiment.  There were no stoves yet, and so there could be nothing
serious about stove-polish.  All that the agent needed to do was
to deftly and by degrees prepare the public for the great change,
and have them established in predilections toward neatness against
the time when the stove should appear upon the stage.

Sir Madok was very bitter, and brake out anew with cursings.  He
said he had cursed his soul to rags; and yet he would not get down
from his horse, neither would he take any rest, or listen to any
comfort, until he should have found Sir Ossaise and settled this
account.  It appeared, by what I could piece together of the
unprofane fragments of his statement, that he had chanced upon
Sir Ossaise at dawn of the morning, and been told that if he would
make a short cut across the fields and swamps and broken hills and
glades, he could head off a company of travelers who would be rare
customers for prophylactics and tooth-wash.  With characteristic
zeal Sir Madok had plunged away at once upon this quest, and after
three hours of awful crosslot riding had overhauled his game.  And
behold, it was the five patriarchs that had been released from the
dungeons the evening before!  Poor old creatures, it was all of
twenty years since any one of them had known what it was to be
equipped with any remaining snag or remnant of a tooth.

"Blank-blank-blank him," said Sir Madok, "an I do not stove-polish
him an I may find him, leave it to me; for never no knight that
hight Ossaise or aught else may do me this disservice and bide
on live, an I may find him, the which I have thereunto sworn a
great oath this day."

And with these words and others, he lightly took his spear and
gat him thence.  In the middle of the afternoon we came upon one
of those very patriarchs ourselves, in the edge of a poor village.
He was basking in the love of relatives and friends whom he had not
seen for fifty years; and about him and caressing him were also
descendants of his own body whom he had never seen at all till now;
but to him these were all strangers, his memory was gone, his mind
was stagnant.  It seemed incredible that a man could outlast half
a century shut up in a dark hole like a rat, but here were his old
wife and some old comrades to testify to it.  They could remember
him as he was in the freshness and strength of his young manhood,
when he kissed his child and delivered it to its mother's hands
and went away into that long oblivion.  The people at the castle
could not tell within half a generation the length of time the man
had been shut up there for his unrecorded and forgotten offense;
but this old wife knew; and so did her old child, who stood there
among her married sons and daughters trying to realize a father
who had been to her a name, a thought, a formless image, a tradition,
all her life, and now was suddenly concreted into actual flesh
and blood and set before her face.

It was a curious situation; yet it is not on that account that
I have made room for it here, but on account of a thing which
seemed to me still more curious.  To wit, that this dreadful matter
brought from these downtrodden people no outburst of rage against
these oppressors.  They had been heritors and subjects of cruelty
and outrage so long that nothing could have startled them but
a kindness.  Yes, here was a curious revelation, indeed, of the
depth to which this people had been sunk in slavery.  Their entire
being was reduced to a monotonous dead level of patience, resignation,
dumb uncomplaining acceptance of whatever might befall them in
this life.  Their very imagination was dead.  When you can say
that of a man, he has struck bottom, I reckon; there is no lower
deep for him.

I rather wished I had gone some other road.  This was not the sort
of experience for a statesman to encounter who was planning out
a peaceful revolution in his mind.  For it could not help bringing
up the unget-aroundable fact that, all gentle cant and philosophizing
to the contrary notwithstanding, no people in the world ever did
achieve their freedom by goody-goody talk and moral suasion:
it being immutable law that all revolutions that will succeed must
_begin_ in blood, whatever may answer afterward.  If history teaches
anything, it teaches that.  What this folk needed, then, was a
Reign of Terror and a guillotine, and I was the wrong man for them.

Two days later, toward noon, Sandy began to show signs of excitement
and feverish expectancy.  She said we were approaching the ogre's
castle.  I was surprised into an uncomfortable shock.  The object
of our quest had gradually dropped out of my mind; this sudden
resurrection of it made it seem quite a real and startling thing
for a moment, and roused up in me a smart interest.  Sandy's
excitement increased every moment; and so did mine, for that sort
of thing is catching.  My heart got to thumping.  You can't reason
with your heart; it has its own laws, and thumps about things which
the intellect scorns.  Presently, when Sandy slid from the horse,
motioned me to stop, and went creeping stealthily, with her head
bent nearly to her knees, toward a row of bushes that bordered
a declivity, the thumpings grew stronger and quicker.  And they
kept it up while she was gaining her ambush and getting her glimpse
over the declivity; and also while I was creeping to her side on
my knees.  Her eyes were burning now, as she pointed with her
finger, and said in a panting whisper:

"The castle!  The castle!  Lo, where it looms!"

What a welcome disappointment I experienced!  I said:

"Castle?  It is nothing but a pigsty; a pigsty with a wattled
fence around it."

She looked surprised and distressed.  The animation faded out of
her face; and during many moments she was lost in thought and
silent.  Then:

"It was not enchanted aforetime," she said in a musing fashion,
as if to herself.  "And how strange is this marvel, and how awful--
that to the one perception it is enchanted and dight in a base
and shameful aspect; yet to the perception of the other it is not
enchanted, hath suffered no change, but stands firm and stately
still, girt with its moat and waving its banners in the blue air
from its towers.  And God shield us, how it pricks the heart to
see again these gracious captives, and the sorrow deepened in their
sweet faces!  We have tarried along, and are to blame."

I saw my cue.  The castle was enchanted to _me_, not to her. It would
be wasted time to try to argue her out of her delusion, it couldn't
be done; I must just humor it.  So I said:

"This is a common case--the enchanting of a thing to one eye and
leaving it in its proper form to another.  You have heard of it
before, Sandy, though you haven't happened to experience it.
But no harm is done.  In fact, it is lucky the way it is.  If these
ladies were hogs to everybody and to themselves, it would be
necessary to break the enchantment, and that might be impossible
if one failed to find out the particular process of the enchantment.
And hazardous, too; for in attempting a disenchantment without the
true key, you are liable to err, and turn your hogs into dogs,
and the dogs into cats, the cats into rats, and so on, and end by
reducing your materials to nothing finally, or to an odorless gas
which you can't follow--which, of course, amounts to the same
thing.  But here, by good luck, no one's eyes but mine are under
the enchantment, and so it is of no consequence to dissolve it.
These ladies remain ladies to you, and to themselves, and to
everybody else; and at the same time they will suffer in no way
from my delusion, for when I know that an ostensible hog is a
lady, that is enough for me, I know how to treat her."

"Thanks, oh, sweet my lord, thou talkest like an angel.  And I know
that thou wilt deliver them, for that thou art minded to great
deeds and art as strong a knight of your hands and as brave to will
and to do, as any that is on live."

"I will not leave a princess in the sty, Sandy.  Are those three
yonder that to my disordered eyes are starveling swine-herds--"

"The ogres, Are _they_ changed also?  It is most wonderful.  Now
am I fearful; for how canst thou strike with sure aim when five of
their nine cubits of stature are to thee invisible?  Ah, go warily,
fair sir; this is a mightier emprise than I wend."

"You be easy, Sandy.  All I need to know is, how _much_ of an ogre
is invisible; then I know how to locate his vitals.  Don't you be
afraid, I will make short work of these bunco-steerers.  Stay
where you are."

I left Sandy kneeling there, corpse-faced but plucky and hopeful,
and rode down to the pigsty, and struck up a trade with the
swine-herds.  I won their gratitude by buying out all the hogs
at the lump sum of sixteen pennies, which was rather above latest
quotations.  I was just in time; for the Church, the lord of the
manor, and the rest of the tax-gatherers would have been along
next day and swept off pretty much all the stock, leaving the
swine-herds very short of hogs and Sandy out of princesses.  But
now the tax people could be paid in cash, and there would be
a stake left besides.  One of the men had ten children; and he
said that last year when a priest came and of his ten pigs took
the fattest one for tithes, the wife burst out upon him, and offered
him a child and said:

"Thou beast without bowels of mercy, why leave me my child, yet
rob me of the wherewithal to feed it?"

How curious.  The same thing had happened in the Wales of my day,
under this same old Established Church, which was supposed by many
to have changed its nature when it changed its disguise.

I sent the three men away, and then opened the sty gate and beckoned
Sandy to come--which she did; and not leisurely, but with the rush
of a prairie fire.  And when I saw her fling herself upon those
hogs, with tears of joy running down her cheeks, and strain them
to her heart, and kiss them, and caress them, and call them
reverently by grand princely names, I was ashamed of her, ashamed
of the human race.

We had to drive those hogs home--ten miles; and no ladies were
ever more fickle-minded or contrary.  They would stay in no road,
no path; they broke out through the brush on all sides, and flowed
away in all directions, over rocks, and hills, and the roughest
places they could find.  And they must not be struck, or roughly
accosted; Sandy could not bear to see them treated in ways unbecoming
their rank.  The troublesomest old sow of the lot had to be called
my Lady, and your Highness, like the rest.  It is annoying and
difficult to scour around after hogs, in armor.  There was one
small countess, with an iron ring in her snout and hardly any hair
on her back, that was the devil for perversity.  She gave me a race
of an hour, over all sorts of country, and then we were right where
we had started from, having made not a rod of real progress.
I seized her at last by the tail, and brought her along squealing.
When I overtook Sandy she was horrified, and said it was in the
last degree indelicate to drag a countess by her train.

We got the hogs home just at dark--most of them.  The princess
Nerovens de Morganore was missing, and two of her ladies in waiting:
namely, Miss Angela Bohun, and the Demoiselle Elaine Courtemains,
the former of these two being a young black sow with a white star
in her forehead, and the latter a brown one with thin legs and a
slight limp in the forward shank on the starboard side--a couple
of the tryingest blisters to drive that I ever saw.  Also among
the missing were several mere baronesses--and I wanted them to
stay missing; but no, all that sausage-meat had to be found; so
servants were sent out with torches to scour the woods and hills
to that end.

Of course, the whole drove was housed in the house, and, great
guns!--well, I never saw anything like it.  Nor ever heard anything
like it.  And never smelt anything like it.  It was like an
insurrection in a gasometer.



CHAPTER XXI

THE PILGRIMS

When I did get to bed at last I was unspeakably tired; the stretching
out, and the relaxing of the long-tense muscles, how luxurious,
how delicious! but that was as far as I could get--sleep was out of
the question for the present.  The ripping and tearing and squealing
of the nobility up and down the halls and corridors was pandemonium
come again, and kept me broad awake.  Being awake, my thoughts
were busy, of course; and mainly they busied themselves with Sandy's
curious delusion.  Here she was, as sane a person as the kingdom
could produce; and yet, from my point of view she was acting like
a crazy woman.  My land, the power of training! of influence!
of education!  It can bring a body up to believe anything.  I had
to put myself in Sandy's place to realize that she was not a
lunatic.  Yes, and put her in mine, to demonstrate how easy it is
to seem a lunatic to a person who has not been taught as you have
been taught.  If I had told Sandy I had seen a wagon, uninfluenced
by enchantment, spin along fifty miles an hour; had seen a man,
unequipped with magic powers, get into a basket and soar out of
sight among the clouds; and had listened, without any necromancer's
help, to the conversation of a person who was several hundred miles
away, Sandy would not merely have supposed me to be crazy, she
would have thought she knew it.  Everybody around her believed in
enchantments; nobody had any doubts; to doubt that a castle could
be turned into a sty, and its occupants into hogs, would have been
the same as my doubting among Connecticut people the actuality
of the telephone and its wonders,--and in both cases would be
absolute proof of a diseased mind, an unsettled reason.  Yes, Sandy
was sane; that must be admitted.  If I also would be sane--to Sandy--
I must keep my superstitions about unenchanted and unmiraculous
locomotives, balloons, and telephones, to myself.  Also, I believed
that the world was not flat, and hadn't pillars under it to support
it, nor a canopy over it to turn off a universe of water that
occupied all space above; but as I was the only person in the kingdom
afflicted with such impious and criminal opinions, I recognized
that it would be good wisdom to keep quiet about this matter, too,
if I did not wish to be suddenly shunned and forsaken by everybody
as a madman.

The next morning Sandy assembled the swine in the dining-room and
gave them their breakfast, waiting upon them personally and
manifesting in every way the deep reverence which the natives of
her island, ancient and modern, have always felt for rank, let its
outward casket and the mental and moral contents be what they may.
I could have eaten with the hogs if I had had birth approaching my
lofty official rank; but I hadn't, and so accepted the unavoidable
slight and made no complaint.  Sandy and I had our breakfast at
the second table.  The family were not at home.  I said:

"How many are in the family, Sandy, and where do they keep themselves?"

"Family?"

"Yes."

"Which family, good my lord?"

"Why, this family; your own family."

"Sooth to say, I understand you not.  I have no family."

"No family?  Why, Sandy, isn't this your home?"

"Now how indeed might that be?  I have no home."

"Well, then, whose house is this?"

"Ah, wit you well I would tell you an I knew myself."

"Come--you don't even know these people?  Then who invited us here?"

"None invited us.  We but came; that is all."

"Why, woman, this is a most extraordinary performance.  The
effrontery of it is beyond admiration.  We blandly march into
a man's house, and cram it full of the only really valuable nobility
the sun has yet discovered in the earth, and then it turns out
that we don't even know the man's name.  How did you ever venture
to take this extravagant liberty?  I supposed, of course, it was
your home.  What will the man say?"

"What will he say?  Forsooth what can he say but give thanks?"

"Thanks for what?"

Her face was filled with a puzzled surprise:

"Verily, thou troublest mine understanding with strange words.
Do ye dream that one of his estate is like to have the honor twice
in his life to entertain company such as we have brought to grace
his house withal?"

"Well, no--when you come to that.  No, it's an even bet that this
is the first time he has had a treat like this."

"Then let him be thankful, and manifest the same by grateful speech
and due humility; he were a dog, else, and the heir and ancestor
of dogs."

To my mind, the situation was uncomfortable.  It might become more so.
It might be a good idea to muster the hogs and move on.  So I said:

"The day is wasting, Sandy.  It is time to get the nobility together
and be moving."

"Wherefore, fair sir and Boss?"

"We want to take them to their home, don't we?"

"La, but list to him!  They be of all the regions of the earth!
Each must hie to her own home; wend you we might do all these
journeys in one so brief life as He hath appointed that created
life, and thereto death likewise with help of Adam, who by sin
done through persuasion of his helpmeet, she being wrought upon
and bewrayed by the beguilements of the great enemy of man, that
serpent hight Satan, aforetime consecrated and set apart unto that
evil work by overmastering spite and envy begotten in his heart
through fell ambitions that did blight and mildew a nature erst
so white and pure whenso it hove with the shining multitudes
its brethren-born in glade and shade of that fair heaven wherein
all such as native be to that rich estate and--"

"Great Scott!"

"My lord?"

"Well, you know we haven't got time for this sort of thing.  Don't
you see, we could distribute these people around the earth in less
time than it is going to take you to explain that we can't.  We
mustn't talk now, we must act.  You want to be careful; you mustn't
let your mill get the start of you that way, at a time like this.
To business now--and sharp's the word.  Who is to take the
aristocracy home?"

"Even their friends.  These will come for them from the far parts
of the earth."

This was lightning from a clear sky, for unexpectedness; and the
relief of it was like pardon to a prisoner.  She would remain to
deliver the goods, of course.

"Well, then, Sandy, as our enterprise is handsomely and successfully
ended, I will go home and report; and if ever another one--"

"I also am ready; I will go with thee."

This was recalling the pardon.

"How?  You will go with me?  Why should you?"

"Will I be traitor to my knight, dost think?  That were dishonor.
I may not part from thee until in knightly encounter in the field
some overmatching champion shall fairly win and fairly wear me.
I were to blame an I thought that that might ever hap."

"Elected for the long term," I sighed to myself.  "I may as well
make the best of it."  So then I spoke up and said:

"All right; let us make a start."

While she was gone to cry her farewells over the pork, I gave that
whole peerage away to the servants.  And I asked them to take
a duster and dust around a little where the nobilities had mainly
lodged and promenaded; but they considered that that would be
hardly worth while, and would moreover be a rather grave departure
from custom, and therefore likely to make talk.  A departure from
custom--that settled it; it was a nation capable of committing any
crime but that.  The servants said they would follow the fashion,
a fashion grown sacred through immemorial observance; they would
scatter fresh rushes in all the rooms and halls, and then the
evidence of the aristocratic visitation would be no longer visible.
It was a kind of satire on Nature:  it was the scientific method,
the geologic method; it deposited the history of the family in
a stratified record; and the antiquary could dig through it and
tell by the remains of each period what changes of diet the family
had introduced successively for a hundred years.

The first thing we struck that day was a procession of pilgrims.
It was not going our way, but we joined it, nevertheless; for it
was hourly being borne in upon me now, that if I would govern
this country wisely, I must be posted in the details of its life,
and not at second hand, but by personal observation and scrutiny.

This company of pilgrims resembled Chaucer's in this:  that it
had in it a sample of about all the upper occupations and professions
the country could show, and a corresponding variety of costume.
There were young men and old men, young women and old women,
lively folk and grave folk.  They rode upon mules and horses, and
there was not a side-saddle in the party; for this specialty was
to remain unknown in England for nine hundred years yet.

It was a pleasant, friendly, sociable herd; pious, happy, merry and
full of unconscious coarsenesses and innocent indecencies.  What
they regarded as the merry tale went the continual round and caused
no more embarrassment than it would have caused in the best English
society twelve centuries later.  Practical jokes worthy of the
English wits of the first quarter of the far-off nineteenth century
were sprung here and there and yonder along the line, and compelled
the delightedest applause; and sometimes when a bright remark was
made at one end of the procession and started on its travels toward
the other, you could note its progress all the way by the sparkling
spray of laughter it threw off from its bows as it plowed along;
and also by the blushes of the mules in its wake.

Sandy knew the goal and purpose of this pilgrimage, and she posted
me.  She said:

"They journey to the Valley of Holiness, for to be blessed of the
godly hermits and drink of the miraculous waters and be cleansed
from sin."

"Where is this watering place?"

"It lieth a two-day journey hence, by the borders of the land that
hight the Cuckoo Kingdom."

"Tell me about it.  Is it a celebrated place?"

"Oh, of a truth, yes.  There be none more so.  Of old time there
lived there an abbot and his monks.  Belike were none in the world
more holy than these; for they gave themselves to study of pious
books, and spoke not the one to the other, or indeed to any, and
ate decayed herbs and naught thereto, and slept hard, and prayed
much, and washed never; also they wore the same garment until it
fell from their bodies through age and decay.  Right so came they
to be known of all the world by reason of these holy austerities,
and visited by rich and poor, and reverenced."

"Proceed."

"But always there was lack of water there.  Whereas, upon a time,
the holy abbot prayed, and for answer a great stream of clear
water burst forth by miracle in a desert place.  Now were the
fickle monks tempted of the Fiend, and they wrought with their
abbot unceasingly by beggings and beseechings that he would construct
a bath; and when he was become aweary and might not resist more,
he said have ye your will, then, and granted that they asked.
Now mark thou what 'tis to forsake the ways of purity the which
He loveth, and wanton with such as be worldly and an offense.
These monks did enter into the bath and come thence washed as
white as snow; and lo, in that moment His sign appeared, in
miraculous rebuke! for His insulted waters ceased to flow, and
utterly vanished away."

"They fared mildly, Sandy, considering how that kind of crime
is regarded in this country."

"Belike; but it was their first sin; and they had been of perfect
life for long, and differing in naught from the angels.  Prayers,
tears, torturings of the flesh, all was vain to beguile that water
to flow again.  Even processions; even burnt-offerings; even votive
candles to the Virgin, did fail every each of them; and all in
the land did marvel."

"How odd to find that even this industry has its financial panics,
and at times sees its assignats and greenbacks languish to zero,
and everything come to a standstill.  Go on, Sandy."

"And so upon a time, after year and day, the good abbot made humble
surrender and destroyed the bath.  And behold, His anger was in that
moment appeased, and the waters gushed richly forth again, and even
unto this day they have not ceased to flow in that generous measure."

"Then I take it nobody has washed since."

"He that would essay it could have his halter free; yes, and
swiftly would he need it, too."

"The community has prospered since?"

"Even from that very day.  The fame of the miracle went abroad
into all lands.  From every land came monks to join; they came
even as the fishes come, in shoals; and the monastery added building
to building, and yet others to these, and so spread wide its arms
and took them in.  And nuns came, also; and more again, and yet
more; and built over against the monastery on the yon side of the
vale, and added building to building, until mighty was that nunnery.
And these were friendly unto those, and they joined their loving
labors together, and together they built a fair great foundling
asylum midway of the valley between."

"You spoke of some hermits, Sandy."

"These have gathered there from the ends of the earth.  A hermit
thriveth best where there be multitudes of pilgrims.  Ye shall not
find no hermit of no sort wanting.  If any shall mention a hermit
of a kind he thinketh new and not to be found but in some far
strange land, let him but scratch among the holes and caves and
swamps that line that Valley of Holiness, and whatsoever be his
breed, it skills not, he shall find a sample of it there."

I closed up alongside of a burly fellow with a fat good-humored
face, purposing to make myself agreeable and pick up some further
crumbs of fact; but I had hardly more than scraped acquaintance
with him when he began eagerly and awkwardly to lead up, in the
immemorial way, to that same old anecdote--the one Sir Dinadan
told me, what time I got into trouble with Sir Sagramor and was
challenged of him on account of it.  I excused myself and dropped
to the rear of the procession, sad at heart, willing to go hence
from this troubled life, this vale of tears, this brief day of
broken rest, of cloud and storm, of weary struggle and monotonous
defeat; and yet shrinking from the change, as remembering how long
eternity is, and how many have wended thither who know that anecdote.

Early in the afternoon we overtook another procession of pilgrims;
but in this one was no merriment, no jokes, no laughter, no playful
ways, nor any happy giddiness, whether of youth or age.  Yet both
were here, both age and youth; gray old men and women, strong men
and women of middle age, young husbands, young wives, little boys
and girls, and three babies at the breast.  Even the children were
smileless; there was not a face among all these half a hundred
people but was cast down, and bore that set expression of hopelessness
which is bred of long and hard trials and old acquaintance with
despair.  They were slaves.  Chains led from their fettered feet
and their manacled hands to a sole-leather belt about their waists;
and all except the children were also linked together in a file
six feet apart, by a single chain which led from collar to collar
all down the line.  They were on foot, and had tramped three
hundred miles in eighteen days, upon the cheapest odds and ends
of food, and stingy rations of that.  They had slept in these
chains every night, bundled together like swine.  They had upon
their bodies some poor rags, but they could not be said to be
clothed.  Their irons had chafed the skin from their ankles and
made sores which were ulcerated and wormy.  Their naked feet were
torn, and none walked without a limp.  Originally there had been a
hundred of these unfortunates, but about half had been sold on
the trip.  The trader in charge of them rode a horse and carried
a whip with a short handle and a long heavy lash divided into
several knotted tails at the end.  With this whip he cut the
shoulders of any that tottered from weariness and pain, and
straightened them up.  He did not speak; the whip conveyed his
desire without that.  None of these poor creatures looked up as
we rode along by; they showed no consciousness of our presence.
And they made no sound but one; that was the dull and awful clank
of their chains from end to end of the long file, as forty-three
burdened feet rose and fell in unison.  The file moved in a cloud
of its own making.

All these faces were gray with a coating of dust.  One has seen
the like of this coating upon furniture in unoccupied houses, and
has written his idle thought in it with his finger.  I was reminded
of this when I noticed the faces of some of those women, young
mothers carrying babes that were near to death and freedom, how
a something in their hearts was written in the dust upon their
faces, plain to see, and lord, how plain to read! for it was the
track of tears.  One of these young mothers was but a girl, and
it hurt me to the heart to read that writing, and reflect that it
was come up out of the breast of such a child, a breast that ought
not to know trouble yet, but only the gladness of the morning of
life; and no doubt--

She reeled just then, giddy with fatigue, and down came the lash
and flicked a flake of skin from her naked shoulder.  It stung me
as if I had been hit instead.  The master halted the file and
jumped from his horse.  He stormed and swore at this girl, and
said she had made annoyance enough with her laziness, and as this
was the last chance he should have, he would settle the account now.
She dropped on her knees and put up her hands and began to beg,
and cry, and implore, in a passion of terror, but the master gave
no attention.  He snatched the child from her, and then made the
men-slaves who were chained before and behind her throw her on
the ground and hold her there and expose her body; and then he
laid on with his lash like a madman till her back was flayed, she
shrieking and struggling the while piteously.  One of the men who
was holding her turned away his face, and for this humanity he was
reviled and flogged.

All our pilgrims looked on and commented--on the expert way in
which the whip was handled.  They were too much hardened by lifelong
everyday familiarity with slavery to notice that there was anything
else in the exhibition that invited comment.  This was what slavery
could do, in the way of ossifying what one may call the superior
lobe of human feeling; for these pilgrims were kind-hearted people,
and they would not have allowed that man to treat a horse like that.

I wanted to stop the whole thing and set the slaves free, but that
would not do.  I must not interfere too much and get myself a name
for riding over the country's laws and the citizen's rights
roughshod.  If I lived and prospered I would be the death of
slavery, that I was resolved upon; but I would try to fix it so
that when I became its executioner it should be by command of
the nation.

Just here was the wayside shop of a smith; and now arrived a landed
proprietor who had bought this girl a few miles back, deliverable
here where her irons could be taken off.  They were removed; then
there was a squabble between the gentleman and the dealer as to
which should pay the blacksmith.  The moment the girl was delivered
from her irons, she flung herself, all tears and frantic sobbings,
into the arms of the slave who had turned away his face when she
was whipped.  He strained her to his breast, and smothered her
face and the child's with kisses, and washed them with the rain
of his tears.  I suspected.  I inquired.  Yes, I was right; it was
husband and wife.  They had to be torn apart by force; the girl
had to be dragged away, and she struggled and fought and shrieked
like one gone mad till a turn of the road hid her from sight; and
even after that, we could still make out the fading plaint of those
receding shrieks.  And the husband and father, with his wife and
child gone, never to be seen by him again in life?--well, the look
of him one might not bear at all, and so I turned away; but I knew
I should never get his picture out of my mind again, and there
it is to this day, to wring my heartstrings whenever I think of it.

We put up at the inn in a village just at nightfall, and when
I rose next morning and looked abroad, I was ware where a knight
came riding in the golden glory of the new day, and recognized him
for knight of mine--Sir Ozana le Cure Hardy.  He was in the
gentlemen's furnishing line, and his missionarying specialty was
plug hats.  He was clothed all in steel, in the beautifulest armor
of the time--up to where his helmet ought to have been; but he
hadn't any helmet, he wore a shiny stove-pipe hat, and was ridiculous
a spectacle as one might want to see.  It was another of my
surreptitious schemes for extinguishing knighthood by making it
grotesque and absurd.  Sir Ozana's saddle was hung about with
leather hat boxes, and every time he overcame a wandering knight
he swore him into my service and fitted him with a plug and made
him wear it.  I dressed and ran down to welcome Sir Ozana and
get his news.

"How is trade?" I asked.

"Ye will note that I have but these four left; yet were they sixteen
whenas I got me from Camelot."

"Why, you have certainly done nobly, Sir Ozana.  Where have you
been foraging of late?"

"I am but now come from the Valley of Holiness, please you sir."

"I am pointed for that place myself.  Is there anything stirring
in the monkery, more than common?"

"By the mass ye may not question it!....  Give him good feed,
boy, and stint it not, an thou valuest thy crown; so get ye lightly
to the stable and do even as I bid....  Sir, it is parlous news
I bring, and--be these pilgrims?  Then ye may not do better, good
folk, than gather and hear the tale I have to tell, sith it
concerneth you, forasmuch as ye go to find that ye will not find,
and seek that ye will seek in vain, my life being hostage for my
word, and my word and message being these, namely:  That a hap
has happened whereof the like has not been seen no more but once
this two hundred years, which was the first and last time that
that said misfortune strake the holy valley in that form by
commandment of the Most High whereto by reasons just and causes
thereunto contributing, wherein the matter--"

"The miraculous fount hath ceased to flow!"  This shout burst from
twenty pilgrim mouths at once.

"Ye say well, good people.  I was verging to it, even when ye spake."

"Has somebody been washing again?"

"Nay, it is suspected, but none believe it.  It is thought to be
some other sin, but none wit what."

"How are they feeling about the calamity?"

"None may describe it in words.  The fount is these nine days dry.
The prayers that did begin then, and the lamentations in sackcloth
and ashes, and the holy processions, none of these have ceased
nor night nor day; and so the monks and the nuns and the foundlings
be all exhausted, and do hang up prayers writ upon parchment,
sith that no strength is left in man to lift up voice.  And at last
they sent for thee, Sir Boss, to try magic and enchantment; and
if you could not come, then was the messenger to fetch Merlin,
and he is there these three days now, and saith he will fetch that
water though he burst the globe and wreck its kingdoms to accomplish
it; and right bravely doth he work his magic and call upon his
hellions to hie them hither and help, but not a whiff of moisture
hath he started yet, even so much as might qualify as mist upon
a copper mirror an ye count not the barrel of sweat he sweateth
betwixt sun and sun over the dire labors of his task; and if ye--"

Breakfast was ready.  As soon as it was over I showed to Sir Ozana
these words which I had written on the inside of his hat:  Chemical
Department, Laboratory extension, Section G. Pxxp.  Send two of
first size, two of No. 3, and six of No. 4, together with the proper
complementary details--and two of my trained assistants."  And I said:

"Now get you to Camelot as fast as you can fly, brave knight, and
show the writing to Clarence, and tell him to have these required
matters in the Valley of Holiness with all possible dispatch."

"I will well, Sir Boss," and he was off.



CHAPTER XXII

THE HOLY FOUNTAIN

The pilgrims were human beings.  Otherwise they would have acted
differently.  They had come a long and difficult journey, and now
when the journey was nearly finished, and they learned that the main
thing they had come for had ceased to exist, they didn't do as
horses or cats or angle-worms would probably have done--turn back
and get at something profitable--no, anxious as they had before
been to see the miraculous fountain, they were as much as forty
times as anxious now to see the place where it had used to be.
There is no accounting for human beings.

We made good time; and a couple of hours before sunset we stood
upon the high confines of the Valley of Holiness, and our eyes
swept it from end to end and noted its features.  That is, its
large features.  These were the three masses of buildings.  They
were distant and isolated temporalities shrunken to toy constructions
in the lonely waste of what seemed a desert--and was.  Such a scene
is always mournful, it is so impressively still, and looks so
steeped in death.  But there was a sound here which interrupted
the stillness only to add to its mournfulness; this was the faint
far sound of tolling bells which floated fitfully to us on the
passing breeze, and so faintly, so softly, that we hardly knew
whether we heard it with our ears or with our spirits.

We reached the monastery before dark, and there the males were
given lodging, but the women were sent over to the nunnery.  The
bells were close at hand now, and their solemn booming smote
upon the ear like a message of doom.  A superstitious despair
possessed the heart of every monk and published itself in his
ghastly face.  Everywhere, these black-robed, soft-sandaled,
tallow-visaged specters appeared, flitted about and disappeared,
noiseless as the creatures of a troubled dream, and as uncanny.

The old abbot's joy to see me was pathetic.  Even to tears; but
he did the shedding himself.  He said:

"Delay not, son, but get to thy saving work.  An we bring not
the water back again, and soon, we are ruined, and the good work
of two hundred years must end.  And see thou do it with enchantments
that be holy, for the Church will not endure that work in her cause
be done by devil's magic."

"When I work, Father, be sure there will be no devil's work
connected with it.  I shall use no arts that come of the devil,
and no elements not created by the hand of God.  But is Merlin
working strictly on pious lines?"

"Ah, he said he would, my son, he said he would, and took oath
to make his promise good."

"Well, in that case, let him proceed."

"But surely you will not sit idle by, but help?"

"It will not answer to mix methods, Father; neither would it be
professional courtesy.  Two of a trade must not underbid each
other.  We might as well cut rates and be done with it; it would
arrive at that in the end.  Merlin has the contract; no other
magician can touch it till he throws it up."

"But I will take it from him; it is a terrible emergency and the
act is thereby justified.  And if it were not so, who will give
law to the Church?  The Church giveth law to all; and what she
wills to do, that she may do, hurt whom it may.  I will take it
from him; you shall begin upon the moment."

"It may not be, Father.  No doubt, as you say, where power is
supreme, one can do as one likes and suffer no injury; but we poor
magicians are not so situated.  Merlin is a very good magician
in a small way, and has quite a neat provincial reputation.  He
is struggling along, doing the best he can, and it would not be
etiquette for me to take his job until he himself abandons it."

The abbot's face lighted.

"Ah, that is simple.  There are ways to persuade him to abandon it."

"No-no, Father, it skills not, as these people say.  If he were
persuaded against his will, he would load that well with a malicious
enchantment which would balk me until I found out its secret.
It might take a month.  I could set up a little enchantment of
mine which I call the telephone, and he could not find out its
secret in a hundred years.  Yes, you perceive, he might block me
for a month.  Would you like to risk a month in a dry time like this?"

"A month!  The mere thought of it maketh me to shudder.  Have it
thy way, my son.  But my heart is heavy with this disappointment.
Leave me, and let me wear my spirit with weariness and waiting,
even as I have done these ten long days, counterfeiting thus
the thing that is called rest, the prone body making outward sign
of repose where inwardly is none."

Of course, it would have been best, all round, for Merlin to waive
etiquette and quit and call it half a day, since he would never be
able to start that water, for he was a true magician of the time;
which is to say, the big miracles, the ones that gave him his
reputation, always had the luck to be performed when nobody but
Merlin was present; he couldn't start this well with all this crowd
around to see; a crowd was as bad for a magician's miracle in
that day as it was for a spiritualist's miracle in mine; there was
sure to be some skeptic on hand to turn up the gas at the crucial
moment and spoil everything.  But I did not want Merlin to retire
from the job until I was ready to take hold of it effectively
myself; and I could not do that until I got my things from Camelot,
and that would take two or three days.

My presence gave the monks hope, and cheered them up a good deal;
insomuch that they ate a square meal that night for the first time
in ten days.  As soon as their stomachs had been properly reinforced
with food, their spirits began to rise fast; when the mead began to
go round they rose faster.  By the time everybody was half-seas over,
the holy community was in good shape to make a night of it; so we
stayed by the board and put it through on that line.  Matters got
to be very jolly.  Good old questionable stories were told that made
the tears run down and cavernous mouths stand wide and the round
bellies shake with laughter; and questionable songs were bellowed out
in a mighty chorus that drowned the boom of the tolling bells.

At last I ventured a story myself; and vast was the success of it.
Not right off, of course, for the native of those islands does
not, as a rule, dissolve upon the early applications of a humorous
thing; but the fifth time I told it, they began to crack in places;
the eight time I told it, they began to crumble; at the twelfth
repetition they fell apart in chunks; and at the fifteenth they
disintegrated, and I got a broom and swept them up.  This language
is figurative.  Those islanders--well, they are slow pay at first,
in the matter of return for your investment of effort, but in the end
they make the pay of all other nations poor and small by contrast.

I was at the well next day betimes.  Merlin was there, enchanting
away like a beaver, but not raising the moisture.  He was not in
a pleasant humor; and every time I hinted that perhaps this contract
was a shade too hefty for a novice he unlimbered his tongue and
cursed like a bishop--French bishop of the Regency days, I mean.

Matters were about as I expected to find them.  The "fountain" was
an ordinary well, it had been dug in the ordinary way, and stoned up
in the ordinary way.  There was no miracle about it.  Even the lie
that had created its reputation was not miraculous; I could have
told it myself, with one hand tied behind me.  The well was in a
dark chamber which stood in the center of a cut-stone chapel, whose
walls were hung with pious pictures of a workmanship that would
have made a chromo feel good; pictures historically commemorative
of curative miracles which had been achieved by the waters when
nobody was looking.  That is, nobody but angels; they are always
on deck when there is a miracle to the fore--so as to get put in
the picture, perhaps.  Angels are as fond of that as a fire company;
look at the old masters.

The well-chamber was dimly lighted by lamps; the water was drawn
with a windlass and chain by monks, and poured into troughs which
delivered it into stone reservoirs outside in the chapel--when
there was water to draw, I mean--and none but monks could enter
the well-chamber.  I entered it, for I had temporary authority
to do so, by courtesy of my professional brother and subordinate.
But he hadn't entered it himself.  He did everything by incantations;
he never worked his intellect.  If he had stepped in there and used
his eyes, instead of his disordered mind, he could have cured
the well by natural means, and then turned it into a miracle in
the customary way; but no, he was an old numskull, a magician who
believed in his own magic; and no magician can thrive who is
handicapped with a superstition like that.

I had an idea that the well had sprung a leak; that some of the
wall stones near the bottom had fallen and exposed fissures that
allowed the water to escape.  I measured the chain--98 feet.  Then
I called in a couple of monks, locked the door, took a candle, and
made them lower me in the bucket.  When the chain was all paid out,
the candle confirmed my suspicion; a considerable section of the
wall was gone, exposing a good big fissure.

I almost regretted that my theory about the well's trouble was
correct, because I had another one that had a showy point or two
about it for a miracle.  I remembered that in America, many
centuries later, when an oil well ceased to flow, they used to
blast it out with a dynamite torpedo.  If I should find this well
dry and no explanation of it, I could astonish these people most
nobly by having a person of no especial value drop a dynamite
bomb into it.  It was my idea to appoint Merlin.  However, it was
plain that there was no occasion for the bomb.  One cannot have
everything the way he would like it.  A man has no business to
be depressed by a disappointment, anyway; he ought to make up his
mind to get even.  That is what I did.  I said to myself, I am in no
hurry, I can wait; that bomb will come good yet.  And it did, too.

When I was above ground again, I turned out the monks, and let down
a fish-line; the well was a hundred and fifty feet deep, and there
was forty-one feet of water in it.  I called in a monk and asked:

"How deep is the well?"

"That, sir, I wit not, having never been told."

"How does the water usually stand in it?"

"Near to the top, these two centuries, as the testimony goeth,
brought down to us through our predecessors."

It was true--as to recent times at least--for there was witness
to it, and better witness than a monk; only about twenty or thirty
feet of the chain showed wear and use, the rest of it was unworn
and rusty.  What had happened when the well gave out that other
time?  Without doubt some practical person had come along and
mended the leak, and then had come up and told the abbot he had
discovered by divination that if the sinful bath were destroyed
the well would flow again.  The leak had befallen again now, and
these children would have prayed, and processioned, and tolled
their bells for heavenly succor till they all dried up and blew
away, and no innocent of them all would ever have thought to drop
a fish-line into the well or go down in it and find out what was
really the matter.  Old habit of mind is one of the toughest things
to get away from in the world.  It transmits itself like physical
form and feature; and for a man, in those days, to have had an idea
that his ancestors hadn't had, would have brought him under suspicion
of being illegitimate.  I said to the monk:

"It is a difficult miracle to restore water in a dry well, but we
will try, if my brother Merlin fails.  Brother Merlin is a very
passable artist, but only in the parlor-magic line, and he may
not succeed; in fact, is not likely to succeed.  But that should
be nothing to his discredit; the man that can do _this_ kind of
miracle knows enough to keep hotel."

"Hotel?  I mind not to have heard--"

"Of hotel?  It's what you call hostel.  The man that can do this
miracle can keep hostel.  I can do this miracle; I shall do this
miracle; yet I do not try to conceal from you that it is a miracle
to tax the occult powers to the last strain."

"None knoweth that truth better than the brotherhood, indeed; for
it is of record that aforetime it was parlous difficult and took
a year.  Natheless, God send you good success, and to that end
will we pray."

As a matter of business it was a good idea to get the notion around
that the thing was difficult.  Many a small thing has been made
large by the right kind of advertising.  That monk was filled up
with the difficulty of this enterprise; he would fill up the others.
In two days the solicitude would be booming.

On my way home at noon, I met Sandy.  She had been sampling the
hermits.  I said:

"I would like to do that myself.  This is Wednesday.  Is there
a matinee?"

"A which, please you, sir?"

"Matinee.  Do they keep open afternoons?"

"Who?"

"The hermits, of course."

"Keep open?"

"Yes, keep open.  Isn't that plain enough?  Do they knock off at noon?"

"Knock off?"

"Knock off?--yes, knock off.  What is the matter with knock off?
I never saw such a dunderhead; can't you understand anything at all?
In plain terms, do they shut up shop, draw the game, bank the fires--"

"Shut up shop, draw--"

"There, never mind, let it go; you make me tired.  You can't seem
to understand the simplest thing."

"I would I might please thee, sir, and it is to me dole and sorrow
that I fail, albeit sith I am but a simple damsel and taught of
none, being from the cradle unbaptized in those deep waters of
learning that do anoint with a sovereignty him that partaketh of
that most noble sacrament, investing him with reverend state to
the mental eye of the humble mortal who, by bar and lack of that
great consecration seeth in his own unlearned estate but a symbol
of that other sort of lack and loss which men do publish to the
pitying eye with sackcloth trappings whereon the ashes of grief
do lie bepowdered and bestrewn, and so, when such shall in the
darkness of his mind encounter these golden phrases of high mystery,
these shut-up-shops, and draw-the-game, and bank-the-fires, it is
but by the grace of God that he burst not for envy of the mind that
can beget, and tongue that can deliver so great and mellow-sounding
miracles of speech, and if there do ensue confusion in that humbler
mind, and failure to divine the meanings of these wonders, then
if so be this miscomprehension is not vain but sooth and true,
wit ye well it is the very substance of worshipful dear homage and
may not lightly be misprized, nor had been, an ye had noted this
complexion of mood and mind and understood that that I would
I could not, and that I could not I might not, nor yet nor might
_nor_ could, nor might-not nor could-not, might be by advantage
turned to the desired _would_, and so I pray you mercy of my fault,
and that ye will of your kindness and your charity forgive it, good
my master and most dear lord."

I couldn't make it all out--that is, the details--but I got the
general idea; and enough of it, too, to be ashamed.  It was not
fair to spring those nineteenth century technicalities upon the
untutored infant of the sixth and then rail at her because she
couldn't get their drift; and when she was making the honest best
drive at it she could, too, and no fault of hers that she couldn't
fetch the home plate; and so I apologized.  Then we meandered
pleasantly away toward the hermit holes in sociable converse
together, and better friends than ever.

I was gradually coming to have a mysterious and shuddery reverence
for this girl; nowadays whenever she pulled out from the station
and got her train fairly started on one of those horizonless
transcontinental sentences of hers, it was borne in upon me that
I was standing in the awful presence of the Mother of the German
Language.  I was so impressed with this, that sometimes when she
began to empty one of these sentences on me I unconsciously took
the very attitude of reverence, and stood uncovered; and if words
had been water, I had been drowned, sure.  She had exactly the
German way; whatever was in her mind to be delivered, whether a
mere remark, or a sermon, or a cyclopedia, or the history of a war,
she would get it into a single sentence or die.  Whenever the literary
German dives into a sentence, that is the last you are going to see
of him till he emerges on the other side of his Atlantic with his
verb in his mouth.

We drifted from hermit to hermit all the afternoon.  It was a most
strange menagerie.  The chief emulation among them seemed to be,
to see which could manage to be the uncleanest and most prosperous
with vermin.  Their manner and attitudes were the last expression
of complacent self-righteousness.  It was one anchorite's pride
to lie naked in the mud and let the insects bite him and blister
him unmolested; it was another's to lean against a rock, all day
long, conspicuous to the admiration of the throng of pilgrims
and pray; it was another's to go naked and crawl around on all fours;
it was another's to drag about with him, year in and year out,
eighty pounds of iron; it was another's to never lie down when
he slept, but to stand among the thorn-bushes and snore when there
were pilgrims around to look; a woman, who had the white hair of
age, and no other apparel, was black from crown to heel with
forty-seven years of holy abstinence from water.  Groups of gazing
pilgrims stood around all and every of these strange objects, lost
in reverent wonder, and envious of the fleckless sanctity which
these pious austerities had won for them from an exacting heaven.

By and by we went to see one of the supremely great ones.  He was
a mighty celebrity; his fame had penetrated all Christendom; the
noble and the renowned journeyed from the remotest lands on the globe
to pay him reverence.  His stand was in the center of the widest part
of the valley; and it took all that space to hold his crowds.

His stand was a pillar sixty feet high, with a broad platform on
the top of it.  He was now doing what he had been doing every day
for twenty years up there--bowing his body ceaselessly and rapidly
almost to his feet.  It was his way of praying.  I timed him with a
stop watch, and he made 1,244 revolutions in 24 minutes and
46 seconds.  It seemed a pity to have all this power going to waste.
It was one of the most useful motions in mechanics, the pedal
movement; so I made a note in my memorandum book, purposing some
day to apply a system of elastic cords to him and run a sewing
machine with it.  I afterward carried out that scheme, and got
five years' good service out of him; in which time he turned out
upward of eighteen thousand first-rate tow-linen shirts, which
was ten a day.  I worked him Sundays and all; he was going, Sundays,
the same as week days, and it was no use to waste the power.
These shirts cost me nothing but just the mere trifle for the
materials--I furnished those myself, it would not have been right
to make him do that--and they sold like smoke to pilgrims at a
dollar and a half apiece, which was the price of fifty cows or
a blooded race horse in Arthurdom.  They were regarded as a perfect
protection against sin, and advertised as such by my knights
everywhere, with the paint-pot and stencil-plate; insomuch that
there was not a cliff or a bowlder or a dead wall in England but
you could read on it at a mile distance:

"Buy the only genuine St. Stylite; patronized by the Nobility.
Patent applied for."

There was more money in the business than one knew what to do with.
As it extended, I brought out a line of goods suitable for kings,
and a nobby thing for duchesses and that sort, with ruffles down
the forehatch and the running-gear clewed up with a featherstitch
to leeward and then hauled aft with a back-stay and triced up with
a half-turn in the standing rigging forward of the weather-gaskets.
Yes, it was a daisy.

But about that time I noticed that the motive power had taken to
standing on one leg, and I found that there was something the matter
with the other one; so I stocked the business and unloaded, taking
Sir Bors de Ganis into camp financially along with certain of his
friends; for the works stopped within a year, and the good saint
got him to his rest.  But he had earned it.  I can say that for him.

When I saw him that first time--however, his personal condition
will not quite bear description here.  You can read it in the
Lives of the Saints.*

[*All the details concerning the hermits, in this chapter, are from
Lecky--but greatly modified.  This book not being a history but
only a tale, the majority of the historian's frank details were too
strong for reproduction in it. --_Editor_]



CHAPTER XXIII

RESTORATION OF THE FOUNTAIN

Saturday noon I went to the well and looked on a while.  Merlin
was still burning smoke-powders, and pawing the air, and muttering
gibberish as hard as ever, but looking pretty down-hearted, for
of course he had not started even a perspiration in that well yet.
Finally I said:

"How does the thing promise by this time, partner?"

"Behold, I am even now busied with trial of the powerfulest
enchantment known to the princes of the occult arts in the lands
of the East; an it fail me, naught can avail.  Peace, until I finish."

He raised a smoke this time that darkened all the region, and must
have made matters uncomfortable for the hermits, for the wind
was their way, and it rolled down over their dens in a dense and
billowy fog.  He poured out volumes of speech to match, and contorted
his body and sawed the air with his hands in a most extraordinary
way.  At the end of twenty minutes he dropped down panting, and
about exhausted.  Now arrived the abbot and several hundred monks
and nuns, and behind them a multitude of pilgrims and a couple of
acres of foundlings, all drawn by the prodigious smoke, and all
in a grand state of excitement.  The abbot inquired anxiously for
results.  Merlin said:

"If any labor of mortal might break the spell that binds these
waters, this which I have but just essayed had done it.  It has
failed; whereby I do now know that that which I had feared is
a truth established; the sign of this failure is, that the most
potent spirit known to the magicians of the East, and whose name
none may utter and live, has laid his spell upon this well.  The
mortal does not breathe, nor ever will, who can penetrate the secret
of that spell, and without that secret none can break it.  The
water will flow no more forever, good Father.  I have done what
man could.  Suffer me to go."

Of course this threw the abbot into a good deal of a consternation.
He turned to me with the signs of it in his face, and said:

"Ye have heard him. Is it true?"

"Part of it is."

"Not all, then, not all!  What part is true?"

"That that spirit with the Russian name has put his spell
upon the well."

"God's wownds, then are we ruined!"

"Possibly."

"But not certainly?  Ye mean, not certainly?"

"That is it."

"Wherefore, ye also mean that when he saith none can break the spell--"

"Yes, when he says that, he says what isn't necessarily true.
There are conditions under which an effort to break it may have
some chance--that is, some small, some trifling chance--of success."

"The conditions--"

"Oh, they are nothing difficult.  Only these:  I want the well
and the surroundings for the space of half a mile, entirely to
myself from sunset to-day until I remove the ban--and nobody
allowed to cross the ground but by my authority."

"Are these all?"

"Yes."

"And you have no fear to try?"

"Oh, none.  One may fail, of course; and one may also succeed.
One can try, and I am ready to chance it.  I have my conditions?"

"These and all others ye may name.  I will issue commandment
to that effect."

"Wait," said Merlin, with an evil smile.  "Ye wit that he that
would break this spell must know that spirit's name?"

"Yes, I know his name."

"And wit you also that to know it skills not of itself, but ye
must likewise pronounce it?  Ha-ha!  Knew ye that?"

"Yes, I knew that, too."

"You had that knowledge!  Art a fool?  Are ye minded to utter
that name and die?"

"Utter it?  Why certainly.  I would utter it if it was Welsh."

"Ye are even a dead man, then; and I go to tell Arthur."

"That's all right.  Take your gripsack and get along.  The thing
for _you_ to do is to go home and work the weather, John W. Merlin."

It was a home shot, and it made him wince; for he was the worst
weather-failure in the kingdom.  Whenever he ordered up the
danger-signals along the coast there was a week's dead calm, sure,
and every time he prophesied fair weather it rained brickbats.
But I kept him in the weather bureau right along, to undermine
his reputation.  However, that shot raised his bile, and instead
of starting home to report my death, he said he would remain
and enjoy it.

My two experts arrived in the evening, and pretty well fagged,
for they had traveled double tides.  They had pack-mules along,
and had brought everything I needed--tools, pump, lead pipe,
Greek fire, sheaves of big rockets, roman candles, colored fire
sprays, electric apparatus, and a lot of sundries--everything
necessary for the stateliest kind of a miracle.  They got their
supper and a nap, and about midnight we sallied out through a
solitude so wholly vacant and complete that it quite overpassed
the required conditions.  We took possession of the well and its
surroundings.  My boys were experts in all sorts of things, from
the stoning up of a well to the constructing of a mathematical
instrument.  An hour before sunrise we had that leak mended in
ship-shape fashion, and the water began to rise.  Then we stowed our
fireworks in the chapel, locked up the place, and went home to bed.

Before the noon mass was over, we were at the well again; for there
was a deal to do yet, and I was determined to spring the miracle
before midnight, for business reasons:  for whereas a miracle
worked for the Church on a week-day is worth a good deal, it is
worth six times as much if you get it in on a Sunday.  In nine hours
the water had risen to its customary level--that is to say, it was
within twenty-three feet of the top.  We put in a little iron pump,
one of the first turned out by my works near the capital; we bored
into a stone reservoir which stood against the outer wall of the
well-chamber and inserted a section of lead pipe that was long
enough to reach to the door of the chapel and project beyond
the threshold, where the gushing water would be visible to the
two hundred and fifty acres of people I was intending should be
present on the flat plain in front of this little holy hillock at
the proper time.

We knocked the head out of an empty hogshead and hoisted this
hogshead to the flat roof of the chapel, where we clamped it down
fast, poured in gunpowder till it lay loosely an inch deep on the
bottom, then we stood up rockets in the hogshead as thick as they
could loosely stand, all the different breeds of rockets there are;
and they made a portly and imposing sheaf, I can tell you.  We
grounded the wire of a pocket electrical battery in that powder,
we placed a whole magazine of Greek fire on each corner of the
roof--blue on one corner, green on another, red on another, and
purple on the last--and grounded a wire in each.

About two hundred yards off, in the flat, we built a pen of
scantlings, about four feet high, and laid planks on it, and so
made a platform.  We covered it with swell tapestries borrowed
for the occasion, and topped it off with the abbot's own throne.
When you are going to do a miracle for an ignorant race, you want
to get in every detail that will count; you want to make all the
properties impressive to the public eye; you want to make matters
comfortable for your head guest; then you can turn yourself loose
and play your effects for all they are worth.  I know the value of
these things, for I know human nature.  You can't throw too much
style into a miracle.  It costs trouble, and work, and sometimes
money; but it pays in the end.  Well, we brought the wires to
the ground at the chapel, and then brought them under the ground
to the platform, and hid the batteries there.  We put a rope fence
a hundred feet square around the platform to keep off the common
multitude, and that finished the work.  My idea was, doors open
at 10:30, performance to begin at 11:25 sharp.  I wished I could
charge admission, but of course that wouldn't answer.  I instructed
my boys to be in the chapel as early as 10, before anybody was
around, and be ready to man the pumps at the proper time, and
make the fur fly.  Then we went home to supper.

The news of the disaster to the well had traveled far by this time;
and now for two or three days a steady avalanche of people had
been pouring into the valley.  The lower end of the valley was
become one huge camp; we should have a good house, no question
about that.  Criers went the rounds early in the evening and
announced the coming attempt, which put every pulse up to fever
heat.  They gave notice that the abbot and his official suite would
move in state and occupy the platform at 10:30, up to which time
all the region which was under my ban must be clear; the bells
would then cease from tolling, and this sign should be permission
to the multitudes to close in and take their places.

I was at the platform and all ready to do the honors when the
abbot's solemn procession hove in sight--which it did not do till
it was nearly to the rope fence, because it was a starless black
night and no torches permitted.  With it came Merlin, and took
a front seat on the platform; he was as good as his word for once.
One could not see the multitudes banked together beyond the ban,
but they were there, just the same.  The moment the bells stopped,
those banked masses broke and poured over the line like a vast
black wave, and for as much as a half hour it continued to flow,
and then it solidified itself, and you could have walked upon
a pavement of human heads to--well, miles.

We had a solemn stage-wait, now, for about twenty minutes--a thing
I had counted on for effect; it is always good to let your audience
have a chance to work up its expectancy.  At length, out of the
silence a noble Latin chant--men's voices--broke and swelled up
and rolled away into the night, a majestic tide of melody.  I had
put that up, too, and it was one of the best effects I ever invented.
When it was finished I stood up on the platform and extended my
hands abroad, for two minutes, with my face uplifted--that always
produces a dead hush--and then slowly pronounced this ghastly word
with a kind of awfulness which caused hundreds to tremble, and
many women to faint:

"Constantinopolitanischerdudelsackspfeifenmachersgesellschafft!"

Just as I was moaning out the closing hunks of that word, I touched
off one of my electric connections and all that murky world of
people stood revealed in a hideous blue glare!  It was immense--
that effect!  Lots of people shrieked, women curled up and quit
in every direction, foundlings collapsed by platoons.  The abbot
and the monks crossed themselves nimbly and their lips fluttered
with agitated prayers.  Merlin held his grip, but he was astonished
clear down to his corns; he had never seen anything to begin
with that, before.  Now was the time to pile in the effects.  I lifted
my hands and groaned out this word--as it were in agony:

"Nihilistendynamittheaterkaestchenssprengungsattentaetsversuchungen!"

--and turned on the red fire!  You should have heard that Atlantic
of people moan and howl when that crimson hell joined the blue!
After sixty seconds I shouted:

"Transvaaltruppentropentransporttrampelthiertreibertrauungsthraenentragoedie!"

--and lit up the green fire!  After waiting only forty seconds this
time, I spread my arms abroad and thundered out the devastating
syllables of this word of words:

"Mekkamuselmannenmassenmenchenmoerdermohrenmuttermarmormonumentenmacher!"

--and whirled on the purple glare!  There they were, all going
at once, red, blue, green, purple!--four furious volcanoes pouring
vast clouds of radiant smoke aloft, and spreading a blinding
rainbowed noonday to the furthest confines of that valley.  In
the distance one could see that fellow on the pillar standing rigid
against the background of sky, his seesaw stopped for the first
time in twenty years.  I knew the boys were at the pump now and
ready.  So I said to the abbot:

"The time is come, Father.  I am about to pronounce the dread name
and command the spell to dissolve.  You want to brace up, and take
hold of something."  Then I shouted to the people:  "Behold, in
another minute the spell will be broken, or no mortal can break it.
If it break, all will know it, for you will see the sacred water
gush from the chapel door!"

I stood a few moments, to let the hearers have a chance to spread
my announcement to those who couldn't hear, and so convey it
to the furthest ranks, then I made a grand exhibition of extra
posturing and gesturing, and shouted:

"Lo, I command the fell spirit that possesses the holy fountain
to now disgorge into the skies all the infernal fires that still
remain in him, and straightway dissolve his spell and flee hence
to the pit, there to lie bound a thousand years.  By his own dread
name I command it--BGWJJILLIGKKK!"

Then I touched off the hogshead of rockets, and a vast fountain of
dazzling lances of fire vomited itself toward the zenith with a
hissing rush, and burst in mid-sky into a storm of flashing jewels!
One mighty groan of terror started up from the massed people--
then suddenly broke into a wild hosannah of joy--for there, fair
and plain in the uncanny glare, they saw the freed water leaping
forth!  The old abbot could not speak a word, for tears and the
chokings in his throat; without utterance of any sort, he folded me
in his arms and mashed me.  It was more eloquent than speech.
And harder to get over, too, in a country where there were really
no doctors that were worth a damaged nickel.

You should have seen those acres of people throw themselves down
in that water and kiss it; kiss it, and pet it, and fondle it, and
talk to it as if it were alive, and welcome it back with the dear
names they gave their darlings, just as if it had been a friend who
was long gone away and lost, and was come home again.  Yes, it was
pretty to see, and made me think more of them than I had done before.

I sent Merlin home on a shutter.  He had caved in and gone down
like a landslide when I pronounced that fearful name, and had
never come to since.  He never had heard that name before,--neither
had I--but to him it was the right one.  Any jumble would have
been the right one.  He admitted, afterward, that that spirit's own
mother could not have pronounced that name better than I did.
He never could understand how I survived it, and I didn't tell
him.  It is only young magicians that give away a secret like that.
Merlin spent three months working enchantments to try to find out
the deep trick of how to pronounce that name and outlive it.
But he didn't arrive.

When I started to the chapel, the populace uncovered and fell back
reverently to make a wide way for me, as if I had been some kind
of a superior being--and I was.  I was aware of that.  I took along
a night shift of monks, and taught them the mystery of the pump,
and set them to work, for it was plain that a good part of the
people out there were going to sit up with the water all night,
consequently it was but right that they should have all they wanted
of it.  To those monks that pump was a good deal of a miracle
itself, and they were full of wonder over it; and of admiration,
too, of the exceeding effectiveness of its performance.

It was a great night, an immense night.  There was reputation in it.
I could hardly get to sleep for glorying over it.



CHAPTER XXIV

A RIVAL MAGICIAN

My influence in the Valley of Holiness was something prodigious
now.  It seemed worth while to try to turn it to some valuable
account.  The thought came to me the next morning, and was suggested
by my seeing one of my knights who was in the soap line come
riding in.  According to history, the monks of this place two
centuries before had been worldly minded enough to want to wash.
It might be that there was a leaven of this unrighteousness still
remaining.  So I sounded a Brother:

"Wouldn't you like a bath?"

He shuddered at the thought--the thought of the peril of it to
the well--but he said with feeling:

"One needs not to ask that of a poor body who has not known that
blessed refreshment sith that he was a boy.  Would God I might
wash me! but it may not be, fair sir, tempt me not; it is forbidden."

And then he sighed in such a sorrowful way that I was resolved
he should have at least one layer of his real estate removed,
if it sized up my whole influence and bankrupted the pile.  So I
went to the abbot and asked for a permit for this Brother.  He
blenched at the idea--I don't mean that you could see him blench,
for of course you couldn't see it without you scraped him, and
I didn't care enough about it to scrape him, but I knew the blench
was there, just the same, and within a book-cover's thickness of
the surface, too--blenched, and trembled.  He said:

"Ah, son, ask aught else thou wilt, and it is thine, and freely
granted out of a grateful heart--but this, oh, this!  Would you
drive away the blessed water again?"

"No, Father, I will not drive it away.  I have mysterious knowledge
which teaches me that there was an error that other time when
it was thought the institution of the bath banished the fountain."
A large interest began to show up in the old man's face.  "My
knowledge informs me that the bath was innocent of that misfortune,
which was caused by quite another sort of sin."

"These are brave words--but--but right welcome, if they be true."

"They are true, indeed.  Let me build the bath again, Father.
Let me build it again, and the fountain shall flow forever."

"You promise this?--you promise it?  Say the word--say you promise it!"

"I do promise it."

"Then will I have the first bath myself!  Go--get ye to your work.
Tarry not, tarry not, but go."

I and my boys were at work, straight off.  The ruins of the old
bath were there yet in the basement of the monastery, not a stone
missing.  They had been left just so, all these lifetimes, and
avoided with a pious fear, as things accursed.  In two days we
had it all done and the water in--a spacious pool of clear pure
water that a body could swim in.  It was running water, too.
It came in, and went out, through the ancient pipes.  The old abbot
kept his word, and was the first to try it.  He went down black
and shaky, leaving the whole black community above troubled and
worried and full of bodings; but he came back white and joyful,
and the game was made! another triumph scored.

It was a good campaign that we made in that Valley of Holiness,
and I was very well satisfied, and ready to move on now, but
I struck a disappointment.  I caught a heavy cold, and it started
up an old lurking rheumatism of mine.  Of course the rheumatism
hunted up my weakest place and located itself there.  This was
the place where the abbot put his arms about me and mashed me, what
time he was moved to testify his gratitude to me with an embrace.

When at last I got out, I was a shadow.  But everybody was full
of attentions and kindnesses, and these brought cheer back into
my life, and were the right medicine to help a convalescent swiftly
up toward health and strength again; so I gained fast.

Sandy was worn out with nursing; so I made up my mind to turn out
and go a cruise alone, leaving her at the nunnery to rest up.
My idea was to disguise myself as a freeman of peasant degree
and wander through the country a week or two on foot.  This would
give me a chance to eat and lodge with the lowliest and poorest
class of free citizens on equal terms.  There was no other way
to inform myself perfectly of their everyday life and the operation
of the laws upon it.  If I went among them as a gentleman, there
would be restraints and conventionalities which would shut me out
from their private joys and troubles, and I should get no further
than the outside shell.

One morning I was out on a long walk to get up muscle for my trip,
and had climbed the ridge which bordered the northern extremity
of the valley, when I came upon an artificial opening in the face
of a low precipice, and recognized it by its location as a hermitage
which had often been pointed out to me from a distance as the den
of a hermit of high renown for dirt and austerity.  I knew he had
lately been offered a situation in the Great Sahara, where lions
and sandflies made the hermit-life peculiarly attractive and
difficult, and had gone to Africa to take possession, so I thought
I would look in and see how the atmosphere of this den agreed
with its reputation.

My surprise was great:  the place was newly swept and scoured.
Then there was another surprise.  Back in the gloom of the cavern
I heard the clink of a little bell, and then this exclamation:

"Hello Central!  Is this you, Camelot?--Behold, thou mayst glad
thy heart an thou hast faith to believe the wonderful when that
it cometh in unexpected guise and maketh itself manifest in
impossible places--here standeth in the flesh his mightiness
The Boss, and with thine own ears shall ye hear him speak!"

Now what a radical reversal of things this was; what a jumbling
together of extravagant incongruities; what a fantastic conjunction
of opposites and irreconcilables--the home of the bogus miracle
become the home of a real one, the den of a mediaeval hermit turned
into a telephone office!

The telephone clerk stepped into the light, and I recognized one
of my young fellows.  I said:

"How long has this office been established here, Ulfius?"

"But since midnight, fair Sir Boss, an it please you.  We saw many
lights in the valley, and so judged it well to make a station,
for that where so many lights be needs must they indicate a town
of goodly size."

"Quite right.  It isn't a town in the customary sense, but it's
a good stand, anyway.  Do you know where you are?"

"Of that I have had no time to make inquiry; for whenas my
comradeship moved hence upon their labors, leaving me in charge,
I got me to needed rest, purposing to inquire when I waked, and
report the place's name to Camelot for record."

"Well, this is the Valley of Holiness."

It didn't take; I mean, he didn't start at the name, as I had
supposed he would.  He merely said:

"I will so report it."

"Why, the surrounding regions are filled with the noise of late
wonders that have happened here!  You didn't hear of them?"

"Ah, ye will remember we move by night, and avoid speech with all.
We learn naught but that we get by the telephone from Camelot."

"Why _they_ know all about this thing.  Haven't they told you anything
about the great miracle of the restoration of a holy fountain?"

"Oh, _that_?  Indeed yes.  But the name of _this_ valley doth woundily
differ from the name of _that_ one; indeed to differ wider were not pos--"

"What was that name, then?"

"The Valley of Hellishness."

"_That_ explains it.  Confound a telephone, anyway.  It is the very
demon for conveying similarities of sound that are miracles of
divergence from similarity of sense.  But no matter, you know
the name of the place now.  Call up Camelot."

He did it, and had Clarence sent for.  It was good to hear my boy's
voice again.  It was like being home.  After some affectionate
interchanges, and some account of my late illness, I said:

"What is new?"

"The king and queen and many of the court do start even in this
hour, to go to your valley to pay pious homage to the waters ye
have restored, and cleanse themselves of sin, and see the place
where the infernal spirit spouted true hell-flames to the clouds--
an ye listen sharply ye may hear me wink and hear me likewise
smile a smile, sith 'twas I that made selection of those flames
from out our stock and sent them by your order."

"Does the king know the way to this place?"

"The king?--no, nor to any other in his realms, mayhap; but the lads
that holp you with your miracle will be his guide and lead the way,
and appoint the places for rests at noons and sleeps at night."

"This will bring them here--when?"

"Mid-afternoon, or later, the third day."

"Anything else in the way of news?"

"The king hath begun the raising of the standing army ye suggested
to him; one regiment is complete and officered."

"The mischief!  I wanted a main hand in that myself.  There is
only one body of men in the kingdom that are fitted to officer
a regular army."

"Yes--and now ye will marvel to know there's not so much as one
West Pointer in that regiment."

"What are you talking about?  Are you in earnest?"

"It is truly as I have said."

"Why, this makes me uneasy.  Who were chosen, and what was the
method?  Competitive examination?"

"Indeed, I know naught of the method.  I but know this--these
officers be all of noble family, and are born--what is it you
call it?--chuckleheads."

"There's something wrong, Clarence."

"Comfort yourself, then; for two candidates for a lieutenancy do
travel hence with the king--young nobles both--and if you but wait
where you are you will hear them questioned."

"That is news to the purpose.  I will get one West Pointer in,
anyway.  Mount a man and send him to that school with a message;
let him kill horses, if necessary, but he must be there before
sunset to-night and say--"

"There is no need.  I have laid a ground wire to the school.
Prithee let me connect you with it."

It sounded good!  In this atmosphere of telephones and lightning
communication with distant regions, I was breathing the breath
of life again after long suffocation.  I realized, then, what a
creepy, dull, inanimate horror this land had been to me all these
years, and how I had been in such a stifled condition of mind as
to have grown used to it almost beyond the power to notice it.

I gave my order to the superintendent of the Academy personally.
I also asked him to bring me some paper and a fountain pen and
a box or so of safety matches.  I was getting tired of doing
without these conveniences.  I could have them now, as I wasn't
going to wear armor any more at present, and therefore could get
at my pockets.

When I got back to the monastery, I found a thing of interest
going on.  The abbot and his monks were assembled in the great
hall, observing with childish wonder and faith the performances
of a new magician, a fresh arrival.  His dress was the extreme of
the fantastic; as showy and foolish as the sort of thing an Indian
medicine-man wears.  He was mowing, and mumbling, and gesticulating,
and drawing mystical figures in the air and on the floor,--the
regular thing, you know.  He was a celebrity from Asia--so he
said, and that was enough.  That sort of evidence was as good
as gold, and passed current everywhere.

How easy and cheap it was to be a great magician on this fellow's
terms.  His specialty was to tell you what any individual on the
face of the globe was doing at the moment; and what he had done
at any time in the past, and what he would do at any time in the
future.  He asked if any would like to know what the Emperor of
the East was doing now?  The sparkling eyes and the delighted rubbing
of hands made eloquent answer--this reverend crowd _would_ like to
know what that monarch was at, just as this moment.  The fraud
went through some more mummery, and then made grave announcement:

"The high and mighty Emperor of the East doth at this moment put
money in the palm of a holy begging friar--one, two, three pieces,
and they be all of silver."

A buzz of admiring exclamations broke out, all around:

"It is marvelous!"  "Wonderful!"  "What study, what labor, to have
acquired a so amazing power as this!"

Would they like to know what the Supreme Lord of Inde was doing?
Yes.  He told them what the Supreme Lord of Inde was doing.  Then
he told them what the Sultan of Egypt was at; also what the King
of the Remote Seas was about.  And so on and so on; and with each
new marvel the astonishment at his accuracy rose higher and higher.
They thought he must surely strike an uncertain place some time;
but no, he never had to hesitate, he always knew, and always with
unerring precision.  I saw that if this thing went on I should lose
my supremacy, this fellow would capture my following, I should
be left out in the cold.  I must put a cog in his wheel, and do it
right away, too.  I said:

"If I might ask, I should very greatly like to know what a certain
person is doing."

"Speak, and freely.  I will tell you."

"It will be difficult--perhaps impossible."

"My art knoweth not that word.  The more difficult it is, the more
certainly will I reveal it to you."

You see, I was working up the interest.  It was getting pretty
high, too; you could see that by the craning necks all around,
and the half-suspended breathing.  So now I climaxed it:

"If you make no mistake--if you tell me truly what I want to
know--I will give you two hundred silver pennies."

"The fortune is mine!  I will tell you what you would know."

"Then tell me what I am doing with my right hand."

"Ah-h!"  There was a general gasp of surprise.  It had not occurred
to anybody in the crowd--that simple trick of inquiring about
somebody who wasn't ten thousand miles away.  The magician was
hit hard; it was an emergency that had never happened in his
experience before, and it corked him; he didn't know how to meet
it.  He looked stunned, confused; he couldn't say a word.  "Come,"
I said, "what are you waiting for?  Is it possible you can answer up,
right off, and tell what anybody on the other side of the earth is
doing, and yet can't tell what a person is doing who isn't three
yards from you?  Persons behind me know what I am doing with my
right hand--they will indorse you if you tell correctly."  He was
still dumb.  "Very well, I'll tell you why you don't speak up and
tell; it is because you don't know.  _You_ a magician!  Good friends,
this tramp is a mere fraud and liar."

This distressed the monks and terrified them.  They were not used
to hearing these awful beings called names, and they did not know
what might be the consequence.  There was a dead silence now;
superstitious bodings were in every mind.  The magician began to
pull his wits together, and when he presently smiled an easy,
nonchalant smile, it spread a mighty relief around; for it indicated
that his mood was not destructive.  He said:

"It hath struck me speechless, the frivolity of this person's
speech.  Let all know, if perchance there be any who know it not,
that enchanters of my degree deign not to concern themselves with
the doings of any but kings, princes, emperors, them that be born
in the purple and them only.  Had ye asked me what Arthur the great
king is doing, it were another matter, and I had told ye; but the
doings of a subject interest me not."

"Oh, I misunderstood you.  I thought you said 'anybody,' and so
I supposed 'anybody' included--well, anybody; that is, everybody."

"It doth--anybody that is of lofty birth; and the better if
he be royal."

"That, it meseemeth, might well be," said the abbot, who saw his
opportunity to smooth things and avert disaster, "for it were not
likely that so wonderful a gift as this would be conferred for
the revelation of the concerns of lesser beings than such as be
born near to the summits of greatness.  Our Arthur the king--"

"Would you know of him?" broke in the enchanter.

"Most gladly, yea, and gratefully."

Everybody was full of awe and interest again right away, the
incorrigible idiots.  They watched the incantations absorbingly,
and looked at me with a "There, now, what can you say to that?"
air, when the announcement came:

"The king is weary with the chase, and lieth in his palace these
two hours sleeping a dreamless sleep."

"God's benison upon him!" said the abbot, and crossed himself;
"may that sleep be to the refreshment of his body and his soul."

"And so it might be, if he were sleeping," I said, "but the king
is not sleeping, the king rides."

Here was trouble again--a conflict of authority.  Nobody knew which
of us to believe; I still had some reputation left.  The magician's
scorn was stirred, and he said:

"Lo, I have seen many wonderful soothsayers and prophets and
magicians in my life days, but none before that could sit idle and
see to the heart of things with never an incantation to help."

"You have lived in the woods, and lost much by it.  I use incantations
myself, as this good brotherhood are aware--but only on occasions
of moment."

When it comes to sarcasming, I reckon I know how to keep my end up.
That jab made this fellow squirm.  The abbot inquired after the
queen and the court, and got this information:

"They be all on sleep, being overcome by fatigue, like as to the king."

I said:

"That is merely another lie.  Half of them are about their amusements,
the queen and the other half are not sleeping, they ride.  Now
perhaps you can spread yourself a little, and tell us where the king
and queen and all that are this moment riding with them are going?"

"They sleep now, as I said; but on the morrow they will ride,
for they go a journey toward the sea."

"And where will they be the day after to-morrow at vespers?"

"Far to the north of Camelot, and half their journey will be done."

"That is another lie, by the space of a hundred and fifty miles.
Their journey will not be merely half done, it will be all done,
and they will be _here_, in this valley."

_That_ was a noble shot!  It set the abbot and the monks in a whirl
of excitement, and it rocked the enchanter to his base.  I followed
the thing right up:

"If the king does not arrive, I will have myself ridden on a rail:
if he does I will ride you on a rail instead."

Next day I went up to the telephone office and found that the king
had passed through two towns that were on the line.  I spotted
his progress on the succeeding day in the same way.  I kept these
matters to myself.  The third day's reports showed that if he
kept up his gait he would arrive by four in the afternoon.  There
was still no sign anywhere of interest in his coming; there seemed
to be no preparations making to receive him in state; a strange
thing, truly.  Only one thing could explain this:  that other
magician had been cutting under me, sure.  This was true.  I asked
a friend of mine, a monk, about it, and he said, yes, the magician
had tried some further enchantments and found out that the court
had concluded to make no journey at all, but stay at home.  Think
of that!  Observe how much a reputation was worth in such a country.
These people had seen me do the very showiest bit of magic in
history, and the only one within their memory that had a positive
value, and yet here they were, ready to take up with an adventurer
who could offer no evidence of his powers but his mere unproven word.

However, it was not good politics to let the king come without
any fuss and feathers at all, so I went down and drummed up a
procession of pilgrims and smoked out a batch of hermits and
started them out at two o'clock to meet him.  And that was the
sort of state he arrived in.  The abbot was helpless with rage
and humiliation when I brought him out on a balcony and showed
him the head of the state marching in and never a monk on hand to
offer him welcome, and no stir of life or clang of joy-bell to glad
his spirit.  He took one look and then flew to rouse out his forces.
The next minute the bells were dinning furiously, and the various
buildings were vomiting monks and nuns, who went swarming in a
rush toward the coming procession; and with them went that magician--
and he was on a rail, too, by the abbot's order; and his reputation
was in the mud, and mine was in the sky again.  Yes, a man can
keep his trademark current in such a country, but he can't sit
around and do it; he has got to be on deck and attending to business
right along.



CHAPTER XXV

A COMPETITIVE EXAMINATION

When the king traveled for change of air, or made a progress, or
visited a distant noble whom he wished to bankrupt with the cost
of his keep, part of the administration moved with him.  It was
a fashion of the time.  The Commission charged with the examination
of candidates for posts in the army came with the king to the
Valley, whereas they could have transacted their business just
as well at home.  And although this expedition was strictly a
holiday excursion for the king, he kept some of his business
functions going just the same.  He touched for the evil, as usual;
he held court in the gate at sunrise and tried cases, for he was
himself Chief Justice of the King's Bench.

He shone very well in this latter office.  He was a wise and humane
judge, and he clearly did his honest best and fairest,--according
to his lights.  That is a large reservation.  His lights--I mean
his rearing--often colored his decisions.  Whenever there was a
dispute between a noble or gentleman and a person of lower degree,
the king's leanings and sympathies were for the former class always,
whether he suspected it or not.  It was impossible that this should
be otherwise.  The blunting effects of slavery upon the slaveholder's
moral perceptions are known and conceded, the world over; and a
privileged class, an aristocracy, is but a band of slaveholders
under another name.  This has a harsh sound, and yet should not
be offensive to any--even to the noble himself--unless the fact
itself be an offense:  for the statement simply formulates a fact.
The repulsive feature of slavery is the _thing_, not its name.  One
needs but to hear an aristocrat speak of the classes that are below
him to recognize--and in but indifferently modified measure--
the very air and tone of the actual slaveholder; and behind these
are the slaveholder's spirit, the slaveholder's blunted feeling.
They are the result of the same cause in both cases:  the possessor's
old and inbred custom of regarding himself as a superior being.
The king's judgments wrought frequent injustices, but it was merely
the fault of his training, his natural and unalterable sympathies.
He was as unfitted for a judgeship as would be the average mother
for the position of milk-distributor to starving children in
famine-time; her own children would fare a shade better than the rest.

One very curious case came before the king.  A young girl, an
orphan, who had a considerable estate, married a fine young fellow
who had nothing.  The girl's property was within a seigniory held
by the Church.  The bishop of the diocese, an arrogant scion of
the great nobility, claimed the girl's estate on the ground that
she had married privately, and thus had cheated the Church out
of one of its rights as lord of the seigniory--the one heretofore
referred to as le droit du seigneur.  The penalty of refusal or
avoidance was confiscation.  The girl's defense was, that the
lordship of the seigniory was vested in the bishop, and the
particular right here involved was not transferable, but must be
exercised by the lord himself or stand vacated; and that an older
law, of the Church itself, strictly barred the bishop from exercising
it.  It was a very odd case, indeed.

It reminded me of something I had read in my youth about the
ingenious way in which the aldermen of London raised the money
that built the Mansion House.  A person who had not taken the
Sacrament according to the Anglican rite could not stand as a
candidate for sheriff of London.  Thus Dissenters were ineligible;
they could not run if asked, they could not serve if elected.
The aldermen, who without any question were Yankees in disguise,
hit upon this neat device:  they passed a by-law imposing a fine
of L400 upon any one who should refuse to be a candidate for
sheriff, and a fine of L600 upon any person who, after being
elected sheriff, refused to serve.  Then they went to work and
elected a lot of Dissenters, one after another, and kept it up
until they had collected L15,000 in fines; and there stands the
stately Mansion House to this day, to keep the blushing citizen
in mind of a long past and lamented day when a band of Yankees
slipped into London and played games of the sort that has given
their race a unique and shady reputation among all truly good
and holy peoples that be in the earth.

The girl's case seemed strong to me; the bishop's case was just
as strong.  I did not see how the king was going to get out of
this hole.  But he got out.  I append his decision:

"Truly I find small difficulty here, the matter being even a
child's affair for simpleness.  An the young bride had conveyed
notice, as in duty bound, to her feudal lord and proper master
and protector the bishop, she had suffered no loss, for the said
bishop could have got a dispensation making him, for temporary
conveniency, eligible to the exercise of his said right, and thus
would she have kept all she had.  Whereas, failing in her first
duty, she hath by that failure failed in all; for whoso, clinging
to a rope, severeth it above his hands, must fall; it being no
defense to claim that the rest of the rope is sound, neither any
deliverance from his peril, as he shall find.  Pardy, the woman's
case is rotten at the source.  It is the decree of the court that
she forfeit to the said lord bishop all her goods, even to the
last farthing that she doth possess, and be thereto mulcted in
the costs.  Next!"

Here was a tragic end to a beautiful honeymoon not yet three months
old.  Poor young creatures!  They had lived these three months
lapped to the lips in worldly comforts.  These clothes and trinkets
they were wearing were as fine and dainty as the shrewdest stretch
of the sumptuary laws allowed to people of their degree; and in
these pretty clothes, she crying on his shoulder, and he trying
to comfort her with hopeful words set to the music of despair,
they went from the judgment seat out into the world homeless,
bedless, breadless; why, the very beggars by the roadsides were
not so poor as they.

Well, the king was out of the hole; and on terms satisfactory to
the Church and the rest of the aristocracy, no doubt.  Men write
many fine and plausible arguments in support of monarchy, but
the fact remains that where every man in a State has a vote, brutal
laws are impossible.  Arthur's people were of course poor material
for a republic, because they had been debased so long by monarchy;
and yet even they would have been intelligent enough to make short
work of that law which the king had just been administering if it
had been submitted to their full and free vote.  There is a phrase
which has grown so common in the world's mouth that it has come
to seem to have sense and meaning--the sense and meaning implied
when it is used; that is the phrase which refers to this or that or
the other nation as possibly being "capable of self-government";
and the implied sense of it is, that there has been a nation
somewhere, some time or other which _wasn't_ capable of it--wasn't as
able to govern itself as some self-appointed specialists were or
would be to govern it.  The master minds of all nations, in all
ages, have sprung in affluent multitude from the mass of the nation,
and from the mass of the nation only--not from its privileged
classes; and so, no matter what the nation's intellectual grade
was; whether high or low, the bulk of its ability was in the long
ranks of its nameless and its poor, and so it never saw the day
that it had not the material in abundance whereby to govern itself.
Which is to assert an always self-proven fact:  that even the best
governed and most free and most enlightened monarchy is still
behind the best condition attainable by its people; and that the
same is true of kindred governments of lower grades, all the way
down to the lowest.

King Arthur had hurried up the army business altogether beyond
my calculations.  I had not supposed he would move in the matter
while I was away; and so I had not mapped out a scheme for determining
the merits of officers; I had only remarked that it would be wise
to submit every candidate to a sharp and searching examination;
and privately I meant to put together a list of military qualifications
that nobody could answer to but my West Pointers.  That ought
to have been attended to before I left; for the king was so taken
with the idea of a standing army that he couldn't wait but must
get about it at once, and get up as good a scheme of examination
as he could invent out of his own head.

I was impatient to see what this was; and to show, too, how much
more admirable was the one which I should display to the Examining
Board.  I intimated this, gently, to the king, and it fired his
curiosity.  When the Board was assembled, I followed him in; and
behind us came the candidates.  One of these candidates was a bright
young West Pointer of mine, and with him were a couple of my
West Point professors.

When I saw the Board, I did not know whether to cry or to laugh.
The head of it was the officer known to later centuries as Norroy
King-at-Arms!  The two other members were chiefs of bureaus in
his department; and all three were priests, of course; all officials
who had to know how to read and write were priests.

My candidate was called first, out of courtesy to me, and the head
of the Board opened on him with official solemnity:

"Name?"

"Mal-ease."

"Son of?"

"Webster."

"Webster--Webster.  H'm--I--my memory faileth to recall the
name.  Condition?"

"Weaver."

"Weaver!--God keep us!"

The king was staggered, from his summit to his foundations; one
clerk fainted, and the others came near it.  The chairman pulled
himself together, and said indignantly:

"It is sufficient.  Get you hence."

But I appealed to the king.  I begged that my candidate might be
examined.  The king was willing, but the Board, who were all
well-born folk, implored the king to spare them the indignity of
examining the weaver's son.  I knew they didn't know enough to
examine him anyway, so I joined my prayers to theirs and the king
turned the duty over to my professors.  I had had a blackboard
prepared, and it was put up now, and the circus began.  It was
beautiful to hear the lad lay out the science of war, and wallow
in details of battle and siege, of supply, transportation, mining
and countermining, grand tactics, big strategy and little strategy,
signal service, infantry, cavalry, artillery, and all about siege
guns, field guns, gatling guns, rifled guns, smooth bores, musket
practice, revolver practice--and not a solitary word of it all
could these catfish make head or tail of, you understand--and it
was handsome to see him chalk off mathematical nightmares on the
blackboard that would stump the angels themselves, and do it like
nothing, too--all about eclipses, and comets, and solstices, and
constellations, and mean time, and sidereal time, and dinner time,
and bedtime, and every other imaginable thing above the clouds or
under them that you could harry or bullyrag an enemy with and make
him wish he hadn't come--and when the boy made his military salute
and stood aside at last, I was proud enough to hug him, and all
those other people were so dazed they looked partly petrified,
partly drunk, and wholly caught out and snowed under.  I judged
that the cake was ours, and by a large majority.

Education is a great thing.  This was the same youth who had come
to West Point so ignorant that when I asked him, "If a general
officer should have a horse shot under him on the field of battle,
what ought he to do?" answered up naively and said:

"Get up and brush himself."

One of the young nobles was called up now.  I thought I would
question him a little myself.  I said:

"Can your lordship read?"

His face flushed indignantly, and he fired this at me:

"Takest me for a clerk?  I trow I am not of a blood that--"

"Answer the question!"

He crowded his wrath down and made out to answer "No."

"Can you write?"

He wanted to resent this, too, but I said:

"You will confine yourself to the questions, and make no comments.
You are not here to air your blood or your graces, and nothing
of the sort will be permitted.  Can you write?"

"No."

"Do you know the multiplication table?"

"I wit not what ye refer to."

"How much is 9 times 6?"

"It is a mystery that is hidden from me by reason that the emergency
requiring the fathoming of it hath not in my life-days occurred,
and so, not having no need to know this thing, I abide barren
of the knowledge."

"If A trade a barrel of onions to B, worth 2 pence the bushel,
in exchange for a sheep worth 4 pence and a dog worth a penny,
and C kill the dog before delivery, because bitten by the same,
who mistook him for D, what sum is still due to A from B, and
which party pays for the dog, C or D, and who gets the money?
If A, is the penny sufficient, or may he claim consequential damages
in the form of additional money to represent the possible profit
which might have inured from the dog, and classifiable as earned
increment, that is to say, usufruct?"

"Verily, in the all-wise and unknowable providence of God, who
moveth in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, have I never
heard the fellow to this question for confusion of the mind and
congestion of the ducts of thought.  Wherefore I beseech you let
the dog and the onions and these people of the strange and godless
names work out their several salvations from their piteous and
wonderful difficulties without help of mine, for indeed their
trouble is sufficient as it is, whereas an I tried to help I should
but damage their cause the more and yet mayhap not live myself
to see the desolation wrought."

"What do you know of the laws of attraction and gravitation?"

"If there be such, mayhap his grace the king did promulgate them
whilst that I lay sick about the beginning of the year and thereby
failed to hear his proclamation."

"What do you know of the science of optics?"

"I know of governors of places, and seneschals of castles, and
sheriffs of counties, and many like small offices and titles of
honor, but him you call the Science of Optics I have not heard
of before; peradventure it is a new dignity."

"Yes, in this country."

Try to conceive of this mollusk gravely applying for an official
position, of any kind under the sun!  Why, he had all the earmarks
of a typewriter copyist, if you leave out the disposition to
contribute uninvited emendations of your grammar and punctuation.
It was unaccountable that he didn't attempt a little help of that
sort out of his majestic supply of incapacity for the job.  But that
didn't prove that he hadn't material in him for the disposition,
it only proved that he wasn't a typewriter copyist yet.  After
nagging him a little more, I let the professors loose on him and
they turned him inside out, on the line of scientific war, and
found him empty, of course.  He knew somewhat about the warfare
of the time--bushwhacking around for ogres, and bull-fights in
the tournament ring, and such things--but otherwise he was empty
and useless.  Then we took the other young noble in hand, and he
was the first one's twin, for ignorance and incapacity.  I delivered
them into the hands of the chairman of the Board with the comfortable
consciousness that their cake was dough.  They were examined in
the previous order of precedence.

"Name, so please you?"

"Pertipole, son of Sir Pertipole, Baron of Barley Mash."

"Grandfather?"

"Also Sir Pertipole, Baron of Barley Mash."

"Great-grandfather?"

"The same name and title."

"Great-great-grandfather?"

"We had none, worshipful sir, the line failing before it had
reached so far back."

"It mattereth not.  It is a good four generations, and fulfilleth
the requirements of the rule."

"Fulfills what rule?" I asked.

"The rule requiring four generations of nobility or else the
candidate is not eligible."

"A man not eligible for a lieutenancy in the army unless he can
prove four generations of noble descent?"

"Even so; neither lieutenant nor any other officer may be commissioned
without that qualification."

"Oh, come, this is an astonishing thing.  What good is such a
qualification as that?"

"What good?  It is a hardy question, fair sir and Boss, since it doth
go far to impugn the wisdom of even our holy Mother Church herself."

"As how?"

"For that she hath established the self-same rule regarding
saints.  By her law none may be canonized until he hath lain dead
four generations."

"I see, I see--it is the same thing.  It is wonderful.  In the one
case a man lies dead-alive four generations--mummified in ignorance
and sloth--and that qualifies him to command live people, and take
their weal and woe into his impotent hands; and in the other case,
a man lies bedded with death and worms four generations, and that
qualifies him for office in the celestial camp.  Does the king's
grace approve of this strange law?"

The king said:

"Why, truly I see naught about it that is strange.  All places of
honor and of profit do belong, by natural right, to them that be
of noble blood, and so these dignities in the army are their
property and would be so without this or any rule.  The rule is
but to mark a limit.  Its purpose is to keep out too recent blood,
which would bring into contempt these offices, and men of lofty
lineage would turn their backs and scorn to take them.  I were
to blame an I permitted this calamity.  _You_ can permit it an you
are minded so to do, for you have the delegated authority, but
that the king should do it were a most strange madness and not
comprehensible to any."

"I yield.  Proceed, sir Chief of the Herald's College."

The chairman resumed as follows:

"By what illustrious achievement for the honor of the Throne and
State did the founder of your great line lift himself to the
sacred dignity of the British nobility?"

"He built a brewery."

"Sire, the Board finds this candidate perfect in all the requirements
and qualifications for military command, and doth hold his case
open for decision after due examination of his competitor."

The competitor came forward and proved exactly four generations
of nobility himself.  So there was a tie in military qualifications
that far.

He stood aside a moment, and Sir Pertipole was questioned further:

"Of what condition was the wife of the founder of your line?"

"She came of the highest landed gentry, yet she was not noble;
she was gracious and pure and charitable, of a blameless life and
character, insomuch that in these regards was she peer of the
best lady in the land."

"That will do.  Stand down."  He called up the competing lordling
again, and asked:  "What was the rank and condition of the
great-grandmother who conferred British nobility upon your
great house?"

"She was a king's leman and did climb to that splendid eminence
by her own unholpen merit from the sewer where she was born."

"Ah, this, indeed, is true nobility, this is the right and perfect
intermixture.  The lieutenancy is yours, fair lord.  Hold it not in
contempt; it is the humble step which will lead to grandeurs more
worthy of the splendor of an origin like to thine."

I was down in the bottomless pit of humiliation.  I had promised
myself an easy and zenith-scouring triumph, and this was the outcome!

I was almost ashamed to look my poor disappointed cadet in the
face.  I told him to go home and be patient, this wasn't the end.

I had a private audience with the king, and made a proposition.
I said it was quite right to officer that regiment with nobilities,
and he couldn't have done a wiser thing.  It would also be a good
idea to add five hundred officers to it; in fact, add as many
officers as there were nobles and relatives of nobles in the
country, even if there should finally be five times as many officers
as privates in it; and thus make it the crack regiment, the envied
regiment, the King's Own regiment, and entitled to fight on its
own hook and in its own way, and go whither it would and come
when it pleased, in time of war, and be utterly swell and independent.
This would make that regiment the heart's desire of all the
nobility, and they would all be satisfied and happy.  Then we
would make up the rest of the standing army out of commonplace
materials, and officer it with nobodies, as was proper--nobodies
selected on a basis of mere efficiency--and we would make this
regiment toe the line, allow it no aristocratic freedom from
restraint, and force it to do all the work and persistent hammering,
to the end that whenever the King's Own was tired and wanted to go
off for a change and rummage around amongst ogres and have a good
time, it could go without uneasiness, knowing that matters were in
safe hands behind it, and business going to be continued at the
old stand, same as usual.  The king was charmed with the idea.

When I noticed that, it gave me a valuable notion.  I thought
I saw my way out of an old and stubborn difficulty at last.  You
see, the royalties of the Pendragon stock were a long-lived race
and very fruitful.  Whenever a child was born to any of these--
and it was pretty often--there was wild joy in the nation's mouth,
and piteous sorrow in the nation's heart.  The joy was questionable,
but the grief was honest.  Because the event meant another call
for a Royal Grant.  Long was the list of these royalties, and
they were a heavy and steadily increasing burden upon the treasury
and a menace to the crown.  Yet Arthur could not believe this
latter fact, and he would not listen to any of my various projects
for substituting something in the place of the royal grants.  If I
could have persuaded him to now and then provide a support for
one of these outlying scions from his own pocket, I could have
made a grand to-do over it, and it would have had a good effect
with the nation; but no, he wouldn't hear of such a thing.  He had
something like a religious passion for royal grant; he seemed to
look upon it as a sort of sacred swag, and one could not irritate
him in any way so quickly and so surely as by an attack upon that
venerable institution.  If I ventured to cautiously hint that there
was not another respectable family in England that would humble
itself to hold out the hat--however, that is as far as I ever got;
he always cut me short there, and peremptorily, too.

But I believed I saw my chance at last.  I would form this crack
regiment out of officers alone--not a single private.  Half of it
should consist of nobles, who should fill all the places up to
Major-General, and serve gratis and pay their own expenses; and
they would be glad to do this when they should learn that the rest
of the regiment would consist exclusively of princes of the blood.
These princes of the blood should range in rank from Lieutenant-General
up to Field Marshal, and be gorgeously salaried and equipped and
fed by the state.  Moreover--and this was the master stroke--
it should be decreed that these princely grandees should be always
addressed by a stunningly gaudy and awe-compelling title (which
I would presently invent), and they and they only in all England
should be so addressed.  Finally, all princes of the blood should
have free choice; join that regiment, get that great title, and
renounce the royal grant, or stay out and receive a grant.  Neatest
touch of all:  unborn but imminent princes of the blood could be
_born_ into the regiment, and start fair, with good wages and a
permanent situation, upon due notice from the parents.

All the boys would join, I was sure of that; so, all existing
grants would be relinquished; that the newly born would always
join was equally certain.  Within sixty days that quaint and
bizarre anomaly, the Royal Grant, would cease to be a living fact,
and take its place among the curiosities of the past.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE FIRST NEWSPAPER

When I told the king I was going out disguised as a petty freeman
to scour the country and familiarize myself with the humbler life
of the people, he was all afire with the novelty of the thing
in a minute, and was bound to take a chance in the adventure
himself--nothing should stop him--he would drop everything and
go along--it was the prettiest idea he had run across for many
a day.  He wanted to glide out the back way and start at once;
but I showed him that that wouldn't answer.  You see, he was billed
for the king's-evil--to touch for it, I mean--and it wouldn't be
right to disappoint the house and it wouldn't make a delay worth
considering, anyway, it was only a one-night stand.  And I thought
he ought to tell the queen he was going away.  He clouded up at
that and looked sad.  I was sorry I had spoken, especially when
he said mournfully:

"Thou forgettest that Launcelot is here; and where Launcelot is,
she noteth not the going forth of the king, nor what day he returneth."

Of course, I changed the Subject.  Yes, Guenever was beautiful,
it is true, but take her all around she was pretty slack.  I never
meddled in these matters, they weren't my affair, but I did hate
to see the way things were going on, and I don't mind saying that
much.  Many's the time she had asked me, "Sir Boss, hast seen
Sir Launcelot about?" but if ever she went fretting around for
the king I didn't happen to be around at the time.

There was a very good lay-out for the king's-evil business--very
tidy and creditable.  The king sat under a canopy of state; about
him were clustered a large body of the clergy in full canonicals.
Conspicuous, both for location and personal outfit, stood Marinel,
a hermit of the quack-doctor species, to introduce the sick.  All
abroad over the spacious floor, and clear down to the doors,
in a thick jumble, lay or sat the scrofulous, under a strong light.
It was as good as a tableau; in fact, it had all the look of being
gotten up for that, though it wasn't.  There were eight hundred
sick people present.  The work was slow; it lacked the interest
of novelty for me, because I had seen the ceremonies before;
the thing soon became tedious, but the proprieties required me
to stick it out.  The doctor was there for the reason that in all
such crowds there were many people who only imagined something
was the matter with them, and many who were consciously sound
but wanted the immortal honor of fleshly contact with a king, and
yet others who pretended to illness in order to get the piece of
coin that went with the touch.  Up to this time this coin had been
a wee little gold piece worth about a third of a dollar.  When you
consider how much that amount of money would buy, in that age
and country, and how usual it was to be scrofulous, when not dead,
you would understand that the annual king's-evil appropriation was
just the River and Harbor bill of that government for the grip it
took on the treasury and the chance it afforded for skinning the
surplus.  So I had privately concluded to touch the treasury itself
for the king's-evil.  I covered six-sevenths of the appropriation
into the treasury a week before starting from Camelot on my
adventures, and ordered that the other seventh be inflated into
five-cent nickels and delivered into the hands of the head clerk
of the King's Evil Department; a nickel to take the place of each
gold coin, you see, and do its work for it.  It might strain the
nickel some, but I judged it could stand it.  As a rule, I do not
approve of watering stock, but I considered it square enough
in this case, for it was just a gift, anyway.  Of course, you can
water a gift as much as you want to; and I generally do.  The old
gold and silver coins of the country were of ancient and unknown
origin, as a rule, but some of them were Roman; they were ill-shapen,
and seldom rounder than a moon that is a week past the full; they
were hammered, not minted, and they were so worn with use that
the devices upon them were as illegible as blisters, and looked
like them.  I judged that a sharp, bright new nickel, with a
first-rate likeness of the king on one side of it and Guenever
on the other, and a blooming pious motto, would take the tuck out
of scrofula as handy as a nobler coin and please the scrofulous
fancy more; and I was right.  This batch was the first it was
tried on, and it worked to a charm.  The saving in expense was
a notable economy.  You will see that by these figures:  We touched
a trifle over 700 of the 800 patients; at former rates, this would
have cost the government about $240; at the new rate we pulled
through for about $35, thus saving upward of $200 at one swoop.
To appreciate the full magnitude of this stroke, consider these
other figures:  the annual expenses of a national government amount
to the equivalent of a contribution of three days' average wages of
every individual of the population, counting every individual as
if he were a man.  If you take a nation of 60,000,000, where average
wages are $2 per day, three days' wages taken from each individual
will provide $360,000,000 and pay the government's expenses.  In my
day, in my own country, this money was collected from imposts,
and the citizen imagined that the foreign importer paid it, and it
made him comfortable to think so; whereas, in fact, it was paid
by the American people, and was so equally and exactly distributed
among them that the annual cost to the 100-millionaire and the
annual cost to the sucking child of the day-laborer was precisely
the same--each paid $6.  Nothing could be equaler than that,
I reckon.  Well, Scotland and Ireland were tributary to Arthur,
and the united populations of the British Islands amounted to
something less than 1,000,000.  A mechanic's average wage was
3 cents a day, when he paid his own keep.  By this rule the national
government's expenses were $90,000 a year, or about $250 a day.
Thus, by the substitution of nickels for gold on a king's-evil
day, I not only injured no one, dissatisfied no one, but pleased
all concerned and saved four-fifths of that day's national expense
into the bargain--a saving which would have been the equivalent
of $800,000 in my day in America.  In making this substitution
I had drawn upon the wisdom of a very remote source--the wisdom
of my boyhood--for the true statesman does not despise any wisdom,
howsoever lowly may be its origin:  in my boyhood I had always
saved my pennies and contributed buttons to the foreign missionary
cause.  The buttons would answer the ignorant savage as well as
the coin, the coin would answer me better than the buttons; all
hands were happy and nobody hurt.

Marinel took the patients as they came.  He examined the candidate;
if he couldn't qualify he was warned off; if he could he was passed
along to the king.  A priest pronounced the words, "They shall
lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover."  Then the king
stroked the ulcers, while the reading continued; finally, the
patient graduated and got his nickel--the king hanging it around
his neck himself--and was dismissed.  Would you think that that
would cure?  It certainly did.  Any mummery will cure if the
patient's faith is strong in it.  Up by Astolat there was a chapel
where the Virgin had once appeared to a girl who used to herd
geese around there--the girl said so herself--and they built the
chapel upon that spot and hung a picture in it representing the
occurrence--a picture which you would think it dangerous for a sick
person to approach; whereas, on the contrary, thousands of the lame
and the sick came and prayed before it every year and went away
whole and sound; and even the well could look upon it and live.
Of course, when I was told these things I did not believe them;
but when I went there and saw them I had to succumb.  I saw the
cures effected myself; and they were real cures and not questionable.
I saw cripples whom I had seen around Camelot for years on crutches,
arrive and pray before that picture, and put down their crutches
and walk off without a limp.  There were piles of crutches there
which had been left by such people as a testimony.

In other places people operated on a patient's mind, without saying
a word to him, and cured him.  In others, experts assembled patients
in a room and prayed over them, and appealed to their faith, and
those patients went away cured.  Wherever you find a king who can't
cure the king's-evil you can be sure that the most valuable
superstition that supports his throne--the subject's belief in
the divine appointment of his sovereign--has passed away.  In my
youth the monarchs of England had ceased to touch for the evil,
but there was no occasion for this diffidence:  they could have
cured it forty-nine times in fifty.

Well, when the priest had been droning for three hours, and the
good king polishing the evidences, and the sick were still pressing
forward as plenty as ever, I got to feeling intolerably bored.
I was sitting by an open window not far from the canopy of state.
For the five hundredth time a patient stood forward to have his
repulsivenesses stroked; again those words were being droned out:
"they shall lay their hands on the sick"--when outside there rang
clear as a clarion a note that enchanted my soul and tumbled
thirteen worthless centuries about my ears:  "Camelot _Weekly
Hosannah and Literary Volcano!_--latest irruption--only two cents--
all about the big miracle in the Valley of Holiness!"  One greater
than kings had arrived--the newsboy.  But I was the only person
in all that throng who knew the meaning of this mighty birth, and
what this imperial magician was come into the world to do.

I dropped a nickel out of the window and got my paper; the
Adam-newsboy of the world went around the corner to get my change;
is around the corner yet.  It was delicious to see a newspaper
again, yet I was conscious of a secret shock when my eye fell upon
the first batch of display head-lines.  I had lived in a clammy
atmosphere of reverence, respect, deference, so long that they
sent a quivery little cold wave through me:


              HIGH TIMES IN THE VALLEY

                    OF HOLINESS!

                        ----

               THE WATER-WORKS CORKED!

                        ----

         BRER MERLIN WORKS HIS ARTS, BUT GETS
                        LEFT?

                        ----

      But the Boss scores on his first Innings!

                        ----

          The Miraculous Well Uncorked amid
                  awful outbursts of

              INFERNAL FIRE AND SMOKE
                     ATHUNDER!

                        ----

           THE BUZZARD-ROOST ASTONISHED!

                        ----

              UNPARALLELED REJOIBINGS!


--and so on, and so on.  Yes, it was too loud.  Once I could have
enjoyed it and seen nothing out of the way about it, but now its
note was discordant.  It was good Arkansas journalism, but this
was not Arkansas.  Moreover, the next to the last line was calculated
to give offense to the hermits, and perhaps lose us their advertising.
Indeed, there was too lightsome a tone of flippancy all through
the paper.  It was plain I had undergone a considerable change
without noticing it.  I found myself unpleasantly affected by
pert little irreverencies which would have seemed but proper and
airy graces of speech at an earlier period of my life.  There was an
abundance of the following breed of items, and they discomforted me:

   LOCAL SMOKE AND CINDERS.

   Sir Launcelot met up with old King
   Agrivance of Ireland unexpectedly last
   weok over on the moor south of Sir
   Balmoral le Merveilleuse's hog dasture.
   The widow has been notified.

   Expedition No. 3 will start adout the
   first of mext month on a search f8r Sir
   Sagramour le Desirous. It is in com-
   and of the renowned Knight of the Red
   Lawns, assissted by Sir Persant of Inde,
   who is compete9t. intelligent, courte-
   ous, and in every way a brick, and fur-
   tHer assisted by Sir Palamides the Sara-
   cen, who is no huckleberry hinself.
   This is no pic-nic, these boys mean
   busine&s.

   The readers of the Hosannah will re-
   gret to learn that the hadndsome and
   popular Sir Charolais of Gaul, who dur-
   ing his four weeks' stay at the Bull and
   Halibut, this city, has won every heart
   by his polished manners and elegant
   cPnversation, will pUll out to-day for
   home. Give us another call, Charley!

   The bdsiness end of the funeral of
   the late Sir Dalliance the duke's son of
   Cornwall, killed in an encounter with
   the Giant of the Knotted Bludgeon last
   Tuesday on the borders of the Plain of
   Enchantment was in the hands of the
   ever affable and efficient Mumble,
   prince of un3ertakers, then whom there
   exists none by whom it were a more
   satisfying pleasure to have the last sad
   offices performed. Give him a trial.

   The cordial thanks of the Hosannah
   office are due, from editor down to
   devil, to the ever courteous and thought-
   ful Lord High Stew d of the Palace's
   Third Assistant V  t for several sau-
   ceTs of ice crEam a quality calculated
   to make the ey of the recipients hu-
   mid with grt  ude; and it done it.
   When this  administration wants to
   chalk up a desirable name for early
   promotion, the Hosannah would like a
   chance to sudgest.

   The Demoiselle Irene Dewlap, of
   South Astolat, is visiting her uncle, the
   popular host of the Cattlemen's Board-
   ing Ho&se, Liver Lane, this city.

   Young Barker the bellows-mender is
   hoMe again, and looks much improved
   by his vacation round-up among the out-
   lying smithies. See his ad.

Of course it was good enough journalism for a beginning; I knew
that quite well, and yet it was somehow disappointing.  The
"Court Circular" pleased me better; indeed, its simple and dignified
respectfulness was a distinct refreshment to me after all those
disgraceful familiarities.  But even it could have been improved.
Do what one may, there is no getting an air of variety into a court
circular, I acknowledge that.  There is a profound monotonousness
about its facts that baffles and defeats one's sincerest efforts
to make them sparkle and enthuse.  The best way to manage--in fact,
the only sensible way--is to disguise repetitiousness of fact under
variety of form:  skin your fact each time and lay on a new cuticle
of words.  It deceives the eye; you think it is a new fact; it
gives you the idea that the court is carrying on like everything;
this excites you, and you drain the whole column, with a good
appetite, and perhaps never notice that it's a barrel of soup made
out of a single bean.  Clarence's way was good, it was simple,
it was dignified, it was direct and business-like; all I say is,
it was not the best way:

             COURT CIRCULAR.

   On Monday, the king rode in the park.
   "  Tuesday,      "      "        "
   "  Wendesday     "      "        "
   "  Thursday      "      "        "
   "  Friday,       "      "        "
   "  Saturday      "      "        "
   "  Sunday,       "      "        "


However, take the paper by and large, I was vastly pleased with it.
Little crudities of a mechanical sort were observable here and
there, but there were not enough of them to amount to anything,
and it was good enough Arkansas proof-reading, anyhow, and better
than was needed in Arthur's day and realm.  As a rule, the grammar
was leaky and the construction more or less lame; but I did not
much mind these things.  They are common defects of my own, and
one mustn't criticise other people on grounds where he can't stand
perpendicular himself.

I was hungry enough for literature to want to take down the whole
paper at this one meal, but I got only a few bites, and then had
to postpone, because the monks around me besieged me so with eager
questions:  What is this curious thing?  What is it for?  Is it a
handkerchief?--saddle blanket?--part of a shirt?  What is it made of?
How thin it is, and how dainty and frail; and how it rattles.
Will it wear, do you think, and won't the rain injure it?  Is it
writing that appears on it, or is it only ornamentation?  They
suspected it was writing, because those among them who knew how
to read Latin and had a smattering of Greek, recognized some of
the letters, but they could make nothing out of the result as a
whole.  I put my information in the simplest form I could:

"It is a public journal; I will explain what that is, another time.
It is not cloth, it is made of paper; some time I will explain
what paper is.  The lines on it are reading matter; and not written
by hand, but printed; by and by I will explain what printing is.
A thousand of these sheets have been made, all exactly like this,
in every minute detail--they can't be told apart."  Then they all
broke out with exclamations of surprise and admiration:

"A thousand!  Verily a mighty work--a year's work for many men."

"No--merely a day's work for a man and a boy."

They crossed themselves, and whiffed out a protective prayer or two.

"Ah-h--a miracle, a wonder!  Dark work of enchantment."

I let it go at that.  Then I read in a low voice, to as many as
could crowd their shaven heads within hearing distance, part of
the account of the miracle of the restoration of the well, and
was accompanied by astonished and reverent ejaculations all through:
"Ah-h-h!"  "How true!"  "Amazing, amazing!"  "These be the very
haps as they happened, in marvelous exactness!"  And might they
take this strange thing in their hands, and feel of it and examine
it?--they would be very careful.  Yes.  So they took it, handling
it as cautiously and devoutly as if it had been some holy thing
come from some supernatural region; and gently felt of its texture,
caressed its pleasant smooth surface with lingering touch, and
scanned the mysterious characters with fascinated eyes.  These
grouped bent heads, these charmed faces, these speaking eyes--
how beautiful to me!  For was not this my darling, and was not
all this mute wonder and interest and homage a most eloquent
tribute and unforced compliment to it?  I knew, then, how a mother
feels when women, whether strangers or friends, take her new baby,
and close themselves about it with one eager impulse, and bend
their heads over it in a tranced adoration that makes all the rest
of the universe vanish out of their consciousness and be as if it
were not, for that time.  I knew how she feels, and that there is
no other satisfied ambition, whether of king, conqueror, or poet,
that ever reaches half-way to that serene far summit or yields half
so divine a contentment.

During all the rest of the seance my paper traveled from group to
group all up and down and about that huge hall, and my happy eye
was upon it always, and I sat motionless, steeped in satisfaction,
drunk with enjoyment.  Yes, this was heaven; I was tasting it once,
if I might never taste it more.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE YANKEE AND THE KING TRAVEL INCOGNITO

About bedtime I took the king to my private quarters to cut his
hair and help him get the hang of the lowly raiment he was to wear.
The high classes wore their hair banged across the forehead but
hanging to the shoulders the rest of the way around, whereas the
lowest ranks of commoners were banged fore and aft both; the slaves
were bangless, and allowed their hair free growth.  So I inverted
a bowl over his head and cut away all the locks that hung below it.
I also trimmed his whiskers and mustache until they were only
about a half-inch long; and tried to do it inartistically, and
succeeded.  It was a villainous disfigurement.  When he got his
lubberly sandals on, and his long robe of coarse brown linen cloth,
which hung straight from his neck to his ankle-bones, he was no
longer the comeliest man in his kingdom, but one of the unhandsomest
and most commonplace and unattractive.  We were dressed and barbered
alike, and could pass for small farmers, or farm bailiffs, or
shepherds, or carters; yes, or for village artisans, if we chose,
our costume being in effect universal among the poor, because of
its strength and cheapness.  I don't mean that it was really cheap
to a very poor person, but I do mean that it was the cheapest
material there was for male attire--manufactured material, you
understand.

We slipped away an hour before dawn, and by broad sun-up had made
eight or ten miles, and were in the midst of a sparsely settled
country.  I had a pretty heavy knapsack; it was laden with
provisions--provisions for the king to taper down on, till he
could take to the coarse fare of the country without damage.

I found a comfortable seat for the king by the roadside, and then
gave him a morsel or two to stay his stomach with.  Then I said
I would find some water for him, and strolled away.  Part of my
project was to get out of sight and sit down and rest a little
myself.  It had always been my custom to stand when in his presence;
even at the council board, except upon those rare occasions when
the sitting was a very long one, extending over hours; then I had
a trifling little backless thing which was like a reversed culvert
and was as comfortable as the toothache.  I didn't want to break
him in suddenly, but do it by degrees.  We should have to sit
together now when in company, or people would notice; but it would
not be good politics for me to be playing equality with him when
there was no necessity for it.

I found the water some three hundred yards away, and had been
resting about twenty minutes, when I heard voices.  That is all
right, I thought--peasants going to work; nobody else likely to be
stirring this early.  But the next moment these comers jingled into
sight around a turn of the road--smartly clad people of quality,
with luggage-mules and servants in their train!  I was off like
a shot, through the bushes, by the shortest cut.  For a while it
did seem that these people would pass the king before I could
get to him; but desperation gives you wings, you know, and I canted
my body forward, inflated my breast, and held my breath and flew.
I arrived.  And in plenty good enough time, too.

"Pardon, my king, but it's no time for ceremony--jump!  Jump to
your feet--some quality are coming!"

"Is that a marvel?  Let them come."

"But my liege!  You must not be seen sitting.  Rise!--and stand in
humble posture while they pass.  You are a peasant, you know."

"True--I had forgot it, so lost was I in planning of a huge war
with Gaul"--he was up by this time, but a farm could have got up
quicker, if there was any kind of a boom in real estate--"and
right-so a thought came randoming overthwart this majestic dream
the which--"

"A humbler attitude, my lord the king--and quick!  Duck your head!
--more!--still more!--droop it!"

He did his honest best, but lord, it was no great things.  He looked
as humble as the leaning tower at Pisa.  It is the most you could
say of it.  Indeed, it was such a thundering poor success that
it raised wondering scowls all along the line, and a gorgeous
flunkey at the tail end of it raised his whip; but I jumped in
time and was under it when it fell; and under cover of the volley
of coarse laughter which followed, I spoke up sharply and warned
the king to take no notice.  He mastered himself for the moment,
but it was a sore tax; he wanted to eat up the procession.  I said:

"It would end our adventures at the very start; and we, being
without weapons, could do nothing with that armed gang.  If we
are going to succeed in our emprise, we must not only look the
peasant but act the peasant."

"It is wisdom; none can gainsay it.  Let us go on, Sir Boss.
I will take note and learn, and do the best I may."

He kept his word.  He did the best he could, but I've seen better.
If you have ever seen an active, heedless, enterprising child
going diligently out of one mischief and into another all day
long, and an anxious mother at its heels all the while, and just
saving it by a hair from drowning itself or breaking its neck with
each new experiment, you've seen the king and me.

If I could have foreseen what the thing was going to be like,
I should have said, No, if anybody wants to make his living
exhibiting a king as a peasant, let him take the layout; I can
do better with a menagerie, and last longer.  And yet, during
the first three days I never allowed him to enter a hut or other
dwelling.  If he could pass muster anywhere during his early
novitiate it would be in small inns and on the road; so to these
places we confined ourselves.  Yes, he certainly did the best he
could, but what of that?  He didn't improve a bit that I could see.

He was always frightening me, always breaking out with fresh
astonishers, in new and unexpected places.  Toward evening on
the second day, what does he do but blandly fetch out a dirk
from inside his robe!

"Great guns, my liege, where did you get that?"

"From a smuggler at the inn, yester eve."

"What in the world possessed you to buy it?"

"We have escaped divers dangers by wit--thy wit--but I have
bethought me that it were but prudence if I bore a weapon, too.
Thine might fail thee in some pinch."

"But people of our condition are not allowed to carry arms.  What
would a lord say--yes, or any other person of whatever condition--
if he caught an upstart peasant with a dagger on his person?"

It was a lucky thing for us that nobody came along just then.
I persuaded him to throw the dirk away; and it was as easy as
persuading a child to give up some bright fresh new way of killing
itself.  We walked along, silent and thinking.  Finally the king said:

"When ye know that I meditate a thing inconvenient, or that hath
a peril in it, why do you not warn me to cease from that project?"

It was a startling question, and a puzzler.  I didn't quite know
how to take hold of it, or what to say, and so, of course, I ended
by saying the natural thing:

"But, sire, how can I know what your thoughts are?"

The king stopped dead in his tracks, and stared at me.

"I believed thou wert greater than Merlin; and truly in magic
thou art.  But prophecy is greater than magic.  Merlin is a prophet."

I saw I had made a blunder.  I must get back my lost ground.
After a deep reflection and careful planning, I said:

"Sire, I have been misunderstood.  I will explain.  There are two
kinds of prophecy.  One is the gift to foretell things that are but
a little way off, the other is the gift to foretell things that
are whole ages and centuries away.  Which is the mightier gift,
do you think?"

"Oh, the last, most surely!"

"True.  Does Merlin possess it?"

"Partly, yes.  He foretold mysteries about my birth and future
kingship that were twenty years away."

"Has he ever gone beyond that?"

"He would not claim more, I think."

"It is probably his limit.  All prophets have their limit.  The limit
of some of the great prophets has been a hundred years."

"These are few, I ween."

"There have been two still greater ones, whose limit was four
hundred and six hundred years, and one whose limit compassed
even seven hundred and twenty."

"Gramercy, it is marvelous!"

"But what are these in comparison with me?  They are nothing."

"What?  Canst thou truly look beyond even so vast a stretch
of time as--"

"Seven hundred years?  My liege, as clear as the vision of an eagle
does my prophetic eye penetrate and lay bare the future of this
world for nearly thirteen centuries and a half!"

My land, you should have seen the king's eyes spread slowly open,
and lift the earth's entire atmosphere as much as an inch!  That
settled Brer Merlin.  One never had any occasion to prove his
facts, with these people; all he had to do was to state them.  It
never occurred to anybody to doubt the statement.

"Now, then," I continued, "I _could_ work both kinds of prophecy--
the long and the short--if I chose to take the trouble to keep
in practice; but I seldom exercise any but the long kind, because
the other is beneath my dignity.  It is properer to Merlin's sort--
stump-tail prophets, as we call them in the profession.  Of course,
I whet up now and then and flirt out a minor prophecy, but not
often--hardly ever, in fact.  You will remember that there was
great talk, when you reached the Valley of Holiness, about my
having prophesied your coming and the very hour of your arrival,
two or three days beforehand."

"Indeed, yes, I mind it now."

"Well, I could have done it as much as forty times easier, and
piled on a thousand times more detail into the bargain, if it had
been five hundred years away instead of two or three days."

"How amazing that it should be so!"

"Yes, a genuine expert can always foretell a thing that is five
hundred years away easier than he can a thing that's only five
hundred seconds off."

"And yet in reason it should clearly be the other way; it should
be five hundred times as easy to foretell the last as the first,
for, indeed, it is so close by that one uninspired might almost
see it.  In truth, the law of prophecy doth contradict the likelihoods,
most strangely making the difficult easy, and the easy difficult."

It was a wise head.  A peasant's cap was no safe disguise for it;
you could know it for a king's under a diving-bell, if you could
hear it work its intellect.

I had a new trade now, and plenty of business in it.  The king
was as hungry to find out everything that was going to happen
during the next thirteen centuries as if he were expecting to live
in them.  From that time out, I prophesied myself bald-headed
trying to supply the demand.  I have done some indiscreet things in
my day, but this thing of playing myself for a prophet was the
worst.  Still, it had its ameliorations.  A prophet doesn't have
to have any brains.  They are good to have, of course, for the
ordinary exigencies of life, but they are no use in professional
work.  It is the restfulest vocation there is.  When the spirit of
prophecy comes upon you, you merely cake your intellect and lay it
off in a cool place for a rest, and unship your jaw and leave it
alone; it will work itself:  the result is prophecy.

Every day a knight-errant or so came along, and the sight of them
fired the king's martial spirit every time.  He would have forgotten
himself, sure, and said something to them in a style a suspicious
shade or so above his ostensible degree, and so I always got him
well out of the road in time.  Then he would stand and look with
all his eyes; and a proud light would flash from them, and his
nostrils would inflate like a war-horse's, and I knew he was
longing for a brush with them.  But about noon of the third day
I had stopped in the road to take a precaution which had been
suggested by the whip-stroke that had fallen to my share two days
before; a precaution which I had afterward decided to leave untaken,
I was so loath to institute it; but now I had just had a fresh
reminder:  while striding heedlessly along, with jaw spread and
intellect at rest, for I was prophesying, I stubbed my toe and
fell sprawling.  I was so pale I couldn't think for a moment;
then I got softly and carefully up and unstrapped my knapsack.
I had that dynamite bomb in it, done up in wool in a box.  It was
a good thing to have along; the time would come when I could do
a valuable miracle with it, maybe, but it was a nervous thing
to have about me, and I didn't like to ask the king to carry it.
Yet I must either throw it away or think up some safe way to get
along with its society.  I got it out and slipped it into my scrip,
and just then here came a couple of knights.  The king stood,
stately as a statue, gazing toward them--had forgotten himself again,
of course--and before I could get a word of warning out, it was
time for him to skip, and well that he did it, too.  He supposed
they would turn aside.  Turn aside to avoid trampling peasant dirt
under foot?  When had he ever turned aside himself--or ever had
the chance to do it, if a peasant saw him or any other noble knight
in time to judiciously save him the trouble?  The knights paid
no attention to the king at all; it was his place to look out
himself, and if he hadn't skipped he would have been placidly
ridden down, and laughed at besides.

The king was in a flaming fury, and launched out his challenge
and epithets with a most royal vigor.  The knights were some little
distance by now.  They halted, greatly surprised, and turned in
their saddles and looked back, as if wondering if it might be worth
while to bother with such scum as we.  Then they wheeled and
started for us.  Not a moment must be lost.  I started for _them_.
I passed them at a rattling gait, and as I went by I flung out a
hair-lifting soul-scorching thirteen-jointed insult which made
the king's effort poor and cheap by comparison.  I got it out of
the nineteenth century where they know how.  They had such headway
that they were nearly to the king before they could check up;
then, frantic with rage, they stood up their horses on their hind
hoofs and whirled them around, and the next moment here they came,
breast to breast.  I was seventy yards off, then, and scrambling up
a great bowlder at the roadside.  When they were within thirty
yards of me they let their long lances droop to a level, depressed
their mailed heads, and so, with their horse-hair plumes streaming
straight out behind, most gallant to see, this lightning express
came tearing for me!  When they were within fifteen yards, I sent
that bomb with a sure aim, and it struck the ground just under
the horses' noses.

Yes, it was a neat thing, very neat and pretty to see.  It resembled
a steamboat explosion on the Mississippi; and during the next
fifteen minutes we stood under a steady drizzle of microscopic
fragments of knights and hardware and horse-flesh.  I say we,
for the king joined the audience, of course, as soon as he had got
his breath again.  There was a hole there which would afford steady
work for all the people in that region for some years to come--
in trying to explain it, I mean; as for filling it up, that service
would be comparatively prompt, and would fall to the lot of a
select few--peasants of that seignory; and they wouldn't get
anything for it, either.

But I explained it to the king myself. I said it was done with a
dynamite bomb.  This information did him no damage, because it
left him as intelligent as he was before.  However, it was a noble
miracle, in his eyes, and was another settler for Merlin.  I thought
it well enough to explain that this was a miracle of so rare a sort
that it couldn't be done except when the atmospheric conditions
were just right.  Otherwise he would be encoring it every time we
had a good subject, and that would be inconvenient, because I
hadn't any more bombs along.



CHAPTER XXVIII

DRILLING THE KING

On the morning of the fourth day, when it was just sunrise, and we
had been tramping an hour in the chill dawn, I came to a resolution:
the king _must_ be drilled; things could not go on so, he must be
taken in hand and deliberately and conscientiously drilled, or we
couldn't ever venture to enter a dwelling; the very cats would know
this masquerader for a humbug and no peasant.  So I called a halt
and said:

"Sire, as between clothes and countenance, you are all right, there
is no discrepancy; but as between your clothes and your bearing,
you are all wrong, there is a most noticeable discrepancy.  Your
soldierly stride, your lordly port--these will not do.  You stand
too straight, your looks are too high, too confident.  The cares
of a kingdom do not stoop the shoulders, they do not droop the chin,
they do not depress the high level of the eye-glance, they do not
put doubt and fear in the heart and hang out the signs of them
in slouching body and unsure step.  It is the sordid cares of
the lowly born that do these things.  You must learn the trick;
you must imitate the trademarks of poverty, misery, oppression,
insult, and the other several and common inhumanities that sap
the manliness out of a man and make him a loyal and proper and
approved subject and a satisfaction to his masters, or the very
infants will know you for better than your disguise, and we shall go
to pieces at the first hut we stop at.  Pray try to walk like this."

The king took careful note, and then tried an imitation.

"Pretty fair--pretty fair.  Chin a little lower, please--there, very
good.  Eyes too high; pray don't look at the horizon, look at the
ground, ten steps in front of you.  Ah--that is better, that is
very good.  Wait, please; you betray too much vigor, too much
decision; you want more of a shamble.  Look at me, please--this is
what I mean....  Now you are getting it; that is the idea--at least,
it sort of approaches it....  Yes, that is pretty fair.  _But!_
There is a great big something wanting, I don't quite know what
it is.  Please walk thirty yards, so that I can get a perspective
on the thing....  Now, then--your head's right, speed's right,
shoulders right, eyes right, chin right, gait, carriage, general
style right--everything's right!  And yet the fact remains, the
aggregate's wrong.  The account don't balance.  Do it again,
please....  _Now_ I think I begin to see what it is.  Yes, I've
struck it.  You see, the genuine spiritlessness is wanting; that's
what's the trouble.  It's all _amateur_--mechanical details all
right, almost to a hair; everything about the delusion perfect,
except that it don't delude."

"What, then, must one do, to prevail?"

"Let me think... I can't seem to quite get at it.  In fact, there
isn't anything that can right the matter but practice.  This is
a good place for it:  roots and stony ground to break up your
stately gait, a region not liable to interruption, only one field
and one hut in sight, and they so far away that nobody could
see us from there.  It will be well to move a little off the road
and put in the whole day drilling you, sire."

After the drill had gone on a little while, I said:

"Now, sire, imagine that we are at the door of the hut yonder,
and the family are before us.  Proceed, please--accost the head
of the house."

The king unconsciously straightened up like a monument, and said,
with frozen austerity:

"Varlet, bring a seat; and serve to me what cheer ye have."

"Ah, your grace, that is not well done."

"In what lacketh it?"

"These people do not call _each other_ varlets."

"Nay, is that true?"

"Yes; only those above them call them so."

"Then must I try again.  I will call him villein."

"No-no; for he may be a freeman."

"Ah--so.  Then peradventure I should call him goodman."

"That would answer, your grace, but it would be still better if
you said friend, or brother."

"Brother!--to dirt like that?"

"Ah, but _we_ are pretending to be dirt like that, too."

"It is even true.  I will say it.  Brother, bring a seat, and
thereto what cheer ye have, withal.  Now 'tis right."

"Not quite, not wholly right.  You have asked for one, not _us_--
for one, not both; food for one, a seat for one."

The king looked puzzled--he wasn't a very heavy weight, intellectually.
His head was an hour-glass; it could stow an idea, but it had to do
it a grain at a time, not the whole idea at once.

"Would _you_ have a seat also--and sit?"

"If I did not sit, the man would perceive that we were only pretending
to be equals--and playing the deception pretty poorly, too."

"It is well and truly said!  How wonderful is truth, come it in
whatsoever unexpected form it may!  Yes, he must bring out seats
and food for both, and in serving us present not ewer and napkin
with more show of respect to the one than to the other."

"And there is even yet a detail that needs correcting.  He must
bring nothing outside; we will go in--in among the dirt, and
possibly other repulsive things,--and take the food with the
household, and after the fashion of the house, and all on equal
terms, except the man be of the serf class; and finally, there
will be no ewer and no napkin, whether he be serf or free.  Please
walk again, my liege.  There--it is better--it is the best yet;
but not perfect.  The shoulders have known no ignobler burden
than iron mail, and they will not stoop."

"Give me, then, the bag.  I will learn the spirit that goeth
with burdens that have not honor.  It is the spirit that stoopeth
the shoulders, I ween, and not the weight; for armor is heavy,
yet it is a proud burden, and a man standeth straight in it....
Nay, but me no buts, offer me no objections.  I will have the thing.
Strap it upon my back."

He was complete now with that knapsack on, and looked as little
like a king as any man I had ever seen.  But it was an obstinate
pair of shoulders; they could not seem to learn the trick of
stooping with any sort of deceptive naturalness.  The drill went on,
I prompting and correcting:

"Now, make believe you are in debt, and eaten up by relentless
creditors; you are out of work--which is horse-shoeing, let us
say--and can get none; and your wife is sick, your children are
crying because they are hungry--"

And so on, and so on.  I drilled him as representing in turn all
sorts of people out of luck and suffering dire privations and
misfortunes.  But lord, it was only just words, words--they meant
nothing in the world to him, I might just as well have whistled.
Words realize nothing, vivify nothing to you, unless you have
suffered in your own person the thing which the words try to
describe.  There are wise people who talk ever so knowingly and
complacently about "the working classes," and satisfy themselves
that a day's hard intellectual work is very much harder than
a day's hard manual toil, and is righteously entitled to much
bigger pay.  Why, they really think that, you know, because they
know all about the one, but haven't tried the other.  But I know
all about both; and so far as I am concerned, there isn't money
enough in the universe to hire me to swing a pickaxe thirty days,
but I will do the hardest kind of intellectual work for just as
near nothing as you can cipher it down--and I will be satisfied, too.

Intellectual "work" is misnamed; it is a pleasure, a dissipation,
and is its own highest reward.  The poorest paid architect,
engineer, general, author, sculptor, painter, lecturer, advocate,
legislator, actor, preacher, singer is constructively in heaven
when he is at work; and as for the musician with the fiddle-bow
in his hand who sits in the midst of a great orchestra with the
ebbing and flowing tides of divine sound washing over him--why,
certainly, he is at work, if you wish to call it that, but lord,
it's a sarcasm just the same.  The law of work does seem utterly
unfair--but there it is, and nothing can change it:  the higher
the pay in enjoyment the worker gets out of it, the higher shall
be his pay in cash, also.  And it's also the very law of those
transparent swindles, transmissible nobility and kingship.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE SMALLPOX HUT

When we arrived at that hut at mid-afternoon, we saw no signs
of life about it.  The field near by had been denuded of its crop
some time before, and had a skinned look, so exhaustively had
it been harvested and gleaned.  Fences, sheds, everything had a
ruined look, and were eloquent of poverty.  No animal was around
anywhere, no living thing in sight.  The stillness was awful, it
was like the stillness of death.  The cabin was a one-story one,
whose thatch was black with age, and ragged from lack of repair.

The door stood a trifle ajar.  We approached it stealthily--on tiptoe
and at half-breath--for that is the way one's feeling makes him do,
at such a time.  The king knocked.  We waited.  No answer.  Knocked
again.  No answer.  I pushed the door softly open and looked in.
I made out some dim forms, and a woman started up from the ground
and stared at me, as one does who is wakened from sleep.  Presently
she found her voice:

"Have mercy!" she pleaded.  "All is taken, nothing is left."

"I have not come to take anything, poor woman."

"You are not a priest?"

"No."

"Nor come not from the lord of the manor?"

"No, I am a stranger."

"Oh, then, for the fear of God, who visits with misery and death
such as be harmless, tarry not here, but fly!  This place is under
his curse--and his Church's."

"Let me come in and help you--you are sick and in trouble."

I was better used to the dim light now.  I could see her hollow
eyes fixed upon me.  I could see how emaciated she was.

"I tell you the place is under the Church's ban.  Save yourself--
and go, before some straggler see thee here, and report it."

"Give yourself no trouble about me; I don't care anything for the
Church's curse.  Let me help you."

"Now all good spirits--if there be any such--bless thee for that
word.  Would God I had a sup of water!--but hold, hold, forget
I said it, and fly; for there is that here that even he that
feareth not the Church must fear:  this disease whereof we die.
Leave us, thou brave, good stranger, and take with thee such
whole and sincere blessing as them that be accursed can give."

But before this I had picked up a wooden bowl and was rushing
past the king on my way to the brook.  It was ten yards away.
When I got back and entered, the king was within, and was opening
the shutter that closed the window-hole, to let in air and light.
The place was full of a foul stench.  I put the bowl to the woman's
lips, and as she gripped it with her eager talons the shutter came
open and a strong light flooded her face.  Smallpox!

I sprang to the king, and said in his ear:

"Out of the door on the instant, sire! the woman is dying of that
disease that wasted the skirts of Camelot two years ago."

He did not budge.

"Of a truth I shall remain--and likewise help."

I whispered again:

"King, it must not be.  You must go."

"Ye mean well, and ye speak not unwisely.  But it were shame that
a king should know fear, and shame that belted knight should
withhold his hand where be such as need succor.  Peace, I will
not go.  It is you who must go.  The Church's ban is not upon me,
but it forbiddeth you to be here, and she will deal with you with
a heavy hand an word come to her of your trespass."

It was a desperate place for him to be in, and might cost him his
life, but it was no use to argue with him.  If he considered his
knightly honor at stake here, that was the end of argument; he
would stay, and nothing could prevent it; I was aware of that.
And so I dropped the subject.  The woman spoke:

"Fair sir, of your kindness will ye climb the ladder there,
and bring me news of what ye find?  Be not afraid to report,
for times can come when even a mother's heart is past breaking--
being already broke."

"Abide," said the king, "and give the woman to eat.  I will go."
And he put down the knapsack.

I turned to start, but the king had already started.  He halted,
and looked down upon a man who lay in a dim light, and had not
noticed us thus far, or spoken.

"Is it your husband?" the king asked.

"Yes."

"Is he asleep?"

"God be thanked for that one charity, yes--these three hours.
Where shall I pay to the full, my gratitude! for my heart is
bursting with it for that sleep he sleepeth now."

I said:

"We will be careful.  We will not wake him."

"Ah, no, that ye will not, for he is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes, what triumph it is to know it!  None can harm him, none
insult him more.  He is in heaven now, and happy; or if not there,
he bides in hell and is content; for in that place he will find
neither abbot nor yet bishop.  We were boy and girl together; we
were man and wife these five and twenty years, and never separated
till this day.  Think how long that is to love and suffer together.
This morning was he out of his mind, and in his fancy we were
boy and girl again and wandering in the happy fields; and so in
that innocent glad converse wandered he far and farther, still
lightly gossiping, and entered into those other fields we know
not of, and was shut away from mortal sight.  And so there was
no parting, for in his fancy I went with him; he knew not but
I went with him, my hand in his--my young soft hand, not this
withered claw.  Ah, yes, to go, and know it not; to separate and
know it not; how could one go peace--fuller than that?  It was
his reward for a cruel life patiently borne."

There was a slight noise from the direction of the dim corner where
the ladder was.  It was the king descending.  I could see that he
was bearing something in one arm, and assisting himself with the
other.  He came forward into the light; upon his breast lay a
slender girl of fifteen.  She was but half conscious; she was dying
of smallpox.  Here was heroism at its last and loftiest possibility,
its utmost summit; this was challenging death in the open field
unarmed, with all the odds against the challenger, no reward set
upon the contest, and no admiring world in silks and cloth of gold
to gaze and applaud; and yet the king's bearing was as serenely
brave as it had always been in those cheaper contests where knight
meets knight in equal fight and clothed in protecting steel.  He
was great now; sublimely great.  The rude statues of his ancestors
in his palace should have an addition--I would see to that; and it
would not be a mailed king killing a giant or a dragon, like the
rest, it would be a king in commoner's garb bearing death in his
arms that a peasant mother might look her last upon her child and
be comforted.

He laid the girl down by her mother, who poured out endearments
and caresses from an overflowing heart, and one could detect a
flickering faint light of response in the child's eyes, but that
was all.  The mother hung over her, kissing her, petting her, and
imploring her to speak, but the lips only moved and no sound came.
I snatched my liquor flask from my knapsack, but the woman forbade
me, and said:

"No--she does not suffer; it is better so.  It might bring her back
to life.  None that be so good and kind as ye are would do her
that cruel hurt.  For look you--what is left to live for?  Her
brothers are gone, her father is gone, her mother goeth, the
Church's curse is upon her, and none may shelter or befriend her
even though she lay perishing in the road.  She is desolate.  I have
not asked you, good heart, if her sister be still on live, here
overhead; I had no need; ye had gone back, else, and not left
the poor thing forsaken--"

"She lieth at peace," interrupted the king, in a subdued voice.

"I would not change it.  How rich is this day in happiness!  Ah,
my Annis, thou shalt join thy sister soon--thou'rt on thy way,
and these be merciful friends that will not hinder."

And so she fell to murmuring and cooing over the girl again, and
softly stroking her face and hair, and kissing her and calling her
by endearing names; but there was scarcely sign of response now
in the glazing eyes.  I saw tears well from the king's eyes, and
trickle down his face.  The woman noticed them, too, and said:

"Ah, I know that sign:  thou'st a wife at home, poor soul, and
you and she have gone hungry to bed, many's the time, that the
little ones might have your crust; you know what poverty is, and
the daily insults of your betters, and the heavy hand of the Church
and the king."

The king winced under this accidental home-shot, but kept still;
he was learning his part; and he was playing it well, too, for
a pretty dull beginner.  I struck up a diversion.  I offered the
woman food and liquor, but she refused both.  She would allow
nothing to come between her and the release of death.  Then I slipped
away and brought the dead child from aloft, and laid it by her.
This broke her down again, and there was another scene that was
full of heartbreak.  By and by I made another diversion, and beguiled
her to sketch her story.

"Ye know it well yourselves, having suffered it--for truly none
of our condition in Britain escape it.  It is the old, weary tale.
We fought and struggled and succeeded; meaning by success, that
we lived and did not die; more than that is not to be claimed.  No
troubles came that we could not outlive, till this year brought
them; then came they all at once, as one might say, and overwhelmed
us.  Years ago the lord of the manor planted certain fruit trees on
our farm; in the best part of it, too--a grievous wrong and shame--"

"But it was his right," interrupted the king.

"None denieth that, indeed; an the law mean anything, what is
the lord's is his, and what is mine is his also.  Our farm was
ours by lease, therefore 'twas likewise his, to do with it as he
would.  Some little time ago, three of those trees were found hewn
down.  Our three grown sons ran frightened to report the crime.
Well, in his lordship's dungeon there they lie, who saith there
shall they lie and rot till they confess.  They have naught to
confess, being innocent, wherefore there will they remain until
they die.  Ye know that right well, I ween.  Think how this left us;
a man, a woman and two children, to gather a crop that was planted
by so much greater force, yes, and protect it night and day from
pigeons and prowling animals that be sacred and must not be hurt
by any of our sort.  When my lord's crop was nearly ready for
the harvest, so also was ours; when his bell rang to call us to
his fields to harvest his crop for nothing, he would not allow that
I and my two girls should count for our three captive sons, but
for only two of them; so, for the lacking one were we daily fined.
All this time our own crop was perishing through neglect; and so
both the priest and his lordship fined us because their shares
of it were suffering through damage.  In the end the fines ate up
our crop--and they took it all; they took it all and made us harvest
it for them, without pay or food, and we starving.  Then the worst
came when I, being out of my mind with hunger and loss of my boys,
and grief to see my husband and my little maids in rags and misery
and despair, uttered a deep blasphemy--oh! a thousand of them!--
against the Church and the Church's ways.  It was ten days ago.
I had fallen sick with this disease, and it was to the priest
I said the words, for he was come to chide me for lack of due
humility under the chastening hand of God.  He carried my trespass
to his betters; I was stubborn; wherefore, presently upon my head
and upon all heads that were dear to me, fell the curse of Rome.

"Since that day we are avoided, shunned with horror.  None has
come near this hut to know whether we live or not.  The rest of us
were taken down.  Then I roused me and got up, as wife and mother
will.  It was little they could have eaten in any case; it was
less than little they had to eat.  But there was water, and I gave
them that.  How they craved it! and how they blessed it!  But the
end came yesterday; my strength broke down.  Yesterday was the
last time I ever saw my husband and this youngest child alive.
I have lain here all these hours--these ages, ye may say--listening,
listening for any sound up there that--"

She gave a sharp quick glance at her eldest daughter, then cried
out, "Oh, my darling!" and feebly gathered the stiffening form
to her sheltering arms.  She had recognized the death-rattle.



CHAPTER XXX

THE TRAGEDY OF THE MANOR-HOUSE

At midnight all was over, and we sat in the presence of four
corpses.  We covered them with such rags as we could find, and
started away, fastening the door behind us.  Their home must be
these people's grave, for they could not have Christian burial,
or be admitted to consecrated ground.  They were as dogs, wild
beasts, lepers, and no soul that valued its hope of eternal life
would throw it away by meddling in any sort with these rebuked and
smitten outcasts.

We had not moved four steps when I caught a sound as of footsteps
upon gravel.  My heart flew to my throat.  We must not be seen
coming from that house.  I plucked at the king's robe and we drew
back and took shelter behind the corner of the cabin.

"Now we are safe," I said, "but it was a close call--so to speak.
If the night had been lighter he might have seen us, no doubt,
he seemed to be so near."

"Mayhap it is but a beast and not a man at all."

"True.  But man or beast, it will be wise to stay here a minute
and let it get by and out of the way."

"Hark!  It cometh hither."

True again.  The step was coming toward us--straight toward the hut.
It must be a beast, then, and we might as well have saved our
trepidation.  I was going to step out, but the king laid his hand
upon my arm.  There was a moment of silence, then we heard a soft
knock on the cabin door.  It made me shiver.  Presently the knock
was repeated, and then we heard these words in a guarded voice:

"Mother!  Father!  Open--we have got free, and we bring news to
pale your cheeks but glad your hearts; and we may not tarry, but
must fly!  And--but they answer not.  Mother! father!--"

I drew the king toward the other end of the hut and whispered:

"Come--now we can get to the road."

The king hesitated, was going to demur; but just then we heard
the door give way, and knew that those desolate men were in the
presence of their dead.

"Come, my liege! in a moment they will strike a light, and then
will follow that which it would break your heart to hear."

He did not hesitate this time.  The moment we were in the road
I ran; and after a moment he threw dignity aside and followed.
I did not want to think of what was happening in the hut--I couldn't
bear it; I wanted to drive it out of my mind; so I struck into the
first subject that lay under that one in my mind:

"I have had the disease those people died of, and so have nothing
to fear; but if you have not had it also--"

He broke in upon me to say he was in trouble, and it was his
conscience that was troubling him:

"These young men have got free, they say--but _how_?  It is not
likely that their lord hath set them free."

"Oh, no, I make no doubt they escaped."

"That is my trouble; I have a fear that this is so, and your
suspicion doth confirm it, you having the same fear."

"I should not call it by that name though.  I do suspect that they
escaped, but if they did, I am not sorry, certainly."

"I am not sorry, I _think_--but--"

"What is it?  What is there for one to be troubled about?"

"_If_ they did escape, then are we bound in duty to lay hands upon
them and deliver them again to their lord; for it is not seemly
that one of his quality should suffer a so insolent and high-handed
outrage from persons of their base degree."

There it was again.  He could see only one side of it.  He was
born so, educated so, his veins were full of ancestral blood that
was rotten with this sort of unconscious brutality, brought down
by inheritance from a long procession of hearts that had each done
its share toward poisoning the stream.  To imprison these men
without proof, and starve their kindred, was no harm, for they were
merely peasants and subject to the will and pleasure of their lord,
no matter what fearful form it might take; but for these men to
break out of unjust captivity was insult and outrage, and a thing
not to be countenanced by any conscientious person who knew his
duty to his sacred caste.

I worked more than half an hour before I got him to change the
subject--and even then an outside matter did it for me.  This was
a something which caught our eyes as we struck the summit of a
small hill--a red glow, a good way off.

"That's a fire," said I.

Fires interested me considerably, because I was getting a good
deal of an insurance business started, and was also training some
horses and building some steam fire-engines, with an eye to a paid
fire department by and by.  The priests opposed both my fire and
life insurance, on the ground that it was an insolent attempt to
hinder the decrees of God; and if you pointed out that they did not
hinder the decrees in the least, but only modified the hard
consequences of them if you took out policies and had luck, they
retorted that that was gambling against the decrees of God, and was
just as bad.  So they managed to damage those industries more
or less, but I got even on my Accident business.  As a rule, a knight
is a lummox, and some times even a labrick, and hence open to pretty
poor arguments when they come glibly from a superstition-monger,
but even _he_ could see the practical side of a thing once in a while;
and so of late you couldn't clean up a tournament and pile the
result without finding one of my accident-tickets in every helmet.

We stood there awhile, in the thick darkness and stillness, looking
toward the red blur in the distance, and trying to make out the
meaning of a far-away murmur that rose and fell fitfully on the
night.  Sometimes it swelled up and for a moment seemed less
remote; but when we were hopefully expecting it to betray its cause
and nature, it dulled and sank again, carrying its mystery with it.
We started down the hill in its direction, and the winding road
plunged us at once into almost solid darkness--darkness that was
packed and crammed in between two tall forest walls.  We groped
along down for half a mile, perhaps, that murmur growing more and
more distinct all the time.  The coming storm threatening more and
more, with now and then a little shiver of wind, a faint show of
lightning, and dull grumblings of distant thunder.  I was in the
lead.  I ran against something--a soft heavy something which gave,
slightly, to the impulse of my weight; at the same moment the
lightning glared out, and within a foot of my face was the writhing
face of a man who was hanging from the limb of a tree!  That is,
it seemed to be writhing, but it was not.  It was a grewsome sight.
Straightway there was an ear-splitting explosion of thunder, and
the bottom of heaven fell out; the rain poured down in a deluge.
No matter, we must try to cut this man down, on the chance that
there might be life in him yet, mustn't we?  The lightning came
quick and sharp now, and the place was alternately noonday and
midnight.  One moment the man would be hanging before me in an
intense light, and the next he was blotted out again in the darkness.
I told the king we must cut him down.  The king at once objected.

"If he hanged himself, he was willing to lose him property to
his lord; so let him be.  If others hanged him, belike they had
the right--let him hang."

"But--"

"But me no buts, but even leave him as he is.  And for yet another
reason.  When the lightning cometh again--there, look abroad."

Two others hanging, within fifty yards of us!

"It is not weather meet for doing useless courtesies unto dead folk.
They are past thanking you.  Come--it is unprofitable to tarry here."

There was reason in what he said, so we moved on.  Within the next
mile we counted six more hanging forms by the blaze of the lightning,
and altogether it was a grisly excursion.  That murmur was a murmur
no longer, it was a roar; a roar of men's voices.  A man came flying
by now, dimly through the darkness, and other men chasing him.
They disappeared.  Presently another case of the kind occurred,
and then another and another.  Then a sudden turn of the road
brought us in sight of that fire--it was a large manor-house, and
little or nothing was left of it--and everywhere men were flying
and other men raging after them in pursuit.

I warned the king that this was not a safe place for strangers.
We would better get away from the light, until matters should
improve.  We stepped back a little, and hid in the edge of the
wood.  From this hiding-place we saw both men and women hunted
by the mob.  The fearful work went on until nearly dawn.  Then,
the fire being out and the storm spent, the voices and flying
footsteps presently ceased, and darkness and stillness reigned again.

We ventured out, and hurried cautiously away; and although we were
worn out and sleepy, we kept on until we had put this place some
miles behind us.  Then we asked hospitality at the hut of a charcoal
burner, and got what was to be had.  A woman was up and about, but
the man was still asleep, on a straw shake-down, on the clay floor.
The woman seemed uneasy until I explained that we were travelers
and had lost our way and been wandering in the woods all night.
She became talkative, then, and asked if we had heard of the
terrible goings-on at the manor-house of Abblasoure.  Yes, we had
heard of them, but what we wanted now was rest and sleep.  The
king broke in:

"Sell us the house and take yourselves away, for we be perilous
company, being late come from people that died of the Spotted Death."

It was good of him, but unnecessary.  One of the commonest decorations
of the nation was the waffle-iron face.  I had early noticed that
the woman and her husband were both so decorated.  She made us
entirely welcome, and had no fears; and plainly she was immensely
impressed by the king's proposition; for, of course, it was a good
deal of an event in her life to run across a person of the king's
humble appearance who was ready to buy a man's house for the sake
of a night's lodging.  It gave her a large respect for us, and she
strained the lean possibilities of her hovel to the utmost to make
us comfortable.

We slept till far into the afternoon, and then got up hungry enough to
make cotter fare quite palatable to the king, the more particularly
as it was scant in quantity.  And also in variety; it consisted
solely of onions, salt, and the national black bread made out of
horse-feed.  The woman told us about the affair of the evening
before.  At ten or eleven at night, when everybody was in bed,
the manor-house burst into flames.  The country-side swarmed to
the rescue, and the family were saved, with one exception, the
master.  He did not appear.  Everybody was frantic over this loss,
and two brave yeomen sacrificed their lives in ransacking the
burning house seeking that valuable personage.  But after a while
he was found--what was left of him--which was his corpse.  It was
in a copse three hundred yards away, bound, gagged, stabbed in a
dozen places.

Who had done this?  Suspicion fell upon a humble family in the
neighborhood who had been lately treated with peculiar harshness
by the baron; and from these people the suspicion easily extended
itself to their relatives and familiars.  A suspicion was enough;
my lord's liveried retainers proclaimed an instant crusade against
these people, and were promptly joined by the community in general.
The woman's husband had been active with the mob, and had not
returned home until nearly dawn.  He was gone now to find out
what the general result had been.  While we were still talking he
came back from his quest.  His report was revolting enough.  Eighteen
persons hanged or butchered, and two yeomen and thirteen prisoners
lost in the fire.

"And how many prisoners were there altogether in the vaults?"

"Thirteen."

"Then every one of them was lost?"

"Yes, all."

"But the people arrived in time to save the family; how is it they
could save none of the prisoners?"

The man looked puzzled, and said:

"Would one unlock the vaults at such a time?  Marry, some would
have escaped."

"Then you mean that nobody _did_ unlock them?"

"None went near them, either to lock or unlock.  It standeth to
reason that the bolts were fast; wherefore it was only needful
to establish a watch, so that if any broke the bonds he might not
escape, but be taken. None were taken."

"Natheless, three did escape," said the king, "and ye will do well
to publish it and set justice upon their track, for these murthered
the baron and fired the house."

I was just expecting he would come out with that.  For a moment
the man and his wife showed an eager interest in this news and
an impatience to go out and spread it; then a sudden something
else betrayed itself in their faces, and they began to ask questions.
I answered the questions myself, and narrowly watched the effects
produced.  I was soon satisfied that the knowledge of who these
three prisoners were had somehow changed the atmosphere; that
our hosts' continued eagerness to go and spread the news was now
only pretended and not real.  The king did not notice the change,
and I was glad of that.  I worked the conversation around toward
other details of the night's proceedings, and noted that these
people were relieved to have it take that direction.

The painful thing observable about all this business was the
alacrity with which this oppressed community had turned their
cruel hands against their own class in the interest of the common
oppressor.  This man and woman seemed to feel that in a quarrel
between a person of their own class and his lord, it was the natural
and proper and rightful thing for that poor devil's whole caste
to side with the master and fight his battle for him, without ever
stopping to inquire into the rights or wrongs of the matter.  This
man had been out helping to hang his neighbors, and had done his
work with zeal, and yet was aware that there was nothing against
them but a mere suspicion, with nothing back of it describable
as evidence, still neither he nor his wife seemed to see anything
horrible about it.

This was depressing--to a man with the dream of a republic in his
head.  It reminded me of a time thirteen centuries away, when
the "poor whites" of our South who were always despised and
frequently insulted by the slave-lords around them, and who owed
their base condition simply to the presence of slavery in their
midst, were yet pusillanimously ready to side with the slave-lords
in all political moves for the upholding and perpetuating of
slavery, and did also finally shoulder their muskets and pour out
their lives in an effort to prevent the destruction of that very
institution which degraded them.  And there was only one redeeming
feature connected with that pitiful piece of history; and that was,
that secretly the "poor white" did detest the slave-lord, and did
feel his own shame.  That feeling was not brought to the surface,
but the fact that it was there and could have been brought out,
under favoring circumstances, was something--in fact, it was enough;
for it showed that a man is at bottom a man, after all, even if it
doesn't show on the outside.

Well, as it turned out, this charcoal burner was just the twin of
the Southern "poor white" of the far future.  The king presently
showed impatience, and said:

"An ye prattle here all the day, justice will miscarry.  Think ye
the criminals will abide in their father's house?  They are fleeing,
they are not waiting.  You should look to it that a party of horse
be set upon their track."

The woman paled slightly, but quite perceptibly, and the man looked
flustered and irresolute.  I said:

"Come, friend, I will walk a little way with you, and explain which
direction I think they would try to take.  If they were merely
resisters of the gabelle or some kindred absurdity I would try
to protect them from capture; but when men murder a person of
high degree and likewise burn his house, that is another matter."

The last remark was for the king--to quiet him.  On the road
the man pulled his resolution together, and began the march with
a steady gait, but there was no eagerness in it.  By and by I said:

"What relation were these men to you--cousins?"

He turned as white as his layer of charcoal would let him, and
stopped, trembling.

"Ah, my God, how know ye that?"

"I didn't know it; it was a chance guess."

"Poor lads, they are lost.  And good lads they were, too."

"Were you actually going yonder to tell on them?"

He didn't quite know how to take that; but he said, hesitatingly:

"Ye-s."

"Then I think you are a damned scoundrel!"

It made him as glad as if I had called him an angel.

"Say the good words again, brother! for surely ye mean that ye
would not betray me an I failed of my duty."

"Duty?  There is no duty in the matter, except the duty to keep
still and let those men get away.  They've done a righteous deed."

He looked pleased; pleased, and touched with apprehension at the
same time.  He looked up and down the road to see that no one
was coming, and then said in a cautious voice:

"From what land come you, brother, that you speak such perilous
words, and seem not to be afraid?"

"They are not perilous words when spoken to one of my own caste,
I take it.  You would not tell anybody I said them?"

"I?  I would be drawn asunder by wild horses first."

"Well, then, let me say my say.  I have no fears of your repeating
it.  I think devil's work has been done last night upon those
innocent poor people.  That old baron got only what he deserved.
If I had my way, all his kind should have the same luck."

Fear and depression vanished from the man's manner, and gratefulness
and a brave animation took their place:

"Even though you be a spy, and your words a trap for my undoing,
yet are they such refreshment that to hear them again and others
like to them, I would go to the gallows happy, as having had one
good feast at least in a starved life.  And I will say my say now,
and ye may report it if ye be so minded.  I helped to hang my
neighbors for that it were peril to my own life to show lack of
zeal in the master's cause; the others helped for none other reason.
All rejoice to-day that he is dead, but all do go about seemingly
sorrowing, and shedding the hypocrite's tear, for in that lies
safety.  I have said the words, I have said the words! the only
ones that have ever tasted good in my mouth, and the reward of
that taste is sufficient.  Lead on, an ye will, be it even to the
scaffold, for I am ready."

There it was, you see.  A man is a man, at bottom.  Whole ages
of abuse and oppression cannot crush the manhood clear out of him.
Whoever thinks it a mistake is himself mistaken.  Yes, there is
plenty good enough material for a republic in the most degraded
people that ever existed--even the Russians; plenty of manhood
in them--even in the Germans--if one could but force it out of
its timid and suspicious privacy, to overthrow and trample in the
mud any throne that ever was set up and any nobility that ever
supported it.  We should see certain things yet, let us hope and
believe.  First, a modified monarchy, till Arthur's days were done,
then the destruction of the throne, nobility abolished, every
member of it bound out to some useful trade, universal suffrage
instituted, and the whole government placed in the hands of the
men and women of the nation there to remain.  Yes, there was no
occasion to give up my dream yet a while.



CHAPTER XXXI

MARCO

We strolled along in a sufficiently indolent fashion now, and
talked.  We must dispose of about the amount of time it ought
to take to go to the little hamlet of Abblasoure and put justice
on the track of those murderers and get back home again.  And
meantime I had an auxiliary interest which had never paled yet,
never lost its novelty for me since I had been in Arthur's kingdom:
the behavior--born of nice and exact subdivisions of caste--of chance
passers-by toward each other.  Toward the shaven monk who trudged
along with his cowl tilted back and the sweat washing down his
fat jowls, the coal-burner was deeply reverent; to the gentleman
he was abject; with the small farmer and the free mechanic he was
cordial and gossipy; and when a slave passed by with a countenance
respectfully lowered, this chap's nose was in the air--he couldn't
even see him.  Well, there are times when one would like to hang
the whole human race and finish the farce.

Presently we struck an incident.  A small mob of half-naked boys
and girls came tearing out of the woods, scared and shrieking.
The eldest among them were not more than twelve or fourteen years
old.  They implored help, but they were so beside themselves that
we couldn't make out what the matter was.  However, we plunged
into the wood, they skurrying in the lead, and the trouble was
quickly revealed:  they had hanged a little fellow with a bark rope,
and he was kicking and struggling, in the process of choking to
death.  We rescued him, and fetched him around.  It was some more
human nature; the admiring little folk imitating their elders;
they were playing mob, and had achieved a success which promised
to be a good deal more serious than they had bargained for.

It was not a dull excursion for me.  I managed to put in the time
very well.  I made various acquaintanceships, and in my quality
of stranger was able to ask as many questions as I wanted to.
A thing which naturally interested me, as a statesman, was the
matter of wages.  I picked up what I could under that head during
the afternoon.  A man who hasn't had much experience, and doesn't
think, is apt to measure a nation's prosperity or lack of prosperity
by the mere size of the prevailing wages; if the wages be high, the
nation is prosperous; if low, it isn't.  Which is an error.  It
isn't what sum you get, it's how much you can buy with it, that's
the important thing; and it's that that tells whether your wages
are high in fact or only high in name.  I could remember how it
was in the time of our great civil war in the nineteenth century.
In the North a carpenter got three dollars a day, gold valuation;
in the South he got fifty--payable in Confederate shinplasters
worth a dollar a bushel.  In the North a suit of overalls cost
three dollars--a day's wages; in the South it cost seventy-five--
which was two days' wages.  Other things were in proportion.
Consequently, wages were twice as high in the North as they were
in the South, because the one wage had that much more purchasing
power than the other had.

Yes, I made various acquaintances in the hamlet and a thing that
gratified me a good deal was to find our new coins in circulation--
lots of milrays, lots of mills, lots of cents, a good many nickels,
and some silver; all this among the artisans and commonalty
generally; yes, and even some gold--but that was at the bank,
that is to say, the goldsmith's.  I dropped in there while Marco,
the son of Marco, was haggling with a shopkeeper over a quarter
of a pound of salt, and asked for change for a twenty-dollar gold
piece.  They furnished it--that is, after they had chewed the piece,
and rung it on the counter, and tried acid on it, and asked me
where I got it, and who I was, and where I was from, and where
I was going to, and when I expected to get there, and perhaps
a couple of hundred more questions; and when they got aground,
I went right on and furnished them a lot of information voluntarily;
told them I owned a dog, and his name was Watch, and my first wife
was a Free Will Baptist, and her grandfather was a Prohibitionist,
and I used to know a man who had two thumbs on each hand and a wart
on the inside of his upper lip, and died in the hope of a glorious
resurrection, and so on, and so on, and so on, till even that
hungry village questioner began to look satisfied, and also a shade
put out; but he had to respect a man of my financial strength,
and so he didn't give me any lip, but I noticed he took it out of
his underlings, which was a perfectly natural thing to do.  Yes,
they changed my twenty, but I judged it strained the bank a little,
which was a thing to be expected, for it was the same as walking
into a paltry village store in the nineteenth century and requiring
the boss of it to change a two thousand-dollar bill for you all
of a sudden.  He could do it, maybe; but at the same time he
would wonder how a small farmer happened to be carrying so much
money around in his pocket; which was probably this goldsmith's
thought, too; for he followed me to the door and stood there gazing
after me with reverent admiration.

Our new money was not only handsomely circulating, but its language
was already glibly in use; that is to say, people had dropped
the names of the former moneys, and spoke of things as being worth
so many dollars or cents or mills or milrays now.  It was very
gratifying.  We were progressing, that was sure.

I got to know several master mechanics, but about the most interesting
fellow among them was the blacksmith, Dowley.  He was a live man
and a brisk talker, and had two journeymen and three apprentices,
and was doing a raging business.  In fact, he was getting rich,
hand over fist, and was vastly respected.  Marco was very proud of
having such a man for a friend.  He had taken me there ostensibly
to let me see the big establishment which bought so much of his
charcoal, but really to let me see what easy and almost familiar
terms he was on with this great man.  Dowley and I fraternized
at once; I had had just such picked men, splendid fellows, under
me in the Colt Arms Factory.  I was bound to see more of him, so
I invited him to come out to Marco's Sunday, and dine with us.
Marco was appalled, and held his breath; and when the grandee
accepted, he was so grateful that he almost forgot to be astonished
at the condescension.

Marco's joy was exuberant--but only for a moment; then he grew
thoughtful, then sad; and when he heard me tell Dowley I should
have Dickon, the boss mason, and Smug, the boss wheelwright, out
there, too, the coal-dust on his face turned to chalk, and he lost
his grip.  But I knew what was the matter with him; it was the
expense.  He saw ruin before him; he judged that his financial
days were numbered.  However, on our way to invite the others,
I said:

"You must allow me to have these friends come; and you must also
allow me to pay the costs."

His face cleared, and he said with spirit:

"But not all of it, not all of it.  Ye cannot well bear a burden
like to this alone."

I stopped him, and said:

"Now let's understand each other on the spot, old friend.  I am
only a farm bailiff, it is true; but I am not poor, nevertheless.
I have been very fortunate this year--you would be astonished
to know how I have thriven.  I tell you the honest truth when I say
I could squander away as many as a dozen feasts like this and never
care _that_ for the expense!" and I snapped my fingers.  I could
see myself rise a foot at a time in Marco's estimation, and when
I fetched out those last words I was become a very tower for style
and altitude.  "So you see, you must let me have my way.  You
can't contribute a cent to this orgy, that's _settled_."

"It's grand and good of you--"

"No, it isn't.  You've opened your house to Jones and me in the
most generous way; Jones was remarking upon it to-day, just before
you came back from the village; for although he wouldn't be likely
to say such a thing to you--because Jones isn't a talker, and is
diffident in society--he has a good heart and a grateful, and
knows how to appreciate it when he is well treated; yes, you and
your wife have been very hospitable toward us--"

"Ah, brother, 'tis nothing--_such_ hospitality!"

"But it _is_ something; the best a man has, freely given, is always
something, and is as good as a prince can do, and ranks right
along beside it--for even a prince can but do his best.  And so
we'll shop around and get up this layout now, and don't you worry
about the expense.  I'm one of the worst spendthrifts that ever
was born.  Why, do you know, sometimes in a single week I spend--
but never mind about that--you'd never believe it anyway."

And so we went gadding along, dropping in here and there, pricing
things, and gossiping with the shopkeepers about the riot, and now
and then running across pathetic reminders of it, in the persons of
shunned and tearful and houseless remnants of families whose homes
had been taken from them and their parents butchered or hanged.
The raiment of Marco and his wife was of coarse tow-linen and
linsey-woolsey respectively, and resembled township maps, it being
made up pretty exclusively of patches which had been added, township
by township, in the course of five or six years, until hardly a
hand's-breadth of the original garments was surviving and present.
Now I wanted to fit these people out with new suits, on account of
that swell company, and I didn't know just how to get at it--
with delicacy, until at last it struck me that as I had already
been liberal in inventing wordy gratitude for the king, it would
be just the thing to back it up with evidence of a substantial
sort; so I said:

"And Marco, there's another thing which you must permit--out of
kindness for Jones--because you wouldn't want to offend him.
He was very anxious to testify his appreciation in some way, but
he is so diffident he couldn't venture it himself, and so he begged
me to buy some little things and give them to you and Dame Phyllis
and let him pay for them without your ever knowing they came from
him--you know how a delicate person feels about that sort of thing--
and so I said I would, and we would keep mum.  Well, his idea
was, a new outfit of clothes for you both--"

"Oh, it is wastefulness!  It may not be, brother, it may not be.
Consider the vastness of the sum--"

"Hang the vastness of the sum!  Try to keep quiet for a moment,
and see how it would seem; a body can't get in a word edgeways,
you talk so much.  You ought to cure that, Marco; it isn't good
form, you know, and it will grow on you if you don't check it.
Yes, we'll step in here now and price this man's stuff--and don't
forget to remember to not let on to Jones that you know he had
anything to do with it.  You can't think how curiously sensitive
and proud he is.  He's a farmer--pretty fairly well-to-do farmer--
an I'm his bailiff; _but_--the imagination of that man!  Why,
sometimes when he forgets himself and gets to blowing off, you'd
think he was one of the swells of the earth; and you might listen
to him a hundred years and never take him for a farmer--especially if
he talked agriculture.  He _thinks_ he's a Sheol of a farmer; thinks
he's old Grayback from Wayback; but between you and me privately
he don't know as much about farming as he does about running
a kingdom--still, whatever he talks about, you want to drop your
underjaw and listen, the same as if you had never heard such
incredible wisdom in all your life before, and were afraid you
might die before you got enough of it.  That will please Jones."

It tickled Marco to the marrow to hear about such an odd character;
but it also prepared him for accidents; and in my experience when
you travel with a king who is letting on to be something else and
can't remember it more than about half the time, you can't take
too many precautions.

This was the best store we had come across yet; it had everything
in it, in small quantities, from anvils and drygoods all the way
down to fish and pinchbeck jewelry.  I concluded I would bunch
my whole invoice right here, and not go pricing around any more.
So I got rid of Marco, by sending him off to invite the mason and
the wheelwright, which left the field free to me.  For I never care
to do a thing in a quiet way; it's got to be theatrical or I don't
take any interest in it.  I showed up money enough, in a careless
way, to corral the shopkeeper's respect, and then I wrote down
a list of the things I wanted, and handed it to him to see if he
could read it.  He could, and was proud to show that he could.
He said he had been educated by a priest, and could both read
and write.  He ran it through, and remarked with satisfaction that
it was a pretty heavy bill.  Well, and so it was, for a little
concern like that.  I was not only providing a swell dinner, but
some odds and ends of extras.  I ordered that the things be carted
out and delivered at the dwelling of Marco, the son of Marco,
by Saturday evening, and send me the bill at dinner-time Sunday.
He said I could depend upon his promptness and exactitude, it was
the rule of the house.  He also observed that he would throw in
a couple of miller-guns for the Marcos gratis--that everybody
was using them now.  He had a mighty opinion of that clever
device.  I said:

"And please fill them up to the middle mark, too; and add that
to the bill."

He would, with pleasure.  He filled them, and I took them with
me.  I couldn't venture to tell him that the miller-gun was a
little invention of my own, and that I had officially ordered that
every shopkeeper in the kingdom keep them on hand and sell them
at government price--which was the merest trifle, and the shopkeeper
got that, not the government.  We furnished them for nothing.

The king had hardly missed us when we got back at nightfall.  He
had early dropped again into his dream of a grand invasion of Gaul
with the whole strength of his kingdom at his back, and the afternoon
had slipped away without his ever coming to himself again.



CHAPTER XXXII

DOWLEY'S HUMILIATION

Well, when that cargo arrived toward sunset, Saturday afternoon,
I had my hands full to keep the Marcos from fainting.  They were
sure Jones and I were ruined past help, and they blamed themselves
as accessories to this bankruptcy.  You see, in addition to the
dinner-materials, which called for a sufficiently round sum,
I had bought a lot of extras for the future comfort of the family:
for instance, a big lot of wheat, a delicacy as rare to the tables
of their class as was ice-cream to a hermit's; also a sizeable
deal dinner-table; also two entire pounds of salt, which was
another piece of extravagance in those people's eyes; also crockery,
stools, the clothes, a small cask of beer, and so on.  I instructed
the Marcos to keep quiet about this sumptuousness, so as to give
me a chance to surprise the guests and show off a little.  Concerning
the new clothes, the simple couple were like children; they were up
and down, all night, to see if it wasn't nearly daylight, so that
they could put them on, and they were into them at last as much
as an hour before dawn was due.  Then their pleasure--not to say
delirium--was so fresh and novel and inspiring that the sight of it
paid me well for the interruptions which my sleep had suffered.
The king had slept just as usual--like the dead.  The Marcos could
not thank him for their clothes, that being forbidden; but they
tried every way they could think of to make him see how grateful
they were.  Which all went for nothing:  he didn't notice any change.

It turned out to be one of those rich and rare fall days which is
just a June day toned down to a degree where it is heaven to be
out of doors.  Toward noon the guests arrived, and we assembled
under a great tree and were soon as sociable as old acquaintances.
Even the king's reserve melted a little, though it was some little
trouble to him to adjust himself to the name of Jones along at
first.  I had asked him to try to not forget that he was a farmer;
but I had also considered it prudent to ask him to let the thing
stand at that, and not elaborate it any.  Because he was just the
kind of person you could depend on to spoil a little thing like
that if you didn't warn him, his tongue was so handy, and his
spirit so willing, and his information so uncertain.

Dowley was in fine feather, and I early got him started, and then
adroitly worked him around onto his own history for a text and
himself for a hero, and then it was good to sit there and hear him
hum.  Self-made man, you know.  They know how to talk.  They do
deserve more credit than any other breed of men, yes, that is true;
and they are among the very first to find it out, too.  He told how
he had begun life an orphan lad without money and without friends
able to help him; how he had lived as the slaves of the meanest
master lived; how his day's work was from sixteen to eighteen hours
long, and yielded him only enough black bread to keep him in a
half-fed condition; how his faithful endeavors finally attracted
the attention of a good blacksmith, who came near knocking him
dead with kindness by suddenly offering, when he was totally
unprepared, to take him as his bound apprentice for nine years
and give him board and clothes and teach him the trade--or "mystery"
as Dowley called it.  That was his first great rise, his first
gorgeous stroke of fortune; and you saw that he couldn't yet speak
of it without a sort of eloquent wonder and delight that such a
gilded promotion should have fallen to the lot of a common human
being.  He got no new clothing during his apprenticeship, but on
his graduation day his master tricked him out in spang-new tow-linens
and made him feel unspeakably rich and fine.

"I remember me of that day!" the wheelwright sang out, with
enthusiasm.

"And I likewise!" cried the mason.  "I would not believe they
were thine own; in faith I could not."

"Nor other!" shouted Dowley, with sparkling eyes.  "I was like
to lose my character, the neighbors wending I had mayhap been
stealing.  It was a great day, a great day; one forgetteth not
days like that."

Yes, and his master was a fine man, and prosperous, and always
had a great feast of meat twice in the year, and with it white
bread, true wheaten bread; in fact, lived like a lord, so to speak.
And in time Dowley succeeded to the business and married the daughter.

"And now consider what is come to pass," said he, impressively.
"Two times in every month there is fresh meat upon my table."
He made a pause here, to let that fact sink home, then added--
"and eight times salt meat."

"It is even true," said the wheelwright, with bated breath.

"I know it of mine own knowledge," said the mason, in the same
reverent fashion.

"On my table appeareth white bread every Sunday in the year,"
added the master smith, with solemnity.  "I leave it to your own
consciences, friends, if this is not also true?"

"By my head, yes," cried the mason.

"I can testify it--and I do," said the wheelwright.

"And as to furniture, ye shall say yourselves what mine equipment
is."  He waved his hand in fine gesture of granting frank and
unhampered freedom of speech, and added:  "Speak as ye are moved;
speak as ye would speak; an I were not here."

"Ye have five stools, and of the sweetest workmanship at that, albeit
your family is but three," said the wheelwright, with deep respect.

"And six wooden goblets, and six platters of wood and two of pewter
to eat and drink from withal," said the mason, impressively.  "And
I say it as knowing God is my judge, and we tarry not here alway,
but must answer at the last day for the things said in the body,
be they false or be they sooth."

"Now ye know what manner of man I am, brother Jones," said the
smith, with a fine and friendly condescension, "and doubtless ye
would look to find me a man jealous of his due of respect and
but sparing of outgo to strangers till their rating and quality be
assured, but trouble yourself not, as concerning that; wit ye well
ye shall find me a man that regardeth not these matters but is
willing to receive any he as his fellow and equal that carrieth
a right heart in his body, be his worldly estate howsoever modest.
And in token of it, here is my hand; and I say with my own mouth
we are equals--equals"--and he smiled around on the company with
the satisfaction of a god who is doing the handsome and gracious
thing and is quite well aware of it.

The king took the hand with a poorly disguised reluctance, and
let go of it as willingly as a lady lets go of a fish; all of which
had a good effect, for it was mistaken for an embarrassment natural
to one who was being called upon by greatness.

The dame brought out the table now, and set it under the tree.
It caused a visible stir of surprise, it being brand new and a
sumptuous article of deal.  But the surprise rose higher still
when the dame, with a body oozing easy indifference at every pore,
but eyes that gave it all away by absolutely flaming with vanity,
slowly unfolded an actual simon-pure tablecloth and spread it.
That was a notch above even the blacksmith's domestic grandeurs,
and it hit him hard; you could see it.  But Marco was in Paradise;
you could see that, too.  Then the dame brought two fine new
stools--whew! that was a sensation; it was visible in the eyes of
every guest.  Then she brought two more--as calmly as she could.
Sensation again--with awed murmurs.  Again she brought two--
walking on air, she was so proud.  The guests were petrified, and
the mason muttered:

"There is that about earthly pomps which doth ever move to reverence."

As the dame turned away, Marco couldn't help slapping on the climax
while the thing was hot; so he said with what was meant for a
languid composure but was a poor imitation of it:

"These suffice; leave the rest."

So there were more yet!  It was a fine effect.  I couldn't have
played the hand better myself.

From this out, the madam piled up the surprises with a rush that
fired the general astonishment up to a hundred and fifty in the
shade, and at the same time paralyzed expression of it down to
gasped "Oh's" and "Ah's," and mute upliftings of hands and eyes.
She fetched crockery--new, and plenty of it; new wooden goblets
and other table furniture; and beer, fish, chicken, a goose, eggs,
roast beef, roast mutton, a ham, a small roast pig, and a wealth
of genuine white wheaten bread.  Take it by and large, that spread
laid everything far and away in the shade that ever that crowd had
seen before.  And while they sat there just simply stupefied with
wonder and awe, I sort of waved my hand as if by accident, and
the storekeeper's son emerged from space and said he had come
to collect.

"That's all right," I said, indifferently.  "What is the amount?
give us the items."

Then he read off this bill, while those three amazed men listened,
and serene waves of satisfaction rolled over my soul and alternate
waves of terror and admiration surged over Marco's:

   2 pounds salt . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   200
   8 dozen pints beer, in the wood . . . . .   800
   3 bushels wheat . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2,700
   2 pounds fish . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   100
   3 hens  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   400
   1 goose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   400
   3 dozen eggs  . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   150
   1 roast of beef . . . . . . . . . . . . .   450
   1 roast of mutton . . . . . . . . . . . .   400
   1 ham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   800
   1 sucking pig . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   500
   2 crockery dinner sets  . . . . . . . . . 6,000
   2 men's suits and underwear . . . . . . . 2,800
   1 stuff and 1 linsey-woolsey gown
     and underwear . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1,600
   8 wooden goblets  . . . . . . . . . . . .   800
   Various table furniture . . . . . . . . .10,000
   1 deal table  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3,000
   8 stools  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4,000
   2 miller guns, loaded . . . . . . . . . . 3,000

He ceased.  There was a pale and awful silence.  Not a limb stirred.
Not a nostril betrayed the passage of breath.

"Is that all?" I asked, in a voice of the most perfect calmness.

"All, fair sir, save that certain matters of light moment are
placed together under a head hight sundries.  If it would like
you, I will sepa--"

"It is of no consequence," I said, accompanying the words with
a gesture of the most utter indifference; "give me the grand
total, please."

The clerk leaned against the tree to stay himself, and said:

"Thirty-nine thousand one hundred and fifty milrays!"

The wheelwright fell off his stool, the others grabbed the table
to save themselves, and there was a deep and general ejaculation of:

"God be with us in the day of disaster!"

The clerk hastened to say:

"My father chargeth me to say he cannot honorably require you
to pay it all at this time, and therefore only prayeth you--"

I paid no more heed than if it were the idle breeze, but, with an
air of indifference amounting almost to weariness, got out my money
and tossed four dollars on to the table.  Ah, you should have seen
them stare!

The clerk was astonished and charmed.  He asked me to retain
one of the dollars as security, until he could go to town and--
I interrupted:

"What, and fetch back nine cents?  Nonsense!  Take the whole.
Keep the change."

There was an amazed murmur to this effect:

"Verily this being is _made_ of money!  He throweth it away even
as if it were dirt."

The blacksmith was a crushed man.

The clerk took his money and reeled away drunk with fortune.  I said
to Marco and his wife:

"Good folk, here is a little trifle for you"--handing the miller-guns
as if it were a matter of no consequence, though each of them
contained fifteen cents in solid cash; and while the poor creatures
went to pieces with astonishment and gratitude, I turned to the
others and said as calmly as one would ask the time of day:

"Well, if we are all ready, I judge the dinner is.  Come, fall to."

Ah, well, it was immense; yes, it was a daisy.  I don't know that
I ever put a situation together better, or got happier spectacular
effects out of the materials available.  The blacksmith--well, he
was simply mashed.  Land! I wouldn't have felt what that man was
feeling, for anything in the world.  Here he had been blowing and
bragging about his grand meat-feast twice a year, and his fresh
meat twice a month, and his salt meat twice a week, and his white
bread every Sunday the year round--all for a family of three; the
entire cost for the year not above 69.2.6 (sixty-nine cents, two
mills and six milrays), and all of a sudden here comes along a man
who slashes out nearly four dollars on a single blow-out; and not
only that, but acts as if it made him tired to handle such small
sums.  Yes, Dowley was a good deal wilted, and shrunk-up and
collapsed; he had the aspect of a bladder-balloon that's been
stepped on by a cow.



CHAPTER XXXIII

SIXTH CENTURY POLITICAL ECONOMY

However, I made a dead set at him, and before the first third
of the dinner was reached, I had him happy again.  It was easy
to do--in a country of ranks and castes.  You see, in a country
where they have ranks and castes, a man isn't ever a man, he is
only part of a man, he can't ever get his full growth.  You prove
your superiority over him in station, or rank, or fortune, and
that's the end of it--he knuckles down.  You can't insult him
after that.  No, I don't mean quite that; of course you _can_ insult
him, I only mean it's difficult; and so, unless you've got a lot
of useless time on your hands it doesn't pay to try.  I had the
smith's reverence now, because I was apparently immensely prosperous
and rich; I could have had his adoration if I had had some little
gimcrack title of nobility.  And not only his, but any commoner's
in the land, though he were the mightiest production of all the ages,
in intellect, worth, and character, and I bankrupt in all three.
This was to remain so, as long as England should exist in the
earth.  With the spirit of prophecy upon me, I could look into
the future and see her erect statues and monuments to her unspeakable
Georges and other royal and noble clothes-horses, and leave unhonored
the creators of this world--after God--Gutenburg, Watt, Arkwright,
Whitney, Morse, Stephenson, Bell.

The king got his cargo aboard, and then, the talk not turning upon
battle, conquest, or iron-clad duel, he dulled down to drowsiness
and went off to take a nap.  Mrs. Marco cleared the table, placed
the beer keg handy, and went away to eat her dinner of leavings
in humble privacy, and the rest of us soon drifted into matters
near and dear to the hearts of our sort--business and wages,
of course.  At a first glance, things appeared to be exceeding
prosperous in this little tributary kingdom--whose lord was
King Bagdemagus--as compared with the state of things in my own
region.  They had the "protection" system in full force here,
whereas we were working along down toward free-trade, by easy
stages, and were now about half way.  Before long, Dowley and I
were doing all the talking, the others hungrily listening.  Dowley
warmed to his work, snuffed an advantage in the air, and began
to put questions which he considered pretty awkward ones for me,
and they did have something of that look:

"In your country, brother, what is the wage of a master bailiff,
master hind, carter, shepherd, swineherd?"

"Twenty-five milrays a day; that is to say, a quarter of a cent."

The smith's face beamed with joy.  He said:

"With us they are allowed the double of it!  And what may a mechanic
get--carpenter, dauber, mason, painter, blacksmith, wheelwright,
and the like?"

"On the average, fifty milrays; half a cent a day."

"Ho-ho!  With us they are allowed a hundred!  With us any good
mechanic is allowed a cent a day!  I count out the tailor, but
not the others--they are all allowed a cent a day, and in driving
times they get more--yes, up to a hundred and ten and even fifteen
milrays a day.  I've paid a hundred and fifteen myself, within
the week.  'Rah for protection--to Sheol with free-trade!"

And his face shone upon the company like a sunburst.  But I didn't
scare at all.  I rigged up my pile-driver, and allowed myself
fifteen minutes to drive him into the earth--drive him _all_ in--
drive him in till not even the curve of his skull should show
above ground.  Here is the way I started in on him.  I asked:

"What do you pay a pound for salt?"

"A hundred milrays."

"We pay forty.  What do you pay for beef and mutton--when you
buy it?"  That was a neat hit; it made the color come.

"It varieth somewhat, but not much; one may say seventy-five milrays
the pound."

"_We_ pay thirty-three.  What do you pay for eggs?"

"Fifty milrays the dozen."

"We pay twenty.  What do you pay for beer?"

"It costeth us eight and one-half milrays the pint."

"We get it for four; twenty-five bottles for a cent.
What do you pay for wheat?"

"At the rate of nine hundred milrays the bushel."

"We pay four hundred.  What do you pay for a man's tow-linen suit?"

"Thirteen cents."

"We pay six.  What do you pay for a stuff gown for the wife of the
laborer or the mechanic?"

"We pay eight cents, four mills."

"Well, observe the difference:  you pay eight cents and four mills,
we pay only four cents."  I prepared now to sock it to him.  I said:
"Look here, dear friend, _what's become of your high wages you
were bragging so about a few minutes ago?_"--and I looked around
on the company with placid satisfaction, for I had slipped up
on him gradually and tied him hand and foot, you see, without his
ever noticing that he was being tied at all.  "What's become of
those noble high wages of yours?--I seem to have knocked the
stuffing all out of them, it appears to me."

But if you will believe me, he merely looked surprised, that
is all! he didn't grasp the situation at all, didn't know he had
walked into a trap, didn't discover that he was _in_ a trap.  I could
have shot him, from sheer vexation.  With cloudy eye and a struggling
intellect he fetched this out:

"Marry, I seem not to understand.  It is _proved_ that our wages
be double thine; how then may it be that thou'st knocked therefrom
the stuffing?--an miscall not the wonderly word, this being the
first time under grace and providence of God it hath been granted
me to hear it."

Well, I was stunned; partly with this unlooked-for stupidity on
his part, and partly because his fellows so manifestly sided with
him and were of his mind--if you might call it mind.  My position
was simple enough, plain enough; how could it ever be simplified
more?  However, I must try:

"Why, look here, brother Dowley, don't you see?  Your wages are
merely higher than ours in _name_, not in _fact_."

"Hear him!  They are the _double_--ye have confessed it yourself."

"Yes-yes, I don't deny that at all.  But that's got nothing to do
with it; the _amount_ of the wages in mere coins, with meaningless
names attached to them to know them by, has got nothing to do
with it.  The thing is, how much can you _buy_ with your wages?--
that's the idea.  While it is true that with you a good mechanic
is allowed about three dollars and a half a year, and with us only
about a dollar and seventy-five--"

"There--ye're confessing it again, ye're confessing it again!"

"Confound it, I've never denied it, I tell you!  What I say is
this.  With us _half_ a dollar buys more than a _dollar_ buys
with you--and THEREFORE it stands to reason and the commonest
kind of common-sense, that our wages are _higher_ than yours."

He looked dazed, and said, despairingly:

"Verily, I cannot make it out.  Ye've just said ours are the
higher, and with the same breath ye take it back."

"Oh, great Scott, isn't it possible to get such a simple thing
through your head?  Now look here--let me illustrate.  We pay
four cents for a woman's stuff gown, you pay 8.4.0, which is
four mills more than _double_.  What do you allow a laboring
woman who works on a farm?"

"Two mills a day."

"Very good; we allow but half as much; we pay her only a tenth
of a cent a day; and--"

"Again ye're conf--"

"Wait!  Now, you see, the thing is very simple; this time you'll
understand it.  For instance, it takes your woman 42 days to earn
her gown, at 2 mills a day--7 weeks' work; but ours earns hers
in forty days--two days _short_ of 7 weeks.  Your woman has a gown,
and her whole seven weeks wages are gone; ours has a gown, and
two days' wages left, to buy something else with.  There--_now_
you understand it!"

He looked--well, he merely looked dubious, it's the most I can say;
so did the others.  I waited--to let the thing work.  Dowley spoke
at last--and betrayed the fact that he actually hadn't gotten away
from his rooted and grounded superstitions yet.  He said, with
a trifle of hesitancy:

"But--but--ye cannot fail to grant that two mills a day is better
than one."

Shucks!  Well, of course, I hated to give it up.  So I chanced
another flyer:

"Let us suppose a case.  Suppose one of your journeymen goes out
and buys the following articles:

  "1 pound of salt;
   1 dozen eggs;
   1 dozen pints of beer;
   1 bushel of wheat;
   1 tow-linen suit;
   5 pounds of beef;
   5 pounds of mutton.

"The lot will cost him 32 cents.  It takes him 32 working days
to earn the money--5 weeks and 2 days.  Let him come to us and
work 32 days at _half_ the wages; he can buy all those things for
a shade under 14 1/2 cents; they will cost him a shade under 29
days' work, and he will have about half a week's wages over.  Carry
it through the year; he would save nearly a week's wages every
two months, _your_ man nothing; thus saving five or six weeks' wages
in a year, your man not a cent.  _Now_ I reckon you understand that
'high wages' and 'low wages' are phrases that don't mean anything
in the world until you find out which of them will _buy_ the most!"

It was a crusher.

But, alas! it didn't crush.  No, I had to give it up.  What those
people valued was _high wages_; it didn't seem to be a matter of
any consequence to them whether the high wages would buy anything
or not.  They stood for "protection," and swore by it, which was
reasonable enough, because interested parties had gulled them into
the notion that it was protection which had created their high
wages.  I proved to them that in a quarter of a century their wages
had advanced but 30 per cent., while the cost of living had gone
up 100; and that with us, in a shorter time, wages had advanced
40 per cent. while the cost of living had gone steadily down.  But
it didn't do any good.  Nothing could unseat their strange beliefs.

Well, I was smarting under a sense of defeat.  Undeserved defeat,
but what of that?  That didn't soften the smart any.  And to think
of the circumstances! the first statesman of the age, the capablest
man, the best-informed man in the entire world, the loftiest
uncrowned head that had moved through the clouds of any political
firmament for centuries, sitting here apparently defeated in
argument by an ignorant country blacksmith!  And I could see that
those others were sorry for me--which made me blush till I could
smell my whiskers scorching.  Put yourself in my place; feel as mean
as I did, as ashamed as I felt--wouldn't _you_ have struck below the
belt to get even?  Yes, you would; it is simply human nature.
Well, that is what I did.  I am not trying to justify it; I'm only
saying that I was mad, and _anybody_ would have done it.

Well, when I make up my mind to hit a man, I don't plan out
a love-tap; no, that isn't my way; as long as I'm going to hit him
at all, I'm going to hit him a lifter.  And I don't jump at him
all of a sudden, and risk making a blundering half-way business
of it; no, I get away off yonder to one side, and work up on him
gradually, so that he never suspects that I'm going to hit him
at all; and by and by, all in a flash, he's flat on his back, and
he can't tell for the life of him how it all happened.  That is
the way I went for brother Dowley.  I started to talking lazy and
comfortable, as if I was just talking to pass the time; and the
oldest man in the world couldn't have taken the bearings of my
starting place and guessed where I was going to fetch up:

"Boys, there's a good many curious things about law, and custom,
and usage, and all that sort of thing, when you come to look at it;
yes, and about the drift and progress of human opinion and movement,
too.  There are written laws--they perish; but there are also
unwritten laws--_they_ are eternal.  Take the unwritten law of wages:
it says they've got to advance, little by little, straight through
the centuries.  And notice how it works.  We know what wages are
now, here and there and yonder; we strike an average, and say that's
the wages of to-day.  We know what the wages were a hundred years
ago, and what they were two hundred years ago; that's as far back
as we can get, but it suffices to give us the law of progress,
the measure and rate of the periodical augmentation; and so, without
a document to help us, we can come pretty close to determining
what the wages were three and four and five hundred years ago.
Good, so far.  Do we stop there?  No.  We stop looking backward;
we face around and apply the law to the future.  My friends, I can
tell you what people's wages are going to be at any date in the
future you want to know, for hundreds and hundreds of years."

"What, goodman, what!"

"Yes.  In seven hundred years wages will have risen to six times
what they are now, here in your region, and farm hands will be
allowed 3 cents a day, and mechanics 6."

"I would't I might die now and live then!" interrupted Smug, the
wheelwright, with a fine avaricious glow in his eye.

"And that isn't all; they'll get their board besides--such as it is:
it won't bloat them.  Two hundred and fifty years later--pay attention
now--a mechanic's wages will be--mind you, this is law, not
guesswork; a mechanic's wages will then be _twenty_ cents a day!"

There was a general gasp of awed astonishment, Dickon the mason
murmured, with raised eyes and hands:

"More than three weeks' pay for one day's work!"

"Riches!--of a truth, yes, riches!" muttered Marco, his breath
coming quick and short, with excitement.

"Wages will keep on rising, little by little, little by little,
as steadily as a tree grows, and at the end of three hundred and
forty years more there'll be at least _one_ country where the
mechanic's average wage will be _two hundred_ cents a day!"

It knocked them absolutely dumb!  Not a man of them could get
his breath for upwards of two minutes.  Then the coal-burner
said prayerfully:

"Might I but live to see it!"

"It is the income of an earl!" said Smug.

"An earl, say ye?" said Dowley; "ye could say more than that and
speak no lie; there's no earl in the realm of Bagdemagus that hath
an income like to that.  Income of an earl--mf! it's the income
of an angel!"

"Now, then, that is what is going to happen as regards wages.
In that remote day, that man will earn, with _one_ week's work,
that bill of goods which it takes you upwards of _fifty_ weeks to
earn now.  Some other pretty surprising things are going to happen,
too.  Brother Dowley, who is it that determines, every spring,
what the particular wage of each kind of mechanic, laborer, and
servant shall be for that year?"

"Sometimes the courts, sometimes the town council; but most of all,
the magistrate.  Ye may say, in general terms, it is the magistrate
that fixes the wages."

"Doesn't ask any of those poor devils to _help_ him fix their wages
for them, does he?"

"Hm!  That _were_ an idea!  The master that's to pay him the money
is the one that's rightly concerned in that matter, ye will notice."

"Yes--but I thought the other man might have some little trifle
at stake in it, too; and even his wife and children, poor creatures.
The masters are these:  nobles, rich men, the prosperous generally.
These few, who do no work, determine what pay the vast hive shall
have who _do_ work.  You see?  They're a 'combine'--a trade union,
to coin a new phrase--who band themselves together to force their
lowly brother to take what they choose to give.  Thirteen hundred
years hence--so says the unwritten law--the 'combine' will be the
other way, and then how these fine people's posterity will fume
and fret and grit their teeth over the insolent tyranny of trade
unions!  Yes, indeed! the magistrate will tranquilly arrange the
wages from now clear away down into the nineteenth century; and
then all of a sudden the wage-earner will consider that a couple
of thousand years or so is enough of this one-sided sort of thing;
and he will rise up and take a hand in fixing his wages himself.
Ah, he will have a long and bitter account of wrong and humiliation
to settle."

"Do ye believe--"

"That he actually will help to fix his own wages?  Yes, indeed.
And he will be strong and able, then."

"Brave times, brave times, of a truth!" sneered the prosperous smith.

"Oh,--and there's another detail.  In that day, a master may hire
a man for only just one day, or one week, or one month at a time,
if he wants to."

"What?"

"It's true.  Moreover, a magistrate won't be able to force a man
to work for a master a whole year on a stretch whether the man
wants to or not."

"Will there be _no_ law or sense in that day?"

"Both of them, Dowley.  In that day a man will be his own property,
not the property of magistrate and master.  And he can leave town
whenever he wants to, if the wages don't suit him!--and they can't
put him in the pillory for it."

"Perdition catch such an age!" shouted Dowley, in strong indignation.
"An age of dogs, an age barren of reverence for superiors and
respect for authority!  The pillory--"

"Oh, wait, brother; say no good word for that institution.  I think
the pillory ought to be abolished."

"A most strange idea.  Why?"

"Well, I'll tell you why.  Is a man ever put in the pillory for
a capital crime?"

"No."

"Is it right to condemn a man to a slight punishment for a small
offense and then kill him?"

There was no answer.  I had scored my first point!  For the first
time, the smith wasn't up and ready.  The company noticed it.
Good effect.

"You don't answer, brother.  You were about to glorify the pillory
a while ago, and shed some pity on a future age that isn't going
to use it.  I think the pillory ought to be abolished.  What
usually happens when a poor fellow is put in the pillory for some
little offense that didn't amount to anything in the world?  The
mob try to have some fun with him, don't they?"

"Yes."

"They begin by clodding him; and they laugh themselves to pieces
to see him try to dodge one clod and get hit with another?"

"Yes."

"Then they throw dead cats at him, don't they?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, suppose he has a few personal enemies in that mob
and here and there a man or a woman with a secret grudge against
him--and suppose especially that he is unpopular in the community,
for his pride, or his prosperity, or one thing or another--stones
and bricks take the place of clods and cats presently, don't they?"

"There is no doubt of it."

"As a rule he is crippled for life, isn't he?--jaws broken, teeth
smashed out?--or legs mutilated, gangrened, presently cut off?--
or an eye knocked out, maybe both eyes?"

"It is true, God knoweth it."

"And if he is unpopular he can depend on _dying_, right there in
the stocks, can't he?"

"He surely can!  One may not deny it."

"I take it none of _you_ are unpopular--by reason of pride or
insolence, or conspicuous prosperity, or any of those things that
excite envy and malice among the base scum of a village?  _You_
wouldn't think it much of a risk to take a chance in the stocks?"

Dowley winced, visibly.  I judged he was hit.  But he didn't betray
it by any spoken word.  As for the others, they spoke out plainly,
and with strong feeling.  They said they had seen enough of the
stocks to know what a man's chance in them was, and they would
never consent to enter them if they could compromise on a quick
death by hanging.

"Well, to change the subject--for I think I've established my
point that the stocks ought to be abolished.  I think some of our
laws are pretty unfair.  For instance, if I do a thing which ought
to deliver me to the stocks, and you know I did it and yet keep
still and don't report me, _you_ will get the stocks if anybody
informs on you."

"Ah, but that would serve you but right," said Dowley, "for you
_must_ inform.  So saith the law."

The others coincided.

"Well, all right, let it go, since you vote me down.  But there's
one thing which certainly isn't fair.  The magistrate fixes a
mechanic's wage at one cent a day, for instance.  The law says that
if any master shall venture, even under utmost press of business,
to pay anything _over_ that cent a day, even for a single day, he
shall be both fined and pilloried for it; and whoever knows he did
it and doesn't inform, they also shall be fined and pilloried.  Now
it seems to me unfair, Dowley, and a deadly peril to all of us,
that because you thoughtlessly confessed, a while ago, that within
a week you have paid a cent and fifteen mil--"

Oh, I tell _you_ it was a smasher!  You ought to have seen them to
go to pieces, the whole gang.  I had just slipped up on poor
smiling and complacent Dowley so nice and easy and softly, that
he never suspected anything was going to happen till the blow
came crashing down and knocked him all to rags.

A fine effect.  In fact, as fine as any I ever produced, with so
little time to work it up in.

But I saw in a moment that I had overdone the thing a little.
I was expecting to scare them, but I wasn't expecting to scare
them to death.  They were mighty near it, though.  You see they
had been a whole lifetime learning to appreciate the pillory; and
to have that thing staring them in the face, and every one of them
distinctly at the mercy of me, a stranger, if I chose to go and
report--well, it was awful, and they couldn't seem to recover
from the shock, they couldn't seem to pull themselves together.
Pale, shaky, dumb, pitiful?  Why, they weren't any better than
so many dead men.  It was very uncomfortable.  Of course, I thought
they would appeal to me to keep mum, and then we would shake hands,
and take a drink all round, and laugh it off, and there an end.
But no; you see I was an unknown person, among a cruelly oppressed
and suspicious people, a people always accustomed to having advantage
taken of their helplessness, and never expecting just or kind
treatment from any but their own families and very closest intimates.
Appeal to _me_ to be gentle, to be fair, to be generous?  Of course,
they wanted to, but they couldn't dare.



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE YANKEE AND THE KING SOLD AS SLAVES

Well, what had I better do?  Nothing in a hurry, sure.  I must
get up a diversion; anything to employ me while I could think,
and while these poor fellows could have a chance to come to life
again.  There sat Marco, petrified in the act of trying to get
the hang of his miller-gun--turned to stone, just in the attitude
he was in when my pile-driver fell, the toy still gripped in his
unconscious fingers.  So I took it from him and proposed to explain
its mystery.  Mystery! a simple little thing like that; and yet it
was mysterious enough, for that race and that age.

I never saw such an awkward people, with machinery; you see, they
were totally unused to it.  The miller-gun was a little double-barreled
tube of toughened glass, with a neat little trick of a spring
to it, which upon pressure would let a shot escape.  But the shot
wouldn't hurt anybody, it would only drop into your hand.  In the
gun were two sizes--wee mustard-seed shot, and another sort that
were several times larger.  They were money.  The mustard-seed
shot represented milrays, the larger ones mills.  So the gun was
a purse; and very handy, too; you could pay out money in the dark
with it, with accuracy; and you could carry it in your mouth; or
in your vest pocket, if you had one.  I made them of several sizes--
one size so large that it would carry the equivalent of a dollar.
Using shot for money was a good thing for the government; the metal
cost nothing, and the money couldn't be counterfeited, for I was
the only person in the kingdom who knew how to manage a shot tower.
"Paying the shot" soon came to be a common phrase.  Yes, and I knew
it would still be passing men's lips, away down in the nineteenth
century, yet none would suspect how and when it originated.

The king joined us, about this time, mightily refreshed by his nap,
and feeling good.  Anything could make me nervous now, I was so
uneasy--for our lives were in danger; and so it worried me to
detect a complacent something in the king's eye which seemed to
indicate that he had been loading himself up for a performance
of some kind or other; confound it, why must he go and choose
such a time as this?

I was right.  He began, straight off, in the most innocently
artful, and transparent, and lubberly way, to lead up to the
subject of agriculture.  The cold sweat broke out all over me.
I wanted to whisper in his ear, "Man, we are in awful danger!
every moment is worth a principality till we get back these men's
confidence; _don't_ waste any of this golden time."  But of course
I couldn't do it.  Whisper to him?  It would look as if we were
conspiring.  So I had to sit there and look calm and pleasant while
the king stood over that dynamite mine and mooned along about his
damned onions and things.  At first the tumult of my own thoughts,
summoned by the danger-signal and swarming to the rescue from
every quarter of my skull, kept up such a hurrah and confusion
and fifing and drumming that I couldn't take in a word; but
presently when my mob of gathering plans began to crystallize
and fall into position and form line of battle, a sort of order and
quiet ensued and I caught the boom of the king's batteries, as if
out of remote distance:

"--were not the best way, methinks, albeit it is not to be denied
that authorities differ as concerning this point, some contending
that the onion is but an unwholesome berry when stricken early
from the tree--"

The audience showed signs of life, and sought each other's eyes
in a surprised and troubled way.

"--whileas others do yet maintain, with much show of reason, that
this is not of necessity the case, instancing that plums and other
like cereals do be always dug in the unripe state--"

The audience exhibited distinct distress; yes, and also fear.

"--yet are they clearly wholesome, the more especially when one
doth assuage the asperities of their nature by admixture of the
tranquilizing juice of the wayward cabbage--"

The wild light of terror began to glow in these men's eyes, and
one of them muttered, "These be errors, every one--God hath surely
smitten the mind of this farmer."  I was in miserable apprehension;
I sat upon thorns.

"--and further instancing the known truth that in the case of
animals, the young, which may be called the green fruit of the
creature, is the better, all confessing that when a goat is ripe,
his fur doth heat and sore engame his flesh, the which defect,
taken in connection with his several rancid habits, and fulsome
appetites, and godless attitudes of mind, and bilious quality
of morals--"

They rose and went for him!  With a fierce shout, "The one would
betray us, the other is mad!  Kill them!  Kill them!" they flung
themselves upon us.  What joy flamed up in the king's eye!  He
might be lame in agriculture, but this kind of thing was just in
his line.  He had been fasting long, he was hungry for a fight.
He hit the blacksmith a crack under the jaw that lifted him clear
off his feet and stretched him flat on his back.  "St. George for
Britain!" and he downed the wheelwright.  The mason was big, but
I laid him out like nothing.  The three gathered themselves up and
came again; went down again; came again; and kept on repeating
this, with native British pluck, until they were battered to jelly,
reeling with exhaustion, and so blind that they couldn't tell us
from each other; and yet they kept right on, hammering away with
what might was left in them.  Hammering each other--for we stepped
aside and looked on while they rolled, and struggled, and gouged,
and pounded, and bit, with the strict and wordless attention to
business of so many bulldogs.  We looked on without apprehension,
for they were fast getting past ability to go for help against us,
and the arena was far enough from the public road to be safe
from intrusion.

Well, while they were gradually playing out, it suddenly occurred
to me to wonder what had become of Marco.  I looked around; he
was nowhere to be seen.  Oh, but this was ominous!  I pulled the
king's sleeve, and we glided away and rushed for the hut.  No Marco
there, no Phyllis there!  They had gone to the road for help, sure.
I told the king to give his heels wings, and I would explain later.
We made good time across the open ground, and as we darted into
the shelter of the wood I glanced back and saw a mob of excited
peasants swarm into view, with Marco and his wife at their head.
They were making a world of noise, but that couldn't hurt anybody;
the wood was dense, and as soon as we were well into its depths
we would take to a tree and let them whistle.  Ah, but then came
another sound--dogs!  Yes, that was quite another matter.  It
magnified our contract--we must find running water.

We tore along at a good gait, and soon left the sounds far behind
and modified to a murmur.  We struck a stream and darted into it.
We waded swiftly down it, in the dim forest light, for as much
as three hundred yards, and then came across an oak with a great
bough sticking out over the water.  We climbed up on this bough,
and began to work our way along it to the body of the tree; now
we began to hear those sounds more plainly; so the mob had struck
our trail.  For a while the sounds approached pretty fast.  And
then for another while they didn't.  No doubt the dogs had found
the place where we had entered the stream, and were now waltzing
up and down the shores trying to pick up the trail again.

When we were snugly lodged in the tree and curtained with foliage,
the king was satisfied, but I was doubtful.  I believed we could
crawl along a branch and get into the next tree, and I judged it
worth while to try.  We tried it, and made a success of it, though
the king slipped, at the junction, and came near failing to connect.
We got comfortable lodgment and satisfactory concealment among
the foliage, and then we had nothing to do but listen to the hunt.

Presently we heard it coming--and coming on the jump, too; yes,
and down both sides of the stream.  Louder--louder--next minute
it swelled swiftly up into a roar of shoutings, barkings, tramplings,
and swept by like a cyclone.

"I was afraid that the overhanging branch would suggest something
to them," said I, "but I don't mind the disappointment.  Come,
my liege, it were well that we make good use of our time.  We've
flanked them.  Dark is coming on, presently.  If we can cross the
stream and get a good start, and borrow a couple of horses from
somebody's pasture to use for a few hours, we shall be safe enough."

We started down, and got nearly to the lowest limb, when we seemed
to hear the hunt returning.  We stopped to listen.

"Yes," said I, "they're baffled, they've given it up, they're on
their way home.  We will climb back to our roost again, and let
them go by."

So we climbed back.  The king listened a moment and said:

"They still search--I wit the sign.  We did best to abide."

He was right.  He knew more about hunting than I did.  The noise
approached steadily, but not with a rush.  The king said:

"They reason that we were advantaged by no parlous start of them,
and being on foot are as yet no mighty way from where we took
the water."

"Yes, sire, that is about it, I am afraid, though I was hoping
better things."

The noise drew nearer and nearer, and soon the van was drifting
under us, on both sides of the water.  A voice called a halt from
the other bank, and said:

"An they were so minded, they could get to yon tree by this branch
that overhangs, and yet not touch ground.  Ye will do well to send
a man up it."

"Marry, that we will do!"

I was obliged to admire my cuteness in foreseeing this very thing
and swapping trees to beat it.  But, don't you know, there are
some things that can beat smartness and foresight?  Awkwardness
and stupidity can.  The best swordsman in the world doesn't need
to fear the second best swordsman in the world; no, the person
for him to be afraid of is some ignorant antagonist who has never
had a sword in his hand before; he doesn't do the thing he ought
to do, and so the expert isn't prepared for him; he does the thing
he ought not to do; and often it catches the expert out and ends
him on the spot.  Well, how could I, with all my gifts, make any
valuable preparation against a near-sighted, cross-eyed, pudding-headed
clown who would aim himself at the wrong tree and hit the right
one?  And that is what he did.  He went for the wrong tree, which
was, of course, the right one by mistake, and up he started.

Matters were serious now.  We remained still, and awaited developments.
The peasant toiled his difficult way up.  The king raised himself
up and stood; he made a leg ready, and when the comer's head
arrived in reach of it there was a dull thud, and down went the man
floundering to the ground.  There was a wild outbreak of anger
below, and the mob swarmed in from all around, and there we were
treed, and prisoners.  Another man started up; the bridging bough
was detected, and a volunteer started up the tree that furnished
the bridge.  The king ordered me to play Horatius and keep the
bridge.  For a while the enemy came thick and fast; but no matter,
the head man of each procession always got a buffet that dislodged
him as soon as he came in reach.  The king's spirits rose, his joy
was limitless.  He said that if nothing occurred to mar the prospect
we should have a beautiful night, for on this line of tactics we
could hold the tree against the whole country-side.

However, the mob soon came to that conclusion themselves; wherefore
they called off the assault and began to debate other plans.
They had no weapons, but there were plenty of stones, and stones
might answer.  We had no objections.  A stone might possibly
penetrate to us once in a while, but it wasn't very likely; we were
well protected by boughs and foliage, and were not visible from
any good aiming point.  If they would but waste half an hour in
stone-throwing, the dark would come to our help.  We were feeling
very well satisfied.  We could smile; almost laugh.

But we didn't; which was just as well, for we should have been
interrupted.  Before the stones had been raging through the leaves
and bouncing from the boughs fifteen minutes, we began to notice
a smell.  A couple of sniffs of it was enough of an explanation--
it was smoke!  Our game was up at last.  We recognized that.  When
smoke invites you, you have to come.  They raised their pile of
dry brush and damp weeds higher and higher, and when they saw
the thick cloud begin to roll up and smother the tree, they broke
out in a storm of joy-clamors.  I got enough breath to say:

"Proceed, my liege; after you is manners."

The king gasped:

"Follow me down, and then back thyself against one side of the
trunk, and leave me the other.  Then will we fight.  Let each pile
his dead according to his own fashion and taste."

Then he descended, barking and coughing, and I followed.  I struck
the ground an instant after him; we sprang to our appointed places,
and began to give and take with all our might.  The powwow and
racket were prodigious; it was a tempest of riot and confusion and
thick-falling blows.  Suddenly some horsemen tore into the midst
of the crowd, and a voice shouted:

"Hold--or ye are dead men!"

How good it sounded!  The owner of the voice bore all the marks of
a gentleman:  picturesque and costly raiment, the aspect of command,
a hard countenance, with complexion and features marred by dissipation.
The mob fell humbly back, like so many spaniels.  The gentleman
inspected us critically, then said sharply to the peasants:

"What are ye doing to these people?"

"They be madmen, worshipful sir, that have come wandering we know
not whence, and--"

"Ye know not whence?  Do ye pretend ye know them not?"

"Most honored sir, we speak but the truth.  They are strangers
and unknown to any in this region; and they be the most violent
and bloodthirsty madmen that ever--"

"Peace!  Ye know not what ye say.  They are not mad.  Who are ye?
And whence are ye?  Explain."

"We are but peaceful strangers, sir," I said, "and traveling upon
our own concerns.  We are from a far country, and unacquainted
here.  We have purposed no harm; and yet but for your brave
interference and protection these people would have killed us.
As you have divined, sir, we are not mad; neither are we violent
or bloodthirsty."

The gentleman turned to his retinue and said calmly:  "Lash me
these animals to their kennels!"

The mob vanished in an instant; and after them plunged the horsemen,
laying about them with their whips and pitilessly riding down such
as were witless enough to keep the road instead of taking to the
bush.  The shrieks and supplications presently died away in the
distance, and soon the horsemen began to straggle back.  Meantime
the gentleman had been questioning us more closely, but had dug
no particulars out of us.  We were lavish of recognition of the
service he was doing us, but we revealed nothing more than that we
were friendless strangers from a far country.  When the escort were
all returned, the gentleman said to one of his servants:

"Bring the led-horses and mount these people."

"Yes, my lord."

We were placed toward the rear, among the servants.  We traveled
pretty fast, and finally drew rein some time after dark at a
roadside inn some ten or twelve miles from the scene of our
troubles.  My lord went immediately to his room, after ordering
his supper, and we saw no more of him.  At dawn in the morning
we breakfasted and made ready to start.

My lord's chief attendant sauntered forward at that moment with
indolent grace, and said:

"Ye have said ye should continue upon this road, which is our
direction likewise; wherefore my lord, the earl Grip, hath given
commandment that ye retain the horses and ride, and that certain
of us ride with ye a twenty mile to a fair town that hight Cambenet,
whenso ye shall be out of peril."

We could do nothing less than express our thanks and accept the
offer.  We jogged along, six in the party, at a moderate and
comfortable gait, and in conversation learned that my lord Grip
was a very great personage in his own region, which lay a day's
journey beyond Cambenet.  We loitered to such a degree that it was
near the middle of the forenoon when we entered the market square
of the town.  We dismounted, and left our thanks once more for
my lord, and then approached a crowd assembled in the center of
the square, to see what might be the object of interest.  It was the
remnant of that old peregrinating band of slaves!  So they had
been dragging their chains about, all this weary time.  That poor
husband was gone, and also many others; and some few purchases
had been added to the gang.  The king was not interested, and
wanted to move along, but I was absorbed, and full of pity.  I could
not take my eyes away from these worn and wasted wrecks of humanity.
There they sat, grounded upon the ground, silent, uncomplaining,
with bowed heads, a pathetic sight.  And by hideous contrast, a
redundant orator was making a speech to another gathering not thirty
steps away, in fulsome laudation of "our glorious British liberties!"

I was boiling.  I had forgotten I was a plebeian, I was remembering
I was a man.  Cost what it might, I would mount that rostrum and--

Click! the king and I were handcuffed together!  Our companions,
those servants, had done it; my lord Grip stood looking on.  The
king burst out in a fury, and said:

"What meaneth this ill-mannered jest?"

My lord merely said to his head miscreant, coolly:

"Put up the slaves and sell them!"

_Slaves!_  The word had a new sound--and how unspeakably awful!  The
king lifted his manacles and brought them down with a deadly force;
but my lord was out of the way when they arrived.  A dozen of
the rascal's servants sprang forward, and in a moment we were
helpless, with our hands bound behind us.  We so loudly and so
earnestly proclaimed ourselves freemen, that we got the interested
attention of that liberty-mouthing orator and his patriotic crowd,
and they gathered about us and assumed a very determined attitude.
The orator said:

"If, indeed, ye are freemen, ye have nought to fear--the God-given
liberties of Britain are about ye for your shield and shelter!
(Applause.)  Ye shall soon see. Bring forth your proofs."

"What proofs?"

"Proof that ye are freemen."

Ah--I remembered!  I came to myself; I said nothing.  But the
king stormed out:

"Thou'rt insane, man.  It were better, and more in reason, that
this thief and scoundrel here prove that we are _not_ freemen."

You see, he knew his own laws just as other people so often know
the laws; by words, not by effects.  They take a _meaning_, and get
to be very vivid, when you come to apply them to yourself.

All hands shook their heads and looked disappointed; some turned
away, no longer interested.  The orator said--and this time in the
tones of business, not of sentiment:

"An ye do not know your country's laws, it were time ye learned
them.  Ye are strangers to us; ye will not deny that. Ye may be
freemen, we do not deny that; but also ye may be slaves.  The law
is clear:  it doth not require the claimant to prove ye are slaves,
it requireth you to prove ye are not."

I said:

"Dear sir, give us only time to send to Astolat; or give us only
time to send to the Valley of Holiness--"

"Peace, good man, these are extraordinary requests, and you may
not hope to have them granted.  It would cost much time, and would
unwarrantably inconvenience your master--"

"_Master_, idiot!" stormed the king.  "I have no master, I myself
am the m--"

"Silence, for God's sake!"

I got the words out in time to stop the king.  We were in trouble
enough already; it could not help us any to give these people
the notion that we were lunatics.

There is no use in stringing out the details.  The earl put us up
and sold us at auction.  This same infernal law had existed in
our own South in my own time, more than thirteen hundred years
later, and under it hundreds of freemen who could not prove that
they were freemen had been sold into lifelong slavery without
the circumstance making any particular impression upon me; but the
minute law and the auction block came into my personal experience,
a thing which had been merely improper before became suddenly
hellish.  Well, that's the way we are made.

Yes, we were sold at auction, like swine.  In a big town and an
active market we should have brought a good price; but this place
was utterly stagnant and so we sold at a figure which makes me
ashamed, every time I think of it.  The King of England brought
seven dollars, and his prime minister nine; whereas the king was
easily worth twelve dollars and I as easily worth fifteen.  But
that is the way things always go; if you force a sale on a dull
market, I don't care what the property is, you are going to make
a poor business of it, and you can make up your mind to it.  If
the earl had had wit enough to--

However, there is no occasion for my working my sympathies up
on his account.  Let him go, for the present; I took his number,
so to speak.

The slave-dealer bought us both, and hitched us onto that long
chain of his, and we constituted the rear of his procession.  We
took up our line of march and passed out of Cambenet at noon;
and it seemed to me unaccountably strange and odd that the King
of England and his chief minister, marching manacled and fettered
and yoked, in a slave convoy, could move by all manner of idle men
and women, and under windows where sat the sweet and the lovely,
and yet never attract a curious eye, never provoke a single remark.
Dear, dear, it only shows that there is nothing diviner about a king
than there is about a tramp, after all.  He is just a cheap and
hollow artificiality when you don't know he is a king.  But reveal
his quality, and dear me it takes your very breath away to look
at him.  I reckon we are all fools. Born so, no doubt.



CHAPTER XXXV

A PITIFUL INCIDENT

It's a world of surprises.  The king brooded; this was natural.
What would he brood about, should you say?  Why, about the prodigious
nature of his fall, of course--from the loftiest place in the world
to the lowest; from the most illustrious station in the world to
the obscurest; from the grandest vocation among men to the basest.
No, I take my oath that the thing that graveled him most, to start
with, was not this, but the price he had fetched!  He couldn't
seem to get over that seven dollars.  Well, it stunned me so, when
I first found it out, that I couldn't believe it; it didn't seem
natural.  But as soon as my mental sight cleared and I got a right
focus on it, I saw I was mistaken; it _was_ natural.  For this
reason:  a king is a mere artificiality, and so a king's feelings,
like the impulses of an automatic doll, are mere artificialities;
but as a man, he is a reality, and his feelings, as a man, are
real, not phantoms.  It shames the average man to be valued below
his own estimate of his worth, and the king certainly wasn't
anything more than an average man, if he was up that high.

Confound him, he wearied me with arguments to show that in anything
like a fair market he would have fetched twenty-five dollars,
sure--a thing which was plainly nonsense, and full or the baldest
conceit; I wasn't worth it myself.  But it was tender ground for
me to argue on.  In fact, I had to simply shirk argument and do
the diplomatic instead.  I had to throw conscience aside, and
brazenly concede that he ought to have brought twenty-five dollars;
whereas I was quite well aware that in all the ages, the world had
never seen a king that was worth half the money, and during the
next thirteen centuries wouldn't see one that was worth the fourth
of it.  Yes, he tired me.  If he began to talk about the crops;
or about the recent weather; or about the condition of politics;
or about dogs, or cats, or morals, or theology--no matter what--
I sighed, for I knew what was coming; he was going to get out of it
a palliation of that tiresome seven-dollar sale.  Wherever we
halted where there was a crowd, he would give me a look which
said plainly:  "if that thing could be tried over again now, with
this kind of folk, you would see a different result."  Well, when
he was first sold, it secretly tickled me to see him go for seven
dollars; but before he was done with his sweating and worrying
I wished he had fetched a hundred.  The thing never got a chance
to die, for every day, at one place or another, possible purchasers
looked us over, and, as often as any other way, their comment on
the king was something like this:

"Here's a two-dollar-and-a-half chump with a thirty-dollar style.
Pity but style was marketable."

At last this sort of remark produced an evil result.  Our owner
was a practical person and he perceived that this defect must be
mended if he hoped to find a purchaser for the king.  So he went
to work to take the style out of his sacred majesty.  I could have
given the man some valuable advice, but I didn't; you mustn't
volunteer advice to a slave-driver unless you want to damage
the cause you are arguing for.  I had found it a sufficiently
difficult job to reduce the king's style to a peasant's style,
even when he was a willing and anxious pupil; now then, to undertake
to reduce the king's style to a slave's style--and by force--go to!
it was a stately contract.  Never mind the details--it will save me
trouble to let you imagine them.  I will only remark that at the
end of a week there was plenty of evidence that lash and club
and fist had done their work well; the king's body was a sight
to see--and to weep over; but his spirit?--why, it wasn't even
phased.  Even that dull clod of a slave-driver was able to see
that there can be such a thing as a slave who will remain a man
till he dies; whose bones you can break, but whose manhood you
can't.  This man found that from his first effort down to his
latest, he couldn't ever come within reach of the king, but the
king was ready to plunge for him, and did it.  So he gave up
at last, and left the king in possession of his style unimpaired.
The fact is, the king was a good deal more than a king, he was
a man; and when a man is a man, you can't knock it out of him.

We had a rough time for a month, tramping to and fro in the earth,
and suffering.  And what Englishman was the most interested in
the slavery question by that time?  His grace the king!  Yes; from
being the most indifferent, he was become the most interested.
He was become the bitterest hater of the institution I had ever
heard talk.  And so I ventured to ask once more a question which
I had asked years before and had gotten such a sharp answer that
I had not thought it prudent to meddle in the matter further.
Would he abolish slavery?

His answer was as sharp as before, but it was music this time;
I shouldn't ever wish to hear pleasanter, though the profanity
was not good, being awkwardly put together, and with the crash-word
almost in the middle instead of at the end, where, of course, it
ought to have been.

I was ready and willing to get free now; I hadn't wanted to get
free any sooner.  No, I cannot quite say that.  I had wanted to,
but I had not been willing to take desperate chances, and had
always dissuaded the king from them.  But now--ah, it was a new
atmosphere!  Liberty would be worth any cost that might be put
upon it now.  I set about a plan, and was straightway charmed
with it.  It would require time, yes, and patience, too, a great
deal of both.  One could invent quicker ways, and fully as sure
ones; but none that would be as picturesque as this; none that
could be made so dramatic.  And so I was not going to give this
one up.  It might delay us months, but no matter, I would carry
it out or break something.

Now and then we had an adventure.  One night we were overtaken
by a snow-storm while still a mile from the village we were making
for.  Almost instantly we were shut up as in a fog, the driving
snow was so thick.  You couldn't see a thing, and we were soon
lost.  The slave-driver lashed us desperately, for he saw ruin
before him, but his lashings only made matters worse, for they
drove us further from the road and from likelihood of succor.
So we had to stop at last and slump down in the snow where we
were.  The storm continued until toward midnight, then ceased.
By this time two of our feebler men and three of our women were
dead, and others past moving and threatened with death.  Our
master was nearly beside himself.  He stirred up the living, and
made us stand, jump, slap ourselves, to restore our circulation,
and he helped as well as he could with his whip.

Now came a diversion.  We heard shrieks and yells, and soon a
woman came running and crying; and seeing our group, she flung
herself into our midst and begged for protection.  A mob of people
came tearing after her, some with torches, and they said she was a
witch who had caused several cows to die by a strange disease,
and practiced her arts by help of a devil in the form of a black
cat.  This poor woman had been stoned until she hardly looked
human, she was so battered and bloody.  The mob wanted to burn her.

Well, now, what do you suppose our master did?  When we closed
around this poor creature to shelter her, he saw his chance.  He
said, burn her here, or they shouldn't have her at all.  Imagine
that!  They were willing.  They fastened her to a post; they
brought wood and piled it about her; they applied the torch while
she shrieked and pleaded and strained her two young daughters
to her breast; and our brute, with a heart solely for business,
lashed us into position about the stake and warmed us into life
and commercial value by the same fire which took away the innocent
life of that poor harmless mother.  That was the sort of master we
had.  I took _his_ number.  That snow-storm cost him nine of his
flock; and he was more brutal to us than ever, after that, for
many days together, he was so enraged over his loss.

We had adventures all along.  One day we ran into a procession.
And such a procession!  All the riffraff of the kingdom seemed
to be comprehended in it; and all drunk at that.  In the van was
a cart with a coffin in it, and on the coffin sat a comely young
girl of about eighteen suckling a baby, which she squeezed to her
breast in a passion of love every little while, and every little
while wiped from its face the tears which her eyes rained down
upon it; and always the foolish little thing smiled up at her,
happy and content, kneading her breast with its dimpled fat hand,
which she patted and fondled right over her breaking heart.

Men and women, boys and girls, trotted along beside or after
the cart, hooting, shouting profane and ribald remarks, singing
snatches of foul song, skipping, dancing--a very holiday of
hellions, a sickening sight.  We had struck a suburb of London,
outside the walls, and this was a sample of one sort of London
society.  Our master secured a good place for us near the gallows.
A priest was in attendance, and he helped the girl climb up, and
said comforting words to her, and made the under-sheriff provide
a stool for her.  Then he stood there by her on the gallows, and
for a moment looked down upon the mass of upturned faces at his
feet, then out over the solid pavement of heads that stretched away
on every side occupying the vacancies far and near, and then began
to tell the story of the case.  And there was pity in his voice--
how seldom a sound that was in that ignorant and savage land!
I remember every detail of what he said, except the words he said
it in; and so I change it into my own words:

"Law is intended to mete out justice.  Sometimes it fails. This
cannot be helped.  We can only grieve, and be resigned, and pray
for the soul of him who falls unfairly by the arm of the law, and
that his fellows may be few.  A law sends this poor young thing
to death--and it is right.  But another law had placed her where
she must commit her crime or starve with her child--and before God
that law is responsible for both her crime and her ignominious death!

"A little while ago this young thing, this child of eighteen years,
was as happy a wife and mother as any in England; and her lips
were blithe with song, which is the native speech of glad and
innocent hearts.  Her young husband was as happy as she; for he was
doing his whole duty, he worked early and late at his handicraft,
his bread was honest bread well and fairly earned, he was prospering,
he was furnishing shelter and sustenance to his family, he was
adding his mite to the wealth of the nation.  By consent of a
treacherous law, instant destruction fell upon this holy home and
swept it away!  That young husband was waylaid and impressed,
and sent to sea.  The wife knew nothing of it.  She sought him
everywhere, she moved the hardest hearts with the supplications
of her tears, the broken eloquence of her despair.  Weeks dragged
by, she watching, waiting, hoping, her mind going slowly to wreck
under the burden of her misery.  Little by little all her small
possessions went for food.  When she could no longer pay her rent,
they turned her out of doors.  She begged, while she had strength;
when she was starving at last, and her milk failing, she stole a
piece of linen cloth of the value of a fourth part of a cent,
thinking to sell it and save her child.  But she was seen by the
owner of the cloth.  She was put in jail and brought to trial.
The man testified to the facts.  A plea was made for her, and her
sorrowful story was told in her behalf.  She spoke, too, by
permission, and said she did steal the cloth, but that her mind
was so disordered of late by trouble that when she was overborne
with hunger all acts, criminal or other, swam meaningless through
her brain and she knew nothing rightly, except that she was so
hungry!  For a moment all were touched, and there was disposition
to deal mercifully with her, seeing that she was so young and
friendless, and her case so piteous, and the law that robbed her
of her support to blame as being the first and only cause of her
transgression; but the prosecuting officer replied that whereas
these things were all true, and most pitiful as well, still there
was much small theft in these days, and mistimed mercy here would
be a danger to property--oh, my God, is there no property in ruined
homes, and orphaned babes, and broken hearts that British law
holds precious!--and so he must require sentence.

"When the judge put on his black cap, the owner of the stolen
linen rose trembling up, his lip quivering, his face as gray as
ashes; and when the awful words came, he cried out, 'Oh, poor
child, poor child, I did not know it was death!' and fell as a
tree falls.  When they lifted him up his reason was gone; before
the sun was set, he had taken his own life.  A kindly man; a man
whose heart was right, at bottom; add his murder to this that
is to be now done here; and charge them both where they belong--
to the rulers and the bitter laws of Britain.  The time is come, my
child; let me pray over thee--not _for_ thee, dear abused poor heart
and innocent, but for them that be guilty of thy ruin and death,
who need it more."

After his prayer they put the noose around the young girl's neck,
and they had great trouble to adjust the knot under her ear,
because she was devouring the baby all the time, wildly kissing it,
and snatching it to her face and her breast, and drenching it
with tears, and half moaning, half shrieking all the while, and the
baby crowing, and laughing, and kicking its feet with delight over
what it took for romp and play.  Even the hangman couldn't stand it,
but turned away.  When all was ready the priest gently pulled and
tugged and forced the child out of the mother's arms, and stepped
quickly out of her reach; but she clasped her hands, and made a
wild spring toward him, with a shriek; but the rope--and the
under-sheriff--held her short.  Then she went on her knees and
stretched out her hands and cried:

"One more kiss--oh, my God, one more, one more,--it is the dying
that begs it!"

She got it; she almost smothered the little thing.  And when they
got it away again, she cried out:

"Oh, my child, my darling, it will die!  It has no home, it has
no father, no friend, no mother--"

"It has them all!" said that good priest.  "All these will I be
to it till I die."

You should have seen her face then!  Gratitude?  Lord, what do
you want with words to express that?  Words are only painted fire;
a look is the fire itself.  She gave that look, and carried it away
to the treasury of heaven, where all things that are divine belong.



CHAPTER XXXVI

AN ENCOUNTER IN THE DARK

London--to a slave--was a sufficiently interesting place.  It was
merely a great big village; and mainly mud and thatch.  The streets
were muddy, crooked, unpaved.  The populace was an ever flocking
and drifting swarm of rags, and splendors, of nodding plumes and
shining armor.  The king had a palace there; he saw the outside
of it.  It made him sigh; yes, and swear a little, in a poor
juvenile sixth century way.  We saw knights and grandees whom
we knew, but they didn't know us in our rags and dirt and raw
welts and bruises, and wouldn't have recognized us if we had hailed
them, nor stopped to answer, either, it being unlawful to speak
with slaves on a chain.  Sandy passed within ten yards of me on
a mule--hunting for me, I imagined.  But the thing which clean
broke my heart was something which happened in front of our old
barrack in a square, while we were enduring the spectacle of a man
being boiled to death in oil for counterfeiting pennies.  It was
the sight of a newsboy--and I couldn't get at him!  Still, I had
one comfort--here was proof that Clarence was still alive and
banging away.  I meant to be with him before long; the thought was
full of cheer.

I had one little glimpse of another thing, one day, which gave me
a great uplift.  It was a wire stretching from housetop to housetop.
Telegraph or telephone, sure.  I did very much wish I had a little
piece of it.  It was just what I needed, in order to carry out my
project of escape.  My idea was to get loose some night, along with
the king, then gag and bind our master, change clothes with him,
batter him into the aspect of a stranger, hitch him to the slave-chain,
assume possession of the property, march to Camelot, and--

But you get my idea; you see what a stunning dramatic surprise
I would wind up with at the palace.  It was all feasible, if
I could only get hold of a slender piece of iron which I could
shape into a lock-pick.  I could then undo the lumbering padlocks
with which our chains were fastened, whenever I might choose.
But I never had any luck; no such thing ever happened to fall
in my way.  However, my chance came at last.  A gentleman who
had come twice before to dicker for me, without result, or indeed
any approach to a result, came again.  I was far from expecting
ever to belong to him, for the price asked for me from the time
I was first enslaved was exorbitant, and always provoked either
anger or derision, yet my master stuck stubbornly to it--twenty-two
dollars.  He wouldn't bate a cent.  The king was greatly admired,
because of his grand physique, but his kingly style was against
him, and he wasn't salable; nobody wanted that kind of a slave.
I considered myself safe from parting from him because of my
extravagant price.  No, I was not expecting to ever belong to
this gentleman whom I have spoken of, but he had something which
I expected would belong to me eventually, if he would but visit
us often enough.  It was a steel thing with a long pin to it, with
which his long cloth outside garment was fastened together in
front.  There were three of them. He had disappointed me twice,
because he did not come quite close enough to me to make my project
entirely safe; but this time I succeeded; I captured the lower
clasp of the three, and when he missed it he thought he had lost
it on the way.

I had a chance to be glad about a minute, then straightway a chance
to be sad again.  For when the purchase was about to fail, as usual,
the master suddenly spoke up and said what would be worded thus--
in modern English:

"I'll tell you what I'll do.  I'm tired supporting these two for
no good.  Give me twenty-two dollars for this one, and I'll throw
the other one in."

The king couldn't get his breath, he was in such a fury.  He began
to choke and gag, and meantime the master and the gentleman moved
away discussing.

"An ye will keep the offer open--"

"'Tis open till the morrow at this hour."

"Then I will answer you at that time," said the gentleman, and
disappeared, the master following him.

I had a time of it to cool the king down, but I managed it.
I whispered in his ear, to this effect:

"Your grace _will_ go for nothing, but after another fashion.  And
so shall I.  To-night we shall both be free."

"Ah!  How is that?"

"With this thing which I have stolen, I will unlock these locks
and cast off these chains to-night.  When he comes about nine-thirty
to inspect us for the night, we will seize him, gag him, batter
him, and early in the morning we will march out of this town,
proprietors of this caravan of slaves."

That was as far as I went, but the king was charmed and satisfied.
That evening we waited patiently for our fellow-slaves to get
to sleep and signify it by the usual sign, for you must not take
many chances on those poor fellows if you can avoid it.  It is
best to keep your own secrets.  No doubt they fidgeted only about
as usual, but it didn't seem so to me.  It seemed to me that they
were going to be forever getting down to their regular snoring.
As the time dragged on I got nervously afraid we shouldn't have
enough of it left for our needs; so I made several premature
attempts, and merely delayed things by it; for I couldn't seem
to touch a padlock, there in the dark, without starting a rattle
out of it which interrupted somebody's sleep and made him turn
over and wake some more of the gang.

But finally I did get my last iron off, and was a free man once
more.  I took a good breath of relief, and reached for the king's
irons.  Too late! in comes the master, with a light in one hand
and his heavy walking-staff in the other.  I snuggled close among
the wallow of snorers, to conceal as nearly as possible that I was
naked of irons; and I kept a sharp lookout and prepared to spring
for my man the moment he should bend over me.

But he didn't approach.  He stopped, gazed absently toward our
dusky mass a minute, evidently thinking about something else;
then set down his light, moved musingly toward the door, and before
a body could imagine what he was going to do, he was out of the
door and had closed it behind him.

"Quick!" said the king.  "Fetch him back!"

Of course, it was the thing to do, and I was up and out in a
moment.  But, dear me, there were no lamps in those days, and
it was a dark night.  But I glimpsed a dim figure a few steps
away.  I darted for it, threw myself upon it, and then there was
a state of things and lively!  We fought and scuffled and struggled,
and drew a crowd in no time.  They took an immense interest in
the fight and encouraged us all they could, and, in fact, couldn't
have been pleasanter or more cordial if it had been their own
fight.  Then a tremendous row broke out behind us, and as much
as half of our audience left us, with a rush, to invest some
sympathy in that.  Lanterns began to swing in all directions;
it was the watch gathering from far and near.  Presently a halberd
fell across my back, as a reminder, and I knew what it meant.
I was in custody.  So was my adversary.  We were marched off toward
prison, one on each side of the watchman.  Here was disaster,
here was a fine scheme gone to sudden destruction!  I tried to
imagine what would happen when the master should discover that
it was I who had been fighting him; and what would happen if they
jailed us together in the general apartment for brawlers and petty
law-breakers, as was the custom; and what might--

Just then my antagonist turned his face around in my direction,
the freckled light from the watchman's tin lantern fell on it,
and, by George, he was the wrong man!



CHAPTER XXXVII

AN AWFUL PREDICAMENT

Sleep?  It was impossible.  It would naturally have been impossible
in that noisome cavern of a jail, with its mangy crowd of drunken,
quarrelsome, and song-singing rapscallions.  But the thing that
made sleep all the more a thing not to be dreamed of, was my
racking impatience to get out of this place and find out the whole
size of what might have happened yonder in the slave-quarters
in consequence of that intolerable miscarriage of mine.

It was a long night, but the morning got around at last.  I made
a full and frank explanation to the court.  I said I was a slave,
the property of the great Earl Grip, who had arrived just after
dark at the Tabard inn in the village on the other side of the
water, and had stopped there over night, by compulsion, he being
taken deadly sick with a strange and sudden disorder.  I had been
ordered to cross to the city in all haste and bring the best
physician; I was doing my best; naturally I was running with all
my might; the night was dark, I ran against this common person
here, who seized me by the throat and began to pummel me, although
I told him my errand, and implored him, for the sake of the great
earl my master's mortal peril--

The common person interrupted and said it was a lie; and was going
to explain how I rushed upon him and attacked him without a word--

"Silence, sirrah!" from the court.  "Take him hence and give him
a few stripes whereby to teach him how to treat the servant of
a nobleman after a different fashion another time.  Go!"

Then the court begged my pardon, and hoped I would not fail
to tell his lordship it was in no wise the court's fault that this
high-handed thing had happened.  I said I would make it all right,
and so took my leave.  Took it just in time, too; he was starting
to ask me why I didn't fetch out these facts the moment I was
arrested.  I said I would if I had thought of it--which was true--
but that I was so battered by that man that all my wit was knocked
out of me--and so forth and so on, and got myself away, still
mumbling.  I didn't wait for breakfast.  No grass grew under my
feet.  I was soon at the slave quarters.  Empty--everybody gone!
That is, everybody except one body--the slave-master's.  It lay
there all battered to pulp; and all about were the evidences of
a terrific fight.  There was a rude board coffin on a cart at
the door, and workmen, assisted by the police, were thinning a
road through the gaping crowd in order that they might bring it in.

I picked out a man humble enough in life to condescend to talk
with one so shabby as I, and got his account of the matter.

"There were sixteen slaves here.  They rose against their master
in the night, and thou seest how it ended."

"Yes.  How did it begin?"

"There was no witness but the slaves.  They said the slave that
was most valuable got free of his bonds and escaped in some strange
way--by magic arts 'twas thought, by reason that he had no key,
and the locks were neither broke nor in any wise injured.  When
the master discovered his loss, he was mad with despair, and threw
himself upon his people with his heavy stick, who resisted and
brake his back and in other and divers ways did give him hurts
that brought him swiftly to his end."

"This is dreadful.  It will go hard with the slaves, no doubt,
upon the trial."

"Marry, the trial is over."

"Over!"

"Would they be a week, think you--and the matter so simple?  They
were not the half of a quarter of an hour at it."

"Why, I don't see how they could determine which were the guilty
ones in so short a time."

"_Which_ ones?  Indeed, they considered not particulars like to that.
They condemned them in a body.  Wit ye not the law?--which men
say the Romans left behind them here when they went--that if one
slave killeth his master all the slaves of that man must die for it."

"True.  I had forgotten.  And when will these die?"

"Belike within a four and twenty hours; albeit some say they will
wait a pair of days more, if peradventure they may find the missing
one meantime."

The missing one!  It made me feel uncomfortable.

"Is it likely they will find him?"

"Before the day is spent--yes.  They seek him everywhere.  They
stand at the gates of the town, with certain of the slaves who
will discover him to them if he cometh, and none can pass out
but he will be first examined."

"Might one see the place where the rest are confined?"

"The outside of it--yes.  The inside of it--but ye will not want
to see that."

I took the address of that prison for future reference and then
sauntered off.  At the first second-hand clothing shop I came to,
up a back street, I got a rough rig suitable for a common seaman
who might be going on a cold voyage, and bound up my face with
a liberal bandage, saying I had a toothache.  This concealed my
worst bruises.  It was a transformation.  I no longer resembled my
former self.  Then I struck out for that wire, found it and
followed it to its den.  It was a little room over a butcher's
shop--which meant that business wasn't very brisk in the telegraphic
line.  The young chap in charge was drowsing at his table.  I locked
the door and put the vast key in my bosom.  This alarmed the young
fellow, and he was going to make a noise; but I said:

"Save your wind; if you open your mouth you are dead, sure.  Tackle
your instrument.  Lively, now!  Call Camelot."

"This doth amaze me!  How should such as you know aught of such
matters as--"

"Call Camelot!  I am a desperate man.  Call Camelot, or get away
from the instrument and I will do it myself."

"What--you?"

"Yes--certainly.  Stop gabbling.  Call the palace."

He made the call.

"Now, then, call Clarence."

"Clarence _who_?"

"Never mind Clarence who.  Say you want Clarence; you'll get
an answer."

He did so.  We waited five nerve-straining minutes--ten minutes--
how long it did seem!--and then came a click that was as familiar
to me as a human voice; for Clarence had been my own pupil.

"Now, my lad, vacate!  They would have known _my_ touch, maybe,
and so your call was surest; but I'm all right now."

He vacated the place and cocked his ear to listen--but it didn't
win.  I used a cipher.  I didn't waste any time in sociabilities
with Clarence, but squared away for business, straight-off--thus:

"The king is here and in danger.  We were captured and brought
here as slaves.  We should not be able to prove our identity--
and the fact is, I am not in a position to try.  Send a telegram
for the palace here which will carry conviction with it."

His answer came straight back:

"They don't know anything about the telegraph; they haven't had
any experience yet, the line to London is so new.  Better not
venture that.  They might hang you.  Think up something else."

Might hang us!  Little he knew how closely he was crowding the
facts.  I couldn't think up anything for the moment.  Then an idea
struck me, and I started it along:

"Send five hundred picked knights with Launcelot in the lead; and
send them on the jump.  Let them enter by the southwest gate, and
look out for the man with a white cloth around his right arm."

The answer was prompt:

"They shall start in half an hour."

"All right, Clarence; now tell this lad here that I'm a friend
of yours and a dead-head; and that he must be discreet and say
nothing about this visit of mine."

The instrument began to talk to the youth and I hurried away.
I fell to ciphering.  In half an hour it would be nine o'clock.
Knights and horses in heavy armor couldn't travel very fast.
These would make the best time they could, and now that the ground
was in good condition, and no snow or mud, they would probably
make a seven-mile gait; they would have to change horses a couple
of times; they would arrive about six, or a little after; it would
still be plenty light enough; they would see the white cloth which
I should tie around my right arm, and I would take command.  We
would surround that prison and have the king out in no time.
It would be showy and picturesque enough, all things considered,
though I would have preferred noonday, on account of the more
theatrical aspect the thing would have.

Now, then, in order to increase the strings to my bow, I thought
I would look up some of those people whom I had formerly recognized,
and make myself known.  That would help us out of our scrape,
without the knights.  But I must proceed cautiously, for it was
a risky business.  I must get into sumptuous raiment, and it
wouldn't do to run and jump into it.  No, I must work up to it
by degrees, buying suit after suit of clothes, in shops wide apart,
and getting a little finer article with each change, until I should
finally reach silk and velvet, and be ready for my project.  So
I started.

But the scheme fell through like scat!  The first corner I turned,
I came plump upon one of our slaves, snooping around with a watchman.
I coughed at the moment, and he gave me a sudden look that bit right
into my marrow.  I judge he thought he had heard that cough before.
I turned immediately into a shop and worked along down the counter,
pricing things and watching out of the corner of my eye.  Those
people had stopped, and were talking together and looking in at
the door.  I made up my mind to get out the back way, if there
was a back way, and I asked the shopwoman if I could step out
there and look for the escaped slave, who was believed to be in
hiding back there somewhere, and said I was an officer in disguise,
and my pard was yonder at the door with one of the murderers in
charge, and would she be good enough to step there and tell him
he needn't wait, but had better go at once to the further end of
the back alley and be ready to head him off when I rousted him out.

She was blazing with eagerness to see one of those already celebrated
murderers, and she started on the errand at once.  I slipped out
the back way, locked the door behind me, put the key in my pocket
and started off, chuckling to myself and comfortable.

Well, I had gone and spoiled it again, made another mistake.
A double one, in fact.  There were plenty of ways to get rid of
that officer by some simple and plausible device, but no, I must
pick out a picturesque one; it is the crying defect of my character.
And then, I had ordered my procedure upon what the officer, being
human, would _naturally_ do; whereas when you are least expecting it,
a man will now and then go and do the very thing which it's _not_
natural for him to do.  The natural thing for the officer to do,
in this case, was to follow straight on my heels; he would find
a stout oaken door, securely locked, between him and me; before
he could break it down, I should be far away and engaged in slipping
into a succession of baffling disguises which would soon get me
into a sort of raiment which was a surer protection from meddling
law-dogs in Britain than any amount of mere innocence and purity
of character.  But instead of doing the natural thing, the officer
took me at my word, and followed my instructions.  And so, as I
came trotting out of that cul de sac, full of satisfaction with my
own cleverness, he turned the corner and I walked right into his
handcuffs.  If I had known it was a cul de sac--however, there
isn't any excusing a blunder like that, let it go.  Charge it up
to profit and loss.

Of course, I was indignant, and swore I had just come ashore from
a long voyage, and all that sort of thing--just to see, you know,
if it would deceive that slave.  But it didn't.  He knew me.  Then
I reproached him for betraying me.  He was more surprised than
hurt.  He stretched his eyes wide, and said:

"What, wouldst have me let thee, of all men, escape and not hang
with us, when thou'rt the very _cause_ of our hanging?  Go to!"

"Go to" was their way of saying "I should smile!" or "I like that!"
Queer talkers, those people.

Well, there was a sort of bastard justice in his view of the case,
and so I dropped the matter.  When you can't cure a disaster by
argument, what is the use to argue?  It isn't my way.  So I only said:

"You're not going to be hanged.  None of us are."

Both men laughed, and the slave said:

"Ye have not ranked as a fool--before.  You might better keep
your reputation, seeing the strain would not be for long."

"It will stand it, I reckon.  Before to-morrow we shall be out
of prison, and free to go where we will, besides."

The witty officer lifted at his left ear with his thumb, made
a rasping noise in his throat, and said:

"Out of prison--yes--ye say true.  And free likewise to go where
ye will, so ye wander not out of his grace the Devil's sultry realm."

I kept my temper, and said, indifferently:

"Now I suppose you really think we are going to hang within
a day or two."

"I thought it not many minutes ago, for so the thing was decided
and proclaimed."

"Ah, then you've changed your mind, is that it?"

"Even that.  I only _thought_, then; I _know_, now."

I felt sarcastical, so I said:

"Oh, sapient servant of the law, condescend to tell us, then,
what you _know_."

"That ye will all be hanged _to-day_, at mid-afternoon!  Oho! that
shot hit home!  Lean upon me."

The fact is I did need to lean upon somebody.  My knights couldn't
arrive in time.  They would be as much as three hours too late.
Nothing in the world could save the King of England; nor me, which
was more important.  More important, not merely to me, but to
the nation--the only nation on earth standing ready to blossom
into civilization.  I was sick.  I said no more, there wasn't
anything to say.  I knew what the man meant; that if the missing
slave was found, the postponement would be revoked, the execution
take place to-day.  Well, the missing slave was found.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

SIR LAUNCELOT AND KNIGHTS TO THE RESCUE

Nearing four in the afternoon.  The scene was just outside the
walls of London.  A cool, comfortable, superb day, with a brilliant
sun; the kind of day to make one want to live, not die.  The
multitude was prodigious and far-reaching; and yet we fifteen
poor devils hadn't a friend in it.  There was something painful
in that thought, look at it how you might.  There we sat, on our
tall scaffold, the butt of the hate and mockery of all those
enemies.  We were being made a holiday spectacle.  They had built
a sort of grand stand for the nobility and gentry, and these were
there in full force, with their ladies.  We recognized a good
many of them.

The crowd got a brief and unexpected dash of diversion out of
the king.  The moment we were freed of our bonds he sprang up,
in his fantastic rags, with face bruised out of all recognition, and
proclaimed himself Arthur, King of Britain, and denounced the
awful penalties of treason upon every soul there present if hair
of his sacred head were touched.  It startled and surprised him
to hear them break into a vast roar of laughter.  It wounded his
dignity, and he locked himself up in silence.  Then, although
the crowd begged him to go on, and tried to provoke him to it
by catcalls, jeers, and shouts of

"Let him speak!  The king!  The king! his humble subjects hunger
and thirst for words of wisdom out of the mouth of their master
his Serene and Sacred Raggedness!"

But it went for nothing.  He put on all his majesty and sat under
this rain of contempt and insult unmoved.  He certainly was great
in his way.  Absently, I had taken off my white bandage and wound
it about my right arm.  When the crowd noticed this, they began
upon me.  They said:

"Doubtless this sailor-man is his minister--observe his costly
badge of office!"

I let them go on until they got tired, and then I said:

"Yes, I am his minister, The Boss; and to-morrow you will hear
that from Camelot which--"

I got no further.  They drowned me out with joyous derision.  But
presently there was silence; for the sheriffs of London, in their
official robes, with their subordinates, began to make a stir which
indicated that business was about to begin.  In the hush which
followed, our crime was recited, the death warrant read, then
everybody uncovered while a priest uttered a prayer.

Then a slave was blindfolded; the hangman unslung his rope.  There
lay the smooth road below us, we upon one side of it, the banked
multitude wailing its other side--a good clear road, and kept free
by the police--how good it would be to see my five hundred horsemen
come tearing down it!  But no, it was out of the possibilities.
I followed its receding thread out into the distance--not a horseman
on it, or sign of one.

There was a jerk, and the slave hung dangling; dangling and hideously
squirming, for his limbs were not tied.

A second rope was unslung, in a moment another slave was dangling.

In a minute a third slave was struggling in the air.  It was
dreadful.  I turned away my head a moment, and when I turned back
I missed the king!  They were blindfolding him!  I was paralyzed;
I couldn't move, I was choking, my tongue was petrified.  They
finished blindfolding him, they led him under the rope.  I couldn't
shake off that clinging impotence.  But when I saw them put the
noose around his neck, then everything let go in me and I made
a spring to the rescue--and as I made it I shot one more glance
abroad--by George! here they came, a-tilting!--five hundred mailed
and belted knights on bicycles!

The grandest sight that ever was seen.  Lord, how the plumes
streamed, how the sun flamed and flashed from the endless procession
of webby wheels!

I waved my right arm as Launcelot swept in--he recognized my rag--
I tore away noose and bandage, and shouted:

"On your knees, every rascal of you, and salute the king!  Who
fails shall sup in hell to-night!"

I always use that high style when I'm climaxing an effect.  Well,
it was noble to see Launcelot and the boys swarm up onto that
scaffold and heave sheriffs and such overboard.  And it was fine
to see that astonished multitude go down on their knees and beg
their lives of the king they had just been deriding and insulting.
And as he stood apart there, receiving this homage in rags,
I thought to myself, well, really there is something peculiarly
grand about the gait and bearing of a king, after all.

I was immensely satisfied.  Take the whole situation all around,
it was one of the gaudiest effects I ever instigated.

And presently up comes Clarence, his own self! and winks, and
says, very modernly:

"Good deal of a surprise, wasn't it?  I knew you'd like it.  I've
had the boys practicing this long time, privately; and just hungry
for a chance to show off."



CHAPTER XXXIX

THE YANKEE'S FIGHT WITH THE KNIGHTS

Home again, at Camelot.  A morning or two later I found the paper,
damp from the press, by my plate at the breakfast table.  I turned
to the advertising columns, knowing I should find something of
personal interest to me there.  It was this:

             DE PAR LE ROI.

   Know that the great lord and illus-
   trious Kni8ht, SIR SAGRAMOR LE
   DESIROUS naving condescended to
   meet the King's Minister, Hank Mor-
    gan, the which is surnamed The Boss,
   for satisfgction of offence anciently given,
   these wilL engage in the lists by
   Camelot about the fourth hour of the
   morning of the sixteenth day of this
   next succeeding month. The battle
   will be a l outrance, sith the said offence
   was of a deadly sort, admitting of no
   comPosition.

             DE PAR LE ROI


Clarence's editorial reference to this affair was to this effect:

   It will be observed, by a gl7nce at our
   advertising columns, that the commu-
   nity is to be favored with a treat of un-
   usual interest in the tournament line.
   The n ames of the artists are warrant of
   good enterTemment. The box-office
   will be open at noon of the 13th; ad-
   mission 3 cents, reserved seatsh 5; pro-
   ceeds to go to the hospital fund  The
   royal pair and all the Court will be pres-
   ent. With these exceptions, and the
   press and the clergy, the free list is strict-
   ly susPended. Parties are hereby warn-
   ed against buying tickets of speculators;
   they will not be good at the door.
   Everybody knows and likes The Boss,
   everybody knows and likes Sir Sag.;
   come, let us give the lads a good send-
   off. ReMember, the proceeds go to a
   great and free charity, and one whose
   broad begevolence stretches out its help-
   ing hand, warm with the blood of a lov-
   ing heart, to all that suffer, regardless of
   race, creed, condition or color--the
   only charity yet established in the earth
   which has no politico-religious stop-
   cock on its compassion, but says Here
   flows the stream, let ALL come and
   drink! Turn out, all hands! fetch along
   your dou3hnuts and your gum-drops
   and have a good time. Pie for sale on
   the grounds, and rocks to crack it with;
   and ciRcus-lemonade--three drops of
   lime juice to a barrel of water.
   N.B. This is the first tournament
   under the new law, whidh allow each
   combatant to use any weapon he may pre-
   fer. You may want to make a note of that.

Up to the day set, there was no talk in all Britain of anything
but this combat.  All other topics sank into insignificance and
passed out of men's thoughts and interest.  It was not because
a tournament was a great matter, it was not because Sir Sagramor
had found the Holy Grail, for he had not, but had failed; it was
not because the second (official) personage in the kingdom was
one of the duellists; no, all these features were commonplace.
Yet there was abundant reason for the extraordinary interest which
this coming fight was creating.  It was born of the fact that all
the nation knew that this was not to be a duel between mere men,
so to speak, but a duel between two mighty magicians; a duel not
of muscle but of mind, not of human skill but of superhuman art
and craft; a final struggle for supremacy between the two master
enchanters of the age.  It was realized that the most prodigious
achievements of the most renowned knights could not be worthy
of comparison with a spectacle like this; they could be but child's
play, contrasted with this mysterious and awful battle of the gods.
Yes, all the world knew it was going to be in reality a duel
between Merlin and me, a measuring of his magic powers against
mine.  It was known that Merlin had been busy whole days and nights
together, imbuing Sir Sagramor's arms and armor with supernal
powers of offense and defense, and that he had procured for him
from the spirits of the air a fleecy veil which would render the
wearer invisible to his antagonist while still visible to other
men.  Against Sir Sagramor, so weaponed and protected, a thousand
knights could accomplish nothing; against him no known enchantments
could prevail.  These facts were sure; regarding them there was
no doubt, no reason for doubt.  There was but one question:  might
there be still other enchantments, _unknown_ to Merlin, which could
render Sir Sagramor's veil transparent to me, and make his enchanted
mail vulnerable to my weapons?  This was the one thing to be
decided in the lists.  Until then the world must remain in suspense.

So the world thought there was a vast matter at stake here, and
the world was right, but it was not the one they had in their
minds.  No, a far vaster one was upon the cast of this die:
_the life of knight-errantry_.  I was a champion, it was true, but
not the champion of the frivolous black arts, I was the champion
of hard unsentimental common-sense and reason.  I was entering
the lists to either destroy knight-errantry or be its victim.

Vast as the show-grounds were, there were no vacant spaces in them
outside of the lists, at ten o'clock on the morning of the 16th.
The mammoth grand-stand was clothed in flags, streamers, and rich
tapestries, and packed with several acres of small-fry tributary
kings, their suites, and the British aristocracy; with our own
royal gang in the chief place, and each and every individual
a flashing prism of gaudy silks and velvets--well, I never saw
anything to begin with it but a fight between an Upper Mississippi
sunset and the aurora borealis.  The huge camp of beflagged and
gay-colored tents at one end of the lists, with a stiff-standing
sentinel at every door and a shining shield hanging by him for
challenge, was another fine sight.  You see, every knight was
there who had any ambition or any caste feeling; for my feeling
toward their order was not much of a secret, and so here was their
chance.  If I won my fight with Sir Sagramor, others would have
the right to call me out as long as I might be willing to respond.

Down at our end there were but two tents; one for me, and another
for my servants.  At the appointed hour the king made a sign, and
the heralds, in their tabards, appeared and made proclamation,
naming the combatants and stating the cause of quarrel.  There
was a pause, then a ringing bugle-blast, which was the signal for
us to come forth.  All the multitude caught their breath, and
an eager curiosity flashed into every face.

Out from his tent rode great Sir Sagramor, an imposing tower
of iron, stately and rigid, his huge spear standing upright in its
socket and grasped in his strong hand, his grand horse's face and
breast cased in steel, his body clothed in rich trappings that
almost dragged the ground--oh, a most noble picture.  A great
shout went up, of welcome and admiration.

And then out I came.  But I didn't get any shout.  There was
a wondering and eloquent silence for a moment, then a great wave
of laughter began to sweep along that human sea, but a warning
bugle-blast cut its career short.  I was in the simplest and
comfortablest of gymnast costumes--flesh-colored tights from neck
to heel, with blue silk puffings about my loins, and bareheaded.
My horse was not above medium size, but he was alert, slender-limbed,
muscled with watchsprings, and just a greyhound to go.  He was
a beauty, glossy as silk, and naked as he was when he was born,
except for bridle and ranger-saddle.

The iron tower and the gorgeous bedquilt came cumbrously but
gracefully pirouetting down the lists, and we tripped lightly up
to meet them.  We halted; the tower saluted, I responded; then
we wheeled and rode side by side to the grand-stand and faced
our king and queen, to whom we made obeisance.  The queen exclaimed:

"Alack, Sir Boss, wilt fight naked, and without lance or sword or--"

But the king checked her and made her understand, with a polite
phrase or two, that this was none of her business.  The bugles
rang again; and we separated and rode to the ends of the lists,
and took position.  Now old Merlin stepped into view and cast
a dainty web of gossamer threads over Sir Sagramor which turned
him into Hamlet's ghost; the king made a sign, the bugles blew,
Sir Sagramor laid his great lance in rest, and the next moment here
he came thundering down the course with his veil flying out behind,
and I went whistling through the air like an arrow to meet him--
cocking my ear the while, as if noting the invisible knight's
position and progress by hearing, not sight.  A chorus of encouraging
shouts burst out for him, and one brave voice flung out a heartening
word for me--said:

"Go it, slim Jim!"

It was an even bet that Clarence had procured that favor for me--
and furnished the language, too.  When that formidable lance-point
was within a yard and a half of my breast I twitched my horse aside
without an effort, and the big knight swept by, scoring a blank.
I got plenty of applause that time.  We turned, braced up, and
down we came again.  Another blank for the knight, a roar of
applause for me.  This same thing was repeated once more; and
it fetched such a whirlwind of applause that Sir Sagramor lost his
temper, and at once changed his tactics and set himself the task
of chasing me down.  Why, he hadn't any show in the world at that;
it was a game of tag, with all the advantage on my side; I whirled
out of his path with ease whenever I chose, and once I slapped him
on the back as I went to the rear.  Finally I took the chase into
my own hands; and after that, turn, or twist, or do what he would,
he was never able to get behind me again; he found himself always
in front at the end of his maneuver.  So he gave up that business
and retired to his end of the lists.  His temper was clear gone now,
and he forgot himself and flung an insult at me which disposed
of mine.  I slipped my lasso from the horn of my saddle, and
grasped the coil in my right hand.  This time you should have seen
him come!--it was a business trip, sure; by his gait there was
blood in his eye.  I was sitting my horse at ease, and swinging
the great loop of my lasso in wide circles about my head; the
moment he was under way, I started for him; when the space between
us had narrowed to forty feet, I sent the snaky spirals of the rope
a-cleaving through the air, then darted aside and faced about and
brought my trained animal to a halt with all his feet braced under
him for a surge.  The next moment the rope sprang taut and yanked
Sir Sagramor out of the saddle!  Great Scott, but there was
a sensation!

Unquestionably, the popular thing in this world is novelty.  These
people had never seen anything of that cowboy business before,
and it carried them clear off their feet with delight.  From all
around and everywhere, the shout went up:

"Encore! encore!"

I wondered where they got the word, but there was no time to cipher
on philological matters, because the whole knight-errantry hive
was just humming now, and my prospect for trade couldn't have
been better.  The moment my lasso was released and Sir Sagramor
had been assisted to his tent, I hauled in the slack, took my
station and began to swing my loop around my head again.  I was
sure to have use for it as soon as they could elect a successor
for Sir Sagramor, and that couldn't take long where there were
so many hungry candidates.  Indeed, they elected one straight off--
Sir Hervis de Revel.

_Bzz_!  Here he came, like a house afire; I dodged:  he passed like
a flash, with my horse-hair coils settling around his neck;
a second or so later, _fst_! his saddle was empty.

I got another encore; and another, and another, and still another.
When I had snaked five men out, things began to look serious to
the ironclads, and they stopped and consulted together.  As a
result, they decided that it was time to waive etiquette and send
their greatest and best against me.  To the astonishment of that
little world, I lassoed Sir Lamorak de Galis, and after him
Sir Galahad.  So you see there was simply nothing to be done now,
but play their right bower--bring out the superbest of the superb,
the mightiest of the mighty, the great Sir Launcelot himself!

A proud moment for me?  I should think so.  Yonder was Arthur,
King of Britain; yonder was Guenever; yes, and whole tribes of
little provincial kings and kinglets; and in the tented camp yonder,
renowned knights from many lands; and likewise the selectest body
known to chivalry, the Knights of the Table Round, the most
illustrious in Christendom; and biggest fact of all, the very sun
of their shining system was yonder couching his lance, the focal
point of forty thousand adoring eyes; and all by myself, here was
I laying for him.  Across my mind flitted the dear image of a
certain hello-girl of West Hartford, and I wished she could see
me now.  In that moment, down came the Invincible, with the rush
of a whirlwind--the courtly world rose to its feet and bent forward--
the fateful coils went circling through the air, and before you
could wink I was towing Sir Launcelot across the field on his
back, and kissing my hand to the storm of waving kerchiefs and
the thunder-crash of applause that greeted me!

Said I to myself, as I coiled my lariat and hung it on my saddle-horn,
and sat there drunk with glory, "The victory is perfect--no other
will venture against me--knight-errantry is dead."  Now imagine my
astonishment--and everybody else's, too--to hear the peculiar
bugle-call which announces that another competitor is about to
enter the lists!  There was a mystery here; I couldn't account for
this thing.  Next, I noticed Merlin gliding away from me; and then
I noticed that my lasso was gone!  The old sleight-of-hand expert
had stolen it, sure, and slipped it under his robe.

The bugle blew again.  I looked, and down came Sagramor riding
again, with his dust brushed off and his veil nicely re-arranged.
I trotted up to meet him, and pretended to find him by the sound
of his horse's hoofs.  He said:

"Thou'rt quick of ear, but it will not save thee from this!" and
he touched the hilt of his great sword.  "An ye are not able to see
it, because of the influence of the veil, know that it is no cumbrous
lance, but a sword--and I ween ye will not be able to avoid it."

His visor was up; there was death in his smile.  I should never
be able to dodge his sword, that was plain.  Somebody was going
to die this time.  If he got the drop on me, I could name the
corpse.  We rode forward together, and saluted the royalties.
This time the king was disturbed.  He said:

"Where is thy strange weapon?"

"It is stolen, sire."

"Hast another at hand?"

"No, sire, I brought only the one."

Then Merlin mixed in:

"He brought but the one because there was but the one to bring.
There exists none other but that one.  It belongeth to the king
of the Demons of the Sea.  This man is a pretender, and ignorant,
else he had known that that weapon can be used in but eight bouts
only, and then it vanisheth away to its home under the sea."

"Then is he weaponless," said the king.  "Sir Sagramore, ye will
grant him leave to borrow."

"And I will lend!" said Sir Launcelot, limping up.  "He is as
brave a knight of his hands as any that be on live, and he shall
have mine."

He put his hand on his sword to draw it, but Sir Sagramor said:

"Stay, it may not be.  He shall fight with his own weapons; it
was his privilege to choose them and bring them.  If he has erred,
on his head be it."

"Knight!" said the king.  "Thou'rt overwrought with passion; it
disorders thy mind.  Wouldst kill a naked man?"

"An he do it, he shall answer it to me," said Sir Launcelot.

"I will answer it to any he that desireth!" retorted Sir Sagramor hotly.

Merlin broke in, rubbing his hands and smiling his lowdownest
smile of malicious gratification:

"'Tis well said, right well said!  And 'tis enough of parleying,
let my lord the king deliver the battle signal."

The king had to yield.  The bugle made proclamation, and we turned
apart and rode to our stations.  There we stood, a hundred yards
apart, facing each other, rigid and motionless, like horsed statues.
And so we remained, in a soundless hush, as much as a full minute,
everybody gazing, nobody stirring.  It seemed as if the king could
not take heart to give the signal.  But at last he lifted his hand,
the clear note of the bugle followed, Sir Sagramor's long blade
described a flashing curve in the air, and it was superb to see him
come.  I sat still.  On he came.  I did not move.  People got so
excited that they shouted to me:

"Fly, fly!  Save thyself!  This is murther!"

I never budged so much as an inch till that thundering apparition
had got within fifteen paces of me; then I snatched a dragoon
revolver out of my holster, there was a flash and a roar, and
the revolver was back in the holster before anybody could tell
what had happened.

Here was a riderless horse plunging by, and yonder lay Sir Sagramor,
stone dead.

The people that ran to him were stricken dumb to find that the life
was actually gone out of the man and no reason for it visible,
no hurt upon his body, nothing like a wound.  There was a hole
through the breast of his chain-mail, but they attached no importance
to a little thing like that; and as a bullet wound there produces
but little blood, none came in sight because of the clothing and
swaddlings under the armor.  The body was dragged over to let
the king and the swells look down upon it.  They were stupefied
with astonishment naturally.  I was requested to come and explain
the miracle.  But I remained in my tracks, like a statue, and said:

"If it is a command, I will come, but my lord the king knows that
I am where the laws of combat require me to remain while any desire
to come against me."

I waited.  Nobody challenged.  Then I said:

"If there are any who doubt that this field is well and fairly won,
I do not wait for them to challenge me, I challenge them."

"It is a gallant offer," said the king, "and well beseems you.
Whom will you name first?"

"I name none, I challenge all!  Here I stand, and dare the chivalry
of England to come against me--not by individuals, but in mass!"

"What!" shouted a score of knights.

"You have heard the challenge.  Take it, or I proclaim you recreant
knights and vanquished, every one!"

It was a "bluff" you know.  At such a time it is sound judgment
to put on a bold face and play your hand for a hundred times what
it is worth; forty-nine times out of fifty nobody dares to "call,"
and you rake in the chips.  But just this once--well, things looked
squally!  In just no time, five hundred knights were scrambling
into their saddles, and before you could wink a widely scattering
drove were under way and clattering down upon me.  I snatched
both revolvers from the holsters and began to measure distances
and calculate chances.

Bang!  One saddle empty.  Bang! another one.  Bang--bang, and
I bagged two.  Well, it was nip and tuck with us, and I knew it.
If I spent the eleventh shot without convincing these people,
the twelfth man would kill me, sure.  And so I never did feel
so happy as I did when my ninth downed its man and I detected
the wavering in the crowd which is premonitory of panic.  An instant
lost now could knock out my last chance.  But I didn't lose it.
I raised both revolvers and pointed them--the halted host stood
their ground just about one good square moment, then broke and fled.

The day was mine.  Knight-errantry was a doomed institution.  The
march of civilization was begun.  How did I feel?  Ah, you never
could imagine it.

And Brer Merlin?  His stock was flat again.  Somehow, every time
the magic of fol-de-rol tried conclusions with the magic of science,
the magic of fol-de-rol got left.



CHAPTER XL

THREE YEARS LATER

When I broke the back of knight-errantry that time, I no longer
felt obliged to work in secret.  So, the very next day I exposed
my hidden schools, my mines, and my vast system of clandestine
factories and workshops to an astonished world.  That is to say,
I exposed the nineteenth century to the inspection of the sixth.

Well, it is always a good plan to follow up an advantage promptly.
The knights were temporarily down, but if I would keep them so
I must just simply paralyze them--nothing short of that would
answer.  You see, I was "bluffing" that last time in the field;
it would be natural for them to work around to that conclusion,
if I gave them a chance.  So I must not give them time; and I didn't.

I renewed my challenge, engraved it on brass, posted it up where
any priest could read it to them, and also kept it standing in
the advertising columns of the paper.

I not only renewed it, but added to its proportions.  I said,
name the day, and I would take fifty assistants and stand up
_against the massed chivalry of the whole earth and destroy it_.

I was not bluffing this time.  I meant what I said; I could do
what I promised.  There wasn't any way to misunderstand the language
of that challenge.  Even the dullest of the chivalry perceived
that this was a plain case of "put up, or shut up."  They were
wise and did the latter.  In all the next three years they gave
me no trouble worth mentioning.

Consider the three years sped.  Now look around on England.  A happy
and prosperous country, and strangely altered.  Schools everywhere,
and several colleges; a number of pretty good newspapers.  Even
authorship was taking a start; Sir Dinadan the Humorist was first
in the field, with a volume of gray-headed jokes which I had been
familiar with during thirteen centuries.  If he had left out that
old rancid one about the lecturer I wouldn't have said anything;
but I couldn't stand that one.  I suppressed the book and hanged
the author.

Slavery was dead and gone; all men were equal before the law;
taxation had been equalized.  The telegraph, the telephone, the
phonograph, the typewriter, the sewing-machine, and all the thousand
willing and handy servants of steam and electricity were working
their way into favor.  We had a steamboat or two on the Thames,
we had steam warships, and the beginnings of a steam commercial
marine; I was getting ready to send out an expedition to discover
America.

We were building several lines of railway, and our line from
Camelot to London was already finished and in operation.  I was
shrewd enough to make all offices connected with the passenger
service places of high and distinguished honor.  My idea was
to attract the chivalry and nobility, and make them useful and keep
them out of mischief.  The plan worked very well, the competition
for the places was hot.  The conductor of the 4.33 express was
a duke; there wasn't a passenger conductor on the line below
the degree of earl.  They were good men, every one, but they had
two defects which I couldn't cure, and so had to wink at:  they
wouldn't lay aside their armor, and they would "knock down" fare--
I mean rob the company.

There was hardly a knight in all the land who wasn't in some useful
employment.  They were going from end to end of the country in all
manner of useful missionary capacities; their penchant for wandering,
and their experience in it, made them altogether the most effective
spreaders of civilization we had.  They went clothed in steel and
equipped with sword and lance and battle-axe, and if they couldn't
persuade a person to try a sewing-machine on the installment plan,
or a melodeon, or a barbed-wire fence, or a prohibition journal,
or any of the other thousand and one things they canvassed for,
they removed him and passed on.

I was very happy.  Things were working steadily toward a secretly
longed-for point.  You see, I had two schemes in my head which
were the vastest of all my projects.  The one was to overthrow the
Catholic Church and set up the Protestant faith on its ruins--
not as an Established Church, but a go-as-you-please one; and
the other project was to get a decree issued by and by, commanding
that upon Arthur's death unlimited suffrage should be introduced,
and given to men and women alike--at any rate to all men, wise
or unwise, and to all mothers who at middle age should be found
to know nearly as much as their sons at twenty-one.  Arthur was
good for thirty years yet, he being about my own age--that is
to say, forty--and I believed that in that time I could easily
have the active part of the population of that day ready and eager
for an event which should be the first of its kind in the history
of the world--a rounded and complete governmental revolution
without bloodshed.  The result to be a republic.  Well, I may
as well confess, though I do feel ashamed when I think of it:
I was beginning to have a base hankering to be its first president
myself.  Yes, there was more or less human nature in me; I found
that out.

Clarence was with me as concerned the revolution, but in a modified
way.  His idea was a republic, without privileged orders, but with
a hereditary royal family at the head of it instead of an elective
chief magistrate.  He believed that no nation that had ever known
the joy of worshiping a royal family could ever be robbed of it
and not fade away and die of melancholy.  I urged that kings were
dangerous.  He said, then have cats.  He was sure that a royal
family of cats would answer every purpose.  They would be as useful
as any other royal family, they would know as much, they would
have the same virtues and the same treacheries, the same disposition
to get up shindies with other royal cats, they would be laughably
vain and absurd and never know it, they would be wholly inexpensive;
finally, they would have as sound a divine right as any other
royal house, and "Tom VII, or Tom XI, or Tom XIV by the grace
of God King," would sound as well as it would when applied to
the ordinary royal tomcat with tights on.  "And as a rule," said
he, in his neat modern English, "the character of these cats would
be considerably above the character of the average king, and this
would be an immense moral advantage to the nation, for the reason
that a nation always models its morals after its monarch's.  The
worship of royalty being founded in unreason, these graceful and
harmless cats would easily become as sacred as any other royalties,
and indeed more so, because it would presently be noticed that
they hanged nobody, beheaded nobody, imprisoned nobody, inflicted
no cruelties or injustices of any sort, and so must be worthy of
a deeper love and reverence than the customary human king, and
would certainly get it.  The eyes of the whole harried world would
soon be fixed upon this humane and gentle system, and royal butchers
would presently begin to disappear; their subjects would fill
the vacancies with catlings from our own royal house; we should
become a factory; we should supply the thrones of the world; within
forty years all Europe would be governed by cats, and we should
furnish the cats.  The reign of universal peace would begin then,
to end no more forever....  Me-e-e-yow-ow-ow-ow--fzt!--wow!"

Hang him, I supposed he was in earnest, and was beginning to be
persuaded by him, until he exploded that cat-howl and startled me
almost out of my clothes.  But he never could be in earnest.  He
didn't know what it was.  He had pictured a distinct and perfectly
rational and feasible improvement upon constitutional monarchy,
but he was too feather-headed to know it, or care anything about
it, either.  I was going to give him a scolding, but Sandy came
flying in at that moment, wild with terror, and so choked with sobs
that for a minute she could not get her voice.  I ran and took her
in my arms, and lavished caresses upon her and said, beseechingly:

"Speak, darling, speak!  What is it?"

Her head fell limp upon my bosom, and she gasped, almost inaudibly:

"HELLO-CENTRAL!"

"Quick!" I shouted to Clarence; "telephone the king's homeopath
to come!"

In two minutes I was kneeling by the child's crib, and Sandy was
dispatching servants here, there, and everywhere, all over the
palace.  I took in the situation almost at a glance--membranous
croup!  I bent down and whispered:

"Wake up, sweetheart!  Hello-Central."

She opened her soft eyes languidly, and made out to say:

"Papa."

That was a comfort.  She was far from dead yet.  I sent for
preparations of sulphur, I rousted out the croup-kettle myself;
for I don't sit down and wait for doctors when Sandy or the child
is sick.  I knew how to nurse both of them, and had had experience.
This little chap had lived in my arms a good part of its small life,
and often I could soothe away its troubles and get it to laugh
through the tear-dews on its eye-lashes when even its mother couldn't.

Sir Launcelot, in his richest armor, came striding along the great
hall now on his way to the stock-board; he was president of the
stock-board, and occupied the Siege Perilous, which he had bought
of Sir Galahad; for the stock-board consisted of the Knights of
the Round Table, and they used the Round Table for business purposes
now.  Seats at it were worth--well, you would never believe the
figure, so it is no use to state it.  Sir Launcelot was a bear, and
he had put up a corner in one of the new lines, and was just getting
ready to squeeze the shorts to-day; but what of that?  He was
the same old Launcelot, and when he glanced in as he was passing
the door and found out that his pet was sick, that was enough
for him; bulls and bears might fight it out their own way for all
him, he would come right in here and stand by little Hello-Central
for all he was worth.  And that was what he did.  He shied his
helmet into the corner, and in half a minute he had a new wick
in the alcohol lamp and was firing up on the croup-kettle.  By this
time Sandy had built a blanket canopy over the crib, and everything
was ready.

Sir Launcelot got up steam, he and I loaded up the kettle with
unslaked lime and carbolic acid, with a touch of lactic acid added
thereto, then filled the thing up with water and inserted the
steam-spout under the canopy.  Everything was ship-shape now,
and we sat down on either side of the crib to stand our watch.
Sandy was so grateful and so comforted that she charged a couple
of church-wardens with willow-bark and sumach-tobacco for us,
and told us to smoke as much as we pleased, it couldn't get under
the canopy, and she was used to smoke, being the first lady in the
land who had ever seen a cloud blown.  Well, there couldn't be
a more contented or comfortable sight than Sir Launcelot in his
noble armor sitting in gracious serenity at the end of a yard
of snowy church-warden.  He was a beautiful man, a lovely man,
and was just intended to make a wife and children happy.  But, of
course Guenever--however, it's no use to cry over what's done and
can't be helped.

Well, he stood watch-and-watch with me, right straight through,
for three days and nights, till the child was out of danger; then
he took her up in his great arms and kissed her, with his plumes
falling about her golden head, then laid her softly in Sandy's
lap again and took his stately way down the vast hall, between
the ranks of admiring men-at-arms and menials, and so disappeared.
And no instinct warned me that I should never look upon him again
in this world!  Lord, what a world of heart-break it is.

The doctors said we must take the child away, if we would coax
her back to health and strength again.  And she must have sea-air.
So we took a man-of-war, and a suite of two hundred and sixty
persons, and went cruising about, and after a fortnight of this we
stepped ashore on the French coast, and the doctors thought it
would be a good idea to make something of a stay there.  The little
king of that region offered us his hospitalities, and we were glad
to accept.  If he had had as many conveniences as he lacked, we
should have been plenty comfortable enough; even as it was, we
made out very well, in his queer old castle, by the help of comforts
and luxuries from the ship.

At the end of a month I sent the vessel home for fresh supplies,
and for news.  We expected her back in three or four days.  She
would bring me, along with other news, the result of a certain
experiment which I had been starting.  It was a project of mine
to replace the tournament with something which might furnish an
escape for the extra steam of the chivalry, keep those bucks
entertained and out of mischief, and at the same time preserve
the best thing in them, which was their hardy spirit of emulation.
I had had a choice band of them in private training for some time,
and the date was now arriving for their first public effort.

This experiment was baseball.  In order to give the thing vogue
from the start, and place it out of the reach of criticism, I chose
my nines by rank, not capacity.  There wasn't a knight in either
team who wasn't a sceptered sovereign.  As for material of this
sort, there was a glut of it always around Arthur.  You couldn't
throw a brick in any direction and not cripple a king.  Of course,
I couldn't get these people to leave off their armor; they wouldn't
do that when they bathed.  They consented to differentiate the
armor so that a body could tell one team from the other, but that
was the most they would do.  So, one of the teams wore chain-mail
ulsters, and the other wore plate-armor made of my new Bessemer
steel.  Their practice in the field was the most fantastic thing I
ever saw.  Being ball-proof, they never skipped out of the way,
but stood still and took the result; when a Bessemer was at the bat
and a ball hit him, it would bound a hundred and fifty yards
sometimes.  And when a man was running, and threw himself on his
stomach to slide to his base, it was like an iron-clad coming into
port.  At first I appointed men of no rank to act as umpires, but
I had to discontinue that.  These people were no easier to please
than other nines.  The umpire's first decision was usually his
last; they broke him in two with a bat, and his friends toted him
home on a shutter.  When it was noticed that no umpire ever survived
a game, umpiring got to be unpopular.  So I was obliged to appoint
somebody whose rank and lofty position under the government would
protect him.

Here are the names of the nines:

     BESSEMERS                   ULSTERS

   KING ARTHUR.                EMPEROR LUCIUS.
   KING LOT OF LOTHIAN.        KING LOGRIS.
   KING OF NORTHGALIS.         KING MARHALT OF IRELAND.
   KING MARSIL.                KING MORGANORE.
   KING OF LITTLE BRITAIN.     KING MARK OF CORNWALL.
   KING LABOR.                 KING NENTRES OF GARLOT.
   KING PELLAM OF LISTENGESE.  KING MELIODAS OF LIONES.
   KING BAGDEMAGUS.            KING OF THE LAKE.
   KING TOLLEME LA FEINTES.    THE SOWDAN OF SYRIA.

                  Umpire--CLARENCE.

The first public game would certainly draw fifty thousand people;
and for solid fun would be worth going around the world to see.
Everything would be favorable; it was balmy and beautiful spring
weather now, and Nature was all tailored out in her new clothes.



CHAPTER XLI

THE INTERDICT

However, my attention was suddenly snatched from such matters;
our child began to lose ground again, and we had to go to sitting
up with her, her case became so serious.  We couldn't bear to allow
anybody to help in this service, so we two stood watch-and-watch,
day in and day out.  Ah, Sandy, what a right heart she had, how
simple, and genuine, and good she was!  She was a flawless wife
and mother; and yet I had married her for no other particular
reasons, except that by the customs of chivalry she was my property
until some knight should win her from me in the field.  She had
hunted Britain over for me; had found me at the hanging-bout
outside of London, and had straightway resumed her old place at
my side in the placidest way and as of right.  I was a New Englander,
and in my opinion this sort of partnership would compromise her,
sooner or later.  She couldn't see how, but I cut argument short
and we had a wedding.

Now I didn't know I was drawing a prize, yet that was what I did
draw.  Within the twelvemonth I became her worshiper; and ours
was the dearest and perfectest comradeship that ever was.  People
talk about beautiful friendships between two persons of the same
sex.  What is the best of that sort, as compared with the friendship
of man and wife, where the best impulses and highest ideals of
both are the same?  There is no place for comparison between
the two friendships; the one is earthly, the other divine.

In my dreams, along at first, I still wandered thirteen centuries
away, and my unsatisfied spirit went calling and harking all up
and down the unreplying vacancies of a vanished world.  Many a
time Sandy heard that imploring cry come from my lips in my sleep.
With a grand magnanimity she saddled that cry of mine upon our
child, conceiving it to be the name of some lost darling of mine.
It touched me to tears, and it also nearly knocked me off my feet,
too, when she smiled up in my face for an earned reward, and played
her quaint and pretty surprise upon me:

"The name of one who was dear to thee is here preserved, here made
holy, and the music of it will abide alway in our ears.  Now
thou'lt kiss me, as knowing the name I have given the child."

But I didn't know it, all the same.  I hadn't an idea in the
world; but it would have been cruel to confess it and spoil her
pretty game; so I never let on, but said:

"Yes, I know, sweetheart--how dear and good it is of you, too!
But I want to hear these lips of yours, which are also mine, utter
it first--then its music will be perfect."

Pleased to the marrow, she murmured:

"HELLO-CENTRAL!"

I didn't laugh--I am always thankful for that--but the strain
ruptured every cartilage in me, and for weeks afterward I could
hear my bones clack when I walked.  She never found out her mistake.
The first time she heard that form of salute used at the telephone
she was surprised, and not pleased; but I told her I had given
order for it:  that henceforth and forever the telephone must
always be invoked with that reverent formality, in perpetual honor
and remembrance of my lost friend and her small namesake.  This
was not true.  But it answered.

Well, during two weeks and a half we watched by the crib, and in
our deep solicitude we were unconscious of any world outside of
that sick-room.  Then our reward came:  the center of the universe
turned the corner and began to mend.  Grateful?  It isn't the term.
There _isn't_ any term for it.  You know that yourself, if you've
watched your child through the Valley of the Shadow and seen it
come back to life and sweep night out of the earth with one
all-illuminating smile that you could cover with your hand.

Why, we were back in this world in one instant!  Then we looked
the same startled thought into each other's eyes at the same
moment; more than two weeks gone, and that ship not back yet!

In another minute I appeared in the presence of my train.  They
had been steeped in troubled bodings all this time--their faces
showed it.  I called an escort and we galloped five miles to a
hilltop overlooking the sea.  Where was my great commerce that
so lately had made these glistening expanses populous and beautiful
with its white-winged flocks?  Vanished, every one!  Not a sail,
from verge to verge, not a smoke-bank--just a dead and empty
solitude, in place of all that brisk and breezy life.

I went swiftly back, saying not a word to anybody.  I told Sandy
this ghastly news.  We could imagine no explanation that would
begin to explain.  Had there been an invasion? an earthquake?
a pestilence?  Had the nation been swept out of existence?  But
guessing was profitless.  I must go--at once.  I borrowed the king's
navy--a "ship" no bigger than a steam launch--and was soon ready.

The parting--ah, yes, that was hard.  As I was devouring the child
with last kisses, it brisked up and jabbered out its vocabulary!--
the first time in more than two weeks, and it made fools of us
for joy.  The darling mispronunciations of childhood!--dear me,
there's no music that can touch it; and how one grieves when it
wastes away and dissolves into correctness, knowing it will never
visit his bereaved ear again.  Well, how good it was to be able
to carry that gracious memory away with me!

I approached England the next morning, with the wide highway of
salt water all to myself.  There were ships in the harbor, at
Dover, but they were naked as to sails, and there was no sign
of life about them.  It was Sunday; yet at Canterbury the streets
were empty; strangest of all, there was not even a priest in sight,
and no stroke of a bell fell upon my ear.  The mournfulness of
death was everywhere.  I couldn't understand it.  At last, in
the further edge of that town I saw a small funeral procession--
just a family and a few friends following a coffin--no priest;
a funeral without bell, book, or candle; there was a church there
close at hand, but they passed it by weeping, and did not enter it;
I glanced up at the belfry, and there hung the bell, shrouded in
black, and its tongue tied back.  Now I knew!  Now I understood
the stupendous calamity that had overtaken England.  Invasion?
Invasion is a triviality to it.  It was the INTERDICT!

I asked no questions; I didn't need to ask any.  The Church had
struck; the thing for me to do was to get into a disguise, and
go warily.  One of my servants gave me a suit of clothes, and
when we were safe beyond the town I put them on, and from that time
I traveled alone; I could not risk the embarrassment of company.

A miserable journey.  A desolate silence everywhere.  Even in
London itself.  Traffic had ceased; men did not talk or laugh, or
go in groups, or even in couples; they moved aimlessly about, each
man by himself, with his head down, and woe and terror at his heart.
The Tower showed recent war-scars.  Verily, much had been happening.

Of course, I meant to take the train for Camelot.  Train!  Why,
the station was as vacant as a cavern.  I moved on.  The journey
to Camelot was a repetition of what I had already seen.  The Monday
and the Tuesday differed in no way from the Sunday.  I arrived
far in the night.  From being the best electric-lighted town in
the kingdom and the most like a recumbent sun of anything you ever
saw, it was become simply a blot--a blot upon darkness--that is
to say, it was darker and solider than the rest of the darkness,
and so you could see it a little better; it made me feel as if
maybe it was symbolical--a sort of sign that the Church was going to
_keep_ the upper hand now, and snuff out all my beautiful civilization
just like that.  I found no life stirring in the somber streets.
I groped my way with a heavy heart.  The vast castle loomed black
upon the hilltop, not a spark visible about it.  The drawbridge
was down, the great gate stood wide, I entered without challenge,
my own heels making the only sound I heard--and it was sepulchral
enough, in those huge vacant courts.



CHAPTER XLII

WAR!

I found Clarence alone in his quarters, drowned in melancholy;
and in place of the electric light, he had reinstituted the ancient
rag-lamp, and sat there in a grisly twilight with all curtains
drawn tight.  He sprang up and rushed for me eagerly, saying:

"Oh, it's worth a billion milrays to look upon a live person again!"

He knew me as easily as if I hadn't been disguised at all.  Which
frightened me; one may easily believe that.

"Quick, now, tell me the meaning of this fearful disaster," I said.
"How did it come about?"

"Well, if there hadn't been any Queen Guenever, it wouldn't have
come so early; but it would have come, anyway.  It would have
come on your own account by and by; by luck, it happened to come
on the queen's."

"_And_ Sir Launcelot's?"

"Just so."

"Give me the details."

"I reckon you will grant that during some years there has been
only one pair of eyes in these kingdoms that has not been looking
steadily askance at the queen and Sir Launcelot--"

"Yes, King Arthur's."

"--and only one heart that was without suspicion--"

"Yes--the king's; a heart that isn't capable of thinking evil
of a friend."

"Well, the king might have gone on, still happy and unsuspecting,
to the end of his days, but for one of your modern improvements--
the stock-board.  When you left, three miles of the London,
Canterbury and Dover were ready for the rails, and also ready and
ripe for manipulation in the stock-market.  It was wildcat, and
everybody knew it.  The stock was for sale at a give-away.  What
does Sir Launcelot do, but--"

"Yes, I know; he quietly picked up nearly all of it for a song;
then he bought about twice as much more, deliverable upon call;
and he was about to call when I left."

"Very well, he did call.  The boys couldn't deliver.  Oh, he had
them--and he just settled his grip and squeezed them.  They were
laughing in their sleeves over their smartness in selling stock
to him at 15 and 16 and along there that wasn't worth 10.  Well,
when they had laughed long enough on that side of their mouths,
they rested-up that side by shifting the laugh to the other side.
That was when they compromised with the Invincible at 283!"

"Good land!"

"He skinned them alive, and they deserved it--anyway, the whole
kingdom rejoiced.  Well, among the flayed were Sir Agravaine and
Sir Mordred, nephews to the king.  End of the first act.  Act
second, scene first, an apartment in Carlisle castle, where the
court had gone for a few days' hunting.  Persons present, the
whole tribe of the king's nephews.  Mordred and Agravaine propose
to call the guileless Arthur's attention to Guenever and Sir
Launcelot.  Sir Gawaine, Sir Gareth, and Sir Gaheris will have
nothing to do with it.  A dispute ensues, with loud talk; in the
midst of it enter the king.  Mordred and Agravaine spring their
devastating tale upon him.  _Tableau_.  A trap is laid for Launcelot,
by the king's command, and Sir Launcelot walks into it.  He made
it sufficiently uncomfortable for the ambushed witnesses--to wit,
Mordred, Agravaine, and twelve knights of lesser rank, for he
killed every one of them but Mordred; but of course that couldn't
straighten matters between Launcelot and the king, and didn't."

"Oh, dear, only one thing could result--I see that.  War, and
the knights of the realm divided into a king's party and a
Sir Launcelot's party."

"Yes--that was the way of it.  The king sent the queen to the
stake, proposing to purify her with fire.  Launcelot and his
knights rescued her, and in doing it slew certain good old friends
of yours and mine--in fact, some of the best we ever had; to wit,
Sir Belias le Orgulous, Sir Segwarides, Sir Griflet le Fils de Dieu,
Sir Brandiles, Sir Aglovale--"

"Oh, you tear out my heartstrings."

"--wait, I'm not done yet--Sir Tor, Sir Gauter, Sir Gillimer--"

"The very best man in my subordinate nine.  What a handy right-fielder
he was!"

"--Sir Reynold's three brothers, Sir Damus, Sir Priamus, Sir Kay
the Stranger--"

"My peerless short-stop!  I've seen him catch a daisy-cutter in
his teeth.  Come, I can't stand this!"

"--Sir Driant, Sir Lambegus, Sir Herminde, Sir Pertilope,
Sir Perimones, and--whom do you think?"

"Rush!  Go on."

"Sir Gaheris, and Sir Gareth--both!"

"Oh, incredible!  Their love for Launcelot was indestructible."

"Well, it was an accident.  They were simply onlookers; they were
unarmed, and were merely there to witness the queen's punishment.
Sir Launcelot smote down whoever came in the way of his blind fury,
and he killed these without noticing who they were.  Here is an
instantaneous photograph one of our boys got of the battle; it's
for sale on every news-stand.  There--the figures nearest the queen
are Sir Launcelot with his sword up, and Sir Gareth gasping his
latest breath.  You can catch the agony in the queen's face through
the curling smoke.  It's a rattling battle-picture."

"Indeed, it is.  We must take good care of it; its historical value
is incalculable.  Go on."

"Well, the rest of the tale is just war, pure and simple.  Launcelot
retreated to his town and castle of Joyous Gard, and gathered
there a great following of knights.  The king, with a great host,
went there, and there was desperate fighting during several days,
and, as a result, all the plain around was paved with corpses
and cast-iron.  Then the Church patched up a peace between Arthur
and Launcelot and the queen and everybody--everybody but Sir Gawaine.
He was bitter about the slaying of his brothers, Gareth and Gaheris,
and would not be appeased.  He notified Launcelot to get him
thence, and make swift preparation, and look to be soon attacked.
So Launcelot sailed to his Duchy of Guienne with his following, and
Gawaine soon followed with an army, and he beguiled Arthur to go
with him.  Arthur left the kingdom in Sir Mordred's hands until
you should return--"

"Ah--a king's customary wisdom!"

"Yes.  Sir Mordred set himself at once to work to make his kingship
permanent.  He was going to marry Guenever, as a first move; but
she fled and shut herself up in the Tower of London.  Mordred
attacked; the Bishop of Canterbury dropped down on him with the
Interdict.  The king returned; Mordred fought him at Dover, at
Canterbury, and again at Barham Down.  Then there was talk of peace
and a composition.  Terms, Mordred to have Cornwall and Kent during
Arthur's life, and the whole kingdom afterward."

"Well, upon my word!  My dream of a republic to _be_ a dream, and
so remain."

"Yes.  The two armies lay near Salisbury.  Gawaine--Gawaine's head
is at Dover Castle, he fell in the fight there--Gawaine appeared to
Arthur in a dream, at least his ghost did, and warned him to
refrain from conflict for a month, let the delay cost what it might.
But battle was precipitated by an accident.  Arthur had given
order that if a sword was raised during the consultation over
the proposed treaty with Mordred, sound the trumpet and fall on!
for he had no confidence in Mordred.  Mordred had given a similar
order to _his_ people.  Well, by and by an adder bit a knight's heel;
the knight forgot all about the order, and made a slash at the
adder with his sword.  Inside of half a minute those two prodigious
hosts came together with a crash!  They butchered away all day.
Then the king--however, we have started something fresh since
you left--our paper has."

"No?  What is that?"

"War correspondence!"

"Why, that's good."

"Yes, the paper was booming right along, for the Interdict made
no impression, got no grip, while the war lasted.  I had war
correspondents with both armies.  I will finish that battle by
reading you what one of the boys says:

   Then the king looked about him, and then was he
   ware of all his host and of all his good knights
   were left no more on live but two knights, that
   was Sir Lucan de Butlere, and his brother Sir
   Bedivere: and they were full sore wounded.  Jesu
   mercy, said the king, where are all my noble
   knights becomen?  Alas that ever I should see this
   doleful day.  For now, said Arthur, I am come to
   mine end.  But would to God that I wist where were
   that traitor Sir Mordred, that hath caused all
   this mischief.  Then was King Arthur ware where Sir
   Mordred leaned upon his sword among a great heap
   of dead men.  Now give me my spear, said Arthur
   unto Sir Lucan, for yonder I have espied the
   traitor that all this woe hath wrought.  Sir, let
   him be, said Sir Lucan, for he is unhappy; and if
   ye pass this unhappy day, ye shall be right well
   revenged upon him.  Good lord, remember ye of your
   night's dream, and what the spirit of Sir Gawaine
   told you this night, yet God of his great goodness
   hath preserved you hitherto.  Therefore, for God's
   sake, my lord, leave off by this. For blessed be
   God ye have won the field:  for here we be three
   on live, and with Sir Mordred is none on live.
   And if ye leave off now, this wicked day of
   destiny is past.  Tide me death, betide me life,
   saith the king, now I see him yonder alone, he
   shall never escape mine hands, for at a better
   avail shall I never have him.  God speed you well,
   said Sir Bedivere.  Then the king gat his spear
   in both his hands, and ran toward Sir Mordred
   crying, Traitor, now is thy death day come.  And
   when Sir Mordred heard Sir Arthur, he ran until
   him with his sword drawn in his hand.  And then
   King Arthur smote Sir Mordred under the shield,
   with a foin of his spear throughout the body more
   than a fathom.  And when Sir Mordred felt that he
   had his death's wound, he thrust himself, with
   the might that he had, up to the butt of King
   Arthur's spear.  And right so he smote his father
   Arthur with his sword holden in both his hands,
   on the side of the head, that the sword pierced
   the helmet and the brain-pan, and therewithal
   Sir Mordred fell stark dead to the earth.  And
   the noble Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth,
   and there he swooned oft-times

"That is a good piece of war correspondence, Clarence; you are
a first-rate newspaper man.  Well--is the king all right?  Did
he get well?"

"Poor soul, no.  He is dead."

I was utterly stunned; it had not seemed to me that any wound
could be mortal to him.

"And the queen, Clarence?"

"She is a nun, in Almesbury."

"What changes! and in such a short while.  It is inconceivable.
What next, I wonder?"

"I can tell you what next."

"Well?"

"Stake our lives and stand by them!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"The Church is master now.  The Interdict included you with Mordred;
it is not to be removed while you remain alive.  The clans are
gathering.  The Church has gathered all the knights that are left
alive, and as soon as you are discovered we shall have business
on our hands."

"Stuff!  With our deadly scientific war-material; with our hosts
of trained--"

"Save your breath--we haven't sixty faithful left!"

"What are you saying?  Our schools, our colleges, our vast
workshops, our--"

"When those knights come, those establishments will empty themselves
and go over to the enemy.  Did you think you had educated the
superstition out of those people?"

"I certainly did think it."

"Well, then, you may unthink it.  They stood every strain easily--
until the Interdict.  Since then, they merely put on a bold
outside--at heart they are quaking.  Make up your mind to it--
when the armies come, the mask will fall."

"It's hard news.  We are lost.  They will turn our own science
against us."

"No they won't."

"Why?"

"Because I and a handful of the faithful have blocked that game.
I'll tell you what I've done, and what moved me to it.  Smart as
you are, the Church was smarter.  It was the Church that sent
you cruising--through her servants, the doctors."

"Clarence!"

"It is the truth.  I know it.  Every officer of your ship was
the Church's picked servant, and so was every man of the crew."

"Oh, come!"

"It is just as I tell you.  I did not find out these things at once,
but I found them out finally.  Did you send me verbal information,
by the commander of the ship, to the effect that upon his return
to you, with supplies, you were going to leave Cadiz--"

"Cadiz!  I haven't been at Cadiz at all!"

"--going to leave Cadiz and cruise in distant seas indefinitely,
for the health of your family?  Did you send me that word?"

"Of course not.  I would have written, wouldn't I?"

"Naturally.  I was troubled and suspicious.  When the commander
sailed again I managed to ship a spy with him.  I have never
heard of vessel or spy since.  I gave myself two weeks to hear
from you in.  Then I resolved to send a ship to Cadiz.  There was
a reason why I didn't."

"What was that?"

"Our navy had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared!  Also, as
suddenly and as mysteriously, the railway and telegraph and
telephone service ceased, the men all deserted, poles were cut
down, the Church laid a ban upon the electric light!  I had to be
up and doing--and straight off.  Your life was safe--nobody in
these kingdoms but Merlin would venture to touch such a magician
as you without ten thousand men at his back--I had nothing to
think of but how to put preparations in the best trim against your
coming.  I felt safe myself--nobody would be anxious to touch
a pet of yours.  So this is what I did.  From our various works
I selected all the men--boys I mean--whose faithfulness under
whatsoever pressure I could swear to, and I called them together
secretly and gave them their instructions.  There are fifty-two of
them; none younger than fourteen, and none above seventeen years old."

"Why did you select boys?"

"Because all the others were born in an atmosphere of superstition
and reared in it.  It is in their blood and bones.  We imagined
we had educated it out of them; they thought so, too; the Interdict
woke them up like a thunderclap!  It revealed them to themselves,
and it revealed them to me, too.  With boys it was different.  Such
as have been under our training from seven to ten years have had
no acquaintance with the Church's terrors, and it was among these
that I found my fifty-two.  As a next move, I paid a private visit
to that old cave of Merlin's--not the small one--the big one--"

"Yes, the one where we secretly established our first great electric
plant when I was projecting a miracle."

"Just so.  And as that miracle hadn't become necessary then,
I thought it might be a good idea to utilize the plant now.  I've
provisioned the cave for a siege--"

"A good idea, a first-rate idea."

"I think so.  I placed four of my boys there as a guard--inside,
and out of sight.  Nobody was to be hurt--while outside; but any
attempt to enter--well, we said just let anybody try it!  Then
I went out into the hills and uncovered and cut the secret wires
which connected your bedroom with the wires that go to the dynamite
deposits under all our vast factories, mills, workshops, magazines,
etc., and about midnight I and my boys turned out and connected
that wire with the cave, and nobody but you and I suspects where
the other end of it goes to.  We laid it under ground, of course, and
it was all finished in a couple of hours or so.  We sha'n't have
to leave our fortress now when we want to blow up our civilization."

"It was the right move--and the natural one; military necessity,
in the changed condition of things.  Well, what changes _have_ come!
We expected to be besieged in the palace some time or other, but--
however, go on."

"Next, we built a wire fence."

"Wire fence?"

"Yes.  You dropped the hint of it yourself, two or three years ago."

"Oh, I remember--the time the Church tried her strength against
us the first time, and presently thought it wise to wait for a
hopefuler season.  Well, how have you arranged the fence?"

"I start twelve immensely strong wires--naked, not insulated--
from a big dynamo in the cave--dynamo with no brushes except
a positive and a negative one--"

"Yes, that's right."

"The wires go out from the cave and fence in a circle of level
ground a hundred yards in diameter; they make twelve independent
fences, ten feet apart--that is to say, twelve circles within
circles--and their ends come into the cave again."

"Right; go on."

"The fences are fastened to heavy oaken posts only three feet apart,
and these posts are sunk five feet in the ground."

"That is good and strong."

"Yes.  The wires have no ground-connection outside of the cave.
They go out from the positive brush of the dynamo; there is a
ground-connection through the negative brush; the other ends of
the wire return to the cave, and each is grounded independently."

"No, no, that won't do!"

"Why?"

"It's too expensive--uses up force for nothing.  You don't want
any ground-connection except the one through the negative brush.
The other end of every wire must be brought back into the cave
and fastened independently, and _without_ any ground-connection.
Now, then, observe the economy of it.  A cavalry charge hurls
itself against the fence; you are using no power, you are spending
no money, for there is only one ground-connection till those horses
come against the wire; the moment they touch it they form a
connection with the negative brush _through the ground_, and drop
dead.  Don't you see?--you are using no energy until it is needed;
your lightning is there, and ready, like the load in a gun; but
it isn't costing you a cent till you touch it off.  Oh, yes, the
single ground-connection--"

"Of course!  I don't know how I overlooked that.  It's not only
cheaper, but it's more effectual than the other way, for if wires
break or get tangled, no harm is done."

"No, especially if we have a tell-tale in the cave and disconnect
the broken wire.  Well, go on.  The gatlings?"

"Yes--that's arranged.  In the center of the inner circle, on a
spacious platform six feet high, I've grouped a battery of thirteen
gatling guns, and provided plenty of ammunition."

"That's it.  They command every approach, and when the Church's
knights arrive, there's going to be music.  The brow of the
precipice over the cave--"

"I've got a wire fence there, and a gatling.  They won't drop any
rocks down on us."

"Well, and the glass-cylinder dynamite torpedoes?"

"That's attended to.  It's the prettiest garden that was ever
planted.  It's a belt forty feet wide, and goes around the outer
fence--distance between it and the fence one hundred yards--kind of
neutral ground that space is.  There isn't a single square yard
of that whole belt but is equipped with a torpedo.  We laid them
on the surface of the ground, and sprinkled a layer of sand over
them.  It's an innocent looking garden, but you let a man start
in to hoe it once, and you'll see."

"You tested the torpedoes?"

"Well, I was going to, but--"

"But what?  Why, it's an immense oversight not to apply a--"

"Test?  Yes, I know; but they're all right; I laid a few in the
public road beyond our lines and they've been tested."

"Oh, that alters the case.  Who did it?"

"A Church committee."

"How kind!"

"Yes.  They came to command us to make submission.  You see they
didn't really come to test the torpedoes; that was merely an incident."

"Did the committee make a report?"

"Yes, they made one.  You could have heard it a mile."

"Unanimous?"

"That was the nature of it.  After that I put up some signs, for the
protection of future committees, and we have had no intruders since."

"Clarence, you've done a world of work, and done it perfectly."

"We had plenty of time for it; there wasn't any occasion for hurry."

We sat silent awhile, thinking.  Then my mind was made up, and
I said:

"Yes, everything is ready; everything is shipshape, no detail is
wanting.  I know what to do now."

"So do I; sit down and wait."

"No, _sir_! rise up and _strike_!"

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes, indeed!  The _de_fensive isn't in my line, and the _of_fensive
is.  That is, when I hold a fair hand--two-thirds as good a hand
as the enemy.  Oh, yes, we'll rise up and strike; that's our game."

"A hundred to one you are right.  When does the performance begin?"

"_Now!_  We'll proclaim the Republic."

"Well, that _will_ precipitate things, sure enough!"

"It will make them buzz, I tell you!  England will be a hornets'
nest before noon to-morrow, if the Church's hand hasn't lost its
cunning--and we know it hasn't.  Now you write and I'll dictate thus:

                      "PROCLAMATION

                           ---

   "BE IT KNOWN UNTO ALL.  Whereas the king having died
   and left no heir, it becomes my duty to continue the
   executive authority vested in me, until a government
   shall have been created and set in motion.  The
   monarchy has lapsed, it no longer exists.  By
   consequence, all political power has reverted to its
   original source, the people of the nation.  With the
   monarchy, its several adjuncts died also; wherefore
   there is no longer a nobility, no longer a privileged
   class, no longer an Established Church; all men are
   become exactly equal; they are upon one common
   level, and religion is free.  _A Republic is hereby
   proclaimed_, as being the natural estate of a nation
   when other authority has ceased.  It is the duty of
   the British people to meet together immediately,
   and by their votes elect representatives and deliver
   into their hands the government."

I signed it "The Boss," and dated it from Merlin's Cave.
Clarence said--

"Why, that tells where we are, and invites them to call right away."

"That is the idea.  We _strike_--by the Proclamation--then it's
their innings.  Now have the thing set up and printed and posted,
right off; that is, give the order; then, if you've got a couple
of bicycles handy at the foot of the hill, ho for Merlin's Cave!"

"I shall be ready in ten minutes.  What a cyclone there is going
to be to-morrow when this piece of paper gets to work!...  It's a
pleasant old palace, this is; I wonder if we shall ever again--
but never mind about that."



CHAPTER XLIII

THE BATTLE OF THE SAND BELT

In Merlin's Cave -- Clarence and I and fifty-two fresh, bright,
well-educated, clean-minded young British boys.  At dawn I sent
an order to the factories and to all our great works to stop
operations and remove all life to a safe distance, as everything
was going to be blown up by secret mines, "_and no telling at what
moment--therefore, vacate at once_."  These people knew me, and
had confidence in my word.  They would clear out without waiting
to part their hair, and I could take my own time about dating the
explosion.  You couldn't hire one of them to go back during the
century, if the explosion was still impending.

We had a week of waiting.  It was not dull for me, because I was
writing all the time.  During the first three days, I finished
turning my old diary into this narrative form; it only required
a chapter or so to bring it down to date.  The rest of the week
I took up in writing letters to my wife.  It was always my habit
to write to Sandy every day, whenever we were separate, and now
I kept up the habit for love of it, and of her, though I couldn't
do anything with the letters, of course, after I had written them.
But it put in the time, you see, and was almost like talking;
it was almost as if I was saying, "Sandy, if you and Hello-Central
were here in the cave, instead of only your photographs, what
good times we could have!"  And then, you know, I could imagine
the baby goo-gooing something out in reply, with its fists in its
mouth and itself stretched across its mother's lap on its back,
and she a-laughing and admiring and worshipping, and now and then
tickling under the baby's chin to set it cackling, and then maybe
throwing in a word of answer to me herself--and so on and so on--
well, don't you know, I could sit there in the cave with my pen,
and keep it up, that way, by the hour with them.  Why, it was
almost like having us all together again.

I had spies out every night, of course, to get news.  Every report
made things look more and more impressive.  The hosts were gathering,
gathering; down all the roads and paths of England the knights were
riding, and priests rode with them, to hearten these original
Crusaders, this being the Church's war.  All the nobilities, big
and little, were on their way, and all the gentry.  This was all
as was expected.  We should thin out this sort of folk to such
a degree that the people would have nothing to do but just step
to the front with their republic and--

Ah, what a donkey I was!  Toward the end of the week I began to get
this large and disenchanting fact through my head:  that the mass
of the nation had swung their caps and shouted for the republic for
about one day, and there an end!  The Church, the nobles, and
the gentry then turned one grand, all-disapproving frown upon them
and shriveled them into sheep!  From that moment the sheep had
begun to gather to the fold--that is to say, the camps--and offer
their valueless lives and their valuable wool to the "righteous
cause."  Why, even the very men who had lately been slaves were
in the "righteous cause," and glorifying it, praying for it,
sentimentally slabbering over it, just like all the other commoners.
Imagine such human muck as this; conceive of this folly!

Yes, it was now "Death to the Republic!" everywhere--not a dissenting
voice.  All England was marching against us!  Truly, this was more
than I had bargained for.

I watched my fifty-two boys narrowly; watched their faces, their
walk, their unconscious attitudes:  for all these are a language--
a language given us purposely that it may betray us in times of
emergency, when we have secrets which we want to keep.  I knew
that that thought would keep saying itself over and over again
in their minds and hearts, _All England is marching against us!_
and ever more strenuously imploring attention with each repetition,
ever more sharply realizing itself to their imaginations, until
even in their sleep they would find no rest from it, but hear
the vague and flitting creatures of the dreams say, _All England_--
ALL ENGLAND!--_is marching against you_!  I knew all this would
happen; I knew that ultimately the pressure would become so great
that it would compel utterance; therefore, I must be ready with an
answer at that time--an answer well chosen and tranquilizing.

I was right.  The time came.  They HAD to speak.  Poor lads, it
was pitiful to see, they were so pale, so worn, so troubled.  At
first their spokesman could hardly find voice or words; but he
presently got both.  This is what he said--and he put it in the
neat modern English taught him in my schools:

"We have tried to forget what we are--English boys!  We have tried
to put reason before sentiment, duty before love; our minds
approve, but our hearts reproach us.  While apparently it was
only the nobility, only the gentry, only the twenty-five or thirty
thousand knights left alive out of the late wars, we were of one
mind, and undisturbed by any troubling doubt; each and every one
of these fifty-two lads who stand here before you, said, 'They
have chosen--it is their affair.'  But think!--the matter is
altered--_All England is marching against us_!  Oh, sir, consider!--
reflect!--these people are our people, they are bone of our bone,
flesh of our flesh, we love them--do not ask us to destroy our nation!"

Well, it shows the value of looking ahead, and being ready for
a thing when it happens.  If I hadn't foreseen this thing and been
fixed, that boy would have had me!--I couldn't have said a word.
But I was fixed.  I said:

"My boys, your hearts are in the right place, you have thought the
worthy thought, you have done the worthy thing.  You are English
boys, you will remain English boys, and you will keep that name
unsmirched.  Give yourselves no further concern, let your minds be
at peace.  Consider this:  while all England is marching against
us, who is in the van?  Who, by the commonest rules of war, will
march in the front?  Answer me."

"The mounted host of mailed knights."

"True.  They are thirty thousand strong.  Acres deep they will march.
Now, observe:  none but _they_ will ever strike the sand-belt!  Then
there will be an episode!  Immediately after, the civilian multitude
in the rear will retire, to meet business engagements elsewhere.
None but nobles and gentry are knights, and _none but these_ will
remain to dance to our music after that episode.  It is absolutely
true that we shall have to fight nobody but these thirty thousand
knights.  Now speak, and it shall be as you decide.  Shall we
avoid the battle, retire from the field?"

"NO!!!"

The shout was unanimous and hearty.

"Are you--are you--well, afraid of these thirty thousand knights?"

That joke brought out a good laugh, the boys' troubles vanished
away, and they went gaily to their posts.  Ah, they were a darling
fifty-two!  As pretty as girls, too.

I was ready for the enemy now.  Let the approaching big day come
along--it would find us on deck.

The big day arrived on time.  At dawn the sentry on watch in the
corral came into the cave and reported a moving black mass under
the horizon, and a faint sound which he thought to be military
music.  Breakfast was just ready; we sat down and ate it.

This over, I made the boys a little speech, and then sent out
a detail to man the battery, with Clarence in command of it.

The sun rose presently and sent its unobstructed splendors over
the land, and we saw a prodigious host moving slowly toward us,
with the steady drift and aligned front of a wave of the sea.
Nearer and nearer it came, and more and more sublimely imposing
became its aspect; yes, all England was there, apparently.  Soon
we could see the innumerable banners fluttering, and then the sun
struck the sea of armor and set it all aflash.  Yes, it was a fine
sight; I hadn't ever seen anything to beat it.

At last we could make out details.  All the front ranks, no telling
how many acres deep, were horsemen--plumed knights in armor.
Suddenly we heard the blare of trumpets; the slow walk burst into
a gallop, and then--well, it was wonderful to see!  Down swept
that vast horse-shoe wave--it approached the sand-belt--my breath
stood still; nearer, nearer--the strip of green turf beyond the
yellow belt grew narrow--narrower still--became a mere ribbon in
front of the horses--then disappeared under their hoofs.  Great
Scott!  Why, the whole front of that host shot into the sky with
a thunder-crash, and became a whirling tempest of rags and fragments;
and along the ground lay a thick wall of smoke that hid what was
left of the multitude from our sight.

Time for the second step in the plan of campaign!  I touched
a button, and shook the bones of England loose from her spine!

In that explosion all our noble civilization-factories went up in
the air and disappeared from the earth.  It was a pity, but it
was necessary.  We could not afford to let the enemy turn our own
weapons against us.

Now ensued one of the dullest quarter-hours I had ever endured.
We waited in a silent solitude enclosed by our circles of wire,
and by a circle of heavy smoke outside of these.  We couldn't
see over the wall of smoke, and we couldn't see through it.  But
at last it began to shred away lazily, and by the end of another
quarter-hour the land was clear and our curiosity was enabled
to satisfy itself.  No living creature was in sight!  We now
perceived that additions had been made to our defenses.  The
dynamite had dug a ditch more than a hundred feet wide, all around
us, and cast up an embankment some twenty-five feet high on both
borders of it.  As to destruction of life, it was amazing.  Moreover,
it was beyond estimate.  Of course, we could not _count_ the dead,
because they did not exist as individuals, but merely as homogeneous
protoplasm, with alloys of iron and buttons.

No life was in sight, but necessarily there must have been some
wounded in the rear ranks, who were carried off the field under
cover of the wall of smoke; there would be sickness among the
others--there always is, after an episode like that.  But there
would be no reinforcements; this was the last stand of the chivalry
of England; it was all that was left of the order, after the recent
annihilating wars.  So I felt quite safe in believing that the
utmost force that could for the future be brought against us
would be but small; that is, of knights.  I therefore issued a
congratulatory proclamation to my army in these words:

   SOLDIERS, CHAMPIONS OF HUMAN LIBERTY AND EQUALITY:
   Your General congratulates you!  In the pride of his
   strength and the vanity of his renown, an arrogant
   enemy came against you.  You were ready.  The conflict
   was brief; on your side, glorious.  This mighty
   victory, having been achieved utterly without loss,
   stands without example in history.  So long as the
   planets shall continue to move in their orbits, the
   BATTLE OF THE SAND-BELT will not perish out of the
   memories of men.

                                THE BOSS.

I read it well, and the applause I got was very gratifying to me.
I then wound up with these remarks:

"The war with the English nation, as a nation, is at an end.
The nation has retired from the field and the war.  Before it can
be persuaded to return, war will have ceased.  This campaign is
the only one that is going to be fought.  It will be brief--
the briefest in history.  Also the most destructive to life,
considered from the standpoint of proportion of casualties to
numbers engaged.  We are done with the nation; henceforth we deal
only with the knights.  English knights can be killed, but they
cannot be conquered.  We know what is before us.  While one of
these men remains alive, our task is not finished, the war is not
ended.  We will kill them all."  [Loud and long continued applause.]

I picketed the great embankments thrown up around our lines by
the dynamite explosion--merely a lookout of a couple of boys
to announce the enemy when he should appear again.

Next, I sent an engineer and forty men to a point just beyond
our lines on the south, to turn a mountain brook that was there,
and bring it within our lines and under our command, arranging
it in such a way that I could make instant use of it in an emergency.
The forty men were divided into two shifts of twenty each, and
were to relieve each other every two hours.  In ten hours the
work was accomplished.

It was nightfall now, and I withdrew my pickets.  The one who
had had the northern outlook reported a camp in sight, but visible
with the glass only.  He also reported that a few knights had been
feeling their way toward us, and had driven some cattle across our
lines, but that the knights themselves had not come very near.
That was what I had been expecting.  They were feeling us, you
see; they wanted to know if we were going to play that red terror
on them again.  They would grow bolder in the night, perhaps.
I believed I knew what project they would attempt, because it was
plainly the thing I would attempt myself if I were in their places
and as ignorant as they were.  I mentioned it to Clarence.

"I think you are right," said he; "it is the obvious thing for
them to try."

"Well, then," I said, "if they do it they are doomed."

"Certainly."

"They won't have the slightest show in the world."

"Of course they won't."

"It's dreadful, Clarence.  It seems an awful pity."

The thing disturbed me so that I couldn't get any peace of mind
for thinking of it and worrying over it.  So, at last, to quiet
my conscience, I framed this message to the knights:

   TO THE HONORABLE THE COMMANDER OF THE INSURGENT
   CHIVALRY OF ENGLAND:  YOU fight in vain.  We know
   your strength--if one may call it by that name.
   We know that at the utmost you cannot bring
   against us above five and twenty thousand knights.
   Therefore, you have no chance--none whatever.
   Reflect:  we are well equipped, well fortified, we
   number 54.  Fifty-four what?  Men?  No, MINDS--the
   capablest in the world; a force against which
   mere animal might may no more hope to prevail than
   may the idle waves of the sea hope to prevail
   against the granite barriers of England.  Be advised.
   We offer you your lives; for the sake of your
   families, do not reject the gift.  We offer you
   this chance, and it is the last:  throw down your
   arms; surrender unconditionally to the Republic,
   and all will be forgiven.

                          (Signed) THE BOSS.

I read it to Clarence, and said I proposed to send it by a flag
of truce.  He laughed the sarcastic laugh he was born with, and said:

"Somehow it seems impossible for you to ever fully realize what
these nobilities are.  Now let us save a little time and trouble.
Consider me the commander of the knights yonder.  Now, then,
you are the flag of truce; approach and deliver me your message,
and I will give you your answer."

I humored the idea.  I came forward under an imaginary guard of
the enemy's soldiers, produced my paper, and read it through.
For answer, Clarence struck the paper out of my hand, pursed up
a scornful lip and said with lofty disdain:

"Dismember me this animal, and return him in a basket to the
base-born knave who sent him; other answer have I none!"

How empty is theory in presence of fact!  And this was just fact,
and nothing else.  It was the thing that would have happened,
there was no getting around that.  I tore up the paper and granted
my mistimed sentimentalities a permanent rest.

Then, to business.  I tested the electric signals from the gatling
platform to the cave, and made sure that they were all right;
I tested and retested those which commanded the fences--these
were signals whereby I could break and renew the electric current
in each fence independently of the others at will.  I placed the
brook-connection under the guard and authority of three of my
best boys, who would alternate in two-hour watches all night and
promptly obey my signal, if I should have occasion to give it--
three revolver-shots in quick succession.  Sentry-duty was discarded
for the night, and the corral left empty of life; I ordered that
quiet be maintained in the cave, and the electric lights turned
down to a glimmer.

As soon as it was good and dark, I shut off the current from all
the fences, and then groped my way out to the embankment bordering
our side of the great dynamite ditch.  I crept to the top of it
and lay there on the slant of the muck to watch.  But it was
too dark to see anything.  As for sounds, there were none.  The
stillness was deathlike.  True, there were the usual night-sounds
of the country--the whir of night-birds, the buzzing of insects,
the barking of distant dogs, the mellow lowing of far-off kine--
but these didn't seem to break the stillness, they only intensified
it, and added a grewsome melancholy to it into the bargain.

I presently gave up looking, the night shut down so black, but
I kept my ears strained to catch the least suspicious sound, for
I judged I had only to wait, and I shouldn't be disappointed.
However, I had to wait a long time.  At last I caught what you
may call in distinct glimpses of sound dulled metallic sound.
I pricked up my ears, then, and held my breath, for this was the
sort of thing I had been waiting for.  This sound thickened, and
approached--from toward the north.  Presently, I heard it at my
own level--the ridge-top of the opposite embankment, a hundred
feet or more away.  Then I seemed to see a row of black dots appear
along that ridge--human heads?  I couldn't tell; it mightn't be
anything at all; you can't depend on your eyes when your imagination
is out of focus.  However, the question was soon settled.  I heard
that metallic noise descending into the great ditch.  It augmented
fast, it spread all along, and it unmistakably furnished me this
fact:  an armed host was taking up its quarters in the ditch.  Yes,
these people were arranging a little surprise party for us.  We
could expect entertainment about dawn, possibly earlier.

I groped my way back to the corral now; I had seen enough.  I went
to the platform and signaled to turn the current on to the two
inner fences.  Then I went into the cave, and found everything
satisfactory there--nobody awake but the working-watch.  I woke
Clarence and told him the great ditch was filling up with men,
and that I believed all the knights were coming for us in a body.
It was my notion that as soon as dawn approached we could expect
the ditch's ambuscaded thousands to swarm up over the embankment
and make an assault, and be followed immediately by the rest
of their army.

Clarence said:

"They will be wanting to send a scout or two in the dark to make
preliminary observations.  Why not take the lightning off the
outer fences, and give them a chance?"

"I've already done it, Clarence.  Did you ever know me to be
inhospitable?"

"No, you are a good heart.  I want to go and--"

"Be a reception committee?  I will go, too."

We crossed the corral and lay down together between the two inside
fences.  Even the dim light of the cave had disordered our eyesight
somewhat, but the focus straightway began to regulate itself and
soon it was adjusted for present circumstances.  We had had to feel
our way before, but we could make out to see the fence posts now.
We started a whispered conversation, but suddenly Clarence broke
off and said:

"What is that?"

"What is what?"

"That thing yonder."

"What thing--where?"

"There beyond you a little piece--dark something--a dull shape
of some kind--against the second fence."

I gazed and he gazed.  I said:

"Could it be a man, Clarence?"

"No, I think not.  If you notice, it looks a lit--why, it _is_
a man!--leaning on the fence."

"I certainly believe it is; let us go and see."

We crept along on our hands and knees until we were pretty close,
and then looked up.  Yes, it was a man--a dim great figure in armor,
standing erect, with both hands on the upper wire--and, of course,
there was a smell of burning flesh.  Poor fellow, dead as a
door-nail, and never knew what hurt him.  He stood there like a
statue--no motion about him, except that his plumes swished about
a little in the night wind.  We rose up and looked in through
the bars of his visor, but couldn't make out whether we knew him
or not--features too dim and shadowed.

We heard muffled sounds approaching, and we sank down to the ground
where we were.  We made out another knight vaguely; he was coming
very stealthily, and feeling his way.  He was near enough now for
us to see him put out a hand, find an upper wire, then bend and
step under it and over the lower one.  Now he arrived at the
first knight--and started slightly when he discovered him.  He
stood a moment--no doubt wondering why the other one didn't move
on; then he said, in a low voice, "Why dreamest thou here, good
Sir Mar--" then he laid his hand on the corpse's shoulder--and just
uttered a little soft moan and sunk down dead.  Killed by a dead
man, you see--killed by a dead friend, in fact.  There was something
awful about it.

These early birds came scattering along after each other, about
one every five minutes in our vicinity, during half an hour.
They brought no armor of offense but their swords; as a rule,
they carried the sword ready in the hand, and put it forward and
found the wires with it.  We would now and then see a blue spark
when the knight that caused it was so far away as to be invisible
to us; but we knew what had happened, all the same; poor fellow,
he had touched a charged wire with his sword and been elected.
We had brief intervals of grim stillness, interrupted with piteous
regularity by the clash made by the falling of an iron-clad; and
this sort of thing was going on, right along, and was very creepy
there in the dark and lonesomeness.

We concluded to make a tour between the inner fences.  We elected
to walk upright, for convenience's sake; we argued that if discerned,
we should be taken for friends rather than enemies, and in any case
we should be out of reach of swords, and these gentry did not seem
to have any spears along.  Well, it was a curious trip.  Everywhere
dead men were lying outside the second fence--not plainly visible,
but still visible; and we counted fifteen of those pathetic
statues--dead knights standing with their hands on the upper wire.

One thing seemed to be sufficiently demonstrated:  our current
was so tremendous that it killed before the victim could cry out.
Pretty soon we detected a muffled and heavy sound, and next moment
we guessed what it was.  It was a surprise in force coming! whispered
Clarence to go and wake the army, and notify it to wait in silence
in the cave for further orders.  He was soon back, and we stood
by the inner fence and watched the silent lightning do its awful
work upon that swarming host.  One could make out but little of
detail; but he could note that a black mass was piling itself up
beyond the second fence.  That swelling bulk was dead men!  Our
camp was enclosed with a solid wall of the dead--a bulwark,
a breastwork, of corpses, you may say.  One terrible thing about
this thing was the absence of human voices; there were no cheers,
no war cries; being intent upon a surprise, these men moved as
noiselessly as they could; and always when the front rank was near
enough to their goal to make it proper for them to begin to get
a shout ready, of course they struck the fatal line and went down
without testifying.

I sent a current through the third fence now; and almost immediately
through the fourth and fifth, so quickly were the gaps filled up.
I believed the time was come now for my climax; I believed that
that whole army was in our trap.  Anyway, it was high time to find
out.  So I touched a button and set fifty electric suns aflame
on the top of our precipice.

Land, what a sight!  We were enclosed in three walls of dead men!
All the other fences were pretty nearly filled with the living,
who were stealthily working their way forward through the wires.
The sudden glare paralyzed this host, petrified them, you may say,
with astonishment; there was just one instant for me to utilize
their immobility in, and I didn't lose the chance.  You see, in
another instant they would have recovered their faculties, then
they'd have burst into a cheer and made a rush, and my wires
would have gone down before it; but that lost instant lost them
their opportunity forever; while even that slight fragment of time
was still unspent, I shot the current through all the fences and
struck the whole host dead in their tracks!  _There_ was a groan
you could _hear_!  It voiced the death-pang of eleven thousand men.
It swelled out on the night with awful pathos.

A glance showed that the rest of the enemy--perhaps ten thousand
strong--were between us and the encircling ditch, and pressing
forward to the assault.  Consequently we had them _all!_ and had
them past help.  Time for the last act of the tragedy.  I fired
the three appointed revolver shots--which meant:

"Turn on the water!"

There was a sudden rush and roar, and in a minute the mountain
brook was raging through the big ditch and creating a river a
hundred feet wide and twenty-five deep.

"Stand to your guns, men!  Open fire!"

The thirteen gatlings began to vomit death into the fated ten
thousand.  They halted, they stood their ground a moment against
that withering deluge of fire, then they broke, faced about and
swept toward the ditch like chaff before a gale.  A full fourth
part of their force never reached the top of the lofty embankment;
the three-fourths reached it and plunged over--to death by drowning.

Within ten short minutes after we had opened fire, armed resistance
was totally annihilated, the campaign was ended, we fifty-four were
masters of England.  Twenty-five thousand men lay dead around us.

But how treacherous is fortune!  In a little while--say an hour--
happened a thing, by my own fault, which--but I have no heart
to write that.  Let the record end here.



CHAPTER XLIV

A POSTSCRIPT BY CLARENCE

I, Clarence, must write it for him.  He proposed that we two
go out and see if any help could be accorded the wounded.  I was
strenuous against the project.  I said that if there were many,
we could do but little for them; and it would not be wise for us to
trust ourselves among them, anyway.  But he could seldom be turned
from a purpose once formed; so we shut off the electric current
from the fences, took an escort along, climbed over the enclosing
ramparts of dead knights, and moved out upon the field.  The first
wounded mall who appealed for help was sitting with his back
against a dead comrade.  When The Boss bent over him and spoke
to him, the man recognized him and stabbed him.  That knight was
Sir Meliagraunce, as I found out by tearing off his helmet.  He
will not ask for help any more.

We carried The Boss to the cave and gave his wound, which was
not very serious, the best care we could.  In this service we had
the help of Merlin, though we did not know it.  He was disguised
as a woman, and appeared to be a simple old peasant goodwife.
In this disguise, with brown-stained face and smooth shaven, he
had appeared a few days after The Boss was hurt and offered to cook
for us, saying her people had gone off to join certain new camps
which the enemy were forming, and that she was starving.  The Boss
had been getting along very well, and had amused himself with
finishing up his record.

We were glad to have this woman, for we were short handed.  We
were in a trap, you see--a trap of our own making.  If we stayed
where we were, our dead would kill us; if we moved out of our
defenses, we should no longer be invincible.  We had conquered;
in turn we were conquered.  The Boss recognized this; we all
recognized it.  If we could go to one of those new camps and
patch up some kind of terms with the enemy--yes, but The Boss
could not go, and neither could I, for I was among the first that
were made sick by the poisonous air bred by those dead thousands.
Others were taken down, and still others.  To-morrow--

_To-morrow._  It is here.  And with it the end.  About midnight
I awoke, and saw that hag making curious passes in the air about
The Boss's head and face, and wondered what it meant.  Everybody
but the dynamo-watch lay steeped in sleep; there was no sound.
The woman ceased from her mysterious foolery, and started tip-toeing
toward the door.  I called out:

"Stop!  What have you been doing?"

She halted, and said with an accent of malicious satisfaction:

"Ye were conquerors; ye are conquered!  These others are perishing--
you also.  Ye shall all die in this place--every one--except _him_.
He sleepeth now--and shall sleep thirteen centuries.  I am Merlin!"

Then such a delirium of silly laughter overtook him that he reeled
about like a drunken man, and presently fetched up against one
of our wires.  His mouth is spread open yet; apparently he is still
laughing.  I suppose the face will retain that petrified laugh until
the corpse turns to dust.

The Boss has never stirred--sleeps like a stone.  If he does not
wake to-day we shall understand what kind of a sleep it is, and
his body will then be borne to a place in one of the remote recesses
of the cave where none will ever find it to desecrate it.  As for
the rest of us--well, it is agreed that if any one of us ever
escapes alive from this place, he will write the fact here, and
loyally hide this Manuscript with The Boss, our dear good chief,
whose property it is, be he alive or dead.



THE END OF THE MANUSCRIPT





FINAL P.S. BY M.T.

The dawn was come when I laid the Manuscript aside.  The rain
had almost ceased, the world was gray and sad, the exhausted storm
was sighing and sobbing itself to rest.  I went to the stranger's
room, and listened at his door, which was slightly ajar.  I could
hear his voice, and so I knocked.  There was no answer, but I still
heard the voice.  I peeped in.  The man lay on his back in bed,
talking brokenly but with spirit, and punctuating with his arms,
which he thrashed about, restlessly, as sick people do in delirium.
I slipped in softly and bent over him.  His mutterings and
ejaculations went on.  I spoke--merely a word, to call his attention.
His glassy eyes and his ashy face were alight in an instant with
pleasure, gratitude, gladness, welcome:

"Oh, Sandy, you are come at last--how I have longed for you!  Sit
by me--do not leave me--never leave me again, Sandy, never again.
Where is your hand?--give it me, dear, let me hold it--there--
now all is well, all is peace, and I am happy again--_we_ are happy
again, isn't it so, Sandy?  You are so dim, so vague, you are but
a mist, a cloud, but you are _here_, and that is blessedness sufficient;
and I have your hand; don't take it away--it is for only a little
while, I shall not require it long....  Was that the child?...
Hello-Central!... she doesn't answer.  Asleep, perhaps?  Bring her
when she wakes, and let me touch her hands, her face, her hair,
and tell her good-bye....  Sandy!  Yes, you are there.  I lost
myself a moment, and I thought you were gone....  Have I been
sick long?  It must be so; it seems months to me.  And such dreams!
such strange and awful dreams, Sandy!  Dreams that were as real
as reality--delirium, of course, but _so_ real!  Why, I thought
the king was dead, I thought you were in Gaul and couldn't get
home, I thought there was a revolution; in the fantastic frenzy
of these dreams, I thought that Clarence and I and a handful of
my cadets fought and exterminated the whole chivalry of England!
But even that was not the strangest.  I seemed to be a creature
out of a remote unborn age, centuries hence, and even _that_ was
as real as the rest!  Yes, I seemed to have flown back out of that
age into this of ours, and then forward to it again, and was set
down, a stranger and forlorn in that strange England, with an
abyss of thirteen centuries yawning between me and you! between
me and my home and my friends! between me and all that is dear
to me, all that could make life worth the living!  It was awful--
awfuler than you can ever imagine, Sandy.  Ah, watch by me, Sandy--
stay by me every moment--_don't_ let me go out of my mind again;
death is nothing, let it come, but not with those dreams, not with
the torture of those hideous dreams--I cannot endure _that_ again....
Sandy?..."

He lay muttering incoherently some little time; then for a time he
lay silent, and apparently sinking away toward death.  Presently
his fingers began to pick busily at the coverlet, and by that sign
I knew that his end was at hand with the first suggestion of the
death-rattle in his throat he started up slightly, and seemed
to listen:  then he said:

"A bugle?...  It is the king!  The drawbridge, there!  Man the
battlements!--turn out the--"

He was getting up his last "effect"; but he never finished it.




End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court
by Mark Twain






THE AMERICAN CLAIMANT

by Mark Twain



1892


EXPLANATORY

The Colonel Mulberry Sellers here re-introduced to the public is the same
person who appeared as Eschol Sellers in the first edition of the tale
entitled "The Gilded Age," years ago, and as Beriah Sellers in the
subsequent editions of the same book, and finally as Mulberry Sellers in
the drama played afterward by John T. Raymond.

The name was changed from Eschol to Beriah to accommodate an Eschol
Sellers who rose up out of the vasty deeps of uncharted space and
preferred his request--backed by threat of a libel suit--then went his
way appeased, and came no more.  In the play Beriah had to be dropped to
satisfy another member of the race, and Mulberry was substituted in the
hope that the objectors would be tired by that time and let it pass
unchallenged.  So far it has occupied the field in peace; therefore we
chance it again, feeling reasonably safe, this time, under shelter of the
statute of limitations.

MARK TWAIN.
Hartford, 1891.






THE WEATHER IN THIS BOOK.

No weather will be found in this book.  This is an attempt to pull a book
through without weather.  It being the first attempt of the kind in
fictitious literature, it may prove a failure, but it seemed worth the
while of some dare-devil person to try it, and the author was in just the
mood.

Many a reader who wanted to read a tale through was not able to do it
because of delays on account of the weather.  Nothing breaks up an
author's progress like having to stop every few pages to fuss-up the
weather.  Thus it is plain that persistent intrusions of weather are bad
for both reader and author.

Of course weather is necessary to a narrative of human experience.
That is conceded.  But it ought to be put where it will not be in the
way; where it will not interrupt the flow of the narrative.  And it ought
to be the ablest weather that can be had, not ignorant, poor-quality,
amateur weather.  Weather is a literary specialty, and no untrained hand
can turn out a good article of it.  The present author can do only a few
trifling ordinary kinds of weather, and he cannot do those very good.
So it has seemed wisest to borrow such weather as is necessary for the
book from qualified and recognized experts-giving credit, of course.
This weather will be found over in the back part of the book, out of the
way.  See Appendix.  The reader is requested to turn over and help
himself from time to time as he goes along.




CHAPTER I.

It is a matchless morning in rural England.  On a fair hill we see a
majestic pile, the ivied walls and towers of Cholmondeley Castle, huge
relic and witness of the baronial grandeurs of the Middle Ages.  This is
one of the seats of the Earl of Rossmore, K. G. G. C. B. K. C. M. G.,
etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., who possesses twenty-two thousand acres of
English land, owns a parish in London with two thousand houses on its
lease-roll, and struggles comfortably along on an income of two hundred
thousand pounds a year.  The father and founder of this proud old line
was William the Conqueror his very self; the mother of it was not
inventoried in history by name, she being merely a random episode and
inconsequential, like the tanner's daughter of Falaise.

In a breakfast room of the castle on this breezy fine morning there are
two persons and the cooling remains of a deserted meal.  One of these
persons is the old lord, tall, erect, square-shouldered, white-haired,
stern-browed, a man who shows character in every feature, attitude, and
movement, and carries his seventy years as easily as most men carry
fifty.  The other person is his only son and heir, a dreamy-eyed young
fellow, who looks about twenty-six but is nearer thirty.  Candor,
kindliness, honesty, sincerity, simplicity, modesty--it is easy to see
that these are cardinal traits of his character; and so when you have
clothed him in the formidable components of his name, you somehow seem
to be contemplating a lamb in armor: his name and style being the
Honourable Kirkcudbright Llanover Marjorihanks Sellers Viscount-Berkeley,
of Cholmondeley Castle, Warwickshire.  (Pronounced K'koobry Thlanover
Marshbanks Sellers Vycount Barkly, of Chumly Castle, Warrikshr.) He is
standing by a great window, in an attitude suggestive of respectful
attention to what his father is saying and equally respectful dissent
from the positions and arguments offered.  The father walks the floor as
he talks, and his talk shows that his temper is away up toward summer
heat.

"Soft-spirited as you are, Berkeley, I am quite aware that when you have
once made up your mind to do a thing which your ideas of honor and
justice require you to do, argument and reason are (for the time being,)
wasted upon you--yes, and ridicule; persuasion, supplication, and command
as well.  To my mind--"

"Father, if you will look at it without prejudice, without passion, you
must concede that I am not doing a rash thing, a thoughtless, wilful
thing, with nothing substantial behind it to justify it.  I did not
create the American claimant to the earldom of Rossmore; I did not hunt
for him, did not find him, did not obtrude him upon your notice.
He found himself, he injected himself into our lives--"

"And has made mine a purgatory for ten years with his tiresome letters,
his wordy reasonings, his acres of tedious evidence,--"

"Which you would never read, would never consent to read.  Yet in common
fairness he was entitled to a hearing.  That hearing would either prove
he was the rightful earl--in which case our course would be plain--or it
would prove that he wasn't--in which case our course would be equally
plain.  I have read his evidences, my lord.  I have conned them well,
studied them patiently and thoroughly.  The chain seems to be complete,
no important link wanting.  I believe he is the rightful earl."

"And I a usurper--a--nameless pauper, a tramp!  Consider what you are
saying, sir."

"Father, if he is the rightful earl, would you, could you--that fact
being established--consent to keep his titles and his properties from him
a day, an hour, a minute?"

"You are talking nonsense--nonsense--lurid idiotcy!  Now, listen to me.
I will make a confession--if you wish to call it by that name.  I did not
read those evidences because I had no occasion to--I was made familiar
with them in, the time of this claimant's father and of my own father
forty years ago.  This fellow's predecessors have kept mine more or less
familiar with them for close upon a hundred and fifty years.  The truth
is, the rightful heir did go to America, with the Fairfax heir or about
the same time--but disappeared--somewhere in the, wilds of Virginia, got
married, end began to breed savages for the Claimant market; wrote no
letters home; was supposed to be dead; his younger brother softly took
possession; presently the American did die, and straightway his eldest
product put in his claim--by letter--letter still in existence--and died
before the uncle in-possession found time--or maybe inclination--to--
answer.  The infant son of that eldest product grew up--long interval,
you see--and he took to writing letters and furnishing evidences.  Well,
successor after successor has done the same, down to the present idiot.
It was a succession of paupers; not one of them was ever able to pay his
passage to England or institute suit.  The Fairfaxes kept their lordship
alive, and so they have never lost it to this day, although they live in
Maryland; their friend lost his by his own neglect.  You perceive now,
that the facts in this case bring us to precisely this result: morally
the American tramp is rightful earl of Rossmore; legally he has no more
right than his dog.  There now--are you satisfied?"

There was a pause, then the son glanced at the crest carved in the great
oaken mantel and said, with a regretful note in his voice:

"Since the introduction of heraldic symbols,--the motto of this house has
been 'Suum cuique'--to every man his own.  By your own intrepidly frank
confession, my lord, it is become a sarcasm: If Simon Lathers--"

Keep that exasperating name to yourself!  For ten years it has pestered
my eye--and tortured my ear; till at last my very footfalls time
themselves to the brain-racking rhythm of Simon Lathers!--Simon Lathers!
--Simon Lathers!  And now, to make its presence in my soul eternal,
immortal, imperishable, you have resolved to--to--what is it you have
resolved to do?"

"To go to Simon Lathers, in America, and change places with him."

"What?  Deliver the reversion of the earldom into his hands?"

"That is my purpose."

"Make this tremendous surrender without even trying the fantastic case in
the Lords?"

"Ye--s--" with hesitation and some embarrassment.

"By all that is amazing, I believe you are insane, my son.  See here
--have you been training with that ass again--that radical, if you prefer
the term, though the words are synonymous--Lord Tanzy, of Tollmache?"

The son did not reply, and the old lord continued:

"Yes, you confess.  That puppy, that shame to his birth and caste, who
holds all hereditary lordships and privilege to be usurpation, all
nobility a tinsel sham, all aristocratic institutions a fraud, all
inequalities in rank a legalized crime and an infamy, and no bread honest
bread that a man doesn't earn by his own work--work, pah!"--and the old
patrician brushed imaginary labor-dirt from his white hands.  "You have
come to hold just those opinions yourself, suppose,"--he added with a
sneer.

A faint flush in the younger man's cheek told that the shot had hit and
hurt; but he answered with dignity:

"I have.  I say it without shame--I feel none.  And now my reason for
resolving to renounce my heirship without resistance is explained.
I wish to retire from what to me is a false existence, a false position,
and begin my life over again--begin it right--begin it on the level of
mere manhood, unassisted by factitious aids, and succeed or fail by pure
merit or the want of it.  I will go to America, where all men are equal
and all have an equal chance; I will live or die, sink or swim, win or
lose as just a man--that alone, and not a single helping gaud or fiction
back of it."

"Hear, hear!"  The two men looked each other steadily in the eye a moment
or two, then the elder one added, musingly, "Ab-so-lutely
cra-zy-ab-solutely!  "After another silence, he said, as one who, long
troubled by clouds, detects a ray of sunshine," Well, there will be one
satisfaction--Simon Lathets will come here to enter into his own, and I
will drown him in the horsepond.  That poor devil--always so humble in
his letters, so pitiful, so deferential; so steeped in reverence for our
great line and lofty-station; so anxious to placate us, so prayerful for
recognition as a relative, a bearer in his veins of our sacred blood--
and withal so poor, so needy, so threadbare and pauper-shod as to
raiment, so despised, so laughed at for his silly claimantship by the
lewd American scum around him--ah, the vulgar, crawling, insufferable
tramp!  To read one of his cringing, nauseating letters--well?"

This to a splendid flunkey, all in inflamed plush and buttons and
knee-breeches as to his trunk, and a glinting white frost-work of
ground-glass paste as to his head, who stood with his heels together and
the upper half of him bent forward, a salver in his hands:

"The letters, my lord."

My lord took them, and the servant disappeared.

"Among the rest, an American letter.  From the tramp, of course.  Jove,
but here's a change!  No brown paper envelope this time, filched from a
shop, and carrying the shop's advertisement in the corner.  Oh, no, a
proper enough envelope--with a most ostentatiously broad mourning
border--for his cat, perhaps, since he was a bachelor--and fastened with
red wax--a batch of it as big as a half-crown--and--and--our crest for a
seal!--motto and all.  And the ignorant, sprawling hand is gone; he
sports a secretary, evidently--a secretary with a most confident swing
and flourish to his pen.  Oh indeed, our fortunes are improving over
there--our meek tramp has undergone a metamorphosis."

"Read it, my lord, please."

"Yes, this time I will.  For the sake of the cat:

                                        14,042 SIXTEENTH.  STREET,
                                        WASHINGTON, May 2.

It is my painful duty to announce to you that the head of our illustrious
house is no more--The Right Honourable, The Most Noble, The Most Puissant
Simon Lathers Lord Rossmore having departed this life ("Gone at last--
this is unspeakably precious news, my son,") at his seat in the environs
of the hamlet of Duffy's Corners in the grand old State of Arkansas,--
and his twin brother with him, both being crushed by a log at a
smoke-house-raising, owing to carelessness on the part of all present,
referable to over-confidence and gaiety induced by overplus of
sour-mash--("Extolled be sour-mash, whatever that may be, eh Berkeley?")
five days ago, with no scion of our ancient race present to close his
eyes and inter him with the honors due his historic name and lofty
rank-in fact, he is on the ice yet, him and his brother--friends took a
collection for it.  But I shall take immediate occasion to have their
noble remains shipped to you ("Great heavens!") for interment, with due
ceremonies and solemnities, in the family vault or mausoleum of our
house.  Meantime I shall put up a pair of hatchments on my house-front,
and you will of course do the same at your several seats.

I have also to remind you that by this sad disaster I as sole heir,
inherit and become seized of all the titles, honors, lands, and goods of
our lamented relative, and must of necessity, painful as the duty is,
shortly require at the bar of the Lords restitution of these dignities
and properties, now illegally enjoyed by your titular lordship.

With assurance of my distinguished consideration and warm cousinly
regard, I remain
                         Your titular lordship's

                                   Most obedient servant,
                              Mulberry Sellers Earl Rossmore.

"Im-mense!  Come, this one's interesting.  Why, Berkeley, his breezy
impudence is--is--why, it's colossal, it's sublime."

"No, this one doesn't seem to cringe much."

"Cringe--why, he doesn't know the meaning of the word.  Hatchments!  To
commemorate that sniveling tramp and his, fraternal duplicate.  And he is
going to send me the remains.  The late Claimant was a fool, but plainly
this new one's a maniac.  What a name!  Mulberry Sellers--there's music
for you, Simon Lathers--Mulberry Sellers--Mulberry Sellers--Simon
Lathers.  Sounds like machinery working and churning.  Simon Lathers,
Mulberry Sel--Are you going?"

"If I have your leave, father."

The old gentleman stood musing some time, after his son was gone.  This
was his thought:

"He is a good boy, and lovable.  Let him take his own course--as it would
profit nothing to oppose him--make things worse, in fact.  My arguments
and his aunt's persuasions have failed; let us see what America can do
for us.  Let us see what equality and hard-times can effect for the
mental health of a brain-sick young British lord.  Going to renounce his
lordship and be a man!  Yas!"




CHAPTER II.

COLONEL MULBERRY SELLERS--this was some days before he wrote his letter
to Lord Rossmore--was seated in his "library," which was also his
"drawing-room" and was also his "picture gallery" and likewise his
"work-shop."  Sometimes he called it by one of these names, sometimes by
another, according to occasion and circumstance.  He was constructing
what seemed to be some kind of a frail mechanical toy; and was apparently
very much interested in his work.  He was a white-headed man, now, but
otherwise he was as young, alert, buoyant, visionary and enterprising as
ever.  His loving old wife sat near by, contentedly knitting and
thinking, with a cat asleep in her lap.  The room was large, light, and
had a comfortable look, in fact a home-like look, though the furniture
was of a humble sort and not over abundant, and the knickknacks and
things that go to adorn a living-room not plenty and not costly.  But
there were natural flowers, and there was an abstract and unclassifiable
something about the place which betrayed the presence in the house of
somebody with a happy taste and an effective touch.

Even the deadly chromos on the walls were somehow without offence;
in fact they seemed to belong there and to add an attraction to the room-
-a fascination, anyway; for whoever got his eye on one of them was like
to gaze and suffer till he died--you have seen that kind of pictures.
Some of these terrors were landscapes, some libeled the sea, some were
ostensible portraits, all were crimes.  All the portraits were
recognizable as dead Americans of distinction, and yet, through labeling
added, by a daring hand, they were all doing duty here as "Earls of
Rossmore."  The newest one had left the works as Andrew Jackson, but was
doing its best now, as "Simon Lathers Lord Rossmore, Present Earl."
On one wall was a cheap old railroad map of Warwickshire.  This had been
newly labeled "The Rossmore Estates."  On the opposite, wall was another
map, and this was the most imposing decoration of the establishment and
the first to catch a stranger's attention, because of its great size.
It had once borne simply the title SIBERIA; but now the word "FUTURE" had
been written in front of that word.  There were other additions, in red
ink--many cities, with great populations set down, scattered over the
vast-country at points where neither cities nor populations exist to-day.
One of these cities, with population placed at 1,500,000, bore the name
"Libertyorloffskoizalinski," and there was a still more populous one,
centrally located and marked "Capital," which bore the name
"Freedomolovnaivanovich."

The "mansion"--the Colonel's usual name for the house--was a rickety old
two-story frame of considerable size, which had been painted, some time
or other, but had nearly forgotten it.  It was away out in the ragged
edge of Washington and had once been somebody's country place.  It had a
neglected yard around it, with a paling fence that needed straightening
up, in places, and a gate that would stay shut.  By the door-post were
several modest tin signs.  "Col. Mulberry Sellers, Attorney at Law and
Claim Agent," was the principal one.  One learned from the others that
the Colonel was a Materializer, a Hypnotizer, a Mind-Cure dabbler; and so
on.  For he was a man who could always find things to do.

A white-headed negro man, with spectacles and damaged white cotton gloves
appeared in the presence, made a stately obeisance and announced:

"Marse Washington Hawkins, suh."

"Great Scott!  Show him in, Dan'l, show him in."

The Colonel and his wife were on their feet in a moment, and the next
moment were joyfully wringing the hands of a stoutish, discouraged-
looking man whose general aspect suggested that he was fifty years old,
but whose hair swore to a hundred.

"Well, well, well, Washington, my boy, it is good to look at you again.
Sit down, sit down, and make yourself at home.  There, now--why, you look
perfectly natural; aging a little, just a little, but you'd have known
him anywhere, wouldn't you, Polly?"

"Oh, yes, Berry, he's just like his pa would have looked if he'd lived.
Dear, dear, where have you dropped from?  Let me see, how long is it
since--"

I should say it's all of fifteen` years, Mrs.  Sellers."

"Well, well, how time does get away with us.  Yes, and oh, the changes
that--"

There was a sudden catch of her voice and a trembling of the lip, the men
waiting reverently for her to, get command of herself and go on; but
after a little struggle she turned away, with her apron to her eyes, and
softly disappeared..

"Seeing you made her think of the children, poor thing--dear, dear,
they're all dead but the youngest.

"But banish care, it's no time for it now--on with the dance, let joy be
unconfined is my motto, whether there's any dance to dance; or any joy to
unconfine--you'll be the healthier for it every time,--every time,
Washington--it's my experience, and I've seen a good deal of this world.
Come--where have you disappeared to all these years, and are you from
there, now, or where are you from?"

"I don't quite think you would ever guess, Colonel.  Cherokee Strip."

"My land!"

"Sure as you live."

"You can't mean it.  Actually living out there?"

"Well, yes, if a body may call it that; though it's a pretty strong term
for 'dobies and jackass rabbits, boiled beans and slap-jacks, depression,
withered hopes, poverty in all its varieties--"

"Louise out there?"

"Yes, and the children."

"Out there now?"

"Yes, I couldn't afford to bring them with me."

"Oh, I see,--you had to come--claim against the government.  Make
yourself perfectly easy--I'll take care of that."

"But it isn't a claim against the government."

"No?  Want to be postmaster?  That's all right.  Leave it to me.  I'll
fix it."

"But it isn't postmaster--you're all astray yet."

"Well, good gracious, Washington, why don't you come out and tell me what
it is?  What, do you want to be so reserved and distrustful with an old
friend like me, for?  Don't you reckon I can keep a se--'

"There's no secret about it--you merely don't give me a chance to--"

"Now look here, old friend, I know the human race; and I know that when a
man comes to Washington, I don't care if it's from heaven, let alone
Cherokee-Strip, it's because he wants something.  And I know that as a
rule he's not going to get it; that he'll stay and try--for another thing
and won't get that; the same luck with the next and the next and the
next; and keeps on till he strikes bottom, and is too poor and ashamed to
go back, even to Cherokee Strip; and at last his heart breaks--and they
take up a collection and bury him.  There--don't interrupt me, I know
what I'm talking about.  Happy and prosperous in the Far West wasn't I?
You know that.  Principal citizen of Hawkeye, looked up to by everybody,
kind of an autocrat, actually a kind of an autocrat, Washington.  Well,
nothing would do but I must go Minister to St. James, the Governor and
everybody insisting, you know, and so at last I consented--no getting out
of it, had to do it, so here I came.  A day too late, Washington.  Think
of that--what little things change the world's history--yes, sir, the
place had been filled.  Well, there I was, you see.  I offered to
compromise and go to Paris.  The President was very sorry and all that,
but that place, you see, didn't belong to the West, so there I was again.
There was no help for it, so I had to stoop a little--we all reach the
day some time or other when we've got to do that, Washington, and it's
not a bad thing for us, either, take it by and large and all around--
I had to stoop a little and offer to take Constantinople.  Washington,
consider this--for it's perfectly true--within a month I asked for China;
within another month I begged for Japan; one year later I was away down,
down, down, supplicating with tears and anguish for the bottom office in
the gift of the government of the United States--Flint-Picker in the
cellars of the War Department.  And by George I didn't get it."

"Flint-Picker?"

"Yes.  Office established in the time of the Revolution, last century.
The musket-flints for the military posts were supplied from the capitol.
They do it yet; for although the flint-arm has gone out and the forts
have tumbled down, the decree hasn't been repealed--been overlooked and
forgotten, you see--and so the vacancies where old Ticonderoga and others
used to stand, still get their six quarts of gun-flints a year just the
same."

Washington said musingly after a pause:

"How strange it seems--to start for Minister to England at twenty
thousand a year and fail for flintpicker at--"

"Three dollars a week.  It's human life, Washington--just an epitome of
human ambition, and struggle, and the outcome: you aim for the palace and
get drowned in the sewer."

There was another meditative silence.  Then Washington said, with earnest
compassion in his voice--

"And so, after coming here, against your inclination, to satisfy your
sense of patriotic duty and appease a selfish public clamor, you get
absolutely nothing for it."

"Nothing?"  The Colonel had to get up and stand, to get room for his
amazement to expand.  "Nothing, Washington?  I ask you this: to be a
perpetual Member and the only Perpetual Member of a Diplomatic Body
accredited to the greatest country on earth do you call that nothing?"

It was Washington's turn to be amazed.  He was stricken dumb; but the
wide-eyed wonder, the reverent admiration expressed in his face were more
eloquent than any words could have been.  The Colonel's wounded spirit
was healed and he resumed his seat pleased and content.  He leaned
forward and said impressively:

"What was due to a man who had become forever conspicuous by an
experience without precedent in the history of the world?--a man made
permanently and diplomatically sacred, so to speak, by having been
connected, temporarily, through solicitation, with every single
diplomatic post in the roster of this government, from Envoy
Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James all
the way down to Consul to a guano rock in the Straits of Sunda--salary
payable in guano--which disappeared by volcanic convulsion the day before
they got down to my name in the list of applicants.  Certainly something
august enough to be answerable to the size of this unique and memorable
experience was my due, and I got it.  By the common voice of this
community, by acclamation of the people, that mighty, utterance which
brushes aside laws and legislation, and from whose decrees there is no
appeal, I was named Perpetual Member of the Diplomatic Body representing
the multifarious sovereignties and civilizations of the globe near the
republican court of the United States of America.  And they brought me
home with a torchlight procession."

"It is wonderful, Colonel, simply wonderful."

"It's the loftiest official position in the whole earth."

"I should think so-and the most commanding."

"You have named the word.  Think of it.  I frown, and there is war; I
smile, and contending nations lay down their arms."

"It is awful.  The responsibility, I mean."

"It is nothing.  Responsibility is no burden to me; I am used to it; have
always been used to it."

"And the work--the work!  Do you have to attend all the sittings?"

"Who, I?  Does the Emperor of Russia attend the conclaves of the
governors of the provinces?  He sits at home, and indicates his
pleasure."

Washington was silent a moment, then a deep sigh escaped him.

"How proud I was an hour ago; how paltry seems my little promotion now!
Colonel, the reason I came to Washington is,--I am Congressional Delegate
from Cherokee Strip!"

The Colonel sprang to his feet and broke out with prodigious enthusiasm:

"Give me your hand, my boy--this is immense news!  I congratulate you
with all my heart.  My prophecies stand confirmed.  I always said it was
in you.  I always said you were born for high distinction and would
achieve it.  You ask Polly if I didn't."

Washington was dazed by this most unexpected demonstration.

"Why, Colonel, there's nothing to it.  That little narrow, desolate,
unpeopled, oblong streak of grass and gravel, lost in the remote wastes
of the vast continent--why, it's like representing a billiard table--a
discarded one."

"Tut-tut, it's a great, it's a staving preferment, and just opulent with
influence here."

"Shucks, Colonel, I haven't even a vote."

"That's nothing; you can make speeches."

"No, I can't.  The population's only two, hundred--"

"That's all right, that's all right--"

"And they hadn't any right to elect me; we're not even a territory,
there's no Organic Act, the government hasn't any official knowledge of
us whatever."

"Never mind about that; I'll fix that.  I'll rush the thing through, I'll
get you organized in no time."

"Will you, Colonel?--it's too good of you; but it's just your old
sterling self, the same old ever-faithful friend," and the grateful tears
welled up in Washington's eyes.

"It's just as good as done, my boy, just as good as done.  Shake hands.
We'll hitch teams together, you and I, and we'll make things hum!"



CHAPTER III.

Mrs. Sellers returned, now, with her composure restored, and began to ask
after Hawkins's wife, and about his children, and the number of them, and
so on, and her examination of the witness resulted in a circumstantial
history of the family's ups and downs and driftings to and fro in the far
West during the previous fifteen years.  There was a message, now, from
out back, and Colonel Sellers went out there in answer to it.  Hawkins
took this opportunity to ask how the world had been using the Colonel
during the past half-generation.

"Oh, it's been using him just the same; it couldn't change its way of
using him if it wanted to, for he wouldn't let it."

"I can easily believe that, Mrs.  Sellers."

"Yes, you see, he doesn't change, himself--not the least little bit in
the world--he's always Mulberry Sellers."

"I can see that plain enough."

"Just the same old scheming, generous, good-hearted, moonshiny, hopeful,
no-account failure he always was, and still everybody likes him just as
well as if he was the shiningest success."

"They always did: and it was natural, because he was so obliging and
accommodating, and had something about him that made it kind of easy to
ask help of him, or favors--you didn't feel shy, you know, or have that
wish--you--didn't--have--to--try feeling that you have with other
people."

"It's just so, yet; and a body wonders at it, too, because he's been
shamefully treated, many times, by people that had used him for a ladder
to climb up by, and then kicked him down when they didn't need him any
more.  For a time you can see he's hurt, his pride's wounded, because he
shrinks away from that thing and don't want to talk about it--and so I
used to think now he's learned something and he'll be more careful
hereafter--but laws! in a couple of weeks he's forgotten all about it,
and any selfish tramp out of nobody knows where can come and put up a
poor mouth and walk right into his heart with his boots on."

"It must try your patience pretty sharply sometimes."

"Oh, no, I'm used to it; and I'd rather have him so than the other way.
When I call him a failure, I mean to the world he's a failure; he isn't
to me.  I don't know as I want him different much different, anyway.
I have to scold him some, snarl at him, you might even call it, but I
reckon I'd do that just the same, if he was different--it's my make.
But I'm a good deal less snarly and more contented when he's a failure
than I am when he isn't."

"Then he isn't always a failure," said Hawking, brightening.

"Him?  Oh, bless you, no.  He makes a strike, as he calls it, from time
to time.  Then's my time to fret and fuss.  For the money just flies--
first come first served.  Straight off, he loads up the house with
cripples and idiots and stray cats and all the different kinds of poor
wrecks that other people don't want and he does, and then when the
poverty comes again I've got to clear the most of them out or we'd
starve; and that distresses him, and me the same, of course.

"Here's old Dan'l and old Jinny, that the sheriff sold south one of the
times that we got bankrupted before the war--they came wandering back
after the peace, worn out and used up on the cotton plantations,
helpless, and not another lick of work left in their old hides for the
rest of this earthly pilgrimage--and we so pinched, oh so pinched for the
very crumbs to keep life in us, and he just flung the door wide, and the
way he received them you'd have thought they had come straight down from
heaven in answer to prayer.  I took him one side and said, 'Mulberry we
can't have them--we've nothing for ourselves--we can't feed them.'
He looked at me kind of hurt, and said, 'Turn them out?--and they've come
to me just as confident and trusting as--as--why Polly, I must have
bought that confidence sometime or other a long time ago, and given my
note, so to speak--you don't get such things as a gift--and how am I
going to go back on a debt like that?  And you see, they're so poor,
and old, and friendless, and--But I was ashamed by that time, and shut
him off, and somehow felt a new courage in me, and so I said, softly,
'We'll keep them--the Lord will provide.'  He was glad, and started to
blurt out one of those over-confident speeches of his, but checked
himself in time, and said humbly, 'I will, anyway.'  It was years and
years and years ago.  Well, you see those old wrecks are here yet."

"But don't they do your housework?"

"Laws!  The idea.  They would if they could, poor old things, and perhaps
they think they do do some of it.  But it's a superstition.  Dan'l waits
on the front door, and sometimes goes on an errand; and sometimes you'll
see one or both of them letting on to dust around in here--but that's
because there's something they want to hear about and mix their gabble
into.  And they're always around at meals, for the same reason.  But the
fact is, we have to keep a young negro girl just to take care of them,
and a negro woman to do the housework and help take care of them."

"Well, they ought to be tolerably happy, I should think.

"It's no name for it.  They quarrel together pretty much all the time--
most always about religion, because Dan'l's a Dunker Baptist and Jinny's
a shouting Methodist, and Jinny believes in special Providences and Dan'l
don't, because he thinks he's a kind of a free-thinker--and they play and
sing plantation hymns together, and talk and chatter just eternally and
forever, and are sincerely fond of each other and think the world of
Mulberry, and he puts up patiently with all their spoiled ways and
foolishness, and so-ah, well, they're happy enough if it comes to that.
And I don't mind--I've got used to it.  I can get used to anything, with
Mulberry to help; and the fact is, I don't much care what happens, so
long as he's spared to me."

"Well, here's to him, and hoping he'll make another strike soon."

"And rake in the lame, the halt and the blind, and turn the house into a
hospital again?  It's what he would do.  I've seen aplenty of that and
more.  No, Washington, I want his strikes to be mighty moderate ones the
rest of the way down the vale."

"Well, then, big strike or little strike, or no strike at all, here's
hoping he'll never lack for friends--and I don't reckon he ever will
while there's people around who know enough to--"

"Him lack for friends!" and she tilted her head up with a frank pride--
"why, Washington, you can't name a man that's anybody that isn't fond of
him.  I'll tell you privately, that I've had Satan's own time to keep
them from appointing him to some office or other.  They knew he'd no
business with an office, just as well as I did, but he's the hardest man
to refuse anything to, a body ever saw.  Mulberry Sellers with an office!
laws goodness, you know what that would be like.  Why, they'd come from
the ends of the earth to see a circus like that.  I'd just as lieves be
married to Niagara Falls, and done with it."  After a reflective pause
she added--having wandered back, in the interval, to the remark that had
been her text: "Friends?--oh, indeed, no man ever had more; and such
friends: Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Johnston, Longstreet, Lee--many's the
time they've sat in that chair you're sitting in--" Hawkins was out of it
instantly, and contemplating it with a reverential surprise, and with the
awed sense of having trodden shod upon holy ground--

"They!" he said.

"Oh, indeed, yes, a many and a many a time."

He continued to gaze at the chair fascinated, magnetized; and for once in
his life that continental stretch of dry prairie which stood for his
imagination was afire, and across it was marching a slanting flamefront
that joined its wide horizons together and smothered the skies with
smoke.  He was experiencing what one or another drowsing, geographically
ignorant alien experiences every day in the year when he turns a dull and
indifferent eye out of the car window and it falls upon a certain
station-sign which reads "Stratford -on-Avon!" Mrs.  Sellers went
gossiping comfortably along:

"Oh, they like to hear him talk, especially if their load is getting
rather heavy on one shoulder and they want to shift it.  He's all air,
you know,--breeze, you may say--and he freshens them up; it's a trip to
the country, they say.  Many a time he's made General Grant laugh--and
that's a tidy job, I can tell you, and as for Sheridan, his eye lights up
and he listens to Mulberry Sellers the same as if he was artillery.
You see, the charm about Mulberry is, he is so catholic and unprejudiced
that he fits in anywhere and everywhere.  It makes him powerful good
company, and as popular as scandal.  You go to the White House when the
President's holding a general reception--sometime when Mulberry's there.
Why, dear me, you can't tell which of them it is that's holding that
reception."

"Well, he certainly is a remarkable man--and he always was.  Is he
religious?"

"Clear to his marrow--does more thinking and reading on that subject than
any other except Russia and Siberia: thrashes around over the whole
field, too; nothing bigoted about him."

"What is his religion?"

"He--" She stopped, and was lost for a moment or two in thinking, then
she said, with simplicity, "I think he was a Mohammedan or something last
week."

Washington started down town, now, to bring his trunk, for the hospitable
Sellerses would listen to no excuses; their house must be his home during
the session.  The Colonel returned presently and resumed work upon his
plaything.  It was finished when Washington got back.

"There it is," said the Colonel, "all finished."

"What is it for, Colonel?"

"Oh, it's just a trifle.  Toy to amuse the children."

Washington examined it.

"It seems to be a puzzle."

"Yes, that's what it is.  I call it Pigs in the Clover.  Put them in--see
if you can put them in the pen."

After many failures Washington succeeded, and was as pleased as a child.

"It's wonderfully ingenious, Colonel, it's ever so clever and
interesting--why, I could play with it all day.  What are you going to do
with it?"

"Oh, nothing.  Patent it and throw it aside."

"Don't you do anything of the kind.  There's money in that thing."

A compassionate look traveled over the Colonel's countenance, and he
said:

"Money--yes; pin money: a couple of hundred thousand, perhaps.  Not
more."

Washington's eyes blazed.

"A couple of hundred thousand dollars!  do you call that pin money?"

The colonel rose and tip-toed his way across the room, closed a door that
was slightly ajar, tip-toed his way to his seat again, and said, under
his breath:

"You can keep a secret?"

Washington nodded his affirmative, he was too awed to speak.

"You have heard of materialization-materialization of departed spirits?"

Washington had heard of it.

"And probably didn't believe in it; and quite right, too.  The thing as
practised by ignorant charlatans is unworthy of attention or respect-
where there's a dim light and a dark cabinet, and a parcel of sentimental
gulls gathered together, with their faith and their shudders and their
tears all ready, and one and the same fatty degeneration of protoplasm
and humbug comes out and materializes himself into anybody you want,
grandmother, grandchild, brother-in-law, Witch of Endor, John Milton,
Siamese twins, Peter the Great, and all such frantic nonsense--no, that
is all foolish and pitiful.  But when a man that is competent brings the
vast powers of science to bear, it's a different matter, a totally
different matter, you see.  The spectre that answers that call has come
to stay.  Do you note the commercial value of that detail?"

"Well, I--the--the truth is, that I don't quite know that I do.  Do you
mean that such, being permanent, not transitory, would give more general
satisfaction, and so enhance the price--of tickets to the show--"

"Show?  Folly--listen to me; and get a good grip on your breath, for you
are going to need it.  Within three days I shall have completed my
method, and then--let the world stand aghast, for it shall see marvels.
Washington, within three days--ten at the outside--you shall see me call
the dead of any century, and they will arise and walk.  Walk?--they shall
walk forever, and never die again.  Walk with all the muscle and spring
of their pristine vigor."

"Colonel!  Indeed it does take one's breath away."

"Now do you see the money that's in it?"

"I'm--well, I'm--not really sure that I do."

Great Scott, look here.  I shall have a monopoly; they'll all belong to
me, won't they?  Two thousand policemen in the city of New York.  Wages,
four dollars a day.  I'll replace them with dead ones at half the money.

"Oh, prodigious!  I never thought of that.  F-o-u-r thousand dollars a
day.  Now I do begin to see!  But will dead policemen answer?"

"Haven't they--up to this time?"

"Well, if you put it that way--"

"Put it any way you want to.  Modify it to suit yourself, and my lads
shall still be superior.  They won't eat, they won't drink--don't need
those things; they won't wink for cash at gambling dens and unlicensed
rum-holes, they won't spark the scullery maids; and moreover the bands of
toughs that ambuscade them on lonely beats, and cowardly shoot and knife
them will only damage the uniforms and not live long enough to get more
than a momentary satisfaction out of that."

"Why, Colonel, if you can furnish policemen, then of course--"

"Certainly--I can furnish any line of goods that's wanted.  Take the
army, for instance--now twenty-five thousand men; expense, twenty-two
millions a year.  I will dig up the Romans, I will resurrect the Greeks,
I will furnish the government, for ten millions a year, ten thousand
veterans drawn from the victorious legions of all the ages--soldiers that
will chase Indians year in and year out on materialized horses, and cost
never a cent for rations or repairs.  The armies of Europe cost two
billions a year now--I will replace them all for a billion.  I will dig
up the trained statesmen of all ages and all climes, and furnish this
country with a Congress that knows enough to come in out of the rain--
a thing that's never happened yet, since the Declaration of Independence,
and never will happen till these practically dead people are replaced
with the genuine article.  I will restock the thrones of Europe with the
best brains and the best morals that all the royal sepulchres of all the
centuries can furnish--which isn't promising very much--and I'll divide
the wages and the civil list, fair and square, merely taking my half
and--"

"Colonel, if the half of this is true, there's millions in it--millions."

"Billions in it--billions; that's what you mean.  Why, look here; the
thing is so close at hand, so imminent, so absolutely immediate, that if
a man were to come to me now and say, Colonel, I am a little short, and
if you could lend me a couple of billion dollars for--come in!"

This in answer to a knock.  An energetic looking man bustled in with a
big pocket-book in his hand, took a paper from it and presented it, with
the curt remark:

"Seventeenth and last call--you want to out with that three dollars and
forty cents this time without fail, Colonel Mulberry Sellers."

The Colonel began to slap this pocket and that one, and feel here and
there and everywhere, muttering:

"What have I done with that wallet?--let me see--um--not here, not there
--Oh, I must have left it in the kitchen; I'll just run and--"

"No you won't--you'll stay right where you are.  And you're going to
disgorge, too--this time."

Washington innocently offered to go and look.  When he was gone the
Colonel said:

"The fact is, I've got to throw myself on your indulgence just this once
more, Suggs; you see the remittances I was expecting--"

"Hang the remittances--it's too stale--it won't answer.  Come!"

The Colonel glanced about him in despair.  Then his face lighted; he ran
to the wall and began to dust off a peculiarly atrocious chromo with his
handkerchief.  Then he brought it reverently, offered it to the
collector, averted his face and said:

"Take it, but don't let me see it go.  It's the sole remaining Rembrandt
that--"

"Rembrandt be damned, it's a chromo."

"Oh, don't speak of it so, I beg you.  It's the only really great
original, the only supreme example of that mighty school of art which--"

"Art!  It's the sickest looking thing I--"

The colonel was already bringing another horror and tenderly dusting it.

"Take this one too--the gem of my collection--the only genuine Fra
Angelico that--"

"Illuminated liver--pad, that's what it is.  Give it here--good day--
people will think I've robbed a' nigger barber-shop."

As he slammed the door behind him the Colonel shouted with an anguished
accent--

"Do please cover them up--don't let the damp get at them.  The delicate
tints in the Angelico--"

But the man was gone.

Washington re-appeared and said he had looked everywhere, and so had Mrs.
Sellers and the servants, but in vain; and went on to say he wished he
could get his eye on a certain man about this time--no need to hunt up
that pocket-book then.  The Colonel's interest was awake at once.

"What man?"

"One-armed Pete they call him out there--out in the Cherokee country I
mean.  Robbed the bank in Tahlequah."

"Do they have banks in Tahlequah?"

"Yes--a bank, anyway.  He was suspected of robbing it.  Whoever did it
got away with more than twenty thousand dollars.  They offered a reward
of five thousand.  I believe I saw that very man, on my way east."

"No--is that so?

"I certainly saw a man on the train, the first day I struck the railroad,
that answered the description pretty exactly--at least as to clothes and
a lacking arm."

"Why don't you get him arrested and claim the reward?"

"I couldn't.  I had to get a requisition, of course.  But I meant to stay
by him till I got my chance."

"Well?"

"Well, he left the train during the night some time."

"Oh, hang it, that's too bad."

"Not so very bad, either."

"Why?"

"Because he came down to Baltimore in the very train I was in, though I
didn't know it in time.  As we moved out of the station I saw him going
toward the iron gate with a satchel in his hand."

"Good; we'll catch him.  Let's lay a plan."

"Send description to the Baltimore police?"

"Why, what are you talking about?  No.  Do you want them to get the
reward?"

"What shall we do, then?"

The Colonel reflected.

"I'll tell you.  Put a personal in the Baltimore Sun.  Word it like this:

     "A. DROP ME A LINE, PETE."

"Hold on.  Which arm has he lost?"

"The right."

"Good.  Now then--

"A. DROP ME A LINE, PETE, EVEN IF YOU HAVE to write with your left hand.
Address X. Y. Z., General Postoffice, Washington.  From YOU KNOW WHO."

"There--that'll fetch him."

"But he won't know who--will he?"

"No, but he'll want to know, won't he?"

"Why, certainly--I didn't think of that.  What made you think of it?"

"Knowledge of human curiosity.  Strong trait, very strong trait."

"Now I'll go to my room and write it out and enclose a dollar and tell
them to print it to the worth of that."




CHAPTER IV.

The day wore itself out.  After dinner the two friends put in a long and
harassing evening trying to decide what to do with the five thousand
dollars reward which they were going to get when they should find One-
Armed Pete, and catch him, and prove him to be the right person, and
extradite him, and ship him to Tahlequah in the Indian Territory.  But
there were so many dazzling openings for ready cash that they found it
impossible to make up their minds and keep them made up.  Finally, Mrs.
Sellers grew very weary of it all, and said:

"What is the sense in cooking a rabbit before it's caught?"

Then the matter was dropped, for the time being, and all went to bed.
Next morning, being persuaded by Hawkins, the colonel made drawings and
specifications and went down and applied for a patent for his toy puzzle,
and Hawkins took the toy itself and started out to see what chance there
might be to do something with it commercially.  He did not have to go
far.  In a small old wooden shanty which had once been occupied as a
dwelling by some humble negro family he found a keen-eyed Yankee engaged
in repairing cheap chairs and other second-hand furniture.  This man
examined the toy indifferently; attempted to do the puzzle; found it not
so easy as he had expected; grew more interested, and finally
emphatically so; achieved a success at last, and asked:

"Is it patented?"

"Patent applied for."

"That will answer.  What do you want for it?"

"What will it retail for?"

"Well, twenty-five cents, I should think."

"What will you give for the exclusive right?"

"I couldn't give twenty dollars, if I had to pay cash down; but I'll tell
you what I'll do. I'll make it and market it, and pay you five cents
royalty on each one."

Washington sighed.  Another dream disappeared; no money in the thing.
So he said:

"All right, take it at that.  Draw me a paper."  He went his way with the
paper, and dropped the matter out of his mind dropped it out to make room
for further attempts to think out the most promising way to invest his
half of the reward, in case a partnership investment satisfactory to both
beneficiaries could not be hit upon.

He had not been very long at home when Sellers arrived sodden with grief
and booming with glad excitement--working both these emotions
successfully, sometimes separately, sometimes together.  He fell on
Hawkins's neck sobbing, and said:

"Oh, mourn with me my friend, mourn for my desolate house: death has
smitten my last kinsman and I am Earl of Rossmore--congratulate me!"

He turned to his wife, who had entered while this was going on, put his
arms about her and said--"You will bear up, for my sake, my lady--it had
to happen, it was decreed."

She bore up very well, and said:

"It's no great loss.  Simon Lathers was a poor well-meaning useless thing
and no account, and his brother never was worth shucks."

The rightful earl continued:

"I am too much prostrated by these conflicting griefs and joys to be able
to concentrate my mind upon affairs; I will ask our good friend here to
break the news by wire or post to the Lady Gwendolen and instruct her
to--"

"What Lady Gwendolen?"

"Our poor daughter, who, alas!--"

"Sally Sellers?  Mulberry Sellers, are you losing your mind?"

"There-please do not forget who you are, and who I am; remember your own
dignity, be considerate also of mine.  It were best to cease from using
my family name, now, Lady Rossmore."

"Goodness gracious, well, I never!  What am I to call you then?"

"In private, the ordinary terms of endearment will still be admissible,
to some degree; but in public it will be more becoming if your ladyship
will speak to me as my lord, or your lordship, and of me as Rossmore, or
the Earl, or his Lordship, and--"

"Oh, scat!  I can't ever do it, Berry."

"But indeed you must, my love--we must live up to our altered position
and submit with what grace we may to its requirements."

"Well, all right, have it your own way; I've never set my wishes against
your commands yet, Mul--my lord, and it's late to begin now, though to my
mind it's the rottenest foolishness that ever was."

"Spoken like my own true wife!  There, kiss and be friends again."

"But-Gwendolen!  I don't know how I am ever going to stand that name.
Why, a body wouldn't know Sally Sellers in it.  It's too large for her;
kind of like a cherub in an ulster, and it's a most outlandish sort of a
name, anyway, to my mind."

"You'll not hear her find fault with it, my lady."

"That's a true word.  She takes to any kind of romantic rubbish like she
was born to it.  She never got it from me, that's sure.  And sending her
to that silly college hasn't helped the matter any--just the other way.

"Now hear her, Hawkins!  Rowena-Ivanhoe College is the selectest and most
aristocratic seat of learning for young ladies in our country.  Under no
circumstances can a girl get in there unless she is either very rich and
fashionable or can prove four generations of what may be called American
nobility.  Castellated college-buildings--towers and turrets and an
imitation moat--and everything about the place named out of Sir Walter
Scott's books and redolent of royalty and state and style; and all the
richest girls keep phaetons, and coachmen in livery, and riding-horses,
with English grooms in plug hats and tight-buttoned coats, and top-boots,
and a whip-handle without any whip to it, to ride sixty-three feet behind
them--"

"And they don't learn a blessed thing, Washington Hawkins, not a single
blessed thing but showy rubbish and un-american pretentiousness.  But
send for the Lady Gwendolen--do; for I reckon the peerage regulations
require that she must come home and let on to go into seclusion and mourn
for those Arkansas blatherskites she's lost."

"My darling!  Blatherskites?  Remember--noblesse oblige."

"There, there--talk to me in your own tongue, Ross--you don't know any
other, and you only botch it when you try.  Oh, don't stare--it was a
slip, and no crime; customs of a life-time can't be dropped in a second.
Rossmore--there, now, be appeased, and go along with you and attend to
Gwendolen.  Are you going to write, Washington?--or telegraph?"

"He will telegraph, dear."

"I thought as much," my lady muttered, as she left the room.  "Wants it
so the address will have to appear on the envelop.  It will just make a
fool of that child.  She'll get it, of course, for if there are any other
Sellerses there they'll not be able to claim it.  And just leave her
alone to show it around and make the most of it.  Well, maybe she's
forgivable for that.  She's so poor and they're so rich, of course she's
had her share of snubs from the livery-flunkey sort, and I reckon it's
only human to want to get even."

Uncle Dan'l was sent with the telegram; for although a conspicuous object
in a corner of the drawing-room was a telephone hanging on a transmitter,
Washington found all attempts to raise the central office vain.  The
Colonel grumbled something about its being "always out of order when
you've got particular and especial use for it,"  but he didn't explain
that one of the reasons for this was that the thing was only a dummy and
hadn't any wire attached to it.  And yet the Colonel often used it--when
visitors were present--and seemed to get messages through it.  Mourning
paper and a seal were ordered, then the friends took a rest.

Next afternoon, while Hawkins, by request, draped Andrew Jackson's
portrait with crape, the rightful earl, wrote off the family bereavement
to the usurper in England--a letter which we have already read.  He also,
by letter to the village authorities at Duffy's Corners, Arkansas, gave
order that the remains of the late twins be embalmed by some St. Louis
expert and shipped at once to the usurper--with bill.  Then he drafted
out the Rossmore arms and motto on a great sheet of brown paper, and he
and Hawkins took it to Hawkins's Yankee furniture-mender and at the end
of an hour came back with a couple of stunning hatchments, which they
nailed up on the front of the house--attractions calculated to draw, and
they did; for it was mainly an idle and shiftless negro neighborhood,
with plenty of ragged children and indolent dogs to spare for a point of
interest like that, and keep on sparing them for it, days and days
together.

The new earl found-without surprise--this society item in the evening
paper, and cut it out and scrapbooked it:

     By a recent bereavement our esteemed fellow citizen, Colonel
     Mulberry Sellers, Perpetual Member-at-large of the Diplomatic Body,
     succeeds, as rightful lord, to the great earldom of Rossmore, third
     by order of precedence in the earldoms of Great Britain, and will
     take early measures, by suit in the House of Lords, to wrest the
     title and estates from the present usurping holder of them.  Until
     the season of mourning is past, the usual Thursday evening
     receptions at Rossmore Towers will be discontinued.

Lady Rossmore's comment-to herself:

"Receptions!  People who don't rightly know him may think he is
commonplace, but to my mind he is one of the most unusual men I ever saw.
As for suddenness and capacity in imagining things, his beat don't exist,
I reckon.  As like as not it wouldn't have occurred to anybody else to
name this poor old rat-trap Rossmore Towers, but it just comes natural to
him.  Well, no doubt it's a blessed thing to have an imagination that can
always make you satisfied, no matter how you are fixed.  Uncle Dave
Hopkins used to always say, 'Turn me into John Calvin, and I want to know
which place I'm going to; turn me into Mulberry Sellers and I don't
care.'"

The rightful earl's comment-to himself:

"It's a beautiful name, beautiful.  Pity I didn't think of it before I
wrote the usurper.  But I'll be ready for him when he answers."




CHAPTER V.

No answer to that telegram; no arriving daughter.  Yet nobody showed any
uneasiness or seemed surprised; that is, nobody but Washington.  After
three days of waiting, he asked Lady Rossmore what she supposed the
trouble was.  She answered, tranquilly:

"Oh, it's some notion of hers, you never can tell.  She's a Sellers, all
through--at least in some of her ways; and a Sellers can't tell you
beforehand what he's going to do, because he don't know himself till he's
done it.  She's all right; no occasion to worry about her.  When she's
ready she'll come or she'll write, and you can't tell which, till it's
happened."

It turned out to be a letter.  It was handed in at that moment, and was
received by the mother without trembling hands or feverish eagerness,
or any other of the manifestations common in the case of long delayed
answers to imperative telegrams.  She polished her glasses with
tranquility and thoroughness, pleasantly gossiping along, the while,
then opened the letter and began to read aloud:

                         KENILWORTH KEEP, REDGAUNTLET HALL,
                         ROWENA-IVANHOE COLLEGE, THURSDAY.

     DEAR PRECIOUS MAMMA ROSSMORE:

     Oh, the joy of it!--you can't think.  They had always turned up
     their noses at our pretentions, you know; and I had fought back as
     well as I could by turning up mine at theirs.  They always said it
     might be something great and fine to be rightful Shadow of an
     earldom, but to merely be shadow of a shadow, and two or three times
     removed at that-pooh-pooh!  And I always retorted that not to be
     able to show four generations of American-Colonial-Dutch Peddler-
     and-Salt-Cod-McAllister-Nobility might be endurable, but to have to
     confess such an origin--pfew-few!  Well, the telegram, it was just a
     cyclone!  The messenger came right into the great Rob Roy Hall of
     Audience, as excited as he could be, singing out, "Dispatch for Lady
     Gwendolen Sellers!" and you ought to have seen that simpering
     chattering assemblage of pinchbeck aristocrats, turn to stone!
     I as off in the corner, of course, by myself--it's where Cinderella
     belongs.  I took the telegram and read it, and tried to faint--and I
     could have done it if I had had any preparation, but it was all so
     sudden, you know--but no matter, I did the next best thing: I put my
     handkerchief to my eyes and fled sobbing to my room, dropping the
     telegram as I started.  I released one corner of my eye a moment--
     just enough to see the herd swarm for the telegram--and then
     continued my broken-hearted flight just as happy as a bird.

     Then the visits of condolence began, and I had to accept the loan of
     Miss Augusta-Templeton-Ashmore Hamilton's quarters because the press
     was so great and there isn't room for three and a cat in mine.  And
     I've been holding a Lodge of Sorrow ever since and defending myself
     against people's attempts to claim kin.  And do you know, the very
     first girl to fetch her tears and sympathy to my market was that
     foolish Skimperton girl who has always snubbed me so shamefully and
     claimed lordship and precedence of the whole college because some
     ancestor of hers, some time or other, was a McAllister.  Why it was
     like the bottom bird in the menagerie putting on airs because its
     head ancestor was a pterodactyl.

     But the ger-reatest triumph of all was-guess.  But you'll never.
     This is it.  That little fool and two others have always been
     fussing and fretting over which was entitled to precedence--by rank,
     you know.  They've nearly starved themselves at it; for each claimed
     the right to take precedence of all the college in leaving the
     table, and so neither of them ever finished her dinner, but broke
     off in the middle and tried to get out ahead of the others.  Well,
     after my first day's grief and seclusion--I was fixing up a mourning
     dress you see--I appeared at the public table again, and then--what
     do you think?  Those three fluffy goslings sat there contentedly,
     and squared up the long famine--lapped and lapped, munched and
     munched, ate and ate, till the gravy appeared in their eyes--humbly
     waiting for the Lady Gwendolen to take precedence and move out
     first, you see!

     Oh, yes, I've been having a darling good time.  And do you know, not
     one of these collegians has had the cruelty to ask me how I came by
     my new name.  With some, this is due to charity, but with the others
     it isn't.  They refrain, not from native kindness but from educated
     discretion.  I educated them.

     Well, as soon as I shall have settled up what's left of the old
     scores and snuffed up a few more of those pleasantly intoxicating
     clouds of incense.  I shall pack and depart homeward.  Tell papa I
     am as fond of him as I am of my new name.  I couldn't put it
     stronger than that.  What an inspiration it was!  But inspirations
     come easy to him.

                    These, from your loving daughter,
                                        GWENDOLEN.


Hawkins reached for the letter and glanced over it.

"Good hand," he said, "and full of confidence and animation, and goes
racing right along.  She's bright--that's plain."

"Oh, they're all bright--the Sellerses.  Anyway, they would be, if there
were any.  Even those poor Latherses would have been bright if they had
been Sellerses; I mean full blood.  Of course they had a Sellers strain
in them--a big strain of it, too--but being a Bland dollar don't make it
a dollar just the same."

The seventh day after the date of the telegram Washington came dreaming
down to breakfast and was set wide awake by an electrical spasm of
pleasure.

Here was the most beautiful young creature he had ever seen in his life.
It was Sally Sellers Lady Gwendolen; she had come in the night.  And it
seemed to him that her clothes were the prettiest and the daintiest he
had ever looked upon, and the most exquisitely contrived and fashioned
and combined, as to decorative trimmings, and fixings, and melting
harmonies of color.  It was only a morning dress, and inexpensive, but he
confessed to himself, in the English common to Cherokee Strip, that it
was a "corker."  And now, as he perceived, the reason why the Sellers
household poverties and sterilities had been made to blossom like the
rose, and charm the eye and satisfy the spirit, stood explained; here was
the magician; here in the midst of her works, and furnishing in her own
person the proper accent and climaxing finish of the whole.

"My daughter, Major Hawkins--come home to mourn; flown home at the call
of affliction to help the authors of her being bear the burden of
bereavement.  She was very fond of the late earl--idolized him, sir,
idolized him--"

"Why, father, I've never seen him."

"True--she's right, I was thinking of another--er--of her mother--"

"I idolized that smoked haddock?--that sentimental, spiritless--"

"I was thinking of myself!  Poor noble fellow, we were inseparable com--"

"Hear the man!  Mulberry Sel--Mul--Rossmore--hang the troublesome name I
can never--if I've heard you say once, I've heard you say a thousand
times that if that poor sheep--"

"I was thinking of--of--I don't know who I was thinking of, and it
doesn't make any difference anyway; somebody idolized him, I recollect it
as if it were yesterday; and--"

"Father, I am going to shake hands with Major Hawkins, and let the
introduction work along and catch up at its leisure.  I remember you very
well in deed, Major Hawkins, although I was a little child when I saw you
last; and I am very, very glad indeed to see you again and have you in
our house as one of us;" and beaming in his face she finished her cordial
shake with the hope that he had not forgotten her.

He was prodigiously pleased by her outspoken heartiness, and wanted to
repay her by assuring her that he remembered her, and not only that but
better even than he remembered his own children, but the facts would not
quite warrant this; still, he stumbled through a tangled sentence which
answered just as well, since the purport of it was an awkward and
unintentional confession that her extraordinary beauty had so stupefied
him that he hadn't got back to his bearings, yet, and therefore couldn't
be certain as to whether he remembered her at all or not.  The speech
made him her friend; it couldn't well help it.

In truth the beauty of this fair creature was of a rare type, and may
well excuse a moment of our time spent in its consideration.  It did not
consist in the fact that she had eyes, nose, mouth, chin, hair, ears, it
consisted in their arrangement.  In true beauty, more depends upon right
location and judicious distribution of feature than upon multiplicity of
them.  So also as regards color.  The very combination of colors which in
a volcanic irruption would add beauty to a landscape might detach it from
a girl.  Such was Gwendolen Sellers.

The family circle being completed by Gwendolen's arrival, it was decreed
that the official mourning should now begin; that it should begin at six
o'clock every evening, (the dinner hour,) and end with the dinner.

"It's a grand old line, major, a sublime old line, and deserves to be
mourned for, almost royally; almost imperially, I may say.  Er--Lady
Gwendolen--but she's gone; never mind; I wanted my Peerage; I'll fetch it
myself, presently, and show you a thing or two that will give you a
realizing idea of what our house is.  I've been glancing through Burke,
and I find that of William the Conqueror's sixty-four natural ah--
my dear, would you mind getting me that book?  It's on the escritoire in
our boudoir.  Yes, as I was saying, there's only St. Albans, Buccleugh
and Grafton ahead of us on the list--all the rest of the British nobility
are in procession behind us.  Ah, thanks, my lady.  Now then, we turn to
William, and we find--letter for XYZ?  Oh, splendid--when'd you get it?"

"Last night; but I was asleep before you came, you were out so late; and
when I came to breakfast Miss Gwendolen--well, she knocked everything out
of me, you know--"

"Wonderful girl, wonderful; her great origin is detectable in her step,
her carriage, her features--but what does he say?  Come, this is
exciting."

"I haven't read it--er--Rossm--Mr. Rossm--er--"

"M'lord!  Just cut it short like that.  It's the English way.  I'll open
it.  Ah, now let's see."

A.  TO YOU KNOW WHO.  Think I know you.  Wait ten days.  Coming to
     Washington.

The excitement died out of both men's faces.  There was a brooding
silence for a while, then the younger one said with a sigh:

"Why, we can't wait ten days for the money."

"No--the man's unreasonable; we are down to the bed rock, financially
speaking."

"If we could explain to him in some way, that we are so situated that
time is of the utmost importance to us--"

"Yes--yes, that's it--and so if it would be as convenient for him to come
at once it would be a great accommodation to us, and one which we--which
we--which we--wh--well, which we should sincerely appreciate--"

"That's it--and most gladly reciprocate--"

"Certainly--that'll fetch him.  Worded right, if he's a man--got any of
the feelings of a man, sympathies and all that, he'll be here inside of
twenty-four hours.  Pen and paper--come, we'll get right at it."

Between them they framed twenty-two different advertisements, but none
was satisfactory.  A main fault in all of them was urgency.  That feature
was very troublesome: if made prominent, it was calculated to excite
Pete's suspicion; if modified below the suspicion-point it was flat and
meaningless.  Finally the Colonel resigned, and said:

"I have noticed, in such literary experiences as I have had, that one of
the most taking things to do is to conceal your meaning when you are
trying to conceal it.  Whereas, if you go at literature with a free
conscience and nothing to conceal, you can turn out a book, every time,
that the very elect can't understand.  They all do."

Then Hawkins resigned also, and the two agreed that they must manage to
wait the ten days some how or other.  Next, they caught a ray of cheer:
since they had something definite to go upon, now, they could probably
borrow money on the reward--enough, at any rate, to tide them over till
they got it; and meantime the materializing recipe would be perfected,
and then good bye to trouble for good and all.

The next day, May the tenth, a couple of things happened--among others.
The remains of the noble Arkansas twins left our shores for England,
consigned to Lord Rossmore, and Lord Rossmore's son, Kirkcudbright
Llanover Marjoribanks Sellers Viscount Berkeley, sailed from Liverpool
for America to place the reversion of the earldom in the hands of the
rightful peer, Mulberry Sellers, of Rossmore Towers in the District of
Columbia, U. S. A.

These two impressive shipments would meet and part in mid-Atlantic, five
days later, and give no sign.




CHAPTER VI.

In the course of time the twins arrived and were delivered to their great
kinsman.  To try to describe the rage of that old man would profit
nothing, the attempt would fall so far short of the purpose.  However
when he had worn himself out and got quiet again, he looked the matter
over and decided that the twins had some moral rights, although they had
no legal ones; they were of his blood, and it could not be decorous to
treat them as common clay.  So he laid them with their majestic kin in
the Cholmondeley church, with imposing state and ceremony, and added the
supreme touch by officiating as chief mourner himself.  But he drew the
line at hatchments.

Our friends in Washington watched the weary days go by, while they waited
for Pete and covered his name with reproaches because of his calamitous
procrastinations.  Meantime, Sally Sellers, who was as practical and
democratic as the Lady Gwendolen Sellers was romantic and aristocratic,
was leading a life of intense interest and activity and getting the most
she could out of her double personality.  All day long in the privacy of
her work-room, Sally Sellers earned bread for the Sellers family; and all
the evening Lady Gwendolen Sellers supported the Rossmore dignity.  All
day she was American, practically, and proud of the work of her head and
hands and its commercial result; all the evening she took holiday and
dwelt in a rich shadow-land peopled with titled and coroneted fictions.
By day, to her, the place was a plain, unaffected, ramshackle old trap
just that, and nothing more; by night it was Rossmore Towers.  At college
she had learned a trade without knowing it.  The girls had found out that
she was the designer of her own gowns.  She had no idle moments after
that, and wanted none; for the exercise of an extraordinary gift is the
supremest pleasure in life, and it was manifest that Sally Sellers
possessed a gift of that sort in the matter of costume-designing.  Within
three days after reaching home she had hunted up some work; before Pete
was yet due in Washington, and before the twins were fairly asleep in
English soil, she was already nearly swamped with work, and the
sacrificing of the family chromos for debt had got an effective check.

"She's a brick," said Rossmore to the Major; "just her father all over:
prompt to labor with head or hands, and not ashamed of it; capable,
always capable, let the enterprise be what it may; successful by nature--
don't know what defeat is; thus, intensely and practically American by
inhaled nationalism, and at the same time intensely and aristocratically
European by inherited nobility of blood.  Just me, exactly: Mulberry
Sellers in matter of finance and invention; after office hours, what do
you find?  The same clothes, yes, but what's in them?  Rossmore of the
peerage."

The two friends had haunted the general post-office daily.  At last they
had their reward.  Toward evening the 20th of May, they got a letter for
XYZ.  It bore the Washington postmark; the note itself was not dated.  It
said:

     "Ash barrel back of lamp post Black horse Alley.  If you are playing
     square go and set on it to-morrow morning 21st 10.22 not sooner not
     later wait till I come."

The friends cogitated over the note profoundly.  Presently the earl said:

"Don't you reckon he's afraid we are a sheriff with a requisition?"

"Why, m'lord?"

"Because that's no place for a seance.  Nothing friendly, nothing
sociable about it.  And at the same time, a body that wanted to know who
was roosting on that ash-barrel without exposing himself by going near
it, or seeming to be interested in it, could just stand on the street
corner and take a glance down the alley and satisfy himself, don't you
see?"

"Yes, his idea is plain, now.  He seems to be a man that can't be candid
and straightforward.  He acts as if he thought we--shucks, I wish he had
come out like a man and told us what hotel he--"

"Now you've struck it! you've struck it sure, Washington; he has told
us."

"Has he?"

"Yes, he has; but he didn't mean to.  That alley is a lonesome little
pocket that runs along one side of the New Gadsby.  That's his hotel."

"What makes' you think that?"

"Why, I just know it.  He's got a room that's just across from that lamp
post.  He's going to sit there perfectly comfortable behind his shutters
at 10.22 to-morrow, and when he sees us sitting on the ash-barrel, he'll
say to himself, 'I saw one of those fellows on the train'--and then he'll
pack his satchel in half a minute and ship for the ends of the earth."

Hawkins turned sick with disappointment:

"Oh, dear, it's all up, Colonel--it's exactly what he'll do."

"Indeed he won't!"

"Won't he?  Why?"

"Because you won't be holding the ash barrel down, it'll be me.  You'll
be coming in with an officer and a requisition in plain clothes--the
officer, I mean--the minute you see him arrive and open up a talk with
me."

"Well, what a head you have got, Colonel Sellers!  I never should have
thought of that in the world."

"Neither would any earl of Rossmore, betwixt William's contribution and
Mulberry--as earl; but it's office hours, now, you see, and the earl in
me sleeps.  Come--I'll show you his very room."

They reached the neighborhood of the New Gadsby about nine in the
evening, and passed down the alley to the lamp post.

"There you are," said the colonel, triumphantly, with a wave of his hand
which took in the whole side of the hotel.  "There it is--what did I tell
you?"

"Well, but--why, Colonel, it's six stories high.  I don't quite make out
which window you--"

"All the windows, all of them.  Let him have his.  choice-I'm
indifferent, now that I have located him.  You go and stand on the corner
and wait; I'll prospect tie hotel."

The earl drifted here and there through the swarming lobby, and finally
took a waiting position in the neighborhood of the elevator.  During an
hour crowds went up and crowds came down; and all complete as to limbs;
but at last the watcher got a glimpse of a figure that was satisfactory-
got a glimpse of the back of it, though he had missed his chance at the
face through waning alertness.  The glimpse revealed a cowboy hat, and
below it a plaided sack of rather loud pattern, and an empty sleeve
pinned up to the shoulder.  Then the elevator snatched the vision aloft
and the watcher fled away in joyful excitement, and rejoined the fellow-
conspirator.

"We've got him, Major--got him sure!  I've seen him--seen him good; and I
don't care where or when that man approaches me backwards, I'll recognize
him every time.  We're all right.  Now for the requisition."

They got it, after the delays usual in such cases.  By half past eleven
they were at home and happy, and went to bed full of dreams of the
morrow's great promise.

Among the elevator load which had the suspect for fellow-passenger was a
young kinsman of Mulberry Sellers, but Mulberry was not aware of it and
didn't see him.  It was Viscount Berkeley.




CHAPTER VII.

Arrived in his room Lord Berkeley made preparations for that first and
last and all-the-time duty of the visiting Englishman--the jotting down
in his diary of his "impressions" to date.  His preparations consisted in
ransacking his "box" for a pen.  There was a plenty of steel pens on his
table with the ink bottle, but he was English.  The English people
manufacture steel pens for nineteen-twentieths of the globe, but they
never use any themselves.  They use exclusively the pre-historic quill.
My lord not only found a quill pen, but the best one he had seen in
several years--and after writing diligently for some time, closed with
the following entry:

          BUT IN ONE THING I HAVE MADE AN IMMENSE MISTAKE, I OUGHT TO
          HAVE SHUCKED MY TITLE AND CHANGED MY NAME BEFORE I STARTED.

He sat admiring that pen a while, and then went on:

"All attempts to mingle with the common people and became permanently one
of them are going to fail, unless I can get rid of it, disappear from it,
and re-appear with the solid protection of a new name.  I am astonished
and pained to see how eager the most of these Americans are to get
acquainted with a lord, and how diligent they are in pushing attentions
upon him.  They lack English servility, it is true--but they could
acquire it, with practice.  My quality travels ahead of me in the most
mysterious way.  I write my family name without additions, on the
register of this hotel, and imagine that I am going to pass for an
obscure and unknown wanderer, but the clerk promptly calls out, 'Front!
show his lordship to four-eighty-two!' and before I can get to the lift
there is a reporter trying to interview me as they call it.  This sort of
thing shall cease at once.  I will hunt up the American Claimant the
first thing in the morning, accomplish my mission, then change my lodging
and vanish from scrutiny under a fictitious name."


He left his diary on the table, where it would be handy in case any new
"impressions" should wake him up in the night, then he went to bed and
presently fell asleep.  An hour or two passed, and then he came slowly to
consciousness with a confusion of mysterious and augmenting sounds
hammering at the gates of his brain for admission; the next moment he was
sharply awake, and those sounds burst with the rush and roar and boom of
an undammed freshet into his ears.  Banging and slamming of shutters;
smashing of windows and the ringing clash of falling glass; clatter of
flying feet along the halls; shrieks, supplications, dumb moanings of
despair, within, hoarse shouts of command outside; cracklings and
mappings, and the windy roar of victorious flames!

Bang, bang, bang!  on the door, and a cry:

"Turn out-the house is on fire!"

The cry passed on, and the banging.  Lord Berkeley sprang out of bed and
moved with all possible speed toward the clothes-press in the darkness
and the gathering smoke, but fell over a chair and lost his bearings.
He groped desperately about on his hands, and presently struck his head
against the table and was deeply grateful, for it gave him his bearings
again, since it stood close by the door.  He seized his most precious
possession; his journaled Impressions of America, and darted from the
room.

He ran down the deserted hall toward the red lamp which he knew indicated
the place of a fire-escape.  The door of the room beside it was open.
In the room the gas was burning full head; on a chair was a pile of
clothing.  He ran to the window, could not get it up, but smashed it with
a chair, and stepped out on the landing of the fire-escape; below him was
a crowd of men, with a sprinkling of women and youth, massed in a ruddy
light.  Must he go down in his spectral night dress?  No--this side of
the house was not yet on fire except at the further end; he would snatch
on those clothes.  Which he did.  They fitted well enough, though a
trifle loosely, and they were just a shade loud as to pattern.  Also as
to hat--which was of a new breed to him, Buffalo Bill not having been to
England yet.  One side of the coat went on, but the other side refused;
one of its sleeves was turned up and stitched to the shoulder.  He
started down without waiting to get it loose, made the trip successfully,
and was promptly hustled outside the limit-rope by the police.

The cowboy hat and the coat but half on made him too much of a centre of
attraction for comfort, although nothing could be more profoundly
respectful, not to say deferential, than was the manner of the crowd
toward him.  In his mind he framed a discouraged remark for early entry
in his diary: "It is of no use; they know a lord through any disguise,
and show awe of him--even something very like fear, indeed."

Presently one of the gaping and adoring half-circle of boys ventured a
timid question.  My lord answered it.  The boys glanced wonderingly at
each other and from somewhere fell the comment:

"English cowboy!  Well, if that ain't curious."

Another mental note to be preserved for the diary: "Cowboy.  Now what
might a cowboy be?  Perhaps--" But the viscount perceived that some more
questions were about to be asked; so he worked his way out of the crowd,
released the sleeve, put on the coat and wandered away to seek a humble
and obscure lodging.  He found it and went to bed and was soon asleep.

In the morning, he examined his clothes.  They were rather assertive, it
seemed to him, but they were new and clean, at any rate.  There was
considerable property in the pockets.  Item, five one-hundred dollar
bills.  Item, near fifty dollars in small bills and silver.  Plug of
tobacco.  Hymn-book, which refuses to open; found to contain whiskey.
Memorandum book bearing no name.  Scattering entries in it, recording in
a sprawling, ignorant hand, appointments, bets, horse-trades, and so on,
with people of strange, hyphenated name--Six-Fingered Jake, Young-Man-
afraid-of his-Shadow, and the like.  No letters, no documents.

The young man muses-maps out his course.  His letter of credit is burned;
he will borrow the small bills and the silver in these pockets, apply
part of it to advertising for the owner, and use the rest for sustenance
while he seeks work.  He sends out for the morning paper, next, and
proceeds to read about the fire.  The biggest line in the display-head
announces his own death!  The body of the account furnishes all the
particulars; and tells how, with the inherited heroism of his caste, he
went on saving women and children until escape for himself was
impossible; then with the eyes of weeping multitudes upon him, he stood
with folded arms and sternly awaited the approach of the devouring fiend;
"and so standing, amid a tossing sea of flame and on-rushing billows of
smoke, the noble young heir of the great house of Rossmore was caught up
in a whirlwind of fiery glory, and disappeared forever from the vision of
men."

The thing was so fine and generous and knightly that it brought the
moisture to his eyes.  Presently he said to himself: "What to do is as
plain as day, now.  My Lord Berkeley is dead--let him stay so.  Died
creditably, too; that will make the calamity the easier for my father.
And I don't have to report to the American Claimant, now.  Yes, nothing
could be better than the way matters have turned out.  I have only to
furnish myself with a new name, and take my new start in life totally
untrammeled.  Now I breathe my first breath of real freedom; and how
fresh and breezy and inspiring it is!  At last I am a man! a man on equal
terms with my neighbor; and by my manhood; and by it alone, I shall rise
and be seen of the world, or I shall sink from sight and deserve it.
This is the gladdest day, and the proudest, that ever poured it's sun
upon my head!"




CHAPTER VIII.

"GOD bless my soul, Hawkins!"

The morning paper dropped from the Colonel's nerveless-grasp.

"What is it?"

"He's gone!--the bright, the young, the gifted, the noblest of his
illustrious race--gone! gone up in flames and unimaginable glory!"

"Who?"

"My precious, precious young kinsman--Kirkcudbright Llanover Marjoribanks
Sellers Viscount Berkeley, son and heir of usurping Rossmore."

"No!"

"It's true--too true."

"When?"

"Last night."

"Where?"

"Right here in Washington; where he arrived from England last night, the
papers say."

"You don't say!"

"Hotel burned down."

"What hotel?"

"The New Gadsby!"

"Oh, my goodness!  And have we lost both of them?"

"Both who?"

"One-Arm Pete."

"Oh, great guns, I forgot all about him.  Oh, I hope not."

"Hope!  Well, I should say!  Oh, we can't spare him!  We can better
afford to lose a million viscounts than our only support and stay."

They searched the paper diligently, and were appalled to find that a one-
armed man had been seen flying along one of the halls of the hotel in his
underclothing and apparently out of his head with fright, and as he would
listen to no one and persisted in making for a stairway which would carry
him to certain death, his case was given over as a hopeless one.

"Poor fellow," sighed Hawkins; "and he had friends so near.  I wish we
hadn't come away from there-maybe we could have saved him."

The earl looked up and said calmly:

"His being dead doesn't matter.  He was uncertain before.  We've got him
sure, this time."

"Got him?  How?"

"I will materialize him."

"Rossmore, don't--don't trifle with me.  Do you mean that?  Can you do
it?"

"I can do it, just as sure as you are sitting there.  And I will."

"Give me your hand, and let me have the comfort of shaking it.  I was
perishing, and you have put new life into me.  Get at it, oh, get at it
right away."

"It will take a little time, Hawkins, but there's no hurry, none in the
world--in the circumstances.  And of course certain duties have devolved
upon me now, which necessarily claim my first attention.  This poor young
nobleman--"

"Why, yes, I am sorry for my heartlessness, and you smitten with this new
family affliction.  Of course you must materialize him first--I quite
understand that."

"I--I--well, I wasn't meaning just that, but,--why, what am I thinking
of!  Of course I must materialize him.  Oh, Hawkins, selfishness is the
bottom trait in human nature; I was only thinking that now, with the
usurper's heir out of the way But you'll forgive that momentary weakness,
and forget it.  Don't ever remember it against me that Mulberry Sellers
was once mean enough to think the thought that I was thinking.  I'll
materialise him--I will, on my honor--and I'd do it were he a thousand
heirs jammed into one and stretching in a solid rank from here to the
stolen estates of Rossmore, and barring the road forever to the rightful
earl!

"There spoke the real Sellers--the other had a false ring, old friend."

"Hawkins, my boy, it just occurs to me--a thing I keep forgetting to
mention-a matter that we've got to be mighty careful about."

"What is that?"

"We must keep absolutely still about these materializations.  Mind, not a
hint of them must escape--not a hint.  To say nothing of how my wife and
daughter--high-strung, sensitive organizations--might feel about them,
the negroes wouldn't stay on the place a minute."

"That's true, they wouldn't.  It's well you spoke, for I'm not naturally
discreet with my tongue when I'm not warned."

Sellers reached out and touched a bell-button in the wall; set his eye
upon the rear door and waited; touched it again and waited; and just as
Hawkins was remarking admiringly that the Colonel was the most
progressive and most alert man he had ever seen, in the matter of
impressing into his service every modern convenience the moment it was
invented, and always keeping breast to breast with the drum major in the
great work of material civilization, he forsook the button (which hadn't
any wire attached to it,) rang a vast dinner bell which stood on the
table, and remarked that he had tried that new-fangled dry battery, now,
to his entire satisfaction, and had got enough of it; and added:

"Nothing would do Graham Bell but I must try it; said the mere fact of my
trying it would secure public confidence, and get it a chance to show
what it could do.  I told him that in theory a dry battery was just a
curled darling and no mistake, but when it come to practice, sho!--and
here's the result.  Was I right?  What should you say, Washington
Hawkins?  You've seen me try that button twice.  Was I right?--that's the
idea.  Did I know what I was talking about, or didn't I?"

"Well, you know how I feel about you, Colonel Sellers, and always have
felt.  It seems to me that you always know everything about everything.
If that man had known you as I know you he would have taken your judgment
at the start, and dropped his dry battery where it was."

"Did you ring, Marse Sellers?"

"No, Marse Sellers didn't."

"Den it was you, Marse Washington.  I's heah, suh."

"No, it wasn't Marse Washington, either."

"De good lan'! who did ring her, den?"

"Lord Rossmore rang it!"

The old negro flung up his hands and exclaimed:

"Blame my skin if I hain't gone en forgit dat name agin!  Come heah,
Jinny--run heah, honey."

Jinny arrived.

"You take dish-yer order de lord gwine to give you I's gwine down suller
and study dat name tell I git it."

"I take de order!  Who's yo' nigger las' year?  De bell rung for you."

"Dat don't make no diffunce.  When a bell ring for anybody, en old
marster tell me to--"

"Clear out, and settle it in the kitchen!"

The noise of the quarreling presently sank to a murmur in the distance,
and the earl added: "That's a trouble with old house servants that were
your slaves once and have been your personal friends always."

"Yes, and members of the family."

"Members of the family is just what they become--THE members of the
family, in fact.  And sometimes master and mistress of the household.
These two are mighty good and loving and faithful and honest, but hang
it, they do just about as they please, they chip into a conversation
whenever they want to, and the plain fact is, they ought to be killed."

It was a random remark, but it gave him an idea--however, nothing could
happen without that result.

"What I wanted, Hawkins, was to send for the family and break the news to
them."

"O, never mind bothering with the servants, then.  I will go and bring
them down."

While he was gone, the earl worked his idea.

"Yes," he said to himself, "when I've got the materializing down to a
certainty, I will get Hawkins to kill them, and after that they will be
under better control.  Without doubt a materialized negro could easily be
hypnotized into a state resembling silence.  And this could be made
permanent--yes, and also modifiable, at will--sometimes very silent,
sometimes turn on more talk, more action, more emotion, according to what
you want.  It's a prime good idea.  Make it adjustable--with a screw or
something."

The two ladies entered, now, with Hawkins, and the two negroes followed,
uninvited, and fell to brushing and dusting around, for they perceived
that there was matter of interest to the fore, and were willing to find
out what it was.

Sellers broke the, news with stateliness and ceremony, first warning the
ladies, with gentle art, that a pang of peculiar sharpness was about to
be inflicted upon their hearts--hearts still sore from a like hurt, still
lamenting a like loss--then he took the paper, and with trembling lips
and with tears in his voice he gave them that heroic death-picture.

The result was a very genuine outbreak of sorrow and sympathy from all
the hearers.  The elder lady cried, thinking how proud that great-hearted
young hero's mother would be, if she were living, and how unappeasable
her grief; and the two old servants cried with her, and spoke out their
applauses and their pitying lamentations with the eloquent sincerity and
simplicity native to their race.  Gwendolen was touched, and the romantic
side of her nature was strongly wrought upon.  She said that such a
nature as that young man's was rarely and truly noble, and nearly
perfect; and that with nobility of birth added it was entirely perfect.
For such a man she could endure all things, suffer all things, even to
the sacrificing of her life.  She wished she could have seen him; the
slightest, the most momentary, contact with such a spirit would have
ennobled her own character and made ignoble thoughts and ignoble acts
thereafter impossible to her forever.

"Have they found the body, Rossmore?" asked the wife.

"Yes, that is, they've found several.  It must be one of them, but none
of them are recognizable."

"What are you going to do?"

"I am going down there and identify one of them and send it home to the
stricken father."

"But papa, did you ever see the young man?"

"No, Gwendolen-why?"

"How will you identify it?"

"I--well, you know it says none of them are recognizable.  I'll send his
father one of them--there's probably no choice."

Gwendolen knew it was not worth while to argue the matter further, since
her father's mind was made up and there was a chance for him to appear
upon that sad scene down yonder in an authentic and official way.  So she
said no more--till he asked for a basket.

"A basket, papa?  What for?"

"It might be ashes."




CHAPTER IX.

The earl and Washington started on the sorrowful errand, talking as they
walked.

"And as usual!"

"What, Colonel?"

"Seven of them in that hotel.  Actresses.  And all burnt out, of
course."

"Any of them burnt up?"

"Oh, no they escaped; they always do; but there's never a one of them
that knows enough to fetch out her jewelry with her."

"That's strange."

"Strange--it's the most unaccountable thing in the world.  Experience
teaches them nothing; they can't seem to learn anything except out of a
book.  In some uses there's manifestly a fatality about it.  For
instance, take What's-her-name, that plays those sensational thunder and
lightning parts.  She's got a perfectly immense reputation--draws like a
dog-fight--and it all came from getting burnt out in hotels."

"Why, how could that give her a reputation as an actress?"

"It didn't--it only made her name familiar.  People want to see her play
because her name is familiar, but they don't know what made it familiar,
because they don't remember.  First, she was at the bottom of the
ladder, and absolutely obscure wages thirteen dollars a week and find her
own pads."

"Pads?"

"Yes-things to fat up her spindles with so as to be plump and attractive.
Well, she got burnt out in a hotel and lost $30,000 worth of diamonds."

"She?  Where'd she get them?"

"Goodness knows--given to her, no doubt, by spoony young flats and sappy
old bald-heads in the front row.  All the papers were full of it.  She
struck for higher pay and got it.  Well, she got burnt out again and lost
all her diamonds, and it gave her such a lift that she went starring."

"Well, if hotel fires are all she's got to depend on to keep up her name,
it's a pretty precarious kind of a reputation I should think."

"Not with her.  No, anything but that.  Because she's so lucky; born
lucky, I reckon.  Every time there's a hotel fire she's in it.  She's
always there--and if she can't be there herself, her diamonds are.  Now
you can't make anything out of that but just sheer luck."

"I never heard of such a thing.  She must have lost quarts of diamonds."

"Quarts, she's lost bushels of them.  It's got so that the hotels are
superstitious about her.  They won't let her in.  They think there will
be a fire; and besides, if she's there it cancels the insurance.  She's
been waning a little lately, but this fire will set her up.  She lost
$60,000 worth last night."

"I think she's a fool.  If I had $60,000 worth of diamonds I wouldn't
trust them in a hotel."

"I wouldn't either; but you can't teach an actress that.  This one's been
burnt out thirty-five times.  And yet if there's a hotel fire in San
Francisco to-night she's got to bleed again, you mark my words.  Perfect
ass; they say she's got diamonds in every hotel in the country."

When they arrived at the scene of the fire the poor old earl took one
glimpse at the melancholy morgue and turned away his face overcome by the
spectacle.  He said:

"It is too true, Hawkins--recognition is impossible, not one of the five
could be identified by its nearest friend.  You make the selection, I
can't bear it."

"Which one had I better--"

"Oh, take any of them.  Pick out the best one."

However, the officers assured the earl--for they knew him, everybody in
Washington knew him--that the position in which these bodies were found
made it impossible that any one of them could be that of his noble young
kinsman.  They pointed out the spot where, if the newspaper account was
correct, he must have sunk down to destruction; and at a wide distance
from this spot they showed him where the young man must have gone down in
case he was suffocated in his room; and they showed him still a third
place, quite remote, where he might possibly have found his death if
perchance he tried to escape by the side exit toward the rear.  The old
Colonel brushed away a tear and said to Hawkins:

"As it turns out there was something prophetic in my fears.  Yes, it's a
matter of ashes.  Will you kindly step to a grocery and fetch a couple
more baskets?"

Reverently they got a basket of ashes from each of those now hallowed
spots, and carried them home to consult as to the best manner of
forwarding them to England, and also to give them an opportunity to "lie
in state,"--a mark of respect which the colonel deemed obligatory,
considering the high rank of the deceased.

They set the baskets on the table in what was formerly the library,
drawing-room and workshop--now the Hall of Audience--and went up stairs
to the lumber room to see if they could find a British flag to use as a
part of the outfit proper to the lying in state.  A moment later, Lady
Rossmore came in from the street and caught sight of the baskets just as
old Jinny crossed her field of vision.  She quite lost her patience and
said:

"Well, what will you do next?  What in the world possessed you to clutter
up the parlor table with these baskets of ashes?"

"Ashes?"  And she came to look.  She put up her hands in pathetic
astonishment.  "Well, I never see de like!"

"Didn't you do it?"

"Who, me?  Clah to goodness it's de fust time I've sot eyes on 'em, Miss
Polly.  Dat's Dan'l.  Dat ole moke is losin' his mine."

But it wasn't Dan'l, for he was called, and denied it.

"Dey ain't no way to 'splain dat.  Wen hit's one er dese-yer common
'currences, a body kin reckon maybe de cat--"

"Oh!" and a shudder shook Lady Rossmore to her foundations.  "I see it
all.  Keep away from them--they're his."

"His, m' lady?"

"Yes--your young Marse Sellers from England that's burnt up."

She was alone with the ashes--alone before she could take half a breath.
Then she went after Mulberry Sellers, purposing to make short work with
his program, whatever it might be; "for," said she, "when his
sentimentals are up, he's a numskull, and there's no knowing what
extravagance he'll contrive, if you let him alone."  She found him.
He had found the flag and was bringing it.  When she heard that his idea
was to have the remains "lie in state, and invite the government and the
public," she broke it up.  She said:

"Your intentions are all right--they always are--you want to do honour to
the remains, and surely nobody can find any fault with that, for he was
your kin; but you are going the wrong way about it, and you will see it
yourself if you stop and think.  You can't file around a basket of ashes
trying to look sorry for it and make a sight that is really solemn,
because the solemner it is, the more it isn't--anybody can see that.  It
would be so with one basket; it would be three times so with three.
Well, it stands to reason that if it wouldn't be solemn with one mourner,
it wouldn't be with a procession--and there would be five thousand people
here.  I don't know but it would be pretty near ridiculous; I think it
would.  No, Mulberry, they can't lie in state--it would be a mistake.
Give that up and think of something else."

So he gave it up; and not reluctantly, when he had thought it over and
realized how right her instinct was.  He concluded to merely sit up with
the remains just himself and Hawkins.  Even this seemed a doubtful
attention, to his wife, but she offered no objection, for it was plain
that he had a quite honest and simple-hearted desire to do the friendly
and honourable thing by these forlorn poor relics which could command no
hospitality in this far off land of strangers but his.  He draped the
flag about the baskets, put some crape on the door-knob, and said with
satisfaction:

"There--he is as comfortable, now, as we can make him in the
circumstances.  Except--yes, we must strain a point there--one must do as
one would wish to be done by--he must have it."

"Have what, dear?"

"Hatchment."

The wife felt that the house-front was standing about all it could well
stand, in that way; the prospect of another stunning decoration of that
nature distressed her, and she wished the thing had not occurred to him..
She said, hesitatingly:

"But I thought such an honour as that wasn't allowed to any but very very
near relations, who--"

"Right, you are quite right, my lady, perfectly right; but there aren't
any nearer relatives than relatives by usurpation.  We cannot avoid it;
we are slaves of aristocratic custom and must submit."

The hatchments were unnecessarily generous, each being as large as a
blanket, and they were unnecessarily volcanic, too, as to variety and
violence of color, but they pleased the earl's barbaric eye, and they
satisfied his taste for symmetry and completeness, too, for they left no
waste room to speak of on the house-front.

Lady Rossmore and her daughter assisted at the sitting-up till near
midnight, and helped the gentlemen to consider what ought to be done next
with the remains.  Rossmore thought they ought to be sent home with a
committee and resolutions,--at once.  But the wife was doubtful.  She
said:

"Would you send all of the baskets?"

"Oh, yes, all."

"All at once?"

"To his father?  Oh, no--by no means.  Think of the shock.  No--one at a
time; break it to him by degrees."

"Would that have that effect, father?"

"Yes, my daughter.  Remember, you are young and elastic, but he is old.
To send him the whole at once might well be more than he could bear.
But mitigated--one basket at a time, with restful intervals between,
he would be used to it by the time he got all of him.  And sending him
in three ships is safer anyway.  On account of wrecks and storms."

"I don't like the idea, father.  If I were his father it would be
dreadful to have him coming in that--in that--"

"On the installment plan," suggested Hawkins, gravely, and proud of being
able to help.

"Yes--dreadful to have him coming in that incoherent way.  There would be
the strain of suspense upon me all the time.  To have so depressing a
thing as a funeral impending, delayed, waiting, unaccomplished--"

"Oh, no, my child," said the earl reassuringly, "there would be nothing
of that kind; so old a gentleman could not endure a long-drawn suspense
like that.  There will be three funerals."

Lady Rossmore looked up surprised, and said:

"How is that going to make it easier for him?  It's a total mistake, to
my mind.  He ought to be buried all at once; I'm sure of it."

"I should think so, too," said Hawkins.

"And certainly I should," said the daughter.

"You are all wrong," said the earl.  "You will see it yourselves, if you
think.  Only one of these baskets has got him in it."

"Very well, then," said Lady Rossmore, "the thing is perfectly simple-
bury that one."

"Certainly," said Lady Gwendolen.

"But it is not simple," said the earl, "because we do not know which
basket he is in.  We know he is in one of them, but that is all we do
know.  You see now, I reckon, that I was right; it takes three funerals,
there is no other way."

"And three graves and three monuments and three inscriptions?" asked the
daughter.

"Well--yes--to do it right.  That is what I should do.

"It could not be done so, father.  Each of the inscriptions would give
the same name and the same facts and say he was under each and all of
these monuments, and that would not answer at all."

The earl nestled uncomfortably in his chair.

"No," he said, "that is an objection.  That is a serious objection.  I
see no way out."

There was a general silence for a while.  Then Hawkins said:

"It seems to me that if we mixed the three ramifications together--"

The earl grasped him by the hand and shook it gratefully.

"It solves the whole problem," he said.  "One ship, one funeral, one
grave, one monument--it is admirably conceived.  It does you honor, Major
Hawkins, it has relieved me of a most painful embarrassment and distress,
and it will save that poor stricken old father much suffering.  Yes, he
shall go over in one basket."

"When?" asked the wife.

"To-morrow-immediately, of course."

"I would wait, Mulberry."

"Wait?  Why?"

"You don't want to break that childless old man's heart."

"God knows I don't!"

"Then wait till he sends for his son's remains.  If you do that, you will
never have to give him the last and sharpest pain a parent can know--
I mean, the certainty that his son is dead.  For he will never send."

"Why won't he?"

"Because to send--and find out the truth--would rob him of the one
precious thing left him, the uncertainty, the dim hope that maybe, after
all, his boy escaped, and he will see him again some day."

"Why Polly, he'll know by the papers that he was burnt up."

"He won't let himself believe the papers; he'll argue against anything
and everything that proves his son is dead; and he will keep that up and
live on it, and on nothing else till he dies.  But if the remains should
actually come, and be put before that poor old dim-hoping soul--"

"Oh, my God, they never shall!  Polly, you've saved me from a crime, and
I'll bless you for it always.  Now we know what to do.  We'll place them
reverently away, and he shall never know."




CHAPTER X.

The young Lord Berkeley, with the fresh air of freedom in his nostrils,
was feeling invincibly strong for his new career; and yet--and yet--if
the fight should prove a very hard one at first, very discouraging, very
taxing on untoughened moral sinews, he might in some weak moment want to
retreat.  Not likely, of course, but possibly that might happen.  And so
on the whole it might be pardonable caution to burn his bridges behind
him.  Oh, without doubt.  He must not stop with advertising for the owner
of that money, but must put it where he could not borrow from it himself,
meantime, under stress of circumstances.  So he went down town, and put
in his advertisement, then went to a bank and handed in the $500 for
deposit.

"What name?"

He hesitated and colored a little; he had forgotten to make a selection.
He now brought out the first one that suggested itself:

"Howard Tracy."

When he was gone the clerks, marveling, said:

"The cowboy blushed."

The first step was accomplished.  The money was still under his command
and at his disposal, but the next step would dispose of that difficulty.
He went to another bank and drew upon the first bank for the 500 by
check.  The money was collected and deposited a second time to the credit
of Howard Tracy.  He was asked to leave a few samples of his signature,
which he did.  Then he went away, once more proud and of perfect courage,
saying:

"No help for me now, for henceforth I couldn't draw that money without
identification, and that is become legally impossible.  No resources to
fall back on.  It is work or starve from now to the end.  I am ready--and
not afraid!"

Then he sent this cablegram to his father:

"Escaped unhurt from burning hotel.  Have taken fictitious name.
Goodbye."

During the, evening, while he was wandering about in one of the outlying
districts of the city, he came across a small brick church, with a bill
posted there with these words printed on it: "MECHANICS' CLUB DEBATE.
ALL INVITED."  He saw people, apparently mainly of the working class,
entering the place, and he followed and took his seat.  It was a humble
little church, quite bare as to ornamentation.  It had painted pews
without cushions, and no pulpit, properly speaking, but it had a
platform.  On the platform sat the chairman, and by his side sat a man
who held a manuscript in his hand and had the waiting look of one who is
going to perform the principal part.  The church was soon filled with a
quiet and orderly congregation of decently dressed and modest people.
This is what the chairman said:

"The essayist for this evening is an old member of our club whom you all
know, Mr.  Parker, assistant editor of the Daily Democrat.  The subject
of his essay is the American Press, and he will use as his text a couple
of paragraphs taken from Mr. Matthew Arnold's new book.  He asks me to
read these texts for him.  The first is as follows:

"'Goethe says somewhere that "the thrill of awe," that is to say,
REVERENCE, is the best thing humanity has."

"Mr. Arnold's other paragraph is as follows:

"'I should say that if one were searching for the best means to efface
and kill in a whole nation the discipline of respect, one could not do
better than take the American newspapers."

Mr.  Parker rose and bowed, and was received with warm applause.  He then
began to read in a good round resonant voice, with clear enunciation and
careful attention to his pauses and emphases.  His points were received
with approval as he went on.

The essayist took the position that the most important function of a
public journal in any country was the propagating of national feeling and
pride in the national name--the keeping the people "in love with their
country and its institutions, and shielded from the allurements of alien
and inimical systems."  He sketched the manner in which the reverent
Turkish or Russian journalist fulfilled this function--the one assisted
by the prevalent "discipline of respect" for the bastinado, the other for
Siberia.  Continuing, he said:

The chief function of an English journal is that of all other journals
the world over: it must keep the public eye fixed admiringly upon certain
things, and keep it diligently diverted from certain others.  For
instance, it must keep the public eye fixed admiringly upon the glories
of England, a processional splendor stretching its receding line down the
hazy vistas of time, with the mellowed lights of a thousand years
glinting from its banners; and it must keep it diligently diverted from
the fact that all these glories were for the enrichment and
aggrandizement of the petted and privileged few, at cost of the blood and
sweat and poverty of the unconsidered masses who achieved them but might
not enter in and partake of them.  It must keep the public eye fixed in
loving and awful reverence upon the throne as a sacred thing, and
diligently divert it from the fact that no throne was ever set up by the
unhampered vote of a majority of any nation; and that hence no throne
exists that has a right to exist, and no symbol of it, flying from any
flagstaff, is righteously entitled to wear any device but the skull and
crossbones of that kindred industry which differs from royalty only
business-wise-merely as retail differs from wholesale.  It must keep the
citizen's eye fixed in reverent docility upon that curious invention of
machine politics, an Established Church, and upon that bald contradiction
of common justice, a hereditary nobility; and diligently divert it from
the fact that the one damns him if he doesn't wear its collar, and robs
him under the gentle name of taxation whether he wears it or not, and the
other gets all the honors while he does all the work.

The essayist thought that Mr.  Arnold, with his trained eye and
intelligent observation, ought to have perceived that the very quality
which he so regretfully missed from our press--respectfulness, reverence
--was exactly the thing which would make our press useless to us if it
had it--rob it of the very thing which differentiates it from all other
journalism in the world and makes it distinctively and preciously
American, its frank and cheerful irreverence being by all odds the most
valuable of all its qualities.  "For its mission--overlooked by Mr.
Arnold--is to stand guard over a nation's liberties, not its humbugs and
shams."  He thought that if during fifty years the institutions of the
old world could be exposed to the fire of a flouting and scoffing press
like ours, "monarchy and its attendant crimes would disappear from
Christendom."  Monarchists might doubt this; then "why not persuade the
Czar to give it a trial in Russia?"  Concluding, he said:

Well, the charge is, that our press has but little of that old world
quality, reverence.  Let us be candidly grateful that it is so.  With its
limited reverence it at least reveres the things which this nation
reveres, as a rule, and that is sufficient: what other people revere is
fairly and properly matter of light importance to us.  Our press does not
reverence kings, it does not reverence so called nobilities, it does not
reverence established ecclesiastical slaveries, it does not reverence
laws which rob a younger son to fatten an elder one, it does not
reverence any fraud or sham or infamy, howsoever old or rotten or holy,
which sets one citizen above his neighbor by accident of birth: it does
not reverence any law or custom, howsoever old or decayed or sacred,
which shuts against the best man in the land the best place in the land
and the divine right to prove property and go up and occupy it.  In the
sense of the poet Goethe--that meek idolater of provincial three carat
royalty and nobility--our press is certainly bankrupt in the "thrill of
awe"--otherwise reverence; reverence for nickel plate and brummagem.
Let us sincerely hope that this fact will remain a fact forever: for to
my mind a discriminating irreverence is the creator and protector of
human liberty--even as the other thing is the creator, nurse, and
steadfast protector of all forms of human slavery, bodily and mental.

Tracy said to himself, almost shouted to himself, "I'm glad I came to
this country.  I was right.  I was right to seek out a land where such
healthy principles and theories are in men's hearty and minds.  Think of
the innumerable slaveries imposed by misplaced reverence!  How well he
brought that out, and how true it is.  There's manifestly prodigious
force in reverence.  If you can get a man to reverence your ideals, he's
your slave.  Oh, yes, in all the ages the peoples of Europe have been
diligently taught to avoid reasoning about the shams of monarchy and
nobility, been taught to avoid examining them, been taught to reverence
them; and now, as a natural result, to reverence them is second nature.
In order to shock them it is sufficient to inject a thought of the
opposite kind into their dull minds.  For ages, any expression of so-
called irreverence from their lips has been sin and crime.  The sham and
swindle of all this is apparent the moment one reflects that he is
himself the only legitimately qualified judge of what is entitled to
reverence and what is not.  Come, I hadn't thought of that before, but it
is true, absolutely true.  What right has Goethe, what right has Arnold,
what right has any dictionary, to define the word Irreverence for me?
What their ideals are is nothing to me.  So long as I reverence my own
ideals my whole duty is done, and I commit no profanation if I laugh at
theirs.  I may scoff at other people's ideals as much as I want to.  It
is my right and my privilege.  No man has any right to deny it."

Tracy was expecting to hear the essay debated, but this did not happen.
The chairman said, by way of explanation:

"I would say, for the information of the strangers present here, that in
accordance with our custom the subject of this meeting will be debated at
the next meeting of the club.  This is in order to enable our members to
prepare what they may wish to say upon the subject with pen and paper,
for we are mainly mechanics and unaccustomed to speaking.  We are obliged
to write down what we desire to say."

Many brief papers were now read, and several offhand speeches made in
discussion of the essay read at the last meeting of the club, which had
been a laudation, by some visiting professor, of college culture, and the
grand results flowing from it to the nation.  One of the papers was read
by a man approaching middle age, who said he hadn't had a college
education, that he had got his education in a printing office, and had
graduated from there into the patent office, where he had been a clerk
now for a great many years.  Then he continued to this effect:

The essayist contrasted the America of to-day with the America of bygone
times, and certainly the result is the exhibition of a mighty progress.
But I think he a little overrated the college-culture share in the
production of that result.  It can no doubt be easily shown that the
colleges have contributed the intellectual part of this progress,
and that that part is vast; but that the material progress has been
immeasurably vaster, I think you will concede.  Now I have been looking
over a list of inventors--the creators of this amazing material
development--and I find that they were not college-bred men.  Of course
there are exceptions--like Professor Henry of Princeton, the inventor of
Mr. Morse's system of telegraphy--but these exceptions are few.  It is
not overstatement to say that the imagination--stunning material
development of this century, the only century worth living in since time
itself was invented, is the creation of men not college-bred.  We think
we see what these inventors have done: no, we see only the visible vast
frontage of their work; behind it is their far vaster work, and it is
invisible to the careless glance.  They have reconstructed this nation--
made it over, that is--and metaphorically speaking, have multiplied its
numbers almost beyond the power of figures to express.  I will explain
what I mean.  What constitutes the population of a land?  Merely the
numberable packages of meat and bones in it called by courtesy men and
women?  Shall a million ounces of brass and a million ounces of gold be
held to be of the same value?  Take a truer standard: the measure of a
man's contributing capacity to his time and his people--the work he can
do--and then number the population of this country to-day, as multiplied
by what a man can now do, more than his grandfather could do.  By this
standard of measurement, this nation, two or three generations ago,
consisted of mere cripples, paralytics, dead men, as compared with the
men of to-day.  In 1840 our population was 17,000,000.  By way of rude
but striking illustration, let us consider, for argument's sake, that
four of these millions consisted of aged people, little children, and
other incapables, and that the remaining 13,000,000 were divided and
employed as follows:

2,000,000 as ginners of cotton.
6,000,000 (women) as stocking-knitters.
2,000,000 (women) as thread-spinners.
500,000 as screw makers.
400,000 as reapers, binders, etc.
1,000,000 as corn shellers.
40,000 as weavers.
1,000 as stitchers of shoe soles.

Now the deductions which I am going to append to these figures may sound
extravagant, but they are not.  I take them from Miscellaneous Documents
No. 50, second session 45th Congress, and they are official and
trustworthy.  To-day, the work of those 2,000,000 cotton-ginners is done
by 2,000 men; that of the 6,000,000 stocking-knitters is done by 3,000
boys; that of the 2,000,000 thread-spinners is done by 1,000 girls; that
of the 500,000 screw makers is done by 500 girls; that of the 400,000
reapers, binders, etc., is done by 4,000 boys; that of the 1,000,000 corn
shelters is done by 7,500 men; that of the 40,000 weavers is done by
1,200 men; and that of the 1,000 stitchers of shoe soles is done by
6 men.  To bunch the figures, 17,900 persons to-day do the above-work,
whereas fifty years ago it would have taken thirteen millions of persons
to do it.  Now then, how many of that ignorant race--our fathers and
grandfathers--with their ignorant methods, would it take to do our work
to-day?  It would take forty thousand millions--a hundred times the
swarming population of China-twenty times the present population of the
globe.  You look around you and you see a nation of sixty millions--
apparently; but secreted in their hands and brains, and invisible to your
eyes, is the true population of this Republic, and it numbers forty
billions!  It is the stupendous creation of those humble unlettered,
un-college-bred inventors--all honor to their name.

"How grand that is!" said Tracy, as he wended homeward.  "What a
civilization it is, and what prodigious results these are! and brought
about almost wholly by common men; not by Oxford-trained aristocrats,
but men who stand shoulder to shoulder in the humble ranks of life and
earn the bread that they eat.  Again, I'm glad I came.  I have found a
country at last where one may start fair, and breast to breast with his
fellow man, rise by his own efforts, and be something in the world and be
proud of that something; not be something created by an ancestor three
hundred years ago."




CHAPTER XI.

During the first few days he kept the fact diligently before his mind
that he was in a land where there was "work and bread for all."  In fact,
for convenience' sake he fitted it to a little tune and hummed it to
himself; but as time wore on the fact itself began to take on a doubtful
look, and next the tune got fatigued and presently ran down and stopped.
His first effort was to get an upper clerkship in one of the departments,
where his Oxford education could come into play and do him service.
But he stood no chance whatever.  There, competency was no
recommendation; political backing, without competency, was worth six of
it.  He was glaringly English, and that was necessarily against him in
the political centre of a nation where both parties prayed for the Irish
cause on the house-top and blasphemed it in the cellar.  By his dress he
was a cowboy; that won him respect--when his back was not turned--but it
couldn't get a clerkship for him.  But he had said, in a rash moment,
that he would wear those clothes till the owner or the owner's friends
caught sight of them and asked for that money, and his conscience would
not let him retire from that engagement now.

At the end of a week things were beginning to wear rather a startling
look.  He had hunted everywhere for work, descending gradually the scale
of quality, until apparently he had sued for all the various kinds of
work a man without a special calling might hope to be able to do, except
ditching and the other coarse manual sorts--and had got neither work nor
the promise of it.

He was mechanically turning over the leaves of his diary, meanwhile, and
now his eye fell upon the first record made after he was burnt out:

"I myself did not doubt my stamina before, nobody could doubt it now, if
they could see how I am housed, and realise that I feel absolutely no
disgust with these quarters, but am as serenely content with them as any
dog would be in a similar kennel.  Terms, twenty-five dollars a week.
I said I would start at the bottom.  I have kept my word."

A shudder went quaking through him, and he exclaimed:

"What have I been thinking of!  This the bottom!  Mooning along a whole
week, and these terrific expenses climbing and climbing all the time!
I must end this folly straightway."

He settled up at once and went forth to find less sumptuous lodgings.  He
had to wander far and seek with diligence, but he succeeded.  They made
him pay in advance--four dollars and a half; this secured both bed and
food for a week.  The good-natured, hardworked landlady took him up three
flights of narrow, uncarpeted stairs and delivered him into his room.
There were two double-bedsteads in it, and one single one.  He would be
allowed to sleep alone in one of the double beds until some new boarder
should come, but he wouldn't be charged extra.

So he would presently be required to sleep with some stranger!
The thought of it made him sick.  Mrs.  Marsh, the landlady, was very
friendly and hoped he would like her house-they all liked it, she said.

"And they're a very nice set of boys.  They carry on a good deal, but
that's their fun.  You see, this room opens right into this back one,
and sometimes they're all in one and sometimes in the other; and hot
nights they all sleep on the roof when it don't rain.  They get out there
the minute it's hot enough.  The season's so early that they've already
had a night or two up there.  If you'd like to go up and pick out a
place, you can.  You'll find chalk in the side of the chimney where
there's a brick wanting.  You just take the chalk and--but of course
you've done it before."

"Oh, no, I haven't."

"Why, of course you haven't-what am I thinking of?  Plenty of room on the
Plains without chalking, I'll be bound.  Well, you just chalk out a place
the size of a blanket anywhere on the tin that ain't already marked off,
you know, and that's your property.  You and your bed-mate take turn-
about carrying up the blanket and pillows and fetching them down again;
or one carries them up and the other fetches them down, you fix it the
way you like, you know.  You'll like the boys, they're everlasting
sociable--except the printer.  He's the one that sleeps in that single
bed-the strangest creature; why, I don't believe you could get that man
to sleep with another man, not if the house was afire.  Mind you, I'm not
just talking, I know.  The boys tried him, to see.  They took his bed out
one night, and so when he got home about three in the morning--he was on
a morning paper then, but he's on an evening one now--there wasn't any
place for him but with the iron-moulder; and if you'll believe me, he
just set up the rest of the night--he did, honest.  They say he's
cracked, but it ain't so, he's English--they're awful particular.
You won't mind my saying that.  You--you're English?"

"Yes."

"I thought so.  I could tell it by the way you mispronounce the words
that's got a's in them, you know; such as saying loff when you mean laff
--but you'll get over that.  He's a right down good fellow, and a little
sociable with the photographer's boy and the caulker and the blacksmith
that work in the navy yard, but not so much with the others.  The fact
is, though it's private, and the others don't know it, he's a kind of an
aristocrat, his father being a doctor, and you know what style that is--
in England, I mean, because in this country a doctor ain't so very much,
even if he's that.  But over there of course it's different.  So this
chap had a falling out with his father, and was pretty high strung, and
just cut for this country, and the first he knew he had to get to work or
starve.  Well, he'd been to college, you see, and so he judged he was all
right--did you say anything?"

"No--I only sighed."

"And there's where he was mistaken.  Why, he mighty near starved.  And I
reckon he would have starved sure enough, if some jour' printer or other
hadn't took pity on him and got him a place as apprentice.  So he learnt
the trade, and then he was all right--but it was a close call.  Once he
thought he had got to haul in his pride and holler for his father and--
why, you're sighing again.  Is anything the matter with you?--does my
clatter--"

"Oh, dear--no.  Pray go on--I like it."

"Yes, you see, he's been over here ten years; he's twenty-eight, now,
and he ain't pretty well satisfied in his mind, because he can't get
reconciled to being a mechanic and associating with mechanics, he being,
as he says to me, a gentleman, which is a pretty plain letting-on that
the boys ain't, but of course I know enough not to let that cat out of
the bag."

"Why-would there be any harm in it?"

"Harm in it?  They'd lick him, wouldn't they?  Wouldn't you?  Of course
you would.  Don't you ever let a man say you ain't a gentleman in this
country.  But laws, what am I thinking about?  I reckon a body would
think twice before he said a cowboy wasn't a gentleman."

A trim, active, slender and very pretty girl of about eighteen walked
into the room now, in the most satisfied and unembarrassed way.  She was
cheaply but smartly and gracefully dressed, and the mother's quick glance
at the stranger's face as he rose, was of the kind which inquires what
effect has been produced, and expects to find indications of surprise and
admiration.

"This is my daughter Hattie--we call her Puss.  It's the new boarder,
Puss."  This without rising.

The young Englishman made the awkward bow common to his nationality and
time of life in circumstances of delicacy and difficulty, and these were
of that sort; for, being taken by surprise, his natural, lifelong self
sprang to the front, and that self of course would not know just how to
act when introduced to a chambermaid, or to the heiress of a mechanics'
boarding house.  His other self--the self which recognized the equality
of all men--would have managed the thing better, if it hadn't been caught
off guard and robbed of its chance.  The young girl paid no attention to
the bow, but put out her hand frankly and gave the stranger a friendly
shake and said:

"How do you do?"

Then she marched to the one washstand in the room, tilted her head this
way and that before the wreck of a cheap mirror that hung above it,
dampened her fingers with her tongue, perfected the circle of a little
lock of hair that was pasted against her forehead, then began to busy
herself with the slops.

"Well, I must be going--it's getting towards supper time.  Make yourself
at home, Mr.  Tracy, you'll hear the bell when it's ready."

The landlady took her tranquil departure, without commanding either of
the young people to vacate the room.  The young man wondered a little
that a mother who seemed so honest and respectable should be so
thoughtless, and was reaching for his hat, intending to disembarrass the
girl of his presence; but she said:

"Where are you going?"

"Well--nowhere in particular, but as I am only in the way here--"

"Why, who said you were in the way?  Sit down--I'll move you when you are
in the way."

She was making the beds, now.  He sat down and watched her deft and
diligent performance.

"What gave you that notion?  Do you reckon I need a whole room just to
make up a bed or two in?"

"Well no, it wasn't that, exactly.  We are away up here in an empty
house, and your mother being gone--"

The girl interrupted him with an amused laugh, and said:

"Nobody to protect me?  Bless you, I don't need it.  I'm not afraid.
I might be if I was alone, because I do hate ghosts, and I don't deny it.
Not that I believe in them, for I don't.  I'm only just afraid of them."

"How can you be afraid of them if you don't believe in them?"

"Oh, I don't know the how of it--that's too many for me; I only know it's
so.  It's the same with Maggie Lee."

"Who is that?"

"One of the boarders; young lady that works in the factry."

"She works in a factory?"

"Yes.  Shoe factory."

"In a shoe factory; and you call her a young lady?"

"Why, she's only twenty-two; what should you call her?"

"I wasn't thinking of her age, I was thinking of the title.  The fact is,
I came away from England to get away from artificial forms--for
artificial forms suit artificial people only--and here you've got them
too.  I'm sorry.  I hoped you had only men and women; everybody equal;
no differences in rank."

The girl stopped with a pillow in her teeth and the case spread open
below it, contemplating him from under her brows with a slightly puzzled
expression.  She released the pillow and said:

"Why, they are all equal.  Where's any difference in rank?"

"If you call a factory girl a young lady, what do you call the
President's wife?"

"Call her an old one."

"Oh, you make age the only distinction?"

"There ain't any other to make as far as I can see."

"Then all women are ladies?"

"Certainly they are.  All the respectable ones."

"Well, that puts a better face on it.  Certainly there is no harm in a
title when it is given to everybody.  It is only an offense and a wrong
when it is restricted to a favored few.  But Miss--er--"

"Hattie."

"Miss Hattie, be frank; confess that that title isn't accorded by
everybody to everybody.  The rich American doesn't call her cook a lady--
isn't that so?"

"Yes, it's so.  What of it?"

He was surprised and a little disappointed, to see that his admirable
shot had produced no perceptible effect.

"What of it?" he said.  "Why this: equality is not conceded here, after
all, and the Americans are no better off than the English.  In fact
there's no difference."

"Now what an idea.  There's nothing in a title except what is put into
it--you've said that yourself.  Suppose the title is 'clean,' instead of
'lady.'  You get that?"

"I believe so.  Instead of speaking of a woman as a lady, you substitute
clean and say she's a clean person."

"That's it.  In England the swell folks don't speak of the working people
as gentlemen and ladies?"

"Oh, no."

"And the working people don't call themselves gentlemen and ladies?"

"Certainly not."

"So if you used the other word there wouldn't be any change.  The swell
people wouldn't call anybody but themselves 'clean,' and those others
would drop sort of meekly into their way of talking and they wouldn't
call themselves clean.  We don't do that way here.  Everybody calls
himself a lady or gentleman, and thinks he is, and don't care what
anybody else thinks him, so long as he don't say it out loud.  You think
there's no difference.  You knuckle down and we don't.  Ain't that a
difference?"

"It is a difference I hadn't thought of; I admit that.  Still--calling
one's self a lady doesn't--er--"

"I wouldn't go on if I were you."

Howard Tracy turned his head to see who it might be that had introduced
this remark.  It was a short man about forty years old, with sandy hair,
no beard, and a pleasant face badly freckled but alive and intelligent,
and he wore slop-shop clothing which was neat but showed wear.  He had
come from the front room beyond the hall, where he had left his hat, and
he had a chipped and cracked white wash-bowl in his hand.  The girl came
and took the bowl.

"I'll get it for you.  You go right ahead and give it to him, Mr.
Barrow.  He's the new boarder--Mr. Tracy--and I'd just got to where it
was getting too deep for me."

"Much obliged if you will, Hattie.  I was coming to borrow of the boys."
He sat down at his ease on an old trunk, and said, "I've been listening
and got interested; and as I was saying, I wouldn't go on, if I were you.
You see where you are coming to, don't you?  Calling, yourself a lady
doesn't elect you; that is what you were going to say; and you saw that
if you said it you were going to run right up against another difference
that you hadn't thought of: to-wit, Whose right is it to do the electing?
Over there, twenty thousand people in a million elect themselves
gentlemen and ladies, and the nine hundred and eighty thousand accept
that decree and swallow the affront which it puts upon them.  Why, if
they didn't accept it, it wouldn't be an election, it would be a dead
letter and have no force at all.  Over here the twenty thousand would-be
exclusives come up to the polls and vote themselves to be ladies and
gentlemen.  But the thing doesn't stop there.  The nine hundred and
eighty thousand come and vote themselves to be ladies and gentlemen too,
and that elects the whole nation.  Since the whole million vote
themselves ladies and gentlemen, there is no question about that
election.  It does make absolute equality, and there is no fiction about
it; while over yonder the inequality, (by decree of the infinitely
feeble, and consent of the infinitely strong,) is also absolute--as real
and absolute as our equality."

Tracy had shrunk promptly into his English shell when this speech began,
notwithstanding he had now been in severe training several weeks for
contact and intercourse with the common herd on the common herd's terms;
but he lost no time in pulling himself out again, and so by the time the
speech was finished his valves were open once more, and he was forcing
himself to accept without resentment the common herd's frank fashion of
dropping sociably into other people's conversations unembarrassed and
uninvited.  The process was, not very difficult this time, for the man's
smile and voice and manner were persuasive and winning.  Tracy would even
have liked him on the spot, but for the fact--fact which he was not
really aware of--that the equality of men was not yet a reality to him,
it was only a theory; the mind perceived, but the man failed to feel it.
It was Hattie's ghost over again, merely turned around.  Theoretically
Barrow was his equal, but it was distinctly distasteful to see him
exhibit it.  He presently said:

"I hope in all sincerity that what you have said is true, as regards the
Americans, for doubts have crept into my mind several times.  It seemed
that the equality must be ungenuine where the sign-names of castes were
still in vogue; but those sign-names have certainly lost their offence
and are wholly neutralized, nullified and harmless if they are the
undisputed property of every individual in the nation.  I think I realize
that caste does not exist and cannot exist except by common consent of
the masses outside of its limits.  I thought caste created itself and
perpetuated itself; but it seems quite true that it only creates itself,
and is perpetuated by the people whom it despises, and who can dissolve
it at any time by assuming its mere sign-names themselves."

"It's what I think.  There isn't any power on earth that can prevent
England's thirty millions from electing themselves dukes and duchesses
to-morrow and calling themselves so.  And within six months all the
former dukes and duchesses would have retired from the business.
I wish they'd try that.  Royalty itself couldn't survive such a process.
A handful of frowners against thirty million laughers in a state of
irruption:  Why, it's Herculaneum against Vesuvius; it would take another
eighteen centuries to find that Herculaneum after the cataclysm.  What's
a Colonel in our South?  He's a nobody; because they're all colonels down
there.  No, Tracy" (shudder from Tracy) "nobody in England would call you
a gentleman and you wouldn't call yourself one; and I tell you it's a
state of things that makes a man put himself into most unbecoming
attitudes sometimes--the broad and general recognition and acceptance of
caste as caste does, I mean.  Makes him do it unconsciously--being bred
in him, you see, and never thought over and reasoned out.  You couldn't
conceive of the Matterhorn being flattered by the notice of one of your
comely little English hills, could you?"

"Why, no."

"Well, then, let a man in his right mind try to conceive of Darwin
feeling flattered by the notice of a princess.  It's so grotesque that
it--well, it paralyzes the imagination.  Yet that Memnon was flattered by
the notice of that statuette; he says so-says so himself.  The system
that can make a god disown his godship and profane it--oh, well, it's all
wrong, it's all wrong and ought to be abolished, I should say."

The mention of Darwin brought on a literary discussion, and this topic
roused such enthusiasm in Barrow that he took off his coat and made
himself the more free and comfortable for it, and detained him so long
that he was still at it when the noisy proprietors of the room came
shouting and skylarking in and began to romp, scuffle, wash, and
otherwise entertain themselves.  He lingered yet a little longer to offer
the hospitalities of his room and his book shelf to Tracy and ask him a
personal question or two:

"What is your trade?"

"They--well, they call me a cowboy, but that is a fancy.  I'm not that.
I haven't any trade."

"What do you work at for your living?"

Oh, anything--I mean I would work at, anything I could get to do, but
thus far I haven't been able to find an occupation."

"Maybe I can help you; I'd like to try."

"I shall be very glad.  I've tried, myself, to weariness."

"Well, of course where a man hasn't a regular trade he's pretty bad off
in this world.  What you needed, I reckon, was less book learning and
more bread-and-butter learning.  I don't know what your father could have
been thinking of.  You ought to have had a trade, you ought to have had a
trade, by all means.  But never mind about that; we'll stir up something
to do, I guess.  And don't you get homesick; that's a bad business.
We'll talk the thing over and look around a little.  You'll come out all
right.  Wait for me--I'll go down to supper with you."

By this time Tracy had achieved a very friendly feeling for Barrow and
would have called him a friend, maybe, if not taken too suddenly on a
straight-out requirement to realize on his theories.  He was glad of his
society, anyway, and was feeling lighter hearted than before.  Also he
was pretty curious to know what vocation it might be which had furnished
Barrow such a large acquaintanceship with books and allowed him so much
time to read.




CHAPTER XII.

Presently the supper bell began to ring in the depths of the house, and
the sound proceeded steadily upward, growing in intensity all the way up
towards the upper floors.  The higher it came the more maddening was the
noise, until at last what it lacked of being absolutely deafening, was
made up of the sudden crash and clatter of an avalanche of boarders down
the uncarpeted stairway.  The peerage did not go to meals in this
fashion; Tracy's training had not fitted him to enjoy this hilarious
zoological clamor and enthusiasm.  He had to confess that there was
something about this extraordinary outpouring of animal spirits which he
would have to get inured to before he could accept it.  No doubt in time
he would prefer it; but he wished the process might be modified and made
just a little more gradual, and not quite so pronounced and violent.
Barrow and Tracy followed the avalanche down through an ever increasing
and ever more and more aggressive stench of bygone cabbage and kindred
smells; smells which are to be found nowhere but in a cheap private
boarding house; smells which once encountered can never be forgotten;
smells which encountered generations later are instantly recognizable,
but never recognizable with pleasure.  To Tracy these odors were
suffocating, horrible, almost unendurable; but he held his peace and said
nothing.  Arrived in the basement, they entered a large dining-room where
thirty-five or forty people sat at a long table.  They took their places.
The feast had already begun and the conversation was going on in the
liveliest way from one end of the table to the other.  The table cloth
was of very coarse material and was liberally spotted with coffee stains
and grease.  The knives and forks were iron, with bone handles, the
spoons appeared to be iron or sheet iron or something of the sort.
The tea and coffee cups were of the commonest and heaviest and most
durable stone ware.  All the furniture of the table was of the commonest
and cheapest sort.  There was a single large thick slice of bread by each
boarder's plate, and it was observable that he economized it as if he
were not expecting it to be duplicated.  Dishes of butter were
distributed along the table within reach of people's arms, if they had
long ones, but there were no private butter plates.  The butter was
perhaps good enough, and was quiet and well behaved; but it had more
bouquet than was necessary, though nobody commented upon that fact or
seemed in any way disturbed by it.  The main feature of the feast was a
piping hot Irish stew made of the potatoes and meat left over from a
procession of previous meals.  Everybody was liberally supplied with this
dish.  On the table were a couple of great dishes of sliced ham, and
there were some other eatables of minor importance--preserves and New
Orleans molasses and such things.  There was also plenty of tea and
coffee of an infernal sort, with brown sugar and condensed milk, but the
milk and sugar supply was not left at the discretion of the boarders, but
was rationed out at headquarters--one spoonful of sugar and one of
condensed milk to each cup and no more.  The table was waited upon by two
stalwart negro women who raced back and forth from the bases of supplies
with splendid dash and clatter and energy.  Their labors were
supplemented after a fashion by the young girl Puss.  She carried coffee
and tea back and forth among the boarders, but she made pleasure
excursions rather than business ones in this way, to speak strictly.
She made jokes with various people.  She chaffed the young men pleasantly
and wittily, as she supposed, and as the rest also supposed, apparently,
judging by the applause and laughter which she got by her efforts.
Manifestly she was a favorite with most of the young fellows and
sweetheart of the rest of them.  Where she conferred notice she conferred
happiness, as was seen by the face of the recipient; and; at the same
time she conferred unhappiness--one could see it fall and dim the faces
of the other young fellows like a shadow.  She never "Mistered" these
friends of hers, but called them "Billy," "Tom," "John," and they called
her "Puss" or "Hattie."

Mr. Marsh sat at the head of the table, his wife sat at the foot.  Marsh
was a man of sixty, and was an American; but if he had been born a month
earlier he would have been a Spaniard.  He was plenty good enough
Spaniard as it was; his face was very dark, his hair very black, and his
eyes were not only exceedingly black but were very intense, and there was
something about them that indicated that they could burn with passion
upon occasion.  He was stoop-shouldered and lean-faced, and the general
aspect of him was disagreeable; he was evidently not a very companionable
person.  If looks went for anything, he was the very opposite of his
wife, who was all motherliness and charity, good will and good nature.
All the young men and the women called her Aunt Rachael, which was
another sign.  Tracy's wandering and interested eye presently fell upon
one boarder who had been overlooked in the distribution of the stew.
He was very pale and looked as if he had but lately come out of a sick
bed, and also as if he ought to get back into it again as soon as
possible.  His face was very melancholy.  The waves of laughter and
conversation broke upon it without affecting it any more than if it had
been a rock in the sea and the words and the laughter veritable waters.
He held his head down and looked ashamed.  Some of the women cast glances
of pity toward him from time to time in a furtive and half afraid way,
and some of the youngest of the men plainly had compassion on the young
fellow--a compassion exhibited in their faces but not in any more active
or compromising way.  But the great majority of the people present showed
entire indifference to the youth and his sorrows.  Marsh sat with his
head down, but one could catch the malicious gleam of his eyes through
his shaggy brows.  He was watching that young fellow with evident relish.
He had not neglected him through carelessness, and apparently the table
understood that fact.  The spectacle was making Mrs. Marsh very
uncomfortable.  She had the look of one who hopes against hope that the
impossible may happen.  But as the impossible did not happen, she finally
ventured to speak up and remind her husband that Nat Brady hadn't been
helped to the Irish stew.

Marsh lifted his head and gasped out with mock courtliness, "Oh, he
hasn't, hasn't he?  What a pity that is.  I don't know how I came to
overlook him.  Ah, he must pardon me.  You must indeed Mr--er--Baxter--
Barker, you must pardon me.  I--er--my attention was directed to some
other matter, I don't know what.  The thing that grieves me mainly is,
that it happens every meal now.  But you must try to overlook these
little things, Mr. Bunker, these little neglects on my part.  They're
always likely to happen with me in any case, and they are especially
likely to happen where a person has--er--well, where a person is, say,
about three weeks in arrears for his board.  You get my meaning?--you get
my idea?  Here is your Irish stew, and--er--it gives me the greatest
pleasure to send it to you, and I hope that you will enjoy the charity as
much as I enjoy conferring it."

A blush rose in Brady's white cheeks and flowed slowly backward to his
ears and upward toward his forehead, but he said nothing and began to eat
his food under the embarrassment of a general silence and the sense that
all eyes were fastened upon him.  Barrow whispered to Tracy:

"The old man's been waiting for that.  He wouldn't have missed that
chance for anything."

"It's a brutal business," said Tracy.  Then he said to himself, purposing
to set the thought down in his diary later:

"Well, here in this very house is a republic where all are free and
equal, if men are free and equal anywhere in the earth, therefore I have
arrived at the place I started to find, and I am a man among men, and on
the strictest equality possible to men, no doubt.  Yet here on the
threshold I find an inequality.  There are people at this table who are
looked up to for some reason or another, and here is a poor devil of a
boy who is looked down upon, treated with indifference, and shamed by
humiliations, when he has committed no crime but that common one of being
poor.  Equality ought to make men noble-minded.  In fact I had supposed
it did do that."

After supper, Barrow proposed a walk, and they started.  Barrow had a
purpose.  He wanted Tracy to get rid of that cowboy hat.  He didn't see
his way to finding mechanical or manual employment for a person rigged in
that fashion.  Barrow presently said:

"As I understand it, you're not a cowboy."

"No, I'm not."

"Well, now if you will not think me too curious, how did you come to
mount that hat?  Where'd you get it?"

Tracy didn't know quite how to reply to this, but presently said,

"Well, without going into particulars; I exchanged clothes with a
stranger under stress of weather, and I would like to find him and re-
exchange."

"Well, why don't you find him?  Where is he?"

"I don't know.  I supposed the best way to find him would be to continue
to wear his clothes, which are conspicuous enough to attract his
attention if I should meet him on the street."

"Oh, very well," said Barrow, "the rest of the outfit, is well enough,
and while it's not too conspicuous, it isn't quite like the clothes that
anybody else wears.  Suppress the hat.  When you meet your man he'll
recognize the rest of his suit.  That's a mighty embarrassing hat, you
know, in a centre of civilization like this.  I don't believe an angel
could get employment in Washington in a halo like that."

Tracy agreed to replace the hat with something of a modester form, and
they stepped aboard a crowded car and stood with others on the rear
platform.  Presently, as the car moved swiftly along the rails, two men
crossing the street caught sight of the backs of Barrow and Tracy, and
both exclaimed at once, "There he is!"  It was Sellers and Hawkins.
Both were so paralyzed with joy that before they could pull themselves
together and make an effort to stop the car, it was gone too far,
and they decided to wait for the next one.  They waited a while; then it
occurred to Washington that there could be no use in chasing one horse-
car with another, and he wanted to hunt up a hack.  But the Colonel said:

"When you come to think of it, there's no occasion for that at all.
Now that I've got him materialized, I can command his motions.  I'll have
him at the house by the time we get there."

Then they hurried off home in a state of great and joyful excitement.

The hat exchange accomplished, the two new friends started to walk back
leisurely to the boarding house.  Barrow's mind was full of curiosity
about this young fellow.  He said,

"You've never been to the Rocky Mountains?"

"No."

"You've never been out on the plains?"

"No."

"How long have you been in this country?"

"Only a few days."

"You've never been in America before?"

Then Barrow communed with himself.  "Now what odd shapes the notions of
romantic people take.  Here's a young, fellow who's read in England about
cowboys and adventures on the plains.  He comes here and buys a cowboy's
suit.  Thinks he can play himself on folks for a cowboy,
all inexperienced as he is.  Now the minute he's caught in this poor
little game, he's ashamed of it and ready to retire from it.  It is that
exchange that he has put up as an explanation.  It's rather thin,
too thin altogether.  Well, he's young, never been anywhere, knows
nothing about the world, sentimental, no doubt.  Perhaps it was the
natural thing for him to do, but it was a most singular choice, curious
freak, altogether."

Both men were busy with their thoughts for a time, then Tracy heaved a
sigh and said,

"Mr. Barrow, the case of that young fellow troubles me."

"You mean Nat Brady?"

"Yes, Brady, or Baxter, or whatever it was.  The old landlord called him
by several different names."

"Oh, yes, he has been very liberal with names for Brady, since Brady fell
into arrears for his board.  Well, that's one of his sarcasms--the old
man thinks he's great on sarcasm."

"Well, what is Brady's difficulty?  What is Brady--who is he?"

"Brady is a tinner.  He's a young journeyman tinner who was getting along
all right till he fell sick and lost his job.  He was very popular before
he lost his job; everybody in the house liked Brady.  The old man was
rather especially fond of him, but you know that when a man loses his job
and loses his ability to support himself and to pay his way as he goes,
it makes a great difference in the way people look at him and feel about
him."

"Is that so!  Is it so?"

Barrow looked at Tracy in a puzzled way.  "Why of course it's so.
Wouldn't you know that, naturally.  Don't you know that the wounded deer
is always attacked and killed by its companions and friends?"

Tracy said to himself, while a chilly and boding discomfort spread itself
through his system, "In a republic of deer and men where all are free and
equal, misfortune is a crime, and the prosperous gore the unfortunate to
death."  Then he said aloud, "Here in the boarding house, if one would
have friends and be popular instead of having the cold shoulder turned
upon him, he must be prosperous."

"Yes," Barrow said, "that is so.  It's their human nature.  They do turn
against Brady, now that he's unfortunate, and they don't like him as well
as they did before; but it isn't because of any lack in Brady--he's just
as he was before, has the same nature and the same impulses, but they--
well, Brady is a thorn in their consciences, you see.  They know they
ought to help him and they're too stingy to do it, and they're ashamed of
themselves for that, and they ought also to hate themselves on that
account, but instead of that they hate Brady because he makes them
ashamed of themselves.  I say that's human nature; that occurs
everywhere; this boarding house is merely the world in little, it's the
case all over--they're all alike.  In prosperity we are popular;
popularity comes easy in that case, but when the other thing comes our
friends are pretty likely to turn against us."

Tracy's noble theories and high purposes were beginning to feel pretty
damp and clammy.  He wondered if by any possibility he had made a mistake
in throwing his own prosperity to the winds and taking up the cross
of other people's unprosperity.  But he wouldn't listen to that sort of
thing; he cast it out of his mind and resolved to go ahead resolutely
along the course he had mapped out for himself.

Extracts from his diary:

Have now spent several days in this singular hive.  I don't know quite
what to make out of these people.  They have merits and virtues, but they
have some other qualities, and some ways that are hard to get along with.
I can't enjoy them.  The moment I appeared in a hat of the period,
I noticed a change.  The respect which had been paid me before, passed
suddenly away, and the people became friendly--more than that--they
became familiar, and I'm not used to familiarity, and can't take to it
right off; I find that out.  These people's familiarity amounts to
impudence, sometimes.  I suppose it's all right; no doubt I can get used
to it, but it's not a satisfactory process at all.  I have accomplished
my dearest wish, I am a man among men, on an equal footing with Tom, Dick
and Harry, and yet it isn't just exactly what I thought it was going to
be.  I--I miss home.  Am obliged to say I am homesick.  Another thing--
and this is a confession--a reluctant one, but I will make it: The thing
I miss most and most severely, is the respect, the deference, with which
I was treated all my life in England, and which seems to be somehow
necessary to me.  I get along very well without the luxury and the wealth
and the sort of society I've been accustomed to, but I do miss the
respect and can't seem to get reconciled to the absence of it.  There is
respect, there is deference here, but it doesn't fall to my share.  It is
lavished on two men.  One of them is a portly man of middle age who is a
retired plumber.  Everybody is pleased to have that man's notice.
He's full of pomp and circumstance and self complacency and bad grammar,
and at table he is Sir Oracle and when he opens his mouth not any dog in
the kennel barks.  The other person is a policeman at the capitol-
building.  He represents the government.  The deference paid to these two
men is not so very far short of that which is paid to an earl in England,
though the method of it differs.  Not so much courtliness, but the
deference is all there.

Yes, and there is obsequiousness, too.

It does rather look as if in a republic where all are free and equal,
prosperity and position constitute rank.




CHAPTER XIII.

The days drifted by, and they grew ever more dreary.  For Barrow's
efforts to find work for Tracy were unavailing.  Always the first
question asked was, "What Union do you belong to?"

Tracy was obliged to reply that he didn't belong to any trade-union.

"Very well, then, it's impossible to employ you.  My men wouldn't stay
with me if I should employ a 'scab,' or 'rat,'" or whatever the phrase
was.

Finally, Tracy had a happy thought.  He said, "Why the thing for me to
do, of course, is to join a trade-union."

"Yes," Barrow said, "that is the thing for you to do--if you can."

"If I can?  Is it difficult?"

"Well, Yes," Barrow said, "it's sometimes difficult--in fact, very
difficult.  But you can try, and of course it will be best to try."

Therefore Tracy tried; but he did not succeed.  He was refused admission
with a good deal of promptness, and was advised to go back home, where he
belonged, not come here taking honest men's bread out of their mouths.
Tracy began to realize that the situation was desperate, and the thought
made him cold to the marrow.  He said to himself, "So there is an
aristocracy of position here, and an aristocracy of prosperity, and
apparently there is also an aristocracy of the ins as opposed to the
outs, and I am with the outs.  So the ranks grow daily, here.  Plainly
there are all kinds of castes here and only one that I belong to, the
outcasts."  But he couldn't even smile at his small joke, although he was
obliged to confess that he had a rather good opinion of it.  He was
feeling so defeated and miserable by this time that he could no longer
look with philosophical complacency on the horseplay of the young fellows
in the upper rooms at night.  At first it had been pleasant to see them
unbend and have a good time after having so well earned it by the labors
of the day, but now it all rasped upon his feelings and his dignity.
He lost patience with the spectacle.  When they were feeling good, they
shouted, they scuffled, they sang songs, they romped about the place like
cattle, and they generally wound up with a pillow fight, in which they
banged each other over the head, and threw the pillows in all directions,
and every now and then he got a buffet himself; and they were always
inviting him to join in.  They called him "Johnny Bull," and invited him
with excessive familiarity to take a hand.  At first he had endured all
this with good nature, but latterly he had shown by his manner that it
was distinctly distasteful to him, and very soon he saw a change in the
manner of these young people toward him.  They were souring on him as
they would have expressed it in their language.  He had never been what
might be called popular.  That was hardly the phrase for it; he had
merely been liked, but now dislike for him was growing.  His case was not
helped by the fact that he was out of luck, couldn't get work, didn't
belong to a union, and couldn't gain admission to one: He got a good many
slights of that small ill-defined sort that you can't quite put your
finger on, and it was manifest that there was only one thing which
protected him from open insult, and that was his muscle.  These young
people had seen him exercising, mornings, after his cold sponge bath,
and they had perceived by his performance and the build of his body,
that he was athletic, and also versed in boxing.  He felt pretty naked
now, recognizing that he was shorn of all respect except respect for his
fists.  One night when he entered his room he found about a dozen of the
young fellows there carrying on a very lively conversation punctuated
with horse-laughter.  The talking ceased instantly, and the frank affront
of a dead silence followed.  He said,

"Good evening gentlemen," and sat down.

There was no response.  He flushed to the temples but forced himself to
maintain silence.  He sat there in this uncomfortable stillness some
time, then got up and went out.

The moment he had disappeared he heard a prodigious shout of laughter
break forth.  He saw that their plain purpose had been to insult him.
He ascended to the flat roof, hoping to be able to cool down his spirit
there and get back his tranquility.  He found the young tinner up there,
alone and brooding, and entered into conversation with him.  They were
pretty fairly matched, now, in unpopularity and general ill-luck and
misery, and they had no trouble in meeting upon this common ground with
advantage and something of comfort to both.  But Tracy's movements had
been watched, and in a few minutes the tormentors came straggling one
after another to the roof, where they began to stroll up and down in an
apparently purposeless way.  But presently they fell to dropping remarks
that were evidently aimed at Tracy, and some of them at the tinner.
The ringleader of this little mob was a short-haired bully and amateur
prize-fighter named Allen, who was accustomed to lording it over the
upper floor, and had more than once shown a disposition to make trouble
with Tracy.  Now there was an occasional cat-call, and hootings, and
whistlings, and finally the diversion of an exchange of connected remarks
was introduced:

"How many does it take to make a pair?"

"Well, two generally makes a pair, but sometimes there ain't stuff enough
in them to make a whole pair."  General laugh.

"What were you saying about the English a while ago?"

"Oh, nothing, the English are all right, only--I--"  What was it you said
about them?"

"Oh, I only said they swallow well."

"Swallow better than other people?"

"Oh, yes, the English swallow a good deal better than other people."

"What is it they swallow best?"

"Oh, insults."  Another general laugh.

"Pretty hard to make 'em fight, ain't it?"

"No, taint hard to make 'em fight."

"Ain't it, really?"

"No, taint hard.  It's impossible."  Another laugh.

"This one's kind of spiritless, that's certain."

"Couldn't be the other way--in his case."

"Why?"

"Don't you know the secret of his birth?"

"No! has he got a secret of his birth?"

"You bet he has."

"What is it?"

"His father was a wax-figger."

Allen came strolling by where the pair were sitting; stopped, and said to
the tinner;

"How are you off for friends, these days?"

"Well enough off."

"Got a good many?"

"Well, as many as I need."

"A friend is valuable, sometimes-as a protector, you know.  What do you
reckon would happen if I was to snatch your cap off and slap you in the
face with it?"

"Please don't trouble me, Mr.  Allen, I ain't doing anything to you."

You answer me!  What do you reckon would happen?"

"Well, I don't know."

Tracy spoke up with a good deal of deliberation and said:

"Don't trouble the young fellow, I can tell you what would happen."

"Oh, you can, can you?  Boys, Johnny Bull can tell us what would happen
if I was to snatch this chump's cap off and slap him in the face with it.
Now you'll see."

He snatched the cap and struck the youth in the face, and before he could
inquire what was going to happen, it had already happened, and he was
warming the tin with the broad of his back.  Instantly there was a rush,
and shouts of:

"A ring, a ring, make a ring!  Fair play all round!  Johnny's grit; give
him a chance."

The ring was quickly chalked on the tin, and Tracy found himself as eager
to begin as he could have been if his antagonist had been a prince
instead of a mechanic.  At bottom he was a little surprised at this,
because although his theories had been all in that direction for some
time, he was not prepared to find himself actually eager to measure
strength with quite so common a man as this ruffian.  In a moment all the
windows in the neighborhood were filled with people, and the roofs also.
The men squared off, and the fight began.  But Allen stood no chance
whatever, against the young Englishman.  Neither in muscle nor in science
was he his equal.  He measured his length on the tin time and again;
in fact, as fast as he could get up he went down again, and the applause
was kept up in liberal fashion from all the neighborhood around.
Finally, Allen had to be helped up.  Then Tracy declined to punish him
further and the fight was at an end.  Allen was carried off by some of
his friends in a very much humbled condition, his face black and blue and
bleeding, and Tracy was at once surrounded by the young fellows, who
congratulated him, and told him that he had done the whole house a
service, and that from this out Mr. Allen would be a little more
particular about how he handled slights and insults and maltreatment
around amongst the boarders.

Tracy was a hero now, and exceedingly popular.  Perhaps nobody had ever
been quite so popular on that upper floor before.  But if being
discountenanced by these young fellows had been hard to bear, their
lavish commendations and approval and hero-worship was harder still to
endure.  He felt degraded, but he did not allow himself to analyze the
reasons why, too closely.  He was content to satisfy himself with the
suggestion that he looked upon himself as degraded by the public
spectacle which he had made of himself, fighting on a tin roof, for the
delectation of everybody a block or two around.  But he wasn't entirely
satisfied with that explanation of it.  Once he went a little too far and
wrote in his diary that his case was worse than that of the prodigal son.
He said the prodigal son merely fed swine, he didn't have to chum with
them.  But he struck that out, and said "All men are equal.  I will not
disown my principles.  These men are as good as I am."

Tracy was become popular on the lower floors also.  Everybody was
grateful for Allen's reduction to the ranks, and for his transformation
from a doer of outrages to a mere threatener of them.  The young girls,
of whom there were half a dozen, showed many attentions to Tracy,
particularly that boarding house pet Hattie, the landlady's daughter.
She said to him, very sweetly,

"I think you're ever so nice."

And when he said, "I'm glad you think' so, Miss Hattie," she said, still
more sweetly,

"Don't call me Miss Hattie-call me Puss."

Ah, here was promotion!  He had struck the summit.  There were no higher
heights to climb in that boarding house.  His popularity was complete.

In the presence of people, Tracy showed a tranquil outside, but his heart
was being eaten out of him by distress and despair.

In a little while he should be out of money, and then what should he do?
He wished, now, that he had borrowed a little more liberally from that
stranger's store.  He found it impossible to sleep.  A single torturing,
terrifying thought went racking round and round in his head, wearing a
groove in his brain: What should he do--What was to become of him?  And
along with it began to intrude a something presently which was very like
a wish that he had not joined the great and noble ranks of martyrdom, but
had stayed at home and been content to be merely an earl and nothing
better, with nothing more to do in this world of a useful sort than an
earl finds to do.  But he smothered that part of his thought as well as
he could; he made every effort to drive it away, and with fair keep it
from intruding a little  success, but he couldn't now and then, and when
it intruded it came suddenly and nipped him like a bite, a sting, a burn.
He recognized that thought by the peculiar sharpness of its pang.  The
others were painful enough, but that one cut to the quick when it calm.
Night after night he lay tossing to the music of the hideous snoring of
the honest bread-winners until two and three o'clock in the morning,
then got up and took refuge on the roof, where he sometimes got a nap and
sometimes failed entirely.  His appetite was leaving him and the zest of
life was going along with it.  Finally, owe day, being near the imminent
verge of total discouragement, he said to himself--and took occasion to
blush privately when he said it, "If my father knew what my American name
is,--he--well, my duty to my father rather requires that I furnish him my
name.  I have no right to make his days and nights unhappy, I can do
enough unhappiness for the family all by myself.  Really he ought to know
what my American name is."  He thought over it a while and framed a
cablegram in his mind to this effect:

"My American name is Howard Tracy."

That wouldn't be suggesting anything.  His father could understand that
as he chose, and doubtless he would understand it as it was meant, as a
dutiful and affectionate desire on the part of a son to make his old
father happy for a moment.  Continuing his train of thought, Tracy said
to himself, "Ah, but if he should cable me to come home!  I--I--couldn't
do that--I mustn't do that.  I've started out on a mission, and I mustn't
turn my back on it in cowardice.  No, no, I couldn't go home, at--at--
least I shouldn't want to go home."  After a reflective pause: "Well,
maybe--perhaps--it would be my duty to go in the circumstances; he's very
old and he does need me by him to stay his footsteps down the long hill
that inclines westward toward the sunset of his life.  Well, I'll think
about that.  Yes, of course it wouldn't be right to stay here.  If I--
well, perhaps I could just drop him a line and put it off a little while
and satisfy him in that way.  It would be--well, it would mar everything
to have him require me to come instantly."  Another reflective pause--
then: "And yet if he should do that I don't know but--oh, dear me--home!
how good it sounds! and a body is excusable for wanting to see his home
again, now and then, anyway."

He went to one of the telegraph offices in the avenue and got the first
end of what Barrow called the "usual Washington courtesy," where "they
treat you as a tramp until they find out you're a congressman, and then
they slobber all over you."  There was a boy of seventeen on duty there,
tying his shoe.  He had his foot on a chair and his back turned towards
the wicket.  He glanced over his shoulder, took Tracy's measure, turned
back, and went on tying his shoe.  Tracy finished writing his telegram
and waited, still waited, and still waited, for that performance to
finish, but there didn't seem to be any finish to it; so finally Tracy
said:

"Can't you take my telegram?"

The youth looked over his shoulder and said, by his manner, not his
words:

"Don't you think you could wait a minute, if you tried?"

However, he got the shoe tied at last, and came and took the telegram,
glanced over it, then looked up surprised, at Tracy.  There was something
in his look that bordered upon respect, almost reverence, it seemed to
Tracy, although he had been so long without anything of this kind he was
not sure that he knew the signs of it.

The boy read the address aloud, with pleased expression in face and
voice.

"The Earl of Rossmore!  Cracky!  Do you know him?"

"Yes."

"Is that so!  Does he know you?"

"Well--yes."

"Well, I swear!  Will he answer you?"

"I think he will."

"Will he though?  Where'll you have it sent?"

"Oh, nowhere.  I'll call here and get it.  When shall I call?"

"Oh, I don't know--I'll send it to you.  Where shall I send it?  Give me
your address; I'll send it to you soon's it comes."

But Tracy didn't propose to do this.  He had acquired the boy's
admiration and deferential respect, and he wasn't willing to throw these
precious things away, a result sure to follow if he should give the
address of that boarding house.  So he said again that he would call and
get the telegram, and went his way.

He idled along, reflecting.  He said to himself, "There is something
pleasant about being respected.  I have acquired the respect of Mr.
Allen and some of those others, and almost the deference of some of them
on pure merit, for having thrashed Allen.  While their respect and their
deference--if it is deference--is pleasant, a deference based upon a
sham, a shadow, does really seem pleasanter still.  It's no real merit to
be in correspondence with an earl, and yet after all, that boy makes me
feel as if there was."

The cablegram was actually gone home! the thought of it gave him an
immense uplift.  He walked with a lighter tread.  His heart was full of
happiness.  He threw aside all hesitances and confessed to himself that
he was glad through and through that he was going to give up this
experiment and go back to his home again.  His eagerness to get his
father's answer began to grow, now, and it grew with marvelous celerity,
after it began.  He waited an hour, walking about, putting in his time as
well as he could, but interested in nothing that came under his eye, and
at last he presented himself at the office again and asked if any answer
had come yet.  The boy said,

"No, no answer yet," then glanced at the clock and added, "I don't think
it's likely you'll get one to-day."

"Why not?"

"Well, you see it's getting pretty late.  You can't always tell where
'bouts a man is when he's on the other side, and you can't always find
him just the minute you want him, and you see it's getting about six
o'clock now, and over there it's pretty late at night."

"Why yes," said Tracy, "I hadn't thought of that."

"Yes, pretty late, now, half past ten or eleven.  Oh yes, you probably
won't get any answer to-night."




CHAPTER XIV.

So Tracy went home to supper.  The odors in that supper room seemed more
strenuous and more horrible than ever before, and he was happy in the
thought that he was so soon to be free from them again.  When the supper
was over he hardly knew whether he had eaten any of it or not, and he
certainly hadn't heard any of the conversation.  His heart had been
dancing all the time, his thoughts had been faraway from these things,
and in the visions of his mind the sumptuous appointments of his father's
castle had risen before him without rebuke.  Even the plushed flunkey,
that walking symbol of a sham inequality, had not been unpleasant to his
dreaming view.  After the meal Barrow said,

"Come with me.  I'll give you a jolly evening."

"Very good.  Where are you going?"

"To my club."

"What club is that?"

"Mechanics' Debating Club."

Tracy shuddered, slightly.  He didn't say anything about having visited
that place himself.  Somehow he didn't quite relish the memory of that
time.  The sentiments which had made his former visit there so enjoyable,
and filled him with such enthusiasm, had undergone a gradual change, and
they had rotted away to such a degree that he couldn't contemplate
another visit there with anything strongly resembling delight.  In fact
he was a little ashamed to go; he didn't want to go there and find out by
the rude impact of the thought of those people upon his reorganized
condition of mind, how sharp the change had been.  He would have
preferred to stay away.  He expected that now he should hear nothing
except sentiments which would be a reproach to him in his changed mental
attitude, and he rather wished he might be excused.  And yet he didn't
quite want to say that, he didn't want to show how he did feel, or show
any disinclination to go, and so he forced himself to go along with
Barrow, privately purposing to take an early opportunity to get away.

After the essayist of the evening had read his paper, the chairman
announced that the debate would now be upon the subject of the previous
meeting, "The American Press."  It saddened the backsliding disciple to
hear this announcement.  It brought up too many reminiscences.  He wished
he had happened upon some other subject.  But the debate began, and he
sat still and listened.

In the course of the discussion one of the speakers--a blacksmith named
Tompkins--arraigned all monarchs and all lords in the earth for their
cold selfishness in retaining their unearned dignities.  He said that no
monarch and no son of a monarch, no lord and no son of a lord ought to be
able to look his fellow man in the face without shame.  Shame for
consenting to keep his unearned titles, property, and privileges--at the
expense of other people; shame for consenting to remain, on any terms, in
dishonourable possession of these things, which represented bygone
robberies and wrongs inflicted upon the general people of the nation.
He said, "if there were a laid or the son of a lord here, I would like to
reason with him, and try to show him how unfair and how selfish his
position is.  I would try to persuade him to relinquish it, take his
place among men on equal terms, earn the bread he eats, and hold of
slight value all deference paid him because of artificial position, all
reverence not the just due of his own personal merits."

Tracy seemed to be listening to utterances of his own made in talks with
his radical friends in England.  It was as if some eavesdropping
phonograph had treasured up his words and brought them across the
Atlantic to accuse him with them in the hour of his defection and
retreat.  Every word spoken by this stranger seemed to leave a blister on
Tracy's conscience, and by the time the speech was finished he felt that
he was all conscience and one blister.  This man's deep compassion for
the enslaved and oppressed millions in Europe who had to bear with the
contempt of that small class above them, throned upon shining heights
whose paths were shut against them, was the very thing he had often
uttered himself.  The pity in this man's voice and words was the very
twin of the pity that used to reside in his own heart and come from his
own lips when he thought of these oppressed peoples.

The homeward tramp was accomplished in brooding silence.  It was a
silence most grateful to Tracy's feelings.  He wouldn't have broken it
for anything; for he was ashamed of himself all the way through to his
spine.  He kept saying to himself:

"How unanswerable it all is--how absolutely unanswerable!  It is basely,
degradingly selfish to keep those unearned honors, and--and--oh, hang
it, nobody but a cur--'

"What an idiotic damned speech that Tompkins made!"

This outburst was from Barrow.  It flooded Tracy's demoralized soul with
waters of refreshment.  These were the darlingest words the poor
vacillating young apostate had ever heard--for they whitewashed his shame
for him, and that is a good service to have when you can't get the best
of all verdicts, self-acquittal.

"Come up to my room and smoke a pipe, Tracy."

Tracy had been expecting this invitation, and had had his declination all
ready: but he was glad enough to accept, now.  Was it possible that a
reasonable argument could be made against that man's desolating speech?
He was burning to hear Barrow try it.  He knew how to start him, and keep
him going: it was to seem to combat his positions--a process effective
with most people.

"What is it you object to in Tompkins's speech, Barrow?"

"Oh, the leaving out of the factor of human nature; requiring another man
to do what you wouldn't do yourself."

"Do you mean--"

"Why here's what I mean; it's very simple.  Tompkins is a blacksmith; has
a family; works for wages; and hard, too--fooling around won't furnish
the bread.  Suppose it should turn out that by the death of somebody in
England he is suddenly an earl--income, half a million dollars a year.
What would he do?"

"Well, I--I suppose he would have to decline to--"

"Man, he would grab it in a second!"

"Do you really think he would?"

"Think?--I don't think anything about it, I know it."

"Why?"

"Because he's not a fool."

"So you think that if he were a fool, he--"

"No, I don't.  Fool or no fool, he would grab it.  Anybody would.
Anybody that's alive.  And I've seen dead people that would get up and go
for it.  I would myself."

"This was balm, this was healing, this was rest and peace and comfort."

"But I thought you were opposed to nobilities."

"Transmissible ones, yes.  But that's nothing.  I'm opposed to
millionaires, but it would be dangerous to offer me the position."

"You'd take it?"

"I would leave the funeral of my dearest enemy to go and assume its
burdens and responsibilities."

Tracy thought a while, then said:

"I don't know that I quite get the bearings of your position.  You say
you are opposed to hereditary nobilities, and yet if you had the chance
you would--"

"Take one?  In a minute I would.  And there isn't a mechanic in that
entire club that wouldn't.  There isn't a lawyer, doctor, editor, author,
tinker, loafer, railroad president, saint-land, there isn't a human being
in the United States that wouldn't jump at the chance!"

"Except me," said Tracy softly.

"Except you!"   Barrow could hardly get the words out, his scorn so
choked him.  And he couldn't get any further than that form of words;
it seemed to dam his flow, utterly.  He got up and came and glared upon
Tracy in a kind of outraged and unappeasable way, and said again, "Except
you!"  He walked around him--inspecting him from one point of view and
then another, and relieving his soul now and then by exploding that
formula at him; "Except you!"  Finally he slumped down into his chair
with the air of one who gives it up, and said:

"He's straining his viscera and he's breaking his heart trying to get
some low-down job that a good dog wouldn't have, and yet wants to let on
that if he had a chance to scoop an earldom he wouldn't do it.  Tracy,
don't put this kind of a strain on me.  Lately I'm not as strong as I
was."

"Well, I wasn't meaning to put--a strain on you, Barrow, I was only
meaning to intimate that if an earldom ever does fall in my way--"

"There--I wouldn't give myself any worry about that, if I was you.  And
besides, I can settle what you would do.  Are you any different from me?"

"Well--no."

"Are you any better than me?"

"O,--er--why, certainly not."

"Are you as good?  Come!"

"Indeed, I--the fact is you take me so suddenly--"

"Suddenly?  What is there sudden about it?  It isn't a difficult question
is it?  Or doubtful?  Just measure us on the only fair lines--the lines
of merit--and of course you'll admit that a journeyman chairmaker that
earns his twenty dollars a week, and has had the good and genuine culture
of contact with men, and care, and hardship, and failure, and success,
and downs and ups and ups and downs, is just a trifle the superior of a
young fellow like you, who doesn't know how to do anything that's
valuable, can't earn his living in any secure and steady way, hasn't had
any experience of life and its seriousness, hasn't any culture but the
artificial culture of books, which adorns but doesn't really educate-
come! if I wouldn't scorn an earldom, what the devil right have you to do
it!"

Tracy dissembled his joy, though he wanted to thank the chair-maker for
that last remark.  Presently a thought struck him, and he spoke up
briskly and said:

"But look here, I really can't quite get the hang of your notions--your,
principles, if they are principles.  You are inconsistent.  You are
opposed to aristocracies, yet you'd take an earldom if you could.  Am I
to understand that you don't blame an earl for being and remaining an
earl?"

"I certainly don't."

"And you wouldn't blame Tompkins, or yourself, or me, or anybody, for
accepting an earldom if it was offered?"

"Indeed I wouldn't."

"Well, then, who would you blame?"

"The whole nation--any bulk and mass of population anywhere, in any
country, that will put up with the infamy, the outrage, the insult of a
hereditary aristocracy which they can't enter--and on absolutely free and
equal terms."

"Come, aren't you beclouding yourself with distinctions that are not
differences?"

"Indeed I am not.  I am entirely clear-headed about this thing.  If I
could extirpate an aristocratic system by declining its honors, then I
should be a rascal to accept them.  And if enough of the mass would join
me to make the extirpation possible, then I should be a rascal to do
otherwise than help in the attempt."

"I believe I understand--yes, I think I get the idea.  You have no blame
for the lucky few who naturally decline to vacate the pleasant nest they
were born into, you only despise the all-powerful and stupid mass of the
nation for allowing the nest to exist."

"That's it, that's it!  You can get a simple thing through your head if
you work at it long enough."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it.  And I'll give you some sound advice: when you go
back; if you find your nation up and ready to abolish that hoary affront,
lend a hand; but if that isn't the state of things and you get a chance
at an earldom, don't you be a fool--you take it."

Tracy responded with earnestness and enthusiasm:

"As I live, I'll do it!"

Barrow laughed.

"I never saw such a fellow.  I begin to think you've got a good deal of
imagination.  With you, the idlest-fancy freezes into a reality at a
breath.  Why, you looked, then, as if it wouldn't astonish you if you did
tumble into an earldom."

Tracy blushed.  Barrow added: "Earldom!  Oh, yes, take it, if it offers;
but meantime we'll go on looking around, in a modest way, and if you get
a chance to superintend a sausage-stuffer at six or eight dollars a week,
you just trade off the earldom for a last year's almanac and stick to the
sausage-stuffing,"




CHAPTER XV.

Tracy went to bed happy once more, at rest in his mind once more.  He had
started out on a high emprise--that was to his credit, he argued; he had
fought the best fight he could, considering the odds against him--that
was to his credit; he had been defeated--certainly there was nothing
discreditable in that.  Being defeated, he had a right to retire with the
honors of war and go back without prejudice to the position in the
world's society to which he had been born.  Why not? even the rabid
republican chair-maker would do that.  Yes, his conscience was
comfortable once more.

He woke refreshed, happy, and eager for his cablegram.  He had been born
an aristocrat, he had been a democrat for a time, he was now an
aristocrat again.  He marveled to find that this final change was not
merely intellectual, it had invaded his feeling; and he also marveled to
note that this feeling seemed a good deal less artificial than any he had
entertained in his system for a long time.  He could also have noted,
if he had thought of it, that his bearing had stiffened, over night,
and that his chin had lifted itself a shade.  Arrived in the basement,
he was about to enter the breakfast room when he saw old Marsh in the dim
light of a corner of the hall, beckoning him with his finger to approach.
The blood welled slowly up in Tracy's cheek, and he said with a grade of
injured dignity almost ducal:

"Is that for me?"

"Yes."

"What is the purpose of it?"

"I want to speak to you-in private."

"This spot is private enough for me."

Marsh was surprised; and not particularly pleased.  He approached and
said:

"Oh, in public, then, if you prefer.  Though it hasn't been my way."

The boarders gathered to the spot, interested.

"Speak out," said Tracy.  "What is it you want?"

"Well, haven't you--er--forgot something?"

"I?  I'm not aware of it."

"Oh, you're not?  Now you stop and think, a minute."

"I refuse to stop and think.  It doesn't interest me.  If it interests
you, speak out."

"Well, then," said Marsh, raising his voice to a slightly angry pitch,"
You forgot to pay your board yesterday--if you're bound to have it
public."

Oh, yes, this heir to an annual million or so had been dreaming and
soaring, and had forgotten that pitiful three or four dollars.  For
penalty he must have it coarsely flung in his face in the presence of
these people--people in whose countenances was already beginning to dawn
an uncharitable enjoyment of the situation.

"Is that all!  Take your money and give your terrors a rest."

Tracy's hand went down into his pocket with angry decision.  But-it
didn't come out.  The color began to ebb out of his face.  The
countenances about him showed a growing interest; and some of them a
heightened satisfaction.  There was an uncomfortable pause--then he
forced out, with difficulty, the words:

"I've--been robbed!"

Old Marsh's eyes flamed up with Spanish fire, and he exclaimed:

"Robbed, is it?  That's your tune?  It's too old--been played in this
house too often; everybody plays it that can't get work when he wants it,
and won't work when he can get it.  Trot out Mr. Allen, somebody, and let
him take a toot at it.  It's his turn next, he forgot, too, last night.
I'm laying for him."

One of the negro women came scrambling down stairs as pale as a sorrel
horse with consternation and excitement:

"Misto Marsh, Misto Allen's skipped out!"

"What!"

"Yes-sah, and cleaned out his room clean; tuck bofe towels en de soap!"

"You lie, you hussy!"

"It's jes' so, jes' as I tells you--en Misto Summer's socks is gone, en
Misto Naylor's yuther shirt."

Mr. Marsh was at boiling point by this time.  He turned upon Tracy:

"Answer up now-when are you going to settle?"

"To-day-since you seem to be in a hurry."

"To-day is it?  Sunday--and you out of work?  I like that.  Come--where
are you going to get the money?"

Tracy's spirit was rising again.  He proposed to impress these people:

"I am expecting a cablegram from home."

Old Marsh was caught out, with the surprise of it.  The idea was so
immense, so extravagant, that he couldn't get his breath at first.  When
he did get it, it came rancid with sarcasm.

"A cablegram--think of it, ladies and gents, he's expecting a cablegram!
He's expecting a cablegram--this duffer, this scrub, this bilk!  From his
father--eh?  Yes--without a doubt.  A dollar or two a word--oh, that's
nothing--they don't mind a little thing like that--this kind's fathers
don't.  Now his father is--er--well, I reckon his father--"

"My father is an English earl!"

The crowd fell back aghast-aghast at the sublimity of the young loafer's
"cheek."  Then they burst into a laugh that made the windows rattle.
Tracy was too angry to realize that he had done a foolish thing.  He
said:

"Stand aside, please.  I--"

"Wait a minute, your lordship," said Marsh, bowing low, "where is your
lordship going?"

"For the cablegram.  Let me pass."

"Excuse me, your lordship, you'll stay right where you are."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I didn't begin to keep boarding-house yesterday.  It means
that I am not the kind that can be taken in by every hack-driver's son
that comes loafing over here because he can't bum a living at home.  It
means that you can't skip out on any such--"

Tracy made a step toward the old man, but Mrs.  Marsh sprang between, and
said:

"Don't, Mr. Tracy, please."  She turned to her husband and said, "Do
bridle your tongue.  What has he done to be treated so?  Can't you see he
has lost his mind, with trouble and distress?  He's not responsible."

"Thank your kind heart, madam, but I've not lost my mind; and if I can
have the mere privilege of stepping to the telegraph office--"

"Well, you can't," cried Marsh.

"--or sending--"

"Sending!  That beats everything.  If there's anybody that's fool enough
to go on such a chuckle-headed errand--"

"Here comes Mr. Barrow--he will go for me.  Barrow--"

A brisk fire of exclamations broke out--

"Say, Barrow, he's expecting a cablegram!"

"Cablegram from his father, you know!"

"Yes--cablegram from the wax-figger!"

"And say, Barrow, this fellow's an earl--take off your hat, pull down
your vest!"

"Yes, he's come off and forgot his crown, that he wears Sundays.  He's
cabled over to his pappy to send it."

"You step out and get that cablegram, Barrow; his majesty's a little lame
to-day."

"Oh stop," cried Barrow; "give the man a chance."  He turned, and said
with some severity, "Tracy, what's the matter with you?  What kind of
foolishness is this you've been talking.  You ought to have more sense."

"I've not been talking foolishness; and if you'll go to the telegraph
office--"

"Oh; don't talk so.  I'm your friend in trouble and out of it, before
your face and behind your back, for anything in reason; but you've lost
your head, you see, and this moonshine about a cablegram--"

"I'll go there and ask for it!"

"Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Brady.  Here, I'll give you a
Written order for it.  Fly, now, and fetch it.  We'll soon see!"

Brady flew.  Immediately the sort of quiet began to steal over the crowd
which means dawning doubt, misgiving; and might be translated into the
words, "Maybe he is expecting a cablegram--maybe he has got a father
somewhere--maybe we've been just a little too fresh, just a shade too
'previous'!"

Loud talk ceased; then the mutterings and low murmurings and whisperings
died out.  The crowd began to crumble apart.  By ones and twos the
fragments drifted to the breakfast table.  Barrow tried to bring Tracy
in; but he said:

"Not yet, Barrow-presently."

Mrs. Marsh and Hattie tried, offering gentle and kindly persuasions; but
he said;

"I would rather wait-till he comes."

Even old Marsh began to have suspicions that maybe he had been a trifle
too "brash," as he called it in the privacy of his soul, and he pulled
himself together and started toward Tracy with invitation in his eyes;
but Tracy warned him off with a gesture which was quite positive and
eloquent.  Then followed the stillest quarter of an hour which had ever
been known in that house at that time of day.  It was so still, and so
solemn withal, that when somebody's cup slipped from his fingers and
landed in his plate the shock made people start, and the sharp sound
seemed as indecorous there and as out of place as if a coffin and
mourners were imminent and being waited for.  And at last when Brady's
feet came clattering down the stairs the sacrilege seemed unbearable.
Everybody rose softly and turned toward the door, where stood Tracy;
then with a common impulse, moved a step or two in that direction, and
stopped.  While they gazed, young Brady arrived, panting, and put into
Tracy's hand,--sure enough--an envelope.  Tracy fastened a bland
victorious eye upon the gazers, and kept it there till one by one they
dropped their eyes, vanquished and embarrassed.  Then he tore open the
telegram and glanced at its message.  The yellow paper fell from his
fingers and fluttered to the floor, and his face turned white.  There was
nothing there but one word--

"Thanks."

The humorist of the house, the tall, raw-boned Billy Nash, caulker from
the navy yard, was standing in the rear of the crowd.  In the midst of
the pathetic silence that was now brooding over the place and moving some
few hearts there toward compassion, he began to whimper, then he put his
handkerchief to his eyes and buried his face in the neck of the,
bashfulest young fellow in the company, a navy-yard blacksmith, shrieked
"Oh, pappy, how could you!" and began to bawl like a teething baby, if
one may imagine a baby with the energy and the devastating voice of a
jackass.

So perfect was that imitation of a child's cry, and so vast the scale of
it and so ridiculous the aspect of the performer, that all gravity was
swept from the place as if by a hurricane, and almost everybody there
joined in the crash of laughter provoked by the exhibition.  Then the
small mob began to take its revenge--revenge for the discomfort and
apprehension it had brought upon itself by its own too rash freshness of
a little while before.  It guyed its poor victim, baited him, worried
him, as dogs do with a cornered cat.  The victim answered back with
defiances and challenges which included everybody, and which only gave
the sport new spirit and variety; but when he changed his tactics and
began to single out individuals and invite them by name, the fun lost its
funniness and the interest of the show died out, along with the noise.

Finally Marsh was about to take an innings, but Barrow said:

"Never mind, now--leave him alone.  You've no account with him but a
money account.  I'll take care of that myself."

The distressed and worried landlady gave Barrow a fervently grateful look
for his championship of the abused stranger; and the pet of the house, a
very prism in her cheap but ravishing Sunday rig, blew him a kiss from
the tips of her fingers and said, with the darlingest smile and a sweet
little toss of her head:

"You're the only man here, and I'm going to set my cap for you, you dear
old thing!"

"For shame, Puss!  How you talk!  I never saw such a child!"

It took a good deal of argument and persuasion--that is to say, petting,
under these disguises--to get Tracy to entertain the idea of breakfast.
He at first said he would never eat again in that house; and added that
he had enough firmness of character, he trusted, to enable him to starve
like a man when the alternative was to eat insult with his bread.

When he had finished his breakfast, Barrow took him to his room,
furnished him a pipe, and said cheerily:

"Now, old fellow, take in your battle-flag out of the wet, you're not in
the hostile camp any more.  You're a little upset by your troubles,
and that's natural enough, but don't let your mind run on them anymore
than you can help; drag your thoughts away from your troubles by the
ears, by the heels, or any other way, so you manage it; it's the
healthiest thing a body can do; dwelling on troubles is deadly, just
deadly--and that's the softest name there is for it.  You must keep your
mind amused--you must, indeed."

"Oh, miserable me!"

"Don't!  There's just pure heart-break in that tone.  It's just as I say;
you've got to get right down to it and amuse your mind, as if it was
salvation."

"They're easy words to say, Barrow, but how am I going to amuse,
entertain, divert a mind that finds itself suddenly assaulted and
overwhelmed by disasters of a sort not dreamed of and not provided for?
No-no, the bare idea of amusement is repulsive to my feelings: Let us
talk of death and funerals."

"No-not yet.  That would be giving up the ship.  We'll not give up the
ship yet.  I'm going to amuse you; I sent Brady out for the wherewithal
before you finished breakfast."

"You did?  What is it?"

"Come, this is a good sign-curiosity.  Oh, there's' hope for you yet."




CHAPTER XVI.

Brady arrived with a box, and departed, after saying" They're finishing
one up, but they'll be along as soon as it's done."

Barrow took a frameless oil portrait a foot square from the box, set it
up in a good light, without comment, and reached for another, taking a
furtive glance at Tracy, meantime. The stony solemnity in Tracy's face
remained as it was, and gave out no sign of interest.  Barrow placed the
second portrait beside the first, and stole another glance while reaching
for a third.  The stone image softened, a shade.  No. 3 forced the ghost
of a smile, No. 4 swept indifference wholly away, and No. 5 started a
laugh which was still in good and hearty condition when No. 14 took its
place  in the row.

"Oh, you're all right, yet," said Barrow.  "You see you're not past
amusement."

The pictures were fearful, as to color, and atrocious as to drawing and
expression; but the feature which squelched animosity and made them funny
was a feature which could not achieve its full force in a single picture,
but required the wonder-working assistance of repetition.  One loudly
dressed mechanic in stately attitude, with his hand on a cannon, ashore,
and a ship riding at anchor in the offing,--this is merely odd; but when
one sees the same cannon and the same ship in fourteen pictures in a row,
and a different mechanic standing watch in each, the thing gets to be
funny.

"Explain--explain these aberrations," said Tracy.

"Well, they are not the achievement of a single intellect, a single
talent--it takes two to do these miracles.  They are collaborations;
the one artist does the figure, the other the accessories.  The figure-
artist is a German shoemaker with an untaught passion for art, the other
is a simple hearted old Yankee sailor-man whose possibilities are
strictly limited to his ship, his cannon and his patch of petrified sea.
They work these things up from twenty-five-cent tintypes; they get six
dollars apiece for them, and they can grind out a couple a day when they
strike what they call a boost--that is, an inspiration."

"People actually pay money for these calumnies?"

"They actually do--and quite willingly, too.  And these abortionists
could double their trade and work the women in, if Capt. Saltmarsh could
whirl a horse in, or a piano, or a guitar, in place of his cannon.  The
fact is, he fatigues the market with that cannon.  Even the male market,
I mean.  These fourteen in the procession are not all satisfied.  One is
an old "independent" fireman, and he wants an engine in place of the
cannon; another is a mate of a tug, and wants a tug in place of the ship
--and so on, and so on.  But the captain can't make a tug that is
deceptive, and a fire engine is many flights beyond his power."

"This is a most extraordinary form of robbery, I never have heard of
anything like it.  It's interesting."

"Yes, and so are the artists.  They are perfectly honest men, and
sincere.  And the old sailor-man is full of sound religion, and is as
devoted a student of the Bible and misquoter of it as you can find
anywhere.  I don't know a better man or kinder hearted old soul than
Saltmarsh, although he does swear a little, sometimes."

"He seems to be perfect.  I want to know him, Barrow."

"You'll have the chance.  I guess I hear them coming, now.  We'll draw
them out on their art, if you like."

The artists arrived and shook hands with great heartiness.  The German
was forty and a little fleshy, with a shiny bald head and a kindly face
and deferential manner.  Capt.  Saltmarsh was sixty, tall, erect,
powerfully built, with coal-black hair and whiskers, and he had a well
tanned complexion, and a gait and countenance that were full of command,
confidence and decision.  His horny hands and wrists were covered with
tattoo-marks, and when his lips parted, his teeth showed up white and
blemishless.  His voice was the effortless deep bass of a church organ,
and would disturb the tranquility of a gas flame fifty yards away.

"They're wonderful pictures," said Barrow.  "We've been examining them."

"It is very bleasant dot you like dem," said Handel, the German, greatly
pleased.  "Und you, Herr Tracy, you haf peen bleased mit dem too,
alretty?"

"I can honestly say I have never seen anything just like them before."

"Schon!" cried the German, delighted.  "You hear, Gaptain?  Here is a
chentleman, yes, vot abbreviate unser aart."

The captain was charmed, and said:

"Well, sir, we're thankful for a compliment yet, though they're not as
scarce now as they used to be before we made a reputation."

"Getting the reputation is the up-hill time in most things, captain."

"It's so.  It ain't enough to know how to reef a gasket, you got to make
the mate know you know it.  That's reputation.  The good word, said at
the right time, that's the word that makes us; and evil be to him that
evil thinks, as Isaiah says."

"It's very relevant, and hits the point exactly," said Tracy.

"Where did you study art, Captain?"

"I haven't studied; it's a natural gift."

"He is born mit dose cannon in him.  He tondt haf to do noding, his
chenius do all de vork.  Of he is asleep, and take a pencil in his hand,
out come a cannon.  Py crashus, of he could do a clavier, of he could do
a guitar, of he could do a vashtub, it is a fortune, heiliger Yohanniss
it is yoost a fortune!"

"Well, it is an immense pity that the business is hindered and limited in
this unfortunate way."

The captain grew a trifle excited, himself, now:

"You've said it, Mr. Tracy!--Hindered?  well, I should say so.  Why, look
here.  This fellow here, No. 11, he's a hackman,--a flourishing hackman,
I may say.  He wants his hack in this picture.  Wants it where the cannon
is.  I got around that difficulty, by telling him the cannon's our
trademark, so to speak-proves that the picture's our work, and I was
afraid if we left it out people wouldn't know for certain if it was a
Saltmarsh--Handel--now you wouldn't yourself--"

"What, Captain?  You wrong yourself, indeed you do.  Anyone who has once
seen a genuine Saltmarsh-Handel is safe from imposture forever.  Strip
it, flay it, skin it out of every detail but the bare color and
expression, and that man will still recognize it--still stop to
worship--"

"Oh, how it makes me feel to hear dose oxpressions!--"

--"still say to himself again as he had, said a hundred times before, the
art of the Saltmarsh-Handel is an art apart, there is nothing in the
heavens above or in the earth beneath that resembles it,--"

"Py chiminy, nur horen Sie einmal!  In my life day haf I never heard so
brecious worts."

"So I talked him out of the hack, Mr. Tracy, and he let up on that, and
said put in a hearse, then--because he's chief mate of a hearse but don't
own it--stands a watch for wages, you know.  But I can't do a hearse any
more than I can a hack; so here we are--becalmed, you see.  And it's the
same with women and such.  They come and they want a little johnry
picture--"

"It's the accessories that make it a 'genre?'"

"Yes--cannon, or cat, or any little thing like that, that you heave into
whoop up the effect.  We could do a prodigious trade with the women if we
could foreground the things they like, but they don't give a damn for
artillery.  Mine's the lack," continued the captain with a sigh, "Andy's
end of the business is all right I tell you he's an artist from way
back!"

"Yoost hear dot old man!  He always talk 'poud me like dot," purred the
pleased German.

"Look at his work yourself!  Fourteen portraits in a row.  And no two of
them alike."

"Now that you speak of it, it is true; I hadn't noticed it before.  It is
very remarkable.  Unique, I suppose."

"I should say so.  That's the very thing about Andy--he discriminates.
Discrimination's the thief of time--forty-ninth Psalm; but that ain't any
matter, it's the honest thing, and it pays in the end."

"Yes, he certainly is great in that feature, one is obliged to admit it;
but--now mind, I'm not really criticising--don't you think he is just a
trifle overstrong in technique?"

The captain's face was knocked expressionless by this remark.  It
remained quite vacant while he muttered to himself--" Technique--
technique--polytechnique--pyro-technique; that's it, likely-fireworks too
much color."  Then he spoke up with serenity and confidence, and said:

"Well, yes, he does pile it on pretty loud; but they all like it, you
know--fact is, it's the life of the business.  Take that No. 9, there,
Evans the butcher.  He drops into the stoodio as sober-colored as
anything you ever see: now look at him.  You can't tell him from scarlet
fever.  Well, it pleases that butcher to death.  I'm making a study of a
sausage-wreath to hang on the cannon, and I don't really reckon I can do
it right, but if I can, we can break the butcher."

"Unquestionably your confederate--I mean your--your fellow-craftsman--
is a great colorist--"

"Oh, danke schon!--"

--"in fact a quite extraordinary colorist; a colorist, I make bold to
say, without imitator here or abroad--and with a most bold and effective
touch, a touch like a battering ram; and a manner so peculiar and
romantic, and extraneous, and ad libitum, and heart-searching, that--
that--he--he is an impressionist, I presume?"

"No," said the captain simply, "he is a Presbyterian."

"It accounts for it all--all--there's something divine about his art,--
soulful, unsatisfactory, yearning, dim hearkening on the void horizon,
vague-murmuring to the spirit out of ultra-marine distances and far-
sounding cataclysms of uncreated space--oh, if he--if, he--has he ever
tried distemper?"

The captain answered up with energy:

"Not if he knows himself!  But his dog has, and--"

"Oh, no, it vas not my dog."

"Why, you said it was your dog."

"Oh, no, gaptain, I--"

"It was a white dog, wasn't it, with his tail docked, and one ear gone,
and--"

"Dot's him, dot's him!--der fery dog.  Wy, py Chorge, dot dog he would
eat baint yoost de same like--"

"Well, never mind that, now--'vast heaving--I never saw such a man.  You
start him on that dog and he'll dispute a year.  Blamed if I haven't seen
him keep it up a level two hours and a half."

"Why captain!" said Barrow.  "I guess that must be hearsay."

"No, sir, no hearsay about it--he disputed with me.

"I don't see how you stood it."

"Oh, you've got to--if you run with Andy.  But it's the only fault he's
got."

"Ain't you afraid of acquiring it?"

"Oh, no," said the captain, tranquilly, "no danger of that, I reckon."

The artists presently took their leave.  Then Barrow put his hands on
Tracy's shoulders and said:

"Look me in the eye, my boy.  Steady, steady.  There--it's just as I
thought--hoped, anyway; you're all right, thank goodness.  Nothing the
matter with your mind.  But don't do that again--even for fun.  It isn't
wise.  They wouldn't have believed you if you'd been an earl's son.
Why, they couldn't--don't you know that?  What ever possessed you to take
such a freak?  But never mind about that; let's not talk of it.  It was a
mistake; you see that yourself."

"Yes--it was a mistake."

"Well, just drop it out of your, mind; it's no harm; we all make them.
Pull your courage together, and don't brood, and don't give up.  I'm at
your back, and we'll pull through, don't you be afraid."

When he was gone, Barrow walked the floor a good while, uneasy in his
mind.  He said to himself, "I'm troubled about him.  He never would have
made a break like that if he hadn't been a little off his balance.
But I know what being out of work and no prospect ahead can do for a man.
First it knocks the pluck out of him and drags his pride in the dirt;
worry does the rest, and his mind gets shaky.  I must talk to these
people.  No--if there's any humanity in them--and there is, at bottom--
they'll be easier on him if they think his troubles have disturbed his
reason.  But I've got to find him some work; work's the only medicine for
his disease. Poor devil! away off here, and not a friend."




CHAPTER XVII

The moment Tracy was alone his spirits vanished away, and all the misery
of his situation was manifest to him.  To be moneyless and an object of
the chairmaker's charity--this was bad enough, but his folly in
proclaiming himself an earl's son to that scoffing and unbelieving crew,
and, on top of that, the humiliating result--the recollection of these
things was a sharper torture still.  He made up his mind that he would
never play earl's son again before a doubtful audience.

His father's answer was a blow he could not understand.  At times he
thought his father imagined he could get work to do in America without
any trouble, and was minded to let him try it and cure himself of his
radicalism by hard, cold, disenchanting experience.  That seemed the most
plausible theory, yet he could not content himself with it.  A theory
that pleased him better was, that this cablegram would be followed by
another, of a gentler sort, requiring him to come home.  Should he write
and strike his flag, and ask for a ticket home?  Oh, no, that he couldn't
ever do.  At least, not yet.  That cablegram would come, it certainly
would.  So he went from one telegraph office to another every day for
nearly a week, and asked if there was a cablegram for Howard Tracy.
No, there wasn't any.  So they answered him at first.  Later, they said
it before he had a chance to ask.  Later still they merely shook their
heads impatiently as soon as he came in sight.  After that he was ashamed
to go any more.

He was down in the lowest depths of despair, now; for the harder Barrow
tried to find work for him the more hopeless the possibilities seemed to
grow.  At last he said to Barrow:

"Look here.  I want to make a confession.  I have got down, now, to where
I am not only willing to acknowledge to myself that I am a shabby
creature and full of false pride, but am willing to acknowledge it to
you.  Well, I've been allowing you to wear yourself out hunting for work
for me when there's been a chance open to me all the time.  Forgive my
pride--what was left of it.  It is all gone, now, and I've come to
confess that if those ghastly artists want another confederate, I'm their
man--for at last I am dead to shame."

"No?  Really, can you paint?"

"Not as badly as they.  No, I don't claim that, for I am not a genius;
in fact, I am a very indifferent amateur, a slouchy dabster, a mere
artistic sarcasm; but drunk or asleep I can beat those buccaneers."

"Shake!  I want to shout!  Oh, I tell you, I am immensely delighted and
relieved.  Oh, just to work--that is life!  No matter what the work is--
that's of no consequence.  Just work itself is bliss when a man's been
starving for it.  I've been there!  Come right along; we'll hunt the old
boys up.  Don't you feel good?  I tell you I do."

The freebooters were not at home.  But their "works" were, displayed in
profusion all about the little ratty studio.  Cannon to the right of
them, cannon to the left of them, cannon in front--it was Balaclava come
again.

"Here's the uncontented hackman, Tracy.  Buckle to--deepen the sea-green
to turf, turn the ship into a hearse.  Let the boys have a taste of your
quality."

The artists arrived just as the last touch was put on.  They stood
transfixed with admiration.

"My souls but she's a stunner, that hearse!  The hackman will just go all
to pieces when he sees that won't he Andy?"

"Oh, it is sphlennid, sphlennid!  Herr Tracy, why haf you not said you
vas a so sublime aartist?  Lob' Gott, of you had lif'd in Paris you would
be a Pree de Rome, dot's votes de matter!"

The arrangements were soon made.  Tracy was taken into full and equal
partnership, and he went straight to work, with dash and energy, to
reconstructing gems of art whose accessories had failed to satisfy.
Under his hand, on that and succeeding days, artillery disappeared and
the emblems of peace and commerce took its place--cats, hacks, sausages,
tugs, fire engines, pianos, guitars, rocks, gardens, flower-pots,
landscapes--whatever was wanted, he flung it in; and the more out of
place and absurd the required object was, the more joy he got out of
fabricating it.  The pirates were delighted, the customers applauded, the
sex began to flock in, great was the prosperity of the firm.  Tracy was
obliged to confess to himself that there was something about work,--even
such grotesque and humble work as this--which most pleasantly satisfied a
something in his nature which had never been satisfied before, and also
gave him a strange new dignity in his own private view of himself.

                    .......................

The Unqualified Member from Cherokee Strip was in a state of deep
dejection.  For a good while, now, he had been leading a sort of life
which was calculated to kill; for it had consisted in regularly
alternating days of brilliant hope and black disappointment.  The
brilliant hopes were created by the magician Sellers, and they always
promised that now he had got the trick, sure, and would effectively
influence that materialized cowboy to call at the Towers before night.
The black disappointments consisted in the persistent and monotonous
failure of these prophecies.

At the date which this history has now reached, Sellers was appalled to
find that the usual remedy was inoperative, and that Hawkins's low
spirits refused absolutely to lift.  Something must be done, he
reflected; it was heart-breaking, this woe, this smileless misery,
this dull despair that looked out from his poor friend's face.  Yes, he
must be cheered up.  He mused a while, then he saw his way.  He said in
his most conspicuously casual vein:

"Er--uh--by the way, Hawkins, we are feeling disappointed about this
thing--the way the materializee is acting, I mean--we are disappointed;
you concede that?"

"Concede it?  Why, yes, if you like the term."

"Very well; so far, so good.  Now for the basis of the feeling.  It is
not that your heart, your affections are concerned; that is to say, it is
not that you want the materializee Itself.  You concede that?"

"Yes, I concede that, too--cordially."

"Very well, again; we are making progress.  To sum up: The feeling, it is
conceded, is not engendered by the mere conduct of the materializee; it
is conceded that it does not arise from any pang which the personality of
the materializee could assuage.  Now then, "said the earl, with the light
of triumph in his eye, "the inexorable logic of the situation narrows us
down to this: our feeling has its source in the money-loss involved.
Come--isn't that so?"

"Goodness knows I concede that, with all my heart."

"Very well.  When you've found out the source of a disease, you've also
found out what remedy is required--just as in this case.  In this case
money is required.  And only money."

The old, old seduction was in that airy, confident tone and those
significant words--usually called pregnant words in books.  The old
answering signs of faith and hope showed up in Hawkins's countenance,
and he said:

"Only money?  Do you mean that you know a way to--"

"Washington, have you the impression that I have no resources but those
I allow the public and my intimate friends to know about?"

"Well, I--er--"

"Is it likely, do you think, that a man moved by nature and taught by
experience to keep his affairs to himself and a cautious and reluctant
tongue in his head, wouldn't be thoughtful enough to keep a few resources
in reserve for a rainy day, when he's got as many as I have to select
from?"

"Oh, you make me feel so much better already, Colonel!"

"Have you ever been in my laboratory?"

"Why, no."

"That's it.  You see you didn't even know that I had one.  Come along.
I've got a little trick there that I want to show you.  I've kept it
perfectly quiet, not fifty people know anything about it.  But that's my
way, always been my way.  Wait till you're ready, that's the idea; and
when you're ready, zzip!--let her go!"

"Well, Colonel, I've never seen a man that I've had such unbounded
confidence in as you.  When you say a thing right out, I always feel as
if that ends it; as if that is evidence, and proof, and everything else."

The old earl was profoundly pleased and touched.

"I'm glad you believe in me, Washington; not everybody is so just."

"I always have believed in you; and I always shall as long as I live."

"Thank you, my boy.  You shan't repent it.  And you can't."  Arrived in
the "laboratory," the earl continued, "Now, cast your eye around this
room--what do you see?  Apparently a junk-shop; apparently a hospital
connected with a patent office--in reality, the mines of Golconda in
disguise!  Look at that thing there.  Now what would you take that thing
to be?"

"I don't believe I could ever imagine."

"Of course you couldn't.  It's my grand adaptation of the phonograph to
the marine service.  You store up profanity in it for use at sea.
You know that sailors don't fly around worth a cent unless you swear
at them--so the mate that can do the best job of swearing is the most
valuable man.  In great emergencies his talent saves the ship.  But a
ship is a large thing, and he can't be everywhere at once; so there have
been times when one mate has lost a ship which could have been saved if
they had had a hundred.  Prodigious storms, you know.  Well, a ship can't
afford a hundred mates; but she can afford a hundred Cursing Phonographs,
and distribute them all over the vessel--and there, you see, she's armed
at every point.  Imagine a big storm, and a hundred of my machines all
cursing away at once--splendid spectacle, splendid!--you couldn't hear
yourself think.  Ship goes through that storm perfectly serene--she's
just as safe as she'd be on shore."

"It's a wonderful idea.  How do you prepare the thing?"

"Load it-simply load it."

"How?"

"Why you just stand over it and swear into it."

"That loads it, does it?"

"Yes--because every word it collars, it keeps--keeps it forever.  Never
wears out.  Any time you turn the crank, out it'll come.  In times of
great peril, you can reverse it, and it'll swear backwards.  That makes a
sailor hump himself!"

"O, I see.  Who loads them?--the mate?"

"Yes, if he chooses.  Or I'll furnish them already loaded.  I can hire an
expert for $75 a month who will load a hundred and fifty phonographs in
150 hours, and do it easy.  And an expert can furnish a stronger article,
of course, than the mere average uncultivated mate could.  Then you see,
all the ships of the world will buy them ready loaded--for I shall have
them loaded in any language a customer wants.  Hawkins, it will work the
grandest moral reform of the 19th century.  Five years from now, all the
swearing will be done by machinery--you won't ever hear a profane word
come from human lips on a ship.  Millions of dollars have been spent by
the churches, in the effort to abolish profanity in the commercial
marine.  Think of it--my name will live forever in the affections of good
men as the man, who, solitary and alone, accomplished this noble and
elevating reform."

"O, it is grand and beneficent and beautiful.  How did you ever come to
think of it?  You have a wonderful mind.  How did you say you loaded the
machine?"

"O, it's no trouble-perfectly simple.  If you want to load it up loud and
strong, you stand right over it and shout.  But if you leave it open and
all set, it'll eavesdrop, so to speak--that is to say, it will load
itself up with any sounds that are made within six feet of it.  Now I'll
show you how it works.  I had an expert come and load this one up
yesterday.  Hello, it's been left open--it's too bad--still I reckon it
hasn't had much chance to collect irrelevant stuff.  All you do is to
press this button in the floor--so."

The phonograph began to sing in a plaintive voice:

          There is a boarding-house, far far away,
          Where they have ham and eggs, 3 times a day.

"Hang it, that ain't it.  Somebody's been singing around here."

The plaintive song began again, mingled with a low, gradually rising wail
of cats slowly warming up toward a fight;

          O, how the boarders yell,
          When they hear that dinner bell
          They give that landlord--

(momentary outburst of terrific catfight which drowns out one word.)

          Three times a day.

(Renewal of furious catfight for a moment.  The plaintive voice on a high
fierce key, "Scat, you devils"--and a racket as of flying missiles.)

"Well, never mind--let it go.  I've got some sailor-profanity down in
there somewhere, if I could get to it.  But it isn't any matter; you see
how the machine works."

Hawkins responded with enthusiasm:

"O, it works admirably!  I know there's a hundred fortunes in it."

"And mind, the Hawkins family get their share, Washington."

"O, thanks, thanks; you are just as generous as ever.  Ah, it's the
grandest invention of the age!"

"Ah, well; we live in wonderful times.  The elements are crowded full of
beneficent forces--always have been--and ours is the first generation to
turn them to account and make them work for us.  Why Hawkins, everything
is useful--nothing ought ever to be wasted.  Now look at sewer gas, for
instance.  Sewer gas has always been wasted, heretofore; nobody tried to
save up sewer-gas--you can't name me a man.  Ain't that so? you know
perfectly well it's so."

"Yes it is so--but I never--er--I don't quite see why a body--"

"Should want to save it up?  Well, I'll tell you.  Do you see this little
invention here?--it's a decomposer--I call it a decomposer.  I give you
my word of honor that if you show me a house that produces a given
quantity of sewer-gas in a day, I'll engage to set up my decomposer there
and make that house produce a hundred times that quantity of sewer-gas in
less than half an hour."

"Dear me, but why should you want to?"

"Want to?  Listen, and you'll see.  My boy, for illuminating purposes and
economy combined, there's nothing in the world that begins with sewer-
gas.  And really, it don't cost a cent.  You put in a good inferior
article of plumbing,--such as you find everywhere--and add my decomposer,
and there you are.  Just use the ordinary gas pipes--and there your
expense ends.  Think of it.  Why, Major, in five years from now you won't
see a house lighted with anything but sewer-gas.  Every physician I talk
to, recommends it; and every plumber."

"But isn't it dangerous?"

"O, yes, more or less, but everything is--coal gas, candles, electricity
--there isn't anything that ain't."

"It lights up well, does it?"

"O, magnificently."

"Have you given it a good trial?"

"Well, no, not a first rate one.  Polly's prejudiced, and she won't let
me put it in here; but I'm playing my cards to get it adopted in the
President's house, and then it'll go--don't you doubt it.  I shall not
need this one for the present, Washington; you may take it down to some
boarding-house and give it a trial if you like."




CHAPTER XVIII.

Washington shuddered slightly at the suggestion, then his face took on a
dreamy look and he dropped into a trance of thought.  After a little,
Sellers asked him what he was grinding in his mental mill.

"Well, this.  Have you got some secret project in your head which
requires a Bank of England back of it to make it succeed?"

The Colonel showed lively astonishment, and said:

"Why, Hawkins, are you a mind-reader?"

"I?  I never thought of such a thing."

"Well, then how did you happen to drop onto that idea in this curious
fashion?  It's just mind-reading, that's what it is, though you may not
know it.  Because I have got a private project that requires a Bank of
England at its back.  How could you divine that?  What was the process?
This is interesting."

"There wasn't any process.  A thought like this happened to slip through
my head by accident: How much would make you or me comfortable?
A hundred thousand.  Yet you are expecting two or three of--these
inventions of yours to turn out some billions of money--and you are
wanting them to do that.  If you wanted ten millions, I could understand
that--it's inside the human limits.  But billions!  That's clear outside
the limits.  There must be a definite project back of that somewhere."

The earl's interest and surprise augmented with every word, and when
Hawkins finished, he said with strong admiration:

"It's wonderfully reasoned out, Washington, it certainly is.  It shows
what I think is quite extraordinary penetration.  For you've hit it;
you've driven the centre, you've plugged the bulls-eye of my dream.  Now
I'll tell you the whole thing, and you'll understand it.  I don't need to
ask you to keep it to yourself, because you'll see that the project will
prosper all the better for being kept in the background till the right
time.  Have you noticed how many pamphlets and books I've got lying
around relating to Russia?"

"Yes, I think most anybody would notice that--anybody who wasn't dead."

"Well, I've been posting myself a good while.  That's a great and,
splendid nation, and deserves to be set free."  He paused, then added in
a quite matter-of-fact way, "When I get this money I'm going to set it
free."

"Great guns!"

"Why, what makes you jump like that?"

"Dear me, when you are going to drop a remark under a man's chair that is
likely to blow him out through the roof, why don't you put some
expression, some force, some noise unto it that will prepare him?  You
shouldn't flip out such a gigantic thing as this in that colorless kind
of a way.  You do jolt a person up, so.  Go on, now, I'm all right again.
Tell me all about it.  I'm all interest--yes, and sympathy, too."

"Well, I've looked the ground over, and concluded that the methods of the
Russian patriots, while good enough considering the way the boys are
hampered, are not the best; at least not the quickest.  They are trying
to revolutionize Russia from within; that's pretty slow, you know, and
liable to interruption all the time, and is full of perils for the
workers.  Do you know how Peter the Great started his army?  He didn't
start it on the family premises under the noses of the Strelitzes; no, he
started it away off yonder, privately,--only just one regiment, you know,
and he built to that.  The first thing the Strelitzes knew, the regiment
was an army, their position was turned, and they had to take a walk.
Just that little idea made the biggest and worst of all the despotisms
the world has seen.  The same idea can unmake it.  I'm going to prove it.
I'm going to get out to one side and work my scheme the way Peter did."

"This is mighty interesting, Rossmore.  What is it you are, going to do?"

"I am going to buy Siberia and start a republic."

"There,--bang you go again, without giving any notice!  Going to buy it?"

"Yes, as soon as I get the money.  I don't care what the price is, I
shall take it.  I can afford it, and I will.  Now then, consider this--
and you've never thought of it, I'll warrant.  Where is the place where
there is twenty-five times more manhood, pluck, true heroism,
unselfishness, devotion to high and noble ideals, adoration of liberty,
wide education, and brains, per thousand of population, than any other
domain in the whole world can show?"

"Siberia!"

"Right."

"It is true; it certainly is true, but I never thought of it before."

"Nobody ever thinks of it.  But it's so, just the same.  In those mines
and prisons are gathered together the very finest and noblest and
capablest multitude of human beings that God is able to create.  Now if
you had that kind of a population to sell, would you offer it to a
despotism?  No, the despotism has no use for it; you would lose money.
A despotism has no use for anything but human cattle.  But suppose you
want to start a republic?"

"Yes, I see.  It's just, the material for it."

"Well, I should say so!  There's Siberia with just the very finest and
choicest material on the globe for a republic, and more coming--more
coming all the time, don't you see!  It is being daily, weekly, monthly
recruited by the most perfectly devised system that has ever been
invented, perhaps.  By this system the whole of the hundred millions of
Russia are being constantly and patiently sifted, sifted, sifted, by
myriads of trained experts, spies appointed by the Emperor personally;
and whenever they catch a man, woman or child that has got any brains or
education or character, they ship that person straight to Siberia.  It is
admirable, it is wonderful.  It is so searching and so effective that it
keeps the general level of Russian intellect and education down to that
of the Czar."

"Come, that sounds like exaggeration."

"Well, it's what they say anyway.  But I think, myself, it's a lie.  And
it doesn't seem right to slander a whole nation that way, anyhow.  Now,
then, you see what the material is, there in Siberia, for a republic."
He paused, and his breast began to heave and his eye to burn, under the
impulse of strong emotion.  Then his words began to stream forth, with
constantly increasing energy and fire, and he rose to his feet as if to
give himself larger freedom.  "The minute I organize that republic, the
light of liberty, intelligence, justice, humanity, bursting from it,
flooding from it, flaming from it, will concentrate the gaze of the whole
astonished world as upon the miracle of a new sun; Russia's countless
multitudes of slaves will rise up and march, march!--eastward, with that
great light transfiguring their faces as they come, and far back of them
you will see-what will you see?--a vacant throne in an empty land!  It
can be done, and by God I will do it!"

He stood a moment bereft of earthy consciousness by his exaltation; then
consciousness returned, bringing him a slight shock, and he said with
grave earnestness:

"I must ask you to pardon me, Major Hawkins.  I have never used that
expression before, and I beg you will forgive it this time."

Hawkins was quite willing.

"You see, Washington, it is an error which I am by nature not liable to.
Only excitable people, impulsive people, are exposed to it.  But the
circumstances of the present case--I being a democrat by birth and
preference, and an aristocrat by inheritance and relish--"

The earl stopped suddenly, his frame stiffened, and he began to stare
speechless through the curtainless window.  Then he pointed, and gasped
out a single rapturous word:

"Look!"

"What is it, Colonel?"

"IT!"

"No!"

"Sure as you're born.  Keep perfectly still.  I'll apply the influence--
I'll turn on all my force.  I've brought It thus far--I'll fetch It right
into the house.  You'll see."

He was making all sorts of passes in the air with his hands.

"There!  Look at that.  I've made It smile!  See?"

Quite true.  Tracy, out for an afternoon stroll, had come unexpectantly
upon his family arms displayed upon this shabby house-front.  The
hatchments made him smile; which was nothing, they had made the
neighborhood cats do that.

"Look, Hawkins, look!  I'm drawing It over!"

"You're drawing it sure, Rossmore.  If I ever had any doubts about
materialization, they're gone, now, and gone for good.  Oh, this is a
joyful day!"

Tracy was sauntering over to read the door-plate.  Before he was half way
over he was saying to himself, "Why, manifestly these are the American
Claimant's quarters."

"It's coming-coming right along.  I'll slide, down and pull It in.  You
follow after me."

Sellers, pale and a good deal agitated, opened the door and confronted
Tracy.  The old man could not at once get his voice: then he pumped out a
scattering and hardly coherent salutation, and followed it with--

"Walk in, walk right in, Mr.--er--"

"Tracy--Howard Tracy."

"Tracy--thanks-walk right in, you're expected."

Tracy entered, considerably puzzled, and said:

"Expected?  I think there must be some mistake."

"Oh, I judge not," said Sellers, who--noticing that Hawkins had arrived,
gave him a sidewise glance intended to call his close attention to a
dramatic effect which he was proposing to produce by his next remark.
Then he said, slowly and impressively--"I am--YOU KNOW WHO."

To the astonishment of both conspirators the remark produced no dramatic
effect at all; for the new comer responded with a quite innocent and
unembarrassed air--

"No, pardon me.  I don't know who you are.  I only suppose--but no doubt
correctly--that you are the gentleman whose title is on the doorplate."

"Right, quite right--sit down, pray sit down."  The earl was rattled,
thrown off his bearings, his head was in a whirl.  Then he noticed
Hawkins standing apart and staring idiotically at what to him was the
apparition of a defunct man, and a new idea was born to him.  He said to
Tracy briskly:

"But a thousand pardons, dear sir, I am forgetting courtesies due to a
guest and stranger.  Let me introduce my friend General Hawkins--General
Hawkins, our new Senator-Senator from the latest and grandest addition to
the radiant galaxy of sovereign States, Cherokee Strip"--(to himself,
"that name will shrivel him up!"--but it didn't, in the least, and the
Colonel resumed the introduction piteously disheartened and amazed),--
"Senator Hawkins, Mr.  Howard Tracy, of--er--"

"England."

"England!--Why that's im--"

"England, yes, native of England."

"Recently from there?"

"Yes, quite recently."

Said the Colonel to himself, "This phantom lies like an expert.
Purifying this kind by fire don't work.  I'll sound him a little further,
give him another chance or two to work his gift."  Then aloud--with deep
irony--

"Visiting our great country for recreation and amusement, no doubt.
I suppose you find that traveling in the majestic expanses of our Far
West is--"

"I haven't been West, and haven't been devoting myself to amusement with
any sort of exclusiveness, I assure you.  In fact, to merely live, an
artist has got to work, not play."

"Artist!" said Hawkins to himself, thinking of the rifled bank; "that is
a name for it!"

"Are you an artist?" asked the colonel; and added to himself, "now I'm
going to catch him."

"In a humble way, yes."

"What line?" pursued the sly veteran.

"Oils."

"I've got him!" said Sellers to himself.  Then aloud, "This is fortunate.
Could I engage you to restore some of my paintings that need that
attention?"

"I shall be very glad.  Pray let me see them."

No shuffling, no evasion, no embarrassment, even under this crucial test.
The Colonel was nonplussed.  He led Tracy to a chromo which had suffered
damage in a former owner's hands through being used as a lamp mat, and
said, with a flourish of his hand toward the picture--

"This del Sarto--"

"Is that a del Sarto?"

The colonel bent a look of reproach upon Tracy, allowed it to sink home,
then resumed as if there had been no interruption--

"This del Sarto is perhaps the only original of that sublime master in
our country.  You see, yourself, that the work is of such exceeding
delicacy that the risk--could--er--would you mind giving me a little
example of what you can do before we--"

"Cheerfully, cheerfully.  I will copy one of these marvels."

Water-color materials--relics of Miss Sally's college life--were brought.
Tracy said he was better in oils, but would take a chance with these.
So he was left alone.  He began his work, but the attractions of the
place were too strong for him, and he got up and went drifting about,
fascinated; also amazed.




CHAPTER XIX.

Meantime the earl and Hawkins were holding a troubled and anxious private
consultation.  The earl said:

"The mystery that bothers me, is, where did It get its other arm?"

"Yes--it worries me, too.  And another thing troubles me--the apparition
is English.  How do you account for that, Colonel?"

"Honestly, I don't know, Hawkins, I don't really know.  It is very
confusing and awful."

"Don't you think maybe we've waked up the wrong one?"

"The wrong one?  How do you account for the clothes?"

"The clothes are right, there's no getting around it.  What are we going
to do?  We can't collect, as I see.  The reward is for a one-armed
American.  This is a two-armed Englishman."

"Well, it may be that that is not objectionable.  You see it isn't less
than is called for, it is more, and so,--"

But he saw that this argument was weak, and dropped it.  The friends sat
brooding over their perplexities some time in silence.  Finally the
earl's face began to glow with an inspiration, and he said, impressively:

"Hawkins, this materialization is a grander and nobler science than we
have dreamed of.  We have little imagined what a solemn and stupendous
thing we have done.  The whole secret is perfectly clear to me, now,
clear as day.  Every man is made up of heredities, long-descended atoms
and particles of his ancestors.  This present materialization is
incomplete.  We have only brought it down to perhaps the beginning of
this century."

"What do you mean, Colonel!" cried Hawkins, filled with vague alarms by
the old man's awe-compelling words and manner.

"This.  We've materialized this burglar's ancestor!"

"Oh, don't-don't say that.  It's hideous."

"But it's true, Hawkins, I know it.  Look at the facts.  This apparition
is distinctly English-note that.  It uses good grammar--note that.  It is
an Artist--note that.  It has the manners and carriage of a gentleman--
note that.  Where's your cow-boy?  Answer me that."

"Rossmore, this is dreadful-it's too dreadful to think of!"

"Never resurrected a rag of that burglar but the clothes, not a solitary
rag of him but the clothes."

"Colonel, do you really mean--"

The Colonel brought his fist down with emphasis and said:

"I mean exactly this.  The materialization was immature, the burglar has
evaded us, this is nothing but a damned ancestor!"

He rose and walked the floor in great excitement.

Hawkins said plaintively:

"It's a bitter disappointment-bitter."

"I know it.  I know it, Senator; I feel it as deeply as anybody could.
But we've got to submit--on moral grounds.  I need money, but God knows
I am not poor enough or shabby enough to be an accessory to the punishing
of a man's ancestor for crimes committed by that ancestor's posterity."

"But Colonel!" implored Hawkins; "stop and think; don't be rash; you know
it's the only chance we've got to get the money; and besides, the Bible
itself says posterity to the fourth generation shall be punished for the
sins and crimes committed by ancestors four generations back that hadn't
anything to do with them; and so it's only fair to turn the rule around
and make it work both ways."

The Colonel was struck with the strong logic of this position.  He strode
up and down, and thought it painfully over.  Finally he said:

"There's reason in it; yes, there's reason in it.  And so, although it
seems a piteous thing to sweat this poor ancient devil for a burglary he
hadn't the least hand in, still if duty commands I suppose we must give
him up to the authorities."

"I would," said Hawkins, cheered and relieved, "I'd give him up if he was
a thousand ancestors compacted into one."

"Lord bless me, that's just what he is," said Sellers, with something
like a groan, "it's exactly what he is; there's a contribution in him
from every ancestor he ever had.  In him there's atoms of priests,
soldiers, crusaders, poets, and sweet and gracious women--all kinds and
conditions of folk who trod this earth in old, old centuries, and
vanished out of it ages ago, and now by act of ours they are summoned
from their holy peace to answer for gutting a one-horse bank away out on
the borders of Cherokee Strip, and it's just a howling outrage!"

"Oh, don't talk like that, Colonel; it takes the heart all out of me, and
makes me ashamed of the part I am proposing to--"

"Wait-I've got it!"

"A saving hope?  Shout it out, I am perishing."

"It's perfectly simple; a child would have thought of it.  He is all
right, not a flaw in him, as far as I have carried the work.  If I've
been able to bring him as far as the beginning of this century, what's to
stop me now?  I'll go on and materialize him down to date."

"Land, I never thought of that!" said Hawkins all ablaze with joy again.
"It's the very thing.  What a brain you have got!  And will he shed the
superfluous arm?"

"He will."

"And lose his English accent?"

"It will wholly disappear.  He will speak Cherokee Strip--and other forms
of profanity."

"Colonel, maybe he'll confess!"

"Confess?  Merely that bank robbery?"

" Merely?  Yes, but why 'merely'?"

The Colonel said in his most impressive manner: "Hawkins, he will be
wholly under my command.  I will make him confess every crime he ever
committed.  There must be a thousand.  Do you get the idea?"

"Well--not quite."

"The rewards will come to us."

"Prodigious conception!  I never saw such ahead for seeing with a
lightning glance all the outlying ramifications and possibilities of a
central idea."

"It is nothing; it comes natural to me.  When his time is out in one jail
he goes to the next and the next, and we shall have nothing to do but
collect the rewards as he goes along.  It is a perfectly steady income as
long as we live, Hawkins.  And much better than other kinds of
investments, because he is indestructible."

"It looks--it really does look the way you say; it does indeed."

"Look?--why it is.  It will not be denied that I have had a pretty wide
and comprehensive financial experience, and I do not hesitate to say that
I consider this one of the most valuable properties I have ever
controlled."

"Do you really think so?"

"I do, indeed."

"O, Colonel, the wasting grind and grief of poverty!  If we could realize
immediately.  I don't mean sell it all, but sell part-enough, you know,
to--"

"See how you tremble with excitement.  That comes of lack of experience.
My boy, when you have been familiar with vast operations as long as I
have, you'll be different.  Look at me; is my eye dilated? do you notice
a quiver anywhere?  Feel my pulse: plunk-plunk-plunk--same as if I were
asleep.  And yet, what is passing through my calm cold mind?  A
procession of figures which would make a financial novice drunk just the
sight of them.  Now it is by keeping cool, and looking at a thing all
around, that a man sees what's really in it, and saves himself from the
novice's unfailing mistake--the one you've just suggested--eagerness to
realize.  Listen to me.  Your idea is to sell a part of him for ready
cash.  Now mine is--guess."

"I haven't an idea.  What is it?"

"Stock him--of course."

"Well, I should never have thought of that."

"Because you are not a financier.  Say he has committed a thousand
crimes.  Certainly that's a low estimate.  By the look of him, even in
his unfinished condition, he has committed all of a million.  But call it
only a thousand to be perfectly safe; five thousand reward, multiplied by
a thousand, gives us a dead sure cash basis of--what?  Five million
dollars!"

"Wait--let me get my breath."

"And the property indestructible.  Perpetually fruitful--perpetually; for
a property with his disposition will go on committing crimes and winning
rewards."

"You daze me, you make my head whirl!"

"Let it whirl, it won't do it any harm.  Now that matter is all fixed--
leave it alone.  I'll get up the company and issue the stock, all in good
time.  Just leave it in my hands.  I judge you don't doubt my ability to
work it up for all it is worth.".

"Indeed I don't.  I can say that with truth."

"All right, then.  That's disposed of.  Everything in its turn.  We old
operators, go by order and system--no helter-skelter business with us.
What's the next thing on the docket?  The carrying on of the
materialization--the bringing it down to date.  I will begin on that at
once.  I think--

"Look here, Rossmore.  You didn't lock It in.  A hundred to one it has
escaped!"

"Calm yourself, as to that; don't give yourself any uneasiness."

"But why shouldn't it escape?"

"Let it, if it wants to?  What of it?"

"Well, I should consider it a pretty serious calamity."

"Why, my dear boy, once in my power, always in my power.  It may go and
come freely.  I can produce it here whenever I want it, just by the
exercise of my will."

"Well, I am truly glad to hear that, I do assure you."

"Yes, I shall give it all the painting it wants to do, and we and the
family will make it as comfortable and contented as we can.  No occasion
to restrain its movements.  I hope to persuade it to remain pretty quiet,
though, because a materialization which is in a state of arrested
development must of necessity be pretty soft and flabby and
substanceless, and--er--by the way, I wonder where It comes from?"

"How?  What do you mean?"

The earl pointed significantly--and interrogatively toward the sky.
Hawkins started; then settled into deep reflection; finally shook his
head sorrowfully and pointed downwards.

"What makes you think so, Washington?"

"Well, I hardly know, but really you can see, yourself, that he doesn't
seem to be pining for his last place."

"It's well thought!  Soundly deduced.  We've done that Thing a favor.
But I believe I will pump it a little, in a quiet way, and find out if we
are right."

"How long is it going to take to finish him off and fetch him down to
date, Colonel?"

"I wish I knew, but I don't.  I am clear knocked out by this new detail--
this unforeseen necessity of working a subject down gradually from his
condition of ancestor to his ultimate result as posterity.  But I'll make
him hump himself, anyway."

"Rossmore!"

"Yes, dear.  We're in the laboratory.  Come--Hawkins is here.  Mind, now
Hawkins--he's a sound, living, human being to all the family--don't
forget that.  Here she comes."

"Keep your seats, I'm not coming in.  I just wanted to ask, who is it
that's painting down there?"

"That?  Oh, that's a young artist; young Englishman, named Tracy; very
promising--favorite pupil of Hans Christian Andersen or one of the other
old masters--Andersen I'm pretty sure it is; he's going to half-sole some
of our old Italian masterpieces.  Been talking to him?"

"Well, only a word.  I stumbled right in on him without expecting anybody
was there.  I tried to be polite to him; offered him a snack"--(Sellers
delivered a large wink to Hawkins from behind his hand), "but he
declined, and said he wasn't hungry" (another sarcastic wink); "so I
brought some apples" (doublewink), "and he ate a couple of--"

"What!" and the colonel sprang some yards toward the ceiling and came
down quaking with astonishment.

Lady Rossmore was smitten dumb with amazement.  She gazed at the sheepish
relic of Cherokee Strip, then at her husband, and then at the guest
again.  Finally she said:

"What is the matter with you, Mulberry?"

He did not answer immediately.  His back was turned; he was bending over
his chair, feeling the seat of it.  But he answered next moment, and
said:

"Ah, there it is; it was a tack."

The lady contemplated him doubtfully a moment, then said, pretty
snappishly:

"All that for a tack!  Praise goodness it wasn't a shingle nail, it would
have landed you in the Milky Way.  I do hate to have my nerves shook up
so."  And she turned on her heel and went her way.

As soon as she was safely out, the Colonel said, in a suppressed voice:

"Come--we must see for ourselves.  It must be a mistake."

They hurried softly down and peeped in.  Sellers whispered, in a sort of
despair--

It is eating!  What a grisly spectacle!  Hawkins it's horrible!  Take me
away--I can't stand--

They tottered back to the laboratory.




CHAPTER XX.

Tracy made slow progress with his work, for his mind wandered a good
deal.  Many things were puzzling him.  Finally a light burst upon him all
of a sudden--seemed to, at any rate--and he said to himself, "I've got
the clew at last--this man's mind is off its balance; I don't know how
much, but it's off a point or two, sure; off enough to explain this mess
of perplexities, anyway.  These dreadful chromos which he takes for old
masters; these villainous portraits--which to his frantic mind represent
Rossmores; the hatchments; the pompous name of this ramshackle old crib--
Rossmore Towers; and that odd assertion of his, that I was expected.  How
could I be expected? that is, Lord Berkeley.  He knows by the papers that
that person was burned up in the New Gadsby.  Why, hang it, he really
doesn't know who he was expecting; for his talk showed that he was not
expecting an Englishman, or yet an artist, yet I answer his requirements
notwithstanding.  He seems sufficiently satisfied with me.  Yes, he is a
little off; in fact I am afraid he is a good deal off, poor old
gentleman.  But he's interesting--all people in about his condition are,
I suppose.  I hope he'll like my work; I would like to come every day and
study him.  And when I write my father--ah, that hurts!  I mustn't get on
that subject; it isn't good for my spirits.  Somebody coming--I must get
to work.  It's the old gentleman again.  He looks bothered.  Maybe my
clothes are suspicious; and they are--for an artist.  If my conscience
would allow me to make a change, but that is out of the question.
I wonder what he's making those passes in the air for, with his hands.
I seem to be the object of them.  Can he be trying to mesmerize me?
I don't quite like it.  There's something uncanny about it."

The colonel muttered to himself, "It has an effect on him, I can see it
myself.  That's enough for one time, I reckon.  He's not very solid, yet,
I suppose, and I might disintegrate him.  I'll just put a sly question or
two at him, now, and see if I can find out what his condition is, and
where he's from."

He approached and said affably:

"Don't let me disturb you, Mr.  Tracy; I only want to take a little
glimpse of your work.  Ah, that's fine--that's very fine indeed.  You are
doing it elegantly.  My daughter will be charmed with this.  May I sit
down by you?"

"Oh, do; I shall be glad."

"It won't disturb you?  I mean, won't dissipate your inspirations?"

Tracy laughed and said they were not ethereal enough to be very easily
discommoded.

The colonel asked a number of cautious and well-considered questions--
questions which seemed pretty odd and flighty to Tracy--but the answers
conveyed the information desired, apparently, for the colonel said to
himself, with mixed pride and gratification:

"It's a good job as far as I've got, with it.  He's solid.  Solid and
going to last, solid as the real thing."

"It's wonderful--wonderful.  I believe I could--petrify him."  After a
little he asked, warily "Do you prefer being here, or--or there?"

"There?  Where?"

"Why--er--where you've been?"

Tracy's thought flew to his boarding-house, and he answered with decision.

"Oh, here, much!"

The colonel was startled, and said to himself, "There's no uncertain ring
about that.  It indicates where he's been to, poor fellow.  Well, I am
satisfied, now.  I'm glad I got him out."

He sat thinking, and thinking, and watching the brush go.  At length he
said to himself, "Yes, it certainly seems to account for the failure of
my endeavors in poor Berkeley's case.  He went in the other direction.
Well, it's all right.  He's better off."

Sally Sellers entered from the street, now, looking her divinest, and the
artist was introduced to her.  It was a violent case of mutual love at
first sight, though neither party was entirely aware of the fact,
perhaps.  The Englishman made this irrelevant remark to himself, "Perhaps
he is not insane, after all."  Sally sat down, and showed an interest in
Tracy's work which greatly pleased him, and a benevolent forgiveness of
it which convinced him that the girl's nature was cast in a large mould.
Sellers was anxious to report his discoveries to Hawkins; so he took his
leave, saying that if the two "young devotees of the colored Muse"
thought they could manage without him, he would go and look after his
affairs.  The artist said to himself, "I think he is a little eccentric,
perhaps, but that is all."  He reproached himself for having injuriously
judged a man without giving him any fair chance to show what he really
was.

Of course the stranger was very soon at his ease and chatting along
comfortably.  The average American girl possesses the valuable qualities
of naturalness, honesty, and inoffensive straightforwardness; she is
nearly barren of troublesome conventions and artificialities,
consequently her presence and her ways are unembarrassing, and one is
acquainted with her and on the pleasantest terms with her before he knows
how it came about.  This new acquaintanceship--friendship, indeed--
progressed swiftly; and the unusual swiftness of it, and the thoroughness
of it are sufficiently evidenced and established by one noteworthy fact--
that within the first half hour both parties had ceased to be conscious
of Tracy's clothes.  Later this consciousness was re-awakened; it was
then apparent to Gwendolen that she was almost reconciled to them, and it
was apparent to Tracy that he wasn't.  The re-awakening was brought about
by Gwendolen's inviting the artist to stay to dinner.  He had to decline,
because he wanted to live, now--that is, now that there was something to
live for--and he could not survive in those clothes at a gentleman's
table.  He thought he knew that.  But he went away happy, for he saw that
Gwendolen was disappointed.

And whither did he go?  He went straight to a slopshop and bought as neat
and reasonably well-fitting a suit of clothes as an Englishman could be
persuaded to wear.  He said--to himself, but at his conscience--"I know
it's wrong; but it would be wrong not to do it; and two wrongs do not
make a right."

This satisfied him, and made his heart light.  Perhaps it will also
satisfy the reader--if he can make out what it means.

The old people were troubled about Gwendolen at dinner, because she was
so distraught and silent.  If they had noticed, they would have found
that she was sufficiently alert and interested whenever the talk stumbled
upon the artist and his work; but they didn't notice, and so the chat
would swap around to some other subject, and then somebody would
presently be privately worrying about Gwendolen again, and wondering if
she were not well, or if something had gone wrong in the millinery line.
Her mother offered her various reputable patent medicines, and tonics
with iron and other hardware in them, and her father even proposed to
send out for wine, relentless prohibitionist and head of the order in the
District of Columbia as he was, but these kindnesses were all declined--
thankfully, but with decision.  At bedtime, when the family were breaking
up for the night, she privately looted one of the brushes, saying to
herself, "It's the one he has used, the most."

The next morning Tracy went forth wearing his new suit, and equipped with
a pink in his button-hole--a daily attention from Puss.  His whole soul
was full of Gwendolen Sellers, and this condition was an inspiration,
art-wise.  All the morning his brush pawed nimbly away at the canvases,
almost without his awarity--awarity, in this sense being the sense of
being aware, though disputed by some authorities--turning out marvel upon
marvel, in the way of decorative accessories to the portraits, with a
felicity and celerity which amazed the veterans of the firm and fetched
out of them continuous explosions of applause.

Meantime Gwendolen was losing her morning, and many dollars.  She
supposed Tracy was coming in the forenoon--a conclusion which she had
jumped to without outside help.  So she tripped down stairs every little
while from her work-parlor to arrange the brushes and things over again,
and see if he had arrived.  And when she was in her work-parlor it was
not profitable, but just the other way--as she found out to her sorrow.

She had put in her idle moments during the last little while back, in
designing a particularly rare and capable gown for herself, and this
morning she set about making it up; but she was absent minded, and made
an irremediable botch of it.  When she saw what she had done, she knew
the reason of it and the meaning of it; and she put her work away from
her and said she would accept the sign.  And from that time forth she
came no more away from the Audience Chamber, but remained there and
waited.  After luncheon she waited again.  A whole hour.  Then a great
joy welled up in her heart, for she saw him coming.  So she flew back up
stairs thankful, and could hardly wait for him to miss the principal
brush, which she had mislaid down there, but knew where she had mislaid
it.  However, all in good time the others were called in and couldn't
find the brush, and then she was sent for, and she couldn't find it
herself for some little time; but then she found it when the others had
gone away to hunt in the kitchen and down cellar and in the woodshed,
and all those other places where people look for things whose ways they
are not familiar with.  So she gave him the brush, and remarked that she
ought to have seen that everything was ready for him, but it hadn't
seemed necessary, because it was so early that she wasn't expecting--but
she stopped there, surprised at herself for what she was saying; and he
felt caught and ashamed, and said to himself, "I knew my impatience would
drag me here before I was expected, and betray me, and that is just what
it has done; she sees straight through me--and is laughing at me, inside,
of course."

Gwendolen was very much pleased, on one account, and a little the other
way in another; pleased with the new clothes and the improvement which
they had achieved; less pleased by the pink in the buttonhole.
Yesterday's pink had hardly interested her; this one was just like it,
but somehow it had got her immediate attention, and kept it.  She wished
she could think of some way of getting at its history in a properly
colorless and indifferent way.  Presently she made a venture.  She said:

"Whatever a man's age may be, he can reduce it several years by putting a
bright-colored flower in his button-hole.  I have often noticed that.
Is that your sex's reason for wearing a boutonniere?"

"I fancy not, but certainly that reason would be a sufficient one.  I've
never heard of the idea before."

"You seem to prefer pinks.  Is it on account of the color, or the form?"

"Oh no," he said, simply, "they are given to me.  I don't think I have
any preference."

"They are given to him," she said to herself, and she felt a coldness
toward that pink.  "I wonder who it is, and what she is like."  The
flower began to take up a good deal of room; it obtruded itself
everywhere, it intercepted all views, and marred them; it was becoming
exceedingly annoying and conspicuous for a little thing.  "I wonder if he
cares for her."  That thought gave her a quite definite pain.




CHAPTER XXI.

She had made everything comfortable for the artist; there was no further
pretext for staying.  So she said she would go, now, and asked him to
summon the servants in case he should need anything.  She went away
unhappy; and she left unhappiness behind her; for she carried away all
the sunshine.  The time dragged heavily for both, now.  He couldn't paint
for thinking of her; she couldn't design or millinerize with any heart,
for thinking of him.  Never before had painting seemed so empty to him,
never before had millinerizing seemed so void of interest to her.  She
had gone without repeating that dinner-invitation--an almost unendurable
disappointment to him.  On her part-well, she was suffering, too; for she
had found she couldn't invite him.  It was not hard yesterday, but it was
impossible to-day.  A thousand innocent privileges seemed to have been
filched from her unawares in the past twenty-four hours.  To-day she felt
strangely hampered, restrained of her liberty.  To-day she couldn't
propose to herself to do anything or say anything concerning this young
man without being instantly paralyzed into non-action by the fear that he
might "suspect."  Invite him to dinner to-day?  It made her shiver to
think of it.

And so her afternoon was one long fret.  Broken at intervals.  Three
times she had to go down stairs on errands--that is, she thought she had
to go down stairs on errands.  Thus, going and coming, she had six
glimpses of him, in the aggregate, without seeming to look in his
direction; and she tried to endure these electric ecstasies without
showing any sign, but they fluttered her up a good deal, and she felt
that the naturalness she was putting on was overdone and quite too
frantically sober and hysterically calm to deceive.

The painter had his share of the rapture; he had his six glimpses, and
they smote him with waves of pleasure that assaulted him, beat upon him,
washed over him deliciously, and drowned out all consciousness of what he
was doing with his brush.  So there were six places in his canvas which
had to be done over again.

At last Gwendolen got some peace of mind by sending word to the
Thompsons, in the neighborhood, that she was coming there to dinner.
She wouldn't be reminded, at that table, that there was an absentee who
ought to be a presentee--a word which she meant to look out in the
dictionary at a calmer time.

About this time the old earl dropped in for a chat with the artist, and
invited him to stay to dinner.  Tracy cramped down his joy and gratitude
by a sudden and powerful exercise of all his forces; and he felt that now
that he was going to be close to Gwendolen, and hear her voice and watch
her face during several precious hours, earth had nothing valuable to add
to his life for the present.

The earl said to himself, "This spectre can eat apples, apparently.
We shall find out, now, if that is a specialty.  I think, myself, it's a
specialty.  Apples, without doubt, constitute the spectral limit.  It was
the case with our first parents.  No, I am wrong--at least only partly
right.  The line was drawn at apples, just as in the present case, but it
was from the other direction."  The new clothes gave him a thrill of
pleasure and pride.  He said to himself, "I've got part of him down to
date, anyway."

Sellers said he was pleased with Tracy's work; and he went on and engaged
him to restore his old masters, and said he should also want him to paint
his portrait and his wife's and possibly his daughter's.  The tide of the
artist's happiness was at flood, now.  The chat flowed pleasantly along
while Tracy painted and Sellers carefully unpacked a picture which he had
brought with him.  It was a chromo; a new one, just out.  It was the
smirking, self-satisfied portrait of a man who was inundating the Union
with advertisements inviting everybody to buy his specialty, which was a
three-dollar shoe or a dress-suit or something of that kind.  The old
gentleman rested the chromo flat upon his lap and gazed down tenderly
upon it, and became silent and meditative.  Presently Tracy noticed that
he was dripping tears on it.  This touched the young fellow's sympathetic
nature, and at the same time gave him the painful sense of being an
intruder upon a sacred privacy, an observer of emotions which a stranger
ought not to witness.  But his pity rose superior to other
considerations, and compelled him to try to comfort the old mourner with
kindly words and a show of friendly interest.  He said:

"I am very sorry--is it a friend whom--"

"Ah, more than that, far more than that--a relative, the dearest I had on
earth, although I was never permitted to see him.  Yes, it is young Lord
Berkeley, who perished so heroically in the awful conflagration, what is
the matter?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing."

It was a little startling to be so suddenly brought face to face, so to
speak, with a person one has heard so much talk about.  Is it a good
likeness?"

"Without doubt, yes.  I never saw him, but you can easily see the
resemblance to his father," said Sellers, holding up the chromo and
glancing from it to the chromo misrepresenting the Usurping Earl and back
again with an approving eye.

"Well, no--I am not sure that I make out the likeness.  It is plain that
the Usurping Earl there has a great deal of character and a long face
like a horse's, whereas his heir here is smirky, moon-faced and
characterless."

"We are all that way in the beginning--all the line," said Sellers,
undisturbed.  "We all start as moonfaced fools, then later we tadpole
along into horse-faced marvels of intellect and character.  It is by that
sign and by that fact that I detect the resemblance here and know this
portrait to be genuine and perfect.  Yes, all our family are fools at
first."

"This young man seems to meet the hereditary requirement, certainly."

"Yes, yes, he was a fool, without any doubt.  Examine the face, the shape
of the head, the expression.  It's all fool, fool, fool, straight
through."

"Thanks,--" said Tracy, involuntarily.

"Thanks?"

"I mean for explaining it to me.  Go on, please."

"As I was saying, fool is printed all over the face.

"A body can even read the details."

"What do they say?"

"Well, added up, he is a wobbler."

"A which?"

"Wobbler.  A person that's always taking a firm stand about something or
other--kind of a Gibraltar stand, he thinks, for unshakable fidelity and
everlastingness--and then, inside of a little while, he begins to wobble;
no more Gibraltar there; no, sir, a mighty ordinary commonplace weakling
wobbling--around on stilts.  That's Lord Berkeley to a dot, you can see
it look at that sheep!  But,--why are you blushing like sunset!  Dear
sir, have I unwittingly offended in some way?"

"Oh, no indeed, no indeed.  Far from it.  But it always makes me blush to
hear a man revile his own blood."  He said to himself, "How strangely his
vagrant and unguided fancies have hit upon the truth.  By accident, he
has described me.  I am that contemptible thing.  When I left England I
thought I knew myself; I thought I was a very Frederick the Great for
resolution and staying capacity; whereas in truth I am just a Wobbler,
simply a Wobbler.  Well--after all, it is at least creditable to have
high ideals and give birth to lofty resolutions; I will allow myself that
comfort."  Then he said, aloud, "Could this sheep, as you call him, breed
a great and self-sacrificing idea in his head, do you think?  Could he
meditate such a thing, for instance, as the renunciation of the earldom
and its wealth and its glories, and voluntary retirement to the ranks of
the commonalty, there to rise by his own merit or remain forever poor and
obscure?"

"Could he?  Why, look at him--look at this simpering self-righteous mug!
There is your answer.  It's the very thing he would think of.  And he
would start in to do it, too."

"And then?"

"He'd wobble."

"And back down?"

"Every time."

"Is that to happen with all my--I mean would that happen to all his high
resolutions?"

"Oh certainly--certainly.  It's the Rossmore of it."

"Then this creature was fortunate to die!  Suppose, for argument's sake,
that I was a Rossmore, and--"

"It can't be done."

"Why?"

"Because it's not a supposable case.  To be a Rossmore at your age, you'd
have to be a fool, and you're not a fool.  And you'd have to be a
Wobbler, whereas anybody that is an expert in reading character can see
at a glance that when you set your foot down once, it's there to stay;
and earthquake can't wobble it."  He added to himself, "That's enough to
say to him, but it isn't half strong enough for the facts.  The more
I observe him, now, the more remarkable I find him.  It is the strongest
face I have ever examined.  There is almost superhuman firmness here,
immovable purpose, iron steadfastness of will.  A most extraordinary
young man."

He presently said, aloud:

"Some time I want to ask your advice about a little matter, Mr.  Tracy.
You see, I've got that young lord's remaims--my goodness, how you jump!"

"Oh, it's nothing, pray go on.  You've got his remains?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure they are his, and not somebody else's?"

"Oh, perfectly sure.  Samples, I mean.  Not all of him."

"Samples?"

"Yes-in baskets.  Some time you will be going home; and if you wouldn't
mind taking them along--"

"Who?  I?"

"Yes--certainly.  I don't mean now; but after a while; after--but look
here, would you like to see them?"

"No!  Most certainly not.  I don't want to see them."

"O, very well.  I only thought--hey, where are you going, dear?"

"Out to dinner, papa."

Tracy was aghast.  The colonel said, in a disappointed voice:

"Well, I'm sorry.  Sho, I didn't know she was going out, Mr.  Tracy."

Gwendolen's face began to take on a sort of apprehensive 'What-have-I-
done expression.'

"Three old people to one young one--well, it isn't a good team, that's a
fact."

Gwendolen's face betrayed a dawning hopefulness and she said--with a tone
of reluctance which hadn't the hall-mark on it:

"If you prefer, I will send word to the Thompsons that I--"

"Oh, is it the Thompsons?  That simplifies it--sets everything right.
We can fix it without spoiling your arrangements, my child.  You've got
your heart set on--"

"But papa, I'd just as soon go there some other--"

"No--I won't have it.  You are a good hard-working darling child, and
your father is not the man to disappoint you when you--"

"But papa, I--"

"Go along, I won't hear a word.  We'll get along, dear."

Gwendolen was ready to cry with venation.  But there was nothing to do
but start; which she was about to do when her father hit upon an idea
which filled him with delight because it so deftly covered all the
difficulties of the situation and made things smooth and satisfactory:

"I've got it, my love, so that you won't be robbed of your holiday and at
the same time we'll be pretty satisfactorily fixed for a good time here.
You send Belle Thompson here--perfectly beautiful creature, Tracy,
perfectly beautiful; I want you to see that girl; why, you'll just go
mad; you'll go mad inside of a minute; yes, you send her right along,
Gwendolen, and tell her--why, she's gone!"  He turned-she was already
passing out' at the gate.  He muttered, "I wonder what's the matter; I
don't know what her mouth's doing, but I think her shoulders are
swearing.  Well," said Sellers blithely to Tracy, "I shall miss her--
parents always miss the children as soon as they're out of sight, it's
only a natural and wisely ordained partiality--but you'll be all right,
because Miss Belle will supply the youthful element for you and to your
entire content; and we old people will do our best, too.  We shall have a
good enough time.  And you'll have a chance to get better acquainted with
Admiral Hawkins.  That's a rare character, Mr. Tracy--one of the rarest
and most engaging characters the world has produced.  You'll find him
worth studying.  I've studied him ever since he was a child and have
always found him developing.  I really consider that one of the main
things that has enabled me to master the difficult science of character--
reading was the livid interest I always felt in that boy and the baffling
inscrutabilities of his ways and inspirations."

Tracy was not hearing a word.  His spirits were gone, he was desolate.

"Yes, a most wonderful character.  Concealment--that's the basis of it.
Always the first thing you want to do is to find the keystone a man's
character is built on--then you've got it.  No misleading and apparently
inconsistent peculiarities can fool you then.  What do you read on the
Senator's surface?  Simplicity; a kind of rank and protuberant
simplicity; whereas, in fact, that's one of the deepest minds in the
world.  A perfectly honest man--an absolutely honest and honorable man--
and yet without doubt the profoundest master of dissimulation the world
has ever seen."

"O, it's devilish!"  This was wrung from the unlistening Tracy by the
anguished thought of what might have been if only the dinner arrangements
hadn't got mixed.

"No, I shouldn't call it that," said Sellers, who was now placidly
walking up and down the room with his hands under his coat-tails and
listening to himself talk.  "One could quite properly call it devilish
in another man, but not in the Senator.  Your term is right--perfectly
right--I grant that--but the application is wrong.  It makes a great
difference.  Yes, he is a marvelous character.  I do not suppose that any
other statesman ever had such a colossal sense of humor, combined with
the ability to totally conceal it.  I may except George Washington and
Cromwell, and perhaps Robespierre, but I draw the line there.  A person
not an expert might be in Judge Hawkins's company a lifetime and never
find out he had any more sense of humor than a cemetery."

A deep-drawn yard-long sigh from the distraught and dreaming artist,
followed by a murmured, "Miserable, oh, miserable!"

"Well, no, I shouldn't say that about it, quite.  On the contrary, I
admire his ability to conceal his humor even more if possible than I
admire the gift itself, stupendous as it is.  Another thing--General
Hawkins is a thinker; a keen, logical, exhaustive, analytical thinker--
perhaps the ablest of modern times.  That is, of course, upon themes
suited to his size, like the glacial period, and the correlation of
forces, and the evolution of the Christian from the caterpillar--any of
those things; give him a subject according to his size, and just stand
back and watch him think!  Why you can see the place rock!  Ah, yes, you
must know him; you must get on the inside of him.  Perhaps the most
extraordinary mind since Aristotle."

Dinner was kept waiting for a while for Miss Thompson, but as Gwendolen
had not delivered the invitation to her the waiting did no good, and the
household presently went to the meal without her.  Poor old Sellers tried
everything his hospitable soul could devise to make the occasion an
enjoyable one for the guest, and the guest tried his honest best to be
cheery and chatty and happy for the old gentleman's sake; in fact all
hands worked hard in the interest of a mutual good time, but the thing
was a failure from the start; Tracy's heart was lead in his bosom, there
seemed to be only one prominent feature in the landscape and that was a
vacant chair, he couldn't drag his mind away from Gwendolen and his hard
luck; consequently his distractions allowed deadly pauses to slip in
every now and then when it was his turn to say something, and of course
this disease spread to the rest of the conversation--wherefore, instead
of having a breezy sail in sunny waters, as anticipated, everybody was
bailing out and praying for land.  What could the matter be?  Tracy alone
could have told, the others couldn't even invent a theory.

Meanwhile they were having a similarly dismal time at the Thompson house;
in fact a twin experience.  Gwendolen was ashamed of herself for allowing
her disappointment to so depress her spirits and make her so strangely
and profoundly miserable; but feeling ashamed of herself didn't improve
the matter any; it only seemed to aggravate the suffering.  She explained
that she was not feeling very well, and everybody could see that this was
true; so she got sincere sympathy and commiseration; but that didn't help
the case.  Nothing helps that kind of a case.  It is best to just stand
off and let it fester.  The moment the dinner was over the girl excused
herself, and she hurried home feeling unspeakably grateful to get away
from that house and that intolerable captivity and suffering.

Will he be gone?  The thought arose in her brain, but took effect in her
heels.  She slipped into the house, threw off her things and made
straight for the dining room.  She stopped and listened.  Her father's
voice--with no life in it; presently her mother's--no life in that;
a considerable vacancy, then a sterile remark from Washington Hawkins.
Another silence; then, not Tracy's but her father's voice again.

"He's gone," she said to herself despairingly, and listlessly opened the
door and stepped within.

"Why, my child," cried the mother, "how white you are!  Are you--has
anything--"

"White?" exclaimed Sellers.  "It's gone like a flash; 'twasn't serious.
Already she's as red as the soul of a watermelon!  Sit down, dear, sit
down--goodness knows you're welcome.  Did you have a good time?  We've
had great times here--immense.  Why didn't Miss Belle come?  Mr. Tracy is
not feeling well, and she'd have made him forget it."

She was content now; and out from her happy eyes there went a light that
told a secret to another pair of eyes there and got a secret in return.
In just that infinitely small fraction of a second those two great
confessions were made, received, and perfectly, understood.  All anxiety,
apprehension, uncertainty, vanished out of these young people's hearts
and left them filled with a great peace.

Sellers had had the most confident faith that with the new reinforcement
victory would be at this last moment snatched from the jaws of defeat,
but it was an error.  The talk was as stubbornly disjointed as ever.
He was proud of Gwendolen, and liked to show her off, even against Miss
Belle Thompson, and here had been a great opportunity, and what had she
made of it?  He felt a good deal put out.  It vexed him to think that
this Englishman, with the traveling Briton's everlasting disposition to
generalize whole mountain ranges from single sample-grains of sand, would
jump to the conclusion that American girls were as dumb as himself--
generalizing the whole tribe from this single sample and she at her
poorest, there being nothing at that table to inspire her, give her a
start, keep her from going to sleep.  He made up his mind that for the
honor of the country he would bring these two together again over the
social board before long.  There would be a different result another
time, he judged.  He said to himself, with a deep sense of injury,
"He'll put in his diary--they all keep diaries--he'll put in his diary
that she was miraculously uninteresting--dear, dear, but wasn't she!
I never saw the like--and yet looking as beautiful as Satan, too--and
couldn't seem to do anything but paw bread crumbs, and pick flowers to
pieces, and look fidgety.  And it isn't any better here in the Hall of
Audience.  I've had enough; I'll haul down my flag the others may fight
it out if they want to."

He shook hands all around and went off to do some work which he said was
pressing.  The idolaters were the width of the room apart; and apparently
unconscious of each other's presence.  The distance got shortened a
little, now.  Very soon the mother withdrew.  The distance narrowed
again.  Tracy stood before a chromo of some Ohio politician which had
been retouched and chain-mailed for a crusading Rossmore, and Gwendolen
was sitting on the sofa not far from his elbow artificially absorbed in
examining a photograph album that hadn't any photographs in it.

The "Senator" still lingered.  He was sorry for the young people; it had
been a dull evening for them.  In the goodness of his heart he tried to
make it pleasant for them now; tried to remove the ill impression
necessarily left by the general defeat; tried to be chatty, even tried to
be gay.  But the responses were sickly, there was no starting any
enthusiasm; he would give it up and quit--it was a day specially picked
out and consecrated to failures.

But when Gwendolen rose up promptly and smiled a glad smile and said with
thankfulness and blessing, "Must you go?" it seemed cruel to desert, and
he sat down again.

He was about to begin a remark when--when he didn't.  We have all been
there.  He didn't know how he knew his concluding to stay longer had been
a mistake, he merely knew it; and knew it for dead certain, too.  And so
he bade goodnight, and went mooning out, wondering what he could have
done that changed the atmosphere that way.  As the door closed behind him
those two were standing side by side, looking at that door--looking at it
in a waiting, second-counting, but deeply grateful kind of way.  And the
instant it closed they flung their arms about each other's necks, and
there, heart to heart and lip to lip--

"Oh, my God, she's kissing it!"

Nobody heard this remark, because Hawkins, who bred it, only thought it,
he didn't utter it.  He had turned, the moment he had closed the door,
and had pushed it open a little, intending to re-enter and ask what ill-
advised thing he had done or said, and apologize for it.  But he didn't
re-enter; he staggered off stunned, terrified, distressed.




CHAPTER XXII.

Five minutes later he was sitting in his room, with his head bowed within
the circle of his arms, on the table-final attitude of grief and despair.
His tears were flowing fast, and now and then a sob broke upon the
stillness.  Presently he said:

"I knew her when she was a little child and used to climb about my knees;
I love her as I love my own, and now--oh, poor thing, poor thing, I
cannot bear it!--she's gone and lost her heart to this mangy
materializee!  Why didn't we see that that might happen?  But how could
we?  Nobody could; nobody could ever have dreamed of such a thing.  You
couldn't expect a person would fall in love with a wax-work.  And this
one doesn't even amount to that."

He went on grieving to himself, and now and then giving voice to his
lamentations.

"It's done, oh, it's done, and there's no help for it, no undoing the
miserable business.  If I had the nerve, I would kill it.  But that
wouldn't do any good.  She loves it; she thinks it's genuine and
authentic.  If she lost it she would grieve for it just as she would for
a real person.  And who's to break it to the family!  Not I--I'll die
first.  Sellers is the best human being I ever knew and I wouldn't any
more think of--oh, dear, why it'll break his heart when he finds it out.
And Polly's too.  This comes of meddling with such infernal matters!
But for this, the creature would still be roasting in Sheol where it
belongs.  How is it that these people don't smell the brimstone?
Sometimes I can't come into the same room with him without nearly
suffocating."

After a while he broke out again:

"Well, there's one thing, sure.  The materializing has got to stop right
where it is.  If she's got to marry a spectre, let her marry a decent one
out of the Middle Ages, like this one--not a cowboy and a thief such as
this protoplasmic tadpole's going to turn into if Sellers keeps on
fussing at it.  It costs five thousand dollars cash and shuts down on the
incorporated company to stop the works at this point, but Sally Sellers's
happiness is worth more than that."

He heard Sellers coming, and got himself to rights.  Sellers took a seat,
and said:

"Well, I've got to confess I'm a good deal puzzled.  It did certainly
eat, there's no getting around it.  Not eat, exactly, either, but it
nibbled; nibbled in an appetiteless way, but still it nibbled; and that's
just a marvel.  Now the question is, what does it do with those
nibblings?  That's it--what does it do with them?  My idea is that we
don't begin to know all there is to this stupendous discovery yet.
But time will show-time and science-give us a chance, and don't get
impatient."

But he couldn't get Hawkins interested; couldn't make him talk to amount
to anything; couldn't drag him out of his depression.  But at last he
took a turn that arrested Hawkins's attention.

"I'm coming to like him, Hawkins.  He is a person of stupendous
character--absolutely gigantic.  Under that placid exterior is concealed
the most dare-devil spirit that was ever put into a man--he's just a
Clive over again.  Yes, I'm all admiration for him, on account of his
character, and liking naturally follows admiration, you know.  I'm coming
to like him immensely.  Do you know, I haven't the heart to degrade such
a character as that down to the burglar estate for money or for anything
else; and I've come to ask if you are willing to let the reward go, and
leave this poor fellow--"Where he is?"

"Yes--not bring him down to date."

"Oh, there's my hand; and my heart's in it, too!"

"I'll never forget you for this, Hawkins," said the old gentleman in a
voice which he found it hard to control.  "You are making a great
sacrifice for me, and one which you can ill afford, but I'll never forget
your generosity, and if I live you shall not suffer for it, be sure of
that."

Sally Sellers immediately and vividly realized that she was become a new
being; a being of a far higher and worthier sort than she had been such a
little while before; an earnest being, in place of a dreamer; and
supplied with a reason for her presence in the world, where merely a
wistful and troubled curiosity about it had existed before.  So great and
so comprehensive was the change which had been wrought, that she seemed
to herself to be a real person who had lately been a shadow; a something
which had lately been a nothing; a purpose, which had lately been a
fancy; a finished temple, with the altar-fires lit and the voice of
worship ascending, where before had been but an architect's confusion of
arid working plans, unintelligible to the passing eye and prophesying
nothing.

"Lady" Gwendolen!  The pleasantness of that sound was all gone; it was an
offense to her ear now.  She said:

"There--that sham belongs to the past; I will not be called by it any
more."

"I may call you simply Gwendolen?  You will allow me to drop the
formalities straightway and name you by your dear first name without
additions?"

She was dethroning the pink and replacing it with a rosebud.

"There-that is better.  I hate pinks--some pinks.  Indeed yes, you are to
call me by my first name without additions--that is,--well, I don't mean
without additions entirely, but--"

It was as far as she could get.  There was a pause; his intellect was
struggling to comprehend; presently it did manage to catch the idea in
time to save embarrassment all around, and he said gratefully--

"Dear Gwendolen!  I may say that?"

"Yes--part of it.  But--don't kiss me when I am talking, it makes me
forget what I was going to say.  You can call me by part of that form,
but not the last part.  Gwendolen is not my name."

"Not your name?" This in a tone of wonder and surprise.

The girl's soul was suddenly invaded by a creepy apprehension, a quite
definite sense of suspicion and alarm.  She put his arms away from her,
looked him searchingly in the eye, and said:

"Answer me truly, on your honor.  You are not seeking to marry me on
account of my rank?"

The shot almost knocked him through the wall, he was so little prepared
for it.  There was something so finely grotesque about the question and
its parent suspicion, that he stopped to wonder and admire, and thus was
he saved from laughing.  Then, without wasting precious time, he set
about the task of convincing her that he had been lured by herself alone,
and had fallen in love with her only, not her title and position; that he
loved her with all his heart, and could not love her more if she were a
duchess, or less if she were without home, name or family.  She watched
his face wistfully, eagerly, hopefully, translating his words by its
expression; and when he had finished there was gladness in her heart--
a tumultuous gladness, indeed, though outwardly she was calm, tranquil,
even judicially austere.  She prepared a surprise for him, now,
calculated to put a heavy strain upon those disinterested protestations
of his; and thus she delivered it, burning it away word by word as the
fuse burns down to a bombshell, and watching to see how far the explosion
would lift him:

"Listen--and do not doubt me, for I shall speak the exact truth.  Howard
Tracy, I am no more an earl's child than you are!"

To her joy--and secret surprise, also--it never phased him.  He was
ready, this time, and saw his chance.  He cried out with enthusiasm,
"Thank heaven for that!" and gathered her to his arms.

To express her happiness was almost beyond her gift of speech.

"You make me the proudest girl in all the earth," she said, with her head
pillowed on his shoulder.  "I thought it only natural that you should be
dazzled by the title--maybe even unconsciously, you being English--and
that you might be deceiving yourself in thinking you loved only me, and
find you didn't love me when the deception was swept away; so it makes me
proud that the revelation stands for nothing and that you do love just
me, only me--oh, prouder than any words can tell!"

"It is only you, sweetheart, I never gave one envying glance toward your
father's earldom.  That is utterly true, dear Gwendolen."

"There-you mustn't call me that.  I hate that false name.  I told you it
wasn't mine.  My name is Sally Sellers--or Sarah, if you like.  From this
time I banish dreams, visions, imaginings, and will no more of them.
I am going to be myself--my genuine self, my honest self, my natural
self, clear and clean of sham and folly and fraud, and worthy of you.
There is no grain of social inequality between us; I, like you, am poor;
I, like you, am without position or distinction; you are a struggling
artist, I am that, too, in my humbler way.  Our bread is honest bread, we
work for our-living.  Hand in hand we will walk hence to the grave,
helping each other in all ways, living for each other, being and
remaining one in heart and purpose, one in hope and aspiration,
inseparable to the end.  And though our place is low, judged by the
world's eye, we will make it as high as the highest in the great
essentials of honest work for what we eat and wear, and conduct above
reproach.  We live in a land, let us be thankful, where this is all-
sufficient, and no man is better than his neighbor by the grace of God,
but only by his own merit."

Tracy tried to break in, but she stopped him and kept the floor herself.

"I am not through yet.  I am going to purge myself of the last vestiges
of artificiality and pretence, and then start fair on your own honest
level and be worthy mate to you thenceforth.  My father honestly thinks
he is an earl.  Well, leave him his dream, it pleases him and does no one
any harm: It was the dream of his ancestors before him.  It has made
fools of the house of Sellers for generations, and it made something of a
fool of me, but took no deep root.  I am done with it now, and for good.
Forty-eight hours ago I was privately proud of being the daughter of a
pinchbeck earl, and thought the proper mate for me must be a man of like
degree; but to-day--oh, how grateful I am for your love which has healed
my sick brain and restored my sanity!--I could make oath that no earl's
son in all the world--"

"Oh,--well, but--but--"

"Why, you look like a person in a panic.  What is it?  What is the
matter?"

"Matter?  Oh, nothing--nothing.  I was only going to say"--but in his
flurry nothing occurred to him to say, for a moment; then by a lucky
inspiration he thought of something entirely sufficient for the occasion,
and brought it out with eloquent force: "Oh, how beautiful you are!  You
take my breath away when you look like that."

It was well conceived, well timed, and cordially delivered--and it got
its reward.

"Let me see.  Where was I?  Yes, my father's earldom is pure moonshine.
Look at those dreadful things on the wall.  You have of course supposed
them to be portraits of his ancestors, earls of Rossmore.  Well, they are
not.  They are chromos of distinguished Americans--all moderns; but he
has carried them back a thousand years by re-labeling them.  Andrew
Jackson there, is doing what he can to be the late American earl; and the
newest treasure in the collection is supposed to be the young English
heir--I mean the idiot with the crape; but in truth it's a shoemaker, and
not Lord Berkeley at all."

"Are you sure?"

"Why of course I am.  He wouldn't look like that."

"Why?"

"Because his conduct in his last moments, when the fire was sweeping
around him shows that he was a man.  It shows that he was a fine, high-
souled young creature."

Tracy was strongly moved by these compliments, and it seemed to him that
the girl's lovely lips took on anew loveliness when they were delivering
them.  He said, softly:

"It is a pity he could not know what a gracious impression his behavior
was going to leave with the dearest and sweetest stranger in the
land of--"

"Oh, I almost loved him!  Why, I think of him every day.  He is always
floating about in my mind."

Tracy felt that this was a little more than was necessary.  He was
conscious of the sting of jealousy.  He said:

"It is quite right to think of him--at least now and then--that is, at
intervals--in perhaps an admiring way--but it seems to me that--"

"Howard Tracy, are you jealous of that dead man?"

He was ashamed--and at the same time not ashamed.  He was jealous--and at
the same time he was not jealous.  In a sense the dead man was himself;
in that case compliments and affection lavished upon that corpse went
into his own till and were clear profit.  But in another sense the dead
man was not himself; and in that case all compliments and affection
lavished there were wasted, and a sufficient basis for jealousy.  A tiff
was the result of the dispute between the two.  Then they made it up, and
were more loving than ever.  As an affectionate clincher of the
reconciliation, Sally declared that she had now banished Lord Berkeley
from her mind; and added, "And in order to make sure that he shall never
make trouble between us again, I will teach myself to detest that name
and all that have ever borne it or ever shall bear it."

This inflicted another pang, and Tracy was minded to ask her to modify
that a little just on general principles, and as practice in not
overdoing a good thing--perhaps he might better leave things as they were
and not risk bringing on another tiff.  He got away from that particular,
and sought less tender ground for conversation.

"I suppose you disapprove wholly of aristocracies and nobilities, now
that you have renounced your title and your father's earldom."

"Real ones?  Oh, dear no--but I've thrown aside our sham one for good."

This answer fell just at the right time and just in the right place, to
save the poor unstable young man from changing his political complexion
once more.  He had been on the point of beginning to totter again, but
this prop shored him up and kept him from floundering back into democracy
and re-renouncing aristocracy.  So he went home glad that he had asked
the fortunate question.  The girl would accept a little thing like a
genuine earldom, she was merely prejudiced against the brummagem article.
Yes, he could have his girl and have his earldom, too: that question was
a fortunate stroke.

Sally went to bed happy, too; and remained happy, deliriously happy, for
nearly two hours; but at last, just as she was sinking into a contented
and luxurious unconsciousness, the shady devil who lives and lurks and
hides and watches inside of human beings and is always waiting for a
chance to do the proprietor a malicious damage, whispered to her soul and
said, "That question had a harmless look, but what was back of it?--what
was the secret motive of it?--what suggested it?"

The shady devil had knifed her, and could retire, now, and take a rest;
the wound would attend to business for him.  And it did.

Why should Howard Tracy ask that question?  If he was not trying to marry
her for the sake of her rank, what should suggest that question to him?
Didn't he plainly look gratified when she said her objections to
aristocracy had their limitations?  Ah, he is after that earldom, that
gilded sham--it isn't poor me he wants.

So she argued, in anguish and tears.  Then she argued the opposite
theory, but made a weak, poor business of it, and lost the case.  She
kept the arguing up, one side and then the other, the rest of the night,
and at last fell asleep at dawn; fell in the fire at dawn, one may say;
for that kind of sleep resembles fire, and one comes out of it with his
brain baked and his physical forces fried out of him.




CHAPTER XXIII.

Tracy wrote his father before he sought his bed.  He wrote a letter which
he believed would get better treatment than his cablegram received, for
it contained what ought to be welcome news; namely, that he had tried
equality and working for a living; had made a fight which he could find
no reason to be ashamed of, and in the matter of earning a living had
proved that he was able to do it; but that on the whole he had arrived at
the conclusion that he could not reform the world single-handed, and was
willing to retire from the conflict with the fair degree of honor which
he had gained, and was also willing to return home and resume his
position and be content with it and thankful for it for the future,
leaving further experiment of a missionary sort to other young people
needing the chastening and quelling persuasions of experience, the only
logic sure to convince a diseased imagination and restore it to rugged
health.  Then he approached the subject of marriage with the daughter of
the American Claimant with a good deal of caution and much painstaking
art.  He said praiseful and appreciative things about the girl, but
didn't dwell upon that detail or make it prominent.  The thing which he
made prominent was the opportunity now so happily afforded, to reconcile
York and Lancaster, graft the warring roses upon one stem, and end
forever a crying injustice which had already lasted far too long.  One
could infer that he had thought this thing all out and chosen this way of
making all things fair and right because it was sufficiently fair and
considerably wiser than the renunciation-scheme which he had brought with
him from England.  One could infer that, but he didn't say it.  In fact
the more he read his letter over, the more he got to inferring it
himself.

When the old earl received that letter, the first part of it filled him
with a grim and snarly satisfaction; but the rest of it brought a snort
or two out of him that could be translated differently.  He wasted no ink
in this emergency, either in cablegrams or letters; he promptly took ship
for America to look into the matter himself.  He had staunchly held his
grip all this long time, and given no sign of the hunger at his heart to
see his son; hoping for the cure of his insane dream, and resolute that
the process should go through all the necessary stages without assuaging
telegrams q other nonsense from home, and here was victory at last.
Victory, but stupidly marred by this idiotic marriage project.  Yes, he
would step over and take a hand in this matter himself.

During the first ten days following the mailing of the letter Tracy's
spirits had no idle time; they were always climbing up into the clouds or
sliding down into the earth as deep as the law of gravitation reached.
He was intensely happy or intensely miserable by turns, according to Miss
Sally's moods.  He never could tell when the mood was going to change,
and when it changed he couldn't tell what it was that had changed it.
Sometimes she was so in love with him that her love was tropical, torrid,
and she could find no language fervent enough for its expression; then
suddenly, and without warning or any apparent reason, the weather would
change, and the victim would find himself adrift among the icebergs and
feeling as lonesome and friendless as the north pole.  It sometimes
seemed to him that a man might better be dead than exposed to these
devastating varieties of climate.

The case was simple.  Sally wanted to believe that Tracy's preference was
disinterested; so she was always applying little tests of one sort or
another, hoping and expecting that they would bring out evidence which
would confirm or fortify her belief.  Poor Tracy did not know that these
experiments were being made upon him, consequently he walked promptly
into all the traps the girl set for him.  These traps consisted in
apparently casual references to social distinction, aristocratic title
and privilege, and such things.  Often Tracy responded to these
references heedlessly and not much caring what he said provided it kept
the talk going and prolonged the seance.  He didn't suspect that the girl
was watching his face and listening for his words as one who watches the
judge's face and listens for the words which will restore him to home and
friends and freedom or shut him away from the sun and human companionship
forever.  He didn't suspect that his careless words were being weighed,
and so he often delivered sentence of death when it would have been just
as handy and all the same to him to pronounce acquittal.  Daily he broke
the girl's heart, nightly he sent her to the rack for sleep.  He couldn't
understand it.

Some people would have put this and that together and perceived that the
weather never changed until one particular subject was introduced,
and that then it always changed.  And they would have looked further,
and perceived that that subject was always introduced by the one party,
never the other.  They would have argued, then, that this was done for a
purpose.  If they could not find out what that purpose was in any simpler
or easier way, they would ask.

But Tracy was not deep enough or suspicious enough to think of these
things.  He noticed only one particular; that the weather was always
sunny when a visit began.  No matter how much it might cloud up later,
it always began with a clear sky.  He couldn't explain this curious fact
to himself, he merely knew it to be a fact.  The truth of the matter was,
that by the time Tracy had been out of Sally's sight six hours she was so
famishing for a sight of him that her doubts and suspicions were all
consumed away in the fire of that longing, and so always she came into
his presence as surprisingly radiant and joyous as she wasn't when she
went out of it.

In circumstances like these a growing portrait runs a good many risks.
The portrait of Sellers, by Tracy, was fighting along, day by day,
through this mixed weather, and daily adding to itself ineradicable signs
of the checkered life it was leading.  It was the happiest portrait, in
spots, that was ever seen; but in other spots a damned soul looked out
from it; a soul that was suffering all the different kinds of distress
there are, from stomach ache to rabies.  But Sellers liked it: He said it
was just himself all over--a portrait that sweated moods from every pore,
and no two moods alike.  He said he had as many different kinds of
emotions in him as a jug.

It was a kind of a deadly work of art, maybe, but it was a starchy
picture for show; for it was life size, full length, and represented the
American earl in a peer's scarlet robe, with the three ermine bars
indicative of an earl's rank, and on the gray head an earl's coronet,
tilted just a wee bit to one side in a most gallus and winsome way.  When
Sally's weather was sunny the portrait made Tracy chuckle, but when her
weather was overcast it disordered his mind and stopped the circulation
of his blood.

Late one night when the sweethearts had been having a flawless visit
together, Sally's interior devil began to work his specialty, and soon
the conversation was drifting toward the customary rock.  Presently, in
the midst of Tracy's serene flow of talk, he felt a shudder which he knew
was not his shudder, but exterior to his breast although immediately
against it.  After the shudder came sobs; Sally was crying.

"Oh, my darling, what have I done--what have I said?  It has happened
again!  What have I done to wound you?"

She disengaged herself from his arms and gave him a look of deep
reproach.

"What have you done?  I will tell you what you have done.  You have
unwittingly revealed--oh, for the twentieth time, though I could not
believe it, would not believe it!--that it is not me you love, but that
foolish sham my father's imitation earldom; and you have broken my
heart!"

"Oh, my child, what are you saying!  I never dreamed of such a thing."

"Oh, Howard, Howard, the things you have uttered when you were forgetting
to guard your tongue, have betrayed you."

"Things I have uttered when I was forgetting to guard my tongue?  These
are hard words.  When have I remembered to guard it?  Never in one
instance.  It has no office but to speak the truth.  It needs no guarding
for that."

"Howard, I have noted your words and weighed them, when you were not
thinking of their significance--and they have told me more than you meant
they should."

"Do you mean to say you have answered the trust I had in you by using it
as an ambuscade from which you could set snares for my unsuspecting
tongue and be safe from detection while you did it?  You have not done
this--surely you have not done this thing.  Oh, one's enemy could not do
it."

This was an aspect of the girl's conduct which she had not clearly
perceived before.  Was it treachery?  Had she abused a trust?  The
thought crimsoned her cheeks with shame and remorse.

"Oh, forgive me," she said, "I did not know what I was doing.  I have
been so tortured--you will forgive me, you must; I have suffered so much,
and I am so sorry and so humble; you do forgive me, don't you?--don't
turn away, don't refuse me; it is only my love that is at fault, and you
know I love you, love you with all my heart; I couldn't bear to--oh,
dear, dear, I am so miserable, and I sever meant any harm, and I didn't
see where this insanity was carrying me, and how it was wronging and
abusing the dearest heart in all the world to me--and--and--oh, take me
in your arms again, I have no other refuge, no other home and hope!"

There was reconciliation again-immediate, perfect, all-embracing--and
with it utter happiness.  This would have been a good time to adjourn.
But no, now that the cloud-breeder was revealed at last; now that it was
manifest that all the sour weather had come from this girl's dread that
Tracy was lured by her rank and not herself, he resolved to lay that
ghost immediately and permanently by furnishing the best possible proof
that he couldn't have had back of him at any time the suspected motive.
So he said:

"Let me whisper a little secret in your ear--a secret which I have kept
shut up in my breast all this time.  Your rank couldn't ever have been an
enticement.  I am son and heir to an English earl!"

The girl stared at him-one, two, three moments, maybe a dozen--then her
lips parted:

"You?" she said, and moved away from him, still gazing at him in a kind
of blank amazement.

"Why--why, certainly I am.  Why do you act like this?  What have I done
now?"

"What have you done?  You have certainly made a most strange statement.
You must see that yourself."

"Well," with a timid little laugh, "it may be a strange enough statement;
but of what consequence is that, if it is true?"

"If it is true.  You are already retiring from it."

"Oh, not for a moment!  You should not say that.  I have not deserved it.
I have spoken the truth; why do you doubt it?"

Her reply was prompt.

"Simply because you didn't speak it earlier!"

"Oh!" It wasn't a groan, exactly, but it was an intelligible enough
expression of the fact that he saw the point and recognized that there
was reason in it.

"You have seemed to conceal nothing from me that I ought to know
concerning yourself, and you were not privileged to keep back such a
thing as this from me a moment after--after--well, after you had
determined to pay your court to me."

"Its true, it's true, I know it!  But there were circumstances--in--
in the way--circumstances which--"

She waved the circumstances aside.

"Well, you see," he said, pleadingly, "you seemed so bent on our
traveling the proud path of honest labor and honorable poverty, that I
was terrified--that is, I was afraid--of--of--well, you know how you
talked."

"Yes, I know how I talked.  And I also know that before the talk was
finished you inquired how I stood as regards aristocracies, and my answer
was calculated to relieve your fears."

He was silent a while.  Then he said, in a discouraged way:

"I don't see any way out of it.  It was a mistake.  That is in truth all
it was, just a mistake.  No harm was meant, no harm in the world.
I didn't see how it might some time look.  It is my way.  I don't seem to
see far."

The girl was almost disarmed, for a moment.  Then she flared up again.

"An Earl's son!  Do earls' sons go about working in lowly callings for
their bread and butter?"

"God knows they don't!  I have wished they did."

"Do earls' sons sink their degree in a country like this, and come sober
and decent to sue for the hand of a born child of poverty when they can
go drunk, profane, and steeped in dishonorable debt and buy the pick and
choice of the millionaires' daughters of America?  You an earl's son!
Show me the signs."

"I thank God I am not able--if those are the signs.  But yet I am an
earl's son and heir.  It is all I can say.  I wish you would believe me,
but you will not.  I know no way to persuade you."

She was about to soften again, but his closing remark made her bring her
foot down with smart vexation, and she cried out:

"Oh, you drive all patience out of me!  Would you have one believe that
you haven't your proofs at hand, and yet are what you say you are?
You do not put your hand in your pocket now--for you have nothing there.
You make a claim like this, and then venture to travel without
credentials.  These are simply incredibilities.  Don't you see that,
yourself?"

He cast about in his mind for a defence of some kind or other--hesitated
a little, and then said, with difficulty and diffidence:

"I will tell you just the truth, foolish as it will seem to you--
to anybody, I suppose--but it is the truth.  I had an ideal--call it
a dream, a folly, if you will--but I wanted to renounce the privileges
and unfair advantages enjoyed by the nobility and wrung from the nation
by force and fraud, and purge myself of my share of those crimes against
right and reason, by thenceforth comrading with the poor and humble on
equal terms, earning with my own hands the bread I ate, and rising by my
own merit if I rose at all."

The young girl scanned his face narrowly while he spoke; and there was
something about his simplicity of manner and statement which touched her
--touched her almost to the danger point; but she set her grip on the
yielding spirit and choked it to quiescence; it could not be wise to
surrender to compassion or any kind of sentiment, yet; she must ask one
or two more questions.  Tracy was reading her face; and what he read
there lifted his drooping hopes a little.

"An earl's son to do that!  Why, he were a man!  A man to love!--oh,
more, a man to worship!"

"Why?"

"But he never lived!  He is not born, he will not be born.  The self-
abnegation that could do that--even in utter folly, and hopeless of
conveying benefit to any, beyond the mere example--could be mistaken for
greatness; why, it would be greatness in this cold age of sordid ideals!
A moment--wait--let me finish; I have one question more.  Your father is
earl of what?"

"Rossmore--and I am Viscount Berkeley!"

The fat was in the fire again.  The girl felt so outraged that it was
difficult for her to speak.

"How can you venture such a brazen thing!  You know that he is dead,
and you know that I know it.  Oh, to rob the living of name and honors
for a selfish and temporary advantage is crime enough, but to rob the
defenceless dead--why it is more than crime, it degrades crime!"

"Oh, listen to me--just a word--don't turn away like that.  Don't go--
don't leave me, so--stay one moment.  On my honor--"

"Oh, on your honor!"

"On my honor I am what I say!  And I will prove it, and you will believe,
I know you will.  I will bring you a message--a cablegram--"

"When?"

"To-morrow-next day--"

"Signed 'Rossmore'?"

"Yes--signed Rossmore."

"What will that prove?"

"What will it prove?  What should it prove?"

"If you force me to say it--possibly the presence of a confederate
somewhere."

This was a hard blow, and staggered him.  He said, dejectedly:

"It is true.  I did not think of it.  Oh, my God, I do not know any way
to do; I do everything wrong.  You are going?--and you won't say even
good-night--or good-bye?  Ah, we have not parted like this before."

"Oh, I want to run and--no, go, now."  A pause--then she said, "You may
bring the message when it comes."

"Oh, may I?  God bless you."

He was gone; and none too soon; her lips were already quivering, and now
she broke down.  Through her sobbings her words broke from time to time.

"Oh, he is gone.  I have lost him, I shall never see him any more.  And
he didn't kiss me good-bye; never even offered to force a kiss from me,
and he knowing it was the very, very last, and I expecting he would, and
never dreaming he would treat me so after all we have been to each other.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, what shall I do, what shall I do!  He is a dear, poor,
miserable, good-hearted, transparent liar and humbug, but oh, I do love
him so--!"  After a little she broke into speech again.  "How dear he is!
and I shall miss him so, I shall miss him so!  Why won't he ever think to
forge a message and fetch it?--but no, he never will, he never thinks of
anything; he's so honest and simple it wouldn't ever occur to him.
Oh, what did possess him to think he could succeed as a fraud--and he
hasn't the first requisite except duplicity that I can see.  Oh, dear,
I'll go to bed and give it all up.  Oh, I wish I had told him to come and
tell me whenever he didn't get any telegram--and now it's all my own
fault if I never see him again.  How my eyes must look!"




CHAPTER XXIV.

Next day, sure enough, the cablegram didn't come.  This was an immense
disaster; for Tracy couldn't go into the presence without that ticket,
although it wasn't going to possess any value as evidence.  But if the
failure of the cablegram on that first day may be called an immense
disaster, where is the dictionary that can turn out a phrase sizeable
enough to describe the tenth day's failure?  Of course every day that the
cablegram didn't come made Tracy all of twenty-four hours' more ashamed
of himself than he was the day before, and made Sally fully twenty-four
hours more certain than ever that he not only hadn't any father anywhere,
but hadn't even a confederate--and so it followed that he was a double-
dyed humbug and couldn't be otherwise.

These were hard days for Barrow and the art firm.  All these had their
hands full, trying to comfort Tracy.  Barrow's task was particularly
hard, because he was made a confidant in full, and therefore had to humor
Tracy's delusion that he had a father, and that the father was an earl,
and that he was going to send a cablegram.  Barrow early gave up the idea
of trying to convince Tracy that he hadn't any father, because this had
such a bad effect on the patient, and worked up his temper to such an
alarming degree.  He had tried, as an experiment, letting Tracy think he
had a father; the result was so good that he went further, with proper
caution, and tried letting him think his father was an earl; this wrought
so well, that he grew bold, and tried letting him think he had two
fathers, if he wanted to, but he didn't want to, so Barrow withdrew one
of them and substituted letting him think he was going to get a
cablegram--which Barrow judged he wouldn't, and was right; but Barrow
worked the cablegram daily for all it was worth, and it was the one thing
that kept Tracy alive; that was Barrow's opinion.

And these were bitter hard days for poor Sally, and mainly delivered up
to private crying.  She kept her furniture pretty damp, and so caught
cold, and the dampness and the cold and the sorrow together undermined
her appetite, and she was a pitiful enough object, poor thing.  Her state
was bad enough, as per statement of it above quoted; but all the forces
of nature and circumstance seemed conspiring to make it worse--and
succeeding.  For instance, the morning after her dismissal of Tracy,
Hawkins and Sellers read in the associated press dispatches that a toy
puzzle called Pigs in the Clover, had come into sudden favor within the
past few weeks, and that from the Atlantic to the Pacific all the
populations of all the States had knocked off work to play with it,
and that the business of the country had now come to a standstill by
consequence; that judges, lawyers, burglars, parsons, thieves, merchants,
mechanics, murderers, women, children, babies--everybody, indeed, could
be seen from morning till midnight, absorbed in one deep project and
purpose, and only one--to pen those pigs, work out that puzzle
successfully; that all gayety, all cheerfulness had departed from the
nation, and in its place care, preoccupation and anxiety sat upon every
countenance, and all faces were drawn, distressed, and furrowed with the
signs of age and trouble, and marked with the still sadder signs of
mental decay and incipient madness; that factories were at work night and
day in eight cities, and yet to supply the demand for the puzzle was thus
far impossible.  Hawkins was wild with joy, but Sellers was calm.  Small
matters could not disturb his serenity.  He said--

"That's just the way things go.  A man invents a thing which could
revolutionize the arts, produce mountains of money, and bless the earth,
and who will bother with it or show any interest in it?--and so you are
just as poor as you were before.  But you invent some worthless thing to
amuse yourself with, and would throw it away if let alone, and all of a
sudden the whole world makes a snatch for it and out crops a fortune.
Hunt up that Yankee and collect, Hawkins--half is yours, you know.
Leave me to potter at my lecture."

This was a temperance lecture.  Sellers was head chief in the Temperance
camp, and had lectured, now and then in that interest, but had been
dissatisfied with his efforts; wherefore he was now about to try a new
plan.  After much thought he had concluded that a main reason why his
lectures lacked fire or something, was, that they were too transparently
amateurish; that is to say, it was probably too plainly perceptible that
the lecturer was trying to tell people about the horrid effects of liquor
when he didn't really know anything about those effects except from
hearsay, since he had hardly ever tasted an intoxicant in his life.
His scheme, now, was to prepare himself to speak from bitter experience.
Hawkins was to stand by with the bottle, calculate the doses, watch the
effects, make notes of results, and otherwise assist in the preparation.
Time was short, for the ladies would be along about noon--that is to say,
the temperance organization called the Daughters of Siloam--and Sellers
must be ready to head the procession.

The time kept slipping along-Hawkins did not return--Sellers could not
venture to wait longer; so he attacked the bottle himself, and proceeded
to note the effects.  Hawkins got back at last; took one comprehensive
glance at the lecturer, and went down and headed off the procession.
The ladies were grieved to hear that the champion had been taken suddenly
ill and violently so, but glad to hear that it was hoped he would be out
again in a few days.

As it turned out, the old gentleman didn't turn over or show any signs of
life worth speaking of for twenty-four hours.  Then he asked after the
procession, and learned what had happened about it.  He was sorry; said
he had been "fixed" for it.  He remained abed several days, and his wife
and daughter took turns in sitting with him and ministering to his wants.
Often he patted Sally's head and tried to comfort her.

"Don't cry, my child, don't cry so; you know your old father did it by
mistake and didn't mean a bit of harm; you know he wouldn't intentionally
do anything to make you ashamed for the world; you know he was trying to
do good and only made the mistake through ignorance, not knowing the
right doses and Washington not there to help.  Don't cry so, dear, it
breaks my old heart to see you, and think I've brought this humiliation
on you and you so dear to me and so good.  I won't ever do it again,
indeed I won't; now be comforted, honey, that's a good child."

But when she wasn't on duty at the bedside the crying went on just the
same; then the mother would try to comfort her, and say:

"Don't cry, dear, he never meant any harm; it was all one of those
happens that you can't guard against when you are trying experiments,
that way.  You see I don't cry.  It's because I know him so well.
I could never look anybody in the face again if he had got into such an
amazing condition as that a-purpose; but bless you his intention was,
pure and high, and that makes the act pure, though it was higher than was
necessary.  We're not humiliated, dear, he did it under a noble impulse
and we don't need to be ashamed.  There, don't cry any more, honey."

Thus, the old gentleman was useful to Sally, during several days, as an
explanation of her tearfulness.  She felt thankful to him for the shelter
he was affording her, but often said to herself, "It's a shame to let him
see in my cryings a reproach--as if he could ever do anything that could
make me reproach him!  But I can't confess; I've got to go on using him
for a pretext, he's the only one I've got in the world, and I do need one
so much."

As soon as Sellers was out again, and found that stacks of money had been
placed in bank for him and Hawkins by the Yankee, he said, "Now we'll
soon see who's the Claimant and who's the Authentic.  I'll just go over
there and warm up that House of Lords."  During the next few days he and
his wife were so busy with preparations for the voyage that Sally had all
the privacy she needed, and all the chance to cry that was good for her.
Then the old pair left for New York--and England.

Sally had also had a chance to do another thing.  That was, to make up
her mind that life was not worth living upon the present terms.  If she
must give up her impostor and die; doubtless she must submit; but might
she not lay her whole case before some disinterested person, first, and
see if there wasn't perhaps some saving way out of the matter?  She
turned this idea over in her mind a good deal.  In her first visit with
Hawkins after her parents were gone, the talk fell upon Tracy, and she
was impelled to set her case before the statesman and take his counsel.
So she poured out her heart, and he listened with painful solicitude.
She concluded, pleadingly, with--

"Don't tell me he is an impostor.  I suppose he is, but doesn't it look
to you as if he isn't?  You are cool, you know, and outside; and so,
maybe it can look to you as if he isn't one, when it can't to me.
Doesn't it look to you as if he isn't?  Couldn't you--can't it look to
you that way--for--for my sake?"

The poor man was troubled, but he felt obliged to keep in the
neighborhood of the truth.  He fought around the present detail a little
while, then gave it up and said he couldn't really see his way to
clearing Tracy.

"No," he said, "the truth is, he's an impostor."

"That is, you--you feel a little certain, but not entirely--oh, not
entirely, Mr. Hawkins!"

"It's a pity to have to say it--I do hate to say it, but I don't think
anything about it, I know he's an impostor."

"Oh, now, Mr.  Hawkins, you can't go that far.  A body can't really know
it, you know.  It isn't proved that he's not what he says he is."

Should he come out and make a clean breast of the whole wretched
business?  Yes--at least the most of it--it ought to be done.  So he set
his teeth and went at the matter with determination, but purposing to
spare the girl one pain-that of knowing that Tracy was a criminal.

"Now I am going to tell you a plain tale; one not pleasant for me to tell
or for you to hear, but we've got to stand it.  I know all about that
fellow; and I know he is no earl's son."

The girl's eyes flashed, and she said:

"I don't care a snap for that-go on!"

This was so wholly unexpected that it at once obstructed the narrative;
Hawkins was not even sure that he had heard aright.  He said:

"I don't know that I quite understand.  Do you mean to say that if he was
all right and proper otherwise you'd be indifferent about the earl part
of the business?"

"Absolutely."

"You'd be entirely satisfied with him and wouldn't care for his not being
an earl's son,--that being an earl's son wouldn't add any value to him?"

"Not the least value that I would care for.  Why, Mr.  Hawkins, I've
gotten over all that day-dreaming about earldoms and aristocracies and
all such nonsense and am become just a plain ordinary nobody and content
with it; and it is to him I owe my cure.  And as to anything being able
to add a value to him, nothing can do that.  He is the whole world to me,
just as he is; he comprehends all the values there are--then how can you
add one?"

"She's pretty far gone."  He said that to himself.  He continued, still
to himself, "I must change my plan again; I can't seem to strike one that
will stand the requirements of this most variegated emergency five
minutes on a stretch.  Without making this fellow a criminal, I believe
I will invent a name and a character for him calculated to disenchant
her.  If it fails to do it, then I'll know that the next rightest thing
to do will be to help her to her fate, poor thing, not hinder her."
Then he said aloud:

"Well, Gwendolen--"

"I want to be called Sally."

"I'm glad of it; I like it better, myself.  Well, then, I'll tell you
about this man Snodgrass."

"Snodgrass!  Is that his name?"

"Yes--Snodgrass.  The other's his nom de plume."

"It's hideous!"

"I know it is, but we can't help our names."

"And that is truly his real name--and not Howard Tracy?"

Hawkins answered, regretfully:

"Yes, it seems a pity."

The girl sampled the name musingly, once or twice--

"Snodgrass.  Snodgrass.  No, I could not endure that.  I could not get
used to it.  No, I should call him by his first name.  What is his first
name?"

"His--er--his initials are S. M."

"His initials?  I don't care anything about his initials.  I can't call
him by his initials.  What do they stand for?"

"Well, you see, his father was a physician, and he--he--well he was an
idolater of his profession, and he--well, he was a very eccentric man,
and--"

"What do they stand for!  What are you shuffling about?"

"They-well they stand for Spinal Meningitis.  His father being a phy--"

"I never heard such an infamous name!  Nobody can ever call a person
that--a person they love.  I wouldn't call an enemy by such a name.
It sounds like an epithet."  After a moment, she added with a kind of
consternation, "Why, it would be my name!  Letters would come with it
on."

"Yes--Mrs. Spinal Meningitis Snodgrass."

"Don't repeat it--don't; I can't bear it.  Was the father a lunatic?"

"No, that is not charged."

"I am glad of that, because that is transmissible.  What do you think was
the matter with him, then?"

"Well, I don't really know.  The family used to run a good deal to
idiots, and so, maybe--"

"Oh, there isn't any maybe about it.  This one was an idiot."

"Well, yes--he could have been.  He was suspected."

"Suspected!" said Sally, with irritation.  "Would one suspect there was
going to be a dark time if he saw the constellations fall out of the sky?
But that is enough about the idiot, I don't take any interest in idiots;
tell me about the son."

Very well, then, this one was the eldest, but not the favorite.  His
brother, Zylobalsamum--"

"Wait--give me a chance to realize that.  It is perfectly stupefying.
Zylo--what did you call it?"

"Zylobalsamum."

"I never heard such a name: It sounds like a disease.  Is it a disease?"

"No, I don't think it's a disease.  It's either Scriptural or--"

"Well, it's not Scriptural."

"Then it's anatomical.  I knew it was one or the other.  Yes, I remember,
now, it is anatomical.  It's a ganglion--a nerve centre--it is what is
called the zylobalsamum process."

"Well, go on; and if you come to any more of them, omit the names; they
make one feel so uncomfortable."

"Very well, then.  As I said, this one was not a favorite in the family,
and so he was neglected in every way, never sent to school, always
allowed to associate with the worst and coarsest characters, and so of
course he has grown up a rude, vulgar, ignorant, dissipated ruffian,
and--"

"He?  It's no such thing!  You ought to be more generous than to make
such a statement as that about a poor young stranger who--who--why, he is
the very opposite of that!  He is considerate, courteous, obliging,
modest, gentle, refined, cultivated-oh, for shame!  how can you say such
things about him?"

"I don't blame you, Sally--indeed I haven't a word of blame for you for
being blinded by--your affection--blinded to these minor defects which
are so manifest to others who--"

"Minor defects?  Do you call these minor defects?  What are murder and
arson, pray?"

"It is a difficult question to answer straight off--and of course
estimates of such things vary with environment.  With us, out our way,
they would not necessarily attract as much attention as with you, yet
they are often regarded with disapproval--"

"Murder and arson are regarded with disapproval?"

"Oh, frequently."

"With disapproval.  Who are those Puritans you are talking about?
But wait-how did you come to know so much about this family?  Where did
you get all this hearsay evidence?"

"Sally, it isn't hearsay evidence.  That is the serious part of it.
I knew that family-personally."

This was a surprise.

"You?  You actually knew them?"

"Knew Zylo, as we used to call him, and knew his father, Dr. Snodgrass.
I didn't know your own Snodgrass, but have had glimpses of him from time
to time, and I heard about him all the time.  He was the common talk, you
see, on account of his--"

"On account of his not being a house-burner or an assassin, I suppose.
That would have made him commonplace.  Where did you know these people?"

"In Cherokee Strip."

"Oh, how preposterous!  There are not enough people in Cherokee Strip to
give anybody a reputation, good or bad.  There isn't a quorum.  Why the
whole population consists of a couple of wagon loads of horse thieves."

Hawkins answered placidly--

"Our friend was one of those wagon loads."

Sally's eyes burned and her breath came quick and fast, but she kept a
fairly good grip on her anger and did not let it get the advantage of her
tongue.  The statesman sat still and waited for developments.  He was
content with his work.  It was as handsome a piece of diplomatic art as
he had ever turned out, he thought; and now, let the girl make her own
choice.  He judged she would let her spectre go; he hadn't a doubt of it
in fact; but anyway, let the choice be made, and he was ready to ratify
it and offer no further hindrance.

Meantime Sally had thought her case out and made up her mind.  To the
major's disappointment the verdict was against him.  Sally said:

"He has no friend but me, and I will not desert him now.  I will not
marry him if his moral character is bad; but if he can prove that it
isn't, I will--and he shall have the chance.  To me he seems utterly good
and dear; I've never seen anything about him that looked otherwise-
except, of course, his calling himself an earl's son.  Maybe that is only
vanity, and no real harm, when you get to the bottom of it.  I do not
believe he is any such person as you have painted him.  I want to see
him.  I want you to find him and send him to me.  I will implore him to
be honest with me, and tell me the whole truth, and not be afraid."

"Very well; if that is your decision I will do it.  But Sally, you know,
he's poor, and--"

"Oh, I don't care anything about that.  That's neither here nor there.
Will you bring him to me?"

"I'll do it.  When?--"

"Oh, dear, it's getting toward dark, now, and so you'll have to put it
off till morning.  But you will find him in the morning, won't you?
Promise."

"I'll have him here by daylight."

"Oh, now you're your own old self again--and lovelier than ever!"

"I couldn't ask fairer than that.  Good-bye, dear."

Sally mused a moment alone, then said earnestly, "I love him in spite of
his name!" and went about her affairs with a light heart.




CHAPTER XXV.

Hawkins went straight to the telegraph office and disburdened his
conscience.  He said to himself, "She's not going to give this galvanized
cadaver up, that's plain.  Wild horses can't pull her away from him.
I've done my share; it's for Sellers to take an innings, now."  So he
sent this message to New York:

"Come back.  Hire special train.  She's going to marry the materializee."

Meantime a note came to Rossmore Towers to say that the Earl of Rossmore
had just arrived from England, and would do himself the pleasure of
calling in the evening.  Sally said to herself, "It is a pity he didn't
stop in New York; but it's no matter; he can go up to-morrow and see my
father.  He has come over here to tomahawk papa, very likely--or buy out
his claim.  This thing would have excited me, a while back; but it has
only one interest for me now, and only one value.  I can say to--to--
Spine, Spiny, Spinal--I don't like any form of that name!--I can say to
him to-morrow, 'Don't try to keep it up any more, or I shall have to tell
you whom I have been talking with last night, and then you will be
embarrassed.'"

Tracy couldn't know he was to be invited for the morrow, or he might have
waited.  As it was, he was too miserable to wait any longer; for his last
hope--a letter--had failed him.  It was fully due to-day; it had not
come.  Had his father really flung him away?  It looked so.  It was not
like his father, but it surely looked so.  His father was a rather tough
nut, in truth, but had never been so with his son--still, this implacable
silence had a calamitous look.  Anyway, Tracy would go to the Towers and
--then what?  He didn't know; his head was tired out with thinking--
he wouldn't think about what he must do or say--let it all take care of
itself.  So that he saw Sally once more, he would be satisfied, happen
what might; he wouldn't care.

He hardly knew how he got to the Towers, or when.  He knew and cared for
only one thing--he was alone with Sally.  She was kind, she was gentle,
there was moisture in her eyes, and a yearning something in her face and
manner which she could not wholly hide--but she kept her distance.  They
talked.  Bye and bye she said--watching his downcast countenance out of
the corner of her eye--

"It's so lonesome--with papa and mamma gone.  I try to read, but I can't
seem to get interested in any book.  I try the newspapers, but they do
put such rubbish in them.  You take up a paper and start to read
something you thinks interesting, and it goes on and on and on about how
somebody--well, Dr. Snodgrass, for instance--"

Not a movement from Tracy, not the quiver of a muscle.  Sally was amazed
--what command of himself he must have!  Being disconcerted, she paused
so long that Tracy presently looked up wearily and said:

"Well?"

"Oh, I thought you were not listening.  Yes, it goes on and on about this
Doctor Snodgrass, till you are so tired, and then about his younger son--
the favorite son--Zylobalsamum Snodgrass--"

Not a sign from Tracy, whose head was drooping again.  What supernatural
self-possession!  Sally fixed her eye on him and began again, resolved to
blast him out of his serenity this time if she knew how to apply the
dynamite that is concealed in certain forms of words when those words are
properly loaded with unexpected meanings.

"And next it goes on and on and on about the eldest son--not the
favorite, this one--and how lie is neglected in his poor barren boyhood,
and allowed to grow up unschooled, ignorant, coarse, vulgar, the comrade
of the community's scum, and become in his completed manhood a rude,
profane, dissipated ruffian--"

That head still drooped!  Sally rose, moved softly and solemnly a step or
two, and stood before Tracy--his head came slowly up, his meek eyes met
her intense ones--then she finished with deep impressiveness--

"--named Spinal Meningitis Snodgrass!"

Tracy merely exhibited signs of increased fatigue.  The girl was outraged
by this iron indifference and callousness, and cried out--

"What are you made of?"

"I?  Why?"

"Haven't you any sensitiveness?  Don't these things touch any poor
remnant of delicate feeling in you?"

"N--no," he said wonderingly, "they don't seem to.  Why should they?"

"O, dear me, how can you look so innocent, and foolish, and good, and
empty, and gentle, and all that, right in the hearing of such things as
those!  Look me in the eye-straight in the eye.  There, now then, answer
me without a flinch.  Isn't Doctor Snodgrass your father, and isn't
Zylobalsamum your brother," [here Hawkins was about to enter the room,
but changed his mind upon hearing these words, and elected for a walk
down town, and so glided swiftly away], "and isn't your name Spinal
Meningitis, and isn't your father a doctor and an idiot, like all the
family for generations, and doesn't he name all his children after
poisons and pestilences and, abnormal anatomical eccentricities of the
human body?  Answer me, some way or somehow--and quick.  Why do you sit
there looking like an envelope without any address on it and see me going
mad before your face with suspense!"

"Oh, I wish I could do--do--I wish I could do something, anything that
would give you peace again and make you happy; but I know of nothing--
I know of no way.  I have never heard of these awful people before."

"What?  Say it again!"

"I have never-never in my life till now."

"Oh, you do look so honest when you say that!  It must be true--surely
you couldn't look that way, you wouldn't look that way if it were not
true--would you?"

"I couldn't and wouldn't.  It is true.  Oh, let us end this suffering--
take me back into your heart and confidence--"

"Wait--one more thing.  Tell me you told that falsehood out of mere
vanity and are sorry for it; that you're not expecting to ever wear the
coronet of an earl--"

"Truly I am cured--cured this very day--I am not expecting it!"

"O, now you are mine!  I've got you back in the beauty and glory of your
unsmirched poverty and your honorable obscurity, and nobody shall ever
take you from me again but the grave!  And if--"

"De earl of Rossmore, fum Englan'!"

"My father!"  The, young man released the girl and hung his head.

The old gentleman stood surveying the couple--the one with a strongly
complimentary right eye, the other with a mixed expression done with the
left.  This is difficult, and not often resorted to.  Presently his face
relaxed into a kind of constructive gentleness, and he said to his son:

"Don't you think you could embrace me, too?"

The young man did it with alacrity.  "Then you are the son of an earl,
after all," said Sally, reproachfully.

"Yes, I--"

"Then I won't have you!"

"O, but you know--"

"No, I will not.  You've told me another fib."

"She's right.  Go away and leave us.  I want to talk with her."

Berkeley was obliged to go.  But he did not go far.  He remained on the
premises.  At midnight the conference between the old gentleman and the
young girl was still going blithely on, but it presently drew to a close,
and the former said:

"I came all the way over here to inspect you, my dear, with the general
idea of breaking off this match if there were two fools of you, but as
there's only one, you can have him if you'll take him."

"Indeed I will, then!  May I kiss you?"

"You may.  Thank you.  Now you shall have that privilege whenever you are
good."

Meantime Hawkins had long ago returned and slipped up into the
laboratory.  He was rather disconcerted to find his late invention,
Snodgrass, there.  The news was told him: that the English Rossmore was
come,

--"and I'm his son, Viscount Berkeley, not Howard Tracy any more."

Hawkins was aghast.  He said:

"Good gracious, then you're dead!"

"Dead?"

"Yes you are--we've got your ashes."

"Hang those ashes, I'm tired of them; I'll give them to my father."

Slowly and painfully the statesman worked the truth into his head that
this was really a flesh and blood young man, and not the insubstantial
resurrection he and Sellers had so long supposed him to be.  Then he said
with feeling--

"I'm so glad; so glad on Sally's account, poor thing.  We took you for a
departed materialized bank thief from Tahlequah.  This will be a heavy
blow to Sellers."  Then he explained the whole matter to Berkeley, who
said:

"Well, the Claimant must manage to stand the blow, severe as it is.
But he'll get over the disappointment."

"Who--the colonel?  He'll get over it the minute he invents a new miracle
to take its place.  And he's already at it by this time.  But look here--
what do you suppose became of the man you've been representing all this
time?"

"I don't know.  I saved his clothes--it was all I could do.  I am afraid
he lost his life."

"Well, you must have found twenty or thirty thousand dollars in those
clothes, in money or certificates of deposit."

"No, I found only five hundred and a trifle.  I borrowed the trifle and
banked the five hundred."

"What'll we do about it?"

"Return it to the owner."

"It's easy said, but not easy to manage.  Let's leave it alone till we
get Sellers's advice.  And that reminds me.  I've got to run and meet
Sellers and explain who you are not and who you are, or he'll come
thundering in here to stop his daughter from marrying a phantom.  But--
suppose your father came over here to break off the match?"

"Well, isn't he down stairs getting acquainted with Sally?  That's all
safe."

So Hawkins departed to meet and prepare the Sellerses.

Rossmore Towers saw great times and late hours during the succeeding
week.  The two earls were such opposites in nature that they fraternized
at once.  Sellers said privately that Rossmore was the most extraordinary
character he had ever met--a man just made out of the condensed milk of
human kindness, yet with the ability to totally hide the fact from any
but the most practised character-reader; a man whose whole being was
sweetness, patience and charity, yet with a cunning so profound, an
ability so marvelous in the acting of a double part, that many a person
of considerable intelligence might live with him for centuries and never
suspect the presence in him of these characteristics.


Finally there was a quiet wedding at the Towers, instead of a big one at
the British embassy, with the militia and the fire brigades and the
temperance organizations on hand in torchlight procession, as at first
proposed by one of the earls.  The art-firm and Barrow were present at
the wedding, and the tinner and Puss had been invited, but the tinner was
ill and Puss was nursing him--for they were engaged.

The Sellerses were to go to England with their new allies for a brief
visit, but when it was time to take the train from Washington,
the colonel was missing.

Hawkins was going as far as New York with the party, and said he would
explain the matter on the road.

The explanation was in a letter left by the colonel in Hawkins's hands.
In it he promised to join Mrs. Sellers later, in England, and then went
on to say:

The truth is, my dear Hawkins, a mighty idea has been born to me within
the hour, and I must not even stop to say goodbye to my dear ones.
A man's highest duty takes precedence of all minor ones, and must be
attended to with his best promptness and energy, at whatsoever cost to
his affections or his convenience.  And first of all a man's duties is
his duty to his own honor-he must keep that spotless.  Mine is
threatened.  When I was feeling sure of my imminent future solidity,
I forwarded to the Czar of Russia-perhaps prematurely--an offer for the
purchase of Siberia, naming a vast sum.  Since then an episode has warned
me that the method by which I was expecting to acquire this money--
materialization upon a scale of limitless magnitude-is marred by a taint
of temporary uncertainty.  His imperial majesty may accept my offer at
any moment.  If this should occur now, I should find myself painfully
embarrassed, in fact financially inadequate.  I could not take Siberia.
This would become known, and my credit would suffer.

Recently my private hours have been dark indeed, but the sun shines main,
now; I see my way; I shall be able to meet my obligation, and without
having to ask an extension of the stipulated time, I think.  This grand
new idea of mine--the sublimest I have ever conceived, will save me
whole, I am sure.  I am leaving for San Francisco this moment, to test
it, by the help of the great Lick telescope.  Like all of my more notable
discoveries and inventions, it is based upon hard, practical scientific
laws; all other bases are unsound and hence untrustworthy.  In brief,
then, I have conceived the stupendous idea of reorganizing the climates
of the earth according to the desire of the populations interested.
That is to say, I will furnish climates to order, for cash or negotiable
paper, taking the old climates in part payment, of course, at a fair
discount, where they are in condition to be repaired at small cost and
let out for hire to poor and remote communities not able to afford a good
climate and not caring for an expensive one for mere display.  My studies
have convinced me that the regulation of climates and the breeding of new
varieties at will from the old stock is a feasible thing.  Indeed I am
convinced that it has been done before; done in prehistoric times by now
forgotten and unrecorded civilizations.  Everywhere I find hoary
evidences of artificial manipulation of climates in bygone times.  Take
the glacial period.  Was that produced by accident?  Not at all; it was
done for money.  I have a thousand proofs of it, and will some day reveal
them.

I will confide to you an outline of my idea.  It is to utilize the spots
on the sun--get control of them, you understand, and apply the stupendous
energies which they wield to beneficent purposes in the reorganizing of
our climates.  At present they merely make trouble and do harm in the
evoking of cyclones and other kinds of electric storms; but once under
humane and intelligent control this will cease and they will become a
boon to man.

I have my plan all mapped out, whereby I hope and expect to acquire
complete and perfect control of the sun-spots, also details of the method
whereby I shall employ the same commercially; but I will not venture to
go into particulars before the patents shall have been issued.  I shall
hope and expect to sell shop-rights to the minor countries at a
reasonable figure and supply a good business article of climate to the
great empires at special rates, together with fancy brands for
coronations, battles and other great and particular occasions.  There are
billions of money in this enterprise, no expensive plant is required, and
I shall begin to realize in a few days-in a few weeks at furthest.
I shall stand ready to pay cash for Siberia the moment it is delivered,
and thus save my honor and my credit.  I am confident of this.

I would like you to provide a proper outfit and start north as soon as I
telegraph you, be it night or be it day.  I wish you to take up all the
country stretching away from the north pole on all sides for many degrees
south, and buy Greenland and Iceland at the best figure you can get now
while they are cheap.  It is my intention to move one of the tropics up
there and transfer the frigid zone to the equator.  I will have the
entire Arctic Circle in the market as a summer resort next year, and will
use the surplusage of the old climate, over and above what can be
utilized on the equator, to reduce the temperature of opposition resorts.
But I have said enough to give you an idea of the prodigious nature of my
scheme and the feasible and enormously profitable character of it.
I shall join all you happy people in England as soon as I shall have sold
out some of my principal climates and arranged with the Czar about
Siberia.

Meantime, watch for a sign from me.  Eight days from now, we shall be
wide asunder; for I shall be on the border of the Pacific, and you far
out on the Atlantic, approaching England.  That day, if I am alive and my
sublime discovery is proved and established, I will send you greeting,
and my messenger shall deliver it where you are, in the solitudes of the
sea; for I will waft a vast sun-spot across the disk like drifting smoke,
and you will know it for my love-sign, and will say "Mulberry Sellers
throws us a kiss across the universe."






APPENDIX.

WEATHER FOR USE IN THIS BOOK.

Selected from the Best Authorities.

A brief though violent thunderstorm which had raged over the city was
passing away; but still, though the rain had ceased more than an hour
before, wild piles of dark and coppery clouds, in which a fierce and
rayless glow was laboring, gigantically overhung the grotesque and
huddled vista of dwarf houses, while in the distance, sheeting high over
the low, misty confusion of gables and chimneys, spread a pall of dead,
leprous blue, suffused with blotches of dull, glistening yellow, and with
black plague-spots of vapor floating and faint lightnings crinkling on
its surface.  Thunder, still muttering in the close and sultry air, kept
the scared dwellers in the street within, behind their closed shutters;
and all deserted, cowed, dejected, squalid, like poor, stupid, top-heavy
things that had felt the wrath of the summer tempest, stood the drenched
structures on either side of the narrow and crooked way, ghastly and
picturesque, under the giant canopy.  Rain dripped wretchedly in slow
drops of melancholy sound from their projecting eaves upon the broken
flagging, lay there in pools or trickled into the swollen drains, where
the fallen torrent sullenly gurgled on its way to the river.
                              "The Brazen Android."-W.  D.  O'Connor.


          The fiery mid-March sun a moment hung
          Above the bleak Judean wilderness;
          Then darkness swept upon us, and 't was night.
                    "Easter-Eve at Kerak-Moab."--Clinton Scollard.


The quick-coming winter twilight was already at hand.  Snow was again
falling, sifting delicately down, incidentally as it were.
                    "Felicia."  Fanny N. D. Murfree.


Merciful heavens!  The whole west, from right to left, blazes up with a
fierce light, and next instant the earth reels and quivers with the awful
shock of ten thousand batteries of artillery.  It is the signal for the
Fury to spring--for a thousand demons to scream and shriek--for
innumerable serpents of fire to writhe and light up the blackness.

Now the rain falls-now the wind is let loose with a terrible shriek--now
the lightning is so constant that the eyes burn, and the thunder-claps
merge into an awful roar, as did the 800 cannon at Gettysburg.  Crash!
Crash!  Crash!  It is the cottonwood trees falling to earth.  Shriek!
Shriek!  Shriek!  It is the Demon racing along the plain and uprooting
even the blades of grass.  Shock!  Shock!  Shock!  It is the Fury
flinging his fiery bolts into the bosom of the earth.--
                    "The Demon and the Fury."  M. Quad.


Away up the gorge all diurnal fancies trooped into the wide liberties of
endless luminous vistas of azure sunlit mountains beneath the shining
azure heavens.  The sky, looking down in deep blue placidities, only here
and there smote the water to azure emulations of its tint.--
                    "In the Stranger's Country." Charles Egbert Craddock.


There was every indication of a dust-storm, though the sun still shone
brilliantly.  The hot wind had become wild and rampant.  It was whipping
up the sandy coating of the plain in every direction.  High in the air
were seen whirling spires and cones of sand--a curious effect against the
deep-blue sky.  Below, puffs of sand were breaking out of the plain in
every direction, as though the plain were alive with invisible horsemen.
These sandy cloudlets were instantly dissipated by the wind; it was the
larger clouds that were lifted whole into the air, and the larger clouds
of sand were becoming more and more the rule.

Alfred's eye, quickly scanning the horizon, descried the roof of the
boundary-rider's hut still gleaming in the sunlight.  He remembered the
hut well.  It could not be farther than four miles, if as much as that,
from this point of the track.  He also knew these dust-storms of old;
Bindarra was notorious for them: Without thinking twice, Alfred put,
spurs to his horse and headed for the hut.  Before he had ridden half the
distance the detached clouds of sand banded together in one dense
whirlwind, and it was only owing to his horse's instinct that he did not
ride wide of the hut altogether; for during the last half-mile he never
saw the hut, until its outline loomed suddenly over his horse's ears; and
by then the sun was invisible.--
                    "A Bride from the Bush."


It rained forty days and forty nights.--Genesis.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The American Claimant
by Mark Twain






EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Translated from the original MS.

by Mark Twain




[NOTE.--I translated a portion of this diary some years ago, and
a friend of mine printed a few copies in an incomplete form, but
the public never got them.  Since then I have deciphered some more
of Adam's hieroglyphics, and think he has now become sufficiently
important as a public character to justify this publication.--M. T.]


Monday

This new creature with the long hair is a good deal in the way.
It is always hanging around and following me about.  I don't like
this; I am not used to company.  I wish it would stay with the
other animals.  Cloudy to-day, wind in the east; think we shall
have rain.  ...  Where did I get that word? ...  I remember now--
the new creature uses it.

Tuesday

Been examining the great waterfall.  It is the finest thing on the
estate, I think.  The new creature calls it Niagara Falls--why,
I am sure I do not know.  Says it looks like Niagara Falls.  That
is not a reason; it is mere waywardness and imbecility.  I get no
chance to name anything myself.  The new creature names everything
that comes along, before I can get in a protest.  And always that
same pretext is offered--it looks like the thing.  There is the
dodo, for instance.  Says the moment one looks at it one sees at
a glance that it "looks like a dodo."  It will have to keep that
name, no doubt.  It wearies me to fret about it, and it does no
good, anyway.  Dodo! It looks no more like a dodo than I do.

Wednesday

Built me a shelter against the rain, but could not have it to
myself in peace.  The new creature intruded.  When I tried to put
it out it shed water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise such as some of
the other animals make when they are in distress.  I wish it would
not talk; it is always talking.  That sounds like a cheap fling
at the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.  I have never
heard the human voice before, and any new and strange sound
intruding itself here upon the solemn hush of these dreaming
solitudes offends my ear and seems a false note.  And this new
sound is so close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my
ear, first on one side and then on the other, and I am used only
to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday

The naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything I can do.  I
had a very good name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty--
GARDEN-OF-EDEN.  Privately, I continue to call it that, but not
any longer publicly.  The new creature says it is all woods and
rocks and scenery, and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like anything but a
park.  Consequently, without consulting me, it has been new-named--
NIAGARA FALLS PARK.  This is sufficiently high-handed, it seems to
me.  And already there is a sign up:

  KEEP OFF
  THE GRASS

My life is not as happy as it was.

Saturday

The new creature eats too much fruit.  We are going to run short,
most likely.  "We" again--that is its word; mine too, now, from
hearing it so much.  Good deal of fog this morning.  I do not go
out in the fog myself.  The new creature does.  It goes out in
all weathers, and stumps right in with its muddy feet.  And talks.
It used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday

Pulled through.  This day is getting to be more and more trying.
It was selected and set apart last November as a day of rest.  I
already had six of them per week, before.  This morning found the
new creature trying to clod apples out of that forbidden tree.

Monday

The new creature says its name is Eve.  That is all right, I have
no objections.  Says it is to call it by when I want it to come.
I said it was superfluous, then.  The word evidently raised me in
its respect; and indeed it is a large, good word, and will bear
repetition.  It says it is not an It, it is a She.  This is probably
doubtful; yet it is all one to me; what she is were nothing to me
if she would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday

She has littered the whole estate with execrable names and offensive
signs:

THIS WAY TO THE WHIRLPOOL.

THIS WAY TO GOAT ISLAND.

CAVE OF THE WINDS THIS WAY.

She says this park would make a tidy summer resort, if there was
any custom for it.  Summer resort--another invention of hers--just
words, without any meaning.  What is a summer resort? But it is
best not to ask her, she has such a rage for explaining.

Friday

She has taken to beseeching me to stop going over the Falls.  What
harm does it do? Says it makes her shudder.  I wonder why.  I have
always done it--always liked the plunge, and the excitement, and
the coolness.  I supposed it was what the Falls were for.  They
have no other use that I can see, and they must have been made for
something.  She says they were only made for scenery--like the
rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel--not satisfactory to her.  Went
over in a tub--still not satisfactory.  Swam the Whirlpool and the
Rapids in a fig-leaf suit.  It got much damaged.  Hence, tedious
complaints about my extravagance.  I am too much hampered here.
What I need is change of scene.

Saturday

I escaped last Tuesday night, and travelled two days, and built
me another shelter, in a secluded place, and obliterated my tracks
as well as I could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast which
she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came making that pitiful noise
again, and shedding that water out of the places she looks with.
I was obliged to return with her, but will presently emigrate again,
when occasion offers.  She engages herself in many foolish things:
among others, trying to study out why the animals called lions and
tigers live on grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of
teeth they wear would indicate that they were intended to eat each
other.  This is foolish, because to do that would be to kill each
other, and that would introduce what, as I understand it, is called
"death;" and death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park.  Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday

Pulled through.

Monday

I believe I see what the week is for: it is to give time to rest
up from the weariness of Sunday.  It seems a good idea.  ...  She
has been climbing that tree again.  Clodded her out of it.  She
said nobody was looking.  Seems to consider that a sufficient
justification for chancing any dangerous thing.  Told her that.
The word justification moved her admiration--and envy too, I
thought.  It is a good word.

Thursday

She told me she was made out of a rib taken from my body.  This
is at least doubtful, if not more than that.  I have not missed
any rib.  ...  She is in much trouble about the buzzard; says
grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't raise it; thinks
it was intended to live on decayed flesh.  The buzzard must get
along the best it can with what is provided.  We cannot overturn
the whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday

She fell in the pond yesterday, when she was looking at herself
in it, which she is always doing.  She nearly strangled, and said
it was most uncomfortable.  This made her sorry for the creatures
which live in there, which she calls fish, for she continues to
fasten names on to things that don't need them and don't come when
they are called by them, which is a matter of no consequence to
her, as she is such a numskull anyway; so she got a lot of them
out and brought them in last night and put them in my bed to keep
warm, but I have noticed them now and then all day, and I don't
see that they are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter.  When night comes I shall throw them out-doors.  I will
not sleep with them again, for I find them clammy and unpleasant
to lie among when a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday

Pulled through.

Tuesday

She has taken up with a snake now.  The other animals are glad,
for she was always experimenting with them and bothering them;
and I am glad, because the snake talks, and this enables me to
get a rest.

Friday

She says the snake advises her to try the fruit of that tree, and
says the result will be a great and fine and noble education.  I
told her there would be another result, too--it would introduce
death into the world.  That was a mistake--it had been better to
keep the remark to myself; it only gave her an idea--she could
save the sick buzzard, and furnish fresh meat to the despondent
lions and tigers.  I advised her to keep away from the tree.  She
said she wouldn't.  I foresee trouble.  Will emigrate.

Wednesday

I have had a variegated time.  I escaped that night, and rode a
horse all night as fast as he could go, hoping to get clear out of
the Park and hide in some other country before the trouble should
begin; but it was not to be.  About an hour after sunup, as I was
riding through a flowery plain where thousands of animals were
grazing, slumbering, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of frightful noises,
and in one moment the plain was in a frantic commotion and every
beast was destroying its neighbor.  I knew what it meant--Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.  ...  The
tigers ate my horse, paying no attention when I ordered them to
desist,  and they would even have eaten me if I had stayed--which
I didn't, but went away in much haste.  ...  I found this place,
outside the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few days, but
she has found me out.  Found me out, and has named the place
Tonawanda--says it looks like that.  In fact, I was not sorry she
came, for there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought some
of those apples.  I was obliged to eat them, I was so hungry.  It
was against my principles, but I find that principles have no real
force except when one is well fed.  ...  She came curtained in
boughs and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what she meant
by such nonsense, and snatched them away and threw them down, she
tittered and blushed.  I had never seen a person titter and blush
before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.  She said I
would soon know how it was myself.  This was correct.  Hungry as
I was, I laid down the apple half eaten--certainly the best one I
ever saw, considering the lateness of the season--and arrayed
myself in the discarded boughs and branches, and then spoke to her
with some severity and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself.  She did it, and after this we
crept down to where the wild-beast battle had been, and collected
some skins, and I made her patch together a couple of suits proper
for public occasions.  They are uncomfortable, it is true, but
stylish, and that is the main point about clothes.  ...  I find
she is a good deal of a companion.  I see I should be lonesome and
depressed without her, now that I have lost my property.  Another
thing, she says it is ordered that we work for our living hereafter.
She will be useful.  I will superintend.

Ten Days Later

She accuses me of being the cause of our disaster! She says, with
apparent sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.  I said I
was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any chestnuts.  She said
the Serpent informed her that "chestnut" was a figurative term
meaning an aged and mouldy joke.  I turned pale at that, for I
have made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some of them could
have been of that sort, though I had honestly supposed that they
were new when I made them.  She asked me if I had made one just
at the time of the catastrophe.  I was obliged to admit that I had
made one to myself, though not aloud.  It was this.  I was thinking
about the Falls, and I said to myself, "How wonderful it is to see
that vast body of water tumble down there!" Then in an instant a
bright thought flashed into my head, and I let it fly, saying, "It
would be a deal more wonderful to see it tumble up there!"--and I
was just about to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death, and I had to flee for my life.
"There," she said, with triumph, "that is just it; the Serpent
mentioned that very jest, and called it the First Chestnut, and
said it was coeval with the creation."  Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, would that I had never had that
radiant thought!

Next Year

We have named it Cain.  She caught it while I was up country
trapping on the North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber
a couple of miles from our dug-out--or it might have been four,
she isn't certain which.  It resembles us in some ways, and may
be a relation.  That is what she thinks, but this is an error,
in my judgment.  The difference in size warrants the conclusion
that it is a different and new kind of animal--a fish, perhaps,
though when I put it in the water to see, it sank, and she plunged
in and snatched it out before there was opportunity for the
experiment to determine the matter.  I still think it is a fish,
but she is indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try.  I do not understand this.  The coming of the creature
seems to have changed her whole nature and made her unreasonable
about experiments.  She thinks more of it than she does of any of
the other animals, but is not able to explain why.  Her mind is
disordered--everything shows it.  Sometimes she carries the fish
in her arms half the night when it complains and wants to get to
the water.  At such times the water comes out of the places in
her face that she looks out of, and she pats the fish on the back
and makes soft sounds with her mouth to soothe it, and betrays
sorrow and solicitude in a hundred ways.  I have never seen her
do like this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.  She
used to carry the young tigers around so, and play with them,
before we lost our property; but it was only play; she never took
on about them like this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday

She doesn't work Sundays, but lies around all tired out, and likes
to have the fish wallow over her; and she makes fool noises to
amuse it, and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it laugh.
I have not seen a fish before that could laugh.  This makes me
doubt.  ...  I have come to like Sunday myself.  Superintending
all the week tires a body so.  There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they come handy.

Wednesday

It isn't a fish.  I cannot quite make out what it is.  It makes
curious, devilish noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is.  It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk; it is not
a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog, for it doesn't hop;
it is not a snake, for it doesn't crawl; I feel sure it is not a
fish, though I cannot get a chance to find out whether it can swim
or not.  It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with its
feet up.  I have not seen any other animal do that before.  I said
I believed it was an enigma, but she only admired the word without
understanding it.  In my judgment it is either an enigma or some
kind of a bug.  If it dies, I will take it apart and see what its
arrangements are.  I never had a thing perplex me so.

Three Months Later

The perplexity augments instead of diminishing.  I sleep but little.
It has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its four legs
now.  Yet it differs from the other four-legged animals in that
its front legs are unusually short, consequently this causes the
main part of its person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air,
and this is not attractive.  It is built much as we are, but its
method of travelling shows that it is not of our breed.  The short
front legs and long hind ones indicate that it is of the kangaroo
family, but it is a marked variation of the species, since the
true kangaroo hops, whereas this one never does.  Still, it is a
curious and interesting variety, and has not been catalogued before.
As I discovered it, I have felt justified in securing the credit
of the discovery by attaching my name to it, and hence have called
it Kangaroorum Adamiensis.  ...  It must have been a young one
when it came, for it has grown exceedingly since.  It must be five
times as big, now, as it was then, and when discontented is able
to make from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it made
at first.  Coercion does not modify this, but has the contrary
effect.  For this reason I discontinued the system.  She reconciles
it by persuasion, and by giving it things which she had previously
told it she wouldn't give it.  As already observed, I was not at
home when it first came, and she told me she found it in the woods.
It seems odd that it should be the only one, yet it must be so,
for I have worn myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play with; for
surely then it would be quieter, and we could tame it more easily.
But I find none, nor any vestige of any; and strangest of all, no
tracks.  It has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a track? I have
set a dozen traps, but they do no good.  I catch all small animals
except that one; animals that merely go into the trap out of
curiosity, I think, to see what the milk is there for.  They never
drink it.

Three Months Later

The kangaroo still continues to grow, which is very strange and
perplexing.  I never knew one to be so long getting its growth.
It has fur on its head now; not like kangaroo fur, but exactly
like our hair, except that it is much finer and softer, and instead
of being black is red.  I am like to lose my mind over the capricious
and harassing developments of this unclassifiable zoological freak.
If I could catch another one--but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain.  But I caught a true
kangaroo and brought it in, thinking that this one, being lonesome,
would rather have that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy from in its
forlorn condition here among strangers who do not know its ways
or habits, or what to do to make it feel that it is among friends;
but it was a mistake--it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one before.  I
pity the poor noisy little animal, but there is nothing I can do
to make it happy.  If I could tame it--but that is out of the
question; the more I try, the worse I seem to make it.  It grieves
me to the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion.  I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't hear of it.  That
seemed cruel and not like her; and yet she may be right.  It might
be lonelier than ever; for since I cannot find another one, how
could it?

Five Months Later

It is not a kangaroo.  No, for it supports itself by holding to
her finger, and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down.  It is probably some kind of a bear; and yet it has
no tail--as yet--and no fur, except on its head.  It still keeps
on growing--that is a curious circumstance, for bears get their
growth earlier than this.  Bears are dangerous--since our
catastrophe--and I shall not be satisfied to have this one prowling
about the place much longer without a muzzle on.  I have offered
to get her a kangaroo if she would let this one go, but it did no
good--she is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think.  She was not like this before she lost her mind.

A Fortnight Later

I examined its mouth.  There is no danger yet; it has only one
tooth.  It has no tail yet.  It makes more noise now than it ever
did before--and mainly at night.  I have moved out.  But I shall
go over, mornings, to breakfast, and to see if it has more teeth.
If it gets a mouthful of teeth, it will be time for it to go, tail
or no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later

I have been off hunting and fishing a month, up in the region that
she calls Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there.  Meantime the bear has learned to
paddle around all by itself on its hind legs, and says "poppa"
and "momma."  It is certainly a new species.  This resemblance to
words may be purely accidental, of course, and may have no purpose
or meaning; but even in that case it is still extraordinary, and
is a thing which no other bear can do.  This imitation of speech,
taken together with general absence of fur and entire absence of
tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a new kind of bear.  The
further study of it will be exceedingly interesting.  Meantime I
will go off on a far expedition among the forests of the North and
make an exhaustive search.  There must certainly be another one
somewhere, and this one will be less dangerous when it has company
of its own species.  I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this
one first.

Three Months Later

It has been a weary, weary hunt, yet I have had no success.  In
the mean time, without stirring from the home estate, she has
caught another one!  I never saw such luck.  I might have hunted
these woods a hundred years, I never should have run across that
thing.

Next Day

I have been comparing the new one with the old one, and it is
perfectly plain that they are the same breed.  I was going to stuff
one of them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against it
for some reason or other; so I have relinquished the idea, though
I think it is a mistake.  It would be an irreparable loss to science
if they should get away.  The old one is tamer than it was, and
can laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this, no doubt,
from being with the parrot so much, and having the imitative faculty
in a highly developed degree.  I shall be astonished if it turns
out to be a new kind of parrot, and yet I ought not to be astonished,
for it has already been everything else it could think of, since
those first days when it was a fish.  The new one is as ugly now
as the old one was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any fur on it.  She
calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later

They are boys; we found it out long ago.  It was their coming in
that small, immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used to it.
There are some girls now.  Abel is a good boy, but if Cain had
stayed a bear it would have improved him.  After all these years,
I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her.
At first I thought she talked too much; but now I should be sorry
to have that voice fall silent and pass out of my life.  Blessed
be the chestnut that brought us near together and taught me to
know the goodness of her heart and the sweetness of her spirit!





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext Extracts From Adam's Diary, by Twain






IN DEFENSE OF HARRIET SHELLEY

by Mark Twain



I

I have committed sins, of course; but I have not committed enough of them
to entitle me to the punishment of reduction to the bread and water of
ordinary literature during six years when I might have been living on the
fat diet spread for the righteous in Professor Dowden's Life of Shelley,
if I had been justly dealt with.

During these six years I have been living a life of peaceful ignorance.
I was not aware that Shelley's first wife was unfaithful to him, and that
that was why he deserted her and wiped the stain from his sensitive honor
by entering into soiled relations with Godwin's young daughter.  This was
all new to me when I heard it lately, and was told that the proofs of it
were in this book, and that this book's verdict is accepted in the girls'
colleges of America and its view taught in their literary classes.

In each of these six years multitudes of young people in our country have
arrived at the Shelley-reading age.  Are these six multitudes
unacquainted with this life of Shelley?  Perhaps they are; indeed, one
may feel pretty sure that the great bulk of them are.  To these, then, I
address myself, in the hope that some account of this romantic historical
fable and the fabulist's manner of constructing and adorning it may
interest them.

First, as to its literary style.  Our negroes in America have several
ways of entertaining themselves which are not found among the whites
anywhere.  Among these inventions of theirs is one which is particularly
popular with them.  It is a competition in elegant deportment.  They hire
a hall and bank the spectators' seats in rising tiers along the two
sides, leaving all the middle stretch of the floor free.  A cake is
provided as a prize for the winner in the competition, and a bench of
experts in deportment is appointed to award it.  Sometimes there are as
many as fifty contestants, male and female, and five hundred spectators.
One at a time the contestants enter, clothed regardless of expense in
what each considers the perfection of style and taste, and walk down the
vacant central space and back again with that multitude of critical eyes
on them.  All that the competitor knows of fine airs and graces he throws
into his carriage, all that he knows of seductive expression he throws
into his countenance.  He may use all the helps he can devise: watch-
chain to twirl with his fingers, cane to do graceful things with, snowy
handkerchief to flourish and get artful effects out of, shiny new
stovepipe hat to assist in his courtly bows; and the colored lady may
have a fan to work up her effects with, and smile over and blush behind,
and she may add other helps, according to her judgment.  When the review
by individual detail is over, a grand review of all the contestants in
procession follows, with all the airs and graces and all the bowings and
smirkings on exhibition at once, and this enables the bench of experts to
make the necessary comparisons and arrive at a verdict.  The successful
competitor gets the prize which I have before mentioned, and an abundance
of applause and envy along with it.  The negroes have a name for this
grave deportment-tournament; a name taken from the prize contended for.
They call it a Cakewalk.

This Shelley biography is a literary cake-walk.  The ordinary forms of
speech are absent from it.  All the pages, all the paragraphs, walk by
sedately, elegantly, not to say mincingly, in their Sunday-best, shiny
and sleek, perfumed, and with boutonnieres in their button-holes; it is
rare to find even a chance sentence that has forgotten to dress.  If the
book wishes to tell us that Mary Godwin, child of sixteen, had known
afflictions, the fact saunters forth in this nobby outfit: "Mary was
herself not unlearned in the lore of pain"--meaning by that that she had
not always traveled on asphalt; or, as some authorities would frame it,
that she had "been there herself," a form which, while preferable to the
book's form, is still not to be recommended.  If the book wishes to tell
us that Harriet Shelley hired a wet-nurse, that commonplace fact gets
turned into a dancing-master, who does his professional bow before us in
pumps and knee-breeches, with his fiddle under one arm and his crush-hat
under the other, thus: "The beauty of Harriet's motherly relation to her
babe was marred in Shelley's eyes by the introduction into his house of a
hireling nurse to whom was delegated the mother's tenderest office."

This is perhaps the strangest book that has seen the light since
Frankenstein.  Indeed, it is a Frankenstein itself; a Frankenstein with
the original infirmity supplemented by a new one; a Frankenstein with the
reasoning faculty wanting.  Yet it believes it can reason, and is always
trying.  It is not content to leave a mountain of fact standing in the
clear sunshine, where the simplest reader can perceive its form, its
details, and its relation to the rest of the landscape, but thinks it
must help him examine it and understand it; so its drifting mind settles
upon it with that intent, but always with one and the same result: there
is a change of temperature and the mountain is hid in a fog.  Every time
it sets up a premise and starts to reason from it, there is a surprise in
store for the reader.  It is strangely nearsighted, cross-eyed, and
purblind.  Sometimes when a mastodon walks across the field of its vision
it takes it for a rat; at other times it does not see it at all.

The materials of this biographical fable are facts, rumors, and poetry.
They are connected together and harmonized by the help of suggestion,
conjecture, innuendo, perversion, and semi-suppression.

The fable has a distinct object in view, but this object is not
acknowledged in set words.  Percy Bysshe Shelley has done something which
in the case of other men is called a grave crime; it must be shown that
in his case it is not that, because he does not think as other men do
about these things.

Ought not that to be enough, if the fabulist is serious?  Having proved
that a crime is not a crime, was it worth while to go on and fasten the
responsibility of a crime which was not a crime upon somebody else?  What
is the use of hunting down and holding to bitter account people who are
responsible for other people's innocent acts?

Still, the fabulist thinks it a good idea to do that.  In his view
Shelley's first wife, Harriet, free of all offense as far as we have
historical facts for guidance, must be held unforgivably responsible for
her husband's innocent act in deserting her and taking up with another
woman.

Any one will suspect that this task has its difficulties.  Any one will
divine that nice work is necessary here, cautious work, wily work, and
that there is entertainment to be had in watching the magician do it.
There is indeed entertainment in watching him.  He arranges his facts,
his rumors, and his poems on his table in full view of the house, and
shows you that everything is there--no deception, everything fair and
above board.  And this is apparently true, yet there is a defect, for
some of his best stock is hid in an appendix-basket behind the door, and
you do not come upon it until the exhibition is over and the enchantment
of your mind accomplished--as the magician thinks.

There is an insistent atmosphere of candor and fairness about this book
which is engaging at first, then a little burdensome, then a trifle
fatiguing, then progressively suspicious, annoying, irritating, and
oppressive.  It takes one some little time to find out that phrases which
seem intended to guide the reader aright are there to mislead him; that
phrases which seem intended to throw light are there to throw darkness;
that phrases which seem intended to interpret a fact are there to
misinterpret it; that phrases which seem intended to forestall prejudice
are there to create it; that phrases which seem antidotes are poisons in
disguise.  The naked facts arrayed in the book establish Shelley's guilt
in that one episode which disfigures his otherwise superlatively lofty
and beautiful life; but the historian's careful and methodical
misinterpretation of them transfers the responsibility to the wife's
shoulders as he persuades himself.  The few meagre facts of Harriet
Shelley's life, as furnished by the book, acquit her of offense; but by
calling in the forbidden helps of rumor, gossip, conjecture, insinuation,
and innuendo he destroys her character and rehabilitates Shelley's--as he
believes.  And in truth his unheroic work has not been barren of the
results he aimed at; as witness the assertion made to me that girls in
the colleges of America are taught that Harriet Shelley put a stain upon
her husband's honor, and that that was what stung him into repurifying
himself by deserting her and his child and entering into scandalous
relations with a school-girl acquaintance of his.

If that assertion is true, they probably use a reduction of this work in
those colleges, maybe only a sketch outlined from it.  Such a thing as
that could be harmful and misleading.  They ought to cast it out and put
the whole book in its place.  It would not deceive.  It would not deceive
the janitor.

All of this book is interesting on account of the sorcerer's methods and
the attractiveness of some of his characters and the repulsiveness of the
rest, but no part of it is so much so as are the chapters wherein he
tries to think he thinks he sets forth the causes which led to Shelley's
desertion of his wife in 1814.

Harriet Westbrook was a school-girl sixteen years old.  Shelley was
teeming with advanced thought.  He believed that Christianity was a
degrading and selfish superstition, and he had a deep and sincere desire
to rescue one of his sisters from it.  Harriet was impressed by his
various philosophies and looked upon him as an intellectual wonder--
which indeed he was.  He had an idea that she could give him valuable
help in his scheme regarding his sister; therefore he asked her to
correspond with him.  She was quite willing.  Shelley was not thinking of
love, for he was just getting over a passion for his cousin, Harriet
Grove, and just getting well steeped in one for Miss Hitchener, a school-
teacher.  What might happen to Harriet Westbrook before the letter-
writing was ended did not enter his mind.  Yet an older person could have
made a good guess at it, for in person Shelley was as beautiful as an
angel, he was frank, sweet, winning, unassuming, and so rich in
unselfishness, generosities, and magnanimities that he made his whole
generation seem poor in these great qualities by comparison.  Besides,
he was in distress.  His college had expelled him for writing an
atheistical pamphlet and afflicting the reverend heads of the university
with it, his rich father and grandfather had closed their purses against
him, his friends were cold.  Necessarily, Harriet fell in love with him;
and so deeply, indeed, that there was no way for Shelley to save her from
suicide but to marry her.  He believed himself to blame for this state of
things, so the marriage took place.  He was pretty fairly in love with
Harriet, although he loved Miss Hitchener better.  He wrote and explained
the case to Miss Hitchener after the wedding, and he could not have been
franker or more naive and less stirred up about the circumstance if the
matter in issue had been a commercial transaction involving thirty-five
dollars.

Shelley was nineteen.  He was not a youth, but a man.  He had never had
any youth.  He was an erratic and fantastic child during eighteen years,
then he stepped into manhood, as one steps over a door-sill.  He was
curiously mature at nineteen in his ability to do independent thinking
on the deep questions of life and to arrive at sharply definite decisions
regarding them, and stick to them--stick to them and stand by them at
cost of bread, friendships, esteem, respect, and approbation.

For the sake of his opinions he was willing to sacrifice all these
valuable things, and did sacrifice them; and went on doing it, too, when
he could at any moment have made himself rich and supplied himself with
friends and esteem by compromising with his father, at the moderate
expense of throwing overboard one or two indifferent details of his cargo
of principles.

He and Harriet eloped to Scotland and got married.  They took lodgings in
Edinburgh of a sort answerable to their purse, which was about empty, and
there their life was a happy, one and grew daily more so.  They had only
themselves for company, but they needed no additions to it.  They were as
cozy and contented as birds in a nest.  Harriet sang evenings or read
aloud; also she studied and tried to improve her mind, her husband
instructing her in Latin.  She was very beautiful, she was modest, quiet,
genuine, and, according to her husband's testimony, she had no fine lady
airs or aspirations about her.  In Matthew Arnold's judgment, she was
"a pleasing figure."

The pair remained five weeks in Edinburgh, and then took lodgings in
York, where Shelley's college mate, Hogg, lived.  Shelley presently ran
down to London, and Hogg took this opportunity to make love to the young
wife.  She repulsed him, and reported the fact to her husband when he got
back.  It seems a pity that Shelley did not copy this creditable conduct
of hers some time or other when under temptation, so that we might have
seen the author of his biography hang the miracle in the skies and squirt
rainbows at it.

At the end of the first year of marriage--the most trying year for any
young couple, for then the mutual failings are coming one by one to
light, and the necessary adjustments are being made in pain and
tribulation--Shelley was able to recognize that his marriage venture had
been a safe one.  As we have seen, his love for his wife had begun in a
rather shallow way and with not much force, but now it was become deep
and strong, which entitles his wife to a broad credit mark, one may
admit.  He addresses a long and loving poem to her, in which both passion
and worship appear:

Exhibit A

                                        "O thou
          Whose dear love gleamed upon the gloomy path
          Which this lone spirit travelled,
          . . . . . . . . . . . . .
          . . .  wilt thou not turn
          Those spirit-beaming eyes and look on me.
          Until I be assured that Earth is Heaven
          And Heaven is Earth?
           . . . . . . . .
          Harriet! let death all mortal ties dissolve,
          But ours shall not be mortal."


Shelley also wrote a sonnet to her in August of this same year in
celebration of her birthday:

Exhibit B

         "Ever as now with hove and Virtue's glow
          May thy unwithering soul not cease to burn,
          Still may thine heart with those pure thoughts o'erflow
          Which force from mine such quick and warm return."


Was the girl of seventeen glad and proud and happy?  We may conjecture
that she was.

That was the year 1812.  Another year passed still happily, still
successfully--a child was born in June, 1813, and in September, three
months later, Shelley addresses a poem to this child, Ianthe, in which he
points out just when the little creature is most particularly dear to
him:

Exhibit C

          "Dearest when most thy tender traits express
          The image of thy mother's loveliness."


Up to this point the fabulist counsel for Shelley and prosecutor of his
young wife has had easy sailing, but now his trouble begins, for Shelley
is getting ready to make some unpleasant history for himself, and it will
be necessary to put the blame of it on the wife.

Shelley had made the acquaintance of a charming gray-haired, young-
hearted Mrs. Boinville, whose face "retained a certain youthful beauty";
she lived at Bracknell, and had a young daughter named Cornelia Turner,
who was equipped with many fascinations.  Apparently these people were
sufficiently sentimental.  Hogg says of Mrs. Boinville:

          "The greater part of her associates were odious.  I generally
          found there two or three sentimental young butchers, an
          eminently philosophical tinker, and several very
          unsophisticated medical practitioners or medical students, all
          of low origin and vulgar and offensive manners.  They sighed,
          turned up their eyes, retailed philosophy, such as it was,"
          etc.

Shelley moved to Bracknell, July 27th (this is still 1813) purposely to
be near this unwholesome prairie-dogs' nest.  The fabulist says: "It was
the entrance into a world more amiable and exquisite than he had yet
known."

"In this acquaintance the attraction was mutual"--and presently it grew
to be very mutual indeed, between Shelley and Cornelia Turner, when they
got to studying the Italian poets together.  Shelley, "responding like a
tremulous instrument to every breath of passion or of sentiment," had his
chance here.  It took only four days for Cornelia's attractions to begin
to dim Harriet's.  Shelley arrived on the 27th of July; on the 31st he
wrote a sonnet to Harriet in which "one detects already the little rift
in the lover's lute which had seemed to be healed or never to have gaped
at all when the later and happier sonnet to Ianthe was written"--in
September, we remember:

Exhibit D

          "EVENING.  TO HARRIET

          "O thou bright Sun!  Beneath the dark blue line
          Of western distance that sublime descendest,
          And, gleaming lovelier as thy beams decline,
          Thy million hues to every vapor lendest,
          And over cobweb, lawn, and grove, and stream
          Sheddest the liquid magic of thy light,
          Till calm Earth, with the parting splendor bright,
          Shows like the vision of a beauteous dream;
          What gazer now with astronomic eye
          Could coldly count the spots within thy sphere?
          Such were thy lover, Harriet, could he fly
          The thoughts of all that makes his passion dear,
          And turning senseless from thy warm caress
          Pick flaws in our close-woven happiness."


I cannot find the "rift"; still it may be there.  What the poem seems to
say is, that a person would be coldly ungrateful who could consent to
count and consider little spots and flaws in such a warm, great,
satisfying sun as Harriet is.  It is a "little rift which had seemed to
be healed, or never to have gaped at all."  That is, "one detects" a
little rift which perhaps had never existed.  How does one do that?
How does one see the invisible?  It is the fabulist's secret; he knows
how to detect what does not exist, he knows how to see what is not
seeable; it is his gift, and he works it many a time to poor dead Harriet
Shelley's deep damage.

"As yet, however, if there was a speck upon Shelley's happiness it was no
more than a speck"--meaning the one which one detects where "it may never
have gaped at all"--"nor had Harriet cause for discontent."

Shelley's Latin instructions to his wife had ceased.  "From a teacher he
had now become a pupil."  Mrs. Boinville and her young married daughter
Cornelia were teaching him Italian poetry; a fact which warns one to
receive with some caution that other statement that Harriet had no
"cause for discontent."

Shelley had stopped instructing Harriet in Latin, as before mentioned.
The biographer thinks that the busy life in London some time back, and
the intrusion of the baby, account for this.  These were hindrances, but
were there no others?  He is always overlooking a detail here and there
that might be valuable in helping us understand a situation.  For
instance, when a man has been hard at work at the Italian poets with a
pretty woman, hour after hour, and responding like a tremulous instrument
to every breath of passion or of sentiment in the meantime, that man is
dog-tired when he gets home, and he can't teach his wife Latin; it would
be unreasonable to expect it.

Up to this time we have submitted to having Mrs. Boinville pushed upon
us as ostensibly concerned in these Italian lessons, but the biographer
drops her now, of his own accord.  Cornelia "perhaps" is sole teacher.
Hogg says she was a prey to a kind of sweet melancholy, arising from
causes purely imaginary; she required consolation, and found it in
Petrarch.  He also says, "Bysshe entered at once fully into her views and
caught the soft infection, breathing the tenderest and sweetest
melancholy, as every true poet ought."

Then the author of the book interlards a most stately and fine compliment
to Cornelia, furnished by a man of approved judgment who knew her well
"in later years."  It is a very good compliment indeed, and she no doubt
deserved it in her "later years," when she had for generations ceased to
be sentimental and lackadaisical, and was no longer engaged in enchanting
young husbands and sowing sorrow for young wives.  But why is that
compliment to that old gentlewoman intruded there?  Is it to make the
reader believe she was well-chosen and safe society for a young,
sentimental husband?  The biographer's device was not well planned.  That
old person was not present--it was her other self that was there, her
young, sentimental, melancholy, warm-blooded self, in those early sweet
times before antiquity had cooled her off and mossed her back.

"In choosing for friends such women as Mrs. Newton, Mrs. Boinville, and
Cornelia Turner, Shelley gave good proof of his insight and
discrimination."  That is the fabulist's opinion--Harriet Shelley's is
not reported.

Early in August, Shelley was in London trying to raise money.  In
September he wrote the poem to the baby, already quoted from.  In
the first week of October Shelley and family went to Warwick, then
to Edinburgh, arriving there about the middle of the month.

"Harriet was happy."  Why?  The author furnishes a reason, but hides from
us whether it is history or conjecture; it is because "the babe had borne
the journey well."  It has all the aspect of one of his artful devices--
flung in in his favorite casual way--the way he has when he wants to draw
one's attention away from an obvious thing and amuse it with some trifle
that is less obvious but more useful--in a history like this.  The
obvious thing is, that Harriet was happy because there was much territory
between her husband and Cornelia Turner now; and because the perilous
Italian lessons were taking a rest; and because, if there chanced to be
any respondings like a tremulous instrument to every breath of passion or
of sentiment in stock in these days, she might hope to get a share of
them herself; and because, with her husband liberated, now, from the
fetid fascinations of that sentimental retreat so pitilessly described by
Hogg, who also dubbed it "Shelley's paradise" later, she might hope to
persuade him to stay away from it permanently; and because she might also
hope that his brain would cool, now, and his heart become healthy, and
both brain and heart consider the situation and resolve that it would be
a right and manly thing to stand by this girl-wife and her child and see
that they were honorably dealt with, and cherished and protected and
loved by the man that had promised these things, and so be made happy and
kept so.  And because, also--may we conjecture this?--we may hope for
the privilege of taking up our cozy Latin lessons again, that used to be
so pleasant, and brought us so near together--so near, indeed, that often
our heads touched, just as heads do over Italian lessons; and our hands
met in casual and unintentional, but still most delicious and thrilling
little contacts and momentary clasps, just as they inevitably do over
Italian lessons.  Suppose one should say to any young wife: "I find that
your husband is poring over the Italian poets and being instructed in the
beautiful Italian language by the lovely Cornelia Robinson"--would that
cozy picture fail to rise before her mind? would its possibilities fail
to suggest themselves to her? would there be a pang in her heart and a
blush on her face? or, on the contrary, would the remark give her
pleasure, make her joyous and gay?  Why, one needs only to make the
experiment--the result will not be uncertain.

However, we learn--by authority of deeply reasoned and searching
conjecture--that the baby bore the journey well, and that that was why
the young wife was happy.  That accounts for two per cent. of the
happiness, but it was not right to imply that it accounted for the other
ninety-eight also.

Peacock, a scholar, poet, and friend of the Shelleys, was of their party
when they went away.  He used to laugh at the Boinville menagerie, and
"was not a favorite."  One of the Boinville group, writing to Hogg, said,
"The Shelleys have made an addition to their party in the person of a
cold scholar, who, I think, has neither taste nor feeling.  This, Shelley
will perceive sooner or later, for his warm nature craves sympathy."
True, and Shelley will fight his way back there to get it--there will be
no way to head him off.

Towards the end of November it was necessary for Shelley to pay a
business visit to London, and he conceived the project of leaving Harriet
and the baby in Edinburgh with Harriet's sister, Eliza Westbrook,
a sensible, practical maiden lady about thirty years old, who had spent
a great part of her time with the family since the marriage.  She was
an estimable woman, and Shelley had had reason to like her, and did like
her; but along about this time his feeling towards her changed.  Part of
Shelley's plan, as he wrote Hogg, was to spend his London evenings with
the Newtons--members of the Boinville Hysterical Society.  But, alas,
when he arrived early in December, that pleasant game was partially
blocked, for Eliza and the family arrived with him.  We are left
destitute of conjectures at this point by the biographer, and it is my
duty to supply one.  I chance the conjecture that it was Eliza who
interfered with that game.  I think she tried to do what she could
towards modifying the Boinville connection, in the interest of her young
sister's peace and honor.

If it was she who blocked that game, she was not strong enough to block
the next one.  Before the month and year were out--no date given, let us
call it Christmas--Shelley and family were nested in a furnished house in
Windsor, "at no great distance from the Boinvilles"--these decoys still
residing at Bracknell.

What we need, now, is a misleading conjecture.  We get it with
characteristic promptness and depravity:

          "But Prince Athanase found not the aged Zonoras, the friend of
          his boyhood, in any wanderings to Windsor.  Dr. Lind had died
          a year since, and with his death Windsor must have lost, for
          Shelley, its chief attraction."

Still, not to mention Shelley's wife, there was Bracknell, at any rate.
While Bracknell remains, all solace is not lost.  Shelley is represented
by this biographer as doing a great many careless things, but to my mind
this hiring a furnished house for three months in order to be with a man
who has been dead a year, is the carelessest of them all.  One feels for
him--that is but natural, and does us honor besides--yet one is vexed,
for all that.  He could have written and asked about the aged Zonoras
before taking the house.  He may not have had the address, but that is
nothing--any postman would know the aged Zonoras; a dead postman would
remember a name like that.

And yet, why throw a rag like this to us ravening wolves?  Is it
seriously supposable that we will stop to chew it and let our prey
escape?  No, we are getting to expect this kind of device, and to give it
merely a sniff for certainty's sake and then walk around it and leave it
lying.  Shelley was not after the aged Zonoras; he was pointed for
Cornelia and the Italian lessons, for his warm nature was craving
sympathy.


II

The year 1813 is just ended now, and we step into 1814.

To recapitulate, how much of Cornelia's society has Shelley had, thus
far?  Portions of August and September, and four days of July.  That is
to say, he has had opportunity to enjoy it, more or less, during that
brief period.  Did he want some more of it?  We must fall back upon
history, and then go to conjecturing.

          "In the early part of the year 1814, Shelley was a frequent
          visitor at Bracknell."

"Frequent" is a cautious word, in this author's mouth; the very
cautiousness of it, the vagueness of it, provokes suspicion; it makes one
suspect that this frequency was more frequent than the mere common
everyday kinds of frequency which one is in the habit of averaging up
with the unassuming term "frequent."  I think so because they fixed up a
bedroom for him in the Boinville house.  One doesn't need a bedroom if
one is only going to run over now and then in a disconnected way to
respond like a tremulous instrument to every breath of passion or of
sentiment and rub up one's Italian poetry a little.

The young wife was not invited, perhaps.  If she was, she most certainly
did not come, or she would have straightened the room up; the most
ignorant of us knows that a wife would not endure a room in the condition
in which Hogg found this one when he occupied it one night.  Shelley was
away--why, nobody can divine.  Clothes were scattered about, there were
books on every side: "Wherever a book could be laid was an open book
turned down on its face to keep its place."  It seems plain that the wife
was not invited.  No, not that; I think she was invited, but said to
herself that she could not bear to go there and see another young woman
touching heads with her husband over an Italian book and making thrilling
hand-contacts with him accidentally.

As remarked, he was a frequent visitor there, "where he found an easeful
resting-place in the house of Mrs. Boinville--the white-haired Maimuna--
and of her daughter, Mrs. Turner."  The aged Zonoras was deceased, but
the white-haired Maimuna was still on deck, as we see.  "Three charming
ladies entertained the mocker (Hogg) with cups of tea, late hours,
Wieland's Agathon, sighs and smiles, and the celestial manna of refined
sentiment."

"Such," says Hogg, "were the delights of Shelley's paradise in
Bracknell."

The white-haired Maimuna presently writes to Hogg:

          "I will not have you despise home-spun pleasures.  Shelley is
          making a trial of them with us--"

A trial of them.  It may be called that.  It was March 11, and he had
been in the house a month.  She continues:

          Shelley "likes then so well that he is resolved to leave off
          rambling--"

But he has already left it off.  He has been there a month.

          "And begin a course of them himself."

But he has already begun it.  He has been at it a month.  He likes it so
well that he has forgotten all about his wife, as a letter of his
reveals.

          "Seriously, I think his mind and body want rest."

Yet he has been resting both for a month, with Italian, and tea, and
manna of sentiment, and late hours, and every restful thing a young
husband could need for the refreshment of weary limbs and a sore
conscience, and a nagging sense of shabbiness and treachery.

          "His journeys after what he has never found have racked his
          purse and his tranquillity.  He is resolved to take a little
          care of the former, in pity to the latter, which I applaud, and
          shall second with all, my might."

But she does not say whether the young wife, a stranger and lonely
yonder, wants another woman and her daughter Cornelia to be lavishing so
much inflamed interest on her husband or not.  That young wife is always
silent--we are never allowed to hear from her.  She must have opinions
about such things, she cannot be indifferent, she must be approving or
disapproving, surely she would speak if she were allowed--even to-day and
from her grave she would, if she could, I think--but we get only the
other side, they keep her silent always.

          "He has deeply interested us.  In the course of your intimacy
          he must have made you feel what we now feel for him.  He is
          seeking a house close to us--"

Ah! he is not close enough yet, it seems--

          "and if he succeeds we shall have an additional motive to
          induce you to come among us in the summer."

The reader would puzzle a long time and not guess the biographer's
comment upon the above letter.  It is this:

          "These sound like words of s considerate and judicious friend."

That is what he thinks.  That is, it is what he thinks he thinks.  No,
that is not quite it: it is what he thinks he can stupefy a particularly
and unspeakably dull reader into thinking it is what he thinks.  He makes
that comment with the knowledge that Shelley is in love with this woman's
daughter, and that it is because of the fascinations of these two that
Shelley has deserted his wife--for this month, considering all the
circumstances, and his new passion, and his employment of the time,
amounted to desertion; that is its rightful name.  We cannot know how the
wife regarded it and felt about it; but if she could have read the letter
which Shelley was writing to Hogg four or five days later, we could guess
her thought and how she felt.  Hear him:
          . . . . . . .
          "I have been staying with Mrs. Boinville for the last month;
          I have escaped, in the society of all that philosophy and
          friendship combine, from the dismaying solitude of myself."

It is fair to conjecture that he was feeling ashamed.

          "They have revived in my heart the expiring flame of life.
          I have felt myself translated to a paradise which has nothing
          of mortality but its transitoriness; my heart sickens at the
          view of that necessity which will quickly divide me from the
          delightful tranquillity of this happy home--for it has become
          my home.
          . . . . . . .
          "Eliza is still with us--not here!--but will be with me when
          the infinite malice of destiny forces me to depart."

Eliza is she who blocked that game--the game in London--the one where we
were purposing to dine every night with one of the "three charming
ladies" who fed tea and manna and late hours to Hogg at Bracknell.

Shelley could send Eliza away, of course; could have cleared her out long
ago if so minded, just as he had previously done with a predecessor of
hers whom he had first worshipped and then turned against; but perhaps
she was useful there as a thin excuse for staying away himself.

          "I am now but little inclined to contest this point.
          I certainly hate her with all my heart and soul .  .  .  .

          "It is a sight which awakens an inexpressible sensation of
          disgust and horror, to see her caress my poor little Ianthe,
          in whom I may hereafter find the consolation of sympathy.
          I sometimes feel faint with the fatigue of checking the
          overflowings of my unbounded abhorrence for this miserable
          wretch.  But she is no more than a blind and loathsome worm,
          that cannot see to sting.

          "I have begun to learn Italian again .  .  .  .  Cornelia
          assists me in this language.  Did I not once tell you that I
          thought her cold and reserved?  She is the reverse of this, as
          she is the reverse of everything bad.  She inherits all the
          divinity of her mother .  .  .  .  I have sometimes forgotten
          that I am not an inmate of this delightful home--that a time
          will come which will cast me again into the boundless ocean of
          abhorred society.

          "I have written nothing but one stanza, which has no meaning,
          and that I have only written in thought:

                    "Thy dewy looks sink in my breast;
                    Thy gentle words stir poison there;
                    Thou hast disturbed the only rest
                    That was the portion of despair.
                    Subdued to duty's hard control,
                    I could have borne my wayward lot:
                    The chains that bind this rained soul
                    Had cankered then, but crushed it not.

          "This is the vision of a delirious and distempered dream, which
          passes away at the cold clear light of morning.  Its surpassing
          excellence and exquisite perfections have no more reality than
          the color of an autumnal sunset."

Then it did not refer to his wife.  That is plain; otherwise he would
have said so.  It is well that he explained that it has no meaning, for
if he had not done that, the previous soft references to Cornelia and the
way he has come to feel about her now would make us think she was the
person who had inspired it while teaching him how to read the warm and
ruddy Italian poets during a month.

The biography observes that portions of this letter "read like the tired
moaning of a wounded creature."  Guesses at the nature of the wound are
permissible; we will hazard one.

Read by the light of Shelley's previous history, his letter seems to be
the cry of a tortured conscience.  Until this time it was a conscience
that had never felt a pang or known a smirch.  It was the conscience of
one who, until this time, had never done a dishonorable thing, or an
ungenerous, or cruel, or treacherous thing, but was now doing all of
these, and was keenly aware of it.  Up to this time Shelley had been
master of his nature, and it was a nature which was as beautiful and as
nearly perfect as any merely human nature may be.  But he was drunk now,
with a debasing passion, and was not himself.  There is nothing in his
previous history that is in character with the Shelley of this letter.
He had done boyish things, foolish things, even crazy things, but never
a thing to be ashamed of.  He had done things which one might laugh at,
but the privilege of laughing was limited always to the thing itself;
you could not laugh at the motive back of it--that was high, that was
noble.  His most fantastic and quixotic acts had a purpose back of them
which made them fine, often great, and made the rising laugh seem
profanation and quenched it; quenched it, and changed the impulse to
homage.

Up to this time he had been loyalty itself, where his obligations lay--
treachery was new to him; he had never done an ignoble thing--baseness
was new to him; he had never done an unkind thing that also was new to
him.

This was the author of that letter, this was the man who had deserted his
young wife and was lamenting, because he must leave another woman's house
which had become a "home" to him, and go away.  Is he lamenting mainly
because he must go back to his wife and child?  No, the lament is mainly
for what he is to leave behind him.  The physical comforts of the house?
No, in his life he had never attached importance to such things.  Then
the thing which he grieves to leave is narrowed down to a person--to the
person whose "dewy looks" had sunk into his breast, and whose seducing
words had "stirred poison there."

He was ashamed of himself, his conscience was upbraiding him.  He was the
slave of a degrading love; he was drunk with his passion, the real
Shelley was in temporary eclipse.  This is the verdict which his previous
history must certainly deliver upon this episode, I think.

One must be allowed to assist himself with conjectures like these when
trying to find his way through a literary swamp which has so many
misleading finger-boards up as this book is furnished with.

We have now arrived at a part of the swamp where the difficulties and
perplexities are going to be greater than any we have yet met with--
where, indeed, the finger-boards are multitudinous, and the most of them
pointing diligently in the wrong direction.  We are to be told by the
biography why Shelley deserted his wife and child and took up with
Cornelia Turner and Italian.  It was not on account of Cornelia's sighs
and sentimentalities and tea and manna and late hours and soft and sweet
and industrious enticements; no, it was because "his happiness in his
home had been wounded and bruised almost to death."

It had been wounded and bruised almost to death in this way:

1st.  Harriet persuaded him to set up a carriage.

2d.  After the intrusion of the baby, Harriet stopped reading aloud and
studying.

3d.  Harriet's walks with Hogg "commonly conducted us to some fashionable
bonnet-shop."

4th.  Harriet hired a wet-nurse.

5th.  When an operation was being performed upon the baby, "Harriet stood
by, narrowly observing all that was done, but, to the astonishment of the
operator, betraying not the smallest sign of emotion."

6th.  Eliza Westbrook, sister-in-law, was still of the household.

The evidence against Harriet Shelley is all in; there is no more.  Upon
these six counts she stands indicted of the crime of driving her husband
into that sty at Bracknell; and this crime, by these helps, the
biographical prosecuting attorney has set himself the task of proving
upon her.

Does the biographer call himself the attorney for the prosecution?
No, only to himself, privately; publicly he is the passionless,
disinterested, impartial judge on the bench.  He holds up his judicial
scales before the world, that all may see; and it all tries to look so
fair that a blind person would sometimes fail to see him slip the false
weights in.

Shelley's happiness in his home had been wounded and bruised almost to
death, first, because Harriet had persuaded him to set up a carriage.
I cannot discover that any evidence is offered that she asked him to set
up a carriage.  Still, if she did, was it a heavy offence?  Was it
unique?  Other young wives had committed it before, others have committed
it since.  Shelley had dearly loved her in those London days; possibly he
set up the carriage gladly to please her; affectionate young husbands do
such things.  When Shelley ran away with another girl, by-and-by, this
girl persuaded him to pour the price of many carriages and many horses
down the bottomless well of her father's debts, but this impartial judge
finds no fault with that.  Once she appeals to Shelley to raise money--
necessarily by borrowing, there was no other way--to pay her father's
debts with at a time when Shelley was in danger of being arrested and
imprisoned for his own debts; yet the good judge finds no fault with her
even for this.

First and last, Shelley emptied into that rapacious mendicant's lap a sum
which cost him--for he borrowed it at ruinous rates--from eighty to one
hundred thousand dollars.  But it was Mary Godwin's papa, the
supplications were often sent through Mary, the good judge is Mary's
strenuous friend, so Mary gets no censures.  On the Continent Mary rode
in her private carriage, built, as Shelley boasts, "by one of the best
makers in Bond Street, "yet the good judge makes not even a passing
comment on this iniquity.  Let us throw out Count No. 1 against Harriet
Shelley as being far-fetched, and frivolous.

Shelley's happiness in his home had been wounded and bruised almost to
death, secondly, because Harriet's studies "had dwindled away to nothing,
Bysshe had ceased to express any interest in them."  At what time was
this?  It was when Harriet "had fully recovered from the fatigue of her
first effort of maternity,.  .  .  and was now in full force, vigor, and
effect."  Very well, the baby was born two days before the close of June.
It took the mother a month to get back her full force, vigor, and effect;
this brings us to July 27th and the deadly Cornelia.  If a wife of
eighteen is studying with her husband and he gets smitten with another
woman, isn't he likely to lose interest in his wife's studies for that
reason, and is not his wife's interest in her studies likely to languish
for the same reason?  Would not the mere sight of those books of hers
sharpen the pain that is in her heart?  This sudden breaking down of a
mutual intellectual interest of two years' standing is coincident with
Shelley's re-encounter with Cornelia; and we are allowed to gather from
that time forth for nearly two months he did all his studying in that
person's society.  We feel at liberty to rule out Count No. 2 from the
indictment against Harriet.

Shelley's happiness in his home had been wounded and bruised almost to
death, thirdly, because Harriet's walks with Hogg commonly led to some
fashionable bonnet-shop.  I offer no palliation; I only ask why the
dispassionate, impartial judge did not offer one himself--merely, I mean,
to offset his leniency in a similar case or two where the girl who ran
away with Harriet's husband was the shopper.  There are several occasions
where she interested herself with shopping--among them being walks which
ended at the bonnet-shop--yet in none of these cases does she get a word
of blame from the good judge, while in one of them he covers the deed
with a justifying remark, she doing the shopping that time to find
easement for her mind, her child having died.

Shelley's happiness in his home had been wounded and bruised almost to
death, fourthly, by the introduction there of a wet-nurse.  The wet-nurse
was introduced at the time of the Edinburgh sojourn, immediately after
Shelley had been enjoying the two months of study with Cornelia which
broke up his wife's studies and destroyed his personal interest in them.
Why, by this time, nothing that Shelley's wife could do would have been
satisfactory to him, for he was in love with another woman, and was never
going to be contented again until he got back to her.  If he had been
still in love with his wife it is not easily conceivable that he would
care much who nursed the baby, provided the baby was well nursed.
Harriet's jealousy was assuredly voicing itself now, Shelley's conscience
was assuredly nagging him, pestering him, persecuting him.  Shelley
needed excuses for his altered attitude towards his wife; Providence
pitied him and sent the wet-nurse.  If Providence had sent him a cotton
doughnut it would have answered just as well; all he wanted was something
to find fault with.

Shelley's happiness in his home had been wounded and bruised almost to
death, fifthly, because Harriet narrowly watched a surgical operation
which was being performed upon her child, and, "to the astonishment of
the operator," who was watching Harriet instead of attending to his
operation, she betrayed "not the smallest sign of emotion."  The author
of this biography was not ashamed to set down that exultant slander.
He was apparently not aware that it was a small business to bring into
his court a witness whose name he does not know, and whose character and
veracity there is none to vouch for, and allow him to strike this blow at
the mother-heart of this friendless girl.  The biographer says, "We may
not infer from this that Harriet did not feel"--why put it in, then?--
"but we learn that those about her could believe her to be hard and
insensible."  Who were those who were about her?  Her husband?  He hated
her now, because he was in love elsewhere.  Her sister?  Of course that
is not charged.  Peacock?  Peacock does not testify.  The wet-nurse?  She
does not testify.  If any others were there we have no mention of them.
"Those about her" are reduced to one person--her husband.  Who reports
the circumstance?  It is Hogg.  Perhaps he was there--we do not know.
But if he was, he still got his information at second-hand, as it was the
operator who noticed Harriet's lack of emotion, not himself.  Hogg is not
given to saying kind things when Harriet is his subject.  He may have
said them the time that he tried to tempt her to soil her honor, but
after that he mentions her usually with a sneer.  "Among those who were
about her" was one witness well equipped to silence all tongues, abolish
all doubts, set our minds at rest; one witness, not called, and not
callable, whose evidence, if we could but get it, would outweigh the
oaths of whole battalions of hostile Hoggs and nameless surgeons--the
baby.  I wish we had the baby's testimony; and yet if we had it it would
not do us any good--a furtive conjecture, a sly insinuation, a pious
"if" or two, would be smuggled in, here and there, with a solemn air of
judicial investigation, and its positiveness would wilt into dubiety.

The biographer says of Harriet, "If words of tender affection and
motherly pride proved the reality of love, then undoubtedly she loved her
firstborn child."  That is, if mere empty words can prove it, it stands
proved--and in this way, without committing himself, he gives the reader
a chance to infer that there isn't any extant evidence but words, and
that he doesn't take much stock in them.  How seldom he shows his hand!
He is always lurking behind a non-committal "if" or something of that
kind; always gliding and dodging around, distributing colorless poison
here and there and everywhere, but always leaving himself in a position
to say that his language will be found innocuous if taken to pieces and
examined.  He clearly exhibits a steady and never-relaxing purpose to
make Harriet the scapegoat for her husband's first great sin--but it is
in the general view that this is revealed, not in the details.  His
insidious literature is like blue water; you know what it is that makes
it blue, but you cannot produce and verify any detail of the cloud of
microscopic dust in it that does it.  Your adversary can dip up a
glassful and show you that it is pure white and you cannot deny it; and
he can dip the lake dry, glass by glass, and show that every glassful is
white, and prove it to any one's eye--and yet that lake was blue and you
can swear it.  This book is blue--with slander in solution.

Let the reader examine, for example, the paragraph of comment which
immediately follows the letter containing Shelley's self-exposure which
we have been considering.  This is it.  One should inspect the individual
sentences as they go by, then pass them in procession and review the
cake-walk as a whole:

          "Shelley's happiness in his home, as is evident from this
          pathetic letter, had been fatally stricken; it is evident,
          also, that he knew where duty lay; he felt that his part was to
          take up his burden, silently and sorrowfully, and to bear it
          henceforth with the quietness of despair.  But we can perceive
          that he scarcely possessed the strength and fortitude needful
          for success in such an attempt.  And clearly Shelley himself
          was aware how perilous it was to accept that respite of
          blissful ease which he enjoyed in the Boinville household; for
          gentle voices and dewy looks and words of sympathy could not
          fail to remind him of an ideal of tranquillity or of joy which
          could never be his, and which he must henceforth sternly
          exclude from his imagination."

That paragraph commits the author in no way.  Taken sentence by sentence
it asserts nothing against anybody or in favor of anybody, pleads for
nobody, accuses nobody.  Taken detail by detail, it is as innocent as
moonshine.  And yet, taken as a whole, it is a design against the reader;
its intent is to remove the feeling which the letter must leave with him
if let alone, and put a different one in its place--to remove a feeling
justified by the letter and substitute one not justified by it.  The
letter itself gives you no uncertain picture--no lecturer is needed to
stand by with a stick and point out its details and let on to explain
what they mean.  The picture is the very clear and remorsefully faithful
picture of a fallen and fettered angel who is ashamed of himself; an
angel who beats his soiled wings and cries, who complains to the woman
who enticed him that he could have borne his wayward lot, he could have
stood by his duty if it had not been for her beguilements; an angel who
rails at the "boundless ocean of abhorred society," and rages at his poor
judicious sister-in-law.  If there is any dignity about this spectacle it
will escape most people.

Yet when the paragraph of comment is taken as a whole, the picture is
full of dignity and pathos; we have before us a blameless and noble
spirit stricken to the earth by malign powers, but not conquered;
tempted, but grandly putting the temptation away; enmeshed by subtle
coils, but sternly resolved to rend them and march forth victorious, at
any peril of life or limb.  Curtain--slow music.

Was it the purpose of the paragraph to take the bad taste of Shelley's
letter out of the reader's mouth?  If that was not it, good ink was
wasted; without that, it has no relevancy--the multiplication table would
have padded the space as rationally.

We have inspected the six reasons which we are asked to believe drove a
man of conspicuous patience, honor, justice, fairness, kindliness, and
iron firmness, resolution, and steadfastness, from the wife whom he loved
and who loved him, to a refuge in the mephitic paradise of Bracknell.
These are six infinitely little reasons; but there were six colossal
ones, and these the counsel for the destruction of Harriet Shelley
persists in not considering very important.

Moreover, the colossal six preceded the little six and had done the
mischief before they were born.  Let us double-column the twelve; then we
shall see at a glance that each little reason is in turn answered by a
retorting reason of a size to overshadow it and make it insignificant:

1.  Harriet sets up carriage.      1.  CORNELIA TURNER.
2.  Harriet stops studying.        2.  CORNELIA TURNER.
3.  Harriet goes to bonnet-shop.   3.  CORNELIA TURNER.
4.  Harriet takes a wet-nurse.     4.  CORNELIA TURNER.
5.  Harriet has too much nerve.    5.  CORNELIA TURNER.
6.  Detested sister-in-law         6.  CORNELIA TURNER.

As soon as we comprehend that Cornelia Turner and the Italian lessons
happened before the little six had been discovered to be grievances,
we understand why Shelley's happiness in his home had been wounded and
bruised almost to death, and no one can persuade us into laying it on
Harriet.  Shelley and Cornelia are the responsible persons, and we cannot
in honor and decency allow the cruelties which they practised upon the
unoffending wife to be pushed aside in order to give us a chance to waste
time and tears over six sentimental justifications of an offence which
the six can't justify, nor even respectably assist in justifying.

Six?  There were seven; but in charity to the biographer the seventh
ought not to be exposed.  Still, he hung it out himself, and not only
hung it out, but thought it was a good point in Shelley's favor.  For two
years Shelley found sympathy and intellectual food and all that at home;
there was enough for spiritual and mental support, but not enough for
luxury; and so, at the end of the contented two years, this latter detail
justifies him in going bag and baggage over to Cornelia Turner and
supplying the rest of his need in the way of surplus sympathy and
intellectual pie unlawfully.  By the same reasoning a man in merely
comfortable circumstances may rob a bank without sin.


III

It is 1814, it is the 16th of March, Shelley has, written his letter, he
has been in the Boinville paradise a month, his deserted wife is in her
husbandless home.  Mischief had been wrought.  It is the biographer who
concedes this.  We greatly need some light on Harriet's side of the case
now; we need to know how she enjoyed the month, but there is no way to
inform ourselves; there seems to be a strange absence of documents and
letters and diaries on that side.  Shelley kept a diary, the approaching
Mary Godwin kept a diary, her father kept one, her half-sister by
marriage, adoption, and the dispensation of God kept one, and the entire
tribe and all its friends wrote and received letters, and the letters
were kept and are producible when this biography needs them; but there
are only three or four scraps of Harriet's writing, and no diary.
Harriet wrote plenty of letters to her husband--nobody knows where they
are, I suppose; she wrote plenty of letters to other people--apparently
they have disappeared, too.  Peacock says she wrote good letters, but
apparently interested people had sagacity enough to mislay them in time.
After all her industry she went down into her grave and lies silent
there--silent, when she has so much need to speak.  We can only wonder at
this mystery, not account for it.

No, there is no way of finding out what Harriet's state of feeling was
during the month that Shelley was disporting himself in the Bracknell
paradise.  We have to fall back upon conjecture, as our fabulist does
when he has nothing more substantial to work with.  Then we easily
conjecture that as the days dragged by Harriet's heart grew heavier and
heavier under its two burdens--shame and resentment: the shame of being
pointed at and gossiped about as a deserted wife, and resentment against
the woman who had beguiled her husband from her and now kept him in a
disreputable captivity.  Deserted wives--deserted whether for cause or
without cause--find small charity among the virtuous and the discreet.
We conjecture that one after another the neighbors ceased to call; that
one after another they got to being "engaged" when Harriet called; that
finally they one after the other cut her dead on the street; that after
that she stayed in the house daytimes, and brooded over her sorrows, and
nighttimes did the same, there being nothing else to do with the heavy
hours and the silence and solitude and the dreary intervals which sleep
should have charitably bridged, but didn't.

Yes, mischief had been wrought.  The biographer arrives at this
conclusion, and it is a most just one.  Then, just as you begin to half
hope he is going to discover the cause of it and launch hot bolts of
wrath at the guilty manufacturers of it, you have to turn away
disappointed.  You are disappointed, and you sigh.  This is what he says
--the italics [''] are mine:

          "However the mischief may have been wrought--'and at this day
          no one can wish to heap blame an any buried head'--"

So it is poor Harriet, after all.  Stern justice must take its course--
justice tempered with delicacy, justice tempered with compassion, justice
that pities a forlorn dead girl and refuses to strike her.  Except in the
back.  Will not be ignoble and say the harsh thing, but only insinuate
it.  Stern justice knows about the carriage and the wet-nurse and the
bonnet-shop and the other dark things that caused this sad mischief, and
may not, must not blink them; so it delivers judgment where judgment
belongs, but softens the blow by not seeming to deliver judgment at all.
To resume--the italics are mine:

          "However the mischief may have been wrought--and at this day no
          one can wish to heap blame on any buried head--'it is certain
          that some cause or causes of deep division between Shelley and
          his wife were in operation during the early part of the year
          1814'."

This shows penetration.  No deduction could be more accurate than this.
There were indeed some causes of deep division.  But next comes another
disappointing sentence:

          "To guess at the precise nature of these cafes, in the absence
          of definite statement, were useless."

Why, he has already been guessing at them for several pages, and we have
been trying to outguess him, and now all of a sudden he is tired of it
and won't play any more.  It is not quite fair to us.  However, he will
get over this by-and-by, when Shelley commits his next indiscretion and
has to be guessed out of it at Harriet's expense.

"We may rest content with Shelley's own words"--in a Chancery paper drawn
up by him three years later.  They were these: "Delicacy forbids me to
say more than that we were disunited by incurable dissensions."

As for me, I do not quite see why we should rest content with anything of
the sort.  It is not a very definite statement.  It does not necessarily
mean anything more than that he did not wish to go into the tedious
details of those family quarrels.  Delicacy could quite properly excuse
him from saying, "I was in love with Cornelia all that time; my wife kept
crying and worrying about it and upbraiding me and begging me to cut
myself free from a connection which was wronging her and disgracing us
both; and I being stung by these reproaches retorted with fierce and
bitter speeches--for it is my nature to do that when I am stirred,
especially if the target of them is a person whom I had greatly loved and
respected before, as witness my various attitudes towards Miss Hitchener,
the Gisbornes, Harriet's sister, and others--and finally I did not
improve this state of things when I deserted my wife and spent a whole
month with the woman who had infatuated me."

No, he could not go into those details, and we excuse him; but,
nevertheless, we do not rest content with this bland proposition to puff
away that whole long disreputable episode with a single mean, meaningless
remark of Shelley's.

We do admit that "it is certain that some cause or causes of deep
division were in operation."  We would admit it just the same if the
grammar of the statement were as straight as a string, for we drift into
pretty indifferent grammar ourselves when we are absorbed in historical
work; but we have to decline to admit that we cannot guess those cause or
causes.

But guessing is not really necessary.  There is evidence attainable--
evidence from the batch discredited by the biographer and set out at the
back door in his appendix-basket; and yet a court of law would think
twice before throwing it out, whereas it would be a hardy person who
would venture to offer in such a place a good part of the material which
is placed before the readers of this book as "evidence," and so treated
by this daring biographer.  Among some letters (in the appendix-basket)
from Mrs. Godwin, detailing the Godwinian share in the Shelleyan events
of 1814, she tells how Harriet Shelley came to her and her husband,
agitated and weeping, to implore them to forbid Shelley the house, and
prevent his seeing Mary Godwin.

          "She related that last November he had fallen in love with Mrs.
          Turner and paid her such marked attentions Mr. Turner, the
          husband, had carried off his wife to Devonshire."

The biographer finds a technical fault in this; "the Shelleys were in
Edinburgh in November."  What of that?  The woman is recalling a
conversation which is more than two months old; besides, she was probably
more intent upon the central and important fact of it than upon its
unimportant date.  Harriet's quoted statement has some sense in it; for
that reason, if for no other, it ought to have been put in the body of
the book.  Still, that would not have answered; even the biographer's
enemy could not be cruel enough to ask him to let this real grievance,
this compact and substantial and picturesque figure, this rawhead-and-
bloody-bones, come striding in there among those pale shams, those
rickety spectres labeled WET-NURSE, BONNET-SHOP, and so on--no, the
father of all malice could not ask the biographer to expose his pathetic
goblins to a competition like that.

The fabulist finds fault with the statement because it has a technical
error in it; and he does this at the moment that he is furnishing us an
error himself, and of a graver sort.  He says:

          "If Turner carried off his wife to Devonshire he brought her
          back and Shelley was staying with her and her mother on terms
          of cordial intimacy in March, 1814."

We accept the "cordial intimacy"--it was the very thing Harriet was
complaining of--but there is nothing to show that it was Turner who
brought his wife back.  The statement is thrown in as if it were not only
true, but was proof that Turner was not uneasy.  Turner's movements are
proof of nothing.  Nothing but a statement from Turner's mouth would have
any value here, and he made none.

Six days after writing his letter Shelley and his wife were together
again for a moment--to get remarried according to the rites of the
English Church.

Within three weeks the new husband and wife were apart again, and the
former was back in his odorous paradise.  This time it is the wife who
does the deserting.  She finds Cornelia too strong for her, probably.
At any rate, she goes away with her baby and sister, and we have a
playful fling at her from good Mrs. Boinville, the "mysterious spinner
Maimuna"; she whose "face was as a damsel's face, and yet her hair was
gray"; she of whom the biographer has said, "Shelley was indeed caught in
an almost invisible thread spun around him, but unconsciously, by this
subtle and benignant enchantress."  The subtle and benignant enchantress
writes to Hogg, April 18: "Shelley is again a widower; his beauteous half
went to town on Thursday."

Then Shelley writes a poem--a chant of grief over the hard fate which
obliges him now to leave his paradise and take up with his wife again.
It seems to intimate that the paradise is cooling towards him; that he is
warned off by acclamation; that he must not even venture to tempt with
one last tear his friend Cornelia's ungentle mood, for her eye is glazed
and cold and dares not entreat her lover to stay:

Exhibit E

          "Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries 'Away!'
          Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood;
          Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy
          stay:
          Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude."

Back to the solitude of his now empty home, that is!

          "Away! away! to thy sad and silent home;
          Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth."
          . . . . . . . .

But he will have rest in the grave by-and-by.  Until that time comes,
the charms of Bracknell will remain in his memory, along with Mrs.
Boinville's voice and Cornelia Turner's smile:

     "Thou in the grave shalt rest--yet, till the phantoms flee
     Which that house and hearth and garden made dear to thee ere while,
     Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not free
     From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile."

We cannot wonder that Harriet could not stand it.  Any of us would have
left.  We would not even stay with a cat that was in this condition.
Even the Boinvilles could not endure it; and so, as we have seen, they
gave this one notice.

          "Early in May, Shelley was in London.  He did not yet despair
          of reconciliation with Harriet, nor had he ceased to love her."

Shelley's poems are a good deal of trouble to his biographer.  They are
constantly inserted as "evidence," and they make much confusion.  As soon
as one of them has proved one thing, another one follows and proves quite
a different thing.  The poem just quoted shows that he was in love with
Cornelia, but a month later he is in love with Harriet again, and there
is a poem to prove it.

          "In this piteous appeal Shelley declares that he has now no
          grief but one--the grief of having known and lost his wife's
          love."

Exhibit F

               "Thy look of love has power to calm
               The stormiest passion of my soul."


But without doubt she had been reserving her looks of love a good part of
the time for ten months, now--ever since he began to lavish his own on
Cornelia Turner at the end of the previous July.  He does really seem to
have already forgotten Cornelia's merits in one brief month, for he
eulogizes Harriet in a way which rules all competition out:

               "Thou only virtuous, gentle, kind,
               Amid a world of hate."

He complains of her hardness, and begs her to make the concession of
a "slight endurance"--of his waywardness, perhaps--for the sake of
"a fellow-being's lasting weal."  But the main force of his appeal is
in his closing stanza, and is strongly worded:

               "O tract for once no erring guide!
               Bid the remorseless feeling flee;
               'Tis malice, 'tis revenge, 'tis pride,
               'Tis anything but thee;
               I deign a nobler pride to prove,
               And pity if thou canst not love."

This is in May--apparently towards the end of it.  Harriet and Shelley
were corresponding all the time.  Harriet got the poem--a copy exists in
her own handwriting; she being the only gentle and kind person amid a
world of hate, according to Shelley's own testimony in the poem, we are
permitted to think that the daily letters would presently have melted
that kind and gentle heart and brought about the reconciliation, if there
had been time but there wasn't; for in a very few days--in fact, before
the 8th of June--Shelley was in love with another woman.

And so--perhaps while Harriet was walking the floor nights, trying to get
her poem by heart--her husband was doing a fresh one--for the other girl
--Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin--with sentiments like these in it:

Exhibit G

               To spend years thus and be rewarded,
               As thou, sweet love, requited me
               When none were near.
               .  .  .  thy lips did meet
               Mine tremblingly; .  .  ,

               " Gentle and good and mild thou art,
               Nor can I live if thou appear
               Aught but thyself." .  .  .


And so on.  "Before the close of June it was known and felt by Mary and
Shelley that each was inexpressibly dear to the other."  Yes, Shelley had
found this child of sixteen to his liking, and had wooed and won her in
the graveyard.  But that is nothing; it was better than wooing her in her
nursery, at any rate, where it might have disturbed the other children.

However, she was a child in years only.  From the day that she set her
masculine grip on Shelley he was to frisk no more.  If she had occupied
the only kind and gentle Harriet's place in March it would have been a
thrilling spectacle to see her invade the Boinville rookery and read the
riot act.  That holiday of Shelley's would have been of short duration,
and Cornelia's hair would have been as gray as her mother's when the
services were over.

Hogg went to the Godwin residence in Skinner Street with Shelley on that
8th of June.  They passed through Godwin's little debt-factory of a book-
shop and went up-stairs hunting for the proprietor.  Nobody there.
Shelley strode about the room impatiently, making its crazy floor quake
under him.  Then a door "was partially and softly opened.  A thrilling
voice called 'Shelley!'  A thrilling voice answered, 'Mary!'  And he
darted out of the room like an arrow from the bow of the far-shooting
King.  A very young female, fair and fair-haired, pale, indeed, and with
a piercing look, wearing a frock of tartan, an unusual dress in London at
that time, had called him out of the room."

This is Mary Godwin, as described by Hogg.  The thrill of the voices
shows that the love of Shelley and Mary was already upward of a fortnight
old; therefore it had been born within the month of May--born while
Harriet was still trying to get her poem by heart, we think.  I must not
be asked how I know so much about that thrill; it is my secret.  The
biographer and I have private ways of finding out things when it is
necessary to find them out and the customary methods fail.

Shelley left London that day, and was gone ten days.  The biographer
conjectures that he spent this interval with Harriet in Bath.  It would
be just like him.  To the end of his days he liked to be in love with two
women at once.  He was more in love with Miss Hitchener when he married
Harriet than he was with Harriet, and told the lady so with simple and
unostentatious candor.  He was more in love with Cornelia than he was
with Harriet in the end of 1813 and the beginning of 1814, yet he
supplied both of them with love poems of an equal temperature meantime;
he loved Mary and Harriet in June, and while getting ready to run off
with the one, it is conjectured that he put in his odd time trying to get
reconciled to the other; by-and-by, while still in love with Mary, he
will make love to her half-sister by marriage, adoption, and the
visitation of God, through the medium of clandestine letters, and she
will answer with letters that are for no eye but his own.

When Shelley encountered Mary Godwin he was looking around for another
paradise.  He had, tastes of his own, and there were features about the
Godwin establishment that strongly recommended it.  Godwin was an
advanced thinker and an able writer.  One of his romances is still read,
but his philosophical works, once so esteemed, are out of vogue now;
their authority was already declining when Shelley made his acquaintance
--that is, it was declining with the public, but not with Shelley.  They
had been his moral and political Bible, and they were that yet.  Shelley
the infidel would himself have claimed to be less a work of God than a
work of Godwin.  Godwin's philosophies had formed his mind and interwoven
themselves into it and become a part of its texture; he regarded himself
as Godwin's spiritual son.  Godwin was not without self-appreciation;
indeed, it may be conjectured that from his point of view the last
syllable of his name was surplusage.  He lived serene in his lofty world
of philosophy, far above the mean interests that absorbed smaller men,
and only came down to the ground at intervals to pass the hat for alms to
pay his debts with, and insult the man that relieved him.  Several of his
principles were out of the ordinary.  For example, he was opposed to
marriage.  He was not aware that his preachings from this text were but
theory and wind; he supposed he was in earnest in imploring people to
live together without marrying, until Shelley furnished him a working
model of his scheme and a practical example to analyze, by applying the
principle in his own family; the matter took a different and surprising
aspect then.  The late Matthew Arnold said that the main defect in
Shelley's make-up was that he was destitute of the sense of humor.  This
episode must have escaped Mr. Arnold's attention.

But we have said enough about the head of the new paradise.  Mrs. Godwin
is described as being in several ways a terror; and even when her soul
was in repose she wore green spectacles.  But I suspect that her main
unattractiveness was born of the fact that she wrote the letters that are
out in the appendix-basket in the back yard--letters which are an outrage
and wholly untrustworthy, for they say some kind things about poor
Harriet and tell some disagreeable truths about her husband; and these
things make the fabulist grit his teeth a good deal.

Next we have Fanny Godwin--a Godwin by courtesy only; she was Mrs.
Godwin's natural daughter by a former friend.  She was a sweet and
winning girl, but she presently wearied of the Godwin paradise, and
poisoned herself.

Last in the list is Jane (or Claire, as she preferred to call herself)
Clairmont, daughter of Mrs. Godwin by a former marriage.  She was very
young and pretty and accommodating, and always ready to do what she could
to make things pleasant.  After Shelley ran off with her part-sister
Mary, she became the guest of the pair, and contributed a natural child
to their nursery--Allegra.  Lord Byron was the father.

We have named the several members and advantages of the new paradise in
Skinner Street, with its crazy book-shop underneath.  Shelley was all
right now, this was a better place than the other; more variety anyway,
and more different kinds of fragrance.  One could turn out poetry here
without any trouble at all.

The way the new love-match came about was this:

Shelley told Mary all his aggravations and sorrows and griefs, and about
the wet-nurse and the bonnetshop and the surgeon and the carriage, and
the sister-in-law that blocked the London game, and about Cornelia and
her mamma, and how they had turned him out of the house after making so
much of him; and how he had deserted Harriet and then Harriet had
deserted him, and how the reconciliation was working along and Harriet
getting her poem by heart; and still he was not happy, and Mary pitied
him, for she had had trouble herself.  But I am not satisfied with this.
It reads too much like statistics.  It lacks smoothness and grace, and is
too earthy and business-like.  It has the sordid look of a trades-union
procession out on strike.  That is not the right form for it.  The book
does it better; we will fall back on the book and have a cake-walk:

          "It was easy to divine that some restless grief possessed him;
          Mary herself was not unlearned in the lore of pain.  His
          generous zeal in her father's behalf, his spiritual sonship to
          Godwin, his reverence for her mother's memory, were guarantees
          with Mary of his excellence.--[What she was after was
          guarantees of his excellence.  That he stood ready to desert
          his wife and child was one of them, apparently.]--The new
          friends could not lack subjects of discourse, and underneath
          their words about Mary's mother, and 'Political Justice,' and
          'Rights of Woman,' were two young hearts, each feeling towards
          the other, each perhaps unaware, trembling in the direction of
          the other.  The desire to assuage the suffering of one whose
          happiness has grown precious to us may become a hunger of the
          spirit as keen as any other, and this hunger now possessed
          Mary's heart; when her eyes rested unseen on Shelley, it was
          with a look full of the ardor of a 'soothing pity.'"

Yes, that is better and has more composure.  That is just the way it
happened.  He told her about the wet-nurse, she told him about political
justice; he told her about the deadly sister-in-law, she told him about
her mother; he told her about the bonnet-shop, she murmured back about
the rights of woman; then he assuaged her, then she assuaged him; then he
assuaged her some more, next she assuaged him some more; then they both
assuaged one another simultaneously; and so they went on by the hour
assuaging and assuaging and assuaging, until at last what was the result?
They were in love.  It will happen so every time.

          "He had married a woman who, as he now persuaded himself, had
          never truly loved him, who loved only his fortune and his rank,
          and who proved her selfishness by deserting him in his misery."

I think that that is not quite fair to Harriet.  We have no certainty
that she knew Cornelia had turned him out of the house.  He went back to
Cornelia, and Harriet may have supposed that he was as happy with her as
ever.  Still, it was judicious to begin to lay on the whitewash, for
Shelley is going to need many a coat of it now, and the sooner the reader
becomes used to the intrusion of the brush the sooner he will get
reconciled to it and stop fretting about it.

After Shelley's (conjectured) visit to Harriet at Bath--8th of June to
18th--"it seems to have been arranged that Shelley should henceforth
join the Skinner Street household each day at dinner."

Nothing could be handier than this; things will swim along now.

          "Although now Shelley was coming to believe that his wedded
          union with Harriet was a thing of the past, he had not ceased
          to regard her with affectionate consideration; he wrote to her
          frequently, and kept her informed of his whereabouts."

We must not get impatient over these curious inharmoniousnesses and
irreconcilabilities in Shelley's character.  You can see by the
biographer's attitude towards them that there is nothing objectionable
about them.  Shelley was doing his best to make two adoring young
creatures happy: he was regarding the one with affectionate consideration
by mail, and he was assuaging the other one at home.

          "Unhappy Harriet, residing at Bath, had perhaps never desired
          that the breach between herself and her husband should be
          irreparable and complete."

I find no fault with that sentence except that the "perhaps" is not
strictly warranted.  It should have been left out.  In support--or shall
we say extenuation?--of this opinion I submit that there is not
sufficient evidence to warrant the uncertainty which it implies.  The
only "evidence" offered that Harriet was hard and proud and standing out
against a reconciliation is a poem--the poem in which Shelley beseeches
her to "bid the remorseless feeling flee" and "pity" if she "cannot
love."  We have just that as "evidence," and out of its meagre materials
the biographer builds a cobhouse of conjectures as big as the Coliseum;
conjectures which convince him, the prosecuting attorney, but ought to
fall far short of convincing any fair-minded jury.

Shelley's love-poems may be very good evidence, but we know well that
they are "good for this day and train only."  We are able to believe that
they spoke the truth for that one day, but we know by experience that
they could not be depended on to speak it the next.  The very
supplication for a rewarming of Harriet's chilled love was followed so
suddenly by the poet's plunge into an adoring passion for Mary Godwin
that if it had been a check it would have lost its value before a lazy
person could have gotten to the bank with it.

Hardness, stubbornness, pride, vindictiveness--these may sometimes reside
in a young wife and mother of nineteen, but they are not charged against
Harriet Shelley outside of that poem, and one has no right to insert them
into her character on such shadowy "evidence" as that.  Peacock knew
Harriet well, and she has a flexible and persuadable look, as painted by
him:

          "Her manners were good, and her whole aspect and demeanor such
          manifest emanations of pure and truthful nature that to be once
          in her company was to know her thoroughly.  She was fond of her
          husband, and accommodated herself in every way to his tastes.
          If they mixed in society, she adorned it; if they lived in
          retirement, she was satisfied; if they travelled, she enjoyed
          the change of scene."

"Perhaps" she had never desired that the breach should be irreparable and
complete.  The truth is, we do not even know that there was any breach at
all at this time.  We know that the husband and wife went before the
altar and took a new oath on the 24th of March to love and cherish each
other until death--and this may be regarded as a sort of reconciliation
itself, and a wiping out of the old grudges.  Then Harriet went away, and
the sister-in-law removed herself from her society.  That was in April.
Shelley wrote his "appeal" in May, but the corresponding went right along
afterwards.  We have a right to doubt that the subject of it was a
"reconciliation," or that Harriet had any suspicion that she needed to be
reconciled and that her husband was trying to persuade her to it--as the
biographer has sought to make us believe, with his Coliseum of
conjectures built out of a waste-basket of poetry.  For we have
"evidence" now--not poetry and conjecture.  When Shelley had been dining
daily in the Skinner Street paradise fifteen days and continuing the
love-match which was already a fortnight old twenty-five days earlier,
he forgot to write Harriet; forgot it the next day and the next.  During
four days Harriet got no letter from him.  Then her fright and anxiety
rose to expression-heat, and she wrote a letter to Shelley's publisher
which seems to reveal to us that Shelley's letters to her had been the
customary affectionate letters of husband to wife, and had carried no
appeals for reconciliation and had not needed to:

                                   "BATH (postmark July 7, 1814).
          "MY DEAR SIR,--You will greatly oblige me by giving the
          enclosed to Mr.  Shelley.  I would not trouble you, but it is
          now four days since I have heard from him, which to me is an
          age.  Will you write by return of post and tell me what has
          become of him? as I always fancy something dreadful has
          happened if I do not hear from him.  If you tell me that he is
          well I shall not come to London, but if I do not hear from you
          or him I shall certainly come, as I cannot endure this dreadful
          state of suspense.  You are his friend and you can feel for me.
                              "I remain yours truly,
                                                  "H. S."


Even without Peacock's testimony that "her whole aspect and demeanor were
manifest emanations of a pure and truthful nature," we should hold this
to be a truthful letter, a sincere letter, a loving letter; it bears
those marks; I think it is also the letter of a person accustomed to
receiving letters from her husband frequently, and that they have been of
a welcome and satisfactory sort, too, this long time back--ever since the
solemn remarriage and reconciliation at the altar most likely.

The biographer follows Harriet's letter with a conjecture.
He conjectures that she "would now gladly have retraced her steps."
Which means that it is proven that she had steps to retrace--proven by
the poem.  Well, if the poem is better evidence than the letter, we must
let it stand at that.

Then the biographer attacks Harriet Shelley's honor--by authority of
random and unverified gossip scavengered from a group of people whose
very names make a person shudder: Mary Godwin, mistress to Shelley; her
part-sister, discarded mistress of Lord Byron; Godwin, the philosophical
tramp, who gathers his share of it from a shadow--that is to say, from a
person whom he shirks out of naming.  Yet the biographer dignifies this
sorry rubbish with the name of "evidence."

Nothing remotely resembling a distinct charge from a named person
professing to know is offered among this precious "evidence."

1.  "Shelley believed" so and so.

2.  Byron's discarded mistress says that Shelley told Mary Godwin so and
so, and Mary told her.

3.  "Shelley said" so and so--and later "admitted over and over again
that he had been in error."

4.  The unspeakable Godwin "wrote to Mr. Baxter" that he knew so and so
"from unquestionable authority"--name not furnished.

How-any man in his right mind could bring himself to defile the grave of
a shamefully abused and defenceless girl with these baseless
fabrications, this manufactured filth, is inconceivable.  How any man, in
his right mind or out of it, could sit down and coldly try to persuade
anybody to believe it, or listen patiently to it, or, indeed, do anything
but scoff at it and deride it, is astonishing.

The charge insinuated by these odious slanders is one of the most
difficult of all offences to prove; it is also one which no man has a
right to mention even in a whisper about any woman, living or dead,
unless he knows it to be true, and not even then unless he can also prove
it to be true.  There is no justification for the abomination of putting
this stuff in the book.

Against Harriet Shelley's good name there is not one scrap of tarnishing
evidence, and not even a scrap of evil gossip, that comes from a source
that entitles it to a hearing.

On the credit side of the account we have strong opinions from the people
who knew her best.  Peacock says:

          "I feel it due to the memory of Harriet to state my most
          decided conviction that her conduct as a wife was as pure, as
          true, as absolutely faultless, as that of any who for such
          conduct are held most in honor."

Thornton Hunt, who had picked and published slight flaws in Harriet's
character, says, as regards this alleged large one:

          "There is not a trace of evidence or a whisper of scandal
          against her before her voluntary departure from Shelley."

Trelawney says:

          "I was assured by the evidence of the few friends who knew both
          Shelley and his wife--Hookham, Hogg, Peacock, and one of the
          Godwins--that Harriet was perfectly innocent of all offence."

What excuse was there for raking up a parcel of foul rumors from
malicious and discredited sources and flinging them at this dead girl's
head?  Her very defencelessness should have been her protection.  The
fact that all letters to her or about her, with almost every scrap of her
own writing, had been diligently mislaid, leaving her case destitute of a
voice, while every pen-stroke which could help her husband's side had
been as diligently preserved, should have excused her from being brought
to trial.  Her witnesses have all disappeared, yet we see her summoned in
her grave-clothes to plead for the life of her character, without the
help of an advocate, before a disqualified judge and a packed jury.

Harriet Shelley wrote her distressed letter on the 7th of July.  On the
28th her husband ran away with Mary Godwin and her part-sister Claire to
the Continent.  He deserted his wife when her confinement was
approaching.  She bore him a child at the end of November, his mistress
bore him another one something over two months later.  The truants were
back in London before either of these events occurred.

On one occasion, presently, Shelley was so pressed for money to support
his mistress with that he went to his wife and got some money of his that
was in her hands--twenty pounds.  Yet the mistress was not moved to
gratitude; for later, when the wife was troubled to meet her engagements,
the mistress makes this entry in her diary:

          "Harriet sends her creditors here; nasty woman.  Now we shall
          have to change our lodgings."

The deserted wife bore the bitterness and obloquy of her situation two
years and a quarter; then she gave up, and drowned herself.  A month
afterwards the body was found in the water.  Three weeks later Shelley
married his mistress.

I must here be allowed to italicize a remark of the biographer's
concerning Harriet Shelley:

          "That no act of Shelley's during the two years which
          immediately preceded her death tended to cause the rash act
          which brought her life to its close seems certain."

Yet her husband had deserted her and her children, and was living with a
concubine all that time!  Why should a person attempt to write biography
when the simplest facts have no meaning to him?  This book is littered
with as crass stupidities as that one--deductions by the page which bear
no discoverable kinship to their premises.

The biographer throws off that extraordinary remark without any
perceptible disturbance to his serenity; for he follows it with a
sentimental justification of Shelley's conduct which has not a pang of
conscience in it, but is silky and smooth and undulating and pious--
a cake-walk with all the colored brethren at their best.  There may be
people who can read that page and keep their temper, but it is doubtful.
Shelley's life has the one indelible blot upon it, but is otherwise
worshipfully noble and beautiful.  It even stands out indestructibly
gracious and lovely from the ruck of these disastrous pages, in spite of
the fact that they expose and establish his responsibility for his
forsaken wife's pitiful fate--a responsibility which he himself tacitly
admits in a letter to Eliza Westbrook, wherein he refers to his taking up
with Mary Godwin as an act which Eliza "might excusably regard as the
cause of her sister's ruin."




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Defense of Harriet Shelley
by Mark Twain






FENIMORE COOPER'S LITERARY OFFENCES

by Mark Twain



          The Pathfinder and The Deerslayer stand at the head of Cooper's
          novels as artistic creations.  There are others of his works
          which contain parts as perfect as are to be found in these, and
          scenes even more thrilling.  Not one can be compared with
          either of them as a finished whole.

          The defects in both of these tales are comparatively slight.
          They were pure works of art.--Prof. Lounsbury.


          The five tales reveal an extraordinary fulness of invention.
          .  .  .  One of the very greatest characters in fiction, Natty
          Bumppo .  .  .  .

          The craft of the woodsman, the tricks of the trapper, all the
          delicate art of the forest, were familiar to Cooper from his
          youth up.--Prof. Brander Matthews.

          Cooper is the greatest artist in the domain of romantic fiction
          yet produced by America.--Wilkie Collins.


It seems to me that it was far from right for the Professor of English
Literature in Yale, the Professor of English Literature in Columbia, and
Wilkie Collies to deliver opinions on Cooper's literature without having
read some of it.  It would have been much more decorous to keep silent
and let persons talk who have read Cooper.

Cooper's art has some defects.  In one place in 'Deerslayer,' and in the
restricted space of two-thirds of a page, Cooper has scored 114 offences
against literary art out of a possible 115.  It breaks the record.

There are nineteen rules governing literary art in the domain of romantic
fiction--some say twenty-two.  In Deerslayer Cooper violated eighteen of
them.  These eighteen require:

1.  That a tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere.  But the
Deerslayer tale accomplishes nothing and arrives in the air.

2.  They require that the episodes of a tale shall be necessary parts of
the tale, and shall help to develop it.  But as the Deerslayer tale is
not a tale, and accomplishes nothing and arrives nowhere, the episodes
have no rightful place in the work, since there was nothing for them to
develop.

3.  They require that the personages in a tale shall be alive, except in
the case of corpses, and that always the reader shall be able to tell the
corpses from the others.  But this detail has often been overlooked in
the Deerslayer tale.

4.  They require that the personages in a tale, both dead and alive,
shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there.  But this detail also
has been overlooked in the Deerslayer tale.

5.  They require that when the personages of a tale deal in conversation,
the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings
would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a
discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a show of
relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject in hand, and be
interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the
people cannot think of anything more to say.  But this requirement has
been ignored from the beginning of the Deerslayer tale to the end of it.

6.  They require that when the author describes the character of a
personage in his tale, the conduct and conversation of that personage
shall justify said description.  But this law gets little or no attention
in the Deerslayer tale, as Natty Bumppo's case will amply prove.

7.  They require that when a personage talks like an illustrated, gilt-
edged, tree-calf, hand-tooled, seven-dollar Friendship's Offering in the
beginning of a paragraph, he shall not talk like a negro minstrel in the
end of it.  But this rule is flung down and danced upon in the Deerslayer
tale.

8.  They require that crass stupidities shall not be played upon the
reader as "the craft of the woodsman, the delicate art of the forest," by
either the author or the people in the tale.  But this rule is
persistently violated in the Deerslayer tale.

9.  They require that the personages of a tale shall confine themselves
to possibilities and let miracles alone; or, if they venture a miracle,
the author must so plausibly set it forth as to make it look possible and
reasonable.  But these rules are not respected in the Deerslayer tale.

10.  They require that the author shall make the reader feel a deep
interest in the personages of his tale and in their fate; and that he
shall make the reader love the good people in the tale and hate the bad
ones.  But the reader of the Deerslayer tale dislikes the good people in
it, is indifferent to the others, and wishes they would all get drowned
together.

11.  They require that the characters in a tale shall be so clearly
defined that the reader can tell beforehand what each will do in a given
emergency.  But in the Deerslayer tale this rule is vacated.

In addition to these large rules there are some little ones.  These
require that the author shall:

12.  Say what he is proposing to say, not merely come near it.

13.  Use the right word, not its second cousin.

14.  Eschew surplusage.

15.  Not omit necessary details.

16.  Avoid slovenliness of form.

17.  Use good grammar.

18.  Employ a simple and straightforward style.

Even these seven are coldly and persistently violated in the Deerslayer
tale.

Cooper's gift in the way of invention was not a rich endowment; but such
as it was he liked to work it, he was pleased with the effects, and
indeed he did some quite sweet things with it.  In his little box of
stage properties he kept six or eight cunning devices, tricks, artifices
for his savages and woodsmen to deceive and circumvent each other with,
and he was never so happy as when he was working these innocent things
and seeing them go.  A favorite one was to make a moccasined person tread
in the tracks of the moccasined enemy, and thus hide his own trail.
Cooper wore out barrels and barrels of moccasins in working that trick.
Another stage-property that he pulled out of his box pretty frequently
was his broken twig.  He prized his broken twig above all the rest of his
effects, and worked it the hardest.  It is a restful chapter in any book
of his when somebody doesn't step on a dry twig and alarm all the reds
and whites for two hundred yards around.  Every time a Cooper person is
in peril, and absolute silence is worth four dollars a minute, he is sure
to step on a dry twig.  There may be a hundred handier things to step on,
but that wouldn't satisfy Cooper.  Cooper requires him to turn out and
find a dry twig; and if he can't do it, go and borrow one.  In fact, the
Leather Stocking Series ought to have been called the Broken Twig Series.

I am sorry there is not room to put in a few dozen instances of the
delicate art of the forest, as practised by Natty Bumppo and some of the
other Cooperian experts.  Perhaps we may venture two or three samples.
Cooper was a sailor--a naval officer; yet he gravely tells us how a
vessel, driving towards a lee shore in a gale, is steered for a
particular spot by her skipper because he knows of an undertow there
which will hold her back against the gale and save her.  For just pure
woodcraft, or sailorcraft, or whatever it is, isn't that neat?  For
several years Cooper was daily in the society of artillery, and he ought
to have noticed that when a cannon-ball strikes the ground it either
buries itself or skips a hundred feet or so; skips again a hundred feet
or so--and so on, till finally it gets tired and rolls.  Now in one place
he loses some "females"--as he always calls women--in the edge of a wood
near a plain at night in a fog, on purpose to give Bumppo a chance to
show off the delicate art of the forest before the reader.  These mislaid
people are hunting for a fort.  They hear a cannonblast, and a cannon-
ball presently comes rolling into the wood and stops at their feet.  To
the females this suggests nothing.  The case is very different with the
admirable Bumppo.  I wish I may never know peace again if he doesn't
strike out promptly and follow the track of that cannon-ball across the
plain through the dense fog and find the fort.  Isn't it a daisy?  If
Cooper had any real knowledge of Nature's ways of doing things, he had a
most delicate art in concealing the fact.  For instance: one of his acute
Indian experts, Chingachgook (pronounced Chicago, I think), has lost the
trail of a person he is tracking through the forest.  Apparently that
trail is hopelessly lost.  Neither you nor I could ever have guessed out
the way to find it.  It was very different with Chicago.  Chicago was not
stumped for long.  He turned a running stream out of its course, and
there, in the slush in its old bed, were that person's moccasin-tracks.
The current did not wash them away, as it would have done in all other
like cases--no, even the eternal laws of Nature have to vacate when
Cooper wants to put up a delicate job of woodcraft on the reader.

We must be a little wary when Brander Matthews tells us that Cooper's
books "reveal an extraordinary fulness of invention."  As a rule, I am
quite willing to accept Brander Matthews's literary judgments and applaud
his lucid and graceful phrasing of them; but that particular statement
needs to be taken with a few tons of salt.  Bless your heart, Cooper
hadn't any more invention than a horse; and I don't mean a high-class
horse, either; I mean a clothes-horse.  It would be very difficult to
find a really clever "situation" in Cooper's books, and still more
difficult to find one of any kind which he has failed to render absurd by
his handling of it.  Look at the episodes of "the caves"; and at the
celebrated scuffle between Maqua and those others on the table-land a few
days later; and at Hurry Harry's queer water-transit from the castle to
the ark; and at Deerslayer's half-hour with his first corpse; and at the
quarrel between Hurry Harry and Deerslayer later; and at--but choose for
yourself; you can't go amiss.

If Cooper had been an observer his inventive faculty would have worked
better; not more interestingly, but more rationally, more plausibly.
Cooper's proudest creations in the way of "situations" suffer noticeably
from the absence of the observer's protecting gift.  Cooper's eye was
splendidly inaccurate.  Cooper seldom saw anything correctly.  He saw
nearly all things as through a glass eye, darkly.  Of course a man who
cannot see the commonest little every-day matters accurately is working
at a disadvantage when he is constructing a "situation."  In the
Deerslayer tale Cooper has a stream which is fifty feet wide where it
flows out of a lake; it presently narrows to twenty as it meanders along
for no given reason; and yet when a stream acts like that it ought to be
required to explain itself.  Fourteen pages later the width of the
brook's outlet from the lake has suddenly shrunk thirty feet, and become
"the narrowest part of the stream." This shrinkage is not accounted for.
The stream has bends in it, a sure indication that it has alluvial banks
and cuts them; yet these bends are only thirty and fifty feet long.  If
Cooper had been a nice and punctilious observer he would have noticed
that the bends were oftener nine hundred feet long than short of it.

Cooper made the exit of that stream fifty feet wide, in the first place,
for no particular reason; in the second place, he narrowed it to less
than twenty to accommodate some Indians.  He bends a "sapling" to the
form of an arch over this narrow passage, and conceals six Indians in its
foliage.  They are "laying" for a settler's scow or ark which is coming
up the stream on its way to the lake; it is being hauled against the
stiff current by a rope whose stationary end is anchored in the lake; its
rate of progress cannot be more than a mile an hour.  Cooper describes
the ark, but pretty obscurely.  In the matter of dimensions "it was
little more than a modern canal-boat." Let us guess, then, that it was
about one hundred and forty feet long.  It was of "greater breadth than
common."  Let us guess, then, that it was about sixteen feet wide.  This
leviathan had been prowling down bends which were but a third as long as
itself, and scraping between banks where it had only two feet of space to
spare on each side.  We cannot too much admire this miracle.  A low-
roofed log dwelling occupies "two-thirds of the ark's length"--a dwelling
ninety feet long and sixteen feet wide, let us say a kind of vestibule
train.  The dwelling has two rooms--each forty-five feet long and sixteen
feet wide, let us guess.  One of them is the bedroom of the Hutter girls,
Judith and Hetty; the other is the parlor in the daytime, at night it is
papa's bedchamber.  The ark is arriving at the stream's exit now, whose
width has been reduced to less than twenty feet to accommodate the
Indians--say to eighteen.  There is a foot to spare on each side of the
boat.  Did the Indians notice that there was going to be a tight squeeze
there?  Did they notice that they could make money by climbing down out
of that arched sapling and just stepping aboard when the ark scraped by?
No, other Indians would have noticed these things, but Cooper's Indians
never notice anything.  Cooper thinks they are marvelous creatures for
noticing, but he was almost always in error about his Indians.  There was
seldom a sane one among them.

The ark is one hundred and forty feet long; the dwelling is ninety feet
long.  The idea of the Indians is to drop softly and secretly from the
arched sapling to the dwelling as the ark creeps along under it at the
rate of a mile an hour, and butcher the family.  It will take the ark a
minute and a half to pass under.  It will take the ninety foot dwelling a
minute to pass under.  Now, then, what did the six Indians do?  It would
take you thirty years to guess, and even then you would have to give it
up, I believe.  Therefore, I will tell you what the Indians did.  Their
chief, a person of quite extraordinary intellect for a Cooper Indian,
warily watched the canal-boat as it squeezed along under him, and when he
had got his calculations fined down to exactly the right shade, as he
judged, he let go and dropped.  And missed the house!  That is actually
what he did.  He missed the house, and landed in the stern of the scow.
It was not much of a fall, yet it knocked him silly.  He lay there
unconscious.  If the house had been ninety-seven feet long he would have
made the trip.  The fault was Cooper's, not his.  The error lay in the
construction of the house.  Cooper was no architect.

There still remained in the roost five Indians.

The boat has passed under and is now out of their reach.  Let me explain
what the five did--you would not be able to reason it out for yourself.
No. 1 jumped for the boat, but fell in the water astern of it.  Then No.
2 jumped for the boat, but fell in the water still farther astern of it.
Then No. 3 jumped for the boat, and fell a good way astern of it.  Then
No, 4.  jumped for the boat, and fell in the water away astern.  Then
even No. 5 made a jump for the boat--for he was a Cooper Indian.  In the
matter of intellect, the difference between a Cooper Indian and the
Indian that stands in front of the cigarshop is not spacious.  The scow
episode is really a sublime burst of invention; but it does not thrill,
because the inaccuracy of the details throws a sort of air of
fictitiousness and general improbability over it.  This comes of Cooper's
inadequacy as an observer.

The reader will find some examples of Cooper's high talent for inaccurate
observation in the account of the shooting-match in The Pathfinder.

          "A common wrought nail was driven lightly into the target, its
          head having been first touched with paint."

The color of the paint is not stated--an important omission, but Cooper
deals freely in important omissions.  No, after all, it was not an
important omission; for this nail-head is a hundred yards from the
marksmen, and could not be seen by them at that distance, no matter what
its color might be.

How far can the best eyes see a common house-fly?  A hundred yards?  It
is quite impossible.  Very well; eyes that cannot see a house-fly that is
a hundred yards away cannot see an ordinary nailhead at that distance,
for the size of the two objects is the same.  It takes a keen eye to see
a fly or a nailhead at fifty yards--one hundred and fifty feet.  Can the
reader do it?

The nail was lightly driven, its head painted, and game called.  Then the
Cooper miracles began.  The bullet of the first marksman chipped an edge
off the nail-head; the next man's bullet drove the nail a little way into
the target--and removed all the paint.  Haven't the miracles gone far
enough now?  Not to suit Cooper; for the purpose of this whole scheme is
to show off his prodigy, Deerslayer Hawkeye--Long-Rifle-Leather-Stocking-
Pathfinder-Bumppo before the ladies.

          "'Be all ready to clench it, boys I' cried out Pathfinder,
          stepping into his friend's tracks the instant they were vacant.
          'Never mind a new nail; I can see that, though the paint is
          gone, and what I can see I can hit at a hundred yards, though
          it were only a mosquito's eye.  Be ready to clench!'

"The rifle cracked, the bullet sped its way, and the head of the nail was
buried in the wood, covered by the piece of flattened lead."

There, you see, is a man who could hunt flies with a rifle, and command a
ducal salary in a Wild West show to-day if we had him back with us.

The recorded feat is certainly surprising just as it stands; but it is
not surprising enough for Cooper.  Cooper adds a touch.  He has made
Pathfinder do this miracle with another man's rifle; and not only that,
but Pathfinder did not have even the advantage of loading it himself.  He
had everything against him, and yet he made that impossible shot; and not
only made it, but did it with absolute confidence, saying, "Be ready to
clench."  Now a person like that would have undertaken that same feat
with a brickbat, and with Cooper to help he would have achieved it, too.

Pathfinder showed off handsomely that day before the ladies.  His very
first feat was a thing which no Wild West show can touch.  He was
standing with the group of marksmen, observing--a hundred yards from the
target, mind; one jasper raised his rifle and drove the centre of the
bull's-eye.  Then the Quartermaster fired.  The target exhibited no
result this time.  There was a laugh.  "It's a dead miss," said Major
Lundie.  Pathfinder waited an impressive moment or two; then said, in
that calm, indifferent, know-it-all way of his, "No, Major, he has
covered jasper's bullet, as will be seen if any one will take the trouble
to examine the target."

Wasn't it remarkable!  How could he see that little pellet fly through
the air and enter that distant bullet-hole?  Yet that is what he did; for
nothing is impossible to a Cooper person.  Did any of those people have
any deep-seated doubts about this thing?  No; for that would imply
sanity, and these were all Cooper people.

          "The respect for Pathfinder's skill and for his 'quickness and
          accuracy of sight'" (the italics [''] are mine) "was so
          profound and general, that the instant he made this declaration
          the spectators began to distrust their own opinions, and a
          dozen rushed to the target in order to ascertain the fact.
          There, sure enough, it was found that the Quartermaster's
          bullet had gone through the hole made by Jasper's, and that,
          too, so accurately as to require a minute examination to be
          certain of the circumstance, which, however, was soon clearly
          established by discovering one bullet over the other in the
          stump against which the target was placed."

They made a "minute" examination; but never mind, how could they know
that there were two bullets in that hole without digging the latest one
out?  for neither probe nor eyesight could prove the presence of any more
than one bullet.  Did they dig?  No; as we shall see.  It is the
Pathfinder's turn now; he steps out before the ladies, takes aim, and
fires.

But, alas! here is a disappointment; an incredible, an unimaginable
disappointment--for the target's aspect is unchanged; there is nothing
there but that same old bullet-hole!

          "'If one dared to hint at such a thing,' cried Major Duncan, 'I
          should say that the Pathfinder has also missed the target!'"

As nobody had missed it yet, the "also" was not necessary; but never mind
about that, for the Pathfinder is going to speak.

          "'No, no, Major,' said he, confidently, 'that would be a risky
          declaration.  I didn't load the piece, and can't say what was
          in it; but if it was lead, you will find the bullet driving
          down those of the Quartermaster and Jasper, else is not my name
          Pathfinder.'

          "A shout from the target announced the truth of this
          assertion."

Is the miracle sufficient as it stands?  Not for Cooper.  The Pathfinder
speaks again, as he "now slowly advances towards the stage occupied by
the females":

          "'That's not all, boys, that's not all; if you find the target
          touched at all, I'll own to a miss.  The Quartermaster cut the
          wood, but you'll find no wood cut by that last messenger."

The miracle is at last complete.  He knew--doubtless saw--at the distance
of a hundred yards--that his bullet had passed into the hole without
fraying the edges.  There were now three bullets in that one hole--three
bullets embedded processionally in the body of the stump back of the
target.  Everybody knew this--somehow or other--and yet nobody had dug
any of them out to make sure.  Cooper is not a close observer, but he is
interesting.  He is certainly always that, no matter what happens.  And
he is more interesting when he is not noticing what he is about than when
he is.  This is a considerable merit.

The conversations in the Cooper books have a curious sound in our modern
ears.  To believe that such talk really ever came out of people's mouths
would be to believe that there was a time when time was of no value to a
person who thought he had something to say; when it was the custom to
spread a two-minute remark out to ten; when a man's mouth was a rolling-
mill, and busied itself all day long in turning four-foot pigs of thought
into thirty-foot bars of conversational railroad iron by attenuation;
when subjects were seldom faithfully stuck to, but the talk wandered all
around and arrived nowhere; when conversations consisted mainly of
irrelevancies, with here and there a relevancy, a relevancy with an
embarrassed look, as not being able to explain how it got there.

Cooper was certainly not a master in the construction of dialogue.
Inaccurate observation defeated him here as it defeated him in so many
other enterprises of his.  He even failed to notice that the man who
talks corrupt English six days in the week must and will talk it on the
seventh, and can't help himself.  In the Deerslayer story he lets
Deerslayer talk the showiest kind of book-talk sometimes, and at other
times the basest of base dialects.  For instance, when some one asks him
if he has a sweetheart, and if so, where she abides, this is his majestic
answer:

          "'She's in the forest-hanging from the boughs of the trees, in
          a soft rain--in the dew on the open grass--the clouds that
          float about in the blue heavens--the birds that sing in the
          woods--the sweet springs where I slake my thirst--and in all
          the other glorious gifts that come from God's Providence!'"

And he preceded that, a little before, with this:

          "'It consarns me as all things that touches a fri'nd consarns a
          fri'nd.'"

And this is another of his remarks:

          "'If I was Injin born, now, I might tell of this, or carry in
          the scalp and boast of the expl'ite afore the whole tribe; or
          if my inimy had only been a bear'"--and so on.

We cannot imagine such a thing as a veteran Scotch Commander-in-Chief
comporting himself in the field like a windy melodramatic actor, but
Cooper could.  On one occasion Alice and Cora were being chased by the
French through a fog in the neighborhood of their father's fort:

          "'Point de quartier aux coquins!' cried an eager pursuer, who
          seemed to direct the operations of the enemy.

          "'Stand firm and be ready, my gallant Goths!' suddenly
          exclaimed a voice above them; wait to see the enemy; fire low,
          and sweep the glacis.'

          "'Father? father!' exclaimed a piercing cry from out the mist;
          it is I!  Alice! thy own Elsie! spare, O! save your daughters!'

          "'Hold!' shouted the former speaker, in the awful tones of
          parental agony, the sound reaching even to the woods, and
          rolling back in solemn echo.  ''Tis she! God has restored me my
          children! Throw open the sally-port; to the field, Goths, to
          the field! pull not a trigger, lest ye kill my lambs!  Drive
          off these dogs of France with your steel!'"

Cooper's word-sense was singularly dull.  When a person has a poor ear
for music he will flat and sharp right along without knowing it.  He
keeps near the tune, but it is not the tune.  When a person has a poor
ear for words, the result is a literary flatting and sharping; you
perceive what he is intending to say, but you also perceive that he
doesn't say it.  This is Cooper.  He was not a word-musician.  His ear
was satisfied with the approximate word.  I will furnish some
circumstantial evidence in support of this charge.  My instances are
gathered from half a dozen pages of the tale called Deerslayer.  He uses
"verbal," for "oral"; "precision," for "facility"; "phenomena," for
"marvels"; "necessary," for "predetermined"; "unsophisticated," for
"primitive"; "preparation," for "expectancy"; "rebuked," for "subdued";
"dependent on," for "resulting from"; "fact," for "condition"; "fact,"
for "conjecture"; "precaution," for "caution"; "explain," for
"determine"; "mortified," for "disappointed"; "meretricious," for
"factitious"; "materially," for "considerably"; "decreasing," for
"deepening"; "increasing," for "disappearing"; "embedded," for
"enclosed"; "treacherous;" for "hostile"; "stood," for "stooped";
"softened," for "replaced"; "rejoined," for "remarked"; "situation," for
"condition"; "different," for "differing"; "insensible," for
"unsentient"; "brevity," for "celerity"; "distrusted," for "suspicious";
"mental imbecility," for "imbecility"; "eyes," for "sight";
"counteracting," for "opposing"; "funeral obsequies," for "obsequies."

There have been daring people in the world who claimed that Cooper could
write English, but they are all dead now--all dead but Lounsbury.
I don't remember that Lounsbury makes the claim in so many words, still
he makes it, for he says that Deerslayer is a "pure work of art."
Pure, in that connection, means faultless--faultless in all details and
language is a detail.  If Mr. Lounsbury had only compared Cooper's
English with the English which he writes himself--but it is plain that he
didn't; and so it is likely that he imagines until this day that Cooper's
is as clean and compact as his own.  Now I feel sure, deep down in my
heart, that Cooper wrote about the poorest English that exists in our
language, and that the English of Deerslayer is the very worst that even
Cooper ever wrote.

I may be mistaken, but it does seem to me that Deerslayer is not a work
of art in any sense; it does seem to me that it is destitute of every
detail that goes to the making of a work of art; in truth, it seems to me
that Deerslayer is just simply a literary delirium tremens.

A work of art?  It has no invention; it has no order, system, sequence,
or result; it has no lifelikeness, no thrill, no stir, no seeming of
reality; its characters are confusedly drawn, and by their acts and words
they prove that they are not the sort of people the author claims that
they are; its humor is pathetic; its pathos is funny; its conversations
are--oh! indescribable; its love-scenes odious; its English a crime
against the language.

Counting these out, what is left is Art.  I think we must all admit that.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Fennimore Cooper's Literary Offences
by Mark Twain






ESSAYS ON PAUL BOURGET

by Mark Twain



CONTENTS:
     WHAT PAUL BOURGET THINKS OF US
     A LITTLE NOTE TO M. PAUL BOURGET




WHAT PAUL BOURGET THINKS OF US

He reports the American joke correctly.  In Boston they ask, How much
does he know? in New York, How much is he worth? in Philadelphia, Who
were his parents?  And when an alien observer turns his telescope upon
us--advertisedly in our own special interest--a natural apprehension
moves us to ask, What is the diameter of his reflector?

I take a great interest in M. Bourget's chapters, for I know by the
newspapers that there are several Americans who are expecting to get a
whole education out of them; several who foresaw, and also foretold, that
our long night was over, and a light almost divine about to break upon
the land.

          "His utterances concerning us are bound to be weighty and well
          timed."

          "He gives us an object-lesson which should be thoughtfully and
          profitably studied."

These well-considered and important verdicts were of a nature to restore
public confidence, which had been disquieted by questionings as to
whether so young a teacher would be qualified to take so large a class as
70,000,000, distributed over so extensive a schoolhouse as America, and
pull it through without assistance.

I was even disquieted myself, although I am of a cold, calm temperament,
and not easily disturbed.  I feared for my country.  And I was not wholly
tranquilized by the verdicts rendered as above.  It seemed to me that
there was still room for doubt.  In fact, in looking the ground over I
became more disturbed than I was before.  Many worrying questions came up
in my mind.  Two were prominent.  Where had the teacher gotten his
equipment?  What was his method?

He had gotten his equipment in France.

Then as to his method!  I saw by his own intimations that he was an
Observer, and had a System that used by naturalists and other scientists.
The naturalist collects many bugs and reptiles and butterflies and
studies their ways a long time patiently.  By this means he is presently
able to group these creatures into families and subdivisions of families
by nice shadings of differences observable in their characters.  Then he
labels all those shaded bugs and things with nicely descriptive group
names, and is now happy, for his great work is completed, and as a result
he intimately knows every bug and shade of a bug there, inside and out.
It may be true, but a person who was not a naturalist would feel safer
about it if he had the opinion of the bug.  I think it is a pleasant
System, but subject to error.

The Observer of Peoples has to be a Classifier, a Grouper, a Deducer, a
Generalizer, a Psychologizer; and, first and last, a Thinker.  He has to
be all these, and when he is at home, observing his own folk, he is often
able to prove competency.  But history has shown that when he is abroad
observing unfamiliar peoples the chances are heavily against him.  He is
then a naturalist observing a bug, with no more than a naturalist's
chance of being able to tell the bug anything new about itself, and no
more than a naturalist's chance of being able to teach it any new ways
which it will prefer to its own.

To return to that first question.  M. Bourget, as teacher, would simply
be France teaching America.  It seemed to me that the outlook was dark--
almost Egyptian, in fact.  What would the new teacher, representing
France, teach us?  Railroading?  No.  France knows nothing valuable about
railroading.  Steamshipping?  No.  France has no superiorities over us in
that matter.  Steamboating?  No.  French steamboating is still of
Fulton's date--1809.  Postal service?  No.  France is a back number
there.  Telegraphy?  No, we taught her that ourselves.  Journalism?  No.
Magazining?  No, that is our own specialty.  Government?  No; Liberty,
Equality, Fraternity, Nobility, Democracy, Adultery the system is too
variegated for our climate.  Religion?  No, not variegated enough for our
climate.  Morals?  No, we cannot rob the poor to enrich ourselves.
Novel-writing?  No.  M. Bourget and the others know only one plan, and
when that is expurgated there is nothing left of the book.

I wish I could think what he is going to teach us.  Can it be Deportment?
But he experimented in that at Newport and failed to give satisfaction,
except to a few.  Those few are pleased.  They are enjoying their joy as
well as they can.  They confess their happiness to the interviewer.  They
feel pretty striped, but they remember with reverent recognition that
they had sugar between the cuts.  True, sugar with sand in it, but sugar.
And true, they had some trouble to tell which was sugar and which was
sand, because the sugar itself looked just like the sand, and also had a
gravelly taste; still, they knew that the sugar was there, and would have
been very good sugar indeed if it had been screened.  Yes, they are
pleased; not noisily so, but pleased; invaded, or streaked, as one may
say, with little recurrent shivers of joy--subdued joy, so to speak, not
the overdone kind.  And they commune together, these, and massage each
other with comforting sayings, in a sweet spirit of resignation and
thankfulness, mixing these elements in the same proportions as the sugar
and the sand, as a memorial, and saying, the one to the other, and to the
interviewer: "It was severe--yes, it was bitterly severe; but oh, how
true it was; and it will do us so much good!"

If it isn't Deportment, what is left?  It was at this point that I seemed
to get on the right track at last.  M. Bourget would teach us to know
ourselves; that was it: he would reveal us to ourselves.  That would be
an education.  He would explain us to ourselves.  Then we should
understand ourselves; and after that be able to go on more intelligently.

It seemed a doubtful scheme.  He could explain us to himself--that would
be easy.  That would be the same as the naturalist explaining the bug to
himself.  But to explain the bug to the bug--that is quite a different
matter.  The bug may not know himself perfectly, but he knows himself
better than the naturalist can know him, at any rate.

A foreigner can photograph the exteriors of a nation, but I think that
that is as far as he can get.  I think that no foreigner can report its
interior--its soul, its life, its speech, its thought.  I think that a
knowledge of these things is acquirable in only one way; not two or four
or six--absorption; years and years of unconscious absorption; years and
years of intercourse with the life concerned; of living it, indeed;
sharing personally in its shames and prides, its joys and griefs, its
loves and hates, its prosperities and reverses, its shows and
shabbinesses, its deep patriotisms, its whirlwinds of political passion,
its adorations--of flag, and heroic dead, and the glory of the national
name.  Observation?  Of what real value is it?  One learns peoples
through the heart, not the eyes or the intellect.

There is only one expert who is qualified to examine the souls and the
life of a people and make a valuable report--the native novelist.  This
expert is so rare that the most populous country can never have fifteen
conspicuously and confessedly competent ones in stock at one time.  This
native specialist is not qualified to begin work until he has been
absorbing during twenty-five years.  How much of his competency is
derived from conscious "observation"?  The amount is so slight that it
counts for next to nothing in the equipment.  Almost the whole capital of
the novelist is the slow accumulation of unconscious observation--
absorption.  The native expert's intentional observation of manners,
speech, character, and ways of life can have value, for the native knows
what they mean without having to cipher out the meaning.  But I should be
astonished to see a foreigner get at the right meanings, catch the
elusive shades of these subtle things.  Even the native novelist becomes
a foreigner, with a foreigner's limitations, when he steps from the State
whose life is familiar to him into a State whose life he has not lived.
Bret Harte got his California and his Californians by unconscious
absorption, and put both of them into his tales alive.  But when he came
from the Pacific to the Atlantic and tried to do Newport life from study-
conscious observation--his failure was absolutely monumental.  Newport is
a disastrous place for the unacclimated observer, evidently.

To return to novel-building.  Does the native novelist try to generalize
the nation?  No, he lays plainly before you the ways and speech and life
of a few people grouped in a certain place--his own place--and that is
one book.  In time he and his brethren will report to you the life and
the people of the whole nation--the life of a group in a New England
village; in a New York village; in a Texan village; in an Oregon village;
in villages in fifty States and Territories; then the farm-life in fifty
States and Territories; a hundred patches of life and groups of people in
a dozen widely separated cities.  And the Indians will be attended to;
and the cowboys; and the gold and silver miners; and the negroes; and the
Idiots and Congressmen; and the Irish, the Germans, the Italians, the
Swedes, the French, the Chinamen, the Greasers; and the Catholics, the
Methodists, the Presbyterians, the Congregationalists, the Baptists, the
Spiritualists, the Mormons, the Shakers, the Quakers, the Jews, the
Campbellites, the infidels, the Christian Scientists, the Mind-Curists,
the Faith-Curists, the train-robbers, the White Caps, the Moonshiners.
And when a thousand able novels have been written, there you have the
soul of the people, the life of the people, the speech of the people; and
not anywhere else can these be had.  And the shadings of character,
manners, feelings, ambitions, will be infinite.

          "'The nature of a people' is always of a similar shade in its
          vices and its virtues, in its frivolities and in its labor.
          'It is this physiognomy which it is necessary to discover',
          and every document is good, from the hall of a casino to the
          church, from the foibles of a fashionable woman to the
          suggestions of a revolutionary leader.  I am therefore quite
          sure that this 'American soul', the principal interest and the
          great object of my voyage, appears behind the records of
          Newport for those who choose to see it."--M. Paul Bourget.

[The italics ('') are mine.]  It is a large contract which he has
undertaken.  "Records" is a pretty poor word there, but I think the use
of it is due to hasty translation.  In the original the word is 'fastes'.
I think M. Bourget meant to suggest that he expected to find the great
"American soul" secreted behind the ostentatious of Newport; and that he
was going to get it out and examine it, and generalize it, and
psychologize it, and make it reveal to him its hidden vast mystery: "the
nature of the people" of the United States of America.  We have been
accused of being a nation addicted to inventing wild schemes.  I trust
that we shall be allowed to retire to second place now.

There isn't a single human characteristic that can be safely labeled
"American."  There isn't a single human ambition, or religious trend,
or drift of thought, or peculiarity of education, or code of principles,
or breed of folly, or style of conversation, or preference for a
particular subject for discussion, or form of legs or trunk or head or
face or expression or complexion, or gait, or dress, or manners, or
disposition, or any other human detail, inside or outside, that can
rationally be generalized as "American."

Whenever you have found what seems to be an "American" peculiarity, you
have only to cross a frontier or two, or go down or up in the social
scale, and you perceive that it has disappeared.  And you can cross the
Atlantic and find it again.  There may be a Newport religious drift, or
sporting drift, or conversational style or complexion, or cut of face,
but there are entire empires in America, north, south, east, and west,
where you could not find your duplicates.  It is the same with everything
else which one might propose to call "American."  M. Bourget thinks he
has found the American Coquette.  If he had really found her he would
also have found, I am sure, that she was not new, that she exists in
other lands in the same forms, and with the same frivolous heart and the
same ways and impulses.  I think this because I have seen our coquette;
I have seen her in life; better still, I have seen her in our novels,
and seen her twin in foreign novels.  I wish M. Bourget had seen ours.
He thought he saw her.  And so he applied his System to her.  She was a
Species.  So he gathered a number of samples of what seemed to be her,
and put them under his glass, and divided them into groups which he calls
"types," and labeled them in his usual scientific way with "formulas"--
brief sharp descriptive flashes that make a person blink, sometimes, they
are so sudden and vivid.  As a rule they are pretty far-fetched, but that
is not an important matter; they surprise, they compel admiration, and I
notice by some of the comments which his efforts have called forth that
they deceive the unwary.  Here are a few of the coquette variants which
he has grouped and labeled:

     THE COLLECTOR.
     THE EQUILIBREE.
     THE PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY.
     THE BLUFFER.
     THE GIRL-BOY.

If he had stopped with describing these characters we should have been
obliged to believe that they exist; that they exist, and that he has seen
them and spoken with them.  But he did not stop there; he went further
and furnished to us light-throwing samples of their behavior, and also
light-throwing samples of their speeches.  He entered those things in his
note-book without suspicion, he takes them out and delivers them to the
world with a candor and simplicity which show that he believed them
genuine.  They throw altogether too much light.  They reveal to the
native the origin of his find.  I suppose he knows how he came to make
that novel and captivating discovery, by this time.  If he does not, any
American can tell him--any American to whom he will show his anecdotes.
It was "put up" on him, as we say.  It was a jest--to be plain, it was a
series of frauds.  To my mind it was a poor sort of jest, witless and
contemptible.  The players of it have their reward, such as it is; they
have exhibited the fact that whatever they may be they are not ladies.
M. Bourget did not discover a type of coquette; he merely discovered a
type of practical joker.  One may say the type of practical joker, for
these people are exactly alike all over the world.  Their equipment is
always the same: a vulgar mind, a puerile wit, a cruel disposition as a
rule, and always the spirit of treachery.

In his Chapter IV.  M. Bourget has two or three columns gravely devoted
to the collating and examining and psychologizing of these sorry little
frauds.  One is not moved to laugh.  There is nothing funny in the
situation; it is only pathetic.  The stranger gave those people his
confidence, and they dishonorably treated him in return.

But one must be allowed to suspect that M. Bourget was a little to blame
himself.  Even a practical joker has some little judgment.  He has to
exercise some degree of sagacity in selecting his prey if he would save
himself from getting into trouble.  In my time I have seldom seen such
daring things marketed at any price as these conscienceless folk have
worked off at par on this confiding observer.  It compels the conviction
that there was something about him that bred in those speculators a quite
unusual sense of safety, and encouraged them to strain their powers in
his behalf.  They seem to have satisfied themselves that all he wanted
was "significant" facts, and that he was not accustomed to examine the
source whence they proceeded.  It is plain that there was a sort of
conspiracy against him almost from the start--a conspiracy to freight him
up with all the strange extravagances those people's decayed brains could
invent.

The lengths to which they went are next to incredible.  They told him
things which surely would have excited any one else's suspicion, but they
did not excite his.  Consider this:

          "There is not in all the United States an entirely nude
          statue."

If an angel should come down and say such a thing about heaven, a
reasonably cautious observer would take that angel's number and inquire a
little further before he added it to his catch.  What does the present
observer do?  Adds it.  Adds it at once.  Adds it, and labels it with
this innocent comment:

          "This small fact is strangely significant."

It does seem to me that this kind of observing is defective.

Here is another curiosity which some liberal person made him a present
of.  I should think it ought to have disturbed the deep slumber of his
suspicion a little, but it didn't.  It was a note from a fog-horn for
strenuousness, it seems to me, but the doomed voyager did not catch it.
If he had but caught it, it would have saved him from several disasters:

          "If the American knows that you are traveling to take notes, he
          is interested in it, and at the same time rejoices in it, as in
          a tribute."

Again, this is defective observation.  It is human to like to be praised;
one can even notice it in the French.  But it is not human to like to be
ridiculed, even when it comes in the form of a "tribute."  I think a
little psychologizing ought to have come in there.  Something like this:
A dog does not like to be ridiculed, a redskin does not like to be
ridiculed, a negro does not like to be ridiculed, a Chinaman does not
like to be ridiculed; let us deduce from these significant facts this
formula: the American's grade being higher than these, and the chain-of
argument stretching unbroken all the way up to him, there is room for
suspicion that the person who said the American likes to be ridiculed,
and regards it as a tribute, is not a capable observer.

I feel persuaded that in the matter of psychologizing, a professional is
too apt to yield to the fascinations of the loftier regions of that great
art, to the neglect of its lowlier walks.  Every now and then, at half-
hour intervals, M.  Bourget collects a hatful of airy inaccuracies and
dissolves them in a panful of assorted abstractions, and runs the charge
into a mould and turns you out a compact principle which will explain an
American girl, or an American woman, or why new people yearn for old
things, or any other impossible riddle which a person wants answered.

It seems to be conceded that there are a few human peculiarities that can
be generalized and located here and there in the world and named by the
name of the nation where they are found.  I wonder what they are.
Perhaps one of them is temperament.  One speaks of French vivacity and
German gravity and English stubbornness.  There is no American
temperament.  The nearest that one can come at it is to say there are two
--the composed Northern and the impetuous Southern; and both are found in
other countries.  Morals?  Purity of women may fairly be called universal
with us, but that is the case in some other countries.  We have no
monopoly of it; it cannot be named American.  I think that there is but a
single specialty with us, only one thing that can be called by the wide
name "American."  That is the national devotion to ice-water.  All
Germans drink beer, but the British nation drinks beer, too; so neither
of those peoples is the beer-drinking nation.  I suppose we do stand
alone in having a drink that nobody likes but ourselves.  When we have
been a month in Europe we lose our craving for it, and we finally tell
the hotel folk that they needn't provide it any more.  Yet we hardly
touch our native shore again, winter or summer, before we are eager for
it.  The reasons for this state of things have not been psychologized
yet.  I drop the hint and say no more.

It is my belief that there are some "national" traits and things
scattered about the world that are mere superstitions, frauds that have
lived so long that they have the solid look of facts.  One of them is the
dogma that the French are the only chaste people in the world.  Ever
since I arrived in France this last time I have been accumulating doubts
about that; and before I leave this sunny land again I will gather in a
few random statistics and psychologize the plausibilities out of it.  If
people are to come over to America and find fault with our girls and our
women, and psychologize every little thing they do, and try to teach them
how to behave, and how to cultivate themselves up to where one cannot
tell them from the French model, I intend to find out whether those
missionaries are qualified or not.  A nation ought always to examine into
this detail before engaging the teacher for good.  This last one has let
fall a remark which renewed those doubts of mine when I read it:

          "In our high Parisian existence, for instance, we find applied
          to arts and luxury, and to debauchery, all the powers and all
          the weaknesses of the French soul."

You see, it amounts to a trade with the French soul; a profession;
a science; the serious business of life, so to speak, in our high
Parisian existence.  I do not quite like the look of it.  I question if
it can be taught with profit in our country, except, of course, to those
pathetic, neglected minds that are waiting there so yearningly for the
education which M.  Bourget is going to furnish them from the serene
summits of our high Parisian life.

I spoke a moment ago of the existence of some superstitions that have
been parading the world as facts this long time.  For instance, consider
the Dollar.  The world seems to think that the love of money is
"American"; and that the mad desire to get suddenly rich is "American."
I believe that both of these things are merely and broadly human, not
American monopolies at all.  The love of money is natural to all nations,
for money is a good and strong friend.  I think that this love has
existed everywhere, ever since the Bible called it the root of all evil.

I think that the reason why we Americans seem to be so addicted to trying
to get rich suddenly is merely because the opportunity to make promising
efforts in that direction has offered itself to us with a frequency out
of all proportion to the European experience.  For eighty years this
opportunity has been offering itself in one new town or region after
another straight westward, step by step, all the way from the Atlantic
coast to the Pacific.  When a mechanic could buy ten town lots on
tolerably long credit for ten months' savings out of his wages, and
reasonably expect to sell them in a couple of years for ten times what he
gave for them, it was human for him to try the venture, and he did it no
matter what his nationality was.  He would have done it in Europe or
China if he had had the same chance.

In the flush times in the silver regions a cook or any other humble
worker stood a very good chance to get rich out of a trifle of money
risked in a stock deal; and that person promptly took that risk, no
matter what his or her nationality might be.  I was there, and saw it.

But these opportunities have not been plenty in our Southern States; so
there you have a prodigious region where the rush for sudden wealth is
almost an unknown thing--and has been, from the beginning.

Europe has offered few opportunities for poor Tom, Dick, and Harry; but
when she has offered one, there has been no noticeable difference between
European eagerness and American.  England saw this in the wild days of
the Railroad King; France saw it in 1720--time of Law and the Mississippi
Bubble.  I am sure I have never seen in the gold and silver mines any
madness, fury, frenzy to get suddenly rich which was even remotely
comparable to that which raged in France in the Bubble day.  If I had a
cyclopaedia here I could turn to that memorable case, and satisfy nearly
anybody that the hunger for the sudden dollar is no more "American" than
it is French.  And if I could furnish an American opportunity to staid
Germany, I think I could wake her up like a house afire.

But I must return to the Generalizations, Psychologizings, Deductions.
When M. Bourget is exploiting these arts, it is then that he is
peculiarly and particularly himself.  His ways are wholly original when
he encounters a trait or a custom which is new to him.  Another person
would merely examine the find, verify it, estimate its value, and let it
go; but that is not sufficient for M. Bourget: he always wants to know
why that thing exists, he wants to know how it came to happen; and he
will not let go of it until he has found out.  And in every instance he
will find that reason where no one but himself would have thought of
looking for it.  He does not seem to care for a reason that is not
picturesquely located; one might almost say picturesquely and impossibly
located.

He found out that in America men do not try to hunt down young married
women.  At once, as usual, he wanted to know why.  Any one could have
told him.  He could have divined it by the lights thrown by the novels of
the country.  But no, he preferred to find out for himself.  He has a
trustfulness as regards men and facts which is fine and unusual; he is
not particular about the source of a fact, he is not particular about the
character and standing of the fact itself; but when it comes to pounding
out the reason for the existence of the fact, he will trust no one but
himself.

In the present instance here was his fact: American young married women
are not pursued by the corruptor; and here was the question:  What is it
that protects her?

It seems quite unlikely that that problem could have offered difficulties
to any but a trained philosopher.  Nearly any person would have said to
M. Bourget: "Oh, that is very simple.  It is very seldom in America that
a marriage is made on a commercial basis; our marriages, from the
beginning, have been made for love; and where love is there is no room
for the corruptor."

Now, it is interesting to see the formidable way in which M. Bourget went
at that poor, humble little thing.  He moved upon it in column--three
columns--and with artillery.

"Two reasons of a very different kind explain"--that fact.

And now that I have got so far, I am almost afraid to say what his two
reasons are, lest I be charged with inventing them.  But I will not
retreat now; I will condense them and print them, giving my word that I
am honest and not trying to deceive any one.

1.  Young married women are protected from the approaches of the seducer
in New England and vicinity by the diluted remains of a prudence created
by a Puritan law of two hundred years ago, which for a while punished
adultery with death.

2.  And young married women of the other forty or fifty States are
protected by laws which afford extraordinary facilities for divorce.

If I have not lost my mind I have accurately conveyed those two Vesuvian
irruptions of philosophy.  But the reader can consult Chapter IV. of
'Outre-Mer', and decide for himself.  Let us examine this paralyzing
Deduction or Explanation by the light of a few sane facts.

1.  This universality of "protection" has existed in our country from the
beginning; before the death penalty existed in New England, and during
all the generations that have dragged by since it was annulled.

2.  Extraordinary facilities for divorce are of such recent creation that
any middle-aged American can remember a time when such things had not yet
been thought of.

Let us suppose that the first easy divorce law went into effect forty
years ago, and got noised around and fairly started in business thirty-
five years ago, when we had, say, 25,000,000 of white population.  Let us
suppose that among 5,000,000 of them the young married women were
"protected" by the surviving shudder of that ancient Puritan scare--what
is M. Bourget going to do about those who lived among the 20,000,000?
They were clean in their morals, they were pure, yet there was no easy
divorce law to protect them.

Awhile ago I said that M.  Bourget's method of truth-seeking--hunting for
it in out-of-the-way places--was new; but that was an error.  I remember
that when Leverrier discovered the Milky Way, he and the other
astronomers began to theorize about it in substantially the same fashion
which M. Bourget employs in his seasonings about American social facts
and their origin.  Leverrier advanced the hypothesis that the Milky Way
was caused by gaseous protoplasmic emanations from the field of Waterloo,
which, ascending to an altitude determinable by their own specific
gravity, became luminous through the development and exposure--by the
natural processes of animal decay--of the phosphorus contained in them.

This theory was warmly complimented by Ptolemy, who, however, after much
thought and research, decided that he could not accept it as final.  His
own theory was that the Milky Way was an emigration of lightning bugs;
and he supported and reinforced this theorem by the well-known fact that
the locusts do like that in Egypt.

Giordano Bruno also was outspoken in his praises of Leverrier's important
contribution to astronomical science, and was at first inclined to regard
it as conclusive; but later, conceiving it to be erroneous, he pronounced
against it, and advanced the hypothesis that the Milky Way was a
detachment or corps of stars which became arrested and held in 'suspenso
suspensorum' by refraction of gravitation while on the march to join
their several constellations; a proposition for which he was afterwards
burned at the stake in Jacksonville, Illinois.

These were all brilliant and picturesque theories, and each was received
with enthusiasm by the scientific world; but when a New England farmer,
who was not a thinker, but only a plain sort of person who tried to
account for large facts in simple ways, came out with the opinion that
the Milky Way was just common, ordinary stars, and was put where it was
because God "wanted to hev it so," the admirable idea fell perfectly
flat.

As a literary artist, M. Bourget is as fresh and striking as he is as a
scientific one.  He says, "Above all, I do not believe much in
anecdotes."

Why?  "In history they are all false"--a sufficiently broad statement--
"in literature all libelous"--also a sufficiently sweeping statement,
coming from a critic who notes that we are a people who are peculiarly
extravagant in our language--" and when it is a matter of social life,
almost all biased."  It seems to amount to stultification, almost.  He
has built two or three breeds of American coquettes out of anecdotes--
mainly "biased" ones, I suppose; and, as they occur "in literature,"
furnished by his pen, they must be "all libelous."  Or did he mean not in
literature or anecdotes about literature or literary people?  I am not
able to answer that.  Perhaps the original would be clearer, but I have
only the translation of this installment by me.  I think the remark had
an intention; also that this intention was booked for the trip; but that
either in the hurry of the remark's departure it got left, or in the
confusion of changing cars at the translator's frontier it got side-
tracked.

"But on the other hand I believe in statistics; and those on divorces
appear to me to be most conclusive."  And he sets himself the task of
explaining--in a couple of columns--the process by which Easy-Divorce
conceived, invented, originated, developed, and perfected an empire-
embracing condition of sexual purity in the States.  IN 40 YEARS.  No, he
doesn't state the interval.  With all his passion for statistics he
forgot to ask how long it took to produce this gigantic miracle.

I have followed his pleasant but devious trail through those columns,
but I was not able to get hold of his argument and find out what it was.
I was not even able to find out where it left off.  It seemed to
gradually dissolve and flow off into other matters.  I followed it with
interest, for I was anxious to learn how easy-divorce eradicated adultery
in America, but I was disappointed; I have no idea yet how it did it.
I only know it didn't.  But that is not valuable; I knew it before.

Well, humor is the great thing, the saving thing, after all.  The minute
it crops up, all our hardnesses yield, all our irritations and
resentments flit away, and a sunny spirit takes their place.  And so,
when M. Bourget said that bright thing about our grandfathers, I broke
all up.  I remember exploding its American countermine once, under that
grand hero, Napoleon.  He was only First Consul then, and I was Consul-
General--for the United States, of course; but we were very intimate,
notwithstanding the difference in rank, for I waived that.  One day
something offered the opening, and he said:

"Well, General, I suppose life can never get entirely dull to an
American, because whenever he can't strike up any other way to put in his
time he can always get away with a few years trying to find out who his
grandfather was!"

I fairly shouted, for I had never heard it sound better; and then I was
back at him as quick as a flash--"Right, your Excellency!  But I reckon
a Frenchman's got his little stand-by for a dull time, too; because when
all other interests fail he can turn in and see if he can't find out who
his father was!"

Well, you should have heard him just whoop, and cackle, and carry on!
He reached up and hit me one on the shoulder, and says:

"Land, but it's good!  It's im-mensely good!  I'George, I never heard it
said so good in my life before!  Say it again."

So I said it again, and he said his again, and I said mine again, and
then he did, and then I did, and then he did, and we kept on doing it,
and doing it, and I never had such a good time, and he said the same.
In my opinion there isn't anything that is as killing as one of those
dear old ripe pensioners if you know how to snatch it out in a kind of
a fresh sort of original way.

But I wish M. Bourget had read more of our novels before he came.  It is
the only way to thoroughly understand a people.  When I found I was
coming to Paris, I read 'La Terre'.






A LITTLE NOTE TO M. PAUL BOURGET

          [The preceding squib was assailed in the North American Review
          in an article entitled "Mark Twain and Paul Bourget," by Max
          O'Rell.  The following little note is a Rejoinder to that
          article.  It is possible that the position assumed here--that
          M. Bourget dictated the O'Rell article himself--is untenable.]

You have every right, my dear M. Bourget, to retort upon me by dictation,
if you prefer that method to writing at me with your pen; but if I may
say it without hurt--and certainly I mean no offence--I believe you would
have acquitted yourself better with the pen.  With the pen you are at
home; it is your natural weapon; you use it with grace, eloquence, charm,
persuasiveness, when men are to be convinced, and with formidable effect
when they have earned a castigation.  But I am sure I see signs in the
above article that you are either unaccustomed to dictating or are out of
practice.  If you will re-read it you will notice, yourself, that it
lacks definiteness; that it lacks purpose; that it lacks coherence; that
it lacks a subject to talk about; that it is loose and wabbly; that it
wanders around; that it loses itself early and does not find itself any
more.  There are some other defects, as you will notice, but I think I
have named the main ones.  I feel sure that they are all due to your lack
of practice in dictating.

Inasmuch as you had not signed it I had the impression at first that you
had not dictated it.  But only for a moment.  Certain quite simple and
definite facts reminded me that the article had to come from you, for the
reason that it could not come from any one else without a specific
invitation from you or from me.  I mean, it could not except as an
intrusion, a transgression of the law which forbids strangers to mix into
a private dispute between friends, unasked.

Those simple and definite facts were these: I had published an article in
this magazine, with you for my subject; just you yourself; I stuck
strictly to that one subject, and did not interlard any other.  No one,
of course, could call me to account but you alone, or your authorized
representative.  I asked some questions--asked them of myself.
I answered them myself.  My article was thirteen pages long, and all
devoted to you; devoted to you, and divided up in this way: one page of
guesses as to what subjects you would instruct us in, as teacher; one
page of doubts as to the effectiveness of your method of examining us and
our ways; two or three pages of criticism of your method, and of certain
results which it furnished you; two or three pages of attempts to show
the justness of these same criticisms; half a dozen pages made up of
slight fault-findings with certain minor details of your literary
workmanship, of extracts from your 'Outre-Mer' and comments upon them;
then I closed with an anecdote.  I repeat--for certain reasons--that I
closed with an anecdote.

When I was asked by this magazine if I wished to "answer" a "reply" to
that article of mine, I said "yes," and waited in Paris for the proof-
sheets of the "reply" to come.  I already knew, by the cablegram, that
the "reply" would not be signed by you, but upon reflection I knew it
would be dictated by you, because no volunteer would feel himself at
liberty to assume your championship in a private dispute, unasked, in
view of the fact that you are quite well able to take care of your
matters of that sort yourself and are not in need of any one's help.
No, a volunteer could not make such a venture.  It would be too immodest.
Also too gratuitously generous.  And a shade too self-sufficient.  No,
he could not venture it.  It would look too much like anxiety to get in
at a feast where no plate had been provided for him.  In fact he could
not get in at all, except by the back way, and with a false key; that is
to say, a pretext--a pretext invented for the occasion by putting into my
mouth words which I did not use, and by wresting sayings of mine from
their plain and true meaning.  Would he resort to methods like those to
get in?  No; there are no people of that kind.  So then I knew for a
certainty that you dictated the Reply yourself.  I knew you did it to
save yourself manual labor.

And you had the right, as I have already said and I am content--perfectly
content.

Yet it would have been little trouble to you, and a great kindness to me,
if you had written your Reply all out with your own capable hand.

Because then it would have replied--and that is really what a Reply is
for.  Broadly speaking, its function is to refute--as you will easily
concede.  That leaves something for the other person to take hold of:
he has a chance to reply to the Reply, he has a chance to refute the
refutation.  This would have happened if you had written it out instead
of dictating.  Dictating is nearly sure to unconcentrate the dictator's
mind, when he is out of practice, confuse him, and betray him into using
one set of literary rules when he ought to use a quite different set.
Often it betrays him into employing the RULES FOR CONVERSATION BETWEEN A
SHOUTER AND A DEAF PERSON--as in the present case--when he ought to
employ the RULES FOR CONDUCTING DISCUSSION WITH A FAULT-FINDER.  The
great foundation-rule and basic principle of discussion with a fault-
finder is relevancy and concentration upon the subject; whereas the great
foundation-rule and basic principle governing conversation between a
shouter and a deaf person is irrelevancy and persistent desertion of the
topic in hand.  If I may be allowed to illustrate by quoting example IV.,
section from chapter ix. of "Revised Rules for Conducting Conversation
between a Shouter and a Deaf Person," it will assist us in getting a
clear idea of the difference between the two sets of rules:

Shouter.  Did you say his name is WETHERBY?

Deaf Person.  Change?  Yes, I think it will.  Though if it should clear
off I--

Shouter.  It's his NAME I want--his NAME.

Deaf Person.  Maybe so, maybe so; but it will only be a shower, I think.

Shouter.  No, no, no!--you have quite misunderSTOOD me.  If--

Deaf Person.  Ah!  GOOD morning; I am sorry you must go.  But call again,
and let me continue to be of assistance to you in every way I can.


You see it is a perfect kodak of the article you have dictated.  It is
really curious and interesting when you come to compare it with yours;
in detail, with my former article to which it is a Reply in your hand.
I talk twelve pages about your American instruction projects, and your
doubtful scientific system, and your painstaking classification of
nonexistent things, and your diligence and zeal and sincerity, and your
disloyal attitude towards anecdotes, and your undue reverence for unsafe
statistics and far facts that lack a pedigree; and you turn around and
come back at me with eight pages of weather.

I do not see how a person can act so.  It is good of you to repeat, with
change of language, in the bulk of your rejoinder, so much of my own
article, and adopt my sentiments, and make them over, and put new buttons
on; and I like the compliment, and am frank to say so; but agreeing with
a person cripples controversy and ought not to be allowed.  It is
weather; and of almost the worst sort.  It pleases me greatly to hear you
discourse with such approval and expansiveness upon my text:

"A foreigner can photograph the exteriors of a nation, but I think that
is as far as he can get.  I think that no foreigner can report its
interior;"--[And you say: "A man of average intelligence, who has passed
six months among a people, cannot express opinions that are worth jotting
down, but he can form impressions that are worth repeating.  For my part,
I think that foreigners' impressions are more interesting than native
opinions.  After all, such impressions merely mean 'how the country
struck the foreigner.'"]--which is a quite clear way of saying that a
foreigner's report is only valuable when it restricts itself to
impressions.  It pleases me to have you follow my lead in that glowing
way, but it leaves me nothing to combat.  You should give me something to
deny and refute; I would do as much for you.

It pleases me to have you playfully warn the public against taking one of
your books seriously.--[When I published Jonathan and his Continent, I
wrote in a preface addressed to Jonathan: "If ever you should insist in
seeing in this little volume a serious study of your country and of your
countrymen, I warn you that your world-wide fame for humor will be
exploded."]--Because I used to do that cunning thing myself in earlier
days.  I did it in a prefatory note to a book of mine called Tom Sawyer.


                                 NOTICE.

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted;
persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons
attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
                              BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR
                              PER G. G., CHIEF OF ORDNANCE.


The kernel is the same in both prefaces, you see--the public must not
take us too seriously.  If we remove that kernel we remove the life-
principle, and the preface is a corpse.  Yes, it pleases me to have you
use that idea, for it is a high compliment.  But is leaves me nothing to
combat; and that is damage to me.

Am I seeming to say that your Reply is not a reply at all, M. Bourget?
If so, I must modify that; it is too sweeping.  For you have furnished a
general answer to my inquiry as to what France through you--can teach us.
--["What could France teach America!" exclaims Mark Twain.  France can
teach America all the higher pursuits of life, and there is more artistic
feeling and refinement in a street of French workingmen than in many
avenues inhabited by American millionaires.  She can teach her, not
perhaps how to work, but how to rest, how to live, how to be happy.
She can teach her that the aim of life is not money-making, but that
money-making is only a means to obtain an end.  She can teach her that
wives are not expensive toys, but useful partners, friends, and
confidants, who should always keep men under their wholesome influence by
their diplomacy, their tact, their common-sense, without bumptiousness.
These qualities, added to the highest standard of morality (not angular
and morose, but cheerful morality), are conceded to Frenchwomen by
whoever knows something of French life outside of the Paris boulevards,
and Mark Twain's ill-natured sneer cannot even so much as stain them.

I might tell Mark Twain that in France a man who was seen tipsy in his
club would immediately see his name canceled from membership.  A man who
had settled his fortune on his wife to avoid meeting his creditors would
be refused admission into any decent society.  Many a Frenchman has blown
his brains out rather than declare himself a bankrupt.  Now would Mark
Twain remark to this: 'An American is not such a fool: when a creditor
stands in his way he closes his doors, and reopens them the following
day.  When he has been a bankrupt three times he can retire from
business?']--It is a good answer.

It relates to manners, customs, and morals--three things concerning which
we can never have exhaustive and determinate statistics, and so the
verdicts delivered upon them must always lack conclusiveness and be
subject to revision; but you have stated the truth, possibly, as nearly
as any one could do it, in the circumstances.  But why did you choose a
detail of my question which could be answered only with vague hearsay
evidence, and go right by one which could have been answered with deadly
facts?--facts in everybody's reach, facts which none can dispute.
I asked what France could teach us about government.  I laid myself
pretty wide open, there; and I thought I was handsomely generous, too,
when I did it.  France can teach us how to levy village and city taxes
which distribute the burden with a nearer approach to perfect fairness
than is the case in any other land; and she can teach us the wisest and
surest system of collecting them that exists.  She can teach us how to
elect a President in a sane way; and also how to do it without throwing
the country into earthquakes and convulsions that cripple and embarrass
business, stir up party hatred in the hearts of men, and make peaceful
people wish the term extended to thirty years.  France can teach us--but
enough of that part of the question.  And what else can France teach us?
She can teach us all the fine arts--and does.  She throws open her
hospitable art academies, and says to us, "Come"--and we come, troops and
troops of our young and gifted; and she sets over us the ablest masters
in the world and bearing the greatest names; and she, teaches us all that
we are capable of learning, and persuades us and encourages us with
prizes and honors, much as if we were somehow children of her own; and
when this noble education is finished and we are ready to carry it home
and spread its gracious ministries abroad over our nation, and we come
with homage and gratitude and ask France for the bill--there is nothing
to pay.  And in return for this imperial generosity, what does America
do?  She charges a duty on French works of art!

I wish I had your end of this dispute; I should have something worth
talking about.  If you would only furnish me something to argue,
something to refute--but you persistently won't.  You leave good chances
unutilized and spend your strength in proving and establishing
unimportant things.  For instance, you have proven and established these
eight facts here following--a good score as to number, but not worth
while:

Mark Twain is--

1.  "Insulting."

2.  (Sarcastically speaking) "This refined humor, 1st."

3.  Prefers the manure-pile to the violets.

4.  Has uttered "an ill-natured sneer."

5.  Is "nasty."

6.  Needs a "lesson in politeness and good manners."

7.  Has published a "nasty article."

8.  Has made remarks "unworthy of a gentleman."--["It is more funny than
his" (Mark Twain's) "anecdote, and would have been less insulting."

A quoted remark of mine "is a gross insult to a nation friendly to
America."

"He has read La Terre, this refined humorist."

"When Mark Twain visits a garden .  .  .  he goes in the far-away comer
where the soil is prepared."

"Mark Twain's ill-natured sneer cannot so much as stain them" (the
Frenchwomen).

"When he" (Mark Twain) "takes his revenge he is unkind, unfair, bitter,
nasty."

"But not even your nasty article on my country, Mark," etc.

"Mark might certainly have derived from it "(M. Bourget's book)" a lesson
in politeness and good manners."

A quoted remark of mine is "unworthy of a gentleman."]--

These are all true, but really they are not valuable; no one cares much
for such finds.  In our American magazines we recognize this and suppress
them.  We avoid naming them.  American writers never allow themselves to
name them.  It would look as if they were in a temper, and we hold that
exhibitions of temper in public are not good form except in the very
young and inexperienced.  And even if we had the disposition to name
them, in order to fill up a gap when we were short of ideas and
arguments, our magazines would not allow us to do it, because they think
that such words sully their pages.  This present magazine is particularly
strenuous about it.  Its note to me announcing the forwarding of your
proof-sheets to France closed thus--for your protection:

"It is needless to ask you to avoid anything that he might consider as
personal."

It was well enough, as a measure of precaution, but really it was not
needed.  You can trust me implicitly, M. Bourget; I shall never call you
any names in print which I should be ashamed to call you with your
unoffending and dearest ones present.

Indeed, we are reserved, and particular in America to a degree which you
would consider exaggerated.  For instance, we should not write notes like
that one of yours to a lady for a small fault--or a large one.--[When M.
Paul Bourget indulges in a little chaffing at the expense of the
Americans, "who can always get away with a few years' trying to find out
who their grandfathers were,"] he merely makes an allusion to an American
foible; but, forsooth, what a kind man, what a humorist Mark Twain is
when he retorts by calling France a nation of bastards!  How the
Americans of culture and refinement will admire him for thus speaking in
their name!

Snobbery .  .  .  .  I could give Mark Twain an example of the American
specimen.  It is a piquant story.  I never published it because I feared
my readers might think that I was giving them a typical illustration of
American character instead of a rare exception.

I was once booked by my manager to give a causerie in the drawing-room of
a New York millionaire.  I accepted with reluctance.  I do not like
private engagements.  At five o'clock on the day the causerie was to be
given, the lady sent to my manager to say that she would expect me to
arrive at nine o'clock and to speak for about an hour.  Then she wrote a
postscript.  Many women are unfortunate there.  Their minds are full of
after-thoughts, and the most important part of their letters is generally
to be found after their signature.  This lady's P. S. ran thus: "I
suppose be will not expect to be entertained after the lecture."

I fairly shorted, as Mark Twain would say, and then, indulging myself in
a bit of snobbishness, I was back at her as quick as a flash:

"Dear Madam: As a literary man of some reputation, I have many times had
the pleasure of being entertained by the members of the old aristocracy
of France.  I have also many times had the pleasure of being entertained
by the members of the old aristocracy of England.  If it may interest
you, I can even tell you that I have several times had the honor of being
entertained by royalty; but my ambition has never been so wild as to
expect that one day I might be entertained by the aristocracy of New
York.  No, I do not expect to be entertained by you, nor do I want you to
expect me to entertain you and your friends to-night, for I decline to
keep the engagement."

Now, I could fill a book on America with reminiscences of this sort,
adding a few chapters on bosses and boodlers, on New York 'chronique
scandaleuse', on the tenement houses of the large cities, on the
gambling-hells of Denver, and the dens of San Francisco, and what not!
But not even your nasty article on my country, Mark, will make me do
it.]--We should not think it kind.  No matter how much we might have
associated with kings and nobilities, we should not think it right to
crush her with it and make her ashamed of her lowlier walk in life; for
we have a saying, "Who humiliates my mother includes his own."

Do I seriously imagine you to be the author of that strange letter,
M. Bourget?  Indeed I do not.  I believe it to have been surreptitiously
inserted by your amanuensis when your back was turned.  I think he did it
with a good motive, expecting it to add force and piquancy to your
article, but it does not reflect your nature, and I know it will grieve
you when you see it.  I also think he interlarded many other things which
you will disapprove of when you see them.  I am certain that all the
harsh names discharged at me come from him, not you.  No doubt you could
have proved me entitled to them with as little trouble as it has cost him
to do it, but it would have been your disposition to hunt game of a
higher quality.

Why, I even doubt if it is you who furnish me all that excellent
information about Balzac and those others.--["Now the style of M.
Bourget and many other French writers is apparently a closed letter to
Mark Twain; but let us leave that alone.  Has he read Erckmann-Chatrian,
Victor Hugo, Lamartine, Edmond About, Cherbuliez, Renan?  Has he read
Gustave Droz's 'Monsieur, Madame, et Bebe', and those books which leave
for a long time a perfume about you?  Has he read the novels of Alexandre
Dumas, Eugene Sue, George Sand, and Balzac?  Has be read Victor Hugo's
'Les Miserables' and 'Notre Dame de Paris'?  Has he read or heard the
plays of Sandeau, Augier, Dumas, and Sardou, the works of those Titans of
modern literature, whose names will be household words all over the world
for hundreds of years to come?  He has read La Terre--this kind-hearted,
refined humorist!  When Mark Twain visits a garden does he smell the
violets, the roses, the jasmine, or the honeysuckle?  No, he goes in the
far-away comer where the soil is prepared.  Hear what he says: 'I wish M.
Paul Bourget had read more of our novels before he came.  It is the only
way to thoroughly understand a people.  When I found I was coming to
Paris I read La Terre.'"]--All this in simple justice to you--and to me;
for, to gravely accept those interlardings as yours would be to wrong
your head and heart, and at the same time convict myself of being
equipped with a vacancy where my penetration ought to be lodged.

And now finally I must uncover the secret pain, the wee sore from which
the Reply grew--the anecdote which closed my recent article--and consider
how it is that this pimple has spread to these cancerous dimensions.
If any but you had dictated the Reply, M. Bourget, I would know that that
anecdote was twisted around and its intention magnified some hundreds of
times, in order that it might be used as a pretext to creep in the back
way.  But I accuse you of nothing--nothing but error.  When you say that
I "retort by calling France a nation of bastards," it is an error.  And
not a small one, but a large one.  I made no such remark, nor anything
resembling it.  Moreover, the magazine would not have allowed me to use
so gross a word as that.

You told an anecdote.  A funny one--I admit that.  It hit a foible of our
American aristocracy, and it stung me--I admit that; it stung me sharply.
It was like this: You found some ancient portraits of French kings in the
gallery of one of our aristocracy, and you said:

"He has the Grand Monarch, but where is the portrait of his grandfather?"
That is, the American aristocrat's grandfather.

Now that hits only a few of us, I grant--just the upper crust only--but
it hits exceedingly hard.

I wondered if there was any way of getting back at you.  In one of your
chapters I found this chance:

"In our high Parisian existence, for instance, we find applied to arts
and luxury, and to debauchery, all the powers and all the weaknesses of
the French soul."

You see?  Your "higher Parisian" class--not everybody, not the nation,
but only the top crust of the Ovation--applies to debauchery all the
powers of its soul.

I argued to myself that that energy must produce results.  So I built an
anecdote out of your remark.  In it I make Napoleon Bonaparte say to me--
but see for yourself the anecdote (ingeniously clipped and curtailed) in
paragraph eleven of your Reply.--[So, I repeat, Mark Twain does not like
M. Paul Bourget's book.  So long as he makes light fun of the great
French writer he is at home, he is pleasant, he is the American humorist
we know.  When he takes his revenge (and where is the reason for taking a
revenge?) he is unkind, unfair, bitter, nasty.

For example:
See his answer to a Frenchman who jokingly remarks to him:

"I suppose life can never get entirely dull to an American, because
whenever he can't strike up any other way to put in his time, he can
always get away with a few years trying to find out who his grandfather
was."

Hear the answer:

"I reckon a Frenchman's got his little standby for a dull time, too;
because when all other interests fail, he can turn in and see if he can't
find out who his father was."

The first remark is a good-humored bit of chaffing on American snobbery.
I may be utterly destitute of humor, but I call the second remark a
gratuitous charge of immorality hurled at the French women--a remark
unworthy of a man who has the ear of the public, unworthy of a gentleman,
a gross insult to a nation friendly to America, a nation that helped Mark
Twain's ancestors in their struggle for liberty, a nation where to-day it
is enough to say that you are American to see every door open wide to
you.

If Mark Twain was hard up in search of, a French "chestnut," I might have
told him the following little anecdote.  It is more funny than his, and
would have been less insulting: Two little street boys are abusing each
other.  "Ah, hold your tongue," says one, "you ain't got no father."

"Ain't got no father!" replies the other; "I've got more fathers than
you."]

Now, then, your anecdote about the grandfathers hurt me.  Why?  Because
it had a point.  It wouldn't have hurt me if it hadn't had point.  You
wouldn't have wasted space on it if it hadn't had point.

My anecdote has hurt you.  Why?  Because it had point, I suppose.  It
wouldn't have hurt you if it hadn't had point.  I judged from your remark
about the diligence and industry of the high Parisian upper crust that it
would have some point, but really I had no idea what a gold-mine I had
struck.  I never suspected that the point was going to stick into the
entire nation; but of course you know your nation better than I do, and
if you think it punctures them all, I have to yield to your judgment.
But you are to blame, your own self.  Your remark misled me.  I supposed
the industry was confined to that little unnumerous upper layer.

Well, now that the unfortunate thing has been done, let us do what we can
to undo it.  There must be a way, M.  Bourget, and I am willing to do
anything that will help; for I am as sorry as you can be yourself.

I will tell you what I think will be the very thing.

We will swap anecdotes.  I will take your anecdote and you take mine.  I
will say to the dukes and counts and princes of the ancient nobility of
France:

"Ha, ha! You must have a pretty hard time trying to find out who your
grandfathers were?"

They will merely smile indifferently and not feel hurt, because they can
trace their lineage back through centuries.

And you will hurl mine at every individual in the American nation,
saying:

"And you must have a pretty hard time trying to find out who your fathers
were."  They will merely smile indifferently, and not feel hurt, because
they haven't any difficulty in finding their fathers.

Do you get the idea?  The whole harm in the anecdotes is in the point,
you see; and when we swap them around that way, they haven't any.

That settles it perfectly and beautifully, and I am glad I thought of it.
I am very glad indeed, M. Bourget; for it was just that little wee thing
that caused the whole difficulty and made you dictate the Reply, and your
amanuensis call me all those hard names which the magazines dislike so.
And I did it all in fun, too, trying to cap your funny anecdote with
another one--on the give-and-take principle, you know--which is American.
I didn't know that with the French it was all give and no take, and you
didn't tell me.  But now that I have made everything comfortable again,
and fixed both anecdotes so they can never have any point any more, I
know you will forgive me.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Essays on Paul Bourget
by Mark Twain






TOM SAWYER ABROAD

CHAPTER I.
TOM SEEKS NEW ADVENTURES

DO you reckon Tom Sawyer was satisfied after all
them adventures? I mean the adventures we had
down the river, and the time we set the darky Jim free
and Tom got shot in the leg. No, he wasn't. It only
just p'isoned him for more. That was all the effect it
had. You see, when we three came back up the river
in glory, as you may say, from that long travel, and
the village received us with a torchlight procession and
speeches, and everybody hurrah'd and shouted, it
made us heroes, and that was what Tom Sawyer had
always been hankering to be.

For a while he WAS satisfied. Everybody made
much of him, and he tilted up his nose and stepped
around the town as though he owned it. Some called
him Tom Sawyer the Traveler, and that just swelled
him up fit to bust. You see he laid over me and Jim
considerable, because we only went down the river on
a raft and came back by the steamboat, but Tom went
by the steamboat both ways. The boys envied me and
Jim a good deal, but land! they just knuckled to the
dirt before TOM.

Well, I don't know; maybe he might have been
satisfied if it hadn't been for old Nat Parsons, which
was postmaster, and powerful long and slim, and kind
o' good-hearted and silly, and bald-headed, on account
of his age, and about the talkiest old cretur I ever see.
For as much as thirty years he'd been the only man in
the village that had a reputation -- I mean a reputation
for being a traveler, and of course he was mortal proud
of it, and it was reckoned that in the course of that
thirty years he had told about that journey over a
million times and enjoyed it every time. And now
comes along a boy not quite fifteen, and sets everybody
admiring and gawking over HIS travels, and it just give
the poor old man the high strikes. It made him sick
to listen to Tom, and to hear the people say "My
land!" "Did you ever!" "My goodness sakes
alive!" and all such things; but he couldn't pull away
from it, any more than a fly that's got its hind leg fast
in the molasses. And always when Tom come to a
rest, the poor old cretur would chip in on HIS same old
travels and work them for all they were worth; but
they were pretty faded, and didn't go for much, and it
was pitiful to see. And then Tom would take another
innings, and then the old man again -- and so on, and
so on, for an hour and more, each trying to beat out
the other.

You see, Parsons' travels happened like this: When
he first got to be postmaster and was green in the busi-
ness, there come a letter for somebody he didn't know,
and there wasn't any such person in the village. Well,
he didn't know what to do, nor how to act, and there
the letter stayed and stayed, week in and week out, till
the bare sight of it gave him a conniption. The postage
wasn't paid on it, and that was another thing to worry
about. There wasn't any way to collect that ten cents,
and he reckon'd the gov'ment would hold him respon-
sible for it and maybe turn him out besides, when they
found he hadn't collected it. Well, at last he couldn't
stand it any longer. He couldn't sleep nights, he
couldn't eat, he was thinned down to a shadder, yet
he da'sn't ask anybody's advice, for the very person
he asked for advice might go back on him and let the
gov'ment know about the letter. He had the letter
buried under the floor, but that did no good; if he
happened to see a person standing over the place it'd
give him the cold shivers, and loaded him up with
suspicions, and he would sit up that night till the town
was still and dark, and then he would sneak there and
get it out and bury it in another place. Of course,
people got to avoiding him and shaking their heads
and whispering, because, the way he was looking and
acting, they judged he had killed somebody or done
something terrible, they didn't know what, and if he
had been a stranger they would've lynched him.

Well, as I was saying, it got so he couldn't stand it
any longer; so he made up his mind to pull out for
Washington, and just go to the President of the United
States and make a clean breast of the whole thing, not
keeping back an atom, and then fetch the letter out and
lay it before the whole gov'ment, and say, "Now,
there she is -- do with me what you're a mind to;
though as heaven is my judge I am an innocent man
and not deserving of the full penalties of the law and
leaving behind me a family that must starve and yet
hadn't had a thing to do with it, which is the whole
truth and I can swear to it."

So he did it. He had a little wee bit of steamboat-
ing, and some stage-coaching, but all the rest of the
way was horseback, and it took him three weeks to get
to Washington. He saw lots of land and lots of vil-
lages and four cities. He was gone 'most eight weeks,
and there never was such a proud man in the village as
he when he got back. His travels made him the greatest
man in all that region, and the most talked about; and
people come from as much as thirty miles back in the
country, and from over in the Illinois bottoms, too,
just to look at him -- and there they'd stand and gawk,
and he'd gabble. You never see anything like it.

Well, there wasn't any way now to settle which was
the greatest traveler; some said it was Nat, some said
it was Tom. Everybody allowed that Nat had seen
the most longitude, but they had to give in that what-
ever Tom was short in longitude he had made up in
latitude and climate. It was about a stand-off; so both
of them had to whoop up their dangerous adventures,
and try to get ahead THAT way. That bullet-wound in
Tom's leg was a tough thing for Nat Parsons to buck
against, but he bucked the best he could; and at a
disadvantage, too, for Tom didn't set still as he'd orter
done, to be fair, but always got up and sauntered
around and worked his limp while Nat was painting up
the adventure that HE had in Washington; for Tom
never let go that limp when his leg got well, but prac-
ticed it nights at home, and kept it good as new right
along.

Nat's adventure was like this; I don't know how
true it is; maybe he got it out of a paper, or some-
where, but I will say this for him, that he DID know
how to tell it. He could make anybody's flesh crawl,
and he'd turn pale and hold his breath when he told
it, and sometimes women and girls got so faint they
couldn't stick it out. Well, it was this way, as near as
I can remember:

He come a-loping into Washington, and put up his
horse and shoved out to the President's house with his
letter, and they told him the President was up to the
Capitol, and just going to start for Philadelphia -- not
a minute to lose if he wanted to catch him. Nat 'most
dropped, it made him so sick. His horse was put up,
and he didn't know what to do. But just then along
comes a darky driving an old ramshackly hack, and he
see his chance. He rushes out and shouts: "A half a
dollar if you git me to the Capitol in half an hour, and
a quarter extra if you do it in twenty minutes!"

"Done!" says the darky.

Nat he jumped in and slammed the door, and away
they went a-ripping and a-tearing over the roughest
road a body ever see, and the racket of it was some-
thing awful. Nat passed his arms through the loops
and hung on for life and death, but pretty soon the
hack hit a rock and flew up in the air, and the bottom
fell out, and when it come down Nat's feet was on the
ground, and he see he was in the most desperate danger
if he couldn't keep up with the hack. He was horrible
scared, but he laid into his work for all he was worth,
and hung tight to the arm-loops and made his legs
fairly fly. He yelled and shouted to the driver to
stop, and so did the crowds along the street, for they
could see his legs spinning along under the coach, and
his head and shoulders bobbing inside through the
windows, and he was in awful danger; but the more
they all shouted the more the nigger whooped and
yelled and lashed the horses and shouted, "Don't you
fret, I'se gwine to git you dah in time, boss; I's gwine
to do it, sho'!" for you see he thought they were all
hurrying him up, and, of course, he couldn't hear any-
thing for the racket he was making. And so they went
ripping along, and everybody just petrified to see it;
and when they got to the Capitol at last it was the
quickest trip that ever was made, and everybody said
so. The horses laid down, and Nat dropped, all tuck-
ered out, and he was all dust and rags and barefooted;
but he was in time and just in time, and caught the
President and give him the letter, and everything was
all right, and the President give him a free pardon on
the spot, and Nat give the nigger two extra quarters
instead of one, because he could see that if he hadn't
had the hack he wouldn't'a' got there in time, nor
anywhere near it.

It WAS a powerful good adventure, and Tom Sawyer
had to work his bullet-wound mighty lively to hold his
own against it.

Well, by and by Tom's glory got to paling down
gradu'ly, on account of other things turning up for the
people to talk about -- first a horse-race, and on top of
that a house afire, and on top of that the circus, and
on top of that the eclipse; and that started a revival,
same as it always does, and by that time there wasn't
any more talk about Tom, so to speak, and you never
see a person so sick and disgusted.

Pretty soon he got to worrying and fretting right
along day in and day out, and when I asked him what
WAS he in such a state about, he said it 'most broke his
heart to think how time was slipping away, and him
getting older and older, and no wars breaking out and
no way of making a name for himself that he could
see. Now that is the way boys is always thinking, but
he was the first one I ever heard come out and say it.

So then he set to work to get up a plan to make him
celebrated; and pretty soon he struck it, and offered to
take me and Jim in. Tom Sawyer was always free and
generous that way. There's a-plenty of boys that's
mighty good and friendly when YOU'VE got a good
thing, but when a good thing happens to come their
way they don't say a word to you, and try to hog it
all. That warn't ever Tom Sawyer's way, I can say
that for him. There's plenty of boys that will come
hankering and groveling around you when you've got
an apple and beg the core off of you; but when they've
got one, and you beg for the core and remind them
how you give them a core one time, they say thank
you 'most to death, but there ain't a-going to be no
core. But I notice they always git come up with; all
you got to do is to wait.

Well, we went out in the woods on the hill, and Tom
told us what it was. It was a crusade.

"What's a crusade?" I says.

He looked scornful, the way he's always done when
he was ashamed of a person, and says:

"Huck Finn, do you mean to tell me you don't
know what a crusade is?"

"No," says I, "I don't. And I don't care to,
nuther. I've lived till now and done without it, and
had my health, too. But as soon as you tell me, I'll
know, and that's soon enough. I don't see any use in
finding out things and clogging up my head with them
when I mayn't ever have any occasion to use 'em.
There was Lance Williams, he learned how to talk
Choctaw here till one come and dug his grave for him.
Now, then, what's a crusade? But I can tell you one
thing before you begin; if it's a patent-right, there's
no money in it. Bill Thompson he --"

"Patent-right!" says he. "I never see such an
idiot. Why, a crusade is a kind of war."

I thought he must be losing his mind. But no, he
was in real earnest, and went right on, perfectly
ca'm.

"A crusade is a war to recover the Holy Land from
the paynim."

"Which Holy Land?"

"Why, the Holy Land -- there ain't but one."

"What do we want of it?"

"Why, can't you understand? It's in the hands of
the paynim, and it's our duty to take it away from
them."

"How did we come to let them git hold of it?"

"We didn't come to let them git hold of it. They
always had it."

"Why, Tom, then it must belong to them, don't it?"

"Why of course it does. Who said it didn't?"

I studied over it, but couldn't seem to git at the
right of it, no way. I says:

"It's too many for me, Tom Sawyer. If I had a
farm and it was mine, and another person wanted it,
would it be right for him to --"

"Oh, shucks! you don't know enough to come in
when it rains, Huck Finn. It ain't a farm, it's entirely
different. You see, it's like this. They own the land,
just the mere land, and that's all they DO own; but it
was our folks, our Jews and Christians, that made it
holy, and so they haven't any business to be there
defiling it. It's a shame, and we ought not to stand it
a minute. We ought to march against them and take
it away from them."

"Why, it does seem to me it's the most mixed-up
thing I ever see! Now, if I had a farm and another
person --"

"Don't I tell you it hasn't got anything to do with
farming? Farming is business, just common low-down
business: that's all it is, it's all you can say for it; but
this is higher, this is religious, and totally different."

"Religious to go and take the land away from
people that owns it?"

"Certainly; it's always been considered so."

Jim he shook his head, and says:

"Mars Tom, I reckon dey's a mistake about it
somers -- dey mos' sholy is. I's religious myself, en
I knows plenty religious people, but I hain't run across
none dat acts like dat."

It made Tom hot, and he says:

"Well, it's enough to make a body sick, such
mullet-headed ignorance! If either of you'd read any-
thing about history, you'd know that Richard Cur de
Loon, and the Pope, and Godfrey de Bulleyn, and lots
more of the most noble-hearted and pious people in
the world, hacked and hammered at the paynims for
more than two hundred years trying to take their land
away from them, and swum neck-deep in blood the
whole time -- and yet here's a couple of sap-headed
country yahoos out in the backwoods of Missouri set-
ting themselves up to know more about the rights and
wrongs of it than they did! Talk about cheek!"

Well, of course, that put a more different light on it,
and me and Jim felt pretty cheap and ignorant, and
wished we hadn't been quite so chipper. I couldn't
say nothing, and Jim he couldn't for a while; then he
says:

"Well, den, I reckon it's all right; beca'se ef dey
didn't know, dey ain't no use for po' ignorant folks
like us to be trying to know; en so, ef it's our duty,
we got to go en tackle it en do de bes' we can. Same
time, I feel as sorry for dem paynims as Mars Tom.
De hard part gwine to be to kill folks dat a body hain't
been 'quainted wid and dat hain't done him no harm.
Dat's it, you see. Ef we wuz to go 'mongst 'em, jist
we three, en say we's hungry, en ast 'em for a bite to
eat, why, maybe dey's jist like yuther people. Don't
you reckon dey is? Why, DEY'D give it, I know dey
would, en den --"

"Then what?"

"Well, Mars Tom, my idea is like dis. It ain't no
use, we CAN'T kill dem po' strangers dat ain't doin' us
no harm, till we've had practice -- I knows it perfectly
well, Mars Tom -- 'deed I knows it perfectly well. But
ef we takes a' axe or two, jist you en me en Huck, en
slips acrost de river to-night arter de moon's gone
down, en kills dat sick fam'ly dat's over on the Sny,
en burns dey house down, en --"

"Oh, you make me tired!" says Tom. "I don't
want to argue any more with people like you and Huck
Finn, that's always wandering from the subject, and
ain't got any more sense than to try to reason out a
thing that's pure theology by the laws that protect real
estate!"

Now that's just where Tom Sawyer warn't fair. Jim
didn't mean no harm, and I didn't mean no harm.
We knowed well enough that he was right and we was
wrong, and all we was after was to get at the HOW of
it, and that was all; and the only reason he couldn't
explain it so we could understand it was because we
was ignorant -- yes, and pretty dull, too, I ain't deny-
ing that; but, land! that ain't no crime, I should think.

But he wouldn't hear no more about it -- just said if
we had tackled the thing in the proper spirit, he would
'a' raised a couple of thousand knights and put them
in steel armor from head to heel, and made me a lieu-
tenant and Jim a sutler, and took the command himself
and brushed the whole paynim outfit into the sea like
flies and come back across the world in a glory like
sunset. But he said we didn't know enough to take
the chance when we had it, and he wouldn't ever offer
it again. And he didn't. When he once got set, you
couldn't budge him.

But I didn't care much. I am peaceable, and don't
get up rows with people that ain't doing nothing to
me. I allowed if the paynim was satisfied I was, and
we would let it stand at that.

Now Tom he got all that notion out of Walter Scott's
book, which he was always reading. And it WAS a
wild notion, because in my opinion he never could've
raised the men, and if he did, as like as not he would've
got licked. I took the book and read all about it, and
as near as I could make it out, most of the folks that
shook farming to go crusading had a mighty rocky
time of it.


CHAPTER II.
THE BALLOON ASCENSION

WELL, Tom got up one thing after another, but
they all had tender spots about 'em somewheres,
and he had to shove 'em aside. So at last he was
about in despair. Then the St. Louis papers begun to
talk a good deal about the balloon that was going to
sail to Europe, and Tom sort of thought he wanted
to go down and see what it looked like, but couldn't
make up his mind. But the papers went on talking,
and so he allowed that maybe if he didn't go he
mightn't ever have another chance to see a balloon;
and next, he found out that Nat Parsons was going
down to see it, and that decided him, of course. He
wasn't going to have Nat Parsons coming back brag-
ging about seeing the balloon, and him having to listen
to it and keep quiet. So he wanted me and Jim to go
too, and we went.

It was a noble big balloon, and had wings and fans
and all sorts of things, and wasn't like any balloon you
see in pictures. It was away out toward the edge of
town, in a vacant lot, corner of Twelfth street; and
there was a big crowd around it, making fun of it, and
making fun of the man, -- a lean pale feller with that
soft kind of moonlight in his eyes, you know, -- and
they kept saying it wouldn't go. It made him hot to
hear them, and he would turn on them and shake his
fist and say they was animals and blind, but some day
they would find they had stood face to face with one
of the men that lifts up nations and makes civilizations,
and was too dull to know it; and right here on this
spot their own children and grandchildren would build
a monument to him that would outlast a thousand
years, but his name would outlast the monument.
And then the crowd would burst out in a laugh again,
and yell at him, and ask him what was his name before
he was married, and what he would take to not do it,
and what was his sister's cat's grandmother's name,
and all the things that a crowd says when they've got
hold of a feller that they see they can plague. Well,
some things they said WAS funny, -- yes, and mighty
witty too, I ain't denying that, -- but all the same it
warn't fair nor brave, all them people pitching on one,
and they so glib and sharp, and him without any gift
of talk to answer back with. But, good land! what
did he want to sass back for? You see, it couldn't do
him no good, and it was just nuts for them. They
HAD him, you know. But that was his way. I reckon
he couldn't help it; he was made so, I judge. He
was a good enough sort of cretur, and hadn't no harm
in him, and was just a genius, as the papers said, which
wasn't his fault. We can't all be sound: we've got to
be the way we're made. As near as I can make out,
geniuses think they know it all, and so they won't take
people's advice, but always go their own way, which
makes everybody forsake them and despise them, and
that is perfectly natural. If they was humbler, and
listened and tried to learn, it would be better for them.

The part the professor was in was like a boat, and
was big and roomy, and had water-tight lockers around
the inside to keep all sorts of things in, and a body
could sit on them, and make beds on them, too. We
went aboard, and there was twenty people there, snoop-
ing around and examining, and old Nat Parsons was
there, too. The professor kept fussing around getting
ready, and the people went ashore, drifting out one at
a time, and old Nat he was the last. Of course it
wouldn't do to let him go out behind US. We mustn't
budge till he was gone, so we could be last ourselves.

But he was gone now, so it was time for us to follow.
I heard a big shout, and turned around -- the city was
dropping from under us like a shot! It made me sick
all through, I was so scared. Jim turned gray and
couldn't say a word, and Tom didn't say nothing, but
looked excited. The city went on dropping down,
and down, and down; but we didn't seem to be doing
nothing but just hang in the air and stand still. The
houses got smaller and smaller, and the city pulled
itself together, closer and closer, and the men and
wagons got to looking like ants and bugs crawling
around, and the streets like threads and cracks; and
then it all kind of melted together, and there wasn't
any city any more it was only a big scar on the earth,
and it seemed to me a body could see up the river and
down the river about a thousand miles, though of
course it wasn't so much. By and by the earth was a
ball -- just a round ball, of a dull color, with shiny
stripes wriggling and winding around over it, which
was rivers. The Widder Douglas always told me the
earth was round like a ball, but I never took any stock
in a lot of them superstitions o' hers, and of course I
paid no attention to that one, because I could see my-
self that the world was the shape of a plate, and flat.
I used to go up on the hill, and take a look around
and prove it for myself, because I reckon the best way
to get a sure thing on a fact is to go and examine for
yourself, and not take anybody's say-so. But I had to
give in now that the widder was right. That is, she
was right as to the rest of the world, but she warn't
right about the part our village is in; that part is the
shape of a plate, and flat, I take my oath!

The professor had been quiet all this time, as if he
was asleep; but he broke loose now, and he was mighty
bitter. He says something like this:

"Idiots! They said it wouldn't go; and they
wanted to examine it, and spy around and get the
secret of it out of me. But I beat them. Nobody
knows the secret but me. Nobody knows what makes
it move but me; and it's a new power -- a new power,
and a thousand times the strongest in the earth!
Steam's foolishness to it! They said I couldn't go to
Europe. To Europe! Why, there's power aboard to
last five years, and feed for three months. They are
fools! What do they know about it? Yes, and they
said my air-ship was flimsy. Why, she's good for
fifty years! I can sail the skies all my life if I want
to, and steer where I please, though they laughed at
that, and said I couldn't. Couldn't steer! Come
here, boy; we'll see. You press these buttons as I
tell you."

He made Tom steer the ship all about and every
which way, and learnt him the whole thing in nearly
no time; and Tom said it was perfectly easy. He
made him fetch the ship down 'most to the earth, and
had him spin her along so close to the Illinois prairies
that a body could talk to the farmers, and hear every-
thing they said perfectly plain; and he flung out
printed bills to them that told about the balloon, and
said it was going to Europe. Tom got so he could
steer straight for a tree till he got nearly to it, and then
dart up and skin right along over the top of it. Yes,
and he showed Tom how to land her; and he done it
first-rate, too, and set her down in the prairies as soft
as wool. But the minute we started to skip out the
professor says, "No, you don't!" and shot her up in
the air again. It was awful. I begun to beg, and so
did Jim; but it only give his temper a rise, and he
begun to rage around and look wild out of his eyes,
and I was scared of him.

Well, then he got on to his troubles again, and
mourned and grumbled about the way he was treated,
and couldn't seem to git over it, and especially people's
saying his ship was flimsy. He scoffed at that, and at
their saying she warn't simple and would be always
getting out of order. Get out of order! That graveled
him; he said that she couldn't any more get out of
order than the solar sister.

He got worse and worse, and I never see a person
take on so. It give me the cold shivers to see him,
and so it did Jim. By and by he got to yelling and
screaming, and then he swore the world shouldn't ever
have his secret at all now, it had treated him so mean.
He said he would sail his balloon around the globe just
to show what he could do, and then he would sink it in
the sea, and sink us all along with it, too. Well, it was
the awfulest fix to be in, and here was night coming
on!

He give us something to eat, and made us go to the
other end of the boat, and he laid down on a locker,
where he could boss all the works, and put his old
pepper-box revolver under his head, and said if any-
body come fooling around there trying to land her, he
would kill him.

We set scrunched up together, and thought consider-
able, but didn't say much -- only just a word once in a
while when a body had to say something or bust, we
was so scared and worried. The night dragged along
slow and lonesome. We was pretty low down, and the
moonshine made everything soft and pretty, and the
farmhouses looked snug and homeful, and we could
hear the farm sounds, and wished we could be down
there; but, laws! we just slipped along over them like
a ghost, and never left a track.

Away in the night, when all the sounds was late
sounds, and the air had a late feel, and a late smell,
too -- about a two-o'clock feel, as near as I could make
out -- Tom said the professor was so quiet this time
he must be asleep, and we'd better --

"Better what?" I says in a whisper, and feeling sick
all over, because I knowed what he was thinking about.

"Better slip back there and tie him, and land the
ship," he says.

I says: "No, sir! Don' you budge, Tom Sawyer."

And Jim -- well, Jim was kind o' gasping, he was so
scared. He says:

"Oh, Mars Tom, DON'T! Ef you teches him, we's
gone -- we's gone sho'! I ain't gwine anear him, not
for nothin' in dis worl'. Mars Tom, he's plumb crazy."

Tom whispers and says -- "That's WHY we've got to
do something. If he wasn't crazy I wouldn't give
shucks to be anywhere but here; you couldn't hire me
to get out -- now that I've got used to this balloon and
over the scare of being cut loose from the solid ground
-- if he was in his right mind. But it's no good politics,
sailing around like this with a person that's out of his
head, and says he's going round the world and then
drown us all. We've GOT to do something, I tell you,
and do it before he wakes up, too, or we mayn't ever
get another chance. Come!"

But it made us turn cold and creepy just to think of
it, and we said we wouldn't budge. So Tom was for
slipping back there by himself to see if he couldn't get
at the steering-gear and land the ship. We begged and
begged him not to, but it warn't no use; so he got
down on his hands and knees, and begun to crawl an
inch at a time, we a-holding our breath and watching.
After he got to the middle of the boat he crept slower
than ever, and it did seem like years to me. But at
last we see him get to the professor's head, and sort
of raise up soft and look a good spell in his face and
listen. Then we see him begin to inch along again
toward the professor's feet where the steering-buttons
was. Well, he got there all safe, and was reaching
slow and steady toward the buttons, but he knocked
down something that made a noise, and we see him
slump down flat an' soft in the bottom, and lay still.
The professor stirred, and says, "What's that?" But
everybody kept dead still and quiet, and he begun to
mutter and mumble and nestle, like a person that's
going to wake up, and I thought I was going to die, I
was so worried and scared.

Then a cloud slid over the moon, and I 'most cried,
I was so glad. She buried herself deeper and deeper
into the cloud, and it got so dark we couldn't see Tom.
Then it began to sprinkle rain, and we could hear the
professor fussing at his ropes and things and abusing
the weather. We was afraid every minute he would
touch Tom, and then we would be goners, and no
help; but Tom was already on his way back, and when
we felt his hands on our knees my breath stopped
sudden, and my heart fell down 'mongst my other works,
because I couldn't tell in the dark but it might be the
professor! which I thought it WAS.

Dear! I was so glad to have him back that I was
just as near happy as a person could be that was up in
the air that way with a deranged man. You can't land
a balloon in the dark, and so I hoped it would keep on
raining, for I didn't want Tom to go meddling any
more and make us so awful uncomfortable. Well, I
got my wish. It drizzled and drizzled along the rest
of the night, which wasn't long, though it did seem so;
and at daybreak it cleared, and the world looked
mighty soft and gray and pretty, and the forests and
fields so good to see again, and the horses and cattle
standing sober and thinking. Next, the sun come a-
blazing up gay and splendid, and then we began to feel
rusty and stretchy, and first we knowed we was all
asleep.


CHAPTER III.
TOM EXPLAINS

WE went to sleep about four o'clock, and woke up
about eight. The professor was setting back
there at his end, looking glum. He pitched us some
breakfast, but he told us not to come abaft the midship
compass. That was about the middle of the boat.
Well, when you are sharp-set, and you eat and satisfy
yourself, everything looks pretty different from what it
done before. It makes a body feel pretty near com-
fortable, even when he is up in a balloon with a genius.
We got to talking together.

There was one thing that kept bothering me, and by
and by I says:

"Tom, didn't we start east?"

"Yes."

"How fast have we been going?"

"Well, you heard what the professor said when he
was raging round. Sometimes, he said, we was making
fifty miles an hour, sometimes ninety, sometimes a
hundred; said that with a gale to help he could make
three hundred any time, and said if he wanted the gale,
and wanted it blowing the right direction, he only had
to go up higher or down lower to find it."

"Well, then, it's just as I reckoned. The professor
lied."

"Why?"

"Because if we was going so fast we ought to be
past Illinois, oughtn't we?"

"Certainly."

"Well, we ain't."

"What's the reason we ain't?"

"I know by the color. We're right over Illinois
yet. And you can see for yourself that Indiana ain't
in sight."

"I wonder what's the matter with you, Huck. You
know by the COLOR?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"What's the color got to do with it?"

"It's got everything to do with it. Illinois is green,
Indiana is pink. You show me any pink down here,
if you can. No, sir; it's green."

"Indiana PINK? Why, what a lie!"

"It ain't no lie; I've seen it on the map, and it's
pink."

You never see a person so aggravated and disgusted.
He says:

"Well, if I was such a numbskull as you, Huck
Finn, I would jump over. Seen it on the map! Huck
Finn, did you reckon the States was the same color
out-of-doors as they are on the map?"

"Tom Sawyer, what's a map for? Ain't it to learn
you facts?"

"Of course."

"Well, then, how's it going to do that if it tells lies?
That's what I want to know."

"Shucks, you muggins! It don't tell lies."

"It don't, don't it?"

"No, it don't."

"All right, then; if it don't, there ain't no two
States the same color. You git around THAT if you
can, Tom Sawyer."

He see I had him, and Jim see it too; and I tell
you, I felt pretty good, for Tom Sawyer was always a
hard person to git ahead of. Jim slapped his leg and
says:

"I tell YOU! dat's smart, dat's right down smart.
Ain't no use, Mars Tom; he got you DIS time, sho'!"
He slapped his leg again, and says, "My LAN', but it
was smart one!"

I never felt so good in my life; and yet I didn't
know I was saying anything much till it was out. I
was just mooning along, perfectly careless, and not
expecting anything was going to happen, and never
THINKING of such a thing at all, when, all of a sudden,
out it came. Why, it was just as much a surprise to
me as it was to any of them. It was just the same way
it is when a person is munching along on a hunk of
corn-pone, and not thinking about anything, and all of
a sudden bites into a di'mond. Now all that HE knows
first off is that it's some kind of gravel he's bit into;
but he don't find out it's a di'mond till he gits it out
and brushes off the sand and crumbs and one thing or
another, and has a look at it, and then he's surprised
and glad -- yes, and proud too; though when you
come to look the thing straight in the eye, he ain't
entitled to as much credit as he would 'a' been if he'd
been HUNTING di'monds. You can see the difference
easy if you think it over. You see, an accident, that
way, ain't fairly as big a thing as a thing that's done
a-purpose. Anybody could find that di'mond in that
corn-pone; but mind you, it's got to be somebody
that's got THAT KIND OF A CORN-PONE. That's where that
feller's credit comes in, you see; and that's where
mine comes in. I don't claim no great things -- I
don't reckon I could 'a' done it again -- but I done it
that time; that's all I claim. And I hadn't no more
idea I could do such a thing, and warn't any more
thinking about it or trying to, than you be this minute.
Why, I was just as ca'm, a body couldn't be any
ca'mer, and yet, all of a sudden, out it come. I've
often thought of that time, and I can remember just
the way everything looked, same as if it was only last
week. I can see it all: beautiful rolling country with
woods and fields and lakes for hundreds and hundreds
of miles all around, and towns and villages scattered
everywheres under us, here and there and yonder; and
the professor mooning over a chart on his little table,
and Tom's cap flopping in the rigging where it was
hung up to dry. And one thing in particular was a
bird right alongside, not ten foot off, going our way
and trying to keep up, but losing ground all the time;
and a railroad train doing the same thing down there,
sliding among the trees and farms, and pouring out a
long cloud of black smoke and now and then a little
puff of white; and when the white was gone so long
you had almost forgot it, you would hear a little faint
toot, and that was the whistle. And we left the bird
and the train both behind, 'WAY behind, and done it
easy, too.

But Tom he was huffy, and said me and Jim was a
couple of ignorant blatherskites, and then he says:

"Suppose there's a brown calf and a big brown dog,
and an artist is making a picture of them. What is the
MAIN thing that that artist has got to do? He has got
to paint them so you can tell them apart the minute
you look at them, hain't he? Of course. Well, then,
do you want him to go and paint BOTH of them brown?
Certainly you don't. He paints one of them blue,
and then you can't make no mistake. It's just the
same with the maps. That's why they make every
State a different color; it ain't to deceive you, it's to
keep you from deceiving yourself."

But I couldn't see no argument about that, and
neither could Jim. Jim shook his head, and says:

"Why, Mars Tom, if you knowed what chuckle-
heads dem painters is, you'd wait a long time before
you'd fetch one er DEM in to back up a fac'. I's
gwine to tell you, den you kin see for you'self. I see
one of 'em a-paintin' away, one day, down in ole
Hank Wilson's back lot, en I went down to see, en he
was paintin' dat old brindle cow wid de near horn
gone -- you knows de one I means. En I ast him
what he's paintin' her for, en he say when he git her
painted, de picture's wuth a hundred dollars. Mars
Tom, he could a got de cow fer fifteen, en I tole him
so. Well, sah, if you'll b'lieve me, he jes' shuck his
head, dat painter did, en went on a-dobbin'. Bless
you, Mars Tom, DEY don't know nothin'."

Tom lost his temper. I notice a person 'most always
does that's got laid out in an argument. He told us to
shut up, and maybe we'd feel better. Then he see a
town clock away off down yonder, and he took up the
glass and looked at it, and then looked at his silver
turnip, and then at the clock, and then at the turnip
again, and says:

"That's funny! That clock's near about an hour
fast."

So he put up his turnip. Then he see another clock,
and took a look, and it was an hour fast too. That
puzzled him.

"That's a mighty curious thing," he says. "I
don't understand it."

Then he took the glass and hunted up another clock,
and sure enough it was an hour fast too. Then his
eyes began to spread and his breath to come out kinder
gaspy like, and he says:

"Ger-reat Scott, it's the LONGITUDE!"

I says, considerably scared:

"Well, what's been and gone and happened now?"

"Why, the thing that's happened is that this old
bladder has slid over Illinois and Indiana and Ohio like
nothing, and this is the east end of Pennsylvania or
New York, or somewheres around there."

"Tom Sawyer, you don't mean it!"

"Yes, I do, and it's dead sure. We've covered
about fifteen degrees of longitude since we left St.
Louis yesterday afternoon, and them clocks are right.
We've come close on to eight hundred miles."

I didn't believe it, but it made the cold streaks
trickle down my back just the same. In my experi-
ence I knowed it wouldn't take much short of two
weeks to do it down the Mississippi on a raft.
Jim was working his mind and studying. Pretty
soon he says:

"Mars Tom, did you say dem clocks uz right?"

"Yes, they're right."

"Ain't yo' watch right, too?"

"She's right for St. Louis, but she's an hour wrong
for here."

"Mars Tom, is you tryin' to let on dat de time ain't
de SAME everywheres?"

"No, it ain't the same everywheres, by a long
shot."

Jim looked distressed, and says:

"It grieves me to hear you talk like dat, Mars Tom;
I's right down ashamed to hear you talk like dat, arter
de way you's been raised. Yassir, it'd break yo' Aunt
Polly's heart to hear you."

Tom was astonished. He looked Jim over wonder-
ing, and didn't say nothing, and Jim went on:

"Mars Tom, who put de people out yonder in St.
Louis? De Lord done it. Who put de people here
whar we is? De Lord done it. Ain' dey bofe his
children? 'Cose dey is. WELL, den! is he gwine to
SCRIMINATE 'twixt 'em?"

"Scriminate! I never heard such ignorance. There
ain't no discriminating about it. When he makes you
and some more of his children black, and makes the
rest of us white, what do you call that?"

Jim see the p'int. He was stuck. He couldn't
answer. Tom says:

"He does discriminate, you see, when he wants to;
but this case HERE ain't no discrimination of his, it's
man's. The Lord made the day, and he made the
night; but he didn't invent the hours, and he didn't
distribute them around. Man did that."

"Mars Tom, is dat so? Man done it?"

"Certainly."

"Who tole him he could?"

"Nobody. He never asked."

Jim studied a minute, and says:

"Well, dat do beat me. I wouldn't 'a' tuck no
sich resk. But some people ain't scared o' nothin'.
Dey bangs right ahead; DEY don't care what happens.
So den dey's allays an hour's diff'unce everywhah,
Mars Tom?"

"An hour? No! It's four minutes difference for
every degree of longitude, you know. Fifteen of 'em's
an hour, thirty of 'em's two hours, and so on. When
it's one clock Tuesday morning in England, it's eight
o'clock the night before in New York."

Jim moved a little way along the locker, and you
could see he was insulted. He kept shaking his head
and muttering, and so I slid along to him and patted
him on the leg, and petted him up, and got him over
the worst of his feelings, and then he says:

"Mars Tom talkin' sich talk as dat! Choosday in
one place en Monday in t'other, bofe in the same day!
Huck, dis ain't no place to joke -- up here whah we is.
Two days in one day! How you gwine to get two
days inter one day? Can't git two hours inter one
hour, kin you? Can't git two niggers inter one nigger
skin, kin you? Can't git two gallons of whisky inter a
one-gallon jug, kin you? No, sir, 'twould strain de
jug. Yes, en even den you couldn't, I don't believe.
Why, looky here, Huck, s'posen de Choosday was
New Year's -- now den! is you gwine to tell me it's
dis year in one place en las' year in t'other, bofe in de
identical same minute? It's de beatenest rubbage! I
can't stan' it -- I can't stan' to hear tell 'bout it."
Then he begun to shiver and turn gray, and Tom
says:

"NOW what's the matter? What's the trouble?"

Jim could hardly speak, but he says:

"Mars Tom, you ain't jokin', en it's SO?"

"No, I'm not, and it is so."

Jim shivered again, and says:

"Den dat Monday could be de las' day, en dey
wouldn't be no las' day in England, en de dead
wouldn't be called. We mustn't go over dah, Mars
Tom. Please git him to turn back; I wants to be
whah --"

All of a sudden we see something, and all jumped
up, and forgot everything and begun to gaze. Tom
says:

"Ain't that the --" He catched his breath, then
says: "It IS, sure as you live! It's the ocean!"

That made me and Jim catch our breath, too. Then
we all stood petrified but happy, for none of us had
ever seen an ocean, or ever expected to. Tom kept
muttering:

"Atlantic Ocean -- Atlantic. Land, don't it sound
great! And that's IT -- and WE are looking at it -- we!
Why, it's just too splendid to believe!"

Then we see a big bank of black smoke; and when
we got nearer, it was a city -- and a monster she was,
too, with a thick fringe of ships around one edge; and
we wondered if it was New York, and begun to jaw
and dispute about it, and, first we knowed, it slid from
under us and went flying behind, and here we was, out
over the very ocean itself, and going like a cyclone.
Then we woke up, I tell you!

We made a break aft and raised a wail, and begun to
beg the professor to turn back and land us, but
he jerked out his pistol and motioned us back,
and we went, but nobody will ever know how bad we
felt.

The land was gone, all but a little streak, like a
snake, away off on the edge of the water, and down
under us was just ocean, ocean, ocean -- millions of
miles of it, heaving and pitching and squirming, and
white sprays blowing from the wave-tops, and only a
few ships in sight, wallowing around and laying over,
first on one side and then on t'other, and sticking their
bows under and then their sterns; and before long
there warn't no ships at all, and we had the sky and
the whole ocean all to ourselves, and the roomiest place
I ever see and the lonesomest.


CHAPTER IV.
STORM

AND it got lonesomer and lonesomer. There was
the big sky up there, empty and awful deep; and
the ocean down there without a thing on it but just the
waves. All around us was a ring, where the sky and
the water come together; yes, a monstrous big ring it
was, and we right in the dead center of it -- plumb in
the center. We was racing along like a prairie fire, but
it never made any difference, we couldn't seem to git
past that center no way. I couldn't see that we ever
gained an inch on that ring. It made a body feel
creepy, it was so curious and unaccountable.

Well, everything was so awful still that we got to
talking in a very low voice, and kept on getting creepier
and lonesomer and less and less talky, till at last the
talk ran dry altogether, and we just set there and
"thunk," as Jim calls it, and never said a word the
longest time.

The professor never stirred till the sun was overhead,
then he stood up and put a kind of triangle to his eye,
and Tom said it was a sextant and he was taking the
sun to see whereabouts the balloon was. Then he
ciphered a little and looked in a book, and then he
begun to carry on again. He said lots of wild things,
and, among others, he said he would keep up this
hundred-mile gait till the middle of to-morrow after-
noon, and then he'd land in London.

We said we would be humbly thankful.

He was turning away, but he whirled around when
we said that, and give us a long look of his blackest
kind -- one of the maliciousest and suspiciousest looks
I ever see. Then he says:

"You want to leave me. Don't try to deny it."

We didn't know what to say, so we held in and
didn't say nothing at all.

He went aft and set down, but he couldn't seem to
git that thing out of his mind. Every now and then he
would rip out something about it, and try to make us
answer him, but we dasn't.

It got lonesomer and lonesomer right along, and it
did seem to me I couldn't stand it. It was still worse
when night begun to come on. By and by Tom
pinched me and whispers:

"Look!"

I took a glance aft, and see the professor taking a
whet out of a bottle. I didn't like the looks of that.
By and by he took another drink, and pretty soon he
begun to sing. It was dark now, and getting black
and stormy. He went on singing, wilder and wilder,
and the thunder begun to mutter, and the wind to
wheeze and moan among the ropes, and altogether it
was awful. It got so black we couldn't see him any
more, and wished we couldn't hear him, but we could.
Then he got still; but he warn't still ten minutes till
we got suspicious, and wished he would start up his
noise again, so we could tell where he was. By and by
there was a flash of lightning, and we see him start to
get up, but he staggered and fell down. We heard
him scream out in the dark:

"They don't want to go to England. All right, I'll
change the course. They want to leave me. I know
they do. Well, they shall -- and NOW!"

I 'most died when he said that. Then he was still
again -- still so long I couldn't bear it, and it did seem
to me the lightning wouldn't EVER come again. But at
last there was a blessed flash, and there he was, on his
hands and knees crawling, and not four feet from us.
My, but his eyes was terrible! He made a lunge for
Tom, and says, "Overboard YOU go!" but it was
already pitch-dark again, and I couldn't see whether
he got him or not, and Tom didn't make a sound.

There was another long, horrible wait; then there
was a flash, and I see Tom's head sink down outside
the boat and disappear. He was on the rope-ladder
that dangled down in the air from the gunnel. The
professor let off a shout and jumped for him, and
straight off it was pitch-dark again, and Jim groaned
out, "Po' Mars Tom, he's a goner!" and made a
jump for the professor, but the professor warn't there.

Then we heard a couple of terrible screams, and then
another not so loud, and then another that was 'way
below, and you could only JUST hear it; and I heard
Jim say, "Po' Mars Tom!"

Then it was awful still, and I reckon a person could
'a' counted four thousand before the next flash come.
When it come I see Jim on his knees, with his arms
on the locker and his face buried in them, and he was
crying. Before I could look over the edge it was all
dark again, and I was glad, because I didn't want to
see. But when the next flash come, I was watching,
and down there I see somebody a-swinging in the wind
on the ladder, and it was Tom!

"Come up!" I shouts; "come up, Tom!"

His voice was so weak, and the wind roared so, I
couldn't make out what he said, but I thought he asked
was the professor up there. I shouts:

"No, he's down in the ocean! Come up! Can
we help you?"

Of course, all this in the dark.

"Huck, who is you hollerin' at?"

"I'm hollerin' at Tom."

"Oh, Huck, how kin you act so, when you know
po' Mars Tom --" Then he let off an awful scream,
and flung his head and his arms back and let off another
one, because there was a white glare just then, and he
had raised up his face just in time to see Tom's, as
white as snow, rise above the gunnel and look him right
in the eye. He thought it was Tom's ghost, you
see.

Tom clumb aboard, and when Jim found it WAS him,
and not his ghost, he hugged him, and called him all
sorts of loving names, and carried on like he was gone
crazy, he was so glad. Says I:

"What did you wait for, Tom? Why didn't you
come up at first?"

"I dasn't, Huck. I knowed somebody plunged
down past me, but I didn't know who it was in the
dark. It could 'a' been you, it could 'a' been Jim."

That was the way with Tom Sawyer -- always sound.
He warn't coming up till he knowed where the pro-
fessor was.

The storm let go about this time with all its might;
and it was dreadful the way the thunder boomed and
tore, and the lightning glared out, and the wind sung
and screamed in the rigging, and the rain come down.
One second you couldn't see your hand before you,
and the next you could count the threads in your coat-
sleeve, and see a whole wide desert of waves pitching
and tossing through a kind of veil of rain. A storm
like that is the loveliest thing there is, but it ain't at its
best when you are up in the sky and lost, and it's wet
and lonesome, and there's just been a death in the
family.

We set there huddled up in the bow, and talked low
about the poor professor; and everybody was sorry
for him, and sorry the world had made fun of him and
treated him so harsh, when he was doing the best he
could, and hadn't a friend nor nobody to encourage
him and keep him from brooding his mind away and
going deranged. There was plenty of clothes and
blankets and everything at the other end, but we
thought we'd ruther take the rain than go meddling
back there.


CHAPTER V.
LAND

WE tried to make some plans, but we couldn't come
to no agreement. Me and Jim was for turning
around and going back home, but Tom allowed that
by the time daylight come, so we could see our way,
we would be so far toward England that we might as
well go there, and come back in a ship, and have the
glory of saying we done it.

About midnight the storm quit and the moon come
out and lit up the ocean, and we begun to feel com-
fortable and drowsy; so we stretched out on the
lockers and went to sleep, and never woke up again
till sun-up. The sea was sparkling like di'monds, and
it was nice weather, and pretty soon our things was all
dry again.

We went aft to find some breakfast, and the first
thing we noticed was that there was a dim light burning
in a compass back there under a hood. Then Tom was
disturbed. He says:

"You know what that means, easy enough. It
means that somebody has got to stay on watch and
steer this thing the same as he would a ship, or she'll
wander around and go wherever the wind wants her
to."

"Well," I says, "what's she been doing since --
er -- since we had the accident?"

"Wandering," he says, kinder troubled --" wander-
ing, without any doubt. She's in a wind now that's
blowing her south of east. We don't know how long
that's been going on, either."

So then he p'inted her east, and said he would hold
her there till we rousted out the breakfast. The pro-
fessor had laid in everything a body could want; he
couldn't 'a' been better fixed. There wasn't no milk
for the coffee, but there was water, and everything
else you could want, and a charcoal stove and the
fixings for it, and pipes and cigars and matches; and
wine and liquor, which warn't in our line; and books,
and maps, and charts, and an accordion; and furs,
and blankets, and no end of rubbish, like brass beads
and brass jewelry, which Tom said was a sure sign that
he had an idea of visiting among savages. There was
money, too. Yes, the professor was well enough fixed.

After breakfast Tom learned me and Jim how to
steer, and divided us all up into four-hour watches,
turn and turn about; and when his watch was out I
took his place, and he got out the professor's papers
and pens and wrote a letter home to his aunt Polly, tell-
ing her everything that had happened to us, and dated
it "IN THE WELKIN, APPROACHING ENGLAND," and folded
it together and stuck it fast with a red wafer, and
directed it, and wrote above the direction, in big
writing, "FROM TOM SAWYER, THE ERRONORT," and said
it would stump old Nat Parsons, the postmaster, when
it come along in the mail. I says:

"Tom Sawyer, this ain't no welkin, it's a balloon."

"Well, now, who SAID it was a welkin, smarty?"

"You've wrote it on the letter, anyway."

"What of it? That don't mean that the balloon's
the welkin."

"Oh, I thought it did. Well, then, what is a
welkin?"

I see in a minute he was stuck. He raked and
scraped around in his mind, but he couldn't find noth-
ing, so he had to say:

"I don't know, and nobody don't know. It's just
a word, and it's a mighty good word, too. There
ain't many that lays over it. I don't believe there's
ANY that does."

"Shucks!" I says. "But what does it MEAN? --
that's the p'int. "

"I don't know what it means, I tell you. It's a
word that people uses for -- for -- well, it's orna-
mental. They don't put ruffles on a shirt to keep a
person warm, do they?"

"Course they don't."

"But they put them ON, don't they?"

"Yes."

"All right, then; that letter I wrote is a shirt, and
the welkin's the ruffle on it."

I judged that that would gravel Jim, and it did.

"Now, Mars Tom, it ain't no use to talk like dat;
en, moreover, it's sinful. You knows a letter ain't no
shirt, en dey ain't no ruffles on it, nuther. Dey ain't
no place to put 'em on; you can't put em on, and
dey wouldn't stay ef you did."

"Oh DO shut up, and wait till something's started
that you know something about."

"Why, Mars Tom, sholy you can't mean to say I
don't know about shirts, when, goodness knows, I's
toted home de washin' ever sence --"

"I tell you, this hasn't got anything to do with
shirts. I only --"

"Why, Mars Tom, you said yo'self dat a letter --"

"Do you want to drive me crazy? Keep still. I
only used it as a metaphor."

That word kinder bricked us up for a minute. Then
Jim says -- rather timid, because he see Tom was get-
ting pretty tetchy:

"Mars Tom, what is a metaphor?"

"A metaphor's a -- well, it's a -- a -- a metaphor's
an illustration." He see THAT didn't git home, so he
tried again. "When I say birds of a feather flocks
together, it's a metaphorical way of saying --"

"But dey DON'T, Mars Tom. No, sir, 'deed dey
don't. Dey ain't no feathers dat's more alike den a
bluebird en a jaybird, but ef you waits till you catches
dem birds together, you'll --"

"Oh, give us a rest! You can't get the simplest
little thing through your thick skull. Now don't bother
me any more."

Jim was satisfied to stop. He was dreadful pleased
with himself for catching Tom out. The minute Tom
begun to talk about birds I judged he was a goner,
because Jim knowed more about birds than both of us
put together. You see, he had killed hundreds and
hundreds of them, and that's the way to find out
about birds. That's the way people does that writes
books about birds, and loves them so that they'll
go hungry and tired and take any amount of trouble to
find a new bird and kill it. Their name is ornitholo-
gers, and I could have been an ornithologer myself,
because I always loved birds and creatures; and I
started out to learn how to be one, and I see a bird
setting on a limb of a high tree, singing with its head
tilted back and its mouth open, and before I thought I
fired, and his song stopped and he fell straight down
from the limb, all limp like a rag, and I run and picked
him up and he was dead, and his body was warm in my
hand, and his head rolled about this way and that, like
his neck was broke, and there was a little white skin
over his eyes, and one little drop of blood on the side
of his head; and, laws! I couldn't see nothing more
for the tears; and I hain't never murdered no creature
since that warn't doing me no harm, and I ain't going
to.

But I was aggravated about that welkin. I wanted
to know. I got the subject up again, and then Tom
explained, the best he could. He said when a person
made a big speech the newspapers said the shouts of
the people made the welkin ring. He said they always
said that, but none of them ever told what it was, so
he allowed it just meant outdoors and up high. Well,
that seemed sensible enough, so I was satisfied, and
said so. That pleased Tom and put him in a good
humor again, and he says:

"Well, it's all right, then; and we'll let bygones
be bygones. I don't know for certain what a welkin
is, but when we land in London we'll make it ring,
anyway, and don't you forget it."

He said an erronort was a person who sailed around
in balloons; and said it was a mighty sight finer to be
Tom Sawyer the Erronort than to be Tom Sawyer the
Traveler, and we would be heard of all round the
world, if we pulled through all right, and so he wouldn't
give shucks to be a traveler now.

Toward the middle of the afternoon we got every-
thing ready to land, and we felt pretty good, too, and
proud; and we kept watching with the glasses, like
Columbus discovering America. But we couldn't see
nothing but ocean. The afternoon wasted out and the
sun shut down, and still there warn't no land any-
wheres. We wondered what was the matter, but
reckoned it would come out all right, so we went on
steering east, but went up on a higher level so we
wouldn't hit any steeples or mountains in the dark.

It was my watch till midnight, and then it was Jim's;
but Tom stayed up, because he said ship captains done
that when they was making the land, and didn't stand
no regular watch.

Well, when daylight come, Jim give a shout, and we
jumped up and looked over, and there was the land
sure enough -- land all around, as far as you could see,
and perfectly level and yaller. We didn't know how
long we'd been over it. There warn't no trees, nor
hills, nor rocks, nor towns, and Tom and Jim had took
it for the sea. They took it for the sea in a dead
ca'm; but we was so high up, anyway, that if it had
been the sea and rough, it would 'a' looked smooth, all
the same, in the night, that way.

We was all in a powerful excitement now, and
grabbed the glasses and hunted everywheres for Lon-
don, but couldn't find hair nor hide of it, nor any
other settlement -- nor any sign of a lake or a river,
either. Tom was clean beat. He said it warn't his
notion of England; he thought England looked like
America, and always had that idea. So he said we
better have breakfast, and then drop down and inquire
the quickest way to London. We cut the breakfast
pretty short, we was so impatient. As we slanted
along down, the weather began to moderate, and
pretty soon we shed our furs. But it kept ON moder-
ating, and in a precious little while it was 'most too
moderate. We was close down now, and just blistering!

We settled down to within thirty foot of the land --
that is, it was land if sand is land; for this wasn't any-
thing but pure sand. Tom and me clumb down the
ladder and took a run to stretch our legs, and it felt
amazing good -- that is, the stretching did, but the
sand scorched our feet like hot embers. Next, we see
somebody coming, and started to meet him; but we
heard Jim shout, and looked around and he was fairly
dancing, and making signs, and yelling. We couldn't
make out what he said, but we was scared anyway, and
begun to heel it back to the balloon. When we got
close enough, we understood the words, and they
made me sick:

"Run! Run fo' yo' life! Hit's a lion; I kin see
him thoo de glass! Run, boys; do please heel it de
bes' you kin. He's bu'sted outen de menagerie, en
dey ain't nobody to stop him!"

It made Tom fly, but it took the stiffening all out of
my legs. I could only just gasp along the way you do
in a dream when there's a ghost gaining on you.

Tom got to the ladder and shinned up it a piece and
waited for me; and as soon as I got a foothold on it
he shouted to Jim to soar away. But Jim had clean
lost his head, and said he had forgot how. So Tom
shinned along up and told me to follow; but the lion
was arriving, fetching a most ghastly roar with every
lope, and my legs shook so I dasn't try to take one of
them out of the rounds for fear the other one would
give way under me.

But Tom was aboard by this time, and he started the
balloon up a little, and stopped it again as soon as the
end of the ladder was ten or twelve feet above ground.
And there was the lion, a-ripping around under me,
and roaring and springing up in the air at the ladder,
and only missing it about a quarter of an inch, it
seemed to me. It was delicious to be out of his reach,
perfectly delicious, and made me feel good and thank-
ful all up one side; but I was hanging there helpless
and couldn't climb, and that made me feel perfectly
wretched and miserable all down the other. It is most
seldom that a person feels so mixed like that; and it is
not to be recommended, either.

Tom asked me what he'd better do, but I didn't
know. He asked me if I could hold on whilst he sailed
away to a safe place and left the lion behind. I said I
could if he didn't go no higher than he was now; but
if he went higher I would lose my head and fall, sure.
So he said, "Take a good grip," and he started.

"Don't go so fast," I shouted. "It makes my
head swim."

He had started like a lightning express. He slowed
down, and we glided over the sand slower, but still in
a kind of sickening way; for it IS uncomfortable to see
things sliding and gliding under you like that, and not
a sound.

But pretty soon there was plenty of sound, for the
lion was catching up. His noise fetched others. You
could see them coming on the lope from every direc-
tion, and pretty soon there was a couple of dozen of
them under me, jumping up at the ladder and snarling
and snapping at each other; and so we went skimming
along over the sand, and these fellers doing what they
could to help us to not forgit the occasion; and then
some other beasts come, without an invite, and they
started a regular riot down there.

We see this plan was a mistake. We couldn't ever
git away from them at this gait, and I couldn't hold on
forever. So Tom took a think, and struck another
idea. That was, to kill a lion with the pepper-box
revolver, and then sail away while the others stopped
to fight over the carcass. So he stopped the balloon
still, and done it, and then we sailed off while the fuss
was going on, and come down a quarter of a mile off,
and they helped me aboard; but by the time we was
out of reach again, that gang was on hand once more.
And when they see we was really gone and they
couldn't get us, they sat down on their hams and
looked up at us so kind of disappointed that it was as
much as a person could do not to see THEIR side of the
matter.


CHAPTER VI.
IT'S A CARAVAN

I WAS so weak that the only thing I wanted was a
chance to lay down, so I made straight for my
locker-bunk, and stretched myself out there. But a
body couldn't get back his strength in no such oven as
that, so Tom give the command to soar, and Jim
started her aloft.

We had to go up a mile before we struck comfort-
able weather where it was breezy and pleasant and just
right, and pretty soon I was all straight again. Tom
had been setting quiet and thinking; but now he jumps
up and says:

"I bet you a thousand to one I know where we are.
We're in the Great Sahara, as sure as guns!"

He was so excited he couldn't hold still; but I
wasn't. I says:

"Well, then, where's the Great Sahara? In Eng-
land or in Scotland?"

"'Tain't in either; it's in Africa."

Jim's eyes bugged out, and he begun to stare down
with no end of interest, because that was where his
originals come from; but I didn't more than half be-
lieve it. I couldn't, you know; it seemed too awful
far away for us to have traveled.

But Tom was full of his discovery, as he called it,
and said the lions and the sand meant the Great Desert,
sure. He said he could 'a' found out, before we
sighted land, that we was crowding the land some-
wheres, if he had thought of one thing; and when we
asked him what, he said:

"These clocks. They're chronometers. You al-
ways read about them in sea voyages. One of them
is keeping Grinnage time, and the other is keeping St.
Louis time, like my watch. When we left St. Louis it
was four in the afternoon by my watch and this clock,
and it was ten at night by this Grinnage clock. Well,
at this time of the year the sun sets at about seven
o'clock. Now I noticed the time yesterday evening
when the sun went down, and it was half-past five
o'clock by the Grinnage clock, and half past 11 A.M.
by my watch and the other clock. You see, the sun
rose and set by my watch in St. Louis, and the Grin-
nage clock was six hours fast; but we've come so far
east that it comes within less than half an hour of set-
ting by the Grinnage clock now, and I'm away out --
more than four hours and a half out. You see, that
meant that we was closing up on the longitude of
Ireland, and would strike it before long if we was
p'inted right -- which we wasn't. No, sir, we've been
a-wandering -- wandering 'way down south of east, and
it's my opinion we are in Africa. Look at this map.
You see how the shoulder of Africa sticks out to the
west. Think how fast we've traveled; if we had gone
straight east we would be long past England by this
time. You watch for noon, all of you, and we'll stand
up, and when we can't cast a shadow we'll find that
this Grinnage clock is coming mighty close to marking
twelve. Yes, sir, I think we're in Africa; and it's just
bully."

Jim was gazing down with the glass. He shook his
head and says:

"Mars Tom, I reckon dey's a mistake som'er's.
hain't seen no niggers yit."

"That's nothing; they don't live in the desert.
What is that, 'way off yonder? Gimme a glass."

He took a long look, and said it was like a black
string stretched across the sand, but he couldn't guess
what it was.

"Well," I says, "I reckon maybe you've got a
chance now to find out whereabouts this balloon is,
because as like as not that is one of these lines here,
that's on the map, that you call meridians of longi-
tude, and we can drop down and look at its number,
and --"

"Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, I never see such a lunk-
head as you. Did you s'pose there's meridians of
longitude on the EARTH?"

"Tom Sawyer, they're set down on the map, and
you know it perfectly well, and here they are, and you
can see for yourself."

"Of course they're on the map, but that's nothing;
there ain't any on the GROUND."

"Tom, do you know that to be so?"

"Certainly I do."

"Well, then, that map's a liar again. I never see
such a liar as that map."

He fired up at that, and I was ready for him, and
Jim was warming his opinion, too, and next minute
we'd 'a' broke loose on another argument, if Tom
hadn't dropped the glass and begun to clap his hands
like a maniac and sing out:

"Camels! -- Camels!"

So I grabbed a glass and Jim, too, and took a look,
but I was disappointed, and says:

"Camels your granny; they're spiders."

"Spiders in a desert, you shad? Spiders walking
in a procession? You don't ever reflect, Huck Finn,
and I reckon you really haven't got anything to
reflect WITH. Don't you know we're as much as a
mile up in the air, and that that string of crawlers is
two or three miles away? Spiders, good land! Spiders
as big as a cow? Perhaps you'd like to go down
and milk one of 'em. But they're camels, just the
same. It's a caravan, that's what it is, and it's a mile
long."

"Well, then, let's go down and look at it. I
don't believe in it, and ain't going to till I see it and
know it."

"All right," he says, and give the command:

"Lower away."

As we come slanting down into the hot weather, we
could see that it was camels, sure enough, plodding
along, an everlasting string of them, with bales strapped
to them, and several hundred men in long white robes,
and a thing like a shawl bound over their heads and
hanging down with tassels and fringes; and some of
the men had long guns and some hadn't, and some
was riding and some was walking. And the weatherJ--
well, it was just roasting. And how slow they did
creep along! We swooped down now, all of a
sudden, and stopped about a hundred yards over their
heads.

The men all set up a yell, and some of them fell flat
on their stomachs, some begun to fire their guns at us,
and the rest broke and scampered every which way,
and so did the camels.

We see that we was making trouble, so we went up
again about a mile, to the cool weather, and watched
them from there. It took them an hour to get together
and form the procession again; then they started along,
but we could see by the glasses that they wasn't pay-
ing much attention to anything but us. We poked
along, looking down at them with the glasses, and by
and by we see a big sand mound, and something like
people the other side of it, and there was something
like a man laying on top of the mound that raised his
head up every now and then, and seemed to be watch-
ing the caravan or us, we didn't know which. As the
caravan got nearer, he sneaked down on the other side
and rushed to the other men and horses -- for that is
what they was -- and we see them mount in a hurry;
and next, here they come, like a house afire, some with
lances and some with long guns, and all of them yell-
ing the best they could.

They come a-tearing down on to the caravan, and the
next minute both sides crashed together and was all
mixed up, and there was such another popping of guns
as you never heard, and the air got so full of smoke
you could only catch glimpses of them struggling
together. There must 'a' been six hundred men in
that battle, and it was terrible to see. Then they
broke up into gangs and groups, fighting tooth and
nail, and scurrying and scampering around, and laying
into each other like everything; and whenever the
smoke cleared a little you could see dead and wounded
people and camels scattered far and wide and all about,
and camels racing off in every direction.

At last the robbers see they couldn't win, so their
chief sounded a signal, and all that was left of them
broke away and went scampering across the plain.
The last man to go snatched up a child and carried it
off in front of him on his horse, and a woman run
screaming and begging after him, and followed him
away off across the plain till she was separated a long
ways from her people; but it warn't no use, and she
had to give it up, and we see her sink down on the
sand and cover her face with her hands. Then Tom
took the hellum, and started for that yahoo, and we
come a-whizzing down and made a swoop, and knocked
him out of the saddle, child and all; and he was jarred
considerable, but the child wasn't hurt, but laid there
working its hands and legs in the air like a tumble-bug
that's on its back and can't turn over. The man went
staggering off to overtake his horse, and didn't know
what had hit him, for we was three or four hundred
yards up in the air by this time.

We judged the woman would go and get the child
now; but she didn't. We could see her, through the
glass, still setting there, with her head bowed down on
her knees; so of course she hadn't seen the perform-
ance, and thought her child was clean gone with the
man. She was nearly a half a mile from her people,
so we thought we might go down to the child, which
was about a quarter of a mile beyond her, and snake
it to her before the caravan people could git to us to
do us any harm; and besides, we reckoned they had
enough business on their hands for one while, anyway,
with the wounded. We thought we'd chance it, and
we did. We swooped down and stopped, and Jim
shinned down the ladder and fetched up the kid, which
was a nice fat little thing, and in a noble good humor,
too, considering it was just out of a battle and been
tumbled off of a horse; and then we started for the
mother, and stopped back of her and tolerable near
by, and Jim slipped down and crept up easy, and when
he was close back of her the child goo-goo'd, the way
a child does, and she heard it, and whirled and fetched
a shriek of joy, and made a jump for the kid and
snatched it and hugged it, and dropped it and hugged
Jim, and then snatched off a gold chain and hung it
around Jim's neck, and hugged him again, and jerked
up the child again, a-sobbing and glorifying all the
time; and Jim he shoved for the ladder and up it, and
in a minute we was back up in the sky and the woman
was staring up, with the back of her head between her
shoulders and the child with its arms locked around
her neck. And there she stood, as long as we was in
sight a-sailing away in the sky.


CHAPTER VII.
TOM RESPECTS THE FLEA

"NOON!" says Tom, and so it was. His shadder
was just a blot around his feet. We looked,
and the Grinnage clock was so close to twelve the
difference didn't amount to nothing. So Tom said
London was right north of us or right south of us, one
or t'other, and he reckoned by the weather and the
sand and the camels it was north; and a good many
miles north, too; as many as from New York to the
city of Mexico, he guessed.

Jim said he reckoned a balloon was a good deal the
fastest thing in the world, unless it might be some
kinds of birds -- a wild pigeon, maybe, or a railroad.

But Tom said he had read about railroads in England
going nearly a hundred miles an hour for a little ways,
and there never was a bird in the world that could do
that -- except one, and that was a flea.

"A flea? Why, Mars Tom, in de fust place he
ain't a bird, strickly speakin' --"

"He ain't a bird, eh? Well, then, what is he?"

"I don't rightly know, Mars Tom, but I speck he's
only jist a' animal. No, I reckon dat won't do, nuther,
he ain't big enough for a' animal. He mus' be a bug.
Yassir, dat's what he is, he's a bug."

"I bet he ain't, but let it go. What's your second
place?"

"Well, in de second place, birds is creturs dat goes
a long ways, but a flea don't."

"He don't, don't he? Come, now, what IS a long
distance, if you know?"

"Why, it's miles, and lots of 'em -- anybody knows
dat."

"Can't a man walk miles?"

"Yassir, he kin."

"As many as a railroad?"

"Yassir, if you give him time."

"Can't a flea?"

"Well -- I s'pose so -- ef you gives him heaps of
time."

"Now you begin to see, don't you, that DISTANCE
ain't the thing to judge by, at all; it's the time it takes
to go the distance IN that COUNTS, ain't it?"

"Well, hit do look sorter so, but I wouldn't 'a'
b'lieved it, Mars Tom."

"It's a matter of PROPORTION, that's what it is; and
when you come to gauge a thing's speed by its size,
where's your bird and your man and your railroad,
alongside of a flea? The fastest man can't run more
than about ten miles in an hour -- not much over ten
thousand times his own length. But all the books says
any common ordinary third-class flea can jump a hun-
dred and fifty times his own length; yes, and he can
make five jumps a second too -- seven hundred and
fifty times his own length, in one little second -- for he
don't fool away any time stopping and starting -- he
does them both at the same time; you'll see, if you
try to put your finger on him. Now that's a common,
ordinary, third-class flea's gait; but you take an Eye-
talian FIRST-class, that's been the pet of the nobility all
his life, and hasn't ever knowed what want or sickness
or exposure was, and he can jump more than three
hundred times his own length, and keep it up all day,
five such jumps every second, which is fifteen hundred
times his own length. Well, suppose a man could go
fifteen hundred times his own length in a second -- say,
a mile and a half. It's ninety miles a minute; it's
considerable more than five thousand miles an hour.
Where's your man NOW? -- yes, and your bird, and
your railroad, and your balloon? Laws, they don't
amount to shucks 'longside of a flea. A flea is just
a comet b'iled down small."

Jim was a good deal astonished, and so was I. Jim
said:

"Is dem figgers jist edjackly true, en no jokin' en
no lies, Mars Tom?"

"Yes, they are; they're perfectly true."

"Well, den, honey, a body's got to respec' a flea.
I ain't had no respec' for um befo', sca'sely, but dey
ain't no gittin' roun' it, dey do deserve it, dat's
certain."

"Well, I bet they do. They've got ever so much
more sense, and brains, and brightness, in proportion
to their size, than any other cretur in the world. A
person can learn them 'most anything; and they learn
it quicker than any other cretur, too. They've been
learnt to haul little carriages in harness, and go this
way and that way and t'other way according to their
orders; yes, and to march and drill like soldiers, doing
it as exact, according to orders, as soldiers does it.
They've been learnt to do all sorts of hard and
troublesome things. S'pose you could cultivate a flea
up to the size of a man, and keep his natural
smartness a-growing and a-growing right along up,
bigger and bigger, and keener and keener, in the same
proportion -- where'd the human race be, do you
reckon? That flea would be President of the United
States, and you couldn't any more prevent it than you
can prevent lightning."

"My lan', Mars Tom, I never knowed dey was so
much TO de beas'. No, sir, I never had no idea of it,
and dat's de fac'."

"There's more to him, by a long sight, than there
is to any other cretur, man or beast, in proportion to
size. He's the interestingest of them all. People have
so much to say about an ant's strength, and an ele-
phant's, and a locomotive's. Shucks, they don't begin
with a flea. He can lift two or three hundred times his
own weight. And none of them can come anywhere
near it. And, moreover, he has got notions of his
own, and is very particular, and you can't fool him;
his instinct, or his judgment, or whatever it is, is per-
fectly sound and clear, and don't ever make a mistake.
People think all humans are alike to a flea. It ain't
so. There's folks that he won't go near, hungry or
not hungry, and I'm one of them. I've never had one
of them on me in my life."

"Mars Tom!"

"It's so; I ain't joking."

"Well, sah, I hain't ever heard de likes o' dat befo'."
Jim couldn't believe it, and I couldn't; so we had to
drop down to the sand and git a supply and see. Tom
was right. They went for me and Jim by the thou-
sand, but not a one of them lit on Tom. There warn't
no explaining it, but there it was and there warn't no
getting around it. He said it had always been just so,
and he'd just as soon be where there was a million of
them as not; they'd never touch him nor bother
him.

We went up to the cold weather to freeze 'em out,
and stayed a little spell, and then come back to the
comfortable weather and went lazying along twenty or
twenty-five miles an hour, the way we'd been doing for
the last few hours. The reason was, that the longer
we was in that solemn, peaceful desert, the more the
hurry and fuss got kind of soothed down in us, and
the more happier and contented and satisfied we got to
feeling, and the more we got to liking the desert, and
then loving it. So we had cramped the speed down,
as I was saying, and was having a most noble good
lazy time, sometimes watching through the glasses,
sometimes stretched out on the lockers reading, some-
times taking a nap.

It didn't seem like we was the same lot that was in
such a state to find land and git ashore, but it was.
But we had got over that -- clean over it. We was
used to the balloon now and not afraid any more, and
didn't want to be anywheres else. Why, it seemed
just like home; it 'most seemed as if I had been born
and raised in it, and Jim and Tom said the same. And
always I had had hateful people around me, a-nagging
at me, and pestering of me, and scolding, and finding
fault, and fussing and bothering, and sticking to me,
and keeping after me, and making me do this, and
making me do that and t'other, and always selecting
out the things I didn't want to do, and then giving me
Sam Hill because I shirked and done something else,
and just aggravating the life out of a body all the time;
but up here in the sky it was so still and sunshiny and
lovely, and plenty to eat, and plenty of sleep, and
strange things to see, and no nagging and no pester-
ing, and no good people, and just holiday all the time.
Land, I warn't in no hurry to git out and buck at
civilization again. Now, one of the worst things about
civilization is, that anybody that gits a letter with
trouble in it comes and tells you all about it and makes
you feel bad, and the newspapers fetches you the
troubles of everybody all over the world, and keeps
you downhearted and dismal 'most all the time, and
it's such a heavy load for a person. I hate them
newspapers; and I hate letters; and if I had my way
I wouldn't allow nobody to load his troubles on to
other folks he ain't acquainted with, on t'other side of
the world, that way. Well, up in a balloon there ain't
any of that, and it's the darlingest place there is.

We had supper, and that night was one of the
prettiest nights I ever see. The moon made it just
like daylight, only a heap softer; and once we see a
lion standing all alone by himself, just all alone on the
earth, it seemed like, and his shadder laid on the sand
by him like a puddle of ink. That's the kind of moon-
light to have.

Mainly we laid on our backs and talked; we didn't
want to go to sleep. Tom said we was right in the
midst of the Arabian Nights now. He said it was right
along here that one of the cutest things in that book
happened; so we looked down and watched while he
told about it, because there ain't anything that is so
interesting to look at as a place that a book has talked
about. It was a tale about a camel-driver that had lost
his camel, and he come along in the desert and met a
man, and says:

"Have you run across a stray camel to-day?"

And the man says:

"Was he blind in his left eye?"

"Yes."

"Had he lost an upper front tooth?"

"Yes."

"Was his off hind leg lame?"

"Yes."

"Was he loaded with millet-seed on one side and
honey on the other?"

"Yes, but you needn't go into no more details --
that's the one, and I'm in a hurry. Where did you
see him?"

"I hain't seen him at all," the man says.

"Hain't seen him at all? How can you describe
him so close, then?"

"Because when a person knows how to use his eyes,
everything has got a meaning to it; but most people's
eyes ain't any good to them. I knowed a camel had
been along, because I seen his track. I knowed he
was lame in his off hind leg because he had favored
that foot and trod light on it, and his track showed it.
I knowed he was blind on his left side because he only
nibbled the grass on the right side of the trail. I
knowed he had lost an upper front tooth because where
he bit into the sod his teeth-print showed it. The
millet-seed sifted out on one side -- the ants told me
that; the honey leaked out on the other -- the flies
told me that. I know all about your camel, but I
hain't seen him."

Jim says:

"Go on, Mars Tom, hit's a mighty good tale, and
powerful interestin'."

"That's all," Tom says.

"ALL?" says Jim, astonished. "What 'come o'
de camel?"

"I don't know."

"Mars Tom, don't de tale say?"

"No."

Jim puzzled a minute, then he says:

"Well! Ef dat ain't de beatenes' tale ever I struck.
Jist gits to de place whah de intrust is gittin' red-hot,
en down she breaks. Why, Mars Tom, dey ain't no
SENSE in a tale dat acts like dat. Hain't you got no
IDEA whether de man got de camel back er not?"

"No, I haven't."

I see myself there warn't no sense in the tale, to
chop square off that way before it come to anything,
but I warn't going to say so, because I could see Tom
was souring up pretty fast over the way it flatted out
and the way Jim had popped on to the weak place in
it, and I don't think it's fair for everybody to pile on
to a feller when he's down. But Tom he whirls on
me and says:

"What do YOU think of the tale?"

Of course, then, I had to come out and make a clean
breast and say it did seem to me, too, same as it did
to Jim, that as long as the tale stopped square in the
middle and never got to no place, it really warn't
worth the trouble of telling.

Tom's chin dropped on his breast, and 'stead of
being mad, as I reckoned he'd be, to hear me scoff at
his tale that way, he seemed to be only sad; and he
says:

"Some people can see, and some can't -- just as
that man said. Let alone a camel, if a cyclone had
gone by, YOU duffers wouldn't 'a' noticed the
track."

I don't know what he meant by that, and he didn't
say; it was just one of his irrulevances, I reckon -- he
was full of them, sometimes, when he was in a close
place and couldn't see no other way out -- but I didn't
mind. We'd spotted the soft place in that tale sharp
enough, he couldn't git away from that little fact. It
graveled him like the nation, too, I reckon, much as
he tried not to let on.


CHAPTER VIII.
THE DISAPPEARING LAKE

WE had an early breakfast in the morning, and set
looking down on the desert, and the weather
was ever so bammy and lovely, although we warn't
high up. You have to come down lower and lower
after sundown in the desert, because it cools off so
fast; and so, by the time it is getting toward dawn,
you are skimming along only a little ways above the
sand.

We was watching the shadder of the balloon slide
along the ground, and now and then gazing off across
the desert to see if anything was stirring, and then
down on the shadder again, when all of a sudden
almost right under us we see a lot of men and camels
laying scattered about, perfectly quiet, like they was
asleep.

We shut off the power, and backed up and stood
over them, and then we see that they was all dead. It
give us the cold shivers. And it made us hush down,
too, and talk low, like people at a funeral. We
dropped down slow and stopped, and me and Tom
clumb down and went among them. There was men,
and women, and children. They was dried by the sun
and dark and shriveled and leathery, like the pictures
of mummies you see in books. And yet they looked
just as human, you wouldn't 'a' believed it; just like
they was asleep.

Some of the people and animals was partly covered
with sand, but most of them not, for the sand was
thin there, and the bed was gravel and hard. Most
of the clothes had rotted away; and when you took
hold of a rag, it tore with a touch, like spider-
web. Tom reckoned they had been laying there for
years.

Some of the men had rusty guns by them, some had
swords on and had shawl belts with long, silver-
mounted pistols stuck in them. All the camels had
their loads on yet, but the packs had busted or rotted
and spilt the freight out on the ground. We didn't
reckon the swords was any good to the dead people
any more, so we took one apiece, and some pistols.
We took a small box, too, because it was so handsome
and inlaid so fine; and then we wanted to bury the
people; but there warn't no way to do it that we could
think of, and nothing to do it with but sand, and that
would blow away again, of course.

Then we mounted high and sailed away, and pretty
soon that black spot on the sand was out of sight, and
we wouldn't ever see them poor people again in this
world. We wondered, and reasoned, and tried to
guess how they come to be there, and how it all hap-
pened to them, but we couldn't make it out. First we
thought maybe they got lost, and wandered around and
about till their food and water give out and they
starved to death; but Tom said no wild animals nor
vultures hadn't meddled with them, and so that guess
wouldn't do. So at last we give it up, and judged we
wouldn't think about it no more, because it made us
low-spirited.

Then we opened the box, and it had gems and jewels
in it, quite a pile, and some little veils of the kind the
dead women had on, with fringes made out of curious
gold money that we warn't acquainted with. We
wondered if we better go and try to find them again
and give it back; but Tom thought it over and said
no, it was a country that was full of robbers, and they
would come and steal it; and then the sin would be on
us for putting the temptation in their way. So we
went on; but I wished we had took all they had, so
there wouldn't 'a' been no temptation at all left.

We had had two hours of that blazing weather down
there, and was dreadful thirsty when we got aboard
again. We went straight for the water, but it was
spoiled and bitter, besides being pretty near hot enough
to scald your mouth. We couldn't drink it. It was
Mississippi river water, the best in the world, and we
stirred up the mud in it to see if that would help, but
no, the mud wasn't any better than the water.
Well, we hadn't been so very, very thirsty before,
while we was interested in the lost people, but we was
now, and as soon as we found we couldn't have a
drink, we was more than thirty-five times as thirsty as
we was a quarter of a minute before. Why, in a little
while we wanted to hold our mouths open and pant
like a dog.

Tom said to keep a sharp lookout, all around, every-
wheres, because we'd got to find an oasis or there
warn't no telling what would happen. So we done it.
We kept the glasses gliding around all the time, till our
arms got so tired we couldn't hold them any more.
Two hours -- three hours -- just gazing and gazing,
and nothing but sand, sand, SAND, and you could see
the quivering heat-shimmer playing over it. Dear,
dear, a body don't know what real misery is till he is
thirsty all the way through and is certain he ain't ever
going to come to any water any more. At last I
couldn't stand it to look around on them baking plains;
I laid down on the locker, and give it up.

But by and by Tom raised a whoop, and there she
was! A lake, wide and shiny, with pa'm-trees leaning
over it asleep, and their shadders in the water just as
soft and delicate as ever you see. I never see anything
look so good. It was a long ways off, but that
warn't anything to us; we just slapped on a hundred-
mile gait, and calculated to be there in seven minutes;
but she stayed the same old distance away, all the
time; we couldn't seem to gain on her; yes, sir, just as
far, and shiny, and like a dream; but we couldn't get
no nearer; and at last, all of a sudden, she was gone!

Tom's eyes took a spread, and he says:

"Boys, it was a MYridge!" Said it like he was
glad. I didn't see nothing to be glad about. I says:

"Maybe. I don't care nothing about its name, the
thing I want to know is, what's become of it?"

Jim was trembling all over, and so scared he couldn't
speak, but he wanted to ask that question himself if he
could 'a' done it. Tom says:

"What's BECOME of it? Why, you see yourself it's
gone."

"Yes, I know; but where's it gone TO?"

He looked me over and says:

"Well, now, Huck Finn, where WOULD it go to!
Don't you know what a myridge is?"

"No, I don't. What is it?"

"It ain't anything but imagination. There ain't
anything TO it. "

It warmed me up a little to hear him talk like that,
and I says:

"What's the use you talking that kind of stuff, Tom
Sawyer? Didn't I see the lake?"

"Yes -- you think you did."

"I don't think nothing about it, I DID see it."

"I tell you you DIDN'T see it either -- because it
warn't there to see."

It astonished Jim to hear him talk so, and he broke
in and says, kind of pleading and distressed:

"Mars Tom, PLEASE don't say sich things in sich an
awful time as dis. You ain't only reskin' yo' own
self, but you's reskin' us -- same way like Anna Nias
en Siffra. De lake WUZ dah -- I seen it jis' as plain
as I sees you en Huck dis minute."

I says:

"Why, he seen it himself! He was the very one
that seen it first. NOW, then!"

"Yes, Mars Tom, hit's so -- you can't deny it. We
all seen it, en dat PROVE it was dah."

"Proves it! How does it prove it?"

"Same way it does in de courts en everywheres,
Mars Tom. One pusson might be drunk, or dreamy
or suthin', en he could be mistaken; en two might,
maybe; but I tell you, sah, when three sees a thing,
drunk er sober, it's SO. Dey ain't no gittin' aroun'
dat, en you knows it, Mars Tom."

"I don't know nothing of the kind. There used to
be forty thousand million people that seen the sun
move from one side of the sky to the other every day.
Did that prove that the sun DONE it?"

"Course it did. En besides, dey warn't no 'casion
to prove it. A body 'at's got any sense ain't gwine to
doubt it. Dah she is now -- a sailin' thoo de sky,
like she allays done."

Tom turned on me, then, and says:

"What do YOU say -- is the sun standing still?"

"Tom Sawyer, what's the use to ask such a jackass
question? Anybody that ain't blind can see it don't
stand still."

"Well," he says, "I'm lost in the sky with no
company but a passel of low-down animals that don't
know no more than the head boss of a university did
three or four hundred years ago."

It warn't fair play, and I let him know it. I
says:

"Throwin' mud ain't arguin', Tom Sawyer."

"Oh, my goodness, oh, my goodness gracious,
dah's de lake agi'n!" yelled Jim, just then. "NOW,
Mars Tom, what you gwine to say?"

Yes, sir, there was the lake again, away yonder
across the desert, perfectly plain, trees and all, just
the same as it was before. I says:

"I reckon you're satisfied now, Tom Sawyer."

But he says, perfectly ca'm:

"Yes, satisfied there ain't no lake there."

Jim says:

"DON'T talk so, Mars Tom -- it sk'yers me to hear
you. It's so hot, en you's so thirsty, dat you ain't in
yo' right mine, Mars Tom. Oh, but don't she look
good! 'clah I doan' know how I's gwine to wait tell
we gits dah, I's SO thirsty."

"Well, you'll have to wait; and it won't do you no
good, either, because there ain't no lake there, I tell
you."

I says:

"Jim, don't you take your eye off of it, and I
won't, either."

"'Deed I won't; en bless you, honey, I couldn't ef
I wanted to."

We went a-tearing along toward it, piling the miles
behind us like nothing, but never gaining an inch on it
-- and all of a sudden it was gone again! Jim stag-
gered, and 'most fell down. When he got his breath
he says, gasping like a fish:

"Mars Tom, hit's a GHOS', dat's what it is, en I
hopes to goodness we ain't gwine to see it no mo'.
Dey's BEEN a lake, en suthin's happened, en de lake's
dead, en we's seen its ghos'; we's seen it twiste, en
dat's proof. De desert's ha'nted, it's ha'nted, sho;
oh, Mars Tom, le''s git outen it; I'd ruther die den
have de night ketch us in it ag'in en de ghos' er dat
lake come a-mournin' aroun' us en we asleep en doan'
know de danger we's in."

"Ghost, you gander! It ain't anything but air and
heat and thirstiness pasted together by a person's
imagination. If I -- gimme the glass!"

He grabbed it and begun to gaze off to the right.

"It's a flock of birds," he says. "It's getting
toward sundown, and they're making a bee-line across
our track for somewheres. They mean business --
maybe they're going for food or water, or both. Let
her go to starboard! -- Port your hellum! Hard down!
There -- ease up -- steady, as you go."

We shut down some of the power, so as not to out-
speed them, and took out after them. We went skim-
ming along a quarter of a mile behind them, and when
we had followed them an hour and a half and was get-
ting pretty discouraged, and was thirsty clean to
unendurableness, Tom says:

"Take the glass, one of you, and see what that is,
away ahead of the birds."

Jim got the first glimpse, and slumped down on the
locker sick. He was most crying, and says:

"She's dah ag'in, Mars Tom, she's dah ag'in, en I
knows I's gwine to die, 'case when a body sees a ghos'
de third time, dat's what it means. I wisht I'd never
come in dis balloon, dat I does."

He wouldn't look no more, and what he said made
me afraid, too, because I knowed it was true, for that
has always been the way with ghosts; so then I
wouldn't look any more, either. Both of us begged
Tom to turn off and go some other way, but he
wouldn't, and said we was ignorant superstitious
blatherskites. Yes, and he'll git come up with, one
of these days, I says to myself, insulting ghosts that
way. They'll stand it for a while, maybe, but they
won't stand it always, for anybody that knows about
ghosts knows how easy they are hurt, and how revenge-
ful they are.

So we was all quiet and still, Jim and me being
scared, and Tom busy. By and by Tom fetched the
balloon to a standstill, and says:

"NOW get up and look, you sapheads."

We done it, and there was the sure-enough water
right under us! -- clear, and blue, and cool, and deep,
and wavy with the breeze, the loveliest sight that ever
was. And all about it was grassy banks, and flowers,
and shady groves of big trees, looped together with
vines, and all looking so peaceful and comfortable --
enough to make a body cry, it was so beautiful.

Jim DID cry, and rip and dance and carry on, he was
so thankful and out of his mind for joy. It was my
watch, so I had to stay by the works, but Tom and
Jim clumb down and drunk a barrel apiece, and
fetched me up a lot, and I've tasted a many a good
thing in my life, but nothing that ever begun with that
water.

Then we went down and had a swim, and then Tom
came up and spelled me, and me and Jim had a swim,
and then Jim spelled Tom, and me and Tom had a
foot-race and a boxing-mill, and I don't reckon I ever
had such a good time in my life. It warn't so very
hot, because it was close on to evening, and we hadn't
any clothes on, anyway. Clothes is well enough in
school, and in towns, and at balls, too, but there ain't
no sense in them when there ain't no civilization nor
other kinds of bothers and fussiness around.

"Lions a-comin'! -- lions! Quick, Mars Tom!
Jump for yo' life, Huck!"

Oh, and didn't we! We never stopped for clothes,
but waltzed up the ladder just so. Jim lost his head
straight off -- he always done it whenever he got ex-
cited and scared; and so now, 'stead of just easing the
ladder up from the ground a little, so the animals
couldn't reach it, he turned on a raft of power, and we
went whizzing up and was dangling in the sky before
he got his wits together and seen what a foolish thing
he was doing. Then he stopped her, but he had clean
forgot what to do next; so there we was, so high that
the lions looked like pups, and we was drifting off on
the wind.

But Tom he shinned up and went for the works and
begun to slant her down, and back toward the lake,
where the animals was gathering like a camp-meeting,
and I judged he had lost HIS head, too; for he knowed
I was too scared to climb, and did he want to dump
me among the tigers and things?

But no, his head was level, he knowed what he was
about. He swooped down to within thirty or forty
feet of the lake, and stopped right over the center, and
sung out:

"Leggo, and drop!"

I done it, and shot down, feet first, and seemed to
go about a mile toward the bottom; and when I come
up, he says:

"Now lay on your back and float till you're rested
and got your pluck back, then I'll dip the ladder in
the water and you can climb aboard."

I done it. Now that was ever so smart in Tom, be-
cause if he had started off somewheres else to drop
down on the sand, the menagerie would 'a' come
along, too, and might 'a' kept us hunting a safe place
till I got tuckered out and fell.

And all this time the lions and tigers was sorting out
the clothes, and trying to divide them up so there
would be some for all, but there was a misunderstand-
ing about it somewheres, on account of some of them
trying to hog more than their share; so there was
another insurrection, and you never see anything like
it in the world. There must 'a' been fifty of them, all
mixed up together, snorting and roaring and snapping
and biting and tearing, legs and tails in the air, and
you couldn't tell which was which, and the sand and
fur a-flying. And when they got done, some was
dead. and some was limping off crippled, and the rest
was setting around on the battlefield, some of them
licking their sore places and the others looking up at
us and seemed to be kind of inviting us to come down
and have some fun, but which we didn't want any.

As for the clothes, they warn't any, any more.
Every last rag of them was inside of the animals; and
not agreeing with them very well, I don't reckon, for
there was considerable many brass buttons on them,
and there was knives in the pockets, too, and smoking
tobacco, and nails and chalk and marbles and fish-
hooks and things. But I wasn't caring. All that was
bothering me was, that all we had now was the pro-
fessor's clothes, a big enough assortment, but not suit-
able to go into company with, if we came across any,
because the britches was as long as tunnels, and the
coats and things according. Still, there was everything
a tailor needed, and Jim was a kind of jack legged
tailor, and he allowed he could soon trim a suit or two
down for us that would answer.


CHAPTER IX.
TOM DISCOURSES ON THE DESERT

STILL, we thought we would drop down there a
minute, but on another errand. Most of the pro-
fessor's cargo of food was put up in cans, in the new
way that somebody had just invented; the rest was
fresh. When you fetch Missouri beefsteak to the
Great Sahara, you want to be particular and stay up
in the coolish weather. So we reckoned we would
drop down into the lion market and see how we could
make out there.

We hauled in the ladder and dropped down till we
was just above the reach of the animals, then we let
down a rope with a slip-knot in it and hauled up a
dead lion, a small tender one, then yanked up a cub
tiger. We had to keep the congregation off with the
revolver, or they would 'a' took a hand in the proceed-
ings and helped.

We carved off a supply from both, and saved the
skins, and hove the rest overboard. Then we baited
some of the professor's hooks with the fresh meat and
went a-fishing. We stood over the lake just a con-
venient distance above the water, and catched a lot of
the nicest fish you ever see. It was a most amazing
good supper we had; lion steak, tiger steak, fried fish,
and hot corn-pone. I don't want nothing better than
that.

We had some fruit to finish off with. We got it out
of the top of a monstrous tall tree. It was a very slim
tree that hadn't a branch on it from the bottom plumb
to the top, and there it bursted out like a feather-
duster. It was a pa'm-tree, of course; anybody knows
a pa'm-tree the minute he see it, by the pictures. We
went for cocoanuts in this one, but there warn't none.
There was only big loose bunches of things like over-
sized grapes, and Tom allowed they was dates, because
he said they answered the description in the Arabian
Nights and the other books. Of course they mightn't
be, and they might be poison; so we had to wait a
spell, and watch and see if the birds et them. They
done it; so we done it, too, and they was most amaz-
ing good.

By this time monstrous big birds begun to come and
settle on the dead animals. They was plucky creturs;
they would tackle one end of a lion that was being
gnawed at the other end by another lion. If the lion
drove the bird away, it didn't do no good; he was
back again the minute the lion was busy.

The big birds come out of every part of the sky --
you could make them out with the glass while they was
still so far away you couldn't see them with your naked
eye. Tom said the birds didn't find out the meat was
there by the smell; they had to find it out by seeing
it. Oh, but ain't that an eye for you! Tom said at
the distance of five mile a patch of dead lions couldn't
look any bigger than a person's finger-nail, and he
couldn't imagine how the birds could notice such a
little thing so far off.

It was strange and unnatural to see lion eat lion,
and we thought maybe they warn't kin. But Jim said
that didn't make no difference. He said a hog was
fond of her own children, and so was a spider, and he
reckoned maybe a lion was pretty near as unprincipled
though maybe not quite. He thought likely a lion
wouldn't eat his own father, if he knowed which was
him, but reckoned he would eat his brother-in-law if
he was uncommon hungry, and eat his mother-in-law
any time. But RECKONING don't settle nothing. You
can reckon till the cows come home, but that don't
fetch you to no decision. So we give it up and let it
drop.

Generly it was very still in the Desert nights, but this
time there was music. A lot of other animals come to
dinner; sneaking yelpers that Tom allowed was jackals,
and roached-backed ones that he said was hyenas; and
all the whole biling of them kept up a racket all the
time. They made a picture in the moonlight that was
more different than any picture I ever see. We had a
line out and made fast to the top of a tree, and didn't
stand no watch, but all turned in and slept; but I was
up two or three times to look down at the animals and
hear the music. It was like having a front seat at a
menagerie for nothing, which I hadn't ever had before,
and so it seemed foolish to sleep and not make the
most of it; I mightn't ever have such a chance
again.

We went a-fishing again in the early dawn, and then
lazied around all day in the deep shade on an island,
taking turn about to watch and see that none of the
animals come a-snooping around there after erronorts
for dinner. We was going to leave the next day, but
couldn't, it was too lovely.

The day after, when we rose up toward the sky and
sailed off eastward, we looked back and watched that
place till it warn't nothing but just a speck in the
Desert, and I tell you it was like saying good-bye to a
friend that you ain't ever going to see any more.

Jim was thinking to himself, and at last he says:

"Mars Tom, we's mos' to de end er de Desert now,
I speck."

"Why?"

"Well, hit stan' to reason we is. You knows how
long we's been a-skimmin' over it. Mus' be mos' out
o' san'. Hit's a wonder to me dat it's hilt out as long
as it has."

"Shucks, there's plenty sand, you needn't worry."

"Oh, I ain't a-worryin', Mars Tom, only wonderin',
dat's all. De Lord's got plenty san', I ain't doubtin'
dat; but nemmine, He ain't gwyne to WAS'E it jist on
dat account; en I allows dat dis Desert's plenty big
enough now, jist de way she is, en you can't spread
her out no mo' 'dout was'in' san'."

"Oh, go 'long! we ain't much more than fairly
STARTED across this Desert yet. The United States is a
pretty big country, ain't it? Ain't it, Huck?"

"Yes," I says, "there ain't no bigger one, I don't
reckon."

"Well," he says, "this Desert is about the shape
of the United States, and if you was to lay it down on
top of the United States, it would cover the land of
the free out of sight like a blanket. There'd be a little
corner sticking out, up at Maine and away up north-
west, and Florida sticking out like a turtle's tail, and
that's all. We've took California away from the
Mexicans two or three years ago, so that part of the
Pacific coast is ours now, and if you laid the Great
Sahara down with her edge on the Pacific, she would
cover the United States and stick out past New York
six hundred miles into the Atlantic ocean."

I say:

"Good land! have you got the documents for that,
Tom Sawyer?"

"Yes, and they're right here, and I've been study-
ing them. You can look for yourself. From New
York to the Pacific is 2,600 miles. From one end of
the Great Desert to the other is 3,200. The United
States contains 3,600,000 square miles, the Desert
contains 4,162,000. With the Desert's bulk you could
cover up every last inch of the United States, and in
under where the edges projected out, you could tuck
England, Scotland, Ireland, France, Denmark, and all
Germany. Yes, sir, you could hide the home of the
brave and all of them countries clean out of sight under
the Great Sahara, and you would still have 2,000
square miles of sand left."

"Well," I says, "it clean beats me. Why, Tom,
it shows that the Lord took as much pains makin' this
Desert as makin' the United States and all them other
countries."

Jim says: "Huck, dat don' stan' to reason. I
reckon dis Desert wa'n't made at all. Now you take
en look at it like dis -- you look at it, and see ef I's
right. What's a desert good for? 'Taint good for
nuthin'. Dey ain't no way to make it pay. Hain't
dat so, Huck?"

"Yes, I reckon."

"Hain't it so, Mars Tom?"

"I guess so. Go on."

"Ef a thing ain't no good, it's made in vain, ain't it?"

"Yes."

"NOW, den! Do de Lord make anything in vain?
You answer me dat."

"Well -- no, He don't."

"Den how come He make a desert?"

"Well, go on. How DID He come to make it?"

"Mars Tom, I b'lieve it uz jes like when you's buildin'
a house; dey's allays a lot o' truck en rubbish lef' over.
What does you do wid it? Doan' you take en k'yart
it off en dump it into a ole vacant back lot? 'Course.
Now, den, it's my opinion hit was jes like dat -- dat
de Great Sahara warn't made at all, she jes HAPPEN'."

I said it was a real good argument, and I believed it
was the best one Jim ever made. Tom he said the same,
but said the trouble about arguments is, they ain't
nothing but THEORIES, after all, and theories don't prove
nothing, they only give you a place to rest on, a spell,
when you are tuckered out butting around and around
trying to find out something there ain't no way TO find
out. And he says:

"There's another trouble about theories: there's
always a hole in them somewheres, sure, if you look
close enough. It's just so with this one of Jim's.
Look what billions and billions of stars there is. How
does it come that there was just exactly enough star-
stuff, and none left over? How does it come there
ain't no sand-pile up there?"

But Jim was fixed for him and says:

"What's de Milky Way? -- dat's what I want to
know. What's de Milky Way? Answer me dat!"

In my opinion it was just a sockdologer. It's only
an opinion, it's only MY opinion and others may think
different; but I said it then and I stand to it now -- it
was a sockdologer. And moreover, besides, it landed
Tom Sawyer. He couldn't say a word. He had that
stunned look of a person that's been shot in the back
with a kag of nails. All he said was, as for people
like me and Jim, he'd just as soon have intellectual
intercourse with a catfish. But anybody can say that
-- and I notice they always do, when somebody has
fetched them a lifter. Tom Sawyer was tired of that
end of the subject.

  So we got back to talking about the size of the
Desert again, and the more we compared it with this
and that and t'other thing, the more nobler and bigger
and grander it got to look right along. And so, hunt-
ing among the figgers, Tom found, by and by, that it
was just the same size as the Empire of China. Then
he showed us the spread the Empire of China made on
the map, and the room she took up in the world.
Well, it was wonderful to think of, and I says:

"Why, I've heard talk about this Desert plenty of
times, but I never knowed before how important she
was."

Then Tom says:

"Important! Sahara important! That's just the
way with some people. If a thing's big, it's important.
That's all the sense they've got. All they can see is
SIZE. Why, look at England. It's the most important
country in the world; and yet you could put it in
China's vest-pocket; and not only that, but you'd
have the dickens's own time to find it again the next
time you wanted it. And look at Russia. It spreads
all around and everywhere, and yet ain't no more im-
portant in this world than Rhode Island is, and hasn't
got half as much in it that's worth saving."

Away off now we see a little hill, a-standing up just
on the edge of the world. Tom broke off his talk, and
reached for a glass very much excited, and took a look,
and says:

"That's it -- it's the one I've been looking for,
sure. If I'm right, it's the one the dervish took the
man into and showed him all the treasures."

So we begun to gaze, and he begun to tell about it
out of the Arabian Nights.


CHAPTER X.
THE TREASURE-HILL

TOM said it happened like this.

A dervish was stumping it along through the
Desert, on foot, one blazing hot day, and he had come
a thousand miles and was pretty poor, and hungry,
and ornery and tired, and along about where we are
now he run across a camel-driver with a hundred
camels, and asked him for some a'ms. But the camel-
driver he asked to be excused. The dervish said:

"Don't you own these camels?"

"Yes, they're mine."

"Are you in debt?"

"Who -- me? No."

"Well, a man that owns a hundred camels and ain't
in debt is rich -- and not only rich, but very rich.
Ain't it so?"

The camel-driver owned up that it was so. Then
the dervish says:

"God has made you rich, and He has made me
poor. He has His reasons, and they are wise, blessed
be His name. But He has willed that His rich shall
help His poor, and you have turned away from me,
your brother, in my need, and He will remember this,
and you will lose by it."

That made the camel-driver feel shaky, but all the
same he was born hoggish after money and didn't like
to let go a cent; so he begun to whine and explain,
and said times was hard, and although he had took a
full freight down to Balsora and got a fat rate for it,
he couldn't git no return freight, and so he warn't
making no great things out of his trip. So the dervish
starts along again, and says:

"All right, if you want to take the risk; but I
reckon you've made a mistake this time, and missed a
chance."

Of course the camel-driver wanted to know what
kind of a chance he had missed, because maybe there
was money in it; so he run after the dervish, and
begged him so hard and earnest to take pity on him
that at last the dervish gave in, and says:

"Do you see that hill yonder? Well, in that hill is
all the treasures of the earth, and I was looking around
for a man with a particular good kind heart and a
noble, generous disposition, because if I could find just
that man, I've got a kind of a salve I could put on
his eyes and he could see the treasures and get them
out."

So then the camel-driver was in a sweat; and he
cried, and begged, and took on, and went down on his
knees, and said he was just that kind of a man, and
said he could fetch a thousand people that would say
he wasn't ever described so exact before.

"Well, then," says the dervish, "all right. If we
load the hundred camels, can I have half of them?"

The driver was so glad he couldn't hardly hold in,
and says:

"Now you're shouting."

So they shook hands on the bargain, and the dervish
got out his box and rubbed the salve on the driver's
right eye, and the hill opened and he went in, and
there, sure enough, was piles and piles of gold and
jewels sparkling like all the stars in heaven had fell down.

So him and the dervish laid into it, and they loaded
every camel till he couldn't carry no more; then they
said good-bye, and each of them started off with his
fifty. But pretty soon the camel-driver come a-running
and overtook the dervish and says:

"You ain't in society, you know, and you don't
really need all you've got. Won't you be good, and
let me have ten of your camels?"

"Well," the dervish says, "I don't know but what
you say is reasonable enough."

So he done it, and they separated and the dervish
started off again with his forty. But pretty soon here
comes the camel-driver bawling after him again, and
whines and slobbers around and begs another ten off of
him, saying thirty camel loads of treasures was enough
to see a dervish through, because they live very simple,
you know, and don't keep house, but board around
and give their note.

But that warn't the end yet. That ornery hound
kept coming and coming till he had begged back all
the camels and had the whole hundred. Then he was
satisfied, and ever so grateful, and said he wouldn't
ever forgit the dervish as long as he lived, and nobody
hadn't been so good to him before, and liberal. So
they shook hands good-bye, and separated and started
off again.

But do you know, it warn't ten minutes till the
camel-driver was unsatisfied again -- he was the low-
downest reptyle in seven counties -- and he come a-
running again. And this time the thing he wanted was
to get the dervish to rub some of the salve on his other
eye.

"Why?" said the dervish.

"Oh, you know," says the driver.

"Know what?"

"Well, you can't fool me," says the driver.
"You're trying to keep back something from me,
you know it mighty well. You know, I reckon, that
if I had the salve on the other eye I could see a lot
more things that's valuable. Come -- please put it on."

The dervish says:

"I wasn't keeping anything back from you. I
don't mind telling you what would happen if I put it
on. You'd never see again. You'd be stone-blind the
rest of your days."

But do you know that beat wouldn't believe him.
No, he begged and begged, and whined and cried, till
at last the dervish opened his box and told him to put
it on, if he wanted to. So the man done it, and sure
enough he was as blind as a bat in a minute.

Then the dervish laughed at him and mocked at him
and made fun of him; and says:

"Good-bye -- a man that's blind hain't got no use
for jewelry."

And he cleared out with the hundred camels, and
left that man to wander around poor and miserable and
friendless the rest of his days in the Desert.

Jim said he'd bet it was a lesson to him.

"Yes," Tom says, "and like a considerable many
lessons a body gets. They ain't no account, because
the thing don't ever happen the same way again -- and
can't. The time Hen Scovil fell down the chimbly
and crippled his back for life, everybody said it would
be a lesson to him. What kind of a lesson? How
was he going to use it? He couldn't climb chimblies
no more, and he hadn't no more backs to break."

"All de same, Mars Tom, dey IS sich a thing as
learnin' by expe'ence. De Good Book say de burnt
chile shun de fire."

"Well, I ain't denying that a thing's a lesson if it's
a thing that can happen twice just the same way.
There's lots of such things, and THEY educate a person,
that's what Uncle Abner always said; but there's forty
MILLION lots of the other kind -- the kind that don't
happen the same way twice -- and they ain't no real
use, they ain't no more instructive than the small-pox.
When you've got it, it ain't no good to find out you
ought to been vaccinated, and it ain't no good to git
vaccinated afterward, because the small-pox don't
come but once. But, on the other hand, Uncle Abner
said that the person that had took a bull by the tail
once had learnt sixty or seventy times as much as a
person that hadn't, and said a person that started in to
carry a cat home by the tail was gitting knowledge that
was always going to be useful to him, and warn't ever
going to grow dim or doubtful. But I can tell you,
Jim, Uncle Abner was down on them people that's all
the time trying to dig a lesson out of everything that
happens, no matter whether --"

But Jim was asleep. Tom looked kind of ashamed,
because you know a person always feels bad when he
is talking uncommon fine and thinks the other person
is admiring, and that other person goes to sleep that
way. Of course he oughtn't to go to sleep, because
it's shabby; but the finer a person talks the certainer
it is to make you sleep, and so when you come to look
at it it ain't nobody's fault in particular; both of
them's to blame.

Jim begun to snore -- soft and blubbery at first,
then a long rasp, then a stronger one, then a half a
dozen horrible ones like the last water sucking down
the plug-hole of a bath-tub, then the same with more
power to it, and some big coughs and snorts flung in,
the way a cow does that is choking to death; and
when the person has got to that point he is at his level
best, and can wake up a man that is in the next block
with a dipperful of loddanum in him, but can't wake
himself up although all that awful noise of his'n ain't
but three inches from his own ears. And that is the
curiosest thing in the world, seems to me. But you
rake a match to light the candle, and that little bit of a
noise will fetch him. I wish I knowed what was the
reason of that, but there don't seem to be no way to
find out. Now there was Jim alarming the whole
Desert, and yanking the animals out, for miles and
miles around, to see what in the nation was going on
up there; there warn't nobody nor nothing that was as
close to the noise as HE was, and yet he was the only
cretur that wasn't disturbed by it. We yelled at him
and whooped at him, it never done no good; but the
first time there come a little wee noise that wasn't of a
usual kind it woke him up. No, sir, I've thought it
all over, and so has Tom, and there ain't no way to
find out why a snorer can't hear himself snore.

Jim said he hadn't been asleep; he just shut his eyes
so he could listen better.

Tom said nobody warn't accusing him.

That made him look like he wished he hadn't said
anything. And he wanted to git away from the sub-
ject, I reckon, because he begun to abuse the camel-
driver, just the way a person does when he has got
catched in something and wants to take it out of some-
body else. He let into the camel-driver the hardest he
knowed how, and I had to agree with him; and he
praised up the dervish the highest he could, and I had
to agree with him there, too. But Tom says:

"I ain't so sure. You call that dervish so dreadful
liberal and good and unselfish, but I don't quite see it.
He didn't hunt up another poor dervish, did he? No,
he didn't. If he was so unselfish, why didn't he go in
there himself and take a pocketful of jewels and go
along and be satisfied? No, sir, the person he was
hunting for was a man with a hundred camels. He
wanted to get away with all the treasure he could."

"Why, Mars Tom, he was willin' to divide, fair and
square; he only struck for fifty camels."

"Because he knowed how he was going to get all of
them by and by."

"Mars Tom, he TOLE de man de truck would make
him bline."

"Yes, because he knowed the man's character. It
was just the kind of a man he was hunting for -- a
man that never believes in anybody's word or any-
body's honorableness, because he ain't got none of his
own. I reckon there's lots of people like that dervish.
They swindle, right and left, but they always make the
other person SEEM to swindle himself. They keep inside
of the letter of the law all the time, and there ain't no
way to git hold of them. THEY don't put the salve on
-- oh, no, that would be sin; but they know how to
fool YOU into putting it on, then it's you that blinds
yourself. I reckon the dervish and the camel-driver
was just a pair -- a fine, smart, brainy rascal, and a
dull, coarse, ignorant one, but both of them rascals,
just the same."

"Mars Tom, does you reckon dey's any o' dat kind
o' salve in de worl' now?"

"Yes, Uncle Abner says there is. He says they've
got it in New York, and they put it on country people's
eyes and show them all the railroads in the world, and
they go in and git them, and then when they rub the
salve on the other eye the other man bids them good-
bye and goes off with their railroads. Here's the
treasure-hill now. Lower away!"

We landed, but it warn't as interesting as I thought
it was going to be, because we couldn't find the place
where they went in to git the treasure. Still, it was
plenty interesting enough, just to see the mere hill
itself where such a wonderful thing happened. Jim
said he wou'dn't 'a' missed it for three dollars, and I
felt the same way.

And to me and Jim, as wonderful a thing as any was
the way Tom could come into a strange big country
like this and go straight and find a little hump like that
and tell it in a minute from a million other humps that
was almost just like it, and nothing to help him but
only his own learning and his own natural smartness.
We talked and talked it over together, but couldn't
make out how he done it. He had the best head on
him I ever see; and all he lacked was age, to make a
name for himself equal to Captain Kidd or George
Washington. I bet you it would 'a' crowded either of
THEM to find that hill, with all their gifts, but it warn't
nothing to Tom Sawyer; he went across Sahara and
put his finger on it as easy as you could pick a nigger
out of a bunch of angels.

We found a pond of salt water close by and scraped
up a raft of salt around the edges, and loaded up the
lion's skin and the tiger's so as they would keep till Jim
could tan them.


CHAPTER XI.
THE SAND-STORM

WE went a-fooling along for a day or two, and then
just as the full moon was touching the ground
on the other side of the desert, we see a string of little
black figgers moving across its big silver face. You
could see them as plain as if they was painted on the
moon with ink. It was another caravan. We cooled
down our speed and tagged along after it, just to have
company, though it warn't going our way. It was a
rattler, that caravan, and a most bully sight to look at
next morning when the sun come a-streaming across
the desert and flung the long shadders of the camels
on the gold sand like a thousand grand-daddy-long-
legses marching in procession. We never went very
near it, because we knowed better now than to act like
that and scare people's camels and break up their cara-
vans. It was the gayest outfit you ever see, for rich
clothes and nobby style. Some of the chiefs rode on
dromedaries, the first we ever see, and very tall, and
they go plunging along like they was on stilts, and
they rock the man that is on them pretty violent and
churn up his dinner considerable, I bet you, but they
make noble good time, and a camel ain't nowheres with
them for speed.

The caravan camped, during the middle part of the
day, and then started again about the middle of the
afternoon. Before long the sun begun to look very
curious. First it kind of turned to brass, and then to
copper, and after that it begun to look like a blood-
red ball, and the air got hot and close, and pretty soon
all the sky in the west darkened up and looked thick
and foggy, but fiery and dreadful -- like it looks
through a piece of red glass, you know. We looked
down and see a big confusion going on in the caravan,
and a rushing every which way like they was scared;
and then they all flopped down flat in the sand and
laid there perfectly still.

Pretty soon we see something coming that stood up
like an amazing wide wall, and reached from the Desert
up into the sky and hid the sun, and it was coming
like the nation, too. Then a little faint breeze struck
us, and then it come harder, and grains of sand begun
to sift against our faces and sting like fire, and Tom
sung out:

"It's a sand-storm -- turn your backs to it!"

We done it; and in another minute it was blowing a
gale, and the sand beat against us by the shovelful, and
the air was so thick with it we couldn't see a thing. In
five minutes the boat was level full, and we was setting
on the lockers buried up to the chin in sand, and only
our heads out and could hardly breathe.

Then the storm thinned, and we see that monstrous
wall go a-sailing off across the desert, awful to look at,
I tell you. We dug ourselves out and looked down,
and where the caravan was before there wasn't any-
thing but just the sand ocean now, and all still and
quiet. All them people and camels was smothered and
dead and buried -- buried under ten foot of sand, we
reckoned, and Tom allowed it might be years before
the wind uncovered them, and all that time their friends
wouldn't ever know what become of that caravan.
Tom said:

"NOW we know what it was that happened to the
people we got the swords and pistols from."

Yes, sir, that was just it. It was as plain as day
now. They got buried in a sand-storm, and the wild
animals couldn't get at them, and the wind never un-
covered them again until they was dried to leather and
warn't fit to eat. It seemed to me we had felt as sorry
for them poor people as a person could for anybody,
and as mournful, too, but we was mistaken; this last
caravan's death went harder with us, a good deal
harder. You see, the others was total strangers, and
we never got to feeling acquainted with them at all,
except, maybe, a little with the man that was watching
the girl, but it was different with this last caravan. We
was huvvering around them a whole night and 'most a
whole day, and had got to feeling real friendly with
them, and acquainted. I have found out that there
ain't no surer way to find out whether you like people
or hate them than to travel with them. Just so with
these. We kind of liked them from the start, and
traveling with them put on the finisher. The longer
we traveled with them, and the more we got used to
their ways, the better and better we liked them, and
the gladder and gladder we was that we run across
them. We had come to know some of them so well
that we called them by name when we was talking
about them, and soon got so familiar and sociable that
we even dropped the Miss and Mister and just used
their plain names without any handle, and it did not
seem unpolite, but just the right thing. Of course, it
wasn't their own names, but names we give them.
There was Mr. Elexander Robinson and Miss Adaline
Robinson, and Colonel Jacob McDougal and Miss
Harryet McDougal, and Judge Jeremiah Butler and
young Bushrod Butler, and these was big chiefs mostly
that wore splendid great turbans and simmeters, and
dressed like the Grand Mogul, and their families. But
as soon as we come to know them good, and like them
very much, it warn't Mister, nor Judge, nor nothing,
any more, but only Elleck, and Addy, and Jake, and
Hattie, and Jerry, and Buck, and so on.

And you know the more you join in with people in
their joys and their sorrows, the more nearer and
dearer they come to be to you. Now we warn't cold
and indifferent, the way most travelers is, we was right
down friendly and sociable, and took a chance in every-
thing that was going, and the caravan could depend on
us to be on hand every time, it didn't make no differ-
ence what it was.

When they camped, we camped right over them, ten
or twelve hundred feet up in the air. When they et a
meal, we et ourn, and it made it ever so much home-
liker to have their company. When they had a wed-
ding that night, and Buck and Addy got married, we
got ourselves up in the very starchiest of the professor's
duds for the blow-out, and when they danced we jined
in and shook a foot up there.

But it is sorrow and trouble that brings you the
nearest, and it was a funeral that done it with us. It
was next morning, just in the still dawn. We didn't
know the diseased, and he warn't in our set, but that
never made no difference; he belonged to the caravan,
and that was enough, and there warn't no more sincerer
tears shed over him than the ones we dripped on him
from up there eleven hundred foot on high.

Yes, parting with this caravan was much more
bitterer than it was to part with them others, which was
comparative strangers, and been dead so long, anyway.
We had knowed these in their lives, and was fond of
them, too, and now to have death snatch them from
right before our faces while we was looking, and leave
us so lonesome and friendless in the middle of that big
desert, it did hurt so, and we wished we mightn't ever
make any more friends on that voyage if we was
going to lose them again like that.

We couldn't keep from talking about them, and
they was all the time coming up in our memory, and
looking just the way they looked when we was all alive
and happy together. We could see the line marching,
and the shiny spearheads a-winking in the sun; we
could see the dromedaries lumbering along; we could
see the wedding and the funeral; and more oftener
than anything else we could see them praying, because
they don't allow nothing to prevent that; whenever
the call come, several times a day, they would stop
right there, and stand up and face to the east, and lift
back their heads, and spread out their arms and begin,
and four or five times they would go down on their
knees, and then fall forward and touch their forehead
to the ground.

Well, it warn't good to go on talking about them,
lovely as they was in their life, and dear to us in their
life and death both, because it didn't do no good, and
made us too down-hearted. Jim allowed he was going
to live as good a life as he could, so he could see them
again in a better world; and Tom kept still and didn't
tell him they was only Mohammedans; it warn't no
use to disappoint him, he was feeling bad enough just
as it was.

When we woke up next morning we was feeling a
little cheerfuller, and had had a most powerful good
sleep, because sand is the comfortablest bed there is,
and I don't see why people that can afford it don't
have it more. And it's terrible good ballast, too; I
never see the balloon so steady before.

Tom allowed we had twenty tons of it, and wondered
what we better do with it; it was good sand, and it
didn't seem good sense to throw it away. Jim says:

"Mars Tom, can't we tote it back home en sell it?
How long'll it take?"

"Depends on the way we go."

"Well, sah, she's wuth a quarter of a dollar a load
at home, en I reckon we's got as much as twenty
loads, hain't we? How much would dat be?"

"Five dollars."

"By jings, Mars Tom, le's shove for home right on
de spot! Hit's more'n a dollar en a half apiece, hain't
it?"

"Yes."

"Well, ef dat ain't makin' money de easiest ever I
struck! She jes' rained in -- never cos' us a lick o'
work. Le's mosey right along, Mars Tom."

But Tom was thinking and ciphering away so busy
and excited he never heard him. Pretty soon he says:

"Five dollars -- sho! Look here, this sand's worth
-- worth -- why, it's worth no end of money."

"How is dat, Mars Tom? Go on, honey, go on!"

"Well, the minute people knows it's genuwyne sand
from the genuwyne Desert of Sahara, they'll just be in
a perfect state of mind to git hold of some of it to
keep on the what-not in a vial with a label on it for a
curiosity. All we got to do is to put it up in vials and
float around all over the United States and peddle them
out at ten cents apiece. We've got all of ten thousand
dollars' worth of sand in this boat."

Me and Jim went all to pieces with joy, and begun
to shout whoopjamboreehoo, and Tom says:

"And we can keep on coming back and fetching
sand, and coming back and fetching more sand, and
just keep it a-going till we've carted this whole Desert
over there and sold it out; and there ain't ever going
to be any opposition, either, because we'll take out a
patent."

"My goodness," I says, "we'll be as rich as Creo-
sote, won't we, Tom?"

"Yes -- Creesus, you mean. Why, that dervish was
hunting in that little hill for the treasures of the earth,
and didn't know he was walking over the real ones for
a thousand miles. He was blinder than he made the
driver."

"Mars Tom, how much is we gwyne to be worth?"

"Well, I don't know yet. It's got to be ciphered,
and it ain't the easiest job to do, either, because it's
over four million square miles of sand at ten cents a
vial."

Jim was awful excited, but this faded it out consider-
able, and he shook his head and says:

"Mars Tom, we can't 'ford all dem vials -- a king
couldn't. We better not try to take de whole Desert,
Mars Tom, de vials gwyne to bust us, sho'."

Tom's excitement died out, too, now, and I reck-
oned it was on account of the vials, but it wasn't. He
set there thinking, and got bluer and bluer, and at last
he says:

"Boys, it won't work; we got to give it up."

"Why, Tom?"

"On account of the duties."

I couldn't make nothing out of that, neither could
Jim. I says:

"What IS our duty, Tom? Because if we can't git
around it, why can't we just DO it? People often has
to."

But he says:

"Oh, it ain't that kind of duty. The kind I mean
is a tax. Whenever you strike a frontier -- that's the
border of a country, you know -- you find a custom-
house there, and the gov'ment officers comes and rum-
mages among your things and charges a big tax, which
they call a duty because it's their duty to bust you if
they can, and if you don't pay the duty they'll hog
your sand. They call it confiscating, but that don't
deceive nobody, it's just hogging, and that's all it is.
Now if we try to carry this sand home the way we're
pointed now, we got to climb fences till we git tired --
just frontier after frontier -- Egypt, Arabia, Hindostan,
and so on, and they'll all whack on a duty, and so you
see, easy enough, we CAN'T go THAT road."

"Why, Tom," I says, "we can sail right over their
old frontiers; how are THEY going to stop us?"

He looked sorrowful at me, and says, very grave:

"Huck Finn, do you think that would be honest?"

I hate them kind of interruptions. I never said
nothing, and he went on:

"Well, we're shut off the other way, too. If we go
back the way we've come, there's the New York
custom-house, and that is worse than all of them others
put together, on account of the kind of cargo we've
got."

"Why?"

"Well, they can't raise Sahara sand in America, of
course, and when they can't raise a thing there, the
duty is fourteen hundred thousand per cent. on it if
you try to fetch it in from where they do raise it."

"There ain't no sense in that, Tom Sawyer."

"Who said there WAS? What do you talk to me
like that for, Huck Finn? You wait till I say a thing's
got sense in it before you go to accusing me of say-
ing it."

"All right, consider me crying about it, and sorry.
Go on."

Jim says:

"Mars Tom, do dey jam dat duty onto everything
we can't raise in America, en don't make no 'stinction
'twix' anything?"

"Yes, that's what they do."

"Mars Tom, ain't de blessin' o' de Lord de mos'
valuable thing dey is?"

"Yes, it is."

"Don't de preacher stan' up in de pulpit en call it
down on de people?"

"Yes."

"Whah do it come from?"

"From heaven."

"Yassir! you's jes' right, 'deed you is, honey -- it
come from heaven, en dat's a foreign country. NOW,
den! do dey put a tax on dat blessin'?"

"No, they don't."

"Course dey don't; en so it stan' to reason dat
you's mistaken, Mars Tom. Dey wouldn't put de tax
on po' truck like san', dat everybody ain't 'bleeged to
have, en leave it off'n de bes' thing dey is, which
nobody can't git along widout."

Tom Sawyer was stumped; he see Jim had got him
where he couldn't budge. He tried to wiggle out by
saying they had FORGOT to put on that tax, but they'd
be sure to remember about it, next session of Con-
gress, and then they'd put it on, but that was a poor
lame come-off, and he knowed it. He said there
warn't nothing foreign that warn't taxed but just that
one, and so they couldn't be consistent without taxing
it, and to be consistent was the first law of politics.
So he stuck to it that they'd left it out unintentional
and would be certain to do their best to fix it before
they got caught and laughed at.

But I didn't feel no more interest in such things, as
long as we couldn't git our sand through, and it made
me low-spirited, and Jim the same. Tom he tried to
cheer us up by saying he would think up another
speculation for us that would be just as good as this
one and better, but it didn't do no good, we didn't
believe there was any as big as this. It was mighty
hard; such a little while ago we was so rich, and could
'a' bought a country and started a kingdom and been
celebrated and happy, and now we was so poor and
ornery again, and had our sand left on our hands.
The sand was looking so lovely before, just like gold
and di'monds, and the feel of it was so soft and so
silky and nice, but now I couldn't bear the sight of it,
it made me sick to look at it, and I knowed I wouldn't
ever feel comfortable again till we got shut of it, and I
didn't have it there no more to remind us of what we
had been and what we had got degraded down to.
The others was feeling the same way about it that I
was. I knowed it, because they cheered up so, the
minute I says le's throw this truck overboard.

Well, it was going to be work, you know, and pretty
solid work, too; so Tom he divided it up according to
fairness and strength. He said me and him would
clear out a fifth apiece of the sand, and Jim three-
fifths. Jim he didn't quite like that arrangement. He
says:

"Course I's de stronges', en I's willin' to do a share
accordin', but by jings you's kinder pilin' it onto ole
Jim, Mars Tom, hain't you?"

"Well, I didn't think so, Jim, but you try your hand
at fixing it, and let's see."

So Jim reckoned it wouldn't be no more than fair if
me and Tom done a TENTH apiece. Tom he turned his
back to git room and be private, and then he smole a
smile that spread around and covered the whole Sahara
to the westward, back to the Atlantic edge of it where
we come from. Then he turned around again and
said it was a good enough arrangement, and we was
satisfied if Jim was. Jim said he was.

So then Tom measured off our two-tenths in the
bow and left the rest for Jim, and it surprised Jim a
good deal to see how much difference there was and
what a raging lot of sand his share come to, and said
he was powerful glad now that he had spoke up in time
and got the first arrangement altered, for he said that
even the way it was now, there was more sand than
enjoyment in his end of the contract, he believed.

Then we laid into it. It was mighty hot work, and
tough; so hot we had to move up into cooler weather
or we couldn't 'a' stood it. Me and Tom took turn
about, and one worked while t'other rested, but there
warn't nobody to spell poor old Jim, and he made all
that part of Africa damp, he sweated so. We couldn't
work good, we was so full of laugh, and Jim he kept
fretting and wanting to know what tickled us so, and
we had to keep making up things to account for it, and
they was pretty poor inventions, but they done well
enough, Jim didn't see through them. At last when
we got done we was 'most dead, but not with work
but with laughing. By and by Jim was 'most dead,
too, but: it was with work; then we took turns and
spelled him, and he was as thankfull as he could be,
and would set on the gunnel and swab the sweat, and
heave and pant, and say how good we was to a poor
old nigger, and he wouldn't ever forgit us. He was
always the gratefulest nigger I ever see, for any little
thing you done for him. He was only nigger outside;
inside he was as white as you be.


CHAPTER XII.
JIM STANDING SIEGE

THE next few meals was pretty sandy, but that
don't make no difference when you are hungry;
and when you ain't it ain't no satisfaction to eat, any-
way, and so a little grit in the meat ain't no particular
drawback, as far as I can see.

Then we struck the east end of the Desert at last,
sailing on a northeast course. Away off on the edge
of the sand, in a soft pinky light, we see three little
sharp roofs like tents, and Tom says:

"It's the pyramids of Egypt."

It made my heart fairly jump. You see, I had seen
a many and a many a picture of them, and heard tell
about them a hundred times, and yet to come on them
all of a sudden, that way, and find they was REAL, 'stead
of imaginations, 'most knocked the breath out of me
with surprise. It's a curious thing, that the more you
hear about a grand and big and bully thing or person,
the more it kind of dreamies out, as you may say, and
gets to be a big dim wavery figger made out of moon-
shine and nothing solid to it. It's just so with George
Washington, and the same with them pyramids.

And moreover, besides, the thing they always said
about them seemed to me to be stretchers. There was
a feller come to the Sunday-school once, and had a
picture of them, and made a speech, and said the big-
gest pyramid covered thirteen acres, and was most five
hundred foot high, just a steep mountain, all built out
of hunks of stone as big as a bureau, and laid up
in perfectly regular layers, like stair-steps. Thirteen
acres, you see, for just one building; it's a farm. If
it hadn't been in Sunday-school, I would 'a' judged it
was a lie; and outside I was certain of it. And he
said there was a hole in the pyramid, and you could go
in there with candles, and go ever so far up a long
slanting tunnel, and come to a large room in the
stomach of that stone mountain, and there you would
find a big stone chest with a king in it, four thousand
years old. I said to myself, then, if that ain't a lie I
will eat that king if they will fetch him, for even
Methusalem warn't that old, and nobody claims it.

As we come a little nearer we see the yaller sand
come to an end in a long straight edge like a blanket,
and on to it was joined, edge to edge, a wide country
of bright green, with a snaky stripe crooking through
it, and Tom said it was the Nile. It made my heart
jump again, for the Nile was another thing that wasn't
real to me. Now I can tell you one thing which is
dead certain: if you will fool along over three thou-
sand miles of yaller sand, all glimmering with heat so
that it makes your eyes water to look at it, and you've
been a considerable part of a week doing it, the green
country will look so like home and heaven to you that
it will make your eyes water AGAIN.

It was just so with me, and the same with Jim.

And when Jim got so he could believe it WAS the
land of Egypt he was looking at, he wouldn't enter it
standing up, but got down on his knees and took off
his hat, because he said it wasn't fitten' for a humble
poor nigger to come any other way where such men
had been as Moses and Joseph and Pharaoh and the
other prophets. He was a Presbyterian, and had a
most deep respect for Moses which was a Presbyterian,
too, he said. He was all stirred up, and says:

"Hit's de lan' of Egypt, de lan' of Egypt, en I's
'lowed to look at it wid my own eyes! En dah's de
river dat was turn' to blood, en I's looking at de very
same groun' whah de plagues was, en de lice, en de
frogs, en de locus', en de hail, en whah dey marked
de door-pos', en de angel o' de Lord come by in de
darkness o' de night en slew de fust-born in all de lan'
o' Egypt. Ole Jim ain't worthy to see dis day!"

And then he just broke down and cried, he was so
thankful. So between him and Tom there was talk
enough, Jim being excited because the land was so full
of history -- Joseph and his brethren, Moses in the
bulrushers, Jacob coming down into Egypt to buy
corn, the silver cup in the sack, and all them interesting
things; and Tom just as excited too, because the land
was so full of history that was in HIS line, about
Noureddin, and Bedreddin, and such like monstrous
giants, that made Jim's wool rise, and a raft of other
Arabian Nights folks, which the half of them never
done the things they let on they done, I don't believe.

Then we struck a disappointment, for one of them
early morning fogs started up, and it warn't no use to
sail over the top of it, because we would go by Egypt,
sure, so we judged it was best to set her by compass
straight for the place where the pyramids was gitting
blurred and blotted out, and then drop low and skin
along pretty close to the ground and keep a sharp
lookout. Tom took the hellum, I stood by to let go
the anchor, and Jim he straddled the bow to dig
through the fog with his eyes and watch out for danger
ahead. We went along a steady gait, but not very
fast, and the fog got solider and solider, so solid that
Jim looked dim and ragged and smoky through it. It
was awful still, and we talked low and was anxious.
Now and then Jim would say:

"Highst her a p'int, Mars Tom, highst her!" and
up she would skip, a foot or two, and we would slide
right over a flat-roofed mud cabin, with people that
had been asleep on it just beginning to turn out and
gap and stretch; and once when a feller was clear up
on his hind legs so he could gap and stretch better, we
took him a blip in the back and knocked him off. By
and by, after about an hour, and everything dead still
and we a-straining our ears for sounds and holding our
breath, the fog thinned a little, very sudden, and Jim
sung out in an awful scare:

"Oh, for de lan's sake, set her back, Mars Tom,
here's de biggest giant outen de 'Rabian Nights a-
comin' for us!" and he went over backwards in the
boat.

Tom slammed on the back-action, and as we slowed
to a standstill a man's face as big as our house at home
looked in over the gunnel, same as a house looks out
of its windows, and I laid down and died. I must 'a'
been clear dead and gone for as much as a minute or
more; then I come to, and Tom had hitched a boat-
hook on to the lower lip of the giant and was holding
the balloon steady with it whilst he canted his head
back and got a good long look up at that awful face.

Jim was on his knees with his hands clasped, gazing
up at the thing in a begging way, and working his lips,
but not getting anything out. I took only just a
glimpse, and was fading out again, but Tom says:

"He ain't alive, you fools; it's the Sphinx!"

I never see Tom look so little and like a fly;
but that was because the giant's head was so big and
awful. Awful, yes, so it was, but not dreadful any
more, because you could see it was a noble face,
and kind of sad, and not thinking about you, but about
other things and larger. It was stone, reddish stone,
and its nose and ears battered, and that give it an
abused look, and you felt sorrier for it for that.

We stood off a piece, and sailed around it and over
it, and it was just grand. It was a man's head, or
maybe a woman's, on a tiger's body a hundred and
twenty-five foot long, and there was a dear little temple
between its front paws. All but the head used to be
under the sand, for hundreds of years, maybe thou-
sands, but they had just lately dug the sand away and
found that little temple. It took a power of sand to
bury that cretur; most as much as it would to bury a
steamboat, I reckon.

We landed Jim on top of the head, with an American
flag to protect him, it being a foreign land; then we
sailed off to this and that and t'other distance, to git
what Tom called effects and perspectives and propor-
tions, and Jim he done the best he could, striking all
the different kinds of attitudes and positions he could
study up, but standing on his head and working his
legs the way a frog does was the best. The further we
got away, the littler Jim got, and the grander the
Sphinx got, till at last it was only a clothespin on a
dome, as you might say. That's the way perspective
brings out the correct proportions, Tom said; he said
Julus Cesar's niggers didn't know how big he was,
they was too close to him.

Then we sailed off further and further, till we
couldn't see Jim at all any more, and then that great
figger was at its noblest, a-gazing out over the Nile
Valley so still and solemn and lonesome, and all the
little shabby huts and things that was scattered about it
clean disappeared and gone, and nothing around it now
but a soft wide spread of yaller velvet, which was the
sand.

That was the right place to stop, and we done it.
We set there a-looking and a-thinking for a half an
hour, nobody a-saying anything, for it made us feel
quiet and kind of solemn to remember it had been
looking over that valley just that same way, and think-
ing its awful thoughts all to itself for thousands of
years. and nobody can't find out what they are to this
day.

At last I took up the glass and see some little black
things a-capering around on that velvet carpet, and
some more a-climbing up the cretur's back, and then I
see two or three wee puffs of white smoke, and told
Tom to look. He done it, and says:

"They're bugs. No -- hold on; they -- why, I be-
lieve they're men. Yes, it's men -- men and horses
both. They're hauling a long ladder up onto the
Sphinx's back -- now ain't that odd? And now they're
trying to lean it up a -- there's some more puffs of
smoke -- it's guns! Huck, they're after Jim."

We clapped on the power, and went for them a-
biling. We was there in no time, and come a-whizzing
down amongst them, and they broke and scattered every
which way, and some that was climbing the ladder after
Jim let go all holts and fell. We soared up and found
him laying on top of the head panting and most
tuckered out, partly from howling for help and partly
from scare. He had been standing a siege a long time
-- a week, HE said, but it warn't so, it only just seemed
so to him because they was crowding him so. They
had shot at him, and rained the bullets all around him,
but he warn't hit, and when they found he wouldn't
stand up and the bullets couldn't git at him when he
was laying down, they went for the ladder, and then
he knowed it was all up with him if we didn't come
pretty quick. Tom was very indignant, and asked him
why he didn't show the flag and command them to GIT,
in the name of the United States. Jim said he done
it, but they never paid no attention. Tom said he
would have this thing looked into at Washington, and
says:

"You'll see that they'll have to apologize for insult-
ing the flag, and pay an indemnity, too, on top of it
even if they git off THAT easy."

Jim says:

"What's an indemnity, Mars Tom?"

"It's cash, that's what it is."

"Who gits it, Mars Tom?"

"Why, WE do."

"En who gits de apology?"

"The United States. Or, we can take whichever
we please. We can take the apology, if we want to,
and let the gov'ment take the money."

"How much money will it be, Mars Tom?"

"Well, in an aggravated case like this one, it will
be at least three dollars apiece, and I don't know but
more."

"Well, den, we'll take de money, Mars Tom, blame
de 'pology. Hain't dat yo' notion, too? En hain't it
yourn, Huck?"

We talked it over a little and allowed that that was as
good a way as any, so we agreed to take the money.
It was a new business to me, and I asked Tom if
countries always apologized when they had done wrong,
and he says:

"Yes; the little ones does."

We was sailing around examining the pyramids, you
know, and now we soared up and roosted on the flat top
of the biggest one, and found it was just like what the
man said in the Sunday-school. It was like four pairs
of stairs that starts broad at the bottom and slants up
and comes together in a point at the top, only these
stair-steps couldn't be clumb the way you climb other
stairs; no, for each step was as high as your chin, and
you have to be boosted up from behind. The two
other pyramids warn't far away, and the people moving
about on the sand between looked like bugs crawling,
we was so high above them.

Tom he couldn't hold himself he was so worked up
with gladness and astonishment to be in such a cele-
brated place, and he just dripped history from every
pore, seemed to me. He said he couldn't scarcely
believe he was standing on the very identical spot the
prince flew from on the Bronze Horse. It was in the
Arabian Night times, he said. Somebody give the
prince a bronze horse with a peg in its shoulder, and
he could git on him and fly through the air like a bird,
and go all over the world, and steer it by turning the
peg, and fly high or low and land wherever he wanted
to.

When he got done telling it there was one of them
uncomfortable silences that comes, you know, when a
person has been telling a whopper and you feel sorry
for him and wish you could think of some way to
change the subject and let him down easy, but git stuck
and don't see no way, and before you can pull your
mind together and DO something, that silence has got in
and spread itself and done the business. I was embar-
rassed, Jim he was embarrassed, and neither of us
couldn't say a word. Well, Tom he glowered at me a
minute, and says:

"Come, out with it. What do you think?"

I says:

"Tom Sawyer, YOU don't believe that, yourself."

"What's the reason I don't? What's to hender
me?"

"There's one thing to hender you: it couldn't
happen, that's all."

"What's the reason it couldn't happen?"

"You tell me the reason it COULD happen."

"This balloon is a good enough reason it could
happen, I should reckon."

"WHY is it?"

"WHY is it? I never saw such an idiot. Ain't this
balloon and the bronze horse the same thing under
different names?"

"No, they're not. One is a balloon and the other's
a horse. It's very different. Next you'll be saying a
house and a cow is the same thing."

"By Jackson, Huck's got him ag'in! Dey ain't no
wigglin' outer dat!"

"Shut your head, Jim; you don't know what you're
talking about. And Huck don't. Look here, Huck,
I'll make it plain to you, so you can understand. You
see, it ain't the mere FORM that's got anything to do
with their being similar or unsimilar, it's the PRINCI-
PLE involved; and the principle is the same in both.
Don't you see, now?"

I turned it over in my mind, and says:

"Tom, it ain't no use. Principles is all very well,
but they don't git around that one big fact, that the
thing that a balloon can do ain't no sort of proof of
what a horse can do."

"Shucks, Huck, you don't get the idea at all. Now
look here a minute -- it's perfectly plain. Don't we
fly through the air?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Don't we fly high or fly low, just as
we please?"

"Yes."

"Don't we steer whichever way we want to?"

"Yes."

"And don't we land when and where we please?"

"Yes."

"How do we move the balloon and steer it?"

"By touching the buttons."

"NOW I reckon the thing is clear to you at last. In
the other case the moving and steering was done by
turning a peg. We touch a button, the prince turned
a peg. There ain't an atom of difference, you see. I
knowed I could git it through your head if I stuck to it
long enough."

He felt so happy he begun to whistle. But me and
Jim was silent, so he broke off surprised, and says:

"Looky here, Huck Finn, don't you see it YET?"

I says:

"Tom Sawyer, I want to ask you some questions."

"Go ahead," he says, and I see Jim chirk up to
listen.

"As I understand it, the whole thing is in the buttons
and the peg -- the rest ain't of no consequence. A
button is one shape, a peg is another shape, but that
ain't any matter?"

"No, that ain't any matter, as long as they've both
got the same power."

"All right, then. What is the power that's in a
candle and in a match?"

"It's the fire."

"It's the same in both, then?"

"Yes, just the same in both."

"All right. Suppose I set fire to a carpenter shop
with a match, what will happen to that carpenter
shop?"

"She'll burn up."

"And suppose I set fire to this pyramid with a
candle -- will she burn up?"

"Of course she won't."

"All right. Now the fire's the same, both times.
WHY does the shop burn, and the pyramid don't?"

"Because the pyramid CAN'T burn."

"Aha! and A HORSE CAN'T FLY!"

"My lan', ef Huck ain't got him ag'in! Huck's
landed him high en dry dis time, I tell you! Hit's
de smartes' trap I ever see a body walk inter -- en
ef I --"

But Jim was so full of laugh he got to strangling and
couldn't go on, and Tom was that mad to see how neat
I had floored him, and turned his own argument ag'in
him and knocked him all to rags and flinders with it,
that all he could manage to say was that whenever he
heard me and Jim try to argue it made him ashamed
of the human race. I never said nothing; I was feel-
ing pretty well satisfied. When I have got the best of
a person that way, it ain't my way to go around crow-
ing about it the way some people does, for I consider
that if I was in his place I wouldn't wish him to crow
over me. It's better to be generous, that's what I
think.


CHAPTER XIII.
GOING FOR TOM'S PIPE:

BY AND BY we left Jim to float around up there in
the neighborhood of the pyramids, and we clumb
down to the hole where you go into the tunnel, and
went in with some Arabs and candles, and away in
there in the middle of the pyramid we found a room and
a big stone box in it where they used to keep that king,
just as the man in the Sunday-school said; but he was
gone, now; somebody had got him. But I didn't take
no interest in the place, because there could be ghosts
there, of course; not fresh ones, but I don't like no
kind.

So then we come out and got some little donkeys and
rode a piece, and then went in a boat another piece,
and then more donkeys, and got to Cairo; and all the way
the road was as smooth and beautiful a road as ever I
see, and had tall date-pa'ms on both sides, and naked
children everywhere, and the men was as red as copper,
and fine and strong and handsome. And the city was
a curiosity. Such narrow streets -- why, they were
just lanes, and crowded with people with turbans, and
women with veils, and everybody rigged out in blazing
bright clothes and all sorts of colors, and you wondered
how the camels and the people got by each other in
such narrow little cracks, but they done it -- a perfect
jam, you see, and everybody noisy. The stores warn't
big enough to turn around in, but you didn't have to
go in; the storekeeper sat tailor fashion on his counter,
smoking his snaky long pipe, and had his things where
he could reach them to sell, and he was just as good as
in the street, for the camel-loads brushed him as they
went by.

Now and then a grand person flew by in a carriage
with fancy dressed men running and yelling in front of
it and whacking anybody with a long rod that didn't
get out of the way. And by and by along comes the
Sultan riding horseback at the head of a procession,
and fairly took your breath away his clothes was so
splendid; and everybody fell flat and laid on his
stomach while he went by. I forgot, but a feller
helped me to remember. He was one that had a rod
and run in front.

There was churches, but they don't know enough to
keep Sunday; they keep Friday and break the Sab-
bath. You have to take off your shoes when you go
in. There was crowds of men and boys in the church,
setting in groups on the stone floor and making no end
of noise -- getting their lessons by heart, Tom said, out
of the Koran, which they think is a Bible, and people
that knows better knows enough to not let on. I never
see such a big church in my life before, and most awful
high, it was; it made you dizzy to look up; our
village church at home ain't a circumstance to it; if
you was to put it in there, people would think it was a
drygoods box.

What I wanted to see was a dervish, because I was
interested in dervishes on accounts of the one that
played the trick on the camel-driver. So we found a
lot in a kind of a church, and they called themselves
Whirling Dervishes; and they did whirl, too. I never
see anything like it. They had tall sugar-loaf hats on,
and linen petticoats; and they spun and spun and
spun, round and round like tops, and the petticoats
stood out on a slant, and it was the prettiest thing I
ever see, and made me drunk to look at it. They was
all Moslems, Tom said, and when I asked him what a
Moslem was, he said it was a person that wasn't a
Presbyterian. So there is plenty of them in Missouri,
though I didn't know it before.

We didn't see half there was to see in Cairo, because
Tom was in such a sweat to hunt out places that was
celebrated in history. We had a most tiresome time to
find the granary where Joseph stored up the grain
before the famine, and when we found it it warn't
worth much to look at, being such an old tumble-down
wreck; but Tom was satisfied, and made more fuss over
it than I would make if I stuck a nail in my foot.
How he ever found that place was too many for me.
We passed as much as forty just like it before we come
to it, and any of them would 'a' done for me, but none
but just the right one would suit him; I never see any-
body so particular as Tom Sawyer. The minute he
struck the right one he reconnized it as easy as I would
reconnize my other shirt if I had one, but how he done
it he couldn't any more tell than he could fly; he said
so himself.

Then we hunted a long time for the house where the
boy lived that learned the cadi how to try the case of
the old olives and the new ones, and said it was out of
the Arabian Nights, and he would tell me and Jim
about it when he got time. Well, we hunted and
hunted till I was ready to drop, and I wanted Tom to
give it up and come next day and git somebody that
knowed the town and could talk Missourian and could
go straight to the place; but no, he wanted to find it
himself, and nothing else would answer. So on we
went. Then at last the remarkablest thing happened I
ever see. The house was gone -- gone hundreds of
years ago -- every last rag of it gone but just one mud
brick. Now a person wouldn't ever believe that a
backwoods Missouri boy that hadn't ever been in that
town before could go and hunt that place over and find
that brick, but Tom Sawyer done it. I know he done
it, because I see him do it. I was right by his very
side at the time, and see him see the brick and see him
reconnize it. Well, I says to myself, how DOES he do
it? Is it knowledge, or is it instink?

Now there's the facts, just as they happened: let
everybody explain it their own way. I've ciphered
over it a good deal, and it's my opinion that some of it
is knowledge but the main bulk of it is instink. The
reason is this: Tom put the brick in his pocket to give
to a museum with his name on it and the facts when he
went home, and I slipped it out and put another brick
considerable like it in its place, and he didn't know the
difference -- but there was a difference, you see. I
think that settles it -- it's mostly instink, not knowledge.
Instink tells him where the exact PLACE is for the brick to
be in, and so he reconnizes it by the place it's in, not
by the look of the brick. If it was knowledge, not
instink, he would know the brick again by the look of
it the next time he seen it -- which he didn't. So it
shows that for all the brag you hear about knowledge
being such a wonderful thing, instink is worth forty of
it for real unerringness. Jim says the same.

When we got back Jim dropped down and took us
in, and there was a young man there with a red skull-
cap and tassel on and a beautiful silk jacket and baggy
trousers with a shawl around his waist and pistols in it
that could talk English and wanted to hire to us as
guide and take us to Mecca and Medina and Central
Africa and everywheres for a half a dollar a day and his
keep, and we hired him and left, and piled on the
power, and by the time we was through dinner we was
over the place where the Israelites crossed the Red Sea
when Pharaoh tried to overtake them and was caught
by the waters. We stopped, then, and had a good
look at the place, and it done Jim good to see it. He
said he could see it all, now, just the way it happened;
he could see the Israelites walking along between the
walls of water, and the Egyptians coming, from away
off yonder, hurrying all they could, and see them start
in as the Israelites went out, and then when they was
all in, see the walls tumble together and drown the last
man of them. Then we piled on the power again and
rushed away and huvvered over Mount Sinai, and saw
the place where Moses broke the tables of stone, and
where the children of Israel camped in the plain and
worshiped the golden calf, and it was all just as
interesting as could be, and the guide knowed every
place as well as I knowed the village at home.

But we had an accident, now, and it fetched all the
plans to a standstill. Tom's old ornery corn-cob pipe
had got so old and swelled and warped that she couldn't
hold together any longer, notwithstanding the strings
and bandages, but caved in and went to pieces. Tom
he didn't know WHAT to do. The professor's pipe
wouldn't answer; it warn't anything but a mershum,
and a person that's got used to a cob pipe knows it
lays a long ways over all the other pipes in this world,
and you can't git him to smoke any other. He
wouldn't take mine, I couldn't persuade him. So
there he was.

He thought it over, and said we must scour around
and see if we could roust out one in Egypt or Arabia or
around in some of these countries, but the guide said no,
it warn't no use, they didn't have them. So Tom was
pretty glum for a little while, then he chirked up and said
he'd got the idea and knowed what to do. He says:

"I've got another corn-cob pipe, and it's a prime
one, too, and nearly new. It's laying on the rafter
that's right over the kitchen stove at home in the
village. Jim, you and the guide will go and get it,
and me and Huck will camp here on Mount Sinai till
you come back."

"But, Mars Tom, we couldn't ever find de village.
I could find de pipe, 'case I knows de kitchen, but my
lan', we can't ever find de village, nur Sent Louis, nur
none o' dem places. We don't know de way, Mars
Tom."

That was a fact, and it stumped Tom for a minute.
Then he said:

"Looky here, it can be done, sure; and I'll tell you
how. You set your compass and sail west as straight
as a dart, till you find the United States. It ain't any
trouble, because it's the first land you'll strike the other
side of the Atlantic. If it's daytime when you strike it,
bulge right on, straight west from the upper part of the
Florida coast, and in an hour and three quarters you'll
hit the mouth of the Mississippi -- at the speed that
I'm going to send you. You'll be so high up in the
air that the earth will be curved considerable -- sorter
like a washbowl turned upside down -- and you'll see a
raft of rivers crawling around every which way, long
before you get there, and you can pick out the Miss-
issippi without any trouble. Then you can follow the
river north nearly, an hour and three quarters, till you
see the Ohio come in; then you want to look sharp,
because you're getting near. Away up to your left
you'll see another thread coming in -- that's the
Missouri and is a little above St. Louis. You'll come
down low then, so as you can examine the villages as
you spin along. You'll pass about twenty-five in the
next fifteen minutes, and you'll recognize ours when
you see it -- and if you don't, you can yell down and
ask."

"Ef it's dat easy, Mars Tom, I reckon we kin do
it -- yassir, I knows we kin."

The guide was sure of it, too, and thought that he
could learn to stand his watch in a little while.

"Jim can learn you the whole thing in a half an
hour," Tom said. "This balloon's as easy to manage
as a canoe."

Tom got out the chart and marked out the course
and measured it, and says:

"To go back west is the shortest way, you see.
It's only about seven thousand miles. If you went
east, and so on around, it's over twice as far." Then
he says to the guide, "I want you both to watch the
tell-tale all through the watches, and whenever it don't
mark three hundred miles an hour, you go higher or
drop lower till you find a storm-current that's going
your way. There's a hundred miles an hour in this
old thing without any wind to help. There's two-
hundred-mile gales to be found, any time you want to
hunt for them."

"We'll hunt for them, sir."

"See that you do. Sometimes you may have to
go up a couple of miles, and it'll be p'ison cold, but
most of the time you'll find your storm a good deal
lower. If you can only strike a cyclone -- that's the
ticket for you! You'll see by the professor's books
that they travel west in these latitudes; and they travel
low, too."

Then he ciphered on the time, and says --

"Seven thousand miles, three hundred miles an
hour -- you can make the trip in a day -- twenty-four
hours. This is Thursday; you'll be back here Sat-
urday afternoon. Come, now, hustle out some blankets
and food and books and things for me and Huck, and
you can start right along. There ain't no occasion to
fool around -- I want a smoke, and the quicker you
fetch that pipe the better."

All hands jumped for the things, and in eight min-
utes our things was out and the balloon was ready for
America. So we shook hands good-bye, and Tom
gave his last orders:

"It's 1O minutes to 2 P.M. now, Mount Sinai time.
In 24 hours you'll be home, and it'll be 6 to-mor-
row morning, village time. When you strike the
village, land a little back of the top of the hill, in the
woods, out of sight; then you rush down, Jim, and
shove these letters in the post-office, and if you see
anybody stirring, pull your slouch down over your face
so they won't know you. Then you go and slip in the
back way to the kitchen and git the pipe, and lay this
piece of paper on the kitchen table, and put something
on it to hold it, and then slide out and git away, and
don't let Aunt Polly catch a sight of you, nor nobody
else. Then you jump for the balloon and shove for
Mount Sinai three hundred miles an hour. You won't
have lost more than an hour. You'll start back at 7 or
8 A.M., village time, and be here in 24 hours, arriving
at 2 or 3 P.M., Mount Sinai time."

Tom he read the piece of paper to us. He had
wrote on it:

  "THURSDAY AFTERNOON. Tom Sawyer the Erro-
  nort sends his love to Aunt Polly from Mount Sinai
  where the Ark was, and so does Huck Finn, and she
  will get it to-morrow morning half-past six." *

  [* This misplacing of the Ark is probably Huck's
  error, not Tom's. -- M.T.]

"That'll make her eyes bulge out and the tears
come," he says. Then he says:

"Stand by! One -- two -- three -- away you go!"

And away she DID go! Why, she seemed to whiz
out of sight in a second.

Then we found a most comfortable cave that looked
out over the whole big plain, and there we camped to
wait for the pipe.

The balloon come hack all right, and brung the pipe;
but Aunt Polly had catched Jim when he was getting
it, and anybody can guess what happened: she sent
for Tom. So Jim he says:

"Mars Tom, she's out on de porch wid her eye sot on
de sky a-layin' for you, en she say she ain't gwyne to
budge from dah tell she gits hold of you. Dey's gwyne
to be trouble, Mars Tom, 'deed dey is."

So then we shoved for home, and not feeling very
gay, neither.

END.






THE TRAGEDY OF PUDD'NHEAD WILSON

by Mark Twain


A WHISPER TO THE READER


There is no character, howsoever good and fine, but it
can be destroyed by ridicule, howsoever poor and witless.
Observe the ass, for instance:  his character is about perfect,
he is the choicest spirit among all the humbler animals,
yet see what ridicule has brought him to.  Instead of feeling
complimented when we are called an ass, we are left in doubt.

                                   --Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


A person who is ignorant of legal matters is always liable to
make mistakes when he tries to photograph a court scene with his pen;
and so I was not willing to let the law chapters in this book
go to press without first subjecting them to rigid and exhausting
revision and correction by a trained barrister--if that is what
they are called.  These chapters are right, now, in every detail,
for they were rewritten under the immediate eye of William Hicks,
who studied law part of a while in southwest Missouri thirty-five
years ago and then came over here to Florence for his health and
is still helping for exercise and board in Macaroni Vermicelli's
horse-feed shed, which is up the back alley as you turn around the
corner out of the Piazza del Duomo just beyond the house where that
stone that Dante used to sit on six hundred years ago is let into
the wall when he let on to be watching them build Giotto's campanile
and yet always got tired looking as Beatrice passed along on her way
to get a chunk of chestnut cake to defend herself with in case of a
Ghibelline outbreak before she got to school, at the same old stand
where they sell the same old cake to this day and it is just as light
and good as it was then, too, and this is not flattery, far from it.
He was a little rusty on his law, but he rubbed up for this book,
and those two or three legal chapters are right and straight, now.
He told me so himself.

Given under my hand this second day of January, 1893, at the Villa Viviani,
village of Settignano, three miles back of Florence, on the hills--
the same certainly affording the most charming view to be found
on this planet, and with it the most dreamlike and enchanting sunsets
to be found in any planet or even in any solar system--and given, too,
in the swell room of the house, with the busts of Cerretani senators
and other grandees of this line looking approvingly down upon me,
as they used to look down upon Dante, and mutely asking me to adopt them
into my family, which I do with pleasure, for my remotest ancestors
are but spring chickens compared with these robed and stately antiques,
and it will be a great and satisfying lift for me, that six hundred years will.

Mark Twain.


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


CHAPTER 1

Pudd'nhead Wins His Name


Tell the truth or trump--but get the trick.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


The scene of this chronicle is the town of Dawson's Landing,
on the Missouri side of the Mississippi, half a day's journey,
per steamboat, below St. Louis.

In 1830 it was a snug collection of modest one- and two- story
frame dwellings, whose whitewashed exteriors were almost concealed
from sight by climbing tangles of rose vines, honeysuckles,
and morning glories.  Each of these pretty homes had a garden in front
fenced with white palings and opulently stocked with hollyhocks, marigolds,
touch-me-nots, prince's-feathers, and other old-fashioned flowers;
while on the windowsills of the houses stood wooden boxes containing
moss rose plants and terra-cotta pots in which grew a breed of geranium
whose spread of intensely red blossoms accented the prevailing pink tint
of the rose-clad house-front like an explosion of flame.  When there was room
on the ledge outside of the pots and boxes for a cat, the cat was there--
in sunny weather--stretched at full length, asleep and blissful,
with her furry belly to the sun and a paw curved over her nose.
Then that house was complete, and its contentment and peace were made
manifest to the world by this symbol, whose testimony is infallible.
A home without a cat--and a well-fed, well-petted, and properly revered cat--
may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?

All along the streets, on both sides, at the outer edge
of the brick sidewalks, stood locust trees with trunks protected by
wooden boxing, and these furnished shade for summer and a sweet fragrancer
in spring, when the clusters of buds came forth.  The main street,
one block back from the river, and running parallel with it, was the
sole business street.  It was six blocks long, and in each block two
or three brick stores, three stories high, towered above interjected
bunches of little frame shops.  Swinging signs creaked in the wind the
street's whole length.  The candy-striped pole, which indicates nobility
proud and ancient along the palace-bordered canals of Venice, indicated
merely the humble barbershop along the main street of Dawson's Landing.
On a chief corner stood a lofty unpainted pole wreathed from top to
bottom with tin pots and pans and cups, the chief tinmonger's noisy
notice to the world (when the wind blew) that his shop was on hand
for business at that corner.

The hamlet's front was washed by the clear waters of the great river;
its body stretched itself rearward up a gentle incline;
its most rearward border fringed itself out and scattered its houses
about its base line of the hills; the hills rose high, enclosing the
town in a half-moon curve, clothed with forests from foot to summit.

Steamboats passed up and down every hour or so.  Those belonging to
the little Cairo line and the little Memphis line always stopped;
the big Orleans liners stopped for hails only, or to land passengers
or freight; and this was the case also with the great flotilla of
"transients."  These latter came out of a dozen rivers--
the Illinois, the Missouri, the Upper Mississippi, the Ohio,
the Monongahela, the Tennessee, the Red River, the White River,
and so on--and were bound every whither and stocked with every imaginable
comfort or necessity, which the Mississippi's communities could want,
from the frosty Falls of St. Anthony down through nine climates
to torrid New Orleans.

Dawson's Landing was a slaveholding town, with a rich, slave-worked
grain and pork country back of it.  The town was sleepy and comfortable
and contented.  It was fifty years old, and was growing slowly--
very slowly, in fact, but still it was growing.

The chief citizen was York Leicester Driscoll, about forty years old,
judge of the county court.  He was very proud of his old Virginian ancestry,
and in his hospitalities and his rather formal and stately manners,
he kept up its traditions.  He was fine and just and generous.
To be a gentleman--a gentleman without stain or blemish--was his
only religion, and to it he was always faithful.  He was respected,
esteemed, and beloved by all of the community.  He was well off,
and was gradually adding to his store.  He and his wife were very
nearly happy, but not quite, for they had no children.  The longing for
the treasure of a child had grown stronger and stronger as the years
slipped away, but the blessing never came--and was never to come.

With this pair lived the judge's widowed sister, Mrs. Rachel Pratt,
and she also was childless--childless, and sorrowful for that reason,
and not to be comforted.  The women were good and commonplace people,
and did their duty, and had their reward in clear consciences and the
community's approbation.  They were Presbyterians, the judge was a freethinker.

Pembroke Howard, lawyer and bachelor, aged almost forty, was another
old Virginian grandee with proved descent from the First Families.
He was a fine, majestic creature, a gentleman according to the nicest
requirements of the Virginia rule, a devoted Presbyterian, an authority
on the "code", and a man always courteously ready to stand up before you in
the field if any act or word of his had seemed doubtful or suspicious to you,
and explain it with any weapon you might prefer from bradawls to artillery.
He was very popular with the people, and was the judge's dearest friend.

Then there was Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex, another F.F.V.
of formidable caliber--however, with him we have no concern.

Percy Northumberland Driscoll, brother to the judge, and younger than
he by five years, was a married man, and had had children around
his hearthstone; but they were attacked in detail by measles, croup,
and scarlet fever, and this had given the doctor a chance with his
effective antediluvian methods; so the cradles were empty.  He was a
prosperous man, with a good head for speculations, and his fortune
was growing.  On the first of February, 1830, two boy babes were born
in his house; one to him, one to one of his slave girls, Roxana by name.
Roxana was twenty years old.  She was up and around the same day,
with her hands full, for she was tending both babes.

Mrs. Percy Driscoll died within the week.  Roxy remained in charge of
the children.  She had her own way, for Mr. Driscoll soon absorbed himself
in his speculations and left her to her own devices.

In that same month of February, Dawson's Landing gained a new citizen.
This was Mr. David Wilson, a young fellow of Scotch parentage.
He had wandered to this remote region from his birthplace in the interior
of the State of New York, to seek his fortune.  He was twenty-five years old,
college bred, and had finished a post-college course in an Eastern
law school a couple of years before.

He was a homely, freckled, sandy-haired young fellow, with an intelligent
blue eye that had frankness and comradeship in it and a covert twinkle
of a pleasant sort.  But for an unfortunate remark of his, he would no
doubt have entered at once upon a successful career at Dawson's Landing.
But he made his fatal remark the first day he spent in the village,
and it "gaged" him.  He had just made the acquaintance of a group of
citizens when an invisible dog began to yelp and snarl and howl and make
himself very comprehensively disagreeable, whereupon young Wilson said,
much as one who is thinking aloud:

"I wish I owned half of that dog."

"Why?" somebody asked.

"Because I would kill my half."

The group searched his face with curiosity, with anxiety even,
but found no light there, no expression that they could read.
They fell away from him as from something uncanny, and went into privacy
to discuss him.  One said:

"'Pears to be a fool."

"'Pears?" said another.  "_Is,_ I reckon you better say."

"Said he wished he owned _half_ of the dog, the idiot," said a third.
"What did he reckon would become of the other half if he killed his half?
Do you reckon he thought it would live?"

"Why, he must have thought it, unless he IS the downrightest fool
in the world; because if he hadn't thought it, he would have wanted to own
the whole dog, knowing that if he killed his half and the other half died,
he would be responsible for that half just the same as if he had killed
that half instead of his own.  Don't it look that way to you, gents?"

"Yes, it does.  If he owned one half of the general dog, it would be so;
if he owned one end of the dog and another person owned the other end,
it would be so, just the same; particularly in the first case,
because if you kill one half of a general dog, there ain't any man
that can tell whose half it was; but if he owned one end of the dog,
maybe he could kill his end of it and--"

"No, he couldn't either; he couldn't and not be responsible if the other
end died, which it would.  In my opinion that man ain't in his right mind."

"In my opinion he hain't _got_ any mind."

No. 3 said:  "Well, he's a lummox, anyway."

That's what he is;" said No. 4.  "He's a labrick--just a Simon-pure labrick,
if there was one."

"Yes, sir, he's a dam fool.  That's the way I put him up," said No. 5.
"Anybody can think different that wants to, but those are my sentiments."

"I'm with you, gentlemen," said No. 6.  "Perfect jackass--yes,
and it ain't going too far to say he is a pudd'nhead.
If he ain't a pudd'nhead, I ain't no judge, that's all."

Mr. Wilson stood elected.  The incident was told all over the town,
and gravely discussed by everybody.  Within a week he had lost his
first name;  Pudd'nhead took its place.  In time he came to be liked,
and well liked too; but by that time the nickname had got well stuck on,
and it stayed.  That first day's verdict made him a fool, and he was not
able to get it set aside, or even modified.  The nickname soon ceased to
carry any harsh or unfriendly feeling with it, but it held its place,
and was to continue to hold its place for twenty long years.



CHAPTER 2

Driscoll Spares His Slaves


Adam was but human--this explains it all.  He did not want the apple
for the apple's sake, he wanted it only because it was forbidden.
The mistake was in not forbidding the serpent; then he would have
eaten the serpent.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


Pudd'nhead Wilson had a trifle of money when he arrived,
and he bought a small house on the extreme western verge of the town.
Between it and Judge Driscoll's house there was only a grassy yard,
with a paling fence dividing the properties in the middle.
He hired a small office down in the town and hung out a tin sign
with these words on it:


                     D A V I D   W I L S O N

                  ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR-AT-LAW

                  SURVEYING, CONVEYANCING, ETC.


But his deadly remark had ruined his chance--at least in the law.
No clients came.  He took down his sign, after a while, and put it
up on his own house with the law features knocked out of it.
It offered his services now in the humble capacities of land surveyor
and expert accountant.  Now and then he got a job of surveying to do,
and now and then a merchant got him to straighten out his books.
With Scotch patience and pluck he resolved to live down his reputation
and work his way into the legal field yet.  Poor fellow, he could
foresee that it was going to take him such a weary long time to do it.

He had a rich abundance of idle time, but it never hung heavy on his hands,
for he interested himself in every new thing that was born into the
universe of ideas, and studied it, and experimented upon it at his house.
One of his pet fads was palmistry.  To another one he gave no name,
neither would he explain to anybody what its purpose was, but merely
said it was an amusement.  In fact, he had found that his fads added to his
reputation as a pudd'nhead; there, he was growing chary of being too
communicative about them.  The fad without a name was one which dealt
with people's finger marks.  He carried in his coat pocket a shallow box
with grooves in it, and in the grooves strips of glass five inches long
and three inches wide.  Along the lower edge of each strip was pasted a
slip of white paper.  He asked people to pass their hands through their
hair (thus collecting upon them a thin coating of the natural oil) and then
making a thumb-mark on a glass strip, following it with the mark of the ball
of each finger in succession.  Under this row of faint grease prints he
would write a record on the strip of white paper--thus:

                    JOHN SMITH, right hand--

and add the day of the month and the year, then take Smith's left hand
on another glass strip, and add name and date and the words "left hand."
The strips were now returned to the grooved box, and took their place
among what Wilson called his "records."

He often studied his records, examining and poring over them with
absorbing interest until far into the night; but what he found there--
if he found anything--he revealed to no one.  Sometimes he copied on
paper the involved and delicate pattern left by the ball of the finger,
and then vastly enlarged it with a pantograph so that he could examine
its web of curving lines with ease and convenience.

One sweltering afternoon--it was the first day of July, 1830--
he was at work over a set of tangled account books in his workroom,
which looked westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation
outside disturbed him.  It was carried on it yells, which showed that
the people engaged in it were not close together.

"Say, Roxy, how does yo' baby come on?"  This from the distant voice.

"Fust-rate.  How does _you_ come on, Jasper?"  This yell was from close by.

"Oh, I's middlin'; hain't got noth'n' to complain of, I's gwine to come
a-court'n you bimeby, Roxy."

"_You_ is, you black mud cat!  Yah--yah--yah!  I got somep'n' better to do
den 'sociat'n' wid niggers as black as you is.  Is ole Miss Cooper's Nancy
done give you de mitten?"  Roxy followed this sally with another discharge
of carefree laughter.

"You's jealous, Roxy, dat's what's de matter wid you, you
hussy--yah--yah--yah!  Dat's de time I got you!"

"Oh, yes, _you_ got me, hain't you.  'Clah to goodness if dat conceit
o' yo'n strikes in, Jasper, it gwine to kill you sho'.  If you b'longed
to me, I'd sell you down de river 'fo' you git too fur gone.
Fust time I runs acrost yo' marster, I's gwine to tell him so."

This idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties enjoying the
friendly duel and each well satisfied with his own share of
the wit exchanged--for wit they considered it.

Wilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants; he could not
work while their chatter continued.  Over in the vacant lots was Jasper,
young, coal black, and of magnificent build, sitting on a wheelbarrow
in the pelting sun--at work, supposably, whereas he was in fact only
preparing for it by taking an hour's rest before beginning.  In front of
Wilson's porch stood Roxy, with a local handmade baby wagon,
in which sat her two charges--one at each end and facing each other.
From Roxy's manner of speech, a stranger would have expected her to
be black, but she was not.  Only one sixteenth of her was black,
and that sixteenth did not show.  She was of majestic form and stature,
her attitudes were imposing and statuesque, and her gestures and movements
distinguished by a noble and stately grace.  Her complexion was very fair,
with the rosy glow of vigorous health in her cheeks, her face was full
of character and expression, her eyes were brown and liquid, and she
had a heavy suit of fine soft hair which was also brown, but the fact
was not apparent because her head was bound about with a checkered
handkerchief and the hair was concealed under it.  Her face was shapely,
intelligent, and comely--even beautiful.  She had an easy, independent
carriage--when she was among her own caste--and a high and "sassy" way,
withal; but of course she was meek and humble enough where white people were.

To all intents and purposes Roxy was as white as anybody, but the one
sixteenth of her which was black outvoted the other fifteen parts and
made her a Negro.  She was a slave, and salable as such.  Her child was
thirty-one parts white, and he, too, was a slave, and by a fiction of
law and custom a Negro.  He had blue eyes and flaxen curls like his
white comrade, but even the father of the white child was able to tell
the children apart--little as he had commerce with them--by their clothes;
for the white babe wore ruffled soft muslin and a coral necklace,
while the other wore merely a coarse tow-linen shirt which barely reached
to its knees, and no jewelry.

The white child's name was Thomas a Becket Driscoll, the other's name
was Valet de Chambre:  no surname--slaves hadn't the privilege.
Roxana had heard that phrase somewhere, the fine sound of it had pleased her
ear, and as she had supposed it was a name, she loaded it on to her darling.
It soon got shorted to "Chambers," of course.

Wilson knew Roxy by sight, and when the duel of wits begun to play out,
he stepped outside to gather in a record or two.  Jasper went to work
energetically, at once, perceiving that his leisure was observed.
Wilson inspected the children and asked:

"How old are they, Roxy?"

"Bofe de same age, sir--five months.  Bawn de fust o' Feb'uary."

"They're handsome little chaps.  One's just as handsome as the other, too."

A delighted smile exposed the girl's white teeth, and she said:

"Bless yo' soul, Misto Wilson, it's pow'ful nice o' you to say dat,
'ca'se one of 'em ain't on'y a nigger.  Mighty prime little nigger,
_I_ al'ays says, but dat's 'ca'se it's mine, o' course."

"How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when they haven't any clothes on?"

Roxy laughed a laugh proportioned to her size, and said:

"Oh, _I_ kin tell 'em 'part, Misto Wilson, but I bet Marse Percy
couldn't, not to save his life."

Wilson chatted along for awhile, and presently got Roxy's fingerprints
for his collection--right hand and left--on a couple of his glass strips;
then labeled and dated them, and took the "records" of both children,
and labeled and dated them also.

Two months later, on the third of September, he took this trio of finger
marks again.  He liked to have a "series," two or three "takings"
at intervals during the period of childhood, these to be followed at
intervals of several years.

The next day--that is to say, on the fourth of September--something
occurred which profoundly impressed Roxana.  Mr. Driscoll missed another
small sum of money--which is a way of saying that this was not a new thing,
but had happened before.  In truth, it had happened three times before.
Driscoll's patience was exhausted.  He was a fairly humane man toward
slaves and other animals; he was an exceedingly humane man toward the
erring of his own race.  Theft he could not abide, and plainly there was
a thief in his house.  Necessarily the thief must be one of his Negros.
Sharp measures must be taken.  He called his servants before him.
There were three of these, besides Roxy:  a man, a woman, and a boy
twelve years old.  They were not related.  Mr. Driscoll said:

"You have all been warned before.  It has done no good.  This time I
will teach you a lesson.  I will sell the thief.  Which of you is
the guilty one?"

They all shuddered at the threat, for here they had a good home,
and a new one was likely to be a change for the worse.  The denial
was general.  None had stolen anything--not money, anyway--a little sugar,
or cake, or honey, or something like that, that "Marse Percy wouldn't
mind or miss" but not money--never a cent of money.  They were eloquent
in their protestations, but Mr. Driscoll was not moved by them.
He answered each in turn with a stern "Name the thief!"

The truth was, all were guilty but Roxana; she suspected that the others
were guilty, but she did not know them to be so.  She was horrified
to think how near she had come to being guilty herself; she had been
saved in the nick of time by a revival in the colored Methodist Church,
a fortnight before, at which time and place she "got religion."
The very next day after that gracious experience, while her change of
style was fresh upon her and she was vain of her purified condition,
her master left a couple dollars unprotected on his desk, and she happened
upon that temptation when she was polishing around with a dustrag.
She looked at the money awhile with a steady rising resentment,
then she burst out with:

"Dad blame dat revival, I wisht it had 'a' be'n put off till tomorrow!"

Then she covered the tempter with a book, and another member of the
kitchen cabinet got it.  She made this sacrifice as a matter of
religious etiquette; as a thing necessary just now, but by no means to
be wrested into a precedent; no, a week or two would limber up her piety,
then she would be rational again, and the next two dollars that got left
out in the cold would find a comforter--and she could name the comforter.

Was she bad?  Was she worse than the general run of her race?  No.
They had an unfair show in the battle of life, and they held it no sin
to take military advantage of the enemy--in a small way; in a small way,
but not in a large one.  They would smouch provisions from the pantry
whenever they got a chance; or a brass thimble, or a cake of wax,
or an emery bag, or a paper of needles, or a silver spoon, or a dollar bill,
or small articles of clothing, or any other property of light value;
and so far were they from considering such reprisals sinful, that they
would go to church and shout and pray the loudest and sincerest with their
plunder in their pockets.  A farm smokehouse had to be kept heavily
padlocked, or even the colored deacon himself could not resist a ham
when Providence showed him in a dream, or otherwise, where such a thing
hung lonesome, and longed for someone to love.  But with a hundred hanging
before him, the deacon would not take two--that is, on the same night.
On frosty nights the humane Negro prowler would warm the end of the plank
and put it up under the cold claws of chickens roosting in a tree;
a drowsy hen would step on to the comfortable board, softly clucking
her gratitude, and the prowler would dump her into his bag, and later
into his stomach, perfectly sure that in taking this trifle from the man
who daily robbed him of an inestimable treasure--his liberty--he was
not committing any sin that God would remember against him in the
Last Great Day.

"Name the thief!"

For the fourth time Mr. Driscoll had said it, and always in the same
hard tone.  And now he added these words of awful import:

"I give you one minute."  He took out his watch.  "If at the end of
that time, you have not confessed, I will not only sell all four
of you, BUT--I will sell you DOWN THE RIVER!"

It was equivalent to condemning them to hell!  No Missouri Negro
doubted this.  Roxy reeled in her tracks, and the color vanished out
of her face; the others dropped to their knees as if they had been shot;
tears gushed from their eyes, their supplicating hands went up,
and three answers came in the one instant.

"I done it!"

"I done it!"

"I done it!--have mercy, marster--Lord have mercy on us po' niggers!"

"Very good," said the master, putting up his watch, "I will
sell you _here_ though you don't deserve it.  You ought to be sold
down the river."

The culprits flung themselves prone, in an ecstasy of gratitude,
and kissed his feet, declaring that they would never forget his
goodness and never cease to pray for him as long as they lived.
They were sincere, for like a god he had stretched forth his mighty
hand and closed the gates of hell against them.  He knew, himself,
that he had done a noble and gracious thing, and was privately well
pleased with his magnanimity; and that night he set the incident down
in his diary, so that his son might read it in after years, and be
thereby moved to deeds of gentleness and humanity himself.



CHAPTER 3

Roxy Plays a Shrewd Trick


Whoever has lived long enough to find out what life is,
knows how deep a debt of gratitude we owe to Adam,
the first great benefactor of our race.  He brought death into the world.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


Percy Driscoll slept well the night he saved his house minions from
going down the river, but no wink of sleep visited Roxy's eyes.
A profound terror had taken possession of her.  Her child could grow up
and be sold down the river!  The thought crazed her with horror.
If she dozed and lost herself for a moment, the next moment she was
on her feet flying to her child's cradle to see if it was still there.
Then she would gather it to her heart and pour out her love upon it in
a frenzy of kisses, moaning, crying, and saying, "Dey sha'n't, oh,
dey _sha'nt'!'_--yo' po' mammy will kill you fust!"

Once, when she was tucking him back in its cradle again, the other child
nestled in its sleep and attracted her attention.  She went and stood over
it a long time communing with herself.

"What has my po' baby done, dat he couldn't have yo' luck?
He hain't done nuth'n.  God was good to you; why warn't he good to him?
Dey can't sell _you_ down de river.  I hates yo' pappy; he hain't got
no heart--for niggers, he hain't, anyways.  I hates him, en I could
kill him!"  She paused awhile, thinking; then she burst into wild
sobbings again, and turned away, saying, "Oh, I got to kill my chile,
dey ain't no yuther way--killin' _him_ wouldn't save de chile fum goin'
down de river.  Oh, I got to do it, yo' po' mammy's got to kill you to
save you, honey."  She gathered her baby to her bosom now, and began to
smother it with caresses.  "Mammy's got to kill you--how _kin_ I do it!
But yo' mammy ain't gwine to desert you--no, no, _dah_, don't cry--
she gwine _wid_ you, she gwine to kill herself too.  Come along, honey,
come along wid mammy; we gwine to jump in de river, den troubles o' dis
worl' is all over--dey don't sell po' niggers down the river over _yonder_."

She stared toward the door, crooning to the child and hushing it;
midway she stopped, suddenly.  She had caught sight of her new Sunday gown--
a cheap curtain-calico thing, a conflagration of gaudy colors and
fantastic figures.  She surveyed it wistfully, longingly.

"Hain't ever wore it yet," she said, "en it's just lovely."
Then she nodded her head in response to a pleasant idea, and added,
"No, I ain't gwine to be fished out, wid everybody lookin' at me,
in dis mis'able ole linsey-woolsey."

She put down the child and made the change.  She looked in the glass and
was astonished at her beauty.  She resolved to make her death toilet perfect.
She took off her handkerchief turban and dressed her glossy wealth of
hair "like white folks"; she added some odds and ends of rather lurid
ribbon and a spray of atrocious artificial flowers; finally she threw
over her shoulders a fluffy thing called a "cloud" in that day,
which was of a blazing red complexion.  Then she was ready for the tomb.

She gathered up her baby once more; but when her eye fell upon its
miserably short little gray tow-linen shirt and noted the contrast
between its pauper shabbiness and her own volcanic eruption of infernal
splendors, her mother-heart was touched, and she was ashamed.

"No, dolling mammy ain't gwine to treat you so.  De angels is gwine
to 'mire you jist as much as dey does 'yo mammy.  Ain't gwine to have
'em putt'n dey han's up 'fo' dey eyes en sayin' to David and Goliah
en dem yuther prophets, 'Dat chile is dress' to indelicate fo' dis place.'"

By this time she had stripped off the shirt.  Now she clothed the naked
little creature in one of Thomas `a Becket's snowy, long baby gowns,
with its bright blue bows and dainty flummery of ruffles.

"Dah--now you's fixed."  She propped the child in a chair and stood
off to inspect it.  Straightway her eyes begun to widen with astonishment
and admiration, and she clapped her hands and cried out,
"Why, it do beat all!  I _never_ knowed you was so lovely.
Marse Tommy ain't a bit puttier--not a single bit."

She stepped over and glanced at the other infant;' she flung a glance
back at her own; then one more at the heir of the house.  Now a strange
light dawned in her eyes, and in a moment she was lost in thought.
She seemed in a trance; when she came out of it, she muttered,
"When I 'uz a-washin' 'em in de tub, yistiddy, he own pappy asked me
which of 'em was his'n."

She began to move around like one in a dream.  She undressed
Thomas `a Becket, stripping him of everything, and put the tow-linen
shirt on him.  She put his coral necklace on her own child's neck.
Then she placed the children side by side, and after earnest
inspection she muttered:

"Now who would b'lieve clo'es could do de like o' dat?  Dog my cats
if it ain't all _I_ kin do to tell t' other fum which, let alone his pappy."

She put her cub in Tommy's elegant cradle and said:

"You's young Marse _Tom_ fum dis out, en I got to practice and git used
to 'memberin' to call you dat, honey, or I's gwine to make a mistake
sometime en git us bofe into trouble.  Dah--now you lay still en
don't fret no mo', Marse Tom.  Oh, thank de lord in heaven, you's saved,
you's saved!  Dey ain't no man kin ever sell mammy's po' little
honey down de river now!"

She put the heir of the house in her own child's unpainted pine cradle,
and said, contemplating its slumbering form uneasily:

"I's sorry for you, honey; I's sorry, God knows I is--but what _kin_ I do,
what _could_ I do?  Yo' pappy would sell him to somebody, sometime,
en den he'd go down de river, sho', en I couldn't, couldn't,
_couldn't_ stan' it."

She flung herself on her bed and began to think and toss, toss and think.
By and by she sat suddenly upright, for a comforting thought had flown
through her worried mind--

"'T ain't no sin--_white_ folks has done it!  It ain't no sin,
glory to goodness it ain't no sin!  _Dey's_ done it--yes, en dey was
de biggest quality in de whole bilin', too--_kings!"_

She began to muse; she was trying to gather out of her memory the
dim particulars of some tale she had heard some time or other.
At last she said--

"Now I's got it; now I 'member.  It was dat ole nigger preacher dat
tole it, de time he come over here fum Illinois en preached in
de nigger church.  He said dey ain't nobody kin save his own self--
can't do it by faith, can't do it by works, can't do it no way at all.
Free grace is de _on'y_ way, en dat don't come fum nobody but jis' de Lord;
en _he_ kin give it to anybody He please, saint or sinner--_he_ don't kyer.
He do jis' as He's a mineter.  He s'lect out anybody dat suit Him,
en put another one in his place, and make de fust one happy forever
en leave t' other one to burn wid Satan.  De preacher said it was jist
like dey done in Englan' one time, long time ago.  De queen she lef'
her baby layin' aroun' one day, en went out callin'; an one 'o de
niggers roun'bout de place dat was 'mos' white, she come in en see de
chile layin' aroun', en tuck en put her own chile's clo's on
de queen's chile, en put de queen's chile's clo'es on her own chile,
en den lef' her own chile layin' aroun', en tuck en toted de queen's
chile home to de nigger quarter, en nobody ever foun' it out,
en her chile was de king bimeby, en sole de queen's chile down de
river one time when dey had to settle up de estate.  Dah, now--de preacher
said it his own self, en it ain't no sin, 'ca'se white folks done it.
DEY done it--yes, DEY done it; en not on'y jis' common white folks nuther,
but de biggest quality dey is in de whole bilin'.  _Oh_, I's _so_ glad I
'member 'bout dat!"

She got lighthearted and happy, and went to the cradles, and spent what
was left of the night "practicing."  She would give her own child a
light pat and say humbly, "Lay still, Marse Tom," then give the real
Tom a pat and say with severity, "Lay _still_, Chambers!  Does you want
me to take somep'n _to_ you?"

As she progressed with her practice, she was surprised to see how steadily
and surely the awe which had kept her tongue reverent and her manner
humble toward her young master was transferring itself to her speech
and manner toward the usurper, and how similarly handy she was becoming
in transferring her motherly curtness of speech and peremptoriness of
manner to the unlucky heir of the ancient house of Driscoll.

She took occasional rests from practicing, and absorbed herself in
calculating her chances.

"Dey'll sell dese niggers today fo' stealin' de money, den dey'll
buy some mo' dat don't now de chillen--so _dat's_ all right.  When I takes
de chillen out to git de air, de minute I's roun' de corner I's gwine
to gaum dey mouths all roun' wid jam, den dey can't _nobody_ notice
dey's changed.  Yes, I gwine ter do dat till I's safe, if it's a year.

"Dey ain't but one man dat I's afeard of, en dat's dat Pudd'nhead Wilson.
Dey calls him a pudd'nhead, en says he's a fool.  My lan, dat man
ain't no mo' fool den I is!  He's de smartes' man in dis town,
lessn' it's Jedge Driscoll or maybe Pem Howard.  Blame dat man,
he worries me wid dem ornery glasses o' his'n; _I_ b'lieve he's a witch.
But nemmine, I's gwine to happen aroun' dah one o' dese days en let
on dat I reckon he wants to print a chillen's fingers ag'in; en if HE
don't notice dey's changed, I bound dey ain't nobody gwine to notice it,
en den I's safe, sho'.  But I reckon I'll tote along a hoss-shoe to
keep off de witch work."

The new Negros gave Roxy no trouble, of course.  The master gave her none,
for one of his speculations was in jeopardy, and his mind was so
occupied that he hardly saw the children when he looked at them,
and all Roxy had to do was to get them both into a gale of laughter
when he came about;  then their faces were mainly cavities exposing gums,
and he was gone again before the spasm passed and the little creatures
resumed a human aspect.

Within a few days the fate of the speculation became so dubious that
Mr. Percy went away with his brother, the judge, to see what could be
done with it.  It was a land speculation as usual, and it had gotten
complicated with a lawsuit.  The men were gone seven weeks.  Before they
got back, Roxy had paid her visit to Wilson, and was satisfied.
Wilson took the fingerprints, labeled them with the names and with the date--
October the first--put them carefully away, and continued his chat
with Roxy, who seemed very anxious that he should admire the great
advance in flesh and beauty which the babes had made since he took
their fingerprints a month before.  He complimented their improvement
to her contentment; and as they were without any disguise of jam
or other stain, she trembled all the while and was miserably frightened
lest at any moment he--

But he didn't.  He discovered nothing; and she went home jubilant,
and dropped all concern about the matter permanently out of her mind.




CHAPTER 4

The Ways of the Changelings


Adam and Eve had many advantages, but the principal one was,
that they escaped teething.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


There is this trouble about special providences--namely, there is
so often a doubt as to which party was intended to be the beneficiary.
In the case of the children, the bears, and the prophet,
the bears got more real satisfaction out of the episode than
the prophet did, because they got the children.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar



This history must henceforth accommodate itself to the change which
Roxana has consummated, and call the real heir "Chambers" and the
usurping little slave, "Thomas `a Becket"--shortening this latter
name to "Tom," for daily use, as the people about him did.

"Tom" was a bad baby, from the very beginning of his usurpation.
He would cry for nothing; he would burst into storms of devilish
temper without notice, and let go scream after scream and squall
after squall, then climax the thing with "holding his breath"--
that frightful specialty of the teething nursling, in the throes of
which the creature exhausts its lungs, then is convulsed with noiseless
squirmings and twistings and kickings in the effort to get its breath,
while the lips turn blue and the mouth stands wide and rigid,
offering for inspection one wee tooth set in the lower rim of a hoop
of red gums; and when the appalling stillness has endured until one
is sure the lost breath will never return, a nurse comes flying,
and dashes water in the child's face, and--presto! the lungs fill,
and instantly discharge a shriek, or a yell, or a howl which bursts the
listening ear and surprises the owner of it into saying words which
would not go well with a halo if he had one.  The baby Tom would claw
anybody who came within reach of his nails, and pound anybody he could
reach with his rattle.  He would scream for water until he got it,
and then throw cup and all on the floor and scream for more.
He was indulged in all his caprices, howsoever troublesome and
exasperating they might be; he was allowed to eat anything he wanted,
particularly things that would give him the stomach-ache.

When he got to be old enough to begin to toddle about and say broken
words and get an idea of what his hands were for, he was a more
consummate pest than ever.  Roxy got no rest while he was awake.
He would call for anything and everything he saw, simply saying,
"Awnt it!" (want it), which was a command.  When it was brought,
he said in a frenzy, and motioning it away with his hands,
"Don't awnt it! don't awnt it!" and the moment it was gone he set up
frantic yells of "Awnt it! awnt it!" and Roxy had to give wings to
her heels to get that thing back to him again before he could get time
to carry out his intention of going into convulsions about it.

What he preferred above all other things was the tongs.
This was because his "father" had forbidden him to have them lest
he break windows and furniture with them.  The moment Roxy's back
was turned he would toddle to the presence of the tongs and say,
"Like it!" and cock his eye to one side or see if Roxy was observed;
then, "Awnt it!" and cock his eye again; then, "Hab it!" with another
furtive glace; and finally, "Take it!"--and the prize was his.
The next moment the heavy implement was raised aloft; the next,
there was a crash and a squall, and the cat was off on three legs to
meet an engagement; Roxy would arrive just as the lamp or a window
went to irremediable smash.

Tom got all the petting, Chambers got none.  Tom got all the delicacies,
Chambers got mush and milk, and clabber without sugar.  In consequence Tom
was a sickly child and Chambers wasn't.  Tom was "fractious," as Roxy
called it, and overbearing; Chambers was meek and docile.

With all her splendid common sense and practical everyday ability,
Roxy was a doting fool of a mother.  She was this toward her child--
and she was also more than this:  by the fiction created by herself,
he was become her master; the necessity of recognizing this relation
outwardly and of perfecting herself in the forms required to express
the recognition, had moved her to such diligence and faithfulness in
practicing these forms that this exercise soon concreted itself into habit;
it became automatic and unconscious; then a natural result followed:
deceptions intended solely for others gradually grew practically
into self-deceptions as well; the mock reverence became real reverence,
the mock homage real homage; the little counterfeit rift of separation
between imitation-slave and imitation-master widened and widened,
and became an abyss, and a very real one-- and on one side of it
stood Roxy, the dupe of her own deceptions, and on the other stood
her child, no longer a usurper to her, but her accepted and
recognized master.  He was her darling, her master, and her deity
all in one, and in her worship of him she forgot who she was and
what he had been.

In babyhood Tom cuffed and banged and scratched Chambers unrebuked,
and Chambers early learned that between meekly bearing it and
resenting it, the advantage all lay with the former policy.
The few times that his persecutions had moved him beyond control
and made him fight back had cost him very dear at headquarters;
not at the hands of Roxy, for if she ever went beyond scolding
him sharply for "forgett'n' who his young marster was," she at
least never extended her punishment beyond a box on the ear.
No, Percy Driscoll was the person.  He told Chambers that under no
provocation whatever was he privileged to lift his hand against his
little master.  Chambers overstepped the line three times, and got
three such convincing canings from the man who was his father and
didn't know it, that he took Tom's cruelties in all humility after that,
and made no more experiments.

Outside the house the two boys were together all through
their boyhood.  Chambers was strong beyond his years, and a good fighter;
strong because he was coarsely fed and hard worked about the house,
and a good fighter because Tom furnished him plenty of practice--
on white boys whom he hated and was afraid of.  Chambers was his
constant bodyguard, to and from school; he was present on the
playground at recess to protect his charge.  He fought himself into
such a formidable reputation, by and by, that Tom could have changed
clothes with him, and "ridden in peace," like Sir Kay in Launcelot's armor.

He was good at games of skill, too.  Tom staked him with marbles to
play "keeps" with, and then took all the winnings away from him.
In the winter season Chambers was on hand, in Tom's worn-out clothes,
with "holy" red mittens, and "holy" shoes, and pants "holy" at the
knees and seat, to drag a sled up the hill for Tom, warmly clad,
to ride down on; but he never got a ride himself.  He built snowmen
and snow fortifications under Tom's directions.  He was Tom's patient
target when Tom wanted to do some snowballing, but the target couldn't
fire back.  Chambers carried Tom's skates to the river and strapped
them on him, the trotted around after him on the ice, so as to be on
hand when he wanted; but he wasn't ever asked to try the skates himself.

In summer the pet pastime of the boys of Dawson's Landing was to
steal apples, peaches, and melons from the farmer's fruit wagons--
mainly on account of the risk they ran of getting their heads laid
open with the butt of the farmer's whip.  Tom was a distinguished adept
at these thefts--by proxy.  Chambers did his stealing, and got the
peach stones, apple cores, and melon rinds for his share.

Tom always made Chambers go in swimming with him, and stay by him as
a protection.  When Tom had had enough, he would slip out and tie knots
in Chamber's shirt, dip the knots in the water and make them hard to undo,
then dress himself and sit by and laugh while the naked shiverer tugged
at the stubborn knots with his teeth.

Tom did his humble comrade these various ill turns partly out of
native viciousness, and partly because he hated him for his
superiorities of physique and pluck, and for his manifold cleverness.
Tom couldn't dive, for it gave him splitting headaches.
Chambers could dive without inconvenience, and was fond of doing it.
He excited so much admiration, one day, among a crowd of white boys,
by throwing back somersaults from the stern of a canoe, that it wearies
Tom's spirit, and at last he shoved the canoe underneath Chambers while
he was in the air--so he came down on his head in the canoe bottom;
and while he lay unconscious, several of Tom's ancient adversaries saw
that their long-desired opportunity was come, and they gave the false heir
such a drubbing that with Chamber's best help he was hardly able to drag
himself home afterward.

When the boys was fifteen and upward, Tom was "showing off" in the river
one day, when he was taken with a cramp, and shouted for help.
It was a common trick with the boys--particularly if a stranger
was present--to pretend a cramp and howl for help; then when the
stranger came tearing hand over hand to the rescue, the howler would
go on struggling and howling till he was close at hand, then replace
the howl with a sarcastic smile and swim blandly away, while the
town boys assailed the dupe with a volley of jeers and laughter.
Tom had never tried this joke as yet, but was supposed to be trying
it now, so the boys held warily back; but Chambers believed his master
was in earnest; therefore, he swam out, and arrived in time,
unfortunately, and saved his life.

This was the last feather.  Tom had managed to endure everything else,
but to have to remain publicly and permanently under such an obligation
as this to a nigger, and to this nigger of all niggers--this was too much.
He heaped insults upon Chambers for "pretending" to think he was in
earnest in calling for help, and said that anybody but a blockheaded
nigger would have known he was funning and left him alone.

Tom's enemies were in strong force here, so they came out with their
opinions quite freely.  The laughed at him, and called him coward,
liar, sneak, and other sorts of pet names, and told him they meant
to call Chambers by a new name after this, and make it common
in the town--"Tom Driscoll's nigger pappy,"--to signify that he
had had a second birth into this life, and that Chambers was the author
of his new being.  Tom grew frantic under these taunts, and shouted:

"Knock their heads off, Chambers!  Knock their heads off!
What do you stand there with your hands in your pockets for?"

Chambers expostulated, and said, "But, Marse Tom, dey's too
many of 'em--dey's--"

"Do you hear me?"

"Please, Marse Tom, don't make me!  Dey's so many of 'em dat--"

Tom sprang at him and drove his pocketknife into him two or three
times before the boys could snatch him away and give the wounded lad
a chance to escape.  He was considerably hurt, but not seriously.
If the blade had been a little longer, his career would have ended there.

Tom had long ago taught Roxy "her place."  It had been many a day now
since she had ventured a caress or a fondling epithet in his quarter.
Such things, from a "nigger," were repulsive to him, and she had been
warned to keep her distance and remember who she was.  She saw her
darling gradually cease from being her son, she saw THAT detail
perish utterly; all that was left was master--master, pure and simple,
and it was not a gentle mastership, either.  She saw herself sink from the
sublime height of motherhood to the somber depths of unmodified slavery,
the abyss of separation between her and her boy was complete.
She was merely his chattel now, his convenience, his dog, his cringing
and helpless slave, the humble and unresisting victim of his capricious
temper and vicious nature.

Sometimes she could not go to sleep, even when worn out with fatigue,
because her rage boiled so high over the day's experiences with her boy.
She would mumble and mutter to herself:

"He struck me en I warn't no way to blame--struck me in de face,
right before folks.  En he's al'ays callin' me nigger wench, en hussy,
en all dem mean names, when I's doin' de very bes' I kin.
Oh, Lord, I done so much for him--I lif' him away up to what he is--
en dis is what I git for it."

Sometimes when some outrage of peculiar offensiveness stung her to
the heart, she would plan schemes of vengeance and revel in the fancied
spectacle of his exposure to the world as an imposter and a slave;
but in the midst of these joys fear would strike her; she had made him
too strong; she could prove nothing, and--heavens, she might get sold
down the river for her pains!  So her schemes always went for nothing,
and she laid them aside in impotent rage against the fates,
and against herself for playing the fool on that fatal September day
in not providing herself with a witness for use in the day when such a
thing might be needed for the appeasing of her vengeance-hungry heart.

And yet the moment Tom happened to be good to her, and kind--
and this occurred every now and then--all her sore places were healed,
and she was happy; happy and proud, for this was her son, her nigger son,
lording it among the whites and securely avenging their crimes
against her race.

There were two grand funerals in Dawson's Landing that fall--the fall
of 1845.  One was that of Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex,
the other that of Percy Driscoll.

On his deathbed Driscoll set Roxy free and delivered his idolized
ostensible son solemnly into the keeping of his brother, the judge,
and his wife.  Those childless people were glad to get him.
Childless people are not difficult to please.

Judge Driscoll had gone privately to his brother, a month before,
and bought Chambers.  He had heard that Tom had been trying to get
his father to sell the boy down the river, and he wanted to prevent
the scandal--for public sentiment did not approve of that way of treating
family servants for light cause or for no cause.

Percy Driscoll had worn himself out in trying to save his great
speculative landed estate, and had died without succeeding.
He was hardly in his grave before the boom collapsed and left his
envied young devil of an heir a pauper.  But that was nothing; his uncle
told him he should be his heir and have all his fortune when he died;
so Tom was comforted.

Roxy had no home now; so she resolved to go around and say good-by to
her friends and then clear out and see the world--that is to say,
she would go chambermaiding on a steamboat, the darling ambition of her
race and sex.

Her last call was on the black giant, Jasper.  She found him chopping
Pudd'nhead Wilson's winter provision of wood.

Wilson was chatting with him when Roxy arrived.  He asked her how she
could bear to go off chambermaiding and leave her boys; and chaffingly
offered to copy off a series of their fingerprints, reaching up to their
twelfth year, for her to remember them by; but she sobered in a moment,
wondering if he suspected anything; then she said she believed she
didn't want them.  Wilson said to himself, "The drop of black blood in
her is superstitious; she thinks there's some devilry, some witch business
about my glass mystery somewhere; she used to come here with an old
horseshoe in her hand; it could have been an accident, but I doubt it."




CHAPTER 5

The Twins Thrill Dawson's Landing


Training is everything.  The peach was once a bitter almond;
cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Remark of Dr. Baldwin's, concerning upstarts:  We don't care
to eat toadstools that think they are truffles.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


Mrs. York Driscoll enjoyed two years of bliss with that prize,
Tom--bliss that was troubled a little at times, it is true,
but bliss nevertheless; then she died, and her husband and his
childless sister, Mrs. Pratt, continued this bliss-business at the
old stand.  Tom was petted and indulged and spoiled to his entire
content--or nearly that.  This went on till he was nineteen,
then he was sent to Yale.  He went handsomely equipped with "conditions,"
but otherwise he was not an object of distinction there.
He remained at Yale two years, and then threw up the struggle.
He came home with his manners a good deal improved; he had lost his
surliness and brusqueness, and was rather pleasantly soft and smooth, now;
he was furtively, and sometimes openly, ironical of speech, and given
to gently touching people on the raw, but he did it with a good-natured
semiconscious air that carried it off safely, and kept him from getting
into trouble.  He was as indolent as ever and showed no very strenuous
desire to hunt up an occupation.  People argued from this that he
preferred to be supported by his uncle until his uncle's shoes should
become vacant.  He brought back one or two new habits with him,
one of which he rather openly practiced--tippling--but concealed another,
which was gambling.  It would not do to gamble where his uncle could
hear of it; he knew that quite well.

Tom's Eastern polish was not popular among the young people.
They could have endured it, perhaps, if Tom had stopped there;
but he wore gloves, and that they couldn't stand, and wouldn't;
so he was mainly without society.  He brought home with him a
suit of clothes of such exquisite style and cut in fashion--
Eastern fashion, city fashion--that it filled everybody with anguish
and was regarded as a peculiarly wanton affront.  He enjoyed the
feeling which he was exciting, and paraded the town serene and
happy all day; but the young fellows set a tailor to work that night,
and when Tom started out on his parade next morning, he found the old
deformed Negro bell ringer straddling along in his wake tricked out
in a flamboyant curtain-calico exaggeration of his finery,
and imitating his fancy Eastern graces as well as he could.

Tom surrendered, and after that clothed himself in the local fashion.
But the dull country town was tiresome to him, since his
acquaintanceship with livelier regions, and it grew daily more
and more so.  He began to make little trips to St. Louis for refreshment.
There he found companionship to suit him, and pleasures to his taste,
along with more freedom, in some particulars, than he could have at home.
So, during the next two years, his visits to the city grew in frequency
and his tarryings there grew steadily longer in duration.

He was getting into deep waters.  He was taking chances, privately,
which might get him into trouble some day--in fact, _did_.

Judge Driscoll had retired from the bench and from all business
activities in 1850, and had now been comfortably idle three years.
He was president of the Freethinkers' Society, and Pudd'nhead Wilson
was the other member.  The society's weekly discussions were now the
old lawyer's main interest in life.  Pudd'nhead was still toiling in
obscurity at the bottom of the ladder, under the blight of that unlucky
remark which he had let fall twenty-three years before about the dog.

Judge Driscoll was his friend, and claimed that he had a mind above
the average, but that was regarded as one of the judge's whims,
and it failed to modify the public opinion.  Or rather, that was one
of the reason why it failed, but there was another and better one.
If the judge had stopped with bare assertion, it would have had a good
deal of effect; but he made the mistake of trying to prove his position.
For some years Wilson had been privately at work on a whimsical almanac,
for his amusement--a calendar, with a little dab of ostensible philosophy,
usually in ironical form, appended to each date; and the judge thought
that these quips and fancies of Wilson's were neatly turned and cute;
so he carried a handful of them around one day, and read them to some
of the chief citizens.  But irony was not for those people;
their mental vision was not focused for it.  They read those playful
trifles in the solidest terms, and decided without hesitancy that if
there had ever been any doubt that Dave Wilson was a pudd'nhead--
which there hadn't--this revelation removed that doubt for good and all.
That is just the way in this world; an enemy can partly ruin a man,
but it takes a good-natured injudicious friend to complete the thing and
make it perfect.  After this the judge felt tenderer than ever toward
Wilson, and surer than ever that his calendar had merit.

Judge Driscoll could be a freethinker and still hold his place in
society because he was the person of most consequence to the community,
and therefore could venture to go his own way and follow out his
own notions.  The other member of his pet organization was allowed the
like liberty because he was a cipher in the estimation of the public,
and nobody attached any importance to what he thought or did.
He was liked, he was welcome enough all around, but he simply
didn't count for anything.

The Widow Cooper--affectionately called "Aunt Patsy" by everybody--
lived in a snug and comely cottage with her daughter Rowena,
who was nineteen, romantic, amiable, and very pretty, but otherwise
of no consequence.  Rowena had a couple of young brothers--
also of no consequence.

The widow had a large spare room, which she let to a lodger, with board,
when she could find one, but this room had been empty for a year now,
to her sorrow.  Her income was only sufficient for the family support,
and she needed the lodging money for trifling luxuries.  But now, at last,
on a flaming June day, she found herself happy; her tedious wait was ended;
her year-worn advertisement had been answered; and not by a village
applicant, no, no!--this letter was from away off yonder in the dim great
world to the North; it was from St. Louis.  She sat on her porch gazing
out with unseeing eyes upon the shining reaches of the mighty Mississippi,
her thoughts steeped in her good fortune.  Indeed it was specially
good fortune, for she was to have two lodgers instead of one.

She had read the letter to the family, and Rowena had danced away to see
to the cleaning and airing of the room by the slave woman, Nancy,
and the boys had rushed abroad in the town to spread the great news,
for it was a matter of public interest, and the public would wonder
and not be pleased if not informed.  Presently Rowena returned,
all ablush with joyous excitement, and begged for a rereading of the letter.
It was framed thus:

HONORED MADAM:  My brother and I have seen your advertisement, by chance,
and beg leave to take the room you offer.  We are twenty-four years
of age and twins.  We are Italians by birth, but have lived long in
the various countries of Europe, and several years in the United States.
Our names are Luigi and Angelo Capello.  You desire but one guest;
but, dear madam, if you will allow us to pay for two, we will not
incommode you.  We shall be down Thursday.

"Italians!  How romantic!  Just think, Ma--there's never been one
in this town, and everybody will be dying to see them, and they're
all OURS!  Think of that!"

"Yes, I reckon they'll make a grand stir."

"Oh, indeed they will.  The whole town will be on its head!
Think--they've been in Europe and everywhere!  There's never been a
traveler in this town before, Ma, I shouldn't wonder if they've seen kings!"

"Well, a body can't tell, but they'll make stir enough, without that."

"Yes, that's of course.  Luigi--Angelo.  They're lovely names;
and so grand and foreign--not like Jones and Robinson and such.
Thursday they are coming, and this is only Tuesday; it's a cruel
long time to wait.  Here comes Judge Driscoll in at the gate.
He's heard about it.  I'll go and open the door."

The judge was full of congratulations and curiosity.  The letter was
read and discussed.  Soon Justice Robinson arrived with more
congratulations, and there was a new reading and a new discussion.
This was the beginning.  Neighbor after neighbor, of both sexes,
followed, and the procession drifted in and out all day and evening
and all Wednesday and Thursday.  The letter was read and reread until
it was nearly worn out; everybody admired its courtly and gracious tone,
and smooth and practiced style, everybody was sympathetic and excited,
and the Coopers were steeped in happiness all the while.

The boats were very uncertain in low water in these primitive times.
This time the Thursday boat had not arrived at ten at night--
so the people had waited at the landing all day for nothing;
they were driven to their homes by a heavy storm without having had
a view of the illustrious foreigners.

Eleven o'clock came; and the Cooper house was the only one in the town
that still had lights burning.  The rain and thunder were booming yet,
and the anxious family were still waiting, still hoping.
At last there was a knock at the door, and the family jumped to open it.
Two Negro men entered, each carrying a trunk, and proceeded upstairs
toward the guest room.  Then entered the twins--the handsomest,
the best dressed, the most distinguished-looking pair of young fellows
the West had ever seen.  One was a little fairer than the other,
but otherwise they were exact duplicates.




CHAPTER 6

Swimming in Glory


Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the
undertaker will be sorry.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man,
but coaxed downstairs at step at a time.

                                   --Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


At breakfast in the morning, the twins' charm of manner and easy and
polished bearing made speedy conquest of the family's good graces.
All constraint and formality quickly disappeared, and the friendliest
feeling succeeded.  Aunt Patsy called them by their Christian names
almost from the beginning.  She was full of the keenest curiosity
about them, and showed it; they responded by talking about themselves,
which pleased her greatly.  It presently appeared that in their early
youth they had known poverty and hardship.  As the talk wandered along,
the old lady watched for the right place to drop in a question or two
concerning that matter, and when she found it, she said to the blond twin,
who was now doing the biographies in his turn while the brunette one rested:

"If it ain't asking what I ought not to ask, Mr. Angelo, how did you
come to be so friendless and in such trouble when you were little?
Do you mind telling?  But don't, if you do."

"Oh, we don't mind it at all, madam; in our case it was merely misfortune,
and nobody's fault.  Our parents were well to do, there in Italy,
and we were their only child.  We were of the old Florentine nobility"--
Rowena's heart gave a great bound, her nostrils expanded,
and a fine light played in her eyes--"and when the war broke out,
my father was on the losing side and had to fly for his life.
His estates were confiscated, his personal property seized, and there
we were, in Germany, strangers, friendless, and in fact paupers.
My brother and I were ten years old, and well educated for that age,
very studious, very fond of our books, and well grounded in the German,
French, Spanish, and English languages.  Also, we were marvelous musical
prodigies--if you will allow me to say it, it being only the truth.

"Our father survived his misfortunes only a month, our mother soon
followed him, and we were alone in the world.  Our parents could have
made themselves comfortable by exhibiting us as a show, and they had
many and large offers; but the thought revolted their pride,
and they said they would starve and die first.  But what they
wouldn't consent to do, we had to do without the formality of consent.
We were seized for the debts occasioned by their illness and their funerals,
and placed among the attractions of a cheap museum in Berlin to earn the
liquidation money.  It took us two years to get out of that slavery.
We traveled all about Germany, receiving no wages, and not even our keep.
We had to be exhibited for nothing, and beg our bread.

"Well, madam, the rest is not of much consequence.  When we escaped from
that slavery at twelve years of age, we were in some respects men.
Experience had taught us some valuable things; among others,
how to take care of ourselves, how to avoid and defeat sharks
and sharpers, and how to conduct our own business for our own profit and
without other people's help.  We traveled everywhere--years and years--
picking up smatterings of strange tongues, familiarizing ourselves
with strange sights and strange customs, accumulating an education
of a wide and varied and curious sort.  It was a pleasant life.
We went to Venice--to London, Paris, Russia, India, China, Japan--"

At this point Nancy, the slave woman, thrust her head in at
the door and exclaimed:

"Ole Missus, de house of plum' jam full o' people, en dey's
jes a-spi'lin' to see de gen'lemen!"  She indicated the twins
with a nod of her head, and tucked it back out of sight again.

It was a proud occasion for the widow, and she promised
herself high satisfaction in showing off her fine foreign birds
before her neighbors and friends--simple folk who had hardly ever
seen a foreigner of any kind, and never one of any distinction or style.
Yet her feeling was moderate indeed when contrasted with Rowena's.
Rowena was in the clouds, she walked on air; this was to be the
greatest day, the most romantic episode in the colorless history of
that dull country town.  She was to be familiarly near the source of
its glory and feel the full flood of it pour over her and about her;
the other girls could only gaze and envy, not partake.

The widow was ready, Rowena was ready, so also were the foreigners.

The party moved along the hall, the twins in advance, and entered
the open parlor door, whence issued a low hum of conversation.
The twins took a position near the door, the widow stood at Luigi's side,
Rowena stood beside Angelo, and the march-past and the introductions began.
The widow was all smiles and contentment.  She received the procession
and passed it on to Rowena.

"Good mornin', Sister Cooper"--handshake.

"Good morning, Brother Higgins--Count Luigi Capello, Mr. Higgins"--
handshake, followed by a devouring stare and "I'm glad to see ye,"
on the part of Higgins, and a courteous inclination of the head
and a pleasant "Most happy!" on the part of Count Luigi.

"Good mornin', Roweny"--handshake.

"Good morning, Mr. Higgins--present you to Count Angelo Capello."
Handshake, admiring stare, "Glad to see ye"--courteous nod,
smily "Most happy!" and Higgins passes on.

None of these visitors was at ease, but, being honest people,
they didn't pretend to be.  None of them had ever seen a person
bearing a title of nobility before, and none had been expecting to
see one now, consequently the title came upon them as a kind of
pile-driving surprise and caught them unprepared.  A few tried to rise
to the emergency, and got out an awkward "My lord," or "Your lordship,"
or something of that sort, but the great majority were overwhelmed by
the unaccustomed word and its dim and awful associations with gilded
courts and stately ceremony and anointed kingship, so they only
fumbled through the handshake and passed on, speechless.  Now and then,
as happens at all receptions everywhere, a more than ordinary friendly soul
blocked the procession and kept it waiting while he inquired how the
brothers liked the village, and how long they were going to stay,
and if their family was well, and dragged in the weather, and hoped
it would get cooler soon, and all that sort of thing, so as to be
able to say, when he got home, "I had quite a long talk with them";
but nobody did or said anything of a regrettable kind, and so the great
affair went through to the end in a creditable and satisfactory fashion.

General conversation followed, and the twins drifted about
from group to group, talking easily and fluently and winning
approval, compelling admiration and achieving favor from all.
The widow followed their conquering march with a proud eye,
and every now and then Rowena said to herself with deep satisfaction,
"And to think they are ours--all ours!"

There were no idle moments for mother or daughter.  Eager inquiries
concerning the twins were pouring into their enchanted ears all
the time; each was the constant center of a group of breathless listeners;
each recognized that she knew now for the first time the real meaning
of that great word Glory, and perceived the stupendous value of it,
and understand why men in all ages had been willing to throw away
meaner happiness, treasure, life itself, to get a taste of its sublime
and supreme joy.  Napoleon and all his kind stood accounted for--
and justified.

When Rowena had at last done all her duty by the people in the parlor,
she went upstairs to satisfy the longings of an overflow meeting there,
for the parlor was not big enough to hold all the comers.
Again she was besieged by eager questioners, and again she swam in
sunset seas of glory.  When the forenoon was nearly gone, she recognized
with a pang that this most splendid episode of her life was almost over,
that nothing could prolong it, that nothing quite its equal could ever
fall to her fortune again.  But never mind, it was sufficient unto itself,
the grand occasion had moved on an ascending scale from the start,
and was a noble and memorable success.  If the twins could but do some
crowning act now to climax it, something usual, something startling,
something to concentrate upon themselves the company's loftiest admiration,
something in the nature of an electric surprise--

Here a prodigious slam-banging broke out below, and everybody rushed
down to see.  It was the twins, knocking out a classic four-handed
piece on the piano in great style.  Rowena was satisfied--satisfied
down to the bottom of her heart.

The young strangers were kept long at the piano.  The villagers were
astonished and enchanted with the magnificence of their performance,
and could not bear to have them stop.  All the music that they had ever
heard before seemed spiritless prentice-work and barren of grace and
charm when compared with these intoxicating floods of melodious sound.
They realized that for once in their lives they were hearing masters.




CHAPTER 7

The Unknown Nymph


One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie
is that a cat has only nine lives.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


The company broke up reluctantly, and drifted toward their several homes,
chatting with vivacity and all agreeing that it would be many a long
day before Dawson's Landing would see the equal of this one again.
The twins had accepted several invitations while the reception
was in progress, and had also volunteered to play some duets at
an amateur entertainment for the benefit of a local charity.
Society was eager to receive them to its bosom.  Judge Driscoll had
the good fortune to secure them for an immediate drive, and to be
the first to display them in public.  They entered his buggy with him
and were paraded down the main street, everybody flocking to the windows
and sidewalks to see.

The judge showed the strangers the new graveyard, and the jail,
and where the richest man lived, and the Freemasons' hall,
and the Methodist church, and the Presbyterian church, and where the
Baptist church was going to be when they got some money to build it with,
and showed them the town hall and the slaughterhouse, and got out
of the independent fire company in uniform and had them put out
an imaginary fire; then he let them inspect the muskets of the
militia company, and poured out an exhaustless stream of enthusiasm
over all these splendors, and seemed very well satisfied with the
responses he got, for the twins admired his admiration, and paid him
back the best they could, though they could have done better if
some fifteen or sixteen hundred thousand previous experiences of this
sort in various countries had not already rubbed off a considerable part
of the novelty in it.

The judge laid himself out hospitality to make them have a good time,
and if there was a defect anywhere, it was not his fault.
He told them a good many humorous anecdotes, and always forgot the nub,
but they were always able to furnish it, for these yarns were of a
pretty early vintage, and they had had many a rejuvenating pull
at them before.  And he told them all about his several dignities,
and how he had held this and that and the other place of honor or profit,
and had once been to the legislature, and was now president of the
Society of Freethinkers.  He said the society had been in existence
four years, and already had two members, and was firmly established.
He would call for the brothers in the evening, if they would like
to attend a meeting of it.

Accordingly he called for them, and on the way he told them all about
Pudd'nhead Wilson, in order that they might get a favorable impression
of him in advance and be prepared to like him.  This scheme succeeded--
the favorable impression was achieved.  Later it was confirmed and
solidified when Wilson proposed that out of courtesy to the strangers
the usual topics be put aside and the hour be devoted to conversation upon
ordinary subjects and the cultivation of friendly relations and
good-fellowship--a proposition which was put to vote and carried.

The hour passed quickly away in lively talk, and when it was ended,
the lonesome and neglected Wilson was richer by two friends than he
had been when it began.  He invited the twins to look in at his
lodgings presently, after disposing of an intervening engagement,
and they accepted with pleasure.

Toward the middle of the evening, they found themselves on the road
to his house.  Pudd'nhead was at home waiting for them and putting
in his time puzzling over a thing which had come under his notice
that morning.  The matter was this:  He happened to be up very early--
at dawn, in fact; and he crossed the hall, which divided his cottage
through the center, and entered a room to get something there.
The window of the room had no curtains, for that side of the house
had long been unoccupied, and through this window he caught sight of
something which surprised and interested him.  It was a young woman--
a young woman where properly no young woman belonged; for she was in
Judge Driscoll's house, and in the bedroom over the judge's private
study or sitting room.  This was young Tom Driscoll's bedroom.
He and the judge, the judge's widowed sister Mrs. Pratt, and three Negro
servants were the only people who belonged in the house.  Who, then,
might this young lady be?  The two houses were separated by an
ordinary yard, with a low fence running back through its middle
from the street in front to the lane in the rear.  The distance was
not great, and Wilson was able to see the girl very well,
the window shades of the room she was in being up, and the window also.
The girl had on a neat and trim summer dress, patterned in broad stripes
of pink and white, and her bonnet was equipped with a pink veil.
She was practicing steps, gaits and attitudes, apparently; she was
doing the thing gracefully, and was very much absorbed in her work.
Who could she be, and how came she to be in young Tom Driscoll's room?

Wilson had quickly chosen a position from which he could watch the girl
without running much risk of being seen by her, and he remained there
hoping she would raise her veil and betray her face.  But she
disappointed him.  After a matter of twenty minutes she disappeared
and although he stayed at his post half an hour longer, she came no more.

Toward noon he dropped in at the judge's and talked with Mrs. Pratt
about the great event of the day, the levee of the distinguished
foreigners at Aunt Patsy Cooper's.  He asked after her nephew Tom,
and she said he was on his way home and that she was expecting him
to arrive a little before night, and added that she and the judge
were gratified to gather from his letters that he was conducting himself
very nicely and creditably--at which Wilson winked to himself privately.
Wilson did not ask if there was a newcomer in the house, but he asked
questions that would have brought light-throwing answers as to that
matter if Mrs. Pratt had had any light to throw; so he went away
satisfied that he knew of things that were going on in her house
of which she herself was not aware.

He was now awaiting for the twins, and still puzzling over the problem
of who that girl might be, and how she happened to be in that
young fellow's room at daybreak in the morning.




CHAPTER 8

Marse Tom Tramples His Chance


The holy passion of Friendship is of so sweet and steady and loyal
and enduring a nature that it will last through a whole lifetime,
if not asked to lend money.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Consider well the proportions of things.  It is better to be
a young June bug than an old bird of paradise.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


It is necessary now to hunt up Roxy.

At the time she was set free and went away chambermaiding,
she was thirty-five.  She got a berth as second chambermaid on a
Cincinnati boat in the New Orleans trade, the _Grand Mogul_.
A couple of trips made her wonted and easygoing at the work,
and infatuated her with the stir and adventure and independence of
steamboat life.  Then she was promoted and become head chambermaid.
She was a favorite with the officers, and exceedingly proud of their
joking and friendly way with her.

During eight years she served three parts of the year on that boat,
and the winters on a Vicksburg packet.  But now for two months,
she had had rheumatism in her arms, and was obliged to let
the washtub alone.  So she resigned.  But she was well fixed--
rich, as she would have described it; for she had lived a steady life,
and had banked four dollars every month in New Orleans as a provision
for her old age.  She said in the start that she had "put shoes on
one bar'footed nigger to tromple on her with," and that one mistake
like that was enough; she would be independent of the human race
thenceforth forevermore if hard work and economy could accomplish it.
When the boat touched the levee at New Orleans she bade good-by to her
comrades on the _Grand Mogul_ and moved her kit ashore.

But she was back in a hour.  The bank had gone to smash and carried
her four hundred dollars with it.  She was a pauper and homeless.
Also disabled bodily, at least for the present.  The officers were
full of sympathy for her in her trouble, and made up a little purse
for her.  She resolved to go to her birthplace; she had friends there
among the Negros, and the unfortunate always help the unfortunate,
she was well aware of that; those lowly comrades of her youth would
not let her starve.

She took the little local packet at Cairo, and now she was on
the homestretch.  Time had worn away her bitterness against her son,
and she was able to think of him with serenity.  She put the vile side
of him out of her mind, and dwelt only on recollections of his occasional
acts of kindness to her.  She gilded and otherwise decorated these,
and made them very pleasant to contemplate.  She began to long to see him.
She would go and fawn upon him slavelike--for this would have to be her
attitude, of course--and maybe she would find that time had modified him,
and that he would be glad to see his long-forgotten old nurse and treat
her gently.  That would be lovely; that would make her forget her woes
and her poverty.

Her poverty!  That thought inspired her to add another castle to her dream:
maybe he would give her a trifle now and then--maybe a dollar,
once a month, say; any little thing like that would help, oh,
ever so much.

By the time she reached Dawson's Landing, she was her old self again;
her blues were gone, she was in high feather.  She would get along,
surely; there were many kitchens where the servants would share their
meals with her, and also steal sugar and apples and other dainties
for her to carry home--or give her a chance to pilfer them herself,
which would answer just as well.  And there was the church.
She was a more rabid and devoted Methodist than ever, and her piety
was no sham, but was strong and sincere.  Yes, with plenty of creature
comforts and her old place in the amen corner in her possession again,
she would be perfectly happy and at peace thenceforward to the end.

She went to Judge Driscoll's kitchen first of all.  She was received
there in great form and with vast enthusiasm.  Her wonderful travels,
and the strange countries she had seen, and the adventures she had had,
made her a marvel and a heroine of romance.  The Negros hung enchanted
upon a great story of her experiences, interrupting her all along with
eager questions, with laughter, exclamations of delight, and expressions
of applause; and she was obliged to confess to herself that if there
was anything better in this world than steamboating, it was the
glory to be got by telling about it.  The audience loaded her stomach
with their dinners, and then stole the pantry bare to load up her basket.

Tom was in St. Louis.  The servants said he had spent the best part
of his time there during the previous two years.  Roxy came every day,
and had many talks about the family and its affairs.  Once she asked
why Tom was away so much.  The ostensible "Chambers" said:

"De fac' is, ole marster kin git along better when young marster's
away den he kin when he's in de town; yes, en he love him better, too;
so he gives him fifty dollahs a month--"

"No, is dat so?  Chambers, you's a-jokin', ain't you?"

"'Clah to goodness I ain't, Mammy; Marse Tom tole me so his own self.
But nemmine, 'tain't enough."

"My lan', what de reason 'tain't enough?"

"Well, I's gwine to tell you, if you gimme a chanst, Mammy.
De reason it ain't enough is 'ca'se Marse Tom gambles."

Roxy threw up her hands in astonishment, and Chambers went on:

"Ole marster found it out, 'ca'se he had to pay two hundred
dollahs for Marse Tom's gamblin' debts, en dat's true, Mammy,
jes as dead certain as you's bawn."

"Two--hund'd dollahs!  Why, what is you talkin' 'bout?
Two --hund'd--dollahs.  Sakes alive, it's 'mos' enough to buy a
tol'able good secondhand nigger wid.  En you ain't lyin', honey?
You wouldn't lie to you' old Mammy?"

"It's God's own truth, jes as I tell you--two hund'd dollahs--
I wisht I may never stir outen my tracks if it ain't so.
En, oh, my lan', ole Marse was jes a-hoppin'!  He was b'ilin' mad,
I tell you!  He tuck 'n' dissenhurrit him."

"Disen_whiched_ him?"

"Dissenhurrit him."

"What's dat?  What do you mean?"

"Means he bu'sted de will."

"Bu's--ted de will!  He wouldn't _ever_ treat him so!  Take it back,
you mis'able imitation nigger dat I bore in sorrow en tribbilation."

Roxy's pet castle--an occasional dollar from Tom's pocket--
was tumbling to ruin before her eyes.  She could not abide such a
disaster as that; she couldn't endure the thought of it.
Her remark amused Chambers.

"Yah-yah-yah!  Jes listen to dat!  If I's imitation, what is you?
Bofe of us is imitation _white_--dat's what we is--en pow'ful
good imitation, too.  Yah-yah-yah!  We don't 'mount to noth'n as
imitation _niggers_; en as for--"

"Shet up yo' foolin', 'fo' I knock you side de head, en tell me 'bout
de will.  Tell me 'tain't bu'sted--do, honey, en I'll never forgit you."

"Well, _'tain't_--'ca'se dey's a new one made, en Marse Tom's
all right ag'in.  But what is you in sich a sweat 'bout it for,
Mammy?  'Tain't none o' your business I don't reckon."

"'Tain't none o' my business?  Whose business is it den, I'd like
to know?  Wuz I his mother tell he was fifteen years old, or wusn't I?--
you answer me dat.  En you speck I could see him turned out po' and
ornery on de worl' en never care noth'n' 'bout it?  I reckon if you'd
ever be'n a mother yo'self, Valet de Chambers, you wouldn't talk
sich foolishness as dat."

"Well, den, ole Marse forgive him en fixed up de will ag'in --do dat
satisfy you?"

Yes, she was satisfied now, and quite happy and sentimental over it.
She kept coming daily, and at last she was told that Tom had come home.
She began to tremble with emotion, and straightway sent to beg him
to let his "po' ole nigger Mammy have jes one sight of him en die for joy."

Tom was stretched at his lazy ease on a sofa when Chambers brought
the petition.  Time had not modified his ancient detestation of the
humble drudge and protector of his boyhood; it was still bitter
and uncompromising.  He sat up and bent a severe gaze upon the face
of the young fellow whose name he was unconsciously using and whose
family rights he was enjoying.  He maintained the gaze until the victim
of it had become satisfactorily pallid with terror, then he said:

"What does the old rip want with me?"

The petition was meekly repeated.

"Who gave you permission to come and disturb me with the social
attentions of niggers?"

Tom had risen.  The other young man was trembling now, visibly.
He saw what was coming, and bent his head sideways, and put up his
left arm to shield it.  Tom rained cuffs upon the head and its shield,
saying no word:  the victim received each blow with a beseeching,
"Please, Marse Tom!--oh, please, Marse Tom!"  Seven blows--then Tom said,
"Face the door--march!"  He followed behind with one, two,
three solid kicks.  The last one helped the pure-white slave over
the door-sill, and he limped away mopping his eyes with his old,
ragged sleeve.  Tom shouted after him, "Send her in!"

Then he flung himself panting on the sofa again, and rasped out
the remark, "He arrived just at the right moment; I was full to the
brim with bitter thinkings, and nobody to take it out of.  How refreshing it
was!  I feel better."

Tom's mother entered now, closing the door behind her, and approached
her son with all the wheedling and supplication servilities that fear
and interest can impart to the words and attitudes of the born slave.
She stopped a yard from her boy and made two or three admiring
exclamations over his manly stature and general handsomeness,
and Tom put an arm under his head and hoisted a leg over the
sofa back in order to look properly indifferent.

"My lan', how you is growed, honey!  'Clah to goodness, I wouldn't
a-knowed you, Marse Tom!  'Deed I wouldn't!  Look at me good;
does you 'member old Roxy?  Does you know yo' old nigger mammy, honey?
Well now, I kin lay down en die in peace, 'ca'se I'se seed--"

"Cut it short, Goddamn it, cut it short!  What is it you want?"

"You heah dat?  Jes the same old Marse Tom, al'ays so gay and funnin'
wid de ole mammy.  I'uz jes as shore--"

"Cut it short, I tell you, and get along!  What do you want?"

This was a bitter disappointment.  Roxy had for so many days nourished
and fondled and petted her notion that Tom would be glad to see his
old nurse, and would make her proud and happy to the marrow with a
cordial word or two, that it took two rebuffs to convince her that
he was not funning, and that her beautiful dream was a fond and
foolish variety, a shabby and pitiful mistake.  She was hurt to the heart,
and so ashamed that for a moment she did not quite know what to do or
how to act.  Then her breast began to heave, the tears came,
and in her forlornness she was moved to try that other dream of hers--
an appeal to her boy's charity; and so, upon the impulse,
and without reflection, she offered her supplication:

"Oh, Marse Tom, de po' ole mammy is in sich hard luck dese days;
en she's kinder crippled in de arms and can't work, en if you could
gimme a dollah--on'y jes one little dol--"

Tom was on his feet so suddenly that the supplicant was startled
into a jump herself.

"A dollar!--give you a dollar!  I've a notion to strangle you!
Is _that_ your errand here?  Clear out!  And be quick about it!"

Roxy backed slowly toward the door.  When she was halfway she stopped,
and said mournfully:

"Marse Tom, I nussed you when you was a little baby, en I raised you
all by myself tell you was 'most a young man; en now you is young
en rich, en I is po' en gitt'n ole, en I come heah b'leavin' dat you
would he'p de ole mammy 'long down de little road dat's lef' 'twix'
her en de grave, en--"

Tom relished this tune less than any that he preceded it,
for it began to wake up a sort of echo in his conscience;
so he interrupted and said with decision, though without asperity,
that he was not in a situation to help her, and wasn't going to do it.

"Ain't you ever gwine to he'p me, Marse Tom?"

"No!  Now go away and don't bother me any more."

Roxy's head was down, in an attitude of humility.  But now the fires
of her old wrongs flamed up in her breast and began to burn fiercely.
She raised her head slowly, till it was well up, and at the same time
her great frame unconsciously assumed an erect and masterful attitude,
with all the majesty and grace of her vanished youth in it.
She raised her finger and punctuated with it.

"You has said de word.  You has had yo' chance, en you has trompled
it under yo' foot.  When you git another one, you'll git down on yo'
knees en _beg_ for it!"

A cold chill went to Tom's heart, he didn't know why; for he did not
reflect that such words, from such an incongruous source,
and so solemnly delivered, could not easily fail of that effect.
However, he did the natural thing: he replied with bluster and mockery.

"_You'll_ give me a chance--_you_!  Perhaps I'd better get down
on my knees now!  But in case I don't--just for argument's sake--
what's going to happen, pray?"

"Dis is what is gwine to happen, I's gwine as straight to yo'
uncle as I kin walk, en tell him every las' thing I knows 'bout you."

Tom's cheek blenched, and she saw it.  Disturbing thoughts
began to chase each other through his head.  "How can she know?
And yet she must have found out--she looks it.  I've had the will
back only three months, and am already deep in debt again, and moving
heaven and earth to save myself from exposure and destruction,
with a reasonably fair show of getting the thing covered up if I'm
let alone, and now this fiend has gone and found me out somehow or other.
I wonder how much she knows?  Oh, oh, oh, it's enough to break
a body's heart!  But I've got to humor her--there's no other way."

Then he worked up a rather sickly sample of a gay laugh and a hollow
chipperness of manner, and said:

"Well, well, Roxy dear, old friends like you and me mustn't quarrel.
Here's your dollar--now tell me what you know."

He held out the wildcat bill; she stood as she was, and made
no movement.  It was her turn to scorn persuasive foolery now,
and she did not waste it.  She said, with a grim implacability in
voice and manner which made Tom almost realize that even a former
slave can remember for ten minutes insults and injuries returned
for compliments and flatteries received, and can also enjoy
taking revenge for them when the opportunity offers:

"What does I know?  I'll tell you what I knows, I knows enough to
bu'st dat will to flinders--en more, mind you, _more!_"

Tom was aghast.

"More?" he said, "What do you call more?  Where's there any room for more?"

Roxy laughed a mocking laugh, and said scoffingly, with a toss
of her head, and her hands on her hips:

"Yes!--oh, I reckon!  _co'se_ you'd like to know--wid yo' po' little
ole rag dollah.  What you reckon I's gwine to tell _you_ for?--
you ain't got no money.  I's gwine to tell yo' uncle--en I'll do it
dis minute, too--he'll gimme FIVE dollahs for de news, en mighty glad, too."

She swung herself around disdainfully, and started away.
Tom was in a panic.  He seized her skirts, and implored her to wait.
She turned and said, loftily:

"Look-a-heah, what 'uz it I tole you?"

"You--you--I don't remember anything.  What was it you told me?"

"I tole you dat de next time I give you a chance you'd git
down on yo' knees en beg for it."

Tom was stupefied for a moment.  He was panting with excitement.
Then he said:

"Oh, Roxy, you wouldn't require your young master to do such a
horrible thing.  You can't mean it."

"I'll let you know mighty quick whether I means it or not!
You call me names, en as good as spit on me when I comes here,
po' en ornery en 'umble, to praise you for bein' growed up so
fine and handsome, en tell you how I used to nuss you en tend you en
watch you when you 'uz sick en hadn't no mother but me in de whole worl',
en beg you to give de po' ole nigger a dollah for to get her som'n'
to eat, en you call me names--_names_, dad blame you!  Yassir,
I gives you jes one chance mo', and dat's _now_, en it las' on'y
half a second--you hear?"

Tom slumped to his knees and began to beg, saying:

"You see I'm begging, and it's honest begging, too!  Now tell me,
Roxy, tell me."

The heir of two centuries of unatoned insult and outrage looked down
on him and seemed to drink in deep draughts of satisfaction.
Then she said:

"Fine nice young white gen'l'man kneelin' down to a nigger wench!
I's wanted to see dat jes once befo' I's called.  Now, Gabr'el,
blow de hawn, I's ready . . .  Git up!"

Tom did it.  He said, humbly:

"Now, Roxy, don't punish me any more.  I deserved what I've got,
but be good and let me off with that.  Don't go to uncle.  Tell me--
I'll give you the five dollars."

"Yes, I bet you will; en you won't stop dah, nuther.  But I ain't
gwine to tell you heah--"

"Good gracious, no!"

"Is you 'feared o' de ha'nted house?"

"N-no."

"Well, den, you come to de ha'nted house 'bout ten or 'leven tonight,
en climb up de ladder, 'ca'se de sta'rsteps is broke down,
en you'll find me.  I's a-roostin' in de ha'nted house 'ca'se I can't
'ford to roos' nowher's else."  She started toward the door,
but stopped and said, "Gimme de dollah bill!"  He gave it to her.
She examined it and said, "H'm--like enough de bank's bu'sted."
She started again, but halted again.  "Has you got any whisky?"

"Yes, a little."

"Fetch it!"

He ran to his room overhead and brought down a bottle which
was two-thirds full.  She tilted it up and took a drink.
Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction, and she tucked the bottle under
her shawl, saying, "It's prime.  I'll take it along."

Tom humbly held the door for her, and she marched out as grim and
erect as a grenadier.




CHAPTER 9

Tom Practices Sycophancy


Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral?
It is because we are not the person involved.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

It is easy to find fault, if one has that disposition.  There was once
a man who, not being able to find any other fault with his coal,
complained that there were too many prehistoric toads in it.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


Tom flung himself on the sofa, and put his throbbing head in his hands,
and rested his elbows on his knees.  He rocked himself back and
forth and moaned.

"I've knelt to a nigger wench!" he muttered.  "I thought I had
struck the deepest depths of degradation before, but oh, dear,
it was nothing to this. . . .   Well, there is one consolation,
such as it is--I've struck bottom this time; there's nothing lower."

But that was a hasty conclusion.

At ten that night he climbed the ladder in the haunted house, pale,
weak, and wretched.  Roxy was standing in the door of one of the rooms,
waiting, for she had heard him.

This was a two-story log house which had acquired the reputation a few
years ago of being haunted, and that was the end of its usefulness.
Nobody would live in it afterward, or go near it by night,
and most people even gave it a wide berth in the daytime.
As it had no competition, it was called _the_ haunted house.
It was getting crazy and ruinous now, from long neglect.
It stood three hundred yards beyond Pudd'nhead Wilson's house,
with nothing between but vacancy.  It was the last house in the
town at that end.

Tom followed Roxy into the room.  She had a pile of clean straw in
the corner for a bed, some cheap but well-kept clothing was hanging
on the wall, there was a tin lantern freckling the floor with little
spots of light, and there were various soap and candle boxes
scattered about, which served for chairs.  The two sat down.  Roxy said:

"Now den, I'll tell you straight off, en I'll begin to k'leck de
money later on; I ain't in no hurry.  What does you reckon
I's gwine to tell you?"

"Well, you--you--oh, Roxy, don't make it too hard for me!
Come right out and tell me you've found out somehow what a shape
I'm in on account of dissipation and foolishness."

"Disposition en foolishness!  NO sir, dat ain't it.  Dat jist ain't
nothin' at all, 'longside o' what _I_ knows."

Tom stared at her, and said:

"Why, Roxy, what do you mean?"

She rose, and gloomed above him like a Fate.

"I means dis--en it's de Lord's truth.  You ain't no more kin to
ole Marse Driscoll den I is!  _dat's_  what I means!" and her eyes
flamed with triumph.

"What?"

"Yassir, en _dat_ ain't all!  You's a _nigger!_--_bawn_ a nigger and
a _slave!_--en you's a nigger en a slave dis minute; en if I opens my
mouf ole Marse Driscoll'll sell you down de river befo' you is two days
older den what you is now!"

"It's a thundering lie, you miserable old blatherskite!"

"It ain't no lie, nuther.  It's just de truth, en nothin' _but_ de truth,
so he'p me.  Yassir--you's my _son_--"

"You devil!"

"En dat po' boy dat you's be'n a-kickin' en a-cuffin' today
is Percy Driscoll's son en yo' _marster_--"

"You beast!"

"En _his_ name is Tom Driscoll, en _yo's_ name's Valet de Chambers,
en you ain't GOT no fambly name, beca'se niggers don't _have_ em!"

Tom sprang up and seized a billet of wood and raised it, but his mother
only laughed at him, and said:

"Set down, you pup!  Does you think you kin skyer me?  It ain't in you,
nor de likes of you.  I reckon you'd shoot me in de back, maybe,
if you got a chance, for dat's jist yo' style--_I_ knows you,
throo en throo--but I don't mind gitt'n killed, beca'se all dis is
down in writin' and it's in safe hands, too, en de man dat's got it
knows whah to look for de right man when I gits killed.
Oh, bless yo' soul, if you puts yo' mother up for as big a fool as
_you_ is, you's pow'ful mistaken, I kin tell you!
Now den, you set still en behave yo'self; en don't you git up
ag'in till I tell you!"

Tom fretted and chafed awhile in a whirlwind of disorganizing
sensations and emotions, and finally said, with something like
settled conviction:

"The whole thing is moonshine; now then, go ahead and do
your worst; I'm done with you."

Roxy made no answer.  She took the lantern and started for the door.
Tom was in a cold panic in a moment.

"Come back, come back!" he wailed.  "I didn't mean it, Roxy;
I take it all back, and I'll never say it again!  Please come back, Roxy!"

The woman stood a moment, then she said gravely:

"Dat's one thing you's got to stop, Valet de Chambers.  You can't
call me _Roxy_, same as if you was my equal.  Chillen don't speak to
dey mammies like dat.  You'll call me ma or mammy, dat's what you'll
call me--leastways when de ain't nobody aroun'.  _Say_ it!"

It cost Tom a struggle, but he got it out.

"Dat's all right.  don't you ever forgit it ag'in, if you knows
what's good for you.  Now den, you had said you wouldn't ever call
it lies en moonshine ag'in.  I'll tell you dis, for a warnin':
if you ever does say it ag'in, it's de LAS' time you'll ever say
it to me; I'll tramp as straight to de judge as I kin walk,
en tell him who you is, en _prove_ it.  Does you b'lieve me when I says dat?"

"Oh," groaned Tom, "I more than believe it; I _know_ it."

Roxy knew her conquest was complete.  She could have proved nothing
to anybody, and her threat of writings was a lie; but she knew the
person she was dealing with, and had made both statements without any
doubt as to the effect they would produce.

She went and sat down on her candle box, and the pride and pomp of
her victorious attitude made it a throne.  She said:

"Now den, Chambers, we's gwine to talk business, en dey ain't gwine
to be no mo' foolishness.  In de fust place, you gits fifty dollahs
a month; you's gwine to han' over half of it to yo' ma.  Plank it out!"

But Tom had only six dollars in the world.  He gave her that,
and promised to start fair on next month's pension.

"Chambers, how much is you in debt?"

Tom shuddered, and said:

"Nearly three hundred dollars."

"How is you gwine to pay it?"

Tom groaned out:  "Oh, I don't know; don't ask me such awful questions."

But she stuck to her point until she wearied a confession out of him:
he had been prowling about in disguise, stealing small valuables from
private houses; in fact, he made a good deal of a raid on his fellow
villagers a fortnight before, when he was supposed to be in St. Louis;
but he doubted if he had sent away enough stuff to realize the
required amount, and was afraid to make a further venture in the
present excited state of the town.  His mother approved of his conduct,
and offered to help, but this frightened him.  He tremblingly ventured
to say that if she would retire from the town he should feel better
and safer, and could hold his head higher--and was going on to make
an argument, but she interrupted and surprised him pleasantly by saying
she was ready; it didn't make any difference to her where she stayed,
so that she got her share of the pension regularly.  She said she would
not go far, and would call at the haunted house once a month for her money.
Then she said:

"I don't hate you so much now, but I've hated you a many a year--
and anybody would.  Didn't I change you off, en give you a good fambly
en a good name, en made you a white gen'l'man en rich, wid store
clothes on--en what did I git for it?  You despised me all de time,
en was al'ays sayin' mean hard things to me befo' folks, en wouldn't
ever let me forgit I's a nigger--en--en--"

She fell to sobbing, and broke down.  Tom said:  "But you know I
didn't know you were my mother; and besides--"

"Well, nemmine 'bout dat, now; let it go.  I's gwine to fo'git it."
Then she added fiercely, "En don't ever make me remember it ag'in,
or you'll be sorry, _I_ tell you."

When they were parting, Tom said, in the most persuasive way
he could command:

"Ma, would you mind telling me who was my father?"

He had supposed he was asking an embarrassing question.  He was mistaken.
Roxy drew herself up with a proud toss of her head, and said:

"Does I mine tellin' you?  No, dat I don't!  You ain't got no 'casion
to be shame' o' yo' father, _I_ kin tell you.  He wuz de highest quality
in dis whole town--ole Virginny stock.  Fust famblies, he wuz.
Jes as good stock as de Driscolls en de Howards, de bes' day dey
ever seed."  She put on a little prouder air, if possible,
and added impressively:  "Does you 'member Cunnel Cecil Burleigh Essex,
dat died de same year yo' young Marse Tom Driscoll's pappy died,
en all de Masons en Odd Fellers en Churches turned out en give him de
bigges' funeral dis town ever seed?  Dat's de man."

Under the inspiration of her soaring complacency the departed graces of
her earlier days returned to her, and her bearing took to itself a
dignity and state that might have passed for queenly if her
surroundings had been a little more in keeping with it.

"Dey ain't another nigger in dis town dat's as highbawn as you is.
Now den, go 'long!  En jes you hold yo' head up as high as you want to--
you has de right, en dat I kin swah."




CHAPTER 10

The Nymph Revealed


All say, "How hard it is that we have to die"--a strange complaint
to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

When angry, count four; when very angry, swear.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


Every now and then, after Tom went to bed, he had sudden wakings
out of his sleep, and his first thought was, "Oh, joy, it was
all a dream!"  Then he laid himself heavily down again, with a groan
and the muttered words, "A nigger!  I am a nigger!  Oh, I wish I was dead!"

He woke at dawn with one more repetition of this horror, and then he
resolved to meddle no more with that treacherous sleep.
He began to think.  Sufficiently bitter thinkings they were.
They wandered along something after this fashion:

Why were niggers _and_ whites made?  What crime did the uncreated
first nigger commit that the curse of birth was decreed for him?
And why is this awful difference made between white and black? . . .
How hard the nigger's fate seems, this morning!--yet until last night
such a thought never entered my head."

He sighed and groaned an hour or more away.  Then "Chambers" came humbly
in to say that breakfast was nearly ready.  "Tom" blushed scarlet to
see this aristocratic white youth cringe to him, a nigger,
and call him "Young Marster."  He said roughly:

"Get out of my sight!" and when the youth was gone, he muttered,
"He has done me no harm, poor wrench, but he is an eyesore to me now,
for he is Driscoll, the young gentleman, and I am a--oh, I wish I was dead!"

A gigantic eruption, like that of Krakatoa a few years ago,
with the accompanying earthquakes, tidal waves, and clouds of
volcanic dust, changes the face of the surrounding landscape
beyond recognition, bringing down the high lands, elevating the low,
making fair lakes where deserts had been, and deserts where green
prairies had smiled before.  The tremendous catastrophe which had
befallen Tom had changed his moral landscape in much the same way.
Some of his low places he found lifted to ideals, some of his ideas
had sunk to the valleys, and lay there with the sackcloth and ashes
of pumice stone and sulphur on their ruined heads.

For days he wandered in lonely places, thinking, thinking, thinking--
trying to get his bearings.  It was new work.  If he met a friend,
he found that the habit of a lifetime had in some mysterious way vanished--
his arm hung limp, instead of involuntarily extending the hand for a shake.
It was the "nigger" in him asserting its humility,  and he blushed
and was abashed.  And the "nigger" in him was surprised when the white
friend put out his hand for a shake with him.  He found the "nigger"
in him involuntarily giving the road, on the sidewalk,
to a white rowdy and loafer.  When Rowena, the dearest thing his heart knew,
the idol of his secret worship, invited him in, the "nigger" in him made
an embarrassed excuse and was afraid to enter and sit with the dread
white folks on equal terms.  The "nigger" in him went shrinking
and skulking here and there and yonder, and fancying it saw suspicion and
maybe detection in all faces, tones, and gestures.  So strange and
uncharacteristic was Tom's conduct that people noticed it,
and turned to look after him when he passed on; and when he
glanced back--as he could not help doing, in spite of his best
resistance--and caught that puzzled expression in a person's face,
it gave him a sick feeling, and he took himself out of view as quickly
as he could.  He presently came to have a hunted sense and a hunted look,
and then he fled away to the hilltops and the solitudes.
He said to himself that the curse of Ham was upon him.

He dreaded his meals; the "nigger" in him was ashamed to sit at the
white folk's table, and feared discovery all the time; and once when Judge
Driscoll said, "What's the matter with you?  You look as meek as
a nigger," he felt as secret murderers are said to feel when
the accuser says, "Thou art the man!"  Tom said he was not well,
and left the table.

His ostensible "aunt's" solicitudes and endearments were become
a terror to him, and he avoided them.

And all the time, hatred of his ostensible "uncle" was steadily growing
in his heart; for he said to himself, "He is white; and I am
his chattel, his property, his goods, and he can sell me, just as
he could his dog."

For as much as a week after this, Tom imagined that his character had
undergone a pretty radical change.  But that was because he did
not know himself.

In several ways his opinions were totally changed, and would never go
back to what they were before, but the main structure of his character
was not changed, and could not be changed.  One or two very important
features of it were altered, and in time effects would result from this,
if opportunity offered--effects of a quite serious nature, too.
Under the influence of a great mental and moral upheaval, his character
and his habits had taken on the appearance of complete change,
but after a while with the subsidence of the storm, both began to
settle toward their former places.  He dropped gradually back into his
old frivolous and easygoing ways and conditions of feeling and manner
of speech, and no familiar of his could have detected anything in him that
differentiated him from the weak and careless Tom of other days.

The theft raid which he had made upon the village turned out better than
he had ventured to hope.  It produced the sum necessary to pay
his gaming debts, and saved him from exposure to his uncle and
another smashing of the will.  He and his mother learned to like
each other fairly well.  She couldn't love him, as yet,
because there "warn't nothing _to_ him," as she expressed it,
but her nature needed something or somebody to rule over,
and he was better than nothing.  Her strong character and aggressive
and commanding ways compelled Tom's admiration in spite of the fact
that he got more illustrations of them than he needed for his comfort.
However, as a rule her conversation was made up of racy tale about the
privacies of the chief families of the town (for she went harvesting
among their kitchens every time she came to the village),
and Tom enjoyed this.  It was just in his line.  She always collected
her half of his pension punctually, and he was always at the haunted
house to have a chat with her on these occasions.  Every now and then,
she paid him a visit there on between-days also.

Occasions he would run up to St. Louis for a few weeks, and at last
temptation caught him again.  He won a lot of money, but lost it,
and with it a deal more besides, which he promised to raise as
soon as possible.

For this purpose he projected a new raid on his town.  He never meddled
with any other town, for he was afraid to venture into houses whose
ins and outs he did not know and the habits of whose households he
was not acquainted with.  He arrived at the haunted house in disguise
on the Wednesday before the advent of the twins--after writing his
Aunt Pratt that he would not arrive until two days after--and laying
in hiding there with his mother until toward daylight Friday morning,
when he went to his uncle's house and entered by the back way with his
own key, and slipped up to his room where he could have the use of the
mirror and toilet articles.  He had a suit of girl's clothes with him in a
bundle as a disguise for his raid, and was wearing a suit of his
mother's clothing, with black gloves and veil.  By dawn he was tricked out
for his raid, but he caught a glimpse of Pudd'nhead Wilson through the
window over the way, and knew that Pudd'nhead had caught a glimpse of him.
So he entertained Wilson with some airs and graces and attitudes
for a while, then stepped out of sight and resumed the other disguise,
and by and by went down and out the back way and started downtown
to reconnoiter the scene of his intended labors.

But he was ill at ease.  He had changed back to Roxy's dress,
with the stoop of age added to he disguise, so that Wilson
would not bother himself about a humble old women leaving a
neighbor's house by the back way in the early morning, in case he
was still spying.  But supposing Wilson had seen him leave,
and had thought it suspicious, and had also followed him?
The thought made Tom cold.  He gave up the raid for the day,
and hurried back to the haunted house by the obscurest route he knew.
His mother was gone; but she came back, by and by, with the news
of the grand reception at Patsy Cooper's, and soon persuaded him
that the opportunity was like a special Providence, it was so
inviting and perfect.  So he went raiding, after all, and made a
nice success of it while everybody was gone to Patsy Cooper's.
Success gave him nerve and even actual intrepidity; insomuch,
indeed, that after he had conveyed his harvest to his mother in a
back alley, he went to the reception himself, and added several
of the valuables of that house to his takings.

After this long digression we have now arrived once more at the point
where Pudd'nhead Wilson, while waiting for the arrival of the twins
on that same Friday evening, sat puzzling over the strange apparition
of that morning--a girl in young Tom Driscoll's bedroom; fretting,
and guessing, and puzzling over it, and wondering who the shameless
creature might be.




CHAPTER 11

Pudd'nhead's Thrilling Discovery


There are three infallible ways of pleasing an author, and the three
form a rising scale of compliment:  1--to tell him you have read one
of his books; 2--to tell him you have read all of his books;
3--to ask him to let you read the manuscript of his forthcoming book.
No. 1 admits you to his respect; No. 2 admits you to his admiration;
No. 3 carries you clear into his heart.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

As to the Adjective: when in doubt, strike it out.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


The twins arrived presently, and talk began.  It flowed along
chattily and sociably, and under its influence the new friendship
gathered ease and strength.  Wilson got out his Calendar, by request,
and read a passage or two from it, which the twins praised quite cordially.
This pleased the author so much that he complied gladly when the asked
him to lend them a batch of the work to read at home.  In the course of
their wide travels, they had found out that there are three sure ways of
pleasing an author; they were now working the best of the three.

There was an interruption now.  Young Driscoll appeared, and joined
the party.  He pretended to be seeing the distinguished strangers for
the first time when they rose to shake hands; but this was only a blind,
as he had already had a glimpse of them, at the reception, while robbing
the house.  The twins made mental note that he was smooth-faced and
rather handsome, and smooth and undulatory in his movements--graceful,
in fact.  Angelo thought he had a good eye; Luigi thought there was
something veiled and sly about it.  Angelo thought he had a pleasant
free-and-easy way of talking; Luigi thought it was more so than was agreeable.
Angelo thought he was a sufficiently nice young man; Luigi reserved
his decision.  Tom's first contribution to the conversation was a
question which he had put to Wilson a hundred times before.
It was always cheerily and good-natured put, and always inflicted a
little pang, for it touched a secret sore; but this time the pang
was sharp, since strangers were present.

"Well, how does the law come on?  Had a case yet?"

Wilson bit his lip, but answered, "No--not yet," with as much
indifference as he could assume.  Judge Driscoll had generously left
the law feature out of Wilson's biography which he had furnished
to the twins.  Young Tom laughed pleasantly, and said:

"Wilson's a lawyer, gentlemen, but he doesn't practice now."

The sarcasm bit, but Wilson kept himself under control,
and said without passion:

"I don't practice, it is true.  It is true that I have never had a case,
and have had to earn a poor living for twenty years as an expert
accountant in a town where I can't get a hold of a set of books to
untangle as often as I should like.  But it is also true that I did
myself well for the practice of the law.  By the time I was your age,
Tom, I had chosen a profession, and was soon competent to enter upon it."
Tom winced.  "I never got a chance to try my hand at it, and I may
never get a chance; and yet if I ever do get it, I shall be found ready,
for I have kept up my law studies all these years."

"That's it; that's good grit!  I like to see it.  I've a notion to throw
all my business your way.  My business and your law practice ought to
make a pretty gay team, Dave," and the young fellow laughed again.

"If you will throw--"  Wilson had thought of the girl in Tom's bedroom,
and was going to say, "If you will throw the surreptitious and
disreputable part of your business my way, it may amount to something,"
but thought better of it and said,

"However, this matter doesn't fit well in a general conversation."

"All right, we'll change the subject; I guess you were about
to give me another dig, anyway, so I'm willing to change.
How's the Awful Mystery flourishing these days?  Wilson's got a scheme
for driving plain window glass panes out of the market by decorating it
with greasy finger marks, and getting rich by selling it at famine
prices to the crowned heads over in Europe to outfit their palaces with.
Fetch it out, Dave."

Wilson brought three of his glass strips, and said:

"I get the subject to pass the fingers of his right through his hair,
so as to get a little coating of the natural oil on them,
and then press the balls of them on the glass.  A fine an delicate
print of the lines in the skin results, and is permanent,
if it doesn't come in contact with something able to rub it off.
You begin, Tom."

"Why, I think you took my finger marks once or twice before."

"Yes, but you were a little boy the last time, only about
twelve years old."

"That's so.  Of course, I've changed entirely since then,
and variety is what the crowned heads want, I guess."

He passed his fingers through his crop of short hair, and pressed
them one at a time on the glass.  Angelo made a print of his fingers
on another glass, and Luigi followed with a third.  Wilson marked the
glasses with names and dates, and put them away.  Tom gave one of
his little laughs, and said:

"I thought I wouldn't say anything, but if variety is what you are after,
you have wasted a piece of glass.  The hand print of one twin is the
same as the hand print of the fellow twin."

"Well, it's done now, and I like to have them both, anyway,"
said Wilson, returned to his place.

"But look here, Dave," said Tom, you used to tell people's fortunes,
too, when you took their finger marks.  Dave's just an all-round genius--
a genius of the first water, gentlemen; a great scientist running to
seed here in this village, a prophet with the kind of honor that
prophets generally get at home--for here they don't give shucks for
his scientifics, and they call his skull a notion factory--hey, Dave,
ain't it so?  But never mind, he'll make his mark someday--finger mark,
you know, he-he!  But really, you want to let him take a shy at
your palms once; it's worth twice the price of admission or your
money's returned at the door.  Why, he'll read your wrinkles as easy
as a book, and not only tell you fifty or sixty things that's going to
happen to you, but fifty or sixty thousand that ain't.  Come, Dave,
show the gentlemen what an inspired jack-at-all-science we've got in
this town, and don't know it."

Wilson winced under this nagging and not very courteous chaff,
and the twins suffered with him and for him.  They rightly judged,
now, that the best way was to relieve him would be to take the thing
in earnest and treat it with respect, ignoring Tom's rather
overdone raillery; so Luigi said:

"We have seen something of palmistry in our wanderings, and know very
well what astonishing things it can do.  If it isn't a science,
and one of the greatest of them too, I don't know what its other
name ought to be.  In the Orient--"

Tom looked surprised and incredulous.  He said:

"That juggling a science?  But really, you ain't serious, are you?"

"Yes, entirely so.  Four years ago we had our hands read out to us as
if our plans had been covered with print."

"Well, do you mean to say there was actually anything in it?" asked Tom,
his incredulity beginning to weaken a little.

"There was this much in it," said Angelo:  "what was told us
of our characters was minutely exact--we could have not have
bettered it ourselves.  Next, two or three memorable things that
have happened to us were laid bare--things which no one present
but ourselves could have known about."

"Why, it's rank sorcery!" exclaimed Tom, who was now becoming very
much interested.  "And how did they make out with what was going to
happen to you in the future?"

"On the whole, quite fairly," said Luigi.  "Two or three of the most
striking things foretold have happened since; much the most striking
one of all happened within that same year.  Some of the minor prophesies
have come true; some of the minor and some of the major ones have not
been fulfilled yet, and of course may never be:  still, I should be
more surprised if they failed to arrive than if they didn't."

Tom was entirely sobered, and profoundly impressed.  He said, apologetically:

"Dave, I wasn't meaning to belittle that science; I was only chaffing--
chattering, I reckon I'd better say.  I wish you would look at their palms.
Come, won't you?"

"Why certainly, if you want me to; but you know I've had no chance to
become an expert, and don't claim to be one.  When a past event is
somewhat prominently recorded in the palm, I can generally detect that,
but minor ones often escape me--not always, of course, but often--
but I haven't much confidence in myself when it comes to
reading the future.  I am talking as if palmistry was a daily
study with me, but that is not so.  I haven't examined half a
dozen hands in the last half dozen years; you see, the people got to
joking about it, and I stopped to let the talk die down.  I'll tell you
what we'll do, Count Luigi:  I'll make a try at your past,
and if I have any success there--no, on the whole, I'll let
the future alone; that's really the affair of an expert."

He took Luigi's hand.  Tom said:

"Wait--don't look yet, Dave!  Count Luigi, here's paper and pencil.
Set down that thing that you said was the most striking one that was
foretold to you, and happened less than a year afterward, and give it
to me so I can see if Dave finds it in your hand."

Luigi wrote a line privately, and folded up the piece of paper,
and handed it to Tom, saying:

"I'll tell you when to look at it, if he finds it."

Wilson began to study Luigi's palm, tracing life lines, heart lines,
head lines, and so on, and noting carefully their relations with the
cobweb of finer and more delicate marks and lines that enmeshed them
on all sides; he felt of the fleshy cushion at the base of the thumb
and noted its shape; he felt of the fleshy side of the hand between
the wrist and the base of the little finger and noted its shape also;
he painstakingly examined the fingers, observing their form, proportions,
and natural manner of disposing themselves when in repose.
All this process was watched by the three spectators with
absorbing interest, their heads bent together over Luigi's palm, and nobody
disturbing the stillness with a word.  Wilson now entered upon a close
survey of the palm again, and his revelations began.

He mapped out Luigi's character and disposition, his tastes, aversions,
proclivities, ambitions, and eccentricities in a way which sometimes
made Luigi wince and the others laugh, but both twins declared that
the chart was artistically drawn and was correct.

Next, Wilson took up Luigi' history.  He proceeded cautiously and
with hesitation now, moving his finger slowly along the great lines
of the palm, and now and then halting it at a "star" or some
such landmark, and examining that neighborhood minutely.
He proclaimed one or two past events, Luigi confirmed his correctness,
and the search went on.  Presently Wilson glanced up suddenly with
a surprised expression.

"Here is a record of an incident which you would perhaps not wish me to--"

"Bring it out," said Luigi, good-naturedly.  "I promise you
sha'n't embarrass me."

But Wilson still hesitated, and did not seem quite to know what to do.
Then he said:

"I think it is too delicate a matter to--to--I believe I would rather
write it or whisper it to you, and let you decide for yourself whether
you want it talked out or not."

"That will answer," said Luigi.  "Write it."

Wilson wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Luigi,
who read it to himself and said to Tom:

"Unfold your slip and read it, Mr. Driscoll."

Tom said:

"'IT WAS PROPHESIED THAT I WOULD KILL A MAN.  IT CAME TRUE
BEFORE THE YEAR WAS OUT.'"

Tom added, "Great Scott!"

Luigi handed Wilson's paper to Tom, and said:

"Now read this one."

Tom read:

"'YOU HAVE KILLED SOMEONE, BUT WHETHER MAN, WOMAN, OR CHILD,
I DO NOT MAKE OUT.'"

"Caesar's ghost!" commented Tom, with astonishment.
"It beats anything that was ever heard of!  Why, a man's own hand is
his deadliest enemy!  Just think of that--a man's own hand keeps
a record of the deepest and fatalest secrets of his life, and is
treacherously ready to expose himself to any black-magic stranger
that comes along.  But what do you let a person look at your hand for,
with that awful thing printed on it?"

"Oh," said Luigi, reposefully, "I don't mind it.  I killed the man
for good reasons, and I don't regret it."

"What were the reasons?"

"Well, he needed killing."

"I'll tell you why he did it, since he won't say himself," said Angelo,
warmly.  "He did it to save my life, that's what he did it for.
So it was a noble act, and not a thing to be hid in the dark."

"So it was, so it was," said Wilson.  "To do such a thing to save a
brother's life is a great and fine action."

"Now come," said Luigi, "it is very pleasant to hear you say
these things, but for unselfishness, or heroism, or magnanimity,
the circumstances won't stand scrutiny.  You overlook one detail;
suppose I hadn't saved Angelo's life, what would have become of mine?
If I had let the man kill him, wouldn't he have killed me, too?
I saved my own life, you see."

"Yes, that is your way of talking," said Angelo, "but I know you--
I don't believe you thought of yourself at all.  I keep that weapon
yet that Luigi killed the man with, and I'll show it to you sometime.
That incident makes it interesting, and it had a history before it
came into Luigi's hands which adds to its interest.  It was given to
Luigi by a great Indian prince, the Gaikowar of Baroda, and it had been
in his family two or three centuries.  It killed a good many disagreeable
people who troubled the hearthstone at one time or another.  It isn't much
too look at, except it isn't shaped like other knives, or dirks,
or whatever it may be called--here, I'll draw it for you."  He took a
sheet of paper and made a rapid sketch.  "There it is--a broad and
murderous blade, with edges like a razor for sharpness.
The devices engraved on it are the ciphers or names of its long
line of possessors--I had Luigi's name added in Roman letters
myself with our coat of arms, as you see.  You notice what a
curious handle the thing has.  It is solid ivory, polished like a mirror,
and is four or five inches long--round, and as thick as a
large man's wrist, with the end squared off flat, for your thumb
to rest on; for you grasp it, with your thumb resting on the blunt end--
so--and lift it along and strike downward.  The Gaikowar showed us how
the thing was done when he gave it to Luigi, and before that
night was ended, Luigi had used the knife, and the Gaikowar was a man
short by reason of it.  The sheath is magnificently ornamented with
gems of great value.  You will find a sheath more worth looking at
than the knife itself, of course."

Tom said to himself:

"It's lucky I came here.  I would have sold that knife for a song;
I supposed the jewels were glass."

"But go on; don't stop," said Wilson.  "Our curiosity is up now,
to hear about the homicide.  Tell us about that."

"Well, briefly, the knife was to blame for that, all around.
A native servant slipped into our room in the palace in the night,
to kill us and steal the knife on account of the fortune encrusted
on its sheath, without a doubt.  Luigi had it under his pillow;
we were in bed together.  There was a dim night-light burning.
I was asleep, but Luigi was awake, and he thought he detected a
vague form nearing the bed.  He slipped the knife out of the sheath
and was ready and unembarrassed by hampering bedclothes,
for the weather was hot and we hadn't any.  Suddenly that native rose
at the bedside, and bent over me with his right hand lifted and a
dirk in it aimed at my throat; but Luigi grabbed his wrist,
pulled him downward, and drove his own knife into the man's neck.
That is the whole story."

Wilson and Tom drew deep breaths, and after some general chat
about the tragedy, Pudd'nhead said, taking Tom's hand:

"Now, Tom, I've never had a look at your palms, as it happens;
perhaps you've got some little questionable privacies that need--hel-lo!"

Tom had snatched away his hand, and was looking a good deal confused.

"Why, he's blushing!" said Luigi.

Tom darted an ugly look at him, and said sharply:

"Well, if I am, it ain't because I'm a murderer!"  Luigi's dark
face flushed, but before he could speak or move, Tom added with
anxious haste:  "Oh, I beg a thousand pardons.  I didn't mean that;
it was out before I thought, and I'm very, very sorry--you must forgive me!"

Wilson came to the rescue, and smoothed things down as well as he could;
and in fact was entirely successful as far as the twins were concerned,
for they felt sorrier for the affront put upon him by his guest's
outburst of ill manners than for the insult offered to Luigi.
But the success was not so pronounced with the offender.  Tom tried to
seem at his ease, and he went through the motions fairly well,
but at bottom he felt resentful toward all the three witnesses of
his exhibition; in fact, he felt so annoyed at them for having
witnessed it and noticed it that he almost forgot to feel annoyed
at himself for placing it before them.  However, something presently
happened which made him almost comfortable, and brought him nearly back
to a state of charity and friendliness.  This was a little spat between
the twins; not much of a spat, but still a spat; and before they got
far with it, they were in a decided condition of irritation while
pretending to be actuated by more respectable motives.  By his help
the fire got warmed up to the blazing point, and he might have had the
happiness of seeing the flames show up in another moment, but for the
interruption of a knock on the door--an interruption which fretted him
as much as it gratified Wilson.  Wilson opened the door.

The visitor was a good-natured, ignorant, energetic middle-aged
Irishman named John Buckstone, who was a great politician in a
small way, and always took a large share in public matters of
every sort.  One of the town's chief excitements, just now, was over
the matter of rum.  There was a strong rum party and a strong
anti-rum party.  Buckstone was training with the rum party, and he
had been sent to hunt up the twins and invite them to attend a
mass meeting of that faction.  He delivered his errand, and said
the clans were already gathering in the big hall over the market house.
Luigi accepted the invitation cordially.  Angelo less cordially,
since he disliked crowds, and did not drink the powerful intoxicants
of America.  In fact, he was even a teetotaler sometimes--
when it was judicious to be one.

The twins left with Buckstone, and Tom Driscoll joined the
company with them uninvited.

In the distance, one could see a long wavering line of
torches drifting down the main street, and could hear the
throbbing of the bass drum, the clash of cymbals, the squeaking
of a fife or two, and the faint roar of remote hurrahs.  The tail
end of this procession was climbing the market house stairs when
the twins arrived in its neighborhood; when they reached the hall,
it was full of people, torches, smoke, noise, and enthusiasm.
They were conducted to the platform by Buckstone--Tom Driscoll
still following--and were delivered to the chairman in the midst
of a prodigious explosion of welcome.  When the noise had moderated
a little, the chair proposed that "our illustrious guests be at
once elected, by complimentary acclamation, to membership in our
ever-glorious organization, the paradise of the free and the perdition
of the slave."

This eloquent discharge opened the floodgates of enthusiasm again,
and the election was carried with thundering unanimity.  Then arose
a storm of cries:

"Wet them down!  Wet them down!  Give them a drink!"

Glasses of whisky were handed to the twins.  Luigi waves his aloft,
then brought it to his lips; but Angelo set his down.
There was another storm of cries.

"What's the matter with the other one?"  "What is the blond one
going back on us for?"  "Explain!  Explain!"

The chairman inquired, and then reported:

"We have made an unfortunate mistake, gentlemen.  I find that the
Count Angelo Capello is opposed to our creed--is a teetotaler, in fact,
and was not intending to apply for membership with us.  He desires
that we reconsider the vote by which he was elected.  What is the
pleasure of the house?"

There was a general burst of laughter, plentifully accented with
whistlings and catcalls, but the energetic use of the gavel
presently restored something like order.  Then a man spoke from
the crowd, and said that while he was very sorry that the mistake
had been made, it would not be possible to rectify it at the
present meeting.  According to the bylaws, it must go over to the
next regular meeting for action.  He would not offer a motion, as
none was required.  He desired to apologize to the gentlemen in
the name of the house, and begged to assure him that as far as it
might lie in the power of the Sons of Liberty, his temporary
membership in the order would be made pleasant to him.

This speech was received with great applause, mixed with cries of:

"That's the talk!  "He's a good fellow, anyway, if he _is_ a teetotaler!"
"Drink his health!"  "Give him a rouser, and no heeltaps!"

Glasses were handed around, and everybody on the platform
drank Angelo's health, while the house bellowed forth in song:


          For he's a jolly good fel-low,
          For he's a jolly good fel-low,
          For he's a jolly good fe-el-low,
               Which nobody can deny.


Tom Driscoll drank.  It was his second glass, for he had drunk
Angelo's the moment that Angelo had set it down.  The two drinks
made him very merry--almost idiotically so, and he began to take a
most lively and prominent part in the proceedings, particularly in
the music and catcalls and side remarks.

The chairman was still standing at the front, the twins at his side.
The extraordinarily close resemblance of the brothers to each other
suggested a witticism to Tom Driscoll, and just as the chairman began
a speech he skipped forward and said, with an air of tipsy confidence,
to the audience:

"Boys, I move that he keeps still and lets this human philopena snip
you out a speech."

The descriptive aptness of the phrase caught the house, and a mighty
burst of laughter followed.

Luigi's southern blood leaped to the boiling point in a moment under
the sharp humiliation of this insult delivered in the presence of
four hundred strangers.  It was not in the young man's nature to
let the matter pass, or to delay the squaring of the account.
He took a couple of strides and halted behind the unsuspecting joker.
Then he drew back and delivered a kick of such titanic vigor that it
lifted Tom clear over the footlights and landed him on the heads of
the front row of the Sons of Liberty.

Even a sober person does not like to have a human being emptied on him
when he is not going any harm; a person who is not sober cannot endure
such an attention at all.  The nest of Sons of Liberty that Driscoll
landed in had not a sober bird in it; in fact there was probably not
an entirely sober one in the auditorium.  Driscoll was promptly and
indignantly flung on the heads of Sons in the next row, and these Sons
passed him on toward the rear, and then immediately began to pummel the
front row Sons who had passed him to them.  This course was strictly
followed by bench after bench as Driscoll traveled in his tumultuous
and airy flight toward the door; so he left behind him an ever-lengthening
wake of raging and plunging and fighting and swearing humanity.
Down went group after group of torches, and presently above the
deafening clatter of the gavel, roar of angry voices, and crash of
succumbing benches, rose the paralyzing cry of "_fire!_"

The fighting ceased instantly; the cursing ceased; for one distinctly
defined moment, there was a dead hush, a motionless calm, where the
tempest had been; then with one impulse the multitude awoke to life
and energy again, and went surging and struggling and swaying,
this way and that, its outer edges melting away through windows and
doors and gradually lessening the pressure and relieving the mass.

The fireboys were never on hand so suddenly before; for there was
no distance to go this time, their quarters being in the rear end
of the market house,  There was an engine company and a
hook-and-ladder company.  Half of each was composed of rummies and
the other half of anti-rummies, after the moral and political
share-and-share-alike fashion of the frontier town of the period.
Enough anti-rummies were loafing in quarters to man the engine
and the ladders.  In two minutes they had their red shirts and helmets on--
they never stirred officially in unofficial costume--and as the
mass meeting overhead smashed through the long row of windows and
poured out upon the roof of the arcade, the deliverers were ready
for them with a powerful stream of water, which washed some of them
off the roof and nearly drowned the rest.  But water was preferable
to fire, and still the stampede from the windows continued, and still the
pitiless drenching assailed it until the building was empty;
then the fireboys mounted to the hall and flooded it with water enough
to annihilate forty times as much fire as there was there;
for a village fire company does not often get a chance to show off,
and so when it does get a chance, it makes the most of it.
Such citizens of that village as were of a thoughtful and judicious
temperament did not insure against fire; they insured against the
fire company.




CHAPTER 12

The Shame of Judge Driscoll


Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear--not absence of fear.
Except a creature be part coward, it is not a compliment to say
it is brave; it is merely a loose misapplication of the word.
Consider the flea!--incomparably the bravest of all the creatures of God,
if ignorance of fear were courage.  Whether you are asleep or awake he
will attack you, caring nothing for the fact that in bulk and strength
you are to him as are the massed armies of the earth to a sucking child;
he lives both day and night and all days and nights in the very lap
of peril and the immediate presence of death, and yet is no more
afraid than is the man who walks the streets of a city that was
threatened by an earthquake ten centuries before.  When we speak
of Clive, Nelson, and Putnam as men who "didn't know what fear was,"
we ought always to add the flea--and put him at the head of the procession.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


Judge Driscoll was in bed and asleep by ten o'clock on Friday night,
and he was up and gone a-fishing before daylight in the morning with
his friend Pembroke Howard.  These two had been boys together in
Virginia when that state still ranked as the chief and most imposing
member of the Union, and they still coupled the proud and affectionate
adjective "old" with her name when they spoke of her.
In Missouri a recognized superiority attached to any person who
hailed from Old Virginia; and this superiority was exalted to
supremacy when a person of such nativity could also prove descent
from the First Families of that great commonwealth.  The Howards and
Driscolls were of this aristocracy.  In their eyes, it was a nobility.
It had its unwritten laws, and they were as clearly defined and as
strict as any that could be found among the printed statues of the land.
The F.F.V. was born a gentleman; his highest duty in life was to
watch over that great inheritance and keep it unsmirched.
He must keep his honor spotless.  Those laws were his chart;
his course was marked out on it; if he swerved from it by so much as
half a point of the compass, it meant shipwreck to his honor;
that is to say, degradation from his rank as a gentleman.
These laws required certain things of him which his religion might forbid:
then his religion must yield--the laws could not be relaxed to
accommodate religions or anything else.  Honor stood first;
and the laws defined what it was and wherein it differed in certain
details from honor as defined by church creeds and by the social laws
and customs of some of the minor divisions of the globe that had got
crowded out when the sacred boundaries of Virginia were staked out.

If Judge Driscoll was the recognized first citizen of Dawson's Landing,
Pembroke Howard was easily its recognized second citizen.
He was called "the great lawyer"--an earned title.  He and Driscoll
were of the same age--a year or two past sixty.

Although Driscoll was a freethinker and Howard a strong and
determined Presbyterian, their warm intimacy suffered no
impairment in consequence.  They were men whose opinions were
their own property and not subject to revision and amendment,
suggestion or criticism, by anybody, even their friends.

The day's fishing finished, they came floating downstream in their skiff,
talking national politics and other high matters, and presently met
a skiff coming up from town, with a man in it who said:

"I reckon you know one of the new twins gave your nephew a
kicking last night, Judge?"

"Did WHAT?"

"Gave him a kicking."

The old judge's lips paled, and his eyes began to flame.  He choked with
anger for a moment, then he got out what he was trying to say:

"Well--well--go on!  Give me the details!"

The man did it.  At the finish the judge was silent a minute,
turning over in his mind the shameful picture of Tom's flight over
the footlights; then he said, as if musing aloud,

"H'm--I don't understand it.  I was asleep at home.  He didn't wake me.
Thought he was competent to manage his affair without my help, I reckon."
His face lit up with pride and pleasure at that thought, and he said
with a cheery complacency, "I like that--it's the true old blood--
hey, Pembroke?"

Howard smiled an iron smile, and nodded his head approvingly.
Then the news-bringer spoke again.

"But Tom beat the twin on the trial."

The judge looked at the man wonderingly, and said:

"The trial?  What trial?"

"Why, Tom had him up before Judge Robinson for assault and battery."

The old man shrank suddenly together like one who has received a
death stroke.  Howard sprang for him as he sank forward in a swoon,
and took him in his arms, and bedded him on his back in the boat.
He sprinkled water in his face, and said to the startled visitor:

"Go, now--don't let him come to and find you here.  You see what an
effect your heedless speech has had; you ought to have been more
considerate than to blurt out such a cruel piece of slander as that."

"I'm right down sorry I did it now, Mr. Howard, and I wouldn't
have done it if I had thought; but it ain't slander;
it's perfectly true, just as I told him."

He rowed away.  Presently the old judge came out of his faint and
looked up piteously into the sympathetic face that was bent over him.

"Say it ain't true, Pembroke; tell me it ain't true!" he said in a weak voice.

There was nothing weak in the deep organ tones that responded:

"You know it's a lie as well as I do, old friend.  He is of
the best blood of the Old Dominion."

"God bless you for saying it!" said the old gentleman, fervently.
"Ah, Pembroke, it was such a blow!"

Howard stayed by his friend, and saw him home, and entered the house
with him.  It was dark, and past supper-time, but the judge was
not thinking of supper; he was eager to hear the slander refuted
from headquarters, and as eager to have Howard hear it, too.
Tom was sent for, and he came immediately.  He was bruised and lame,
and was not a happy-looking object.  His uncle made him sit down, and said:

"We have been hearing about your adventure, Tom, with a handsome lie
added for embellishment.  Now pulverize that lie to dust!
What measures have you taken?  How does the thing stand?"

Tom answered guilelessly:  "It don't stand at all; it's all over.
I had him up in court and beat him.  Pudd'nhead Wilson defended him--
first case he ever had, and lost it.  The judge fined the miserable
hound five dollars for the assault."

Howard and the judge sprang to their feet with the opening sentence--
why, neither knew; then they stood gazing vacantly at each other.
Howard stood a moment, then sat mournfully down without saying anything.
The judge's wrath began to kindle, and he burst out:

"You cur!  You scum!  You vermin!  Do you mean to tell me that blood
of my race has suffered a blow and crawled to a court of law about it?
Answer me!"

Tom's head drooped, and he answered with an eloquent silence.
His uncle stared at him with a mixed expression of amazement and
shame and incredulity that was sorrowful to see.  At last he said:

"Which of the twins was it?"

"Count Luigi."

"You have challenged him?"

"N--no," hesitated Tom, turning pale.

"You will challenge him tonight.  Howard will carry it."

Tom began to turn sick, and to show it.  He turned his hat round and
round in his hand, his uncle glowering blacker and blacker upon him
as the heavy seconds drifted by; then at last he began to stammer,
and said piteously:

"Oh, please, don't ask me to do it, uncle!  He is a murderous devil--
I never could--I--I'm afraid of him!"

Old Driscoll's mouth opened and closed three times before he
could get it to perform its office; then he stormed out:

"A coward in my family!  A Driscoll a coward!  Oh, what have I done
to deserve this infamy!"  He tottered to his secretary in the corner,
repeated that lament again and again in heartbreaking tones,
and got out of a drawer a paper, which he slowly tore to bits,
scattering the bits absently in his track as he walked up
and down the room, still grieving and lamenting.  At last he said:

"There it is, shreds and fragments once more--my will.  Once more you
have forced me to disinherit you, you base son of a most noble father!
Leave my sight!  Go--before I spit on you!"

The young man did not tarry.  Then the judge turned to Howard:

"You will be my second, old friend?"

"Of course."

"There is pen and paper.  Draft the cartel, and lose no time."

"The Count shall have it in his hands in fifteen minutes," said Howard.

Tom was very heavyhearted.  His appetite was gone with his property
and his self-respect.  He went out the back way and wandered down the
obscure lane grieving, and wondering if any course of future conduct,
however discreet and carefully perfected and watched over,
could win back his uncle's favor and persuade him to reconstruct once
more that generous will which had just gone to ruin before his eyes.
He finally concluded that it could.  He said to himself that he had
accomplished this sort of triumph once already, and that what had been
done once could be done again.  He would set about it.  He would bend
every energy to the task, and he would score that triumph once more,
cost what it might to his convenience, limit as it might his
frivolous and liberty-loving life.

"To begin," he says to himself, "I'll square up with the proceeds of
my raid, and then gambling has got to be stopped--and stopped short off.
It's the worst vice I've got--from my standpoint, anyway,
because it's the one he can most easily find out, through the impatience
of my creditors.  He thought it expensive to have to pay two hundred
dollars to them for me once.  Expensive--_that!_  Why, it cost me
the whole of his fortune--but, of course, he never thought of that;
some people can't think of any but their own side of a case.
If he had known how deep I am in now, the will would have gone to pot
without waiting for a duel to help.  Three hundred dollars!
It's a pile!  But he'll never hear of it, I'm thankful to say.
The minute I've cleared it off, I'm safe; and I'll never touch
a card again.  Anyway, I won't while he lives, I make oath to that.
I'm entering on my last reform--I know it--yes, and I'll win;
but after that, if I ever slip again I'm gone."




CHAPTER 13

Tom Stares at Ruin

When I reflect upon the number of disagreeable people who I know
have gone to a better world, I am moved to lead a different life.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

October.  This is one of the peculiarly dangerous months to speculate
in stocks in.  The others are July, January, September, April,
November, May, March, June, December, August, and February.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


Thus mournfully communing with himself, Tom moped along the lane past
Pudd'nhead Wilson's house, and still on and on between fences enclosing
vacant country on each hand till he neared the haunted house,
then he came moping back again, with many sighs and heavy with trouble.
He sorely wanted cheerful company.  Rowena!  His heart gave a bound
at the thought, but the next thought quieted it--the detested twins
would be there.

He was on the inhabited side of Wilson's house, and now as
he approached it, he noticed that the sitting room was lighted.
This would do; others made him feel unwelcome sometimes, but Wilson
never failed in courtesy toward him, and a kindly courtesy does at least
save one's feelings, even if it is not professing to stand for a welcome.
Wilson heard footsteps at his threshold, then the clearing of a throat.

"It's that fickle-tempered, dissipated young goose--poor devil,
he find friends pretty scarce today, likely, after the disgrace of
carrying a personal assault case into a law-court."

A dejected knock.  "Come in!"

Tom entered, and dropped into a chair, without saying anything.
Wilson said kindly:

"Why, my boy, you look desolate.  Don't take it so hard.
Try and forget you have been kicked."

"Oh, dear," said Tom, wretchedly, "it's not that, Pudd'nhead--
it's not that..  It's a thousand times worse than that--oh, yes,
a million times worse."

"Why, Tom, what do you mean?  Has Rowena--"

"Flung me?  _No_, but the old man has."

Wilson said to himself, "Aha!" and thought of the mysterious girl
in the bedroom.  "The Driscolls have been making discoveries!"
Then he said aloud, gravely:

"Tom, there are some kinds of dissipation which--"

"Oh, shucks, this hasn't got anything to do with dissipation.
He wanted me to challenge that derned Italian savage,
and I wouldn't do it."

"Yes, of course he would do that," said Wilson in a meditative
matter-of-course way, "but the thing that puzzled me was,
why he didn't look to that last night, for one thing,
and why he let you carry such a matter into a court of law at all,
either before the duel or after it.  It's no place for it.
It was not like him.  I couldn't understand it.  How did it happen?"

"It happened because he didn't know anything about it.  He
was asleep when I got home last night."

"And you didn't wake him?  Tom, is that possible?"

Tom was not getting much comfort here.  He fidgeted a moment, then said:

"I didn't choose to tell him--that's all.  He was going a-fishing
before dawn, with Pembroke Howard, and if I got the twins into
the common calaboose--and I thought sure I could--I never dreamed
of their slipping out on a paltry fine for such an outrageous offense--
well, once in the calaboose they would be disgraced, and uncle wouldn't
want any duels with that sort of characters, and wouldn't allow any.

"Tom, I am ashamed of you!  I don't see how you could treat
your good old uncle so.  I am a better friend of his than you are;
for if I had known the circumstances I would have kept that case out
of court until I got word to him and let him have the gentleman's chance."

"You would?" exclaimed Tom, with lively surprise.  "And it your
first case!  And you know perfectly well there never would have _been_
any case if he had got that chance, don't you?  And you'd have finished
your days a pauper nobody, instead of being an actually launched and
recognized lawyer today.  And you would really have done that, would you?"

"Certainly."

Tom looked at him a moment or two, then shook his head sorrowfully and said:

"I believe you--upon my word I do.  I don't know why I do, but I do.
Pudd'nhead Wilson, I think you're the biggest fool I ever saw."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"Well, he has been requiring you to fight the Italian,
and you have refused.  You degenerate remnant of an honorable line!
I'm thoroughly ashamed of you, Tom!"

"Oh, that's nothing!  I don't care for anything, now that the will's
torn up again."

"Tom, tell me squarely--didn't he find any fault with you for anything
but those two things--carrying the case into court and refusing to fight?"

He watched the young fellow's face narrowly, but it was
entirely reposeful, and so also was the voice that answered:

"No, he didn't find any other fault with me.  If he had had any to find,
he would have begun yesterday, for he was just in the humor for it.
He drove that jack-pair around town and showed them the sights,
and when he came home he couldn't find his father's old silver watch
that don't keep time and he thinks so much of, and couldn't remember
what he did with it three or four days ago when he saw it last,
and when I suggested that it probably wasn't lost but stolen,
it put him in a regular passion, and he said I was a fool--
which convinced me, without any trouble, that that was just what he
was afraid _had_ happened, himself, but did not want to believe it,
because lost things stand a better chance of being found again
than stolen ones."

"Whe-ew!" whistled Wilson.  "Score another one the list."

"Another what?"

"Another theft!"

"Theft?"

"Yes, theft.  That watch isn't lost, it's stolen.  There's been another
raid on the town--and just the same old mysterious sort of thing
that has happened once before, as you remember."

"You don't mean it!"

"It's as sure as you are born!  Have you missed anything yourself?"

"No.  That is, I did miss a silver pencil case that Aunt Mary Pratt
gave me last birthday--"

"You'll find it stolen--that's what you'll find."

"No, I sha'n't; for when I suggested theft about the watch and got
such a rap, I went and examined my room, and the pencil case was missing,
but it was only mislaid, and I found it again."

"You are sure you missed nothing else?"

"Well, nothing of consequence.  I missed a small plain gold ring worth
two or three dollars, but that will turn up.  I'll look again."

"In my opinion you'll not find it.  There's been a raid, I tell you.
Come _in!_"

Mr. Justice Robinson entered, followed by Buckstone and
the town constable, Jim Blake.  They sat down, and after some
wandering and aimless weather-conversation Wilson said:

"By the way, We've just added another to the list of thefts, maybe two.
Judge Driscoll's old silver watch is gone, and Tom here
has missed a gold ring."

"Well, it is a bad business," said the justice, "and gets worse
the further it goes.  The Hankses, the Dobsons, the Pilligrews,
the Ortons, the Grangers, the Hales, the Fullers, the Holcombs,
in fact everybody that lives around about Patsy Cooper's had been
robbed of little things like trinkets and teaspoons and suchlike
small valuables that are easily carried off.  It's perfectly plain
that the thief took advantage of the reception at Patsy Cooper's when
all the neighbors were in her house and all their niggers hanging around
her fence for a look at the show, to raid the vacant houses undisturbed.
Patsy is miserable about it; miserable on account of the neighbors,
and particularly miserable on account of her foreigners, of course;
so miserable on their account that she hasn't any room to worry
about her own little losses."

"It's the same old raider," said Wilson.  "I suppose there isn't
any doubt about that."

"Constable Blake doesn't think so."

"No, you're wrong there," said Blake.  "The other times it was a man;
there was plenty of signs of that, as we know, in the profession,
thought we never got hands on him; but this time it's a woman."

Wilson thought of the mysterious girl straight off.  She was always
in his mind now.  But she failed him again.  Blake continued:

"She's a stoop-shouldered old woman with a covered basket on her arm,
in a black veil, dressed in mourning.  I saw her going aboard
the ferryboat yesterday.  Lives in Illinois, I reckon; but I don't care
where she lives, I'm going to get her--she can make herself sure of that."

"What makes you think she's the thief?"

"Well, there ain't any other, for one thing; and for another,
some nigger draymen that happened to be driving along saw her coming
out of or going into houses, and told me so--and it just happens that
they was _robbed_, every time."

It was granted that this was plenty good enough circumstantial evidence.
A pensive silence followed, which lasted some moments, then Wilson said:

"There's one good thing, anyway.  She can't either pawn or sell
Count Luigi's costly Indian dagger."

"My!" said Tom.  "Is _that_ gone?"

"Yes."

"Well, that was a haul!  But why can't she pawn it or sell it?"

"Because when the twins went home from the Sons of Liberty meeting
last night, news of the raid was sifting in from everywhere,
and Aunt Patsy was in distress to know if they had lost anything.
They found that the dagger was gone, and they notified the police
and pawnbrokers everywhere.  It was a great haul, yes, but
the old woman won't get anything out of it, because she'll get caught."

"Did they offer a reward?" asked Buckstone.

"Yes, five hundred dollars for the knife, and five hundred more
for the thief."

"What a leather-headed idea!" exclaimed the constable.
"The thief das'n't go near them, nor send anybody.
Whoever goes is going to get himself nabbed,
for their ain't any pawnbroker that's going to lose the chance to--"

If anybody had noticed Tom's face at that time, the gray-green color
of it might have provoked curiosity; but nobody did.
He said to himself:  "I'm gone!  I never can square up; the rest of
the plunder won't pawn or sell for half of the bill.  Oh, I know it--
I'm gone, I'm gone--and this time it's for good.  Oh, this is awful--
I don't know what to do, nor which way to turn!"

"Softly, softly," said Wilson to Blake.  "I planned their scheme
for them at midnight last night, and it was all finished up shipshape
by two this morning.  They'll get their dagger back,
and then I'll explain to you how the thing was done."

There were strong signs of a general curiosity, and Buckstone said:

"Well, you have whetted us up pretty sharp.  Wilson, and I'm free
to say that if you don't mind telling us in confidence--"

"Oh, I'd as soon tell as not, Buckstone, but as long as the
twins and I agreed to say nothing about it, we must let it stand so.
But you can take my word for it, you won't be kept waiting three days.
Somebody will apply for that reward pretty promptly,
and I'll show you the thief and the dagger both very soon afterward."

The constable was disappointed, and also perplexed.  He said:

"It may all be--yes, and I hope it will, but I'm blamed if I
can see my way through it.  It's too many for yours truly."

The subject seemed about talked out.  Nobody seemed to have
anything further to offer.  After a silence the justice of the
peace informed Wilson that he and Buckstone and the constable had
come as a committee, on the part of the Democratic party, to ask him
to run for mayor--for the little town was about to become a city and
the first charter election was approaching.  It was the first attention
which Wilson had ever received at the hands of any party;
it was a sufficiently humble one, but it was a recognition of his debut
into the town's life and activities at last; it was a step upward,
and he was deeply gratified. He accepted, and the committee departed,
followed by young Tom.




CHAPTER 14

Roxana Insists Upon Reform


The true Southern watermelon is a boon apart, and not to be mentioned
with commoner things.  It is chief of this world's luxuries,
king by the grace of God over all the fruits of the earth.
When one has tasted it, he knows what the angels eat.  It was not a
Southern watermelon that Eve took:  we know it because she repented.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


About the time that Wilson was bowing the committee out,
Pembroke Howard was entering the next house to report.
He found the old judge sitting grim and straight in his chair, waiting.

"Well, Howard--the news?"

"The best in the world."

"Accepts, does he?"  and the light of battle gleamed joyously
in the Judge's eye.

"Accepts?  Why he jumped at it."

"Did, did he?  Now that's fine--that's very fine.  I like that.
When is it to be?"

"Now!  Straight off!  Tonight!  An admirable fellow--admirable!"

"Admirable?  He's a darling!  Why, it's an honor as well as
a pleasure to stand up before such a man.  Come--off with you!
Go and arrange everything--and give him my heartiest compliments.
A rare fellow, indeed; an admirable fellow, as you have said!"

"I'll have him in the vacant stretch between Wilson's and
the haunted house within the hour, and I'll bring my own pistols."

Judge Driscoll began to walk the floor in a state of pleased excitement;
but presently he stopped, and began to think--began to think of Tom.
Twice he moved toward the secretary, and twice he turned away again;
but finally he said:

"This may be my last night in the world--I must not take the chance.
He is worthless and unworthy, but it is largely my fault.
He was entrusted to me by my brother on his dying bed,
and I have indulged him to his hurt, instead of training him up severely,
and making a man of him, I have violated my trust, and I must not add
the sin of desertion to that.  I have forgiven him once already,
and would subject him to a long and hard trial before forgiving
him again, if I could live; but I must not run that risk.
No, I must restore the will.  But if I survive the duel,
I will hide it away, and he will not know, and I will not tell him
until he reforms, and I see that his reformation is going to be permanent."

He redrew the will, and his ostensible nephew was heir to a
fortune again.  As he was finishing his task, Tom, wearied with
another brooding tramp, entered the house and went tiptoeing past
the sitting room door.  He glanced in, and hurried on, for the sight
of his uncle was nothing but terrors for him tonight.  But his uncle
was writing!  That was unusual at this late hour.  What could he
be writing?  A chill of anxiety settled down upon Tom's heart.
Did that writing concern him?  He was afraid so.  He reflected that
when ill luck begins, it does not come in sprinkles, but in showers.
He said he would get a glimpse of that document or know the reason why.
He heard someone coming, and stepped out of sight and hearing.
It was Pembroke Howard.  What could be hatching?

Howard said, with great satisfaction:

"Everything's right and ready.  He's gone to the battleground with
his second and the surgeon--also with his brother.  I've arranged it
all with Wilson--Wilson's his second.  We are to have three shots apiece."

"Good!  How is the moon?"

"Bright as day, nearly.  Perfect, for the distance--fifteen yards.
No wind--not a breath; hot and still."

"All good; all first-rate.  Here, Pembroke, read this, and witness it."

Pembroke read and witnessed the will, then gave the old man's hand
a hearty shake and said:

"Now that's right, York--but I knew you would do it.  You couldn't
leave that poor chap to fight along without means or profession,
with certain defeat before him, and I knew you wouldn't, for his
father's sake if not for his own."

"For his dead father's sake, I couldn't, I know; for poor Percy--
but you know what Percy was to me.  But mind--Tom is not to know
of this unless I fall tonight."

"I understand.  I'll keep the secret."

The judge put the will away, and the two started for the battleground.
In another minute the will was in Tom's hands.
His misery vanished, his feelings underwent a tremendous revulsion.
He put the will carefully back in its place, and spread his mouth
and swung his hat once, twice, three times around his head,
in imitation of three rousing huzzahs, no sound issuing from his lips.
He fell to communing with himself excitedly and joyously,
but every now and then he let off another volley of dumb hurrahs.

He said to himself:  "I've got the fortune again, but I'll not let on
that I know about it.  And this time I'm gong to hang on to it.
I take no more risks.  I'll gamble no more, I'll drink no more,
because--well, because I'll not go where there is any of that sort of
thing going on, again.  It's the sure way, and the only sure way;
I might have thought of that sooner--well, yes, if I had wanted to.
But now--dear me, I've had a scare this time, and I'll take
no more chances.  Not a single chance more. Land!  I persuaded myself
this evening that I could fetch him around without any great amount
of effort, but I've been getting more and more heavyhearted and
doubtful straight along, ever since.  If he tells me about this thing,
all right; but if he doesn't, I sha'n't let on.  I--well, I'd like to tell
Pudd'nhead Wilson, but--no, I'll think about that; perhaps I won't."
He whirled off another dead huzzah, and said, "I'm reformed,
and this time I'll stay so, sure!"

He was about to close with a final grand silent demonstration,
when he suddenly recollected that Wilson had put it out of his power
to pawn or sell the Indian knife, and that he was once more in
awful peril of exposure by his creditors for that reason.
His joy collapsed utterly, and he turned away and moped toward
the door moaning and lamenting over the bitterness of his luck.
He dragged himself upstairs, and brooded in his room a long time,
disconsolate and forlorn, with Luigi's Indian knife for a text.
At last he sighed and said:

"When I supposed these stones were glass and this ivory bone,
the thing hadn't any interest for me because it hadn't any value,
and couldn't help me out of my trouble.  But now--why, now it is
full of interest; yes, and of a sort to break a body's heart.
It's a bag of gold that has turned to dirt and ashes in my hands.
It could save me, and save me so easily, and yet I've got to go to ruin.
It's like drowning with a life preserver in my reach.  All the hard luck
comes to me, and all the good luck goes to other people--
Pudd'nhead Wilson, for instance; even his career has got a sort of
a little start at last, and what has he done to deserve it,
I should like to know?  Yes, he has opened his own road,
but he isn't content with that, but must block mine.
It's a sordid, selfish world, and I wish I was out of it."
He allowed the light of the candle to play upon the jewels of the sheath,
but the flashings and sparklings had no charm for his eye;
they were only just so many pangs to his heart.  "I must not say
anything to Roxy about this thing," he said.  "She is too daring.
She would be for digging these stones out and selling them, and then--
why, she would be arrested and the stones traced, and then--"
The thought made him quake, and he hid the knife away, trembling
all over and glancing furtively about, like a criminal who fancies that
the accuser is already at hand.

Should he try to sleep?  Oh, no, sleep was not for him; his trouble
was too haunting, too afflicting for that.  He must have somebody
to mourn with.  He would carry his despair to Roxy.

He had heard several distant gunshots, but that sort of thing
was not uncommon, and they had made no impression upon him.
He went out at the back door, and turned westward.  He passed
Wilson's house and proceeded along the lane, and presently saw
several figures approaching Wilson's place through the vacant lots.
These were the duelists returning from the fight; he thought
he recognized them, but as he had no desire for white people's company,
he stooped down behind the fence until they were out of his way.

Roxy was feeling fine.  She said:

"Whah was you, child?  Warn't you in it?"

"In what?"

"In de duel."

"Duel?  Has there been a duel?"

"Co'se dey has.  De ole Jedge has be'n havin' a duel wid one o' dem twins."

"Great Scott!"  Then he added to himself:  "That's what made him remake
the will; he thought he might get killed, and it softened him toward me.
And that's what he and Howard were so busy about. . . .
Oh dear, if the twin had only killed him, I should be out of my--"

"What is you mumblin' 'bout, Chambers?  Whah was you?
Didn't you know dey was gwine to be a duel?"

"No, I didn't.  The old man tried to get me to fight one with Count Luigi,
but he didn't succeed, so I reckon he concluded to patch up
the family honor himself."

He laughed at the idea, and went rambling on with a detailed account
of his talk with the judge, and how shocked and ashamed the judge was
to find that he had a coward in his family.  He glanced up at last,
and got a shock himself.  Roxana's bosom was heaving with
suppressed passion, and she was glowering down upon
him with measureless contempt written in her face.

"En you refuse' to fight a man dat kicked you, 'stid o' jumpin'
at de chance!  En you ain't got no mo' feelin' den to come
en tell me, dat fetched sich a po' lowdown ornery rabbit into
de worl'!  Pah! it make me sick!  It's de nigger in you,
dat's what it is.  Thirty-one parts o' you is white, en on'y one
part nigger, en dat po' little one part is yo' _soul_.
'Tain't wuth savin'; tain't wuth totin' out on a shovel en throwin'
en de gutter.  You has disgraced yo' birth.  What would yo' pa
think o' you?  It's enough to make him turn in his grave.

The last three sentences stung Tom into a fury, and he said to
himself that if his father were only alive and in reach of assassination
his mother would soon find that he had a very clear notion of the
size of his indebtedness to that man, and was willing to pay it
up in full, and would do it too, even at risk of his life;
but he kept this thought to himself; that was safest in his
mother's present state.

"Whatever has come o' yo' Essex blood?  Dat's what I can't understan'.
En it ain't on'y jist Essex blood dat's in you, not by a long sight--
'deed it ain't!  My great-great-great-gran'father en yo'
great-great-great-great-gran'father was Ole Cap'n John Smith,
de highest blood dat Ole Virginny ever turned out, en _his_
great-great-gran'mother, or somers along back dah, was Pocahontas
de Injun queen, en her husbun' was a nigger king outen Africa--
en yit here you is, a slinkin' outen a duel en disgracin' our
whole line like a ornery lowdown hound!  Yes, it's de nigger in you!"

She sat down on her candle box and fell into a reverie.
Tom did not disturb her; he sometimes lacked prudence, but it was not
in circumstances of this kind, Roxana's storm went gradually down,
but it died hard, and even when it seemed to be quite gone,
it would now and then break out in a distant rumble, so to speak,
in the form of muttered ejaculations.  One of these was, "Ain't nigger
enough in him to show in his fingernails, en dat takes mighty little--
yit dey's enough to pain his soul."

Presently she muttered.  "Yassir, enough to paint a whole thimbleful
of 'em."  At last her ramblings ceased altogether, and her countenance
began to clear--a welcome sight to Tom, who had learned her moods,
and knew she was on the threshold of good humor now.
He noticed that from time to time she unconsciously carried her finger
to the end of her nose.  He looked closer and said:

"Why, Mammy, the end of your nose is skinned.  How did that come?"

She sent out the sort of wholehearted peal of laughter which God had
vouchsafed in its perfection to none but the happy angels in heaven
and the bruised and broken black slave on the earth, and said:

"Dad fetch dat duel, I be'n in it myself."

"Gracious! did a bullet to that?"

"Yassir, you bet it did!"

"Well, I declare!  Why, how did that happen?"

"Happened dis-away.  I 'uz a-sett'n' here kinder dozin' in de dark,
en _che-bang!_ goes a gun, right out dah.  I skips along out towards
t'other end o' de house to see what's gwine on, en stops by de ole winder
on de side towards Pudd'nhead Wilson's house dat ain't got no sash in it--
but dey ain't none of 'em got any sashes, for as dat's concerned--
en I stood dah in de dark en look out, en dar in the moonlight,
right down under me 'uz one o' de twins a-cussin'--not much,
but jist a-cussin' soft--it 'uz de brown one dat 'uz cussin,'
'ca'se he 'uz hit in de shoulder.  En Doctor Claypool he 'uz
a-workin' at him, en Pudd'nhead Wilson he 'uz a-he'pin', en ole
Jedge Driscoll en Pem Howard 'uz a-standin' out yonder a little piece
waitin' for 'em to get ready agin.  En treckly dey squared off en give
de word, en _bang-bang_ went de pistols, en de twin he say,
'Ouch!'--hit him on de han' dis time --en I hear dat same bullet
go _spat!_ ag'in de logs under de winder; en de nex' time dey shoot,
de twin say, 'Ouch!' ag'in, en I done it too, 'ca'se de bullet glance'
on his cheekbone en skip up here en glance' on de side o' de winder
en whiz right acrost my face en tuck de hide off'n my nose--
why, if I'd 'a'; be'n jist a inch or a inch en a half furder 't
would 'a' tuck de whole nose en disfiggered me.  Here's de bullet;
I hunted her up."

"Did you stand there all the time?"

"Dat's a question to ask, ain't it!  What else would I do?
Does I git a chance to see a duel every day?"

"Why, you were right in range!  Weren't you afraid?"

The woman gave a sniff of scorn.

"'Fraid!  De Smith-Pocahontases ain't 'fraid o' nothin', let alone bullets."

"They've got pluck enough, I suppose; what they lack is judgment.
_I_ wouldn't have stood there."

"Nobody's accusin' you!"

"Did anybody else get hurt?"

"Yes, we all got hit 'cep' de blon' twin en de doctor en de seconds.
De Jedge didn't git hurt, but I hear Pudd'nhead say de bullet snip
some o' his ha'r off."

"'George!" said Tom to himself, "to come so near being out
of my trouble, and miss it by an inch.  Oh dear, dear, he will
live to find me out and sell me to some nigger trader yet--yes,
and he would do it in a minute."  Then he said aloud, in a grave tone:

"Mother, we are in an awful fix."

Roxana caught her breath with a spasm, and said:

"Chile!  What you hit a body so sudden for, like dat?
What's be'n en gone en happen'?"

"Well, there's one thing I didn't tell you.  When I wouldn't fight,
he tore up the will again, and--"

Roxana's face turned a dead white, and she said:

"Now you's _done!_--done forever!  Dat's de end.  Bofe un us is gwine
to starve to--"

"Wait and hear me through, can't you!  I reckon that when he
resolved to fight, himself, he thought he might get killed and
not have a chance to forgive me any more in this life, so he made
the will again, and I've seen it, and it's all right.  But--"

"Oh, thank goodness, den we's safe ag'in!--safe! en so what
did you want to come here en talk sich dreadful--"

"Hold ON, I tell you, and let me finish.  The swag I gathered
won't half square me up, and the first thing we know, my creditors--
well, you know what'll happen."

Roxana dropped her chin, and told her son to leave her alone--
she must think this matter out.  Presently she said impressively:

"You got to go mighty keerful now, I tell you!  En here's what you
got to do.  He didn't git killed, en if you gives him de least reason,
he'll bust de will ag'in, en dat's de _las'_ time, now you hear me!
So--you's got to show him what you kin do in de nex' few days.
You got to be pison good, en let him see it; you got to do everything
dat'll make him b'lieve in you, en you got to sweeten aroun' ole Aunt Pratt,
too--she's pow'ful strong with de Jedge, en de bes' frien' you got.
Nex', you'll go 'long away to Sent Louis, en dat'll _keep_ him in yo' favor.
Den you go en make a bargain wid dem people.  You tell 'em he ain't gwine
to live long--en dat's de fac', too--en tell 'em you'll pay 'em intrust,
en big intrust, too--ten per--what you call it?"

"Ten percent a month?"

"Dat's it.  Den you take and sell yo' truck aroun', a little at a time,
en pay de intrust.  How long will it las'?"

"I think there's enough to pay the interest five or six months."
"Den you's all right.  If he don't die in six months, dat don't make
no diff'rence--Providence'll provide.  You's gwine to be safe--
if you behaves."  She bent an austere eye on him and added,
"En you IS gwine to behave--does you know dat?"

He laughed and said he was going to try, anyway.  She did not unbend.
She said gravely:

"Tryin' ain't de thing.  You's gwine to _do_ it.  You ain't gwine
to steal a pin--'ca'se it ain't safe no mo'; en you ain't gwine into
no bad comp'ny--not even once, you understand; en you ain't gwine
to drink a drop--nary a single drop; en you ain't gwine to gamble
one single gamble--not one!  Dis ain't what you's gwine to try to do,
it's what you's gwine to DO.  En I'll tell you how I knows it.
Dis is how.  I's gwine to foller along to Sent Louis my own self;
en you's gwine to come to me every day o' your life, en I'll look
you over; en if you fails in one single one o' dem things--jist _one_--
I take my oath I'll come straight down to dis town en tell de Jedge
you's a nigger en a slave--en _prove_ it!"  She paused to let her words
sink home.  Then she added, "Chambers, does you b'lieve me when I says dat?"

Tom was sober enough now.  There was no levity in his voice
when he answered:

"Yes, Mother, I know, now, that I am reformed--and permanently.
Permanently--and beyond the reach of any human temptation."

"Den g'long home en begin!"




CHAPTER 15

The Robber Robbed


Nothing so needs reforming as other people's habits.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Behold, the fool saith, "Put not all thine eggs in the one basket"--
which is but a manner of saying, "Scatter your money and
your attention"; but the wise man saith, "Put all your eggs in
the one basket and--_watch that basket!_"

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


What a time of it Dawson's Landing was having!  All its life
it had been asleep, but now it hardly got a chance for a nod,
so swiftly did big events and crashing surprises come along in one
another's wake:  Friday morning, first glimpse of Real Nobility,
also grand reception at Aunt Patsy Cooper's, also great robber raid;
Friday evening, dramatic kicking of the heir of the chief citizen in
presence of four hundred people; Saturday morning, emergence as
practicing lawyer of the long-submerged Pudd'nhead Wilson;
Saturday night, duel between chief citizen and titled stranger.

The people took more pride in the duel than in all the other
events put together, perhaps.  It was a glory to their town to have
such a thing happen there.  In their eyes the principals had reached
the summit of human honor.  Everybody paid homage to their names;
their praises were in all mouths.  Even the duelists' subordinates
came in for a handsome share of the public approbation:
wherefore Pudd'nhead Wilson was suddenly become a man of consequence.
When asked to run for the mayoralty Saturday night, he was risking defeat,
but Sunday morning found him a made man and his success assured.

The twins were prodigiously great now; the town took them to its bosom
with enthusiasm.  Day after day, and night after night,
they went dining and visiting from house to house, making friends,
enlarging and solidifying their popularity, and charming and surprising
all with their musical prodigies, and now and then heightening the
effects with samples of what they could do in other directions,
out of their stock of rare and curious accomplishments.  They were
so pleased that they gave the regulation thirty days' notice,
the required preparation for citizenship, and resolved to finish
their days in this pleasant place.  That was the climax.
The delighted community rose as one man and applauded; and when
the twins were asked to stand for seats in the forthcoming
aldermanic board, and consented, the public contentment was
rounded and complete.

Tom Driscoll was not happy over these things; they sunk deep,
and hurt all the way down.  He hated the one twin for kicking him,
and the other one for being the kicker's brother.

Now and then the people wondered why nothing was heard of the raider,
or of the stolen knife or the other plunder, but nobody was able
to throw any light on that matter.  Nearly a week had drifted by,
and still the thing remained a vexed mystery.

On Sunday Constable Blake and Pudd'nhead Wilson met on the street,
and Tom Driscoll joined them in time to open their conversation for them.
He said to Blake:  "You are not looking  well, Blake; you seem to be
annoyed about something.  Has anything gone wrong in the
detective business?  I believe you fairly and justifiably claim
to have a pretty good reputation in that line, isn't it so?"--
which made Blake feel good, and look it; but Tom added,
"for a country detective"--which made Blake feel the other way,
and not only look it, but betray it in his voice.

"Yes, sir, I _have_ got a reputation; and it's as good as
anybody's in the profession, too, country or no country."

"Oh, I beg pardon; I didn't mean any offense.  What I started out
to ask was only about the old woman that raided the town--
the stoop-shouldered old woman, you know, that you said you were going
to catch; and I knew you would, too, because you have the reputation
of never boasting, and--well, you--you've caught the old woman?"

"Damn the old woman!"

"Why, sho! you don't mean to say you haven't caught her?"

"No, I haven't caught her.  If anybody could have caught her,
I could; but nobody couldn't, I don't care who he is."

I am sorry, real sorry--for your sake; because, when it gets around
that a detective has expressed himself confidently, and then--"

"Don't you worry, that's all--don't you worry; and as for the town,
the town needn't worry either.  She's my meat--make yourself easy
about that.  I'm on her track; I've got clues that--"

"That's good!  Now if you could get an old veteran detective down from
St. Louis to help you find out what the clues mean, and where
they lead to, and then--"

"I'm plenty veteran enough myself, and I don't need anybody's help.
I'll have her inside of a we--inside of a month.  That I'll swear to!"

Tom said carelessly:

"I suppose that will answer--yes, that will answer.  But I reckon
she is pretty old, and old people don't often outlive the
cautious pace of the professional detective when he has got his
clues together and is out on his still-hunt."

Blake's dull face flushed under this gibe, but before he could set
his retort in order Tom had turned to Wilson, and was saying,
with placid indifference of manner and voice:

"Who got the reward, Pudd'nhead?"

Wilson winced slightly, and saw that his own turn was come.

"What reward?"

"Why, the reward for the thief, and the other one for the knife."

Wilson answered--and rather uncomfortably, to judge by his
hesitating fashion of delivering himself:

"Well, the--well, in face, nobody has claimed it yet."

Tom seemed surprised.

"Why, is that so?"

Wilson showed a trifle of irritation when he replied:

"Yes, it's so.  And what of it?"

"Oh, nothing.  Only I thought you had struck out a new idea,
and invented a scheme that was going to revolutionize the timeworn
and ineffectual methods of the--"  He stopped, and turned to Blake,
who was happy now that another had taken his place on the gridiron.
"Blake, didn't you understand him to intimate that it wouldn't be
necessary for you to hunt the old woman down?"

'B'George, he said he'd have thief and swag both inside of three days--
he did, by hokey! and that's just about a week ago.
Why, I said at the time that no thief and no thief's pal was
going to try to pawn or sell a thing where he knowed the pawnbroker
could get both rewards by taking HIM into camp _with_ the swag.
It was the blessedest idea that ever I struck!"

"You'd change your mind," said Wilson, with irritated bluntness,
"if you knew the entire scheme instead of only part of it."

"Well," said the constable, pensively, "I had the idea that
it wouldn't work, and up to now I'm right anyway."

"Very well, then, let it stand at that, and give it a further show.
It has worked at least as well as your own methods, you perceive."

The constable hadn't anything handy to hit back with,
so he discharged a discontented sniff, and said nothing.

After the night that Wilson had partly revealed his scheme
at his house, Tom had tried for several days to guess out the
secret of the rest of it, but had failed.  Then it occurred to
him to give Roxana's smarter head a chance at it.  He made up a
supposititious0z H case, and laid it before her.  She thought it over,
and delivered her verdict upon it.  Tom said to himself,
"She's hit it, sure!"  He thought he would test that verdict now,
and watch Wilson's face; so he said reflectively:

"Wilson, you're not a fool--a fact of recent discovery.
Whatever your scheme was, it had sense in it, Blake's opinion to
the contrary notwithstanding.  I don't ask you to reveal it,
but I will suppose a case--a case which you will answer as a starting
point for the real thing I am going to come at, and that's all I want.
You offered five hundred dollars for the knife, and five hundred
for the thief.  We will suppose, for argument's sake,
that the first reward is _advertised_ and the second offered by
_private letter_ to pawnbrokers and--"

Blake slapped his thigh, and cried out:

"By Jackson, he's got you, Pudd'nhead!  Now why couldn't I
or _any_ fool have thought of that?"

Wilson said to himself, "Anybody with a reasonably good head would
have thought of it.  I am not surprised that Blake didn't detect it;
I am only surprised that Tom did.  There is more to him
than I supposed."  He said nothing aloud, and Tom went on:

"Very well.  The thief would not suspect that there was a trap,
and he would bring or send the knife, and say he bought it for a song,
or found it in the road, or something like that, and try
to collect the reward, and be arrested--wouldn't he?"

"Yes," said Wilson.

"I think so," said Tom.  "There can't be any doubt of it.
Have you ever seen that knife?"

"No."

"Has any friend of yours?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well, I begin to think I understand why your scheme failed."

"What do you mean, Tom?  What are you driving at?" asked Wilson,
with a dawning sense of discomfort.

"Why, that there _isn't_ any such knife."

"Look here, Wilson," said Blake, "Tom Driscoll's right,
for a thousand dollars--if I had it."

Wilson's blood warmed a little, and he wondered if he had been played
upon by those strangers; it certainly had something of that look.
But what could they gain by it?  He threw out that suggestion.
Tom replied:

"Gain?  Oh, nothing that you would value, maybe.  But they are strangers
making their way in a new community.  Is it nothing to them to appear
as pets of an Oriental prince--at no expense?  It is nothing
to them to be able to dazzle this poor town with thousand-dollar
rewards--at no expense?  Wilson, there isn't any such knife,
or your scheme would have fetched it to light.  Or if there is
any such knife, they've got it yet.  I believe, myself,
that they've seen such a knife, for Angelo pictured it out with
his pencil too swiftly and handily for him to have been inventing it,
and of course I can't swear that they've never had it; but this I'll
go bail for--if they had it when they came to this town,
they've got it yet."

Blake said:

"It looks mighty reasonable, the way Tom puts it; it most certainly does."

Tom responded, turning to leave:

"You find the old woman, Blake, and if she can't furnish the knife,
go and search the twins!"

Tom sauntered away.  Wilson felt a good deal depressed.  He hardly
knew what to think.  He was loath to withdraw his faith from the twins,
and was resolved not to do it on the present indecisive evidence;
but--well, he would think, and then decide how to act.

"Blake, what do you think of this matter?"

"Well, Pudd'nhead, I'm bound to say I put it up the way Tom does.
They hadn't the knife; or if they had it, they've got it yet."

The men parted.  Wilson said to himself:

"I believe they had it; if it had been stolen, the scheme would have
restored it, that is certain.  And so I believe they've got it."

Tom had no purpose in his mind when he encountered those two men.
When he began his talk he hoped to be able to gall them a
little and get a trifle of malicious entertainment out of it.
But when he left, he left in great spirits, for he perceived that
just by pure luck and no troublesome labor he had accomplished
several delightful things:  he had touched both men on a raw spot
and seen them squirm; he had modified Wilson's sweetness for the
twins with one small bitter taste that he wouldn't be able to get
out of his mouth right away; and, best of all, he had taken the
hated twins down a peg with the community; for Blake would gossip
around freely, after the manner of detectives, and within a week
the town would be laughing at them in its sleeve for offering a
gaudy reward for a bauble which they either never possessed or
hadn't lost. Tom was very well satisfied with himself.

Tom's behavior at home had been perfect during the entire week.
His uncle and aunt had seen nothing like it before.  They could find
no fault with him anywhere.

Saturday evening he said to the Judge:

"I've had something preying on my mind, uncle, and as I am going away,
and might never see you again, I can't bear it any longer.
I made you believe I was afraid to fight that Italian adventurer.
I had to get out of it on some pretext or other, and maybe I
chose badly, being taken unawares, but no honorable person could
consent to meet him in the field, knowing what I knew about him."

"Indeed?  What was that?"

"Count Luigi is a confessed assassin."

"Incredible."

"It's perfectly true.  Wilson detected it in his hand, by palmistry,
and charged him with it, and cornered him up so close that he had
to confess; but both twins begged us on their knees to keep the secret,
and swore they would lead straight lives here; and it was all
so pitiful that we gave our word of honor never to expose them
while they kept the promise.  You would have done it yourself, uncle."

"You are right, my boy; I would.  A man's secret is still his
own property, and sacred, when it has been surprised out of him
like that.  You did well, and I am proud of you."
Then he added mournfully, "But I wish I could have been saved the
shame of meeting an assassin on the field on honor."

"It couldn't be helped, uncle.  If I had known you were going
to challenge him, I should have felt obliged to sacrifice
my pledged word in order to stop it, but Wilson couldn't be
expected to do otherwise than keep silent."

"Oh, no, Wilson did right, and is in no way to blame.  Tom, Tom,
you have lifted a heavy load from my heart; I was stung to the very
soul when I seemed to have discovered that I had a coward in my family."

"You may imagine what it cost ME to assume such a part, uncle."

"Oh, I know it, poor boy, I know it.  And I can understand how much
it has cost you to remain under that unjust stigma to this time.
But it is all right now, and no harm is done.  You have restored
my comfort of mind, and with it your own; and both of us
had suffered enough."

The old man sat awhile plunged in thought; then he looked up
with a satisfied light in his eye, and said:  "That this assassin
should have put the affront upon me of letting me meet him on the
field of honor as if he were a gentleman is a matter which I will
presently settle--but not now.  I will not shoot him until after election.
I see a way to ruin them both before; I will attend to that first.
Neither of them shall be elected, that I promise.
You are sure that the fact that he is an assassin has not got abroad?"

"Perfectly certain of it, sir."

"It will be a good card.  I will fling a hint at it from the stump
on the polling day.  It will sweep the ground from under both of them."

"There's not a doubt of it.  It will finish them."

"That and outside work among the voters will, to a certainty.
I want you to come down here by and by and work privately among
the rag-tag and bobtail.  You shall spend money among them;
I will furnish it."

Another point scored against the detested twins!  Really it was
a great day for Tom.  He was encouraged to chance a parting shot, now,
at the same target, and did it.

"You know that wonderful Indian knife that the twins have been making
such a to-do about?  Well, there's no track or trace of it yet;
so the town is beginning to sneer and gossip and laugh.
Half the people believe they never had any such knife,
the other half believe they had it and have got it still.
I've heard twenty people talking like that today."

Yes, Tom's blemishless week had restored him to the favor of
his aunt and uncle.

His mother was satisfied with him, too.  Privately, she believed she
was coming to love him, but she did not say so.  She told him to
go along to St. Louis now, and she would get ready and follow.
Then she smashed her whisky bottle and said:

"Dah now!  I's a-gwine to make you walk as straight as a string,
Chambers, en so I's bown, you ain't gwine to git no bad example
out o' yo' mammy.  I tole you you couldn't go into no bad comp'ny.
Well, you's gwine into my comp'ny, en I's gwine to fill de bill.
Now, den, trot along, trot along!"

Tom went aboard one of the big transient boats that night with
his heavy satchel of miscellaneous plunder, and slept the sleep
of the unjust, which is serener and sounder than the other kind,
as we know by the hanging-eve history of a million rascals.
But when he got up in the morning, luck was against him again:
a brother thief had robbed him while he slept, and gone ashore at
some intermediate landing.



CHAPTER 16

Sold Down the River


If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous,
he will not bite you.  This is the principal difference between a
dog and a man.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


We all know about the habits of the ant, we know all about
the habits of the bee, but we know nothing at all about the
habits of the oyster.  It seems almost certain that we have been
choosing the wrong time for studying the oyster.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


When Roxana arrived, she found her son in such despair and
misery that her heart was touched and her motherhood rose up
strong in her.  He was ruined past hope now; his destruction
would be immediate and sure, and he would be an outcast and friendless.
That was reason enough for a mother to love a child;
so she loved him, and told him so.  It made him wince, secretly--
for she was a "nigger."  That he was one himself was far from
reconciling him to that despised race.

Roxana poured out endearments upon him, to which he
responded uncomfortably, but as well as he could.
And she tried to comfort him, but that was not possible.
These intimacies quickly became horrible to him, and within the hour
began to try to get up courage enough to tell her so, and require
that they be discontinued or very considerably modified.
But he was afraid of her; and besides, there came a lull now,
for she had begun to think.  She was trying to invent a saving plan.
Finally she started up, and said she had found a way out.  Tom was almost
suffocated by the joy of this sudden good news.  Roxana said:

"Here is de plan, en she'll win, sure.  I's a nigger,
en nobody ain't gwine to doubt it dat hears me talk.
I's wuth six hund'd dollahs.  Take en sell me,
en pay off dese gamblers."

Tom was dazed.  He was not sure he had heard aright.
He was dumb for a moment; then he said:

"Do you mean that you would be sold into slavery to save me?"

"Ain't you my chile?  En does you know anything dat a mother
won't do for her chile?  Day ain't nothin' a white mother won't
do for her chile.  Who made 'em so?  De Lord done it.
En who made de niggers?  De Lord made 'em.  In de inside, mothers is all
de same.  De good lord he made 'em so.  I's gwine to be sole into
slavery, en in a year you's gwine to buy yo' ole mammy free ag'in.
I'll show you how.  Dat's de plan."

Tom's hopes began to rise, and his spirits along with them.  He said:

"It's lovely of you, Mammy--it's just--"

"Say it ag'in!  En keep on sayin' it!  It's all de pay a
body kin want in dis worl', en it's mo' den enough.
Laws bless you, honey, when I's slav' aroun', en dey 'buses me,
if I knows you's a-sayin' dat, 'way off yonder somers,
it'll heal up all de sore places, en I kin stan' 'em."

"I DO say it again, Mammy, and I'll keep on saying it, too.
But how am I going to sell you?  You're free, you know."

"Much diff'rence dat make!  White folks ain't partic'lar.
De law kin sell me now if dey tell me to leave de state in six
months en I don't go.  You draw up a paper--bill o' sale--
en put it 'way off yonder, down in de middle o' Kaintuck somers,
en sign some names to it, en say you'll sell me cheap 'ca'se you's
hard up; you'll find you ain't gwine to have no trouble.
You take me up de country a piece, en sell me on a farm;
dem people ain't gwine to ask no questions if I's a bargain."

Tom forged a bill of sale and sold him mother to an Arkansas
cotton planter for a trifle over six hundred dollars.
He did not want to commit this treachery, but luck threw the man in his way,
and this saved him the necessity of going up-country to hunt up a purchaser,
with the added risk of having to answer a lot of questions,
whereas this planter was so pleased with Roxy that he
asked next to none at all.  Besides, the planter insisted that
Roxy wouldn't know where she was, at first, and that by the time
she found out she would already have been contented.

So Tom argued with himself that it was an immense advantaged
for Roxy to have a master who was pleased with her, as this
planter manifestly was.  In almost no time his flowing reasonings
carried him to the point of even half believing he was doing Roxy
a splendid surreptitious service in selling her "down the river."
And then he kept diligently saying to himself all the time:
"It's for only a year.  In a year I buy her free again;
she'll keep that in mind, and it'll reconcile her."  Yes; the little
deception could do no harm, and everything would come out right
and pleasant in the end, anyway.  By agreement, the conversation
in Roxy's presence was all about the man's "up-country" farm,
and how pleasant a place it was, and how happy the slaves were there;
so poor Roxy was entirely deceived; and easily, for she was not
dreaming that her own son could be guilty of treason to a mother who,
in voluntarily going into slavery--slavery of any kind,
mild or severe, or of any duration, brief or long--was making a
sacrifice for him compared with which death would have been a
poor and commonplace one.  She lavished tears and loving caresses
upon him privately, and then went away with her owner--
went away brokenhearted, and yet proud to do it.

Tom scored his accounts, and resolved to keep to the very
letter of his reform, and never to put that will in jeopardy
again.  He had three hundred dollars left.  According to his
mother's plan, he was to put that safely away, and add her half
of his pension to it monthly.  In one year this fund would buy
her free again.

For a whole week he was not able to sleep well, so much the
villainy which he had played upon his trusting mother preyed upon
his rag of conscience; but after that he began to get comfortable again,
and was presently able to sleep like any other miscreant.

The boat bore Roxy away from St. Louis at four in the afternoon,
and she stood on the lower guard abaft the paddle box
and watched Tom through a blur of tears until he melted into the
throng of people and disappeared; then she looked no more,
but sat there on a coil of cable crying till far into the night.
When she went to her foul steerage bunk at last, between the
clashing engines, it was not to sleep, but only to wait for the
morning, and, waiting, grieve.

It had been imagined that she "would not know," and would
think she was traveling upstream.  She!  Why, she had been
steamboating for years.  At dawn she got up and went listlessly
and sat down on the cable coil again.  She passed many a snag
whose "break" could have told her a thing to break her heart,
for it showed a current moving in the same direction that the boat
was going; but her thoughts were elsewhere, and she did not notice.
But at last the roar of a bigger and nearer break than
usual brought her out of her torpor, and she looked up,
and her practiced eye fell upon that telltale rush of water.
For one moment her petrified gaze fixed itself there.
Then her head dropped upon her breast, and she said:

"Oh, de good Lord God have mercy on po' sinful me--
I'S SOLE DOWN DE RIVER!"



CHAPTER 17

The Judge Utters Dire Prophesy


Even popularity can be overdone.  In Rome, along at first,
you are full of regrets that Michelangelo died; but by and by,
you only regret that you didn't see him do it.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


JULY 4.  Statistics show that we lose more fools on this day
than in all the other days of the year put together.
This proves, by the number left in stock, that one Fourth of
July per year is now inadequate, the country has grown so.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


The summer weeks dragged by, and then the political campaign opened--
opened in pretty warm fashion, and waxed hotter and hotter daily.
The twins threw themselves into it with their whole heart,
for their self-love was engaged.  Their popularity,
so general at first, had suffered afterward; mainly because they
had been TOO popular, and so a natural reaction had followed.
Besides, it had been diligently whispered around that it was
curious--indeed, VERY curious--that that wonderful knife of
theirs did not turn up--IF it was so valuable, or IF it had ever existed.
And with the whisperings went chucklings and nudgings and winks,
and such things have an effect.  The twins considered
that success in the election would reinstate them, and that
defeat would work them irreparable damage.  Therefore they worked hard,
but not harder than Judge Driscoll and Tom worked against
them in the closing days of the canvass.  Tom's conduct had
remained so letter-perfect during two whole months now, that his
uncle not only trusted him with money with which to persuade voters,
but trusted him to go and get it himself out of the safe
in the private sitting room.

The closing speech of the campaign was made by Judge Driscoll,
and he made it against both of the foreigners.  It was
disastrously effective.  He poured out rivers of ridicule upon them,
and forced the big mass meeting to laugh and applaud.
He scoffed at them as adventures, mountebanks, sideshow riffraff,
dime museum freaks; he assailed their showy titles with
measureless derision; he said they were back-alley barbers
disguised as nobilities, peanut peddlers masquerading as
gentlemen, organ-grinders bereft of their brother monkey.
At last he stopped and stood still.  He waited until the place had
become absolutely silent and expectant, then he delivered his
deadliest shot; delivered it with ice-cold seriousness and
deliberation, with a significant emphasis upon the closing words:
he said he believed that the reward offered for the lost knife
was humbug and bunkum, and that its owner would know where to
find it whenever he should have occasion TO ASSASSINATE SOMEBODY.

Then he stepped from the stand, leaving a startled and
impressive hush behind him instead of the customary explosion of
cheers and party cries.

The strange remark flew far and wide over the town and made
an extraordinary sensation.  Everybody was asking, "What could he
mean by that?"  And everybody went on asking that question,
but in vain; for the judge only said he knew what he was talking about,
and stopped there; Tom said he hadn't any idea what his uncle meant,
and Wilson, whenever he was asked what he thought it meant,
parried the question by asking the questioner what HE thought it meant.

Wilson was elected, the twins were defeated--crushed,
in fact, and left forlorn and substantially friendless.
Tom went back to St. Louis happy.

Dawson's Landing had a week of repose now, and it needed it.
But it was in an expectant state, for the air was full of rumors
of a new duel.  Judge Driscoll's election labors had prostrated him,
but it was said that as soon as he was well enough to
entertain a challenge he would get one from Count Luigi.

The brothers withdrew entirely from society, and nursed
their humiliation in privacy.  They avoided the people, and wait
out for exercise only late at night, when the streets were deserted.



CHAPTER 18

Roxana Commands


Gratitude and treachery are merely the two extremities of
the same procession.  You have seen all of it that is worth
staying for when the band and the gaudy officials have gone by.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


THANKSGIVING DAY.  Let us all give humble, hearty, and
sincere thanks now, but the turkeys.  In the island of Fiji they
do not use turkeys; they use plumbers.  It does not become you
and me to sneer at Fiji.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


The Friday after the election was a rainy one in St. Louis.
It rained all day long, and rained hard, apparently trying its
best to wash that soot-blackened town white, but of course not
succeeding.  Toward midnight Tom Driscoll arrived at his lodgings
from the theater in the heavy downpour, and closed his umbrella
and let himself in; but when he would have shut the door,
he found that there was another person entering--doubtless another lodger;
this person closed the door and tramped upstairs behind Tom.
Tom found his door in the dark, and entered it, and turned
up the gas.  When he faced about, lightly whistling, he saw the
back of a man.  The man was closing and locking his door from him.
His whistle faded out and he felt uneasy.  The man turned around,
a wreck of shabby old clothes, sodden with rain and all a-drip,
and showed a black face under an old slouch hat.  Tom was frightened.
He tried to order the man out, but the words refused to come,
and the other man got the start.  He said, in a low voice:

"Keep still--I's yo' mother!"

Tom sunk in a heap on a chair, and gasped out:

"It was mean of me, and base--I know it; but I meant it for
the best, I did indeed--I can swear it."

Roxana stood awhile looking mutely down on him while he
writhed in shame and went on incoherently babbling self-accusations
mixed with pitiful attempts at explanation and
palliation of his crime; then she seated herself and took off her hat,
and her unkept masses of long brown hair tumbled down about her shoulders.

"It warn't no fault o' yo'n dat dat ain't gray," she said sadly,
noticing the hair.

"I know it, I know it!  I'm a scoundrel.  But I swear I
meant it for the best.  It was a mistake, of course,
but I thought it was for the best, I truly did."

Roxana began to cry softly, and presently words began to
find their way out between her sobs.  They were uttered
lamentingly, rather than angrily.

"Sell a pusson down de river--DOWN DE RIVER!--for de bes'!
I wouldn't treat a dog so!  I is all broke down and en wore out
now, en so I reckon it ain't in me to storm aroun' no mo',
like I used to when I 'uz trompled on en 'bused.  I don't know--
but maybe it's so.  Leastways, I's suffered so much dat mournin' seem
to come mo' handy to me now den stormin'."

These words should have touched Tom Driscoll, but if they did,
that effect was obliterated by a stronger one--one which
removed the heavy weight of fear which lay upon him, and gave his
crushed spirit a most grateful rebound, and filled all his small
soul with a deep sense of relief.  But he kept prudently still,
and ventured no comment.  There was a voiceless interval of some
duration now, in which no sounds were heard but the beating of
the rain upon the panes, the sighing and complaining of the
winds, and now and then a muffled sob from Roxana.
The sobs became more and more infrequent, and at least ceased.
Then the refugee began to talk again.

"Shet down dat light a little.  More.  More yit.  A pusson
dat is hunted don't like de light.  Dah--dat'll do.  I kin see
whah you is, en dat's enough.  I's gwine to tell you de tale,
en cut it jes as short as I kin, en den I'll tell you what you's got to do.
Dat man dat bought me ain't a bad man; he's good enough,
as planters goes; en if he could 'a' had his way I'd 'a' be'n a
house servant in his fambly en be'n comfortable:  but his wife
she was a Yank, en not right down good lookin', en she riz up
agin me straight off; so den dey sent me out to de quarter
'mongst de common fiel' han's.  Dat woman warn't satisfied even
wid dat, but she worked up de overseer ag'in' me, she 'uz dat
jealous en hateful; so de overseer he had me out befo' day in de
mawnin's en worked me de whole long day as long as dey'uz any
light to see by; en many's de lashin's I got 'ca'se I couldn't
come up to de work o' de stronges'.  Dat overseer wuz a Yank too,
outen New Englan', en anybody down South kin tell you what dat mean.
DEY knows how to work a nigger to death, en dey knows how
to whale 'em too--whale 'em till dey backs is welted like a washboard.
'Long at fust my marster say de good word for me to
de overseer, but dat 'uz bad for me; for de mistis she fine it
out, en arter dat I jist ketched it at every turn--dey warn't no
mercy for me no mo'."

Tom's heart was fired--with fury against the planter's wife;
and he said to himself, "But for that meddlesome fool,
everything would have gone all right."  He added a deep and bitter
curse against her.

The expression of this sentiment was fiercely written in his face,
and stood thus revealed to Roxana by a white glare of
lightning which turned the somber dusk of the room into dazzling
day at that moment.  She was pleased--pleased and grateful;
for did not that expression show that her child was capable of
grieving for his mother's wrongs and a feeling resentment toward
her persecutors?--a thing which she had been doubting.
But her flash of happiness was only a flash, and went out again and
left her spirit dark; for she said to herself, "He sole me down de river--
he can't feel for a body long; dis'll pass en go."
Then she took up her tale again.

"'Bout ten days ago I 'uz sayin' to myself dat I couldn't
las' many mo' weeks I 'uz so wore out wid de awful work en de
lashin's, en so downhearted en misable.  En I didn't care no mo',
nuther--life warn't wuth noth'n' to me, if I got to go on like
dat.  Well, when a body is in a frame o' mine like dat, what do a
body care what a body do?  Dey was a little sickly nigger wench
'bout ten year ole dat 'uz good to me, en hadn't no mammy,
po' thing, en I loved her en she loved me; en she come out whah I uz'
workin' en she had a roasted tater, en tried to slip it to me--
robbin' herself, you see, 'ca'se she knowed de overseer didn't
give me enough to eat--en he ketched her at it, en giver her a
lick acrost de back wid his stick, which 'uz as thick as a broom handle,
en she drop' screamin' on de groun', en squirmin' en
wallerin' aroun' in de dust like a spider dat's got crippled.
I couldn't stan' it.  All de hellfire dat 'uz ever in my heart
flame' up, en I snatch de stick outen his han' en laid him flat.
He laid dah moanin' en cussin', en all out of his head, you know,
en de niggers 'uz plumb sk'yred to death.  Dey gathered roun' him
to he'p him, en I jumped on his hoss en took out for de river as
tight as I could go.  I knowed what dey would do wid me.  Soon as
he got well he would start in en work me to death if marster let him;
en if dey didn't do dat, they'd sell me furder down de river,
en dat's de same thing.  so I 'lowed to drown myself en
git out o' my troubles.  It 'uz gitt'n' towards dark.  I 'uz at
de river in two minutes.  Den I see a canoe, en I says dey ain't
no use to drown myself tell I got to; so I ties de hoss in de
edge o' de timber en shove out down de river, keepin' in under de
shelter o' de bluff bank en prayin' for de dark to shet down quick.
I had a pow'ful good start, 'ca'se de big house 'uz three
mile back f'om de river en on'y de work mules to ride dah on, en
on'y niggers ride 'em, en DEY warn't gwine to hurry--dey'd gimme
all de chance dey could.  Befo' a body could go to de house en
back it would be long pas' dark, en dey couldn't track de hoss en
fine out which way I went tell mawnin', en de niggers would tell
'em all de lies dey could 'bout it.

"Well, de dark come, en I went on a-spinnin' down de river.
I paddled mo'n two hours, den I warn't worried no mo', so I quit
paddlin' en floated down de current, considerin' what I 'uz gwine
to do if I didn't have to drown myself.  I made up some plans,
en floated along, turnin' 'em over in my mine.  Well, when it 'uz a
little pas' midnight, as I reckoned, en I had come fifteen or
twenty mile, I see de lights o' a steamboat layin' at de bank,
whah dey warn't no town en no woodyard, en putty soon I ketched
de shape o' de chimbly tops ag'in' de stars, en den good gracious me,
I 'most jumped out o' my skin for joy!  It 'uz de GRAN' MOGUL--
I 'uz chambermaid on her for eight seasons in de Cincinnati en
Orleans trade. I slid 'long pas'--don't see nobody stirrin' nowhah--
hear 'em a-hammerin' away in de engine room, den I knowed
what de matter was--some o' de machinery's broke.  I got  asho'
below de boat and turn' de canoe loose, den I goes 'long up, en
dey 'uz jes one plank out, en I step' 'board de boat.  It 'uz
pow'ful hot, deckhan's en roustabouts 'uz sprawled aroun' asleep
on de fo'cas'l', de second mate, Jim Bangs, he sot dah on de
bitts wid his head down, asleep--'ca'se dat's de way de second
mate stan' de cap'n's watch!--en de ole watchman, Billy Hatch,
he 'uz a-noddin' on de companionway;--en I knowed 'em all; en, lan',
but dey did look good!  I says to myself, I wished old marster'd
come along NOW en try to take me--bless yo' heart, I's 'mong
frien's, I is.  So I tromped right along 'mongst 'em, en went up
on de b'iler deck en 'way back aft to de ladies' cabin guard,
en sot down dah in de same cheer dat I'd sot in 'mos' a hund'd
million times, I reckon; en it 'uz jist home ag'in, I tell you!

"In 'bout an hour I heard de ready bell jingle, en den de
racket begin.  Putty soon I hear de gong strike.  'Set her back
on de outside,' I says to myself.  'I reckon I knows dat music!'
I hear de gong ag'in.  'Come ahead on de inside,' I says.
Gong ag'in.  'Stop de outside.'  gong ag'in.  'Come ahead on de outside--
now we's pinted for Sent Louis, en I's outer de woods en
ain't got to drown myself at all.'  I knowed de MOGUL 'uz in de
Sent Louis trade now, you see.  It 'uz jes fair daylight when we
passed our plantation, en I seed a gang o' niggers en white folks
huntin' up en down de sho', en troublin' deyselves a good deal 'bout me;
but I warn't troublin' myself none 'bout dem.

"'Bout dat time Sally Jackson, dat used to be my second
chambermaid en 'uz head chambermaid now, she come out on de guard,
en 'uz pow'ful glad to see me, en so 'uz all de officers;
en I tole 'em I'd got kidnapped en sole down de river,
en dey made me up twenty dollahs en give it to me, en Sally she rigged
me out wid good clo'es, en when I got here I went straight to
whah you used to wuz, en den I come to dis house, en dey say
you's away but 'spected back every day; so I didn't dast to go
down de river to Dawson's, 'ca'se I might miss you.

"Well, las' Monday I 'uz pass'n by one o' dem places in
fourth street whah deh sticks up runaway nigger bills, en he'ps
to ketch 'em, en I seed my marster!  I 'mos' flopped down on de
groun', I felt so gone.  He had his back to me, en 'uz talkin' to
de man en givin' him some bills--nigger bills, I reckon, en I's
de nigger.  He's offerin' a reward--dat's it.  Ain't I right,
don't you reckon?"

Tom had been gradually sinking into a state of ghastly terror,
and he said to himself, now:  "I'm lost, no matter what
turn things take!  This man has said to me that he thinks there
was something suspicious about that sale.  he said he had a
letter from a passenger on the GRAND MOGUL saying that Roxy came
here on that boat and that everybody on board knew all about the case;
so he says that her coming here instead of flying to a free
state looks bad for me, and that if I don't find her for him,
and that pretty soon, he will make trouble for me.  I never believed
that story; I couldn't believe she would be so dead to all
motherly instincts as to come here, knowing the risk she would
run of getting me into irremediable trouble.  And after all,
here she is!  And I stupidly swore I would help find her,
thinking it was a perfectly safe thing to promise.  If I venture to
deliver her up, she--she--but how can I help myself?  I've got to do
that or pay the money, and where's the money to come from?  I--I--well,
I should think that if he would swear to treat her kindly hereafter--
and she says, herself, that he is a good man--and if he would
swear to never allow her to be overworked, or ill fed, or--"

A flash of lightning exposed Tom's pallid face, drawn and
rigid with these worrying thoughts.  Roxana spoke up sharply now,
and there was apprehension in her voice.

"Turn up dat light!  I want to see yo' face better.  Dah now
--lemme look at you.  Chambers, you's as white as yo' shirt!
Has you see dat man?  Has he be'n to see you?"

"Ye-s."

"When?"

"Monday noon."

"Monday noon!  Was he on my track?"

"He--well, he thought he was.  That is, he hoped he was.
This is the bill you saw."  He took it out of his pocket.

"Read it to me!"

She was panting with excitement, and there was a dusky glow
in her eyes that Tom could not translate with certainty,
but there seemed to be something threatening about it.
The handbill had the usual rude woodcut of a turbaned Negro woman running,
with the customary bundle on a stick over her shoulder, and the
heading in bold type, "$100 REWARD."  Tom read the bill aloud--
at least the part that described Roxana and named the master and his
St. Louis address and the address of the Fourth street agency;
but he left out the item that applicants for the reward might
also apply to Mr. Thomas Driscoll.

"Gimme de bill!"

Tom had folded it and was putting it in his pocket.
He felt a chilly streak creeping down his back,
but said as carelessly as he could:

"The bill?  Why, it isn't any use to you, you can't read it.
What do you want with it?"

"Gimme de bill!"  Tom gave it to her, but with a reluctance
which he could not entirely disguise.  "Did you read it ALL to me?"

"Certainly I did."

"Hole up yo' han' en swah to it."

Tom did it.  Roxana put the bill carefully away in her pocket,
with her eyes fixed upon Tom's face all the while; then she said:

"Yo's lyin'!"

"What would I want to lie about it for?"

"I don't know--but you is.  Dat's my opinion, anyways.
But nemmine 'bout dat.  When I seed dat man I 'uz dat sk'yerd dat I
could sca'cely wobble home.  Den I give a nigger man a dollar for
dese clo'es, en I ain't be'in in a house sence, night ner day, till now.
I blacked my face en laid hid in de cellar of a ole
house dat's burnt down, daytimes, en robbed de sugar hogsheads en
grain sacks on de wharf, nights, to git somethin' to eat,
en never dast to try to buy noth'n', en I's 'mos' starved.
En I never dast to come near dis place till dis rainy night,
when dey ain't no people roun' sca'cely.  But tonight I be'n a-stanin'
in de dark alley ever sence night come, waitin' for you to go by.
En here I is."

She fell to thinking.  Presently she said:

"You seed dat man at noon, las' Monday?"

"Yes."

"I seed him de middle o' dat arternoon.  He hunted you up, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"Did he give you de bill dat time?"

"No, he hadn't got it printed yet."

Roxana darted a suspicious glance at him.

"Did you he'p him fix up de bill?"

Tom cursed himself for making that stupid blunder, and tried
to rectify it by saying he remember now that it WAS at noon
Monday that the man gave him the bill.  Roxana said:

"You's lyin' ag'in, sho."  Then she straightened up and raised her finger:

"Now den!  I's gwine to ask you a question, en I wants to
know how you's gwine to git aroun' it.  You knowed he 'uz arter me;
en if you run off, 'stid o' stayin' here to he'p him,
he'd know dey 'uz somethin' wrong 'bout dis business, en den he would
inquire 'bout you, en dat would take him to yo' uncle, en yo'
uncle would read de bill en see dat you be'n sellin' a free
nigger down de river, en you know HIM, I reckon!  He'd t'ar up de
will en kick you outen de house.  Now, den, you answer me dis
question:  hain't you tole dat man dat I would be sho' to come here,
en den you would fix it so he could set a trap en ketch me?"

Tom recognized that neither lies nor arguments could help
him any longer--he was in a vise, with the screw turned on,
and out of it there was no budging.  His face began to take on an
ugly look, and presently he said, with a snarl:

"Well, what could I do?  You see, yourself, that I was in
his grip and couldn't get out."

Roxy scorched him with a scornful gaze awhile, then she said:

"What could you do?  You could be Judas to yo' own mother to
save yo' wuthless hide!  Would anybody b'lieve it?
No--a dog couldn't!  You is de lowdownest orneriest hound dat was ever
pup'd into dis worl'--en I's 'sponsible for it!"--and she spat on him.

He made no effort to resent this.  Roxy reflected a moment,
then she said:

"Now I'll tell you what you's gwine to do.  You's gwine to
give dat man de money dat you's got laid up, en make him wait
till you kin go to de judge en git de res' en buy me free agin."

"Thunder!  What are you thinking of?  Go and ask him for
three hundred dollars and odd?  What would I tell him I want it
for, pray?"

Roxy's answer was delivered in a serene and level voice.

"You'll tell him you's sole me to pay yo' gamblin' debts en
dat you lied to me en was a villain, en dat I 'quires you to git
dat money en buy me back ag'in."

"Why, you've gone stark mad!  He would tear the will to
shreads in a minute--don't you know that?"

"Yes, I does."

"Then you don't believe I'm idiot enough to go to him, do you?"

"I don't b'lieve nothin' 'bout it--I KNOWS you's a-goin'.
I knows it 'ca'se you knows dat if you don't raise dat money I'll
go to him myself, en den he'll sell YOU down de river, en you kin
see how you like it!"

Tom rose, trembling and excited, and there was an evil light in his eye.
He strode to the door and said he must get out of
this suffocating place for a moment and clear his brain in the
fresh air so that he could determine what to do.
The door wouldn't open.  Roxy smiled grimly, and said:

"I's got the key, honey--set down.  You needn't cle'r up yo'
brain none to fine out what you gwine to do--_I_ knows what you's
gwine to do."  Tom sat down and began to pass his hands through
his hair with a helpless and desperate air.
Roxy said, "Is dat man in dis house?"

Tom glanced up with a surprised expression, and asked:

"What gave you such an idea?"

"You done it.  Gwine out to cle'r yo' brain!  In de fust
place you ain't got none to cle'r, en in de second place yo'
ornery eye tole on you.  You's de lowdownest hound dat ever--
but I done told you dat befo'.  Now den, dis is Friday.
You kin fix it up wid dat man, en tell him you's gwine away to
git de res' o' de money, en dat you'll be back wid it nex' Tuesday,
or maybe Wednesday. You understan'?"

Tom answered sullenly:  "Yes."

"En when you gits de new bill o' sale dat sells me to my own self,
take en send it in de mail to Mr. Pudd'nhead Wilson,
en write on de back dat he's to keep it tell I come.  You understan'?"

"Yes."

"Dat's all den.  Take yo' umbreller, en put on yo' hat."

"Why?"

"Beca'se you's gwine to see me home to de wharf.  You see dis knife?
I's toted it aroun' sence de day I seed dat man en bought dese clo'es en it.
If he ketch me, I's gwine to kill myself wid it.  Now start along,
en go sof', en lead de way; en if you gives a sign in dis house,
or if anybody comes up to you in de street, I's gwine to jam it
right into you.  Chambers, does you b'lieve me when I says dat?"

"It's no use to bother me with that question.  I know your word's good."

"Yes, it's diff'rent from yo'n!  Shet de light out en move along--
here's de key."

They were not followed.  Tom trembled every time a late
straggler brushed by them on the street, and half expected to
feel the cold steel in his back.  Roxy was right at his heels and
always in reach.  After tramping a mile they reached a wide
vacancy on the deserted wharves, and in this dark and rainy
desert they parted.

As Tom trudged home his mind was full of dreary thoughts and
wild plans; but at last he said to himself, wearily:

"There is but the one way out.  I must follow her plan.
But with a variation--I will not ask for the money and ruin myself;
I will ROB the old skinflint."



CHAPTER 19

The Prophesy Realized


Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a
good example.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


It were not best that we should all think alike; it is
difference of opinion that makes horse races.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


Dawson's Landing was comfortably finishing its season of
dull repose and waiting patiently for the duel.
Count Luigi was waiting, too; but not patiently, rumor said.
Sunday came, and Luigi insisted on having his challenge conveyed.
Wilson carried it.  Judge Driscoll declined to fight with an assassin--
"that is," he added significantly, "in the field of honor."

Elsewhere, of course, he would be ready.  Wilson tried to
convince him that if he had been present himself when Angelo told
him about the homicide committed by Luigi, he would not have
considered the act discreditable to Luigi; but the obstinate old
man was not to be moved.

Wilson went back to his principal and reported the failure
of his mission.  Luigi was incensed, and asked how it could be
that the old gentleman, who was by no means dull-witted, held his
trifling nephew's evidence in inferences to be of more value than Wilson's.
But Wilson laughed, and said:

"That is quite simple; that is easily explicable.
I am not his doll--his baby--his infatuation:  his nature is.
The judge and his late wife never had any children.
The judge and his wife were past middle age when this treasure
fell into their lap.  One must make allowances for a parental instinct
that has been starving for twenty-five or thirty years.
It is famished, it is crazed wit hunger by that time, and will be
entirely satisfied with anything that comes handy; its taste is atrophied,
it can't tell mud cat from shad.  A devil born to a young couple is
measurably recognizable by them as a devil before long,
but a devil adopted by an old couple is an angel to them,
and remains so, through thick and thin.  Tom is this old man's angel;
he is infatuated with him.  Tom can persuade him into things which
other people can't--not all things; I don't mean that,
but a good many--particularly one class of things:  the things that
create or abolish personal partialities or prejudices in the old
man's mind.  The old man liked both of you.  Tom conceived a
hatred for you.  That was enough; it turned the old man around at once.
The oldest and strongest friendship must go to the ground
when one of these late-adopted darlings throws a brick at it."

"It's a curious philosophy," said Luigi.

"It ain't philosophy at all--it's a fact.  And there is
something pathetic and beautiful about it, too.  I think there is
nothing more pathetic than to see one of these poor old childless
couples taking a menagerie of yelping little worthless dogs to
their hearts; and then adding some cursing and squawking parrots
and a jackass-voiced macaw; and next a couple of hundred
screeching songbirds, and presently some fetid guinea pigs and
rabbits, and a howling colony of cats.  It is all a groping and
ignorant effort to construct out of base metal and brass filings,
so to speak, something to take the place of that golden treasure
denied them by Nature, a child.  But this is a digression.
The unwritten law of this region requires you to kill Judge Driscoll
on sight, and he and the community will expect that attention at
your hands--though of course your own death by his bullet will
answer every purpose.  Look out for him!  Are you healed--that is, fixed?"

"Yes, he shall have his opportunity.  If he attacks me, I will respond."

As Wilson was leaving, he said:

"The judge is still a little used up by his campaign work,
and will not get out for a day or so; but when he does get out,
you want to be on the alert."

About eleven at night the twins went out for exercise,
and started on a long stroll in the veiled moonlight.

Tom Driscoll had landed at Hackett's Store, two miles below Dawson's,
just about half an hour earlier, the only passenger for
that lonely spot, and had walked up the shore road and entered
Judge Driscoll's house without having encountered anyone either
on the road or under the roof.

He pulled down his window blinds and lighted his candle.
He laid off his coat and hat and began his preparations.
He unlocked his trunk and got his suit of girl's clothes out from
under the male attire in it, and laid it by.  Then he blacked his
face with burnt cork and put the cork in his pocket.
His plan was to slip down to his uncle's private sitting room below,
pass into the bedroom, steal the safe key from the old gentleman's
clothes, and then go back and rob the safe.  He took up his
candle to start.  His courage and confidence were high,
up to this point, but both began to waver a little now.
Suppose he should make a noise, by some accident, and get caught--
say, in the act of opening the safe?  Perhaps it would be well to go armed.
He took the Indian knife from its hiding place, and felt
a pleasant return of his wandering courage.  He slipped
stealthily down the narrow stair, his hair rising and his pulses
halting at the slightest creak.  When he was halfway down, he was
disturbed to perceive that the landing below was touched by a
faint glow of light.  What could that mean?  Was his uncle still up?
No, that was not likely; he must have left his night taper
there when he went to bed.  Tom crept on down, pausing at every
step to listen. He found the door standing open, and glanced it.
What he saw pleased him beyond measure.  His uncle was asleep on
the sofa; on a small table at the head of the sofa a lamp was
burning low, and by it stood the old man's small cashbox, closed.
Near the box was a pile of bank notes and a piece of paper
covered with figured in pencil.  The safe door was not open.
Evidently the sleeper had wearied himself with work upon his
finances, and was taking a rest.

Tom set his candle on the stairs, and began to make his way
toward the pile of notes, stooping low as he went.
When he was passing his uncle, the old man stirred in his sleep,
and Tom stopped instantly--stopped, and softly drew the knife from its
sheath, with his heart thumping, and his eyes fastened upon his
benefactor's face.  After a moment or two he ventured forward
again--one step--reached for his prize and seized it, dropping
the knife sheath.  Then he felt the old man's strong grip upon him,
and a wild cry of "Help! help!" rang in his ear.
Without hesitation he drove the knife home--and was free.
Some of the notes escaped from his left hand and fell in the blood on
the floor.  He dropped the knife and snatched them up and started to fly;
transferred them to his left hand, and seized the knife again,
in his fright and confusion, but remembered himself and flung it from him,
as being a dangerous witness to carry away with him.

He jumped for the stair-foot, and closed the door behind him;
and as he snatched his candle and fled upward,
the stillness of the night was broken by the sound of urgent footsteps
approaching the house. In another moment he was in his room,
and the twins were standing aghast over the body of the murdered man!

Tom put on his coat, buttoned his hat under it, threw on his
suit of girl's clothes, dropped the veil, blew out his light,
locked the room door by which he had just entered, taking the key,
passed through his other door into the black hall,
locked that door and kept the key, then worked his way along in the dark
and descended the black stairs.  He was not expecting to meet anybody,
for all interest was centered in the other part of the
house now; his calculation proved correct.  By the time he was
passing through the backyard, Mrs. Pratt, her servants,
and a dozen half-dressed neighbors had joined the twins and the dead,
and accessions were still arriving at the front door.

As Tom, quaking as with a palsy, passed out at the gate,
three women came flying from the house on the opposite side of the lane.
They rushed by him and in at the gate, asking him what
the trouble was there, but not waiting for an answer.
Tom said to himself, "Those old maids waited to dress--they did the same
thing the night Stevens's house burned down next door."
In a few minutes he was in the haunted house.  He lighted a candle and
took off his girl-clothes.  There was blood on him all down his
left side, and his right hand was red with the stains of the
blood-soaked notes which he has crushed in it; but otherwise he
was free from this sort of evidence.  He cleansed his hand on the straw,
and cleaned most of the smut from his face.  Then he burned the male and
female attire to ashes, scattered the ashes,
and put on a disguise proper for a tramp.  He blew out his light,
went below, and was soon loafing down the river road with the
intent to borrow and use one of Roxy's devices.  He found a canoe
and paddled down downstream, setting the canoe adrift as dawn
approached, and making his way by land to the next village,
where he kept out of sight till a transient steamer came along,
and then took deck passage for St. Louis.  He was ill at ease
Dawson's Landing was behind him; then he said to himself,
"All the detectives on earth couldn't trace me now; there's not a
vestige of a clue left in the world; that homicide will take its
place with the permanent mysteries, and people won't get done
trying to guess out the secret of it for fifty years."

In St. Louis, next morning, he read this brief telegram in
the papers--dated at Dawson's Landing:


Judge Driscoll, an old and respected citizen,
was assassinated here about midnight by a profligate Italian nobleman
or a barber on account of a quarrel growing out of the recent election.
The assassin will probably be lynched.


"One of the twins!" soliloquized Tom.  "How lucky!
It is the knife that has done him this grace.  We never know when
fortune is trying to favor us.  I actually cursed Pudd'nhead
Wilson in my heart for putting it out of my power to sell that knife.
I take it back now."

Tom was now rich and independent.  He arranged with the
planter, and mailed to Wilson the new bill of sale which sold
Roxana to herself; then he telegraphed his Aunt Pratt:


Have seen the awful news in the papers and am almost
prostrated with grief.  Shall start by packet today.
Try to bear up till I come.


When Wilson reached the house of mourning and had gathered
such details as Mrs. Pratt and the rest of the crowd could tell him,
he took command as mayor, and gave orders that nothing
should be touched, but everything left as it was until Justice
Robinson should arrive and take the proper measures as corner.
He cleared everybody out of the room but the twins and himself.
The sheriff soon arrived and took the twins away to jail.
Wilson told them to keep heart, and promised to do it best in their
defense when the case should come to trial.  Justice Robinson
came presently, and with him Constable Blake.  They examined the
room thoroughly.  They found the knife and the sheath.
Wilson noticed that there were fingerprints on the knife's handle.
That pleased him, for the twins had required the earliest comers to
make a scrutiny of their hands and clothes, and neither these
people nor Wilson himself had found any bloodstains upon them.
Could there be a possibility that the twins had spoken the truth
when they had said they found the man dead when they ran into the
house in answer to the cry for help?  He thought of that
mysterious girl at once.  But this was not the sort of work for a
girl to be engaged in.  No matter; Tom Driscoll's room must be examined.

After the coroner's jury had viewed the body and its surroundings,
Wilson suggested a search upstairs, and he went along.
The jury forced an entrance to Tom's room, but found nothing, of course.

The coroner's jury found that the homicide was committed by Luigi,
and that Angelo was accessory to it.

The town was bitter against he misfortunates, and for the
first few days after the murder they were in constant danger of
being lynched.  The grand jury presently indicted Luigi for
murder in the first degree, and Angelo as accessory before the fact.
The twins were transferred from the city jail to the
county prison to await trial.

Wilson examined the finger marks on the knife handle and
said to himself, "Neither of the twins made those marks."
Then manifestly there was another person concerned, either in his
own interest or as hired assassin."

But who could it be?  That, he must try to find out.
The safe was not opened, the cashbox was closed, and had three
thousand dollars in it.  Then robbery was not the motive,
and revenge was.  Where had the murdered man an enemy except Luigi?
There was but that one person in the world with a deep grudge against him.

The mysterious girl!  The girl was a great trial to Wilson.
If the motive had been robbery, the girl might answer; but there
wasn't any girl that would want to take this old man's life for revenge.
He had no quarrels with girls; he was a gentleman.

Wilson had perfect tracings of the finger marks of the knife handle;
and among his glass records he had a great array of
fingerprints of women and girls, collected during the last
fifteen or eighteen years, but he scanned them in vain,
they successfully withstood every test; among them were no duplicates
of the prints on the knife.

The presence of the knife on the stage of the murder was a
worrying circumstance for Wilson.  A week previously he had as
good as admitted to himself that he believed Luigi had possessed
such a knife, and that he still possessed it notwithstanding his
pretense that it had been stolen.  And now here was the knife,
and with it the twins.  Half the town had said the twins were
humbugging when the claimed they had lost their knife,
and now these people were joyful, and said, "I told you so!"

If their fingerprints had been on the handle--but useless to
bother any further about that; the fingerprints on the handle
were NOT theirs--that he knew perfectly.

Wilson refused to suspect Tom; for first, Tom couldn't
murder anybody--he hadn't character enough; secondly,
if he could murder a person he wouldn't select his doting benefactor
and nearest relative; thirdly, self-interest was in the way;
for while the uncle lived, Tom was sure of a free support and a
chance to get the destroyed will revived again, but with the
uncle gone, that chance was gone too.  It was true the will had
really been revived, as was now discovered, but Tom could not
have been aware of it, or he would have spoken of it, in his
native talky, unsecretive way.  Finally, Tom was in St. Louis
when the murder was done, and got the news out of the morning journals,
as was shown by his telegram to his aunt. These speculations were
umemphasized sensations rather than articulated thoughts,
for Wilson would have laughed at the idea of seriously
connecting Tom with the murder.

Wilson regarded the case of the twins as desperate--in fact,
about hopeless.  For he argued that if a confederate was not found,
an enlightened Missouri jury would hang them; sure;
if a confederate was found, that would not improve the matter,
but simply furnish one more person for the sheriff to hang.
Nothing could save the twins but the discovery of a person who did the
murder on his sole personal account--an undertaking which had all
the aspect of the impossible.  Still, the person who made the
fingerprints must be sought.  The twins might have no case WITH them,
but they certainly would have none without him.

So Wilson mooned around, thinking, thinking, guessing, guessing,
day and night, and arriving nowhere.  Whenever he ran
across a girl or a woman he was not acquainted with, he got her
fingerprints, on one pretext or another; and they always cost him
a sigh when he got home, for they never tallied with the finger
marks on the knife handle.

As to the mysterious girl, Tom swore he knew no such girl,
and did not remember ever seeing a girl wearing a dress like the
one described by Wilson.  He admitted that he did not always lock
his room, and that sometimes the servants forgot to lock the
house doors; still, in his opinion the girl must have made but
few visits or she would have been discovered.  When Wilson tried
to connect her with the stealing raid, and thought she might have
been the old woman' confederate, if not the very thief disguised
as an old woman, Tom seemed stuck, and also much interested,
and said he would keep a sharp eye out for this person or persons,
although he was afraid that she or they would be too smart to
venture again into a town where everybody would now be on the
watch for a good while to come.

Everybody was pitying Tom, he looked so quiet and sorrowful,
and seemed to feel his great loss so deeply.  He was playing a part,
but it was not all a part.  The picture of his alleged uncle,
as he had last seen him, was before him in the dark pretty
frequently, when he was away, and called again in his dreams,
when he was asleep.  He wouldn't go into the room where the
tragedy had happened.  This charmed the doting Mrs. Pratt, who
realized now, "as she had never done before," she said, what a
sensitive and delicate nature her darling had, and how he adored
his poor uncle.



CHAPTER 20

The Murderer Chuckles


Even the clearest and most perfect circumstantial evidence
is likely to be at fault, after all, and therefore ought to be
received with great caution.  Take the case of any pencil,
sharpened by any woman; if you have witnesses, you will find she
did it with a knife; but if you take simply the aspect of the
pencil, you will say she did it with her teeth.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


The weeks dragged along, no friend visiting the jailed twins
but their counsel and Aunt Patsy Cooper, and the day of trial
came at last--the heaviest day in Wilson's life; for with all his
tireless diligence he had discovered no sign or trace of the
missing confederate.  "Confederate" was the term he had long ago
privately accepted for that person--not as being unquestionably
the right term, but as being the least possibly the right one,
though he was never able to understand why the twins did not
vanish and escape, as the confederate had done, instead of
remaining by the murdered man and getting caught there.

The courthouse was crowded, of course, and would remain so
to the finish, for not only in the town itself, but in the
country for miles around, the trial was the one topic of
conversation among the people.  Mrs. Pratt, in deep mourning,
and Tom with a weed on his hat, had seats near Pembroke Howard,
the public prosecutor, and back of them sat a great array of friends
of the family.  The twins had but one friend present to keep
their counsel in countenance, their poor old sorrowing landlady.
She sat near Wilson, and looked her friendliest.  In the
"nigger corner" sat Chambers; also Roxy, with good clothes on,
and her bill of sale in her pocket.  It was her most precious possession,
and she never parted with it, day or night.  Tom had allowed her
thirty-five dollars a month ever since he came into his property,
and had said the he and she ought to be grateful to the twins for
making them rich; but had roused such a temper in her by this
speech that he did not repeat the argument afterward.  She said
the old judge had treated her child a thousand times better than
he deserved, and had never done her an unkindness in his life;
so she hated these outlandish devils for killing him, and shouldn't
ever sleep satisfied till she saw them hanged for it.
She was here to watch the trial now, and was going to lift up just one
"hooraw" over it if the county judge put her in jail a year for it.
She gave her turbaned head a toss and said, "When dat verdic' comes,
I's gwine to lif' dat ROOF, now, I TELL you."

Pembroke Howard briefly sketched the state's case.
He said he would show by a chain of circumstantial evidence without
break or fault in it anywhere, that the principal prisoner at the bar
committed the murder; that the motive was partly revenge,
and partly a desire to take his own life out of jeopardy, and that
his brother, by his presence, was a consenting accessory to the crime;
a crime which was the basest known to the calendar of
human misdeeds--assassination; that it was conceived by the
blackest of hearts and consummated by the cowardliest of hands;
a crime which had broken a loving sister's heart, blighted the
happiness of a young nephew who was as dear as a son, brought
inconsolable grief to many friends, and sorrow and loss to the
whole community.  The utmost penalty of the outraged law would be exacted,
and upon the accused, now present at the bar,
that penalty would unquestionably be executed.  He would reserve
further remark until his closing speech.

He was strongly moved, and so also was the whole house;
Mrs. Pratt and several other women were weeping when he sat down,
and many an eye that was full of hate was riveted upon the unhappy prisoners.

Witness after witness was called by the state,
and questioned at length; but the cross questioning was brief.
Wilson knew they could furnish nothing valuable for his side.
People were sorry for Pudd'nhead Wilson; his budding career would
get hurt by this trial.

Several witnesses swore they heard Judge Driscoll say in his
public speech that the twins would be able to find their lost
knife again when they needed it to assassinate somebody with.
This was not news, but now it was seen to have been sorrowfully
prophetic, and a profound sensation quivered through the hushed
courtroom when those dismal words were repeated.

The public prosecutor rose and said that it was within his
knowledge, through a conversation held with Judge Driscoll on the
last day of his life, that counsel for the defense had brought
him a challenge from the person charged at the bar with murder;
that he had refused to fight with a confessed assassin--
"that is, on the field of honor," but had added significantly,
that would would be ready for him elsewhere.  Presumably the person
here charged with murder was warned that he must kill or be killed the
first time he should meet Judge Driscoll.  If counsel for the
defense chose to let the statement stand so, he would not call
him to the witness stand.  Mr. Wilson said he would offer no denial.
[Murmurs in the house:  "It is getting worse and worse for Wilson's case."]

Mrs. Pratt testified that she heard no outcry, and did not
know what woke her up, unless it was the sound of rapid footsteps
approaching the front door.  She jumped up and ran out in the
hall just as she was, and heard the footsteps flying up the front
steps and then following behind her as she ran to the sitting room.
There she found the accused standing over her murdered brother.
[Here she broke down and sobbed.  Sensation in the court.]
Resuming, she said the persons entered behind her were
Mr. Rogers and Mr. Buckstone.

Cross-examined by Wilson, she said the twins proclaimed
their innocence; declared that they had been taking a walk,
and had hurried to the house in response to a cry for help which was
so loud and strong that they had heard it at a considerable
distance; that they begged her and the gentlemen just mentioned
to examine their hands and clothes--which was done, and no blood
stains found.

Confirmatory evidence followed from Rogers and Buckstone.

The finding of the knife was verified, the advertisement
minutely describing it and offering a reward for it was put in evidence,
and its exact correspondence with that description proved.
Then followed a few minor details, and the case for the state was closed.

Wilson said that he had three witnesses, the Misses Clarkson,
who would testify that they met a veiled young woman
leaving Judge Driscoll's premises by the back gate a few minutes
after the cries for help were heard, and that their evidence,
taken with certain circumstantial evidence which he would call to
the court's attention to, would in his opinion convince the court
that there was still one person concerned in this crime who had
not yet been found, and also that a stay of proceedings ought to
be granted, in justice to his clients, until that person should
be discovered.  As it was late, he would ask leave to defer the
examination of his three witnesses until the next morning.

The crowd poured out of the place and went flocking away in
excited groups and couples, taking the events of the session over
with vivacity and consuming interest, and everybody seemed to
have had a satisfactory and enjoyable day except the accused,
their counsel, and their old lady friend.  There was no cheer among these,
and no substantial hope.

In parting with the twins Aunt Patsy did attempt a good-night with
a gay pretense of hope and cheer in it, but broke down without finishing.

Absolutely secure as Tom considered himself to be,
the opening solemnities of the trial had nevertheless oppressed him
with a vague uneasiness, his being a nature sensitive to even the
smallest alarms; but from the moment that the poverty and
weakness of Wilson's case lay exposed to the court,
he was comfortable once more, even jubilant.  He left the courtroom
sarcastically sorry for Wilson.  "The Clarksons met an unknown
woman in the back lane," he said to himself, "THAT is his case!
I'll give him a century to find her in--a couple of them if he likes.
A woman who doesn't exist any longer, and the clothes
that gave her her sex burnt up and the ashes thrown away--
oh, certainly, he'll find HER easy enough!"  This reflection set him
to admiring, for the hundredth time, the shrewd ingenuities by
which he had insured himself against detection--more, against even suspicion.

"Nearly always in cases like this there is some little
detail or other overlooked, some wee little track or trace left behind,
and detection follows; but here there's not even the
faintest suggestion of a trace left.  No more than a bird leaves
when it flies through the air--yes, through the night, you may say.
The man that can track a bird through the air in the dark
and find that bird is the man to track me out and find the
judge's assassin--no other need apply.  And that is the job that
has been laid out for poor Pudd'nhead Wilson, of all people in the world!
Lord, it will be pathetically funny to see him
grubbing and groping after that woman that don't exist, and the
right person sitting under his very nose all the time!"
The more he thought the situation over, the more the humor of it
struck him.  Finally he said, "I'll never let him hear the last of
that woman.  Every time I catch him in company, to his dying day,
I'll ask him in the guileless affectionate way that used to gravel
him so when I inquired how his unborn law business was coming along,
'Got on her track yet--hey, Pudd'nhead?'"  He wanted to laugh,
but that would not have answered; there were people about, and he
was mourning for his uncle.  He made up his mind that it would be
good entertainment to look in on Wilson that night and watch him
worry over his barren law case and goad him with an exasperating
word or two of sympathy and commiseration now and then.

Wilson wanted no supper, he had no appetite.  He got out all
the fingerprints of girls and women in his collection of records
and pored gloomily over them an hour or more, trying to convince
himself that that troublesome girl's marks were there somewhere
and had been overlooked.  But it was not so.  He drew back his
chair, clasped his hands over his head, and gave himself up to
dull and arid musings.

Tom Driscoll dropped in, an hour after dark, and said with a
pleasant laugh as he took a seat:

"Hello, we've gone back to the amusements of our days of
neglect and obscurity for consolation, have we?" and he took up
one of the glass strips and held it against the light to inspect it.
"Come, cheer up, old man; there's no use in losing your grip
and going back to this child's play merely because this big
sunspot is drifting across your shiny new disk.  It'll pass,
and you'll be all right again"--and he laid the glass down.
"Did you think you could win always?"

"Oh, no," said Wilson, with a sigh, "I didn't expect that,
but I can't believe Luigi killed your uncle, and I feel very
sorry for him.  It makes me blue.  And you would feel as I do, Tom,
if you were not prejudiced against those young fellows."

"I don't know about that," and Tom's countenance darkened,
for his memory reverted to his kicking.  "I owe them no good will,
considering the brunet one's treatment of me that night.
Prejudice or no prejudice, Pudd'nhead, I don't like them,
and when they get their deserts you're not going to find me sitting
on the mourner's bench."

He took up another strip of glass, and exclaimed:

"Why, here's old Roxy's label!  Are you going to ornament
the royal palaces with nigger paw marks, too?  By the date here,
I was seven months old when this was done, and she was nursing me
and her little nigger cub.  There's a line straight across her thumbprint.
How comes that?" and Tom held out the piece of glass to Wilson.

"That is common," said the bored man, wearily.
"Scar of a cut or a scratch, usually"--and he took the strip
of glass indifferently, and raised it toward the lamp.

All the blood sank suddenly out of his face; his hand quaked,
and he gazed at the polished surface before him with the
glassy stare of a corpse.

"Great heavens, what's the matter with you, Wilson?
Are you going to faint?"

Tom sprang for a glass of water and offered it, but Wilson
shrank shuddering from him and said:

"No, no!--take it away!"  His breast was rising and falling,
and he moved his head about in a dull and wandering way, like a
person who had been stunned.  Presently he said, "I shall feel
better when I get to bed; I have been overwrought today;
yes, and overworked for many days."

"Then I'll leave you and let you get to your rest.
Good night, old man."  But as Tom went out he couldn't deny himself
a small parting gibe:  "Don't take it so hard; a body can't win
every time; you'll hang somebody yet."

Wilson muttered to himself, "It is no lie to say I am sorry
I have to begin with you, miserable dog though you are!"

He braced himself up with a glass of cold whisky, and went
to work again.  He did not compare the new finger marks
unintentionally left by Tom a few minutes before on Roxy's glass
with the tracings of the marks left on the knife handle, there
being no need for that (for his trained eye), but busied himself
with another matter, muttering from time to time, "Idiot that I was!--
Nothing but a GIRL would do me--a man in girl's clothes
never occurred to me."  First, he hunted out the plate containing
the fingerprints made by Tom when he was twelve years old, and
laid it by itself; then he brought forth the marks made by Tom's
baby fingers when he was a suckling of seven months, and placed
these two plates with the one containing this subject's newly
(and unconsciously) made record

"Now the series is complete," he said with satisfaction,
and sat down to inspect these things and enjoy them.

But his enjoyment was brief.  He stared a considerable time
at the three strips, and seemed stupefied with astonishment.
At last he put them down and said, "I can't make it out at all--
hang it, the baby's don't tally with the others!"

He walked the floor for half an hour puzzling over his enigma,
then he hunted out the other glass plates.

He sat down and puzzled over these things a good while,
but kept muttering, "It's no use; I can't understand it.
They don't tally right, and yet I'll swear the names and dates are right,
and so of course they OUGHT to tally.  I never labeled one of
these thing carelessly in my life.  There is a most extraordinary
mystery here."

He was tired out now, and his brains were beginning to clog.
He said he would sleep himself fresh, and then see what he could
do with this riddle.  He slept through a troubled and unrestful hour,
then unconsciousness began to shred away, and presently he
rose drowsily to a sitting posture.  "Now what was that dream?"
he said, trying to recall it.  "What was that dream?  It seemed
to unravel that puz--"

He landed in the middle of the floor at a bound, without
finishing the sentence, and ran and turned up his light and
seized his "records."  He took a single swift glance at them and
cried out:

"It's so!  Heavens, what a revelation!  And for twenty-three
years no man has ever suspected it!"



CHAPTER 21

Doom


He is useless on top of the ground; he ought to be under it,
inspiring the cabbages.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


APRIL 1.  This is the day upon which we are reminded of what
we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


Wilson put on enough clothes for business purposes and went
to work under a high pressure of steam.  He was awake all over.
All sense of weariness had been swept away by the invigorating
refreshment of the great and hopeful discovery which he had made.
He made fine and accurate reproductions of a number of his
"records," and then enlarged them on a scale of ten to one with
his pantograph.  He did these pantograph enlargements on sheets
of white cardboard, and made each individual line of the
bewildering maze of whorls or curves or loops which consisted of
the "pattern" of a "record" stand out bold and black by
reinforcing it with ink.  To the untrained eye the collection of
delicate originals made by the human finger on the glass plates
looked about alike; but when enlarged ten times they resembled
the markings of a block of wood that has been sawed across the
grain, and the dullest eye could detect at a glance, and at a
distance of many feet, that no two of the patterns were alike.
When Wilson had at last finished his tedious and difficult work,
he arranged his results according to a plan in which a
progressive order and sequence was a principal feature; then he
added to the batch several pantograph enlargements which he had
made from time to time in bygone years.

The night was spent and the day well advanced now.  By the
time he had snatched a trifle of breakfast, it was nine o'clock,
and the court was ready to begin its sitting.  He was in his
place twelve minutes later with his "records."

Tom Driscoll caught a slight glimpse of the records,
and nudged his nearest friend and said, with a wink,
"Pudd'nhead's got a rare eye to business--thinks that as long as
he can't win his case it's at least a noble good chance to advertise
his window palace decorations without any expense."  Wilson was
informed that his witnesses had been delayed, but would arrive
presently; but he rose and said he should probably not have
occasion to make use of their testimony.  [An amused murmur ran
through the room:  "It's a clean backdown! he gives up without
hitting a lick!"]  Wilson continued:  "I have other testimony--
and better.  [This compelled interest, and evoked murmurs of
surprise that had a detectable ingredient of disappointment in them.]
If I seem to be springing this evidence upon the court,
I offer as my justification for this, that I did not discover its
existence until late last night, and have been engaged in
examining and classifying it ever since, until half an hour ago.
I shall offer it presently; but first I with to say a few
preliminary words.

"May it please the court, the claim given the front place,
the claim most persistently urged, the claim most strenuously and
I may even say aggressively and defiantly insisted upon by the
prosecution is this--that the person whose hand left the
bloodstained fingerprints upon the handle of the Indian knife is
the person who committed the murder."  Wilson paused, during
several moments, to give impressiveness to what he was about to say,
and then added tranquilly, "WE GRANT THAT CLAIM."

It was an electrical surprise.  No one was prepared for such
an admission.  A buzz of astonishment rose on all sides,
and people were heard to intimate that the overworked lawyer had
lost his mind.  Even the veteran judge, accustomed as he was to legal
ambushes and masked batteries in criminal procedure, was not sure
that his ears were not deceiving him, and asked counsel what it
was he had said.  Howard's impassive face betrayed no sign,
but his attitude and bearing lost something of their careless
confidence for a moment.  Wilson resumed:

"We not only grant that claim, but we welcome it and
strongly endorse it.  Leaving that matter for the present,
we will now proceed to consider other points in the case which we
propose to establish by evidence, and shall include that one in
the chain in its proper place."

He had made up his mind to try a few hardy guesses, in
mapping out his theory of the origin and motive of the murder--
guesses designed to fill up gaps in it--guesses which could help
if they hit, and would probably do no harm if they didn't.

"To my mind, certain circumstances of the case before the
court seem to suggest a motive for the homicide quite different
from the one insisted on by the state.  It is my conviction that
the motive was not revenge, but robbery.  It has been urged that
the presence of the accused brothers in that fatal room,
just after notification that one of them must take the life  of
Judge Driscoll or lose his own the moment the parties should meet,
clearly signifies that the natural of self-preservation moved my
clients to go there secretly and save Count Luigi by destroying
his adversary.

"Then why did they stay there, after the deed was done?
Mrs. Pratt had time, although she did not hear the cry for help,
but woke up some moments later, to run to that room--and there
she found these men standing and making no effort to escape.
If they were guilty, they ought to have been running out of the
house at the same time that she was running to that room.
If they had had such a strong instinct toward self-preservation as
to move them to kill that unarmed man, what had become of it now,
when it should have been more alert than ever.  Would any of us
have remained there?  Let us not slander our intelligence to that degree.

"Much stress has been laid upon the fact that the accused
offered a very large reward for the knife with which this murder
was done; that no thief came forward to claim that extraordinary
reward; that the latter fact was good circumstantial evidence
that the claim that the knife had been stolen was a vanity and a
fraud; that these details taken in connection with the memorable
and apparently prophetic speech of the deceased concerning that
knife, and the finally discovery of that very knife in the fatal
room where no living person was found present with the
slaughtered man but the owner of the knife and his brother, form
an indestructible chain of evidence which fixed the crime upon
those unfortunate strangers.

"But I shall presently ask to be sworn, and shall testify
that there was a large reward offered for the THIEF, also;
and it was offered secretly and not advertised; that this fact was
indiscreetly mentioned--or at least tacitly admitted--in what was
supposed to be safe circumstances, but may NOT have been.
The thief may have been present himself.  [Tom Driscoll had been
looking at the speaker, but dropped his eyes at this point.]
In that case he would retain the knife in his possession, not daring
to offer it for sale, or for pledge in a pawnshop.  [There was a
nodding of heads among the audience by way of admission that this
was not a bad stroke.]  I shall prove to the satisfaction of the
jury that there WAS a person in Judge Driscoll's room several
minutes before the accused entered it.  [This produced a strong
sensation; the last drowsy head in the courtroom roused up now,
and made preparation to listen.]  If it shall seem necessary,
I will prove by the Misses Clarkson that they met a veiled person--
ostensibly a woman--coming out of the back gate a few minutes
after the cry for help was heard.  This person was not a woman,
but a man dressed in woman's clothes."  Another sensation.
Wilson had his eye on Tom when he hazarded this guess, to see
what effect it would produce.  He was satisfied with the result,
and said to himself, "It was a success--he's hit!"

The object of that person in that house was robbery, not
murder.  It is true that the safe was not open, but there was an
ordinary cashbox on the table, with three thousand dollars in it.
It is easily supposable that the thief was concealed in the
house; that he knew of this box, and of its owner's habit of
counting its contents and arranging his accounts at night--if he
had that habit, which I do not assert, of course--that he tried
to take the box while its owner slept, but made a noise and was
seized, and had to use the knife to save himself from capture;
and that he fled without his booty because he heard help coming.

"I have now done with my theory, and will proceed to the
evidences by which I propose to try to prove its soundness."
Wilson took up several of his strips of glass.  When the audience
recognized these familiar mementos of Pudd'nhead's old time
childish "puttering" and folly, the tense and funereal interest
vanished out of their faces, and the house burst into volleys of
relieving and refreshing laughter, and Tom chirked up and joined
in the fun himself; but Wilson was apparently not disturbed.
He arranged his records on the table before him, and said:

"I beg the indulgence of the court while I make a few
remarks in explanation of some evidence which I am about to
introduce, and which I shall presently ask to be allowed to
verify under oath on the witness stand.  Every human being
carries with him from his cradle to his grave certain physical
marks which do not change their character, and by which he can
always be identified--and that without shade of doubt or question.
These marks are his signature, his physiological
autograph, so to speak, and this autograph can not be counterfeited,
nor can he disguise it or hide it away, nor can it
become illegible by the wear and mutations of time.
This signature is not his face--age can change that beyond
recognition; it is not his hair, for that can fall out; it is not
his height, for duplicates of that exist; it is not his form,
for duplicates of that exist also, whereas this signature is each
man's very own--there is no duplicate of it among the swarming
populations of the globe!  [The audience were interested once more.]

"This autograph consists of the delicate lines or
corrugations with which Nature marks the insides of the hands and
the soles of the feet.  If you will look at the balls of your fingers--
you that have very sharp eyesight--you will observe that
these dainty curving lines lie close together, like those that
indicate the borders of oceans in maps, and that they form
various clearly defined patterns, such as arches, circles,
long curves, whorls, etc., and that these patters differ on the
different fingers.  [Every man in the room had his hand up to the
light now, and his head canted to one side, and was minutely
scrutinizing the balls of his fingers; there were whispered
ejaculations of "Why, it's so--I never noticed that before!"]
The patterns on the right hand are not the same as those on the left.
[Ejaculations of "Why, that's so, too!"]  Taken finger for finger,
your patterns differ from your neighbor's.  [Comparisons
were made all over the house--even the judge and jury were
absorbed in this curious work.]  The patterns of a twin's right
hand are not the same as those on his left.  One twin's patters
are never the same as his fellow twin's patters--the jury will
find that the patterns upon the finger balls of the twins' hands
follow this rule.  [An examination of the twins' hands was begun at once.]
You have often heard of twins who were so exactly
alike that when dressed alike their own parents could not tell them apart.
Yet there was never a twin born in to this world
that did not carry from birth to death a sure identifier in this
mysterious and marvelous natal autograph.  That once known to you,
his fellow twin could never personate him and deceive you."

Wilson stopped and stood silent.  Inattention dies a quick
and sure death when a speaker does that.  The stillness gives
warning that something is coming.  All palms and finger balls
went down now, all slouching forms straightened, all heads came up,
all eyes were fastened upon Wilson's face.  He waited yet one, two,
three moments, to let his pause complete and perfect
its spell upon the house; then, when through the profound hush he
could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, he put out his
hand and took the Indian knife by the blade and held it aloft
where all could see the sinister spots upon its ivory handle;
then he said, in a level and passionless voice:

"Upon this haft stands the assassin's natal autograph,
written in the blood of that helpless and unoffending old man who
loved you and whom you all loved.  There is but one man in the
whole earth whose hand can duplicate that crimson sign"--
he paused and raised his eyes to the pendulum swinging back and forth--
"and please God we will produce that man in this room
before the clock strikes noon!"

Stunned, distraught, unconscious of its own movement, the
house half rose, as if expecting to see the murderer appear at
the door, and a breeze of muttered ejaculations swept the place.
"Order in the court!--sit down!"  This from the sheriff.  He was obeyed,
and quiet reigned again.  Wilson stole a glance at Tom,
and said to himself, "He is flying signals of distress now; even
people who despise him are pitying him; they think this is a hard
ordeal for a young fellow who has lost his benefactor by so cruel
a stroke--and they are right."  He resumed his speech:

"For more than twenty years I have amused my compulsory
leisure with collecting these curious physical signatures in this town.
At my house I have hundreds upon hundreds of them.
Each and every one is labeled with name and date; not labeled the
next day or even the next hour, but in the very minute that the
impression was taken.  When I go upon the witness stand I will
repeat under oath the things which I am now saying.  I have the
fingerprints of the court, the sheriff, and every member of the jury.
There is hardly a person in this room, white or black,
whose natal signature I cannot produce, and not one of them can
so disguise himself that I cannot pick him out from a multitude
of his fellow creatures and unerringly identify him by his hands.
And if he and I should live to be a hundred I could still do it.
[The interest of the audience was steadily deepening now.]

"I have studied some of these signatures so much that I know
them as well as the bank cashier knows the autograph of his
oldest customer.  While I turn my back now, I beg that several
persons will be so good as to pass their fingers through their hair,
and then press them upon one of the panes of the window
near the jury, and that among them the accused may set THEIR
finger marks.  Also, I beg that these experimenters, or others,
will set their fingers upon another pane, and add again the marks
of the accused, but not placing them in the same order or
relation to the other signatures as before--for, by one chance in
a million, a person might happen upon the right marks by pure guesswork,
ONCE, therefore I wish to be tested twice."

He turned his back, and the two panes were quickly covered
with delicately lined oval spots, but visible only to such
persons as could get a dark background for them--the foliage of a tree,
outside, for instance.  Then upon call, Wilson went to the
window, made his examination, and said:

"This is Count Luigi's right hand; this one, three
signatures below, is his left.  Here is Count Angelo's right;
down here is his left.  How for the other pane:  here and here
are Count Luigi's, here and here are his brother's."  He faced about.
"Am I right?"

A deafening explosion of applause was the answer.
The bench said:

"This certainly approaches the miraculous!"

Wilson turned to the window again and remarked,
pointing with his finger:

"This is the signature of Mr. Justice Robinson.  [Applause.]
This, of Constable Blake.  [Applause.]  This of John Mason, juryman.
[Applause.]  This, of the sheriff.  [Applause.]
I cannot name the others, but I have them all at home, named and dated,
and could identify them all by my fingerprint records."

He moved to his place through a storm of applause--which the
sheriff stopped, and also made the people sit down, for they were
all standing and struggling to see, of course.  Court, jury,
sheriff, and everybody had been too absorbed in observing
Wilson's performance to attend to the audience earlier.

"Now then," said Wilson, "I have here the natal autographs
of the two children--thrown up to ten times the natural size by
the pantograph, so that anyone who can see at all can tell the
markings apart at a glance.  We will call the children A and B.
Here are A's finger marks, taken at the age of five months.
Here they are again taken at seven months.  [Tom started.]
They are alike, you see.  Here are B's at five months, and also at
seven months.  They, too, exactly copy each other, but the patterns
are quite different from A's, you observe.  I shall refer to these
again presently, but we will turn them face down now.

"Here, thrown up ten sizes, are the natal autographs of the
two persons who are here before you accused of murdering Judge Driscoll.
I made these pantograph copies last night, and will so
swear when I go upon the witness stand.  I ask the jury to
compare them with the finger marks of the accused upon the
windowpanes, and tell the court if they are the same."

He passed a powerful magnifying glass to the foreman.

One juryman after another took the cardboard and the glass
and made the comparison.  Then the foreman said to the judge:

"Your honor, we are all agreed that they are identical."

Wilson said to the foreman:

"Please turn that cardboard face down, and take this one,
and compare it searchingly, by the magnifier, with the fatal
signature upon the knife handle, and report your finding to the court."

Again the jury made minute examinations, and again reported:

"We find them to be exactly identical, your honor."

Wilson turned toward the counsel for the prosecution,
and there was a clearly recognizable note of warning in his voice
when he said:

"May it please the court, the state has claimed, strenuously
and persistently, that the bloodstained fingerprints upon that
knife handle were left there by the assassin of Judge Driscoll.
You have heard us grant that claim, and welcome it."  He turned
to the jury:  "Compare the fingerprints of the accused with the
fingerprints left by the assassin--and report."

The comparison began.  As it proceeded, all movement and all
sound ceased, and the deep silence of an absorbed and waiting
suspense settled upon the house; and when at last the words came,
"THEY DO NOT EVEN RESEMBLE," a thundercrash of applause followed
and the house sprang to its feet, but was quickly repressed by
official force and brought to order again.  Tom was altering his
position every few minutes now, but none of his changes brought
repose nor any small trifle of comfort.  When the house's
attention was become fixed once more, Wilson said gravely,
indicating the twins with a gesture:

"These men are innocent--I have no further concern with them.
[Another outbreak of applause began, but was promptly checked.]
We will now proceed to find the guilty.  [Tom's eyes
were starting from their sockets--yes, it was a cruel day for the
bereaved youth, everybody thought.]  We will return to the infant
autographs of A and B.  I will ask the jury to take these large
pantograph facsimilies of A's marked five months and seven months.
Do they tally?"

The foreman responded:  "Perfectly."

"Now examine this pantograph, taken at eight months,
and also marked A.  Does it tally with the other two?"

The surprised response was:

"NO--THEY DIFFER WIDELY!"

"You are quite right.  Now take these two pantographs of B's
autograph, marked five months and seven months.  Do they tally
with each other?"

"Yes--perfectly."

"Take this third pantograph marked B, eight months.
Does it tally with B's other two?"

"BY NO MEANS!"

"Do you know how to account for those strange discrepancies?
I will tell you.  For a purpose unknown to us, but probably a
selfish one, somebody changed those children in the cradle."

This produced a vast sensation, naturally; Roxana was
astonished at this admirable guess, but not disturbed by it.
To guess the exchange was one thing, to guess who did it quite another.
Pudd'nhead Wilson could do wonderful things, no doubt,
but he couldn't do impossible ones.  Safe?  She was perfectly safe.
She smiled privately.

"Between the ages of seven months and eight months those
children were changed in the cradle"--he made one of this effect-
collecting pauses, and added--"and the person who did it is in
this house!"

Roxy's pulses stood still!  The house was thrilled as with
an electric shock, and the people half rose as if to seek a
glimpse of the person who had made that exchange.  Tom was
growing limp; the life seemed oozing out of him.  Wilson resumed:

"A was put into B's cradle in the nursery; B was transferred
to the kitchen and became a Negro and a slave [Sensation--
confusion of angry ejaculations]--but within a quarter of an hour
he will stand before you white and free!  [Burst of applause,
checked by the officers.]  From seven months onward until now,
A has still been a usurper, and in my finger record he bears B's name.
Here is his pantograph at the age of twelve.
Compare it with the assassin's signature upon the knife handle.
Do they tally?"

The foreman answered:

"TO THE MINUTEST DETAIL!"

Wilson said, solemnly:

"The murderer of your friend and mine--York Driscoll of the
generous hand and the kindly spirit--sits in among you.
Valet de Chambre, Negro and slave--falsely called Thomas a Becket Driscoll
--make upon the window the fingerprints that will hang you!"

Tom turned his ashen face imploring toward the speaker, made
some impotent movements with his white lips, then slid limp and
lifeless to the floor.

Wilson broke the awed silence with the words:

"There is no need.  He has confessed."

Roxy flung herself upon her knees, covered her face with her
hands, and out through her sobs the words struggled:

"De Lord have mercy on me, po' misasble sinner dat I is!"

The clock struck twelve.

The court rose; the new prisoner, handcuffed, was removed.



CONCLUSION


It is often the case that the man who can't tell a lie
thinks he is the best judge of one.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


OCTOBER 12, THE DISCOVERY.  It was wonderful to find America,
but it would have been more wonderful to miss it.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar


The town sat up all night to discuss the amazing events of
the day and swap guesses as to when Tom's trial would begin.
Troop after troop of citizens came to serenade Wilson,
and require a speech, and shout themselves hoarse over every
sentence that fell from his lips--for all his sentences were golden,
now, all were marvelous.  His long fight against hard luck and
prejudice was ended; he was a made man for good.
And as each of these roaring gangs of enthusiasts marched away,
some remorseful member of it was quite sure to raise his
voice and say:

"And this is the man the likes of us have called a
pudd'nhead for more than twenty years.  He has resigned from that
position, friends."

"Yes, but it isn't vacant--we're elected."

The twins were heroes of romance, now, and with
rehabilitated reputations.  But they were weary of Western
adventure, and straightway retired to Europe.

Roxy's heart was broken.  The young fellow upon whom she had
inflicted twenty-three years of slavery continued the false
heir's pension of thirty-five dollars a month to her, but her
hurts were too deep for money to heal; the spirit in her eye was
quenched, her martial bearing departed with it, and the voice of
her laughter ceased in the land.  In her church and its affairs
she found her only solace.

The real heir suddenly found himself rich and free, but in a
most embarrassing situation.  He could neither read nor write,
and his speech was the basest dialect of the Negro quarter.
His gait, his attitudes, his gestures, his bearing, his laugh--
all were vulgar and uncouth; his manners were the manners of a slave.
Money and fine clothes could not mend these defects or cover them up;
they only made them more glaring and the more pathetic.
The poor fellow could not endure the terrors of the white man's parlor,
and felt at home and at peace nowhere but in the kitchen.
The family pew was a misery to him, yet he could nevermore enter
into the solacing refuge of the "nigger gallery"--that was closed
to him for good and all.  But we cannot follow his curious fate further--
that would be a long story.

The false heir made a full confession and was sentenced to
imprisonment for life.  But now a complication came up.
The Percy Driscoll estate was in such a crippled shape when its
owner died that it could pay only sixty percent of its great
indebtedness, and was settled at that rate.  But the creditors
came forward now, and complained that inasmuch as through an
error for which THEY were in no way to blame the false heir was
not inventoried at the time with the rest of the property, great
wrong and loss had thereby been inflicted upon them.
They rightly claimed that "Tom" was lawfully their property and had
been so for eight years; that they had already lost sufficiently
in being deprived of his services during that long period, and
ought not to be required to add anything to that loss; that if he
had been delivered up to them in the first place, they would have
sold him and he could not have murdered Judge Driscoll; therefore
it was not that he had really committed the murder, the guilt lay
with the erroneous inventory.  Everybody saw that there was
reason in this.  Everybody granted that if "Tom" were white and
free it would be unquestionably right to punish him--it would be
no loss to anybody; but to shut up a valuable slave for life--
that was quite another matter.

As soon as the Governor understood the case, he pardoned Tom at once,
and the creditors sold him down the river.


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


Author's Note to THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS

A man who is not born with the novel-writing gift has a
troublesome time of it when he tries to build a novel.
I know this from experience.  He has no clear idea of his story;
in fact he has no story.  He merely has some people in his mind,
and an incident or two, also a locality, and he trusts he can plunge
those people into those incidents with interesting results.
So he goes to work.  To write a novel?  No--that is a thought which
comes later; in the beginning he is only proposing to tell a
little tale, a very little tale, a six-page tale.  But as it is a
tale which he is not acquainted with, and can only find out what
it is by listening as it goes along telling itself, it is more
than apt to go on and on and on till it spreads itself into a book.
I know about this, because it has happened to me so many times.

And I have noticed another thing:  that as the short tale
grows into the long tale, the original intention (or motif)
is apt to get abolished and find itself superseded by a quite
different one.  It was so in the case of a magazine sketch which
I once started to write--a funny and fantastic sketch about a
prince an a pauper; it presently assumed a grave cast of its own accord,
and in that new shape spread itself out into a book.
Much the same thing happened with PUDD'NHEAD WILSON.  I had a
sufficiently hard time with that tale, because it changed itself
from a farce to a tragedy while I was going along with it--a most
embarrassing circumstance.  But what was a great deal worse was,
that it was not one story, but two stories tangled together; and
they obstructed and interrupted each other at every turn and
created no end of confusion and annoyance.  I could not offer the
book for publication, for I was afraid it would unseat the
reader's reason, I did not know what was the matter with it,
for I had not noticed, as yet, that it was two stories in one.
It took me months to make that discovery.  I carried the manuscript
back and forth across the Atlantic two or three times, and read
it and studied over it on shipboard; and at last I saw where the
difficulty lay.  I had no further trouble.  I pulled one of the
stories out by the roots, and left the other--a kind of literary
Caesarean operation.

Would the reader care to know something about the story
which I pulled out?  He has been told many a time how the born-
and-trained novelist works; won't he let me round and complete
his knowledge by telling him how the jackleg does it?

Originally the story was called THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS.
I meant to make it very short.  I had seen a picture of a
youthful Italian "freak"--or "freaks"--which was--or which were--
on exhibition in our cities--a combination consisting of two
heads and four arms joined to a single body and a single pair of legs--
and I thought I would write an extravagantly fantastic
little story with this freak of nature for hero--or heroes--
a silly young miss for heroine, and two old ladies and two boys for
the minor parts.  I lavishly elaborated these people and their
doings, of course.  But the take kept spreading along and
spreading along, and other people got to intruding themselves and
taking up more and more room with their talk and their affairs.
Among them came a stranger named Pudd'nhead Wilson, and woman
named Roxana; and presently the doings of these two pushed up
into prominence a young fellow named Tom Driscoll, whose proper
place was away in the obscure background.  Before the book was
half finished those three were taking things almost entirely into
their own hands and working the whole tale as a private venture
of their own--a tale which they had nothing at all to do with, by rights.

When the book was finished and I came to look around to see
what had become of the team I had originally started out with--
Aunt Patsy Cooper, Aunt Betsy Hale, and two boys, and Rowena the
lightweight heroine--they were nowhere to be seen; they had
disappeared from the story some time or other.  I hunted about
and found them--found them stranded, idle, forgotten, and
permanently useless.  It was very awkward.  It was awkward all
around, but more particularly in the case of Rowena, because
there was a love match on, between her and one of the twins that
constituted the freak, and I had worked it up to a blistering
heat and thrown in a quite dramatic love quarrel, wherein Rowena
scathingly denounced her betrothed for getting drunk, and scoffed
at his explanation of how it had happened, and wouldn't listen to it,
and had driven him from her in the usual "forever" way;
and now here she sat crying and brokenhearted; for she had found that
he had spoken only the truth; that is was not he, but the other
of the freak that had drunk the liquor that made him drunk;
that her half was a prohibitionist and had never drunk a drop in his
life, and altogether tight as a brick three days in the week, was
wholly innocent of blame; and indeed, when sober, was constantly
doing all he could to reform his brother, the other half, who
never got any satisfaction out of drinking, anyway, because
liquor never affected him.  Yes, here she was, stranded with that
deep injustice of hers torturing her poor torn heart.

I didn't know what to do with her.  I was as sorry for her
as anybody could be, but the campaign was over, the book was finished,
she was sidetracked, and there was no possible way of
crowding her in, anywhere.  I could not leave her there,
of course; it would not do.  After spreading her out so, and making
such a to-do over her affairs, it would be absolutely necessary
to account to the reader for her.  I thought and thought and
studied and studied; but I arrived at nothing.  I finally saw
plainly that there was really no way but one--I must simply give
her the grand bounce.  It grieved me to do it, for after
associating with her so much I had come to kind of like her after
a fashion, notwithstanding things and was so nauseatingly sentimental.
Still it had to be done.  So at the top of Chapter
XVII I put a "Calendar" remark concerning July the Fourth,
and began the chapter with this statistic:

"Rowena went out in the backyard after supper to see the
fireworks and fell down the well and got drowned."

It seemed abrupt, but I thought maybe the reader wouldn't notice it,
because I changed the subject right away to something else.
Anyway it loosened up Rowena from where she was stuck and
got her out of the way, and that was the main thing.  It seemed a
prompt good way of weeding out people that had got stalled, and a
plenty good enough way for those others; so I hunted up the two
boys and said, "They went out back one night to stone the cat and
fell down the well and got drowned."  Next I searched around and
found old Aunt Patsy and Aunt Betsy Hale where they were around,
and said, "They went out back one night to visit the sick and
fell down the well and got drowned."  I was going to drown some others,
but I gave up the idea, partly because I believed that if
I kept that up it would arose attention, and perhaps sympathy
with those people, and partly because it was not a large well and
would not hold any more anyway.

Still the story was unsatisfactory.  Here was a set of new
characters who were become inordinately prominent and who
persisted in remaining so to the end; and back yonder was an
older set who made a large noise and a great to-do for a little
while and then suddenly played out utterly and fell down the well.
There was a radical defect somewhere, and I must search it
out and cure it.

The defect turned out to be the one already spoken of--
two stories in one, a farce and a tragedy.  So I pulled out the farce
and left the tragedy.  This left the original team in, but only
as mere names, not as characters.  Their prominence was wholly gone;
they were not even worth drowning; so I removed that detail.
Also I took the twins apart and made two separate men of them.
They had no occasion to have foreign names now, but it was
too much trouble to remove them all through, so I left them
christened as they were and made no explanation.


End of the Project Gutenberg edition of The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson






THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS

by Mark Twain



A man who is born with the novel-writing gift has a troublesome time of
it when he tries to build a novel.  I know this from experience.  He has
no clear idea of his story; in fact he has no story.  He merely has some
people in his mind, and an incident or two, also a locality.  He knows
these people, he knows the selected locality, and he trusts that he can
plunge those people into those incidents with interesting results.  So he
goes to work.  To write a novel?  No--that is a thought which comes
later; in the beginning he is only proposing to tell a little tale; a
very little tale; a six-page tale.  But as it is a tale which he is not
acquainted with, and can only find out what it is by listening as it goes
along telling itself, it is more than apt to go on and on and on till it
spreads itself into a book.  I know about this, because it has happened
to me so many times.

And I have noticed another thing: that as the short tale grows into the
long tale, the original intention (or motif) is apt to get abolished and
find itself superseded by a quite different one.  It was so in the case
of a magazine sketch which I once started to write--a funny and fantastic
sketch about a prince and a pauper; it presently assumed a grave cast of
its own accord, and in that new shape spread itself out into a book.
Much the same thing happened with "Pudd'nhead Wilson."  I had a
sufficiently hard time with that tale, because it changed itself from a
farce to a tragedy while I was going along with it--a most embarrassing
circumstance.  But what was a great deal worse was, that it was not one
story, but two stories tangled together; and they obstructed and
interrupted each other at every turn and created no end of confusion and
annoyance.  I could not offer the book for publication, for I was afraid
it would unseat the reader's reason.  I did not know what was the matter
with it, for I had not noticed, as yet, that it was two stories in one.
It took me months to make that discovery.  I carried the manuscript back
and forth across the Atlantic two or three times, and read it and studied
over it on shipboard; and at last I saw where the difficulty lay.  I had
no further trouble.  I pulled one of the stories out by the roots, and
left the other one--a kind of literary Caesarean operation.

Would the reader care to know something about the story which I pulled
out?  He has been told many a time how the born-and-trained novelist
works.  Won't he let me round and complete his knowledge by telling him
how the jack-leg does it?

Originally the story was called "Those Extraordinary Twins."  I meant to
make it very short.  I had seen a picture of a youthful Italian "freak"
or "freaks" which was--or which were--on exhibition in our cities--a
combination consisting of two heads and four arms joined to a single body
and a single pair of legs--and I thought I would write an extravagantly
fantastic little story with this freak of nature for hero--or heroes--
a silly young miss for heroine, and two old ladies and two boys for the
minor parts.  I lavishly elaborated these people and their doings, of
course.  But the tale kept spreading along, and spreading along, and
other people got to intruding themselves and taking up more and more room
with their talk and their affairs.  Among them came a stranger named
Pudd'nhead Wilson, and a woman named Roxana; and presently the doings of
these two pushed up into prominence a young fellow named Tom Driscoll,
whose proper place was away in the obscure background.  Before the book
was half finished those three were taking things almost entirely into
their own hands and working the whole tale as a private venture of their
own--a tale which they had nothing at all to do with, by rights.

When the book was finished and I came to look around to see what had
become of the team I had originally started out with--Aunt Patsy Cooper,
Aunt Betsy Hale, the two boys, and Rowena the light-weight heroine--they
were nowhere to be seen; they had disappeared from the story some time or
other.  I hunted about and found them found them stranded, idle,
forgotten, and permanently useless.  It was very awkward.  It was awkward
all around; but more particularly in the case of Rowena, because there
was a love-match on, between her and one of the twins that constituted
the freak, and I had worked it up to a blistering heat and thrown in a
quite dramatic love-quarrel, wherein Rowena scathingly denounced her
betrothed for getting drunk, and scoffed at his explanation of how it had
happened, and wouldn't listen to it, and had driven him from her in the
usual "forever" way; and now here she sat crying and broken-hearted; for
she had found that he had spoken only the truth; that it was not he, but
the other half of the freak, that had drunk the liquor that made him
drunk; that her half was a prohibitionist and had never drunk a drop in
his life, and, although tight as a brick three days in the week, was
wholly innocent of blame; and indeed, when sober, was constantly doing
all he could to reform his brother, the other half, who never got any
satisfaction out of drinking, anyway, because liquor never affected him.
Yes, here she was, stranded with that deep injustice of hers torturing
her poor torn heart.

I didn't know what to do with her.  I was as sorry for her as anybody
could be, but the campaign was over, the book was finished, she was
sidetracked, and there was no possible way of crowding her in, anywhere.
I could not leave her there, of course; it would not do.  After spreading
her out so, and making such a to-do over her affairs, it would be
absolutely necessary to account to the reader for her.  I thought and
thought and studied and studied; but I arrived at nothing.  I finally saw
plainly that there was really no way but one--I must simply give her the
grand bounce.  It grieved me to do it, for after associating with her so
much I had come to kind of like her after a fashion, notwithstanding she
was such an ass and said such stupid irritating things and was so
nauseatingly sentimental.  Still it had to be done.  So, at the top of
Chapter XVII, I put in a "Calendar" remark concerning July Fourth, and
began the chapter with this statistic:

"Rowena went out in the back yard after supper to see the fireworks and
fell down the well and got drowned."

It seemed abrupt, but I thought maybe the reader wouldn't notice it,
because I changed the subject right away to something else.  Anyway it
loosened up Rowena from where she was stuck and got her out of the way,
and that was the main thing.  It seemed a prompt good way of weeding out
people that had got stalled, and a plenty good enough way for those
others; so I hunted up the two boys and said "they went out back one
night to stone the cat and fell down the well and got drowned."  Next I
searched around and found old Aunt Patsy Cooper and Aunt Betsy Hale where
they were aground, and said "they went out back one night to visit the
sick and fell down the well and got drowned."  I was going to drown some
of the others, but I gave up the idea, partly because I believed that if
I kept that up it would arouse attention, and perhaps sympathy with those
people, and partly because it was not a large well and would not hold any
more anyway.

Still the story was unsatisfactory.  Here was a set of new characters who
were become inordinately prominent and who persisted in remaining so to
the end; and back yonder was an older set who made a large noise and a
great to-do for a little while and then suddenly played out utterly and
fell down the well.  There was a radical defect somewhere, and I must
search it out and cure it.

The defect turned out to be the one already spoken of--two stories in
one, a farce and a tragedy.  So I pulled out the farce and left the
tragedy.  This left the original team in, but only as mere names, not as
characters.  Their prominence was wholly gone; they were not even worth
drowning; so I removed that detail.  Also I took those twins apart and
made two separate men of them.  They had no occasion to have foreign
names now, but it was too much trouble to remove them all through, so I
left them christened as they were and made no explanation.






CHAPTER I

THE TWINS AS THEY REALLY WERE

The conglomerate twins were brought on the the stage in Chapter I of the
original extravaganza.  Aunt Patsy Cooper has received their letter
applying for board and lodging, and Rowena, her daughter, insane with
joy, is begging for a hearing of it:

"Well, set down then, and be quiet a minute and don't fly around so; it
fairly makes me tired to see you.  It starts off so: 'HONORED MADAM'--"

"I like that, ma, don't you?  It shows they're high-bred."

"Yes, I noticed that when I first read it.  'My brother and I have seen
your advertisement, by chance, in a copy of your local journal--'

"It's so beautiful and smooth, ma-don't you think so?"

"Yes, seems so to me--'and beg leave to take the room you offer.  We are
twenty-four years of age, and twins--'"

"Twins!  How sweet!  I do hope they are handsome, and I just know they
are!  Don't you hope they are, ma?"

"Land, I ain't particular.  'We are Italians by birth--'"

"It's so romantic!  Just think there's never been one in this town, and
everybody will want to see them, and they're all ours!  Think of that!"

"--'but have lived long in the various countries of Europe, and several
years in the United States.'"

"Oh, just think what wonders they've seen, ma!  Won't it be good to hear
them talk?"

"I reckon so; yes, I reckon so.  'Our names are Luigi and Angelo Capello-
-'"

"Beautiful, perfectly beautiful!  Not like Jones and Robinson and those
horrible names."

"'You desire but one guest, but dear madam, if you will allow us to pay
for two we will not discommode you.  We will sleep together in the same
bed.  We have always been used to this, and prefer it.  And then he goes
on to say they will be down Thursday."

"And this is Tuesday--I don't know how I'm ever going to wait, ma!  The
time does drag along so, and I'm so dying to see them!  Which of them do
you reckon is the tallest, ma?"

"How do you s'pose I can tell, child?  Mostly they are the same
size-twins are."

"'Well then, which do you reckon is the best looking?"

"Goodness knows--I don't."

"I think Angelo is; it's the prettiest name, anyway.  Don't you think
it's a sweet name, ma?"

"Yes, it's well enough.  I'd like both of them better if I knew the way
to pronounce them--the Eyetalian way, I mean.  The Missouri way and the
Eyetalian way is different, I judge."

"Maybe--yes.  It's Luigi that writes the letter.  What do you reckon is
the reason Angelo didn't write it?"

"Why, how can I tell?  What's the difference who writes it, so long as
it's done?"

"Oh, I hope it wasn't because he is sick!  You don't think he is sick, do
you, ma?"

"Sick your granny; what's to make him sick?"

"Oh, there's never any telling.  These foreigners with that kind of names
are so delicate, and of course that kind of names are not suited to our
climate--you wouldn't expect it."


[And so-on and so-on, no end.  The time drags along; Thursday comes: the
boat arrives in a pouring storm toward midnight.]


At last there was a knock at the door and the anxious family jumped to
open it.  Two negro men entered, each carrying a trunk, and proceeded
upstairs toward the guest-room.  Then followed a stupefying apparition--
a double-headed human creature with four arms, one body, and a single
pair of legs!  It--or they, as you please--bowed with elaborate foreign
formality, but the Coopers could not respond immediately; they were
paralyzed.  At this moment there came from the rear of the group a
fervent ejaculation--"My lan'!"--followed by a crash of crockery, and the
slave-wench Nancy stood petrified and staring, with a tray of wrecked
tea-things at her feet.  The incident broke the spell, and brought the
family to consciousness.  The beautiful heads of the new-comer bowed
again, and one of them said with easy grace and dignity:

"I crave the honor, madam and miss, to introduce to you my brother, Count
Luigi Capello," (the other head bowed) "and myself--Count Angelo; and at
the same time offer sincere apologies for the lateness of our coming,
which was unavoidable," and both heads bowed again.

The poor old lady was in a whirl of amazement and confusion, but she
managed to stammer out:

"I'm sure I'm glad to make your acquaintance, sir--I mean, gentlemen.
As for the delay, it is nothing, don't mention it.  This is my daughter
Rowena, sir--gentlemen.  Please step into the parlor and sit down and
have a bite and sup; you are dreadful wet and must be uncomfortable--
both of you, I mean."

But to the old lady's relief they courteously excused themselves, saying
it would be wrong to keep the family out of their beds longer; then each
head bowed in turn and uttered a friendly good night, and the singular
figure moved away in the wake of Rowena's small brothers, who bore
candles, and disappeared up the stairs.

The widow tottered into the parlor and sank into a chair with a gasp,
and Rowena followed, tongue-tied and dazed.  The two sat silent in the
throbbing summer heat unconscious of the million-voiced music of the
mosquitoes, unconscious of the roaring gale, the lashing and thrashing of
the rain along the windows and the roof, the white glare of the
lightning, the tumultuous booming and bellowing of the thunder; conscious
of nothing but that prodigy, that uncanny apparition that had come and
gone so suddenly--that weird strange thing that was so soft-spoken and so
gentle of manner and yet had shaken them up like an earthquake with the
shock of its gruesome aspect.  At last a cold little shudder quivered
along down the widow's meager frame and she said in a weak voice:

"Ugh, it was awful just the mere look of that phillipene!"

Rowena did not answer.  Her faculties were still caked; she had not yet
found her voice.  Presently the widow said, a little resentfully:

"Always been used to sleeping together--in-fact, prefer it.  And I was
thinking it was to accommodate me.  I thought it was very good of them,
whereas a person situated as that young man is--"

"Ma, you oughtn't to begin by getting up a prejudice against him.
I'm sure he is good-hearted and means well.  Both of his faces show it."

"I'm not so certain about that.  The one on the left--I mean the one on
it's left--hasn't near as good a face, in my opinion, as its brother."

"That's Luigi."

"Yes, Luigi; anyway it's the dark-skinned one; the one that was west of
his brother when they stood in the door.  Up to all kinds of mischief and
disobedience when he was a boy, I'll be bound.  I lay his mother had
trouble to lay her hand on him when she wanted him.  But the one on the
right is as good as gold, I can see that."

"That's Angelo."

"Yes, Angelo, I reckon, though I can't tell t'other from which by their
names, yet awhile.  But it's the right-hand one--the blond one.  He has
such kind blue eyes, and curly copper hair and fresh complexion--"

"And such a noble face!--oh, it is a noble face, ma, just royal, you may
say!  And beautiful deary me, how beautiful!  But both are that; the dark
one's as beautiful as--a picture.  There's no such wonderful faces and
handsome heads in this town none that even begin.  And such hands,
especially Angelo's--so shapely and--"

"Stuff, how could you tell which they belonged to?--they had gloves on."

"Why, didn't I see them take off their hats?"

"That don't signify.  They might have taken off each other's hats.
Nobody could tell.  There was just a wormy squirming of arms in the air
--seemed to be a couple of dozen of them, all writhing at once, and it
just made me dizzy to see them go."

"Why, ma, I hadn't any difficulty.  There's two arms on each shoulder--"

"There, now.  One arm on each shoulder belongs to each of the creatures,
don't it?  For a person to have two arms on one shoulder wouldn't do him
any good, would it?  Of course not.  Each has an arm on each shoulder.
Now then, you tell me which of them belongs to which, if you can.  They
don't know, themselves--they just work whichever arm comes handy.  Of
course they do; especially if they are in a hurry and can't stop to think
which belongs to which."

The mother seemed to have the rights of the argument, so the daughter
abandoned the struggle.  Presently the widow rose with a yawn and said:

"Poor thing, I hope it won't catch cold; it was powerful wet, just
drenched, you may say.  I hope it has left its boots outside, so they can
be dried."

Then she gave a little start, and looked perplexed.

"Now I remember I heard one of them ask Joe to call him at half after
seven--I think it was the one on the left--no, it was the one to the east
of the other one--but I didn't hear the other one say any thing.  I
wonder if he wants to be called too.  Do you reckon it's too late to
ask?"

"Why, ma, it's not necessary.  Calling one is calling both.  If one gets
up, the other's got to."

"Sho, of course; I never thought of that.  Well, come along, maybe we can
get some sleep, but I don't know, I'm so shook up with what we've been
through."

The stranger had made an impression on the boys, too.  They had a word of
talk as they were getting to bed.  Henry, the gentle, the humane, said:

"I feel ever so sorry for it, don't you, Joe?"

But Joe was a boy of this world, active, enterprising, and had a
theatrical side to him:

"Sorry?  Why, how you talk!  It can't stir a step without attracting
attention.  It's just grand!"

Henry said, reproachfully:

"Instead of pitying it, Joe, you talk as if--"

"Talk as if what?  I know one thing mighty certain: if you can fix me so
I can eat for two and only have to stub toes for one, I ain't going to
fool away no such chance just for sentiment."

The twins were wet and tired, and they proceeded to undress without-any
preliminary remarks.  The abundance of sleeve made the partnership coat
hard to get off, for it was like skinning a tarantula; but it came at
last, after much tugging and perspiring.  The mutual vest followed.  Then
the brothers stood up before the glass, and each took off his own cravat
and collar.  The collars were of the standing kind, and came high up
under the ears, like the sides of a wheelbarrow, as required by the
fashion of the day.  The cravats were as broad as a bank-bill, with
fringed ends which stood far out to right and left like the wings of a
dragon-fly, and this also was strictly in accordance with the fashion of
the time.  Each cravat, as to color, was in perfect taste, so far as its
owner's complexion was concerned--a delicate pink, in the case of the
blond brother, a violent scarlet in the case of the brunette--but as a
combination they broke all the laws of taste known to civilization.
Nothing more fiendish and irreconcilable than those shrieking and
blaspheming colors could have been contrived, The wet boots gave no end
of trouble--to Luigi.  When they were off at last, Angelo said, with
bitterness:

"I wish you wouldn't wear such tight boots, they hurt my feet."

Luigi answered with indifference:

"My friend, when I am in command of our body, I choose my apparel
according to my own convenience, as I have remarked more than several
times already.  When you are in command, I beg you will do as you
please."

Angelo was hurt, and the tears came into his eyes.  There was gentle
reproach in his voice, but, not anger, when he replied:

"Luigi, I often consult your wishes, but you never consult mine.  When I
am in command I treat you as a guest; I try to make you feel at home;
when you are in command you treat me as an intruder, you make me feel
unwelcome.  It embarrasses me cruelly in company, for I can, see that
people notice it and comment on it."

"Oh, damn the people," responded the brother languidly, and with the air
of one who is tired of the subject.

A slight shudder shook the frame of Angelo, but he said nothing and the
conversation ceased.  Each buttoned his own share of the nightshirt in
silence; then Luigi, with Paine's Age of Reason in his hand, sat down in
one chair and put his feet in another and lit his pipe, while Angelo took
his Whole Duty of Man, and both began to read.  Angelo presently began to
cough; his coughing increased and became mixed with gaspings for breath,
and he was finally obliged to make an appeal to his brother's humanity:

"Luigi, if you would only smoke a little milder tobacco, I am sure I
could learn not to mind it in time, but this is so strong, and the pipe
is so rank that--"

"Angelo, I wouldn't be such a baby!  I have learned to smoke in a week,
and the trouble is already over with me; if you would try, you could
learn too, and then you would stop spoiling my comfort with your
everlasting complaints."

"Ah, brother, that is a strong word--everlasting--and isn't quite fair.
I only complain when I suffocate; you know I don't complain when we are
in the open air."

"Well, anyway, you could learn to smoke yourself."

"But my principles, Luigi, you forget my principles.  You would not have
me do a thing which I regard as a sin?"

"Oh, bosh!"

The conversation ceased again, for Angelo was sick and discouraged and
strangling; but after some time he closed his book and asked Luigi to
sing "From Greenland's Icy Mountains" with him, but he would not, and
when he tried to sing by himself Luigi did his best to drown his
plaintive tenor with a rude and rollicking song delivered in a thundering
bass.

After the singing there was silence, and neither brother was happy.
Before blowing the light out Luigi swallowed half a tumbler of whisky,
and Angelo, whose sensitive organization could not endure intoxicants of
any kind, took a pill to keep it from giving him the headache.




CHAPTER II

MA COOPER GETS ALL MIXED UP

The family sat in the breakfast-room waiting for the twins to come down.
The widow was quiet, the daughter was alive with happy excitement.  She
said:

"Ah, they're a boon, ma, just a boon!  don't you think so?"

"Laws, I hope so, I don't know."

"Why, ma, yes you do.  They're so fine and handsome, and high-bred and
polite, so every way superior to our gawks here in this village; why,
they'll make life different from what it was--so humdrum and commonplace,
you know--oh, you may be sure they're full of accomplishments, and
knowledge of the world, and all that, that will be an immense advantage
to society here.  Don't you think so, ma?"

"Mercy on me, how should I know, and I've hardly set eyes on them yet."
After a pause she added, "They made considerable noise after they went
up."

"Noise?  Why, ma, they were singing!  And it was beautiful, too."

"Oh, it was well enough, but too mixed-up, seemed to me."

"Now, ma, honor bright, did you ever hear 'Greenland's Icy Mountains'
sung sweeter--now did you?"

"If it had been sung by itself, it would have been uncommon sweet, I
don't deny it; but what they wanted to mix it up with 'Old Bob Ridley'
for, I can't make out.  Why, they don't go together, at all.  They are
not of the same nature.  'Bob Ridley' is a common rackety slam-bang
secular song, one of the rippingest and rantingest and noisiest there is.
I am no judge of music, and I don't claim it, but in my opinion nobody
can make those two songs go together right."

"Why, ma, I thought--"

"It don't make any difference what you thought, it can't be done.  They
tried it, and to my mind it was a failure.  I never heard such a crazy
uproar; seemed to me, sometimes, the roof would come off; and as for the
cats--well, I've lived a many a year, and seen cats aggravated in more
ways than one, but I've never seen cats take on the way they took on last
night."

"Well, I don't think that that goes for anything, ma, because it is the
nature of cats that any sound that is unusual--"

"Unusual!  You may well call it so.  Now if they are going to sing duets
every night, I do hope they will both sing the same tune at the same
time, for in my opinion a duet that is made up of two different tunes is
a mistake; especially when the tunes ain't any kin to one another, that
way."

"But, ma, I think it must be a foreign custom; and it must be right too;
and the best way, because they have had every opportunity to know what is
right, and it don't stand to reason that with their education they would
do anything but what the highest musical authorities have sanctioned.
You can't help but admit that, ma."

The argument was formidably strong; the old lady could not find any way
around it; so, after thinking it over awhile she gave in with a sigh of
discontent, and admitted that the daughter's position was probably
correct.  Being vanquished, she had no mind to continue the topic at that
disadvantage, and was about to seek a change when a change came of
itself.  A footstep was heard on the stairs, and she said:

"There-he's coming!"

"They, ma--you ought to say they--it's nearer right."

The new lodger, rather shoutingly dressed but looking superbly handsome,
stepped with courtly carnage into the trim little breakfast-room and put
out all his cordial arms at once, like one of those pocket-knives with a
multiplicity of blades, and shook hands with the whole family
simultaneously.  He was so easy and pleasant and hearty that all
embarrassment presently thawed away and disappeared, and a cheery feeling
of friendliness and comradeship took its place.  He--or preferably they
--were asked to occupy the seat of honor at the foot of the table.  They
consented with thanks, and carved the beefsteak with one set of their
hands while they distributed it at the same time with the other set.

"Will you have coffee, gentlemen, or tea?"

"Coffee for Luigi, if you please, madam, tea for me."

"Cream and sugar?"

"For me, yes, madam; Luigi takes his coffee, black.  Our natures differ a
good deal from each other, and our tastes also."

The first time the negro girl Nancy appeared in the door and saw the two
heads turned in opposite directions and both talking at once, then saw
the commingling arms feed potatoes into one mouth and coffee into the
other at the same time, she had to pause and pull herself out of a
faintness that came over her; but after that she held her grip and was
able to wait on the table with fair courage.

Conversation fell naturally into the customary grooves.  It was a little
jerky, at first, because none of the family could get smoothly through a
sentence without a wabble in it here and a break there, caused by some
new surprise in the way of attitude or gesture on the part of the twins.
The weather suffered the most.  The weather was all finished up and
disposed of, as a subject, before the simple Missourians had gotten
sufficiently wonted to the spectacle of one body feeding two heads to
feel composed and reconciled in the presence of so bizarre a miracle.
And even after everybody's mind became tranquilized there was still one
slight distraction left: the hand that picked up a biscuit carried it to
the wrong head, as often as any other way, and the wrong mouth devoured
it.  This was a puzzling thing, and marred the talk a little.  It
bothered the widow to such a degree that she presently dropped out of the
conversation without knowing it, and fell to watching and guessing and
talking to herself:

"Now that hand is going to take that coffee to no, it's gone to the other
mouth; I can't understand it; and how, here is the dark-complected hand
with a potato in its fork, I'll see what goes with it--there, the
light-complected head's got it, as sure as I live!"

Finally Rowena said:

"Ma, what is the matter with you?  Are you dreaming about something?"

The old lady came to herself and blushed; then she explained with the
first random thing that came into her mind: "I saw Mr. Angelo take up Mr.
Luigi's coffee, and I thought maybe he--sha'n't I give you a cup, Mr.
Angelo?"

"Oh no, madam, I am very much obliged, but I never drink coffee, much as
I would like to.  You did see me take up Luigi's cup, it is true, but if
you noticed, I didn't carry it to my mouth, but to his."

"Y-es, I thought you did: Did you mean to?"

"How?"

The widow was a little embarrassed again.  She said:

"I don't know but what I'm foolish, and you mustn't mind; but you see,
he got the coffee I was expecting to see you drink, and you got a potato
that I thought he was going to get.  So I thought it might be a mistake
all around, and everybody getting what wasn't intended for him."

Both twins laughed and Luigi said:

"Dear madam, there wasn't any mistake.  We are always helping each other
that way.  It is a great economy for us both; it saves time and labor.
We have a system of signs which nobody can notice or understand but
ourselves.  If I am using both my hands and want some coffee, I make the
sign and Angelo furnishes it to me; and you saw that when he needed a
potato I delivered it."

"How convenient!"

"Yes, and often of the extremest value.  Take the Mississippi boats, for
instance.  They are always overcrowded.  There is table-room for only
half of the passengers, therefore they have to set a second table for the
second half.  The stewards rush both parties, they give them no time to
eat a satisfying meal, both divisions leave the table hungry.  It isn't
so with us.  Angelo books himself for the one table, I book myself for
the other.  Neither of us eats anything at the other's table, but just
simply works--works.  Thus, you see there are four hands to feed Angelo,
and the same four to feed me.  Each of us eats two meals."

The old lady was dazed with admiration, and kept saying, "It is perfectly
wonderful, perfectly wonderful" and the boy Joe licked his chops
enviously, but said nothing--at least aloud.

"Yes," continued Luigi, "our construction may have its disadvantages--in
fact, has but it also has its compensations of one sort and another. Take
travel, for instance.  Travel is enormously expensive, in all countries;
we have been obliged to do a vast deal of it--come, Angelo, don't put any
more sugar in your tea, I'm just over one indigestion and don't want
another right away--been obliged to do a deal of it, as I was saying.
Well, we always travel as one person, since we occupy but one seat; so we
save half the fare."

"How romantic!" interjected Rowena, with effusion.

"Yes, my dear young lady, and how practical too, and economical.  In
Europe, beds in the hotels are not charged with the board, but
separately--another saving, for we stood to our rights and paid for the
one bed only.  The landlords often insisted that as both of us occupied
the bed we ought--"

"No, they didn't," said Angelo.  "They did it only twice, and in both
cases it was a double bed--a rare thing in Europe--and the double bed
gave them some excuse.  Be fair to the landlords; twice doesn't
constitute 'often.'"

"Well, that depends--that depends.  I knew a man who fell down a well
twice.  He said he didn't mind the first time, but he thought the second
time was once too often.  Have I misused that word, Mrs. Cooper?"

"To tell the truth, I was afraid you had, but it seems to look, now, like
you hadn't."  She stopped, and was evidently struggling with the
difficult problem a moment, then she added in the tone of one who is
convinced without being converted, "It seems so, but I can't somehow tell
why."

Rowena thought Luigi's retort was wonderfully quick and bright, and she
remarked to herself with satisfaction that there wasn't any young native
of Dawson's Landing that could have risen to the occasion like that.
Luigi detected the applause in her face, and expressed his pleasure and
his thanks with his eyes; and so eloquently withal, that the girl was
proud and pleased, and hung out the delicate sign of it on her cheeks.
Luigi went on, with animation:

"Both of us get a bath for one ticket, theater seat for one ticket,
pew-rent is on the same basis, but at peep-shows we pay double."

"We have much to' be thankful for," said Angelo, impressively, with a
reverent light in his eye and a reminiscent tone in his voice, "we have
been greatly blessed.  As a rule, what one of us has lacked, the other,
by the bounty of Providence, has been able to supply.  My brother is
hardy, I am not; he is very masculine, assertive, aggressive; I am much
less so.  I am subject to illness, he is never ill.  I cannot abide
medicines, and cannot take them, but he has no prejudice against them,
and--"

"Why, goodness gracious," interrupted the widow, "when you are sick, does
he take the medicine for you?"

"Always, madam."

"Why, I never heard such a thing in my life!  I think it's beautiful of
you."

"Oh, madam, it's nothing, don't mention it, it's really nothing at all."

"But I say it's beautiful, and I stick to it!" cried the widow, with a
speaking moisture in her eye.

"A well brother to take the medicine for his poor sick brother--I wish I
had such a son," and she glanced reproachfully at her boys.  "I declare
I'll never rest till I've shook you by the hand," and she scrambled out
of her chair in a fever of generous enthusiasm, and made for the twins,
blind with her tears, and began to shake.  The boy Joe corrected her:
"You're shaking the wrong one, ma."

This flurried her, but she made a swift change and went on shaking.

"Got the wrong one again, ma," said the boy.

"Oh, shut up, can't you!" said the widow, embarrassed and irritated.
"Give me all your hands, I want to shake them all; for I know you are
both just as good as you can be."

It was a victorious thought, a master-stroke of diplomacy, though that
never occurred to her and she cared nothing for diplomacy.  She shook the
four hands in turn cordially, and went back to her place in a state of
high and fine exultation that made her look young and handsome.

"Indeed I owe everything to Luigi," said Angelo, affectionately.
"But for him I could not have survived our boyhood days, when we were
friendless and poor--ah, so poor!  We lived from hand to mouth-lived on
the coarse fare of unwilling charity, and for weeks and weeks together
not a morsel of food passed my lips, for its character revolted me and I
could not eat it.  But for Luigi I should have died.  He ate for us
both."

"How noble!" sighed Rowena.

"Do you hear that?" said the widow, severely, to her boys.  "Let it be an
example to you--I mean you, Joe."

Joe gave his head a barely perceptible disparaging toss and said: "Et for
both.  It ain't anything I'd 'a' done it."

"Hush, if you haven't got any better manners than that.  You don't see
the point at all.  It wasn't good food."

"I don't care--it was food, and I'd 'a' et it if it was rotten."

"Shame!  Such language!  Can't you understand?  They were starving--
actually starving--and he ate for both, and--"

"Shucks!  you gimme a chance and I'll--"

"There, now--close your head!  and don't you open it again till you're
asked."

     [Angelo goes on and tells how his parents the Count and Countess had
     to fly from Florence for political reasons, and died poor in Berlin
     bereft of their great property by confiscation; and how he and Luigi
     had to travel with a freak-show during two years and suffer
     semi-starvation.]

"That hateful black-bread; but I seldom ate anything during that time;
that was poor Luigi's affair--"

"I'll never Mister him again!" cried the widow, with strong emotion,
"he's Luigi to me, from this out!"

"Thank you a thousand times, madam, a thousand times! though in truth I
don't deserve it."

"Ah, Luigi is always the fortunate one when honors are showering," said
Angelo, plaintively; "now what have I done, Mrs.  Cooper, that you leave
me out?  Come, you must strain a point in my favor."

"Call you Angelo?  Why, certainly I will; what are you thinking of!  In
the case of twins, why--"

"But, ma, you're breaking up the story--do let him go on."

"You keep still, Rowena Cooper, and he can go on all the better, I
reckon.  One interruption don't hurt, it's two that makes the trouble."

"But you've added one, now, and that is three."

"Rowena!  I will not allow you to talk back at me when you have got
nothing rational to say."




CHAPTER III

ANGELO IS BLUE

[After breakfast the whole village crowded in, and there was a grand
reception in honor of the twins; and at the close of it the gifted
"freak" captured everybody's admiration by sitting down at the piano and
knocking out a classic four-handed piece in great style.  Then the judge
took it--or them--driving in his buggy and showed off his village.]

All along the streets the people crowded the windows and stared at the
amazing twins.  Troops of small boys flocked after the buggy, excited and
yelling.  At first the dogs showed no interest.  They thought they merely
saw three men in a buggy--a matter of no consequence; but when they found
out the facts of the case, they altered their opinion pretty radically,
and joined the boys, expressing their minds as they came.  Other dogs got
interested; indeed, all the dogs.  It was a spirited sight to see them
come leaping fences, tearing around corners, swarming out of every
bystreet and alley.  The noise they made was something beyond belief--
or praise.  They did not seem to be moved by malice but only by
prejudice, the common human prejudice against lack of conformity.  If the
twins turned their heads, they broke and fled in every direction, but
stopped at a safe distance and faced about; and then formed and came on
again as soon as the strangers showed them their back.  Negroes and
farmers' wives took to the woods when the buggy came upon them suddenly,
and altogether the drive was pleasant and animated, and a refreshment all
around.

     [It was a long and lively drive.  Angelo was a Methodist, Luigi was
     a Free-thinker.  The judge was very proud of his Freethinkers'
     Society, which was flourishing along in a most prosperous way and
     already had two members--himself and the obscure and neglected
     Pudd'nhead Wilson.  It was to meet that evening, and he invited
     Luigi to join; a thing which Luigi was glad to do, partly because it
     would please himself, and partly because it would gravel Angelo.]

They had now arrived at the widow's gate, and the excursion was ended.
The twins politely expressed their obligations for the pleasant outing
which had been afforded them; to which the judge bowed his thanks,
and then said he would now go and arrange for the Free-thinkers' meeting,
and would call for Count Luigi in the evening.

"For you also, dear sir," he added hastily, turning to Angelo and bowing.
"In addressing myself particularly to your brother, I was not meaning to
leave you out.  It was an unintentional rudeness, I assure you, and due
wholly to accident--accident and preoccupation.  I beg you to forgive
me."

His quick eye had seen the sensitive blood mount into Angelo's face,
betraying the wound that had been inflicted.  The sting of the slight had
gone deep, but the apology was so prompt, and so evidently sincere, that
the hurt was almost immediately healed, and a forgiving smile testified
to the kindly judge that all was well again.

Concealed behind Angelo's modest and unassuming exterior, and unsuspected
by any but his intimates, was a lofty pride, a pride of almost abnormal
proportions, indeed, and this rendered him ever the prey of slights; and
although they were almost always imaginary ones, they hurt none the less
on that account.  By ill fortune judge Driscoll had happened to touch his
sorest point, i.e., his conviction that his brother's presence was
welcomer everywhere than his own; that he was often invited, out of mere
courtesy, where only his brother was wanted, and that in a majority of
cases he would not be included in an invitation if he could be left out
without offense.  A sensitive nature like this is necessarily subject to
moods; moods which traverse the whole gamut of feeling; moods which know
all the climes of emotion, from the sunny heights of joy to the black
abysses of despair.  At times, in his seasons of deepest depressions,
Angelo almost wished that he and his brother might become segregated from
each other and be separate individuals, like other men.  But of course as
soon as his mind cleared and these diseased imaginings passed away, he
shuddered at the repulsive thought, and earnestly prayed that it might
visit him no more.  To be separate, and as other men are!  How awkward it
would seem; how unendurable.  What would he do with his hands, his arms?
How would his legs feel?  How odd, and strange, and grotesque every
action, attitude, movement, gesture would be.  To sleep by himself, eat
by himself, walk by himself--how lonely, how unspeakably lonely!  No, no,
any fate but that.  In every way and from every point, the idea was
revolting.

This was of course natural; to have felt otherwise would have been
unnatural.  He had known no life but a combined one; he had been familiar
with it from his birth; he was not able to conceive of any other as being
agreeable, or even bearable.  To him, in the privacy of his secret
thoughts, all other men were monsters, deformities: and during
three-fourths of his life their aspect had filled him with what promised
to be an unconquerable aversion.  But at eighteen his eye began to take
note of female beauty; and little by little, undefined longings grew up
in his heart, under whose softening influences the old stubborn aversion
gradually diminished, and finally disappeared.  Men were still
monstrosities to him, still deformities, and in his sober moments he had
no desire to be like them, but their strange and unsocial and uncanny
construction was no longer offensive to him.

This had been a hard day for him, physically and mentally.  He had been
called in the morning before he had quite slept off the effects of the
liquor which Luigi had drunk; and so, for the first half-hour had had the
seedy feeling, and languor, the brooding depression, the cobwebby mouth
and druggy taste that come of dissipation and are so ill a preparation
for bodily or intellectual activities; the long violent strain of the
reception had followed; and this had been followed, in turn, by the
dreary sight-seeing, the judge's wearying explanations and laudations of
the sights, and the stupefying clamor of the dogs.  As a congruous
conclusion, a fitting end, his feelings had been hurt, a slight had been
put upon him.  He would have been glad to forego dinner and betake
himself to rest and sleep, but he held his peace and said no word, for he
knew his brother, Luigi, was fresh, unweary, full of life, spirit,
energy; he would have scoffed at the idea of wasting valuable time on a
bed or a sofa, and would have refused permission.




CHAPTER IV

SUPERNATURAL CHRONOMETRY

Rowena was dining out, Joe and Harry were belated at play, there were but
three chairs and four persons that noon at the home dinner-table--
the twins, the widow, and her chum, Aunt Betsy Hale.  The widow soon
perceived that Angelo's spirits were as low as Luigi's were high, and
also that he had a jaded look.  Her motherly solicitude was aroused, and
she tried to get him interested in the talk and win him to a happier
frame of mind, but the cloud of sadness remained on his countenance.
Luigi lent his help, too.  He used a form and a phrase which he was
always accustomed to employ in these circumstances.  He gave his brother
an affectionate slap on the shoulder and said, encouragingly:

"Cheer up, the worst is yet to come!"

But this did no good.  It never did.  If anything, it made the matter
worse, as a rule, because it irritated Angelo.  This made it a favorite
with Luigi.  By and by the widow said:

"Angelo, you are tired, you've overdone yourself; you go right to bed
after dinner, and get a good nap and a rest, then you'll be all right."

"Indeed, I would give anything if I could do that, madam."

"And what's to hender, I'd like to know?  Land, the room's yours to do
what you please with!  The idea that you can't do what you like with your
own!"

"But, you see, there's one prime essential--an essential of the very
first importance--which isn't my own."

"What is that?"

"My body."

The old ladies looked puzzled, and Aunt Betsy Hale said:

"Why bless your heart, how is that?"

"It's my brother's."

"Your brother's!  I don't quite understand.  I supposed it belonged to
both of you."

"So it does.  But not to both at the same time."

"That is mighty curious; I don't see how it can be.  I shouldn't think it
could be managed that way."

"Oh, it's a good enough arrangement, and goes very well; in fact, it
wouldn't do to have it otherwise.  I find that the teetotalers and the
anti-teetotalers hire the use of the same hall for their meetings.  Both
parties don't use it at the same time, do they?"

"You bet they don't!" said both old ladies in a breath.

"And, moreover," said Aunt Betsy, "the Freethinkers and the Baptist Bible
class use the same room over the Market house, but you can take my word
for it they don't mush up together and use it at the same time.'

"Very well," said Angelo, "you understand it now.  And it stands to
reason that the arrangement couldn't be improved.  I'll prove it to you.
If our legs tried to obey two wills, how could we ever get anywhere?
I would start one way, Luigi would start another, at the same moment--
the result would be a standstill, wouldn't it?"

"As sure as you are born!  Now ain't that wonderful!  A body would never
have thought of it."

"We should always be arguing and fussing and disputing over the merest
trifles.  We should lose worlds of time, for we couldn't go down-stairs
or up, couldn't go to bed, couldn't rise, couldn't wash, couldn't dress,
couldn't stand up, couldn't sit down, couldn't even cross our legs,
without calling a meeting first and explaining the case and passing
resolutions, and getting consent.  It wouldn't ever do--now would it?"

"Do?  Why, it would wear a person out in a week!  Did you ever hear
anything like it, Patsy Cooper?"

"Oh, you'll find there's more than one thing about them that ain't
commonplace," said the widow, with the complacent air of a person with a
property right in a novelty that is under admiring scrutiny.

"Well, now, how ever do you manage it?  I don't mind saying I'm suffering
to know."

"He who made us," said Angelo reverently, "and with us this difficulty,
also provided a way out of it.  By a mysterious law of our being, each of
us has utter and indisputable command of our body a week at a time, turn
and turn about."

"Well, I never!  Now ain't that beautiful!"

"Yes, it is beautiful and infinitely wise and just.  The week ends every
Saturday at midnight to the minute, to the second, to the last shade of
a fraction of a second, infallibly, unerringly, and in that instant the
one brother's power over the body vanishes and the other brother takes
possession, asleep or awake."

"How marvelous are His ways, and past finding out!"

Luigi said: "So exactly to the instant does the change come, that during
our stay in many of the great cities of the world, the public clocks were
regulated by it; and as hundreds of thousands of private clocks and
watches were set and corrected in accordance with the public clocks, we
really furnished the standard time for the entire city."

"Don't tell me that He don't do miracles any more!  Blowing down the
walls of Jericho with rams' horns wa'n't as difficult, in my opinion."

"And that is not all," said Angelo.  "A thing that is even more
marvelous, perhaps, is the fact that the change takes note of longitude
and fits itself to the meridian we are on.  Luigi is in command this
week.  Now, if on Saturday night at a moment before midnight we could fly
in an instant to a point fifteen degrees west of here, he would hold
possession of the power another hour, for the change observes local time
and no other."

Betsy Hale was deeply impressed, and said with solemnity:

"Patsy Cooper, for detail it lays over the Passage of the Red Sea."

"Now, I shouldn't go as far as that," said Aunt Patsy, "but if you've a
mind to say Sodom and Gomorrah, I am with you, Betsy Hale."

"I am agreeable, then, though I do think I was right, and I believe
Parson Maltby would say the same.  Well, now, there's another thing.
Suppose one of you wants to borrow the legs a minute from the one that's
got them, could he let him?"

"Yes, but we hardly ever do that.  There were disagreeable results,
several times, and so we very seldom ask or grant the privilege,
nowadays, and we never even think of such a thing unless the case is
extremely urgent.  Besides, a week's possession at a time seems so little
that we can't bear to spare a minute of it.  People who have the use of
their legs all the time never think of what a blessing it is, of course.
It never occurs to them; it's just their natural ordinary condition,
and so it does not excite them at all.  But when I wake up, on Sunday
morning, and it's my week and I feel the power all through me, oh, such a
wave of exultation and thanksgiving goes surging over me, and I want to
shout 'I can walk!  I can walk!'  Madam, do you ever, at your uprising,
want to shout 'I can walk!  I can walk!'?"

"No, you poor unfortunate cretur', but I'll never get out of my bed again
without doing it!  Laws, to think I've had this unspeakable blessing all
my long life and never had the grace to thank the good Lord that gave it
to me!"

Tears stood in the eyes of both the old ladies and the widow said,
softly:

"Betsy Hale, we have learned something, you and me."

The conversation now drifted wide, but by and by floated back once more
to that admired detail, the rigid and beautiful impartiality with which
the possession of power had been distributed, between the twins.  Aunt
Betsy saw in it a far finer justice than human law exhibits in related
cases.  She said:

"In my opinion it ain't right no, and never has been right, the way a
twin born a quarter of a minute sooner than the other one gets all the
land and grandeurs and nobilities in the old countries and his brother
has to go bare and be a nobody.  Which of you was born first?"

Angelo's head was resting against Luigi's; weariness had overcome him,
and for the past five minutes he had been peacefully sleeping.  The old
ladies had dropped their voices to a lulling drone, to help him to steal
the rest his brother wouldn't take him up-stairs to get.  Luigi listened
a moment to Angelo's regular breathing, then said in a voice barely
audible:

"We were both born at the same time, but I am six months older than he
is."

"For the land's sake!"

"'Sh!  don't wake him up; he wouldn't like my telling this.  It has
always been kept secret till now."

"But how in the world can it be?  If you were both born at the same time,
how can one of you be older than the other?"

"It is very simple, and I assure you it is true.  I was born with a full
crop of hair, he was as bald as an egg for six months.  I could walk six
months before he could make a step.  I finished teething six months ahead
of him.  I began to take solids six months before he left the breast.
I began to talk six months before he could say a word.  Last, and
absolutely unassailable proof, the sutures in my skull closed six months
ahead of his.  Always just that six months' difference to a day.  Was
that accident?  Nobody is going to claim that, I'm sure.  It was ordained
it was law it had its meaning, and we know what that meaning was.  Now
what does this overwhelming body of evidence establish?  It establishes
just one thing, and that thing it establishes beyond any peradventure
whatever.  Friends, we would not have it known for the world, and I must
beg you to keep it strictly to yourselves, but the truth is, we are no
more twins than you are."

The two old ladies were stunned, paralyzed-petrified, one may almost say
--and could only sit and gaze vacantly at each other for some moments;
then Aunt Betsy Hale said impressively:

"There's no getting around proof like that.  I do believe it's the most
amazing thing I ever heard of."  She sat silent a moment or two and
breathing hard with excitement, then she looked up and surveyed the
strangers steadfastly a little while, and added: "Well, it does beat me,
but I would have took you for twins anywhere."

"So would I, so would I," said Aunt Patsy with the emphasis of a
certainty that is not impaired by any shade of doubt.

"Anybody would-anybody in the world, I don't care who he is," said Aunt
Betsy with decision.

"You won't tell," said Luigi, appealingly.

"Oh, dear, no!" answered both ladies promptly, "you can trust us, don't
you be afraid."

"That is good of you, and kind.  Never let on; treat us always as if we
were twins."

"You can depend on us," said Aunt Betsy, "but it won't be easy, because
now that I know you ain't you don't seem so."

Luigi muttered to himself with satisfaction: "That swindle has gone
through without change of cars."

It was not very kind of him to load the poor things up with a secret like
that, which would be always flying to their tongues' ends every time they
heard any one speak of the strangers as twins, and would become harder
and harder to hang on to with every recurrence of the temptation to tell
it, while the torture of retaining it would increase with every new
strain that was applied; but he never thought of that, and probably would
not have worried much about it if he had.

A visitor was announced--some one to see the twins.  They withdrew to the
parlor, and the two old ladies began to discuss with interest the strange
things which they had been listening to.  When they had finished the
matter to their satisfaction, and Aunt Betsy rose to go, she stopped to
ask a question:

"How does things come on between Roweny and Tom Driscoll?"

"Well, about the same.  He writes tolerable often, and she answers
tolerable seldom."

"Where is he?"

"In St. Louis, I believe, though he's such a gadabout that a body can't
be very certain of him, I reckon."

"Don't Roweny know?"

"Oh, yes, like enough.  I haven't asked her lately."

"Do you know how him and the judge are getting along now?"

"First rate, I believe.  Mrs. Pratt says so; and being right in the
house, and sister to the one and aunt to t'other, of course she ought to
know.  She says the judge is real fond of him when he's away; but frets
when he's around and is vexed with his ways, and not sorry to have him go
again.  He has been gone three weeks this time--a pleasant thing for both
of them, I reckon."

"Tom's rather harum-scarum, but there ain't anything bad in him, I
guess."

"Oh, no, he's just young, that's all.  Still, twenty-three is old, in one
way.  A young man ought to be earning his living by that time.  If Tom
were doing that, or was even trying to do it, the judge would be a heap
better satisfied with him.  Tom's always going to begin, but somehow he
can't seem to find just the opening he likes."

"Well, now, it's partly the judge's own fault.  Promising the boy his
property wasn't the way to set him to earning a fortune of his own.  But
what do you think is Roweny beginning to lean any toward him, or ain't
she?"

Aunt Patsy had a secret in her bosom; she wanted to keep it there, but
nature was too strong for her.  She drew Aunt Betsy aside, and said in
her most confidential and mysterious manner:

"Don't you breathe a syllable to a soul--I'm going to tell you something.
In my opinion Tom Driscoll's chances were considerable better yesterday
than they are to-day."

"Patsy Cooper, what do you mean?"

"It's so, as sure as you're born.  I wish you could 'a' been at breakfast
and seen for yourself."

"You don't mean it!"

"Well, if I'm any judge, there's a leaning--there's a leaning, sure."

"My land!  Which one of 'em is it?"

"I can't say for certain, but I think it's the youngest one--Anjy."

Then there were hand-shakings, and congratulations, and hopes, and so on,
and the old ladies parted, perfectly happy--the one in knowing something
which the rest of the town didn't, and the other in having been the sole
person able to furnish that knowledge.

The visitor who had called to see the twins was the Rev. Mr. Hotchkiss,
pastor of the Baptist church.  At the reception Angelo had told him he
had lately experienced a change in his religious views, and was now
desirous of becoming a Baptist, and would immediately join Mr.
Hotchkiss's church.  There was no time to say more, and the brief talk
ended at that point.  The minister was much gratified, and had dropped in
for a moment now, to invite the twins to attend his Bible class at eight
that evening.  Angelo accepted, and was expecting Luigi to decline, but
he did not, because he knew that the Bible class and the Freethinkers met
in the same room, and he wanted to treat his brother to the embarrassment
of being caught in free-thinking company.




CHAPTER V

GUILT AND INNOCENCE FINELY BLENT

[A long and vigorous quarrel follows, between the twins.  And there is
plenty to quarrel about, for Angelo was always seeking truth, and this
obliged him to change and improve his religion with frequency, which
wearied Luigi, and annoyed him too; for he had to be present at each new
enlistment--which placed him in the false position of seeming to indorse
and approve his brother's fickleness; moreover, he had to go to Angelo's
prohibition meetings, and he hated them.  On the other hand, when it was
his week to command the legs he gave Angelo just cause of complaint, for
he took him to circuses and horse-races and fandangoes, exposing him to
all sorts of censure and criticism; and he drank, too; and whatever he
drank went to Angelo's head instead of his own and made him act
disgracefully.  When the evening was come, the two attended the Free-
thinkers' meeting, where Angelo was sad and silent; then came the Bible
class and looked upon him coldly, finding him in such company.  Then they
went to Wilson's house and Chapter XI of Pudd'nhead Wilson follows, which
tells of the girl seen in Tom Driscoll's room; and closes with the
kicking of Tom by Luigi at the anti-temperance mass-meeting of the Sons
of Liberty; with the addition of some account of Roxy's adventures as a
chamber-maid on a Mississippi boat.  Her exchange of the children had
been flippantly and farcically described in an earlier chapter.]

Next morning all the town was a-buzz with great news; Pudd'nhead Wilson
had a law case!  The, public astonishment was so great and the public
curiosity so intense, that when the justice of the peace opened his
court, the place was packed with people and even the windows were full.
Everybody was, flushed and perspiring; the summer heat was almost
unendurable.

Tom Driscoll had brought a charge of assault and battery against the
twins.  Robert Allen was retained by Driscoll, David Wilson by the
defense.  Tom, his native cheerfulness unannihilated by his back-breaking
and bone-bruising passage across the massed heads of the Sons of Liberty
the previous night, laughed his little customary laugh, and said to
Wilson:

"I've kept my promise, you see; I'm throwing my business your way.
Sooner than I was expecting, too."

"It's very good of you--particularly if you mean to keep it up."

"Well, I can't tell about that yet.  But we'll see.  If I find you
deserve it I'll take you under my protection and make your fame and
fortune for you."

"I'll try to deserve it, Tom."

A jury was sworn in; then Mr.  Allen said:

"We will detain your honor but a moment with this case.  It is not one
where any doubt of the fact of the assault can enter in.  These
gentlemen--the accused--kicked my client at the Market Hall last night;
they kicked him with violence; with extraordinary violence; with even
unprecedented violence, I may say; insomuch that he was lifted entirely
off his feet and discharged into the midst of the audience.  We can prove
this by four hundred witnesses--we shall call but three.  Mr. Harkness
will take the stand."

Mr. Harkness, being sworn, testified that he was chairman upon the
occasion mentioned; that he was close at hand and saw the defendants in
this action kick the plaintiff into the air and saw him descend among the
audience.

"Take the witness," said Allen.

"Mr. Harkness," said Wilson, "you say you saw these gentlemen, my
clients, kick the plaintiff.  Are you sure--and please remember that you
are on oath--are you perfectly sure that you saw both of them kick him,
or only one?  Now be careful."

A bewildered look began to spread itself over the witness's face.  He
hesitated, stammered, but got out nothing.  His eyes wandered to the
twins and fixed themselves there with a vacant gaze.

"Please answer, Mr.  Harkness, you are keeping the court waiting.  It is
a very simple question."

Counsel for the prosecution broke in with impatience:

"Your honor, the question is an irrelevant triviality.  Necessarily, they
both kicked him, for they have but the one pair of legs, and both are
responsible for them."

Wilson said, sarcastically:

"Will your honor permit this new witness to be sworn?  He seems to
possess knowledge which can be of the utmost value just at this moment--
knowledge which would at once dispose of what every one must see is a
very difficult question in this case.  Brother Allen, will you take the
stand?"

"Go on with your case!" said Allen, petulantly.  The audience laughed,
and got a warning from the court.

"Now, Mr. Harkness," said Wilson, insinuatingly, "we shall have to insist
upon an answer to that question."

"I--er--well, of course, I do not absolutely know, but in my opinion--"

"Never mind your opinion, sir--answer the question."

"I--why, I can't answer it."

"That will do, Mr.  Harkness.  Stand down."

The audience tittered, and the discomfited witness retired in a state of
great embarrassment.

Mr. Wakeman took the stand and swore that he saw the twins kick the
plaintiff off the platform.

The defense took the witness.

"Mr. Wakeman, you have sworn that you saw these gentlemen kick the
plaintiff.  Do I understand you to swear that you saw them both do it?"

"Yes, sir,"--with derision.

"How do you know that both did it?"

"Because I saw them do it."

The audience laughed, and got another warning from the court.

"But by what means do you know that both, and not one, did it?"

"Well, in the first place, the insult was given to both of them equally,
for they were called a pair of scissors.  Of course they would both want
to resent it, and so--"

"Wait!  You are theorizing now.  Stick to facts--counsel will attend to
the arguments.  Go on."

"Well, they both went over there--that I saw."

"Very good.  Go on."

"And they both kicked him--I swear to it."

"Mr. Wakeman, was Count Luigi, here, willing to join the Sons of Liberty
last night?"

"Yes, sir, he was.  He did join, too, and drank a glass or two of whisky,
like a man."

"Was his brother willing to join?"

"No, sir, he wasn't.  He is a teetotaler, and was elected through a
mistake."

"Was he given a glass of whisky?"

"Yes, sir, but of course that was another mistake, and not intentional.
He wouldn't drink it.  He set it down."  A slight pause, then he added,
casually and quite simply: "The plaintiff reached for it and hogged it."

There was a fine outburst of laughter, but as the justice was caught out
himself, his reprimand was not very vigorous.

Mr. Allen jumped up and exclaimed: "I protest against these foolish
irrelevancies.  What have they to do with the case?"

Wilson said: "Calm yourself, brother, it was only an experiment.  Now,
Mr. Wakeman, if one of these gentlemen chooses to join an association and
the other doesn't; and if one of them enjoys whisky and the other
doesn't, but sets it aside and leaves it unprotected" (titter from the
audience), "it seems to show that they have independent minds, and
tastes, and preferences, and that one of them is able to approve of a
thing at the very moment that the other is heartily disapproving of it.
Doesn't it seem so to you?"

"Certainly it does.  It's perfectly plain."

"Now, then, it might be--I only say it might be--that one of these
brothers wanted to kick the plaintiff last night, and that the other
didn't want that humiliating punishment inflicted upon him in that public
way and before all those people.  Isn't that possible?"

"Of course it is.  It's more than possible.  I don't believe the blond
one would kick anybody.  It was the other one that--"

"Silence!" shouted the plaintiff's counsel, and went on with an angry
sentence which was lost in the wave of laughter that swept the house.

"That will do, Mr.  Wakeman," said Wilson, "you may stand down."

The third witness was called.  He had seen the twins kick the plaintiff.
Mr. Wilson took the witness.

"Mr. Rogers, you say you saw these accused gentlemen kick the plaintiff?"

"Yes, sir."

"Both of them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Which of them kicked him first?"

"Why--they--they both kicked him at the same time.

"Are you perfectly sure of that?"

"Yes, sir."

"What makes you sure of it?"

"Why, I stood right behind them, and saw them do it."

"How many kicks were delivered?"

"Only one."

"If two men kick, the result should be two kicks, shouldn't it?"

"Why--why yes, as a rule."

"Then what do you think went with the other kick?"

"I--well--the fact is, I wasn't thinking of two being necessary, this
time."

"What do you think now?"

"Well, I--I'm sure I don't quite know what to think, but I reckon that
one of them did half of the kick and the other one did the other half."

Somebody in the crowd sung out: "It's the first sane thing that any of
them has said."

The audience applauded.  The judge said: "Silence! or I will clear the
court."

Mr. Allen looked pleased, but Wilson did not seem disturbed.  He said:

"Mr. Rogers, you have favored us with what you think and what you reckon,
but as thinking and reckoning are not evidence, I will now give you a
chance to come out with something positive, one way or the other, and
shall require you to produce it.  I will ask the accused to stand up and
repeat the phenomenal kick of last night."  The twins stood up.  "Now,
Mr. Rogers, please stand behind them."

A Voice: "No, stand in front!" (Laughter.  Silenced by the court.)
Another Voice:  "No, give Tommy another highst!"  (Laughter.  Sharply
rebuked by the court.)

"Now, then, Mr. Rogers, two kicks shall be delivered, one after the
other, and I give you my word that at least one of the two shall be
delivered by one of the twins alone, without the slightest assistance
from his brother.  Watch sharply, for you have of to render a decision
without any if's and ands it."  Rogers bent himself behind the twins with
palms just above his knees, in the modern attitude of the catcher at a
baseball match, and riveted eyes on the pair of legs in front of him.

"Are you ready, Mr.  Rogers?"

"Ready sir."

The kick, launched.

"Have you got that one classified, Mr.  Rogers?"

"Let me study a minute, sir."

"Take as much time as you please.  Let me know when you are ready."

For as much as a minute Rogers pondered, with all eyes and a breathless
interest fastened upon him.  Then he gave the word: "Ready, sir."

"Kick!"

The kick that followed was an exact duplicate of the first one.

"Now, then, Mr.  Rogers, one of those kicks was an individual kick, not a
mutual one.  You will now state positively which was the mutual one."

The witness said, with a crestfallen look:

"I've got to give it up.  There ain't any man in the world that could
tell t'other from which, sir."

"Do you still assert that last night's kick was a mutual kick?"

"Indeed, I don't, sir."

"That will do, Mr.  Rogers.  If my brother Allen desires to address the
court, your honor, very well; but as far as I am concerned I am ready to
let the case be at once delivered into the hands of this intelligent jury
without comment."

Mr.  Justice Robinson had been in office only two months, and in that
short time had not had many cases to try, of course.  He had no knowledge
of laws and courts except what he had picked up since he came into
office.  He was a sore trouble to the lawyers, for his rulings were
pretty eccentric sometimes, and he stood by them with Roman simplicity
and fortitude; but the people were well satisfied with him, for they saw
that his intentions were always right, that he was entirely impartial,
and that he usually made up in good sense what he lacked in technique,
so to speak.  He now perceived that there was likely to be a miscarriage
of justice here, and he rose to the occasion.

"Wait a moment, gentlemen," he said, "it is plain that an assault has
been committed it is plain to anybody; but the way things are going, the
guilty will certainly escape conviction.  I can not allow this.  Now---"

"But, your honor!" said Wilson, interrupting him, earnestly but
respectfully, "you are deciding the case yourself, whereas the jury--"

"Never mind the jury, Mr. Wilson; the jury will have a chance when there
is a reasonable doubt for them to take hold of--which there isn't,
so far.  There is no doubt whatever that an assault has been committed.
The attempt to show that both of the accused committed it has failed.
Are they both to escape justice on that account?  Not in this court,
if I can prevent it.  It appears to have been a mistake to bring the
charge against them as a corporation; each should have been charged in
his capacity as an individual, and--"

"But, your honor!" said Wilson, "in fairness to my clients I must insist
that inasmuch as the prosecution 'd not separate the--"

"No wrong will be done your clients, sir--they will be protected;
also the public and the offended laws.  Mr. Allen, you will amend your
pleadings, and put one of the accused on trial at a time."

Wilson broke in: "But, your honor! this is wholly unprecedented!
To imperil an accused person by arbitrarily altering and widening the
charge against him in order to compass his conviction when the charge as
originally brought promises to fail to convict, is a thing unheard of
before."

"Unheard of where?"

"In the courts of this or any other state."

The judge said with dignity: "I am not acquainted with the customs of
other courts, and am not concerned to know what they are.  I am
responsible for this court, and I cannot conscientiously allow my
judgment to be warped and my judicial liberty hampered by trying to
conform to the caprices of other courts, be they--"

"But, your honor, the oldest and highest courts in Europe--"

"This court is not run on the European plan, Mr. Wilson; it is not run on
any plan but its own.  It has a plan of its own; and that plan is,
to find justice for both State and accused, no matter what happens to be
practice and custom in Europe or anywhere else."  (Great applause.)
"Silence!  It has not been the custom of this court to imitate other
courts; it has not been the custom of this court to take shelter behind
the decisions of other courts, and we will not begin now.  We will do the
best we can by the light that God has given us, and while this 'court
continues to have His approval, it will remain indifferent to what other
organizations may think of it."  (Applause.) "Gentlemen, I must have
order!--quiet yourselves!  Mr. Allen, you will now proceed against the
prisoners one at a time.  Go on with the case."

Allen was not at his ease.  However, after whispering a moment with his
client and with one or two other people, he rose and said:

"Your honor, I find it to be reported and believed that the accused are
able to act independently in many ways, but that this independence does
not extend to their legs, authority over their legs being vested
exclusively in the one brother during a specific term of days, and then
passing to the other brother for a like term, and so on, by regular
alternation.  I could call witnesses who would prove that the accused had
revealed to them the existence of this extraordinary fact, and had also
made known which of them was in possession of the legs yesterday--and
this would, of course, indicate where the guilt of the assault belongs--
but as this would be mere hearsay evidence, these revelations not having
been made under oath"

"Never mind about that, Mr. Allen.  It may not all be hearsay.  We shall
see.  It may at least help to put us on the right track.  Call the
witnesses."

"Then I will call Mr. John Buckstone, who is now present, and I beg that
Mrs. Patsy Cooper may be sent for.  Take the stand, Mr. Buckstone."

Buckstone took the oath, and then testified that on the previous evening
the Count Angelo Capello had protested against going to the hall, and had
called all present to witness that he was going by compulsion and would
not go if he could help himself.  Also, that the Count Luigi had replied
sharply that he would go, just the same, and that he, Count Luigi, would
see to that himself.  Also, that upon Count Angelo's complaining about
being kept on his legs so long, Count Luigi retorted with apparent
surprise, "Your legs!--I like your impudence!"

"Now we are getting at the kernel of the thing," observed the judge, with
grave and earnest satisfaction.  "It looks as if the Count Luigi was in
possession of the battery at the time of the assault."

Nothing further was elicited from Mr. Buckstone on direct examination.
Mr. Wilson took the witness.

"Mr. Buckstone, about what time was it that that conversation took
place?"

"Toward nine yesterday evening, sir."

"Did you then proceed directly to the hall?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long did it take you to go there?"

"Well, we walked; and as it was from the extreme edge of the town, and
there was no hurry, I judge it took us about twenty minutes, maybe a
trifle more."

"About what hour was the kick delivered?"

"About thirteen minutes and a half to ten."

"Admirable!  You are a pattern witness, Mr. Buckstone.  How did you
happen to look at your watch at that particular moment?"

"I always do it when I see an assault.  It's likely I shall be called as
a witness, and it's a good point to have."

"It would be well if others were as thoughtful.  Was anything said,
between the conversation at my house and the assault, upon the detail
which we are now examining into?"

"No, sir."

"If power over the mutual legs was in the possession of one brother at
nine, and passed into the possession of the other one during the next
thirty or forty minutes, do you think you could have detected the
change?"

"By no means!"

"That is all, Mr.  Buckstone."

Mrs. Patsy Cooper was called.  The crowd made way for her, and she came
smiling and bowing through the narrow human lane, with Betsy Hale, as
escort and support, smiling and bowing in her wake, the audience breaking
into welcoming cheers as the old favorites filed along.  The judge did
not check this kindly demonstration of homage and affection, but let it
run its course unrebuked.

The old ladies stopped and shook hands with the twins with effusion, then
gave the judge a friendly nod, and bustled into the seats provided for
them.  They immediately began to deliver a volley of eager questions at
the friends around them: "What is this thing for?"  "What is that thing
for?"  "Who is that young man that's writing at the desk?  Why, I
declare, it's Jack Bunce!  I thought he was sick."  "Which is the jury?
Why, is that the jury?  Billy Price and Job Turner, and Jack Lounsbury,
and--well, I never!"  "Now who would ever 'a' thought--"

But they were gently called to order at this point, and asked not to talk
in court.  Their tongues fell silent, but the radiant interest in their
faces remained, and their gratitude for the blessing of a new sensation
and a novel experience still beamed undimmed from their eyes.  Aunt Patsy
stood up and took the oath, and Mr. Allen explained the point in issue,
and asked her to go on now, in her own way, and throw as much light upon
it as she could.  She toyed with her reticule a moment or two, as if
considering where to begin, then she said:

"Well, the way of it is this.  They are Luigi's legs a week at a time,
and then they are Angelo's, and he can do whatever he wants to with
them."

"You are making a mistake, Aunt Patsy Cooper," said the judge.  "You
shouldn't state that as a fact, because you don't know it to be a fact."

"What's the reason I don't?" said Aunt Patsy, bridling a little.

"What is the reason that you do know it?"

"The best in the world because they told me."

"That isn't a reason."

"Well, for the land's sake!  Betsy Hale, do you hear that?"

"Hear it?  I should think so," said Aunt Betsy, rising and facing the
court.  "Why, Judge, I was there and heard it myself.  Luigi says to
Angelo--no, it was Angelo said it to--"

"Come, come, Mrs.  Hale, pray sit down, and--"

"Certainly, it's all right, I'm going to sit down presently, but not
until I've--"

"But you must sit down!"

"Must!  Well, upon my word if things ain't getting to a pretty pass
when--"

The house broke into laughter, but was promptly brought to order, and
meantime Mr. Allen persuaded the old lady to take her seat.  Aunt Patsy
continued:

"Yes, they told me that, and I know it's true.  They're Luigi's legs this
week, but--"

"Ah, they told you that, did they?" said the Justice, with interest.

"Well, no, I don't know that they told me, but that's neither here nor
there.  I know, without that, that at dinner yesterday, Angelo was as
tired as a dog, and yet Luigi wouldn't lend him the legs to go up-stairs
and take a nap with."

"Did he ask for them?"

"Let me see--it seems to me, somehow, that--that--Aunt Betsy, do you
remember whether he--"

"Never mind about what Aunt Betsy remembers--she is not a witness; we
only want to know what you remember yourself," said the judge.

"Well, it does seem to, me that you are most cantankerously particular
about a little thing, Sim Robinson.  Why, when I can't remember a thing
myself, I always--"


"Ah, please go on!"

"Now how can she when you keep fussing at her all the time?" said Aunt
Betsy.  "Why, with a person pecking at me that way, I should get that
fuzzled and fuddled that--"

She was on her feet again, but Allen coaxed her into her seat once more,
while the court squelched the mirth of the house.  Then the judge said:

"Madam, do you know--do you absolutely know, independently of anything
these gentlemen have told you--that the power over their legs passes from
the one to the other regularly every week?"

"Regularly?  Bless your heart, regularly ain't any name for the exactness
of it!  All the big cities in Europe used to set the clocks by it."
(Laughter, suppressed by the court.)

"How do you know?  That is the question.  Please answer it plainly and
squarely."

"Don't you talk to me like that, Sim Robinson--I won't have it.  How do
I know, indeed!  How do you know what you know?  Because somebody told
you.  You didn't invent it out of your own head, did you?  Why, these
twins are the truthfulest people in the world; and I don't think it
becomes you to sit up there and throw slurs at them when they haven't
been doing anything to you.  And they are orphans besides--both of them.
All--"

But Aunt Betsy was up again now, and both old ladies were talking at once
and with all their might; but as the house was weltering in a storm of
laughter, and the judge was hammering his desk with an iron paper-weight,
one could only see them talk, not hear them.  At last, when quiet was
restored, the court said:

"Let the ladies retire."

"But, your honor, I have the right, in the interest of my clients,--to
cross-exam--"

"You'll not need to exercise it, Mr. Wilson--the evidence is thrown out."

"Thrown out!" said Aunt Patsy, ruffled; "and what's it thrown out for,
I'd like to know."

"And so would I, Patsy Cooper.  It seems to me that if we can save these
poor persecuted strangers, it is our bounden duty to stand up here and
talk for them till--"

"There, there, there, do sit down!"

It cost some trouble and a good deal of coaxing, but they were got into
their seats at last.  The trial was soon ended now.  The twins themselves
became witnesses in their own defense.  They established the fact, upon
oath, that the leg-power passed from one to the other every Saturday
night at twelve o'clock sharp.  But or cross-examination their counsel
would not allow them to tell whose week of power the current week was.
The judge insisted upon their answering, and proposed to compel them, but
even the prosecution took fright and came to the rescue then, and helped
stay the sturdy jurist's revolutionary hand.  So the case had to go to
the jury with that important point hanging in the air.  They were out an
hour and brought in this verdict:

"We the jury do find:  1, that an assault was committed, as charged;
2, that it was committed by one of the persons accused, he having been
seen to do it by several credible witnesses; 3, but that his identity is
so merged in his brother's that we have not been able to tell which was
him.  We cannot convict both, for only one is guilty.  We cannot acquit
both, for only one is innocent.  Our verdict is that justice has been
defeated by the dispensation of God, and ask to be discharged from
further duty."

This was read aloud in court and brought out a burst of hearty applause.
The old ladies made a spring at the twins, to shake and congratulate, but
were gently disengaged by Mr. Wilson and softly crowded back into their
places.

The judge rose in his little tribune, laid aside his silver-bowed
spectacles, roached his gray hair up with his fingers, and said, with
dignity and solemnity, and even with a certain pathos:

"In all my experience on the bench, I have not seen justice bow her head
in shame in this court until this day.  You little realize what far-
reaching harm has just been wrought here under the fickle forms of law.
Imitation is the bane of courts--I thank God that this one is free from
the contamination of that vice--and in no long time you will see the
fatal work of this hour seized upon by profligate so-called guardians of
justice in all the wide circumstance of this planet and perpetuated in
their pernicious decisions.  I wash my hands of this iniquity.  I would
have compelled these culprits to expose their guilt, but support failed
me where I had most right to expect aid and encouragement.  And I was
confronted by a law made in the interest of crime, which protects the
criminal from testifying against himself.  Yet I had precedents of my own
whereby I had set aside that law on two different occasions and thus
succeeded in convicting criminals to whose crimes there were no witnesses
but themselves.  What have you accomplished this day?  Do you realize it?
You have set adrift, unadmonished, in this community, two men endowed
with an awful and mysterious gift, a hidden and grisly power for evil--
a power by which each in his turn may commit crime after crime of the
most heinous character, and no man be able to tell which is the guilty or
which the innocent party in any case of them all.  Look to your homes
look to your property look to your lives for you have need!

"Prisoners at the bar, stand up.  Through suppression of evidence, a jury
of your--our--countrymen have been obliged to deliver a verdict
concerning your case which stinks to heaven with the rankness of its
injustice.  By its terms you, the guilty one, go free with the innocent.
Depart in peace, and come no more!  The costs devolve upon the outraged
plaintiff--another iniquity.  The court stands dissolved."

Almost everybody crowded forward to overwhelm the twins and their counsel
with congratulations; but presently the two old aunties dug the
duplicates out and bore them away in triumph through the hurrahing crowd,
while lots of new friends carried Pudd'nhead Wilson off tavernward to
feast him and "wet down" his great and victorious entry into the legal
arena.  To Wilson, so long familiar with neglect and depreciation, this
strange new incense of popularity and admiration was as a fragrance blown
from the fields of paradise.  A happy man was Wilson.




CHAPTER VI

THE AMAZING DUEL

     A deputation came in the evening and conferred upon Wilson the
     welcome honor of a nomination for mayor; for the village has just
     been converted into a city by charter.  Tom skulks out of
     challenging the twins.  Judge Driscoll thereupon challenges Angelo
     (accused by Tom of doing the kicking); he declines, but Luigi
     accepts in his place against Angelo's timid protest.

It was late Saturday night nearing eleven.

The judge and his second found the rest of the war party at the further
end of the vacant ground, near the haunted house.  Pudd'nhead Wilson
advanced to meet them, and said anxiously:

"I must say a word in behalf of my principal's proxy, Count Luigi, to
whom you have kindly granted the privilege of fighting my principal's
battle for him.  It is growing late, and Count Luigi is in great trouble
lest midnight shall strike before the finish."

"It is another testimony," said Howard, approvingly.  "That young man is
fine all through.  He wishes to save his brother the sorrow of fighting
on the Sabbath, and he is right; it is the right and manly feeling and
does him credit.  We will make all possible haste."

Wilson said: "There is also another reason--a consideration, in fact,
which deeply concerns Count Luigi himself.  These twins have command of
their mutual legs turn about.  Count Luigi is in command now; but at
midnight, possession will pass to my principal, Count Angelo, and--well,
you can foresee what will happen.  He will march straight off the field,
and carry Luigi with him."

"Why! sure enough!" cried the judge, "we have heard something about that
extraordinary law of their being, already--nothing very definite, it is
true, as regards dates and durations of power, but I see it is definite
enough as regards to-night.  Of course we must give Luigi every chance.
Omit all the ceremonial possible, gentlemen, and place us in position."

The seconds at once tossed up a coin; Howard won the choice.  He placed
the judge sixty feet from the haunted house and facing it; Wilson placed
the twins within fifteen feet of the house and facing the judge--
necessarily.  The pistol-case was opened and the long slim tubes taken
out; when the moonlight glinted from them a shiver went through Angelo.
The doctor was a fool, but a thoroughly well-meaning one, with a kind
heart and a sincere disposition to oblige, but along with it an absence
of tact which often hurt its effectiveness.  He brought his box of lint
and bandages, and asked Angelo to feel and see how soft and comfortable
they were.  Angelo's head fell over against Luigi's in a faint, and
precious time was lost in bringing him to; which provoked Luigi into
expressing his mind to the doctor with a good deal of vigor and
frankness.  After Angelo came to he was still so weak that Luigi was
obliged to drink a stiff horn of brandy to brace him up.

The seconds now stepped at once to their posts, halfway between the
combatants, one of them on each side of the line of fire.  Wilson was to
count, very deliberately, "One-two-three-fire!--stop!" and the duelists
could bang away at any time they chose during that recitation, but not
after the last word.  Angelo grew very nervous when he saw Wilson's hand
rising slowly into the air as a sign to make ready, and he leaned his
head against Luigi's and said:

"Oh, please take me away from here, I can't stay, I know I can't!"

"What in the world are you doing?  Straighten up!  What's the matter with
you?--you're in no danger--nobody's going to shoot at you.  Straighten
up, I tell you!"

Angelo obeyed, just in time to hear:

"One--!"

"Bang!"  Just one report, and a little tuft of white hair floated slowly
to the judge's feet in the moonlight.  The judge did not swerve; he still
stood erect and motionless, like a statue, with his pistol-arm hanging
straight down at his side.  He was reserving his fire.

"Two--!"

"Three--"!

"Fire--!"

Up came the pistol-arm instantly-Angelo dodged with the report.  He said
"Ouch!" and fainted again.

The doctor examined and bandaged the wound.

It was of no consequence, he said--bullet through fleshy part of arm--no
bones broken the gentleman was still able to fight let the duel proceed.

Next time Angelo jumped just as Luigi fired, which disordered his aim and
caused him to cut a chip off of Howard's ear.  The judge took his time
again, and when he fired Angelo jumped and got a knuckle skinned.  The
doctor inspected and dressed the wounds.  Angelo now spoke out and said
he was content with the satisfaction he had got, and if the judge--but
Luigi shut him roughly up, and asked him not to make an ass of himself;
adding:

"And I want you to stop dodging.  You take a great deal too prominent a
part in this thing for a person who has got nothing to do with it.  You
should remember that you are here only by courtesy, and are without
official recognition; officially you are not here at all; officially you
do not even exist.  To all intents and purposes you are absent from this
place, and you ought for your own modesty's sake to reflect that it
cannot become a person who is not present here to be taking this sort of
public and indecent prominence in a matter in which he is not in the
slightest degree concerned.  Now, don't dodge again; the bullets are not
for you, they are for me; if I want them dodged I will attend to it
myself.  I never saw a person act so."

Angelo saw the reasonableness of what his brother had said, and he did
try to reform, but it was of no use; both pistols went off at the same
instant, and he jumped once more; he got a sharp scrape along his cheek
from the judge's bullet, and so deflected Luigi's aim that his ball went
wide and chipped flake of skin from Pudd'nhead Wilson's chin.  The doctor
attended to the wounded.

By the terms, the duel was over.  But Luigi was entirely out of patience,
and begged for one exchange of shots, insisting that he had had no fair
chance, on account of his brother's indelicate behavior.  Howard was
opposed to granting so unusual a privilege, but the judge took Luigi's
part, and added that indeed he himself might fairly be considered
entitled to another trial, because although the proxy on the other side
was in no way to blame for his (the judge's) humiliatingly resultless
work, the gentleman with whom he was fighting this duel was to blame for
it, since if he had played no advantages and had held his head still, his
proxy would have been disposed of early.  He added:

"Count Luigi's request for another exchange is another proof that he is a
brave and chivalrous gentleman, and I beg that the courtesy he asks may
be accorded him."

"I thank you most sincerely for this generosity, Judge Driscoll," said
Luigi, with a polite bow, and moving to his place.  Then he added to
Angelo, "Now hold your grip, hold your grip, I tell you, and I'll land
him sure!"

The men stood erect, their pistol-arms at their sides, the two seconds
stood at their official posts, the doctor stood five paces in Wilson's
rear with his instruments and bandages in his hands.  The deep stillness,
the peaceful moonlight, the motionless figures, made an impressive
picture and the impending fatal possibilities augmented this
impressiveness solemnity.  Wilson's hand began to rise--slowly--still
higher--still higher--in another moment:

"Boom!" the first stroke of midnight swung up  out of the distance;
Angelo was off like a deer!

"Oh, you unspeakable traitor!" wailed his brother, as they went soaring
over the fence.

The others stood astonished and gazing; and so stood, watching that
strange spectacle until distance dissolved it and swept it from their
view.  Then they rubbed their eyes like people waking out of a dream,

"Well, I've never seen anything like that before!" said the judge.
"Wilson, I am going to confess now, that I wasn't quite able to believe
in that leg business, and had a suspicion that it was a put-up
convenience between those twins; and when Count Angelo fainted I thought
I saw the whole scheme--thought it was pretext No. 2, and would be
followed by others till twelve o'clock should arrive, and Luigi would get
off with all the credit of seeming to want to fight and yet not have to
fight, after all.  But I was mistaken.  His pluck proved it.  He's a
brave fellow and did want to fight."

"There isn't any doubt about that," said Howard, and added, in a grieved
tone, "but what an unworthy sort of Christian that Angelo is--I hope and
believe there are not many like him.  It is not right to engage in a duel
on the Sabbath--I could not approve of that myself; but to finish one
that has been begun--that is a duty, let the day be what it may."

They strolled along, still wondering, still talking.

"It is a curious circumstance, "remarked the surgeon, halting Wilson a
moment to paste so more court-plaster on his chin, which had gone to
leaking blood again, "that in this duel neither of the parties who
handled the pistols lost blood while nearly all the persons present in
the mere capacity of guests got hit.  I have not heard of such a thing
before.  Don't you think it unusual?"

"Yes," said the Judge, "it has struck me as peculiar.  Peculiar and
unfortunate.  I was annoyed at it, all the time.  In the case of Angelo
it made no great difference, because he was in a measure concerned,
though not officially; but it troubled me to see the seconds compromised,
and yet I knew no way to mend the matter.

"There was no way to mend it," said Howard, whose ear was being
readjusted now by the doctor; "the code fixes our place, and it would not
have been lawful to change it.  If we could have stood at your side, or
behind you, or in front of you, it--but it would not have been legitimate
and the other parties would have had a just right to complain of our
trying to protect ourselves from danger; infractions of the code are
certainly not permissible in any case whatever."

Wilson offered no remarks.  It seemed to him that there was very little
place here for so much solemnity, but he judged that if a duel where
nobody was in danger or got crippled but the seconds and the outsiders
had nothing ridiculous about it for these gentlemen, his pointing out
that feature would probably not help them to see it.

He invited them in to take a nightcap, and Howard and the judge accepted,
but the doctor said he would have to go and see how Angelo's principal
wound was getting on.

     [It was now Sunday, and in the afternoon Angelo was to be received
     into the Baptist communion by immersion--a doubtful prospect, the
     doctor feared.]




CHAPTER VII

LUIGI DEFIES GALEN

When the doctor arrived at Aunt Patsy Cooper's house, he found the lights
going and everybody up and dressed and in a great state of solicitude and
excitement.  The twins were stretched on a sofa in the sitting-room, Aunt
Patsy was fussing at Angelo's arm, Nancy was flying around under her
commands, the two young boys were trying to keep out of the way and
always getting in it, in order to see and wonder, Rowena stood apart,
helpless with apprehension and emotion, and Luigi was growling in
unappeasable fury over Angelo's shameful flight.

As has been reported before, the doctor was a fool--a kind-hearted and
well-meaning one, but with no tact; and as he was by long odds the most
learned physician in the town, and was quite well aware of it, and could
talk his learning with ease and precision, and liked to show off when he
had an audience, he was sometimes tempted into revealing more of a case
than was good for the patient.

He examined Angelo's wound, and was really minded to say nothing for
once; but Aunt Patsy was so anxious and so pressing that he allowed his
caution to be overcome, and proceeded to empty himself as follows, with
scientific relish:

"Without going too much into detail, madam--for you would probably not
understand it, anyway--I concede that great care is going to be necessary
here; otherwise exudation of the esophagus is nearly sure to ensue, and
this will be followed by ossification and extradition of the maxillaris
superioris, which must decompose the granular surfaces of the great
infusorial ganglionic system, thus obstructing the action of the
posterior varioloid arteries, and precipitating compound strangulated
sorosis of the valvular tissues, and ending unavoidably in the dispersion
and combustion of the marsupial fluxes and the consequent embrocation of
the bicuspid populo redax referendum rotulorum."

A miserable silence followed.  Aunt Patsy's heart sank, the pallor of
despair invaded her face, she was not able to speak; poor Rowena wrung
her hands in privacy and silence, and said to herself in the bitterness
of her young grief, "There is no hope--it is plain there is no hope"; the
good-hearted negro wench, Nancy, paled to chocolate, then to orange, then
to amber, and thought to herself with yearning sympathy and sorrow, "Po'
thing, he ain' gwyne to las' throo de half o' dat"; small Henry choked
up, and turned his head away to hide his rising tears, and his brother
Joe said to himself, with a sense of loss, "The baptizing's busted,
that's sure."  Luigi was the only person who had any heart to speak.  He
said, a little bit sharply, to the doctor:

"Well, well, there's nothing to be gained by wasting precious time; give
him a barrel of pills--I'll take them for him."

"You?" asked the doctor.

"Yes.  Did you suppose he was going to take them himself?"

"Why, of course."

"Well, it's a mistake.  He never took a dose of medicine in his life.  He
can't."

"Well, upon my word, it's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of!"

"Oh," said Aunt Patsy, as pleased as a mother whose child is being
admired and wondered at; "you'll find that there's more about them that's
wonderful than their just being made in the image of God like the rest of
His creatures, now you can depend on that, I tell you," and she wagged
her complacent head like one who could reveal marvelous things if she
chose.

The boy Joe began:

"Why, ma, they ain't made in the im--"

"You shut up, and wait till you're asked, Joe.  I'll let you know when I
want help.  Are you looking for something, doctor?"

The doctor asked for a few sheets of paper and a pen, and said he would
write a prescription; which he did.  It was one of Galen's; in fact, it
was Galen's favorite, and had been slaying people for sixteen thousand
years.  Galen used it for everything, applied it to everything, said it
would remove everything, from warts all the way through to lungs and it
generally did.  Galen was still the only medical authority recognized in
Missouri; his practice was the only practice known to the Missouri
doctors, and his prescriptions were the only ammunition they carried when
they went out for game.

By and by Dr. Claypool laid down his pen and read the result of his
labors aloud, carefully and deliberately, for this battery must be
constructed on the premises by the family, and mistakes could occur;
for he wrote a doctor's hand the hand which from the beginning of time
has been so disastrous to the apothecary and so profitable to the
undertaker:

"Take of afarabocca, henbane, corpobalsamum, each two drams and a half:
of cloves, opium, myrrh, cyperus, each two drams; of opobalsamum, Indian
leaf, cinnamon, zedoary, ginger, coftus, coral, cassia, euphorbium, gum
tragacanth, frankincense, styrax calamita, Celtic, nard, spignel,
hartwort, mustard, saxifrage, dill, anise, each one dram; of xylaloes,
rheum ponticum, alipta, moschata, castor, spikenard, galangals, opoponax,
anacardium, mastich, brimstone, peony, eringo, pulp of dates, red and
white hermodactyls, roses, thyme, acorns, pennyroyal, gentian, the bark
of the root of mandrake, germander, valerian, bishop's-weed, bayberries,
long and white pepper, xylobalsamum, carnabadium, macedonian, parsley
seeds, lovage, the seeds of rue, and sinon, of each a dram and a half; of
pure gold, pure silver, pearls not perforated, the blatta byzantina, the
bone of the stag's heart, of each the quantity of fourteen grains of
wheat; of sapphire, emerald and jasper stones, each one dram; of hazel-
nuts, two drams; of pellitory of Spain, shavings of ivory, calamus
odoratus, each the quantity of twenty-nine grains of wheat; of honey or
sugar a sufficient quantity.  Boil down and skim off."

"There," he said, "that will fix the patient; give his brother a
dipperful every three-quarters of an hour--"

"--while he survives," muttered Luigi--

"--and see that the room is kept wholesomely hot, and the doors and
windows closed tight.  Keep Count Angelo nicely covered up with six or
seven blankets, and when he is thirsty--which will be frequently--moisten
a 'rag in the vapor of the tea kettle and let his brother suck it.  When
he is hungry--which will also be frequently he must not be humored
oftener than every seven or eight hours; then toast part of a cracker
until it begins to brown, and give it to his brother."

"That is all very well, as far as Angelo is concerned," said Luigi, "but
what am I to eat?"

"I do not see that there is anything the matter with you," the doctor
answered, "you may, of course, eat what you please."

"And also drink what I please, I suppose?"

"Oh, certainly--at present.  When the violent and continuous perspiring
has reduced your strength, I shall have to reduce your diet, of course,
and also bleed you, but there is no occasion for that yet awhile."  He
turned to Aunt Patsy and said: "He must be put to bed, and sat up with,
and tended with the greatest care, and not allowed to stir for several
days and nights."

"For one, I'm sacredly thankful for that," said Luigi, "it postpones the
funeral--I'm not to be drowned to-day, anyhow."

Angelo said quietly to the doctor:

"I will cheerfully submit to all your requirements, sir, up to two
o'clock this afternoon, and will resume them after three, but cannot be
confined to the house during that intermediate hour."

"Why, may I ask?"

"Because I have entered the Baptist communion, and by appointment am to
be baptised in the river at that hour."

"Oh, insanity!--it cannot be allowed!"

Angelo answered with placid firmness:

"Nothing shall prevent it, if I am alive."

"Why, consider, my dear sir, in your condition it might prove fatal."

A tender and ecstatic smile beamed from Angelo's eyes, and he broke forth
in a tone of joyous fervency:

"Ah, how blessed it would be to die for such a cause--it would be
martyrdom!"

"But your brother--consider your brother; you would be risking his life,
too."

"He risked mine an hour ago," responded Angelo, gloomily; "did he
consider me?"  A thought swept through his mind that made him shudder.
"If I had not run, I might have been killed in a duel on the Sabbath day,
and my soul would have been lost--lost."

"Oh, don't fret, it wasn't in any danger," said Luigi, irritably; "they
wouldn't waste it for a little thing like that; there's a glass case all
ready for it in the heavenly museum, and a pin to stick it up with."

Aunt Patsy was shocked, and said:

"Looy, Looy!--don't talk so, dear!"

Rowena's soft heart was pierced by Luigi's unfeeling words, and she
murmured to herself, "Oh, if I but had the dear privilege of protecting
and defending him with my weak voice!--but alas! this sweet boon is
denied me by the cruel conventions of social intercourse."

"Get their bed ready," said Aunt Patsy to Nancy, "and shut up the windows
and doors, and light their candles, and see that you drive all the
mosquitoes out of their bar, and make up a good fire in their stove, and
carry up some bags of hot ashes to lay to his feet--"

"--and a shovel of fire for his head, and a mustard plaster for his neck,
and some gum shoes for his ears," Luigi interrupted, with temper; and
added, to himself, "Damnation, I'm going to be roasted alive, I just know
it!"

"Why, Looy!  Do be quiet; I never saw such a fractious thing.  A body
would think you didn't care for your brother."

"I don't--to that extent, Aunt Patsy.  I was glad the drowning was
postponed a minute ago, but I'm not now.  No, that is all gone by; I want
to be drowned."

"You'll bring a judgment on yourself just as sure as you live, if you go
on like that.  Why, I never heard the beat of it.  Now, there--there!
you've said enough.  Not another word out of you--I won't have it!"

"But, Aunt Patsy--"

"Luigi!  Didn't you hear what I told you?"

"But, Aunt Patsy, I--why, I'm not going to set my heart and lungs afloat
in that pail of sewage which this criminal here has been prescri--"

"Yes, you are, too.  You are going to be good, and do everything I tell
you, like a dear," and she tapped his cheek affectionately with her
finger.  "Rowena, take the prescription and go in the kitchen and hunt up
the things and lay them out for me.  I'll sit up with my patient the rest
of the night, doctor; I can't trust Nancy, she couldn't make Luigi take
the medicine.  Of course, you'll drop in again during the day.  Have you
got any more directions?"

"No, I believe not, Aunt Patsy.  If I don't get in earlier, I'll be along
by early candle-light, anyway.  Meantime, don't allow him to get out of
his bed."

Angelo said, with calm determination:

"I shall be baptized at two o'clock.  Nothing but death shall prevent
me."

The doctor said nothing aloud, but to himself he said:

"Why, this chap's got a manly side, after all!  Physically he's a coward,
but morally he's a lion.  I'll go and tell the others about this; it will
raise him a good deal in their estimation--and the public will follow
their lead, of course."

Privately, Aunt Patsy applauded too, and was proud of Angelo's courage in
the moral field as she was of Luigi's in the field of honor.

The boy Henry was troubled, but the boy Joe said, inaudibly, and
gratefully, "We're all honky, after all; and no postponement on account
of the weather."




CHAPTER VIII

BAPTISM OF THE BETTER HALF

By nine o'clock the town was humming with the news of the midnight duel,
and there were but two opinions about it: one, that Luigi's pluck in the
field was most praiseworthy and Angela's flight most scandalous; the
other, that Angelo's courage in flying the field for conscience' sake was
as fine and creditable as was Luigi's in holding the field in the face of
the bullets.  The one opinion was held by half of the town, the other one
was maintained by the other half.  The division was clean and exact, and
it made two parties, an Angela party and a Luigi party.  The twins had
suddenly become popular idols along with Pudd'nhead Wilson, and haloed
with a glory as intense as his.  The children talked the duel all the way
to Sunday-school, their elders talked it all the way to church, the choir
discussed it behind their red curtain, it usurped the place of pious
thought in the "nigger gallery."

By noon the doctor had added the news, and spread it, that Count Angelo,
in spite of his wound and all warnings and supplications, was resolute in
his determination to be baptized at the hour appointed.  This swept the
town like wildfire, and mightily reinforced the enthusiasm of the Angelo
faction, who said, "If any doubted that it was moral courage that took
him from the field, what have they to say now!"

Still the excitement grew.  All the morning it was traveling countryward,
toward all points of the compass; so, whereas before only the farmers and
their wives were intending to come and witness the remarkable baptism,
a general holiday was now proclaimed and the children and negroes
admitted to the privileges of the occasion.  All the farms for ten miles
around were vacated, all the converging roads emptied long processions of
wagons, horses, and yeomanry into the town.  The pack and cram of people
vastly exceeded any that had ever been seen in that sleepy region before.
The only thing that had ever even approached it, was the time long gone
by, but never forgotten, nor even referred to without wonder and pride,
when two circuses and a Fourth of July fell together.  But the glory of
that occasion was extinguished now for good.  It was but a freshet to
this deluge.

The great invasion massed itself on the river-bank and waited hungrily
for the immense event.  Waited, and wondered if it would really happen,
or if the twin who was not a "professor" would stand out and prevent it.

But they were not to be disappointed.  Angela was as good as his word.
He came attended by an escort of honor composed of several hundred of the
best citizens, all of the Angelo party; and when the immersion was
finished they escorted him back home and would even have carried him on
their shoulders, but that people might think they were carrying Luigi.

Far into the night the citizens continued to discuss and wonder over the
strangely mated pair of incidents that had distinguished and exalted the
past twenty-four hours above any other twenty-four in the history of
their town for picturesqueness and splendid interest; and long before the
lights were out and burghers asleep it had been decided on all hands that
in capturing these twins Dawson's Landing had drawn a prize in the great
lottery of municipal fortune.

At midnight Angelo was sleeping peacefully.  His immersion had not harmed
him, it had merely made him wholesomely drowsy, and he had been dead
asleep many hours now.  It had made Luigi drowsy, too, but he had got
only brief naps, on account of his having to take the medicine every
three-quarters of an hour-and Aunt Betsy Hale was there to see that he
did it.  When he complained and resisted, she was quietly firm with him,
and said in a low voice:

"No-no, that won't do; you mustn't talk, and you mustn't retch and gag
that way, either--you'll wake up your poor brother."

"Well, what of it, Aunt Betsy, he--"

"'Sh-h!  Don't make a noise, dear.  You mustn't: forget that your poor
brother is sick and--"

"Sick, is he?  Well, I wish I--"

"'Sh-h-h!  Will you be quiet, Luigi!  Here, now, take the rest of it--
don't keep me holding the dipper all night.  I declare if you haven't
left a good fourth of it in the bottom!  Come-that's a good--

"Aunt Betsy, don't make me!  I feel like I've swallowed a cemetery; I do,
indeed.  Do let me rest a little--just a little; I can't take any more of
the devilish stuff now."

"Luigi!  Using such language here, and him just baptized!  Do you want
the roof to fall on you?"

"I wish to goodness it would!"

"Why, you dreadful thing!  I've a good notion to--let that blanket alone;
do you want your, brother to catch his death?"

"Aunt Betsy, I've got to have it off, I'm being roasted alive; nobody
could stand it--you couldn't yourself."

"Now, then, you're sneezing again--I just expected it."

"Because I've caught a cold in my head.  I always do, when I go in the
water with my clothes on.  And it takes me weeks to get over it, too.
I think it was a shame to serve me so."

"Luigi, you are unreasonable; you know very well they couldn't baptize
him dry.  I should think you would be willing to undergo a little
inconvenience for your brother's sake."

"Inconvenience!  Now how you talk, Aunt Betsy.  I came as near as
anything to getting drowned you saw that yourself; and do you call this
inconvenience?--the room shut up as tight as a drum, and so hot the
mosquitoes are trying to get out; and a cold in the head, and dying for
sleep and no chance to get any--on account of this infamous medicine that
that assassin prescri--"

"There, you're sneezing again.  I'm going down and mix some more of this
truck for you, dear."




CHAPTER IX

THE DRINKLESS DRUNK

During Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday the twins grew steadily worse; but
then the doctor was summoned South to attend his mother's funeral, and
they got well in forty-eight hours.  They appeared on the street on
Friday, and were welcomed with enthusiasm by the new-born parties, the
Luigi and Angelo factions.  The Luigi faction carried its strength into
the Democratic party, the Angelo faction entered into a combination with
the Whigs.  The Democrats nominated Luigi for alderman under the new city
government, and the Whigs put up Angelo against him.  The Democrats
nominated Pudd'nhead Wilson for mayor, and he was left alone in this
glory, for the Whigs had no man who was willing to enter the lists
against such a formidable opponent.  No politician had scored such a
compliment as this before in the history of the Mississippi Valley.

The political campaign in Dawson's Landing opened in a pretty warm
fashion, and waned hotter every week.  Luigi's whole heart was in it,
and even Angelo developed a surprising amount of interest-which was
natural, because he was not merely representing Whigism, a matter of no
consequence to him; but he was representing something immensely finer and
greater--to wit, Reform.  In him was centered the hopes of the whole
reform element of the town; he was the chosen and admired champion of
every clique that had a pet reform of any sort or kind at heart.  He was
president of the great Teetotalers' Union, its chiefest prophet and
mouthpiece.

But as the canvass went on, troubles began to spring up all around--
troubles for the twins, and through them for all the parties and segments
and factions of parties.  Whenever Luigi had possession of the legs, he
carried Angelo to balls, rum shops, Sons of Liberty parades, horse-
races, campaign riots, and everywhere else that could damage him with his
party and the church; and when it was Angelo's week he carried Luigi
diligently to all manner of moral and religious gatherings, doing his
best to regain the ground he had lost before.  As a result of these
double performances, there was a storm blowing all the time, an ever-
rising storm, too--a storm of frantic criticism of the twins, and rage
over their extravagant, incomprehensible conduct.

Luigi had the final chance.  The legs were his for the closing week of
the canvass.  He led his brother a fearful dance.

But he saved his best card for the very eve of the election.  There was
to be a grand turnout of the Teetotalers' Union that day, and Angelo was
to march at the head of the procession and deliver a great oration
afterward.  Luigi drank a couple of glasses of whisky--which steadied his
nerves and clarified his mind, but made Angelo drunk.  Everybody who saw
the march, saw that the Champion of the Teetotalers was half seas over,
and noted also that his brother, who made no hypocritical pretensions to
extra temperance virtues, was dignified and sober.  This eloquent fact
could not be unfruitful at the end of a hot political canvass.  At the
mass-meeting Angelo tried to make his great temperance oration, but was
so discommoded--by hiccoughs and thickness of tongue that he had to give
it up; then drowsiness overtook him and his head drooped against Luigi's
and he went to sleep.  Luigi apologized for him, and was going on to
improve his opportunity with an appeal for a moderation of what he called
"the prevailing teetotal madness," but persons in the audience began to
howl and throw things at him, and then the meeting rose in wrath and
chased him home.

This episode was a crusher for Angelo in another way.  It destroyed his
chances with Rowena.  Those chances had been growing, right along, for
two months.  Rowena had partly confessed that she loved him, but wanted
time to consider.  Now the tender dream was ended, and she told him so
the moment he was sober enough to understand.  She said she would never
marry a man who drank.

"But I don't drink," he pleaded.

"That is nothing to the point," she said, coldly, "you get drunk, and
that is worse."

[There was a long and sufficiently idiotic discussion here, which ended
as reported in a previous note.]




CHAPTER X

SO THEY HANGED LUIGI

Dawson's Landing had a week of repose, after the election, and it needed
it, for the frantic and variegated nightmare which had tormented it all
through the preceding week had left it limp, haggard, and exhausted at
the end.  It got the week of repose because Angelo had the legs, and was
in too subdued a condition to want to go out and mingle with an irritated
community that had come to disgust and detest him because there was such
a lack of harmony between his morals, which were confessedly excellent,
and his methods of illustrating them, which were distinctly damnable.
The new city officers were sworn in on the following Monday--at least all
but Luigi.  There was a complication in his case.  His election was
conceded, but he could not sit in the board of aldermen without his
brother, and his brother could not sit there because he was not a member.
There seemed to be no way out of the difficulty but to carry the matter
into the courts, so this was resolved upon.

The case was set for the Monday fortnight.  In due course the time
arrived.  In the mean time the city government had been at a standstill,
because with out Luigi there was a tie in the board of aldermen, whereas
with him the liquor interest--the richest in the political field--would
have one majority.  But the court decided that Angelo could not sit in
the board with him, either in public or executive sessions, and at the
same time forbade the board to deny admission to Luigi, a fairly and
legally chosen alderman.  The case was carried up and up from court to
court, yet still the same old original decision was confirmed every time.
As a result, the city government not only stood still, with its hands
tied, but everything it was created to protect and care for went a steady
gait toward rack and ruin.  There was no way to levy a tax, so the minor
officials had to resign or starve; therefore they resigned.  There being
no city money, the enormous legal expenses on both sides had to be
defrayed by private subscription.  But at last the people came to their
senses, and said:

"Pudd'nhead was right at the start--we ought to have hired the official
half of that human phillipene to resign; but it's too late now; some of
us haven't got anything left to hire him with."

"Yes, we have," said another citizen, "we've got this"--and he produced a
halter.

Many shouted: "That's the ticket."  But others said: "No--Count Angelo is
innocent; we mustn't hang him."

"Who said anything about hanging him?  We are only going to hang the
other one."

"Then that is all right--there is no objection to that."

So they hanged Luigi.  And so ends the history of "Those Extraordinary
Twins."




FINAL REMARKS

As you see, it was an extravagant sort of a tale, and had no purpose but
to exhibit that monstrous "freak" in all sorts of grotesque lights.  But
when Roxy wandered into the tale she had to be furnished with something
to do; so she changed the children in the cradle; this necessitated the
invention of a reason for it; this, in turn, resulted in making the
children prominent personages--nothing could prevent it of course.  Their
career began to take a tragic aspect, and some one had to be brought in
to help work the machinery; so Pudd'nhead Wilson was introduced and taken
on trial.  By this time the whole show was being run by the new people
and in their interest, and the original show was become side-tracked and
forgotten; the twin-monster, and the heroine, and the lads, and the old
ladies had dwindled to inconsequentialities and were merely in the way.
Their story was one story, the new people's story was another story, and
there was no connection between them, no interdependence, no kinship.
It is not practicable or rational to try to tell two stories at the same
time; so I dug out the farce and left the tragedy.

The reader already knew how the expert works; he knows now how the other
kind do it.

MARK TWAIN.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Those Extraordinary Twins
by Mark Twain






PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC VOL. 1

by Mark Twain




Consider this unique and imposing distinction. Since the writing of
human history began, Joan of Arc is the only person, of either sex,
who has ever held supreme command of the military forces of a
nation at the age of seventeen

LOUIS KOSSUTH.




Contents
Translator's Preface
A Peculiarity of Joan of Arc's History
The Sieur Louis de Conte


Book I -- IN DOMREMY

1 When Wolves Ran Free in Paris
2 The Fa‰ry Tree of Domremy
3 All Aflame with Love of France
4 Joan Tames the Mad Man
5 Domremy Pillaged and Burned
6 Joan and Archangel Michael
7 She Delivers the Divine Command
8 Why the Scorners Relented


Book II -- IN COURT AND CAMP

1 Joan Says Good-By
2 The Governor Speeds Joan
3 The Paladin Groans and Boasts
4 Joan Leads Us Through the Enemy
5 We Pierce the Last Ambuscades
6 Joan Convinces the King
7 Our Paladin in His Glory
8 Joan Persuades the Inquisitors
9 She Is Made General-in-Chief
10 The Maid's Sword and Banner
11 The War March Is Begun
12 Joan Puts Heart in Her Army
13 Checked by the Folly of the Wise
14 What the English Answered
15 My Exquisite Poem Goes to Smash
16 The Finding of the Dwarf
17 Sweet Fruit of Bitter Truth
18 Joan's First Battle-Field
19 We Burst In Upon Ghosts
20 Joan Makes Cowards Brave Victors
21 She Gently Reproves Her Dear Friend
22 The Fate of France Decided
23 Joan Inspires the Tawdry King
24 Tinsel Trappings of Nobility
25 At Last--Forward!
26 The Last Doubts Scattered
27 How Joan Took Jargeau

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC
by THE SIEUR LOUIS DE CONTE
(her page and secretary)




In Two Volumes


Volume 1.


Freely translated out of the ancient French into modern English
from the original unpublished manuscript in the National Archives
of France

by JEAN FRAN€OIS ALDEN
Authorities examined in verification of the truthfulness of this
narrative:

J. E. J. QUICHERAT, Condamnation et R‚habilitation de Jeanne
d'Arc.
J. FABRE, ProcŠs de Condamnation de Jeanne d'Arc.
H. A. WALLON, Jeanne d'Arc.
M. SEPET, Jeanne d'Arc.
J. MICHELET, Jeanne d'Arc.
BERRIAT DE SAINT-PRIX, La Famille de Jeanne d'Arc.
La Comtesse A. DE CHABANNES, La Vierge Lorraine.
Monseigneur RICARD, Jeanne d'Arc la V‚n‚rable.
Lord RONALD GOWER, F.S.A., Joan of Arc. JOHN O'HAGAN,
Joan of Arc.
JANET TUCKEY, Joan of Arc the Maid.




TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

TO ARRIVE at a just estimate of a renowned man's character one
must judge it by the standards of his time, not ours. Judged by the
standards of one century, the noblest characters of an earlier one
lose much of their luster; judged by the standards of to-day, there
is probably no illustrious man of four or five centuries ago whose
character could meet the test at all points. But the character of
Joan of Arc is unique. It can be measured by the standards of all
times without misgiving or apprehension as to the result. Judged
by any of them, it is still flawless, it is still ideally perfect; it still
occupies the loftiest place possible to human attainment, a loftier
one than has been reached by any other mere mortal.

When we reflect that her century was the brutalest, the wickedest,
the rottenest in history since the darkest ages, we are lost in
wonder at the miracle of such a product from such a soil. The
contrast between her and her century is the contrast between day
and night. She was truthful when lying was the common speech of
men; she was honest when honesty was become a lost virtue; she
was a keeper of promises when the keeping of a promise was
expected of no one; she gave her great mind to great thoughts and
great purposes when other great minds wasted themselves upon
pretty fancies or upon poor ambitions; she was modest, and fine,
and delicate when to be loud and coarse might be said to be
universal; she was full of pity when a merciless cruelty was the
rule; she was steadfast when stability was unknown, and honorable
in an age which had forgotten what honor was; she was a rock of
convictions in a time when men believed in nothing and scoffed at
all things; she was unfailingly true to an age that was false to the
core; she maintained her personal dignity unimpaired in an age of
fawnings and servilities; she was of a dauntless courage when hope
and courage had perished in the hearts of her nation; she was
spotlessly pure in mind and body when society in the highest
places was foul in both--she was all these things in an age when
crime was the common business of lords and princes, and when
the highest personages in Christendom were able to astonish even
that infamous era and make it stand aghast at the spectacle of their
atrocious lives black with unimaginable treacheries, butcheries,
and beastialities.

She was perhaps the only entirely unselfish person whose name
has a place in profane history. No vestige or suggestion of
self-seeking can be found in any word or deed of hers. When she
had rescued her King from his vagabondage, and set his crown
upon hi8s head, she was offered rewards and honors, but she
refused them all, and would take nothing. All she would take for
herself--if the King would grant it--was leave to go back to her
village home, and tend her sheep again, and feel her mother's arms
about her, and be her housemaid and helper. The selfishness of this
unspoiled general of victorious armies, companion of princes, and
idol of an applauding and grateful nation, reached but that far and
no farther.

The work wrought by Joan of Arc may fairly be regarded as
ranking any recorded in history, when one considers the conditions
under which it was undertaken, the obstacles in the way, and the
means at her disposal. Caesar carried conquests far, but he did it
with the trained and confident veterans of Rome, and was a trained
soldier himself; and Napoleon swept away the disciplined armies
of Europe, but he also was a trained soldier, and the began his
work with patriot battalions inflamed and inspired by the
miracle-working new breath of Liberty breathed upon them by the
Revolution--eager young apprentices to the splendid trade of war,
not old and broken men-at-arms, despairing survivors of an
age-long accumulation of monotonous defeats; but Joan of Arc, a
mere child in years, ignorant, unlettered, a poor village girl
unknown and without influence, found a great nation lying in
chains, helpless and hopeless under an alien domination, its
treasury bankrupt, its soldiers disheartened and dispersed, all spirit
torpid, all courage dead in the hearts of the people through long
years of foreign and domestic outrage and oppression, their King
cowed, resigned to its fate, and preparing to fly the country; and
she laid her hand upon this nation, this corpse, and it rose and
followed her. She led it from victory to victory, she turned back
the tide of the Hundred Years' War, she fatally crippled the English
power, and died with the earned title of DELIVERER OF
FRANCE, which she bears to this day.

And for all reward, the French King, whom she had crowned,
stood supine and indifferent, while French priests took the noble
child, the most innocent, the most lovely, the most adorable the
ages have produced, and burned her alive at the stake.

A PECULIARITY OF JOAN OF ARC'S HISTORY

THE DETAILS of the life of Joan of Arc form a biography which
is unique among the world's biographies in one respect: It is the
only story of a human life which comes to us under oath, the only
one which comes to us from the witness-stand. The official records
of the Great Trial of 1431, and of the Process of Rehabilitation of
a quarter of a century later, are still preser4ved in the National
Archives of France, and they furnish with remarkable fullness the
facts of her life. The history of no other life of that remote time is
known with either the certainty or the comprehensiveness that
attaches to hers.

The Sieur Louis de Conte is faithful to her official history in his
Personal Recollections, and thus far his trustworthiness is
unimpeachable; but his mass of added particulars must depend for
credit upon his word alone.

THE TRANSLATOR.

THE SIEUR LOUIS DE CONTE

To his Great-Great-Grand Nephews and Nieces

THIS IS the year 1492. I am eighty-two years of age. The things I
am going to tell you are things which I saw myself as a child and
as a youth.

In all the tales and songs and histories of Joan of Arc, which you
and the rest of the world read and sing and study in the books
wrought in the late invented art of printing, mention is made of
me, the Sieur Louis de Conte--I was her page and secretary, I was
with her from the beginning until the end.

I was reared in the same village with her. I played with her every
day, when we were little children together, just as you play with
your mates. Now that we perceive how great she was, now that her
name fills the whole world, it seems strange that what I am saying
is true; for it is as if a perishable paltry candle should speak of the
eternal sun riding in the heavens and say, "He was gossip and
housemate to me when we were candles together." And yet it is
true, just as I say. I was her playmate, and I fought at her side in
the wars; to this day I carry in my mind, fine and clear, the picture
of that dear little figure, with breast bent to the flying horse's neck,
charging at the head of the armies of France, her hair streaming
back, her silver mail plowing steadily deeper and deeper into the
thick of the battle, sometimes nearly drowned from sight by
tossing heads of horses, uplifted sword-arms, wind-blow plumes,
and intercepting shields. I was with her to the end; and when that
black day came whose accusing shadow will lie always upon the
memory of the mitered French slaves of England who were her
assassins, and upon France who stood idle and essayed no rescue,
my hand was the last she touched in life.

As the years and the decades drifted by, and the spectacle of the
marvelous child's meteor flight across the war firmament of France
and its extinction in the smoke-clouds of the stake receded deeper
and deeper into the past and grew ever more strange, and
wonderful, and divine, and pathetic, I came to comprehend and
recognize her at last for what she was--the most noble life that was
ever born into this world save only One.

BOOK I IN DOMREMY

Chapter 1 When Wolves Ran Free in Paris

I, THE SIEUR LOUIS DE CONTE, was born in Neufchateau, on
the 6th of January, 1410; that is to say, exactly two years before
Joan of Arc was born in Domremy. My family had fled to those
distant regions from the neighborhood of Paris in the first years of
the century. In politics they were Armagnacs--patriots; they were
for our own French King, crazy and impotent as he was. The
Burgundian party, who were for the English, had stripped them,
and done it well. They took everything but my father's small
nobility, and when he reached Neufchateau he reached it in
poverty and with a broken spirit. But the political atmosphere there
was the sort he liked, and that was something. He came to a region
of comparative quiet; he left behind him a region peopled with
furies, madmen, devils, where slaughter was a daily pastime and
no man's life safe for a moment. In Paris, mobs roared through the
streets nightly, sacking, burning, killing, unmolested,
uninterrupted. The sun rose upon wrecked and smoking buildings,
and upon mutilated corpses lying here, there, and yonder about the
streets, just as they fell, and stripped naked by thieves, the unholy
gleaners after the mob. None had the courage to gather these dead
for burial; they were left there to rot and create plagues.

And plagues they did create. Epidemics swept away the people
like flies, and the burials were conducted secretly and by night, for
public funerals were not allowed, lest the revelation of the
magnitude of the plague's work unman the people and plunge them
into despair. Then came, finally, the bitterest winter which had
visited France in five hundred years. Famine, pestilence, slaughter,
ice, snow--Paris had all these at once. The dead lay in heaps about
the streets, and wolves entered the city in daylight and devoured
them.

Ah, France had fallen low--so low! For more than three quarters of
a century the English fangs had been bedded in her flesh, and so
cowed had her armies become by ceaseless rout and defeat that it
was said and accepted that the mere sight of an English army was
sufficient to put a French one to flight.

When I was five years old the prodigious disaster of Agincourt fell
upon France; and although the English King went home to enjoy
his glory, he left the country prostrate and a prey to roving bands
of Free Companions in the service of the Burgundian party, and
one of these bands came raiding through Neufchateau one night,
and by the light of our burning roof-thatch I saw all that were dear
to me in this world (save an elder brother, your ancestor, left
behind with the court) butchered while they begged for mercy, and
heard the butchers laugh at their prayers and mimic their
pleadings. I was overlooked, and escaped without hurt. When the
savages were gone I crept out and cried the night away watching
the burning houses; and I was all alone, except for the company of
the dead and the wounded, for the rest had taken flight and hidden
themselves.

I was sent to Domremy, to the priest, whose housekeeper became a
loving mother to me. The priest, in the course of time, taught me
to read and write, and he and I were the only persons in the village
who possessed this learning.

At the time that the house of this good priest, Guillaume Fronte,
became my home, I was six years old. We lived close by the
village church, and the small garden of Joan's parents was behind
the church. As to that family there were Jacques d'Arc the father,
his wife Isabel Romee; three sons--Jacques, ten years old, Pierre,
eight, and Jean, seven; Joan, four, and her baby sister Catherine,
about a year old. I had these children for playmates from the
beginning. I had some other playmates besides--particularly four
boys: Pierre Morel, Etienne Roze, No‰l Rainguesson, and Edmond
Aubrey, whose father was maire at that time; also two girls, about
Joan's age, who by and by became her favorites; one was named
Haumetter, the other was called Little Mengette. These girls were
common peasant children, like Joan herself. When they grew up,
both married common laborers. Their estate was lowly enough,
you see; yet a time came, many years after, when no passing
stranger, howsoever great he might be, failed to go and pay his
reverence to those to humble old women who had been honored in
their youth by the friendship of Joan of Arc.

These were all good children, just of the ordinary peasant type; not
bright, of course--you would not expect that--but good-hearted and
companionable, obedient to their parents and the priest; and as
they grew up they became properly stocked with narrowness and
prejudices got at second hand from their elders, and adopted
without reserve; and without examination also--which goes
without saying. Their religion was inherited, their politics the
same. John Huss and his sort might find fault with the Church, in
Domremy it disturbed nobody's faith; and when the split came,
when I was fourteen, and we had three Popes at once, nobody in
Domremy was worried about how to choose among them--the
Pope of Rome was the right one, a Pope outside of Rome was no
Pope at all. Every human creature in the village was an
Armagnac--a patriot--and if we children hotly hated nothing else in
the world, we did certainly hate the English and Burgundian name
and polity in that way.

Chapter 2 The Fa‰ry Tree of Domremy

OUR DOMREMY was like any other humble little hamlet of that
remote time and region. It was a maze of crooked, narrow lanes
and alleys shaded and sheltered by the overhanging thatch roofs of
the barnlike houses. The houses were dimly lighted by
wooden-shuttered windows--that is, holes in the walls which
served for windows. The floors were dirt, and there was very little
furniture. Sheep and cattle grazing was the main industry; all the
young folks tended flocks.

The situation was beautiful. From one edge of the village a flowery
plain extended in a wide sweep to the river--the Meuse; from the
rear edge of the village a grassy slope rose gradually, and at the top
was the great oak forest--a forest that was deep and gloomy and
dense, and full of interest for us children, for many murders had
been done in it by outlaws in old times, and in still earlier times
prodigious dragons that spouted fire and poisonous vapors from
their nostrils had their homes in there. In fact, one was still living
in there in our own time. It was as long as a tree, and had a body as
big around as a tierce, and scales like overlapping great tiles, and
deep ruby eyes as large as a cavalier's hat, and an anchor-fluke on
its tail as big as I don't know what, but very big, even unusually so
for a dragon, as everybody said who knew about dragons. It was
thought that this dragon was of a brilliant blue color, with gold
mottlings, but no one had ever seen it, therefore this was not
known to be so, it was only an opinion. It was not my opinion; I
think there is no sense in forming an opinion when there is no
evidence to form it on. If you build a person without any bones in
h8im he may look fair enough to the eye, but he will be limber and
cannot stand up; and I consider that evidence is the bones of an
opinion. But I will take up this matter more at large at another
time, and try to make the justness of my position appear. As to that
dragon, I always held the belief that its color was gold and without
blue, for that has always been the color of dragons. That this
dragon lay but a little way within the wood at one time is shown by
the fact that Pierre Morel was in there one day and smelt it, and
recognized it by the smell. It gives one a horrid idea of how near to
us the deadliest danger can be and we not suspect it.

In the earliest times a hundred knights from many remote places in
the earth would have gone in there one after another, to kill the
dragon and get the reward, but in our time that method had gone
out, and the priest had become the one that abolished dragons.
PŠre Guillaume Fronte did it in this case. He had a procession,
with candles and incense and banners, and marched around the
edge of the wood and exorcised the dragon, and it was never heard
of again, although it was the opinion of many that the smell never
wholly passed away. Not that any had ever smelt the smell again,
for none had; it was only an opinion, like that other--and lacked
bones, you see. I know that the creature was there before the
exorcism, but whether it was there afterward or not is a thing
which I cannot be so positive about.

In a noble open space carpeted with grass on the high ground
toward Vaucouleurs stood a most majestic beech tree with
wide-reaching arms and a grand spread of shade, and by it a limpid
spring of cold water; and on summer days the children went
there--oh, every summer for more than five hundred years--went
there and sang and danced around the tree for hours together,
refreshing themselves at the spring from time to time, and it was
most lovely and enjoyable. Also they made wreaths of flowers and
hung them upon the tree and about the spring to please the fairies
that lived there; for they liked that, being idle innocent little
creatures, as all fairies are, and fond of anything delicate and
pretty like wild flowers put together in that way. And in return for
this attention the fairies did any friendly thing they could for the
children, such as keeping the spring always full and clear and cold,
and driving away serpents and insects that sting; and so there was
never any unkindness between the fairies and the children during
more than five hundred years--tradition said a thousand--but only
the warmest affection and the most perfect trust and confidence;
and whenever a child died the fairies mourned just as that child's
playmates did, and the sign of it was there to see; for before the
dawn on the day of the funeral they hung a little immortelle over
the place where that child was used to sit under the tree. I know
this to be true by my own eyes; it is not hearsay. And the reason it
was known that the fairies did it was this--that it was made all of
black flowers of a sort not known in France anywhere.

Now from time immemorial all children reared in Domremy were
called the Children of the Tree; and they loved that name, for it
carried with it a mystic privilege not granted to any others of the
children of this world. Which was this: whenever one of these
came to die, then beyond the vague and formless images drifting
through his darkening mind rose soft and rich and fair a vision of
the Tree--if all was well with his soul. That was what some said.
Others said the vision came in two ways: once as a warning, one or
two years in advance of death, when the soul was the captive of
sin, and then the Tree appeared in its desolate winter aspect--then
that soul was smitten with an awful fear. If repentance came, and
purity of life, the vision came again, this time summer-clad and
beautiful; but if it were otherwise with that soul the vision was
withheld, and it passed from life knowing its doom. Still others
said that the vision came but once, and then only to the sinless
dying forlorn in distant lands and pitifully longing for some last
dear reminder of their home. And what reminder of it could go to
their hearts like the picture of the Tree that was the darling of their
love and the comrade of their joys and comforter of their small
griefs all through the divine days of their vanished youth?

Now the several traditions were as I have said, some believing one
and some another. One of them I knew to be the truth, and that was
the last one. I do not say anything against the others; I think they
were true, but I only know that the last one was; and it is my
thought that if one keep to the things he knows, and not trouble
about the things which he cannot be sure about, he will have the
st3eadier mind for it--and there is profit in that. I know that when
the Children of the Tree die in a far land, then--if they be at peace
with God--they turn their longing eyes toward home, and there,
far-shining, as through a rift in a cloud that curtains heaven, they
see the soft picture of the Fairy Tree, clothed in a dream of golden
light; and they see the bloomy mead sloping away to the river, and
to their perishing nostrils is blown faint and sweet the fragrance of
the flowers of home. And then the vision fades and passes--b they
know, they know! and by their transfigured faces you know also,
you who stand looking on; yes, you know the message that has
come, and that it has come from heaven.

Joan and I believed alike about this matter. But Pierre Morel and
Jacques d'Arc, and many others believed that the vision appeared
twice--to a sinner. In fact, they and many others said they knew it.
Probably because their fathers had known it and had told them; for
one gets most things at second hand in this world.

Now one thing that does make it quite likely that there were really
two apparitions of the Tree is this fact: From the most ancient
times if one saw a villager of ours with his face ash-white and rigid
with a ghastly fright, it was common for every one to whisper to
his neighbor, "Ah, he is in sin, and has got his warning." And the
neighbor would shudder at the thought and whisper back, "Yes,
poor soul, he has seen the Tree."

Such evidences as these have their weight; they are not to be put
aside with a wave of the hand. A thing that is backed by the
cumulative evidence of centuries naturally gets nearer and nearer
to being proof all the time; and if this continue and continue, it
will some day become authority--and authority is a bedded rock,
and will abide.

In my long life I have seen several cases where the tree appeared
announcing a death which was still far away; but in none of these
was the person in a state of sin. No; the apparition was in these
cases only a special grace; in place of deferring the tidings of that
soul's redemption till the day of death, the apparition brought them
long before, and with them peace--peace that might no more be
disturbed--the eternal peace of God. I myself, old and broken, wait
with serenity; for I have seen the vision of the Tree. I have seen it,
and am content.

Always, from the remotest times, when the children joined hands
and danced around the Fairy Tree they sang a song which was the
Tree's song, the song of L'Arbre fee de Bourlemont. They sang it to
a quaint sweet air--a solacing sweet air which has gone murmuring
through my dreaming spirit all my life when I was weary and
troubled, resting me and carrying me through night and distance
home again. No stranger can know or feel what that song has been,
through the drifting centuries, to exiled Children of the Tree,
homeless and heavy of heart in countries foreign to their speech
and ways. You will think it a simple thing, that song, and poor,
perchance; but if you will remember what it was to us, and what it
brought before our eyes when it floated through our memories,
then you will respect it. And you will understand how the water
wells up in our eyes and makes all things dim, and our voices
break and we cannot sing the last lines:

"And when, in Exile wand'ring, we
Shall fainting yearn for glimpse of thee,
Oh, rise upon our sight!"

And you will remember that Joan of Arc sang this song with us
around the Tree when she was a little child, and always loved it.
And that hallows it, yes, you will grant that:

L'ARBRE F�E DE BOURLEMONT

SONG OF THE CHILDREN

Now what has kept your leaves so green,
Arbre F‚e de Bourlemont?

The children's tears! They brought each grief,
And you did comfort them and cheer
Their bruised hearts, and steal a tear
That, healed, rose a leaf.

And what has built you up so strong,
Arbre F‚e de Bourlemont?

The children's love! They've loved you long
Ten hundred years, in sooth,
They've nourished you with praise and song,
And warmed your heart and kept it young--
A thousand years of youth!

Bide always green in our young hearts,
Arbre F‚e de Bourlemont!
And we shall always youthful be,
Not heeding Time his flight;
And when, in exile wand'ring, we
Shall fainting yearn for glimpse of thee,
Oh, rise upon our sight!

The fairies were still there when we were children, but we never
saw them; because, a hundred years before that, the priest of
Domremy had held a religious function under the tree and
denounced them as being blood-kin to the Fiend and barred them
from redemption; and then he warned them never to show
themselves again, nor hang any more immortelles, on pain of
perpetual banishment from that parish.

All the children pleaded for the fairies, and said they were their
good friends and dear to them and never did them any harm, but
the priest would not listen, and said it was sin and shame to have
such friends. The children mourned and could not be comforted;
and they made an agreement among themselves that they would
always continue to hang flower-wreaths on the tree as a perpetual
sign to the fairies that they were still loved and remembered,
though lost to sight.

But late one night a great misfortune befell. Edmond Aubrey's
mother passed by the Tree, and the fairies were stealing a dance,
not thinking anybody was by; and they were so busy, and so
intoxicated with the wild happiness of it, and with the bumpers of
dew sharpened up with honey which they had been drinking, that
they noticed nothing; so Dame Aubrey stood there astonished and
admiring, and saw the little fantastic atoms holding hands, as many
as three hundred of them, tearing around in a great ring half as big
as an ordinary bedroom, and leaning away back and spreading
their mouths with laughter and song, which she could hear quite
distinctly, and kicking their legs up as much as three inches from
the ground in perfect abandon and hilarity--oh, the very maddest
and witchingest dance the woman ever saw.

But in about a minute or two minutes the poor little ruined
creatures discovered her. They burst out in one heartbreaking
squeak of grief and terror and fled every which way, with their wee
hazel-nut fists in their eyes and crying; and so disappeared.

The heartless woman--no, the foolish woman; she was not
heartless, but only thoughtless--went straight home and told the
neighbors all about it, whilst we, the small friends of the fairies,
were asleep and not witting the calamity that was come upon us,
and all unconscious that we ought to be up and trying to stop these
fatal tongues. In the morning everybody knew, and the disaster was
complete, for where everybody knows a thing the priest knows it,
of course. We all flocked to PŠre Fronte, crying and begging--and
he had to cry, too, seeing our sorrow, for he had a most kind and
gentle nature; and he did not want to banish the fairies, and said
so; but said he had no choice, for it had been decreed that if they
ever revealed themselves to man again, they must go. This all
happened at the worst time possible, for Joan of Arc was ill of a
fever and out of her head, and what could we do who had not her
gifts of reasoning and persuasion? We flew in a swarm to her bed
and cried out, "Joan, wake! Wake, there is no moment to lose!
Come and plead for the fairies--come and save them; only you can
do it!"

But her mind was wandering, she did not know what we said nor
what we meant; so we went away knowing all was lost. Yes, all
was lost, forever lost; the faithful friends of the children for five
hundred years must go, and never come back any more.

It was a bitter day for us, that day that PŠre Fronte held the
function under the tree and banished the fairies. We could not
wear mourning that any could have noticed, it would not have
been allowed; so we had to be content with some poor small rag of
black tied upon our garments where it made no show; but in our
hearts we wore mourning, big and noble and occupying all the
room, for our hearts were ours; they could not get at them to
prevent that.

The great tree--l'Arbre F‚e do Bourlemont was its beautiful
name--was never afterward quite as much to us as it had been
before, but it was always dear; is dear to me yet when I got there
now, once a year in my old age, to sit under it and bring back the
lost playmates of my youth and group them about me and look
upon their faces through my tears and break my heart, oh, my God!
No, the place was not quite the same afterward. In one or two ways
it could not be; for, the fairies' protection being gone, the spring
lost much of its freshness and coldness, and more than two-thirds
of its volume, and the banished serpents and stinging insects
returned, and multiplied, and became a torment and have remained
so to this day.

When that wise little child, Joan, got well, we realized how much
her illness had cost us; for we found that we had been right in
believing she could save the fairies. She burst into a great storm of
anger, for so little a creature, and went straight to PŠre Fronte, and
stood up before him where he sat, and made reverence and said:

"The fairies were to go if they showed themselves to people again,
is it not so?"

"Yes, that was it, dear."

"If a man comes prying into a person's room at midnight when that
person is half-naked, will you be so unjust as to say that that
person is showing himself to that man?"

"Well--no." The good priest looked a little troubled and uneasy
when he said it.

"Is a sin a sin, anyway, even if one did not intend to commit it?"

PŠre Fronte threw up his hands and cried out:

"Oh, my poor little child, I see all my fault," and he drew here to
his side and put an arm around her and tried to make his peace
with her, but her temper was up so high that she could not get it
down right away, but buried her head against his breast and broke
out crying and said:

"Then the fairies committed no sin, for there was no intention to
commit one, they not knowing that any one was by; and because
they were little creatures and could not speak for themselves and
say the saw was against the intention, not against the innocent act,
because they had no friend to think that simple thing for them and
say it, they have been sent away from their home forever, and it
was wrong, wrong to do it!"

The good father hugged her yet closer to his side and said:

"Oh, out of the mouths of babes and sucklings the heedless and
unthinking are condemned; would God I could bring the little
creatures back, for your sake. And mine, yes, and mine; for I have
been unjust. There, there, don't cry--nobody could be sorrier than
your poor old friend--don't cry, dear."

"But I can't stop right away, I've got to. And it is no little matter,
this thing that you have done. Is being sorry penance enough for
such an act?"

PŠre Fronte turned away his face, for it would have hurt her to see
him laugh, and said:

"Oh, thou remorseless but most just accuser, no, it is not. I will put
on sackcloth and ashes; there--are you satisfied?"

Joan's sobs began to diminish, and she presently looked up at the
old man through her tears, and said, in her simple way:

"Yes, that will do--if it will clear you."

PŠre Fronte would have been moved to laugh again, perhaps, if he
had not remembered in time that he had made a contract, and not a
very agreeable one. It must be fulfilled. So he got up and went to
the fireplace, Joan watching him with deep interest, and took a
shovelful of cold ashes, and was going to empty them on his old
gray head when a better idea came to him, and he said:

"Would you mind helping me, dear?"

"How, father?"

He got down on his knees and bent his head low, and said:

"Take the ashes and put them on my head for me."

The matter ended there, of course. The victory was with the priest.
One can imagine how the idea of such a profanation would strike
Joan or any other child in the village. She ran and dropped upon
her knees by his side and said:

"Oh, it is dreadful. I didn't know that that was what one meant by
sackcloth and ashes--do please get up, father."

"But I can't until I am forgiven. Do you forgive me?"

"I? Oh, you have done nothing to me, father; it is yourself that
must forgive yourself for wronging those poor things. Please get
up, gather, won't you?"

"But I am worse off now than I was before. I thought I was earning
your forgiveness, but if it is my own, I can't be lenient; it would not
become me. Now what can I do? Find me some way out of this
with your wise little head."

The PŠre would not stir, for all Joan's pleadings. She was about to
cry again; then she had an idea, and seized the shovel and deluged
her own head with the ashes, stammering out through her chokings
and suffocations:

"There--now it is done. Oh, please get up, father."

The old man, both touched and amused, gathered her to his breast
and said:

"Oh, you incomparable child! It's a humble martyrdom, and not of
a sort presentable in a picture, but the right and true spirit is in it;
that I testify."

Then he brushed the ashes out of her hair, and helped her scour her
face and neck and properly tidy herself up. He was in fine spirits
now, and ready for further argument, so he took his seat and drew
Joan to his side again, and said:

"Joan, you were used to make wreaths there at the Fairy Tree with
the other children; is it not so?"

That was the way he always started out when he was going to
corner me up and catch me in something--just that gentle,
indifferent way that fools a person so, and leads him into the trap,
he never noticing which way he is traveling until he is in and the
door shut on him. He enjoyed that. I knew he was going to drop
corn along in front of Joan now. Joan answered:

"Yes, father."

"Did you hang them on the tree?"

"No, father."

"Didn't hang them there?"

"No."

"Why didn't you?"

"I--well, I didn't wish to."

"Didn't wish to?"

"No, father."

"What did you do with them?"

"I hung them in the church."

"Why didn't you want to hang them in the tree?"

"Because it was said that the fairies were of kin to the Fiend, and
that it was sinful to show them honor."

"Did you believe it was wrong to honor them so?"

"Yes. I thought it must be wrong."

"Then if it was wrong to honor them in that way, and if they were
of kin to the Fiend, they could be dangerous company for you and
the other children, couldn't they?"

"I suppose so--yes, I think so."

He studied a minute, and I judged he was going to spring his trap,
and he did. He said:

"Then the matter stands like this. They were banned creatures, of
fearful origin; they could be dangerous company for the children.
Now give me a rational reason, dear, if you can think of any, why
you call it a wrong to drive them into banishment, and why you
would have saved them from it. In a word, what loss have you
suffered by it?"

How stupid of him to go and throw his case away like that! I could
have boxed his ears for vexation if he had been a boy. He was
going along all right until he ruined everything by winding up in
that foolish and fatal way. What had she lost by it! Was he never
going to find out what kind of a child Joan of Arc was? Was he
never going to learn that things which merely concerned her own
gain or loss she cared nothing about? Could he never get the
simple fact into his head that the sure way and the only way to
rouse her up and set her on fire was to show her where some other
person was going to suffer wrong or hurt or loss? Why, he had
gone and set a trap for himself--that was all he had accomplished.

The minute those words were out of his mouth her temper was up,
the indignant tears rose in her eyes, and she burst out on him with
an energy and passion which astonished him, but didn't astonish
me, for I knew he had fired a mine when he touched off his
ill-chosen climax.

"Oh, father, how can you talk like that? Who owns France?"

"God and the King."

"Not Satan?"

"Satan, my child? This is the footstool of the Most High--Satan
owns no handful of its soil."

"Then who gave those poor creatures their home? God. Who
protected them in it all those centuries? God. Who allowed them to
dance and play there all those centuries and found no fault with it?
God. Who disapproved of God's approval and put a threat upon
them? A man. Who caught them again in harmless sports that God
allowed and a man forbade, and carried out that threat, and drove
the poor things away from the home the good God gave them in
His mercy and His pity, and sent down His rain and dew and
sunshine upon it five hundred years in token of His peace? It was
their home--theirs, by the grace of God and His good heart, and no
man had a right to rob them of it. And they were the gentlest,
truest friends that children ever had, and did them sweet and
loving service all these five long centuries, and never any hurt or
harm; and the children loved them, and now they mourn for them,
and there is no healing for their grief. And what had the children
done that they should suffer this cruel stroke? The poor fairies
could have been dangerous company for the children? Yes, but
never had been; and could is no argument. Kinsmen of the Fiend?
What of it? Kinsmen of the Fiend have rights, and these had; and
children have rights, and these had; and if I had been there I would
have spoken--I would have begged for the children and the fiends,
and stayed your hand and saved them all. But now--oh, now, all is
lost; everything is lost, and there is no help more!"

Then she finished with a blast at that idea that fairy kinsmen of the
Fiend ought to be shunned and denied human sympathy and
friendship because salvation was barred against them. She said
that for that very reason people ought to pity them, and do every
humane and loving thing they could to make them forget the hard
fate that had been put upon them by accident of birth and no fault
of their own. "Poor little creatures!" she said. "What can a person's
heart be made of that can pity a Christian's child and yet can't pity
a devil's child, that a thousand times more needs it!"

She had torn loose from PŠre Fronte, and was crying, with her
knuckles in her eyes, and stamping her small feet in a fury; and
now she burst out of the place and was gone before we could
gather our senses together out of this storm of words and this
whirlwind of passion.

The PŠre had got upon his feet, toward the last, and now he stood
there passing his hand back and forth across his forehead like a
person who is dazed and troubled; then he turned and wandered
toward the door of his little workroom, and as he passed through it
I heard him murmur sorrowfully:

"Ah, me, poor children, poor fiends, they have rights, and she said
true--I never thought of that. God forgive me, I am to blame."

When I heard that, I knew I was right in the thought that he had set
a trap for himself. It was so, and he had walked into it, you see. I
seemed to feel encouraged, and wondered if mayhap I might get
him into one; but upon reflection my heart went down, for this was
not my gift.

Chapter 3 All Aflame with Love of France

SPEAKING of this matter reminds me of many incidents, many
things that I could tell, but I think I will not try to do it now. It will
be more to my present humor to call back a little glimpse of the
simple and colorless good times we used to have in our village
homes in those peaceful days--especially in the winter. In the
summer we children were out on the breezy uplands with the
flocks from dawn till night, and then there was noisy frolicking
and all that; but winter was the cozy time, winter was the snug
time. Often we gathered in old Jacques d'Arc's big dirt-floored
apartment, with a great fire going, and played games, and sang
songs, and told fortunes, and listened to the old villagers tell tales
and histories and lies and one thing and another till twelve o'clock
at night.

One winter's night we were gathered there--it was the winter that
for years afterward they called the hard winter--and that particular
night was a sharp one. It blew a gale outside, and the screaming of
the wind was a stirring sound, and I think I may say it was
beautiful, for I think it is great and fine and beautiful to hear the
wind rage and storm and blow its clarions like that, when you are
inside and comfortable. And we were. We had a roaring fire, and
the pleasant spit-spit of the snow and sleet falling in it down the
chimney, and the yarning and laughing and singing went on at a
noble rate till about ten o'clock, and then we had a supper of hot
porridge and beans, and meal cakes with butter, and appetites to
match.

Little Joan sat on a box apart, and had her bowl and bread on
another one, and her pets around her helping. She had more than
was usual of them or economical, because all the outcast cats
came and took up with her, and homeless or unlovable animals of
other kinds heard about it and came, and these spread the matter to
the other creatures, and they came also; and as the birds and the
other timid wild things of the woods were not afraid of her, but
always had an idea she was a friend when they came across her,
and generally struck up an acquaintance with her to get invited to
the house, she always had samples of those breeds in stock. She
was hospitable to them all, for an animal was an animal to her, and
dear by mere reason of being an animal, no matter about its sort or
social station; and as she would allow of no cages, no collars, no
fetters, but left the creatures free to come and go as they liked, that
contented them, and they came; but they didn't go, to any extent,
and so they were a marvelous nuisance, and made Jacques d'Arc
swear a good deal; but his wife said God gave the child the
instinct, and knew what He was doing when He did it, therefore it
must have its course; it would be no sound prudence to meddle
with His affairs when no invitation had been extended. So the pets
were left in peace, and here they were, as I have said, rabbits,
birds, squirrels, cats, and other reptiles, all around the child, and
full of interest in her supper, and helping what they could. There
was a very small squirrel on her shoulder, sitting up, as those
creatures do, and turning a rocky fragment of prehistoric
chestnut-cake over and over in its knotty hands, and hunting for
the less indurated places, and giving its elevated bushy tail a flirt
and its pointed ears a toss when it found one--signifying
thankfulness and surprise--and then it filed that place off with
those two slender front teeth which a squirrel carries for that
purpose and not for ornament, for ornamental they never could be,
as any will admit that have noticed them.

Everything was going fine and breezy and hilarious, but then there
came an interruption, for somebody hammered on the door. It was
one of those ragged road-stragglers--the eternal wars kept the
country full of them. He came in, all over snow, and stamped his
feet, and shook, and brushed himself, and shut the door, and took
off his limp ruin of a hat, and slapped it once or twice against his
leg to knock off its fleece of snow, and then glanced around on the
company with a pleased look upon his thin face, and a most
yearning and famished one in his eye when it fell upon the
victuals, and then he gave us a humble and conciliatory salutation,
and said it was a blessed thing to have a fire like that on such a
night, and a roof overhead like this, and that rich food to eat, and
loving friends to talk with--ah, yes, this was true, and God help the
homeless, and such as must trudge the roads in this weather.

Nobody said anything. The embarrassed poor creature stood there
and appealed to one face after the other with his eyes, and found
no welcome in any, the smile on his own face flickering and fading
and perishing, meanwhile; then he dropped his gaze, the muscles
of his face began to twitch, and he put up his hand to cover this
womanish sign of weakness.

"Sit down!"

This thunder-blast was from old Jacques d'Arc, and Joan was the
object of it. The stranger was startled, and took his hand away, and
there was Joan standing before him offering him her bowl of
porridge. The man said:

"God Almighty bless you, my darling!" and then the tears came,
and ran down his cheeks, but he was afraid to take the bowl.

"Do you hear me? Sit down, I say!"

There could not be a child more easy to persuade than Joan, but
this was not the way. Her father had not the art; neither could he
learn it. Joan said:

"Father, he is hungry; I can see it."

"Let him work for food, then. We are being eaten out of house and
home by his like, and I have said I would endure it no more, and
will keep my word. He has the face of a rascal anyhow, and a
villain. Sit down, I tell you!"

"I know not if he is a rascal or no, but he is hungry, father, and
shall have my porridge--I do not need it."

"If you don't obey me I'll-- Rascals are not entitled to help from
honest people, and no bite nor sup shall they have in this house.
Joan!"

She set her bowl down on the box and came over and stood before
her scowling father, and said:

"Father, if you will not let me, then it must be as you say; but I
would that you would think--then you would see that it is not right
to punish one part of him for what the other part has done; for it is
that poor stranger's head that does the evil things, but it is not his
head that is hungry, it is his stomach, and it has done no harm to
anybody, but is without blame, and innocent, not having any way
to do a wrong, even if it was minded to it. Please let--"

"What an idea! It is the most idiotic speech I ever heard."

But Aubrey, the maire, broke in, he being fond of an argument,
and having a pretty gift in that regard, as all acknowledged. Rising
in his place and leaning his knuckles upon the table and looking
about him with easy dignity, after the manner of such as be orators,
he began, smooth and persuasive:

"I will differ with you there, gossip, and will undertake to show the
company"--here he looked around upon us and nodded his head in
a confident way--"that there is a grain of sense in what the child
has said; for look you, it is of a certainty most true and
demonstrable that it is a man's head that is master and supreme
ruler over his whole body. Is that granted? Will any deny it?" He
glanced around again; everybody indicated assent. "Very well,
then; that being the case, no part of the body is responsible for the
result when it carries out an order delivered to it by the head; ergo,
the head is alone responsible for crimes done by a man's hands or
feet or stomach--do you get the idea? am I right thus far?"
Everybody said yes, and said it with enthusiasm, and some said,
one to another, that the maire was in great form to-night and at his
very best--which pleased the maire exceedingly and made his eyes
sparkle with pleasure, for he overheard these things; so he went on
in the same fertile and brilliant way. "Now, then, we will consider
what the term responsibility means, and how it affects the case in
point. Responsibility makes a man responsible for only those
things for which he is properly responsible"--and he waved his
spoon around in a wide sweep to indicate the comprehensive
nature of that class of responsibilities which render people
responsible, and several exclaimed, admiringly, "He is right!--he
has put that whole tangled thing into a nutshell--it is wonderful!""
After a little pause to give the interest opportunity to gather and
grow, he went on: "Very good. Let us suppose the case of a pair of
tongs that falls upon a man's foot, causing a cruel hurt. Will you
claim that the tongs are punishable for that? The question is
answered; I see by your faces that you would call such a claim
absurd. Now, why is it absurd? It is absurd because, there being no
reasoning faculty--that is to say, no faculty of personal
command--in a pair of togs, personal responsibility for the acts of
the tongs is wholly absent from the tongs; and, therefore,
responsibility being absent, punishment cannot ensue. Am I right?"
A hearty burst of applause was his answer. "Now, then, we arrive
at a man's stomach. Consider how exactly, how marvelously,
indeed, its situation corresponds to that of a pair of tongs.
Listen--and take careful note, I beg you. Can a man's stomach plan
a murder? No. Can it plan a theft? No. Can it plan an incendiary
fire? No. Now answer me--can a pair of tongs?" (There were
admiring shouts of "No!" and "The cases are just exact!" and
"Don't he do it splendid!") "Now, then, friends and neighbors, a
stomach which cannot plan a crime cannot be a principal in the
commission of it--that is plain, as you see. The matter is narrowed
down by that much; we will narrow it further. Can a stomach, of
its own motion, assist at a crime? The answer is no, because
command is absent, the reasoning faculty is absent, volition is
absent--as in the case of the tongs. We perceive now, do we not,
that the stomach is totally irresponsible for crimes committed,
either in whole or in part, by it?" He got a rousing cheer for
response. "Then what do we arrive at as our verdict? Clearly this:
that there is no such thing in this world as a guilty stomach; that in
the body of the veriest rascal resides a pure and innocent stomach;
that, whatever it's owner may do, it at least should be sacred in our
eyes; and that while God gives us minds to think just and
charitable and honorable thoughts, it should be, and is, our
privilege, as well as our duty, not only to feed the hungry stomach
that resides in a rascal, having pity for its sorrow and its need, but
to do it gladly, gratefully, in recognition of its sturdy and loyal
maintenance of its purity and innocence in the midst of temptation
and in company so repugnant to its better feelings. I am done."

Well, you never saw such an effect! They rose--the whole house
rose--an clapped, and cheered, and praised him to the skies; and
one after another, still clapping and shouting, they crowded
forward, some with moisture in their eyes, and wrung his hands,
and said such glorious things to him that he was clear overcome
with pride and happiness, and couldn't say a word, for his voice
would have broken, sure. It was splendid to see; and everybody
said he had never come up to that speech in his life before, and
never could do it again. Eloquence is a power, there is no question
of that. Even old Jacques d'Arc was carried away, for once in his
life, and shouted out:

"It's all right, Joan--give him the porridge!"

She was embarrassed, and did not seem to know what to say, and
so didn't say anything. It was because she had given the man the
porridge long ago and he had already eaten it all up. When she was
asked why she had not waited until a decision was arrived at, she
said the man's stomach was very hungry, and it would not have
been wise to wait, since she could not tell what the decision would
be. Now that was a good and thoughtful idea for a child.

The man was not a rascal at all. He was a very good fellow, only
he was out of luck, and surely that was no crime at that time in
France. Now that his stomach was proved to be innocent, it was
allowed to make itself at home; and as soon as it was well filled
and needed nothing more, the man unwound his tongue and turned
it loose, and it was really a noble one to go. He had been in the
wars for years, and the things he told and the way he told them
fired everybody's patriotism away up high, and set all hearts to
thumping and all pulses to leaping; then, before anybody rightly
knew how the change was made, he was leading us a sublime
march through the ancient glories of France, and in fancy we saw
the titanic forms of the twelve paladins rise out of the mists of the
past and face their fate; we heard the tread of the innumerable
hosts sweeping down to shut them in; we saw this human tide flow
and ebb, ebb and flow, and waste away before that little band of
heroes; we saw each detail pass before us of that most stupendous,
most disastrous, yet most adored and glorious day in French
legendary history; here and there and yonder, across that vast field
of the dead and dying, we saw this and that and the other paladin
dealing his prodigious blows with weary arm and failing strength,
and one by one we saw them fall, till only one remained--he that
was without peer, he whose name gives name to the Song of
Songs, the song which no Frenchman can hear and keep his
feelings down and his pride of country cool; then, grandest and
pitifulest scene of all, we saw his own pathetic deat; and out
stillness, as we sat with parted lips and breathless, hanging upon
this man's words, gave us a sense of the awful stillness that reigned
in that field of slaughter when that last surviving soul had passed.

And now, in this solemn hush, the stranger gave Joan a pat or two
on the head and said:

"Little maid--whom God keep!--you have brought me from death
to life this night; now listen: here is your reward," and at that
supreme time for such a heart-melting, soul-rousing surprise,
without another word he lifted up the most noble and pathetic
voice that was ever heard, and began to pour out the great Song of
Roland!

Think of that, with a French audience all stirred up and ready. Oh,
where was your spoken eloquence now! what was it to this! How
fine he looked, how stately, how inspired, as he stood there with
that mighty chant welling from his lips and his heart, his whole
body transfigured, and his rags along with it.

Everybody rose and stood while he sang, and their faces glowed
and their eyes burned; and the tears came and flowed don their
cheeks and their forms began to sway unconsciously to the swing
of the song, and their bosoms to heave and pant; and moanings
broke out, and deep ejaculations; and when the last verse was
reached, and Roland lay dying, all alone, with his face to the field
and to his slain, lying there in heaps and winrows, and took off and
held up his gauntlet to God with his failing hand, and breathed his
beautiful prayer with his paling pips, all burst out in sobs and
wailings. But when the final great note died out and the song was
done, they all flung themselves in a body at the singer, stark mad
with love of him and love of France and pride in her great deeds
and old renown, and smothered him with their embracings; but
Joan was there first, hugged close to his breast, and covering his
face with idolatrous kisses.

The storm raged on outside, but that was no matter; this was the
stranger's home now, for as long as he might please.

Chapter 4 Joan Tames the Mad Man

ALL CHILDREN have nicknames, and we had ours. We got one
apiece early, and they stuck to us; but Joan was richer in this
matter, for, as time went on, she earned a second, and then a third,
and so on, and we gave them to her. First and last she had as many
as half a dozen. Several of these she never lost. Peasant-girls are
bashful naturally; but she surpassed the rule so far, and colored so
easily, and was so easily embarrassed in the presence of strangers,
that we nicknamed her the Bashful. We were all patriots, but she
was called the Patriot, because our warmest feeling for our country
was cold beside hers. Also she was called the Beautiful; and this
was not merely because of the extraordinary beauty of her face and
form, but because of the loveliness of her character. These names
she kept, and one other--the Brave.

We grew along up, in that plodding and peaceful region, and got to
be good-sized boys and girls--big enough, in fact, to begin to know
as much about the wars raging perpetually to the west and north of
us as our elders, and also to feel as stirred up over the occasional
news from these red fields as they did. I remember certain of these
days very clearly. One Tuesday a crowd of us were romping and
singing around the Fairy Tree, and hanging garlands on it in
memory of our lost little fairy friends, when Little Mengette cried
out:

"Look! What is that?"

When one exclaims like that in a way that shows astonishment and
apprehension, he gets attention. All the panting breasts and flushed
faces flocked together, and all the eager eyes were turned in one
direction--down the slope, toward the village.

"It's a black flag."

"A black flag! No--is it?"

"You can see for yourself that it is nothing else."

"It is a black flag, sure! Now, has any ever seen the like of that
before?"

"What can it mean?"

"Mean? It means something dreadful--what else?"

"That is nothing to the point; anybody knows that without the
telling. But what?--that is the question."

"It is a chance that he that bears it can answer as well as any that
are here, if you contain yourself till he comes."

"He runs well. Who is it?"

Some named one, some another; but presently all saw that it was
�tienne Roze, called the Sunflower, because he had yellow hair
and a round pock-marked face. His ancestors had been Germans
some centuries ago. He came straining up the slope, now and then
projecting his flag-stick aloft and giving his black symbol of woe a
wave in the air, whilst all eyes watched him, all tongues discussed
him, and every heart beat faster and faster with impatience to
know his news. At last he sprang among us, and struck his
flag-stick into the ground, saying:

"There! Stand there and represent France while I get my breath.
She needs no other flag now."

All the giddy chatter stopped. It was as if one had announced a
death. In that chilly hush there was no sound audible but the
panting of the breath-blown boy. When he was presently able to
speak, he said:

"Black news is come. A treaty has been made at Troyes between
France and the English and Burgundians. By it France is betrayed
and delivered over, tied hand and foot, to the enemy. It is the work
of the Duke of Burgundy and that she-devil, the Queen of France.
It marries Henry of England to Catharine of France--"

"Is not this a lie? Marries the daughter of France to the Butcher of
Agincourt? It is not to be believed. You have not heard aright."

"If you cannot believe that, Jacques d'Arc, then you have a difficult
task indeed before you, for worse is to come. Any child that is born
of that marriage--if even a girl--is to inherit the thrones of both
England and France, and this double ownership is to remain with
its posterity forever!"

"Now that is certainly a lie, for it runs counter to our Salic law, and
so is not legal and cannot have effect," said Edmond Aubrey,
called the Paladin, because of the armies he was always going to
eat up some day. He would have said more, but he was drowned
out by the clamors of the others, who all burst into a fury over this
feature of the treaty, all talking at once and nobody hearing
anybody, until presently Haumette persuaded them to be still,
saying:

"It is not fair to break him up so in his tale; pray let him go on.
You find fault with his history because it seems to be lies. That
were reason for satisfaction--that kind of lies--not discontent. Tell
the rest, �tienne."

"There is but this to tell: Our King, Charles VI., is to reign until he
dies, then Henry V. of England is to be Regent of France until a
child of his shall be old enough to--"

"That man is to reign over us--the Butcher? It is lies! all lies!" cried
the Paladin. "Besides, look you--what becomes of our Dauphin?
What says the treaty about him?"

"Nothing. It takes away his throne and makes him an outcast."

Then everybody shouted at once and said the news was a lie; and
all began to get cheerful again, saying, "Our King would have to
sign the treaty to make it good; and that he would not do, seeing
how it serves his own son."

But the Sunflower said: "I will ask you this: Would the Queen sign
a treaty disinheriting her son?"

"That viper? Certainly. Nobody is talking of her. Nobody expects
better of her. There is no villainy she will stick at, if it feed her
spite; and she hates her son. Her signing it is of no consequence.
The King must sign."

"I will ask you another thing. What is the King's condition? Mad,
isn't he?"

"Yes, and his people love him all the more for it. It brings him near
to them by his sufferings; and pitying him makes them love him."

"You say right, Jacques d'Arc. Well, what would you of one that is
mad? Does he know what he does? No. Does he do what others
make him do? Yes. Now, then, I tell you he has signed the treaty."

"Who made him do it?"

"You know, without my telling. The Queen."

Then there was another uproar--everybody talking at once, and all
heaping execrations upon the Queen's head. Finally Jacques d'Arc
said:

"But many reports come that are not true. Nothing so shameful as
this has ever come before, nothing that cuts so deep, nothing that
has dragged France so low; therefore there is hope that this tale is
but another idle rumor. Where did you get it?"

The color went out of his sister Joan's face. She dreaded the
answer; and her instinct was right.

"The cur‚ of Maxey brought it."

There was a general gasp. We knew him, you see, for a trusty man.

"Did he believe it?"

The hearts almost stopped beating. Then came the answer:

"He did. And that is not all. He said he knew it to be true."

Some of the girls began to sob; the boys were struck silent. The
distress in Joan's face was like that which one sees in the face of a
dumb animal that has received a mortal hurt. The animal bears it,
making no complaint; she bore it also, saying no word. Her brother
Jacques put his hand on her head and caressed her hair to indicate
his sympathy, and she gathered the hand to her lips and kissed it
for thanks, not saying anything. Presently the reaction came, and
the boys began to talk. No‰l Rainguesson said:

"Oh, are we never going to be men! We do grow along so slowly,
and France never needed soldiers as she needs them now, to wipe
out this black insult."

"I hate youth!" said Pierre Morel, called the Dragon-fly because his
eyes stuck out so. "You've always got to wait, and wait, and
wait--and here are the great wars wasting away for a hundred
years, and you never get a chance. If I could only be a soldier
now!"

"As for me, I'm not going to wait much longer," said the Paladin;
"and when I do start you'll hear from me, I promise you that. There
are some who, in storming a castle, prefer to be in the rear; but as
for me, give me the front or none; I will have none in front of me
but the officers."

Even the girls got the war spirit, and Marie Dupont said:

"I would I were a man; I would start this minute!" and looked very
proud of herself, and glanced about for applause.

"So would I," said C‚cile Letellier, sniffing the air like a war-horse
that smells the battle; "I warrant you I would not turn back from
the field though all England were in front of me."

"Pooh!" said the Paladin; "girls can brag, but that's all they are
good for. Let a thousand of them come face to face with a handful
of soldiers once, if you want to see what running is like. Here's
little Joan--next she'll be threatening to go for a soldier!"

The idea was so funny, and got such a good laugh, that the Paladin
gave it another trial, and said: "Why you can just see her!--see her
plunge into battle like any old veteran. Yes, indeed; and not a poor
shabby common soldier like us, but an officer--an officer, mind
you, with armor on, and the bars of a steel helmet to blush behind
and hide her embarrassment when she finds an army in front of her
that she hasn't been introduced to. An officer? Why, she'll be a
captain! A captain, I tell you, with a hundred men at her back--or
maybe girls. Oh, no common-soldier business for her! And, dear
me, when she starts for that other army, you'll think there's a
hurricane blowing it away!"

Well, he kept it up like that till he made their sides ache with
laughing; which was quite natural, for certainly it was a very funny
idea--at that time--I mean, the idea of that gentle little creature,
that wouldn't hurt a fly, and couldn't bear the sight of blood, and
was so girlish and shrinking in all ways, rushing into battle with a
gang of soldiers at her back. Poor thing, she sat there confused and
ashamed to be so laughed at; and yet at that very minute there was
something about to happen which would change the aspect of
things, and make those young people see that when it comes to
laughing, the person that laughs last has the best chance. For just
then a face which we all knew and all feared projected itself from
behind the Fairy Tree, and the thought that shot through us all was,
crazy Benoist has gotten loose from his cage, and we are as good
as dead! This ragged and hairy and horrible creature glided out
from behind the tree, and raised an ax as he came. We all broke
and fled, this way and that, the girls screaming and crying. No, not
all; all but Joan. She stood up and faced the man, and remained so.
As we reached the wood that borders the grassy clearing and
jumped into its shelter, two or three of us glanced back to see if
Benoist was gaining on us, and that is what we saw--Joan standing,
and the maniac gliding stealthily toward her with his ax lifted. The
sight was sickening. We stood where we were, trembling and not
able to move. I did not want to see the murder done, and yet I
could not take my eyes away. Now I saw Joan step forward to meet
the man, though I believed my eyes must be deceiving me. Then I
saw him stop. He threatened her with his ax, as if to warn her not
to come further, but she paid no heed, but went steadily on, until
she was right in front of him--right under his ax. Then she stopped,
and seemed to begin to talke with him. It made me sick, yes,
giddy, and everything swam around me, and I could not see
anything for a time--whether long or brief I do not know. When
this passed and I looked again, Joan was walking by the man's side
toward the village, holding him by his hand. The ax was in her
other hand.

One by one the boys and girls crept out, and we stood there gazing,
open-mouthed, till those two entered the village and were hid from
sight. It was then that we named her the Brave.

We left the black flag there to continue its mournful office, for we
had other matter to think of now. We started for the village on a
run, to give warning, and get Joan out of her peril; though for one,
after seeing what I had seen, it seemed to me that while Joan had
the ax the man's chance was not the best of the two. When we
arrived the danger was past, the madman was in custody. All the
people were flocking to the little square in front of the church to
talk and exclaim and wonder over the event, and it even made the
town forget the black news of the treaty for two or three hours.

All the women kept hugging and kissing Joan, and praising her,
and crying, and the men patted her on the head and said they
wished she was a man, they would send her to the wars and never
doubt but that she would strike some blows that would be heard of.
She had to tear herself away and go and hide, this glory was so
trying to her diffidence.

Of course the people began to ask us for the particulars. I was so
ashamed that I made an excuse to the first comer, and got privately
away and went back to the Fairy Tree, to get relief from the
embarrassment of those questionings. There I found Joan, but she
was there to get relief from the embarrassment of glory. One by
one the others shirked the inquirers and joined us in our refuge.
Then we gathered around Joan, and asked her how she had dared
to do that thing. She was very modest about it, and said:

"You make a great thing of it, but you mistake; it was not a great
matter. It was not as if I had been a stranger to the man. I know
him, and have known him long; and he knows me, and likes me. I
have fed him through the bars of his cage many times; and last
December, when they chopped off two of his fingers to remind
him to stop seizing and wounding people passing by, I dressed his
hand every day till it was well again."

"That is all well enough," said Little Mengette, "but he is a
madman, dear, and so his likings and his gratitude and friendliness
go for nothing when his rage is up. You did a perilous thing."

"Of course you did," said the Sunflower. "Didn't he threaten to kill
you with the ax?"

"Yes."

"Didn't he threaten you more than once?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you feel afraid?"

"No--at least not much--very little."

"Why didn't you?"

She thought a moment, then said, quite simply:

"I don't know."

It made everybody laugh. Then the Sunflower said it was like a
lamb trying to think out how it had come to eat a wolf, but had to
give it up.

C‚cile Letellier asked, "Why didn't you run when we did?"

"Because it was necessary to get him to his cage; else he would kill
some one. Then he would come to the like harm himself."

It is noticeable that this remark, which implies that Joan was
entirely forgetful of herself and h3er own danger, and had thought
and wrought for the preservation of other people alone, was not
challenged, or criticized, or commented upon by anybody there,
but was taken by all as matter of course and true. It shows how
clearly her character was defined, and how well it was known and
established.

There was silence for a time, and perhaps we were all thinking of
the same thing--namely, what a poor figure we had cut in that
adventure as contrasted with Joan's performance. I tried to think up
some good way of explaining why I had run away and left a little
girl at the mercy of a maniac armed with an ax, but all of the
explanations that offered themselves to me seemed so cheap and
shabby that I gave the matter up and remained still. But others
were less wise. No‰l Rainguesson fidgeted awhile, then broke out
with a remark which showed what his mind had been running on:

"The fact is, I was taken by surprise. That is the reason. If I had
had a moment to think, I would no more have thought of running
that I would think of running from a baby. For, after all, what is
Th‚ophile Benoist, that I should seem to be afraid of him? Pooh!
the idea of being afraid of that poor thing! I only wish he would
come along now--I'd show you!"

"So do I!" cried Pierre Morel. "If I wouldn't make him climb this
tree quicker than--well, you'd see what I would do! Taking a
person by surprise, that way--why, I never meant to run; not in
earnest, I mean. I never thought of running in earnest; I only
wanted to have some fun, and when I saw Joan standing there, and
him threatening her, it was all I could do to restrain myself from
going there and just tearing the livers and lights out of him. I
wanted to do it bad enough, and if it was to do over again, I would!
If ever he comes fooling around me again, I'll--"

"Oh, hush!" said the Paladin, breaking in with an air of disdain;
"the way you people talk, a person would think there's something
heroic about standing up and facing down that poor remnant of a
man. Why, it's nothing! There's small glory to be got in facing him
down, I should say. Why, I wouldn't want any better fun than to
face down a hundred like him. If he was to come along here now, I
would walk up to him just as I am now--I wouldn't care if he had a
thousand axes--and say--"

And so he went on and on, telling the brave things he would say
and the wonders he would do; and the others put in a word from
time to time, describing over again the gory marvels they would do
if ever that madman ventured to cross their path again, for next
time they would be ready for him, and would soon teach him that
if he thought he could surprise them twice because he had
surprised them once, he would find himself very seriously
mistaken, that's all.

And so, in the end, they all got back their self-respect; yes, and
even added somewhat to it; indeed when the sitting broke up they
had a finer opinion of themselves than they had ever had before.

Chapter 5 Domremy Pillaged and Burned

THEY WERE peaceful and pleasant, those young and smoothly
flowing days of ours; that is, that was the case as a rule, we being
remote from the seat of war; but at intervals roving bands
approached near enough for us to see the flush in the sky at night
which marked where they were burning some farmstead or village,
and we all knew, or at least felt, that some day they would come
yet nearer, and we should have our turn. This dull dread lay upon
our spirits like a physical weight. It was greatly augmented a
couple of years after the Treaty of Troyes.

It was truly a dismal year for France. One day we had been over to
have one of our occasional pitched battles with those hated
Burgundian boys of the village of Maxey, and had been whipped,
and were arriving on our side of the river after dark, bruised and
weary, when we heard the bell ringing the tocsin. We ran all the
way, and when we got to the square we found it crowded with the
excited villagers, and weirdly lighted by smoking and flaring
torches.

On the steps of the church stood a stranger, a Burgundian priest,
who was telling the people new which made them weep, and rave,
and rage, and curse, by turns. He said our old mad King was dead,
and that now we and France and the crown were the property of an
English baby lying in his cradle in London. And he urged us to
give that child our allegiance, and be its faithful servants and
well-wishers; and said we should now have a strong and stable
government at last, and that in a little time the English armies
would start on their last march, and it would be a brief one, for all
that it would need to do would be to conquer what odds and ends
of our country yet remained under that rare and almost forgotten
rag, the banner of France.

The people stormed and raged at him, and you could see dozens of
them stretch their fists above the sea of torch-lighted faces and
shake them at him; and it was all a wild picture, and stirring to
look at; and the priest was a first-rate part of it, too, for he stood
there in the strong glare and looked down on those angry people in
the blandest and most indifferent way, so that while you wanted to
burn him at the stake, you still admired the aggravating coolness of
him. And his winding-up was the coolest thing of all. For he told
them how, at the funeral of our old King, the French King-at-Arms
had broken his staff of office over the coffin of "Charles VI. and
his dynasty," at the same time saying, in a loud voice, "Good grant
long life to Henry, King of France and England, our sovereign
lord!" and then he asked them to join him in a hearty Amen to that!
The people were white with wrath, and it tied their tongues for the
moment, and they could not speak. But Joan was standing close
by, and she looked up in his face, and said in her sober, earnest
way:

"I would I might see thy head struck from thy body!"--then, after a
pause, and crossing herself--"if it were the will of God."

This is worth remembering, and I will tell you why: it is the only
harsh speech Joan ever uttered in her life. When I shall have
revealed to you the storms she went through, and the wrongs and
persecutions, then you will see that it was wonderful that she said
but one bitter thing while she lived.

From the day that that dreary news came we had one scare after
another, the marauders coming almost to our doors every now and
then; so that we lived in ever-increasing apprehension, and yet
were somehow mercifully spared from actual attack. But at last
our turn did really come. This was in the spring of '28. The
Burgundians swarmed in with a great noise, in the middle of a dark
night, and we had to jump up and fly for our lives. We took the
road to Neufchƒteau, and rushed along in the wildest disorder,
everybody trying to get ahead, and thus the movements of all were
impeded; but Joan had a cool head--the only cool head there--and
she took command and brought order out of that chaos. She did
her work quickly and with decision and despatch, and soon turned
the panic flight into a quite steady-going march. You will grant
that for so young a person, and a girl at that, this was a good piece
of work.

She was sixteen now, shapely and graceful, and of a beauty so
extraordinary that I might allow myself any extravagance of
language in describing it and yet have no fear of going beyond the
truth. There was in her face a sweetness and serenity and purity
that justly reflected her spiritual nature. She was deeply religious,
and this is a thing which sometimes gives a melancholy cast to a
person's countenance, but it was not so in her case. Her religion
made her inwardly content and joyous; and if she was troubled at
times, and showed the pain of it in her face and bearing, it came of
distress for her country; no part of it was chargeable to her
religion.

A considerable part of our village was destroyed, and when it
became safe for us to venture back there we realized what other
people had been suffering in all the various quarters of France for
many years--yes, decades of years. For the first time we saw
wrecked and smoke-blackened homes, and in the lanes and alleys
carcasses of dumb creatures that had been slaughtered in pure
wantonness--among them calves and lambs that had been pets of
the children; and it was pity to see the children lament over them.

And then, the taxes, the taxes! Everybody thought of that. That
burden would fall heavy now in the commune's crippled condition,
and all faces grew long with the thought of it. Joan said:

"Paying taxes with naught to pay them with is what the rest of
France has been doing these many years, but we never knew the
bitterness of that before. We shall know it now."

And so she went on talking about it and growing more and more
troubled about it, until one could see that it was filling all her
mind.

At last we came upon a dreadful object. It was the
madman--hacked and stabbed to death in his iron cage in the
corner of the square. It was a bloody and dreadful sight. Hardly
any of us young people had ever seen a man before who had lost
his life by violence; so this cadaver had an awful fascination for
us; we could not take our eyes from it. I mean, it had that sort of
fascination for all of us but one. That one was Joan. She turned
away in horror, and could not be persuaded to go near it again.
There--it is a striking reminder that we are but creatures of use and
custom; yes, and it is a reminder, too, of how harshly and unfairly
fate deals with us sometimes. For it was so ordered that the very
ones among us who were most fascinated with mutilated and
bloody death were to live their lives in peace, while that other,
who had a native and deep horror of it, must presently go forth and
have it as a familiar spectacle every day on the field of battle.

You may well believe that we had plenty of matter for talk now,
since the raiding of our village seemed by long odds the greatest
event that had really ever occurred in the world; for although these
dull peasants may have thought they recognized the bigness of
some of the previous occurrences that had filtered from the world's
history dimly into their minds, the truth is that they hadn't. One
biting little fact, visible to their eyes of flesh and felt in their own
personal vitals, became at once more prodigious to them than the
grandest remote episode in the world's history which they had got
at second hand and by hearsay. It amuses me now when I recall
how our elders talked then. The fumed and fretted in a fine
fashion.

"Ah, yes," said old Jacques d'Arc, "things are come to a pretty pass,
indeed! The King must be informed of this. It is time that he cease
from idleness and dreaming, and get at his proper business." He
meant our young disinherited King, the hunted refugee, Charles
VII.

"You way well," said the maire. "He should be informed, and that
at once. It is an outrage that such things whould be permitted.
Why, we are not safe in our beds, and he taking his case yonder. It
shall be made known, indeed it shall--all France shall hear of it!"

To hear them talk, one would have imagined that all the previous
ten thousand sackings and burnings in France had been but fables,
and this one the only fact. It is always the way; words will answer
as long as it is only a person's neighbor who is in trouble, but when
that person gets into trouble himself, it is time that the King rise up
and do something.

The big event filled us young people with talk, too. We let it flow
in a steady stream while we tended the flocks. We were beginning
to feel pretty important now, for I was eighteen and the other
youths were from one to four years older--young men, in fact. One
day the Paladin was arrogantly criticizing the patriot generals of
France and said:

"Look at Donois, Bastard of Orleans--call him a eneral! Just put
me in his place once--never mind what I would do, it is not for me
to say, I have no stomach for talk, my way is to act and let others
do the talking--but just put me in his place once, that's all! And
look at Saintrailles--pooh! and that blustering La Hire, now what a
general that is!"

It shocked everybody to hear these great names so flippantly
handled, for to us these renowned soldiers were almost gods. In
their far-off splendor they rose upon our imaginations dim and
huge, shadowy and awful, and it was a fearful thing to hear them
spoken of as if they were mere men, and their acts open to
comment and criticism. The olor rose in Joan's face, and she said:

"I know not how any can be so hardy as to use such words
regarding these sublime men, who are the very pillars of the
French state, supporting it with their strength and preserving it at
daily cost of their blood. As for me, I could count myself honored
past all deserving if I might be allowed but the privilege of looking
upon them once--at a distance, I mean, for it would not become
one of my degree to approach them too near."

The Paladin was disconcerted for a moment, seeing by the faces
around him that Joan had put into words what the others felt, then
he pulled his complacency together and fell to fault-finding again.
Joan's brother Jean said:

"If you don't like what our generals do, why don't you go to the
great wars yourself and better their work? You are always talking
about going to the wars, but you don't go."

"Look you," said the Paladin, "it is easy to say that. Now I will tell
you why I remain chafing here in a bloodless tranquillity which my
reputation teaches you is repulsive to my nature. I do not go
because I am not a gentleman. That is the whole reason. What can
one private soldier do in a contest like this? Nothing. He is not
permitted to rise from the ranks. If I were a gentleman would I
remain here? Not one moment. I can save France--ah, you may
laugh, but I know what is in me, I know what is hid under this
peasant cap. I can save France, and I stand ready to do it, but not
under these present conditions. If they want me, let them send for
me; otherwise, let them take the consequences; I shall not budge
but as an officer."

"Alas, poor France--France is lost!" said Pierre d'Arc.

"Since you sniff so at others, why don't you go to the wars yourself,
Pierre d'Arc?"

"Oh, I haven't been sent for, either. I am no more a gentleman than
you. Yet I will go; I promise to go. I promise to go as a private
under your orders--when you are sent for."

They all laughed, and the Dragon-fly said:

"So soon? Then you need to begin to get ready; you might be
called for in five years--who knows? Yes, in my opinion you'll
march for the wars in five years."

"He will go sooner," said Joan. She said it in a low voice and
musingly, but several heard it.

"How do you know that, Joan?" said the Dragon-fly, with a
surprised look. But Jean d'Arc broke in and said:

"I want to go myself, but as I am rather young yet, I also will wait,
and march when the Paladin is sent for."

"No," said Joan, "he will go with Pierre."

She said it as one who talks to himself aloud without knowing it,
and none heard it but me. I glanced at her and saw that her
knitting-needles were idle in her hands, and that her face had a
dreamy and absent look in it. There were fleeting movements of
her lips as if she might be occasionally saying parts of sentences to
herself. But there was no sound, for I was the nearest person to her
and I heard nothing. But I set my ears open, for those two speeches
had affected me uncannily, I being superstitious and easily
troubled by any little thing of a strange and unusual sort.

No‰l Rainguesson said:

"There is one way to let France have a chance for her salvation.
We've got one gentleman in the commune, at any rate. Why can't
the Scholar change name and condition with the Paladin? Then he
can be an officer. France will send for him then, and he will sweep
these English and Burgundian armies into the sea like flies."

I was the Scholar. That was my nickname, because I could read
and write. There was a chorus of approval, and the Sunflower said:

"That is the very thing--it settles every difficulty. The Sieur de
Conte will easily agree to that. Yes, he will march at the back of
Captain Paladin and die early, covered with common-soldier
glory."

"He will march with Jean and Pierre, and live till these wars are
forgotten," Joan muttered; "and at the eleventh hour No‰l and the
Paladin will join these, but not of their own desire." The voice was
so low that I was not perfectly sure that these were the words, but
they seemed to be. It makes one feel creepy to hear such things.

"Come, now," No‰l continued, "it's all arranged; there's nothing to
do but organize under the Paladin's banner and go forth and rescue
France. You'll all join?"

All said yes, except Jacques d'Arc, who said:

"I'll ask you to excuse me. It is pleasant to talk war, and I am with
you there, and I've always thought I should go soldiering about this
time, but the look of our wrecked village and that carved-up and
bloody madman have taught me that I am not made for such work
and such sights. I could never be at home in that trade. Face
swords and the big guns and death? It isn't in me. No, no; count me
out. And besides, I'm the eldest son, and deputy prop and protector
of the family. Since you are going to carry Jean and Pierre to the
wars, somebody must be left behind to take care of our Joan and
her sister. I shall stay at home, and grow old in peace and
tranquillity."

"He will stay at home, but not grow old," murmured Joan.

The talk rattled on in the gay and careless fashion privileged to
youth, and we got the Paladin to map out his campaigns and fight
his battles and win his victories and extinguish the English and put
our King upon his throne and set his crown upon his head. Then
we asked him what he was going to answer when the King should
require him to name his reward. The Paladin had it all arranged in
his head, and brought it out promptly:

"He shall give me a dukedom, name me premier peer, and make
me Hereditary Lord High Constable of France."

"And marry you to a princess--you're not going to leave that out,
are you?"

The Paladin colored a trifle, and said, brusquely:

"He may keep his princesses--I can marry more to my taste."

Meaning Joan, though nobody suspected it at that time. If any had,
the Paladin would have been finely ridiculed for his vanity. There
was no fit mate in that village for Joan of Arc. Every one would
have said that.

In turn, each person present was required to say what reward he
would demand of the King if he could change places with the
Paladin and do the wonders the Paladin was going to do. The
answers were given in fun, and each of us tried to outdo his
predecessors in the extravagance of the reward he would claim;
but when it came to Joan's turn, and they rallied her out of her
dreams and asked her to testify, they had to explain to her what the
question was, for her thought had been absent, and she had heard
none of this latter part of our talk. She supposed they wanted a
serious answer, and she gave it. She sat considering some
moments, then she said:

"If the Dauphin, out of his grace and nobleness, should say to me,
'Now that I am rich and am come to my own again, choose and
have,' I should kneel and ask him to give command that our village
should nevermore be taxed."

It was so simple and out of her heart that it touched us and we did
not laugh, but fell to thinking. We did not laugh; but there came a
day when we remembered that speech with a mournful pride, and
were glad that we had not laughed, perceiving then how honest her
words had been, and seeing how faithfully she made them good
when the time came, asking just that boon of the King and refusing
to take even any least thing for herself.

Chapter 6 Joan and Archangel Michael

ALL THROUGH her childhood and up to the middle of her
fourteenth year, Joan had been the most light-hearted creature and
the merriest in the village, with a hop-skip-and-jump gait and a
happy and catching laugh; and this disposition, supplemented by
her warm and sympathetic nature and frank and winning ways, had
made her everybody's pet. She had been a hot patriot all this time,
and sometimes the war news had sobered her spirits and wrung her
heart and made her acquainted with tears, but always when these
interruptions had run their course her spirits rose and she was her
old self again.

But now for a whole year and a half she had been mainly grave;
not melancholy, but given to thought, abstraction, dreams. She was
carrying France upon her heart, and she found the burden not light.
I knew that this was her trouble, but others attributed her
abstraction to religious ecstasy, for she did not share her thinkings
with the village at large, yet gave me glimpses of them, and so I
knew, better than the rest, what was absorbing her interest. Many a
time the idea crossed my mind that she had a secret--a secret
which she was keeping wholly to herself, as well from me as from
the others. This idea had come to me because several times she
had cut a sentence in two and changed the subject when apparently
she was on the verge of a revelation of some sort. I was to find this
secret out, but not just yet.

The day after the conversation which I have been reporting we
were together in the pastures and fell to talking about France, as
usual. For her sake I had always talked hopefully before, but that
was mere lying, for really there was not anything to hang a rag of
hope for France upon. Now it was such a pain to lie to her, and
cost me such shame to offer this treachery to one so snow-pure
from lying and treachery, and even from suspicion of such
baseness in others, as she was, that I was resolved to face about
now and begin over again, and never insult her more with
deception. I started on the new policy by sayingq1qstill opening up
with a small lie, of course, for habit is habit, and not to be flung
out of the window by any man, but coaxed downstairs a step at a
time:

"Joan, I have been thinking the thing all over last night, and have
concluded that we have been in the wrong all this time; that the
case of France is desperate; that it has been desperate ever since
Agincourt; and that to-day it is more than desperate, it is hopeless."

I did not look her in the face while I was saying it; it could not be
expected of a person. To break her heart, to crush her hope with a
so frankly brutal speech as that, without one charitable soft place
in it--it seemed a shameful thing, and it was. But when it was out,
the weight gone, and my conscience rising to the surface, I glanced
at her face to see the result.

There was none to see. At least none that I was expecting. There
was a barely perceptible suggestion of wonder in her serious eyes,
but that was all; and she said, in her simple and placid way:

"The case of France hopeless? Why should you think that? Tell
me."

It is a most pleasant thing to find that what you thought would
inflict a hurt upon one whom you honor, has not done it. I was
relieved now, and could say all my say without any furtivenesses
and without embarrassment. So I began:

"Let us put sentiment and patriotic illusions aside, and look at the
facts in the face. What do they say? They speak as plainly as the
figures in a merchant's account-book. One has only to add the two
columns up to see that the French house is bankrupt, that one-half
of its property is already in the English sheriff's hands and the
other half in nobody's--except those of irresponsible raiders and
robbers confessing allegiance to nobody. Our King is shut up with
his favorites and fools in inglorious idleness and poverty in a
narrow little patch of the kingdom--a sort of back lot, as one may
say--and has no authority there or anywhere else, hasn't a farthing
to his name, nor a regiment of soldiers; he is not fighting, he is not
intending to fight, he means to make no further resistance; in truth,
there is but one thing that he is intending to do--give the whole
thing up, pitch his crown into the sewer, and run away to Scotland.
There are the facts. Are they correct?"

"Yes, they are correct."

"Then it is as I have said: one needs but to add them together in
order to realize what they mean."

She asked, in an ordinary, level tone:

"What--that the case of France is hopeless?"

"Necessarily. In face of these facts, doubt of it is impossible."

"How can you say that? How can you feel like that?"

"How can I? How could I think or feel in any other way, in the
circumstances? Joan, with these fatal figures before, you, have you
really any hope for France--really and actually?"

"Hope--oh, more than that! France will win her freedom and keep
it. Do not doubt it."

It seemed to me that her clear intellect must surely be clouded
to-day. It must be so, or she would see that those figures could
mean only one thing. Perhaps if I marshaled them again she would
see. So I said:

"Joan, your heart, which worships France, is beguiling your head.
You are not perceiving the importance of these figures. Here--I
want to make a picture of them, her eon the ground with a stick.
Now, this rough outline is France. Through its middle, east and
west, I draw a river."

"Yes, the Loire."

"Now, then, this whole northern half of the country is in the tight
grip of the English."

"Yes."

"And this whole southern half is really in nobody's hands at all--as
our King confesses by meditating desertion and flight to a foreign
land. England has armies here; opposition is dead; she can assume
full possession whenever she may choose. In very truth, all France
is gone, France is already lost, France has ceased to exist. What
was France is now but a British province. Is this true?"

Her voice was low, and just touched with emotion, but distinct:

"Yes, it is true."

"Very well. Now add this clinching fact, and surely the sum is
complete: When have French soldiers won a victory? Scotch
soldiers, under the French flag, have won a barren fight or two a
few years back, but I am speaking of French ones. Since eight
thousand Englishmen nearly annihilated sixty thousand Frenchmen
a dozen years ago at Agincourt, French courage has been
paralyzed. And so it is a common saying to-day that if you
confront fifty French soldiers with five English ones, the French
will run."

"It is a pity, but even these things are true."

"Then certainly the day for hoping is past."

I believed the case would be clear to her now. I thought it could
not fail to be clear to her, and that she would say, herself, that
there was no longer any ground for hope. But I was mistaken; and
disappointed also. She said, without any doubt in her tone:

"France will rise again. You shall see."

"Rise?--with this burden of English armies on her back!"

"She will cast it off; she will trample it under foot!" This with
spirit.

"Without soldiers to fight with?"

"The drums will summon them. They will answer, and they will
march."

"March to the rear, as usual?"

"No; to the front--ever to the front--always to the front! You shall
see."

"And the pauper King?"

"He will mount his throne--he will wear his crown."

"Well, of a truth this makes one's head dizzy. Why, if I could
believe that in thirty years from now the English domination would
be broken and the French monarch's head find itself hooped with a
real crown of sovereignty--"

"Both will have happened before two years are sped."

"Indeed? and who is going to perform all these sublime
impossibilities?"

"God."

It was a reverent low note, but it rang clear.

What could have put those strange ideas in her head? This question
kept running in my mind during two or three days. It was
inevitable that I should think of madness. What other way was
there to account for such things? Grieving and brooding over the
woes of France had weakened that strong mind, and filled it with
fantastic phantoms--yes, that must be it.

But I watched her, and tested her, and it was not so. Her eye was
clear and sane, her ways were natural, her speech direct and to the
point. No, there was nothing the matter with her mind; it was still
the soundest in the village and the best. She went on thinking for
others, planning for others, sacrificing herself for others, just as
always before. She went on ministering to her sick and to her poor,
and still stood ready to give the wayfarer her bed and content
herself with the floor. There was a secret somewhere, but madness
was not the key to it. This was plain.

Now the key did presently come into my hands, and the way that it
happened was this. You have heard all the world talk of this matter
which I am about to speak of, but you have not heard an
eyewitness talk of it before.

I was coming from over the ridge, one day--it was the 15th of May,
'28--and when I got to the edge of the oak forest and was about to
step out of it upon the turfy open space in which the haunted beech
tree stood, I happened to cast a glance from cover, first--then I
took a step backward, and stood in the shelter and concealment of
the foliage. For I had caught sight of Joan, and thought I would
devise some sort of playful surprise for her. Think of it--that trivial
conceit was neighbor, with but a scarcely measurable interval of
time between, to an event destined to endure forever in histories
and songs.

The day was overcast, and all that grassy space wherein the Tree
stood lay in a soft rich shadow. Joan sat on a natural seat formed
by gnarled great roots of the Tree. Her hands lay loosely, one
reposing in the other, in her lap. Her head was bent a little toward
the ground, and her air was that of one who is lost to thought,
steeped in dreams, and not conscious of herself or of the world.
And now I saw a most strange thing, for I saw a white shadow
come slowly gliding along the grass toward the Tree. It was of
grand proportions--a robed form, with wings--and the whiteness of
this shadow was not like any other whiteness that we know of,
except it be the whiteness of lightnings, but even the lightnings are
not so intense as it was, for one cal look at them without hurt,
whereas this brilliancy was so blinding that in pained my eyes and
brought the water into them. I uncovered my head, perceiving that
I was in the presence of something not of this world. My breath
grew faint and difficult, because of the terror and the awe that
possessed me.

Another strange thing. The wood had been silent--smitten with that
deep stillness which comes when a storm-cloud darkens a forest,
and the wild creatures lose heart and are afraid; but now all the
birds burst forth into song, and the joy, the rapture, the ecstasy of it
was beyond belief; and was so eloquent and so moving, withal,
that it was plain it was an act of worship. With the first note of
those birds Joan cast herself upon her knees, and bent her head low
and crossed her hands upon her breast.

She had not seen the shadow yet. Had the song of the birds told her
it was coming? It had that look to me. Then the like of this must
have happened before. Yes, there might be no doubt of that.

The shadow approached Joan slowly; the extremity of it reached
her, flowed over her, clothed her in its awful splendor. In that
immortal light her face, only humanly beautiful before, became
divine; flooded with that transforming glory her mean peasant
habit was become like to the raiment of the sun-clothed children of
God as we see them thronging the terraces of the Throne in our
dreams and imaginings.

Presently she rose and stood, with her head still bowed a little, and
with her arms down and the ends of her fingers lightly laced
together in front of her; and standing so, all drenched with that
wonderful light, and yet apparently not knowing it, she seemed to
listen--but I heard nothing. After a little she raised her head, and
looked up as one might look up toward the face of a giant, and
then clasped her hands and lifted them high, imploringly, and
began to plead. I heard some of the words. I heard her say:

"But I am so young! oh, so young to leave my mother and my
home and go out into the strange world to undertake a thing so
great! Ah, how can I talke with men, be comrade with
men?--soldiers! It would give me over to insult, and rude usage,
and contempt. How can I go to the great wars, and lead armies?--I
a girl, and ignorant of such things, knowing nothing of arms, nor
how to mount a horse, nor ride it. . . . Yet--if it is commanded--"

Her voice sank a little, and was broken by sobs, and I made out no
more of her words. Then I came to myself. I reflected that I had
been intruding upon a mystery of God--and what might my
punishment be? I was afraid, and went deeper into the wood. Then
I carved a mark in the bark of a tree, saying to myself, it may be
that I am dreaming and have not seen this vision at all. I will come
again, when I know that I am awake and not dreaming, and see if
this mark is still here; then I shall know.

Chapter  7 She Delivers the Divine Command

I HEARD my name called. It was Joan's voice. It startled me, for
how could she know I was there? I said to myself, it is part of the
dream; it is all dream--voice, vision and all; the fairies have done
this. So I crossed myself and pronounced the name of God, to
break the enchantment. I knew I was awake now and free from the
spell, for no spell can withstand this exorcism. Then I heard my
name called again, and I stepped at once from under cover, and
there indeed was Joan, but not looking as she had looked in the
dream. For she was not crying now, but was looking as she had
used to look a year and a half before, when her heart was light and
her spirits high. Her old-time energy and fire were back, and a
something like exaltation showed itself in her face and bearing. It
was almost as if she had been in a trance all that time and had
come awake again. Really, it was just as if she had been away and
lost, and was come back to us at last; and I was so glad that I felt
like running to call everybody and have them flock around her and
give her welcome. I ran to her excited and said:

"Ah, Joan, I've got such a wonderful thing to tell you about! You
would never imagine it. I've had a dream, and in the dream I saw
you right here where you are standing now, and--"

But she put up her hand and said:

"It was not a dream."

It gave me a shock, and I began to feel afraid again.

"Not a dream?" I said, "how can you know about it, Joan?"

"Are you dreaming now?"

"I--I suppose not. I think I am not."

"Indeed you are not. I know you are not. And yow were not
dreaming when you cut the mark in the tree."

I felt myself turning cold with fright, for now I knew of a certainty
that I had not been dreaming, but had really been in the presence
of a dread something not of this world. Then I remembered that
my sinful feet were upon holy ground--the ground where that
celestial shadow had rested. I moved quickly away, smitten to the
bones with fear. Joan followed, and said:

"Do not be afraid; indeed there is no need. Come with me. We will
sit by the spring and I will tell you all my secret."

When she was ready to begin, I checked her and said:

"First tell me this. You could not see me in the wood; how did you
know I cut a mark in the tree?"

"Wait a little; I will soon come to that; then you will see."

"But tell me one thing now; what was that awful shadow that I
saw?"

"I will tell you, but do not be disturbed; you are not in danger. It
was the shadow of an archangel--Michael, the chief and lord of the
armies of heaven."

I could but cross myself and tremble for having polluted that
ground with my feet.

"You were not afraid, Joan? Did you see his face--did you see his
form?"

"Yes; I was not afraid, because this was not the first time. I was
afraid the first time."

"When was that, Joan?"

"It is nearly three years ago now."

"So long? Have you seen him many times?"

"Yes, many times."

"It is this, then, that has changed you; it was this that made you
thoughtful and not as you were before. I see it now. Why did you
not tell us about it?"

"It was not permitted. It is permitted now, and soon I shall tell all.
But only you, now. It must remain a secret for a few days still."

"Has none seen that white shadow before but me?"

"No one. It has fallen upon me before when you and others were
present, but none could see it. To-day it has been otherwise, and I
was told why; but it will not be visible again to any."

"It was a sign to me, then--and a sign with a meaning of some
kind?"

"Yes, but I may not speak of that."

"Strange--that that dazzling light could rest upon an object before
one's eyes and not be visible."

"With it comes speech, also. Several saints come, attended by
myriads of angels, and they speak to me; I hear their voices, but
others do not. They are very dear to me--my Voices; that is what I
call them to myself."

"Joan, what do they tell you?"

"All manner of things--about France, I mean."

"What things have they been used to tell you?"

She sighed, and said:

"Disasters--only disasters, and misfortunes, and humiliation. There
was naught else to foretell."

"They spoke of them to you beforehand? "Yes. So that I knew what
was going to happen before it happened. It made me grave--as you
saw. It could not be otherwise. But always there was a word of
hope, too. More than that: France was to be rescued, and made
great and free again. But how and by whom--that was not told. Not
until to-day." As she said those last words a sudden deep glow
shone in her eyes, which I was to see there many times in
after-days when the bugles sounded the charge and learn to call it
the battle-light. Her breast heaved, and the color rose in her face.
"But to-day I know. God has chosen the meanest of His creatures
for this work; and by His command, and in His protection, and by
His strength, not mine, I am to lead His armies, and win back
France, and set the crown upon the head of His servant that is
Dauphin and shall be King."

I was amazed, and said:

"You, Joan? You, a child, lead armies?"

"Yes. For one little moment or two the thought crushed me; for it
is as you say--I am only a child; a child and ignorant--ignorant of
everything that pertains to war, and not fitted for the rough life of
camps and the companionship of soldiers. But those weak
moments passed; they will not come again. I am enlisted, I will not
turn back, God helping me, till the English grip is loosed from the
throat of France. My Voices have never told me lies, they have not
lied to-day. They say I am to go to Robert de Baudricourt,
governor of Vaucouleurs, and he will give me men-at-arms for
escort and send me to the King. A year from now a blow will be
struck which will be the beginning of the end, and the end will
follow swiftly."

"Where will it be struck?"

"My Voices have not said; nor what will happen this present year,
before it is struck. It is appointed me to strike it, that is all I know;
and follow it with others, sharp and swift, undoing in ten weeks
England's long years of costly labor, and setting the crown upon
the Dauphin's head--for such is God's will; my Voices have said it,
and shall I doubt it? No; it will be as they have said, for they say
only that which is true."

These were tremendous sayings. They were impossibilities to my
reason, but to my heart they rang true; and so, while my reason
doubted, my heart believed--believed, and held fast to the belief
from that day. Presently I said:

"Joan, I believe the things which you have said, and now I am glad
that I am to march with you to the great wars--that is, if it is with
you I am to march when I go."

She looked surprised, and said:

"It is true that you will be with me when I go to the wars, but how
did you know?"

"I shall march with you, and so also will Jean and Pierre, but not
Jacques."

"All true--it is so ordered, as was revealed to me lately, but I did
not know until to-day that the marching would be with me, or that
I should march at all. How did you know these things?"

I told her when it was that she had said them. But she did not
remember about it. So then I knew that she had been asleep, or in a
trance or an ecstasy of some kind, at that time. She bade me keep
these and the other revelations to myself for the present, and I said
I would, and kept the faith I promised.

None who met Joan that day failed to notice the change that had
come over her. She moved and spoke with energy and decision;
there was a strange new fire in her eye, and also a something
wholly new and remarkable in her carriage and in the set of her
head. This new light in the eye and this new bearing were born of
the authority and leadership which had this day been vested in her
by the decree of God, and they asserted that authority as plainly as
speech could have done it, yet without ostentation or bravado. This
calm consciousness of command, and calm unconscious outward
expression of it, remained with her thenceforth until her mission
was accomplished.

Like the other villagers, she had always accorded me the deference
due my rank; but now, without word said on either side, she and I
changed places; she gave orders, not suggestions. I received them
with the deference due a superior, and obeyed them without
comment. In the evening she said to me:

"I leave before dawn. No one will know it but you. I go to speak
with the governor of Vaucouleurs as commanded, who will
despise me and treat me rudely, and perhaps refuse my prayer at
this time. I go first to Burey, to persuade my uncle Laxart to go
with me, it not being meet that I go alone. I may need you in
Vaucouleurs; for if the governor will not receive me I will dictate
a letter to him, and so must have some one by me who knows the
art of how to write and spell the words. You will go from here
to-morrow in the afternoon, and remain in Vaucouleurs until I
need you."

I said I would obey, and she went her way. You see how clear a
head she had, and what a just and level judgment. She did not
order me to go with her; no, she would not subject her good name
to gossiping remark. She knew that the governor, being a noble,
would grant me, another noble, audience; but no, you see, she
would not have that, either. A poor peasant-girl presenting a
petition through a young nobleman--how would that look? She
always protected her modesty from hurt; and so, for reward, she
carried her good name unsmirched to the end. I knew what I must
do now, if I would have her approval: go to Vaucouleurs, keep out
of her sight, and be ready when wanted.

I went the next afternoon, and took an obscure lodging; the next
day I called at the castle and paid my respects to the governor, who
invited me to dine with him at noon of the following day. He was
an ideal soldier of the time; tall, brawny, gray-headed, rough, full
of strange oaths acquired here and there and yonder in the wars
and treasured as if they were decorations. He had been used to the
camp all his life, and to his notion war was God's best gift to man.
He had his steel cuirass on, and wore boots that came above his
knees, and was equipped with a huge sword; and when I looked at
this martial figure, and heard the marvelous oaths, and guessed
how little of poetry and sentiment might be looked for in this
quarter, I hoped the little peasant-girl would not get the privilege
of confronting this battery, but would have to content herself with
the dictated letter.

I came again to the castle the next day at noon, and was conducted
to the great dining-hall and seated by the side of the governor at a
small table which was raised a couple of steps higher than the
general table. At the small table sat several other guests besides
myself, and at the general table sat the chief officers of the
garrison. At the entrance door stood a guard of halberdiers, in
morion and breastplate.

As for talk, there was but one topic, of course--the desperate
situation of France. There was a rumor, some one said, that
Salisbury was making preparations to march against Orleans. It
raised a turmoil of excited conversation, and opinions fell thick
and fast. Some believed he would march at once, others that he
could not accomplish the investment before fall, others that the
siege would be long, and bravely contested; but upon one thing all
voices agreed: that Orleans must eventually fall, and with it
France. With that, the prolonged discussion ended, and there was
silence. Every man seemed to sink himself in his own thoughts,
and to forget where he was. This sudden and profound stillness,
where before had been so much animation, was impressive and
solemn. Now came a servant and whispered something to the
governor, who said:

"Would talk with me?"

"Yes, your Excellency."

"H'm! A strange idea, certainly. Bring them in."

It was Joan and her uncle Laxart. At the spectacle of the great
people the courage oozed out of the poor old peasant and he
stopped midway and would come no further, but remained there
with his red nightcap crushed in his hands and bowing humbly
here, there, and everywhere, stupefied with embarrassment and
fear. But Joan came steadily forward, erect and self-possessed, and
stood before the governor. She recognized me, but in no way
indicated it. There was a buzz of admiration, even the governor
contributing to it, for I heard him mutter, "By God's grace, it is a
beautiful creature!" He inspected her critically a moment or two,
then said:

"Well, what is your errand, my child?"

"My message is to you, Robert de Baudricourt, governor of
Vaucouleurs, and it is this: that you will send and tell the Dauphin
to wait and not give battle to his enemies, for God will presently
send him help."

This strange speech amazed the company, and many murmured,
"The poor young thing is demented." The governor scowled, and
said:

"What nonsense is this? The King--or the Dauphin, as you call
him--needs no message of that sort. He will wait, give yourself no
uneasiness as to that. What further do you desire to say to me?"

"This. To beg that you will give me an escort of men-at-arms and
send me to the Dauphin."

"What for?"

"That he may make me his general, for it is appointed that I shall
drive the English out of France, and set the crown upon his head."

"What--you? Why, you are but a child!"

"Yet am I appointed to do it, nevertheless."

"Indeed! And when will all this happen?"

"Next year he will be crowned, and after that will remain master of
France."

There was a great and general burst of laughter, and when it had
subsided the governor said:

"Who has sent you with these extravagant messages?"

"My Lord."

"What Lord?"

"The King of Heaven."

Many murmured, "Ah, poor thing, poor thing!" and others, "Ah,
her mind is but a wreck!" The governor hailed Laxart, and said:

"Harkye!--take this mad child home and whip her soundly. That is
the best cure for her ailment."

As Joan was moving away she turned and said, with simplicity:

"You refuse me the soldiers, I know not why, for it is my Lord that
has commanded you. Yes, it is He that has made the command;
therefore I must come again, and yet again; then I shall have the
men-at-arms."

There was a great deal of wondering talk, after she was gone; and
the guards and servants passed the talk to the town, the town
passed it to the country; Domremy was already buzzing with it
when we got back.

Chapter  8 Why the Scorners Relented

HUMAN NATURE is the same everywhere: it defies success, it
has nothing but scorn for defeat. The village considered that Joan
had disgraced it with her grotesque performance and its ridiculous
failure; so all the tongues were busy with the matter, and as bilious
and bitter as they were busy; insomuch that if the tongues had been
teeth she would not have survived her persecutions. Those persons
who did not scold did what was worse and harder to bear; for they
ridiculed her, and mocked at her, and ceased neither day nor night
from their witticisms and jeerings and laughter. Haumette and
Little Mengette and I stood by her, but the storm was too strong for
her other friends, and they avoided her, being ashamed to be seen
with her because she was so unpopular, and because of the sting of
the taunts that assailed them on her account. She shed tears in
secret, but none in public. In public she carried herself with
serenity, and showed no distress, nor any resentment--conduct
which should have softened the feeling against her, but it did not.
Her father was so incensed that he could not talk in measured
terms about her wild project of going to the wars like a man. He
had dreamed of her doing such a thing, some time before, and now
he remembered that dream with apprehension and anger, and said
that rather than see her unsex herself and go away with the armies,
he would require her brothers to drown her; and that if they should
refuse, he would do it with his own hands.

But none of these things shook her purpose in the least. Her
parents kept a strict watch upon her to keep her from leaving the
village, but she said her time was not yet; that when the time to go
was come she should know it, and then the keepers would watch in
vain.

The summer wasted along; and when it was seen that her purpose
continued steadfast, the parents were glad of a chance which
finally offered itself for bringing her projects to an end through
marriage. The Paladin had the effrontery to pretend that she had
engaged herself to him several years before, and now he claimed a
ratification of the engagement.

She said his statement was not true, and refused to marry him. She
was cited to appear before the ecclesiastical court at Toul to
answer for her perversity; when she declined to have counsel, and
elected to conduct her case herself, her parents and all her
ill-wishers rejoiced, and looked upon her as already defeated. And
that was natural enough; for who would expect that an ignorant
peasant-girl of sixteen would be otherwise than frightened and
tongue-tied when standing for the first time in presence of the
practised doctors of the law, and surrounded by the cold
solemnities of a court? Yet all these people were mistaken. They
flocked to Toul to see and enjoy this fright and embarrassment and
defeat, and they had their trouble for their pains. She was modest,
tranquil, and quite at her ease. She called no witnesses, saying she
would content herself with examining the witnesses for the
prosecution. When they had testified, she rose and reviewed their
testimony in a few words, pronounced it vague, confused, and of
no force, then she placed the Paladin again on the stand and began
to search him. His previous testimony went rag by rag to ruin
under her ingenious hands, until at last he stood bare, so to speak,
he that had come so richly clothed in fraud and falsehood. His
counsel began an argument, but the court declined to hear it, and
threw out the case, adding a few words of grave compliment for
Joan, and referring to her as "this marvelous child."

After this victory, with this high praise from so imposing a source
added, the fickle village turned again, and gave Joan countenance,
compliment, and peace. Her mother took her back to her heart, and
even her father relented and said he was proud of her. But the time
hung heavy on her hands, nevertheless, for the siege of Orleans
was begun, the clouds lowered darker and darker over France, and
still her Voices said wait, and gave her no direct commands. The
winter set in, and wore tgediously along; but at last there was a
change.

BOOK II  IN COURT AND CAMP

Chapter 1 Joan Says Good-By

THE 5th of January, 1429, Joan came to me with her uncle Laxart,
and said:

"The time is come. My Voices are not vague now, but clear, and
they have told me what to do. In two months I shall be with the
Dauphin."

Her spirits were high, and her bearing martial. I caught the
infection and felt a great impulse stirring in me that was like what
one feels when he hears the roll of the drums and the tramp of
marching men.

"I believe it," I said.

"I also believe it," said Laxart. "If she had told me before, that she
was commanded of God to rescue France, I should not have
believed; I should have let her seek the governor by her own ways
and held myself clear of meddling in the matter, not doubting she
was mad. But I have seen her stand before those nobles and might
men unafraid, and say her say; and she had not been able to do that
but by the help of God. That I know. Therefore with all
humbleness I am at her command, to do with me as she will."

"My uncle is very good to me," Joan said. "I sent and asked him to
come and persuade my mother to let him take me home with him
to tend his wife, who is not well. It is arranged, and we go at dawn
to-morrow. From his house I shall go soon to Vaucouleurs, and
wait and strive until my prayer is granted. Who were the two
cavaliers who sat to your left at the governor's table that day?"

"One was the Sieur Jean de Novelonpont de Metz, the other the
Sieur Bertrand de Poulengy."

"Good metal--good metal, both. I marked them for men of mine. . .
. What is it I see in your face? Doubt?"

I was teaching myself to speak the truth to her, not trimming it or
polishing it; so I said:

"They considered you out of your head, and said so. It is true they
pitied you for being in such misfortune, but still they held you to
be mad."

This did not seem to trouble her in any way or wound her. She
only said:

"The wise change their minds when they perceive that they have
been in error. These will. They will march with me. I shall see
them presently. . . . You seem to doubt again? Do you doubt?"

"N-no. Not now. I was remembering that it was a year ago, and
that they did not belong here, but only chanced to stop a day on
their journey."

"They will come again. But as to matters now in hand; I came to
leave with you some instructions. You will follow me in a few
days. Order your affairs, for you will be absent long."

"Will Jean and Pierre go with me?"

"No; they would refuse now, but presently they will come, and
with them they will bring my parents' blessing, and likewise their
consent that I take up my mission. I shall be stronger,
then--stronger for that; for lack of it I am weak now." She paused a
little while, and the tears gathered in her eyes; then she went on: "I
would say good-by to Little Mengette. Bring her outside the village
at dawn; she must go with me a little of the way--"

"And Haumette?"

She broke down and began to cry, saying:

"No, oh, no--she is too dear to me, I could not bear it, knowing I
should never look upon her face again."

Next morning I brought Mengette, and we four walked along the
road in the cold dawn till the village was far behind; then the two
girls said their good-bys, clinging about each other's neck, and
pouring out their grief in loving words and tears, a pitiful sight to
see. And Joan took one long look back upon the distant village,
and the Fairy Tree, and the oak forest, and the flowery plain, and
the river, as if she was trying to print these scenes on her memory
so that they would abide there always and not fade, for she knew
she would not see them any more in this life; then she turned, and
went from us, sobbing bitterly. It was her birthday and mine. She
was seventeen years old.

Chapter 2 The Governor Speeds Joan

After a few days, Laxart took Joan to Vaucouleurs, and found
lodging and guardianship for her with Catherine Royer, a
wheelwright's wife, an honest and good woman. Joan went to mass
regularly, she helped do the housework, earning her keep in that
way, and if any wished to talke with her about her mission--and
many did--she talked freely, making no concealments regarding
the matter now. I was soon housed near by, and witnessed the
effects which followed. At once the tidings spread that a young girl
was come who was appointed of God to save France. The common
people flocked in crowds to look at her and speak with her, and
her fair young loveliness won the half of their belief, and her deep
earnestness and transparent sincerity won the other half. The
well-to-do remained away and scoffed, but that is their way.

Next, a prophecy of Merlin's, more than eight hundred years old,
was called to mind, which said that in a far future time France
would be lost by a woman and restored by a woman. France was
now, for the first time, lost--and by a woman, Isabel of Bavaria,
her base Queen; doubtless this fair and pure young girl was
commissioned of Heaven to complete the prophecy.

This gave the growing interest a new and powerful impulse; the
excitement rose higher and higher, and hope and faith along with
it; and so from Vaucouleurs wave after wave of this inspiring
enthusiasm flowed out over the land, far and wide, invading all the
villages and refreshing and revivifying the perishing children of
France; and from these villages came people who wanted to see for
themselves, hear for themselves; and they did see and hear, and
believe. They filled the town; they more than filled it; inns and
lodgings were packed, and yet half of the inflow had to go without
shelter. And still they came, winter as it was, for when a man's soul
is starving, what does he care for meat and roof so he can but get
that nobler hunger fed? Day after day, and still day after day the
great tide rose. Domremy was dazed, amazed, stupefied, and said
to itself, "Was this world-wonder in our familiar midst all these
years and we too dull to see it?" Jean and Pierre went out from the
village, stared at and envied like the great and fortunate of the
earth, and their progress to Vaucouleurs was like a triumph, all the
country-side flocking to see and salute the brothers of one with
whom angels had spoken face to face, and into whose hands by
command of God they had delivered the destinies of France.

The brothers brought the parents' blessing and godspeed to Joan,
and their promise to bring it to her in person later; and so, with this
culminating happiness in her heart and the high hope it inspired,
she went and confronted the governor again. But he was no more
tractable than he had been before. He refused to send her to the
King. She was disappointed, but in no degree discouraged. She
said:

"I must still come to you until I get the men-at-arms; for so it is
commanded, and I may not disobey. I must go to the Dauphin,
though I go on my knees."

I and the two brothers were with Joan daily, to see the people that
came and hear what they said; and one day, sure enough, the Sieur
Jean de Metz came. He talked with her in a petting and playful
way, as one talks with children, and said:

"What are you doing here, my little maid? Will they drive the King
out of France, and shall we all turn English?"

She answered him in her tranquil, serious way:

"I am come to bid Robert de Baudricourt take or send me to the
King, but he does not heed my words."

"Ah, you have an admirable persistence, truly; a whole year has
not turned you from your wish. I saw you when you came before."

Joan said, as tranquilly as before:

"It is not a wish, it is a purpose. He will grant it. I can wait."

"Ah, perhaps it will not be wise to make too sure of that, my child.
These governors are stubborn people to deal with. In case he shall
not grant your prayer--"

"He will grant it. He must. It is not a matter of choice."

The gentleman's playful mood began to disappear--one could see
that, by his face. Joan's earnestness was affecting him. It always
happened that people who began in jest with her ended by being in
earnest. They soon began to perceive depths in her that they had
not suspected; and then her manifest sincerity and the rocklike
steadfastness of her convictions were forces which cowed levity,
and it could not maintain its self-respect in their presence. The
Sieur de Metz was thoughtful for a moment or two, then he began,
quite soberly:

"Is it necessary that you go to the King soon?--that is, I mean--"

"Before Mid-Lent, even though I wear away my legs to the knees!"

She said it with that sort of repressed fieriness that means so much
when a person's heart is in a thing. You could see the response in
that nobleman's face; you could see his eye light up; there was
sympathy there. He said, most earnestly:

"God knows I think you should have the men-at-arms, and that
somewhat would come of it. What is it that you would do? What is
your hope and purpose?"

"To rescue France. And it is appointed that I shall do it. For no one
else in the world, neither kings, nor dukes, no any other, can
recover the kingdom of France, and there is no help but in me."

The words had a pleading and pathetic sound, and they touched
that good nobleman. I saw it plainly. Joan dropped her voice a
little, and said: "But indeed I would rather spin with my poor
mother, for this is not my calling; but I must go and do it, for it is
my Lord's will."

"Who is your Lord?"

"He is God."

Then the Sieur de Metz, following the impressive old feudal
fashion, knelt and laid his hands within Joan's in sign of fealty, and
made oath that by God's help he himself would take her to the
king.

The next day came the Sieur Bertrand de Poulengy, and he also
pledged his oath and knightly honor to abide with her and follower
witherosever she might lead.

This day, too, toward evening, a great rumor went flying abroad
through the town--namely, that the very governor himself was
going to visit the young girl in her humble lodgings. So in the
morning the streets and lanes were packed with people waiting to
see if this strange thing would indeed happen. And happen it did.
The governor rode in state, attended by his guards, and the news of
it went everywhere, and made a great sensation, and modified the
scoffings of the people of quality and raised Joan's credit higher
than ever.

The governor had made up his mind to one thing: Joan was either a
witch or a saint, and he meant to find out which it was. So he
brought a priest with him to exorcise the devil that was in her in
case there was one there. The priest performed his office, but
found no devil. He merely hurt Joan's feelings and offended her
piety without need, for he had already confessed her before this,
and should have known, if he knew anything, that devils cannot
abide the confessional, but utter cries of anguish and the most
profane and furious cursings whenever they are confronted with
that holy office.

The governor went away troubled and full of thought, and not
knowing what to do. And while he pondered and studied, several
days went by and the 14th of February was come. Then Joan went
to the castle and said:

"In God's name, Robert de Baudricourt, you are too slow about
sending me, and have caused damage thereby, for this day the
Dauphin's cause has lost a battle near Orleans, and will suffer yet
greater injury if you do not send me to him soon."

The governor was perplexed by this speech, and said:

"To-day, child, to-day? How can you know what has happened in
that region to-day? It would take eight or ten days for the word to
come."

"My Voices have brought the word to me, and it is true. A battle
was lost to-day, and you are in fault to delay me so."

The governor walked the floor awhile, talking within himself, but
letting a great oath fall outside now and then; and finally he said:

"Harkye! go in peace, and wait. If it shall turn out as you say, I will
give you the letter and send you to the King, and not otherwise."

Joan said with fervor:

"Now God be thanked, these waiting days are almost done. In nine
days you will fetch me the letter."

Already the people of Vaucouleurs had given her a horse and had
armed and equipped her as a soldier. She got no chance to try the
horse and see if she could ride it, for her great first duty was to
abide at her post and lift up the hopes and spirits of all who would
come to talk with her, and prepare them to help in the rescue and
regeneration of the kingdom. This occupied every waking moment
she had. But it was no matter. There was nothing she could not
learn--and in the briefest time, too. Her horse would find this out
in the first hour. Meantime the brothers and I took the horse in turn
and began to learn to ride. And we had teaching in the use of the
sword and other arms also.

On the 20th Joan called her small army together--the two knights
and her two brothers and me--for a private council of war. No, it
was not a council, that is not the right name, for she did not
consult with us, she merely gave us orders. She mapped out the
course she would travel toward the King, and did it like a person
perfectly versed in geography; and this itinerary of daily marches
was so arranged as to avoid here and there peculiarly dangerous
regions by flank movements--which showed that she knew her
political geography as intimately as she knew her physical
geography; yet she had never had a day's schooling, of course, and
was without education. I was astonished, butg thought her Voices
must have taught her. But upon reflection I saw that this was not
so. By her references to what this and that and the other per4son
had told her, I perceived that she had been diligently questioning
those crowds of visiting strangers, and that out of them she had
patiently dug all this mass of invaluable knowledge. The two
knights were filled with wonder at her good sense and sagacity.

She commanded us to make preparations to travel by night and
sleep by day in concealment, as almost the whole of our long
journey would be through the enemy's country.

Also, she commanded that we should keep the date of our
departure a secret, since she meant to get away unobserved.
Otherwise we should be sent off with a grand demonstration which
would advertise us to the enemy, and we should be ambushed and
captured somewhere. Finally she said:

"Nothing remains, now, but that I confide to you the date of our
departure, so that you may make all needful preparation in time,
leaving nothing to be done in haste and badly at the last moment.
We march the 23d, at eleven of the clock at night."

Then we were dismissed. The two knights were startled--yes, and
troubled; and the Sieur Bertrand said:

"Even if the governor shall really furnish the letter and the escort,
he still may not do it in time to meet the date she has chosen. Then
how can she venture to name that date? It is a great risk--a great
risk to select and decide upon the date, in this state of uncertainty.

I said:

"Since she has named the 23d, we may trust her. The Voices have
told her, I think. We shall do best to obey."

We did obey. Joan's parents were notified to come before the 23d,
but prudence forbade that they be told why this limit was named.

All day, the 23d, she glanced up wistfully whenever new bodies of
strangers entered the house, but her parents did not appear. Still
she was not discouraged, but hoped on. But when night fell at last,
her hopes perished, and the tears came; however, she dashed them
away, and said:

"It was to be so, no doubt; no doubt it was so ordered; I must bear
it, and will."

De Metz tried to comfort her by saying:

"The governor sends no word; it may be that they will come
to-morrow, and--"

He got no further, for she interrupted him, saying:

"To what good end? We start at eleven to-night."

And it was so. At ten the governor came, with his guard and arms,
with horses and equipment for me and for the brothers, and gave
Joan a letter to the King. Then he took off his sword, and belted it
about her waist with his own hands, and said:

"You said true, child. The battle was lost, on the day you said. So I
have kept my word. Now go--come of it what may."

Joan gave him thanks, and he went his way.

The lost battle was the famous disaster that is called in history the
Battle of the Herrings.

All the lights in the house were at once put out, and a little while
after, when the streets had become dark and still, we crept
stealthily through them and out at the western gate and rode away
under whip and spur.

Chapter 3 The Paladin Groans and Boasts

WE WERE twenty-five strong, and well equipped. We rode in
double file, Joan and her brothers in the center of the column, with
Jean de Metz at the head of it and the Sieur Bertrand at its extreme
rear. In two or three hours we should be in the enemy's country,
and then none would venture to desert. By and by we began to hear
groans and sobs and execrations from different points along the
line, and upon inquiry found that six of our men were peasants
who had never ridden a horse before, and were finding it very
difficult to stay in their saddles, and moreover were now beginning
to suffer considerable bodily torture. They had been seized by the
governor at the last moment and pressed into the service to make
up the tale, and he had placed a veteran alongside of each with
orders to help him stick to the saddle, and kill him if he tried to
desert.

These poor devils had kept quiet as long as they could, but their
physical miseries were become so sharp by this time that they were
obliged to give them vent. But we were within the enemy's country
now, so there was no help for them, they must continue the march,
though Joan said that if they chose to take the risk they might
depart. They preferred to stay with us. We modified our pace now,
and moved cautiously, and the new men were warned to keep their
sorrows to themselves and not get the command into danger with
their curses and lamentations.

Toward dawn we rode deep into a forest, and soon all but the
sentries were sound asleep in spite of the cold ground and the
frosty air.

I woke at noon out of such a solid and stupefying sleep that at first
my wits were all astray, and I did not know where I was nor what
had been happening. Then my senses cleared, and I remembered.
As I lay there thinking over the strange events of the past month or
two the thought came into my mind, greatly surprising me, that
one of Joan's prophecies had failed; for where were No‰l and the
Paladin, who were to join us at the eleventh hour? By this time,
you see, I had gotten used to expecting everything Joan said to
come true. So, being disturbed and troubled by these thoughts, I
opened my eyes. Well, there stood the Paladin leaning against a
tree and looking down on me! How often that happens; you think
of a person, or speak of a person, and there he stands before you,
and you not dreaming he is near. It looks as if his being near is
really the thing that makes you think of him, and not just an
accident, as people imagine. Well, be that as it may, there was the
Paladin, anyway, looking down in my face and waiting for me to
wake. I was ever so glad to see him, and jumped up and shook him
by the hand, and led him a little way from the camp--he limping
like a cripple--and told him to sit down, and said:

"Now, where have you dropped down from? And how did you
happen to light in this place? And what do the soldier-clothes
mean? Tell me all about it."

He answered:

"I marched with you last night."

"No!" (To myself I said, "The prophecy has not all failed--half of it
has come true.")
"Yes, I did. I hurried up from Domremy to join, and was within a
half a minute of being too late. In fact, I was too late, but I begged
so hard that the governor was touched by my brave devotion to my
country's cause--those are the words he used--and so he yielded,
and allowed me to come."

I thought to myself, this is a lie, he is one of those six the governor
recruited by force at the last moment; I know it, for Joan's
prophecy said he would join at the eleventh hour, but not by his
own desire. Then I said aloud:

"I am glad you came; it is a noble cause, and one should not sit at
home in times like these."

"Sit at home! I could no more do it than the thunderstone could
stay hid in the clouds when the storm calls it."

"That is the right talk. It sounds like you."

That pleased him.

"I'm glad you know me. Some don't. But they will, presently. They
will know me well enough before I get done with this war."

"That is what I think. I believe that wherever danger confronts you
you will make yourself conspicuous."

He was charmed with this speech, and it swelled him up like a
bladder. He said:

"If I know myself--and I think I do--my performances in this
campaign will give you occasion more than once to remember
those words."

"I were a fool to doubt it. That I know."

"I shall not be at my best, being but a common soldier; still, the
country will hear of me. If I were where I belong; if I were in the
place of La Hire, or Saintrailles, or the Bastard of Orleans--well, I
say nothing. I am not of the talking kind, like No‰l Rainguesson
and his sort, I thank God. But it will be something, I take it--a
novelty in this world, I should say--to raise the fame of a private
soldier above theirs, and extinguish the glory of their names with
its shadow."

"Why, look here, my friend," I said, "do you know that you have
hit out a most remarkable idea there? Do you realize the gigantic
proportions of it? For look you; to be a general of vast renown,
what is that? Nothing--history is clogged and confused with them;
one cannot keep their names in his memory, there are so many.
But a common soldier of supreme renown--why, he would stand
alone! He would the be one moon in a firmament of mustard-seed
stars; his name would outlast the human race! My friend, who gave
you that idea?"

He was ready to burst with happiness, but he suppressed betrayal
of it as well as he could. He simply waved the compliment aside
with his hand and said, with complacency:

"It is nothing. I have them often--ideas like that--and even greater
ones. I do not consider this one much."

"You astonish me; you do, indeed. So it is really your own?"

"Quite. And there is plenty more where it came from"--tapping his
head with his finger, and taking occasion at the same time to cant
his morion over his right ear, which gave him a very self-satisfied
air--"I do not need to borrow my ideas, like No‰l Rainguesson."

"Speaking of No‰l, when did you see him last?"

"Half an hour ago. He is sleeping yonder like a corpse. Rode with
us last night."

I felt a great upleap in my heart, and said to myself, now I am at
rest and glad; I will never doubt her prophecies again. Then I said
aloud:

"It gives me joy. It makes me proud of our village. There is not
keeping our lion-hearts at home in these great times, I see that."

"Lion-heart! Who--that baby? Why, he begged like a dog to be let
off. Cried, and said he wanted to go to his mother. Him a
lion-heart!--that tumble-bug!"

"Dear me, why I supposed he volunteered, of course. Didn't he?"

"Oh, yes, he volunteered the way people do to the headsman. Why,
when he found I was coming up from Domremy to volunteer, he
asked me to let him come along in my protection, and see the
crowds and the excitement. Well, we arrived and saw the torches
filing out at the Castle, and ran there, and the governor had him
seized, along with four more, and he begged to be let off, and I
begged for his place, and atg last the governor allowed me to join,
but wouldn't let No‰l off, because he was disgusted with him, he
was such a cry-baby. Yes, and much good he'll do the King's
service; he'll eat for six and run for sixteen. I hate a pygmy with
half a heart and nine stomachs!"

"Why, this is very surprising news to me, and I am sorry and
disappointed to hear it. I thought he was a very manly fellow."

The Paladin gave me an outraged look, and said:

"I don't see how you can talk like that, I'm sure I don't. I don't see
how you could have got such a notion. I don't dislike him, and I'm
not saying these things out of prejudice, for I don't allow myself to
have prejudices against people. I like him, and have always
comraded with him from the cradle, but he must allow me to speak
my mind about his faults, and I am willing he shall speak his about
mine, if I have any. And, true enough, maybe I have; but I reckon
they'll bear inspection--I have that idea, anyway. A manly fellow!
You should have heard him whine and wail and swear, last night,
because the saddle hurt him. Why didn't the saddle hurt me?
Pooh--I was as much at home in it as if I had been born there. And
yet it was the first time I was ever on a horse. All those old soldiers
admired my riding; they said they had never seen anything like it.
But him--why, they had to hold him on, all the time."

An odor as of breakfast came stealing through the wood; the
Paladin unconsciously inflated his nostrils in lustful response, and
got up and limped painfully away, saying he must go and look to
his horse.

At bottom he was all right and a good-hearted giant, without any
harm in him, for it is no harm to bark, if one stops there and does
not bite, and it is no harm to be an ass, if one is content to bray and
not kick. If this vast structure of brawn and muscle and vanity and
foolishness seemed to have a libelous tongue, what of it? There
was no malice behind it; and besides, the defect was not of his
own creation; it was the work of No‰l Rainguesson, who had
nurtured it, fostered it, built it up and perfected it, for the
entertainment he got out of it. His careless light heart had to have
somebody to nag and chaff and make fun of, the Paladin had only
needed development in order to meet its requirements,
consequently the development was taken in hand and diligently
attended to and looked after, gnat-and-bull fashion, for years, to
the neglect and damage of far more important concerns. The result
was an unqualified success. No‰l prized the society of the Paladin
above everybody else's; the Paladin preferred anybody's to No‰l's.
The big fellow was often seen with the little fellow, but it was for
the same reason that the bull is often seen with the gnat.

With the first opportunity, I had a talk with No‰l. I welcomed him
to our expedition, and said:

"It was fine and brave of you to volunteer, No‰l."

His eye twinkled, and he answered:

"Yes, it was rather fine, I think. Still, the credit doesn't all belong
to me; I had help."

"Who helped you?"

"The governor."

"How?"

"Well, I'll tell you the whole thing. I came up from Domremy to
see the crowds and the general show, for I hadn't ever had any
experience of such things, of course, and this was a great
opportunity; but I hadn't any mind to volunteer. I overtook the
Paladin on the road and let him have my company the rest of the
way, although he did not want it and said so; and while we were
gawking and blinking in the glare of the governor's torches they
seized us and four more and added us to the escort, and that is
really how I came to volunteer. But, after all, I wasn't sorry,
remembering how dull life would have been in the village without
the Paladin."

"How did he feel about it? Was he satisfied?"

"I think he was glad."

"Why?"

"Because he said he wasn't. He was taken by surprise, you see, and
it is not likely that he could tell the truth without preparation. Not
that he would have prepared, if he had had the chance, for I do not
think he would. I am not charging him with that. In the same space
of time that he could prepare to speak the truth, he could also
prepare to lie; besides, his judgment would be cool then, and
would warn him against fooling with new methods in an
emergency. No, I am sure he was glad, because he said he wasn't."

"Do you think he was very glad?"

"Yes, I know he was. He begged like a slave, and bawled for his
mother. He said his health was delicate, and he didn't know how to
ride a horse, and he knew he couldn't outlive the first march. But
really he wasn't looking as delicate as he was feeling. There was a
cask of wine there, a proper lift for four men. The governor's
temper got afire, and he delivered an oath at him that knocked up
the dust where it struck the ground, and told him to shoulder that
cask or he would carve him to cutlets and send him home in a
basket. The Paladin did it, and that secured his promotion to a
privacy in the escort without any further debate."

"Yes, you seem to make it quite plain that he was glad to join--that
is, if your premises are right that you start from. How did he stand
the march last night?"

"About as I did. If he made the more noise, it was the privilege of
his bulk. We stayed in our saddles because we had help. We are
equally lame to-day, and if he likes to sit down, let him; I prefer to
stand."

Chapter 4 Joan Leads Us Through the Enemy

WE WERE called to quarters and subjected to a searching
inspection by Joan. Then she made a short little talk in which she
said that even the rude business of war could be conducted better
without profanity and other brutalities of speech than with them,
and that she should strictly require us to remember and apply this
admonition. She ordered half an hour's horsemanship drill for the
novices then, and appointed one of the veterans to conduct it. It
was a ridiculous exhibition, but we learned something, and Joan
was satisfied and complimented us. She did not take any
instruction herself or go through the evolutions and
man&oelig;uvers, but merely sat her horse like a martial little
statue and looked on. That was sufficient for her, you see. She
would not miss or forget a detail of the lesson, she would take it all
in with her eye and her mind, and apply it afterward with as much
certainty and confidence as if she had already practised it.

We now made three night marches of twelve or thirteen leagues
each, riding in peace and undisturbed, being taken for a roving
band of Free Companions. Country-folk were glad to have that sort
of people go by without stopping. Still, they were very wearying
marches, and not comfortable, for the bridges were few and the
streams many, and as we had to ford them we found the water
dismally cold, and afterward had to bed ourselves, still wet, on the
frosty or snowy ground, and get warm as we might and sleep if we
could, for it would not have been prudent to build fires. Our
energies languished under these hardships and deadly fatigues, but
Joan's did not. Her step kept its srping and firmness and her eye its
fire. We could only wonder at this, we could not explain it.

But if we had had hard times before, I know not what to call the
five nights that now followed, for the marches were as fatiguing,
the baths as cold, and we were ambuscaded seven times in
addition, and lost two novices and three veterans in the resulting
fights. The news had leaked out and gone abroad that the inspired
Virgin of Vaucouleurs was making for the King with an escort,
and all the roads were being watched now.

These five nights disheartened the command a good deal. This was
aggravated by a discovery which No‰l made, and which he
promptly made known at headquarters. Some of the men had been
trying to understand why Joan continued to be alert, vigorous, and
confident while the strongest men in the company were fagged
with the heavy marches and exposure and were become morose
and irritable. There, it shows you how men can have eyes and yet
not see. All their lives those men had seen their own women-folks
hitched up with a cow and dragging the plow in the fields while
the men did the driving. They had also seen other evidences that
women have far more endurance and patience and fortitude than
men--but what good had their seeing these things been to them?
None. It had taught them nothing. They were still surprised to see a
girl of seventeen bear the fatigues of war better than trained
veterans of the army. Moreover, they did not reflect that a great
soul, with a great purpose, can make a weak body strong and keep
it so; and here was the greatest soul in the universe; but how could
they know that, those dumb creatures? No, they knew nothing, and
their reasonings were of a piece with their ignorance. They argued
and discussed among themselves, with No‰l listening, and arrived
at the decision that Joan was a witch, and had her strange pluck
and strength from Satan; so they made a plan to watch for a safe
opportunity to take her life.

To have secret plottings of this sort going on in our midst was a
very serious business, of course, and the knights asked Joan's
permission to hang the plotters, but she refused without hesitancy.
She said:

"Neither these men nor any others can take my life before my
mission is accomplished, therefore why should I have their blood
upon my hands? I will inform them of this, and also admonish
them. Call them before me."

When the came she made that statement to them in a plain
matter-of-fact way, and just as if the thought never entered her
mind that any one could doubt it after she had given her word that
it was true. The men were evidently amazed and impressed to hear
her say such a thing in such a sure and confident way, for
prophecies boldly uttered never fall barren on superstitious ears.
Yes, this speech certainly impressed them, but her closing remark
impressed them still more. It was for the ringleader, and Joan said
it sorrowfully:

"It is a pity that you should plot another's death when you own is
so close at hand."

That man's horse stumbled and fell on him in the first ford which
we crossed that night, and he was drowned before we could help
him. We had no more conspiracies.

This night was harassed with ambuscades, but we got through
without having any men killed. One more night would carry us
over the hostile frontier if we had good luck, and we saw the night
close down with a good deal of solicitude. Always before, we had
been more or less reluctant to start out into the gloom and the
silence to be frozen in the fords and persecuted by the enemy, but
this time we were impatient to get under way and have it over,
although there was promise of more and harder fighting than any
of the previous nights had furnished. Moreover, in front of us
about three leagues there was a deep stream with a frail wooden
bridge over it, and as a cold rain mixed with snow had been falling
steadily all day we were anxious to find out whether we were in a
trap or not. If the swollen stream had washed away the bridge, we
might properly consider ourselves trapped and cut off from escape.

As soon as it was dark we filed out from the depth of the forest
where we had been hidden and began the march. From the time
that we had begun to encounter ambushes Joan had ridden at the
head of the column, and she took this post now. By the time we
had gone a league the rain and snow had turned to sleet, and under
the impulse of the storm-wind it lashed my face like whips, and I
envied Joan and the knights, who could close their visors and shut
up their heads in their helmets as in a box. Now, out of the pitchy
darkness and close at hand, came the sharp command:

"Halt!"

We obeyed. I made out a dim mass in front of us which might be a
body of horsemen, but one could not be sure. A man rode up and
said to Joan in a tone of reproof:

"Well, you have taken your time, truly. And what have you found
out? Is she still behind us, or in front?"

Joan answered in a level voice:

"She is still behind."

This news softened the stranger's tone. He said:

"If you know that to be true, you have not lost your time, Captain.
But are you sure? How do you know?"

"Because I have seen her."

"Seen her! Seen the Virgin herself?"

"Yes, I have been in her camp."

"Is it possible! Captain Raymond, I ask you to pardon me for
speaking in that tone just now. You have performed a daring and
admirable service. Where was she camped?"

"In the forest, not more than a league from here."

"Good! I was afraid we might be still behind her, but now that we
know she is behind us, everything is safe. She is our game. We will
hang her. You shall hang her yourself. No one has so well earned
the privilege of abolishing this pestilent limb of Satan."

"I do not know how to thank you sufficiently. If we catch her, I--"

"If! I will take care of that; give yourself no uneasiness. All I want
is just a look at her, to see what the imp is like that has been able
to make all this noise, then you and the halter may have her. How
many men has she?"

"I counted but eighteen, but she may have had two or three pickets
out."

"Is that all? It won't be a mouthful for my force. Is it true that she
is only a girl?"

"Yes; she is not more than seventeen."

"It passes belief! Is she robust, or slender?"

"Slender."

The officer pondered a moment or two, then he said:

"Was she preparing to break camp?"

"Not when I had my last glimpse of her."

"What was she doing?"

"She was talking quietly with an officer."

"Quietly? Not giving orders?"

"No, talking as quietly as we are now."

"That is good. She is feeling a false security. She would have been
restless and fussy else--it is the way of her sex when danger is
about. As she was making no preparation to break camp--"

"She certainly was not when I saw her last."

"--and was chatting quietly and at her ease, it means that this
weather is not to her taste. Night-marching in sleet and wind is not
for chits of seventeen. No; she will stay where she is. She has my
thanks. We will camp, ourselves; here is as good a place as any.
Let us get about it."

"If you command it--certainly. But she has two knights with her.
They might force her to march, particularly if the weather should
improve."

I was scared, and impatient to be getting out of this peril, and it
distressed and worried me to have Joan apparently set herself to
work to make delay and increase the danger--still, I thought she
probably knew better than I what to do. The officer said:

"Well, in that case we are here to block the way."

"Yes, if they come this way. But if they should send out spies, and
find out enough to make them want to try for the bridge through
the woods? Is it best to allow the bridge to stand?"

It made me shiver to hear her.

The officer considered awhile, then said:

"It might be well enough to send a force to destroy the bridge. I
was intending to occupy it with the whole command, but that is
not necessary now."

Joan said, tranquilly:

"With your permission, I will go and destroy it myself."

Ah, now I saw her idea, and was glad she had had the cleverness to
invent it and the ability to keep her head cool and think of it in that
tight place. The officer replied:

"You have it, Captain, and my thanks. With you to do it, it will be
well done; I could send another in your place, but not a better."

They saluted, and we moved forward. I breathed freer. A dozen
times I had imagined I heard the hoofbeats of the real Captain
Raymond's troop arriving behind us, and had been sitting on pins
and needles all the while that that conversation was dragging
along. I breathed freer, but was still not comfortable, for Joan had
given only the simple command, "Forward!" Consequently we
moved in a walk. Moved in a dead walk past a dim and
lengthening column of enemies at our side. The suspense was
exhausting, yet it lasted but a short while, for when the enemy's
bugles sang the "Dismount!" Joan gave the word to trot, and that
was a great relief to me. She was always at herself, you see. Before
the command to dismount had been given, somebody might have
wanted the countersign somewhere along that line if we came
flying by at speed, but now wee seemed to be on our way to our
allotted camping position, so we were allowed to pass
unchallenged. The further we went the more formidable was the
strength revealed by the hostile force. Perhaps it was only a
hundred or two, but to me it seemed a thousand. When we passed
the last of these people I was thankful, and the deeper we plowed
into the darkness beyond them the better I felt. I came nearer and
nearer to feeling good, for an hour; then we found the bridge still
standing, and I felt entirely good. We crossed it and destroyed it,
and then I felt--but I cannot describe what I felt. One has to feel it
himself in order to know what it is like.

We had expected to hear the rush of a pursuing force behind us,
for we thought that the real Captain Raymond would arrive and
suggest that perhaps the troop that had been mistaken for his
belonged to the Virgin of Vaucouleurs; but he must have been
delayed seriously, for when we resumed our march beyond the
river there were no sounds behind us except those which the storm
was furnishing.

I said that Joan had harvested a good many compliments intended
for Captain Raymond, and that he would find nothing of a crop left
but a dry stubble of reprimands when he got back, and a
commander just in the humor to superintend the gathering of it in.

Joan said:

"It will be as you say, no doubt; for the commander took a troop
for granted, in the night and unchallenged, and would have
camped without sending a force to destroy the bridge if he had
been left unadvised, and none are so ready to find fault with others
as those who do things worthy of blame themselves."

The Sieur Bertrand was amused at Joan's na‹ve way of referring to
her advice as if it had been a valuable present to a hostile leader
who was saved by it from making a censurable blunder of
omission, and then he went on to admire how ingeniously she had
deceived that man and yet had not told him anything that was not
the truth. This troubled Joan, and she said:

"I thought he was deceiving himself. I forbore to tell him lies, for
that would have been wrong; but if my truths deceived him,
perhaps that made them lies, and I am to blame. I would God I
knew if I have done wrong."

She was assured that she had done right, and that in the perils and
necessities of war deceptions that help one's own cause and hurt
the enemy's were always permissible; but she was not quite
satisfied with that, and thought that even when a great cause was
in danger one ought to have the privilege of trying honorable ways
first. Jean said:

"Joan, you told us yourself that you were going to Uncle Laxart's to
nurse his wife, but you didn't say you were going further, yet you
did go on to Vaucouleurs. There!"

"I see now," said Joan, sorrowfully. "I told no lie, yet I deceived. I
had tried all other ways first, but I could not get away, and I had to
get away. My mission required it. I did wrong, I think, and am to
blame."

She was silent a moment, turning the matter over in her mind, then
she added, with quiet decision, "But the thing itself was right, and I
would do it again."

It seemed an over-nice distinction, but nobody said anything. I few
had known her as well as she knew herself, and as her later history
revealed her to us, we should have perceived that she had a clear
meaning there, and that her position was not identical with ours, as
we were supposing, but occupied a higher plane. She would
sacrifice herself--and her best self; that is, her truthfulness--to save
her cause; but only that; she would not buy her life at that cost;
whereas our war-ethics permitted the purchase of our lives, or any
mere military advantage, small or great, by deception. Her saying
seemed a commonplace at the time, the essence of its meaning
escaping us; but one sees now that it contained a principle which
lifted it above that and made it great and fine.

Presently the wind died down, the sleet stopped falling, and the
cold was less severe. The road was become a bog, and the horses
labored through it at a walk--they could do no better. As the heavy
time wore on, exhaustion overcame us, and we slept in our
saddles. Not even the dangers that threatened us could keep us
awake.

This tenth night seemed longer than any of the others, and of
course it was the hardest, because we had been accumulating
fatigue from the beginning, and had more of it on hand now than at
any previous time. But we were not molested again. When the dull
dawn came at last we saw a river before us and we knew it was the
Loire; we entered the town of Gien, and knew we were in a
friendly land, with the hostiles all behind us. That was a glad
morning for us.

We were a worn and bedraggled and shabby-looking troop; and
still, as always, Joan was the freshest of us all, in both body and
spirits. We had averaged above thirteen leagues a night, by
tortuous and wretched roads. It was a remarkable march, and
shows what men can do when they have a leader with a
determined purpose and a resolution that never flags.

Chapter 5 We Pierce the Last Ambuscades

WE RESTED and otherwise refreshed ourselves two or three
hours at Gien, but by that time the news was abroad that the young
girl commissioned of God to deliver France was come; wherefore,
such a press of people flocked to our quarters to get sight of her
that it seemed best to seek a quieter place; so we pushed on and
halted at a small village called Fierbois.

We were now within six leagues of the King, who was a the Castle
of Chinon. Joan dictated a letter to him at once, and I wrote it. In it
she said she had come a hundred and fifty leagues to bring him
good news, and begged the privilege of delivering it in person. She
added that although she had never seen him she would know him
in any disguise and would point him out.

The two knights rode away at once with the letter. The troop slept
all the afternoon, and after supper we felt pretty fresh and fine,
especially our little group of young Domremians. We had the
comfortable tap-room of the village inn to ourselves, and for the
first time in ten unspeakably long days were exempt from bodings
and terrors and hardships and fatiguing labors. The Paladin was
suddenly become his ancient self again, and was swaggering up
and down, a very monument of self-complacency. No‰l
Rainguesson said:

"I think it is wonderful, the way he has brought us through."

"Who?" asked Jean.

"Why, the Paladin."

The Paladin seemed not to hear.

"What had he to do with it?" asked Pierre d'Arc.

"Everything. It was nothing but Joan's confidence in his discretion
that enabled her to keep up her heart. She could depend on us and
on herself for valor, but discretion is the winning thing in war,
after all; discretion is the rarest and loftiest of qualities, and he has
got more of it than any other man in France--more of it, perhaps,
than any other sixty men in France."

"Now you are getting ready to make a fool of yourself, No‰l
Rainguesson," said the Paladin, "and you want to coil some of that
long tongue of yours around your neck and stick the end of it in
your ear, then you'll be the less likely to get into trouble."

"I didn't know he had more discretion than other people," said
Pierre, "for discretion argues brains, and he hasn't any more brains
than the rest of us, in my opinion."

"No, you are wrong there. Discretion hasn't anything to do with
brains; brains are an obstruction to it, for it does not reason, it
feels. Perfect discretion means absence of brains. Discretion is a
quality of the heart--solely a quality of the heart; it acts upon us
through feeling. We know this because if it were an intellectual
quality it would only perceive a danger, for instance, where a
danger exists; whereas--"

"Hear him twaddle--the damned idiot!" muttered the Paladin.

"--whereas, it being purely a quality of the heart, and proceeding
by feeling, not reason, its reach is correspondingly wider and
sublimer, enabling it to perceive and avoid dangers that haven't
any existence at all; as, for instance, that night in the fog, when the
Paladin took his horse's ears for hostile lances and got off and
climbed a tree--"

"It's a lie! a lie without shadow of foundation, and I call upon you
all to beware you you give credence to the malicious inventions of
this ramshackle slander-mill that has been doing its best to destroy
my character for years, and will grind up your own reputations for
you next. I got off to tighten my saddle-girth--I wish I may die in
my tracks if it isn't so--and whoever wants to believe it can, and
whoever don't can let it alone."

"There, that is the way with him, you see; he never can discuss a
theme temperately, but always flies off the handle and becomes
disagreeable. And you notice his defect of memory. He remembers
getting off his horse, but forgets all the rest, even the tree. But that
is natural; he would remember getting off the horse because he
was so used to doing it. He always did it when there was an alarm
and the clash of arms at the front."

"Why did he choose that time for it?" asked Jean.

"I don't know. To tighten up his girth, he thinks, to climb a tree, I
think; I saw him climb nine trees in a single night."

"You saw nothing of the kind! A person that can lie like that
deserves no one's respect. I ask you all to answer me. Do you
believe what this reptile has said?"

All seemed embarrassed, and only Pierre replied. He said,
hesitatingly:

"I--well, I hardly know what to say. It is a delicate situation. It
seems offensive to me to refuse to believe a person when he makes
so direct a statement, and yet I am obliged to say, rude as it may
appear, that I am not able to believe the whole of it--no, I am not
able to believe that you climbed nine trees."

"There!" cried the Paladin; "now what do you think of yoiurself,
No‰l Rainguesson? How many do you believe I climbed, Pierre?"

"Only eight."

The laughter that followed inflamed the Paladin's anger to white
heat, and he said:

"I bide my time--I bide my time. I will reckon with you all, I
promise you that!"

"Don't get him started," No‰l pleaded; "he is a perfect lion when he
gets started. I saw enough to teach me that, after the third skirmish.
After it was over I saw him come out of the bushes and attack a
dead man single-handed."

"It is another lie; and I give you fair warning that you are going too
far. You will see me attack a live one if you are not careful."

"Meaning me, of course. This wounds me more than any number
of injurious and unkind speeches could do. In gratitude to one's
benefactor--"

"Benefactor? What do I owe you, I should like to know?"

"You owe me your life. I stood between the trees and the foe, and
kept hundreds and thousands of the enemy at bay when they were
thirsting for your blood. And I did not do it to display my daring. I
did it because I loved you and could not live without you."

"There--you have said enough! I will not stay here to listen to these
infamies. I can endure your lies, but not your love. Keep that
corruption for somebody with a stronger stomach than mine. And I
want to say this, before I go. That you people's small performances
might appear the better and win you the more glory, I hid my own
deeds through all the march. I went always to the front, where the
fighting was thickest, to be remote from you in order that you
might not see and be discouraged by the things I did to the enemy.
It was my purpose to keep this a secret in my own breast, but you
force me to reveal it. If you ask for my witnesses, yonder they lie,
on the road we have come. I found that road mud, I paved it with
corpses. I found that country sterile, I fertilized it with blood. Time
and again I was urged to go to the rear because the command could
not proceed on account of my dead. And yet you, you miscreant,
accuse me of climbing trees! Pah!"

And he strode out, with a lofty air, for the recital of his imaginary
deeds had already set him up again and made him feel good.

Next day we mounted and faced toward Chinon. Orleans was at
our back now, and close by, lying in the strangling grip of the
English; soon, please God, we would face about and go to their
relief. From Gien the news had spread to Orleans that the peasant
Maid of Vaucouleurs was on her way, divinely commissioned to
raise the siege. The news made a great excitement and raised a
great hope--the first breath of hope those poor souls had breathed
in five months. They sent commissioners at once to the King to
beg him to consider this matter, and not throw this help lightly
away. These commissioners were already at Chinon by this time.

When we were half-way to Chinon we happened upon yet one
more squad of enemies. They burst suddenly out of the woods, and
in considerable force, too; but we were not the apprentices we
were ten or twelve days before; no, we were seasoned to this kind
of adventure now; our hearts did not jump into our throats and our
weapons tremble in our hands. We had learned to be always in
battle array, always alert, and always ready to deal with any
emergency that might turn up. We were no more dismayed by the
sight of those people than our commander was. Before they could
form, Joan had delivered the order, "Forward!" and we were down
upon them with a rush. They stood no chance; they turned tail and
scattered, we plowing through them as if they had been men of
straw. That was our last ambuscade, and it was probably laid for us
by that treacherous rascal, the King's own minister and favorite, De
la Tremouille.

We housed ourselves in an inn, and soon the town came flocking
to get a glimpse of the Maid.

Ah, the tedious King and his tedious people! Our two good knights
came presently, their patience well wearied, and reported. They
and we reverently stood--as becomes persons who are in the
presence of kings and the superiors of kings--until Joan, troubled
by this mark of homage and respect, and not content with it nor yet
used to it, although we had not permitted ourselves to do otherwise
since the day she prophesied that wretched traitor's death and he
was straightway drowned, thus confirming many previous signs
that she was indeed an ambassador commissioned of God,
commanded us to sit; then the Sieur de Metz said to Joan:

"The King has got the letter, but they will not let us have speech
with him."

"Who is it that forbids?"

"None forbids, but there be three or four that are nearest his
person--schemers and traitors every one--that put obstructions in
the way, and seek all ways, by lies and pretexts, to make delay.
Chiefest of these are Georges de la Tremouille and that plotting
fox, the Archbishop of Rheims. While they keep the King idle and
in bondage to his sports and follies, they are great and their
importance grows; whereas if ever he assert himself and rise and
strike for crown and country like a man, their reign is done. So
they but thrive, they care not if the crown go to destruction and the
King with it."

"You have spoken with others besides these?"

"Not of the Court, no--the Court are the meek slaves of those
reptiles, and watch their mouths and their actions, acting as they
act, thinking as they think, saying as they say; wherefore they are
cold to us, and turn aside and go another way when we appear. But
we have spoken with the commissioners from Orleans. They said
with heat: 'It is a marvel that any man in such desperate case as is
the King can moon around in this torpid way, and see his all go to
ruin without lifting a finger to stay the disaster. What a most
strange spectacle it is! Here he is, shut up in this wee corner of the
realm like a rat in a trap; his royal shelter this huge gloomy tomb
of a castle, with wormy rags for upholstery and crippled furniture
for use, a very house of desolation; in his treasure forty francs, and
not a farthing more, God be witness! no army, nor any shadow of
one; and by contrast with his hungry poverty you behold this
crownless pauper and his shoals of fools and favorites tricked out
in the gaudiest silks and velvets you shall find in any Court in
Christendom. And look you, he knows that when our city falls--as
fall it surely will except succor come swiftly--France falls; he
knows that when that day comes he will be an outlaw and a
fugitive, and that behind him the English flag will float
unchallenged over every acre of his great heritage; he knows these
things, he knows that our faithful city is fighting all solitary and
alone against disease, starvation, and the sword to stay this awful
calamity, yet he will not strike one blow to save her, he will not
hear our prayers, he will not even look upon our faces.' That is
what the commissioners said, and they are in despair."

Joan said, gently:

"It is pity, but they must not despair. The Dauphin will hear them
presently. Tell them so."

She almost always called the King the Dauphin. To her mind he
was not King yet, not being crowned.

"We will tell them so, and it will content them, for they believe
you come from God. The Archbishop and his confederate have for
backer that veteran soldier Raoul de Gaucourt, Grand Master of
the Palace, a worthy man, but simply a soldier, with no head for
any greater matter. He cannot make out to see how a country-girl,
ignorant of war, can take a sword in her small hand and win
victories where the trained generals of France have looked for
defeats only, for fifty years--and always found them. And so he
lifts his frosty mustache and scoffs."

"When God fights it is but small matter whether the hand that
bears His sword is big or little. He will perceive this in time. Is
there none in that Castle of Chinon who favors us?"

"Yes, the King's mother-in-law, Yolande, Queen of Sicily, who is
wise and good. She spoke with the Sieur Bertrand."

"She favors us, and she hates those others, the King's beguilers,"
said Bertrand. "She was full of interest, and asked a thousand
questions, all of which I answered according to my ability. Then
she sat thinking over these replies until I thought she was lost in a
dream and would wake no more. But it was not so. At last she said,
slowly, and as if she were talking to herself: 'A child of
seventeen--a girl--country-bred--untaught--ignorant of war, the use
of arms, and the conduct of battles--modest, gentle, shrinking--yet
throws away her shepherd's crook and clothes herself in steel, and
fights her way through a hundred and fifty leagues of fear, and
comes--she to whom a king must be a dread and awful
presence--and will stand up before such an one and say, Be not
afraid, God has sent me to save you! Ah, whence could come a
courage and conviction so sublime as this but from very God
Himself!' She was silent again awhile, thinking and making up her
mind; then she said, 'And whether she comes of God or no, there is
that in her heart that raises her above men--1high above all men
that breathe in France to-day--for in her is that mysterious
something that puts heart into soldiers, and turns mobs of cowards
into armies of fighters that forget what fear is when they are in that
presence--fighters who go into battle with joy in their eyes and
songs on their lips, and sweep over the field like a storm --that is
the spirit that can save France, and that alone, come it whence it
may! It is in her, I do truly believe, for what else could have borne
up that child on that great march, and made her despise its dangers
and fatigues? The King must see her face to face--and shall!' She
dismissed me with those good words, and I know her promise will
be kept. They will delay her all they can--those animals--bu she
will not fail in the end."

"Would she were King!" said the other knight, fervently. "For there
is little hope that the King himself can be stirred out of his
lethargy. He is wholly without hope, and is only thinking of
throwing away everything and flying to some foreign land. The
commissioners say there is a spell upon him that makes him
hopeless--yes, and that it is shut up in a mystery which they cannot
fathom."

"I know the mystery," said Joan, with quiet confidence; "I know it,
and he knows it, but no other but God. When I see him I will tell
him a secret that will drive away his trouble, then he will hold up
his head again."

I was miserable with curiosity to know what it was that she would
tell him, but she did not say, and I did not expect she would. She
was but a child, it is true; but she was not a chatterer to tell great
matters and make herself important to little people; no, she was
reserved, and kept things to herself, as the truly great always do.

The next day Queen Yolande got one victory over the King's
keepers, for, in spite of their protestations and obstructions, she
procured an audience for our two knights, and they made the most
they could out of their opportunity. They told the King what a
spotless and beautiful character Joan was, and how great and noble
a spirit animated her, and they implored him to trust in her, believe
in her, and have faith that she was sent to save France. They
begged him to consent to see her. He was strongly moved to do
this, and promised that he would not drop the matter out of his
mind, but would consult with his council about it. This began to
look encouraging. Two hours later there was a great stir below,
and the innkeeper came flying up to say a commission of
illustrious ecclesiastics was come from the King--from the King
his very self, understand!--think of this vast honor to his humble
little hostelry!--and he was so overcome with the glory of it that he
could hardly find breath enough in his excited body to put the facts
into words. They were come from the King to speak with the Maid
of Vaucouleurs. Then he flew downstairs, and presently appeared
again, backing into the room, and bowing to the ground with every
step, in front of four imposing and austere bishops and their train
of servants.

Joan rose, and we all stood. The bishops took seats, and for a while
no word was said, for it was their prerogative to speak first, and
they were so astonished to see what a child it was that was making
such a noise in the world and degrading personages of their dignity
to the base function of ambassadors to her in her plebeian tavern,
that they could not find any words to say at first. Then presently
their spokesman told Joan they were aware that she had a message
for the King, wherefore she was now commanded to put it into
words, briefly and without waste of time or embroideries of
speech.

As for me, I could hardly contain my joy--our message was to
reach the King at last! And there was the same joy and pride and
exultation in the faces of our knights, too, and in those of Joan's
brothers. And I knew that they were all praying--asI was--that the
awe which we felt in the presence of these great dignitaries, and
which would have tied our tongues and locked our jaws, would not
affect her in the like degree, but that she would be enabled to word
her message well, and with little stumbling, and so make a
favorable impression here, where it would be so valuable and so
important.

Ah, dear, how little we were expecting what happened then! We
were aghast to hear her say what she said. She was standing in a
reverent attitude, with her head down and her hands clasped in
front of her; for she was always reverent toward the consecrated
servants of God. When the spokesman had finished, she raised her
head and set her calm eye on those faces, not any more disturbed
by their state and grandeur than a princess would have been, and
said, with all her ordinary simplicity and modesty of voice and
manner:

"Ye will forgive me, reverend sirs, but I have no message save for
the King's ear alone."

Those surprised men were dumb for a moment, and their faces
flushed darkly; then the spokesman said:

"Hark ye, to you fling the King's command in his face and refuse to
deliver this message of yours to his servants appointed to receive
it?"

"God has appointed me to receive it, and another's commandment
may not take precedence of that. I pray you let me have speech for
his grace the Dauphin."

"Forbear this folly, and come at your message! Deliver it, and
waste no more time about it."

"You err indeed, most reverend fathers in God, and it is not well. I
am not come hither to talk, but to deliver Orleans, and lead the
Dauphin to his good city of Rheims, and set the crown upon his
head."

"Is that the message you send to the King?"

But Joan only said, in the simple fashion which was her wont:

"Ye will pardon me for reminding you again--but I have no
message to send to any one."

The King's messengers rose in deep anger and swept out of the
place without further words, we and Joan kneeling as they passed.

Our countenances were vacant, our hearts full of a sense of
disaster. Our precious opportunity was thrown away; we could not
understand Joan's conduct, she who had ben so wise until this fatal
hour. At last the Sieur Bertrand found courage to ask her why she
had let this great chance to get her message to the King go by.

"Who sent them here?" she asked.

"The King."

"Who moved the King to send them?" She waited for an answer;
none came, for we began to see what was in her mind--so she
answered herself: "The Dauphin's council moved him to it. Are
they enemies to me and to the Dauphin's weal, or are they
friends?"

"Enemies," answered the Sieur Bertrand.

"If one would have a message go sound and ungarbled, does one
choose traitors and tricksters to send it by?"

I saw that we had been fools, and she wise. They saw it too, so
none found anything to say. Then she went on:

"They had but small wit that contrived this trap. They thought to
get my message and seem to deliver it straight, yet deftly twist it
from its purpose. You know that one part of my message is but
this--to move the Dauphin by argument and reasonings to give me
men-at-arms and send me to the siege. If an enemy carried these in
the right words, the exact words, and no word missing, yet left out
the persuasions of gesture and supplicating tone and beseeching
looks that inform the words and make them live, where were the
value of that argument--whom could it convince? Be patient, the
Dauphin will hear me presently; have no fear."

The Sieur de Metz nodded his head several times, and muttered as
to himself:

"She was right and wise, and we are but dull fools, when all is
said."

It was just my thought; I could have said it myself; and indeed it
was the thought of all there present. A sort of awe crept over us, to
think how that untaught girl, taken suddenly and unprepared, was
yet able to penetrate the cunning devices of a King's trained
advisers and defeat them. Marveling over this, and astonished at it,
we fell silent and spoke no more. We had come to know that she
was great in courage, fortitude, endurance, patience, conviction,
fidelity to all duties--in all things, indeed, that make a good and
trusty soldier and perfect him for his post; now we were beginning
to feel that maybe there were greatnesses in her brain that were
even greater than these great qualities of the heart. It set us
thinking.

What Joan did that day bore fruit the very day after. The King was
obliged to respect the spirit of a young girl who could hold her
own and stand her ground like that, and he asserted himself
sufficiently to put his respect into an act instead of into polite and
empty words. He moved Joan out of that poor inn, and housed her,
with us her servants, in the Castle of Courdray, personally
confiding her to the care of Madame de Bellier, wife of old Raoul
de Gaucourt, Master of the Palace. Of course, this royal attention
had an immediate result: all the great lords and ladies of the Court
began to flock there to see and listen to the wonderful girl-soldier
that all the world was talking about, and who had answered the
King's mandate with a bland refusal to obey. Joan charmed them
every one with her sweetness and simplicity and unconscious
eloquence, and all the best and capablest among them recognized
that there was an indefinable something about her that testified
that she was not made of common clay, that she was built on a
grander plan than the mass of mankind, and moved on a loftier
plane. These spread her fame. She always made friends and
advocates that way; neither the high nor the low could come
within the sound of her voice and the sight of her face and go out
from her presence indifferent.

Chapter 6 Joan Convinces the King

WELL, anything to make delay. The King's council advised him
against arriving at a decision in our matter too precipitately. He
arrive at a decision too precipitately! So they sent a committee of
priests--always priests--into Lorraine to inquire into Joan's
character and history--a matter which would consume several
weeks, of course. You see how fastidious they were. It was as if
people should come to put out the fire when a man's house was
burning down, and they waited till they could send into another
country to find out if he had always kept the Sabbath or not, before
letting him try.

So the days poked along; dreary for us young people in some ways,
but not in all, for we had one great anticipation in front of us; we
had never seen a king, and now some day we should have that
prodigious spectacle to see and to treasure in our memories all our
lives; so we were on the lookout, and always eager and watching
for the chance. The others were doomed to wait longer than I, as it
turned out. One day great news came--the Orleans commissioners,
with Yolande and our knights, had at last turned the council's
position and persuaded the King to see Joan.

Joan received the immense news gratefully but without losing her
head, but with us others it was otherwise; we could not eat or sleep
or do any rational thing for the excitement and the glory of it.
During two days our pair of noble knights were in distress and
trepidation on Joan's account, for the audience was to be at night,
and they were afraid that Joan would be so paralyzed by the glare
of light from the long files of torches, the solemn pomps and
ceremonies, the great concourse of renowned personages, the
brilliant costumes, and the other splendors of the Court, that she, a
simple country-maid, and all unused to such things, would be
overcome by these terrors and make a piteous failure.

No doubt I could have comforted them, but I was not free to speak.
Would Joan be disturbed by this cheap spectacle, this tinsel show,
with its small King and his butterfly dukelets?--she who had
spoken face to face with the princes of heaven, the familiars of
God, and seen their retinue of angels stretching back into the
remoteness of the sky, myriads upon myriads, like a measureless
fan of light, a glory like the glory of the sun streaming from each
of those innumerable heads, the massed radiance filling the deeps
of space with a blinding splendor? I thought not.

Queen Yolande wanted Joan to make the best possible impression
upon the King and the Court, so she was strenuous to have her
clothed in the richest stuffs, wrought upon the princeliest pattern,
and set off with jewels; but in that she had to be disappointed, of
course, Joan not being persuadable to it, but begging to be simply
and sincerely dressed, as became a servant of God, and one sent
upon a mission of a serious sort and grave political import. So then
the gracious Queen imagined and contrived that simple and
witching costume which I have described to you so many times,
and which I cannot think of even now in my dull age without being
moved just as rhythmical and exquisite music moves one; for that
was music, that dress--that is what it was--music that one saw with
a the eyes and felt in the heart. Yes, she was a poem, she was a
dream, she was a spirit when she was clothed in that.

She kept that raiment always, and wore it several times upon
occasions of state, and it is preserved to this day in the Treasury of
Orleans, with two of her swords, and her banner, and other things
now sacred because they had belonged to her.

At the appointed time the Count of Vend“me, a great lord of the
court, came richly clothed, with his train of servants and assistants,
to conduct Joan to the King, and the two knights and I went with
her, being entitled to this privilege by reason of our official
positions near her person.

When we entered the great audience-hall, there it all was just as I
have already painted it. Here were ranks of guards in shining
armor and with polished halberds; two sides of the hall were like
flower-gardens for variety of color and the magnificence of the
costumes; light streamed upon these masses of color from two
hundred and fifty flambeaux. There was a wide free space down
the middle of the hall, and at the end of it was a throne royally
canopied, and upon it sat a crowned and sceptered figure nobly
clothed and blazing with jewels.

It is true that Joan had been hindered and put off a good while, but
now that she was admitted to an audience at last, she was received
with honors granted to only the greatest personages. At the
entrance door stood four heralds in a row, in splendid tabards, with
long slender silver trumpets at their mouths, with square silken
banners depending from them embroidered with the arms of
France. As Joan and the Count passed by, these trumpets gave
forth in unison one long rich note, and as we moved down the hall
under the pictured and gilded vaulting, this was repeated at every
fifty feet of our progress--six times in all. It made our good knights
proud and happy, and they held themselves erect, and stiffened
their stride, and looked fine and soldierly. They were not expecting
this beautiful and honorable tribute to our little country-maid.

Joan walked two yards behind the Count, we three walked two
yards behind Joan. Our solemn march ended when we were as yet
some eight or ten steps from the throne. The Count made a deep
obeisance, pronounced Joan's name, then bowed again and moved
to his place among a group of officials near the throne. I was
devouring the crowned personage with all my eyes, and my heart
almost stgood still with awe.

The eyes of all others were fixed upon Joan in a gaze of wonder
which was half worship, and which seemed to say, "How
sweet--how lovely--how divine!" All lips were parted and
motionless, which was a sure sign that those people, who seldom
forget themselves, had forgotten themselves now, and were not
conscious of anything but the one object they were gazing upon.
They had the look of people who are under the enchantment of a
vision.

Then they presently began to come to life again, rousing
themselves out of the spell and shaking it off as one drives away
little by little a clinging drowsiness or intoxication. Now they fixed
their attention upon Joan with a strong new interest of another
sort; they were full of curiosity to see what she would do--they
having a secret and particular reason for this curiosity. So they
watched. This is what they saw:

She made no obeisance, nor even any slight inclination of her
head, but stood looking toward the throne in silence. That was all
there was to see at present.

I glanced up at De Metz, and was shocked at the paleness of his
face. I whispered and said:

"What is it, man, what is it?"

His answering whisper was so weak I could hardly catch it:

"They have taken advantage of the hint in her letter to play a trick
upon her! She will err, and they will laugh at her. That is not the
King that sits there."

Then I glanced at Joan. She was still gazing steadfastly toward the
throne, and I had the curious fancy that even her shoulders and the
back of her head expressed bewilderment. Now she turned her
head slowly, and her eye wandered along the lines of standing
courtiers till it fell upon a young man who was very quietly
dressed; then her face lighted joyously, and she ran and threw
herself at his feet, and clasped his knees, exclaiming in that soft
melodious voice which was her birthright and was now charged
with deep and tender feeling:

"God of his grace give you long life, O dear and gentle Dauphin!"

In his astonishment and exultation De Metz cried out:

"By the shadow of God, it is an amazing thing!" Then he mashed
all the bones of my hand in his grateful grip, and added, with a
proud shake of his mane, "Now, what have these painted infidels
to say!"

Meantime the young person in the plain clothes was saying to
Joan:

"Ah, you mistake, my child, I am not the King. There he is," and
he pointed to the throne.

The knight's face clouded, and he muttered in grief and
indignation:

"Ah, it is a shame to use her so. But for this lie she had gone
through safe. I will go and proclaim to all the house what--"

"Stay where you are!" whispered I and the Sieur Bertrand in a
breath, and made him stop in his place.

Joan did not stir from her knees, but still lifted her happy face
toward the King, and said:

"No, gracious liege, you are he, and none other."

De Metz's troubles vanished away, and he said:

"Verily, she was not guessing, she knew. Now, how could she
know? It is a miracle. I am content, and will meddle no more, for I
perceive that she is equal to her occasions, having that in her head
that cannot profitably be helped by the vacancy that is in mine."

This interruption of his lost me a remark or two of the other talk;
however, I caught the King's next question:

"But tell me who you are, and what would you?"

"I am called Joan the Maid, and am sent to say that the King of
Heaven wills that you be crowned and consecrated in your good
city of Rheims, and be thereafter Lieutenant of the Lord of
Heaven, who is King of France. And He willeth also that you set
me at my appointed work and give me men-at-arms." After a slight
pause she added, her eye lighting at the sound of her words, "For
then will I raise the siege of Orleans and break the English power!"

The young monarch's amused face sobered a little when this
martial speech fell upon that sick air like a breath blown from
embattled camps and fields of war, and this trifling smile presently
faded wholly away and disappeared. He was grave now, and
thoughtful. After a little he waved his hand lightly, and all the
people fell away and left those two by themselves in a vacant
space. The knights and I moved to the opposite side of the hall and
stood there. We saw Joan rise at a sign, then she and the King
talked privately together.

All that host had been consumed with curiosity to see what Joan
would do. Well, they had seen, and now they were full of
astonishment to see that she had really performed that strange
miracle according to the promise in her letter; and they were fully
as much astonished to find that she was not overcome by the
pomps and splendors about her, but was even more tranquil and at
her ease in holding speech with a monarch than ever they
themselves had been, with all their practice and experience.

As for our two knights, they were inflated beyond measure with
pride in Joan, but nearly dumb, as to speech, they not being able to
think out any way to account for her managing to carry herself
through this imposing ordeal without ever a mistake or an
awkwardness of any kind to mar the grace and credit of her great
performance.

The talk between Joan and the King was long and earnest, and held
in low voices. We could not hear, but we had our eyes and could
note effects; and presently we and all the house noted one effect
which was memorable and striking, and has been set down in
memoirs and histories and in testimony at the Process of
Rehabilitation by some who witnessed it; for all knew it was big
with meaning, though none knew what that meaning was at that
time, of course. For suddenly we saw the King shake off his
indolent attitude and straighten up like a man, and at the same
time look immeasurably astonished. It was as if Joan had told him
something almost too wonderful for belief, and yet of a most
uplifting and welcome nature.

It was long before we found out the secret of this conversation, but
we know it now, and all the world knows it. That part of the talk
was like this--as one may read in all histories. The perplexed King
asked Joan for a sign. He wanted to believe in her and her mission,
and that her Voices were supernatural and endowed with
knowledge hidden from mortals, but how could he do this unless
these Voices could prove their claim in some absolutely
unassailable way? It was then that Joan said:

"I will give you a sign, and you shall no more doubt. There is a
secret trouble in your heart which you speak of to none--a doubt
which wastes away your courage, and makes you dream of
throwing all away and fleeing from your realm. Within this little
while you have been praying, in your own breast, that God of his
grace would resolve that doubt, even if the doing of it must show
you that no kingly right is lodged in you."

It was that that amazed the King, for it was as she had said: his
prayer was the secret of his own breast, and none but God could
know about it. So he said:

"The sign is sufficient. I know now that these Voices are of God.
They have said true in this matter; if they have said more, tell it
me--I will believe."

"They have resolved that doubt, and I bring their very words,
which are these: Thou art lawful heir to the King thy father, and
true heir of France. God has spoken it. Now lift up they head, and
doubt no more, but give me men-at-arms and let me get about my
work."

Telling him he was of lawful birth was what straightened him up
and made a man of him for a moment, removing his doubts upon
that head and convincing him of his royal right; and if any could
have hanged his hindering and pestiferous council and set him
free, he would have answered Joan's prayer and set her in the field.
But no, those creatures were only checked, not checkmated; they
could invent some more delays.

We had been made proud by the honors which had so
distinguished Joan's entrance into that place--honors restricted to
personages of very high rank and worth--but that pride was as
nothing compared with the pride we had in the honor done her
upon leaving it. For whereas those first honors were shown only to
the great, these last, up to this time, had been shown only to the
royal. The King himself led Joan by the hand down the great hall
to the door, the glittering multitude standing and making reverence
as they passed, and the silver trumpets sounding those rich notes of
theirs. Then he dismissed her with gracious words, bending low
over her hand and kissing it. Always--from all companies, high or
low--she went forth richer in honor and esteem than when she
came.

And the King did another handsome thing by Joan, for he sent us
back to Courdray Castle torch-lighted and in state, under escort of
his own troop--his guard of honor--the only soldiers he had; and
finely equipped and bedizened they were, too, though they hadn't
seen the color of their wages since they were children, as a body
might say. The wonders which Joan had been performing before
the King had been carried all around by this time, so the road was
so packed with people who wanted to get a sight of her that we
could hardly dig through; and as for talking together, we couldn't,
all attempts at talk being drowned in the storm of shoutings and
huzzas that broke out all along as we passed, and kept abreast of us
like a wave the whole way.

Chapter 7 Our Paladin in His Glory

WE WERE doomed to suffer tedious waits and delays, and we
settled ourselves down to our fate and bore it with a dreary
patience, counting the slow hours and the dull days and hoping for
a turn when God should please to send it. The Paladin was the only
exception--that is to say, he was the only one who was happy and
had no heavy times. This was partly owing to the satisfaction he
got out of his clothes. He bought them at second hand--a Spanish
cavalier's complete suit, wide-brimmed hat with flowing plumes,
lace collar and cuffs, faded velvet doublet and trunks, short cloak
hung from the shoulder, funnel-topped buskins, long rapier, and all
that--a graceful and picturesque costume, and the Paladin's great
frame was the right place to hang it for effect. He wore it when off
duty; and when he swaggered by with one hand resting on the hilt
of his rapier, and twirling his new mustache with the other,
everybody stopped to look and admire; and well they might, for he
was a fine and stately contrast to the small French gentlemen of
the day squeezed into the trivial French costume of the time.

He was king bee of the little village that snuggled under the shelter
of the frowning towers and bastions of Courdray Castle, and
acknowledged lord of the tap-room of the inn. When he opened his
mouth there, he got a hearing. Those simple artisans and peasants
listened with deep and wondering interest; for he was a traveler
and had seen the world--all of it that lay between Chinon and
Domremy, at any rate--and that was a wide stretch more of it than
they might ever hope to see; and he had been in battle, and knew
how to paint its shock and struggle, its perils and surprised, with
an art that was all his own. He was cock of that walk, hero of that
hostelry; he drew custom as honey draws flies; so he was the pet of
the innkeeper, and of his wife and daughter, and they were his
obliged and willing servants.

Most people who have the narrative gift--that great and rare
endowment--have with it the defect of telling their choice things
over the same way every time, and this injures them and causes
them to sound stale and wearisome after several repetitions; but it
was not so with the Paladin, whose art was of a finer sort; it was
more stirring and interesting to hear him tell about a battle the
tenth time than it was the first time, because he did not tell it twice
the same way, but always made a new battle of it and a better one,
with more casualties on the enemy's side each time, and more
general wreck and disaster all around, and more widows and
orphans and suffering in the neighborhood where it happened. He
could not tell his battles apart himself, except by their names; and
by the time he had told one of then ten times it had grown so that
there wasn't room enough in France for it any more, but was
lapping over the edges. But up to that point the audience would not
allow him to substitute a new battle, knowing that the old ones
were the best, and sure to imporve as long as France could hold
them; and so, instead of saying to him as they would have said to
another, "Give us something fresh, we are fatigued with that old
thing," they would say, with one voice and with a strong interest,
"Tell about the surprise at Beaulieu again--tell in three or four
times!" That is a compliment which few narrative experts have
heard in their lifetime.

At first when the Paladin heard us tell about the glories of the
Royal Audience he was broken-hearted because he was not taken
with us to it; next, his talk was full of what he would have done if
he had been there; and within two days he was telling what he did
do when he was there. His mill was fairly started, now, and could
be trusted to take care of its affair. Within three nights afterward
all his battles were taking a rest, for already his worshipers in the
tap-room were so infatuated with the great tale of the Royal
Audience that they would have nothing else, and so besotted with
it were they that they would have cried if they could not have
gotten it.

No‰l Rainguesson hid himself and heard it, and came and told me,
and after that we went together to listen, bribing the inn hostess to
let us have her little private parlor, where we could stand at the
wickets in the door and see and hear.

The tap-room was large, yet had a snug and cozy look, with its
inviting little tables and chairs scattered irregularly over its red
brick floor, and its great fire flaming and crackling in the wide
chimney. It was a comfortable place to be in on such chilly and
blustering March nights as these, and a goodly company had taken
shelter there, and were sipping their wine in contentment and
gossiping one with another in a neighborly way while they waited
for the historian. The host, the hostess, and their pretty daughter
were flying here and there and yonder among the tables and doing
their best to keep up with the orders. The room was about forty
feet square, and a space or aisle down the center of it had been
kept vacant and reserved for the Paladin's needs. At the end of it
was a platform ten or twelve feet wide, with a big chair and a
small table on it, and three steps leading up to it.

Among the wine-sippers were many familiar faces: the cobbler, the
farrier, the blacksmith, the wheelwright, the armorer, the maltster,
the weaver, the backer, the miller's man with his dusty coat, and so
on; and conscious and important, as a matter of course, was the
barber-surgeon, for he is that in all villages. As he has to pull
everybody's teeth and purge and bleed all the grown people once a
month to keep their health sound, he knows everybody, and by
constant contact with all sorts of folk becomes a master of
etiquette and manners and a conversationalist of large facility.
There were plenty of carriers, drovers, and their sort, and
journeymen artisans.

When the Paladin presently came sauntering indolently in, he was
received with a cheer, and the barber hustled forward and greeted
him with several low and most graceful and courtly bows, also
taking his hand an touching his lips to it. Then he called in a loud
voice for a stoup of wine for the Paladin, and when the host's
daughter brought it up on the platform and dropped her courtesy
and departed, the barber called after her, and told her to add the
wine to his score. This won him ejaculations of approval, which
pleased him very much and made his little rat-eyes shine; and such
applause is right and proper, for when we do a liberal and gallant
thing it is but natural that we should wish to see notice taken of it.

The barber called upon the people to rise and drink the Paladin's
health, and they did it with alacrity and affectionate heartiness,
clashing their metal flagons together with a simultaneous crash,
and heightening the effect with a resounding cheer. It was a fine
thing to see how that young swashbuckler had made himself so
popular in a strange land in so little a while, and without other
helps to his advancement than just his tongue and the talent to use
it given him by God--a talent which was but one talent in the
beginning, but was now become ten through husbandry and the
increment and usufruct that do naturally follow that and reward it
as by a law.

The people sat down and began to hammer on the tables with their
flagons and call for "the King's Audience!--the King's
Audience!--the King's Audience!" The Paladin stood there in one
of his best attitudes, with his plumed great hat tipped over to the
left, the folds of his short cloak drooping from his shoulder, and
the one hand resting upon the hilt of his rapier and the other lifting
his beaker. As the noise died down he made a stately sort of a bow,
which he had picked up somewhere, then fetched his beaker with a
sweep to his lips and tilted his head back and rained it to the
bottom. The barber jumped for it and set it upon the Paladin's
table. Then the Paladin began to walk up and down his platform
with a great deal of dignity and quite at his ease; and as he walked
he talked, and every little while stopped and stood facing his house
and so standing continued his talk.

We went three nights in succession. It was plain that there was a
charm about the performance that was apart from the mere interest
which attaches to lying. It was presently discoverable that this
charm lay in the Paladin's sincerity. He was not lying consciously;
he believed what he was saying. To him, his initial statements
were facts, and whenever he enlarged a statement, the enlargement
became a fact too. He put his heart into his extravagant narrative,
just as a poet puts his heart into a heroic fiction, and his
earnestness disarmed criticism--disarmed it as far as he himself
was concerned. Nobody believed his narrative, but all believed that
he believed it.

He made his enlargements without flourish, without emphasis, and
so casually that often one failed to notice that a change had been
made. He spoke of the governor of Vaucouleurs, the first night,
simply as the governor of Vaucouleurs; he spoke of him the
second night as his uncle the governor of Vaucouleurs; the third
night he was his father. He did not seem to know that he was
making these extraordinary changes; they dropped from his lips in
a quite natural and effortless way. By his first night's account the
governor merely attached him to the Maid's military escort in a
general and unofficial way; the second night his uncle the governor
sent him with the Maid as lieutenant of her rear guard; the third
night his father the governor put the whole command, Maid and
all, in his special charge. The first night the governor spoke of his
as a youth without name or ancestry, but "destined to achieve
both"; the second night his uncle the governor spoke of him as the
latest and worthiest lineal descendent of the chiefest and noblest of
the Twelve Paladins of Charlemagne; the third night he spoke of
his as the lineal descendent of the whole dozen. In three nights he
promoted the Count of Vend“me from a fresh acquaintance to a
schoolmate, and then brother-in-law.

At the King's Audience everything grew, in the same way. First the
four silver trumpets were twelve, then thirty-five, finally
ninety-six; and byk that time he had thrown in so many drums and
cymbals that he had to lengthen the hall from five hundred feet to
nine hundred to accommodate them. Under his hand the people
present multiplied in the same large way.

The first two nights he contented himself with merely describing
and exaggerating the chief dramatic incident of the Audience, but
the third night he added illustration to description. He throned the
barber in his own high chair to represent the sham King; then he
told how the Court watched the Maid with intense interest and
suppressed merriment, expecting to see her fooled by the
deception and get herself swept permanently out of credit by the
storm of scornful laughter which would follow. He worked this
scene up till he got his house in a burning fever of excitement and
anticipation, then came his climax. Turning to the barber, he said:

"But mark you what she did. She gazed steadfastly upon that
sham's villain face as I now gaze upon yourse--this being her noble
and simple attitude, just as I stand now--then turned she--thus--to
me, and stretching her arm out--so--and pointing with her finger,
she said, in that firm, calm tone which she was used to use in
directing the conduct of a battle, 'Pluck me this false knave from
the throne!' I, striding forward as I do now, took him by the collar
and lifted him out and held him aloft--thus--as it he had been but a
child." (The house rose, shouting, stamping, and banging with their
flagons, and went fairly mad over this magnificent exhibition of
strength--and there was not the shadow of a laugh anywhere,
though the spectacle of the limp but proud barber hanging there in
the air like a puppy held by the scruff of its neck was a thing that
had nothing of solemnity about it.) "Then I set him down upon his
feet--thus-- being minded to get him by a better hold and heave
him out of the window, but she bid me forbear, so by that error he
escaped with his life.

"Then she turned her about and viewed the throng with those eyes
of hers, which are the clear-shining windows whence her immortal
wisdom looketh out upon the world, resolving its falsities and
coming at the kernel of truth that is hid within them, and presently
they fell upon a young man modestly clothed, and him she
proclaimed for what he truly was, saying, 'I am thy servant--thou
art the King!' Then all were astonished, and a great shout went up,
the whole six thousand joining in it, so that the walls rocked with
the volume and the tumult of it."

He made a fine and picturesque thing of the march-out from the
Audience, augmenting the glories of it to the last limit of the
impossibilities; then he took from his finger and held up a brass
nut from a bolt-head which the head ostler at the castle had given
him that morning, and made his conclusion--thus:

"Then the King dismissed the Maid most graciously--as indeed
was her desert--and, turning to me, said, 'Take this signet-ring, son
of the Paladins, and command me with it in your day of need; and
look you,' said he, touching my temple, 'preserve this brain, France
has use for it; and look well to its casket also, for I foresee that it
will be hooped with a ducal coronet one day.' I took the ring, and
knelt and kissed his hand, saying, 'Sire, where glory calls, there
will I be found; where danger and death are thickest, that is my
native air; when France and the throne need help--well, I say
nothing, for I am not of the talking sort--let my deeds speak for
me, it is all I ask.'
"So ended the most fortunate and memorable episode, so big with
future weal for the crown and the nation, and unto God be the
thanks! Rise! Fill you flagons! Now--to France and the
King--drink!"

They emptied them to the bottom, then burst into cheers and
huzzas, and kept it up as much as two minutes, the Paladin
standing at stately ease the while and smiling benignantly from his
platform.

Chapter 8 Joan Persuades Her Inquisitors

WHEN JOAN told the King what that deep secret was that was
torturing his heart, his doubts were cleared away; he believed she
was sent of God, and if he had been let alone he would have set
her upon her great mission at once. But he was not let alone.
Tremouille and the holy fox of Rheims knew their man. All they
needed to say was this--and they said it:

"Your Highness says her Voices have revealed to you, by her
mouth, a secret known only to yourself and God. How can you
know that her Voices are not of Satan, and she his
mouthpiece?--for does not Satan know the secrets of men and use
his knowledge for the destruction of their souls? It is a dangerous
business, and your Highness will do well not to proceed in it
without probing the matter to the bottom."

That was enough. It shriveled up the King's little soul like a raisin,
with terrors and apprehensions, and straightway he privately
appointed a commission of bishops to visit and question Joan daily
until they should find out whether her supernatural helps hailed
from heaven or from hell.

The King's relative, the Duke of Alen‡on, three years prisoner of
war to the English, was in these days released from captivity
through promise of a great ransom; and the name and fame of the
Maid having reached him--for the same filled all mouths now, and
penetrated to all parts--he came to Chinon to see with his own eyes
what manner of creature she might be. The King sent for Joan and
introduced her to the Duke. She said, in her simple fashion:

"You are welcome; the more of the blood of France that is joined
to this cause, the better for the cause and it."

Then the two talked together, and there was just the usual result:
when they departed, the Duke was her friend and advocate.

Joan attended the King's mass the next day, and afterward dined
with the King and the Duke. The King was learning to prize her
company and value her conversation; and that might well be, for,
like other kings, he was used to getting nothing out of people's talk
but guarded phrases, colorless and non-committal, or carefully
tinted to tally with the color of what he said himself; and so this
kind of conversation only vexes and bores, and is wearisome; but
Joan's talk was fresh and free, sincere and honest, and unmarred by
timorous self-watching and constraint. She said the very thing that
was in her mind, and said it in a plain, straightforward way. One
can believe that to the King this must have been like fresh cold
water from the mountains to parched lips used to the water of the
sun-baked puddles of the plain.

After dinner Joan so charmed the Duke with her horsemanship and
lance practice in the meadows by the Castle of Chinon whither the
King also had come to look on, that he made her a present of a
great black war-steed.

Every day the commission of bishops came and questioned Joan
about her Voices and her mission, and then went to the King with
their report. These pryings accomplished but little. She told as
much as she considered advisable, and kept the rest to herself.
Both threats and trickeries were wasted upon her. She did not care
for the threats, and the traps caught nothing. She was perfectly
frank and childlike about these things. She knew the bishops were
sent by the King, that their questions were the King's questions,
and that by all law and custom a King's questions must be
answered; yet she told the King in her na‹ve way at his own table
one day that she answered only such of those questions as suited
her.

The bishops finally concluded that they couldn't tell whether Joan
was sent by God or not. They were cautious, you see. There were
two powerful parties at Court; therefore to make a decision either
way would infallibly embroil them with one of those parties; so it
seemed to them wisest to roost on the fence and shift the burden to
other shoulders. And that is what they did. They made final report
that Joan's case was beyond their powers, and recommended that it
be put into the hands of the learned and illustrious doctors of the
University of Poitiers. Then they retired from the field, leaving
behind them this little item of testimony, wrung from them by
Joan's wise reticence: they said she was a "gentle and simple little
shepherdess, very candid, but not given to talking."

It was quite true--in their case. But if they could have looked back
and seen her with us in the happy pastures of Domremy, they
would have perceived that she had a tongue that could go fast
enough when no harm could come of her words.

So we traveled to Poitiers, to endure there three weeks of tedious
delay while this poor child was being daily questioned and
badgered before a great bench of--what? Military experts?--since
what she had come to apply for was an army and the privilege of
leading it to battle against the enemies of France. Oh no; it was a
great bench of priests and monks--profoundly leaned and astute
casuists--renowned professors of theology! Instead of setting a
military commission to find out if this valorous little soldier could
win victories, they set a company of holy hair-splitters and
phrase-mongers to work to find out if the soldier was sound in her
piety and had no doctrinal leaks. The rats were devouring the
house, but instead of examining the cat's teeth and claws, they only
concerned themselves to find out if it was a holy cat. If it was a
pious cat, a moral cat, all right, never mind about the other
capacities, they were of no consequence.

Joan was as sweetly self-possessed and tranquil before this grim
tribunal, with its robed celebrities, its solemn state and imposing
ceremonials, as if she were but a spectator and not herself on trial.
She sat there, solitary on her bench, untroubled, and disconcerted
the science of the sages with her sublime ignorance--an ignorance
which was a fortress; arts, wiles, the learning drawn from books,
and all like missiles rebounded from its unconscious masonry and
fell to the ground harmless; they could not dislodge the garrison
which was within--Joan's serene great heart and spirit, the guards
and keepers of her mission.

She answered all questions frankly, and she told all the story of her
visions and of her experiences with the angels and what they said
to her; and the manner of the telling was so unaffected, and so
earnest and sincere, and made it all seem so lifelike and real, that
even that hard practical court forgot itself and sat motionless and
mute, listening with a charmed and wondering interest to the end.
And if you would have other testimony than mine, look in the
histories and you will find where an eyewitness, giving sworn
testimony in the Rehabilitation process, says that she told that tale
"with a noble dignity and simplicity," and as to its effect, says in
substance what I have said. Seventeen, she was--seventeen, and all
alone on her bench by herself; yet was not afraid, but faced that
great company of erudite doctor4s of law ant theology, and by the
help of no art learned in the schools, but using only the
enchantments which were hers by nature, of youth, sincerity, a
voice soft and musical, and an eloquence whose source was the
heart, not the head, she laid that spell upon them. Now was not
that a beautiful thing to see? If I could, I would put it before you
just as I saw it; then I know what you would say.

As I have told you, she could not read. "One day they harried and
pestered her with arguments, reasonings, objections, and other
windy and wordy trivialities, gathered out of the works of this and
that and the other great theological authority, until at last her
patience vanished, and she turned upon them sharply and said:

"I don't know A from B; but I know this: that I am come by
command of the Lord of Heaven to deliver Orleans from the
English power and crown the King of Rheims, and the matters ye
are puttering over are of no consequence!"

Necessarily those were trying days for her, and wearing for
everybody that took part; but her share was the hardest, for she had
no holidays, but must be always on hand and stay the long hours
through, whereas this, that, and the other inquisitor could absent
himself and rest up from his fatigues when he got worn out. And
yet she showed no wear, no weariness, and but seldom let fly her
temper. As a rule she put her day through calm, alert, patient,
fencing with those veteran masters of scholarly sword-play and
coming out always without a scratch.

One day a Dominican sprung upon her a question which made
everybody cock up his ears with interest; as for me, I trembled, and
said to myself she is done this time, poor Joan, for there is no way
of answering this. The sly Dominican began in this way--in a sort
of indolent fashion, as if the thing he was about was a matter of no
moment:

"You assert that God has willed to deliver France from this English
bondage?"

"Yes, He has willed it."

"You wish for men-at-arms, so that you may go to the relief of
Orleans, I believe?"

"Yes--and the sooner the better."

"God is all-powerful, and able to do whatsoever thing He wills to
do, is it not so?"

"Most surely. None doubts it."

The Dominican lifted his head suddenly, and sprung that question I
have spoken of, with exultation:

"Then answer me this. If He has willed to deliver France, and is
able to do whatsoever He wills, where is the need for
men-at-arms?"

There was a fine stir and commotion when he said that, and a
sudden thrusting forward of heads and putting up of hands to ears
to catch the answer; and the Dominican wagged his head with
satisfaction, and looked about him collecting his applause, for it
shone in every face. But Joan was not disturbed. There was no note
of disquiet in her voice when she answered:

"He helps who help themselves. The sons of France will fight the
battles, but He will give the victory!"

You could see a light of admiration sweep the house from face to
face like a ray from the sun. Even the Dominican himself looked
pleased, to see his master-stroke so neatly parried, and I heard a
venerable bishop mutter, in the phrasing common to priest and
people in that robust time, "By God, the child has said true. He
willed that Goliath should be slain, and He sent a child like this to
do it!"

Another day, when the inquisition had dragged along until
everybody looked drowsy and tired but Joan, Brother S‚guin,
professor of theology at the University of Poitiers, who was a sour
and sarcastic man, fell to plying Joan with all sorts of nagging
questions in his bastard Limousin French--for he was from
Limoges. Finally he said:

"How is it that you understand those angels? What language did
they speak?"

"French."

"In-deed! How pleasant to know that our language is so honored!
Good French?"

"Yes--perfect."

"Perfect, eh? Well, certainly you ought to know. It was even better
than your own, eh?"

"As to that, I--I believe I cannot say," said she, and was going on,
but stopped. Then she added, almost as if she were saying it to
herself, "Still, it was an improvement on yours!"

I knew there was a chuckle back of her eyes, for all their
innocence. Everybody shouted. Brother S‚guin was nettled, and
asked brusquely:

"Do you believe in God?"

Joan answered with an irritating nonchalance:

"Oh, well, yes--better than you, it is likely."

Brother S‚guin lost his patience, and heaped sarcasm after sarcasm
upon her, and finally burst out in angry earnest, exclaiming:

"Very well, I can tell you this, you whose believe in God is so
great: God has not willed that any shall believe in you without a
sign. Where is your sign?--show it!"

This roused Joan, and she was on her feet in a moment, and flung
out her retort with spirit:

"I have not come to Poitiers to show signs and do miracles. Send
me to Orleans and you shall have signs enough. Give me
men-at-arms--few or many--and let me go!"

The fire was leaping from her eyes--ah, the heroic little figure!
can't you see her? There was a great burst of acclamations, and she
sat down blushing, for it was not in her delicate nature to like
being conspicuous.

This speech and that episode about the French language scored
two points against Brother S‚guin, while he scored nothing against
Joan; yet, sour man as he was, he was a manly man, and honest, as
you can see by the histories; for at the Rehabilitation he could have
hidden those unlucky incidents if he had chosen, but he didn't do
it, but spoke them right out in his evidence.

On one of the lat3er days of that three-weeks session the gowned
scholars and professors made one grand assault all along the line,
fairly overwhelming Joan with objections and arguments culled
from the writings of every ancient and illustrious authority of the
Roman Church. She was well-nigh smothered; but at last she
shook herself free and struck back, crying out:

"Listen! The Book of God is worth more than all these ye cite, and
I stand upon it. And I tell ye there are things in that Book that not
one among ye can read, with all your learning!"

From the first she was the guest, by invitation, of the dame De
Rabateau, wife of a councilor of the Parliament of Poitiers; and to
that house the great ladies of the city came nightly to see Joan and
talk with her; and not these only, but the old lawyers, councilors
and scholars of the Parliament and the University. And these grave
men, accustomed to weigh every strange and questionable thing,
and cautiously consider it, and turn it about this way and that and
still doubt it, came night after night, and night after night, falling
ever deeper and deeper under the influence of that mysterious
something, that spell, that elusive and unwordable fascination,
which was the supremest endowment of Joan of Arc, that winning
and persuasive and convincing something which high and low
alike recognized and felt, but which neither high nor low could
explain or describe, and one by one they all surrendered, saying,
"This child is sent of God."

All day long Joan, in the great court and subject to its rigid rules of
procedure, was at a disadvantage; her judges had things their own
way; but at night she held court herself, and matters were reversed,
she presiding, with her tongue free and her same judges there
before her. There could not be but one result: all the objections and
hindrances they could build around her with their hard labors of
the day she would charm away at night. In the end, she carried her
judges with her in a mass, and got her great verdict without a
dissenting voice.

The court was a sight to see when the president of it read it from
his throne, for all the great people of the town were there who
could get admission and find room. First there were some solemn
ceremonies, proper and usual at such times; then, when there was
silence again, the reading followed, penetrating the deep hush so
that every word was heard in even the remotest parts of the house:

"It is found, and is hereby declared, that Joan of Arc, called the
Maid, is a good Christian and a good Catholic; that there is
nothing in her person or her words contrary to the faith; and that
the King may and ought to accept the succor she offers; for to
repel it would be to offend the Holy Spirit, and render him
unworthy of the air of God."

The court rose, and then the storm of plaudits burst forth
unrebuked, dying down and bursting forth again and again, and I
lost sight of Joan, for she was swallowed up in a great tide of
people who rushed to congratulate her and pour out benedictions
upon her and upon the cause of France, now solemnly and
irrevocably delivered into her little hands.

Chapter 9 She Is Made General-in-Chief

IT WAS indeed a great day, and a stirring thing to see.

She had won! It was a mistake of Tremouille and her other
ill-wishers to let her hold court those nights.

The commission of priests sent to Lorraine ostensibly to inquire
into Joan's character--in fact to weary her with delays and wear out
her purpose and make her give it up--arrived back and reported her
character perfect. Our affairs were in full career now, you see.

The verdict made a prodigious stir. Dead France woke suddenly to
life, wherever the great news traveled. Whereas before, the
spiritless and cowed people hung their heads and slunk away if one
mentioned war to them, now they came clamoring to be enlisted
under the banner of the Maid of Vaucouleurs, and the roaring of
war-songs and the thundering of the drums filled all the air. I
remembered now what she had said, that time there in our village
when I proved by facts and statistics that France's case was
hopeless, and nothing could ever rouse the people from their
lethargy:

"They will hear the drums--and they will answer, they will march!"

It has been said that misfortunes never come one at a time, but in a
body. In our case it was the same with good luck. Having got a
start, it came flooding in, tide after tide. Our next wave of it was of
this sort. There had been grave doubts among the priests as to
whether the Church ought to permit a female soldier to dress like a
man. But now came a verdict on that head. Two of the greatest
scholars and theologians of the time--one of whom had been
Chancellor of the University of Paris--rendered it. They decided
that since Joan "must do the work of a man and a soldier, it is just
and legitimate that her apparel should conform to the situation."

It was a great point gained, the Church's authority to dress as a
man. Oh, yes, wave on wave the good luck came sweeping in.
Never mind about the smaller waves, let us come to the largest one
of all, the wave that swept us small fry quite off our feet and
almost drowned us with joy. The day of the great verdict, couriers
had been despatched to the King with it, and the next morning
bright and early the clear notes of a bugle came floating to us on
the crisp air, and we pricked up our ears and began to count them.
One--two--three; pause; one--two; pause; one--two--three,
again--and out we skipped and went flying; for that formula was
used only when the King's herald-at-arms would deliver a
proclamation to the people. As we hurried along, people came
racing out of every street and house and alley, men, women, and
children, all flushed, excited, and throwing lacking articles of
clothing on as they ran; still those clear notes pealed out, and still
the rush of people increased till the whole town was abroad and
streaming along the principal street. At last we reached the square,
which was now packed with citizens, and there, high on the
pedestal of the great cross, we saw the herald in his brilliant
costume, with his servitors about him. The next moment he began
his delivery in the powerful voice proper to his office:

"Know all men, and take heed therefore, that the most high, the
most illustrious Charles, by the grace of God King of France, hath
been pleased to confer upon his well-beloved servant Joan of Arc,
called the Maid, the title, emoluments, authorities, and dignity of
General-in-Chief of the Armies of France--"

Here a thousand caps flew in the air, and the multitude burst into a
hurricane of cheers that raged and raged till it seemed as if it
would never come to an end; but at last it did; then the herald went
on and finished:

--"and hath appointed to be her lieutenant and chief of staff a
prince of his royal house, his grace the Duke of Alen‡on!"

That was the end, and the hurricane began again, and was split up
into innumerable strips by the blowers of it and wafted through all
the lanes and streets of the town.

General of the Armies of France, with a prince of the blood for
subordinate! Yesterday she was nothing--to-day she was this.
Yesterday she was not even a sergeant, not even a corporal, not
even a private--to-day, with one step, she was at the top. Yesterday
she was less than nobody to the newest recruit--to-day her
command was law to La Hire, Saintrailles, the Bastard of Orleans,
and all those others, veterans of old renown, illustrious masters of
the trade of war. These were the thoughts I was thinking; I was
trying to realize this strange and wonderful thing that had
happened, you see.

My mind went travelling back, and presently lighted upon a
picture--a picture which was still so new and fresh in my memory
that it seemed a matter of only yesterday--and indeed its date was
no further back than the first days of January. This is what it was.
A peasant-girl in a far-off village, her seventeenth year not yet
quite completed, and herself and her village as unknown as if they
had been on the other side of the globe. She had picked up a
friendless wanderer somewhere and brought it home--a small gray
kitten in a forlorn and starving condition--and had fed it and
comforted it and got its confidence and made it believe in her, and
now it was curled up in her lap asleep, and she was knitting a
coarse stocking and thinking--dreaming--about what, one may
never know. And now--the kitten had hardly had time to become a
cat, and yet already the girl is General of the Armies of France,
with a prince of the blood to give orders to, and out of her village
obscurity her name has climbed up like the sun and is visible from
all corners of the land! It made me dizzy to think of these things,
they were so out of the common order, and seemed so impossible.

Chapter 10 The Maid's Sword and Banner

JOAN'S first official act was to dictate a letter to the English
commanders at Orleans, summoning them to deliver up all
strongholds in their possession and depart out of France. She must
have been thinking it all out before and arranging it in her mind, it
flowed from her lips so smoothly, and framed itself into such
vivacious and forcible language. Still, it might not have been so;
she always had a quick mind and a capable tongue, and her
faculties were constantly developing in these latter weeks. This
letter was to be forwarded presently from Blois. Men, provisions,
and money were offering in plenty now, and Joan appointed Blois
as a recruiting-station and depot of supplies, and ordered up La
Hire from the front to take charge.

The Great Bastard--him of the ducal house, and governor of
Orleans--had been clamoring for weeks for Joan to be sent to him,
and now came another messenger, old D'Aulon, a veteran officer, a
trusty man and fine and honest. The King kept him, and gave him
to Joan to be chief of her household, and commanded her to
appoint the rest of her people herself, making their number and
dignity accord with the greatness of her office; and at the same
time he gave order that they should be properly equipped with
arms, clothing, and horses.

Meantime the King was having a complete suit of armor made for
her at Tours. It was of the finest steel, heavily plated with silver,
richly ornamented with engraved designs, and polished like a
mirror.

Joan's Voices had told her that there was an ancient sword hidden
somewhere behind the altar of St. Catherine's at Fierbois, and she
sent De Metz to get it. The priests knew of no such sword, but a
search was made, and sure enough it was found in that place,
buried a little way under the ground. It had no sheath and was very
rusty, but the priests polished it up and sent it to Tours, whither we
were now to come. They also had a sheath of crimson velvet made
for it, and the people of Tours equipped it with another, made of
cloth-of-gold. But Joan meant to carry this sword always in battle;
so she laid the showy sheaths away and got one made of leather. It
was generally believed that his sword had belonged to
Charlemagne, but that was only a matter of opinion. I wanted to
sharpen that old blade, but she said it was not necessary, as she
should never kill anybody, and should carry it only as a symbol of
authority.

At Tours she designed her Standard, and a Scotch painter named
James Power made it. It was of the most delicate white boucassin,
with fringes of silk. For device it bore the image of God the Father
throned in the clouds and holding the world in His hand; two
angels knelt at His feet, presenting lilies; inscription, JESUS,
MARIA; on the reverse the crown of France supported by two
angels.

She also caused a smaller standard or pennon to be made, whereon
was represented an angel offering a lily to the Holy Virgin.

Everything was humming there at Tours. Every now and then one
heard the bray and crash of military music, every little while one
heard the measured tramp of marching men--squads of recruits
leaving for Blois; songs and shoutings and huzzas filled the air
night and day, the town was full of strangers, the streets and inns
were thronged, the bustle of preparation was everywhere, and
everybody carried a glad and cheerful face. Around Joan's
headquarters a crowd of people was always massed, hoping for a
glimpse of the new General, and when they got it, they went wild;
but they seldom got it, for she was busy planning her campaign,
receiving reports, giving orders, despatching couriers, and giving
what odd moments she could spare to the companies of great folk
waiting in the drawing-rooms. As for us boys, we hardly saw her at
all, she was so occupied.

We were in a mixed state of mind--sometimes hopeful, sometimes
not; mostly not. She had not appointed her household yet--that was
our trouble. We knew she was being overrun with applications for
places in it, and that these applications were backed by great
names and weighty influence, whereas we had nothing of the sort
to recommend us. She could fill her humblest places with titled
folk--folk whose relationships would be a bulwark for her and a
valuable support at all times. In these circumstances would policy
allow her to consider us? We were not as cheerful as the rest of the
town, but were inclined to be depressed and worried. Sometimes
we discussed our slim chances and gave them as good an
appearance as we could. But the very mention of the subject was
anguish to the Paladin; for whereas we had some little hope, he
had none at all. As a rule No‰l Rainguesson was quite wiLa
Hireing to let the dismal matter alone; but not when the Paladin
was present. Once we were talking the thing over, when No‰l said:

"Cheer up, Paladin, I had a dream last night, and you were the only
one among us that got an appointment. It wasn't a high one, but it
was an appointment, anyway--some kind of a lackey or
body-servant, or something of that kind."

The Paladin roused up and looked almost cheerful; for he was a
believer in dreams, and in anything and everything of a
superstitious sort, in fact. He said, with a rising hopefulness:

"I wish it might come true. Do you think it will come true?"

"Certainly; I might almost say I know it will, for my dreams hardly
ever fail."

"No‰l, I could hug you if that dream could come true, I could,
indeed! To be servant of the first General of France and have all
the world hear of it, and the news go back to the village and make
those gawks stare that always said I wouldn't ever amount to
anything--wouldn't it be great! Do you think it will come true,
No‰l? Don't you believe it will?"

"I do. There's my hand on it."

"No‰l, if it comes true I'll never forget you--shake again! I should
be dressed in a noble livery, and the news would go to the village,
and those animals would say, 'Him, lackey to the General-in-Chief,
with the eyes of the whole world on him, admiring--well, he has
shot up into the sky now, hasn't he!"

He began to walk the floor and pile castles in the air so fast and so
high that we could hardly keep up with him. Then all of a sudden
all the joy went out of his face and misery took its place, and he
said:

"Oh, dear, it is all a mistake, it will never come true. I forgot that
foolish business at Toul. I have kept out of her sight as much as I
could, all these weeks, hoping she would forget that and forgive
it--but I know she never will. She can't, of course. And, after all, I
wasn't to blame. I did say she promised to marry me, but they put
me up to it and persuaded me. I swear they did!" The vast creature
was almost crying. Then he pulled himself together and said,
remorsefully, "It was the only lie I've ever told, and--"

He was drowned out with a chorus of groans and outraged
exclamations; and before he could begin again, one of D'Aulon's
liveried servants appeared and said we were required at
headquarters. We rose, and No‰l said:

"There--what did I tell you? I have a presentiment--the spirit of
prophecy is upon me. She is going to appoint him, and we are to
go there and do him homage. Come along!"

But the Paladin was afraid to go, so we left him.

When we presently stood in the presence, in front of a crowd of
glittering officers of the army, Joan greeted us with a winning
smile, and said she appointed all of us to places in her household,
for she wanted her old friends by her. It was a beautiful surprise to
have ourselves honored like this when she could have had people
of birth and consequence instead, but we couldn't find our tongues
to say so, she was become so great and so high above us now. One
at a time we stepped forward and each received his warrant from
the hand of our chief, D'Aulon. All of us had honorable places; the
two knights stood highest; then Joan's two brothers; I was first
page and secretary, a young gentleman named Raimond was
second page; No‰l was her messenger; she had two heralds, and
also a chaplain and almoner, whose name was Jean Pasquerel. She
had previously appointed a maŒtre d'h“tel and a number of
domestics. Now she looked around and said:

"But where is the Paladin?"

The Sieur Bertrand said:

"He thought he was not sent for, your Excellency."

"Now that is not well. Let him be called."

The Paladin entered humbly enough. He ventured no farther than
just within the door. He stopped there, looking embarrassed and
afraid. Then Joan spoke pleasantly, and said:

"I watched you on the road. You began badly, but improved. Of
old you were a fantastic talker, but there is a man in you, and I will
bring it out." It was fine to see the Paladin's face light up when she
said that. "Will you follow where I lead?"

"Into the fire!" he said; and I said to myself, "By the ring of that, I
think she has turned this braggart into a hero. It is another of her
miracles, I make no doubt of it."

"I believe you," said Joan. "Here--take my banner. You will ride
with me in every field, and when France is saved, you will give it
me back."

He took the banner, which is now the most precious of the
memorials that remain of Joan of Arc, and his voice was unsteady
with emotion when he said:

"If I ever disgrace this trust, my comrades here will know how to
do a friend's office upon my body, and this charge I lay upon them,
as knowing they will not fail me."

Chapter 11 The War March Is Begun

NO L and I went back together--silent at first, and impressed.

Finally No‰l came up out of his thinkings and said:

"The first shall be last and the last first--there's authority for this
surprise. But at the same time wasn't it a lofty hoist for our big
bull!"

"It truly was; I am not over being stunned yet. It was the greatest
place in her gift."

"Yes, it was. There are many generals, and she can create more;
but there is only one Standard-Bearer."

"True. It is the most conspicuous place in the army, after her own."

"And the most coveted and honorable. Sons of two dukes tried to
get it, as we know. And of all people in the world, this majestic
windmill carries it off. Well, isn't it a gigantic promotion, when
you come to look at it!"

"There's no doubt about it. It's a kind of copy of Joan's own in
miniature."

"I don't know how to account for it--do you?"

"Yes--without any trouble at all--that is, I think I do."

No‰l was surprised at that, and glanced up quickly, as if to see if I
was in earnest. He said:

"I thought you couldn't be in earnest, but I see you are. If you can
make me understand this puzzle, do it. Tell me what the
explanation is."

"I believe I can. You have noticed that our chief knight says a good
many wise things and has a thoughtful head on his shoulders. One
day, riding along, we were talking about Joan's great talents, and
he said, 'But, greatest of all her gifts, she has the seeing eye.' I said,
like an unthinking fool, 'The seeing eye?--I shouldn't count on that
for much--I suppose we all have it.' 'No,' he said; 'very few have it.'
Then he explained, and made his meaning clear. He said the
common eye sees only the outside of things, and judges by that,
but the seeing eye pierces through and reads the heart and the soul,
finding there capacities which the outside didn't indicate or
promise, and which the other kind of eye couldn't detect. He said
the mightiest military genius must fail and come to nothing if it
have not the seeing eye--that is to say, if it cannot read men and
select its subordinates with an infallible judgment. It sees as by
intuition that this man is good for strategy, that one for dash and
daredevil assault, the other for patient bulldog persistence, and it
appoints each to his right place and wins, while the commander
without the seeing eye would give to each the other's place and
lose. He was right about Joan, and I saw it. When she was a child
and the tramp came one night, her father and all of us took him for
a rascal, but she saw the honest man through the rags. When I
dined with the governor of Vaucouleurs so long ago, I saw nothing
in our two knights, though I sat with them and talked with them
two hours; Joan was there five minutes, and neither spoke with
them nor heard them speak, yet she marked them for men of worth
and fidelity, and they have confirmed her judgment. Whom has she
sent for to take charge of this thundering rabble of new recruits at
Blois, made up of old disbanded Armagnac raiders, unspeakable
hellions, every one? Why, she has sent for Satan himself--that is to
say, La Hire--that military hurricane, that godless swashbuckler,
that lurid conflagration of blasphemy, that Vesuvius of profanity,
forever in eruption. Does he know how to deal with that mob of
roaring devils? Better than any man that lives; for he is the head
devil of this world his own self, he is the match of the whole of
them combined, and probably the father of most of them. She
places him in temporary command until she can get to Blois
herself--and then! Why, then she will certainly take them in hand
personally, or I don't know her as well as I ought to, after all these
years of intimacy. That will be a sight to see--that fair spirit in her
white armor, delivering her will to that muck-heap, that rag-pile,
that abandoned refuse of perdition."

"La Hire!" cried No‰l, "our hero of all these years--I do want to see
that man!"

"I too. His name stirs me just as it did when I was a little boy."

"I want to hear him swear."

"Of course, I would rather hear him swear than another man pray.
He is the frankest man there is, and the na‹vest. Once when he was
rebuked for pillaging on his raids, he said it was nothing. Said he,
'If God the Father were a soldier, He would rob.' I judge he is the
right man to take temporary charge there at Blois. Joan has cast the
seeing eye upon him, you see."

"Which brings us back to where we started. I have an honest
affection for the Paladin, and not merely because he is a good
fellow, but because he is my child--I made him what he is, the
windiest blusterer and most catholic liar in the kingdom. I'm glad
of his luck, but I hadn't the seeing eye. I shouldn't have chosen him
for the most dangerous post in the army. I should have placed him
in the rear to kill the wounded and violate the dead."

"Well, we shall see. Joan probably knows what is in him better
than we do. And I'll give you another idea. When a person in Joan
of Arc's position tells a man he is brave, he believes it; and
believing it is enough; in fact, to believe yourself brave is to be
brave; it is the one only essential thing."

"Now you've hit it!" cried No‰l. "She's got the creating mouth as
well as the seeing eye! Ah, yes, that is the thing. France was cowed
and a coward; Joan of Arc has spoken, and France is marching,
with her head up!"

I was summoned now to write a letter from Joan's dictation.
During the next day and night our several uniforms were made by
the tailors, and our new armor provided. We were beautiful to look
upon now, whether clothed for peace or war. Clothed for peace, in
costly stuffs and rich colors, the Paladin was a tower dyed with the
glories of the sunset; plumed and sashed and iron-clad for war, he
was a still statelier thing to look at.

Orders had been issued for the march toward Blois. It was a clear,
sharp, beautiful morning. As our showy great company trotted out
in column, riding two and two, Joan and the Duke of Alen‡on in
the lead, D'Aulon and the big standard-bearer next, and so on, we
made a handsome spectacle, as you may well imagine; and as we
plowed through the cheering crowds, with Joan bowing her
plumed head to left and right and the sun glinting from her silver
mail, the spectators realized that the curtain was rolling up before
their eyes upon the first act of a prodigious drama, and their rising
hopes were expressed in an enthusiasm that increased with each
moment, until at last one seemed to even physically feel the
concussion of the huzzas as well as hear them. Far down the street
we heard the softened strains of wind-blown music, and saw a
cloud of lancers moving, the sun glowing with a subdued light
upon the massed armor, but striking bright upon the soaring
lance-heads--a vaguely luminous nebula, so to speak, with a
constellation twinkling above it--and that was our guard of honor.
It joined us, the procession was complete, the first war-march of
Joan of Arc was begun, the curtain was up.

Chapter 12 Joan Puts Heart in Her Army

WE WERE at Blois three days. Oh, that camp, it is one of the
treasures of my memory! Order? There was no more order among
those brigands than there is among the wolves and the hyenas.
They went roaring and drinking about, whooping, shouting,
swearing, and entertaining themselves with all manner of rude and
riotous horse-play; and the place was full of loud and lewd
women, and they were no whit behind the men for romps and
noise and fantastics.

It was in the midst of this wild mob that No‰l and I had our first
glimpse of La Hire. He answered to our dearest dreams. He was of
great size and of martial bearing, he was cased in mail from head
to heel, with a bushel of swishing plumes on his helmet, and at his
side the vast sword of the time.

He was on his way to pay his respects in state to Joan, and as he
passed through the camp he was restoring order, and proclaiming
that the Maid had come, and he would have no such spectacle as
this exposed to the head of the army. His way of creating order
was his own, not borrowed. He did it with his great fists. As he
moved along swearing and admonishing, he let drive this way, that
way, and the other, and wherever his blow landed, a man went
down.

"Damn you!" he said, "staggering and cursing around like this, and
the Commander-in-Chief in the camp! Straighten up!" and he laid
the man flat. What his idea of straightening up was, was his own
secret.

We followed the veteran to headquarters, listening, observing,
admiring--yes, devouring, you may say, the pet hero of the boys of
France from our cradles up to that happy day, and their idol and
ours. I called to mind how Joan had once rebuked the Paladin,
there in the pastures of Domremy, for uttering lightly those mighty
names, La Hire and the Bastard of Orleans, and how she said that
if she could but be permitted to stand afar off and let her eyes rest
once upon those great men, she would hold it a privilege. They
were to her and the other girls just what they were to the boys.
Well, here was one of them at last--and what was his errand? It
was hard to realize it, and yet it was true; he was coming to
uncover his head before her and take her orders.

While he was quieting a considerable group of his brigands in his
soothing way, near headquarters, we stepped on ahead and got a
glimpse of Joan's military family, the great chiefs of the army, for
they had all arrived now. There they were, six officers of wide
renown, handsome men in beautiful armor, but the Lord High
Admiral of France was the handsomest of them all and had the
most gallant bearing.

When La Hire entered, one could see the surprise in his face at
Joan's beauty and extreme youth, and one could see, too, by Joan's
glad smile, that it made her happy to get sight of this hero of her
childhood at last. La Hire bowed low, with his helmet in his
gauntleted hand, and made a bluff but handsome little speech with
hardly an oath in it, and one could see that those two took to each
other on the spot.

The visit of ceremony was soon over, and the others went away;
but La Hire stayed, and he and Joan sat there, and he sipped her
wine, and they talked and laughed together like old friends. And
presently she gave him some instructions, in his quality as master
of the camp, which made his breath stand still. For, to begin with,
she said that all those loose women must pack out of the place at
once, she wouldn't allow one of them to remain. Next, the rough
carousing must stop, drinking must be brought within proper and
strictly defined limits, and discipline must take the place of
disorder. And finally she cloiimaxed the list of surprises with
this--which nearly lifted him out of his armor:

"Every man who joins my standard must confess before the priest
and absolve himself from sin; and all accepted recruits must be
present at divine service twice a day."

La Hire could not say a word for a good part of a minute, then he
said, in deep dejection:

"Oh, sweet child, they were littered in hell, these poor darlings of
mine! Attend mass? Why, dear heart, they'll see us both damned
first!"

And he went on, pouring out a most pathetic stream of arguments
and blasphemy, which broke Joan all up, and made her laugh as
she had not laughed since she played in the Domremy pastures. It
was good to hear.

But she stuck to her point; so the soldier yielded, and said all right,
if such were the orders he must obey, and would do the best that
was in him; then he refreshed himself with a lurid explosion of
oaths, and said that if any man in the camp refused to renounce sin
and lead a pious life, he would knock his head off. That started
Joan off again; she was really having a good time, you see. But she
would not consent to that form of conversions. She said they must
be voluntary.

La Hire said that that was all right, he wasn't going to kill the
voluntary ones, but only the others.

No matter, none of them must be killed--Joan couldn't have it. She
said that to give a man a chance to volunteer, on pain of death if he
didn't, left him more or less trammeled, and she wanted him to be
entirely free.

So the soldier sighed and said he would advertise the mass, but
said he doubted if there was a man in camp that was any more
likely to go to it than he was himself. Then there was another
surprise for him, for Joan said:

"But, dear man, you are going!"

"I? Impossible! Oh, this is lunacy!"

"Oh, no, it isn't. You are going to the service--twice a day."

"Oh, am I dreaming? Am I drunk--or is my hearing playing me
false? Why, I would rather go to--"

"Never mind where. In the morning you are going to begin, and
after that it will come easy. Now don't look downhearted like that.
Soon you won't mind it."

La Hire tried to cheer up, but he was not able to do it. He sighed
like a zephyr, and presently said:

"Well, I'll do it for you, but before I would do it for another, I
swear I--"

"But don't swear. Break it off."

"Break it off? It is impossible! I beg you to--to-- Why--oh, my
General, it is my native speech!"

He begged so hard for grace for his impediment, that Joan left him
one fragment of it; she said he might swear by his bƒton, the
symbol of his generalship.

He promised that he would swear only by his bƒton when in her
presence, and would try to modify himself elsewhere, but doubted
he could manage it, now that it was so old and stubborn a habit,
and such a solace and support to his declining years.

That tough old lion went away from there a good deal tamed and
civilized--not to say softened and sweetened, for perhaps those
expressions would hardly fit him. No‰l and I believed that when he
was away from Joan's influence his old aversions would come up
so strong in him that he could not master them, and so wouldn't go
to mass. But we got up early in the morning to see.

Satan was converted, you see. Well, the rest followed. Joan rode
up and down that camp, and wherever that fair young form
appeared in its shining armor, with that sweet face to grace the
vision and perfect it, the rude host seemed to think they saw the
god of war in person, descended out of the clouds; and first they
wondered, then they worshiped. After that, she could do with them
what she would.

In three days it was a clean camp and orderly, and those barbarians
were herding to divine service twice a day like good children. The
women were gone. La Hire was stunned by these marvels; he could
not understand them. He went outside the camp when he wanted to
swear. He was that sort of a man--sinful by nature and habit, but
full of superstitious respect for holy places.

The enthusiasm of the reformed army for Joan, its devotion to her,
and the hot desire had aroused in it to be led against the enemy,
exceeded any manifestations of this sort which La Hire had ever
seen before in his long career. His admiration of it all, and his
wonder over the mystery and miracle of it, were beyond his power
to put into words. He had held this army cheap before, but his
pride and confidence in it knew no limits now. He said:

"Two or three days ago it was afraid of a hen-roost; one could
storm the gates of hell with it now."

Joan and he were inseparable, and a quaint and pleasant contrast
they made. He was so big, she so little; he was so gray and so far
along in his pilgrimage of life, she so youthful; his face was so
bronzed and scarred, hers so fair and pink, so fresh and smooth;
she was so gracious, and he so stern; she was so pure, so innocent,
he such a cyclopedia of sin. In her eye was stored all charity and
compassion, in his lightnings; when her glance fell upon you it
seemed to bring benediction and the peace of God, but with his it
was different, generally.

They rode through the camp a dozen times a day, visiting every
corner of it, observing, inspecting, perfecting; and wherever they
appeared the enthusiasm broke forth. They rode side by side, he a
great figure of brawn and muscle, she a little masterwork of
roundness and grace; he a fortress of rusty iron, she a shining
statuette of silver; and when the reformed raiders and bandits
caught sight of them they spoke out, with affection and welcome
in their voices, and said:

"There they come--Satan and the Page of Christ!"

All the three days that we were in Blois, Joan worked earnestly
and tirelessly to bring La Hire to God--to rescue him from the
bondage of sin--to breathe into his stormy hear the serenity and
peace of religion. She urged, she begged, she implored him to
pray. He stood out, three days of our stay, begging about piteously
to be let off--to be let off from just that one thing, that impossible
thing; he would do anything else--anything--command, and he
would obey--he would go through the fire for her if she said the
word--but spare him this, only this, for he couldn't pray, had never
prayed, he was ignorant of how to frame a prayer, he had no words
to put it in.

And yet--can any believe it?--she carried even that point, she won
that incredible victory. She made La Hire pray. It shows, I think,
that nothing was impossible to Joan of Arc. Yes, he stood there
before her and put up his mailed hands and made a prayer. And it
was not borrowed, but was his very own; he had none to help him
frame it, he made it out of his own head--saying:

"Fair Sir God, I pray you to do by La Hire as he would do by you if
you were La Hire and he were God." [1]
Then he put on his helmet and marched out of Joan's tent as
satisfied with himself as any one might be who had arranged a
perplexed and difficult business to the content and admiration of
all the parties concerned in the matter.

If I had know that he had been praying, I could have understood
why he was feeling so superior, but of course I could not know
that.

I was coming to the tent at that moment, and saw him come out,
and saw him march away in that large fashion, and indeed it was
fine and beautiful to see. But when I got to the tent door I stopped
and stepped back, grieved and shocked, for I heard Joan crying, as
I mistakenly thought--crying as if she could not contain nor endure
the anguish of her soul, crying as if she would die. But it was not
so, she was laughing--laughing at La Hire's prayer.

It was not until six-and-thirty years afterward that I found that out,
and then--oh, then I only cried when that picture of young care-free
mirth rose before me out of the blur and mists of that
long-vanished time; for there had come a day between, when God's
good gift of laughter had gone out from me to come again no more
in this life.

[1] This prayer has been stolen many times and by many nations in
the past four hundred and sixty years, but it originated with La
Hire, and the fact is of official record in the National Archives of
France. We have the authority of Michelet for this. --
TRANSLATOR

Chapter 13 Checked by the Folly of the Wise

WE MARCHED out in great strength and splendor, and took the
road toward Orleans. The initial part of Joan's great dream was
realizing itself at last. It was the first time that any of us youngsters
had ever seen an army, and it was a most stately and imposing
spectacle to us. It was indeed an inspiring sight, that interminable
column, stretching away into the fading distances, and curving
itself in and out of the crookedness of the road like a mighty
serpent. Joan rode at the head of it with her personal staff; then
came a body of priests singing the Veni Creator, the banner of the
Cross rising out of their midst; after these the glinting forest of
spears. The several divisions were commanded by the great
Armagnac generals, La Hire, and Marshal de Boussac, the Sire de
Retz, Florent d'Illiers, and Poton de Saintrailles.

Each in his degree was tough, and there were three degrees--tough,
tougher, toughest--and La Hire was the last by a shade, but only a
shade. They were just illustrious official brigands, the whole party;
and by long habits of lawlessness they had lost all
acquaintanceship with obedience, if they had ever had any.

But what was the good of saying that? These independent birds
knew no law. They seldom obeyed the King; they never obeyed
him when it didn't suit them to do it. Would they obey the Maid?
In the first place they wouldn't know how to obey her or anybody
else, and in the second place it was of course not possible for them
to take her military character seriously--that country-girl of
seventeen who had been trained for the complex and terrible
business of war--how? By tending sheep.

They had no idea of obeying her except in cases where their
veteran military knowledge and experience showed them that the
thing she required was sound and right when gauged by the regular
military standards. Were they to blame for this attitude? I should
think not. Old war-worn captains are hard-headed, practical men.
They do not easily believe in the ability of ignorant children to
plan campaigns and command armies. No general that ever lived
could have taken Joan seriously (militarily) before she raised the
siege of Orleans and followed it with the great campaign of the
Loire.

Did they consider Joan valueless? Far from it. They valued her as
the fruitful earth values the sun--they fully believed she could
produce the crop, but that it was in their line of business, not hers,
to take it off. They had a deep and superstitious reverence for her
as being endowed with a mysterious supernatural something that
was able to do a mighty thing which they were powerless to
do--blow the breath of life and valor into the dead corpses of
cowed armies and turn them into heroes.

To their minds they were everything with her, but nothing without
her. She could inspire the soldiers and fit them for battle--but fight
the battle herself? Oh, nonsense--that was their function. They, the
generals, would fight the battles, Joan would give the victory. That
was their idea--an unconscious paraphrase of Joan's reply to the
Dominican.

So they began by playing a deception upon her. She had a clear
idea of how she meant to proceed. It was her purpose to march
boldly upon Orleans by the north bank of the Loire. She gave that
order to her generals. They said to themselves, "The idea is
insane--it is blunder No. 1; it is what might have been expected of
this child who is ignorant of war." They privately sent the word to
the Bastard of Orleans. He also recognized the insanity of it--at
least he though he did--and privately advised the generals to get
around the order in some way.

They did it by deceiving Joan. She trusted those people, she was
not expecting this sort of treatment, and was not on the lookout for
it. It was a lesson to her; she saw to it that the game was not played
a second time.

Why was Joan's idea insane, from the generals' point of view, but
not from hers? Because her plan was to raise the siege
immediately, by fighting, while theirs was to besiege the besiegers
and starve them out by closing their communications--a plan
which would require months in the consummation.

The English had built a fence of strong fortresses called bastilles
around Orleans--fortresses which closed all the gates of the city
but one. To the French generals the idea of trying to fight their way
past those fortresses and lead the army into Orleans was
preposterous; they believed that the result would be the army's
destruction. One may not doubt that their opinion was militarily
sound--no, would have been, but for one circumstance which they
overlooked. That was this: the English soldiers were in a
demoralized condition of superstitious terror; they had become
satisfied that the Maid was in league with Satan. By reason of this
a good deal of their courage had oozed out and vanished. On the
other hand, the Maid'' soldiers were full of courage, enthusiasm,
and zeal.

Joan could have marched by the English forts. However, it was not
to be. She had been cheated out of her first chance to strike a
heavy blow for her country.

In camp that night she slept in her armor on the ground. It was a
cold night, and she was nearly as stiff as her armor itself when we
resumed the march in the morning, for iron is not good material
for a blanket. However, her joy in being now so far on her way to
the theater of her mission was fire enough to warm her, and it soon
did it.

Her enthusiasm and impatience rose higher and higher with every
mile of progress; but at last we reached Olivet, and down it went,
and indignation took its place. For she saw the trick that had been
played upon her--the river lay between us and Orleans.

She was for attacking one of the three bastilles that were on our
side of the river and forcing access to the bridge which it guarded
(a project which, if successful, would raise the siege instantly), but
the long-ingrained fear of the English came upon her generals and
they implored her not to make the attempt. The soldiers wanted to
attack, but had to suffer disappointment. So we moved on and
came to a halt at a point opposite Ch‚cy, six miles above Orleans.

Dunois, Bastard of Orleans, with a body of knights and citizens,
came up from the city to welcome Joan. Joan was still burning
with resentment over the trick that had been put upon her, and was
not in the mood for soft speeches, even to reversed military idols
of her childhood. She said:

"Are you the bbb?"

"Yes, I am he, and am right glad of your coming."

"And did you advise that I be brought by this side of the river
instgead of straight to Talbot and the English?"

Her high manner abashed him, and he was not able to answer with
anything like a confident promptness, but with many hesitations
and partial excuses he managed to get out the confession that for
what he and the council had regarded as imperative military
reasons they so advised.

"In God's name," said Joan, "my Lord's counsel is safer and wiser
than yours. You thought to deceive me, but you have deceived
yourselves, for I bring you the bst help that ever knight or city had;
for it is God's help, not sent for love of me, but by God's pleasure.
At the prayer of St. Louis and St. Charlemagne He has had pity on
Orleans, and will not suffer the enemy to have both the Duke of
Orleans and his city. The provisions to save the starving people are
here, the boats are below the city, the wind is contrary, they cannot
come up hither. Now then, tell me, in God's name, you who are so
wise, what that council of yours was thinking about, to invent this
foolish difficulty."

Dunois and the rest fumbled around the matter a moment, then
gave in and conceded that a blunder had been made.

"Yes, a blunder has been made," said Joan, "and except God take
your proper work upon Himself and change the wind and correct
your blunder for you, there is none else that can devise a remedy."

Some of these people began to perceive that with all her technical
ignorance she had practical good sense, and that with all her native
sweetness and charm she was not the right kind of a person to play
with.

Presently God did take the blunder in hand, and by His grace the
wind did change. So the fleet of boats came up and went away
loaded with provisions and cattle, and conveyed that welcome
succor to the hungry city, managing the matter successfully under
protection of a sortie from the walls against the bastille of St.
Loup. Then Joan began on the Bastard again:

"You see here the army?"

"Yes."

"It is here on this side by advice of your council?"

"Yes."

"Now, in God's name, can that wise council explain why it is better
to have it here than it would be to have it in the bottom of the
sea?"

Dunois made some wandering attempts to explain the inexplicable
and excuse the inexcusable, but Joan cut him short and said:

"Answer me this, good sir--has the army any value on this side of
the river?"

The Bastard confessed that it hadn't--that is, in view of the plan of
campaign which she had devised and decreed.

"And yet, knowing this, you had the hardihood to disobey my
orders. Since the army's place is on the other side, will you explain
to me how it is to get there?"

The whole size of the needless muddle was apparent. Evasions
were of no use; therefore Dunois admitted that there was no way to
correct the blunder but to send the army all the way back to Blois,
and let it begin over again and come up on the other side this time,
according to Joan's original plan.

Any other girl, after winning such a triumph as this over a veteran
soldier of old renown, might have exulted a little and been
excusable for it, but Joan showed no disposition of this sort. She
dropped a word or two of grief over the precious time that must be
lost, then began at once to issue commands for the march back.
She sorrowed to see her army go; for she said its heart was great
and its enthusiasm high, and that with it at her back she did not
fear to face all the might of England.

All arrangements having been completed for the return of the main
body of the army, she took the Bastard and La Hire and a thousand
men and went down to Orleans, where all the town was in a fever
of impatience to have sight of her face. It was eight in the evening
when she and the troops rode in at the Burgundy gate, with the
Paladin preceding her with her standard. She was riding a white
horse, and she carried in her hand the sacred sword of Fierbois.
You should have seen Orleans then. What a picture it was! Such
black seas of people, such a starry firmament of torches, such
roaring whirlwinds of welcome, such booming of bells and
thundering of cannon! It was as if the world was come to an end.
Everywhere in the glare of the torches one saw rank upon rank of
upturned white faces, the mouths wide open, shouting, and the
unchecked tears running down; Joan forged her slow way through
the solid masses, her mailed form projecting above the pavement
of heads like a silver statue. The people about her struggled along,
gazing up at her through their tears with the rapt look of men and
women who believe they are seeing one who is divine; and always
her feet were being kissed by grateful folk, and such as failed of
that privilege touched her horse and then kissed their fingers.

Nothing that Joan did escaped notice; everything she did was
commented upon and applauded. You could hear the remarks
going all the time.

"There--she's smiling--see!"

"Now she's taking her little plumed cap off to somebody--ah, it's
fine and graceful!"

"She's patting that woman on the head with her gauntlet."

"Oh, she was born on a horse--see her turn in her saddle, and kiss
the hilt of her sword to the ladies in the window that threw the
flowers down."

"Now there's a poor woman lifting up a child--she's kissed it--oh,
she's divine!"

"What a dainty little figure it is, and what a lovely face--and such
color and animation!"

Joan's slender long banner streaming backward had an
accident--the fringe caught fire from a torch. She leaned forward
and crushed the flame in her hand.

"She's not afraid of fire nor anything!" they shouted, and delivered
a storm of admiring applause that made everything quake.

She rode to the cathedral and gave thanks to God, and the people
crammed the place and added their devotions to hers; then she
took up her march again and picked her slow way through the
crowds and the wilderness of torches to the house of Jacques
Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of Orleans, where she was to be the
guest of his wife as long as she stayed in the city, and have his
young daughter for comrade and room-mate. The delirium of the
people went on the rest of the night, and with it the clamor of the
joy-bells and the welcoming cannon.

Joan of Arc had stepped upon her stage at last, and was ready to
begin.

Chapter 14 What the English Answered

SHE WAS ready, but must sit down and wait until there was an
army to work with.

Next morning, Saturday, April 30, 1429, she set about inquiring
after the messenger who carried her proclamation to the English
from Blois--the one which she had dictated at Poitiers. Here is a
copy of it. It is a remarkable document, for several reasons: for its
matter-of-fact directness, for its high spirit and forcible diction,
and for its na‹ve confidence in her ability to achieve the prodigious
task which she had laid upon herself, or which had been laid upon
her--which you please. All through it you seem to see the pomps of
war and hear the rumbling of the drums. In it Joan's warrior soul is
revealed, and for the moment the soft little shepherdess has
disappeared from your view. This untaught country-damsel,
unused to dictating anything at all to anybody, much less
documents of state to kings and generals, poured out this
procession of vigorous sentences as fluently as if this sort of work
had been her trade from childhood:

JESUS MARIA
King of England and you Duke of Bedford who call yourself
Regent of France; William de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk; and you
Thomas Lord Scales, who style yourselves lieutenants of the said
Bedford--do right to the King of Heaven. Render to the Maid who
is sent by God the keys of all the good towns you have taken and
violated in France. She is sent hither by God, to restore the blood
royal. She is very ready to make peace if you will do her right by
giving up France and paying for what you have held. And you
archers, companions of war, noble and otherwise, who are before
the good city of Orleans, begone into your own land in God's
name, or expect news from the Maid who will shortly go to see
you to your very great hurt. King of England, if you do not so, I am
chief of war, and whenever I shall find your people in France, I
will drive them out, willing or not willing; and if they do not obey
I will slay them all, but if they obey, I will have them to mercy. I
am come hither by God, the King of Heaven, body for body, to put
you our of France, in spite of those who would work treason and
mischief against the kingdom. Think not you shall ever hold the
kingdom from the King of Heaven, the Son of the Blessed Mary;
King Charles shall hold it, for God wills it so, and has revealed it
to him by the Maid. If you believe not the news sent by God
through the Maid, wherever we shall met you we will strike boldly
and make such a noise as has not been in France these thousand
years. Be sure that God can send more strength to the Maid than
you can bring to any assault against her and her good men-at-arms;
and then we shall see who has the better right, the King of Heaven,
or you. Duke of Bedford, the Maid prays you not to bring about
your own destruction. If you do her right, you may yet go in her
company where the French shall do the finest deed that has been
done in Christendom, and if you do not, you shall be reminded
shortly of your great wrongs.

In that closing sentence she invites them to go on crusade with her
to rescue the Holy Sepulcher. No answer had been returned to this
proclamation, and the messenger himself had not come back.

So now she sent her two heralds with a new letter warning the
English to raise the siege and requiring them to restore that
missing messenger. The heralds came back without him. All they
brought was notice from the English to Joan that they would
presently catch her and burn her if she did not clear out now while
she had a chance, and "go back to her proper trade of minding
cows."

She held her peace, only saying it was a pity that the English
would persist in inviting present disaster and eventual destruction
when she was "doing all she could to get them out of the country
with their lives still in their bodies."

Presently she thought of an arrangement that might be acceptable,
and said to the heralds, "Go back and say to Lord Talbot this, from
me: 'Come out of your bastilles with your host, and I will come
with mine; if I beat you, go in peace out of France; if you beat me,
burn me, according to your desire.'"

I did not hear this, but Dunois did, and spoke of it. The challenge
was refused.

Sunday morning her Voices or some instinct gave her a warning,
and she sent Dunois to Blois to take command of the army and
hurry it to Orleans. It was a wise move, for he found Regnault de
Chartres and some more of the King's pet rascals there trying their
best to disperse the army, and crippling all the efforts of Joan's
generals to head it for Orleans. They were a fine lot, those
miscreants. They turned their attention to Dunois now, but he had
balked Joan once, with unpleasant results to himself, and was not
minded to meddle in that way again. He soon had the army
moving.

Chapter 15 My Exquisite Poem Goes to Smash

WE OF the personal staff were in fairyland now, during the few
days that we waited for the return of the army. We went into
society. To our two knights this was not a novelty, but to us young
villagers it was a new and wonderful life. Any position of any sort
near the person of the Maid of Vaucouleurs conferred high
distinction upon the holder and caused his society to be courted;
and so the D'Arc brothers, and No‰l, and the Paladin, humble
peasants at home, were gentlemen here, personages of weight and
influence. It was fine to see how soon their country diffidences and
awkwardnesses melted away under this pleasant sun of deference
and disappeared, and how lightly and easily they took to their new
atmosphere. The Paladin was as happy as it was possible for any
one in this earth to be. His tongue went all the time, and daily he
got new delight out of hearing himself talk. He began to enlarge
his ancestry and spread it out all around, and ennoble it right and
left, and it was not long until it consisted almost entirely of dukes.
He worked up his old battles and tricked them out with fresh
splendors; also with new terrors, for he added artillery now. We
had seen cannon for the first time at Blois--a few pieces--here
there was plenty of it, and now and then we had the impressive
spectacle of a huge English bastille hidden from sight in a
mountain of smoke from its own guns, with lances of red flame
darting through it; and this grand picture, along with the quaking
thunders pounding away in the heart of it, inflamed the Paladin's
imagination and enabled him to dress out those
ambuscade-skirmishes of ours with a sublimity which made it
impossible for any to recognize them at all except people who had
not been there.

You may suspect that there was a special inspiration for these
great efforts of the Paladin's, and there was. It was the daughter of
the house, Catherine Boucher, who was eighteen, and gentle and
lovely in her ways, and very beautiful. I think she might have been
as beautiful as Joan herself, if she had had Joan's eyes. But that
could never be. There was never but that one pair, there will never
be another. Joan's eyes were deep and rich and wonderful beyond
anything merely earthly. They spoke all the languages--they had no
need of words. They produced all effects--and just by a glance, just
a single glance; a glance that could convict a liar of his lie and
make him confess it; that could bring down a proud man's pride
and make him humble; that could put courage into a coward and
strike dead the courage of the bravest; that could appease
resentments and real hatreds; that could make the doubter believe
and the hopeless hope again; that could purify the impure mind;
that could persuade--ah, there it is--persuasion! that is the word;
what or who is it that it couldn't persuade? The maniac of
Domremy--the fairy-banishing priest--the reverend tribunal of
Toul--the doubting and superstitious Laxart--the obstinate veteran
of Vaucouleurs--the characterless heir of France--the sages and
scholars of the Parliament and University of Poitiers--the darling
of Satan, La Hire--the masterless Bastard of Orleans, accustomed
to acknowledge no way as right and rational but his own--these
were the trophies of that great gift that made her the wonder and
mystery that she was.

We mingled companionably with the great folk who flocked to the
big house to make Joan's acquaintance, and they made much of us
and we lived in the clouds, so to speak. But what we preferred
even to this happiness was the quieter occasions, when the formal
guests were gone and the family and a few dozen of its familiar
friends were gathered together for a social good time. It was then
that we did our best, we five youngsters, with such fascinations as
we had, and the chief object of them was Catherine. None of us
had ever been in love been in love before, and now we had the
misfortune to all fall in love with the same person at the same
time--which was the first moment we saw her. She was a merry
heart, and full of life, and I still remember tenderly those few
evenings that I was permitted to have my share of her dear society
and of comradeship with that little company of charming people.

The Paladin made us all jealous the first night, for when he got
fairly started on those battles of his he had everything to himself,
and there was no use in anybody else's trying to get any attention.
Those people had been living in the midst of real war for seven
months; and to hear this windy giant lay out his imaginary
campaigns and fairly swim in blood and spatter it all around,
entertained them to the verge of the grave. Catherine was like to
die, for pure enjoyment. She didn't laugh loud--we, of course,
wished she would--but kept in the shelter of a fan, and shook until
there was danger that she would unhitch her ribs from her spine.
Then when the Paladin had got done with a battle and we began to
feel thankful and hope for a change, she would speak up in a way
that was so sweet and persuasive that it rankled in me, and ask him
about some detail or other in the early part of his battle which she
said had greatly interested her, and would he be so good as to
describe that part again and with a little more particularity?--which
of course precipitated the whole battle on us, again, with a hundred
lies added that had been overlooked before.

I do not know how to make you realize the pain I suffered. I had
never been jealous before, and it seemed intolerable that this
creature should have this good fortune which he was so ill entitled
to, and I have to sit and see myself neglected when I was so
longing for the least little attention out of the thousand that this
beloved girl was lavishing on him. I was near her, and tried two or
three times to get started on some of the things that I had done in
those battles--and I felt ashamed of myself, too, for stooping to
such a business--but she cared for nothing but his battles, and
could not be got to listen; and presently when one of my attempts
caused her to lose some precious rag or other of his mendacities
and she asked him to repeat, thus bringing on a new engagement,
of course, and increasing the havoc and carnage tenfold, I felt so
humiliated by this pitiful miscarriage of mine that I gave up and
tried no more.

The others were as outraged by the Paladin's selfish conduct as I
was--and by his grand luck, too, of course--perhaps, indeed, that
was the main hurt. We talked our trouble over together, which was
natural, for rivals become brothers when a common affliction
assails them and a common enemy bears off the victory.

Each of us could do things that would please and get notice if it
were not for this person, who occupied all the time and gave others
no chance. I had made a poem, taking a whole night to it--a poem
in which I most happily and delicately celebrated that sweet girl's
charms, without mentioning her name, but any one could see who
was meant; for the bare title--"The Rose of Orleans"--would reveal
that, as it seemed to me. It pictured this pure and dainty white rose
as growing up out of the rude soil of war and looking abroad out of
its tender eyes upon the horrid machinery of death, and then--note
this conceit--it blushes for the sinful nature of man, and turns red
in a single night. Becomes a red rose, you see--a rose that was
white before. The idea was my own, and quite new. Then it sent its
sweet perfume out over the embattled city, and when the
beleaguering forces smelt it they laid down their arms and wept.
This was also my own idea, and new. That closed that part of the
poem; then I put her into the similitude of the firmament--not the
whole of it, but only part. That is to say, she was the moon, and all
the constellations were following her about, their hearts in flames
for love of her, but she would not halt, she would not listen, for
'twas thought she loved another. 'Twas thought she loved a poor
unworthy suppliant who was upon the earth, facing danger, death,
and possible mutilation in the bloody field, waging relentless war
against a heartless foe to save her from an all too early grave, and
her city from destruction. And when the sad pursuing
constellations came to know and realize the bitter sorrow that was
come upon them--note this idea--their hearts broke and their tears
gushed forth, filling the vault of heaven with a fiery splendor, for
those tears were falling stars. It was a rash idea, but beautiful;
beautiful and pathetic; wonderfully pathetic, the way I had it, with
the rhyme and all to help. At the end of each verse there was a
two-line refrain pitying the poor earthly lover separated so far, and
perhaps forever, from her he loved so well, and growing always
paler and weaker and thinner in his agony as he neared the cruel
grave--the most touching thing--even the boys themselves could
hardly keep back their tears, the way No‰l said those lines. There
were eight four-line stanzas in the first end of the poem--the end
about the rose, the horticultural end, as you may say, if that is not
too large a name for such a little poem--and eight in the
astronomical end--sixteen stanzas altogether, and I could have
made it a hundred and fifty if I had wanted to, I was so inspired
and so all swelled up with beautiful thoughts and fancies; but that
would have been too many to sing or recite before a company that
way, whereas sixteen was just right, and could be done over again
if desired.

The boys were amazed that I could make such a poem as that out
of my own head, and so was I, of course, it being as much a
surprise to me as it could be to anybody, for I did not know that it
was in me. If any had asked me a single day before if it was in me,
I should have told them frankly no, it was not.

That is the way with us; we may go on half of our life not knowing
such a thing is in us, when in reality it was there all the time, and
all we needed was something to turn up that would call for it.
Indeed, it was always so without family. My grandfather had a
cancer, and they never knew what was the matter with him till he
died, and he didn't know himself. It is wonderful how gifts and
diseases can be concealed in that way. All that was necessary in
my case was for this lovely and inspiring girl to cross my path, and
out came the poem, and no more trouble to me to word it and
rhyme it and perfect it than it is to stone a dog. No, I should have
said it was not in me; but it was.

The boys couldn't say enough about it, they were so charmed and
astonished. The thing that pleased them the most was the way it
would do the Paladin's business for him. They forgot everything in
their anxiety to get him shelved and silenced. No‰l Rainguesson
was clear beside himself with admiration of the poem, and wished
he could do such a thing, but it was out of his line, and he couldn't,
of course. He had it by heart in half an hour, and there was never
anything so pathetic and beautiful as the way he recited it. For that
was just his gift--that and mimicry. He could recite anything better
than anybody in the world, and he could take of La Hire to the very
life--or anybody else, for that matter. Now I never could recite
worth a farthing; and when I tried with this poem the boys
wouldn't let me finish; they would nave nobody but No‰l. So then,
as I wanted the poem to make the best possible impression on
Catherine and the company, I told No‰l he might do the reciting.
Never was anybody so delighted. He could hardly believe that I
was in earnest, but I was. I said that to have them know that I was
the author of it would be enough for me. The boys were full of
exultation, and No‰l said if he could just get one chance at those
people it would be all he would ask; he would make them realize
that there was something higher and finer than war-lies to be had
here.

But how to get the opportunity--that was the difficulty. We
invented several schemes that promised fairly, and at last we hit
upon one that was sure. That was, to let the Paladin get a good
start in a manufactured battle, and then send in a false call for him,
and as soon as he was out of the room, have No‰l take his place
and finish the battle himself in the Paladin's own style, imitated to
a shade. That would get great applause, and win the house's favor
and put it in the right mood to hear the poem. The two triumphs
together with finish the Standard-Bearer--modify him, anyway, to
a certainty, and give the rest of us a chance for the future.

So the next night I kept out of the way until the Paladin had got his
start and was sweeping down upon the enemy like a whirlwind at
the head of his corps, then I stepped within the door in my official
uniform and announced that a messenger from General La Hire's
quarters desired speech with the Standard-Bearer. He left the
room, and No‰l took his place and said that the interruption was to
be deplored, but that fortunately he was personally acquainted with
the details of the battle himself, and if permitted would be glad to
state them to the company. Then without waiting for the
permission he turned himself to the Paladin--a dwarfed Paladin, of
course--with manner, tones, gestures, attitudes, everything exact,
and went right on with the battle, and it would be impossible to
imagine a more perfectly and minutely ridiculous imitation than he
furnished to those shrieking people. They went into spasms,
convulsions, frenzies of laughter, and the tears flowed down their
cheeks in rivulets. The more they laughed, the more inspires No‰l
grew with his theme and the greater marvels he worked, till really
the laughter was not properly laughing any more, but screaming.
Blessedest feature of all, Catherine Boucher was dying with
ecstasies, and presently there was little left of her but gasps and
suffocations. Victory? It was a perfect Agincourt.

The Paladin was gone only a couple of minutes; he found out at
once that a trick had been played on him, so he came back. When
he approached the door he heard No‰l ranting in there and
recognized the state of the case; so he remained near the door but
out of sight, and heard the performance through to the end. The
applause No‰l got when he finished was wonderful; and they kept
it up and kept it up, clapping their hands like mad, and shouting to
him to do it over again.

But No‰l was clever. He knew the very best background for a
poem of deep and refined sentiment and pathetic melancholy was
one where great and satisfying merriment had prepared the spirit
for the powerful contrast.

So he paused until all was quiet, then his face grew grave and
assumed an impressive aspect, and at once all faces sobered in
sympathy and took on a look of wondering and expectant interest.
Now he began in a low but distinct voice the opening verses of
The Rose. As he breathed the rhythmic measures forth, and one
gracious line after another fell upon those enchanted ears in that
deep hush, one could catch, on every hand, half-audible
ejaculations of "How lovely--how beautiful--how exquisite!"

By this time the Paladin, who had gone away for a moment with
the opening of the poem, was back again, and had stepped within
the door. He stood there now, resting his great frame against the
wall and gazing toward the reciter like one entranced. When No‰l
got to the second part, and that heart-breaking refrain began to
melt and move all listeners, the Paladin began to wipe away tears
with the back of first one hand and then the other. The next time
the refrain was repe3ated he got to snuffling, and sort of half
sobbing, and went to wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his
doublet. He was so conspicuous that he embarrassed No‰l a little,
and also had an ill effect upon the audience. With the next
repetition he broke quite down and began to cry like a calf, which
ruined all the effect and started many to the audience to laughing.
Then he went on from bad to worse, until I never saw such a
spectacle; for he fetched out a towel from under his doublet and
began to swab his eyes with it and let go the most infernal
bellowings mixed up with sobbings and groanings and retchings
and barkings and coughings and snortings and screamings and
howlings--and he tdwisted himself about on his heels and
squirmed this way and that, still pouring out that brutal clamor and
flourishing his towel in the air and swabbing again and wringing it
out. Hear? You couldn't hear yourself think. No‰l was wholly
drowned out and silenced, and those people were laughing the very
lungs out of themselves. It was the most degrading sight that ever
was. Now I heard the clankety-clank that plate-armor makes when
the man that is in it is running, and then alongside my head there
burst out the most inhuman explosion of laughter that ever rent the
drum of a person's ear, and I looked, and it was La Hire; and the
stood there with his gauntlets on his hips and his head tilted back
and his jaws spread to that degree to let out his hurricanes and his
thunders that it amounted to indecent exposure, for you could see
everything that was in him. Only one thing more and worse could
happen, and it happened: at the other door I saw the flurry and
bustle and bowings and scrapings of officials and flunkeys which
means that some great personage is coming--then Joan of Arc
stepped in, and the house rose! Yes, and tried to shut its
indecorous mouth and make itself grave and proper; but when it
saw the Maid herself go to laughing, it thanked God for this mercy
and the earthquake that followed.

Such things make a life of bitterness, and I do not wish to dwell
upon them. The effect of the poem was spoiled.

Chapter 16 The Finding of the Dwarf

THIS EPISODE disagreed with me and I was not able to leave my
bed the next day. The others were in the same condition. But for
this, one or another of us might have had the good luck that fell to
the Paladin's share that day; but it is observable that God in His
compassion sends the good luck to such as are ill equipped with
gifts, as compensation for their defect, but requires such as are
more fortunately endowed to get by labor and talent what those
others get by chance. It was No‰l who said this, and it seemed to
me to be well and justly thought.

The Paladin, going about the town all the day in order to be
followed and admired and overhear the people say in an awed
voice, "'Ssh!--look, it is the Standard-Bearer of Joan of Arc!" had
speech with all sorts and conditions of folk, and he learned from
some boatmen that there was a stir of some kind going on in the
bastilles on the other side of the river; and in the evening, seeking
further, he found a deserter from the fortress called the
"Augustins," who said that the English were going to send me over
to strengthen the garrisons on our side during the darkness of the
night, and were exulting greatly, for they meant to spring upon
Dunois and the army when it was passing the bastilles and destroy
it; a thing quite easy to do, since the "Witch" would not be there,
and without her presence the army would do like the French
armies of these many years past--drop their weapons and run when
they saw an English face.

It was ten at night when the Paladin brought this news and asked
leave to speak to Joan, and I was up and on duty then. It was a
bitter stroke to me to see what a chance I had lost. Joan made
searching inquiries, and satisfied herself that the word was true,
then she made this annoying remark:

"You have done well, and you have my thanks. It may be that you
have prevented a disaster. Your name and service shall receive
official mention."

Then he bowed low, and when he rose he was eleven feet high. As
he swelled out past me he covertly pulled down the corner of his
eye with his finger and muttered part of that defiled refrain, "Oh,
tears, ah, tears, oh, sad sweet tears!--name in General
Orders--personal mention to the King, you see!"

I wished Joan could have seen his conduct, but she was busy
thinking what she would do. Then she had me fetch the knight
Jean de Metz, and in a minute he was off for La Hire's quarters
with orders for him and the Lord de Villars and Florent d'Illiers to
report to her at five o'clock next morning with five hundred picked
men well mounted. The histories say half past four, but it is not
true, I heard the order given.

We were on our way at five to the minute, and encountered the
head of the arriving column between six and seven, a couple of
leagues from the city. Dunois was pleased, for the army had begun
to get restive and show uneasiness now that it was getting so near
to the dreaded bastilles. But that all disappeared now, as the word
ran down the line, with a huzza that swept along the length of it
like a wave, that the Maid was come. Dunois asked her to halt and
let the column pass in review, so that the men could be sure that
the reports of her presence was not a ruse to revive their courage.
So she took position at the side of the road with her staff, and the
battalions swung by with a martial stride, huzzaing. Joan was
armed, except her head. She was wearing the cunning little velvet
cap with the mass of curved white ostrich plumes tumbling over its
edges which the city of Orleans had given her the night she
arrived--the one that is in the picture that hangs in the H“tel de
Ville at Rouen. She was looking about fifteen. The sight of
soldiers always set her blood to leaping, and lit the fires in her eyes
and brought the warm rich color to her cheeks; it was then that you
saw that she was too beautiful to be of the earth, or at any rate that
there was s subtle something somewhere about her beauty that
differed it from the human types of your experience and exalted it
above them.

In the train of wains laden with supplies a man lay on top of the
goods. He was stretched out on his back, and his hands were tied
together with ropes, and also his ankles. Joan signed to the officer
in charge of that division of the train to come to her, and he rode
up and saluted.

"What is he that is bound there?" she asked.

"A prisoner, General."

"What is his offense?"

"He is a deserter."

"What is to be done with him?"

"He will be hanged, but it was not convenient on the march, and
there was no hurry."

"Tell me about him."

"He is a good soldier, but he asked leave to go and see his wife
who was dying, he said, but it could not be granted; so he went
without leave. Meanwhile the march began, and he only overtook
us yesterday evening."

"Overtook you? Did he come of his own will?"

"Yes, it was of his own will."

"He a deserter! Name of God! Bring him to me."

The officer rode forward and loosed the man's feet and brought
him back with his hands still tied. What a figure he was--a good
seven feet high, and built for business! He had a strong face; he
had an unkempt shock of black hair which showed up a striking
way when the officer removed his morion for him; for weapon he
had a big ax in his broad leathern belt. Standing by Joan's horse, he
made Joan look littler than ever, for his head was about on a level
with her own. His face was profoundly melancholy; all interest in
life seemed to be dead in the man. Joan said:

"Hold up your hands."

The man's head was down. He lifted it when he heard that soft
friendly voice, and there was a wistful something in his face which
made one think that there had been music in it for him and that he
would like to hear it again. When he raised his hands Joan laid her
sword to his bonds, but the officer said with apprehension:

"Ah, madam--my General!"

"What is it?" she said.

"He is under sentence!"

"Yes, I know. I am responsible for him"; and she cut the bonds.
They had lacerated his wrists, and they were bleeding. "Ah,
pitiful!" she said; "blood--I do not like it"; and she shrank from the
sight. But only for a moment. "Give me something, somebody, to
bandage his wrists with."

The officer said:

"Ah, my General! it is not fitting. Let me bring another to do it."

"Another? De par le Dieu! You would seek far to find one that can
do it better than I, for I learned it long ago among both men and
beasts. And I can tie better than those that did this; if I had tied
him the ropes had not cut his flesh."

The man looked on silent, while he was being bandaged, stealing a
furtive glance at Joan's face occasionally, such as an animal might
that is receiving a kindness form an unexpected quarter and is
gropingly trying to reconcile the act with its source. All the staff
had forgotten the huzzaing army drifting by in its rolling clouds of
dust, to crane their necks and watch the bandaging as if it was the
most interesting and absorbing novelty that ever was. I have often
seen people do like that--get entirely lost in the simplest trifle,
when it is something that is out of their line. Now there in Poitiers,
once, I saw two bishops and a dozen of those grave and famous
scholars grouped together watching a man paint a sign on a shop;
they didn't breathe, they were as good as dead; and when it began
to sprinkle they didn't know it at first; then they noticed it, and
each man hove a deep sigh, and glanced up with a surprised look
as wondering to see the others there, and how he came to be there
himself--but that is the way with people, as I have said. There is no
way of accounting for people. You have to take them as they are.

"There," said Joan at last, pleased with her success; "another could
have done it no better--not as well, I think. Tell me--what is it you
did? Tell me all."

The giant said:

"It was this way, my angel. My mother died, then my three little
children, one after the other, all in two years. It was the famine;
others fared so--it was God's will. I saw them die; I had that grace;
and I buried them. Then when my poor wife's fate was come, I
begged for leave to go to her--she who was so dear to me--she who
was all I had; I begged on my knees. But they would not let me.
Could I let her die, friendless and alone? Could I let her die
believing I would not come? Would she let me die and she not
come--with her feet free to do it if she would, and no cost upon it
but only her life? Ah, she would come--she would come through
the fire! So I went. I saw her. She died in my arms. I buried her.
Then the army was gone. I had trouble to overtake it, but my legs
are long and there are many hours in a day; I overtook it last
night."

Joan said, musingly, as as if she were thinking aloud:

"It sounds true. If true, it were no great harm to suspend the law
this one time--any would say that. It may not be true, but if it is
true--" She turned suddenly to the man and said, "I would see your
eyes--look up!" The eyes of the two met, and Joan said to the
officer, "This man is pardoned. Give you good day; you may go."
Then she said to the man, "Did you know it was death to come
back to the army?"

"Yes," he said, "I knew it."

"Then why did you do it?"

The man said, quite simply:

"Because it ws death. She was all I had. There was nothing left to
love."

"Ah, yes, there was--France! The children of France have always
their mother--they cannot be left with nothing to love. You shall
live--and you shall serve France--"

"I will serve you!"

--"you shall fight for France--"

"I will fight for you!"

"You shall be France's soldier--"

"I will be your soldier!"

--"you shall give all your heart to France--"

"I will give all my heart to you--and all my soul, if I have one--and
all my strength, which is great--for I was dead and am alive again;
I had nothing to live for, but now I have! You are France for me.
You are my France, and I will have no other."

Joan smiled, and was touched and pleased at the man's grave
enthusiasm--solemn enthusiasm, one may call it, for the manner of
it was deeper than mere gravity--and she said:

"Well, it shall be as you will. What are you called?"

The man answered with unsmiling simplicity:

"They call me the Dwarf, but I think it is more in jest than
otherwise."

It made Joan laugh, and she said:

"It has something of that look truly! What is the office of that vast
ax?"

The soldier replied with the same gravity--which must have been
born to him, it sat upon him so naturally:

"It is to persuade persons to respect France."

Joan laughed again, and said:

"Have you given many lessons?"

"Ah, indeed, yes--many."

"The pupils behaved to suit you, afterward?"

"Yes; it made them quiet--quite pleasant and quiet."

"I should think it would happen so. Would you like to be my
man-at-arms?--orderly, sentinel, or something like that?"

"If I may!"

"Then you shall. You shall have proper armor, and shall go on
teaching your art. Take one of those led horses there, and follow
the staff when we move."

That is how we came by the Dwarf; and a good fellow he was.
Joan picked him out on sight, but it wasn't a mistake; no one could
be faithfuler than he was, and he was a devil and the son of a devil
when he turned himself loose with his ax. He was so big that he
made the Paladin look like an ordinary man. He liked to like
people, therefore people liked him. He liked us boys from the start;
and he liked the knights, and liked pretty much everybody he came
across; but he thought more of a paring of Joan's finger-nail than
he did of all the rest of the world put together.

Yes, that is where we got him--stretched on the wain, going to his
death, poor chap, and nobody to say a good word for him. He was
a good find. Why, the knights treated him almost like an equal--it
is the honest truth; that is the sort of a man he was. They called
him the Bastille sometimes, and sometimes they called him
Hellfire, which was on account of his warm and sumptuous style in
battle, and you know they wouldn't have given him pet names if
they hadn't had a good deal of affection for him.

To the Dwarf, Joan was France, the spirit of France made flesh--he
never got away from that idea that he had started with; and God
knows it was the true one. That was a humble eye to see so great a
truth where some others failed. To me that seems quite
remarkable. And yet, after all, it was, in a way, just what nations
do. When they love a great and noble thing, they embody it--they
want it so that they can see it with their eyes; like liberty, for
instance. They are not content with the cloudy abstract idea, they
make a beautiful statue of it, and then their beloved idea is
substantial and they can look at it and worship it. And so it is as I
say; to the Dwarf, Joan was our country embodied, our country
made visible flesh cast in a gracious form. When she stood before
others, they saw Joan of Arc, but he saw France.

Sometimes he would speak of her by that name. It shows you how
the idea was embedded in his mind, and how real it was to him.
The world has called our kings by it, but I know of none of them
who has had so good a right as she to that sublime title.

When the march past was finished, Joan returned to the front and
rode at the head of the column. When we began to file past those
grim bastilles and could glimpse the men within, standing to their
guns and ready to empty death into our ranks, such a faintness
came over me and such a sickness that all things seemed to turn
dim and swim before my eyes; and the other boys looked droopy,
too, I thought--including the Paladin, although I do not know this
for certain, because he was ahead of me and I had to keep my eyes
out toward the bastille side, because I could wince better when I
saw what to wince at.

But Joan was at home--in Paradise, I might say. She sat up straight,
and I could see that she was feeling different from me. The
awfulest thing was the silence; there wasn't a sound but the
screaking of the saddles, the measured tramplings, and the
sneezing of the horses, afflicted by the smothering dust-clouds
which they kicked up. I wanted to sneeze myself, but it seemed to
me that I would rather go unsneezed, or suffer even a bitterer
torture, if there is one, than attract attention to myself.

I was not of a rank to make suggestions, or I would have suggested
that if we went faster we should get by sooner. It seemed to me
that it was an ill-judged time to be taking a walk. Just as we were
drifting in that suffocating stillness past a great cannon that stood
just within a raised portcullis, with nothing between me and it but
the moat, a most uncommon jackass in there split the world with
his bray, and I fell out of the saddle. Sir Bertrand grabbed me as I
went, which was well, for if I had gone to the ground in my armor
I could not have gotten up again by myself. The English warders
on the battlements laughed a coarse laugh, forgetting that every
one must begin, and that there had been a time when they
themselves would have fared no better when shot by a jackass.

The English never uttered a challenge nor fired a shot. It was said
afterward that when their men saw the Maid riding at the front and
saw how lovely she was, their eager courage cooled down in many
cases and vanished in the rest, they feeling certain that the creature
was not mortal, but the very child of Satan, and so the officers
were prudent and did not try to make them fight. It was said also
that some of the officers were affected by the same superstitious
fears. Well, in any case, they never offered to molest us, and we
poked by all the grisly fortresses in peace. During the march I
caught up on my devotions, which were in arrears; so it was not all
loss and no profit for me after all.

It was on this march that the histories say Dunois told Joan that the
English were expecting reinforcements under the command of Sir
John Fastolfe, and that she turned upon him and said:

"Bastard, Bastard, in God's name I warn you to let me know of his
coming as soon as you hear of it; for if he passes without my
knowledge you shall lose your head!"

It may be so; I don't deny it; but I didn't her it. If she really said it I
think she only meant she would take off his official head--degrade
him from his command. It was not like her to threaten a comrade's
life. She did have her doubts of her generals, and was entitled to
them, for she was all for storm and assault, and they were for
holding still and tiring the English out. Since they did not believe
in her way and were experienced old soldiers, it would be natural
for them to prefer their own and try to get around carrying hers
out.

But I did hear something that the histories didn't mention and don't
know about. I heard Joan say that now that the garrisons on the
other wide had been weakened to strengthen those on our side, the
most effective point of operations had shifted to the south shore;
so she meant to go over there and storm the forts which held the
bridge end, and that would open up communication with our own
dominions and raise the siege. The generals began to balk,
privately, right away, but they only baffled and delayed her, and
that for only four days.

All Orleans met the army at the gate and huzzaed it through the
bannered streets to its various quarters, but nobody had to rock it
to sleep; it slumped down dog-tired, for Dunois had rushed it
without mercy, and for the next twenty-four hours it would be
quiet, all but the snoring.

Chapter 17 Sweet Fruit of Bitter Truth

WHEN WE got home, breakfast for us minor fry was waiting in
our mess-room and the family honored us by coming in to eat it
with us. The nice old treasurer, and in fact all three were
flatteringly eager to hear about our adventures. Nobody asked the
Paladin to begin, but he did begin, because now that his specially
ordained and peculiar military rank set him above everybody on
the personal staff but old D'Aulon, who didn't eat with us, he didn't
care a farthing for the knights' nobility no mine, but took
precedence in the talk whenever it suited him, which was all the
time, because he was born that way. He said:

"God be thanked, we found the army in admirable condition I
think I have never seen a finer body of animals."

"Animals!" said Miss Catherine.

"I will explain to you what he means," said No‰l. "He--"

"I will trouble you not to trouble yourself to explain anything for
me," said the Paladin, loftily. "I have reason to think--"

"That is his way," said No‰l; "always when he thinks he has reason
to think, he thinks he does think, but this is an error. He didn't see
the army. I noticed him, and he didn't see it. He was troubled by
his old complaint."

"What s his old complaint?" Catherine asked.

"Prudence," I said, seeing my chance to help.

But it was not a fortunate remark, for the Paladin said:

"It probably isn't your turn to criticize people's prudence--you who
fall out of the saddle when a donkey brays."

They all laughed, and I was ashamed of myself for my hasty
smartness. I said:

"It isn't quite fair for you to say I fell out on account of the
donkey's braying. It was emotion, just ordinary emotion."

"Very well, if you want to call it that, I am not objecting. What
would you call it, Sir Bertrand?"

"Well, it--well, whatever it was, it was excusable, I think. All of
you have learned how to behave in hot hand-to-hand engagements,
and you don't need to be ashamed of your record in that matter; but
to walk along in front of death, with one's hands idle, and no noise,
no music, and nothing going on, is a very trying situation. If I were
you, De Conte, I would name the emotion; it's nothing to be
ashamed of."

It was as straight and sensible a speech as ever I heard, and I was
grateful for the opening it gave me; so I came out and said:

"It was fear--and thank you for the honest idea, too."

"It was the cleanest and best way out," said the old treasurer;
"you've done well, my lad."

That made me comfortable, and when Miss Catherine said, "It's
what I think, too," I was grateful to myself for getting into that
scrape.

Sir Jean de Metz said:

"We were all in a body together when the donkey brayed, and it
was dismally still at the time. I don't see how any young
campaigner could escape some little touch of that emotion."

He looked about him with a pleasant expression of inquiry on his
good face, and as each pair of eyes in turn met his head they were
in nodded a confession. Even the Paladin delivered his nod. That
surprised everybody, and saved the Standard-Bearer's credit. It was
clever of him; nobody believed he could tell the truth that way
without practice, or would tell that particular sort of a truth either
with or without practice. I suppose he judged it would favorably
impress the family. Then the old treasurer said:

"Passing the forts in that trying way required the same sort of
nerve that a person must have when ghosts are about him in the
dark, I should think. What does the Standard-Bearer think?"

"Well, I don't quite know about that, sir. I've often thought I would
like to see a ghost if I--"

"Would you?" exclaimed the young lady. "We've got one! Would
you try that one? Will you?"

She was so eager and pretty that the Paladin said straight out that
he would; and then as none of the rest had bravery enough to
expose the fear that was in him, one volunteered after the other
with a prompt mouth and a sick heart till all were shipped for the
voyage; then the girl clapped her hands in glee, and the parents
were gratified, too, saying that the ghosts of their house had been a
dread and a misery to them and their forebears for generations, and
nobody had ever been found yet who was willing to confront them
and find out what their trouble was, so that the family could heal it
and content the poor specters and beguile them to tranquillity and
peace.

Chapter 18 Joan's First Battle-Field

ABOUT NOON I was chatting with Madame Boucher; nothing
was going on, all was quiet, when Catherine Boucher suddenly
entered in great excitement, and said:

"Fly, sir, fly! The Maid was doing in her chair in my room, when
she sprang up and cried out, 'French blood is flowing!--my arms,
give me my arms!' Her giant was on guard at the door, and he
brought D'Aulon, who began to arm her, and I and the giant have
been warning the staff. Fly!--and stay by her; and if there really is a
battle, keep her out of it--don't let her risk herself--there is no
need--if the men know she is near and looking on, it is all that is
necessary. Keep her out of the fight--don't fail of this!"

I started on a run, saying, sarcastically--for I was always fond of
sarcasm, and it was said that I had a most neat gift that way:

"Oh, yes, nothing easier than that--I'll attend to it!"

At the furthest end of the house I met Joan, fully armed, hurrying
toward the door, and she said:

"Ah, French blood is being spilt, and you did not tell me."

"Indeed I did not know it," I said; "there are no sounds of war;
everything is quiet, your Excellency."

"You will hear war-sounds enough in a moment," she said, and
was gone.

It was true. Before one could count five there broke upon the
stillness the swelling rush and tramp of an approaching multitude
of men and horses, with hoarse cries of command; and then out of
the distance came the muffled deep boom!--boom-boom!--boom!
of cannon, and straightway that rushing multitude was roaring by
the house like a hurricane.

Our knights and all our staff came flying, armed, but with no
horses ready, and we burst out after Joan in a body, the Paladin in
the lead with the banner. The surging crowd was made up half of
citizens and half of soldiers, and had no recognizedleader. When
Joan was seen a huzza went up, and she shouted:

"A horse--a horse!"

A dozen saddles were at her disposal in a moment. She mounted, a
hundred people shouting:

"Way, there--way for the MAID OF ORLEANS!" The first time
that that immortal name was ever uttered--and I, praise God, was
there to hear it! The mass divided itself like the waters of the Red
Sea, and down this lane Joan went skimming like a bird, crying,
"Forward, French hearts--follow me!" and we came winging in her
wake on the rest of the borrowed horses, the holy standard
streaming above us, and the lane closing together in our rear.

This was a different thing from the ghastly march past the dismal
bastilles. No, we felt fine, now, and all awhirl with enthusiasm.
The explanation of this sudden uprising was this. The city and the
little garrison, so long hopeless and afraid, had gone wild over
Joan's coming, and could no longer restrain their desire to get at
the enemy; so, without orders from anybody, a few hundred
soldiers and citizens had plunged out at the Burgundy gate on a
sudden impulse and made a charge on one of Lord Talbot's most
formidable fortresses--St. Loup--and were getting the worst of it.
The news of this had swept through the city and started this new
crowd that we were with.

As we poured out at the gate we met a force bringing in the
wounded from the front. The sight moved Joan, and she said:

"Ah, French blood; it makes my hair rise to see it!"

We were soon on the field, soon in the midst of the turmoil. Joan
was seeing her first real battle, and so were we.

It was a battle in the open field; for the garrison of St. Loup had
sallied confidently out to meet the attack, being used to victories
when "witches" were not around. The sally had been reinforced by
troops from the "Paris" bastille, and when we approached the
French were getting whipped and were falling back. But when
Joan came charging through the disorder with her banner
displayed, crying "Forward, men--follow me!" there was a change;
the French turned about and surged forward like a solid wave of
the sea, and swept the English before them, hacking and slashing,
and being hacked and slashed, in a way that was terrible to see.

In the field the Dwarf had no assignment; that is to say, he was not
under orders to occupy any particular place, therefore he chose his
place for himself, and went ahead of Joan and made a road for her.
It was horrible to see the iron helmets fly into fragments under his
dreadful ax. He called it cracking nuts, and it looked like that. He
made a good road, and paved it well with flesh and iron. Joan and
the rest of us followed it so briskly that we outspeeded our forces
and had the English behind us as well as before. The knights
commanded us to face outward around Joan, which we did, and
then there was work done that was fine to see. One was obliged to
respect the Paladin, now. Being right under Joan's exalting and
transforming eye, he forgot his native prudence, he forgot his
diffidence in the presence of danger, he forgot what fear was, and
he never laid about him in his imaginary battles in a more
tremendous way that he did in this real one; and wherever he
struck there was an enemy the less.

We were in that close place only a few minutes; then our forces to
the rear broke through with a great shout and joined us, and then
the English fought a retreating fight, but in a fine and gallant way,
and we drove them to their fortress foot by foot, they facing us all
the time, and their reserves on the walls raining showers of arrows,
cross-bow bolts, and stone cannon-balls upon us.

The bulk of the enemy got safely within the works and left us
outside with piles of French and English dead and wounded for
company--a sickening sight, an awful sight to us youngsters, for
our little ambush fights in February had been in the night, and the
blood and the mutilations and the dead faces were mercifully dim,
whereas we saw these things now for the first time in all their
naked ghastliness.

Now arrived Dunois from the city, and plunged through the battle
on his foam-flecked horse and galloped up to Joan, saluting, and
uttering handsome compliments as he came. He waved his hand
toward the distant walls of the city, where a multitude of flags
were flaunting gaily in the wind, and said the populace were up
there observing her fortunate performance and rejoicing over it,
and added that she and the forces would have a great reception
now.

"Now? Hardly now, Bastard. Not yet!"

"Why not yet? Is there more to be done?"

"More, Bastard? We have but begun! We will take this fortress."

"Ah, you can't be serious! We can't take this place; let me urge you
not to make the attempt; it is too desperate. Let me order the forces
back."

Joan's heart was overflowing with the joys and enthusiasms of war,
and it made her impatient to hear such talk. She cried out:

"Bastard, Bastard, will ye play always with these English? Now
verily I tell you we will not budge until this place is ours. We will
carry it by storm. Sound the charge!"

"Ah, my General--"

"Waste no more time, man--let the bugles sound the assault!" and
we saw that strange deep light in her eye which we named the
battle-light, and learned to know so well in later fields.

The martial notes pealed out, the troops answered with a yell, and
down they came against that formidable work, whose outlines
were lost in its own cannon-smoke, and whose sides were spouting
flame and thunder.

We suffered repulse after repulse, but Joan was here and there and
everywhere encouraging the men, and she kept them to their work.
During three hours the tide ebbed and flowed, flowed and ebbed;
but at last La Hire, who was now come, made a final and resistless
charge, and the bastille St. Loup was ours. We gutted it, taking all
its stores and artillery, and then destroyed it.

When all our host was shouting itself hoarse with rejoicings, and
there went up a cry for the General, for they wanted to praise her
and glorify her and do her homage for her victory, we had trouble
to find her; and when we did find her, she was off by herself,
sitting among a ruck of corpses, with her face in her hands,
crying--for she was a young girl, you know, and her hero heart was
a young girl's heart too, with the pity and the tenderness that are
natural to it. She was thinking of the mothers of those dead friends
and enemies.

Among the prisoners were a number of priests, and Joan took these
under her protection and saved their lives. It was urged that they
were most probably combatants in disguise, but she said:

"As to that, how can any tell? They wear the livery of God, and if
even one of these wears it rightfully, surely it were better that all
the guilty should escape than that we have upon our hands the
blood of that innocent man. I will lodge them where I lodge, and
feed them, and sent them away in safety."

We marched back to the city with our crop of cannon and
prisoners on view and our banners displayed. Here was the first
substantial bit of war-work the imprisoned people had seen in the
seven months that the siege had endured, the first chance they had
had to rejoice over a French exploit. You may guess that they
made good use of it. They and the bells went mad. Joan was their
darling now, and the press of people struggling and shouldering
each other to get a glimpse of her was so great that we could
hardly push our way through the streets at all. Her new name had
gone all about, and was on everybody's lips. The Holy Maid of
Vaucouleurs was a forgotten title; the city had claimed her for its
own, and she was the MAID OF ORLEANS now. It is a happiness
to me to remember that I heard that name the first time it was ever
uttered. Between that first utterance and the last time it will be
uttered on this earth--ah, think how many moldering ages will lie
in that gap!

The Boucher family welcomed her back as if she had been a child
of the house, and saved frm death against all hope or probability.
They chided her for going into the battle and exposing herself to
danger during all those hours. They could not realize that she had
meant to carry her warriorship so far, and asked her if it had really
been her purpose to go right into the turmoil of the fight, or hadn't
she got swept into it by accident and the rush of the troops? They
begged her to be more careful another time. It was good advice,
maybe, but it fell upon pretty unfruitful soil.

Chapter 19 We Burst In Upon Ghosts

BEING WORN out with the long fight, we all slept the rest of the
afternoon away and two or three hours into the night. Then we got
up refreshed, and had supper. As for me, I could have been willing
to let the matter of the ghost drop; and the others were of a like
mind, no doubt, for they talked diligently of the battle and said
nothing of that other thing. And indeed it was fine and stirring to
hear the Paladin rehearse his deeds and see him pile his dead,
fifteen here, eighteen there, and thirty-five yonder; but this only
postponed the trouble; it could not do more. He could not go on
forever; when he had carried the bastille by assault and eaten up
the garrison there was nothing for it but to stop, unless Catherine
Boucher would give him a new start and have it all done over
again--as we hoped she would, this time--but she was otherwise
minded. As soon as there was a good opening and a fair chance,
she brought up her unwelcome subject, and we faced it the best we
could.

We followed her and her parents to the haunted room at eleven
o'clock, with candles, and also with torches to place in the sockets
on the walls. It was a big house, with very thick walls, and this
room was in a remote part of it which had been left unoccupied for
nobody knew how many years, because of its evil repute.

This was a large room, like a salon, and had a big table in it of
enduring oak and well preserved; but the chair were worm-eaten
and the tapestry on the walls was rotten and discolored by age. The
dusty cobwebs under the ceiling had the look of not having had
any business for a century.

Catherine said:

"Tradition says that these ghosts have never been seen--they have
merely been heard. It is plain that this room was once larger than it
is now, and that the wall at this end was built in some bygone time
to make and fence off a narrow room there. There is no
communication anywhere with that narrow room, and if it
exists--and of that there is no reasonable doubt--it has no light and
no air, but is an absolute dungeon. Wait where you are, and take
note of what happens."

That was all. Then she and her parents left us. When their footfalls
had died out in the distance down the empty stone corridors an
uncanny si8lence and solemnity ensued which was dismaler to me
than the mute march past the bastilles. We sat loking vacantly at
each other, and it was easy to see that no one there was
comfortable. The longer we sat so, the more deadly still that
stillness got to be; and when the wind began to moan around the
house presently, it made me sick and miserable, and I wished I had
been brave enough to be a coward this time, for indeed it is no
proper shame to be afraid of ghosts, seeing how helpless the living
are in their hands. And then these ghosts were invisible, which
made the matter the worse, as it seemed to me. They might be in
the room with us at that moment--we could not know. I felt airy
touches on my shoulders and my hair, and I shrank from them and
cringed, and was not ashamed to show this fear, for I saw the
others doing the like, and knew that they were feeling those faint
contacts too. As this went on--oh, eternities it seemed, the time
dragged so drearily--all those faces became as wax, and I seemed
sitting with a congress of the dead.

At last, faint and far and weird and slow, came a
"boom!--boom!--boom!"--a distant bell tolling midnight. When the
last stroke died, that depressing stillness followed again, and as
before I was staring at those waxen faces and feeling those airy
touches on my hair and my shoulders once more.

One minute--two minutes--three minutes of this, then we heard a
long deep groan, and everybody sprang up and stood, with his legs
quaking. It came from that little dungeon. There was a pause, then
we herd muffled sobbings, mixed with pitiful ejaculations. Then
there was a second voice, low and not distinct, and the one seemed
trying to comfort the other; and so the two voices went on, with
moanings, and soft sobbings, and, ah, the tones were so full of
compassion and sorry and despair! Indeed, it made one's heart sore
to hear it.

But those sounds were so real and so human and so moving that
the idea of ghosts passed straight out of our minds, and Sir Jean de
Metz spoke out and said:

"Come! we will smash that wall and set those poor captives free.
Here, with your ax!"

The Dwarf jumped forward, swinging his great ax with both hands,
and others sprang for torches and brought them.
Bang!--whang!--slam!--smash went the ancient bricks, and there
was a hole an ox could pass through. We plunged within and held
up the torches.

Nothing there but vacancy! On the floor lay a rusty sword and a
rotten fan.

Now you know all that I know. Take the pathetic relics, and weave
about them the romance of the dungeon's long-vanished inmates as
best you can.

Chapter 20 Joan Makes Cowards Brave Victors

THE NEXT day Joan wanted to go against the enemy again, but it
was the feast of the Ascension, and the holy council of bandit
generals were too pious to be willing to profane it with bloodshed.
But privately they profaned it with plottings, a sort of industry just
in their line. They decided to do the only thing proper to do now in
the new circumstances of the case--feign an attack on the most
important bastille on the Orleans side, and then, if the English
weakened the far more important fortresses on the other side of the
river to come to its help, cross in force and capture those works.
This would give them the bridge and free communication with the
Sologne, which was French territory. They decided to keep this
latter part of the program secret from Joan.

Joan intruded and took them by surprise. She asked them what
they were about and what they had resolved upon. They said they
had resolved to attack the most important of the English bastilles
on the Orleans side next morning--and there the spokesman
stopped. Joan said:

"Well, go on."

"There is nothing more. That is all."

"Am I to believe this? That is to say, am I to believe that you have
lost your wits?" She turned to Dunois, and said, "Bastard, you have
sense, answer me this: if this attack is made and the bastille taken,
how much better off would we be than we are now?"

The Bastard hesitated, and then began some rambling talk not
quite germane to the question. Joan interrupted him and said:

"That will not do, good Bastard, you have answered. Since the
Bastard is not able to mention any advantage to be gained by
taking that bastille and stopping there, it is not likely that any of
you could better the matter. You waste much time here in
inventing plans that lead to nothing, and making delays that are a
damage. Are you concealing something from me? Bastard, this
council has a general plan, I take it; without going into details,
what is it?"

"It is the same it was in the beginning, seven months ago--to get
provisions for a long siege, then sit down and tire the English out."

"In the name of God! As if seven months was not enough, you
want to provide for a year of it. Now ye shall drop these
pusillanimous dreams--the English shall go in three days!"

Several exclaimed:

"Ah, General, General, be prudent!"

"Be prudent and starve? Do ye call that war? I tell you this, if you
do not already know it: The new circumstances have changed the
face of matters. The true point of attack has shifted; it is on the
other side of the river now. One must take the fortifications that
command the bridge. The English know that if we are not fools
and cowards we will try to do that. They are grateful for your piety
in wasting this day. They will reinforce the bridge forts from this
side to-night, knowing what ought to happen to-morrow. You have
but lost a day and made our task harder, for we will cross and take
the bridge forts. Bastard, tell me the truth--does not this council
know that there is no other course for us than the one I am
speaking of?"

Dunois conceded that the council did know it to be the most
desirable, but considered it impracticable; and he excused the
council as well as he could by saying that inasmuch as nothing was
really and rationally to be hoped for but a long continuance of the
siege and wearying out of the English, they were naturally a little
afraid of Joan's impetuous notions. He said:

"You see, we are sure that the waiting game is the best, whereas
you would carry everything by storm."

"That I would!--and moreover that I will! You have my
orders--here and now. We will move upon the forts of the south
bank to-morrow at dawn."

"And carry them by storm?"

"Yes, carry them by storm!"

La Hire came clanking in, and heard the last remark. He cried out:

"By my baton, that is the music I love to hear! Yes, that is the right
time and the beautiful words, my General--we will carry them by
storm!"

He saluted in his large way and came up and shook Joan by the
hand.

Some member of the council was heard to say:

"It follows, then, that we must begin with the bastille St. John, and
that will give the English time to--"

Joan turned and said:

"Give yourselves no uneasiness about the bastille St. John. The
English will know enough to retire from it and fall back on the
bridge bastilles when they see us coming." She added, with a touch
of sarcasm, "Even a war-council would know enough to do that
itself."

Then she took her leave. La Hire made this general remark to the
council:

"She is a child, and that is all ye seem to see. Keep to that
superstition if you must, but you perceive that this child
understands this complex game of war as well as any of you; and if
you want my opinion without the trouble of asking for it, here you
have it without ruffles or embroidery--by God, I think she can
teach the best of you how to play it!"

Joan had spoken truly; the sagacious English saw that the policy of
the French had undergone a revolution; that the policy of paltering
and dawdling was ended; that in place of taking blows, blows were
ready to be struck now; therefore they made ready for the new
state of things by transferring heavy reinforcements to the bastilles
of the south bank from those of the north.

The city learned the great news that once more in French history,
after all these humiliating years, France was going to take the
offensive; that France, so used to retreating, was going to advance;
that France, so long accustomed to skulking, was going to face
about and strike. The joy of the people passed all bounds. The city
walls were black with them to see the army march out in the
morning in that strange new position--its front, not its tail, toward
an English camp. You shall imagine for yourselves what the
excitement was like and how it expressed itself, when Joan rode
out at the head of the host with her banner floating above her.

We crossed the five in strong force, and a tedious long job it was,
for the boats were small and not numerous. Our landing on the
island of St. Aignan was not disputed. We threw a bridge of a few
boats across the narrow channel thence to the south shore and took
up our march in good order and unmolested; for although there
was a fortress there--St. John--the English vacated and destroyed it
and fell back on the bridge forts below as soon as our first boats
were seen to leave the Orleans shore; which was what Joan had
said would happen, when she was disputing with the council.

We moved down the shore and Joan planted her standard before
the bastille of the Augustins, the first of the formidable works that
protected the end of the bridge. The trumpets sounded the assault,
and two charges followed in handsome style; but we were too
weak, as yet, for our main body was still lagging behind. Before
we could gather for a third assault the garrison of St. Prive were
seen coming up to reinforce the big bastille. They came on a run,
and the Augustins sallied out, and both forces came against us with
a rush, and sent our small army flying in a panic, and followed us,
slashing and slaying, and shouting jeers and insults at us.

Joan was doing her best to rally the men, but their wits were gone,
their hearts were dominated for the moment by the old-time dread
of the English. Joan's temper flamed up, and she halted and
commanded the trumpets to sound the advance. Then she wheeled
about and cried out:

"If there is but a dozen of you that are not cowards, it is
enough--follow me!"

Away she went, and after her a few dozen who had heard her
words and been inspired by them. The pursuing force was
astonished to see her sweeping down upon them with this handful
of men, and it was their turn now to experience a grisly
fright--surely this is a witch, this is a child of Satan! That was their
thought--and without stopping to analyze the matter they turned
and fled in a panic.

Our flying squadrons heard the bugle and turned to look; and when
they saw the Maid's banner speeding in the other direction and the
enemy scrambling ahead of it in disorder, their courage returned
and they came scouring after us.

La Hire heard it and hurried his force forward and caught up with
us just as we were planting our banner again before the ramparts of
the Augustins. We were strong enough now. We had a long and
tough piece of work before us, but we carried it through before
night, Joan keeping us hard at it, and she and La Hire saying we
were able to take that big bastille, and must. The English fought
like--well, they fought like the English; when that is said, there is
no more to say. We made assault after assault, through the smoke
and flame and the deafening cannon-blasts, and at last as the sun
was sinking we carried the place with a rush, and planted our
standard on its walls.

The Augustins was ours. The Tourelles must be ours, too, if we
would free the bridge and raise the siege. We had achieved one
great undertaking, Joan was determined to accomplish the other.
We must lie on our arms where we were, hold fast to what we had
got, and be ready for business in the morning. So Joan was not
minded to let the men be demoralized by pillage and riot and
carousings; she had the Augustins burned, with all its stores in it,
excepting the artillery and ammunition.

Everybody was tired out with this long day's har work, and of
course this was the case with Joan; still, she wanted to stay with
the army before the Tourelles, to be ready for the assault in the
morning. The chiefs argued with her, and at last persuaded her to
go home and prepare for the great work by taking proper rest, and
also by having a leech look to a wound which she had received in
her foot. So we crossed with them and went home.

Just as usual, we found the town in a fury of joy, all the bells
clanging, everybody shouting, and several people drunk. We never
went out or came in without furnishing good and sufficient reasons
for one of these pleasant tempests, and so the tempest was always
on hand. There had been a blank absence of reasons for this sort of
upheavals for the past seven months, therefore the people too to
the upheavals with all the more relish on that account.

Chapter 21 She Gently Reproves Her Dear Friend

TO GET away from the usual crowd of visitors and have a rest,
Joan went with Catherine straight to the apartment which the two
occupied together, and there they took their supper and there the
wound was dressed. But then, instead of going to bed, Joan, weary
as she was, sent the Dwarf for me, in spite of Catherine's protests
and persuasions. She said she had something on her mind, and
must send a courier to Domremy with a letter for our old PŠre
Fronte to read to her mother. I came, and she began to dictate.
After some loving words and greetings to her mother and family,
came this:

"But the thing which moves me to write now, is to say that when
you presently hear that I am wounded, you shall give yourself no
concern about it, and refuse faith to any that shall try to make you
believe it is serious."

She was going on, when Catherine spoke up and said:

"Ah, but it will fright her so to read these words. Strike them out,
Joan, strike them out, and wait only one day--two days at
most--then write and say your foot was wounded but is well
again--for it surely be well then, or very near it. Don't distress her,
Joan; do as I say."

A laugh like the laugh of the old days, the impulsive free laugh of
an untroubled spirit, a laugh like a chime of bells, was Joan's
answer; then she said:

"My foot? Why should I write about such a scratch as that? I was
not thinking of it, dear heart."

"Child, have you another wound and a worse, and have not spoken
of it? What have you been dreaming about, that you--"

She had jumped up, full of vague fears, to have the leech called
back at once, but Joan laid her hand upon her arm and made her sit
down again, saying:

"There, now, be tranquil, there is no other wound, as yet; I am
writing about one which I shall get when we storm that bastille
tomorrow."

Catherine had the look of one who is trying to understand a
puzzling proposition but cannot quite do it. She said, in a
distraught fashion:

"A wound which you are going to get? But--but why grieve your
mother when it--when it may not happen?"

"May not? Why, it will."

The puzzle was a puzzle still. Catherine said in that same
abstracted way as before:

"Will. It is a strong word. I cannot seem to--my mind is not able to
take hold of this. Oh, Joan, such a presentiment is a dreadful
thing--it takes one's peace and courage all away. Cast it from
you!--drive it out! It will make your whole night miserable, and to
no good; for we will hope--"

"But it isn't a presentiment--it is a fact. And it will not make me
miserable. It is uncertainties that do that, but this is not an
uncertainty."

"Joan, do you know it is going to happen?"

"Yes, I know it. My Voices told me."

"Ah," said Catherine, resignedly, "if they told you-- But are you
sure it was they?--quite sure?"

"Yes, quite. It will happen--there is no doubt."

"It is dreadful! Since when have you know it?"

"Since--I think it is several weeks." Joan turned to me. "Louis, you
will remember. How long is it?"

"Your Excellency spoke of it first to the King, in Chinon," I
answered; "that was as much as seven weeks ago. You spoke of it
again the 20th of April, and also the 22d, two weeks ago, as I see
by my record here."

These marvels disturbed Catherine profoundly, but I had long
ceased to be surprised at them. One can get used to anything in this
world. Catherine said:

"And it is to happen to-morrow?--always to-morrow? Is it the same
date always? There has been no mistake, and no confusion?"

"No," Joan said, "the 7th of May is the date--there is no other."

"Then you shall not go a step out of this house till that awful day is
gone by! You will not dream of it, Joan, will you?--promise that
you will stay with us."

But Joan was not persuaded. She said:

"It would not help the matter, dear good friend. The wound is to
come, and come to-morrow. If I do not seek it, it will seek me. My
duty calls me to that place to-morrow; I should have to go if my
death were waiting for me there; shall I stay away for only a
wound? Oh, no, we must try to do better than that."

"Then you are determined to go?"

"Of a certainty, yes. There is only one thing that I can do for
France--hearten her soldiers for battle and victory." She thought a
moment, then added, "However, one should not be unreasonable,
and I would do much to please you, who are so good to me. Do
you love France?"

I wondered what she might be contriving now, but I saw no clue.
Catherine said, reproachfully:

"Ah, what have I done to deserve this question?"

"Then you do love France. I had not doubted it, dear. Do not be
hurt, but answer me--have you ever told a lie?"

"In my life I have not wilfully told a lie--fibs, but no lies."

"That is sufficient. You love France and do not tell lies; therefore I
will trust you. I will go or I will stay, as you shall decide."

"Oh, I thank you from my heart, Joan! How good and dear it is of
you to do this for me! Oh, you shall stay, and not go!"

In her delight she flung her arms about Joan's neck and squandered
endearments upon her the least of which would have made me
rich, but, as it was, they only made me realize how poor I
was--how miserably poor in what I would most have prized in this
world. Joan said:

"Then you will send word to my headquarters that I am not going?"

"Oh, gladly. Leave that to me."

"It is good of you. And how will you word it?--for it must have
proper official form. Shall I word it for you?"

"Oh, do--for you know about these solemn procedures and stately
proprieties, and I have had no experience."

"Then word it like this: 'The chief of staff is commanded to make
known to the King's forces in garrison and in the field, that the
General-in-Chief of the Armies of France will not face the English
on the morrow, she being afraid she may get hurt. Signed, JOAN
OF ARC, by the hand of CATHERINE BOUCHER, who loves
France.'"

There was a pause--a silence of the sort that tortures one into
stealing a glance to see how the situation looks, and I did that.
There was a loving smile on Joan's face, but the color was
mounting in crimson waves into Catherine's, and her lips were
quivering and the tears gathering; then she said:

"Oh, I am so ashamed of myself!--and you are so noble and brave
and wise, and I am so paltry--so paltry and such a fool!" and she
broke down and began to cry, and I did so want to take her in my
arms and comfort her, but Joan did it, and of course I said nothing.
Joan did it well, and most sweetly and tenderly, but I could have
done it as well, though I knew it would be foolish and out of place
to suggest such a thing, and might make an awkwardness, too, and
be embarrassing to us all, so I did not offer, and I hope I did right
and for the best, though I could not know, and was many times
tortured with doubts afterward as having perhaps let a chance pass
which might have changed all my life and made it happier and
more beautiful than, alas, it turned out to be. For this reason I
grieve yet, when I think of that scene, and do not like to call it up
out of the deeps of my memory because of the pangs it brings.

Well, well, a good and wholesome thing is a little harmless fun in
this world; it tones a body up and keeps him human and prevents
him from souring. To set that little trap for Catherine was as good
and effective a way as any to show her what a grotesque thing she
was asking of Joan. It was a funny idea now, wasn't it, when you
look at it all around? Even Catherine dried up her tears and
laughed when she thought of the English getting hold of the French
Commander-in-Chief's reason for staying out of a battle. She
granted that they could have a good time over a thing like that.

We got to work on the letter again, and of course did not have to
strike out the passage about the wound. Joan was in fine spirits;
but when she got to sending messages to this, that, and the other
playmate and friend, it brought our village and the Fairy Tree and
the flowery plain and the browsing sheep and all the peaceful
beauty of our old humble home-place back, and the familiar names
began to tremble on her lips; and when she got to Haumette and
Little Mengette it was no use, her voice broke and she couldn't go
on. She waited a moment, then said:

"Give them my love--my warm love--my deep love--oh, out of my
heart of hearts! I shall never see our home any more."

Now came Pasquerel, Joan's confessor, and introduced a gallant
knight, the Sire de Rais, who had been sent with a message. He
said he was instructed to say that the council had decided that
enough had been done for the present; that it would be safest and
best to be content with what God had already done; that the city
was now well victualed and able to stand a long siege; that the
wise course must necessarily be to withdraw the troops from the
other side of the river and resume the defensive--therfore they had
decided accordingly.

"The incurable cowards!" exclaimed Joan. "So it was to get me
away from my men that they pretended so much solicitude about
my fatigue. Take this message back, not to the council--I have no
speeches for those disguised ladies' maids--but to the Bastard and
La Hire, who are men. Tell them the army is to remain where it is,
and I hold them responsible if this command miscarries. And say
the offensive will be resumed in the morning. You may go, good
sir."

Then she said to her priest:

"Rise early, and be by me all the day. There will be much work on
my hands, and I shall be hurt between my neck and my shoulder."

Chapter 22  The Fate of France Decided

WE WERE up at dawn, and after mass we started. In the hall we
met the master of the house, who was grieved, good man, to see
Joan going breakfastless to such a day's work, and begged her to
wait and eat, but she couldn't afford the time--that is to say, she
couldn't afford the patience, she being in such a blaze of anxiety to
get at that last remaining bastille which stood between her and the
completion of the first great step in the rescue and redemption of
France. Boucher put in another plea:

"But think--we poor beleaguered citizens who have hardly known
the flavor of fish for these many months, have spoil of that sort
again, and we owe it to you. There's a noble shad for breakfast;
wait--be persuaded."

Joan said:

"Oh, there's going to be fish in plenty; when this day's work is done
the whole river-front will be yours to do as you please with."

"Ah, your Excellency will do well, that I know; but we don't
require quite that much, even of you; you shall have a month for it
in place of a day. Now be beguiled--wait and eat. There's a saying
that he that would cross a river twice in the same day in a boat,
will do well to eat fish for luck, lest he have an accident."

"That doesn't fit my case, for to-day I cross but once in a boat."

"Oh, don't say that. Aren't you coming back to us?"

"Yes, but not in a boat."

"How, then?"

"By the bridge."

"Listen to that--by the bridge! Now stop this jesting, dear General,
and do as I would have done you. It's a noble fish."

"Be good then, and save me some for supper; and I will bring one
of those Englishmen with me and he shall have his share."

"Ah, well, have your way if you must. But he that fasts must
attempt but little and stop early. When shall you be back?"

"When we've raised the siege of Orleans. FORWARD!"

We were off. The streets were full of citizens and of groups and
squads of soldiers, but the spectacle was melancholy. There was
not a smile anywhere, but only universal gloom. It was as if some
vast calamity had smitten all hope and cheer dead. We were not
used to this, and were astonished. But when they saw the Maid,
there was an immediate stir, and the eager question flew from
mouth to mouth.

"Where is she going? Whither is she bound?"

Joan heard it, and called out:

"Whither would ye suppose? I am going to take the Tourelles."

It would not be possible for any to describe how those few words
turned that mourning into joy--into exaltation--into frenzy; and
how a storm of huzzas burst out and swept down the streets in
every direction and woke those corpselike multitudes to vivid life
and action and turmoil in a moment. The soldiers broke from the
crowd and came flocking to our standard, and many of the citizens
ran and got pikes and halberds and joined us. As we moved on, our
numbers increased steadily, and the hurrahing continued--yes, we
moved through a solid cloud of noise, as you may say, and all the
windows on both sides contributed to it, for they were filled with
excited people.

You see, the council had closed the Burgundy gate and placed a
strong force there, under that stout soldier Raoul de Gaucourt,
Bailly of Orleans, with orders to prevent Joan from getting out and
resuming the attack on the Tourelles, and this shameful thing had
plunged the city into sorrow and despair. But that feeling was gone
now. They believed the Maid was a match for the council, and they
were right.

When we reached the gate, Joan told Gaucourt to open it and let
her pass.

He said it would be impossible to do this, for his orders were from
the council and were strict. Joan said:

"There is no authority above mine but the King's. If you have an
order from the King, produce it."

"I cannot claim to have an order from him, General."

"Then make way, or take the consequences!"

He began to argue the case, for he was like the rest of the tribe,
always ready to fight with words, not acts; but in the midst of his
gabble Joan interrupted with the terse order:

"Charge!"

We came with a rush, and brief work we made of that small job. It
was good to see the Bailly's surprise. He was not used to this
unsentimental promptness. He said afterward that he was cut off in
the midst of what he was saying--in the midst of an argument by
which he could have proved that he could not let Joan pass--an
argument which Joan could not have answered.

"Still, it appears she did answer it," said the person he was talking
to.

We swung through the gate in great style, with a vast accession of
noise, the most of which was laughter, and soon our van was over
the river and moving down against the Tourelles.

First we must take a supporting work called a boulevard, and
which was otherwise nameless, before we could assault the great
bastille. Its rear communicated with the bastille by a drawbridge,
under which ran a swift and deep strip of the Loire. The boulevard
was strong, and Dunois doubted our ability to take it, but Joan had
no such doubt. She pounded it with artillery all the forenoon, then
about noon she ordered an assault and led it herself. We poured
into the fosse through the smoke and a tempest of missiles, and
Joan, shouting encouragements to her men, started to climb a
scaling-ladder, when that misfortune happened which we knew
was to happen--the iron bolt from an arbalest struck between her
neck and her shoulder, and tore its way down through her armor.
When she felt the sharp pain and saw her blood gushing over her
breast, she was frightened, poor girl, and as she sank to the ground
she began to cry bitterly.

The English sent up a glad shout and came surging down in strong
force to take her, and then for a few minutes the might of both
adversaries was concentrated upon that spot. Over her and above
her, English and French fought with desperation--for she stood for
France, indeed she was France to both sides--whichever won her
won France, and could keep it forever. Right there in that small
spot, and in ten minutes by the clock, the fate of France, for all
time, was to be decided, and was decided.

If the English had captured Joan then, Charles VII. would have
flown the country, the Treaty of Troyes would have held good, and
France, already English property, would have become, without
further dispute, an English province, to so remain until Judgment
Day. A nationality and a kingdom were at stake there, and no more
time to decide it in than it takes to hard-boil an egg. It was the
most momentous ten minutes that the clock has ever ticked in
France, or ever will. Whenever you read in histories about hours or
days or weeks in which the fate of one or another nation hung in
the balance, do not you fail to remember, nor your French hearts to
beat the quicker for the remembrance, the ten minutes that France,
called otherwise Joan of Arc, lay bleeding in the fosse that day,
with two nations struggling over her for her possession.

And you will not forget the Dwarf. For he stood over her, and did
the work of any six of the others. He swung his ax with both
hands; whenever it came down, he said those two words, "For
France!" and a splintered helmet flew like eggshells, and the skull
that carried it had learned its manners and would offend the French
no more. He piled a bulwark of iron-clad dead in front of him and
fought from behind it; and at last when the victory was ours we
closed about him, shielding him, and he ran up a ladder with Joan
as easily as another man would carry a child, and bore her out of
the battle, a great crowd following and anxious, for she was
drenched with blood to her feet, half of it her own and the other
half English, for bodies had fallen across her as she lay and had
poured their red life-streams over her. One couldn't see the white
armor now, with that awful dressing over it.

The iron bolt was still in the wound--some say it projected out
behind the shoulder. It may be--I did not wish to see, and did not
try to. It was pulled out, and the pain made Joan cry again, poor
thing. Some say she pulled it out herself because others refused,
saying they could not bear to hurt her. As to this I do not know; I
only know it was pulled out, and that the wound was treated with
oil and properly dressed.

Joan lay on the grass, weak and suffering, hour after hour, but still
insisting that the fight go on. Which it did, but not to much
purpose, for it was only under her eye that men were heroes and
not afraid. They were like the Paladin; I think he was afraid of his
shadow--I mean in the afternoon, when it was very big and long;
but when he was under Joan's eye and the inspiration of her great
spirit, what was he afraid of? Nothing in this world--and that is just
the truth.

Toward night Dunois gave it up. Joan heard the bugles.

"What!" she cried. "Sounding the retreat!"

Her wound was forgotten in a moment. She countermanded the
order, and sent another, to the officer in command of a battery, to
stand ready to fire five shots in quick successin. This was a signal
to the force on the Orleans side of the river under La Hire, who
was not, as some of the histories say, with us. It was to be given
whenever Joan should feel sure the boulevard was about to fall
into her hands--then that force must make a counter-attack on the
Tourelles by way of the bridge.

Joan mounted her horse now, with her staff about her, and when
our people saw us coming they raised a great shout, and were at
once eager for another assault on the boulevard. Joan rode straight
to the fosse where she had received her wound, and standing there
in the rain of bolts and arrows, she ordered the Paladin to let her
long standard blow free, and to note when its fringes should touch
the fortress. Presently he said:

"It touches."

"Now, then," said Joan to the waiting battalions, "the place is
yours--enter in! Bugles, sound the assault! Now, then--all
together--go!"

And go it was. You never saw anything like it. We swarmed up the
ladders and over the battlements like a wave--and the place was
our property. Why, one might live a thousand years and never see
so gorgeous a thing as that again. There, hand to hand, we fought
like wild beasts, for there was no give-up to those English--there
was no way to convince one of those people but to kill him, and
even then he doubted. At least so it was thought, in those days, and
maintained by many.

We were busy and never heard the five cannonshots fired, but they
were fired a moment after Joan had ordered the assault; and so,
while we were hammering and being hammerd in the smaller
fortress, the reserve on the Orleans side poured across the bridge
and attacked the Tourelles from that side. A fire-boat was brought
down and moored under the drawbridge which connected the
Tourelles with our boulevard; wherefore, when at last we drove
our English ahead of us and they tried to cross that drawbridge and
join their friends in the Tourelles, the burning timbers gave way
under them and emptied them in a mass into the river in their
heavy armor--and a pitiful sight it was to see brave men die such a
death as that.

"Ah, God pity them!" said Joan, and wept to see that sorrowful
spectacle. She said those gentle words and wept those
compassionate tears although one of those perishing men had
grossly insulted her with a coarse name three days before, when
she had sent him a message asking him to surrender. That was
their leader, Sir Williams Glasdale, a most valorous knight. He
was clothed all in steel; so he plunged under water like a lance,
and of course came up no more.

We soon patched a sort of bridge together and threw ourselves
against the last stronghold of the English power that barred
Orleans from friends and supplies. Before the sun was quite down,
Joan's forever memorable day's work was finished, her banner
floated from the fortress of the Tourelles, her promise was
fulfilled, she had raised the siege of Orleans!

The seven months' beleaguerment was ended, the thing which the
first generals of France had called impossible was accomplished;
in spite of all that the King's ministers and war-councils could do
to prevent it, this little country-maid at seventeen had carried her
immortal task through, and had done it in four days!

Good news travels fast, sometimes, as well as bad. By the time we
were ready to start homeward by the bridge the whole city of
Orleans was one red flame of bonfires, and the heavens blushed
with satisfaction to see it; and the booming and bellowing of
cannon and the banging of bells surpassed by great odds anything
that even Orleans had attempted before in the way of noise.

When we arrived--well, there is no describing that. Why, those
acres of people that we plowed through shed tears enough to raise
the river; there was not a face in the glare of those fires that hadn't
tears streaming down it; and if Joan's feet had not been protected
by iron they would have kissed them off of her. "Welcome!
welcome to the Maid of Orleans!" That was the cry; I heard it a
hundred thousand times. "Welcome to our Maid!" some of them
worded it.

No other girl in all history has ever reached such a summit of glory
as Joan of Arc reached that day. And do you think it turned her
head, and that she sat up to enjoy that delicious music of homage
and applause? No; another girl would have done that, but not this
one. That was the greatest heart and the simplest that ever beat.
She went straight to bed and to sleep, like any tired child; and
when the people found she was wounded and would rest, they shut
off all passage and traffic in that region and stood guard
themselves the whole night through, to see that he slumbers were
not disturbed. They said, "She has given us peace, she shall have
peace herself."

All knew that that region would be empty of English next day, and
all said that neither the present citizens nor their posterity would
ever cease to hold that day sacred to the memory of Joan of Arc.
That word has been true for more than sixty years; it will continue
so always. Orleans will never forget the 8th of May, nor ever fail
to celebrate it. It is Joan of Arc's day--and holy. [1]

[1] It is still celebrated every year with civic and military pomps
and solemnities. -- TRANSLATOR.

Chapter 23 Joan Inspires the Tawdry King

IN THE earliest dawn of morning, Talbot and his English forces
evacuated their bastilles and marched away, not stopping to burn,
destroy, or carry off anything, but leaving their fortresses just as
they were, provisioned, armed, and equipped for a long siege. It
was difficult for the people to believe that this great thing had
really happened; that they were actually free once more, and might
go and come through any gate they pleased, with none to molest or
forbid; that the terrible Talbot, that scourge of the French, that
man whose mere name had been able to annul the effectiveness of
French armies, was gone, vanished, retreating--driven away by a
girl.

The city emptied itself. Out of every gate the crowds poured. They
swarmed about the English bastilles like an invasion of ants, but
noisier than those creatures, and carried off the artillery and stores,
then turned all those dozen fortresses into monster bonfires,
imitation volcanoes whose lofty columns of thick smoke seemed
supporting the arch of the sky.

The delight of the children took another form. To some of the
younger ones seven months was a sort of lifetime. They had
forgotten what grass was like, and the velvety green meadows
seemed paradise to their surprised and happy eyes after the long
habit of seeing nothing but dirty lanes and streets. It was a wonder
to them--those spacious reaches of open country to run and dance
and tumble and frolic in, after their dull and joyless captivity; so
they scampered far and wide over the fair regions on both sides of
the river, and came back at eventide weary, but laden with flowers
and flushed with new health drawn from the fresh country air and
the vigorous exercise.

After the burnings, the grown folk followed Joan from church to
church and put in the day in thanksgivings for the city's
deliverance, and at night they fˆted her and her generals and
illuminated the town, and high and low gave themselves up to
festivities and rejoicings. By the time the populace were fairly in
bed, toward dawn, we wer ein the saddle and away toward Tours
to report to the King.

That was a march which would have turned any one's head but
Joan's. We moved between emotional ranks of grateful
country-people all the way. They crowded about Joan to touch her
feet, her horse, her armor, and they even knelt in the road and
kissed her horse's hoof-prints.

The land was full of her praises. The most illustrious cheifs of the
church wrote to the King extolling the Maid, comparing her to the
saints and heroes of the Bible, and warning him not to let
"unbelief, ingratitude, or other injustice" hinder or impair the
divine help sent through her. One might think there was a touch of
prophecy in that, and we will let it go at that; but to my mind it had
its inspiration in those great men's accurate knowledge of the
King's trivial and treacherous character.

The King had come to Tours to meet Joan. At the present day this
poor thing is called Charles the Victorious, on account of victories
which other people won for him, but in our time we had a private
name for him which described him better, and was sanctified to
him by personal deserving--Charles the Base. When we entered the
presence he sat throned, with his tinseled snobs and dandies
around him. He looked like a forked carrot, so tightly did his
clothing fit him from his waist down; he wore shoes with a
rope-like pliant toe a foot long that had to be hitched up to the
knee to keep it out of the way; he had on a crimson velvet cape
that came no lower than his elbows; on his head he had a tall felt
thing like a thimble, with a feather it its jeweled band that stuck up
like a pen from an inkhorn, and from under that thimble his bush
of stiff hair stuck down to his shoulders, curving outward at the
bottom, so that the cap and the hair together made the head like a
shuttlecock. All the materials of his dress were rich, and all the
colors brilliant. In his lap he cuddled a miniature greyhound that
snarled, lifting its lip and showing its white teeth whenever any
slight movement disturbed it. The King's dandies were dressed in
about the same fashion as himself, and when I remembered that
Joan had called the war-council of Orleans "disguised ladies'
maids," it reminded me of people who squander all their money on
a trifle and then haven't anything to invest when they come across
a better chance; that name ought to have been saved for these
creatures.

Joan fell on her knees before the majesty of France, and the other
frivolous animal in his lap--a sight which it pained me to see.
What had that man done for his country or for anybody in it, that
she or any other person should kneel to him? But she--she had just
done the only great deed that had been done for France in fifty
years, and had consecrated it with the libation of her blood. The
positions should have been reversed.

However, to be fair, one must grant that Charles acquitted himself
very well for the most part, on that occasion--very much better
than he was in the habit of doing. He passed his pup to a courtier,
and took off his cap to Joan as if she had been a queen. Then he
stepped from his throne and raised her, and showed quite a spirited
and manly joy and gratitude in welcoming her and thanking her for
her extraordinary achievement in his service. My prejudices are of
a later date than that. If he had continued as he was at that
moment, I should not have acquired them.

He acted handsomely. He said:

"You shall not kneel to me, my matchless General; you have
wrought royally, and royal courtesies are your due." Noticing that
she was pale, he said, "But you must not stand; you have lost blood
for France, and your wound is yet green--come." He led her to a
seat and sat down by her. "Now, then, speak out frankly, as to one
who owes you much and freely confesses it before all this courtly
assemblage. What shall be your reward? Name it."

I was ashamed of him. And yet that was not fair, for how could he
be expected to know this marvelous child in these few weeks,
when we who thought we had known her all her life were daily
seeing the clouds uncover some new altitudes of her character
whose existence was not suspected by us before? But we are all
that way: when we know a thing we have only scorn for other
people who don't happen to know it. And I was ashamed of these
courtiers, too, for the way they licked their chops, so to speak, as
envying Joan her great chance, they not knowing her any better
than the King did. A blush began to rise in Joan's cheeks at the
thought that she was working for her country for pay, and she
dropped her head and tried to hide her face, as girls always do
when they find themselves blushing; no one knows why they do,
but they do, and the more they blush the more they fail to get
reconciled to it, and the more they can't bear to have people look at
them when they are doing it. The King made it a great deal worse
by calling attention to it, which is the unkindest thing a person can
do when a girl is blushing; sometimes, when there is a big crowd
of strangers, it is even likely to make her cry if she is as young as
Joan was. God knows the reason for this, it is hidden from men. As
for me, I would as soon blush as sneeze; in fact, I would rather.
However, these meditations are not of consequence: I will go on
with what I was saying. The King rallied her for blushing, and this
brought up the rest of the blood and turned her face to fire. Then
he was sorry, seeing what he had done, and tried to make her
comfortable by saying the blush was exceeding becoming to her
and not to mind it--which caused even the dog to notice it now, so
of course the red in Joan's face turned to purple, and the tears
overflowed and ran down--I could have told anybody that that
would happen. The King was distressed, and saw that the best
thing to do would be to get away from this subject, so he began to
say the finest kind of things about Joan's capture of the Tourelles,
and presently when she was more composed he mentioned the
reward again and pressed her to name it. Everybody listened with
anxious interest to hear what her claim was going to be, but when
her answer came their faces showed that the thing she asked for
was not what they had been expecting.

"Oh, dear and gracious Dauphin, I have but one desire--only one.
If--"

"Do not be afraid, my child--name it."

"That you will not delay a day. My army is strong and valiant, and
eager to finish its work--march with me to Rheims and receive
your crown." You could see the indolent King shrink, in his
butterfly clothes.

"To Rheims--oh, impossible, my General! We march through the
heart of England's power?"

Could those be French faces there? Not one of them lighted in
response to the girl's brave proposition, but all promptly showed
satisfaction in the King's objection. Leave this silken idleness for
the rude contact of war? None of these butterflies desired that.
They passed their jeweled comfit-boxes one to another and
whispered their content in the head butterfly's practical prudence.
Joan pleaded with the King, saying:

"Ah, I pray you do not throw away this perfect opportunity.
Everything is favorable--everything. It is as if the circumstances
were specially made for it. The spirits of our army are exalted with
victory, those of the English forces depressed by defeat. Delay will
change this. Seeing us hesitate to follow up our advantage, our
men will wonder, doubt, lose confidence, and the English will
wonder, gather courage, and be bold again. Now is the
time--pritheee let us march!"

The King shook his head, and La Tremouille, being asked for an
opinion, eagerly furnished it:

"Sire, all prudence is against it. Think of the English strongholds
along the Loire; think of those that lie between us and Rheims!"

He was going on, but Joan cut him short, and said, turning to him:

"If we wait, they will all be strengthened, reinforced. Will that
advantage us?"

"Why--no."

"Then what is your suggestion?--what is it that you would propose
to do?"

"My judgment is to wait."

"Wait for what?"

The minister was obliged to hesitate, for he knew of no
explanation that would sound well. Moreover, he was not used to
being catechized in this fashion, with the eyes of a crowd of people
on him, so he was irritated, and said:

"Matters of state are not proper matters for public discussion."

Joan said placidly:

"I have to beg your pardon. My trespass came of ignorance. I did
not know that matters connected with your department of the
government were matters of state."

The minister lifted his brows in amused surprise, and said, with a
touch of sarcasm:

"I am the King's chief minister, and yet you had the impression that
matters connected with my department are not matters of state?
Pray, how is that?"

Joan replied, indifferently:

"Because there is no state."

"No state!"

"No, sir, there is no state, and no use for a minister. France is
shrunk to a couple of acres of ground; a sheriff's constable could
take care of it; its affairs are not matters of state. The term is too
large."

The King did not blush, but burst into a hearty, careless laugh, and
the court laughed too, but prudently turned its head and did it
silently. La Tremouille was angry, and opened his mouth to speak,
but the King put up his hand, and said:

"There--I take her under the royal protection. She has spoken the
truth, the ungilded truth--how seldom I hear it! With all this tinsel
on me and all this tinsel about me, I am but a sheriff after all--a
poor shabby two-acre sheriff--and you are but a constable," and he
laughed his cordial laugh again. "Joan, my frank, honest General,
will you name your reward? I would ennoble you. You shall
quarter the crown and the lilies of France for blazon, and with
them your victorious sword to defend them--speak the word."

It made an eager buzz of surprise and envy in the assemblage, but
Joan shook her head and said:

"Ah, I cannot, dear and noble Dauphin. To be allowed to work for
France, to spend one's self for France, is itself so supreme a reward
that nothing can add to it--nothing. Give me the one reward I ask,
the dearest of all rewards, the highest in your gift--march with me
to Rheims and receive your crown. I will beg it on my knees."

But the King put his hand on her arm, and there was a really brave
awakening in his voice and a manly fire in his eye when he said:

"No, sit. You have conquered me--it shall be as you--"

But a warning sign from his minister halted him, and he added, to
the relief of the court:

"Well, well, we will think of it, we will think it over and see. Does
that content you, impulsive little soldier?"

The first part of the speech sent a glow of delight to Joan's face,
but the end of it quenched it and she looked sad, and the tears
gathered in her eyes. After a moment she spoke out with what
seemed a sort of terrified impulse, and said:

"Oh, use me; I beseech you, use me--there is but little time!"

"But little time?"

"Only a year--I shall last only a year."

"Why, child, there are fifty good years in that compact little body
yet."

"Oh, you err, indeed you do. In one little year the end will come.
Ah, the time is so short, so short; the moments are flying, and so
much to be done. Oh, use me, and quickly--it is life or death for
France."

Even those insects were sobered by her impassioned words. The
King looked very grave--grave, and strongly impressed. His eyes lit
suddenly with an eloquent fire, and he rose and drew his sword
and raised it aloft; then he brought it slowly down upon Joan's
shoulder and said:

"Ah, thou art so simple, so true, so great, so noble--and by this
accolade I join thee to the nobility of France, thy fitting place! And
for thy sake I do hereby ennoble all thy family and all thy kin; and
all their descendants born in wedlock, not only in the male but also
in the female line. And more!--more! To distinguish thy house and
honor it above all others, we add a privilege never accorded to any
before in the history of these dominions: the females of thy line
shall have and hold the right to ennoble their husbands when these
shall be of inferior degree." [Astonishment and envy flared up in
every countenance when the words were uttered which conferred
this extraordinary grace. The King paused and looked around upon
these signs with quite evident satisfaction.] "Rise, Joan of Arc,
now and henceforth surnamed Du Lis, in grateful acknowledgment
of the good blow which you have struck for the lilies of France;
and they, and the royal crown, and your own victorious sword, fit
and fair company for each other, shall be grouped in you
escutcheon and be and remain the symbol of your high nobility
forever."

As my Lady Du Lis rose, the gilded children of privilege pressed
forward to welcome her to their sacred ranks and call her by her
new name; but she was troubled, and said these honors were not
meet for one of her lowly birth and station, and by their kind grace
she would remain simple Joan of Arc, nothing more--and so be
called.

Nothing more! As if there could be anything more, anything
higher, anything greater. My Lady Du Lis--why, it was tinsel, petty,
perishable. But, JOAN OF ARC! The mere sound of it sets one's
pulses leaping.

Chapter 24 Tinsel Trappings of Nobility

IT WAS vexatious to see what a to-do the whole town, and next
the whole country, made over the news. Joan of Arc ennobled by
the King! People went dizzy with wonder and delight over it. You
cannot imagine how she was gaped at, stared at, envied. Why, one
would have supposed that some great and fortunate thing had
happened to her. But we did not think any great things of it. To our
minds no mere human hand could add a glory to Joan of Arc. To
us she was the sun soaring in the heavens, and her new nobility a
candle atop of it; to us it was swallowed up and lost in her own
light. And she was as indifferent to it and as unconscious of it as
the other sun would have been.

But it was different with her brothers. They were proud and happy
in their new dignity, which was quite natural. And Joan was glad it
had been conferred, when she saw how pleased they were. It was a
clever thought in the King to outflank her scruples by marching on
them under shelter of her love for her family and her kin.

Jean and Pierre sported their coats-of-arms right away; and their
society was courted by everybody, the nobles and commons alike.
The Standard-Bearer said, with some touch of bitterness, that he
could see that they just felt good to be alive, they were so soaked
with the comfort of their glory; and didn't like to sleep at all,
because when they were asleep they didn't know they were noble,
and so sleep was a clean loss of time. And then he said:

"They can't take precedence of me in military functions and state
ceremonies, but when it comes to civil ones and society affairs I
judge they'll cuddle coolly in behind you and the knights, and No‰l
and I will have to walk behind them--hey?"

"Yes," I said, "I think you are right."

"I was just afraid of it--just afraid of it," said the Standard-Bearer,
with a sigh. "Afraid of it? I'm talking like a fool; of course I knew
it. Yes, I was talking like a fool."

No‰l Rainguesson said, musingly:

"Yes, I noticed something natural about the tone of it."

We others laughed.

"Oh, you did, did you? You think you are very clever, don't you?
I'll take and wring your neck for you one of these days, No‰l
Rainguesson."

The Sieur de Metz said:

"Paladin, your fears haven't reached the top notch. They are away
below the grand possibilities. Didn't it occur to you that in civil
and society functions they will take precedence of all the rest of
the personal staff--every one of us?"

"Oh, come!"

"You'll find it's so. Look at their escutcheon. Its chiefest feature is
the lilies of France. It's royal, man, royal--do you understand the
size of that? The lilies are there by authority of the King--do you
understand the size of that? Though not in detail and in entirety,
they do nevertheless substantially quarter the arms of France in
their coat. Imagine it! consider it! measure the magnitude of it! We
walk in front of those boys? Bless you, we've done that for the last
time. In my opinion there isn't a lay lord in this whole region that
can walk in front of them, except the Duke d'Alen‡on, prince of
the blood."

You could have knocked the Paladin down with a feather. He
seemed to actually turn pale. He worked his lips a moment without
getting anything out; then it came:

"I didn't know that, nor the half of it; how could I? I've been an
idiot. I see it now--I've been an idiot. I met them this morning, and
sung out hello to themjust as I would to anybody. I didn't mean to
be ill-mannered, but I didn't know the half of this that you've been
telling. I've been an ass. Yes, that is all there is to it--I've been an
ass."

No‰l Rainguesson said, in a kind of weary way:

"Yes, that is likely enough; but I don't see why you should seem
surprised at it."

"You don't, don't you? Well, why don't you?"

"Because I don't see any novelty about it. With some people it is a
condition which is present all the time. Now you take a condition
which is present all the time, and the results of that condition will
be uniform; this uniformity of result will in time become
monotonous; monotonousness, by the law of its being, is fatiguing.
If you had manifested fatigue upon noticing that you had been an
ass, that would have been logical, that would have been rational;
whereas it seems to me that to manifest surprise was to be again an
ass, because the condition of intellect that can enable a person to
be surprised and stirred by inert monotonousness is a--"

"Now that is enough, No‰l Rainguesson; stop where you are,
before you get yourself into trouble. And don't bother me any more
for some days or a week an it please you, for I cannot abide your
clack."

"Come, I like that! I didn't want to talk. I tried to get out of talking.
If you didn't want to hear my clack, what did you keep intruding
your conversation on me for?"

"I? I never dreamed of such a thing."

"Well, you did it, anyway. And I have a right to feel hurt, and I do
feel hurt, to have you treat me so. It seems to me that when a
person goads, and crowds, and in a manner forces another person
to talk, it is neither very fair nor very good-mannered to call what
he says clack."

"Oh, snuffle--do! and break your heart, you poor thing. Somebody
fetch this sick doll a sugar-rag. Look you, Sir Jean de Metz, do you
feel absolutely certain about that thing?"

"What thing?"

"Why, that Jean and Pierre are going to take precedence of all the
lay noblesse hereabouts except the Duke d'Alen‡on?"

"I think there is not a doubt of it."

The Standard-Bearer was deep in thoughts and dreams a few
moments, then the silk-and-velvet expanse of his vast breast rose
and fell with a sigh, and he said:

"Dear, dear, what a lift it is! It just shows what luck can do. Well, I
don't care. I shouldn't care to be a painted accident--I shouldn't
value it. I am prouder to have climbed up to where I am just by
sheer natural merit than I would be to ride the very sun in the
zenith and have to reflect that I was nothing but a poor little
accident, and got shot up there out of somebody else's catapult. To
me, merit is everything--in fact, the only thing. All else is dross."

Just then the bugles blew the assembly, and that cut our talk short.

Chapter 25 At Last--Forward!

THE DAYS began to waste away--and nothing decided,nothing
done. The army was full of zeal, but it was also hungry. It got no
pay, the treasury was getting empty, it was becoming impossible to
feed it; under pressure of privation it began to fall apart and
disperse--which pleased the trifling court exceedingly. Joan's
distress was pitiful to see. She was obliged to stand helpless while
her victorious army dissolved away until hardly the skeleton of it
was left.

At last one day she went to the Castle of Loches, where the King
was idling. She found him consulting with three of his councilors,
Robert le Ma‡on, a former Chancellor of France, Christophe
d'Harcourt, and Gerard Machet. The Bastard of Orleans was
present also, and it is through him that we know what happened.
Joan threw herself at the King's feet and embraced his knees,
saying:

"Noble Dauphin, prithee hold no more of these long and numerous
councils, but come, and come quickly, to Rheims and receive your
crown."

Christophe d'Harcourt asked:

"Is it your Voices that command you to say that to the King?"

"Yes, and urgently."

"Then will you not tell us in the King's presence in what way the
Voices communicate with you?"

It was another sly attempt to trap Joan into indiscreet admissions
and dangerous pretensions. But nothing came of it. Joan's answer
was simple and straightforward, and the smooth Bishop was not
able to find any fault with it. She said that when she met with
people who doubted the truth of her mission she went aside and
prayed, complaining of the distrust of these, and then the
comforting Voices were heard at her ear saying, soft and low, "Go
forward, Daughter of God, and I will help thee." Then she added,
"When I hear that, the joy in my heart, oh, it is insupportable!"

The Bastard said that when she said these words her face lit up as
with a flame, and she was like one in an ecstasy.

Joan pleaded, persuaded, reasoned; gaining ground little by little,
but opposed step by step by the council. She begged, she implored,
leave to march. When they could answer nothing further, they
granted that perhaps it had been a mistake to let the army waste
away, but how could we help it now? how could we march without
an army?

"Raise one!" said Joan.

"But it will take six weeks."

"No matter--begin! let us begin!"

"It is too late. Without doubt the Duke of Bedford has been
gathering troops to push to the succor of his strongholds on the
Loire."

"Yes, while we have been disbanding ours--and pity 'tis. But we
must throw away no more time; we must bestir ourselves."

The King objected that he could not venture toward Rheims with
those strong places on the Loire in his path. But Joan said:

"We will break them up. Then you can march."

With that plan the King was willing to venture assent. He could sit
around out of danger while the road was being cleared.

Joan came back in great spirits. Straightway everything was
stirring. Proclamations were issued calling for men, a
recruiting-camp was established at Selles in Berry, and the
commons and the nobles began to flock to it with enthusiasm.

A deal of the month of May had been wasted; and yet by the 6th of
June Joan had swept together a new army and was ready to march.
She had eight thousand men. Think of that. Think of gathering
together such a body as that in that little region. And these were
veteran soldiers, too. In fact, most of the men in France were
soldiers, when you came to that; for the wars had lasted
generations now. Yes, most Frenchmen were soldiers; and
admirable runners, too, both by practice and inheritance; they had
done next to nothing but run for near a century. But that was not
their fault. They had had no fair and proper leadership--at least
leaders with a fair and proper chance. Away back, King and Court
got the habit of being treacherous to the leaders; then the leaders
easily got the habit of disobeying the King and going their own
way, each for himself and nobody for the lot. Nobody could win
victories that way. Hence, running became the habit of the French
troops, and no wonder. Yet all that those troops needed in order to
be good fighters was a leader who would attend strictly to
business--a leader with all authority in his hands in place of a tenth
of it along with nine other generals equipped with an equal tenth
apiece. They had a leader rightly clothed with authority now, and
with a head and heart bent on war of the most intensely
businesslike and earnest sort--and there would be results. No doubt
of that. They had Joan of Arc; and under that leadership their legs
would lose the art and mystery of running.

Yes, Joan was in great spirits. She was here and there and
everywhere, all over the camp, by day and by night, pushing
things. And wherever she came charging down the lines, reviewing
the troops, it was good to hear them break out and cheer. And
nobody could help cheering, she was such a vision of young bloom
and beauty and grace, and such an incarnation of pluck and life
and go! she was growing more and more ideally beautiful every
day, as was plain to be seen--and these were days of development;
for she was well past seventeen now--in fact, she was getting close
upon seventeen and a half--indeed, just a little woman, as you may
say.

The two young Counts de Laval arrived one day--fine young
fellows allied to the greatest and most illustrious houses of France;
and they could not rest till they had seen Joan of Arc. So the King
sent for them and presented them to her, and you may believe she
filled the bill of their expectations. When they heard that rich
voice of hers they must have thought it was a flute; and when they
saw her deep eyes and her face, and the soul that looked out of that
face, you could see that the sight of her stirred them like a poem,
like lofty eloquence, like martial music. One of them wrote home
to his people, and in his letter he said, "It seemed something divine
to see her and hear her." Ah, yes, and it was a true word. Truer
word was never spoken.

He saw her when she was ready to begin her march and open the
campaign, and this is what he said about it:

"She was clothed all in white armor save her head, and in her hand
she carried a little battle-ax; and when she was ready to mount her
great black horse he reared and plunged and would not let her.
Then she said, 'Lead him to the cross.' This cross was in front of
the church close by. So they led him there. Then she mounted, and
he never budged, any more than if he had been tied. Then she
turned toward the door of the church and said, in her soft womanly
voice, 'You, priests and people of the Church, make processions
and pray to God for us!' Then she spurred away, under her
standard, with her little ax in her hand, crying 'Forward--march!'
One of her brothers, who came eight days ago, departed with her;
and he also was clad all in white armor."

I was there, and I saw it, too; saw it all, just as he pictures it. And I
see it yet--the little battle-ax, the dainty plumed cap, the white
armor--all in the soft June afternoon; I see it just as if it were
yesterday. And I rode with the staff--the personal stdaff--the staff
of Joan of Arc.

That young count was dying to go, too, but the King held him back
for the present. But Joan had made him a promise. In his letter he
said:

"She told me that when the King starts for Rheims I shall go with
him. But God grant I may not have to wait till then, but may have a
part in the battles!"

She made him that promise when she was taking leave of my lady
the Duchess d'Alen‡on. The duchess was exacting a promise, so it
seemed a proper ttime for others to do the like. The duchess was
troubled for her husband, for she foresaw desperate fighting; and
she held Joan to her breast, and stroked her hair lovingly, and said:

"You must watch over him, dear, and take care of him, and send
him back to me safe. I require it of you; I will not let you go till
you promise."

Joan said:

"I give you the promise with all my heart; and it is not just words,
it is a promise; you shall have him back without a hurt. Do you
believe? And are you satisfied with me now?"

The duchess could not speak, but she kissed Joan on the forehead;
and so they parted.

We left on the 6th and stopped over at Romorantin; then on the 9th
Joan entered Orleans in state, under triumphal arches, with the
welcoming cannon thundering and seas of welcoming flags
fluttering in the breeze. The Grand Staff rode with her, clothed in
shining splendors of costume and decorations: the Duke
d'Alen‡on; the Bastard of Orleans; the Sire de Boussac, Marshal of
France; the Lord de Graville, Master of the Crossbowmen; the Sire
de Culan, Admiral of France; Ambroise de Lor‚; �tienne de
Vignoles, called La Hire; Gautier de Brusac, and other illustrious
captains.

It was grand times; the usual shoutings and packed multitudes, the
usual crush to get sight of Joan; but at last we crowded through to
our old lodgings, and I saw old Boucher and the wife and that dear
Catherine gather Joan to their hearts and smother her with
kisses--and my heart ached tterso! for I could have kissed
Catherine better than anybody, and more and longer; yet was not
thought of for that office, and I so famished for it. Ah, she was so
beautiful, and oh, so sweet! I had loved her the first day I ever saw
her, and from that day forth she was sacred to me. I have carried
her image in my heart for sixty-three years--all lonely thee, yes,
solitary, for it never has had company--and I am grown so old, so
old; but it, oh, it is as fresh and young and merry and mischievous
and lovely and sweet and pure and witching and divine as it was
when it crept in there, bringing benediction and peace to its
habitation so long ago, so long ago--for it has not aged a day!

Chapter 26 The Last Doubts Scattered

THIS TIME, as before, the King's last command to the generals
was this: "See to it that you do nothing without the sanction of the
Maid." And this time the command was obeyed; and would
continue to be obeyed all through the coming great days of the
Loire campaign.

That was a change! That was new! It broke the traditions. It shows
you what sort of a reputation as a commander-in-chief the child
had made for herself in ten days in the field. It was a conquering of
men's doubts and suspicions and a capturing and solidifying of
men's belief and confidence such as the grayest veteran on the
Grand Staff had not been able to achieve in thirty years. Don't you
remember that when at sixteen Joan conducted her own case in a
grim court of law and won it, the old judge spoke of her as "this
marvelous child"? It was the right name, you see.

These veterans were not going to branch out and do things without
the sanction of the Maid--that is true; and it was a great gain. But
at the same time there were some among them who still trembled
at her new and dashing war tactics and earnestly desired to modify
them. And so, during the 10th, while Joan was slaving away at her
plans and issuing order after order with tireless industry, the
old-time consultations and arguings and speechifyings were going
on among certain of the generals.

In the afternoon of that day they came in a body to hold one of
these councils of war; and while they waited for Joan to join them
they discussed the situation. Now this discussion is not set down in
the histories; but I was there, and I will speak of it, as knowing you
will trust me, I not being given to beguiling you with lies.

Gautier de Brusac was spokesman for the timid ones; Joan's side
was resolutely upheld by d'Alen‡on, the Bastard, La Hire, the
Admiral of France, the Marshal de Boussac, and all the other really
important chiefs.

De Brusac argued that the situation was very grave; that Jargeau,
the first point of attack, was formidably strong; its imposing walls
bristling with artillery; with seven thousand picked English
veterans behind them, and at their head the great Earl of Suffolk
and his two redoubtable brothers, the De la Poles. It seemed to him
that the proposal of Joan of Arc to try to take such a place by storm
was a most rash and over-daring idea, and she ought to be
persuaded to relinquish it in favor of the soberer and safer
procedure of investment by regular siege. It seemed to him that
this fiery and furious new fashion of hurling masses of men against
impregnable walls of stone, in defiance of the established laws and
usages of war, was--
But he got no further. La Hire gave his plumed helm an impatient
toss and burst out with:

"By God, she knows her trade, and none can teach it her!"

And before he could get out anything more, D'Alen‡on was on his
feet, and the Bastard of Orleans, and a half a dozen others, all
thundering at once, and pouring out their indignant displeasure
upon any and all that mid hold, secretly or publicly, distrust of the
wisdom of the Commander-in-Chief. And when they had said their
say, La Hire took a chance again, and said:

"There are some that never know how to change. Circumstances
may change, but those people are never able to see that they have
got to change too, to meet those circumstances. All that they know
is the one beaten track that their fathers and grandfathers have
followed and that they themselves have followed in their turn. If
an earthquake come and rip the land to chaos, and that beaten
track now lead over precipices and into morasses, those people
can't learn that they must strike out a new road--no; they will
march stupidly along and follow the old one, to death and
perdition. Men, there's a new state of things; and a surpassing
military genius has perceived it with her clear eye. And a new road
is required, and that same clear eye has noted where it must go,
and has marked it out for us. The man does not live, never has
lived, never will live, that can improve upon it! The old state of
things was defeat, defeat, defeat--and by consequence we had
troops with no dash, no heart, no hope. Would you assault stone
walls with such? No--there was but one way with that kind: sit
down before a place and wait, wait--starve it out, if you could. The
new case is the very opposite; it is this: men all on fire with pluck
and dash and vim and fury and energy--a restrained conflagration!
What would you do with it? Hold it down and let it smolder and
perish and go out? What would Joan of Arc do with it? Turn it
loose, by the Lord God of heaven and earth, and let it swallow up
the foe in the whirlwind of its fires! Nothing shows the splendor
and wisdom of her military genius like her instant comprehension
of the size of the change which has come about, and her instant
perception of the right and only right way to take advantage of it.
With her is no sitting down and starving out; no dilly-dallying and
fooling around; no lazying, loafing, and going to sleep; no, it is
storm! storm! storm! and still storm! storm! storm! and forever
storm! storm! storm! hunt the enemy to his hole, then turn her
French hurricanes loose and carry him by storm! And that is my
sort! Jargeau? What of Jargeau, with its battlements and towers, its
devastating artillery, its seven thousand picked veterans? Joan of
Arc is to the fore, and by the splendor of God its fate is sealed!"

Oh, he carried them. There was not another word said about
persuading Joan to change her tactics. They sat talking
comfortably enough after that.

By and by Joan entered, and they rose and saluted with their
swords, and she asked what their pleasure might be. La Hire said:

"It is settled, my General. The matter concerned Jargeau. There
were some who thought we could not take the place."

Joan laughed her pleasant laugh, her merry, carefree laugh; the
laugh that rippled so buoyantly from her lips and made old people
feel young again to hear it; and she said to the company:

"Have no fears--indeed, there is no need nor any occasion for
them. We will strike the English boldly by assault, and you will
see." Then a faraway look came into her eyes, and I think that a
picture of her home drifted across the vision of her mind; for she
said very gently, and as one who muses, "But that I know God
guides us and will give us success, I had liefer keep sheep than
endure these perils."

We had a homelike farewell supper that evening--just the personal
staff and the family. Joan had to miss it; for the city had given a
banquet in her honor, and she had gone there in state with the
Grand Staff, through a riot of joy-bells and a sparkling Milky Way
of illuminations.

After supper some lively young folk whom we knew came in, and
we presently forgot that we were soldiers, and only remembered
that we were boys and girls and full of animal spirits and long-pent
fun; and so there was dancing, and games, and romps, and screams
of laughter--just as extravagant and innocent and noisy a good time
as ever I had in my life. Dear, dear, how long ago it was!--and I
was young then. And outside, all the while, was the measured
tramp of marching battalions, belated odds and ends of the French
power gathering for the morrow's tragedy on the grim stage of war.
Yes, in those days we had those contrasts side by side. And as I
passed along to bed there was another one: the big Dwarf, in brave
new armor, sat sentry at Joan's door--the stern Spirit of War made
flesh, as it were--and on his ample shoulder was curled a kitten
asleep.

Chapter 27 How Joan Took Jargeau

WE MADE a gallant show next day when we filed out through the
frowning gates of Orleans, with banners flying and Joan and the
Grand Staff in the van of the long column. Those two young De
Lavals were come now, and were joined to the Grand Staff. Which
was well; war being their proper trade, for they were grandsons of
that illustrious fighter Bertrand du Guesclin, Constable of France
in earlier days. Louis de Bourbon, the Marshal de Rais, and the
Vidame de Chartres were added also. We had a right to feel a little
uneasy, for we knew that a force of five thousand men was on its
way under Sir John Fastolfe to reinforce Jargeau, but I think we
were not uneasy, nevertheless. In truth, that force was not yet in
our neighborhood. Sir John was loitering; for some reason or other
he was not hurrying. He was losing precious time--four days at
�tampes, and four more at Janville.

We reached Jargeau and began business at once. Joan sent forward
a heavy force which hurled itself against the outworks in
handsome style, and gained a footing and fought hard to keep it;
but it presently began to fall back before a sortie from the city.
Seeing this, Joan raised her battle-cry and led a new assault herself
under a furious artillery fire. The Paladin was struck down at her
side wounded, but she snatched her standard from his failing hand
and plunged on through the ruck of flying missiles, cheering her
men with encouraging cries; and then for a good time one had
turmoil, and clash of steel, and collision and confusion of
struggling multitudes, and the hoarse bellowing of the guns; and
then the hiding of it all under a rolling firmament of smoke--a
firmament through which veiled vacancies appeared for a moment
now and then, giving fitful dim glimpses of the wild tragedy
enacting beyond; and always at these times one caught sight of that
slight figure in white mail which was the center and soul of our
hope and trust, and whenever we saw that, with its back to us and
its face to the fight, we knew that all was well. At last a great shout
went up--a joyous roar of shoutings, in fact--and that was sign
sufficient that the faubourgs were ours.

Yes, they were ours; the enemy had been driven back within the
walls. On the ground which Joan had won we camped; for night
was coming on.

Joan sent a summons to the English, promising that if they
surrendered she would allow them to go in peace and take their
horses with them. Nobody knew that she could take that strong
place, but she knew it--knew it well; yet she offered that
grace--offered it in a time when such a thing was unknown in war;
in a time when it was custom and usage to massacre the garrison
and the inhabitants of captured cities without pity or
compunctin--yes, even to the harmless women and children
sometimes. There are neighbors all about you who well remember
the unspeakable atrocities which Charles the Bold inflicted upon
the men and women and children of Dinant when he took that
place some years ago. It was a unique and kindly grace which Joan
offered that garrison; but that was her way, that was her loving and
merciful nature--she always did her best to save her enemy's life
and his soldierly pride when she had the mastery of him.

The English asked fifteen days' armistice to consider the proposal
in. And Fastolfe coming with five thousand men! Joan said no. But
she offered another grace: they might take both their horses and
their side-arms--but they must go within the hour.

Well, those bronzed English veterans were pretty hard-headed
folk. They declined again. Then Joan gave command that her army
be made ready to move to the assault at nine in the morning.
Considering the deal of marching and fighting which the men had
done that day, D'Alen‡on thought the hour rather early; but Joan
said it was best so, and so must be obeyed. Then she burst out with
one of those enthusiasms which were always burning in her when
battle was imminent, and said:

Work! work! and God will work with us!"

Yes, one might say that her motto was "Work! stick to it; keep on
working!" for in war she never knew what indolence was. And
whoever will take that motto and live by it will likely to succeed.
There's many a way to win in this world, but none of them is worth
much without good hard work back out of it.

I think we should have lost our big Standard-Bearer that day, if our
bigger Dwarf had not been at hand to bring him out of the mˆl‚e
when he was wounded. He was unconscious, and would have been
trampled to death by our own horse, if the Dwarf had not promptly
rescued him and haled him to the rear and safety. He recovered,
and was himself again after two or three hours; and then he was
happy and proud, and made the most of his wound, and went
swaggering around in his bandages showing off like an innocent
big-child--which was just what he was. He was prouder of being
wounded than a really modest person would be of being killed. But
there was no harm in his vanity, and nobody minded it. He said he
was hit by a stone from a catapult--a stone the size of a man's head.
But the stone grew, of course. Before he got through with it he was
claiming that the enemy had flung a building at him.

"Let him alone," said No‰l Rainguesson. "Don't interrupt his
processes. To-morrow it will be a cathedral."

He said that privately. And, sure enough, to-morrow it was a
cathedral. I never saw anybody with such an abandoned
imagination.

Joan was abroad at the crack of dawn, galloping here and there and
yonder, examining the situation minutely, and choosing what she
considered the most effective positions for her artillery; and with
such accurate judgment did she place her guns that her
Lieutenant-General's admiration of it still survived in his memory
when his testimony was taken at the Rehabilitation, a quarter of a
century later.

In this testimony the Duke d'Alen‡on said that at Jargeau that
morning of the 12th of June she made her dispositions not like a
novice, but "with the sure and clear judgment of a trained general
of twenty or thirty years' experience."

The veteran captains of the armies of France said she was great in
war in all ways, but greatest of all in her genius for posting and
handling artillery.

Who taught the shepherd-girl to do these marvels--she who could
not read, and had had no opportunity to study the complex arts of
war? I do not know any way to solve such a baffling riddle as that,
there being no precedent for it, nothing in history to compare it
with and examine it by. For in history there is no great general,
however gifted, who arrived at success otherwise than through able
teaching and hard study and some experience. It is a riddle which
will never be guessed. I think these vast powers and capacities
were born in her, and that she applied them by an intuition which
could not err.

At eight o'clock all movement ceased, and with it all sounds, all
noise. A mute expectancy reigned. The stillness was something
awful--because it meant so much. There was no air stirring. The
flags on the towers and ramparts hung straight down like tassels.
Wherever one saw a person, that person had stopped what he was
doing, and was in a waiting attitude, a listening attitude. We were
on a commanding spot, clustered around Joan. Not far from us, on
every hand, were the lanes and humble dwellings of these outlying
suburbs. Many people were visible--all were listening, not one was
moving. A man had placed a nail; he was about to fasten
something with it to the door-post of his shop--but he had stopped.
There was his hand reaching up holding the nail; and there was his
other hand n the act of striking with the hammer; but he had
forgotten everything--his head was turned aside listening. Even
children unconsciously stopped in their play; I saw a little boy with
his hoop-stick pointed slanting toward the ground in the act of
steering the hoop around the corner; and so he had stopped and
was listening--the hoop was rolling away, doing its own steering. I
saw a young girl prettily framed in an open window, a
watering-pot in her hand and window-boxes of red flowers under
its spout--but the water had ceased to flow; the girl was listening.
Everywhere were these impressive petrified forms; and
everywhere was suspended movement and that awful stillness.

Joan of Arc raised her sword in the air. At the signal, the silence
was torn to rags; cannon after cannon vomited flames and smoke
and delivered its quaking thunders; and we saw answering tongues
of fire dart from the towers and walls of the city, accompanied by
answering deep thunders, and in a minute the walls and the towers
disappeared, and in their place stood vast banks and pyramids of
snowy smoke, motionless in the dead air. The startled girl dropped
her watering-pot and clasped her hands together, and at that
moment a stone cannon-ball crashed through her fair body.

The great artillery duel went on, each side hammering away with
all its might; and it was splendid for smoke and noise, and most
exalting to one's spirits. The poor little town around about us
suffered cruelly. The cannon-balls tore through its slight buildings,
wrecking them as if they had been built of cards; and every
moment or two one would see a huge rock come curving through
the upper air above the smoke-clouds and go plunging down
through the roofs. Fire broke out, and columns of flame and smoke
rose toward the sky.

Presently the artillery concussions changed the weather. The sky
became overcast, and a strong wind rose and blew away the smoke
that hid the English fortresses.

Then the spectacle was fine; turreted gray walls and towers, and
streaming bright flags, and jets of red fire and gushes of white
smoke in long rows, all standing out with sharp vividness against
the deep leaden background of the sky; and then the whizzing
missiles began to knock up the dirt all around us, and I felt no
more interest in the scenery. There was one English gun that was
getting our position down finer and finer all the time. Presently
Joan pointed to it and said:

"Fair duke, step out of your tracks, or that machine will kill you."

The Duke d'Alen‡on did as he was bid; but Monsieur du Lude
rashly took his place, and that cannon tore his head off in a
moment.

Joan was watching all along for the right time to order the assault.
At last, about nine o'clock, she cried out:

"Now--to the assault!" and the buglers blew the charge.

Instantly we saw the body of men that had been appointed to this
service move forward toward a point where the concentrated fire
of our guns had crumbled the upper half of a broad stretch of wall
to ruins; we saw this force descend into the ditch and begin to
plant the scaling-ladders. We were soon with them. The
Lieutenant-General thought the assault premature. But Joan said:

"Ah, gentle duke, are you afraid? Do you not know that I have
promised to send you home safe?"

It was warm work in the ditches. The walls were crowded with
men, and they poured avalanches of stones down upon us. There
was one gigantic Englishman who did us more hurt than any dozen
of his brethren. He always dominated the places easiest of assault,
and flung down exceedingly troublesome big stones which
smashed men and ladders both--then he would near burst himself
with laughing over what he had done. But the duke settled
accounts with him. He went and found the famous cannoneer, Jean
le Lorrain, and said:

"Train your gun--kill me this demon."

He did it with the first shot. He hit the Englishman fair in the
breast and knocked him backward into the city.

The enemy's resistance was so effective and so stubborn that our
people began to show signs of doubt and dismay. Seeing this, Joan
raised her inspiring battle-cry and descended into the fosse herself,
the Dwarf helping her and the Paladin sticking bravely at her side
with the standard. She started up a scaling-ladder, but a great stone
flung from above came crashing down upon her helmet and
stretched her, wounded and stunned, upon the ground. But only for
a moment. The Dwarf stood her upon her feet, and straightway she
started up the ladder again, crying:

"To the assault, friends, to the assault--the English are ours! It is
the appointed hour!"

There was a grand rush, and a fierce roar of war-cries, and we
swarmed over the ramparts like ants. The garrison fled, we
pursued; Jargeau was ours!

The Earl of Suffolk was hemmed in and surrounded, and the Duke
d'Alen‡on and the Bastard of Orleans demanded that he surrender
himself. But he was a proud nobleman and came of a proud race.
He refused to yield his sword to subordinates, saying:

"I will die rather. I will surrender to the Maid of Orleans alone,
and to no other."

And so he did; and was courteously and honorably used by her.

His two brothers retreated, fighting step by step, toward the bridge,
we pressing their despairing forces and cutting them down by
scores. Arrived on the bridge, the slaughter still continued.
Alexander de la Pole was pushed overboard or fell over, and was
drowned. Eleven hundred men had fallen; John de la Pole decided
to give up the struggle. But he was nearly as proud and particular
as his brother of Suffolk as to whom he would surrender to. The
French officer nearest at hand was Guillaume Renault, who was
pressing him closely. Sir John said to him:

"Are you a gentleman?"

"Yes."

"And a knight?"

"No."

Then Sir John knighted him himself there on the bridge, giving
him the accolade with English coolness and tranquillity in the
midst of that storm of slaughter and mutilation; and then bowing
with high courtesy took the sword by the blade and laid the hilt of
it in the man's hand in token of surrender. Ah, yes, a proud tribe,
those De la Poles.

It was a grand day, a memorable day, a most splendid victory. We
had a crowd of prisoners, but Joan would not allow them to be
hurt. We took them with us and marched into Orleans next day
through the usual tempest of welcome and joy.

And this time there was a new tribute to our leader. From
everywhere in the packed streets the new recruits squeezed their
way to her side to touch the sword of Joan of Arc and draw from it
somewhat of that mysterious quality which made it invincible.





End of Project Gutenberg Etext Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc V 1






PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC, V2

by THE SIEUR LOUIS DE CONTE
(her page and secretary)



Volume 2.


Freely translated out of the ancient French into modern English
from the original unpublished manuscript in the National Archives
of France


Contents

Book II -- IN COURT AND CAMP Continued

28 Joan Foretells Her Doom
29 Fierce Talbot Reconsiders
30 The Red Field of Patay
31 France Begins to Live Again
32 The Joyous News Flies Fast
33 Joan's Five Great Deeds
34 The Jests of the Burgundians
35 The Heir of France is Crowned
36 Joan Hears News from Home
37 Again to Arms
38 The King Cries "Forward!"
39 We Win, but the King Balks
40 Treachery Conquers Joan
41 The Maid Will March No More

Book III -- TRIAL AND MARTYRDOM

1 The Maid in Chains
2 Joan Sold to the English
3 Weaving the Net About Her
4 All Ready to Condemn
5 Fifty Experts Against a Novice
6 The Maid Baffles Her Persecutors
7 Craft That Was in Vain
8 Joan Tells of Her Visions
9 Her Sure Deliverance Foretold
10 The Inquisitors at Their Wit's End
11 The Court Reorganized for Assassination
12 Joan's Master-Stroke Diverted
13 The Third Trial Fails
14 Joan Struggles with Her Twelve Lies
15 Undaunted by Threat of Burning
16 Joan Stands Defiant Before the Rack
17 Supreme in Direst Peril
18 Condemned Yet Unafraid
19 Our Last Hopes of Rescue Fail
20 The Betrayal
21 Respited Only for Torture
22 Joan Gives the Fatal Answer
23 The Time Is at Hand
24 Joan the Martyr
Conclusion



Chapter 28 Joan Foretells Her Doom

THE TROOPS must have a rest. Two days would be allowed for
this.

The morning of the 14th I was writing from Joan's dictation in a
small room which she sometimes used as a private office when she
wanted to get away from officials and their interruptions.
Catherine Boucher came in and sat down and said:

"Joan, dear, I want you to talk to me."

"Indeed, I am not sorry for that, but glad. What is in your mind?"

"This. I scarcely slept last night, for thinking of the dangers you
are running. The Paladin told me how you made the duke stand out
of the way when the cannon-balls were flying all about, and so
saved his life."

"Well, that was right, wasn't it?"

"Right? Yes; but you stayed there yourself. Why will you do like
that? It seems such a wanton risk."

"Oh, no, it was not so. I was not in any danger."

"How can you say that, Joan, with those deadly things flying all
about you?"

Joan laughed, and tried to turn the subject, but Catherine persisted.
She said:

"It was horribly dangerous, and it could not be necessary to stay in
such a place. And you led an assault again. Joan, it is tempting
Providence. I want you to make me a promise. I want you to
promise me that you will let others lead the assaults, if there must
be assaults, and that you will take better care of yourself in those
dreadful battles. Will you?"

But Joan fought away from the promise and did not give it.
Catherine sat troubled and discontented awhile, then she said:

"Joan, are you going to be a soldier always? These wars are so
long--so long. They last forever and ever and ever."

There was a glad flash in Joan's eye as she cried:

"This campaign will do all the really hard work that is in front of it
in the next four days. The rest of it will be gentler--oh, far less
bloody. Yes, in four days France will gather another trophy like the
redemption of Orleans and make her second long step toward
freedom!"

Catherine started (and do did I); then she gazed long at Joan like
one in a trance, murmuring "four days--four days," as if to herself
and unconsciously. Finally she asked, in a low voice that had
something of awe in it:

"Joan, tell me--how is it that you know that? For you do know it, I
think."

"Yes," said Joan, dreamily, "I know--I know. I shall strike--and
strike again. And before the fourth day is finished I shall strike yet
again." She became silent. We sat wondering and still. This was
for a whole minute, she looking at the floor and her lips moving
but uttering nothing. Then came these words, but hardly audible:
"And in a thousand years the English power in France will not rise
up from that blow."

It made my flesh creep. It was uncanny. She was in a trance
again--I could see it--just as she was that day in the pastures of
Domremy when she prophesied about us boys in the war and
afterward did not know that she had done it. She was not
conscious now; but Catherine did not know that, and so she said,
in a happy voice:

"Oh, I believe it, I believe it, and I am so glad! Then you will come
back and bide with us all your life long, and we will love you so,
and honor you!"

A scarcely perceptible spasm flitted across Joan's face, and the
dreamy voice muttered:

"Before two years are sped I shall die a cruel death!"

I sprang forward with a warning hand up. That is why Catherine
did not scream. She was going to do that--I saw it plainly. Then I
whispered her to slip out of the place, and say nothing of what had
happened. I said Joan was asleep--asleep and dreaming. Catherine
whispered back, and said:

"Oh, I am so grateful that it is only a dream! It sounded like
prophecy." And she was gone.

Like prophecy! I knew it was prophecy; and I sat down crying, as
knowing we should lose her. Soon she started, shivering slightly,
and came to herself, and looked around and saw me crying there,
and jumped out of her chair and ran to me all in a whirl of
sympathy and compassion, and put her hand on my head, and said:

"My poor boy! What is it? Look up and tell me."

I had to tell her a lie; I grieved to do it, but there was no other way.
I picked up an old letter from my table, written by Heaven knows
who, about some matter Heaven knows what, and told her I had
just gotten it from PŠre Fronte, and that in it it said the children's
Fairy Tree had been chopped down by some miscreant or other,
and-- I got no further. She snatched the letter from my hand and
searched it up and down and all over, turning it this way and that,
and sobbing great sobs, and the tears flowing down her cheeks,
and ejaculating all the time, "Oh, cruel, cruel! how could any be so
heartless? Ah, poor Arbre F‚e de Bourlemont gone--and we
children loved it so! Show me the place where it says it!"

And I, still lying, showed her the pretended fatal words on the
pretended fatal page, and she gazed at them through her tears, and
said she could see herself that they were hateful, ugly words--they
"had the very look of it."

Then we heard a strong voice down the corridor announcing:

"His majesty's messenger--with despatches for her Excellency the
Commander-in-Chief of the Armies of France!"

Chapter 29 Fierce Talbot Reconsiders

I KNEW she had seen the wisdom of the Tree. But when? I could
not know. Doubtless before she had lately told the King to use her,
for that she had but one year left to work in. It had not occurred to
me at the time, but the conviction came upon me now that at that
time she had already seen the Tree. It had brought her a welcome
message; that was plain, otherwise she could not have been so
joyous and light-hearted as she had been these latter days. The
death-warning had nothing dismal about it for her; no, it was
remission of exile, it was leave to come home.

Yes, she had seen the Tree. No one had taken the prophecy to heart
which she made to the King; and for a good reason, no doubt; no
one wanted to take it to heart; all wanted to banish it away and
forget it. And all had succeeded, and would go on to the end placid
and comfortable. All but me alone. I must carry my awful secret
without any to help me. A heavy load, a bitter burden; and would
cost me a daily heartbreak. She was to die; and so soon. I had
never dreamed of that. How could I, and she so strong and fresh
and young, and every day earning a new right to a peaceful and
honored old age? For at that time I though old age valuable. I do
not know why, but I thought so. All young people think it, I
believe, they being ignorant and full of superstitions. She had seen
the Tree. All that miserable night those ancient verses went
floating back and forth through my brain:

And when, in exile wand'ring, we Shall fainting yearn for glimpse
of thee, Oh, rise upon our sight!

But at dawn the bugles and the drums burst through the dreamy
hush of the morning, and it was turn out all! mount and ride. For
there was red work to be done.

We marched to Meung without halting. There we carried the
bridge by assault, and left a force to hold it, the rest of the army
marching away next morning toward Beaugency, where the lion
Talbot, the terror of the French, was in command. When we
arrived at that place, the English retired into the castle and we sat
down in the abandoned town.

Talbot was not at the moment present in person, for he had gone
away to watch for and welcome Fastolfe and his reinforcement of
five thousand men.

Joan placed her batteries and bombarded the castle till night. Then
some news came: Richemont, Constable of France, this long time
in disgrace with the King, largely because of the evil machinations
of La Tremouille and his party, was approaching with a large body
of men to offer his services to Joan--and very much she needed
them, now that Fastolfe was so close by. Richemont had wanted to
join us before, when we first marched on Orleans; but the foolish
King, slave of those paltry advisers of his, warned him to keep his
distance and refused all reconciliation with him.

I go into these details because they are important. Important
because they lead up to the exhibition of a new gift in Joan's
extraordinary mental make-up--statesmanship. It is a sufficiently
strange thing to find that great quality in an ignorant country-girl
of seventeen and a half, but she had it.

Joan was for receiving Richemont cordially, and so was La Hire
and the two young Lavals and other chiefs, but the
Lieutenant-General, d'Alen‡on, strenuously and stubbornly
opposed it. He said he had absolute orders from the King to deny
and defy Richemont, and that if they were overridden he would
leave the army. This would have been a heavy disaster, indeed. But
Joan set herself the task of persuading him that the salvation of
France took precedence of all minor things--even the commands of
a sceptered ass; and she accomplished it. She persuaded him to
disobey the King in the interest of the nation, and to be reconciled
to Count Richemont and welcome him. That was statesmanship;
and of the highest and soundest sort. Whatever thing men call
great, look for it in Joan of Arc, and there you will find it.

In the early morning, June 17th, the scouts reported the approach
of Talbot and Fastolfe with Fastolfe's succoring force. Then the
drums beat to arms; and we set forth to meet the English, leaving
Richemont and his troops behind to watch the castle of Beaugency
and keep its garrison at home. By and by we came in sight of the
enemy. Fastolfe had tried to convince Talbot that it would be
wisest to retreat and not risk a battle with Joan at this time, but
distribute the new levies among the English strongholds of the
Loire, thus securing them against capture; then be patient and
wait--wait for more levies from Paris; let Joan exhaust her army
with fruitless daily skirmishing; then at the right time fall upon her
in resistless mass and annihilate her. He was a wise old
experienced general, was Fastolfe. But that fierce Talbot would
hear of no delay. He was in a rage over the punishment which the
Maid had inflicted upon him at Orleans and since, and he swore by
God and Saint George that he would have it out with her if he had
to fight her all alone. So Fastolfe yielded, though he said they were
now risking the loss of everything which the English had gained by
so many years' work and so many hard knocks.

The enemy had taken up a strong position, and were waiting, in
order of battle, with their archers to the front and a stockade before
them.

Night was coming on. A messenger came from the English with a
rude defiance and an offer of battle. But Joan's dignity was not
ruffled, her bearing was not discomposed. She said to the herald:

"Go back and say it is too late to meet to-night; but to-morrow,
please God and our Lady, we will come to close quarters."

The night fell dark and rainy. It was that sort of light steady rain
which falls so softly and brings to one's spirit such serenity and
peace. About ten o'clock D'Alen‡on, the Bastard of Orleans, La
Hire, Pothon of Saintrailles, and two or three other generals came
to our headquarters tent, and sat down to discuss matters with
Joan. Some thought it was a pity that Joan had declined battle,
some thought not. Then Pothon asked her why she had declined it.
She said:

"There was more than one reason. These English are ours--they
cannot get away from us. Wherefore there is no need to take risks,
as at other times. The day was far spent. It is good to have much
time and the fair light of day when one's force is in a weakened
state--nine hundred of us yonder keeping the bridge of Meung
under the Marshal de Rais, fifteen hundred with the Constable of
France keeping the bridge and watching the castle of Beaugency."

Dunois said:

"I grieve for this decision, Excellency, but it cannot be helped. And
the case will be the same the morrow, as to that."

Joan was walking up and down just then. She laughed her
affectionate, comrady laugh, and stopping before that old war-tiger
she put her small hand above his head and touched one of his
plumes, saying:

"Now tell me, wise man, which feather is it that I touch?"

"In sooth, Excellency, that I cannot."

"Name of God, Bastard, Bastard! you cannot tell me this small
thing, yet are bold to name a large one--telling us what is in the
stomach of the unborn morrow: that we shall not have those men.
Now it is my thought that they will be with us."

That made a stir. All wanted to know why she thought that. But La
Hire took the word and said:

"Let be. If she thinks it, that is enough. It will happen."

Then Pothon of Santrailles said:

"There were other reasons for declining battle, according to the
saying of your Excellency?"

"Yes. One was that we being weak and the day far gone, the battle
might not be decisive. When it is fought it must be decisive. And it
shall be."

"God grant it, and amen. There were still other reasons?"

"One other--yes." She hesitated a moment, then said: "This was not
the day. To-morrow is the day. It is so written."

They were going to assail her with eager questionings, but she put
up her hand and prevented them. Then she said:

"It will be the most noble and beneficent victory that God has
vouchsafed for France at any time. I pray you question me not as to
whence or how I know this thing, but be content that it is so."

There was pleasure in every face, and conviction and high
confidence. A murmur of conversation broke out, but that was
interrupted by a messenger from the outposts who brought
news--namely, that for an hour there had been stir and movement
in the English camp of a sort unusual at such a time and with a
resting army, he said. Spies had been sent under cover of the rain
and darkness to inquire into it. They had just come back and
reported that large bodies of men had been dimly made out who
were slipping stealthily away in the direction of Meung.

The generals were very much surprised, as any might tell from
their faces.

"It is a retreat," said Joan.

"It has that look," said D'Alen‡on.

"It certainly has," observed the Bastard and La Hire.

"It was not to be expected," said Louis de Bourbon, "but one can
divine the purpose of it."

"Yes," responded Joan. "Talbot has reflected. His rash brain has
cooled. He thinks to take the bridge of Meung and escape to the
other side of the river. He knows that this leaves his garrison of
Beaugency at the mercy of fortune, to escape our hands if it can;
but there is no other course if he would avoid this battle, and that
he also knows. But he shall not get the bridge. We will see to that."

"Yes," said D'Alen&ccecil;on, "we must follow him, and take care
of that matter. What of Beaugency?"

"Leave Beaugency to me, gentle duke; I will have it in two hours,
and at no cost of blood."

"It is true, Excellency. You will but need to deliver this news there
and receive the surrender."

"Yes. And I will be with you at Meung with the dawn, fetching the
Constable and his fifteen hundred; and when Talbot knows that
Beaugency has fallen it will have an effect upon him."

"By the mass, yes!" cried La Hire. "He will join his Meung garrison
to his army and break for Paris. Then we shall have our bridge
force with us again, along with our Beaugency watchers, and be
stronger for our great day's work by four-and-twenty hundred able
soldiers, as was here promised within the hour. Verily this
Englishman is doing our errands for us and saving us much blood
and trouble. Orders, Excellency--give us orders!"

"They are simple. Let the men rest three hours longer. At one
o'clock the advance-guard will march, under our command, with
Pothon of Saintrailles as second; the second division will follow at
two under the Lieutenant-General. Keep well in the rear of the
enemy, and see to it that you avoid an engagement. I will ride
under guard to Beaugency and make so quick work there that Ii
and the Constable of France will join you before dawn with his
men."

She kept her word. Her guard mounted and we rode off through
the puttering rain, taking with us a captured English officer to
confirm Joan's news. We soon covered the journey and summoned
the castle. Richard Gu‚tin, Talbot's lieutenant, being convinced
that he and his five hundred men were left helpless, conceded that
it would be useless to try to hold out. He could not expect easy
terms, yet Joan granted them nevertheless. His garrison could keep
their horses and arms, and carry away property to the value of a
silver mark per man. They could go whither they pleased, but must
not take arms against France again under ten days.

Before dawn we were with our army again, and with us the
Constable and nearly all his men, for we left only a small garrison
in Beaugency castle. We heard the dull booming of cannon to the
front, and knew that Talbot was beginning his attack on the bridge.
But some time before it was yet light the sound ceased and we
heard it no more.

Gu‚tin had sent a messenger through our lines under a
safe-conduct given by Joan, to tell Talbot of the surrender. Of
course this poursuivant had arrived ahead of us. Talbot had held it
wisdom to turn now and retreat upon Paris. When daylight came
he had disappeared; and with him Lord Scales and the garrison of
Meung.

What a harvest of English strongholds we had reaped in those
three days!--strongholds which had defied France with quite cool
confidence and plenty of it until we came.

Chapter 30  The Red Field of Patay

WHEN THE morning broke at last on that forever memorable 18th
of June, thee was no enemy discoverable anywhere, as I have said.
But that did not trouble me. I knew we should find him, and that
we should strike him; strike him the promised blow--the one from
which the English power in France would not rise up in a thousand
years, as Joan had said in her trance.

The enemy had plunged into the wide plains of La Beauce--a
roadless waste covered with bushes, with here and there bodies of
forest trees--a region where an army would be hidden from view in
a very little while. We found the trail in the soft wet earth and
followed it. It indicated an orderly march; no confusion, no panic.

But we had to be cautious. In such a piece of country we could
walk into an ambush without any trouble. Therefore Joan sent
bodies of cavalry ahead under La Hire, Pothon, and other captains,
to feel the way. Some of the other officers began to show
uneasiness; this sort of hide-and-go-seek business troubled them
and made their confidence a little shaky. Joan divined their state of
mind and cried out impetuously:

"Name of God, what would you? We must smite these English,
and we will. They shall not escape us. Though they were hung to
the clouds we would get them!"

By and by we were nearing Patay; it was about a league away.
Now at this time our reconnaissance, feeling its way in the bush,
frightened a deer, and it went bounding away and was out of sight
in a moment. Then hardly a minute later a dull great shout went up
in the distance toward Patay. It was the English soldiery. They had
been shut up in a garrison so long on moldy food that they could
not keep their delight to themselves when this fine fresh meat
came springing into their midst. Poor creature, it had wrought
damage to a nation which loved it well. For the French knew
where the English were now, whereas the English had no suspicion
of where the French were.

La Hire halted where he was, and sent back the tidings. Joan was
radiant with joy. The Duke d'Alen‡on said to her:

"Very well, we have found them; shall we fight them?"

"Have you good spurs, prince?"

"Why? Will they make us run away?"

"Nenni, en nom de Dieu! These English are ours--they are lost.
They will fly. Who overtakes them will need good spurs.
Forward--close up!"

By the time we had come up with La Hire the English had
discovered our presence. Talbot's force was marching in three
bodies. First his advance-guard; then his artillery; then his
battle-corps a good way in the rear. He was now out of the bush
and in a fair open country. He at once posted his artillery, his
advance-guard, and five hundred picked archers along some
hedges where the French would be obliged to pass, and hoped to
hold this position till his battle-corps could come up. Sir John
Fastolfe urged the battle-corps into a gallop. Joan saw her
opportunity and ordered La Hire to advance--which La Hire
promptly did, launching his wild riders like a storm-wind, his
customary fashion.

The duke and the Bastard wanted to follow, but Joan said:

"Not yet--wait."

So they waited--impatiently, and fidgeting in their saddles. But she
was ready--gazing straight before her, measuring, weighing,
calculating--by shades, minutes, fractions of minutes,
seconds--with all her great soul present, in eye, and set of head,
and noble pose of body--but patient, steady, master of
herself--master of herself and of the situation.

And yonder, receding, receding, plumes lifting and falling, lifting
and falling, streamed the thundering charge of La Hire's godless
crew, La Hire's great figure dominating it and his sword stretched
aloft like a flagstaff.

"Oh, Satan andhis Hellions, see them go!" Somebody muttered it
in deep admiration.

And now he was closing up--closing up on Fastolfe's rushing corps.

And now he struck it--struck it hard, and broke its order. It lifted
the duke and the Bastard in their saddles to see it; and they turned,
trembling with excitement, to Joan, saying:

"Now!"

But she put up her hand, still gazing, weighing, calculating, and
said again:

"Wait--not yet."

Fastolfe's hard-driven battle-corps raged on like an avalanche
toward the waiting advance-guard. Suddenly these conceived the
idea that it was flying in panic before Joan; and so in that instant it
broke and swarmed away in a mad panic itself, with Talbot
storming and cursing after it.

Now was the golden time. Joan drove her spurs home and waved
the advance with her sword. "Follow me!" she cried, and bent her
head to her horse's neck and sped away like the wind!

We went down into the confusion of that flying rout, and for three
long hours we cut and hacked and stabbed. At last the bugles sang
"Halt!"

The Battle of Patay was won.

Joan of Arc dismounted, and stood surveying that awful field, lost
in thought. Presently she said:

"The praise is to God. He has smitten with a heavy hand this day."
After a little she lifted her face, and looking afar off, said, with the
manner of one who is thinking aloud, "In a thousand years--a
thousand years--the English power in France will not rise up from
this blow." She stood again a time thinking, then she turned toward
her grouped generals, and there was a glory in her face and a noble
light in her eye; and she said:

"Oh, friends, friends, do you know?--do you comprehend? France
is on the way to be free!"

"And had never been, but for Joan of Arc!" said La Hire, passing
before her and bowing low, the other following and doing
likewise; he muttering as he went, "I will say it though I be
damned for it." Then battalion after battalion of our victorious
army swung by, wildly cheering. And they shouted, "Live forever,
Maid of Orleans, live forever!" while Joan, smiling, stood at the
salute with her sword.

This was not the last time I saw the Maid of Orleans on the red
field of Patay. Toward the end of the day I came upon her where
the dead and dying lay stretched all about in heaps and winrows;
our men had mortally wounded an English prisoner who was too
poor to pay a ransom, and from a distance she had seen that cruel
thing done; and had galloped to the place and sent for a priest, and
now she was holding the head of her dying enemy in her lap, and
easing him to his death with comforting soft words, just as his
sister might have done; and the womanly tears running down her
face all the time. [1]

[1] Lord Ronald Gower (Joan of Arc, p. 82) says: "Michelet
discovered this story in the deposition of Joan of Arc's page, Louis
de Conte, who was probably an eye-witness of the scene." This is
true. It was a part of the testimony of the author of these "Personal
Recollections of Joan of Arc," given by him in the Rehabilitation
proceedings of 1456. -- TRANSLATOR.

Chapter 31 France Begins to Live Again

JOAN HAD said true: France was on the way to be free.

The war called the Hundred Years' War was very sick to-day. Sick
on its English side--for the very first time since its birth,
ninety-one years gone by.

Shall we judge battles by the numbers killed and the ruin wrought?
Or shall we not rather judge them by the results which flowed
from them? Any one will say that a battle is only truly great or
small according to its results. Yes, any one will grant that, for it is
the truth.

Judged by results, Patay's place is with the few supremely great
and imposing battles that have been fought since the peoples of the
world first resorted to arms for the settlement of their quarrels. So
judged, it is even possible that Patay has no peer among that few
just mentioned, but stand alone, as the supremest of historic
conflicts. For when it began France lay gasping out the remnant of
an exhausted life, her case wholly hopeless in the view of all
political physicians; when it ended, three hours later, she was
convalescent. Convalescent, and nothing requisite but time and
ordinary nursing to bring her back to perfect health. The dullest
physician of them all could see this, and there was none to deny it.

Many death-sick nations have reached convalescence through a
series of battles, a procession of battles, a weary tale of wasting
conflicts stretching over years, but only one has reached it in a
single day and by a single battle. That nation is France, and that
battle Patay.

Remember it and be proud of it; for you are French, and it is the
stateliest fact in the long annals of your country. There it stands,
with its head in the clouds! And when you grow up you will go on
pilgrimage to the field of Patay, and stand uncovered in the
presence of--what? A monument with its head in the clouds? Yes.
For all nations in all times have built monuments on their
battle-fields to keep green the memory of the perishable deed that
was wrought there and of the perishable name of him who wrought
it; and will France neglect Patay and Joan of Arc? Not for long.
And will she build a monument scaled to their rank as compared
with the world's other fields and heroes? Perhaps--if there be room
for it under the arch of the sky.

But let us look back a little, and consider certain strange and
impressive facts. The Hundred Years' War began in 1337. It raged
on and on, year after year and year after year; and at last England
stretched France prone with that fearful blow at Cr‚cy. But she
rose and struggled on, year after year, and at last again she went
down under another devastating blow--Poitiers. She gathered her
crippled strength once more, and the war raged on, and on, and
still on, year after year, decade after decade. Children were born,
grew up, married, died--the war raged on; their children in turn
grew up, married, died--the war raged on; their children, growing,
saw France struck down again; this time under the incredible
disaster of Agincourt--and still the war raged on, year after year,
and in time these chldren married in their turn.

France was a wreck, a ruin, a desolation. The half of it belonged to
England, with none to dispute or deny the truth; the other half
belonged to nobody--in three months would be flying the English
flag; the French King was making ready to throw away his crown
and flee beyond the seas.

Now came the ignorant country-maid out of her remote village and
confronted this hoary war, this all-consuming conflagration that
had swept the land for three generations. Then began the briefest
and most amazing campaign that is recorded in history. In seven
weeks it was finished. In seven weeks she hopelessly crippled that
gigantic war that was ninety-one years old. At Orleans she struck it
a staggering blow; on the field of Patay she broke its back.

Think of it. Yes, one can do that; but understand it? Ah, that is
another matter; none will ever be able to comprehend that
stupefying marvel.

Seven weeks--with her and there a little bloodshed. Perhaps the
most of it, in any single fight, at Patay, where the English began
six thousand strong and left two thousand dead upon the field. It is
said and believed that in three battles alone--Cr‚cy, Poitiers, and
Agincourt--near a hundred thousand Frenchmen fell, without
counting the thousand other fights of that long war. The dead of
that war make a mournful long list--an interminable list. Of men
slain in the field the count goes by tens of thousands; of innocent
women and children slain by bitter hardship and hunger it goes by
that appalling term, millions.

It was an ogre, that war; an ogre that went about for near a hundred
years, crunching men and dripping blood from its jaws. And with
her little hand that child of seventeen struck him down; and yonder
he lies stretched on the field of Patay, and will not get up any more
while this old world lasts.

Chapter 32 The Joyous News Flies Fast

THE GREAT news of Patay was carried over the whole of France
in twenty hours, people said. I do not know as to that; but one
thing is sure, anyway: the moment a man got it he flew shouting
and glorifying God and told his neighbor; and that neighbor flew
with it to the next homestead; and so on and so on without resting
the word traveled; and when a man got it in the night, at what hour
soever, he jumped out of his bed and bore the blessed message
along. And the joy that went with it was like the light that flows
across the land when an eclipse is receding from the face of the
sun; and, indeed, you may say that France had lain in an eclipse
this long time; yes, buried in a black gloom which these beneficent
tidings were sweeping away now before the onrush of their white
splendor.

The news beat the flying enemy to Yeuville, and the town rose
against its English masters and shut the gates against their
brethren. It flew to Mont Pipeau, to Saint Simon, and to this, that,
and the other English fortress; and straightway the garrison applied
the torch and took to the fields and the woods. A detachment of
our army occupied Meung and pillaged it.

When we reached Orleans that tow was as much as fifty times
insaner with joy than we had ever seen it before--which is saying
much. Night had just fallen, and the illuminations were on so
wonderful a scale that we seemed to plow through seas of fire; and
as to the noise--the hoarse cheering of the multitude, the
thundering of cannon, the clash of bells--indeed, there was never
anything like it. And everywhere rose a new cry that burst upon us
like a storm when the column entered the gates, and nevermore
ceased: "Welcome to Joan of Arc--way for the SAVIOR OF
FRANCE!" And there was another cry: "Cr‚cy is avenged! Poitiers
is avenged! Agincourt is avenged!--Patay shall live forever!"

Mad? Why, you never could imagine it in the world. The prisoners
were in the center of the column. When that came along and the
people caught sight of their masterful old enemy Talbot, that had
made them dance so long to his grim war-music, you may imagine
what the uproar was like if you can, for I can not describe it. They
were so glad to see him that presently they wanted to have him out
and hang him; so Joan had him brought up to the front to ride in
her protection. They made a striking pair.

Chapter 33 Joan's Five Great Deeds

YES, ORLEANS was in a delirium of felicity. She invited the
King, and made sumptuous preparations to receive him, but--he
didn't come. He was simply a serf at that time, and La Tremouille
was his master. Master and serf were visiting together at the
master's castle of Sully-sur-Loire.

At Beaugency Joan had engaged to bring about a reconciliation
between the Constable Richemont and the King. She took
Richemont to Sully-sur-Loire and made her promise good.

The great deeds of Joan of Arc are five:

1. The Raising of the Siege.

2. The Victory of Patay.

3. The Reconciliation at Sully-sur-Loire.

4. The Coronation of the King.

5. The Bloodless March.

We shall come to the Bloodless March presently (and the
Coronation). It was the victorious long march which Joan made
through the enemy's country from Gien to Rheims, and thence to
the gates of Paris, capturing every English town and fortress that
barred the road, from the beginning of the journey to the end of it;
and this by the mere force of her name, and without shedding a
drop of blood--perhaps the most extraordinary campaign in this
regard in history--this is the most glorious of her military exploits.

The Reconciliation was one of Joan's most important
achievements. No one else could have accomplished it; and, in
fact, no one else of high consequence had any disposition to try. In
brains, in scientific warfare, and in statesmanship the Constable
Richemont was the ablest man in France. His loyalty was sincere;
his probity was above suspicion--(and it made him sufficiently
conspicuous in that trivial and conscienceless Court).

In restoring Richemont to France, Joan made thoroughly secure the
successful completion of the great work which she had begun. She
had never seen Richemont until he came to her with his little army.
Was it not wonderful that at a glance she should know him for the
one man who could finish and perfect her work and establish it in
perpetuity? How was it that that child was able to do this? It was
because she had the "seeing eye," as one of our knights had once
said. Yes, she had that great gift--almost the highest and rarest that
has been granted to man. Nothing of an extraordinary sort was still
to be done, yet the remaining work could not safely be left to the
King's idiots; for it would require wise statesmanship and long and
patient though desultory hammering of the enemy. Now and then,
for a quarter of a century yet, there would be a little fighting to do,
and a handy man could carry that on with small disturbance to the
rest of the country; and little by little, and with progressive
certainty, the English would disappear from France.

And that happened. Under the influence of Richemont the King
became at a later time a man--a man, a king, a brave and capable
and determined soldier. Within six years after Patay he was
leading storming parties himself; fighting in fortress ditches up to
his waist in water, and climbing scaling-ladders under a furious
fire with a pluck that would have satisfied even Joan of Arc. In
time he and Richemont cleared away all the English; even from
regions where the people had been under their mastership for three
hundred years. In such regions wise and careful work was
necessary, for the English rule had been fair and kindly; and men
who have been ruled in that way are not always anxious for a
change.

Which of Joan's five chief deeds shall we call the chiefest? It is my
thought that each in its turn was that. This is saying that, taken as a
whole, they equalized each other, and neither was then greater than
its mate.

Do you perceive? Each was a stage in an ascent. To leave out one
of them would defeat the journey; to achieve one of them at the
wrong time and in the wrong place would have the same effect.

Consider the Coronation. As a masterpiece of diplomacy, where
can you find its superior in our history? Did the King suspect its
vast importance? No. Did his ministers? No. Did the astute
Bedford, representative of the English crown? No. An advantage
of incalculable importance was here under the eyes of the King
and of Bedford; the King could get it by a bold stroke, Bedford
could get it without an effort; but, being ignorant of its value,
neither of them put forth his hand. Of all the wise people in high
office in France, only one knew the priceless worth of this
neglected prize--the untaught child of seventeen, Joan of Arc--and
she had known it from the beginning as an essential detail of her
mission.

How did she know it? It was simple: she was a peasant. That tells
the whole story. She was of the people and knew the people; those
others moved in a loftier sphere and knew nothing much about
them. We make little account of that vague, formless, inert mass,
that mighty underlying force which we call "the people"--an
epithet which carries contempt with it. It is a strange attitude; for
at bottom we know that the throne which the people support
stands, and that when that support is removed nothing in this world
can save it.

Now, then, consider this fact, and observe its importance.
Whatever the parish priest believes his flock believes; they love
him, they revere him; he is their unfailing friend, their dauntless
protector, their comforter in sorrow, their helper in their day of
need; he has their whole confidence; what he tells them to do, that
they will do, with a blind and affectionate obedience, let it cost
what it may. Add these facts thoughtfully together, and what is the
sum? This: The parish priest governs the nation. What is the King,
then, if the parish priest withdraws his support and deny his
authority? Merely a shadow and no King; let him resign.

Do you get that idea? Then let us proceed. A priest is consecrated
to his office by the awful hand of God, laid upon him by his
appointed representative on earth. That consecration is final;
nothing can undo it, nothing can remove it. Neither the Pope nor
any other power can strip the priest of his office; God gave it, and
it is forever sacred and secure. The dull parish knows all this. To
priest and parish, whatsoever is anointed of God bears an office
whose authority can no longer be disputed or assailed. To the
parish priest, and to his subjects the nation, an uncrowned king is a
similitude of a person who has been named for holy orders but has
not been consecrated; he has no office, he has not been ordained,
another may be appointed to his place. In a word, an uncrowned
king is a doubtful king; but if God appoint him and His servant the
Bishop anoint him, the doubt is annihilated; the priest and the
parish are his loyal subjects straightway, and while he lives they
will recognize no king but him.

To Joan of Arc, the peasant-girl, Charles VII. was no King until he
was crowned; to her he was only the Dauphin; that is to say, the
heir. If I have ever made her call him King, it was a mistake; she
called him the Dauphin, and nothing else until after the
Coronation. It shows you as in a mirror--for Joan was a mirror in
which the lowly hosts of France were clearly reflected--that to all
that vast underlying force called "the people," he was no King but
only Dauphin before his crowning, and was indisputably and
irrevocably King after it.

Now you understand what a colossal move on the political
chess-board the Coronation was. Bedford realized this by and by,
and tried to patch up his mistake by crowning his King; but what
good could that do? None in the world.

Speaking of chess, Joan's great acts may be likened to that game.
Each move was made in its proper order, and it as great and
effective because it was made in its proper order and not out of it.
Each, at the time made, seemed the greatest move; but the final
result made them all recognizable as equally essential and equally
important. This is the game, as played:

1. Joan moves to Orleans and Patay--check.

2. Then moves the Reconciliation--but does not proclaim check, it
being a move for position, and to take effect later.

3. Next she moves the Coronation--check.

4. Next, the Bloodless March--check.

5. Final move (after her death), the reconciled Constable
Richemont to the French King's elbow--checkmate.

Chapter 34 The Jests of the Burgundians

THE CAMPAIGN of the Loire had as good as opened the road to
Rheims. There was no sufficient reason now why the Coronation
should not take place. The Coronation would complete the mission
which Joan had received from heaven, and then she would be
forever done with war, and would fly home to her mother and her
sheep, and never stir from the hearthstone and happiness any more.
That was her dream; and she could not rest, she was so impatient
to see it fulfilled. She became so possessed with this matter that I
began to lose faith in her two prophecies of her early death--and,
of course, when I found that faith wavering I encouraged it to
waver all the more.

The King was afraid to start to Rheims, because the road was
mile-posted with English fortresses, so to speak. Joan held them in
light esteem and not things to be afraid of in the existing modified
condition of English confidence.

And she was right. As it turned out, the march to Rheims was
nothing but a holiday excursion: Joan did not even take any
artillery along, she was so sure it would not be necessary. We
marched from Gien twelve thousand strong. This was the 29th of
June. The Maid rode by the side of the King; on his other side was
the Duke d'Alen‡on. After the duke followed three other princes of
the blood. After these followed the Bastard of Orleans, the
Marshal de Boussac, and the Admiral of France. After these came
La Hire, Saintrailles, Tremouille, and a long procession of knights
and nobles.

We rested three days before Auxerre. The city provisioned the
army, and a deputation waited upon the King, but we did not enter
the place.

Saint-Florentin opened its gates to the King.

On the 4th of July we reached Saint-Fal, and yonder lay Troyes
before us--a town which had a burning interest for us boys; for we
remembered how seven years before, in the pastures of Domremy,
the Sunflower came with his black flag and brought us the
shameful news of the Treaty of Troyes--that treaty which gave
France to England, and a daughter of our royal line in marriage to
the Butcher of Agincourt. That poor town was not to blame, of
course; yet we flushed hot with that old memory, and hoped there
would be a misunderstanding here, for we dealry wanted to storm
the place and burn it. It was powerfully garrisoned by English and
Burgundian soldiery, and was expecting reinforcements from
Paris. Before night we camped before its gates and made rough
work with a sortie which marched out against us.

Joan summoned Troyes to surrender. Its commandant, seeing that
she had no artillery, scoffed at the idea, and sent her a grossly
insulting reply. Five days we consulted and negotiated. No result.
The King was about to turn back now and give up. He was afraid
to go on, leaving this strong place in his rear. Then La Hire put in a
word, with a slap in it for some of his Majesty's advisers:

"The Maid of Orleans undertook this expedition of her own
motion; and it is my mind that it is her judgment that should be
followed here, and not that of any other, let him be of whatsoever
breed and standing he may."

There was wisdom and righteousness in that. So the King sent for
the Maid, and asked her how she thought the prospect looked. She
said, without any tone of doubt or question in her voice:

"In three days' time the place is ours."

The smug Chancellor put in a word now:

"If we were sure of it we would wait her six days."

"Six days, forsooth! Name of God, man, we will enter the gates
to-morrow!"

Then she mounted, and rode her lines, crying out:

"Make preparation--to your work, friends, to your work! We
assault at dawn!"

She worked hard that night, slaving away with her own hands like
a common soldier. She ordered fascines and fagots to be prepared
and thrown into the fosse, thereby to bridge it; and in this rough
labor she took a man's share.

At dawn she took her place at the head of the storming force and
the bugles blew the assault. At that moment a flag of truce was
flung to the breeze from the walls, and Troyes surrendered without
firing a shot.

The next day the King with Joan at his side and the Paladin
bearing her banner entered the town in state at the head of the
army. And a goodly army it was now, for it had been growing ever
bigger and bigger from the first.

And now a curious thing happened. By the terms of the treaty
made with the town the garrison of English and Burgundian
soldiery were to be allowed to carry away their "goods" with them.
This was well, for otherwise how would they buy the wherewithal
to live? Very well; these people were all to go out by the one gate,
and at the time set for them to depart we young fellows went to
that gate, along with the Dwarf, to see the march-out. Presently
here they came in an interminable file, the foot-soldiers in the
lead. As they approached one could see that each bore a burden of
a bulk and weight to sorely tax his strength; and we said among
ourselves, truly these folk are well off for poor common soldiers.
When they were come nearer, what do you think? Every rascal of
them had a French prisoner on his back! They were carrying away
their "goods," you see--their property--strictly according to the
permission granted by the treaty.

Now think how clever that was, how ingenious. What could a body
say? what could a body do? For certainly these people were within
their right. These prisoners were property; nobody could deny that.
My dears, if those had been English captives, conceive of the
richness of that booty! For English prisoners had been scarce and
precious for a hundred years; whereas it was a different matter
with French prisoners. They had been over-abundant for a century.
The possessor of a French prisoner did not hold him long for
ransom, as a rule, but presently killed him to save the cost of his
keep. This shows you how small was the value of such a
possession in those times. When we took Troyes a calf was worth
thirty francs, a sheep sixteen, a French prisoner eight. It was an
enormous price for those other animals--a price which naturally
seems incredible to you. It was the war, you see. It worked two
ways: it made meat dear and prisoners cheap.

Well, here were these poor Frenchmen being carried off. What
could we do? Very little of a permanent sort, but we did what we
could. We sent a messenger flying to Joan, and we and the French
guards halted the procession for a parley--to gain time, you see. A
big Burgundian lost his temper and swore a great oath that none
should stop him; he would go, and would take his prisoner with
him. But we blocked him off, and he saw that he was mistaken
about going--he couldn't do it. He exploded into the maddest
cursings and revilings, then, and, unlashing his prisoner from his
back, stood him up, all bound and helpless; then drew his knife,
and said to us with a light of sarcasting triumph in his eye:

"I may not carry him away, you say--yet he is mine, none will
dispute it. Since I may not convey him hence, this property of
mine, there is another way. Yes, I can kill him; not even the dullest
among you will question that right. Ah, you had not thought of
that--vermin!"

That poor starved fellow begged us with his piteous eyes to save
him; then spoke, and said he had a wife and little children at home.
Think how it wrung our heartstrings. But what could we do? The
Burgundian was within his right. We could only beg and plead for
the prisoner. Which we did. And the Burgundian enjoyed it. He
stayed his hand to hear more of it, and laugh at it. That stung. Then
the Dwarf said:

"Prithee, young sirs, let me beguile him; for when a matter
requiring permission is to the fore, I have indeed a gift in that sort,
as any will tell you that know me well. You smile; and that is
punishment for my vanity; and fairly earned, I grant you. Still, if I
may toy a little, just a little--" saying which he stepped to the
Burgundian and began a fair soft speech, all of goodly and gentle
tenor; and in the midst he mentioned the Maid; and was going on
to say how she out of her good heart would prize and praise this
compassionate deed which he was about to-- It was as far as he
got. The Burgundian burst into his smooth oration with an insult
leveled at Joan of Arc. We sprang forward, but the Dwarf, his face
all livid, brushed us aside and said, in a most grave and earnest
way:

"I crave your patience. Am not I her guard of honor? This is my
affair."

And saying this he suddenly shot his right hand out and gripped the
great Burgundian by the throat, and so held him upright on his feet.
"You have insulted the Maid," he said; "and the Maid is France.
The tongue that does that earns a long furlough."

One heard the muffled cracking of bones. The Burgundian's eyes
began to protrude from their sockets and stare with a leaden
dullness at vacancy. The color deepened in his face and became an
opaque purple. His hands hung down limp, his body collapsed with
a shiver, every muscle relaxed its tension and ceased from its
function. The Dwarf took away his hand and the column of inert
mortality sank mushily to the ground.

We struck the bonds from the prisoner and told him he was free.
His crawling humbleness changed to frantic joy in a moment, and
his ghastly fear to a childish rage. He flew at that dead corpse and
kicked it, spat in its face, danced upon it, crammed mud into its
mouth, laughing, jeering, cursing, and volleying forth indecencies
and bestialities like a drunken fiend. It was a thing to be expected;
soldiering makes few saints. Many of the onlookers laughed,
others were indifferent, none was surprised. But presently in his
mad caperings the freed man capered within reach of the waiting
file, and another Burgundian promptly slipped a knife through his
neck, and down he went with a death-shriek, his brilliant artery
blood spurting ten feet as straight and bright as a ray of light.
There was a great burst of jolly laughter all around from friend and
foe alike; and thus closed one of the pleasantest incidents of my
checkered military life.

And now came Joan hurrying, and deeply troubled. She considered
the claim of the garrison, then said:

"You have right upon your side. It is plain. It was a careless word
to put in the treaty, and covers too much. But ye may not take
these poor men away. They are French, and I will not have it. The
King shall ransom them, every one. Wait till I send you word from
him; and hurt no hair of their heads; for I tell you, I who speak,
that that would cost you very dear."

That settled it. The prisoners were safe for one while, anyway.
Then she rode back eagerly and required that thing of the King,
and would listen to no paltering and no excuses. So the King told
her to have her way, and she rode straight back and bought the
captives free in his name and let them go.

Chapter 35 The Heir of France is Crowned

IT WAS here hat we saw again the Grand Master of the King's
Household, in whose castle Joan was guest when she tarried at
Chinon in those first days of her coming out of her own country.
She made him Bailiff of Troyes now by the King's permission.

And now we marched again; Chƒlons surrendered to us; and there
by Chƒlons in a talk, Joan, being asked if she had no fears for the
future, said yes, one--treachery. Who would believe it? who could
dream it? And yet in a sense it was prophecy. Truly, man is a
pitiful animal.

We marched, marched, kept on marching; and at last, on the 16th
of July, we came in sight of our goal, and saw the great
cathedraled towers of Rheims rise out of the distance! Huzza after
huzza swept the army from van to rear; and as for Joan of Arc,
there where she sat her horse gazing, clothed all in white armor,
dreamy, beautiful, and in her face a deep, deep joy, a joy not of
earth, oh, she was not flesh, she was a spirit! Her sublime mission
was closing--closing in flawless triumph. To-morrow she could
say, "It is finished--let me go free."

We camped, and the hurry and rush and turmoil of the grand
preparations began. The Archbishop and a great deputation
arrived; and after these came flock after flock, crowd after crowd,
of citizens and country-folk, hurrahing, in, with banners and
music, and flowed over the camp, one rejoicing inundation after
another, everybody drunk with happiness. And all night long
Rheims was hard at work, hammering away, decorating the town,
building triumphal arches and clothing the ancient cathedral
within and without in a glory of opulent splendors.

We moved betimes in the morning; the coronation ceremonies
would begin at nine and last five hours. We were aware that the
garrison of English and Burgundian soldiers had given up all
thought of resisting the Maid, and that we should find the gates
standing hospitably open and the whole city ready to welcome us
with enthusiasm.

It was a delicious morning, brilliant with sunshine, but cool and
fresh and inspiring. The army was in great form, and fine to see, as
it uncoiled from its lair fold by fold, and stretched away on the
final march of the peaceful Coronation Campaign.

Joan, on her black horse, with the Lieutenant-General and the
personal staff grouped about her, took post for a final review and a
good-by; for she was not expecting to ever be a soldier again, or
ever serve with these or any other soldiers any more after this day.
The army knew this, and believed it was looking for the last time
upon the girlish face of its invincible little Chief, its pet, its pride,
its darling, whom it had ennobled in its private heart with
nobilities of its own creation, call her "Daughter of God," "Savior
of France," "Victory's Sweetheart," "The Page of Christ," together
with still softer titles which were simply na‹f and frank
endearments such as men are used to confer upon children whom
they love. And so one saw a new thing now; a thing bred of the
emotion that was present there on both sides. Always before, in the
march-past, the battalions had gone swinging by in a storm of
cheers, heads up and eyes flashing, the drums rolling, the bands
braying p‘ans of victory; but now there was nothing of that. But
for one impressive sound, one could have closed his eyes and
imagined himself in a world of the dead. That one sound was all
that visited the ear in the summer stillness--just that one sound--the
muffled tread of the marching host. As the serried masses drifted
by, the men put their right hands up to their temples, palms to the
front, in military salute, turning their eyes upon Joan's face in mute
God-bless-you and farewell, and keeping them there while they
could. They still kept their hands up in reverent salute many steps
after they had passed by. Every time Joan put her handkerchief to
her eyes you could see a little quiver of emotion crinkle along the
faces of the files.

The march-past after a victory is a thing to drive the heart mad
with jubilation; but this one was a thing to break it.

We rode now to the King's lodgins, which was the Archbishop's
country palace; and he was presently ready, and we galloped off
and took position at the head of the army. By this time the
country-people were arriving in multitudes from every direction
and massing themselves on both sides of the road to get sight of
Joan--just as had been done every day since our first day's march
began. Our march now lay through the grassy plain, and those
peasants made a dividing double border for that plain. They
stretched right down through it, a broad belt of bright colors on
each side of the road; for every peasant girl and woman in it had a
white jacket on her body and a crimson skirt on the rest of her.
Endless borders made of poppies and lilies stretching away in front
of us--that is what it looked like. And that is the kind of lane we
had been marching through all these days. Not a lane between
multitudinous flowers standing upright on their stems--no, these
flowers were always kneeling; kneeling, these human flowers, with
their hands and faces lifted toward Joan of Arc, and the grateful
tears streaming down. And all along, those closest to the road
hugged her feet and kissed them and laid their wet cheeks fondly
against them. I never, during all those days, saw any of either sex
stand while she passed, nor any man keep his head covered.
Afterward in the Great Trial these touching scenes were used as a
weapon against her. She had been made an object of adoration by
the people, and this was proof that she was a heretic--so claimed
that unjust court.

As we drew near the city the curving long sweep of ramparts and
towers was gay with fluttering flags and black with masses of
people; and all the air was vibrant with the crash of artillery and
gloomed with drifting clouds of smoke. We entered the gates in
state and moved in procession through the city, with all the guilds
and industries in holiday costume marching in our rear with their
banners; and all the route was hedged with a huzzaing crush of
people, and all the windows were full and all the roofs; and from
the balconies hung costly stuffs of rich colors; and the waving of
handkerchiefs, seen in perspective through a long vista, was like a
snowstorm.

Joan's name had been introduced into the prayers of the
Church--an honor theretofore restricted to royalty. But she had a
dearer honor and an honor more to be proud of, from a humbler
source: the common people had had leaden medals struck which
bore her effigy and her escutcheon, and these they wore as charms.
One saw them everywhere.

From the Archbishop's Palace, where we halted, and where the
King and Joan were to lodge, the King sent to the Abbey Church of
St. Remi, which was over toward the gate by which we had entered
the city, for the Sainte Ampoule, or flask of holy oil. This oil was
not earthly oil; it was made in heaven; the flask also. The flask,
with the oil in it, was brought down from heaven by a dove. It was
sent down to St. Remi just as he was going to baptize King Clovis,
who had become a Christian. I know this to be true. I had known it
long before; for PŠre Fronte told me in Domremy. I cannot tell you
how strange and awful it made me feel when I saw that flask and
knew I was looking with my own eyes upon a thing which had
actually been in heave, a thing which had been seen by angels,
perhaps; and by God Himself of a certainty, for He sent it. And I
was looking upon it--I. At one time I could have touched it. But I
was afraid; for I could not know but that God had touched it. It is
most probable that He had.

From this flask Clovis had been anointed; and from it all the kings
of France had been anointed since. Yes, ever since the time of
Clovis, and that was nine hundred years. And so, as I have said,
that flask of holy oil was sent for, while we waited. A coronation
without that would not have been a coronation at all, in my belief.

Now in order to get the flask, a most ancient ceremonial had to be
gone through with; otherwise the Abb‚ of St. Remi, hereditary
guardian in perpetuity of the oil, would not deliver it. So, in
accordance with custom, the King deputed five great nobles to ride
in solemn state and richly armed and accoutered, they and their
steeds, to the Abbey Church as a guard of honor to the Archbishop
of Rheims and his canons, who were to bear the King's demand for
the oil. When the five great lords were ready to start, they knelt in
a row and put up their mailed hands before their faces, palm joined
to palm, and swore upon their lives to conduct the sacred vessel
safely, and safely restore it again to the Church of St. Remi after
the anointing of the King. The Archbishop and his subordinates,
thus nobly escorted, took their way to St. Remi. The Archbishop
was in grand costume, with his miter on his head and his cross in
his hand. At the door of St. Remi they halted and formed, to
receive the holy vial. Soon one heard the deep tones of the organ
and of chanting men; then one saw a long file of lights
approaching through the dim church. And so came the Abbot, in
his sacerdotal panoply, bearing the vial, with his people following
after. He delivered it, with solemn ceremonies, to the Archbishop;
then the march back began, and it was most impressive; for it
moved, the whole way, between two multitudes of men and
women who lay flat upon their faces and prayed in dumb silence
and in dread while that awful thing went by that had been in
heaven.

This august company arrived at the great west door of the
cathedral; and as the Archbishop entered a noble anthem rose and
filled the vast building. The cathedral was packed with
people--people in thousands. Only a wide space down the center
had been kept free. Down this space walked the Archbishop and
his canons, and after them followed those five stately figures in
splendid harness, each bearing his feudal banner--and riding!

Oh, that was a magnificent thing to see. Riding down the
cavernous vastness of the building through the rich lights
streaming in long rays from the pictured windows--oh, there was
never anything so grand!

They rode clear to the choir--as much as four hundred feet from
the door, it was said. Then the Archbishop dismissed them, and
they made deep obeisance till their plumes touched their horses'
necks, then made those proud prancing and mincing and dancing
creatures go backward all the way to the door--which was pretty to
see, and graceful; then they stood them on their hind-feet and spun
them around and plunged away and disappeared.

For some minutes there was a deep hush, a waiting pause; a silence
so profound that it was as if all those packed thousands there were
steeped in dreamless slumber--why, you could even notice the
faintest sounds, like the drowsy buzzing of insects; then came a
mighty flood of rich strains from four hundred silver trumpets, and
then, framed in the pointed archway of the great west door,
appeared Joan and the King. They advanced slowly, side by side,
through a tempest of welcome--explosion after explosion of cheers
and cries, mingled with the deep thunders of the organ and rolling
tides of triumphant song from chanting choirs. Behind Joan and
the King came the Paladin and the Banner displayed; and a
majestic figure he was, and most proud and lofty in his bearing, for
he knew that the people were marking him and taking note of the
gorgeous state dress which covered his armor.

At his side was the Sire d'Albret, proxy for the Constable of
France, bearing the Sword of State.

After these, in order of rank, came a body royally attired
representing the lay peers of France; it consisted of three princes of
the blood, and La Tremouille and the young De Laval brothers.

These were followed by the representatives of the ecclesiastical
peers--the Archbishop of Rheims, and the Bishops of Laon,
Chƒlons, Orleans, and one other.

Behind these came the Grand Staff, all our great generals and
famous names, and everybody was eager to get a sight of them.
Through all the din one could hear shouts all along that told you
where two of them were: "Live the Bastard of Orleans!" "Satan La
Hire forever!"

The august procession reached its appointed place in time, and the
solemnities of the Coronation began. They were long and
imposing--with prayers, and anthems, and sermons, and everything
that is right for such occasions; and Joan was at the King's side all
these hours, with her Standard in her hand. But at last came the
grand act: the King took the oath, he was anointed with the sacred
oil; a splendid personage, followed by train-bearers and other
attendants, approached, bearing the Crown of France upon a
cushion, and kneeling offered it. The King seemed to hesitate--in
fact, did hesitate; for he put out his hand and then stopped with it
there in the air over the crown, the fingers in the attitude of taking
hold of it. But that was for only a moment--though a moment is a
notable something when it stops the heartbeat of twenty thousand
people and makes them catch their breath. Yes, only a moment;
then he caught Joan's eye, and she gave him a look with all the joy
of her thankful great soul in it; then he smiled, and took the Crown
of France in his hand, and right finely and right royally lifted it up
and set it upon his head.

Then what a crash there was! All about us cries and cheers, and the
chanting of the choirs and groaning of the organ; and outside the
clamoring of the bells and the booming of the cannon. The
fantastic dream, the incredible dream, the impossible dream of the
peasant-child stood fulfilled; the English power was broken, the
Heir of France was crowned.

She was like one transfigured, so divine was the joy that shone in
her face as she sank to her knees at the King's feet and looked up at
him through her tears. Her lips were quivering, and her words
came soft and low and broken:

"Now, O gentle King, is the pleasure of God accomplished
according to His command that you should come to Rheims and
receive the crown that belongeth of right to you, and unto none
other. My work which was given me to do is finished; give me
your peace, and let me go back to my mother, who is poor and old,
and has need of me."

The King raised her up, and there before all that host he praised
her great deeds in most noble terms; and there he confirmed her
nobility and titles, making her the equal of a count in rank, and
also appointed a household and officers for her according to her
dignity; and then he said:

"You have saved the crown. Speak--require--demand; and
whatsoever grace you ask it shall be granted, though it make the
kingdom poor to meet it."

Now that was fine, that was royal. Joan was on her knees again
straightway, and said:

"Then, O gentle King, if out of your compassion you will speak the
word, I pray you give commandment that my village, poor and
hard pressed by reason of war, may have its taxes remitted."

"It is so commanded. Say on."

"That is all."

"All? Nothing but that?"

"It is all. I have no other desire."

"But that is nothing--less than nothing. Ask--do not be afraid."

"Indeed, I cannot, gentle King. Do not press me. I will not have
aught else, but only this alone."

The King seemed nonplussed, and stood still a moment, as if
trying to comprehend and realize the full stature of this strange
unselfishness. Then he raised his head and said:

"Whe has one a kingdom and crowned its King; and all she asks
and all she will take is this poor grace--and even this is for others,
not for herself. And it is well; her act being proportioned to the
dignity of one who carries in her head and heart riches which
outvalue any that any King could add, though he gave his all. She
shall have her way. Now, therefore, it is decreed that from this day
forth Domremy, natal village of Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France,
called the Maid of Orleans, is freed from all taxation forever."
Whereat the silver horns blew a jubilant blast.

There, you see, she had had a vision of this very scene the time she
was in a trance in the pastures of Domremy and we asked her to
name to boon she would demand of the King if he should ever
chance to tell her she might claim one. But whether she had the
vision or not, this act showed that after all the dizzy grandeurs that
had come upon her, she was still the same simple, unselfish
creature that she was that day.

Yes, Charles VII. remitted those taxes "forever." Often the
gratitude of kings and nations fades and their promises are
forgotten or deliberately violated; but you, who are children of
France, should remember with pride that France has kept this one
faithfully. Sixty-three years have gone by since that day. The taxes
of the region wherein Domremy lies have been collected
sixty-three times since then, and all the villages of that region have
paid except that one--Domremy. The tax-gatherer never visits
Domremy. Domremy has long ago forgotten what that dread
sorrow-sowing apparition is like. Sixty-three tax-books have been
filed meantime, and they lie yonder with the other public records,
and any may see them that desire it. At the top of every page in the
sixty-three books stands the name of a village, and below that5
name its weary burden of taxation is figured out and displayed; in
the case of all save one. It is true, just as I tell you. In each of the
sixty-three books there is a page headed "Domremi," but under that
name not a figure appears. Where the figures should be, there are
three words written; and the same words have been written every
year for all these years; yes, it is a blank page, with always those
grateful words lettered across the face of it--a touching memorial.
Thus:

__________________________________ | | | DOMREMI | | | |
RIEN--LA FUCELLE | |__________________________________|
"NOTHING--THE MAID OF ORLEANS." How brief it is; yet how
much it says! It is the nation speaking. You have the spectacle of
that unsentimental thing, a Government, making reverence to that
name and saying to its agent, "Uncover, and pass on; it is France
that commands." Yes, the promise has been kept; it will be kept
always; "forever" was the King's word. [1] At two o'clock in the
afternoon the ceremonies of the Coronation came at last to an end;
then the procession formed once more, with Joan and the King at
its head, and took up its solemn march through the midst of the
church, all instruments and all people making such clamor of
rejoicing noises as was, indeed, a marvel to hear. An so ended the
third of the great days of Joan's life. And how close together they
stand--May 8th, June 18th, July 17th!

[1] IT was faithfully kept during three hundred and sixty years and
more; then the over-confident octogenarian's prophecy failed.
During the tumult of the French Revolution the promise was
forgotten and the grace withdrawn. It has remained in disuse ever
since. Joan never asked to be remembered, but France has
remembered her with an inextinguishable love and reverence; Joan
never asked for a statue, but France has lavished them upon her;
Joan never asked for a church for Domremy, but France is building
one; Joan never asked for saintship, but even that is impending.
Everything which Joan of Arc did not ask for has been given her,
and with a noble profusion; but the one humble little thing which
she did ask for and get has been taken away from her. There is
something infinitely pathetic about this. France owes Domremy a
hundred years of taxes, and could hardly find a citizen within her
borders who would vote against the payment of the debt. -- NOTE
BY THE TRANSLATOR.

Chapter 36 Joan Hears News from Home

WE MOUNTED and rode, a spectacle to remember, a most noble
display of rich vestments and nodding plumes, and as we moved
between the banked multitudes they sank down all along abreast of
us as we advanced, like grain before the reaper, and kneeling
hailed with a rousing welcome the consecrated King and his
companion the Deliverer of France. But by and by when we had
paraded about the chief parts of the city and were come near to the
end of our course, we being now approaching the Archbishop's
palace, one saw on the right, hard by the inn that is called the
Zebra, a strange t--two men not kneeling but standing! Standing in
the front rank of the kneelers; unconscious, transfixed, staring.
Yes, and clothed in the coarse garb of the peasantry, these two.
Two halberdiers sprang at them in a fury to teach them better
manners; but just as they seized them Joan cried out "Forbear!"
and slid from her saddle and flung her arms about one of those
peasants, calling him by all manner of endearing names, and
sobbing. For it was her father; and the other was her uncle, Laxart.

The news flew everywhere, and shouts of welcome were raised,
and in just one little moment those two despised and unknown
plebeians were become famous and popular and envied, and
everybody was in a fever to get sight of them and be able to say, all
their lives long, that they had seen the father of Joan of Arc and the
brother of her mother. How easy it was for her to do miracles like
to this! She was like the sun; on whatsoever dim and humble
object her rays fell, that thing was straightway drowned in glory.

All graciously the King said:

"Bring them to me."

And she brought them; she radiant with happiness and affection,
they trembling and scared, with their caps in their shaking hands;
and there before all the world the King gave them his hand to kiss,
while the people gazed in envy and admiration; and he said to old
D'Arc:

"Give God thanks for that you are father to this child, this
dispenser of immortalities. You who bear a name that will still live
in the mouths of men when all the race of kings has been
forgotten, it is not meet that you bare your head before the fleeting
fames and dignities of a day--cover yourself!" And truly he looked
right fine and princely when he said that. Then he gave order that
the Bailly of Rheims be brought; and when he was come, and
stood bent low and bare, the King said to him, "These two are
guests of France;" and bade him use them hospitably.

I may as well say now as later, that Papa D'Arc and Laxart were
stopping in that little Zebra inn, and that there they remained.
Finer quarters were offered them by the Bailly, also public
distinctions and brave entertainment; but they were frightened at
these projects, they being only humble and ignorant peasants; so
they begged off, and had peace. They could not have enjoyed such
things. Poor souls, they did not even know what to do with their
hands, and it took all their attention to keep from treading on
them. The Bailly did the best he could in the circumstances. He
made the innkeeper place a whole floor at their disposal, and told
him to provide everything they might desire, and charge all to the
city. Also the Bailly gave them a horse apiece and furnishings;
which so overwhelmed them with pride and delight and
astonishment that they couldn't speak a word; for in their lives they
had never dreamed of wealth like this, and could not believe, at
first, that the horses were real and would not dissolve to a mist and
blow away. They could not unglue their minds from those
grandeurs, and were always wrenching the conversation out of its
groove and dragging the matter of animals into it, so that they
could say "my horse" here, and "my horse" there and yonder and
all around, and taste the words and lick their chops over them, and
spread their legs and hitch their thumbs in their armpits, and feel
as the good God feels when He looks out on His fleets of
constellations plowing the awful deeps of space and reflects with
satisfaction that they are His--all His. Well, they were the happiest
old children one ever saw, and the simplest.

The city gave a grand banquet to the King and Joan in
mid-afternoon, and to the Court and the Grand Staff; and about the
middle of it PŠre D'Arc and Laxart were sent for, but would not
venture until it was promised that they might sit in a gallery and be
all by themselves and see all that was to be seen and yet be
unmolested. And so they sat there and looked down upon the
splendid spectacle, and were moved till the tears ran down their
cheeks to see the unbelievable honors that were paid to their small
darling, and how na‹vely serene and unafraid she sat there with
those consuming glories beating upon her.

But at last her serenity was broken up. Yes, it stood the strain of
the King's gracious speech; and of D'Alen‡on's praiseful words,
and the Bastard's; and even La Hire's thunder-blast, which took the
place by storm; but at last, as I have said, they brought a force to
bear which was too strong for her. For at the close the King put up
his hand to command silence, and so waited, with his hand up, till
every sound was dead and it was as if one could almost  the
stillness, so profound it was. Then out of some remote corner of
that vast place there rose a plaintive voice, and in tones most
tender and sweet and rich came floating through that enchanted
hush our poor old simple song "L'Arbre F‚e le Bourlemont!" and
then Joan broke down and put her face in her hands and cried. Yes,
you see, all in a moment the pomps and grandeurs dissolved away
and she was a little child again herding her sheep with the tranquil
pastures stretched about her, and war and wounds and blood and
death and the mad frenzy and turmoil of battle a dream. Ah, that
shows you the power of music, that magician of magicians, who
lifts his wand and says his mysterious word and all things real pass
away and the phantoms of your mind walk before you clothed in
flesh.

That was the King's invention, that sweet and dear surprise.
Indeed, he had fine things hidden away in his nature, though one
seldom got a glimpse of them, with that scheming Tremouille and
those others always standing in the light, and he so indolently
content to save himself fuss and argument and let them have their
way.

At the fall of night we the Domremy contingent of the personal
staff were with the father and uncle at the inn, in their private
parlor, brewing generous drinks and breaking ground for a homely
talk about Domremy and the neighbors, when a large parcel
arrived from Joan to be kept till she came; and soon she came
herself and sent her guard away, saying she would take one of her
father's rooms and sleep under his roof, and so be at home again.
We of the staff rose and stood, as was meet, until she made us sit.
Then she turned and saw that the two old men had gotten up too,
and were standing in an embarrassed and unmilitary way; which
made her want to laugh, but she kept it in, as not wishing to hurt
them; and got them to their seats and snuggled down between
them, and took a hand of each of them upon her knees and nestled
her own hands in them, and said:

"Now we will nave no more ceremony, but be kin and playmates
as in other times; for I am done with the great wars now, and you
two will take me home with you, and I shall see--" She stopped,
and for a moment her happy face sobered, as if a doubt or a
presentiment had flitted through her mind; then it cleared again,
and she said, with a passionate yearning, "Oh, if the day were but
come and we could start!"

The old father was surprised, and said:

"Why, child, are you in earnest? Would you leave doing these
wonders that make you to be praised by everybody while there is
still so much glory to be won; and would you go out from this
grand comradeship with princes and generals to be a drudging
villager again and a nobody? It is not rational."

"No," said the uncle, Laxart, "it is amazing to hear, and indeed not
understandable. It is a stranger thing to hear her say she will stop
the soldiering that it was to hear her say she would begin it; and I
who speak to you can say in all truth that that was the strangest
word that ever I had heard till this day and hour. I would it could
be explained."

"It is not difficult," said Joan. "I was not ever fond of wounds and
suffering, nor fitted by my nature to inflict them; and quarrelings
did always distress me, and noise and tumult were against my
liking, my disposition being toward peace and quietness, and love
for all things that have life; and being made like this, how could I
bear to think of wars and blood, and the pain that goes with them,
and the sorrow and mourning that follow after? But by his angels
God laid His great commands upon me, and could I disobey? I did
as I was bid. Did He command me to do many things? No; only
two: to raise the siege of Orleans, and crown the King at Rheims.
The task is finished, and I am free. Has ever a poor soldier fallen
in my sight, whether friend or foe, and I not felt the pain in my
own body, and the grief of his home-mates in my own heart? No,
not one; and, oh, it is such bliss to know that my release is won,
and that I shall not any more see these cruel things or suffer these
tortures of the mind again! Then why should I not go to my village
and be as I was before? It is heaven! and ye wonder that I desire it.
Ah, ye are men--just men! My mother would understand."

They didn't quite know what to say; so they sat still awhile,
looking pretty vacant. Then old D'Arc said:

"Yes, your mother--that is true. I never saw such a woman. She
worries, and worries, and worries; and wakes nights, and lies so,
thinking--that is, worrying; worrying about you. And when the
night storms go raging along, she moans and says, 'Ah, God pity
her, she is out in this with her poor wet sodliers.' And when the
lightning glares and the thunder crashes she wrings her hands and
trembles, saying, 'It is like the awful cannon and the flash, and
yonder somewhere she is riding down upon the spouting guns and I
not there to protect her."

"Ah, poor mother, it is pity, it is pity!"

"Yes, a most strange woman, as I have noticed a many times.
When there is news of a victory and all the village goes mad with
pride and joy, she rushes here and there in a maniacal frenzy till
she finds out the one only thing she cares to know--that you are
safe; then down she goes on her knees in the dirt and praises God
as long as there is any breath left in her body; and all on your
account, for she never mentions the battle once. And always she
says, 'Now it is over--now France is saved--now she will come
home'--and always is disappointed and goes about mourning."

"Don't, father! it breaks my heart. I will be so good to her when I
get home. I will do her work for her, and be her comfort, and she
shall not suffer any more through me."

There was some more talk of this sort, then Uncle Laxart said:

"You have done the will of God, dear, and are quits; it is true, and
none may deny it; but what of the King? You are his best soldier;
what if he command you to stay?"

That was a crusher--and sudden! It took Joan a moment or two to
recover from the shock of it; then she said, quite simply and
resignedly:

"The King is my Lord; I am his servant." She was silent and
thoughtful a little while, then she brightened up and said, cheerily,
"But let us drive such thoughts away--this is no time for them. Tell
me about home."

So the two old gossips talked and talked; talked about everything
and everybody in the village; and it was good to hear. Joan out of
her kindness tried to get us into the conversation, but that failed, of
course. She was the Commander-in-Chief, we were nobodies; her
name was the mightiest in France, we were invisible atoms; she
was the comrade of princes and heroes, we of the humble and
obscure; she held rank above all Personages and all Puissances
whatsoever in the whole earth, by right of baring her commission
direct from God. To put it in one word, she was JOAN OF
ARC--and when that is said, all is said. To us she was divine.
Between her and us lay the bridgeless abyss which that word
implies. We could not be familiar with her. No, you can see
yourselves that that would have been impossible.

And yet she was so human, too, and so good and kind and dear and
loving and cheery and charming and unspoiled and unaffected!
Those are all the words I think of now, but they are not enough;
no, they are too few and colorless and meager to tell it all, or tell
the half. Those simple old men didn't realize her; they couldn't;
they had never known any people but human beings, and so they
had no other standard to measure her by. To them, after their first
little shyness had worn off, she was just a girl--that was all. It was
amazing. It made one shiver, sometimes, to see how calm and easy
and comfortable they were in her presence, and hear them talk to
her exactly as they would have talked to any other girl in France.

Why, that simple old Laxart sat up there and droned out the most
tedious and empty tale one ever heard, and neither he nor Papa
D'Arc ever gave a thought to the badness of the etiquette of it, or
ever suspected that that foolish tale was anything but dignified and
valuable history. There was not an atom of value in it; and whilst
they thought it distressing and pathetic, it was in fact not pathetic
at all, but actually ridiculous. At least it seemed so to me, and it
seems so yet. Indeed, I know it was, because it made Joan laugh;
and the more sorrowful it got the more it made her laugh; and the
Paladin said that he could have laughed himself if she had not
been there, and No‰l Rainguesson said the same. It was about old
Laxart going to a funeral there at Domremy two or three weeks
back. He had spots all over his face and hands, and he got Joan to
rub some healing ointment on them, and while she was doing it,
and comforting him, and trying to say pitying things to him, he told
her how it happened. And first he asked her if she remembered
that black bull calf that she left behind when she came away, and
she said indeed she did, and he was a dear, and she loved him so,
and was he well?--and just drowned him in questions about that
creature. And he said it was a young bull now, and very frisky; and
he was to bear a principal hand at a funeral; and she said, "The
bull?" and he said, "No, myself"; but said the bull did take a hand,
but not because of his being invited, for he wasn't; but anyway he
was away over beyond the Fairy Tree, and fell asleep on the grass
with his Sunday funeral clothes on, and a long black rag on his hat
and hanging down his back; and when he woke he saw by the sun
how late it was, and not a moment to lose; and jumped up terribly
worried, and saw the young bull grazing there, and thought maybe
he could ride part way on him and gain time; so he tied a rope
around the bull's body to hold on by, and put a halter on him to
steer with, and jumped on and started; but it was all new to the
bull, and he was discontented with it, and scurried around and
bellowed and reared and pranced, and Uncle Laxart was satisfied,
and wanted to get off and go by the next bull or some other way
that was quieter, but he didn't dare try; and it was getting very
warm for him, too, and disturbing and wearisome, and not proper
for Sunday; but by and by the bull lost all his temper, and went
tearing down the slope with his tail in the air and blowing in the
most awful way; and just in the edge of the village he knocked
down some beehives, and the bees turned out and joined the
excursion, and soared along in a black cloud that nearly hid those
other two from sight, and prodded them both, and jabbed them and
speared them and spiked them, and made them bellow and shriek,
and shriek and bellow; and here they came roaring through the
village like a hurricane, and took the funeral procession right in
the center, and sent that section of it sprawling, and galloped over
it, and the rest scattered apart and fled screeching in every
direction, every person with a layer of bees on him, and not a rag
of that funeral left but the corpse; and finally the bull broke for the
river and jumped in, and when they fished Uncle Laxart out he was
nearly drowned, and his face looked like a pudding with raisins in
it. And then he turned around, this old simpleton, and looked a
long time in a dazed way at Joan where she had her face in a
cushion, dying, apparently, and says:

"What do you reckon she is laughing at?"

And old D'Arc stood looking at her the same way, sort of absently
scratching his head; but had to give it up, and said he didn't
know--"must have been something that happened when we weren't
noticing."

Yes, both of those old people thought that that tale was pathetic;
whereas to my mind it was purely ridiculous, and not in any way
valuable to any one. It seemed so to me then, and it seems so to me
yet. And as for history, it does not resemble history; for the office
of history is to furnish serious and important facts that teach;
whereas this strange and useless event teaches nothing; nothing
that I can see, except not to ride a bull to a funeral; and surely no
reflecting person needs to be taught that.

Chapter 37 Again to Arms

NOW THESE were nobles, you know, by decree of the
King!--these precious old infants. But they did not realize it; they
could not be called conscious of it; it was an abstraction, a
phantom; to them it had no substance; their minds could not take
hold of it. No, they did not bother about their nobility; they lived in
their horses. The horses were solid; they were visible facts, and
would make a mighty stir in Domremy. Presently something was
said about the Coronation, and old D'Arc said it was going to be a
grand thing to be able to say, when they got home, that they were
present in the very town itself when it happened. Joan looked
troubled, and said:

"Ah, that reminds me. You were here and you didn't send me word.
In the town, indeed! Why, you could have sat with the other
nobles, and ben welcome; and could have looked upon the
crowning itself, and carried that home to tell. Ah, why did you use
me so, and send me no word?"

The old father was embarrassed, now, quite visibly embarrassed,
and had the air of one who does not quite know what to say. But
Joan was looking up in his face, her hands upon his
shoulders--waiting. He had to speak; so presently he drew her to
his breast, which was heaving with emotion; and he said, getting
out his words with difficulty:

"There, hide your face, child, and let your old father humble
himself and make his confession. I--I--don't you see, don't you
understand?--I could not know that these grandeurs would not turn
your young head--it would be only natural. I might shame you
before these great per--"

"Father!"

"And then I was afraid, as remembering that cruel thing I said once
in my sinful anger. Oh, appointed of God to be a soldier, and the
greatest in the land! and in my ignorant anger I said I would drown
you with my own hands if you unsexed yourself and brought
shame to your name and family. Ah, how could I ever have said it,
and you so good and dear and innocent! I was afraid; for I was
guilty. You understand it now, my child, and you forgive?"

Do you see? Even that poor groping old land-crab, with his skull
full of pulp, had pride. Isn't it wonderful? And more--he had
conscience; he had a sense of right and wrong, such as it was; he
was able to find remorse. It looks impossible, it looks incredible,
but it is not. I believe that some day it will be found out that
peasants are people. Yes, beings in a great many respects like
ourselves. And I believe that some day they will find this out,
too--and then! Well, then I think they will rise up and demand to
be regarded as part of the race, and that by consequence there will
be trouble. Whenever one sees in a book or in a king's
proclamation those words "the nation," they bring before us the
upper classes; only those; we know no other "nation"; for us and
the kings no other "nation" exists. But from the day that I saw old
D'Arc the peasant acting and feeling just as I should have acted
and felt myself, I have carried the conviction in my heart that our
peasants are not merely animals, beasts of burden put here by the
good God to produce food and comfort for the "nation," but
something more and better. You look incredulous. Well, that is
your training; it is the training of everybody; but as for me, I thank
that incident for giving me a better light, and I have never
forgotten it.

Let me see--where was I? One's mind wanders around here and
there and yonder, when one is old. I think I said Joan comforted
him. Certainly, that is what she would do--there was no need to say
that. She coaxed him and petted him and caressed him, and laid
the memory of that old hard speech of his to rest. Laid it to rest
until she should be dead. Then he would remember it again--yes,
yes! Lord, how those things sting, and burn, and gnaw--the things
which we did against the innocent dead! And we say in our
anguish, "If they could only come back!" Which is all very well to
say, but, as far as I can see, it doesn't profit anything. In my
opinion the best way is not to do the thing in the first place. And I
am not alone in this; I have heard our two knights say the same
thing; and a man there in Orleans--no, I believe it was at
Beaugency, or one of those places--it seems more as if it was at
Beaugency than the others--this man said the same thing exactly;
almost the same words; a dark man with a cast in his eye and one
leg shorter than the other. His name was--was--it is singular that I
can't call that man's name; I had it in my mind only a moment ago,
and I know it begins with--no, I don't remember what it begins
with; but never mind, let it go; I will think of it presently, and then
I will tell you.

Well, pretty soon the old father wanted to know how Joan felt
when she was in the thick of a battle, with the bright blades
hacking and flashing all around her, and the blows rapping and
slatting on her shield, and blood gushing on her from the cloven
ghastly face and broken teeth of the neighbor at her elbow, and the
perilous sudden back surge of massed horses upon a person when
the front ranks give way before a heavy rush of the enemy, and
men tumble limp and groaning out of saddles all around, and
battle-flags falling from dead hands wipe across one's face and
hide the tossing turmoil a moment, and in the reeling and swaying
and laboring jumble one's horse's hoofs sink into soft substances
and shrieks of pain respond, and presently--panic! rush! swarm!
flight! and death and hell following after! And the old fellow got
ever so much excited; and strode up and down, his tongue going
like a mill, asking question after question and never waiting for an
answer; and finally he stood Joan up in the middle of the room and
stepped off and scanned her critically, and said:

"No--I don't understand it. You are so little. So little and slender.
When you had your armor on, to-day, it gave one a sort of notion
of it; but in these pretty silks and velvets, you are only a dainty
page, not a league-striding war-colossus, moving in clouds and
darkness and breathing smoke and thunder. I would God I might
see you at it and go tell your mother! That would help her sleep,
poor thing! Here--teach me the arts of the soldier, that I may
explain them to her."

And she did it. She gave him a pike, and put him through the
manual of arms; and made him do the steps, too. His marching was
incredibly awkward and slovenly, and so was his drill with the
pike; but he didn't know it, and was wonderfully pleased with
himself, and mightily excited and charmed with the ringing, crisp
words of command. I am obliged to say that if looking proud and
happy when one is marching were sufficient, he would have been
the perfect soldier.

And he wanted a lesson in sword-play, and got it. But of course
that was beyond him; he was too old. It was beautiful to see Joan
handle the foils, but the old man was a bad failure. He was afraid
of the things, and skipped and dodged and scrambled around like a
woman who has lost her mind on account of the arrival of a bat.
He was of no good as an exhibition. But if La Hire had only come
in, that would have been another matter. Those two fenced often; I
saw them many times. True, Joan was easily his master, but it
made a good show for all that, for La Hire was a grand swordsman.
What a swift creature Joan was! You would see her standing erect
with her ankle-bones together and her foil arched over her head,
the hilt in one hand and the button in the other--the old general
opposite, bent forward, left hand reposing on his back, his foil
advanced, slightly wiggling and squirming, his watching eye
boring straight into hers--and all of a sudden she would give a
spring forward, and back again; and there she was, with the foil
arched over her head as before. La Hire had been hit, but all that
the spectator saw of it was a something like a thin flash of light in
the air, but nothing distinct, nothing definite.

We kept the drinkables moving, for that would please the Bailly
and the landlord; and old Laxart and D'Arc got to feeling quite
comfortable, but without being what you could call tipsy. They got
out the presents which they had been buying to carry
home--humble things and cheap, but they would be fine there, and
welcome. And they gave to Joan a present from PŠre Fronte and
one from her mother--the one a little leaden image of the Holy
Virgin, the other half a yard of blue silk ribbon; and she was as
pleased as a child; and touched, too, as one could see plainly
enough. Yes, she kissed those poor things over and over again, as
if they had been something costly and wonderful; and she pinned
the Virgin on her doublet, and sent for her helmet and tied the
ribbon on that; first one way, then another; then a new way, then
another new way; and with each effort perching the helmet on her
hand and holding it off this way and that, and canting her head to
one side and then the other, examining the effect, as a bird does
when it has got a new bug. And she said she could almost wish she
was going to the wars again; for then she would fight with the
better courage, as having always with her something which her
mother's touch had blessed.

Old Laxart said he hoped she would go to the wars again, but
home first, for that all the people there were cruel anxious to see
her--and so he went on:

"They are proud of you, dear. Yes, prouder than any village ever
was of anybody before. And indeed it is right and rational; for it is
the first time a village has ever had anybody like you to be proud
of and call its own. And it is strange and beautiful how they try to
give your name to every creature that has a sex that is convenient.
It is but half a year since you began to be spoken of and left us, and
so it is surprising to see how many babies there are already in that
region that are named for you. First it was just Joan; then it was
Joan-Orleans; then Joan-Orleans-Beaugency-Patay; and now the
next ones will have a lot of towns and the Coronation added, of
course. Yes, and the animals the same. They know how you love
animals, and so they try to do you honor and show their love for
you by naming all those creatures after you; insomuch that if a
body should step out and call ''Joan of Arc--come!' 'there would be
a landslide of cats and all such things, each supposing it was the
one wanted, and all willing to take the benefit of the doubt,
anyway, for the sake of the food that might be on delivery. The
kitten you left behind--the last estray you fetched home--bears you
name, now, and belongs to PŠre Fronte, and is the pet nad pride of
the village; and people have come miles to look at it and pet it and
stare at it and wonder over it because it was Joan of Arc's cat.
Everybody will tell you that; and one day when a stranger threw a
stone at it, not knowing it was your cat, the village rose against
him as one man and hanged him! And but for PŠre Fronte--"

There was an interruption. It was a messenger from the King,
bearing a note for Joan, which I read to her, saying he had
reflected, and had consulted his other generals, and was obliged to
ask her to remain at the head of the army and withdraw her
resignation. Also, would she come immediately and attend a
council of war? Straightway, at a little distance, military
commands and the rumble of drums broke on the still night, and
we knew that her guard was approaching.

Deep disappointment clouded her face for just one moment and no
more--it passed, and with it the homesick girl, and she was Joan of
Arc, Commander-in-Chief again, and ready for duty.

Chapter 38 The King Cries "Forward!"

IN MY double quality of page and secretary I followed Joan to the
council. She entered that presence with the bearing of a grieved
goddess. What was become of the volatile child that so lately was
enchanted with a ribbon and suffocated with laughter over the
distress of a foolish peasant who had stormed a funeral on the back
of a bee-stung bull? One may not guess. Simply it was gone, and
had left no sign. She moved straight to the council-table, and
stood. Her glance swept from face to face there, and where it fell,
these lit it as with a torch, those it scorched as with a brand. She
knew where to strike. She indicated the generals with a nod, and
said:

"My business is not with you. You have not craved a council of
war." Then she turned toward the King's privy council, and
continued: "No; it is with you. A council of war! It is amazing.
There is but one thing to do, and only one, and lo, ye call a council
of war! Councils of war have no value but to decide between two
or several doubtful courses. But a council of war when there is
only one course? Conceive of a man in a boat and his family in the
water, and he goes out among his friends to ask what he would
better do? A council of war, name of God! To determine what?"

She stopped, and turned till her eyes rested upon the face of La
Tremouille; and so she stood, silent, measuring him, the
excitement in all faces burning steadily higher and higher, and all
pulses beating faster and faster; then she said, with deliberation:

"Every sane man--whose loyalty is to his King and not a show and
a pretense--knows that there is but one rational thing before us--the
march upon Paris!"

Down came the fist of La Hire with an approving crash upon the
table. La Tremouille turned white with anger, but he pulled
himself firmly together and held his peace. The King's lazy blood
was stirred and his eye kindled finely, for the spirit of war was
away down in him somewhere, and a frank, bold speech always
found it and made it tingle gladsomely. Joan waited to see if the
chief minister might wish to defend his position; but he was
experienced and wise, and not a man to waste his forces where the
current was against him. He would wait; the King's private ear
would be at his disposal by and by.

That pious fox the Chancellor of France took the word now. He
washed his soft hands together, smiling persuasively, and said to
Joan:

"Would it be courteous, your Excellency, to move abruptly from
here without waiting for an answer from the Duke of Burgundy?
You may not know that we are negotiating with his Highness, and
that there is likely to be a fortnight's truce between us; and on his
part a pledge to deliver Paris into our hands without the cost of a
blow or the fatigue of a march thither."

Joan turned to him and said, gravely:

"This is not a confessional, my lord. You were not obliged to
expose that shame here."

The Chancellor's face reddened, and he retorted:

"Shame? What is there shameful about it?"

Joan answered in level, passionless tones:

"One may describe it without hunting far for words. I knew of this
poor comedy, my lord, although it was not intended that I should
know. It is to the credit of the devisers of it that they tried to
conceal it--this comedy whose text and impulse are describable in
two words."

The Chancellor spoke up with a fine irony in his manner:

"Indeed? And will your Excellency be good enough to utter them?"

"Cowardice and treachery!"

The fists of all the generals came down this time, and again the
King's eye sparkled with pleasure. The Chancellor sprang to his
feet and appealed to his Majesty:

"Sire, I claim your protection."

But the King waved him to his seat again, saying:

"Peace. She had a right to be consulted before that thing was
undertaken, since it concerned war as well as politics. It is but just
that she be heard upon it now."

The Chancellor sat down trembling with indignation, and
remarked to Joan:

"Out of charity I will consider that you did not know who devised
this measure which you condemn in so candid language."

"Save your charity for another occasion, my lord," said Joan, as
calmly as before. "Whenever anything is done to injure the
interests and degrade the honor of France, all but the dead know
how to name the two conspirators-in-chief--"

"Sir, sire! this insinuation--"

"It is not an insinuation, my lord," said Joan, placidly, "it is a
charge. I bring it against the King's chief minister and his
Chancellor."

Both men were on their feet now, insisting that the King modify
Joan's frankness; but he was not minded to do it. His ordinary
councils were stale water--his spirit was drinking wine, now, and
the taste of it was good. He said:

"Sit--and be patient. What is fair for one must in fairness be
allowed the other. Consider--and be just. When have you two
spared her? What dark charges and harsh names have you withheld
when you spoke of her?" Then he added, with a veiled twinkle in
his eyes, "If these are offenses I see no particular difference
between them, except that she says her hard things to your faces,
whereas you say yours behind her back."

He was pleased with that neat shot and the way it shriveled those
two people up, and made La Hire laugh out loud and the other
generals softly quake and chuckle. Joan tranquilly resumed:

"From the first, we have been hindered by this policy of
shilly-hally; this fashion of counseling and counseling and
counseling where no counseling is needed, but only fighting. We
took Orleans on the 8th of May, and could have cleared the region
round about in three days and saved the slaughter of Patay. We
could have been in Rheims six weeks ago, and in Paris now; and
would see the last Englishman pass out of France in half a year.
But we struck no blow after Orleans, but went off into the
country--what for? Ostensibly to hold councils; really to give
Bedford time to send reinforcements to Talbot--which he did; and
Patay had to be fought. After Patay, more counseling, more waste
of precious time. Oh, my King, I would that you would be
persuaded!" She began to warm up, now. "Once more we have our
opportunity. If we rise and strike, all is well. Bid me march upon
Paris. In twenty days it shall be yours, and in six months all
France! Here is half a year's work before us; if this chance be
wasted, I give you twenty years to do it in. Speak the word, O
gentle King--speak but the one--"

"I cry you mercy!" interrupted the Chancellor, who saw a
dangerous enthusiasm rising in the King's face. "March upon
Paris? Does your Excellency forget that the way bristles with
English strongholds?"

"That for your English strongholds!" and Joan snapped her fingers
scornfully. "Whence have we marched in these last days? From
Gien. And whither? To Rheims. What bristled between? English
strongholds. What are they now? French ones--and they never cost
a blow!" Here applause broke out from the group of generals, and
Joan had to pause a moment to let it subside. "Yes, English
strongholds bristled before us; now French ones bristle behind us.
What is the argument? A child can read it. The strongholds
between us and Paris are garrisoned by no new breed of English,
but by the same breed as those others--with the same fears, the
same questionings, the same weaknesses, the same disposition to
see the heavy hand of God descending upon them. We have but to
march!--on the instant--and they are ours, Paris is ours, France is
ours! Give the word, O my King, command your servant to--"

"Stay!" cried the Chancellor. "It would be madness to put our
affront upon his Highness the Duke of Burgundy. By the treaty
which we have every hope to make with him--"

"Oh, the treaty which we hope to make with him! He has scorned
you for years, and defied you. Is it your subtle persuasions that
have softened his manners and beguiled him to listen to proposals?
No; it was blows!--the blows which we gave him! That is the only
teaching that that sturdy rebel can understand. What does he care
for wind? The treaty which we hope to make with him--alack! He
deliver Paris! There is no pauper in the land that is less able to do
it. He deliver Paris! Ah, but that would make great Bedford smile!
Oh, the pitiful pretext! the blind can see that this thin pour-parler
with its fifteen-day truce has no purpose but to give Bedford time
to hurry forward his forces against us. More treachery--always
treachery! We call a council of war--with nothing to council about;
but Bedford calls no council to teach him what our course is. He
knows what he would do in our place. He would hang his traitors
and march upon Paris! O gentle King, rouse! The way is open,
Paris beckons, France implores, Speak and we--"

"Sire, it is madness, sheer madness! Your Excellency, we cannot,
we must not go back from what we have done; we have proposed
to treat, we must treat with the Duke of Burgundy."

"And we will!" said Joan.

"Ah? How?"

"At the point of the lance!"

The house rose, to a man--all that had French hearts--and let go a
crach of applause--and kept it up; and in the midst of it one heard
La Hire growl out: "At the point of the lance! By God, that is
music!" The King was up, too, and drew his sword, and took it by
the blade and strode to Joan and delivered the hilt of it into her
hand, saying:

"There, the King surrenders. Carry it to Paris."

And so the applause burst out again, and the historical co9uncil of
war that has bred so many legends was over.

Chapte 39 We Win, but the King Balks

IT WAS away past midnight, and had been a tremendous day in
the matter of excitement and fatigue, but that was no matter to
Joan when there was business on hand. She did not think of bed.
The generals followed her to her official quarters, and she
delivered her orders to them as fast as she could talk, and they sent
them off to their different commands as fast as delivered;
wherefore the messengers galloping hither and thither raised a
world of clatter and racket in the still streets; and soon were added
to this the music of distant bugles and the roll of drums--notes of
preparation; for the vanguard would break camp at dawn.

The generals were soon dismissed, but I wasn't; nor Joan; for it
was my turn to work, now. Joan walked the floor and dictated a
summons to the Duke of Burgundy to lay down his arms and make
peace and exchange pardons with the King; or, if he must fight, go
fight the Saracens. "Pardonnez-vous l'un … l'autre de bon
c&oelig;ur, entiŠrement, ainsi que doivent faire loyaux chr‚tiens,
et, s'il vous plait de guerroyer, allez contre les Sarrasins." It was
long, but it was good, and had the sterling ring to it. It is my
opinion that it was as fine and simple and straightforward and
eloquent a state paper as she ever uttered.

It was delivered into the hands of a courier, and he galloped away
with it. The Joan dismissed me, and told me to go to the inn and
stay, and in the morning give to her father the parcel which she
had left there. It contained presents for the Domremy relatives and
friends and a peasant dress which she had bought for herself. She
said she would say good-by to her father and uncle in the morning
if it should still be their purpose to go, instead of tarrying awhile to
see the city.

I didn't say anything, of course, but I could have said that wild
horses couldn't keep those men in that town half a day. They waste
the glory of being the first to carry the great news to
Domremy--the taxes remitted forever!--and hear the bells clang
and clatter, and the people cheer and shout? Oh, not they. Patay
and Orleans and the Coronation were events which in a vague way
these men understood to be colossal; but they were colossal mists,
films, abstractions; this was a gigantic reality!

When I got there, do you suppose they were abed! Quite the
reverse. They and the rest were as mellow as mellow could be; and
the Paladin was doing his battles in great style, and the old
peasants were endangering the building with their applause. He
was doing Patay now; and was bending his big frame forward and
laying out the positions and movements with a rake here and a
rake there of his formidable sword on the floor, and the peasants
were stooped over with their hands on their spread knees observing
with excited eyes and ripping out ejaculations of wonder and
admiration all along:

"Yes, here we were, waiting--waiting for the word; our horses
fidgeting and snorting and dancing to get away, we lying back on
the bridles till our bodies fairly slanted to the rear; the word rang
out at last--'Go!' and we went!

"Went? There was nothing like it ever seen! Where we swept by
squads of scampering English, the mere wind of our passage laid
them flat in piles and rows! Then we plunged into the ruck of
Fastolfe's frantic battle-corps and tore through it like a hurricane,
leaving a causeway of the dead stretching far behind; no tarrying,
no slacking rein, but on! on! on! far yonder in the distance lay our
prey--Talbot and his host looming vast and dark like a storm-cloud
brooding on the sea! Down we swooped upon them, glooming all
the air with a quivering pall of dead leaves flung up by the
whirlwind of our flight. In another moment we should have struck
them as world strikes world when disorbited constellations crash
into the Milky way, but by misfortune and the inscrutable
dispensation of God I was recognized! Talbot turned white, and
shouting, 'Save yourselves, it is the Standard-Bearer of Joan of
Arc!' drove his spurs home till they met in the middle of his horse's
entrails, and fled the field with his billowing multitudes at his
back! I could have cursed myself for not putting on a disguise. I
saw reproach in the eyes of her Excellency, and was bitterly
ashamed. I had caused what seemed an irreparable disaster.
Another might have gone aside to grieve, as not seeing any way to
mend it; but I thank God I am not of those. Great occasions only
summon as with a trumpet-call the slumbering reserves of my
intellect. I saw my opportunity in an instant--in the next I was
away! Through the woods I vanished--fst!--like an extinguished
light! Away around through the curtaining forest I sped, as if on
wings, none knowing what was become of me, none suspecting my
design. Minute after minute passed, on and on I flew; on, and still
on; and at last with a great cheer I flung my Banner to the breeze
and burst out in front of Talbot! Oh, it was a mighty thought! That
weltering chaos of distracted men whirled and surged backward
like a tidal wave which has struck a continent, and the day was
ours! Poor helpless creatures, they were in a trap; they were
surrounded; they could not escape to the rear, for there was our
army; they could not escape to the front, for there was I. Their
hearts shriveled in their bodies, their hands fell listless at their
sides. They stood still, and at our leisure we slaughtered them to a
man; all except Talbot and Fastolfe, whom I saved and brought
away, one under each arm."

Well, there is no denying it, the Paladin was in great form that
night. Such style! such noble grace of gesture, such grandeur of
attitude, such energy when he got going! such steady rise, on such
sure wing, such nicely graduated expenditures of voice according
to the weight of the matter, such skilfully calculated approaches to
his surprises and explosions, such belief-compelling sincerity of
tone and manner, such a climaxing peal from his brazen lungs, and
such a lightning-vivid picture of his mailed form and flaunting
banner when he burst out before that despairing army! And oh, the
gentle art of the last half of his last sentence--delivered in the
careless and indolent tone of one who has finished his real story,
and only adds a colorless and inconsequential detil because it has
happened to occur to him in a lazy way.

It was a marvel to see those innocent peasants. Why, they went all
to pieces with enthusiasm, and roared out applauses fit to raise the
roof and wake the dead. When they had cooled down at last and
there was silence but for the heaving and panting, old Laxart said,
admiringly:

"As it seems to me, you are an army in your single person."

"Yes, that is what he is," said No‰l Rainguesson, convincingly. "He
is a terror; and not just in this vicinity. His mere name carries a
shudder with it to distant lands--just he mere name; and when he
frowns, the shadow of it falls as far as Rome, and the chickens go
to roost an hour before schedule time. Yes; and some say--"

"No‰l Rainguesson, you are preparing yourself for trouble. I will
say just one word to you, and it will be to your advantage to--"

I saw that the usual thing had got a start. No man could prophesy
when it would end. So I delivered Joan's message and went off to
bed.

Joan made her good-byes to those old fellows in the morning, with
loving embraces and many tears, and with a packed multitude for
sympathizers, and they rode proudly away on their precious horses
to carry their great news home. I had seen better riders, some will
say that; for horsemanship was a new art to them.

The vanguard moved out at dawn and took the road, with bands
braying and banners flying; the second division followed at eight.
Then came the Burgundian ambassadors, and lost us the rest of
that day and the whole of the next. But Joan was on hand, and so
they had their journey for their pains. The rest of us took the road
at dawn, next morning, July 20th. And got how far? Six leagues.
Tremouille was getting in his sly work with the vacillating King,
you see. The King stopped at St. Marcoul and prayed three days.
Precious time lost--for us; precious time gained for Bedford. He
would know how to use it.

We could not go on without the King; that would be to leave him
in the conspirators' camp. Joan argued, reasoned, implored; and at
last we got under way again.

Joan's prediction was verified. It was not a campaign, it was only
another holiday excursion. English strongholds lined our route;
they surrendered without a blow; we garrisoned them with
Frenchmen and passed on. Bedford was on the march against us
with his new army by this time, and on the 25th of July the hostile
forces faced each other and made preparation for battle; but
Bedford's good judgment prevailed, and he turned and retreated
toward Paris. Now was our chance. Our men were in great spirits.

Will you believe it? Our poor stick of a King allowed his worthless
advisers to persuade him to start back for Gien, whence he had set
out when we first marched for Rheims and the Coronation! And
we actually did start back. The fifteen-day truce had just been
concluded with the Duke of Burgundy, and we would go and tarry
at Gien until he should deliver Paris to us without a fight.

We marched to Bray; then the King changed his mind once more,
and with it his face toward Paris. Joan dictated a letter to the
citizens of Rheims to encourage them to keep heart in spite of the
truce, and promising to stand by them. She furnished them the
news herself that the Kin had made this truce; and in speaking of it
she was her usual frank self. She said she was not satisfied with it,
and didn't know whether she would keep it or not; that if she kept
it, it would be solely out of tenderness for the King's honor. All
French children know those famous words. How na‹ve they are!
"De cette trŠve qui a ‚t‚ faite, je ne suis pas contente, et je ne sais
si je la tiendrai. Si je la tiens, ce sera seulement pour garder
l'honneur du roi." But in any case, she said, she would not allow
the blood royal to be abused, and would keep the army in good
order and ready for work at the end of the truce.

Poor child, to have to fight England, Burgundy, and a French
conspiracy all at the same time--it was too bad. She was a match
for the others, but a conspiracy--ah, nobody is a match for that,
when the victim that is to be injured is weak and willing. It grieved
her, these troubled days, to be so hindered and delayed and
baffled, and at times she was sad and the tears lay near the surface.
Once, talking with her good old faithful friend and servant, the
Bastard of Orleans, she said:

"Ah, if it might but please God to let me put off this steel raiment
and go back to my father and my mother, and tend my sheep again
with my sister and my brothers, who would be so glad to see me!"

By the 12th of August we were camped near Dampmartin. Later
we had a brush with Bedford's rear-guard, and had hopes of a big
battle on the morrow, but Bedford and all his force got away in the
night and went on toward Paris.

Charles sent heralds and received the submission of Beauvais. The
Bishop Pierre Cauchon, that faithful friend and slave of the
English, was not able to prevent it, though he did his best. He was
obscure then, but his name was to travel round the globe presently,
and live forever in the curses of France! Bear with me now, while I
spit in fancy upon his grave.

CompiŠgne surrendered, and hauled down the English flag. On the
14th we camped two leagues from Senlis. Bedford turned and
approached, and took up a strong position. We went against him,
but all our efforts to beguile him out from his intrenchments failed,
though he had promised us a duel in the open field. Night shut
down. Let him look our for the morning! But in the morning he
was gone again.

We enterd CompiŠgne the 18th of August, turning out the English
garrison and hoisting our own flag.

On the 23d Joan gave command to move upon Paris. The King and
the clique were not satisfied with this, and retired sulking to
Senlis, which had just surrendered. Within a few days many strong
places submitted--Creil, Pont-Saint-Maxence, Choisy,
Gournay-sur-Aronde, Remy, Le Neufville-en-Hez, Moguay,
Chantilly, Saintines. The English power was tumbling, crash after
crash! And still the King sulked and disapproved, and was afraid
of our movement against the capital.

On the 26th of August, 1429, Joan camped at St. Denis; in effect,
under the walls of Paris.

And still the King hung back and was afraid. If we could but have
had him there to back us with his authority! Bedford had lost heart
and decided to waive resistance and go an concentrate his strength
in the best and loyalest province remaining to him--Normandy. Ah,
if we could only have persuaded the King to come and
countenance us with his presence and approval at this supreme
moment!

Chapter 40 Treachery Conquers Joan

COURIER after courier was despatched to the King, and he
promised to come, but didn't. The Duke d'Alen‡on went to him and
got his promise again, which he broke again. Nine days were lost
thus; then he came, arriving at St. Denis September 7th.

Meantime the enemy had begun to take heart: the spiritless
conduct of the King could have no other result. Preparations had
now been made to defend the city. Joan's chances had been
diminished, but she and her generals considered them plenty good
enough yet. Joan ordered the attack for eight o'clock next morning,
and at that hour it began.

Joan placed her artillery and began to pound a strong work which
protected the gate St. Honor‚. When it was sufficiently crippled
the assault was sounded at noon, and it was carried by storm. Then
we moved forward to storm the gate itself, and hurled ourselves
against it again and again, Joan in the le3ad with her standard at
her side, the smoke enveloping us in choking clouds, and the
missiles flying over us and through us as thick as hail.

In the midst of our last assault, which would have carried the gate
sure and given us Paris and in effect France, Joan was struck down
by a crossbow bolt, and our men fell back instantly and almost in a
panic--for what were they without her? She was the army, herself.

Although disabled, she refused to retire, and begged that a new
assault be made, say8ing it must win; and adding, with the
battle-light rising in her eyes, "I will take Paris now or die!" She
had to be carried away by force, and this was done by Gaucourt
and the Duke d'Alen‡on.

But her spirits were at the very top notch, now. She was brimming
with enthusiasm. She said she would be carried before the gate in
the morning, and in half an hour Paris would be ours without any
question. She could have kept her word. About this there was no
doubt. But she forgot one factor--the King, shadow of that
substance named La Tremouille. The King forbade the attempt!

You see, a new Embassy had just come from the Duke of
Burgundy, and another sham private trade of some sort was on
foot.

You would know, without my telling you, that Joan's heart was
nearly broken. Because of the pain of her wound and the pain at
her heart she slept little that night. Several times the watchers
heard muffled sobs from the dark room where she lay at St. Denis,
and many times the grieving words, "It could have been taken!--it
could have been taken!" which were the only ones she said.

She dragged herself out of bed a day later with a new hope.
D'Alen‡on had thrown a bridge across the Seine near St. Denis.
Might she not cross by that and assault Paris at another point? But
the King got wind of it and broke the bridge down! And more--he
declared the campaign ended! And more still--he had made a new
truce and a long one, in which he had agreed to leave Paris
unthreatened and unmolested, and go back to the Loire whence he
had come!

Joan of Arc, who had never been defeated by the enemy, was
defeated by her own King. She had said once that all she feared for
her cause was treachery. It had struck its first blow now. She hung
up her white armor in the royal basilica of St. Denis, and went and
asked the King to relieve her of her functions and let her go home.
As usual, she was wise. Grand combinations, far-reaching great
military moves were at an end, now; for the future, when the truce
should end, the war would be merely a war of random and idle
skirmishes, apparently; work suitable for subalterns, and not
requiring the supervision of a sublime military genius. But the
King would not let her go. The truce did not embrace all France;
there were French strongholds to be watched and preserved; he
would need her. Really, you see, Tremouille wanted to keep her
where he could balk and hinder her.

Now came her Voices again. They said, "Remain at St. Denis."
There was no explanation. They did not say why. That was the
voice of God; it took precedence of the command of the King;
Joan resolved to stay. But that filled La Tremouille with dread. She
was too tremendous a force to be left to herself; she would surely
defeat all his plans. He beguiled the King to use compulsion. Joan
had to submit--because she was wounded and helpless. In the
Great Trial she said she was carried away against her will; and that
if she had not been wounded it could not have been accomplished.
Ah, she had a spirit, that slender girl! a spirit to brave all earthly
powers and defy them. We shall never know why the Voices
ordered her to stay. We only know this; that if she could have
obeyed, the history of France would not be as it now stands written
in the books. Yes, well we know that.

On the 13th of September the army, sad and spiritless, turned its
face toward the Loire, and marched--without music! Yes, one
noted that detail. It was a funeral march; that is what it was. A
long, dreary funeral march, with never a shout or a cheer; friends
looking on in tears, all the way, enemies laughing. We reached
Gien at last--that place whence we had set out on our splendid
march toward Rheims less than three months before, with flags
flying, bands playing, the victory-flush of Patay glowing in our
faces, and the massed multitudes shouting and praising and giving
us godspeed. There was a dull rain falling now, the day was dark,
the heavens mourned, the spectators were few, we had no welcome
but the welcome of silence, and pity, and tears.

Then the King disbanded that noble army of heroes; it furled its
flags, it stored its arms: the disgrace of France was complete. La
Tremouille wore the victor's crown; Joan of Arc, the
unconquerable, was conquered.

Chapter 41 The Maid Will March No More

YES, IT was as I have said: Joan had Paris and France in her
grip,and the Hundred Years' War under her heel, and the King
made her open her fist and take away her foot.

Now followed about eight months of drifting about with the King
and his council, and his gay and showy and dancing and flirting
and hawking and frolicking and serenading and dissipating
court--drifting from town to town and from castle to castle--a life
which was pleasant to us of the personal staff, but not to Joan.
However, she only saw it, she didn't live it. The King did his
sincerest best to make her happy, and showed a most kind and
constant anxiety in this matter.

All others had to go loaded with the chains of an exacting court
etiquette, but she was free, she was privileged. So that she paid her
duty to the King once a day and passed the pleasant word, nothing
further was required of her. Naturally, then, she made herself a
hermit, and grieved the weary days through in her own apartments,
with her thoughts and devotions for company, and the planning of
now forever unrealizable military combinations for entertainment.
In fancy she moved bodies of men from this and that and the other
point, so calculating the distances to be covered, the time required
for each body, and the nature of the country to be traversed, as to
have them appear in sight of each other on a given day or at a
given hour and concentrate for battle. It was her only game, her
only relief from her burden of sorrow and inaction. She played it
hour after hour, as others play chess; and lost herself in it, and so
got repose for her mind and healing for her heart.

She never complained, of course. It was not her way. She was the
sort that endure in silence.

But--she was a caged eagle just the same, and pined for the free air
and the alpine heights and the fierce joys of the storm.

France was full of rovers--disbanded soldiers ready for anything
that might turn up. Several times, at intervals, when Joan's dull
captivity grew too heavy to bear, she was allowed to gather a troop
of cavalry and make a health-restoring dash against the enemy.
These things were a bath to her spirits.

It was like old times, there at Saint-Pierre-le-Moutier, to see her
lead assault after assault, be driven back again and again, but
always rsally and charge anew, all in a blaze of eagerness and
delight; till at last the tempest of missiles rained so intolerably
thick that old D'Aulon, who was wounded, sounded the retreat (for
the King had charged him on his head to let no harm come to
Joan); and away everybody rushed after him--as he supposed; but
when he turned and looked, there were we of the staff still
hammering away; wherefore he rode back and urged her to come,
saying she was mad to stay there with only a dozen men. Her eye
danced merrily, and she turned upon him crying out:

"A dozen men! name of God, I have fifty thousand, and will never
budge till this place is taken!

Sound the charge!"

Which he did, and over the walls we went, and the fortress was
ours. Old D'Aulon thought her mind was wandering; but all she
meant was, that she felt the might of fifty thousand men surging in
her heart. It was a fanciful expression; but, to my thinking, truer
word was never said.

Then there was the affair near Lagny, where we charged the
intrenched Burgundians through the open field four times, the last
time victoriously; the best prize of it Franquet d'Arras, the
free-booter and pitiless scourge of the region roundabout.

Now and then other such affairs; and at last, away toward the end
of May, 1430, we were in the neighborhood of Compiegrave;gne,
and Joan resolved to go to the help of that place, which was being
besieged by the Duke of Burgundy.

I had been wounded lately, and was not able to ride without help;
but the good Dwarf took me on behind him, and I held on to him
and was safe enough. We started at midnight, in a sullen downpour
of warm rain, and went slowly and softly and in dead silence, for
we had to slip through the enemy's lines. We were challenged only
once; we made no answer, but held our breath and crept steadily
and stealthily along, and got through without any accident. About
three or half past we reached CompiŠgne, just as the gray dawn
was breaking in the east.

Joan set to work at once, and concerted a plan with Guillaume de
Flavy, captain of the city--a plan for a sortie toward evening
against the enemy, who was posted in three bodies on the other
side of the Oise, in the level plain. From our side one of the city
gates communicated with a bridge. The end of this bridge was
defended on the other side of the river by one of those fortresses
called a boulevard; and this boulevard also commanded a raised
road, which stretched from its front across the plain to the village
of Marguy. A force of Burgundians occupied Marguy; another was
camped at Clairoix, a couple of miles above the raised road; and a
body of English was holding Venette, a mile and a half below it. A
kind of bow-and-arrow arrangement, you see; the causeway the
arrow, the boulevard at the feather-end of it, Marguy at the barb,
Venette at one end of the bow, Clairoix at the other.

Joan's plan was to go straight per causeway against Marguy, carry
it by assault, then turn swiftly upon Clairoix, up to the right, and
capture that camp in the same way, then face to the rear and be
ready for heavy work, for the Duke of Burgundy lay behind
Clairoix with a reserve. Flavy's lieutenant, with archers and the
artillery of the boulevard, was to keep the English troops from
coming up from below and seizing the causeway and cutting off
Joan's retreat in case she should have to make one. Also, a fleet of
covered boats was to be stationed near the boulevard as an
additional help in case a retreat should become necessary.

It was the 24th of May. At four in the afternoon Joan moved out at
the head of six hundred cavalry--on her last march in this life!

It breaks my heart. I had got myself helped up onto the walls, and
from there I saw much that happened, the rest was told me long
afterward by our two knights and other eye-witnesses. Joan crossed
the bridge, and soon left the boulevard behind her and went
skimming away over the raised road with her horsemen clattering
at her heels. She had on a brilliant silver-gilt cape over her armor,
and I could see it flap and flare and rise and fall like a little patch
of white flame.

It was a bright day, and one could see far and wide over that plain.
Soon we saw the English force advancing, swiftly and in
handsome order, the sunlight flashing from its arms.

Joan crashed into the Burgundians at Marguy and was repulsed.
Then she saw the other Burgundians moving down from Clairoix.
Joan rallied her men and charged again, and was again rolled back.
Two assaults occupy a good deal of time--and time was precious
here. The English were approaching the road now from Venette,
but the boulevard opened fire on them and they were checked.
Joan heartened her men with inspiring words and led them to the
charge again in great style. This time she carried Marguy with a
hurrah. Then she turned at once to the right and plunged into the
plan and struck the Clairoix force, which was just arriving; then
there was heavy work, and plenty of it, the two armies hurling each
other backward turn about and about, and victory inclining first to
the one, then to the other. Now all of a sudden thee was a panic on
our side. Some say one thing caused it, some another. Some say
the cannonade made our front ranks think retreat was being cut off
by the English, some say the rear ranks got the idea that Joan was
killed. Anyway our men broke, and went flying in a wild rout for
the causeway. Joan tried to rally them and face them around,
crying to them that victory was sure, but it did no good, they
divided and swept by her like a wave. Old D'Aulon begged her to
retreat while there was yet a chance for safety, but she refused; so
he seized her horse's bridle and bore her along with the wreck and
ruin in spite of herself. And so along the causeway they came
swarming, that wild confusion of frenzied men and horses--and the
artillery had to stop firing, of course; consequently the English and
Burgundians closed in in safety, the former in front, the latter
behind their prey. Clear to the boulevard the French were washed
in this enveloping inundation; and there, cornered in an angle
formed by the flank of the boulevard and the slope of the
causeway, they bravely fought a hopeless fight, and sank down one
by one.

Flavy, watching from the city wall, ordered the gate to be closed
and the drawbridge raised. This shut Joan out.

The little personal guard around her thinned swiftly. Both of our
good knights went down disabled; Joan's two brothers fell
wounded; then No‰l Rainguesson--all wounded while loyally
sheltering Joan from blows aimed at her. When only the Dwarf
and the Paladin were left, they would not give up, but stood their
ground stoutly, a pair of steel towers streaked and splashed with
blood; and where the ax of one fell, and the sword of the other, an
enemy gasped and died.

And so fighting, and loyal to their duty to the last, good simple
souls, they came to their honorable end. Peace to their memories!
they were very dear to me.

Then there was a cheer and a rush, and Joan, still defiant, still
laying about her with her sword, was seized by her cape and
dragged from her horse. She was borne away a prisoner to the
Duke of Burgundy's camp, and after her followed the victorious
army roaring its joy.

The awful news started instantly on its round; from lip to lip it
flew; and wherever it came it struck the people as with a sort of
paralysis; and they murmured over and over again, as if they were
talking to themselves, or in their sleep, "The Maid of Orleans
taken! . . . Joan of Arc a prisoner! . . . the savior of France lost to
us!"--and would keep saying that over, as if they couldn't
understand how it could be, or how God could permit it, poor
creatures!

You know what a city is like when it is hung from eaves to
pavement with rustling black? Then you know what Rouse was
like, and some other cities. But can any man tell you what the
mourning in the hearts of the peasantry of France was like? No,
nobody can tell you that, and, poor dumb things, they could not
have told you themselves, but it was there--indeed, yes. Why, it
was the spirit of a whole nation hung with crape!

The 24th of May. We will draw down the curtain now upon the
most strange, and pathetic, and wonderful military drama that has
been played upon the stage of the world. Joan of Arc will march
no more.

BOOK III  TRIAL AND MARTYRDOM

Chapter 1 The Maid in Chains

I CANNOT bear to dwell at great length upon the shameful history
of the summer and winter following the capture. For a while I was
not much troubled, for I was expecting every day to hear that Joan
had been put to ransom, and that the King--no, not the King, but
grateful France--had come eagerly forward to pay it. By the laws of
war she could not be denied the privilege of ransom. She was not a
rebel; she was a legitimately constituted soldier, head of the
armies of France by her King's appointment, and guilty of no crime
known to military law; therefore she could not be detained upon
any pretext, if ransom were proffered.

But day after day dragged by and no ransom was offered! It seems
incredible, but it is true. Was that reptile Tremouille busy at the
King's ear? All we know is, that the King was silent, and made no
offer and no effort in behalf of this poor girl who had done so
much for him.

But, unhappily, there was alacrity enough in another quarter. The
news of the capture reached Paris the day after it happened, and
the glad English and Burgundians deafened the world all the day
and all the night with the clamor of their joy-bells and the thankful
thunder of their artillery, and the next day the Vicar-General of the
Inquisition sent a message to the Duke of Burgundy requiring the
delivery of the prisoner into the hands of the Church to be tried as
an idolater.

The English had seen their opportunity, and it was the English
power that was really acting, not the Church. The Church was
being used as a blind, a disguise; and for a forcible reason: the
Church was not only able to take the life of Joan of Arc, but to
blight her influence and the valor-breeding inspiration of her
name, whereas the English power could but kill her body; that
would not diminish or destroy the influence of her name; it would
magnify it and make it permanent. Joan of Arc was the only power
in France that the English did not despise, the only power in
France that they considered formidable. If the Church could be
brought to take her life, or to proclaim her an idolater, a heretic, a
witch, sent from Satan, not from heaven, it was believed that the
English supremacy could be at once reinstated.

The Duke of Burgundy listened--but waited. He could not doubt
that the French King or the French people would come forward
presently and pay a higher price than the English. He kept Joan a
close prisoner in a strong fortress, and continued to wait, week
after week. He was a French prince, and was at heart ashamed to
sell her to the English. Yet with all his waiting no offer came to
him from the French side.

One day Joan played a cunning truck on her jailer, and not only
slipped out of her prison, but locked him up in it. But as she fled
away she was seen by a sentinel, and was caught and brought back.

Then she was sent to Beaurevoir, a stronger castle. This was early
in August, and she had been in captivity more than two months
now. Here she was shut up in the top of a tower which was sixty
feet high. She ate her heart there for another long stretch--about
three months and a half. And she was aware, all these weary five
months of captivity, that the English, under cover of the Church,
were dickering for her as one would dicker for a horse or a slave,
and that France was silent, the King silent, all her friends the same.
Yes, it was pitiful.

And yet when she heard at last that CompiŠgne was being closely
besieged and likely to be captured, and that the enemy had
declared that no inhabitant of it should escape massacre, not even
children of seven years of age, she was in a fever at once to fly to
our rescue. So she tore her bedclothes to strips and tied them
together and descended this frail rope in the night, and it broke,
and she fell and was badly bruised, and remained three days
insensible, meantime neither eating nor drinking.

And now came relief to us, led by the Count of Vend“me, and
CompiŠgne was saved and the siege raised. This was a disaster to
the Duke of Burgundy. He had to save money now. It was a good
time for a new bid to be made for Joan of Arc. The English at once
sent a French bishop--that forever infamous Pierre Cauchon of
Beauvais. He was partly promised the Archbishopric of Rouen,
which was vacant, if he should succeed. He claimed the right to
preside over Joan's ecclesiastical trial because the battle-ground
where she was taken was within his diocese. By the military usage
of the time the ransom of a royal prince was 10,000 livres of gold,
which is 61,125 francs--a fixed sum, you see. It must be accepted
when offered; it could not be refused.

Cauchon brought the offer of this very sum from the English--a
royal prince's ransom for the poor little peasant-girl of Domremy.
It shows in a striking way the English idea of her formidable
importance. It was accepted. For that sum Joan of Arc, the Savior
of France, was sold; sold to her enemies; to the enemies of her
country; enemies who had lashed and thrashed and thumped and
trounced France for a century and made holiday sport of it;
enemies who had forgotten, years and years ago, what a
Frenchman's face was like, so used were they to seeing nothing but
his back; enemies whom she had whipped, whom she had cowed,
whom she had taught to respect French valor, new-born in her
nation by the breath of her spirit; enemies who hungered for her
life as being the only puissance able to stand between English
triumph and French degradation. Sold to a French priest by a
French prince, with the French King and the French nation
standing thankless by and saying nothing.

And she--what did she say? Nothing. Not a reproach passed her
lips. She was too great for that--she was Joan of Arc; and when
that is said, all is said.

As a soldier, her record was spotless. She could not be called to
account for anything under that head. A subterfuge must be found,
and, as we have seen, was found. She must be tried by priests for
crimes against religion. If none could be discovered, some must be
invented. Let the miscreant Cauchon alone to contrive those.

Rouen was chosen as the scene of the trial. It was in the heart of
the English power; its population had been under English
dominion so many generations that they were hardly French now,
save in language. The place was strongly garrisoned. Joan was
taken there near the end of December, 1430, and flung into a
dungeon. Yes, and clothed in chains, that free spirit!

Still France made no move. How do I account for this? I think
there is only one way. You will remember that whenever Joan was
not at the front, the French held back and ventured nothing; that
whenever she led, they swept everything before them, so long as
they could see her white armor or her banner; that every time she
fell wounded or was reported killed--as at CompiŠgne--they broke
in panic and fled like sheep. I argue from this that they had
undergone no real transformation as yet; that at bottom they were
still under the spell of a timorousness born of generations of
unsuccess, and a lack of confidence in each other and in their
leaders born of old and bitter experience in the way of treacheries
of all sorts--for their kings had been treacherous to their great
vassals and to their generals, and these in turn were treacherous to
the head of the state and to each other. The soldiery found that
they could depend utterly on Joan, and upon her alone. With her
gone, everything was gone. She was the sun that melted the frozen
torrents and set them boiling; with that sun removed, they froze
again, and the army and all France became what they had been
before, mere dead corpses--that and nothing more; incapable of
thought, hope, ambition, or motion.

Chapter 2 Joan Sold to the English

MY WOUND gave me a great deal of trouble clear into the first
part of October; then the fresher weather renewed my life and
strength. All this time there were reports drifting about that the
King was going to ransom Joan. I believed these, for I was young
and had not yet found out the littleness and meanness of our poor
human race, which brags about itself so much, and thinks it is
better and higher than the other animals.

In October I was well enough to go out with two sorties, and in the
second one, on the 23d, I was wounded again. My luck had turned,
you see. On the night of the 25th the besiegers decamped, and in
the disorder and confusion one of their prisoners escaped and got
safe into CompiŠgne, and hobble into my room as pallid and
pathetic an object as you would wish to see.

"What? Alive? No‰l Rainguesson!"

It was indeed he. It was a most joyful meeting, that you will easily
know; and also as sad as it was joyful. We could not speak Joan's
name. One's voice would have broken down. We knew who was
meant when she was mentioned; we could say "she" and "her," but
we could not speak the name.

We talked of the personal staff. Old D'Aulon, wounded and a
prisoner, was still with Joan and serving her, by permission of the
Duke of Burgundy. Joan was being treated with respect due to her
rank and to her character as a prisoner of war taken in honorable
conflict. And this was continued--as we learned later--until she fell
into the hands of that bastard of Satan, Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of
Beauvais.

No‰l was full of noble and affectionate praises and appreaciations
of our old boastful big Standard-Bearer, now gone silent forever,
his real and imaginary battles all fought, his work done, his life
honorably closed and completed.

"And think of his luck!" burst out No‰l, with his eyes full of tears.
"Always the pet child of luck!

See how it followed him and stayed by him, from his first step all
through, in the field or out of it; always a splendid figure in the
public eye, courted and envied everywhere; always having a
chance to do fine things and always doing them; in the beginning
called the Paladin in joke, and called it afterward in earnest
because he magnificently made the title good; and at
last--supremest luck of all--died in the field! died with his harness
on; died faithful to his charg, the Standard in his hand; died--oh,
think of it--with the approving eye of Joan of Arc upon him!

He drained the cup of glory to the last drop, and went jubilant to
his peace, blessedly spared all part in the disaster which was to
follow. What luck, what luck! And we? What was our sin that we
are still here, we who have also earned our place with the happy
dead?"

And presently he said:

"They tore the sacred Standard from his dead hand and carried it
away, their most precious prize after its captured owner. But they
haven't it now. A month ago we put our lives upon the risk--our
two good knights, my fellow-prisoners, and I--and stole it, and got
it smuggled by trusty hands to Orleans, and there it is now, safe for
all time in the Treasury."

I was glad and grateful to learn that. I have seen it often since,
when I have gone to Orleans on the 8th of May to be the petted old
guest of the city and hold the first place of honor at the banquets
and in the processions--I mean since Joan's brothers passed from
this life. It will still be there, sacredly guarded by French love, a
thousand years from now--yes, as long as any shred of it hangs
together. [1] Two or three weeks after this talk came tehe
tremendous news like a thunder-clap, and we were aghast--Joan of
Arc sold to the English!

Not for a moment had we ever dreamed of such a thing. We were
young, you see, and did not know the human race, as I have said
before. We had been so proud of our country, so sure of her
nobleness, her magnanimity, her gratitude. We had expected little
of the King, but of France we had expected everything. Everybody
knew that in various towns patriot priests had been marching in
procession urging the people to sacrifice money, property,
everything, and buy the freedom of their heaven-sent deliverer.
That the money would be raised we had not thought of doubting.

But it was all over now, all over. It was a bitter time for us. The
heavens seemed hung with black; all cheer went out from our
hearts. Was this comrade here at my bedside really No‰l
Rainguesson, that light-hearted creature whose whole life was but
one long joke, and who used up more breath in laughter than in
keeping his body alive? No, no; that No‰l I was to see no more.
This one's heart was broken. He moved grieving about, and
absently, like one in a dream; the stream of his laughter was dried
at its source.

Well, that was best. It was my own mood. We were company for
each other. He nursed me patiently through the dull long weeks,
and at last, in January, I was strong enough to go about again.
Then he said:

"Shall we go now?"

"Yes."

There was no need to explain. Our hearts were in Rouen; we
would carry our bodies there. All that we cared for in this life was
shut up in that fortress. We could not help her, but it would be
some solace to us to be near her, to breathe the air that she
breathed, and look daily upon the stone walls that hid her. What if
we should be made prisoners there? Well, we could but do our
best, and let luck and fate decide what should happen.

And so we started. We could not realize the change which had
come upon the country. We seemed able to choose our own route
and go whenever we pleased, unchallenged and unmolested. When
Joan of Arc was in the field there was a sort of panic of fear
everywhere; but now that she was out of the way, fear had
vanished. Nobody was troubled about you or afraid of you, nobody
was curious about you or your business, everybody was indifferent.

We presently saw that we could take to the Seine, and not weary
ourselves out with land travel.

So we did it, and were carried in a boat to within a league of
Rouen. Then we got ashore; not on the hilly side, but on the other,
where it is as level as a floor. Nobody could enter or leave the city
without explaining himself. It was because they feared attempts at
a rescue of Joan.

We had no trouble. We stopped in the plain with a family of
peasants and stayed a wekk, helping them with their work for
board and lodging, and making friends of them. We got clothes
like theirs, and wore them. When we had worked our way through
their reserves and gotten their confidence, we found that they
secretly harbored French hearts in their bodies. Then we came out
frankly and told them everythng, and found them ready to do
anything they could to help us.

Our plan was soon made, and was quite simple. It was to help
them drive a flock of sheep to the market of the city. One morning
early we made the venture in a melancholy drizzle of rain, and
passed through the frowning gates unmolested. Our friends had
friends living over a humble wine shop in a quaint tall building
situated in one of the narrow lanes that run down from the
cathedral to the river, and with these they bestowed us; and the
next day they smuggled our own proper clothing and other
belongings to us. The family that lodged us--the Pieroons--were
French in sympathy, and we needed to have no secrets from them.

[1] It remained there three hundred and sixty years, and then was
destroyed in a public bonfire, together with two swords, a plumed
cap, several suits of state apparel, and other relics of the Maid, by
a mob in the time of the Revolution. Nothing which the hand of
Joan of Arc is known to have touched now remains in existence
except a few preciously guarded military and state papers which
she signed, her pen being guided by a clek or her secretary, Louis
de Conte. A boulder exists from which she is known to have
mounted her horse when she was once setting out upon a
campaign. Up to a quarter of a century ago there was a single hair
from her head still in existence. It was drawn through the wax of a
seal attached to the parchment of a state document. It was
surreptitiously snipped out, seal and all, by some vandal
relic-hunter, and carried off. Doubtless it still exists, but only the
thief knows where. -- TRANSLATOR.

Chapter 3 Weaving the Net About Her

IT WAS necessary for me to have some way to gain bread for No‰l
and myself; and when the Pierrons found that I knew how to write,
the applied to their confessor in my behalf, and he got a place for
me with a good priest named Manchon, who was to be the chief
recorder in the Great Trial of Joan of Arc now approaching. It was
a strange position for me--clerk to the recorder--and dangerous if
my sympathies and the late employment should be found out. But
there was not much danger. Manchon was at bottom friendly to
Joan and would not betray me; and my name would not, for I had
discarded my surname and retained only my given one, like a
person of low degree.

I attended Manchon constantly straight along, out of January and
into February, and was often in the citadel with him--in the very
fortress where Joan was imprisoned, though not in the dungeon
where she was confined, and so did not see her, of course.

Manchon told me everything that had been happening before my
coming. Ever since the purchase of Joan, Cauchon had been busy
packing his jury for the destruction of the Maid--weeks and weeks
he had spent in this bad industry. The University of Paris had sent
him a number of learned and able and trusty ecclesiastics of the
stripe he wanted; and he had scraped together a clergyman of like
stripe and great fame here and there and yonder, until he was able
to construct a formidable court numbering half a hundred
distinguished names. French names they were, but their interests
and sympathies were English.

A great officer of the Inquisition was also sent from Paris for the
accused must be tried by the forms of the Inquisition; but this was
a brave and righteous man, and he said squarely that this court had
no power to try the case, wherefore he refused to act; and the same
honest talk was uttered by two or three others.

The Inquisitor was right. The case as here resurrected against Joan
had already been tried long ago at Poitiers, and decided in her
favor. Yes, and by a higher tribunal than this one, for at the head of
it was an Archbishop--he of Rheims--Cauchon's own metropolitan.
So here, you see, a lower court was impudently preparing to try
and redecide a cause which had already been decided by its
superior, a court of higher authority. Imagine it! No, the case could
not properly be tried again. Cauchon could not properly preside in
this new court, for more than one reason:

Rouen was not in his diocese; Joan had not been arrested in her
domicile, which was still Domremy; and finally this proposed
judge was the prisoner's outspoken enemy, and therefore he was
incompetent to try her. Yet all these large difficulties were gotten
rid of. The territorial Chapter of Rouen finally granted territorial
letters to Cauchon--though only after a struggle and under
compulsion. Force was also applied to the Inquisitor, and he was
obliged to submit.

So then, the little English King, by his representative, formally
delivered Joan into the hands of the court, but with this
reservation: if the court failed to condemn her, he was to have her
back again!  Ah, dear, what chance was there for that forsaken and
friendless child? Friendless, indeed--it is the right word. For she
was in a black dungeon, with half a dozen brutal common soldiers
keeping guard night and day in the room where her cage was--for
she was in a cage; an iron cage, and chained to her bed by neck
and hands and feet. Never a person near her whom she had ever
seen before; never a woman at all. Yes, this was, indeed,
friendlessness.

Now it was a vassal of Jean de Luxembourg who captured Joan
and CompiŠgne, and it was Jean who sold her to the Duke of
Burgundy. Yet this very De Luxembourg was shameless enough to
go and show his face to Joan in her cage. He came with two
English earls, Warwick and Stafford. He was a poor reptile. He
told her he would get her set free if she would promise not to fight
the English any more. She had been in that cage a long time now,
but not long enough to break her spirit. She retorted scornfully:

"Name of God, you but mock me. I know that you have neither the
power nor the will to do it."

He insisted. Then the pride and dignity of the soldier rose in Joan,
and she lifted her chained hands and let them fall with a clash,
saying:

"See these! They know more than you, an can prophesy better. I
know that the English are going to kill me, for they think that
when I am dead they can get the Kingdom of France. It is not so.

Though there were a hundred thousand of them they would never
get it."

This defiance infuriated Stafford, and he--now think of it--he a
free, strong man, she a chained and helpless girl--he drew his
dagger and flung himself at her to stab her. But Warwick seized
him and held him back. Warwick was wise. Take her life in that
way? Send her to Heaven stainless and undisgraced? It would
make her the idol of France, and the whole nation would rise and
march to victory and emancipation under the inspiration of her
spirit. No, she must be saved for another fate than that.

Well, the time was approaching for the Great Trial. For more than
two months Cauchon had been raking and scraping everywhere for
any odds and ends of evidence or suspicion or conjecture that
might be usable against Joan, and carefully suppressing all
evidence that came to hand in her favor. He had limitless ways and
means and powers at his disposal for preparing and strengthening
the case for the prosecution, and he used them all.

But Joan had no one to prepare her case for her, and she was shut
up in those stone walls and had no friend to appeal to for help.
And as for witnesses, she could not call a single one in her
defense; they were all far away, under the French flag, and this
was an English court; they would have been seized and hanged if
they had shown their faces at the gates of Rouen. No, the prisoner
must be the sole witness--witness for the prosecution, witness for
the defense; and with a verdict of death resolved upon before the
doors were opened for the court's first sitting.

When she learned that the court was made up of ecclesiastics in
the interest of the English, she begged that in fairness an equal
number of priests of the French party should be added to these.

Cauchon scoffed at her message, and would not even deign to
answer it.

By the law of the Church--she being a minor under twenty-one--it
was her right to have counsel to conduct her case, advise her how
to answer when questioned, and protect her from falling into traps
set by cunning devices of the prosecution. She probably did not
know that this was her right, and that she could demand it and
require it, for there was none to tell her that; but she begged for
this help, at any rate. Cauchon refused it. She urged and implored,
pleading her youth and her ignorance of the complexities and
intricacies of the law and of legal procedure. Cauchon refused
again, and said she must get along with her case as best she might
by herself. Ah, his heart was a stone.

Cauchon prepared the procŠs verbal. I will simplify that by calling
it the Bill of Particulars. It was a detailed list of the charges against
her, and formed the basis of the trial. Charges? It was a list of
suspicions and public rumors--those were the words used. It was
merely charged that she was suspected of having been guilty of
heresies, witchcraft, and other such offenses against religion.

Now by the law of the Church, a trial of that sort could not be
begun until a searching inquiry had been made into the history and
character of the accused, and it was essential that the result of this
inquiry be added to the procŠs verbal and form a part of it. You
remember that that was the first thing they did before the trial at
Poitiers. They did it again now. An ecclesiastic was sent to
Domremy. There and all about the neighborhood he made an
exhaustive search into Joan's history and character, and came back
with his verdict. It was very clear. The searcher reported that he
found Joan's character to be in every way what he "would like his
own sister's character to be." Just about the same report that was
brought back to Poitiers, you see. Joan's was a character which
could endure the minutest examination.

This verdict was a strong point for Joan, you will say. Yes, it
would have been if it could have seen the light; but Cauchon was
awake, and it disappeared from the procŠs verbal before the trial.
People were prudent enough not to inquire what became of it.

One would imagine that Cauchon was ready to begin the trial by
this time. But no, he devised one more scheme for poor Joan's
destruction, and it promised to be a deadly one.

One of the great personages picked out and sent down by the
University of Paris was an ecclesiastic named Nicolas Loyseleur.
He was tall, handsome, grave, of smooth, soft speech and
courteous and winning manners. There was no seeming of
treachery or hypocrisy about him, yet he was full of both. He was
admitted to Joan's prison by night, disguised as a cobbler; he
pretended to be from her own country; he professed to be secretly
a patriot; he revealed the fact that he was a priest. She was filled
with gladness to see one from the hills and plains that were so dear
to her; happier still to look upon a priest and disburden her heart in
confession, for the offices of the Church were the bread of life, the
breath of her nostrils to her, and she had been long forced to pine
for them in vain. She opened her whole innocent heart to this
creature, and in return he gave her advice concerning her trial
which could have destroyed her if her deep native wisdom had not
protected her against following it.

You will ask, what value could this scheme have, since the secrets
of the confessional are sacred and cannot be revealed? True--but
suppose another person should overhear them? That person is not
bound to keep the secret. Well, that is what happened. Cauchon
had previously caused a hole to be bored through the wall; and he
stood with his ear to that hole and heard all. It is pitiful to think of
these things. One wonders how they could treat that poor child so.
She had not done them any harm.

Chapter 4 All Ready to Condemn

ON TUESDAY, the 20th of February, while I sat at my master's
work in the evening, he came in, looking sad, and said it had been
decided to begin the trial at eight o'clock the next morning, and I
must get ready to assist him.

Of course I had been expecting such news every day for many
days; but no matter, the shock of it almost took my breath away
and set me trembling like a leaf. I suppose that without knowing it
I had been half imagining that at the last moment something would
happen, something that would stop this fatal trial; maybe that La
Hire would burst in at the gates with his hellions at his back;
maybe that God would have pity and stretch forth His mighty
hand. But now--now there was no hope.

The trial was to begin in the chapel of the fortress and would be
public. So I went sorrowing away and told No‰l, so that he might
be there early and secure a place. It would give him a chance to
look again upon the face which we so revered and which was so
precious to us. All the way, both going and coming, I plowed
through chattering and rejoicing multitudes of English soldiery and
English-hearted French citizens. There was no talk but of the
coming event. Many times I heard the remark, accompanied by a
pitiless laugh:

"The fat Bishop has got things as he wants them at last, and says he
will lead the vile witch a merry dance and a short one."

But here and there I glimpsed compassion and distress in a face,
and it was not always a French one. English soldiers feared Joan,
but they admired her for her great deeds and her unconquerable
spirit.

In the morning Manchon and I went early, yet as we approached
the vast fortress we found crowds of men already there and still
others gathering. The chapel was already full and the way barred
against further admissions of unofficial persons. We took our
appointed places. Throned on high sat the president, Cauchon,
Bishop of Beauvais, in his grand robes, and before him in rows sat
his robed court--fifty distinguished ecclesiastics, men of high
degree in the Church, of clear-cut intellectual faces, men of deep
learning, veteran adepts in strategy and casuistry, practised
settersof traps for ignorant minds and unwary feet. When I looked
around upon this army of masters of legal fence, gathered here to
find just one verdict and no other, and remembered that Joan must
fight for her good name and her life single-handed against them, I
asked myself what chance an ignorant poor country-girl of
nineteen could have in such an unequal conflict; and my heart sank
down low, very low. When I looked again at that obese president,
puffing and wheezing there, his great belly distending and receding
with each breath, and noted his three chins, fold above fold, and
his knobby and knotty face, and his purple and splotchy
complexion, and his repulsive cauliflower nose, and his cold and
malignant eyes--a brute, every detail of him--my heart sank lower
still. And when I noted that all were afraid of this man, and shrank
and fidgeted in their seats when his eye smote theirs, my last poor
ray of hope dissolved away and wholly disappeared.

There was one unoccupied seat in this place, and only one. It was
over against the wall, in view of every one. It was a little wooden
bench without a back, and it stood apart and solitary on a sort of
dais. Tall men-at-arms in morion, breastplate, and steel gauntlets
stood as stiff as their own halberds on each side of this dais, but no
other creature was near by it. A pathetic little bench to me it was,
for I knew whom it was for; and the sight of it carried my mind
back to the great court at Poitiers, where Joan sat upon one like it
and calmly fought her cunning fight with the astonished doctors of
the Church and Parliament, and rose from it victorious and
applauded by all, and went forth to fill the world with the glory of
her name.

What a dainty little figure she was, and how gentle and innocent,
how winning and beautiful in the fresh bloom of her seventeen
years! Those were grand days. And so recent--for she was just
nineteen now--and how much she had seen since, and what
wonders she had accomplished!

But now--oh, all was changed now. She had been languishing in
dungeons, away from light and air and the cheer of friendly faces,
for nearly three-quarters of a year--she, born child of the sun,
natural comrade of the birds and of all happy free creatures. She
would be weary now, and worn with this long captivity, her forces
impaired; despondent, perhaps, as knowing there was no hope.
Yes, all was changed.

All this time there had been a muffled hum of conversation, and
rustling of robes and scraping of feet on the floor, a combination
of dull noises which filled all the place. Suddenly:

"Produce the accused!"

It made me catch my breath. My heart began to thump like a
hammer. But there was silence now--silence absolute. All those
noises ceased, and it was as if they had never been. Not a sound;
the stillness grew oppressive; it was like a weight upon one. All
faces were turned toward the door; and one could properly expect
that, for most of the people there suddenly realized, no doubt, that
they were about to see, in actual flesh and blood, what had been to
them before only an embodied prodigy, a word, a phrase, a
world-girdling Name.

The stillness continued. Then, far down the stone-paved corridors,
one heard a vague slow sound approaching: clank . . . clink . . .
clank--Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France, in chains!

My head swam; all things whirled and spun about me. Ah, I was
realizing, too.

Chapter 5 Fifty Experts Against a Novice

I GIVE you my honor now that I am not going to distort or discolor
the facts of this miserable trial. No, I will give them to you
honestly, detail by detail, just as Manchon and I set them down
daily in the official record of the court, and just as one may read
them in the printed histories.

There will be only this difference: that in talking familiarly with
you shall use my right to comment upon the proceedings and
explain them as I go along, so that you can understand them better;
also, I shall throw in trifles which came under our eyes and have a
certain interest for you and me, but were not important enough to
go into the official record. [1] To take up my story now where I
left off. We heard the clanking of Joan's chains down the corridors;
she was approaching.

Presently she appeared; a thrill swept the house, and one heard
deep breaths drawn. Two guardsmen followed her at a short
distance to the rear. Her head was bowed a little, and she moved
slowly, she being weak and her irons heavy. She had on men's
attire--all black; a soft woolen stuff, intensely black, funereally
black, not a speck of relieving color in it from ther throat to the
floor. A wide collar of this same black stuff lay in radiating folds
upon her shoulders and breast; the sleeves of her doublet were full,
down to the elbows, and tight thence to her manacled wrists;
below the doublet, tight black hose down to the chains on her
ankles.

Half-way to her bench she stopped, just where a wide shaft of light
fell slanting from a window, and slowly lifted her face. Another
thrill!--it was totally colorless, white as snow; a face of gleaming
snow set in vivid contrast upon that slender statue of somber
unmitigated black. It was smooth and pure and girlish, beautiful
beyond belief, infinitely sad and sweet. But, dear, dear!

when the challenge of those untamed eyes fell upon that judge, and
the droop vanished from her form and it straightened up soldierly
and noble, my heart leaped for joy; and I said, all is well, all is
well--they have not broken her, they have not conquered her, she is
Joan of Arc still! Yes, it was plain to me now that there was one
spirit there which this dreaded judge could not quell nor make
afraid.

She moved to her place and mounted the dais and seated herself
upon her bench, gathering her chains into her lap and nestling her
little white hands there. Then she waited in tranquil dignity, the
only person there who seemed unmoved and unexcited. A bronzed
and brawny English soldier, standing at martial ease in the front
rank of the citizen spectators, did now most gallantly and
respectfully put up his great hand and give her the military salute;
and she, smiling friendly, put up hers and returned it; whereat
there was a sympathetic little break of applause, which the judge
sternly silence.

Now the memorable inquisition called in history the Great Trial
began. Fifty experts against a novice, and no one to help the
novice!

The judge summarized the circumstances of the case and the
public reports and suspicions upon which it was based; then he
required Joan to kneel and make oath that she would answer with
exact truthfulness to all questions asked her.

Joan's mind was not asleep. It suspected that dangerous
possibilities might lie hidden under this apparently fair and
reasonable demand. She answered with the simplicity which so
often spoiled the enemy's best-laid plans in the trial at Poitiers, and
said:

"No; for I do not know what you are going to ask me; you might
ask of me things which I would not tell you."

This incensed the Court, and brought out a brisk flurry of angry
exclamations. Joan was not disturbed. Cauchon raised his voice
and began to speak in the midst of this noise, but he was so angry
that he could hardly get his words out. He said:

"With the divine assistance of our Lord we require you to expedite
these proceedings for the welfare of your conscience. Swear, with
your hands upon the Gospels, that you will answer true to the
questions which shall be asked you!" and he brought down his fat
hand with a crash upon his official table.

Joan said, with composure:

"As concerning my father and mother, and the faith, and what
things I have done since my coming into France, I will gladly
answer; but as regards the revelations which I have received from
God, my Voices have forbidden me to confide them to any save
my King--"

Here there was another angry outburst of threats and expletives,
and much movement and confusion; so she had to stop, and wait
for the noise to subside; then her waxen face flushed a little and
she straightened up and fixed her eye on the judge, and finished
her sentence in a voice that had the old ring to it:

--"and I will never reveal these things though you cut my head
off!"

Well, maybe you know what a deliberative body of Frenchmen is
like. The judge and half the court were on their feet in a moment,
and all shaking their fists at the prisoner, and all storming and
vituperating at once, so that you could hardly hear yourself think.
They kept this up several minutes; and because Joan sat untroubled
and indifferent they grew madder and noisier all the time. Once
she said, with a fleeting trace of the old-time mischief in her eye
and manner:

"Prithee, speak one at a time, fair lords, then I will answer all of
you."

At the end of three whole hours of furious debating over the oath,
the situation had not changed a jot. The Bishop was still requiring
an unmodified oath, Joan was refusing for the twentieth time to
take any except the one which she had herself proposed. There was
a physical change apparent, but it was confined to the court and
judge; they were hoarse, droopy, exhausted by their long frenzy,
and had a sort of haggard look in their faces, poor men, whereas
Joan was still placid and reposeful and did not seem noticeably
tired.

The noise quieted down; there was a waiting pause of some
moments' duration. Then the judge surrendered to the prisoner, and
with bitterness in his voice told her to take the oath after her own
fashion. Joan sunk at once to her knees; and as she laid her hands
upon the Gospels, that big English soldier set free his mind:

"By God, if she were but English, she were not in this place
another half a second!"

It was the soldier in him responding to the soldier in her. But what
a stinging rebuke it was, what an arraignment of French character
and French royalty! Would that he could have uttered just that one
phrase in the hearing of Orleans! I know that that grateful city, that
adoring city, would have risen to the last man and the last woman,
and marched upon Rouen. Some speeches--speeches that shame a
man and humble him--burn themselves into the memory and
remain there. That one is burned into mine.

After Joan had made oath, Cauchon asked her her name, and
where she was born, and some questions about her family; also
what her age was. She answered these. Then he asked her how
much education she had.

"I have learned from my mother the Pater Noster, the Ave Maria,
and the Belief. All that I know was taught me by my mother."

Questions of this unessential sort dribbled on for a considerable
time. Everybody was tired out by now, except Joan. The tribunal
prepared to rise. At this point Cauchon forbade Joan to try to
escape from prison, upon pain of being held guilty of the crime of
heresy--singular logic! She answered simply:

"I am not bound by this proposition. If I could escape I would not
reproach myself, for I have given no promise, and I shall not."

Then she complained of the burden of her chains, and asked that
they might be removed, for she was strongly guarded in that
dungeon and there was no need of them. But the Bishop refused,
and reminded her that she had broken out of prison twice before.
Joan of Arc was too proud to insist. She only said, as she rose to go
with the guard:

"It is true, I have wanted to escape, and I do want to escape." Then
she added, in a way that would touch the pity of anybody, I think,
"It is the right of every prisoner."

And so she went from the place in the midst of an impressive
stillness, which made the sharper and more distressful to me the
clank of those pathetic chains.

What presence of mind she had! One could never surprise her out
of it. She saw No‰l and me there when she first took her seat on
the bench, and we flushed to the forehead with excitement and
emotion, but her face showed nothing, betrayed nothing. Her eyes
sought us fifty times that day, but they passed on and there was
never any ray of recognition in them. Another would have started
upon seeing us, and then--why, then there could have been trouble
for us, of course.

We walked slowly home together, each busy with his own grief
and saying not a word.

[1] He kept his word. His account of the Great Trial will be found
to be in strict and detailed accordance with the sworn facts of
history. Qq TRANSLATOR.

Chapter 6 The Maid Baffles Her Persecutors

THAT NIGHT Manchon told me that all through the day's
proceedings Cauchon had had some clerks concealed in the
embrasure of a window who were to make a special report
garbling Joan's answers and twisting them from their right
meaning. Ah, that was surely the cruelest man and the most
shameless that has lived in this world. But his scheme failed.
Those clerks had human hearts in them, and their base work
revolted them, and they turned to and boldly made a straight
report, whereupon Cauchon curse them and ordered them out of
his presence with a threat of drowning, which was his favorite and
most frequent menace. The matter had gotten abroad and was
making great and unpleasant talk, and Cauchon would not try to
repeat this shabby game right away. It comforted me to hear that.

When we arrived at the citadel next morning, we found that a
change had been made. The chapel had been found too small. The
court had now removed to a noble chamber situated at the end of
the great hall of the castle. The number of judges was increased to
sixty-two--one ignorant girl against such odds, and none to help
her.

The prisoner was brought in. She was as white as ever, but she was
looking no whit worse than she looked when she had first appeared
the day before. Isn't it a strange thing? Yesterday she had sat five
hours on that backless bench with her chains in her lap, baited,
badgered, persecuted by that unholy crew, without even the
refreshment of a cup of water--for she was never offered anything,
and if I have made you know her by this time you will know
without my telling you that she was not a person likely to ask
favors of those people. And she had spent the night caged in her
wintry dungeon with her chains upon her; yet here she was, as I
say, collected, unworn, and ready for the conflict; yes, and the only
person there who showed no signs of the wear and worry of
yesterday. And her eyes--ah, you should have seen them and
broken your hearts. Have you seen that veiled deep glow, that
pathetic hurt dignity, that unsubdued and unsubduable spirit that
burns and smolders in the eye of a caged eagle and makes you feel
mean and shabby under the burden of its mute reproach? Her eyes
were like that. How capable they were, and how wonderful! Yes,
at all times and in all circumstances they could express as by print
every shade of the wide range of her moods. In them were hidden
floods of gay sunshine, the softest and peacefulest twilights, and
devastating storms and lightnings. Not in this world have there
been others that were comparable to them. Such is my opinion,
and none that had the privilege to see them would say otherwise
than this which I have said concerning them.

The s‚ance began. And how did it begin, should you think?
Exactly as it began before--with that same tedious thing which had
been settled once, after so much wrangling. The Bishop opened
thus:

"You are required now, to take the oath pure and simple, to answer
truly all questions asked you."

Joan replied placidly:

"I have made oath yesterday, my lord; let that suffice."

The Bishop insisted and insisted, with rising temper; Joan but
shook her head and remained silent. At last she said:

"I made oath yesterday; it is sufficient." Then she sighed and said,
"Of a truth, you do burden me too much."

The Bishop still insisted, still commanded, but he could not move
her. At last he gave it up and turned her over for the day's inquest
to an old hand at tricks and traps and deceptive
plausibilities--Beaupere, a doctor of theology. Now notice the form
of this sleek strategist's first remark--flung out in an easy, offhand
way that would have thrown any unwatchful person off his guard:

"Now, Joan, the matter is very simple; just speak up and frankly
and truly answer the questions which I am going to ask you, as you
have sworn to do."

It was a failure. Joan was not asleep. She saw the artifice. She said:

"No. You could ask me things which I could not tell you--and
would not." Then, reflecting upon how profane and out of
character it was for these ministers of God to be prying into
matters which had proceeded from His hands under the awful seal
of His secrecy, she added, with a warning note in her tone, "If you
were well informed concerning me you would wish me out of your
hands. I have done nothing but by revelation."

Beaupere changed his attack, and began an approach from another
quarter. He would slip upon her, you see, under cover of innocent
and unimportant questions.

"Did you learn any trade at home?"

"Yes, to sew and to spin." Then the invincible soldier, victor of
Patay, conquerer of the lion Talbot, deliverer of Orleans, restorer
of a king's crown, commander-in-chief of a nation's armies,
straightened herself proudly up, gave her head a little toss, and said
with na‹ve complacency, "And when it comes to that, I am not
afraid to be matched against any woman in Rouen!"

The crowd of spectators broke out with applause--which pleased
Joan--and there was many a friendly and petting smile to be seen.
But Cauchon stormed at the people and warned them to keep still
and mind their manners.

Beaupere asked other questions. Then:

"Had you other occupations at home?"

"Yes. I helped my mother in the household work and went to the
pastures with the sheep and the cattle."

Her voice trembled a little, but one could hardly notice it. As for
me, it brought those old enchanted days flooding back to me, and I
could not see what I was writing for a little while.

Beaupere cautiously edged along up with other questions toward
the forbidden ground, and finally repeated a question which she
had refused to answer a little while back--as to whether she had
received the Eucharist in those days at other festivals than that of
Easter. Joan merely said:

"Passez outre." Or, as one might say, "Pass on to matters which
you are privileged to pry into."

I heard a member of the court say to a neighbor:

"As a rule, witnesses are but dull creatures, and an easy prey--yes,
and easily embarrassed, easily frightened--but truly one can neither
scare this child nor find her dozing."

Presently the house pricked up its ears and began to listen eagerly,
for Beaupere began to touch upon Joan's Voices, a matter of
consuming interest and curiosity to everybody. His purpose was to
trick her into heedless sayings that could indicate that the Voices
had sometimes given her evil advice--hence that they had come
from Satan, you see. To have dealing with the devil--well, that
would send her to the stake in brief order, and that was the
deliberate end and aim of this trial.

"When did you first hear these Voices?"

"I was thirteen when I first heard a Voice coming from God to help
me to live well. I was frightened. It came at midday, in my father's
garden in the summer."

"Had you been fasting?"

"Yes."

"The day before?"

"No."

"From what direction did it come?"

"From the right--from toward the church."

"Did it come with a bright light?"

"Oh, indeed yes. It was brilliant. When I came into France I often
heard the Voices very loud."

"What did the Voice sound like?"

"It was a noble Voice, and I thought it was sent to me from God.
The third time I heard it I recognized it as being an angel's."

"You could understand it?"

"Quite easily. It was always clear."

"What advice did it give you as to the salvation of your soul?"

"It told me to live rightly, and be regular in attendance upon the
services of the Church. And it told me that I must go to France."

"In what species of form did the Voice appear?"

Joan looked suspiciously at he priest a moment, then said,
tranquilly:

"As to that, I will not tell you."

"Did the Voice seek you often?"

"Yes. Twice or three times a week, saying, 'Leave your village and
go to France.'"

"Did you father know about your departure?"

"No. The Voice said, 'Go to France'; therefore I could not abide at
home any longer."

"What else did it say?"

"That I should raise the siege of Orleans."

"Was that all?"

"No, I was to go to Vaucouleurs, and Robert de Baudricourt would
give me soldiers to go with me to France; and I answered, saying
that I was a poor girl who did not know how to ride, neither how to
fight."

Then she told how she was balked and interrupted at Vaucouleurs,
but finally got her soldiers, and began her march.

"How were you dressed?"

The court of Poitiers had distinctly decided and decreed that as
God had appointed her to do a man's work, it was meet and no
scandal to religion that she should dress as a man; but no matter,
this court was ready to use any and all weapons against Joan, even
broken and discredited ones, and much was going to be made of
this one before this trial should end.

"I wore a man's dress, also a sword which Robert de Baudricourt
gave me, but no other weapon."

"Who was it that advised you to wear the dress of a man?"

Joan was suspicious again. She would not answer.

The question was repeated.

She refused again.

"Answer. It is a command!"

"Passez outre," was all she said.

So Beaupere gave up the matter for the present.

"What did Baudricourt say to you when you left?"

"He made them that were to go with me promise to take charge of
me, and to me he said, 'Go, and let happen what may!'" (Advienne
que pourra!) After a good deal of questioning upon other matters
she was asked again about her attire. She said it was necessary for
her to dress as a man.

"Did your Voice advise it?"

Joan merely answered placidly:

"I believe my Voice gave me good advice."

It was all that could be got out of her, so the questions wandered to
other matters, and finally to her first meeting with the King at
Chinon. She said she chose out the King, who was unknown to her,
by the revelation of her Voices. All that happened at that time was
gone over. Finally:

"Do you still hear those Voices?"

"They come to me every day."

"What do you ask of them?"

"I have never asked of them any recompense but the salvation of
my soul."

"Did the Voice always urge you to follow the army?"

He is creeping upon her again. She answered:

"It required me to remain behind at St. Denis. I would have obeyed
if I had been free, but I was helpless by my wound, and the knights
carried me away by force."

"When were you wounded?"

"I was wounded in the moat before Paris, in the assault."

The next question reveals what Beaupere had been leading up to:

"Was it a feast-day?"

You see? The suggestion that a voice coming from God would
hardly advise or permit the violation, by war and bloodshed, of a
sacred day.

Joan was troubled a moment, then she answered yes, it was a
feast-day.

"Now, then, tell the this: did you hold it right to make the attack on
such a day?"

This was a shot which might make the first breach in a wall which
had suffered no damage thus far. There was immediate silence in
the court and intense expectancy noticeable all about. But Joan
disappointed the house. She merely made a slight little motion
with her hand, as when one brushes away a fly, and said with
reposeful indifference:

"Passez outre."

Smiles danced for a moment in some of the sternest faces there,
and several men even laughed outright. The trap had been long and
laboriously prepared; it fell, and was empty.

The court rose. It had sat for hours, and was cruelly fatigued. Most
of the time had been taken up with apparently idle and purposeless
inquiries about the Chinon events, the exiled Duke of Orleans,
Joan's first proclamation, and so on, but all this seemingly random
stuff had really been sown thick with hidden traps. But Joan had
fortunately escaped them all, some by the protecting luck which
attends upon ignorance and innocence, some by happy accident,
the others by force of her best and surest helper, the clear vision
and lightning intuitions of her extraordinary mind.

Now, then, this daily baiting and badgering of this friendless girl, a
captive in chains, was to continue a long, long time--dignified
sport, a kennel of mastiffs and bloodhounds harassing a
kitten!--and I may as well tell you, upon sworn testimony, what it
was like from the first day to the last. When poor Joan had been in
her grave a quarter of a century, the Pope called together that great
court which was to re-examine her history, and whose just verdict
cleared her illustrious name from every spot and stain, and laid
upon the verdict and conduct of our Rouen tribunal the blight of its
everlasting execrations. Manchon and several of the judges who
had been members of our court were among the witnesses who
appeared before that Tribunal of Rehabilitation. Recalling these
miserable proceedings which I have been telling you about,
Manchon testified thus:--here you have it, all in fair print in the
unofficial history:

When Joan spoke of her apparitions she was interrupted at almost
every word. They wearied her with long and multiplied
interrogatories upon all sorts of things. Almost every day the
interrogatories of the morning lasted three or four hours; then from
these morning interrogatories they extracted the particularly
difficult and subtle points, and these served as material for the
afternoon interrogatories, which lasted two or three hours.
Moment by moment they skipped from one subject to another; yet
in spite of this she always responded with an astonishing wisdom
and memory. She often corrected the judges, saying, "But I have
already answered that once before--ask the recorder," referring
them to me.

And here is the testimony of one of Joan's judges. Remember,
these witnesses are not talking about two or three days, they are
talking about a tedious long procession of days:

They asked her profound questions, but she extricated herself quite
well. Sometimes the questioners changed suddenly and passed on
to another subject to see if she would not contradict herself. They
burdened her with long interrogatories of two or three hours, from
which the judges themselves went forth fatigued. From the snares
with which she was beset the expertest man in the world could not
have extricated himself but with difficulty. She gave her responses
with great prudence; indeed to such a degree that during three
weeks I believed she was inspired.

Ah, had she a mind such as I have described? You see what these
priests say under oath--picked men, men chosen for their places in
that terrible court on account of their learning, their experience,
their keen and practised intellects, and their strong bias against the
prisoner. They make that poor country-girl out the match, and
more than the match, of the sixty-two trained adepts. Isn't it so?
They from the University of Paris, she from the sheepfold and the
cow-stable!

Ah, yes, she was great, she was wonderful. It took six thousand
years to produce her; her like will not be seen in the earth again in
fifty thousand. Such is my opinion.

Chapter 7 Craft That Was in Vain

THE THIRD meeting of the court was in that same spacious
chamber, next day, 24th of February.

How did it begin? In just the same old way. When the preparations
were ended, the robed sixty-two massed in their chairs and the
guards and order-keepers distributed to their stations, Cauchon
spoke from his throne and commanded Joan to lay her hands upon
the Gospels and swear to tell the truth concerning everything asked
her!

Joan's eyes kindled, and she rose; rose and stood, fine and noble,
and faced toward the Bishop and said:

"Take care what you do, my lord, you who are my judge, for you
take a terrible responsibility on yourself and you presume too far."

It made a great stir, and Cauchon burst out upon her with an awful
threat--the threat of instant condemnation unless she obeyed. That
made the very bones of my body turn cold, and I saw cheeks about
me blanch--for it meant fire and the stake! But Joan, still standing,
answered him back, proud and undismayed:

"Not all the clergy in Paris and Rouen could condemn me, lacking
the right!"

This made a great tumult, and part of it was applause from the
spectators. Joan resumed her seat.

The Bishop still insisted. Joan said:

"I have already made oath. It is enough."

The Bishop shouted:

"In refusing to swear, you place yourself under suspicion!"

"Let be. I have sword already. It is enough."

The Bishop continued to insist. Joan answered that "she would tell
what she knew--but not all that she knew."

The Bishop plagued her straight along, till at last she said, in a
weary tone:

"I came from God; I have nothing more to do here. Return me to
God, from whom I came."

It was piteous to hear; it was the same as saying, "You only want
my life; take it and let me be at peace."

The Bishop stormed out again:

"Once more I command you to--"

Joan cut in with a nonchalant "Passez outre," and Cauchon retired
from the struggle; but he retired with some credit this time, for he
offered a compromise, and Joan, always clear-headed, saw
protection for herself in it and promptly and willingly accepted it.
She was to swear to tell the truth "as touching the matters et down
in the procŠs verbal." They could not sail her outside of definite
limits, now; her course was over a charted sea, henceforth. The
Bishop had granted more than he had intended, and more than he
would honestly try to abide by.

By command, Beaupere resumed his examination of the accused.
It being Lent, there might be a chance to catch her neglecting some
detail of her religious duties. I could have told him he would fail
there. Why, religion was her life!

"Since when have you eaten or drunk?"

If the least thing had passed her lips in the nature of sustenance,
neither her youth nor the fact that she was being half starved in her
prison could save her from dangerous suspicion of contempt for
the commandments of the Church.

"I have done neither since yesterday at noon."

The priest shifted to the Voices again.

"When have you heard your Voice?"

"Yesterday and to-day."

"At what time?"

"Yesterday it was in the morning."

"What were you doing then?"

"I was asleep and it woke me."

"By touching your arm?"

"No, without touching me."

"Did you thank it? Did you kneel?"

He had Satan in his mind, you see; and was hoping, perhaps, that
by and by it could be shown that she had rendered homage to the
arch enemy of God and man.

"Yes, I thanked it; and knelt in my bed where I was chained, and
joined my hands and begged it to implore God's help for me so that
I might have light and instruction as touching the answers I should
give here."

"Then what did the Voice say?"

"It told me to answer boldly, and God would help me." Then she
turned toward Cauchon and said, "You say that you are my judge;
now I tell you again, take care what you do, for in truth I am sent
of God and you are putting yourself in great danger."

Beaupere asked her if the Voice's counsels were not fickle and
variable.

"No. It never contradicts itself. This very day it has told me again
to answer boldly."

"Has it forbidden you to answer only part of what is asked you?"

"I will tell you nothing as to that. I have revelations touching the
King my master, and those I will not tell you." Then she was
stirred by a great emotion, and the tears sprang to her eyes and she
spoke out as with strong conviction, saying:

"I believe wholly--as wholly as I believe the Christian faith and
that God has redeemed us from the fires of hell, that God speaks to
me by that Voice!"

Being questioned further concerning the Voice, she said she was
not at liberty to tell all she knew.

"Do you think God would be displeased at your telling the whole
truth?"

"The Voice has commanded me to tell the King certain things, and
not you--and some very lately--even last night; things which I
would he knew. He would be more easy at his dinner."

"Why doesn't the Voice speak to the King itself, as it did when you
were with him? Would it not if you asked it?"

"I do not know if it be the wish of God." She was pensive a
moment or two, busy with her thoughts and far away, no doubt;
then she added a remark in which Beaupere, always watchful,
always alert, detected a possible opening--a chance to set a trap.
Do you think he jumped at it instantly, betraying the joy he had in
his mind, as a young hand at craft and artifice would do?

No, oh, no, you could not tell that he had noticed the remark at all.
He slid indifferently away from it at once, and began to ask idle
questions about other things, so as to slip around and spring on it
from behind, so to speak: tedious and empty questions as to
whether the Voice had told her she would escape from this prison;
and if it had furnished answers to be used by her in to-day's s‚ance;
if it was accompanied with a glory of light; if it had eyes, etc. That
risky remark of Joan's was this:

"Without the Grace of God I could do nothing."

The court saw the priest's game, and watched his play with a cruel
eagerness. Poor Joan was grown dreamy and absent; possibly she
was tired. Her life was in imminent danger, and she did not suspect
it. The time was ripe now, and Beaupere quietly and stealthily
sprang his trap:

"Are you in a state of Grace?"

Ah, we had two or three honorable brave men in that pack of
judges; and Jean Lefevre was one of them. He sprang to his feet
and cried out:

"It is a terrible question! The accused is not obliged to answer it!"

Cauchon's face flushed black with anger to see this plank flung to
the perishing child, and he shouted:

"Silence! and take your seat. The accused will answer the
question!"

There was no hope, no way out of the dilemma; for whether she
said yes or whether she said no, it would be all the same--a
disastrous answer, for the Scriptures had said one cannot know this
thing. Think what hard hearts they were to set this fatal snare for
that ignorant young girl and be proud of such work and happy in it.
It was a miserable moment for me while we waited; it seemed a
year. All the house showed excitement; and mainly it was glad
excitement. Joan looked out upon these hungering faces with
innocent, untroubled eyes, and then humbly and gently she brought
out that immortal answer which brushed the formidable snare
away as it had been but a cobweb:

"If I be not in a state of Grace, I pray God place me in it; if I be in
it, I pray God keep me so."

Ah, you will never see an effect like that; no, not while you live.
For a space there was the silence of the grave. Men looked
wondering into each other's faces, and some were awed and
crossed themselves; and I heard Lefevre mutter:

"It was beyond the wisdom of man to devise that answer. Whence
comes this child's amazing inspirations?"

Beaupere presently took up his work again, but the humiliation of
his defeat weighed upon him, and he made but a rambling and
dreary business of it, he not being able to put any heart in it.

He asked Joan a thousand questions about her childhood and about
the oak wood, and the fairies, and the children's games and romps
under our dear Arbre f‚e de Bourlemont, and this stirring up of old
memories broke her voice and made her cry a little, but she bore
up as well as she could, and answered everything.

Then the priest finished by touching again upon the matter of her
apparel--a matter which was never to be lost sight of in this
still-hunt for this innocent creature's life, but kept always hanging
over her, a menace charged with mournful possibilities:

"Would you like a woman's dress?"

"Indeed yes, if I may go out from this prison--but here, no."

Chapter 8 Joan Tells of Her Visions

THE COURT met next on Monday the 27th. Would you believe it?
The Bishop ignored the contract limiting the examination to
matters set down in the procŠs verbal and again commanded Joan
to take the oath without reservations. She said:

"You should be content I have sworn enough."

She stood her ground, and Cauchon had to yield.

The examination was resumed, concerning Joan's Voices.

"You have said that you recognized them as being the voices of
angels the third time that you heard them. What angels were they?"

"St. Catherine and St. Marguerite."

"How did you know that it was those two saints? How could you
tell the one from the other?"

"I know it was they; and I know how to distinguish them."

"By what sign?"

"By their manner of saluting me. I have been these seven years
under their direction, and I knew who they were because they told
me."

"Whose was the first Voice that came to you when you were
thirteen years old?"

"It was the Voice of St. Michael. I saw him before my eyes; and he
was not alone, but attended by a cloud of angels."

"Did you see the archangel and the attendant angels in the body, or
in the spirit?"

"I saw them with the eyes of my body, just as I see you; and when
they went away I cried because they did not take me with them."

It made me see that awful shadow again that fell dazzling white
upon her that day under l'Arbre F&eeacute;e de Bourlemont, and it
made me shiver again, though it was so long ago. It was really not
very long gone by, but it seemed so, because so much had
happened since.

"In what shape and form did St. Michael appear?"

"As to that, I have not received permission to speak."

"What did the archangel say to you that first time?"

"I cannot answer you to-day."

Meaning, I think, that she would have to get permission of her
Voices first.

Presently, after some more questions as to the revelations which
had been conveyed through her to the King, she complained of the
unnecessity of all this, and said:

"I will say again, as I have said before many times in these sittings,
that I answered all questions of this sort before the court at
Poitiers, and I would hat you wold bring here the record of that
court and read from that. Prithee, send for that book."

There was no answer. It was a subject that had to be got around
and put aside. That book had wisely been gotten out of the way, for
it contained things which would be very awkward here.

Among them was a decision that Joan's mission was from God,
whereas it was the intention of this inferior court to show that it
was from the devil; also a decision permitting Joan to wear male
attire, whereas it was the purpose of this court to make the male
attire do hurtful work against her.

"How was it that you were moved to come into France--by your
own desire?"

"Yes, and by command of God. But that it was His will I would
note have come. I would sooner have had my body torn in sunder
by horses than come, lacking that."

Beaupere shifted once more to the matter of the male attire, now,
and proceeded to make a solemn talk about it. That tried Joan's
patience; and presently she interrupted and said:

"It is a trifling thing and of no consequence. And I did not put it on
by counsel of any man, but by command of God."

"Robert de Baudricourt did not order you to wear it?"

"No."

"Did you think you did well in taking the dress of a man?"

"I did well to do whatsoever thing God commanded me to do."

"But in this particular case do you think you did well in taking the
dress of a man?"

"I have done nothing but by command of God."

Beaupere made various attempts to lead her into contradictions of
herself; also to put her words and acts in disaccord with the
Scriptures. But it was lost time. He did not succeed. He returned to
her visions, the light which shone about them, her relations with
the King, and so on.

"Was there an angel above the King's head the first time you saw
him?"

"By the Blessed Mary!--"

She forced her impatience down, and finished her sentence with
tranquillity: "If there was one I did not see it."

"Was there light?"

"There were more than three thousand soldiers there, and five
hundred torches, without taking account of spiritual light."

"What made the King believe in the revelations which you brought
him?"

"He had signs; also the counsel of the clergy."

"What revelations were made to the King?"

"You will not get that out of me this year."

Presently she added: "During three weeks I was questioned by the
clergy at Chinon and Poitiers.

The King had a sign before he would believe; and the clergy were
of opinion that my acts were good and not evil."

The subject was dropped now for a while, and Beaupere took up
the matter of the miraculous sword of Fierbois to see if he could
not find a chance there to fix the crime of sorcery upon Joan.

"How did you know that there was an ancient sword buried in the
ground under the rear of the altar of the church of St. Catherine of
Fierbois?"

Joan had no concealments to make as to this:

"I knew the sword was there because my Voices told me so; and I
sent to ask that it be given to me to carry in the wars. It seemed to
me that it was not very deep in the ground. The clergy of the
church caused it to be sought for and dug up; and they polished it,
and the rust fell easily off from it."

"Were you wearing it when you were taken in battle at
CompiŠgne?"

"No. But I wore it constantly until I left St. Denis after the attack
upon Paris."

This sword, so mysteriously discovered and so long and so
constantly victorious, was suspected of being under the protection
of enchantment.

"Was that sword blest? What blessing had been invoked upon it?"

"None. I loved it because it was found in the church of St.
Catherine, for I loved that church very dearly."

She loved it because it had been built in honor of one of her
angels.

"Didn't you lay it upon the altar, to the end that it might be lucky?"
(The altar of St. Denis.) "No."

"Didn't you pray that it might be made lucky?"

"Truly it were no harm to wish that my harness might be
fortunate."

"Then it was not that sword which you wore in the field of
CompiŠgne? What sword did you wear there?"

"The sword of the Burgundian Franquet d'Arras, whom I took
prisoner in the engagement at Lagny. I kept it because it was a
good war-sword--good to lay on stout thumps and blows with."

She said that quite simply; and the contrast between her delicate
little self and the grim soldier words which she dropped with such
easy familiarity from her lips made many spectators smile.

"What is become of the other sword? Where is it now?"

"Is that in the procŠs verbal?"

Beaupere did not answer.

"Which do you love best, your banner or your sword?"

Her eye lighted gladly at the mention of her banner, and she cried
out:

"I love my banner best--oh, forty times more than the sword!
Sometimes I carried it myself when I charged the enemy, to avoid
killing any one." Then she added, na‹vely, and with again that
curious contrast between her girlish little personality and her
subject, "I have never killed anyone."

It made a great many smile; and no wonder, when you consider
what a gentle and innocent little thing she looked. One could
hardly believe she had ever even seen men slaughtered, she look so
little fitted for such things.

"In the final assault at Orleans did you tell your soldiers that the
arrows shot by the enemy and the stones discharged from their
catapults would not strike any one but you?"

"No. And the proof its, that more than a hundred of my men were
struck. I told them to have no doubts and no fears; that they would
raise the siege. I was wounded in the neck by an arrow in the
assault upon the bastille that commanded the bridge, but St.
Catherine comforted me and I was cured in fifteen days without
having to quit the saddle and leave my work."

"Did you know that you were going to be wounded?"

"Yes; and I had told it to the King beforehand. I had it from my
Voices."

"When you took Jargeau, why did you not put its commandant to
ransom?"

"I offered him leave to go out unhurt from the place, with all his
garrison; and if he would not I would take it by storm."

"And you did, I believe."

"Yes."

"Had your Voices counseled you to take it by storm?"

"As to that, I do not remember."

Thus closed a weary long sitting, without result. Every device that
could be contrived to trap Joan into wrong thinking, wrong doing,
or disloyalty to the Church, or sinfulness as a little child at home
or later, had been tried, and none of them had succeeded. She had
come unscathed through the ordeal.

Was the court discouraged? No. Naturally it was very much
surprised, very much astonished, to find its work baffling and
difficult instead of simple and easy, but it had powerful allies in
the shape of hunger, cold, fatigue, persecution, deception, and
treachery; and opposed to this array nothing but a defenseless and
ignorant girl who must some time or other surrender to bodily and
mental exhaustion or get caught in one of the thousand traps set
for her.

And had the court made no progress during these seemingly
resultless sittings? Yes. It had been feeling its way, groping here,
groping there, and had found one or two vague trails which might
freshen by and by and lead to something. The male attire, for
instance, and the visions and Voices. Of course no one doubted
that she had seen supernatural beings and been spoken to and
advised by them. And of course no one doubted that by
supernatural help miracles had been done by Joan, such as
choosing out the King in a crowd when she had never seen him
before, and her discovery of the sword buried under the altar. It
would have been foolish to doubt these things, for we all know that
the air is full of devils and angels that are visible to traffickers in
magic on the one hand and to the stainlessly holy on the other; but
what many and perhaps most did doubt was, that Joan's visions,
Voices, and miracles came from God. It was hoped that in time
they could be proven to have been of satanic origin. Therefore, as
you see, the court's persistent fashion of coming back to that
subject every little while and spooking around it and prying into it
was not to pass the time--it had a strictly business end in view.

Chapter 9 Her Sure Deliverance Foretold

THE NEXT sitting opened on Thursday the first of March.
Fifty-eight judges present--the others resting.

As usual, Joan was required to take an oath without reservations.
She showed no temper this time. She considered herself well
buttressed by the procŠs verbal compromise which Cauchon was
so anxious to repudiate and creep out of; so she merely refused,
distinctly and decidedly; and added, in a spirit of fairness and
candor:

"But as to matters set down in the procŠs verbal, I will freely tell
the whole truth--yes, as freely and fully as if I were before the
Pope."

Here was a chance! We had two or three Popes, then; only one of
them could be the true Pope, of course. Everybody judiciously
shirked the question of which was the true Pope and refrained
from naming him, it being clearly dangerous to go into particulars
in this matter. Here was an opportunity to trick an unadvised girl
into bringing herself into peril, and the unfair judge lost no time in
taking advantage of it. He asked, in a plausibly indolent and absent
way:

"Which one do you consider to be the true Pope?"

The house took an attitude of deep attention, and so waited to hear
the answer and see the prey walk into the trap. But when the
answer came it covered the judge with confusion, and you could
see many people covertly chuckling. For Joan asked in a voice and
manner which almost deceived even me, so innocent it seemed:

"Are there two?"

One of the ablest priests in that body and one of the best swearers
there, spoke right out so that half the house heard him, and said:

"By God, it was a master stroke!"

As soon as the judge was better of his embarrassment he came
back to the charge, but was prudent and passed by Joan's question:

"Is it true that you received a letter from the Count of Armagnac
asking you which of the three Popes he ought to obey?"

"Yes, and answered it."

Copies of both letters were produced and read. Joan said that hers
had not been quite strictly copied. She said she had received the
Count's letter when she was just mounting her horse; and added:

"So, in dictating a word or two of reply I said I would try to answer
him from Paris or somewhere where I could be at rest."

She was asked again which Pope she had considered the right one.

"I was not able to instruct the Count of Armagnac as to which one
he ought to obey"; then she added, with a frank fearlessness which
sounded fresh and wholesome in that den of trimmers and
shufflers, "but as for me, I hold that we are bound to obey our Lord
the Pope who is at Rome."

The matter was dropped. They they produced and read a copy of
Joan's first effort at dictating--her proclamation summoning the
English to retire from the siege of Orleans and vacate France--truly
a great and fine production for an unpractised girl of seventeen.

"Do you acknowledge as your own the document which has just
been read?"

"Yes, except that there are errors in it--words which make me give
myself too much importance." I saw what was coming; I was
troubled and ashamed. "For instance, I did not say 'Deliver up to
the Maid' (rendez … la Pucelle</>); I said 'Deliver up to the King'
(rendez au Roi); and I did not call myself 'Commander-in-Chief'
(chef de guerre). All those are words which my secretary
substituted; or mayhap he misheard me or forgot what I said."

She did not look at me when she said it: she spared me that
embarrassment. I hadn't misheard her at all, and hadn't forgotten. I
changed her language purposely, for she was Commander-in-Chief
and entitled to call herself so, and it was becoming and proper,
too; and who was going to surrender anything to the King?--at that
time a stick, a cipher? If any surrendering was done, it would be to
the noble Maid of Vaucouleurs, already famed and formidable
though she had not yet struck a blow.

Ah, there would have been a fine and disagreeable episode (for
me) there, if that pitiless court had discovered that the very
scribbler of that piece of dictation, secretary to Joan of Arc, was
present--and not only present, but helping build the record; and not
only that, but destined at a far distant day to testify against lies and
perversions smuggled into it by Cauchon and deliver them over to
eternal infamy!

"Do you acknowledge that you dictated this proclamation?"

"I do."

"Have you repented of it? Do you retract it?"

Ah, then she was indignant!

"No! Not even these chains"--and she shook them--"not even these
chains can chill the hopes that I uttered there. And more!"--she
rose, and stood a moment with a divine strange light kindling in
her face, then her words burst forth as in a flood--"I warn you now
that before seven years a disaster will smite the English, oh, many
fold greater than the fall of Orleans! and--"

"Silence! Sit down!"

"--and then, soon after, they will lose all France!"

Now consider these things. The French armies no longer existed.
The French cause was standing still, our King was standing still,
there was no hint that by and by the Constable Richemont would
come forward and take up the great work of Joan of Arc and finish
it. In face of all this, Joan made that prophecy--made it with
perfect confidence--and it came true.  For within five years Paris
fell--1436--and our King marched into it flying the victor's flag. So
the first part of the prophecy was then fulfilled--in fact, almost the
entire prophecy; for, with Paris in our hands, the fulfilment of the
rest of it was assured.

Twenty years later all France was ours excepting a single
town--Calais.

Now that will remind you of an earlier prophecy of Joan's. At the
time that she wanted to take Paris and could have done it with ease
if our King had but consented, she said that that was the golden
time; that, with Paris ours, all France would be ours in six months.
But if this golden opportunity to recover France was wasted, said
she, "I give you twenty years to do it in."

She was right. After Paris fell, in 1436, the rest of the work had to
be done city by city, castle by castle, and it took twenty years to
finish it.

Yes, it was the first day of March, 1431, there in the court, that she
stood in the view of everybody and uttered that strange and
incredible prediction. Now and then, in this world, somebody's
prophecy turns up correct, but when you come to look into it there
is sure to be considerable room for suspicion that the prophecy was
made after the fact. But here the matter is different. There in that
court Joan's prophecy was set down in the official record at the
hour and moment of its utterance, years before the fulfilment, and
there you may read it to this day.

Twenty-five years after Joan's death the record was produced in
the great Court of the Rehabilitation and verified under oath by
Manchon and me, and surviving judges of our court confirmed the
exactness of the record in their testimony.

Joan' startling utterance on that now so celebrated first of March
stirred up a great turmoil, and it was some time before it quieted
down again. Naturally, everybody was troubled, for a prophecy is a
grisly and awful thing, whether one thinks it ascends from hell or
comes down from heaven.

All that these people felt sure of was, that the inspiration back of it
was genuine and puissant.

They would have given their right hands to know the source of it.

At last the questions began again.

"How do you know that those things are going to happen?"

"I know it by revelation. And I know it as surely as I know that you
sit here before me."

This sort of answer was not going to allay the spreading
uneasiness. Therefore, after some further dallying the judge got the
subject out of the way and took up one which he could enjoy more.

"What languages do your Voices speak?"

"French."

"St. Marguerite, too?"

"Verily; why not? She is on our side, not on the English!"

Saints and angels who did not condescend to speak English is a
grave affront. They could not be brought into court and punished
for contempt, but the tribunal could take silent note of Joan's
remark and remember it against her; which they did. It might be
useful by and by.

"Do your saints and angels wear jewelry?--crowns, rings,
earrings?"

To Joan, questions like these were profane frivolities and not
worthy of serious notice; she answered indifferently. But the
question brought to her mind another matter, and she turned upon
Cauchon and said:

"I had two rings. They have been taken away from me during my
captivity. You have one of them. It is the gift of my brother. Give
it back to me. If not to me, then I pray that it be given to the
Church."

The judges conceived the idea that maybe these rings were for the
working of enchantments.

Perhaps they could be made to do Joan a damage.

"Where is the other ring?"

"The Burgundians have it."

"Where did you get it?"

"My father and mother gave it to me."

"Describe it."

"It is plain and simple and has 'Jesus and Mary' engraved upon it."

Everybody could see that that was not a valuable equipment to do
devil's rok with. So that trail was not worth following. Still, to
make sure, one of the judges asked Joan if she had ever cured sick
people by touching them with the ring. She said no.

"Now as concerning the fairies, that were used to abide near by
Domremy whereof there are many reports and traditions. It is said
that your godmother surprised these creatures on a summer's night
dancing under the tree called l"Arbre F‚e de Bourlemont. Is it not
possible that your pretended saints and angles are but those
fairies?"

"Is that in your procŠs?"

She made no other answer.

"Have you not conversed with St. Marguerite and St. Catherine
under that tree?"

"I do not know."

"Or by the fountain near the tree?"

"Yes, sometimes."

"What promises did they make you?"

"None but such as they had God's warrant for."

"But what promises did they make?"

"That is not in your procŠs; yet I will say this much: they told me
that the King would become master of his kingdom in spite of his
enemies."

"And what else?"

There was a pause; then she said humbly:

"They promised to lead me to Paradise."

If faces do really betray what is passing in men's minds, a fear
came upon many in that house, at this time, that maybe, after all, a
chosen servant and herald of God was here being hunted to her
death. The interest deepened. Movements and whisperings ceased:
the stillness became almost painful.

Have you noticed that almost from the beginning the nature of the
questions asked Joan showed that in some way or other the
questioner very often already knew his fact before he asked his
question? Have you noticed that somehow or other the questioners
usually knew just how and were to search for Joan's secrets; that
they really knew the bulk of her privacies--a fact not suspected by
her--and that they had no task before them but to trick her into
exposing those secrets?

Do you rememberLoyseleur, the hypocrite, the treacherous priest,
tool of Cauchon? Do you remember that under the sacred seal of
the confessional joan freely and trustingly revealed ot him
everything concerning her history save only a few things regarding
her supernatural revelations which her Voices had forbidden her to
tell to any one--and that the unjust judge, Cauchon, was a hidden
listener all the time?

Now you understand how the inquisitors were able to devise that
long array of minutely prying questions; questions whose subtlety
and ingenuity and penetration are astonishing until we come to
remember Loyseleur's performance and recognize their source. Ah,
Bishop of Beauvais, you are now lamenting this cruel iniquity
these many years in hell! Yes verily, unless one has come to your
help. There is but one among the redeemed that would do it; and it
is futile to hope that that one has not already done it--Joan of Arc.

We will return to the questionings.

"Did they make you still another promise?"

"Yes, but that is not in your procŠs. I will not tell it now, but
before three months I will tell it you."

The judge seems to know the matter he is asking about, already;
one gets this idea from his next question.

"Did your Voices tell you that you would be liberated before three
months?"

Joan often showed a little flash of surprise at the good guessing of
the judges, and she showed one this time. I was frequently in terror
to find my mind (which Icould not control) criticizing the Voices
and saying, "They counsel her to speak boldly--a thing which she
would do without any suggestion from them or anybody else--but
when it comes to telling her any useful thing, such as how these
conspirators manage to guess their way so skilfully into her affairs,
they are always off attending to some other business."

I am reverent by nature; and when such thoughts swept through my
head they made me cold with fear, and if there was a storm and
thunder at the time, I was so ill that I could but with difficulty
abide at my post and do my work.

Joan answered:

"That is not in your procŠs. I do not know when I shall be set free,
but some who wish me out of this world will go from it before
me."

It made some of them shiver.

"Have your Voices told you that you will be delivered from this
prison?"

Without a doubt they had, and the judge knew it before he asked
the question.

"Ask me again in three months and I will tell you." She said it with
such a happy look, the tired prisoner! And I? And No‰l
Rainguesson, drooping yonder?--why, the floods of joy went
streaming through us from crown to sole! It was all that we could
do to hold still and keep from making fatal exposure of our
feelings.

She was to be set free in three months. That was what she meant;
we saw it. The Voices had told her so, and told her true--true to the
very day--May 30th. But we know now that they had mercifully
hidden from her how she was to be set free, but left her in
ignorance. Home again!

That day was our understanding of it--No‰l's and mine; that was
our dream; and now we would count the days, the hours, the
minutes. They would fly lightly along; they would soon be over.

Yes, we would carry our idol home; and there, far from the pomps
and tumults of the world, we would take up our happy life again
and live it out as we had begun it, in the free air and the sunshine,
with the friendly sheep and the friendly people for comrades, and
the grace and charm of the meadows, the woods, and the river
always before our eyes and their deep peace in our hearts. Yes,
that was our dream, the dream that carried us bravely through that
three months to an exact and awful fulfilment, the though of which
would have killed us, I think, if we had foreknown it and been
obliged to bear the burden of it upon our hearts the half of those
weary days.

Our reading of the prophecy was this: We believed the King's soul
was going to be smitten with remorse; and that he would privately
plan a rescue with Joan's old lieutenants, D'Alen‡on and the
Bastard and La Hire, and that this rescue woud take place at the
end of the three months. So we made up our minds to be ready and
take a hand in it.

In the present and also in later sittings Joan was urged to name the
exact day of her deliverance; but she could not do that. She had not
the permission of her Voices. Moreover, the Voices themselves
did not name the precise day. Ever since the fulfilment of the
prophecy, I have believed that Joan had the idea that her
deliverance was going to dome in the form of death. But not that
death! Divine as she was, dauntless as she was in battle, she was
human also. She was not solely a saint, an angel, she was a
clay-made girl also--as human a girl as any in the world, and full of
a human girl's sensitiveness and tenderness and elicacies. And so,
that death! No, she could not have lived the three months with that
one before her, I think. You remember that the first time she was
wounded she was frightened, and cried, just as any other girl of
seventeen would have done, although she had known for eighteen
days that she was going to be wounded on that very day. No, she
was not afraid of any ordinary death, and an ordinary death was
what she believed the prophecy of deliverance meant, I think, for
her face showed happiness, not horror, when she uttered it.

Now I will explain why I think as I do. Five weeks before she was
captured in the battle of CompiŠgne, her Voices told her what was
coming. They did not tell her the day or the place, but said she
would be taken prisoner and that it would be before the feast of St.
John. She begged that death, certain and swift, should be her fate,
and the captivity brief; for she was a free spirit, and dreaded the
confinement. The Voices made no promise, but only told her to
bear whatever came. Now as they did not refuse the swift death, a
hopeful young thing like Joan would naturally cherish that fact and
make the most of it, allowing it to grow and establish itself in her
mind. And so now that she was told she was to be "delivered" in
three onths, I think she believed it meant that she would die in her
bed in the prison, and that that was why she looked happy and
content--the gates of Paradise standing open for her, the time so
short, you see, her troubles so soon to be over, her reward so close
at hand. Yes, that would make her look happy, that would make
her patient and bold, and able to fight her fight out like a soldier.
Save herself if she could, of course, and try for the best, for that
was the way she was made; but die with her face to the front if die
she must.

Then later, when she charged Cauchon with trying to kill her with
a poisoned fish, her notion that she was to be "delivered" by death
in the prison--if she had it, and I believe she had--would naturally
be greatly strengthened, you see.

But I am wandering from the trial. Joan was asked to definitelyk
name the time that she would be delivered from prison.

"I have always said that I was not permitted to tell you everything.
I am to be set free, and I desire to ask leave of my Voices to tell
you the day. That is why I wish for delay."

"Do your Voices forbid you to tell the truth?"

"Is it that you wish to know matters concerning the King of
France? I tell you again that he will regain his kingdom, and that I
know it as well as I know that you sit here before me in this
tribunal." She sighed and, after a little pause, added: "I should be
dead but for this revelation, which comforts me always."

Some trivial questions were asked her about St. Michael's dress
and appearance. She answered them with dignity, but one saw that
they gave her pain. After a little she said:

"I have great joy in seeing him, for when I see him I have the
feeling that I am not in mortal sin."

She added, "Sometimes St. Marguerite and St. Catherine have
allowed me to confess myself to them."

Here was a possible chance to set a successful snare for her
innocence.

"When you confessed were you in mortal sin, do you think?"

But her reply did her no hurt. So the inquiry was shifted once more
to the revelations made to the King--secrets which the court had
tried again and again to force out of Joan, but without success.

"Now as to the sign given to the King--"

"I have already told you that I will tell you nothing about it."

"Do you know what the sign was?"

"As to that, you will not find out from me."

All this refers to Joan's secret interview with the King--held apart,
though two or three others were present. It was known--through
Loyseleur, of course--that this sign was a crown and was a pledge
of the verity of Joan's mission. But that is all a mystery until this
day--the nature of the crown, I mean--and will remain a mystery to
the end of time. We can never know whether a real crown
descended upon the King's head, or only a symbol, the mystic
fabric of a vision.

"Did you see a crown upon the King's head when he received the
revelation?"

"I cannot tell you as to that, without perjury."

"Did the King have that crown at Rheims?"

"I think the King put upon his head a crown which he found there;
but a much richer one was brought him afterward."

"Have you seen that one?"

"I cannot tell you, without perjury. But whether I have seen it or
not, I have heard say that it was rich and magnificent."

They went on and pestered her to weariness about that mysterious
crown, but they got nothing more out of her. The sitting closed. A
long, hard day for all of us.

Chapter 10 The Inquisitors at Their Wits' End

THE COURT rested a day, then took up work again on Saturday,
the third of March.

This was one of our stormiest sessions. The whole court was out of
patience; and with good reason. These threescore distinguished
churchmen, illustrious tacticians, veteran legal gladiators, had left
important posts where their supervision was needed, to journey
hither from various regions and accomplish a most simple and
easy matter--condemn and send to death a country-lass of nineteen
who could neither read nor write, knew nothing of the wiles and
perplexities of legal procedure, could not call a single witness in
her defense, was allowed no advocate or adviser, and must conduct
her case by herself against a hostile judge and a packed jury. In
two hours she would be hopelessly entangled, routed, defeated,
convicted. Nothing could be more certain that this--so they
thought. But it was a mistake. The two hours had strung out into
days; what promised to be a skirmish had expanded into a siege;
the thing which had looked so easy had proven to be surprisingly
difficult; the light victim who was to have been puffed away like a
feather remained planted like a rock; and on top of all this, if
anybody had a right to laugh it was the country-lass and not the
court.

She was not doing that, for that was not her spirit; but others were
doing it. The whole town was laughing in its sleeve, and the court
knew it, and its dignity was deeply hurt. The members could not
hide their annoyance.

And so, as I have said, the session was stormy. It was easy to see
that these men had made up their minds to force words from Joan
to-day which should shorten up her case and bring it to a prompt
conclusion. It shows that after all their experience with her they
did not know her yet.

They went into the battle with energy. They did not leave the
questioning to a particular member; no, everybody helped. They
volleyed questions at Joan from all over the house, and sometimes
so many were talking at once that she had to ask them to deliver
their fire one at a time and not by platoons. The beginning was as
usual:

"You are once more required to take the oath pure and simple."

"I will answer to what is in the procŠs verbal. When I do more, I
will choose the occasion for myself."

That old ground was debated and fought over inch by inch with
great bitterness and many threats. But Joan remained steadfast, and
the questionings had to shift to other matters. Half an hour was
spent over Joan's apparitions--their dress, hair, general appearance,
and so on--in the hope of fishing something of a damaging sort out
of the replies; but with no result.

Next, the male attire was reverted to, of course. After many
well-worn questions had been re-asked, one or two new ones were
put forward.

"Did not the King or the Queen sometimes ask you to quit the male
dress?"

"That is not in your procŠs."

"Do you think you would have sinned if you had taken the dress of
your sex?"

"I have done best to serve and obey my sovereign Lord and
Master."

After a while the matter of Joan's Standard was taken up, in the
hope of connecting magic and witchcraft with it.

"Did not your men copy your banner in their pennons?"

"The lancers of my guard did it. It was to distinguish them from
the rest of the forces. It was their own idea."

"Were they often renewed?"

"Yes. When the lances were broken they were renewed."

The purpose of the question unveils itself in the next one.

"Did you not say to your men that pennons made like your banner
would be lucky?"

The soldier-spirit in Joan was offended at this puerility. She drew
herself up, and said with dignity and fire: "What I said to them
was, 'Ride those English down!' and I did it myself."

Whenever she flung out a scornful speech like that at these French
menials in English livery it lashed them into a rage; and that is
what happened this time. There were ten, twenty, sometimes even
thirty of them on their feet at a time, storming at the prisoner
minute after minute, but Joan was not disturbed.

By and by there was peace, and the inquiry was resumed.

It was now sought to turn against Joan the thousand loving honors
which had been done her when she was raising France out of the
dirt and shame of a century of slavery and castigation.

"Did you not cause paintings and images of yourself to be made?"

"No. At Arras I saw a painting of myself kneeling in armor before
the King and delivering him a letter; but I caused no such things to
be made."

"Were not masses and prayers said in your honor?"

"If it was done it was not by my command. But if any prayed for
me I think it was no harm."

"Did the French people believe you were sent of God?"

"As to that, I know not; but whether they believed it or not, I was
not the less sent of God."

"If they thought you were sent of God, do you think it was well
thought?"

"If they believed it, their trust was not abused."

"What impulse was it, think you, that moved the people to kiss
your hands, your feet, and your vestments?"

"They were glad to see me, and so they did those things; and I
could not have prevented them if I had had the heart. Those poor
people came lovingly to me because I had not done them any hurt,
but had done the best I could for them according to my strength."

See what modest little words she uses to describe that touching
specatcle, her marches about France walled in on both sides by the
adoring multitudes: "They were glad to see me." Glad?

Why they were transported with joy to see her. When they could
not kiss her hands or her feet, they knelt in the mire and kissed the
hoof-prints of her horse. They worshiped her; and that is what
these priests were trying to prove. It was nothing to them that she
was not to blame for what other people did. No, if she was
worshiped, it was enough; she was guilty of mortal sin.

Curious logic, one must say.

"Did you not stand sponsor for some children baptized at Rheims?"

"At Troyes I did, and at St. Denis; and I named the boys Charles, in
honor of the King, and the girls I named Joan."

"Did not women touch their rings to those which you wore?"

"Yes, many did, but I did not know their reason for it."

"At Rheims was your Standard carried into the church? Did you
stand at the altar with it in your hand at the Coronation?"

"Yes."

"In passing through the country did you confess yourself in the
Churches and receive the sacrament?"

"Yes."

"In the dress of a man?"

"Yes. But I do not remember that I was in armor."

It was almost a concession! almost a half-surrender of the
permission granted her by the Church at Poitiers to dress as a man.
The wily court shifted to another matter: to pursue this one at this
time might call Joan's attention to her small mistake, and by her
native cleverness she might recover her lost ground. The
tempestuous session had worn her and drowsed her alertness.

"It is reported that you brought a dead child to life in the church at
Lagny. Was that in answer to your prayers?"

"As to that, I have no knowledge. Other young girls were praying
for the child, and I joined them and prayed also, doing no more
than they."

"Continue."

"While we prayed it came to life, and cried. It had been dead three
days, and was as black as my doublet. It was straight way baptized,
then it passed from life again and was buried in holy ground."

"Why did you jump from the tower of Beaurevoir by night and try
to escape?"

"I would go to the succor of CompiŠgne."

It was insinuated that this was an attempt to commit the deep
crime of suicide to avoid falling into the hands of the English.

"Did you not say that you would rather die than be delivered into
the power of the English?"

Joan answered frankly; without perceiving the trap:

"Yes; my words were, that I would rather that my soul be returned
unto God than that I should fall into the hands of the English."

It was now insinuated that when she came to, after jumping from
the tower, she was angry and blasphemed the name of God; and
that she did it again when she heard of the defection of the
Commandant of Soissons. She was hurt and indignant at this, and
said:

"It is not true. I have never cursed. It is not my custom to swear."

Chapter 11 The Court Reorganized for Assassination

A HALT was called. It was time. Cauchon was losing ground in
the fight, Joan was gaining it.

There were signs that here and there in the court a judge was being
softened toward Joan by her courage, her presence of mind, her
fortitude, her constancy, her piety, her simplicity and candor, her
manifest purity, the nobility of her character, her fine intelligence,
and the good brave fight she was making, all friendless and alone,
against unfair odds, and there was grave room for fear that this
softening process would spread further and presently bring
Cauchon's plans in danger.

Something must be done, and it was done. Cauchon was not
distinguished for compassion, but he now gave proof that he had it
in his character. He thought it pity to subject so many judges to the
prostrating fatigues of this trial when it could be conducted plenty
well enough by a handful of them. Oh, gentle judge! But he did not
remember to modify the fatigues for the little captive.

He would let all the judges but a handful go, but he would select
the handful himself, and he did.

He chose tigers. If a lamb or two got in, it was by oversight, not
intention; and he knew what to do with lambs when discovered.

He called a small council now, and during five days they sifted the
huge bulk of answers thus far gathered from Joan. They winnowed
it of all chaff, all useless matter--that is, all matter favorable to
Joan; they saved up all matter which could be twisted to her hurt,
and out of this they constructed a basis for a new trial which
should have the semblance of a continuation of the old one.
Another change. It was plain that the public trial had wrought
damage: its proceedings had been discussed all over the town and
had moved many to pity the abused prisoner. There should be no
more of that. The sittings should be secret hereafter, and no
spectators admitted. So No‰l could come no more. I sent this news
to him. I had not the heart to carry it myself. I would give the pain
a chance to modify before I should see him in the evening.

On the 10th of March the secret trial began. A week had passed
since I had seen Joan. Her appearance gave me a great shock. She
looked tired and weak. She was listless and far away, and her
answers showed that she was dazed and not able to keep perfect
run of all that was done and said. Another court would not have
taken advantage of her state, seeing that her life was at stake here,
but would have adjourned and spared her. Did this one? No; it
worried her for hours, and with a glad and eager ferocity, making
all it could out of this great chance, the first one it had had.

She was tortured into confusing herself concerning the "sign"
which had been given the King, and the next day this was
continued hour after hour. As a result, she made partial
revealments of particulars forbidden by her Voice3s; and seemed
to me to state as facts things which were but allegories and visions
mixed with facts.

The third day she was brighter, and looked less worn. She was
almost her normal self again, and did her work well. Many
attempts were made to beguile her into saying indiscreet things,
but she saw the purpose in view and answered with tact and
wisdom.

"Do you know if St. Catherine and St. Marguerite hate the
English?"

"They love whom Our Lord loves, and hate whom He hates."

"Does God hate the English?"

"Of the love or the hatred of God toward the English I know
nothing." Then she spoke up with the old martial ring in her voice
and the old audacity in her words, and added, "But I know
this--that God will send victory to the French, and that all the
English will be flung out of France but the dead ones!"

"Was God on the side of the English when they were prosperous in
France?"

"I do not know if God hates the French, but I think that He allowed
them to be chastised for their sins."

It was a sufficiently na‹ve way to account for a chastisement which
had now strung out for ninety-six years. But nobody found fault
with it. There was nobody there who would not punish a sinner
ninety-six years if he could, nor anybody there who would ever
dream of such a thing as the Lord's being any shade less stringent
than men.

"Have you ever embraced St. Marguerite and St. Catherine?"

"Yes, both of them."

The evil face of Cauchon betrayed satisfaction when she said that.

"When you hung garlands upon L'Arbre F‚e de Bourlemont, did
you do it in honor of your apparitions?"

"No."

Satisfaction again. No doubt Cauchon would take it for granted
that she hung them there out of sinful love for the fairies.

"When the saints appeared to you did you bow, did you make
reverence, did you kneel?"

"Yes; I did them the most honor and reverence that I could."

A good point for Cauchon if he could eventually make it appear
that these were no saints to whom she had done reverence, but
devils in disguise.

Now there was the matter of Joan's keeping her supernatural
commerce a secret from her parents. Much might be made of that.
In fact, particular emphasis had been given to it in a private remark
written in the margin of the procŠs: "She concealed her visions
from her parents and from every one." Possibly this disloyalty to
her parents might itself be the sign of the satanic source of her
mission.

"Do you think it was right to go away to the wars without getting
your parents' leave? It is written one must honor his father and his
mother."

"I have obeyed them in all things but that. And for that I have
begged their forgiveness in a letter and gotten it."

"Ah, you asked their pardon? So you knew you were guilty of sin
in going without their leave!"

Joan was stirred. Her eyes flashed, and she exclaimed:

"I was commanded of God, and it was right to go! If I had had a
hundred fathers and mothers and been a king's daughter to boot I
would have gone."

"Did you never ask your Voices if you might tell your parents?"

"They were willing that I should tell them, but I would not for
anything have given my parents that pain."

Tgo the minds of the questioners this headstrong conduct savored
of pride. That sort of pride would move one to see sacrilegious
adorations.

"Did not your Voices call you Daughter of God?"

Joan answered with simplicity, and unsuspiciously:

"Yes; before the siege of Orleans and since, they have several
times called me Daughter of God."

Further indications of pride and vanity were sought.

"What horse were you riding when you were captured? Who gave
it you?"

"The King."

"You had other things--riches--of the King?"

"For myself I had horses and arms, and money to pay the service in
my household."

"Had you not a treasury?"

"Yes. Ten or twelve thousand crowns." Then she said with na‹vet‚,
"It was not a great sum to carry on a war with."

"You have it yet?"

"No. It is the King's money. My brothers hold it for him."

"What were the arms which you left as an offering in the church of
St. Denis?"

"My suit of silver mail and a sword."

"Did you put them there in order that they might be adored?"

"No. It was but an act of devotion. And it is the custom of men of
war who have been wounded to make such offering there. I had
been wounded before Paris."

Nothing appealed to these stony hearts, those dull
imaginations--not even this pretty picture, so simply drawn, of the
wounded girl-soldier hanging her toy harness there in curious
companionship with the grim and dusty iron mail of the historic
defenders of France. No, there was nothing in it for them; nothing,
unless evil and injury for that innocent creature could be gotten out
of it somehow.

"Which aided most--you the Standard, or the Standard you?"

"Whether it was the Standard or whether it was I, is nothing--the
victories came from God."

"But did you base your hopes of victory in yourself or in your
Standard?"

"In neither. In God, and not otherwise."

"Was not your Standard waved around the King's head at the
Coronation?"

"No. It was not."

"Why was it that your Standard had place at the crowning of the
King in the Cathedral of Rheims, rather than those of the other
captains?"

Then, soft and low, came that touching speech which will live as
long as language lives, and pass into all tongues, and move all
gentle hearts wheresoever it shall come, down to the latest day:

"It had borne the burden, it had earned the honor." [1] How simple
it is, and how beautiful. And how it beggars the studies eloquence
of the masters of oratory. Eloquence was a native gift of Joan of
Arc; it came from her lips without effort and without preparation.
Her words were as sublime as her deeds, as sublime as her
character; they had their source in a great heart and were coined in
a great brain.

[1] What she said has been many times translated, but never with
success. There is a haunting pathos about the original which eludes
all efforts to convey it into our tongue. It is as subtle as an odor,
and escapes in the transmission. Her words were these:

"Il avait ‚t‚ a la peine, c'etait bien raison qu'il fut a l'honneur."

Monseigneur Ricard, Honorary Vicar-General to the Archbishop of
Aix, finely speaks of it (Jeanne d'Arc la V‚n‚rable, page 197) as
"that sublime reply, enduring in the history of celebrated sayings
like the cry of a French and Christian soul wounded unto death in
its patriotism and its faith." -- TRANSLATOR.

Chapter 12 Joan's Master-Stroke Diverted

NOW, as a next move, this small secret court of holy assassins did
a thing so base that even at this day, in my old age, it is hard to
speak of it with patience.

In the beginning of her commerce with her Voices there at
Domremy, the child Joan solemnly devoted her life to God,
vowing her pure body and her pure soul to His service. You will
remember that her parents tried to stop her from going to the wars
by haling her to the court at Toul to compel her to make a
marriage which she had never promised to make--a marriage with
our poor, good, windy, big, hard-fighting, and most dear and
lamented comrade, the Standard-Bearer, who fell in honorable
battle and sleeps with God these sixty years, peace to his ashes!
And you will remember how Joan, sixteen years old, stood up in
that venerable court and conducted her case all by herself, and tore
the poor Paladin's case to rags and blew it away with a breath; and
how the astonished old judge on the bench spoke of her as "this
marvelous child."

You remember all that. Then think what I felt, to see these false
priests, here in the tribunal wherein Joan had fought a fourth lone
fight in three years, deliberately twist that matter entirely around
and try to make out that Joan haled the Paladin into court and
pretended that he had promised to marry her, and was bent on
making him do it.

Certainly there was no baseness that those people were ashamed to
stoop to in their hunt for that friendless girl's life. What they
wanted to show was this--that she had committed the sin of
relapsing from her vow and trying to violate it.

Joan detailed the true history of the case, but lost her temper as she
went along, and finished with some words for Cauchon which he
remembers yet, whether he is fanning himself in the world he
belongs in or has swindled his way into the other.

The rest of this day and part of the next the court labored upon the
old theme--the male attire. It was shabby work for those grave men
to be engaged in; for they well knew one of Joan's reasons for
clinging to the male dress was, that soldiers of the guard were
always present in her room whether she was asleep or awake, and
that the male dress was a better parotection for her modesty than
the other.

The court knew that one of Joan's purposes had been the
deliverance of the exiled Duke of Orleans, and they were curious
to know how she had intended to manage it. Her plan was
characteristically businesslike, and her statement of it as
characteristically simple and straightforward:

"I would have taken English prisoners enough in France for his
ransom; and failing that, I would have invaded England and
brought him out by force."

That was just her way. If a thing was to be done, it was love first,
and hammer and tongs to follow; but no shilly-shallying between.
She added with a little sigh:

"If I had had my freedom three years, I would have delivered him."

"Have you the permission of your Voices to break out of prison
whenever you can?"

"I have asked their leave several times, but they have not given it."

I think it is as I have said, she expected the deliverance of death,
and within the prison walls, before the three months should expire.

"Would you escape if you saw the doors open?"

She spoke up frankly and said:

"Yes--for I should see in that the permission of Our Lord. God
helps who help themselves, the proverb says. But except I thought
I had permission, I would not go."

Now, then, at this point, something occurred which convinces me,
every time I think of it--and it struck me so at the time--that for a
moment, at least, her hopes wandered to the King, and put into her
mind the same notion about her deliverance which No‰l and I had
settled upon--a rescue by her old soldiers. I think the idea of the
rescue did occur to her, but only as a passing thought, and that it
quickly passed away.

Some remark of the Bishop of Beauvais moved her to remind him
once more that he was an unfair judge, and had no right to preside
there, and that he was putting himself in great danger.

"What danger?" he asked.

"I do not know. St. Catherine has promised me help, but I do not
know the form of it. I do not know whether I am to be delivered
from this prison or whether when you sent me to the scaffold there
will happen a trouble by which I shall be set free. Without much
thought as to this matter, I am of the opinion that it may be one or
the other." After a pause she added these words, memorable
forever--words whose meaning she may have miscaught,
misunderstood; as to that we can never know; words which she
may have rightly understood, as to that, also, we can never know;
but words whose mystery fell away from them many a year ago
and revealed their meaning to all the world:

"But what my Voices have said clearest is, that I shall be delivered
by a great victory." She paused, my heart was beating fast, for to
me that great victory meant the sudden bursting in of our old
soldiers with the war-cry and clash of steel at the last moment and
the carrying off of Joan of Arc in triumph. But, oh, that thought
had such a short life! For now she raised her head and finished,
with those solemn words which men still so often quote and dwell
upon--words which filled me with fear, they sounded so like a
prediction. "And always they say 'Submit to whatever comes; do
not grieve for your martyrdom; from it you will ascend into the
Kingdom of Paradise."

Was she thinking of fire and the stake? I think not. I thought of it
myself, but I believe she was only thinking of this slow and cruel
martyrdom of chains and captivity and insult. Surely, martyrdom
was the right name for it.

It was Jean de la Fontaine who was asking the questions. He was
silling to make the most he could out of what she had said:

"As the Voices have told you you are going to Paradise, you feel
certain that that will happen and that you will not be damned in
hell. Is that so?"

"I believe what they told me. I know that I shall be saved."

"It is a weighty answer."

"To me the knowledge that I shall be saved is a great treasure."

"Do you think that after that revelation you could be able to
commit mortal sin?"

"As to that, I do not know. My hope for salvation is in holding fast
to my oath to keep by body and my soul pure."

"Since you know you are to be saved, do you think it necessary to
go to confession?"

The snare was ingeniously devised, but Joan's simple and humble
answer left it empty:

"One cannot keep his conscience too clean."

We were now arriving at the last day of this new trial. Joan had
come through the ordeal well. It had been a long and wearisome
struggle for all concerned. All ways had been tried to convict the
accused, and all had failed, thus far. The inquisitors were
thoroughly vexed and dissatisfied.

However, they resolved to make one more effort, put in one more
day's work. This was done--March 17th. Early in the sitting a
notable trap was set for Joan:

"Will you submit to the determination of the Church all your
words and deeds, whether good or bad?"

That was well planned. Joan was in imminent peril now. If she
should heedlessly say yes, it would put her mission itself upon
trial, and one would know how to decide its source and character
promptly. If she should say no, she would render herself
chargeable with the crime of heresy.

But she was equal to the occasion. She drew a distinct line of
separation between the Church's authority over her as a subject
member, and the matter of her mission. She said she loved the
Church and was ready to support the Christian faith with all her
strength; but as to the works done under her mission, those must
be judged by God alone, who had commanded them to be done.

The judge still insisted that she submit them to the decision of the
Church. She said:

"I will submit them to Our Lord who sent me. It would seem to me
that He and His Church are one, and that there should be no
difficulty about this matter." Then she turned upon the judge and
said, "Why do you make a difficulty when there is no room for
any?"

Then Jean de la Fontaine corrected her notion that there was but
one Church. There were two--the Church Triumphant, which is
God, the saints, the angels, and the redeemed, and has its seat in
heave; and the Church Militant, which is our Holy Father the Pope,
Vicar of God, the prelates, the clergy and all good Christians and
Catholics, the which Church has its seat in the earth, is governed
by the Holy Spirit, and cannot err. "Will you not submit those
matters to the Church Militant?"

"I am come to the King of France from the Church Triumphant on
high by its commandant, and to that Church I will submit all those
things which I have done. For the Church Militant I have no other
answer now."

The court took note of this straitly worded refusal, and would hope
to get profit out of it; but the matter was dropped for the present,
and a long chase was then made over the old hunting-ground--the
fairies, the visions, the male attire, and all that.

In the afternoon the satanic Bishop himself took the chair and
presided over the closing scenes of the trial. Along toward the
finish, this question was asked by one of the judges:

"You have said to my lord the Bishop that you would answer him
as you would answer before our Holy Father the Pope, and yet
there are several questions which you continually refuse to answer.
Would you not answer the Pope more fully than you have
answered before my lord of Beauvais? Would you not feel obliged
to answer the Pope, who is the Vicar of God, more fully?"

Now a thunder-clap fell out of a clear sky:

"Take me to the Pope. I will answer to everything that I ought to."

It made the Bishop's purple face fairly blanch with consternation.
If Joan had only known, if she had only know! She had lodged a
mine under this black conspiracy able to blow the Bishop's
schemes to the four winds of heaven, and she didn't know it. She
had made that speech by mere instinct, not suspecting what
tremendous forces were hidden in it, and there was none to tell her
what she had done. I knew, and Manchon knew; and if she had
known how to read writing we could have hoped to get the
knowledge to her somehow; but speech was the only way, and
none was allowed to approach her near enough for that. So there
she sat, once more Joan of Arc the Victorious, but all unconscious
of it. She was miserably worn and tired, by the long day's struggle
and by illness, or she must have noticed the effect of that speech
and divined the reason of it.

She had made many master-strokes, but this was the master-stroke.
It was an appeal to Rome. It was her clear right; and if she had
persisted in it Cauchon's plot would have tumbled about his ears
like a house of cards, and he would have gone from that place the
worst-beaten man of the century. He was daring, but he was not
daring enough to stand up against that demand if Joan had urged it.
But no, she was ignorant, poor thing, and did not know what a
blow she had struck for life and liberty.

France was not the Church. Rome had no interest in the
destruction of this messenger of God.

Rome would have given her a fair trial, and that was all that her
cause needed. From that trial she would have gone forth free, and
honored, and blessed.

But it was not so fated. Cauchon at once diverted the questions to
other matters and hurried the trial quickly to an end.

As Joan moved feebly away, dragging her chains, I felt stunned
and dazed, and kept saying to myself, "Such a little while ago she
said the saving word and could have gone free; and now, there she
goes to her death; yes, it is to her death, I know it, I feel it. They
will double the guards; they will never let any come near her now
between this and her condemnation, lest she get a hint and speak
that word again. This is the bitterest day that has come to me in all
this miserable time."

Chapter 13 The Third Trial Fails

SO THE SECOND trial in the prison was over. Over, and no
definite result. The character of it I have described to you. It was
baser in one particular than the previous one; for this time the
charges had not been communicated to Joan, therefore she had
been obliged to fight in the dark.

There was no opportunity to do any thinking beforehand; there was
no foreseeing what traps might be set, and no way to prepare for
them. Truly it was a shabby advantage to take of a girl situated as
this one was. One day, during the course of it, an able lawyer of
Normandy, MaŒtre Lohier, happened to be in Rouen, and I will
give you his opinion of that trial, so that you may see that I have
been honest with you, and that my partisanship has not made me
deceive you as to its unfair and illegal character. Cauchon showed
Lohier the procŠs and asked his opinion about the trial. Now this
was the opinion which he gave to Cauchon. He said that the whole
thing was null and void; for these reasons: 1, because the trial was
secret, and full freedom of speech and action on the part of those
present not possible; 2, because the trial touched the honor of the
King of France, yet he was not summoned to defend himself, nor
any one appointed to represent him; 3, because the charges against
the prisoner were not communicated to her; 4, because the
accused, although young and simple, had been forced to defend
her cause without help of counsel, notwithstanding she had so
much at stake.

Did that please Bishop Cauchon? It did not. He burst out upon
Lohier with the most savage cursings, and swore he would have
him drowned. Lohier escaped from Rouen and got out of France
with all speed, and so saved his life.

Well, as I have said, the second trial was over, without definite
result. But Cauchon did not give up. He could trump up another.
And still another and another, if necessary. He had the
half-promise of an enormous prize--the Archbishopric of Rouen--if
he should succeed in burning the body and damning to hell the
soul of this young girl who had never done him any harm; and
such a prize as that, to a man like the Bishop of Beauvais, was
worth the burning and damning of fifty harmless girls, let alone
one.

So he set to work again straight off next day; and with high
confidence, too, intimating with brutal cheerfulness that he should
succeed this time. It took him and the other scavengers nine days
to dig matter enough out of Joan's testimony and their own
inventions to build up the new mass of charges. And it was a
formidable mass indeed, for it numbered sixty-six articles.

This huge document was carried to the castle the next day, March
27th; and there, before a dozen carefully selected judges, the new
trial was begun.

Opinions were taken, and the tribunal decided that Joan should
hear the articles read this time.

Maybe that was on account of Lohier's remark upon that head; or
maybe it was hoped that the reading would kill the prisoner with
fatigue--for, as it turned out, this reading occupied several days. It
was also decided that Joan should be required to answer squarely
to every article, and that if she refused she should be considered
convicted. You see, Cauchon was managing to narrow her chances
more and more all the time; he was drawing the toils closer and
closer.

Joan was brought in, and the Bishop of Beauvais opened with a
speech to her which ought to have made even himself blush, so
laden it was with hypocrisy and lies. He said that this court was
composed of holy and pious churchmen whose hearts were full of
benevolence and compassion toward her, and that they had no
wish to hurt her body, but only a desire to instruct her and lead her
into the way of truth and salvation.

Why, this man was born a devil; now think of his describing
himself and those hardened slaves of his in such language as that.

And yet, worse was to come. For now having in mind another of
Lohier's h8ints, he had the cold effrontery to make to Joan a
proposition which, I think, will surprise you when you hear it. He
said that this court, recognizing her untaught estate and her
inability to deal with the complex and difficult matters which were
about to be considered, had determined, out of their pity and their
mercifulness, to allow her to choose one or more persons out of
their own number to help her with counsel and advice!

Think of that--a court made up of Loyseleur and his breed of
reptiles. It was granting leave to a lamb to ask help of a wolf. Joan
looked up to see if he was serious, and perceiving that he was at
least pretending to be, she declined, of course.

The Bishop was not expecting any other reply. He had made a
show of fairness and could have it entered on the minutes,
therefore he was satisfied.

Then he commanded Joan to answer straitly to every accusation;
and threatened to cut her off from the Church if she failed to do
that or delayed her answers beyond a given length of time.

Yes, he was narrowing her chances down, step by step.

Thomas de Courcelles began the reading of that interminable
document, article by article. Joan answered to each article in its
turn; sometimes merely denying its truth, sometimes by saying her
answer would be found in the records of the previous trials.

What a strange document that was, and what an exhibition and
exposure of the heart of man, the one creature authorized to boast
that he is made in the image of God. To know Joan of Arc was to
know one who was wholly noble, pure, truthful, brave,
compassionate, generous, pious, unselfish, modest, blameless as
the very flowers in the fields--a nature fine and beautiful, a
character supremely great. To know her from that document would
be to know her as the exact reverse of all that. Nothing that she
was appears in it, everything that she was not appears there in
detail.

Consider some of the things it charges against her, and remember
who it is it is speaking of. It calls her a sorceress, a false prophet,
an invoker and companion of evil spirits, a dealer in magic, a
person ignorant of the Catholic faith, a schismatic; she is
sacrilegious, an idolater, an apostate, a blasphemer of God and His
saints, scandalous, seditious, a disturber of the peace; she incites
men to war, and to the spilling of human blood; she discards the
decencies and proprieties of her sex, irreverently assuming the
dress of a man and the vocation of a soldier; she beguiles both
princes and people; she usurps divine honors, and has caused
herself to be adored and venerated, offering her hands and her
vestments to be kissed.

There it is--every fact of her life distorted, perverted, reversed. As
a child she had loved the fairies, she had spoken a pitying word for
them when they were banished from their home, she had played
under their tree and around their fountain--hence she was a
comrade of evil spirits.

She had lifted France out of the mud and moved her to strike for
freedom, and led her to victory after victory--hence she was a
disturber of the peace--as indeed she was, and a provoker of
war--as indeed she was again! and France will be proud of it and
grateful for it for many a century to come. And she had been
adored--as if she could help that, poor thing, or was in any way to
blame for it. The cowed veteran and the wavering recruit had
drunk the spirit of war from her eyes and touched her sword with
theirs and moved forward invincible--hence she was a sorceress.

And so the document went on, detail by detail, turning these
waters of life to poison, this gold to dross, these proofs of a noble
and beautiful life to evidences of a foul and odious one.

Of course, the sixty-six articles were just a rehash of the things
which had come up in the course of the previous trials, so I will
touch upon this new trial but lightly. In fact, Joan went but little
into detail herself, usually merely saying, "That is not true--passez
outre"; or, "I have answered that before--let the clerk read it in his
record," or saying some other brief thing.

She refused to have her mission examined and tried by the earthly
Church. The refusal was taken note of.

She denied the accusation of idolatry and that she had sought
men's homage. She said:

"If any kissed my hands and my vestments it was not by my desire,
and I did what I could to prevent it."

She had the pluck to say to that deadly tribunal that she did not
know the fairies to be evil beings. She knew it was a perilous thing
to say, but it was not in her nature to speak anything but the truth
when she spoke at all. Danger had no weight with her in such
things. Note was taken of her remark.

She refused, as always before, when asked if she would put off the
male attire if she were given permission to commune. And she
added this:

"When one receives the sacrament, the manner of his dress is a
small thing and of no value in the eyes of Our Lord."

She was charge with being so stubborn in clinging to her male
dress that she would not lay it off even to get the blessed privilege
of hearing mass. She spoke out with spirit and said:

"I would rather die than be untrue to my oath to God."

She was reproached with doing man's work in the wars and thus
deserting the industries proper to her sex. She answered, with
some little touch of soldierly disdain:

"As to the matter of women's work, there's plenty to do it."

It was always a comfort to me to see the soldier spirit crop up in
her. While that remained in her she would be Joan of Arc, and able
to look trouble and fate in the face.

"It appears that this mission of yours which you claim you had
from God, was to make war and pour out human blood."

Joan replied quite simply, contenting herself with explaining that
war was not her first move, but her second:

"To begin with, I demanded that peace should be made. If it was
refused, then I would fight."

The judge mixed the Burgundians and English together in
speaking of the enemy which Joan had come to make war upon.
But she showed that she made a distinction between them by act
and word, the Burgundians being Frenchmen and therefore entitled
to less brusque treatment than the English. She said:

As to the Duke of Burgundy, I required of him, both by letters and
by his ambassadors, that he make peace with the King. As to the
English, the only peace for them was that they leave the country
and go home."

Then she said that even with the English she had shown a pacific
disposition, since she had warned them away by proclamation
before attacking them.

"If they had listened to me," said she, "they would have done
wisely." At this point she uttered her prophecy again, saying with
emphasis, "Before seven years they will see it themselves."

Then they presently began to pester her again about her male
costume, and tried to persuade her to voluntarily promise to
discard it. I was never deep, so I think it no wonder that I was
puzzled by their persistency in what seemed a thing of no
consequence, and could not make out what their reason could be.
But we all know now. We all know now that it was another of their
treacherous projects. Yes, if they could but succeed in getting her
to formally discard it they could play a game upon her which
would quickly destroy her. So they kept at their evil work until at
last she broke out and said:

"Peace! Without the permission of God I will not lay it off though
you cut off my head!"

At one point she corrected the procŠs verbal, saying:

"It makes me say that everything which I have done was done by
the counsel of Our Lord. I did not say that, I said 'all which I have
well done.'"

Doubt was cast upon the authenticity of her mission because of the
ignorance and simplicity of the messenger chosen. Joan smiled at
that. She could have reminded these people that Our Lord, who is
no respecter of persons, had chosen the lowly for his high purposes
even oftener than he had chosen bishops and cardinals; but she
phrased her rebuke in simpler terms:

"It is the prerogative of Our Lord to choose His instruments where
He will."

She was asked what form of prayer she used in invoking counsel
from on high. She said the form was brief and simple; then she
lifted her pallid face and repeated it, clasping her chained hands:

"Most dear God, in honor of your holy passion I beseech you, if
you love me, that you will reveal to me what I am to answer to
these churchmen. As concerns my dress, I know by what command
I have put it on, but I know not in what manner I am to lay it off. I
pray you tell me what to do."

She was charged with having dared, against the precepts of God
and His saints, to assume empire over men and make herself
Commander-in-Chief. That touched the soldier in her. She had a
deep reverence for priests, but the soldier in her had but small
reverence for a priest's opinions about war; so, in her answer to
this charge she did not condescend to go into any explanations or
excuses, but delivered herself with bland indifference and military
brevity.

"If I was Commander-in-Chief, it was to thrash the English."

Death was staring her in the face here all the time, but no matter;
she dearly loved to make these English-hearted Frenchmen squirm,
and whenever they gave her an opening she was prompt to jab her
sting into it. She got great refreshment out of these little episodes.
Her days were a desert; these were the oases in it.

Her being in the wars with men was charged against her as an
indelicacy. She said:

"I had a woman with me when I could--in towns and lodgings. In
the field I always slept in my armor."

That she and her family had been ennobled by the King was
charged against her as evidence that the source of her deeds were
sordid self-seeking. She answered that she had not asked this grace
of the King; it was his own act.

This third trial was ended at last. And once again there was no
definite result.

Possibly a fourth trial might succeed in defeating this apparently
unconquerable girl. So the malignant Bishop set himself to work to
plan it.

He appointed a commission to reduce the substance of the
sixty-six articles to twelve compact lies, as a basis for the new
attempt. This was done. It took several days.

Meantime Cauchon went to Joan's cell one day, with Manchon and
two of the judges, Isambard de la Pierre and Martin Ladvenue, to
see if he could not manage somehow to beguile Joan into
submitting her mission to the examination and decision of the
Church Militant--that is to say, to that part of the Church Militant
which was represented by himself and his creatures.

Joan once more positively refused. Isambard de la Pierre had a
heart in his body, and he so pitied this persecuted poor girl that he
ventured to do a very daring thing; for he asked her if she would be
willing to have her case go before the Council of Basel, and said it
contained as many priests of her party as of the English party.

Joan cried out that she would gladly go before so fairly constructed
a tribunal as that; but before Isambard could say another word
Cauchon turned savagely upon him and exclaimed:

"Shut up, in the devil's name!"

Then Manchon ventured to do a brave thing, too, though he did it
in great fear for his life. He asked Cauchon if he should enter
Joan's submission to the Council of Basel upon the minutes.

"No! It is not necessary."

"Ah," said poor Joan, reproachfully, "you set down everything that
is against me, but you will not set down what is for me."

It was piteous. It would have touched the heart of a brute. But
Cauchon was more than that.

Chapter 14 Joan Struggles with Her Twelve Lies

WE WERE now in the first days of April. Joan was ill. She had
fallen ill the 29th of March, the day after the close of the third
trial, and was growing worse when the scene which I have just
described occurred in her cell. It was just like Cauchon to go there
and try to get some advantage out of her weakened state.

Let us note some of the particulars in the new indictment--the
Twelve Lies.

Part of the first one says Joan asserts that she has found her
salvation. She never said anything of the kind. It also says she
refuses to submit herself to the Church. Not true. She was willing
to submit all her acts to this Rouen tribunal except those done by
the command of God in fulfilment of her mission. Those she
reserved for the judgment of God. She refused to recognize
Cauchon and his serfs as the Church, but was willing to go before
the Pope or the Council of Basel.

A clause of another of the Twelve says she admits having
threatened with death those who would not obey her. Distinctly
false. Another clause says she declares that all she has done has
been done by command of God. What she really said was, all that
she had done well--a correction made by herself as you have
already seen.

Another of the Twelve says she claims that she has never
committed any sin. She never made any such claim.

Another makes the wearing of the male dress a sin. If it was, she
had high Catholic authority for committing it--that of the
Archbishop of Rheims and the tribunal of Poitiers.

The Tenth Article was resentful against her for "pretending" that
St. Catherine and St.

Marguerite spoke French and not English, and were French in their
politics.

The Twelve were to be submitted first to the learned doctors of
theology of the University of Paris for approval. They were copied
out and ready by the night of April 4th. Then Manchon did another
bold thing: he wrote in the margin that many of the Twelve put
statements in Joan's mouth which were the exact opposite of what
she had said. That fact would not be considered important by the
University of Paris, and would not influence its decision or stir its
humanity, in case it had any--which it hadn't when acting in a
political capacity, as at present--but it was a brave thing for that
good Manchon to do, all the same.

The Twelve were sent to Paris next day, April 5th. That afternoon
there was a great tumult in Rouen, and excited crowds were
flocking through all the chief streets, chattering and seeking for
news; for a report had gone abroad that Joan of Arc was sick unti
death. In truth, these long s‚ances had worn her out, and she was
ill indeed. The heads of the English party were in a state of
consternation; for if Joan should die uncondemned by the Church
and go to the grave unsmirched, the pity and the love of the people
would turn her wrongs and sufferings and death into a holy
martyrdom, and she would be even a mightier power in France
dead than she had been when alive.

The Earl of Warwick and the English Cardinal (Winchester)
hurried to the castle and sent messengers flying for physicians.
Warwick was a hard man, a rude, coarse man, a man without
compassion. There lay the sick girl stretched in her chains in her
iron cage--not an object to move man to ungentle speech, one
would think; yet Warwick spoke right out in her hearing and said
to the physicians:

"Mind you take good care of her. The King of England has no
mind to have her die a natural death. She is dear to him, for he
bought her dear, and he does not want her to die, save at the stake.
Now then, mind you cure her."

The doctors asked Joan what had made her ill. She said the Bishop
of Beauvais had sent her a fish and she thought it was that.

Then Jean d'Estivet burst out on her, and called her names and
abused her. He understood Joan to be charging the Bishop with
poisoning her, you see; and that was not pleasing to him, for he
was one of Cauchon's most loving and conscienceless slaves, and
it outraged him to have Joan injure his master in the eyes of these
great English chiefs, these being men who could ruin Cauchon and
would promptly do it if they got the conviction that he was capable
of saving Joan from the stake by poisoning her and thus cheating
the English out of all the real value gainable by her purchase from
the Duke of Burgundy.

Joan had a high fever, and the doctors proposed to bleed her.
Warwick said:

"Be careful about that; she is smart and is capable of killing
herself."

He meant that to escape the stake she might undo the bandage and
let herself bleed to death.

But the doctors bled her anyway, and then she was better.

Not for long, though. Jean d'Estivet could not hold still, he was so
worried and angry about the suspicion of poisoning which Joan
had hinted at; so he came back in the evening and stormed at her
till he brought the fever all back again.

When Warwick heard of this he was in a fine temper, you may be
sure, for here was his prey threatening to escape again, and all
through the over-zeal of this meddling fool. Warwick gave
D'Estivet a quite admirable cursing--admirable as to strength, I
mean, for it was said by persons of culture that the art of it was not
good--and after that the meddler kept still.

Joan remained ill more than two weeks; then she grew better. She
was still very weak, but she could bear a little persecution now
without much danger to her life. It seemed to Cauchon a good time
to furnish it. So he called together some of his doctors of theology
and went to her dungeon. Manchon and I went along to keep the
record--that is, to set down what might be useful to Cauchon, and
leave out the rest.

The sight of Joan gave me a shock. Why, she was but a shadow! It
was difficult for me to realize that this frail little creature with the
sad face and drooping form was the same Joan of Arc that I had so
often seen, all fire and enthusiasm, charging through a hail of
death and the lightning and thunder of the guns at the head of her
battalions. It wrung my heart to see her looking like this.

But Cauchon was not touched. He made another of those
conscienceless speeches of his, all dripping with hypocrisy and
guile. He told Joan that among her answers had been some which
had seemed to endanger religion; and as she was ignorant and
without knowledge of the Scriptures, he had brought some good
and wise men to instruct her, if she desired it. Said he, "We are
churchmen, and disposed by our good will as well as by our
vocation to procure for you the salvation of your soul and your
body, in every way in our power, just as we would do the like for
our nearest kin or for ourselves. In this we but follow the example
of Holy Church, who never closes the refuge of her bosom against
any that are willing to return."

Joan thanked him for these sayings and said:

"I seem to be in danger of death from this malady; if it be the
pleasure of God that I die here, I beg that I may be heard in
confession and also receive my Saviour; and that I may be buried
in consecrated ground."

Cauchon thought he saw his opportunity at last; this weakened
body had the fear of an unblessed death before it and the pains of
hell to follow. This stubborn spirit would surrender now. So he
spoke out and said:

"Then if you want the Sacraments, you must do as all good
Catholics do, and submit to the Church."

He was eager for her answer; but when it came there was no
surrender in it, she still stood to her guns. She turned her head
away and said wearily:

"I have nothing more to say."

Cauchon's temper was stirred, and he raised his voice threateningly
and said that the more she was in danger of death the more she
ought to amend her life; and again he refused the things she
begged for unless she would submit to the Church. Joan said:

"If I die in this prison I beg you to have me buried in holdy ground;
if you will not, I cast myself upon my Saviour."

There was some more conversation of the like sort, then Cauchon
demanded again, and imperiously, that she submit herself and all
her deeds to the Church. His threatening and storming went for
nothing. That body was weak, but the spirit in it was the spirit of
Joan of Arc; and out of that came the steadfast answer which these
people were already so familiar with and detested so sincerely:

"Let come what may. I will neither do nor say any otherwise than I
have said already in your tribunals."

Then the good theologians took turn about and worried her with
reasonings and arguments and Scriptures; and always they held the
lure of the Sacraments before her famishing soul, and tried to bribe
her with them to surrender her mission to the Church's
judgment--that is to their judgment--as if they were the Church!
But it availed nothing. I could have told them that beforehand, if
they had asked me. But they never asked me anything; I was too
humble a creature for their notice.

Then the interview closed with a threat; a threat of fearful import;
a threat calculated to make a Catholic Christian feel as if the
ground were sinking from under him:

"The Church calls upon you to submit; disobey, and she will
abandon you as if you were a pagan!"

Think of being abandoned by the Church!--that august Power in
whose hands is lodged the fate of the human race; whose scepter
stretches beyond the furthest constellation that twinkles in the sky;
whose authority is over millions that live and over the billions that
wait trembling in purgatory for ransom or doom; whose smile
opens the gates of heaven to you, whose frown delivers you to the
fires of everlasting hell; a Power whose dominion overshadows
and belittles the pomps and shows of a village. To be abandoned
by one's King--yes, that is death, and death is much; but to be
agandoned by Rome, to be abandoned by the Church! Ah, death is
nothing to that, for that is consignment to endless life--and such a
life!

I could see the red waves tossing in that shoreless lake of fire, I
could see the black myriads of the damned rise out of them and
struggle and sink and rise again; and I knew that Joan was seeing
what I saw, while she paused musing; and I believed that she must
yield now, and in truth I hoped she would, for these men were able
to make the threat good and deliver her over to eternal suffering,
and I knew that it was in their natures to do it.

But I was foolish to think that thought and hope that hope. Joan of
Arc was not made as others are made. Fidelity to principle, fidelity
to truth, fidelity to her word, all these were in her bone and in her
flesh--they were parts of her. She could not change, she could not
cast them out. She was the very genius of Fidelity; she was
Steadfastness incarnated. Where she had taken her stand and
planted her foot, there she would abide; hell itself could not move
her from that place.

Her Voices had not given her permission to make the sort of
submission that was required, therefore she would stand fast. She
would wait, in perfect obedience, let come what might.

My heart was like lead in my body when I went out from that
dungeon; but she--she was serene, she was not troubled. She had
done what she believed to be her duty, and that was sufficient; the
consequences were not her affair. The last thing she said that time
was full of this serenity, full of contented repose:

"I am a good Christian born and baptized, and a good Christian I
will die."

Chapter 15 Undaunted by Threat of Burning

TWO WEEKS went by; the second of May was come, the chill
was departed out of the air, the wild flowers were springing in the
glades and glens, the birds were piping in the woods, all nature
was brilliant with sunshine, all spirits were renewed and refreshed,
all hearts glad, the world was alive with hope and cheer, the plain
beyond the Seine stretched away soft and rich and green, the river
was limpid and lovely, the leafy islands were dainty to see, and
flung still daintier reflections of themselves upon the shining
water; and from the tall bluffs above the bridge Rouen was
become again a delight to the eye, the most exquisite and
satisfying picture of a town that nestles under the arch of heaven
anywhere.

When I say that all hearts were glad and hopeful, I mean it in a
general sense. There were exceptions--we who were the friends of
Joan of Arc, also Joan of Arc herself, that poor girl shut up there in
that frowning stretch of mighty walls and towers: brooding in
darkness, so close to the flooding downpour of sunshine yet so
impossibly far away from it; so longing for any little glimpse of it,
yet so implacably denied it by those wolves in the black gowns
who were plotting her death and the blackening of her good name.

Cauchon was ready to go on with his miserable work. He had a
new scheme to try now. He would see what persuasion could
do--argument, eloquence, poured out upon the incorrigible captive
from the mouth of a trained expert. That was his plan. But the
reading of the Twelve Articles to her was not a part of it. No, even
Cauchon was ashamed to lay that monstrosity before her; even he
had a remnant of shame in him, away down deep, a million
fathoms deep, and that remnant asserted itself now and prevailed.

On this fair second of May, then, the black company gathered
itself together in the spacious chamber at the end of the great hall
of the castle--the Bishop of Beauvais on his throne, and sixty-two
minor judges massed before him, with the guards and recorders at
their stations and the orator at his desk.

Then we heard the far clank of chains, and presently Joan entered
with her keepers and took her seat upon her isolated bench. She
was looking well now, and most fair and beautiful after her
fortnight's rest from wordy persecution.

She glanced about and noted the orator. Doubtless she divined the
situation.

The orator had written his speech all out, and had it in his hand,
though he held it back of him out of sight. It was so thick that it
resembled a book. He began flowing, but in the midst of a flowery
period his memory failed him and he had to snatch a furtive glance
at his manuscript--which much injured the effect. Again this
happened, and then a third time. The poor man's face was red with
embarrassment, the whole great house was pitying him, which
made the matter worse; then Joan dropped in a remark which
completed the trouble. She said:

"Read your book--and then I will answer you!"

Why, it was almost cruel the way those moldy veterans laughed;
and as for the orator, he looked so flustered and helpless that
almost anybody would have pitied him, and I had difficulty to keep
from doing it myself. Yes, Joan was feeling very well after her
rest, and the native mischief that was in her lay near the surface. It
did not show when she made the remark, but I knew it was close in
there back of the words.

When the orator had gotten back his composure he did a wise
thing; for he followed Joan's advice: he made no more attempts at
sham impromptu oratory, but read his speech straight from his
"book." In the speech he compressed the Twelve Articles into six,
and made these his text.

Every now and then he stopped and asked questions, and Joan
replied. The nature of the Church Militant was explained, and once
more Joan was asked to submit herself to it.

She gave her usual answer.

Then she was asked:

"Do you believe the Church can err?"

"I believe it cannot err; but for those deeds and words of mine
which were done and uttered by command of God, I will answer to
Him alone."

"Will you say that you have no judge upon earth? Is not our Holy
Father the Pope your judge?"

"I will say nothing about it. I have a good Master who is our Lord,
and to Him I will submit all."

Then came these terrible words:

"If you do not submit to the Church you will be pronounced a
heretic by these judges here present and burned at the stake!"

Ah, that would have smitten you or me dead with fright, but it only
roused the lion heart of Joan of Arc, and in her answer rang that
martial note which had used to stir her soldiers like a bugle-call:

"I will not say otherwise than I have said already; and if I saw the
fire before me I would say it again!"

It was uplifting to hear her battle-voice once more and see the
battle-light burn in her eye. Many there were stirred; every man
that was a man was stirred, whether friend or foe; and Manchon
risked his life again, good soul, for he wrote in the margin of the
record in good plain letters these brave words: "Superba
responsio!" and there they have remained these sixty years, and
there you may read them to this day.

"Superba responsio!" Yes, it was just that. For this "superb answer"
came from the lips of a girl of nineteen with death and hell staring
her in the face.

Of course, the matter of the male attire was gone over again; and
as usual at wearisome length; also, as usual, the customary bribe
was offered: if she would discard that dress voluntarily they would
let her hear mass. But she answered as she had often answered
before:

"I will go in a woman's robe to all services of the Church if I may
be permitted, but I will resume the other dress when I return to my
cell."

They set several traps for her in a tentative form; that is to say,
they placed suppositious propositions before her and cunningly
tried to commit her to one end of the propositions without
committing themselves to the other. But she always saw the game
and spoiled it. The trap was in this form:

"Would you be willing to do so and so if we should give you
leave?"

Her answer was always in this form or to this effect:

"When you give me leave, then you will know."

Yes, Joan was at her best that second of May. She had all her wits
about her, and they could not catch her anywhere. It was a long,
long session, and all the old ground was fought over again, foot by
foot, and the orator-expert worked all his persuasions, all his
eloquence; but the result was the familiar one--a drawn battle, the
sixty-two retiring upon their base, the solitary enemy holding her
original position within her original lines.

Chapter 16 Joan Stands Defiant Before the Rack

THE BRILLIANT weather, the heavenly weather, the bewitching
weather made everybody's heart to sing, as I have told you; yes,
Rouen was feeling light-hearted and gay, and most willing and
ready to break out and laugh upon the least occasion; and so when
the news went around that the young girl in the tower had scored
another defeat against Bishop Cauchon there was abundant
laughter--abundant laughter among the citizens of both parties, for
they all hated the Bishop. It is true, the English-hearted majority of
the people wanted Joan burned, but that did not keep them from
laughing at the man they hated. It would have been perilous for
anybody to laugh at the English chiefs or at the majority of
Cauchon's assistant judges, but to laugh at Cauchon or D'Estivet
and Loyseleur was safe--nobody would report it.

The difference between Cauchon and cochon [1] was not
noticeable in speech, and so there was plenty of opportunity for
puns; the opportunities were not thrown away.

Some of the jokes got well worn in the course of two or three
months, from repeated use; for every time Cauchon started a new
trial the folk said "The sow has littered [2] again"; and every time
the trial failed they said it over again, with its other meaning, "The
hog has made a mess of it."

And so, on the third of May, No‰l and I, drifting about the town,
heard many a wide-mouthed lout let go his joke and his laugh, and
then move tot he next group, proud of his wit and happy, to work it
off again:

"'Od's blood, the sow has littered five times, and five times has
made a mess of it!"

And now and then one was bold enough to say--but he said it
softly:

"Sixty-three and the might of England against a girl, and she
camps on the field five times!"

Cauchon lived in the great palace of the Archbishop, and it was
guarded by English soldiery; but no matter, there was never a dark
night but the walls showed next morning that the rude joker had
been there with his paint and brush. Yes, he had been thee, and had
smeared the sacred walls with pictures of hogs in all attitudes
except flattering ones; hogs clothed in a Bishop's vestments and
wearing a Bishop's miter irreverently cocked on the side of their
heads.

Cauchon raged and cursed over his defeats and his impotence
during seven says; then he conceived a new scheme. You shall see
what it was; for you have not cruel hearts, and you would never
guess it.

On the ninth of May there was a summons, and Manchon and I got
out materials together and started. But this time we were to go to
one of the other towers--not the one which was Joan's prison. It
was round and grim and massive, and built of the plainest and
thickest and solidest masonry--a dismal and forbidding structure.
[3] We entered the circular room on the ground floor, and I saw
what turned me sick--the instruments of torture and the
executioners standing ready! Here you have the black heart of
Cauchon at the blackest, here you have the proof that in his nature
there was no such thing as pity. One wonders if he ever knew his
mother or ever had a sister.

Cauchon was there, and the Vice-Inquisitor and the Abbot of St.
Corneille; also six others, among them that false Loyseleur. The
guards were in their places, the rack was there, and by it stood the
executioner and his aids in their crimson hose and doublets, meet
color for their bloody trade. The picture of Joan rose before me
stretched upon the rack, her feet tied to one end of it, her wrists to
the other, and those red giants turning the windlass and pulling her
limbs out of their sockets. It seemed to me that I could hear the
bones snap and the flesh tear apart, and I did not see how that body
of anointed servants of the merciful Jesus could sit there and look
so placid and indifferent.

After a little, Joan arrived and was brought in. She saw the rack,
she saw the attendants, and the same picture which I had been
seeing must have risen in her mind; but do you think she quailed,
do you think she shuddered? No, there was no sign of that sort. She
straightened herself up, and there was a slight curl of scorn about
her lip; but as for fear, she showed not a vestige of it.

This was a memorable session, but it was the shortest one of all
the list. When Joan had taken her seat a r‚sum‚ of her "crimes"
was read to her. Then Cauchon made a solemn speech. It in he said
that in the course of her several trials Joan had refused to answer
some of the questions and had answered others with lies, but that
now he was going to have the truth out of her, and the whole of it.

Her manner was full of confidence this time; he was sure he had
found a way at last to break this child's stubborn spirit and make
her beg and cry. He would score a victory this time and stop the
mouths of the jokers of Rouen. You see, he was only just a man
after all, and couldn't stand ridicule any better than other people.
He talked high, and his splotchy face lighted itself up with all the
shifting tints and signs of evil pleasure and promised
triumph--purple, yellow, red, green--they were all there, with
sometimes the dull and spongy blue of a drowned man, the
uncanniest of them all. And finally he burst out in a great passion
and said:

"There is the rack, and there are its ministers! You will reveal all
now or be put to the torture.

Speak."

Then she made that great answer which will live forever; made it
without fuss or bravado, and yet how fine and noble was the sound
of it:

"I will tell you nothing more than I have told you; no, not even if
you tear the limbs from my body. And even if in my pain I did say
something otherwise, I would always say afterward that it was the
torture that spoke and not I."

There was no crushing that spirit. You should have seen Cauchon.
Defeated again, and he had not dreamed of such a thing. I heard it
said the next day, around the town, that he had a full confession all
written out, in his pocket and all ready for Joan to sign. I do not
know that that was true, but it probably was, for her mark signed at
the bottom of a confession would be the kind of evidence (for
effect with the public) which Cauchon and his people were
particularly value, you know.

No, there was no crushing that spirit, and no beclouding that clear
mind. Consider the depth, the wisdom of that answer, coming from
an ignorant girl. Why, there were not six men in the world who
had ever reflected that words forced out of a person by horrible
tortures were not necessarily words of verity and truth, yet this
unlettered peasant-girl put her finger upon that flaw with an
unerring instinct. I had always supposed that torture brought out
the truth--everybody supposed it; and when Joan came out with
those simple common-sense words they seemed to flood the place
with light. It was like a lightning-flash at midnight which suddenly
reveals a fair valley sprinkled over with silver streams and
gleaming villages and farmsteads where was only an impenetrable
world of darkness before. Manchon stole a sidewise look at me,
and his face was full of surprise; and there was the like to be seen
in other faces there. Consider--they were old, and deeply cultured,
yet here was a village maid able to teach them something which
they had not known before. I heard one of them mutter:

"Verily it is a wonderful creature. She has laid her hand upon an
accepted truth that is as old as the world, and it has crumbled to
dust and rubbish under her touch. Now whence got she that
marvelous insight?"

The judges laid their heads together and began to talk now. It was
plain, from chance words which one caught now and then, that
Cauchon and Loyseleur were insisting upon the application of the
torture, and that most of the others were urgently objecting.

Finally Cauchon broke out with a good deal of asperity in his voice
and ordered Joan back to her dungeon. That was a happy surprise
for me. I was not expecting that the Bishop would yield.

When Manchon came home that night he said he had found out
why the torture was not applied.

There were two reasons. One was, a fear that Joan might die under
the torture, which would not suit the English at all; the other was,
that the torture would effect nothing if Joan was going to take back
everything she said under its pains; and as to putting her mark to a
confession, it was believed that not even the rack would ever make
her do that.

So all Rouen laughed again, and kept it up for three days, saying:

"The sow has littered six times, and made six messes of it."

And the palace walls got a new decoration--a mitered hog
carryinga discarded rack home on its shoulder, and Loyseleur
weeping in its wake. Many rewards were offered for the capture of
these painters, but nobody applied. Even the English guard feigned
blindness and would not see the artists at work.

The Bishop's anger was very high now. He could not reconcile
himself to the idea of giving up the torture. It was the pleasantest
idea he had invented yet, and he would not cast it by. So he called
in some of his satellites on the twelfth, and urged the torture again.
But it was a failure.

With some, Joan's speech had wrought an effect; others feared she
might die under torture; others did not believe that any amount of
suffering could make her put her mark to a lying confession. There
were fourteen men present, including the Bishop. Eleven of them
voted dead against the torture, and stood their ground in spite of
Cauchon's abuse. Two voted with the Bishop and insisted upon the
torture. These two were Loyseleur and the orator--the man whom
Joan had bidden to "read his book"--Thomas de Courcelles, the
renowned pleader and master of eloquence.

Age has taught me charity of speech; but it fails me when I think
of those three names--Cauchon, Courcelles, Loyseleur.

[1] Hog, pig.

[2] Cochonner, to litter, to farrow; also, "to make a mess of"!

[3] The lower half of it remains to-day just as it was then; the
upper half is of a later date. -- TRANSLATOR.

Chapter 17 Supreme in Direst Peril

ANOTHER ten days' wait. The great theologians of that treasury of
all valuable knowledge and all wisdom, the University of Paris,
were still weighing and considering and discussing the Twelve
Lies.

I had had but little to do these ten days, so I spent them mainly in
walks about the town with No‰l. But there was no pleasure in
them, our spirits being so burdened with cares, and the outlook for
Joan growing steadily darker and darker all the time. And then we
naturally contrasted our circumstances with hers: this freedom and
sunshine, with her darkness and chains; our comradeship, with her
lonely estate; our alleviations of one sort and another, with her
destitution in all. She was used to liberty, but now she had none;
she was an out-of-door creature by nature and habit, but now she
was shut up day and night in a steel cage like an animal; she was
used to the light, but now she was always in a gloom where all
objects about her were dim and spectral; she was used to the
thousand various sounds which are the cheer and music of a busy
life, but now she heard only the monotonous footfall of the sentry
pacing his watch; she had been fond of talking with her mates, but
now there was no one to talk to; she had had an easy laugh, but it
was gone dumb now; she had been born for comradeship, and
blithe and busy work, and all manner of joyous activities, but here
were only dreariness, and leaden hours, and weary inaction, and
brooding stillness, and thoughts that travel by day and night and
night and day round and round in the same circle, and wear the
brain and break the heart with weariness. It was death in life; yes,
death in life, that is what it must have been. And there was another
hard thing about it all. A young girl in trouble needs the soothing
solace and support and sympathy of persons of her own sex, and
the delicate offices and gentle ministries which only these can
furnish; yet in all these months of gloomy captivity in her dungeon
Joan never saw the face of a girl or a woman. Think how her heart
would have leaped to see such a face.

Consider. If you would realize how great Joan of Arc was,
remember that it was out of such a place and such circumstances
that she came week after week and month after month and
confronted the master intellects of France single-handed, and
baffled their cunningest schemes, defeated their ablest plans,
detected and avoided their secretest traps and pitfalls, broke their
lines, repelled their assaults, and camped on the field after every
engagement; steadfast always, true to her faith and her ideals;
defying torture, defying the stake, and answering threats of eternal
death and the pains of hell with a simple "Let come what may,
here I take my stand and will abide."

Yes, if you would realize how great was the soul, how profound
the wisdom, and how luminous the intellect of Joan of Arc, you
must study her there, where she fought out that long fight all
alone--and not merely against the subtlest brains and deepest
learning of France, but against the ignoble deceits, the meanest
treacheries, and the hardest hearts to be found in any land, pagan
or Christian.

She was great in battle--we all know that; great in foresight; great
in loyalty and patriotism; great in persuading discontented chiefs
and reconciling conflicting interests and passions; great in the
ability to discover merit and genius wherever it lay hidden; great in
picturesque and eloquent speech; supremely great in the gift of
firing the hearts of hopeless men and noble enthusiasms, the gift of
turning hares into heroes, slaves and skulkers into battalions that
march to death with songs on their lips. But all these are exalting
activities; they keep hand and heart and brain keyed up to their
work; there is the joy of achievement, the inspiration of stir and
movement, the applause which hails success; the soul is
overflowing with life and energy, the faculties are at white heat;
weariness, despondency, inertia--these do not exist.

Yes, Joan of Arc was great always, great everywhere, but she was
greatest in the Rouen trials.

There she rose above the limitations and infirmities of our human
nature, and accomplished under blighting and unnerving and
hopeless conditions all that her splendid equipment of moral and
intellectual forces could have accomplished if they had been
supplemented by the mighty helps of hope and cheer and light, the
presence of friendly faces, and a fair and equal fight, with the great
world looking on and wondering.

Chapter 18 Condemned Yet Unafraid

TOWARD THE END of the ten-day interval the University of
Paris rendered its decision concerning the Twelve Articles. By this
finding, Joan was guilty upon all the counts: she must renounce her
errors and make satisfaction, or be abandoned to the secular arm
for punishment.

The University's mind was probably already made up before the
Articles were laid before it; yet it took it from the fifth to the
eighteenth to produce its verdict. I think the delay may have been
caused by temporary difficulties concerning two points:

1. As to who the fiends were who were represented in Joan's
Voices; 2. As to whether her saints spoke French only.

You understand, the University decided emphatically that it was
fiends who spoke in those Voices; it would need to prove that, and
it did. It found out who those fiends were, and named them in the
verdict: Belial, Satan, and Behemoth. This has always seemed a
doubtful thing to me, and not entitled to much credit. I think so for
this reason: if the University had actually known it was those three,
it would for very consistency's sake have told how it knew it, and
not stopped with the mere assertion, since it had made joan explain
how she knew they were not fiends. Does not that seem
reasonable? To my mind the University's position was weak, and I
will tell you why. It had claimed that Joan's angels were devils in
disguise, and we all know that devils do disguise themselves as
angels; up to that point the University's position was strong; but
you see yourself that it eats its own argument when it turns around
and pretends that it can tell who such apparitions are, while
denying the like ability to a person with as good a head on her
shoulders as the best one the University could produce.

The doctors of the University had to see those creatures in order to
know; and if Joan was deceived, it is argument that they in their
turn could also be deceived, for their insight and judgment were
surely not clearer than hers.

As to the other point which I have thought may have proved a
difficulty and cost the University delay, I will touch but a moment
upon that, and pass on. The University decided that it was
blasphemy for Joan to say that her saints spoke French and not
English, and were on the French side in political sympathies. I
think that the thing which troubled the doctors of theology was
this: they had decided that the three Voices were Satan and two
other devils; but they had also decided that these Voices were not
on the French side--thereby tacitly asserting that they were on the
English side; and if on the English side, then they must be angels
and not devils. Otherwise, the situation was embarrassing. You
see, the University being the wisest and deepest and most erudite
body in the world, it would like to be logical if it could, for the
sake of its reputation; therefore it would study and study, days and
days, trying to find some good common-sense reason for proving
the Voices to be devils in Article No. 1 and proving them to be
angels in Article No. 10. However, they had to give it up. They
found no way out; and so, to this day, the University's verdict
remains just so--devils in No. 1, angels in No. 10; and no way to
reconcile the discrepancy.

The envoys brought the verdict to Rouen, and with it a letter for
Cauchon which was full of fervid praise. The University
complimented him on his zeal in hunting down this woman
"whose venom had infected the faithful of the whole West," and as
recompense it as good as promised him "a crown of imperishable
glory in heaven." Only that!--a crown in heaven; a promissory note
and no indorser; always something away off yonder; not a word
about the Archbishopric of Rouen, which was the thing Cauchon
was destroying his soul for. A crown in heaven; it must have
sounded like a sarcasm to him, after all his hard work. What
should he do in heaven? he did not know anybody there.

On the nineteenth of May a court of fifty judges sat in the
archiepiscopal palace to discuss Joan's fate. A few wanted her
delivered over to the secular arm at once for punishment, but the
rest insisted that she be once more "charitably admonished" first.

So the same court met in the castle on the twenty-third, and Joan
was brought to the bar. Pierre Maurice, a canon of Rouen, made a
speech to Joan in which he admonished her to save her life and her
soul by renouncing her errors and surrendering to the Church. He
finished with a stern threat: if she remained obstinate the
damnation of her soul was certain, the destruction of her body
probable. But Joan was immovable. She said:

"If I were under sentence, and saw the fire before me, and the
executioner ready to light it--more, if I were in the fire itself, I
would say none but the things which I have said in these trials; and
I would abide by them till I died."

A deep silence followed now, which endured some moments. It lay
upon me like a weight. I knew it for an omen. Then Cauchon,
grave and solemn, turned to Pierre Maurice:

"Have you anything further to say?"

The priest bowed low, and said:

"Nothing, my lord."

"Prisoner at the bar, have you anything further to say?"

"Nothing."

"Then the debate is closed. To-morrow, sentence will be
pronounced. Remove the prisoner."

She seemed to go from the place erect and noble. But I do not
know; my sight was dim with tears.

To-morrow--twenty-fourth of May! Exactly a year since I saw her
go speeding across the plain at the head of her troops, her silver
helmet shining, her silvery cape fluttering in the wind, her white
plumes flowing, her sword held aloft; saw her charge the
Burgundian camp three times, and carry it; saw her wheel to the
right and spur for the duke's reserves; saws her fling herself against
it in the last assault she was ever to make. And now that fatal day
was come again--and see what it was bringing!

Chapter 19 Our Last Hopes of Rescue Fail

JOAN HAD been adjudged guilty of heresy, sorcery, and all the
other terrible crimes set forth in the Twelve Articles, and her life
was in Cauchon's hands at last. He could send her to the stake at
once. His work was finished now, you think? He was satisfied?
Not at all. What would his Archbishopric be worth if the people
should get the idea into their heads that this faction of interested
priests, slaving under the English lash, had wrongly condemned
and burned Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France? That would be to
make of her a holy martyr. Then her spirit would rise from her
body's ashes, a thousandfold reinforced, and sweep the English
domination into the sea, and Cauchon along with it. No, the
victory was not complete yet. Joan's guilt must be established by
evidence which would satisfy the people. Where was that evidence
to be found? There was only one person in the world who could
furnish it--Joan of Arc herself. She must condemn herself, and in
public--at least she must seem to do it.

But how was this to be managed? Weeks had been spent already in
trying to get her to surrender--time wholly wasted; what was to
persuade her now? Torture had been threatened, the fire had been
threatened; what was left? Illness, deadly fatigue, and the sight of
the fire, the presence of the fire! That was left.

Now that was a shrewd thought. She was but a girl after all, and,
under illness and exhaustion, subject to a girl's weaknesses.

Yes, it was shrewdly thought. She had tacitly said herself that
under the bitter pains of the rack they would be able to extort a
false confession from her. It was a hint worth remembering, and it
was remembered.

She had furnished another hint at the same time: that as soon as the
pains were gone, she would retract the confession. That hint was
also remembered.

She had herself taught them what to do, you see. First, they must
wear out her strength, then frighten her with the fire. Second,
while the fright was on her, she must be made to sign a paper.

But she would demand a reading of the paper. They could not
venture to refuse this, with the public there to hear. Suppose that
during the reading her courage should return?--she would refuse to
sign then. Very well, even that difficulty could be got over. They
could read a short paper of no importance, then slip a long and
deadly one into its place and trick her into signing that.

Yet there was still one other difficulty. If they made her seem to
abjure, that would free her from the death-penalty. They could
keep her in a prison of the Church, but they could not kill her.

That would not answer; for only her death would content the
English. Alive she was a terror, in a prison or out of it. She had
escaped from two prisons already.

But even that difficulty could be managed. Cauchon would make
promises to her; in return she would promise to leave off the male
dress. He would violate his promises, and that would so situate her
that she would not be able to keep hers. Her lapse would condemn
her to the stake, and the stake would be ready.

These were the several moves; there was nothing to do but to make
them, each in its order, and the game was won. One might almost
name the day that the betrayed girl, the most innocent creature in
France and the noblest, would go to her pitiful death.

The world knows now that Cauchon's plan was as I have sketched
it to you, but the world did not know it at that time. There are
sufficient indications that Warwick and all the other English chiefs
except the highest one--the Cardinal of Winchester--were not let
into the secret, also, that only Loyseleur and Beaupere, on the
French side, knew the scheme. Sometimes I have doubted if even
Loyseleur and Beaupere knew the whole of it at first. However, if
any did, it was these two.

It is usual to let the condemned pass their last night of life in
peace, but this grace was denied to poor Joan, if one may credit the
rumors of the time. Loyseleur was smuggled into her presence, and
in the character of priest, friend, and secret partisan of France and
hater of England, he spent some hours in beseeching her to do "the
only right an righteous thing"--submit to the Church, as a good
Christian should; and that then she would straightway get out of
the clutches of the dreaded English and be transferred to the
Church's prison, where she would be honorably used and have
women about her for jailers. He knew where to touch her. He knew
how odious to her was the presence of her rough and profane
English guards; he knew that her Voices had vaguely promised
something which she interpreted to be escape, rescue, release of
some sort, and the chance to burst upon France once more and
victoriously complete the great work which she had been
commissioned of Heaven to do. Also there was that other thing: if
her failing body could be further weakened by loss of rest and
sleep now, her tired mind would be dazed and drowsy on the
morrow, and in ill condition to stand out against persuasions,
threats, and the sight of the stake, and also be purblind to traps and
snares which it would be swift to detect when in its normal estate.

I do not need to tell you that there was no rest for me that night.
Nor for No‰l. We went to the main gate of the city before nightfall,
with a hope in our minds, based upon that vague prophecy of
Joan's Voices which seemed to promise a rescue by force at the
last moment. The immense news had flown swiftly far and wide
that at last Joan of Arc was condemned, and would be sentenced
and burned alive on the morrow; and so crowds of people were
flowing in at the gate, and other crowds were being refused
admission by the soldiery; these being people who brought
doubtful passes or none at all. We scanned these crowds eagerly,
but thee was nothing about them to indicate that they were our old
war-comrades in disguise, and certainly there were no familiar
faces among them. And so, when the gate was closed at last, we
turned away grieved, and more disappointed than we cared to
admit, either in speech or thought.

The streets were surging tides of excited men. It was difficult to
make one's way. Toward midnight our aimless tramp brought us to
the neighborhood of the beautiful church of St. Ouen, and there all
was bustle and work. The square was a wilderness of torches and
people; and through a guarded passage dividing the pack, laborers
were carrying planks and timbers and disappearing with them
through the gate of the churchyard. We asked what was going
forward; the answer was:

"Scaffolds and the stake. Don't you know that the French witch is
to be burned in the morning?"

Then we went away. We had no heart for that place.

At dawn we were at the city gate again; this time with a hope
which our wearied bodies and fevered minds magnified into a
large probability. We had heard a report that the Abbot of
JumiŠges with all his monks was coming to witness the burning.
Our desire, abetted by our imagination, turned those nine hundred
monks into Joan's old campaigners, and their Abbot into La Hire or
the Bastard or D'Alen‡on; and we watched them file in,
unchallenged, the multitude respectfully dividing and uncovering
while they passed, with our hearts in our throats and our eyes
swimming with tears of joy and pride and exultation; and we tried
to catch glimpses of the faces under the cowls, and were prepared
to give signal to any recognized face that we were Joan's men and
ready and eager to kill and be killed in the good cause. How
foolish we were!

But we were young, you know, and youth hopeth all things,
believeth all things.

Chapter 20 The Betrayal

IN THE MORNING I was at my official post. It was on a platform
raised the height of a man, in the churchyard, under the eaves of
St. Ouen. On this same platform was a crowd of priests and
important citizens, and several lawyers. Abreast it, with a small
space between, was another and larger platform, handsomely
canopied against sun and rain, and richly carpeted; also it was
furnished with comfortable chairs, and with two which were more
sumptuous than the others, and raised above the general level. One
of these two was occupied by a prince of the royal blood of
England, his Eminence the Cardinal of Winchester; the other by
Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais. In the rest of the chairs sat three
bishops, the Vice-Inquisitor, eight abbots, and the sixty-two friars
and lawyers who had sat as Joan's judges in her late trials.

Twenty steps in front of the platforms was another--a table-topped
pyramid of stone, built up in retreating courses, thus forming steps.
Out of this rose that grisly thing, the stake; about the stake bundles
of fagots and firewood were piled. On the ground at the base of the
pyramid stood three crimson figures, the executioner and his
assistants. At their feet lay what had been a goodly heap of brands,
but was now a smokeless nest of ruddy coals; a foot or two from
this was a supplemental supply of wood and fagots compacted into
a pile shoulder-high and containing as much as six packhorse
loads. Think of that. We seem so delicately made, so destructible,
so insubstantial; yet it is easier to reduce a granite statue to ashes
than it is to do that with a man's body.

The sight of the stake sent physical pains tingling down the nerves
of my body; and yet, turn as I would, my eyes would keep coming
back t it, such fascination has the gruesome and the terrible for us.

The space occupied by the platforms and the stake was kept open
by a wall of English soldiery, standing elbow to elbow, erect and
stalwart figures, fine and sightly in their polished steel; while from
behind them on every hand str4etched far away a level plain of
human heads; and there was no window and no housetop within
our view, howsoever distant, but was black with patches and
masses of people.

But there was no noise, no stir; it was as if the world was dead.
The impressiveness of this silence and solemnity was deepened by
a leaden twilight, for the sky was hidden by a pall of low-hanging
storm-clouds; and above the remote horizon faint winkings of
heat-lightning played, and now and then one caught the dull
mutterings and complainings of distant thunder.

At last the stillness was broken. From beyond the square rose an
indistinct sound, but familiar--court, crisp phrases of command;
next I saw the plain of heads dividing, and the steady swing of a
marching host was glimpsed between. My heart leaped for a
moment. Was it La Hire and his hellions? No--that was not their
gait. No, it was the prisoner and her escort; it was Joan of Arc,
under guard, that was coming; my spirits sank as low as they had
been before. Weak as she was they made her walk; they would
increase her weakness all they could. The distance was not
great--it was but a few hundred yards--but short as it was it was a
heavy tax upon one who had been lying chained in one spot for
months, and whose feet had lost their powers from inaction. Yes,
and for a year Joan had known only the cool damps of a dungeon,
and now she was dragging herself through this sultry summer heat,
this airless and suffocating void. As she entered the gate, drooping
with exhaustion, there was that creature Loyseleur at her side with
his head bent to her ear. We knew afterward that he had been with
her again this morning in the prison wearying her with his
persuasions and enticing her with false promises, and that he was
now still at the same work at the gate, imploring her to yield
everything that would be required of her, and assuring her that if
she would do this all would be well with her: she would be rid of
the dreaded English and find safety in the powerful shelter and
protection of the Church. A miserable man, a stony-hearted man!

The moment Joan was seated on the platform she closed her eyes
and allowed her chin to fall; and so sat, with her hands nestling in
her lap, indifferent to everything, caring for nothing but rest. And
she was so white again--white as alabaster.

How the faces of that packed mass of humanity lighted up with
interest, and with what intensity all eyes gazed upon this fragile
girl! And how natural it was; for these people realized that at last
they were looking upon that person whom they had so long
hungered to see; a person whose name and fame filled all Europe,
and made all other names and all other renowns insignificant by
comparions; Joan of Arc, the wonder of the time, and destined to
be the wonder of all times!

And I could read as by print, in their marveling countenances, the
words that were drifting through their minds: "Can it be true, is it
believable, that it is this little creature, this girl, this child with the
good face, the sweet face, the beautiful face, the dear and bonny
face, that has carried fortresses by storm, charged at the head of
victorious armies, blown the might of England out of her path with
a breath, and fought a long campaign, solitary and alone, against
the massed brains and learning of France--and had won it if the
fight had been fair!"

Evidently Cauchon had grown afraid of Manchon because of his
pretty apparent leanings toward Joan, for another recorder was in
the chief place here, which left my master and me nothing to do
but sit idle and look on.

Well, I suppose that everything had been done which could be
thought of to tire Joan's body and mind, but it was a mistake; one
more device had been invented. This was to preach a long sermon
to her in that oppressive heat.

When the preacher began, she cast up one distressed and
disappointed look, then dropped her head again. This preacher was
Guillaume Erard, an oratorical celebrity. He got his text from the
Twelve Lies. He emptied upon Joan al the calumnies in detail that
had been bottled up in that mass of venom, and called her all the
brutal names that the Twelve were labeled with, working himself
into a whirlwind of fury as he went on; but his labors were wasted,
she seemed lost in dreams, she made no sign, she did not seem to
hear. At last he launched this apostrophe:

"O France, how hast thou been abused! Thou hast always been the
home of Christianity; but now, Charles, who calls himself thy King
and governor, indorses, like the heretic and schismatic that he is,
the words and deeds of a worthless and infamous woman!" Joan
raised her head, and her eyes began to burn and flash. The
preacher turned to her: "It is to you, Joan, that I speak, and I tell
you that your King is schismatic and a heretic!"

Ah, he might abuse her to his heart's content; she could endure
that; but to her dying moment she could never hear in patience a
word against that ingrate, that treacherous dog our King, whose
proper place was here, at this moment, sword in hand, routing
these reptiles and saving this most noble servant that ever King
had in this world--and he would have been there if he had not been
what I have called him. Joan's loyal soul was outraged, and she
turned upon the preacher and flung out a few words with a spirit
which the crowd recognized as being in accordance with the Joan
of Arc traditions:

"By my faith, sir! I make bold to say and swear, on pain of death,
that he is the most noble Christian of all Christians, and the best
lover of the faith and the Church!"

There was an explosion of applause from the crowd--which
angered the preacher, for he had been aching long to hear an
expression like this, and now that it was come at last it had fallen
to the wrong person: he had done all the work; the other had
carried off all the spoil. He stamped his foot and shouted to the
sheriff:

"Make her shut up!"

That made the crowd laugh.

A mob has small respect for a grown man who has to call on a
sheriff to protect him from a sick girl.

Joan had damaged the preacher's cause more with one sentence
than he had helped it with a hundred; so he was much put out, and
had trouble to get a good start again. But he needn't have bothered;
thee was no occasion. It was mainly an English-feeling mob. It had
but obeyed a law of our nature--an irresistible law--to enjoy and
applaud a spirited and promptly delivered retort, no matter who
makes it. The mob was with the preacher; it had been beguiled for
a moment, but only that; it would soon return. It was there to see
this girl burnt; so that it got that satisfaction--without too much
delay--it would be content.

Presently the preacher formally summoned Joan to submit to the
Church. He made the demand with confidence, for he had gotten
the idea from Loyseleur and Beaupere that she was worn to the
bone, exhausted, and would not be able to put forth any more
resistance; and, indeed, to look at her it seemed that they must be
right. Nevertheless, she made one more effort to hold her ground,
and said, wearily:

"As to that matter, I have answered my judges before. I have told
them to report all that I have said and done to our Holy Father the
Pope--to whom, and to God first, I appeal."

Again, out of her native wisdom, she had brought those words of
tremendous import, but was ignorant of their value. But they could
have availed her nothing in any case, now, with the stake there and
these thousands of enemies about her. Yet they made every
churchman there blench, and the preacher changed the subject
with all haste. Well might those criminals blench, for Joan's appeal
of her case to the Pope stripped Cauchon at once of jurisdiction
over it, and annulled all that he and his judges had already done in
the matter and all that they should do in it henceforth.

Joan went on presently to reiterate, after some further talk, that she
had acted by command of God in her deeds and utterances; then,
when an attempt was made to implicate the King, and friends of
hers and his, she stopped that. She said:

"I charge my deeds and words upon no one, neither upon my King
nor any other. If there is any fault in them, I am responsible and no
other."

She was asked if she would not recant those of her words and
deeds which had been pronounced evil by her judges. Here answer
made confusion and damage again:

"I submit them to God and the Pope."

The Pope once more! It was very embarrassing. Here was a person
who was asked to submit her case to the Church, and who frankly
consents--offers to submit it to the very head of it. What more
could any one require? How was one to answer such a formidably
unanswerable answer as that?

The worried judges put their heads together and whispered and
planned and discussed. Then they brought forth this sufficiently
shambling conclusion--but it was the best they could do, in so
close a place: they said the Pope was so far away; and it was not
necessary to go to him anyway, because the present judges had
sufficient power and authority to deal with the present case, and
were in effect "the Church" to that extent. At another time they
could have smiled at this conceit, but not now; they were not
comfortable enough now.

The mob was getting impatient. It was beginning to put on a
threatening aspect; it was tired of standing, tired of the scorching
heat; and the thunder was coming nearer, the lightning was
flashing brighter. It was necessary to hurry this matter to a close.
Erard showed Joan a written form, which had been prepared and
made all ready beforehand, and asked her to abjure.

"Abjure? What is abjure?"

She did not know the word. It was explained to her by Massieu.
She tried to understand, but she was breaking, under exhaustion,
and she could not gather the meaning. It was all a jumble and
confusion of strange words. In her despair she sent out this
beseeching cry:

"I appeal to the Church universal whether I ought to abjure or not!"

Erard exclaimed:

"You shall abjure instantly, or instantly be burnt!"

She glanced up, at those awful words, and for the first time she
saw the stake and the mass of red coals--redder and angrier than
ever now under the constantly deepening storm-gloom. She gasped
and staggered up out of her seat muttering and mumbling
incoherently, and gazed vacantly upon the people and the scene
about her like one who is dazed, or thinks he dreams, and does not
know where he is.

The priests crowded about her imploring her to sign the paper,
there were many voices beseeching and urging her at once, there
was great turmoil and shouting and excitement among the
populace and everywhere.

"Sign! sign!" from the priests; "sign--sign and be saved!" And
Loyseleur was urging at her ear, "Do as I told you--do not destroy
yourself!"

Joan said plaintively to these people:

"Ah, you do not do well to seduce me."

The judges joined their voices to the others. Yes, even the iron in
their hearts melted, and they said:

"O Joan, we pity you so! Take back what you have said, or we
must deliver you up to punishment."

And now there was another voice--it was from the other
platform--pealing solemnly above the din: Cauchon's--reading the
sentence of death!

Joan's strength was all spent. She stood looking about her in a
bewildered way a moment, then slowly she sank to her knees, and
bowed her head and said:

"I submit."

They gave her no time to reconsider--they knew the peril of that.
The moment the words were out of her mouth Massieu was
reading to her the abjuration, and she was repeating the words after
him mechanically, unconsciously--and smiling; for her wandering
mind was far away in some happier world.

Then this short paper of six lines was slipped aside and a long one
of many pages was smuggled into its place, and she, noting
nothing, put her mark on it, saying, in pathetic apology, that she
did not know how to write. But a secretary of the King of England
was there to take care of that defect; he guided her hand with his
own, and wrote her name--Jehanne.

The great crime was accomplished. She had signed--what? She did
not know--but the others knew. She had signed a paper confessing
herself a sorceress, a dealer with devils, a liar, a blasphermer of
God and His angels, a lover of blood, a promoter of sedition, cruel,
wicked, commissioned of Satan; and this signature of hers bound
her to resume the dress of a woman.

There were other promises, but that one would answer, without the
others; and that one could be made to destroy her.

Loyseleur pressed forward and praised her for having done "such a
good day's work."

But she was still dreamy, she hardly heard.

Then Cauchon pronounced the words which dissolved the
excommunication and and restored her to her beloved Church,
with all the dear privileges of worship. Ah, she heard that! You
could see it in the deep gratitude that rose in her face and
transfigured it with joy.

But how transient was that happiness! For Cauchon, without a
tremor of pity in his voice, added these crushing words:

"And that she may repent of her crimes and repeat them no more,
she is sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, with the bread of
affliction and the water of anguish!"

Perpetual imprisonment! She had never dreamed of that--such a
thing had never been hinted to her by Loyseleur or by any other.
Loyseleur had distinctly said and promised that "all would be well
with her." And the very last words spoken to her by Erard, on that
very platform, when he was urging her to abjure, was a straight,
unqualified promised--that if she would do it she should go free
from captivity.

She stood stunned and speechless a moment; then she
remembered, with such solacement as the thought could furnish,
that by another clear promise made by Cauchon himself--she
would at least be the Church's captive, and have women about her
in place of a brutal foreign soldiery. So she turned to the body of
priests and said, with a sad resignation:

"Now, you men of the Church, take me to your prison, and leave
me no longer in the hands of the English"; and she gathered up her
chains and prepared to move.

But alas! now came these shameful words from Cauchon--and with
them a mocking laugh:

"Take her to the prison whence she came!"

Poor abused girl! She stood dumb, smitten, paralyzed. It was
pitiful to see. She had been beguiled, lied to, betrayed; she saw it
all now.

The rumbling of a drum broke upon the stillness, and for just one
moment she thought of the glorious deliverance promised by her
Voices--I read it in the rapture that lit her face; then she saw what
it was--her prison escort--and that light faded, never to revive
again. And now her head began a piteous rocking motion, swaying
slowly, this way and that, as is the way when one is suffering
unwordable pain, or when one's heart is broken; then drearily she
went from us, with her face in her hands, and sobbing bitterly.

Chapter 21 Respited Only for Torture

THERE IS no certainty that any one in all Rouen was in the secret
of the deep game which Cauchon was playing except the Cardinal
of Winchester. Then you can imagine the astonishment and
stupefaction of that vast mob gathered there and those crowds of
churchmen assembled on the two platforms, when they saw Joan
of Arc moving away, alive and whole--slipping out of their grip at
last, after all this tedious waiting, all this tantalizing expectancy.

Nobody was able to stir or speak for a while, so paralyzing was the
universal astonishment, so unbelievable the fact that the stake was
actually standing there unoccupied and its prey gone.

Then suddenly everybody broke into a fury of rage; maledictions
and charges of treachery began to fly freely; yes, and even stones:
a stone came near killing the Cardinal of Winchester--it just
missed his head. But the man who threw it was not to blame, for
he was excited, and a person who is excited never can throw
straight.

The tumult was very great, indeed, for a while. In the midst of it a
chaplain of the Cardinal even forgot the proprieties so far as to
oppobriously assail the august Bishop of Beauvais himself,
shaking his fist in his face and shouting:

"By God, you are a traitor!"

"You lie!" responded the Bishop.

He a traitor! Oh, far from it; he certainly was the last Frenchman
that any Briton had a right to bring that charge against.

The Early of Warwick lost his temper, too. He was a doughty
soldier, but when it came to the intellectuals--when it came to
delicate chicane, and scheming, and trickery--he couldn't see any
further through a millstone than another. So he burst out in his
frank warrior fashion, and swore that the King of England was
being treacherously used, and that Joan of Arc was going to be
allowed to cheat the stake. But they whispered comfort into his
ear:

"Give yourself no uneasiness, my lord; we shall soon have her
again."

Perhaps the like tidings found their way all around, for good news
travels fast as well as bad. At any rate, the ragings presently
quieted down, and the huge concourse crumbled apart and
disappeared. And thus we reached the noon of that fearful
Thursday.

We two youths were happy; happier than any words can tell--for
we were not in the secret any more than the rest. Joan's life was
saved. We knew that, and that was enough. France would hear of
this day's infamous work--and then! Why, then her gallant sons
would flock to her standard by thousands and thousands,
multitudes upon multitudes, and their wrath would be like the
wrath of the ocean when the storm-winds sweep it; and they would
hurl themselves against this doomed city and overwhelm it like the
resistless tides of that ocean, and Joan of Arc would march again!

In six days--seven days--one short week--noble France, grateful
France, indignant France, would be thundering at these gates--let
us count the hours, let us count the minutes, let us count the
seconds! O happy day, O day of ecstasy, how our hearts sang in
our bosoms!

For we were young then, yes, we were very young.

Do you think the exhausted prisoner was allowed to rest and sleep
after she had spent the small remnant of her strength in dragging
her tired body back to the dungeon?

No, there was no rest for her, with those sleuth-hounds on her
track. Cauchon and some of his people followed her to her lair
straightway; they found her dazed and dull, her mental and
physical forces in a state of prostration. They told her she had
abjured; that she had made certain promises--among them, to
resume the apparel of her sex; and that if she relapsed, the Church
would cast her out for good and all. She heard the words, but they
had no meaning to her. She was like a person who has taken a
narcotic and is dying for sleep, dying for rest from nagging, dying
to be let alone, and who mechanically does everything the
persecutor asks, taking but dull note of the things done, and but
dully recording them in the memory. And so Joan put on the gown
which Cauchon and his people had brought; and would come to
herself by and by, and have at first but a dim idea as to when and
how the change had come about.

Cauchon went away happy and content. Joan had resumed
woman's dress without protest; also she had been formally warned
against relapsing. He had witnesses to these facts. How could
matters be better?

But suppose she should not relapse?

Why, then she must be forced to do it.

Did Cauchon hint to the English guards that thenceforth if they
chose to make their prisoner's captivity crueler and bitterer than
ever, no official notice would be taken of it? Perhaps so; since the
guards did begin that policy at once, and no official notice was
taken of it. Yes, from that moment Joan's life in that dungeon was
made almost unendurable. Do not ask me to enlarge upon it. I will
not do it.

Chapter 22 Joan Gives the Fatal Answer

FRIDAY and Saturday were happy days for No‰l and me. Our
minds were full of our splendid dream of France aroused--France
shaking her mane--France on the march--France at the
gates--Rouen in ashes, and Joan free! Our imagination was on fire;
we were delirious with pride and joy. For we were very young, as I
have said.

We knew nothing about what had been happening in the dungeon
in the yester-afternoon. We supposed that as Joan had abjured and
been taken back into the forgiving bosom of the Church, she was
being gently used now, and her captivity made as pleasant and
comfortable for her as the circumstances would allow. So, in high
contentment, we planned out our share in the great rescue, and
fought our part of the fight over and over again during those two
happy days--as happy days as ever I have known.

Sunday morning came. I was awake, enjoying the balmy, lazy
weather, and thinking. Thinking of the rescue--what else? I had no
other thought now. I was absorbed in that, drunk with the
happiness of it.

I heard a voice shouting far down the street, and soon it came
nearer, and I caught the words:

"Joan of Arc has relapsed! The witch's time has come!"

It stopped my heart, it turned my blood to ice. That was more than
sixty years ago, but that triumphant note rings as clear in my
memory to-day as it rang in my ear that long-vanished summer
morning. We are so strangely made; the memories that could make
us happy pass away; it is the memories that break our hearts that
abide.

Soon other voices took up that cry--tens, scores, hundreds of
voices; all the world seemed filled with the brutal joy of it. And
there were other clamors--the clatter of rushing feet, merry
congratulations, bursts of coarse laughter, the rolling of drums, the
boom and crash of distant bands profaning the sacred day with the
music of victory and thanksgiving.

About the middle of the afternoon came a summons for Manchon
and me to go to Joan's dungeon--a summons from Cauchon. But by
that time distrust had already taken possession of the English and
their soldiery again, and all Rouen was in an angry and threatening
mood. We could see plenty of evidences of this from our own
windows--fist-shaking, black looks, tumultuous tides of furious
men billowing by along the street.

And we learned that up at the castle things were going very badly,
indeed; that there was a great mob gathered there who considered
the relapse a lie and a priestly trick, and among them many
half-drunk English soldiers. Moreover, these people had gone
beyond words. They had laid hands upon a number of churchmen
who were trying to enter the castle, and it had been difficult work
to rescue them and save their lives.

And so Manchon refused to go. He said he would not go a step
without a safeguard from Warwick. So next morning Warwick sent
an escort of soldiers, and then we went. Matters had not grown
peacefuler meantime, but worse. The soldiers protected us from
bodily damage, but as we passed through the great mob at the
castle we were assailed with insults and shameful epithets. I bore it
well enough, though, and said to myself, with secret satisfaction,
"In three or four short days, my lads, you will be employing your
tongues in a different sort from this--and I shall be there to hear."

To my mind these were as good as dead men. How many of them
would still be alive after the rescue that was coming? Not more
than enough to amuse the executioner a short half-hour, certainly.

It turned out that the report was true. Joan had relapsed. She was
sitting there in her chains, clothed again in her male attire.

She accused nobody. That was her way. It was not in her character
to hold a servant to account for what his master had made him do,
and her mind had cleared now, and she knew that the advantage
which had been taken of her the previous morning had its origin,
not in the subordinate but in the master--Cauchon.

Here is what had happened. While Joan slept, in the early morning
of Sunday, one of the guards stole her female apparel and put her
male attire in its place. When she woke she asked for the other
dress, but the guards refused to give it back. She protested, and
said she was forbidden to wear the male dress. But they continued
to refuse. She had to have clothing, for modesty's sake; moreover,
she saw that she could not save her life if she must fight for it
against treacheries like this; so she put on the forbidden garments,
knowing what the end would be. She was weary of the struggle,
poor thing.

We had followed in the wake of Cauchon, the Vice-Inquisitor, and
the others--six or eight--and when I saw Joan sitting there,
despondent, forlorn, and still in chains, when I was expecting to
find her situation so different, I did not know what to make of it.
The shock was very great. I had doubted the relapse perhaps;
possibly I had believed in it, but had not realized it.

Cauchon's victory was complete. He had had a harassed and
irritated and disgusted look for a long time, but that was all gone
now, and contentment and serenity had taken its place. His purple
face was full of tranquil and malicious happiness. He went trailing
his robes and stood grandly in front of Joan, with his legs apart,
and remained so more than a minute, gloating over her and
enjoying the sight of this poor ruined creature, who had won so
lofty a place for him in the service of the meek and merciful Jesus,
Saviour of the World, Lord of the Universe--in case England kept
her promise to him, who kept no promises himself.

Presently the judges began to question Joan. One of them, named
Marguerie, who was a man with more insight than prudence,
remarked upon Joan's change of clothing, and said:

"There is something suspicious about this. How could it have come
about without connivance on the part of others? Perhaps even
something worse?"

"Thousand devils!" screamed Cauchon, in a fury. "Will you shut
your mouth?"

"Armagnac! Traitor!" shouted the soldiers on guard, and made a
rush for Marguerie with their lances leveled. It was with the
greatest difficulty that he was saved from being run through the
body. He made no more attempts to help the inquiry, poor man.
The other judges proceeded with the questionings.

"Why have you resumed this male habit?"

I did not quite catch her answer, for just then a soldier's halberd
slipped from his fingers and fell on the stone floor with a crash;
but I thought I understood Joan to say that she had resumed it of
her own motion.

"But you have promised and sworn that you would not go back to
it."

I was full of anxiety to hear her answer to that question; and when
it came it was just what I was expecting. She said--quiet quietly:

"I have never intended and never understood myself to swear I
would not resume it."

There--I had been sure, all along, that she did not know what she
was doing and saying on the platform Thursday, and this answer of
hers was proof that I had not been mistaken. Then she went on to
add this:

"But I had a right to resume it, because the promises made to me
have not been kept--promises that I should be allowed to go to
mass and receive the communion, and that I should be freed from
the bondage of these chains--but they are still upon me, as you
see."

"Nevertheless, you have abjured, and have especially promised to
return no more to the dress of a man."

Then Joan held out her fettered hands sorrowfully toward these
unfeeling men and said:

"I would rather die than continue so. But if they may be taken off,
and if I may hear mass, and be removed to a penitential prison, and
have a woman about me, I will be good, and will do what shall
seem good to you that I do."

Cauchon sniffed scoffingly at that. Honor the compact which he
and his had made with her?

Fulfil its conditions? What need of that? Conditions had been a
good thing to concede, temporarily, and for advantage; but they
have served their turn--let something of a fresher sort and of more
consequence be considered. The resumption of the male dress was
sufficient for all practical purposes, but perhaps Joan could be led
to add something to that fatal crime. So Cauchon asked her if her
Voices had spoken to her since Thursday--and he reminded her of
her abjuration.

"Yes," she answered; and then it came out that the Voices had
talked with her about the abjuration--told her about it, I suppose.
She guilelessly reasserted the heavenly origin of her mission, and
did it with the untroubled mien of one who was not conscious that
she had ever knowingly repudiated it. So I was convinced once
more that she had had no notion of what she was doing that
Thursday morning on the platform. Finally she said, "My Voices
told me I did very wrong to confess that what I had done was not
well." Then she sighed, and said with simplicity, "But it was the
fear of the fire that made me do so."

That is, fear of the fire had made her sign a paper whose contents
she had not understood then, but understood now by revelation of
her Voices and by testimony of her persecutors.

She was sane now and not exhausted; her courage had come back,
and with it her inborn loyalty to the truth. She was bravely and
serenely speaking it again, knowing that it would deliver her body
up to that very fire which had such terrors for her.

That answer of hers was quite long, quite frank, wholly free from
concealments or palliations. It made me shudder; I knew she was
pronouncing sentence of death upon herself. So did poor Manchon.
And he wrote in the margin abreast of it:

"RESPONSIO MORTIFERA."

Fatal answer. Yes, all present knew that it was, indeed, a fatal
answer. Then there fell a silence such as falls in a sick-room when
the watchers of the dying draw a deep breath and say softly one to
another, "All is over."

Here, likewise, all was over; but after some moments Cauchon,
wishing to clinch this matter and make it final, put this question:

"Do you still believe that your Voices are St. Marguerite and St.
Catherine?"

"Yes--and that they come from God."

"Yet you denied them on the scaffold?"

Then she made direct and clear affirmation that she had never had
any intention to deny them; and that if--I noted the if--"if she had
made some retractions and revocations on the scaffold it was from
fear of the fire, and it was a violation of the truth."

There it is again, you see. She certainly never knew what it was
she had done on the scaffold until she was told of it afterward by
these people and by her Voices.

And now she closed this most painful scene with these words; and
there was a weary note in them that was pathetic:

"I would rather do my penance all at once; let me die. I cannot
endure captivity any longer."

The spirit born for sunshine and liberty so longed for release that it
would take it in any form, even that.

Several among the company of judges went from the place
troubled and sorrowful, the others in another mood. In the court of
the castle we found the Earl of Warwick and fifty English waiting,
impatient for news. As soon as Cauchon saw them he
shouted--laughing--think of a man destroying a friendless poor girl
and then having the heart to laugh at it:

"Make yourselves comfortable--it's all over with her!"

Chapter 23 The Time Is at Hand

THE YOUNG can sink into abysses of despondency, and it was so
with No‰l and me now; but the hopes of the young are quick to
rise again, and it was so with ours. We called back that vague
promise of the Voices, and said the one to the other that the
glorious release was to happen at "the last moment"--"that other
time was not the last moment, but this is; it will happen now; the
King will come, La Hire will come, and with them our veterans,
and behind them all France!" And so we were full of heart again,
and could already hear, in fancy, that stirring music the clash of
steel and the war-cries and the uproar of the onset, and in fancy see
our prisoner free, her chains gone, her sword in her hand.

But this dream was to pass also, and come to nothing. Late at
night, when Manchon came in, he said:

"I am come from the dungeon, and I have a message for you from
that poor child."

A message to me! If he had been noticing I think he would have
discovered me--discovered that my indifference concerning the
prisoner was a pretense; for I was caught off my guard, and was so
moved and so exalted to be so honored by her that I must have
shown my feeling in my face and manner.

"A message for me, your reverence?"

"Yes. It is something she wishes done. She said she had noticed the
young man who helps me, and that he had a good face; and did I
think he would do a kindness for her? I said I knew you would, and
asked her what it was, and she said a letter--would you write a
letter to her mother?

And I said you would. But I said I would do it myself, and gladly;
but she said no, that my labors were heavy, and she thought the
young man would not mind the doing of this service for one not
able to do it for herself, she not knowing how to write. Then I
would have sent for you, and at that the sadness vanished out of
her face. Why, it was as if she was going to see a friend, poor
friendless thing. But I was not permitted. I did my best, but the
orders remain as strict as ever, the doors are closed against all but
officials; as before, none but officials may speak to her. So I went
back and told her, and she sighed, and was sad again. Now this is
what she begs you to write to her mother. It is partly a strange
message, and to me means nothing, but she said her mother would
understand. You will 'convey her adoring love to her family and
her village friends, and say there will be no rescue, for that this
night--and it is the third time in the twelvemonth, and is final--she
has seen the Vision of the Tree.'"

"How strange!"

"Yes, it is strange, but that is what she said; and said her parents
would understand. And for a little time she was lost in dreams and
thinkings, and her lips moved, and I caught in her muttering these
lines, which she said over two or three times, and they seemed to
bring peace and contentment to her. I set them down, thinking they
might have some connection with her letter and be useful; but it
was not so; they were a mere memory, floating idly in a tired
mind, and they have no meaning, at least no relevancy."

I took the piece of paper, and found what I knew I should find:

And when in exile wand'ring, we Shall fainting yearn for glimpse
of thee, Oh, rise upon our sight!

There was no hope any more. I knew it now. I knew that Joan's
letter was a message to No‰l and me, as well as to her family, and
that its object was to banish vain hopes from our minds and tell us
from her own mouth of the blow that was going to fall upon us, so
that we, being her soldiers, would know it for a command to bear
it as became us and her, and so submit to the will of God; and in
thus obeying, find assuagement of our grief. It was like her, for she
was always thinking of others, not of herself. Yes, her heart was
sore for us; she could find time to think of us, the humblest of her
servants, and try to soften our pain, lighten the burden of our
troubles--she that was drinking of the bitter waters; she that was
walking in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

I wrote the letter. You will know what it cost me, without my
telling you. I wrote it with the same wooden stylus which had put
upon parchment the first words ever dictated by Joan of Arc--that
high summons to the English to vacate France, two years past,
when she was a lass of seventeen; it had now set down the last
ones which she was ever to dictate. Then I broke it. For the pen
that had served Joan of Arc could not serve any that would come
after her in this earth without abasement.

The next day, May 29th, Cauchon summoned his serfs, and
forty-two responded. It is charitable to believe that the other
twenty were ashamed to come. The forty-two pronounced her a
relapsed heretic, and condemned her to be delivered over to the
secular arm. Cauchon thanked them.

Then he sent orders that Joan of Arc be conveyed the next morning
to the place known as the Old Market; and that she be then
delivered to the civil judge, and by the civil judge to the
executioner. That meant she would be burnt.

All the afternoon and evening of Tuesday, the 29th, the news was
flying, and the people of the country-side flocking to Rouen to see
the tragedy--all, at least, who could prove their English sympathies
and count upon admission. The press grew thicker and thicker in
the streets, the excitement grew higher and higher. And now a
thing was noticeable again which had been noticeable more than
once before--that there was pity for Joan in the hearts of many of
these people. Whenever she had been in great danger it had
manifested itself, and now it was apparent again--manifest in a
pathetic dumb sorrow which was visible in many faces.

Early the next morning, Wednesday, Martin Ladvenu and another
friat were sent to Joan to prepare her for death; and Manchon and I
went with them--a hard service for me. We tramped through the
dim corridors, winding this way and that, and piercing ever deeper
and deeper into that vast heart of stone, and at last we stood before
Joan. But she did not know it. She sat with her hands in her lap
and her head bowed, thinking, and her face was very sad. One
might not know what she was thinking of. Of her home, and the
peaceful pastures, and the friends she was no more to see? Of her
wrongs, and her forsaken estate, and the cruelties which had been
put upon her? Or was it of death--the death which she had longed
for, and which was now so close?

Or was it of the kind of death she must suffer? I hoped not; for she
feared only one kind, and that one had for her unspeakable terrors.
I believed she so feared that one that with her strong will she
would shut the thought of it wholly out of her mind, and hope and
believe that God would take pity on her and grant her an easier
one; and so it might chance that the awful news which we were
bringing might come as a surprise to her at last.

We stood silent awhile, but she was still unconscious of us, still
deep in her sad musings and far away. Then Martin Ladvenu said,
softly:

"Joan."

She looked up then, with a little start and a wan smile, and said:

"Speak. Have you a message for me?"

"Yes, my poor child. Try to bear it. Do you think you can bear it?"

"Yes"--very softly, and her head drooped again.

"I am come to prepare you for death."

A faint shiver trembled through her wasted body. There was a
pause. In the stillness we could hear our breathings. Then she said,
still in that low voice:

"When will it be?"

The muffled notes of a tolling bell floated to our ears out of the
distance.

"Now. The time is at hand."

That slight shiver passed again.

"It is so soon--ah, it is so soon!"

There was a long silence. The distant throbbings of the bell pulsed
through it, and we stood motionless and listening. But it was
broken at last:

"What death is it?"

"By fire!"

"oh, I knew it, I knew it!" She sprang wildly to her feet, and wound
her hands in her hair, and began to writhe and sob, oh, so
piteously, and mourn and grieve and lament, and turn to first one
and then another of us, and search our faces beseechingly, as
hoping she might find help and friendliness there, poor thing--she
that had never denied these to any creature, even her wounded
enemy on the battle-field.

"Oh, cruel, cruel, to treat me so! And must my body, that has never
been defiled, be consumed today and turned to ashes? Ah, sooner
would I that my head were cut off seven times than suffer this
woeful death. I had the promise of the Church's prison when I
submitted, and if I had but been there, and not left here in the
hands of my enemies, this miserable fate had not befallen me.

Oh, I appeal to God the Great Judge, against the injustice which
has been done me."

There was none there that could endure it. They turned away, with
the tears running down their faces. In a moment I was on my knees
at her feet. At once she thought only of my danger, and bent and
whispered in my hear: "Up!--do not peril yourself, good heart.
There--God bless you always!" and I felt the quick clasp of her
hand. Mine was the last hand she touched with hers in life. None
saw it; history does not know of it or tell of it, yet it is true, just as
I have told it. The next moment she saw Cauchon coming, and she
went and stood before him and reproached him, saying:

"Bishop, it is by you that I die!"

He was not shamed, not touched; but said, smoothly:

"Ah, be patient, Joan. You die because you have not kept your
promise, but have returned to your sins."

"Alas," she said, "if you had put me in the Church's prison, and
given me right and proper keepers, as you promised, this would not
have happened. And for this I summon you to answer before God!"

Then Cauchon winced, and looked less placidly content than
before, and he turned him about and went away.

Joan stood awhile musing. She grew calmer, but occasionally she
wiped her eyes, and now and then sobs shook her body; but their
violence was modifying now, and the intervals between them were
growing longer. Finally she looked up and saw Pierre Maurice,
who had come in with the Bishop, and she said to him:

"Master Peter, where shall I be this night?"

"Have you not good hope in God?"

"Yes--and by His grace I shall be in Paradise."

Now Martin Ladvenu heard her in confession; then she begged for
the sacrament. But how grant the communion to one who had been
publicly cut off from the Church, and was now no more entitled to
its privileges than an unbaptized pagan? The brother could not do
this, but he sent to Cauchon to inquire what he must do. All laws,
human and divine, were alike to that man--he respected none of
them. He sent back orders to grant Joan whatever she wished. Her
last speech to him had reached his fears, perhaps; it could not
reach his heart, for he had none.

The Eucharist was brought now to that poor soul that had yearned
for it with such unutterable longing all these desolate months. It
was a solemn moment. While we had been in the deeps of the
prison, the public courts of the castle had been filling up with
crowds of the humbler sort of men and women, who had learned
what was going on in Joan's cell, and had come with softened
hearts to do--they knew not what; to hear--they knew not what. We
knew nothing of this, for they were out of our view. And there
were other great crowds of the like caste gathered in masses
outside the castle gates. And when the lights and the other
accompaniments of the Sacrament passed by, coming to Joan in
the prison, all those multitudes kneeled down and began to pray
for her, and many wept; and when the solemn ceremony of the
communion began in Joan's cell, out of the distance a moving
sound was borne moaning to our ears--it was those invisible
multitudes chanting the litany for a departing soul.

The fear of the fiery death was gone from Joan of Arc now, to
come again no more, except for one fleeting instant--then it would
pass, and serenity and courage would take its place and abide till
the end.

Chapter 24 Joan the Martyr

AT NINE o'clock the Maid of Orleans, Deliverer of France, went
forth in the grace of her innocence and her youth to lay down her
life for the country she loved with such devotion, and for the King
that had abandoned her. She sat in the cart that is used only for
felons. In one respect she was treated worse than a felon; for
whereas she was on her way to be sentenced by the civil arm, she
already bore her judgment inscribed in advance upon a
miter-shaped cap which she wore:

HERETIC, RELAPSED, APOSTATE, IDOLATER In the cart with
her sat the friar Martin Ladvenu and MaŒtre Jean Massieu. She
looked girlishly fair and sweet and saintly in her long white robe,
and when a gush of sunlight flooded her as she emerged from the
gloom of the prison and was yet for a moment still framed in the
arch of the somber gate, the massed multitudes of poor folk
murmured "A vision! a vision!" and sank to their knees praying,
and many of the women weeping; and the moving invocation for
the dying arose again, and was taken up and borne along, a
majestic wave of sound, which accompanied the doomed, solacing
and blessing her, all the sorrowful way to the place of death.
"Christ have pity! Saint Margaret have pity! Pray for her, all ye
saints, archangels, and blessed martyrs, pray for her! Saints and
angels intercede for her! From thy wrath, good Lord, deliver her! O
Lord God, save her! Have mercy on her, we beseech Thee, good
Lord!"

It is just and true what one of the histories has said: "The poor and
the helpless had nothing but their prayers to give Joan of Arc; but
these we may believe were not unavailing. There are few more
pathetic events recorded in history than this weeping, helpless,
praying crowd, holding their lighted candles and kneeling on the
pavement beneath the prison walls of the old fortress."

And it was so all the way: thousands upon thousands massed upon
their knees and stretching far down the distances, thick-sown with
the faint yellow candle-flames, like a field starred with golden
flowers.

But there were some that did not kneel; these were the English
soldiers. They stood elbow to elbow, on each side of Joan's road,
and walled it in all the way; and behind these living walls knelt the
multitudes.

By and by a frantic man in priest's garb came wailing and
lamenting, and tore through the crowd and the barriers of soldiers
and flung himself on his knees by Joan's cart and put up his hands
in supplication, crying out:

"O forgive, forgive!"

It was Loyseleur!

And Joan forgave him; forgave him out of a heart that knew
nothing but forgiveness, nothing but compassion, nothing but pity
for all that suffer, let their offense be what it might. And she had
no word of reproach for this poor wretch who had wrought day and
night with deceits and treacheries and hypocrisies to betray her to
her death.

The soldiers would have killed him, but the Earl of Warwick saved
his life. What became of him is not known. He hid himself from
the world somewhere, to endure his remorse as he might.

In the square of the Old Market stood the two platforms and the
stake that had stood before in the churchyard of St. Ouen. The
platforms were occupied as before, the one by Joan and her judges,
the other by great dignitaries, the principal being Cauchon and the
English Cardinal--Winchester. The square was packed with
people, the windows and roofs of the blocks of buildings
surrounding it were black with them.

When the preparations had been finished, all noise and movement
gradually ceased, and a waiting stillness followed which was
solemn and impressive.

And now, by order of Cauchon, an ecclesiastic named Nicholas
Midi preached a sermon, wherein he explained that when a branch
of the vine--which is the Church--becomes diseased and corrupt, it
must be cut away or it will corrupt and destroy the whole vine. He
made it appear that Joan, through her wicknedness, was a menace
and a peril to the Church's purity and holiness, and her death
therefore necessary. When he was come to the end of his discourse
he turned toward her and paused a moment, then he said:

"Joan, the Church can no longer protect you. Go in peace!"

Joan had been placed wholly apart and conspicuous, to signify the
Church's abandonment of her, and she sat there in her loneliness,
waiting in patience and resignation for the end. Cauchon addressed
her now. He had been advised to read the form of her abjuration to
her, and had brought it with him; but he changed his mind, fearing
that she would proclaim the truth--that she had never knowingly
abjured--and so bring shame upon him and eternal infamy. He
contented himself with admonishing her to keep in mind her
wickednesses, and repent of them, and think of her salvation. Then
he solemnly pronounced her excommunicate and cut off from the
body of the Church. With a final word he delivered her over to the
secular arm for judgment and sentence.

Joan, weeping, knelt and began to pray. For whom? Herself? Oh,
no--for the King of France. Her voice rose sweet and clear, and
penetrated all hearts with its passionate pathos. She never thought
of his treacheries to her, she never thought of his desertion of her,
she never remembered that it was because he was an ingrate that
she was here to die a miserable death; she remembered only that
he was her King, that she was his loyal and loving subject, and that
his enemies had undermined his cause with evil reports and false
charges, and he not by to defend himself. And so, in the very
presence of death, she forgot her own troubles to implore all in her
hearing to be just to him; to believe that he was good and noble
and sincere, and not in any way to blame for any acts of hers,
neither advising them nor urging them, but being wholly clear and
free of all responsibility for them. Then, closing, she begged in
humble and touching words that all here present would pray for
her and would pardon her, both her enemies and such as might
look friendly upon her and feel pity for her in their hearts.

There was hardly one heart there that was not touched--even the
English, even the judges showed it, and there was many a lip that
trembled and many an eye that was blurred with tears; yes, even
the English Cardinal's--that man with a political heart of stone but
a human heart of flesh.

The secular judge who should have delivered judgment and
pronounced sentence was himself so disturbed that he forgot his
duty, and Joan went to her death unsentenced--thus completing
with an illegality what had begun illegally and had so continued to
the end. He only said--to the guards:

"Take her"; and to the executioner, "Do your duty."

Joan asked for a cross. None was able to furnish one. But an
English soldier broke a stick in two and crossed the pieces and tied
them together, and this cross he gave her, moved to it by the good
heart that was in him; and she kissed it and put it in her bosom.
Then Isambard de la Pierre went to the church near by and brought
her a consecrated one; and this one also she kissed, and pressed it
to her bosom with rapture, and then kissed it again and again,
covering it with tears and pouring out her gratitude to God and the
saints.

And so, weeping, and with her cross to her lips, she climbed up the
cruel steps to the face of the stake, with the friar Isambard at her
side. Then she was helped up to the top of the pile of wood that
was built around the lower third of the stake and stood upon it with
her back against the stake, and the world gazing up at her
breathless. The executioner ascended to her side and wound chains
around her slender body, and so fastened her to the stake. Then he
descended to finish his dreadful office; and there she remained
alone--she that had had so many friends in the days when she was
free, and had been so loved and so dear.

All these things I saw, albeit dimly and blurred with tears; but I
could bear no more. I continued in my place, but what I shall
deliver to you now I got by others' eyes and others' mouths. Tragic
sounds there were that pierced my ears and wounded my heart as I
sat there, but it is as I tell you:

the latest image recorded by my eyes in that desolating hour was
Joan of Arc with the grace of her comely youth still unmarred; and
that image, untouched by time or decay, has remained with me all
my days. Now I will go on.

If any thought that now, in that solemn hour when all transgressors
repent and confess, she would revoke her revocation and say her
great deeds had been evil deeds and Satan and his fiends their
source, they erred. No such thought was in her blameless mind.
She was not thinking of herself and her troubles, but of others, and
of woes that might befall them. And so, turning her grieving eyes
about her, where rose the towers and spires of that fair city, she
said:

"Oh, Rouen, Rouen, must I die here, and must you be my tomb?
Ah, Rouen, Rouen, I have great fear that you will suffer for my
death."

A whiff of smoke swept upward past her face, and for one moment
terror seized her and she cried out, "Water! Give me holy water!"
but the next moment her fears were gone, and they came no more
to torture her.

She heard the flames crackling below her, and immediately
distress for a fellow-creature who was in danger took possession of
her. It was the friar Isambard. She had given him her cross and
begged him to raise it toward her face and let her eyes rest in hope
and consolation upon it till she was entered into the peace of God.
She made him go out from the danger of the fire. Then she was
satisfied, and said:

"Now keep it always in my sight until the end."

Not even yet could Cauchon, that man without shame, endure to
let her die in peace, but went toward her, all black with crimes and
sins as he was, and cried out:

"I am come, Joan, to exhort you for the last time to repent and seek
the pardon of God."

"I die through you," she said, and these were the last words she
spoke to any upon earth.

Then the pitchy smoke, shot through with red flashes of flame,
rolled up in a thick volume and hid her from sight; and from the
heart of this darkness her voice rose strong and eloquent in prayer,
and when by moments the wind shredded somewhat of the smoke
aside, there were veiled glimpses of an upturned face and moving
lips. At last a mercifully swift tide of flame burst upward, and
none saw that face any more nor that form, and the voice was still.

Yes, she was gone from us: JOAN OF ARC! What little words they
are, to tell of a rich world made empty and poor!

CONCLUSION

JOAN'S BROTHER Jacques died in Domremy during the Great
Trial at Rouen. This was sccording to the prophecy which Joan
made that day in the pastures the time that she said the rest of us
would go to the great wars.

When her poor old father heard of the martyrdom it broke his
heart, and he died.

The mother was granted a pension by the city of Orleans, and upon
this she lived out her days, which were many. Twenty-four years
after her illustrious child's death she traveled all the way to Paris in
the winter-time and was present at the opening of the discussion in
the Cathedral of Notre Dame which was the first step in the
Rehabilitation. Paris was crowded with people, from all about
France, who came to get sight of the venerable dame, and it was a
touching spectacle when she moved through these reverent
wet-eyed multitudes on her way to the grand honors awaiting her
at the cathedral. With her were Jean and Pierre, no longer the
light-hearted youths who marched with us from Vaucouleurs, but
war-torn veterans with hair beginning to show frost.

After the martyrdom No‰l and I went back to Domremy, but
presently when the Constable Richemont superseded La
Tremouille as the King's chief adviser and began the completion of
Joan's great work, we put on our harness and returned to the field
and fought for the King all through the wars and skirmishes until
France was freed of the English. It was what Joan would have
desired of us; and, dead or alive, her desire was law for us. All the
survivors of the personal staff were faithful to her memory and
fought for the King to the end. Mainly we were well scattered, but
when Paris fell we happened to be together. It was a great day and
a joyous; but it was a sad one at the same time, because Joan was
not there to march into the captured capital with us.

No‰l and I remained always together, and I was by his side when
death claimed him. It was in the last great battle of the war. In that
battle fell also Joan's sturdy old enemy Talbot. He was eighty-five
years old, and had spent his whole life in battle. A fine old lion he
was, with his flowing white mane and his tameless spirit; yes, and
his indestructible energy as well; for he fought as knighly and
vigorous a fight that day as the best man there.

La Hire survived the martyrdom thirteen years; and always
fighting, of course, for that was all he enjoyed in life. I did not see
him in all that time, for we were far apart, but one was always
hearing of him.

The Bastard of Orleans and D'Alen‡on and D'Aulon lived to see
France free, and to testify with Jean and Pierre d'Arc and Pasquerel
and me at the Rehabilitation. But they are all at rest now, these
many years. I alone am left of those who fought at the side of Joan
of Arc in the great wars.

She said I would live until those wars were forgotten--a prophecy
which failed. If I should live a thousand years it would still fail.
For whatsoever had touch with Joan of Arc, that thing is immortal.

Members of Joan's family married, and they have left descendants.
Their descendants are of the nobility, but their family name and
blood bring them honors which no other nobles receive or may
hope for. You have seen how everybody along the way uncovered
when those children came yesterday to pay their duty to me. It was
not because they are noble, it is because they are grandchildren of
the brothers of Joan of Arc.

Now as to the Rehabilitation. Joan crowned the King at Rheims.
For reward he allowed her to be hunted to her death without
making one effort to save her. During the next twenty-three years
he remained indifferent to her memory; indifferent to the fact that
her good name was under a damning blot put there by the priest
because of the deeds which she had done in saving him and his
scepter; indifferent to the fact that France was ashamed, and
longed to have the Deliverer's fair fame restored. Indifferent all
that time. Then he suddenly changed and was anxious to have
justice for poor Joan himself. Why? Had he become grateful at
last? Had remorse attacked his hard heart? No, he had a better
reason--a better one for his sort of man. This better reason was
that, now that the English had been finally expelled from the
country, they were beginning to call attention to the fact that this
King had gotten his crown by the hands of a person proven by the
priests to have been in league with Satan and burned for it by them
as a sorceress--therefore, of what value or authority was such a
Kingship as that? Of no value at all; no nation could afford to
allow such a king to remain on the throne.

It was high time to stir now, and the King did it. That is how
Charles VII. came to be smitten with anxiety to have justice done
the memory of his benefactress.

He appealed to the Pope, and the Pope appointed a great
commission of churchmen to examine into the facts of Joan's life
and award judgment. The Commission sat at Paris, at Domremy, at
Rouen, at Orleans, and at several other places, and continued its
work during several months. It examined the records of Joan's
trials, it examined the Bastard of Orleans, and the Duke d'Alen‡on,
and D'Aulon, and Pasquerel, and Courcelles, and Isambard de la
Pierre, and Manchon, and me, and many others whose names I
have made familiar to you; also they examined more than a
hundred witnesses whose names are less familiar to you--the
friends of Joan in Domremy, Vaucouleurs, Orleans, and other
places, and a number of judges and other people who had assisted
at the Rouen trials, the abjuration, and the martyrdom. And out of
this exhaustive examination Joan's character and history came
spotless and perfect, and this verdict was placed upon record, to
remain forever.

I was present upon most of these occasions, and saw again many
faces which I have not seen for a quarter of a century; among them
some well-beloved faces--those of our generals and that of
Catherine Boucher (married, alas!), and also among them certain
other faces that filled me with bitterness--those of Beaupere and
Courcelles and a number of their fellow-fiends. I saw Haumette
and Little Mengette--edging along toward fifty now, and mothers
of many children. I saw No‰l's father, and the parents of the
Paladin and the Sunflower.

It was beautiful to hear the Duke d'Alen‡on praise Joan's splendid
capacities as a general, and to hear the Bastard indorse these
praises with his eloquent tongue and then go on and tell how sweet
and good Joan was, and how full of pluck and fire and
impetuosity, and mischief, and mirthfulness, and tenderness, and
compassion, and everything that was pure and fine and noble and
lovely. He made her live again before me, and wrung my heart.

I have finished my story of Joan of Arc, that wonderful child, that
sublime personality, that spirit which in one regard has had no peer
and will have none--this: its purity from all alloy of self-seeking,
self-interest, personal ambition. In it no trace of these motives can
be found, search as you may, and this cannot be said of any other
person whose name appears in profane history.

With Joan of Arc love of country was more than a sentiment--it
was a passion. She was the Genius of Patriotism--she was
Patriotism embodied, concreted, made flesh, and palpable to the
touch and visible to the eye.

Love, Mercy, Charity, Fortitude, War, Peace, Poetry, Music--these
may be symbolized as any shall prefer: by figures of either sex and
of any age; but a slender girl in her first young bloom, with the
martyr's crown upon her head, and in her hand the sword that
severed her country's bonds--shall not this, and no other, stand for
PATRIOTISM through all the ages until time shall end?





Project Gutenberg Etext Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc V 2






TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE


CHAPTER I.  AN INVITATION FOR TOM AND HUCK

[Footnote: Strange as the incidents of this story are,
they are not inventions, but facts--even to the public
confession of the accused.  I take them from an old-time
Swedish criminal trial, change the actors, and transfer
the scenes to America.  I have added some details,
but only a couple of them are important ones. -- M. T.]

WELL, it was the next spring after me and Tom Sawyer
set our old nigger Jim free, the time he was chained up
for a runaway slave down there on Tom's uncle Silas's farm
in Arkansaw.  The frost was working out of the ground,
and out of the air, too, and it was getting closer and
closer onto barefoot time every day; and next it would be
marble time, and next mumbletypeg, and next tops and hoops,
and next kites, and then right away it would be summer
and going in a-swimming. It just makes a boy homesick
to look ahead like that and see how far off summer is.
Yes, and it sets him to sighing and saddening around,
and there's something the matter with him, he don't know what.
But anyway, he gets out by himself and mopes and thinks;
and mostly he hunts for a lonesome place high up on the
hill in the edge of the woods, and sets there and looks
away off on the big Mississippi down there a-reaching
miles and miles around the points where the timber looks
smoky and dim it's so far off and still, and everything's
so solemn it seems like everybody you've loved is dead
and gone, and you 'most wish you was dead and gone too,
and done with it all.

Don't you know what that is? It's spring fever.
That is what the name of it is.  And when you've got it,
you want--oh, you don't quite know what it is you DO want,
but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!
It seems to you that mainly what you want is to get away;
get away from the same old tedious things you're so used
to seeing and so tired of, and set something new.
That is the idea; you want to go and be a wanderer;
you want to go wandering far away to strange countries
where everything is mysterious and wonderful and romantic.
And if you can't do that, you'll put up with considerable less;
you'll go anywhere you CAN go, just so as to get away, and be
thankful of the chance, too.

Well, me and Tom Sawyer had the spring fever, and had
it bad, too; but it warn't any use to think about Tom
trying to get away, because, as he said, his Aunt Polly
wouldn't let him quit school and go traipsing off somers
wasting time; so we was pretty blue.  We was setting on
the front steps one day about sundown talking this way,
when out comes his aunt Polly with a letter in her hand
and says:

"Tom, I reckon you've got to pack up and go down
to Arkansaw--your aunt Sally wants you."

I 'most jumped out of my skin for joy.  I reckoned Tom
would fly at his aunt and hug her head off; but if you
believe me he set there like a rock, and never said a word.
It made me fit to cry to see him act so foolish, with such
a noble chance as this opening up.  Why, we might lose it
if he didn't speak up and show he was thankful and grateful.
But he set there and studied and studied till I was
that distressed I didn't know what to do; then he says,
very ca'm, and I could a shot him for it:

"Well," he says, "I'm right down sorry, Aunt Polly,
but I reckon I got to be excused--for the present."

His aunt Polly was knocked so stupid and so mad at the cold
impudence of it that she couldn't say a word for as much
as a half a minute, and this gave me a chance to nudge
Tom and whisper:

"Ain't you got any sense? Sp'iling such a noble chance
as this and throwing it away?"

But he warn't disturbed.  He mumbled back:

"Huck Finn, do you want me to let her SEE how bad I
want to go? Why, she'd begin to doubt, right away,
and imagine a lot of sicknesses and dangers and objections,
and first you know she'd take it all back.  You lemme alone;
I reckon I know how to work her."

Now I never would 'a' thought of that.  But he was right.
Tom Sawyer was always right--the levelest head I ever see,
and always AT himself and ready for anything you might spring
on him.  By this time his aunt Polly was all straight again,
and she let fly.  She says:

"You'll be excused! YOU will! Well, I never heard the
like of it in all my days! The idea of you talking like
that to ME! Now take yourself off and pack your traps;
and if I hear another word out of you about what you'll
be excused from and what you won't, I lay I'LL excuse
you--with a hickory!"

She hit his head a thump with her thimble as we dodged by,
and he let on to be whimpering as we struck for the stairs.
Up in his room he hugged me, he was so out of his head
for gladness because he was going traveling.  And he says:

"Before we get away she'll wish she hadn't let me go,
but she won't know any way to get around it now.
After what she's said, her pride won't let her take
it back."

Tom was packed in ten minutes, all except what his aunt
and Mary would finish up for him; then we waited ten more
for her to get cooled down and sweet and gentle again;
for Tom said it took her ten minutes to unruffle in times
when half of her feathers was up, but twenty when they
was all up, and this was one of the times when they
was all up.  Then we went down, being in a sweat to know
what the letter said.

She was setting there in a brown study, with it laying
in her lap.  We set down, and she says:

"They're in considerable trouble down there, and they think
you and Huck'll be a kind of diversion for them--'comfort,'
they say.  Much of that they'll get out of you and Huck Finn,
I reckon.  There's a neighbor named Brace Dunlap that's been
wanting to marry their Benny for three months, and at last
they told him point blank and once for all, he COULDN'T;
so he has soured on them, and they're worried about it.
I reckon he's somebody they think they better be on the
good side of, for they've tried to please him by hiring
his no-account brother to help on the farm when they can't
hardly afford it, and don't want him around anyhow.
Who are the Dunlaps?"

"They live about a mile from Uncle Silas's place,
Aunt Polly--all the farmers live about a mile apart
down there--and Brace Dunlap is a long sight richer than
any of the others, and owns a whole grist of niggers.
He's a widower, thirty-six years old, without any children,
and is proud of his money and overbearing, and everybody
is a little afraid of him.  I judge he thought he could
have any girl he wanted, just for the asking, and it must
have set him back a good deal when he found he couldn't
get Benny.  Why, Benny's only half as old as he is,
and just as sweet and lovely as--well, you've seen her.
Poor old Uncle Silas--why, it's pitiful, him trying
to curry favor that way--so hard pushed and poor,
and yet hiring that useless Jubiter Dunlap to please his
ornery brother."

"What a name--Jubiter! Where'd he get it?"

"It's only just a nickname.  I reckon they've forgot
his real name long before this.  He's twenty-seven, now,
and has had it ever since the first time he ever went
in swimming.  The school teacher seen a round brown
mole the size of a dime on his left leg above his knee,
and four little bits of moles around it, when he was naked,
and he said it minded him of Jubiter and his moons; and the
children thought it was funny, and so they got to calling
him Jubiter, and he's Jubiter yet.  He's tall, and lazy,
and sly, and sneaky, and ruther cowardly, too, but kind
of good-natured, and wears long brown hair and no beard,
and hasn't got a cent, and Brace boards him for nothing,
and gives him his old clothes to wear, and despises him.
Jubiter is a twin."

"What's t'other twin like?"

"Just exactly like Jubiter--so they say; used to was,
anyway, but he hain't been seen for seven years.
He got to robbing when he was nineteen or twenty,
and they jailed him; but he broke jail and got away--up
North here, somers.  They used to hear about him robbing
and burglaring now and then, but that was years ago.
He's dead, now.  At least that's what they say.
They don't hear about him any more."

"What was his name?"

"Jake."

There wasn't anything more said for a considerable while;
the old lady was thinking.  At last she says:

"The thing that is mostly worrying your aunt Sally is
the tempers that that man Jubiter gets your uncle into."

Tom was astonished, and so was I. Tom says:

"Tempers? Uncle Silas? Land, you must be joking! I didn't
know he HAD any temper."

"Works him up into perfect rages, your aunt Sally says;
says he acts as if he would really hit the man, sometimes."

"Aunt Polly, it beats anything I ever heard of.
Why, he's just as gentle as mush."

"Well, she's worried, anyway.  Says your uncle Silas is
like a changed man, on account of all this quarreling.
And the neighbors talk about it, and lay all the blame
on your uncle, of course, because he's a preacher and
hain't got any business to quarrel.  Your aunt Sally
says he hates to go into the pulpit he's so ashamed;
and the people have begun to cool toward him, and he ain't
as popular now as he used to was."

"Well, ain't it strange? Why, Aunt Polly,
he was always so good and kind and moony and
absent-minded and chuckle-headed and lovable--why,
he was just an angel! What CAN be the matter of him,
do you reckon?"


CHAPTER II.  JAKE DUNLAP

WE had powerful good luck; because we got a chance in a
stern-wheeler from away North which was bound for one of
them bayous or one-horse rivers away down Louisiana way,
and so we could go all the way down the Upper Mississippi
and all the way down the Lower Mississippi to that farm
in Arkansaw without having to change steamboats at St. Louis;
not so very much short of a thousand miles at one pull.

A pretty lonesome boat; there warn't but few passengers,
and all old folks, that set around, wide apart, dozing,
and was very quiet.  We was four days getting out of
the "upper river," because we got aground so much.
But it warn't dull--couldn't be for boys that was traveling,
of course.

From the very start me and Tom allowed that there
was somebody sick in the stateroom next to ourn,
because the meals was always toted in there by the waiters.
By and by we asked about it--Tom did and the waiter
said it was a man, but he didn't look sick.

"Well, but AIN'T he sick?"

"I don't know; maybe he is, but 'pears to me he's just
letting on."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because if he was sick he would pull his clothes off SOME
time or other--don't you reckon he would? Well, this one
don't. At least he don't ever pull off his boots, anyway."

"The mischief he don't! Not even when he goes to bed?"

"No."

It was always nuts for Tom Sawyer--a mystery was.  If you'd
lay out a mystery and a pie before me and him, you wouldn't
have to say take your choice; it was a thing that would
regulate itself.  Because in my nature I have always run
to pie, whilst in his nature he has always run to mystery.
People are made different.  And it is the best way.
Tom says to the waiter:

"What's the man's name?"

"Phillips."

"Where'd he come aboard?"

"I think he got aboard at Elexandria, up on the Iowa line."

"What do you reckon he's a-playing?"

"I hain't any notion--I never thought of it."

I says to myself, here's another one that runs to pie.

"Anything peculiar about him?--the way he acts or talks?"

"No--nothing, except he seems so scary, and keeps his
doors locked night and day both, and when you knock he
won't let you in till he opens the door a crack and sees
who it is."

"By jimminy, it's int'resting! I'd like to get a look
at him.  Say--the next time you're going in there,
don't you reckon you could spread the door and--"

"No, indeedy! He's always behind it.  He would block
that game."

Tom studied over it, and then he says:

"Looky here.  You lend me your apern and let me take him
his breakfast in the morning.  I'll give you a quarter."

The boy was plenty willing enough, if the head steward
wouldn't mind.  Tom says that's all right, he reckoned
he could fix it with the head steward; and he done it.
He fixed it so as we could both go in with aperns on and
toting vittles.

He didn't sleep much, he was in such a sweat to get
in there and find out the mystery about Phillips;
and moreover he done a lot of guessing about it all night,
which warn't no use, for if you are going to find out
the facts of a thing, what's the sense in guessing out
what ain't the facts and wasting ammunition? I didn't
lose no sleep.  I wouldn't give a dern to know what's
the matter of Phillips, I says to myself.

Well, in the morning we put on the aperns and got a couple
of trays of truck, and Tom he knocked on the door.
The man opened it a crack, and then he let us in and shut
it quick.  By Jackson, when we got a sight of him,
we 'most dropped the trays! and Tom says:

"Why, Jubiter Dunlap, where'd YOU come from?"

Well, the man was astonished, of course; and first off
he looked like he didn't know whether to be scared,
or glad, or both, or which, but finally he settled
down to being glad; and then his color come back,
though at first his face had turned pretty white.
So we got to talking together while he et his breakfast.
And he says:

"But I aint Jubiter Dunlap.  I'd just as soon tell you
who I am, though, if you'll swear to keep mum, for I
ain't no Phillips, either."

Tom says:

"We'll keep mum, but there ain't any need to tell who you
are if you ain't Jubiter Dunlap."

"Why?"

"Because if you ain't him you're t'other twin, Jake.
You're the spit'n image of Jubiter."

"Well, I'm Jake.  But looky here, how do you come to know
us Dunlaps?"

Tom told about the adventures we'd had down there at his
uncle Silas's last summer, and when he see that there warn't
anything about his folks--or him either, for that matter--that
we didn't know, he opened out and talked perfectly free
and candid.  He never made any bones about his own case;
said he'd been a hard lot, was a hard lot yet, and reckoned
he'd be a hard lot plumb to the end.  He said of course
it was a dangerous life, and--He give a kind of gasp,
and set his head like a person that's listening.  We didn't
say anything, and so it was very still for a second or so,
and there warn't no sounds but the screaking of the
woodwork and the chug-chugging of the machinery down below.

Then we got him comfortable again, telling him about
his people, and how Brace's wife had been dead three years,
and Brace wanted to marry Benny and she shook him,
and Jubiter was working for Uncle Silas, and him and Uncle
Silas quarreling all the time--and then he let go and laughed.

"Land!" he says, "it's like old times to hear all this
tittle-tattle, and does me good.  It's been seven years
and more since I heard any.  How do they talk about me
these days?"

"Who?"

"The farmers--and the family."

"Why, they don't talk about you at all--at least only
just a mention, once in a long time."

"The nation!" he says, surprised; "why is that?"

"Because they think you are dead long ago."

"No! Are you speaking true?--honor bright, now."
He jumped up, excited.

"Honor bright.  There ain't anybody thinks you are alive."

"Then I'm saved, I'm saved, sure! I'll go home.
They'll hide me and save my life.  You keep mum.
Swear you'll keep mum--swear you'll never, never tell
on me.  Oh, boys, be good to a poor devil that's being
hunted day and night, and dasn't show his face! I've
never done you any harm; I'll never do you any, as God
is in the heavens; swear you'll be good to me and help
me save my life."

We'd a swore it if he'd been a dog; and so we done it.
Well, he couldn't love us enough for it or be grateful enough,
poor cuss; it was all he could do to keep from hugging us.

We talked along, and he got out a little hand-bag and begun
to open it, and told us to turn our backs.  We done it,
and when he told us to turn again he was perfectly
different to what he was before.  He had on blue goggles
and the naturalest-looking long brown whiskers and mustashes
you ever see.  His own mother wouldn't 'a' knowed him.
He asked us if he looked like his brother Jubiter, now.

"No," Tom said; "there ain't anything left that's like him
except the long hair."

"All right, I'll get that cropped close to my head before
I get there; then him and Brace will keep my secret,
and I'll live with them as being a stranger, and the
neighbors won't ever guess me out.  What do you think?"

Tom he studied awhile, then he says:

"Well, of course me and Huck are going to keep mum there,
but if you don't keep mum yourself there's going to be a little
bit of a risk--it ain't much, maybe, but it's a little.
I mean, if you talk, won't people notice that your voice
is just like Jubiter's; and mightn't it make them think
of the twin they reckoned was dead, but maybe after all
was hid all this time under another name?"

"By George," he says, "you're a sharp one! You're
perfectly right.  I've got to play deef and dumb when there's
a neighbor around.  If I'd a struck for home and forgot
that little detail--However, I wasn't striking for home.
I was breaking for any place where I could get away
from these fellows that are after me; then I was going
to put on this disguise and get some different clothes, and--"

He jumped for the outside door and laid his ear against
it and listened, pale and kind of panting.  Presently he
whispers:

"Sounded like cocking a gun! Lord, what a life to lead!"

Then he sunk down in a chair all limp and sick like,
and wiped the sweat off of his face.


CHAPTER III.  A DIAMOND ROBBERY

FROM that time out, we was with him 'most all the time,
and one or t'other of us slept in his upper berth.  He said
he had been so lonesome, and it was such a comfort to him
to have company, and somebody to talk to in his troubles.
We was in a sweat to find out what his secret was,
but Tom said the best way was not to seem anxious,
then likely he would drop into it himself in one of
his talks, but if we got to asking questions he would get
suspicious and shet up his shell.  It turned out just so.
It warn't no trouble to see that he WANTED to talk about it,
but always along at first he would scare away from it
when he got on the very edge of it, and go to talking
about something else.  The way it come about was this:
He got to asking us, kind of indifferent like, about the
passengers down on deck.  We told him about them.
But he warn't satisfied; we warn't particular enough.
He told us to describe them better.  Tom done it.
At last, when Tom was describing one of the roughest
and raggedest ones, he gave a shiver and a gasp and says:

"Oh, lordy, that's one of them! They're aboard sure--
I just knowed it.  I sort of hoped I had got away,
but I never believed it.  Go on."

Presently when Tom was describing another mangy,
rough deck passenger, he give that shiver again and says:

"That's him!--that's the other one.  If it would only
come a good black stormy night and I could get ashore.
You see, they've got spies on me.  They've got a right
to come up and buy drinks at the bar yonder forrard,
and they take that chance to bribe somebody to keep watch
on me--porter or boots or somebody.  If I was to slip
ashore without anybody seeing me, they would know it inside
of an hour."

So then he got to wandering along, and pretty soon,
sure enough, he was telling! He was poking along through
his ups and downs, and when he come to that place he went
right along.  He says:

"It was a confidence game.  We played it on a julery-shop
in St. Louis.  What we was after was a couple of noble
big di'monds as big as hazel-nuts, which everybody was
running to see.  We was dressed up fine, and we played
it on them in broad daylight.  We ordered the di'monds
sent to the hotel for us to see if we wanted to buy,
and when we was examining them we had paste counterfeits
all ready, and THEM was the things that went back
to the shop when we said the water wasn't quite fine
enough for twelve thousand dollars."

"Twelve-thousand-dollars!" Tom says.  "Was they really
worth all that money, do you reckon?"

"Every cent of it."

"And you fellows got away with them?"

"As easy as nothing.  I don't reckon the julery people know
they've been robbed yet.  But it wouldn't be good sense
to stay around St. Louis, of course, so we considered where
we'd go.  One was for going one way, one another, so we
throwed up, heads or tails, and the Upper Mississippi won.
We done up the di'monds in a paper and put our names on
it and put it in the keep of the hotel clerk, and told
him not to ever let either of us have it again without
the others was on hand to see it done; then we went
down town, each by his own self--because I reckon maybe
we all had the same notion.  I don't know for certain,
but I reckon maybe we had."

"What notion?" Tom says.

"To rob the others."

"What--one take everything, after all of you had helped
to get it?"

"Cert'nly."

It disgusted Tom Sawyer, and he said it was the orneriest,
low-downest thing he ever heard of.  But Jake Dunlap said
it warn't unusual in the profession.  Said when a person
was in that line of business he'd got to look out for his
own intrust, there warn't nobody else going to do it for him.
And then he went on.  He says:

"You see, the trouble was, you couldn't divide up two di'monds
amongst three.  If there'd been three--But never mind
about that, there warn't three.  I loafed along the back
streets studying and studying.  And I says to myself,
I'll hog them di'monds the first chance I get, and I'll
have a disguise all ready, and I'll give the boys the slip,
and when I'm safe away I'll put it on, and then let
them find me if they can.  So I got the false whiskers
and the goggles and this countrified suit of clothes,
and fetched them along back in a hand-bag; and when I
was passing a shop where they sell all sorts of things,
I got a glimpse of one of my pals through the window.
It was Bud Dixon.  I was glad, you bet.  I says to myself,
I'll see what he buys.  So I kept shady, and watched.
Now what do you reckon it was he bought?"

"Whiskers?" said I.

"No."

"Goggles?"

"No."

"Oh, keep still, Huck Finn, can't you, you're only just
hendering all you can.  What WAS it he bought, Jake?"

"You'd never guess in the world.  It was only just
a screwdriver--just a wee little bit of a screwdriver."

"Well, I declare! What did he want with that?"

"That's what I thought.  It was curious.  It clean stumped me.
I says to myself, what can he want with that thing? Well,
when he come out I stood back out of sight, and then
tracked him to a second-hand slop-shop and see him buy
a red flannel shirt and some old ragged clothes--just
the ones he's got on now, as you've described.
Then I went down to the wharf and hid my things aboard
the up-river boat that we had picked out, and then
started back and had another streak of luck.  I seen our
other pal lay in HIS stock of old rusty second-handers.
We got the di'monds and went aboard the boat.

"But now we was up a stump, for we couldn't go to bed.
We had to set up and watch one another.  Pity, that was;
pity to put that kind of a strain on us, because there
was bad blood between us from a couple of weeks back,
and we was only friends in the way of business.
Bad anyway, seeing there was only two di'monds betwixt
three men.  First we had supper, and then tramped up
and down the deck together smoking till most midnight;
then we went and set down in my stateroom and locked
the doors and looked in the piece of paper to see if
the di'monds was all right, then laid it on the lower
berth right in full sight; and there we set, and set,
and by-and-by it got to be dreadful hard to keep awake.
At last Bud Dixon he dropped off.  As soon as he was
snoring a good regular gait that was likely to last,
and had his chin on his breast and looked permanent,
Hal Clayton nodded towards the di'monds and then towards
the outside door, and I understood.  I reached and got
the paper, and then we stood up and waited perfectly still;
Bud never stirred; I turned the key of the outside door
very soft and slow, then turned the knob the same way, and we
went tiptoeing out onto the guard, and shut the door very
soft and gentle.

"There warn't nobody stirring anywhere, and the boat
was slipping along, swift and steady, through the big
water in the smoky moonlight.  We never said a word,
but went straight up onto the hurricane-deck and plumb
back aft, and set down on the end of the sky-light. Both
of us knowed what that meant, without having to explain
to one another.  Bud Dixon would wake up and miss the swag,
and would come straight for us, for he ain't afeard
of anything or anybody, that man ain't. He would come,
and we would heave him overboard, or get killed trying.
It made me shiver, because I ain't as brave as some people,
but if I showed the white feather--well, I knowed better
than do that.  I kind of hoped the boat would land somers,
and we could skip ashore and not have to run the risk
of this row, I was so scared of Bud Dixon, but she
was an upper-river tub and there warn't no real chance
of that.

"Well, the time strung along and along, and that fellow
never come! Why, it strung along till dawn begun to break,
and still he never come.  'Thunder,' I says, 'what do you
make out of this?--ain't it suspicious?' 'Land!' Hal says,
'do you reckon he's playing us?--open the paper!' I done it,
and by gracious there warn't anything in it but a couple
of little pieces of loaf-sugar! THAT'S the reason he could
set there and snooze all night so comfortable.  Smart? Well,
I reckon! He had had them two papers all fixed and ready,
and he had put one of them in place of t'other right under
our noses.

"We felt pretty cheap.  But the thing to do, straight off,
was to make a plan; and we done it.  We would do up the
paper again, just as it was, and slip in, very elaborate
and soft, and lay it on the bunk again, and let on WE
didn't know about any trick, and hadn't any idea he was
a-laughing at us behind them bogus snores of his'n; and we
would stick by him, and the first night we was ashore we
would get him drunk and search him, and get the di'monds;
and DO for him, too, if it warn't too risky.  If we got
the swag, we'd GOT to do for him, or he would hunt us down
and do for us, sure.  But I didn't have no real hope.
I knowed we could get him drunk--he was always ready
for that--but what's the good of it? You might search him
a year and never find--"Well, right there I catched my
breath and broke off my thought! For an idea went ripping
through my head that tore my brains to rags--and land,
but I felt gay and good! You see, I had had my boots off,
to unswell my feet, and just then I took up one of them
to put it on, and I catched a glimpse of the heel-bottom,
and it just took my breath away.  You remember about that
puzzlesome little screwdriver?"

"You bet I do," says Tom, all excited.

"Well, when I catched that glimpse of that boot heel,
the idea that went smashing through my head was,
I know where he's hid the di'monds! You look at this
boot heel, now.  See, it's bottomed with a steel plate,
and the plate is fastened on with little screws.
Now there wasn't a screw about that feller anywhere
but in his boot heels; so, if he needed a screwdriver,
I reckoned I knowed why."

"Huck, ain't it bully!" says Tom.

"Well, I got my boots on, and we went down and slipped
in and laid the paper of sugar on the berth, and sat
down soft and sheepish and went to listening to Bud
Dixon snore.  Hal Clayton dropped off pretty soon,
but I didn't; I wasn't ever so wide awake in my life.
I was spying out from under the shade of my hat brim,
searching the floor for leather.  It took me a long time,
and I begun to think maybe my guess was wrong, but at
last I struck it.  It laid over by the bulkhead, and was
nearly the color of the carpet.  It was a little round
plug about as thick as the end of your little finger,
and I says to myself there's a di'mond in the nest
you've come from.  Before long I spied out the plug's mate.

"Think of the smartness and coolness of that blatherskite!
He put up that scheme on us and reasoned out what we
would do, and we went ahead and done it perfectly exact,
like a couple of pudd'nheads. He set there and took his
own time to unscrew his heelplates and cut out his plugs
and stick in the di'monds and screw on his plates again .
He allowed we would steal the bogus swag and wait all night
for him to come up and get drownded, and by George it's
just what we done! I think it was powerful smart."

"You bet your life it was!" says Tom, just full of admiration.


CHAPTER IV.  THE THREE SLEEPERS

WELL, all day we went through the humbug of watching
one another, and it was pretty sickly business
for two of us and hard to act out, I can tell you.
About night we landed at one of them little Missouri
towns high up toward Iowa, and had supper at the tavern,
and got a room upstairs with a cot and a double bed in it,
but I dumped my bag under a deal table in the dark hall
while we was moving along it to bed, single file, me last,
and the landlord in the lead with a tallow candle.
We had up a lot of whisky, and went to playing high-low-jack
for dimes, and as soon as the whisky begun to take hold
of Bud we stopped drinking, but we didn't let him stop.
We loaded him till he fell out of his chair and laid
there snoring.

"We was ready for business now.  I said we better pull
our boots off, and his'n too, and not make any noise,
then we could pull him and haul him around and ransack
him without any trouble.  So we done it.  I set my
boots and Bud's side by side, where they'd be handy.
Then we stripped him and searched his seams and his
pockets and his socks and the inside of his boots,
and everything, and searched his bundle.  Never found
any di'monds. We found the screwdriver, and Hal says,
'What do you reckon he wanted with that?' I said I
didn't know; but when he wasn't looking I hooked it.
At last Hal he looked beat and discouraged, and said we'd
got to give it up.  That was what I was waiting for.
I says:

"'There's one place we hain't searched.'

"'What place is that?' he says.

"'His stomach.'

"'By gracious, I never thought of that! NOW we're on
the homestretch, to a dead moral certainty.  How'll we manage?'

"'Well,' I says, 'just stay by him till I turn out and hunt
up a drug store, and I reckon I'll fetch something that'll
make them di'monds tired of the company they're keeping.'

"He said that's the ticket, and with him looking straight
at me I slid myself into Bud's boots instead of my own,
and he never noticed.  They was just a shade large for me,
but that was considerable better than being too small.
I got my bag as I went a-groping through the hall,
and in about a minute I was out the back way and stretching
up the river road at a five-mile gait.

"And not feeling so very bad, neither--walking on di'monds
don't have no such effect.  When I had gone fifteen
minutes I says to myself, there's more'n a mile behind me,
and everything quiet.  Another five minutes and I says
there's considerable more land behind me now, and there's
a man back there that's begun to wonder what's the trouble.
Another five and I says to myself he's getting real
uneasy--he's walking the floor now.  Another five,
and I says to myself, there's two mile and a half behind me,
and he's AWFUL uneasy--beginning to cuss, I reckon.
Pretty soon I says to myself, forty minutes gone--he
KNOWS there's something up! Fifty minutes--the truth's
a-busting on him now! he is reckoning I found the di'monds
whilst we was searching, and shoved them in my pocket and
never let on--yes, and he's starting out to hunt for me.
He'll hunt for new tracks in the dust, and they'll as likely
send him down the river as up.

"Just then I see a man coming down on a mule, and before I
thought I jumped into the bush.  It was stupid! When he got
abreast he stopped and waited a little for me to come out;
then he rode on again.  But I didn't feel gay any more.
I says to myself I've botched my chances by that;
I surely have, if he meets up with Hal Clayton.

"Well, about three in the morning I fetched Elexandria
and see this stern-wheeler laying there, and was very glad,
because I felt perfectly safe, now, you know.  It was
just daybreak.  I went aboard and got this stateroom and put
on these clothes and went up in the pilot-house--to watch,
though I didn't reckon there was any need of it.
I set there and played with my di'monds and waited and
waited for the boat to start, but she didn't. You see,
they was mending her machinery, but I didn't know anything
about it, not being very much used to steamboats.

"Well, to cut the tale short, we never left there till
plumb noon; and long before that I was hid in this stateroom;
for before breakfast I see a man coming, away off, that had
a gait like Hal Clayton's, and it made me just sick.
I says to myself, if he finds out I'm aboard this boat,
he's got me like a rat in a trap.  All he's got to do is
to have me watched, and wait--wait till I slip ashore,
thinking he is a thousand miles away, then slip after
me and dog me to a good place and make me give up
the di'monds, and then he'll--oh, I know what he'll
do! Ain't it awful--awful! And now to think the OTHER
one's aboard, too! Oh, ain't it hard luck, boys--ain't it
hard! But you'll help save me, WON'T you?--oh, boys,
be good to a poor devil that's being hunted to death,
and save me--I'll worship the very ground you walk on!"

We turned in and soothed him down and told him we would
plan for him and help him, and he needn't be so afeard;
and so by and by he got to feeling kind of comfortable again,
and unscrewed his heelplates and held up his di'monds
this way and that, admiring them and loving them;
and when the light struck into them they WAS beautiful,
sure; why, they seemed to kind of bust, and snap fire
out all around.  But all the same I judged he was a fool.
If I had been him I would a handed the di'monds to them
pals and got them to go ashore and leave me alone.
But he was made different.  He said it was a whole fortune
and he couldn't bear the idea.

Twice we stopped to fix the machinery and laid a good while,
once in the night; but it wasn't dark enough, and he was
afeard to skip.  But the third time we had to fix it there
was a better chance.  We laid up at a country woodyard
about forty mile above Uncle Silas's place a little after
one at night, and it was thickening up and going to storm.
So Jake he laid for a chance to slide.  We begun to take
in wood.  Pretty soon the rain come a-drenching down,
and the wind blowed hard.  Of course every boat-hand fixed
a gunny sack and put it on like a bonnet, the way they
do when they are toting wood, and we got one for Jake,
and he slipped down aft with his hand-bag and come
tramping forrard just like the rest, and walked ashore
with them, and when we see him pass out of the light
of the torch-basket and get swallowed up in the dark,
we got our breath again and just felt grateful and splendid.
But it wasn't for long.  Somebody told, I reckon;
for in about eight or ten minutes them two pals come
tearing forrard as tight as they could jump and darted
ashore and was gone.  We waited plumb till dawn for them
to come back, and kept hoping they would, but they never did.
We was awful sorry and low-spirited. All the hope we had
was that Jake had got such a start that they couldn't get
on his track, and he would get to his brother's and hide
there and be safe.

He was going to take the river road, and told us to find
out if Brace and Jubiter was to home and no strangers there,
and then slip out about sundown and tell him.  Said he
would wait for us in a little bunch of sycamores right back
of Tom's uncle Silas's tobacker field on the river road,
a lonesome place.

We set and talked a long time about his chances, and Tom
said he was all right if the pals struck up the river
instead of down, but it wasn't likely, because maybe
they knowed where he was from; more likely they would
go right, and dog him all day, him not suspecting,
and kill him when it come dark, and take the boots.
So we was pretty sorrowful.


CHAPTER V. A TRAGEDY IN THE WOODS

WE didn't get done tinkering the machinery till away
late in the afternoon, and so it was so close to sundown
when we got home that we never stopped on our road,
but made a break for the sycamores as tight as we could go,
to tell Jake what the delay was, and have him wait till we
could go to Brace's and find out how things was there.
It was getting pretty dim by the time we turned the corner
of the woods, sweating and panting with that long run,
and see the sycamores thirty yards ahead of us;
and just then we see a couple of men run into the bunch
and heard two or three terrible screams for help.
"Poor Jake is killed, sure," we says.  We was scared through
and through, and broke for the tobacker field and hid there,
trembling so our clothes would hardly stay on; and just
as we skipped in there, a couple of men went tearing by,
and into the bunch they went, and in a second out jumps four
men and took out up the road as tight as they could go,
two chasing two.

We laid down, kind of weak and sick, and listened for
more sounds, but didn't hear none for a good while but
just our hearts.  We was thinking of that awful thing
laying yonder in the sycamores, and it seemed like being
that close to a ghost, and it give me the cold shudders.
The moon come a-swelling up out of the ground, now,
powerful big and round and bright, behind a comb of trees,
like a face looking through prison bars, and the black
shadders and white places begun to creep around,
and it was miserable quiet and still and night-breezy
and graveyardy and scary.  All of a sudden Tom whispers:

"Look!--what's that?"

"Don't!" I says.  "Don't take a person by surprise that way.
I'm 'most ready to die, anyway, without you doing that."

"Look, I tell you.  It's something coming out of the sycamores."

"Don't, Tom!"

"It's terrible tall!"

"Oh, lordy-lordy! let's--"

"Keep still--it's a-coming this way."

He was so excited he could hardly get breath enough
to whisper.  I had to look.  I couldn't help it.
So now we was both on our knees with our chins on a fence
rail and gazing--yes, and gasping too.  It was coming
down the road--coming in the shadder of the trees, and you
couldn't see it good; not till it was pretty close to us;
then it stepped into a bright splotch of moonlight and we
sunk right down in our tracks--it was Jake Dunlap's
ghost! That was what we said to ourselves.

We couldn't stir for a minute or two; then it was gone
We talked about it in low voices.  Tom says:

"They're mostly dim and smoky, or like they're made
out of fog, but this one wasn't."

"No," I says; "I seen the goggles and the whiskers
perfectly plain."

"Yes, and the very colors in them loud countrified Sunday
clothes--plaid breeches, green and black--"

"Cotton velvet westcot, fire-red and yaller squares--"

"Leather straps to the bottoms of the breeches legs
and one of them hanging unbottoned--"

"Yes, and that hat--"

"What a hat for a ghost to wear!"

You see it was the first season anybody wore that kind--a
black sitff-brim stove-pipe, very high, and not smooth,
with a round top--just like a sugar-loaf.

"Did you notice if its hair was the same, Huck?"

"No--seems to me I did, then again it seems to me I didn't."

"I didn't either; but it had its bag along, I noticed that."

"So did I. How can there be a ghost-bag, Tom?"

"Sho! I wouldn't be as ignorant as that if I was you,
Huck Finn.  Whatever a ghost has, turns to ghost-stuff.
They've got to have their things, like anybody else.
You see, yourself, that its clothes was turned
to ghost-stuff. Well, then, what's to hender its bag
from turning, too? Of course it done it."

That was reasonable.  I couldn't find no fault with it.
Bill Withers and his brother Jack come along by, talking,
and Jack says:

"What do you reckon he was toting?"

"I dunno; but it was pretty heavy."

"Yes, all he could lug.  Nigger stealing corn from old
Parson Silas, I judged."

"So did I. And so I allowed I wouldn't let on to see him."

"That's me, too."

Then they both laughed, and went on out of hearing.
It showed how unpopular old Uncle Silas had got to be now.
They wouldn't 'a' let a nigger steal anybody else's corn
and never done anything to him.

We heard some more voices mumbling along towards us
and getting louder, and sometimes a cackle of a laugh.
It was Lem Beebe and Jim Lane.  Jim Lane says:

"Who?--Jubiter Dunlap?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I don't know.  I reckon so.  I seen him spading
up some ground along about an hour ago, just before
sundown--him and the parson.  Said he guessed he wouldn't
go to-night, but we could have his dog if we wanted him."

"Too tired, I reckon."

"Yes--works so hard!"

"Oh, you bet!"

They cackled at that, and went on by.  Tom said we
better jump out and tag along after them, because they
was going our way and it wouldn't be comfortable to run
across the ghost all by ourselves.  So we done it,
and got home all right.

That night was the second of September--a Saturday.
I sha'n't ever forget it.  You'll see why, pretty soon .


CHAPTER VI.  PLANS TO SECURE THE DIAMONDS

WE tramped along behind Jim and Lem till we come
to the back stile where old Jim's cabin was that
he was captivated in, the time we set him free,
and here come the dogs piling around us to say howdy,
and there was the lights of the house, too; so we warn't
afeard any more, and was going to climb over, but Tom says:

"Hold on; set down here a minute.  By George!"

"What's the matter?" says I.

"Matter enough!" he says.  "Wasn't you expecting we
would be the first to tell the family who it is that's
been killed yonder in the sycamores, and all about them
rapscallions that done it, and about the di'monds they've
smouched off of the corpse, and paint it up fine,
and have the glory of being the ones that knows a lot
more about it than anybody else?"

"Why, of course.  It wouldn't be you, Tom Sawyer,
if you was to let such a chance go by.  I reckon it
ain't going to suffer none for lack of paint," I says,
"when you start in to scollop the facts."

"Well, now," he says, perfectly ca'm, "what would you say
if I was to tell you I ain't going to start in at all?"

I was astonished to hear him talk so.  I says:

"I'd say it's a lie.  You ain't in earnest, Tom Sawyer?"

"You'll soon see.  Was the ghost barefooted?"

"No, it wasn't. What of it?"

"You wait--I'll show you what.  Did it have its boots on?"

"Yes. I seen them plain."

"Swear it?"

"Yes, I swear it."

"So do I. Now do you know what that means?"

"No. What does it mean?"

"Means that them thieves DIDN'T GET THE DI'MONDS."

"Jimminy! What makes you think that?"

"I don't only think it, I know it.  Didn't the breeches
and goggles and whiskers and hand-bag and every blessed
thing turn to ghost-stuff? Everything it had on turned,
didn't it? It shows that the reason its boots turned
too was because it still had them on after it started
to go ha'nting around, and if that ain't proof that them
blatherskites didn't get the boots, I'd like to know
what you'd CALL proof."

Think of that now.  I never see such a head as that
boy had.  Why, I had eyes and I could see things, but they
never meant nothing to me.  But Tom Sawyer was different.
When Tom Sawyer seen a thing it just got up on its hind
legs and TALKED to him--told him everything it knowed.
I never see such a head.

"Tom Sawyer," I says, "I'll say it again as I've said it
a many a time before: I ain't fitten to black your boots.
But that's all right--that's neither here nor there.
God Almighty made us all, and some He gives eyes
that's blind, and some He gives eyes that can see, and I
reckon it ain't none of our lookout what He done it for;
it's all right, or He'd 'a' fixed it some other way.
Go on--I see plenty plain enough, now, that them thieves
didn't get way with the di'monds. Why didn't they,
do you reckon?"

"Because they got chased away by them other two men
before they could pull the boots off of the corpse."

"That's so! I see it now.  But looky here, Tom, why ain't
we to go and tell about it?"

"Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, can't you see? Look at it.
What's a-going to happen? There's going to be an inquest
in the morning.  Them two men will tell how they heard
the yells and rushed there just in time to not save
the stranger.  Then the jury'll twaddle and twaddle
and twaddle, and finally they'll fetch in a verdict that he
got shot or stuck or busted over the head with something,
and come to his death by the inspiration of God.
And after they've buried him they'll auction off his
things for to pay the expenses, and then's OUR chance."
"How, Tom?"

"Buy the boots for two dollars!"

Well, it 'most took my breath.

"My land! Why, Tom, WE'LL get the di'monds!"

"You bet.  Some day there'll be a big reward offered
for them--a thousand dollars, sure.  That's our money!
Now we'll trot in and see the folks.  And mind you we
don't know anything about any murder, or any di'monds,
or any thieves--don't you forget that."

I had to sigh a little over the way he had got it fixed.
I'd 'a' SOLD them di'monds--yes, sir--for twelve
thousand dollars; but I didn't say anything.  It wouldn't
done any good.  I says:

"But what are we going to tell your aunt Sally has made
us so long getting down here from the village, Tom?"

"Oh, I'll leave that to you," he says.  "I reckon you
can explain it somehow."

He was always just that strict and delicate.  He never
would tell a lie himself.

We struck across the big yard, noticing this, that, and t'other
thing that was so familiar, and we so glad to see it again,
and when we got to the roofed big passageway betwixt
the double log house and the kitchen part, there was
everything hanging on the wall just as it used to was,
even to Uncle Silas's old faded green baize working-gown
with the hood to it, and raggedy white patch between the
shoulders that always looked like somebody had hit him with
a snowball; and then we lifted the latch and walked in.
Aunt Sally she was just a-ripping and a-tearing around,
and the children was huddled in one corner, and the old
man he was huddled in the other and praying for help
in time of need.  She jumped for us with joy and tears
running down her face and give us a whacking box on
the ear, and then hugged us and kissed us and boxed
us again, and just couldn't seem to get enough of it,
she was so glad to see us; and she says:

"Where HAVE you been a-loafing to, you good-for-nothing
trash! I've been that worried about you I didn't know what
to do.  Your traps has been here ever so long, and I've
had supper cooked fresh about four times so as to have it
hot and good when you come, till at last my patience is
just plumb wore out, and I declare I--I--why I could skin
you alive! You must be starving, poor things!--set down,
set down, everybody; don't lose no more time."

It was good to be there again behind all that noble
corn-pone and spareribs, and everything that you could
ever want in this world.  Old Uncle Silas he peeled off
one of his bulliest old-time blessings, with as many
layers to it as an onion, and whilst the angels was
hauling in the slack of it I was trying to study up
what to say about what kept us so long.  When our plates
was all loadened and we'd got a-going, she asked me, and I says:

"Well, you see,--er--Mizzes--"

"Huck Finn! Since when am I Mizzes to you? Have I ever
been stingy of cuffs or kisses for you since the day
you stood in this room and I took you for Tom Sawyer
and blessed God for sending you to me, though you told
me four thousand lies and I believed every one of them
like a simpleton? Call me Aunt Sally--like you always done."

So I done it.  And I says:

"Well, me and Tom allowed we would come along afoot
and take a smell of the woods, and we run across Lem
Beebe and Jim Lane, and they asked us to go with them
blackberrying to-night, and said they could borrow Jubiter
Dunlap's dog, because he had told them just that minute--"

"Where did they see him?" says the old man; and when I
looked up to see how HE come to take an intrust in a little
thing like that, his eyes was just burning into me,
he was that eager.  It surprised me so it kind of throwed
me off, but I pulled myself together again and says:

"It was when he was spading up some ground along with you,
towards sundown or along there."

He only said, "Um," in a kind of a disappointed way,
and didn't take no more intrust.  So I went on.
I says:

"Well, then, as I was a-saying--"

"That'll do, you needn't go no furder." It was Aunt Sally.
She was boring right into me with her eyes, and very indignant.
"Huck Finn," she says, "how'd them men come to talk about
going a-black-berrying in September--in THIS region?"

I see I had slipped up, and I couldn't say a word.
She waited, still a-gazing at me, then she says:

"And how'd they come to strike that idiot idea of going
a-blackberrying in the night?"

"Well, m'm, they--er--they told us they had a lantern, and--"

"Oh, SHET up--do! Looky here; what was they going to do
with a dog?--hunt blackberries with it?"

"I think, m'm, they--"

"Now, Tom Sawyer, what kind of a lie are you fixing YOUR
mouth to contribit to this mess of rubbage? Speak out--and
I warn you before you begin, that I don't believe a word
of it.  You and Huck's been up to something you no business
to--I know it perfectly well; I know you, BOTH of you.
Now you explain that dog, and them blackberries,
and the lantern, and the rest of that rot--and mind you
talk as straight as a string--do you hear?"

Tom he looked considerable hurt, and says, very dignified:

"It is a pity if Huck is to be talked to that way,
just for making a little bit of a mistake that anybody
could make."

"What mistake has he made?"

"Why, only the mistake of saying blackberries when
of course he meant strawberries."

"Tom Sawyer, I lay if you aggravate me a little more, I'll--"

"Aunt Sally, without knowing it--and of course without
intending it--you are in the wrong.  If you'd 'a' studied
natural history the way you ought, you would know that
all over the world except just here in Arkansaw they
ALWAYS hunt strawberries with a dog--and a lantern--"

But she busted in on him there and just piled into him
and snowed him under.  She was so mad she couldn't get
the words out fast enough, and she gushed them out
in one everlasting freshet.  That was what Tom Sawyer
was after.  He allowed to work her up and get her started
and then leave her alone and let her burn herself out.
Then she would be so aggravated with that subject
that she wouldn't say another word about it, nor let
anybody else.  Well, it happened just so.  When she
was tuckered out and had to hold up, he says, quite ca'm:

"And yet, all the same, Aunt Sally--"

"Shet up!" she says, "I don't want to hear another word
out of you."

So we was perfectly safe, then, and didn't have no more
trouble about that delay.  Tom done it elegant.


CHAPTER VII.  A NIGHT'S VIGIL

BENNY she was looking pretty sober, and she sighed some,
now and then; but pretty soon she got to asking about Mary,
and Sid, and Tom's aunt Polly, and then Aunt Sally's
clouds cleared off and she got in a good humor and joined
in on the questions and was her lovingest best self,
and so the rest of the supper went along gay and pleasant.
But the old man he didn't take any hand hardly, and was
absent-minded and restless, and done a considerable amount
of sighing; and it was kind of heart-breaking to see him
so sad and troubled and worried.

By and by, a spell after supper, come a nigger and knocked
on the door and put his head in with his old straw hat
in his hand bowing and scraping, and said his Marse
Brace was out at the stile and wanted his brother,
and was getting tired waiting supper for him, and would
Marse Silas please tell him where he was? I never see
Uncle Silas speak up so sharp and fractious before.
He says:

"Am I his brother's keeper?" And then he kind of
wilted together, and looked like he wished he hadn't
spoken so, and then he says, very gentle: "But you needn't
say that, Billy; I was took sudden and irritable, and I
ain't very well these days, and not hardly responsible.
Tell him he ain't here."

And when the nigger was gone he got up and walked the floor,
backwards and forwards, mumbling and muttering to himself
and plowing his hands through his hair.  It was real
pitiful to see him.  Aunt Sally she whispered to us and
told us not to take notice of him, it embarrassed him.
She said he was always thinking and thinking, since these
troubles come on, and she allowed he didn't more'n about
half know what he was about when the thinking spells was
on him; and she said he walked in his sleep considerable
more now than he used to, and sometimes wandered
around over the house and even outdoors in his sleep,
and if we catched him at it we must let him alone and not
disturb him.  She said she reckoned it didn't do him
no harm, and may be it done him good.  She said Benny
was the only one that was much help to him these days.
Said Benny appeared to know just when to try to soothe
him and when to leave him alone.

So he kept on tramping up and down the floor and muttering,
till by and by he begun to look pretty tired; then Benny
she went and snuggled up to his side and put one hand
in his and one arm around his waist and walked with him;
and he smiled down on her, and reached down and kissed her;
and so, little by little the trouble went out of his
face and she persuaded him off to his room.  They had
very petting ways together, and it was uncommon pretty
to see.

Aunt Sally she was busy getting the children ready for bed;
so by and by it got dull and tedious, and me and Tom
took a turn in the moonlight, and fetched up in the
watermelon-patch and et one, and had a good deal of talk.
And Tom said he'd bet the quarreling was all Jubiter's fault,
and he was going to be on hand the first time he got
a chance, and see; and if it was so, he was going to do
his level best to get Uncle Silas to turn him off.

And so we talked and smoked and stuffed watermelons much
as two hours, and then it was pretty late, and when we
got back the house was quiet and dark, and everybody
gone to bed.

Tom he always seen everything, and now he see that the
old green baize work-gown was gone, and said it wasn't
gone when he went out; so he allowed it was curious,
and then we went up to bed.

We could hear Benny stirring around in her room,
which was next to ourn, and judged she was worried
a good deal about her father and couldn't sleep.
We found we couldn't, neither.  So we set up a long time,
and smoked and talked in a low voice, and felt pretty
dull and down-hearted. We talked the murder and the ghost
over and over again, and got so creepy and crawly we
couldn't get sleepy nohow and noway.

By and by, when it was away late in the night and all
the sounds was late sounds and solemn, Tom nudged me
and whispers to me to look, and I done it, and there we
see a man poking around in the yard like he didn't know
just what he wanted to do, but it was pretty dim and we
couldn't see him good.  Then he started for the stile,
and as he went over it the moon came out strong, and he
had a long-handled shovel over his shoulder, and we see
the white patch on the old work-gown. So Tom says:

"He's a-walking in his sleep.  I wish we was allowed
to follow him and see where he's going to.  There, he's
turned down by the tobacker-field. Out of sight now.
It's a dreadful pity he can't rest no better."

We waited a long time, but he didn't come back any more,
or if he did he come around the other way; so at last we
was tuckered out and went to sleep and had nightmares,
a million of them.  But before dawn we was awake again,
because meantime a storm had come up and been raging,
and the thunder and lightning was awful, and the wind was
a-thrashing the trees around, and the rain was driving down
in slanting sheets, and the gullies was running rivers.
Tom says:

"Looky here, Huck, I'll tell you one thing that's
mighty curious.  Up to the time we went out last night
the family hadn't heard about Jake Dunlap being murdered.
Now the men that chased Hal Clayton and Bud Dixon away
would spread the thing around in a half an hour, and every
neighbor that heard it would shin out and fly around
from one farm to t'other and try to be the first to tell
the news.  Land, they don't have such a big thing as that
to tell twice in thirty year! Huck, it's mighty strange;
I don't understand it."

So then he was in a fidget for the rain to let up,
so we could turn out and run across some of the people
and see if they would say anything about it to us.
And he said if they did we must be horribly surprised
and shocked.

We was out and gone the minute the rain stopped.
It was just broad day then.  We loafed along up the road,
and now and then met a person and stopped and said howdy,
and told them when we come, and how we left the folks
at home, and how long we was going to stay, and all that,
but none of them said a word about that thing; which was
just astonishing, and no mistake.  Tom said he believed
if we went to the sycamores we would find that body laying
there solitary and alone, and not a soul around.  Said he
believed the men chased the thieves so far into the woods
that the thieves prob'ly seen a good chance and turned
on them at last, and maybe they all killed each other,
and so there wasn't anybody left to tell.

First we knowed, gabbling along that away, we was right at
the sycamores.  The cold chills trickled down my back and I
wouldn't budge another step, for all Tom's persuading.
But he couldn't hold in; he'd GOT to see if the boots was
safe on that body yet.  So he crope in--and the next minute
out he come again with his eyes bulging he was so excited,
and says:

"Huck, it's gone!"

I WAS astonished! I says:

"Tom, you don't mean it."

"It's gone, sure.  There ain't a sign of it.  The ground
is trampled some, but if there was any blood it's all
washed away by the storm, for it's all puddles and slush
in there."

At last I give in, and went and took a look myself; and it
was just as Tom said--there wasn't a sign of a corpse.

"Dern it," I says, "the di'monds is gone.  Don't you
reckon the thieves slunk back and lugged him off, Tom?"

"Looks like it.  It just does.  Now where'd they hide him,
do you reckon?"

"I don't know," I says, disgusted, "and what's more I
don't care.  They've got the boots, and that's all I
cared about.  He'll lay around these woods a long time
before I hunt him up."

Tom didn't feel no more intrust in him neither, only curiosity
to know what come of him; but he said we'd lay low and keep
dark and it wouldn't be long till the dogs or somebody rousted him out.

We went back home to breakfast ever so bothered and put
out and disappointed and swindled.  I warn't ever so down
on a corpse before.


CHAPTER VIII.  TALKING WITH THE GHOST

IT warn't very cheerful at breakfast.  Aunt Sally she
looked old and tired and let the children snarl and fuss
at one another and didn't seem to notice it was going on,
which wasn't her usual style; me and Tom had a plenty
to think about without talking; Benny she looked like she
hadn't had much sleep, and whenever she'd lift her head
a little and steal a look towards her father you could
see there was tears in her eyes; and as for the old man,
his things stayed on his plate and got cold without him
knowing they was there, I reckon, for he was thinking and
thinking all the time, and never said a word and never et
a bite.

By and by when it was stillest, that nigger's head
was poked in at the door again, and he said his Marse
Brace was getting powerful uneasy about Marse Jubiter,
which hadn't come home yet, and would Marse Silas please
--He was looking at Uncle Silas, and he stopped there,
like the rest of his words was froze; for Uncle Silas he
rose up shaky and steadied himself leaning his fingers
on the table, and he was panting, and his eyes was set
on the nigger, and he kept swallowing, and put his other
hand up to his throat a couple of times, and at last he
got his words started, and says:

"Does he--does he--think--WHAT does he think! Tell him--tell
him--" Then he sunk down in his chair limp and weak,
and says, so as you could hardly hear him: "Go away--go away!"

The nigger looked scared and cleared out, and we all
felt--well, I don't know how we felt, but it was awful,
with the old man panting there, and his eyes set and looking
like a person that was dying.  None of us could budge;
but Benny she slid around soft, with her tears running down,
and stood by his side, and nestled his old gray head
up against her and begun to stroke it and pet it with
her hands, and nodded to us to go away, and we done it,
going out very quiet, like the dead was there.

Me and Tom struck out for the woods mighty solemn,
and saying how different it was now to what it was last
summer when we was here and everything was so peaceful
and happy and everybody thought so much of Uncle Silas,
and he was so cheerful and simple-hearted and pudd'n-headed
and good--and now look at him.  If he hadn't lost his mind
he wasn't muck short of it.  That was what we allowed.

It was a most lovely day now, and bright and sun.  shiny;
and the further and further we went over the hills towards
the prairie the lovelier and lovelier the trees and flowers
got to be and the more it seemed strange and somehow wrong
that there had to be trouble in such a world as this.
And then all of a sudden I catched my breath and grabbed
Tom's arm, and all my livers and lungs and things fell down into my legs.

"There it is!" I says.  We jumped back behind a bush shivering,
and Tom says:

"'Sh!--don't make a noise."

It was setting on a log right in the edge of a little
prairie, thinking.  I tried to get Tom to come away,
but he wouldn't, and I dasn't budge by myself.  He said
we mightn't ever get another chance to see one, and he
was going to look his fill at this one if he died for it.
So I looked too, though it give me the fan-tods to do it.
Tom he HAD to talk, but he talked low.  He says:

"Poor Jakey, it's got all its things on, just as he said
he would.  NOW you see what we wasn't certain about--its hair.
It's not long now the way it was: it's got it cropped close
to its head, the way he said he would.  Huck, I never
see anything look any more naturaler than what It does."

"Nor I neither," I says; "I'd recognize it anywheres."

"So would I. It looks perfectly solid and genuwyne,
just the way it done before it died."

So we kept a-gazing. Pretty soon Tom says:

"Huck, there's something mighty curious about this one,
don't you know? IT oughtn't to be going around in the daytime."

"That's so, Tom--I never heard the like of it before."

"No, sir, they don't ever come out only at night--
and then not till after twelve.  There's something
wrong about this one, now you mark my words.  I don't
believe it's got any right to be around in the daytime.
But don't it look natural! Jake was going to play deef
and dumb here, so the neighbors wouldn't know his voice.
Do you reckon it would do that if we was to holler at it?"

"Lordy, Tom, don't talk so! If you was to holler at it
I'd die in my tracks."

"Don't you worry, I ain't going to holler at it.
Look, Huck, it's a-scratching its head--don't you see?"

"Well, what of it?"

"Why, this.  What's the sense of it scratching its head?
There ain't anything there to itch; its head is made
out of fog or something like that, and can't itch.
A fog can't itch; any fool knows that."

"Well, then, if it don't itch and can't itch, what in
the nation is it scratching it for? Ain't it just habit,
don't you reckon?"

"No, sir, I don't. I ain't a bit satisfied about the way this
one acts.  I've a blame good notion it's a bogus one--I have,
as sure as I'm a-sitting here.  Because, if it--Huck!"

"Well, what's the matter now?"

"YOU CAN'T SEE THE BUSHES THROUGH IT!"

"Why, Tom, it's so, sure! It's as solid as a cow.
I sort of begin to think--"

"Huck, it's biting off a chaw of tobacker! By George,
THEY don't chaw--they hain't got anything to chaw WITH.
Huck!"

"I'm a-listening."

"It ain't a ghost at all.  It's Jake Dunlap his own self!"

"Oh your granny!" I says.

"Huck Finn, did we find any corpse in the sycamores?"

"No."

"Or any sign of one?"

"No."

"Mighty good reason.  Hadn't ever been any corpse there."

"Why, Tom, you know we heard--"

"Yes, we did--heard a howl or two.  Does that prove anybody
was killed? Course it don't. And we seen four men run,
then this one come walking out and we took it for a ghost.
No more ghost than you are.  It was Jake Dunlap his
own self, and it's Jake Dunlap now.  He's been and got his
hair cropped, the way he said he would, and he's playing
himself for a stranger, just the same as he said he would.
Ghost? Hum!--he's as sound as a nut."

Then I see it all, and how we had took too much for granted.
I was powerful glad he didn't get killed, and so was Tom,
and we wondered which he would like the best--for us
to never let on to know him, or how? Tom reckoned the
best way would be to go and ask him.  So he started;
but I kept a little behind, because I didn't know but it
might be a ghost, after all.  When Tom got to where he was,
he says:

"Me and Huck's mighty glad to see you again, and you needn't
be afeared we'll tell.  And if you think it'll be safer for
you if we don't let on to know you when we run across you,
say the word and you'll see you can depend on us, and would
ruther cut our hands off than get you into the least little bit of danger."

First off he looked surprised to see us, and not
very glad, either; but as Tom went on he looked pleasanter,
and when he was done he smiled, and nodded his head
several times, and made signs with his hands, and says:

"Goo-goo--goo-goo," the way deef and dummies does.

Just then we see some of Steve Nickerson's people coming
that lived t'other side of the prairie, so Tom says:

"You do it elegant; I never see anybody do it better.
You're right; play it on us, too; play it on us same
as the others; it'll keep you in practice and prevent
you making blunders.  We'll keep away from you and let
on we don't know you, but any time we can be any help,
you just let us know."

Then we loafed along past the Nickersons, and of course
they asked if that was the new stranger yonder, and where'd
he come from, and what was his name, and which communion
was he, Babtis' or Methodis', and which politics,
Whig or Democrat, and how long is he staying, and all them
other questions that humans always asks when a stranger comes,
and animals does, too.  But Tom said he warn't able to make
anything out of deef and dumb signs, and the same with
goo-gooing. Then we watched them go and bullyrag Jake;
because we was pretty uneasy for him.  Tom said it would
take him days to get so he wouldn't forget he was a deef
and dummy sometimes, and speak out before he thought.
When we had watched long enough to see that Jake was
getting along all right and working his signs very good,
we loafed along again, allowing to strike the schoolhouse
about recess time, which was a three-mile tramp.

I was so disappointed not to hear Jake tell about the row
in the sycamores, and how near he come to getting killed,
that I couldn't seem to get over it, and Tom he felt
the same, but said if we was in Jake's fix we would want
to go careful and keep still and not take any chances.

The boys and girls was all glad to see us again, and we
had a real good time all through recess.  Coming to
school the Henderson boys had come across the new deef
and dummy and told the rest; so all the scholars was
chuck full of him and couldn't talk about anything else,
and was in a sweat to get a sight of him because they
hadn't ever seen a deef and dummy in their lives,
and it made a powerful excitement.

Tom said it was tough to have to keep mum now; said we would
be heroes if we could come out and tell all we knowed;
but after all, it was still more heroic to keep mum,
there warn't two boys in a million could do it.
That was Tom Sawyer's idea about it, and reckoned there
warn't anybody could better it.


CHAPTER IX.  FINDING OF JUBITER DUNLAP

IN the next two or three days Dummy he got to be powerful
popular.  He went associating around with the neighbors,
and they made much of him, and was proud to have such a
rattling curiosity among them.  They had him to breakfast,
they had him to dinner, they had him to supper; they kept
him loaded up with hog and hominy, and warn't ever tired
staring at him and wondering over him, and wishing they
knowed more about him, he was so uncommon and romantic.
His signs warn't no good; people couldn't understand them
and he prob'ly couldn't himself, but he done a sight of
goo-gooing, and so everybody was satisfied, and admired to hear
him go it.  He toted a piece of slate around, and a pencil;
and people wrote questions on it and he wrote answers;
but there warn't anybody could read his writing but
Brace Dunlap.  Brace said he couldn't read it very good,
but he could manage to dig out the meaning most of the time.
He said Dummy said he belonged away off somers and used to be
well off, but got busted by swindlers which he had trusted,
and was poor now, and hadn't any way to make a living.

Everybody praised Brace Dunlap for being so good to
that stranger.  He let him have a little log-cabin
all to himself, and had his niggers take care of it,
and fetch him all the vittles he wanted.

Dummy was at our house some, because old Uncle Silas was
so afflicted himself, these days, that anybody else that was
afflicted was a comfort to him.  Me and Tom didn't let on
that we had knowed him before, and he didn't let on that he
had knowed us before.  The family talked their troubles
out before him the same as if he wasn't there, but we
reckoned it wasn't any harm for him to hear what they said.
Generly he didn't seem to notice, but sometimes he did.

Well, two or three days went along, and everybody got to
getting uneasy about Jubiter Dunlap.  Everybody was asking
everybody if they had any idea what had become of him.
No, they hadn't, they said: and they shook their heads
and said there was something powerful strange about it.
Another and another day went by; then there was a report got
around that praps he was murdered.  You bet it made a big
stir! Everybody's tongue was clacking away after that.
Saturday two or three gangs turned out and hunted the
woods to see if they could run across his remainders.
Me and Tom helped, and it was noble good times and exciting.
Tom he was so brimful of it he couldn't eat nor rest.
He said if we could find that corpse we would be celebrated,
and more talked about than if we got drownded.

The others got tired and give it up; but not Tom
Sawyer--that warn't his style.  Saturday night he
didn't sleep any, hardly, trying to think up a plan;
and towards daylight in the morning he struck it.
He snaked me out of bed and was all excited, and says:

"Quick, Huck, snatch on your clothes--I've got it! Bloodhound!"

In two minutes we was tearing up the river road in the dark
towards the village.  Old Jeff Hooker had a bloodhound,
and Tom was going to borrow him.  I says:

"The trail's too old, Tom--and besides, it's rained,
you know."

"It don't make any difference, Huck.  If the body's hid
in the woods anywhere around the hound will find it.
If he's been murdered and buried, they wouldn't bury him deep,
it ain't likely, and if the dog goes over the spot he'll
scent him, sure.  Huck, we're going to be celebrated,
sure as you're born!"

He was just a-blazing; and whenever he got afire he was most
likely to get afire all over.  That was the way this time.
In two minutes he had got it all ciphered out, and wasn't
only just going to find the corpse--no, he was going to
get on the track of that murderer and hunt HIM down, too;
and not only that, but he was going to stick to him till--
"Well," I says, "you better find the corpse first;
I reckon that's a-plenty for to-day. For all we know,
there AIN'T any corpse and nobody hain't been murdered.
That cuss could 'a' gone off somers and not been killed
at all."

That graveled him, and he says:

"Huck Finn, I never see such a person as you to want
to spoil everything.  As long as YOU can't see anything
hopeful in a thing, you won't let anybody else.  What good
can it do you to throw cold water on that corpse and get
up that selfish theory that there ain't been any murder?
None in the world.  I don't see how you can act so.
I wouldn't treat you like that, and you know it.
Here we've got a noble good opportunity to make
a ruputation, and--"

"Oh, go ahead," I says.  "I'm sorry, and I take it all back.
I didn't mean nothing.  Fix it any way you want it.
HE ain't any consequence to me.  If he's killed, I'm as glad
of it as you are; and if he--"

"I never said anything about being glad; I only--"

"Well, then, I'm as SORRY as you are.  Any way you
druther have it, that is the way I druther have it.  He--"

"There ain't any druthers ABOUT it, Huck Finn; nobody said
anything about druthers.  And as for--"

He forgot he was talking, and went tramping along, studying.
He begun to get excited again, and pretty soon he says:

"Huck, it'll be the bulliest thing that ever happened
if we find the body after everybody else has quit looking,
and then go ahead and hunt up the murderer.  It won't only
be an honor to us, but it'll be an honor to Uncle Silas
because it was us that done it.  It'll set him up again,
you see if it don't."

But Old Jeff Hooker he throwed cold water on the whole
business when we got to his blacksmith shop and told him
what we come for.

"You can take the dog," he says, "but you ain't a-going
to find any corpse, because there ain't any corpse to find.
Everybody's quit looking, and they're right.  Soon as they
come to think, they knowed there warn't no corpse.
And I'll tell you for why.  What does a person kill another
person for, Tom Sawyer?--answer me that."

"Why, he--er--"

"Answer up! You ain't no fool.  What does he kill him FOR?"

"Well, sometimes it's for revenge, and--"

"Wait. One thing at a time.  Revenge, says you; and right
you are.  Now who ever had anything agin that poor trifling
no-account? Who do you reckon would want to kill HIM?--
that rabbit!"

Tom was stuck.  I reckon he hadn't thought of a person
having to have a REASON for killing a person before,
and now he sees it warn't likely anybody would have that
much of a grudge against a lamb like Jubiter Dunlap.
The blacksmith says, by and by:

"The revenge idea won't work, you see.  Well, then,
what's next? Robbery? B'gosh, that must 'a' been it,
Tom! Yes, sirree, I reckon we've struck it this time.
Some feller wanted his gallus-buckles, and so he--"

But it was so funny he busted out laughing, and just went
on laughing and laughing and laughing till he was 'most dead,
and Tom looked so put out and cheap that I knowed he
was ashamed he had come, and he wished he hadn't. But
old Hooker never let up on him.  He raked up everything
a person ever could want to kill another person about,
and any fool could see they didn't any of them fit
this case, and he just made no end of fun of the whole
business and of the people that had been hunting the body;
and he said:

"If they'd had any sense they'd 'a' knowed the lazy cuss slid
out because he wanted a loafing spell after all this work.
He'll come pottering back in a couple of weeks, and then
how'll you fellers feel? But, laws bless you, take the dog,
and go and hunt his remainders.  Do, Tom."

Then he busted out, and had another of them forty-rod laughs
of hisn.  Tom couldn't back down after all this, so he said,
"All right, unchain him;" and the blacksmith done it,
and we started home and left that old man laughing yet.

It was a lovely dog.  There ain't any dog that's got
a lovelier disposition than a bloodhound, and this one
knowed us and liked us.  He capered and raced around ever
so friendly, and powerful glad to be free and have a holiday;
but Tom was so cut up he couldn't take any intrust
in him, and said he wished he'd stopped and thought
a minute before he ever started on such a fool errand.
He said old Jeff Hooker would tell everybody, and we'd
never hear the last of it.

So we loafed along home down the back lanes, feeling pretty
glum and not talking.  When we was passing the far corner
of our tobacker field we heard the dog set up a long howl
in there, and we went to the place and he was scratching
the ground with all his might, and every now and then
canting up his head sideways and fetching another howl.

It was a long square, the shape of a grave; the rain had made
it sink down and show the shape.  The minute we come and
stood there we looked at one another and never said a word.
When the dog had dug down only a few inches he grabbed
something and pulled it up, and it was an arm and a sleeve.
Tom kind of gasped out, and says:

"Come away, Huck--it's found."

I just felt awful.  We struck for the road and fetched
the first men that come along.  They got a spade at
the crib and dug out the body, and you never see such
an excitement.  You couldn't make anything out of the face,
but you didn't need to.  Everybody said:

"Poor Jubiter; it's his clothes, to the last rag!"

Some rushed off to spread the news and tell the justice
of the peace and have an inquest, and me and Tom lit out
for the house.  Tom was all afire and 'most out of breath
when we come tearing in where Uncle Silas and Aunt Sally
and Benny was.  Tom sung out:

"Me and Huck's found Jubiter Dunlap's corpse all by ourselves
with a bloodhound, after everybody else had quit hunting
and given it up; and if it hadn't a been for us it never
WOULD 'a' been found; and he WAS murdered too--they done
it with a club or something like that; and I'm going
to start in and find the murderer, next, and I bet I'll do it!"

Aunt Sally and Benny sprung up pale and astonished,
but Uncle Silas fell right forward out of his chair on
to the floor and groans out:

"Oh, my God, you've found him NOW!"


CHAPTER X. THE ARREST OF UNCLE SILAS

THEM awful words froze us solid.  We couldn't move hand or
foot for as much as half a minute.  Then we kind of come to,
and lifted the old man up and got him into his chair,
and Benny petted him and kissed him and tried to comfort him,
and poor old Aunt Sally she done the same; but, poor things,
they was so broke up and scared and knocked out of their
right minds that they didn't hardly know what they
was about.  With Tom it was awful; it 'most petrified
him to think maybe he had got his uncle into a thousand
times more trouble than ever, and maybe it wouldn't ever
happened if he hadn't been so ambitious to get celebrated,
and let the corpse alone the way the others done.
But pretty soon he sort of come to himself again and says:

"Uncle Silas, don't you say another word like that.
It's dangerous, and there ain't a shadder of truth
in it."

Aunt Sally and Benny was thankful to hear him say that,
and they said the same; but the old man he wagged his head
sorrowful and hopeless, and the tears run down his face,
and he says;

"No--I done it; poor Jubiter, I done it!"

It was dreadful to hear him say it.  Then he went on and
told about it, and said it happened the day me and Tom
come--along about sundown.  He said Jubiter pestered him
and aggravated him till he was so mad he just sort of lost
his mind and grabbed up a stick and hit him over the head
with all his might, and Jubiter dropped in his tracks.
Then he was scared and sorry, and got down on his knees
and lifted his head up, and begged him to speak and say
he wasn't dead; and before long he come to, and when he
see who it was holding his head, he jumped like he was
'most scared to death, and cleared the fence and tore
into the woods, and was gone.  So he hoped he wasn't
hurt bad.

"But laws," he says, "it was only just fear that gave
him that last little spurt of strength, and of course it
soon played out and he laid down in the bush, and there
wasn't anybody to help him, and he died."

Then the old man cried and grieved, and said he was a murderer
and the mark of Cain was on him, and he had disgraced
his family and was going to be found out and hung.
But Tom said:

"No, you ain't going to be found out.  You DIDN'T kill him.
ONE lick wouldn't kill him.  Somebody else done it."

"Oh, yes," he says, "I done it--nobody else.  Who else
had anything against him? Who else COULD have anything
against him?"

He looked up kind of like he hoped some of us could mention
somebody that could have a grudge against that harmless
no-account, but of course it warn't no use--he HAD us;
we couldn't say a word.  He noticed that, and he saddened
down again, and I never see a face so miserable and so
pitiful to see.  Tom had a sudden idea, and says:

"But hold on!--somebody BURIED him.  Now who--"

He shut off sudden.  I knowed the reason.  It give me the
cold shudders when he said them words, because right away
I remembered about us seeing Uncle Silas prowling around
with a long-handled shovel away in the night that night.
And I knowed Benny seen him, too, because she was talking
about it one day.  The minute Tom shut off he changed
the subject and went to begging Uncle Silas to keep mum,
and the rest of us done the same, and said he MUST,
and said it wasn't his business to tell on himself, and if
he kept mum nobody would ever know; but if it was found
out and any harm come to him it would break the family's
hearts and kill them, and yet never do anybody any good.
So at last he promised.  We was all of us more comfortable,
then, and went to work to cheer up the old man.  We told
him all he'd got to do was to keep still, and it wouldn't
be long till the whole thing would blow over and be forgot.
We all said there wouldn't anybody ever suspect Uncle Silas,
nor ever dream of such a thing, he being so good and kind,
and having such a good character; and Tom says,
cordial and hearty, he says:

"Why, just look at it a minute; just consider.  Here is
Uncle Silas, all these years a preacher--at his own expense;
all these years doing good with all his might and every
way he can think of--at his own expense, all the time;
always been loved by everybody, and respected; always been
peaceable and minding his own business, the very last man
in this whole deestrict to touch a person, and everybody
knows it.  Suspect HIM? Why, it ain't any more possible than--"

"By authority of the State of Arkansaw, I arrest you
for the murder of Jubiter Dunlap!" shouts the sheriff
at the door.

It was awful.  Aunt Sally and Benny flung themselves at
Uncle Silas, screaming and crying, and hugged him and hung
to him, and Aunt Sally said go away, she wouldn't ever
give him up, they shouldn't have him, and the niggers
they come crowding and crying to the door and--well, I
couldn't stand it; it was enough to break a person's heart;
so I got out.

They took him up to the little one-horse jail in the village,
and we all went along to tell him good-bye; and Tom was
feeling elegant, and says to me, "We'll have a most noble
good time and heaps of danger some dark night getting him
out of there, Huck, and it'll be talked about everywheres
and we will be celebrated;" but the old man busted
that scheme up the minute he whispered to him about it.
He said no, it was his duty to stand whatever the law
done to him, and he would stick to the jail plumb
through to the end, even if there warn't no door to it.
It disappointed Tom and graveled him a good deal, but he
had to put up with it.

But he felt responsible and bound to get his uncle Silas free;
and he told Aunt Sally, the last thing, not to worry,
because he was going to turn in and work night and day
and beat this game and fetch Uncle Silas out innocent;
and she was very loving to him and thanked him and said she
knowed he would do his very best.  And she told us to help
Benny take care of the house and the children, and then we
had a good-bye cry all around and went back to the farm,
and left her there to live with the jailer's wife a month
till the trial in October.


CHAPTER XI.  TOM SAWYER DISCOVERS THE MURDERERS

WELL, that was a hard month on us all.  Poor Benny, she kept
up the best she could, and me and Tom tried to keep things
cheerful there at the house, but it kind of went for nothing,
as you may say.  It was the same up at the jail.  We went up
every day to see the old people, but it was awful dreary,
because the old man warn't sleeping much, and was walking
in his sleep considerable and so he got to looking fagged
and miserable, and his mind got shaky, and we all got
afraid his troubles would break him down and kill him.
And whenever we tried to persuade him to feel cheerfuler,
he only shook his head and said if we only knowed what it
was to carry around a murderer's load in your heart we
wouldn't talk that way.  Tom and all of us kept telling
him it WASN'T murder, but just accidental killing!
but it never made any difference--it was murder, and he
wouldn't have it any other way.  He actu'ly begun to come
out plain and square towards trial time and acknowledge
that he TRIED to kill the man.  Why, that was awful,
you know.  It made things seem fifty times as dreadful,
and there warn't no more comfort for Aunt Sally and Benny.
But he promised he wouldn't say a word about his murder
when others was around, and we was glad of that.

Tom Sawyer racked the head off of himself all that month
trying to plan some way out for Uncle Silas, and many's
the night he kept me up 'most all night with this kind
of tiresome work, but he couldn't seem to get on the right
track no way.  As for me, I reckoned a body might as well
give it up, it all looked so blue and I was so downhearted;
but he wouldn't. He stuck to the business right along,
and went on planning and thinking and ransacking his head.

So at last the trial come on, towards the middle of October,
and we was all in the court.  The place was jammed,
of course.  Poor old Uncle Silas, he looked more like a dead
person than a live one, his eyes was so hollow and he
looked so thin and so mournful.  Benny she set on one side
of him and Aunt Sally on the other, and they had veils on,
and was full of trouble.  But Tom he set by our lawyer,
and had his finger in everywheres, of course.  The lawyer
let him, and the judge let him.  He 'most took the business
out of the lawyer's hands sometimes; which was well enough,
because that was only a mud-turtle of a back-settlement
lawyer and didn't know enough to come in when it rains,
as the saying is.

They swore in the jury, and then the lawyer for the
prostitution got up and begun.  He made a terrible speech
against the old man, that made him moan and groan,
and made Benny and Aunt Sally cry.  The way HE told
about the murder kind of knocked us all stupid it was
so different from the old man's tale.  He said he was
going to prove that Uncle Silas was SEEN to kill Jubiter
Dunlap by two good witnesses, and done it deliberate,
and SAID he was going to kill him the very minute he
hit him with the club; and they seen him hide Jubiter
in the bushes, and they seen that Jubiter was stone-dead.
And said Uncle Silas come later and lugged Jubiter down
into the tobacker field, and two men seen him do it.
And said Uncle Silas turned out, away in the night,
and buried Jubiter, and a man seen him at it.

I says to myself, poor old Uncle Silas has been lying
about it because he reckoned nobody seen him and he
couldn't bear to break Aunt Sally's heart and Benny's;
and right he was: as for me, I would 'a' lied the same way,
and so would anybody that had any feeling, to save
them such misery and sorrow which THEY warn't no ways
responsible for.  Well, it made our lawyer look pretty sick;
and it knocked Tom silly, too, for a little spell,
but then he braced up and let on that he warn't worried--but
I knowed he WAS, all the same.  And the people--my,
but it made a stir amongst them!

And when that lawyer was done telling the jury what he was
going to prove, he set down and begun to work his witnesses.

First, he called a lot of them to show that there was bad
blood betwixt Uncle Silas and the diseased; and they told
how they had heard Uncle Silas threaten the diseased,
at one time and another, and how it got worse and worse
and everybody was talking about it, and how diseased got
afraid of his life, and told two or three of them he
was certain Uncle Silas would up and kill him some time
or another.

Tom and our lawyer asked them some questions; but it
warn't no use, they stuck to what they said.

Next, they called up Lem Beebe, and he took the stand.
It come into my mind, then, how Lem and Jim Lane had come
along talking, that time, about borrowing a dog or something
from Jubiter Dunlap; and that brought up the blackberries
and the lantern; and that brought up Bill and Jack Withers,
and how they passed by, talking about a nigger stealing
Uncle Silas's corn; and that fetched up our old ghost
that come along about the same time and scared us
so--and here HE was too, and a privileged character,
on accounts of his being deef and dumb and a stranger,
and they had fixed him a chair inside the railing, where he
could cross his legs and be comfortable, whilst the other
people was all in a jam so they couldn't hardly breathe.
So it all come back to me just the way it was that day;
and it made me mournful to think how pleasant it was up
to then, and how miserable ever since.

  LEM BEEBE, sworn, said--"I was a-coming along, that day,
  second of September, and Jim Lane was with me, and it was
  towards sundown, and we heard loud talk, like quarrelling,
  and we was very close, only the hazel bushes between
  (that's along the fence); and we heard a voice say,
  'I've told you more'n once I'd kill you,' and knowed
  it was this prisoner's voice; and then we see a club
  come up above the bushes and down out of sight again.
  and heard a smashing thump and then a groan or two: and
  then we crope soft to where we could see, and there laid
  Jupiter Dunlap dead, and this prisoner standing over him
  with the club; and the next he hauled the dead man into
  a clump of bushes and hid him, and then we stooped low,
  to be cut of sight, and got away."

Well, it was awful.  It kind of froze everybody's blood
to hear it, and the house was 'most as still whilst
he was telling it as if there warn't nobody in it.
And when he was done, you could hear them gasp and sigh,
all over the house, and look at one another the same as
to say, "Ain't it perfectly terrible--ain't it awful!"

Now happened a thing that astonished me.  All the time the
first witnesses was proving the bad blood and the threats
and all that, Tom Sawyer was alive and laying for them;
and the minute they was through, he went for them,
and done his level best to catch them in lies and spile
their testimony.  But now, how different.  When Lem first
begun to talk, and never said anything about speaking
to Jubiter or trying to borrow a dog off of him, he was
all alive and laying for Lem, and you could see he was
getting ready to cross-question him to death pretty soon,
and then I judged him and me would go on the stand
by and by and tell what we heard him and Jim Lane say.
But the next time I looked at Tom I got the cold shivers.
Why, he was in the brownest study you ever see--miles and
miles away.  He warn't hearing a word Lem Beebe was saying;
and when he got through he was still in that brown-study,
just the same.  Our lawyer joggled him, and then he looked
up startled, and says, "Take the witness if you want him.
Lemme alone--I want to think."

Well, that beat me.  I couldn't understand it.  And Benny
and her mother--oh, they looked sick, they was so troubled.
They shoved their veils to one side and tried to get his eye,
but it warn't any use, and I couldn't get his eye either.
So the mud-turtle he tackled the witness, but it didn't
amount to nothing; and he made a mess of it.

Then they called up Jim Lane, and he told the very same story
over again, exact.  Tom never listened to this one at all,
but set there thinking and thinking, miles and miles away.
So the mud-turtle went in alone again and come out just
as flat as he done before.  The lawyer for the prostitution
looked very comfortable, but the judge looked disgusted.
You see, Tom was just the same as a regular lawyer, nearly,
because it was Arkansaw law for a prisoner to choose
anybody he wanted to help his lawyer, and Tom had had Uncle
Silas shove him into the case, and now he was botching
it and you could see the judge didn't like it much.
All that the mud-turtle got out of Lem and Jim was this:
he asked them:

"Why didn't you go and tell what you saw?"

"We was afraid we would get mixed up in it ourselves.
And we was just starting down the river a-hunting for all
the week besides; but as soon as we come back we found
out they'd been searching for the body, so then we went
and told Brace Dunlap all about it."

"When was that?"

"Saturday night, September 9th."

The judge he spoke up and says:

"Mr. Sheriff, arrest these two witnesses on suspicions
of being accessionary after the fact to the murder."

The lawyer for the prostitution jumps up all excited,
and says:

"Your honor! I protest against this extraordi--"

"Set down!" says the judge, pulling his bowie and laying
it on his pulpit.  "I beg you to respect the Court."

So he done it.  Then he called Bill Withers.

  BILL WITHERS, sworn, said: "I was coming along about
  sundown, Saturday, September 2d, by the prisoner's field,
  and my brother Jack was with me and we seen a man toting
  off something heavy on his back and allowed it was a nigger
  stealing corn; we couldn't see distinct; next we made out
  that it was one man carrying another; and the way it hung,
  so kind of limp, we judged it was somebody that was drunk;
  and by the man's walk we said it was Parson Silas,
  and we judged he had found Sam Cooper drunk in the road,
  which he was always trying to reform him, and was toting
  him out of danger."

It made the people shiver to think of poor old Uncle
Silas toting off the diseased down to the place
in his tobacker field where the dog dug up the body,
but there warn't much sympathy around amongst the faces,
and I heard one cuss say "'Tis the coldest blooded work
I ever struck, lugging a murdered man around like that,
and going to bury him like a animal, and him a preacher
at that."

Tom he went on thinking, and never took no notice;
so our lawyer took the witness and done the best he could,
and it was plenty poor enough.

Then Jack Withers he come on the stand and told
the same tale, just like Bill done.

And after him comes Brace Dunlap, and he was looking
very mournful, and most crying; and there was a rustle
and a stir all around, and everybody got ready to listen,
and lost of the women folks said, "Poor cretur, poor cretur,"
and you could see a many of them wip-ing their eyes.

  BRACE DUNLAP, sworn, said: "I was in considerable trouble
  a long time about my poor brother, but I reckoned things
  warn't near so bad as he made out, and I couldn't make
  myself believe anybody would have the heart to hurt
  a poor harmless cretur like that"--[by jings, I was sure
  I seen Tom give a kind of a faint little start, and then
  look disappointed again]--"and you know I COULDN'T think
  a preacher would hurt him--it warn't natural to think
  such an onlikely thing--so I never paid much attention,
  and now I sha'n't ever, ever forgive myself; for if I had
  a done different, my poor brother would be with me this day,
  and not laying yonder murdered, and him so harmless."
  He kind of broke down there and choked up, and waited to get
  his voice; and people all around said the most pitiful things,
  and women cried; and it was very still in there, and solemn,
  and old Uncle Silas, poor thing, he give a groan right
  out so everybody heard him.  Then Brace he went on,
  "Saturday, September 2d, he didn't come home to supper.
  By-and-by I got a little uneasy, and one of my niggers
  went over to this prisoner's place, but come back and
  said he warn't there.  So I got uneasier and uneasier,
  and couldn't rest.  I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep;
  and turned out, away late in the night, and went wandering
  over to this prisoner's place and all around about there
  a good while, hoping I would run across my poor brother,
  and never knowing he was out of his troubles and gone
  to a better shore --" So he broke down and choked up again,
  and most all the women was crying now.  Pretty soon
  he got another start and says: "But it warn't no use;
  so at last I went home and tried to get some sleep,
  but couldn't. Well, in a day or two everybody was uneasy,
  and they got to talking about this prisoner's threats,
  and took to the idea, which I didn't take no stock in,
  that my brother was murdered so they hunted around and tried
  to find his body, but couldn't and give it up.  And so I
  reckoned he was gone off somers to have a little peace,
  and would come back to us when his troubles was kind
  of healed.  But late Saturday night, the 9th, Lem Beebe
  and Jim Lane come to my house and told me all--told me
  the whole awful 'sassination, and my heart was broke.
  And THEN I remembered something that hadn't took no hold
  of me at the time, because reports said this prisoner had
  took to walking in his sleep and doing all kind of things
  of no consequence, not knowing what he was about.  I will
  tell you what that thing was that come back into my memory.
  Away late that awful Saturday night when I was wandering
  around about this prisoner's place, grieving and troubled,
  I was down by the corner of the tobacker- field and I
  heard a sound like digging in a gritty soil; and I crope
  nearer and peeped through the vines that hung on the
  rail fence and seen this prisoner SHOVELING--shoveling
  with a long-handled shovel--heaving earth into a big
  hole that was most filled up; his back was to me, but it
  was bright moonlight and I knowed him by his old green
  baize work-gown with a splattery white patch in the middle
  of the back like somebody had hit him with a snowball.
  HE WAS BURYING THE MAN HE'D MURDERED!"

And he slumped down in his chair crying and sobbing,
and 'most everybody in the house busted out wailing,
and crying, and saying, "Oh, it's awful--awful--
horrible! and there was a most tremendous excitement,
and you couldn't hear yourself think; and right in the
midst of it up jumps old Uncle Silas, white as a sheet,
and sings out:

"IT'S TRUE, EVERY WORD--I MURDERED HIM IN COLD BLOOD!"

By Jackson, it petrified them! People rose up wild all
over the house, straining and staring for a better look
at him, and the judge was hammering with his mallet
and the sheriff yelling "Order--order in the court--order!"

And all the while the old man stood there a-quaking
and his eyes a-burning, and not looking at his wife
and daughter, which was clinging to him and begging him
to keep still, but pawing them off with his hands and
saying he WOULD clear his black soul from crime, he WOULD
heave off this load that was more than he could bear,
and he WOULDN'T bear it another hour! And then he raged
right along with his awful tale, everybody a-staring
and gasping, judge, jury, lawyers, and everybody, and Benny
and Aunt Sally crying their hearts out.  And by George,
Tom Sawyer never looked at him once! Never once--just
set there gazing with all his eyes at something else,
I couldn't tell what.  And so the old man raged right along,
pouring his words out like a stream of fire:

"I killed him! I am guilty! But I never had the notion
in my life to hurt him or harm him, spite of all them lies
about my threatening him, till the very minute I raised
the club--then my heart went cold!--then the pity all went
out of it, and I struck to kill! In that one moment all my
wrongs come into my mind; all the insults that that man
and the scoundrel his brother, there, had put upon me,
and how they laid in together to ruin me with the people,
and take away my good name, and DRIVE me to some deed
that would destroy me and my family that hadn't ever done
THEM no harm, so help me God! And they done it in a mean
revenge--for why? Because my innocent pure girl here at my
side wouldn't marry that rich, insolent, ignorant coward,
Brace Dunlap, who's been sniveling here over a brother
he never cared a brass farthing for--"[I see Tom give
a jump and look glad THIS time, to a dead certainty]"--
and in that moment I've told you about, I forgot my God
and remembered only my heart's bitterness, God forgive me,
and I struck to kill.  In one second I was miserably
sorry--oh, filled with remorse; but I thought of my
poor family, and I MUST hide what I'd done for their sakes;
and I did hide that corpse in the bushes; and presently I
carried it to the tobacker field; and in the deep night I
went with my shovel and buried it where--"

Up jumps Tom and shouts:

"NOW, I've got it!" and waves his hand, oh, ever so fine
and starchy, towards the old man, and says:

"Set down! A murder WAS done, but you never had no hand
in it!"

Well, sir, you could a heard a pin drop.  And the old man
he sunk down kind of bewildered in his seat and Aunt Sally
and Benny didn't know it, because they was so astonished
and staring at Tom with their mouths open and not knowing
what they was about.  And the whole house the same.
I never seen people look so helpless and tangled up,
and I hain't ever seen eyes bug out and gaze without a blink
the way theirn did.  Tom says, perfectly ca'm:

"Your honor, may I speak?"

"For God's sake, yes--go on!" says the judge, so astonished
and mixed up he didn't know what he was about hardly.

Then Tom he stood there and waited a second or two--
that was for to work up an "effect," as he calls it--
then he started in just as ca'm as ever, and says:

"For about two weeks now there's been a little bill sticking
on the front of this courthouse offering two thousand dollars
reward for a couple of big di'monds--stole at St. Louis.
Them di'monds is worth twelve thousand dollars.  But never
mind about that till I get to it.  Now about this murder.
I will tell you all about it--how it happened--who done
it--every DEtail."

You could see everybody nestle now, and begin to listen
for all they was worth.

"This man here, Brace Dunlap, that's been sniveling
so about his dead brother that YOU know he never cared
a straw for, wanted to marry that young girl there,
and she wouldn't have him.  So he told Uncle Silas he
would make him sorry.  Uncle Silas knowed how powerful
he was, and how little chance he had against such a man,
and he was scared and worried, and done everything he could
think of to smooth him over and get him to be good to him:
he even took his no-account brother Jubiter on the farm
and give him wages and stinted his own family to pay them;
and Jubiter done everything his brother could contrive
to insult Uncle Silas, and fret and worry him, and try
to drive Uncle Silas into doing him a hurt, so as to
injure Uncle Silas with the people.  And it done it.
Everybody turned against him and said the meanest kind
of things about him, and it graduly broke his heart--yes,
and he was so worried and distressed that often he warn't
hardly in his right mind.

"Well, on that Saturday that we've had so much trouble about,
two of these witnesses here, Lem Beebe and Jim Lane, come along
by where Uncle Silas and Jubiter Dunlap was at work--and
that much of what they've said is true, the rest is lies.
They didn't hear Uncle Silas say he would kill Jubiter;
they didn't hear no blow struck; they didn't see no dead man,
and they didn't see Uncle Silas hide anything in the bushes.
Look at them now--how they set there, wishing they hadn't
been so handy with their tongues; anyway, they'll wish
it before I get done.

"That same Saturday evening Bill and Jack Withers DID see
one man lugging off another one.  That much of what they
said is true, and the rest is lies.  First off they
thought it was a nigger stealing Uncle Silas's corn--you
notice it makes them look silly, now, to find out somebody
overheard them say that.  That's because they found
out by and by who it was that was doing the lugging,
and THEY know best why they swore here that they took it
for Uncle Silas by the gait--which it WASN'T, and they
knowed it when they swore to that lie.

"A man out in the moonlight DID see a murdered person
put under ground in the tobacker field--but it wasn't
Uncle Silas that done the burying.  He was in his bed
at that very time.

"Now, then, before I go on, I want to ask you if you've
ever noticed this: that people, when they're thinking deep,
or when they're worried, are most always doing something
with their hands, and they don't know it, and don't
notice what it is their hands are doing.  some stroke
their chins; some stroke their noses; some stroke up
UNDER their chin with their hand; some twirl a chain,
some fumble a button, then there's some that draws
a figure or a letter with their finger on their cheek,
or under their chin or on their under lip.  That's MY way.
When I'm restless, or worried, or thinking hard, I draw
capital V's on my cheek or on my under lip or under my chin,
and never anything BUT capital V's--and half the time I
don't notice it and don't know I'm doing it."

That was odd.  That is just what I do; only I make
an O. And I could see people nodding to one another,
same as they do when they mean "THAT's so."

"Now, then, I'll go on.  That same Saturday--no, it
was the night before--there was a steamboat laying
at Flagler's Landing, forty miles above here, and it
was raining and storming like the nation.  And there
was a thief aboard, and he had them two big di'monds
that's advertised out here on this courthouse door;
and he slipped ashore with his hand-bag and struck
out into the dark and the storm, and he was a-hoping
he could get to this town all right and be safe.
But he had two pals aboard the boat, hiding, and he
knowed they was going to kill him the first chance they
got and take the di'monds; because all three stole them,
and then this fellow he got hold of them and skipped.

"Well, he hadn't been gone more'n ten minutes before
his pals found it out, and they jumped ashore and lit
out after him.  Prob'ly they burnt matches and found
his tracks.  Anyway, they dogged along after him all
day Saturday and kept out of his sight; and towards
sundown he come to the bunch of sycamores down by Uncle
Silas's field, and he went in there to get a disguise
out of his hand-bag and put it on before he showed
himself here in the town--and mind you he done that just
a little after the time that Uncle Silas was hitting
Jubiter Dunlap over the head with a club--for he DID hit him.

"But the minute the pals see that thief slide into
the bunch of sycamores, they jumped out of the bushes
and slid in after him.

"They fell on him and clubbed him to death.

"Yes, for all he screamed and howled so, they never had
no mercy on him, but clubbed him to death.  And two men
that was running along the road heard him yelling that way,
and they made a rush into the syca- i more bunch--which was
where they was bound for, anyway--and when the pals saw them
they lit out and the two new men after them a-chasing them
as tight as they could go.  But only a minute or two--then
these two new men slipped back very quiet into the sycamores.

"THEN what did they do? I will tell you what they done.
They found where the thief had got his disguise out of his
carpet-sack to put on; so one of them strips and puts on
that disguise."

Tom waited a little here, for some more "effect"--then
he says, very deliberate:

"The man that put on that dead man's disguise was--
JUBITER DUNLAP!"

"Great Scott!" everybody shouted, all over the house,
and old Uncle Silas he looked perfectly astonished.

"Yes, it was Jubiter Dunlap.  Not dead, you see.  Then they
pulled off the dead man's boots and put Jubiter Dunlap's
old ragged shoes on the corpse and put the corpse's boots
on Jubiter Dunlap.  Then Jubiter Dunlap stayed where he was,
and the other man lugged the dead body off in the twilight;
and after midnight he went to Uncle Silas's house,
and took his old green work-robe off of the peg where it
always hangs in the passage betwixt the house and the
kitchen and put it on, and stole the long-handled shovel
and went off down into the tobacker field and buried
the murdered man."

He stopped, and stood half a minute.  Then--"And who do
you reckon the murdered man WAS? It was--JAKE Dunlap,
the long-lost burglar!"

"Great Scott!"

"And the man that buried him was--BRACE Dunlap, his brother!"

"Great Scott!"

"And who do you reckon is this mowing idiot here that's
letting on all these weeks to be a deef and dumb stranger?
It's--JUBITER Dunlap!"

My land, they all busted out in a howl, and you never see
the like of that excitement since the day you was born.
And Tom he made a jump for Jubiter and snaked off his goggles
and his false whiskers, and there was the murdered man,
sure enough, just as alive as anybody! And Aunt Sally
and Benny they went to hugging and crying and kissing
and smothering old Uncle Silas to that degree he was more
muddled and confused and mushed up in his mind than he ever
was before, and that is saying considerable.  And next,
people begun to yell:

"Tom Sawyer! Tom Sawyer! Shut up everybody, and let him
go on! Go on, Tom Sawyer!"

Which made him feel uncommon bully, for it was nuts for Tom
Sawyer to be a public character that-away, and a hero,
as he calls it.  So when it was all quiet, he says:

"There ain't much left, only this.  When that man there,
Bruce Dunlap, had most worried the life and sense out of
Uncle Silas till at last he plumb lost his mind and hit
this other blatherskite, his brother, with a club, I reckon
he seen his chance.  Jubiter broke for the woods to hide,
and I reckon the game was for him to slide out, in the night,
and leave the country.  Then Brace would make everybody
believe Uncle Silas killed him and hid his body somers;
and that would ruin Uncle Silas and drive HIM out of the
country--hang him, maybe; I dunno.  But when they found
their dead brother in the sycamores without knowing him,
because he was so battered up, they see they had a better thing;
disguise BOTH and bury Jake and dig him up presently
all dressed up in Jubiter's clothes, and hire Jim Lane
and Bill Withers and the others to swear to some handy
lies--which they done.  And there they set, now, and I
told them they would be looking sick before I got done,
and that is the way they're looking now.

"Well, me and Huck Finn here, we come down on the boat
with the thieves, and the dead one told us all about the
di'monds, and said the others would murder him if they got
the chance; and we was going to help him all we could.
We was bound for the sycamores when we heard them killing
him in there; but we was in there in the early morning
after the storm and allowed nobody hadn't been killed,
after all.  And when we see Jubiter Dunlap here spreading
around in the very same disguise Jake told us HE was
going to wear, we thought it was Jake his own self--and
he was goo-gooing deef and dumb, and THAT was according
to agreement.

"Well, me and Huck went on hunting for the corpse after
the others quit, and we found it.  And was proud, too;
but Uncle Silas he knocked us crazy by telling us HE
killed the man.  So we was mighty sorry we found the body,
and was bound to save Uncle Silas's neck if we could;
and it was going to be tough work, too, because he
wouldn't let us break him out of prison the way we done
with our old nigger Jim.

"I done everything I could the whole month to think up
some way to save Uncle Silas, but I couldn't strike
a thing.  So when we come into court to-day I come empty,
and couldn't see no chance anywheres.  But by and by I had
a glimpse of something that set me thinking--just a little
wee glimpse--only that, and not enough to make sure;
but it set me thinking hard--and WATCHING, when I was
only letting on to think; and by and by, sure enough,
when Uncle Silas was piling out that stuff about HIM
killing Jubiter Dunlap, I catched that glimpse again,
and this time I jumped up and shut down the proceedings,
because I KNOWED Jubiter Dunlap was a-setting here before me.
I knowed him by a thing which I seen him do--and I
remembered it.  I'd seen him do it when I was here a
year ago."

He stopped then, and studied a minute--laying for an
"effect"--I knowed it perfectly well.  Then he turned
off like he was going to leave the platform, and says,
kind of lazy and indifferent:

"Well, I believe that is all."

Why, you never heard such a howl!--and it come from
the whole house:

"What WAS it you seen him do? Stay where you are,
you little devil! You think you are going to work a body
up till his mouth's a-watering and stop there? What WAS
it he done?"

That was it, you see--he just done it to get an "effect";
you couldn't 'a' pulled him off of that platform
with a yoke of oxen.

"Oh, it wasn't anything much," he says.  "I seen him
looking a little excited when he found Uncle Silas was
actuly fixing to hang himself for a murder that warn't
ever done; and he got more and more nervous and worried,
I a-watching him sharp but not seeming to look at him--
and all of a sudden his hands begun to work and fidget,
and pretty soon his left crept up and HIS FINGER DRAWED
A CROSS ON HIS CHEEK, and then I HAD him!"

Well, then they ripped and howled and stomped and clapped
their hands till Tom Sawyer was that proud and happy he
didn't know what to do with himself.

And then the judge he looked down over his pulpit and says:

"My boy, did you SEE all the various details of this
strange conspiracy and tragedy that you've been describing?"

"No, your honor, I didn't see any of them."

"Didn't see any of them! Why, you've told the whole
history straight through, just the same as if you'd
seen it with your eyes.  How did you manage that?"

Tom says, kind of easy and comfortable:

"Oh, just noticing the evidence and piecing this
and that together, your honor; just an ordinary little
bit of detective work; anybody could 'a' done it."

"Nothing of the kind! Not two in a million could 'a' done it.
You are a very remarkable boy."

Then they let go and give Tom another smashing round,
and he--well, he wouldn't 'a' sold out for a silver mine.
Then the judge says:

"But are you certain you've got this curious history straight?"

"Perfectly, your honor.  Here is Brace Dunlap--let him deny
his share of it if he wants to take the chance; I'll engage
to make him wish he hadn't said anything...... Well,
you see HE'S pretty quiet.  And his brother's pretty quiet,
and them four witnesses that lied so and got paid for it,
they're pretty quiet.  And as for Uncle Silas, it ain't
any use for him to put in his oar, I wouldn't believe him
under oath!"

Well, sir, that fairly made them shout; and even the judge he
let go and laughed.  Tom he was just feeling like a rainbow.
When they was done laughing he looks up at the judge and says:

"Your honor, there's a thief in this house."

"A thief?"

"Yes, sir.  And he's got them twelve-thousand-dollar
di'monds on him."

By gracious, but it made a stir! Everybody went shouting:

"Which is him? which is him? p'int him out!"

And the judge says:

"Point him out, my lad.  Sheriff, you will arrest him.
Which one is it?"

Tom says:

"This late dead man here--Jubiter Dunlap."

Then there was another thundering let-go of astonishment
and excitement; but Jubiter, which was astonished enough before,
was just fairly putrified with astonishment this time.
And he spoke up, about half crying, and says:

"Now THAT'S a lie.  Your honor, it ain't fair;
I'm plenty bad enough without that.  I done the other
things--Brace he put me up to it, and persuaded me,
and promised he'd make me rich, some day, and I done it,
and I'm sorry I done it, and I wisht I hadn't; but I
hain't stole no di'monds, and I hain't GOT no di'monds;
I wisht I may never stir if it ain't so.  The sheriff can
search me and see."

Tom says:

"Your honor, it wasn't right to call him a thief, and I'll
let up on that a little.  He did steal the di'monds,
but he didn't know it.  He stole them from his brother
Jake when he was laying dead, after Jake had stole them
from the other thieves; but Jubiter didn't know he
was stealing them; and he's been swelling around here
with them a month; yes, sir, twelve thousand dollars'
worth of di'monds on him--all that riches, and going around
here every day just like a poor man.  Yes, your honor,
he's got them on him now."

The judge spoke up and says:

"Search him, sheriff."

Well, sir, the sheriff he ransacked him high and low,
and everywhere: searched his hat, socks, seams, boots,
everything--and Tom he stood there quiet, laying for another
of them effects of hisn.  Finally the sheriff he give
it up, and everybody looked disappointed, and Jubiter says:

"There, now! what'd I tell you?"

And the judge says:

"It appears you were mistaken this time, my boy."

Then Tom took an attitude and let on to be studying
with all his might, and scratching his head.  Then all
of a sudden he glanced up chipper, and says:

"Oh, now I've got it ! I'd forgot."

Which was a lie, and I knowed it.  Then he says:

"Will somebody be good enough to lend me a little small
screwdriver? There was one in your brother's hand-bag
that you smouched, Jubiter.  but I reckon you didn't
fetch it with you."

"No, I didn't. I didn't want it, and I give it away."

"That's because you didn't know what it was for."

Jubiter had his boots on again, by now, and when the thing
Tom wanted was passed over the people's heads till it
got to him, he says to Jubiter:

"Put up your foot on this chair." And he kneeled down
and begun to unscrew the heel-plate, everybody watching;
and when he got that big di'mond out of that boot-heel
and held it up and let it flash and blaze and squirt
sunlight everwhichaway, it just took everybody's breath;
and Jubiter he looked so sick and sorry you never see
the like of it.  And when Tom held up the other di'mond
he looked sorrier than ever.  Land! he was thinking how
he would 'a' skipped out and been rich and independent
in a foreign land if he'd only had the luck to guess
what the screwdriver was in the carpet-bag for.

Well, it was a most exciting time, take it all around,
and Tom got cords of glory.  The judge took the di'monds,
and stood up in his pulpit, and cleared his throat,
and shoved his spectacles back on his head, and says:

"I'll keep them and notify the owners; and when they
send for them it will be a real pleasure to me to hand
you the two thousand dollars, for you've earned the
money--yes, and you've earned the deepest and most
sincerest thanks of this community besides, for lifting
a wronged and innocent family out of ruin and shame,
and saving a good and honorable man from a felon's death,
and for exposing to infamy and the punishment of the law
a cruel and odious scoundrel and his miserable creatures!"

Well, sir, if there'd been a brass band to bust out
some music, then, it would 'a' been just the perfectest
thing I ever see, and Tom Sawyer he said the same.

Then the sheriff he nabbed Brace Dunlap and his crowd,
and by and by next month the judge had them up for
trial and jailed the whole lot.  And everybody crowded
back to Uncle Silas's little old church, and was ever
so loving and kind to him and the family and couldn't
do enough for them; and Uncle Silas he preached them
the blamedest jumbledest idiotic sermons you ever struck,
and would tangle you up so you couldn't find your way home
in daylight; but the people never let on but what they
thought it was the clearest and brightest and elegantest
sermons that ever was; and they would set there and cry,
for love and pity; but, by George, they give me the
jim-jams and the fan-tods and caked up what brains I had,
and turned them solid; but by and by they loved the old
man's intellects back into him again, and he was as sound
in his skull as ever he was, which ain't no flattery,
I reckon.  And so the whole family was as happy as birds,
and nobody could be gratefuler and lovinger than what they
was to Tom Sawyer; and the same to me, though I hadn't
done nothing.  And when the two thousand dollars come,
Tom give half of it to me, and never told anybody so,
which didn't surprise me, because I knowed him.

END OF "TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE".






                               FOLLOWING
                              THE EQUATOR
                       A JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD
                                   BY
                               MARK TWAIN
                           SAMUEL L. CLEMENS
                         HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT



                               THIS BOOK
                     Is affectionately inscribed to
                            MY YOUNG FRIEND
                              HARRY ROGERS
                            WITH RECOGNITION
         OF WHAT HE IS, AND APPREHENSION OF WHAT HE MAY BECOME
              UNLESS HE FORM HIMSELF A LITTLE MORE CLOSELY
                           UPON THE MODEL OF
                              THE AUTHOR.





                         THE PUDD'NHEAD MAXIMS.
            THESE WISDOMS ARE FOR THE LURING OF YOUTH TOWARD
               HIGH MORAL ALTITUDES.  THE AUTHOR DID NOT
                  GATHER THEM FROM PRACTICE, BUT FROM
                   OBSERVATION.  TO BE GOOD IS NOBLE;
                         BUT TO SHOW OTHERS HOW
                          TO BE GOOD IS NOBLER
                            AND NO TROUBLE.




                                 CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.
The Party--Across America to Vancouver--On Board the Warrimo--Steamer
Chairs-The Captain-Going Home under a Cloud--A Gritty Purser--The
Brightest Passenger--Remedy for Bad Habits--The Doctor and the Lumbago
--A Moral Pauper--Limited Smoking--Remittance-men.


CHAPTER II.
Change of Costume--Fish, Snake, and Boomerang Stories--Tests of Memory
--A Brahmin Expert--General Grant's Memory--A Delicately Improper Tale


CHAPTER III.
Honolulu--Reminiscences of the Sandwich Islands--King Liholiho and His
Royal Equipment--The Tabu--The Population of the Island--A Kanaka Diver
--Cholera at Honolulu--Honolulu; Past and Present--The Leper Colony


CHAPTER IV.
Leaving Honolulu--Flying-fish--Approaching the Equator--Why the Ship Went
Slow--The Front Yard of the Ship--Crossing the Equator--Horse Billiards
or Shovel Board--The Waterbury Watch--Washing Decks--Ship Painters--The
Great Meridian--The Loss of a Day--A Babe without a Birthday


CHAPTER V.
A lesson in Pronunciation--Reverence for Robert Burns--The Southern
Cross--Troublesome Constellations--Victoria for a Name--Islands on the
Map--Alofa and Fortuna--Recruiting for the Queensland Plantations--
Captain Warren's NoteBook--Recruiting not thoroughly Popular


CHAPTER VI.
Missionaries Obstruct Business--The Sugar Planter and the Kanaka--The
Planter's View--Civilizing the Kanaka The Missionary's View--The Result--
Repentant Kanakas--Wrinkles--The Death Rate in Queensland


CHAPTER VII.
The  Fiji Islands--Suva--The Ship from Duluth--Going Ashore--Midwinter in
Fiji--Seeing the Governor--Why Fiji was Ceded to England--Old time
Fijians--Convicts among the Fijians--A Case Where Marriage was a Failure
Immortality with Limitations


CHAPTER VIII.
A Wilderness of Islands--Two Men without a Country--A Naturalist from New
Zealand--The Fauna of Australasia--Animals, Insects, and Birds--The
Ornithorhynchus--Poetry and Plagiarism


CHAPTER IX.

Close to Australia--Porpoises at Night--Entrance to Sydney Harbor--The
Loss of the Duncan Dunbar--The Harbor--The City of Sydney--Spring-time in
Australia--The Climate--Information for Travelers--The Size of Australia
--A Dust-Storm and Hot Wind


CHAPTER X.
The  Discovery of Australia--Transportation of Convicts--Discipline--
English Laws, Ancient and Modern--Flogging Prisoners to Death--Arrival of
Settlers--New South Wales Corps--Rum Currency--Intemperance Everywhere
$100,000 for One Gallon of Rum--Development of the Country--Immense
Resources


CHAPTER XI.
Hospitality of English-speaking People--Writers and their Gratitude--Mr.
Gane and the Panegyrics--Population of Sydney An English City with
American Trimming--"Squatters"--Palaces and Sheep Kingdoms--Wool and
Mutton--Australians and Americans--Costermonger Pronunciation--England is
"Home"--Table Talk--English and Colonial Audiences 124


CHAPTER XII.
Mr. X., a Missionary--Why Christianity Makes Slow Progress in India--A
Large Dream--Hindoo Miracles and Legends--Sampson and Hanuman--The
Sandstone Ridge--Where are the Gates?


CHAPTER XIII.
Public Works in Australasia--Botanical Garden of Sydney--Four Special
Socialties--The Government House--A Governor and His Functions--The
Admiralty House--The Tour of the Harbor--Shark Fishing--Cecil Rhodes'
Shark and his First Fortune--Free Board for Sharks.


CHAPTER XIV.
Bad Health--To Melbourne by Rail--Maps Defective--The Colony of Victoria
--A Round-trip Ticket from Sydney--Change Cars, from Wide to Narrow
Gauge, a Peculiarity at Albury--Customs-fences--"My Word"--The Blue
Mountains--Rabbit Piles--Government R. R. Restaurants--Duchesses for
Waiters--"Sheep-dip"--Railroad Coffee--Things Seen and Not Seen


CHAPTER XV.
Wagga-Wagga--The Tichborne Claimant--A Stock Mystery--The Plan of the
Romance--The Realization--The Henry Bascom Mystery--Bascom Hall--The
Author's Death and Funeral


CHAPTER XVI.
Melbourne and its Attractions--The Melbourne Cup Races--Cup Day--Great
Crowds--Clothes Regardless of Cost--The Australian Larrikin--Is He Dead?
Australian Hospitality--Melbourne Wool-brokers--The Museums--The Palaces
--The Origin of Melbourne


CHAPTER XVII.
The British Empire--Its Exports and Imports--The Trade of Australia--To
Adelaide--Broken Hill Silver Mine--A Roundabout road--The Scrub and its
Possibilities for the Novelist--The Aboriginal Tracker--A Test Case--How
Does One Cow-Track Differ from Another?


CHAPTER XVIII.
Gum Trees--Unsociable Trees--Gorse and Broom--A universal Defect--An
Adventurer--Wanted L200, got L20,000,000--A Vast Land Scheme--The Smash-
up--The Corpse Got Up and Danced--A Unique Business by One Man--
Buying the Kangaroo Skin--The Approach to Adelaide--Everything Comes to
Him who Waits--A Healthy Religious sphere--What is the Matter with the
Specter?


CHAPTER XIX.

The Botanical Gardens--Contributions from all Countries--The
Zoological Gardens of Adelaide--The Laughing Jackass--The Dingo--A
Misnamed Province--Telegraphing from Melbourne to San Francisco--A Mania
for Holidays--The Temperature--The Death Rate--Celebration of the
Reading of the Proclamation of 1836--Some old Settlers at the
Commemoration--Their Staying Powers--The Intelligence of the Aboriginal--
The Antiquity of the Boomerang


CHAPTER XX.
A Caller--A Talk about Old Times--The Fox Hunt--An Accurate Judgment of
an Idiot--How We Passed the Custom Officers in Italy


CHAPTER XXI.
The "Weet-Weet"--Keeping down the Population--Victoria--Killing the
Aboriginals--Pioneer Days in Queensland--Material for a Drama--The Bush--
Pudding with Arsenic Revenge--A Right Spirit but a Wrong Method--Death of
Donga Billy


CHAPTER XXII.
Continued Description of Aboriginals--Manly Qualities--Dodging Balls--
Feats of Spring--Jumping--Where the Kangaroo Learned its Art 'Well
Digging--Endurance--Surgery--Artistic Abilities--Fennimore Cooper's Last
Chance--Australian Slang


CHAPTER XXIII.
To Horsham (Colony of Victoria)--Description of Horsham--At the Hotel--
Pepper Tree-The Agricultural College, Forty Pupils--High Temperature--
Width of Road in Chains, Perches, etc.--The Bird with a Forgettable Name-
-The Magpie and the Lady--Fruit Trees--Soils--Sheep Shearing--To Stawell
--Gold Mining Country--$75,000 per Month Income and able to Keep House--
Fine Grapes and Wine--The Dryest Community on Earth--The Three Sisters--
Gum Trees and Water


CHAPTER XXIV.

Road to Ballarat--The City--Great Gold Strike, 1851--Rush for Australia--
"Great Nuggets"--Taxation--Revolt and Victory--Peter Lalor and the
Eureka Stockade--"Pencil Mark"--Fine Statuary at Ballarat--Population--
Ballarat English


CHAPTER XXV.
Bound for Bendigo--The Priest at Castlemaine--Time Saved by Walking--
Description of Bendigo--A Valuable Nugget--Perseverence and Success--
Mr. Blank and His Influence--Conveyance of an Idea--I Had to Like the
Irishman--Corrigan Castle, and the Mark Twain Club--My Bascom Mystery
Solved


CHAPTER XXVI.
Where New Zealand Is--But Few Know--Things People Think They Know--The
Yale Professor and His Visitor from N. Z.


CHAPTER XXVII.
The South Pole Swell--Tasmania--Extermination of the Natives--The Picture
Proclamation--The Conciliator--The Formidable Sixteen


CHAPTER XXVIII.
When the Moment Comes the Man Appears--Why Ed. Jackson called on
Commodore Vanderbilt--Their Interview--Welcome to the Child of His Friend
--A Big Time but under Inspection--Sent on Important Business--A Visit to
the Boys on the Boat


CHAPTER XXIX:
Tasmania, Early Days--Description of the Town of Hobart--An Englishman's
Love of Home Surroundings--Neatest City on Earth--The Museum--A Parrot
with an Acquired Taste--Glass Arrow Beads--Refuge for the Indigent too
healthy


CHAPTER XXX.
Arrival at Bluff, N. Z.--Where the Rabbit Plague Began--The Natural Enemy
of the Rabbit--Dunedin--A Lovely Town--Visit to Dr. Hockin--His Museum--
A Liquified Caterpillar--The Unperfected Tape Worm--The Public Museum and
Picture


CHAPTER XXXI.  The Express Train--"A Hell of a Hotel at Maryborough"--
Clocks and Bells--Railroad Service.


CHAPTER XXXII.
Description of the Town of Christ Church--A Fine Museum--Jade-stone
Trinkets--The Great Man--The First Maori in New Zealand--Women Voters--
"Person" in New Zealand Law Includes Woman--Taming an Ornithorhynchus--
A Voyage in the 'Flora' from Lyttelton--Cattle Stalls for Everybody--
A Wonderful Time.


CHAPTER XXXIII.
The Town of Nelson--"The Mongatapu Murders," the Great Event of the Town
--Burgess' Confession--Summit of Mount Eden--Rotorua and the Hot Lakes
and Geysers--Thermal Springs District--Kauri Gum--Tangariwa Mountains


CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Bay of Gisborne--Taking in Passengers by the Yard Arm--The Green
Ballarat Fly--False Teeth--From Napier to Hastings by the Ballarat Fly
Train--Kauri Trees--A Case of Mental Telegraphy


CHAPTER XXXV.
Fifty Miles in Four Hours--Comfortable Cars--Town of Wauganui--Plenty of
Maoris--On the Increase--Compliments to the Maoris--The Missionary Ways
all Wrong--The Tabu among the Maoris--A Mysterious Sign--Curious War-
monuments--Wellington


CHAPTER XXXVI.
The Poems of Mrs. Moore--The Sad Fate of William Upson--A Fellow Traveler
Imitating the Prince of Wales--A Would-be Dude--Arrival at Sydney--
Curious Town Names with Poem


CHAPTER XXXVII.
From Sydney for Ceylon--A Lascar Crew--A Fine Ship--Three Cats and a
Basket of Kittens--Dinner Conversations--Veuve Cliquot Wine--At Anchor in
King George's Sound Albany Harbor--More Cats--A Vulture on Board--Nearing
the Equator again--Dressing for Dinner--Ceylon, Hotel Bristol--Servant
Brampy--A Feminine Man--Japanese Jinriksha or Cart--Scenes in Ceylon--A
Missionary School--Insincerity of Clothes


CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Steamer Rosettes to Bombay--Limes 14 cents a Barrel--Bombay, a Bewitching
City--Descriptions of People and Dress--Woman as a Road Decoration--
India, the Land of Dreams and Romance--Fourteen Porters to Carry Baggage-
-Correcting a Servant--Killing a Slave--Arranging a Bedroom--Three Hours'
Work and a Terrible Racket--The Bird of Birds, the Indian Crow


CHAPTER XXXIX.
God Vishnu, 108 Names--Change of Titles or Hunting for an Heir--Bombay as
a Kaleidoscope--The Native's Man Servant--Servants' Recommendations--How
Manuel got his Name and his English--Satan--A Visit from God


CHAPTER XL.
The Government House at Malabar Point--Mansion of Kumar Shri Samatsin Hji
Bahadur--The Indian Princess--A Difficult Game--Wardrobe and Jewels--
Ceremonials--Decorations when Leaving--The Towers of Silence--A Funeral


CHAPTER XLI.
Jain Temple--Mr. Roychand's Bungalow--A Decorated Six-Gun Prince--Human
Fireworks--European Dress, Past and Present--Complexions--Advantages with
the Zulu--Festivities at the Bungalow-Nautch Dancers--Entrance of the
Prince--Address to the Prince


CHAPTER XLII.
A Hindoo Betrothal, midnight, Sleepers on the ground, Home of the Bride
of Twelve Years Dressed as a Boy--Illumination Nautch Girls--Imitating
Snakes--Later--Illuminated Porch Filled with Sleepers--The Plague


CHAPTER XLIII
Murder Trial in Bombay--Confidence Swindlers--Some Specialities of India-
-The Plague, Juggernaut, Suttee, etc.--Everything on Gigantic Scale--
India First in Everything--80 States, more Custom Houses than Cats--Rich
Ground for Thug Society


CHAPTER XLIV.
Thug Book--Supplies for Traveling, Bedding, and other Freight--Scene at
Railway Station--Making Way for White Man--Waiting Passengers, High and
Low Caste, Touch in the cars--Our Car--Beds made up--Dreaming of Thugs--
Baroda--Meet Friends--Indian Well--The Old Town--Narrow Streets--A Mad
Elephant

CHAPTER XLV.

Elephant Riding--Howdahs--The New Palace--The Prince's Excursion--Gold
and Silver Artillery--A Vice-royal Visit--Remarkable Dog--The Bench Show
--Augustin Daly's Back Door--Fakeer


CHAPTER XLVI.
The Thugs--Government Efforts to Exterminate them--Choking a Victim A
Fakeer Spared--Thief Strangled


CHAPTER XLVII.
Thugs, Continued--Record of Murders--A Joy of Hunting and Killing Men--
Gordon Gumming--Killing an Elephant--Family Affection among Thugs--
Burial Places


CHAPTER XLVIII.
Starting for Allahabad--Lower Berths in Sleepers--Elderly Ladies have
Preference of Berths--An American Lady Takes One Anyhow--How Smythe Lost
his Berth--How He Got Even--The Suttee


CHAPTER XLIX.
Pyjamas--Day Scene in India--Clothed in a Turban and a Pocket
Handkerchief--Land Parceled Out--Established Village Servants--Witches in
Families--Hereditary Midwifery--Destruction of Girl Babies--Wedding
Display--Tiger-Persuader--Hailstorm Discourages--The Tyranny of the
Sweeper--Elephant Driver--Water Carrier--Curious Rivers--Arrival at
Allahabad--English Quarter--Lecture Hall Like a Snowstorm--Private
Carriages--A Milliner--Early Morning--The Squatting Servant--A Religious
Fair


CHAPTER L.
On the Road to Benares--Dust and Waiting--The Bejeweled Crowd--A Native
Prince and his Guard--Zenana Lady--The Extremes of Fashion--The Hotel at
Benares--An Annex a Mile Away--Doors in India--The Peepul Tree--Warning
against Cold Baths--A Strange Fruit--Description of Benares--The
Beginning of Creation--Pilgrims to Benares--A Priest with a Good Business
Stand--Protestant Missionary--The Trinity Brahma, Shiva, and Vishnu--
Religion the Business at Benares


CHAPTER LI.
Benares a Religious Temple--A Guide for Pilgrims to Save Time in Securing
Salvation


CHAPTER LII.
A Curious Way to Secure Salvation--The Banks of the Ganges--Architecture
Represents Piety--A Trip on the River--Bathers and their Costumes--
Drinking the Water--A Scientific Test of the Nasty Purifier--Hindoo Faith
in the Ganges--A Cremation--Remembrances of the Suttee--All Life Sacred
Except Human Life--The Goddess Bhowanee, and the Sacrificers--Sacred
Monkeys--Ugly Idols Everywhere--Two White Minarets--A Great View with a
Monkey in it--A Picture on the Water


CHAPTER LIII.
Still in Benares--Another Living God--Why Things are Wonderful--Sri 108
Utterly Perfect--How He Came so--Our Visit to Sri--A Friendly Deity
Exchanging Autographs and Books--Sri's Pupil--An Interesting Man--
Reverence and Irreverence--Dancing in a Sepulchre


CHAPTER LIV.
Rail to Calcutta--Population--The "City of Palaces"--A Fluted Candle-
stick--Ochterlony--Newspaper Correspondence--Average Knowledge of
Countries--A Wrong Idea of Chicago--Calcutta and the Black Hole--
Description of the Horrors--Those Who Lived--The Botanical Gardens--The
Afternoon Turnout--Grand Review--Military Tournament--Excursion on the
Hoogly--The Museum--What Winter Means Calcutta


CHAPTER LV
On the Road Again--Flannels in Order--Across Country--From Greenland's
Icy Mountain--Swapping Civilization--No Field women in India--How it is
in Other Countries--Canvas-covered Cars--The Tiger Country--My First Hunt
Some Elephants Get Away--The Plains of India--The Ghurkas--Women for
Pack-Horses--A Substitute for a Cab--Darjeeling--The Hotel--The Highest
Thing in the Himalayas--The Club--Kinchinjunga and Mt. Everest--
Thibetans--The Prayer Wheel--People Going to the Bazar


CHAPTER LVI.
On the Road Again--The Hand-Car--A Thirty-five-mile Slide--The Banyan
Tree--A Dramatic Performance--The Railroad--The Half-way House--The Brain
Fever Bird--The Coppersmith Bird--Nightingales and Cue Owls


CHAPTER LVII.
India the Most Extraordinary Country on Earth--Nothing Forgotten--The
Land of Wonders--Annual Statistics Everywhere about Violence--Tiger vs.
Man--A Handsome Fight--Annual Man Killing and Tiger Killing--Other
Animals--Snakes--Insurance and Snake Tables--The Cobra Bite--Muzaffurpore
--Dinapore--A Train that Stopped for Gossip--Six Hours for Thirty-five
Miles--A Rupee to the Engineer--Ninety Miles an Hour--Again to Benares,
the Piety Hive To Lucknow


CHAPTER LVIII.
The Great Mutiny--The Massacre in Cawnpore--Terrible Scenes in Lucknow--
The Residency--The Siege


CHAPTER LIX.
A Visit to the Residency--Cawnpore--The Adjutant Bird and the Hindoo
Corpse--The Tai Mahal--The True Conception--The Ice Storm--True Gems--
Syrian Fountains--An Exaggerated Niagara


CHAPTER LX.
To Lahore--The Governor's Elephant--Taking a Ride-No Danger from
Collision--Rawal Pindi--Back to Delhi--An Orientalized Englishman--
Monkeys and the Paint-pot--Monkey Crying over my Note-book--Arrival at
Jeypore--In Rajputana--Watching Servants--The Jeypore Hotel--Our Old and
New Satan--Satan as a Liar--The Museum--A Street Show--Blocks of Houses--
A Religious Procession


CHAPTER LXI.
Methods in American Deaf and Dumb Asylums--Methods in the Public Schools
--A Letter from a youth in Punjab--Highly Educated Service--A Damage to
the Country--A Little Book from Calcutta--Writing Poor English--
Embarrassed by a Beggar Girl--A Specimen Letter--An Application for
Employment--A Calcutta School Examination--Two Samples of
Literature


CHAPTER LXII.
Sail from Calcutta to Madras--Thence to Ceylon--Thence for  Mauritius--
The Indian Ocean--Our Captain's Peculiarity The Scot Has one too--The
Flying-fish that Went Hunting in the Field--Fined for Smuggling--Lots of
pets on Board--The Color of the Sea--The Most Important Member of
Nature's Family--The Captain's Story of Cold Weather--Omissions in the
Ship's Library--Washing Decks--Pyjamas on Deck--The Cat's Toilet--No
Interest in the Bulletin--Perfect Rest--The Milky Way and the Magellan
Clouds--Mauritius--Port Louis--A Hot Country--Under French Control--
A Variety of People and Complexions--Train to Curepipe--A Wonderful
Office-holder--The Wooden Peg Ornament--The Prominent Historical Event of
Mauritius--"Paul and Virginia"--One of Virginia's Wedding Gifts--Heaven
Copied after Mauritius--Early History of Mauritius--Quarantines--
Population of all Kinds--What the World Consists of--Where Russia and
Germany are--A Picture of Milan Cathedral--Newspapers--The Language--Best
Sugar in the World--Literature of Mauritius


CHAPTER LXIII.
Port Louis--Matches no Good--Good Roads--Death Notices--Why European
Nations Rob Each Other--What Immigrants to Mauritius Do--Population--
Labor Wages--The Camaron--The Palmiste and other Eatables--Monkeys--The
Cyclone of 1892--Mauritius a Sunday Landscape


CHAPTER LXIV.
The Steamer "Arundel Castle"--Poor Beds in Ships--The Beds in Noah's Ark-
-Getting a Rest in Europe--Ship in Sight--Mozambique Channel--The
Engineer and the Band--Thackeray's "Madagascar"--Africanders Going Home--
Singing on the After Deck--An Out-of-Place Story--Dynamite Explosion in
Johannesburg--Entering Delagoa Bay--Ashore--A Hot Winter--Small Town--No
Sights--No Carriages--Working Women--Barnum's Purchase of Shakespeare's
Birthplace, Jumbo, and the Nelson Monument--Arrival at Durban


CHAPTER LXV.
Royal Hotel Durban--Bells that Did not Ring--Early Inquiries for Comforts
--Change of Temperature after Sunset-Rickhaws--The Hotel Chameleon--
Natives not out after the Bell--Preponderance of Blacks in Natal--Hair
Fashions in Natal--Zulus for Police--A Drive round the Berea--The Cactus
and other Trees--Religion a Vital Matter--Peculiar Views about Babies--
Zulu Kings--A Trappist Monastery--Transvaal Politics--Reasons why the
Trouble came About


CHAPTER LXVI.
Jameson over the Border--His Defeat and Capture--Sent to England for
Trial--Arrest of Citizens by the Boers--Commuted sentences--Final Release
of all but Two--Interesting Days for a Stranger--Hard to Understand
Either Side--What the Reformers Expected to Accomplish--How They Proposed
to do it--Testimonies a Year Later--A "Woman's Part"--The Truth of the
South African Situation--"Jameson's Ride"--A Poem


CHAPTER LXVIL
Jameson's Raid--The Reform Committee's Difficult Task--Possible Plans--
Advice that Jameson Ought to Have--The War of 1881 and its Lessons--
Statistics of Losses of the Combatants--Jameson's Battles--Losses on Both
Sides--The Military Errors--How the Warfare Should Have Been Carried on
to Be Successful


CHAPTER LXVIII.
Judicious Mr. Rhodes--What South Africa Consists of--Johannesburg--The
Gold Mines--The Heaven of American Engineers--What the Author Knows about
Mining--Description of the Boer--What Should be Expected of Him--What Was
A Dizzy Jump for Rhodes--Taxes--Rhodesian Method of Reducing Native
Population--Journeying in Cape Colony--The Cars--The Country--The
Weather--Tamed Blacks--Familiar Figures in King William's Town--Boer
Dress--Boer Country Life--Sleeping Accommodations--The Reformers in Boer
Prison--Torturing a Black Prisoner


CHAPTER LXIX.
An Absorbing Novelty--The Kimberley Diamond Mines--Discovery of Diamonds
--The Wronged Stranger--Where the Gems Are--A Judicious Change of
Boundary--Modern Machinery and Appliances--Thrilling Excitement in
Finding a Diamond--Testing a Diamond--Fences--Deep Mining by Natives in
the Compound--Stealing--Reward for the Biggest Diamond--A Fortune in
Wine--The Great Diamond--Office of the De Beer Co.--Sorting the Gems--
Cape Town--The Most Imposing Man in British Provinces--Various Reasons
for his Supremacy--How He Makes Friends


CONCLUSION.
Table Rock--Table Bay--The Castle--Government and Parliament--The Club--
Dutch Mansions and their Hospitality--Dr. John Barry and his Doings--On
the Ship Norman--Madeira--Arrived in Southampton





                          FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR


CHAPTER I.

A man may have no bad habits and have worse.
                             --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The starting point of this lecturing-trip around the world was Paris,
where we had been living a year or two.

We sailed for America, and there made certain preparations.  This took
but little time.  Two members of my family elected to go with me.  Also a
carbuncle.  The dictionary says a carbuncle is a kind of jewel.  Humor is
out of place in a dictionary.

We started westward from New York in midsummer, with Major Pond to manage
the platform-business as far as the Pacific.  It was warm work, all the
way, and the last fortnight of it was suffocatingly smoky, for in Oregon
and Columbia the forest fires were raging.  We had an added week of smoke
at the seaboard, where we were obliged awhile for our ship.  She had been
getting herself ashore in the smoke, and she had to be docked and
repaired.

We sailed at last; and so ended a snail-paced march across the continent,
which had lasted forty days.

We moved westward about mid-afternoon over a rippled and summer sea; an
enticing sea, a clean and cool sea, and apparently a welcome sea to all
on board; it certainly was to the distressful dustings and smokings and
swelterings of the past weeks.  The voyage would furnish a three-weeks
holiday, with hardly a break in it.  We had the whole Pacific Ocean in
front of us, with nothing to do but do nothing and be comfortable.  The
city of Victoria was twinkling dim in the deep heart of her smoke-cloud,
and getting ready to vanish and now we closed the field-glasses and sat
down on our steamer chairs contented and at peace.  But they went to
wreck and ruin under us and brought us to shame before all the
passengers.  They had been furnished by the largest furniture-dealing
house in Victoria, and were worth a couple of farthings a dozen, though
they had cost us the price of honest chairs.  In the Pacific and Indian
Oceans one must still bring his own deck-chair on board or go without,
just as in the old forgotten Atlantic times--those Dark Ages of sea
travel.

Ours was a reasonably comfortable ship, with the customary sea-going fare
--plenty of good food furnished by the Deity and cooked by the devil.
The discipline observable on board was perhaps as good as it is anywhere
in the Pacific and Indian Oceans.  The ship was not very well arranged
for tropical service; but that is nothing, for this is the rule for ships
which ply in the tropics.  She had an over-supply of cockroaches, but
this is also the rule with ships doing business in the summer seas--at
least such as have been long in service.  Our young captain was a very
handsome man, tall and perfectly formed, the very figure to show up a
smart uniform's best effects.  He was a man of the best intentions and
was polite and courteous even to courtliness.  There was a soft and
finish about his manners which made whatever place he happened to be in
seem for the moment a drawing room.  He avoided the smoking room.  He had
no vices.  He did not smoke or chew tobacco or take snuff; he did not
swear, or use slang or rude, or coarse, or indelicate language, or make
puns, or tell anecdotes, or laugh intemperately, or raise his voice above
the moderate pitch enjoined by the canons of good form. When he gave an
order, his manner modified it into a request.  After dinner he and his
officers joined the ladies and gentlemen in the ladies' saloon, and
shared in the singing and piano playing, and helped turn the music.  He
had a sweet and sympathetic tenor voice, and used it with taste and
effect the music he played whist there, always with the same partner and
opponents, until the ladies' bedtime.  The electric lights burned there
as late as the ladies and their friends might desire; but they were not
allowed to burn in the smoking-room after eleven.  There were many laws
on the ship's statute book of course; but so far as I could see, this and
one other were the only ones that were rigidly enforced.  The captain
explained that he enforced this one because his own cabin adjoined the
smoking-room, and the smell of tobacco smoke made him sick.  I did not
see how our smoke could reach him, for the smoking-room and his cabin
were on the upper deck, targets for all the winds that blew; and besides
there was no crack of communication between them, no opening of any sort
in the solid intervening bulkhead.  Still, to a delicate stomach even
imaginary smoke can convey damage.

The captain, with his gentle nature, his polish, his sweetness, his moral
and verbal purity, seemed pathetically out of place in his rude and
autocratic vocation.  It seemed another instance of the irony of fate.

He was going home under a cloud.  The passengers knew about his trouble,
and were sorry for him.  Approaching Vancouver through a narrow and
difficult passage densely befogged with smoke from the forest fires, he
had had the ill-luck to lose his bearings and get his ship on the rocks.
A matter like this would rank merely as an error with you and me; it
ranks as a crime with the directors of steamship companies.  The captain
had been tried by the Admiralty Court at Vancouver, and its verdict had
acquitted him of blame.  But that was insufficient comfort.  A sterner
court would examine the case in Sydney--the Court of Directors, the lords
of a company in whose ships the captain had served as mate a number of
years.  This was his first voyage as captain.

The officers of our ship were hearty and companionable young men, and
they entered into the general amusements and helped the passengers pass
the time.  Voyages in the Pacific and Indian Oceans are but pleasure
excursions for all hands.  Our purser was a young Scotchman who was
equipped with a grit that was remarkable.  He was an invalid, and looked
it, as far as his body was concerned, but illness could not subdue his
spirit.  He was full of life, and had a gay and capable tongue.  To all
appearances he was a sick man without being aware of it, for he did not
talk about his ailments, and his bearing and conduct were those of a
person in robust health; yet he was the prey, at intervals, of ghastly
sieges of pain in his heart.  These lasted many hours, and while the
attack continued he could neither sit nor lie.  In one instance he stood
on his feet twenty-four hours fighting for his life with these sharp
agonies, and yet was as full of life and cheer and activity
the next day as if nothing had happened.

The brightest passenger in the ship, and the most interesting and
felicitous talker, was a young Canadian who was not able to let the
whisky bottle alone. He was of a rich and powerful family, and could have
had a distinguished career and abundance of effective help toward it if
he could have conquered his appetite for drink; but he could not do it,
so his great equipment of talent was of no use to him. He had often taken
the pledge to drink no more, and was a good sample of what that sort of
unwisdom can do for a man--for a man with anything short of an iron will.
The system is wrong in two ways: it does not strike at the root of the
trouble, for one thing, and to make a pledge of any kind is to declare
war against nature; for a pledge is a chain that is always clanking and
reminding the wearer of it that he is not a free man.

I have said that the system does not strike at the root of the trouble,
and I venture to repeat that. The root is not the drinking, but the
desire to drink.  These are very different things.  The one merely
requires will--and a great deal of it, both as to bulk and staying
capacity--the other merely requires watchfulness--and for no long time.
The desire of course precedes the act, and should have one's first
attention; it can do but little good to refuse the act over and over
again, always leaving the desire unmolested, unconquered; the desire will
continue to assert itself, and will be almost sure to win in the long
run.  When the desire intrudes, it should be at once banished out of the
mind.  One should be on the watch for it all the time--otherwise it will
get in.  It must be taken in time and not allowed to get a lodgment.  A
desire constantly repulsed for a fortnight should die, then.  That should
cure the drinking habit.  The system of refusing the mere act of
drinking, and leaving the desire in full force, is unintelligent war
tactics, it seems to me.  I used to take pledges--and soon violate them.
My will was not strong, and I could not help it.  And then, to be tied in
any way naturally irks an otherwise free person and makes him chafe in
his bonds and want to get his liberty.  But when I finally ceased from
taking definite pledges, and merely resolved that I would kill an
injurious desire, but leave myself free to resume the desire and the
habit whenever I should choose to do so, I had no more trouble.  In five
days I drove out the desire to smoke and was not obliged to keep watch
after that; and I never experienced any strong desire to smoke again.  At
the end of a year and a quarter of idleness I began to write a book, and
presently found that the pen was strangely reluctant to go.  I tried a
smoke to see if that would help me out of the difficulty.  It did.  I
smoked eight or ten cigars and as many pipes a day for five months;
finished the book, and did not smoke again until a year had gone by and
another book had to be begun.

I can quit any of my nineteen injurious habits at any time, and without
discomfort or inconvenience.  I think that the Dr. Tanners and those
others who go forty days without eating do it by resolutely keeping out
the desire to eat, in the beginning, and that after a few hours the
desire is discouraged and comes no more.

Once I tried my scheme in a large medical way.  I had been confined to my
bed several days with lumbago.  My case refused to improve.  Finally the
doctor said,--

"My remedies have no fair chance.  Consider what they have to fight,
besides the lumbago.  You smoke extravagantly, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You take coffee immoderately?"

"Yes."

"And some tea?"

"Yes."

"You eat all kinds of things that are dissatisfied with each other's
company?"

"Yes."

"You drink two hot Scotches every night?"

"Yes."

"Very well, there you see what I have to contend against.  We can't make
progress the way the matter stands.  You must make a reduction in these
things; you must cut down your consumption of them considerably for some
days."

"I can't, doctor."

"Why can't you."

"I lack the will-power.  I can cut them off entirely, but I can't merely
moderate them."

He said that that would answer, and said he would come around in
twenty-four hours and begin work again.  He was taken ill himself and
could not come; but I did not need him.  I cut off all those things for
two days and nights; in fact, I cut off all kinds of food, too, and all
drinks except water, and at the end of the forty-eight hours the lumbago
was discouraged and left me.  I was a well man; so I gave thanks and took
to those delicacies again.

It seemed a valuable medical course, and I recommended it to a lady.  She
had run down and down and down, and had at last reached a point where
medicines no longer had any helpful effect upon her.  I said I knew I
could put her upon her feet in a week.  It brightened her up, it filled
her with hope, and she said she would do everything I told her to do.  So
I said she must stop swearing and drinking, and smoking and eating for
four days, and then she would be all right again.  And it would have
happened just so, I know it; but she said she could not stop swearing,
and smoking, and drinking, because she had never done those things.  So
there it was.  She had neglected her habits, and hadn't any.  Now that
they would have come good, there were none in stock.  She had nothing to
fall back on.  She was a sinking vessel, with no freight in her to throw
over lighten ship withal.  Why, even one or two little bad habits could
have saved her, but she was just a moral pauper. When she could have
acquired them she was dissuaded by her parents, who were ignorant people
though reared in the best society, and it was too late to begin now.  It
seemed such a pity; but there was no help for it.  These things ought to
be attended to while a person is young; otherwise, when age and disease
come, there is nothing effectual to fight them with.

When I was a youth I used to take all kinds of pledges, and do my best to
keep them, but I never could, because I didn't strike at the root of the
habit--the desire; I generally broke down within the month.  Once I tried
limiting a habit.  That worked tolerably well for a while.  I pledged
myself to smoke but one cigar a day.  I kept the cigar waiting until
bedtime, then I had a luxurious time with it.  But desire persecuted me
every day and all day long; so, within the week I found myself hunting
for larger cigars than I had been used to smoke; then larger ones still,
and still larger ones.  Within the fortnight I was getting cigars made
for me--on a yet larger pattern.  They still grew and grew in size.
Within the month my cigar had grown to such proportions that I could have
used it as a crutch.  It now seemed to me that a one-cigar limit was no
real protection to a person, so I knocked my pledge on the head and
resumed my liberty.

To go back to that young Canadian.  He was a "remittance man," the first
one I had ever seen or heard of.  Passengers explained the term to me.
They said that dissipated ne'er-do-wells belonging to important families
in England and Canada were not cast off by their people while there was
any hope of reforming them, but when that last hope perished at last, the
ne'er-do-well was sent abroad to get him out of the way.  He was shipped
off with just enough money in his pocket--no, in the purser's pocket--for
the needs of the voyage--and when he reached his destined port he would
find a remittance awaiting him there.  Not a large one, but just enough
to keep him a month.  A similar remittance would come monthly thereafter.
It was the remittance-man's custom to pay his month's board and lodging
straightway--a duty which his landlord did not allow him to forget--then
spree away the rest of his money in a single night, then brood and mope
and grieve in idleness till the next remittance came.  It is a pathetic
life.

We had other remittance-men on board, it was said.  At least they said
they were R. M.'s.  There were two.  But they did not resemble the
Canadian; they lacked his tidiness, and his brains, and his gentlemanly
ways, and his resolute spirit, and his humanities and generosities.  One
of them was a lad of nineteen or twenty, and he was a good deal of a
ruin, as to clothes, and morals, and general aspect.  He said he was a
scion of a ducal house in England, and had been shipped to Canada for the
house's relief, that he had fallen into trouble there, and was now being
shipped to Australia.  He said he had no title.  Beyond this remark he
was economical of the truth.  The first thing he did in Australia was to
get into the lockup, and the next thing he did was to proclaim himself an
earl in the police court in the morning and fail to prove it.




CHAPTER II.

When in doubt, tell the truth.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

About four days out from Victoria we plunged into hot weather, and all
the male passengers put on white linen clothes.  One or two days later we
crossed the 25th parallel of north latitude, and then, by order, the
officers of the ship laid away their blue uniforms and came out in white
linen ones.  All the ladies were in white by this time.  This prevalence
of snowy costumes gave the promenade deck an invitingly cool, and
cheerful and picnicky aspect.

From my diary:

There are several sorts of ills in the world from which a person can
never escape altogether, let him journey as far as he will.  One escapes
from one breed of an ill only to encounter another breed of it.  We have
come far from the snake liar and the fish liar, and there was rest and
peace in the thought; but now we have reached the realm of the boomerang
liar, and sorrow is with us once more.  The first officer has seen a man
try to escape from his enemy by getting behind a tree; but the enemy sent
his boomerang sailing into the sky far above and beyond the tree; then it
turned, descended, and killed the man.  The Australian passenger has seen
this thing done to two men, behind two trees--and by the one arrow.  This
being received with a large silence that suggested doubt, he buttressed
it with the statement that his brother once saw the boomerang kill a bird
away off a hundred yards and bring it to the thrower.  But these are ills
which must be borne.  There is no other way.

The talk passed from the boomerang to dreams--usually a fruitful subject,
afloat or ashore--but this time the output was poor.  Then it passed to
instances of extraordinary memory--with better results.  Blind Tom, the
negro pianist, was spoken of, and it was said that he could accurately
play any piece of music, howsoever long and difficult, after hearing it
once; and that six months later he could accurately play it again,
without having touched it in the interval.  One of the most striking of
the stories told was furnished by a gentleman who had served on the staff
of the Viceroy of India.  He read the details from his note-book, and
explained that he had written them down, right after the consummation of
the incident which they described, because he thought that if he did not
put them down in black and white he might presently come to think he had
dreamed them or invented them.

The Viceroy was making a progress, and among the shows offered by the
Maharajah of Mysore for his entertainment was a memory-exhibition.  The
Viceroy and thirty gentlemen of his suite sat in a row, and the memory-
expert, a high-caste Brahmin, was brought in and seated on the floor in
front of them.  He said he knew but two languages, the English and his
own, but would not exclude any foreign tongue from the tests to be
applied to his memory.  Then he laid before the assemblage his program--
a sufficiently extraordinary one.  He proposed that one gentleman should
give him one word of a foreign sentence, and tell him its place in the
sentence.  He was furnished with the French word 'est', and was told it
was second in a sentence of three words.  The next, gentleman gave him
the German word 'verloren' and said it was the third in a sentence of
four words.  He asked the next gentleman for one detail in a sum in
addition; another for one detail in a sum of subtraction; others for
single details in mathematical problems of various kinds; he got them.
Intermediates gave him single words from sentences in Greek, Latin,
Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and other languages, and told him their
places in the sentences.  When at last everybody had furnished him a
single rag from a foreign sentence or a figure from a problem, he went
over the ground again, and got a second word and a second figure and was
told their places in the sentences and the sums; and so on and so on.  He
went over the ground again and again until he had collected all the parts
of the sums and all the parts of the sentences--and all in disorder, of
course, not in their proper rotation.  This had occupied two hours.

The Brahmin now sat silent and thinking, a while, then began and repeated
all the sentences, placing the words in their proper order, and untangled
the disordered arithmetical problems and gave accurate answers to them
all.

In the beginning he had asked the company to throw almonds at him during
the two hours, he to remember how many each gentleman had thrown; but
none were thrown, for the Viceroy said that the test would be a
sufficiently severe strain without adding that burden to it.

General Grant had a fine memory for all kinds of things, including even
names and faces, and I could have furnished an instance of it if I had
thought of it.  The first time I ever saw him was early in his first term
as President.  I had just arrived in Washington from the Pacific coast, a
stranger and wholly unknown to the public, and was passing the White
House one morning when I met a friend, a Senator from Nevada.  He asked
me if I would like to see the President.  I said I should be very glad;
so we entered.  I supposed that the President would be in the midst of a
crowd, and that I could look at him in peace and security from a
distance, as another stray cat might look at another king.  But it was in
the morning, and the Senator was using a privilege of his office which I
had not heard of--the privilege of intruding upon the Chief Magistrate's
working hours.  Before I knew it, the Senator and I were in the presence,
and there was none there but we three.  General Grant got slowly up from
his table, put his pen down, and stood before me with the iron expression
of a man who had not smiled for seven years, and was not intending to
smile for another seven.  He looked me steadily in the eyes--mine lost
confidence and fell.  I had never confronted a great man before, and was
in a miserable state of funk and inefficiency.  The Senator said:--

"Mr. President, may I have the privilege of introducing Mr. Clemens?"

The President gave my hand an unsympathetic wag and dropped it.  He did
not say a word but just stood.  In my trouble I could not think of
anything to say, I merely wanted to resign.  There was an awkward pause,
a dreary pause, a horrible pause.  Then I thought of something, and
looked up into that unyielding face, and said timidly:--

"Mr. President, I--I am embarrassed.  Are you?"

His face broke--just a little--a wee glimmer, the momentary flicker of a
summer-lightning smile, seven years ahead of time--and I was out and gone
as soon as it was.

Ten years passed away before I saw him the second time.  Meantime I was
become better known; and was one of the people appointed to respond to
toasts at the banquet given to General Grant in Chicago--by the Army of
the Tennessee when he came back from his tour around the world.  I
arrived late at night and got up late in the morning.  All the corridors
of the hotel were crowded with people waiting to get a glimpse of General
Grant when he should pass to the place whence he was to review the great
procession.  I worked my way by the suite of packed drawing-rooms, and at
the corner of the house I found a window open where there was a roomy
platform decorated with flags, and carpeted.  I stepped out on it, and
saw below me millions of people blocking all the streets, and other
millions caked together in all the windows and on all the house-tops
around.  These masses took me for General Grant, and broke into volcanic
explosions and cheers; but it was a good place to see the procession, and
I stayed.  Presently I heard the distant blare of military music, and far
up the street I saw the procession come in sight, cleaving its way
through the huzzaing multitudes, with Sheridan, the most martial figure
of the War, riding at its head in the dress uniform of a Lieutenant-
General.

And now General Grant, arm-in-arm with Major Carter Harrison, stepped out
on the platform, followed two and two by the badged and uniformed
reception committee.  General Grant was looking exactly as he had looked
upon that trying occasion of ten years before--all iron and bronze self-
possession.  Mr. Harrison came over and led me to the General and
formally introduced me.  Before I could put together the proper remark,
General Grant said--

"Mr. Clemens, I am not embarrassed.  Are you?"--and that little seven-
year smile twinkled across his face again.

Seventeen years have gone by since then, and to-day, in New York, the
streets are a crush of people who are there to honor the remains of the
great soldier as they pass to their final resting-place under the
monument; and the air is heavy with dirges and the boom of artillery, and
all the millions of America are thinking of the man who restored the
Union and the flag, and gave to democratic government a new lease of
life, and, as we may hope and do believe, a permanent place among the
beneficent institutions of men.

We had one game in the ship which was a good time-passer--at least it was
at night in the smoking-room when the men were getting freshened up from
the day's monotonies and dullnesses.  It was the completing of non-
complete stories.  That is to say, a man would tell all of a story except
the finish, then the others would try to supply the ending out of their
own invention.  When every one who wanted a chance had had it, the man
who had introduced the story would give it its original ending--then you
could take your choice.  Sometimes the new endings turned out to be
better than the old one.  But the story which called out the most
persistent and determined and ambitious effort was one which had no
ending, and so there was nothing to compare the new-made endings with.
The man who told it said he could furnish the particulars up to a certain
point only, because that was as much of the tale as he knew.  He had read
it in a volume of `sketches twenty-five years ago, and was interrupted
before the end was reached.  He would give any one fifty dollars who
would finish the story to the satisfaction of a jury to be appointed by
ourselves.  We appointed a jury and wrestled with the tale.  We invented
plenty of endings, but the jury voted them all down.  The jury was right.
It was a tale which the author of it may possibly have completed
satisfactorily, and if he really had that good fortune I would like to
know what the ending was.  Any ordinary man will find that the story's
strength is in its middle, and that there is apparently no way to
transfer it to the close, where of course it ought to be.  In substance
the storiette was as follows:

John Brown, aged thirty-one, good, gentle, bashful, timid, lived in a
quiet village in Missouri.  He was superintendent of the Presbyterian
Sunday-school.  It was but a humble distinction; still, it was his only
official one, and he was modestly proud of it and was devoted to its work
and its interests.  The extreme kindliness of his nature was recognized
by all; in fact, people said that he was made entirely out of good
impulses and bashfulness; that he could always be counted upon for help
when it was needed, and for bashfulness both when it was needed and when
it wasn't.

Mary Taylor, twenty-three, modest, sweet, winning, and in character and
person beautiful, was all in all to him.  And he was very nearly all in
all to her.  She was wavering, his hopes were high.  Her mother had been
in opposition from the first.  But she was wavering, too; he could see
it.  She was being touched by his warm interest in her two charity-
proteges and by his contributions toward their support.  These were two
forlorn and aged sisters who lived in a log hut in a lonely place up a
cross road four miles from Mrs. Taylor's farm.  One of the sisters was
crazy, and sometimes a little violent, but not often.

At last the time seemed ripe for a final advance, and Brown gathered his
courage together and resolved to make it.  He would take along a
contribution of double the usual size, and win the mother over; with her
opposition annulled, the rest of the conquest would be sure and prompt.

He took to the road in the middle of a placid Sunday afternoon in the
soft Missourian summer, and he was equipped properly for his mission.  He
was clothed all in white linen, with a blue ribbon for a necktie, and he
had on dressy tight boots.  His horse and buggy were the finest that the
livery stable could furnish.  The lap robe was of white linen, it was
new, and it had a hand-worked border that could not be rivaled in that
region for beauty and elaboration.

When he was four miles out on the lonely road and was walking his horse
over a wooden bridge, his straw hat blew off and fell in the creek, and
floated down and lodged against a bar.  He did not quite know what to do.
He must have the hat, that was manifest; but how was he to get it?

Then he had an idea.  The roads were empty, nobody was stirring.  Yes, he
would risk it.  He led the horse to the roadside and set it to cropping
the grass; then he undressed and put his clothes in the buggy, petted the
horse a moment to secure its compassion and its loyalty, then hurried to
the stream.  He swam out and soon had the hat.  When he got to the top of
the bank the horse was gone!

His legs almost gave way under him.  The horse was walking leisurely
along the road.  Brown trotted after it, saying, "Whoa, whoa, there's a
good fellow;" but whenever he got near enough to chance a jump for the
buggy, the horse quickened its pace a little and defeated him.  And so
this went on, the naked man perishing with anxiety, and expecting every
moment to see people come in sight.  He tagged on and on, imploring the
horse, beseeching the horse, till he had left a mile behind him, and was
closing up on the Taylor premises; then at last he was successful, and
got into the buggy.  He flung on his shirt, his necktie, and his coat;
then reached for--but he was too late; he sat suddenly down and pulled up
the lap-robe, for he saw some one coming out of the gate--a woman; he
thought.  He wheeled the horse to the left, and struck briskly up the
cross-road.  It was perfectly straight, and exposed on both sides; but
there were woods and a sharp turn three miles ahead, and he was very
grateful when he got there.  As he passed around the turn he slowed down
to a walk, and reached for his tr---- too late again.

He had come upon Mrs. Enderby, Mrs.  Glossop, Mrs. Taylor, and Mary.
They were on foot, and seemed tired and excited.  They came at once to
the buggy and shook hands, and all spoke at once, and said eagerly and
earnestly, how glad they were that he was come, and how fortunate it was.
And Mrs. Enderby said, impressively:

"It looks like an accident, his coming at such a time; but let no one
profane it with such a name; he was sent--sent from on high."

They were all moved, and Mrs. Glossop said in an awed voice:

"Sarah Enderby, you never said a truer word in your life.  This is no
accident, it is a special Providence.  He was sent.  He is an angel--an
angel as truly as ever angel was--an angel of deliverance.  I say angel,
Sarah Enderby, and will have no other word.  Don't let any one ever say
to me again, that there's no such thing as special Providences; for if
this isn't one, let them account for it that can."

"I know it's so," said Mrs. Taylor, fervently.  "John Brown, I could
worship you; I could go down on my knees to you.  Didn't something tell
you?--didn't you feel that you were sent?  I could kiss the hem of your
laprobe."

He was not able to speak; he was helpless with shame and fright.  Mrs.
Taylor went on:

"Why, just look at it all around, Julia Glossop.  Any person can see the
hand of Providence in it.  Here at noon what do we see?  We see the smoke
rising.  I speak up and say, 'That's the Old People's cabin afire.'
Didn't I, Julia Glossop?"

"The very words you said, Nancy Taylor.  I was as close to you as I am
now, and I heard them.  You may have said hut instead of cabin, but in
substance it's the same.  And you were looking pale, too."

"Pale?  I was that pale that if--why, you just compare it with this
laprobe.  Then the next thing I said was, 'Mary Taylor, tell the hired
man to rig up the team-we'll go to the rescue.'  And she said, 'Mother,
don't you know you told him he could drive to see his people, and stay
over Sunday?'  And it was just so.  I declare for it, I had forgotten it.
'Then,' said I, 'we'll go afoot.'  And go we did.  And found Sarah
Enderby on the road."

"And we all went together," said Mrs.  Enderby.  "And found the cabin set
fire to and burnt down by the crazy one, and the poor old things so old
and feeble that they couldn't go afoot.  And we got them to a shady place
and made them as comfortable as we could, and began to wonder which way
to turn to find some way to get them conveyed to Nancy Taylor's house.
And I spoke up and said--now what did I say?  Didn't I say, 'Providence
will provide'?"

"Why sure as you live, so you did!  I had forgotten it."

"So had I," said Mrs. Glossop and Mrs. Taylor; "but you certainly said
it.  Now wasn't that remarkable?"

"Yes, I said it.  And then we went to Mr. Moseley's, two miles, and all
of them were gone to the camp meeting over on Stony Fork; and then we
came all the way back, two miles, and then here, another mile--and
Providence has provided.  You see it yourselves"

They gazed at each other awe-struck, and lifted their hands and said in
unison:

"It's per-fectly wonderful."

"And then," said Mrs.  Glossop, "what do you think we had better do let
Mr. Brown drive the Old People to Nancy Taylor's one at a time, or put
both of them in the buggy, and him lead the horse?"

Brown gasped.

"Now, then, that's a question," said Mrs.  Enderby.  "You see, we are all
tired out, and any way we fix it it's going to be difficult.  For if Mr.
Brown takes both of them, at least one of us must, go back to help him,
for he can't load them into the buggy by himself, and they so helpless."

"That is so," said Mrs. Taylor.  "It doesn't look-oh, how would this do?
--one of us drive there with Mr. Brown, and the rest of you go along to
my house and get things ready.  I'll go with him.  He and I together can
lift one of the Old People into the buggy; then drive her to my house
and----

"But who will take care of the other one?" said Mrs.  Enderby.  "We
musn't leave her there in the woods alone, you know--especially the crazy
one.  There and back is eight miles, you see."

They had all been sitting on the grass beside the buggy for a while, now,
trying to rest their weary bodies.  They fell silent a moment or two, and
struggled in thought over the baffling situation; then Mrs. Enderby
brightened and said:

"I think I've got the idea, now.  You see, we can't walk any more.  Think
what we've done: four miles there, two to Moseley's, is six, then back to
here--nine miles since noon, and not a bite to eat; I declare I don't see
how we've done it; and as for me, I am just famishing.  Now, somebody's
got to go back, to help Mr. Brown--there's no getting mound that; but
whoever goes has got to ride, not walk.  So my idea is this: one of us to
ride back with Mr. Brown, then ride to Nancy Taylor's house with one of
the Old People, leaving Mr. Brown to keep the other old one company, you
all to go now to Nancy's and rest and wait; then one of you drive back
and get the other one and drive her to Nancy's, and Mr. Brown walk."

"Splendid!" they all cried.  "Oh, that will do--that will answer
perfectly."  And they all said that Mrs.  Enderby had the best head for
planning, in the company; and they said that they wondered that they
hadn't thought of this simple plan themselves.  They hadn't meant to take
back the compliment, good simple souls, and didn't know they had done it.
After a consultation it was decided that Mrs. Enderby should drive back
with Brown, she being entitled to the distinction because she had
invented the plan.  Everything now being satisfactorily arranged and
settled, the ladies rose, relieved and happy, and brushed down their
gowns, and three of them started homeward; Mrs. Enderby set her foot on
the buggy-step and was about to climb in, when Brown found a remnant of
his voice and gasped out--

"Please Mrs. Enderby, call them back--I am very weak; I can't walk, I
can't, indeed."

"Why, dear Mr. Brown!  You do look pale; I am ashamed of myself that I
didn't notice it sooner.  Come back-all of you!  Mr. Brown is not well.
Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Brown?--I'm real sorry.  Are you
in pain?"

"No, madam, only weak; I am not sick, but only just weak--lately; not
long, but just lately."

The others came back, and poured out their sympathies and commiserations,
and were full of self-reproaches for not having noticed how pale he was.

And they at once struck out a new plan, and soon agreed that it was by
far the best of all.  They would all go to Nancy Taylor's house and see
to Brown's needs first.  He could lie on the sofa in the parlor, and
while Mrs. Taylor and Mary took care of him the other two ladies would
take the buggy and go and get one of the Old People, and leave one of
themselves with the other one, and----

By this time, without any solicitation, they were at the horse's head and
were beginning to turn him around.  The danger was imminent, but Brown
found his voice again and saved himself.  He said--

"But ladies, you are overlooking something which makes the plan
impracticable.  You see, if you bring one of them home, and one remains
behind with the other, there will be three persons there when one of you
comes back for that other, for some one must drive the buggy back, and
three can't come home in it."

They all exclaimed, "Why, sure-ly, that is so!" and they were, all
perplexed again.

"Dear, dear, what can we do?" said Mrs.  Glossop;" it is the most mixed-
up thing that ever was.  The fox and the goose and the corn and things--
oh, dear, they are nothing to it."

They sat wearily down once more, to further torture their tormented heads
for a plan that would work.  Presently Mary offered a plan; it was her
first effort.  She said:

"I am young and strong, and am refreshed, now.  Take Mr. Brown to our
house, and give him help--you see how plainly he needs it.  I will go
back and take care of the Old People; I can be there in twenty minutes.
You can go on and do what you first started to do--wait on the main road
at our house until somebody comes along with a wagon; then send and bring
away the three of us.  You won't have to wait long; the farmers will soon
be coming back from town, now.  I will keep old Polly patient and cheered
up--the crazy one doesn't need it."

This plan was discussed and accepted; it seemed the best that could be
done, in the circumstances, and the Old People must be getting
discouraged by this time.

Brown felt relieved, and was deeply thankful.  Let him once get to the
main road and he would find a way to escape.

Then Mrs. Taylor said:

"The evening chill will be coming on, pretty soon, and those poor old
burnt-out things will need some kind of covering.  Take the lap-robe with
you, dear."

"Very well, Mother, I will."

She stepped to the buggy and put out her hand to take it----

That was the end of the tale.  The passenger who told it said that when
he read the story twenty-five years ago in a train he was interrupted at
that point--the train jumped off a bridge.

At first we thought we could finish the story quite easily, and we set to
work with confidence; but it soon began to appear that it was not a
simple thing, but difficult and baffling.  This was on account of Brown's
character--great generosity and kindliness, but complicated with unusual
shyness and diffidence, particularly in the presence of ladies.  There
was his love for Mary, in a hopeful state but not yet secure--just in a
condition, indeed, where its affair must be handled with great tact, and
no mistakes made, no offense given.  And there was the mother wavering,
half willing-by adroit and flawless diplomacy to be won over, now, or
perhaps never at all.  Also, there were the helpless Old People yonder in
the woods waiting-their fate and Brown's happiness to be determined by
what Brown should do within the next two seconds.  Mary was reaching for
the lap-robe; Brown must decide-there was no time to be lost.

Of course none but a happy ending of the story would be accepted by the
jury; the finish must find Brown in high credit with the ladies, his
behavior without blemish, his modesty unwounded, his character for self
sacrifice maintained, the Old People rescued through him, their
benefactor, all the party proud of him, happy in him, his praises on all
their tongues.

We tried to arrange this, but it was beset with persistent and
irreconcilable difficulties.  We saw that Brown's shyness would not allow
him to give up the lap-robe.  This would offend Mary and her mother; and
it would surprise the other ladies, partly because this stinginess toward
the suffering Old People would be out of character with Brown, and partly
because he was a special Providence and could not properly act so.  If
asked to explain his conduct, his shyness would not allow him to tell the
truth, and lack of invention and practice would find him incapable of
contriving a lie that would wash.  We worked at the troublesome problem
until three in the morning.

Meantime Mary was still reaching for the lap-robe.  We gave it up, and
decided to let her continue to reach.  It is the reader's privilege to
determine for himself how the thing came out.




CHAPTER III.

It is more trouble to make a maxim than it is to do right.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

On the seventh day out we saw a dim vast bulk standing up out of the
wastes of the Pacific and knew that that spectral promontory was Diamond
Head, a piece of this world which I had not seen before for twenty-nine
years.  So we were nearing Honolulu, the capital city of the Sandwich
Islands--those islands which to me were Paradise; a Paradise which I had
been longing all those years to see again.  Not any other thing in the
world could have stirred me as the sight of that great rock did.

In the night we anchored a mile from shore.  Through my port I could see
the twinkling lights of Honolulu and the dark bulk of the mountain-range
that stretched away right and left.  I could not make out the beautiful
Nuuana valley, but I knew where it lay, and remembered how it used to
look in the old times.  We used to ride up it on horseback in those days
--we young people--and branch off and gather bones in a sandy region
where one of the first Kamehameha's battles was fought.  He was a
remarkable man, for a king; and he was also a remarkable man for a
savage.  He was a mere kinglet and of little or no consequence at the
time of Captain Cook's arrival in 1788; but about four years afterward he
conceived the idea of enlarging his sphere of influence.  That is a
courteous modern phrase which means robbing your neighbor--for your
neighbor's benefit; and the great theater of its benevolences is Africa.
Kamehameha went to war, and in the course of ten years he whipped out all
the other kings and made himself master of every one of the nine or ten
islands that form the group.  But he did more than that.  He bought
ships, freighted them with sandal wood and other native products, and
sent them as far as South America and China; he sold to his savages the
foreign stuffs and tools and utensils which came back in these ships, and
started the march of civilization.  It is doubtful if the match to this
extraordinary thing is to be found in the history of any other savage.
Savages are eager to learn from the white man any new way to kill each
other, but it is not their habit to seize with avidity and apply with
energy the larger and nobler ideas which he offers them.  The details of
Kamehameha's history show that he was always hospitably ready to examine
the white man's ideas, and that he exercised a tidy discrimination in
making his selections from the samples placed on view.

A shrewder discrimination than was exhibited by his son and successor,
Liholiho, I think.  Liholiho could have qualified as a reformer, perhaps,
but as a king he was a mistake.  A mistake because he tried to be both
king and reformer.  This is mixing fire and gunpowder together.  A king
has no proper business with reforming.  His best policy is to keep things
as they are; and if he can't do that, he ought to try to make them worse
than they are.  This is not guesswork; I have thought over this matter a
good deal, so that if I should ever have a chance to become a king I
would know how to conduct the business in the best way.

When Liholiho succeeded his father he found himself possessed of an
equipment of royal tools and safeguards which a wiser king would have
known how to husband, and judiciously employ, and make profitable.  The
entire country was under the one scepter, and his was that scepter.
There was an Established Church, and he was the head of it.  There was a
Standing Army, and he was the head of that; an Army of 114 privates under
command of 27 Generals and a Field Marshal.  There was a proud and
ancient Hereditary Nobility.  There was still one other asset.  This was
the tabu--an agent endowed with a mysterious and stupendous power, an
agent not found among the properties of any European monarch, a tool of
inestimable value in the business.  Liholiho was headmaster of the tabu.
The tabu was the most ingenious and effective of all the inventions that
has ever been devised for keeping a people's privileges satisfactorily
restricted.

It required the sexes to live in separate houses.  It did not allow
people to eat in either house; they must eat in another place.  It did
not allow a man's woman-folk to enter his house.  It did not allow the
sexes to eat together; the men must eat first, and the women must wait on
them.  Then the women could eat what was left--if anything was left--and
wait on themselves.  I mean, if anything of a coarse or unpalatable sort
was left, the women could have it.  But not the good things, the fine
things, the choice things, such as pork, poultry, bananas, cocoanuts, the
choicer varieties of fish, and so on.  By the tabu, all these were sacred
to the men; the women spent their lives longing for them and wondering
what they might taste like; and they died without finding out.

These rules, as you see, were quite simple and clear.  It was easy to
remember them; and useful.  For the penalty for infringing any rule in
the whole list was death.  Those women easily learned to put up with
shark and taro and dog for a diet when the other things were so
expensive.

It was death for any one to walk upon tabu'd ground; or defile a tabu'd
thing with his touch; or fail in due servility to a chief; or step upon
the king's shadow.  The nobles and the King and the priests were always
suspending little rags here and there and yonder, to give notice to the
people that the decorated spot or thing was tabu, and death lurking near.
The struggle for life was difficult and chancy in the islands in those
days.

Thus advantageously was the new king situated.  Will it be believed that
the first thing he did was to destroy his Established Church, root and
branch?  He did indeed do that.  To state the case figuratively, he was a
prosperous sailor who burnt his ship and took to a raft.  This Church was
a horrid thing.  It heavily oppressed the people; it kept them always
trembling in the gloom of mysterious threatenings; it slaughtered them in
sacrifice before its grotesque idols of wood and stone; it cowed them, it
terrorized them, it made them slaves to its priests, and through the
priests to the king.  It was the best friend a king could have, and the
most dependable.  To a professional reformer who should annihilate so
frightful and so devastating a power as this Church, reverence and praise
would be due; but to a king who should do it, could properly be due
nothing but reproach; reproach softened by sorrow; sorrow for his
unfitness for his position.

He destroyed his Established Church, and his kingdom is a republic today,
in consequence of that act.

When he destroyed the Church and burned the idols he did a mighty thing
for civilization and for his people's weal--but it was not "business."
It was unkingly, it was inartistic.  It made trouble for his line.  The
American missionaries arrived while the burned idols were still smoking.
They found the nation without a religion, and they repaired the defect.
They offered their own religion and it was gladly received.  But it was
no support to arbitrary kingship, and so the kingly power began to weaken
from that day.  Forty-seven years later, when I was in the islands,
Kainehameha V.  was trying to repair Liholiho's blunder, and not
succeeding.  He had set up an Established Church and made himself the
head of it.  But it was only a pinchbeck thing, an imitation, a bauble,
an empty show.  It had no power, no value for a king.  It could not harry
or burn or slay, it in no way resembled the admirable machine which
Liholiho destroyed.  It was an Established Church without an
Establishment; all the people were Dissenters.

Long before that, the kingship had itself become but a name, a show.  At
an early day the missionaries had turned it into something very much like
a republic; and here lately the business whites have turned it into
something exactly like it.

In Captain Cook's time (1778), the native population of the islands was
estimated at 400,000; in 1836 at something short of 200,000, in 1866 at
50,000; it is to-day, per census, 25,000.  All intelligent people praise
Kamehameha I. and Liholiho for conferring upon their people the great
boon of civilization.  I would do it myself, but my intelligence is out
of repair, now, from over-work.

When I was in the islands nearly a generation ago, I was acquainted with
a young American couple who had among their belongings an attractive
little son of the age of seven--attractive but not practicably
companionable with me, because he knew no English.  He had played from
his birth with the little Kanakas on his father's plantation, and had
preferred their language and would learn no other.  The family removed to
America a month after I arrived in the islands, and straightway the boy
began to lose his Kanaka and pick up English.  By the time he was twelve
be hadn't a word of Kanaka left; the language had wholly departed from
his tongue and from his comprehension.  Nine years later, when he was
twenty-one, I came upon the family in one of the lake towns of New York,
and the mother told me about an adventure which her son had been having.
By trade he was now a professional diver.  A passenger boat had been
caught in a storm on the lake, and had gone down, carrying her people
with her.  A few days later the young diver descended, with his armor on,
and entered the berth-saloon of the boat, and stood at the foot of the
companionway, with his hand on the rail, peering through the dim water.
Presently something touched him on the shoulder, and he turned and found
a dead man swaying and bobbing about him and seemingly inspecting him
inquiringly.  He was paralyzed with fright.  His entry had disturbed the
water, and now he discerned a number of dim corpses making for him and
wagging their heads and swaying their bodies like sleepy people trying to
dance.  His senses forsook him, and in that condition he was drawn to the
surface.  He was put to bed at home, and was soon very ill.  During some
days he had seasons of delirium which lasted several hours at a time; and
while they lasted he talked Kanaka incessantly and glibly; and Kanaka
only.  He was still very ill, and he talked to me in that tongue; but I
did not understand it, of course.  The doctor-books tell us that cases
like this are not uncommon.  Then the doctors ought to study the cases
and find out how to multiply them.  Many languages and things get mislaid
in a person's head, and stay mislaid for lack of this remedy.

Many memories of my former visit to the islands came up in my mind while
we lay at anchor in front of Honolulu that night.  And pictures--pictures
pictures--an enchanting procession of them!  I was impatient for the
morning to come.

When it came it brought disappointment, of course.  Cholera had broken
out in the town, and we were not allowed to have any communication with
the shore.  Thus suddenly did my dream of twenty-nine years go to ruin.
Messages came from friends, but the friends themselves I was not to have
any sight of.  My lecture-hall was ready, but I was not to see that,
either.

Several of our passengers belonged in Honolulu, and these were sent
ashore; but nobody could go ashore and return.  There were people on
shore who were booked to go with us to Australia, but we could not
receive them; to do it would cost us a quarantine-term in Sydney.  They
could have escaped the day before, by ship to San Francisco; but the bars
had been put up, now, and they might have to wait weeks before any ship
could venture to give them a passage any whither.  And there were
hardships for others.  An elderly lady and her son, recreation-seekers
from Massachusetts, had wandered westward, further and further from home,
always intending to take the return track, but always concluding to go
still a little further; and now here they were at anchor before Honolulu
positively their last westward-bound indulgence--they had made up their
minds to that--but where is the use in making up your mind in this world?
It is usually a waste of time to do it.  These two would have to stay
with us as far as Australia.  Then they could go on around the world, or
go back the way they had come; the distance and the accommodations and
outlay of time would be just the same, whichever of the two routes they
might elect to take.  Think of it: a projected excursion of five hundred
miles gradually enlarged, without any elaborate degree of intention, to a
possible twenty-four thousand.  However, they were used to extensions by
this time, and did not mind this new one much.

And we had with us a lawyer from Victoria, who had been sent out by the
Government on an international matter, and he had brought his wife with
him and left the children at home with the servants and now what was to
be done?  Go ashore amongst the cholera and take the risks?  Most
certainly not.  They decided to go on, to the Fiji islands, wait there a
fortnight for the next ship, and then sail for home.  They couldn't
foresee that they wouldn't see a homeward-bound ship again for six weeks,
and that no word could come to them from the children, and no word go
from them to the children in all that time.  It is easy to make plans in
this world; even a cat can do it; and when one is out in those remote
oceans it is noticeable that a cat's plans and a man's are worth about
the same.  There is much the same shrinkage in both, in the matter of
values.

There was nothing for us to do but sit about the decks in the shade of
the awnings and look at the distant shore.  We lay in luminous blue
water; shoreward the water was green-green and brilliant; at the shore
itself it broke in a long white ruffle, and with no crash, no sound that
we could hear.  The town was buried under a mat of foliage that looked
like a cushion of moss.  The silky mountains were clothed in soft, rich
splendors of melting color, and some of the cliffs were veiled in
slanting mists.  I recognized it all.  It was just as I had seen it long
before, with nothing of its beauty lost, nothing of its charm wanting.

A change had come, but that was political, and not visible from the ship.
The monarchy of my day was gone, and a republic was sitting in its seat.
It was not a material change.  The old imitation pomps, the fuss and
feathers, have departed, and the royal trademark--that is about all that
one could miss, I suppose.  That imitation monarchy, was grotesque
enough, in my time; if it had held on another thirty years it would have
been a monarchy without subjects of the king's race.

We had a sunset of a very fine sort.  The vast plain of the sea was
marked off in bands of sharply-contrasted colors: great stretches of dark
blue, others of purple, others of polished bronze; the billowy mountains
showed all sorts of dainty browns and greens, blues and purples and
blacks, and the rounded velvety backs of certain of them made one want to
stroke them, as one would the sleek back of a cat.  The long, sloping
promontory projecting into the sea at the west turned dim and leaden and
spectral, then became suffused with pink--dissolved itself in a pink
dream, so to speak, it seemed so airy and unreal.  Presently the cloud-
rack was flooded with fiery splendors, and these were copied on the
surface of the sea, and it made one drunk with delight to look upon it.

From talks with certain of our passengers whose home was Honolulu, and
from a sketch by Mrs. Mary H. Krout, I was able to perceive what the
Honolulu of to-day is, as compared with the Honolulu of my time.  In my
time it was a beautiful little town, made up of snow-white wooden
cottages deliciously smothered in tropical vines and flowers and trees
and shrubs; and its coral roads and streets were hard and smooth, and as
white as the houses.  The outside aspects of the place suggested the
presence of a modest and comfortable prosperity--a general prosperity--
perhaps one might strengthen the term and say universal.  There were no
fine houses, no fine furniture.  There were no decorations.  Tallow
candles furnished the light for the bedrooms, a whale-oil lamp furnished
it for the parlor.  Native matting served as carpeting.  In the parlor
one would find two or three lithographs on the walls--portraits as a
rule: Kamehameha IV., Louis Kossuth, Jenny Lind; and may be an engraving
or two: Rebecca at the Well, Moses smiting the rock, Joseph's servants
finding the cup in Benjamin's sack.  There would be a center table, with
books of a tranquil sort on it: The Whole Duty of Man, Baxter's Saints'
Rest, Fox's Martyrs, Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy, bound copies of The
Missionary Herald and of Father Damon's Seaman's Friend.  A melodeon; a
music stand, with 'Willie, We have Missed You', 'Star of the Evening',
'Roll on Silver Moon', 'Are We Most There', 'I Would not Live Alway', and
other songs of love and sentiment, together with an assortment of hymns.
A what-not with semi-globular glass paperweights, enclosing miniature
pictures of ships, New England rural snowstorms, and the like; sea-shells
with Bible texts carved on them in cameo style; native curios; whale's
tooth with full-rigged ship carved on it.  There was nothing reminiscent
of foreign parts, for nobody had been abroad.  Trips were made to San
Francisco, but that could not be called going abroad.  Comprehensively
speaking, nobody traveled.

But Honolulu has grown wealthy since then, and of course wealth has
introduced changes; some of the old simplicities have disappeared.  Here
is a modern house, as pictured by Mrs.  Krout:

     "Almost every house is surrounded by extensive lawns and gardens
     enclosed by walls of volcanic stone or by thick hedges of the
     brilliant hibiscus.

     "The houses are most tastefully and comfortably furnished; the
     floors are either of hard wood covered with rugs or with fine Indian
     matting, while there is a preference, as in most warm countries, for
     rattan or bamboo furniture; there are the usual accessories of bric-
     a-brac, pictures, books, and curios from all parts of the world, for
     these island dwellers are indefatigable travelers.

     "Nearly every house has what is called a lanai.  It is a large
     apartment, roofed, floored, open on three sides, with a door or a
     draped archway opening into the drawing-room.  Frequently the roof
     is formed by the thick interlacing boughs of the hou tree,
     impervious to the sun and even to the rain, except in violent
     storms.  Vines are trained about the sides--the stephanotis or some
     one of the countless fragrant and blossoming trailers which abound
     in the islands.  There are also curtains of matting that may be
     drawn to exclude the sun or rain.  The floor is bare for coolness,
     or partially covered with rugs, and the lanai is prettily furnished
     with comfortable chairs, sofas, and tables loaded with flowers, or
     wonderful ferns in pots.

     "The lanai is the favorite reception room, and here at any social
     function the musical program is given and cakes and ices are served;
     here morning callers are received, or gay riding parties, the ladies
     in pretty divided skirts, worn for convenience in riding astride,--
     the universal mode adopted by Europeans and Americans, as well as by
     the natives.

     "The comfort and luxury of such an apartment, especially at a
     seashore villa, can hardly be imagined.  The soft breezes sweep
     across it, heavy with the fragrance of jasmine and gardenia, and
     through the swaying boughs of palm and mimosa there are glimpses of
     rugged mountains, their summits veiled in clouds, of purple sea with
     the white surf beating eternally against the reefs, whiter still in
     the yellow sunlight or the magical moonlight of the tropics."

There: rugs, ices, pictures, lanais, worldly books, sinful bric-a-brac
fetched from everywhere.  And the ladies riding astride.  These are
changes, indeed.  In my time the native women rode astride, but the white
ones lacked the courage to adopt their wise custom.  In my time ice was
seldom seen in Honolulu.  It sometimes came in sailing vessels from New
England as ballast; and then, if there happened to be a man-of-war in
port and balls and suppers raging by consequence, the ballast was worth
six hundred dollars a ton, as is evidenced by reputable tradition.  But
the ice-machine has traveled all over the world, now, and brought ice
within everybody's reach.  In Lapland and Spitzbergen no one uses native
ice in our day, except the bears and the walruses.

The bicycle is not mentioned.  It was not necessary.  We know that it is
there, without inquiring.  It is everywhere.  But for it, people could
never have had summer homes on the summit of Mont Blanc; before its day,
property up there had but a nominal value.  The ladies of the Hawaiian
capital learned too late the right way to occupy a horse--too late to get
much benefit from it.  The riding-horse is retiring from business
everywhere in the world.  In Honolulu a few years from now he will be
only a tradition.

We all know about Father Damien, the French priest who voluntarily
forsook the world and went to the leper island of Molokai to labor among
its population of sorrowful exiles who wait there, in slow-consuming
misery, for death to cone and release them from their troubles; and we
know that the thing which he knew beforehand would happen, did happen:
that he became a leper himself, and died of that horrible disease.  There
was still another case of self-sacrifice, it appears.  I asked after
"Billy" Ragsdale, interpreter to the Parliament in my time--a half-white.
He was a brilliant young fellow, and very popular.  As an interpreter he
would have been hard to match anywhere.  He used to stand up in the
Parliament and turn the English speeches into Hawaiian and the Hawaiian
speeches into English with a readiness and a volubility that were
astonishing.  I asked after him, and was told that his prosperous career
was cut short in a sudden and unexpected way, just as he was about to
marry a beautiful half-caste girl.  He discovered, by some nearly
invisible sign about his skin, that the poison of leprosy was in him.
The secret was his own, and might be kept concealed for years; but he
would not be treacherous to the girl that loved him; he would not marry
her to a doom like his.  And so he put his affairs in order, and went
around to all his friends and bade them good-bye, and sailed in the leper
ship to Molokai.  There he died the loathsome and lingering death that
all lepers die.

In this place let me insert a paragraph or two from 11 The Paradise of
the Pacific" (Rev. H. H. Gowen)--

     "Poor lepers!  It is easy for those who have no relatives or friends
     among them to enforce the decree of segregation to the letter, but
     who can write of the terrible, the heart-breaking scenes which that
     enforcement has brought about?

     "A man upon Hawaii was suddenly taken away after a summary arrest,
     leaving behind him a helpless wife about to give birth to a babe.
     The devoted wife with great pain and risk came the whole journey to
     Honolulu, and pleaded until the authorities were unable to resist
     her entreaty that she might go and live like a leper with her leper
     husband.

     "A woman in the prime of life and activity is condemned as an
     incipient leper, suddenly removed from her home, and her husband
     returns to find his two helpless babes moaning for their lost
     mother.

     "Imagine it!  The case of the babies is hard, but its bitterness is
     a trifle--less than a trifle--less than nothing--compared to what
     the mother must suffer; and suffer minute by minute, hour by hour,
     day by day, month by month, year by year, without respite, relief,
     or any abatement of her pain till she dies.

     "One woman, Luka Kaaukau, has been living with her leper husband in
     the settlement for twelve years.  The man has scarcely a joint left,
     his limbs are only distorted ulcerated stumps, for four years his
     wife has put every particle of food into his mouth.  He wanted his
     wife to abandon his wretched carcass long ago, as she herself was
     sound and well, but Luka said that she was content to remain and
     wait on the man she loved till the spirit should be freed from its
     burden.

     "I myself have known hard cases enough:--of a girl, apparently in
     full health, decorating the church with me at Easter, who before
     Christmas is taken away as a confirmed leper; of a mother hiding her
     child in the mountains for years so that not even her dearest
     friends knew that she had a child alive, that he might not be taken
     away; of a respectable white man taken away from his wife and
     family, and compelled to become a dweller in the Leper Settlement,
     where he is counted dead, even by the insurance companies."

And one great pity of it all is, that these poor sufferers are innocent.
The leprosy does not come of sins which they committed, but of sins
committed by their ancestors, who escaped the curse of leprosy!

Mr. Gowan has made record of a certain very striking circumstance.  Would
you expect to find in that awful Leper Settlement a custom worthy to be
transplanted to your own country?  They have one such, and it is
inexpressibly touching and beautiful.  When death sets open the prison-
door of life there, the band salutes the freed soul with a burst of glad
music!




CHAPTER IV.

A dozen direct censures are easier to bear than one morganatic
compliment.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Sailed from Honolulu.--From diary:

Sept. 2.  Flocks of flying fish-slim, shapely, graceful, and intensely
white.  With the sun on them they look like a flight of silver fruit-
knives.  They are able to fly a hundred yards.

Sept. 3.  In 9 deg. 50' north latitude, at breakfast.  Approaching the
equator on a long slant.  Those of us who have never seen the equator are
a good deal excited.  I think I would rather see it than any other thing
in the world.  We entered the "doldrums" last night--variable winds,
bursts of rain, intervals of calm, with chopping seas and a wobbly and
drunken motion to the ship--a condition of things findable in other
regions sometimes, but present in the doldrums always.  The globe-
girdling belt called the doldrums is 20 degrees wide, and the thread
called the equator lies along the middle of it.

Sept. 4.  Total eclipse of the moon last night.  At 1.30 it began to go
off.  At total--or about that--it was like a rich rosy cloud with a
tumbled surface framed in the circle and projecting from it--a bulge of
strawberry-ice, so to speak.  At half-eclipse the moon was like a gilded
acorn in its cup.

Sept. 5.  Closing in on the equator this noon.  A sailor explained to a
young girl that the ship's speed is poor because we are climbing up the
bulge toward the center of the globe; but that when we should once get
over, at the equator, and start down-hill, we should fly.  When she asked
him the other day what the fore-yard was, he said it was the front yard,
the open area in the front end of the ship.  That man has a good deal of
learning stored up, and the girl is likely to get it all.

Afternoon.  Crossed the equator.  In the distance it looked like a blue
ribbon stretched across the ocean.  Several passengers kodak'd it.  We
had no fool ceremonies, no fantastics, no horse play.  All that sort of
thing has gone out.  In old times a sailor, dressed as Neptune, used to
come in over the bows, with his suite, and lather up and shave everybody
who was crossing the equator for the first time, and then cleanse these
unfortunates by swinging them from the yard-arm and ducking them three
times in the sea. This was considered funny.  Nobody knows why.  No, that
is not true.  We do know why.  Such a thing could never be funny on land;
no part of the old-time grotesque performances gotten up on shipboard to
celebrate the passage of the line would ever be funny on shore--they
would seem dreary and less to shore people.  But the shore people would
change their minds about it at sea, on a long voyage.  On such a voyage,
with its eternal monotonies, people's intellects deteriorate; the owners
of the intellects soon reach a point where they almost seem to prefer
childish things to things of a maturer degree.  One is often surprised at
the juvenilities which grown people indulge in at sea, and the interest
they take in them, and the consuming enjoyment they get out of them.
This is on long voyages only.  The mind gradually becomes inert, dull,
blunted; it loses its accustomed interest in intellectual things; nothing
but horse-play can rouse it, nothing but wild and foolish grotesqueries
can entertain it.  On short voyages it makes no such exposure of itself;
it hasn't time to slump down to this sorrowful level.

The short-voyage passenger gets his chief physical exercise out of
"horse-billiards"--shovel-board.  It is a good game.  We play it in this
ship.  A quartermaster chalks off a diagram like this-on the deck.

The player uses a cue that is like a broom-handle with a quarter-moon of
wood fastened to the end of it.  With this he shoves wooden disks the
size of a saucer--he gives the disk a vigorous shove and sends it fifteen
or twenty feet along the deck and lands it in one of the squares if he
can.  If it stays there till the inning is played out, it will count as
many points in the game as the figure in the square it has stopped in
represents.  The adversary plays to knock that disk out and leave his own
in its place--particularly if it rests upon the 9 or 10 or some other of
the high numbers; but if it rests in the "10off" he backs it up--lands
his disk behind it a foot or two, to make it difficult for its owner to
knock it out of that damaging place and improve his record.  When the
inning is played out it may be found that each adversary has placed his
four disks where they count; it may be found that some of them are
touching chalk lines and not counting; and very often it will be found
that there has been a general wreckage, and that not a disk has been left
within the diagram.  Anyway, the result is recorded, whatever it is, and
the game goes on.  The game is 100 points, and it takes from twenty
minutes to forty to play it, according to luck and the condition of the
sea.  It is an exciting game, and the crowd of spectators furnish
abundance of applause for fortunate shots and plenty of laughter for the
other kind.  It is a game of skill, but at the same time the uneasy
motion of the ship is constantly interfering with skill; this makes it a
chancy game, and the element of luck comes largely in.

We had a couple of grand tournaments, to determine who should be
"Champion of the Pacific"; they included among the participants nearly
all the passengers, of both sexes, and the officers of the ship, and they
afforded many days of stupendous interest and excitement, and murderous
exercise--for horse-billiards is a physically violent game.

The figures in the following record of some of the closing games in the
first tournament will show, better than any description, how very chancy
the game is.  The losers here represented had all been winners in the
previous games of the series, some of them by fine majorities:

Chase,102      Mrs.  D.,57    Mortimer, 105  The Surgeon, 92
Miss C.,105    Mrs.  T.,9     Clemens, 101   Taylor,92
Taylor,109     Davies,95      Miss C., 108   Mortimer,55
Thomas,102     Roper,76       Clemens, 111   Miss C.,89
Coomber, 106   Chase,98

And so on; until but three couples of winners were left.  Then I beat my
man, young Smith beat his man, and Thomas beat his.  This reduced the
combatants to three.  Smith and I took the deck, and I led off.  At the
close of the first inning I was 10 worse than nothing and Smith had
scored 7.  The luck continued against me.  When I was 57, Smith was 97--
within 3 of out.  The luck changed then.  He picked up a 10-off or so,
and couldn't recover.  I beat him.

The next game would end tournament No. 1.

Mr. Thomas and I were the contestants.  He won the lead and went to the
bat--so to speak.  And there he stood, with the crotch of his cue resting
against his disk while the ship rose slowly up, sank slowly down, rose
again, sank again.  She never seemed to rise to suit him exactly.  She
started up once more; and when she was nearly ready for the turn, he let
drive and landed his disk just within the left-hand end of the 10.
(Applause).  The umpire proclaimed "a good 10," and the game-keeper set
it down.  I played: my disk grazed the edge of Mr. Thomas's disk, and
went out of the diagram.  (No applause.)

Mr. Thomas played again--and landed his second disk alongside of the
first, and almost touching its right-hand side.  "Good 10." (Great
applause.)

I played, and missed both of them.  (No applause.)

Mr. Thomas delivered his third shot and landed his disk just at the right
of the other two.  " Good 10." (Immense applause.)

There they lay, side by side, the three in a row.  It did not seem
possible that anybody could miss them.  Still I did it.  (Immense
silence.)

Mr. Thomas played his last disk.  It seems incredible, but he actually
landed that disk alongside of the others, and just to the right of them-a
straight solid row of 4 disks.  (Tumultuous and long-continued applause.)

Then I played my last disk.  Again it did not seem possible that anybody
could miss that row--a row which would have been 14 inches long if the
disks had been clamped together; whereas, with the spaces separating them
they made a longer row than that.  But I did it.  It may be that I was
getting nervous.

I think it unlikely that that innings has ever had its parallel in the
history of horse-billiards.  To place the four disks side by side in the
10 was an extraordinary feat; indeed, it was a kind of miracle.  To miss
them was another miracle.  It will take a century to produce another man
who can place the four disks in the 10; and longer than that to find a
man who can't knock them out.  I was ashamed of my performance at the
time, but now that I reflect upon it I see that it was rather fine and
difficult.

Mr. Thomas kept his luck, and won the game, and later the championship.

In a minor tournament I won the prize, which was a Waterbury watch.  I
put it in my trunk.  In Pretoria, South Africa, nine months afterward, my
proper watch broke down and I took the Waterbury out, wound it, set it by
the great clock on the Parliament House (8.05), then went back to my room
and went to bed, tired from a long railway journey.  The parliamentary
clock had a peculiarity which I was not aware of at the time--
a peculiarity which exists in no other clock, and would not exist in that
one if it had been made by a sane person; on the half-hour it strikes the
succeeding hour, then strikes the hour again, at the proper time.  I lay
reading and smoking awhile; then, when I could hold my eyes open no
longer and was about to put out the light, the great clock began to boom,
and I counted ten.  I reached for the Waterbury to see how it was getting
along.  It was marking 9.30.  It seemed rather poor speed for a three-
dollar watch, but I supposed that the climate was affecting it.  I shoved
it half an hour ahead; and took to my book and waited to see what would
happen.  At 10 the great clock struck ten again.  I looked--the Waterbury
was marking half-past 10.  This was too much speed for the money, and it
troubled me.  I pushed the hands back a half hour, and waited once more;
I had to, for I was vexed and restless now, and my sleepiness was gone.
By and by the great clock struck 11.  The Waterbury was marking 10.30.  I
pushed it ahead half an hour, with some show of temper.  By and by the
great clock struck 11 again.  The Waterbury showed up 11.30, now, and I
beat her brains out against the bedstead.  I was sorry next day, when I
found out.

To return to the ship.

The average human being is a perverse creature; and when he isn't that,
he is a practical joker.  The result to the other person concerned is
about the same: that is, he is made to suffer.  The washing down of the
decks begins at a very early hour in all ships; in but few ships are any
measures taken to protect the passengers, either by waking or warning
them, or by sending a steward to close their ports.  And so the
deckwashers have their opportunity, and they use it.  They send a bucket
of water slashing along the side of the ship and into the ports,
drenching the passenger's clothes, and often the passenger himself.  This
good old custom prevailed in this ship, and under unusually favorable
circumstances, for in the blazing tropical regions a removable zinc thing
like a sugarshovel projects from the port to catch the wind and bring it
in; this thing catches the wash-water and brings it in, too--and in
flooding abundance.  Mrs. L, an invalid, had to sleep on the locker--sofa
under her port, and every time she over-slept and thus failed to take
care of herself, the deck-washers drowned her out.

And the painters, what a good time they had!  This ship would be going
into dock for a month in Sydney for repairs; but no matter, painting was
going on all the time somewhere or other.  The ladies' dresses were
constantly getting ruined, nevertheless protests and supplications went
for nothing.  Sometimes a lady, taking an afternoon nap on deck near a
ventilator or some other thing that didn't need painting, would wake up
by and by and find that the humorous painter had been noiselessly daubing
that thing and had splattered her white gown all over with little greasy
yellow spots.

The blame for this untimely painting did not lie with the ship's
officers, but with custom.  As far back as Noah's time it became law that
ships must be constantly painted and fussed at when at sea; custom grew
out of the law, and at sea custom knows no death; this custom will
continue until the sea goes dry.

Sept. 8.--Sunday.  We are moving so nearly south that we cross only about
two meridians of longitude a day.  This morning we were in longitude 178
west from Greenwich, and 57 degrees west from San Francisco.  To-morrow
we shall be close to the center of the globe--the 180th degree of west
longitude and 180th degree of east longitude.

And then we must drop out a day-lose a day out of our lives, a day never
to be found again.  We shall all die one day earlier than from the
beginning of time we were foreordained to die.  We shall be a day
behindhand all through eternity.  We shall always be saying to the other
angels, "Fine day today," and they will be always retorting, "But it
isn't to-day, it's tomorrow." We shall be in a state of confusion all the
time and shall never know what true happiness is.

Next Day.  Sure enough, it has happened.  Yesterday it was September 8,
Sunday; to-day, per the bulletin-board at the head of the companionway,
it is September 10, Tuesday.  There is something uncanny about it.  And
uncomfortable.  In fact, nearly unthinkable, and wholly unrealizable,
when one comes to consider it.  While we were crossing the 180th meridian
it was Sunday in the stern of the ship where my family were, and Tuesday
in the bow where I was.  They were there eating the half of a fresh apple
on the 8th, and I was at the same time eating the other half of it on the
10th--and I could notice how stale it was, already.  The family were the
same age that they were when I had left them five minutes before, but I
was a day older now than I was then.  The day they were living in
stretched behind them half way round the globe, across the Pacific Ocean
and America and Europe; the day I was living in stretched in front of me
around the other half to meet it.  They were stupendous days for bulk and
stretch; apparently much larger days than we had ever been in before.
All previous days had been but shrunk-up little things by comparison.
The difference in temperature between the two days was very marked, their
day being hotter than mine because it was closer to the equator.

Along about the moment that we were crossing the Great Meridian a child
was born in the steerage, and now there is no way to tell which day it
was born on.  The nurse thinks it was Sunday, the surgeon thinks it was
Tuesday.  The child will never know its own birthday.  It will always be
choosing first one and then the other, and will never be able to make up
its mind permanently.  This will breed vacillation and uncertainty in its
opinions about religion, and politics, and business, and sweethearts, and
everything, and will undermine its principles, and rot them away, and
make the poor thing characterless, and its success in life impossible.
Every one in the ship says so.  And this is not all--in fact, not the
worst.  For there is an enormously rich brewer in the ship who said as
much as ten days ago, that if the child was born on his birthday he would
give it ten thousand dollars to start its little life with.  His birthday
was Monday, the 9th of September.

If the ships all moved in the one direction--westward, I mean--the world
would suffer a prodigious loss--in the matter of valuable time, through
the dumping overboard on the Great Meridian of such multitudes of days by
ships crews and passengers.  But fortunately the ships do not all sail
west, half of them sail east.  So there is no real loss.  These latter
pick up all the discarded days and add them to the world's stock again;
and about as good as new, too; for of course the salt water preserves
them.




CHAPTER V.

Noise proves nothing.  Often a hen who has merely laid an egg cackles as
if she had laid an asteroid.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

WEDNESDAY, Sept. 11.  In this world we often make mistakes of judgment.
We do not as a rule get out of them sound and whole, but sometimes we do.
At dinner yesterday evening-present, a mixture of Scotch, English,
American, Canadian, and Australasian folk--a discussion broke out about
the pronunciation of certain Scottish words.  This was private ground,
and the non-Scotch nationalities, with one exception, discreetly kept
still.  But I am not discreet, and I took a hand.  I didn't know anything
about the subject, but I took a hand just to have something to do.  At
that moment the word in dispute was the word three.  One Scotchman was
claiming that the peasantry of Scotland pronounced it three, his
adversaries claimed that they didn't--that they pronounced it 'thraw'.
The solitary Scot was having a sultry time of it, so I thought I would
enrich him with my help.  In my position I was necessarily quite
impartial, and was equally as well and as ill equipped to fight on the
one side as on the other.  So I spoke up and said the peasantry
pronounced the word three, not thraw.  It was an error of judgment.
There was a moment of astonished and ominous silence, then weather
ensued.  The storm rose and spread in a surprising way, and I was snowed
under in a very few minutes.  It was a bad defeat for me--a kind of
Waterloo.  It promised to remain so, and I wished I had had better sense
than to enter upon such a forlorn enterprise.  But just then I had a
saving thought--at least a thought that offered a chance.  While the
storm was still raging, I made up a Scotch couplet, and then spoke up and
said:

"Very well, don't say any more.  I confess defeat.  I thought I knew, but
I see my mistake.  I was deceived by one of your Scotch poets."

"A Scotch poet!  O come!  Name him."

"Robert Burns."

It is wonderful the power of that name.  These men looked doubtful--but
paralyzed, all the same.  They were quite silent for a moment; then one
of them said--with the reverence in his voice which is always present in
a Scotchman's tone when he utters the name.

"Does Robbie Burns say--what does he say?"

"This is what he says:

         'There were nae bairns but only three--
          Ane at the breast, twa at the knee.'"

It ended the discussion.  There was no man there profane enough, disloyal
enough, to say any word against a thing which Robert Burns had settled.
I shall always honor that great name for the salvation it brought me in
this time of my sore need.

It is my belief that nearly any invented quotation, played with
confidence, stands a good chance to deceive.  There are people who think
that honesty is always the best policy.  This is a superstition; there
are times when the appearance of it is worth six of it.

We are moving steadily southward-getting further and further down under
the projecting paunch of the globe.  Yesterday evening we saw the Big
Dipper and the north star sink below the horizon and disappear from our
world.  No, not "we," but they.  They saw it--somebody saw it--and told
me about it.  But it is no matter, I was not caring for those things, I
am tired of them, any way.  I think they are well enough, but one doesn't
want them always hanging around.  My interest was all in the Southern
Cross.  I had never seen that.  I had heard about it all my life, and it
was but natural that I should be burning to see it.  No other
constellation makes so much talk.  I had nothing against the Big Dipper--
and naturally couldn't have anything against it, since it is a citizen of
our own sky, and the property of the United States--but I did want it to
move out of the way and give this foreigner a chance.  Judging by the
size of the talk which the Southern Cross had made, I supposed it would
need a sky all to itself.

But that was a mistake.  We saw the Cross to-night, and it is not large.
Not large, and not strikingly bright.  But it was low down toward the
horizon, and it may improve when it gets up higher in the sky.  It is
ingeniously named, for it looks just as a cross would look if it looked
like something else.  But that description does not describe; it is too
vague, too general, too indefinite.  It does after a fashion suggest a
cross across that is out of repair--or out of drawing; not correctly
shaped.  It is long, with a short cross-bar, and the cross-bar is canted
out of the straight line.

It consists of four large stars and one little one.  The little one is
out of line and further damages the shape.  It should have been placed at
the intersection of the stem and the cross-bar.  If you do not draw an
imaginary line from star to star it does not suggest a cross--nor
anything in particular.

One must ignore the little star, and leave it out of the combination--it
confuses everything.  If you leave it out, then you can make out of the
four stars a sort of cross--out of true; or a sort of kite--out of true;
or a sort of coffin-out of true.

Constellations have always been troublesome things to name.  If you give
one of them a fanciful name, it will always refuse to live up to it; it
will always persist in not resembling the thing it has been named for.
Ultimately, to satisfy the public, the fanciful name has to be discarded
for a common-sense one, a manifestly descriptive one.  The Great Bear
remained the Great Bear--and unrecognizable as such--for thousands of
years; and people complained about it all the time, and quite properly;
but as soon as it became the property of the United States, Congress
changed it to the Big Dipper, and now every body is satisfied, and there
is no more talk about riots.  I would not change the Southern Cross to
the Southern Coffin, I would change it to the Southern Kite; for up there
in the general emptiness is the proper home of a kite, but not for
coffins and crosses and dippers.  In a little while, now--I cannot tell
exactly how long it will be--the globe will belong to the English-
speaking race; and of course the skies also.  Then the constellations
will be re-organized, and polished up, and re-named--the most of them
"Victoria," I reckon, but this one will sail thereafter as the Southern
Kite, or go out of business.  Several towns and things, here and there,
have been named for Her Majesty already.

In these past few days we are plowing through a mighty Milky Way of
islands.  They are so thick on the map that one would hardly expect to
find room between them for a canoe; yet we seldom glimpse one.  Once we
saw the dim bulk of a couple of them, far away, spectral and dreamy
things; members of the Horne-Alofa and Fortuna.  On the larger one are
two rival native kings--and they have a time together.  They are
Catholics; so are their people.  The missionaries there are French
priests.

From the multitudinous islands in these regions the "recruits" for the
Queensland plantations were formerly drawn; are still drawn from them, I
believe.  Vessels fitted up like old-time slavers came here and carried
off the natives to serve as laborers in the great Australian province.
In the beginning it was plain, simple man-stealing, as per testimony of
the missionaries.  This has been denied, but not disproven.  Afterward it
was forbidden by law to "recruit" a native without his consent, and
governmental agents were sent in all recruiting vessels to see that the
law was obeyed--which they did, according to the recruiting people; and
which they sometimes didn't, according to the missionaries.  A man could
be lawfully recruited for a three-years term of service; he could
volunteer for another term if he so chose; when his time was up he could
return to his island.  And would also have the means to do it; for the
government required the employer to put money in its hands for this
purpose before the recruit was delivered to him.

Captain Wawn was a recruiting ship-master during many years.  From his
pleasant book one gets the idea that the recruiting business was quite
popular with the islanders, as a rule.  And yet that did not make the
business wholly dull and uninteresting; for one finds rather frequent
little breaks in the monotony of it--like this, for instance:

     "The afternoon of our arrival at Leper Island the schooner was lying
     almost becalmed under the lee of the lofty central portion of the
     island, about three-quarters of a mile from the shore.  The boats
     were in sight at some distance.  The recruiter-boat had run into a
     small nook on the rocky coast, under a high bank, above which stood
     a solitary hut backed by dense forest.  The government agent and
     mate in the second boat lay about 400 yards to the westward.

     "Suddenly we heard the sound of firing, followed by yells from the
     natives on shore, and then we saw the recruiter-boat push out with a
     seemingly diminished crew.  The mate's boat pulled quickly up, took
     her in tow, and presently brought her alongside, all her own crew
     being more or less hurt.  It seems the natives had called them into
     the place on pretence of friendship.  A crowd gathered about the
     stern of the boat, and several fellows even got into her.  All of a
     sudden our men were attacked with clubs and tomahawks.  The
     recruiter escaped the first blows aimed at him, making play with his
     fists until he had an opportunity to draw his revolver.  'Tom
     Sayers,' a Mare man, received a tomahawk blow on the head which laid
     the scalp open but did not penetrate his skull, fortunately.  'Bobby
     Towns,' another Mare boatman, had both his thumbs cut in warding off
     blows, one of them being so nearly severed from the hand that the
     doctors had to finish the operation.  Lihu, a Lifu boy, the
     recruiter's special attendant, was cut and pricked in various
     places, but nowhere seriously.  Jack, an unlucky Tanna recruit, who
     had been engaged to act as boatman, received an arrow through his
     forearm, the head of which--apiece of bone seven or eight inches
     long--was still in the limb, protruding from both sides, when the
     boats returned.  The recruiter himself would have got off scot-free
     had not an arrow pinned one of his fingers to the loom of the
     steering-oar just as they were getting off.  The fight had been
     short but sharp.  The enemy lost two men, both shot dead."

The truth is, Captain Wawn furnishes such a crowd of instances of fatal
encounters between natives and French and English recruiting-crews (for
the French are in the business for the plantations of New Caledonia),
that one is almost persuaded that recruiting is not thoroughly popular
among the islanders; else why this bristling string of attacks and
bloodcurdling slaughter?  The captain lays it all to "Exeter Hall
influence."  But for the meddling philanthropists, the native fathers and
mothers would be fond of seeing their children carted into exile and now
and then the grave, instead of weeping about it and trying to kill the
kind recruiters.




CHAPTER VI.

He was as shy as a newspaper is when referring to its own merits.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Captain Wawn is crystal-clear on one point: He does not approve of
missionaries.  They obstruct his business.  They make "Recruiting," as he
calls it ("Slave-Catching," as they call it in their frank way) a trouble
when it ought to be just a picnic and a pleasure excursion.  The
missionaries have their opinion about the manner in which the Labor
Traffic is conducted, and about the recruiter's evasions of the law of
the Traffic, and about the traffic itself--and it is distinctly
uncomplimentary to the Traffic and to everything connected with it,
including the law for its regulation.  Captain Wawn's book is of very
recent date; I have by me a pamphlet of still later date--hot from the
press, in fact--by Rev. Wm. Gray, a missionary; and the book and the
pamphlet taken together make exceedingly interesting reading, to my mind.

Interesting, and easy to understand--except in one detail, which I will
mention presently.  It is easy to understand why the Queensland sugar
planter should want the Kanaka recruit: he is cheap.  Very cheap, in
fact.  These are the figures paid by the planter: L20 to the recruiter
for getting the Kanaka or "catching" him, as the missionary phrase goes;
L3 to the Queensland government for "superintending" the importation; L5
deposited with the Government for the Kanaka's passage home when his
three years are up, in case he shall live that long; about L25 to the
Kanaka himself for three years' wages and clothing; total payment for the
use of a man three years, L53; or, including diet, L60.  Altogether, a
hundred dollars a year.  One can understand why the recruiter is fond of
the business; the recruit costs him a few cheap presents (given to the
recruit's relatives, not himself), and the recruit is worth L20 to the
recruiter when delivered in Queensland.  All this is clear enough; but
the thing that is not clear is, what there is about it all to persuade
the recruit.  He is young and brisk; life at home in his beautiful island
is one lazy, long holiday to him; or if he wants to work he can turn out
a couple of bags of copra per week and sell it for four or five shillings
a bag.  In Queensland he must get up at dawn and work from eight to
twelve hours a day in the canefields--in a much hotter climate than he is
used to--and get less than four shillings a week for it.

I cannot understand his willingness to go to Queensland.  It is a deep
puzzle to me.  Here is the explanation, from the planter's point of view;
at least I gather from the missionary's pamphlet that it is the
planter's:

     "When he comes from his home he is a savage, pure and simple.  He
     feels no shame at his nakedness and want of adornment.  When he
     returns home he does so well dressed, sporting a Waterbury watch,
     collars, cuffs, boots, and jewelry.  He takes with him one or more
     boxes--["Box" is English for trunk.]--well filled with clothing, a
     musical instrument or two, and perfumery and other articles of
     luxury he has learned to appreciate."

For just one moment we have a seeming flash of comprehension of, the
Kanaka's reason for exiling himself: he goes away to acquire
civilization.  Yes, he was naked and not ashamed, now he is clothed and
knows how to be ashamed; he was unenlightened; now he has a Waterbury
watch; he was unrefined, now he has jewelry, and something to make him
smell good; he was a nobody, a provincial, now he has been to far
countries and can show off.

It all looks plausible--for a moment.  Then the missionary takes hold of
this explanation and pulls it to pieces, and dances on it, and damages it
beyond recognition.

     "Admitting that the foregoing description is the average one, the
     average sequel is this: The cuffs and collars, if used at all, are
     carried off by youngsters, who fasten them round the leg, just below
     the knee, as ornaments.  The Waterbury, broken and dirty, finds its
     way to the trader, who gives a trifle for it; or the inside is taken
     out, the wheels strung on a thread and hung round the neck.  Knives,
     axes, calico, and handkerchiefs are divided among friends, and there
     is hardly one of these apiece.  The boxes, the keys often lost on
     the road home, can be bought for 2s. 6d.  They are to be seen
     rotting outside in almost any shore village on Tanna.  (I speak of
     what I have seen.) A returned Kanaka has been furiously angry with
     me because I would not buy his trousers, which he declared were just
     my fit.  He sold them afterwards to one of my Aniwan teachers for
     9d. worth of tobacco--a pair of trousers that probably cost him 8s.
     or 10s. in Queensland.  A coat or shirt is handy for cold weather.
     The white handkerchiefs, the 'senet' (perfumery), the umbrella, and
     perhaps the hat, are kept.  The boots have to take their chance, if
     they do not happen to fit the copra trader.  'Senet' on the hair,
     streaks of paint on the face, a dirty white handkerchief round the
     neck, strips of turtle shell in the ears, a belt, a sheath and
     knife, and an umbrella constitute the rig of returned Kanaka at home
     the day after landing."

A hat, an umbrella, a belt, a neckerchief.  Otherwise stark naked.  All
in a day the hard-earned "civilization" has melted away to this.  And
even these perishable things must presently go.  Indeed, there is but a
single detail of his civilization that can be depended on to stay by him:
according to the missionary, he has learned to swear.  This is art, and
art is long, as the poet says.

In all countries the laws throw light upon the past.  The Queensland law
for the regulation of the Labor Traffic is a confession.  It is a
confession that the evils charged by the missionaries upon the traffic
had existed in the past, and that they still existed when the law was
made.  The missionaries make a further charge: that the law is evaded by
the recruiters, and that the Government Agent sometimes helps them to do
it.  Regulation 31 reveals two things: that sometimes a young fool of a
recruit gets his senses back, after being persuaded to sign away his
liberty for three years, and dearly wants to get out of the engagement
and stay at home with his own people; and that threats, intimidation, and
force are used to keep him on board the recruiting-ship, and to hold him
to his contract.  Regulation 31 forbids these coercions.  The law
requires that he shall be allowed to go free; and another clause of it
requires the recruiter to set him ashore--per boat, because of the
prevalence of sharks.  Testimony from Rev. Mr. Gray:

     "There are 'wrinkles' for taking the penitent Kanaka.  My first
     experience of the Traffic was a case of this kind in 1884.  A vessel
     anchored just out of sight of our station, word was brought to me
     that some boys were stolen, and the relatives wished me to go and
     get them back.  The facts were, as I found, that six boys had
     recruited, had rushed into the boat, the Government Agent informed
     me.  They had all 'signed'; and, said the Government Agent, 'on
     board they shall remain.'  I was assured that the six boys were of
     age and willing to go.  Yet on getting ready to leave the ship I
     found four of the lads ready to come ashore in the boat!  This I
     forbade.  One of them jumped into the water and persisted in coming
     ashore in my boat.  When appealed to, the Government Agent suggested
     that we go and leave him to be picked up by the ship's boat, a
     quarter mile distant at the time!"

The law and the missionaries feel for the repentant recruit--and
properly, one may be permitted to think, for he is only a youth and
ignorant and persuadable to his hurt--but sympathy for him is not kept in
stock by the recruiter.  Rev. Mr. Gray says:

     "A captain many years in the traffic explained to me how a penitent
     could betaken.  'When a boy jumps overboard we just take a boat and
     pull ahead of him, then lie between him and the shore.  If he has
     not tired himself swimming, and passes the boat, keep on heading him
     in this way.  The dodge rarely fails.  The boy generally tires of
     swimming, gets into the boat of his own accord, and goes quietly on
     board."

Yes, exhaustion is likely to make a boy quiet.  If the distressed boy had
been the speaker's son, and the captors savages, the speaker would have
been surprised to see how differently the thing looked from the new point
of view; however, it is not our custom to put ourselves in the other
person's place.  Somehow there is something pathetic about that
disappointed young savage's resignation.  I must explain, here, that in
the traffic dialect, "boy" does not always mean boy; it means a youth
above sixteen years of age.  That is by Queensland law the age of
consent, though it is held that recruiters allow themselves some latitude
in guessing at ages.

Captain Wawn of the free spirit chafes under the annoyance of "cast-iron
regulations."  They and the missionaries have poisoned his life.  He
grieves for the good old days, vanished to come no more.  See him weep;
hear him cuss between the lines!

     "For a long time we were allowed to apprehend and detain all
     deserters who had signed the agreement on board ship, but the 'cast-
     iron' regulations of the Act of 1884 put a stop to that, allowing
     the Kanaka to sign the agreement for three years' service, travel
     about in the ship in receipt of the regular rations, cadge all he
     could, and leave when he thought fit, so long as he did not extend
     his pleasure trip to Queensland."

Rev. Mr. Gray calls this same restrictive cast-iron law a "farce." "There
is as much cruelty and injustice done to natives by acts that are legal
as by deeds unlawful.  The regulations that exist are unjust and
inadequate--unjust and inadequate they must ever be."  He furnishes his
reasons for his position, but they are too long for reproduction here.

However, if the most a Kanaka advantages himself by a three-years course
in civilization in Queensland, is a necklace and an umbrella and a showy
imperfection in the art of swearing, it must be that all the profit of
the traffic goes to the white man.  This could be twisted into a
plausible argument that the traffic ought to be squarely abolished.

However, there is reason for hope that that can be left alone to achieve
itself.  It is claimed that the traffic will depopulate its sources of
supply within the next twenty or thirty years.  Queensland is a very
healthy place for white people--death-rate 12 in 1,000 of the population-
but the Kanaka death-rate is away above that.  The vital statistics for
1893 place it at 52; for 1894 (Mackay district), 68.  The first six
months of the Kanaka's exile are peculiarly perilous for him because of
the rigors of the new climate.  The death-rate among the new men has
reached as high as 180 in the 1,000.  In the Kanaka's native home his
death-rate is 12 in time of peace, and 15 in time of war.  Thus exile to
Queensland--with the opportunity to acquire civilization, an umbrella,
and a pretty poor quality of profanity--is twelve times as deadly for him
as war.  Common Christian charity, common humanity, does seem to require,
not only that these people be returned to their homes, but that war,
pestilence, and famine be introduced among them for their preservation.

Concerning these Pacific isles and their peoples an eloquent prophet
spoke long years ago--five and fifty years ago.  In fact, he spoke a
little too early.  Prophecy is a good line of business, but it is full of
risks.  This prophet was the Right Rev. M. Russell, LL.D., D.C.L., of
Edinburgh:

     "Is the tide of civilization to roll only to the foot of the Rocky
     Mountains, and is the sun of knowledge to set at last in the waves
     of the Pacific?  No; the mighty day of four thousand years is
     drawing to its close; the sun of humanity has performed its destined
     course; but long ere its setting rays are extinguished in the west,
     its ascending beams have glittered on the isles of the eastern seas
     .  .  .  .  And now we see the race of Japhet setting forth to
     people the isles, and the seeds of another Europe and a second
     England sown in the regions of the sun.  But mark the words of the
     prophecy: 'He shall dwell in the tents of Shem, and Canaan shall be
     his servant.'  It is not said Canaan shall be his slave.  To the
     Anglo-Saxon race is given the scepter of the globe, but there is not
     given either the lash of the slave-driver or the rack of the
     executioner.  The East will not be stained with the same atrocities
     as the West; the frightful gangrene of an enthralled race is not to
     mar the destinies of the family of Japhet in the Oriental world;
     humanizing, not destroying, as they advance; uniting with, not
     enslaving, the inhabitants with whom they dwell, the British race
     may,"  etc., etc.

And he closes his vision with an invocation from Thomson:

          "Come, bright Improvement!  on the car of Time,
          And rule the spacious world from clime to clime."

Very well, Bright Improvement has arrived, you see, with her
civilization, and her Waterbury, and her umbrella, and her third-quality
profanity, and her humanizing-not-destroying machinery, and her hundred-
and-eighty death-rate, and everything is going along just as handsome!

But the prophet that speaks last has an advantage over the pioneer in the
business.  Rev. Mr. Gray says:

     "What I am concerned about is that we as a Christian nation should
     wipe out these races to enrich ourselves."

And he closes his pamphlet with a grim Indictment which is as eloquent in
its flowerless straightforward English as is the hand-painted rhapsody of
the early prophet:

     "My indictment of the Queensland-Kanaka Labor Traffic is this

     "1. It generally demoralizes and always impoverishes the Kanaka,
     deprives him of his citizenship, and depopulates the islands fitted
     to his home.

     "2. It is felt to lower the dignity of the white agricultural
     laborer in Queensland, and beyond a doubt it lowers his wages there.

     "3. The whole system is fraught with danger to Australia and the
     islands on the score of health.

     "4. On social and political grounds the continuance of the
     Queensland Kanaka Labor Traffic must be a barrier to the true
     federation of the Australian colonies.

     "5. The Regulations under which the Traffic exists in Queensland are
     inadequate to prevent abuses, and in the nature of things they must
     remain so.

     "6. The whole system is contrary to the spirit and doctrine of the
     Gospel of Jesus Christ.  The Gospel requires us to help the weak,
     but the Kanaka is fleeced and trodden down.

     "7. The bed-rock of this Traffic is that the life and liberty of a
     black man are of less value than those of a white man.  And a
     Traffic that has grown out of 'slave-hunting' will certainly remain
     to the end not unlike its origin."




CHAPTER VII.

Truth is the most valuable thing we have.  Let us economize it.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

From Diary:--For a day or two we have been plowing among an invisible
vast wilderness of islands, catching now and then a shadowy glimpse of a
member of it.  There does seem to be a prodigious lot of islands this
year; the map of this region is freckled and fly-specked all over with
them.  Their number would seem to be uncountable.  We are moving among
the Fijis now--224 islands and islets in the group.  In front of us, to
the west, the wilderness stretches toward Australia, then curves upward
to New Guinea, and still up and up to Japan; behind us, to the east, the
wilderness stretches sixty degrees across the wastes of the Pacific;
south of us is New Zealand.  Somewhere or other among these myriads Samoa
is concealed, and not discoverable on the map.  Still, if you wish to go
there, you will have no trouble about finding it if you follow the
directions given by Robert Louis Stevenson to Dr. Conan Doyle and to Mr.
J. M. Barrie.  "You go to America, cross the continent to San Francisco,
and then it's the second turning to the left."  To get the full flavor of
the joke one must take a glance at the map.

Wednesday, September 11.--Yesterday we passed close to an island or so,
and recognized the published Fiji characteristics: a broad belt of clean
white coral sand around the island; back of it a graceful fringe of
leaning palms, with native huts nestling cosily among the shrubbery at
their bases; back of these a stretch of level land clothed in tropic
vegetation; back of that, rugged and picturesque mountains.  A detail of
the immediate foreground: a mouldering ship perched high up on a reef-
bench.  This completes the composition, and makes the picture
artistically perfect.

In the afternoon we sighted Suva, the capital of the group, and threaded
our way into the secluded little harbor--a placid basin of brilliant blue
and green water tucked snugly in among the sheltering hills.  A few ships
rode at anchor in it--one of them a sailing vessel flying the American
flag; and they said she came from Duluth!  There's a journey!  Duluth is
several thousand miles from the sea, and yet she is entitled to the proud
name of Mistress of the Commercial Marine of the United States of
America.  There is only one free, independent, unsubsidized American ship
sailing the foreign seas, and Duluth owns it.  All by itself that ship is
the American fleet.  All by itself it causes the American name and power
to be respected in the far regions of the globe.  All by itself it
certifies to the world that the most populous civilized nation, in the
earth has a just pride in her stupendous stretch of sea-front, and is
determined to assert and maintain her rightful place as one of the Great
Maritime Powers of the Planet.  All by itself it is making foreign eyes
familiar with a Flag which they have not seen before for forty years,
outside of the museum.  For what Duluth has done, in building, equipping,
and maintaining at her sole expense the American Foreign Commercial
Fleet, and in thus rescuing the American name from shame and lifting it
high for the homage of the nations, we owe her a debt of gratitude which
our hearts shall confess with quickened beats whenever her name is named
henceforth.  Many national toasts will die in the lapse of time, but
while the flag flies and the Republic survives, they who live under their
shelter will still drink this one, standing and uncovered: Health and
prosperity to Thee, O Duluth, American Queen of the Alien Seas!

Row-boats began to flock from the shore; their crews were the first
natives we had seen.  These men carried no overplus of clothing, and this
was wise, for the weather was hot.  Handsome, great dusky men they were,
muscular, clean-limbed, and with faces full of character and
intelligence.  It would be hard to find their superiors anywhere among
the dark races, I should think.

Everybody went ashore to look around, and spy out the land, and have that
luxury of luxuries to sea-voyagers--a land-dinner.  And there we saw more
natives: Wrinkled old women, with their flat mammals flung over their
shoulders, or hanging down in front like the cold-weather drip from the
molasses-faucet; plump and smily young girls, blithe and content, easy
and graceful, a pleasure to look at; young matrons, tall, straight,
comely, nobly built, sweeping by with chin up, and a gait incomparable
for unconscious stateliness and dignity; majestic young men athletes for
build and muscle clothed in a loose arrangement of dazzling white, with
bronze breast and bronze legs naked, and the head a cannon-swab of solid
hair combed straight out from the skull and dyed a rich brick-red.  Only
sixty years ago they were sunk in darkness; now they have the bicycle.
We strolled about the streets of the white folks' little town, and around
over the hills by paths and roads among European dwellings and gardens
and plantations, and past clumps of hibiscus that made a body blink, the
great blossoms were so intensely red; and by and by we stopped to ask an
elderly English colonist a question or two, and to sympathize with him
concerning the torrid weather; but he was surprised, and said:

"This?  This is not hot.  You ought to be here in the summer time once."

"We supposed that this was summer; it has the ear-marks of it.  You could
take it to almost any country and deceive people with it.  But if it
isn't summer, what does it lack?"

"It lacks half a year.  This is mid-winter."

I had been suffering from colds for several months, and a sudden change
of season, like this, could hardly fail to do me hurt.  It brought on
another cold.  It is odd, these sudden jumps from season to season.  A
fortnight ago we left America in mid-summer, now it is midwinter; about a
week hence we shall arrive in Australia in the spring.

After dinner I found in the billiard-room a resident whom I had known
somewhere else in the world, and presently made, some new friends and
drove with them out into the country to visit his Excellency the head of
the State, who was occupying his country residence, to escape the rigors
of the winter weather, I suppose, for it was on breezy high ground and
much more comfortable than the lower regions, where the town is, and
where the winter has full swing, and often sets a person's hair afire
when he takes off his hat to bow.  There is a noble and beautiful view of
ocean and islands and castellated peaks from the governor's high-placed
house, and its immediate surroundings lie drowsing in that dreamy repose
and serenity which are the charm of life in the Pacific Islands.

One of the new friends who went out there with me was a large man, and I
had been admiring his size all the way.  I was still admiring it as he
stood by the governor on the veranda, talking; then the Fijian butler
stepped out there to announce tea, and dwarfed him.  Maybe he did not
quite dwarf him, but at any rate the contrast was quite striking.
Perhaps that dark giant was a king in a condition of political
suspension.  I think that in the talk there on the veranda it was said
that in Fiji, as in the Sandwich Islands, native kings and chiefs are of
much grander size and build than the commoners.  This man was clothed in
flowing white vestments, and they were just the thing for him; they
comported well with his great stature and his kingly port and dignity.
European clothes would have degraded him and made him commonplace.  I
know that, because they do that with everybody that wears them.

It was said that the old-time devotion to chiefs and reverence for their
persons still survive in the native commoner, and in great force.  The
educated young gentleman who is chief of the tribe that live in the
region about the capital dresses in the fashion of high-class European
gentlemen, but even his clothes cannot damn him in the reverence of his
people.  Their pride in his lofty rank and ancient lineage lives on, in
spite of his lost authority and the evil magic of his tailor.  He has no
need to defile himself with work, or trouble his heart with the sordid
cares of life; the tribe will see to it that he shall not want, and that
he shall hold up his head and live like a gentleman.  I had a glimpse of
him down in the town.  Perhaps he is a descendant of the last king--the
king with the difficult name whose memory is preserved by a notable
monument of cut-stone which one sees in the enclosure in the middle of
the town.  Thakombau--I remember, now; that is the name.  It is easier to
preserve it on a granite block than in your head.

Fiji was ceded to England by this king in 1858.  One of the gentlemen
present at the governor's quoted a remark made by the king at the time of
the session--a neat retort, and with a touch of pathos in it, too.  The
English Commissioner had offered a crumb of comfort to Thakombau by
saying that the transfer of the kingdom to Great Britain was merely "a
sort of hermit-crab formality, you know."  "Yes," said poor Thakombau,
"but with this difference--the crab moves into an unoccupied shell, but
mine isn't."

However, as far as I can make out from the books, the King was between
the devil and the deep sea at the time, and hadn't much choice.  He owed
the United States a large debt--a debt which he could pay if allowed
time, but time was denied him.  He must pay up right away or the warships
would be upon him.  To protect his people from this disaster he ceded his
country to Britain, with a clause in the contract providing for the
ultimate payment of the American debt.

In old times the Fijians were fierce fighters; they were very religious,
and worshiped idols; the big chiefs were proud and haughty, and they were
men of great style in many ways; all chiefs had several wives, the
biggest chiefs sometimes had as many as fifty; when a chief was dead and
ready for burial, four or five of his wives were strangled and put into
the grave with him.  In 1804 twenty-seven British convicts escaped from
Australia to Fiji, and brought guns and ammunition with them.  Consider
what a power they were, armed like that, and what an opportunity they
had.  If they had been energetic men and sober, and had had brains and
known how to use them, they could have achieved the sovereignty of the
archipelago twenty-seven kings and each with eight or nine islands under
his scepter.  But nothing came of this chance.  They lived worthless
lives of sin and luxury, and died without honor--in most cases by
violence.  Only one of them had any ambition; he was an Irishman named
Connor.  He tried to raise a family of fifty children, and scored forty-
eight.  He died lamenting his failure.  It was a foolish sort of avarice.
Many a father would have been rich enough with forty.

It is a fine race, the Fijians, with brains in their heads, and an
inquiring turn of mind.  It appears that their savage ancestors had a
doctrine of immortality in their scheme of religion--with limitations.
That is to say, their dead friend would go to a happy hereafter if he
could be accumulated, but not otherwise.  They drew the line; they
thought that the missionary's doctrine was too sweeping, too
comprehensive.  They called his attention to certain facts.  For
instance, many of their friends had been devoured by sharks; the sharks,
in their turn, were caught and eaten by other men; later, these men were
captured in war, and eaten by the enemy.  The original persons had
entered into the composition of the sharks; next, they and the sharks had
become part of the flesh and blood and bone of the cannibals.  How, then,
could the particles of the original men be searched out from the final
conglomerate and put together again?  The inquirers were full of doubts,
and considered that the missionary had not examined the matter with--the
gravity and attention which so serious a thing deserved.

The missionary taught these exacting savages many valuable things, and
got from them one--a very dainty and poetical idea: Those wild and
ignorant poor children of Nature believed that the flowers, after they
perish, rise on the winds and float away to the fair fields of heaven,
and flourish there forever in immortal beauty!




CHAPTER VIII.

It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no
distinctly native American criminal class except Congress.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

When one glances at the map the members of the stupendous island
wilderness of the Pacific seem to crowd upon each other; but no, there is
no crowding, even in the center of a group; and between groups there are
lonely wide deserts of sea.  Not everything is known about the islands,
their peoples and their languages.  A startling reminder of this is
furnished by the fact that in Fiji, twenty years ago, were living two
strange and solitary beings who came from an unknown country and spoke an
unknown language.  "They were picked up by a passing vessel many hundreds
of miles from any known land, floating in the same tiny canoe in which
they had been blown out to sea.  When found they were but skin and bone.
No one could understand what they said, and they have never named their
country; or, if they have, the name does not correspond with that of any
island on any chart.  They are now fat and sleek, and as happy as the day
is long.  In the ship's log there is an entry of the latitude and
longitude in which they were found, and this is probably all the clue
they will ever have to their lost homes."--[Forbes's "Two Years in
Fiji."]

What a strange and romantic episode it is; and how one is tortured with
curiosity to know whence those mysterious creatures came, those Men
Without a Country, errant waifs who cannot name their lost home,
wandering Children of Nowhere.

Indeed, the Island Wilderness is the very home of romance and dreams and
mystery.  The loneliness, the solemnity, the beauty, and the deep repose
of this wilderness have a charm which is all their own for the bruised
spirit of men who have fought and failed in the struggle for life in the
great world; and for men who have been hunted out of the great world for
crime; and for other men who love an easy and indolent existence; and for
others who love a roving free life, and stir and change and adventure;
and for yet others who love an easy and comfortable career of trading and
money-getting, mixed with plenty of loose matrimony by purchase, divorce
without trial or expense, and limitless spreeing thrown in to make life
ideally perfect.

We sailed again, refreshed.

The most cultivated person in the ship was a young English, man whose
home was in New Zealand.  He was a naturalist.  His learning in his
specialty was deep and thorough, his interest in his subject amounted to
a passion, he had an easy gift of speech; and so, when he talked about
animals it was a pleasure to listen to him.  And profitable, too, though
he was sometimes difficult to understand because now and then he used
scientific technicalities which were above the reach of some of us.  They
were pretty sure to be above my reach, but as he was quite willing to
explain them I always made it a point to get him to do it.  I had a fair
knowledge of his subject--layman's knowledge--to begin with, but it was
his teachings which crystalized it into scientific form and clarity--in a
word, gave it value.

His special interest was the fauna of Australasia, and his knowledge of
the matter was as exhaustive as it was accurate.  I already knew a good
deal about the rabbits in Australasia and their marvelous fecundity, but
in my talks with him I found that my estimate of the great hindrance and
obstruction inflicted by the rabbit pest upon traffic and travel was far
short of the facts.  He told me that the first pair of rabbits imported
into Australasia bred so wonderfully that within six months rabbits were
so thick in the land that people had to dig trenches through them to get
from town to town.

He told me a great deal about worms, and the kangaroo, and other
coleoptera, and said he knew the history and ways of all such
pachydermata.  He said the kangaroo had pockets, and carried its young in
them when it couldn't get apples.  And he said that the emu was as big as
an ostrich, and looked like one, and had an amorphous appetite and would
eat bricks.  Also, that the dingo was not a dingo at all, but just a wild
dog; and that the only difference between a dingo and a dodo was that
neither of them barked; otherwise they were just the same.  He said that
the only game-bird in Australia was the wombat, and the only song-bird
the larrikin, and that both were protected by government.  The most
beautiful of the native birds was the bird of Paradise.  Next came the
two kinds of lyres; not spelt the same.  He said the one kind was dying
out, the other thickening up.  He explained that the "Sundowner" was not
a bird it was a man; sundowner was merely the Australian equivalent of
our word, tramp.  He is a loafer, a hard drinker, and a sponge.  He
tramps across the country in the sheep-shearing season, pretending to
look for work; but he always times himself to arrive at a sheep-run just
at sundown, when the day's labor ends; all he wants is whisky and supper
and bed and breakfast; he gets them and then disappears.  The naturalist
spoke of the bell bird, the creature that at short intervals all day
rings out its mellow and exquisite peal from the deeps of the forest.  It
is the favorite and best friend of the weary and thirsty sundowner; for
he knows that wherever the bell bird is, there is water; and he goes
somewhere else.  The naturalist said that the oddest bird in Australasia
was the, Laughing Jackass, and the biggest the now extinct Great Moa.

The Moa stood thirteen feet high, and could step over an ordinary man's
head or kick his hat off; and his head, too, for that matter.  He said it
was wingless, but a swift runner.  The natives used to ride it.  It could
make forty miles an hour, and keep it up for four hundred miles and come
out reasonably fresh.  It was still in existence when the railway was
introduced into New Zealand; still in existence, and carrying the mails.
The railroad began with the same schedule it has now: two expresses a
week-time, twenty miles an hour.  The company exterminated the moa to get
the mails.

Speaking of the indigenous coneys and bactrian camels, the naturalist
said that the coniferous and bacteriological output of Australasia was
remarkable for its many and curious departures from the accepted laws
governing these species of tubercles, but that in his opinion Nature's
fondness for dabbling in the erratic was most notably exhibited in that
curious combination of bird, fish, amphibian, burrower, crawler,
quadruped, and Christian called the Ornithorhynchus--grotesquest of
animals, king of the animalculae of the world for versatility of
character and make-up.  Said he:

     "You can call it anything you want to, and be right.  It is a fish,
     for it lives in the river half the time; it is a land animal, for it
     resides on the land half the time; it is an amphibian, since it
     likes both and does not know which it prefers; it is a hybernian,
     for when times are dull and nothing much going on it buries itself
     under the mud at the bottom of a puddle and hybernates there a
     couple of weeks at a time; it is a kind of duck, for it has a duck-
     bill and four webbed paddles; it is a fish and quadruped together,
     for in the water it swims with the paddles and on shore it paws
     itself across country with them; it is a kind of seal, for it has a
     seal's fur; it is carnivorous, herbivorous, insectivorous, and
     vermifuginous, for it eats fish and grass and butterflies, and in
     the season digs worms out of the mud and devours them; it is clearly
     a bird, for it lays eggs, and hatches them; it is clearly a mammal,
     for it nurses its young; and it is manifestly a kind of Christian,
     for it keeps the Sabbath when there is anybody around, and when
     there isn't, doesn't.  It has all the tastes there are except
     refined ones, it has all the habits there are except good ones.

     "It is a survival--a survival of the fittest.  Mr. Darwin invented
     the theory that goes by that name, but the Ornithorhynchus was the
     first to put it to actual experiment and prove that it could be
     done.  Hence it should have as much of the credit as Mr. Darwin.
     It was never in the Ark; you will find no mention of it there; it
     nobly stayed out and worked the theory.  Of all creatures in the
     world it was the only one properly equipped for the test.  The Ark
     was thirteen months afloat, and all the globe submerged; no land
     visible above the flood, no vegetation, no food for a mammal to eat,
     nor water for a mammal to drink; for all mammal food was destroyed,
     and when the pure floods from heaven and the salt oceans of the
     earth mingled their waters and rose above the mountain tops, the
     result was a drink which no bird or beast of ordinary construction
     could use and live.  But this combination was nuts for the
     Ornithorhynchus, if I may use a term like that without offense.
     Its river home had always been salted by the flood-tides of the sea.
     On the face of the Noachian deluge innumerable forest trees were
     floating.  Upon these the Ornithorhynchus voyaged in peace; voyaged
     from clime to clime, from hemisphere to hemisphere, in contentment
     and comfort, in virile interest in the constant change Of scene, in
     humble thankfulness for its privileges, in ever-increasing
     enthusiasm in the development of the great theory upon whose
     validity it had staked its life, its fortunes, and its sacred honor,
     if I may use such expressions without impropriety in connection with
     an episode of this nature.

     "It lived the tranquil and luxurious life of a creature of
     independent means.  Of things actually necessary to its existence
     and its happiness not a detail was wanting.  When it wished to walk,
     it scrambled along the tree-trunk; it mused in the shade of the
     leaves by day, it slept in their shelter by night; when it wanted
     the refreshment of a swim, it had it; it ate leaves when it wanted a
     vegetable diet, it dug under the bark for worms and grubs; when it
     wanted fish it caught them, when it wanted eggs it laid them.  If
     the grubs gave out in one tree it swam to another; and as for fish,
     the very opulence of the supply was an embarrassment.  And finally,
     when it was thirsty it smacked its chops in gratitude over a blend
     that would have slain a crocodile.

     "When at last, after thirteen months of travel and research in all
     the Zones it went aground on a mountain-summit, it strode ashore,
     saying in its heart, 'Let them that come after me invent theories
     and dream dreams about the Survival of the Fittest if they like, but
     I am the first that has done it!

     "This wonderful creature dates back like the kangaroo and many other
     Australian hydrocephalous invertebrates, to an age long anterior to
     the advent of man upon the earth; they date back, indeed, to a time
     when a causeway hundreds of miles wide, and thousands of miles long,
     joined Australia to Africa, and the animals of the two countries
     were alike, and all belonged to that remote geological epoch known
     to science as the Old Red Grindstone Post-Pleosaurian.  Later the
     causeway sank under the sea; subterranean convulsions lifted the
     African continent a thousand feet higher than it was before, but
     Australia kept her old level.  In Africa's new climate the animals
     necessarily began to develop and shade off into new forms and
     families and species, but the animals of Australia as necessarily
     remained stationary, and have so remained until this day.  In the
     course of some millions of years the African Ornithorhynchus
     developed and developed and developed, and sluffed off detail after
     detail of its make-up until at last the creature became wholly
     disintegrated and scattered.  Whenever you see a bird or a beast or
     a seal or an otter in Africa you know that he is merely a sorry
     surviving fragment of that sublime original of whom I have been
     speaking--that creature which was everything in general and nothing
     in particular--the opulently endowed 'e pluribus unum' of the animal
     world.

     "Such is the history of the most hoary, the most ancient, the most
     venerable creature that exists in the earth today--Ornithorhynchus
     Platypus Extraordinariensis--whom God preserve!"

When he was strongly moved he could rise and soar like that with ease.
And not only in the prose form, but in the poetical as well.  He had
written many pieces of poetry in his time, and these manuscripts he lent
around among the passengers, and was willing to let them be copied.  It
seemed to me that the least technical one in the series, and the one
which reached the loftiest note, perhaps, was his

               INVOCATION.

     "Come forth from thy oozy couch,
     O Ornithorhynchus dear!
     And greet with a cordial claw
     The stranger that longs to hear

     "From thy own own lips the tale
     Of thy origin all unknown:
     Thy misplaced bone where flesh should be
     And flesh where should be bone;

     "And fishy fin where should be paw,
     And beaver-trowel tail,
     And snout of beast equip'd with teeth
     Where gills ought to prevail.

     "Come, Kangaroo, the good and true
     Foreshortened as to legs,
     And body tapered like a churn,
     And sack marsupial, i' fegs,

     "And tells us why you linger here,
     Thou relic of a vanished time,
     When all your friends as fossils sleep,
     Immortalized in lime!"


Perhaps no poet is a conscious plagiarist; but there seems to be warrant
for suspecting that there is no poet who is not at one time or another an
unconscious one.  The above verses are indeed beautiful, and, in a way,
touching; but there is a haunting something about them which unavoidably
suggests the Sweet Singer of Michigan.  It can hardly be doubted that the
author had read the works of that poet and been impressed by them.  It is
not apparent that he has borrowed from them any word or yet any phrase,
but the style and swing and mastery and melody of the Sweet Singer all
are there.  Compare this Invocation with "Frank Dutton"--particularly
stanzas first and seventeenth--and I think the reader will feel convinced
that he who wrote the one had read the other:

     I.

    "Frank Dutton was as fine a lad
     As ever you wish to see,
     And he was drowned in Pine Island Lake
     On earth no more will he be,
     His age was near fifteen years,
     And he was a motherless boy,
     He was living with his grandmother
     When he was drowned, poor boy."


     XVII.

    "He was drowned on Tuesday afternoon,
     On Sunday he was found,
     And the tidings of that drowned boy
     Was heard for miles around.
     His form was laid by his mother's side,
     Beneath the cold, cold ground,
     His friends for him will drop a tear
     When they view his little mound."

     The Sentimental Song Book.  By Mrs. Julia Moore, p. 36.




CHAPTER IX.

It is your human environment that makes climate.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Sept. 15--Night.  Close to Australia now.  Sydney 50 miles distant.

That note recalls an experience.  The passengers were sent for, to come
up in the bow and see a fine sight.  It was very dark.  One could not
follow with the eye the surface of the sea more than fifty yards in any
direction it dimmed away and became lost to sight at about that distance
from us.  But if you patiently gazed into the darkness a little while,
there was a sure reward for you.  Presently, a quarter of a mile away you
would see a blinding splash or explosion of light on the water--a flash
so sudden and so astonishingly brilliant that it would make you catch
your breath; then that blotch of light would instantly extend itself and
take the corkscrew shape and imposing length of the fabled sea-serpent,
with every curve of its body and the "break" spreading away from its
head, and the wake following behind its tail clothed in a fierce splendor
of living fire.  And my, but it was coming at a lightning gait!  Almost
before you could think, this monster of light, fifty feet long, would go
flaming and storming by, and suddenly disappear.  And out in the distance
whence he came you would see another flash; and another and another and
another, and see them turn into sea-serpents on the instant; and once
sixteen flashed up at the same time and came tearing towards us, a swarm
of wiggling curves, a moving conflagration, a vision of bewildering
beauty, a spectacle of fire and energy whose equal the most of those
people will not see again until after they are dead.

It was porpoises--porpoises aglow with phosphorescent light.  They
presently collected in a wild and magnificent jumble under the bows, and
there they played for an hour, leaping and frollicking and carrying on,
turning summersaults in front of the stem or across it and never getting
hit, never making a miscalculation, though the stem missed them only
about an inch, as a rule.  They were porpoises of the ordinary length-
eight or ten feet--but every twist of their bodies sent a long procession
of united and glowing curves astern.  That fiery jumble was an enchanting
thing to look at, and we stayed out the performance; one cannot have such
a show as that twice in a lifetime.  The porpoise is the kitten of the
sea; he never has a serious thought, he cares for nothing but fun and
play.  But I think I never saw him at his winsomest until that night.
It was near a center of civilization, and he could have been drinking.

By and by, when we had approached to somewhere within thirty miles of
Sydney Heads the great electric light that is posted on one of those
lofty ramparts began to show, and in time the little spark grew to a
great sun and pierced the firmament of darkness with a far-reaching sword
of light.

Sydney Harbor is shut in behind a precipice that extends some miles like
a wall, and exhibits no break to the ignorant stranger.  It has a break
in the middle, but it makes so little show that even Captain Cook sailed
by it without seeing it.  Near by that break is a false break which
resembles it, and which used to make trouble for the mariner at night, in
the early days before the place was lighted.  It caused the memorable
disaster to the Duncan Dunbar, one of the most pathetic tragedies in the
history of that pitiless ruffian, the sea.  The ship was a sailing
vessel; a fine and favorite passenger packet, commanded by a popular
captain of high reputation.  She was due from England, and Sydney was
waiting, and counting the hours; counting the hours, and making ready to
give her a heart-stirring welcome; for she was bringing back a great
company of mothers and daughters, the long-missed light and bloom of life
of Sydney homes; daughters that had been years absent at school, and
mothers that had been with them all that time watching over them.  Of all
the world only India and Australasia have by custom freighted ships and
fleets with their hearts, and know the tremendous meaning of that phrase;
only they know what the waiting is like when this freightage is entrusted
to the fickle winds, not steam, and what the joy is like when the ship
that is returning this treasure comes safe to port and the long dread is
over.

On board the Duncan Dunbar, flying toward Sydney Heads in the waning
afternoon, the happy home-comers made busy preparation, for it was not
doubted that they would be in the arms of their friends before the day
was done; they put away their sea-going clothes and put on clothes meeter
for the meeting, their richest and their loveliest, these poor brides of
the grave.  But the wind lost force, or there was a miscalculation, and
before the Heads were sighted the darkness came on.  It was said that
ordinarily the captain would have made a safe offing and waited for the
morning; but this was no ordinary occasion; all about him were appealing
faces, faces pathetic with disappointment.  So his sympathy moved him to
try the dangerous passage in the dark.  He had entered the Heads
seventeen times, and believed he knew the ground.  So he steered straight
for the false opening, mistaking it for the true one.  He did not find
out that he was wrong until it was too late.  There was no saving the
ship.  The great seas swept her in and crushed her to splinters and
rubbish upon the rock tushes at the base of the precipice.  Not one of
all that fair and gracious company was ever seen again alive.  The tale
is told to every stranger that passes the spot, and it will continue to
be told to all that come, for generations; but it will never grow old,
custom cannot stale it, the heart-break that is in it can never perish
out of it.

There were two hundred persons in the ship, and but one survived the
disaster.  He was a sailor.  A huge sea flung him up the face of the
precipice and stretched him on a narrow shelf of rock midway between the
top and the bottom, and there he lay all night.  At any other time he
would have lain there for the rest of his life, without chance of
discovery; but the next morning the ghastly news swept through Sydney
that the Duncan Dunbar had gone down in sight of home, and straightway
the walls of the Heads were black with mourners; and one of these,
stretching himself out over the precipice to spy out what might be seen
below, discovered this miraculously preserved relic of the wreck.  Ropes
were brought and the nearly impossible feat of rescuing the man was
accomplished.  He was a person with a practical turn of mind, and he
hired a hall in Sydney and exhibited himself at sixpence a head till he
exhausted the output of the gold fields for that year.

We entered and cast anchor, and in the morning went oh-ing and ah-ing in
admiration up through the crooks and turns of the spacious and beautiful
harbor--a harbor which is the darling of Sydney and the wonder of the
world.  It is not surprising that the people are proud of it, nor that
they put their enthusiasm into eloquent words.  A returning citizen asked
me what I thought of it, and I testified with a cordiality which I judged
would be up to the market rate.  I said it was beautiful--superbly
beautiful.  Then by a natural impulse I gave God the praise.  The citizen
did not seem altogether satisfied.  He said:

"It is beautiful, of course it's beautiful--the Harbor; but that isn't
all of it, it's only half of it; Sydney's the other half, and it takes
both of them together to ring the supremacy-bell.  God made the Harbor,
and that's all right; but Satan made Sydney."

Of course I made an apology; and asked him to convey it to his friend.
He was right about Sydney being half of it.  It would be beautiful
without Sydney, but not above half as beautiful as it is now, with Sydney
added.  It is shaped somewhat like an oak-leaf-a roomy sheet of lovely
blue water, with narrow off-shoots of water running up into the country
on both sides between long fingers of land, high wooden ridges with sides
sloped like graves.  Handsome villas are perched here and there on these
ridges, snuggling amongst the foliage, and one catches alluring glimpses
of them as the ship swims by toward the city.  The city clothes a cluster
of hills and a ruffle of neighboring ridges with its undulating masses of
masonry, and out of these masses spring towers and spires and other
architectural dignities and grandeurs that break the flowing lines and
give picturesqueness to the general effect.

The narrow inlets which I have mentioned go wandering out into the land
everywhere and hiding themselves in it, and pleasure-launches are always
exploring them with picnic parties on board.  It is said by trustworthy
people that if you explore them all you will find that you have covered
700 miles of water passage.  But there are liars everywhere this year,
and they will double that when their works are in good going order.
October was close at hand, spring was come.  It was really spring--
everybody said so; but you could have sold it for summer in Canada, and
nobody would have suspected.  It was the very weather that makes our home
summers the perfection of climatic luxury; I mean, when you are out in
the wood or by the sea.  But these people said it was cool, now--a person
ought to see Sydney in the summer time if he wanted to know what warm
weather is; and he ought to go north ten or fifteen hundred miles if he
wanted to know what hot weather is.  They said that away up there toward
the equator the hens laid fried eggs.  Sydney is the place to go to get
information about other people's climates.  It seems to me that the
occupation of Unbiased Traveler Seeking Information is the pleasantest
and most irresponsible trade there is.  The traveler can always find out
anything he wants to, merely by asking.  He can get at all the facts, and
more.  Everybody helps him, nobody hinders him.  Anybody who has an old
fact in stock that is no longer negotiable in the domestic market will
let him have it at his own price.  An accumulation of such goods is
easily and quickly made.  They cost almost nothing and they bring par in
the foreign market.  Travelers who come to America always freight up with
the same old nursery tales that their predecessors selected, and they
carry them back and always work them off without any trouble in the home
market.

If the climates of the world were determined by parallels of latitude,
then we could know a place's climate by its position on the map; and so
we should know that the climate of Sydney was the counterpart of the
climate of Columbia, S. C., and of Little Rock, Arkansas, since Sydney is
about the same distance south of the equator that those other towns are
north of-it-thirty-four degrees.  But no, climate disregards the
parallels of latitude.  In Arkansas they have a winter; in Sydney they
have the name of it, but not the thing itself.  I have seen the ice in
the Mississippi floating past the mouth of the Arkansas river; and at
Memphis, but a little way above, the Mississippi has been frozen over,
from bank to bank.  But they have never had a cold spell in Sydney which
brought the mercury down to freezing point.  Once in a mid-winter day
there, in the month of July, the mercury went down to 36 deg., and that
remains the memorable "cold day" in the history of the town.  No doubt
Little Rock has seen it below zero.  Once, in Sydney, in mid-summer,
about New Year's Day, the mercury went up to 106 deg. in the shade, and
that is Sydney's memorable hot day.  That would about tally with Little
Rock's hottest day also, I imagine.  My Sydney figures are taken from a
government report, and are trustworthy.  In the matter of summer weather
Arkansas has no advantage over Sydney, perhaps, but when it comes to
winter weather, that is another affair.  You could cut up an Arkansas
winter into a hundred Sydney winters and have enough left for Arkansas
and the poor.

The whole narrow, hilly belt of the Pacific side of New South Wales has
the climate of its capital--a mean winter temperature of 54 deg. and a
mean summer one of 71 deg.  It is a climate which cannot be improved upon
for healthfulness.  But the experts say that 90 deg. in New South Wales
is harder to bear than 112 deg. in the neighboring colony of Victoria,
because the atmosphere of the former is humid, and of the latter dry.
The mean temperature of the southernmost point of New South Wales is the
same as that of Nice--60 deg.--yet Nice is further from the equator by
460 miles than is the former.

But Nature is always stingy of perfect climates; stingier in the case of
Australia than usual.  Apparently this vast continent has a really good
climate nowhere but around the edges.

If we look at a map of the world we are surprised to see how big
Australia is.  It is about two-thirds as large as the United States was
before we added Alaska.

But where as one finds a sufficiently good climate and fertile land
almost everywhere in the United States, it seems settled that inside of
the Australian border-belt one finds many deserts and in spots a climate
which nothing can stand except a few of the hardier kinds of rocks.  In
effect, Australia is as yet unoccupied.  If you take a map of the United
States and leave the Atlantic sea-board States in their places; also the
fringe of Southern States from Florida west to the Mouth of the
Mississippi; also a narrow, inhabited streak up the Mississippi half-way
to its head waters; also a narrow, inhabited border along the Pacific
coast: then take a brushful of paint and obliterate the whole remaining
mighty stretch of country that lies between the Atlantic States and the
Pacific-coast strip, your map will look like the latest map of Australia.

This stupendous blank is hot, not to say torrid; a part of it is fertile,
the rest is desert; it is not liberally watered; it has no towns.  One
has only to cross the mountains of New South Wales and descend into the
westward-lying regions to find that he has left the choice climate behind
him, and found a new one of a quite different character.  In fact, he
would not know by the thermometer that he was not in the blistering
Plains of India.  Captain Sturt, the great explorer, gives us a sample of
the heat.

     "The wind, which had been blowing all the morning from the N.E.,
     increased to a heavy gale, and I shall never forget its withering
     effect.  I sought shelter behind a large gum-tree, but the blasts of
     heat were so terrific that I wondered the very grass did not take
     fire.  This really was nothing ideal: everything both animate and
     inanimate gave way before it; the horses stood with their backs to
     the wind and their noses to the ground, without the muscular
     strength to raise their heads; the birds were mute, and the leaves
     of the trees under which we were sitting fell like a snow shower
     around us.  At noon I took a thermometer graded to 127 deg., out of
     my box, and observed that the mercury was up to 125.  Thinking that
     it had been unduly influenced, I put it in the fork of a tree close
     to me, sheltered alike from the wind and the sun.  I went to examine
     it about an hour afterwards, when I found the mercury had risen to
     the-top of the instrument and had burst the bulb, a circumstance
     that I believe no traveler has ever before had to record.  I cannot
     find language to convey to the reader's mind an idea of the intense
     and oppressive nature of the heat that prevailed."

That hot wind sweeps over Sydney sometimes, and brings with it what is
called a "dust-storm."  It is said that most Australian towns are
acquainted with the dust-storm.  I think I know what it is like, for the
following description by Mr. Gape tallies very well with the alkali
duststorm of Nevada, if you leave out the "shovel" part.  Still the
shovel part is a pretty important part, and seems to indicate that my
Nevada storm is but a poor thing, after all.

     "As we proceeded the altitude became less, and the heat
     proportionately greater until we reached Dubbo, which is only 600
     feet above sea-level.  It is a pretty town, built on an extensive
     plain .  .  .  .  After the effects of a shower of rain have passed
     away the surface of the ground crumbles into a thick layer of dust,
     and occasionally, when the wind is in a particular quarter, it is
     lifted bodily from the ground in one long opaque cloud.  In the
     midst of such a storm nothing can be seen a few yards ahead, and the
     unlucky person who happens to be out at the time is compelled to
     seek the nearest retreat at hand.  When the thrifty housewife sees
     in the distance the dark column advancing in a steady whirl towards
     her house, she closes the doors and windows with all expedition.  A
     drawing-room, the window of which has been carelessly left open
     during a dust-storm, is indeed an extraordinary sight.  A lady who
     has resided in Dubbo for some years says that the dust lies so thick
     on the carpet that it is necessary to use a shovel to remove it."

And probably a wagon.  I was mistaken; I have not seen a proper
duststorm.  To my mind the exterior aspects and character of Australia
are fascinating things to look at and think about, they are so strange,
so weird, so new, so uncommonplace, such a startling and interesting
contrast to the other sections of the planet, the sections that are known
to us all, familiar to us all.  In the matter of particulars--a detail
here, a detail there--we have had the choice climate of New South Wales'
seacoast; we have had the Australian heat as furnished by Captain Sturt;
we have had the wonderful dust-storm; and we have considered the
phenomenon of an almost empty hot wilderness half as big as the United
States, with a narrow belt of civilization, population, and good climate
around it.




CHAPTER X.

Everything human is pathetic.  The secret source of Humor itself is not
joy but sorrow.  There is no humor in heaven.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Captain Cook found Australia in 1770, and eighteen years later the
British Government began to transport convicts to it.  Altogether, New
South Wales received 83,000 in 53 years.  The convicts wore heavy chains;
they were ill-fed and badly treated by the officers set over them; they
were heavily punished for even slight infractions of the rules; "the
cruelest discipline ever known" is one historian's description of their
life.--[The Story of Australasia.  J. S. Laurie.]

English law was hard-hearted in those days.  For trifling offenses which
in our day would be punished by a small fine or a few days' confinement,
men, women, and boys were sent to this other end of the earth to serve
terms of seven and fourteen years; and for serious crimes they were
transported for life.  Children were sent to the penal colonies for seven
years for stealing a rabbit!

When I was in London twenty-three years ago there was a new penalty in
force for diminishing garroting and wife-beating--25 lashes on the bare
back with the cat-o'-nine-tails.  It was said that this terrible
punishment was able to bring the stubbornest ruffians to terms; and that
no man had been found with grit enough to keep his emotions to himself
beyond the ninth blow; as a rule the man shrieked earlier.  That penalty
had a great and wholesome effect upon the garroters and wife-beaters; but
humane modern London could not endure it; it got its law rescinded.  Many
a bruised and battered English wife has since had occasion to deplore
that cruel achievement of sentimental "humanity."

Twenty-five lashes!  In Australia and Tasmania they gave a convict fifty
for almost any little offense; and sometimes a brutal officer would add
fifty, and then another fifty, and so on, as long as the sufferer could
endure the torture and live.  In Tasmania I read the entry, in an old
manuscript official record, of a case where a convict was given three
hundred lashes--for stealing some silver spoons.  And men got more than
that, sometimes.  Who handled the cat?  Often it was another convict;
sometimes it was the culprit's dearest comrade; and he had to lay on with
all his might; otherwise he would get a flogging himself for his mercy-
for he was under watch--and yet not do his friend any good: the friend
would be attended to by another hand and suffer no lack in the matter of
full punishment.

The convict life in Tasmania was so unendurable, and suicide so difficult
to accomplish that once or twice despairing men got together and drew
straws to determine which of them should kill another of the group--this
murder to secure death to the perpetrator and to the witnesses of it by
the hand of the hangman!

The incidents quoted above are mere hints, mere suggestions of what
convict life was like--they are but a couple of details tossed into view
out of a shoreless sea of such; or, to change the figure, they are but a
pair of flaming steeples photographed from a point which hides from sight
the burning city which stretches away from their bases on every hand.

Some of the convicts--indeed, a good many of them--were very bad people,
even for that day; but the most of them were probably not noticeably
worse than the average of the people they left behind them at home.  We
must believe this; we cannot avoid it.  We are obliged to believe that a
nation that could look on, unmoved, and see starving or freezing women
hanged for stealing twenty-six cents' worth of bacon or rags, and boys
snatched from their mothers, and men from their families, and sent to the
other side of the world for long terms of years for similar trifling
offenses, was a nation to whom the term "civilized" could not in any
large way be applied.  And we must also believe that a nation that knew,
during more than forty years, what was happening to those exiles and was
still content with it, was not advancing in any showy way toward a higher
grade of civilization.

If we look into the characters and conduct of the officers and gentlemen
who had charge of the convicts and attended to their backs and stomachs,
we must grant again that as between the convict and his masters, and
between both and the nation at home, there was a quite noticeable
monotony of sameness.

Four years had gone by, and many convicts had come.  Respectable settlers
were beginning to arrive.  These two classes of colonists had to be
protected, in case of trouble among themselves or with the natives.  It
is proper to mention the natives, though they could hardly count they
were so scarce.  At a time when they had not as yet begun to be much
disturbed--not as yet being in the way--it was estimated that in New
South Wales there was but one native to 45,000 acres of territory.

People had to be protected.  Officers of the regular army did not want
this service--away off there where neither honor nor distinction was to
be gained.  So England recruited and officered a kind of militia force of
1,000 uniformed civilians called the "New South Wales Corps" and shipped
it.

This was the worst blow of all.  The colony fairly staggered under it.
The Corps was an object-lesson of the moral condition of England outside
of the jails.  The colonists trembled.  It was feared that next there
would be an importation of the nobility.

In those early days the colony was non-supporting.  All the necessaries
of life--food, clothing, and all--were sent out from England, and kept in
great government store-houses, and given to the convicts and sold to the
settlers--sold at a trifling advance upon cost.  The Corps saw its
opportunity.  Its officers went into commerce, and in a most lawless way.
They went to importing rum, and also to manufacturing it in private
stills, in defiance of the government's commands and protests.  They
leagued themselves together and ruled the market; they boycotted the
government and the other dealers; they established a close monopoly and
kept it strictly in their own hands.  When a vessel arrived with spirits,
they allowed nobody to buy but themselves, and they forced the owner to
sell to them at a price named by themselves--and it was always low
enough.  They bought rum at an average of two dollars a gallon and sold
it at an average of ten.  They made rum the currency of the country--for
there was little or no money--and they maintained their devastating hold
and kept the colony under their heel for eighteen or twenty years before
they were finally conquered and routed by the government.

Meantime, they had spread intemperance everywhere.  And they had squeezed
farm after farm out of the settlers hands for rum, and thus had
bountifully enriched themselves.  When a farmer was caught in the last
agonies of thirst they took advantage of him and sweated him for a drink.
In one instance they sold a man a gallon of rum worth two dollars for a
piece of property which was sold some years later for $100,000.
When the colony was about eighteen or twenty years old it was discovered
that the land was specially fitted for the wool-culture.  Prosperity
followed, commerce with the world began, by and by rich mines of the
noble metals were opened, immigrants flowed in, capital likewise.  The
result is the great and wealthy and enlightened commonwealth of New South
Wales.

It is a country that is rich in mines, wool ranches, trams, railways,
steamship lines, schools, newspapers, botanical gardens, art galleries,
libraries, museums, hospitals, learned societies; it is the hospitable
home of every species of culture and of every species of material
enterprise, and there is a, church at every man's door, and a race-track
over the way.




CHAPTER XI.

We should be careful to get out of an experience only the wisdom that is
in it--and stop there; lest we be like the cat that sits down on a hot
stove-lid.  She will never sit down on a hot stove-lid again--and that is
well; but also she will never sit down on a cold one any more.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

All English-speaking colonies are made up of lavishly hospitable people,
and New South Wales and its capital are like the rest in this.  The
English-speaking colony of the United States of America is always called
lavishly hospitable by the English traveler.  As to the other English-
speaking colonies throughout the world from Canada all around, I know by
experience that the description fits them.  I will not go more
particularly into this matter, for I find that when writers try to
distribute their gratitude here and there and yonder by detail they run
across difficulties and do some ungraceful stumbling.

Mr. Gane ("New South Wales and Victoria in 1885 "), tried to distribute
his gratitude, and was not lucky:

     "The inhabitants of Sydney are renowned for their hospitality.  The
     treatment which we experienced at the hands of this generous-hearted
     people will help more than anything else to make us recollect with
     pleasure our stay amongst them.  In the character of hosts and
     hostesses they excel.  The 'new chum' needs only the
     acquaintanceship of one of their number, and he becomes at once the
     happy recipient of numerous complimentary invitations and thoughtful
     kindnesses.  Of the towns it has been our good fortune to visit,
     none have portrayed home so faithfully as Sydney."

Nobody could say it finer than that.  If he had put in his cork then, and
stayed away from Dubbo----but no; heedless man, he pulled it again.
Pulled it when he was away along in his book, and his memory of what he
had said about Sydney had grown dim:

     "We cannot quit the promising town of Dubbo without testifying, in
     warm praise, to the kind-hearted and hospitable usages of its
     inhabitants.  Sydney, though well deserving the character it bears
     of its kindly treatment of strangers, possesses a little formality
     and reserve.  In Dubbo, on the contrary, though the same congenial
     manners prevail, there is a pleasing degree of respectful
     familiarity which gives the town a homely comfort not often met with
     elsewhere.  In laying on one side our pen we feel contented in
     having been able, though so late in this work, to bestow a
     panegyric, however unpretentious, on a town which, though possessing
     no picturesque natural surroundings, nor interesting architectural
     productions, has yet a body of citizens whose hearts cannot but
     obtain for their town a reputation for benevolence and kind-
     heartedness."

I wonder what soured him on Sydney.  It seems strange that a pleasing
degree of three or four fingers of respectful familiarity should fill a
man up and give him the panegyrics so bad.  For he has them, the worst
way--any one can see that.  A man who is perfectly at himself does not
throw cold detraction at people's architectural productions and
picturesque surroundings, and let on that what he prefers is a Dubbonese
dust-storm and a pleasing degree of respectful familiarity, No, these are
old, old symptoms; and when they appear we know that the man has got the
panegyrics.

Sydney has a population of 400,000.  When a stranger from America steps
ashore there, the first thing that strikes him is that the place is eight
or nine times as large as he was expecting it to be; and the next thing
that strikes him is that it is an English city with American trimmings.
Later on, in Melbourne, he will find the American trimmings still more in
evidence; there, even the architecture will often suggest America; a
photograph of its stateliest business street might be passed upon him for
a picture of the finest street in a large American city.  I was told that
the most of the fine residences were the city residences of squatters.
The name seemed out of focus somehow.  When the explanation came, it
offered a new instance of the curious changes which words, as well as
animals, undergo through change of habitat and climate.  With us, when
you speak of a squatter you are always supposed to be speaking of a poor
man, but in Australia when you speak of a squatter you are supposed to be
speaking of a millionaire; in America the word indicates the possessor of
a few acres and a doubtful title, in Australia it indicates a man whose
landfront is as long as a railroad, and whose title has been perfected in
one way or another; in America the word indicates a man who owns a dozen
head of live stock, in Australia a man who owns anywhere from fifty
thousand up to half a million head; in America the word indicates a man
who is obscure and not important, in Australia a man who is prominent and
of the first importance; in America you take off your hat to no squatter,
in Australia you do; in America if your uncle is a squatter you keep it
dark, in Australia you advertise it; in America if your friend is a
squatter nothing comes of it, but with a squatter for your friend in
Australia you may sup with kings if there are any around.

In Australia it takes about two acres and a half of pastureland (some
people say twice as many), to support a sheep; and when the squatter has
half a million sheep his private domain is about as large as Rhode
Island, to speak in general terms.  His annual wool crop may be worth a
quarter or a half million dollars.

He will live in a palace in Melbourne or Sydney or some other of the
large cities, and make occasional trips to his sheep-kingdom several
hundred miles away in the great plains to look after his battalions of
riders and shepherds and other hands.  He has a commodious dwelling out
there, and if he approve of you he will invite you to spend a week in it,
and will make you at home and comfortable, and let you see the great
industry in all its details, and feed you and slake you and smoke you
with the best that money can buy.

On at least one of these vast estates there is a considerable town, with
all the various businesses and occupations that go to make an important
town; and the town and the land it stands upon are the property of the
squatters.  I have seen that town, and it is not unlikely that there are
other squatter-owned towns in Australia.

Australia supplies the world not only with fine wool, but with mutton
also.  The modern invention of cold storage and its application in ships
has created this great trade.  In Sydney I visited a huge establishment
where they kill and clean and solidly freeze a thousand sheep a day, for
shipment to England.

The Australians did not seem to me to differ noticeably from Americans,
either in dress, carriage, ways, pronunciation, inflections, or general
appearance.  There were fleeting and subtle suggestions of their English
origin, but these were not pronounced enough, as a rule, to catch one's
attention.  The people have easy and cordial manners from the beginning
--from the moment that the introduction is completed.  This is American.
To put it in another way, it is English friendliness with the English
shyness and self-consciousness left out.

Now and then--but this is rare--one hears such words as piper for paper,
lydy for lady, and tyble for table fall from lips whence one would not
expect such pronunciations to come.  There is a superstition prevalent in
Sydney that this pronunciation is an Australianism, but people who have
been "home"--as the native reverently and lovingly calls England--know
better.  It is "costermonger."  All over Australasia this pronunciation
is nearly as common among servants as it is in London among the
uneducated and the partially educated of all sorts and conditions of
people.  That mislaid 'y' is rather striking when a person gets enough of
it into a short sentence to enable it to show up.  In the hotel in Sydney
the chambermaid said, one morning:

"The tyble is set, and here is the piper; and if the lydy is ready I'll
tell the wyter to bring up the breakfast."

I have made passing mention, a moment ago, of the native Australasian's
custom of speaking of England as "home."  It was always pretty to hear
it, and often it was said in an unconsciously caressing way that made it
touching; in a way which transmuted a sentiment into an embodiment, and
made one seem to see Australasia as a young girl stroking mother
England's old gray head.

In the Australasian home the table-talk is vivacious and unembarrassed;
it is without stiffness or restraint.  This does not remind one of
England so much as it does of America.  But Australasia is strictly
democratic, and reserves and restraints are things that are bred by
differences of rank.

English and colonial audiences are phenomenally alert and responsive.
Where masses of people are gathered together in England, caste is
submerged, and with it the English reserve; equality exists for the
moment, and every individual is free; so free from any consciousness of
fetters, indeed, that the Englishman's habit of watching himself and
guarding himself against any injudicious exposure of his feelings is
forgotten, and falls into abeyance--and to such a degree indeed, that he
will bravely applaud all by himself if he wants to--an exhibition of
daring which is unusual elsewhere in the world.

But it is hard to move a new English acquaintance when he is by himself,
or when the company present is small and new to him.  He is on his guard
then, and his natural reserve is to the fore.  This has given him the
false reputation of being without humor and without the appreciation of
humor.

Americans are not Englishmen, and American humor is not English humor;
but both the American and his humor had their origin in England, and have
merely undergone changes brought about by changed conditions and a new
environment.  About the best humorous speeches I have yet heard were a
couple that were made in Australia at club suppers--one of them by an
Englishman, the other by an Australian.




CHAPTER XII.

There are those who scoff at the schoolboy, calling him frivolous and
shallow: Yet it was the schoolboy who said "Faith is believing what you
know ain't so."
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

In Sydney I had a large dream, and in the course of talk I told it to a
missionary from India who was on his way to visit some relatives in New
Zealand.  I dreamed that the visible universe is the physical person of
God; that the vast worlds that we see twinkling millions of miles apart
in the fields of space are the blood corpuscles in His veins; and that we
and the other creatures are the microbes that charge with multitudinous
life the corpuscles.

Mr. X., the missionary, considered the dream awhile, then said:

     "It is not surpassable for magnitude, since its metes and bounds are
     the metes and bounds of the universe itself; and it seems to me that
     it almost accounts for a thing which is otherwise nearly
     unaccountable--the origin of the sacred legends of the Hindoos.
     Perhaps they dream them, and then honestly believe them to be divine
     revelations of fact.  It looks like that, for the legends are built
     on so vast a scale that it does not seem reasonable that plodding
     priests would happen upon such colossal fancies when awake."

He told some of the legends, and said that they were implicitly believed
by all classes of Hindoos, including those of high social position and
intelligence; and he said that this universal credulity was a great
hindrance to the missionary in his work.  Then he said something like
this:

     "At home, people wonder why Christianity does not make faster
     progress in India.  They hear that the Indians believe easily, and
     that they have a natural trust in miracles and give them a
     hospitable reception.  Then they argue like this: since the Indian
     believes easily, place Christianity before them and they must
     believe; confirm its truths by the biblical miracles, and they will
     no longer doubt, The natural deduction is, that as Christianity
     makes but indifferent progress in India, the fault is with us: we
     are not fortunate in presenting the doctrines and the miracles.

     "But the truth is, we are not by any means so well equipped as they
     think.  We have not the easy task that they imagine.  To use a
     military figure, we are sent against the enemy with good powder in
     our guns, but only wads for bullets; that is to say, our miracles
     are not effective; the Hindoos do not care for them; they have more
     extraordinary ones of their own.  All the details of their own
     religion are proven and established by miracles; the details of ours
     must be proven in the same way.  When I first began my work in India
     I greatly underestimated the difficulties thus put upon my task.  A
     correction was not long in coming.  I thought as our friends think
     at home--that to prepare my childlike wonder-lovers to listen with
     favor to my grave message I only needed to charm the way to it with
     wonders, marvels, miracles.  With full confidence I told the wonders
     performed by Samson, the strongest man that had ever lived--for so I
     called him.

     "At first I saw lively anticipation and strong interest in the faces
     of my people, but as I moved along from incident to incident of the
     great story, I was distressed to see that I was steadily losing the
     sympathy of my audience.  I could not understand it.  It was a
     surprise to me, and a disappointment.  Before I was through, the
     fading sympathy had paled to indifference.  Thence to the end the
     indifference remained; I was not able to make any impression upon
     it.

     "A good old Hindoo gentleman told me where my trouble lay.  He said
     'We Hindoos recognize a god by the work of his hands--we accept no
     other testimony.  Apparently, this is also the rule with you
     Christians.  And we know when a man has his power from a god by the
     fact that he does things which he could not do, as a man, with the
     mere powers of a man.  Plainly, this is the Christian's way also, of
     knowing when a man is working by a god's power and not by his own.
     You saw that there was a supernatural property in the hair of
     Samson; for you perceived that when his hair was gone he was as
     other men.  It is our way, as I have said.  There are many nations
     in the world, and each group of nations has its own gods, and will
     pay no worship to the gods of the others.  Each group believes its
     own gods to be strongest, and it will not exchange them except for
     gods that shall be proven to be their superiors in power.  Man is
     but a weak creature, and needs the help of gods--he cannot do
     without it.  Shall he place his fate in the hands of weak gods when
     there may be stronger ones to be found?  That would be foolish.  No,
     if he hear of gods that are stronger than his own, he should not
     turn a deaf ear, for it is not a light matter that is at stake.  How
     then shall he determine which gods are the stronger, his own or
     those that preside over the concerns of other nations?  By comparing
     the known works of his own gods with the works of those others;
     there is no other way.  Now, when we make this comparison, we are
     not drawn towards the gods of any other nation.  Our gods are shown
     by their works to be the strongest, the most powerful.  The
     Christians have but few gods, and they are new--new, and not strong;
     as it seems to us.  They will increase in number, it is true, for
     this has happened with all gods, but that time is far away, many
     ages and decades of ages away, for gods multiply slowly, as is meet
     for beings to whom a thousand years is but a single moment.  Our own
     gods have been born millions of years apart.  The process is slow,
     the gathering of strength and power is similarly slow.  In the slow
     lapse of the ages the steadily accumulating power of our gods has at
     last become prodigious.  We have a thousand proofs of this in the
     colossal character of their personal acts and the acts of ordinary
     men to whom they have given supernatural qualities.  To your Samson
     was given supernatural power, and when he broke the withes, and slew
     the thousands with the jawbone of an ass, and carried away the
     gate's of the city upon his shoulders, you were amazed--and also
     awed, for you recognized the divine source of his strength.  But it
     could not profit to place these things before your Hindoo
     congregation and invite their wonder; for they would compare them
     with the deed done by Hanuman, when our gods infused their divine
     strength into his muscles; and they would be indifferent to them--as
     you saw.  In the old, old times, ages and ages gone by, when our god
     Rama was warring with the demon god of Ceylon, Rama bethought him to
     bridge the sea and connect Ceylon with India, so that his armies
     might pass easily over; and he sent his general, Hanuman, inspired
     like your own Samson with divine strength, to bring the materials
     for the bridge.  In two days Hanuman strode fifteen hundred miles,
     to the Himalayas, and took upon his shoulder a range of those lofty
     mountains two hundred miles long, and started with it toward Ceylon.
     It was in the night; and, as he passed along the plain, the people
     of Govardhun heard the thunder of his tread and felt the earth
     rocking under it, and they ran out, and there, with their snowy
     summits piled to heaven, they saw the Himalayas passing by.  And as
     this huge continent swept along overshadowing the earth, upon its
     slopes they discerned the twinkling lights of a thousand sleeping
     villages, and it was as if the constellations were filing in
     procession through the sky.  While they were looking, Hanuman
     stumbled, and a small ridge of red sandstone twenty miles long was
     jolted loose and fell.  Half of its length has wasted away in the
     course of the ages, but the other ten miles of it remain in the
     plain by Govardhun to this day as proof of the might of the
     inspiration of our gods.  You must know, yourself, that Hanuman
     could not have carried those mountains to Ceylon except by the
     strength of the gods.  You know that it was not done by his own
     strength, therefore, you know that it was done by the strength of
     the gods, just as you know that Samson carried the gates by the
     divine strength and not by his own.  I think you must concede two
     things:  First, That in carrying the gates of the city upon his
     shoulders, Samson did not establish the superiority of his gods over
     ours; secondly, That his feat is not supported by any but verbal
     evidence, while Hanuman's is not only supported by verbal evidence,
     but this evidence is confirmed, established, proven, by visible,
     tangible evidence, which is the strongest of all testimony.  We have
     the sandstone ridge, and while it remains we cannot doubt, and shall
     not.  Have you the gates?'"




CHAPTER XIII.

The timid man yearns for full value and asks a tenth.  The bold man
strikes for double value and compromises on par.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

One is sure to be struck by the liberal way in which Australasia spends
money upon public works--such as legislative buildings, town halls,
hospitals, asylums, parks, and botanical gardens.  I should say that
where minor towns in America spend a hundred dollars on the town hall and
on public parks and gardens, the like towns in Australasia spend a
thousand.  And I think that this ratio will hold good in the matter of
hospitals, also.  I have seen a costly and well-equipped, and
architecturally handsome hospital in an Australian village of fifteen
hundred inhabitants.  It was built by private funds furnished by the
villagers and the neighboring planters, and its running expenses were
drawn from the same sources.  I suppose it would be hard to match this in
any country.  This village was about to close a contract for lighting its
streets with the electric light, when I was there.  That is ahead of
London.  London is still obscured by gas--gas pretty widely scattered,
too, in some of the districts; so widely indeed, that except on moonlight
nights it is difficult to find the gas lamps.

The botanical garden of Sydney covers thirty-eight acres, beautifully
laid out and rich with the spoil of all the lands and all the climes of
the world.  The garden is on high ground in the middle of the town,
overlooking the great harbor, and it adjoins the spacious grounds of
Government House--fifty-six acres; and at hand also, is a recreation
ground containing eighty-two acres.  In addition, there are the
zoological gardens, the race-course, and the great cricket-grounds where
the international matches are played.  Therefore there is plenty of room
for reposeful lazying and lounging, and for exercise too, for such as
like that kind of work.

There are four specialties attainable in the way of social pleasure.  If
you enter your name on the Visitor's Book at Government House you will
receive an invitation to the next ball that takes place there, if nothing
can be proven against you.  And it will be very pleasant; for you will
see everybody except the Governor, and add a number of acquaintances and
several friends to your list.  The Governor will be in England.  He
always is.  The continent has four or five governors, and I do not know
how many it takes to govern the outlying archipelago; but anyway you will
not see them.  When they are appointed they come out from England and get
inaugurated, and give a ball, and help pray for rain, and get aboard ship
and go back home.  And so the Lieutenant-Governor has to do all the work.
I was in Australasia three months and a half, and saw only one Governor.
The others were at home.

The Australasian Governor would not be so restless, perhaps, if he had a
war, or a veto, or something like that to call for his reserve-energies,
but he hasn't.  There isn't any war, and there isn't any veto in his
hands.  And so there is really little or nothing doing in his line.  The
country governs itself, and prefers to do it; and is so strenuous about
it and so jealous of its independence that it grows restive if even the
Imperial Government at home proposes to help; and so the Imperial veto,
while a fact, is yet mainly a name.

Thus the Governor's functions are much more limited than are a Governor's
functions with us.  And therefore more fatiguing.  He is the apparent
head of the State, he is the real head of Society.  He represents
culture, refinement, elevated sentiment, polite life, religion; and by
his example he propagates these, and they spread and flourish and bear
good fruit.  He creates the fashion, and leads it.  His ball is the ball
of balls, and his countenance makes the horse-race thrive.

He is usually a lord, and this is well; for his position compels him to
lead an expensive life, and an English lord is generally well equipped
for that.

Another of Sydney's social pleasures is the visit to the Admiralty House;
which is nobly situated on high ground overlooking the water.  The trim
boats of the service convey the guests thither; and there, or on board
the flag-ship, they have the duplicate of the hospitalities of Government
House.  The Admiral commanding a station in British waters is a magnate
of the first degree, and he is sumptuously housed, as becomes the dignity
of his office.

Third in the list of special pleasures is the tour of the harbor in a
fine steam pleasure-launch.  Your richer friends own boats of this kind,
and they will invite you, and the joys of the trip will make a long day
seem short.

And finally comes the shark-fishing.  Sydney Harbor is populous with the
finest breeds of man-eating sharks in the world.  Some people make their
living catching them; for the Government pays a cash bounty on them.  The
larger the shark the larger the bounty, and some of the sharks are twenty
feet long.  You not only get the bounty, but everything that is in the
shark belongs to you.  Sometimes the contents are quite valuable.

The shark is the swiftest fish that swims.  The speed of the fastest
steamer afloat is poor compared to his.  And he is a great gad-about, and
roams far and wide in the oceans, and visits the shores of all of them,
ultimately, in the course of his restless excursions.  I have a tale to
tell now, which has not as yet been in print.  In 1870 a young stranger
arrived in Sydney, and set about finding something to do; but he knew no
one, and brought no recommendations, and the result was that he got no
employment.  He had aimed high, at first, but as time and his money
wasted away he grew less and less exacting, until at last he was willing
to serve in the humblest capacities if so he might get bread and shelter.
But luck was still against him; he could find no opening of any sort.
Finally his money was all gone.  He walked the streets all day, thinking;
he walked them all night, thinking, thinking, and growing hungrier and
hungrier.  At dawn he found himself well away from the town and drifting
aimlessly along the harbor shore.  As he was passing by a nodding shark-
fisher the man looked up and said----

"Say, young fellow, take my line a spell, and change my luck for me."

"How do you know I won't make it worse?"

"Because you can't.  It has been at its worst all night.

If you can't change it, no harm's done; if you do change it, it's for the
better, of course.  Come."

"All right, what will you give?"

"I'll give you the shark, if you catch one."

"And I will eat it, bones and all.  Give me the line."

"Here you are.  I will get away, now, for awhile, so that my luck won't
spoil yours; for many and many a time I've noticed that if----there, pull
in, pull in, man, you've got a bite!  I knew how it would be.  Why, I
knew you for a born son of luck the minute I saw you.  All right--he's
landed."

It was an unusually large shark--"a full nineteen-footer," the fisherman
said, as he laid the creature open with his knife.

"Now you rob him, young man, while I step to my hamper for a fresh bait.
There's generally something in them worth going for.  You've changed my
luck, you see.  But my goodness, I hope you haven't changed your own."

"Oh, it wouldn't matter; don't worry about that.  Get your bait.  I'll
rob him."

When the fisherman got back the young man had just finished washing his
hands in the bay, and was starting away.

"What, you are not going?"

"Yes.  Good-bye."

"But what about your shark?"

"The shark?  Why, what use is he to me?"

"What use is he?  I like that.  Don't you know that we can go and report
him to Government, and you'll get a clean solid eighty shillings bounty?
Hard cash, you know.  What do you think about it now?"

"Oh, well, you can collect it."

"And keep it?  Is that what you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, this is odd.  You're one of those sort they call eccentrics, I
judge.  The saying is, you mustn't judge a man by his clothes, and I'm
believing it now.  Why yours are looking just ratty, don't you know; and
yet you must be rich."

"I am."

The young man walked slowly back to the town, deeply musing as he went.
He halted a moment in front of the best restaurant, then glanced at his
clothes and passed on, and got his breakfast at a "stand-up."  There was
a good deal of it, and it cost five shillings.  He tendered a sovereign,
got his change, glanced at his silver, muttered to himself, "There isn't
enough to buy clothes with," and went his way.

At half-past nine the richest wool-broker in Sydney was sitting in his
morning-room at home, settling his breakfast with the morning paper.  A
servant put his head in and said:

"There's a sundowner at the door wants to see you, sir."

"What do you bring that kind of a message here for?  Send him about his
business."

"He won't go, sir.  I've tried."

"He won't go?  That's--why, that's unusual.  He's one of two things,
then: he's a remarkable person, or he's crazy.  Is he crazy?"

"No, sir.  He don't look it."

"Then he's remarkable.  What does he say he wants?"

"He won't tell, sir; only says it's very important."

"And won't go.  Does he say he won't go?"

"Says he'll stand there till he sees you, sir, if it's all day."

"And yet isn't crazy.  Show him up."

The sundowner was shown in.  The broker said to himself, "No, he's not
crazy; that is easy to see; so he must be the other thing."

Then aloud, "Well, my good fellow, be quick about it; don't waste any
words; what is it you want?"

"I want to borrow a hundred thousand pounds."

"Scott!  (It's a mistake; he is crazy .  .  .  .  No--he can't be--not
with that eye.) Why, you take my breath away.  Come, who are you?"

"Nobody that you know."

"What is your name?"

"Cecil Rhodes."

"No, I don't remember hearing the name before.  Now then--just for
curiosity's sake--what has sent you to me on this extraordinary errand?"

"The intention to make a hundred thousand pounds for you and as much for
myself within the next sixty days."

"Well, well, well.  It is the most extraordinary idea that--sit down--you
interest me.  And somehow you--well, you fascinate me; I think that that
is about the word.  And it isn't your proposition--no, that doesn't
fascinate me; it's something else, I don't quite know what; something
that's born in you and oozes out of you, I suppose.  Now then just for
curiosity's sake again, nothing more: as I understand it, it is your
desire to bor----"

"I said intention."

"Pardon, so you did.  I thought it was an unheedful use of the word--an
unheedful valuing of its strength, you know."

"I knew its strength."

"Well, I must say--but look here, let me walk the floor a little, my mind
is getting into a sort of whirl, though you don't seem disturbed any.
(Plainly this young fellow isn't crazy; but as to his being remarkable--
well, really he amounts to that, and something over.)  Now then, I
believe I am beyond the reach of further astonishment.  Strike, and spare
not.  What is your scheme?"

"To buy the wool crop--deliverable in sixty days."

"What, the whole of it?"

"The whole of it."

"No, I was not quite out of the reach of surprises, after all.  Why, how
you talk!  Do you know what our crop is going to foot up?"

"Two and a half million sterling--maybe a little more."

"Well, you've got your statistics right, any way.  Now, then, do you know
what the margins would foot up, to buy it at sixty days?"

"The hundred thousand pounds I came here to get."

"Right, once more.  Well, dear me, just to see what would happen, I wish
you had the money.  And if you had it, what would you do with it?"

"I shall make two hundred thousand pounds out of it in sixty days."

"You mean, of course, that you might make it if----"

"I said 'shall'."

"Yes, by George, you did say 'shall'!  You are the most definite devil I
ever saw, in the matter of language.  Dear, dear, dear, look here!
Definite speech means clarity of mind.  Upon my word I believe you've got
what you believe to be a rational reason, for venturing into this house,
an entire stranger, on this wild scheme of buying the wool crop of an
entire colony on speculation.  Bring it out--I am prepared--acclimatized,
if I may use the word.  Why would you buy the crop, and why would you
make that sum out of it?  That is to say, what makes you think you----"

"I don't think--I know."

"Definite again.  How do you know?"

"Because France has declared war against Germany, and wool has gone up
fourteen per cent. in London and is still rising."

"Oh, in-deed?  Now then, I've got you!  Such a thunderbolt as you have
just let fly ought to have made me jump out of my chair, but it didn't
stir me the least little bit, you see.  And for a very simple reason: I
have read the morning paper.  You can look at it if you want to.  The
fastest ship in the service arrived at eleven o'clock last night, fifty
days out from London.  All her news is printed here.  There are no war-
clouds anywhere; and as for wool, why, it is the low-spiritedest
commodity in the English market.  It is your turn to jump, now .  .  .  .
Well, why, don't you jump?  Why do you sit there in that placid fashion,
when----"

"Because I have later news."

"Later news?  Oh, come--later news than fifty days, brought steaming hot
from London by the----"

"My news is only ten days old."

"Oh, Mun-chausen, hear the maniac talk!  Where did you get it?"

"Got it out of a shark."

"Oh, oh, oh, this is too much!  Front!  call the police bring the gun--
raise the town!  All the asylums in Christendom have broken loose in the
single person of----"

"Sit down!  And collect yourself.  Where is the use in getting excited?
Am I excited?  There is nothing to get excited about.  When I make a
statement which I cannot prove, it will be time enough for you to begin
to offer hospitality to damaging fancies about me and my sanity."

"Oh, a thousand, thousand pardons!  I ought to be ashamed of myself, and
I am ashamed of myself for thinking that a little bit of a circumstance
like sending a shark to England to fetch back a market report----"

"What does your middle initial stand for, sir?"

"Andrew.  What are you writing?"

"Wait a moment.  Proof about the shark--and another matter.  Only ten
lines.  There--now it is done.  Sign it."

"Many thanks--many.  Let me see; it says--it says oh, come, this is
interesting!  Why--why--look here!  prove what you say here, and I'll put
up the money, and double as much, if necessary, and divide the winnings
with you, half and half.  There, now--I've signed; make your promise good
if you can.  Show me a copy of the London Times only ten days old."

"Here it is--and with it these buttons and a memorandum book that
belonged to the man the shark swallowed.  Swallowed him in the Thames,
without a doubt; for you will notice that the last entry in the book is
dated 'London,' and is of the same date as the Times, and says, 'Ber
confequentz der Kreigeseflarun, reife ich heute nach Deutchland ab, aur
bak ich mein leben auf dem Ultar meines Landes legen mag'----, as clean
native German as anybody can put upon paper, and means that in
consequence of the declaration of war, this loyal soul is leaving for
home to-day, to fight.  And he did leave, too, but the shark had him
before the day was done, poor fellow."

"And a pity, too.  But there are times for mourning, and we will attend
to this case further on; other matters are pressing, now.  I will go down
and set the machinery in motion in a quiet way and buy the crop.  It will
cheer the drooping spirits of the boys, in a transitory way.  Everything
is transitory in this world.  Sixty days hence, when they are called to
deliver the goods, they will think they've been struck by lightning.  But
there is a time for mourning, and we will attend to that case along with
the other one.  Come along, I'll take you to my tailor.  What did you say
your name is?"

"Cecil Rhodes."

"It is hard to remember.  However, I think you will make it easier by and
by, if you live.  There are three kinds of people--Commonplace Men,
Remarkable Men, and Lunatics.  I'll classify you with the Remarkables,
and take the chances."

The deal went through, and secured to the young stranger the first
fortune he ever pocketed.

The people of Sydney ought to be afraid of the sharks, but for some
reason they do not seem to be.  On Saturdays the young men go out in
their boats, and sometimes the water is fairly covered with the little
sails.  A boat upsets now and then, by accident, a result of tumultuous
skylarking; sometimes the boys upset their boat for fun--such as it is
with sharks visibly waiting around for just such an occurrence.  The
young fellows scramble aboard whole--sometimes--not always.  Tragedies
have happened more than once.  While I was in Sydney it was reported that
a boy fell out of a boat in the mouth of the Paramatta river and screamed
for help and a boy jumped overboard from another boat to save him from
the assembling sharks; but the sharks made swift work with the lives of
both.

The government pays a bounty for the shark; to get the bounty the
fishermen bait the hook or the seine with agreeable mutton; the news
spreads and the sharks come from all over the Pacific Ocean to get the
free board.  In time the shark culture will be one of the most successful
things in the colony.




CHAPTER XIV.

We can secure other people's approval, if we do right and try hard; but
our own is worth a hundred of it, and no way has been found out of
securing that.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

My health had broken down in New York in May; it had remained in a
doubtful but fairish condition during a succeeding period of 82 days; it
broke again on the Pacific.  It broke again in Sydney, but not until
after I had had a good outing, and had also filled my lecture
engagements.  This latest break lost me the chance of seeing Queensland.
In the circumstances, to go north toward hotter weather was not
advisable.

So we moved south with a westward slant, 17 hours by rail to the capital
of the colony of Victoria, Melbourne--that juvenile city of sixty years,
and half a million inhabitants.  On the map the distance looked small;
but that is a trouble with all divisions of distance in such a vast
country as Australia.  The colony of Victoria itself looks small on the
map--looks like a county, in fact--yet it is about as large as England,
Scotland, and Wales combined.  Or, to get another focus upon it, it is
just 80 times as large as the state of Rhode Island, and one-third as
large as the State of Texas.

Outside of Melbourne, Victoria seems to be owned by a handful of
squatters, each with a Rhode Island for a sheep farm.  That is the
impression which one gathers from common talk, yet the wool industry of
Victoria is by no means so great as that of New South Wales.  The climate
of Victoria is favorable to other great industries--among others, wheat-
growing and the making of wine.

We took the train at Sydney at about four in the afternoon.  It was
American in one way, for we had a most rational sleeping car; also the
car was clean and fine and new--nothing about it to suggest the rolling
stock of the continent of Europe.  But our baggage was weighed, and extra
weight charged for.  That was continental.  Continental and troublesome.
Any detail of railroading that is not troublesome cannot honorably be
described as continental.

The tickets were round-trip ones--to Melbourne, and clear to Adelaide in
South Australia, and then all the way back to Sydney.  Twelve hundred
more miles than we really expected to make; but then as the round trip
wouldn't cost much more than the single trip, it seemed well enough to
buy as many miles as one could afford, even if one was not likely to need
them.  A human being has a natural desire to have more of a good thing
than he needs.

Now comes a singular thing: the oddest thing, the strangest thing, the
most baffling and unaccountable marvel that Australasia can show.  At the
frontier between New South Wales and Victoria our multitude of passengers
were routed out of their snug beds by lantern-light in the morning in the
biting-cold of a high altitude to change cars on a road that has no break
in it from Sydney to Melbourne!  Think of the paralysis of intellect that
gave that idea birth; imagine the boulder it emerged from on some
petrified legislator's shoulders.

It is a narrow-gage road to the frontier, and a broader gauge thence to
Melbourne.  The two governments were the builders of the road and are the
owners of it.  One or two reasons are given for this curious state of
things.  One is, that it represents the jealousy existing between the
colonies--the two most important colonies of Australasia.  What the other
one is, I have forgotten.  But it is of no consequence.  It could be but
another effort to explain the inexplicable.

All passengers fret at the double-gauge; all shippers of freight must of
course fret at it; unnecessary expense, delay, and annoyance are imposed
upon everybody concerned, and no one is benefitted.

Each Australian colony fences itself off from its neighbor with a custom-
house.  Personally, I have no objection, but it must be a good deal of
inconvenience to the people.  We have something resembling it here and
there in America, but it goes by another name.  The large empire of the
Pacific coast requires a world of iron machinery, and could manufacture
it economically on the spot if the imposts on foreign iron were removed.
But they are not.  Protection to Pennsylvania and Alabama forbids it.
The result to the Pacific coast is the same as if there were several rows
of custom-fences between the coast and the East.  Iron carted across the
American continent at luxurious railway rates would be valuable enough to
be coined when it arrived.

We changed cars.  This was at Albury.  And it was there, I think, that
the growing day and the early sun exposed the distant range called the
Blue Mountains.  Accurately named.  "My word!" as the Australians say,
but it was a stunning color, that blue.  Deep, strong, rich, exquisite;
towering and majestic masses of blue--a softly luminous blue, a
smouldering blue, as if vaguely lit by fires within.  It extinguished the
blue of the sky--made it pallid and unwholesome, whitey and washed-out.
A wonderful color--just divine.

A resident told me that those were not mountains; he said they were
rabbit-piles.  And explained that long exposure and the over-ripe
condition of the rabbits was what made them look so blue.  This man may
have been right, but much reading of books of travel has made me
distrustful of gratis information furnished by unofficial residents of a
country.  The facts which such people give to travelers are usually
erroneous, and often intemperately so.  The rabbit-plague has indeed been
very bad in Australia, and it could account for one mountain, but not for
a mountain range, it seems to me.  It is too large an order.

We breakfasted at the station.  A good breakfast, except the coffee; and
cheap.  The Government establishes the prices and placards them.  The
waiters were men, I think; but that is not usual in Australasia.  The
usual thing is to have girls.  No, not girls, young ladies--generally
duchesses.  Dress?  They would attract attention at any royal levee in
Europe.  Even empresses and queens do not dress as they do.  Not that
they could not afford it, perhaps, but they would not know how.

All the pleasant morning we slid smoothly along over the plains, through
thin--not thick--forests of great melancholy gum trees, with trunks
rugged with curled sheets of flaking bark--erysipelas convalescents, so
to speak, shedding their dead skins.  And all along were tiny cabins,
built sometimes of wood, sometimes of gray-blue corrugated iron; and the
doorsteps and fences were clogged with children--rugged little simply-
clad chaps that looked as if they had been imported from the banks of the
Mississippi without breaking bulk.

And there were little villages, with neat stations well placarded with
showy advertisements--mainly of almost too self-righteous brands of
"sheepdip."  If that is the name--and I think it is.  It is a stuff like
tar, and is dabbed on to places where the shearer clips a piece out of
the sheep.  It bars out the flies, and has healing properties, and a nip
to it which makes the sheep skip like the cattle on a thousand hills.  It
is not good to eat.  That is, it is not good to eat except when mixed
with railroad coffee.  It improves railroad coffee.  Without it railroad
coffee is too vague.  But with it, it is quite assertive and
enthusiastic.  By itself, railroad coffee is too passive; but sheep-dip
makes it wake up and get down to business.  I wonder where they get
railroad coffee?

We saw birds, but not a kangaroo, not an emu, not an ornithorhynchus, not
a lecturer, not a native.  Indeed, the land seemed quite destitute of
game.  But I have misused the word native.  In Australia it is applied to
Australian-born whites only.  I should have said that we saw no
Aboriginals--no "blackfellows."  And to this day I have never seen one.
In the great museums you will find all the other curiosities, but in the
curio of chiefest interest to the stranger all of them are lacking.  We
have at home an abundance of museums, and not an American Indian in them.
It is clearly an absurdity, but it never struck me before.




CHAPTER XV.

Truth is stranger than fiction--to some people, but I am measurably
familiar with it.
                             --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to
stick to possibilities; Truth isn't.
                             --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The air was balmy and delicious, the sunshine radiant; it was a charming
excursion.  In the course of it we came to a town whose odd name was
famous all over the world a quarter of a century ago--Wagga-Wagga.  This
was because the Tichborne Claimant had kept a butcher-shop there.  It was
out of the midst of his humble collection of sausages and tripe that he
soared up into the zenith of notoriety and hung there in the wastes of
space a time, with the telescopes of all nations leveled at him in
unappeasable curiosity--curiosity as to which of the two long-missing
persons he was:  Arthur Orton, the mislaid roustabout of Wapping, or Sir
Roger Tichborne, the lost heir of a name and estates as old as English
history.  We all know now, but not a dozen people knew then; and the
dozen kept the mystery to themselves and allowed the most intricate and
fascinating and marvelous real-life romance that has ever been played
upon the world's stage to unfold itself serenely, act by act, in a
British court by the long and laborious processes of judicial
development.

When we recall the details of that great romance we marvel to see what
daring chances truth may freely take in constructing a tale, as compared
with the poor little conservative risks permitted to fiction.  The
fiction-artist could achieve no success with the materials of this
splendid Tichborne romance.

He would have to drop out the chief characters; the public would say such
people are impossible.  He would have to drop out a number of the most
picturesque incidents; the public would say such things could never
happen.  And yet the chief characters did exist, and the incidents did
happen.

It cost the Tichborne estates $400,000 to unmask the Claimant and drive
him out; and even after the exposure multitudes of Englishmen still
believed in him.  It cost the British Government another $400,000 to
convict him of perjury; and after the conviction the same old multitudes
still believed in him; and among these believers were many educated and
intelligent men; and some of them had personally known the real Sir
Roger.  The Claimant was sentenced to 14 years' imprisonment.  When he
got out of prison he went to New York and kept a whisky saloon in the
Bowery for a time, then disappeared from view.

He always claimed to be Sir Roger Tichborne until death called for him.
This was but a few months ago--not very much short of a generation since
he left Wagga-Wagga to go and possess himself of his estates.  On his
death-bed he yielded up his secret, and confessed in writing that he was
only Arthur Orton of Wapping, able seaman and butcher--that and nothing
more.  But it is scarcely to be doubted that there are people whom even
his dying confession will not convince.  The old habit of assimilating
incredibilities must have made strong food a necessity in their case; a
weaker article would probably disagree with them.

I was in London when the Claimant stood his trial for perjury.  I
attended one of his showy evenings in the sumptuous quarters provided for
him from the purses of his adherents and well-wishers.  He was in evening
dress, and I thought him a rather fine and stately creature.  There were
about twenty-five gentlemen present; educated men, men moving in good
society, none of them commonplace; some of them were men of distinction,
none of them were obscurities.  They were his cordial friends and
admirers.  It was "Sir Roger," always "Sir Roger," on all hands; no one
withheld the title, all turned it from the tongue with unction, and as if
it tasted good.

For many years I had had a mystery in stock.  Melbourne, and only
Melbourne, could unriddle it for me.  In 1873 I arrived in London with my
wife and young child, and presently received a note from Naples signed by
a name not familiar to me.  It was not Bascom, and it was not Henry; but
I will call it Henry Bascom for convenience's sake.  This note, of about
six lines, was written on a strip of white paper whose end-edges were
ragged.  I came to be familiar with those strips in later years.  Their
size and pattern were always the same.  Their contents were usually to
the same effect: would I and mine come to the writer's country-place in
England on such and such a date, by such and such a train, and stay
twelve days and depart by such and such a train at the end of the
specified time?  A carriage would meet us at the station.

These invitations were always for a long time ahead; if we were in
Europe, three months ahead; if we were in America, six to twelve months
ahead.  They always named the exact date and train for the beginning and
also for the end of the visit.

This first note invited us for a date three months in the future.  It
asked us to arrive by the 4.10 p.m. train from London, August 6th.  The
carriage would be waiting.  The carriage would take us away seven days
later-train specified.  And there were these words: "Speak to Tom
Hughes."

I showed the note to the author of "Tom Brown at Rugby," and be said:
"Accept, and be thankful."

He described Mr. Bascom as being a man of genius, a man of fine
attainments, a choice man in every way, a rare and beautiful character.
He said that Bascom Hall was a particularly fine example of the stately
manorial mansion of Elizabeth's days, and that it was a house worth going
a long way to see--like Knowle; that Mr. B. was of a social disposition;
liked the company of agreeable people, and always had samples of the sort
coming and going.

We paid the visit.  We paid others, in later years--the last one in 1879.
Soon after that Mr. Bascom started on a voyage around the world in a
steam yacht--a long and leisurely trip, for he was making collections, in
all lands, of birds, butterflies, and such things.

The day that President Garfield was shot by the assassin Guiteau, we were
at a little watering place on Long Island Sound; and in the mail matter
of that day came a letter with the Melbourne post-mark on it.  It was for
my wife, but I recognized Mr. Bascom's handwriting on the envelope, and
opened it.  It was the usual note--as to paucity of lines--and was
written on the customary strip of paper; but there was nothing usual
about the contents.  The note informed my wife that if it would be any
assuagement of her grief to know that her husband's lecture-tour in
Australia was a satisfactory venture from the beginning to the end, he,
the writer, could testify that such was the case; also, that her
husband's untimely death had been mourned by all classes, as she would
already know by the press telegrams, long before the reception of this
note; that the funeral was attended by the officials of the colonial and
city governments; and that while he, the writer, her friend and mine, had
not reached Melbourne in time to see the body, he had at least had the
sad privilege of acting as one of the pall-bearers.  Signed, "Henry
Bascom."

My first thought was, why didn't he have the coffin opened?  He would
have seen that the corpse was an imposter, and he could have gone right
ahead and dried up the most of those tears, and comforted those sorrowing
governments, and sold the remains and sent me the money.

I did nothing about the matter.  I had set the law after living lecture
doubles of mine a couple of times in America, and the law had not been
able to catch them; others in my trade had tried to catch their impostor-
doubles and had failed.  Then where was the use in harrying a ghost?
None--and so I did not disturb it.  I had a curiosity to know about that
man's lecture-tour and last moments, but that could wait.  When I should
see Mr. Bascom he would tell me all about it.  But he passed from life,
and I never saw him again..  My curiosity faded away.

However, when I found that I was going to Australia it revived.  And
naturally: for if the people should say that I was a dull, poor thing
compared to what I was before I died, it would have a bad effect on
business.  Well, to my surprise the Sydney journalists had never heard of
that impostor!  I pressed them, but they were firm--they had never heard
of him, and didn't believe in him.

I could not understand it; still, I thought it would all come right in
Melbourne.  The government would remember; and the other mourners.  At
the supper of the Institute of Journalists I should find out all about
the matter.  But no--it turned out that they had never heard of it.

So my mystery was a mystery still.  It was a great disappointment.  I
believed it would never be cleared up--in this life--so I dropped it out
of my mind.

But at last! just when I was least expecting it----

However, this is not the place for the rest of it; I shall come to the
matter again, in a far-distant chapter.




CHAPTER XVI.

There is a Moral sense, and there is an Immoral Sense.  History shows us
that the Moral Sense enables us to perceive morality and how to avoid it,
and that the Immoral Sense enables us to perceive immorality and how to
enjoy it.
                              -Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Melbourne spreads around over an immense area of ground.  It is a stately
city architecturally as well as in magnitude.  It has an elaborate system
of cable-car service; it has museums, and colleges, and schools, and
public gardens, and electricity, and gas, and libraries, and theaters,
and mining centers, and wool centers, and centers of the arts and
sciences, and boards of trade, and ships, and railroads, and a harbor,
and social clubs, and journalistic clubs, and racing clubs, and a
squatter club sumptuously housed and appointed, and as many churches and
banks as can make a living.  In a word, it is equipped with everything
that goes to make the modern great city.  It is the largest city of
Australasia, and fills the post with honor and credit.  It has one
specialty; this must not be jumbled in with those other things.  It is
the mitred Metropolitan of the Horse-Racing Cult.  Its race-ground is the
Mecca of Australasia.  On the great annual day of sacrifice--the 5th of
November, Guy Fawkes's Day--business is suspended over a stretch of land
and sea as wide as from New York to San Francisco, and deeper than from
the northern lakes to the Gulf of Mexico; and every man and woman, of
high degree or low, who can afford the expense, put away their other
duties and come.  They begin to swarm in by ship and rail a fortnight
before the day, and they swarm thicker and thicker day after day, until
all the vehicles of transportation are taxed to their uttermost to meet
the demands of the occasion, and all hotels and lodgings are bulging
outward because of the pressure from within.  They come a hundred
thousand strong, as all the best authorities say, and they pack the
spacious grounds and grandstands and make a spectacle such as is never to
be seen in Australasia elsewhere.

It is the "Melbourne Cup" that brings this multitude together.  Their
clothes have been ordered long ago, at unlimited cost, and without bounds
as to beauty and magnificence, and have been kept in concealment until
now, for unto this day are they consecrate.  I am speaking of the ladies'
clothes; but one might know that.

And so the grand-stands make a brilliant and wonderful spectacle, a
delirium of color, a vision of beauty.  The champagne flows, everybody is
vivacious, excited, happy; everybody bets, and gloves and fortunes change
hands right along, all the time.  Day after day the races go on, and the
fun and the excitement are kept at white heat; and when each day is done,
the people dance all night so as to be fresh for the race in the morning.
And at the end of the great week the swarms secure lodgings and
transportation for next year, then flock away to their remote homes and
count their gains and losses, and order next year's Cup-clothes, and then
lie down and sleep two weeks, and get up sorry to reflect that a whole
year must be put in somehow or other before they can be wholly happy
again.

The Melbourne Cup is the Australasian National Day.  It would be
difficult to overstate its importance.  It overshadows all other holidays
and specialized days of whatever sort in that congeries of colonies.
Overshadows them?  I might almost say it blots them out.  Each of them
gets attention, but not everybody's; each of them evokes interest, but
not everybody's; each of them rouses enthusiasm, but not everybody's; in
each case a part of the attention, interest, and enthusiasm is a matter
of habit and custom, and another part of it is official and perfunctory.
Cup Day, and Cup Day only, commands an attention, an interest, and an
enthusiasm which are universal--and spontaneous, not perfunctory.  Cup
Day is supreme it has no rival.  I can call to mind no specialized annual
day, in any country, which can be named by that large name--Supreme.  I
can call to mind no specialized annual day, in any country, whose
approach fires the whole land with a conflagration of conversation and
preparation and anticipation and jubilation.  No day save this one; but
this one does it.

In America we have no annual supreme day; no day whose approach makes the
whole nation glad.  We have the Fourth of July, and Christmas, and
Thanksgiving.  Neither of them can claim the primacy; neither of them can
arouse an enthusiasm which comes near to being universal.  Eight grown
Americans out of ten dread the coming of the Fourth, with its pandemonium
and its perils, and they rejoice when it is gone--if still alive.  The
approach of Christmas brings harassment and dread to many excellent
people.  They have to buy a cart-load of presents, and they never know
what to buy to hit the various tastes; they put in three weeks of hard
and anxious work, and when Christmas morning comes they are so
dissatisfied with the result, and so disappointed that they want to sit
down and cry.  Then they give thanks that Christmas comes but once a
year.  The observance of Thanksgiving Day--as a function--has become
general of late years.  The Thankfulness is not so general.  This is
natural.  Two-thirds of the nation have always had hard luck and a hard
time during the year, and this has a calming effect upon their
enthusiasm.

We have a supreme day--a sweeping and tremendous and tumultuous day, a
day which commands an absolute universality of interest and excitement;
but it is not annual.  It comes but once in four years; therefore it
cannot count as a rival of the Melbourne Cup.

In Great Britain and Ireland they have two great days--Christmas and the
Queen's birthday.  But they are equally popular; there is no supremacy.

I think it must be conceded that the position of the Australasian Day is
unique, solitary, unfellowed; and likely to hold that high place a long
time.

The next things which interest us when we travel are, first, the people;
next, the novelties; and finally the history of the places and countries
visited.  Novelties are rare in cities which represent the most advanced
civilization of the modern day.  When one is familiar with such cities in
the other parts of the world he is in effect familiar with the cities of
Australasia.  The outside aspects will furnish little that is new.  There
will be new names, but the things which they represent will sometimes be
found to be less new than their names.  There may be shades of
difference, but these can easily be too fine for detection by the
incompetent eye of the passing stranger.  In the larrikin he will not be
able to discover a new species, but only an old one met elsewhere, and
variously called loafer, rough, tough, bummer, or blatherskite, according
to his geographical distribution.  The larrikin differs by a shade from
those others, in that he is more sociable toward the stranger than they,
more kindly disposed, more hospitable, more hearty, more friendly.  At
least it seemed so to me, and I had opportunity to observe.  In Sydney,
at least.  In Melbourne I had to drive to and from the lecture-theater,
but in Sydney I was able to walk both ways, and did it.  Every night, on
my way home at ten, or a quarter past, I found the larrikin grouped in
considerable force at several of the street corners, and he always gave
me this pleasant salutation:

"Hello, Mark!"

"Here's to you, old chap!

"Say--Mark!--is he dead?"--a reference to a passage in some book of mine,
though I did not detect, at that time, that that was its source.  And I
didn't detect it afterward in Melbourne, when I came on the stage for the
first time, and the same question was dropped down upon me from the dizzy
height of the gallery.  It is always difficult to answer a sudden inquiry
like that, when you have come unprepared and don't know what it means.
I will remark here--if it is not an indecorum--that the welcome which an
American lecturer gets from a British colonial audience is a thing which
will move him to his deepest deeps, and veil his sight and break his
voice.  And from Winnipeg to Africa, experience will teach him nothing;
he will never learn to expect it, it will catch him as a surprise each
time.  The war-cloud hanging black over England and America made no
trouble for me.  I was a prospective prisoner of war, but at dinners,
suppers, on the platform, and elsewhere, there was never anything to
remind me of it.  This was hospitality of the right metal, and would have
been prominently lacking in some countries, in the circumstances.

And speaking of the war-flurry, it seemed to me to bring to light the
unexpected, in a detail or two.  It seemed to relegate the war-talk to
the politicians on both sides of the water; whereas whenever a
prospective war between two nations had been in the air theretofore, the
public had done most of the talking and the bitterest.  The attitude of
the newspapers was new also.  I speak of those of Australasia and India,
for I had access to those only.  They treated the subject argumentatively
and with dignity, not with spite and anger.  That was a new spirit, too,
and not learned of the French and German press, either before Sedan or
since.  I heard many public speeches, and they reflected the moderation
of the journals.  The outlook is that the English-speaking race will
dominate the earth a hundred years from now, if its sections do not get
to fighting each other.  It would be a pity to spoil that prospect by
baffling and retarding wars when arbitration would settle their
differences so much better and also so much more definitely.

No, as I have suggested, novelties are rare in the great capitals of
modern times.  Even the wool exchange in Melbourne could not be told from
the familiar stock exchange of other countries.  Wool brokers are just
like stockbrokers; they all bounce from their seats and put up their
hands and yell in unison--no stranger can tell what--and the president
calmly says "Sold to Smith & Co., threpence farthing--next!"--when
probably nothing of the kind happened; for how should he know?

In the museums you will find acres of the most strange and fascinating
things; but all museums are fascinating, and they do so tire your eyes,
and break your back, and burn out your vitalities with their consuming
interest.  You always say you will never go again, but you do go.  The
palaces of the rich, in Melbourne, are much like the palaces of the rich
in America, and the life in them is the same; but there the resemblance
ends.  The grounds surrounding the American palace are not often large,
and not often beautiful, but in the Melbourne case the grounds are often
ducally spacious, and the climate and the gardeners together make them as
beautiful as a dream.  It is said that some of the country seats have
grounds--domains--about them which rival in charm and magnitude those
which surround the country mansion of an English lord; but I was not out
in the country; I had my hands full in town.

And what was the origin of this majestic city and its efflorescence of
palatial town houses and country seats?  Its first brick was laid and
its first house built by a passing convict.  Australian history is almost
always picturesque; indeed, it is so curious and strange, that it is
itself the chiefest novelty the country has to offer, and so it pushes
the other novelties into second and third place.  It does not read like
history, but like the most beautiful lies.  And all of a fresh new sort,
no mouldy old stale ones.  It is full of surprises, and adventures, and
incongruities, and contradictions, and incredibilities; but they are all
true, they all happened.




CHAPTER XVII.

The English are mentioned in the Bible: Blessed are the meek, for they
shall inherit the earth.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

When we consider the immensity of the British Empire in territory,
population, and trade, it requires a stern exercise of faith to believe
in the figures which represent Australasia's contribution to the Empire's
commercial grandeur.  As compared with the landed estate of the British
Empire, the landed estate dominated by any other Power except one--
Russia--is not very impressive for size.  My authorities make the British
Empire not much short of a fourth larger than the Russian Empire.
Roughly proportioned, if you will allow your entire hand to represent the
British Empire, you may then cut off the fingers a trifle above the
middle joint of the middle finger, and what is left of the hand will
represent Russia.  The populations ruled by Great Britain and China are
about the same--400,000,000 each.  No other Power approaches these
figures.  Even Russia is left far behind.

The population of Australasia--4,000,000--sinks into nothingness, and is
lost from sight in that British ocean of 400,000,000.  Yet the statistics
indicate that it rises again and shows up very conspicuously when its
share of the Empire's commerce is the matter under consideration.  The
value of England's annual exports and imports is stated at three billions
of dollars,--[New South Wales Blue Book.]--and it is claimed that more
than one-tenth of this great aggregate is represented by Australasia's
exports to England and imports from England.  In addition to this,
Australasia does a trade with countries other than England, amounting to
a hundred million dollars a year, and a domestic intercolonial trade
amounting to a hundred and fifty millions.

In round numbers the 4,000,000 buy and sell about $600,000,000 worth of
goods a year.  It is claimed that about half of this represents
commodities of Australasian production.  The products exported annually
by India are worth a trifle over $500,000,000.1 Now, here are some faith-
straining figures:

Indian production (300,000,000 population), $500,000,000.

Australasian production (4,000,000 population), $300,000,000.

That is to say, the product of the individual Indian, annually (for
export some whither), is worth $1.15; that of the individual
Australasian (for export some whither), $75! Or, to put it in another
way, the Indian family of man and wife and three children sends away an
annual result worth $8.75, while the Australasian family sends away $375
worth.

There are trustworthy statistics furnished by Sir Richard Temple and
others, which show that the individual Indian's whole annual product,
both for export and home use, is worth in gold only $7.50; or, $37.50
for the family-aggregate.  Ciphered out on a like ratio of
multiplication, the Australasian family's aggregate production would be
nearly $1,600.  Truly, nothing is so astonishing as figures, if they once
get started.

We left Melbourne by rail for Adelaide, the capital of the vast Province
of South Australia--a seventeen-hour excursion.  On the train we found
several Sydney friends; among them a Judge who was going out on circuit,
and was going to hold court at Broken Hill, where the celebrated silver
mine is.  It seemed a curious road to take to get to that region.  Broken
Hill is close to the western border of New South Wales, and Sydney is on
the eastern border.  A fairly straight line, 700 miles long, drawn
westward from Sydney, would strike Broken Hill, just as a somewhat
shorter one drawn west from Boston would strike Buffalo.  The way the
Judge was traveling would carry him over 2,000 miles by rail, he said;
southwest from Sydney down to Melbourne, then northward up to Adelaide,
then a cant back northeastward and over the border into New South Wales
once more--to Broken Hill.  It was like going from Boston southwest to
Richmond, Virginia, then northwest up to Erie, Pennsylvania, then a cant
back northeast and over the border--to Buffalo, New York.

But the explanation was simple.  Years ago the fabulously rich silver
discovery at Broken Hill burst suddenly upon an unexpectant world.  Its
stocks started at shillings, and went by leaps and bounds to the most
fanciful figures.  It was one of those cases where the cook puts a
month's wages into shares, and comes next mouth and buys your house at
your own price, and moves into it herself; where the coachman takes a few
shares, and next month sets up a bank; and where the common sailor
invests the price of a spree, and next month buys out the steamship
company and goes into business on his own hook.  In a word, it was one of
those excitements which bring multitudes of people to a common center
with a rush, and whose needs must be supplied, and at once.  Adelaide was
close by, Sydney was far away.  Adelaide threw a short railway across the
border before Sydney had time to arrange for a long one; it was not worth
while for Sydney to arrange at all.  The whole vast trade-profit of
Broken Hill fell into Adelaide's hands, irrevocably.  New South Wales
furnishes for Broken Hill and sends her Judges 2,000 miles--mainly
through alien countries--to administer it, but Adelaide takes the
dividends and makes no moan.

We started at 4.20 in the afternoon, and moved across level until night.
In the morning we had a stretch of "scrub" country--the kind of thing
which is so useful to the Australian novelist.  In the scrub the hostile
aboriginal lurks, and flits mysteriously about, slipping out from time to
time to surprise and slaughter the settler; then slipping back again, and
leaving no track that the white man can follow.  In the scrub the
novelist's heroine gets lost, search fails of result; she wanders here
and there, and finally sinks down exhausted and unconscious, and the
searchers pass within a yard or two of her, not suspecting that she is
near, and by and by some rambler finds her bones and the pathetic diary
which she had scribbled with her failing hand and left behind.  Nobody
can find a lost heroine in the scrub but the aboriginal "tracker," and he
will not lend himself to the scheme if it will interfere with the
novelist's plot.  The scrub stretches miles and miles in all directions,
and looks like a level roof of bush-tops without a break or a crack in it
--as seamless as a blanket, to all appearance.  One might as well walk
under water and hope to guess out a route and stick to it, I should
think.  Yet it is claimed that the aboriginal "tracker" was able to hunt
out people lost in the scrub.  Also in the "bush"; also in the desert;
and even follow them over patches of bare rocks and over alluvial ground
which had to all appearance been washed clear of footprints.

From reading Australian books and talking with the people, I became
convinced that the aboriginal tracker's performances evince a craft, a
penetration, a luminous sagacity, and a minuteness and accuracy of
observation in the matter of detective-work not found in nearly so
remarkable a degree in any other people, white or colored.  In an
official account of the blacks of Australia published by the government
of Victoria, one reads that the aboriginal not only notices the faint
marks left on the bark of a tree by the claws of a climbing opossum, but
knows in some way or other whether the marks were made to-day or
yesterday.

And there is the case, on records where A., a settler, makes a bet with
B., that B. may lose a cow as effectually as he can, and A. will produce
an aboriginal who will find her.  B. selects a cow and lets the tracker
see the cow's footprint, then be put under guard.  B. then drives the cow
a few miles over a course which drifts in all directions, and frequently
doubles back upon itself; and he selects difficult ground all the time,
and once or twice even drives the cow through herds of other cows, and
mingles her tracks in the wide confusion of theirs.  He finally brings
his cow home; the aboriginal is set at liberty, and at once moves around
in a great circle, examining all cow-tracks until he finds the one he is
after; then sets off and follows it throughout its erratic course, and
ultimately tracks it to the stable where B. has hidden the cow.  Now
wherein does one cow-track differ from another?  There must be a
difference, or the tracker could not have performed the feat; a
difference minute, shadowy, and not detectible by you or me, or by the
late Sherlock Holmes, and yet discernible by a member of a race charged
by some people with occupying the bottom place in the gradations of human
intelligence.




CHAPTER XVIII.

It is easier to stay out than get out.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The train was now exploring a beautiful hill country, and went twisting
in and out through lovely little green valleys.  There were several
varieties of gum trees; among them many giants.  Some of them were bodied
and barked like the sycamore; some were of fantastic aspect, and reminded
one of the quaint apple trees in Japanese pictures.  And there was one
peculiarly beautiful tree whose name and breed I did not know.  The
foliage seemed to consist of big bunches of pine-spines, the lower half
of each bunch a rich brown or old-gold color, the upper half a most vivid
and strenuous and shouting green.  The effect was altogether bewitching.
The tree was apparently rare.  I should say that the first and last
samples of it seen by us were not more than half an hour apart.  There
was another tree of striking aspect, a kind of pine, we were told.  Its
foliage was as fine as hair, apparently, and its mass sphered itself
above the naked straight stem like an explosion of misty smoke.  It was
not a sociable sort; it did not gather in groups or couples, but each
individual stood far away from its nearest neighbor.  It scattered itself
in this spacious and exclusive fashion about the slopes of swelling
grassy great knolls, and stood in the full flood of the wonderful
sunshine; and as far as you could see the tree itself you could also see
the ink-black blot of its shadow on the shining green carpet at its feet.

On some part of this railway journey we saw gorse and broom--importations
from England--and a gentleman who came into our compartment on a visit
tried to tell me which--was which; but as he didn't know, he had
difficulty.  He said he was ashamed of his ignorance, but that he had
never been confronted with the question before during the fifty years and
more that he had spent in Australia, and so he had never happened to get
interested in the matter.  But there was no need to be ashamed.  The most
of us have his defect.  We take a natural interest in novelties, but it
is against nature to take an interest in familiar things.  The gorse and
the broom were a fine accent in the landscape.  Here and there they burst
out in sudden conflagrations of vivid yellow against a background of
sober or sombre color, with a so startling effect as to make a body catch
his breath with the happy surprise of it.  And then there was the wattle,
a native bush or tree, an inspiring cloud of sumptuous yellow bloom.  It
is a favorite with the Australians, and has a fine fragrance, a quality
usually wanting in Australian blossoms.

The gentleman who enriched me with the poverty of his formation about the
gorse and the broom told me that he came out from England a youth of
twenty and entered the Province of South Australia with thirty-six
shillings in his pocket--an adventurer without trade, profession, or
friends, but with a clearly-defined purpose in his head: he would stay
until he was worth L200, then go back home.  He would allow himself five
years for the accumulation of this fortune.

"That was more than fifty years ago," said he.  "And here I am, yet."

As he went out at the door he met a friend, and turned and introduced him
to me, and the friend and I had a talk and a smoke.  I spoke of the
previous conversation and said there something very pathetic about this
half century of exile, and that I wished the L200 scheme had succeeded.

"With him?  Oh, it did.  It's not so sad a case.  He is modest, and he
left out some of the particulars.  The lad reached South Australia just
in time to help discover the Burra-Burra copper mines.  They turned out
L700,000 in the first three years.  Up to now they have yielded
L120,000,000.  He has had his share.  Before that boy had been in the
country two years he could have gone home and bought a village; he could
go now and buy a city, I think.  No, there is nothing very pathetic about
his case.  He and his copper arrived at just a handy time to save South
Australia.  It had got mashed pretty flat under the collapse of a land
boom a while before."  There it is again; picturesque history--
Australia's specialty.  In 1829 South Australia hadn't a white man in it.
In 1836 the British Parliament erected it--still a solitude--into a
Province, and gave it a governor and other governmental machinery.
Speculators took hold, now, and inaugurated a vast land scheme, and
invited immigration, encouraging it with lurid promises of sudden wealth.
It was well worked in London; and bishops, statesmen, and all ports of
people made a rush for the land company's shares.  Immigrants soon began
to pour into the region of Adelaide and select town lots and farms in the
sand and the mangrove swamps by the sea.  The crowds continued to come,
prices of land rose high, then higher and still higher, everybody was
prosperous and happy, the boom swelled into gigantic proportions.  A
village of sheet iron huts and clapboard sheds sprang up in the sand, and
in these wigwams fashion made display; richly-dressed ladies played on
costly pianos, London swells in evening dress and patent-leather boots
were abundant, and this fine society drank champagne, and in other ways
conducted itself in this capital of humble sheds as it had been
accustomed to do in the aristocratic quarters of the metropolis of the
world.  The provincial government put up expensive buildings for its own
use, and a palace with gardens for the use of its governor.  The governor
had a guard, and maintained a court.  Roads, wharves, and hospitals were
built.  All this on credit, on paper, on wind, on inflated and fictitious
values--on the boom's moonshine, in fact.  This went on handsomely during
four or five years.  Then of a sudden came a smash.  Bills for a huge
amount drawn the governor upon the Treasury were dishonored, the land
company's credit went up in smoke, a panic followed, values fell with a
rush, the frightened immigrants seized their grips and fled to other
lands, leaving behind them a good imitation of a solitude, where lately
had been a buzzing and populous hive of men.

Adelaide was indeed almost empty; its population had fallen to 3,000.
During two years or more the death-trance continued.  Prospect of revival
there was none; hope of it ceased.  Then, as suddenly as the paralysis
had come, came the resurrection from it.  Those astonishingly rich copper
mines were discovered, and the corpse got up and danced.

The wool production began to grow; grain-raising followed--followed so
vigorously, too, that four or five years after the copper discovery, this
little colony, which had had to import its breadstuffs formerly, and pay
hard prices for them--once $50 a barrel for flour--had become an exporter
of grain.

The prosperities continued.  After many years Providence, desiring to
show especial regard for New South Wales and exhibit loving interest in
its welfare which should certify to all nations the recognition of that
colony's conspicuous righteousness and distinguished well-deserving,
conferred upon it that treasury of inconceivable riches, Broken Hill; and
South Australia went over the border and took it, giving thanks.

Among our passengers was an American with a unique vocation.  Unique is a
strong word, but I use it justifiably if I did not misconceive what the
American told me; for I understood him to say that in the world there was
not another man engaged in the business which he was following.  He was
buying the kangaroo-skin crop; buying all of it, both the Australian crop
and the Tasmanian; and buying it for an American house in New York.  The
prices were not high, as there was no competition, but the year's
aggregate of skins would cost him L30,000.  I had had the idea that the
kangaroo was about extinct in Tasmania and well thinned out on the
continent.  In America the skins are tanned and made into shoes.  After
the tanning, the leather takes a new name--which I have forgotten--I only
remember that the new name does not indicate that the kangaroo furnishes
the leather.  There was a German competition for a while, some years ago,
but that has ceased.  The Germans failed to arrive at the secret of
tanning the skins successfully, and they withdrew from the business.  Now
then, I suppose that I have seen a man whose occupation is really
entitled to bear that high epithet--unique.  And I suppose that there is
not another occupation in the world that is restricted to the hands of a
sole person.  I can think of no instance of it.  There is more than one
Pope, there is more than one Emperor, there is even more than one living
god, walking upon the earth and worshiped in all sincerity by large
populations of men.  I have seen and talked with two of these Beings
myself in India, and I have the autograph of one of them.  It can come
good, by and by, I reckon, if I attach it to a "permit."

Approaching Adelaide we dismounted from the train, as the French say, and
were driven in an open carriage over the hills and along their slopes to
the city.  It was an excursion of an hour or two, and the charm of it
could not be overstated, I think.  The road wound around gaps and gorges,
and offered all varieties of scenery and prospect--mountains, crags,
country homes, gardens, forests--color, color, color everywhere, and the
air fine and fresh, the skies blue, and not a shred of cloud to mar the
downpour of the brilliant sunshine.  And finally the mountain gateway
opened, and the immense plain lay spread out below and stretching away
into dim distances on every hand, soft and delicate and dainty and
beautiful.  On its near edge reposed the city.

We descended and entered.  There was nothing to remind one of the humble
capital, of buts and sheds of the long-vanished day of the land-boom.
No, this was a modern city, with wide streets, compactly built; with fine
homes everywhere, embowered in foliage and flowers, and with imposing
masses of public buildings nobly grouped and architecturally beautiful.

There was prosperity, in the air; for another boom was on.  Providence,
desiring to show especial regard for the neighboring colony on the west
called Western Australia--and exhibit a loving interest in its welfare
which should certify to all nations the recognition of that colony's
conspicuous righteousness and distinguished well-deserving, had recently
conferred upon it that majestic treasury of golden riches, Coolgardie;
and now South Australia had gone around the corner and taken it, giving
thanks.  Everything comes to him who is patient and good, and waits.

But South Australia deserves much, for apparently she is a hospitable
home for every alien who chooses to come; and for his religion, too.
She has a population, as per the latest census, of only 320,000-odd, and
yet her varieties of religion indicate the presence within her borders of
samples of people from pretty nearly every part of the globe you can
think of.  Tabulated, these varieties of religion make a remarkable show.
One would have to go far to find its match.  I copy here this
cosmopolitan curiosity, and it comes from the published census:

Church of England,........... 89,271
Roman Catholic,.............. 47,179
Wesleyan,.................... 49,159
Lutheran,.................... 23,328
Presbyterian,................ 18,206
Congregationalist,........... 11,882
Bible Christian,............. 15,762
Primitive Methodist,......... 11,654
Baptist,..................... 17,547
Christian Brethren,..........    465
Methodist New Connexion,.....     39
Unitarian,...................    688
Church of Christ,............  3,367
Society of Friends,..........    100
Salvation Army,..............  4,356
New Jerusalem Church,........    168
Jews,........................    840
Protestants (undefined),.....  6,532
Mohammedans,.................    299
Confucians, etc.,............  3,884
Other religions,.............  1,719
Object,......................  6,940
Not stated,..................  8,046

Total,.......................320,431


The item in the above list "Other religions" includes the following as
returned:

Agnostics,
Atheists,
Believers in Christ,
Buddhists,
Calvinists,
Christadelphians,
Christians,
Christ's Chapel,
Christian Israelites,
Christian Socialists,
Church of God,
Cosmopolitans,
Deists,
Evangelists,
Exclusive Brethren,
Free Church,
Free Methodists,
Freethinkers,
Followers of Christ,
Gospel Meetings,
Greek Church,
Infidels,
Maronites,
Memnonists,
Moravians,
Mormons,
Naturalists,
Orthodox,
Others (indefinite),
Pagans,
Pantheists,
Plymouth Brethren,
Rationalists,
Reformers,
Secularists,
Seventh-day Adventists,
Shaker,
Shintoists,
Spiritualists,
Theosophists,
Town (City) Mission,
Welsh Church,
Huguenot,
Hussite,
Zoroastrians,
Zwinglian,


About 64 roads to the other world.  You see how healthy the religious
atmosphere is.  Anything can live in it.  Agnostics, Atheists,
Freethinkers, Infidels, Mormons, Pagans, Indefinites they are all there.
And all the big sects of the world can do more than merely live in it:
they can spread, flourish, prosper.  All except the Spiritualists and the
Theosophists.  That is the most curious feature of this curious table.
What is the matter with the specter?  Why do they puff him away?  He is a
welcome toy everywhere else in the world.




CHAPTER XIX.

Pity is for the living, Envy is for the dead.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The successor of the sheet-iron hamlet of the mangrove marshes has that
other Australian specialty, the Botanical Gardens.  We cannot have these
paradises.  The best we could do would be to cover a vast acreage under
glass and apply steam heat.  But it would be inadequate, the lacks would
still be so great: the confined sense, the sense of suffocation, the
atmospheric dimness, the sweaty heat--these would all be there, in place
of the Australian openness to the sky, the sunshine and the breeze.
Whatever will grow under glass with us will flourish rampantly out of
doors in Australia.--[The greatest heat in Victoria, that there is an
authoritative record of, was at Sandhurst, in January, 1862.  The
thermometer then registered 117 degrees in the shade.  In January, 1880,
the heat at Adelaide, South Australia, was 172 degrees in the sun.]

When the white man came the continent was nearly as poor, in variety of
vegetation, as the desert of Sahara; now it has everything that grows on
the earth.  In fact, not Australia only, but all Australasia has levied
tribute upon the flora of the rest of the world; and wherever one goes
the results appear, in gardens private and public, in the woodsy walls of
the highways, and in even the forests.  If you see a curious or beautiful
tree or bush or flower, and ask about it, the people, answering, usually
name a foreign country as the place of its origin--India, Africa, Japan,
China, England, America, Java, Sumatra, New Guinea, Polynesia, and so on.

In the Zoological Gardens of Adelaide I saw the only laughing jackass
that ever showed any disposition to be courteous to me.  This one opened
his head wide and laughed like a demon; or like a maniac who was consumed
with humorous scorn over a cheap and degraded pun.  It was a very human
laugh.  If he had been out of sight I could have believed that the
laughter came from a man.  It is an odd-looking bird, with a head and
beak that are much too large for its body.  In time man will exterminate
the rest of the wild creatures of Australia, but this one will probably
survive, for man is his friend and lets him alone.  Man always has a good
reason for his charities towards wild things, human or animal when he has
any.  In this case the bird is spared because he kills snakes.  If L. J.
he will not kill all of them.

In that garden I also saw the wild Australian dog--the dingo.  He was a
beautiful creature--shapely, graceful, a little wolfish in some of his
aspects, but with a most friendly eye and sociable disposition.  The
dingo is not an importation; he was present in great force when the
whites first came to the continent.  It may be that he is the oldest dog
in the universe; his origin, his descent, the place where his ancestors
first appeared, are as unknown and as untraceable as are the camel's.
He is the most precious dog in the world, for he does not bark.  But in
an evil hour he got to raiding the sheep-runs to appease his hunger, and
that sealed his doom.  He is hunted, now, just as if he were a wolf.
He has been sentenced to extermination, and the sentence will be carried
out.  This is all right, and not objectionable.  The world was made for
man--the white man.

South Australia is confusingly named.  All of the colonies have a
southern exposure except one--Queensland.  Properly speaking, South
Australia is middle Australia.  It extends straight up through the center
of the continent like the middle board in a center-table.  It is 2,000
miles high, from south to north, and about a third as wide.  A wee little
spot down in its southeastern corner contains eight or nine-tenths of its
population; the other one or two-tenths are elsewhere--as elsewhere as
they could be in the United States with all the country between Denver
and Chicago, and Canada and the Gulf of Mexico to scatter over.  There is
plenty of room.

A telegraph line stretches straight up north through that 2,000 miles of
wilderness and desert from Adelaide to Port Darwin on the edge of the
upper ocean.  South Australia built the line; and did it in 1871-2 when
her population numbered only 185,000.  It was a great work; for there
were no roads, no paths; 1,300 miles of the route had been traversed but
once before by white men; provisions, wire, and poles had to be carried
over immense stretches of desert; wells had to be dug along the route to
supply the men and cattle with water.

A cable had been previously laid from Port Darwin to Java and thence to
India, and there was telegraphic communication with England from India.
And so, if Adelaide could make connection with Port Darwin it meant
connection with the whole world.  The enterprise succeeded.  One could
watch the London markets daily, now; the profit to the wool-growers of
Australia was instant and enormous.

A telegram from Melbourne to San Francisco covers approximately 20,000
miles--the equivalent of five-sixths of the way around the globe.  It has
to halt along the way a good many times and be repeated; still, but
little time is lost.  These halts, and the distances between them, are
here tabulated.--[From "Round the Empire." (George R.  Parkin), all but
the last two.]

                              Miles.

Melbourne-Mount Gambier,.......300
Mount Gambier-Adelaide,........270
Adelaide-Port Augusta,.........200
Port Augusta-Alice Springs...1,036
Alice Springs-Port Darwin,.....898
Port Darwin-Banjoewangie,... 1,150
Banjoewangie-Batavia,..........480
Batavia-Singapore,.............553
Singapore-Penang,..............399
Penang-Madras,...............1,280
Madras-Bombay,.................650
Bombay-Aden,.................1,662
Aden-Suez,...................1,346
Suez-Alexandria,...............224
Alexandria-Malta,..............828
Malta-Gibraltar,.............1,008
Gibraltar-Falmouth,..........1,061
Falmouth-London,...............350
London-New York,.............2,500
New York-San Francisco,......3,500


I was in Adelaide again, some months later, and saw the multitudes gather
in the neighboring city of Glenelg to commemorate the Reading of the
Proclamation--in 1836--which founded the Province.  If I have at any time
called it a Colony, I withdraw the discourtesy.  It is not a Colony, it
is a Province; and officially so.  Moreover, it is the only one so named
in Australasia.  There was great enthusiasm; it was the Province's
national holiday, its Fourth of July, so to speak.  It is the pre-eminent
holiday; and that is saying much, in a country where they seem to have a
most un-English mania for holidays.  Mainly they are workingmen's
holidays; for in South Australia the workingman is sovereign; his vote is
the desire of the politician--indeed, it is the very breath of the
politician's being; the parliament exists to deliver the will of the
workingman, and the government exists to execute it.  The workingman is a
great power everywhere in Australia, but South Australia is his paradise.
He has had a hard time in this world, and has earned a paradise.  I am
glad he has found it.  The holidays there are frequent enough to be
bewildering to the stranger.  I tried to get the hang of the system, but
was not able to do it.

You have seen that the Province is tolerant, religious-wise.  It is so
politically, also.  One of the speakers at the Commemoration banquet--the
Minister of Public Works-was an American, born and reared in New England.
There is nothing narrow about the Province, politically, or in any other
way that I know of.  Sixty-four religions and a Yankee cabinet minister.
No amount of horse-racing can damn this community.

The mean temperature of the Province is 62 deg.  The death-rate is 13 in
the 1,000--about half what it is in the city of New York, I should think,
and New York is a healthy city.  Thirteen is the death-rate for the
average citizen of the Province, but there seems to be no death-rate for
the old people.  There were people at the Commemoration banquet who could
remember Cromwell.  There were six of them.  These Old Settlers had all
been present at the original Reading of the Proclamation, in 1536.  They
showed signs of the blightings and blastings of time, in their outward
aspect, but they were young within; young and cheerful, and ready to
talk; ready to talk, and talk all you wanted; in their turn, and out of
it.  They were down for six speeches, and they made 42.  The governor and
the cabinet and the mayor were down for 42 speeches, and they made 6.
They have splendid grit, the Old Settlers, splendid staying power.  But
they do not hear well, and when they see the mayor going through motions
which they recognize as the introducing of a speaker, they think they are
the one, and they all get up together, and begin to respond, in the most
animated way; and the more the mayor gesticulates, and shouts "Sit down!
Sit down!" the more they take it for applause, and the more excited and
reminiscent and enthusiastic they get; and next, when they see the whole
house laughing and crying, three of them think it is about the bitter
old-time hardships they are describing, and the other three think the
laughter is caused by the jokes they have been uncorking--jokes of the
vintage of 1836--and then the way they do go on!  And finally when ushers
come and plead, and beg, and gently and reverently crowd them down into
their seats, they say, "Oh, I'm not tired--I could bang along a week!"
and they sit there looking simple and childlike, and gentle, and proud of
their oratory, and wholly unconscious of what is going on at the other
end of the room.  And so one of the great dignitaries gets a chance, and
begins his carefully prepared speech, impressively and with solemnity--

     "when we, now great and prosperous and powerful, bow our heads in
     reverent wonder in the contemplation of those sublimities of energy,
     of wisdom, of forethought, of----"

Up come the immortal six again, in a body, with a joyous "Hey, I've
thought of another one!" and at it they go, with might and main, hearing
not a whisper of the pandemonium that salutes them, but taking all the
visible violences for applause, as before, and hammering joyously away
till the imploring ushers pray them into their seats again.  And a pity,
too; for those lovely old boys did so enjoy living their heroic youth
over, in these days of their honored antiquity; and certainly the things
they had to tell were usually worth the telling and the hearing.

It was a stirring spectacle; stirring in more ways than one, for it was
amazingly funny, and at the same time deeply pathetic; for they had seen
so much, these time-worn veterans, end had suffered so much; and had
built so strongly and well, and laid the foundations of their
commonwealth so deep, in liberty and tolerance; and had lived to see the
structure rise to such state and dignity and hear themselves so praised
for honorable work.

One of these old gentlemen told me some things of interest afterward;
things about the aboriginals, mainly.  He thought them intelligent--
remarkably so in some directions--and he said that along with their
unpleasant qualities they had some exceedingly good ones; and he
considered it a great pity that the race had died out.  He instanced
their invention of the boomerang and the "weet-weet" as evidences of
their brightness; and as another evidence of it he said he had never seen
a white man who had cleverness enough to learn to do the miracles with
those two toys that the aboriginals achieved.  He said that even the
smartest whites had been obliged to confess that they could not learn the
trick of the boomerang in perfection; that it had possibilities which
they could not master.  The white man could not control its motions,
could not make it obey him; but the aboriginal could.  He told me some
wonderful things--some almost incredible things--which he had seen the
blacks do with the boomerang and the weet-weet.  They have been confirmed
to me since by other early settlers and by trustworthy books.

It is contended--and may be said to be conceded--that the boomerang was
known to certain savage tribes in Europe in Roman times.  In support of
this, Virgil and two other Roman poets are quoted.  It is also contended
that it was known to the ancient Egyptians.

One of two things either some one with is then apparent: a boomerang
arrived in Australia in the days of antiquity before European knowledge
of the thing had been lost, or the Australian aboriginal reinvented it.
It will take some time to find out which of these two propositions is the
fact.  But there is no hurry.




CHAPTER XX.

It is by the goodness of God that in our country we have those three
unspeakably precious things: freedom of speech, freedom of conscience,
and the prudence never to practice either of them.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

From diary:

Mr. G.  called.  I had not seen him since Nauheim, Germany--several years
ago; the time that the cholera broke out at Hamburg.  We talked of the
people we had known there, or had casually met; and G. said:

"Do you remember my introducing you to an earl--the Earl of C.?"

"Yes.  That was the last time I saw you.  You and he were in a carriage,
just starting--belated--for the train.  I remember it."

"I remember it too, because of a thing which happened then which I was
not looking for.  He had told me a while before, about a remarkable and
interesting Californian whom he had met and who was a friend of yours,
and said that if he should ever meet you he would ask you for some
particulars about that Californian.  The subject was not mentioned that
day at Nauheim, for we were hurrying away, and there was no time; but the
thing that surprised me was this: when I induced you, you said, 'I am
glad to meet your lordship gain.'  The I again' was the surprise.  He is
a little hard of hearing, and didn't catch that word, and I thought you
hadn't intended that he should.  As we drove off I had only time to say,
'Why, what do you know about him?' and I understood you to say, 'Oh,
nothing, except that he is the quickest judge of----'  Then we were gone,
and I didn't get the rest.  I wondered what it was that he was such a
quick judge of.  I have thought of it many times since, and still
wondered what it could be.  He and I talked it over, but could not guess
it out.  He thought it must be fox-hounds or horses, for he is a good
judge of those--no one is a better.  But you couldn't know that, because
you didn't know him; you had mistaken him for some one else; it must be
that, he said, because he knew you had never met him before.  And of
course you hadn't had you?"

"Yes, I had."

"Is that so?  Where?"

"At a fox-hunt, in England."

"How curious that is.  Why, he hadn't the least recollection of it.  Had
you any conversation with him?"

"Some--yes."

"Well, it left not the least impression upon him.  What did you talk
about?"

"About the fox.  I think that was all."

"Why, that would interest him; that ought to have left an impression.
What did he talk about?"

"The fox."

It's very curious.  I don't understand it.  Did what he said leave an
impression upon you?"

"Yes.  It showed me that he was a quick judge of--however, I will tell
you all about it, then you will understand.  It was a quarter of a
century ago 1873 or '74.  I had an American friend in London named F.,
who was fond of hunting, and his friends the Blanks invited him and me to
come out to a hunt and be their guests at their country place.  In the
morning the mounts were provided, but when I saw the horses I changed my
mind and asked permission to walk.  I had never seen an English hunter
before, and it seemed to me that I could hunt a fox safer on the ground.
I had always been diffident about horses, anyway, even those of the
common altitudes, and I did not feel competent to hunt on a horse that
went on stilts.  So then Mrs. Blank came to my help and said I could go
with her in the dog-cart and we would drive to a place she knew of, and
there we should have a good glimpse of the hunt as it went by.

"When we got to that place I got out and went and leaned my elbows on a
low stone wall which enclosed a turfy and beautiful great field with
heavy wood on all its sides except ours.  Mrs. Blank sat in the dog-cart
fifty yards away, which was as near as she could get with the vehicle.
I was full of interest, for I had never seen a fox-hunt.  I waited,
dreaming and imagining, in the deep stillness and impressive tranquility
which reigned in that retired spot.  Presently, from away off in the
forest on the left, a mellow bugle-note came floating; then all of a
sudden a multitude of dogs burst out of that forest and went tearing by
and disappeared in the forest on the right; there was a pause, and then
a cloud of horsemen in black caps and crimson coats plunged out of the
left-hand forest and went flaming across the field like a prairie-fire,
a stirring sight to see.  There was one man ahead of the rest, and he
came spurring straight at me.  He was fiercely excited.  It was fine to
see him ride; he was a master horseman.  He came like, a storm till he
was within seven feet of me, where I was leaning on the wall, then he
stood his horse straight up in the air on his hind toe-nails, and shouted
like a demon:

"'Which way'd the fox go?'

"I didn't much like the tone, but I did not let on; for he was excited,
you know.  But I was calm; so I said softly, and without acrimony:

"'Which fox?'

"It seemed to anger him.  I don't know why; and he thundered out:

"'WHICH fox?  Why, THE fox?  Which way did the FOX go?'

"I said, with great gentleness--even argumentatively:

"'If you could be a little more definite--a little less vague--because I
am a stranger, and there are many foxes, as you will know even better
than I, and unless I know which one it is that you desire to identify,
and----'

"'You're certainly the damdest idiot that has escaped in a thousand
years!' and he snatched his great horse around as easily as I would
snatch a cat, and was away like a hurricane.  A very excitable man.

"I went back to Mrs. Blank, and she was excited, too--oh, all alive.  She
said:

"'He spoke to you!--didn't he?'

"'Yes, it is what happened.'

"'I knew it! I couldn't hear what he said, but I knew be spoke to you! Do
you know who it was?  It was Lord C., and he is Master of the Buckhounds!
Tell me--what do you think of him?'

"'Him?  Well, for sizing-up a stranger, he's got the most sudden and
accurate judgment of any man I ever saw.'

"It pleased her.  I thought it would."

G. got away from Nauheim just in time to escape being shut in by the
quarantine-bars on the frontiers; and so did we, for we left the next
day.  But G. had a great deal of trouble in getting by the Italian
custom-house, and we should have fared likewise but for the
thoughtfulness of our consul-general in Frankfort.  He introduced me to
the Italian consul-general, and I brought away from that consulate a
letter which made our way smooth.  It was a dozen lines merely commending
me in a general way to the courtesies of servants in his Italian
Majesty's service, but it was more powerful than it looked.  In addition
to a raft of ordinary baggage, we had six or eight trunks which were
filled exclusively with dutiable stuff--household goods purchased in
Frankfort for use in Florence, where we had taken a house.  I was going
to ship these through by express; but at the last moment an order went
throughout Germany forbidding the moving of any parcels by train unless
the owner went with them.  This was a bad outlook.  We must take these
things along, and the delay sure to be caused by the examination of them
in the custom-house might lose us our train.  I imagined all sorts of
terrors, and enlarged them steadily as we approached the Italian
frontier.  We were six in number, clogged with all that baggage, and I
was courier for the party the most incapable one they ever employed.

We arrived, and pressed with the crowd into the immense custom-house, and
the usual worries began; everybody crowding to the counter and begging to
have his baggage examined first, and all hands clattering and chattering
at once.  It seemed to me that I could do nothing; it would be better to
give it all up and go away and leave the baggage.  I couldn't speak the
language; I should never accomplish anything.  Just then a tall handsome
man in a fine uniform was passing by and I knew he must be the station-
master--and that reminded me of my letter.  I ran to him and put it into
his hands.  He took it out of the envelope, and the moment his eye caught
the royal coat of arms printed at its top, he took off his cap and made a
beautiful bow to me, and said in English:

"Which is your baggage?  Please show it to me."

I showed him the mountain.  Nobody was disturbing it; nobody was
interested in it; all the family's attempts to get attention to it had
failed--except in the case of one of the trunks containing the dutiable
goods.  It was just being opened.  My officer said:

"There, let that alone! Lock it.  Now chalk it.  Chalk all of the lot.
Now please come and show the hand-baggage."

He plowed through the waiting crowd, I following, to the counter, and he
gave orders again, in his emphatic military way:

"Chalk these.  Chalk all of them."

Then he took off his cap and made that beautiful bow again, and went his
way.  By this time these attentions had attracted the wonder of that acre
of passengers, and the whisper had gone around that the royal family were
present getting their baggage chalked; and as we passed down in review on
our way to the door, I was conscious of a pervading atmosphere of envy
which gave me deep satisfaction.

But soon there was an accident.  My overcoat pockets were stuffed with
German cigars and linen packages of American smoking tobacco, and a
porter was following us around with this overcoat on his arm, and
gradually getting it upside down.  Just as I, in the rear of my family,
moved by the sentinels at the door, about three hatfuls of the tobacco
tumbled out on the floor.  One of the soldiers pounced upon it, gathered
it up in his arms, pointed back whence I had come, and marched me ahead
of him past that long wall of passengers again--he chattering and
exulting like a devil, they smiling in peaceful joy, and I trying to look
as if my pride was not hurt, and as if I did not mind being brought to
shame before these pleased people who had so lately envied me.  But at
heart I was cruelly humbled.

When I had been marched two-thirds of the long distance and the misery of
it was at the worst, the stately station-master stepped out from
somewhere, and the soldier left me and darted after him and overtook him;
and I could see by the soldier's excited gestures that be was betraying
to him the whole shabby business.  The station-master was plainly very
angry.  He came striding down toward me, and when he was come near he
began to pour out a stream of indignant Italian; then suddenly took off
his hat and made that beautiful bow and said:

"Oh, it is you! I beg a thousands pardons!  This idiot here---" He turned
to the exulting soldier and burst out with a flood of white-hot Italian
lava, and the next moment he was bowing, and the soldier and I were
moving in procession again--he in the lead and ashamed, this time, I with
my chin up.  And so we marched by the crowd of fascinated passengers, and
I went forth to the train with the honors of war.  Tobacco and all.




CHAPTER XXI.

Man will do many things to get himself loved, he will do all things to
get himself envied.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Before I saw Australia I had never heard of the "weet-weet" at all.
I met but few men who had seen it thrown--at least I met but few who
mentioned having seen it thrown.  Roughly described, it is a fat wooden
cigar with its butt-end fastened to a flexible twig.  The whole thing is
only a couple of feet long, and weighs less than two ounces.  This
feather--so to call it--is not thrown through the air, but is flung with
an underhanded throw and made to strike the ground a little way in front
of the thrower; then it glances and makes a long skip; glances again,
skips again, and again and again, like the flat stone which a boy sends
skating over the water.  The water is smooth, and the stone has a good
chance; so a strong man may make it travel fifty or seventy-five yards;
but the weet-weet has no such good chance, for it strikes sand, grass,
and earth in its course.  Yet an expert aboriginal has sent it a measured
distance of two hundred and twenty yards.  It would have gone even
further but it encountered rank ferns and underwood on its passage and
they damaged its speed.  Two hundred and twenty yards; and so weightless
a toy--a mouse on the end of a bit of wire, in effect; and not sailing
through the accommodating air, but encountering grass and sand and stuff
at every jump.  It looks wholly impossible; but Mr. Brough Smyth saw the
feat and did the measuring, and set down the facts in his book about
aboriginal life, which he wrote by command of the Victorian Government.

What is the secret of the feat?  No one explains.  It cannot be physical
strength, for that could not drive such a feather-weight any distance.
It must be art.  But no one explains what the art of it is; nor how it
gets around that law of nature which says you shall not throw any two-
ounce thing 220 yards, either through the air or bumping along the
ground.  Rev. J. G. Woods says:

"The distance to which the weet-weet or kangaroo-rat can be thrown is
truly astonishing.  I have seen an Australian stand at one side of
Kennington Oval and throw the kangaroo rat completely across it." (Width
of Kensington Oval not stated.)  "It darts through the air with the sharp
and menacing hiss of a rifle-ball, its greatest height from the ground
being some seven or eight feet .  .  .  .  .  .  When properly thrown it
looks just like a living animal leaping along .  .  .  .  .  .  Its
movements have a wonderful resemblance to the long leaps of a kangaroo-
rat fleeing in alarm, with its long tail trailing behind it."

The Old Settler said that he had seen distances made by the weet-weet, in
the early days, which almost convinced him that it was as extraordinary
an instrument as the boomerang.

There must have been a large distribution of acuteness among those naked
skinny aboriginals, or they couldn't have been such unapproachable
trackers and boomerangers and weet-weeters.  It must have been race-
aversion that put upon them a good deal of the low-rate intellectual
reputation which they bear and have borne this long time in the world's
estimate of them.

They were lazy--always lazy.  Perhaps that was their trouble.  It is a
killing defect.  Surely they could have invented and built a competent
house, but they didn't.  And they could have invented and developed the
agricultural arts, but they didn't.  They went naked and houseless, and
lived on fish and grubs and worms and wild fruits, and were just plain
savages, for all their smartness.

With a country as big as the United States to live and multiply in, and
with no epidemic diseases among them till the white man came with those
and his other appliances of civilization, it is quite probable that there
was never a day in his history when he could muster 100,000 of his race
in all Australia.  He diligently and deliberately kept population down by
infanticide--largely; but mainly by certain other methods.  He did not
need to practise these artificialities any more after the white man came.
The white man knew ways of keeping down population which were worth
several of his.  The white man knew ways of reducing a native population
80 percent. in 20 years.  The native had never seen anything as fine as
that before.

For example, there is the case of the country now called Victoria--a
country eighty times as large as Rhode Island, as I have already said.
By the best official guess there were 4,500 aboriginals in it when the
whites came along in the middle of the 'Thirties.  Of these, 1,000 lived
in Gippsland, a patch of territory the size of fifteen or sixteen Rhode
Islands: they did not diminish as fast as some of the other communities;
indeed, at the end of forty years there were still 200 of them left.  The
Geelong tribe diminished more satisfactorily: from 173 persons it faded
to 34 in twenty years; at the end of another twenty the tribe numbered
one person altogether.  The two Melbourne tribes could muster almost 300
when the white man came; they could muster but twenty, thirty-seven years
later, in 1875.  In that year there were still odds and ends of tribes
scattered about the colony of Victoria, but I was told that natives of
full blood are very scarce now.  It is said that the aboriginals continue
in some force in the huge territory called Queensland.

The early whites were not used to savages.  They could not understand the
primary law of savage life: that if a man do you a wrong, his whole tribe
is responsible--each individual of it--and you may take your change out
of any individual of it, without bothering to seek out the guilty one.
When a white killed an aboriginal, the tribe applied the ancient law, and
killed the first white they came across.  To the whites this was a
monstrous thing.  Extermination seemed to be the proper medicine for such
creatures as this.  They did not kill all the blacks, but they promptly
killed enough of them to make their own persons safe.  From the dawn of
civilization down to this day the white man has always used that very
precaution.  Mrs. Campbell Praed lived in Queensland, as a child, in the
early days, and in her "Sketches of Australian life," we get informing
pictures of the early struggles of the white and the black to reform each
other.

Speaking of pioneer days in the mighty wilderness of Queensland, Mrs.
Praed says:

     "At first the natives retreated before the whites; and, except that
     they every now and then speared a beast in one of the herds, gave
     little cause for uneasiness.  But, as the number of squatters
     increased, each one taking up miles of country and bringing two or
     three men in his train, so that shepherds' huts and stockmen's camps
     lay far apart, and defenseless in the midst of hostile tribes, the
     Blacks' depredations became more frequent and murder was no unusual
     event.

     "The loneliness of the Australian bush can hardly be painted in
     words.  Here extends mile after mile of primeval forest where
     perhaps foot of white man has never trod--interminable vistas where
     the eucalyptus trees rear their lofty trunks and spread forth their
     lanky limbs, from which the red gum oozes and hangs in fantastic
     pendants like crimson stalactites; ravines along the sides of which
     the long-bladed grass grows rankly; level untimbered plains
     alternating with undulating tracts of pasture, here and there broken
     by a stony ridge, steep gully, or dried-up creek.  All wild, vast
     and desolate; all the same monotonous gray coloring, except where
     the wattle, when in blossom, shows patches of feathery gold, or a
     belt of scrub lies green, glossy, and impenetrable as Indian jungle.

     "The solitude seems intensified by the strange sounds of reptiles,
     birds, and insects, and by the absence of larger creatures; of which
     in the day-time, the only audible signs are the stampede of a herd
     of kangaroo, or the rustle of a wallabi, or a dingo stirring the
     grass as it creeps to its lair.  But there are the whirring of
     locusts, the demoniac chuckle of the laughing jack-ass, the
     screeching of cockatoos and parrots, the hissing of the frilled
     lizard, and the buzzing of innumerable insects hidden under the
     dense undergrowth. And then at night, the melancholy wailing of the
     curlews, the dismal howling of dingoes, the discordant croaking of
     tree-frogs, might well shake the nerves of the solitary watcher."

That is the theater for the drama.  When you comprehend one or two other
details, you will perceive how well suited for trouble it was, and how
loudly it invited it.  The cattlemen's stations were scattered over that
profound wilderness miles and miles apart--at each station half a dozen
persons.  There was a plenty of cattle, the black natives were always
ill-nourished and hungry.  The land belonged to them.  The whites had not
bought it, and couldn't buy it; for the tribes had no chiefs, nobody in
authority, nobody competent to sell and convey; and the tribes themselves
had no comprehension of the idea of transferable ownership of land.  The
ousted owners were despised by the white interlopers, and this opinion
was not hidden under a bushel.  More promising materials for a tragedy
could not have been collated.  Let Mrs. Praed speak:

     "At Nie station, one dark night, the unsuspecting hut-keeper,
     having, as he believed, secured himself against assault, was lying
     wrapped in his blankets sleeping profoundly.  The Blacks crept
     stealthily down the chimney and battered in his skull while he
     slept."

One could guess the whole drama from that little text.  The curtain was
up.  It would not fall until the mastership of one party or the other was
determined--and permanently:

     "There was treachery on both sides.  The Blacks killed the Whites
     when they found them defenseless, and the Whites slew the Blacks in
     a wholesale and promiscuous fashion which offended against my
     childish sense of justice.

     "They were regarded as little above the level of brutes, and in some
     cases were destroyed like vermin.

     "Here is an instance.  A squatter, whose station was surrounded by
     Blacks, whom he suspected to be hostile and from whom he feared an
     attack, parleyed with them from his house-door.  He told them it was
     Christmas-time--a time at which all men, black or white, feasted;
     that there were flour, sugar-plums, good things in plenty in the
     store, and that he would make for them such a pudding as they had
     never dreamed of--a great pudding of which all might eat and be
     filled.  The Blacks listened and were lost.  The pudding was made
     and distributed.  Next morning there was howling in the camp, for it
     had been sweetened with sugar and arsenic!"

The white man's spirit was right, but his method was wrong.  His spirit
was the spirit which the civilized white has always exhibited toward the
savage, but the use of poison was a departure from custom.  True, it was
merely a technical departure, not a real one; still, it was a departure,
and therefore a mistake, in my opinion.  It was better, kinder, swifter,
and much more humane than a number of the methods which have been
sanctified by custom, but that does not justify its employment.  That is,
it does not wholly justify it.  Its unusual nature makes it stand out and
attract an amount of attention which it is not entitled to.  It takes
hold upon morbid imaginations and they work it up into a sort of
exhibition of cruelty, and this smirches the good name of our
civilization, whereas one of the old harsher methods would have had no
such effect because usage has made those methods familiar to us and
innocent.  In many countries we have chained the savage and starved him
to death; and this we do not care for, because custom has inured us to
it; yet a quick death by poison is loving-kindness to it.  In many
countries we have burned the savage at the stake; and this we do not care
for, because custom has inured us to it; yet a quick death is loving-
kindness to it.  In more than one country we have hunted the savage and
his little children and their mother with dogs and guns through the woods
and swamps for an afternoon's sport, and filled the region with happy
laughter over their sprawling and stumbling flight, and their wild
supplications for mercy; but this method we do not mind, because custom
has inured us to it; yet a quick death by poison is loving-kindness to
it.  In many countries we have taken the savage's land from him, and made
him our slave, and lashed him every day, and broken his pride, and made
death his only friend, and overworked him till he dropped in his tracks;
and this we do not care for, because custom has inured us to it; yet a
quick death by poison is loving-kindness to it.  In the Matabeleland
today--why, there we are confining ourselves to sanctified custom, we
Rhodes-Beit millionaires in South Africa and Dukes in London; and nobody
cares, because we are used to the old holy customs, and all we ask is
that no notice-inviting new ones shall be intruded upon the attention of
our comfortable consciences.  Mrs. Praed says of the poisoner, "That
squatter deserves to have his name handed down to the contempt of
posterity."

I am sorry to hear her say that.  I myself blame him for one thing, and
severely, but I stop there.  I blame him for, the indiscretion of
introducing a novelty which was calculated to attract attention to our
civilization.  There was no occasion to do that.  It was his duty, and it
is every loyal man's duty to protect that heritage in every way he can;
and the best way to do that is to attract attention elsewhere.  The
squatter's judgment was bad--that is plain; but his heart was right.  He
is almost the only pioneering representative of civilization in history
who has risen above the prejudices of his caste and his heredity and
tried to introduce the element of mercy into the superior race's dealings
with the savage.  His name is lost, and it is a pity; for it deserves to
be handed down to posterity with homage and reverence.

This paragraph is from a London journal:

     "To learn what France is doing to spread the blessings of
     civilization in her distant dependencies we may turn with advantage
     to New Caledonia.  With a view to attracting free settlers to that
     penal colony, M. Feillet, the Governor, forcibly expropriated the
     Kanaka cultivators from the best of their plantations, with a
     derisory compensation, in spite of the protests of the Council
     General of the island.  Such immigrants as could be induced to cross
     the seas thus found themselves in possession of thousands of coffee,
     cocoa, banana, and bread-fruit trees, the raising of which had cost
     the wretched natives years of toil whilst the latter had a few five-
     franc pieces to spend in the liquor stores of Noumea."

You observe the combination?  It is robbery, humiliation, and slow, slow
murder, through poverty and the white man's whisky.  The savage's gentle
friend, the savage's noble friend, the only magnanimous and unselfish
friend the savage has ever had, was not there with the merciful swift
release of his poisoned pudding.

There are many humorous things in the world; among them the white man's
notion that he is less savage than the other savages.--[See Chapter on
Tasmania, post.]




CHAPTER XXII.

Nothing is so ignorant as a man's left hand, except a lady's watch.

                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

You notice that Mrs. Praed knows her art.  She can place a thing before
you so that you can see it.  She is not alone in that.  Australia is
fertile in writers whose books are faithful mirrors of the life of the
country and of its history.  The materials were surprisingly rich, both
in quality and in mass, and Marcus Clarke, Ralph Boldrewood, Cordon,
Kendall, and the others, have built out of them a brilliant and vigorous
literature, and one which must endure.  Materials--there is no end to
them!  Why, a literature might be made out of the aboriginal all by
himself, his character and ways are so freckled with varieties--varieties
not staled by familiarity, but new to us.  You do not need to invent any
picturesquenesses; whatever you want in that line he can furnish you; and
they will not be fancies and doubtful, but realities and authentic.  In
his history, as preserved by the white man's official records, he is
everything--everything that a human creature can be.  He covers the
entire ground.  He is a coward--there are a thousand fact to prove it.
He is brave--there are a thousand facts to prove it.  He is treacherous--
oh, beyond imagination! he is faithful, loyal, true--the white man's
records supply you with a harvest of instances of it that are noble,
worshipful, and pathetically beautiful.  He kills the starving stranger
who comes begging for food and shelter there is proof of it.  He succors,
and feeds, and guides to safety, to-day, the lost stranger who fired on
him only yesterday--there is proof of it.  He takes his reluctant bride
by force, he courts her with a club, then loves her faithfully through a
long life--it is of record.  He gathers to himself another wife by the
same processes, beats and bangs her as a daily diversion, and by and by
lays down his life in defending her from some outside harm--it is of
record.  He will face a hundred hostiles to rescue one of his children,
and will kill another of his children because the family is large enough
without it.  His delicate stomach turns, at certain details of the white
man's food; but he likes over-ripe fish, and brazed dog, and cat, and
rat, and will eat his own uncle with relish.  He is a sociable animal,
yet he turns aside and hides behind his shield when his mother-in-law
goes by.  He is childishly afraid of ghosts and other trivialities that
menace his soul, but dread of physical pain is a weakness which he is not
acquainted with.  He knows all the great and many of the little
constellations, and has names for them; he has a symbol-writing by means
of which he can convey messages far and wide among the tribes; he has a
correct eye for form and expression, and draws a good picture; he can
track a fugitive by delicate traces which the white man's eye cannot
discern, and by methods which the finest white intelligence cannot
master; he makes a missile which science itself cannot duplicate without
the model--if with it; a missile whose secret baffled and defeated the
searchings and theorizings of the white mathematicians for seventy years;
and by an art all his own he performs miracles with it which the white
man cannot approach untaught, nor parallel after teaching.  Within
certain limits this savage's intellect is the alertest and the brightest
known to history or tradition; and yet the poor creature was never able
to invent a counting system that would reach above five, nor a vessel
that he could boil water in.  He is the prize-curiosity of all the races.
To all intents and purposes he is dead--in the body; but he has features
that will live in literature.

Mr. Philip Chauncy, an officer of the Victorian Government, contributed
to its archives a report of his personal observations of the aboriginals
which has in it some things which I wish to condense slightly and insert
here.  He speaks of the quickness of their eyes and the accuracy of their
judgment of the direction of approaching missiles as being quite
extraordinary, and of the answering suppleness and accuracy of limb and
muscle in avoiding the missile as being extraordinary also.  He has seen
an aboriginal stand as a target for cricket-balls thrown with great force
ten or fifteen yards, by professional bowlers, and successfully dodge
them or parry them with his shield during about half an hour.  One of
those balls, properly placed, could have killed him; "Yet he depended,
with the utmost self-possession, on the quickness of his eye and his
agility."

The shield was the customary war-shield of his race, and would not be a
protection to you or to me.  It is no broader than a stovepipe, and is
about as long as a man's arm.  The opposing surface is not flat, but
slopes away from the centerline like a boat's bow.  The difficulty about
a cricket-ball that has been thrown with a scientific "twist" is, that it
suddenly changes it course when it is close to its target and comes
straight for the mark when apparently it was going overhead or to one
side.  I should not be able to protect myself from such balls for half-
an-hour, or less.

Mr. Chauncy once saw "a little native man" throw a cricket-ball 119
yards.  This is said to beat the English professional record by thirteen
yards.

We have all seen the circus-man bound into the air from a spring-board
and make a somersault over eight horses standing side by side.  Mr.
Chauncy saw an aboriginal do it over eleven; and was assured that he had
sometimes done it over fourteen.  But what is that to this:

     "I saw the same man leap from the ground, and in going over he
     dipped his head, unaided by his hands, into a hat placed in an
     inverted position on the top of the head of another man sitting
     upright on horseback--both man and horse being of the average size.
     The native landed on the other side of the horse with the hat fairly
     on his head.  The prodigious height of the leap, and the precision
     with which it was taken so as to enable him to dip his head into the
     hat, exceeded any feat of the kind I have ever beheld."

I should think so!  On board a ship lately I saw a young Oxford athlete
run four steps and spring into the air and squirm his hips by a side-
twist over a bar that was five and one-half feet high; but he could not
have stood still and cleared a bar that was four feet high.  I know this,
because I tried it myself.

One can see now where the kangaroo learned its art.

Sir George Grey and Mr. Eyre testify that the natives dug wells fourteen
or fifteen feet deep and two feet in diameter at the bore--dug them in
the sand--wells that were "quite circular, carried straight down, and the
work beautifully executed."

Their tools were their hands and feet.  How did they throw sand out from
such a depth?  How could they stoop down and get it, with only two feet
of space to stoop in?  How did they keep that sand-pipe from caving in
on them?  I do not know.  Still, they did manage those seeming
impossibilities.  Swallowed the sand, may be.

Mr. Chauncy speaks highly of the patience and skill and alert
intelligence of the native huntsman when he is stalking the emu, the
kangaroo, and other game:

     "As he walks through the bush his step is light, elastic, and
     noiseless; every track on the earth catches his keen eye; a leaf, or
     fragment of a stick turned, or a blade of grass recently bent by the
     tread of one of the lower animals, instantly arrests his attention;
     in fact, nothing escapes his quick and powerful sight on the ground,
     in the trees, or in the distance, which may supply him with a meal
     or warn him of danger.  A little examination of the trunk of a tree
     which may be nearly covered with the scratches of opossums ascending
     and descending is sufficient to inform him whether one went up the
     night before without coming down again or not."

Fennimore Cooper lost his chance.  He would have known how to value these
people.  He wouldn't have traded the dullest of them for the brightest
Mohawk he ever invented.

All savages draw outline pictures upon bark; but the resemblances are not
close, and expression is usually lacking.  But the Australian
aboriginal's pictures of animals were nicely accurate in form, attitude,
carriage; and he put spirit into them, and expression.  And his pictures
of white people and natives were pretty nearly as good as his pictures of
the other animals.  He dressed his whites in the fashion of their day,
both the ladies and the gentlemen.  As an untaught wielder of the pencil
it is not likely that he has had his equal among savage people.

His place in art--as to drawing, not color-work--is well up, all things
considered.  His art is not to be classified with savage art at all, but
on a plane two degrees above it and one degree above the lowest plane of
civilized art.  To be exact, his place in art is between Botticelli and
De Maurier.  That is to say, he could not draw as well as De Maurier but
better than Boticelli.  In feeling, he resembles both; also in grouping
and in his preferences in the matter of subjects.  His "corrobboree" of
the Australian wilds reappears in De Maurier's Belgravian ballrooms, with
clothes and the smirk of civilization added; Botticelli's "Spring" is the
"corrobboree" further idealized, but with fewer clothes and more smirk.
And well enough as to intention, but--my word!

The aboriginal can make a fire by friction.  I have tried that.

All savages are able to stand a good deal of physical pain.  The
Australian aboriginal has this quality in a well-developed degree.  Do
not read the following instances if horrors are not pleasant to you.
They were recorded by the Rev. Henry N. Wolloston, of Melbourne, who had
been a surgeon before he became a clergyman:

     1.  "In the summer of 1852 I started on horseback from Albany, King
     George's Sound, to visit at Cape Riche, accompanied by a native on
     foot.  We traveled about forty miles the first day, then camped by a
     water-hole for the night.  After cooking and eating our supper, I
     observed the native, who had said nothing to me on the subject,
     collect the hot embers of the fire together, and deliberately place
     his right foot in the glowing mass for a moment, then suddenly
     withdraw it, stamping on the ground and uttering a long-drawn
     guttural sound of mingled pain and satisfaction.  This operation he
     repeated several times.  On my inquiring the meaning of his strange
     conduct, he only said, 'Me carpenter-make 'em' ('I am mending my
     foot'), and then showed me his charred great toe, the nail of which
     had been torn off by a tea-tree stump, in which it had been caught
     during the journey, and the pain of which he had borne with stoical
     composure until the evening, when he had an opportunity of
     cauterizing the wound in the primitive manner above described."

And he proceeded on the journey the next day, "as if nothing had
happened"--and walked thirty miles.  It was a strange idea, to keep a
surgeon and then do his own surgery.

     2.  "A native about twenty-five years of age once applied to me, as
     a doctor, to extract the wooden barb of a spear, which, during a
     fight in the bush some four months previously, had entered his
     chest, just missing the heart, and penetrated the viscera to a
     considerable depth.  The spear had been cut off, leaving the barb
     behind, which continued to force its way by muscular action
     gradually toward the back; and when I examined him I could feel a
     hard substance between the ribs below the left blade-bone.  I made a
     deep incision, and with a pair of forceps extracted the barb, which
     was made, as usual, of hard wood about four inches long and from
     half an inch to an inch thick.  It was very smooth, and partly
     digested, so to speak, by the maceration to which it had been
     exposed during its four months' journey through the body.  The wound
     made by the spear had long since healed, leaving only a small
     cicatrix; and after the operation, which the native bore without
     flinching, he appeared to suffer no pain.  Indeed, judging from his
     good state of health, the presence of the foreign matter did not
     materially annoy him.  He was perfectly well in a few days."

But No. 3 is my favorite.  Whenever I read it I seem to enjoy all that
the patient enjoyed--whatever it was:

     3.  "Once at King George's Sound a native presented himself to me
     with one leg only, and requested me to supply him with a wooden leg.
     He had traveled in this maimed state about ninety-six miles, for
     this purpose.  I examined the limb, which had been severed just
     below the knee, and found that it had been charred by fire, while
     about two inches of the partially calcined bone protruded through
     the flesh.  I at once removed this with the saw; and having made as
     presentable a stump of it as I could, covered the amputated end of
     the bone with a surrounding of muscle, and kept the patient a few
     days under my care to allow the wound to heal.  On inquiring, the
     native told me that in a fight with other black-fellows a spear had
     struck his leg and penetrated the bone below the knee.  Finding it
     was serious, he had recourse to the following crude and barbarous
     operation, which it appears is not uncommon among these people in
     their native state.  He made a fire, and dug a hole in the earth
     only sufficiently large to admit his leg, and deep enough to allow
     the wounded part to be on a level with the surface of the ground.
     He then surrounded the limb with the live coals or charcoal, which
     was replenished until the leg was literally burnt off.  The
     cauterization thus applied completely checked the hemorrhage, and he
     was able in a day or two to hobble down to the Sound, with the aid
     of a long stout stick, although he was more than a week on the
     road."

But he was a fastidious native.  He soon discarded the wooden leg made
for him by the doctor, because "it had no feeling in it."  It must have
had as much as the one he burnt off, I should think.

So much for the Aboriginals.  It is difficult for me to let them alone.
They are marvelously interesting creatures.  For a quarter of a century,
now, the several colonial governments have housed their remnants in
comfortable stations, and fed them well and taken good care of them in
every way.  If I had found this out while I was in Australia I could have
seen some of those people--but I didn't.  I would walk thirty miles to
see a stuffed one.

Australia has a slang of its own.  This is a matter of course.  The vast
cattle and sheep industries, the strange aspects of the country, and the
strange native animals, brute and human, are matters which would
naturally breed a local slang.  I have notes of this slang somewhere, but
at the moment I can call to mind only a few of the words and phrases.
They are expressive ones.  The wide, sterile, unpeopled deserts have
created eloquent phrases like "No Man's Land" and the "Never-never
Country."  Also this felicitous form: "She lives in the Never-never
Country"--that is, she is an old maid.  And this one is not without
merit: "heifer-paddock"--young ladies' seminary.  "Bail up" and "stick
up" equivalent of our highwayman-term to "hold up" a stage-coach or a
train.  "New-chum" is the equivalent of our "tenderfoot"--new arrival.

And then there is the immortal "My word!  "We must import it.  "M-y word!
"In cold print it is the equivalent of our "Ger-rreat Caesar!" but spoken
with the proper Australian unction and fervency, it is worth six of it
for grace and charm and expressiveness.  Our form is rude and explosive;
it is not suited to the drawing-room or the heifer-paddock; but "M-y
word!" is, and is music to the ear, too, when the utterer knows how to
say it.  I saw it in print several times on the Pacific Ocean, but it
struck me coldly, it aroused no sympathy.  That was because it was the
dead corpse of the thing, the 'soul was not there--the tones were
lacking--the informing spirit--the deep feeling--the eloquence.  But the
first time I heard an Australian say it, it was positively thrilling.




CHAPTER XXIII.

Be careless in your dress if you must, but keep a tidy soul.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

We left Adelaide in due course, and went to Horsham, in the colony of
Victoria; a good deal of a journey, if I remember rightly, but pleasant.
Horsham sits in a plain which is as level as a floor--one of those famous
dead levels which Australian books describe so often; gray, bare, sombre,
melancholy, baked, cracked, in the tedious long drouths, but a
horizonless ocean of vivid green grass the day after a rain.  A country
town, peaceful, reposeful, inviting, full of snug homes, with garden
plots, and plenty of shrubbery and flowers.

"Horsham, October 17.
At the hotel.  The weather divine.  Across the way, in front of the
London Bank of Australia, is a very handsome cottonwood.  It is in
opulent leaf, and every leaf perfect.  The full power of the on-rushing
spring is upon it, and I imagine I can see it grow.  Alongside the bank
and a little way back in the garden there is a row of soaring fountain-
sprays of delicate feathery foliage quivering in the breeze, and mottled
with flashes of light that shift and play through the mass like flash-
lights through an opal--a most beautiful tree, and a striking contrast to
the cottonwood.  Every leaf of the cottonwood is distinctly defined--it
is a kodak for faithful, hard, unsentimental detail; the other an
impressionist picture, delicious to look upon, full of a subtle and
exquisite charm, but all details fused in a swoon of vague and soft
loveliness."

It turned out, upon inquiry, to be a pepper tree--an importation from
China.  It has a silky sheen, soft and rich.  I saw some that had long
red bunches of currant-like berries ambushed among the foliage.  At a
distance, in certain lights, they give the tree a pinkish tint and a new
charm.

There is an agricultural college eight miles from Horsham.  We were
driven out to it by its chief.  The conveyance was an open wagon; the
time, noonday; no wind; the sky without a cloud, the sunshine brilliant--
and the mercury at 92 deg. in the shade.  In some countries an indolent
unsheltered drive of an hour and a half under such conditions would have
been a sweltering and prostrating experience; but there was nothing of
that in this case.  It is a climate that is perfect.  There was no sense
of heat; indeed, there was no heat; the air was fine and pure and
exhilarating; if the drive had lasted half a day I think we should not
have felt any discomfort, or grown silent or droopy or tired.  Of course,
the secret of it was the exceeding dryness of the atmosphere.  In that
plain 112 deg. in the shade is without doubt no harder upon a man than is
88 or 90 deg. in New York.

The road lay through the middle of an empty space which seemed to me to
be a hundred yards wide between the fences.  I was not given the width in
yards, but only in chains and perches--and furlongs, I think.  I would
have given a good deal to know what the width was, but I did not pursue
the matter.  I think it is best to put up with information the way you
get it; and seem satisfied with it, and surprised at it, and grateful for
it, and say, "My word!" and never let on.  It was a wide space; I could
tell you how wide, in chains and perches and furlongs and things, but
that would not help you any.  Those things sound well, but they are
shadowy and indefinite, like troy weight and avoirdupois; nobody knows
what they mean.  When you buy a pound of a drug and the man asks you
which you want, troy or avoirdupois, it is best to say "Yes," and shift
the subject.

They said that the wide space dates from the earliest sheep and cattle-
raising days.  People had to drive their stock long distances--immense
journeys--from worn-out places to new ones where were water and fresh
pasturage; and this wide space had to be left in grass and unfenced, or
the stock would have starved to death in the transit.

On the way we saw the usual birds--the beautiful little green parrots,
the magpie, and some others; and also the slender native bird of modest
plumage and the eternally-forgettable name--the bird that is the smartest
among birds, and can give a parrot 30 to 1 in the game and then talk him
to death.  I cannot recall that bird's name.  I think it begins with M.
I wish it began with G. or something that a person can remember.

The magpie was out in great force, in the fields and on the fences.  He
is a handsome large creature, with snowy white decorations, and is a
singer; he has a murmurous rich note that is lovely.  He was once modest,
even diffident; but he lost all that when he found out that he was
Australia's sole musical bird.  He has talent, and cuteness, and
impudence; and in his tame state he is a most satisfactory pet--never
coming when he is called, always coming when he isn't, and studying
disobedience as an accomplishment.  He is not confined, but loafs all
over the house and grounds, like the laughing jackass.  I think he learns
to talk, I know he learns to sing tunes, and his friends say that he
knows how to steal without learning.  I was acquainted with a tame magpie
in Melbourne.  He had lived in a lady's house several years, and believed
he owned it.  The lady had tamed him, and in return he had tamed the
lady.  He was always on deck when not wanted, always having his own way,
always tyrannizing over the dog, and always making the cat's life a slow
sorrow and a martyrdom.  He knew a number of tunes and could sing them in
perfect time and tune; and would do it, too, at any time that silence was
wanted; and then encore himself and do it again; but if he was asked to
sing he would go out and take a walk.

It was long believed that fruit trees would not grow in that baked and
waterless plain around Horsham, but the agricultural college has
dissipated that idea.  Its ample nurseries were producing oranges,
apricots, lemons, almonds, peaches, cherries, 48 varieties of apples--in
fact, all manner of fruits, and in abundance.  The trees did not seem to
miss the water; they were in vigorous and flourishing condition.

Experiments are made with different soils, to see what things thrive best
in them and what climates are best for them.  A man who is ignorantly
trying to produce upon his farm things not suited to its soil and its
other conditions can make a journey to the college from anywhere in
Australia, and go back with a change of scheme which will make his farm
productive and profitable.

There were forty pupils there--a few of them farmers, relearning their
trade, the rest young men mainly from the cities--novices.  It seemed a
strange thing that an agricultural college should have an attraction for
city-bred youths, but such is the fact.  They are good stuff, too; they
are above the agricultural average of intelligence, and they come without
any inherited prejudices in favor of hoary ignorances made sacred by long
descent.

The students work all day in the fields, the nurseries, and the shearing-
sheds, learning and doing all the practical work of the business--three
days in a week.  On the other three they study and hear lectures.  They
are taught the beginnings of such sciences as bear upon agriculture--like
chemistry, for instance.  We saw the sophomore class in sheep-shearing
shear a dozen sheep.  They did it by hand, not with the machine.  The
sheep was seized and flung down on his side and held there; and the
students took off his coat with great celerity and adroitness.  Sometimes
they clipped off a sample of the sheep, but that is customary with
shearers, and they don't mind it; they don't even mind it as much as the
sheep.  They dab a splotch of sheep-dip on the place and go right ahead.

The coat of wool was unbelievably thick.  Before the shearing the sheep
looked like the fat woman in the circus; after it he looked like a bench.
He was clipped to the skin; and smoothly and uniformly.  The fleece comes
from him all in one piece and has the spread of a blanket.

The college was flying the Australian flag--the gridiron of England
smuggled up in the northwest corner of a big red field that had the
random stars of the Southern Cross wandering around over it.

From Horsham we went to Stawell.  By rail.  Still in the colony of
Victoria.  Stawell is in the gold-mining country.  In the bank-safe was
half a peck of surface-gold--gold dust, grain gold; rich; pure in fact,
and pleasant to sift through one's fingers; and would be pleasanter if it
would stick.  And there were a couple of gold bricks, very heavy to
handle, and worth $7,500 a piece.  They were from a very valuable quartz
mine; a lady owns two-thirds of it; she has an income of $75,000 a month
from it, and is able to keep house.

The Stawell region is not productive of gold only; it has great
vineyards, and produces exceptionally fine wines.  One of these
vineyards--the Great Western, owned by Mr. Irving--is regarded as a
model.  Its product has reputation abroad.  It yields a choice champagne
and a fine claret, and its hock took a prize in France two or three years
ago.  The champagne is kept in a maze of passages under ground, cut in
the rock, to secure it an even temperature during the three-year term
required to perfect it.  In those vaults I saw 120,000 bottles of
champagne.  The colony of Victoria has a population of 1,000,000, and
those people are said to drink 25,000,000 bottles of champagne per year.
The dryest community on the earth.  The government has lately reduced the
duty upon foreign wines.  That is one of the unkindnesses of Protection.
A man invests years of work and a vast sum of money in a worthy
enterprise, upon the faith of existing laws; then the law is changed, and
the man is robbed by his own government.

On the way back to Stawell we had a chance to see a group of boulders
called the Three Sisters--a curiosity oddly located; for it was upon high
ground, with the land sloping away from it, and no height above it from
whence the boulders could have rolled down.  Relics of an early ice-
drift, perhaps.  They are noble boulders.  One of them has the size and
smoothness and plump sphericity of a balloon of the biggest pattern.

The road led through a forest of great gum-trees, lean and scraggy and
sorrowful.  The road was cream-white--a clayey kind of earth, apparently.
Along it toiled occasional freight wagons, drawn by long double files of
oxen.  Those wagons were going a journey of two hundred miles, I was
told, and were running a successful opposition to the railway!  The
railways are owned and run by the government.

Those sad gums stood up out of the dry white clay, pictures of patience
and resignation.  It is a tree that can get along without water; still it
is fond of it--ravenously so.  It is a very intelligent tree and will
detect the presence of hidden water at a distance of fifty feet, and send
out slender long root-fibres to prospect it.  They will find it; and will
also get at it even through a cement wall six inches thick.  Once a
cement water-pipe under ground at Stawell began to gradually reduce its
output, and finally ceased altogether to deliver water.  Upon examining
into the matter it was found stopped up, wadded compactly with a mass of
root-fibres, delicate and hair-like.  How this stuff had gotten into the
pipe was a puzzle for some little time; finally it was found that it had
crept in through a crack that was almost invisible to the eye.  A gum
tree forty feet away had tapped the pipe and was drinking the water.




CHAPTER XXIV.

There is no such thing as "the Queen's English." The property has gone
into the hands of a joint stock company and we own the bulk of the
shares!
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Frequently, in Australia, one has cloud-effects of an unfamiliar sort.
We had this kind of scenery, finely staged, all the way to Ballarat.
Consequently we saw more sky than country on that journey.  At one time a
great stretch of the vault was densely flecked with wee ragged-edged
flakes of painfully white cloud-stuff, all of one shape and size, and
equidistant apart, with narrow cracks of adorable blue showing between.
The whole was suggestive of a hurricane of snow-flakes drifting across
the skies.  By and by these flakes fused themselves together in
interminable lines, with shady faint hollows between the lines, the long
satin-surfaced rollers following each other in simulated movement, and
enchantingly counterfeiting the majestic march of a flowing sea.  Later,
the sea solidified itself; then gradually broke up its mass into
innumerable lofty white pillars of about one size, and ranged these
across the firmament, in receding and fading perspective, in the
similitude of a stupendous colonnade--a mirage without a doubt flung from
the far Gates of the Hereafter.

The approaches to Ballarat were beautiful.  The features, great green
expanses of rolling pasture-land, bisected by eye contenting hedges of
commingled new-gold and old-gold gorse--and a lovely lake.  One must put
in the pause, there, to fetch the reader up with a slight jolt, and keep
him from gliding by without noticing the lake.  One must notice it; for a
lovely lake is not as common a thing along the railways of Australia as
are the dry places.  Ninety-two in the shade again, but balmy and
comfortable, fresh and bracing.  A perfect climate.

Forty-five years ago the site now occupied by the City of Ballarat was a
sylvan solitude as quiet as Eden and as lovely.  Nobody had ever heard of
it.  On the 25th of August, 1851, the first great gold-strike made in
Australia was made here.  The wandering prospectors who made it scraped
up two pounds and a half of gold the first day-worth $600.  A few days
later the place was a hive--a town.  The news of the strike spread
everywhere in a sort of instantaneous way--spread like a flash to the
very ends of the earth.  A celebrity so prompt and so universal has
hardly been paralleled in history, perhaps.  It was as if the name
BALLARAT had suddenly been written on the sky, where all the world could
read it at once.

The smaller discoveries made in the colony of New South Wales three
months before had already started emigrants toward Australia; they had
been coming as a stream, but they came as a flood, now.  A hundred
thousand people poured into Melbourne from England and other countries in
a single month, and flocked away to the mines.  The crews of the ships
that brought them flocked with them; the clerks in the government offices
followed; so did the cooks, the maids, the coachmen, the butlers, and the
other domestic servants; so did the carpenters, the smiths, the plumbers,
the painters, the reporters, the editors, the lawyers, the clients, the
barkeepers, the bummers, the blacklegs, the thieves, the loose women, the
grocers, the butchers, the bakers, the doctors, the druggists, the
nurses; so did the police; even officials of high and hitherto envied
place threw up their positions and joined the procession.  This roaring
avalanche swept out of Melbourne and left it desolate, Sunday-like,
paralyzed, everything at a stand-still, the ships lying idle at anchor,
all signs of life departed, all sounds stilled save the rasping of the
cloud-shadows as they scraped across the vacant streets.

That grassy and leafy paradise at Ballarat was soon ripped open, and
lacerated and scarified and gutted, in the feverish search for its hidden
riches.  There is nothing like surface-mining to snatch the graces and
beauties and benignities out of a paradise, and make an odious and
repulsive spectacle of it.

What fortunes were made!  Immigrants got rich while the ship unloaded and
reloaded--and went back home for good in the same cabin they had come out
in!  Not all of them.  Only some.  I saw the others in Ballarat myself,
forty-five years later--what were left of them by time and death and the
disposition to rove.  They were young and gay, then; they are patriarchal
and grave, now; and they do not get excited any more.  They talk of the
Past.  They live in it.  Their life is a dream, a retrospection.

Ballarat was a great region for "nuggets." No such nuggets were found in
California as Ballarat produced.  In fact, the Ballarat region has
yielded the largest ones known to history.  Two of them weighed about 180
pounds each, and together were worth $90,000.  They were offered to any
poor person who would shoulder them and carry them away.  Gold was so
plentiful that it made people liberal like that.

Ballarat was a swarming city of tents in the early days.  Everybody was
happy, for a time, and apparently prosperous.  Then came trouble.  The
government swooped down with a mining tax.  And in its worst form, too;
for it was not a tax upon what the miner had taken out, but upon what he
was going to take out--if he could find it.  It was a license-tax license
to work his claim--and it had to be paid before he could begin digging.

Consider the situation.  No business is so uncertain as surface-mining.
Your claim may be good, and it may be worthless.  It may make you well
off in a month; and then again you may have to dig and slave for half a
year, at heavy expense, only to find out at last that the gold is not
there in cost-paying quantity, and that your time and your hard work have
been thrown away.  It might be wise policy to advance the miner a monthly
sum to encourage him to develop the country's riches; but to tax him
monthly in advance instead--why, such a thing was never dreamed of in
America.  There, neither the claim itself nor its products, howsoever
rich or poor, were taxed.

The Ballarat miners protested, petitioned, complained--it was of no use;
the government held its ground, and went on collecting the tax.  And not
by pleasant methods, but by ways which must have been very galling to
free people.  The rumblings of a coming storm began to be audible.

By and by there was a result; and I think it may be called the finest
thing in Australasian history.  It was a revolution--small in size; but
great politically; it was a strike for liberty, a struggle for a
principle, a stand against injustice and oppression.  It was the Barons
and John, over again; it was Hampden and Ship-Money; it was Concord and
Lexington; small beginnings, all of them, but all of them great in
political results, all of them epoch-making.  It is another instance of a
victory won by a lost battle.  It adds an honorable page to history; the
people know it and are proud of it.  They keep green the memory of the
men who fell at the Eureka Stockade, and Peter Lalor has his monument.

The surface-soil of Ballarat was full of gold.  This soil the miners
ripped and tore and trenched and harried and disembowled, and made it
yield up its immense treasure.  Then they went down into the earth with
deep shafts, seeking the gravelly beds of ancient rivers and brooks--and
found them.  They followed the courses of these streams, and gutted them,
sending the gravel up in buckets to the upper world, and washing out of
it its enormous deposits of gold.  The next biggest of the two monster
nuggets mentioned above came from an old river-channel 180 feet under
ground.

Finally the quartz lodes were attacked.  That is not poor-man's mining.
Quartz-mining and milling require capital, and staying-power, and
patience.  Big companies were formed, and for several decades, now, the
lodes have been successfully worked, and have yielded great wealth.
Since the gold discovery in 1853 the Ballarat mines--taking the three
kinds of mining together--have contributed to the world's pocket
something over three hundred millions of dollars, which is to say that
this nearly invisible little spot on the earth's surface has yielded
about one-fourth as much gold in forty-four years as all California has
yielded in forty-seven.  The Californian aggregate, from 1848 to 1895,
inclusive, as reported by the Statistician of the United States Mint, is
$1,265,215,217.

A citizen told me a curious thing about those mines.  With all my
experience of mining I had never heard of anything of the sort before.
The main gold reef runs about north and south--of course for that is the
custom of a rich gold reef.  At Ballarat its course is between walls of
slate.  Now the citizen told me that throughout a stretch of twelve miles
along the reef, the reef is crossed at intervals by a straight black
streak of a carbonaceous nature--a streak in the slate; a streak no
thicker than a pencil--and that wherever it crosses the reef you will
certainly find gold at the junction.  It is called the Indicator.  Thirty
feet on each side of the Indicator (and down in the slate, of course) is
a still finer streak--a streak as fine as a pencil mark; and indeed, that
is its name Pencil Mark.  Whenever you find the Pencil Mark you know that
thirty feet from it is the Indicator; you measure the distance, excavate,
find the Indicator, trace it straight to the reef, and sink your shaft;
your fortune is made, for certain.  If that is true, it is curious.  And
it is curious anyway.

Ballarat is a town of only 40,000 population; and yet, since it is in
Australia, it has every essential of an advanced and enlightened big
city.  This is pure matter of course.  I must stop dwelling upon these
things.  It is hard to keep from dwelling upon them, though; for it is
difficult to get away from the surprise of it.  I will let the other
details go, this time, but I must allow myself to mention that this
little town has a park of 326 acres; a flower garden of 83 acres, with an
elaborate and expensive fernery in it and some costly and unusually fine
statuary; and an artificial lake covering 600 acres, equipped with a
fleet of 200 shells, small sail boats, and little steam yachts.

At this point I strike out some other praiseful things which I was
tempted to add.  I do not strike them out because they were not true or
not well said, but because I find them better said by another man--and a
man more competent to testify, too, because he belongs on the ground, and
knows.  I clip them from a chatty speech delivered some years ago by Mr.
William Little, who was at that time mayor of Ballarat:

     "The language of our citizens, in this as in other parts of
     Australasia, is mostly healthy Anglo-Saxon, free from Americanisms,
     vulgarisms, and the conflicting dialects of our Fatherland, and is
     pure enough to suit a Trench or a Latham.  Our youth, aided by
     climatic influence, are in point of physique and comeliness
     unsurpassed in the Sunny South.  Our young men are well ordered; and
     our maidens, 'not stepping over the bounds of modesty,' are as fair
     as Psyches, dispensing smiles as charming as November flowers."

The closing clause has the seeming of a rather frosty compliment, but
that is apparent only, not real.  November is summer-time there.

His compliment to the local purity of the language is warranted.  It is
quite free from impurities; this is acknowledged far and wide.  As in the
German Empire all cultivated people claim to speak Hanovarian German, so
in Australasia all cultivated people claim to speak Ballarat English.
Even in England this cult has made considerable progress, and now that it
is favored by the two great Universities, the time is not far away when
Ballarat English will come into general use among the educated classes of
Great Britain at large.  Its great merit is, that it is shorter than
ordinary English--that is, it is more compressed.  At first you have some
difficulty in understanding it when it is spoken as rapidly as the orator
whom I have quoted speaks it.  An illustration will show what I mean.
When he called and I handed him a chair, he bowed and said:

"Q."

Presently, when we were lighting our cigars, he held a match to mine and
I said:

"Thank you," and he said:

"Km."

Then I saw.  'Q' is the end of the phrase "I thank you" 'Km'  is the end
of the phrase "You are welcome."  Mr. Little puts no emphasis upon either
of them, but delivers them so reduced that they hardly have a sound.  All
Ballarat English is like that, and the effect is very soft and pleasant;
it takes all the hardness and harshness out of our tongue and gives to it
a delicate whispery and vanishing cadence which charms the ear like the
faint rustling of the forest leaves.




CHAPTER XXV.

"Classic."  A book which people praise and don't read.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

On the rail again--bound for Bendigo.  From diary:

October 23.  Got up at 6, left at 7.30; soon reached Castlemaine, one of
the rich gold-fields of the early days; waited several hours for a train;
left at 3.40 and reached Bendigo in an hour.  For comrade, a Catholic
priest who was better than I was, but didn't seem to know it--a man full
of graces of the heart, the mind, and the spirit; a lovable man.  He will
rise.  He will be a bishop some day.  Later an Archbishop.  Later a
Cardinal.  Finally an Archangel, I hope.  And then he will recall me when
I say, "Do you remember that trip we made from Ballarat to Bendigo, when
you were nothing but Father C., and I was nothing to what I am now?"
It has actually taken nine hours to come from Ballarat to Bendigo.  We
could have saved seven by walking.  However, there was no hurry.

Bendigo was another of the rich strikes of the early days.  It does a
great quartz-mining business, now--that business which, more than any
other that I know of, teaches patience, and requires grit and a steady
nerve.  The town is full of towering chimney-stacks, and hoisting-works,
and looks like a petroleum-city.  Speaking of patience; for example, one
of the local companies went steadily on with its deep borings and
searchings without show of gold or a penny of reward for eleven years--
then struck it, and became suddenly rich.  The eleven years' work had
cost $55,000, and the first gold found was a grain the size of a pin's
head.  It is kept under locks and bars, as a precious thing, and is
reverently shown to the visitor, "hats off."  When I saw it I had not
heard its history.

"It is gold.  Examine it--take the glass.  Now how much should you say it
is worth?"

I said:

"I should say about two cents; or in your English dialect, four
farthings."

"Well, it cost L11,000."

"Oh, come!"

"Yes, it did.  Ballarat and Bendigo have produced the three monumental
nuggets of the world, and this one is the monumentalest one of the three.
The other two represent 19,000 a piece; this one a couple of thousand
more.  It is small, and not much to look at, but it is entitled to (its)
name--Adam.  It is the Adam-nugget of this mine, and its children run up
into the millions."

Speaking of patience again, another of the mines was worked, under heavy
expenses, during 17 years before pay was struck, and still another one
compelled a wait of 21 years before pay was struck; then, in both
instances, the outlay was all back in a year or two, with compound
interest.

Bendigo has turned out even more gold than Ballarat.  The two together
have produced $650,000,000 worth--which is half as much as California has
produced.

It was through Mr. Blank--not to go into particulars about his name--it
was mainly through Mr. Blank that my stay in Bendigo was made memorably
pleasant and interesting.  He explained this to me himself.  He told me
that it was through his influence that the city government invited me to
the town-hall to hear complimentary speeches and respond to them; that it
was through his influence that I had been taken on a long pleasure-drive
through the city and shown its notable features; that it was through his
influence that I was invited to visit the great mines; that it was
through his influence that I was taken to the hospital and allowed to see
the convalescent Chinaman who had been attacked at midnight in his lonely
hut eight weeks before by robbers, and stabbed forty-six times and
scalped besides; that it was through his influence that when I arrived
this awful spectacle of piecings and patchings and bandagings was sitting
up in his cot letting on to read one of my books; that it was through his
influence that efforts had been made to get the Catholic Archbishop of
Bendigo to invite me to dinner; that it was through his influence that
efforts had been made to get the Anglican Bishop of Bendigo to ask me to
supper; that it was through his influence that the dean of the editorial
fraternity had driven me through the woodsy outlying country and shown
me, from the summit of Lone Tree Hill, the mightiest and loveliest
expanse of forest-clad mountain and valley that I had seen in all
Australia.  And when he asked me what had most impressed me in Bendigo
and I answered and said it was the taste and the public spirit which had
adorned the streets with 105 miles of shade trees, he said that it was
through his influence that it had been done.

But I am not representing him quite correctly.  He did not say it was
through his influence that all these things had happened--for that would
have been coarse; be merely conveyed that idea; conveyed it so subtly
that I only caught it fleetingly, as one catches vagrant faint breaths of
perfume when one traverses the meadows in summer; conveyed it without
offense and without any suggestion of egoism or ostentation--but conveyed
it, nevertheless.

He was an Irishman; an educated gentleman; grave, and kindly, and
courteous; a bachelor, and about forty-five or possibly fifty years old,
apparently.  He called upon me at the hotel, and it was there that we had
this talk.  He made me like him, and did it without trouble.  This was
partly through his winning and gentle ways, but mainly through the
amazing familiarity with my books which his conversation showed.  He was
down to date with them, too; and if he had made them the study of his
life he could hardly have been better posted as to their contents than he
was.  He made me better satisfied with myself than I had ever been
before.  It was plain that he had a deep fondness for humor, yet he never
laughed; he never even chuckled; in fact, humor could not win to outward
expression on his face at all.  No, he was always grave--tenderly,
pensively grave; but he made me laugh, all along; and this was very
trying--and very pleasant at the same time--for it was at quotations from
my own books.

When he was going, he turned and said:

"You don't remember me?"

"I?  Why, no.  Have we met before?"

"No, it was a matter of correspondence."

"Correspondence?"

"Yes, many years ago.  Twelve or fifteen.  Oh, longer than that.  But of
course you----"  A musing pause.  Then he said:

"Do you remember Corrigan Castle?"

"N-no, I believe I don't.  I don't seem to recall the name."

He waited a moment, pondering, with the door-knob in his hand, then
started out; but turned back and said that I had once been interested in
Corrigan Castle, and asked me if I would go with him to his quarters in
the evening and take a hot Scotch and talk it over.  I was a teetotaler
and liked relaxation, so I said I would.

We drove from the lecture-hall together about half-past ten.  He had a
most comfortably and tastefully furnished parlor, with good pictures on
the walls, Indian and Japanese ornaments on the mantel, and here and
there, and books everywhere-largely mine; which made me proud.  The light
was brilliant, the easy chairs were deep-cushioned, the arrangements for
brewing and smoking were all there.  We brewed and lit up; then he passed
a sheet of note-paper to me and said--

"Do you remember that?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!"

The paper was of a sumptuous quality.  At the top was a twisted and
interlaced monogram printed from steel dies in gold and blue and red, in
the ornate English fashion of long years ago; and under it, in neat
gothic capitals was this--printed in blue:

                          THE MARK TWAIN CLUB
                            CORRIGAN CASTLE
                           ............187..

"My!" said I, "how did you come by this?"

"I was President of it."

"No!--you don't mean it."

"It is true.  I was its first President.  I was re-elected annually as
long as its meetings were held in my castle--Corrigan--which was five
years."

Then he showed me an album with twenty-three photographs of me in it.
Five of them were of old dates, the others of various later crops; the
list closed with a picture taken by Falk in Sydney a month before.

"You sent us the first five; the rest were bought."

This was paradise!  We ran late, and talked, talked, talked--subject, the
Mark Twain Club of Corrigan Castle, Ireland.

My first knowledge of that Club dates away back; all of twenty years, I
should say.  It came to me in the form of a courteous letter, written on
the note-paper which I have described, and signed "By order of the
President; C. PEMBROKE, Secretary."  It conveyed the fact that the Club
had been created in my honor, and added the hope that this token of
appreciation of my work would meet with my approval.

I answered, with thanks; and did what I could to keep my gratification
from over-exposure.

It was then that the long correspondence began.  A letter came back, by
order of the President, furnishing me the names of the members-thirty-two
in number.  With it came a copy of the Constitution and By-Laws, in
pamphlet form, and artistically printed.  The initiation fee and dues
were in their proper place; also, schedule of meetings--monthly--for
essays upon works of mine, followed by discussions; quarterly for
business and a supper, without essays, but with after-supper speeches
also, there was a list of the officers: President, Vice-President,
Secretary, Treasurer, etc.  The letter was brief, but it was pleasant
reading, for it told me about the strong interest which the membership
took in their new venture, etc., etc.  It also asked me for a photograph
--a special one.  I went down and sat for it and sent it--with a letter,
of course.

Presently came the badge of the Club, and very dainty and pretty it was;
and very artistic.  It was a frog peeping out from a graceful tangle of
grass-sprays and rushes, and was done in enamels on a gold basis, and had
a gold pin back of it.  After I had petted it, and played with it, and
caressed it, and enjoyed it a couple of hours, the light happened to fall
upon it at a new angle, and revealed to me a cunning new detail; with the
light just right, certain delicate shadings of the grass-blades and rush-
stems wove themselves into a monogram--mine!  You can see that that jewel
was a work of art.  And when you come to consider the intrinsic value of
it, you must concede that it is not every literary club that could afford
a badge like that.  It was easily worth $75, in the opinion of Messrs.
Marcus and Ward of New York.  They said they could not duplicate it for
that and make a profit.  By this time the Club was well under way; and
from that time forth its secretary kept my off-hours well supplied with
business.  He reported the Club's discussions of my books with laborious
fullness, and did his work with great spirit and ability.  As a, rule, he
synopsized; but when a speech was especially brilliant, he short-handed
it and gave me the best passages from it, written out.  There were five
speakers whom he particularly favored in that way: Palmer, Forbes,
Naylor, Norris, and Calder.  Palmer and Forbes could never get through a
speech without attacking each other, and each in his own way was
formidably effective--Palmer in virile and eloquent abuse, Forbes in
courtly and elegant but scalding satire.  I could always tell which of
them was talking without looking for his name.  Naylor had a polished
style and a happy knack at felicitous metaphor; Norris's style was wholly
without ornament, but enviably compact, lucid, and strong.  But after
all, Calder was the gem.  He never spoke when sober, he spoke
continuously when he wasn't.  And certainly they were the drunkest
speeches that a man ever uttered.  They were full of good things, but so
incredibly mixed up and wandering that it made one's head swim to follow
him.  They were not intended to be funny, but they were,--funny for the
very gravity which the speaker put into his flowing miracles of
incongruity.  In the course of five years I came to know the styles of
the five orators as well as I knew the style of any speaker in my own
club at home.

These reports came every month.  They were written on foolscap, 600 words
to the page, and usually about twenty-five pages in a report--a good
15,000 words, I should say,--a solid week's work.  The reports were
absorbingly entertaining, long as they were; but, unfortunately for me,
they did not come alone.  They were always accompanied by a lot of
questions about passages and purposes in my books, which the Club wanted
answered; and additionally accompanied every quarter by the Treasurer's
report, and the Auditor's report, and the Committee's report, and the
President's review, and my opinion of these was always desired; also
suggestions for the good of the Club, if any occurred to me.

By and by I came to dread those things; and this dread grew and grew and
grew; grew until I got to anticipating them with a cold horror.  For I
was an indolent man, and not fond of letter-writing, and whenever these
things came I had to put everything by and sit down--for my own peace of
mind--and dig and dig until I got something out of my head which would
answer for a reply.  I got along fairly well the first year; but for the
succeeding four years the Mark Twain Club of Corrigan Castle was my
curse, my nightmare, the grief and misery of my life.  And I got so, so
sick of sitting for photographs.  I sat every year for five years, trying
to satisfy that insatiable organization.  Then at last I rose in revolt.
I could endure my oppressions no longer.  I pulled my fortitude together
and tore off my chains, and was a free man again, and happy.  From that
day I burned the secretary's fat envelopes the moment they arrived, and
by and by they ceased to come.

Well, in the sociable frankness of that night in Bendigo I brought this
all out in full confession.  Then Mr. Blank came out in the same frank
way, and with a preliminary word of gentle apology said that he was the
Mark Twain Club, and the only member it had ever had!

Why, it was matter for anger, but I didn't feel any.  He said he never
had to work for a living, and that by the time he was thirty life had
become a bore and a weariness to him.  He had no interests left; they had
paled and perished, one by one, and left him desolate.  He had begun to
think of suicide.  Then all of a sudden he thought of that happy idea of
starting an imaginary club, and went straightway to work at it, with
enthusiasm and love.  He was charmed with it; it gave him something to
do.  It elaborated itself on his hands;--it became twenty times more
complex and formidable than was his first rude draft of it.  Every new
addition to his original plan which cropped up in his mind gave him a
fresh interest and a new pleasure.  He designed the Club badge himself,
and worked over it, altering and improving it, a number of days and
nights; then sent to London and had it made.  It was the only one that
was made.  It was made for me; the "rest of the Club" went without.

He invented the thirty-two members and their names.  He invented the five
favorite speakers and their five separate styles.  He invented their
speeches, and reported them himself.  He would have kept that Club going
until now, if I hadn't deserted, he said.  He said he worked like a slave
over those reports; each of them cost him from a week to a fortnight's
work, and the work gave him pleasure and kept him alive and willing to be
alive.  It was a bitter blow to him when the Club died.

Finally, there wasn't any Corrigan Castle.  He had invented that, too.

It was wonderful--the whole thing; and altogether the most ingenious and
laborious and cheerful and painstaking practical joke I have ever heard
of.  And I liked it; liked to bear him tell about it; yet I have been a
hater of practical jokes from as long back as I can remember.  Finally he
said--

"Do you remember a note from Melbourne fourteen or fifteen years ago,
telling about your lecture tour in Australia, and your death and burial
in Melbourne?--a note from Henry Bascomb, of Bascomb Hall, Upper
Holywell Hants."

"Yes."

"I wrote it."

"M-y-word!"

"Yes, I did it.  I don't know why.  I just took the notion, and carried
it out without stopping to think.  It was wrong.  It could have done
harm.  I was always sorry about it afterward.  You must forgive me.  I
was Mr. Bascom's guest on his yacht, on his voyage around the world.  He
often spoke of you, and of the pleasant times you had had together in his
home; and the notion took me, there in Melbourne, and I imitated his
hand, and wrote the letter."

So the mystery was cleared up, after so many, many years.




CHAPTER XXVI.

There are people who can do all fine and heroic things but one!  keep
from telling their happinesses to the unhappy.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

After visits to Maryborough and some other Australian towns, we presently
took passage for New Zealand.  If it would not look too much like showing
off, I would tell the reader where New Zealand is; for he is as I was; he
thinks he knows.  And he thinks he knows where Hertzegovina is; and how
to pronounce pariah; and how to use the word unique without exposing
himself to the derision of the dictionary.  But in truth, he knows none
of these things.  There are but four or five people in the world who
possess this knowledge, and these make their living out of it.  They
travel from place to place, visiting literary assemblages, geographical
societies, and seats of learning, and springing sudden bets that these
people do not know these things.  Since all people think they know them,
they are an easy prey to these adventurers.  Or rather they were an easy
prey until the law interfered, three months ago, and a New York court
decided that this kind of gambling is illegal, "because it traverses
Article IV, Section 9, of the Constitution of the United States, which
forbids betting on a sure thing."  This decision was rendered by the full
Bench of the New York Supreme Court, after a test sprung upon the court
by counsel for the prosecution, which showed that none of the nine Judges
was able to answer any of the four questions.

All people think that New Zealand is close to Australia or Asia, or
somewhere, and that you cross to it on a bridge.  But that is not so.  It
is not close to anything, but lies by itself, out in the water.  It is
nearest to Australia, but still not near.  The gap between is very wide.
It will be a surprise to the reader, as it was to me, to learn that the
distance from Australia to New Zealand is really twelve or thirteen
hundred miles, and that there is no bridge.  I learned this from
Professor X., of Yale University, whom I met in the steamer on the great
lakes when I was crossing the continent to sail across the Pacific.  I
asked him about New Zealand, in order to make conversation.  I supposed
he would generalize a little without compromising himself, and then turn
the subject to something he was acquainted with, and my object would then
be attained; the ice would be broken, and we could go smoothly on, and
get acquainted, and have a pleasant time.  But, to my surprise, he was
not only not embarrassed by my question, but seemed to welcome it, and to
take a distinct interest in it.  He began to talk--fluently, confidently,
comfortably; and as he talked, my admiration grew and grew; for as the
subject developed under his hands, I saw that he not only knew where New
Zealand was, but that he was minutely familiar with every detail of its
history, politics, religions, and commerce, its fauna, flora, geology,
products, and climatic peculiarities.  When he was done, I was lost in
wonder and admiration, and said to myself, he knows everything; in the
domain of human knowledge he is king.

I wanted to see him do more miracles; and so, just for the pleasure of
hearing him answer, I asked him about Hertzegovina, and pariah, and
unique.  But he began to generalize then, and show distress.  I saw that
with New Zealand gone, he was a Samson shorn of his locks; he was as
other men.  This was a curious and interesting mystery, and I was frank
with him, and asked him to explain it.

He tried to avoid it at first; but then laughed and said that after all,
the matter was not worth concealment, so he would let me into the secret.
In substance, this is his story:

"Last autumn I was at work one morning at home, when a card came up--the
card of a stranger.  Under the name was printed a line which showed that
this visitor was Professor of Theological Engineering in Wellington
University, New Zealand.  I was troubled--troubled, I mean, by the
shortness of the notice.  College etiquette required that he be at once
invited to dinner by some member of the Faculty--invited to dine on that
day--not, put off till a subsequent day.  I did not quite know what to
do.  College etiquette requires, in the case of a foreign guest, that the
dinner-talk shall begin with complimentary references to his country, its
great men, its services to civilization, its seats of learning, and
things like that; and of course the host is responsible, and must either
begin this talk himself or see that it is done by some one else.  I was
in great difficulty; and the more I searched my memory, the more my
trouble grew.  I found that I knew nothing about New Zealand.  I thought
I knew where it was, and that was all.  I had an impression that it was
close to Australia, or Asia, or somewhere, and that one went over to it
on a bridge.  This might turn out to be incorrect; and even if correct,
it would not furnish matter enough for the purpose at the dinner, and I
should expose my College to shame before my guest; he would see that I, a
member of the Faculty of the first University in America, was wholly
ignorant of his country, and he would go away and tell this, and laugh at
it.  The thought of it made my face burn.

"I sent for my wife and told her how I was situated, and asked for her
help, and she thought of a thing which I might have thought of myself, if
I had not been excited and worried.  She said she would go and tell the
visitor that I was out but would be in in a few minutes; and she would
talk, and keep him busy while I got out the back way and hurried over and
make Professor Lawson give the dinner.  For Lawson knew everything, and
could meet the guest in a creditable way and save the reputation of the
University.  I ran to Lawson, but was disappointed.  He did not know
anything about New Zealand.  He said that, as far as his recollection
went it was close to Australia, or Asia, or somewhere, and you go over to
it on a bridge; but that was all he knew.  It was too bad.  Lawson was a
perfect encyclopedia of abstruse learning; but now in this hour of our
need, it turned out that he did not know any useful thing.

"We consulted.  He saw that the reputation of the University was in very
real peril, and he walked the floor in anxiety, talking, and trying to
think out some way to meet the difficulty.  Presently he decided that we
must try the rest of the Faculty--some of them might know about New
Zealand.  So we went to the telephone and called up the professor of
astronomy and asked him, and he said that all he knew was, that it was
close to Australia, or Asia, or somewhere, and you went over to it on----

"We shut him off and called up the professor of biology, and he said that
all he knew was that it was close to Aus----.

"We shut him off, and sat down, worried and disheartened, to see if we
could think up some other scheme.  We shortly hit upon one which promised
well, and this one we adopted, and set its machinery going at once.  It
was this.  Lawson must give the dinner.  The Faculty must be notified by
telephone to prepare.  We must all get to work diligently, and at the end
of eight hours and a half we must come to dinner acquainted with New
Zealand; at least well enough informed to appear without discredit before
this native.  To seem properly intelligent we should have to know about
New Zealand's population, and politics, and form of government, and
commerce, and taxes, and products, and ancient history, and modern
history, and varieties of religion, and nature of the laws, and their
codification, and amount of revenue, and whence drawn, and methods of
collection, and percentage of loss, and character of climate, and--well,
a lot of things like that; we must suck the maps and cyclopedias dry.
And while we posted up in this way, the Faculty's wives must flock over,
one after the other, in a studiedly casual way, and help my wife keep the
New Zealander quiet, and not let him get out and come interfering with
our studies.  The scheme worked admirably; but it stopped business,
stopped it entirely.

"It is in the official log-book of Yale, to be read and wondered at by
future generations--the account of the Great Blank Day--the memorable
Blank Day--the day wherein the wheels of culture were stopped, a Sunday
silence prevailed all about, and the whole University stood still while
the Faculty read-up and qualified itself to sit at meat, "without shame,
in the presence of the Professor of Theological Engineering from New
Zealand:

"When we assembled at the dinner we were miserably tired and worn--but we
were posted.  Yes, it is fair to claim that.  In fact, erudition is a
pale name for it.  New Zealand was the only subject; and it was just
beautiful to hear us ripple it out.  And with such an air of
unembarrassed ease, and unostentatious familiarity with detail, and
trained and seasoned mastery of the subject-and oh, the grace and fluency
of it!

"Well, finally somebody happened to notice that the guest was looking
dazed, and wasn't saying anything.  So they stirred him up, of course.
Then that man came out with a good, honest, eloquent compliment that made
the Faculty blush.  He said be was not worthy to sit in the company of
men like these; that he had been silent from admiration; that he had been
silent from another cause also--silent from shame--silent from ignorance!
'For,' said he, 'I, who have lived eighteen years in New Zealand and have
served five in a professorship, and ought to know much about that
country, perceive, now, that I know almost nothing about it.  I say it
with shame, that I have learned fifty times, yes, a hundred times more
about New Zealand in these two hours at this table than I ever knew
before in all the eighteen years put together.  I was silent because I
could not help myself.  What I knew about taxes, and policies, and laws,
and revenue, and products, and history, and all that multitude of things,
was but general, and ordinary, and vague-unscientific, in a word--and it
would have been insanity to expose it here to the searching glare of your
amazingly accurate and all-comprehensive knowledge of those matters,
gentlemen.  I beg you to let me sit silent--as becomes me.  But do not
change the subject; I can at least follow you, in this one; whereas if
you change to one which shall call out the full strength of your mighty
erudition, I shall be as one lost.  If you know all this about a remote
little inconsequent patch like New Zealand, ah, what wouldn't you know
about any other Subject!'"




CHAPTER XXVIL

Man is the Only Animal that Blushes.  Or needs to.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The universal brotherhood of man is our most precious possession, what
there is of it.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

FROM DIARY:

November 1--noon.   A fine day, a brilliant sun.  Warm in the sun, cold
in the shade--an icy breeze blowing out of the south.  A solemn long
swell rolling up northward.  It comes from the South Pole, with nothing
in the way to obstruct its march and tone its energy down.  I have read
somewhere that an acute observer among the early explorers--Cook?  or
Tasman?--accepted this majestic swell as trustworthy circumstantial
evidence that no important land lay to the southward, and so did not
waste time on a useless quest in that direction, but changed his course
and went searching elsewhere.

Afternoon.   Passing between Tasmania (formerly Van Diemen's Land) and
neighboring islands--islands whence the poor exiled Tasmanian savages
used to gaze at their lost homeland and cry; and die of broken hearts.
How glad I am that all these native races are dead and gone, or nearly
so.  The work was mercifully swift and horrible in some portions of
Australia.  As far as Tasmania is concerned, the extermination was
complete: not a native is left.  It was a strife of years, and decades of
years.  The Whites and the Blacks hunted each other, ambushed each other,
butchered each other.  The Blacks were not numerous.  But they were wary,
alert, cunning, and they knew their country well.  They lasted a long
time, few as they were, and inflicted much slaughter upon the Whites.

The Government wanted to save the Blacks from ultimate extermination, if
possible.  One of its schemes was to capture them and coop them up, on a
neighboring island, under guard.  Bodies of Whites volunteered for the
hunt, for the pay was good--L5 for each Black captured and delivered, but
the success achieved was not very satisfactory.  The Black was naked, and
his body was greased.  It was hard to get a grip on him that would hold.
The Whites moved about in armed bodies, and surprised little families of
natives, and did make captures; but it was suspected that in these
surprises half a dozen natives were killed to one caught--and that was
not what the Government desired.

Another scheme was to drive the natives into a corner of the island and
fence them in by a cordon of men placed in line across the country; but
the natives managed to slip through, constantly, and continue their
murders and arsons.

The governor warned these unlettered savages by printed proclamation that
they must stay in the desolate region officially appointed for them!  The
proclamation was a dead letter; the savages could not read it.  Afterward
a picture-proclamation was issued.  It was painted up on boards, and
these were nailed to trees in the forest.  Herewith is a photographic
reproduction of this fashion-plate.  Substantially it means:

1.  The Governor wishes the Whites and the Blacks to love each other;

2.  He loves his black subjects;

3.  Blacks who kill Whites will be hanged;

4.  Whites who kill Blacks will be hanged.

Upon its several schemes the Government spent L30,000 and employed the
labors and ingenuities of several thousand Whites for a long time with
failure as a result.  Then, at last, a quarter of a century after the
beginning of the troubles between the two races, the right man was found.
No, he found himself.  This was George Augustus Robinson, called in
history "The Conciliator."  He was not educated, and not conspicuous in
any way.  He was a working bricklayer, in Hobart Town.  But he must have
been an amazing personality; a man worth traveling far to see.  It may be
his counterpart appears in history, but I do not know where to look for
it.

He set himself this incredible task: to go out into the wilderness, the
jungle, and the mountain-retreats where the hunted and implacable savages
were hidden, and appear among them unarmed, speak the language of love
and of kindness to them, and persuade them to forsake their homes and the
wild free life that was so dear to them, and go with him and surrender to
the hated Whites and live under their watch and ward, and upon their
charity the rest of their lives!  On its face it was the dream of a
madman.

In the beginning, his moral-suasion project was sarcastically dubbed the
sugar plum speculation.  If the scheme was striking, and new to the
world's experience, the situation was not less so.  It was this.  The
White population numbered 40,000 in 1831; the Black population numbered
three hundred.  Not 300 warriors, but 300 men, women, and children.  The
Whites were armed with guns, the Blacks with clubs and spears.  The
Whites had fought the Blacks for a quarter of a century, and had tried
every thinkable way to capture, kill, or subdue them; and could not do
it.  If white men of any race could have done it, these would have
accomplished it.  But every scheme had failed, the splendid 300, the
matchless 300 were unconquered, and manifestly unconquerable.  They would
not yield, they would listen to no terms, they would fight to the bitter
end.  Yet they had no poet to keep up their heart, and sing the marvel of
their magnificent patriotism.

At the end of five-and-twenty years of hard fighting, the surviving 300
naked patriots were still defiant, still persistent, still efficacious
with their rude weapons, and the Governor and the 40,000 knew not which
way to turn, nor what to do.

Then the Bricklayer--that wonderful man--proposed to go out into the
wilderness, with no weapon but his tongue, and no protection but his
honest eye and his humane heart; and track those embittered savages to
their lairs in the gloomy forests and among the mountain snows.
Naturally, he was considered a crank.  But he was not quite that.  In
fact, he was a good way short of that.  He was building upon his long and
intimate knowledge of the native character.  The deriders of his project
were right--from their standpoint--for they believed the natives to be
mere wild beasts; and Robinson was right, from his standpoint--for he
believed the natives to be human beings.  The truth did really lie
between the two.  The event proved that Robinson's judgment was soundest;
but about once a month for four years the event came near to giving the
verdict to the deriders, for about that frequently Robinson barely
escaped falling under the native spears.

But history shows that he had a thinking head, and was not a mere wild
sentimentalist.  For instance, he wanted the war parties (called) in
before he started unarmed upon his mission of peace.  He wanted the best
chance of success--not a half-chance.  And he was very willing to have
help; and so, high rewards were advertised, for any who would go unarmed
with him.  This opportunity was declined.  Robinson persuaded some tamed
natives of both sexes to go with him--a strong evidence of his persuasive
powers, for those natives well knew that their destruction would be
almost certain.  As it turned out, they had to face death over and over
again.

Robinson and his little party had a difficult undertaking upon their
hands.  They could not ride off, horseback, comfortably into the woods
and call Leonidas and his 300 together for a talk and a treaty the
following day; for the wild men were not in a body; they were scattered,
immense distances apart, over regions so desolate that even the birds
could not make a living with the chances offered--scattered in groups of
twenty, a dozen, half a dozen, even in groups of three.  And the mission
must go on foot.  Mr. Bonwick furnishes a description of those horrible
regions, whereby it will be seen that even fugitive gangs of the hardiest
and choicest human devils the world has seen--the convicts set apart to
people the "Hell of Macquarrie Harbor Station"--were never able, but
once, to survive the horrors of a march through them, but starving and
struggling, and fainting and failing, ate each other, and died:

"Onward, still onward, was the order of the indomitable Robinson.  No one
ignorant of the western country of Tasmania can form a correct idea of
the traveling difficulties.  While I was resident in Hobart Town, the
Governor, Sir John Franklin, and his lady, undertook the western journey
to Macquarrie Harbor, and suffered terribly.  One man who assisted to
carry her ladyship through the swamps, gave me his bitter experience of
its miseries.  Several were disabled for life.  No wonder that but one
party, escaping from Macquarrie Harbor convict settlement, arrived at the
civilized region in safety.  Men perished in the scrub, were lost in
snow, or were devoured by their companions.  This was the territory
traversed by Mr. Robinson and his Black guides.  All honor to his
intrepidity, and their wonderful fidelity!  When they had, in the depth
of winter, to cross deep and rapid rivers, pass among mountains six
thousand feet high, pierce dangerous thickets, and find food in a country
forsaken even by birds, we can realize their hardships.

"After a frightful journey by Cradle Mountain, and over the lofty plateau
of Middlesex Plains, the travelers experienced unwonted misery, and the
circumstances called forth the best qualities of the noble little band.
Mr. Robinson wrote afterwards to Mr. Secretary Burnett some details of
this passage of horrors.  In that letter, of Oct 2, 1834, he states that
his Natives were very reluctant to go over the dreadful mountain passes;
that 'for seven successive days we continued traveling over one solid
body of snow;'  that 'the snows were of incredible depth;'  that 'the
Natives were frequently up to their middle in snow.'  But still the ill-
clad, ill-fed, diseased, and way-worn men and women were sustained by the
cheerful voice of their unconquerable friend, and responded most nobly to
his call."

Mr. Bonwick says that Robinson's friendly capture of the Big River tribe
remember, it was a whole tribe--"was by far the grandest feature of the
war, and the crowning glory of his efforts." The word "war" was not well
chosen, and is misleading.  There was war still, but only the Blacks were
conducting it--the Whites were holding off until Robinson could give his
scheme a fair trial.  I think that we are to understand that the friendly
capture of that tribe was by far the most important thing, the highest in
value, that happened during the whole thirty years of truceless
hostilities; that it was a decisive thing, a peaceful Waterloo, the
surrender of the native Napoleon and his dreaded forces, the happy ending
of the long strife.  For "that tribe was the terror of the colony," its
chief "the Black Douglas of Bush households."

Robinson knew that these formidable people were lurking somewhere, in
some remote corner of the hideous regions just described, and he and his
unarmed little party started on a tedious and perilous hunt for them.  At
last, "there, under the shadows of the Frenchman's Cap, whose grim cone
rose five thousand feet in the uninhabited westward interior," they were
found.  It was a serious moment.  Robinson himself believed, for once,
that his mission, successful until now, was to end here in failure, and
that his own death-hour had struck.

The redoubtable chief stood in menacing attitude, with his eighteen-foot
spear poised; his warriors stood massed at his back, armed for battle,
their faces eloquent with their long-cherished loathing for white men.
"They rattled their spears and shouted their war-cry."  Their women were
back of them, laden with supplies of weapons, and keeping their 150 eager
dogs quiet until the chief should give the signal to fall on.

"I think we shall soon be in the resurrection," whispered a member of
Robinson's little party.

"I think we shall," answered Robinson; then plucked up heart and began
his persuasions--in the tribe's own dialect, which surprised and pleased
the chief.  Presently there was an interruption by the chief:

"Who are you?"

"We are gentlemen."

"Where are your guns?"

"We have none."

The warrior was astonished.

"Where your little guns?" (pistols).

"We have none."

A few minutes passed--in by-play--suspense--discussion among the
tribesmen--Robinson's tamed squaws ventured to cross the line and begin
persuasions upon the wild squaws.  Then the chief stepped back "to confer
with the old women--the real arbiters of savage war."  Mr. Bonwick
continues:

     "As the fallen gladiator in the arena looks for the signal of life
     or death from the president of the amphitheatre, so waited our
     friends in anxious suspense while the conference continued.  In a
     few minutes, before a word was uttered, the women of the tribe threw
     up their arms three times.  This was the inviolable sign of peace!
     Down fell the spears.  Forward, with a heavy sigh of relief, and
     upward glance of gratitude, came the friends of peace.  The
     impulsive natives rushed forth with tears and cries, as each saw in
     the other's rank a loved one of the past.

     "It was a jubilee of joy.  A festival followed.  And, while tears
     flowed at the recital of woe, a corrobory of pleasant laughter
     closed the eventful day."

In four years, without the spilling of a drop of blood, Robinson brought
them all in, willing captives, and delivered them to the white governor,
and ended the war which powder and bullets, and thousands of men to use
them, had prosecuted without result since 1804.

Marsyas charming the wild beasts with his music--that is fable; but the
miracle wrought by Robinson is fact.  It is history--and authentic; and
surely, there is nothing greater, nothing more reverence-compelling in
the history of any country, ancient or modern.

And in memory of the greatest man Australasia ever developed or ever will
develop, there is a stately monument to George Augustus Robinson, the
Conciliator in--no, it is to another man, I forget his name.

However, Robertson's own generation honored him, and in manifesting it
honored themselves.  The Government gave him a money-reward and a
thousand acres of land; and the people held mass-meetings and praised him
and emphasized their praise with a large subscription of money.

A good dramatic situation; but the curtain fell on another:

     "When this desperate tribe was thus captured, there was much
     surprise to find that the L30,000 of a little earlier day had been
     spent, and the whole population of the colony placed under arms, in
     contention with an opposing force of sixteen men with wooden spears!
     Yet such was the fact.  The celebrated Big River tribe, that had
     been raised by European fears to a host, consisted of sixteen men,
     nine women, and one child.  With a knowledge of the mischief done by
     these few, their wonderful marches and their widespread aggressions,
     their enemies cannot deny to them the attributes of courage and
     military tact.  A Wallace might harass a large army with a small and
     determined band; but the contending parties were at least equal in
     arms and civilization.  The Zulus who fought us in Africa, the
     Maories in New Zealand, the Arabs in the Soudan, were far better
     provided with weapons, more advanced in the science of war, and
     considerably more numerous, than the naked Tasmanians.  Governor
     Arthur rightly termed them a noble race."

These were indeed wonderful people, the natives.  They ought not to have
been wasted.  They should have been crossed with the Whites.  It would
have improved the Whites and done the Natives no harm.

But the Natives were wasted, poor heroic wild creatures.  They were
gathered together in little settlements on neighboring islands, and
paternally cared for by the Government, and instructed in religion, and
deprived of tobacco, because the superintendent of the Sunday-school was
not a smoker, and so considered smoking immoral.

The Natives were not used to clothes, and houses, and regular hours, and
church, and school, and Sunday-school, and work, and the other misplaced
persecutions of civilization, and they pined for their lost home and
their wild free life.  Too late they repented that they had traded that
heaven for this hell.  They sat homesick on their alien crags, and day by
day gazed out through their tears over the sea with unappeasable longing
toward the hazy bulk which was the specter of what had been their
paradise; one by one their hearts broke and they died.

In a very few years nothing but a scant remnant remained alive.  A
handful lingered along into age.  In 1864 the last man died, in 1876 the
last woman died, and the Spartans of Australasia were extinct.

The Whites always mean well when they take human fish out of the ocean
and try to make them dry and warm and happy and comfortable in a chicken
coop; but the kindest-hearted white man can always be depended on to
prove himself inadequate when he deals with savages.  He cannot turn the
situation around and imagine how he would like it to have a well-meaning
savage transfer him from his house and his church and his clothes and his
books and his choice food to a hideous wilderness of sand and rocks and
snow, and ice and sleet and storm and blistering sun, with no shelter, no
bed, no covering for his and his family's naked bodies, and nothing to
eat but snakes and grubs and 'offal.  This would be a hell to him; and if
he had any wisdom he would know that his own civilization is a hell to
the savage--but he hasn't any, and has never had any; and for lack of it
he shut up those poor natives in the unimaginable perdition of his
civilization, committing his crime with the very best intentions, and saw
those poor creatures waste away under his tortures; and gazed at it,
vaguely troubled and sorrowful, and wondered what could be the matter
with them.  One is almost betrayed into respecting those criminals, they
were so sincerely kind, and tender, and humane; and well-meaning.

They didn't know why those exiled savages faded away, and they did their
honest best to reason it out.  And one man, in a like case in New South
Wales, did reason it out and arrive at a solution:

     "It is from the wrath of God, which is revealed from heaven against
     cold ungodliness and unrighteousness of men."

That settles it.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

Let us be thankful for the fools.  But for them the rest of us could not
succeed.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The aphorism does really seem true: "Given the Circumstances, the Man
will appear."  But the man musn't appear ahead of time, or it will spoil
everything.  In Robinson's case the Moment had been approaching for a
quarter of a century--and meantime the future Conciliator was tranquilly
laying bricks in Hobart.  When all other means had failed, the Moment had
arrived, and the Bricklayer put down his trowel and came forward.
Earlier he would have been jeered back to his trowel again.  It reminds
me of a tale that was told me by a Kentuckian on the train when we were
crossing Montana.  He said the tale was current in Louisville years ago.
He thought it had been in print, but could not remember.  At any rate, in
substance it was this, as nearly as I can call it back to mind.

A few years before the outbreak of the Civil War it began to appear that
Memphis, Tennessee, was going to be a great tobacco entrepot--the wise
could see the signs of it.  At that time Memphis had a wharf boat, of
course.  There was a paved sloping wharf, for the accommodation of
freight, but the steamers landed on the outside of the wharfboat, and all
loading and unloading was done across it, between steamer and shore.  A
number of wharfboat clerks were needed, and part of the time, every day,
they were very busy, and part of the time tediously idle.  They were
boiling over with youth and spirits, and they had to make the intervals
of idleness endurable in some way; and as a rule, they did it by
contriving practical jokes and playing them upon each other.

The favorite butt for the jokes was Ed Jackson, because he played none
himself, and was easy game for other people's--for he always believed
whatever was told him.

One day he told the others his scheme for his holiday.  He was not going
fishing or hunting this time--no, he had thought out a better plan.  Out
of his $40 a month he had saved enough for his purpose, in an economical
way, and he was going to have a look at New York.

It was a great and surprising idea.  It meant travel immense travel--in
those days it meant seeing the world; it was the equivalent of a voyage
around it in ours.  At first the other youths thought his mind was
affected, but when they found that he was in earnest, the next thing to
be thought of was, what sort of opportunity this venture might afford for
a practical joke.

The young men studied over the matter, then held a secret consultation
and made a plan.  The idea was, that one of the conspirators should offer
Ed a letter of introduction to Commodore Vanderbilt, and trick him into
delivering it.  It would be easy to do this.  But what would Ed do when
he got back to Memphis?  That was a serious matter.  He was good-hearted,
and had always taken the jokes patiently; but they had been jokes which
did not humiliate him, did not bring him to shame; whereas, this would be
a cruel one in that way, and to play it was to meddle with fire; for with
all his good nature, Ed was a Southerner--and the English of that was,
that when he came back he would kill as many of the conspirators as he
could before falling himself.  However, the chances must be taken--it
wouldn't do to waste such a joke as that.

So the letter was prepared with great care and elaboration.  It was
signed Alfred Fairchild, and was written in an easy and friendly spirit.
It stated that the bearer was the bosom friend of the writer's son, and
was of good parts and sterling character, and it begged the Commodore to
be kind to the young stranger for the writer's sake.  It went on to say,
"You may have forgotten me, in this long stretch of time, but you will
easily call me back out of your boyhood memories when I remind you of how
we robbed old Stevenson's orchard that night; and how, while he was
chasing down the road after us, we cut across the field and doubled back
and sold his own apples to his own cook for a hat-full of doughnuts; and
the time that we----" and so forth and so on, bringing in names of
imaginary comrades, and detailing all sorts of wild and absurd and, of
course, wholly imaginary schoolboy pranks and adventures, but putting
them into lively and telling shape.

With all gravity Ed was asked if he would like to have a letter to
Commodore Vanderbilt, the great millionaire.  It was expected that the
question would astonish Ed, and it did.

"What?  Do you know that extraordinary man?"

"No; but my father does.  They were schoolboys together.  And if you
like, I'll write and ask father.  I know he'll be glad to give it to you
for my sake."

Ed could not find words capable of expressing his gratitude and delight.
The three days passed, and the letter was put into his bands.  He started
on his trip, still pouring out his thanks while he shook good-bye all
around.  And when he was out of sight his comrades let fly their laughter
in a storm of happy satisfaction--and then quieted down, and were less
happy, less satisfied.  For the old doubts as to the wisdom of this
deception began to intrude again.

Arrived in New York, Ed found his way to Commodore Vanderbilt's business
quarters, and was ushered into a large anteroom, where a score of people
were patiently awaiting their turn for a two-minute interview with the
millionaire in his private office.  A servant asked for Ed's card, and
got the letter instead.  Ed was sent for a moment later, and found Mr.
Vanderbilt alone, with the letter--open--in his hand.

"Pray sit down, Mr. --er--"

"Jackson."

" Ah--sit down, Mr. Jackson.  By the opening sentences it seems to be a
letter from an old friend.  Allow me--I will run my eye through it.  He
says he says--why, who is it?" He turned the sheet and found the
signature.  "Alfred Fairchild--hm--Fairchild--I don't recall the name.
But that is nothing--a thousand names have gone from me.  He says--he
says-hm-hmoh, dear, but it's good!  Oh, it's rare!  I don't quite
remember it, but I seem to it'll all come back to me presently.  He says
--he says--hm--hm-oh, but that was a game!  Oh, spl-endid!  How it
carries me back!  It's all dim, of course it's a long time ago--and the
names--some of the names are wavery and indistinct--but sho', I know it
happened--I can feel it!  and lord, how it warms my heart, and brings
back my lost youth!  Well, well, well, I've got to come back into this
work-a-day world now--business presses and people are waiting--I'll keep
the rest for bed to-night, and live my youth over again.  And you'll
thank Fairchild for me when you see him--I used to call him Alf, I think
--and you'll give him my gratitude for--what this letter has done for the
tired spirit of a hard-worked man; and tell him there isn't anything that
I can do for him or any friend of his that I won't do.  And as for you,
my lad, you are my guest; you can't stop at any hotel in New York.  Sit.
where you are a little while, till I get through with these people, then
we'll go home.  I'll take care of you, my boy--make yourself easy as to
that."

Ed stayed a week, and had an immense time--and never suspected that the
Commodore's shrewd eye was on him, and that he was daily being weighed
and measured and analyzed and tried and tested.

Yes, he had an immense time; and never wrote home, but saved it all up to
tell when he should get back.  Twice, with proper modesty and decency, he
proposed to end his visit, but the Commodore said, "No--wait; leave it to
me; I'll tell you when to go."

In those days the Commodore was making some of those vast combinations of
his--consolidations of warring odds and ends of railroads into harmonious
systems, and concentrations of floating and rudderless commerce in
effective centers--and among other things his farseeing eye had detected
the convergence of that huge tobacco-commerce, already spoken of, toward
Memphis, and he had resolved to set his grasp upon it and make it his
own.

The week came to an end.  Then the Commodore said:

"Now you can start home.  But first we will have some more talk about
that tobacco matter.  I know you now.  I know your abilities as well as
you know them yourself--perhaps better.  You understand that tobacco
matter; you understand that I am going to take possession of it, and you
also understand the plans which I have matured for doing it.  What I want
is a man who knows my mind, and is qualified to represent me in Memphis,
and be in supreme command of that important business--and I appoint you."

"Me!"

"Yes.  Your salary will be high--of course-for you are representing me.
Later you will earn increases of it, and will get them.  You will need a
small army of assistants; choose them yourself--and carefully.  Take no
man for friendship's sake; but, all things being equal, take the man you
know, take your friend, in preference to the stranger."  After some
further talk under this head, the Commodore said:

"Good-bye, my boy, and thank Alf for me, for sending you to me."

When Ed reached Memphis he rushed down to the wharf in a fever to tell
his great news and thank the boys over and over again for thinking to
give him the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt.  It happened to be one of those
idle times.  Blazing hot noonday, and no sign of life on the wharf.  But
as Ed threaded his way among the freight piles, he saw a white linen
figure stretched in slumber upon a pile of grain-sacks under an awning,
and said to himself, "That's one of them," and hastened his step; next,
he said, "It's Charley--it's Fairchild good"; and the next moment laid an
affectionate hand on the sleeper's shoulder.  The eyes opened lazily,
took one glance, the face blanched, the form whirled itself from the
sack-pile, and in an instant Ed was alone and Fairchild was flying for
the wharf-boat like the wind!

Ed was dazed, stupefied.  Was Fairchild crazy?  What could be the meaning
of this?  He started slow and dreamily down toward the wharf-boat; turned
the corner of a freight-pile and came suddenly upon two of the boys.
They were lightly laughing over some pleasant matter; they heard his
step, and glanced up just as he discovered them; the laugh died abruptly;
and before Ed could speak they were off, and sailing over barrels and
bales like hunted deer.  Again Ed was paralyzed.  Had the boys all gone
mad?  What could be the explanation of this extraordinary conduct?  And
so, dreaming along, he reached the wharf-boat, and stepped aboard nothing
but silence there, and vacancy.  He crossed the deck, turned the corner
to go down the outer guard, heard a fervent--

"O lord!" and saw a white linen form plunge overboard.

The youth came up coughing and strangling, and cried out--

"Go 'way from here!  You let me alone.  I didn't do it, I swear I
didn't!"

"Didn't do what?"

"Give you the----"

"Never mind what you didn't do--come out of that!  What makes you all act
so?  What have I done?"

"You?  Why you haven't done anything.  But----"

"Well, then, what have you got against me?  What do you all treat me so
for?"

"I--er--but haven't you got anything against us?"

"Of course not.  What put such a thing into your head?"

"Honor bright--you haven't?

"Honor bright."

"Swear it!"

"I don't know what in the world you mean, but I swear it, anyway."

"And you'll shake hands with me?"

"Goodness knows I'll be glad to!  Why, I'm just starving to shake hands
with somebody!"

The swimmer muttered, "Hang him, he smelt a rat and never delivered the
letter!--but it's all right, I'm not going to fetch up the subject."  And
he crawled out and came dripping and draining to shake hands.  First one
and then another of the conspirators showed up cautiously--armed to the
teeth--took in the amicable situation, then ventured warily forward and
joined the love-feast.

And to Ed's eager inquiry as to what made them act as they had been
acting, they answered evasively, and pretended that they had put it up as
a joke, to see what he would do.  It was the best explanation they could
invent at such short notice.  And each said to himself, "He never
delivered that letter, and the joke is on us, if he only knew it or we
were dull enough to come out and tell."

Then, of course, they wanted to know all about the trip; and he said--

"Come right up on the boiler deck and order the drinks it's my treat.
I'm going to tell you all about it.  And to-night it's my treat again--
and we'll have oysters and a time!"

When the drinks were brought and cigars lighted, Ed said:

"Well, when, I delivered the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt----"

"Great Scott!"

"Gracious, how you scared me.  What's the matter?"

"Oh--er--nothing.  Nothing--it was a tack in the chair-seat," said one.

"But you all said it.  However, no matter.  When I delivered the
letter----"

"Did you deliver it?"  And they looked at each other as people might who
thought that maybe they were dreaming.

Then they settled to listening; and as the story deepened and its marvels
grew, the amazement of it made them dumb, and the interest of it took
their breath.  They hardly uttered a whisper during two hours, but sat
like petrifactions and drank in the immortal romance.  At last the tale
was ended, and Ed said--

"And it's all owing to you, boys, and you'll never find me ungrateful--
bless your hearts, the best friends a fellow ever had!  You'll all have
places; I want every one of you.  I know you--I know you 'by the back,'
as the gamblers say.  You're jokers, and all that, but you're sterling,
with the hallmark on.  And Charley Fairchild, you shall be my first
assistant and right hand, because of your first-class ability, and
because you got me the letter, and for your father's sake who wrote it
for me, and to please Mr. Vanderbilt, who said it would!  And here's to
that great man--drink hearty!"

Yes, when the Moment comes, the Man appears--even if he is a thousand
miles away, and has to be discovered by a practical joke.




CHAPTER XXIX.

When people do not respect us we are sharply offended; yet deep down in
his private heart no man much respects himself.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Necessarily, the human interest is the first interest in the log-book of
any country.  The annals of Tasmania, in whose shadow we were sailing,
are lurid with that feature.  Tasmania was a convict-dump, in old times;
this has been indicated in the account of the Conciliator, where
reference is made to vain attempts of desperate convicts to win to
permanent freedom, after escaping from Macquarrie Harbor and the "Gates
of Hell." In the early days Tasmania had a great population of convicts,
of both sexes and all ages, and a bitter hard life they had.  In one spot
there was a settlement of juvenile convicts--children--who had been sent
thither from their home and their friends on the other side of the globe
to expiate their "crimes."

In due course our ship entered the estuary called the Derwent, at whose
head stands Hobart, the capital of Tasmania.  The Derwent's shores
furnish scenery of an interesting sort.  The historian Laurie, whose
book, "The Story of Australasia," is just out, invoices its features with
considerable truth and intemperance: "The marvelous picturesqueness of
every point of view, combined with the clear balmy atmosphere and the
transparency of the ocean depths, must have delighted and deeply
impressed" the early explorers.  "If the rock-bound coasts, sullen,
defiant, and lowering, seemed uninviting, these were occasionally broken
into charmingly alluring coves floored with golden sand, clad with
evergreen shrubbery, and adorned with every variety of indigenous wattle,
she-oak, wild flower, and fern, from the delicately graceful 'maiden-
hair' to the palm-like 'old man'; while the majestic gum-tree, clean and
smooth as the mast of 'some tall admiral' pierces the clear air to the
height of 230 feet or more."

It looked so to me.  "Coasting along Tasman's Peninsula, what a shock of
pleasant wonder must have struck the early mariner on suddenly sighting
Cape Pillar, with its cluster of black-ribbed basaltic columns rising to
a height of 900 feet, the hydra head wreathed in a turban of fleecy
cloud, the base lashed by jealous waves spouting angry fountains of
foam."

That is well enough, but I did not suppose those snags were 900 feet
high.  Still they were a very fine show.  They stood boldly out by
themselves, and made a fascinatingly odd spectacle.  But there was
nothing about their appearance to suggest the heads of a hydra.  They
looked like a row of lofty slabs with their upper ends tapered to the
shape of a carving-knife point; in fact, the early voyager, ignorant of
their great height, might have mistaken them for a rusty old rank of
piles that had sagged this way and that out of the perpendicular.

The Peninsula is lofty, rocky, and densely clothed with scrub, or brush,
or both.  It is joined to the main by a low neck.  At this junction was
formerly a convict station called Port Arthur--a place hard to escape
from.  Behind it was the wilderness of scrub, in which a fugitive would
soon starve; in front was the narrow neck, with a cordon of chained dogs
across it, and a line of lanterns, and a fence of living guards, armed.
We saw the place as we swept by--that is, we had a glimpse of what we
were told was the entrance to Port Arthur.  The glimpse was worth
something, as a remembrancer, but that was all.

The voyage thence up the Derwent Frith displays a grand succession of
fairy visions, in its entire length elsewhere unequaled.  In gliding over
the deep blue sea studded with lovely islets luxuriant to the water's
edge, one is at a loss which scene to choose for contemplation and to
admire most.  When the Huon and Bruni have been passed, there seems no
possible chance of a rival; but suddenly Mount Wellington, massive and
noble like his brother Etna, literally heaves in sight, sternly guarded
on either hand by Mounts Nelson and Rumney; presently we arrive at
Sullivan's Cove--Hobart!

It is an attractive town.  It sits on low hills that slope to the harbor
--a harbor that looks like a river, and is as smooth as one.  Its still
surface is pictured with dainty reflections of boats and grassy banks and
luxuriant foliage.  Back of the town rise highlands that are clothed in
woodland loveliness, and over the way is that noble mountain, Wellington,
a stately bulk, a most majestic pile.  How beautiful is the whole region,
for form, and grouping, and opulence, and freshness of foliage, and
variety of color, and grace and shapeliness of the hills, the capes, the,
promontories; and then, the splendor of the sunlight, the dim rich
distances, the charm of the water-glimpses!  And it was in this paradise
that the yellow-liveried convicts were landed, and the Corps-bandits
quartered, and the wanton slaughter of the kangaroo-chasing black
innocents consummated on that autumn day in May, in the brutish old time.
It was all out of keeping with the place, a sort of bringing of heaven
and hell together.

The remembrance of this paradise reminds me that it was at Hobart that we
struck the head of the procession of Junior Englands.  We were to
encounter other sections of it in New Zealand, presently, and others
later in Natal.  Wherever the exiled Englishman can find in his new home
resemblances to his old one, he is touched to the marrow of his being;
the love that is in his heart inspires his imagination, and these allied
forces transfigure those resemblances into authentic duplicates of the
revered originals.  It is beautiful, the feeling which works this
enchantment, and it compels one's homage; compels it, and also compels
one's assent--compels it always--even when, as happens sometimes, one
does not see the resemblances as clearly as does the exile who is
pointing them out.

The resemblances do exist, it is quite true; and often they cunningly
approximate the originals--but after all, in the matter of certain
physical patent rights there is only one England.  Now that I have
sampled the globe, I am not in doubt.  There is a beauty of Switzerland,
and it is repeated in the glaciers and snowy ranges of many parts of the
earth; there is a beauty of the fiord, and it is repeated in New Zealand
and Alaska; there is a beauty of Hawaii, and it is repeated in ten
thousand islands of the Southern seas; there is a beauty of the prairie
and the plain, and it is repeated here and there in the earth; each of
these is worshipful, each is perfect in its way, yet holds no monopoly of
its beauty; but that beauty which is England is alone--it has no
duplicate.

It is made up of very simple details--just grass, and trees, and shrubs,
and roads, and hedges, and gardens, and houses, and vines, and churches,
and castles, and here and there a ruin--and over it all a mellow dream-
haze of history.  But its beauty is incomparable, and all its own.

Hobart has a peculiarity--it is the neatest town that the sun shines on;
and I incline to believe that it is also the cleanest.  However that may
be, its supremacy in neatness is not to be questioned.  There cannot be
another town in the world that has no shabby exteriors; no rickety gates
and fences, no neglected houses crumbling to ruin, no crazy and unsightly
sheds, no weed-grown front-yards of the poor, no back-yards littered with
tin cans and old boots and empty bottles, no rubbish in the gutters, no
clutter on the sidewalks, no outer-borders fraying out into dirty lanes
and tin-patched huts.  No, in Hobart all the aspects are tidy, and all a
comfort to the eye; the modestest cottage looks combed and brushed, and
has its vines, its flowers, its neat fence, its neat gate, its comely cat
asleep on the window ledge.

We had a glimpse of the museum, by courtesy of the American gentleman who
is curator of it.  It has samples of half-a-dozen different kinds of
marsupials--[A marsupial is a plantigrade vertebrate whose specialty is
its pocket.  In some countries it is extinct, in the others it is rare.
The first American marsupials were Stephen Girard, Mr. Aston and the
opossum; the principal marsupials of the Southern Hemisphere are Mr.
Rhodes, and the kangaroo.  I, myself, am the latest marsupial.  Also, I
might boast that I have the largest pocket of them all.  But there is
nothing in that.]--one, the "Tasmanian devil;" that is, I think he was
one of them.  And there was a fish with lungs.  When the water dries up
it can live in the mud.  Most curious of all was a parrot that kills
sheep.  On one great sheep-run this bird killed a thousand sheep in a
whole year.  He doesn't want the whole sheep, but only the kidney-fat.
This restricted taste makes him an expensive bird to support.  To get the
fat he drives his beak in and rips it out; the wound is mortal.  This
parrot furnishes a notable example of evolution brought about by changed
conditions.  When the sheep culture was introduced, it presently brought
famine to the parrot by exterminating a kind of grub which had always
thitherto been the parrot's diet.  The miseries of hunger made the bird
willing to eat raw flesh, since it could get no other food, and it began
to pick remnants of meat from sheep skins hung out on the fences to dry.
It soon came to prefer sheep meat to any other food, and by and by it
came to prefer the kidney-fat to any other detail of the sheep.  The
parrot's bill was not well shaped for digging out the fat, but Nature
fixed that matter; she altered the bill's shape, and now the parrot can
dig out kidney-fat better than the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, or
anybody else, for that matter--even an Admiral.

And there was another curiosity--quite a stunning one, I thought: Arrow-
heads and knives just like those which Primeval Man made out of flint,
and thought he had done such a wonderful thing--yes, and has been humored
and coddled in that superstition by this age of admiring scientists until
there is probably no living with him in the other world by now.  Yet here
is his finest and nicest work exactly duplicated in our day; and by
people who have never heard of him or his works: by aborigines who lived
in the islands of these seas, within our time.  And they not only
duplicated those works of art but did it in the brittlest and most
treacherous of substances--glass: made them out of old brandy bottles
flung out of the British camps; millions of tons of them.  It is time for
Primeval Man to make a little less noise, now.  He has had his day.  He
is not what he used to be.  We had a drive through a bloomy and odorous
fairy-land, to the Refuge for the Indigent--a spacious and comfortable
home, with hospitals, etc., for both sexes.  There was a crowd in there,
of the oldest people I have ever seen.  It was like being suddenly set
down in a new world--a weird world where Youth has never been, a world
sacred to Age, and bowed forms, and wrinkles.  Out of the 359 persons
present, 223, were ex-convicts, and could have told stirring tales, no
doubt, if they had been minded to talk; 42 of the 359 were past 80, and
several were close upon 90; the average age at death there is 76 years.
As for me, I have no use for that place; it is too healthy.  Seventy is
old enough--after that, there is too much risk.  Youth and gaiety might
vanish, any day--and then, what is left?  Death in life; death without
its privileges, death without its benefits.  There were 185 women in that
Refuge, and 81 of them were ex-convicts.

The steamer disappointed us.  Instead of making a long visit at Hobart,
as usual, she made a short one.  So we got but a glimpse of Tasmania, and
then moved on.




CHAPTER XXX.

Nature makes the locust with an appetite for crops; man would have made
him with an appetite for sand.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

We spent part of an afternoon and a night at sea, and reached Bluff, in
New Zealand, early in the morning.  Bluff is at the bottom of the middle
island, and is away down south, nearly forty-seven degrees below the
equator.  It lies as far south of the line as Quebec lies north of it,
and the climates of the two should be alike; but for some reason or other
it has not been so arranged.  Quebec is hot in the summer and cold in the
winter, but Bluff's climate is less intense; the cold weather is not very
cold, the hot weather is not very hot; and the difference between the
hottest month and the coldest is but 17 degrees Fahrenheit.

In New Zealand the rabbit plague began at Bluff.  The man who introduced
the rabbit there was banqueted and lauded; but they would hang him, now,
if they could get him. In England the natural enemy of the rabbit is
detested and persecuted; in the Bluff region the natural enemy of the
rabbit is honored, and his person is sacred.  The rabbit's natural enemy
in England is the poacher, in Bluff its natural enemy is the stoat, the
weasel, the ferret, the cat, and the mongoose.  In England any person
below the Heir who is caught with a rabbit in his possession must
satisfactorily explain how it got there, or he will suffer fine and
imprisonment, together with extinction of his peerage; in Bluff, the cat
found with a rabbit in its possession does not have to explain--everybody
looks the other way; the person caught noticing would suffer fine and
imprisonment, with extinction of peerage.  This is a sure way to
undermine the moral fabric of a cat.  Thirty years from now there will
not be a moral cat in New Zealand.  Some think there is none there now.
In England the poacher is watched, tracked, hunted--he dare not show his
face; in Bluff the cat, the weasel, the stoat, and the mongoose go up and
down, whither they will, unmolested.  By a law of the legislature, posted
where all may read, it is decreed that any person found in possession of
one of these creatures (dead) must satisfactorily explain the
circumstances or pay a fine of not less than L5, nor more than L20.  The
revenue from this source is not large.  Persons who want to pay a hundred
dollars for a dead cat are getting rarer and rarer every day.  This is
bad, for the revenue was to go to the endowment of a University.  All
governments are more or less short-sighted: in England they fine the
poacher, whereas he ought to be banished to New Zealand.  New Zealand
would pay his way, and give him wages.

It was from Bluff that we ought to have cut across to the west coast and
visited the New Zealand Switzerland, a land of superb scenery, made up of
snowy grandeurs, anal mighty glaciers, and beautiful lakes; and over
there, also, are the wonderful rivals of the Norwegian and Alaskan
fiords; and for neighbor, a waterfall of 1,900 feet; but we were obliged
to postpone the trip to some later and indefinite time.

November 6.  A lovely summer morning; brilliant blue sky.  A few miles
out from Invercargill, passed through vast level green expanses snowed
over with sheep.  Fine to see.  The green, deep and very vivid sometimes;
at other times less so, but delicate and lovely.  A passenger reminds me
that I am in "the England of the Far South."

Dunedin, same date.  The town justifies Michael Davitt's praises.  The
people are Scotch.  They stopped here on their way from home to heaven-
thinking they had arrived.  The population is stated at 40,000, by
Malcolm Ross, journalist; stated by an M. P. at 60,000.  A journalist
cannot lie.

To the residence of Dr. Hockin.  He has a fine collection of books
relating to New Zealand; and his house is a museum of Maori art and
antiquities.  He has pictures and prints in color of many native chiefs
of the past--some of them of note in history.  There is nothing of the
savage in the faces; nothing could be finer than these men's features,
nothing more intellectual than these faces, nothing more masculine,
nothing nobler than their aspect.  The aboriginals of Australia and
Tasmania looked the savage, but these chiefs looked like Roman
patricians.  The tattooing in these portraits ought to suggest the
savage, of course, but it does not.  The designs are so flowing and
graceful and beautiful that they are a most satisfactory decoration.  It
takes but fifteen minutes to get reconciled to the tattooing, and but
fifteen more to perceive that it is just the thing.  After that, the
undecorated European face is unpleasant and ignoble.

Dr. Hockiu gave us a ghastly curiosity--a lignified caterpillar with a
plant growing out of the back of its neck--a plant with a slender stem 4
inches high.  It happened not by accident, but by design--Nature's
design.  This caterpillar was in the act of loyally carrying out a law
inflicted upon him by Nature--a law purposely inflicted upon him to get
him into trouble--a law which was a trap; in pursuance of this law he
made the proper preparations for turning himself into a night-moth; that
is to say, he dug a little trench, a little grave, and then stretched
himself out in it on his stomach and partially buried himself--then
Nature was ready for him.  She blew the spores of a peculiar fungus
through the air with a purpose.  Some of them fell into a crease in the
back of the caterpillar's neck, and began to sprout and grow--for there
was soil there--he had not washed his neck.  The roots forced themselves
down into the worm's person, and rearward along through its body, sucking
up the creature's juices for sap; the worm slowly died, and turned to
wood.  And here he was now, a wooden caterpillar, with every detail of
his former physique delicately and exactly preserved and perpetuated, and
with that stem standing up out of him for his monument--monument
commemorative of his own loyalty and of Nature's unfair return for it.

Nature is always acting like that.  Mrs. X. said (of course) that the
caterpillar was not conscious and didn't suffer.  She should have known
better.  No caterpillar can deceive Nature.  If this one couldn't suffer,
Nature would have known it and would have hunted up another caterpillar.
Not that she would have let this one go, merely because it was defective.
No.  She would have waited and let him turn into a night-moth; and then
fried him in the candle.

Nature cakes a fish's eyes over with parasites, so that it shan't be able
to avoid its enemies or find its food.  She sends parasites into a star-
fish's system, which clog up its prongs and swell them and make them so
uncomfortable that the poor creature delivers itself from the prong to
ease its misery; and presently it has to part with another prong for the
sake of comfort, and finally with a third.  If it re-grows the prongs,
the parasite returns and the same thing is repeated.  And finally, when
the ability to reproduce prongs is lost through age, that poor old star-
fish can't get around any more, and so it dies of starvation.

In Australia is prevalent a horrible disease due to an "unperfected
tapeworm."  Unperfected--that is what they call it, I do not know why,
for it transacts business just as well as if it were finished and
frescoed and gilded, and all that.

November 9.  To the museum and public picture gallery with the president
of the Society of Artists.  Some fine pictures there, lent by the S. of
A. several of them they bought, the others came to them by gift.  Next,
to the gallery of the S. of A.--annual exhibition--just opened.  Fine.
Think of a town like this having two such collections as this, and a
Society of Artists.  It is so all over Australasia.  If it were a
monarchy one might understand it.  I mean an absolute monarchy, where it
isn't necessary to vote money, but take it.  Then art flourishes.  But
these colonies are republics--republics with a wide suffrage; voters of
both sexes, this one of New Zealand.  In republics, neither the
government nor the rich private citizen is much given to propagating art.
All over Australasia pictures by famous European artists are bought for
the public galleries by the State and by societies of citizens.  Living
citizens--not dead ones.  They rob themselves to give, not their heirs.
This S. of A. here owns its buildings built it by subscription.




CHAPTER XXXI.

The spirit of wrath--not the words--is the sin; and the spirit of wrath
is cursing.  We begin to swear before we can talk.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

November 11.  On the road.  This train-express goes twenty and one-half
miles an hour, schedule time; but it is fast enough, the outlook upon sea
and land is so interesting, and the cars so comfortable.  They are not
English, and not American; they are the Swiss combination of the two.  A
narrow and railed porch along the side, where a person can walk up and
down.  A lavatory in each car.  This is progress; this is nineteenth-
century spirit. In New Zealand, these fast expresses run twice a week.
It is well to know this if you want to be a bird and fly through the
country at a 20-mile gait; otherwise you may start on one of the five
wrong days, and then you will get a train that can't overtake its own
shadow.

By contrast, these pleasant cars call to mind the branch-road cars at
Maryborough, Australia, and the passengers' talk about the branch-road
and the hotel.

Somewhere on the road to Maryborough I changed for a while to a smoking-
carriage.  There were two gentlemen there; both riding backward, one at
each end of the compartment.  They were acquaintances of each other.  I
sat down facing the one that sat at the starboard window.  He had a good
face, and a friendly look, and I judged from his dress that he was a
dissenting minister.  He was along toward fifty.  Of his own motion he
struck a match, and shaded it with his hand for me to light my cigar.  I
take the rest from my diary:

In order to start conversation I asked him something about Maryborough.
He said, in a most pleasant--even musical voice, but with quiet and
cultured decision:

"It's a charming town, with a hell of a hotel."

I was astonished.  It seemed so odd to hear a minister swear out loud.
He went placidly on:

"It's the worst hotel in Australia.  Well, one may go further, and say in
Australasia."

"Bad beds?"

"No--none at all.  Just sand-bags."

"The pillows, too?"

"Yes, the pillows, too.  Just sand.  And not a good quality of sand.  It
packs too hard, and has never been screened.  There is too much gravel in
it.  It is like sleeping on nuts."

"Isn't there any good sand?"

"Plenty of it.  There is as good bed-sand in this region as the world can
furnish.  Aerated sand--and loose; but they won't buy it.  They want
something that will pack solid, and petrify."

"How are the rooms?"

"Eight feet square; and a sheet of iced oil-cloth to step on in the
morning when you get out of the sand-quarry."

"As to lights?"

"Coal-oil lamp."

"A good one?"

"No.  It's the kind that sheds a gloom."

"I like a lamp that burns all night."

"This one won't.  You must blow it out early."

"That is bad.  One might want it again in the night.  Can't find it in
the dark."

"There's no trouble; you can find it by the stench."

"Wardrobe?"

"Two nails on the door to hang seven suits of clothes on if you've got
them."

"Bells?"

"There aren't any."

"What do you do when you want service?"

"Shout.  But it won't fetch anybody."

"Suppose you want the chambermaid to empty the slopjar?"

"There isn't any slop-jar.  The hotels don't keep them.  That is, outside
of Sydney and Melbourne."

"Yes, I knew that.  I was only talking.  It's the oddest thing in
Australia.  Another thing: I've got to get up in the dark, in the
morning, to take the 5 o'clock train.  Now if the boots----"

"There isn't any."

"Well, the porter."

"There isn't any."

"But who will call me?"

"Nobody.  You'll call yourself.  And you'll light yourself, too.
There'll not be a light burning in the halls or anywhere.  And if you
don't carry a light, you'll break your neck."

"But who will help me down with my baggage?"

"Nobody.  However, I will tell you what to do.  In Maryborough there's an
American who has lived there half a lifetime; a fine man, and prosperous
and popular.  He will be on the lookout for you; you won't have any
trouble.  Sleep in peace; he will rout you out, and you will make your
train.  Where is your manager?"

"I left him at Ballarat, studying the language.  And besides, he had to
go to Melbourne and get us ready for New Zealand.  I've not tried to
pilot myself before, and it doesn't look easy."

"Easy!  You've selected the very most difficult piece of railroad in
Australia for your experiment.  There are twelve miles of this road which
no man without good executive ability can ever hope--tell me, have you
good executive ability?  first-rate executive ability?"

"I--well, I think so, but----"

"That settles it.  The tone of----oh, you wouldn't ever make it in the
world.  However, that American will point you right, and you'll go.
You've got tickets?"

"Yes--round trip; all the way to Sydney."

"Ah, there it is, you see!  You are going in the 5 o'clock by
Castlemaine--twelve miles--instead of the 7.15 by Ballarat--in order to
save two hours of fooling along the road.  Now then, don't interrupt--let
me have the floor.  You're going to save the government a deal of
hauling, but that's nothing; your ticket is by Ballarat, and it isn't
good over that twelve miles, and so----"

"But why should the government care which way I go?"

"Goodness knows!  Ask of the winds that far away with fragments strewed
the sea, as the boy that stood on the burning deck used to say.  The
government chooses to do its railway business in its own way, and it
doesn't know as much about it as the French.  In the beginning they tried
idiots; then they imported the French--which was going backwards, you
see; now it runs the roads itself--which is going backwards again, you
see.  Why, do you know, in order to curry favor with the voters, the
government puts down a road wherever anybody wants it--anybody that owns
two sheep and a dog; and by consequence we've got, in the colony of
Victoria, 800 railway stations, and the business done at eighty of them
doesn't foot up twenty shillings a week."

"Five dollars?  Oh, come!"

"It's true.  It's the absolute truth."

"Why, there are three or four men on wages at every station."

"I know it.  And the station-business doesn't pay for the sheep-dip to
sanctify their coffee with.  It's just as I say.  And accommodating?
Why, if you shake a rag the train will stop in the midst of the
wilderness to pick you up.  All that kind of politics costs, you see.
And then, besides, any town that has a good many votes and wants a fine
station, gets it.  Don't you overlook that Maryborough station, if you
take an interest in governmental curiosities.  Why, you can put the whole
population of Maryborough into it, and give them a sofa apiece, and have
room for more.  You haven't fifteen stations in America that are as big,
and you probably haven't five that are half as fine.  Why, it's per-
fectly elegant.  And the clock!  Everybody will show yon the clock.
There isn't a station in Europe that's got such a clock.  It doesn't
strike--and that's one mercy.  It hasn't any bell; and as you'll have
cause to remember, if you keep your reason, all Australia is simply
bedamned with bells.  On every quarter-hour, night and day, they jingle a
tiresome chime of half a dozen notes--all the clocks in town at once, all
the clocks in Australasia at once, and all the very same notes; first,
downward scale: mi, re, do, sol--then upward scale: sol, si, re, do--down
again: mi, re, do, sol--up again: sol, si, re, do--then the clock--say at
midnight clang--clang--clang--clang--clang-clang--clang--clang--clang--
clang----and, by that time you're--hello, what's all this excitement
about? a runaway--scared by the train; why, you think this train could
scare anything.  Well, when they build eighty stations at a loss and a
lot of palace-stations and clocks like Maryborough's at another loss, the
government has got to economize somewhere hasn't it?  Very well look at
the rolling stock.  That's where they save the money.  Why, that train
from Maryborough will consist of eighteen freight-cars and two passenger-
kennels; cheap, poor, shabby, slovenly; no drinking water, no sanitary
arrangements, every imaginable inconvenience; and slow?--oh, the gait of
cold molasses; no air-brake, no springs, and they'll jolt your head off
every time they start or stop.  That's where they make their little
economies, you see.  They spend tons of money to house you palatially
while you wait fifteen minutes for a train, then degrade you to six
hours' convict-transportation to get the foolish outlay back.  What a
rational man really needs is discomfort while he's waiting, then his
journey in a nice train would be a grateful change.  But no, that would
be common sense--and out of place in a government.  And then, besides,
they save in that other little detail, you know--repudiate their own
tickets, and collect a poor little illegitimate extra shilling out of you
for that twelve miles, and----"

"Well, in any case----"

"Wait--there's more.  Leave that American out of the account and see what
would happen.  There's nobody on hand to examine your ticket when you
arrive.  But the conductor will come and examine it when the train is
ready to start.  It is too late to buy your extra ticket now; the train
can't wait, and won't.  You must climb out."

"But can't I pay the conductor?"

"No, he is not authorized to receive the money, and he won't.  You must
climb out.  There's no other way.  I tell you, the railway management is
about the only thoroughly European thing here--continentally European I
mean, not English.  It's the continental business in perfection; down
fine.  Oh, yes, even to the peanut-commerce of weighing baggage."

The train slowed up at his place.  As he stepped out he said:

"Yes, you'll like Maryborough.  Plenty of intelligence there.  It's a
charming place--with a hell of a hotel."

Then he was gone.  I turned to the other gentleman:

"Is your friend in the ministry?"

"No--studying for it."




CHAPTER XXXII.

The man with a new idea is a Crank until the idea succeeds.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

It was Junior England all the way to Christchurch--in fact, just a
garden.  And Christchurch is an English town, with an English-park annex,
and a winding English brook just like the Avon--and named the Avon; but
from a man, not from Shakespeare's river.  Its grassy banks are bordered
by the stateliest and most impressive weeping willows to be found in the
world, I suppose.  They continue the line of a great ancestor; they were
grown from sprouts of the willow that sheltered Napoleon's grave in St.
Helena.  It is a settled old community, with all the serenities, the
graces, the conveniences, and the comforts of the ideal home-life.  If it
had an established Church and social inequality it would be England over
again with hardly a lack.

In the museum we saw many curious and interesting things; among others a
fine native house of the olden time, with all the details true to the
facts, and the showy colors right and in their proper places.  All the
details: the fine mats and rugs and things; the elaborate and wonderful
wood carvings--wonderful, surely, considering who did them wonderful in
design and particularly in execution, for they were done with admirable
sharpness and exactness, and yet with no better tools than flint and jade
and shell could furnish; and the totem-posts were there, ancestor above
ancestor, with tongues protruded and hands clasped comfortably over
bellies containing other people's ancestors--grotesque and ugly devils,
every one, but lovingly carved, and ably; and the stuffed natives were
present, in their proper places, and looking as natural as life; and the
housekeeping utensils were there, too, and close at hand the carved and
finely ornamented war canoe.

And we saw little jade gods, to hang around the neck--not everybody's,
but sacred to the necks of natives of rank.  Also jade weapons, and many
kinds of jade trinkets--all made out of that excessively hard stone
without the help of any tool of iron.  And some of these things had small
round holes bored through them--nobody knows how it was done; a mystery,
a lost art.  I think it was said that if you want such a hole bored in a
piece of jade now, you must send it to London or Amsterdam where the
lapidaries are.

Also we saw a complete skeleton of the giant Moa.  It stood ten feet
high, and must have been a sight to look at when it was a living  bird.
It was a kicker, like the ostrich; in fight it did not use its beak, but
its foot.  It must have been a convincing kind of kick.  If a person had
his back to the bird and did not see who it was that did it, he would
think he had been kicked by a wind-mill.

There must have been a sufficiency of moas in the old forgotten days when
his breed walked the earth.  His bones are found in vast masses, all
crammed together in huge graves.  They are not in caves, but in the
ground.  Nobody knows how they happened to get concentrated there.  Mind,
they are bones, not fossils.  This means that the moa has not been
extinct very long.  Still, this is the only New Zealand creature which
has no mention in that otherwise comprehensive literature, the native
legends.  This is a significant detail, and is good circumstantial
evidence that the moa has been extinct 500 years, since the Maori has
himself--by tradition--been in New Zealand since the end of the fifteenth
century.  He came from an unknown land--the first Maori did--then sailed
back in his canoe and brought his tribe, and they removed the aboriginal
peoples into the sea and into the ground and took the land.  That is the
tradition.  That that first Maori could come, is understandable, for
anybody can come to a place when he isn't trying to; but how that
discoverer found his way back home again without a compass is his secret,
and he died with it in him.  His language indicates that he came from
Polynesia.  He told where he came from, but he couldn't spell well, so
one can't find the place on the map, because people who could spell
better than he could, spelt the resemblance all out of it when they made
the map.  However, it is better to have a map that is spelt right than
one that has information in it.

In New Zealand women have the right to vote for members of the
legislature, but they cannot be members themselves.  The law extending
the suffrage to them event into effect in 1893.  The population of
Christchurch (census of 1891) was 31,454.  The first election under the
law was held in November of that year.  Number of men who voted, 6,313;
number of women who voted, 5,989.  These figures ought to convince us
that women are not as indifferent about politics as some people would
have us believe.  In New Zealand as a whole, the estimated adult female
population was 139,915; of these 109,461 qualified and registered their
names on the rolls 78.23 per cent. of the whole.  Of these, 90,290 went
to the polls and voted--85.18 per cent.  Do men ever turn out better than
that--in America or elsewhere?  Here is a remark to the other sex's
credit, too--I take it from the official report:

"A feature of the election was the orderliness and sobriety of the
people.  Women were in no way molested."

At home, a standing argument against woman suffrage has always been that
women could not go to the polls without being insulted.  The arguments
against woman suffrage have always taken the easy form of prophecy.  The
prophets have been prophesying ever since the woman's rights movement
began in 1848--and in forty-seven years they have never scored a hit.

Men ought to begin to feel a sort of respect for their mothers and wives
and sisters by this time.  The women deserve a change of attitude like
that, for they have wrought well.  In forty-seven years they have swept
an imposingly large number of unfair laws from the statute books of
America.  In that brief time these serfs have set themselves free
essentially.  Men could not have done so much for themselves in that time
without bloodshed--at least they never have; and that is argument that
they didn't know how.  The women have accomplished a peaceful revolution,
and a very beneficent one; and yet that has not convinced the average man
that they are intelligent, and have courage and energy and perseverance
and fortitude.  It takes much to convince the average man of anything;
and perhaps nothing can ever make him realize that he is the average
woman's inferior--yet in several important details the evidences seems to
show that that is what he is.  Man has ruled the human race from the
beginning--but he should remember that up to the middle of the present
century it was a dull world, and ignorant and stupid; but it is not such
a dull world now, and is growing less and less dull all the time.  This
is woman's opportunity--she has had none before.  I wonder where man will
be in another forty-seven years?

In the New Zealand law occurs this: "The word person wherever it occurs
throughout the Act includes woman."

That is promotion, you see.  By that enlargement of the word, the matron
with the garnered wisdom and experience of fifty years becomes at one
jump the political equal of her callow kid of twenty-one.  The white
population of the colony is 626,000, the Maori population is 42,000.  The
whites elect seventy members of the House of Representatives, the Maoris
four.  The Maori women vote for their four members.

November 16.   After four pleasant days in Christchurch, we are to leave
at midnight to-night.  Mr. Kinsey gave me an ornithorhynchus, and I am
taming it.

Sunday, 17th.  Sailed last night in the Flora, from Lyttelton.

So we did.  I remember it yet.  The people who sailed in the Flora that
night may forget some other things if they live a good while, but they
will not live long, enough to forget that.  The Flora is about the
equivalent of a cattle-scow; but when the Union Company find it
inconvenient to keep a contract and lucrative to break it, they smuggle
her into passenger service, and "keep the change."

They give no notice of their projected depredation; you innocently buy
tickets for the advertised passenger boat, and when you get down to
Lyttelton at midnight, you find that they have substituted the scow.
They have plenty of good boats, but no competition--and that is the
trouble.  It is too late now to make other arrangements if you have
engagements ahead.

It is a powerful company, it has a monopoly, and everybody is afraid of
it--including the government's representative, who stands at the end of
the stage-plank to tally the passengers and see that no boat receives a
greater number than the law allows her to carry.  This conveniently-blind
representative saw the scow receive a number which was far in excess of
its privilege, and winked a politic wink and said nothing.  The
passengers bore with meekness the cheat which had been put upon them, and
made no complaint.

It was like being at home in America, where abused passengers act in just
the same way.  A few days before, the Union Company had discharged a
captain for getting a boat into danger, and had advertised this act as
evidence of its vigilance in looking after the safety of the passengers--
for thugging a captain costs the company nothing, but when opportunity
offered to send this dangerously overcrowded tub to sea and save a little
trouble and a tidy penny by it, it forgot to worry about the passenger's
safety.

The first officer told me that the Flora was privileged to carry 125
passengers.  She must have had all of 200 on board.  All the cabins were
full, all the cattle-stalls in the main stable were full, the spaces at
the heads of companionways were full, every inch of floor and table in
the swill-room was packed with sleeping men and remained so until the
place was required for breakfast, all the chairs and benches on the
hurricane deck were occupied, and still there were people who had to walk
about all night!

If the Flora had gone down that night, half of the people on board would
have been wholly without means of escape.

The owners of that boat were not technically guilty of conspiracy to
commit murder, but they were morally guilty of it.

I had a cattle-stall in the main stable--a cavern fitted up with a long
double file of two-storied bunks, the files separated by a calico
partition--twenty men and boys on one side of it, twenty women and girls
on the other.  The place was as dark as the soul of the Union Company,
and smelt like a kennel.  When the vessel got out into the heavy seas and
began to pitch and wallow, the cavern prisoners became immediately
seasick, and then the peculiar results that ensued laid all my previous
experiences of the kind well away in the shade.  And the wails, the
groans, the cries, the shrieks, the strange ejaculations--it was
wonderful.

The women and children and some of the men and boys spent the night in
that place, for they were too ill to leave it; but the rest of us got up,
by and by, and finished the night on the hurricane-deck.

That boat was the foulest I was ever in; and the smell of the breakfast
saloon when we threaded our way among the layers of steaming passengers
stretched upon its floor and its tables was incomparable for efficiency.

A good many of us got ashore at the first way-port to seek another ship.
After a wait of three hours we got good rooms in the Mahinapua, a wee
little bridal-parlor of a boat--only 205 tons burthen; clean and
comfortable; good service; good beds; good table, and no crowding.  The
seas danced her about like a duck, but she was safe and capable.

Next morning early she went through the French Pass--a narrow gateway of
rock, between bold headlands--so narrow, in fact, that it seemed no wider
than a street.  The current tore through there like a mill-race, and the
boat darted through like a telegram.  The passage was made in half a
minute; then we were in a wide place where noble vast eddies swept
grandly round and round in shoal water, and I wondered what they would do
with the little boat.  They did as they pleased with her.  They picked
her up and flung her around like nothing and landed her gently on the
solid, smooth bottom of sand--so gently, indeed, that we barely felt her
touch it, barely felt her quiver when she came to a standstill.  The
water was as clear as glass, the sand on the bottom was vividly distinct,
and the fishes seemed to be swimming about in nothing.  Fishing lines
were brought out, but before we could bait the hooks the boat was off and
away again.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

Let us be grateful to Adam our benefactor.  He cut us out of the
"blessing of idleness," and won for us the "curse of labor."
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

We soon reached the town of Nelson, and spent the most of the day there,
visiting acquaintances and driving with them about the garden--the whole
region is a garden, excepting the scene of the "Maungatapu Murders," of
thirty years ago.  That is a wild place--wild and lonely; an ideal place
for a murder.  It is at the base of a vast, rugged, densely timbered
mountain.  In the deep twilight of that forest solitude four desperate
rascals--Burgess, Sullivan, Levy, and Kelley--ambushed themselves beside
the mountain-trail to murder and rob four travelers--Kempthorne, Mathieu,
Dudley, and De Pontius, the latter a New Yorker. A harmless old laboring
man came wandering along, and as his presence was an embarrassment, they
choked him, hid him, and then resumed their watch for the four.  They had
to wait a while, but eventually everything turned out as they desired.

That dark episode is the one large event in the history of Nelson.  The
fame of it traveled far.  Burgess made a confession.  It is a remarkable
paper.  For brevity, succinctness, and concentration, it is perhaps
without its peer in the literature of murder.  There are no waste words
in it; there is no obtrusion of matter not pertinent to the occasion, nor
any departure from the dispassionate tone proper to a formal business
statement--for that is what it is: a business statement of a murder, by
the chief engineer of it, or superintendent, or foreman, or whatever one
may prefer to call him.

     "We were getting impatient, when we saw four men and a pack-horse
     coming.  I left my cover and had a look at the men, for Levy had
     told me that Mathieu was a small man and wore a large beard, and
     that it was a chestnut horse.  I said, 'Here they come.'  They were
     then a good distance away; I took the caps off my gun, and put fresh
     ones on.  I said, 'You keep where you are, I'll put them up, and you
     give me your gun while you tie them.'  It was arranged as I have
     described.  The men came; they arrived within about fifteen yards
     when I stepped up and said, 'Stand!  bail up!'  That means all of
     them to get together.  I made them fall back on the upper side of
     the road with their faces up the range, and Sullivan brought me his
     gun, and then tied their hands behind them.  The horse was very
     quiet all the time, he did not move.  When they were all tied,
     Sullivan took the horse up the hill, and put him in the bush; he cut
     the rope and let the swags'--[A "swag" is a kit, a pack, small
     baggage.]--fall on the ground, and then came to me.  We then marched
     the men down the incline to the creek; the water at this time barely
     running.  Up this creek we took the men; we went, I daresay, five or
     six hundred yards up it, which took us nearly half-an-hour to
     accomplish.  Then we turned to the right up the range; we went, I
     daresay, one hundred and fifty yards from the creek, and there we
     sat down with the men.  I said to Sullivan, 'Put down your gun and
     search these men,' which he did.  I asked them their several names;
     they told me.  I asked them if they were expected at Nelson.  They
     said, 'No.'  If such their lives would have been spared.  In money
     we took L60 odd.  I said, 'Is this all you have?  You had better
     tell me.' Sullivan said, 'Here is a bag of gold.' I said, 'What's on
     that pack-horse?  Is there any gold ?' when Kempthorne said, 'Yes,
     my gold is in the portmanteau, and I trust you will not take it
     all.' 'Well,' I said, 'we must take you away one at a time, because
     the range is steep just here, and then we will let you go.' They
     said, 'All right,' most cheerfully.  We tied their feet, and took
     Dudley with us; we went about sixty yards with him.  This was
     through a scrub.  It was arranged the night previously that it would
     be best to choke them, in case the report of the arms might be heard
     from the road, and if they were missed they never would be found.
     So we tied a handkerchief over his eyes, when Sullivan took the sash
     off his waist, put it round his neck, and so strangled him.
     Sullivan, after I had killed the old laboring man, found fault with
     the way he was choked.  He said, 'The next we do I'll show you my
     way.'  I said, 'I have never done such a thing before.  I have shot
     a man, but never choked one.'  We returned to the others, when
     Kempthorne said, 'What noise was that?'  I said it was caused by
     breaking through the scrub.  This was taking too much time, so it
     was agreed to shoot them.  With that I said, 'We'll take you no
     further, but separate you, and then loose one of you, and he can
     relieve the others.'  So with that, Sullivan took De Pontius to the
     left of where Kempthorne was sitting.  I took Mathieu to the right.
     I tied a strap round his legs, and shot him with a revolver.  He
     yelled, I ran from him with my gun in my hand, I sighted Kempthorne,
     who had risen to his feet.  I presented the gun, and shot him behind
     the right ear; his life's blood welled from him, and he died
     instantaneously.  Sullivan had shot.  De Pontius in the meantime,
     and then came to me.  I said, 'Look to Mathieu,' indicating the spot
     where he lay.  He shortly returned and said, 'I had to "chiv" that
     fellow, he was not dead,' a cant word, meaning that he had to stab
     him.  Returning to the road we passed where De Pontius lay and was
     dead.  Sullivan said, 'This is the digger, the others were all
     storekeepers; this is the digger, let's cover him up, for should the
     others be found, they'll think he done it and sloped,' meaning he
     had gone.  So with that we threw all the stones on him, and then
     left him.  This bloody work took nearly an hour and a half from the
     time we stopped the men."

Anyone who reads that confession will think that the man who wrote it was
destitute of emotions, destitute of feeling.  That is partly true.  As
regarded others he was plainly without feeling--utterly cold and
pitiless; but as regarded himself the case was different.  While he cared
nothing for the future of the murdered men, he cared a great deal for his
own.  It makes one's flesh creep to read the introduction to his
confession.  The judge on the bench characterized it as "scandalously
blasphemous," and it certainly reads so, but Burgess meant no blasphemy.
He was merely a brute, and whatever he said or wrote was sure to expose
the fact.  His redemption was a very real thing to him, and he was as
jubilantly happy on the gallows as ever was Christian martyr at the
stake.  We dwellers in this world are strangely made, and mysteriously
circumstanced.  We have to suppose that the murdered men are lost, and
that Burgess is saved; but we cannot suppress our natural regrets.

     "Written in my dungeon drear this 7th of August, in the year of
     Grace, 1866.  To God be ascribed all power and glory in subduing the
     rebellious spirit of a most guilty wretch, who has been brought,
     through the instrumentality of a faithful follower of Christ, to see
     his wretched and guilty state, inasmuch as hitherto he has led an
     awful and wretched life, and through the assurance of this faithful
     soldier of Christ, he has been led and also believes that Christ
     will yet receive and cleanse him from all his deep-dyed and bloody
     sins.  I lie under the imputation which says, 'Come now and let us
     reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet,
     they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson,
     they shall be as wool.' On this promise I rely."

We sailed in the afternoon late, spent a few hours at New Plymouth, then
sailed again and reached Auckland the next day, November 20th, and
remained in that fine city several days.  Its situation is commanding,
and the sea-view is superb.  There are charming drives all about, and by
courtesy of friends we had opportunity to enjoy them.  From the grassy
crater-summit of Mount Eden one's eye ranges over a grand sweep and
variety of scenery--forests clothed in luxuriant foliage, rolling green
fields, conflagrations of flowers, receding and dimming stretches of
green plain, broken by lofty and symmetrical old craters--then the blue
bays twinkling and sparkling away into the dreamy distances where the
mountains loom spiritual in their veils of haze.

It is from Auckland that one goes to Rotorua, the region of the renowned
hot lakes and geysers--one of the chief wonders of New Zealand; but I was
not well enough to make the trip.  The government has a sanitorium there,
and everything is comfortable for the tourist and the invalid.  The
government's official physician is almost over-cautious in his estimates
of the efficacy of the baths, when he is talking about rheumatism, gout,
paralysis, and such things; but when he is talking about the
effectiveness of the waters in eradicating the whisky-habit, he seems to
have no reserves.  The baths will cure the drinking-habit no matter how
chronic it is--and cure it so effectually that even the desire to drink
intoxicants will come no more.  There should be a rush from Europe and
America to that place; and when the victims of alcoholism find out what
they can get by going there, the rush will begin.

The Thermal-springs District of New Zealand comprises an area of upwards
of 600,000 acres, or close on 1,000 square miles.  Rotorua is the
favorite place.  It is the center of a rich field of lake and mountain
scenery; from Rotorua as a base the pleasure-seeker makes excursions.
The crowd of sick people is great, and growing.  Rotorua is the Carlsbad
of Australasia.

It is from Auckland that the Kauri gum is shipped.  For a long time now
about 8,000 tons of it have been brought into the town per year.  It is
worth about $300 per ton, unassorted; assorted, the finest grades are
worth about $1,000.  It goes to America, chiefly.  It is in lumps, and is
hard and smooth, and looks like amber--the light-colored like new amber,
and the dark brown like rich old amber.  And it has the pleasant feel of
amber, too.  Some of the light-colored samples were a tolerably fair
counterfeit of uncut South African diamonds, they were so perfectly
smooth and polished and transparent.  It is manufactured into varnish; a
varnish which answers for copal varnish and is cheaper.

The gum is dug up out of the ground; it has been there for ages.  It is
the sap of the Kauri tree.  Dr. Campbell of Auckland told me he sent a
cargo of it to England fifty years ago, but nothing came of the venture.
Nobody knew what to do with it; so it was sold at 15 a ton, to light
fires with.

November 26--3 P.M., sailed.  Vast and beautiful harbor.  Land all about
for hours.  Tangariwa, the mountain that "has the same shape from every
point of view."  That is the common belief in Auckland.  And so it has--
from every point of view except thirteen.  Perfect summer weather.  Large
school of whales in the distance.  Nothing could be daintier than the
puffs of vapor they spout up, when seen against the pink glory of the
sinking sun, or against the dark mass of an island reposing in the deep
blue shadow of a storm cloud .  .  .  .  Great Barrier rock standing up
out of the sea away to the left.  Sometime ago a ship hit it full speed
in a fog--20 miles out of her course--140 lives lost; the captain
committed suicide without waiting a moment.  He knew that, whether he was
to blame or not, the company owning the vessel would discharge him and
make a devotion--to--passengers' safety advertisement out of it, and his
chance to make a livelihood would be permanently gone.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

Let us not be too particular.  It is better to have old second-hand
diamonds than none at all.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

November 27.   To-day we reached Gisborne, and anchored in a big bay;
there was a heavy sea on, so we remained on board.

We were a mile from shore; a little steam-tug put out from the land; she
was an object of thrilling interest; she would climb to the summit of a
billow, reel drunkenly there a moment, dim and gray in the driving storm
of spindrift, then make a plunge like a diver and remain out of sight
until one had given her up, then up she would dart again, on a steep
slant toward the sky, shedding Niagaras of water from her forecastle--and
this she kept up, all the way out to us.  She brought twenty-five
passengers in her stomach--men and women mainly a traveling dramatic
company.  In sight on deck were the crew, in sou'westers, yellow
waterproof canvas suits, and boots to the thigh.  The deck was never
quiet for a moment, and seldom nearer level than a ladder, and noble were
the seas which leapt aboard and went flooding aft.  We rove a long line
to the yard-arm, hung a most primitive basketchair to it and swung it out
into the spacious air of heaven, and there it swayed, pendulum-fashion,
waiting for its chance--then down it shot, skillfully aimed, and was
grabbed by the two men on the forecastle.  A young fellow belonging to
our crew was in the chair, to be a protection to the lady-comers.  At
once a couple of ladies appeared from below, took seats in his lap, we
hoisted them into the sky, waited a moment till the roll of the ship
brought them in overhead, then we lowered suddenly away, and seized the
chair as it struck the deck.  We took the twenty-five aboard, and
delivered twenty-five into the tug--among them several aged ladies, and
one blind one--and all without accident.  It was a fine piece of work.

Ours is a nice ship, roomy, comfortable, well-ordered, and satisfactory.
Now and then we step on a rat in a hotel, but we have had no rats on
shipboard lately; unless, perhaps in the Flora; we had more serious
things to think of there, and did not notice.  I have noticed that it is
only in ships and hotels which still employ the odious Chinese gong, that
you find rats.  The reason would seem to be, that as a rat cannot tell
the time of day by a clock, he won't stay where he cannot find out when
dinner is ready.

November 29.  The doctor tells me of several old drunkards, one
spiritless loafer, and several far-gone moral wrecks who have been
reclaimed by the Salvation Army and have remained staunch people and hard
workers these two years.  Wherever one goes, these testimonials to the
Army's efficiency are forthcoming .  .  .  .  This morning we had one of
those whizzing green Ballarat flies in the room, with his stunning buzz-
saw noise--the swiftest creature in the world except the lightning-flash.
It is a stupendous force that is stored up in that little body.  If we
had it in a ship in the same proportion, we could spin from Liverpool to
New York in the space of an hour--the time it takes to eat luncheon.  The
New Zealand express train is called the Ballarat Fly .  .  .  .  Bad
teeth in the colonies.  A citizen told me they don't have teeth filled,
but pull them out and put in false ones, and that now and then one sees a
young lady with a full set.  She is fortunate.  I wish I had been born
with false teeth and a false liver and false carbuncles.  I should get
along better.

December 2.  Monday.  Left Napier in the Ballarat Fly the one that goes
twice a week.  From Napier to Hastings, twelve miles; time, fifty-five
minutes--not so far short of thirteen miles an hour .  .  .  .  A perfect
summer day; cool breeze, brilliant sky, rich vegetation.  Two or three
times during the afternoon we saw wonderfully dense and beautiful
forests, tumultuously piled skyward on the broken highlands--not the
customary roof-like slant of a hillside, where the trees are all the same
height.  The noblest of these trees were of the Kauri breed, we were told
the timber that is now furnishing the wood-paving for Europe, and is the
best of all wood for that purpose.  Sometimes these towering upheavals of
forestry were festooned and garlanded with vine-cables, and sometimes the
masses of undergrowth were cocooned in another sort of vine of a delicate
cobwebby texture--they call it the "supplejack," I think.  Tree ferns
everywhere--a stem fifteen feet high, with a graceful chalice of fern-
fronds sprouting from its top--a lovely forest ornament.  And there was a
ten-foot reed with a flowing suit of what looked like yellow hair hanging
from its upper end.  I do not know its name, but if there is such a thing
as a scalp-plant, this is it.  A romantic gorge, with a brook flowing in
its bottom, approaching Palmerston North.

Waitukurau.   Twenty minutes for luncheon.  With me sat my wife and
daughter, and my manager, Mr. Carlyle Smythe.  I sat at the head of the
table, and could see the right-hand wall; the others had their backs to
it.  On that wall, at a good distance away, were a couple of framed
pictures.  I could not see them clearly, but from the groupings of the
figures I fancied that they represented the killing of Napoleon III's son
by the Zulus in South Africa.  I broke into the conversation, which was
about poetry and cabbage and art, and said to my wife--

"Do you remember when the news came to Paris----"

"Of the killing of the Prince?"

(Those were the very words I had in my mind.) "Yes, but what Prince?"

"Napoleon.  Lulu."

"What made you think of that?"

"I don't know."

There was no collusion.  She had not seen the pictures, and they had not
been mentioned.  She ought to have thought of some recent news that came
to Paris, for we were but seven months from there and had been living
there a couple of years when we started on this trip; but instead of that
she thought of an incident of our brief sojourn in Paris of sixteen years
before.

Here was a clear case of mental telegraphy; of mind-transference; of my
mind telegraphing a thought into hers.  How do I know?  Because I
telegraphed an error.  For it turned out that the pictures did not
represent the killing of Lulu at all, nor anything connected with Lulu.
She had to get the error from my head--it existed nowhere else.




CHAPTER XXXV.

The Autocrat of Russia possesses more power than any other man in the
earth; but he cannot stop a sneeze.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

WAUGANIUI, December 3.  A pleasant trip, yesterday, per Ballarat Fly.
Four hours.  I do not know the distance, but it must have been well along
toward fifty miles.  The Fly could have spun it out to eight hours and
not discommoded me; for where there is comfort, and no need for hurry,
speed is of no value--at least to me; and nothing that goes on wheels can
be more comfortable, more satisfactory, than the New Zealand trains.
Outside of America there are no cars that are so rationally devised.
When you add the constant presence of charming scenery and the nearly
constant absence of dust--well, if one is not content then, he ought to
get out and walk.  That would change his spirit, perhaps?  I think so.
At the end of an hour you would find him waiting humbly beside the track,
and glad to be taken aboard again.

Much horseback riding, in and around this town; many comely girls in cool
and pretty summer gowns; much Salvation Army; lots of Maoris; the faces
and bodies of some of the old ones very tastefully frescoed.  Maori
Council House over the river-large, strong, carpeted from end to end with
matting, and decorated with elaborate wood carvings, artistically
executed.  The Maoris were very polite.

I was assured by a member of the House of Representatives that the native
race is not decreasing, but actually increasing slightly.  It is another
evidence that they are a superior breed of savages.  I do not call to
mind any savage race that built such good houses, or such strong and
ingenious and scientific fortresses, or gave so much attention to
agriculture, or had military arts and devices which so nearly approached
the white man's.  These, taken together with their high abilities in
boat-building, and their tastes and capacities in the ornamental arts
modify their savagery to a semi-civilization--or at least to, a quarter-
civilization.

It is a compliment to them that the British did not exterminate them, as
they did the Australians and the Tasmanians, but were content with
subduing them, and showed no desire to go further.  And it is another
compliment to them that the British did not take the whole of their
choicest lands, but left them a considerable part, and then went further
and protected them from the rapacities of landsharks--a protection which
the New Zealand Government still extends to them.  And it is still
another compliment to the Maoris that the Government allows native
representation--in both the legislature and the cabinet, and gives both
sexes the vote.  And in doing these things the Government also
compliments itself; it has not been the custom of the world for
conquerors to act in this large spirit toward the conquered.

The highest class white men Who lived among the Maoris in the earliest
time had a high opinion of them and a strong affection for them.  Among
the whites of this sort was the author of "Old New Zealand;" and Dr.
Campbell of Auckland was another.  Dr. Campbell was a close friend of
several chiefs, and has many pleasant things to say of their fidelity,
their magnanimity, and their generosity.  Also of their quaint notions
about the white man's queer civilization, and their equally quaint
comments upon it.  One of them thought the missionary had got everything
wrong end first and upside down.  "Why, he wants us to stop worshiping
and supplicating the evil gods, and go to worshiping and supplicating the
Good One!  There is no sense in that. A good god is not going to do us
any harm."

The Maoris had the tabu; and had it on a Polynesian scale of
comprehensiveness and elaboration.  Some of its features could have been
importations from India and Judea.  Neither the Maori nor the Hindoo of
common degree could cook by a fire that a person of higher caste had
used, nor could the high Maori or high Hindoo employ fire that had served
a man of low grade; if a low-grade Maori or Hindoo drank from a vessel
belonging to a high-grade man, the vessel was defiled, and had to be
destroyed.  There were other resemblances between Maori tabu and Hindoo
caste-custom.

Yesterday a lunatic burst into my quarters and warned me that the Jesuits
were going to "cook" (poison) me in my food, or kill me on the stage at
night.  He said a mysterious sign was visible upon my posters and meant
my death.  He said he saved Rev. Mr. Haweis's life by warning him that
there were three men on his platform who would kill him if he took his
eyes off them for a moment during his lecture.  The same men were in my
audience last night, but they saw that he was there.  "Will they be there
again to-night?"  He hesitated; then said no, he thought they would
rather take a rest and chance the poison.  This lunatic has no delicacy.
But he was not uninteresting.  He told me a lot of things.  He said he
had "saved so many lecturers in twenty years, that they put him in the
asylum."  I think he has less refinement than any lunatic I have met.

December 8.  A couple of curious war-monuments here at Wanganui.  One is
in honor of white men "who fell in defence of law and order against
fanaticism and barbarism."  Fanaticism.  We Americans are English in
blood, English in speech, English in religion, English in the essentials
of our governmental system, English in the essentials of our
civilization; and so, let us hope, for the honor of the blend, for the
honor of the blood, for the honor of the race, that that word got there
through lack of heedfulness, and will not be suffered to remain.  If you
carve it at Thermopylae, or where Winkelried died, or upon Bunker Hill
monument, and read it again "who fell in defence of law and order against
fanaticism" you will perceive what the word means, and how mischosen it
is.  Patriotism is Patriotism.  Calling it Fanaticism cannot degrade it;
nothing can degrade it.  Even though it be a political mistake, and a
thousand times a political mistake, that does not affect it; it is
honorable always honorable, always noble--and privileged to hold its head
up and look the nations in the face.  It is right to praise these brave
white men who fell in the Maori war--they deserve it; but the presence of
that word detracts from the dignity of their cause and their deeds, and
makes them appear to have spilt their blood in a conflict with ignoble
men, men not worthy of that costly sacrifice.  But the men were worthy.
It was no shame to fight them.  They fought for their homes, they fought
for their country; they bravely fought and bravely fell; and it would
take nothing from the honor of the brave Englishmen who lie under the
monument, but add to it, to say that they died in defense of English laws
and English homes against men worthy of the sacrifice--the Maori
patriots.

The other monument cannot be rectified.  Except with dynamite.  It is a
mistake all through, and a strangely thoughtless one.  It is a monument
erected by white men to Maoris who fell fighting with the whites and
against their own people, in the Maori war.  "Sacred to the memory of the
brave men who fell on the 14th of May, 1864," etc.  On one side are the
names of about twenty Maoris.  It is not a fancy of mine; the monument
exists.  I saw it.  It is an object-lesson to the rising generation.  It
invites to treachery, disloyalty, unpatriotism.  Its lesson, in frank
terms is, "Desert your flag, slay your people, burn their homes, shame
your nationality--we honor such."

December 9.  Wellington.  Ten hours from Wanganui by the Fly.
December 12.  It is a fine city and nobly situated.  A busy place, and
full of life and movement.  Have spent the three days partly in walking
about, partly in enjoying social privileges, and largely in idling around
the magnificent garden at Hutt, a little distance away, around the shore.
I suppose we shall not see such another one soon.

We are packing to-night for the return-voyage to Australia.  Our stay in
New Zealand has been too brief; still, we are not unthankful for the
glimpse which we have had of it.

The sturdy Maoris made the settlement of the country by the whites rather
difficult.  Not at first--but later.  At first they welcomed the whites,
and were eager to trade with them--particularly for muskets; for their
pastime was internecine war, and they greatly preferred the white man's
weapons to their own.  War was their pastime--I use the word advisedly.
They often met and slaughtered each other just for a lark, and when there
was no quarrel.  The author of "Old New Zealand" mentions a case where a
victorious army could have followed up its advantage and exterminated the
opposing army, but declined to do it; explaining naively that "if we did
that, there couldn't be any more fighting."  In another battle one army
sent word that it was out of ammunition, and would be obliged to stop
unless the opposing army would send some.  It was sent, and the fight
went on.

In the early days things went well enough.  The natives sold land without
clearly understanding the terms of exchange, and the whites bought it
without being much disturbed about the native's confusion of mind.  But
by and by the Maori began to comprehend that he was being wronged; then
there was trouble, for he was not the man to swallow a wrong and go aside
and cry about it.  He had the Tasmanian's spirit and endurance, and a
notable share of military science besides; and so he rose against the
oppressor, did this gallant "fanatic," and started a war that was not
brought to a definite end until more than a generation had sped.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

There are several good protections against temptations, but the surest is
cowardice.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Names are not always what they seem.  The common Welsh name Bzjxxllwep is
pronounced Jackson.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Friday, December 13.   Sailed, at 3 p.m., in the 'Mararoa'.  Summer seas
and a good ship-life has nothing better.

Monday.  Three days of paradise.  Warm and sunny and smooth; the sea a
luminous Mediterranean blue .  .  .  .  One lolls in a long chair all day
under deck-awnings, and reads and smokes, in measureless content.  One
does not read prose at such a time, but poetry.  I have been reading the
poems of Mrs. Julia A.  Moore, again, and I find in them the same grace
and melody that attracted me when they were first published, twenty years
ago, and have held me in happy bonds ever since.

"The Sentimental Song Book" has long been out of print, and has been
forgotten by the world in general, but not by me.  I carry it with me
always--it and Goldsmith's deathless story.

Indeed, it has the same deep charm for me that the Vicar of Wakefield
has, and I find in it the same subtle touch--the touch that makes an
intentionally humorous episode pathetic and an intentionally pathetic one
funny.  In her time Mrs. Moore was called "the Sweet Singer of Michigan,"
and was best known by that name.  I have read her book through twice
today, with the purpose of determining which of her pieces has most
merit, and I am persuaded that for wide grasp and sustained power,
"William Upson" may claim first place


WILLIAM UPSON.

Air--"The Major's Only Son."
Come all good people far and near,
Oh, come and see what you can hear,
It's of a young man true and brave,
That is now sleeping in his grave.

Now, William Upson was his name
If it's not that, it's all the same
He did enlist in a cruel strife,
And it caused him to lose his life.

He was Perry Upson's eldest son,
His father loved his noble son,
This son was nineteen years of age
When first in the rebellion he engaged.

His father said that he might go,
But his dear mother she said no,
"Oh! stay at home, dear Billy," she said,
But she could not turn his head.

He went to Nashville, in Tennessee,
There his kind friends he could not see;
He died among strangers, so far away,
They did not know where his body lay.

He was taken sick and lived four weeks,
And Oh! how his parents weep,
But now they must in sorrow mourn,
For Billy has gone to his heavenly home.

Oh! if his mother could have seen her son,
For she loved him, her darling son;
If she could heard his dying prayer,
It would ease her heart till she met him there

How it would relieve his mother's heart
To see her son from this world depart,
And hear his noble words of love,
As he left this world for that above.

Now it will relieve his mother's heart,
For her son is laid in our graveyard;
For now she knows that his grave is near,
She will not shed so many tears.

Although she knows not that it was her son,
For his coffin could not be opened
It might be someone in his place,
For she could not see his noble face.


December, 17.  Reached Sydney.

December, 19.  In the train.  Fellow of 30 with four valises; a slim
creature, with teeth which made his mouth look like a neglected
churchyard.  He had solidified hair--solidified with pomatum; it was all
one shell.  He smoked the most extraordinary cigarettes--made of some
kind of manure, apparently.  These and his hair made him smell like the
very nation.  He had a low-cut vest on, which exposed a deal of frayed
and broken and unclean shirtfront.  Showy studs, of imitation gold--they
had made black disks on the linen.  Oversized sleeve buttons of imitation
gold, the copper base showing through.  Ponderous watch-chain of
imitation gold.  I judge that he couldn't tell the time by it, for he
asked Smythe what time it was, once.  He wore a coat which had been gay
when it was young; 5-o'clock-tea-trousers of a light tint, and
marvelously soiled; yellow mustache with a dashing upward whirl at the
ends; foxy shoes, imitation patent leather.  He was a novelty--an
imitation dude.  He would have been a real one if he could have afforded
it.  But he was satisfied with himself.  You could see it in his
expression, and in all his attitudes and movements.  He was living in a
dude dreamland where all his squalid shams were genuine, and himself a
sincerity.  It disarmed criticism, it mollified spite, to see him so
enjoy his imitation languors, and arts, and airs, and his studied
daintinesses of gesture and misbegotten refinements.  It was plain to me
that be was imagining himself the Prince of Wales, and was doing
everything the way he thought the Prince would do it.  For bringing his
four valises aboard and stowing them in the nettings, he gave his porter
four cents, and lightly apologized for the smallness of the gratuity--
just with the condescendingest little royal air in the world.  He
stretched himself out on the front seat and rested his pomatum-cake on
the middle arm, and stuck his feet out of the window, and began to pose
as the Prince and work his dreams and languors for exhibition; and he
would indolently watch the blue films curling up from his cigarette, and
inhale the stench, and look so grateful; and would flip the ash away with
the daintiest gesture, unintentionally displaying his brass ring in the
most intentional way; why, it was as good as being in Marlborough House
itself to see him do it so like.

There was other scenery in the trip.  That of the Hawksbury river, in the
National Park region, fine--extraordinarily fine, with spacious views of
stream and lake imposingly framed in woody hills; and every now and then
the noblest groupings of mountains, and the most enchanting
rearrangements of the water effects.  Further along, green flats, thinly
covered with gum forests, with here and there the huts and cabins of
small farmers engaged in raising children.  Still further along, arid
stretches, lifeless and melancholy.  Then Newcastle, a rushing town,
capital of the rich coal regions.  Approaching Scone, wide farming and
grazing levels, with pretty frequent glimpses of a troublesome plant--a
particularly devilish little prickly pear, daily damned in the orisons of
the agriculturist; imported by a lady of sentiment, and contributed
gratis to the colony. Blazing hot, all day.

December 20.  Back to Sydney.  Blazing hot again.  From the newspaper,
and from the map, I have made a collection of curious names of
Australasian towns, with the idea of making a poem out of them:

Tumut
Takee
Murriwillumba
Bowral
Ballarat
Mullengudgery
Murrurundi
Wagga-Wagga
Wyalong
Murrumbidgee
Goomeroo
Wolloway
Wangary
Wanilla
Worrow
Koppio
Yankalilla
Yaranyacka
Yackamoorundie
Kaiwaka
Coomooroo
Tauranga
Geelong
Tongariro
Kaikoura
Wakatipu
Oohipara
Waitpinga
Goelwa
Munno Para
Nangkita
Myponga
Kapunda
Kooringa
Penola
Nangwarry
Kongorong
Comaum
Koolywurtie
Killanoola
Naracoorte
Muloowurtie
Binnum
Wallaroo
Wirrega
Mundoora
Hauraki
Rangiriri
Teawamute
Taranaki
Toowoomba
Goondiwindi
Jerrilderie
Whangaroa
Wollongong
Woolloomooloo
Bombola
Coolgardie
Bendigo
Coonamble
Cootamundra
Woolgoolga

Mittagong
Jamberoo
Kondoparinga
Kuitpo
Tungkillo
Oukaparinga
Talunga
Yatala
Parawirra
Moorooroo
Whangarei
Woolundunga
Booleroo
Pernatty
Parramatta
Taroom
Narrandera
Deniliquin
Kawakawa.


It may be best to build the poem now, and make the weather help

                    A SWELTERING DAY IN AUSTRALIA.

          (To be read soft and low, with the lights turned down.)

               The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree,
               Where fierce Mullengudgery's smothering fires
               Far from the breezes of Coolgardie
               Burn ghastly and blue as the day expires;

               And Murriwillumba complaineth in song
               For the garlanded bowers of Woolloomooloo,
               And the Ballarat Fly and the lone Wollongong
               They dream of the gardens of Jamberoo;

               The wallabi sighs for the Murrubidgee,
               For the velvety sod of the Munno Parah,
               Where the waters of healing from Muloowurtie
               Flow dim in the gloaming by Yaranyackah;

               The Koppio sorrows for lost Wolloway,
               And sigheth in secret for Murrurundi,
               The Whangeroo wombat lamenteth the day
               That made him an exile from Jerrilderie;

               The Teawamute Tumut from Wirrega's glade,
               The Nangkita swallow, the Wallaroo swan,
               They long for the peace of the Timaru shade
               And thy balmy soft airs, O sweet Mittagong!

               The Kooringa buffalo pants in the sun,
               The Kondoparinga lies gaping for breath,
               The Kongorong Camaum to the shadow has won,
               But the Goomeroo sinks in the slumber of death;

               In the weltering hell of the Moorooroo plain
               The Yatala Wangary withers and dies,
               And the Worrow Wanilla, demented with pain,
               To the Woolgoolga woodlands despairingly flies;

               Sweet Nangwarry's desolate, Coonamble wails,
               And Tungkillo Kuito in sables is drest,
               For the Whangerei winds fall asleep in the sails
               And the Booleroo life-breeze is dead in the west.

               Mypongo, Kapunda, O slumber no more
               Yankalilla, Parawirra, be warned
               There's death in the air!
               Killanoola, wherefore
               Shall the prayer of Penola be scorned?

               Cootamundra, and Takee, and Wakatipu,
               Toowoomba, Kaikoura are lost
               From Onkaparinga to far Oamaru
               All burn in this hell's holocaust!

               Paramatta and Binnum are gone to their rest
               In the vale of Tapanni Taroom,
               Kawakawa, Deniliquin--all that was best
               In the earth are but graves and a tomb!

               Narrandera mourns, Cameron answers not
               When the roll of the scathless we cry
               Tongariro, Goondiwindi, Woolundunga, the spot
               Is mute and forlorn where ye lie.

Those are good words for poetry.  Among the best I have ever seen.
There are 81 in the list.  I did not need them all, but I have knocked
down 66 of them; which is a good bag, it seems to me, for a person not in
the business.  Perhaps a poet laureate could do better, but a poet
laureate gets wages, and that is different.  When I write poetry I do not
get any wages; often I lose money by it.  The best word in that list, and
the most musical and gurgly, is Woolloomoolloo.  It is a place near
Sydney, and is a favorite pleasure-resort.  It has eight O's in it.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

To succeed in the other trades, capacity must be shown; in the law,
concealment of it will do.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

MONDAY,--December 23, 1895.  Sailed from Sydney for Ceylon in the P. & O.
steamer 'Oceana'.  A Lascar crew mans this ship--the first I have seen.
White cotton petticoat and pants; barefoot; red shawl for belt; straw
cap, brimless, on head, with red scarf wound around it; complexion a rich
dark brown; short straight black hair; whiskers fine and silky; lustrous
and intensely black.  Mild, good faces; willing and obedient people;
capable, too; but are said to go into hopeless panics when there is
danger.  They are from Bombay and the coast thereabouts.  Left some of
the trunks in Sydney, to be shipped to South Africa by a vessel
advertised to sail three months hence.  The proverb says: "Separate not
yourself from your baggage."

This 'Oceana' is a stately big ship, luxuriously appointed.  She has
spacious promenade decks.  Large rooms; a surpassingly comfortable ship.
The officers' library is well selected; a ship's library is not usually
that .  .  .  .  For meals, the bugle call, man-of-war fashion; a
pleasant change from the terrible gong .  .  .  .  Three big cats--very
friendly loafers; they wander all over the ship; the white one follows
the chief steward around like a dog.  There is also a basket of kittens.
One of these cats goes ashore, in port, in England, Australia, and India,
to see how his various families are getting along, and is seen no more
till the ship is ready to sail.  No one knows how he finds out the
sailing date, but no doubt he comes down to the dock every day and takes
a look, and when he sees baggage and passengers flocking in, recognizes
that it is time to get aboard.  This is what the sailors believe.  The
Chief Engineer has been in the China and India trade thirty three years,
and has had but three Christmases at home in that time .  .  .  .
Conversational items at dinner, "Mocha!  sold all over the world!  It is
not true.  In fact, very few foreigners except the Emperor of Russia have
ever seen a grain of it, or ever will, while they live."  Another man
said: "There is no sale in Australia for Australian wine.  But it goes to
France and comes back with a French label on it, and then they buy it."
I have heard that the most of the French-labeled claret in New York is
made in California.  And I remember what Professor S. told me once about
Veuve Cliquot--if that was the wine, and I think it was.  He was the
guest of a great wine merchant whose town was quite near that vineyard,
and this merchant asked him if very much V. C. was drunk in America.

"Oh, yes," said S., "a great abundance of it."

"Is it easy to be had?"

"Oh, yes--easy as water.  All first and second-class hotels have it."

"What do you pay for it?"

"It depends on the style of the hotel--from fifteen to twenty-five francs
a bottle."

"Oh, fortunate country!  Why, it's worth 100 francs right here on the
ground."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Do you mean that we are drinking a bogus Veuve-Cliquot over there?"

"Yes--and there was never a bottle of the genuine in America since
Columbus's time.  That wine all comes from a little bit of a patch of
ground which isn't big enough to raise many bottles; and all of it that
is produced goes every year to one person--the Emperor of Russia.  He
takes the whole crop in advance, be it big or little."

January 4, 1898.   Christmas in Melbourne, New Year's Day in Adelaide,
and saw most of the friends again in both places .  .  .  .  Lying here
at anchor all day--Albany (King George's Sound), Western Australia.  It
is a perfectly landlocked harbor, or roadstead--spacious to look at, but
not deep water.  Desolate-looking rocks and scarred hills.  Plenty of
ships arriving now, rushing to the new gold-fields.  The papers are full
of wonderful tales of the sort always to be heard in connection with new
gold diggings.  A sample: a youth staked out a claim and tried to sell
half for L5; no takers; he stuck to it fourteen days, starving, then
struck it rich and sold out for L10,000.  .  .  About sunset, strong
breeze blowing, got up the anchor.  We were in a small deep puddle, with
a narrow channel leading out of it, minutely buoyed, to the sea.

I stayed on deck to see how we were going to manage it with such a big
ship and such a strong wind.  On the bridge our giant captain, in
uniform; at his side a little pilot in elaborately gold-laced uniform; on
the forecastle a white mate and quartermaster or two, and a brilliant
crowd of lascars standing by for business.  Our stern was pointing
straight at the head of the channel; so we must turn entirely around in
the puddle--and the wind blowing as described.  It was done, and
beautifully.  It was done by help of a jib.  We stirred up much mud, but
did not touch the bottom.  We turned right around in our tracks--a
seeming impossibility.  We had several casts of quarter-less 5, and one
cast of half 4--27 feet; we were drawing 26 astern.  By the time we were
entirely around and pointed, the first buoy was not more than a hundred
yards in front of us.  It was a fine piece of work, and I was the only
passenger that saw it.  However, the others got their dinner; the P. & O.
Company got mine .  .  .  .  More cats developed.  Smythe says it is a
British law that they must be carried; and he instanced a case of a ship
not allowed to sail till she sent for a couple.  The bill came, too:
"Debtor, to 2 cats, 20 shillings." .  .  .  News comes that within this
week Siam has acknowledged herself to be, in effect, a French province.
It seems plain that all savage and semi-civilized countries are going to
be grabbed .  .  .  .  A vulture on board; bald, red, queer-shaped head,
featherless red places here and there on his body, intense great black
eyes set in featherless rims of inflamed flesh; dissipated look; a
businesslike style, a selfish, conscienceless, murderous aspect--the very
look of a professional assassin, and yet a bird which does no murder.
What was the use of getting him up in that tragic style for so innocent a
trade as his?  For this one isn't the sort that wars upon the living, his
diet is offal--and the more out of date it is the better he likes it.
Nature should give him a suit of rusty black; then he would be all right,
for he would look like an undertaker and would harmonize with his
business; whereas the way he is now he is horribly out of true.

January 5.   At 9 this morning we passed Cape Leeuwin (lioness) and
ceased from our long due-west course along the southern shore of
Australia.  Turning this extreme southwestern corner, we now take a long
straight slant nearly N. W., without a break, for Ceylon.  As we speed
northward it will grow hotter very fast--but it isn't chilly, now. . . .
The vulture is from the public menagerie at Adelaide--a great and
interesting collection.  It was there that we saw the baby tiger solemnly
spreading its mouth and trying to roar like its majestic mother.  It
swaggered, scowling, back and forth on its short legs just as it had seen
her do on her long ones, and now and then snarling viciously, exposing
its teeth, with a threatening lift of its upper lip and bristling
moustache; and when it thought it was impressing the visitors, it would
spread its mouth wide and do that screechy cry which it meant for a roar,
but which did not deceive.  It took itself quite seriously, and was
lovably comical.  And there was a hyena--an ugly creature; as ugly as the
tiger-kitty was pretty.  It repeatedly arched its back and delivered
itself of such a human cry; a startling resemblance; a cry which was just
that of a grown person badly hurt.  In the dark one would assuredly go to
its assistance--and be disappointed .  .  .  .  Many friends of
Australasian Federation on board.  They feel sure that the good day is
not far off, now.  But there seems to be a party that would go further--
have Australasia cut loose from the British Empire and set up
housekeeping on her own hook.  It seems an unwise idea.  They point to
the United States, but it seems to me that the cases lack a good deal of
being alike.  Australasia governs herself wholly--there is no
interference; and her commerce and manufactures are not oppressed in any
way.  If our case had been the same we should not have gone out when we
did.


January 13.   Unspeakably hot.  The equator is arriving again.  We are
within eight degrees of it.  Ceylon present.  Dear me, it is beautiful!
And most sumptuously tropical, as to character of foliage and opulence of
it.  "What though the spicy breezes blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle"--an
eloquent line, an incomparable line; it says little, but conveys whole
libraries of sentiment, and Oriental charm and mystery, and tropic
deliciousness--a line that quivers and tingles with a thousand
unexpressed and inexpressible things, things that haunt one and find no
articulate voice .  .  .  .  Colombo, the capital.  An Oriental town,
most manifestly; and fascinating.

In this palatial ship the passengers dress for dinner.  The ladies'
toilettes make a fine display of color, and this is in keeping with the
elegance of the vessel's furnishings and the flooding brilliancies of the
electric light.  On the stormy Atlantic one never sees a man in evening
dress, except at the rarest intervals; and then there is only one, not
two; and he shows up but once on the voyage--the night before the ship
makes port--the night when they have the "concert" and do the amateur
wailings and recitations.  He is the tenor, as a rule .  .  .  .  There
has been a deal of cricket-playing on board; it seems a queer game for a
ship, but they enclose the promenade deck with nettings and keep the ball
from flying overboard, and the sport goes very well, and is properly
violent and exciting .  .  .  .  We must part from this vessel here.

January 14.   Hotel Bristol.  Servant Brompy.  Alert, gentle, smiling,
winning young brown creature as ever was.  Beautiful shining black hair
combed back like a woman's, and knotted at the back of his head--
tortoise-shell comb in it, sign that he is a Singhalese; slender, shapely
form; jacket; under it is a beltless and flowing white cotton gown--from
neck straight to heel; he and his outfit quite unmasculine.  It was an
embarassment to undress before him.

We drove to the market, using the Japanese jinriksha--our first
acquaintanceship with it.  It is a light cart, with a native to draw it.
He makes good speed for half-an-hour, but it is hard work for him; he is
too slight for it.  After the half-hour there is no more pleasure for
you; your attention is all on the man, just as it would be on a tired
horse, and necessarily your sympathy is there too.  There's a plenty of
these 'rickshas, and the tariff is incredibly cheap.

I was in Cairo years ago.  That was Oriental, but there was a lack.  When
you are in Florida or New Orleans you are in the South--that is granted;
but you are not in the South; you are in a modified South, a tempered
South.  Cairo was a tempered Orient--an Orient with an indefinite
something wanting.  That feeling was not present in Ceylon.  Ceylon was
Oriental in the last measure of completeness--utterly Oriental; also
utterly tropical; and indeed to one's unreasoning spiritual sense the two
things belong together.  All the requisites were present.  The costumes
were right; the black and brown exposures, unconscious of immodesty, were
right; the juggler was there, with his basket, his snakes, his mongoose,
and his arrangements for growing a tree from seed to foliage and ripe
fruitage before one's eves; in sight were plants and flowers familiar to
one on books but in no other way celebrated, desirable, strange, but in
production restricted to the hot belt of the equator; and out a little
way in the country were the proper deadly snakes, and fierce beasts of
prey, and the wild elephant and the monkey.  And there was that swoon in
the air which one associates with the tropics, and that smother of heat,
heavy with odors of unknown flowers, and that sudden invasion of purple
gloom fissured with lightnings,--then the tumult of crashing thunder and
the downpour and presently all sunny and smiling again; all these things
were there; the conditions were complete, nothing was lacking.  And away
off in the deeps of the jungle and in the remotenesses of the mountains
were the ruined cities and mouldering temples, mysterious relics of the
pomps of a forgotten time and a vanished race--and this was as it should
be, also, for nothing is quite satisfyingly Oriental that lacks the
somber and impressive qualities of mystery and antiquity.

The drive through the town and out to the Galle Face by the seashore,
what a dream it was of tropical splendors of bloom and blossom, and
Oriental conflagrations of costume!  The walking groups of men, women,
boys, girls, babies--each individual was a flame, each group a house
afire for color.  And such stunning colors, such intensely vivid colors,
such rich and exquisite minglings and fusings of rainbows and lightnings!
And all harmonious, all in perfect taste; never a discordant note; never
a color on any person swearing at another color on him or failing to
harmonize faultlessly with the colors of any group the wearer might join.
The stuffs were silk-thin, soft, delicate, clinging; and, as a rule, each
piece a solid color: a splendid green, a splendid blue, a splendid
yellow, a splendid purple, a splendid ruby, deep, and rich with
smouldering fires they swept continuously by in crowds and legions and
multitudes, glowing, flashing, burning, radiant; and every five seconds
came a burst of blinding red that made a body catch his breath, and
filled his heart with joy.  And then, the unimaginable grace of those
costumes!  Sometimes a woman's whole dress was but a scarf wound about
her person and her head, sometimes a man's was but a turban and a
careless rag or two--in both cases generous areas of polished dark skin
showing--but always the arrangement compelled the homage of the eye and
made the heart sing for gladness.

I can see it to this day, that radiant panorama, that wilderness of rich
color, that incomparable dissolving-view of harmonious tints, and lithe
half-covered forms, and beautiful brown faces, and gracious and graceful
gestures and attitudes and movements, free, unstudied, barren of
stiffness and restraint, and--

Just then, into this dream of fairyland and paradise a grating dissonance
was injected.

Out of a missionary school came marching, two and two, sixteen prim and
pious little Christian black girls, Europeanly clothed--dressed, to the
last detail, as they would have been dressed on a summer Sunday in an
English or American village.  Those clothes--oh, they were unspeakably
ugly!  Ugly, barbarous, destitute of taste, destitute of grace, repulsive
as a shroud.  I looked at my womenfolk's clothes--just full-grown
duplicates of the outrages disguising those poor little abused creatures
--and was ashamed to be seen in the street with them.  Then I looked at
my own clothes, and was ashamed to be seen in the street with myself.

However, we must put up with our clothes as they are--they have their
reason for existing.  They are on us to expose us--to advertise what we
wear them to conceal.  They are a sign; a sign of insincerity; a sign of
suppressed vanity; a pretense that we despise gorgeous colors and the
graces of harmony and form; and we put them on to propagate that lie and
back it up.  But we do not deceive our neighbor; and when we step into
Ceylon we realize that we have not even deceived ourselves.  We do love
brilliant colors and graceful costumes; and at home we will turn out in a
storm to see them when the procession goes by--and envy the wearers.  We
go to the theater to look at them and grieve that we can't be clothed
like that.  We go to the King's ball, when we get a chance, and are glad
of a sight of the splendid uniforms and the glittering orders.  When we
are granted permission to attend an imperial drawing-room we shut
ourselves up in private and parade around in the theatrical court-dress
by the hour, and admire ourselves in the glass, and are utterly happy;
and every member of every governor's staff in democratic America does the
same with his grand new uniform--and if he is not watched he will get
himself photographed in it, too.  When I see the Lord Mayor's footman I
am dissatisfied with my lot.  Yes, our clothes are a lie, and have been
nothing short of that these hundred years.  They are insincere, they are
the ugly and appropriate outward exposure of an inward sham and a moral
decay.

The last little brown boy I chanced to notice in the crowds and swarms of
Colombo had nothing on but a twine string around his waist, but in my
memory the frank honesty of his costume still stands out in pleasant
contrast with the odious flummery in which the little Sunday-school
dowdies were masquerading.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Prosperity is the best protector of principle.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

EVENING--11th.   Sailed in the Rosetta.  This is a poor old ship, and
ought to be insured and sunk.  As in the 'Oceana', just so here:
everybody dresses for dinner; they make it a sort of pious duty.  These
fine and formal costumes are a rather conspicuous contrast to the poverty
and shabbiness of the surroundings .  .  .  .  If you want a slice of a
lime at four o'clock tea, you must sign an order on the bar.  Limes cost
14 cents a barrel.

January 18th.   We have been running up the Arabian Sea, latterly.
Closing up on Bombay now, and due to arrive this evening.

January 20th.   Bombay!  A bewitching place, a bewildering place, an
enchanting place--the Arabian Nights come again?  It is a vast city;
contains about a million inhabitants.  Natives, they are, with a slight
sprinkling of white people--not enough to have the slightest modifying
effect upon the massed dark complexion of the public.  It is winter here,
yet the weather is the divine weather of June, and the foliage is the
fresh and heavenly foliage of June.  There is a rank of noble great shade
trees across the way from the hotel, and under them sit groups of
picturesque natives of both sexes; and the juggler in his turban is there
with his snakes and his magic; and all day long the cabs and the
multitudinous varieties of costumes flock by.  It does not seem as if one
could ever get tired of watching this moving show, this shining and
shifting spectacle .  .  .  .  In the great bazar the pack and jam of
natives was marvelous, the sea of rich-colored turbans and draperies an
inspiring sight, and the quaint and showy Indian architecture was just
the right setting for it.  Toward sunset another show; this is the drive
around the sea-shore to Malabar Point, where Lord Sandhurst, the Governor
of the Bombay Presidency, lives.  Parsee palaces all along the first part
of the drive; and past them all the world is driving; the private
carriages of wealthy Englishmen and natives of rank are manned by a
driver and three footmen in stunning oriental liveries--two of these
turbaned statues standing up behind, as fine as monuments.  Sometimes
even the public carriages have this superabundant crew, slightly
modified--one to drive, one to sit by and see it done, and one to stand
up behind and yell--yell when there is anybody in the way, and for
practice when there isn't.  It all helps to keep up the liveliness and
augment the general sense of swiftness and energy and confusion and pow-
wow.

In the region of Scandal Point--felicitous name--where there are handy
rocks to sit on and a noble view of the sea on the one hand, and on the
other the passing and reprising whirl and tumult of gay carriages, are
great groups of comfortably-off Parsee women--perfect flower-beds of
brilliant color, a fascinating spectacle.  Tramp, tramp, tramping along
the road, in singles, couples, groups, and gangs, you have the working-
man and the working-woman--but not clothed like ours.  Usually the man is
a nobly-built great athlete, with not a rag on but his loin-handkerchief;
his color a deep dark brown, his skin satin, his rounded muscles knobbing
it as if it had eggs under it.  Usually the woman is a slender and
shapely creature, as erect as a lightning-rod, and she has but one thing
on--a bright-colored piece of stuff which is wound about her head and her
body down nearly half-way to her knees, and which clings like her own
skin.  Her legs and feet are bare, and so are her arms, except for her
fanciful bunches of loose silver rings on her ankles and on her arms.
She has jewelry bunched on the side of her nose also, and showy
clusterrings on her toes.  When she undresses for bed she takes off her
jewelry, I suppose.  If she took off anything more she would catch cold.
As a rule she has a large shiney brass water jar of graceful shape on her
head, and one of her naked arms curves up and the hand holds it there.
She is so straight, so erect, and she steps with such style, and such
easy grace and dignity; and her curved arm and her brazen jar are such a
help to the picture indeed, our working-women cannot begin with her as a
road-decoration.

It is all color, bewitching color, enchanting color--everywhere all
around--all the way around the curving great opaline bay clear to
Government House, where the turbaned big native 'chuprassies' stand
grouped in state at the door in their robes of fiery red, and do most
properly and stunningly finish up the splendid show and make it
theatrically complete.  I wish I were a 'chuprassy'.

This is indeed India!  the land of dreams and romance, of fabulous wealth
and fabulous poverty, of splendor and rags, of palaces and hovels, of
famine and pestilence, of genii and giants and Aladdin lamps, of tigers
and elephants, the cobra and the jungle, the country of a hundred nations
and a hundred tongues, of a thousand religions and two million gods,
cradle of the human race, birthplace of human speech, mother of history,
grandmother of legend, great-grandmother of tradition, whose yesterdays
bear date with the mouldering antiquities of the rest of the nations--the
one sole country under the sun that is endowed with an imperishable
interest for alien prince and alien peasant, for lettered and ignorant,
wise and fool, rich and poor, bond and free, the one land that all men
desire to see, and having seen once, by even a glimpse, would not give
that glimpse for the shows of all the rest of the globe combined.
Even now, after the lapse of a year, the delirium of those days in Bombay
has not left me, and I hope never will.  It was all new, no detail of it
hackneyed.  And India did not wait for morning, it began at the hotel--
straight away.  The lobbies and halls were full of turbaned, and fez'd
and embroidered, cap'd, and barefooted, and cotton-clad dark natives,
some of them rushing about, others at rest squatting, or sitting on the
ground; some of them chattering with energy, others still and dreamy; in
the dining-room every man's own private native servant standing behind
his chair, and dressed for a part in the Arabian Nights.

Our rooms were high up, on the front.  A white man he was a burly German
--went up with us, and brought three natives along to see to arranging
things.  About fourteen others followed in procession, with the hand-
baggage; each carried an article--and only one; a bag, in some cases, in
other cases less.  One strong native carried my overcoat, another a
parasol, another a box of cigars, another a novel, and the last man in
the procession had no load but a fan.  It was all done with earnestness
and sincerity, there was not a smile in the procession from the head of
it to the tail of it.  Each man waited patiently, tranquilly, in no sort
of hurry, till one of us found time to give him a copper, then he bent
his head reverently, touched his forehead with his fingers, and went his
way.  They seemed a soft and gentle race, and there was something both
winning and touching about their demeanor.

There was a vast glazed door which opened upon the balcony.  It needed
closing, or cleaning, or something, and a native got down on his knees
and went to work at it.  He seemed to be doing it well enough, but
perhaps he wasn't, for the burly German put on a look that betrayed
dissatisfaction, then without explaining what was wrong, gave the native
a brisk cuff on the jaw and then told him where the defect was.  It
seemed such a shame to do that before us all.  The native took it with
meekness, saying nothing, and not showing in his face or manner any
resentment.  I had not seen the like of this for fifty years.  It carried
me back to my boyhood, and flashed upon me the forgotten fact that this
was the usual way of explaining one's desires to a slave.  I was able to
remember that the method seemed right and natural to me in those days, I
being born to it and unaware that elsewhere there were other methods; but
I was also able to remember that those unresented cuffings made me sorry
for the victim and ashamed for the punisher.  My father was a refined and
kindly gentleman, very grave, rather austere, of rigid probity, a sternly
just and upright man, albeit he attended no church and never spoke of
religious matters, and had no part nor lot in the pious joys of his
Presbyterian family, nor ever seemed to suffer from this deprivation.  He
laid his hand upon me in punishment only twice in his life, and then not
heavily; once for telling him a lie--which surprised me, and showed me
how unsuspicious he was, for that was not my maiden effort.  He punished
me those two times only, and never any other member of the family at all;
yet every now and then he cuffed our harmless slave boy, Lewis, for
trifling little blunders and awkardnesses.  My father had passed his life
among the slaves from his cradle up, and his cuffings proceeded from the
custom of the time, not from his nature.  When I was ten years old I saw
a man fling a lump of iron-ore at a slaveman in anger, for merely doing
something awkwardly--as if that were a crime.  It bounded from the man's
skull, and the man fell and never spoke again.  He was dead in an hour.
I knew the man had a right to kill his slave if he wanted to, and yet it
seemed a pitiful thing and somehow wrong, though why wrong I was not deep
enough to explain if I had been asked to do it.  Nobody in the village
approved of that murder, but of course no one said much about it.

It is curious--the space-annihilating power of thought.  For just one
second, all that goes to make the me in me was in a Missourian village,
on the other side of the globe, vividly seeing again these forgotten
pictures of fifty years ago, and wholly unconscious of all things but
just those; and in the next second I was back in Bombay, and that
kneeling native's smitten cheek was not done tingling yet!  Back to
boyhood--fifty years; back to age again, another fifty; and a flight
equal to the circumference of the globe-all in two seconds by the watch!

Some natives--I don't remember how many--went into my bedroom, now, and
put things to rights and arranged the mosquito-bar, and I went to bed to
nurse my cough.  It was about nine in the evening.  What a state of
things!  For three hours the yelling and shouting of natives in the hall
continued, along with the velvety patter of their swift bare feet--what a
racket it was!  They were yelling orders and messages down three flights.
Why, in the matter of noise it amounted to a riot, an insurrection, a
revolution.  And then there were other noises mixed up with these and at
intervals tremendously accenting them--roofs falling in, I judged,
windows smashing, persons being murdered, crows squawking, and deriding,
and cursing, canaries screeching, monkeys jabbering, macaws blaspheming,
and every now and then fiendish bursts of laughter and explosions of
dynamite.  By midnight I had suffered all the different kinds of shocks
there are, and knew that I could never more be disturbed by them, either
isolated or in combination.  Then came peace--stillness deep and solemn
and lasted till five.

Then it all broke loose again.  And who re-started it?  The Bird of Birds
the Indian crow.  I came to know him well, by and by, and be infatuated
with him.  I suppose he is the hardest lot that wears feathers.  Yes, and
the cheerfulest, and the best satisfied with himself.  He never arrived
at what he is by any careless process, or any sudden one; he is a work of
art, and "art is long"; he is the product of immemorial ages, and of deep
calculation; one can't make a bird like that in a day.  He has been
reincarnated more times than Shiva; and he has kept a sample of each
incarnation, and fused it into his constitution.  In the course of his
evolutionary promotions, his sublime march toward ultimate perfection, he
has been a gambler, a low comedian, a dissolute priest, a fussy woman, a
blackguard, a scoffer, a liar, a thief, a spy, an informer, a trading
politician, a swindler, a professional hypocrite, a patriot for cash, a
reformer, a lecturer, a lawyer, a conspirator, a rebel, a royalist, a
democrat, a practicer and propagator of irreverence, a meddler, an
intruder, a busybody, an infidel, and a wallower in sin for the mere love
of it.  The strange result, the incredible result, of this patient
accumulation of all damnable traits is, that be does not know what care
is, he does not know what sorrow is, he does not know what remorse is,
his life is one long thundering ecstasy of happiness, and he will go to
his death untroubled, knowing that he will soon turn up again as an
author or something, and be even more intolerably capable and comfortable
than ever he was before.

In his straddling wide forward-step, and his springy side-wise series of
hops, and his impudent air, and his cunning way of canting his head to
one side upon occasion, he reminds one of the American blackbird.  But
the sharp resemblances stop there.  He is much bigger than the blackbird;
and he lacks the blackbird's trim and slender and beautiful build and
shapely beak; and of course his sober garb of gray and rusty black is a
poor and humble thing compared with the splendid lustre of the
blackbird's metallic sables and shifting and flashing bronze glories.
The blackbird is a perfect gentleman, in deportment and attire, and is
not noisy, I believe, except when holding religious services and
political conventions in a tree; but this Indian sham Quaker is just a
rowdy, and is always noisy when awake--always chaffing, scolding,
scoffing, laughing, ripping, and cursing, and carrying on about something
or other.  I never saw such a bird for delivering opinions.  Nothing
escapes him; he notices everything that happens, and brings out his
opinion about it, particularly if it is a matter that is none of his
business.  And it is never a mild opinion, but always violent--violent
and profane--the presence of ladies does not affect him.  His opinions
are not the outcome of reflection, for he never thinks about anything,
but heaves out the opinion that is on top in his mind, and which is often
an opinion about some quite different thing and does not fit the case.
But that is his way; his main idea is to get out an opinion, and if he
stopped to think he would lose chances.

I suppose he has no enemies among men.  The whites and Mohammedans never
seemed to molest him; and the Hindoos, because of their religion, never
take the life of any creature, but spare even the snakes and tigers and
fleas and rats.  If I sat on one end of the balcony, the crows would
gather on the railing at the other end and talk about me; and edge
closer, little by little, till I could almost reach them; and they would
sit there, in the most unabashed way, and talk about my clothes, and my
hair, and my complexion, and probable character and vocation and
politics, and how I came to be in India, and what I  had been doing, and
how many days I had got for it, and how I had happened to go unhanged
so long, and when would it probably come off, and might there be more of
my sort where I came from, and when would they be hanged,--and so on, and
so on, until I could not longer endure the embarrassment of it; then I
would shoo them away, and they would circle around in the air a little
while, laughing and deriding and mocking, and presently settle on the
rail and do it all over again.

They were very sociable when there was anything to eat--oppressively so.
With a little encouragement they would come in and light on the table and
help me eat my breakfast; and once when I was in the other room and they
found themselves alone, they carried off everything they could lift; and
they were particular to choose things which they could make no use of
after they got them.  In India their number is beyond estimate, and their
noise is in proportion.  I suppose they cost the country more than the
government does; yet that is not a light matter.  Still, they pay; their
company pays; it would sadden the land to take their cheerful voice out
of it.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

By trying we can easily learn to endure adversity.  Another man's,
I mean.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

You soon find your long-ago dreams of India rising in a sort of vague and
luscious moonlight above the horizon-rim of your opaque consciousness,
and softly lighting up a thousand forgotten details which were parts of a
vision that had once been vivid to you when you were a boy, and steeped
your spirit in tales of the East.  The barbaric gorgeousnesses, for
instance; and the princely titles, the sumptuous titles, the sounding
titles,--how good they taste in the mouth!  The Nizam of Hyderabad; the
Maharajah of Travancore; the Nabob of Jubbelpore; the Begum of Bhopal;
the Nawab of Mysore; the Rance of Gulnare; the Ahkoond of Swat's; the Rao
of Rohilkund; the Gaikwar of Baroda.  Indeed, it is a country that runs
richly to name.  The great god Vishnu has 108--108 special ones--108
peculiarly holy ones--names just for Sunday use only.  I learned the
whole of Vishnu's 108 by heart once, but they wouldn't stay; I don't
remember any of them now but John W.

And the romances connected with, those princely native houses--to this
day they are always turning up, just as in the old, old times.  They were
sweating out a romance in an English court in Bombay a while before we
were there.  In this case a native prince, 16 1/2 years old, who has been
enjoying his titles and dignities and estates unmolested for fourteen
years, is suddenly haled into court on the charge that he is rightfully
no prince at all, but a pauper peasant; that the real prince died when
two and one-half years old; that the death was concealed, and a peasant
child smuggled into the royal cradle, and that this present incumbent was
that smuggled substitute.  This is the very material that so many
oriental tales have been made of.

The case of that great prince, the Gaikwar of Baroda, is a reversal of
the theme.  When that throne fell vacant, no heir could be found for some
time, but at last one was found in the person of a peasant child who was
making mud pies in a village street, and having an innocent good time.
But his pedigree was straight; he was the true prince, and he has reigned
ever since, with none to dispute his right.

Lately there was another hunt for an heir to another princely house, and
one was found who was circumstanced about as the Gaikwar had been.  His
fathers were traced back, in humble life, along a branch of the ancestral
tree to the point where it joined the stem fourteen generations ago, and
his heirship was thereby squarely established.  The tracing was done by
means of the records of one of the great Hindoo shrines, where princes on
pilgrimage record their names and the date of their visit.  This is to
keep the prince's religious account straight, and his spiritual person
safe; but the record has the added value of keeping the pedigree
authentic, too.

When I think of Bombay now, at this distance of time, I seem to have a
kaleidoscope at my eye; and I hear the clash of the glass bits as the
splendid figures change, and fall apart, and flash into new forms, figure
after figure, and with the birth of each new form I feel my skin crinkle
and my nerve-web tingle with a new thrill of wonder and delight.  These
remembered pictures float past me in a sequence of contracts; following
the same order always, and always whirling by and disappearing with the
swiftness of a dream, leaving me with the sense that the actuality was
the experience of an hour, at most, whereas it really covered days, I
think.

The series begins with the hiring of a "bearer"--native man-servant--a
person who should be selected with some care, because as long as he is in
your employ he will be about as near to you as your clothes.

In India your day may be said to begin with the "bearer's" knock on the
bedroom door, accompanied by a formula of, words--a formula which is
intended to mean that the bath is ready.  It doesn't really seem to mean
anything at all.  But that is because you are not used to "bearer"
English.  You will presently understand.

Where he gets his English is his own secret.  There is nothing like it
elsewhere in the earth; or even in paradise, perhaps, but the other place
is probably full of it.  You hire him as soon as you touch Indian soil;
for no matter what your sex is, you cannot do without him.  He is
messenger, valet, chambermaid, table-waiter, lady's maid, courier--he is
everything.  He carries a coarse linen clothes-bag and a quilt; he sleeps
on the stone floor outside your chamber door, and gets his meals you do
not know where nor when; you only know that he is not fed on the
premises, either when you are in a hotel or when you are a guest in a,
private house.  His wages are large--from an Indian point of view--and he
feeds and clothes himself out of them.  We had three of him in two and a
half months.  The first one's rate was thirty rupees a month that is to
say, twenty-seven cents a day; the rate of the others, Rs. 40 (40 rupees)
a month.  A princely sum; for the native switchman on a railway and the
native servant in a private family get only Rs. 7 per month, and the
farm-hand only 4.  The two former feed and clothe themselves and their
families on their $1.90 per month; but I cannot believe that the farmhand
has to feed himself on his $1.08.  I think the farm probably feeds him,
and that the whole of his wages, except a trifle for the priest, go to
the support of his family.  That is, to the feeding of his family; for
they live in a mud hut, hand-made, and, doubtless, rent-free, and they
wear no clothes; at least, nothing more than a rag.  And not much of a
rag at that, in the case of the males.  However, these are handsome times
for the farm-hand; he was not always the child of luxury that he is now.
The Chief Commissioner of the Central Provinces, in a recent official
utterance wherein he was rebuking a native deputation for complaining of
hard times, reminded them that they could easily remember when a farm-
hand's wages were only half a rupee (former value) a month--that is to
say, less than a cent a day; nearly $2.90 a year.  If such a wage-earner
had a good deal of a family--and they all have that, for God is very good
to these poor natives in some ways--he would save a profit of fifteen
cents, clean and clear, out of his year's toil; I mean a frugal, thrifty
person would, not one given to display and ostentation.  And if he owed
$13.50 and took good care of his health, he could pay it off in ninety
years.  Then he could hold up his head, and look his creditors in the
face again.

Think of these facts and what they mean.  India does not consist of
cities.  There are no cities in India--to speak of.  Its stupendous
population consists of farm-laborers.  India is one vast farm--one almost
interminable stretch of fields with mud fences between. . .  Think of the
above facts; and consider what an incredible aggregate of poverty they
place before you.

The first Bearer that applied, waited below and sent up his
recommendations.  That was the first morning in Bombay.  We read them
over; carefully, cautiously, thoughtfully.  There was not a fault to find
with them--except one; they were all from Americans.  Is that a slur?
If it is, it is a deserved one.  In my experience, an American's
recommendation of a servant is not usually valuable.  We are too good-
natured a race; we hate to say the unpleasant thing; we shrink from
speaking the unkind truth about a poor fellow whose bread depends upon
our verdict; so we speak of his good points only, thus not scrupling to
tell a lie--a silent lie--for in not mentioning his bad ones we as good
as say he hasn't any.  The only difference that I know of between a
silent lie and a spoken one is, that the silent lie is a less respectable
one than the other.  And it can deceive, whereas the other can't--as a
rule.  We not only tell the silent lie as to a servant's faults, but we
sin in another way: we overpraise his merits; for when it comes to
writing recommendations of servants we are a nation of gushers.  And we
have not the Frenchman's excuse.  In France you must give the departing
servant a good recommendation; and you must conceal his faults; you have
no choice.  If you mention his faults for the protection of the next
candidate for his services, he can sue you for damages; and the court
will award them, too; and, moreover, the judge will give you a sharp
dressing-down from the bench for trying to destroy a poor man's
character, and rob him of his bread.  I do not state this on my own
authority, I got it from a French physician of fame and repute--a man who
was born in Paris, and had practiced there all his life.  And he said
that he spoke not merely from common knowledge, but from exasperating
personal experience.

As I was saying, the Bearer's recommendations were all from American
tourists; and St. Peter would have admitted him to the fields of the
blest on them--I mean if he is as unfamiliar with our people and our ways
as I suppose he is.  According to these recommendations, Manuel X. was
supreme in all the arts connected with his complex trade; and these
manifold arts were mentioned--and praised-in detail.  His English was
spoken of in terms of warm admiration--admiration verging upon rapture.
I took pleased note of that, and hoped that some of it might be true.

We had to have some one right away; so the family went down stairs and
took him a week on trial; then sent him up to me and departed on their
affairs.  I was shut up in my quarters with a bronchial cough, and glad
to have something fresh to look at, something new to play with.  Manuel
filled the bill; Manuel was very welcome.  He was toward fifty years old,
tall, slender, with a slight stoop--an artificial stoop, a deferential
stoop, a stoop rigidified by long habit--with face of European mould;
short hair intensely black; gentle black eyes, timid black eyes, indeed;
complexion very dark, nearly black in fact; face smooth-shaven.  He was
bareheaded and barefooted, and was never otherwise while his week with us
lasted; his clothing was European, cheap, flimsy, and showed much wear.

He stood before me and inclined his head (and body) in the pathetic
Indian way, touching his forehead with the finger--ends of his right
hand, in salute.  I said:

"Manuel, you are evidently Indian, but you seem to have a Spanish name
when you put it all together.  How is that?"

A perplexed look gathered in his face; it was plain that he had not
understood--but he didn't let on.  He spoke back placidly.

"Name, Manuel.  Yes, master."

"I know; but how did you get the name?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose.  Think happen so.  Father same name, not mother."

I saw that I must simplify my language and spread my words apart, if I
would be understood by this English scholar.

"Well--then--how--did--your--father--get--his name?"

"Oh, he,"--brightening a little--"he Christian--Portygee; live in Goa; I
born Goa; mother not Portygee, mother native-high-caste Brahmin--Coolin
Brahmin; highest caste; no other so high caste.  I high-caste Brahmin,
too.  Christian, too, same like father; high-caste Christian Brahmin,
master--Salvation Army."

All this haltingly, and with difficulty.  Then he had an inspiration, and
began to pour out a flood of words that I could make nothing of; so I
said:

"There--don't do that.  I can't understand Hindostani."

"Not Hindostani, master--English.  Always I speaking English sometimes
when I talking every day all the time at you."

"Very well, stick to that; that is intelligible.  It is not up to my
hopes, it is not up to the promise of the recommendations, still it is
English, and I understand it.  Don't elaborate it; I don't like
elaborations when they are crippled by uncertainty of touch."

"Master?"

"Oh, never mind; it was only a random thought; I didn't expect you to
understand it.  How did you get your English; is it an acquirement, or
just a gift of God?"

After some hesitation--piously:

"Yes, he very good.  Christian god very good, Hindoo god very good, too.
Two million Hindoo god, one Christian god--make two million and one.  All
mine; two million and one god.  I got a plenty.  Sometime I pray all time
at those, keep it up, go all time every day; give something at shrine,
all good for me, make me better man; good for me, good for my family, dam
good."

Then he had another inspiration, and went rambling off into fervent
confusions and incoherencies, and I had to stop him again.  I thought we
had talked enough, so I told him to go to the bathroom and clean it up
and remove the slops--this to get rid of him.  He went away, seeming to
understand, and got out some of my clothes and began to brush them.  I
repeated my desire several times, simplifying and re-simplifying it, and
at last he got the idea.  Then he went away and put a coolie at the work,
and explained that he would lose caste if he did it himself; it would be
pollution, by the law of his caste, and it would cost him a deal of fuss
and trouble to purify himself and accomplish his rehabilitation.  He said
that that kind of work was strictly forbidden to persons of caste, and as
strictly restricted to the very bottom layer of Hindoo society--the
despised 'Sudra' (the toiler, the laborer).  He was right; and apparently
the poor Sudra has been content with his strange lot, his insulting
distinction, for ages and ages--clear back to the beginning of things, so
to speak.  Buckle says that his name--laborer--is a term of contempt;
that it is ordained by the Institutes of Menu (900 B.C.) that if a Sudra
sit on a level with his superior he shall be exiled or branded--[Without
going into particulars I will remark that as a rule they wear no clothing
that would conceal the brand.--M. T.].  .  . ; if he speak
contemptuously of his superior or insult him he shall suffer death; if he
listen to the reading of the sacred books he shall have burning oil
poured in his ears; if he memorize passages from them he shall be killed;
if he marry his daughter to a Brahmin the husband shall go to hell for
defiling himself by contact with a woman so infinitely his inferior; and
that it is forbidden to a Sudra to acquire wealth.  "The bulk of the
population of India," says Bucklet--[Population to-day, 300,000,000.]--
"is the Sudras--the workers, the farmers, the creators of wealth."

Manuel was a failure, poor old fellow.  His age was against him.  He was
desperately slow and phenomenally forgetful.  When he went three blocks
on an errand he would be gone two hours, and then forget what it was he
went for.  When he packed a trunk it took him forever, and the trunk's
contents were an unimaginable chaos when he got done.  He couldn't wait
satisfactorily at table--a prime defect, for if you haven't your own
servant in an Indian hotel you are likely to have a slow time of it and
go away hungry.  We couldn't understand his English; he couldn't
understand ours; and when we found that he couldn't understand his own,
it seemed time for us to part.  I had to discharge him; there was no help
for it.  But I did it as kindly as I could, and as gently.  We must part,
said I, but I hoped we should meet again in a better world.  It was not
true, but it was only a little thing to say, and saved his feelings and
cost me nothing.

But now that he was gone, and was off my mind and heart, my spirits began
to rise at once, and I was soon feeling brisk and ready to go out and
have adventures.  Then his newly-hired successor flitted in, touched his
forehead, and began to fly around here, there, and everywhere, on his
velvet feet, and in five minutes he had everything in the room "ship-
shape and Bristol fashion," as the sailors say, and was standing at the
salute, waiting for orders.  Dear me, what a rustler he was after the
slumbrous way of Manuel, poor old slug!  All my heart, all my affection,
all my admiration, went out spontaneously to this frisky little forked
black thing, this compact and compressed incarnation of energy and force
and promptness and celerity and confidence, this smart, smily, engaging,
shiney-eyed little devil, feruled on his upper end by a gleaming fire-
coal of a fez with a red-hot tassel dangling from it.  I said, with deep
satisfaction--

"You'll suit.  What is your name?"

He reeled it mellowly off.

"Let me see if I can make a selection out of it--for business uses, I
mean; we will keep the rest for Sundays.  Give it to me in installments."

He did it.  But there did not seem to be any short ones, except
Mousawhich suggested mouse.  It was out of character; it was too soft,
too quiet, too conservative; it didn't fit his splendid style.  I
considered, and said--

"Mousa is short enough, but I don't quite like it.  It seems colorless--
inharmonious--inadequate; and I am sensitive to such things.  How do you
think Satan would do?"

"Yes, master.  Satan do wair good."

It was his way of saying "very good."

There was a rap at the door.  Satan covered the ground with a single
skip; there was a word or two of Hindostani, then he disappeared.  Three
minutes later he was before me again, militarily erect, and waiting for
me to speak first.

"What is it, Satan?"

"God want to see you."

"Who?"

"God.  I show him up, master?"

"Why, this is so unusual, that--that--well, you see indeed I am so
unprepared--I don't quite know what I do mean.  Dear me, can't you
explain?  Don't you see that this is a most ex----"

"Here his card, master."

Wasn't it curious--and amazing, and tremendous, and all that?  Such a
personage going around calling on such as I, and sending up his card,
like a mortal--sending it up by Satan.  It was a bewildering collision of
the impossibles.  But this was the land of the Arabian Nights, this was
India! and what is it that cannot happen in India?

We had the interview.  Satan was right--the Visitor was indeed a God in
the conviction of his multitudinous followers, and was worshiped by them
in sincerity and humble adoration.  They are troubled by no doubts as to
his divine origin and office.  They believe in him, they pray to him,
they make offerings to him, they beg of him remission of sins; to them
his person, together with everything connected with it, is sacred; from
his barber they buy the parings of his nails and set them in gold, and
wear them as precious amulets.

I tried to seem tranquilly conversational and at rest, but I was not.
Would you have been?  I was in a suppressed frenzy of excitement and
curiosity and glad wonder.  I could not keep my eyes off him.  I was
looking upon a god, an actual god, a recognized and accepted god; and
every detail of his person and his dress had a consuming interest for me.
And the thought went floating through my head, "He is worshiped--think of
it--he is not a recipient of the pale homage called compliment, wherewith
the highest human clay must make shift to be satisfied, but of an
infinitely richer spiritual food: adoration, worship!--men and women lay
their cares and their griefs and their broken hearts at his feet; and he
gives them his peace; and they go away healed."

And just then the Awful Visitor said, in the simplest way--"There is a
feature of the philosophy of Huck Finn which"--and went luminously on
with the construction of a compact and nicely-discriminated literary
verdict.

It is a land of surprises--India!  I had had my ambitions--I had hoped,
and almost expected, to be read by kings and presidents and emperors--but
I had never looked so high as That.  It would be false modesty to pretend
that I was not inordinately pleased.  I was.  I was much more pleased
than I should have been with a compliment from a man.

He remained half an hour, and I found him a most courteous and charming
gentleman.  The godship has been in his family a good while, but I do not
know how long.  He is a Mohammedan deity; by earthly rank he is a prince;
not an Indian but a Persian prince.  He is a direct descendant of the
Prophet's line.  He is comely; also young--for a god; not forty, perhaps
not above thirty-five years old.  He wears his immense honors with
tranquil brace, and with a dignity proper to his awful calling.  He
speaks English with the ease and purity of a person born to it.  I think
I am not overstating this.  He was the only god I had ever seen, and I
was very favorably impressed.  When he rose to say good-bye, the door
swung open and I caught the flash of a red fez, and heard these words,
reverently said--

"Satan see God out?"

"Yes." And these mis-mated Beings passed from view Satan in the lead and
The Other following after.




CHAPTER XL.

Few of us can stand prosperity.  Another man's, I mean.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The next picture in my mind is Government House, on Malabar Point, with
the wide sea-view from the windows and broad balconies; abode of His
Excellency the Governor of the Bombay Presidency--a residence which is
European in everything but the native guards and servants, and is a home
and a palace of state harmoniously combined.

That was England, the English power, the English civilization, the modern
civilization--with the quiet elegancies and quiet colors and quiet tastes
and quiet dignity that are the outcome of the modern cultivation.  And
following it came a picture of the ancient civilization of India--an hour
in the mansion of a native prince: Kumar Schri Samatsinhji Bahadur of the
Palitana State.

The young lad, his heir, was with the prince; also, the lad's sister, a
wee brown sprite, very pretty, very serious, very winning, delicately
moulded, costumed like the daintiest butterfly, a dear little fairyland
princess, gravely willing to be friendly with the strangers, but in the
beginning preferring to hold her father's hand until she could take stock
of them and determine how far they were to be trusted.  She must have
been eight years old; so in the natural (Indian) order of things she
would be a bride in three or four years from now, and then this free
contact with the sun and the air and the other belongings of out-door
nature and comradeship with visiting male folk would end, and she would
shut herself up in the zenana for life, like her mother, and by inherited
habit of mind would be happy in that seclusion and not look upon it as an
irksome restraint and a weary captivity.

The game which the prince amuses his leisure with--however, never mind
it, I should never be able to describe it intelligibly.  I tried to get
an idea of it while my wife and daughter visited the princess in the
zenana, a lady of charming graces and a fluent speaker of English, but I
did not make it out.  It is a complicated game, and I believe it is said
that nobody can learn to play it well--but an Indian.  And I was not able
to learn how to wind a turban.  It seemed a simple art and easy; but that
was a deception.  It is a piece of thin, delicate stuff a foot wide or
more, and forty or fifty feet long; and the exhibitor of the art takes
one end of it in his hands, and winds it in and out intricately about his
head,  twisting it as he goes, and in a minute or two the thing is
finished, and is neat and symmetrical and fits as snugly as a mould.

We were interested in the wardrobe and the jewels, and in the silverware,
and its grace of shape and beauty and delicacy of ornamentation.  The
silverware is kept locked up, except at meal-times, and none but the
chief butler and the prince have keys to the safe.  I did not clearly
understand why, but it was not for the protection of the silver.  It was
either to protect the prince from the contamination which his caste would
suffer if the vessels were touched by low-caste hands, or it was to
protect his highness from poison.  Possibly it was both.  I believe a
salaried taster has to taste everything before the prince ventures it--an
ancient and judicious custom in the East, and has thinned out the tasters
a good deal, for of course it is the cook that puts the poison in.  If I
were an Indian prince I would not go to the expense of a taster, I would
eat with the cook.

Ceremonials are always interesting; and I noted that the Indian good-
morning is a ceremonial, whereas ours doesn't amount to that.  In
salutation the son reverently touches the father's forehead with a small
silver implement tipped with vermillion paste which leaves a red spot
there, and in return the son receives the father's blessing.  Our good
morning is well enough for the rowdy West, perhaps, but would be too
brusque for the soft and ceremonious East.

After being properly necklaced, according to custom, with great garlands
made of yellow flowers, and provided with betel-nut to chew, this
pleasant visit closed, and we passed thence to a scene of a different
sort: from this glow of color and this sunny life to those grim
receptacles of the Parsee dead, the Towers of Silence.  There is
something stately about that name, and an impressiveness which sinks
deep; the hush of death is in it.  We have the Grave, the Tomb, the
Mausoleum, God's Acre, the Cemetery; and association has made them
eloquent with solemn meaning; but we have no name that is so majestic as
that one, or lingers upon the ear with such deep and haunting pathos.

On lofty ground, in the midst of a paradise of tropical foliage and
flowers, remote from the world and its turmoil and noise, they stood--the
Towers of Silence; and away below was spread the wide groves of cocoa
palms, then the city, mile on mile, then the ocean with its fleets of
creeping ships all steeped in a stillness as deep as the hush that
hallowed this high place of the dead.  The vultures were there.  They
stood close together in a great circle all around the rim of a massive
low tower--waiting; stood as motionless as sculptured ornaments, and
indeed almost deceived one into the belief that that was what they were.
Presently there was a slight stir among the score of persons present, and
all moved reverently out of the path and ceased from talking.  A funeral
procession entered the great gate, marching two and two, and moved
silently by, toward the Tower.  The corpse lay in a shallow shell, and
was under cover of a white cloth, but was otherwise naked.  The bearers
of the body were separated by an interval of thirty feet from the
mourners.  They, and also the mourners, were draped all in pure white,
and each couple of mourners was figuratively bound together by a piece of
white rope or a handkerchief--though they merely held the ends of it in
their hands.  Behind the procession followed a dog, which was led in a
leash.  When the mourners had reached the neighborhood of the Tower--
neither they nor any other human being but the bearers of the dead must
approach within thirty feet of it--they turned and went back to one of
the prayer-houses within the gates, to pray for the spirit of their dead.
The bearers unlocked the Tower's sole door and disappeared from view
within.  In a little while they came out bringing the bier and the white
covering-cloth, and locked the door again.  Then the ring of vultures
rose, flapping their wings, and swooped down into the Tower to devour the
body.  Nothing was left of it but a clean-picked skeleton when they
flocked-out again a few minutes afterward.

The principle which underlies and orders everything connected with a
Parsee funeral is Purity.  By the tenets of the Zoroastrian religion, the
elements, Earth, Fire, and Water, are sacred, and must not be
contaminated by contact with a dead body.  Hence corpses must not be
burned, neither must they be buried.  None may touch the dead or enter
the Towers where they repose except certain men who are officially
appointed for that purpose.  They receive high pay, but theirs is a
dismal life, for they must live apart from their species, because their
commerce with the dead defiles them, and any who should associate with
them would share their defilement.  When they come out of the Tower the
clothes they are wearing are exchanged for others, in a building within
the grounds, and the ones which they have taken off are left behind, for
they are contaminated, and must never be used again or suffered to go
outside the grounds.  These bearers come to every funeral in new
garments.  So far as is known, no human being, other than an official
corpse-bearer--save one--has ever entered a Tower of Silence after its
consecration.  Just a hundred years ago a European rushed in behind the
bearers and fed his brutal curiosity with a glimpse of the forbidden
mysteries of the place.  This shabby savage's name is not given; his
quality is also concealed.  These two details, taken in connection with
the fact that for his extraordinary offense the only punishment he got
from the East India Company's Government was a solemn official
"reprimand"--suggest the suspicion that he was a European of consequence.
The same public document which contained the reprimand gave warning that
future offenders of his sort, if in the Company's service, would be
dismissed; and if merchants, suffer revocation of license and exile to
England.

The Towers are not tall, but are low in proportion to their
circumference, like a gasometer.  If you should fill a gasometer half way
up with solid granite masonry, then drive a wide and deep well down
through the center of this mass of masonry, you would have the idea of a
Tower of Silence.  On the masonry surrounding the well the bodies lie, in
shallow trenches which radiate like wheel-spokes from the well.  The
trenches slant toward the well and carry into it the rainfall.
Underground drains, with charcoal filters in them, carry off this water
from the bottom of the well.

When a skeleton has lain in the Tower exposed to the rain and the flaming
sun a month it is perfectly dry and clean.  Then the same bearers that
brought it there come gloved and take it up with tongs and throw it into
the well.  There it turns to dust.  It is never seen again, never touched
again, in the world.  Other peoples separate their dead, and preserve and
continue social distinctions in the grave--the skeletons of kings and
statesmen and generals in temples and pantheons proper to skeletons of
their degree, and the skeletons of the commonplace and the poor in places
suited to their meaner estate; but the Parsees hold that all men rank
alike in death--all are humble, all poor, all destitute.  In sign of
their poverty they are sent to their grave naked, in sign of their
equality the bones of the rich, the poor, the illustrious and the obscure
are flung into the common well together.  At a Parsee funeral there are
no vehicles; all concerned must walk, both rich and poor, howsoever great
the distance to be traversed may be.  In the wells of the Five Towers of
Silence is mingled the dust of all the Parsee men and women and children
who have died in Bombay and its vicinity during the two centuries which
have elapsed since the Mohammedan conquerors drove the Parsees out of
Persia, and into that region of India.  The earliest of the five towers
was built by the Modi family something more than 200 years ago, and it is
now reserved to the heirs of that house; none but the dead of that blood
are carried thither.

The origin of at least one of the details of a Parsee funeral is not now
known--the presence of the dog.  Before a corpse is borne from the house
of mourning it must be uncovered and exposed to the gaze of a dog; a dog
must also be led in the rear of the funeral.  Mr. Nusserwanjee Byranijee,
Secretary to the Parsee Punchayet, said that these formalities had once
had a meaning and a reason for their institution, but that they were
survivals whose origin none could now account for.  Custom and tradition
continue them in force, antiquity hallows them.  It is thought that in
ancient times in Persia the dog was a sacred animal and could guide souls
to heaven; also that his eye had the power of purifying objects which had
been contaminated by the touch of the dead; and that hence his presence
with the funeral cortege provides an ever-applicable remedy in case of
need.

The Parsees claim that their method of disposing of the dead is an
effective protection of the living; that it disseminates no corruption,
no impurities of any sort, no disease-germs; that no wrap, no garment
which has touched the dead is allowed to touch the living afterward; that
from the Towers of Silence nothing proceeds which can carry harm to the
outside world.  These are just claims, I think.  As a sanitary measure,
their system seems to be about the equivalent of cremation, and as sure.
We are drifting slowly--but hopefully--toward cremation in these days.
It could not be expected that this progress should be swift, but if it be
steady and continuous, even if slow, that will suffice.  When cremation
becomes the rule we shall cease to shudder at it; we should shudder at
burial if we allowed ourselves to think what goes on in the grave.

The dog was an impressive figure to me, representing as he did a mystery
whose key is lost.  He was humble, and apparently depressed; and he let
his head droop pensively, and looked as if he might be trying to call
back to his mind what it was that he had used to symbolize ages ago when
he began his function.  There was another impressive thing close at hand,
but I was not privileged to see it.  That was the sacred fire--a fire
which is supposed to have been burning without interruption for more than
two centuries; and so, living by the same heat that was imparted to it so
long ago.

The Parsees are a remarkable community.  There are only about 60,000 in
Bombay, and only about half as many as that in the rest of India; but
they make up in importance what they lack in numbers.  They are highly
educated, energetic, enterprising, progressive, rich, and the Jew himself
is not more lavish or catholic in his charities and benevolences.  The
Parsees build and endow hospitals, for both men and animals; and they and
their womenkind keep an open purse for all great and good objects.  They
are a political force, and a valued support to the government.  They have
a pure and lofty religion, and they preserve it in its integrity and
order their lives by it.

We took a final sweep of the wonderful view of plain and city and ocean,
and so ended our visit to the garden and the Towers of Silence; and the
last thing I noticed was another symbol--a voluntary symbol this one; it
was a vulture standing on the sawed-off top of a tall and slender and
branchless palm in an open space in the ground; he was perfectly
motionless, and looked like a piece of sculpture on a pillar.  And he had
a mortuary look, too, which was in keeping with the place.




CHAPTER XLI.

There is an old-time toast which is golden for its beauty.
"When you ascend the hill of prosperity may you not meet a friend."
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The next picture that drifts across the field of my memory is one which
is connected with religious things.  We were taken by friends to see a
Jain temple.  It was small, and had many flags or streamers flying from
poles standing above its roof; and its little battlements supported a
great many small idols or images.  Upstairs, inside, a solitary Jain was
praying or reciting aloud in the middle of the room.  Our presence did
not interrupt him, nor even incommode him or modify his fervor.  Ten or
twelve feet in front of him was the idol, a small figure in a sitting
posture.  It had the pinkish look of a wax doll, but lacked the doll's
roundness of limb and approximation to correctness of form and justness
of proportion.  Mr. Gandhi explained every thing to us.  He was delegate
to the Chicago Fair Congress of Religions.  It was lucidly done, in
masterly English, but in time it faded from me, and now I have nothing
left of that episode but an impression: a dim idea of a religious belief
clothed in subtle intellectual forms, lofty and clean, barren of fleshly
grossnesses; and with this another dim impression which connects that
intellectual system somehow with that crude image, that inadequate idol--
how, I do not know. Properly they do not seem to belong together.
Apparently the idol symbolized a person who had become a saint or a god
through accessions of steadily augmenting holiness acquired through a
series of reincarnations and promotions extending over many ages; and was
now at last a saint and qualified to vicariously receive worship and
transmit it to heaven's chancellery.  Was that it?

And thence we went to Mr. Premchand Roychand's bungalow, in Lovelane,
Byculla, where an Indian prince was to receive a deputation of the Jain
community who desired to congratulate him upon a high honor lately
conferred upon him by his sovereign, Victoria, Empress of India.  She had
made him a knight of the order of the Star of India.  It would seem that
even the grandest Indian prince is glad to add the modest title "Sir" to
his ancient native grandeurs, and is willing to do valuable service to
win it.  He will remit taxes liberally, and will spend money freely upon
the betterment of the condition of his subjects, if there is a knighthood
to be gotten by it.  And he will also do good work and a deal of it to
get a gun added to the salute allowed him by the British Government.
Every year the Empress distributes knighthoods and adds guns for public
services done by native princes.  The salute of a small prince is three
or four guns; princes of greater consequence have salutes that run higher
and higher, gun by gun,--oh, clear away up to eleven; possibly more, but
I did not hear of any above eleven-gun princes.  I was told that when a
four-gun prince gets a gun added, he is pretty troublesome for a while,
till the novelty wears off, for he likes the music, and keeps hunting up
pretexts to get himself saluted.  It may be that supremely grand folk,
like the Nyzam of Hyderabad and the Gaikwar of Baroda, have more than
eleven guns, but I don't know.

When we arrived at the bungalow, the large hall on the ground floor was
already about full, and carriages were still flowing into the grounds.
The company present made a fine show, an exhibition of human fireworks,
so to speak, in the matters of costume and comminglings of brilliant
color.  The variety of form noticeable in the display of turbans was
remarkable.  We were told that the explanation of this was, that this
Jain delegation was drawn from many parts of India, and that each man
wore the turban that was in vogue in his own region.  This diversity of
turbans made a beautiful effect.

I could have wished to start a rival exhibition there, of Christian hats
and clothes.  I would have cleared one side of the room of its Indian
splendors and repacked the space with Christians drawn from America,
England, and the Colonies, dressed in the hats and habits of now, and of
twenty and forty and fifty years ago.  It would have been a hideous
exhibition, a thoroughly devilish spectacle.  Then there would have been
the added disadvantage of the white complexion.  It is not an unbearably
unpleasant complexion when it keeps to itself, but when it comes into
competition with masses of brown and black the fact is betrayed that it
is endurable only because we are used to it.  Nearly all black and brown
skins are beautiful, but a beautiful white skin is rare.  How rare, one
may learn by walking down a street in Paris, New York, or London on a
week-day particularly an unfashionable street--and keeping count of the
satisfactory complexions encountered in the course of a mile.  Where dark
complexions are massed, they make the whites look bleached-out,
unwholesome, and sometimes frankly ghastly.  I could notice this as a
boy, down South in the slavery days before the war.  The splendid black
satin skin of the South African Zulus of Durban seemed to me to come very
close to perfection.  I can see those Zulus yet--'ricksha athletes
waiting in front of the hotel for custom; handsome and intensely black
creatures, moderately clothed in loose summer stuffs whose snowy
whiteness made the black all the blacker by contrast.  Keeping that group
in my mind, I can compare those complexions with the white ones which are
streaming past this London window now:

     A lady.  Complexion, new parchment.  Another lady.  Complexion, old
     parchment.

     Another.  Pink and white, very fine.

     Man.  Grayish skin, with purple areas.

     Man.  Unwholesome fish-belly skin.

     Girl.  Sallow face, sprinkled with freckles.

     Old woman.  Face whitey-gray.

     Young butcher.  Face a general red flush.

     Jaundiced man--mustard yellow.

     Elderly lady.  Colorless skin, with two conspicuous moles.

     Elderly man--a drinker.  Boiled-cauliflower nose in a flabby face
     veined with purple crinklings.

     Healthy young gentleman.  Fine fresh complexion.

     Sick young man.  His face a ghastly white.

No end of people whose skins are dull and characterless modifications of
the tint which we miscall white.  Some of these faces are pimply; some
exhibit other signs of diseased blood; some show scars of a tint out of a
harmony with the surrounding shades of color.  The white man's complexion
makes no concealments.  It can't.  It seemed to have been designed as a
catch-all for everything that can damage it.  Ladies have to paint it,
and powder it, and cosmetic it, and diet it with arsenic, and enamel it,
and be always enticing it, and persuading it, and pestering it, and
fussing at it, to make it beautiful; and they do not succeed.  But these
efforts show what they think of the natural complexion, as distributed.
As distributed it needs these helps.  The complexion which they try to
counterfeit is one which nature restricts to the few--to the very few.
To ninety-nine persons she gives a bad complexion, to the hundredth a
good one.  The hundredth can keep it--how long?  Ten years, perhaps.

The advantage is with the Zulu, I think.  He starts with a beautiful
complexion, and it will last him through.  And as for the Indian brown--
firm, smooth, blemishless, pleasant and restful to the eye, afraid of no
color, harmonizing with all colors and adding a grace to them all--I
think there is no sort of chance for the average white complexion against
that rich and perfect tint.

To return to the bungalow.  The most gorgeous costume present were worn
by some children.  They seemed to blaze, so bright were the colors, and
so brilliant the jewels strum over the rich materials.  These children
were professional nautch-dancers, and looked like girls, but they were
boys, They got up by ones and twos and fours, and danced and sang to an
accompaniment of weird music.  Their posturings and gesturings were
elaborate and graceful, but their voices were stringently raspy and
unpleasant, and there was a good deal of monotony about the tune.

By and by there was a burst of shouts and cheers outside and the prince
with his train entered in fine dramatic style.  He was a stately man, he
was ideally costumed, and fairly festooned with ropes of gems; some of
the ropes were of pearls, some were of uncut great emeralds--emeralds
renowned in Bombay for their quality and value.  Their size was
marvelous, and enticing to the eye, those rocks.  A boy--a princeling--
was with the prince, and he also was a radiant exhibition.

The ceremonies were not tedious.  The prince strode to his throne with
the port and majesty--and the sternness--of a Julius Caesar coming to
receive and receipt for a back-country kingdom and have it over and get
out, and no fooling.  There was a throne for the young prince, too, and
the two sat there, side by side, with their officers grouped at either
hand and most accurately and creditably reproducing the pictures which
one sees in the books--pictures which people in the prince's line of
business have been furnishing ever since Solomon received the Queen of
Sheba and showed her his things.  The chief of the Jain delegation read
his paper of congratulations, then pushed it into a beautifully engraved
silver cylinder, which was delivered with ceremony into the prince's
hands and at once delivered by him without ceremony into the hands of an
officer.  I will copy the address here.  It is interesting, as showing
what an Indian prince's subject may have opportunity to thank him for in
these days of modern English rule, as contrasted with what his ancestor
would have given them opportunity to thank him for a century and a half
ago--the days of freedom unhampered by English interference.  A century
and a half ago an address of thanks could have been put into small space.
It would have thanked the prince--

     1.  For not slaughtering too many of his people upon mere caprice;

     2.  For not stripping them bare by sudden and arbitrary tax levies,
     and bringing famine upon them;

     3.  For not upon empty pretext destroying the rich and seizing their
     property;

     4.  For not killing, blinding, imprisoning, or banishing the
     relatives of the royal house to protect the throne from possible
     plots;

     5.  For not betraying the subject secretly, for a bribe, into the
     hands of bands of professional Thugs, to be murdered and robbed in
     the prince's back lot.

Those were rather common princely industries in the old times, but they
and some others of a harsh sort ceased long ago under English rule.
Better industries have taken their place, as this Address from the Jain
community will show:

     "Your Highness,--We the undersigned members of the Jain community of
     Bombay have the pleasure to approach your Highness with the
     expression of our heartfelt congratulations on the recent conference
     on your Highness of the Knighthood of the Most Exalted Order of the
     Star of India.  Ten years ago we had the pleasure and privilege of
     welcoming your Highness to this city under circumstances which have
     made a memorable epoch in the history of your State, for had it not
     been for a generous and reasonable spirit that your Highness
     displayed in the negotiations between the Palitana Durbar and the
     Jain community, the conciliatory spirit that animated our people
     could not have borne fruit.  That was the first step in your
     Highness's administration, and it fitly elicited the praise of the
     Jain community, and of the Bombay Government.  A decade of your
     Highness's administration, combined with the abilities, training,
     and acquirements that your Highness brought to bear upon it, has
     justly earned for your Highness the unique and honourable
     distinction--the Knighthood of the Most Exalted Order of the Star of
     India, which we understand your Highness is the first to enjoy among
     Chiefs of your, Highness's rank and standing.  And we assure your
     Highness that for this mark of honour that has been conferred on you
     by Her Most Gracious Majesty, the Queen-Empress, we feel no less
     proud than your Highness.  Establishment of commercial factories,
     schools, hospitals, etc., by your Highness in your State has marked
     your Highness's career during these ten years, and we trust that
     your Highness will be spared to rule over your people with wisdom
     and foresight, and foster the many reforms that your Highness has
     been pleased to introduce in your State.  We again offer your
     Highness our warmest felicitations for the honour that has been
     conferred on you.  We beg to remain your Highness's obedient
     servants."

Factories, schools, hospitals, reforms.  The prince propagates that kind
of things in the modern times, and gets knighthood and guns for it.

After the address the prince responded with snap and brevity; spoke a
moment with half a dozen guests in English, and with an official or two
in a native tongue; then the garlands were distributed as usual, and the
function ended.




CHAPTER XLII.

Each person is born to one possession which outvalues all his others--his
last breath.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Toward midnight, that night, there was another function.  This was a
Hindoo wedding--no, I think it was a betrothal ceremony.  Always before,
we had driven through streets that were multitudinous and tumultuous with
picturesque native life, but now there was nothing of that.  We seemed to
move through a city of the dead.  There was hardly a suggestion of life
in those still and vacant streets.  Even the crows were silent.  But
everywhere on the ground lay sleeping natives-hundreds and hundreds.
They lay stretched at full length and tightly wrapped in blankets, beads
and all.  Their attitude and their rigidity counterfeited death.  The
plague was not in Bombay then, but it is devastating the city now.  The
shops are deserted, now, half of the people have fled, and of the
remainder the smitten perish by shoals every day.  No doubt the city
looks now in the daytime as it looked then at night.  When we had pierced
deep into the native quarter and were threading its narrow dim lanes, we
had to go carefully, for men were stretched asleep all about and there
was hardly room to drive between them.  And every now and then a swarm of
rats would scamper across past the horses' feet in the vague light--the
forbears of the rats that are carrying the plague from house to house in
Bombay now. The shops were but sheds, little booths open to the street;
and the goods had been removed, and on the counters families were
sleeping, usually with an oil lamp present.  Recurrent dead  watches, it
looked like.

But at last we turned a corner and saw a great glare of light ahead.  It
was the home of the bride, wrapped in a perfect conflagration of
illuminations,--mainly gas-work designs, gotten up specially for the
occasion.  Within was abundance of brilliancy--flames, costumes, colors,
decorations, mirrors--it was another Aladdin show.

The bride was a trim and comely little thing of twelve years, dressed as
we would dress a boy, though more expensively than we should do it, of
course.  She moved about very much at her ease, and stopped and talked
with the guests and allowed her wedding jewelry to be examined.  It was
very fine.  Particularly a rope of great diamonds, a lovely thing to look
at and handle.  It had a great emerald hanging to it.

The bridegroom was not present.  He was having betrothal festivities of
his own at his father's house.  As I understood it, he and the bride were
to entertain company every night and nearly all night for a week or more,
then get married, if alive.  Both of the children were a little elderly,
as brides and grooms go, in India--twelve; they ought to have been
married a year or two sooner; still to a, stranger twelve seems quite
young enough.

A while after midnight a couple of celebrated and high-priced nautch-
girls appeared in the gorgeous place, and danced and sang.  With them
were men who played upon strange instruments which made uncanny noises of
a sort to make one's flesh creep.  One of these instruments was a pipe,
and to its music the girls went through a performance which represented
snake charming.  It seemed a doubtful sort of music to charm anything
with, but a native gentleman assured me that snakes like it and will come
out of their holes and listen to it with every evidence of refreshment
And gratitude.  He said that at an entertainment in his grounds once, the
pipe brought out half a dozen snakes, and the music had to be stopped
before they would be persuaded to go.  Nobody wanted their company, for
they were bold, familiar, and dangerous; but no one would kill them, of
course, for it is sinful for a Hindoo to kill any kind of a creature.

We withdrew from the festivities at two in the morning.  Another picture,
then--but it has lodged itself in my memory rather as a stage-scene than
as a reality.  It is of a porch and short flight of steps crowded with
dark faces and ghostly-white draperies flooded with the strong glare from
the dazzling concentration of illuminations; and midway of the steps one
conspicuous figure for accent--a turbaned giant, with a name according to
his size: Rao Bahadur Baskirao Balinkanje Pitale, Vakeel to his Highness
the Gaikwar of Baroda.  Without him the picture would not have been
complete; and if his name had been merely Smith, he wouldn't have
answered.  Close at hand on house-fronts on both sides of the narrow
street were illuminations of a kind commonly employed by the natives--
scores of glass tumblers (containing tapers) fastened a few in inches
apart all over great latticed frames, forming starry constellations which
showed out vividly against their black back grounds.  As we  drew away
into the distance down the dim lanes the illuminations gathered together
into a single mass, and glowed out of the enveloping darkness like a sun.

Then again the deep silence, the skurrying rats, the dim forms stretched
every-where on the ground; and on either hand those open booths
counterfeiting sepulchres, with counterfeit corpses sleeping motionless
in the flicker of the counterfeit death lamps.  And now, a year later,
when I read the cablegrams I seem to be reading of what I myself partly
saw--saw before it happened--in a prophetic dream, as it were.  One
cablegram says, "Business in the native town is about suspended.  Except
the wailing and the tramp of the funerals.  There is but little life or
movement.  The closed shops exceed in number those that remain open."
Another says that 325,000 of the people have fled the city and are
carrying the plague to the country.  Three days later comes the news,
"The population is reduced by half."  The refugees have carried the
disease to Karachi; "220 cases, 214 deaths."  A day or two later, "52
fresh cases, all of which proved fatal."

The plague carries with it a terror which no other disease can excite;
for of all diseases known to men it is the deadliest--by far the
deadliest.  "Fifty-two fresh cases--all fatal."  It is the Black Death
alone that slays like that.  We can all imagine, after a fashion, the
desolation of a plague-stricken city, and the stupor of stillness broken
at intervals by distant bursts of wailing, marking the passing of
funerals, here and there and yonder, but I suppose it is not possible for
us to realize to ourselves the nightmare of dread and fear that possesses
the living who are present in such a place and cannot get away.  That
half million fled from Bombay in a wild panic suggests to us something of
what they were feeling, but perhaps not even they could realize what the
half million were feeling whom they left stranded behind to face the
stalking horror without chance of escape.  Kinglake was in Cairo many
years ago during an epidemic of the Black Death, and he has imagined the
terrors that creep into a man's heart at such a time and follow him until
they themselves breed the fatal sign in the armpit, and then the delirium
with confused images, and home-dreams, and reeling billiard-tables, and
then the sudden blank of death:

     "To the contagionist, filled as he is with the dread of final
     causes, having no faith in destiny, nor in the fixed will of God,
     and with none of the devil-may-care indifference which might stand
     him instead of creeds--to such one, every rag that shivers in the
     breeze of a plague-stricken city has this sort of sublimity.  If by
     any terrible ordinance he be forced to venture forth, be sees death
     dangling from every sleeve; and, as he creeps forward, he poises his
     shuddering limbs between the imminent jacket that is stabbing at his
     right elbow and the murderous pelisse that threatens to mow him
     clean down as it sweeps along on his left.  But most of all he
     dreads that which most of all he should love--the touch of a woman's
     dress; for mothers and wives, hurrying forth on kindly errands from
     the bedsides of the dying, go slouching along through the streets
     more willfully and less courteously than the men.  For a while it
     may be that the caution of the poor Levantine may enable him to
     avoid contact, but sooner or later, perhaps, the dreaded chance
     arrives; that bundle of linen, with the dark tearful eyes at the top
     of it, that labors along with the voluptuous clumsiness of Grisi--
     she has touched the poor Levantine with the hem of her sleeve!  From
     that dread moment his peace is gone; his mind for ever hanging upon
     the fatal touch invites the blow which he fears; he watches for the
     symptoms of plague so carefully, that sooner or later they come in
     truth.  The parched mouth is a sign--his mouth is parched; the
     throbbing brain--his brain does throb; the rapid pulse--he touches
     his own wrist (for he dares not ask counsel of any man lest he be
     deserted), he touches his wrist, and feels how his frighted blood
     goes galloping out of his heart.  There is nothing but the fatal
     swelling that is wanting to make his sad conviction complete;
     immediately, he has an odd feel under the arm--no pain, but a little
     straining of the skin; he would to God it were his fancy that were
     strong enough to give him that sensation; this is the worst of all.
     It now seems to him that he could be happy and contented with his
     parched mouth, and his throbbing brain, and his rapid pulse, if only
     he could know that there were no swelling under the left arm; but
     dares he try?--in a moment of calmness and deliberation he dares
     not; but when for a while he has writhed under the torture of
     suspense, a sudden strength of will drives him to seek and know his
     fate; he touches the gland, and finds the skin sane and sound but
     under the cuticle there lies a small lump like a pistol-bullet, that
     moves as he pushes it.  Oh! but is this for all certainty, is this
     the sentence of death?  Feel the gland of the other arm.  There is
     not the same lump exactly, yet something a little like it.  Have not
     some people glands naturally enlarged?--would to heaven he were one!
     So he does for himself the work of the plague, and when the Angel of
     Death thus courted does indeed and in truth come, he has only to
     finish that which has been so well begun; he passes his fiery hand
     over the brain of the victim, and lets him rave for a season, but
     all chance-wise, of people and things once dear, or of people and
     things indifferent.  Once more the poor fellow is back at his home
     in fair Provence, and sees the sundial that stood in his childhood's
     garden--sees his mother, and the long-since forgotten face of that
     little dear sister--(he sees her, he says, on a Sunday morning, for
     all the church bells are ringing); he looks up and down through the
     universe, and owns it well piled with bales upon bales of cotton,
     and cotton eternal--so much so that he feels--he knows--he swears he
     could make that winning hazard, if the billiard-table would not
     slant upwards, and if the cue were a cue worth playing with; but it
     is not--it's a cue that won't move--his own arm won't move--in
     short, there's the devil to pay in the brain of the poor Levantine;
     and perhaps, the next night but one he becomes the "life and the
     soul" of some squalling jackal family, who fish him out by the foot
     from his shallow and sandy grave."




CHAPTER XLIII.

Hunger is the handmaid of genius
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

One day during our stay in Bombay there was a criminal trial of a most
interesting sort, a terribly realistic chapter out of the "Arabian
Nights," a strange mixture of simplicities and pieties and murderous
practicalities, which brought back the forgotten days of Thuggee and made
them live again; in fact, even made them believable.  It was a case where
a young girl had been assassinated for the sake of her trifling
ornaments, things not worth a laborer's day's wages in America.  This
thing could have been done in many other countries, but hardly with the
cold business-like depravity, absence of fear, absence of caution,
destitution of the sense of horror, repentance, remorse, exhibited in
this case.  Elsewhere the murderer would have done his crime secretly, by
night, and without witnesses; his fears would have allowed him no peace
while the dead body was in his neighborhood; he would not have rested
until he had gotten it safe out of the way and hidden as effectually as
he could hide it.  But this Indian murderer does his deed in the full
light of day, cares nothing for the society of witnesses, is in no way
incommoded by the presence of the corpse, takes his own time about
disposing of it, and the whole party are so indifferent, so phlegmatic,
that they take their regular sleep as if nothing was happening and no
halters hanging over them; and these five bland people close the episode
with a religious service. The thing reads like a Meadows-Taylor Thug-tale
of half a century ago, as may be seen by the official report of the
trial:

     "At the Mazagon Police Court yesterday, Superintendent Nolan again
     charged Tookaram Suntoo Savat Baya, woman, her daughter Krishni, and
     Gopal Yithoo Bhanayker, before Mr. Phiroze Hoshang Dastur, Fourth
     Presidency Magistrate, under sections 302 and 109 of the Code, with
     having on the night of the 30th of December last murdered a Hindoo
     girl named Cassi, aged 12, by strangulation, in the room of a chawl
     at Jakaria Bunder, on the Sewriroad, and also with aiding and
     abetting each other in the commission of the offense.

     "Mr. F. A. Little, Public Prosecutor, conducted the case on behalf
     of the Crown, the accused being undefended.

     "Mr. Little applied under the provisions of the Criminal Procedure
     Code to tender pardon to one of the accused, Krishni, woman, aged
     22, on her undertaking to make a true and full statement of facts
     under which the deceased girl Cassi was murdered.

     "The Magistrate having granted the Public Prosecutor's application,
     the accused Krishni went into the witness-box, and, on being
     examined by Mr. Little, made the following confession:--I am a mill-
     hand employed at the Jubilee Mill.  I recollect the day (Tuesday); on
     which the body of the deceased Cassi was found.  Previous to that I
     attended the mill for half a day, and then returned home at 3 in the
     afternoon, when I saw five persons in the house, viz.: the first
     accused Tookaram, who is my paramour, my mother, the second accused
     Baya, the accused Gopal, and two guests named Ramji Daji and Annaji
     Gungaram.  Tookaram rented the room of the chawl situated at Jakaria
     Bunder-road from its owner, Girdharilal Radhakishan, and in that
     room I, my paramour, Tookaram, and his younger brother, Yesso
     Mahadhoo, live.  Since his arrival in Bombay from his native country
     Yesso came and lived with us.  When I returned from the mill on the
     afternoon of that day, I saw the two guests seated on a cot in the
     veranda, and a few minutes after the accused Gopal came and took his
     seat by their side, while I and my mother were seated inside the
     room.  Tookaram, who had gone out to fetch some 'pan' and betelnuts,
     on his return home had brought the two guests with him.  After
     returning home he gave them 'pan supari'.  While they were eating it
     my mother came out of the room and inquired of one of the guests,
     Ramji, what had happened to his foot, when he replied that he had
     tried many remedies, but they had done him no good.  My mother then
     took some rice in her hand and prophesied that the disease which
     Ramji was suffering from would not be cured until he returned to his
     native country.  In the meantime the deceased Casi came from the
     direction of an out-house, and stood in front on the threshhold of
     our room with a 'lota' in her hand.  Tookaram then told his two
     guests to leave the room, and they then went up the steps towards
     the quarry.  After the guests had gone away, Tookaram seized the
     deceased, who had come into the room, and he afterwards put a
     waistband around her, and tied her to a post which supports a loft.
     After doing this, he pressed the girl's throat, and, having tied her
     mouth with the 'dhotur' (now shown in Court), fastened it to the
     post.  Having killed the girl, Tookaram removed her gold head
     ornament and a gold 'putlee', and also took charge of her 'lota'.
     Besides these two ornaments Cassi had on her person ear-studs a
     nose-ring, some silver toe-rings, two necklaces, a pair of silver
     anklets and bracelets.  Tookaram afterwards tried to remove the
     silver amulets, the ear-studs, and the nose-ring; but he failed in
     his attempt.  While he was doing so, I, my mother, and Gopal were
     present.  After removing the two gold ornaments, he handed them over
     to Gopal, who was at the time standing near me.  When he killed
     Cassi, Tookaram threatened to strangle me also if I informed any one
     of this.  Gopal and myself were then standing at the door of our
     room, and we both were threatened by Tookaram.  My mother, Baya, had
     seized the legs of the deceased at the time she was killed, and
     whilst she was being tied to the post.  Cassi then made a noise.
     Tookaram and my mother took part in killing the girl.  After the
     murder her body was wrapped up in a mattress and kept on the loft
     over the door of our room.  When Cassi was strangled, the door of
     the room was fastened from the inside by Tookaram.  This deed was
     committed shortly after my return home from work in the mill.
     Tookaram put the body of the deceased in the mattress, and, after it
     was left on the loft, he went to have his head shaved by a barber
     named Sambhoo Raghoo, who lives only one door away from me.  My
     mother and myself then remained in the possession of the
     information.  I was slapped and threatened by my paramour, Tookaram,
     and that was the only reason why I did not inform any one at that
     time.  When I told Tookaram that I would give information of the
     occurrence, he slapped me.  The accused Gopal was asked by Tookaram
     to go back to his room, and he did so, taking away with him the two
     gold ornaments and the 'lota'.  Yesso Mahadhoo, a brother-in-law of
     Tookaram, came to the house and asked Taokaram why he was washing,
     the water-pipe being just opposite.  Tookaram replied that he was
     washing his dhotur, as a fowl had polluted it.  About 6 o'clock of
     the evening of that day my mother gave me three pice and asked me to
     buy a cocoanut, and I gave the money to Yessoo, who went and fetched
     a cocoanut and some betel leaves.  When Yessoo and others were in
     the room I was bathing, and, after I finished my bath, my mother
     took the cocoanut and the betel leaves from Yessoo, and we five went
     to the sea.  The party consisted of Tookaram, my mother, Yessoo,
     Tookaram's younger brother, and myself.  On reaching the seashore,
     my mother made the offering to the sea, and prayed to be pardoned
     for what we had done.  Before we went to the sea, some one came to
     inquire after the girl Cassi.  The police and other people came to
     make these inquiries both before and after we left the house for the
     seashore.  The police questioned my mother about the girl, and she
     replied that Cassi had come to her door, but had left.  The next day
     the police questioned Tookaram, and he, too, gave a similar reply.
     This was said the same night when the search was made for the girl.
     After the offering was made to the sea, we partook of the cocoanut
     and returned home, when my mother gave me some food; but Tookaram
     did not partake of any food that night.  After dinner I and my
     mother slept inside the room, and Tookaram slept on a cot near his
     brother-in-law, Yessoo Mahadhoo, just outside the door.  That was
     not the usual place where Tookaram slept.  He usually slept inside
     the room.  The body of the deceased remained on the loft when I went
     to sleep.  The room in which we slept was locked, and I heard that
     my paramour, Tookaram, was restless outside.  About 3 o'clock the
     following morning Tookaram knocked at the door, when both myself and
     my mother opened it.  He then told me to go to the steps leading to
     the quarry, and see if any one was about.  Those steps lead to a
     stable, through which we go to the quarry at the back of the
     compound.  When I got to the steps I saw no one there.  Tookaram
     asked me if any one was there, and I replied that I could see no one
     about.  He then took the body of the deceased from the loft, and
     having wrapped it up in his saree, asked me to accompany him to the
     steps of the quarry, and I did so.  The 'saree' now produced here
     was the same.  Besides the 'saree', there was also a 'cholee' on the
     body.  He then carried the body in his arms, and went up the steps,
     through the stable, and then to the right hand towards a Sahib's
     bungalow, where Tookaram placed the body near a wall.  All the time
     I and my mother were with him.  When the body was taken down, Yessoo
     was lying on the cot.  After depositing the body under the wall, we
     all returned home, and soon after 5 a.m.  the police again came and
     took Tookaram away.  About an hour after they returned and took me
     and my mother away.  We were questioned about it, when I made a
     statement.  Two hours later I was taken to the room, and I pointed
     out this waistband, the 'dhotur', the mattress, and the wooden post
     to Superintendent Nolan and Inspectors Roberts and Rashanali, in the
     presence of my mother and Tookaram.  Tookaram killed the girl Cassi
     for her ornaments, which he wanted for the girl to whom he was
     shortly going to be married.  The body was found in the same place
     where it was deposited by Tookaram."

The criminal side of the native has always been picturesque, always
readable.  The Thuggee and one or two other particularly outrageous
features of it have been suppressed by the English, but there is enough
of it left to keep it darkly interesting.  One finds evidence of these
survivals in the newspapers.  Macaulay has a light-throwing passage upon
this matter in his great historical sketch of Warren Hastings, where he
is describing some effects which followed the temporary paralysis of
Hastings' powerful government brought about by Sir Philip Francis and his
party:

     "The natives considered Hastings as a fallen man; and they acted
     after their kind.  Some of our readers may have seen, in India, a
     cloud of crows pecking a sick vulture to death--no bad type of what
     happens in that country as often as fortune deserts one who has been
     great and dreaded.  In an instant all the sycophants, who had lately
     been ready to lie for him, to forge for him, to pander for him, to
     poison for him, hasten to purchase the favor of his victorious
     enemies by accusing him.  An Indian government has only to let it be
     understood that it wishes a particular man to be ruined, and in
     twenty-four hours it will be furnished with grave charges, supported
     by depositions so full and circumstantial that any person
     unaccustomed to Asiatic mendacity would regard them as decisive.  It
     is well if the signature of the destined victim is not counterfeited
     at the foot of some illegal compact, and if some treasonable paper
     is not slipped into a hiding-place in his house."

That was nearly a century and a quarter ago.  An article in one of the
chief journals of India (the Pioneer) shows that in some respects the
native of to-day is just what his ancestor was then.  Here are niceties
of so subtle and delicate a sort that they lift their breed of rascality
to a place among the fine arts, and almost entitle it to respect:

     "The records of the Indian courts might certainly be relied upon to
     prove that swindlers as a class in the East come very close to, if
     they do not surpass, in brilliancy of execution and originality of
     design the most expert of their fraternity in Europe and America.
     India in especial is the home of forgery.  There are some particular
     districts which are noted as marts for the finest specimens of the
     forger's handiwork.  The business is carried on by firms who possess
     stores of stamped papers to suit every emergency.  They habitually
     lay in a store of fresh stamped papers every year, and some of the
     older and more thriving houses can supply documents for the past
     forty years, bearing the proper water-mark and possessing the
     genuine appearance of age.  Other districts have earned notoriety
     for skilled perjury, a pre-eminence that excites a respectful
     admiration when one thinks of the universal prevalence of the art,
     and persons desirous of succeeding in false suits are ready to pay
     handsomely to avail themselves of the services of these local
     experts as witnesses."

Various instances illustrative of the methods of these swindlers are
given.  They exhibit deep cunning and total depravity on the part of the
swindler and his pals, and more obtuseness on the part of the victim than
one would expect to find in a country where suspicion of your neighbor
must surely be one of the earliest things learned.  The favorite subject
is the young fool who has just come into a fortune and is trying to see
how poor a use he can put it to.  I will quote one example:

     "Sometimes another form of confidence trick is adopted, which is
     invariably successful.  The particular pigeon is spotted, and, his
     acquaintance having been made, he is encouraged in every form of
     vice.  When the friendship is thoroughly established, the swindler
     remarks to the young man that he has a brother who has asked him to
     lend him Rs.10,000.  The swindler says he has the money and would
     lend it; but, as the borrower is his brother, he cannot charge
     interest.  So he proposes that he should hand the dupe the money,
     and the latter should lend it to the swindler's brother, exacting a
     heavy pre-payment of interest which, it is pointed out, they may
     equally enjoy in dissipation.  The dupe sees no objection, and on
     the appointed day receives Rs.7,000 from the swindler, which he
     hands over to the confederate.  The latter is profuse in his thanks,
     and executes a promissory note for Rs.10,000, payable to bearer.
     The swindler allows the scheme to remain quiescent for a time, and
     then suggests that, as the money has not been repaid and as it would
     be unpleasant to sue his brother, it would be better to sell the
     note in the bazaar.  The dupe hands the note over, for the money he
     advanced was not his, and, on being informed that it would be
     necessary to have his signature on the back so as to render the
     security negotiable, he signs without any hesitation.  The swindler
     passes it on to confederates, and the latter employ a respectable
     firm of solicitors to ask the dupe if his signature is genuine.  He
     admits it at once, and his fate is sealed.  A suit is filed by a
     confederate against the dupe, two accomplices being made co-
     defendants.  They admit their Signatures as indorsers, and the one
     swears he bought the note for value from the dupe The latter has no
     defense, for no court would believe the apparently idle explanation
     of the manner in which he came to endorse the note."

There is only one India!  It is the only country that has a monopoly of
grand and imposing specialties.  When another country has a remarkable
thing, it cannot have it all to itself--some other country has a
duplicate.  But India--that is different.  Its marvels are its own; the
patents cannot be infringed; imitations are not possible.  And think of
the size of them, the majesty of them, the weird and outlandish character
of the most of them!

There is the Plague, the Black Death: India invented it; India is the
cradle of that mighty birth.

The Car of Juggernaut was India's invention.

So was the Suttee; and within the time of men still living eight hundred
widows willingly, and, in fact, rejoicingly, burned themselves to death
on the bodies of their dead husbands in a single year.  Eight hundred
would do it this year if the British government would let them.

Famine is India's specialty.  Elsewhere famines are inconsequential
incidents--in India they are devastating cataclysms; in one case they
annihilate hundreds; in the other, millions.

India had 2,000,000 gods, and worships them all.  In religion all other
countries are paupers; India is the only millionaire.

With her everything is on a giant scale--even her poverty; no other
country can show anything to compare with it.  And she has been used to
wealth on so vast a scale that she has to shorten to single words the
expressions describing great sums.  She describes 100,000 with one word--
a 'lahk'; she describes ten millions with one word--a 'crore'.

In the bowels of the granite mountains she has patiently carved out
dozens of vast temples, and made them glorious with sculptured colonnades
and stately groups of statuary, and has adorned the eternal walls with
noble paintings.  She has built fortresses of such magnitude that the
show-strongholds of the rest of the world are but modest little things by
comparison; palaces that are wonders for rarity of materials, delicacy
and beauty of workmanship, and for cost; and one tomb which men go around
the globe to see.  It takes eighty nations, speaking eighty languages, to
people her, and they number three hundred millions.

On top of all this she is the mother and home of that wonder of wonders
caste--and of that mystery of mysteries, the satanic brotherhood of the
Thugs.

India had the start of the whole world in the beginning of things.  She
had the first civilization; she had the first accumulation of material
wealth; she was populous with deep thinkers and subtle intellects; she
had mines, and woods, and a fruitful soil.  It would seem as if she
should have kept the lead, and should be to-day not the meek dependent of
an alien master, but mistress of the world, and delivering law and
command to every tribe and nation in it.  But, in truth, there was never
any possibility of such supremacy for her.  If there had been but one
India and one language--but there were eighty of them!  Where there are
eighty nations and several hundred governments, fighting and quarreling
must be the common business of life; unity of purpose and policy are
impossible; out of such elements supremacy in the world cannot come.
Even caste itself could have had the defeating effect of a multiplicity
of tongues, no doubt; for it separates a people into layers, and layers,
and still other layers, that have no community of feeling with each
other; and in such a condition of things as that, patriotism can have no
healthy growth.

It was the division of the country into so many States and nations that
made Thuggee possible and prosperous.  It is difficult to realize the
situation.  But perhaps one may approximate it by imagining the States of
our Union peopled by separate nations, speaking separate languages, with
guards and custom-houses strung along all frontiers, plenty of
interruptions for travelers and traders, interpreters able to handle all
the languages very rare or non-existent, and a few wars always going on
here and there and yonder as a further embarrassment to commerce and
excursioning.  It would make intercommunication in a measure ungeneral.
India had eighty languages, and more custom-houses than cats.  No clever
man with the instinct of a highway robber could fail to notice what a
chance for business was here offered.  India was full of clever men with
the highwayman instinct, and so, quite naturally, the brotherhood of the
Thugs came into being to meet the long-felt want.

How long ago that was nobody knows-centuries, it is supposed.  One of the
chiefest wonders connected with it was the success with which it kept its
secret.  The English trader did business in India two hundred years and
more before he ever heard of it; and yet it was assassinating its
thousands all around him every year, the whole time.




CHAPTER XLIV.

The old saw says, "Let a sleeping dog lie."  Right....  Still, when there
is much at stake it is better to get a newspaper to do it.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

FROM DIARY:

January 28.   I learned of an official Thug-book the other day.  I was
not aware before that there was such a thing.  I am allowed the temporary
use of it.  We are making preparations for travel.  Mainly the
preparations are purchases of bedding.  This is to be used in sleeping
berths in the trains; in private houses sometimes; and in nine-tenths of
the hotels.  It is not realizable; and yet it is true.  It is a survival;
an apparently unnecessary thing which in some strange way has outlived
the conditions which once made it necessary.  It comes down from a time
when the railway and the hotel did not exist; when the occasional white
traveler went horseback or by bullock-cart, and stopped over night in the
small dak-bungalow provided at easy distances by the government--a
shelter, merely, and nothing more.  He had to carry bedding along, or do
without.  The dwellings of the English residents are spacious and
comfortable and commodiously furnished, and surely it must be an odd
sight to see half a dozen guests come filing into such a place and
dumping blankets and pillows here and there and everywhere.  But custom
makes incongruous things congruous.

One buys the bedding, with waterproof hold-all for it at almost any shop
--there is no difficulty about it.

January 30.  What a spectacle the railway station was, at train-time!  It
was a very large station, yet when we arrived it seemed as if the whole
world was present--half of it inside, the other half outside, and both
halves, bearing mountainous head-loads of bedding and other freight,
trying simultaneously to pass each other, in opposing floods, in one
narrow door.  These opposing floods were patient, gentle, long-suffering
natives, with whites scattered among them at rare intervals; and wherever
a white man's native servant appeared, that native seemed to have put
aside his natural gentleness for the time and invested himself with the
white man's privilege of making a way for himself by promptly shoving all
intervening black things out of it.  In these exhibitions of authority
Satan was scandalous.  He was probably a Thug in one of his former
incarnations.

Inside the great station, tides upon tides of rainbow-costumed natives
swept along, this way and that, in massed and bewildering confusion,
eager, anxious, belated, distressed; and washed up to the long trains and
flowed into them with their packs and bundles, and disappeared, followed
at once by the next wash, the next wave.  And here and there, in the
midst of this hurly-burly, and seemingly undisturbed by it, sat great
groups of natives on the bare stone floor,--young, slender brown women,
old, gray wrinkled women, little soft brown babies, old men, young men,
boys; all poor people, but all the females among them, both big and
little, bejeweled with cheap and showy nose-rings, toe-rings, leglets,
and armlets, these things constituting all their wealth, no doubt.  These
silent crowds sat there with their humble bundles and baskets and small
household gear about them, and patiently waited--for what?  A train that
was to start at some time or other during the day or night!  They hadn't
timed themselves well, but that was no matter--the thing had been so
ordered from on high, therefore why worry?  There was plenty of time,
hours and hours of it, and the thing that was to happen would happen--
there was no hurrying it.

The natives traveled third class, and at marvelously cheap rates.  They
were packed and crammed into cars that held each about fifty; and it was
said that often a Brahmin of the highest caste was thus brought into
personal touch, and consequent defilement, with persons of the lowest
castes--no doubt a very shocking thing if a body could understand it and
properly appreciate it.  Yes, a Brahmin who didn't own a rupee and
couldn't borrow one, might have to touch elbows with a rich hereditary
lord of inferior caste, inheritor of an ancient title a couple of yards
long, and he would just have to stand it; for if either of the two was
allowed to go in the cars where the sacred white people were, it probably
wouldn't be the august poor Brahmin.  There was an immense string of
those third-class cars, for the natives travel by hordes; and a weary
hard night of it the occupants would have, no doubt.

When we reached our car, Satan and Barney had already arrived there with
their train of porters carrying bedding and parasols and cigar boxes, and
were at work.  We named him Barney for short; we couldn't use his real
name, there wasn't time.

It was a car that promised comfort; indeed, luxury.  Yet the cost of it--
well, economy could no further go; even in France; not even in Italy.  It
was built of the plainest and cheapest partially-smoothed boards, with a
coating of dull paint on them, and there was nowhere a thought of
decoration.  The floor was bare, but would not long remain so when the
dust should begin to fly.  Across one end of the compartment ran a
netting for the accommodation of hand-baggage; at the other end was a
door which would shut, upon compulsion, but wouldn't stay shut; it opened
into a narrow little closet which had a wash-bowl in one end of it, and a
place to put a towel, in case you had one with you--and you would be sure
to have towels, because you buy them with the bedding, knowing that the
railway doesn't furnish them.  On each side of the car, and running fore
and aft, was a broad leather-covered sofa to sit on in the day and sleep
on at night.  Over each sofa hung, by straps, a wide, flat, leather-
covered shelf--to sleep on.  In the daytime you can hitch it up against
the wall, out of the way--and then you have a big unencumbered and most
comfortable room to spread out in.  No car in any country is quite its
equal for comfort (and privacy) I think.  For usually there are but two
persons in it; and even when there are four there is but little sense of
impaired privacy.  Our own cars at home can surpass the railway world in
all details but that one: they have no cosiness; there are too many
people together.

At the foot of each sofa was a side-door, for entrance and exit.
Along the whole length of the sofa on each side of the car ran a row of
large single-plate windows, of a blue tint-blue to soften the bitter
glare of the sun and protect one's eyes from torture.  These could be let
down out of the way when one wanted the breeze.  In the roof were two oil
lamps which gave a light strong enough to read by; each had a green-cloth
attachment by which it could be covered when the light should be no
longer needed.

While we talked outside with friends, Barney and Satan placed the hand-
baggage, books, fruits, and soda-bottles in the racks, and the hold-alls
and heavy baggage in the closet, hung the overcoats and sun-helmets and
towels on the hooks, hoisted the two bed-shelves up out of the way, then
shouldered their bedding and retired to the third class.

Now then, you see what a handsome, spacious, light, airy, homelike place
it was, wherein to walk up and down, or sit and write, or stretch out and
read and smoke.  A central door in the forward end of the compartment
opened into a similar compartment.  It was occupied by my wife and
daughter.  About nine in the evening, while we halted a while at a
station, Barney and Satan came and undid the clumsy big hold-alls, and
spread the bedding on the sofas in both compartments--mattresses, sheets,
gay coverlets, pillows, all complete; there are no chambermaids in India
--apparently it was an office that was never heard of.  Then they closed
the communicating door, nimbly tidied up our place, put the night-
clothing on the beds and the slippers under them, then returned to their
own quarters.

January 31.  It was novel and pleasant, and I stayed awake as long as I
could, to enjoy it, and to read about those strange people the Thugs.  In
my sleep they remained with me, and tried to strangle me.  The leader of
the gang was that giant Hindoo who was such a picture in the strong light
when we were leaving those Hindoo betrothal festivities at two o'clock in
the morning--Rao Bahadur Baskirao Balinkanje Pitale, Vakeel to the
Gaikwar of Baroda.  It was he that brought me the invitation from his
master to go to Baroda and lecture to that prince--and now he was
misbehaving in my dreams.  But all things can happen in dreams.  It is
indeed as the Sweet Singer of Michigan says--irrelevantly, of course, for
the one and unfailing great quality which distinguishes her poetry from
Shakespeare's and makes it precious to us is its stern and simple
irrelevancy:

               My heart was gay and happy,
               This was ever in my mind,
               There is better times a coming,
               And I hope some day to find
               Myself capable of composing,
               It was my heart's delight
               To compose on a sentimental subject
               If it came in my mind just right.

--["The Sentimental Song Book," p. 49; theme, "The Author's Early Life,"
19th stanza.]


Barroda.   Arrived at 7 this morning.  The dawn was just beginning to
show.  It was forlorn to have to turn out in a strange place at such a
time, and the blinking lights in the station made it seem night still.
But the gentlemen who had come to receive us were there with their
servants, and they make quick work; there was no lost time.  We were soon
outside and moving swiftly through the soft gray light, and presently
were comfortably housed--with more servants to help than we were used to,
and with rather embarassingly important officials to direct them.  But it
was custom; they spoke Ballarat English, their bearing was charming and
hospitable, and so all went well.

Breakfast was a satisfaction.  Across the lawns was visible in the
distance through the open window an Indian well, with two oxen tramping
leisurely up and down long inclines, drawing water; and out of the
stillness came the suffering screech of the machinery--not quite musical,
and yet soothingly melancholy and dreamy and reposeful--a wail of lost
spirits, one might imagine.  And commemorative and reminiscent, perhaps;
for of course the Thugs used to throw people down that well when they
were done with them.

After breakfast the day began, a sufficiently busy one.  We were driven
by winding roads through a vast park, with noble forests of great trees,
and with tangles and jungles of lovely growths of a humbler sort; and at
one place three large gray apes came out and pranced across the road--a
good deal of a surprise and an unpleasant one, for such creatures belong
in the menagerie, and they look artificial and out of place in a
wilderness.

We came to the city, by and by, and drove all through it.  Intensely
Indian, it was, and crumbly, and mouldering, and immemorially old, to all
appearance.  And the houses--oh, indescribably quaint and curious they
were, with their fronts an elaborate lace-work of intricate and beautiful
wood-carving, and now and then further adorned with rude pictures of
elephants and princes and gods done in shouting colors; and all the
ground floors along these cramped and narrow lanes occupied as shops--
shops unbelievably small and impossibly packed with merchantable rubbish,
and with nine-tenths-naked natives squatting at their work of hammering,
pounding, brazing, soldering, sewing, designing, cooking, measuring out
grain, grinding it, repairing idols--and then the swarm of ragged and
noisy humanity under the horses' feet and everywhere, and the pervading
reek and fume and smell!  It was all wonderful and delightful.

Imagine a file of elephants marching through such a crevice of a street
and scraping the paint off both sides of it with their hides.  How big
they must look, and how little they must make the houses look; and when
the elephants are in their glittering court costume, what a contrast they
must make with the humble and sordid surroundings.  And when a mad
elephant goes raging through, belting right and left with his trunk, how
do these swarms of people get out of the way?  I suppose it is a thing
which happens now and then in the mad season (for elephants have a mad
season).

I wonder how old the town is.  There are patches of building--massive
structures, monuments, apparently--that are so battered and worn, and
seemingly so tired and so burdened with the weight of age, and so dulled
and stupefied with trying to remember things they forgot before history
began, that they give one the feeling that they must have been a part of
original Creation.  This is indeed one of the oldest of the princedoms of
India, and has always been celebrated for its barbaric pomps and
splendors, and for the wealth of its princes.




CHAPTER XLV.

It takes your enemy and your friend, working together, to hurt you to the
heart; the one to slander you and the other to get the news to you.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Out of the town again; a long drive through open country, by winding
roads among secluded villages nestling in the inviting shade of tropic
vegetation, a Sabbath stillness everywhere, sometimes a pervading sense
of solitude, but always barefoot natives gliding by like spirits, without
sound of footfall, and others in the distance dissolving away and
vanishing like the creatures of dreams.  Now and then a string of stately
camels passed by--always interesting things to look at--and they were
velvet-shod by nature, and made no noise.  Indeed, there were no noises
of any sort in this paradise.  Yes, once there was one, for a moment: a
file of native convicts passed along in charge of an officer, and we
caught the soft clink of their chains.  In a retired spot, resting
himself under a tree, was a holy person--a naked black fakeer, thin and
skinny, and whitey-gray all over with ashes.

By and by to the elephant stables, and I took a ride; but it was by
request--I did not ask for it, and didn't want it; but I took it, because
otherwise they would have thought I was afraid, which I was.  The
elephant kneels down, by command--one end of him at a time--and you climb
the ladder and get into the howdah, and then he gets up, one end at a
time, just as a ship gets up over a wave; and after that, as he strides
monstrously about, his motion is much like a ship's motion.  The mahout
bores into the back of his head with a great iron prod and you wonder at
his temerity and at the elephant's patience, and you think that perhaps
the patience will not last; but it does, and nothing happens.  The mahout
talks to the elephant in a low voice all the time, and the elephant seems
to understand it all and to be pleased with it; and he obeys every order
in the most contented and docile way.  Among these twenty-five elephants
were two which were larger than any I had ever seen before, and if I had
thought I could learn to not be afraid, I would have taken one of them
while the police were not looking.

In the howdah-house there were many howdahs that were made of silver, one
of gold, and one of old ivory, and equipped with cushions and canopies of
rich and costly stuffs.  The wardrobe of the elephants was there, too;
vast velvet covers stiff and heavy with gold embroidery; and bells of
silver and gold; and ropes of these metals for fastening the things on
harness, so to speak; and monster hoops of massive gold for the elephant
to wear on his ankles when he is out in procession on business of state.

But we did not see the treasury of crown jewels, and that was a
disappointment, for in mass and richness it ranks only second in India.
By mistake we were taken to see the new palace instead, and we used up
the last remnant of our spare time there.  It was a pity, too; for the
new palace is mixed modern American-European, and has not a merit except
costliness.  It is wholly foreign to India, and impudent and out of
place.  The architect has escaped.  This comes of overdoing the
suppression of the Thugs; they had their merits.  The old palace is
oriental and charming, and in consonance with the country.  The old
palace would still be great if there were nothing of it but the spacious
and lofty hall where the durbars are held.  It is not a good place to
lecture in, on account of the echoes, but it is a good place to hold
durbars in and regulate the affairs of a kingdom, and that is what it is
for.  If I had it I would have a durbar every day, instead of once or
twice a year.

The prince is an educated gentleman.  His culture is European.  He has
been in Europe five times.  People say that this is costly amusement for
him, since in crossing the sea he must sometimes be obliged to drink
water from vessels that are more or less public, and thus damage his
caste.  To get it purified again he must make pilgrimage to some renowned
Hindoo temples and contribute a fortune or two to them.  His people are
like the other Hindoos, profoundly religious; and they could not be
content with a master who was impure.

We failed to see the jewels, but we saw the gold cannon and the silver
one--they seemed to be six-pounders.  They were not designed for
business, but for salutes upon rare and particularly important state
occasions.  An ancestor of the present Gaikwar had the silver one made,
and a subsequent ancestor had the gold one made, in order to outdo him.

This sort of artillery is in keeping with the traditions of Baroda, which
was of old famous for style and show.  It used to entertain visiting
rajahs and viceroys with tiger-fights, elephant-fights, illuminations,
and elephant-processions of the most glittering and gorgeous character.

It makes the circus a pale, poor thing.

In the train, during a part of the return journey from Baroda, we had the
company of a gentleman who had with him a remarkable looking dog.  I had
not seen one of its kind before, as far as I could remember; though of
course I might have seen one and not noticed it, for I am not acquainted
with dogs, but only with cats.  This dog's coat was smooth and shiny and
black, and I think it had tan trimmings around the edges of the dog, and
perhaps underneath.  It was a long, low dog, with very short, strange
legs--legs that curved inboard, something like parentheses wrong way (.
Indeed, it was made on the plan of a bench for length and lowness.  It
seemed to be satisfied, but I thought the plan poor, and structurally
weak, on account of the distance between the forward supports and those
abaft.  With age the dog's back was likely to sag; and it seemed to me
that it would have been a stronger and more practicable dog if it had had
some more legs.  It had not begun to sag yet, but the shape of the legs
showed that the undue weight imposed upon them was beginning to tell.
It had a long nose, and floppy ears that hung down, and a resigned
expression of countenance.  I did not like to ask what kind of a dog it
was, or how it came to be deformed, for it was plain that the gentleman
was very fond of it, and naturally he could be sensitive about it.  From
delicacy I thought it best not to seem to notice it too much.  No doubt a
man with a dog like that feels just as a person does who has a child that
is out of true.  The gentleman was not merely fond of the dog, he was
also proud of it--just the same again, as a mother feels about her child
when it is an idiot.  I could see that he was proud of it, not-
withstanding it was such a long dog and looked so resigned and pious.  It
had been all over the world with him, and had been pilgriming like that
for years and years.  It had traveled 50,000 miles by sea and rail, and
had ridden in front of him on his horse 8,000.  It had a silver medal
from the Geographical Society of Great Britain for its travels, and I saw
it.  It had won prizes in dog shows, both in India and in England--I saw
them.  He said its pedigree was on record in the Kennel Club, and that it
was a well-known dog.  He said a great many people in London could
recognize it the moment they saw it.  I did not say anything, but I did
not think it anything strange; I should know that dog again, myself, yet
I am not careful about noticing dogs.  He said that when he walked along
in London, people often stopped and looked at the dog.  Of course I did
not say anything, for I did not want to hurt his feelings, but I could
have explained to him that if you take a great long low dog like that and
waddle it along the street anywhere in the world and not charge anything,
people will stop and look.  He was gratified because the dog took prizes.
But that was nothing; if I were built like that I could take prizes
myself.  I wished I knew what kind of a dog it was, and what it was for,
but I could not very well ask, for that would show that I did not know.
Not that I want a dog like that, but only to know the secret of its
birth.

I think he was going to hunt elephants with it, because I know, from
remarks dropped by him, that he has hunted large game in India and
Africa, and likes it.  But I think that if he tries to hunt elephants
with it, he is going to be disappointed.

I do not believe that it is suited for elephants.  It lacks energy, it
lacks force of character, it lacks bitterness.  These things all show in
the meekness and resignation of its expression.  It would not attack an
elephant, I am sure of it.  It might not run if it saw one coming, but it
looked to me like a dog that would sit down and pray.

I wish he had told me what breed it was, if there are others; but I shall
know the dog next time, and then if I can bring myself to it I will put
delicacy aside and ask.  If I seem strangely interested in dogs, I have a
reason for it; for a dog saved me from an embarrassing position once, and
that has made me grateful to these animals; and if by study I could learn
to tell some of the kinds from the others, I should be greatly pleased.
I only know one kind apart, yet, and that is the kind that saved me that
time.  I always know that kind when I meet it, and if it is hungry or
lost I take care of it.  The matter happened in this way

It was years and years ago.  I had received a note from Mr. Augustin Daly
of the Fifth Avenue Theatre, asking me to call the next time I should be
in New York.  I was writing plays, in those days, and he was admiring
them and trying to get me a chance to get them played in Siberia.  I took
the first train--the early one--the one that leaves Hartford at 8.29 in
the morning.  At New Haven I bought a paper, and found it filled with
glaring display-lines about a "bench-show" there.  I had often heard of
bench-shows, but had never felt any interest in them, because I supposed
they were lectures that were not well attended.  It turned out, now, that
it was not that, but a dog-show.  There was a double-leaded column about
the king-feature of this one, which was called a Saint Bernard, and was
worth $10,000, and was known to be the largest and finest of his species
in the world.  I read all this with interest, because out of my school-
boy readings I dimly remembered how the priests and pilgrims of St.
Bernard used to go out in the storms and dig these dogs out of the
snowdrifts when lost and exhausted, and give them brandy and save their
lives, and drag them to the monastery and restore them with gruel.

Also, there was a picture of this prize-dog in the paper, a noble great
creature with a benignant countenance, standing by a table.  He was
placed in that way so that one could get a right idea of his great
dimensions.  You could see that he was just a shade higher than the
table--indeed, a huge fellow for a dog.  Then there was a description
which event into the details.  It gave his enormous weight--150 1/2
pounds, and his length 4 feet 2 inches, from stem to stern-post; and his
height--3 feet 1 inch, to the top of his back.  The pictures and the
figures so impressed me, that I could see the beautiful colossus before
me, and I kept on thinking about him for the next two hours; then I
reached New York, and he dropped out of my mind.

In the swirl and tumult of the hotel lobby I ran across Mr. Daly's
comedian, the late James Lewis, of beloved memory, and I casually
mentioned that I was going to call upon Mr. Daly in the evening at 8.
He looked surprised, and said he reckoned not.  For answer I handed him
Mr. Daly's note.  Its substance was: "Come to my private den, over the
theater, where we cannot be interrupted.  And come by the back way, not
the front.  No. 642 Sixth Avenue is a cigar shop; pass through it and you
are in a paved court, with high buildings all around; enter the second
door on the left, and come up stairs."

"Is this all?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well, you'll never get in"

"Why?"

"Because you won't.  Or if you do you can draw on me for a hundred
dollars; for you will be the first man that has accomplished it in
twenty-five years.  I can't think what Mr. Daly can have been absorbed
in.  He has forgotten a most important detail, and he will feel
humiliated in the morning when he finds that you tried to get in and
couldn't."

"Why, what is the trouble?"

"I'll tell you.  You see----"

At that point we were swept apart by the crowd, somebody detained me with
a moment's talk, and we did not get together again.  But it did not
matter; I believed he was joking, anyway.

At eight in the evening I passed through the cigar shop and into the
court and knocked at the second door.

"Come in!"

I entered.  It was a small room, carpetless, dusty, with a naked deal
table, and two cheap wooden chairs for furniture.  A giant Irishman was
standing there, with shirt collar and vest unbuttoned, and no coat on.  I
put my hat on the table, and was about to say something, when the
Irishman took the innings himself.  And not with marked courtesy of tone:

"Well, sor, what will you have?"

I was a little disconcerted, and my easy confidence suffered a shrinkage.
The man stood as motionless as Gibraltar, and kept his unblinking eye
upon me.  It was very embarrassing, very humiliating.  I stammered at a
false start or two; then----

"I have just run down from----"

"Av ye plaze, ye'll not smoke here, ye understand."

I laid my cigar on the window-ledge; chased my flighty thoughts a moment,
then said in a placating manner:

"I--I have come to see Mr. Daly."

"Oh, ye have, have ye?"

"Yes"

"Well, ye'll not see him."

"But he asked me to come."

"Oh, he did, did he?"

"Yes, he sent me this note, and----"

"Lemme see it."

For a moment I fancied there would be a change in the atmosphere, now;
but this idea was premature.  The big man was examining the note
searchingly under the gas-jet.  A glance showed me that he had it upside
down--disheartening evidence that he could not read.

"Is ut his own handwrite?"

"Yes--he wrote it himself."

"He did, did he?"

"Yes."

"H'm.  Well, then, why ud he write it like that?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mane, why wudn't he put his naime to ut?"

"His name is to it.  That's not it--you are looking at my name."

I thought that that was a home shot, but he did not betray that he had
been hit.  He said:

"It's not an aisy one to spell; how do you pronounce ut?"

"Mark Twain."

"H'm.  H'm.  Mike Train.  H'm.  I don't remember ut.  What is it ye want
to see him about?"

"It isn't I that want to see him, he wants to see me."

"Oh, he does, does he?"

"Yes."

"What does he want to see ye about?"

"I don't know."

"Ye don't know!  And ye confess it, becod!  Well, I can tell ye wan
thing--ye'll not see him.  Are ye in the business?"

"What business?"

"The show business."

A fatal question.  I recognized that I was defeated.  If I answered no,
he would cut the matter short and wave me to the door without the grace
of a word--I saw it in his uncompromising eye; if I said I was a
lecturer, he would despise me, and dismiss me with opprobrious words; if
I said I was a dramatist, he would throw me out of the window.  I saw
that my case was hopeless, so I chose the course which seemed least
humiliating: I would pocket my shame and glide out without answering.
The silence was growing lengthy.

"I'll ask ye again.  Are ye in the show business yerself?"

"Yes!"

I said it with splendid confidence; for in that moment the very twin of
that grand New Haven dog loafed into the room, and I saw that Irishman's
eye light eloquently with pride and affection.

"Ye are?  And what is it?"

"I've got a bench-show in New Haven."

The weather did change then.

"You don't say, sir!  And that's your show, sir!  Oh, it's a grand show,
it's a wonderful show, sir, and a proud man I am to see your honor this
day.  And ye'll be an expert, sir, and ye'll know all about dogs--more
than ever they know theirselves, I'll take me oath to ut."

I said, with modesty:

"I believe I have some reputation that way.  In fact, my business
requires it."

"Ye have some reputation, your honor!  Bedad I believe you!  There's not
a jintleman in the worrld that can lay over ye in the judgmint of a dog,
sir.  Now I'll vinture that your honor'll know that dog's dimensions
there better than he knows them his own self, and just by the casting of
your educated eye upon him.  Would you mind giving a guess, if ye'll be
so good?"

I knew that upon my answer would depend my fate.  If I made this dog
bigger than the prize-dog, it would be bad diplomacy, and suspicious; if
I fell too far short of the prizedog, that would be equally damaging.
The dog was standing by the table, and I believed I knew the difference
between him and the one whose picture I had seen in the newspaper to a
shade.  I spoke promptly up and said:

"It's no trouble to guess this noble creature's figures height, three
feet; length, four feet and three-quarters of an inch; weight, a hundred
and forty-eight and a quarter."

The man snatched his hat from its peg and danced on it with joy,
shouting:

"Ye've hardly missed it the hair's breadth, hardly the shade of a shade,
your honor!  Oh, it's the miraculous eye ye've got, for the judgmint of a
dog!"

And still pouring out his admiration of my capacities, he snatched off
his vest and scoured off one of the wooden chairs with it, and scrubbed
it and polished it, and said:

"There, sit down, your honor, I'm ashamed of meself that I forgot ye were
standing all this time; and do put on your hat, ye mustn't take cold,
it's a drafty place; and here is your cigar, sir, a getting cold, I'll
give ye a light.  There.  The place is all yours, sir, and if ye'll just
put your feet on the table and make yourself at home, I'll stir around
and get a candle and light ye up the ould crazy stairs and see that ye
don't come to anny harm, for be this time Mr. Daly'll be that impatient
to see your honor that he'll be taking the roof off."

He conducted me cautiously and tenderly up the stairs, lighting the way
and protecting me with friendly warnings, then pushed the door open and
bowed me in and went his way, mumbling hearty things about my wonderful
eye for points of a dog.  Mr. Daly was writing and had his back to me.
He glanced over his shoulder presently, then jumped up and said--

"Oh, dear me, I forgot all about giving instructions.  I was just writing
you to beg a thousand pardons.  But how is it you are here?  How did you
get by that Irishman?  You are the first man that's done it in five and
twenty years.  You didn't bribe him, I know that; there's not money
enough in New York to do it.  And you didn't persuade him; he is all ice
and iron: there isn't a soft place nor a warm one in him anywhere.  That
is your secret?  Look here; you owe me a hundred dollars for
unintentionally giving you a chance to perform a miracle--for it is a
miracle that you've done."

"That is all right," I said, "collect it of Jimmy Lewis."

That good dog not only did me that good turn in the time of my need, but
he won for me the envious reputation among all the theatrical people from
the Atlantic to the Pacific of being the only man in history who had ever
run the blockade of Augustin Daly's back door.




CHAPTER XLVI.

If the desire to kill and the opportunity to kill came always together,
who would escape hanging.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

On the Train.  Fifty years ago, when I was a boy in the then remote and
sparsely peopled Mississippi valley, vague tales and rumors of a
mysterious body of professional murderers came wandering in from a
country which was constructively as far from us as the constellations
blinking in space--India; vague tales and rumors of a sect called Thugs,
who waylaid travelers in lonely places and killed them for the
contentment of a god whom they worshiped; tales which everybody liked to
listen to and nobody believed, except with reservations.  It was
considered that the stories had gathered bulk on their travels.  The
matter died down and a lull followed.  Then Eugene Sue's "Wandering Jew"
appeared, and made great talk for a while.  One character in it was a
chief of Thugs--"Feringhea"--a mysterious and terrible Indian who was as
slippery and sly as a serpent, and as deadly; and he stirred up the Thug
interest once more.  But it did not last.  It presently died again this
time to stay dead.

At first glance it seems strange that this should have happened; but
really it was not strange--on the contrary,.  it was natural; I mean on
our side of the water.  For the source whence the Thug tales mainly came
was a Government Report, and without doubt was not republished in
America; it was probably never even seen there.  Government Reports have
no general circulation.  They are distributed to the few, and are not
always read by those few.  I heard of this Report for the first time a
day or two ago, and borrowed it.  It is full of fascinations; and it
turns those dim, dark fairy tales of my boyhood days into realities.

The Report was made in 1889 by Major Sleeman, of the Indian Service, and
was printed in Calcutta in 1840.  It is a clumsy, great, fat, poor sample
of the printer's art, but good enough for a government printing-office in
that old day and in that remote region, perhaps.  To Major Sleeman was
given the general superintendence of the giant task of ridding India of
Thuggee, and he and his seventeen assistants accomplished it.  It was the
Augean Stables over again.  Captain Vallancey, writing in a Madras
journal in those old times, makes this remark:

     "The day that sees this far-spread evil eradicated from India and
     known only in name, will greatly tend to immortalize British rule in
     the East."

He did not overestimate the magnitude and difficulty of the work, nor the
immensity of the credit which would justly be due to British rule in case
it was accomplished.

Thuggee became known to the British authorities in India about 1810, but
its wide prevalence was not suspected; it was not regarded as a serious
matter, and no systematic measures were taken for its suppression until
about 1830.  About that time Major Sleeman captured Eugene Sue's Thug-
chief, "Feringhea," and got him to turn King's evidence.  The revelations
were so stupefying that Sleeman was not able to believe them.  Sleeman
thought he knew every criminal within his jurisdiction, and that the
worst of them were merely thieves; but Feringhea told him that he was in
reality living in the midst of a swarm of professional murderers; that
they had been all about him for many years, and that they buried their
dead close by.  These seemed insane tales; but Feringhea said come and
see--and he took him to a grave and dug up a hundred bodies, and told him
all the circumstances of the killings, and named the Thugs who had done
the work.  It was a staggering business.  Sleeman captured some of these
Thugs and proceeded to examine them separately, and with proper
precautions against collusion; for he would not believe any Indian's
unsupported word.  The evidence gathered proved the truth of what
Feringhea had said, and also revealed the fact that gangs of Thugs were
plying their trade all over India.  The astonished government now took
hold of Thuggee, and for ten years made systematic and relentless war
upon it, and finally destroyed it.  Gang after gang was captured, tried,
and punished.  The Thugs were harried and hunted from one end of India to
the other.  The government got all their secrets out of them; and also
got the names of the members of the bands, and recorded them in a book,
together with their birthplaces and places of residence.

The Thugs were worshipers of Bhowanee; and to this god they sacrificed
anybody that came handy; but they kept the dead man's things themselves,
for the god cared for nothing but the corpse.  Men were initiated into
the sect with solemn ceremonies.  Then they were taught how to strangle a
person with the sacred choke-cloth, but were not allowed to perform
officially with it until after long practice.  No half-educated strangler
could choke a man to death quickly enough to keep him from uttering a
sound--a muffled scream, gurgle, gasp, moan, or something of the sort;
but the expert's work was instantaneous: the cloth was whipped around the
victim's neck, there was a sudden twist, and the head fell silently
forward, the eyes starting from the sockets; and all was over.  The Thug
carefully guarded against resistance.  It was usual to to get the victims
to sit down, for that was the handiest position for business.

If the Thug had planned India itself it could not have been more
conveniently arranged for the needs of his occupation.

There were no public conveyances.  There were no conveyances for hire.
The traveler went on foot or in a bullock cart or on a horse which he
bought for the purpose.  As soon as he was out of his own little State or
principality he was among strangers; nobody knew him, nobody took note of
him, and from that time his movements could no longer be traced.  He did
not stop in towns or villages, but camped outside of them and sent his
servants in to buy provisions.  There were no habitations between
villages.  Whenever he was between villages he was an easy prey,
particularly as he usually traveled by night, to avoid the heat.  He was
always being overtaken by strangers who offered him the protection of
their company, or asked for the protection of his--and these strangers
were often Thugs, as he presently found out to his cost.  The
landholders, the native police, the petty princes, the village officials,
the customs officers were in many cases protectors and harborers of the
Thugs, and betrayed travelers to them for a share of the spoil.  At first
this condition of things made it next to impossible for the government to
catch the marauders; they were spirited away by these watchful friends.
All through a vast continent, thus infested, helpless people of every
caste and kind moved along the paths and trails in couples and groups
silently by night, carrying the commerce of the country--treasure,
jewels, money, and petty batches of silks, spices, and all manner of
wares.  It was a paradise for the Thug.

When the autumn opened, the Thugs began to gather together by pre-
concert.  Other people had to have interpreters at every turn, but not
the Thugs; they could talk together, no matter how far apart they were
born, for they had a language of their own, and they had secret signs by
which they knew each other for Thugs; and they were always friends.  Even
their diversities of religion and caste were sunk in devotion to their
calling, and the Moslem and the high-caste and low-caste Hindoo were
staunch and affectionate brothers in Thuggery.

When a gang had been assembled, they had religious worship, and waited
for an omen.  They had definite notions about the omens.  The cries of
certain animals were good omens, the cries of certain other creatures
were bad omens.  A bad omen would stop proceedings and send the men home.

The sword and the strangling-cloth were sacred emblems.  The Thugs
worshiped the sword at home before going out to the assembling-place; the
strangling-cloth was worshiped at the place of assembly.  The chiefs of
most of the bands performed the religious ceremonies themselves; but the
Kaets delegated them to certain official stranglers (Chaurs).  The rites
of the Kaets were so holy that no one but the Chaur was allowed to touch
the vessels and other things used in them.

Thug methods exhibit a curious mixture of caution and the absence of it;
cold business calculation and sudden, unreflecting impulse; but there
were two details which were constant, and not subject to caprice: patient
persistence in following up the prey, and pitilessness when the time came
to act.

Caution was exhibited in the strength of the bands.  They never felt
comfortable and confident unless their strength exceeded that of any
party of travelers they were likely to meet by four or fivefold.  Yet it
was never their purpose to attack openly, but only when the victims were
off their guard.  When they got hold of a party of travelers they often
moved along in their company several days, using all manner of arts to
win their friendship and get their confidence.  At last, when this was
accomplished to their satisfaction, the real business began.  A few Thugs
were privately detached and sent forward in the dark to select a good
killing-place and dig the graves.  When the rest reached the spot a halt
was called, for a rest or a smoke.  The travelers were invited to sit.
By signs, the chief appointed certain Thugs to sit down in front of the
travelers as if to wait upon them, others to sit down beside them and
engage them in conversation, and certain expert stranglers to stand
behind the travelers and be ready when the signal was given.  The signal
was usually some commonplace remark, like "Bring the tobacco."  Sometimes
a considerable wait ensued after all the actors were in their places--the
chief was biding his time, in order to make everything sure.  Meantime,
the talk droned on, dim figures moved about in the dull light, peace and
tranquility reigned, the travelers resigned themselves to the pleasant
reposefulness and comfort of the situation, unconscious of the death-
angels standing motionless at their backs.  The time was ripe, now, and
the signal came: "Bring the tobacco."  There was a mute swift movement,
all in the same instant the men at each victim's sides seized his hands,
the man in front seized his feet, and pulled, the man at his back whipped
the cloth around his neck and gave it a twist the head sunk forward, the
tragedy was over.  The bodies were stripped and covered up in the graves,
the spoil packed for transportation, then the Thugs gave pious thanks to
Bhowanee, and departed on further holy service.

The Report shows that the travelers moved in exceedingly small groups--
twos, threes, fours, as a rule; a party with a dozen in it was rare.  The
Thugs themselves seem to have been the only people who moved in force.
They went about in gangs of 10, 15, 25, 40, 60, 100, 150, 200, 250, and
one gang of 310 is mentioned.  Considering their numbers, their catch was
not extraordinary--particularly when you consider that they were not in
the least fastidious, but took anybody they could get, whether rich or
poor, and sometimes even killed children.  Now and then they killed
women, but it was considered sinful to do it, and unlucky.  The "season"
was six or eight months long.  One season the half dozen Bundelkand and
Gwalior gangs aggregated 712 men, and they murdered 210 people.  One
season the Malwa and Kandeish gangs aggregated 702 men, and they murdered
232.  One season the Kandeish and Berar gangs aggregated 963 men, and
they murdered 385 people.

Here is the tally-sheet of a gang of sixty Thugs for a whole season--gang
under two noted chiefs, "Chotee and Sheik Nungoo from Gwalior":

     "Left Poora, in Jhansee, and on arrival at Sarora murdered a
     traveler.

     "On nearly reaching Bhopal, met 3 Brahmins, and murdered them.

     "Cross the Nerbudda; at a village called Hutteea, murdered a Hindoo.

     "Went through Aurungabad to Walagow; there met a Havildar of the
     barber caste and 5 sepoys (native soldiers); in the evening came to
     Jokur, and in the morning killed them near the place where the
     treasure-bearers were killed the year before.

     "Between Jokur and Dholeea met a sepoy of the shepherd caste; killed
     him in the jungle.

     "Passed through Dholeea and lodged in a village; two miles beyond,
     on the road to Indore, met a Byragee (beggar-holy mendicant);
     murdered him at the Thapa.

     "In the morning, beyond the Thapa, fell in with 3 Marwarie
     travelers; murdered them.

     "Near a village on the banks of the Taptee met 4 travelers and
     killed them.

     "Between Choupra and Dhoreea met a Marwarie; murdered him.

     "At Dhoreea met 3 Marwaries; took them two miles and murdered them.

     "Two miles further on, overtaken by three treasure-bearers; took
     them two miles and murdered them in the jungle.

     "Came on to Khurgore Bateesa in Indore, divided spoil, and
     dispersed.

     "A total of 27 men murdered on one expedition."

Chotee (to save his neck) was informer, and furnished these facts.
Several things are noticeable about his resume.  1. Business brevity;
2, absence of emotion; 3, smallness of the parties encountered by the 60;
4, variety in character and quality of the game captured; 5, Hindoo and
Mohammedan chiefs in business together for Bhowanee; 6, the sacred caste
of the Brahmins not respected by either; 7, nor yet the character of that
mendicant, that Byragee.

A beggar is a holy creature, and some of the gangs spared him on that
account, no matter how slack business might be; but other gangs
slaughtered not only him, but even that sacredest of sacred creatures,
the fakeer--that repulsive skin-and-bone thing that goes around naked and
mats his bushy hair with dust and dirt, and so beflours his lean body
with ashes that he looks like a specter.  Sometimes a fakeer trusted a
shade too far in the protection of his sacredness.  In the middle of a
tally-sheet of Feringhea's, who had been out with forty Thugs, I find a
case of the kind.  After the killing of thirty-nine men and one woman,
the fakeer appears on the scene:

     "Approaching Doregow, met 3 pundits; also a fakeer, mounted on a
     pony; he was plastered over with sugar to collect flies, and was
     covered with them.  Drove off the fakeer, and killed the other
     three.

     "Leaving Doregow, the fakeer joined again, and went on in company to
     Raojana; met 6 Khutries on their way from Bombay to Nagpore.  Drove
     off the fakeer with stones, and killed the 6 men in camp, and buried
     them in the grove.

     "Next day the fakeer joined again; made him leave at Mana.  Beyond
     there, fell in with two Kahars and a sepoy, and came on towards the
     place selected for the murder.  When near it, the fakeer came again.
     Losing all patience with him, gave Mithoo, one of the gang, 5 rupees
     ($2.50) to murder him, and take the sin upon himself.  All four were
     strangled, including the fakeer.  Surprised to find among the
     fakeer's effects 30 pounds of coral, 350 strings of small pearls, 15
     strings of large pearls, and a gilt necklace."

It it curious, the little effect that time has upon a really interesting
circumstance.  This one, so old, so long ago gone down into oblivion,
reads with the same freshness and charm that attach to the news in the
morning paper; one's spirits go up, then down, then up again, following
the chances which the fakeer is running; now you hope, now you despair,
now you hope again; and at last everything comes out right, and you feel
a great wave of personal satisfaction go weltering through you, and
without thinking, you put out your hand to pat Mithoo on the back, when--
puff!  the whole thing has vanished away, there is nothing there; Mithoo
and all the crowd have been dust and ashes and forgotten, oh, so many,
many, many lagging years!  And then comes a sense of injury: you don't
know whether Mithoo got the swag, along with the sin, or had to divide up
the swag and keep all the sin himself.  There is no literary art about a
government report.  It stops a story right in the most interesting place.

These reports of Thug expeditions run along interminably in one
monotonous tune: "Met a sepoy--killed him; met 5 pundits--killed them;
met 4 Rajpoots and a woman--killed them"--and so on, till the statistics
get to be pretty dry.  But this small trip of Feringhea's Forty had some
little variety about it.  Once they came across a man hiding in a grave--
a thief; he had stolen 1,100 rupees from Dhunroj Seith of Parowtee.  They
strangled him and took the money.  They had no patience with thieves.
They killed two treasure-bearers, and got 4,000 rupees.  They came across
two bullocks "laden with copper pice," and killed the four drivers and
took the money.  There must have been half a ton of it.  I think it takes
a double handful of pice to make an anna, and 16 annas to make a rupee;
and even in those days the rupee was worth only half a dollar.  Coming
back over their tracks from Baroda, they had another picturesque stroke
of luck:  "'The Lohars of Oodeypore' put a traveler in their charge for
safety."  Dear, dear, across this abyssmal gulf of time we still see
Feringhea's lips uncover his teeth, and through the dim haze we catch the
incandescent glimmer of his smile.  He accepted that trust, good man; and
so we know what went with the traveler.

Even Rajahs had no terrors for Feringhea; he came across an elephant-
driver belonging to the Rajah of Oodeypore and promptly strangled him.

"A total of 100 men and 5 women murdered on this expedition."

Among the reports of expeditions we find mention of victims of almost
every quality and estate.

Also a prince's cook; and even the water-carrier of that sublime lord of
lords and king of kings, the Governor-General of India!  How broad they
were in their tastes!  They also murdered actors--poor wandering
barnstormers.  There are two instances recorded; the first one by a gang
of Thugs under a chief who soils a great name borne by a better man--
Kipling's deathless "Gungadin":

     "After murdering 4 sepoys, going on toward Indore, met 4 strolling
     players, and persuaded them to come with us, on the pretense that we
     would see their performance at the next stage.  Murdered them at a
     temple near Bhopal."

Second instance:

     "At Deohuttee, joined by comedians.  Murdered them eastward of that
     place."

But this gang was a particularly bad crew.  On that expedition they
murdered a fakeer and twelve beggars.  And yet Bhowanee protected them;
for once when they were strangling a man in a wood when a crowd was going
by close at hand and the noose slipped and the man screamed, Bhowanee
made a camel burst out at the same moment with a roar that drowned the
scream; and before the man could repeat it the breath was choked out of
his body.

The cow is so sacred in India that to kill her keeper is an awful
sacrilege, and even the Thugs recognized this; yet now and then the lust
for blood was too strong, and so they did kill a few cow-keepers.  In one
of these instances the witness who killed the cowherd said, "In Thuggee
this is strictly forbidden, and is an act from which no good can come.  I
was ill of a fever for ten days afterward.  I do believe that evil will
follow the murder of a man with a cow.  If there be no cow it does not
signify."  Another Thug said he held the cowherd's feet while this
witness did the strangling.  He felt no concern, "because the bad fortune
of such a deed is upon the strangler and not upon the assistants; even if
there should be a hundred of them."

There were thousands of Thugs roving over India constantly, during many
generations.  They made Thug gee a hereditary vocation and taught it to
their sons and to their son's sons.  Boys were in full membership as
early as 16 years of age; veterans were still at work at 70.  What was
the fascination, what was the impulse?  Apparently, it was partly piety,
largely gain, and there is reason to suspect that the sport afforded was
the chiefest fascination of all.  Meadows Taylor makes a Thug in one of
his books claim that the pleasure of killing men was the white man's
beast-hunting instinct enlarged, refined, ennobled.  I will quote the
passage:




CHAPTER XLVII.

Simple rules for saving money: To save half, when you are fired by an
eager impulse to contribute to a charity, wait, and count forty.  To save
three-quarters, count sixty.  To save it all, count sixty-five.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The Thug said:

"How many of you English are passionately devoted to sporting!  Your days
and months are passed in its excitement.  A tiger, a panther, a buffalo
or a hog rouses your utmost energies for its destruction--you even risk
your lives in its pursuit.  How much higher game is a Thug's!"

That must really be the secret of the rise and development of Thuggee.
The joy of killing! the joy of seeing killing done--these are traits of
the human race at large.  We white people are merely modified Thugs;
Thugs fretting under the restraints of a not very thick skin of
civilization; Thugs who long ago enjoyed the slaughter of the Roman
arena, and later the burning of doubtful Christians by authentic
Christians in the public squares, and who now, with the Thugs of Spain
and Nimes, flock to enjoy the blood and misery of the bullring.  We have
no tourists of either sex or any religion who are able to resist the
delights of the bull-ring when opportunity offers; and we are gentle
Thugs in the hunting-season, and love to chase a tame rabbit and kill it.
Still, we have made some progress-microscopic, and in truth scarcely
worth mentioning, and certainly nothing to be proud of--still, it is
progress: we no longer take pleasure in slaughtering or burning helpless
men.  We have reached a little altitude where we may look down upon the
Indian Thugs with a complacent shudder; and we may even hope for a day,
many centuries hence, when our posterity will look down upon us in the
same way.

There are many indications that the Thug often hunted men for the mere
sport of it; that the fright and pain of the quarry were no more to him
than are the fright and pain of the rabbit or the stag to us; and that he
was no more ashamed of beguiling his game with deceits and abusing its
trust than are we when we have imitated a wild animal's call and shot it
when it honored us with its confidence and came to see what we wanted:

     "Madara, son of Nihal, and I, Ramzam, set out from Kotdee in the
     cold weather and followed the high road for about twenty days in
     search of travelers, until we came to Selempore, where we met a very
     old man going to the east.  We won his confidence in this manner: he
     carried a load which was too heavy for his old age; I said to him,
     'You are an old man, I will aid you in carrying your load, as you
     are from my part of the country.'  He said, 'Very well, take me with
     you.'  So we took him with us to Selempore, where we slept that
     night.  We woke him next morning before dawn and set out, and at the
     distance of three miles we seated him to rest while it was still
     very dark.  Madara was ready behind him, and strangled him.  He
     never spoke a word.  He was about 60 or 70 years of age."

Another gang fell in with a couple of barbers and persuaded them to come
along in their company by promising them the job of shaving the whole
crew--30 Thugs.  At the place appointed for the murder 15 got shaved, and
actually paid the barbers for their work.  Then killed them and took back
the money.

A gang of forty-two Thugs came across two Brahmins and a shopkeeper on
the road, beguiled them into a grove and got up a concert for their
entertainment.  While these poor fellows were listening to the music the
stranglers were standing behind them; and at the proper moment for
dramatic effect they applied the noose.

The most devoted fisherman must have a bite at least as often as once a
week or his passion will cool and he will put up his tackle.  The tiger-
sportsman must find a tiger at least once a fortnight or he will get
tired and quit.  The elephant-hunter's enthusiasm will waste away little
by little, and his zeal will perish at last if he plod around a month
without finding a member of that noble family to assassinate.

But when the lust in the hunter's heart is for the noblest of all
quarries, man, how different is the case!  and how watery and poor is the
zeal and how childish the endurance of those other hunters by comparison.
Then, neither hunger, nor thirst, nor fatigue, nor deferred hope, nor
monotonous disappointment, nor leaden-footed lapse of time can conquer
the hunter's patience or weaken the joy of his quest or cool the splendid
rage of his desire.  Of all the hunting-passions that burn in the breast
of man, there is none that can lift him superior to discouragements like
these but the one--the royal sport, the supreme sport, whose quarry is
his brother.  By comparison, tiger-hunting is a colorless poor thing, for
all it has been so bragged about.

Why, the Thug was content to tramp patiently along, afoot, in the wasting
heat of India, week after week, at an average of nine or ten miles a day,
if he might but hope to find game some time or other and refresh his
longing soul with blood.  Here is an instance:

     "I (Ramzam) and Hyder set out, for the purpose of strangling
     travelers, from Guddapore, and proceeded via the Fort of Julalabad,
     Newulgunge, Bangermow, on the banks of the Ganges (upwards of 100
     miles), from whence we returned by another route.  Still no
     travelers! till we reached Bowaneegunge, where we fell in with a
     traveler, a boatman; we inveigled him and about two miles east of
     there Hyder strangled him as he stood--for he was troubled and
     afraid, and would not sit.  We then made a long journey (about 130
     miles) and reached Hussunpore Bundwa, where at the tank we fell in
     with a traveler--he slept there that night; next morning we followed
     him and tried to win his confidence; at the distance of two miles we
     endeavored to induce him to sit down--but he would not, having
     become aware of us.  I attempted to strangle him as he walked along,
     but did not succeed; both of us then fell upon him, he made a great
     outcry, 'They are murdering me!' at length we strangled him and
     flung his body into a well.  After this we returned to our homes,
     having been out a month and traveled about 260 miles.  A total of
     two men murdered on the expedition."

And here is another case-related by the terrible Futty Khan, a man with a
tremendous record, to be re-mentioned by and by:

     "I, with three others, traveled for about 45 days a distance of
     about 200 miles in search of victims along the highway to Bundwa and
     returned by Davodpore (another 200 miles) during which journey we
     had only one murder, which happened in this manner.  Four miles to
     the east of Noubustaghat we fell in with a traveler, an old man.  I,
     with Koshal and Hyder, inveigled him and accompanied him that day
     within 3 miles of Rampoor, where, after dark, in a lonely place, we
     got him to sit down and rest; and while I kept him in talk, seated
     before him, Hyder behind strangled him: he made no resistance.
     Koshal stabbed him under the arms and in the throat, and we flung
     the body into a running stream.  We got about 4 or 5 rupees each ($2
     or $2.50).  We then proceeded homewards.  A total of one man
     murdered on this expedition."

There.  They tramped 400 miles, were gone about three months, and
harvested two dollars and a half apiece.  But the mere pleasure of the
hunt was sufficient.  That was pay enough.  They did no grumbling.

Every now and then in this big book one comes across that pathetic
remark: "we tried to get him to sit down but he would not."  It tells the
whole story.  Some accident had awakened the suspicion in him that these
smooth friends who had been petting and coddling him and making him feel
so safe and so fortunate after his forlorn and lonely wanderings were the
dreaded Thugs; and now their ghastly invitation to "sit and rest" had
confirmed its truth.  He knew there was no help for him, and that he was
looking his last upon earthly things, but "he would not sit."  No, not
that--it was too awful to think of!

There are a number of instances which indicate that when a man had once
tasted the regal joys of man-hunting he could not be content with the
dull monotony of a crimeless life after ward.  Example, from a Thug's
testimony:

     "We passed through to Kurnaul, where we found a former Thug named
     Junooa, an old comrade of ours, who had turned religious mendicant
     and become a disciple and holy.  He came to us in the serai and
     weeping with joy returned to his old trade."

Neither wealth nor honors nor dignities could satisfy a reformed Thug for
long.  He would throw them all away, someday, and go back to the lurid
pleasures of hunting men, and being hunted himself by the British.

Ramzam was taken into a great native grandee's service and given
authority over five villages.  "My authority extended over these people
to summons them to my presence, to make them stand or sit.  I dressed
well, rode my pony, and had two sepoys, a scribe and a village guard to
attend me.  During three years I used to pay each village a monthly
visit, and no one suspected that I was a Thug!  The chief man used to
wait on me to transact business, and as I passed along, old and young
made their salaam to me."

And yet during that very three years he got leave of absence "to attend a
wedding," and instead went off on a Thugging lark with six other Thugs
and hunted the highway for fifteen days!--with satisfactory results.

Afterwards he held a great office under a Rajah.  There he had ten miles
of country under his command and a military guard of fifteen men, with
authority to call out 2,000 more upon occasion.  But the British got on
his track, and they crowded him so that he had to give himself up.  See
what a figure he was when he was gotten up for style and had all his
things on: "I was fully armed--a sword, shield, pistols, a matchlock
musket and a flint gun, for I was fond of being thus arrayed, and when so
armed feared not though forty men stood before me."

He gave himself up and proudly proclaimed himself a Thug.  Then by
request he agreed to betray his friend and pal, Buhram, a Thug with the
most tremendous record in India.  "I went to the house where Buhram slept
(often has he led our gangs!) I woke him, he knew me well, and came
outside to me.  It was a cold night, so under pretence of warming myself,
but in reality to have light for his seizure by the guards, I lighted
some straw and made a blaze.  We were warming our hands.  The guards drew
around us.  I said to them, 'This is Buhram,' and he was seized just as a
cat seizes a mouse.  Then Buhram said, 'I am a Thug! my father was a
Thug, my grandfather was a Thug, and I have thugged with many!'"

So spoke the mighty hunter, the mightiest of the mighty, the Gordon
Cumming of his day.  Not much regret noticeable in it.--["Having planted
a bullet in the shoulder-bone of an elephant, and caused the agonized
creature to lean for support against a tree, I proceeded to brew some
coffee.  Having refreshed myself, taking observations of the elephant's
spasms and writhings between the sips, I resolved to make experiments on
vulnerable points, and, approaching very near, I fired several bullets at
different parts of his enormous skull.  He only acknowledged the shots by
a salaam-like movement of his trunk, with the point of which he gently
touched the wounds with a striking and peculiar action.  Surprised and
shocked to find that I was only prolonging the suffering of the noble
beast, which bore its trials with such dignified composure, I resolved to
finish the proceeding with all possible despatch, and accordingly opened
fire upon him from the left side.  Aiming at the shoulder, I fired six
shots with the two-grooved rifle, which must have eventually proved
mortal, after which I fired six shots at the same part with the Dutch
six-founder.  Large tears now trickled down from his eyes, which he
slowly shut and opened, his colossal frame shivered convulsively, and
falling on his side he expired."--Gordon Cumming.]

So many many times this Official Report leaves one's curiosity
unsatisfied.  For instance, here is a little paragraph out of the record
of a certain band of 193 Thugs, which has that defect:

     "Fell in with Lall Sing Subahdar and his family, consisting of nine
     persons.  Traveled with them two days, and the third put them all to
     death except the two children, little boys of one and a half years
     old."

There it stops.  What did they do with those poor little fellows?  What
was their subsequent history?  Did they purpose training them up as
Thugs?  How could they take care of such little creatures on a march
which stretched over several months?  No one seems to have cared to ask
any questions about the babies.  But I do wish I knew.

One would be apt to imagine that the Thugs were utterly callous, utterly
destitute of human feelings, heartless toward their own families as well
as toward other people's; but this was not so.  Like all other Indians,
they had a passionate love for their kin.  A shrewd British officer who
knew the Indian character, took that characteristic into account in
laying his plans for the capture of Eugene Sue's famous Feringhea.  He
found out Feringhea's hiding-place, and sent a guard by night to seize
him, but the squad was awkward and he got away.  However, they got the
rest of the family--the mother, wife, child, and brother--and brought
them to the officer, at Jubbulpore; the officer did not fret, but bided
his time: "I knew Feringhea would not go far while links so dear to him
were in my hands."  He was right.  Feringhea knew all the danger he was
running by staying in the neighborhood, still he could not tear himself
away.  The officer found that he divided his time between five villages
where be had relatives and friends who could get news for him from his
family in Jubbulpore jail; and that he never slept two consecutive nights
in the same village.  The officer traced out his several haunts, then
pounced upon all the five villages on the one night and at the same hour,
and got his man.

Another example of family affection.  A little while previously to the
capture of Feringhea's family, the British officer had captured
Feringhea's foster-brother, leader of a gang of ten, and had tried the
eleven and condemned them to be hanged.  Feringhea's captured family
arrived at the jail the day before the execution was to take place.  The
foster-brother, Jhurhoo, entreated to be allowed to see the aged mother
and the others.  The prayer was granted, and this is what took place--it
is the British officer who speaks:

     "In the morning, just before going to the scaffold, the interview
     took place before me.  He fell at the old woman's feet and begged
     that she would relieve him from the obligations of the milk with
     which she had nourished him from infancy, as he was about to die
     before he could fulfill any of them.  She placed her hands on his
     head, and he knelt, and she said she forgave him all, and bid him
     die like a man."

If a capable artist should make a picture of it, it would be full of
dignity and solemnity and pathos; and it could touch you.  You would
imagine it to be anything but what it was.  There is reverence there, and
tenderness, and gratefulness, and compassion, and resignation, and
fortitude, and self-respect--and no sense of disgrace, no thought of
dishonor.  Everything is there that goes to make a noble parting, and
give it a moving grace and beauty and dignity.  And yet one of these
people is a Thug and the other a mother of Thugs!  The incongruities of
our human nature seem to reach their limit here.

I wish to make note of one curious thing while I think of it.  One of the
very commonest remarks to be found in this bewildering array of Thug
confessions is this:

"Strangled him and threw him an a well!"  In one case they threw sixteen
into a well--and they had thrown others in the same well before.  It
makes a body thirsty to read about it.

And there is another very curious thing.  The bands of Thugs had private
graveyards.  They did not like to kill and bury at random, here and there
and everywhere.  They preferred to wait, and toll the victims along, and
get to one of their regular burying-places ('bheels') if they could.  In
the little kingdom of Oude, which was about half as big as Ireland and
about as big as the State of Maine, they had two hundred and seventy-four
'bheels'.  They were scattered along fourteen hundred miles of road, at
an average of only five miles apart, and the British government traced
out and located each and every one of them and set them down on the map.

The Oude bands seldom went out of their own country, but they did a
thriving business within its borders.  So did outside bands who came in
and helped.  Some of the Thug leaders of Oude were noted for their
successful careers.  Each of four of them confessed to above 300 murders;
another to nearly 400; our friend Ramzam to 604--he is the one who got
leave of absence to attend a wedding and went thugging instead; and he is
also the one who betrayed Buhram to the British.

But the biggest records of all were the murder-lists of Futty Khan and
Buhram.  Futty Khan's number is smaller than Ramzam's, but he is placed
at the head because his average is the best in Oude-Thug history per year
of service.  His slaughter was 508 men in twenty years, and he was still
a young man when the British stopped his industry.  Buhram's list was 931
murders, but it took him forty years.  His average was one man and nearly
all of another man per month for forty years, but Futty Khan's average
was two men and a little of another man per month during his twenty years
of usefulness.

There is one very striking thing which I wish to call attention to.  You
have surmised from the listed callings followed by the victims of the
Thugs that nobody could travel the Indian roads unprotected and live to
get through; that the Thugs respected no quality, no vocation, no
religion, nobody; that they killed every unarmed man that came in their
way.  That is wholly true--with one reservation.  In all the long file of
Thug confessions an English traveler is mentioned but once--and this is
what the Thug says of the circumstance:

     "He was on his way from Mhow to Bombay.  We studiously avoided him.
     He proceeded next morning with a number of travelers who had sought
     his protection, and they took the road to Baroda."

We do not know who he was; he flits across the page of this rusty old
book and disappears in the obscurity beyond; but he is an impressive
figure, moving through that valley of death serene and unafraid, clothed
in the might of the English name.

We have now followed the big official book through, and we understand
what Thuggee was, what a bloody terror it was, what a desolating scourge
it was.  In 1830 the English found this cancerous organization imbedded
in the vitals of the empire, doing its devastating work in secrecy, and
assisted, protected, sheltered, and hidden by innumerable confederates--
big and little native chiefs, customs officers, village officials, and
native police, all ready to lie for it, and the mass of the people,
through fear, persistently pretending to know nothing about its doings;
and this condition of things had existed for generations, and was
formidable with the sanctions of age and old custom.  If ever there was
an unpromising task, if ever there was a hopeless task in the world,
surely it was offered here--the task of conquering Thuggee.  But that
little handful of English officials in India set their sturdy and
confident grip upon it, and ripped it out, root and branch!  How modest
do Captain Vallancey's words sound now, when we read them again, knowing
what we know:

     "The day that sees this far-spread evil completely eradicated from
     India, and known only in name, will greatly tend to immortalize
     British rule in the East."

It would be hard to word a claim more modestly than that for this most
noble work.




CHAPTER XLVIII.

Grief can take care of itself; but to get the full value of a joy you
must have somebody to divide it with.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

We left Bombay for Allahabad by a night train.  It is the custom of the
country to avoid day travel when it can conveniently be done.  But there
is one trouble: while you can seemingly "secure" the two lower berths by
making early application, there is no ticket as witness of it, and no
other producible evidence in case your proprietorship shall chance to be
challenged.  The word "engaged" appears on the window, but it doesn't
state who the compartment is engaged, for.  If your Satan and your Barney
arrive before somebody else's servants, and spread the bedding on the two
sofas and then stand guard till you come, all will be well; but if they
step aside on an errand, they may find the beds promoted to the two
shelves, and somebody else's demons standing guard over their master's
beds, which in the meantime have been spread upon your sofas.

You do not pay anything extra for your sleeping place; that is where the
trouble lies.  If you buy a fare-ticket and fail to use it, there is room
thus made available for someone else; but if the place were secured to
you it would remain vacant, and yet your ticket would secure you another
place when you were presently ready to travel.

However, no explanation of such a system can make it seem quite rational
to a person who has been used to a more rational system.  If our people
had the arranging of it, we should charge extra for securing the place,
and then the road would suffer no loss if the purchaser did not occupy
it.

The present system encourages good manners--and also discourages them.
If a young girl has a lower berth and an elderly lady comes in, it is
usual for the girl to offer her place to this late comer; and it is usual
for the late comer to thank her courteously and take it.  But the thing
happens differently sometimes.  When we were ready to leave Bombay my
daughter's satchels were holding possession of her berth--a lower one.
At the last moment, a middle-aged American lady swarmed into the
compartment, followed by native porters laden with her baggage.  She was
growling and snarling and scolding, and trying to make herself
phenomenally disagreeable; and succeeding.  Without a word, she hoisted
the satchels into the hanging shelf, and took possession of that lower
berth.

On one of our trips Mr. Smythe and I got out at a station to walk up and
down, and when we came back Smythe's bed was in the hanging shelf and an
English cavalry officer was in bed on the sofa which he had lately been
occupying.  It was mean to be glad about it, but it is the way we are
made; I could not have been gladder if it had been my enemy that had
suffered this misfortune.  We all like to see people in trouble, if it
doesn't cost us anything.  I was so happy over Mr. Smythe's chagrin that
I couldn't go to sleep for thinking of it and enjoying it.  I knew he
supposed the officer had committed the robbery himself, whereas without a
doubt the officer's servant had done it without his knowledge.  Mr.
Smythe kept this incident warm in his heart, and longed for a chance to
get even with somebody for it.  Sometime afterward the opportunity came,
in Calcutta.  We were leaving on a 24-hour journey to Darjeeling.  Mr.
Barclay, the general superintendent, has made special provision for our
accommodation, Mr. Smythe said; so there was no need to hurry about
getting to the train; consequently, we were a little late.

When we arrived, the usual immense turmoil and confusion of a great
Indian station were in full blast.  It was an immoderately long train,
for all the natives of India were going by it somewhither, and the native
officials were being pestered to frenzy by belated and anxious people.
They didn't know where our car was, and couldn't remember having received
any orders about it.  It was a deep disappointment; moreover, it looked
as if our half of our party would be left behind altogether.  Then Satan
came running and said he had found a compartment with one shelf and one
sofa unoccupied, and had made our beds and had stowed our baggage.  We
rushed to the place, and just as the train was ready to pull out and the
porters were slamming the doors to, all down the line, an officer of the
Indian Civil Service, a good friend of ours, put his head in and said:--

"I have been hunting for you everywhere.  What are you doing here?  Don't
you know----"

The train started before he could finish.  Mr. Smythe's opportunity was
come.  His bedding, on the shelf, at once changed places with the
bedding--a stranger's--that was occupying the sofa that was opposite to
mine.  About ten o'clock we stopped somewhere, and a large Englishman of
official military bearing stepped in.  We pretended to be asleep.  The
lamps were covered, but there was light enough for us to note his look of
surprise.  He stood there, grand and fine, peering down at Smythe, and
wondering in silence at the situation.  After a bit be said:--

"Well!" And that was all.

But that was enough.  It was easy to understand.  It meant: "This is
extraordinary.  This is high-handed.  I haven't had an experience like
this before."

He sat down on his baggage, and for twenty minutes we watched him through
our eyelashes, rocking and swaying there to the motion of the train.
Then we came to a station, and he got up and went out, muttering: "I must
find a lower berth, or wait over." His servant came presently and carried
away his things.

Mr. Smythe's sore place was healed, his hunger for revenge was satisfied.
But he couldn't sleep, and neither could I; for this was a venerable old.
car, and nothing about it was taut.  The closet door slammed all night,
and defied every fastening we could invent.  We got up very much jaded,
at dawn, and stepped out at a way station; and, while we were taking a
cup of coffee, that Englishman ranged up alongside, and somebody said to
him:

"So you didn't stop off, after all?"

"No.  The guard found a place for me that had been, engaged and not
occupied.  I had a whole saloon car all to myself--oh, quite palatial!
I never had such luck in my life."

That was our car, you see.  We moved into it, straight off, the family
and all.  But I asked the English gentleman to remain, and he did.  A
pleasant man, an infantry colonel; and doesn't know, yet, that Smythe
robbed him of his berth, but thinks it was done by Smythe's servant
without Smythe's knowledge.  He was assisted in gathering this
impression.

The Indian trains are manned by natives exclusively.  The Indian stations
except very large and important ones--are manned entirely by natives, and
so are the posts and telegraphs.  The rank and file of the police are
natives.  All these people are pleasant and accommodating.  One day I
left an express train to lounge about in that perennially ravishing show,
the ebb and flow and whirl of gaudy natives, that is always surging up
and down the spacious platform of a great Indian station; and I lost
myself in the ecstasy of it, and when I turned, the train was moving
swiftly away.  I was going to sit down and wait for another train, as I
would have done at home; I had no thought of any other course.  But a
native official, who had a green flag in his hand, saw me, and said
politely:

"Don't you belong in the train, sir?"

"Yes." I said.

He waved his flag, and the train came back!  And he put me aboard with as
much ceremony as if I had been the General Superintendent.  They are
kindly people, the natives.  The face and the bearing that indicate a
surly spirit and a bad heart seemed to me to be so rare among Indians--so
nearly non-existent, in fact--that I sometimes wondered if Thuggee wasn't
a dream, and not a reality.  The bad hearts are there, but I believe that
they are in a small, poor minority.  One thing is sure: They are much the
most interesting people in the world--and the nearest to being
incomprehensible.  At any rate, the hardest to account for.  Their
character and their history, their customs and their religion, confront
you with riddles at every turn-riddles which are a trifle more perplexing
after they are explained than they were before.  You can get the facts of
a custom--like caste, and Suttee, and Thuggee, and so on--and with the
facts a theory which tries to explain, but never quite does it to your
satisfaction.  You can never quite understand how so strange a thing
could have been born, nor why.

For instance--the Suttee.  This is the explanation of it:

A woman who throws away her life when her husband dies is instantly
joined to him again, and is forever afterward happy with him in heaven;
her family will build a little monument to her, or a temple, and will
hold her in honor, and, indeed, worship her memory always; they will
themselves be held in honor by the public; the woman's self-sacrifice has
conferred a noble and lasting distinction upon her posterity.  And,
besides, see what she has escaped: If she had elected to live, she would
be a disgraced person; she could not remarry; her family would despise
her and disown her; she would be a friendless outcast, and miserable all
her days.

Very well, you say, but the explanation is not complete yet.  How did
people come to drift into such a strange custom?  What was the origin of
the idea?  "Well, nobody knows; it was probably a revelation sent down by
the gods."  One more thing: Why was such a cruel death chosen--why
wouldn't a gentle one have answered?  "Nobody knows; maybe that was a
revelation, too."

No--you can never understand it.  It all seems impossible.  You resolve
to believe that a widow never burnt herself willingly, but went to her
death because she was afraid to defy public opinion.  But you are not
able to keep that position.  History drives you from it.  Major Sleeman
has a convincing case in one of his books.  In his government on the
Nerbudda he made a brave attempt on the 28th of March, 1828, to put down
Suttee on his own hook and without warrant from the Supreme Government of
India.  He could not foresee that the Government would put it down itself
eight months later.  The only backing he had was a bold nature and a
compassionate heart.  He issued his proclamation abolishing the Suttee in
his district.  On the morning of Tuesday--note the day of the week--the
24th of the following November, Ummed Singh Upadhya, head of the most
respectable and most extensive Brahmin family in the district, died, and
presently came a deputation of his sons and grandsons to beg that his old
widow might be allowed to burn herself upon his pyre.  Sleeman threatened
to enforce his order, and punish severely any man who assisted; and he
placed a police guard to see that no one did so.  From the early morning
the old widow of sixty-five had been sitting on the bank of the sacred
river by her dead, waiting through the long hours for the permission; and
at last the refusal came instead.  In one little sentence Sleeman gives
you a pathetic picture of this lonely old gray figure: all day and all
night "she remained sitting by the edge of the water without eating or
drinking."  The next morning the body of the husband was burned to ashes
in a pit eight feet square and three or four feet deep, in the view of
several thousand spectators.  Then the widow waded out to a bare rock in
the river, and everybody went away but her sons and other relations.  All
day she sat there on her rock in the blazing sun without food or drink,
and with no clothing but a sheet over her shoulders.

The relatives remained with her and all tried to persuade her to desist
from her purpose, for they deeply loved her.  She steadily refused.  Then
a part of the family went to Sleeman's house, ten miles away, and tried
again to get him to let her burn herself.  He refused, hoping to save her
yet.

All that day she scorched in her sheet on the rock, and all that night
she kept her vigil there in the bitter cold.  Thursday morning, in the
sight of her relatives, she went through a ceremonial which said more to
them than any words could have done; she put on the dhaja (a coarse red
turban) and broke her bracelets in pieces.  By these acts she became a
dead person in the eye of the law, and excluded from her caste forever.
By the iron rule of ancient custom, if she should now choose to live she
could never return to her family.  Sleeman was in deep trouble.  If she
starved herself to death her family would be disgraced; and, moreover,
starving would be a more lingering misery than the death by fire.  He
went back in the evening thoroughly worried.  The old woman remained on
her rock, and there in the morning he found her with her dhaja still on
her head.  "She talked very collectedly, telling me that she had
determined to mix her ashes with those of her departed husband, and
should patiently wait my permission to do so, assured that God would
enable her to sustain life till that was given, though she dared not eat
or drink.  Looking at the sun, then rising before her over a long and
beautiful reach of the river, she said calmly, 'My soul has been for five
days with my husband's near that sun; nothing but my earthly frame is
left; and this, I know, you will in time suffer to be mixed with his
ashes in yonder pit, because it is not in your nature or usage wantonly
to prolong the miseries of a poor old woman.'"

He assured her that it was his desire and duty to save her, and to urge
her to live, and to keep her family from the disgrace of being thought
her murderers.  But she said she "was not afraid of their being thought
so; that they had all, like good children, done everything in their power
to induce her to live, and to abide with them;  and if I should consent I
know they would love and honor me, but my duties to them have now ended.
I commit them all to your care, and I go to attend my husband, Ummed
Singh Upadhya, with whose ashes on the funeral pile mine have been
already three times mixed."

She believed that she and he had been upon the earth three several times
as wife and husband, and that she had burned herself to death three times
upon his pyre.  That is why she said that strange thing.  Since she had
broken her bracelets and put on the red turban she regarded herself as a
corpse; otherwise she would not have allowed herself to do her husband
the irreverence of pronouncing his name.  "This was the first time in her
long life that she had ever uttered her husband's name, for in India no
woman, high or low, ever pronounces the name of her husband."

Major Sleeman still tried to shake her purpose.  He promised to build her
a fine house among the temples of her ancestors upon the bank of the
river and make handsome provision for her out of rent-free lands if she
would consent to live; and if she wouldn't he would allow no stone or
brick to ever mark the place where she died.  But she only smiled and
said, "My pulse has long ceased to beat, my spirit has departed; I shall
suffer nothing in the burning; and if you wish proof, order some fire and
you shall see this arm consumed without giving me any pain."

Sleeman was now satisfied that he could not alter her purpose.  He sent
for all the chief members of the family and said he would suffer her to
burn herself if they would enter into a written engagement to abandon the
suttee in their family thenceforth.  They agreed; the papers were drawn
out and signed, and at noon, Saturday, word was sent to the poor old
woman.  She seemed greatly pleased.  The ceremonies of bathing were gone
through with, and by three o'clock she was ready and the fire was briskly
burning in the pit.  She had now gone without food or drink during more
than four days and a half.  She came ashore from her rock, first wetting
her sheet in the waters of the sacred river, for without that safeguard
any shadow which might fall upon her would convey impurity to her; then
she walked to the pit, leaning upon one of her sons and a nephew--the
distance was a hundred and fifty yards.

"I had sentries placed all around, and no other person was allowed to
approach within five paces.  She came on with a calm and cheerful
countenance, stopped once, and casting her eyes upwards, said, 'Why have
they kept me five days from thee, my husband?'  On coming to the sentries
her supporters stopped and remained standing; she moved on, and walked
once around the pit, paused a moment, and while muttering a prayer, threw
some flowers into the fire.  She then walked up deliberately and steadily
to the brink, stepped into the centre of the flame, sat down, and leaning
back in the midst as if reposing upon a couch, was consumed without
uttering a shriek or betraying one sign of agony."

It is fine and beautiful.  It compels one's reverence and respect--no,
has it freely, and without compulsion.  We see how the custom, once
started, could continue, for the soul of it is that stupendous power,
Faith; faith brought to the pitch of effectiveness by the cumulative
force of example and long use and custom; but we cannot understand how
the first widows came to take to it.  That is a perplexing detail.

Sleeman says that it was usual to play music at the suttee, but that the
white man's notion that this was to drown the screams of the martyr is
not correct; that it had a quite different purpose.  It was believed that
the martyr died prophecying; that the prophecies sometimes foretold
disaster, and it was considered a kindness to those upon whom it was to
fall to drown the voice and keep them in ignorance of the misfortune that
was to come.




CHAPTER XLIX.

He had had much experience of physicians, and said "the only way to keep
your health is to eat what you don't want, drink what; you don't like,
and do what you'd druther not."
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

It was a long journey--two nights, one day, and part of another day, from
Bombay eastward to Allahabad; but it was always interesting, and it was
not fatiguing.  At first the, night travel promised to be fatiguing, but
that was on account of pyjamas.  This foolish night-dress consists of
jacket and drawers.  Sometimes they are made of silk, sometimes of a
raspy, scratchy, slazy woolen material with a sandpaper surface.  The
drawers are loose elephant-legged and elephant-waisted things, and
instead of buttoning around the body there is a drawstring to produce the
required shrinkage.  The jacket is roomy, and one buttons it in front.
Pyjamas are hot on a hot night and cold on a cold night--defects which a
nightshirt is free from.  I tried the pyjamas in order to be in the
fashion; but I was obliged to give them up, I couldn't stand them.  There
was no sufficient change from day-gear to night-gear.  I missed the
refreshing and luxurious sense, induced by the night-gown, of being
undressed, emancipated, set free from restraints and trammels.  In place
of that, I had the worried, confined, oppressed, suffocated sense of
being abed with my clothes on.  All through the warm half of the night
the coarse surfaces irritated my skin and made it feel baked and
feverish, and the dreams which came in the fitful flurries of slumber
were such as distress the sleep of the damned, or ought to; and all
through the cold other half of the night I could get no time for sleep
because I had to employ it all in stealing blankets.  But blankets are of
no value at such a time; the higher they are piled the more effectively
they cork the cold in and keep it from getting out.  The result is that
your legs are ice, and you know how you will feel by and by when you are
buried.  In a sane interval I discarded the pyjamas, and led a rational
and comfortable life thenceforth.

Out in the country in India, the day begins early.  One sees a plain,
perfectly flat, dust-colored and brick-yardy, stretching limitlessly away
on every side in the dim gray light, striped everywhere with hard-beaten
narrow paths, the vast flatness broken at wide intervals by bunches of
spectral trees that mark where villages are; and along all the paths are
slender women and the black forms of lanky naked men moving, to their
work, the women with brass water-jars on their heads, the men carrying
hoes.  The man is not entirely naked; always there is a bit of white rag,
a loin-cloth; it amounts to a bandage, and is a white accent on his black
person, like the silver band around the middle of a pipe-stem.  Sometimes
he also wears a fluffy and voluminous white turban, and this adds a
second accent.  He then answers properly to Miss Gordon Cumming's flash-
light picture of him--as a person who is dressed in "a turban and a
pocket handkerchief."

All day long one has this monotony of dust-colored dead levels and
scattering bunches of trees and mud villages.  You soon realize that
India is not beautiful; still there is an enchantment about it that is
beguiling, and which does not pall.  You cannot tell just what it is that
makes the spell, perhaps, but you feel it and confess it, nevertheless.
Of course, at bottom, you know in a vague way that it is history; it is
that that affects you, a haunting sense of the myriads of human lives
that have blossomed, and withered, and perished here, repeating and
repeating and repeating, century after century, and age after age, the
barren and meaningless process; it is this sense that gives to this
forlorn, uncomely land power to speak to the spirit and make friends with
it; to, speak to it with a voice bitter with satire, but eloquent with
melancholy.  The deserts of Australia and the ice-barrens of Greenland
have no speech, for they have no venerable history; with nothing to tell
of man and his vanities, his fleeting glories and his miseries, they have
nothing wherewith to spiritualize their ugliness and veil it with a
charm.

There is nothing pretty about an Indian village--a mud one--and I do not
remember that we saw any but mud ones on that long flight to Allahabad.
It is a little bunch of dirt-colored mud hovels jammed together within a
mud wall.  As a rule, the rains had beaten down parts of some of the
houses, and this gave the village the aspect of a mouldering and hoary
ruin.  I believe the cattle and the vermin live inside the wall; for I
saw cattle coming out and cattle going in; and whenever I saw a villager,
he was scratching.  This last is only circumstantial evidence, but I
think it has value.  The village has a battered little temple or two, big
enough to hold an idol, and with custom enough to fat-up a priest and
keep him comfortable.  Where there are Mohammedans there are generally a
few sorry tombs outside the village that have a decayed and neglected
look.  The villages interested me because of things which Major Sleeman
says about them in his books--particularly what he says about the
division of labor in them.  He says that the whole face of India is
parceled out into estates of villages; that nine-tenths of the vast
population of the land consist of cultivators of the soil; that it is
these cultivators who inhabit the villages; that there are certain
"established" village servants--mechanics and others who are apparently
paid a wage by the village at large, and whose callings remain in certain
families and are handed down from father to son, like an estate.  He
gives a list of these established servants: Priest, blacksmith,
carpenter, accountant, washerman, basketmaker, potter, watchman, barber,
shoemaker, brazier, confectioner, weaver, dyer, etc.  In his day witches
abounded, and it was not thought good business wisdom for a man to marry
his daughter into a family that hadn't a witch in it, for she would need
a witch on the premises to protect her children from the evil spells
which would certainly be cast upon them by the witches connected with the
neighboring families.

The office of midwife was hereditary in the family of the basket-maker.
It belonged to his wife.  She might not be competent, but the office was
hers, anyway.  Her pay was not high--25 cents for a boy, and half as much
for a girl.  The girl was not desired, because she would be a disastrous
expense by and by.  As soon as she should be old enough to begin to wear
clothes for propriety's sake, it would be a disgrace to the family if she
were not married; and to marry her meant financial ruin; for by custom
the father must spend upon feasting and wedding-display everything he had
and all he could borrow--in fact, reduce himself to a condition of
poverty which he might never more recover from.

It was the dread of this prospective ruin which made the killing of girl-
babies so prevalent in India in the old days before England laid the iron
hand of her prohibitions upon the piteous slaughter.  One may judge of
how prevalent the custom was, by one of Sleeman's casual electrical
remarks, when he speaks of children at play in villages--where girl-
voices were never heard!

The wedding-display folly is still in full force in India, and by
consequence the destruction of girl-babies is still furtively practiced;
but not largely, because of the vigilance of the government and the
sternness of the penalties it levies.

In some parts of India the village keeps in its pay three other servants:
an astrologer to tell the villager when he may plant his crop, or make a
journey, or marry a wife, or strangle a child, or borrow a dog, or climb
a tree, or catch a rat, or swindle a neighbor, without offending the
alert and solicitous heavens; and what his dream means, if he has had one
and was not bright enough to interpret it himself by the details of his
dinner; the two other established servants were the tiger-persuader and
the hailstorm discourager.  The one kept away the tigers if he could, and
collected the wages anyway, and the other kept off the hailstorms, or
explained why he failed.  He charged the same for explaining a failure
that he did for scoring a success.  A man is an idiot who can't earn a
living in India.

Major Sleeman reveals the fact that the trade union and the boycott are
antiquities in India.  India seems to have originated everything.  The
"sweeper" belongs to the bottom caste; he is the lowest of the low--all
other castes despise him and scorn his office.  But that does not trouble
him.  His caste is a caste, and that is sufficient for him, and so he is
proud of it, not ashamed.  Sleeman says:

     "It is perhaps not known to many of my countrymen, even in India,
     that in every town and city in the country the right of sweeping the
     houses and streets is a monopoly, and is supported entirely by the
     pride of castes among the scavengers, who are all of the lowest
     class.  The right of sweeping within a certain range is recognized
     by the caste to belong to a certain member; and if any other member
     presumes to sweep within that range, he is excommunicated--no other
     member will smoke out of his pipe or drink out of his jug; and he
     can get restored to caste only by a feast to the whole body of
     sweepers.  If any housekeeper within a particular circle happens to
     offend the sweeper of that range, none of his filth will be removed
     till he pacifies him, because no other sweeper will dare to touch
     it; and the people of a town are often more tyrannized over by these
     people than by any other."

A footnote by Major Sleeman's editor, Mr. Vincent Arthur Smith, says that
in our day this tyranny of the sweepers' guild is one of the many
difficulties which bar the progress of Indian sanitary reform.  Think of
this:

     "The sweepers cannot be readily coerced, because no Hindoo or
     Mussulman would do their work to save his life, nor will he pollute
     himself by beating the refractory scavenger."

They certainly do seem to have the whip-hand; it would be difficult to
imagine a more impregnable position.  "The vested rights described in the
text are so fully recognized in practice that they are frequently the
subject of sale or mortgage."

Just like a milk-route; or like a London crossing-sweepership.  It is
said that the London crossing-sweeper's right to his crossing is
recognized by the rest of the guild; that they protect him in its
possession; that certain choice crossings are valuable property, and are
saleable at high figures.  I have noticed that the man who sweeps in
front of the Army and Navy Stores has a wealthy South African
aristocratic style about him; and when he is off his guard, he has
exactly that look on his face which you always see in the face of a man
who has is saving up his daughter to marry her to a duke.

It appears from Sleeman that in India the occupation of elephant-driver
is confined to Mohammedans.  I wonder why that is.  The water-carrier
('bheestie') is a Mohammedan, but it is said that the reason of that is,
that the Hindoo's religion does not allow him to touch the skin of dead
kine, and that is what the water-sack is made of; it would defile him.
And it doesn't allow him to eat meat; the animal that furnished the meat
was murdered, and to take any creature's life is a sin.  It is a good and
gentle religion, but inconvenient.

A great Indian river, at low water, suggests the familiar anatomical
picture of a skinned human body, the intricate mesh of interwoven muscles
and tendons to stand for water-channels, and the archipelagoes of fat and
flesh inclosed by them to stand for the sandbars.  Somewhere on this
journey we passed such a river, and on a later journey we saw in the
Sutlej the duplicate of that river.  Curious rivers they are; low shores
a dizzy distance apart, with nothing between but an enormous acreage of
sand-flats with sluggish little veins of water dribbling around amongst
them; Saharas of sand, smallpox-pitted with footprints punctured in belts
as straight as the equator clear from the one shore to the other (barring
the channel-interruptions)--a dry-shod ferry, you see.  Long railway
bridges are required for this sort of rivers, and India has them.  You
approach Allahabad by a very long one.  It was now carrying us across the
bed of the Jumna, a bed which did not seem to have been slept in for one
while or more.  It wasn't all river-bed--most of it was overflow ground.

Allahabad means "City of God." I get this from the books.  From a printed
curiosity--a letter written by one of those brave and confident Hindoo
strugglers with the English tongue, called a "babu"--I got a more
compressed translation: "Godville." It is perfectly correct, but that is
the most that can be said for it.

We arrived in the forenoon, and short-handed; for Satan got left behind
somewhere that morning, and did not overtake us until after nightfall.
It seemed very peaceful without him.  The world seemed asleep and
dreaming.

I did not see the native town, I think.  I do not remember why; for an
incident connects it with the Great Mutiny, and that is enough to make
any place interesting.  But I saw the English part of the city.  It is a
town of wide avenues and noble distances, and is comely and alluring, and
full of suggestions of comfort and leisure, and of the serenity which a
good conscience buttressed by a sufficient bank account gives.  The
bungalows (dwellings) stand well back in the seclusion and privacy of
large enclosed compounds (private grounds, as we should say) and in the
shade and shelter of trees.  Even the photographer and the prosperous
merchant ply their industries in the elegant reserve of big compounds,
and the citizens drive in thereupon their business occasions.  And not in
cabs--no; in the Indian cities cabs are for the drifting stranger; all
the white citizens have private carriages; and each carriage has a flock
of white-turbaned black footmen and drivers all over it.  The vicinity of
a lecture-hall looks like a snowstorm,--and makes the lecturer feel like
an opera.  India has many names, and they are correctly descriptive.  It
is the Land of Contradictions, the Land of Subtlety and Superstition, the
Land of Wealth and Poverty, the Land of Splendor and Desolation, the Land
of Plague and Famine, the Land of the Thug and the Poisoner, and of the
Meek and the Patient, the Land of the Suttee, the Land of the
Unreinstatable Widow, the Land where All Life is Holy, the Land of
Cremation, the Land where the Vulture is a Grave and a Monument, the Land
of the Multitudinous Gods; and if signs go for anything, it is the Land
of the Private Carriage.

In Bombay the forewoman of a millinery shop came to the hotel in her
private carriage to take the measure for a gown--not for me, but for
another.  She had come out to India to make a temporary stay, but was
extending it indefinitely; indeed, she was purposing to end her days
there.  In London, she said, her work had been hard, her hours long; for
economy's sake she had had to live in shabby rooms and far away from the
shop, watch the pennies, deny herself many of the common comforts of
life, restrict herself in effect to its bare necessities, eschew cabs,
travel third-class by underground train to and from her work, swallowing
coal-smoke and cinders all the way, and sometimes troubled with the
society of men and women who were less desirable than the smoke and the
cinders.  But in Bombay, on almost any kind of wages, she could live in
comfort, and keep her carriage, and have six servants in place of the
woman-of-all-work she had had in her English home.  Later, in Calcutta, I
found that the Standard Oil clerks had small one-horse vehicles, and did
no walking; and I was told that the clerks of the other large concerns
there had the like equipment.  But to return to Allahabad.

I was up at dawn, the next morning.  In India the tourist's servant does
not sleep in a room in the hotel, but rolls himself up head and ears in
his blanket and stretches himself on the veranda, across the front of his
master's door, and spends the night there.  I don't believe anybody's
servant occupies a room.  Apparently, the bungalow servants sleep on the
veranda; it is roomy, and goes all around the house.  I speak of
menservants; I saw none of the other sex.  I think there are none, except
child-nurses.  I was up at dawn, and walked around the veranda, past the
rows of sleepers.  In front of one door a Hindoo servant was squatting,
waiting for his master to call him.  He had polished the yellow shoes and
placed them by the door, and now he had nothing to do but wait.  It was
freezing cold, but there he was, as motionless as a sculptured image, and
as patient.  It troubled me.  I wanted to say to him, "Don't crouch there
like that and freeze; nobody requires it of you; stir around and get
warm."  But I hadn't the words.  I thought of saying 'jeldy jow', but I
couldn't remember what it meant, so I didn't say it.  I knew another
phrase, but it wouldn't come to my mind.  I moved on, purposing to
dismiss him from my thoughts, but his bare legs and bare feet kept him
there.  They kept drawing me back from the sunny side to a point whence I
could see him.  At the end of an hour he had not changed his attitude in
the least degree.  It was a curious and impressive exhibition of meekness
and patience, or fortitude or indifference, I did not know which.  But it
worried me, and it was spoiling my morning.  In fact, it spoiled two
hours of it quite thoroughly.  I quitted this vicinity, then, and left
him to punish himself as much as he might want to.  But up to that time
the man had not changed his attitude a hair.  He will always remain with
me, I suppose; his figure never grows vague in my memory.  Whenever I
read of Indian resignation, Indian patience under wrongs, hardships, and
misfortunes, he comes before me.  He becomes a personification, and
stands for India in trouble.  And for untold ages India in trouble has
been pursued with the very remark which I was going to utter but didn't,
because its meaning had slipped me: "Jeddy jow!"  ("Come, shove along!")

Why, it was the very thing.

In the early brightness we made a long drive out to the Fort.  Part of
the way was beautiful.  It led under stately trees and through groups of
native houses and by the usual village well, where the picturesque gangs
are always flocking to and fro and laughing and chattering; and this time
brawny men were deluging their bronze bodies with the limpid water, and
making a refreshing and enticing show of it; enticing, for the sun was
already transacting business, firing India up for the day.  There was
plenty of this early bathing going on, for it was getting toward
breakfast time, and with an unpurified body the Hindoo must not eat.

Then we struck into the hot plain, and found the roads crowded with
pilgrims of both sexes, for one of the great religious fairs of India was
being held, just beyond the Fort, at the junction of the sacred rivers,
the Ganges and the Jumna.  Three sacred rivers, I should have said, for
there is a subterranean one.  Nobody has seen it, but that doesn't
signify.  The fact that it is there is enough.  These pilgrims had come
from all over India; some of them had been months on the way, plodding
patiently along in the heat and dust, worn, poor, hungry, but supported
and sustained by an unwavering faith and belief; they were supremely
happy and content, now; their full and sufficient reward was at hand;
they were going to be cleansed from every vestige of sin and corruption
by these holy waters which make utterly pure whatsoever thing they touch,
even the dead and rotten.  It is wonderful, the power of a faith like
that, that can make multitudes upon multitudes of the old and weak and
the young and frail enter without hesitation or complaint upon such
incredible journeys and endure the resultant miseries without repining.
It is done in love, or it is done in fear; I do not know which it is.
No matter what the impulse is, the act born of it is beyond imagination
marvelous to our kind of people, the cold whites.  There are choice great
natures among us that could exhibit the equivalent of this prodigious
self-sacrifice, but the rest of us know that we should not be equal to
anything approaching it.  Still, we all talk self-sacrifice, and this
makes me hope that we are large enough to honor it in the Hindoo.

Two millions of natives arrive at this fair every year.  How many start,
and die on the road, from age and fatigue and disease and scanty
nourishment, and how many die on the return, from the same causes, no one
knows; but the tale is great, one may say enormous.  Every twelfth year
is held to be a year of peculiar grace; a greatly augmented volume of
pilgrims results then.  The twelfth year has held this distinction since
the remotest times, it is said.  It is said also that there is to be but
one more twelfth year--for the Ganges.  After that, that holiest of all
sacred rivers will cease to be holy, and will be abandoned by the pilgrim
for many centuries; how many, the wise men have not stated.  At the end
of that interval it will become holy again.  Meantime, the data will be
arranged by those people who have charge of all such matters, the great
chief Brahmins.  It will be like shutting down a mint.  At a first glance
it looks most unbrahminically uncommercial, but I am not disturbed, being
soothed and tranquilized by their reputation.  "Brer fox he lay low," as
Uncle Remus says; and at the judicious time he will spring something on
the Indian public which will show that he was not financially asleep when
he took the Ganges out of the market.

Great numbers of the natives along the roads were bringing away holy
water from the rivers.  They would carry it far and wide in India and
sell it.  Tavernier, the French traveler (17th century), notes that
Ganges water is often given at weddings, "each guest receiving a cup or
two, according to the liberality of the host; sometimes 2,000 or 3,000
rupees' worth of it is consumed at a wedding."

The Fort is a huge old structure, and has had a large experience in
religions.  In its great court stands a monolith which was placed there
more than 2,000 years ago to preach (Budhism) by its pious inscription;
the Fort was built three centuries ago by a Mohammedan Emperor--a
resanctification of the place in the interest of that religion.  There is
a Hindoo temple, too, with subterranean ramifications stocked with
shrines and idols; and now the Fort belongs to the English, it contains a
Christian Church.  Insured in all the companies.

From the lofty ramparts one has a fine view of the sacred rivers.  They
join at that point--the pale blue Jumna, apparently clean and clear, and
the muddy Ganges, dull yellow and not clean.  On a long curved spit
between the rivers, towns of tents were visible, with a multitude of
fluttering pennons, and a mighty swarm of pilgrims.  It was a troublesome
place to get down to, and not a quiet place when you arrived; but it was
interesting.  There was a world of activity and turmoil and noise, partly
religious, partly commercial; for the Mohammedans were there to curse and
sell, and the Hindoos to buy and pray.  It is a fair as well as a
religious festival.  Crowds were bathing, praying, and drinking the
purifying waters, and many sick pilgrims had come long journeys in
palanquins to be healed of their maladies by a bath; or if that might not
be, then to die on the blessed banks and so make sure of heaven.  There
were fakeers in plenty, with their bodies dusted over with ashes and
their long hair caked together with cow-dung; for the cow is holy and so
is the rest of it; so holy that the good Hindoo peasant frescoes the
walls of his hut with this refuse, and also constructs ornamental figures
out of it for the gracing of his dirt floor.  There were seated families,
fearfully and wonderfully painted, who by attitude and grouping
represented the families of certain great gods.  There was a holy man who
sat naked by the day and by the week on a cluster of iron spikes, and did
not seem to mind it; and another holy man, who stood all day holding his
withered arms motionless aloft, and was said to have been doing it for
years.  All of these performers have a cloth on the ground beside them
for the reception of contributions, and even the poorest of the people
give a trifle and hope that the sacrifice will be blessed to him.  At
last came a procession of naked holy people marching by and chanting, and
I wrenched myself away.




CHAPTER L.

The man who is ostentatious of his modesty is twin to the statue that
wears a fig-leaf.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The journey to Benares was all in daylight, and occupied but a few hours.
It was admirably dusty.  The dust settled upon you in a thick ashy layer
and turned you into a fakeer, with nothing lacking to the role but the
cow manure and the sense of holiness.  There was a change of cars about
mid-afternoon at Moghul-serai--if that was the name--and a wait of two
hours there for the Benares train.  We could have found a carriage and
driven to the sacred city, but we should have lost the wait.  In other
countries a long wait at a station is a dull thing and tedious, but one
has no right to have that feeling in India.  You have the monster crowd
of bejeweled natives, the stir, the bustle, the confusion, the shifting
splendors of the costumes--dear me, the delight of it, the charm of it
are beyond speech.  The two-hour wait was over too soon.  Among other
satisfying things to look at was a minor native prince from the backwoods
somewhere, with his guard of honor, a ragged but wonderfully gaudy gang
of fifty dark barbarians armed with rusty flint-lock muskets.  The
general show came so near to exhausting variety that one would have said
that no addition to it could be conspicuous, but when this Falstaff and
his motleys marched through it one saw that that seeming impossibility
had happened.

We got away by and by, and soon reached the outer edge of Benares; then
there was another wait; but, as usual, with something to look at.  This
was a cluster of little canvasboxes-palanquins.  A canvas-box is not much
of a sight--when empty; but when there is a lady in it, it is an object
of interest.  These boxes were grouped apart, in the full blaze of the
terrible sun during the three-quarters of an hour that we tarried there.
They contained zenana ladies.  They had to sit up; there was not room
enough to stretch out.  They probably did not mind it.  They are used to
the close captivity of the dwellings all their lives; when they go a
journey they are carried to the train in these boxes; in the train they
have to be secluded from inspection.  Many people pity them, and I always
did it myself and never charged anything; but it is doubtful if this
compassion is valued.  While we were in India some good-hearted Europeans
in one of the cities proposed to restrict a large park to the use of
zenana ladies, so that they could go there and in assured privacy go
about unveiled and enjoy the sunshine and air as they had never enjoyed
them before.  The good intentions back of the proposition were
recognized, and sincere thanks returned for it, but the proposition
itself met with a prompt declination at the hands of those who were
authorized to speak for the zenana ladies.  Apparently, the idea was
shocking to the ladies--indeed, it was quite manifestly shocking.  Was
that proposition the equivalent of inviting European ladies to assemble
scantily and scandalously clothed in the seclusion of a private park?  It
seemed to be about that.

Without doubt modesty is nothing less than a holy feeling; and without
doubt the person whose rule of modesty has been trangressed feels the
same sort of wound that he would feel if something made holy to him by
his religion had suffered a desecration.  I say "rule of modesty" because
there are about a million rules in the world, and this makes a million
standards to be looked out for.  Major Sleeman mentions the case of some
high-caste veiled ladies who were profoundly scandalized when some
English young ladies passed by with faces bare to the world; so
scandalized that they spoke out with strong indignation and wondered that
people could be so shameless as to expose their persons like that.  And
yet "the legs of the objectors were naked to mid-thigh."  Both parties
were clean-minded and irreproachably modest, while abiding by their
separate rules, but they couldn't have traded rules for a change without
suffering considerable discomfort.  All human rules are more or less
idiotic, I suppose.  It is best so, no doubt.  The way it is now, the
asylums can hold the sane people, but if we tried to shut up the insane
we should run out of building materials.

You have a long drive through the outskirts of Benares before you get to
the hotel.  And all the aspects are melancholy.  It is a vision of dusty
sterility, decaying temples, crumbling tombs, broken mud walls, shabby
huts.  The whole region seems to ache with age and penury.  It must take
ten thousand years of want to produce such an aspect.  We were still
outside of the great native city when we reached the hotel.  It was a
quiet and homelike house, inviting, and manifestly comfortable.  But we
liked its annex better, and went thither.  It was a mile away, perhaps,
and stood in the midst of a large compound, and was built bungalow
fashion, everything on the ground floor, and a veranda all around.  They
have doors in India, but I don't know why.  They don't fasten, and they
stand open, as a rule, with a curtain hanging in the doorspace to keep
out the glare of the sun.  Still, there is plenty of privacy, for no
white person will come in without notice, of course.  The native men
servants will, but they don't seem to count.  They glide in, barefoot and
noiseless, and are in the midst before one knows it.  At first this is a
shock, and sometimes it is an embarrassment; but one has to get used to
it, and does.

There was one tree in the compound, and a monkey lived in it.  At first I
was strongly interested in the tree, for I was told that it was the
renowned peepul--the tree in whose shadow you cannot tell a lie.  This
one failed to stand the test, and I went away from it disappointed.
There was a softly creaking well close by, and a couple of oxen drew
water from it by the hour, superintended by two natives dressed in the
usual "turban and pocket-handkerchief."  The tree and the well were the
only scenery, and so the compound was a soothing and lonesome and
satisfying place; and very restful after so many activities.  There was
nobody in our bungalow but ourselves; the other guests were in the next
one, where the table d'hote was furnished.  A body could not be more
pleasantly situated.  Each room had the customary bath attached--a room
ten or twelve feet square, with a roomy stone-paved pit in it and
abundance of water.  One could not easily improve upon this arrangement,
except by furnishing it with cold water and excluding the hot, in
deference to the fervency of the climate; but that is forbidden.  It
would damage the bather's health.  The stranger is warned against taking
cold baths in India, but even the most intelligent strangers are fools,
and they do not obey, and so they presently get laid up.  I was the most
intelligent fool that passed through, that year.  But I am still more
intelligent now.  Now that it is too late.

I wonder if the 'dorian', if that is the name of it, is another
superstition, like the peepul tree.  There was a great abundance and
variety of tropical fruits, but the dorian was never in evidence.  It was
never the season for the dorian.  It was always going to arrive from
Burma sometime or other, but it never did.  By all accounts it was a most
strange fruit, and incomparably delicious to the taste, but not to the
smell.  Its rind was said to exude a stench of so atrocious a nature that
when a dorian was in the room even the presence of a polecat was a
refreshment.  We found many who had eaten the dorian, and they all spoke
of it with a sort of rapture.  They said that if you could hold your nose
until the fruit was in your mouth a sacred joy would suffuse you from
head to foot that would make you oblivious to the smell of the rind, but
that if your grip slipped and you caught the smell of the rind before the
fruit was in your mouth, you would faint.  There is a fortune in that
rind.  Some day somebody will import it into Europe and sell it for
cheese.

Benares was not a disappointment.  It justified its reputation as a
curiosity.  It is on high ground, and overhangs a grand curve of the
Ganges.  It is a vast mass of building, compactly crusting a hill, and is
cloven in all directions by an intricate confusion of cracks which stand
for streets.  Tall, slim minarets and beflagged temple-spires rise out of
it and give it picturesqueness, viewed from the river.  The city is as
busy as an ant-hill, and the hurly-burly of human life swarming along the
web of narrow streets reminds one of the ants.  The sacred cow swarms
along, too, and goes whither she pleases, and takes toll of the grain-
shops, and is very much in the way, and is a good deal of a nuisance,
since she must not be molested.

Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than
legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together.  From a
Hindoo statement quoted in Rev. Mr. Parker's compact and lucid Guide to
Benares, I find that the site of the town was the beginning-place of the
Creation.  It was merely an upright "lingam," at first, no larger than a
stove-pipe, and stood in the midst of a shoreless ocean.  This was the
work of the God Vishnu.  Later he spread the lingam out till its surface
was ten miles across.  Still it was not large enough for the business;
therefore he presently built the globe around it.  Benares is thus the
center of the earth.  This is considered an advantage.

It has had a tumultuous history, both materially and spiritually.  It
started Brahminically, many ages ago; then by and by Buddha came in
recent times 2,500 years ago, and after that it was Buddhist during many
centuries--twelve, perhaps--but the Brahmins got the upper hand again,
then, and have held it ever since.  It is unspeakably sacred in Hindoo
eyes, and is as unsanitary as it is sacred, and smells like the rind of
the dorian.  It is the headquarters of the Brahmin faith, and one-eighth
of the population are priests of that church.  But it is not an
overstock, for they have all India as a prey.  All India flocks thither
on pilgrimage, and pours its savings into the pockets of the priests in a
generous stream, which never fails.  A priest with a good stand on the
shore of the Ganges is much better off than the sweeper of the best
crossing in London.  A good stand is worth a world of money.  The holy
proprietor of it sits under his grand spectacular umbrella and blesses
people all his life, and collects his commission, and grows fat and rich;
and the stand passes from father to son, down and down and down through
the ages, and remains a permanent and lucrative estate in the family.  As
Mr. Parker suggests, it can become a subject of dispute, at one time or
another, and then the matter will be settled, not by prayer and fasting
and consultations with Vishnu, but by the intervention of a much more
puissant power--an English court.  In Bombay I was told by an American
missionary that in India there are 640 Protestant missionaries at work.
At first it seemed an immense force, but of course that was a thoughtless
idea.  One missionary to 500,000 natives--no, that is not a force; it is
the reverse of it; 640 marching against an intrenched camp of
300,000,000--the odds are too great.  A force of 640 in Benares alone
would have its hands over-full with 8,000 Brahmin priests for adversary.
Missionaries need to be well equipped with hope and confidence, and this
equipment they seem to have always had in all parts of the world.  Mr.
Parker has it.  It enables him to get a favorable outlook out of
statistics which might add up differently with other mathematicians.  For
instance:

"During the past few years competent observers declare that the number of
pilgrims to Benares has increased."

And then he adds up this fact and gets this conclusion:

"But the revival, if so it may be called, has in it the marks of death.
It is a spasmodic struggle before dissolution."

In this world we have seen the Roman Catholic power dying, upon these
same terms, for many centuries.  Many a time we have gotten all ready for
the funeral and found it postponed again, on account of the weather or
something.  Taught by experience, we ought not to put on our things for
this Brahminical one till we see the procession move.  Apparently one of
the most uncertain things in the world is the funeral of a religion.

I should have been glad to acquire some sort of idea of Hindoo theology,
but the difficulties were too great, the matter was too intricate.  Even
the mere A, B, C of it is baffling.

There is a trinity--Brahma, Shiva, and Vishnu--independent powers,
apparently, though one cannot feel quite sure of that, because in one of
the temples there is an image where an attempt has been made to
concentrate the three in one person.  The three have other names and
plenty of them, and this makes confusion in one's mind.  The three have
wives and the wives have several names, and this increases the confusion.
There are children, the children have many names, and thus the confusion
goes on and on.  It is not worth while to try to get any grip upon the
cloud of minor gods, there are too many of them.

It is even a justifiable economy to leave Brahma, the chiefest god of
all, out of your studies, for he seems to cut no great figure in India.
The vast bulk of the national worship is lavished upon Shiva and Vishnu
and their families.  Shiva's symbol--the "lingam" with which Vishnu began
the Creation--is worshiped by everybody, apparently.  It is the commonest
object in Benares.  It is on view everywhere, it is garlanded with
flowers, offerings are made to it, it suffers no neglect.  Commonly it is
an upright stone, shaped like a thimble-sometimes like an elongated
thimble.  This priapus-worship, then, is older than history.  Mr. Parker
says that the lingams in Benares "outnumber the inhabitants."

In Benares there are many Mohammedan mosques.  There are Hindoo temples
without number--these quaintly shaped and elaborately sculptured little
stone jugs crowd all the lanes.  The Ganges itself and every individual
drop of water in it are temples.  Religion, then, is the business of
Benares, just as gold-production is the business of Johannesburg.  Other
industries count for nothing as compared with the vast and all-absorbing
rush and drive and boom of the town's specialty.  Benares is the
sacredest of sacred cities.  The moment you step across the sharply-
defined line which separates it from the rest of the globe, you stand
upon ineffably and unspeakably holy ground.  Mr. Parker says: "It is
impossible to convey any adequate idea of the intense feelings of
veneration and affection with which the pious Hindoo regards 'Holy Kashi'
(Benares)." And then he gives you this vivid and moving picture:

     "Let a Hindoo regiment be marched through the district, and as soon
     as they cross the line and enter the limits of the holy place they
     rend the air with cries of 'Kashi ji ki jai--jai--jai!  (Holy
     Kashi!  Hail to thee!  Hail!  Hail!  Hail)'.  The weary pilgrim
     scarcely able to stand, with age and weakness, blinded by the dust
     and heat, and almost dead with fatigue, crawls out of the oven-like
     railway carriage and as soon as his feet touch the ground he lifts
     up his withered hands and utters the same pious exclamation.  Let a
     European in some distant city in casual talk in the bazar mention
     the fact that he has lived at Benares, and at once voices will be
     raised to call down blessings on his head, for a dweller in Benares
     is of all men most blessed."

It makes our own religious enthusiasm seem pale and cold.  Inasmuch as
the life of religion is in the heart, not the head, Mr. Parker's touching
picture seems to promise a sort of indefinite postponement of that
funeral.




CHAPTER LI.

Let me make the superstitions of a nation and I care not who makes its
laws or its songs either.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Yes, the city of Benares is in effect just a big church, a religious
hive, whose every cell is a temple, a shrine or a mosque, and whose every
conceivable earthly and heavenly good is procurable under one roof, so to
speak--a sort of Army and Navy Stores, theologically stocked.

I will make out a little itinerary for the pilgrim; then you will see how
handy the system is, how convenient, how comprehensive.  If you go to
Benares with a serious desire to spiritually benefit yourself, you will
find it valuable.  I got some of the facts from conversations with the
Rev. Mr. Parker and the others from his Guide to Benares; they are
therefore trustworthy.

1. Purification.  At sunrise you must go down to the Ganges and bathe,
pray, and drink some of the water.  This is for your general
purification.

2. Protection against Hunger.  Next, you must fortify yourself against
the sorrowful earthly ill just named.  This you will do by worshiping for
a moment in the Cow Temple.  By the door of it you will find an image of
Ganesh, son of Shiva; it has the head of an elephant on a human body; its
face and hands are of silver.  You will worship it a little, and pass on,
into a covered veranda, where you will find devotees reciting from the
sacred books, with the help of instructors.  In this place are groups of
rude and dismal idols.  You may contribute something for their support;
then pass into the temple, a grim and stenchy place, for it is populous
with sacred cows and with beggars.  You will give something to the
beggars, and "reverently kiss the tails" of such cows as pass along, for
these cows are peculiarly holy, and this act of worship will secure you
from hunger for the day.

3. "The Poor Man's Friend."  You will next worship this god.  He is at
the bottom of a stone cistern in the temple of Dalbhyeswar, under the
shade of a noble peepul tree on the bluff overlooking the Ganges, so you
must go back to the river.  The Poor Man's Friend is the god of material
prosperity in general, and the god of the rain in particular.  You will
secure material prosperity, or both, by worshiping him.  He is Shiva,
under a new alias, and he abides in the bottom of that cistern, in the
form of a stone lingam.  You pour Ganges water over him, and in return
for this homage you get the promised benefits.  If there is any delay
about the rain, you must pour water in until the cistern is full; the
rain will then be sure to come.

4. Fever.  At the Kedar Ghat you will find a long flight of stone steps
leading down to the river.  Half way down is a tank filled with sewage.
Drink as much of it as you want.  It is for fever.

5. Smallpox.  Go straight from there to the central Ghat.  At its
upstream end you will find a small whitewashed building, which is a
temple sacred to Sitala, goddess of smallpox.  Her under-study is there--
a rude human figure behind a brass screen.  You will worship this for
reasons to be furnished presently.

6. The Well of Fate.  For certain reasons you will next go and do homage
at this well.  You will find it in the Dandpan Temple, in the city.  The
sunlight falls into it from a square hole in the masonry above.  You will
approach it with awe, for your life is now at stake.  You will bend over
and look.  If the fates are propitious, you will see your face pictured
in the water far down in the well.  If matters have been otherwise
ordered, a sudden cloud will mask the sun and you will see nothing.  This
means that you have not six months to live.  If you are already at the
point of death, your circumstances are now serious.  There is no time to
lose.  Let this world go, arrange for the next one.  Handily situated, at
your very elbow, is opportunity for this.  You turn and worship the image
of Maha Kal, the Great Fate, and happiness in the life to come is
secured.  If there is breath in your body yet, you should now make an
effort to get a further lease of the present life.  You have a chance.
There is a chance for everything in this admirably stocked and
wonderfully systemized Spiritual and Temporal Army and Navy Store.  You
must get yourself carried to the

7. Well of Long Life.  This is within the precincts of the mouldering and
venerable Briddhkal Temple, which is one of the oldest in Benares.  You
pass in by a stone image of the monkey god, Hanuman, and there, among the
ruined courtyards, you will find a shallow pool of stagnant sewage.  It
smells like the best limburger cheese, and is filthy with the washings of
rotting lepers, but that is nothing, bathe in it; bathe in it gratefully
and worshipfully, for this is the Fountain of Youth; these are the Waters
of Long Life.  Your gray hairs will disappear, and with them your
wrinkles and your rheumatism, the burdens of care and the weariness of
age, and you will come out young, fresh, elastic, and full of eagerness
for the new race of life.  Now will come flooding upon you the manifold
desires that haunt the dear dreams of the morning of life.  You will go
whither you will find

8. Fulfillment of Desire.  To wit, to the Kameshwar Temple, sacred to
Shiva as the Lord of Desires.  Arrange for yours there.  And if you like
to look at idols among the pack and jam of temples, there you will find
enough to stock a museum.  You will begin to commit sins now with a
fresh, new vivacity; therefore, it will be well to go frequently to a
place where you can get

9. Temporary Cleansing from Sin.  To wit, to the Well of the Earring.
You must approach this with the profoundest reverence, for it is
unutterably sacred.  It is, indeed, the most sacred place in Benares, the
very Holy of Holies, in the estimation of the people.  It is a railed
tank, with stone stairways leading down to the water.  The water is not
clean.  Of course it could not be, for people are always bathing in it.
As long as you choose to stand and look, you will see the files of
sinners descending and ascending--descending soiled with sin, ascending
purged from it.  "The liar, the thief, the murderer, and the adulterer
may here wash and be clean," says the Rev. Mr. Parker, in his book.  Very
well.  I know Mr. Parker, and I believe it; but if anybody else had said
it, I should consider him a person who had better go down in the tank and
take another wash.  The god Vishnu dug this tank.  He had nothing to dig
with but his "discus." I do not know what a discus is, but I know it is a
poor thing to dig tanks with, because, by the time this one was finished,
it was full of sweat--Vishnu's sweat.  He constructed the site that
Benares stands on, and afterward built the globe around it, and thought
nothing of it, yet sweated like that over a little thing like this tank.
One of these statements is doubtful.  I do not know which one it is, but
I think it difficult not to believe that a god who could build a world
around Benares would not be intelligent enough to build it around the
tank too, and not have to dig it.  Youth, long life, temporary
purification from sin, salvation through propitiation of the Great Fate--
these are all good.  But you must do something more.  You must

10. Make Salvation Sure.  There are several ways.  To get drowned in
the Ganges is one, but that is not pleasant.  To die within the limits of
Benares is another; but that is a risky one, because you might be out of
town when your time came.  The best one of all is the Pilgrimage Around
the City.  You must walk; also, you must go barefoot.  The tramp is
forty-four miles, for the road winds out into the country a piece, and
you will be marching five or six days.  But you will have plenty of
company.  You will move with throngs and hosts of happy pilgrims whose
radiant costumes will make the spectacle beautiful and whose glad songs
and holy pans of triumph will banish your fatigues and cheer your spirit;
and at intervals there will be temples where you may sleep and be
refreshed with food.  The pilgrimage completed, you have purchased
salvation, and paid for it.  But you may not get it unless you

11. Get Your Redemption Recorded.  You can get this done at the Sakhi
Binayak Temple, and it is best to do it, for otherwise you might not be
able to prove that you had made the pilgrimage in case the matter should
some day come to be disputed.  That temple is in a lane back of the Cow
Temple.  Over the door is a red image of Ganesh of the elephant head, son
and heir of Shiva, and Prince of Wales to the Theological Monarchy, so to
speak.  Within is a god whose office it is to record your pilgrimage and
be responsible for you.  You will not see him, but you will see a Brahmin
who will attend to the matter and take the money.  If he should forget to
collect the money, you can remind him.  He knows that your salvation is
now secure, but of course you would like to know it yourself.  You have
nothing to do but go and pray, and pay at the

12.  Well of the Knowledge of Salvation.  It is close to the Golden
Temple.  There you will see, sculptured out of a single piece of black
marble, a bull which is much larger than any living bull you have ever
seen, and yet is not a good likeness after all.  And there also you will
see a very uncommon thing--an image of Shiva.  You have seen his lingam
fifty thousand times already, but this is Shiva himself, and said to be a
good likeness.  It has three eyes.  He is the only god in the firm that
has three.  "The well is covered by a fine canopy of stone supported by
forty pillars," and around it you will find what you have already seen at
almost every shrine you have visited in Benares, a mob of devout and
eager pilgrims.  The sacred water is being ladled out to them; with it
comes to them the knowledge, clear, thrilling, absolute, that they are
saved; and you can see by their faces that there is one happiness in this
world which is supreme, and to which no other joy is comparable.  You
receive your water, you make your deposit, and now what more would you
have?  Gold, diamonds, power, fame?  All in a single moment these things
have withered to dirt, dust, ashes.  The world has nothing to give you
now.  For you it is bankrupt.

I do not claim that the pilgrims do their acts of worship in the order
and sequence above charted out in this Itinerary of mine, but I think
logic suggests that they ought to do so.  Instead of a helter-skelter
worship, we then have a definite starting-place, and a march which
carries the pilgrim steadily forward by reasoned and logical progression
to a definite goal.  Thus, his Ganges bath in the early morning gives him
an appetite; he kisses the cow-tails, and that removes it.  It is now
business hours, and longings for material prosperity rise in his mind,
and be goes and pours water over Shiva's symbol; this insures the
prosperity, but also brings on a rain, which gives him a fever.  Then he
drinks the sewage at the Kedar Ghat to cure the fever; it cures the fever
but gives him the smallpox.  He wishes to know how it is going to turn
out; he goes to the Dandpan Temple and looks down the well.  A clouded
sun shows him that death is near.  Logically his best course for the
present, since he cannot tell at what moment he may die, is to secure a
happy hereafter; this he does, through the agency of the Great Fate.  He
is safe, now, for heaven; his next move will naturally be to keep out of
it as long as he can.  Therefore he goes to the Briddhkal Temple and
secures Youth and long life by bathing in a puddle of leper-pus which
would kill a microbe.  Logically, Youth has re-equipped him for sin and
with the disposition to commit it; he will naturally go to the fane which
is consecrated to the Fulfillment of Desires, and make arrangements.
Logically, he will now go to the Well of the Earring from time to time to
unload and freshen up for further banned enjoyments.  But first and last
and all the time he is human, and therefore in his reflective intervals
he will always be speculating in "futures."  He will make the Great
Pilgrimage around the city and so make his salvation absolutely sure; he
will also have record made of it, so that it may remain absolutely sure
and not be forgotten or repudiated in the confusion of the Final
Settlement.  Logically, also, he will wish to have satisfying and
tranquilizing personal knowledge that that salvation is secure; therefore
he goes to the Well of the Knowledge of Salvation, adds that completing
detail, and then goes about his affairs serene and content; serene and
content, for he is now royally endowed with an advantage which no
religion in this world could give him but his own; for henceforth he may
commit as many million sins as he wants to and nothing can come of it.

Thus the system, properly and logically ordered, is neat, compact,
clearly defined, and covers the whole ground.  I desire to recommend it
to such as find the other systems too difficult, exacting, and irksome
for the uses of this fretful brief life of ours.

However, let me not deceive any one.  My Itinerary lacks a detail.  I
must put it in.  The truth is, that after the pilgrim has faithfully
followed the requirements of the Itinerary through to the end and has
secured his salvation and also the personal knowledge of that fact, there
is still an accident possible to him which can annul the whole thing.  If
he should ever cross to the other side of the Ganges and get caught out
and die there he would at once come to life again in the form of an ass.
Think of that, after all this trouble and expense.  You see how
capricious and uncertain salvation is there.  The Hindoo has a childish
and unreasoning aversion to being turned into an ass.  It is hard to tell
why.  One could properly expect an ass to have an aversion to being
turned into a Hindoo.  One could understand that he could lose dignity by
it; also self-respect, and nine-tenths of his intelligence.  But the
Hindoo changed into an ass wouldn't lose anything, unless you count his
religion.  And he would gain much--release from his slavery to two
million gods and twenty million priests, fakeers, holy mendicants, and
other sacred bacilli; he would escape the Hindoo hell; he would also
escape the Hindoo heaven.  These are advantages which the Hindoo ought to
consider; then he would go over and die on the other side.

Benares is a religious Vesuvius.  In its bowels the theological forces
have been heaving and tossing, rumbling, thundering and quaking, boiling,
and weltering and flaming and smoking for ages.  But a little group of
missionaries have taken post at its base, and they have hopes.  There are
the Baptist Missionary Society, the Church Missionary Society, the London
Missionary Society, the Wesleyan Missionary Society, and the Zenana Bible
and Medical Mission.  They have schools, and the principal work seems to
be among the children.  And no doubt that part of the work prospers best,
for grown people everywhere are always likely to cling to the religion
they were brought up in.




CHAPTER LII.

Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

In one of those Benares temples we saw a devotee working for salvation in
a curious way.  He had a huge wad of clay beside him and was making it up
into little wee gods no bigger than carpet tacks.  He stuck a grain of
rice into each--to represent the lingam, I think.  He turned them out
nimbly, for he had had long practice and had acquired great facility.
Every day he made 2,000 gods, then threw them into the holy Ganges.  This
act of homage brought him the profound homage of the pious--also their
coppers.  He had a sure living here, and was earning a high place in the
hereafter.

The Ganges front is the supreme show-place of Benares.  Its tall bluffs
are solidly caked from water to summit, along a stretch of three miles,
with a splendid jumble of massive and picturesque masonry, a bewildering
and beautiful confusion of stone platforms, temples, stair-flights, rich
and stately palaces--nowhere a break, nowhere a glimpse of the bluff
itself; all the long face of it is compactly walled from sight by this
crammed perspective of platforms, soaring stairways, sculptured temples,
majestic palaces, softening away into the distances; and there is
movement, motion, human life everywhere, and brilliantly costumed--
streaming in rainbows up and down the lofty stairways, and massed in
metaphorical flower-gardens on the miles of great platforms at the
river's edge.

All this masonry, all this architecture represents piety.  The palaces
were built by native princes whose homes, as a rule, are far from
Benares, but who go there from time to time to refresh their souls with
the sight and touch of the Ganges, the river of their idolatry.  The
stairways are records of acts of piety; the crowd of costly little
temples are tokens of money spent by rich men for present credit and hope
of future reward.  Apparently, the rich Christian who spends large sums
upon his religion is conspicuous with us, by his rarity, but the rich
Hindoo who doesn't spend large sums upon his religion is seemingly non-
existent.  With us the poor spend money on their religion, but they keep
back some to live on.  Apparently, in India, the poor bankrupt themselves
daily for their religion.  The rich Hindoo can afford his pious outlays;
he gets much glory for his spendings, yet keeps back a sufficiency of his
income for temporal purposes; but the poor Hindoo is entitled to
compassion, for his spendings keep him poor, yet get him no glory.

We made the usual trip up and down the river, seated in chairs under an
awning on the deck of the usual commodious hand-propelled ark; made it
two or three times, and could have made it with increasing interest and
enjoyment many times more; for, of course, the palaces and temples would
grow more and more beautiful every time one saw them, for that happens
with all such things; also, I think one would not get tired of the
bathers, nor their costumes, nor of their ingenuities in getting out of
them and into them again without exposing too much bronze, nor of their
devotional gesticulations and absorbed bead-tellings.

But I should get tired of seeing them wash their mouths with that
dreadful water and drink it.  In fact, I did get tired of it, and very
early, too.  At one place where we halted for a while, the foul gush from
a sewer was making the water turbid and murky all around, and there was a
random corpse slopping around in it that had floated down from up
country.  Ten steps below that place stood a crowd of men, women, and
comely young maidens waist deep in the water-and they were scooping it up
in their hands and drinking it.  Faith can certainly do wonders, and this
is an instance of it.  Those people were not drinking that fearful stuff
to assuage thirst, but in order to purify their souls and the interior of
their bodies.  According to their creed, the Ganges water makes
everything pure that it touches--instantly and utterly pure.  The sewer
water was not an offence to them, the corpse did not revolt them; the
sacred water had touched both, and both were now snow-pure, and could
defile no one.  The memory of that sight will always stay by me; but not
by request.

A word further concerning the nasty but all-purifying Ganges water.  When
we went to Agra, by and by, we happened there just in time to be in at
the birth of a marvel--a memorable scientific discovery--the discovery
that in certain ways the foul and derided Ganges water is the most
puissant purifier in the world!  This curious fact, as I have said, had
just been added to the treasury of modern science.  It had long been
noted as a strange thing that while Benares is often afflicted with the
cholera she does not spread it beyond her borders.  This could not be
accounted for.  Mr. Henkin, the scientist in the employ of the government
of Agra, concluded to examine the water.  He went to Benares and made his
tests.  He got water at the mouths of the sewers where they empty into
the river at the bathing ghats; a cubic centimetre of it contained
millions of germs; at the end of six hours they were all dead.  He caught
a floating corpse, towed it to the shore, and from beside it he dipped up
water that was swarming with cholera germs; at the end of six hours they
were all dead.  He added swarm after swarm of cholera germs to this
water; within the six hours they always died, to the last sample.
Repeatedly, he took pure well water which was bare of animal life, and
put into it a few cholera germs; they always began to propagate at once,
and always within six hours they swarmed--and were numberable by millions
upon millions.

For ages and ages the Hindoos have had absolute faith that the water of
the Ganges was absolutely pure, could not be defiled by any contact
whatsoever, and infallibly made pure and clean whatsoever thing touched
it.  They still believe it, and that is why they bathe in it and drink
it, caring nothing for its seeming filthiness and the floating corpses.
The Hindoos have been laughed at, these many generations, but the
laughter will need to modify itself a little from now on.  How did they
find out the water's secret in those ancient ages?  Had they germ-
scientists then?  We do not know.  We only know that they had a
civilization long before we emerged from savagery.  But to return to
where I was before; I was about to speak of the burning-ghat.

They do not burn fakeers--those revered mendicants.  They are so holy
that they can get to their place without that sacrament, provided they be
consigned to the consecrating river.  We saw one carried to mid-stream
and thrown overboard.  He was sandwiched between two great slabs of
stone.

We lay off the cremation-ghat half an hour and saw nine corpses burned.
I should not wish to see any more of it, unless I might select the
parties.  The mourners follow the bier through the town and down to the
ghat; then the bier-bearers deliver the body to some low-caste natives--
Doms--and the mourners turn about and go back home.  I heard no crying
and saw no tears, there was no ceremony of parting.  Apparently, these
expressions of grief and affection are reserved for the privacy of the
home.  The dead women came draped in red, the men in white.  They are
laid in the water at the river's edge while the pyre is being prepared.

The first subject was a man.  When the Doms unswathed him to wash him, he
proved to be a sturdily built, well-nourished and handsome old gentleman,
with not a sign about him to suggest that he had ever been ill.  Dry wood
was brought and built up into a loose pile; the corpse was laid upon it
and covered over with fuel.  Then a naked holy man who was sitting on
high ground a little distance away began to talk and shout with great
energy, and he kept up this noise right along.  It may have been the
funeral sermon, and probably was.  I forgot to say that one of the
mourners remained behind when the others went away.  This was the dead
man's son, a boy of ten or twelve, brown and handsome, grave and self-
possessed, and clothed in flowing white.  He was there to burn his
father.  He was given a torch, and while he slowly walked seven times
around the pyre the naked black man on the high ground poured out his
sermon more clamorously than ever.  The seventh circuit completed, the
boy applied the torch at his father's head, then at his feet; the flames
sprang briskly up with a sharp crackling noise, and the lad went away.
Hindoos do not want daughters, because their weddings make such a ruinous
expense; but they want sons, so that at death they may have honorable
exit from the world; and there is no honor equal to the honor of having
one's pyre lighted by one's son.  The father who dies sonless is in a
grievous situation indeed, and is pitied.  Life being uncertain, the
Hindoo marries while he is still a boy, in the hope that he will have a
son ready when the day of his need shall come.  But if he have no son, he
will adopt one.  This answers every purpose.

Meantime the corpse is burning, also several others.  It is a dismal
business.  The stokers did not sit down in idleness, but moved briskly
about, punching up the fires with long poles, and now and then adding
fuel.  Sometimes they hoisted the half of a skeleton into the air, then
slammed it down and beat it with the pole, breaking it up so that it
would burn better.  They hoisted skulls up in the same way and banged and
battered them.  The sight was hard to bear; it would have been harder if
the mourners had stayed to witness it.  I had but a moderate desire to
see a cremation, so it was soon satisfied.  For sanitary reasons it would
be well if cremation were universal; but this form is revolting, and not
to be recommended.

The fire used is sacred, of course--for there is money in it.  Ordinary
fire is forbidden; there is no money in it.  I was told that this sacred
fire is all furnished by one person, and that he has a monopoly of it and
charges a good price for it.  Sometimes a rich mourner pays a thousand
rupees for it.  To get to paradise from India is an expensive thing.
Every detail connected with the matter costs something, and helps to
fatten a priest.  I suppose it is quite safe to conclude that that fire-
bug is in holy orders.

Close to the cremation-ground stand a few time-worn stones which are
remembrances of the suttee.  Each has a rough carving upon it,
representing a man and a woman standing or walking hand in hand, and
marks the spot where a widow went to her death by fire in the days when
the suttee flourished.  Mr. Parker said that widows would burn themselves
now if the government would allow it.  The family that can point to one
of these little memorials and say: "She who burned herself there was an
ancestress of ours," is envied.

It is a curious people.  With them, all life seems to be sacred except
human life.  Even the life of vermin is sacred, and must not be taken.
The good Jain wipes off a seat before using it, lest he cause the death
of-some valueless insect by sitting down on it.  It grieves him to have
to drink water, because the provisions in his stomach may not agree with
the microbes.  Yet India invented Thuggery and the Suttee.  India is a
hard country to understand.  We went to the temple of the Thug goddess,
Bhowanee, or Kali, or Durga.  She has these names and others.  She is the
only god to whom living sacrifices are made.  Goats are sacrificed to
her.  Monkeys would be cheaper.  There are plenty of them about the
place.  Being sacred, they make themselves very free, and scramble around
wherever they please.  The temple and its porch are beautifully carved,
but this is not the case with the idol.  Bhowanee is not pleasant to look
at.  She has a silver face, and a projecting swollen  tongue painted a
deep red.  She wears a necklace of skulls.

In fact, none of the idols in Benares are handsome or attractive.  And
what a swarm of them there is!  The town is a vast museum of idols--and
all of them crude, misshapen, and ugly.  They flock through one's dreams
at night, a wild mob of nightmares.  When you get tired of them in the
temples and take a trip on the river, you find idol giants, flashily
painted, stretched out side by side on the shore.  And apparently
wherever there is room for one more lingam, a lingam is there.  If Vishnu
had foreseen what his town was going to be, he would have called it
Idolville or Lingamburg.

The most conspicuous feature of Benares is the pair of slender white
minarets which tower like masts from the great Mosque of Aurangzeb.  They
seem to be always in sight, from everywhere, those airy, graceful,
inspiring things.  But masts is not the right word, for masts have a
perceptible taper, while these minarets have not.  They are 142 feet
high, and only 8 1/2 feet in diameter at the base, and 7 1/2 at the
summit--scarcely any taper at all.  These are the proportions of a
candle; and fair and fairylike candles these are.  Will be, anyway, some
day, when the Christians inherit them and top them with the electric
light.  There is a great view from up there--a wonderful view.  A large
gray monkey was part of it, and damaged it.  A monkey has no judgment.
This one was skipping about the upper great heights of the mosque--
skipping across empty yawning intervals which were almost too wide for
him, and which he only just barely cleared, each time, by the skin of his
teeth.  He got me so nervous that I couldn't look at the view.  I
couldn't look at anything but him.  Every time he went sailing over one
of those abysses my breath stood still, and when he grabbed for the perch
he was going for, I grabbed too, in sympathy.  And he was perfectly
indifferent, perfectly unconcerned, and I did all the panting myself.
He came within an ace of losing his life a dozen times, and I was so
troubled about him that I would have shot him if I had had anything to do
it with.  But I strongly recommend the view.  There is more monkey than
view, and there is always going to be more monkey while that idiot
survives, but what view you get is superb.  All Benares, the river, and
the region round about are spread before you.  Take a gun, and look at
the view.

The next thing I saw was more reposeful.  It was a new kind of art.  It
was a picture painted on water.  It was done by a native.  He sprinkled
fine dust of various colors on the still surface of a basin of water, and
out of these sprinklings a dainty and pretty picture gradually grew, a
picture which a breath could destroy.  Somehow it was impressive, after
so much browsing among massive and battered and decaying fanes that rest
upon ruins, and those ruins upon still other ruins, and those upon still
others again.  It was a sermon, an allegory, a symbol of Instability.
Those creations in stone were only a kind of water pictures, after all.

A prominent episode in the Indian career of Warren Hastings had Benares
for its theater.  Wherever that extraordinary man set his foot, he left
his mark.  He came to Benares in 1781 to collect a fine of L500,000 which
he had levied upon its Rajah, Cheit Singly on behalf of the East India
Company.  Hastings was a long way from home and help.  There were,
probably, not a dozen Englishmen within reach; the Rajah was in his fort
with his myriads around him.  But no matter.  From his little camp in a
neighboring garden, Hastings sent a party to arrest the sovereign.  He
sent on this daring mission a couple of hundred native soldiers sepoys--
under command of three young English lieutenants.  The Rajah submitted
without a word.  The incident lights up the Indian situation
electrically, and gives one a vivid sense of the strides which the
English had made and the mastership they had acquired in the land since
the date of Clive's great victory.  In a quarter of a century, from being
nobodies, and feared by none, they were become confessed lords and
masters, feared by all, sovereigns included, and served by all,
sovereigns included.  It makes the fairy tales sound true.  The English
had not been afraid to enlist native soldiers to fight against their own
people and keep them obedient.  And now Hastings was not afraid to come
away out to this remote place with a handful of such soldiers and send
them to arrest a native sovereign.

The lieutenants imprisoned the Rajah in his own fort.  It was beautiful,
the pluckiness of it, the impudence of it.  The arrest enraged the
Rajah's people, and all Benares came storming about the place and
threatening vengeance.  And yet, but for an accident, nothing important
would have resulted, perhaps.  The mob found out a most strange thing, an
almost incredible thing--that this handful of soldiers had come on this
hardy errand with empty guns and no ammunition.  This has been attributed
to thoughtlessness, but it could hardly have been that, for in such large
emergencies as this, intelligent people do think.  It must have been
indifference, an over-confidence born of the proved submissiveness of the
native character, when confronted by even one or two stern Britons in
their war paint.  But, however that may be, it was a fatal discovery that
the mob had made.  They were full of courage, now, and they broke into
the fort and massacred the helpless soldiers and their officers.
Hastings escaped from Benares by night and got safely away, leaving the
principality in a state of wild insurrection; but he was back again
within the month, and quieted it down in his prompt and virile way, and
took the Rajah's throne away from him and gave it to another man.  He was
a capable kind of person was Warren Hastings.  This was the only time he
was ever out of ammunition.  Some of his acts have left stains upon his
name which can never be washed away, but he saved to England the Indian
Empire, and that was the best service that was ever done to the Indians
themselves, those wretched heirs of a hundred centuries of pitiless
oppression and abuse.




CHAPTER LIII.

True irreverence is disrespect for another man's god.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

It was in Benares that I saw another living god.  That makes two.
I believe I have seen most of the greater and lesser wonders of the
world, but I do not remember that any of them interested me so
overwhelmingly as did that pair of gods.

When I try to account for this effect I find no difficulty about it.
I find that, as a rule, when a thing is a wonder to us it is not because
of what we see in it, but because of what others have seen in it.  We get
almost all our wonders at second hand.  We are eager to see any
celebrated thing--and we never fail of our reward; just the deep
privilege of gazing upon an object which has stirred the enthusiasm or
evoked the reverence or affection or admiration of multitudes of our race
is a thing which we value; we are profoundly glad that we have seen it,
we are permanently enriched from having seen it, we would not part with
the memory of that experience for a great price.  And yet that very
spectacle may be the Taj.  You cannot keep your enthusiasms down, you
cannot keep your emotions within bounds when that soaring bubble of
marble breaks upon your view.  But these are not your enthusiasms and
emotions--they are the accumulated emotions and enthusiasms of a thousand
fervid writers, who have been slowly and steadily storing them up in your
heart day by day and year by year all your life; and now they burst out
in a flood and overwhelm you; and you could not be a whit happier if they
were your very own.  By and by you sober down, and then you perceive that
you have been drunk on the smell of somebody else's cork.  For ever and
ever the memory of my distant first glimpse of the Taj will compensate me
for creeping around the globe to have that great privilege.

But the Taj--with all your inflation of delusive emotions, acquired at
second-hand from people to whom in the majority of cases they were also
delusions acquired at second-hand--a thing which you fortunately did not
think of or it might have made you doubtful of what you imagined were
your own what is the Taj as a marvel, a spectacle and an uplifting and
overpowering wonder, compared with a living, breathing, speaking
personage whom several millions of human beings devoutly and sincerely
and unquestioningly believe to be a God, and humbly and gratefully
worship as a God?

He was sixty years old when I saw him.  He is called Sri 108 Swami
Bhaskarananda Saraswati.  That is one form of it.  I think that that is
what you would call him in speaking to him--because it is short.  But you
would use more of his name in addressing a letter to him; courtesy would
require this.  Even then you would not have to use all of it, but only
this much:

Sri 108 Matparamahansrzpairivrajakacharyaswamibhaskaranandasaraswati.

You do not put "Esq." after it, for that is not necessary.  The word
which opens the volley is itself a title of honor "Sri."  The "108"
stands for the rest of his names, I believe.  Vishnu has 108 names which
he does not use in business, and no doubt it is a custom of gods and a
privilege sacred to their order to keep 108 extra ones in stock.  Just
the restricted name set down above is a handsome property, without the
108.  By my count it has 58 letters in it.  This removes the long German
words from competition; they are permanently out of the race.

Sri 108 S. B. Saraswati has attained to what among the Hindoos is called
the "state of perfection."  It is a state which other Hindoos reach by
being born again and again, and over and over again into this world,
through one re-incarnation after another--a tiresome long job covering
centuries and decades of centuries, and one that is full of risks, too,
like the accident of dying on the wrong side of the Ganges some time or
other and waking up in the form of an ass, with a fresh start necessary
and the numerous trips to be made all over again.  But in reaching
perfection, Sri 108 S. B. S.  has escaped all that.  He is no longer a
part or a feature of this world; his substance has changed, all
earthiness has departed out of it; he is utterly holy, utterly pure;
nothing can desecrate this holiness or stain this purity; he is no longer
of the earth, its concerns are matters foreign to him, its pains and
griefs and troubles cannot reach him.  When he dies, Nirvana is his; he
will be absorbed into the substance of the Supreme Deity and be at peace
forever.

The Hindoo Scriptures point out how this state is to be reached, but it
is only once in a thousand years, perhaps, that candidate accomplishes
it.  This one has traversed the course required, stage by stage, from the
beginning to the end, and now has nothing left to do but wait for the
call which shall release him from a world in which he has now no part nor
lot.  First, he passed through the student stage, and became learned in
the holy books.  Next he became citizen, householder, husband, and
father.  That was the required second stage.  Then--like John Bunyan's
Christian he bade perpetual good-bye to his family, as required, and went
wandering away.  He went far into the desert and served a term as hermit.
Next, he became a beggar, "in accordance with the rites laid down in the
Scriptures," and wandered about India eating the bread of mendicancy.  A
quarter of a century ago he reached the stage of purity.  This needs no
garment; its symbol is nudity; he discarded the waist-cloth which he had
previously worn.  He could resume it now if he chose, for neither that
nor any other contact can defile him; but he does not choose.

There are several other stages, I believe, but I do not remember what
they are.  But he has been through them.  Throughout the long course he
was perfecting himself in holy learning, and writing commentaries upon
the sacred books.  He was also meditating upon Brahma, and he does that
now.

White marble relief-portraits of him are sold all about India.  He lives
in a good house in a noble great garden in Benares, all meet and proper
to his stupendous rank.  Necessarily he does not go abroad in the
streets.  Deities would never be able to move about handily in any
country.  If one whom we recognized and adored as a god should go abroad
in our streets, and the day it was to happen were known, all traffic
would be blocked and business would come to a standstill.

This god is comfortably housed, and yet modestly, all things considered,
for if he wanted to live in a palace he would only need to speak and his
worshipers would gladly build it.  Sometimes he sees devotees for a
moment, and comforts them and blesses them, and they kiss his feet and go
away happy.  Rank is nothing to him, he being a god.  To him all men are
alike.  He sees whom he pleases and denies himself to whom he pleases.
Sometimes he sees a prince and denies himself to a pauper; at other times
he receives the pauper and turns the prince away.  However, he does not
receive many of either class.  He has to husband his time for his
meditations.  I think he would receive Rev. Mr. Parker at any time.  I
think he is sorry for Mr. Parker, and I think Mr. Parker is sorry for
him; and no doubt this compassion is good for both of them.

When we arrived we had to stand around in the garden a little while and
wait, and the outlook was not good, for he had been turning away
Maharajas that day and receiving only the riff-raff, and we belonged in
between, somewhere.  But presently, a servant came out saying it was all
right, he was coming.

And sure enough, he came, and I saw him--that object of the worship of
millions.  It was a strange sensation, and thrilling.  I wish I could
feel it stream through my veins again.  And yet, to me he was not a god,
he was only a Taj.  The thrill was not my thrill, but had come to me
secondhand from those invisible millions of believers.  By a hand-shake
with their god I had ground-circuited their wire and got their monster
battery's whole charge.

He was tall and slender, indeed emaciated.  He had a clean cut and
conspicuously intellectual face, and a deep and kindly eye.  He looked
many years older than he really was, but much study and meditation and
fasting and prayer, with the arid life he had led as hermit and beggar,
could account for that.  He is wholly nude when he receives natives, of
whatever rank they may be, but he had white cloth around his loins now, a
concession to Mr. Parker's Europe prejudices, no doubt.

As soon as I had sobered down a little we got along very well together,
and I found him a most pleasant and friendly deity.  He had heard a deal
about Chicago, and showed a quite remarkable interest in it, for a god.
It all came of the World's Fair and the Congress of Religions.  If India
knows about nothing else American, she knows about those, and will keep
them in mind one while.

He proposed an exchange of autographs, a delicate attention which made me
believe in him, but I had been having my doubts before.  He wrote his in
his book, and I have a reverent regard for that book, though the words
run from right to left, and so I can't read it.  It was a mistake to
print in that way.  It contains his voluminous comments on the Hindoo
holy writings, and if I could make them out I would try for perfection
myself.  I gave him a copy of Huckleberry Finn.  I thought it might rest
him up a little to mix it in along with his meditations on Brahma, for he
looked tired, and I knew that if it didn't do him any good it wouldn't do
him any harm.

He has a scholar meditating under him--Mina Bahadur Rana--but we did not
see him.  He wears clothes and is very imperfect.  He has written a
little pamphlet about his master, and I have that.  It contains a wood-
cut of the master and himself seated on a rug in the garden.  The
portrait of the master is very good indeed.  The posture is exactly that
which Brahma himself affects, and it requires long arms and limber legs,
and can be accumulated only by gods and the india-rubber man.  There is a
life-size marble relief of Shri 108, S.B.S.  in the garden.  It
represents him in this same posture.

Dear me!  It is a strange world.  Particularly the Indian division of it.
This pupil, Mina Bahadur Rana, is not a commonplace person, but a man of
distinguished capacities and attainments, and, apparently, he had a fine
worldly career in front of him.  He was serving the Nepal Government in a
high capacity at the Court of the Viceroy of India, twenty years ago.  He
was an able man, educated, a thinker, a man of property.  But the longing
to devote himself to a religious life came upon him, and he resigned his
place, turned his back upon the vanities and comforts of the world, and
went away into the solitudes to live in a hut and study the sacred
writings and meditate upon virtue and holiness and seek to attain them.
This sort of religion resembles ours.  Christ recommended the rich to
give away all their property and follow Him in poverty, not in worldly
comfort.  American and English millionaires do it every day, and thus
verify and confirm to the world the tremendous forces that lie in
religion.  Yet many people scoff at them for this loyalty to duty, and
many will scoff at Mina Bahadur Rana and call him a crank.  Like many
Christians of great character and intellect, he has made the study of his
Scriptures and the writing of books of commentaries upon them the loving
labor of his life.  Like them, he has believed that his was not an idle
and foolish waste of his life, but a most worthy and honorable employment
of it.  Yet, there are many people who will see in those others, men
worthy of homage and deep reverence, but in him merely a crank.  But I
shall not.  He has my reverence.  And I don't offer it as a common thing
and poor, but as an unusual thing and of value.  The ordinary reverence,
the reverence defined and explained by the dictionary costs nothing.
Reverence for one's own sacred things--parents, religion, flag, laws, and
respect for one's own beliefs--these are feelings which we cannot even
help.  They come natural to us; they are involuntary, like breathing.
There is no personal merit in breathing.  But the reverence which is
difficult, and which has personal merit in it, is the respect which you
pay, without compulsion, to the political or religious attitude of a man
whose beliefs are not yours.  You can't revere his gods or his politics,
and no one expects you to do that, but you could respect his belief in
them if you tried hard enough; and you could respect him, too, if you
tried hard enough.  But it is very, very difficult; it is next to
impossible, and so we hardly ever try.  If the man doesn't believe as we
do, we say he is a crank, and that settles it.  I mean it does nowadays,
because now we can't burn him.

We are always canting about people's "irreverence," always charging this
offense upon somebody or other, and thereby intimating that we are better
than that person and do not commit that offense ourselves.  Whenever we
do this we are in a lying attitude, and our speech is cant; for none of
us are reverent--in a meritorious way; deep down in our hearts we are all
irreverent.  There is probably not a single exception to this rule in the
earth.  There is probably not one person whose reverence rises higher
than respect for his own sacred things; and therefore, it is not a thing
to boast about and be proud of, since the most degraded savage has that--
and, like the best of us, has nothing higher.  To speak plainly, we
despise all reverences and all objects of reverence which are outside the
pale of our own list of sacred things.  And yet, with strange
inconsistency, we are shocked when other people despise and defile the
things which are holy to us.  Suppose we should meet with a paragraph
like the following, in the newspapers:

"Yesterday a visiting party of the British nobility had a picnic at Mount
Vernon, and in the tomb of Washington they ate their luncheon, sang
popular songs, played games, and danced waltzes and polkas."

Should we be shocked?  Should we feel outraged?  Should we be amazed?
Should we call the performance a desecration?  Yes, that would all
happen.  We should denounce those people in round terms, and call them
hard names.

And suppose we found this paragraph in the newspapers:

"Yesterday a visiting party of American pork-millionaires had a picnic in
Westminster Abbey, and in that sacred place they ate their luncheon, sang
popular songs, played games, and danced waltzes and polkas."

Would the English be shocked?  Would they feel outraged?  Would they be
amazed?  Would they call the performance a desecration?  That would all
happen.  The pork-millionaires would be denounced in round terms; they
would be called hard names.

In the tomb at Mount Vernon lie the ashes of America's most honored son;
in the Abbey, the ashes of England's greatest dead; the tomb of tombs,
the costliest in the earth, the wonder of the world, the Taj, was built
by a great Emperor to honor the memory of a perfect wife and perfect
mother, one in whom there was no spot or blemish, whose love was his stay
and support, whose life was the light of the world to him; in it her
ashes lie, and to the Mohammedan millions of India it is a holy place; to
them it is what Mount Vernon is to Americans, it is what the Abbey is to
the English.

Major Sleeman wrote forty or fifty years ago (the italics are mine):

     "I would here enter my humble protest against the quadrille and
     lunch parties which are sometimes given to European ladies and
     gentlemen of the station at this imperial tomb; drinking and dancing
     are no doubt very good things in their season, but they are sadly
     out of place in a sepulchre."

Were there any Americans among those lunch parties?  If they were
invited, there were.

If my imagined lunch-parties in Westminster and the tomb of Washington
should take place, the incident would cause a vast outbreak of bitter
eloquence about Barbarism and Irreverence; and it would come from two
sets of people who would go next day and dance in the Taj if they had a
chance.

As we took our leave of the Benares god and started away we noticed a
group of natives waiting respectfully just within the gate--a Rajah from
somewhere in India, and some people of lesser consequence.  The god
beckoned them to come, and as we passed out the Rajah was kneeling and
reverently kissing his sacred feet.

If Barnum--but Barnum's ambitions are at rest.  This god will remain in
the holy peace and seclusion of his garden, undisturbed.  Barnum could
not have gotten him, anyway.  Still, he would have found a substitute
that would answer.




CHAPTER LIV.

Do not undervalue the headache.  While it is at its sharpest it seems a
bad investment; but when relief begins, the unexpired remainder is worth
$4 a minute.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

A comfortable railway journey of seventeen and a half hours brought us to
the capital of India, which is likewise the capital of Bengal--Calcutta.
Like Bombay, it has a population of nearly a million natives and a small
gathering of white people.  It is a huge city and fine, and is called the
City of Palaces.  It is rich in historical memories; rich in British
achievement--military, political, commercial; rich in the results of the
miracles done by that brace of mighty magicians, Clive and Hastings.  And
has a cloud kissing monument to one Ochterlony.

It is a fluted candlestick 250 feet high.  This lingam is the only large
monument in Calcutta, I believe.  It is a fine ornament, and will keep
Ochterlony in mind.

Wherever you are, in Calcutta, and for miles around, you can see it; and
always when you see it you think of Ochterlony.  And so there is not an
hour in the day that you do not think of Ochterlony and wonder who he
was.  It is good that Clive cannot come back, for he would think it was
for Plassey; and then that great spirit would be wounded when the
revelation came that it was not.  Clive would find out that it was for
Ochterlony; and he would think Ochterlony was a battle.  And he would
think it was a great one, too, and he would say, "With three thousand I
whipped sixty thousand and founded the Empire--and there is no monument;
this other soldier must have whipped a billion with a dozen and saved the
world."

But he would be mistaken.  Ochterlony was a man, not a battle.  And he
did good and honorable service, too; as good and honorable service as has
been done in India by seventy-five or a hundred other Englishmen of
courage, rectitude, and distinguished capacity.  For India has been a
fertile breeding-ground of such men, and remains so; great men, both in
war and in the civil service, and as modest as great.  But they have no
monuments, and were not expecting any.  Ochterlony could not have been
expecting one, and it is not at all likely that he desired one--certainly
not until Clive and Hastings should be supplied.  Every day Clive and
Hastings lean on the battlements of heaven and look down and wonder which
of the two the monument is for; and they fret and worry because they
cannot find out, and so the peace of heaven is spoiled for them and lost.
But not for Ochterlony.  Ochterlony is not troubled.  He doesn't suspect
that it is his monument.  Heaven is sweet and peaceful to him.  There is
a sort of unfairness about it all.

Indeed, if monuments were always given in India for high achievements,
duty straitly performed, and smirchless records, the landscape would be
monotonous with them.  The handful of English in India govern the Indian
myriads with apparent ease, and without noticeable friction, through
tact, training, and distinguished administrative ability, reinforced by
just and liberal laws--and by keeping their word to the native whenever
they give it.

England is far from India and knows little about the eminent services
performed by her servants there, for it is the newspaper correspondent
who makes fame, and he is not sent to India but to the continent, to
report the doings of the princelets and the dukelets, and where they are
visiting and whom they are marrying.  Often a British official spends
thirty or forty years in India, climbing from grade to grade by services
which would make him celebrated anywhere else, and finishes as a vice-
sovereign, governing a great realm and millions of subjects; then he goes
home to England substantially unknown and unheard of, and settles down in
some modest corner, and is as one extinguished.  Ten years later there is
a twenty-line obituary in the London papers, and the reader is paralyzed
by the splendors of a career which he is not sure that he had ever heard
of before.  But meanwhile he has learned all about the continental
princelets and dukelets.

The average man is profoundly ignorant of countries that lie remote from
his own.  When they are mentioned in his presence one or two facts and
maybe a couple of names rise like torches in his mind, lighting up an
inch or two of it and leaving the rest all dark.  The mention of Egypt
suggests some Biblical facts and the Pyramids-nothing more.  The mention
of South Africa suggests Kimberly and the diamonds and there an end.
Formerly the mention, to a Hindoo, of America suggested a name--George
Washington--with that his familiarity with our country was exhausted.
Latterly his familiarity with it has doubled in bulk; so that when
America is mentioned now, two torches flare up in the dark caverns of his
mind and he says, "Ah, the country of the great man Washington; and of
the Holy City--Chicago."  For he knows about the Congress of Religion, and
this has enabled him to get an erroneous impression of Chicago.

When India is mentioned to the citizen of a far country it suggests
Clive, Hastings, the Mutiny, Kipling, and a number of other great events;
and the mention of Calcutta infallibly brings up the Black Hole.  And so,
when that citizen finds himself in the capital of India he goes first of
all to see the Black Hole of Calcutta--and is disappointed.

The Black Hole was not preserved; it is gone, long, long ago.  It is
strange.  Just as it stood, it was itself a monument; a ready-made one.
It was finished, it was complete, its materials were strong and lasting,
it needed no furbishing up, no repairs; it merely needed to be let alone.
It was the first brick, the Foundation Stone, upon which was reared a
mighty Empire--the Indian Empire of Great Britain.  It was the ghastly
episode of the Black Hole that maddened the British and brought Clive,
that young military marvel, raging up from Madras; it was the seed from
which sprung Plassey; and it was that extraordinary battle, whose like
had not been seen in the earth since Agincourt, that laid deep and strong
the foundations of England's colossal Indian sovereignty.

And yet within the time of men who still live, the Black Hole was torn
down and thrown away as carelessly as if its bricks were common clay, not
ingots of historic gold.  There is no accounting for human beings.

The supposed site of the Black Hole is marked by an engraved plate.  I
saw that; and better that than nothing.  The Black Hole was a prison--a
cell is nearer the right word--eighteen feet square, the dimensions of an
ordinary bedchamber; and into this place the victorious Nabob of Bengal
packed 146 of his English prisoners.  There was hardly standing room for
them; scarcely a breath of air was to be got; the time was night, the
weather sweltering hot.  Before the dawn came, the captives were all dead
but twenty-three.  Mr. Holwell's long account of the awful episode was
familiar to the world a hundred years ago, but one seldom sees in print
even an extract from it in our day.  Among the striking things in it is
this.  Mr. Holwell, perishing with thirst, kept himself alive by sucking
the perspiration from his sleeves.  It gives one a vivid idea of the
situation.  He presently found that while he was busy drawing life from
one of his sleeves a young English gentleman was stealing supplies from
the other one.  Holwell was an unselfish man, a man of the most generous
impulses; he lived and died famous for these fine and rare qualities; yet
when he found out what was happening to that unwatched sleeve, he took
the precaution to suck that one dry first.  The miseries of the Black
Hole were able to change even a nature like his.  But that young
gentleman was one of the twenty-three survivors, and he said it was the
stolen perspiration that saved his life.  From the middle of Mr.
Holwell's narrative I will make a brief excerpt:

     "Then a general prayer to Heaven, to hasten the approach of the
     flames to the right and left of us, and put a period to our misery.
     But these failing, they whose strength and spirits were quite
     exhausted laid themselves down and expired quietly upon their
     fellows: others who had yet some strength and vigor left made a last
     effort at the windows, and several succeeded by leaping and
     scrambling over the backs and heads of those in the first rank, and
     got hold of the bars, from which there was no removing them.  Many
     to the right and left sunk with the violent pressure, and were soon
     suffocated; for now a steam arose from the living and the dead,
     which affected us in all its circumstances as if we were forcibly
     held with our heads over a bowl full of strong volatile spirit of
     hartshorn, until suffocated; nor could the effluvia of the one be
     distinguished from the other, and frequently, when I was forced by
     the load upon my head and shoulders to hold my face down, I was
     obliged, near as I was to the window, instantly to raise it again to
     avoid suffocation.  I need not, my dear friend, ask your
     commiseration, when I tell you, that in this plight, from half an
     hour past eleven till near two in the morning, I sustained the
     weight of a heavy man, with his knees in my back, and the pressure
     of his whole body on my head.  A Dutch surgeon who had taken his
     seat upon my left shoulder, and a Topaz (a black Christian soldier)
     bearing on my right; all which nothing could have enabled me to
     support but the props and pressure equally sustaining me all around.
     The two latter I frequently dislodged by shifting my hold on the
     bars and driving my knuckles into their ribs; but my friend above
     stuck fast, held immovable by two bars.

     "I exerted anew my strength and fortitude; but the repeated trials
     and efforts I made to dislodge the insufferable incumbrances upon me
     at last quite exhausted me; and towards two o'clock, finding I must
     quit the window or sink where I was, I resolved on the former,
     having bore, truly for the sake of others, infinitely more for life
     than the best of it is worth.  In the rank close behind me was an
     officer of one of the ships, whose name was Cary, and who had
     behaved with much bravery during the siege (his wife, a fine woman,
     though country born, would not quit him, but accompanied him into
     the prison, and was one who survived).  This poor wretch had been
     long raving for water and air; I told him I was determined to give
     up life, and recommended his gaining my station.  On my quitting it
     he made a fruitless attempt to get my place; but the Dutch surgeon,
     who sat on my shoulder, supplanted him.  Poor Cary expressed his
     thankfulness, and said he would give up life too; but it was with
     the utmost labor we forced our way from the window (several in the
     inner ranks appearing to me dead standing, unable to fall by the
     throng and equal pressure around).  He laid himself down to die; and
     his death, I believe, was very sudden; for he was a short, full,
     sanguine man.  His strength was great; and, I imagine, had he not
     retired with me, I should never have been able to force my way.  I
     was at this time sensible of no pain, and little uneasiness; I can
     give you no better idea of my situation than by repeating my simile
     of the bowl of spirit of hartshorn.  I found a stupor coming on
     apace, and laid myself down by that gallant old man, the Rev. Mr.
     Jervas Bellamy, who laid dead with his son, the lieutenant, hand in
     hand, near the southernmost wall of the prison.  When I had lain
     there some little time, I still had reflection enough to suffer some
     uneasiness in the thought that I should be trampled upon, when dead,
     as I myself had done to others.  With some difficulty I raised
     myself, and gained the platform a second time, where I presently
     lost all sensation; the last trace of sensibility that I have been
     able to recollect after my laying down, was my sash being uneasy
     about my waist, which I untied, and threw from me.  Of what passed
     in this interval, to the time of my resurrection from this hole of
     horrors, I can give you no account."

There was plenty to see in Calcutta, but there was not plenty of time for
it.  I saw the fort that Clive built; and the place where Warren Hastings
and the author of the Junius Letters fought their duel; and the great
botanical gardens; and the fashionable afternoon turnout in the Maidan;
and a grand review of the garrison in a great plain at sunrise; and a
military tournament in which great bodies of native soldiery exhibited
the perfection of their drill at all arms, a spectacular and beautiful
show occupying several nights and closing with the mimic storming of a
native fort which was as good as the reality for thrilling and accurate
detail, and better than the reality for security and comfort; we had a
pleasure excursion on the 'Hoogly' by courtesy of friends, and devoted
the rest of the time to social life and the Indian museum.  One should
spend a month in the museum, an enchanted palace of Indian antiquities.
Indeed, a person might spend half a year among the beautiful and
wonderful things without exhausting their interest.

It was winter.  We were of Kipling's "hosts of tourists who travel up and
down India in the cold weather showing how things ought to be managed."
It is a common expression there, "the cold weather," and the people think
there is such a thing.  It is because they have lived there half a
lifetime, and their perceptions have become blunted.  When a person is
accustomed to 138 in the shade, his ideas about cold weather are not
valuable.  I had read, in the histories, that the June marches made
between Lucknow and Cawnpore by the British forces in the time of the
Mutiny were made weather--138 in the shade and had taken it for
historical embroidery.  I had read it again in Serjeant-Major Forbes-
Mitchell's account of his military experiences in the Mutiny--at least I
thought I had--and in Calcutta I asked him if it was true, and he said it
was.  An officer of high rank who had been in the thick of the Mutiny
said the same.  As long as those men were talking about what they knew,
they were trustworthy, and I believed them; but when they said it was now
"cold weather," I saw that they had traveled outside of their sphere of
knowledge and were floundering.  I believe that in India "cold weather"
is merely a conventional phrase and has come into use through the
necessity of having some way to distinguish between weather which will
melt a brass door-knob and weather which will only make it mushy.  It was
observable that brass ones were in use while I was in Calcutta, showing
that it was not yet time to change to porcelain; I was told the change to
porcelain was not usually made until May.  But this cold weather was too
warm for us; so we started to Darjeeling, in the Himalayas--a twenty-four
hour journey.




CHAPTER LV.

There are 869 different forms of lying, but only one of them has been
squarely forbidden.  Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy
neighbor.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.


FROM DIARY:

February 14.  We left at 4:30 P.M.  Until dark we moved through rich
vegetation, then changed to a boat and crossed the Ganges.

February 15.  Up with the sun.  A brilliant morning, and frosty.  A
double suit of flannels is found necessary.  The plain is perfectly
level, and seems to stretch away and away and away, dimming and
softening, to the uttermost bounds of nowhere.  What a soaring,
strenuous, gushing fountain spray of delicate greenery a bunch of bamboo
is!  As far as the eye can reach, these grand vegetable geysers grace the
view, their spoutings refined to steam by distance.  And there are fields
of bananas, with the sunshine glancing from the varnished surface of
their drooping vast leaves.  And there are frequent groves of palm; and
an effective accent is given to the landscape by isolated individuals of
this picturesque family, towering, clean-stemmed, their plumes broken and
hanging ragged, Nature's imitation of an umbrella that has been out to
see what a cyclone is like and is trying not to look disappointed.  And
everywhere through the soft morning vistas we glimpse the villages, the
countless villages, the myriad villages, thatched, built of clean new
matting, snuggling among grouped palms and sheaves of bamboo; villages,
villages, no end of villages, not three hundred yards apart, and dozens
and dozens of them in sight all the time; a mighty City, hundreds of
miles long, hundreds of miles broad, made all of villages, the biggest
city in the earth, and as populous as a European kingdom.  I have seen no
such city as this before.  And there is a continuously repeated and
replenished multitude of naked men in view on both sides and ahead.  We
fly through it mile after mile, but still it is always there, on both
sides and ahead--brown-bodied, naked men and boys, plowing in the fields.
But not woman.  In these two hours I have not seen a woman or a girl
working in the fields.

              "From Greenland's icy mountains,
               From India's coral strand,
               Where Afric's sunny fountains
               Roll down their golden sand.
               From many an ancient river,
               From many a palmy plain,
               They call us to deliver
               Their land from error's chain."

Those are beautiful verses, and they have remained in my memory all my
life.  But if the closing lines are true, let us hope that when we come
to answer the call and deliver the land from its errors, we shall secrete
from it some of our high-civilization ways, and at the same time borrow
some of its pagan ways to enrich our high system with.  We have a right
to do this.  If we lift those people up, we have a right to lift
ourselves up nine or ten grades or so, at their expense.  A few years ago
I spent several weeks at Tolz, in Bavaria.  It is a Roman Catholic
region, and not even Benares is more deeply or pervasively or
intelligently devout.  In my diary of those days I find this:

     "We took a long drive yesterday around about the lovely country
     roads.  But it was a drive whose pleasure was damaged in a couple of
     ways: by the dreadful shrines and by the shameful spectacle of gray
     and venerable old grandmothers toiling in the fields.  The shrines
     were frequent along the roads--figures of the Saviour nailed to the
     cross and streaming with blood from the wounds of the nails and the
     thorns.

     "When missionaries go from here do they find fault with the pagan
     idols?  I saw many women seventy and even eighty years old mowing
     and binding in the fields, and pitchforking the loads into the
     wagons."

I was in Austria later, and in Munich.  In Munich I saw gray old women
pushing trucks up hill and down, long distances, trucks laden with
barrels of beer, incredible loads.  In my Austrian diary I find this:

     "In the fields I often see a woman and a cow harnessed to the plow,
     and a man driving.

     "In the public street of Marienbad to-day, I saw an old, bent, gray-
     headed woman, in harness with a dog, drawing a laden sled over bare
     dirt roads and bare pavements; and at his ease walked the driver,
     smoking his pipe, a hale fellow not thirty years old."

Five or six years ago I bought an open boat, made a kind of a canvas
wagon-roof over the stern of it to shelter me from sun and rain; hired a
courier and a boatman, and made a twelve-day floating voyage down the
Rhone from Lake Bourget to Marseilles.  In my diary of that trip I find
this entry.  I was far down the Rhone then:

     "Passing St. Etienne, 2:15 P.M.  On a distant ridge inland, a tall
     openwork structure commandingly situated, with a statue of the
     Virgin standing on it.  A devout country.  All down this river,
     wherever there is a crag there is a statue of the Virgin on it.  I
     believe I have seen a hundred of them.  And yet, in many respects,
     the peasantry seem to be mere pagans, and destitute of any
     considerable degree of civilization.

     " .  .  .  .  We reached a not very promising looking village about
     4 o'clock, and I concluded to tie up for the day; munching fruit and
     fogging the hood with pipe-smoke had grown monotonous; I could not
     have the hood furled, because the floods of rain fell unceasingly.
     The tavern was on the river bank, as is the custom.  It was dull
     there, and melancholy--nothing to do but look out of the window into
     the drenching rain, and shiver; one could do that, for it was bleak
     and cold and windy, and country France furnishes no fire.  Winter
     overcoats did not help me much; they had to be supplemented with
     rugs.  The raindrops were so large and struck the river with such
     force that they knocked up the water like pebble-splashes.

     "With the exception of a very occasional woodenshod peasant, nobody
     was abroad in this bitter weather--I mean nobody of our sex.  But
     all weathers are alike to the women in these continental countries.
     To them and the other animals, life is serious; nothing interrupts
     their slavery.  Three of them were washing clothes in the river
     under the window when I arrived, and they continued at it as long as
     there was light to work by.  One was apparently thirty; another--the
     mother!--above fifty; the third--grandmother!--so old and worn and
     gray she could have passed for eighty; I took her to be that old.
     They had no waterproofs nor rubbers, of course; over their shoulders
     they wore gunnysacks--simply conductors for rivers of water; some of
     the volume reached the ground; the rest soaked in on the way.

     "At last a vigorous fellow of thirty-five arrived, dry and
     comfortable, smoking his pipe under his big umbrella in an open
     donkey-cart-husband, son, and grandson of those women!  He stood up
     in the cart, sheltering himself, and began to superintend, issuing
     his orders in a masterly tone of command, and showing temper when
     they were not obeyed swiftly enough.

     "Without complaint or murmur the drowned women patiently carried out
     the orders, lifting the immense baskets of soggy, wrung-out clothing
     into the cart and stowing them to the man's satisfaction.  There
     were six of the great baskets, and a man of mere ordinary strength
     could not have lifted any one of them.  The cart being full now, the
     Frenchman descended, still sheltered by his umbrella, entered the
     tavern, and the women went drooping homeward, trudging in the wake
     of the cart, and soon were blended with the deluge and lost to
     sight.

     "When I went down into the public room, the Frenchman had his bottle
     of wine and plate of food on a bare table black with grease, and was
     "chomping" like a horse.  He had the little religious paper which is
     in everybody's hands on the Rhone borders, and was enlightening
     himself with the histories of French saints who used to flee to the
     desert in the Middle Ages to escape the contamination of woman.  For
     two hundred years France has been sending missionaries to other
     savage lands.  To spare to the needy from poverty like hers is fine
     and true generosity."

But to get back to India--where, as my favorite poem says--

              "Every prospect pleases,
               And only man is vile."

It is because Bavaria and Austria and France have not introduced their
civilization to him yet.  But Bavaria and Austria and France are on their
way.  They are coming.  They will rescue him; they will refine the
vileness out of him.

Some time during the forenoon, approaching the mountains, we changed from
the regular train to one composed of little canvas-sheltered cars that
skimmed along within a foot of the ground and seemed to be going fifty
miles an hour when they were really making about twenty.  Each car had
seating capacity for half-a-dozen persons; and when the curtains were up
one was substantially out of doors, and could see everywhere, and get all
the breeze, and be luxuriously comfortable.  It was not a pleasure
excursion in name only, but in fact.

After a while the stopped at a little wooden coop of a station just
within the curtain of the sombre jungle, a place with a deep and dense
forest of great trees and scrub and vines all about it.  The royal Bengal
tiger is in great force there, and is very bold and unconventional.  From
this lonely little station a message once went to the railway manager in
Calcutta: "Tiger eating station-master on front porch; telegraph
instructions."

It was there that I had my first tiger hunt.  I killed thirteen.  We were
presently away again, and the train began to climb the mountains.  In one
place seven wild elephants crossed the track, but two of them got away
before I could overtake them.  The railway journey up the mountain is
forty miles, and it takes eight hours to make it.  It is so wild and
interesting and exciting and enchanting that it ought to take a week.  As
for the vegetation, it is a museum.  The jungle seemed to contain samples
of every rare and curious tree and bush that we had ever seen or heard
of.  It is from that museum, I think, that the globe must have been
supplied with the trees and vines and shrubs that it holds precious.

The road is infinitely and charmingly crooked.  It goes winding in and
out under lofty cliffs that are smothered in vines and foliage, and
around the edges of bottomless chasms; and all the way one glides by
files of picturesque natives, some carrying burdens up, others going down
from their work in the tea-gardens; and once there was a gaudy wedding
procession, all bright tinsel and color, and a bride, comely and girlish,
who peeped out from the curtains of her palanquin, exposing her face with
that pure delight which the young and happy take in sin for sin's own
sake.

By and by we were well up in the region of the clouds, and from that
breezy height we looked down and afar over a wonderful picture--the
Plains of India, stretching to the horizon, soft and fair, level as a
floor, shimmering with heat, mottled with cloud-shadows, and cloven with
shining rivers.  Immediately below us, and receding down, down, down,
toward the valley, was a shaven confusion of hilltops, with ribbony roads
and paths squirming and snaking cream-yellow all over them and about
them, every curve and twist sharply distinct.

At an elevation of 6,000 feet we entered a thick cloud, and it shut out
the world and kept it shut out.  We climbed 1,000 feet higher, then began
to descend, and presently got down to Darjeeling, which is 6,000 feet
above the level of the Plains.

We had passed many a mountain village on the way up, and seen some new
kinds of natives, among them many samples of the fighting Ghurkas.  They
are not large men, but they are strong and resolute.  There are no better
soldiers among Britain's native troops.  And we had passed shoals of
their women climbing the forty miles of steep road from the valley to
their mountain homes, with tall baskets on their backs hitched to their
foreheads by a band, and containing a freightage weighing--I will not say
how many hundreds of pounds, for the sum is unbelievable.  These were
young women, and they strode smartly along under these astonishing
burdens with the air of people out for a holiday.  I was told that a
woman will carry a piano on her back all the way up the mountain; and
that more than once a woman had done it.  If these were old women I
should regard the Ghurkas as no more civilized than the Europeans.
At the railway station at Darjeeling you find plenty of cab-substitutes--
open coffins, in which you sit, and are then borne on men's shoulders up
the steep roads into the town.

Up there we found a fairly comfortable hotel, the property of an
indiscriminate and incoherent landlord, who looks after nothing, but
leaves everything to his army of Indian servants.  No, he does look after
the bill--to be just to him--and the tourist cannot do better than follow
his example.  I was told by a resident that the summit of Kinchinjunga is
often hidden in the clouds, and that sometimes a tourist has waited
twenty-two days and then been obliged to go away without a sight of it.
And yet went not disappointed; for when he got his hotel bill he
recognized that he was now seeing the highest thing in the Himalayas.
But this is probably a lie.

After lecturing I went to the Club that night, and that was a comfortable
place.  It is loftily situated, and looks out over a vast spread of
scenery; from it you can see where the boundaries of three countries come
together, some thirty miles away; Thibet is one of them, Nepaul another,
and I think Herzegovina was the other.  Apparently, in every town and
city in India the gentlemen of the British civil and military service
have a club; sometimes it is a palatial one, always it is pleasant and
homelike.  The hotels are not always as good as they might be, and the
stranger who has access to the Club is grateful for his privilege and
knows how to value it.

Next day was Sunday.  Friends came in the gray dawn with horses, and my
party rode away to a distant point where Kinchinjunga and Mount Everest
show up best, but I stayed at home for a private view; for it was very
old, and I was not acquainted with the horses, any way.  I got a pipe and
a few blankets and sat for two hours at the window, and saw the sun drive
away the veiling gray and touch up the snow-peaks one after another with
pale pink splashes and delicate washes of gold, and finally flood the
whole mighty convulsion of snow-mountains with a deluge of rich
splendors.

Kinchinjunga's peak was but fitfully visible, but in the between times it
was vividly clear against the sky--away up there in the blue dome more
than 28,000 feet above sea level--the loftiest land I had ever seen, by
12,000 feet or more.  It was 45 miles away.  Mount Everest is a thousand
feet higher, but it was not a part of that sea of mountains piled up
there before me, so I did not see it; but I did not care, because I think
that mountains that are as high as that are disagreeable.

I changed from the back to the front of the house and spent the rest of
the morning there, watching the swarthy strange tribes flock by from
their far homes in the Himalayas.  All ages and both sexes were
represented, and the breeds were quite new to me, though the costumes of
the Thibetans made them look a good deal like Chinamen.  The prayer-wheel
was a frequent feature.  It brought me near to these people, and made
them seem kinfolk of mine.  Through our preacher we do much of our
praying by proxy.  We do not whirl him around a stick, as they do, but
that is merely a detail.  The swarm swung briskly by, hour after hour, a
strange and striking pageant.  It was wasted there, and it seemed a pity.
It should have been sent streaming through the cities of Europe or
America, to refresh eyes weary of the pale monotonies of the circus-
pageant.  These people were bound for the bazar, with things to sell.  We
went down there, later, and saw that novel congress of the wild peoples,
and plowed here and there through it, and concluded that it would be
worth coming from Calcutta to see, even if there were no Kinchinjunga and
Everest.




CHAPTER LVI.

There are two times in a man's life when he should not speculate: when he
can't afford it, and when he can.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

On Monday and Tuesday at sunrise we again had fair-to-middling views of
the stupendous mountains; then, being well cooled off and refreshed, we
were ready to chance the weather of the lower world once more.

We traveled up hill by the regular train five miles to the summit, then
changed to a little canvas-canopied hand-car for the 35-mile descent.  It
was the size of a sleigh, it had six seats and was so low that it seemed
to rest on the ground.  It had no engine or other propelling power, and
needed none to help it fly down those steep inclines.  It only needed a
strong brake, to modify its flight, and it had that.  There was a story
of a disastrous trip made down the mountain once in this little car by
the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal, when the car jumped the track and
threw its passengers over a precipice.  It was not true, but the story
had value for me, for it made me nervous, and nervousness wakes a person
up and makes him alive and alert, and heightens the thrill of a new and
doubtful experience.  The car could really jump the track, of course; a
pebble on the track, placed there by either accident or malice, at a
sharp curve where one might strike it before the eye could discover it,
could derail the car and fling it down into India; and the fact that the
lieutenant-governor had escaped was no proof that I would have the same
luck.  And standing there, looking down upon the Indian Empire from the
airy altitude of 7,000 feet, it seemed unpleasantly far, dangerously far,
to be flung from a handcar.

But after all, there was but small danger-for me.  What there was, was
for Mr. Pugh, inspector of a division of the Indian police, in whose
company and protection we had come from Calcutta.  He had seen long
service as an artillery officer, was less nervous than I was, and so he
was to go ahead of us in a pilot hand-car, with a Ghurka and another
native; and the plan was that when we should see his car jump over a
precipice we must put on our (break) and send for another pilot.  It was
a good arrangement.  Also Mr. Barnard, chief engineer of the mountain-
division of the road, was to take personal charge of our car, and he had
been down the mountain in it many a time.

Everything looked safe.  Indeed, there was but one questionable detail
left: the regular train was to follow us as soon as we should start, and
it might run over us.  Privately, I thought it would.

The road fell sharply down in front of us and went corkscrewing in and
out around the crags and precipices, down, down, forever down, suggesting
nothing so exactly or so uncomfortably as a croaked toboggan slide with
no end to it.  Mr. Pugh waved his flag and started, like an arrow from a
bow, and before I could get out of the car we were gone too.  I had
previously had but one sensation like the shock of that departure, and
that was the gaspy shock that took my breath away the first time that I
was discharged from the summit of a toboggan slide.  But in both
instances the sensation was pleasurable--intensely so; it was a sudden
and immense exaltation, a mixed ecstasy of deadly fright and unimaginable
joy.  I believe that this combination makes the perfection of human
delight.

The pilot car's flight down the mountain suggested the swoop of a swallow
that is skimming the ground, so swiftly and smoothly and gracefully it
swept down the long straight reaches and soared in and out of the bends
and around the corners.  We raced after it, and seemed to flash by the
capes and crags with the speed of light; and now and then we almost
overtook it--and had hopes; but it was only playing with us; when we got
near, it released its brake, make a spring around a corner, and the next
time it spun into view, a few seconds later, it looked as small as a
wheelbarrow, it was so far away.  We played with the train in the same
way.  We often got out to gather flowers or sit on a precipice and look
at the scenery, then presently we would hear a dull and growing roar, and
the long coils of the train would come into sight behind and above us;
but we did not need to start till the locomotive was close down upon us--
then we soon left it far behind.  It had to stop at every station,
therefore it was not an embarrassment to us.  Our brake was a good piece
of machinery; it could bring the car to a standstill on a slope as steep
as a house-roof.

The scenery was grand and varied and beautiful, and there was no hurry;
we could always stop and examine it.  There was abundance of time.  We
did not need to hamper the train; if it wanted the road, we could switch
off and let it go by, then overtake it and pass it later.  We stopped at
one place to see the Gladstone Cliff, a great crag which the ages and the
weather have sculptured into a recognizable portrait of the venerable
statesman.  Mr. Gladstone is a stockholder in the road, and Nature began
this portrait ten thousand years ago, with the idea of having the
compliment ready in time for the event.

We saw a banyan tree which sent down supporting stems from branches which
were sixty feet above the ground.  That is, I suppose it was a banyan;
its bark resembled that of the great banyan in the botanical gardens at
Calcutta, that spider-legged thing with its wilderness of vegetable
columns.  And there were frequent glimpses of a totally leafless tree
upon whose innumerable twigs and branches a cloud of crimson butterflies
had lighted--apparently.  In fact these brilliant red butterflies were
flowers, but the illusion was good.  Afterward in South Africa, I saw
another splendid effect made by red flowers.  This flower was probably
called the torch-plant--should have been so named, anyway.  It had a
slender stem several feet high, and from its top stood up a single tongue
of flame, an intensely red flower of the size and shape of a small corn-
cob.  The stems stood three or four feet apart all over a great hill-
slope that was a mile long, and make one think of what the Place de la
Concorde would be if its myriad lights were red instead of white and
yellow.

A few miles down the mountain we stopped half an hour to see a Thibetan
dramatic performance.  It was in the open air on the hillside.  The
audience was composed of Thibetans, Ghurkas, and other unusual people.
The costumes of the actors were in the last degree outlandish, and the
performance was in keeping with the clothes.  To an accompaniment of
barbarous noises the actors stepped out one after another and began to
spin around with immense swiftness and vigor and violence, chanting the
while, and soon the whole troupe would be spinning and chanting and
raising the dust.  They were performing an ancient and celebrated
historical play, and a Chinaman explained it to me in pidjin English as
it went along.  The play was obscure enough without the explanation; with
the explanation added, it was (opake).  As a drama this ancient
historical work of art was defective, I thought, but as a wild and
barbarous spectacle the representation was beyond criticism.
Far down the mountain we got out to look at a piece of remarkable loop-
engineering--a spiral where the road curves upon itself with such
abruptness that when the regular train came down and entered the loop, we
stood over it and saw the locomotive disappear under our bridge, then in
a few moments appear again, chasing its own tail; and we saw it gain on
it, overtake it, draw ahead past the rear cars, and run a race with that
end of the train.  It was like a snake swallowing itself.

Half-way down the mountain we stopped about an hour at Mr. Barnard's
house for refreshments, and while we were sitting on the veranda looking
at the distant panorama of hills through a gap in the forest, we came
very near seeing a leopard kill a calf.--[It killed it the day before.]
--It is a wild place and lovely.  From the woods all about came the songs
of birds,--among them the contributions of a couple of birds which I was
not then acquainted with: the brain-fever bird and the coppersmith.  The
song of the brain-fever demon starts on a low but steadily rising key,
and is a spiral twist which augments in intensity and severity with each
added spiral, growing sharper and sharper, and more and more painful,
more and more agonizing, more and more maddening, intolerable,
unendurable, as it bores deeper and deeper and deeper into the listener's
brain, until at last the brain fever comes as a relief and the man dies.
I am bringing some of these birds home to America.  They will be a great
curiosity there, and it is believed that in our climate they will
multiply like rabbits.

The coppersmith bird's note at a certain distance away has the ring of a
sledge on granite; at a certain other distance the hammering has a more
metallic ring, and you might think that the bird was mending a copper
kettle; at another distance it has a more woodeny thump, but it is a
thump that is full of energy, and sounds just like starting a bung.  So
he is a hard bird to name with a single name; he is a stone-breaker,
coppersmith, and bung-starter, and even then he is not completely named,
for when he is close by you find that there is a soft, deep, melodious
quality in his thump, and for that no satisfying name occurs to you.  You
will not mind his other notes, but when he camps near enough for you to
hear that one, you presently find that his measured and monotonous
repetition of it is beginning to disturb you; next it will weary you,
soon it will distress you, and before long each thump will hurt your
head; if this goes on, you will lose your mind with the pain and misery
of it, and go crazy.  I am bringing some of these birds home to America.
There is nothing like them there.  They will be a great surprise, and it
is said that in a climate like ours they will surpass expectation for
fecundity.

I am bringing some nightingales, too, and some cue-owls.  I got them in
Italy.  The song of the nightingale is the deadliest known to
ornithology.  That demoniacal shriek can kill at thirty yards.  The note
of the cue-owl is infinitely soft and sweet--soft and sweet as the
whisper of a flute.  But penetrating--oh, beyond belief; it can bore
through boiler-iron.  It is a lingering note, and comes in triplets, on
the one unchanging key: hoo-o-o, hoo-o-o, hoo-o-o; then a silence of
fifteen seconds, then the triplet again; and so on, all night.  At first
it is divine; then less so; then trying; then distressing; then
excruciating; then agonizing, and at the end of two hours the listener is
a maniac.

And so, presently we took to the hand-car and went flying down the
mountain again; flying and stopping, flying and stopping, till at last we
were in the plain once more and stowed for Calcutta in the regular train.
That was the most enjoyable day I have spent in the earth.  For rousing,
tingling, rapturous pleasure there is no holiday trip that approaches the
bird-flight down the Himalayas in a hand-car.  It has no fault, no
blemish, no lack, except that there are only thirty-five miles of it
instead of five hundred.




CHAPTER LVII.

She was not quite what you would call refined.  She was not quite what
you would call unrefined.  She was the kind of person that keeps a
parrot.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

So far as I am able to judge, nothing has been left undone, either by man
or Nature, to make India the most extraordinary country that the sun
visits on his round.  Nothing seems to have been forgotten, nothing over
looked.  Always, when you think you have come to the end of her
tremendous specialties and have finished banging tags upon her as the
Land of the Thug, the Land of the Plague, the Land of Famine, the Land of
Giant Illusions, the Land of Stupendous Mountains, and so forth, another
specialty crops up and another tag is required.  I have been overlooking
the fact that India is by an unapproachable supremacy--the Land of
Murderous Wild Creatures.  Perhaps it will be simplest to throw away the
tags and generalize her with one all-comprehensive name, as the Land of
Wonders.

For many years the British Indian Government has been trying to destroy
the murderous wild creatures, and has spent a great deal of money in the
effort.  The annual official returns show that the undertaking is a
difficult one.

These returns exhibit a curious annual uniformity in results; the sort of
uniformity which you find in the annual output of suicides in the world's
capitals, and the proportions of deaths by this, that, and the other
disease.  You can always come close to foretelling how many suicides will
occur in Paris, London, and New York, next year, and also how many deaths
will result from cancer, consumption, dog-bite, falling out of the
window, getting run over by cabs, etc., if you know the statistics of
those matters for the present year.  In the same way, with one year's
Indian statistics before you, you can guess closely at how many people
were killed in that Empire by tigers during the previous year, and the
year before that, and the year before that, and at how many were killed
in each of those years by bears, how many by wolves, and how many by
snakes; and you can also guess closely at how many people are going to be
killed each year for the coming five years by each of those agencies.
You can also guess closely at how many of each agency the government is
going to kill each year for the next five years.

I have before me statistics covering a period of six consecutive years.
By these, I know that in India the tiger kills something over 800 persons
every year, and that the government responds by killing about double as
many tigers every year.  In four of the six years referred to, the tiger
got 800 odd; in one of the remaining two years he got only 700, but in
the other remaining year he made his average good by scoring 917.  He is
always sure of his average.  Anyone who bets that the tiger will kill
2,400 people in India in any three consecutive years has invested his
money in a certainty; anyone who bets that he will kill 2,600 in any
three consecutive years, is absolutely sure to lose.

As strikingly uniform as are the statistics of suicide, they are not any
more so than are those of the tiger's annual output of slaughtered human
beings in India.  The government's work is quite uniform, too; it about
doubles the tiger's average.  In six years the tiger killed 5,000
persons, minus 50; in the same six years 10,000 tigers were killed, minus
400.

The wolf kills nearly as many people as the tiger--700 a year to the
tiger's 800 odd--but while he is doing it, more than 5,000 of his tribe
fall.

The leopard kills an average of 230 people per year, but loses 3,300 of
his own mess while he is doing it.

The bear kills 100 people per year at a cost of 1,250 of his own tribe.

The tiger, as the figures show, makes a very handsome fight against man.
But it is nothing to the elephant's fight.  The king of beasts, the lord
of the jungle, loses four of his mess per year, but he kills forty--five
persons to make up for it.

But when it comes to killing cattle, the lord of the jungle is not
interested.  He kills but 100 in six years--horses of hunters, no doubt--
but in the same six the tiger kills more than 84,000, the leopard
100,000, the bear 4,000, the wolf 70,000, the hyena more than 13,000,
other wild beasts 27,000, and the snakes 19,000, a grand total of more
than 300,000; an average of 50,000 head per year.

In response, the government kills, in the six years, a total of 3,201,232
wild beasts and snakes.  Ten for one.

It will be perceived that the snakes are not much interested in cattle;
they kill only 3,000 odd per year.  The snakes are much more interested
in man.  India swarms with deadly snakes.  At the head of the list is the
cobra, the deadliest known to the world, a snake whose bite kills where
the rattlesnake's bite merely entertains.

In India, the annual man-killings by snakes are as uniform, as regular,
and as forecastable as are the tiger-average and the suicide-average.
Anyone who bets that in India, in any three consecutive years the snakes
will kill 49,500 persons, will win his bet; and anyone who bets that in
India in any three consecutive years, the snakes will kill 53,500
persons, will lose his bet.  In India the snakes kill 17,000 people a
year; they hardly ever fall short of it; they as seldom exceed it.  An
insurance actuary could take the Indian census tables and the
government's snake tables and tell you within sixpence how much it would
be worth to insure a man against death by snake-bite there.  If I had a
dollar for every person killed per year in India, I would rather have it
than any other property, as it is the only property in the world not
subject to shrinkage.

I should like to have a royalty on the government-end of the snake
business, too, and am in London now trying to get it; but when I get it
it is not going to be as regular an income as the other will be if I get
that; I have applied for it.  The snakes transact their end of the
business in a more orderly and systematic way than the government
transacts its end of it, because the snakes have had a long experience
and know all about the traffic.  You can make sure that the government
will never kill fewer than 110,000 snakes in a year, and that it will
newer quite reach 300,000 too much room for oscillation; good speculative
stock, to bear or bull, and buy and sell long and short, and all that
kind of thing, but not eligible for investment like the other.  The man
that speculates in the government's snake crop wants to go carefully.  I
would not advise a man to buy a single crop at all--I mean a crop of
futures for the possible wobble is something quite extraordinary.  If he
can buy six future crops in a bunch, seller to deliver 1,500,000
altogether, that is another matter.  I do not know what snakes are worth
now, but I know what they would be worth then, for the statistics show
that the seller could not come within 427,000 of carrying out his
contract.  However, I think that a person who speculates in snakes is a
fool, anyway.  He always regrets it afterwards.

To finish the statistics.  In six years the wild beasts kill 20,000
persons, and the snakes kill 103,000.  In the same six the government
kills 1,073,546 snakes.  Plenty left.

There are narrow escapes in India.  In the very jungle where I killed
sixteen tigers and all those elephants, a cobra bit me but it got well;
everyone was surprised.  This could not happen twice in ten years,
perhaps.  Usually death would result in fifteen minutes.

We struck out westward or northwestward from Calcutta on an itinerary of
a zig-zag sort, which would in the course of time carry us across India
to its northwestern corner and the border of Afghanistan.  The first part
of the trip carried us through a great region which was an endless
garden--miles and miles of the beautiful flower from whose juices comes
the opium, and at Muzaffurpore we were in the midst of the indigo
culture; thence by a branch road to the Ganges at a point near Dinapore,
and by a train which would have missed the connection by a week but for
the thoughtfulness of some British officers who were along, and who knew
the ways of trains that are run by natives without white supervision.
This train stopped at every village; for no purpose connected with
business, apparently.  We put out nothing, we took nothing aboard.  The
train bands stepped ashore and gossiped with friends a quarter of an
hour, then pulled out and repeated this at the succeeding villages.  We
had thirty-five miles to go and six hours to do it in, but it was plain
that we were not going to make it.  It was then that the English officers
said it was now necessary to turn this gravel train into an express.  So
they gave the engine-driver a rupee and told him to fly.  It was a simple
remedy.  After that we made ninety miles an hour.  We crossed the Ganges
just at dawn, made our connection, and went to Benares, where we stayed
twenty-four hours and inspected that strange and fascinating piety-hive
again; then left for Lucknow, a city which is perhaps the most
conspicuous of the many monuments of British fortitude and valor that are
scattered about the earth.

The heat was pitiless, the flat plains were destitute of grass, and baked
dry by the sun they were the color of pale dust, which was flying in
clouds.  But it was much hotter than this when the relieving forces
marched to Lucknow in the time of the Mutiny.  Those were the days of 138
deg. in the shade.




CHAPTER, LVIII.

Make it a point to do something every day that you don't want to do.
This is the golden rule for acquiring the habit of doing your duty
without pain.
                             --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

It seems to be settled, now, that among the many causes from which the
Great Mutiny sprang, the main one was the annexation of the kingdom of
Oudh by the East India Company--characterized by Sir Henry Lawrence as
"the most unrighteous act that was ever committed."  In the spring of
1857, a mutinous spirit was observable in many of the native garrisons,
and it grew day by day and spread wider and wider.  The younger military
men saw something very serious in it, and would have liked to take hold
of it vigorously and stamp it out promptly; but they were not in
authority. Old-men were in the high places of the army--men who should
have been retired long before, because of their great age--and they
regarded the matter as a thing of no consequence.  They loved their
native soldiers, and would not believe that anything could move them to
revolt.  Everywhere these obstinate veterans listened serenely to the
rumbling of the volcanoes under them, and said it was nothing.

And so the propagators of mutiny had everything their own way.  They
moved from camp to camp undisturbed, and painted to the native soldier
the wrongs his people were suffering at the hands of the English, and
made his heart burn for revenge.  They were able to point to two facts of
formidable value as backers of their persuasions: In Clive's day, native
armies were incoherent mobs, and without effective arms; therefore, they
were weak against Clive's organized handful of well-armed men, but the
thing was the other way, now.  The British forces were native; they had
been trained by the British, organized by the British, armed by the
British, all the power was in their hands--they were a club made by
British hands to beat out British brains with.  There was nothing to
oppose their mass, nothing but a few weak battalions of British soldiers
scattered about India, a force not worth speaking of.  This argument,
taken alone, might not have succeeded, for the bravest and best Indian
troops had a wholesome dread of the white soldier, whether he was weak or
strong; but the agitators backed it with their second and best point
prophecy--a prophecy a hundred years old.  The Indian is open to prophecy
at all times; argument may fail to convince him, but not prophecy.  There
was a prophecy that a hundred years from the year of that battle of
Clive's which founded the British Indian Empire, the British power would
be overthrown and swept away by the natives.

The Mutiny broke out at Meerut on the 10th of May, 1857, and fired a
train of tremendous historical explosions.  Nana Sahib's massacre of the
surrendered garrison of Cawnpore occurred in June, and the long siege of
Lucknow began.  The military history of England is old and great, but I
think it must be granted that the crushing of the Mutiny is the greatest
chapter in it.  The British were caught asleep and unprepared.  They were
a few thousands, swallowed up in an ocean of hostile populations.  It
would take months to inform England and get help, but they did not falter
or stop to count the odds, but with English resolution and English
devotion they took up their task, and went stubbornly on with it, through
good fortune and bad, and fought the most unpromising fight that one may
read of in fiction or out of it, and won it thoroughly.

The Mutiny broke out so suddenly, and spread with such rapidity that
there was but little time for occupants of weak outlying stations to
escape to places of safety.  Attempts were made, of course, but they were
attended by hardships as bitter as death in the few cases which were
successful; for the heat ranged between 120 and 138 in the shade; the way
led through hostile peoples, and food and water were hardly to be had.
For ladies and children accustomed to ease and comfort and plenty, such a
journey must have been a cruel experience.  Sir G. O.  Trevelyan quotes
an example:

     "This is what befell Mrs. M----, the wife of the surgeon at a
     certain station on the southern confines of the insurrection.  'I
     heard,' she says, 'a number of shots fired, and, looking out, I saw
     my husband driving furiously from the mess-house, waving his whip.
     I ran to him, and, seeing a bearer with my child in his arms, I
     caught her up, and got into the buggy.  At the mess-house we found
     all the officers assembled, together with sixty sepoys, who had
     remained faithful.  We went off in one large party, amidst a general
     conflagration of our late homes.  We reached the caravanserai at
     Chattapore the next morning, and thence started for Callinger.  At
     this point our sepoy escort deserted us.  We were fired upon by
     match-lockmen, and one officer was shot dead.  We heard, likewise,
     that the people had risen at Callinger, so we returned and walked
     back ten miles that day.  M---- and I carried the child alternately.
     Presently Mrs. Smalley died of sunstroke.  We had no food amongst
     us.  An officer kindly lent us a horse.  We were very faint.  The
     Major died, and was buried; also the Sergeant-major and some women.
     The bandsmen left us on the nineteenth of June.  We were fired at
     again by match-lockmen, and changed direction for Allahabad.  Our
     party consisted of nine gentlemen, two children, the sergeant and
     his wife.  On the morning of the twentieth, Captain Scott took
     Lottie on to his horse.  I was riding behind my husband, and she was
     so crushed between us.  She was two years old on the first of the
     month.  We were both weak through want of food and the effect of the
     sun.  Lottie and I had no head covering.  M---- had a sepoy's cap I
     found on the ground.  Soon after sunrise we were followed by
     villagers armed with clubs and spears.  One of them struck Captain
     Scott's horse on the leg.  He galloped off with Lottie, and my poor
     husband never saw his child again.  We rode on several miles,
     keeping away from villages, and then crossed the river.  Our thirst
     was extreme.  M---- had dreadful cramps, so that I had to hold him
     on the horse.  I was very uneasy about him.  The day before I saw
     the drummer's wife eating chupatties, and asked her to give a piece
     to the child, which she did.  I now saw water in a ravine.  The
     descent was steep, and our only drinkingvessel was M----'s cap.  Our
     horse got water, and I bathed my neck.  I had no stockings, and my
     feet were torn and blistered.  Two peasants came in sight, and we
     were frightened and rode off.  The sergeant held our horse, and M----
     put me up and mounted.  I think he must have got suddenly faint,
     for I fell and he over me, on the road, when the horse started off.
     Some time before he said, and Barber, too, that he could not live
     many hours.  I felt he was dying before we came to the ravine.  He
     told me his wishes about his children and myself, and took leave.
     My brain seemed burnt up.  No tears came.  As soon as we fell, the
     sergeant let go the horse, and it went off; so that escape was cut
     off.  We sat down on the ground waiting for death.  Poor fellow! he
     was very weak; his thirst was frightful, and I went to get him
     water.  Some villagers came, and took my rupees and watch.  I took
     off my wedding-ring, and twisted it in my hair, and replaced the
     guard.  I tore off the skirt of my dress to bring water in, but was
     no use, for when I returned my beloved's eyes were fixed, and,
     though I called and tried to restore him, and poured water into his
     mouth, it only rattled in his throat.  He never spoke to me again.
     I held him in my arms till he sank gradually down.  I felt frantic,
     but could not cry.  I was alone.  I bound his head and face in my
     dress, for there was no earth to buy him.  The pain in my hands and
     feet was dreadful.  I went down to the ravine, and sat in the water
     on a stone, hoping to get off at night and look for Lottie.  When I
     came back from the water, I saw that they had not taken her little
     watch, chain, and seals, so I tied them under my petticoat.  In an
     hour, about thirty villagers came, they dragged me out of the
     ravine, and took off my jacket, and found the little chain.  They
     then dragged me to a village, mocking me all the way, and disputing
     as to whom I was to belong to.  The whole population came to look at
     me.  I asked for a bedstead, and lay down outside the door of a hut.
     They had a dozen of cows, and yet refused me milk.  When night came,
     and the village was quiet, some old woman brought me a leafful of
     rice.  I was too parched to eat, and they gave me water.  The
     morning after a neighboring Rajah sent a palanquin and a horseman to
     fetch me, who told me that a little child and three Sahibs had come
     to his master's house.  And so the poor mother found her lost one,
     'greatly blistered,' poor little creature.  It is not for Europeans
     in India to pray that their flight be not in the winter."

In the first days of June the aged general, Sir Hugh Wheeler commanding
the forces at Cawnpore, was deserted by his native troops; then he moved
out of the fort and into an exposed patch of open flat ground and built a
four-foot mud wall around it.  He had with him a few hundred white
soldiers and officers, and apparently more women and children than
soldiers.  He was short of provisions, short of arms, short of
ammunition, short of military wisdom, short of everything but courage and
devotion to duty.  The defense of that open lot through twenty-one days
and nights of hunger, thirst, Indian heat, and a never-ceasing storm of
bullets, bombs, and cannon-balls--a defense conducted, not by the aged
and infirm general, but by a young officer named Moore--is one of the
most heroic episodes in history.  When at last the Nana found it
impossible to conquer these starving men and women with powder and ball,
he resorted to treachery, and that succeeded.  He agreed to supply them
with food and send them to Allahabad in boats.  Their mud wall and their
barracks were in ruins, their provisions were at the point of exhaustion,
they had done all that the brave could do, they had conquered an
honorable compromise,--their forces had been fearfully reduced by
casualties and by disease, they were not able to continue the contest
longer.  They came forth helpless but suspecting no treachery, the Nana's
host closed around them, and at a signal from a trumpet the massacre
began.  About two hundred women and children were spared--for the
present--but all the men except three or four were killed.  Among the
incidents of the massacre quoted by Sir G. O. Trevelyan, is this:

     "When, after the lapse of some twenty minutes, the dead began to
     outnumber the living;--when the fire slackened, as the marks grew
     few and far between; then the troopers who had been drawn up to the
     right of the temple plunged into the river, sabre between teeth, and
     pistol in hand.  Thereupon two half-caste Christian women, the wives
     of musicians in the band of the Fifty-sixth, witnessed a scene which
     should not be related at second-hand.  'In the boat where I was to
     have gone,' says Mrs. Bradshaw, confirmed throughout by Mrs. Betts,
     'was the school-mistress and twenty-two misses.  General Wheeler
     came last in a palkee.  They carried him into the water near the
     boat.  I stood close by.  He said, 'Carry me a little further
     towards the boat.' But a trooper said, 'No, get out here.'  As the
     General got out of the palkee, head-foremost, the trooper gave him a
     cut with his sword into the neck, and he fell into the water.  My
     son was killed near him.  I saw it; alas!  alas!  Some were stabbed
     with bayonets; others cut down.  Little infants were torn in pieces.
     We saw it; we did; and tell you only what we saw.  Other children
     were stabbed and thrown into the river.  The schoolgirls were burnt
     to death.  I saw their clothes and hair catch fire.  In the water, a
     few paces off, by the next boat, we saw the youngest daughter of
     Colonel Williams.  A sepoy was going to kill her with his bayonet.
     She said, 'My father was always kind to sepoys.'  He turned away,
     and just then a villager struck her on the head with a club, and she
     fell into the water.  These people likewise saw good Mr. Moncrieff,
     the clergyman, take a book from his pocket that he never had leisure
     to open, and heard him commence a prayer for mercy which he was not
     permitted to conclude.  Another deponent observed an European making
     for a drain like a scared water-rat, when some boatmen, armed with
     cudgels, cut off his retreat, and beat him down dead into the mud."

The women and children who had been reserved from the massacre were
imprisoned during a fortnight in a small building, one story high--a
cramped place, a slightly modified Black Hole of Calcutta.  They were
waiting in suspense; there was none who could foretaste their fate.
Meantime the news of the massacre had traveled far and an army of
rescuers with Havelock at its head was on its way--at least an army which
hoped to be rescuers.  It was crossing the country by forced marches, and
strewing its way with its own dead men struck down by cholera, and by a
heat which reached 135 deg.  It was in a vengeful fury, and it stopped
for nothing neither heat, nor fatigue, nor disease, nor human opposition.
It tore its impetuous way through hostile forces, winning victory after
victory, but still striding on and on, not halting to count results.  And
at last, after this extraordinary march, it arrived before the walls of
Cawnpore, met the Nana's massed strength, delivered a crushing defeat,
and entered.

But too late--only a few hours too late.  For at the last moment the Nana
had decided upon the massacre of the captive women and children, and had
commissioned three Mohammedans and two Hindoos to do the work.  Sir G.
O. Trevelyan says:

     "Thereupon the five men entered.  It was the short gloaming of
     Hindostan--the hour when ladies take their evening drive.  She who
     had accosted the officer was standing in the doorway.  With her were
     the native doctor and two Hindoo menials.  That much of the business
     might be seen from the veranda, but all else was concealed amidst
     the interior gloom.  Shrieks and scuffing acquainted those without
     that the journeymen were earning their hire.  Survur Khan soon
     emerged with his sword broken off at the hilt.  He procured another
     from the Nana's house, and a few minutes after appeared again on the
     same errand.  The third blade was of better temper; or perhaps the
     thick of the work was already over.  By the time darkness had closed
     in, the men came forth and locked up the house for the night.  Then
     the screams ceased, but the groans lasted till morning.

     "The sun rose as usual.  When he had been up nearly three hours the
     five repaired to the scene of their labors over night.  They were
     attended by a few sweepers, who proceeded to transfer the contents
     of the house to a dry well situated behind some trees which grew
     hard by.  'The bodies,' says one who was present throughout, 'were
     dragged out, most of them by the hair of the head.  Those who had
     clothing worth taking were stripped.  Some of the women were alive.
     I cannot say how many; but three could speak.  They prayed for the
     sake of God that an end might be put to their sufferings.  I
     remarked one very stout woman, a half-caste, who was severely
     wounded in both arms, who entreated to be killed.  She and two or
     three others were placed against the bank of the cut by which
     bullocks go down in drawing water.  The dead were first thrown in.
     Yes: there was a great crowd looking on; they were standing along
     the walls of the compound.  They were principally city people and
     villagers.  Yes: there were also sepoys.  Three boys were alive.
     They were fair children.  The eldest, I think, must have been six or
     seven, and the youngest five years.  They were running around the
     well (where else could they go to?), and there was none to save
     them.  No one said a word or tried to save them.'

     "At length the smallest of them made an infantile attempt to get
     away.  The little thing had been frightened past bearing by the
     murder of one of the surviving ladies.  He thus attracted the
     observation of a native who flung him and his companions down the
     well."

The soldiers had made a march of eighteen days, almost without rest, to
save the women and the children, and now they were too late--all were
dead and the assassin had flown.  What happened then, Trevelyan hesitated
to put into words.  "Of what took place, the less said is the better."

Then he continues:

     "But there was a spectacle to witness which might excuse much.
     Those who, straight from the contested field, wandered sobbing
     through the rooms of the ladies' house, saw what it were well could
     the outraged earth have straightway hidden.  The inner apartment was
     ankle-deep in blood.  The plaster was scored with sword-cuts; not
     high up as where men have fought, but low down, and about the
     corners, as if a creature had crouched to avoid the blow.  Strips of
     dresses, vainly tied around the handles of the doors, signified the
     contrivance to which feminine despair had resorted as a means of
     keeping out the murderers.  Broken combs were there, and the frills
     of children's trousers, and torn cuffs and pinafores, and little
     round hats, and one or two shoes with burst latchets, and one or two
     daguerreotype cases with cracked glasses.  An officer picked up a
     few curls, preserved in a bit of cardboard, and marked 'Ned's hair,
     with love'; but around were strewn locks, some near a yard in
     length, dissevered, not as a keepsake, by quite other scissors."

The battle of Waterloo was fought on the 18th of June, 1815.  I do not
state this fact as a reminder to the reader, but as news to him.  For a
forgotten fact is news when it comes again.  Writers of books have the
fashion of whizzing by vast and renowned historical events with the
remark, "The details of this tremendous episode are too familiar to the
reader to need repeating here."  They know that that is not true.  It is
a low kind of flattery.  They know that the reader has forgotten every
detail of it, and that nothing of the tremendous event is left in his
mind but a vague and formless luminous smudge.  Aside from the desire to
flatter the reader, they have another reason for making the remark-two
reasons, indeed.  They do not remember the details themselves, and do not
want the trouble of hunting them up and copying them out; also, they are
afraid that if they search them out and print them they will be scoffed
at by the book-reviewers for retelling those worn old things which are
familiar to everybody.  They should not mind the reviewer's jeer; he
doesn't remember any of the worn old things until the book which he is
reviewing has retold them to him.

I have made the quoted remark myself, at one time and another, but I was
not doing it to flatter the reader; I was merely doing it to save work.
If I had known the details without brushing up, I would have put them in;
but I didn't, and I did not want the labor of posting myself; so I said,
"The details of this tremendous episode are too familiar to the reader to
need repeating here."  I do not like that kind of a lie; still, it does
save work.

I am not trying to get out of repeating the details of the Siege of
Lucknow in fear of the reviewer; I am not leaving them out in fear that
they would not interest the reader; I am leaving them out partly to save
work; mainly for lack of room.  It is a pity, too; for there is not a
dull place anywhere in the great story.

Ten days before the outbreak (May 10th) of the Mutiny, all was serene at
Lucknow, the huge capital of Oudh, the kingdom which had recently been
seized by the India Company.  There was a great garrison, composed of
about 7,000 native troops and between 700 and 800 whites.  These white
soldiers and their families were probably the only people of their race
there; at their elbow was that swarming population of warlike natives, a
race of born soldiers, brave, daring, and fond of fighting.  On high
ground just outside the city stood the palace of that great personage,
the Resident, the representative of British power and authority.  It
stood in the midst of spacious grounds, with its due complement of
outbuildings, and the grounds were enclosed by a wall--a wall not for
defense, but for privacy.  The mutinous spirit was in the air, but the
whites were not afraid, and did not feel much troubled.

Then came the outbreak at Meerut, then the capture of Delhi by the
mutineers; in June came the three-weeks leaguer of Sir Hugh Wheeler in
his open lot at Cawnpore--40 miles distant from Lucknow--then the
treacherous massacre of that gallant little garrison; and now the great
revolt was in full flower, and the comfortable condition of things at
Lucknow was instantly changed.

There was an outbreak there, and Sir Henry Lawrence marched out of the
Residency on the 30th of June to put it down, but was defeated with heavy
loss, and had difficulty in getting back again.  That night the memorable
siege of the Residency--called the siege of Lucknow--began.  Sir Henry
was killed three days later, and Brigadier Inglis succeeded him in
command.

Outside of the Residency fence was an immense host of hostile and
confident native besiegers; inside it were 480 loyal native soldiers, 730
white ones, and 500 women and children.

In those days the English garrisons always managed to hamper themselves
sufficiently with women and children.

The natives established themselves in houses close at hand and began to
rain bullets and cannon-balls into the Residency; and this they kept up,
night and day, during four months and a half, the little garrison
industriously replying all the time.  The women and children soon became
so used to the roar of the guns that it ceased to disturb their sleep.
The children imitated siege and defense in their play.  The women--with
any pretext, or with none--would sally out into the storm-swept grounds.
The defense was kept up week after week, with stubborn fortitude, in the
midst of death, which came in many forms--by bullet, small-pox, cholera,
and by various diseases induced by unpalatable and insufficient food, by
the long hours of wearying and exhausting overwork in the daily and
nightly battle in the oppressive Indian heat, and by the broken rest
caused by the intolerable pest of mosquitoes, flies, mice, rats, and
fleas.

Six weeks after the beginning of the siege more than one-half of the
original force of white soldiers was dead, and close upon three-fifths of
the original native force.

But the fighting went on just the same.  The enemy mined, the English
counter-mined, and, turn about, they blew up each other's posts.  The
Residency grounds were honey-combed with the enemy's tunnels.  Deadly
courtesies were constantly exchanged--sorties by the English in the
night; rushes by the enemy in the night--rushes whose purpose was to
breach the walls or scale them; rushes which cost heavily, and always
failed.

The ladies got used to all the horrors of war--the shrieks of mutilated
men, the sight of blood and death.  Lady Inglis makes this mention in her
diary:

     "Mrs. Bruere's nurse was carried past our door to-day, wounded in
     the eye.  To extract the bullet it was found necessary to take out
     the eye--a fearful operation.  Her mistress held her while it was
     performed."

The first relieving force failed to relieve.  It was under Havelock and
Outram; and arrived when the siege had been going on for three months.
It fought its desperate way to Lucknow, then fought its way through the
city against odds of a hundred to one, and entered the Residency; but
there was not enough left of it, then, to do any good.  It lost more men
in its last fight than it found in the Residency when it got in.  It
became captive itself.

The fighting and starving and dying by bullets and disease went steadily
on.  Both sides fought with energy and industry.  Captain Birch puts this
striking incident in evidence.  He is speaking of the third month of the
siege:

     "As an instance of the heavy firing brought to bear on our position
     this month may be mentioned the cutting down of the upper story of a
     brick building simply by musketry firring.  This building was in a
     most exposed position.  All the shots which just missed the top of
     the rampart cut into the dead wall pretty much in a straight line,
     and at length cut right through and brought the upper story tumbling
     down.  The upper structure on the top of the brigade-mess also fell
     in.  The Residency house was a wreck.  Captain Anderson's post had
     long ago been knocked down, and Innes' post also fell in.  These two
     were riddled with round shot.  As many as 200 were picked up by
     Colonel Masters."

The exhausted garrison fought doggedly on all through the next month
October.  Then, November 2d, news came Sir Colin Campbell's relieving
force would soon be on its way from Cawnpore.

On the 12th the boom of his guns was heard.

On the 13th the sounds came nearer--he was slowly, but steadily, cutting
his way through, storming one stronghold after another.

On the 14th he captured the Martiniere College, and ran up the British
flag there.  It was seen from the Residency.

Next he took the Dilkoosha.

On the 17th he took the former mess-house of the 32d regiment--a
fortified building, and very strong.  "A most exciting, anxious day,"
writes Lady Inglis in her diary.  "About 4 P.M., two strange officers
walked through our yard, leading their horses"--and by that sign she knew
that communication was established between the forces, that the relief
was real, this time, and that the long siege of Lucknow was ended.

The last eight or ten miles of Sir Colin Campbell's march was through
seas of, blood.  The weapon mainly used was the bayonet, the fighting was
desperate.  The way was mile-stoned with detached strong buildings of
stone, fortified, and heavily garrisoned, and these had to be taken by
assault.  Neither side asked for quarter, and neither gave it.  At the
Secundrabagh, where nearly two thousand of the enemy occupied a great
stone house in a garden, the work of slaughter was continued until every
man was killed.  That is a sample of the character of that devastating
march.

There were but few trees in the plain at that time, and from the
Residency the progress of the march, step by step, victory by victory,
could be noted; the ascending clouds of battle-smoke marked the way to
the eye, and the thunder of the guns marked it to the ear.

Sir Colin Campbell had not come to Lucknow to hold it, but to save the
occupants of the Residency, and bring them away.  Four or five days after
his arrival the secret evacuation by the troops took place, in the middle
of a dark night, by the principal gate, (the Bailie Guard).  The two
hundred women and two hundred and fifty children had been previously
removed.  Captain Birch says:

     "And now commenced a movement of the most perfect arrangement and
     successful generalship--the withdrawal of the whole of the various
     forces, a combined movement requiring the greatest care and skill.
     First, the garrison in immediate contact with the enemy at the
     furthest extremity of the Residency position was marched out.  Every
     other garrison in turn fell in behind it, and so passed out through
     the Bailie Guard gate, till the whole of our position was evacuated.
     Then Havelock's force was similarly withdrawn, post by post,
     marching in rear of our garrison.  After them in turn came the
     forces of the Commander-in-Chief, which joined on in the rear of
     Havelock's force.  Regiment by regiment was withdrawn with--the
     utmost order and regularity.  The whole operation resembled the
     movement of a telescope.  Stern silence was kept, and the enemy took
     no alarm."

Lady Inglis, referring to her husband and to General Sir James Outram,
sets down the closing detail of this impressive midnight retreat, in
darkness and by stealth, of this shadowy host through the gate which it
had defended so long and so well:

     "At twelve precisely they marched out, John and Sir James Outram
     remaining till all had passed, and then they took off their hats to
     the Bailie Guard, the scene of as noble a defense as I think history
     will ever have to relate."




CHAPTER LIX.

Don't part with your illusions.  When they are gone you may still exist
but you have ceased to live.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Often, the surest way to convey misinformation is to tell the strict
truth.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

We were driven over Sir Colin Campbell's route by a British officer, and
when I arrived at the Residency I was so familiar with the road that I
could have led a retreat over it myself; but the compass in my head has
been out of order from my birth, and so, as soon as I was within the
battered Bailie Guard and turned about to review the march and imagine
the relieving forces storming their way along it, everything was upside
down and wrong end first in a moment, and I was never able to get
straightened out again.  And now, when I look at the battle-plan, the
confusion remains.  In me the east was born west, the battle-plans which
have the east on the right-hand side are of no use to me.

The Residency ruins are draped with flowering vines, and are impressive
and beautiful.  They and the grounds are sacred now, and will suffer no
neglect nor be profaned by any sordid or commercial use while the British
remain masters of India.  Within the grounds are buried the dead who gave
up their lives there in the long siege.

After a fashion, I was able to imagine the fiery storm that raged night
and day over the place during so many months, and after a fashion I could
imagine the men moving through it, but I could not satisfactorily place
the 200 women, and I could do nothing at all with the 250 children.  I
knew by Lady Inglis' diary that the children carried on their small
affairs very much as if blood and carnage and the crash and thunder of a
siege were natural and proper features of nursery life, and I tried to
realize it; but when her little Johnny came rushing, all excitement,
through the din and smoke, shouting, "Oh, mamma, the white hen has laid
an egg!"  I saw that I could not do it.  Johnny's place was under the
bed.  I could imagine him there, because I could imagine myself there;
and I think I should not have been interested in a hen that was laying an
egg; my interest would have been with the parties that were laying the
bombshells.  I sat at dinner with one of those children in the Club's
Indian palace, and I knew that all through the siege he was perfecting
his teething and learning to talk; and while to me he was the most
impressive object in Lucknow after the Residency ruins, I was not able to
imagine what his life had been during that tempestuous infancy of his,
nor what sort of a curious surprise it must have been to him to be
marched suddenly out into a strange dumb world where there wasn't any
noise, and nothing going on.  He was only forty-one when I saw him, a
strangely youthful link to connect the present with so ancient an episode
as the Great Mutiny.

By and by we saw Cawnpore, and the open lot which was the scene of
Moore's memorable defense, and the spot on the shore of the Ganges where
the massacre of the betrayed garrison occurred, and the small Indian
temple whence the bugle-signal notified the assassins to fall on.  This
latter was a lonely spot, and silent.  The sluggish river drifted by,
almost currentless.  It was dead low water, narrow channels with vast
sandbars between, all the way across the wide bed; and the only living
thing in sight was that grotesque and solemn bald-headed bird, the
Adjutant, standing on his six-foot stilts, solitary on a distant bar,
with his head sunk between his shoulders, thinking; thinking of his
prize, I suppose--the dead Hindoo that lay awash at his feet, and whether
to eat him alone or invite friends.  He and his prey were a proper accent
to that mournful place.  They were in keeping with it, they emphasized
its loneliness and its solemnity.

And we saw the scene of the slaughter of the helpless women and children,
and also the costly memorial that is built over the well which contains
their remains.  The Black Hole of Calcutta is gone, but a more reverent
age is come, and whatever remembrancer still exists of the moving and
heroic sufferings and achievements of the garrisons of Lucknow and
Cawnpore will be guarded and preserved.

In Agra and its neighborhood, and afterwards at Delhi, we saw forts,
mosques, and tombs, which were built in the great days of the Mohammedan
emperors, and which are marvels of cost, magnitude, and richness of
materials and ornamentation, creations of surpassing grandeur, wonders
which do indeed make the like things in the rest of the world seem tame
and inconsequential by comparison.  I am not purposing to describe them.
By good fortune I had not read too much about them, and therefore was
able to get a natural and rational focus upon them, with the result that
they thrilled, blessed, and exalted me.  But if I had previously
overheated my imagination by drinking too much pestilential literary hot
Scotch, I should have suffered disappointment and sorrow.

I mean to speak of only one of these many world-renowned buildings, the
Taj Mahal, the most celebrated construction in the earth.  I had read a
great deal too much about it.  I saw it in the daytime, I saw it in the
moonlight, I saw it near at hand, I saw it from a distance; and I knew
all the time, that of its kind it was the wonder of the world, with no
competitor now and no possible future competitor; and yet, it was not my
Taj.  My Taj had been built by excitable literary people; it was solidly
lodged in my head, and I could not blast it out.

I wish to place before the reader some of the usual descriptions of the
Taj, and ask him to take note of the impressions left in his mind.  These
descriptions do really state the truth--as nearly as the limitations of
language will allow.  But language is a treacherous thing, a most unsure
vehicle, and it can seldom arrange descriptive words in such a way that
they will not inflate the facts--by help of the reader's imagination,
which is always ready to take a hand, and work for nothing, and do the
bulk of it at that.

I will begin with a few sentences from the excellent little local guide-
book of Mr. Satya Chandra Mukerji.  I take them from here and there in
his description:

     "The inlaid work of the Taj and the flowers and petals that are to
     be found on all sides on the surface of the marble evince a most
     delicate touch."

That is true.

     "The inlaid work, the marble, the flowers, the buds, the leaves, the
     petals, and the lotus stems are almost without a rival in the whole
     of the civilized world."

     "The work of inlaying with stones and gems is found in the highest
     perfection in the Taj."

Gems, inlaid flowers, buds, and leaves to be found on all sides.  What do
you see before you?  Is the fairy structure growing?  Is it becoming a
jewel casket?

     "The whole of the Taj produces a wonderful effect that is equally
     sublime and beautiful."

Then Sir William Wilson Hunter:

     "The Taj Mahal with its beautiful domes, 'a dream of marble,' rises
     on the river bank."

     "The materials are white marble and red sandstone."

     "The complexity of its design and the delicate intricacy of the
     workmanship baffle description."

Sir William continues.  I will italicize some of his words:

     "The mausoleum stands on a raised marble platform at each of whose
     corners rises a tall and slender minaret of graceful proportions and
     of exquisite beauty.  Beyond the platform stretch the two wings, one
     of which is itself a mosque of great architectural merit.  In the
     center of the whole design the mausoleum occupies a square of 186
     feet, with the angles deeply truncated so also form an unequal
     octagon.  The main feature in this central pile is the great dome,
     which swells upward to nearly two-thirds of a sphere and tapers at
     its extremity into a pointed spire crowned by a crescent.  Beneath
     it an enclosure of marble trellis-work surrounds the tomb of the
     princess and of her husband, the Emperor.  Each corner of the
     mausoleum is covered by a similar though much smaller dome erected
     on a pediment pierced with graceful Saracenic arches.  Light is
     admitted into the interior through a double screen of pierced
     marble, which tempers the glare of an Indian sky while its whiteness
     prevents the mellow effect from degenerating into gloom.  The
     internal decorations consist of inlaid work in precious stones, such
     as agate, jasper, etc., with which every squandril or salient point
     in the architecture is richly fretted.  Brown and violet marble is
     also freely employed in wreaths, scrolls, and lintels to relieve the
     monotony of white wall.  In regard to color and design, the interior
     of the Taj may rank first in the world for purely decorative
     workmanship; while the perfect symmetry of its exterior, once seen
     can never be forgotten, nor the aerial grace of its domes, rising
     like marble bubbles into the clear sky.  The Taj represents the most
     highly elaborated stage of ornamentation reached by the Indo-
     Mohammedan builders, the stage in which the architect ends and the
     jeweler begins.  In its magnificent gateway the diagonal
     ornamentation at the corners, which satisfied the designers of the
     gateways of Itimad-ud-doulah and Sikandra mausoleums is superseded
     by fine marble cables, in bold twists, strong and handsome.  The
     triangular insertions of white marble and large flowers have in like
     manner given place to fine inlaid work.  Firm perpendicular lines in
     black marble with well proportioned panels of the same material are
     effectively used in the interior of the gateway.  On its top the
     Hindu brackets and monolithic architraves of Sikandra are replaced
     by Moorish carped arches, usually single blocks of red sandstone, in
     the Kiosks and pavilions which adorn the roof.  From the pillared
     pavilions a magnificent view is obtained of the Taj gardens below,
     with the noble Jumna river at their farther end, and the city and
     fort of Agra in the distance.  From this beautiful and splendid
     gateway one passes up a straight alley shaded by evergreen trees
     cooled by a broad shallow piece of water running along the middle of
     the path to the Taj itself.  The Taj is entirely of marble and gems.
     The red sandstone of the other Mohammedan buildings has entirely
     disappeared, or rather the red sandstone which used to form the
     thickness of the walls, is in the Taj itself overlaid completely
     with white marble, and the white marble is itself inlaid with
     precious stones arranged in lovely patterns of flowers.  A feeling
     of purity impresses itself on the eye and the mind from the absence
     of the coarser material which forms so invariable a material in Agra
     architecture.  The lower wall and panels are covered with tulips,
     oleanders, and fullblown lilies, in flat carving on the white
     marble; and although the inlaid work of flowers done in gems is very
     brilliant when looked at closely, there is on the whole but little
     color, and the all-prevailing sentiment is one of whiteness,
     silence, and calm.  The whiteness is broken only by the fine color
     of the inlaid gems, by lines in black marble, and by delicately
     written inscriptions, also in black, from the Koran.  Under the dome
     of the vast mausoleum a high and beautiful screen of open tracery in
     white marble rises around the two tombs, or rather cenotaphs of the
     emperor and his princess; and in this marvel of marble the carving
     has advanced from the old geometrical patterns to a trellis-work of
     flowers and foliage, handled with great freedom and spirit.  The two
     cenotaphs in the center of the exquisite enclosure have no carving
     except the plain Kalamdan or oblong pen-box on the tomb of Emperor
     Shah Jehan.  But both cenotaphs are inlaid with flowers made of
     costly gems, and with the ever graceful oleander scroll."

Bayard Taylor, after describing the details of the Taj, goes on to say:

     "On both sides the palm, the banyan, and the feathery bamboo mingle
     their foliage; the song of birds meets your ears, and the odor of
     roses and lemon flowers sweetens the air.  Down such a vista and
     over such a foreground rises the Taj.  There is no mystery, no sense
     of partial failure about the Taj.  A thing of perfect beauty and of
     absolute finish in every detail, it might pass for the work of genii
     who knew naught of the weaknesses and ills with which mankind are
     beset."

All of these details are true.  But, taken together, they state a
falsehood--to you.  You cannot add them up correctly.  Those writers know
the values of their words and phrases, but to you the words and phrases
convey other and uncertain values.  To those writers their phrases have
values which I think I am now acquainted with; and for the help of the
reader I will here repeat certain of those words and phrases, and follow
them with numerals which shall represent those values--then we shall see
the difference between a writer's ciphering and a mistaken reader's

Precious stones, such as agate, jasper, etc.--5.

With which every salient point is richly fretted--5.

First in the world for purely decorative workmanship--9.

The Taj represents the stage where the architect ends and the jeweler
begins--5.

The Taj is entirely of marble and gems--7.

Inlaid with precious stones in lovely patterns of flowers--5.

The inlaid work of flowers done in gems is very brilliant
(followed by a most important modification which the reader is sure to
read too carelessly)--2.

The vast mausoleum--5.

This marvel of marble--5.

The exquisite enclosure--5.

Inlaid with flowers made of costly gems--5.

A thing of perfect beauty and absolute finish--5.


Those details are correct; the figures which I have placed after them
represent quite fairly their individual, values.  Then why, as a whole,
do they convey a false impression to the reader?  It is because the
reader--beguiled by, his heated imagination--masses them in the wrong
way.  The writer would mass the first three figures in the following way,
and they would speak the truth

Total--19

But the reader masses them thus--and then they tell a lie--559.

The writer would add all of his twelve numerals together, and then the
sum would express the whole truth about the Taj, and the truth only--63.

But the reader--always helped by his imagination--would put the figures
in a row one after the other, and get this sum, which would tell him a
noble big lie:

559575255555.

You must put in the commas yourself; I have to go on with my work.

The reader will always be sure to put the figures together in that wrong
way, and then as surely before him will stand, sparkling in the sun, a
gem-crusted Taj tall as the Matterhorn.

I had to visit Niagara fifteen times before I succeeded in getting my
imaginary Falls gauged to the actuality and could begin to sanely and
wholesomely wonder at them for what they were, not what I had expected
them to be.  When I first approached them it was with my face lifted
toward the sky, for I thought I was going to see an Atlantic ocean
pouring down thence over cloud-vexed Himalayan heights, a sea-green wall
of water sixty miles front and six miles high, and so, when the toy
reality came suddenly into view--that beruiled little wet apron hanging
out to dry--the shock was too much for me, and I fell with a dull thud.

Yet slowly, surely, steadily, in the course of my fifteen visits, the
proportions adjusted themselves to the facts, and I came at last to
realize that a waterfall a hundred and sixty-five feet high and a quarter
of a mile wide was an impressive thing.  It was not a dipperful to my
vanished great vision, but it would answer.

I know that I ought to do with the Taj as I was obliged to do with
Niagara--see it fifteen times, and let my mind gradually get rid of the
Taj built in it by its describers, by help of my imagination, and
substitute for it the Taj of fact.  It would be noble and fine, then, and
a marvel; not the marvel which it replaced, but still a marvel, and fine
enough.  I am a careless reader, I suppose--an impressionist reader; an
impressionist reader of what is not an impressionist picture; a reader
who overlooks the informing details or masses their sum improperly, and
gets only a large splashy, general effect--an effect which is not
correct, and which is not warranted by the particulars placed before me
particulars which I did not examine, and whose meanings I did not
cautiously and carefully estimate.  It is an effect which is some thirty-
five or forty times finer than the reality, and is therefore a great deal
better and more valuable than the reality; and so, I ought never to hunt
up the reality, but stay miles away from it, and thus preserve undamaged
my own private mighty Niagara tumbling out of the vault of heaven, and my
own ineffable Taj, built of tinted mists upon jeweled arches of rainbows
supported by colonnades of moonlight.  It is a mistake for a person with
an unregulated imagination to go and look at an illustrious world's
wonder.

I suppose that many, many years ago I gathered the idea that the Taj's
place in the achievements of man was exactly the place of the ice-storm
in the achievements of Nature; that the Taj represented man's supremest
possibility in the creation of grace and beauty and exquisiteness and
splendor, just as the ice-storm represents Nature's supremest possibility
in the combination of those same qualities.  I do not know how long ago
that idea was bred in me, but I know that I cannot remember back to a
time when the thought of either of these symbols of gracious and
unapproachable perfection did not at once suggest the other.  If I
thought of the ice-storm, the Taj rose before me divinely beautiful; if I
thought of the Taj, with its encrustings and inlayings of jewels, the
vision of the ice-storm rose.  And so, to me, all these years, the Taj
has had no rival among the temples and palaces of men, none that even
remotely approached it it was man's architectural ice-storm.

Here in London the other night I was talking with some Scotch and English
friends, and I mentioned the ice-storm, using it as a figure--a figure
which failed, for none of them had heard of the ice-storm.  One
gentleman, who was very familiar with American literature, said he had
never seen it mentioned in any book.  That is strange.  And I, myself,
was not able to say that I had seen it mentioned in a book; and yet the
autumn foliage, with all other American scenery, has received full and
competent attention.

The oversight is strange, for in America the ice-storm is an event.  And
it is not an event which one is careless about.  When it comes, the news
flies from room to room in the house, there are bangings on the doors,
and shoutings, "The ice-storm!  the ice-storm!" and even the laziest
sleepers throw off the covers and join the rush for the windows.  The
ice-storm occurs in midwinter, and usually its enchantments are wrought
in the silence and the darkness of the night.  A fine drizzling rain
falls hour after hour upon the naked twigs and branches of the trees, and
as it falls it freezes.  In time the trunk and every branch and twig are
incased in hard pure ice; so that the tree looks like a skeleton tree
made all of glass--glass that is crystal-clear.  All along the underside
of every branch and twig is a comb of little icicles--the frozen drip.
Sometimes these pendants do not quite amount to icicles, but are round
beads--frozen tears.

The weather clears, toward dawn, and leaves a brisk pure atmosphere and a
sky without a shred of cloud in it--and everything is still, there is not
a breath of wind.  The dawn breaks and spreads, the news of the storm
goes about the house, and the little and the big, in wraps and blankets,
flock to the window and press together there, and gaze intently out upon
the great white ghost in the grounds, and nobody says a word, nobody
stirs.  All are waiting; they know what is coming, and they are waiting
waiting for the miracle.  The minutes drift on and on and on, with not a
sound but the ticking of the clock; at last the sun fires a sudden sheaf
of rays into the ghostly tree and turns it into a white splendor of
glittering diamonds.  Everybody catches his breath, and feels a swelling
in his throat and a moisture in his eyes-but waits again; for he knows
what is coming; there is more yet.  The sun climbs higher, and still
higher, flooding the tree from its loftiest spread of branches to its
lowest, turning it to a glory of white fire; then in a moment, without
warning, comes the great miracle, the supreme miracle, the miracle
without its fellow in the earth; a gust of wind sets every branch and
twig to swaying, and in an instant turns the whole white tree into a
spouting and spraying explosion of flashing gems of every conceivable
color; and there it stands and sways this way and that, flash!  flash!
flash!  a dancing and glancing world of rubies, emeralds, diamonds,
sapphires, the most radiant spectacle, the most blinding spectacle, the
divinest, the most exquisite, the most intoxicating vision of fire and
color and intolerable and unimaginable splendor that ever any eye has
rested upon in this world, or will ever rest upon outside of the gates of
heaven.

By, all my senses, all my faculties, I know that the icestorm is Nature's
supremest achievement in the domain of the superb and the beautiful; and
by my reason, at least, I know that the Taj is man's ice-storm.

In the ice-storm every one of the myriad ice-beads pendant from twig and
branch is an individual gem, and changes color with every motion caused
by the wind; each tree carries a million, and a forest-front exhibits the
splendors of the single tree multiplied by a thousand.

It occurs to me now that I have never seen the ice-storm put upon canvas,
and have not heard that any painter has tried to do it.  I wonder why
that is.  Is it that paint cannot counterfeit the intense blaze of a sun-
flooded jewel?  There should be, and must be, a reason, and a good one,
why the most enchanting sight that Nature has created has been neglected
by the brush.

Often, the surest way to convey misinformation is to tell the strict
truth.  The describers of the Taj have used the word gem in its strictest
sense--its scientific sense.  In that sense it is a mild word, and
promises but little to the eye-nothing bright, nothing brilliant, nothing
sparkling, nothing splendid in the way of color.  It accurately describes
the sober and unobtrusive gem-work of the Taj; that is, to the very
highly-educated one person in a thousand; but it most falsely describes
it to the 999.  But the 999 are the people who ought to be especially
taken care of, and to them it does not mean quiet-colored designs wrought
in carnelians, or agates, or such things; they know the word in its wide
and ordinary sense only, and so to them it means diamonds and rubies and
opals and their kindred, and the moment their eyes fall upon it in print
they see a vision of glorious colors clothed in fire.

These describers are writing for the "general," and so, in order to make
sure of being understood, they ought to use words in their ordinary
sense, or else explain.  The word fountain means one thing in Syria,
where there is but a handful of people; it means quite another thing in
North America, where there are 75,000,000.  If I were describing some
Syrian scenery, and should exclaim, "Within the narrow space of a quarter
of a mile square I saw, in the glory of the flooding moonlight, two
hundred noble fountains--imagine the spectacle!" the North American would
have a vision of clustering columns of water soaring aloft, bending over
in graceful arches, bursting in beaded spray and raining white fire in
the moonlight-and he would be deceived.  But the Syrian would not be
deceived; he would merely see two hundred fresh-water springs--two
hundred drowsing puddles, as level and unpretentious and unexcited as so
many door-mats, and even with the help of the moonlight he would not lose
his grip in the presence of the exhibition.  My word "fountain" would be
correct; it would speak the strict truth; and it would convey the strict
truth to the handful of Syrians, and the strictest misinformation to the
North American millions.  With their gems--and gems--and more gems--and
gems again--and still other gems--the describers of the Taj are within
their legal but not their moral rights; they are dealing in the strictest
scientific truth; and in doing it they succeed to admiration in telling
"what ain't so."




CHAPTER LX.

SATAN (impatiently) to NEW-COMER.  The trouble with you Chicago people
is, that you think you are the best people down here; whereas you are
merely the most numerous.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

We wandered contentedly around here and there in India; to Lahore, among
other places, where the Lieutenant-Governor lent me an elephant.  This
hospitality stands out in my experiences in a stately isolation.  It was
a fine elephant, affable, gentlemanly, educated, and I was not afraid of
it.  I even rode it with confidence through the crowded lanes of the
native city, where it scared all the horses out of their senses, and
where children were always just escaping its feet.  It took the middle of
the road in a fine independent way, and left it to the world to get out
of the way or take the consequences.  I am used to being afraid of
collisions when I ride or drive, but when one is on top of an elephant
that feeling is absent.  I could have ridden in comfort through a
regiment of runaway teams.  I could easily learn to prefer an elephant to
any other vehicle, partly because of that immunity from collisions, and
partly because of the fine view one has from up there, and partly because
of the dignity one feels in that high place, and partly because one can
look in at the windows and see what is going on privately among the
family.  The Lahore horses were used to elephants, but they were
rapturously afraid of them just the same.  It seemed curious.  Perhaps
the better they know the elephant the more they respect him in that
peculiar way.  In our own case--we are not afraid of dynamite till we get
acquainted with it.

We drifted as far as Rawal Pindi, away up on the Afghan frontier--I think
it was the Afghan frontier, but it may have been Hertzegovina--it was
around there somewhere--and down again to Delhi, to see the ancient
architectural wonders there and in Old Delhi and not describe them, and
also to see the scene of the illustrious assault, in the Mutiny days,
when the British carried Delhi by storm, one of the marvels of history
for impudent daring and immortal valor.

We had a refreshing rest, there in Delhi, in a great old mansion which
possessed historical interest.  It was built by a rich Englishman who had
become orientalized--so much so that he had a zenana.  But he was a
broadminded man, and remained so.  To please his harem he built a mosque;
to please himself he built an English church.  That kind of a man will
arrive, somewhere.  In the Mutiny days the mansion was the British
general's headquarters.  It stands in a great garden--oriental fashion--
and about it are many noble trees.  The trees harbor monkeys; and they
are monkeys of a watchful and enterprising sort, and not much troubled
with fear.  They invade the house whenever they get a chance, and carry
off everything they don't want.  One morning the master of the house was
in his bath, and the window was open.  Near it stood a pot of yellow
paint and a brush.  Some monkeys appeared in the window; to scare them
away, the gentleman threw his sponge at them.  They did not scare at all;
they jumped into the room and threw yellow paint all over him from the
brush, and drove him out; then they painted the walls and the floor and
the tank and the windows and the furniture yellow, and were in the
dressing-room painting that when help arrived and routed them.

Two of these creatures came into my room in the early morning, through a
window whose shutters I had left open, and when I woke one of them was
before the glass brushing his hair, and the other one had my note-book,
and was reading a page of humorous notes and crying.  I did not mind the
one with the hair-brush, but the conduct of the other one hurt me; it
hurts me yet.  I threw something at him, and that was wrong, for my host
had told me that the monkeys were best left alone.  They threw everything
at me that they could lift, and then went into the bathroom to get some
more things, and I shut the door on them.

At Jeypore, in Rajputana, we made a considerable stay.  We were not in
the native city, but several miles from it, in the small European
official suburb.  There were but few Europeans--only fourteen but they
were all kind and hospitable, and it amounted to being at home.  In
Jeypore we found again what we had found all about India--that while the
Indian servant is in his way a very real treasure, he will sometimes bear
watching, and the Englishman watches him.  If he sends him on an errand,
he wants more than the man's word for it that he did the errand.  When
fruit and vegetables were sent to us, a "chit" came with them--a receipt
for us to sign; otherwise the things might not arrive.  If a gentleman
sent up his carriage, the chit stated "from" such-and-such an hour "to"
such-and-such an hour--which made it unhandy for the coachman and his two
or three subordinates to put us off with a part of the allotted time and
devote the rest of it to a lark of their own.

We were pleasantly situated in a small two-storied inn, in an empty large
compound which was surrounded by a mud wall as high as a man's head.  The
inn was kept by nine Hindoo brothers, its owners.  They lived, with their
families, in a one-storied building within the compound, but off to one
side, and there was always a long pile of their little comely brown
children loosely stacked in its veranda, and a detachment of the parents
wedged among them, smoking the hookah or the howdah, or whatever they
call it.  By the veranda stood a palm, and a monkey lived in it, and led
a lonesome life, and always looked sad and weary, and the crows bothered
him a good deal.

The inn cow poked about the compound and emphasized the secluded and
country air of the place, and there was a dog of no particular breed, who
was always present in the compound, and always asleep, always stretched
out baking in the sun and adding to the deep tranquility and
reposefulness of the place, when the crows were away on business.  White-
draperied servants were coming and going all the time, but they seemed
only spirits, for their feet were bare and made no sound.  Down the lane
a piece lived an elephant in the shade of a noble tree, and rocked and
rocked, and reached about with his trunk, begging of his brown mistress
or fumbling the children playing at his feet.  And there were camels
about, but they go on velvet feet, and were proper to the silence and
serenity of the surroundings.

The Satan mentioned at the head of this chapter was not our Satan, but
the other one.  Our Satan was lost to us.  In these later days he had
passed out of our life--lamented by me, and sincerely.  I was missing
him; I am missing him yet, after all these months.  He was an astonishing
creature to fly around and do things.  He didn't always do them quite
right, but he did them, and did them suddenly.  There was no time wasted.
You would say:

"Pack the trunks and bags, Satan."

"Wair good" (very good).

Then there would be a brief sound of thrashing and slashing and humming
and buzzing, and a spectacle as of a whirlwind spinning gowns and jackets
and coats and boots and things through the air, and then with bow and
touch--

"Awready, master."

It was wonderful.  It made one dizzy.  He crumpled dresses a good deal,
and he had no particular plan about the work--at first--except to put
each article into the trunk it didn't belong in.  But he soon reformed,
in this matter.  Not entirely; for, to the last, he would cram into the
satchel sacred to literature any odds and ends of rubbish that he
couldn't find a handy place for elsewhere.  When threatened with death
for this, it did not trouble him; he only looked pleasant, saluted with
soldierly grace, said "Wair good," and did it again next day.

He was always busy; kept the rooms tidied up, the boots polished, the
clothes brushed, the wash-basin full of clean water, my dress clothes
laid out and ready for the lecture-hall an hour ahead of time; and he
dressed me from head to heel in spite of my determination to do it
myself, according to my lifelong custom.

He was a born boss, and loved to command, and to jaw and dispute with
inferiors and harry them and bullyrag them.  He was fine at the railway
station--yes, he was at his finest there.  He would shoulder and plunge
and paw his violent way through the packed multitude of natives with
nineteen coolies at his tail, each bearing a trifle of luggage--one a
trunk, another a parasol, another a shawl, another a fan, and so on; one
article to each, and the longer the procession, the better he was suited
--and he was sure to make for some engaged sleeper and begin to hurl the
owner's things out of it, swearing that it was ours and that there had
been a mistake.  Arrived at our own sleeper, he would undo the bedding-
bundles and make the beds and put everything to rights and shipshape in
two minutes; then put his head out at, a window and have a restful good
time abusing his gang of coolies and disputing their bill until we
arrived and made him pay them and stop his noise.

Speaking of noise, he certainly was the noisest little devil in India--
and that is saying much, very much, indeed.  I loved him for his noise,
but the family detested him for it.  They could not abide it; they could
not get reconciled to it.  It humiliated them.  As a rule, when we got
within six hundred yards of one of those big railway stations, a mighty
racket of screaming and shrieking and shouting and storming would break
upon us, and I would be happy to myself, and the family would say, with
shame:

"There--that's Satan.  Why do you keep him?"

And, sure enough, there in the whirling midst of fifteen hundred
wondering people we would find that little scrap of a creature
gesticulating like a spider with the colic, his black eyes snapping, his
fez-tassel dancing, his jaws pouring out floods of billingsgate upon his
gang of beseeching and astonished coolies.

I loved him; I couldn't help it; but the family--why, they could hardly
speak of him with patience.  To this day I regret his loss, and wish I
had him back; but they--it is different with them.  He was a native, and
came from Surat.  Twenty degrees of latitude lay between his birthplace
and Manuel's, and fifteen hundred between their ways and characters and
dispositions.  I only liked Manuel, but I loved Satan.  This latter's
real name was intensely Indian.  I could not quite get the hang of it,
but it sounded like Bunder Rao Ram Chunder Clam Chowder.  It was too long
for handy use, anyway; so I reduced it.

When he had been with us two or three weeks, he began to make mistakes
which I had difficulty in patching up for him.  Approaching Benares one
day, he got out of the train to see if he could get up a misunderstanding
with somebody, for it had been a weary, long journey and he wanted to
freshen up.  He found what he was after, but kept up his pow-wow a shade
too long and got left.  So there we were in a strange city and no
chambermaid.  It was awkward for us, and we told him he must not do so
any more.  He saluted and said in his dear, pleasant way, "Wair good."
Then at Lucknow he got drunk.  I said it was a fever, and got the
family's compassion, and solicitude aroused; so they gave him a
teaspoonful of liquid quinine and it set his vitals on fire.  He made
several grimaces which gave me a better idea of the Lisbon earthquake
than any I have ever got of it from paintings and descriptions.  His
drunk was still portentously solid next morning, but I could have pulled
him through with the family if he would only have taken another spoonful
of that remedy; but no, although he was stupefied, his memory still had
flickerings of life; so he smiled a divinely dull smile and said,
fumblingly saluting:

"Scoose me, mem Saheb, scoose me, Missy Saheb; Satan not prefer it,
please."

Then some instinct revealed to them that he was drunk.  They gave him
prompt notice that next time this happened he must go.  He got out a
maudlin and most gentle "Wair good," and saluted indefinitely.

Only one short week later he fell again.  And oh, sorrow! not in a hotel
this time, but in an English gentleman's private house.  And in Agra, of
all places.  So he had to go.  When I told him, he said patiently, "Wair
good," and made his parting salute, and went out from us to return no
more forever.  Dear me!  I would rather have lost a hundred angels than
that one poor lovely devil.  What style he used to put on, in a swell
hotel or in a private house--snow-white muslin from his chin to his bare
feet, a crimson sash embroidered with gold thread around his waist, and
on his head a great sea-green turban like to the turban of the Grand
Turk.

He was not a liar; but he will become one if he keeps on.  He told me
once that he used to crack cocoanuts with his teeth when he was a boy;
and when I asked how he got them into his mouth, he said he was upward of
six feet high at that time, and had an unusual mouth.  And when I
followed him up and asked him what had become of that other foot, he said
a house fell on him and he was never able to get his stature back again.
Swervings like these from the strict line of fact often beguile a
truthful man on and on until he eventually becomes a liar.

His successor was a Mohammedan, Sahadat Mohammed Khan; very dark, very
tall, very grave.  He went always in flowing masses of white, from the
top of his big turban down to his bare feet.  His voice was low.  He
glided about in a noiseless way, and looked like a ghost.  He was
competent and satisfactory.  But where he was, it seemed always Sunday.
It was not so in Satan's time.

Jeypore is intensely Indian, but it has two or three features which
indicate the presence of European science and European interest in the
weal of the common public, such as the liberal water-supply furnished by
great works built at the State's expense; good sanitation, resulting in a
degree of healthfulness unusually high for India; a noble pleasure
garden, with privileged days for women; schools for the instruction of
native youth in advanced art, both ornamental and utilitarian; and a new
and beautiful palace stocked with a museum of extraordinary interest and
value.  Without the Maharaja's sympathy and purse these beneficences
could not have been created; but he is a man of wide views and large
generosities, and all such matters find hospitality with him.

We drove often to the city from the hotel Kaiser-i-Hind, a journey which
was always full of interest, both night and day, for that country road
was never quiet, never empty, but was always India in motion, always a
streaming flood of brown people clothed in smouchings from the rainbow, a
tossing and moiling flood, happy, noisy, a charming and satisfying
confusion of strange human and strange animal life and equally strange
and outlandish vehicles.

And the city itself is a curiosity.  Any Indian city is that, but this
one is not like any other that we saw.  It is shut up in a lofty turreted
wall; the main body of it is divided into six parts by perfectly straight
streets that are more than a hundred feet wide; the blocks of houses
exhibit a long frontage of the most taking architectural quaintnesses,
the straight lines being broken everywhere by pretty little balconies,
pillared and highly ornamented, and other cunning and cozy and inviting
perches and projections, and many of the fronts are curiously pictured by
the brush, and the whole of them have the soft rich tint of strawberry
ice-cream.  One cannot look down the far stretch of the chief street and
persuade himself that these are real houses, and that it is all out of
doors--the impression that it is an unreality, a picture, a scene in a
theater, is the only one that will take hold.

Then there came a great day when this illusion was more pronounced than
ever.  A rich Hindoo had been spending a fortune upon the manufacture of
a crowd of idols and accompanying paraphernalia whose purpose was to
illustrate scenes in the life of his especial god or saint, and this fine
show 'vas to be brought through the town in processional state at ten in
the morning.  As we passed through the great public pleasure garden on
our way to the city we found it crowded with natives.  That was one
sight.  Then there was another.  In the midst of the spacious lawns
stands the palace which contains the museum--a beautiful construction of
stone which shows arched colonnades, one above another, and receding,
terrace-fashion, toward the sky.  Every one of these terraces, all the
way to the top one, was packed and jammed with natives.  One must try to
imagine those solid masses of splendid color, one above another, up and
up, against the blue sky, and the Indian sun turning them all to beds of
fire and flame.

Later, when we reached the city, and glanced down the chief avenue,
smouldering in its crushed-strawberry tint, those splendid effects were
repeated; for every balcony, and every fanciful bird-cage of a snuggery
countersunk in the house-fronts, and all the long lines of roofs were
crowded with people, and each crowd was an explosion of brilliant color.

Then the wide street itself, away down and down and down into the
distance, was alive with gorgeously-clothed people not still, but moving,
swaying, drifting, eddying, a delirious display of all colors and all
shades of color, delicate, lovely, pale, soft, strong, stunning, vivid,
brilliant, a sort of storm of sweetpea blossoms passing on the wings of a
hurricane; and presently, through this storm of color, came swaying and
swinging the majestic elephants, clothed in their Sunday best of
gaudinesses, and the long procession of fanciful trucks freighted with
their groups of curious and costly images, and then the long rearguard of
stately camels, with their picturesque riders.

For color, and picturesqueness, and novelty, and outlandishness, and
sustained interest and fascination, it was the most satisfying show I had
ever seen, and I suppose I shall not have the privilege of looking upon
its like again.




CHAPTER LXI.

In the first place God made idiots.  This was for practice.  Then He made
School Boards.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Suppose we applied no more ingenuity to the instruction of deaf and dumb
and blind children than we sometimes apply in our American public schools
to the instruction of children who are in possession of all their
faculties?  The result would be that the deaf and dumb and blind would
acquire nothing.  They would live and die as ignorant as bricks and
stones.  The methods used in the asylums are rational.  The teacher
exactly measures the child's capacity, to begin with; and from thence
onwards the tasks imposed are nicely gauged to the gradual development of
that capacity, the tasks keep pace with the steps of the child's
progress, they don't jump miles and leagues ahead of it by irrational
caprice and land in vacancy--according to the average public-school plan.
In the public school, apparently, they teach the child to spell cat, then
ask it to calculate an eclipse; when it can read words of two syllables,
they require it to explain the circulation of the blood; when it reaches
the head of the infant class they bully it with conundrums that cover the
domain of universal knowledge.  This sounds extravagant--and is; yet it
goes no great way beyond the facts.

I received a curious letter one day, from the Punjab (you must pronounce
it Punjawb).  The handwriting was excellent, and the wording was English
--English, and yet not exactly English.  The style was easy and smooth
and flowing, yet there was something subtly foreign about it--A something
tropically ornate and sentimental and rhetorical.  It turned out to be
the work of a Hindoo youth, the holder of a humble clerical billet in a
railway office.  He had been educated in one of the numerous colleges of
India.  Upon inquiry I was told that the country was full of young
fellows of his like.  They had been educated away up to the snow-summits
of learning--and the market for all this elaborate cultivation was
minutely out of proportion to the vastness of the product.  This market
consisted of some thousands of small clerical posts under the government-
the supply of material for it was multitudinous.  If this youth with the
flowing style and the blossoming English was occupying a small railway
clerkship, it meant that there were hundreds and hundreds as capable as
he, or he would be in a high place; and it certainly meant that there
were thousands whose education and capacity had fallen a little short,
and that they would have to go without places.  Apparently, then, the
colleges of India were doing what our high schools have long been doing--
richly over-supplying the market for highly-educated service; and thereby
doing a damage to the scholar, and through him to the country.

At home I once made a speech deploring the injuries inflicted by the high
school in making handicrafts distasteful to boys who would have been
willing to make a living at trades and agriculture if they had but had
the good luck to stop with the common school.  But I made no converts.
Not one, in a community overrun with educated idlers who were above
following their fathers' mechanical trades, yet could find no market for
their book-knowledge.  The same rail that brought me the letter from the
Punjab, brought also a little book published by Messrs. Thacker, Spink &
Co., of Calcutta, which interested me, for both its preface and its
contents treated of this matter of over-education.  In the preface occurs
this paragraph from the Calcutta Review.  For "Government office" read
"drygoods clerkship" and it will fit more than one region of America:

     "The education that we give makes the boys a little less clownish in
     their manners, and more intelligent when spoken to by strangers.  On
     the other hand, it has made them less contented with their lot in
     life, and less willing to work with their hands.  The form which
     discontent takes in this country is not of a healthy kind; for, the
     Natives of India consider that the only occupation worthy of an
     educated man is that of a writership in some office, and especially
     in a Government office.  The village schoolboy goes back to the plow
     with the greatest reluctance; and the town schoolboy carries the
     same discontent and inefficiency into his father's workshop.
     Sometimes these ex-students positively refuse at first to work; and
     more than once parents have openly expressed their regret that they
     ever allowed their sons to be inveigled to school."

The little book which I am quoting from is called "Indo-Anglian
Literature," and is well stocked with "baboo" English--clerkly English,
hooky English, acquired in the schools.  Some of it is very funny,--
almost as funny, perhaps, as what you and I produce when we try to write
in a language not our own; but much of it is surprisingly correct and
free.  If I were going to quote good English--but I am not.  India is
well stocked with natives who speak it and write it as well as the best
of us.  I merely wish to show some of the quaint imperfect attempts at
the use of our tongue.  There are many letters in the book; poverty
imploring help--bread, money, kindness, office generally an office, a
clerkship, some way to get food and a rag out of the applicant's
unmarketable education; and food not for himself alone, but sometimes for
a dozen helpless relations in addition to his own family; for those
people are astonishingly unselfish, and admirably faithful to their ties
of kinship.  Among us I think there is nothing approaching it.  Strange
as some of these wailing and supplicating letters are, humble and even
groveling as some of them are, and quaintly funny and confused as a
goodly number of them are, there is still a pathos about them, as a rule,
that checks the rising laugh and reproaches it.  In the following letter
"father" is not to be read literally.  In Ceylon a little native beggar-
girl embarrassed me by calling me father, although I knew she was
mistaken.  I was so new that I did not know that she was merely following
the custom of the dependent and the supplicant.

     "SIR,

     "I pray please to give me some action (work) for I am very poor boy
     I have no one to help me even so father for it so it seemed in thy
     good sight, you give the Telegraph Office, and another work what is
     your wish I am very poor boy, this understand what is your wish you
     my father I am your son this understand what is your wish.

     "Your Sirvent, P. C. B."

Through ages of debasing oppression suffered by these people at the hands
of their native rulers, they come legitimately by the attitude and
language of fawning and flattery, and one must remember this in
mitigation when passing judgment upon the native character.  It is common
in these letters to find the petitioner furtively trying to get at the
white man's soft religious side; even this poor boy baits his hook with a
macerated Bible-text in the hope that it may catch something if all else
fail.

Here is an application for the post of instructor in English to some
children:

     "My Dear Sir or Gentleman, that your Petitioner has much
     qualification in the Language of English to instruct the young boys;
     I was given to understand that your of suitable children has to
     acquire the knowledge of English language."

As a sample of the flowery Eastern style, I will take a sentence or two
from along letter written by a young native to the Lieutenant-Governor of
Bengal--an application for employment:

     "HONORED AND MUCH RESPECTED SIR,

     "I hope your honor will condescend to hear the tale of this poor
     creature.  I shall overflow with gratitude at this mark of your
     royal condescension.  The bird-like happiness has flown away from my
     nest-like heart and has not hitherto returned from the period whence
     the rose of my father's life suffered the autumnal breath of death,
     in plain English he passed through the gates of Grave, and from that
     hour the phantom of delight has never danced before me."

It is all school-English, book-English, you see; and good enough, too,
all things considered.  If the native boy had but that one study he would
shine, he would dazzle, no doubt.  But that is not the case.  He is
situated as are our public-school children--loaded down with an over-
freightage of other studies; and frequently they are as far beyond the
actual point of progress reached by him and suited to the stage of
development attained, as could be imagined by the insanest fancy.
Apparently--like our public-school boy--he must work, work, work, in
school and out, and play but little.  Apparently--like our public-school
boy--his "education" consists in learning things, not the meaning of
them; he is fed upon the husks, not the corn.  From several essays
written by native schoolboys in answer to the question of how they spend
their day, I select one--the one which goes most into detail:

     "66.  At the break of day I rises from my own bed and finish my
     daily duty, then I employ myself till 8 o'clock, after which I
     employ myself to bathe, then take for my body some sweet meat, and
     just at 9 1/2 I came to school to attend my class duty, then at
     2 1/2 P. M.  I return from school and engage myself to do my natural
     duty, then, I engage for a quarter to take my tithn, then I study
     till 5 P. M., after which I began to play anything which comes in
     my head.  After 8 1/2, half pass to eight we are began to sleep,
     before sleeping I told a constable just 11 o' he came and rose us
     from half pass eleven we began to read still morning."

It is not perfectly clear, now that I come to cipher upon it.  He gets up
at about 5 in the morning, or along there somewhere, and goes to bed
about fifteen or sixteen hours afterward--that much of it seems straight;
but why he should rise again three hours later and resume his studies
till morning is puzzling.

I think it is because he is studying history.  History requires a world
of time and bitter hard work when your "education" is no further advanced
than the cat's; when you are merely stuffing yourself with a mixed-up
mess of empty names and random incidents and elusive dates, which no one
teaches you how to interpret, and which, uninterpreted, pay you not a
farthing's value for your waste of time.  Yes, I think he had to get up
at halfpast 11 P.M.  in order to be sure to be perfect with his history
lesson by noon.  With results as follows--from a Calcutta school
examination:

"Q.  Who was Cardinal Wolsey?
"Cardinal Wolsey was an Editor of a paper named North Briton.  No. 45 of
his publication he charged the King of uttering a lie from the throne.
He was arrested and cast into prison; and after releasing went to France.

"3.  As Bishop of York but died in disentry in a church on his way to be
blockheaded.

"8.  Cardinal Wolsey was the son of Edward IV, after his father's death
he himself ascended the throne at the age of (10) ten only, but when he
surpassed or when he was fallen in his twenty years of age at that time
he wished to make a journey in his countries under him, but he was
opposed by his mother to do journey, and according to his mother's
example he remained in the home, and then became King.  After many times
obstacles and many confusion he become King and afterwards his brother."

There is probably not a word of truth in that.

"Q.  What is the meaning of 'Ich Dien'?

"10.  An honor conferred on the first or eldest sons of English
Sovereigns.  It is nothing more than some feathers.

"11.  Ich Dien was the word which was written on the feathers of the
blind King who came to fight, being interlaced with the bridles of the
horse.

"13.  Ich Dien is a title given to Henry VII by the Pope of Rome, when he
forwarded the Reformation of Cardinal Wolsy to Rome, and for this reason
he was called Commander of the faith."

A dozen or so of this kind of insane answers are quoted in the book from
that examination.  Each answer is sweeping proof, all by itself, that the
person uttering it was pushed ahead of where he belonged when he was put
into history; proof that he had been put to the task of acquiring history
before he had had a single lesson in the art of acquiring it, which is
the equivalent of dumping a pupil into geometry before he has learned the
progressive steps which lead up to it and make its acquirement possible.
Those Calcutta novices had no business with history.  There was no excuse
for examining them in it, no excuse for exposing them and their teachers.
They were totally empty; there was nothing to "examine."

Helen Keller has been dumb, stone deaf, and stone blind, ever since she
was a little baby a year-and-a-half old; and now at sixteen years of age
this miraculous creature, this wonder of all the ages, passes the Harvard
University examination in Latin, German, French history, belles lettres,
and such things, and does it brilliantly, too, not in a commonplace
fashion.  She doesn't know merely things, she is splendidly familiar with
the meanings of them.  When she writes an essay on a Shakespearean
character, her English is fine and strong, her grasp of the subject is
the grasp of one who knows, and her page is electric with light.  Has
Miss Sullivan taught her by the methods of India and the American public
school?  No, oh, no; for then she would be deafer and dumber and blinder
than she was before.  It is a pity that we can't educate all the children
in the asylums.

To continue the Calcutta exposure:

"What is the meaning of a Sheriff?"

"25.  Sheriff is a post opened in the time of John.  The duty of Sheriff
here in Calcutta, to look out and catch those carriages which is rashly
driven out by the coachman; but it is a high post in England.

"26.  Sheriff was the English bill of common prayer.

"27.  The man with whom the accusative persons are placed is called
Sheriff.

"28.  Sheriff--Latin term for 'shrub,' we called broom, worn by the first
earl of Enjue, as an emblem of humility when they went to the pilgrimage,
and from this their hairs took their crest and surname.

"29.  Sheriff is a kind of titlous sect of people, as Barons, Nobles,
etc.

"30.  Sheriff; a tittle given on those persons who were respective and
pious in England."

The students were examined in the following bulky matters: Geometry, the
Solar Spectrum, the Habeas Corpus Act, the British Parliament, and in
Metaphysics they were asked to trace the progress of skepticism from
Descartes to Hume.  It is within bounds to say that some of the results
were astonishing.  Without doubt, there were students present who
justified their teacher's wisdom in introducing them to these studies;
but the fact is also evident that others had been pushed into these
studies to waste their time over them when they could have been
profitably employed in hunting smaller game.  Under the head of Geometry,
one of the answers is this:

"49.  The whole BD = the whole CA, and so-so-so-so-so-so-so."

To me this is cloudy, but I was never well up in geometry.  That was the
only effort made among the five students who appeared for examination in
geometry; the other four wailed and surrendered without a fight.  They
are piteous wails, too, wails of despair; and one of them is an eloquent
reproach; it comes from a poor fellow who has been laden beyond his
strength by a stupid teacher, and is eloquent in spite of the poverty of
its English.  The poor chap finds himself required to explain riddles
which even Sir Isaac Newton was not able to understand:

"50.  Oh my dear father examiner you my father and you kindly give a
number of pass you my great father.

"51.  I am a poor boy and have no means to support my mother and two
brothers who are suffering much for want of food.  I get four rupees
monthly from charity fund of this place, from which I send two rupees for
their support, and keep two for my own support.  Father, if I relate the
unlucky circumstance under which we are placed, then, I think, you will
not be able to suppress the tender tear.

"52.  Sir which Sir Isaac Newton and other experienced mathematicians
cannot understand I being third of Entrance Class can understand these
which is too impossible to imagine.  And my examiner also has put very
tiresome and very heavy propositions to prove."

We must remember that these pupils had to do their thinking in one
language, and express themselves in another and alien one.  It was a
heavy handicap.  I have by me "English as She is Taught"--a collection of
American examinations made in the public schools of Brooklyn by one of
the teachers, Miss Caroline B. Le Row.  An extract or two from its pages
will show that when the American pupil is using but one language, and
that one his own, his performance is no whit better than his Indian
brother's:

"ON HISTORY.

"Christopher Columbus was called the father of his Country.  Queen
Isabella of Spain sold her watch and chain and other millinery so that
Columbus could discover America.

"The Indian wars were very desecrating to the country.

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

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

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

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

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

"Gorilla warfare was where men rode on gorillas."


In Brooklyn, as in India, they examine a pupil, and when they find out he
doesn't know anything, they put him into literature, or geometry, or
astronomy, or government, or something like that, so that he can properly
display the assification of the whole system

"ON LITERATURE.

"'Bracebridge Hall' was written by Henry Irving.

"Edgar A. Poe was a very curdling writer.

"Beowulf wrote the Scriptures.

"Ben Johnson survived Shakespeare in some respects.

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

"Chaucer was the father of English pottery.

"Chaucer was succeeded by H. Wads. Longfellow."


We will finish with a couple of samples of "literature," one from
America, the other from India.  The first is a Brooklyn public-school
boy's attempt to turn a few verses of the "Lady of the Lake" into prose.
You will have to concede that he did it:

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


The following paragraph is from a little book which is famous in India-
the biography of a distinguished Hindoo judge, Onoocool Chunder
Mookerjee; it was written by his nephew, and is unintentionally funny-in
fact, exceedingly so.  I offer here the closing scene.  If you would like
to sample the rest of the book, it can be had by applying to the
publishers, Messrs.  Thacker, Spink & Co., Calcutta

     "And having said these words he hermetically sealed his lips not to
     open them again.  All the well-known doctors of Calcutta that could
     be procured for a man of his position and wealth were brought,--
     Doctors Payne, Fayrer, and Nilmadhub Mookerjee and others; they did
     what they could do, with their puissance and knack of medical
     knowledge, but it proved after all as if to milk the ram!  His wife
     and children had not the mournful consolation to hear his last
     words; he remained sotto voce for a few hours, and then was taken
     from us at 6.12 P.m.  according to the caprice of God which passeth
     understanding."




CHAPTER LXII.

There are no people who are quite so vulgar as the over-refined ones.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

We sailed from Calcutta toward the end of March; stopped a day at Madras;
two or three days in Ceylon; then sailed westward on a long flight for
Mauritius.  From my diary:

April 7.  We are far abroad upon the smooth waters of the Indian Ocean,
now; it is shady and pleasant and peaceful under the vast spread of the
awnings, and life is perfect again--ideal.

The difference between a river and the sea is, that the river looks
fluid, the sea solid--usually looks as if you could step out and walk on
it.

The captain has this peculiarity--he cannot tell the truth in a plausible
way.  In this he is the very opposite of the austere Scot who sits midway
of the table; he cannot tell a lie in an unplausible way.  When the
captain finishes a statement the passengers glance at each other
privately, as who should say, "Do you believe that?"  When the Scot
finishes one, the look says, "How strange and interesting."  The whole
secret is in the manner and method of the two men.  The captain is a
little shy and diffident, and he states the simplest fact as if he were a
little afraid of it, while the Scot delivers himself of the most
abandoned lie with such an air of stern veracity that one is forced to
believe it although one knows it isn't so.  For instance, the Scot told
about a pet flying-fish he once owned, that lived in a little fountain in
his conservatory, and supported itself by catching birds and frogs and
rats in the neighboring fields.  It was plain that no one at the table
doubted this statement.

By and by, in the course of some talk about custom-house annoyances, the
captain brought out the following simple everyday incident, but through
his infirmity of style managed to tell it in such a way that it got no
credence.  He said:

     "I went ashore at Naples one voyage when I was in that trade, and
     stood around helping my passengers, for I could speak a little
     Italian.  Two or three times, at intervals, the officer asked me if
     I had anything dutiable about me, and seemed more and more put out
     and disappointed every time I told him no.  Finally a passenger whom
     I had helped through asked me to come out and take something.  I
     thanked him, but excused myself, saying I had taken a whisky just
     before I came ashore.

     "It was a fatal admission.  The officer at once made me pay sixpence
     import-duty on the whisky-just from ship to shore, you see; and he
     fined me L5 for not declaring the goods, another L5 for falsely
     denying that I had anything dutiable about me, also L5 for
     concealing the goods, and L50 for smuggling, which is the maximum
     penalty for unlawfully bringing in goods under the value of
     sevenpence ha'penny.  Altogether, sixty-five pounds sixpence for a
     little thing like that."

The Scot is always believed, yet he never tells anything but lies;
whereas the captain is never believed, although he never tells a lie, so
far as I can judge.  If he should say his uncle was a male person, he
would probably say it in such a way that nobody would believe it; at the
same time the Scot could claim that he had a female uncle and not stir a
doubt in anybody's mind.  My own luck has been curious all my literary
life; I never could tell a lie that anybody would doubt, nor a truth that
anybody would believe.

Lots of pets on board--birds and things.  In these far countries the
white people do seem to run remarkably to pets.  Our host in Cawnpore had
a fine collection of birds--the finest we saw in a private house in
India.  And in Colombo, Dr. Murray's great compound and commodious
bungalow were well populated with domesticated company from the woods:
frisky little squirrels; a Ceylon mina walking sociably about the house;
a small green parrot that whistled a single urgent note of call without
motion of its beak; also chuckled; a monkey in a cage on the back
veranda, and some more out in the trees; also a number of beautiful
macaws in the trees; and various and sundry birds and animals of breeds
not known to me.  But no cat.  Yet a cat would have liked that place.

April 9.  Tea-planting is the great business in Ceylon, now.  A passenger
says it often pays 40 per cent. on the investment.  Says there is a boom.

April 10.  The sea is a Mediterranean blue; and I believe that that is
about the divinest color known to nature.

It is strange and fine--Nature's lavish generosities to her creatures.
At least to all of them except man.  For those that fly she has provided
a home that is nobly spacious--a home which is forty miles deep and
envelops the whole globe, and has not an obstruction in it.  For those
that swim she has provided a more than imperial domain--a domain which is
miles deep and covers four-fifths of the globe.  But as for man, she has
cut him off with the mere odds and ends of the creation.  She has given
him the thin skin, the meagre skin which is stretched over the remaining
one-fifth--the naked bones stick up through it in most places.  On the
one-half of this domain he can raise snow, ice, sand, rocks, and nothing
else.  So the valuable part of his inheritance really consists of but a
single fifth of the family estate; and out of it he has to grub hard to
get enough to keep him alive and provide kings and soldiers and powder to
extend the blessings of civilization with.  Yet man, in his simplicity
and complacency and inability to cipher, thinks Nature regards him as the
important member of the family--in fact, her favorite.  Surely, it must
occur to even his dull head, sometimes, that she has a curious way of
showing it.

Afternoon.  The captain has been telling how, in one of his Arctic
voyages, it was so cold that the mate's shadow froze fast to the deck and
had to be ripped loose by main strength.  And even then he got only about
two-thirds of it back.  Nobody said anything, and the captain went away.
I think he is becoming disheartened .  .  .  .  Also, to be fair, there
is another word of praise due to this ship's library: it contains no copy
of the Vicar of Wakefield, that strange menagerie of complacent
hypocrites and idiots, of theatrical cheap-john heroes and heroines, who
are always showing off, of bad people who are not interesting, and good
people who are fatiguing.  A singular book.  Not a sincere line in it,
and not a character that invites respect; a book which is one long waste-
pipe discharge of goody-goody puerilities and dreary moralities; a book
which is full of pathos which revolts, and humor which grieves the heart.
There are few things in literature that are more piteous, more pathetic,
than the celebrated "humorous" incident of Moses and the spectacles.
Jane Austen's books, too, are absent from this library.  Just that one
omission alone would make a fairly good library out of a library that
hadn't a book in it.

Customs in tropic seas.  At 5 in the morning they pipe to wash down the
decks, and at once the ladies who are sleeping there turn out and they
and their beds go below.  Then one after another the men come up from the
bath in their pyjamas, and walk the decks an hour or two with bare legs
and bare feet.  Coffee and fruit served.  The ship cat and her kitten now
appear and get about their toilets; next the barber comes and flays us on
the breezy deck.  Breakfast at 9.30, and the day begins.  I do not know
how a day could be more reposeful: no motion; a level blue sea; nothing
in sight from horizon to horizon; the speed of the ship furnishes a
cooling breeze; there is no mail to read and answer; no newspapers to
excite you; no telegrams to fret you or fright you--the world is far, far
away; it has ceased to exist for you--seemed a fading dream, along in the
first days; has dissolved to an unreality now; it is gone from your mind
with all its businesses and ambitions, its prosperities and disasters,
its exultations and despairs, its joys and griefs and cares and worries.
They are no concern of yours any more; they have gone out of your life;
they are a storm which has passed and left a deep calm behind.  The
people group themselves about the decks in their snowy white linen, and
read, smoke, sew, play cards, talk, nap, and so on.  In other ships the
passengers are always ciphering about when they are going to arrive; out
in these seas it is rare, very rare, to hear that subject broached.  In
other ships there is always an eager rush to the bulletin board at noon
to find out what the "run" has been; in these seas the bulletin seems to
attract no interest; I have seen no one visit it; in thirteen days I have
visited it only once.  Then I happened to notice the figures of the day's
run.  On that day there happened to be talk, at dinner, about the speed
of modern ships.  I was the only passenger present who knew this ship's
gait.  Necessarily, the Atlantic custom of betting on the ship's run is
not a custom here--nobody ever mentions it.

I myself am wholly indifferent as to when we are going to "get in"; if
any one else feels interested in the matter he has not indicated it in my
hearing.  If I had my way we should never get in at all.  This sort of
sea life is charged with an indestructible charm.  There is no weariness,
no fatigue, no worry, no responsibility, no work, no depression of
spirits.  There is nothing like this serenity, this comfort, this peace,
this deep contentment, to be found anywhere on land.  If I had my way I
would sail on for ever and never go to live on the solid ground again.

One of Kipling's ballads has delivered the aspect and sentiment of this
bewitching sea correctly:

               "The Injian Ocean sets an' smiles
               So sof', so bright, so bloomin' blue;
               There aren't a wave for miles an' miles
               Excep' the jiggle from the screw."

April 14.  It turns out that the astronomical apprentice worked off a
section of the Milky Way on me for the Magellan Clouds.  A man of more
experience in the business showed one of them to me last night.  It was
small and faint and delicate, and looked like the ghost of a bunch of
white smoke left floating in the sky by an exploded bombshell.

Wednesday, April 15.  Mauritius.  Arrived and anchored off Port Louis
2 A. M.  Rugged clusters of crags and peaks, green to their summits; from
their bases to the sea a green plain with just tilt enough to it to make
the water drain off.  I believe it is in 56 E.  and 22 S.--a hot tropical
country.  The green plain has an inviting look; has scattering dwellings
nestling among the greenery.  Scene of the sentimental adventure of Paul
and Virginia.

Island under French control--which means a community which depends upon
quarantines, not sanitation, for its health.

Thursday, April 16.  Went ashore in the forenoon at Port Louis, a little
town, but with the largest variety of nationalities and complexions we
have encountered yet.  French, English, Chinese, Arabs, Africans with
wool, blacks with straight hair, East Indians, half-whites, quadroons--
and great varieties in costumes and colors.

Took the train for Curepipe at 1.30--two hours' run, gradually uphill.
What a contrast, this frantic luxuriance of vegetation, with the arid
plains of India; these architecturally picturesque crags and knobs and
miniature mountains, with the monotony of the Indian dead-levels.

A native pointed out a handsome swarthy man of grave and dignified
bearing, and said in an awed tone, "That is so-and-so; has held office of
one sort or another under this government for 37 years--he is known all
over this whole island and in the other countries of the world perhaps--
who knows?  One thing is certain; you can speak his name anywhere in this
whole island, and you will find not one grown person that has not heard
it.  It is a wonderful thing to be so celebrated; yet look at him; it
makes no change in him; he does not even seem to know it."

Curepipe (means Pincushion or Pegtown, probably).  Sixteen miles (two
hours) by rail from Port Louis.  At each end of every roof and on the
apex of every dormer window a wooden peg two feet high stands up; in some
cases its top is blunt, in others the peg is sharp and looks like a
toothpick.  The passion for this humble ornament is universal.

Apparently, there has been only one prominent event in the history of
Mauritius, and that one didn't happen.  I refer to the romantic sojourn
of Paul and Virginia here.  It was that story that made Mauritius known
to the world, made the name familiar to everybody, the geographical
position of it to nobody.

A clergyman was asked to guess what was in a box on a table.  It was a
vellum fan painted with the shipwreck, and was "one of Virginia's wedding
gifts."

April 18.  This is the only country in the world where the stranger is
not asked "How do you like this place?"  This is indeed a large
distinction.  Here the citizen does the talking about the country
himself; the stranger is not asked to help.  You get all sorts of
information.  From one citizen you gather the idea that Mauritius was
made first, and then heaven; and that heaven was copied after Mauritius.
Another one tells you that this is an exaggeration; that the two chief
villages, Port Louis and Curepipe, fall short of heavenly perfection;
that nobody lives in Port Louis except upon compulsion, and that Curepipe
is the wettest and rainiest place in the world.  An English citizen said:

     "In the early part of this century Mauritius was used by the French
     as a basis from which to operate against England's Indian
     merchantmen; so England captured the island and also the neighbor,
     Bourbon, to stop that annoyance.  England gave Bourbon back; the
     government in London did not want any more possessions in the West
     Indies.  If the government had had a better quality of geography in
     stock it would not have wasted Bourbon in that foolish way.  A big
     war will temporarily shut up the Suez Canal some day and the English
     ships will have to go to India around the Cape of Good Hope again;
     then England will have to have Bourbon and will take it.

     "Mauritius was a crown colony until 20 years ago, with a governor
     appointed by the Crown and assisted by a Council appointed by
     himself; but Pope Hennessey came out as Governor then, and he worked
     hard to get a part of the council made elective, and succeeded.  So
     now the whole council is French, and in all ordinary matters of
     legislation they vote together and in the French interest, not the
     English. The English population is very slender; it has not votes
     enough to elect a legislator.  Half a dozen rich French families
     elect the legislature.  Pope Hennessey was an Irishman, a Catholic,
     a Home Ruler, M.P., a hater of England and the English, a very
     troublesome person and a serious incumbrance at Westminster; so it
     was decided to send him out to govern unhealthy countries, in hope
     that something would happen to him.  But nothing did.  The first
     experiment was not merely a failure, it was more than a failure.  He
     proved to be more of a disease himself than any he was sent to
     encounter.  The next experiment was here.  The dark scheme failed
     again.  It was an off-season and there was nothing but measles here
     at the time.  Pope Hennessey's health was not affected.  He worked
     with the French and for the French and against the English, and he
     made the English very tired and the French very happy, and lived to
     have the joy of seeing the flag he served publicly hissed.  His
     memory is held in worshipful reverence and affection by the French.

     "It is a land of extraordinary quarantines.  They quarantine a ship
     for anything or for nothing; quarantine her for 20 and even 30 days.
     They once quarantined a ship because her captain had had the
     smallpox when he was a boy.  That and because he was English.

     "The population is very small; small to insignificance.  The
     majority is East Indian; then mongrels; then negroes (descendants of
     the slaves of the French times); then French; then English.  There
     was an American, but he is dead or mislaid.  The mongrels are the
     result of all kinds of mixtures; black and white, mulatto and white,
     quadroon and white, octoroon and white.  And so there is every shade
     of complexion; ebony, old mahogany, horsechestnut, sorrel, molasses-
     candy, clouded amber, clear amber, old-ivory white, new-ivory white,
     fish-belly white--this latter the leprous complexion frequent with
     the Anglo-Saxon long resident in tropical climates.

     "You wouldn't expect a person to be proud of being a Mauritian, now
     would you?  But it is so.  The most of them have never been out of
     the island, and haven't read much or studied much, and they think
     the world consists of three principal countries--Judaea, France, and
     Mauritius; so they are very proud of belonging to one of the three
     grand divisions of the globe.  They think that Russia and Germany
     are in England, and that England does not amount to much.  They have
     heard vaguely about the United States and the equator, but they
     think both of them are monarchies.  They think Mount Peter Botte is
     the highest mountain in the world, and if you show one of them a
     picture of Milan Cathedral he will swell up with satisfaction and
     say that the idea of that jungle of spires was stolen from the
     forest of peg-tops and toothpicks that makes the roofs of Curepipe
     look so fine and prickly.

     "There is not much trade in books.  The newspapers educate and
     entertain the people.  Mainly the latter.  They have two pages of
     large-print reading-matter-one of them English, the other French.
     The English page is a translation of the French one.  The typography
     is super-extra primitive--in this quality it has not its equal
     anywhere.  There is no proof-reader now; he is dead.

     "Where do they get matter to fill up a page in this little island
     lost in the wastes of the Indian Ocean?  Oh, Madagascar.  They
     discuss Madagascar and France.  That is the bulk.  Then they chock
     up the rest with advice to the Government.  Also, slurs upon the
     English administration.  The papers are all owned and edited by
     creoles--French.

     "The language of the country is French.  Everybody speaks it--has
     to.  You have to know French particularly mongrel French, the patois
     spoken by Tom, Dick, and Harry of the multiform complexions--or you
     can't get along.

"This was a flourishing country in former days, for it made then and
still makes the best sugar in the world; but first the Suez Canal severed
it from the world and left it out in the cold and next the beetroot sugar
helped by bounties, captured the European markets.  Sugar is the life of
Mauritius, and it is losing its grip. Its downward course was checked by
the depreciation of the rupee--for the planter pays wages in rupees but
sells his crop for gold--and the insurrection in Cuba and paralyzation of
the sugar industry there have given our prices here a life-saving lift;
but the outlook has nothing permanently favorable about it.  It takes a
year to mature the canes--on the high ground three and six months longer
--and there is always a chance that the annual cyclone will rip the
profit out of the crop.  In recent times a cyclone took the whole crop,
as you may say; and the island never saw a finer one.  Some of the
noblest sugar estates in the island are in deep difficulties.  A dozen of
them are investments of English capital; and the companies that own them
are at work now, trying to settle up and get out with a saving of half
the money they put in.  You know, in these days, when a country begins to
introduce the tea culture, it means that its own specialty has gone back
on it.  Look at Bengal; look at Ceylon.  Well, they've begun to introduce
the tea culture, here.

"Many copies of Paul and Virginia are sold every year in Mauritius.  No
other book is so popular here except the Bible.  By many it is supposed
to be a part of the Bible.  All the missionaries work up their French on
it when they come here to pervert the Catholic mongrel.  It is the
greatest story that was ever written about Mauritius, and the only one."




CHAPTER LXIII.

The principal difference between a cat and a lie is that the cat has only
nine lives.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

April 20.--The cyclone of 1892 killed and crippled hundreds of people;
it was accompanied by a deluge of rain, which drowned Port Louis and
produced a water famine.  Quite true; for it burst the reservoir and the
water-pipes; and for a time after the flood had disappeared there was
much distress from want of water.

This is the only place in the world where no breed of matches can stand
the damp.  Only one match in 16 will light.

The roads are hard and smooth; some of the compounds are spacious, some
of the bungalows commodious, and the roadways are walled by tall bamboo
hedges, trim and green and beautiful; and there are azalea hedges, too,
both the white and the red; I never saw that before.

As to healthiness: I translate from to-day's (April 20) Merchants' and
Planters' Gazette, from the article of a regular contributor, "Carminge,"
concerning the death of the nephew of a prominent citizen:

     "Sad and lugubrious existence, this which we lead in Mauritius; I
     believe there is no other country in the world where one dies more
     easily than among us.  The least indisposition becomes a mortal
     malady; a simple headache develops into meningitis; a cold into
     pneumonia, and presently, when we are least expecting it, death is a
     guest in our home."

This daily paper has a meteorological report which tells you what the
weather was day before yesterday.

One is clever pestered by a beggar or a peddler in this town, so far as I
can see.  This is pleasantly different from India.

April 22.  To such as believe that the quaint product called French
civilization would be an improvement upon the civilization of New Guinea
and the like, the snatching of Madagascar and the laying on of French
civilization there will be fully justified.  But why did the English
allow the French to have Madagascar?  Did she respect a theft of a couple
of centuries ago?  Dear me, robbery by European nations of each other's
territories has never been a sin, is not a sin to-day.  To the several
cabinets the several political establishments of the world are
clotheslines; and a large part of the official duty of these cabinets is
to keep an eye on each other's wash and grab what they can of it as
opportunity offers.  All the territorial possessions of all the political
establishments in the earth--including America, of course--consist of
pilferings from other people's wash.  No tribe, howsoever insignificant,
and no nation, howsoever mighty, occupies a foot of land that was not
stolen.  When the English, the French, and the Spaniards reached America,
the Indian tribes had been raiding each other's territorial clothes-lines
for ages, and every acre of ground in the continent had been stolen and
re-stolen 500 times.  The English, the French, and the Spaniards went to
work and stole it all over again; and when that was satisfactorily
accomplished they went diligently to work and stole it from each other.
In Europe and Asia and Africa every acre of ground has been stolen
several millions of times.  A crime persevered in a thousand centuries
ceases to be a crime, and becomes a virtue.  This is the law of custom,
and custom supersedes all other forms of law.  Christian governments are
as frank to-day, as open and above-board, in discussing projects for
raiding each other's clothes-lines as ever they were before the Golden
Rule came smiling into this inhospitable world and couldn't get a night's
lodging anywhere.  In 150 years England has beneficently retired garment
after garment from the Indian lines, until there is hardly a rag of the
original wash left dangling anywhere.  In 800 years an obscure tribe of
Muscovite savages has risen to the dazzling position of Land-Robber-in-
Chief; she found a quarter of the world hanging out to dry on a hundred
parallels of latitude, and she scooped in the whole wash.  She keeps a
sharp eye on a multitude of little lines that stretch along the northern
boundaries of India, and every now and then she snatches a hip-rag or a
pair of pyjamas.  It is England's prospective property, and Russia knows
it; but Russia cares nothing for that.  In fact, in our day land-robbery,
claim-jumping, is become a European governmental frenzy.  Some have been
hard at it in the borders of China, in Burma, in Siam, and the islands of
the sea; and all have been at it in Africa.  Africa has been as coolly
divided up and portioned out among the gang as if they had bought it and
paid for it.  And now straightway they are beginning the old game again--
to steal each other's grabbings.  Germany found a vast slice of Central
Africa with the English flag and the English missionary and the English
trader scattered all over it, but with certain formalities neglected--no
signs up, "Keep off the grass," "Trespassers-forbidden," etc.--and she
stepped in with a cold calm smile and put up the signs herself, and swept
those English pioneers promptly out of the country.

There is a tremendous point there.  It can be put into the form of a
maxim: Get your formalities right--never mind about the moralities.

It was an impudent thing; but England had to put up with it.  Now, in the
case of Madagascar, the formalities had originally been observed, but by
neglect they had fallen into desuetude ages ago.  England should have
snatched Madagascar from the French clothes-line.  Without an effort she
could have saved those harmless natives from the calamity of French
civilization, and she did not do it.  Now it is too late.

The signs of the times show plainly enough what is going to happen.  All
the savage lands in the world are going to be brought under subjection to
the Christian governments of Europe.  I am not sorry, but glad.  This
coming fate might have been a calamity to those savage peoples two
hundred years ago; but now it will in some cases be a benefaction.  The
sooner the seizure is consummated, the better for the savages.

The dreary and dragging ages of bloodshed and disorder and oppression
will give place to peace and order and the reign of law.  When one
considers what India was under her Hindoo and Mohammedan rulers, and what
she is now; when he remembers the miseries of her millions then and the
protections and humanities which they enjoy now, he must concede that the
most fortunate thing that has ever befallen that empire was the
establishment of British supremacy there.  The savage lands of the world
are to pass to alien possession, their peoples to the mercies of alien
rulers.  Let us hope and believe that they will all benefit by the
change.

April 23.  "The first year they gather shells; the second year they
gather shells and drink; the third year they do not gather shells." (Said
of immigrants to Mauritius.)

Population 375,000.  120 sugar factories.

Population 1851, 185,000.  The increase is due mainly to the introduction
of Indian coolies.  They now apparently form the great majority of the
population.  They are admirable breeders; their homes are always hazy
with children.  Great savers of money.  A British officer told me that in
India he paid his servant 10 rupees a month, and he had 11 cousins,
uncles, parents, etc., dependent upon him, and he supported them on his
wages.  These thrifty coolies are said to be acquiring land a trifle at a
time, and cultivating it; and may own the island by and by.

The Indian women do very hard labor [for wages of (1/2 rupee)for twelve
hours' work.]  They carry mats of sugar on their heads (70 pounds) all
day lading ships, for half a rupee, and work at gardening all day for
less.

The camaron is a fresh water creature like a cray-fish.  It is regarded
here as the world's chiefest delicacy--and certainly it is good.  Guards
patrol the streams to prevent poaching it.  A fine of Rs.200 or 300
(they say) for poaching.  Bait is thrown in the water; the camaron goes
for it; the fisher drops his loop in and works it around and about the
camaron he has selected, till he gets it over its tail; then there's a
jerk or something to certify the camaron that it is his turn now; he
suddenly backs away, which moves the loop still further up his person and
draws it taut, and his days are ended.

Another dish, called palmiste, is like raw turnip-shavings and tastes
like green almonds; is very delicate and good.  Costs the life of a palm
tree 12 to 20 years old--for it is the pith.

Another dish--looks like greens or a tangle of fine seaweed--is a
preparation of the deadly nightshade.  Good enough.

The monkeys live in the dense forests on the flanks of the toy mountains,
and they flock down nights and raid the sugar-fields.  Also on other
estates they come down and destroy a sort of bean-crop--just for fun,
apparently--tear off the pods and throw them down.

The cyclone of 1892 tore down two great blocks of stone buildings in the
center of Port Louis--the chief architectural feature-and left the
uncomely and apparently frail blocks standing.  Everywhere in its track
it annihilated houses, tore off roofs, destroyed trees and crops.  The
men were in the towns, the women and children at home in the country
getting crippled, killed, frightened to insanity; and the rain deluging
them, the wind howling, the thunder crashing, the lightning glaring.
This for an hour or so.  Then a lull and sunshine; many ventured out of
safe shelter; then suddenly here it came again from the opposite point
and renewed and completed the devastation.  It is said the Chinese fed
the sufferers for days on free rice.

Whole streets in Port Louis were laid flat--wrecked.  During a minute and
a half the wind blew 123 miles an hour; no official record made after
that, when it may have reached 150.  It cut down an obelisk.  It carried
an American ship into the woods after breaking the chains of two anchors.
They now use four-two forward, two astern.  Common report says it killed
1,200 in Port Louis alone, in half an hour.  Then came the lull of the
central calm--people did not know the barometer was still going down--
then suddenly all perdition broke loose again while people were rushing
around seeking friends and rescuing the wounded.  The noise was
comparable to nothing; there is nothing resembling it but thunder and
cannon, and these are feeble in comparison.

What there is of Mauritius is beautiful.  You have undulating wide
expanses of sugar-cane--a fine, fresh green and very pleasant to the eye;
and everywhere else you have a ragged luxuriance of tropic vegetation of
vivid greens of varying shades, a wild tangle of underbrush, with
graceful tall palms lifting their crippled plumes high above it; and you
have stretches of shady dense forest with limpid streams frolicking
through them, continually glimpsed and lost and glimpsed again in the
pleasantest hide-and-seek fashion; and you have some tiny mountains, some
quaint and picturesque groups of toy peaks, and a dainty little vest-
pocket Matterhorn; and here and there and now and then a strip of sea
with a white ruffle of surf breaks into the view.

That is Mauritius; and pretty enough.  The details are few, the massed
result is charming, but not imposing; not riotous, not exciting; it is a
Sunday landscape.  Perspective, and the enchantments wrought by distance,
are wanting.  There are no distances; there is no perspective, so to
speak.  Fifteen miles as the crow flies is the usual limit of vision.
Mauritius is a garden and a park combined.  It affects one's emotions as
parks and gardens affect them.  The surfaces of one's spiritual deeps are
pleasantly played upon, the deeps themselves are not reached, not
stirred.  Spaciousness, remote altitudes, the sense of mystery which
haunts apparently inaccessible mountain domes and summits reposing in the
sky--these are the things which exalt the spirit and move it to see
visions and dream dreams.

The Sandwich Islands remain my ideal of the perfect thing in the matter
of tropical islands.  I would add another story to Mauna Loa's 16,000
feet if I could, and make it particularly bold and steep and craggy and
forbidding and snowy; and I would make the volcano spout its lava-floods
out of its summit instead of its sides; but aside from these non-
essentials I have no corrections to suggest.  I hope these will be
attended to; I do not wish to have to speak of it again.




CHAPTER LXIV.

When your watch gets out of order you have choice of two things to do:
throw it in the fire or take it to the watch-tinker.  The former is the
quickest.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The Arundel Castle is the finest boat I have seen in these seas.  She is
thoroughly modern, and that statement covers a great deal of ground.  She
has the usual defect, the common defect, the universal defect, the defect
that has never been missing from any ship that ever sailed--she has
imperfect beds.  Many ships have good beds, but no ship has very good
ones.  In the matter of beds all ships have been badly edited, ignorantly
edited, from the beginning.  The selection of the beds is given to some
hearty, strong-backed, self-made man, when it ought to be given to a
frail woman accustomed from girlhood to backaches and insomnia.  Nothing
is so rare, on either side of the ocean, as a perfect bed; nothing is so
difficult to make.  Some of the hotels on both sides provide it, but no
ship ever does or ever did.  In Noah's Ark the beds were simply
scandalous.  Noah set the fashion, and it will endure in one degree of
modification or another till the next flood.

8 A.M.  Passing Isle de Bourbon.  Broken-up sky-line of volcanic
mountains in the middle.  Surely it would not cost much to repair them,
and it seems inexcusable neglect to leave them as they are.

It seems stupid to send tired men to Europe to rest.  It is no proper
rest for the mind to clatter from town to town in the dust and cinders,
and examine galleries and architecture, and be always meeting people and
lunching and teaing and dining, and receiving worrying cables and
letters.  And a sea voyage on the Atlantic is of no use--voyage too
short, sea too rough.  The peaceful Indian and Pacific Oceans and the
long stretches of time are the healing thing.

May 2, AM.  A fair, great ship in sight, almost the first we have seen in
these weeks of lonely voyaging.  We are now in the Mozambique Channel,
between Madagascar and South Africa, sailing straight west for Delagoa
Bay.

Last night, the burly chief engineer, middle-aged, was standing telling a
spirited seafaring tale, and had reached the most exciting place, where a
man overboard was washing swiftly astern on the great seas, and uplifting
despairing cries, everybody racing aft in a frenzy of excitement and
fading hope, when the band, which had been silent a moment, began
impressively its closing piece, the English national anthem.  As simply
as if he was unconscious of what he was doing, he stopped his story,
uncovered, laid his laced cap against his breast, and slightly bent his
grizzled head.  The few bars finished, he put on his cap and took up his
tale again, as naturally as if that interjection of music had been a part
of it.  There was something touching and fine about it, and it was moving
to reflect that he was one of a myriad, scattered over every part of the
globe, who by turn was doing as he was doing every hour of the twenty-
four--those awake doing it while the others slept--those impressive bars
forever floating up out of the various climes, never silent and never
lacking reverent listeners.

All that I remember about Madagascar is that Thackeray's little Billie
went up to the top of the mast and there knelt him upon his knee, saying,
"I see

               "Jerusalem and Madagascar,
               And North and South Amerikee."

May 3.  Sunday.  Fifteen or twenty Africanders who will end their voyage
to-day and strike for their several homes from Delagoa Bay to-morrow, sat
up singing on the afterdeck in the moonlight till 3 A.M.  Good fun and
wholesome.  And the songs were clean songs, and some of them were
hallowed by tender associations.  Finally, in a pause, a man asked, "Have
you heard about the fellow that kept a diary crossing the Atlantic?"
It was a discord, a wet blanket.  The men were not in the mood for
humorous dirt.  The songs had carried them to their homes, and in spirit
they sat by those far hearthstones, and saw faces and heard voices other
than those that were about them.  And so this disposition to drag in an
old indecent anecdote got no welcome; nobody answered.  The poor man
hadn't wit enough to see that he had blundered, but asked his question
again.  Again there was no response.  It was embarrassing for him.  In
his confusion he chose the wrong course, did the wrong thing--began the
anecdote.  Began it in a deep and hostile stillness, where had been such
life and stir and warm comradeship before.  He delivered himself of the
brief details of the diary's first day, and did it with some confidence
and a fair degree of eagerness.  It fell flat.  There was an awkward
pause.  The two rows of men sat like statues.  There was no movement, no
sound.  He had to go on; there was no other way, at least none that an
animal of his calibre could think of.  At the close of each day's diary,
the same dismal silence followed.  When at last he finished his tale and
sprung the indelicate surprise which is wont to fetch a crash of
laughter, not a ripple of sound resulted.  It was as if the tale had been
told to dead men.  After what seemed a long, long time, somebody sighed,
somebody else stirred in his seat; presently, the men dropped into a low
murmur of confidential talk, each with his neighbor, and the incident was
closed.  There were indications that that man was fond of his anecdote;
that it was his pet, his standby, his shot that never missed, his
reputation-maker.  But he will never tell it again.  No doubt he will
think of it sometimes, for that cannot well be helped; and then he will
see a picture, and always the same picture--the double rank of dead men;
the vacant deck stretching away in dimming perspective beyond them, the
wide desert of smooth sea all abroad; the rim of the moon spying from
behind a rag of black cloud; the remote top of the mizzenmast shearing a
zigzag path through the fields of stars in the deeps of space; and this
soft picture will remind him of the time that he sat in the midst of it
and told his poor little tale and felt so lonesome when he got through.

Fifty Indians and Chinamen asleep in a big tent in the waist of the ship
forward; they lie side by side with no space between; the former wrapped
up, head and all, as in the Indian streets, the Chinamen uncovered; the
lamp and things for opium smoking in the center.

A passenger said it was ten 2-ton truck loads of dynamite that lately
exploded at Johannesburg.  Hundreds killed; he doesn't know how many;
limbs picked up for miles around.  Glass shattered, and roofs swept away
or collapsed 200 yards off; fragment of iron flung three and a half
miles.

It occurred at 3 p.m.; at 6, L65,000 had been subscribed.  When this
passenger left, L35,000 had been voted by city and state governments and
L100,000 by citizens and business corporations.  When news of the
disaster was telephoned to the Exchange L35,000 were subscribed in the
first five minutes.  Subscribing was still going on when he left; the
papers had ceased the names, only the amounts--too many names; not enough
room.  L100,000 subscribed by companies and citizens; if this is true, it
must be what they call in Australia "a record"--the biggest instance of a
spontaneous outpour for charity in history, considering the size of the
population it was drawn from, $8 or $10 for each white resident, babies
at the breast included.

Monday, May 4.  Steaming slowly in the stupendous Delagoa Bay, its dim
arms stretching far away and disappearing on both sides.  It could
furnish plenty of room for all the ships in the world, but it is shoal.
The lead has given us 3 1/2 fathoms several times and we are drawing
that, lacking 6 inches.

A bold headland--precipitous wall, 150 feet high, very strong, red color,
stretching a mile or so.  A man said it was Portuguese blood--battle
fought here with the natives last year.  I think this doubtful.  Pretty
cluster of houses on the tableland above the red-and rolling stretches of
grass and groups of trees, like England.

The Portuguese have the railroad (one passenger train a day) to the
border--70 miles--then the Netherlands Company have it.  Thousands of
tons of freight on the shore--no cover.  This is Portuguese allover--
indolence, piousness, poverty, impotence.

Crews of small boats and tugs, all jet black woolly heads and very
muscular.

Winter.  The South African winter is just beginning now, but nobody but
an expert can tell it from summer.  However, I am tired of summer; we
have had it unbroken for eleven months.  We spent the afternoon on shore,
Delagoa Bay.  A small town--no sights.  No carriages.  Three 'rickshas,
but we couldn't get them--apparently private.  These Portuguese are a
rich brown, like some of the Indians.  Some of the blacks have the long
horse beads and very long chins of the negroes of the picture books; but
most of them are exactly like the negroes of our Southern States round
faces, flat noses, good-natured, and easy laughers.

Flocks of black women passed along, carrying outrageously heavy bags of
freight on their heads. The quiver of their leg as the foot was planted
and the strain exhibited by their bodies showed what a tax upon their
strength the load was.  They were stevedores and doing full stevedores
work.  They were very erect when unladden--from carrying heavy loads on
their heads--just like the Indian women. It gives them a proud fine
carriage.

Sometimes one saw a woman carrying on her head a laden and top-heavy
basket the shape of an inverted pyramid-its top the size of a soup-plate,
its base the diameter of a teacup.  It required nice balancing--and got
it.

No bright colors; yet there were a good many Hindoos.

The Second Class Passenger came over as usual at "lights out" (11) and we
lounged along the spacious vague solitudes of the deck and smoked the
peaceful pipe and talked.  He told me an incident in Mr. Barnum's life
which was evidently characteristic of that great showman in several ways:

This was Barnum's purchase of Shakespeare's birthplace, a quarter of a
century ago.  The Second Class Passenger was in Jamrach's employ at the
time and knew Barnum well.  He said the thing began in this way.  One
morning Barnum and Jamrach were in Jamrach's little private snuggery back
of the wilderness of caged monkeys and snakes and other commonplaces of
Jamrach's stock in trade, refreshing themselves after an arduous stroke
of business, Jamrach with something orthodox, Barnum with something
heterodox--for Barnum was a teetotaler.  The stroke of business was in
the elephant line.  Jamrach had contracted to deliver to Barnum in New
York 18 elephants for $360,000 in time for the next season's opening.
Then it occurred to Mr. Barnum that he needed a "card" He suggested
Jumbo.  Jamrach said he would have to think of something else--Jumbo
couldn't be had; the Zoo wouldn't part with that elephant.  Barnum said
he was willing to pay a fortune for Jumbo if he could get him.  Jamrach
said it was no use to think about it; that Jumbo was as popular as the
Prince of Wales and the Zoo wouldn't dare to sell him; all England would
be outraged at the idea; Jumbo was an English institution; he was part of
the national glory; one might as well think of buying the Nelson
monument.  Barnum spoke up with vivacity and said:

"It's a first-rate idea.  I'll buy the Monument."

Jamrach was speechless for a second.  Then he said, like one ashamed
"You caught me.  I was napping.  For a moment I thought you were in
earnest."

Barnum said pleasantly--

"I was in earnest.  I know they won't sell it, but no matter, I will not
throw away a good idea for all that.  All I want is a big advertisement.
I will keep the thing in mind, and if nothing better turns up I will
offer to buy it.  That will answer every purpose.  It will furnish me a
couple of columns of gratis advertising in every English and American
paper for a couple of months, and give my show the biggest boom a show
ever had in this world."

Jamrach started to deliver a burst of admiration, but was interrupted by
Barnum, who said:

"Here is a state of things!  England ought to blush."

His eye had fallen upon something in the newspaper.  He read it through
to himself, then read it aloud.  It said that the house that Shakespeare
was born in at Stratford-on-Avon was falling gradually to ruin through
neglect; that the room where the poet first saw the light was now serving
as a butcher's shop; that all appeals to England to contribute money (the
requisite sum stated) to buy and repair the house and place it in the
care of salaried and trustworthy keepers had fallen resultless.  Then
Barnum said:

"There's my chance.  Let Jumbo and the Monument alone for the present-
they'll keep.  I'll buy Shakespeare's house.  I'll set it up in my Museum
in New York and put a glass case around it and make a sacred thing of it;
and you'll see all America flock there to worship; yes, and pilgrims from
the whole earth; and I'll make them take their hats off, too.  In America
we know how to value anything that Shakespeare's touch has made holy.
You'll see."

In conclusion the S. C. P.  said:

"That is the way the thing came about.  Barnum did buy Shakespeare's
house.  He paid the price asked, and received the properly attested
documents of sale.  Then there was an explosion, I can tell you.  England
rose!  That, the birthplace of the master-genius of all the ages and all
the climes--that priceless possession of Britain--to be carted out of the
country like so much old lumber and set up for sixpenny desecration in a
Yankee show-shop--the idea was not to be tolerated for a moment.  England
rose in her indignation; and Barnum was glad to relinquish his prize and
offer apologies.  However, he stood out for a compromise; he claimed a
concession--England must let him have Jumbo.  And England consented, but
not cheerfully."

It shows how, by help of time, a story can grow--even after Barnum has
had the first innings in the telling of it.  Mr. Barnum told me the story
himself, years ago.  He said that the permission to buy Jumbo was not a
concession; the purchase was made and the animal delivered before the
public knew anything about it.  Also, that the securing of Jumbo was all
the advertisement he needed.  It produced many columns of newspaper talk,
free of cost, and he was satisfied.  He said that if he had failed to get
Jumbo he would have caused his notion of buying the Nelson Monument to be
treacherously smuggled into print by some trusty friend, and after he had
gotten a few hundred pages of gratuitous advertising out of it, he would
have come out with a blundering, obtuse, but warm-hearted letter of
apology, and in a postscript to it would have naively proposed to let the
Monument go, and take Stonehenge in place of it at the same price.

It was his opinion that such a letter, written with well-simulated
asinine innocence and gush would have gotten his ignorance and stupidity
an amount of newspaper abuse worth six fortunes to him, and not
purchasable for twice the money.

I knew Mr. Barnum well, and I placed every confidence in the account
which he gave me of the Shakespeare birthplace episode.  He said he found
the house neglected and going-to decay, and he inquired into the matter
and was told that many times earnest efforts had been made to raise money
for its proper repair and preservation, but without success.  He then
proposed to buy it.  The proposition was entertained, and a price named--
$50,000, I think; but whatever it was, Barnum paid the money down,
without remark, and the papers were drawn up and executed.  He said that
it had been his purpose to set up the house in his Museum, keep it in
repair, protect it from name-scribblers and other desecrators, and leave
it by bequest to the safe and perpetual guardianship of the Smithsonian
Institute at Washington.

But as soon as it was found that Shakespeare's house had passed into
foreign hands and was going to be carried across the ocean, England was
stirred as no appeal from the custodians of the relic had ever stirred
England before, and protests came flowing in--and money, too, to stop the
outrage.  Offers of repurchase were made--offers of double the money that
Mr. Barnum had paid for the house.  He handed the house back, but took
only the sum which it had cost him--but on the condition that an
endowment sufficient for the future safeguarding and maintenance of the
sacred relic should be raised.  This condition was fulfilled.

That was Barnum's account of the episode; and to the end of his days he
claimed with pride and satisfaction that not England, but America--
represented by him--saved the birthplace of Shakespeare from destruction.

At 3 P.M., May 6th, the ship slowed down, off the land, and thoughtfully
and cautiously picked her way into the snug harbor of Durban, South
Africa.




CHAPTER LXV.

In statesmanship get the formalities right, never mind about the
moralities.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

FROM DIARY:

Royal Hotel.  Comfortable, good table, good service of natives and
Madrasis.  Curious jumble of modern and ancient city and village,
primitiveness and the other thing.  Electric bells, but they don't ring.
Asked why they didn't, the watchman in the office said he thought they
must be out of order; he thought so because some of them rang, but most
of them didn't.  Wouldn't it be a good idea to put them in order?  He
hesitated--like one who isn't quite sure--then conceded the point.

May 7.  A bang on the door at 6.  Did I want my boots cleaned?  Fifteen
minutes later another bang.  Did we want coffee?  Fifteen later, bang
again, my wife's bath ready; 15 later, my bath ready.  Two other bangs;
I forget what they were about.  Then lots of shouting back and forth,
among the servants just as in an Indian hotel.

Evening.  At 4 P.M.  it was unpleasantly warm.  Half-hour after sunset
one needed a spring overcoat; by 8 a winter one.

Durban is a neat and clean town.  One notices that without having his
attention called to it.

Rickshaws drawn by splendidly built black Zulus, so overflowing with
strength, seemingly, that it is a pleasure, not a pain, to see them
snatch a rickshaw along.  They smile and laugh and show their teeth--a
good-natured lot.  Not allowed to drink; 2s per hour for one person; 3s
for two; 3d for a course--one person.

The chameleon in the hotel court.  He is fat and indolent and
contemplative; but is business-like and capable when a fly comes about-
reaches out a tongue like a teaspoon and takes him in.  He gums his
tongue first.  He is always pious, in his looks.  And pious and thankful
both, when Providence or one of us sends him a fly.  He has a froggy
head, and a back like a new grave--for shape; and hands like a bird's
toes that have been frostbitten.  But his eyes are his exhibition
feature.  A couple of skinny cones project from the sides of his head,
with a wee shiny bead of an eye set in the apex of each; and these cones
turn bodily like pivot-guns and point every-which-way, and they are
independent of each other; each has its own exclusive machinery.  When I
am behind him and C. in front of him, he whirls one eye rearwards and the
other forwards--which gives him a most Congressional expression (one eye
on the constituency and one on the swag); and then if something happens
above and below him he shoots out one eye upward like a telescope and the
other downward--and this changes his expression, but does not improve it.

Natives must not be out after the curfew bell without a pass.  In Natal
there are ten blacks to one white.

Sturdy plump creatures are the women.  They comb their wool up to a peak
and keep it in position by stiffening it with brown-red clay--half of
this tower colored, denotes engagement; the whole of it colored denotes
marriage.

None but heathen Zulus on the police; Christian ones not allowed.

May 9.  A drive yesterday with friends over the Berea.  Very fine roads
and lofty, overlooking the whole town, the harbor, and the sea-beautiful
views.  Residences all along, set in the midst of green lawns with shrubs
and generally one or two intensely red outbursts of poinsettia--the
flaming splotch of blinding red a stunning contrast with the world of
surrounding green.  The cactus tree--candelabrum-like; and one twisted
like gray writhing serpents.  The "flat-crown" (should be flat-roof)--
half a dozen naked branches full of elbows, slant upward like artificial
supports, and fling a roof of delicate foliage out in a horizontal
platform as flat as a floor; and you look up through this thin floor as
through a green cobweb or veil.  The branches are japanesich.  All about
you is a bewildering variety of unfamiliar and beautiful trees; one sort
wonderfully dense foliage and very dark green--so dark that you notice it
at once, notwithstanding there are so many orange trees.  The
"flamboyant"--not in flower, now, but when in flower lives up to its
name, we are told.  Another tree with a lovely upright tassel scattered
among its rich greenery, red and glowing as a firecoal.  Here and there a
gum-tree; half a dozen lofty Norfolk Island pines lifting their fronded
arms skyward.  Groups of tall bamboo.

Saw one bird.  Not many birds here, and they have no music--and the
flowers not much smell, they grow so fast.

Everything neat and trim and clean like the town.  The loveliest trees
and the greatest variety I have ever seen anywhere, except approaching
Darjeeling.  Have not heard anyone call Natal the garden of South Africa,
but that is what it probably is.

It was when Bishop of Natal that Colenso raised such a storm in the
religious world.  The concerns of religion are a vital matter here yet.
A vigilant eye is kept upon Sunday.  Museums and other dangerous resorts
are not allowed to be open.  You may sail on the Bay, but it is wicked to
play cricket.  For a while a Sunday concert was tolerated, upon condition
that it must be admission free and the money taken by collection.  But
the collection was alarmingly large and that stopped the matter.  They
are particular about babies.  A clergyman would not bury a child
according to the sacred rites because it had not been baptized.  The
Hindoo is more liberal.  He burns no child under three, holding that it
does not need purifying.

The King of the Zulus, a fine fellow of 30, was banished six years ago
for a term of seven years.  He is occupying Napoleon's old stand--St.
Helena.  The people are a little nervous about having him come back, and
they may well be, for Zulu kings have been terrible people sometimes--
like Tchaka, Dingaan, and Cetewayo.

There is a large Trappist monastery two hours from Durban, over the
country roads, and in company with Mr. Milligan and Mr. Hunter, general
manager of the Natal government railways, who knew the heads of it, we
went out to see it.

There it all was, just as one reads about it in books and cannot believe
that it is so--I mean the rough, hard work, the impossible hours, the
scanty food, the coarse raiment, the Maryborough beds, the tabu of human
speech, of social intercourse, of relaxation, of amusement, of
entertainment, of the presence of woman in the men's establishment.
There it all was.  It was not a dream, it was not a lie.  And yet with
the fact before one's face it was still incredible.  It is such a
sweeping suppression of human instincts, such an extinction of the man as
an individual.

La Trappe must have known the human race well.  The scheme which he
invented hunts out everything that a man wants and values--and withholds
it from him.  Apparently there is no detail that can help make life worth
living that has not been carefully ascertained and placed out of the
Trappist's reach.  La Trappe must have known that there were men who
would enjoy this kind of misery, but how did he find it out?

If he had consulted you or me he would have been told that his scheme
lacked too many attractions; that it was impossible; that it could never
be floated.  But there in the monastery was proof that he knew the human
race better than it knew itself.  He set his foot upon every desire that
a man has--yet he floated his project, and it has prospered for two
hundred years, and will go on prospering forever, no doubt.

Man likes personal distinction--there in the monastery it is obliterated.
He likes delicious food--there he gets beans and bread and tea, and not
enough of it.  He likes to lie softly--there he lies on a sand mattress,
and has a pillow and a blanket, but no sheet.  When he is dining, in a
great company of friends, he likes to laugh and chat--there a monk reads
a holy book aloud during meals, and nobody speaks or laughs.  When a man
has a hundred friends about him, evenings, be likes to have a good time
and run late--there he and the rest go silently to bed at 8; and in the
dark, too; there is but a loose brown robe to discard, there are no
night-clothes to put on, a light is not needed.  Man likes to lie abed
late there he gets up once or twice in the night to perform some
religious office, and gets up finally for the day at two in the morning.
Man likes light work or none at all--there he labors all day in the
field, or in the blacksmith shop or the other shops devoted to the
mechanical trades, such as shoemaking, saddlery, carpentry, and so on.
Man likes the society of girls and women--there he never has it.  He
likes to have his children about him, and pet them and play with them--
there he has none.  He likes billiards--there is no table there.  He
likes outdoor sports and indoor dramatic and musical and social
entertainments--there are none there.  He likes to bet on things--I was
told that betting is forbidden there.  When a man's temper is up he likes
to pour it out upon somebody there this is not allowed.  A man likes
animals--pets; there are none there.  He likes to smoke--there he cannot
do it.  He likes to read the news--no papers or magazines come there.  A
man likes to know how his parents and brothers and sisters are getting
along when he is away, and if they miss him--there he cannot know.  A man
likes a pretty house, and pretty furniture, and pretty things, and pretty
colors--there he has nothing but naked aridity and sombre colors.  A man
likes--name it yourself: whatever it is, it is absent from that place.

From what I could learn, all that a man gets for this is merely the
saving of his soul.

It all seems strange, incredible, impossible.  But La Trappe knew the
race.  He knew the powerful attraction of unattractiveness; he knew that
no life could be imagined, howsoever comfortless and forbidding, but
somebody would want to try it.

This parent establishment of Germans began its work fifteen years ago,
strangers, poor, and unencouraged; it owns 15,000 acres of land now, and
raises grain and fruit, and makes wines, and manufactures all manner of
things, and has native apprentices in its shops, and sends them forth
able to read and write, and also well equipped to earn their living by
their trades.  And this young establishment has set up eleven branches in
South Africa, and in them they are christianizing and educating and
teaching wage-yielding mechanical trades to 1,200 boys and girls.
Protestant Missionary work is coldly regarded by the commercial white
colonist all over the heathen world, as a rule, and its product is
nicknamed "rice-Christians" (occupationless incapables who join the
church for revenue only), but I think it would be difficult to pick a
flaw in the work of these Catholic monks, and I believe that the
disposition to attempt it has not shown itself.

Tuesday, May 12.  Transvaal politics in a confused condition.  First the
sentencing of the Johannesburg Reformers startled England by its
severity; on the top of this came Kruger's exposure of the cipher
correspondence, which showed that the invasion of the Transvaal, with the
design of seizing that country and adding it to the British Empire, was
planned by Cecil Rhodes and Beit--which made a revulsion in English
feeling, and brought out a storm against Rhodes and the Chartered Company
for degrading British honor.  For a good while I couldn't seem to get at
a clear comprehension of it, it was so tangled.  But at last by patient
study I have managed it, I believe.  As I understand it, the Uitlanders
and other Dutchmen were dissatisfied because the English would not allow
them to take any part in the government except to pay taxes.  Next, as I
understand it, Dr. Kruger and Dr. Jameson, not having been able to make
the medical business pay, made a raid into Matabeleland with the
intention of capturing the capital, Johannesburg, and holding the women
and children to ransom until the Uitlanders and the other Boers should
grant to them and the Chartered Company the political rights which had
been withheld from them.  They would have succeeded in this great scheme,
as I understand it, but for the interference of Cecil Rhodes and Mr.
Beit, and other Chiefs of the Matabele, who persuaded their countrymen to
revolt and throw off their allegiance to Germany.  This, in turn, as I
understand it, provoked the King of Abyssinia to destroy the Italian army
and fall back upon Johannesburg; this at the instigation of Rhodes, to
bull the stock market.




CHAPTER LXVI.

Every one is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

When I scribbled in my note-book a year ago the paragraph which ends the
preceding chapter, it was meant to indicate, in an extravagant form, two
things: the conflicting nature of the information conveyed by the citizen
to the stranger concerning South African politics, and the resulting
confusion created in the stranger's mind thereby.

But it does not seem so very extravagant now.  Nothing could in that
disturbed and excited time make South African politics clear or quite
rational to the citizen of the country because his personal interest and
his political prejudices were in his way; and nothing could make those
politics clear or rational to the stranger, the sources of his
information being such as they were.

I was in South Africa some little time.  When I arrived there the
political pot was boiling fiercely.  Four months previously, Jameson had
plunged over the Transvaal border with about 600 armed horsemen at his
back, to go to the "relief of the women and children" of Johannesburg; on
the fourth day of his march the Boers had defeated him in battle, and
carried him and his men to Pretoria, the capital, as prisoners; the Boer
government had turned Jameson and his officers over to the British
government for trial, and shipped them to England; next, it had arrested
64 important citizens of Johannesburg as raid-conspirators, condemned
their four leaders to death, then commuted the sentences, and now the 64
were waiting, in jail, for further results.  Before midsummer they were
all out excepting two, who refused to sign the petitions for release; 58
had been fined $10,000 each and enlarged, and the four leaders had gotten
off with fines of $125,000 each with permanent exile added, in one case.

Those were wonderfully interesting days for a stranger, and I was glad.
to be in the thick of the excitement.  Everybody was talking, and I
expected to understand the whole of one side of it in a very little
while.

I was disappointed.  There were singularities, perplexities,
unaccountabilities about it which I was not able to master.  I had no
personal access to Boers--their side was a secret to me, aside from what
I was able to gather of it from published statements.  My sympathies were
soon with the Reformers in the Pretoria jail, with their friends, and
with their cause.  By diligent inquiry in Johannesburg I found out--
apparently--all the details of their side of the quarrel except one--what
they expected to accomplish by an armed rising.

Nobody seemed to know.

The reason why the Reformers were discontented and wanted some changes
made, seemed quite clear.  In Johannesburg it was claimed that the
Uitlanders (strangers, foreigners) paid thirteen-fifteenths of the
Transvaal taxes, yet got little or nothing for it.  Their city had no
charter; it had no municipal government; it could levy no taxes for
drainage, water-supply, paving, cleaning, sanitation, policing.  There
was a police force, but it was composed of Boers, it was furnished by the
State Government, and the city had no control over it.  Mining was very
costly; the government enormously increased the cost by putting
burdensome taxes upon the mines, the output, the machinery, the
buildings; by burdensome imposts upon incoming materials; by burdensome
railway-freight-charges.  Hardest of all to bear, the government reserved
to itself a monopoly in that essential thing, dynamite, and burdened it
with an extravagant price.  The detested Hollander from over the water
held all the public offices.  The government was rank with corruption.
The Uitlander had no vote, and must live in the State ten or twelve years
before he could get one.  He was not represented in the Raad
(legislature) that oppressed him and fleeced him.  Religion was not free.
There were no schools where the teaching was in English, yet the great
majority of the white population of the State knew no tongue but that.
The State would not pass a liquor law; but allowed a great trade in cheap
vile brandy among the blacks, with the result that 25 per cent. of the
50,000 blacks employed in the mines were usually drunk and incapable of
working.

There--it was plain enough that the reasons for wanting some changes made
were abundant and reasonable, if this statement of the existing
grievances was correct.

What the Uitlanders wanted was reform--under the existing Republic.

What they proposed to do was to secure these reforms by, prayer,
petition, and persuasion.

They did petition.  Also, they issued a Manifesto, whose very first note
is a bugle-blast of loyalty: "We want the establishment of this Republic
as a true Republic."

Could anything be clearer than the Uitlander's statement of the
grievances and oppressions under which they were suffering?  Could
anything be more legal and citizen-like and law-respecting than their
attitude as expressed by their Manifesto?  No.  Those things were
perfectly clear, perfectly comprehensible.

But at this point the puzzles and riddles and confusions begin to flock
in.  You have arrived at a place which you cannot quite understand.

For you find that as a preparation for this loyal, lawful, and in every
way unexceptionable attempt to persuade the government to right their
grievances, the Uitlanders had smuggled a Maxim gun or two and 1,500
muskets into the town, concealed in oil tanks and coal cars, and had
begun to form and drill military companies composed of clerks, merchants,
and citizens generally.

What was their idea?  Did they suppose that the Boers would attack them
for petitioning, for redress?  That could not be.

Did they suppose that the Boers would attack them even for issuing a
Manifesto demanding relief under the existing government?

Yes, they apparently believed so, because the air was full of talk of
forcing the government to grant redress if it were not granted
peacefully.

The Reformers were men of high intelligence.  If they were in earnest,
they were taking extraordinary risks.  They had enormously valuable
properties to defend; their town was full of women and children; their
mines and compounds were packed with thousands upon thousands of sturdy
blacks.  If the Boers attacked, the mines would close, the blacks would
swarm out and get drunk; riot and conflagration and the Boers together
might lose the Reformers more in a day, in money, blood, and suffering,
than the desired political relief could compensate in ten years if they
won the fight and secured the reforms.

It is May, 1897, now; a year has gone by, and the confusions of that day
have been to a considerable degree cleared away.  Mr. Cecil Rhodes, Dr.
Jameson, and others responsible for the Raid, have testified before the
Parliamentary Committee of Inquiry in London, and so have Mr. Lionel
Phillips and other Johannesburg Reformers, monthly-nurses of the
Revolution which was born dead.  These testimonies have thrown light.
Three books have added much to this light:

"South Africa As It Is," by Mr. Statham, an able writer partial to the
Boers; "The Story of an African Crisis," by Mr. Garrett, a brilliant
writer partial to Rhodes; and "A Woman's Part in a Revolution," by Mrs.
John Hays Hammond, a vigorous and vivid diarist, partial to the
Reformers.  By liquifying the evidence of the prejudiced books and of the
prejudiced parliamentary witnesses and stirring the whole together and
pouring it into my own (prejudiced) moulds, I have got at the truth of
that puzzling South African situation, which is this:

1.  The capitalists and other chief men of Johannesburg were fretting
under various political and financial burdens imposed by the State (the
South African Republic, sometimes called "the Transvaal") and desired to
procure by peaceful means a modification of the laws.

2.  Mr. Cecil Rhodes, Premier of the British Cape Colony, millionaire,
creator and managing director of the territorially-immense and
financially unproductive South Africa Company; projector of vast schemes
for the unification and consolidation of all the South African States,
one imposing commonwealth or empire under the shadow and general
protection of the British flag, thought he saw an opportunity to make
profitable use of the Uitlander discontent above mentioned--make the
Johannesburg cat help pull out one of his consolidation chestnuts for
him.  With this view he set himself the task of warming the lawful and
legitimate petitions and supplications of the Uitlanders into seditious
talk, and their frettings into threatenings--the final outcome to be
revolt and armed rebellion.  If he could bring about a bloody collision
between those people and the Boer government, Great Britain would have to
interfere; her interference would be resisted by the Boers; she would
chastise them and add the Transvaal to her South African possessions.  It
was not a foolish idea, but a rational and practical one.

After a couple of years of judicious plotting, Mr. Rhodes had his reward;
the revolutionary kettle was briskly boiling in Johannesburg, and the
Uitlander leaders were backing their appeals to the government--now
hardened into demands--by threats of force and bloodshed.  By the middle
of December, 1895, the explosion seemed imminent.  Mr. Rhodes was
diligently helping, from his distant post in Cape Town.  He was helping
to procure arms for Johannesburg; he was also arranging to have Jameson
break over the border and come to Johannesburg with 600 mounted men at
his back.  Jameson--as per instructions from Rhodes, perhaps--wanted a
letter from the Reformers requesting him to come to their aid.  It was a
good idea.  It would throw a considerable share of the responsibility of
his invasion upon the Reformers.  He got the letter--that famous one
urging him to fly to the rescue of the women and children.  He got it two
months before he flew.  The Reformers seem to have thought it over and
concluded that they had not done wisely; for the next day after giving
Jameson the implicating document they wanted to withdraw it and leave the
women and children in danger; but they were told that it was too late.
The original had gone to Mr. Rhodes at the Cape.  Jameson had kept a
copy, though.

From that time until the 29th of December, a good deal of the Reformers'
time was taken up with energetic efforts to keep Jameson from coming to
their assistance.  Jameson's invasion had been set for the 26th.  The
Reformers were not ready.  The town was not united.  Some wanted a fight,
some wanted peace; some wanted a new government, some wanted the existing
one reformed; apparently very few wanted the revolution to take place in
the interest and under the ultimate shelter of the Imperial flag--
British; yet a report began to spread that Mr. Rhodes's embarrassing
assistance had for its end this latter object.

Jameson was away up on the frontier tugging at his leash, fretting to
burst over the border.  By hard work the Reformers got his starting-date
postponed a little, and wanted to get it postponed eleven days.
Apparently, Rhodes's agents were seconding their efforts--in fact wearing
out the telegraph wires trying to hold him back.  Rhodes was himself the
only man who could have effectively postponed Jameson, but that would
have been a disadvantage to his scheme; indeed, it could spoil his whole
two years' work.

Jameson endured postponement three days, then resolved to wait no longer.
Without any orders--excepting Mr. Rhodes's significant silence--he cut
the telegraph wires on the 29th, and made his plunge that night, to go to
the rescue of the women and children, by urgent request of a letter now
nine days old--as per date,--a couple of months old, in fact.  He read
the letter to his men, and it affected them.  It did not affect all of
them alike.  Some saw in it a piece of piracy of doubtful wisdom, and
were sorry to find that they had been assembled to violate friendly
territory instead of to raid native kraals, as they had supposed.

Jameson would have to ride 150 miles.  He knew that there were suspicions
abroad in the Transvaal concerning him, but he expected to get through to
Johannesburg before they should become general and obstructive. But a
telegraph wire had been overlooked and not cut.  It spread the news of
his invasion far and wide, and a few hours after his start the Boer
farmers were riding hard from every direction to intercept him.

As soon as it was known in Johannesburg that he was on his way to rescue
the women and children, the grateful people put the women and children in
a train and rushed them for Australia.  In fact, the approach of
Johannesburg's saviour created panic and consternation; there, and a
multitude of males of peaceable disposition swept to the trains like a
sand-storm.  The early ones fared best; they secured seats--by sitting in
them--eight hours before the first train was timed to leave.

Mr. Rhodes lost no time.  He cabled the renowned Johannesburg letter of
invitation to the London press--the gray-headedest piece of ancient
history that ever went over a cable.

The new poet laureate lost no time.  He came out with a rousing poem
lauding Jameson's prompt and splendid heroism in flying to the rescue of
the women and children; for the poet could not know that he did not fly
until two months after the invitation.  He was deceived by the false date
of the letter, which was December 20th.

Jameson was intercepted by the Boers on New Year's Day, and on the next
day he surrendered.  He had carried his copy of the letter along, and if
his instructions required him--in case of emergency--to see that it fell
into the hands of the Boers, he loyally carried them out.  Mrs. Hammond
gives him a sharp rap for his supposed carelessness, and emphasizes her
feeling about it with burning italics: "It was picked up on the battle-
field in a leathern pouch, supposed to be Dr. Jameson's saddle-bag.  Why,
in the name of all that is discreet and honorable, didn't he eat it!"

She requires too much.  He was not in the service of the Reformers--
excepting ostensibly; he was in the service of Mr. Rhodes.  It was the
only plain English document, undarkened by ciphers and mysteries, and
responsibly signed and authenticated, which squarely implicated the
Reformers in the raid, and it was not to Mr. Rhodes's interest that it
should be eaten.  Besides, that letter was not the original, it was only
a copy.  Mr. Rhodes had the original--and didn't eat it.  He cabled it to
the London press.  It had already been read in England and America and
all over Europe before, Jameson dropped it on the battlefield.  If the
subordinate's knuckles deserved a rap, the principal's deserved as many
as a couple of them.

That letter is a juicily dramatic incident and is entitled to all its
celebrity, because of the odd and variegated effects which it produced.
All within the space of a single week it had made Jameson an illustrious
hero in England, a pirate in Pretoria, and an ass without discretion or
honor in Johannesburg; also it had produced a poet-laureatic explosion of
colored fireworks which filled the world's sky with giddy splendors, and,
the knowledge that Jameson was coming with it to rescue the women and
children emptied Johannesburg of that detail of the population.  For an
old letter, this was much.  For a letter two months old, it did marvels;
if it had been a year old it would have done miracles.




CHAPTER LXVII.

First catch your Boer, then kick him.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Those latter days were days of bitter worry and trouble for the harassed
Reformers.

From Mrs. Hammond we learn that on the 31st (the day after Johannesburg
heard of the invasion), "The Reform Committee repudiates Dr. Jameson's
inroad."

It also publishes its intention to adhere to the Manifesto.

It also earnestly desires that the inhabitants shall refrain from overt
acts against the Boer government.

It also "distributes arms" at the Court House, and furnishes horses "to
the newly-enrolled volunteers."

It also brings a Transvaal flag into the committee-room, and the entire
body swear allegiance to it "with uncovered heads and upraised arms."

Also "one thousand Lee-Metford rifles have been given out"--to rebels.

Also, in a speech, Reformer Lionel Phillips informs the public that the
Reform Committee Delegation has "been received with courtesy by the
Government Commission," and "been assured that their proposals shall be
earnestly considered."  That "while the Reform Committee regretted
Jameson's precipitate action, they would stand by him."

Also the populace are in a state of "wild enthusiasm," and "46 can
scarcely be restrained; they want to go out to meet Jameson and bring him
in with triumphal outcry."

Also the British High Commissioner has issued a damnifying proclamation
against Jameson and all British abettors of his game.  It arrives January
1st.

It is a difficult position for the Reformers, and full of hindrances and
perplexities.  Their duty is hard, but plain:

1.  They have to repudiate the inroad, and stand by the inroader.

2.  They have to swear allegiance to the Boer government, and distribute
cavalry horses to the rebels.

3.  They have to forbid overt acts against the Boer government, and
distribute arms to its enemies.

4.  They have to avoid collision with the British government, but still
stand by Jameson and their new oath of allegiance to the Boer government,
taken, uncovered, in presence of its flag.

They did such of these things as they could; they tried to do them all;
in fact, did do them all, but only in turn, not simultaneously.  In the
nature of things they could not be made to simultane.

In preparing for armed revolution and in talking revolution, were the
Reformers "bluffing," or were they in earnest?  If they were in earnest,
they were taking great risks--as has been already pointed out.  A
gentleman of high position told me in Johannesburg that he had in his
possession a printed document proclaiming a new government and naming its
president--one of the Reform leaders.  He said that this proclamation had
been ready for issue, but was suppressed when the raid collapsed.
Perhaps I misunderstood him.  Indeed, I must have misunderstood him, for
I have not seen mention of this large incident in print anywhere.

Besides, I hope I am mistaken; for, if I am, then there is argument that
the Reformers were privately not serious, but were only trying to scare
the Boer government into granting the desired reforms.

The Boer government was scared, and it had a right to be.  For if Mr.
Rhodes's plan was to provoke a collision that would compel the
interference of England, that was a serious matter.  If it could be shown
that that was also the Reformers' plan and purpose, it would prove that
they had marked out a feasible project, at any rate, although it was one
which could hardly fail to cost them ruinously before England should
arrive.  But it seems clear that they had no such plan nor desire.  If,
when the worst should come to the worst, they meant to overthrow the
government, they also meant to inherit the assets themselves, no doubt.

This scheme could hardly have succeeded.  With an army of Boers at their
gates and 50,000 riotous blacks in their midst, the odds against success
would have been too heavy--even if the whole town had been armed.  With
only 2,500 rifles in the place, they stood really no chance.

To me, the military problems of the situation are of more interest than
the political ones, because by disposition I have always been especially
fond of war.  No, I mean fond of discussing war; and fond of giving
military advice.  If I had been with Jameson the morning after he
started, I should have advised him to turn back.  That was Monday; it was
then that he received his first warning from a Boer source not to violate
the friendly soil of the Transvaal.  It showed that his invasion was
known.  If I had been with him on Tuesday morning and afternoon, when he
received further warnings, I should have repeated my advice.  If I had
been with him the next morning--New Year's--when he received notice that
"a few hundred" Boers were waiting for him a few miles ahead, I should
not have advised, but commanded him to go back.  And if I had been with
him two or three hours later--a thing not conceivable to me--I should
have retired him by force; for at that time he learned that the few
hundred had now grown to 800; and that meant that the growing would go on
growing.

For,--by authority of Mr. Garrett, one knows that Jameson's 600 were only
530 at most, when you count out his native drivers, etc.; and that the
530 consisted largely of "green" youths, "raw young fellows," not trained
and war-worn British soldiers; and I would have told.  Jameson that those
lads would not be able to shoot effectively from horseback in the scamper
and racket of battle, and that there would not be anything for them to
shoot at, anyway, but rocks; for the Boers would be behind the rocks, not
out in the open.  I would have told him that 300 Boer sharpshooters
behind rocks would be an overmatch for his 500 raw young fellows on
horseback.

If pluck were the only thing essential to battle-winning, the English
would lose no battles.  But discretion, as well as pluck, is required
when one fights Boers and Red Indians.  In South Africa the Briton has
always insisted upon standing bravely up, unsheltered, before the hidden
Boer, and taking the results: Jameson's men would follow the custom.
Jameson would not have listened to me--he would have been intent upon
repeating history, according to precedent.  Americans are not acquainted
with the British-Boer war of 1881; but its history is interesting, and
could have been instructive to Jameson if he had been receptive.  I will
cull some details of it from trustworthy sources mainly from "Russell's
Natal."  Mr. Russell is not a Boer, but a Briton.  He is inspector of
schools, and his history is a text-book whose purpose is the instruction
of the Natal English youth.

After the seizure of the Transvaal and the suppression of the Boer
government by England in 1877, the Boers fretted for three years, and
made several appeals to England for a restoration of their liberties, but
without result.  Then they gathered themselves together in a great mass-
meeting at Krugersdorp, talked their troubles over, and resolved to fight
for their deliverance from the British yoke.  (Krugersdorp--the place
where the Boers interrupted the Jameson raid.)  The little handful of
farmers rose against the strongest empire in the world.  They proclaimed
martial law and the re-establishment of their Republic.  They organized
their forces and sent them forward to intercept the British battalions.
This, although Sir Garnet Wolseley had but lately made proclamation that
"so long as the sun shone in the heavens," the Transvaal would be and
remain English territory.  And also in spite of the fact that the
commander of the 94th regiment--already on the march to suppress this
rebellion--had been heard to say that "the Boers would turn tail at the
first beat of the big drum."--["South Africa As It Is," by F.  Reginald
Statham, page 82.  London: T.  Fisher Unwin, 1897.]

Four days after the flag-raising, the Boer force which had been sent
forward to forbid the invasion of the English troops met them at
Bronkhorst Spruit--246 men of the 94th regiment, in command of a colonel,
the big drum beating, the band playing--and the first battle was fought.
It lasted ten minutes.  Result:

     British loss, more than 150 officers and men, out of the 246.
     Surrender of the remnant.

     Boer loss--if any--not stated.

They are fine marksmen, the Boers.  From the cradle up, they live on
horseback and hunt wild animals with the rifle.  They have a passion for
liberty and the Bible, and care for nothing else.

"General Sir George Colley, Lieutenant-Governor and Commander-in-Chief in
Natal, felt it his duty to proceed at once to the relief of the loyalists
and soldiers beleaguered in the different towns of the Transvaal."  He
moved out with 1,000 men and some artillery.  He found the Boers encamped
in a strong and sheltered position on high ground at Laing's Nek--every
Boer behind a rock.  Early in the morning of the 28th January, 1881, he
moved to the attack "with the 58th regiment, commanded by Colonel Deane,
a mounted squadron of 70 men, the 60th Rifles, the Naval Brigade with
three rocket tubes, and the Artillery with six guns."  He shelled the
Boers for twenty minutes, then the assault was delivered, the 58th
marching up the slope in solid column.  The battle was soon finished,
with this result, according to Russell--

     British loss in killed and wounded, 174.

     Boer loss, "trifling."

Colonel Deane was killed, and apparently every officer above the grade of
lieutenant was killed or wounded, for the 58th retreated to its camp in
command of a lieutenant.  ("Africa as It Is.")

That ended the second battle.

On the 7th of February General Colley discovered that the Boers were
flanking his position.  The next morning he left his camp at Mount
Pleasant and marched out and crossed the Ingogo river with 270 men,
started up the Ingogo heights, and there fought a battle which lasted
from noon till nightfall.  He then retreated, leaving his wounded with
his military chaplain, and in recrossing the now swollen river lost some
of his men by drowning.  That was the third Boer victory.  Result,
according to Mr. Russell--

     British loss 150 out of 270 engaged.

     Boer loss, 8 killed, 9 wounded--17.

There was a season of quiet, now, but at the end of about three weeks Sir
George Colley conceived the idea of climbing, with an infantry and
artillery force, the steep and rugged mountain of Amajuba in the night--a
bitter hard task, but he accomplished it.  On the way he left about 200
men to guard a strategic point, and took about 400 up the mountain with
him.  When the sun rose in the morning, there was an unpleasant surprise
for the Boers; yonder were the English troops visible on top of the
mountain two or three miles away, and now their own position was at the
mercy of the English artillery.  The Boer chief resolved to retreat--up
that mountain.  He asked for volunteers, and got them.

The storming party crossed the swale and began to creep up the steeps,
"and from behind rocks and bushes they shot at the soldiers on the
skyline as if they were stalking deer," says Mr. Russell.  There was
"continuous musketry fire, steady and fatal on the one side, wild and
ineffectual on the other." The Boers reached the top, and began to put in
their ruinous work.  Presently the British "broke and fled for their
lives down the rugged steep." The Boers had won the battle.  Result in
killed and wounded, including among the killed the British General:

     British loss, 226, out of 400 engaged.

     Boer loss, 1 killed, 5 wounded.

That ended the war.  England listened to reason, and recognized the Boer
Republic--a government which has never been in any really awful danger
since, until Jameson started after it with his 500 "raw young fellows."
To recapitulate:

The Boer farmers and British soldiers fought 4 battles, and the Boers won
them all.  Result of the 4, in killed and wounded:

     British loss, 700 men.

     Boer loss, so far as known, 23 men.

It is interesting, now, to note how loyally Jameson and his several
trained British military officers tried to make their battles conform to
precedent.  Mr. Garrett's account of the Raid is much the best one I have
met with, and my impressions of the Raid are drawn from that.

When Jameson learned that near Krugersdorp he would find 800 Boers
waiting to dispute his passage, he was not in the least disturbed.  He
was feeling as he had felt two or three days before, when he had opened
his campaign with a historic remark to the same purport as the one with
which the commander of the 94th had opened the Boer-British war of
fourteen years before.  That Commander's remark was, that the Boers
"would turn tail at the first beat of the big drum."  Jameson's was, that
with his "raw young fellows" he could kick the (persons) of the Boers
"all round the Transvaal."  He was keeping close to historic precedent.

Jameson arrived in the presence of the Boers.  They--according to
precedent--were not visible.  It was a country of ridges, depressions,
rocks, ditches, moraines of mining-tailings--not even as favorable for
cavalry work as Laing's Nek had been in the former disastrous days.
Jameson shot at the ridges and rocks with his artillery, just as General
Colley had done at the Nek; and did them no damage and persuaded no Boer
to show himself.  Then about a hundred of his men formed up to charge the
ridge-according to the 58th's precedent at the Nek; but as they dashed
forward they opened out in a long line, which was a considerable
improvement on the 58th's tactics; when they had gotten to within 200
yards of the ridge the concealed Boers opened out on them and emptied 20
saddles.  The unwounded dismounted and fired at the rocks over the backs
of their horses; but the return-fire was too hot, and they mounted again,
"and galloped back or crawled away into a clump of reeds for cover, where
they were shortly afterward taken prisoners as they lay among the reeds.
Some thirty prisoners were so taken, and during the night which followed
the Boers carried away another thirty killed and wounded--the wounded to
Krugersdorp hospital.  "Sixty per cent. of the assaulted force disposed
of--according to Mr. Garrett's estimate.

It was according to Amajuba precedent, where the British loss was 226 out
of about 400 engaged.

Also, in Jameson's camp, that night, "there lay about 30 wounded or
otherwise disabled" men.  Also during the night "some 30 or 40 young
fellows got separated from the command and straggled through into
Johannesburg."  Altogether a possible 150 men gone, out of his 530.  His
lads had fought valorously, but had not been able to get near enough to a
Boer to kick him around the Transvaal.

At dawn the next morning the column of something short of 400 whites
resumed its march.  Jameson's grit was stubbornly good; indeed, it was
always that.  He still had hopes.  There was a long and tedious
zigzagging march through broken ground, with constant harassment from the
Boers; and at last the column "walked into a sort of trap," and the Boers
"closed in upon it."  "Men and horses dropped on all sides.  In the
column the feeling grew that unless it could burst through the Boer lines
at this point it was done for.  The Maxims were fired until they grew too
hot, and, water failing for the cool jacket, five of them jammed and went
out of action.  The 7-pounder was fired until only half an hour's
ammunition was left to fire with.  One last rush was made, and failed,
and then the Staats Artillery came up on the left flank, and the game was
up."

Jameson hoisted a white flag and surrendered.

There is a story, which may not be true, about an ignorant Boer farmer
there who thought that this white flag was the national flag of England.
He had been at Bronkhorst, and Laing's Nek, and Ingogo and Amajuba, and
supposed that the English did not run up their flag excepting at the end
of a fight.

The following is (as I understand it) Mr. Garrett's estimate of Jameson's
total loss in killed and wounded for the two days:

"When they gave in they were minus some 20 per cent. of combatants.
There were 76 casualties.  There were 30 men hurt or sick in the wagons.
There were 27 killed on the spot or mortally wounded."

Total, 133, out of the original 530.  It is just 25 per cent.--[However,
I judge that the total was really 150; for the number of wounded carried
to Krugersdorp hospital was 53; not 30, as Mr. Garrett reports it.  The
lady whose guest I was in Krugerdorp gave me the figures.  She was head
nurse from the beginning of hostilities (Jan. 1) until the professional
nurses arrived, Jan. 8th.  Of the 53, "Three or four were Boers"; I quote
her words.]--This is a large improvement upon the precedents established
at Bronkhorst, Laing's Nek, Ingogo, and Amajuba, and seems to indicate
that Boer marksmanship is not so good now as it was in those days.  But
there is one detail in which the Raid-episode exactly repeats history.
By surrender at Bronkhorst, the whole British force disappeared from the
theater of war; this was the case with Jameson's force.

In the Boer loss, also, historical precedent is followed with sufficient
fidelity.  In the 4 battles named above, the Boer loss, so far as known,
was an average of 6 men per battle, to the British average loss of 175.
In Jameson's battles, as per Boer official report, the Boer loss in
killed was 4.  Two of these were killed by the Boers themselves, by
accident, the other by Jameson's army--one of them intentionally, the
other by a pathetic mischance.  "A young Boer named Jacobz was moving
forward to give a drink to one of the wounded troopers (Jameson's) after
the first charge, when another wounded man, mistaking his intention; shot
him."  There were three or four wounded Boers in the Krugersdorp
hospital, and apparently no others have been reported.  Mr. Garrett, "on
a balance of probabilities, fully accepts the official version, and
thanks Heaven the killed was not larger."

As a military man, I wish to point out what seems to me to be military
errors in the conduct of the campaign which we have just been
considering.  I have seen active service in the field, and it was in the
actualities of war that I acquired my training and my right to speak.
I served two weeks in the beginning of our Civil War, and during all that
tune commanded a battery of infantry composed of twelve men.  General
Grant knew the history of my campaign, for I told it him.  I also told
him the principle upon which I had conducted it; which was, to tire the
enemy.  I tired out and disqualified many battalions, yet never had a
casualty myself nor lost a man.  General Grant was not given to paying
compliments, yet he said frankly that if I had conducted the whole war
much bloodshed would have been spared, and that what the army might have
lost through the inspiriting results of collision in the field would have
been amply made up by the liberalizing influences of travel.  Further
endorsement does not seem to me to be necessary.

Let us now examine history, and see what it teaches.  In the 4 battles
fought in 1881 and the two fought by Jameson, the British loss in killed,
wounded, and prisoners, was substantially 1,300 men; the Boer loss, as
far as is ascertainable, eras about 30 men.  These figures show that
there was a defect somewhere.  It was not in the absence of courage.  I
think it lay in the absence of discretion.  The Briton should have done
one thing or the other: discarded British methods and fought the Boer
with Boer methods, or augmented his own force until--using British
methods--it should be large enough to equalize results with the Boer.

To retain the British method requires certain things, determinable by
arithmetic.  If, for argument's sake, we allow that the aggregate of
1,716 British soldiers engaged in the 4 early battles was opposed by the
same aggregate of Boers, we have this result: the British loss of 700 and
the Boer loss of 23 argues that in order to equalize results in future
battles you must make the British force thirty times as strong as the
Boer force.  Mr. Garrett shows that the Boer force immediately opposed to
Jameson was 2,000, and that there were 6,000 more on hand by the evening
of the second day.  Arithmetic shows that in order to make himself the
equal of the 8,000 Boers, Jameson should have had 240,000 men, whereas he
merely had 530 boys.  From a military point of view, backed by the facts
of history, I conceive that Jameson's military judgment was at fault.

Another thing.--Jameson was encumbered by artillery, ammunition, and
rifles.  The facts of the battle show that he should have had none of
those things along.  They were heavy, they were in his way, they impeded
his march.  There was nothing to shoot at but rocks--he knew quite well
that there would be nothing to shoot at but rocks--and he knew that
artillery and rifles have no effect upon rocks.  He was badly overloaded
with unessentials.  He had 8 Maxims--a Maxim is a kind of Gatling, I
believe, and shoots about 500 bullets per minute; he had one 12 1/2-
pounder cannon and two 7-pounders; also, 145,000 rounds of ammunition.
He worked the Maxims so hard upon the rocks that five of them became
disabled--five of the Maxims, not the rocks.  It is believed that upwards
of 100,000 rounds of ammunition of the various kinds were fired during
the 21 hours that the battles lasted.  One man killed.  He must have been
much mutilated.  It was a pity to bring those futile Maxims along.
Jameson should have furnished himself with a battery of Pudd'nhead Wilson
maxims instead, They are much more deadly than those others, and they are
easily carried, because they have no weight.

Mr. Garrett--not very carefully concealing a smile--excuses the presence
of the Maxims by saying that they were of very substantial use because
their sputtering disordered the aim of the Boers, and in that way saved
lives.

Three cannon, eight Maxims, and five hundred rifles yielded a result
which emphasized a fact which had already been established--that the
British system of standing out in the open to fight Boers who are behind
rocks is not wise, not excusable, and ought to be abandoned for something
more efficacious.  For the purpose of war is to kill, not merely to waste
ammunition.

If I could get the management of one of those campaigns, I would know
what to do, for I have studied the Boer.  He values the Bible above every
other thing.  The most delicious edible in South Africa is "biltong."
You will have seen it mentioned in Olive Schreiner's books.  It is what
our plainsmen call "jerked beef."  It is the Boer's main standby.  He has
a passion for it, and he is right.

If I had the command of the campaign I would go with rifles only, no
cumbersome Maxims and cannon to spoil good rocks with.  I would move
surreptitiously by night to a point about a quarter of a mile from the
Boer camp, and there I would build up a pyramid of biltong and Bibles
fifty feet high, and then conceal my men all about.  In the morning the
Boers would send out spies, and then the rest would come with a rush.
I would surround them, and they would have to fight my men on equal
terms, in the open.  There wouldn't be any Amajuba results.

--[Just as I am finishing this book an unfortunate dispute has sprung up
between Dr. Jameson and his officers, on the one hand, and Colonel Rhodes
on the other, concerning the wording of a note which Colonel Rhodes sent
from Johannesburg by a cyclist to Jameson just before hostilities began
on the memorable New Year's Day.  Some of the fragments of this note were
found on the battlefield after the fight, and these have been pieced
together; the dispute is as to what words the lacking fragments
contained.  Jameson says the note promised him a reinforcement of 300 men
from Johannesburg.  Colonel Rhodes denies this, and says he merely
promised to send out "some" men "to meet you."]

It seems a pity that these friends should fall out over so little a
thing.  If the 300 had been sent, what good would it have done?  In 21
hours of industrious fighting, Jameson's 530 men, with 8 Maxims, 3
cannon, and 145,000 rounds of ammunition, killed an aggregate of 1.
Boer.  These statistics show that a reinforcement of 300 Johannesburgers,
armed merely with muskets, would have killed, at the outside, only a
little over a half of another Boer.  This would not have saved the day.
It would not even have seriously affected the general result.  The
figures show clearly, and with mathematical violence, that the only way
to save Jameson, or even give him a fair and equal chance with the enemy,
was for Johannesburg to send him 240 Maxims, 90 cannon, 600 carloads of
ammunition, and 240,000 men.  Johannesburg was not in a position to do
this.  Johannesburg has been called very hard names for not reinforcing
Jameson.  But in every instance this has been done by two classes of
persons--people who do not read history, and people, like Jameson, who do
not understand what it means, after they have read it.]




CHAPTER LXVIII.

None of us can have as many virtues as the fountain-pen, or half its
cussedness; but we can try.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The Duke of Fife has borne testimony that Mr. Rhodes deceived him.  That
is also what Mr. Rhodes did with the Reformers.  He got them into
trouble, and then stayed out himself.  A judicious man.  He has always
been that.  As to this there was a moment of doubt, once.  It was when he
was out on his last pirating expedition in the Matabele country.  The
cable shouted out that he had gone unarmed, to visit a party of hostile
chiefs.  It was true, too; and this dare-devil thing came near fetching
another indiscretion out of the poet laureate.  It would have been too
bad, for when the facts were all in, it turned out that there was a lady
along, too, and she also was unarmed.

In the opinion of many people Mr. Rhodes is South Africa; others think he
is only a large part of it.  These latter consider that South Africa
consists of Table Mountain, the diamond mines, the Johannesburg gold
fields, and Cecil Rhodes.  The gold fields are wonderful in every way.
In seven or eight years they built up, in a desert, a city of a hundred
thousand inhabitants, counting white and black together; and not the
ordinary mining city of wooden shanties, but a city made out of lasting
material.  Nowhere in the world is there such a concentration of rich
mines as at Johannesburg.  Mr. Bonamici, my manager there, gave me a
small gold brick with some statistics engraved upon it which record the
output of gold from the early days to July, 1895, and exhibit the strides
which have been made in the development of the industry; in 1888 the
output was $4,162,440; the output of the next five and a half years was
(total: $17,585,894); for the single year ending with June, 1895, it was
$45,553,700.

The capital which has developed the mines came from England, the mining
engineers from America.  This is the case with the diamond mines also.
South Africa seems to be the heaven of the American scientific mining
engineer.  He gets the choicest places, and keeps them.  His salary is
not based upon what he would get in America, but apparently upon what a
whole family of him would get there.

The successful mines pay great dividends, yet the rock is not rich, from
a Californian point of view.  Rock which yields ten or twelve dollars a
ton is considered plenty rich enough.  It is troubled with base metals to
such a degree that twenty years ago it would have been only about half as
valuable as it is now; for at that time there was no paying way of
getting anything out of such rock but the coarser-grained "free" gold; but
the new cyanide process has changed all that, and the gold fields of the
world now deliver up fifty million dollars' worth of gold per year which
would have gone into the tailing-pile under the former conditions.

The cyanide process was new to me, and full of interest; and among the
costly and elaborate mining machinery there were fine things which were
new to me, but I was already familiar with the rest of the details of the
gold-mining industry.  I had been a gold miner myself, in my day, and
knew substantially everything that those people knew about it, except how
to make money at it.  But I learned a good deal about the Boers there,
and that was a fresh subject.  What I heard there was afterwards repeated
to me in other parts of South Africa.  Summed up--according to the
information thus gained--this is the Boer:

He is deeply religious, profoundly ignorant, dull, obstinate, bigoted,
uncleanly in his habits, hospitable, honest in his dealings with the
whites, a hard master to his black servant, lazy, a good shot, good
horseman, addicted to the chase, a lover of political independence, a
good husband and father, not fond of herding together in towns, but
liking the seclusion and remoteness and solitude and empty vastness and
silence of the veldt; a man of a mighty appetite, and not delicate about
what he appeases it with--well-satisfied with pork and Indian corn and
biltong, requiring only that the quantity shall not be stinted; willing
to ride a long journey to take a hand in a rude all-night dance
interspersed with vigorous feeding and boisterous jollity, but ready to
ride twice as far for a prayer-meeting; proud of his Dutch and Huguenot
origin and its religious and military history; proud of his race's
achievements in South Africa, its bold plunges into hostile and uncharted
deserts in search of free solitudes unvexed by the pestering and detested
English, also its victories over the natives and the British; proudest of
all, of the direct and effusive personal interest which the Deity has
always taken in its affairs.  He cannot read, he cannot write; he has one
or two newspapers, but he is, apparently, not aware of it; until latterly
he had no schools, and taught his children nothing, news is a term which
has no meaning to him, and the thing itself he cares nothing about.  He
hates to be taxed and resents it.  He has stood stock still in South
Africa for two centuries and a half, and would like to stand still till
the end of time, for he has no sympathy with Uitlander notions of
progress.  He is hungry to be rich, for he is human; but his preference
has been for riches in cattle, not in fine clothes and fine houses and
gold and diamonds.  The gold and the diamonds have brought the godless
stranger within his gates, also contamination and broken repose, and he
wishes that they had never been discovered.

I think that the bulk of those details can be found in Olive Schreiner's
books, and she would not be accused of sketching the Boer's portrait with
an unfair hand.

Now what would you expect from that unpromising material?  What ought you
to expect from it?  Laws inimical to religious liberty? Yes.  Laws
denying, representation and suffrage to the intruder? Yes.  Laws
unfriendly to educational institutions? Yes.  Laws obstructive of gold
production? Yes.  Discouragement of railway expansion? Yes.  Laws heavily
taxing the intruder and overlooking the Boer? Yes.

The Uitlander seems to have expected something very different from all
that.  I do not know why.  Nothing different from it was rationally to be
expected.  A round man cannot be expected to fit a square hole right
away.  He must have time to modify his shape.  The modification had begun
in a detail or two, before the Raid, and was making some progress.  It
has made further progress since.  There are wise men in the Boer
government, and that accounts for the modification; the modification of
the Boer mass has probably not begun yet.  If the heads of the Boer
government had not been wise men they would have hanged Jameson, and thus
turned a very commonplace pirate into a holy martyr.  But even their
wisdom has its limits, and they will hang Mr. Rhodes if they ever catch
him.  That will round him and complete him and make him a saint.  He has
already been called by all other titles that symbolize human grandeur,
and he ought to rise to this one, the grandest of all.  It will be a
dizzy jump from where he is now, but that is nothing, it will land him in
good company and be a pleasant change for him.

Some of the things demanded by the Johannesburgers' Manifesto have been
conceded since the days of the Raid, and the others will follow in time,
no doubt.  It was most fortunate for the miners of Johannesburg that the
taxes which distressed them so much were levied by the Boer government,
instead of by their friend Rhodes and his Chartered Company of
highwaymen, for these latter take half of whatever their mining victims
find, they do not stop at a mere percentage.  If the Johannesburg miners
were under their jurisdiction they would be in the poorhouse in twelve
months.

I have been under the impression all along that I had an unpleasant
paragraph about the Boers somewhere in my notebook, and also a pleasant
one.  I have found them now.  The unpleasant one is dated at an interior
village, and says--

"Mr. Z. called.  He is an English Afrikander; is an old resident, and has
a Boer wife.  He speaks the language, and his professional business is
with the Boers exclusively.  He told me that the ancient Boer families in
the great region of which this village is the commercial center are
falling victims to their inherited indolence and dullness in the
materialistic latter-day race and struggle, and are dropping one by one
into the grip of the usurer--getting hopelessly in debt--and are losing
their high place and retiring to second and lower.  The Boer's farm does
not go to another Boer when he loses it, but to a foreigner.  Some have
fallen so low that they sell their daughters to the blacks."

Under date of another South African town I find the note which is
creditable to the Boers:

"Dr. X. told me that in the Kafir war 1,500 Kafirs took refuge in a great
cave in the mountains about 90 miles north of Johannesburg, and the Boers
blocked up the entrance and smoked them to death.  Dr. X. has been in
there and seen the great array of bleached skeletons--one a woman with
the skeleton of a child hugged to her breast."

The great bulk of the savages must go.  The white man wants their lands,
and all must go excepting such percentage of them as he will need to do
his work for him upon terms to be determined by himself.  Since history
has removed the element of guesswork from this matter and made it
certainty, the humanest way of diminishing the black population should be
adopted, not the old cruel ways of the past.  Mr. Rhodes and his gang
have been following the old ways.--They are chartered to rob and slay,
and they lawfully do it, but not in a compassionate and Christian spirit.
They rob the Mashonas and the Matabeles of a portion of their territories
in the hallowed old style of "purchase!" for a song, and then they force
a quarrel and take the rest by the strong hand.  They rob the natives of
their cattle under the pretext that all the cattle in the country
belonged to the king whom they have tricked and assassinated.  They issue
"regulations" requiring the incensed and harassed natives to work for the
white settlers, and neglect their own affairs to do it.  This is slavery,
and is several times worse than was the American slavery which used to
pain England so much; for when this Rhodesian slave is sick, super-
annuated, or otherwise disabled, he must support himself or starve--his
master is under no obligation to support him.

The reduction of the population by Rhodesian methods to the desired limit
is a return to the old-time slow-misery and lingering-death system of a
discredited time and a crude "civilization."  We humanely reduce an
overplus of dogs by swift chloroform; the Boer humanely reduced an
overplus of blacks by swift suffocation; the nameless but right-hearted
Australian pioneer humanely reduced his overplus of aboriginal neighbors
by a sweetened swift death concealed in a poisoned pudding.  All these
are admirable, and worthy of praise; you and I would rather suffer either
of these deaths thirty times over in thirty successive days than linger
out one of the Rhodesian twenty-year deaths, with its daily burden of
insult, humiliation, and forced labor for a man whose entire race the
victim hates.  Rhodesia is a happy name for that land of piracy and
pillage, and puts the right stain upon it.

Several long journeys--gave us experience of the Cape Colony railways;
easy-riding, fine cars; all the conveniences; thorough cleanliness;
comfortable beds furnished for the night trains.  It was in the first
days of June, and winter; the daytime was pleasant, the nighttime nice
and cold.  Spinning along all day in the cars it was ecstasy to breathe
the bracing air and gaze out over the vast brown solitudes of the velvet
plains, soft and lovely near by, still softer and lovelier further away,
softest and loveliest of all in the remote distances, where dim island-
hills seemed afloat, as in a sea--a sea made of dream-stuff and flushed
with colors faint and rich; and dear me, the depth of the sky, and the
beauty of the strange new cloud-forms, and the glory of the sunshine, the
lavishness, the wastefulness of it!  The vigor and freshness and
inspiration of the air and the sunwell, it was all just as Olive
Schreiner had made it in her books.

To me the veldt, in its sober winter garb, was surpassingly beautiful.
There were unlevel stretches where it was rolling and swelling, and
rising and subsiding, and sweeping superbly on and on, and still on and
on like an ocean, toward the faraway horizon, its pale brown deepening by
delicately graduated shades to rich orange, and finally to purple and
crimson where it washed against the wooded hills and naked red crags at
the base of the sky.

Everywhere, from Cape Town to Kimberley and from Kimberley to Port
Elizabeth and East London, the towns were well populated with tamed
blacks; tamed and Christianized too, I suppose, for they wore the dowdy
clothes of our Christian civilization.  But for that, many of them would
have been remarkably handsome.  These fiendish clothes, together with the
proper lounging gait, good-natured face, happy air, and easy laugh, made
them precise counterparts of our American blacks; often where all the
other aspects were strikingly and harmoniously and thrillingly African, a
flock of these natives would intrude, looking wholly out of place, and
spoil it all, making the thing a grating discord, half African and half
American.

One Sunday in King William's Town a score of colored women came mincing
across the great barren square dressed--oh, in the last perfection of
fashion, and newness, and expensiveness, and showy mixture of unrelated
colors,--all just as I had seen it so often at home; and in their faces
and their gait was that languishing, aristocratic, divine delight in
their finery which was so familiar to me, and had always been such a
satisfaction to my eye and my heart.  I seemed among old, old friends;
friends of fifty years, and I stopped and cordially greeted them.  They
broke into a good-fellowship laugh, flashing their white teeth upon me,
and all answered at once.  I did not understand a word they said.  I was
astonished; I was not dreaming that they would answer in anything but
American.

The voices, too, of the African women, were familiar to me sweet and
musical, just like those of the slave women of my early days.  I followed
a couple of them all over the Orange Free State--no, over its capital--
Bloemfontein, to hear their liquid voices and the happy ripple of their
laughter.  Their language was a large improvement upon American.  Also
upon the Zulu.  It had no Zulu clicks in it; and it seemed to have no
angles or corners, no roughness, no vile s's or other hissing sounds, but
was very, very mellow and rounded and flowing.

In moving about the country in the trains, I had opportunity to see a
good many Boers of the veldt.  One day at a village station a hundred of
them got out of the third-class cars to feed.

Their clothes were very interesting.  For ugliness of shapes, and for
miracles of ugly colors inharmoniously associated, they were a record.
The effect was nearly as exciting and interesting as that produced by the
brilliant and beautiful clothes and perfect taste always on view at the
Indian railway stations.  One man had corduroy trousers of a faded
chewing gum tint.  And they were new--showing that this tint did not come
by calamity, but was intentional; the very ugliest color I have ever
seen.  A gaunt, shackly country lout six feet high, in battered gray
slouched hat with wide brim, and old resin-colored breeches, had on a
hideous brand-new woolen coat which was imitation tiger skin wavy broad
stripes of dazzling yellow and deep brown.  I thought he ought to be
hanged, and asked the station-master if it could be arranged.  He said
no; and not only that, but said it rudely; said it with a quite
unnecessary show of feeling.  Then he muttered something about my being a
jackass, and walked away and pointed me out to people, and did everything
he could to turn public sentiment against me.  It is what one gets for
trying to do good.

In the train that day a passenger told me some more about Boer life out
in the lonely veldt.  He said the Boer gets up early and sets his
"niggers" at their tasks (pasturing the cattle, and watching them); eats,
smokes, drowses, sleeps; toward evening superintends the milking, etc.;
eats, smokes, drowses; goes to bed at early candlelight in the fragrant
clothes he (and she) have worn all day and every week-day for years.  I
remember that last detail, in Olive Schreiner's "Story of an African
Farm."  And the passenger told me that the Boers were justly noted for
their hospitality.  He told me a story about it.  He said that his grace
the Bishop of a certain See was once making a business-progress through
the tavernless veldt, and one night he stopped with a Boer; after supper
was shown to bed; he undressed, weary and worn out, and was soon sound
asleep; in the night he woke up feeling crowded and suffocated, and found
the old Boer and his fat wife in bed with him, one on each side, with all
their clothes on, and snoring.  He had to stay there and stand it--awake
and suffering--until toward dawn, when sleep again fell upon him for an
hour.  Then he woke again.  The Boer was gone, but the wife was still at
his side.

Those Reformers detested that Boer prison; they were not used to cramped
quarters and tedious hours, and weary idleness, and early to bed, and
limited movement, and arbitrary and irritating rules, and the absence of
the luxuries which wealth comforts the day and the night with.  The
confinement told upon their bodies and their spirits; still, they were
superior men, and they made the best that was to be made of the
circumstances.  Their wives smuggled delicacies to them, which helped to
smooth the way down for the prison fare.

In the train Mr. B. told me that the Boer jail-guards treated the black
prisoners--even political ones--mercilessly.  An African chief and his
following had been kept there nine months without trial, and during all
that time they had been without shelter from rain and sun.  He said that
one day the guards put a big black in the stocks for dashing his soup on
the ground; they stretched his legs painfully wide apart, and set him
with his back down hill; he could not endure it, and put back his hands
upon the slope for a support.  The guard ordered him to withdraw the
support and kicked him in the back.  "Then," said Mr. B., "'the powerful
black wrenched the stocks asunder and went for the guard; a Reform
prisoner pulled him off, and thrashed the guard himself."




CHAPTER LXIX.

The very ink with which all history is written is merely fluid prejudice.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilsons's New Calendar.

There isn't a Parallel of Latitude but thinks it would have been the
Equator if it had had its rights.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Next to Mr. Rhodes, to me the most interesting convulsion of nature in
South Africa was the diamond-crater.  The Rand gold fields are a
stupendous marvel, and they make all other gold fields small, but I was
not a stranger to gold-mining; the veldt was a noble thing to see, but it
was only another and lovelier variety of our Great Plains; the natives
were very far from being uninteresting, but they were not new; and as for
the towns, I could find my way without a guide through the most of them
because I had learned the streets, under other names, in towns just like
them in other lands; but the diamond mine was a wholly fresh thing, a
splendid and absorbing novelty.  Very few people in the world have seen
the diamond in its home.  It has but three or four homes in the world,
whereas gold has a million.  It is worth while to journey around the
globe to see anything which can truthfully be called a novelty, and the
diamond mine is the greatest and most select and restricted novelty which
the globe has in stock.

The Kimberley diamond deposits were discovered about 1869, I think.  When
everything is taken into consideration, the wonder is that they were not
discovered five thousand years ago and made familiar to the African world
for the rest of time.  For this reason the first diamonds were found on
the surface of the ground.  They were smooth and limpid, and in the
sunlight they vomited fire.  They were the very things which an African
savage of any era would value above every other thing in the world
excepting a glass bead.  For two or three centuries we have been buying
his lands, his cattle, his neighbor, and any other thing he had for sale,
for glass beads and so it is strange that he was indifferent to the
diamonds--for he must have pickets them up many and many a time.  It
would not occur to him to try to sell them to whites, of course, since
the whites already had plenty of glass beads, and more fashionably
shaped, too, than these; but one would think that the poorer sort of
black, who could not afford real glass, would have been humbly content to
decorate himself with the imitation, and that presently the white trader
would notice the things, and dimly suspect, and carry some of them home,
and find out what they were, and at once empty a multitude of fortune-
hunters into Africa.  There are many strange things in human history; one
of the strangest is that the sparkling diamonds laid there so long
without exciting any one's interest.

The revelation came at last by accident.  In a Boer's hut out in the wide
solitude of the plains, a traveling stranger noticed a child playing with
a bright object, and was told it was a piece of glass which had been
found in the veldt.  The stranger bought it for a trifle and carried it
away; and being without honor, made another stranger believe it was a
diamond, and so got $125 out of him for it, and was as pleased with
himself as if he had done a righteous thing.  In Paris the wronged
stranger sold it to a pawnshop for $10,000, who sold it to a countess for
$90,000, who sold it to a brewer for $800;000, who traded it to a king
for a dukedom and a pedigree, and the king "put it up the spout."--
[handwritten note: "From the Greek meaning 'pawned it.'" M.T.]--I know
these particulars to be correct.

The news flew around, and the South African diamond-boom began.  The
original traveler--the dishonest one--now remembered that he had once
seen a Boer teamster chocking his wagon-wheel on a steep grade with a
diamond as large as a football, and he laid aside his occupations and
started out to hunt for it, but not with the intention of cheating
anybody out of $125 with it, for he had reformed.

We now come to matters more didactic.  Diamonds are not imbedded in rock
ledges fifty miles long, like the Johannesburg gold, but are distributed
through the rubbish of a filled-up well, so to speak.  The well is rich,
its walls are sharply defined; outside of the walls are no diamonds.  The
well is a crater, and a large one.  Before it had been meddled with, its
surface was even with the level plain, and there was no sign to suggest
that it was there.  The pasturage covering the surface of the Kimberley
crater was sufficient for the support of a cow, and the pasturage
underneath was sufficient for the support of a kingdom; but the cow did
not know it, and lost her chance.

The Kimberley crater is roomy enough to admit the Roman Coliseum; the
bottom of the crater has not been reached, and no one can tell how far
down in the bowels of the earth it goes.  Originally, it was a
perpendicular hole packed solidly full of blue rock or cement, and
scattered through that blue mass, like raisins in a pudding, were the
diamonds.  As deep down in the earth as the blue stuff extends, so deep
will the diamonds be found.

There are three or four other celebrated craters near by a circle three
miles in diameter would enclose them all.  They are owned by the De Beers
Company, a consolidation of diamond properties arranged by Mr. Rhodes
twelve or fourteen years ago.  The De Beers owns other craters; they are
under the grass, but the De Beers knows where they are, and will open
them some day, if the market should require it.

Originally, the diamond deposits were the property of the Orange Free
State; but a judicious "rectification" of the boundary line shifted them
over into the British territory of Cape Colony.  A high official of the
Free State told me that the sum of $4,00,000 was handed to his
commonwealth as a compromise, or indemnity, or something of the sort, and
that he thought his commonwealth did wisely to take the money and keep
out of a dispute, since the power was all on the one side and the
weakness all on the other.  The De Beers Company dig out $400,000 worth
of diamonds per week, now.  The Cape got the territory, but no profit;
for Mr. Rhodes and the Rothschilds and the other De Beers people own the
mines, and they pay no taxes.

In our day the mines are worked upon scientific principles, under the
guidance of the ablest mining-engineering talent procurable in America.
There are elaborate works for reducing the blue rock and passing it
through one process after another until every diamond it contains has
been hunted down and secured.  I watched the "concentrators" at work big
tanks containing mud and water and invisible diamonds--and was told that
each could stir and churn and properly treat 300 car-loads of mud per day
1,600 pounds to the car-load--and reduce it to 3 car-loads of slush.  I
saw the 3 carloads of slush taken to the "pulsators" and there reduced to
quarter of a load of nice clean dark-colored sand.  Then I followed it to
the sorting tables and saw the men deftly and swiftly spread it out and
brush it about and seize the diamonds as they showed up.  I assisted, and
once I found a diamond half as large as an almond.  It is an exciting
kind of fishing, and you feel a fine thrill of pleasure every time you
detect the glow of one of those limpid pebbles through the veil of dark
sand.  I would like to spend my Saturday holidays in that charming sport
every now and then.  Of course there are disappointments.  Sometimes you
find a diamond which is not a diamond; it is only a quartz crystal or
some such worthless thing.  The expert can generally distinguish it from
the precious stone which it is counterfeiting; but if he is in doubt he
lays it on a flatiron and hits it with a sledgehammer.  If it is a
diamond it holds its own; if it is anything else, it is reduced to
powder.  I liked that experiment very much, and did not tire of
repetitions of it.  It was full of enjoyable apprehensions, unmarred by
any personal sense of risk.  The De Beers concern treats 8;000 carloads--
about 6,000 tons--of blue rock per day, and the result is three pounds of
diamonds.  Value, uncut, $50,000 to $70,000.  After cutting, they will
weigh considerably less than a pound, but will be worth four or five
times as much as they were before.

All the plain around that region is spread over, a foot deep, with blue
rock, placed there by the Company, and looks like a plowed field.
Exposure for a length of time make the rock easier to work than it is
when it comes out of the mine.  If mining should cease now, the supply of
rock spread over those fields would furnish the usual 8,000 car-loads per
day to the separating works during three years.  The fields are fenced
and watched; and at night they are under the constant inspection of lofty
electric searchlight.  They contain fifty or sixty million dollars'
worth' of diamonds, and there is an abundance of enterprising thieves
around.

In the dirt of the Kimberley streets there is much hidden wealth.  Some
time ago the people were granted the privilege of a free wash-up.  There
was a general rush, the work was done with thoroughness, and a good
harvest of diamonds was gathered.

The deep mining is done by natives.  There are many hundreds of them.
They live in quarters built around the inside of a great compound.  They
are a jolly and good-natured lot, and accommodating.  They performed a
war-dance for us, which was the wildest exhibition I have ever seen.
They are not allowed outside of the compound during their term of service
three months, I think it, is, as a rule.  They go down the shaft, stand
their watch, come up again, are searched, and go to bed or to their
amusements in the compound; and this routine they repeat, day in and day
out.

It is thought that they do not now steal many diamonds successfully.
They used to swallow them, and find other ways of concealing them, but
the white man found ways of beating their various games.  One man cut his
leg and shoved a diamond into the wound, but even that project did not
succeed.  When they find a fine large diamond they are more likely to
report it than to steal it, for in the former case they get a reward, and
in the latter they are quite apt to merely get into trouble.  Some years
ago, in a mine not owned by the De Beers, a black found what has been
claimed to be the largest diamond known to the world's history; and, as a
reward he was released from service and given a blanket, a horse, and
five hundred dollars.  It made him a Vanderbilt.  He could buy four
wives, and have money left.  Four wives are an ample support for a
native.  With four wives he is wholly independent, and need never do a
stroke of work again.

That great diamond weighs 97l carats.  Some say it is as big as a piece
of alum, others say it is as large as a bite of rock candy, but the best
authorities agree that it is almost exactly the size of a chunk of ice.
But those details are not important; and in my opinion not trustworthy.
It has a flaw in it, otherwise it would be of incredible value.  As it
is, it is held to be worth $2,000,000.  After cutting it ought to be
worth from $5,000,000 to $8,000,000, therefore persons desiring to save
money should buy it now.  It is owned by a syndicate, and apparently
there is no satisfactory market for it.  It is earning nothing; it is
eating its head off.  Up to this time it has made nobody rich but the
native who found it.

He found it in a mine which was being worked by contract.  That is to
say, a company had bought the privilege of taking from the mine 5,000,000
carloads of blue-rock, for a sum down and a royalty.  Their speculation
had not paid; but on the very day that their privilege ran out that
native found the $2,000,000-diamond and handed it over to them.  Even the
diamond culture is not without its romantic episodes.

The Koh-i-Noor is a large diamond, and valuable; but it cannot compete in
these matters with three which--according to legend--are among the crown
trinkets of Portugal and Russia.  One of these is held to be worth
$20,000,000; another, $25,000,000, and the third something over
$28,000,000.

Those are truly wonderful diamonds, whether they exist or not; and yet
they are of but little importance by comparison with the one wherewith
the Boer wagoner chocked his wheel on that steep grade as heretofore
referred to.  In Kimberley I had some conversation with the man who saw
the Boer do that--an incident which had occurred twenty-seven or twenty-
eight years before I had my talk with him.  He assured me that that
diamond's value could have been over a billion dollars, but not under it.
I believed him, because he had devoted twenty-seven years to hunting for
it, and was, in a position to know.

A fitting and interesting finish to an examination of the tedious and
laborious and costly processes whereby the diamonds are gotten out of the
deeps of the earth and freed from the base stuffs which imprison them is
the visit to the De Beers offices in the town of Kimberley, where the
result of each day's mining is brought every day, and, weighed, assorted,
valued, and deposited in safes against shipping-day.  An unknown and
unaccredited person cannot, get into that place; and it seemed apparent
from the generous supply of warning and protective and prohibitory signs
that were posted all about, that not even the known and accredited can
steal diamonds there without inconvenience.

We saw the day's output--shining little nests of diamonds, distributed a
foot apart, along a counter, each nest reposing upon a sheet of white
paper.  That day's catch was about $70,000 worth.  In the course of a
year half a ton of diamonds pass under the scales there and sleep on that
counter; the resulting money is $18,000,000 or $20,000,000.  Profit,
about $12,000,000.

Young girls were doing the sorting--a nice, clean, dainty, and probably
distressing employment.  Every day ducal incomes sift and sparkle through
the fingers of those young girls; yet they go to bed at night as poor as
they were when they got up in the morning.  The same thing next day, and
all the days.

They are beautiful things, those diamonds, in their native state.  They
are of various shapes; they have flat surfaces, rounded borders, and
never a sharp edge.  They are of all colors and shades of color, from
dewdrop white to actual black; and their smooth and rounded surfaces and
contours, variety of color, and transparent limpidity make them look like
piles of assorted candies.  A very light straw color is their commonest
tint.  It seemed to me that these uncut gems must be more beautiful than
any cut ones could be; but when a collection of cut ones was brought out,
I saw my mistake.  Nothing is so beautiful as a rose diamond with the
light playing through it, except that uncostly thing which is just like
it--wavy sea-water with the sunlight playing through it and striking a
white-sand bottom.

Before the middle of July we reached Cape Town, and the end of our
African journeyings.  And well satisfied; for, towering above us was
Table Mountain--a reminder that we had now seen each and all of the great
features of South Africa except Mr. Cecil Rhodes.  I realize that that is
a large exception.  I know quite well that whether Mr. Rhodes is the
lofty and worshipful patriot and statesman that multitudes believe him to
be, or Satan come again, as the rest of the world account him, he is
still the most imposing figure in the British empire outside of England.
When he stands on the Cape of Good Hope, his shadow falls to the Zambesi.
He is the only colonial in the British dominions whose goings and comings
are chronicled and discussed under all the globe's meridians, and whose
speeches, unclipped, are cabled from the ends of the earth; and he is the
only unroyal outsider whose arrival in London can compete for attention
with an eclipse.

That he is an extraordinary man, and not an accident of fortune, not even
his dearest South African enemies were willing to deny, so far as I heard
them testify.  The whole South African world seemed to stand in a kind of
shuddering awe of him, friend and enemy alike.  It was as if he were
deputy-God on the one side, deputy-Satan on the other, proprietor of the
people, able to make them or ruin them by his breath, worshiped by many,
hated by many, but blasphemed by none among the judicious, and even by
the indiscreet in guarded whispers only.

What is the secret of his formidable supremacy?  One says it is his
prodigious wealth--a wealth whose drippings in salaries and in other ways
support multitudes and make them his interested and loyal vassals;
another says it is his personal magnetism and his persuasive tongue, and
that these hypnotize and make happy slaves of all that drift within the
circle of their influence; another says it is his majestic ideas, his
vast schemes for the territorial aggrandizement of England, his patriotic
and unselfish ambition to spread her beneficent protection and her just
rule over the pagan wastes of Africa and make luminous the African
darkness with the glory of her name; and another says he wants the earth
and wants it for his own, and that the belief that he will get it and let
his friends in on the ground floor is the secret that rivets so many eyes
upon him and keeps him in the zenith where the view is unobstructed.

One may take his choice.  They are all the same price.  One fact is sure:
he keeps his prominence and a vast following, no matter what he does.  He
"deceives" the Duke of Fife--it is the Duke's word--but that does not
destroy the Duke's loyalty to him.  He tricks the Reformers into immense
trouble with his Raid, but the most of them believe he meant well.  He
weeps over the harshly--taxed Johannesburgers and makes them his friends;
at the same time he taxes his Charter-settlers 50 per cent., and so wins
their affection and their confidence that they are squelched with despair
at every rumor that the Charter is to be annulled.  He raids and robs and
slays and enslaves the Matabele and gets worlds of Charter-Christian
applause for it.  He has beguiled England into buying Charter waste paper
for Bank of England notes, ton for ton, and the ravished still burn
incense to him as the Eventual God of Plenty.  He has done everything he
could think of to pull himself down to the ground; he has done more than
enough to pull sixteen common-run great men down; yet there he stands, to
this day, upon his dizzy summit under the dome of the sky, an apparent
permanency, the marvel of the time, the mystery of the age, an Archangel
with wings to half the world, Satan with a tail to the other half.

I admire him, I frankly confess it; and when his time comes I shall buy a
piece of the rope for a keepsake.




CONCLUSION.

I have traveled more than anyone else, and I have noticed that even the
angels speak English with an accent.
                                  --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

I saw Table Rock, anyway--a majestic pile.  It is 3,000 feet high.  It is
also 17,000 feet high.  These figures may be relied upon.  I got them in
Cape Town from the two best-informed citizens, men who had made Table
Rock the study of their lives.  And I saw Table Bay, so named for its
levelness.  I saw the Castle--built by the Dutch East India Company three
hundred years ago--where the Commanding General lives; I saw St. Simon's
Bay, where the Admiral lives.  I saw the Government, also the Parliament,
where they quarreled in two languages when I was there, and agreed in
none.  I saw the club.  I saw and explored the beautiful sea-girt drives
that wind about the mountains and through the paradise where the villas
are: Also I saw some of the fine old Dutch mansions, pleasant homes of
the early times, pleasant homes to-day, and enjoyed the privilege of
their hospitalities.

And just before I sailed I saw in one of them a quaint old picture which
was a link in a curious romance--a picture of a pale, intellectual young
man in a pink coat with a high black collar.  It was a portrait of Dr.
James Barry, a military surgeon who came out to the Cape fifty years ago
with his regiment.  He was a wild young fellow, and was guilty of various
kinds of misbehavior.  He was several times reported to headquarters in
England, and it was in each case expected that orders would come out to
deal with him promptly and severely, but for some mysterious reason no
orders of any kind ever came back--nothing came but just an impressive
silence.  This made him an imposing and uncanny wonder to the town.

Next, he was promoted-away up.  He was made Medical Superintendent
General, and transferred to India.  Presently he was back at the Cape
again and at his escapades once more.  There were plenty of pretty girls,
but none of them caught him, none of them could get hold of his heart;
evidently he was not a marrying man.  And that was another marvel,
another puzzle, and made no end of perplexed talk.  Once he was called in
the night, an obstetric service, to do what he could for a woman who was
believed to be dying.  He was prompt and scientific, and saved both
mother and child.  There are other instances of record which testify to
his mastership of his profession; and many which testify to his love of
it and his devotion to it.  Among other adventures of his was a duel of a
desperate sort, fought with swords, at the Castle.  He killed his man.

The child heretofore mentioned as having been saved by Dr. Barry so long
ago, was named for him, and still lives in Cape Town.  He had Dr.
Barry's portrait painted, and gave it to the gentleman in whose old Dutch
house I saw it--the quaint figure in pink coat and high black collar.

The story seems to be arriving nowhere.  But that is because I have not
finished.  Dr. Barry died in Cape Town 30 years ago.  It was then
discovered that he was a woman.

The legend goes that enquiries--soon silenced--developed the fact that
she was a daughter of a great English house, and that that was why her
Cape wildnesses brought no punishment and got no notice when reported to
the government at home.  Her name was an alias.  She had disgraced
herself with her people; so she chose to change her name and her sex and
take a new start in the world.

We sailed on the 15th of July in the Norman, a beautiful ship, perfectly
appointed.  The voyage to England occupied a short fortnight, without a
stop except at Madeira.  A good and restful voyage for tired people, and
there were several of us.  I seemed to have been lecturing a thousand
years, though it was only a twelvemonth, and a considerable number of the
others were Reformers who were fagged out with their five months of
seclusion in the Pretoria prison.

Our trip around the earth ended at the Southampton pier, where we
embarked thirteen months before.  It seemed a fine and large thing to
have accomplished--the circumnavigation of this great globe in that
little time, and I was privately proud of it.  For a moment.  Then came
one of those vanity-snubbing astronomical reports from the Observatory-
people, whereby it appeared that another great body of light had lately
flamed up in the remotenesses of space which was traveling at a gait
which would enable it to do all that I had done in a minute and a half.
Human pride is not worth while; there is always something lying in wait
to take the wind out of it.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Following the Equator,
by Mark Twain






THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED HADLEYBURG AND OTHER STORIES

By Mark Twain


CONTENTS:
     THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED HADLEYBURG
     MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT OF IT
     THE ESQUIMAUX MAIDEN'S ROMANCE
     CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND THE BOOK OF MRS. EDDY
     IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD?
     MY DEBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON
     AT THE APPETITE-CURE
     CONCERNING THE JEWS
     FROM THE 'LONDON TIMES' OF 1904
     ABOUT PLAY-ACTING
     TRAVELLING WITH A REFORMER
     DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES
     LUCK
     THE CAPTAIN'S STORY
     STIRRING TIMES IN AUSTRIA
     MEISTERSCHAFT
     MY BOYHOOD DREAMS
          TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE
     IN MEMORIAM--OLIVIA SUSAN CLEMENS




THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED HADLEYBURG

It was many years ago.  Hadleyburg was the most honest and upright
town in all the region round about.  It had kept that reputation
unsmirched during three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions.  It was so proud of it, and so anxious
to insure its perpetuation, that it began to teach the principles of
honest dealing to its babies in the cradle, and made the like
teachings the staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education.  Also, throughout the formative
years temptations were kept out of the way of the young people, so
that their honesty could have every chance to harden and solidify,
and become a part of their very bone.  The neighbouring towns were
jealous of this honourable supremacy, and affected to sneer at
Hadleyburg's pride in it and call it vanity; but all the same they
were obliged to acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an
incorruptible town; and if pressed they would also acknowledge that
the mere fact that a young man hailed from Hadleyburg was all the
recommendation he needed when he went forth from his natal town to
seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had the ill luck to
offend a passing stranger--possibly without knowing it, certainly
without caring, for Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared
not a rap for strangers or their opinions.  Still, it would have
been well to make an exception in this one's case, for he was a
bitter man, and revengeful.  All through his wanderings during a
whole year he kept his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure
moments to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.  He
contrived many plans, and all of them were good, but none of them
was quite sweeping enough:  the poorest of them would hurt a great
many individuals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as one person escape
unhurt.  At last he had a fortunate idea, and when it fell into his
brain it lit up his whole head with an evil joy.  He began to form a
plan at once, saying to himself "That is the thing to do--I will
corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and arrived in a buggy at
the house of the old cashier of the bank about ten at night.  He got
a sack out of the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.  A woman's voice
said "Come in," and he entered, and set his sack behind the stove in
the parlour, saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
"Missionary Herald" by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb you.  There--now it
is pretty well concealed; one would hardly know it was there.  Can I
see your husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter.  I merely wanted to leave that
sack in his care, to be delivered to the rightful owner when he
shall be found.  I am a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a matter which has
been long in my mind.  My errand is now completed, and I go pleased
and a little proud, and you will never see me again.  There is a
paper attached to the sack which will explain everything.  Good-
night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big stranger, and was glad
to see him go.  But her curiosity was roused, and she went straight
to the sack and brought away the paper.  It began as follows:


"TO BE PUBLISHED, or, the right man sought out by private inquiry--
either will answer.  This sack contains gold coin weighing a hundred
and sixty pounds four ounces--"


"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and locked it, then pulled
down the window-shades and stood frightened, worried, and wondering
if there was anything else she could do toward making herself and
the money more safe.  She listened awhile for burglars, then
surrendered to curiosity, and went back to the lamp and finished
reading the paper:


"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country, to
remain there permanently.  I am grateful to America for what I have
received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to one
of her citizens--a citizen of Hadleyburg--I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago.  Two great
kindnesses in fact.  I will explain.  I was a gambler.  I say I WAS.
I was a ruined gambler.  I arrived in this village at night, hungry
and without a penny.  I asked for help--in the dark; I was ashamed
to beg in the light.  I begged of the right man.  He gave me twenty
dollars--that is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it.  He
also gave me fortune; for out of that money I have made myself rich
at the gaming-table.  And finally, a remark which he made to me has
remained with me to this day, and has at last conquered me; and in
conquering has saved the remnant of my morals:  I shall gamble no
more.  Now I have no idea who that man was, but I want him found,
and I want him to have this money, to give away, throw away, or
keep, as he pleases.  It is merely my way of testifying my gratitude
to him.  If I could stay, I would find him myself; but no matter, he
will be found.  This is an honest town, an incorruptible town, and I
know I can trust it without fear.  This man can be identified by the
remark which he made to me; I feel persuaded that he will remember
it.

"And now my plan is this:  If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so.  Tell the contents of this present writing to any
one who is likely to be the right man.  If he shall answer, 'I am
the man; the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test--to wit:
open the sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing
that remark.  If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with
it, give him the money, and ask no further questions, for he is
certainly the right man.

"But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this present
writing in the local paper--with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed
envelope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to
act); and let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the
sack, open it, and see if the remark is correct:  if correct, let
the money be delivered, with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor
thus identified."


Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with excitement, and was
soon lost in thinkings--after this pattern:  "What a strange thing
it is! . . . And what a fortune for that kind man who set his bread
afloat upon the waters! . . . If it had only been my husband that
did it!--for we are so poor, so old and poor! . . ."  Then, with a
sigh--"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he that gave a
stranger twenty dollars.  It is a pity too; I see it now. . . "
Then, with a shudder--"But it is GAMBLERS' money! the wages of sin;
we couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it.  I don't like to be near
it; it seems a defilement."  She moved to a farther chair. . . "I
wish Edward would come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife was saying "I am
SO glad you've come!" he was saying, "I am so tired--tired clear
out; it is dreadful to be poor, and have to make these dismal
journeys at my time of life.  Always at the grind, grind, grind, on
a salary--another man's slave, and he sitting at home in his
slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that; but be comforted; we
have our livelihood; we have our good name--"

"Yes, Mary, and that is everything.  Don't mind my talk--it's just a
moment's irritation and doesn't mean anything.  Kiss me--there, it's
all gone now, and I am not complaining any more.  What have you been
getting?  What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret.  It dazed him for a moment;
then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds?  Why, Mary, it's for-ty thou-
sand dollars--think of it--a whole fortune!  Not ten men in this
village are worth that much.  Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure!  Why, it's a romance; it's like the
impossible things one reads about in books, and never sees in life."
He was well stirred up now; cheerful, even gleeful.  He tapped his
old wife on the cheek, and said humorously, "Why, we're rich, Mary,
rich; all we've got to do is to bury the money and burn the papers.
If the gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look coldly upon
him and say:  'What is this nonsense you are talking?  We have never
heard of you and your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and--"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on with your jokes, the
money is still here, and it is fast getting along toward burglar-
time."

"True.  Very well, what shall we do--make the inquiry private?  No,
not that; it would spoil the romance.  The public method is better.
Think what a noise it will make!  And it will make all the other
towns jealous; for no stranger would trust such a thing to any town
but Hadleyburg, and they know it.  It's a great card for us.  I must
get to the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop--stop--don't leave me here alone with it, Edward!"

But he was gone.  For only a little while, however.  Not far from
his own house he met the editor--proprietor of the paper, and gave
him the document, and said "Here is a good thing for you, Cox--put
it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again, he and his wife sat down to talk the charming mystery
over; they were in no condition for sleep.  The first question was,
Who could the citizen have been who gave the stranger the twenty
dollars?  It seemed a simple one; both answered it in the same
breath--

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it, and it would have been
like him, but there's not another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward--grant it privately, anyway.  For
six months, now, the village has been its own proper self once more-
-honest, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his death--said it
right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."

"Oh, of course; but he didn't care.  I reckon he was the best-hated
man among us, except the Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it--he will never get another congregation
here.  Mean as the town is, it knows how to estimate HIM.  Edward,
doesn't it seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess to
deliver the money?"

"Well, yes--it does.  That is--that is--"

"Why so much that-IS-ing?  Would YOU select him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better than this village does."

"Much THAT would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer; the wife kept a steady
eye upon him, and waited.  Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy
of one who is making a statement which is likely to encounter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man.  I know.  The whole of his unpopularity had
its foundation in that one thing--the thing that made so much
noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed!  As if that 'one thing' wasn't enough,
all by itself."

"Plenty.  Plenty.  Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk!  Not guilty of it!  Everybody knows he WAS guilty."

"Mary, I give you my word--he was innocent."

"I can't believe it and I don't.  How do you know?"

"It is a confession.  I am ashamed, but I will make it.  I was the
only man who knew he was innocent.  I could have saved him, and--
and--well, you know how the town was wrought up--I hadn't the pluck
to do it.  It would have turned everybody against me.  I felt mean,
ever so mean; ut I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.  Then she said
stammeringly:

"I--I don't think it would have done for you to--to--One mustn't--
er--public opinion--one has to be so careful--so--"  It was a
difficult road, and she got mired; but after a little she got
started again.  "It was a great pity, but--Why, we couldn't afford
it, Edward--we couldn't indeed.  Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it
for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many people, Mary; and
then--and then--"

"What troubles me now is, what HE thinks of us, Edward."

"He?  HE doesn't suspect that I could have saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I am glad of that.
As long as he doesn't know that you could have saved him, he--he--
well that makes it a great deal better.  Why, I might have known he
didn't know, because he is always trying to be friendly with us, as
little encouragement as we give him.  More than once people have
twitted me with it.  There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes, and the
Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in saying 'YOUR FRIEND
Burgess,' because they know it pesters me.  I wish he wouldn't
persist in liking us so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it.  It's another confession.  When the thing was new
and hot, and the town made a plan to ride him on a rail, my
conscience hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went privately
and gave him notice, and he got out of the town and stayed out till
it was safe to come back."

"Edward!  If the town had found it out--"

"DON'T!  It scares me yet, to think of it.  I repented of it the
minute it was done; and I was even afraid to tell you lest your face
might betray it to somebody.  I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying.  But after a few days I saw that no one was going to
suspect me, and after that I got to feeling glad I did it.  And I
feel glad yet, Mary--glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful way to treat him.
Yes, I'm glad; for really you did owe him that, you know.  But,
Edward, suppose it should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."

"Of course they would!"

"Certainly.  And of course HE didn't care.  They persuaded poor old
Sawlsberry to go and charge it on him, and he went blustering over
there and did it.  Goodson looked him over, like as if he was
hunting for a place on him that he could despise the most; then he
says, 'So you are the Committee of Inquiry, are you?'  Sawlsberry
said that was about what he was.  'H'm.  Do they require
particulars, or do you reckon a kind of a GENERAL answer will do?'
'If they require particulars, I will come back, Mr. Goodson; I will
take the general answer first.'  'Very well, then, tell them to go
to hell--I reckon that's general enough.  And I'll give you some
advice, Sawlsberry; when you come back for the particulars, fetch a
basket to carry what is left of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks.  He had only one vanity;
he thought he could give advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.  The subject was
dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting THAT."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again, with strong interest.
Soon the conversation began to suffer breaks--interruptions caused
by absorbed thinkings.  The breaks grew more and more frequent.  At
last Richards lost himself wholly in thought.  He sat long, gazing
vacantly at the floor, and by-and-by he began to punctuate his
thoughts with little nervous movements of his hands that seemed to
indicate vexation.  Meantime his wife too had relapsed into a
thoughtful silence, and her movements were beginning to show a
troubled discomfort.  Finally Richards got up and strode aimlessly
about the room, ploughing his hands through his hair, much as a
somnambulist might do who was having a bad dream.  Then he seemed to
arrive at a definite purpose; and without a word he put on his hat
and passed quickly out of the house.  His wife sat brooding, with a
drawn face, and did not seem to be aware that she was alone.  Now
and then she murmured, "Lead us not into t . . . but--but--we are so
poor, so poor! . . . Lead us not into . . . Ah, who would be hurt by
it?--and no one would ever know . . . Lead us . . . "  The voice
died out in mumblings.  After a little she glanced up and muttered
in a half-frightened, half-glad way--

"He is gone!  But, oh dear, he may be too late--too late . . . Maybe
not--maybe there is still time."  She rose and stood thinking,
nervously clasping and unclasping her hands.  A slight shudder shook
her frame, and she said, out of a dry throat, "God forgive me--it's
awful to think such things--but . . . Lord, how we are made--how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily over and knelt down
by the sack and felt of its ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled
them lovingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old eyes.
She fell into fits of absence; and came half out of them at times to
mutter "If we had only waited!--oh, if we had only waited a little,
and not been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and told his wife all
about the strange thing that had happened, and they had talked it
over eagerly, and guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger with so noble a
sum as twenty dollars.  Then there was a pause, and the two became
thoughtful and silent.  And by-and-by nervous and fidgety.  At last
the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses . . . and us . . .
nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a slight start, and gazed
wistfully at his wife, whose face was become very pale; then he
hesitatingly rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife--a sort of mute inquiry.  Mrs. Cox swallowed once or twice,
with her hand at her throat, then in place of speech she nodded her
head.  In a moment she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying through the deserted streets,
from opposite directions.  They met, panting, at the foot of the
printing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read each
other's face.  Cox whispered:

"Nobody knows about this but us?"

The whispered answer was:

"Not a soul--on honour, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to--"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment they were overtaken
by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail--nor ANY mail; wait till I tell
you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"GONE?"  It had the sound of an unspeakable disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir.  Time-table for Brixton and all the towns beyond changed
to-day, sir--had to get the papers in twenty minutes earlier than
common.  I had to rush; if I had been two minutes later--"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not waiting to hear the rest.
Neither of them spoke during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed
tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you know, until it was
too late.  But the next time--"

"Next time be hanged!  It won't come in a thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night, and dragged
themselves home with the gait of mortally stricken men.  At their
homes their wives sprang up with an eager "Well?"--then saw the
answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing, without waiting for
it to come in words.  In both houses a discussion followed of a
heated sort--a new thing; there had been discussions before, but not
heated ones, not ungentle ones.  The discussions to-night were a
sort of seeming plagiarisms of each other.  Mrs. Richards said:

"If you had only waited, Edward--if you had only stopped to think;
but no, you must run straight to the printing-office and spread it
all over the world."

"It SAID publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if you liked.
There, now--is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes--yes, it is true; but when I thought what a stir it would
make, and what a compliment it was to Hadleyburg that a stranger
should trust it so--"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had only stopped to
think, you would have seen that you COULDN'T find the right man,
because he is in his grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor
relation behind him; and as long as the money went to somebody that
awfully needed it, and nobody would be hurt by it, and--and--"

She broke down, crying.  Her husband tried to think of some
comforting thing to say, and presently came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best--it must be; we know
that.  And we must remember that it was so ordered--"

"Ordered!  Oh, everything's ORDERED, when a person has to find some
way out when he has been stupid. Just the same, it was ORDERED that
the money should come to us in this special way, and it was you that
must take it on yourself to go meddling with the designs of
Providence--and who gave you the right?  It was wicked, that is what
it was--just blasphemous presumption, and no more becoming to a meek
and humble professor of--"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained all our lives long,
like the whole village, till it is absolutely second nature to us to
stop not a single moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done--"

"Oh, I know it, I know it--it's been one everlasting training and
training and training in honesty--honesty shielded, from the very
cradle, against every possible temptation, and so it's ARTIFICIAL
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes, as we have seen
this night.  God knows I never had shade nor shadow of a doubt of my
petrified and indestructible honesty until now--and now, under the
very first big and real temptation, I--Edward, it is my belief that
this town's honesty is as rotten as mine is; as rotten as yours.  It
is a mean town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so conceited
about; and so help me, I do believe that if ever the day comes that
its honesty falls under great temptation, its grand reputation will
go to ruin like a house of cards.  There, now, I've made confession,
and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've been one all my life,
without knowing it.  Let no man call me honest again--I will not
have it."

"I--Well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do:  I certainly do.  It
seems strange, too, so strange.  I never could have believed it--
never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in thought.  At last the
wife looked up and said:

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but--"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same question myself."

"I hope so.  State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess out WHAT THE REMARK
WAS that Goodson made to the stranger."

"It's perfectly true.  I feel guilty and ashamed.  And you?"

"I'm past it.  Let us make a pallet here; we've got to stand watch
till the bank vault opens in the morning and admits the sack. . . Oh
dear, oh dear--if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame--what could it have been?  I do wonder what that
remark could have been.  But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"

"No; think."

"Yes; think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their spat and their
reconciliation, and were turning in--to think, to think, and toss,
and fret, and worry over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that golden remark;
that remark worth forty thousand dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph-office was open later than
usual that night was this:  The foreman of Cox's paper was the local
representative of the Associated Press.  One might say its honorary
representative, for it wasn't four times a year that he could
furnish thirty words that would be accepted.  But this time it was
different.  His despatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:


"Send the whole thing--all the details--twelve hundred words."


A colossal order!  The foreman filled the bill; and he was the
proudest man in the State.  By breakfast-time the next morning the
name of Hadleyburg the Incorruptible was on every lip in America,
from Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to the
orange-groves of Florida; and millions and millions of people were
discussing the stranger and his money-sack, and wondering if the
right man would be found, and hoping some more news about the matter
would come soon--right away.




II


Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated--astonished--happy--
vain.  Vain beyond imagination.  Its nineteen principal citizens and
their wives went about shaking hands with each other, and beaming,
and smiling, and congratulating, and saying THIS thing adds a new
word to the dictionary--HADLEYBURG, synonym for INCORRUPTIBLE--
destined to live in dictionaries for ever!  And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around acting in much the
same way.  Everybody ran to the bank to see the gold-sack; and
before noon grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighbouring towns; and that afternoon and next day
reporters began to arrive from everywhere to verify the sack and its
history and write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing free-
hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's house, and the bank,
and the Presbyterian church, and the Baptist church, and the public
square, and the town-hall where the test would be applied and the
money delivered; and damnable portraits of the Richardses, and
Pinkerton the banker, and Cox, and the foreman, and Reverend
Burgess, and the postmaster--and even of Jack Halliday, who was the
loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent fisherman, hunter,
boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend, typical "Sam Lawson" of the town.
The little mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to all
comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together pleasantly, and enlarged
upon the town's fine old reputation for honesty and upon this
wonderful endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the example
would now spread far and wide over the American world, and be epoch-
making in the matter of moral regeneration.  And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down again; the wild
intoxication of pride and joy had sobered to a soft, sweet, silent
delight--a sort of deep, nameless, unutterable content.  All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came.  It was a gradual change; so gradual that its
beginnings were hardly noticed; maybe were not noticed at all,
except by Jack Halliday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was.  He began to throw out
chaffing remarks about people not looking quite so happy as they did
a day or two ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was taking on a sick
look; and finally he said that everybody was become so moody,
thoughtful, and absent-minded that he could rob the meanest man in
town of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket and not
disturb his reverie.

At this stage--or at about this stage--a saying like this was
dropped at bedtime--with a sigh, usually--by the head of each of the
nineteen principal households:

"Ah, what COULD have been the remark that Goodson made?"

And straightway--with a shudder--came this, from the man's wife:

"Oh, DON'T!  What horrible thing are you mulling in your mind?  Put
it away from you, for God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men again the next night--and
got the same retort.  But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question yet again--with
anguish, and absently.  This time--and the following night--the
wives fidgeted feebly, and tried to say something.  But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues and responded--
longingly:

"Oh, if we COULD only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more sparklingly
disagreeable and disparaging.  He went diligently about, laughing at
the town, individually and in mass.  But his laugh was the only one
left in the village:  it fell upon a hollow and mournful vacancy and
emptiness.  Not even a smile was findable anywhere.  Halliday
carried a cigar-box around on a tripod, playing that it was a
camera, and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said "Ready!
--now look pleasant, please," but not even this capital joke could
surprise the dreary faces into any softening.

So three weeks passed--one week was left.  It was Saturday evening
after supper.  Instead of the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and
bustle and shopping and larking, the streets were empty and
desolate.  Richards and his old wife sat apart in their little
parlour--miserable and thinking.  This was become their evening
habit now:  the life-long habit which had preceded it, of reading,
knitting, and contented chat, or receiving or paying neighbourly
calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages ago--two or three weeks
ago; nobody talked now, nobody read, nobody visited--the whole
village sat at home, sighing, worrying, silent.  Trying to guess out
that remark.

The postman left a letter.  Richards glanced listlessly at the
superscription and the post-mark--unfamiliar, both--and tossed the
letter on the table and resumed his might-have-beens and his
hopeless dull miseries where he had left them off.  Two or three
hours later his wife got wearily up and was going away to bed
without a good-night--custom now--but she stopped near the letter
and eyed it awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over.  Richards, sitting there with his chair
tilted back against the wall and his chin between his knees, heard
something fall.  It was his wife.  He sprang to her side, but she
cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy.  Read the letter--read it!"

He did.  He devoured it, his brain reeling.  The letter was from a
distant State, and it said:


"I am a stranger to you, but no matter:  I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that
episode.  Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I
know, and I am the only person living who does know.  It was
GOODSON.  I knew him well, many years ago.  I passed through your
village that very night, and was his guest till the midnight train
came along.  I overheard him make that remark to the stranger in the
dark--it was in Hale Alley.  He and I talked of it the rest of the
way home, and while smoking in his house.  He mentioned many of your
villagers in the course of his talk--most of them in a very
uncomplimentary way, but two or three favourably:  among these
latter yourself.  I say 'favourably'--nothing stronger.  I remember
his saying he did not actually LIKE any person in the town--not one;
but that you--I THINK he said you--am almost sure--had done him a
very great service once, possibly without knowing the full value of
it, and he wished he had a fortune, he would leave it to you when he
died, and a curse apiece for the rest of the citizens.  Now, then,
if it was you that did him that service, you are his legitimate
heir, and entitled to the sack of gold.  I know that I can trust to
your honour and honesty, for in a citizen of Hadleyburg these
virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am going to reveal to
you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the right man you
will seek and find the right one and see that poor Goodson's debt of
gratitude for the service referred to is paid.  This is the remark
'YOU ARE FAR FROM BEING A BAD MAN:  GO, AND REFORM.'

"HOWARD L. STEPHENSON."


"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so grateful, OH, so
grateful,--kiss me, dear, it's for ever since we kissed--and we
needed it so--the money--and now you are free of Pinkerton and his
bank, and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I could fly for
joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent there on the settee
caressing each other; it was the old days come again--days that had
begun with their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money.  By-and-by the wife said:

"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that grand service, poor
Goodson!  I never liked him, but I love him now.  And it was fine
and beautiful of you never to mention it or brag about it."  Then,
with a touch of reproach, "But you ought to have told ME, Edward,
you ought to have told your wife, you know."

"Well, I--er--well, Mary, you see--"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me about it, Edward.  I
always loved you, and now I'm proud of you.  Everybody believes
there was only one good generous soul in this village, and now it
turns out that you--Edward, why don't you tell me?"

"Well--er--er--Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You CAN'T?  WHY can't you?"

"You see, he--well, he--he made me promise I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly:

"Made--you--promise?  Edward, what do you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then she laid her hand
within his and said:

"No . . . no.  We have wandered far enough from our bearings--God
spare us that!  In all your life you have never uttered a lie.  But
now--now that the foundations of things seem to be crumbling from
under us, we--we--"  She lost her voice for a moment, then said,
brokenly, "Lead us not into temptation. . . I think you made the
promise, Edward.  Let it rest so.  Let us keep away from that
ground.  Now--that is all gone by; let us he happy again; it is no
time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply, for his mind kept
wandering--trying to remember what the service was that he had done
Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary happy and busy,
Edward busy, but not so happy.  Mary was planning what she would do
with the money.  Edward was trying to recall that service.  At first
his conscience was sore on account of the lie he had told Mary--if
it was a lie.  After much reflection--suppose it WAS a lie?  What
then?  Was it such a great matter?  Aren't we always ACTING lies?
Then why not tell them?  Look at Mary--look what she had done.
While he was hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she doing?
Lamenting because the papers hadn't been destroyed and the money
kept.  Is theft better than lying?

THAT point lost its sting--the lie dropped into the background and
left comfort behind it.  The next point came to the front:  HAD he
rendered that service?  Well, here was Goodson's own evidence as
reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be no better evidence
than that--it was even PROOF that he had rendered it.  Of course.
So that point was settled. . . No, not quite.  He recalled with a
wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just a trifle unsure as
to whether the performer of it was Richards or some other--and, oh
dear, he had put Richards on his honour!  He must himself decide
whither that money must go--and Mr. Stephenson was not doubting that
if he was the wrong man he would go honourably and find the right
one.  Oh, it was odious to put a man in such a situation--ah, why
couldn't Stephenson have left out that doubt?  What did he want to
intrude that for?

Further reflection.  How did it happen that RICHARDS'S name remained
in Stephenson's mind as indicating the right man, and not some other
man's name?  That looked good.  Yes, that looked very good.  In fact
it went on looking better and better, straight along--until by-and-
by it grew into positive PROOF.  And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct that a proof
once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but there was still one
other detail that kept pushing itself on his notice:  of course he
had done that service--that was settled; but what WAS that service?
He must recall it--he would not go to sleep till he had recalled it;
it would make his peace of mind perfect.  And so he thought and
thought.  He thought of a dozen things--possible services, even
probable services--but none of them seemed adequate, none of them
seemed large enough, none of them seemed worth the money--worth the
fortune Goodson had wished he could leave in his will.  And besides,
he couldn't remember having done them, anyway.  Now, then--now,
then--what KIND of a service would it be that would make a man so
inordinately grateful?  Ah--the saving of his soul!  That must be
it.  Yes, he could remember, now, how he once set himself the task
of converting Goodson, and laboured at it as much as--he was going
to say three months; but upon closer examination it shrunk to a
month, then to a week, then to a day, then to nothing.  Yes, he
remembered now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson had told
him to go to thunder and mind his own business--HE wasn't hankering
to follow Hadleyburg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure--he hadn't saved Goodson's soul.
Richards was discouraged.  Then after a little came another idea:
had he saved Goodson's property?  No, that wouldn't do--he hadn't
any.  His life?  That is it!  Of course.  Why, he might have thought
of it before.  This time he was on the right track, sure.  His
imagination-mill was hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter, during a stretch of two exhausting hours, he was busy
saving Goodson's life.  He saved it in all kinds of difficult and
perilous ways.  In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get well persuaded
that it had really happened, a troublesome detail would turn up
which made the whole thing impossible.  As in the matter of
drowning, for instance.  In that case he had swum out and tugged
Goodson ashore in an unconscious state with a great crowd looking on
and applauding, but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm of disqualifying
details arrived on the ground:  the town would have known of the
circumstance, Mary would have known of it, it would glare like a
limelight in his own memory instead of being an inconspicuous
service which he had possibly rendered "without knowing its full
value."  And at this point he remembered that he couldn't swim
anyway.

Ah--THERE was a point which he had been overlooking from the start:
it had to be a service which he had rendered "possibly without
knowing the full value of it."  Why, really, that ought to be an
easy hunt--much easier than those others.  And sure enough, by-and-
by he found it.  Goodson, years and years ago, came near marrying a
very sweet and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some way or
other the match had been broken off; the girl died, Goodson remained
a bachelor, and by-and-by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species.  Soon after the girl's death the village found
out, or thought it had found out, that she carried a spoonful of
negro blood in her veins.  Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered things concerning
them which must have gotten mislaid in his memory through long
neglect.  He seemed to dimly remember that it was HE that found out
about the negro blood; that it was he that told the village; that
the village told Goodson where they got it; that he thus saved
Goodson from marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of it," in fact
without knowing that he WAS doing it; but that Goodson knew the
value of it, and what a narrow escape he had had, and so went to his
grave grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a fortune to
leave him.  It was all clear and simple, now, and the more he went
over it the more luminous and certain it grew; and at last, when he
nestled to sleep, satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday.  In fact, he dimly remembered
Goodson's TELLING him his gratitude once.  Meantime Mary had spent
six thousand dollars on a new house for herself and a pair of
slippers for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had delivered a letter to
each of the other principal citizens--nineteen letters in all.  No
two of the envelopes were alike, and no two of the superscriptions
were in the same hand, but the letters inside were just like each
other in every detail but one.  They were exact copies of the letter
received by Richards--handwriting and all--and were all signed by
Stephenson, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's own name
appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what their caste-
brother Richards was doing at the same time--they put in their
energies trying to remember what notable service it was that they
had unconsciously done Barclay Goodson.  In no case was it a holiday
job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was difficult, their wives
put in the night spending the money, which was easy.  During that
one night the nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack--a hundred and
thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.  He noticed that
the faces of the nineteen chief citizens and their wives bore that
expression of peaceful and holy happiness again.  He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any remarks about it
that could damage it or disturb it.  And so it was his turn to be
dissatisfied with life.  His private guesses at the reasons for the
happiness failed in all instances, upon examination.  When he met
Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in her face, he said to
himself, "Her cat has had kittens"--and went and asked the cook; it
was not so, the cook had detected the happiness, but did not know
the cause.  When Halliday found the duplicate ecstasy in the face of
"Shadbelly" Billson (village nickname), he was sure some neighbour
of Billson's had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened.  The subdued ecstasy in Gregory Yates's face could
mean but one thing--he was a mother-in-law short; it was another
mistake.  "And Pinkerton--Pinkerton--he has collected ten cents that
he thought he was going to lose."  And so on, and so on.  In some
cases the guesses had to remain in doubt, in the others they proved
distinct errors.  In the end Halliday said to himself, "Anyway it
roots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg families temporarily in
heaven:  I don't know how it happened; I only know Providence is off
duty to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had lately ventured to
set up a small business in this unpromising village, and his sign
had now been hanging out a week.  Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come.  But his weather changed
suddenly now.  First one and then another chief citizen's wife said
to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week--but say nothing about it for the
present.  We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day.  That night he wrote his
daughter and broke off her match with her student.  He said she
could marry a mile higher than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-to-do men planned
country-seats--but waited.  That kind don't count their chickens
until they are hatched.

The Wilsons devised a grand new thing--a fancy-dress ball.  They
made no actual promises, but told all their acquaintanceship in
confidence that they were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it--"and if we do, you will be invited, of course."
People were surprised, and said, one to another, "Why, they are
crazy, those poor Wilsons, they can't afford it."  Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a good idea, we
will keep still till their cheap thing is over, then WE will give
one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future squanderings rose
higher and higher, wilder and wilder, more and more foolish and
reckless.  It began to look as if every member of the nineteen would
not only spend his whole forty thousand dollars before receiving-
day, but be actually in debt by the time he got the money.  In some
cases light-headed people did not stop with planning to spend, they
really spent--on credit.  They bought land, mortgages, farms,
speculative stocks, fine clothes, horses, and various other things,
paid down the bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest--at ten
days.  Presently the sober second thought came, and Halliday noticed
that a ghastly anxiety was beginning to show up in a good many
faces.  Again he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of it.
"The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they weren't born; nobody's
broken a leg; there's no shrinkage in mother-in-laws; NOTHING has
happened--it is an insolvable mystery."

There was another puzzled man, too--the Rev. Mr. Burgess.  For days,
wherever he went, people seemed to follow him or to be watching out
for him; and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a member of
the nineteen would be sure to appear, thrust an envelope privately
into his hand, whisper "To be opened at the town-hall Friday
evening," then vanish away like a guilty thing.  He was expecting
that there might be one claimant for the sack--doubtful, however,
Goodson being dead--but it never occurred to him that all this crowd
might be claimants.  When the great Friday came at last, he found
that he had nineteen envelopes.




III


The town-hall had never looked finer.  The platform at the end of it
was backed by a showy draping of flags; at intervals along the walls
were festoons of flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags;
the supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this was to
impress the stranger, for he would be there in considerable force,
and in a large degree he would be connected with the press.  The
house was full.  The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles; the steps of the
platform were occupied; some distinguished strangers were given
seats on the platform; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of special
correspondents who had come from everywhere.  It was the best-
dressed house the town had ever produced.  There were some tolerably
expensive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who wore
them had the look of being unfamiliar with that kind of clothes.  At
least the town thought they had that look, but the notion could have
arisen from the town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front of the platform
where all the house could see it.  The bulk of the house gazed at it
with a burning interest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples gazed at it
tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the male half of this
minority kept saying over to themselves the moving little impromptu
speeches of thankfulness for the audience's applause and
congratulations which they were presently going to get up and
deliver.  Every now and then one of these got a piece of paper out
of his vest pocket and privately glanced at it to refresh his
memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going on--there always
is; but at last, when the Rev. Mr. Burgess rose and laid his hand on
the sack, he could hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still.
He related the curious history of the sack, then went on to speak in
warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and well-earned reputation for
spotless honesty, and of the town's just pride in this reputation.
He said that this reputation was a treasure of priceless value; that
under Providence its value had now become inestimably enhanced, for
the recent episode had spread this fame far and wide, and thus had
focussed the eyes of the American world upon this village, and made
its name for all time, as he hoped and believed, a synonym for
commercial incorruptibility.  [Applause.]  "And who is to be the
guardian of this noble fame--the community as a whole?  No!  The
responsibility is individual, not communal.  From this day forth
each and every one of you is in his own person its special guardian,
and individually responsible that no harm shall come to it.  Do you
--does each of you--accept this great trust?  [Tumultuous assent.]
Then all is well.  Transmit it to your children and to your
children's children.  To-day your purity is beyond reproach--see to
it that it shall remain so.  To-day there is not a person in your
community who could be beguiled to touch a penny not his own--see to
it that you abide in this grace.  ["We will! we will!"]  This is not
the place to make comparisons between ourselves and other
communities--some of them ungracious towards us; they have their
ways, we have ours; let us be content.  [Applause.]  I am done.
Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's eloquent recognition
of what we are; through him the world will always henceforth know
what we are.  We do not know who he is, but in your name I utter
your gratitude, and ask you to raise your voices in indorsement."

The house rose in a body and made the walls quake with the thunders
of its thankfulness for the space of a long minute.  Then it sat
down, and Mr. Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket.  The house
held its breath while he slit the envelope open and took from it a
slip of paper.  He read its contents--slowly and impressively--the
audience listening with tranced attention to this magic document,
each of whose words stood for an ingot of gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed stranger was this:  "You
are very far from being a bad man; go, and reform."'"  Then he
continued:- "We shall know in a moment now whether the remark here
quoted corresponds with the one concealed in the sack; and if that
shall prove to be so--and it undoubtedly will--this sack of gold
belongs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand before the
nation as the symbol of the special virtue which has made our town
famous throughout the land--Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into the proper
tornado of applause; but instead of doing it, it seemed stricken
with a paralysis; there was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a
wave of whispered murmurs swept the place--of about this tenor:
"BILLSON! oh, come, this is TOO thin!  Twenty dollars to a stranger
--or ANYBODY--BILLSON!  Tell it to the marines!"  And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in a new access of
astonishment, for it discovered that whereas in one part of the hall
Deacon Billson was standing up with his head weekly bowed, in
another part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.  There was a
wondering silence now for a while.  Everybody was puzzled, and
nineteen couples were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each other.  Billson asked,
bitingly:

"Why do YOU rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to.  Perhaps you will be good enough to
explain to the house why YOU rise."

"With great pleasure.  Because I wrote that paper."

"It is an impudent falsity!  I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralysed.  He stood looking vacantly at
first one of the men and then the other, and did not seem to know
what to do.  The house was stupefied.  Lawyer Wilson spoke up now,
and said:

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out the name:

"John Wharton BILLSON."

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got to say for yourself
now?  And what kind of apology are you going to make to me and to
this insulted house for the imposture which you have attempted to
play here?"

"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest of it, I publicly
charge you with pilfering my note from Mr. Burgess and substituting
a copy of it signed with your own name.  There is no other way by
which you could have gotten hold of the test-remark; I alone, of
living men, possessed the secret of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things if this went on;
everybody noticed with distress that the shorthand scribes were
scribbling like mad; many people were crying "Chair, chair!  Order!
order!"  Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due.  There has evidently been a
mistake somewhere, but surely that is all.  If Mr. Wilson gave me an
envelope--and I remember now that he did--I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced at it, looked
surprised and worried, and stood silent a few moments.  Then he
waved his hand in a wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despondently.  Several
voices cried out:

"Read it! read it!  What is it?"

So he began, in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stranger was this:  "You
are far from being a bad man.  [The house gazed at him marvelling.]
Go, and reform."'  [Murmurs:  "Amazing! what can this mean?"]  This
one," said the Chair, "is signed Thurlow G. Wilson."

"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles it!  I knew perfectly
well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson.  "I'll let you know that neither you
nor any man of your kidney must venture to--"

The Chair:  "Order, gentlemen, order!  Take your seats, both of you,
please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling angrily.  The house
was profoundly puzzled; it did not know what to do with this curious
emergency.  Presently Thompson got up.  Thompson was the hatter.  He
would have liked to be a Nineteener; but such was not for him; his
stock of hats was not considerable enough for the position.  He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a suggestion, can both
of these gentlemen be right?  I put it to you, sir, can both have
happened to say the very same words to the stranger?  It seems to
me--"

The tanner got up and interrupted him.  The tanner was a disgruntled
man; he believed himself entitled to be a Nineteener, but he
couldn't get recognition.  It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech.  Said he:

"Sho, THAT'S not the point!  THAT could happen--twice in a hundred
years--but not the other thing.  NEITHER of them gave the twenty
dollars!"  [A ripple of applause.]

Billson.  "I did!"

Wilson.  "I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.  "Order!  Sit down, if you please--both of you.  Neither
of the notes has been out of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.  "Good--that settles THAT!"

The Tanner.  "Mr. Chairman, one thing is now plain:  one of these
men has been eavesdropping under the other one's bed, and filching
family secrets.  If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will
remark that both are equal to it.  [The Chair.  "Order! order!"]  I
withdraw the remark, sir, and will confine myself to suggesting that
IF one of them has overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.  "How?"

The Tanner.  "Easily.  The two have not quoted the remark in exactly
the same words.  You would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a
considerable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel inserted
between the two readings."

A Voice.  "Name the difference."

The Tanner.  "The word VERY is in Billson's note, and not in the
other."

Many Voices.  "That's so--he's right!"

The Tanner.  "And so, if the Chair will examine the test-remark in
the sack, we shall know which of these two frauds--[The Chair.
"Order!"]--which of these two adventurers--[The Chair.  "Order!
order!"]--which of these two gentlemen--[laughter and applause]--is
entitled to wear the belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite
ever bred in this town--which he has dishonoured, and which will be
a sultry place for him from now out!"  [Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.  "Open it!--open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand in, and brought
out an envelope.  In it were a couple of folded notes.  He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined until all written
communications which have been addressed to the Chair--if any--shall
have been read.'  The other is marked 'THE TEST.'  Allow me.  It is
worded--to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the remark which was made
to me by my benefactor shall be quoted with exactness, for it was
not striking, and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable; unless THESE
shall be accurately reproduced, let the applicant be regarded as an
impostor.  My benefactor began by saying he seldom gave advice to
anyone, but that it always bore the hallmark of high value when he
did give it.  Then he said this--and it has never faded from my
memory:  'YOU ARE FAR FROM BEING A BAD MAN--'"

Fifty Voices.  "That settles it--the money's Wilson's!  Wilson!
Wilson!  Speech!  Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson, wringing his hand and
congratulating fervently--meantime the Chair was hammering with the
gavel and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen!  Order!  Order!  Let me finish reading, please."
When quiet was restored, the reading was resumed--as follows:

"'GO, AND REFORM--OR, MARK MY WORDS--SOME DAY, FOR YOUR SINS YOU
WILL DIE AND GO TO HELL OR HADLEYBURG--TRY AND MAKE IT THE FORMER.'"

A ghastly silence followed.  First an angry cloud began to settle
darkly upon the faces of the citizenship; after a pause the cloud
began to rise, and a tickled expression tried to take its place;
tried so hard that it was only kept under with great and painful
difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites, and other strangers bent
their heads down and shielded their faces with their hands, and
managed to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.  At this
most inopportune time burst upon the stillness the roar of a
solitary voice--Jack Halliday's:

"THAT'S got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all.  Even Mr. Burgess's
gravity broke down presently, then the audience considered itself
officially absolved from all restraint, and it made the most of its
privilege.  It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
wholehearted one, but it ceased at last--long enough for Mr. Burgess
to try to resume, and for the people to get their eyes partially
wiped; then it broke out again, and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:

"It is useless to try to disguise the fact--we find ourselves in the
presence of a matter of grave import.  It involves the honour of
your town--it strikes at the town's good name.  The difference of a
single word between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and Mr.
Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indicated that one or
the other of these gentlemen had committed a theft--"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed; but at these
words both were electrified into movement, and started to get up.

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they obeyed.  "That, as I
have said, was a serious thing.  And it was--but for only one of
them.  But the matter has become graver; for the honour of BOTH is
now in formidable peril.  Shall I go even further, and say in
inextricable peril?  BOTH left out the crucial fifteen words."  He
paused.  During several moments he allowed the pervading stillness
to gather and deepen its impressive effects, then added:  "There
would seem to be but one way whereby this could happen.  I ask these
gentlemen--Was there COLLUSION?--AGREEMENT?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its import was, "He's got
them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a helpless collapse.
But Wilson was a lawyer.  He struggled to his feet, pale and
worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain this most painful
matter.  I am sorry to say what I am about to say, since it must
inflict irreparable injury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always
esteemed and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability to
temptation I entirely believed--as did you all.  But for the
preservation of my own honour I must speak--and with frankness.  I
confess with shame--and I now beseech your pardon for it--that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words contained in the test-
remark, including the disparaging fifteen.  [Sensation.]  When the
late publication was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to it.  Now I
will ask you to consider this point, and weigh it well; that
stranger's gratitude to me that night knew no bounds; he said
himself that he could find no words for it that were adequate, and
that if he should ever be able he would repay me a thousandfold.
Now, then, I ask you this; could I expect--could I believe--could I
even remotely imagine--that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary fifteen words
to his test?--set a trap for me?--expose me as a slanderer of my own
town before my own people assembled in a public hall?  It was
preposterous; it was impossible.  His test would contain only the
kindly opening clause of my remark.  Of that I had no shadow of
doubt.  You would have thought as I did.  You would not have
expected a base betrayal from one whom you had befriended and
against whom you had committed no offence.  And so with perfect
confidence, perfect trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening
words--ending with "Go, and reform,"--and signed it.  When I was
about to put it in an envelope I was called into my back office, and
without thinking I left the paper lying open on my desk."  He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson, waited a moment,
then added:  "I ask you to note this; when I returned, a little
latter, Mr. Billson was retiring by my street door."  [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie!  It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.  "Be seated, sir!  Mr. Wilson has the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and quieted him, and
Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts.  My note was now lying in a different
place on the table from where I had left it.  I noticed that, but
attached no importance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a thing which could
not occur to me; he was an honourable man, and he would be above
that.  If you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word 'VERY'
stands explained:  it is attributable to a defect of memory.  I was
the only man in the world who could furnish here any detail of the
test-mark--by HONOURABLE means.  I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive speech to fuddle the
mental apparatus and upset the convictions and debauch the emotions
of an audience not practised in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious.  The house submerged him in tides of
approving applause; friends swarmed to him and shook him by the hand
and congratulated him, and Billson was shouted down and not allowed
to say a word.  The Chair hammered and hammered with its gavel, and
kept shouting:

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet, and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to deliver the money?"

Voices.  "That's it!  That's it!  Come forward, Wilson!"

The Hatter.  "I move three cheers for Mr. Wilson, Symbol of the
special virtue which--"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and in the midst of
them--and in the midst of the clamour of the gavel also--some
enthusiasts mounted Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going
to fetch him in triumph to the platform.  The Chair's voice now rose
above the noise:

"Order!  To your places!  You forget that there is still a document
to be read."  When quiet had been restored he took up the document,
and was going to read it, but laid it down again saying "I forgot;
this is not to be read until all written communications received by
me have first been read."  He took an envelope out of his pocket,
removed its enclosure, glanced at it--seemed astonished--held it out
and gazed at it--stared at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it?  Read it! read it!"

And he did--slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger--[Voices.  "Hello! how's
this?"]--was this:  'You are far from being a bad man.  [Voices.
"Great Scott!"]  Go, and reform.'  [Voice.  "Oh, saw my leg off!"]
Signed by Mr. Pinkerton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself loose now was of a
sort to make the judicious weep.  Those whose withers were unwrung
laughed till the tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of
laughter, set down disordered pot-hooks which would never in the
world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog jumped up scared out of
its wits, and barked itself crazy at the turmoil.  All manner of
cries were scattered through the din:  "We're getting rich--TWO
Symbols of Incorruptibility!--without counting Billson!"  "THREE!--
count Shadbelly in--we can't have too many!"  "All right--Billson's
elected!"  "Alas, poor Wilson! victim of TWO thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.  "Silence!  The Chair's fished up something more
out of its pocket."

Voices.  "Hurrah!  Is it something fresh?  Read it! read! read!"

The Chair [reading].  "'The remark which I made,' etc.  'You are far
from being a bad man.  Go,' etc.  Signed, 'Gregory Yates.'"

Tornado of Voices.  "Four Symbols!"  "'Rah for Yates!"  "Fish
again!"

The house was in a roaring humour now, and ready to get all the fun
out of the occasion that might be in it.  Several Nineteeners,
looking pale and distressed, got up and began to work their way
towards the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors--close the doors; no Incorruptible shall leave
this place!  Sit down, everybody!"  The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again!  Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar words began to
fall from its lips--"'You are far from being a bad man--'"

"Name! name!  What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected!  Pile up the Symbols!  Go on, go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad--'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme (leaving out
"it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune of "When a man's afraid of a
beautiful maid;" the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in
time, somebody contributed another line--


"And don't you this forget--"


The house roared it out.  A third line was at once furnished--


"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are--"


The house roared that one too.  As the last note died, Jack
Halliday's voice rose high and clear, freighted with a final line--


"But the Symbols are here, you bet!"


That was sung, with booming enthusiasm.  Then the happy house
started in at the beginning and sang the four lines through twice,
with immense swing and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incorruptible and all
Symbols of it which we shall find worthy to receive the hall-mark
to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all over the place:

"Go on! go on!  Read! read some more!  Read all you've got!"

"That's it--go on!  We are winning eternal celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.  They said that this
farce was the work of some abandoned joker, and was an insult to the
whole community.  Without a doubt these signatures were all
forgeries--

"Sit down! sit down!  Shut up!  You are confessing.  We'll find your
names in the lot."

"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already examined, there are
nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret.  I move that you open them all
and read every signature that is attached to a note of that sort--
and read also the first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried--uproariously.  Then poor old Richards got
up, and his wife rose and stood at his side.  Her head was bent
down, so that none might see that she was crying.  Her husband gave
her his arm, and so supporting her, he began to speak in a quavering
voice:

"My friends, you have known us two--Mary and me--all our lives, and
I think you have liked us and respected us--"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me.  It is quite true--that which you are saying, Mr.
Richards; this town DOES know you two; it DOES like you; it DOES
respect you; more--it honours you and LOVES you--"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too!  If the Chair is right, let the
house speak up and say it.  Rise!  Now, then--hip! hip! hip!--all
together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old couple eagerly, filled
the air with a snow-storm of waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the
cheers with all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this:  We know your good heart, Mr.
Richards, but this is not a time for the exercise of charity toward
offenders.  [Shouts of "Right! right!"]  I see your generous purpose
in your face, but I cannot allow you to plead for these men--"

"But I was going to--"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards.  We must examine the rest of
these notes--simple fairness to the men who have already been
exposed requires this.  As soon as that has been done--I give you my
word for this--you shall he heard."

Many voices.  "Right!--the Chair is right--no interruption can be
permitted at this stage!  Go on!--the names! the names!--according
to the terms of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the husband whispered to
the wife, "It is pitifully hard to have to wait; the shame will be
greater than ever when they find we were only going to plead for
OURSELVES."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the reading of the
names.

"'You are far from being a bad man--' Signature, 'Robert J.
Titmarsh.'"

'"You are far from being a bad man--' Signature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'"

"'You are far from being a bad man--' Signature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking the eight words
out of the Chairman's hands.  He was not unthankful for that.
Thenceforward he held up each note in its turn and waited.  The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and measured and
musical deep volume of sound (with a daringly close resemblance to a
well-known church chant)--"You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man."  Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archibald Wilcox.'"  And so
on, and so on, name after name, and everybody had an increasingly
and gloriously good time except the wretched Nineteen.  Now and
then, when a particularly shining name was called, the house made
the Chair wait while it chanted the whole of the test-remark from
the beginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or Hadleyburg--
try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!" and in these special cases they
added a grand and agonised and imposing "A-a-a-a-MEN!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old Richards keeping
tally of the count, wincing when a name resembling his own was
pronounced, and waiting in miserable suspense for the time to come
when it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with Mary and
finish his plea, which he was intending to word thus:  ". . . for
until now we have never done any wrong thing, but have gone our
humble way unreproached.  We are very poor, we are old, and, have no
chick nor child to help us; we were sorely tempted, and we fell.  It
was my purpose when I got up before to make confession and beg that
my name might not be read out in this public place, for it seemed to
us that we could not bear it; but I was prevented.  It was just; it
was our place to suffer with the rest.  It has been hard for us.  It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall from any one's
lips--sullied.  Be merciful--for the sake or the better days; make
our shame as light to bear as in your charity you can."  At this
point in his reverie Mary nudged him, perceiving that his mind was
absent.  The house was chanting, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered.  "Your name comes now; he has read
eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket.  The old couple, trembling,
began to rise.  Burgess fumbled a moment, then said:

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into their seats, and
Mary whispered:

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!--he has lost ours--I wouldn't give
this for a hundred of those sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty, and sang it three
times with ever-increasing enthusiasm, rising to its feet when it
reached for the third time the closing line--

"But the Symbols are here, you bet!"

and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Hadleyburg purity and
our eighteen immortal representatives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed cheers "for the
cleanest man in town, the one solitary important citizen in it who
didn't try to steal that money--Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving heartiness; then somebody
proposed that "Richards be elected sole Guardian and Symbol of the
now Sacred Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand up
and look the whole sarcastic world in the face."

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the "Mikado" again, and ended
it with--

"And there's ONE Symbol left, you bet!"

There was a pause; then--

A Voice.  "Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).  "That's easy.  The money has to
be divided among the eighteen Incorruptibles.  They gave the
suffering stranger twenty dollars apiece--and that remark--each in
his turn--it took twenty-two minutes for the procession to move
past.  Staked the stranger--total contribution, $360.  All they want
is just the loan back--and interest--forty thousand dollars
altogether."

Many Voices [derisively.]  "That's it!  Divvy! divvy!  Be kind to
the poor--don't keep them waiting!"

The Chair.  "Order!  I now offer the stranger's remaining document.
It says:  'If no claimant shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I
desire that you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in trust [Cries of
"Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such ways as to them shall seem best
for the propagation and preservation of your community's noble
reputation for incorruptible honesty [more cries]--a reputation to
which their names and their efforts will add a new and far-reaching
lustre."  [Enthusiastic outburst of sarcastic applause.]  That seems
to be all.  No--here is a postscript:

"'P.S.--CITIZENS OF HADLEYBURG:  There IS no test-remark--nobody
made one.  [Great sensation.]  There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor
any twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying benediction and
compliment--these are all inventions.  [General buzz and hum of
astonishment and delight.]  Allow me to tell my story--it will take
but a word or two.  I passed through your town at a certain time,
and received a deep offence which I had not earned.  Any other man
would have been content to kill one or two of you and call it
square, but to me that would have been a trivial revenge, and
inadequate; for the dead do not SUFFER. Besides I could not kill you
all--and, anyway, made as I am, even that would not have satisfied
me.  I wanted to damage every man in the place, and every woman--and
not in their bodies or in their estate, but in their vanity--the
place where feeble and foolish people are most vulnerable.  So I
disguised myself and came back and studied you.  You were easy game.
You had an old and lofty reputation for honesty, and naturally you
were proud of it--it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple
of your eye.  As soon as I found out that you carefully and
vigilantly kept yourselves and your children OUT OF TEMPTATION, I
knew how to proceed.  Why, you simple creatures, the weakest of all
weak things is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire.  I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names.  My project was to
corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.  My idea was to make liars and
thieves of nearly half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.  I was afraid
of Goodson.  He was neither born nor reared in Hadleyburg.  I was
afraid that if I started to operate my scheme by getting my letter
laid before you, you would say to yourselves, 'Goodson is the only
man among us who would give away twenty dollars to a poor devil'--
and then you might not bite at my bait.  But heaven took Goodson;
then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and baited it.  It may be
that I shall not catch all the men to whom I mailed the pretended
test-secret, but I shall catch the most of them, if I know
Hadleyburg nature.  [Voices.  "Right--he got every last one of
them."]  I believe they will even steal ostensible GAMBLE-money,
rather than miss, poor, tempted, and mistrained fellows.  I am
hoping to eternally and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give
Hadleyburg a new renown--one that will STICK--and spread far.  If I
have succeeded, open the sack and summon the Committee on
Propagation and Preservation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.  "Open it!  Open it!  The Eighteen to the
front!  Committee on Propagation of the Tradition!  Forward--the
Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up a handful of bright,
broad, yellow coins, shook them together, then examined them.

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this news, and when
the noise had subsided, the tanner called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business, Mr. Wilson is
Chairman of the Committee on Propagation of the Tradition.  I
suggest that he step forward on behalf of his pals, and receive in
trust the money."

A Hundred Voices.  "Wilson!  Wilson!  Wilson!  Speech!  Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger].  "You will allow me to
say, and without apologies for my language, DAMN the money!"

A Voice.  "Oh, and him a Baptist!"

A Voice.  "Seventeen Symbols left!  Step up, gentlemen, and assume
your trust!"

There was a pause--no response.

The Saddler.  "Mr. Chairman, we've got ONE clean man left, anyway,
out of the late aristocracy; and he needs money, and deserves it.  I
move that you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and auction off
that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and give the result to the
right man--the man whom Hadleyburg delights to honour--Edward
Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog taking a hand
again; the saddler started the bids at a dollar, the Brixton folk
and Barnum's representative fought hard for it, the people cheered
every jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed moment by
moment higher and higher, the bidders got on their mettle and grew
steadily more and more daring, more and more determined, the jumps
went from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty, then
fifty, then to a hundred, then--

At the beginning of the auction Richards whispered in distress to
his wife:  "Oh, Mary, can we allow it?  It--it--you see, it is an
honour--reward, a testimonial to purity of character, and--and--can
we allow it?  Hadn't I better get up and--Oh, Mary, what ought we to
do?--what do you think we--" [Halliday's voice.  "Fifteen I'm bid!--
fifteen for the sack!--twenty!--ah, thanks!--thirty--thanks again!
Thirty, thirty, thirty!--do I hear forty?--forty it is!  Keep the
ball rolling, gentlemen, keep it rolling!--fifty!--thanks, noble
Roman!--going at fifty, fifty, fifty!--seventy!--ninety!--
splendid!--a hundred!--pile it up, pile it up!--hundred and twenty--
forty!--just in time!--hundred and fifty!--Two hundred!--superb!  Do
I hear two h--thanks!--two hundred and fifty!--"]

"It is another temptation, Edward--I'm all in a tremble--but, oh,
we've escaped one temptation, and that ought to warn us, to--["Six
did I hear?--thanks!--six fifty, six f--SEVEN hundred!"]  And yet,
Edward, when you think--nobody susp--["Eight hundred dollars!--
hurrah!--make it nine!--Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say--thanks!--
nine!--this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine hundred
dollars, gilding and all--come! do I hear--a thousand!--gratefully
yours!--did some one say eleven?--a sack which is going to be the
most celebrated in the whole Uni--"]  Oh, Edward (beginning to
sob), we are so poor!--but--but--do as you think best--do as you
think best."

Edward fell--that is, he sat still; sat with a conscience which was
not satisfied, but which was overpowered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur detective gotten up
as an impossible English earl, had been watching the evening's
proceedings with manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting to himself.  He
was now soliloquising somewhat like this:  'None of the Eighteen are
bidding; that is not satisfactory; I must change that--the dramatic
unities require it; they must buy the sack they tried to steal; they
must pay a heavy price, too--some of them are rich.  And another
thing, when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the man that puts
that error upon me is entitled to a high honorarium, and some one
must pay.  This poor old Richards has brought my judgment to shame;
he is an honest man:--I don't understand it, but I acknowledge it.
Yes, he saw my deuces--AND with a straight flush, and by rights the
pot is his.  And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass.'

He was watching the bidding.  At a thousand, the market broke:  the
prices tumbled swiftly.  He waited--and still watched.  One
competitor dropped out; then another, and another.  He put in a bid
or two now.  When the bids had sunk to ten dollars, he added a five;
some one raised him a three; he waited a moment, then flung in a
fifty-dollar jump, and the sack was his--at $1,282.  The house broke
out in cheers--then stopped; for he was on his feet, and had lifted
his hand.  He began to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favour.  I am a speculator in
rarities, and I have dealings with persons interested in numismatics
all over the world.  I can make a profit on this purchase, just as
it stands; but there is a way, if I can get your approval, whereby I
can make every one of these leaden twenty-dollar pieces worth its
face in gold, and perhaps more.  Grant me that approval, and I will
give part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose invulnerable
probity you have so justly and so cordially recognised tonight; his
share shall be ten thousand dollars, and I will hand him the money
to-morrow.  [Great applause from the house.  But the "invulnerable
probity" made the Richardses blush prettily; however, it went for
modesty, and did no harm.]  If you will pass my proposition by a
good majority--I would like a two-thirds vote--I will regard that as
the town's consent, and that is all I ask.  Rarities are always
helped by any device which will rouse curiosity and compel remark.
Now if I may have your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gentlemen who--"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in a moment--dog and
all--and the proposition was carried with a whirlwind of approving
applause and laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr." Clay Harkness got
up, violently protesting against the proposed outrage, and
threatening to--

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger calmly.  "I know
my legal rights, and am not accustomed to being frightened at
bluster."  [Applause.]  He sat down.  "Dr." Harkness saw an
opportunity here.  He was one of the two very rich men of the place,
and Pinkerton was the other.  Harkness was proprietor of a mint;
that is to say, a popular patent medicine.  He was running for the
Legislature on one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other.  It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every day.  Both had
strong appetites for money; each had bought a great tract of land,
with a purpose; there was going to be a new railway, and each wanted
to be in the Legislature and help locate the route to his own
advantage; a single vote might make the decision, and with it two or
three fortunes.  The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator.  He was sitting close to the stranger.  He leaned over
while one or another of the other Symbols was entertaining the house
with protests and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny less."

"All right, I'll give it.  I will come to the hotel at ten in the
morning.  I don't want it known; will see you privately."

"Very good."  Then the stranger got up and said to the house:

"I find it late.  The speeches of these gentlemen are not without
merit, not without interest, not without grace; yet if I may he
excused I will take my leave.  I thank you for the great favour
which you have shown me in granting my petition.  I ask the Chair to
keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and to hand these three five-
hundred-dollar notes to Mr. Richards."  They were passed up to the
Chair.

"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will deliver the
rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards in person at his home.
Good-night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making a vast noise,
which was composed of a mixture of cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-
disapproval, and the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man-
-a-a-a a-men!"




IV


At home the Richardses had to endure congratulations and compliments
until midnight.  Then they were left to themselves.  They looked a
little sad, and they sat silent and thinking.  Finally Mary sighed
and said:

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward--MUCH to blame?" and her eyes
wandered to the accusing triplet of big bank-notes lying on the
table, where the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them.  Edward did not answer at once; then he
brought out a sigh and said, hesitatingly:

"We--we couldn't help it, Mary.  It--well it was ordered.  ALL
things are."

Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but he didn't return the
look.  Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always tasted good.  But--it
seems to me, now--Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N--no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning--by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and muttered:

"Before I was not afraid to let oceans of people's money pour
through my hands, but--Mary, I am so tired, so tired--"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the sack and took it
to the hotel in a cab.  At ten Harkness had a talk with him
privately.  The stranger asked for and got five cheques on a
metropolitan bank--drawn to "Bearer,"--four for $1,500 each, and one
for $34,000.  He put one of the former in his pocket-book, and the
remainder, representing $38,500, he put in an envelope, and with
these he added a note which he wrote after Harkness was gone.  At
eleven he called at the Richards' house and knocked.  Mrs. Richards
peeped through the shutters, then went and received the envelope,
and the stranger disappeared without a word.  She came back flushed
and a little unsteady on her legs, and gasped out:

"I am sure I recognised him!  Last night it seemed to me that maybe
I had seen him somewhere before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson too, and sold every important
citizen in this town with his bogus secret.  Now if he has sent
cheques instead of money, we are sold too, after we thought we had
escaped.  I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable once more,
after my night's rest, but the look of that envelope makes me sick.
It isn't fat enough; $8,500 in even the largest bank-notes makes
more bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to cheques?"

"Cheques signed by Stephenson!  I am resigned to take the $8,500 if
it could come in bank-notes--for it does seem that it was so
ordered, Mary--but I have never had much courage, and I have not the
pluck to try to market a cheque signed with that disastrous name.
It would be a trap.  That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way.  If it is cheques--"

"Oh, Edward, it is TOO bad!"  And she held up the cheques and began
to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be tempted.  It is a trick
to make the world laugh at US, along with the rest, and--Give them
to ME, since you can't do it!"  He snatched them and tried to hold
his grip till he could get to the stove; but he was human, he was a
cashier, and he stopped a moment to make sure of the signature.
Then he came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me!  They are the same as gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward!  Why?"

"Signed by Harkness.  What can the mystery of that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think--"

"Look here--look at this!  Fifteen--fifteen--fifteen--thirty-four.
Thirty-eight thousand five hundred!  Mary, the sack isn't worth
twelve dollars, and Harkness--apparently--has paid about par for
it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think--instead of the ten
thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it.  And the cheques are made to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward?  What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I reckon.  Perhaps
Harkness doesn't want the matter known.  What is that--a note?"

"Yes.  It was with the cheques."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but there was no signature.
It said:


"I am a disappointed man.  Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation.  I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in
that, and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely.  I honour you--and that
is sincere too.  This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your
garment.  Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were
nineteen debauchable men in your self-righteous community.  I have
lost.  Take the whole pot, you are entitled to it."


Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire--it burns so.  Mary--I am miserable
again."

"I, too.  Ah, dear, I wish--"

"To think, Mary--he BELIEVES in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward--I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary--and God knows I
believed I deserved them once--I think I could give the forty
thousand dollars for them.  And I would put that paper away, as
representing more than gold and jewels, and keep it always.  But
now--We could not live in the shadow of its accusing presence,
Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.  Richards took from
it a note and read it; it was from Burgess:


"You saved me, in a difficult time.  I saved you last night.  It was
at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a
grateful heart.  None in this village knows so well as I know how
brave and good and noble you are.  At bottom you cannot respect me,
knowing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the
general voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe
that I am a grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.
[Signed]  'BURGESS.'"


"Saved, once more.  And on such terms!"  He put the note in the
lire.  "I--I wish I were dead, Mary, I wish I were out of it all!"

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward.  The stabs, through
their very generosity, are so deep--and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thousand voters suddenly
found himself in possession of a prized memento--one of the renowned
bogus double-eagles.  Around one of its faces was stamped these
words:  "THE REMARK I MADE TO THE POOR STRANGER WAS--"  Around the
other face was stamped these:  "GO, AND REFORM.  [SIGNED]
PINKERTON."  Thus the entire remaining refuse of the renowned joke
was emptied upon a single head, and with calamitous effect.  It
revived the recent vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton;
and Harkness's election was a walk-over.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had received their
cheques their consciences were quieting down, discouraged; the old
couple were learning to reconcile themselves to the sin which they
had committed.  But they were to learn, now, that a sin takes on new
and real terrors when there seems a chance that it is going to be
found out.  This gives it a fresh and most substantial and important
aspect.  At church the morning sermon was of the usual pattern; it
was the same old things said in the same old way; they had heard
them a thousand times and found them innocuous, next to meaningless,
and easy to sleep under; but now it was different:  the sermon
seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed aimed straight and
specially at people who were concealing deadly sins.  After church
they got away from the mob of congratulators as soon as they could,
and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at they did not know what-
-vague, shadowy, indefinite fears.  And by chance they caught a
glimpse of Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner.  He paid no attention
to their nod of recognition!  He hadn't seen it; but they did not
know that.  What could his conduct mean?  It might mean--it might--
mean--oh, a dozen dreadful things.  Was it possible that he knew
that Richards could have cleared him of guilt in that bygone time,
and had been silently waiting for a chance to even up accounts?  At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that their servant
might have been in the next room listening when Richards revealed
the secret to his wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the swish of a gown in
there at that time; next, he was sure he HAD heard it.  They would
call Sarah in, on a pretext, and watch her face; if she had been
betraying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her manner.  They
asked her some questions--questions which were so random and
incoherent and seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that
the old people's minds had been affected by their sudden good
fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which they bent upon her
frightened her, and that completed the business.  She blushed, she
became nervous and confused, and to the old people these were plain
signs of guilt--guilt of some fearful sort or other--without doubt
she was a spy and a traitor.  When they were alone again they began
to piece many unrelated things together and get horrible results out
of the combination.  When things had got about to the worst Richards
was delivered of a sudden gasp and his wife asked:

"Oh, what is it?--what is it?"

"The note--Burgess's note!  Its language was sarcastic, I see it
now."  He quoted:  "'At bottom you cannot respect me, KNOWING, as
you do, of THAT MATTER OF which I am accused'--oh, it is perfectly
plain, now, God help me!  He knows that I know!  You see the
ingenuity of the phrasing.  It was a trap--and like a fool, I walked
into it.  And Mary--!"

"Oh, it is dreadful--I know what you are going to say--he didn't
return your transcript of the pretended test-remark."

"No--kept it to destroy us with.  Mary, he has exposed us to some
already.  I know it--I know it well.  I saw it in a dozen faces
after church.  Ah, he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition--he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called.  The news went around in the
morning that the old couple were rather seriously ill--prostrated by
the exhausting excitement growing out of their great windfall, the
congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.  The town was
sincerely distressed; for these old people were about all it had
left to be proud of, now.

Two days later the news was worse.  The old couple were delirious,
and were doing strange things.  By witness of the nurses, Richards
had exhibited cheques--for $8,500?  No--for an amazing sum--$38,500!
What could be the explanation of this gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news--and wonderful.  They had
concluded to hide the cheques, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's pillow--vanished
away.  The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the cheques--"

"You will never see them again--they are destroyed.  They came from
Satan.  I saw the hell-brand on them, and I knew they were sent to
betray me to sin."  Then he fell to gabbling strange and dreadful
things which were not clearly understandable, and which the doctor
admonished them to keep to themselves.

Richards was right; the cheques were never seen again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within two days the
forbidden gabblings were the property of the town; and they were of
a surprising sort.  They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a
claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had concealed that
fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.  And he said it
was not fair to attach weight to the chatter of a sick old man who
was out of his mind.  Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was
much talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs. Richards's delirious
deliveries were getting to be duplicates of her husband's.
Suspicion flamed up into conviction, now, and the town's pride in
the purity of its one undiscredited important citizen began to dim
down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news.  The old couple were dying.
Richards's mind cleared in his latest hour, and he sent for Burgess.
Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared.  I think he wishes to say something in
privacy."

"No!" said Richards; "I want witnesses.  I want you all to hear my
confession, so that I may die a man, and not a dog.  I was clean--
artificially--like the rest; and like the rest I fell when
temptation came.  I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable sack.
Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done him a service, and in
gratitude (and ignorance) he suppressed my claim and saved me.  You
know the thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.  My
testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared him, and I was a
coward and left him to suffer disgrace--"

"No--no--Mr.  Richards, you--"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him--"

"No one has betrayed anything to me--"

- "And then he did a natural and justifiable thing; he repented of
the saving kindness which he had done me, and he EXPOSED me--as I
deserved--"

"Never!--I make oath--"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf ears; the dying
man passed away without knowing that once more he had done poor
Burgess a wrong.  The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey to the fiendish
sack; the town was stripped of the last rag of its ancient glory.
Its mourning was not showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature--upon prayer and petition--Hadleyburg was
allowed to change its name to (never mind what--I will not give it
away), and leave one word out of the motto that for many generations
had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will have to rise early
that catches it napping again.






MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information about 'my first lie,
and how I got out of it.'  I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was.  If you had asked about my first truth
it would have been easier for me and kinder of you, for I remember that
fairly well.  I remember it as if it were last week.  The family think it
was week before, but that is flattery and probably has a selfish project
back of it.  When a person has become seasoned by experience and has
reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age of discretion, he likes a
family compliment as well as ever, but he does not lose his head over it
as in the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back; but I remember my
second one very well.  I was nine days old at the time, and had noticed
that if a pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the usual
fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and pitied in a most agreeable
way and got a ration between meals besides.

It was human nature to want to get these riches, and I fell.  I lied
about the pin--advertising one when there wasn't any.  You would have
done it; George Washington did it, anybody would have done it.  During
the first half of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
about that temptation and keep from telling that lie.  Up to 1867 all the
civilised children that were ever born into the world were liars--
including George.  Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.  But
is that reform worth anything?  No; for it is reform by force and has no
virtue in it; it merely stops that form of lying, it doesn't impair the
disposition to lie, by a shade.  It is the cradle application of
conversion by fire and sword, or of the temperance principle through
prohibition.

To return to that early lie.  They found no pin and they realised that
another liar had been added to the world's supply.  For by grace of a
rare inspiration a quite commonplace but seldom noticed fact was borne in
upon their understandings--that almost all lies are acts, and speech has
no part in them.  Then, if they examined a little further they recognised
that all people are liars from the cradle onwards, without exception, and
that they begin to lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up without rest or refreshment until they go to sleep at night.  If they
arrived at that truth it probably grieved them--did, if they had been
heedlessly and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers; for why
should a person grieve over a thing which by the eternal law of his make
he cannot help?  He didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy and keep so still
that he shall deceive his fellow-conspirators into imagining that he
doesn't know that the law exists.  It is what we all do--we that know.  I
am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can tell it without saying
a word, and we all do it--we that know.  In the magnitude of its
territorial spread it is one of the most majestic lies that the
civilisations make it their sacred and anxious care to guard and watch
and propagate.

For instance.  It would not be possible for a humane and intelligent
person to invent a rational excuse for slavery; yet you will remember
that in the early days of the emancipation agitation in the North the
agitators got but small help or countenance from any one.  Argue and
plead and pray as they might, they could not break the universal
stillness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way down to the
bottom of society--the clammy stillness created and maintained by the lie
of silent assertion--the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end of it all France,
except a couple of dozen moral paladins, lay under the smother of the
silent-assertion lie that no wrong was being done to a persecuted and
unoffending man.  The like smother was over England lately, a good half
of the population silently letting on that they were not aware that Mr.
Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a war in South Africa and was
willing to pay fancy prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent ostensible civilisations
working the silent-assertion lie.  Could one find other instances in the
three countries?  I think so.  Not so very many perhaps, but say a
billion--just so as to keep within bounds.  Are those countries working
that kind of lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands of
varieties, without ever resting?  Yes, we know that to be true.  The
universal conspiracy of the silent-assertion lie is hard at work always
and everywhere, and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.  Is it the most
timid and shabby of all lies?  It seems to have the look of it.  For ages
and ages it has mutely laboured in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military slaveries, and
religious slaveries, and has kept them alive; keeps them alive yet, here
and there and yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping them
alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from business--the silent
assertion that nothing is going on which fair and intelligent men are
aware of and are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races and peoples conspire to
propagate gigantic mute lies in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why
should we care anything about the trifling lies told by individuals?  Why
should we try to make it appear that abstention from lying is a virtue?
Why should we want to beguile ourselves in that way?  Why should we
without shame help the nation lie, and then be ashamed to do a little
lying on our own account?  Why shouldn't we be honest and honourable, and
lie every time we get a chance?  That is to say, why shouldn't we be
consistent, and either lie all the time or not at all?  Why should we
help the nation lie the whole day long and then object to telling one
little individual private lie in our own interest to go to bed on?  Just
for the refreshment of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of
our mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.  They won't tell a spoken lie
--nothing can persuade them.  Except in a large moral interest, like
politics or religion, I mean.  To tell a spoken lie to get even the
poorest little personal advantage out of it is a thing which is
impossible to them.  They make me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are
so bigoted.  They will not even tell a lie for the fun of it; they will
not tell it when it hasn't eve a suggestion of damage or advantage in it
for any one.  This has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies, just like
anybody; but they don't notice it until their attention is called to it.
They have got me so that sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except
in a modified form; and even in the modified form they don't approve of
it.  Still, that is as far as I can go in the interest of the growing
friendly relations between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect--and my health.  I can live on a pretty low diet, but I
can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have to come out with a
spoken lie, for that is a thing which happens to everybody once in a
while, and would happen to the angels if they came down here much.
Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the lies I speak of are self-
sacrificing ones told for a generous object, not a mean one; but even
when these people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them and
unsettle their minds.  It is a wonderful thing to see, and shows that
they are all insane.  In fact, it is a country which is full of the most
interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years' standing, and yesterday
when we were coming down-town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a
lie--a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a mulatto; I can't seem to
tell any other kind now, the market is so flat.  I was explaining to him
how I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.  I do not know
what might have become of me if I hadn't happened to remember to tell the
police that I belonged to the same family as the Prince of Wales.  That
made everything pleasant and they let me go; and apologised, too, and
were ever so kind and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much for
me, and explained how the mistake came to be made, and promised to hang
the officer that did it, and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend on me.  My friend
said, austerely:

'You call it a modified lie?  Where is the modification?'

I explained that it lay in the form of my statement to the police.
'I didn't say I belonged to the Royal Family; I only said I belonged to
the same family as the Prince--meaning the human family, of course; and
if those people had had any penetration they would have known it.  I
can't go around furnishing brains to the police; it is not to be
expected.'

'How did you feel after that performance?'

'Well, of course I was distressed to find that the police had
misunderstood me, but as long as I had not told any lie I knew there was
no occasion to sit up nights and worry about it.'

My friend struggled with the case several minutes, turning it over and
examining it in his mind, then he said that so far as he could see the
modification was itself a lie, it being a misleading reservation of an
explanatory fact, and so I had told two lies instead of only one.

'I wouldn't have done it,' said he; 'I have never told a lie, and I
should be very sorry to do such a thing.'

Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful of surprised and
delighted smiles down at a gentleman who was passing in a hansom.

'Who was that, G---?'

'I don't know.'

'Then why did you do that?'

'Because I saw he thought he knew me and was expecting it of me.  If I
hadn't done it he would have been hurt.  I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street.'

'Well, your heart was right, G---, and your act was right.  What you did
was kindly and courteous and beautiful; I would have done it myself; but
it was a lie.'

'A lie?  I didn't say a word.  How do you make it out?'

'I know you didn't speak, still you said to him very plainly and
enthusiastically in dumb show, "Hello! you in town?  Awful glad to see
you, old fellow; when did you get back?" Concealed in your actions was
what you have called "a misleading reservation of an explanatory fact"--
the act that you had never seen him before.  You expressed joy in
encountering him--a lie; and you made that reservation--another lie.  It
was my pair over again.  But don't be troubled--we all do it.'

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other matters were being
discussed, he told how he happened along once just in the nick of time to
do a great service for a family who were old friends of his.  The head of
it had suddenly died in circumstances and surroundings of a ruinously
disgraceful character.  If know the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unendurable shame.  There was
no help but in a giant lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

'The family never found out, G---?'

'Never.  In all these years they have never suspected.  They were proud
of him and had always reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to
them his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful.'

'They had a narrow escape, G---.'

'Indeed they had.'

'For the very next man that came along might have been one of these
heartless and shameless truth-mongers.  You have told the truth a million
times in your life, G---, but that one golden lie atones for it all.
Persevere.'

Some may think me not strict enough in my morals, but that position is
hardly tenable.  There are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.  I
do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures somebody else; and I
do not like the lie of bravado, nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy; the
latter was affected by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, 'Truth crushed to earth will rise again.'  I have taken
medals at thirteen world's fairs, and may claim to be not without
capacity, but I never told as big a one as that.  Mr. Bryant was playing
to the gallery; we all do it.  Carlyle said, in substance, this--I do not
remember the exact words: 'This gospel is eternal--that a lie shall not
live.'  I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books, and have read
his 'Revelation' eight times; and so I prefer to think he was not
entirely at himself when he told that one.  To me it is plain that he
said it in a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans out of his
back-yard with brickbats.  They used to go there and worship.  At bottom
he was probably fond of it, but he was always able to conceal it.  He
kept bricks for them, but he was not a good shot, and it is matter of
history that when he fired they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as
a nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we do not much care
what the reliquary thinks about it.  I am quite sure that when he told
that large one about a lie not being able to live he had just missed an
American and was over excited.  He told it above thirty years ago, but it
is alive yet; alive, and very healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive
any fact in history.  Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give him
Americans enough and bricks enough and he could have taken medals
himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told the truth, a word must
be said, of course.  It is the principal jewel in the crown of America,
and it is but natural that we should work it for all it is worth, as
Milton says in his 'Lay of the Last Minstrel.'  It was a timely and
judicious truth, and I should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there.  It was a stately truth, a lofty truth--
a Tower; and I think it was a mistake to go on and distract attention
from its sublimity by building another Tower alongside of it fourteen
times as high.  I refer to his remark that he 'could not lie.'  I should
have fed that to the marines; or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his
style.  It would have taken a medal at any European fair, and would have
got an honourable mention even at Chicago if it had been saved up.  But
let it pass; the Father of his Country was excited.  I have been in those
circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to offer, as already
indicated.  I think it was not premeditated but an inspiration.  With his
fine military mind, he had probably arranged to let his brother Edward in
for the cherry tree results, but by an inspiration he saw his opportunity
in time and took advantage of it.  By telling the truth he could astonish
his father; his father would tell the neighbours; the neighbours would
spread it; it would travel to all firesides; in the end it would make him
President, and not only that, but First President.  He was a far-seeing
boy and would be likely to think of these things.  Therefore, to my mind,
he stands justified for what he did.  But not for the other Tower; it was
a mistake.  Still, I don't know about that; upon reflection I think
perhaps it wasn't.  For indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one
live.  If he hadn't said 'I cannot tell a lie' there would have been no
convulsion.  That was the earthquake that rocked the planet.  That is the
kind of statement that lives for ever, and a fact barnacled to it has a
good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with things the way they are.
There is a prejudice against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation I find that the
proportion of the spoken lie to the other varieties is as 1 to 22,894.
Therefore the spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth while
to go around fussing about it and trying to make believe that it is an
important matter.  The silent colossal National Lie that is the support
and confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and inequalities and
unfairnesses that afflict the peoples--that is the one to throw bricks
and sermons at.  But let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then--But I have wandered from my text.  How did I get out of my
second lie?  I think I got out with honour, but I cannot be sure, for it
was a long time ago and some of the details have faded out of my memory.
I recollect that I was reversed and stretched across some one's knee, and
that something happened, but I cannot now remember what it was.  I think
there was music; but it is all dim now and blurred by the lapse of time,
and this may be only a senile fancy.






THE ESQUIMAUX MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

'Yes, I will tell you anything about my life that you would like to know,
Mr. Twain,' she said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes rest
placidly upon my face, 'for it is kind and good of you to like me and
care to know about me.'

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease from her cheeks with a
small bone-knife and transferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched
the Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of the sky and wash
the lonely snow plain and the templed icebergs with the rich hues of the
prism, a spectacle of almost intolerable splendour and beauty; but now
she shook off her reverie and prepared to give me the humble little
history I had asked for.  She settled herself comfortably on the block of
ice which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to listen.

She was a beautiful creature.  I speak from the Esquimaux point of view.
Others would have thought her a trifle over-plump.  She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most bewitching girl in her
tribe.  Even now, in the open air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur
coat and trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her face was at
least apparent; but her figure had to be taken on trust.  Among all the
guests who came and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospitable
trough who could be called her equal.  Yet she was not spoiled.  She was
sweet and natural and sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she possessed that
knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now, and the better I knew her
the better I liked her.  She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for the polar regions, for
her father was the most important man of his tribe and ranked at the top
of Esquimaux civilisation.  I made long dog-sledge trips across the
mighty ice floes with Lasca--that was her name--and found her company
always pleasant and her conversation agreeable.  I went fishing with her,
but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed along on the ice and
watched her strike her game with her fatally accurate spear.  We went
sealing together; several times I stood by while she and the family dug
blubber from a stranded whale, and once I went part of the way when she
was hunting a bear, but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story, now, and this is what she
said:

'Our tribe had always been used to wander about from place to place over
the frozen seas, like the other tribes, but my father got tired of that,
two years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen snow-blocks--look
at it; it is seven feet high and three or four times as long as any of
the others--and here we have stayed ever since.  He was very proud of his
house, and that was reasonable, for if you have examined it with care you
must have noticed how much finer and completer it is than houses usually
are.  But if you have not, you must, for you will find it has luxurious
appointments that are quite beyond the common.  For instance, in that end
of it which you have called the "parlour," the raised platform for the
accommodation of guests and the family at meals is the largest you have
ever seen in any house--is it not so?'

'Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the largest; we have nothing
resembling it in even the finest houses in the United States.'  This
admission made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.  I noted that,
and took my cue.

'I thought it must have surprised you,' she said.  'And another thing; it
is bedded far deeper in furs than is usual; all kinds of furs--seal,
sea-otter, silver-grey fox, bear, marten, sable--every kind of fur in
profusion; and the same with the ice-block sleeping-benches along the
walls which you call "beds." Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?'

'Indeed, they are not, Lasca--they do not begin to be.'  That pleased her
again.  All she was thinking of was the number of furs her aesthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their value.  I could have
told her that those masses of rich furs constituted wealth--or would in
my country--but she would not have understood that; those were not the
kind of things that ranked as riches with her people.  I could have told
her that the clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or fifteen hundred dollars,
and that I was not acquainted with anybody at home who wore
twelve-hundred dollar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing.  She resumed:

'And then the slop-tubs.  We have two in the parlour, and two in the rest
of the house.  It is very seldom that one has two in the parlour.  Have
you two in the parlour at home?'

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I recovered myself before she
noticed, and said with effusion:

'Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my country, and you must not
let it go further, for I am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honour that not even the richest man in the city of New York
has two slop-tubs in his drawing-room.'

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent delight, and exclaimed:

'Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean it!'

'Indeed, I am in earnest, dear.  There is Vanderbilt.  Vanderbilt is
almost the richest man in the whole world.  Now, if I were on my dying
bed, I could say to you that not even he has two in his drawing-room.
Why, he hasn't even one--I wish I may die in my tracks if it isn't true.'

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and she said, slowly, and with
a sort of awe in her voice:

'How strange--how incredible--one is not able to realise it.  Is he
penurious?'

'No--it isn't that.  It isn't the expense he minds, but--er--well, you
know, it would look like showing off.  Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from display.'

'Why, that humility is right enough,' said Lasca, 'if one does not carry
it too far--but what does the place look like?'

'Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and unfinished, but--'

'I should think so! I never heard anything like it.  Is it a fine house--
that is, otherwise?'

'Pretty fine, yes.  It is very well thought of.'

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnawing a candle-end,
apparently trying to think the thing out.  At last she gave her head a
little toss and spoke out her opinion with decision:

'Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility which is itself a species
of showing off when you get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlour, and doesn't do it, it may be
that he is truly humble-minded, but it's a hundred times more likely that
he is just trying to strike the public eye.  In my judgment, your Mr.
Vanderbilt knows what he is about.'

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double slop-tub standard
was not a fair one to try everybody by, although a sound enough one in
its own habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not to be
persuaded.  Presently she said:

'Do the rich people, with you, have as good sleeping-benches as ours, and
made out of as nice broad ice-blocks?'

'Well, they are pretty good--good enough--but they are not made of
ice-blocks.'

'I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-blocks?'

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the expensiveness of ice in
a country where you have to keep a sharp eye on your ice-man or your
ice-bill will weigh more than your ice.  Then she cried out:

'Dear me, do you buy your ice?'

'We most surely do, dear.'

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

'Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My! there's plenty of it--it
isn't worth anything.  Why, there is a hundred miles of it in sight,
right now.  I wouldn't give a fish-bladder for the whole of it.'

'Well, it's because you don't know how to value it, you little provincial
muggings.  If you had it in New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it.'

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

'Are you speaking true?'

'Absolutely.  I take my oath to it.'

This made her thoughtful.  Presently she said, with a little sigh:

'I wish I could live there.'

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of values which she could
understand; but my purpose had miscarried.  I had only given her the
impression that whales were cheap and plenty in New York, and set her
mouth to watering for them.  It seemed best to try to mitigate the evil
which I had done, so I said:

'But you wouldn't care for whale-meat if you lived there.  Nobody does.'

'What!'

'Indeed they don't.'

'Why don't they?'

'Wel-l-l, I hardly know.  It's prejudice, I think.  Yes, that is it--just
prejudice.  I reckon somebody that hadn't anything better to do started a
prejudice against it, some time or other, and once you get a caprice like
that fairly going, you know it will last no end of time.'

'That is true--perfectly true,' said the girl, reflectively.  'Like our
prejudice against soap, here--our tribes had a prejudice against soap at
first, you know.'

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest.  Evidently she was.  I
hesitated, then said, cautiously:

'But pardon me.  They had a prejudice against soap?  Had?'--with falling
inflection.

'Yes--but that was only at first; nobody would eat it.'

'Oh--I understand.  I didn't get your idea before.'

She resumed:

'It was just a prejudice.  The first time soap came here from the
foreigners, nobody liked it; but as soon as it got to be fashionable,
everybody liked it, and now everybody has it that can afford it.  Are you
fond of it?'

'Yes, indeed; I should die if I couldn't have it--especially here.  Do
you like it?'

'I just adore it! Do you like candles?'

'I regard them as an absolute necessity.  Are you fond of them?'

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

'Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!--and soap!--'

'And fish-interiors!--'

'And train-oil--'

'And slush!--'

'And whale-blubber!--'

'And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax! and tar! and turpentine! and
molasses! and--'

'Don't--oh, don't--I shall expire with ecstasy!--'

'And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and invite the neighbours
and sail in!'

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for her, and she swooned
away, poor thing.  I rubbed snow in her face and brought her to, and
after a while got her excitement cooled down.  By-and-by she drifted into
her story again:

'So we began to live here in the fine house.  But I was not happy.  The
reason was this: I was born for love: for me there could be no true
happiness without it.  I wanted to be loved for myself alone.  I wanted
an idol, and I wanted to be my idol's idol; nothing less than mutual
idolatry would satisfy my fervent nature.  I had suitors in plenty--in
over-plenty, indeed--but in each and every case they had a fatal defect:
sooner or later I discovered that defect--not one of them failed to
betray it--it was not me they wanted, but my wealth.'

'Your wealth?'

'Yes; for my father is much the richest man in this tribe--or in any
tribe in these regions.'

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.  It couldn't be the
house--anybody could build its mate.  It couldn't be the furs--they were
not valued.  It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the harpoons, the boat,
the bone fish-hooks and needles, and such things--no, these were not
wealth.  Then what could it be that made this man so rich and brought
this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?  It seemed to me, finally,
that the best way to find out would be to ask.  So I did it.  The girl
was so manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she had been
aching to have me ask it.  She was suffering fully as much to tell as I
was to know.  She snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

'Guess how much he is worth--you never can!'

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she watching my anxious and
labouring countenance with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my longing by telling me
herself how much this polar Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close
to my ear and whispered, impressively:

'Twenty-two fish-hooks--not bone, but foreign--made out of real iron!'

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the effect.  I did my level
best not to disappoint her.  I turned pale and murmured:

'Great Scott!'

'It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!'

'Lasca, you are deceiving me--you cannot mean it.'

She was frightened and troubled.  She exclaimed:

'Mr. Twain, every word of it is true--every word.  You believe me--you do
believe me, now don't you?  Say you believe me--do say you believe me!'

'I--well, yes, I do--I am trying to.  But it was all so sudden.  So
sudden and prostrating.  You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden
way.  It--'

'Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought--'

'Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any more, for you are young
and thoughtless, and of course you couldn't foresee what an effect--'

'But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known better.  Why--'

'You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six hooks, to start with, and
then gradually--'

'Oh, I see, I see--then gradually added one, and then two, and then--ah,
why couldn't I have thought of that!'

'Never mind, child, it's all right--I am better now--I shall be over it
in a little while.  But--to spring the whole twenty-two on a person
unprepared and not very strong anyway--'

'Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me--say you forgive me.  Do!'

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant coaxing and petting and
persuading, I forgave her and she was happy again, and by-and-by she got
under way with her narrative once more.  I presently discovered that the
family treasury contained still another feature--a jewel of some sort,
apparently--and that she was trying to get around speaking squarely about
it, lest I get paralysed again.  But I wanted to known about that thing,
too, and urged her to tell me what it was.  She was afraid.  But I
insisted, and said I would brace myself this time and be prepared, then
the shock would not hurt me.  She was full of misgivings, but the
temptation to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonishment and
admiration was too strong for her, and she confessed that she had it on
her person, and said that if I was sure I was prepared--and so on and so
on--and with that she reached into her bosom and brought out a battered
square of brass, watching my eye anxiously the while.  I fell over
against her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her heart and
nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the same time.  When I came to
and got calm, she was eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

'What do I think of it?  I think it is the most exquisite thing I ever
saw.'

'Do you really?  How nice of you to say that! But it is a love, now isn't
it?'

'Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than the equator.'

'I thought you would admire it,' she said.  'I think it is so lovely.
And there isn't another one in all these latitudes.  People have come all
the way from the open Polar Sea to look at it.  Did you ever see one
before?'

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.  It cost me a pang to
tell that generous lie, for I had seen a million of them in my time, this
humble jewel of hers being nothing but a battered old New York Central
baggage check.

'Land!' said I, 'you don't go about with it on your person this way,
alone and with no protection, not even a dog?'

'Ssh! not so loud,' she said.  'Nobody knows I carry it with me.  They
think it is in papa's treasury.  That is where it generally is.'

'Where is the treasury?'

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she looked startled and a
little suspicious, but I said:

'Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me.  At home we have seventy
millions of people, and although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is
not one person among them all but would trust me with untold fish-hooks.'

This reassured her, and she told me where the hooks were hidden in the
house.  Then she wandered from her course to brag a little about the size
of the sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of the mansion,
and asked me if I had ever seen their like at home, and I came right out
frankly and confessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than she
could find words to dress her gratification in.  It was so easy to please
her, and such a pleasure to do it, that I went on and said--

'Ah, Lasca, you are a fortune girl!--this beautiful house, this dainty
jewel, that rich treasure, all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs
and limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and noble freedom
and largeness and everybody's admiring eyes upon you, and everybody's
homage and respect at your command without the asking; young, rich,
beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a requirement unsatisfied, not a
desire ungratified, nothing to wish for that you cannot have--it is
immeasurable good-fortune! I have seen myriads of girls, but none of whom
these extraordinary things could be truthfully said but you alone.  And
you are worthy--worthy of it all, Lasca--I believe it in my heart.'

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me say this, and she
thanked me over and over again for that closing remark, and her voice and
eyes showed that she was touched.  Presently she said:

'Still, it is not all sunshine--there is a cloudy side.  The burden of
wealth is a heavy one to bear.  Sometimes I have doubted if it were not
better to be poor--at least not inordinately rich.  It pains me to see
neighbouring tribesmen stare as they pass by, and overhear them say,
reverently, one to another, "There--that is she--the millionaire's
daughter!"  And sometimes they say sorrowfully, "She is rolling in
fish-hooks, and I--I have nothing."  It breaks my heart.  When I was a
child and we were poor, we slept with the door open, if we chose, but
now--now we have to have a night-watchman.  In those days my father was
gentle and courteous to all; but now he is austere and haughty and cannot
abide familiarity.  Once his family were his sole thought, but now he
goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all the time.  And his wealth makes
everybody cringing and obsequious to him.  Formerly nobody laughed at his
jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched and poor, and destitute of
the one element that can really justify a joke--the element of humour;
but now everybody laughs and cackles at these dismal things, and if any
fails to do it my father is deeply displeased, and shows it.  Formerly
his opinion was not sought upon any matter and was not valuable when he
volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet, but, nevertheless, it is
sought by all and applauded by all--and he helps do the applauding
himself, having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.  He has
lowered the tone of all our tribe.  Once they were a frank and manly
race, now they are measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility.  In my
heart of hearts I hate all the ways of millionaires! Our tribe was once
plain, simple folk, and content with the bone fish-hooks of their
fathers; now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacrifice every
sentiment of honour and honesty to possess themselves of the debasing
iron fish-hooks of the foreigner.  However, I must not dwell on these sad
things.  As I have said, it was my dream to be loved for myself alone.

'At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.  A stranger came by,
one day, who said his name was Kalula.  I told him my name, and he said
he loved me.  My heart gave a great bound of gratitude and pleasure, for
I had loved him at sight, and now I said so.  He took me to his breast
and said he would not wish to be happier than he was now.  We went
strolling together far over the ice-floes, telling all about each other,
and planning, oh, the loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I had brought along some
blubber.  We were hungry and nothing was ever so good.

'He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to the north, and I found
that he had never heard of my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly.  I
mean he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard his name--so,
you see, he could not know that I was the heiress.  You may be sure that
I did not tell him.  I was loved for myself at last, and was satisfied.
I was so happy--oh, happier than you can think!

'By-and-by it was towards supper time, and I led him home.  As we
approached our house he was amazed, and cried out:

'"How splendid! Is that your father's?"

'It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that admiring light in his
eye, but the feeling quickly passed away, for I loved him so, and he
looked so handsome and noble.  All my family of aunts and uncles and
cousins were pleased with him, and many guests were called in, and the
house was shut up tight and the rag lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began a joyous feast in
celebration of my betrothal.

'When the feast was over my father's vanity overcame him, and he could
not resist the temptation to show off his riches and let Kalula see what
grand good-fortune he had stumbled into--and mainly, of course, he wanted
to enjoy the poor man's amazement.  I could have cried--but it would have
done no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said nothing, but merely
sat there and suffered.

'My father went straight to the hiding-place in full sight of everybody,
and got out the fish-hooks and brought them and flung them scatteringly
over my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on the platform
at my lover's knee.

'Of course, the astounding spectacle took the poor lad's breath away.  He
could only stare in stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single
individual could possess such incredible riches.  Then presently he
glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

'"Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!"

'My father and all the rest burst into shouts of happy laughter, and when
my father gathered the treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere
rubbish and of no consequence, and carried it back to its place, poor
Kulala's surprise was a study.  He said:

'"Is it possible that you put such things away without counting them?"

'My father delivered a vain-glorious horse-laugh, and said:

'"Well, truly, a body may know you have never been rich, since a mere
matter of a fish-hook or two is such a mighty matter in your eyes."

'Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but said:

'"Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of the barb of one of
those precious things, and I have never seen any man before who was so
rich in them as to render the counting of his hoard worth while, since
the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now, was possessed of but
three."

'My foolish father roared again with jejune delight, and allowed the
impression to remain that he was not accustomed to count his hooks and
keep sharp watch over them.  He was showing off, you see.  Count them?
Why, he counted them every day!

'I had met and got acquainted with my darling just at dawn; I had brought
him home just at dark, three hours afterwards--for the days were
shortening toward the six-months' night at that time.  We kept up the
festivities many hours; then, at last, the guests departed and the rest
of us distributed ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and soon
all were steeped in dreams but me.  I was too happy, too excited, to
sleep.  After I had lain quiet a long, long time, a dim form passed by me
and was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the farther end of the
house.  I could not make out who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going the other way.  I
wondered what it all meant, but wondering did no good; and while I was
still wondering I fell asleep.

'I do not know how long I slept, but at last I came suddenly broad awake
and heard my father say in a terrible voice, "By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!"  Something told me that that meant sorrow for
me, and the blood in my veins turned cold.  The presentiment was
confirmed in the same instant: my father shouted, "Up, everybody, and
seize the stranger!"  Then there was an outburst of cries and curses from
all sides, and a wild rush of dim forms through the obscurity.  I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and wring my hands?--he
was already fenced away from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot.  Not until he was secured would they let me get to him.  I
flung myself upon his poor insulted form and cried my grief out upon his
breast while my father and all my family scoffed at me and heaped threats
and shameful epithets upon him.  He bore his ill usage with a tranquil
dignity which endeared him to me more than ever, and made me proud and
happy to suffer with him and for him.  I heard my father order that the
elders of the tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

'"What!"  I said, "before any search has been made for the lost hook?"

'"Lost hook!"  they all shouted, in derision; and my father added,
mockingly, "Stand back, everybody, and be properly serious--she is going
to hunt up that lost hook: oh, without doubt she will find it!"--whereat
they all laughed again.

'I was not disturbed--I had no fears, no doubts.  I said:

'"It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.  But ours is coming; wait
and see."

'I got a rag lamp.  I thought I should find that miserable thing in one
little moment; and I set about that matter with such confidence that
those people grew grace, beginning to suspect that perhaps they had been
too hasty.  But alas and alas!--oh, the bitterness of that search! There
was deep silence while one might count his fingers ten or twelve times,
then my heart began to sink, and around me the mockings began again, and
grew steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when I gave up,
they burst into volley after volley of cruel laughter.

'None will ever know what I suffered then.  But my love was my support
and my strength, and I took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and
put my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear, saying:

'"You are innocent, my own--that I know; but say it to me yourself, for
my comfort, then I can bear whatever is in store for us."

'He answered:

'"As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at this moment, I am
innocent.  Be comforted, then, O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou
breath of my nostrils, life of my life!"

'"Now, then, let the elders come!"--and as I said the words there was a
gathering sound of crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stooping
forms filing in at the door--the elders.

'My father formally accused the prisoner, and detailed the happenings of
the night.  He said that the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.  "Would the family
steal their own property?" He paused.  The elders sat silent many
minutes; at last, one after another said to his neighbour, "This looks
bad for the stranger"--sorrowful words for me to hear.  Then my father
sat down.  O miserable, miserable me! At that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

'The chief of the court asked:

'"Is there any here to defend the prisoner?"

'I rose and said:

'"Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of them?  In another day
he would have been heir to the whole!"

I stood waiting.  There was a long silence, the steam from the many
breaths rising about me like a fog.  At last one elder after another
nodded his head slowly several times, and muttered, "There is force in
what the child has said."  Oh, the heart-lift that was in those words!--
so transient, but, oh, so precious! I sat down.

'"If any would say further, let him speak now, or after hold his peace,"
said the chief of the court.

'My father rose and said:

'"In the night a form passed by me in the gloom, going toward the
treasury and presently returned.  I think, now, it was the stranger."

'Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that that was my secret; not the
grip of the great Ice God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.
The chief of the court said sternly to my poor Kalula:

'"Speak!"

'Kalula hesitated, then answered:

'"It was I.  I could not sleep for thinking of the beautiful hooks.  I
went there and kissed them and fondled them, to appease my spirit and
drown it in a harmless joy, then I put them back.  I may have dropped
one, but I stole none."

'Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place! There was an awful hush.
I knew he had pronounced his own doom, and that all was over.  On every
face you could see the words hieroglyphed: "It is a confession!--and
paltry, lame, and thin."

'I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps--and waiting.  Presently, I
heard the solemn words I knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

'"It is the command of the court that the accused be subjected to the
trial by water."

'Oh, curses be upon the head of him who brought "trial by water" to our
land! It came, generations ago, from some far country that lies none
knows where.  Before that our fathers used augury and other unsure
methods of trial, and doubtless some poor guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by water, which is an
invention by wiser men than we poor ignorant savages are.  By it the
innocent are proved innocent, without doubt or question, for they drown;
and the guilty are proven guilty with the same certainty, for they do not
drown.  My heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, "He is innocent,
and he will go down under the waves and I shall never see him more."

'I never left his side after that.  I mourned in his arms all the
precious hours, and he poured out the deep stream of his love upon me,
and oh, I was so miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him from me,
and I followed sobbing after them, and saw them fling him into the sea--
then I covered my face with my hands.  Agony?  Oh, I know the deepest
deeps of that word!

'The next moment the people burst into a shout of malicious joy, and I
took away my hands, startled.  Oh, bitter sight--he was swimming! My
heart turned instantly to stone, to ice.  I said, "He was guilty, and he
lied to me!"  I turned my back in scorn and went my way homeward.

'They took him far out to sea and set him on an iceberg that was drifting
southward in the great waters.  Then my family came home, and my father
said to me:

'"Your thief sent his dying message to you, saying, 'Tell her I am
innocent, and that all the days and all the hours and all the minutes
while I starve and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless the
day that gave me sight of her sweet face.'" Quite pretty, even poetical!

'I said, "He is dirt--let me never hear mention of him again."  And oh,
to think--he was innocent all the time!

'Nine months--nine dull, sad months--went by, and at last came the day of
the Great Annual Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash their
faces and comb their hair.  With the first sweep of my comb out came the
fatal fish-hook from where it had been all those months nestling, and I
fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful father! Groaning, he said,
"We murdered him, and I shall never smile again!"  He has kept his word.
Listen; from that day to this not a month goes by that I do not comb my
hair.  But oh, where is the good of it all now!'

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale--whereby we learn that since
a hundred million dollars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same financial supremacy, a man
in straitened circumstances is a fool to stay in New York when he can buy
ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.






CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND THE BOOK OF MRS. EDDY

     'It is the first time since the dawn-days of Creation that a Voice
     has gone crashing through space with such placid and complacent
     confidence and command.'

I

This last summer, when I was on my way back to Vienna from the
Appetite-Cure in the mountains, I fell over a cliff in the twilight and
broke some arms and legs and one thing or another, and by good luck was
found by some peasants who had lost an ass, and they carried me to the
nearest habitation, which was one of those large, low, thatch-roofed
farm-houses, with apartments in the garret for the family, and a cunning
little porch under the deep gable decorated with boxes of bright-coloured
flowers and cats; on the ground floor a large and light sitting-room,
separated from the milch-cattle apartment by a partition; and in the
front yard rose stately and fine the wealth and pride of the house, the
manure-pile.  That sentence is Germanic, and shows that I am acquiring
that sort of mastery of the art and spirit of the language which enables
a man to travel all day in one sentence without changing cars.

There was a village a mile away, and a horse-doctor lived there, but
there was no surgeon.  It seemed a bad outlook; mine was distinctly a
surgery case.  Then it was remembered that a lady from Boston was
summering in that village, and she was a Christian Science doctor and
could cure anything.  So she was sent for.  It was night by this time,
and she could not conveniently come, but sent word that it was no matter,
there was no hurry, she would give me 'absent treatment' now, and come in
the morning; meantime she begged me to make myself tranquil and
comfortable and remember that there was nothing the matter with me.  I
thought there must be some mistake.

'Did you tell her I walked off a cliff seventy-five feet high?'

'Yes.'

'And struck a boulder at the bottom and bounced?'

'Yes.'

'And struck another one and bounced again?'

'Yes.'

'And struck another one and bounced yet again?'

'Yes.'

'And broke the boulders?'

'Yes.'

'That accounts for it; she is thinking of the boulders.  Why didn't you
tell her I got hurt, too?'

'I did.  I told her what you told me to tell her: that you were now but
an incoherent series of compound fractures extending from your scalp-lock
to your heels, and that the comminuted projections caused you to look
like a hat-rack.'

'And it was after this that she wished me to remember that there was
nothing the matter with me?'

'Those were her words.'

'I do not understand it.  I believe she has not diagnosed the case with
sufficient care.  Did she look like a person who was theorising, or did
she look like one who has fallen off precipices herself and brings to the
aid of abstract science the confirmation of personal experience?'

'Bitte?'

It was too large a contract for the Stubenmadchen's vocabulary; she
couldn't call the hand.  I allowed the subject to rest there, and asked
for something to eat and smoke, and something hot to drink, and a basket
to pile my legs in, and another capable person to come and help me curse
the time away; but I could not have any of these things.

'Why?'

'She said you would need nothing at all.'

'But I am hungry and thirsty, and in desperate pain.'

'She said you would have these delusions, but must pay no attention to
them.  She wants you to particularly remember that there are no such
things as hunger and thirst and pain.'

'She does, does she?'

'It is what she said.'

'Does she seem o be in full and functional possession of her intellectual
plant, such as it is?'

'Bitte?'

'Do they let her run at large, or do they tie her up?'

'Tie her up?'

'There, good-night, run along; you are a good girl, but your mental
Geschirr is not arranged for light and airy conversation.  Leave me to my
delusions.'


II

It was a night of anguish, of course--at least I supposed it was, for it
had all the symptoms of it--but it passed at last, and the Christian
Scientist came, and I was glad.  She was middle-aged, and large and bony
and erect, and had an austere face and a resolute jaw and a Roman beak
and was a widow in the third degree, and her name was Fuller.  I was
eager to get to business and find relief, but she was distressingly
deliberate.  She unpinned and unhooked and uncoupled her upholsteries one
by one, abolished the wrinkles with a flirt of her hand and hung the
articles up; peeled off her gloves and disposed of them, got a book out
of her hand-bag, then drew a chair to the bedside, descended into it
without hurry, and I hung out my tongue.  She said, with pity but without
passion:

'Return it to its receptacle.  We deal with the mind only, not with its
dumb servants.'

I could not offer my pulse, because the connection was broken; but she
detected the apology before I could word it, and indicated by a negative
tilt of her head that the pulse was another dumb servant that she had no
use for.  Then I thought I would tell her my symptoms and how I felt, so
that she would understand the case; but that was another inconsequence,
she did not need to know those things; moreover, my remark about how I
felt was an abuse of language, a misapplication of terms--

'One does not feel,' she explained; 'there is no such thing as feeling:
therefore, to speak of a non-existent thing as existent as a
contradiction.  Matter has no existence; nothing exists but mind; the
mind cannot feel pain, it can only imagine it.'

'But if it hurts, just the same--'

'It doesn't.  A thing which is unreal cannot exercise the functions of
reality.  Pain is unreal; hence pain cannot hurt.'

In making a sweeping gesture to indicate the act of shooing the illusion
of pain out of the mind, she raked her hand on a pin in her dress, said
'Ouch!' and went tranquilly on with her talk.  'You should never allow
yourself to speak of how you feel, nor permit others to ask you how you
are feeling: you should never concede that you are ill, nor permit others
to talk about disease or pain or death or similar non-existences in your
preserve.  Such talk only encourages the mind to continue its empty
imaginings.'  Just at that point the Stubenmadchen trod on the cat's
tail, and the cat let fly a frenzy of cat-profanity.  I asked with
caution:

'Is a cat's opinion about pain valuable?'

'A cat has no opinion; opinions proceed from the mind only; the lower
animals, being eternally perishable, have not been granted mind; without
mind opinion is impossible.'

'She merely imagined she felt a pain--the cat?'

'She cannot imagine a pain, for imagination is an effect of mind; without
mind, there is no imagination.  A cat has no imagination.'

'Then she had a real pain?'

'I have already told you there is no such thing as real pain.'

'It is strange and interesting.  I do wonder what was the matter with the
cat.  Because, there being no such thing as real pain, and she not being
able to imagine an imaginary thing, it would seem that God in his Pity
has compensated the cat with some kind of a mysterious emotion useable
when her tail is trodden on which for the moment joins cat and Christian
in one common brotherhood of--'

She broke in with an irritated--

'Peace! The cat feels nothing, the Christian feels nothing.  Your empty
and foolish imaginings are profanation and blasphemy, and can do you an
injury.  It is wiser and better and holier to recognise and confess that
there is no such thing as disease or pain or death.'

'I am full of imaginary tortures,' I said, 'but I do not think I could be
any more uncomfortable if they were real ones.  What must I do to get rid
of them?'

'There is no occasion to get rid of them, since they do not exist.  They
are illusions propagated by matter, and matter has no existence; there is
no such thing as matter.'

'It sounds right and clear, but yet it seems in a degree elusive; it
seems to slip through, just when you think you are getting a grip on it.'

'Explain.'

'Well, for instance: if there is no such thing as matter, how can matter
propagate things?'

In her compassion she almost smiled.  She would have smiled if there were
any such thing as a smile.

'It is quite simple,' she said; 'the fundamental propositions of
Christian Science explain it, and they are summarised in the four
following self-evident propositions: 1.  God is All in all.  2.  God is
good.  Good is Mind.  3.  God, Spirit, being all, nothing is matter.
4.  Life, God, omnipotent Good, deny death, evil sin, disease.  There--
now you see.'

It seemed nebulous: it did not seem to say anything about the difficulty
in hand--how non-existent matter can propagate illusions.  I said, with
some hesitancy:

'Does--does it explain?'

'Doesn't it?  Even if read backward it will do it.'

With a budding hope, I asked her to do it backward.

'Very well.  Disease sin evil death deny Good omnipotent God life matter
is nothing all being Spirit God Mind is Good good is God all in All is
God.  There--do you understand now?

'It--it--well, it is plainer than it was before; still--'

'Well?'

'Could you try it some more ways?'

'As many as you like: it always means the same.  Interchanged in any way
you please it cannot be made to mean anything different from what it
means when put in any other way.  Because it is perfect.  You can jumble
it all up, and it makes no difference: it always comes out the way it was
before.  It was a marvellous mind that produced it.  As a mental tour de
force it is without a mate, it defies alike the simple, the concrete, and
the occult.'

'It seems to be a corker.'

I blushed for the word, but it was out before I could stop it.

'A what?'

'A--wonderful structure--combination, so to speak, or profound thoughts--
unthinkable ones--un--'

'It is true.  Read backwards, or forwards, or perpendicularly, or at any
given angle, these four propositions will always be found to agree in
statement and proof.'

'Ah--proof.  Now we are coming at it.  The statements agree; they agree
with--with--anyway, they agree; I noticed that; but what is it they
prove--I mean, in particular?'

'Why, nothing could be clearer.  They prove: 1.  GOD--Principle, Life,
Truth, Love, Soul, Spirit, Mind.  Do you get that?'

'I--well, I seem to.  Go on, please.

'2.  MAN--God's universal idea, individual, perfect, eternal.  Is it
clear?'

'It--I think so.  Continue.'

'3.  IDEA--An image in Mind; the immediate object of understanding.
There it is--the whole sublime Arcana of Christian Science in a nutshell.
Do you find a weak place in it anywhere?'

'Well--no; it seems strong.'

'Very well.  There is more.  Those three constitute the Scientific
Definition of Immortal Mind.  Next, we have the Scientific Definition of
Mortal Mind.  Thus.  FIRST DEGREE: Depravity.  1.  Physical--Passions and
appetites, fear, depraved will, pride, envy, deceit, hatred, revenge,
sin, disease, death.'

'Phantasms, madam--unrealities, as I understand it.'

'Every one.  SECOND DEGREE: Evil Disappearing.  1.  Moral--Honesty,
affection, compassion, hope, faith, meekness, temperance.  Is it clear?'

'Crystal.'

'THIRD DEGREE: Spiritual Salvation.  1.  Spiritual--Faith, wisdom, power,
purity, understanding, health, love.  You see how searchingly and
co-ordinately interdependent and anthropomorphous it all is.  In this
Third Degree, as we know by the revelations of Christian Science, mortal
mind disappears.'

'Not earlier?'

'No, not until the teaching and preparation for the Third Degree are
completed.'

'It is not until then that one is enabled to take hold of Christian
Science effectively, and with the right sense of sympathy and kinship, as
I understand you.  That is to say, it could not succeed during the
process of the Second Degree, because there would still be remains of
mind left; and therefore--but I interrupted you.  You were about to
further explain the good results proceeding from the erosions and
disintegrations effected by the Third Degree.  It is very interesting: go
on, please.'

'Yes, as I was saying, in this Third Degree mortal mind disappears.
Science so reverses the evidence before the corporeal human senses as to
make this scriptural testimony true in our hearts, "the last shall be
first and the first shall be last," that God and His idea may be to us--
what divinity really is, and must of necessity be--all-inclusive.'

'It is beautiful.  And with that exhaustive exactness your choice and
arrangement of words confirms and establishes what you have claimed for
the powers and functions of the Third Degree.  The Second could probably
produce only temporary absence of mind, it is reserved to the Third to
make it permanent.  A sentence framed under the auspices of the Second
could have a kind of meaning--a sort of deceptive semblance of it--
whereas it is only under the magic of the Third that that defect would
disappear.  Also, without doubt, it is the Third Degree that contributes
another remarkable specialty to Christian Science: viz., ease and flow
and lavishness of words, and rhythm and swing and smoothness.  There must
be a special reason for this?'

'Yes--God-all, all-God, good Good, non-Matter, Matteration, Spirit,
Bones, Truth.'

'That explains it.'

'There is nothing in Christian Science that is not explicable; for God is
one, Time is one, Individuality is one, and may be one of a series, one
of many, as an individual man, individual horse; whereas God is one, not
one of a series, but one alone and without an equal.'

'These are noble thoughts.  They make one burn to know more.  How does
Christian Science explain the spiritual relation of systematic duality to
incidental reflection?'

'Christian Science reverses the seeming relation of Soul and body--as
astronomy reverses the human perception of the movement of the solar
system--and makes body tributary to Mind.  As it is the earth which is in
motion, while the sun is at rest, though in viewing the sun rise one
finds it impossible to believe the sun not to be really rising, so the
body is but the humble servant of the restful Mind, though it seems
otherwise to finite sense; but we shall never understand this while we
admit that soul is in body, or mind in matter, and that man is included
in non-intelligence.  Soul is God, unchangeable and eternal; and man
coexists with and reflects Soul, for the All-in-all is the Altogether,
and the Altogether embraces the All-one, Soul-Mind, Mind-Soul, Love,
Spirit, Bones, Liver, one of a series, alone and without an equal.'

(It is very curious, the effect which Christian Science has upon the
verbal bowels.  Particularly the Third Degree; it makes one think of a
dictionary with the cholera.  But I only thought this; I did not say it.)

'What is the origin of Christian Science?  Is it a gift of God, or did it
just happen?'

'In a sense, it is a gift of God.  That is to say, its powers are from
Him, but the credit of the discovery of the powers and what they are for
is due to an American lady.'

'Indeed?  When did this occur?'

'In 1866.  That is the immortal date when pain and disease and death
disappeared from the earth to return no more for ever.  That is, the
fancies for which those terms stand, disappeared.  The things themselves
had never existed; therefore as soon as it was perceived that there were
no such things, they were easily banished.  The history and nature of the
great discovery are set down in the book here, and--'

'Did the lady write the book?'

'Yes, she wrote it all, herself.  The title is "Science and Health, with
Key to the Scriptures"--for she explains the Scriptures; they were not
understood before.  Not even by the twelve Disciples.  She begins thus--I
will read it to you.'

But she had forgotten to bring her glasses.

'Well, it is no matter,' she said, 'I remember the words--indeed, all
Christian Scientists know the book by heart; it is necessary in our
practice.  We should otherwise make mistakes and do harm.  She begins
thus: "In the year 1866 I discovered the Science of Metaphysical Healing,
and named it Christian Science."  And she says--quite beautifully, I
think--"Through Christian Science, religion and medicine are inspired
with a diviner nature and essence, fresh pinions are given to faith and
understanding, and thoughts acquaint themselves intelligently with God."
Her very words.'

'It is elegant.  And it is a fine thought, too--marrying religion to
medicine, instead of medicine to the undertaker in the old way; for
religion and medicine properly belong together, they being the basis of
all spiritual and physical health.  What kind of medicine do you give for
the ordinary diseases, such as--'

'We never give medicine in any circumstances whatever! We--'

'But, madam, it says--'

'I don't care what it says, and I don't wish to talk about it.'

'I am sorry if I have offended, but you see the mention seemed in some
way inconsistent, and--'

'There are no inconsistencies in Christian Science.  The thing is
impossible, for the Science is absolute.  It cannot be otherwise, since
it proceeds directly from the All-in-all and the Everything-in-Which,
also Soul, Bones, Truth, one of a series, alone and without equal.  It is
Mathematics purified from material dross and made spiritual.'

'I can see that, but--'

'It rests upon the immovable basis of an Apodictical Principle.'

The word flattened itself against my mind trying to get in, and
disordered me a little, and before I could inquire into its pertinency,
she was already throwing the needed light:

'This Apodictical Principle is the absolute Principle of Scientific
Mind-healing, the sovereign Omnipotence which delivers the children of
men from pain, disease, decay, and every ill that flesh is heir to.'

'Surely not every ill, every decay?'

'Every one; there are no exceptions; there is no such thing as decay--it
is an unreality, it has no existence.'

'But without your glasses your failing eyesight does not permit you to--'

'My eyesight cannot fail; nothing can fail; the Mind is master, and the
Mind permits no retrogression.'

She was under the inspiration of the Third Degree, therefore there could
be no profit in continuing this part of the subject.  I shifted to other
ground and inquired further concerning the Discoverer of the Science.

'Did the discovery come suddenly, like Klondike, or after long study and
calculation, like America?'

'The comparisons are not respectful, since they refer to trivialities--
but let it pass.  I will answer in the Discoverer's own words: "God had
been graciously fitting me, during many years, for the reception of a
final revelation of the absolute Principle of Scientific Mind-healing."'

'Many years?  How many?'

'Eighteen centuries!'

'All God, God-good, good-God, Truth, Bones, Liver, one of a series alone
and without equal--it is amazing!'

'You may well say it, sir.  Yet it is but the truth.  This American lady,
our revered and sacred founder, is distinctly referred to and her coming
prophesied, in the twelfth chapter of the Apocalypse; she could not have
been more plainly indicated by St.  John without actually mentioning her
name.'

'How strange, how wonderful!'

'I will quote her own words, for her "Key to the Scriptures:" "The
twelfth chapter of the Apocalypse has a special suggestiveness in
connection with this nineteenth century."  There--do you note that?
Think--note it well.'

'But--what does it mean?'

'Listen, and you will know.  I quote her inspired words again: "In the
opening of the Sixth Seal, typical of six thousand years since Adam,
there is one distinctive feature which has special reference to the
present age.  Thus:

'"Revelation xii.  1.  And there appeared a great wonder in heaven--a
woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her
head a crown of twelve stars."

'That is our Head, our Chief, our Discoverer of Christian Science--
nothing can be plainer, nothing surer.  And note this:

'"Revelation xii.  6.  And the woman fled into the wilderness, where she
had a place prepared of God."

'That is Boston.'

'I recognise it, madam.  These are sublime things and impressive; I never
understood these passages before; please go on with the--with the--
proofs.'

'Very well.  Listen:

'"And I saw another mighty angel come down from heaven, clothed with a
cloud; and a rainbow was upon his head, and his face was as it were the
sun, and his feet as pillars of fire.  And he had in his hand a little
book."

'A little book, merely a little book--could words be modester?  Yet how
stupendous its importance! Do you know what book that was?'

'Was it--'

'I hold it in my hand--"Christian Science"!'

'Love, Livers, Lights, Bones, Truth, Kidneys, one of a series, alone and
without equal--it is beyond imagination and wonder!'

'Hear our Founder's eloquent words: "Then will a voice from harmony cry,
'Go and take the little book; take it and eat it up, and it shall make
thy belly bitter; but it shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey.'  Mortal,
obey the heavenly evangel.  Take up Divine Science.  Read it from
beginning to end.  Study it, ponder it.  It will be indeed sweet at its
first taste, when it heals you; but murmur not over Truth, if you find
its digestion bitter."  You now know the history of our dear and holy
Science, sir, and that its origin is not of this earth, but only its
discovery.  I will leave the book with you and will go, now, but give
yourself no uneasiness--I will give you absent treatment from now till I
go to bed.'


III

Under the powerful influence of the near treatment and the absent
treatment together, my bones were gradually retreating inward and
disappearing from view.  The good word took a brisk start, now, and went
on quite swiftly.  My body was diligently straining and stretching, this
way and that, to accommodate the processes of restoration, and every
minute or two I heard a dull click inside and knew that the two ends of a
fracture had been successfully joined.  This muffled clicking and
gritting and grinding and rasping continued during the next three hours,
and then stopped--the connections had all been made.  All except
dislocations; there were only seven of these: hips, shoulders, knees,
neck; so that was soon over; one after another they slipped into their
sockets with a sound like pulling a distant cork, and I jumped up as good
as new, as to framework, and sent for the horse-doctor.

I was obliged to do this because I had a stomach-ache and a cold in the
head, and I was not willing to trust these things any longer in the hands
of a woman whom I did not know, and in whose ability to successfully
treat mere disease I had lost all confidence.  My position was justified
by the fact that the cold and the ache had been in her charge from the
first, along with the fractures, but had experienced not a shade of
relief; and indeed the ache was even growing worse and worse, and more
and more bitter, now, probably on account of the protracted abstention
from food and drink.

The horse-doctor came, a pleasant man and full of hope and professional
interest in the case.  In the matter of smell he was pretty aromatic, in
fact quite horsey, and I tried to arrange with him for absent treatment,
but it was not in his line, so out of delicacy I did not press it.  He
looked at my teeth and examined my hock, and said my age and general
condition were favourable to energetic measures; therefore he would give
me something to turn the stomach-ache into the botts and the cold in the
head into the blind staggers; then he should be on his own beat and would
know what to do.  He made up a bucket of bran-mash, and said a dipperful
of it every two hours, alternated with a drench with turpentine and
axle-grease in it, would either knock my ailments out of me in
twenty-four hours or so interest me in other ways as to make me forget
they were on the premises.  He administered my first dose himself, then
took his leave, saying I was free to eat and drink anything I pleased and
in any quantity I liked.  But I was not hungry any more, and did not care
for food.

I took up the 'Christian Scientist' book and read half of it, then took a
dipperful of drench and read the other half.  The resulting experiences
were full of interest and adventure.  All through the rumblings and
grindings and quakings and effervescings accompanying the evolution of
the ache into the botts and the cold into the blind staggers I could note
the generous struggle for mastery going on between the mash and the
drench and the literature; and often I could tell which was ahead, and
could easily distinguish the literature from the others when the others
were separate, though not when they were mixed; for when a bran-mash and
an eclectic drench are mixed together they look just like the Apodictical
Principle out on a lark, and no one can tell it from that.  The finish
was reached at last, the evolutions were complete and a fine success; but
I think that this result could have been achieved with fewer materials.
I believe the mash was necessary to the conversion of the stomach-ache
into the boots, but I think one could develop the blind staggers out of
the literature by itself; also, that blind staggers produced in this way
would be of a better quality and more lasting than any produced by the
artificial processes of a horse-doctor.

For of all the strange, and frantic, and incomprehensible, and
uninterpretable books which the imagination of man has created, surely
this one is the prize sample.  It is written with a limitless confidence
and complacency, and with a dash and stir and earnestness which often
compel the effects of eloquence, even when the words do not seem to have
any traceable meaning.  There are plenty of people who imagine they
understand the book; I know this, for I have talked with them; but in all
cases they were people who also imagined that there were no such things
as pain, sickness, and death, and no realities in the world; nothing
actually existent but Mind.  It seems to me to modify the value of their
testimony.  When these people talk about Christian Science they do as
Mrs. Fuller did; they do not use their own language, but the book's; they
pour out the book's showy incoherences, and leave you to find out later
that they were not originating, but merely quoting; they seem to know the
volume by heart, and to revere it as they would a Bible--another Bible,
perhaps I ought to say.  Plainly the book was written under the mental
desolations of the Third Degree, and I feel sure that none but the
membership of that Degree can discover meanings in it.  When you read it
you seem to be listening to a lively and aggressive and oracular speech
delivered in an unknown tongue, a speech whose spirit you get but not the
particulars; or, to change the figure, you seem to be listening to a
vigorous instrument which is making a noise it thinks is a tune, but
which to persons not members of the band is only the martial tooting of a
trombone, and merely stirs the soul through the noise but does not convey
a meaning.

The book's serenities of self-satisfaction do almost seem to smack of a
heavenly origin--they have no blood-kin in the earth.  It is more than
human to be so placidly certain about things, and so finely superior, and
so airily content with one's performance.  Without ever presenting
anything which may rightfully be called by the strong name of Evidence,
and sometimes without even mentioning a reason for a deduction at all, it
thunders out the startling words, 'I have Proved' so and so! It takes the
Pope and all the great guns of his church in battery assembled to
authoritatively settle and establish the meaning of a sole and single
unclarified passage of Scripture, and this at vast cost of time and study
and reflection, but the author of this work is superior to all that: she
finds the whole Bible in an unclarified condition, and at small expense
of time and no expense of mental effort she clarifies it from lid to lid,
reorganises and improves the meanings, then authoritatively settles and
establishes them with formulae which you cannot tell from 'Let there be
light!' and 'Here you have it!' It is the first time since the dawn-days
of Creation that a Voice has gone crashing through space with such placid
and complacent confidence and command.


IV

A word upon a question of authorship.  Not that quite; but, rather, a
question of emendation and revision.  We know that the Bible-Annex was
not written by Mrs. Eddy, but was handed down to her eighteen hundred
years ago by the Angel of the Apocalypse; but did she translate it alone,
or did she have help?  There seems to be evidence that she had help.  For
there are four several copyrights on it--1875, 1885, 1890, 1894.  It did
not come down in English, for in that language it could not have acquired
copyright--there were no copyright laws eighteen centuries ago, and in my
opinion no English language--at least up there.  This makes it
substantially certain that the Annex is a translation.  Then, was not the
first translation complete?  If it was, on what grounds were the later
copyrights granted?

I surmise that the first translation was poor; and that a friend or
friends of Mrs. Eddy mended its English three times, and finally got it
into its present shape, where the grammar is plenty good enough, and the
sentences are smooth and plausible though they do not mean anything.  I
think I am right in this surmise, for Mrs. Eddy cannot write English
to-day, and this is argument that she never could.  I am not able to
guess who did the mending, but I think it was not done by any member of
the Eddy Trust, nor by the editors of the 'Christian Science Journal,'
for their English is not much better than Mrs. Eddy's.

However, as to the main point: it is certain that Mrs. Eddy did not
doctor the Annex's English herself.  Her original, spontaneous,
undoctored English furnishes ample proof of this.  Here are samples from
recent articles from her unappeasable pen; double columned with them are
a couple of passages from the Annex.  It will be seen that they throw
light.  The italics are mine:

1. 'What plague spot,          'Therefore the efficient
or bacilli were (sic) gnawing  remedy is to destroy the
(sic) at the heart of this     patient's unfortunate belief,
metropolis... and bringing     by both silently and audibly
it on bended knee?             arguing the opposite facts in
Why, it was an institute that  regard to harmonious being
had entered its vitals (sic)   representing man as
that, among other things,      healthful instead of diseased,
taught games,' et cetera. (P.  and showing that it is
670, 'C.S.Journal,' article    impossible for matter to suffer,
entitled 'A Narrative--by      to feel pain or heat, to be
Mary Baker G. Eddy.')          thirsty or sick.' (P. 375, Annex.)
2. 'Parks sprang up (sic)...
electric street cars run       'Man is never sick; for
(sic) merrily through several  Mind is not sick, and matter
streets, concrete sidewalks    cannot be. A false belief
and macadamised roads dotted   is both the tempter and the
(sic) the place,' et cetera.   tempted, the sin and the
(Ibid.)                        sinner, the disease and its
3. 'Shorn (sic) of its         cause. It is well to be calm
suburbs it had indeed little   in sickness; to be hopeful is
left to admire, save to (sic)  still better; but to
such as fancy a skeleton       understand that sickness is not
above ground breathing (sic)   real, and that Truth can
slowly through a barren (sic)  destroy it, is best of all, for
breast.' (Ibid.)               it is the universal and perfect
                               remedy.' (Chapter xii.,
                               Annex.)


You notice the contrast between the smooth, plausible, elegant, addled
English of the doctored Annex and the lumbering, ragged, ignorant output
of the translator's natural, spontaneous, and unmedicated penwork.  The
English of the Annex has been slicked up by a very industrious and
painstaking hand--but it was not Mrs. Eddy's.

If Mrs. Eddy really wrote or translated the Annex, her original draft was
exactly in harmony with the English of her plague-spot or bacilli which
were gnawing at the insides of the metropolis and bringing its heart on
bended knee, thus exposing to the eye the rest of the skeleton breathing
slowly through a barren breast.  And it bore little or no resemblance to
the book as we have it now--now that the salaried polisher has holystoned
all of the genuine Eddyties out of it.

Will the plague-spot article go into a volume just as it stands?  I think
not.  I think the polisher will take off his coat and vest and cravat and
'demonstrate over' it a couple of weeks and sweat it into a shape
something like the following--and then Mrs. Eddy will publish it and
leave people to believe that she did the polishing herself:

1.  What injurious influence was it that was affecting the city's morals?
It was a social club which propagated an interest in idle amusements,
disseminated a knowledge of games, et cetera.

2.  By the magic of the new and nobler influences the sterile spaces were
transformed into wooded parks, the merry electric car replaced the
melancholy 'bus, smooth concrete the tempestuous plank sidewalk, the
macadamised road the primitive corduroy, et cetera.

3.  Its pleasant suburbs gone, there was little left to admire save the
wrecked graveyard with its uncanny exposures.

The Annex contains one sole and solitary humorous remark.  There is a
most elaborate and voluminous Index, and it is preceded by this note:

'This Index will enable the student to find any thought or idea contained
in the book.'


V

No one doubts--certainly not I--that the mind exercises a powerful
influence over the body.  From the beginning of time, the sorcerer, the
interpreter of dreams, the fortune-teller, the charlatan, the quack, the
wild medicine-man, the educated physician, the mesmerist, and the
hypnotist have made use of the client's imagination to help them in their
work.  They have all recognised the potency and availability of that
force.  Physicians cure many patients with a bread pill; they know that
where the disease is only a fancy, the patient's confidence in the doctor
will make the bread pill effective.

Faith in the doctor.  Perhaps that is the entire thing.  It seems to look
like it.  In old times the King cured the king's evil by the touch of the
royal hand.  He frequently made extraordinary cures.  Could his footman
have done it?  No--not in his own clothes.  Disguised as the King, could
he have done it?  I think we may not doubt it.  I think we may feel sure
that it was not the King's touch that made the cure in any instance, but
the patient's faith in the efficacy of a King's touch.  Genuine and
remarkable cures have been achieved through contact with the relics of a
saint.  Is it not likely that any other bones would have done as well if
the substitution had been concealed from the patient?  When I was a boy,
a farmer's wife who lived five miles from our village, had great fame as
a faith-doctor--that was what she called herself.  Sufferers came to her
from all around, and she laid her hand upon them and said, 'Have faith--
it is all that is necessary,' and they went away well of their ailments.
She was not a religious woman, and pretended to no occult powers.  She
said that the patient's faith in her did the work.  Several times I saw
her make immediate cures of severe toothaches.  My mother was the
patient.  In Austria there is a peasant who drives a great trade in this
sort of industry and has both the high and the low for patients.  He gets
into prison every now and then for practising without a diploma, but his
business is as brisk as ever when he gets out, for his work is
unquestionably successful and keeps his reputation high.  In Bavaria
there is a man who performed so many great cures that he had to retire
from his profession of stage-carpentering in order to meet the demand of
his constantly increasing body of customers.  He goes on from year to
year doing his miracles, and has become very rich.  He pretends to no
religious helps, no supernatural aids, but thinks there is something in
his make-up which inspires the confidence of his patients, and that it is
this confidence which does the work and not some mysterious power issuing
from himself.

Within the last quarter of a century, in America, several sects of curers
have appeared under various names and have done notable things in the way
of healing ailments without the use of medicines.  There are the Mind
Cure, the Faith Cure, the Prayer Cure, the Mental-Science Cure, and the
Christian-Science Cure; and apparently they all do their miracles with
the same old powerful instrument--the patient's imagination.  Differing
names, but no difference in the process.  But they do not give that
instrument the credit; each sect claims that its way differs from the
ways of the others.

They all achieve some cures, there is no question about it; and the Faith
Cure and the Prayer Cure probably do no harm when they do no good, since
they do not forbid the patient to help out the cure with medicines if he
wants to; but the others bar medicines, and claim ability to cure every
conceivable human ailment through the application of their mental forces
alone.  They claim ability to cure malignant cancer, and other affections
which have never been cured in the history of the race.  There would seem
to be an element of danger here.  It has the look of claiming too much, I
think.  Public confidence would probably be increased if less were
claimed.

I believe it might be shown that all the 'mind' sects except Christian
Science have lucid intervals; intervals in which they betray some
diffidence, and in effect confess that they are not the equals of the
Deity; but if the Christian Scientist even stops with being merely the
equal of the Deity, it is not clearly provable by his Christian-Science
Amended Bible.  In the usual Bible the Deity recognises pain, disease,
and death as facts, but the Christian Scientist knows better.  Knows
better, and is not diffident about saying so.

The Christian Scientist was not able to cure my stomach-ache and my cold;
but the horse-doctor did it.  This convinces me that Christian Science
claims too much.  In my opinion it ought to let diseases alone and
confine itself to surgery.  There it would have everything its own way.

The horse-doctor charged me thirty kreutzers, and I paid him; in fact I
doubled it and gave him a shilling.  Mrs. Fuller brought in an itemised
bill for a crate of broken bones mended in two hundred and thirty-four
places--one dollar per fracture.

'Nothing exists but Mind?'

'Nothing,' she answered.  'All else is substanceless, all else is
imaginary.'

I gave her an imaginary cheque, and now she is suing me for substantial
dollars.  It looks inconsistent.


VI

Let us consider that we are all partially insane.  It will explain us to
each other, it will unriddle many riddles, it will make clear and simple
many things which are involved in haunting and harassing difficulties and
obscurities now.

Those of us who are not in the asylum, and not demonstrably due there,
are nevertheless no doubt insane in one or two particulars--I think we
must admit this; but I think that we are otherwise healthy-minded.  I
think that when we all see one thing alike, it is evidence that as
regards that one thing, our minds are perfectly sound.  Now there are
really several things which we do all see alike; things which we all
accept, and about which we do not dispute.  For instance, we who are
outside of the asylum all agree that water seeks its level; that the sun
gives light and heat; that fire consumes; that fog is damp; that 6 times
6 are thirty-six; that 2 from 10 leave eight; that 8 and 7 are fifteen.
These are perhaps the only things we are agreed about; but although they
are so few, they are of inestimable value, because they make an
infallible standard of sanity.  Whosoever accepts them we know to be
substantially sane; sufficiently sane; in the working essentials, sane.
Whoever disputes a single one of them we know to be wholly insane, and
qualified for the asylum.

Very well, the man who disputes none of them we concede to be entitled to
go at large--but that is concession enough; we cannot go any further than
that; for we know that in all matters of mere opinion that same man is
insane--just as insane as we are; just as insane as Shakespeare was, just
as insane as the Pope is.  We know exactly where to put our finger upon
his insanity; it is where his opinion differs from ours.

That is a simple rule, and easy to remember.  When I, a thoughtful and
unbiased Presbyterian, examine the Koran, I know that beyond any question
every Mohammedan is insane; not in all things, but in religious matters.
When a thoughtful and unbiased Mohammedan examines the Westminster
Catechism, he knows that beyond any question I am spiritually insane.  I
cannot prove to him that he is insane, because you never can prove
anything to a lunatic--for that is a part of his insanity and the
evidence of it.  He cannot prove to me that I am insane, for my mind has
the same defect that afflicts his.  All democrats are insane, but not one
of them knows it; none but the republicans and mugwumps know it.  All the
republicans are insane, but only the democrats and mugwumps can perceive
it.  The rule is perfect; in all matters of opinion our adversaries are
insane.  When I look around me I am often troubled to see how many people
are mad.  To mention only a few:

The Atheist,                      The Shakers,
The Infidel,                      The Millerites,
The Agnostic,                     The Mormons,
The Baptist,                      The Laurence Oliphant
The Methodist,                      Harrisites,
The Catholic, and the other       The Grand Lama's people,
  115 Christian sects, the        The Monarchists,
  Presbyterian excepted,          The Imperialists,
The 72 Mohammedan sects,          The Democrats,
The Buddhist,                     The Republicans (but not
The Blavatsky-Buddhist,             the Mugwumps),
The Nationalist,                  The Mind-Curists,
The Confucian,                    The Faith-Curists,
The Spiritualist,                 The Mental Scientists,
The 2,000 East Indian             The Allopaths,
  sects,                          The Homeopaths,
The Peculiar People,              The Electropaths,
The Swedenborgians,


The--but there's no end to the list; there are millions of them! And all
insane; each in his own way; insane as to his pet fad or opinion, but
otherwise sane and rational.

This should move us to be charitable toward one another's lunacies.  I
recognise that in his special belief the Christian Scientist is insane,
because he does not believe as I do; but I hail him as my mate and fellow
because I am as insane as he--insane from his point of view, and his
point of view is as authoritative as mine and worth as much.  That is to
say, worth a brass farthing.  Upon a great religious or political
question the opinion of the dullest head in the world is worth the same
as the opinion of the brightest head in the world--a brass farthing.  How
do we arrive at this?  It is simple: The affirmative opinion of a stupid
man is neutralised by the negative opinion of his stupid neighbour--no
decision is reached; the affirmative opinion of the intellectual giant
Gladstone is neutralised by the negative opinion of the intellectual
giant Cardinal Newman--no decision is reached.  Opinions that prove
nothing are, of course, without value--any but a dead person knows that
much.  This obliges us to admit the truth of the unpalatable proposition
just mentioned above--that in disputed matters political and religious
one man's opinion is worth no more than his peer's, and hence it follows
that no man's opinion possesses any real value.  It is a humbling
thought, but there is no way to get around it: all opinions upon these
great subjects are brass-farthing opinions.

It is a mere plain simple fact--as clear and as certain as that 8 and 7
make fifteen.  And by it we recognise that we are all insane, as concerns
those matters.  If we were sane we should all see a political or
religious doctrine alike, there would be no dispute: it would be a case
of 8 and 7--just as it is in heaven, where all are sane and none insane.
There there is but one religion, one belief, the harmony is perfect,
there is never a discordant note.

Under protection of these preliminaries I suppose I may now repeat
without offence that the Christian Scientist is insane.  I mean him no
discourtesy, and I am not charging--nor even imagining--that he is
insaner than the rest of the human race.  I think he is more
picturesquely insane that some of us.  At the same time, I am quite sure
that in one important and splendid particular he is saner than is the
vast bulk of the race.

Why is he insane?  I told you before: it is because his opinions are not
ours.  I know of no other reason, and I do not need any other; it is the
only way we have of discovering insanity when it is not violent.  It is
merely the picturesqueness of his insanity that makes it more interesting
than my kind or yours.  For instance, consider his 'little book'--the one
described in the previous article; the 'little book' exposed in the sky
eighteen centuries ago by the flaming angel of the Apocalypse and handed
down in our day to Mrs. Mary Baker G.  Eddy of New Hampshire and
translated by her, word for word, into English (with help of a polisher),
and now published and distributed in hundreds of editions by her at a
clear profit per volume, above cost, of 700 per cent.!--a profit which
distinctly belongs to the angel of the Apocalypse, and let him collect it
if he can; a 'little book' which the C.S.  very frequently calls by just
that name, and always inclosed in quotation-marks to keep its high origin
exultantly in mind; a 'little book' which 'explains' and reconstructs and
new-paints and decorates the Bible and puts a mansard roof on it and a
lightning-rod and all the other modern improvements; a little book which
for the present affects to travel in yoke with the Bible and be friendly
to it, and within half a century will hitch it in the rear, and
thenceforth travel tandem, itself in the lead, in the coming great march
of Christian Scientism through the Protestant dominions of the planet.

Perhaps I am putting the tandem arrangement too far away; perhaps five
years might be nearer the mark than fifty; for a Viennese lady told me
last night that in the Christian Science Mosque in Boston she noticed
some things which seem to me to promise a shortening of the interval; on
one side there was a display of texts from the New Testament, signed with
the Saviour's initials, 'J.C.;' and on the opposite side a display of
texts from the 'little book' signed--with the author's mere initials?
No--signed with Mrs. Mary Baker G.  Eddy's name in full.  Perhaps the
Angel of the Apocalypse likes this kind of piracy.  I made this remark
lightly to a Christian Scientist this morning, but he did not receive it
lightly, but said it was jesting upon holy things; he said there was no
piracy, for the angel did not compose the book, he only brought it--'God
composed it.'  I could have retorted that it was a case of piracy just
the same; that the displayed texts should be signed with the Author's
initials, and that to sign them with the translator's train of names was
another case of 'jesting upon holy things.'  However, I did not say these
things, for this Scientist was a large person, and although by his own
doctrine we have no substance, but are fictions and unrealities, I knew
he could hit me an imaginary blow which would furnish me an imaginary
pain which could last me a week.  The lady said that in that Mosque there
were two pulpits; in one of them was a man with the Former Bible, in the
other a woman with Mrs. Eddy's apocalyptic Annex; and from these books
the man and the woman were reading verse and verse about:

     'Hungry ones throng to hear the Bible read in connection with the
     text-book of Christian Science, "Science and Health, with Key to the
     Scriptures," by Mary Baker G.  Eddy.  These are our only preachers.
     They are the word of God.'--Christian Science Journal, October
     1898.

Are these things picturesque?  The Viennese lady told me that in a chapel
of the Mosque there was a picture or image of Mrs. Eddy, and that before
it burns a never-extinguished light.  Is that picturesque?  How long do
you think it will be before the Christian Scientist will be worshipping
that image and praying to it?  How long do you think it will be before it
is claimed that Mrs. Eddy is a Redeemer, a Christ, or Christ's equal?
Already her army of disciples speak of her reverently as 'Our Mother.'
How long will it be before they place her on the steps of the Throne
beside the Virgin--and later a step higher?  First, Mary the Virgin and
Mary the Matron; later, with a change of Precedence, Mary the Matron and
Mary the Virgin.  Let the artist get ready with his canvas and his
brushes; the new Renaissance is on its way, and there will be money in
altar-canvases--a thousand times as much as the Popes and their Church
ever spent on the Old Masters; for their riches were as poverty as
compared with what is going to pour into the treasure-chest of the
Christian-Scientist Papacy by-and-by, let us not doubt it.  We will
examine the financial outlook presently and see what it promises.  A
favourite subject of the new Old Master will be the first verse of the
twelfth chapter of Revelation--a verse which Mrs. Eddy says (in her Annex
to the Scriptures) has 'one distinctive feature which has special
reference to the present age'--and to her, as is rather pointedly
indicated:

     'And there appeared a great wonder in heaven--a woman clothed with
     the sun and the moon under her feet,' etc.

The woman clothed with the sun will be a portrait of Mrs. Eddy.

Is it insanity to believe that Christian Scientism is destined to make
the most formidable show that any new religion has made in the world
since the birth and spread of Mohammedanism, and that within a century
from now it may stand second to Rome only, in numbers and power in
Christendom?

If this is a wild dream it will not be easy to prove it is so just yet, I
think.  There seems argument that it may come true.  The
Christian-Science 'boom' is not yet five years old; yet already it has
500 churches and 1,000,000 members in America.

It has its start, you see, and it is a phenomenally good one.  Moreover,
it is latterly spreading with a constantly accelerating swiftness.  It
has a better chance to grow and prosper and achieve permanency than any
other existing 'ism;' for it has more to offer than any other.  The past
teaches us that, in order to succeed, a movement like this must not be a
mere philosophy, it must be a religion; also, that it must not claim
entire originality, but content itself with passing for an improvement on
an existing religion, and show its hand later, when strong and
prosperous--like Mohammedanism.

Next, there must be money--and plenty of it.

Next, the power and authority and capital must be concentrated in the
grip of a small and irresponsible clique, with nobody outside privileged
to ask questions or find fault.

Next, as before remarked, it must bait its hook with some new and
attractive advantages over the baits offered by the other religions.

A new movement equipped with some of these endowments--like spiritualism,
for instance--may count upon a considerable success; a new movement
equipped with the bulk of them--like Mohammedanism, for instance--may
count upon a widely extended conquest.  Mormonism had all the requisites
but one--it had nothing new and nothing valuable to bait with; and,
besides, it appealed to the stupid and the ignorant only.  Spiritualism
lacked the important detail of concentration of money and authority in
the hands of an irresponsible clique.

The above equipment is excellent, admirable, powerful, but not perfect.
There is yet another detail which is worth the whole of it put together--
and more; a detail which has never been joined (in the beginning of a
religious movement) to a supremely good working equipment since the world
began, until now: a new personage to worship.  Christianity had the
Saviour, but at first and for generations it lacked money and
concentrated power.  In Mrs. Eddy, Christian Science possesses the new
personage for worship, and in addition--here in the very beginning--a
working equipment that has not a flaw in it.  In the beginning,
Mohammedanism had no money; and it has never had anything to offer its
client but heaven--nothing here below that was valuable.  In addition to
heaven hereafter, Christian Science has present health and a cheerful
spirit to offer--for cash--and in comparison with this bribe all other
this-world bribes are poor and cheap.  You recognise that this estimate
is admissible, do you not?

To whom does Bellamy's 'Nationalism' appeal?  Necessarily to the few:
people who read and dream, and are compassionate, and troubled for the
poor and the hard-driven.  To whom does Spiritualism appeal?  Necessarily
to the few; its 'boom' has lasted for half a century and I believe it
claims short of four millions of adherents in America.  Who are attracted
by Swedenborgianism and some of the other fine and delicate 'isms?' The
few again: Educated people, sensitively organised, with superior mental
endowments, who seek lofty planes of thought and find their contentment
there.  And who are attracted by Christian Science?  There is no limit;
its field is horizonless; its appeal is as universal as is the appeal of
Christianity itself.  It appeals to the rich, the poor, the high, the
low, the cultured, the ignorant, the gifted, the stupid, the modest, the
vain, the wise, the silly, the soldier, the civilian, the hero, the
coward, the idler, the worker, the godly, the godless, the freeman, the
slave, the adult, the child; they who are ailing, they who have friends
that are ailing.  To mass it in a phrase, its clientele is the Human
Race?  Will it march?  I think so.


VII

Remember its principal great offer: to rid the Race of pain and disease.
Can it do it?  In large measure, yes.  How much of the pain and disease
in the world is created by the imaginations of the sufferers, and then
kept alive by those same imaginations?  Four-fifths?  Not anything short
of that I should think.  Can Christian Science banish that four-fifths?
I think so.  Can any other (organised) force do it?  None that I know of.
Would this be a new world when that was accomplished?  And a pleasanter
one--for us well people, as well as for those fussy and fretting sick
ones?  Would it seem as if there was not as much gloomy weather as there
used to be?  I think so.

In the meantime would the Scientist kill off a good many patients?  I
think so.  More than get killed off now by the legalised methods?  I will
take up that question presently.

At present I wish to ask you to examine some of the Scientist's
performances, as registered in his magazine, 'The Christian Science
Journal'--October number, 1898.  First, a Baptist clergyman gives us this
true picture of 'the average orthodox Christian'--and he could have added
that it is a true picture of the average (civilised) human being:

'He is a worried and fretted and fearful man; afraid of himself and his
propensities, afraid of colds and fevers, afraid of treading on serpents
or drinking deadly things.'

Then he gives us this contrast:

'The average Christian Scientist has put all anxiety and fretting under
his feet.  He does have a victory over fear and care that is not achieved
by the average orthodox Christian.'

He has put all anxiety and fretting under his feet.  What proportion of
your earnings or income would you be willing to pay for that frame of
mind, year in year out?  It really outvalues any price that can be put
upon it.  Where can you purchase it, at any outlay of any sort, in any
Church or out of it, except the Scientist's?

Well, it is the anxiety and fretting about colds, and fevers, and
draughts, and getting our feet wet, and about forbidden food eaten in
terror of indigestion, that brings on the cold and the fever and the
indigestion and the most of our other ailments; and so, if the Science
can banish that anxiety from the world I think it can reduce the world's
disease and pain about four-fifths.

In this October number many of the redeemed testify and give thanks; and
not coldly but with passionate gratitude.  As a rule they seem drunk with
health, and with the surprise of it, the wonder of it, the unspeakable
glory and splendour of it, after a long sober spell spent in inventing
imaginary diseases and concreting them with doctor-stuff.  The first
witness testifies that when 'this most beautiful Truth first dawned on
him' he had 'nearly all the ills that flesh is heir to;' that those he
did not have he thought he had--and thus made the tale about complete.
What was the natural result?  Why, he was a dump-pit 'for all the
doctors, druggists, and patent medicines of the country.'  Christian
Science came to his help, and 'the old sick conditions passed away,' and
along with them the 'dismal forebodings' which he had been accustomed to
employ in conjuring up ailments.  And so he was a healthy and cheerful
man, now, and astonished.

But I am not astonished, for from other sources I know what must have
been his method of applying Christian Science.  If I am in the right, he
watchfully and diligently diverted his mind from unhealthy channels and
compelled it to travel in healthy ones.  Nothing contrivable by human
invention could be more formidably effective than that, in banishing
imaginary ailments and in closing the entrances against subsequent
applicants of their breed.  I think his method was to keep saying, 'I am
well! I am sound!--sound and well! well and sound! Perfectly sound,
perfectly well! I have no pain; there's no such thing as pain! I have no
disease; there's no such thing as disease! Nothing is real but Mind; all
is Mind, All-Good, Good-Good, Life, Soul, Liver, Bones, one of a series,
ante and pass the buck!'

I do not mean that that was exactly the formula used, but that it
doubtless contains the spirit of it.  The Scientist would attach value to
the exact formula, no doubt, and to the religious spirit in which it was
used.  I should think that any formula that would divert the mind from
unwholesome channels and force it into healthy ones would answer every
purpose with some people, though not with all.  I think it most likely
that a very religious man would find the addition of the religious spirit
a powerful reinforcement in his case.

The second witness testifies that the Science banished 'an old organic
trouble' which the doctor and the surgeon had been nursing with drugs and
the knife for seven years.

He calls it his 'claim.'  A surface-miner would think it was not his
claim at all, but the property of the doctor and his pal the surgeon--for
he would be misled by that word, which is Christian-Science slang for
'ailment.'  The Christian Scientist has no ailment; to him there is no
such thing, and he will not use the lying word.  All that happens to him
is, that upon his attention an imaginary disturbance sometimes obtrudes
itself which claims to be an ailment, but isn't.

This witness offers testimony for a clergyman seventy years old who had
preached forty years in a Christian church, and has not gone over to the
new sect.  He was 'almost blind and deaf.'  He was treated by the C.S.
method, and 'when he heard the voice of Truth he saw spiritually.'  Saw
spiritually.  It is a little indefinite; they had better treat him again.
Indefinite testimonies might properly be waste-basketed, since there is
evidently no lack of definite ones procurable, but this C.S.  magazine is
poorly edited, and so mistakes of this kind must be expected.

The next witness is a soldier of the Civil War.  When Christian Science
found him, he had in stock the following claims:

Indigestion,
Rheumatism,
Catarrh,
Chalky deposits in
  Shoulder joints,
  Arm joints,
  Hand joints,
Atrophy of the muscles of
  Arms,
  Shoulders,
Stiffness of all those joints,
Insomnia,
Excruciating pains most of the time.


These claims have a very substantial sound.  They came of exposure in the
campaigns.  The doctors did all they could, but it was little.  Prayers
were tried, but 'I never realised any physical relief from that source.'
After thirty years of torture he went to a Christian Scientist and took
an hour's treatment and went home painless.  Two days later he 'began to
eat like a well man.'  Then 'the claims vanished--some at once, others
more gradually;' finally, 'they have almost entirely disappeared.'  And--
a thing which is of still greater value--he is now 'contented and happy.'
That is a detail which, as earlier remarked, is a Scientist-Church
specialty.  With thirty-one years' effort the Methodist Church had not
succeeded in furnishing it to this harassed soldier.

And so the tale goes on.  Witness after witness bulletins his claims,
declares their prompt abolishment, and gives Mrs. Eddy's Discovery the
praise.  Milk-leg is cured; nervous prostration is cured; consumption is
cured; and St.  Vitus's dance made a pastime.  And now and then an
interesting new addition to the Science slang appears on the page.  We
have 'demonstrations over' chilblains and such things.  It seems to be a
curtailed way of saying 'demonstrations of the power of Christian-Science
Truth over the fiction which masquerades under the name of Chilblains.'
The children as well as the adults, share in the blessings of the
Science.  'Through the study of the "little book" they are learning how
to be healthful, peaceful, and wise.'  Sometimes they are cured of their
little claims by the professional healer, and sometimes more advanced
children say over the formula and cure themselves.

A little Far-Western girl of nine, equipped with an adult vocabulary,
states her age and says, 'I thought I would write a demonstration to
you.'  She had a claim derived from getting flung over a pony's head and
landed on a rock-pile.  She saved herself from disaster by remember to
say 'God is All' while she was in the air.  I couldn't have done it.  I
shouldn't have even thought of it.  I should have been too excited.
Nothing but Christian Science could have enabled that child to do that
calm and thoughtful and judicious thing in those circumstances.  She came
down on her head, and by all the rules she should have broken it; but the
intervention of the formula prevented that, so the only claim resulting
was a blackened eye.  Monday morning it was still swollen and shut.  At
school 'it hurt pretty bad--that is, it seemed to.'  So 'I was excused,
and went down in the basement and said, "Now I am depending on mamma
instead of God, and I will depend on God instead of mamma."'  No doubt
this would have answered; but, to make sure, she added Mrs. Eddy to the
team and recited 'the Scientific Statement of Being,' which is one of the
principal incantations, I judge.  Then 'I felt my eye opening.'  Why, it
would have opened an oyster.  I think it is one of the touchingest things
in child-history, that pious little rat down cellar pumping away at the
Scientific Statement of Being.

There is a page about another good child--little Gordon.  Little Gordon
'came into the world without the assistance of surgery or anaesthetics.'
He was a 'demonstration.'  A painless one; therefore his coming evoked
'joy and thankfulness to God and the Discoverer of Christian Science.'
It is a noticeable feature of this literature--the so frequent linking
together of the Two Beings in an equal bond; also of Their Two Bibles.
When little Gordon was two years old, 'he was playing horse on the bed,
where I had left my "little book."  I noticed him stop in his play, take
the book carefully in his little hands, kiss it softly, then look about
for the highest place of safety his arms could reach, and put it there.'
This pious act filled the mother 'with such a train of thought as I had
never experienced before.  I thought of the sweet mother of long ago who
kept things in her heart,' etc.  It is a bold comparison; however,
unconscious profanations are about as common in the mouths of the lay
membership of the new Church as are frank and open ones in the mouths of
its consecrated chiefs.

Some days later, the family library--Christian Science books--was lying
in a deep-seated window.  It was another chance for the holy child to
show off.  He left his play and went there and pushed all the books to
one side except the Annex.  'It he took in both hands, slowly raised it
to his lips, then removed it carefully, and seated himself in the
window.'  It had seemed to the mother too wonderful to be true, that
first time; but now she was convinced that 'neither imagination nor
accident had anything to do with it.'  Later, little Gordon let the
author of his being see him do it.  After that he did it frequently;
probably every time anybody was looking.  I would rather have that child
than a chromo.  If this tale has any object, it is to intimate that the
inspired book was supernaturally able to convey a sense of its sacred and
awful character to this innocent little creature without the intervention
of outside aids.  The magazine is not edited with high-priced discretion.
The editor has a claim, and he ought to get it treated.

Among other witnesses, there is one who had a 'jumping toothache,' which
several times tempted her to 'believe that there was sensation in matter,
but each time it was overcome by the power of Truth.'  She would not
allow the dentist to use cocaine, but sat there and let him punch and
drill and split and crush the tool, and tear and slash its ulcerations,
and pull out the nerve, and dig out fragments of bone; and she wouldn't
once confess that it hurt.  And to this day she thinks it didn't, and I
have not a doubt that she is nine-tenths right, and that her Christian
Science faith did her better service than she could have gotten out of
cocaine.

There is an account of a boy who got broken all up into small bits by an
accident, but said over the Scientific Statement of Being, or some of the
other incantations, and got well and sound without having suffered any
real pain and without the intrusion of a surgeon.  I can believe this,
because my own case was somewhat similar, as per my former article.

Also there is an account of the restoration to perfect health, in a
single night, of a fatally injured horse, by the application of Christian
Science.  I can stand a good deal, but I recognise that the ice is
getting thin here.  That horse had as many as fifty claims: how could he
demonstrate over them?  Could he do the All-Good, Good-Good,
Good-Gracious, Liver, Bones, Truth, All down but Nine, Set them up on the
Other Alley?  Could he intone the Scientific Statement of Being?  Now,
could he?  Wouldn't it give him a relapse?  Let us draw the line at
horses.  Horses and furniture.

There is a plenty of other testimonies in the magazine, but these quoted
samples will answer.  They show the kind of trade the Science is driving.
Now we come back to the question; Does it kill a patient here and there
and now and then?  We must concede it.  Does it compensate for this?  I
am persuaded that it can make a plausible showing in that direction.  For
instance: when it lays its hands upon a soldier who has suffered thirty
years of helpless torture and makes him whole in body and mind, what is
the actual sum of that achievement?  This, I think: that it has restored
to life a subject who had essentially died ten deaths a year for thirty
years, and each of them a long and painful one.  But for its interference
that man would have essentially died thirty times more, in the three
years which have since elapsed.  There are thousand of young people in
the land who are now ready to enter upon a life-long death similar to
that man's.  Every time the Science captures one of these and secures to
him life-long immunity from imagination-manufactured disease, it may
plausibly claim that in his person it has saved 300 lives.  Meantime it
will kill a man every now and then; but no matter, it will still be ahead
on the credit side.


VIII

     'We consciously declare that "Science and Health with Key to the
     Scriptures," was foretold as well as its author, Mary Baker Eddy, in
     Revelation x.  She is the "mighty angel," or God's highest thought
     to this age (verse 1), giving us the spiritual interpretation of the
     Bible in the "little book open" (verse 2).  Thus we prove that
     Christian Science is the second coming of Christ--Truth--Spirit.'--
     Lecture by Dr.  George Tomkins, D.D., C.S.

There you have it in plain speech.  She is the mighty angel; she is the
divinely and officially sent bearer of God's highest thought.  For the
present, she brings the Second Advent.  We must expect that before she
has been in her grave fifty years she will be regarded by her following
as having been herself the Second Advent.  She is already worshipped, and
we must expect this feeling to spread territorially, and also to deepen
in intensity [1].

Particularly after her death; for then, as anyone can foresee,
Eddy-worship will be taught in the Sunday-schools and pulpits of the
cult.  Already whatever she puts her trade-mark on, thought it be only a
memorial spoon, is holy and is eagerly and passionately and gratefully
bought by the disciple, and becomes a fetish in his house.  I say bought,
for the Boston Christian-Science Trust gives nothing away; everything it
has for sale.  And the terms are cash; and not cash only but cash in
advance.  Its god is Mrs. Eddy first, then the Dollar.  Not a spiritual
Dollar, but a real one.  From end to end of the Christian-Science
literature not a single (material) thing in the world is conceded to be
real, except the Dollar.  But all through and through its advertisements
that reality is eagerly and persistently recognised.  The hunger of the
Trust for the Dollar, its adoration of the Dollar, its lust after the
Dollar, its ecstasy in the mere thought of the Dollar--there has been
nothing like it in the world in any age or country, nothing so coarse,
nothing so lubricous, nothing so bestial, except a French novel's
attitude towards adultery.

The Dollar is hunted down in all sorts of ways; the Christian-Science
Mother-Church and Bargain-Counter in Boston peddles all kinds of
spiritual wares to the faithful, always at extravagant prices, and always
on the one condition--cash, cash in advance.  The Angel of the Apocalypse
could not go there and get a copy of his own pirated book on credit.
Many, many precious Christian-Science things are to be had there--for
cash: Bible Lessons; Church Manual; C.S.  Hymnal; History of the building
of the Mother-Church; lot of Sermons; Communion Hymn, 'Saw Ye My
Saviour,' by Mrs. Eddy, half a dollar a copy, 'words used by special
permission of Mrs. Eddy.'  Also we have Mrs. Eddy's and the Angel's
little Bible-Annex in eight styles of binding at eight kinds of war-
prices: among these a sweet thing in 'levant, divinity circuit, leather
lined to edge, round corners, gold edge, silk sewed, each, prepaid, $6,'
and if you take a million you get them a shilling cheaper--that is to
say, 'prepaid, $5.75.'  Also we have Mrs. Eddy's 'Miscellaneous
Writings,' at noble big prices, the divinity-circuit style heading the
extortions, shilling discount where you take an edition.  Next comes
'Christ and Christmas,' by the fertile Mrs. eddy--a poem--I would God I
could see it--price $3, cash in advance.  Then follow five more books by
Mrs. Eddy at highwaymen's rates, as usual, some of them in 'leatherette
covers,' some of them in 'pebbled cloth,' with divinity circuit,
compensation balance, twin screw, and the other modern improvements: and
at the same bargain counter can be had the 'Christian Science Journal.'
I wish it were in refined taste to apply a rudely and ruggedly
descriptive epithet to that literary slush-bucket, so as to give one an
accurate idea of what it is like.  I am moved to do it, but I must not:
it is better to be refined than accurate when one is talking about a
production like that.

Christian-Science literary oleomargarine is a monopoly of the Mother
Church Headquarters Factory in Boston; none genuine without the
trade-mark of the Trust.  You must apply there, and not elsewhere; and
you pay your money before you get your soap-fat.

The Trust has still other sources of income.  Mrs. Eddy is president (and
perhaps proprietor?) of the Trust's Metaphysical College in Boston, where
the student who has practised C.S.  healing during three years the best
he knew how perfects himself in the game by a two weeks' course, and pays
one hundred dollars for it!  And I have a case among my statistics where
the student had a three weeks' course and paid three hundred for it.

The Trust does love the Dollar when it isn't a spiritual one.

In order to force the sale of Mrs. Eddy's Bible-Annex, no healer,
Metaphysical College-bred or other, is allowed to practise the game
unless he possess a copy of that holy nightmare.  That means a large and
constantly augmenting income for the Trust.  No C.S.  family would
consider itself loyal or pious or pain-proof without an Annex or two in
the house.  That means an income for the Trust--in the near future--of
millions: not thousands--millions a year.

No member, young or old, of a Christian-Scientist church can retain that
membership unless he pay 'capitation tax' to the Boston Trust every year.
That means an income for the Trust--in the near future--of millions more
per year.

It is a reasonably safe guess that in America in 1910 there will be
10,000,000 Christian Scientists, and 3,000,000 in Great Britain; that
these figures will be trebled by 1920; that in America in 1910 the
Christian Scientists will be a political force, in 1920 politically
formidable--to remain that, permanently.  And I think it a reasonable
guess that the Trust (which is already in our day pretty brusque in its
ways) will then be the most insolent and unscrupulous and tyrannical
politico-religious master that has dominated a people since the palmy
days of the Inquisition.  And a stronger master than the strongest of
bygone times, because this one will have a financial strength not dreamed
of by any predecessor; as effective a concentration of irresponsible
power as any predecessor had; in the railway, the telegraph, and the
subsidised newspaper, better facilities for watching and managing his
empire than any predecessor has had; and after a generation or two he
will probably divide Christendom with the Catholic Church.

The Roman Church has a perfect organisation, and it has an effective
centralisation of power--but not of its cash.  Its multitude of Bishops
are rich, but their riches remain in large measure in their own hands.
They collect from 200,000,000 of people, but they keep the bulk of the
result at home.  The Boston Pope of by-and-by will draw his dollar-a-head
capitation-tax from 300,000,000 of the human race, and the Annex and the
rest of his book-shop will fetch in double as much more; and his
Metaphysical Colleges, the annual pilgrimage to Mrs. Eddy's tomb, from
all over the world--admission, the Christian-Science Dollar (payable in
advance)--purchases of consecrated glass beads, candles, memorial spoons,
aureoled chromo-portraits and bogus autographs of Mrs. Eddy, cash
offerings at her shrine--no crutches of cured cripples received, and no
imitations of miraculously restored broken legs and necks allowed to be
hung up except when made out of the Holy Metal and proved by fire-assay;
cash for miracles worked at the tomb: these money-sources, with a
thousand to be yet invented and ambushed upon the devotee, will bring the
annual increment well up above a billion.  And nobody but the Trust will
have the handling of it.  No Bishops appointed unless they agree to hand
in 90 per cent. of the catch.  In that day the Trust will monopolise the
manufacture and sale of the Old and New Testaments as well as the Annex,
and raise their price to Annex rates, and compel the devotee to buy (for
even to-day a healer has to have the Annex and the Scriptures or he is
not allowed to work the game), and that will bring several hundred
million dollars more.  In those days the Trust will have an income
approaching $5,000,000 a day, and no expenses to be taken out of it; no
taxes to pay, and no charities to support.  That last detail should not
be lightly passed over by the read; it is well entitled to attention.

No charities to support.  No, nor even to contribute to.  One searches in
vain the Trust's advertisements and the utterances of its pulpit for any
suggestion that it spends a penny on orphans, widows, discharged
prisoners, hospitals, ragged schools, night missions, city missions,
foreign missions, libraries, old people's homes, or any other object that
appeals to a human being's purse through his heart.[2]

I have hunted, hunted, and hunted, by correspondence and otherwise, and
have not yet got upon the track of a farthing that the Trust has spent
upon any worthy object.  Nothing makes a Scientist so uncomfortable as to
ask him if he knows of a case where Christian Science has spent money on
a benevolence, either among its own adherents or elsewhere.  He is
obliged to say no.  And then one discovers that the person questioned has
been asked the question many times before, and that it is getting to be a
sore subject with him.  Why a sore subject?  Because he has written his
chiefs and asked with high confidence for an answer that will confound
these questioners--and the chiefs did not reply.  He has written again--
and then again--not with confidence, but humbly, now, and has begged for
defensive ammunition in the voice of supplication.  A reply does at last
come--to this effect: 'We must have faith in Our Mother, and rest content
in the conviction that whatever She[3] does with the money it is in
accordance with orders from Heaven, for She does no act of any kind
without first "demonstrating over" it.'

That settles it--as far as the disciple is concerned.  His Mind is
entirely satisfied with that answer; he gets down his Annex and does an
incantation or two, and that mesmerises his spirit and puts that to
sleep--brings it peace.  Peace and comfort and joy, until some inquirer
punctures the old sore again.

Through friends in America I asked some questions, and in some cases got
definite and informing answers; in other cases the answers were not
definite and not valuable.  From the definite answers I gather than the
'capitation-tax' is compulsory, and that the sum is one dollar.  To the
question, 'Does any of the money go to charities?' the answer from an
authoritative source was: 'No, *not in the sense usually conveyed by this
word*.'  (The italics are mine.) That answer is cautious.  But definite,
I think--utterly and unassailably definite--although quite
Christian-scientifically foggy in its phrasing.  Christian Science is
generally foggy, generally diffuse, generally garrulous.  The writer was
aware that the first word in his phrase answered the question which I was
asking, but he could not help adding nine dark words.  Meaningless ones,
unless explained by him.  It is quite likely--as intimated by him--that
Christian Science has invented a new class of objects to apply the word
charity to, but without an explanation we cannot know what they are.  We
quite easily and naturally and confidently guess that they are in all
cases objects which will return five hundred per cent.  on the Trust's
investment in them, but guessing is not knowledge; it is merely, in this
case, a sort of nine-tenths certainty deducible from what we think we
know of the Trust's trade principles and its sly and furtive and shifty
ways.

Sly?  Deep?  Judicious?  The Trust understands business.  The Trust does
not give itself away.  It defeats all the attempts of us impertinents to
get at its trade secrets.  To this day, after all our diligence, we have
not been able to get it to confess what it does with the money.  It does
not even let its own disciples find out.  All it says is, that the matter
has been 'demonstrated over.'  Now and then a lay Scientist says, with a
grateful exultation, that Mrs. Eddy is enormously rich, but he stops
there; as to whether any of the money goes to other charities or not, he
is obliged to admit that he does not know.  However, the Trust is
composed of human beings; and this justifies the conjecture that if it
had a charity on its list which it did not need to blush for, we should
soon hear of it.

'Without money and without price.'  Those used to be the terms.  Mrs.
Eddy's Annex cancels them.  The motto of Christian Science is 'The
labourer is worthy of his hire.'  And now that it has been 'demonstrated
over,' we find its spiritual meaning to be, 'Do anything and everything
your hand may find to do; and charge cash for it, and collect the money
in advance.'  The Scientist has on his tongue's end a cut-and-dried,
Boston-supplied set of rather lean arguments whose function is to show
that it is a Heaven-commanded duty to do this, and that the croupiers of
the game have no choice by to obey.

The Trust seems to be a reincarnation.  Exodus xxxii.4.

I have no reverence for Mrs. Eddy and the rest of the Trust--if there is
a rest--but I am not lacking in reverence for the sincerities of the lay
membership of the new Church.  There is every evidence that the lay
members are entirely sincere in their faith, and I think sincerity is
always entitled to honour and respect, let the inspiration of the
sincerity be what it may.  Zeal and sincerity can carry a new religion
further than any other missionary except fire and sword, and I believe
that the new religion will conquer the half of Christendom in a hundred
years.  I am not intending this as a compliment to the human race, I am
merely stating an opinion.  And yet I think that perhaps it is a
compliment to the race.  I keep in mind that saying of an orthodox
preacher--quoted further back.  He conceded that this new Christianity
frees its possessor's life from frets, fears, vexations, bitterness, and
all sorts of imagination-propagated maladies and pains, and fills his
world with sunshine and his heart with gladness.  If Christian Science,
with this stupendous equipment--and final salvation added--cannot win
half the Christian globe, I must be badly mistaken in the make-up of the
human race.

I think the Trust will be handed down like the other papacy, and will
always know how to handle its limitless cash.  It will press the button;
the zeal, the energy, the sincerity, the enthusiasm of its countless
vassals will do the rest.


IX

The power which a man's imagination has over his body to heal it or make
it sick is a force which none of us is born without.  The first man had
it, the last one will possess it.  If left to himself a man is most
likely to use only the mischievous half of the force--the half which
invents imaginary ailments for him and cultivates them: and if he is one
of these very wise people he is quite likely to scoff at the beneficent
half of the force and deny its existence.  And so, to heal or help that
man, two imaginations are required: his own and some outsider's.  The
outsider, B, must imagine that his incantations are the healing power
that is curing A, and A must imagine that this is so.  It is not so, at
all; but no matter, the cure is effected, and that is the main thing.
The outsider's work is unquestionably valuable; so valuable that it may
fairly be likened to the essential work performed by the engineer when he
handles the throttle and turns on the steam: the actual power is lodged
exclusively in the engine, but if the engine were left alone it would
never start of itself.  Whether the engineer be named Jim, or Bob, or
Tom, it is all one--his services are necessary, and he is entitled to
such wage as he can get you to pay.  Whether he be named Christian
Scientist, or Mental Scientist, or Mind Curist, or Lourdes Miracle-
Worker, or King's-Evil Expert, it is all one,--he is merely the Engineer,
he simply turns on the same old steam and the engine does the whole work.

In the case of the cure-engine it is a distinct advantage to clothe the
engineer in religious overalls and give him a pious name.  It greatly
enlarges the business, and does no one any harm.

The Christian-Scientist engineer drives exactly the same trade as the
other engineers, yet he out-prospers the whole of them put together.  Is
it because he has captured the takingest name?  I think that that is only
a small part of it.  I think that the secret of his high prosperity lies
elsewhere:

The Christian Scientist has organised the business.  Now that was
certainly a gigantic idea.  There is more intellect in it than would be
needed in the invention of a couple of millions of Eddy Science-and-
Health Bible Annexes.  Electricity, in limitless volume, has existed in
the air and the rocks and the earth and everywhere since time began--and
was going to waste all the while.  In our time we have organised that
scattered and wandering force and set it to work, and backed the business
with capital, and concentrated it in few and competent hands, and the
results are as we see.

The Christian Scientist has taken a force which has been lying idle in
every member of the human race since time began, and has organised it,
and backed the business with capital, and concentrated it at Boston
headquarters in the hands of a small and very competent Trust, and there
are results.

Therein lies the promise that this monopoly is going to extend its
commerce wide in the earth.  I think that if the business were conducted
in the loose and disconnected fashion customary with such things, it
would achieve but little more than the modest prosperity usually secured
by unorganised great moral and commercial ventures; but I believe that so
long as this one remains compactly organised and closely concentrated in
a Trust, the spread of its dominion will continue.

VIENNA: May 1, 1899.

[1] After raising a dead child to life, the disciple who did it writes an
account of her performance, to Mrs. Eddy, and closes it thus: 'My prayer
daily is to be more spiritual, that I may do more as you would have me
do...  and may we all love you more and so live it that the world may
know that the Christ is come.'--Printed in the Concord, N.H.,
Independent Statesman, March 9, 1899.  If this is no worship, it is a
good imitation of it.

[2] In the past two years the membership of the Established Church of
England have given voluntary contributions amounting to $73,000,000 to
the Church's benevolent enterprises.  Churches that give have nothing to
hide.

[3] I may be introducing the capital S a little early--still it is on its
way.






IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD?

I was spending the month of March 1892 at Mentone, in the Riviera.  At
this retired spot one has all the advantages, privately, which are to be
had publicly at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther along.  That is
to say, one has the flooding sunshine, the balmy air and the brilliant
blue sea, without the marring additions of human pow-wow and fuss and
feathers and display.  Mentone is quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious;
the rich and the gaudy do not come there.  As a rule, I mean, the rich do
not come there.  Now and then a rich man comes, and I presently got
acquainted with one of these.  Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith.  One day, in the Hotel des Anglais, at the second breakfast, he
exclaimed:

'Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out at the door.  Take in every
detail of him.'

'Why?'

'Do you know who he is?'

'Yes.  He spent several days here before you came.  He is an old,
retired, and very rich silk manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I
guess he is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and dreamy, and
doesn't talk with anybody.  His name is Theophile Magnan.'

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to justify the large interest
which he had shown in Monsieur Magnan, but, instead, he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to the rest of the world
during some minutes.  Now and then he passed his fingers through his
flossy white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he allowed his
breakfast to go on cooling.  At last he said:

'No, it's gone; I can't call it back.'

'Can't call what back?'

'It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little stories.  But it's gone fro
me.  Part of it is like this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves
but thoughtlessly neglects.  The bird pours out its song unheard and
unheeded; but, in time, hunger and thirst assail the creature, and its
song grows plaintive and feeble and finally ceases--the bird dies.  The
child comes, and is smitten to the heart with remorse: then, with bitter
tears and lamentations, it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without knowing, poor things,
that it isn't children only who starve poets to death and then spend
enough on their funerals and monuments to have kept them alive and made
them easy and comfortable.  Now--'

But here we were interrupted.  About ten that evening I ran across Smith,
and he asked me up to his parlour to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its cheerful lamps, and
its friendly open fire of seasoned olive-wood.  To make everything
perfect, there was a muffled booming of the surf outside.  After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat, Smith said:

'Now we are properly primed--I to tell a curious history and you to
listen to it.  It has been a secret for many years--a secret between me
and three others; but I am going to break the seal now.  Are you
comfortable?'

'Perfectly.  Go on.'

Here follows what he told me:

'A long time ago I was a young artist--a very young artist, in fact--and
I wandered about the country parts of France, sketching here and
sketching there, and was presently joined by a couple of darling young
Frenchmen who were at the same kind of thing that I was doing.  We were
as happy as we were poor, or as poor as we were happy--phrase it to suit
yourself.  Claude Frere and Carl Boulanger--these are the names of those
boys; dear, dear fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

'At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village, and an artist as poor
as ourselves took us in and literally saved us from starving--Francois
Millet--'

'What! the great Francois Millet?'

'Great?  He wasn't any greater than we were, then.  He hadn't any fame,
even in his own village; and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to
feed us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us sometimes.  We
four became fast friends, doting friends, inseparables.  We painted away
together with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock, but very
seldom getting rid of any of it.  We had lovely times together; but, O my
soul! how we were pinched now and then!

'For a little over two years this went on.  At last, one day, Claude
said:

'"Boys, we've come to the end.  Do you understand that?--absolutely to
the end.  Everybody has struck--there's a league formed against us.  I've
been all around the village and it's just as I tell you.  They refuse to
credit us for another centime until all the odds and ends are paid up."

'This struck us as cold.  Every face was blank with dismay.  We realised
that our circumstances were desperate, now.  There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

'"Nothing occurs to me--nothing.  Suggest something, lads."

'There was no response, unless a mournful silence may be called a
response.  Carl got up, and walked nervously up and down a while, then
said:

'"It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks and stacks of as good
pictures as anybody in Europe paints--I don't care who he is.  Yes, and
plenty of lounging strangers have said the same--or nearly that, anyway."

'"But didn't buy," Millet said.

'"No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.  Look at your 'Angelus'
there! Will anybody tell me--"

'"Pah, Carl--My 'Angelus!' I was offered five francs for it."

'"When?"

'"Who offered it?"

'"Where is he?"

'"Why didn't you take it?"

'"Come--don't all speak at once.  I thought he would give more--I was
sure of it--he looked it--so I asked him eight."

'"Well--and then?"

'"He said he would call again."

'"Thunder and lightning! Why, Francois--"

'"Oh, I know--I know! It was a mistake, and I was a fool.  Boys, I meant
for the best; you'll grant me that, and I--"

'"Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear heart; but don't you be a
fool again."

'"I?  I wish somebody would come along and offer us a cabbage for it--
you'd see!"

'"A cabbage! Oh, don't name it--it makes my mouth water.  Talk of things
less trying."

'"Boys," said Carl, "do these pictures lack merit?  Answer me that."

'"No!"

'"Aren't they of very great and high merit?  Answer me that."

'"Yes."

'"Of such great and high merit that, if an illustrious name were attached
to them they would sell at splendid prices.  Isn't it so?"

'"Certainly it is.  Nobody doubts that."

'"But--I'm not joking--isn't it so?"

'"Why, of course it's so--and we are not joking.  But what of it.  What
of it?  How does that concern us?"

'"In this way, comrades--we'll attach an illustrious name to them!"

'The lively conversation stopped.  The faces were turned inquiringly upon
Carl.  What sort of riddle might this be?  Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed?  And who was to borrow it?

'Carl sat down, and said:

'"Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to propose.  I think it is the
only way to keep us out of the almshouse, and I believe it to be a
perfectly sure way.  I base this opinion upon certain multitudinous and
long-established facts in human history.  I believe my project will make
us all rich."

'"Rich! You've lost your mind."

'"No, I haven't."

'"Yes, you have--you've lost your mind.  What do you call rich?"

'"A hundred thousand francs apiece."

'"He has lost his mind.  I knew it."

'"Yes, he has.  Carl, privation has been too much for you, and--"

'"Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to bed."

'"Bandage him first--bandage his head, and then--"

'"No, bandage his heels; his brains have been settling for weeks--I've
noticed it."

'"Shut up!"  said Millet, with ostensible severity, "and let the boy have
his say.  Now, then--come out with your project, Carl.  What is it?"

'"Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you to note this fact in
human history: that the merit of many a great artist has never been
acknowledged until after he was starved and dead.  This has happened so
often that I make bold to found a law upon it.  This law: that the merit
of every great unknown and neglected artist must and will be recognised
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.  My project is
this: we must cast lots--one of us must die."

'The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly that we almost forgot to
jump.  Then there was a wild chorus of advice again--medical advice--for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for the hilarity to
calm down, and then went on again with his project:

'"Yes, one of us must die, to save the others--and himself.  We will cast
lots.  The one chosen shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich.
Hold still, now--hold still; don't interrupt--I tell you I know what I am
talking about.  Here is the idea.  During the next three months the one
who is to die shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all he
can--not pictures, no! skeleton sketches, studies, parts of studies,
fragments of studies, a dozen dabs of the brush on each--meaningless, of
course, but his, with his cipher on them; turn out fifty a day, each to
contain some peculiarity or mannerism easily detectable as his--they're
the things that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous prices for
the world's museums, after the great man is gone; we'll have a ton of
them ready--a ton! And all that time the rest of us will be busy
supporting the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers--preparations
for the coming event, you know; and when everything is hot and just
right, we'll spring the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?"

'"N-o; at least, not qu--"

'"Not quite?  Don't you see?  The man doesn't really die; he changes his
name and vanishes; we bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world
to help.  And I--"

'But he wasn't allowed to finish.  Everybody broke out into a rousing
hurrah of applause; and all jumped up and capered about the room and fell
on each other's necks in transports of gratitude and joy.  For hours we
talked over the great plan, without ever feeling hungry; and at last,
when all the details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots and
Millet was elected--elected to die, as we called it.  Then we scraped
together those things which one never parts with until he is betting them
against future wealth--keepsake trinkets and suchlike--and these we
pawned for enough to furnish us a frugal farewell supper and breakfast,
and leave us a few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

'Next morning, early, the three of us cleared out, straightway after
breakfast--on foot, of course.  Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's
small pictures, purposing to market them.  Carl struck for Paris, where
he would start the work of building up Millet's name against the coming
great day.  Claude and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

'Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy and comfortable thing we
had.  I walked two days before I began business.  Then I began to sketch
a villa in the outskirts of a big town--because I saw the proprietor
standing on an upper veranda.  He came down to look on--I thought he
would.  I worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.  Occasionally
he fired off a little ejaculation of approbation, and by-and-by he spoke
up with enthusiasm, and said I was a master!

'I put down my brush, reached into my satchel, fetched out a Millet, and
pointed to the cipher in the corner.  I said, proudly:

'"I suppose you recognise that?  Well, he taught me! I should think I
ought to know my trade!"

'The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was silent.  I said
sorrowfully:

'"You don't mean to intimate that you don't know the cipher of Francois
Millet!"

'Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he was the gratefullest man
you ever saw, just the same, for being let out of an uncomfortable place
on such easy terms.  He said:

'"No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I don't know what I could have
been thinking of.  Of course I recognise it now."

'Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that although I wasn't rich I
wasn't that poor.  However, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs.'

'Eight hundred!'

'Yes.  Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.  Yes, I got eight
hundred francs for that little thing.  I wish I could get it back for
eighty thousand.  But that time's gone by.  I made a very nice picture of
that man's house and I wanted to offer it to him for ten francs, but that
wouldn't answer, seeing I was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to
him for a hundred.  I sent the eight hundred francs straight to Millet
from that town and struck out again next day.

'But I didn't walk--no.  I rode.  I have ridden ever since.  I sold one
picture every day, and never tried to sell two.  I always said to my
customer:

'"I am a fool to sell a picture of Francois Millet's at all, for that man
is not going to live three months, and when he dies his pictures can't be
had for love or money."

'I took care to spread that little fact as far as I could, and prepare
the world for the event.

'I take credit to myself for our plan of selling the pictures--it was
mine.  I suggested it that last evening when we were laying out our
campaign, and all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial before
giving it up for some other.  It succeeded with all of us.  I walked only
two days, Claude walked two--both of afraid to make Millet celebrated too
close to home--but Carl walked only half a day, the bright,
conscienceless rascal, and after that he travelled like a duke.

'Every now and then we got in with a country editor and started an item
around through the press; not an item announcing that a new painter had
been discovered, but an item which let on that everybody knew Francois
Millet; not an item praising him in any way, but merely a word concerning
the present condition of the "master"--sometimes hopeful, sometimes
despondent, but always tinged with fears for the worst.  We always marked
these paragraphs, and sent the papers to all the people who had bought
pictures of us.

'Carl was soon in Paris and he worked things with a high hand.  He made
friends with the correspondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America, and everywhere.

'At the end of six weeks from the start, we three met in Paris and called
a halt, and stopped sending back to Millet for additional pictures.  The
boom was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw that it would be a
mistake not to strike now, right away, without waiting any longer.  So we
wrote Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty fast, for we
should like him to die in ten days if he could get ready.

'Then we figured up and found that among us we had sold eighty-five small
pictures and studies, and had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it.
Carl had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of all.  He sold
the "Angelus" for twenty-two hundred francs.  How we did glorify him!--
not foreseeing that a day was coming by-and-by when France would struggle
to own it and a stranger would capture it for five hundred and fifty
thousand, cash.

'We had a wind-up champagne supper that night, and next day Claude and I
packed up and went off to nurse Millet through his last days and keep
busybodies out of the house and send daily bulletins to Carl in Paris for
publication in the papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world.  The sad end came at last, and Carl was there in time to
help in the final mournful rites.

'You remember that great funeral, and what a stir it made all over the
globe, and how the illustrious of two worlds came to attend it and
testify their sorrow.  We four--still inseparable--carried the coffin,
and would allow none to help.  And we were right about that, because it
hadn't anything in it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight.  Yes, we same old four, who had
lovingly shared privation together in the old hard times now gone for
ever, carried the cof--'

'Which four?'

'We four--for Millet helped to carry his own coffin.  In disguise, you
know.  Disguised as a relative--distant relative.'

'Astonishing!'

'But true just the same.  Well, you remember how the pictures went up.
Money?  We didn't know what to do with it.  there's a man in Paris to-day
who owns seventy Millet pictures.  He paid us two million francs for
them.  And as for the bushels of sketches and studies which Millet
shovelled out during the six weeks that we were on the road, well, it
would astonish you to know the figure we sell them at nowadays--that is,
when we consent to let one go!'

'It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!'

'Yes--it amounts to that.'

'Whatever became of Millet?'

'Can you keep a secret?'

'I can.'

'Do you remember the man I called your attention to in the dining room
to-day?  That was Francois Millet.'

'Great--'

'Scott!  Yes.  For once they didn't starve a genius to death and then put
into other pockets the rewards he should have had himself.  This
song-bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard and then be paid
with the cold pomp of a big funeral.  We looked out for that.'






MY DEBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one little thing ('The
Jumping Frog') in an Eastern paper, but I did not consider that that
counted.  In my view, a person who published things in a mere newspaper
could not properly claim recognition as a Literary Person: he must rise
away above that; he must appear in a magazine.  He would then be a
Literary Person; also, he would be famous--right away.  These two
ambitions were strong upon me.  This was in 1866.  I prepared my
contribution, and then looked around for the best magazine to go up to
glory in.  I selected the most important one in New York.  The
contribution was accepted.  I signed it 'MARK TWAIN;' for that name had
some currency on the Pacific coast, and it was my idea to spread it all
over the world, now, at this one jump.  The article appeared in the
December number, and I sat up a month waiting for the January number; for
that one would contain the year's list of contributors, my name would be
in it, and I should be famous and could give the banquet I was
meditating.

I did not give the banquet.  I had not written the 'MARK TWAIN'
distinctly; it was a fresh name to Eastern printers, and they put it
'Mike Swain' or 'MacSwain,' I do not remember which.  At any rate, I was
not celebrated and I did not give the banquet.  I was a Literary Person,
but that was all--a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-ship 'Hornet' on the
line, May 3, 1866.  There were thirty-one men on board at the time, and I
was in Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly survivors arrived there
after a voyage of forty-three days in an open boat, through the blazing
tropics, on ten days' rations of food.  A very remarkable trip; but it
was conducted by a captain who was a remarkable man, otherwise there
would have been no survivors.  He was a New Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times--Captain Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly edition of the
Sacramento 'Union,' a rich and influential daily journal which hadn't any
use for them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a week for
nothing.  The proprietors were lovable and well-beloved men: long ago
dead, no doubt, but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted to see the islands, and
they listened to me and gave me the opportunity when there was but
slender likelihood that it could profit them in any way.

I had been in the islands several months when the survivors arrived.  I
was laid up in my room at the time, and unable to walk.  Here was a great
occasion to serve my journal, and I not able to take advantage of it.
Necessarily I was in deep trouble.  But by good luck his Excellency Anson
Burlingame was there at the time, on his way to take up his post in
China, where he did such good work for the United States.  He came and
put me on a stretcher and had me carried to the hospital where the
shipwrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a question.  He attended
to all of that himself, and I had nothing to do but make the notes.  It
was like him to take that trouble.  He was a great man and a great
American, and it was in his fine nature to come down from his high office
and do a friendly turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the evening.  I took no dinner,
for there was no time to spare if I would beat the other correspondents.
I spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper order, then wrote
all night and beyond it; with this result: that I had a very long and
detailed account of the 'Hornet' episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the other correspondents of the San Francisco journals had nothing
but a brief outline report--for they didn't sit up.  The now-and-then
schooner was to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached the
dock she was free forward and was just casting off her stern-line.  My
fat envelope was thrown by a strong hand, and fell on board all right,
and my victory was a safe thing.  All in due time the ship reached San
Francisco, but it was my complete report which made the stir and was
telegraphed to the New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge of the
Pacific bureau of the 'New York Herald' at the time.

When I returned to California by-and-by, I went up to Sacramento and
presented a bill for general correspondence at twenty dollars a week.  It
was paid.  Then I presented a bill for 'special' service on the 'Hornet'
matter of three columns of solid nonpareil at a hundred dollars a column.
The cashier didn't faint, but he came rather near it.  He sent for the
proprietors, and they came and never uttered a protest.  They only
laughed in their jolly fashion, and said it was robbery, but no matter;
it was a grand 'scoop' (the bill or my 'Hornet' report, I didn't know
which): 'Pay it.  It's all right.'  The best men that ever owned a
newspaper.

The 'Hornet' survivors reached the Sandwich Islands the 15th of June.
They were mere skinny skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flag-staff in a calm.  But
they were well nursed in the hospital; the people of Honolulu kept them
supplied with all the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.  Within a fortnight the
most of them took ship for San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not
gone astray in my memory.  I went in the same ship, a sailing-vessel.
Captain Mitchell of the 'Hornet' was along; also the only passengers the
'Hornet' had carried.  These were two young men from Stamford,
Connecticut--brothers: Samuel and Henry Ferguson.  The 'Hornet' was a
clipper of the first class and a fast sailer; the young men's quarters
were roomy and comfortable, and were well stocked with books, and also
with canned meats and fruits to help out the ship-fare with; and when the
ship cleared from New York harbour in the first week of January there was
promise that she would make quick and pleasant work of the fourteen or
fifteen thousand miles in front of her.  As soon as the cold latitudes
were left behind and the vessel entered summer weather, the voyage became
a holiday picnic.  The ship flew southward under a cloud of sail which
needed no attention, no modifying or change of any kind, for days
together.  The young men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals with the captain;
and when the day was done they played dummy whist with him till bed-time.
After the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship bowled
northward into summer weather again, and the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3rd of May.  Computed position of the ship
112 degrees 10 minutes longitude, latitude 2 degrees above the equator;
no wind, no sea--dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been roasted in it.  There
was a cry of fire.  An unfaithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone
into the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some varnish from a cask.
The proper result followed, and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the captain made the most of it.
The three boats were launched--long-boat and two quarter-boats.  That the
time was very short and the hurry and excitement considerable is
indicated by the fact that in launching the boats a hole was stove in the
side of one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar driven through
the side of another.  The captain's first care was to have four sick
sailors brought up and placed on deck out of harm's way--among them a
'Portyghee.'  This man had not done a day's work on the voyage, but had
lain in his hammock four months nursing an abscess.  When we were taking
notes in the Honolulu hospital and a sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame,
the third mate, who was lying near, raised his head with an effort, and
in a weak voice made this correction--with solemnity and feeling:

'Raising abscesses!  He had a family of them.  He done it to keep from
standing his watch.'

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up by the men and two
passengers and brought and dumped on the deck where the 'Portyghee' lay;
then they ran for more.  The sailor who was telling this to Mr.
Burlingame added:

'We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for the thirty-one men that
way.'

The third mate lifted his head again and made another correction--with
bitterness:

'The "Portyghee" et twenty-two of them while he was soldiering there and
nobody noticing.  A damned hound.'

The fire spread with great rapidity.  The smoke and flame drove the men
back, and they had to stop their incomplete work of fetching provisions,
and take to the boats with only ten days' rations secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy of Bowditch's 'Navigator,'
and a Nautical Almanac, and the captain's and chief mate's boats had
chronometers.  There were thirty-one men all told.  The captain took an
account of stock, with the following result: four hams, nearly thirty
pounds of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred pounds of bread,
twelve two-pound cans of oysters, clams, and assorted meats, a keg
containing four pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon 'scuttle-butt', four one-gallon demijohns full of water, three
bottles of brandy (the property of passengers), some pipes, matches, and
a hundred pounds of tobacco.  No medicines.  Of course the whole party
had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.  On our voyage to San
Francisco we ran into a calm in the middle of the Pacific, and did not
move a rod during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to copy the
diaries.  Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest; I will draw upon it now.
When the following paragraph was written the doomed ship was about one
hundred and twenty days out from port, and all hands were putting in the
lazy time about as usual, as no one was forecasting disaster.

     [Diary entry] May 2.  Latitude 1 degree 28 minutes N., longitude 111
     degrees 38 minutes W.  Another hot and sluggish day; at one time,
     however, the clouds promised wind, and there came a slight breeze--
     just enough to keep us going.  The only thing to chronicle to-day is
     the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were caught this
     forenoon, and some large albacores seen.  After dinner the first
     mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
     to the captain, who was on the bow.  He, holding on, brought the
     fish to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all.  We also
     saw astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must
     have been nine or ten feet long.  We tried him with all sorts of
     lines and a piece of pork, but he declined to take hold.  I suppose
     he had appeased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the
     bonitos we had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster.  The three boats got away, retired
to a short distance, and stopped.  The two injured ones were leaking
badly; some of the men were kept busy baling, others patched the holes as
well as they could.  The captain, the two passengers, and eleven men were
in the long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water, and with no
room to spare, for the boat was only twenty-one feet long, six wide, and
three deep.  The chief mate and eight men were in one of the small boats,
the second mate and seven men in the other.  The passengers had saved no
clothing but what they had on, excepting their overcoats.  The ship,
clothed in flame and sending up a vast column of black smoke into the
sky, made a grand picture in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after
hour the outcasts sat and watched it.  Meantime the captain ciphered on
the immensity of the distance that stretched between him and the nearest
available land, and then scaled the rations down to meet the emergency;
half a biscuit for dinner; one biscuit and some canned meat for dinner;
half a biscuit for tea; a few swallows of water for each meal.  And so
hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still burning.

     [Diary entry] May 4.  The ship burned all night very brightly, and
     hopes are that some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon
     us.  None seen, however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go
     together north and a little west to some islands in 18 degrees or 19
     degrees north latitude and 114 degrees to 115 degrees west
     longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.  The
     ship sank suddenly at about 5 A.M.  We find the sun very hot and
     scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited several hours for that
possible ship that might have seen the light to work her slow way to them
through the nearly dead calm.  Then they gave it up and set about their
plans.  If you will look at the map you will say that their course could
be easily decided.  Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies straight
eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands referred to in the diary as
'some islands' (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think, in some widely
uncertain region northward about one thousand miles and westward one
hundred or one hundred and fifty miles.  Acapulco, on the Mexican coast,
lies about north-east something short of one thousand miles.  You will
say random rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them strike for
Acapulco and the solid continent.  That does look like the rational
course, but one presently guesses from the diaries that the thing would
have been wholly irrational--indeed, suicidal.  If the boats struck for
Albemarle they would be in the doldrums all the way; and that means a
watery perdition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow from all
points of the compass at once and also perpendicularly.  If the boats
tried for Acapulco they would get out of the doldrums when half-way
there--in case they ever got half-way--and then they would be in
lamentable case, for there they would meet the north-east trades coming
down in their teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they could not
sail within eight points of the wind.  So they wisely started northward,
with a slight slant to the west.  They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they could not depend on
making any sort of definite progress in the doldrums, and they had four
or five hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.  They are the
real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy belt, ten or twelve hundred miles
broad, which girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night and all got drenched, but they filled up
their water-butt.  The brothers were in the stern with the captain, who
steered.  The quarters were cramped; no one got much sleep.  'Kept on our
course till squalls headed us off.'

Stormy and squally the next morning, with drenching rains.  A heavy and
dangerous 'cobbling' sea.  One marvels how such boats could live in it.
Is it called a feat of desperate daring when one man and a dog cross the
Atlantic in a boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but this
long-boat was overloaded with men and other plunder, and was only three
feet deep.  'We naturally thought often of all at home, and were glad to
remember that it was Sacrament Sunday, and that prayers would go up from
our friends for us, although they know not our peril.'

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the first three days and
nights, but he got a few winks of sleep the fourth night.  'The worst sea
yet.'  About ten at night the captain changed his course and headed
east-north-east, hoping to make Clipperton Rock.  If he failed, no
matter; he would be in a better position to make those other islands.  I
will mention here that he did not find that rock.

On May 8 no wind all day; sun blistering hot; they take to the oars.
Plenty of dolphins, but they couldn't catch any.  'I think we are all
beginning to realise more and more the awful situation we are in.'  'It
often takes a ship a week to get through the doldrums; how much longer,
then, such a craft as ours?'  'We are so crowded that we cannot stretch
ourselves out for a good sleep, but have to take it any way we can get
it.'

Of course this feature will grow more and more trying, but it will be
human nature to cease to set it down; there will be five weeks of it yet
--we must try to remember that for the diarist; it will make our beds the
softer.

May 9 the sun gives him a warning: 'Looking with both eyes, the horizon
crossed thus +.'  'Henry keeps well, but broods over our troubles more
than I wish he did.'  They caught two dolphins; they tasted well.  'The
captain believed the compass out of the way, but the long-invisible north
star came out--a welcome sight--and endorsed the compass.'

May 10, 'latitude 7 degrees 0 minutes 3 seconds N., longitude 111 degrees
32 minutes W.'  So they have made about three hundred miles of northing
in the six days since they left the region of the lost ship.  'Drifting
in calms all day.'  And baking hot, of course; I have been down there,
and I remember that detail.  'Even as the captain says, all romance has
long since vanished, and I think the most of us are beginning to look the
fact of our awful situation full in the face.'  'We are making but little
headway on our course.'  Bad news from the rearmost boat: the men are
improvident; 'they have eaten up all of the canned meats brought from the
ship, and are now growing discontented.'  Not so with the chief mate's
people--they are evidently under the eye of a man.

Under date of May 11: 'Standing still! or worse; we lost more last night
than we made yesterday.'  In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously made.  'The cock that
was rescued and pitched into the boat while the ship was on fire still
lives, and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a good deal.'
What has he been living on for a week?  Did the starving men feed him
from their dire poverty?  'The second mate's boat out of water again,
showing that they over-drink their allowance.  The captain spoke pretty
sharply to them.'  It is true: I have the remark in my old note-book; I
got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.  But there is not
room for it here, and it is too combustible, anyway.  Besides, the third
mate admired it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships.  The captain was a
thoughtful man, and probably did not disclose on them that that was
substantially a waste of time.  'In this latitude the horizon is filled
with little upright clouds that look very much like ships.'  Mr. Ferguson
saved three bottles of brandy from his private stores when he left the
ship, and the liquor came good in these days.  'The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water--half and half--to our crew.'  He
means the watch that is on duty; they stood regular watches--four hours
on and four off.  The chief mate was an excellent officer--a self-
possessed, resolute, fine, all-round man.  The diarist makes the
following note--there is character in it: 'I offered one bottle of brandy
to the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could keep the after-boat
quiet, and we had not enough for all.'



HENRY FERGUSON'S DIARY TO DATE, GIVEN IN FULL:

     May 4, 5, 6, doldrums.  May 7, 8, 9, doldrums.  May 10, 11, 12,
     doldrums.  Tells it all.  Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
     experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder,
     and wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a person might properly
be expected to keep in such circumstances--and be forgiven for the
economy, too.  His brother, perishing of consumption, hunger, thirst,
blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of sleep, lack of exercise, was
persistently faithful and circumstantial with his diary from the first
day to the last--an instance of noteworthy fidelity and resolution.  In
spite of the tossing and plunging boat he wrote it close and fine, in a
hand as easy to read as print.  They can't seem to get north of 7 degrees
N.; they are still there the next day:

     [Diary entry] May 12.  A good rain last night, and we caught a good
     deal, though not enough to fill up our tank, pails, &c.  Our object
     is to get out of these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it.
     To-day we have had it very variable, and hope we are on the northern
     edge, thought we are not much above 7 degrees.  This morning we all
     thought we had made out a sail; but it was one of those deceiving
     clouds.  Rained a good deal to-day, making all hands wet and
     uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly all our water-pots,
     however.  I hope we may have a fine night, for the captain certainly
     wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or danger of
     any kind, he is always on hand.  I never would have believed that
     open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
     seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, 'the cry of A SHIP! brought us to our feet.'
It seemed to be the glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of
the curve of the sea.  There was a season of breathless hope while they
stood watching, with their hands shading their eyes, and their hearts in
their throats; then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.  It
is a long time ago--thirty-two years--and it doesn't matter now, yet one
is sorry for their disappointment.  'Thought often of those at home
to-day, and of the disappointment they will feel next Sunday at not
hearing from us by telegraph from San Francisco.'  It will be many weeks
yet before the telegram is received, and it will come as a thunderclap of
joy then, and with the seeming of a miracle, for it will raise from the
grave men mourned as dead.  'To-day our rations were reduced to a quarter
of a biscuit a meal, with about half a pint of water.'  This is on May
13, with more than a month of voyaging in front of them yet! However, as
they do not know that, 'we are all feeling pretty cheerful.'

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunderstorm, 'which toward
night seemed to close in around us on every side, making it very dark and
squally.'  'Our situation is becoming more and more desperate,' for they
were making very little northing 'and every day diminishes our small
stock of provisions.'  They realise that the boats must soon separate,
and each fight for its own life.  Towing the quarter-boats is a hindering
business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds and but little
progress.  Hard to bear, that persistent standing still, and the food
wasting away.  'Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped, and no
change of clothes.'  Soon the sun comes out and roasts them.  'Joe caught
another dolphin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and two
skipjacks.'  There is an event, now, which rouses an enthusiasm of hope:
a land-bird arrives! It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look
at it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its message.  As a
subject of talk it is beyond price--a fresh new topic for tongues tired
to death of talking upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when?  Is the bird from Clipperton Rock?  They hope so; and
they take heart of grace to believe so.  As it turned out the bird had no
message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, 'the cock still lives, and daily carols forth his praise.'  It
will be a rainy night, 'but I do not care if we can fill up our
water-butts.'

On the 17th one of those majestic spectres of the deep, a water-spout,
stalked by them, and they trembled for their lives.  Young Henry set it
down in his scanty journal with the judicious comment that 'it might have
been a fine sight from a ship.'

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: 'Only half a bushel of
bread-crumbs left.'  (And a month to wander the seas yet.')

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncomfortable.  Now came a
sword-fish chasing a bonito; and the poor thing, seeking help and
friends, took refuge under the rudder.  The big sword-fish kept hovering
around, scaring everybody badly.  The men's mouths watered for him, for
he would have made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch him, of
course, for he would sink a boat promptly if molested.  Providence
protected the poor bonito from the cruel sword-fish.  This was just and
right.  Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors: they got the
bonito.  This was also just and right.  But in the distribution of
mercies the sword-fish himself got overlooked.  He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably.  The men in all the boats seem pretty
well; the feeblest of the sick ones (not able for a long time to stand
his watch on board the ship) 'is wonderfully recovered.'  This is the
third mate's detected 'Portyghee' that raised the family of abscesses.

     Passed a most awful night.  Rained hard nearly all the time, and
     blew in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning from
     all points of the compass.--Henry's Log.

     Most awful night I ever witnessed.--Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11 degrees 11 minutes.  So they have averaged but forty
miles of northing a day during the fortnight.  Further talk of
separating.  'Too bad, but it must be done for the safety of the whole.'
'At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my eyes for a cat-nap
without conjuring up something or other--to be accounted for by weakness,
I suppose.'  But for their disaster they think they would be arriving in
San Francisco about this time.  'I should have liked to send B---the
telegram for her birthday.'  This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-boats and said one would
have to go off on its own hook.  The long-boat could no longer tow both
of them.  The second mate refused to go, but the chief mate was ready; in
fact, he was always ready when there was a man's work to the fore.  He
took the second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to remain, and two
of his own crew came with him (nine in the boat, now, including himself).
He sailed away, and toward sunset passed out of sight.  The diarist was
sorry to see him go.  It was natural; one could have better spared the
'Portyghee.'  After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against this
'Portyghee' reviving.  His very looks have long passed out of my memory;
but no matter, I am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.  'Water
will now be a scarce article, for as we get out of the doldrums we shall
get showers only now and then in the trades.  This life is telling
severely on my strength.  Henry holds out first-rate.'  Henry did not
start well, but under hardships he improved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12 degrees 0 minutes 9 seconds.  They ought to
be well out of the doldrums now, but they are not.  No breeze--the
longed-for trades still missing.  They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only 'visions of ships that come to naught--the
shadow without the substance.'  The second mate catches a booby this
afternoon, a bird which consists mainly of feathers; 'but as they have no
other meat, it will go well.'

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The second mate catches three
more boobies, and gives the long-boat one.  Dinner 'half a can of
mincemeat divided up and served around, which strengthened us somewhat.'
They have to keep a man bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the
boat when she was launched from the burning ship was never efficiently
mended.  'Heading about north-west now.'  They hope they have easting
enough to make some of these indefinite isles.  Failing that, they think
they will be in a better position to be picked up.  It was an infinitely
slender chance, but the captain probably refrained from mentioning that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

     [Diary entry] May 22.  Last night wind headed us off, so that part
     of the time we had to steer east-south-east and then west-north-
     west, and so on.  This morning we were all startled by a cry of
     'SAIL HO!' Sure enough, we could see it!  And for a time we cut
     adrift from the second mate's boat, and steered so as to attract its
     attention.  This was about half-past five A.M.  After sailing in a
     state of high excitement for almost twenty minutes we made it out to
     be the chief mate's boat.  Of course we were glad to see them and
     have them report all well; but still it was a bitter disappointment
     to us all.  Now that we are in the trades it seems impossible to
     make northing enough to strike the isles.  We have determined to do
     the best we can, and get in the route of vessels.  Such being the
     determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
     which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again
     dividing water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat.  This makes
     our number fifteen.  The second mate's crew wanted to all get in
     with us, and cast the other boat adrift.  It was a very painful
     separation.

So these isles that they have struggled for so long and so hopefully have
to be given up.  What with lying birds that come to mock, and isles that
are but a dream, and 'visions of ships that come to naught,' it is a
pathetic time they are having, with much heartbreak in it.  It was odd
that the vanished boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again.  But it brought Cox--we can't be certain why.  But
if it hadn't, the diarist would never have seen the land again.

     [Diary entry] Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being
     picked up, but each day our scanty fare is so much reduced.  Without
     the fish, turtle, and birds sent us, I do not know how we should
     have got along.  The other day I offered to read prayers morning and
     evening for the captain, and last night commenced.  The men,
     although of various nationalities and religions, are very attentive,
     and always uncovered.  May God grant my weak endeavour its issue!

     Latitude, May 24, 14 degrees 18 minutes N.  Five oysters apiece for
     dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of water, and a piece of
     biscuit the size of a silver dollar.  'We are plainly getting
     weaker--God have mercy upon us all!' That night heavy seas break
     over the weather side and make everybody wet and uncomfortable
     besides requiring constant baling.

Next day 'nothing particular happened.'  Perhaps some of us would have
regarded it differently.  'Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what
it was.'  They saw some whales blow; there were flying-fish skimming the
seas, but none came aboard.  Misty weather, with fine rain, very
penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15 degrees 50 minutes.  They caught a flying-fish and a
booby, but had to eat them raw.  'The men grow weaker, and, I think,
despondent; they say very little, though.'  And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is added--the muteness and
brooding of coming despair.  'It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships with the hope that some one will run near enough to our
speck to see it.'  He hopes the other boards stood west and have been
picked up.  (They will never be heard of again in this world.)

     [Diary entry] Sunday, May 27, Latitude 16 degrees 0 minutes 5
     seconds; longitude, by chronometer, 117 degrees 22 minutes.  Our
     fourth Sunday!  When we left the ship we reckoned on having about
     ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid economy, to
     make them last another week if possible.[1]  Last night the sea was
     comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-north-
     west, which has been about our course all day to-day.  Another
     flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day--both small
     ones.  No birds.  A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
     makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us--that is, of course, as
     dinners go in the 'Hornet's' long-boat.  Tried this morning to read
     the full service to myself, with the Communion, but found it too
     much; am too weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention;
     so I put off half till this afternoon.  I trust God will hear the
     prayers gone up for us at home to-day, and graciously answer them by
     sending us succour and help in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was 'a good day for seeing a ship.'  But none was seen.  The
diarist 'still feels pretty well,' though very weak; his brother Henry
'bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on board.'  'I do not
feel despondent at all, for I fully trust that the Almighty will hear our
and the home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to fall sees and
cares for us, His creatures.'

Considering the situation and circumstances, the record for next day,
May 29, is one which has a surprise in it for those dull people who think
that nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.  A little
starvation can really do more for the average sick man than can the best
medicines and the best doctors.  I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days.  I speak from experience;
starvation has been my cold and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has
accomplished a cure in all instances.  The third mate told me in Honolulu
that the 'Portyghee' had lain in his hammock for months, raising his
family of abscesses and feeding like a cannibal.  We have seen that in
spite of dreadful weather, deprivation of sleep, scorching, drenching,
and all manner of miseries, thirteen days of starvation 'wonderfully
recovered' him.  There were four sailors down sick when the ship was
burned.  Twenty-five days of pitiless starvation have followed, and now
we have this curious record: 'All the men are hearty and strong; even the
ones that were down sick are well, except poor Peter.'  When I wrote an
article some months ago urging temporary abstention from food as a remedy
for an inactive appetite and for disease, I was accused of jesting, but I
was in earnest.  'We are all wonderfully well and strong, comparatively
speaking.'  On this day the starvation regime drew its belt a couple of
buckle-holes tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the usual piece
of cracker the size of a silver dollar to the half of that, and one meal
was abolished from the daily three.  This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left in them they will
disappear.

     Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans
     of oysters, and twenty gallons of water.--Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent.  It is remarkable.  Look
at the map and see where the boat is: latitude 16 degrees 44 minutes,
longitude 119 degrees 20 minutes.  It is more than two hundred miles west
of the Revillagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the question
against the trades, rigged as this boat is.  The nearest land available
for such a boat is the American group, six hundred and fifty miles away,
westward; still, there is no note of surrender, none even of
discouragement!  Yet, May 30, 'we have now left: one can of oysters;
three pounds of raisins; one can of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints
of biscuit-crumbs.'

And fifteen starved men to live on it while they creep and crawl six
hundred and fifty miles.  'Somehow I feel much encouraged by this change
of course (west by north) which we have made to-day.'  Six hundred and
fifty miles on a hatful of provisions.  Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of the fact that it
isn't six hundred and fifty that they must creep on the hatful, but
twenty-two hundred!

Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?  No.  Providence
added a startling detail: pulling an oar in that boat, for common
seaman's wages, was a banished duke--Danish.  We hear no more of him;
just that mention, that is all, with the simple remark added that 'he is
one of our best men'--a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances.  With that little glimpse of
him at his oar, and that fine word of praise, he vanishes out of our
knowledge for all time.  For all time, unless he should chance upon this
note and reveal himself.

The last day of May is come.  And now there is a disaster to report:
think of it, reflect upon it, and try to understand how much it means,
when you sit down with your family and pass your eye over your breakfast-
table.  Yesterday there were three pints of bread-crumbs; this morning
the little bag is found open and some of the crumbs are missing.  'We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but there is no
question that this grave crime has been committed.  Two days will
certainly finish the remaining morsels.  God grant us strength to reach
the American group!'  The third mate told me in Honolulu that in these
days the men remembered with bitterness that the 'Portyghee' had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be transferred from the
burning ship, and that now they cursed him and swore an oath that if it
came to cannibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

     [Diary entry] The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he
     cannot read our pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would
     like, though he is not familiar with them.

Further of the captain: 'He is a good man, and has been most kind to us--
almost fatherly.  He says that if he had been offered the command of the
ship sooner he should have brought his two daughters with him.'  It makes
one shudder yet to think how narrow an escape it was.

     The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
     piece of cracker the size of a penny for tea; a gill of water, and a
     piece of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a penny, for
     breakfast.--Captain's Log.

He means a penny in thickness as well as in circumference.  Samuel
Ferguson's diary says the ham was shaved 'about as thin as it could be
cut.'

     [Diary entry] June 1.  Last night and to-day sea very high and
     cobbling, breaking over and making us all wet and cold.  Weather
     squally, and there is no doubt that only careful management--with
     God's protecting care--preserved us through both the night and the
     day; and really it is most marvellous how every morsel that passes
     our lips is blessed to us.  It makes me think daily of the miracle
     of the loaves and fishes.  Henry keeps up wonderfully, which is a
     great consolation to me.  I somehow have great confidence, and hope
     that our afflictions will soon be ended, though we are running
     rapidly across the track of both outward and inward bound vessels,
     and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler, man-of-war, or some
     Australian ship.  The isles we are steering for are put down in
     Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful.  God grant they may
     be there!

     Hardest day yet.--Captain's Log.

Doubtful!  It was worse than that.  A week later they sailed straight
over them.

     [Diary entry] June 2.  Latitude 18 degrees 9 minutes.  Squally,
     cloudy, a heavy sea....  I cannot help thinking of the cheerful and
     comfortable time we had aboard the 'Hornet.'

     Two days' scanty supplies left--ten rations of water apiece and a
     little morsel of bread.  BUT THE SUN SHINES AND GOD IS MERCIFUL.--
     Captain's Log.

     [Diary entry] Sunday, June 3.  Latitude 17 degrees 54 minutes.
     Heavy sea all night, and from 4 A.M.  very wet, the sea breaking
     over us in frequent sluices, and soaking everything aft,
     particularly.  All day the sea has been very high, and it is a
     wonder that we are not swamped.  Heaven grant that it may go down
     this evening!  Our suspense and condition are getting terrible.  I
     managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the forward end of
     the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak, especially
     in the legs and knees.  The sun has been out again, and I have dried
     some things, and hope for a better night.

     June 4.  Latitude 17 degrees 6 minutes, longitude 131 degrees 30
     minutes.  Shipped hardly any seas last night, and to-day the sea has
     gone down somewhat, although it is still too high for comfort, as we
     have an occasional reminder that water is wet.  The sun has been out
     all day, and so we have had a good drying.  I have been trying for
     the last ten or twelve days to get a pair of drawers dry enough to
     put on, and to-day at last succeeded.  I mention this to show the
     state in which we have lived.  If our chronometer is anywhere near
     right, we ought to see the American Isles to-morrow or next day.  If
     there are not there, we have only the chance, for a few days, of a
     stray ship, for we cannot eke out the provisions more than five or
     six days longer, and our strength is failing very fast.  I was much
     surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted away above my
     knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used to be.  Still,
     I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do what is
     best for us.  To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
     open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one
     men in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is
     more than mere unassisted HUMAN art and strength could have
     accomplished and endured.

     Bread and raisins all gone.--Captain's Log.

     Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and
     unpleasant talk is arising.  God save us from all strife of men; and
     if we must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter
     death still more.--Henry's Log.

     [Diary entry] June 5.  Quiet night and pretty comfortable day,
     though our sail and block show signs of failing, and need taking
     down--which latter is something of a job, as it requires the
     climbing of the mast.  We also had news from forward, there being
     discontent and some threatening complaints of unfair allowances,
     etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still, these things bid us be
     on our guard.  I am getting miserably weak, but try to keep up the
     best I can.  If we cannot find those isles we can only try to make
     north-west and get in the track of Sandwich Island-bound vessels,
     living as best we can in the meantime.  To-day we changed to one
     meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration or water at 8 or 9
     A.M., another at 12 A.M., and a third at 5 or 6 P.M.

     Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all
     around.--Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now--such as it is--and fifteen hundred
miles to crawl yet!  And now the horrors deepen, and, though they escaped
actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became alarming.  Now we seem to
see why that curious incident happened, so long ago; I mean Cox's return,
after he had been far away and out of sight several days in the chief
mate's boat.  If he had not come back the captain and the two young
passengers might have been slain, now, by these sailors, who were
becoming crazed through their sufferings.


     NOTE SECRETLY PASSED BY HENRY TO HIS BROTHER:

     Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
     ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft.  They say
     that the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save
     the ship at all, nor to get provisions, and that even would not let
     the men put in some they had; and that partiality is shown us in
     apportioning our rations aft.  ....asked Cox the other day if he
     would starve first or eat human flesh.  Cox answered he would
     starve.  ....then told him he would only be killing himself.  If we
     do not find those islands we would do well to prepare for anything.
     ....is the loudest of all.


     REPLY:

     We can depend on ...., I think, and ...., and Cox, can we not?


     SECOND NOTE:

     I guess so, and very likely on....; but there is no telling.... and
     Cox are certain.  There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet,
     as I understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs.  It
     would be well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and
     the cartridges safe from theft.

     Henry's Log, June 5.  Dreadful forebodings.  God spare us from all
     such horrors!  Some of the men getting to talk a good deal.  Nothing
     to write down.  Heart very sad.

     Henry's Log, June 6.  Passed some sea-weed and something that looked
     like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
     islands not there.  To-day it was said to the captain, in the
     hearing of all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man
     was dead, from using the flesh, though they would not kill.
     Horrible!  God give us all full use of our reason, and spare us from
     such things!  'From plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and
     murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us!'

     [Diary entry] June 6.  Latitude 16 degrees 30 minutes, longitude
     (chron.) 134 degrees.  Dry night and wind steady enough to require
     no change in sail; but this A.M.  an attempt to lower it proved
     abortive.  First the third mate tried and got up to the block, and
     fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the halyards through, but
     had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before finishing; then
     Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought down the
     block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was good
     for nothing all day.  The clue-iron which we are trying to make
     serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and
     will, I am afraid, soon cut the rope.  It is very necessary to get
     everything connected with the sail in good easy running order before
     we get too weak to do anything with it.

     Only three meals left.--Captain's Log.

     [Diary entry] June 7.  Latitude 16 degrees 35 minutes N., longitude
     136 degrees 30 minutes W.  Night wet and uncomfortable.  To-day
     shows us pretty conclusively that the American Isles are not there,
     though we have had some signs that looked like them.  At noon we
     decided to abandon looking any farther for them, and to-night haul a
     little more northerly, so as to get in the way of Sandwich Island
     vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well this way--say to
     latitude 19 degrees to 20 degrees to get the benefit of the trade-
     winds.  Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope
     the chronometer is wrong in our favour, for I do not see how any
     such delicate instrument can keep good time with the constant
     jarring and thumping we get from the sea.  With the strong trade we
     have, I hope that a week from Sunday will put us in sight of the
     Sandwich Islands, if we are not safe by that time by being picked
     up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich Islands; the provisions are
virtually exhausted, but not the perishing diarist's pluck.

     [Diary entry] My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and
     therefore I got hardly any sleep at all.  Still, I make out pretty
     well, and should not complain.  Yesterday the third mate mended the
     block, and this P.M.  the sail, after some difficulty, was got down,
     and Harry got to the top of the mast and rove the halyards through
     after some hardship, so that it now works easy and well.  This
     getting up the mast is no easy matter at any time with the sea we
     have, and is very exhausting in our present state.  We could only
     reward Harry by an extra ration of water.  We have made good time
     and course to-day.  Heading her up, however, makes the boat ship
     seas and keeps us all wet; however, it cannot be helped.  Writing is
     a rather precarious thing these times.  Our meal to-day for the
     fifteen consists of half a can of 'soup and boullie'; the other half
     is reserved for to-morrow.  Henry still keeps up grandly, and is a
     great favourite.  God grant he may be spared.

     A better feeling prevails among the men.--Captain's Log.

     [Diary entry] June 9.  Latitude 17 degrees 53 minutes.  Finished to-
     day, I may say, our whole stack of provisions.[2]  We have only left
     a lower end of a ham-bone, with some of the outer rind and skin on.
     In regard to the water, however, I think we have got ten days'
     supply at our present rate of allowance.  This, with what
     nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such chewable matter, we
     hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to the Sandwich
     Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels thither
     bound, be picked up.  My hope is in the latter, for in all human
     probability I cannot stand the other.  Still, we have been
     marvellously protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in His
     own good time and way.  The men are getting weaker, but are still
     quiet and orderly.

     [Diary entry] Sunday, June 10.  Latitude 18 degrees 40 minutes,
     longitude 142 degrees 34 minutes.  A pretty good night last night,
     with some wettings, and again another beautiful Sunday.  I cannot
     but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and what a contrast is
     here!  How terrible their suspense must begin to be!  God grant that
     it may be relieved before very long, and He certainly seems to be
     with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
     miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably
     over three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our
     meagre stock of provisions, is almost unprecedented.  As yet I do
     not feel the stint of food so much as I do that of water.  Even
     Henry, who is naturally a good water-drinker, can save half of his
     allowance from time to time, when I cannot.  My diseased throat may
     have something to do with that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be called food.  But they
must manage somehow for five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go.  It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interruptions from me--every moment
is valuable.  I will take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

     HENRY FERGUSON'S LOG:

     Sunday, June 10.  Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
     and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for
     tomorrow.  Certainly, never was there such a sweet knuckle-one, or
     one that was so thoroughly appreciated....  I do not know that I
     feel any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction
     of diet; and I trust that we may all have strength given us to
     sustain the sufferings and hardships of the coming week.  We
     estimate that we are within seven hundred miles of the Sandwich
     Islands, and that our average, daily, is somewhat over a hundred
     miles, so that our hopes have some foundation in reason.  Heaven
     send we may all live to see land!

     June 11.  Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
     and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow.  God
     send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be
     brought to the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh!  As I
     feel now, I do not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot
     tell what you will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind
     wandering.  I hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands
     before we get to this strait; but we have one or two desperate men
     aboard, though they are quiet enough now.  IT IS MY FIRM TRUST AND
     BELIEF THAT WE ARE GOING TO BE SAVED.

     All food gone.--Captain's Log.[3]

[Ferguson's log continues]

     June 12.  Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying--dead ahead of it--
     and toward the islands.  Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
     awful.  Ate ham-bone to-day.  It is the captain's birthday; he is
     fifty-four years old.

     June 13.  The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
     legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them.
     A little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.

     June 14.  Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully weak.
     Our water is getting frightfully low.  God grant we may see land
     soon!  NOTHING TO EAT, but feel better than I did yesterday.  Toward
     evening saw a magnificent rainbow--THE FIRST WE HAD SEEN.  Captain
     said, 'Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy--IT'S THE BOW OF PROMISE!'

     June 15.  God be for ever praised for His infinite mercy!  LAND IN
     SIGHT!  rapidly neared it and soon were SURE of it...  Two noble
     Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore.  We were joyfully
     received by two white men--Mr. Jones and his steward Charley--and a
     crowd of native men, women, and children.  They treated us
     splendidly--aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us
     water, poi, bananas, and green coconuts; but the white men took care
     of us and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing
     so.  Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in
     faces, deeds, and words.  We were then helped up to the house; and
     help we needed.  Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
     Treated us splendidly.  Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits
     in water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread.
     Takes EVERY care of us.  Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread
     the same, and then let us go to rest.  IT IS THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY
     LIFE...  God in His mercy has heard our prayer....  Everybody is so
     kind.  Words cannot tell.

     June 16.  Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
     good night's rest; but not sleep--we were too happy to sleep; would
     keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion--dreaded that we
     might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.


It is an amazing adventure.  There is nothing of its sort in history that
surpasses it in impossibilities made possible.  In one extraordinary
detail--the survival of every person in the boat--it probably stands
alone in the history of adventures of its kinds.  Usually merely a part
of a boat's company survive--officers, mainly, and other educated and
tenderly-reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labour; the untrained,
roughly-reared hard workers succumb.  But in this case even the rudest
and roughest stood the privations and miseries of the voyage almost as
well as did the college-bred young brothers and the captain.  I mean,
physically.  The minds of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth
week and went to temporary ruin, but physically the endurance exhibited
was astonishing.  Those men did not survive by any merit of their own, of
course, but by merit of the character and intelligence of the captain;
they lived by the mastery of his spirit.  Without him they would have
been children without a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted even as long as the
provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.  As it approached the
shore the sail was let go, and came down with a run; then the captain saw
that he was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an effort was made
to hoist the sail again; but it could not be done; the men's strength was
wholly exhausted; they could not even pull an oar.  They were helpless,
and death imminent.  It was then that they were discovered by the two
Kanakas who achieved the rescue.  They swam out and manned the boat, and
piloted her through a narrow and hardly noticeable break in the reef--the
only break in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles!  The spot where the
landing was made was the only one in that stretch where footing could
have been found on the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer down
into forty fathoms of water.  Also, in all that stretch this was the only
spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but one were up and
creeping about.  Properly, they ought to have killed themselves with the
'food' of the last few days--some of them, at any rate--men who had
freighted their stomachs with strips of leather from old boots and with
chips from the butter cask; a freightage which they did not get rid of by
digestion, but by other means.  The captain and the two passengers did
not eat strips and chips, as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-
leather and the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by moistening them
with water.  The third mate told me that the boots were old and full of
holes; then added thoughtfully, 'but the holes digested the best.'
Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable thing, and worth nothing:
during this strange voyage, and for a while afterward on shore, the
bowels of some of the men virtually ceased from their functions; in some
cases there was no action for twenty and thirty days, and in one case for
forty-four!  Sleeping also came to be rare.  Yet the men did very well
without it.  During many days the captain did not sleep at all--twenty-
one, I think, on one stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were successfully protected from
over-eating except the 'Portyghee;' he escaped the watch and ate an
incredible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-two, the third mate
said, but this was undoubtedly an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred
and fifty-one.  He was already nearly half full of leather; it was
hanging out of his ears.  (I do not state this on the third mate's
authority, for we have seen what sort of a person he was; I state it on
my own.)  The 'Portyghee' ought to have died, of course, and even now it
seems a pity that he didn't; but he got well, and as early as any of
them; and all full of leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas.  Some of the men did eat handkerchiefs in
those last days, also socks; and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill the rooster that
crowed so gallantly mornings.  He lived eighteen days, and then stood up
and stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort to do his duty once
more, and died in the act.  It is a picturesque detail; and so is that
rainbow, too--the only one seen in the forty-three days,--raising its
triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy fighters to sail under to
victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell performed this
memorable voyage of forty-three days and eight hours in an open boat,
sailing four thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred and sixty
by direct courses, and brought every man safe to land.  A bright, simple-
hearted, unassuming, plucky, and most companionable man.  I walked the
deck with him twenty-eight days--when I was not copying diaries,--and I
remember him with reverent honour.  If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died soon after we reached San
Francisco.  I do not think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats would presently be
heard of, but this hope suffered disappointment.  They went down with all
on board, no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy them exactly as they were
written, and the extracts that I have given are without any smoothing
over or revision.  These diaries are finely modest and unaffected, and
with unconscious and unintentional art they rise toward the climax with
graduated and gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity; they
sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and when the cry rings out at
last, 'Land in sight!' your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved.  The last two paragraphs are not
improvable by anybody's art; they are literary gold; and their very
pauses and uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence not reachable
by any words.

The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is of the sort that time
cannot decay.  I have not looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but
I find that they have lost nothing in that time.  Lost?  They have
gained; for by some subtle law all tragic human experiences gain in
pathos by the perspective of time.  We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in the historic storm of
volcanic ashes eighteen centuries ago, who lies with her child gripped
close to her breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief have
been preserved for us by the fiery envelope which took her life but
eternalized her form and features.  She moves us, she haunts us, she
stays in our thoughts for many days, we do not know why, for she is
nothing to us, she has been nothing to anyone for eighteen centuries;
whereas of the like case to-day we should say, 'Poor thing!  it is
pitiful,' and forget it in an hour.

[1] There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.--M.T.

[2] Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.--M.T.

[3] It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize it.
--M.T.






AT THE APPETITE-CURE

This establishment's name is Hochberghaus.  It is in Bohemia, a short
day's journey from Vienna, and being in the Austrian Empire is of course
a health resort.  The empire is made up of health resorts; it distributes
health to the whole world.  Its waters are all medicinal.  They are
bottled and sent throughout the earth; the natives themselves drink beer.
This is self-sacrifice apparently--but outlanders who have drunk Vienna
beer have another idea about it.  Particularly the Pilsner which one gets
in a small cellar up an obscure back lane in the First Bezirk--the name
has escaped me, but the place is easily found: You inquire for the Greek
church; and when you get to it, go right along by--the next house is that
little beer-mill.  It is remote from all traffic and all noise; it is
always Sunday there.  There are two small rooms, with low ceilings
supported by massive arches; the arches and ceilings are whitewashed,
otherwise the rooms would pass for cells in the dungeons of a bastile.
The furniture is plain and cheap, there is no ornamentation anywhere; yet
it is a heaven for the self-sacrificers, for the beer there is
incomparable; there is nothing like it elsewhere in the world.  In the
first room you will find twelve or fifteen ladies and gentlemen of
civilian quality; in the other one a dozen generals and ambassadors.  One
may live in Vienna many months and not hear of this place; but having
once heard of it and sampled it, the sampler will afterward infest it.

However, this is all incidental--a mere passing note of gratitude for
blessings received--it has nothing to do with my subject.  My subject is
health resorts.  All unhealthy people ought to domicile themselves in
Vienna, and use that as a base, making flights from time to time to the
outlying resorts, according to need.  A flight to Marienbad to get rid of
fat; a flight to Carlsbad to get rid of rheumatism; a flight to
Kalteneutgeben to take the water cure and get rid of the rest of the
diseases.  It is all so handy.  You can stand in Vienna and toss a
biscuit into Kaltenleutgeben, with a twelve-inch gun.  You can run out
thither at any time of the day; you go by phenomenally slow trains, and
yet inside of an hour you have exchanged the glare and swelter of the
city for wooded hills, and shady forest paths, and soft cool airs, and
the music of birds, and the repose and the peace of paradise.

And there are plenty of other health resorts at your service and
convenient to get at from Vienna; charming places, all of them; Vienna
sits in the centre of a beautiful world of mountains with now and then a
lake and forests; in fact, no other city is so fortunately situated.

There is an abundance of health resorts, as I have said.  Among them this
place--Hochberghaus.  It stands solitary on the top of a densely wooded
mountain, and is a building of great size.  It is called the Appetite
Anstallt, and people who have lost their appetites come here to get them
restored.  When I arrived I was taken by Professor Haimberger to his
consulting-room and questioned:

'It is six o'clock.  When did you eat last?'

'At noon.'

'What did you eat?'

'Next to nothing.'

'What was on the table?'

'The usual things.'

'Chops, chickens, vegetables, and so on?'

'Yes; but don't mention them--I can't bear it.'

'Are you tired of them?'

'Oh, utterly.  I wish I might never hear of them again.'

'The mere sight of food offends you, does it?'

'More, it revolts me.'

The doctor considered awhile, then got out a long menu and ran his eye
slowly down it.

'I think,' said he, 'that what you need to eat is--but here, choose for
yourself.'

I glanced at the list, and my stomach threw a hand-spring.  Of all the
barbarous lay-outs that were ever contrived, this was the most atrocious.
At the top stood 'tough, underdone, overdue tripe, garnished with
garlic;' half-way down the bill stood 'young cat; old cat; scrambled
cat;' at the bottom stood 'sailor-boots, softened with tallow--served
raw.'  The wide intervals of the bill were packed with dishes calculated
to gag a cannibal.  I said:

'Doctor, it is not fair to joke over so serious a case as mine.  I came
here to get an appetite, not to throw away the remnant that's left.'

He said gravely: 'I am not joking; why should I joke?'

'But I can't eat these horrors.'

'Why not?'

He said it with a naivete that was admirable, whether it was real or
assumed.

'Why not?  Because--why, doctor, for months I have seldom been able to
endure anything more substantial than omelettes and custards.  These
unspeakable dishes of yours--'

'Oh, you will come to like them.  They are very good.  And you must eat
them.  It is a rule of the place, and is strict.  I cannot permit any
departure from it.'

I said smiling: 'Well, then, doctor, you will have to permit the
departure of the patient.  I am going.'

He looked hurt, and said in a way which changed the aspect of things:

'I am sure you would not do me that injustice.  I accepted you in good
faith--you will not shame that confidence.  This appetite-cure is my
whole living.  If you should go forth from it with the sort of appetite
which you now have, it could become known, and you can see, yourself,
that people would say my cure failed in your case and hence can fail in
other cases.  You will not go; you will not do me this hurt.'

I apologised and said I would stay.

'That is right.  I was sure you would not go; it would take the food from
my family's mouths.'

'Would they mind that?  Do they eat these fiendish things?'

'They?  My family?' His eyes were full of gentle wonder.  'Of course
not.'

'Oh, they don't!  Do you?'

'Certainly not.'

'I see.  It's another case of a physician who doesn't take his own
medicine.'

'I don't need it.  It is six hours since you lunched.  Will you have
supper now--or later?'

'I am not hungry, but now is as good a time as any, and I would like to
be done with it and have it off my mind.  It is about my usual time, and
regularity is commanded by all the authorities.  Yes, I will try to
nibble a little now--I wish a light horsewhipping would answer instead.'

The professor handed me that odious menu.

'Choose--or will you have it later?'

'Oh, dear me, show me to my room; I forgot your hard rule.'

'Wait just a moment before you finally decide.  There is another rule.
If you choose now, the order will be filled at once; but if you wait, you
will have to await my pleasure.  You cannot get a dish from that entire
bill until I consent.'

'All right.  Show me to my room, and send the cook to bed; there is not
going to be any hurry.'

The professor took me up one flight of stairs and showed me into a most
inviting and comfortable apartment consisting of parlour, bedchamber, and
bathroom.

The front windows looked out over a far-reaching spread of green glades
and valleys, and tumbled hills clothed with forests--a noble solitude
unvexed by the fussy world.  In the parlour were many shelves filled with
books.  The professor said he would now leave me to myself; and added:

'Smoke and read as much as you please, drink all the water you like.
When you get hungry, ring and give your order, and I will decide whether
it shall be filled or not.  Yours is a stubborn, bad case, and I think
the first fourteen dishes in the bill are each and all too delicate for
its needs.  I ask you as a favour to restrain yourself and not call for
them.'

'Restrain myself, is it?  Give yourself no uneasiness.  You are going to
save money by me.  The idea of coaxing a sick man's appetite back with
this buzzard-fare is clear insanity.'

I said it with bitterness, for I felt outraged by this calm, cold talk
over these heartless new engines of assassination.  The doctor looked
grieved, but not offended.  He laid the bill of fare of the commode at my
bed's head, 'so that it would be handy,' and said:

'Yours is not the worst case I have encountered, by any means; still it
is a bad one and requires robust treatment; therefore I shall be
gratified if you will restrain yourself and skip down to No. 15 and begin
with that.'

Then he left me and I began to undress, for I was dog-tired and very
sleepy.  I slept fifteen hours and woke up finely refreshed at ten the
next morning.  Vienna coffee!  It was the first thing I thought of--that
unapproachable luxury--that sumptuous coffee-house coffee, compared with
which all other European coffee and all American hotel coffee is mere
fluid poverty.  I rang, and ordered it; also Vienna bread, that delicious
invention.  The servant spoke through the wicket in the door and said--
but you know what he said.  He referred me to the bill of fare.
I allowed him to go--I had no further use for him.

After the bath I dressed and started for a walk, and got as far as the
door.  It was locked on the outside.  I rang, and the servant came and
explained that it was another rule.  The seclusion of the patient was
required until after the first meal.  I had not been particularly anxious
to get out before; but it was different now.  Being locked in makes a
person wishful to get out.  I soon began to find it difficult to put in
the time.  At two o'clock I had been twenty-six hours without food.  I
had been growing hungry for some time; I recognised that I was not only
hungry now, but hungry with a strong adjective in front of it.  Yet I was
not hungry enough to face the bill of fare.

I must put in the time somehow.  I would read and smoke.  I did it; hour
by hour.  The books were all of one breed--shipwrecks; people lost in
deserts; people shut up in caved-in mines; people starving in besieged
cities.  I read about all the revolting dishes that ever famishing men
had stayed their hunger with.  During the first hours these things
nauseated me: hours followed in which they did not so affect me; still
other hours followed in which I found myself smacking my lips over some
tolerably infernal messes.  When I had been without food forty-five hours
I ran eagerly to the bell and ordered the second dish in the bill, which
was a sort of dumplings containing a compost made of caviar and tar.

It was refused me.  During the next fifteen hours I visited the bell
every now and then and ordered a dish that was further down the list.
Always a refusal.  But I was conquering prejudice after prejudice, right
along; I was making sure progress; I was creeping up on No. 15 with
deadly certainty, and my heart beat faster and faster, my hopes rose
higher and higher.

At last when food had not passed my lips for sixty hours, victory was
mine, and I ordered No. 15:

'Soft-boiled spring chicken--in the egg; six dozen, hot and fragrant!'

In fifteen minutes it was there; and the doctor along with it, rubbing
his hands with joy.  He said with great excitement:

'It's a cure, it's a cure!  I knew I could do it.  Dear sir, my grand
system never failed--never.  You've got your appetite back--you know you
have; say it and make me happy.'

'Bring on your carrion--I can eat anything in the bill!'

'Oh, this is noble, this is splendid--but I knew I could do it, the
system never fails.  How are the birds?'

'Never was anything so delicious in the world; and yet as a rule I don't
care for game.  But don't interrupt me, don't--I can't spare my mouth, I
really can't.'

Then the doctor said:

'The cure is perfect.  There is no more doubt nor danger.  Let the
poultry alone; I can trust you with a beefsteak, now.'

The beefsteak came--as much as a basketful of it--with potatoes, and
Vienna bread and coffee; and I ate a meal then that was worth all the
costly preparation I had made for it.  And dripped tears of gratitude
into the gravy all the time--gratitude to the doctor for putting a little
plain common-sense into me when I had been empty of it so many, many
years.


II

Thirty years ago Haimberger went off on a long voyage in a sailing-ship.
There were fifteen passengers on board.  The table-fare was of the
regulation pattern of the day: At 7 in the morning, a cup of bad coffee
in bed; at 9, breakfast: bad coffee, with condensed milk; soggy rolls,
crackers, salt fish; at 1 P.M., luncheon: cold tongue, cold ham, cold
corned beef, soggy cold rolls, crackers; 5 P.M., dinner: thick pea soup,
salt fish, hot corned beef and sour kraut, boiled pork and beans,
pudding; 9 till 11 P.M., supper: tea, with condensed milk, cold tongue,
cold ham, pickles, sea-biscuit, pickled oysters, pickled pigs' feet,
grilled bones, golden buck.

At the end of the first week eating had ceased, nibbling had taken its
place.  The passengers came to the table, but it was partly to put in the
time, and partly because the wisdom of the ages commanded them to be
regular in their meals.  They were tired of the coarse and monotonous
fare, and took no interest in it, had no appetite for it.  All day and
every day they roamed the ship half hungry, plagued by their gnawing
stomachs, moody, untalkative, miserable.  Among them were three confirmed
dyspeptics.  These became shadows in the course of three weeks.  There
was also a bed-ridden invalid; he lived on boiled rice; he could not look
at the regular dishes.

Now came shipwrecks and life in open boats, with the usual paucity of
food.  Provisions ran lower and lower.  The appetites improved, then.
When nothing was left but raw ham and the ration of that was down to two
ounces a day per person, the appetites were perfect.  At the end of
fifteen days the dyspeptics, the invalid, and the most delicate ladies in
the party were chewing sailor-boots in ecstasy, and only complaining
because the supply of them was limited.  Yet these were the same people
who couldn't endure the ship's tedious corned beef and sour kraut and
other crudities.  They were rescued by an English vessel.  Within ten
days the whole fifteen were in as good condition as they had been when
the shipwreck occurred.

'They had suffered no damage by their adventure,' said the professor.

'Do you note that?'

'Yes.'

'Do you note it well?'

'Yes--I think I do.'

'But you don't.  You hesitate.  You don't rise to the importance of it.
I will say it again--with emphasis--not one of them suffered any damage.'

'Now I begin to see.  Yes, it was indeed remarkable.'

'Nothing of the kind.  It was perfectly natural.  There was no reason why
they should suffer damage.  They were undergoing Nature's Appetite-Cure,
the best and wisest in the world.'

'Is that where you got your idea?'

'That is where I got it.'

'It taught those people a valuable lesson.'

'What makes you think that?'

'Why shouldn't I?  You seem to think it taught you one.'

'That is nothing to the point.  I am not a fool.'

'I see.  Were they fools?'

'They were human beings.'

'Is it the same thing?'

'Why do you ask?  You know it yourself.  As regards his health--and the
rest of the things--the average man is what his environment and his
superstitions have made him; and their function is to make him an ass.
He can't add up three or four new circumstances together and perceive
what they mean; it is beyond him.  He is not capable of observing for
himself; he has to get everything at second-hand.  If what are miscalled
the lower animals were as silly as man is, they would all perish from the
earth in a year.'

'Those passengers learned no lesson, then?'

'Not a sign of it.  They went to their regular meals in the English ship,
and pretty soon they were nibbling again--nibbling, appetiteless,
disgusted with the food, moody, miserable, half hungry, their outraged
stomachs cursing and swearing and whining and supplicating all day long.
And in vain, for they were the stomachs of fools.'

'Then, as I understand it, your scheme is--'

'Quite simple.  Don't eat until you are hungry.  If the food fails to
taste good, fails to satisfy you, rejoice you, comfort you, don't eat
again until you are very hungry.  Then it will rejoice you--and do you
good, too.'

'And I am to observe no regularity, as to hours?'

'When you are conquering a bad appetite--no.  After it is conquered,
regularity is no harm, so long as the appetite remains good.  As soon as
the appetite wavers, apply the corrective again--which is starvation,
long or short according to the needs of the case.'

'The best diet, I suppose--I mean the wholesomest--'

'All diets are wholesome.  Some are wholesomer than others, but all the
ordinary diets are wholesome enough for the people who use them.  Whether
the food be fine or coarse it will taste good and it will nourish if a
watch be kept upon the appetite and a little starvation introduced every
time it weakens.  Nansen was used to fine fare, but when his meals were
restricted to bear-meat months at a time he suffered no damage and no
discomfort, because his appetite was kept at par through the difficulty
of getting his bear-meat regularly.'

'But doctors arrange carefully considered and delicate diets for
invalids.'

'They can't help it.  The invalid is full of inherited superstitions and
won't starve himself.  He believes it would certainly kill him.'

'It would weaken him, wouldn't it?'

'Nothing to hurt.  Look at the invalids in our shipwreck.  They lived
fifteen days on pinches of raw ham, a suck at sailor-boots, and general
starvation.  It weakened them, but it didn't hurt them.  It put them in
fine shape to eat heartily of hearty food and build themselves up to a
condition of robust health.  But they did not know enough to profit by
that; they lost their opportunity; they remained invalids; it served them
right.  Do you know the trick that the health-resort doctors play?'

'What is it?'

'My system disguised--covert starvation.  Grape-cure, bath-cure, mud-
cure--it is all the same.  The grape and the bath and the mud make a show
and do a trifle of the work--the real work is done by the surreptitious
starvation.  The patient accustomed to four meals and late hours--at both
ends of the day--now consider what he has to do at a health resort.  He
gets up at 6 in the morning.  Eats one egg.  Tramps up and down a
promenade two hours with the other fools.  Eats a butterfly.  Slowly
drinks a glass of filtered sewage that smells like a buzzard's breath.
Promenades another two hours, but alone; if you speak to him he says
anxiously, "My water!--I am walking off my water!--please don't
interrupt," and goes stumping along again.  Eats a candied roseleaf.
Lies at rest in the silence and solitude of his room for hours; mustn't
read, mustn't smoke.  The doctor comes and feels of his heart, now, and
his pulse, and thumps his breast and his back and his stomach, and
listens for results through a penny flageolet; then orders the man's
bath--half a degree, Reaumur, cooler than yesterday.  After the bath
another egg.  A glass of sewage at three or four in the afternoon, and
promenade solemnly with the other freaks.  Dinner at 6--half a doughnut
and a cup of tea.  Walk again.  Half-past 8, supper--more butterfly; at
9, to bed.  Six weeks of this regime--think of it.  It starves a man out
and puts him in splendid condition.  It would have the same effect in
London, New York, Jericho--anywhere.'

'How long does it take to put a person in condition here?'

'It ought to take but a day or two; but in fact it takes from one to six
weeks, according to the character and mentality of the patient.'

'How is that?'

'Do you see that crowd of women playing football, and boxing, and jumping
fences yonder?  They have been here six or seven weeks.  They were
spectral poor weaklings when they came.  They were accustomed to nibbling
at dainties and delicacies at set hours four times a day, and they had no
appetite for anything.  I questioned them, and then locked them into
their rooms--the frailest ones to starve nine or ten hours, the others
twelve or fifteen.  Before long they began to beg; and indeed they
suffered a good deal.  They complained of nausea, headache, and so on.
It was good to see them eat when the time was up.  They could not
remember when the devouring of a meal had afforded them such rapture--
that was their word.  Now, then, that ought to have ended their cure, but
it didn't.  They were free to go to any meals in the house, and they
chose their accustomed four.  Within a day or two I had to interfere.
Their appetites were weakening.  I made them knock out a meal.  That set
them up again.  Then they resumed the four.  I begged them to learn to
knock out a meal themselves, without waiting for me.  Up to a fortnight
ago they couldn't; they really hadn't manhood enough; but they were
gaining it, and now I think they are safe.  They drop out a meal every
now and then of their own accord.  They are in fine condition now, and
they might safely go home, I think, but their confidence is not quite
perfect yet, so they are waiting awhile.'

'Other cases are different?'

'Oh yes.  Sometimes a man learns the whole trick in a week.  Learns to
regulate his appetite and keep it in perfect order.  Learns to drop out a
meal with frequency and not mind it.'

'But why drop the entire meal out?  Why not a part of it?'

'It's a poor device, and inadequate.  If the stomach doesn't call
vigorously--with a shout, as you may say--it is better not to pester it
but just give it a real rest.  Some people can eat more meals than
others, and still thrive.  There are all sorts of people, and all sorts
of appetites.  I will show you a man presently who was accustomed to
nibble at eight meals a day.  It was beyond the proper gait of his
appetite by two.  I have got him down to six a day, now, and he is all
right, and enjoys life.  How many meals to you affect per day?'

'Formerly--for twenty-two years--a meal and a half; during the past two
years, two and a half: coffee and a roll at 9, luncheon at 1, dinner at
7.30 or 8.'

'Formerly a meal and a half--that is, coffee and a roll at 9, dinner in
the evening, nothing between--is that it?

'Yes.'

'Why did you add a meal?'

'It was the family's idea.  They were uneasy.  They thought I was killing
myself.'

'You found a meal and a half per day enough, all through the twenty-two
years?'

'Plenty.'

'Your present poor condition is due to the extra meal.  Drop it out.  You
are trying to eat oftener than your stomach demands.  You don't gain, you
lose.  You eat less food now, in a day, on two and a half meals, than you
formerly ate on one and a half.'

'True--a good deal less; for in those olds days my dinner was a very
sizeable thing.'

'Put yourself on a single meal a day, now--dinner--for a few days, till
you secure a good, sound, regular, trustworthy appetite, then take to
your one and a half permanently, and don't listen to the family any more.
When you have any ordinary ailment, particularly of a feverish sort, eat
nothing at all during twenty-four hours.  That will cure it.  It will
cure the stubbornest cold in the head, too.  No cold in the head can
survive twenty-four hours' unmodified starvation.'

I know it.  I have proved it many a time.






CONCERNING THE JEWS

Some months ago I published a magazine article[1] descriptive of a
remarkable scene in the Imperial Parliament in Vienna.  Since then I have
received from Jews in America several letters of inquiry.  They were
difficult letters to answer, for they were not very definite.  But at
last I have received a definite one.  It is from a lawyer, and he really
asks the questions which the other writers probably believed they were
asking.  By help of this text I will do the best I can to publicly answer
this correspondent, and also the others--at the same time apologising for
having failed to reply privately.  The lawyer's letter reads as follows:

     'I have read "Stirring Times in Austria."  One point in particular
     is of vital import to not a few thousand people, including myself,
     being a point about which I have often wanted to address a question
     to some disinterested person.  The show of military force in the
     Austrian Parliament, which precipitated the riots, was not
     introduced by any Jew.  No Jew was a member of that body.  No Jewish
     question was involved in the Ausgleich or in the language
     proposition.  No Jew was insulting anybody.  In short, no Jew was
     doing any mischief toward anybody whatsoever.  In fact, the Jews
     were the only ones of the nineteen different races in Austria which
     did not have a party--they are absolute non-participants.  Yet in
     your article you say that in the rioting which followed, all classes
     of people were unanimous only on one thing, viz., in being against
     the Jews.  Now, will you kindly tell me why, in your judgment, the
     Jews have thus ever been, and are even now, in these days of
     supposed intelligence, the butt of baseless, vicious animosities?
     I dare say that for centuries there has been no more quiet,
     undisturbing, and well-behaving citizen, as a class, than that same
     Jew.  It seems to me that ignorance and fanaticism cannot alone
     account for these horrible and unjust persecutions.

     'Tell me, therefore, from your vantage point of cold view, what in
     your mind is the cause.  Can American Jews do anything to correct it
     either in America or abroad?  Will it ever come to an end?  Will a
     Jew be permitted to live honestly, decently, and peaceably like the
     rest of mankind?  What has become of the Golden Rule?'

I will begin by saying that if I thought myself prejudiced against the
Jew, I should hold it fairest to leave this subject to a person not
crippled in that way.  But I think I have no such prejudice.  A few years
ago a Jew observed to me that there was no uncourteous reference to his
people in my books, and asked how it happened.  It happened because the
disposition was lacking.  I am quite sure that (bar one) I have no race
prejudices, and I think I have no colour prejudices nor caste prejudices
nor creed prejudices.  Indeed, I know it.  I can stand any society.  All
that I care to know is that a man is a human being--that is enough for
me; he can't be any worse.  I have no special regard for Satan; but I can
at least claim that I have no prejudice against him.  It may even be that
I lean a little his way, on account of his not having a fair show.  All
religions issue Bibles against him, and say the most injurious things
about him, but we never hear his side.  We have none but the evidence for
the prosecution, and yet we have rendered the verdict.  To my mind, this
is irregular.  It is un-English; it is un-American; it is French.
Without this precedent Dreyfus could not have been condemned.  Of course
Satan has some kind of a case, it goes without saying.  It may be a poor
one, but that is nothing; that can be said about any of us.  As soon as I
can get at the facts I will undertake his rehabilitation myself, if I can
find an unpolitic publisher.  It is a thing which we ought to be willing
to do for any one who is under a cloud.  We may not pay Satan reverence,
for that would be indiscreet, but we can at least respect his talents.
A person who has during all time maintained the imposing position of
spiritual head of four-fifths of the human race, and political head of
the whole of it, must be granted the possession of executive abilities of
the loftiest order.  In his large presence the other popes and
politicians shrink to midges for the microscope.  I would like to see
him.  I would rather see him and shake him by the tail than any other
member of the European Concert.  In the present paper I shall allow
myself to use the word Jew as if it stood for both religion and race.  It
is handy; and, besides, that is what the term means to the general world.

In the above letter one notes these points:

1.  The Jew is a well-behaved citizen.

2.  Can ignorance and fanaticism alone account for his unjust treatment?

3.  Can Jews do anything to improve the situation?

4.  The Jews have no party; they are non-participants.

5.  Will the persecution ever come to an end?

6.  What has become of the Golden Rule?

Point No. 1.--We must grant proposition No. 1, for several sufficient
reasons.  The Jew is not a disturber of the peace of any country.  Even
his enemies will concede that.  He is not a loafer, he is not a sot, he
is not noisy, he is not a brawler nor a rioter, he is not quarrelsome.
In the statistics of crime his presence is conspicuously rare--in all
countries.  With murder and other crimes of violence he has but little to
do: he is a stranger to the hangman.  In the police court's daily long
roll of 'assaults' and 'drunk and disorderlies' his name seldom appears.
That the Jewish home is a home in the truest sense is a fact which no one
will dispute.  The family is knitted together by the strongest
affections; its members show each other every due respect; and reverence
for the elders is an inviolate law of the house.  The Jew is not a burden
on the charities of the state nor of the city; these could cease from
their functions without affecting him.  When he is well enough, he works;
when he is incapacitated, his own people take care of him.  And not in a
poor and stingy way, but with a fine and large benevolence.  His race is
entitled to be called the most benevolent of all the races of men.  A
Jewish beggar is not impossible, perhaps; such a thing may exist, but
there are few men that can say they have seen that spectacle.  The Jew
has been staged in many uncomplimentary forms, but, so far as I know, no
dramatist has done him the injustice to stage him as a beggar.  Whenever
a Jew has real need to beg, his people save him from the necessity of
doing it.  The charitable institutions of the Jews are supported by
Jewish money, and amply.  The Jews make no noise about it; it is done
quietly; they do not nag and pester and harass us for contributions; they
give us peace, and set us an example--an example which he have not found
ourselves able to follow; for by nature we are not free givers, and have
to be patiently and persistently hunted down in the interest of the
unfortunate.

These facts are all on the credit side of the proposition that the Jew is
a good and orderly citizen.  Summed up, they certify that he is quiet,
peaceable, industrious, unaddicted to high crimes and brutal
dispositions; that his family life is commendable; that he is not a
burden upon public charities; that he is not a beggar; that in
benevolence he is above the reach of competition.  These are the very
quintessentials of good citizenship.  If you can add that he is as honest
as the average of his neighbours--But I think that question is
affirmatively answered by the fact that he is a successful business man.
The basis of successful business is honesty; a business cannot thrive
where the parties to it cannot trust each other.  In the matter of
numbers the Jew counts for little in the overwhelming population of New
York; but that his honest counts for much is guaranteed by the fact that
the immense wholesale business of Broadway, from the Battery to Union
Square, is substantially in his hands.

I suppose that the most picturesque example in history of a trader's
trust in his fellow-trader was one where it was not Christian trusting
Christian, but Christian trusting Jew.  That Hessian Duke who used to
sell his subjects to George III. to fight George Washington with got rich
at it; and by-and-by, when the wars engendered by the French Revolution
made his throne too warm for him, he was obliged to fly the country.  He
was in a hurry, and had to leave his earnings behind--$9,000,000.  He had
to risk the money with some one without security.  He did not select a
Christian, but a Jew--a Jew of only modest means, but of high character;
a character so high that it left him lonesome--Rothschild of Frankfort.
Thirty years later, when Europe had become quiet and safe again, the Duke
came back from overseas, and the Jew returned the loan, with interest
added.[2]

The Jew has his other side.  He has some discreditable ways, though he
has not a monopoly of them, because he cannot get entirely rid of
vexatious Christian competition.  We have seen that he seldom
transgresses the laws against crimes of violence.  Indeed, his dealings
with courts are almost restricted to matters connected with commerce.  He
has a reputation for various small forms of cheating, and for practising
oppressive usury, and for burning himself out to get the insurance, and
for arranging cunning contracts which leave him an exit but lock the
other man in, and for smart evasions which find him safe and comfortable
just within the strict letter of the law, when court and jury know very
well that he has violated the spirit of it.  He is a frequent and
faithful and capable officer in the civil service, but he is charged with
an unpatriotic disinclination to stand by the flag as a soldier--like the
Christian Quaker.

Now if you offset these discreditable features by the creditable ones
summarised in a preceding paragraph beginning with the words, 'These
facts are all on the credit side,' and strike a balance, what must the
verdict be?  This, I think: that, the merits and demerits being fairly
weighed and measured on both sides, the Christian can claim no
superiority over the Jew in the matter of good citizenship.

Yet in all countries, from the dawn of history, the Jew has been
persistently and implacably hated, and with frequency persecuted.


Point No. 2.--'Can fanaticism alone account for this?'

Years ago I used to think that it was responsible for nearly all of it,
but latterly I have come to think that this was an error.  Indeed, it is
now my conviction that it is responsible for hardly any of it.

In this connection I call to mind Genesis, chapter xlvii.

We have all thoughtfully--or unthoughtfully--read the pathetic story of
the years of plenty and the years of famine in Egypt, and how Joseph,
with that opportunity, made a corner in broken hearts, and the crusts of
the poor, and human liberty--a corner whereby he took a nation's money
all away, to the last penny; took a nation's live stock all away, to the
last hoof; took a nation's land away, to the last acre; then took the
nation itself, buying it for bread, man by man, woman by woman, child by
child, till all were slaves; a corner which took everything, left
nothing; a corner so stupendous that, by comparison with it, the most
gigantic corners in subsequent history are but baby things, for it dealt
in hundreds of millions of bushels, and its profits were reckonable by
hundreds of millions of dollars, and it was a disaster so crushing that
its effects have not wholly disappeared from Egypt to-day, more than
three thousand years after the event.

Is it presumably that the eye of Egypt was upon Joseph the foreign Jew
all this time?  I think it likely.  Was it friendly?  We must doubt it.
Was Joseph establishing a character for his race which would survive long
in Egypt? and in time would his name come to be familiarly used to
express that character--like Shylock's?  It is hardly to be doubted.  Let
us remember that this was centuries before the Crucifixion?

I wish to come down eighteen hundred years later and refer to a remark
made by one of the Latin historians.  I read it in a translation many
years ago, and it comes back to me now with force.  It was alluding to a
time when people were still living who could have seen the Saviour in the
flesh.  Christianity was so new that the people of Rome had hardly heard
of it, and had but confused notions of what it was.  The substance of the
remark was this: Some Christians were persecuted in Rome through error,
they being 'mistaken for Jews.'

The meaning seems plain.  These pagans had nothing against Christians,
but they were quite ready to persecute Jews.  For some reason or other
they hated a Jew before they even knew what a Christian was.  May I not
assume, then, that the persecution of Jews is a thing which antedates
Christianity and was not born of Christianity?  I think so.  What was the
origin of the feeling?

When I was a boy, in the back settlements of the Mississippi Valley,
where a gracious and beautiful Sunday school simplicity and practicality
prevailed, the 'Yankee' (citizen of the New England States) was hated
with a splendid energy.  But religion had nothing to do with it.  In a
trade, the Yankee was held to be about five times the match of the
Westerner.  His shrewdness, his insight, his judgment, his knowledge, his
enterprise, and his formidable cleverness in applying these forces were
frankly confessed, and most competently cursed.

In the cotton States, after the war, the simple and ignorant Negroes made
the crops for the white planter on shares.  The Jew came down in force,
set up shop on the plantation, supplied all the negro's wants on credit,
and at the end of the season was proprietor of the negro's share of the
present crop and of part of his share of the next one.  Before long, the
whites detested the Jew, and it is doubtful if the negro loved him.

The Jew is begin legislated out of Russia.  The reason is not concealed.
The movement was instituted because the Christian peasant and villager
stood no chance against his commercial abilities.  He was always ready to
lend money on a crop, and sell vodka and other necessities of life on
credit while the crop was growing.  When settlement day came he owned the
crop; and next year or year after he owned the farm, like Joseph.

In the dull and ignorant English of John's time everybody got into debt
to the Jew.  He gathered all lucrative enterprises into his hands; he was
the king of commerce; he was ready to be helpful in all profitable ways;
he even financed crusades for the rescue of the Sepulchre.  To wipe out
his account with the nation and restore business to its natural and
incompetent channels he had to be banished the realm.

For the like reasons Spain had to banish him four hundred years ago, and
Austria about a couple of centuries later.

In all the ages Christian Europe has been oblige to curtail his
activities.  If he entered upon a mechanical trade, the Christian had to
retire from it.  If he set up as a doctor, he was the best one, and he
took the business.  If he exploited agriculture, the other farmers had to
get at something else.  Since there was no way to successfully compete
with him in any vocation, the law had to step in and save the Christian
from the poor-house.  Trade after trade was taken away from the Jew by
statute till practically none was left.  He was forbidden to engage in
agriculture; he was forbidden to practise law; he was forbidden to
practise medicine, except among Jews; he was forbidden the handicrafts.
Even the seats of learning and the schools of science had to be closed
against this tremendous antagonist.  Still, almost bereft of employments,
he found ways to make money, even ways to get rich.  Also ways to invest
his takings well, for usury was not denied him.  In the hard conditions
suggested, the Jew without brains could not survive, and the Jew with
brains had to keep them in good training and well sharpened up, or
starve.  Ages of restriction to the one tool which the law was not able
to take from him--his brain--have made that tool singularly competent;
ages of compulsory disuse of his hands have atrophied them, and he never
uses them now.  This history has a very, very commercial look, a most
sordid and practical commercial look, the business aspect of a Chinese
cheap-labour crusade.  Religious prejudices may account for one part of
it, but not for the other nine.

Protestants have persecuted Catholics, but they did not take their
livelihoods away from them.  The Catholics have persecuted the
Protestants with bloody and awful bitterness, but they never closed
agriculture and the handicrafts against them.  Why was that?  That has
the candid look of genuine religious persecution, not a trade-union
boycott in a religious dispute.

The Jews are harried and obstructed in Austria and Germany, and lately in
France; but England and America give them an open field and yet survive.
Scotland offers them an unembarrassed field too, but there are not many
takers.  There are a few Jews in Glasgow, and one in Aberdeen; but that
is because they can't earn enough to get away.  The Scotch pay themselves
that compliment, but it is authentic.

I feel convinced that the Crucifixion has not much to do with the world's
attitude toward the Jew; that the reasons for it are older than that
event, as suggested by Egypt's experience and by Rome's regret for having
persecuted an unknown quantity called a Christian, under the mistaken
impression that she was merely persecuting a Jew.  Merely a Jew--a
skinned eel who was used to it, presumably.  I am persuaded that in
Russia, Austria, and Germany nine-tenths of the hostility to the Jew
comes from the average Christian's inability to compete successfully with
the average Jew in business--in either straight business or the
questionable sort.

In Berlin, a few years ago, I read a speech which frankly urged the
expulsion of the Jews from Germany; and the agitator's reason was as
frank as his proposition.  It was this: that eighty-five percent of the
successful lawyers of Berlin were Jews, and that about the same
percentage of the great and lucrative businesses of all sorts in Germany
were in the hands of the Jewish race!  Isn't it an amazing confession?
It was but another way of saying that in a population of 48,000,000, of
whom only 500,000 were registered as Jews, eighty-five per cent of the
brains and honesty of the whole was lodged in the Jews.  I must insist
upon the honesty--it is an essential of successful business, taken by and
large.  Of course it does not rule out rascals entirely, even among
Christians, but it is a good working rule, nevertheless.  The speaker's
figures may have been inexact, but the motive of persecution stands out
as clear as day.

The man claimed that in Berlin the banks, the newspapers, the theatres,
the great mercantile, shipping, mining, and manufacturing interests, the
big army and city contracts, the tramways, and pretty much all other
properties of high value, and also the small businesses, were in the
hands of the Jews.  He said the Jew was pushing the Christian to the wall
all along the line; that it was all a Christian could do to scrape
together a living; and that the Jew must be banished, and soon--there was
no other way of saving the Christian.  Here in Vienna, last autumn, an
agitator said that all these disastrous details were true of Austria-
Hungary also; and in fierce language he demanded the expulsion of the
Jews.  When politicians come out without a blush and read the baby act in
this frank way, unrebuked, it is a very good indication that they have a
market back of them, and know where to fish for votes.

You note the crucial point of the mentioned agitation; the argument is
that the Christian cannot compete with the Jew, and that hence his very
bread is in peril.  To human beings this is a much more hate-inspiring
thing than is any detail connected with religion.  With most people, of a
necessity, bread and meat take first rank, religion second.  I am
convinced that the persecution of the Jew is not due in any large degree
to religious prejudice.

No, the Jew is a money-getter; and in getting his money he is a very
serious obstruction to less capable neighbours who are on the same quest.
I think that that is the trouble.  In estimating worldly values the Jew
is not shallow, but deep.  With precocious wisdom he found out in the
morning of time that some men worship rank, some worship heroes, some
worship power, some worship God, and that over these ideals they dispute
and cannot unite--but that they all worship money; so he made it the end
and aim of his life to get it.  He was at it in Egypt thirty-six
centuries ago; he was at it in Rome when that Christian got persecuted by
mistake for him; he has been at it ever since.  The cost to him has been
heavy; his success has made the whole human race his enemy--but it has
paid, for it has brought him envy, and that is the only thing which men
will sell both soul and body to get.  He long ago observed that a
millionaire commands respect, a two-millionaire homage, a multi-
millionaire the deepest deeps of adoration.  We all know that feeling;
we have seen it express itself.  We have noticed that when the average
man mentions the name of a multi-millionaire he does it with that mixture
in his voice of awe and reverence and lust which burns in a Frenchman's
eye when it falls on another man's centime.


Point No.  4--'The Jews have no party; they are non-participants.'

Perhaps you have let the secret out and given yourself away.  It seems
hardly a credit to the race that it is able to say that; or to you, sir,
that you can say it without remorse; more, that you should offer it as a
plea against maltreatment, injustice, and oppression.  Who gives the Jew
the right, who gives any race the right, to sit still in a free country,
and let somebody else look after its safety?  The oppressed Jew was
entitled to all pity in the former times under brutal autocracies, for he
was weak and friendless, and had no way to help his case.  But he has
ways now, and he has had them for a century, but I do not see that he has
tried to make serious use of then.  When the Revolution set him free in
France it was an act of grace--the grace of other people; he does not
appear in it as a helper.  I do not know that he helped when England set
him free.  Among the Twelve Sane Men of France who have stepped forward
with great Zola at their head to fight (and win, I hope and believe[3])
the battle for the most infamously misused Jew of modern times, do you
find a great or rich or illustrious Jew helping?  In the United States he
was created free in the beginning--he did not need to help, of course.
In Austria and Germany and France he has a vote, but of what considerable
use is it to him?  He doesn't seem to know how to apply it to the best
effect.  With all his splendid capacities and all his fat wealth he is
to-day not politically important in any country.  In America, as early as
1854, the ignorant Irish hod-carrier, who had a spirit of his own and a
way of exposing it to the weather, made it apparent to all that he must
be politically reckoned with; yet fifteen years before that we hardly
knew what an Irishman looked like.  As an intelligent force and
numerically, he has always been away down, but he has governed the
country just the same.  It was because he was organised.  It made his
vote valuable--in fact, essential.

You will say the Jew is everywhere numerically feeble.  That is nothing
to the point--with the Irishman's history for an object-lesson.  But I am
coming to your numerical feebleness presently.  In all parliamentary
countries you could no doubt elect Jews to the legislatures--and even one
member in such a body is sometimes a force which counts.  How deeply have
you concerned yourselves about this in Austria, France, and Germany?  Or
even in America, for that matter?  You remark that the Jews were not to
blame for the riots in this Reichsrath here, and you add with
satisfaction that there wasn't one in that body.  That is not strictly
correct; if it were, would it not be in order for you to explain it and
apologise for it, not try to make a merit of it?  But I think that the
Jew was by no means in as large force there as he ought to have been,
with his chances.  Austria opens the suffrage to him on fairly liberal
terms, and it must surely be his own fault that he is so much in the
background politically.

As to your numerical weakness.  I mentioned some figures awhile ago--
500,00--as the Jewish population of Germany.  I will add some more--
6,000,000 in Russia, 5,000,000 in Austria, 250,000 in the United States.
I take them from memory; I read them in the 'Encyclopaedia Brittannica'
ten or twelve years ago.  Still, I am entirely sure of them.  If those
statistics are correct, my argument is not as strong as it ought to be as
concerns America, but it still has strength.  It is plenty strong enough
as concerns Austria, for ten years ago 5,000,000 was nine per cent of the
empire's population.  The Irish would govern the Kingdom of Heaven if
they had a strength there like that.

I have some suspicions; I got them at second-hand, but they have remained
with me these ten or twelve years.  When I read in the 'E.B.'  that the
Jewish population of the United States was 250,000 I wrote the editor,
and explained to him that I was personally acquainted with more Jews than
that in my country, and that his figures were without a doubt a misprint
for 25,000,000.  I also added that I was personally acquainted with that
many there; but that was only to raise his confidence in me, for it was
not true.  His answer miscarried, and I never got it; but I went around
talking about the matter, and people told me they had reason to suspect
that for business reasons many Jews whose dealings were mainly with the
Christians did not report themselves as Jews in the census.  It looked
plausible; it looks plausible yet.  Look at the city of New York; and
look at Boston, and Philadelphia, and New Orleans, and Chicago, and
Cincinnati, and San Francisco--how your race swarms in those places!--and
everywhere else in America, down to the least little village.  Read the
signs on the marts of commerce and on the shops; Goldstein (gold stone),
Edelstein (precious stone), Blumenthal (flower-vale), Rosenthal (rose-
vale), Veilchenduft (violent odour), Singvogel (song-bird), Rosenzweig
(rose branch), and all the amazing list of beautiful and enviable names
which Prussia and Austria glorified you with so long ago.  It is another
instance of Europe's coarse and cruel persecution of your race; not that
it was coarse and cruel to outfit it with pretty and poetical names like
those, but it was coarse and cruel to make it pay for them or else take
such hideous and often indecent names that to-day their owners never use
them; or, if they do, only on official papers.  And it was the many, not
the few, who got the odious names, they being too poor to bribe the
officials to grant them better ones.

Now why was the race renamed?  I have been told that in Prussia it was
given to using fictitious names, and often changing them, so as to beat
the tax-gatherer, escape military service, and so on; and that finally
the idea was hit upon of furnishing all the inmates of a house with one
and the same surname, and then holding the house responsible right along
for those inmates, and accountable for any disappearances that might
occur; it made the Jews keep track of each other, for self-interest's
sake, and saved the Government the trouble[4].

If that explanation of how the Jews of Prussia came to be renamed is
correct, if it is true that they fictitiously registered themselves to
gain certain advantages, it may possible be true that in America they
refrain from registered themselves as Jews to fend off the damaging
prejudices of the Christian customer.  I have no way of knowing whether
this notion is well founded or not.  There may be other and better ways
of explaining why only that poor little 250,000 of our Jews got into the
'Encyclopaedia'.  I may, of course, be mistaken, but I am strongly of the
opinion that we have an immense Jewish population in America.


Point No.  3--'Can Jews do anything to improve the situation?'

I think so.  If I may make a suggestion without seeming to be trying to
teach my grandmother to suck eggs, I will offer it.  In our days we have
learned the value of combination.  We apply it everywhere--in railway
systems, in trusts, in trade unions, in Salvation Armies, in minor
politics, in major politics, in European Concerts.  Whatever our strength
may be, big or little, we organise it.  We have found out that that is
the only way to get the most out of it that is in it.  We know the
weakness of individual sticks, and the strength of the concentrated
faggot.  Suppose you try a scheme like this, for instance.  In England
and America put every Jew on the census-book as a Jew (in case you have
not been doing that).  Get up volunteer regiments composed of Jews
solely, and when the drum beats, fall in and go to the front, so as to
remove the reproach that you have few Massenas among you, and that you
feed on a country but don't like to fight for it.  Next, in politics,
organise your strength, band together, and deliver the casting-vote where
you can, and, where you can't, compel as good terms as possible.  You
huddle to yourselves already in all countries, but you huddle to no
sufficient purpose, politically speaking.  You do not seem to be
organised, except for your charities.  There you are omnipotent; there
you compel your due of recognition--you do not have to beg for it.  It
shows what you can do when you band together for a definite purpose.

And then from America and England you can encourage your race in Austria,
France, and Germany, and materially help it.  It was a pathetic tale that
was told by a poor Jew a fortnight ago during the riots, after he had
been raided by the Christian peasantry and despoiled of everything he
had.  He said his vote was of no value to him, and he wished he could be
excused from casting it, for indeed, casting it was a sure damage to him,
since, no matter which party he voted for, the other party would come
straight and take its revenge out of him.  Nine per cent of the
population, these Jews, and apparently they cannot put a plank into any
candidate's platform!  If you will send our Irish lads over here I think
they will organise your race and change the aspect of the Reichsrath.

You seem to think that the Jews take no hand in politics here, that they
are 'absolutely non-participants.'  I am assured by men competent to
speak that this is a very large error, that the Jews are exceedingly
active in politics all over the empire, but that they scatter their work
and their votes among the numerous parties, and thus lose the advantages
to be had by concentration.  I think that in America they scatter too,
but you know more about that than I do.

Speaking of concentration, Dr. Herzl has a clear insight into the value
of that.  Have you heard of his plan?  He wishes to gather the Jews of
the world together in Palestine, with a government of their own--under
the suzerainty of the Sultan, I suppose.  At the Convention of Berne,
last year, there were delegates from everywhere, and the proposal was
received with decided favour.  I am not the Sultan, and I am not
objecting; but if that concentration of the cunningest brains in the
world were going to be made in a free country (bar Scotland), I think it
would be politic to stop it.  It will not be well to let that race find
out its strength.  If the horses knew theirs, we should not ride any
more.


Point No. 5.--'Will the persecution of the Jews ever come to an end?'

On the score of religion, I think it has already come to an end.  On the
score of race prejudice and trade, I have the idea that it will continue.
That is, here and there in spots about the world, where a barbarous
ignorance and a sort of mere animal civilisation prevail; but I do not
think that elsewhere the Jew need now stand in any fear of being robbed
and raided.  Among the high civilisations he seems to be very comfortably
situated indeed, and to have more than his proportionate share of the
prosperities going.  It has that look in Vienna.  I suppose the race
prejudice cannot be removed; but he can stand that; it is no particular
matter.  By his make and ways he is substantially a foreigner wherever he
may be, and even the angels dislike a foreigner.  I am using this world
foreigner in the German sense--stranger.  Nearly all of us have an
antipathy to a stranger, even of our own nationality.  We pile grip-sacks
in a vacant seat to keep him from getting it; and a dog goes further, and
does as a savage would--challenges him on the spot.  The German
dictionary seems to make no distinction between a stranger and a
foreigner; in its view a stranger is a foreigner--a sound position,
I think.  You will always be by ways and habits and predilections
substantially strangers--foreigners--wherever you are, and that will
probably keep the race prejudice against you alive.

But you were the favourites of Heaven originally, and your manifold and
unfair prosperities convince me that you have crowded back into that snug
place again.  Here is an incident that is significant.  Last week in
Vienna a hailstorm struck the prodigious Central Cemetery and made
wasteful destruction there.  In the Christian part of it, according to
the official figures, 621 window-panes were broken; more than 900
singing-birds were killed; five great trees and many small ones were torn
to shreds and the shreds scattered far and wide by the wind; the
ornamental plants and other decorations of the graces were ruined, and
more than a hundred tomb-lanterns shattered; and it took the cemetery's
whole force of 300 labourers more than three days to clear away the
storm's wreckage.  In the report occurs this remark--and in its italics
you can hear it grit its Christian teeth: '...lediglich die israelitische
Abtheilung des Friedhofes vom Hagelwetter ganzlich verschont worden war.'
Not a hailstone hit the Jewish reservation!  Such nepotism makes me
tired.


Point No. 6.--'What has become of the Golden Rule?'

It exists, it continues to sparkle, and is well taken care of.  It is
Exhibit A in the Church's assets, and we pull it out every Sunday and
give it an airing.  But you are not permitted to try to smuggle it into
this discussion, where it is irrelevant and would not feel at home.
It is strictly religious furniture, like an acolyte, or a contribution-
plate, or any of those things.  It has never intruded into business; and
Jewish persecution is not a religious passion, it is a business passion.


To conclude.--If the statistics are right, the Jews constitute but one
per cent of the human race.  It suggests a nebulous dim puff of star-dust
lost in the blaze of the Milky Way.  Properly the Jew ought hardly to be
heard of; but he is heard of, has always been heard of.  He is as
prominent on the planet as any other people, and his commercial
importance is extravagantly out of proportion to the smallness of his
bulk.  His contributions to the world's list of great names in
literature, science, art, music, finance, medicine, and abstruse learning
are also away out of proportion to the weakness of his numbers.  He has
made a marvellous fight in this world, in all the ages; and has done it
with his hands tied behind him.  He could be vain of himself, and be
excused for it.  The Egyptian, the Babylonian, and the Persian rose,
filled the planet with sound and splendour, then faded to dream-stuff and
passed away; the Greek and the Roman followed, and made a vast noise, and
they are gone; other peoples have sprung up and held their torch high for
a time, but it burned out, and they sit in twilight now, or have
vanished.  The Jew saw them all, beat them all, and is now what he always
was, exhibiting no decadence, no infirmities of age, no weakening of his
parts, no slowing of his energies, no dulling of his alert and aggressive
mind.  All things are mortal to the Jew; all other forces pass, but he
remains.  What is the secret of his immortality?


Postscript--THE JEW AS SOLDIER

When I published the above article in 'Harper's Monthly,' I was ignorant
--like the rest of the Christian world--of the fact that the Jew had a
record as a soldier.  I have since seen the official statistics, and I
find that he furnished soldiers and high officers to the Revolution, the
War of 1812, and the Mexican War.  In the Civil War he was represented in
the armies and navies of both the North and the South by 10 per cent of
his numerical strength--the same percentage that was furnished by the
Christian populations of the two sections.  This large fact means more
than it seems to mean; for it means that the Jew's patriotism was not
merely level with the Christian's, but overpassed it.  When the Christian
volunteer arrived in camp he got a welcome and applause, but as a rule
the Jew got a snub.  His company was not desired, and he was made to feel
it.  That he nevertheless conquered his wounded pride and sacrificed both
that and his blood for his flag raises the average and quality of his
patriotism above the Christian's.  His record for capacity, for fidelity,
and for gallant soldiership in the field is as good as any one's.  This
is true of the Jewish private soldiers and of the Jewish generals alike.
Major-General O. O. Howard speaks of one of his Jewish staff officers as
being 'of the bravest and best;' of another--killed at Chancellorsville--
as being 'a true friend and a brave officer;' he highly praises two of
his Jewish brigadier-generals; finally, he uses these strong words:
'Intrinsically there are no more patriotic men to be found in the country
than those who claim to be of Hebrew descent, and who served with me in
parallel commands or more directly under my instructions.'

Fourteen Jewish Confederate and Union families contributed, between them,
fifty-one soldiers to the war.  Among these, a father and three sons; and
another, a father and four sons.

In the above article I was neither able to endorse nor repel the common
approach that the Jew is willing to feed upon a country but not to fight
for it, because I did not know whether it was true or false.  I supposed
it to be true, but it is not allowable to endorse wandering maxims upon
supposition--except when one is trying to make out a case.  That slur
upon the Jew cannot hold up its head in presence of the figures of the
War Department.  It has done its work, and done it long and faithfully,
and with high approval: it ought to be pensioned off now, and retired
from active service.

[1] See 'Stirring Times in Austria,' in this volume.

[2] Here is another piece of picturesque history; and it reminds us that
shabbiness and dishonesty are not the monopoly of any race or creed, but
are merely human:

'Congress has passed a bill to pay $379.56 to Moses Pendergrass, of
Libertyville, Missouri.  The story of the reason of this liberality is
pathetically interesting, and shows the sort of pickle that an honest man
may get into who undertakes to do an honest job of work for Uncle Sam.
In 1886 Moses Pendergrass put in a bid for the contract to carry the mail
on the route from Knob Lick to Libertyville and Coffman, thirty miles a
day, from July 1, 1887, for one years.  He got the postmaster at Knob
Lick to write the letter for him, and while Moses intended that his bid
should be $400, his scribe carelessly made it $4.  Moses got the
contract, and did not find out about the mistake until the end of the
first quarter, when he got his first pay.  When he found at what rate he
was working he was sorely cast down, and opened communication with the
Post Office Department.  The department informed his that he must either
carry out his contract or throw it up, and that if he threw it up his
bondsman would have the pay the Government $1,459.85 damages.  So Moses
carried out his contract, walked thirty miles every week-day for a year,
and carried the mail, and received for his labour $4, or, to be accurate,
$6.84; for, the route being extended after his bid was accepted, his pay
was proportionately increased.  Now, after ten years, a bill was finally
passed to pay to Moses the difference between what he earned in that
unlucky year and what he received.'

The 'Sun,' which tells the above story, says that bills were introduced
in three or four Congresses for Moses' relief, and that committees
repeatedly investigated his claim.

It took six Congresses, containing in their persons the compressed
virtues of 70,000,000 of people, and cautiously and carefully giving
expression to those virtues in the fear of God and the next election,
eleven years to find out some way to cheat a fellow Christian out of
about $13 on his honestly executed contract, and out of nearly $300 due
him on its enlarged terms.  And they succeeded.  During the same time
they paid out $1,000,000,000 in pensions--a third of it unearned and
undeserved.  This indicates a splendid all-round competency in theft, for
it starts with farthings, and works its industries all the way up to
ship-loads.  It may be possible that the Jews can beat this, but the man
that bets on it is taking chances.

[3] The article was written in the summer of 1898.

[4] In Austria the renaming was merely done because the Jews in some
newly-acquired regions had no surnames, but were mostly named Abraham and
Moses, and therefore the tax-gatherer could tell t'other from which, and
was likely to lose his reason over the matter.  The renaming was put into
the hands of the War Department, and a charming mess the graceless young
lieutenants made of it.  To them a Jew was of no sort of consequence, and
they labelled the race in a way to make the angels weep.  As an example,
take these two: Abraham Bellyache and Schmul Godbedamned--Culled from
'Namens Studien,' by Karl Emil Fransos.






FROM THE 'LONDON TIMES' OF 1904

Correspondence of the 'London Times'
Chicago, April 1, 1904

I resume by cable-telephone where I left off yesterday.  For many hours
now, this vast city--along with the rest of the globe, of course--has
talked of nothing but the extraordinary episode mentioned in my last
report.  In accordance with your instructions, I will now trace the
romance from its beginnings down to the culmination of yesterday--or
today; call it which you like.  By an odd chance, I was a personal actor
in a part of this drama myself.  The opening scene plays in Vienna.
Date, one o'clock in the morning, March 31, 1898.  I had spent the
evening at a social entertainment.  About midnight I went away, in
company with the military attaches of the British, Italian, and American
embassies, to finish with a late smoke.  This function had been appointed
to take place in the house of Lieutenant Hillyer, the third attache
mentioned in the above list.  When we arrived there we found several
visitors in the room; young Szczepanik;[1] Mr. K., his financial backer;
Mr. W., the latter's secretary; and Lieutenant Clayton, of the United
States Army.  War was at that time threatening between Spain and our
country, and Lieutenant Clayton had been sent to Europe on military
business.  I was well acquainted with young Szczepanik and his two
friends, and I knew Mr. Clayton slightly.  I had met him at West Point
years before, when he was a cadet.  It was when General Merritt was
superintendent.  He had the reputation of being an able officer, and also
of being quick-tempered and plain-spoken.

This smoking-party had been gathered together partly for business.  This
business was to consider the availability of the telelectroscope for
military service.  It sounds oddly enough now, but it is nevertheless
true that at that time the invention was not taken seriously by any one
except its inventor.  Even his financial support regarded it merely as a
curious and interesting toy.  Indeed, he was so convinced of this that he
had actually postponed its use by the general world to the end of the
dying century by granting a two years' exclusive lease of it to a
syndicate, whose intent was to exploit it at the Paris World's Fair.
When we entered the smoking-room we found Lieutenant Clayton and
Szczepanik engaged in a warm talk over the telelectroscope in the German
tongue.  Clayton was saying:

'Well, you know my opinion of it, anyway!' and he brought his fist down
with emphasis upon the table.

'And I do not value it,' retorted the young inventor, with provoking
calmness of tone and manner.

Clayton turned to Mr. K., and said:

'I cannot see why you are wasting money on this toy.  In my opinion, the
day will never come when it will do a farthing's worth of real service
for any human being.'

'That may be; yes, that may be; still, I have put the money in it, and am
content.  I think, myself, that it is only a toy; but Szczepanik claims
more for it, and I know him well enough to believe that he can see father
than I can--either with his telelectroscope or without it.'

The soft answer did not cool Clayton down; it seemed only to irritate him
the more; and he repeated and emphasised his conviction that the
invention would never do any man a farthing's worth of real service.  He
even made it a 'brass' farthing, this time.  Then he laid an English
farthing on the table, and added:

'Take that, Mr. K., and put it away; and if ever the telelectroscope does
any man an actual service--mind, a real service--please mail it to me as
a reminder, and I will take back what I have been saying.  Will you?'

'I will,' and Mr. K. put the coin in his pocket.

Mr. Clayton now turned toward Szczepanik, and began with a taunt--a taunt
which did not reach a finish; Szczepanik interrupted it with a hardy
retort, and followed this with a blow.  There was a brisk fight for a
moment or two; then the attaches separated the men.

The scene now changes to Chicago.  Time, the autumn of 1901.  As soon as
the Paris contract released the telelectroscope, it was delivered to
public use, and was soon connected with the telephonic systems of the
whole world.  The improved 'limitless-distance' telephone was presently
introduced, and the daily doings of the globe made visible to everybody,
and audibly discussible, too, by witnesses separated by any number of
leagues.

By-and-by Szczepanik arrived in Chicago.  Clayton (now captain) was
serving in that military department at the time.  The two men resumed the
Viennese quarrel of 1898.  On three different occasions they quarrelled,
and were separated by witnesses.  Then came an interval of two months,
during which time Szczepanik was not seen by any of his friends, and it
was at first supposed that he had gone off on a sight seeing tour and
would soon be heard from.  But no; no word came from him.  Then it was
supposed that he had returned to Europe.  Still, time drifted on, and he
was not heard from.  Nobody was troubled, for he was like most inventors
and other kinds of poets, and went and came in a capricious way, and
often without notice.

Now comes the tragedy.  On December 29, in a dark and unused compartment
of the cellar under Captain Clayton's house, a corpse was discovered by
one of Clayton's maid-servants.  Friends of deceased identified it as
Szczepanik's.  The man had died by violence.  Clayton was arrested,
indicted, and brought to trial, charged with this murder.  The evidence
against him was perfect in every detail, and absolutely unassailable.
Clayton admitted this himself.  He said that a reasonable man could not
examine this testimony with a dispassionate mind and not be convinced by
it; yet the man would be in error, nevertheless.  Clayton swore that he
did not commit the murder, and that he had had nothing to do with it.

As your readers will remember, he was condemned to death.  He had
numerous and powerful friends, and they worked hard to save him, for none
of them doubted the truth of his assertion.  I did what little I could to
help, for I had long since become a close friend of his, and thought I
knew that it was not in his character to inveigle an enemy into a corner
and assassinate him.  During 1902 and 1903 he was several times reprieved
by the governor; he was reprieved once more in the beginning of the
present year, and the execution day postponed to March 31.

The governor's situation has been embarrassing, from the day of the
condemnation, because of the fact that Clayton's wife is the governor's
niece.  The marriage took place in 1899, when Clayton was thirty-four and
the girl twenty-three, and has been a happy one.  There is one child, a
little girl three years old.  Pity for the poor mother and child kept the
mouths of grumblers closed at first; but this could not last for ever--
for in America politics has a hand in everything--and by-and-by the
governor's political opponents began to call attention to his delay in
allowing the law to take its course.  These hints have grown more and
more frequent of late, and more and more pronounced.  As a natural
result, his own part grew nervous.  Its leaders began to visit
Springfield and hold long private conferences with him.  He was now
between two fires.  On the one hand, his niece was imploring him to
pardon her husband; on the other were the leaders, insisting that he
stand to his plain duty as chief magistrate of the State, and place no
further bar to Clayton's execution.  Duty won in the struggle, and the
Governor gave his word that he would not again respite the condemned man.
This was two weeks ago.  Mrs. Clayton now said:

'Now that you have given your word, my last hope is gone, for I know you
will never go back from it.  But you have done the best you could for
John, and I have no reproaches for you.  You love him, and you love me,
and we know that if you could honourable save him, you would do it.  I
will go to him now, and be what help I can to him, and get what comfort I
may out of the few days that are left to us before the night comes which
will have no end for me in life.  You will be with me that day?  You will
not let me bear it alone?'

'I will take you to him myself, poor child, and I will be near you to the
last.'

By the governor's command, Clayton was now allowed every indulgence he
might ask for which could interest his mind and soften the hardships of
his imprisonment.  His wife and child spent the days with him; I was his
companion by night.  He was removed from the narrow cell which he had
occupied during such a dreary stretch of time, and given the chief
warden's roomy and comfortable quarters.  His mind was always busy with
the catastrophe of his life, and with the slaughtered inventor, and he
now took the fancy that he would like to have the telelectroscope and
divert his mind with it.  He had his wish.  The connection was made with
the international telephone-station, and day by day, and night by night,
he called up one corner of the globe after another, and looked upon its
life, and studied its strange sights, and spoke with its people, and
realised that by grace of this marvellous instrument he was almost as
free as the birds of the air, although a prisoner under locks and bars.
He seldom spoke, and I never interrupted him when he was absorbed in this
amusement.  I sat in his parlour and read, and smoked, and the nights
were very quiet and reposefully sociable, and I found them pleasant.  Now
and then I would her him say 'Give me Yedo;' next, 'Give me Hong-Kong;'
next, 'Give me Melbourne.'  And I smoked on, and read in comfort, while
he wandered about the remote underworld, where the sun was shining in the
sky, and the people were at their daily work.  Sometimes the talk that
came from those far regions through the microphone attachment interested
me, and I listened.

Yesterday--I keep calling it yesterday, which is quite natural, for
certain reasons--the instrument remained unused, and that also was
natural, for it was the eve of the execution day.  It was spent in tears
and lamentations and farewells.  The governor and the wife and child
remained until a quarter-past eleven at night, and the scenes I witnessed
were pitiful to see.  The execution was to take place at four in the
morning.  A little after eleven a sound of hammering broke out upon the
still night, and there was a glare of light, and the child cried out,
'What is that, papa?' and ran to the window before she could be stopped
and clapped her small hands and said, 'Oh, come and see, mamma--such a
pretty thing they are making!' The mother knew--and fainted.  It was the
gallows!

She was carried away to her lodging, poor woman, and Clayton and I were
alone--alone, and thinking, brooding, dreaming.  We might have been
statues, we sat so motionless and still.  It was a wild night, for winter
was come again for a moment, after the habit of this region in the early
spring.  The sky was starless and black, and a strong wind was blowing
from the lake.  The silence in the room was so deep that all outside
sounds seemed exaggerated by contrast with it.  These sounds were fitting
ones: they harmonised with the situation and the conditions: the boom and
thunder of sudden storm-gusts among the roofs and chimneys, then the
dying down into moanings and wailings about the eaves and angles; now and
then a gnashing and lashing rush of sleet along the window-panes; and
always the muffled and uncanny hammering of the gallows-builders in the
court-yard.  After an age of this, another sound--far off, and coming
smothered and faint through the riot of the tempest--a bell tolling
twelve!  Another age, and it was tolled again.  By-and-by, again.  A
dreary long interval after this, then the spectral sound floated to us
once more--one, two three; and this time we caught our breath; sixty
minutes of life left!

Clayton rose, and stood by the window, and looked up into the black sky,
and listened to the thrashing sleet and the piping wind; then he said:
'That a dying man's last of earth should be--this!'  After a little he
said: 'I must see the sun again--the sun!' and the next moment he was
feverishly calling: 'China!  Give me China--Peking!'

I was strangely stirred, and said to myself: 'To think that it is a mere
human being who does this unimaginable miracle--turns winter into summer,
night into day, storm into calm, gives the freedom of the great globe to
a prisoner in his cell, and the sun in his naked splendour to a man dying
in Egyptian darkness.'

I was listening.

'What light!  what brilliancy!  what radiance!....  This is Peking?'

'Yes.'

'The time?'

'Mid-afternoon.'

'What is the great crowd for, and in such gorgeous costumes?  What masses
and masses of rich colour and barbaric magnificence!  And how they flash
and glow and burn in the flooding sunlight!  What is the occasion of it
all?'

'The coronation of our new emperor--the Czar.'

'But I thought that that was to take place yesterday.'

'This is yesterday--to you.'

'Certainly it is.  But my mind is confused, these days: there are reasons
for it....  Is this the beginning of the procession?'

'Oh, no; it began to move an hour ago.'

'Is there much more of it still to come?'

'Two hours of it.  Why do you sigh?'

'Because I should like to see it all.'

'And why can't you?'

'I have to go--presently.'

'You have an engagement?'

After a pause, softly: 'Yes.'  After another pause: 'Who are these in the
splendid pavilion?'

'The imperial family, and visiting royalties from here and there and
yonder in the earth.'

'And who are those in the adjoining pavilions to the right and left?'

'Ambassadors and their families and suites to the right; unofficial
foreigners to the left.'

'If you will be so good, I--'

Boom!  That distant bell again, tolling the half-hour faintly through the
tempest of wind and sleet.  The door opened, and the governor and the
mother and child entered--the woman in widow's weeds!  She fell upon her
husband's breast in a passion of sobs, and I--I could not stay; I could
not bear it.  I went into the bedchamber, and closed the door.  I sat
there waiting--waiting--waiting, and listening to the rattling sashes and
the blustering of the storm.  After what seemed a long, long time, I
heard a rustle and movement in the parlour, and knew that the clergyman
and the sheriff and the guard were come.  There was some low-voiced
talking; then a hush; then a prayer, with a sound of sobbing; presently,
footfalls--the departure for the gallows; then the child's happy voice:
'Don't cry now, mamma, when we've got papa again, and taking him home.'

The door closed; they were gone.  I was ashamed: I was the only friend of
the dying man that had no spirit, no courage.  I stepped into the room,
and said I would be a man and would follow.  But we are made as we are
made, and we cannot help it.  I did not go.

I fidgeted about the room nervously, and presently went to the window and
softly raised it--drawn by that dread fascination which the terrible and
the awful exert--and looked down upon the court-yard.  By the garish
light of the electric lamps I saw the little group of privileged
witnesses, the wife crying on her uncle's breast, the condemned man
standing on the scaffold with the halter around his neck, his arms
strapped to his body, the black cap on his head, the sheriff at his side
with his hand on the drop, the clergyman in front of him with bare head
and his book in his hand.

'I am the resurrection and the life--'

I turned away.  I could not listen; I could not look.  I did not know
whither to go or what to do.  Mechanically and without knowing it, I put
my eye to that strange instrument, and there was Peking and the Czar's
procession!  The next moment I was leaning out of the window, gasping,
suffocating, trying to speak, but dumb from the very imminence of the
necessity of speaking.  The preacher could speak, but I, who had such
need of words--'And may God have mercy upon your soul.  Amen.'

The sheriff drew down the black cap, and laid his hand upon the lever.  I
got my voice.

'Stop, for God's sake!  The man is innocent.  Come here and see
Szczepanik face to face!'

Hardly three minutes later the governor had my place at the window, and
was saying:

'Strike off his bonds and set him free!'

Three minutes later all were in the parlour again.  The reader will
imagine the scene; I have no need to describe it.  It was a sort of mad
orgy of joy.

A messenger carried word to Szczepanik in the pavilion, and one could see
the distressed amazement in his face as he listened to the tale.  Then he
came to his end of the line, and talked with Clayton and the governor and
the others; and the wife poured out her gratitude upon him for saving her
husband's life, and in her deep thankfulness she kissed him at twelve
thousand miles' range.

The telelectroscopes of the world were put to service now, and for many
hours the kinds and queens of many realms (with here and there a
reporter) talked with Szczepanik, and praised him; and the few scientific
societies which had not already made him an honorary member conferred
that grace upon him.

How had he come to disappear from among us?  It was easily explained.
HE had not grown used to being a world-famous person, and had been forced
to break away from the lionising that was robbing him of all privacy and
repose.  So he grew a beard, put on coloured glasses, disguised himself a
little in other ways, then took a fictitious name, and went off to wander
about the earth in peace.

Such is the tale of the drama which began with an inconsequential quarrel
in Vienna in the spring of 1898, and came near ending as a tragedy in the
spring of 1904.


II

Correspondence of the 'London Times'
Chicago, April 5, 1904

To-day, by a clipper of the Electric Line, and the latter's Electric
Railway connections, arrived an envelope from Vienna, for Captain
Clayton, containing an English farthing.  The receiver of it was a good
deal moved.  He called up Vienna, and stood face to face with Mr. K., and
said:

'I do not need to say anything: you can see it all in my face.  My wife
has the farthing.  Do not be afraid--she will not throw it away.'


III

Correspondence of the 'London Times'
Chicago, April 23, 1904

Now that the after developments of the Clayton case have run their course
and reached a finish, I will sum them up.  Clayton's romantic escape from
a shameful death stepped all this region in an enchantment of wonder and
joy--during the proverbial nine days.  Then the sobering process
followed, and men began to take thought, and to say: 'But a man was
killed, and Clayton killed him.'  Others replied: 'That is true: we have
been overlooking that important detail; we have been led away by
excitement.'

The telling soon became general that Clayton ought to be tried again.
Measures were taken accordingly, and the proper representations conveyed
to Washington; for in America under the new paragraph added to the
Constitution in 1889, second trials are not State affairs, but national,
and must be tried by the most august body in the land--the Supreme Court
of the United States.  The justices were therefore summoned to sit in
Chicago.  The session was held day before yesterday, and was opened with
the usual impressive formalities, the nine judges appearing in their
black robes, and the new chief justice (Lemaitre) presiding.  In opening
the case the chief justice said:

'It is my opinion that this matter is quite simple.  The prisoner at the
bar was charged with murdering the man Szczepanik; he was tried for
murdering the man Szczepanik; he was fairly tried and justly condemned
and sentenced to death for murdering the man Szczepanik.  It turns out
that the man Szczepanik was not murdered at all.  By the decision of the
French courts in the Dreyfus matter, it is established beyond cavil or
question that the decisions of courts and permanent and cannot be
revised.  We are obliged to respect and adopt this precedent.  It is upon
precedents that the enduring edifice of jurisprudence is reared.  The
prisoner at the bar has been fairly and righteously condemned to death
for the murder of the man Szczepanik, and, in my opinion, there is but
one course to pursue in the matter: he must be hanged.'

Mr. Justice Crawford said:

'But, your Excellency, he was pardoned on the scaffold for that.'

'The pardon is not valid, and cannot stand, because he was pardoned for
killing Szczepanik, a man whom he had not killed.  A man cannot be
pardoned for a crime which he has not committed; it would be an
absurdity.'

'But, your Excellency, he did kill a man.'

'That is an extraneous detail; we have nothing to do with it.  The court
cannot take up this crime until the prisoner has expiated the other one.'

Mr. Justice Halleck said:

'If we order his execution, your Excellency, we shall bring about a
miscarriage of justice, for the governor will pardon him again.'

'He will not have the power.  He cannot pardon a man for a crime which he
has not committed.  As I observed before, it would be an absurdity.'

After a consultation, Mr. Justice Wadsworth said:

'Several of us have arrived at the conclusion, your Excellency, that it
would be an error to hang the prisoner for killing Szczepanik, instead of
for killing the other man, since it is proven that he did not kill
Szczepanik.'

'On the contrary, it is proven that he did kill Szczepanik.  By the
French precedent, it is plain that we must abide by the finding of the
court.'

'But Szczepanik is still alive.'

'So is Dreyfus.'

In the end it was found impossible to ignore or get around the French
precedent.  There could be but one result: Clayton was delivered over for
the execution.  It made an immense excitement; the State rose as one man
and clamored for Clayton's pardon and retrial.  The governor issued the
pardon, but the Supreme Court was in duty bound to annul it, and did so,
and poor Clayton was hanged yesterday.  The city is draped in black, and,
indeed, the like may be said of the State.  All America is vocal with
scorn of 'French justice,' and of the malignant little soldiers who
invented it and inflicted it upon the other Christian lands.

[1] Pronounced (approximately) Shepannik.








ABOUT PLAY-ACTING


I

I have a project to suggest.  But first I will write a chapter of
introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here at the Burg Theatre
in Vienna.  I do not know of any play that much resembles it.  In fact,
it is such a departure from the common laws of the drama that the name
'play' doesn't seem to fit it quite snugly.  However, whatever else it
may be, it is in any case a great and stately metaphysical poem, and
deeply fascinating.  'Deeply fascinating' is the right term: for the
audience sat four hours and five minutes without thrice breaking into
applause, except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent--
fascinated.  This piece is 'The Master of Palmyra.'  It is twenty years
old; yet I doubt if you have ever heard of it.  It is by Wilbrandt, and
is his masterpiece and the work which is to make his name permanent in
German literature.  It has never been played anywhere except in Berlin
and in the great Burg Theatre in Vienna.  Yet whenever it is put on the
stage it packs the house, and the free list is suspended.  I know people
who have seem it ten times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite willing to go and
sit under its spell whenever they get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it--and it is the strength of the
piece.  The play gave me the sense of the passage of a dimly connected
procession of dream-pictures.  The scene of it is Palmyra in Roman times.
It covers a wide stretch of time--I don't know how many years--and in the
course of it the chief actress is reincarnated several times: four times
she is a more or less young woman, and once she is a lad.  In the first
act she is Zoe--a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert from
Damascus to try to Christianise the Zeus-worshipping pagans of Palmyra.
In this character she is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a
devotee who covets martyrdom--and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as Phoebe, a graceful and
beautiful young light-o'-love from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows
and luxuries and delights of this life--a dainty and capricious feather-
head, a creature of shower and sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming
one.  In the third act, after an interval of many years, she reappears as
Persida, mother of a daughter who is in the fresh bloom of youth.  She is
now a sort of combination of her two earlier selves: in religious loyalty
and subjection she is Zoe: in triviality of character and shallowness of
judgement--together with a touch of vanity in dress--she is Phoebe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth act as Nymphas, a
beautiful boy, in whose character the previous incarnations are
engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredities are joined in the
Zenobia of the fifth act--a person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a
heart filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand prompt to put
into practical form the heart's benignant impulses.

There are a number of curious and interesting features in this piece.
For instance, its hero, Appelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years covered by the five
acts.  Other men, young in the firs act, are touched with gray in the
second, are old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the fourth,
all but one are gone to their long home, and this one is a blind and
helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred years.  It indicates that the
stretch of time covered by the piece is seventy years or more.  The
scenery undergoes decay, too--the decay of age assisted and perfected by
a conflagration.  The fine new temples and palaces of the second act are
by-and-by a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns, mouldy, grass-
grown, and desolate; but their former selves are still recognisable in
their ruins.  The ageing men and the ageing scenery together convey a
profound illusion of that long lapse of time: they make you live it
yourself!  You leave the theatre with the weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect:  Death, in person, walks about the stage in every
act.  So far as I could make out, he was supposably not visible to any
excepting two persons--the one he came for and Appelles.  He used various
costumes: but there was always more black about them than any other tint;
and so they were always sombre.  Also they were always deeply impressive
and, indeed, awe-inspiring.  The face was not subjected to changes, but
remained the same first and last--a ghastly white.  To me he was always
welcome, he seemed so real--the actual Death, not a play-acting
artificiality.  He was of a solemn and stately carriage; and he had a
deep voice, and used it with a noble dignity.  Wherever there was a
turmoil of merry-making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or
quarreling, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our trivial
and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure with the corpse-
face, and looked its fateful look and passed on; leaving its victim
shuddering and smitten.  And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby, and hardly worth the attention of
either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoe appears by some
great rocks in the desert, and sits down exhausted, to rest.  Presently
arrive a pauper couple stricken with age and infirmities; and they begin
to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who is said to inhabit that
spot.  The Spirit of Life appears; also Death--uninvited.  They are
(supposably) invisible.  Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-faced, stands
motionless and waits.  The aged couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a
means to prop up their existence and continue it.  Their prayer fails.
The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoe's martyrdom; it will take place before
night.  Soon Appelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of enthusiasm:
he has led a host against the Persians and won the battle; he is the pet
of fortune, rich, honoured, believed, 'Master of Palmyra'.  He has heard
that whoever stretches himself out on one of those rocks there and asks
for a deathless life can have his wish.  He laughs at the tradition, but
wants to make the trial anyway.  The invisible Spirit of Life warns him!
'Life without end can be regret without end.'  But he persists: let him
keep his youth, his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired, and he
will take all the risks.  He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles and sorrows and
misfortunes and humiliations of life beat upon him without pity or
respite; but he will not give up, he will not confess his mistake.
Whenever he meets Death he still furiously defies him--but Death
patiently waits.  He, the healer of sorrows, is man's best friend: the
recognition of this will come.  As the years drag on, and on, and on, the
friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one by one they totter to the
grave: he goes on with his proud fight, and will not yield.  At length he
is wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead; last of all, his
darling of darlings, his son, the lad Nymphas, who dies in his arms.  His
pride is broken now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would come, if
Death would hear his prayers and give him peace.  The closing act is fine
and pathetic.  Appelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who suffer, and
tells her his story, which moves her pity.  By common report she is
endowed with more than earthly powers; and since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in forgetfulness of his
griefs--forgetfulness 'which is death's equivalent'.  She says (roughly
translated), in an exaltation of compassion:

'Come to me!

     Kneel; and may the power be granted me
     To cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,
     And bring it peace and healing.'

He kneels.  From her hand, which she lays upon his head, a mysterious
influence steals through him; and he sinks into a dreamy tranquility.

     'Oh, if I could but so drift
     Through this soft twilight into the night of peace,
     Never to wake again!

(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)

     O mother earth, farewell!
     Gracious thou were to me.  Farewell!
     Appelles goes to rest.'

Death appears behind him and encloses the uplifted hand in his.  Appelles
shudders, wearily and slowly turns, and recognises his life-long
adversary.  He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple and
touching sentence, 'Ich danke dir,' and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more beautiful, than this close.
This piece is just one long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life.  Its
title might properly be 'Is Life a Failure?' and leave the five acts to
play with the answer.  I am not at all sure that the author meant to
laugh at life.  I only notice that he has done it.  Without putting into
words any ungracious or discourteous things about life, the episodes in
the piece seem to be saying all the time, inarticulately: 'Note what a
silly poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions, how
ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities, how cheap its heroisms,
how capricious its course, how brief its flight, how stingy in
happinesses, how opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how
multitudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies, how tragic its
comedies, how wearisome and monotonous its repetition of its stupid
history through the ages, with never the introduction of a new detail;
how hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play itself upon its
possessor as a boon and has never proved its case in a single instance!'

Take note of some of the details of the piece.  Each of the five acts
contains an independent tragedy of its own.  In each act someone's
edifice of hope, or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Appelles' perennial youth is only a long tragedy, and his life a
failure.  There are two martyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously
and sarcastically contrasted.  In the first act the pagans persecute Zoe,
the Christian girl, and a pagan mob slaughters her.  In the fourth act
those same pagans--now very old and zealous--are become Christians, and
they persecute the pagans; a mob of them slaughters the pagan youth,
Nymphas, who is standing up for the old gods of his fathers.  No remark
is made about this picturesque failure of civilisation; but there it
stands, as an unworded suggestion that civilisation, even when
Christianised, was not able wholly to subdue the natural man in that old
day--just as in our day the spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew
clubbing women and children who tried to climb into the lifeboats
suggests that civilisation has not succeeded in entirely obliterating the
natural man even yet.  Common sailors a year ago, in Paris, at a fire,
the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and women out of the way
to save themselves.  Civilisation tested at top and bottom both, you see.
And in still another panic of fright we have this same tough civilisation
saving its honour by condemning an innocent man to multiform death, and
hugging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not above trying to blast
Appelles' reputation by falsely charging him with misappropriating public
moneys.  Appelles, who is too proud to endure even the suspicion of
irregularity, strips himself to naked poverty to square the unfair
account, and his troubles begin: the blight which is to continue and
spread strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature whom he
brought from Rome has no taste for poverty and agrees to elope with a
more competent candidate.  Her presence in the house has previously
brought down the pride and broken the heart of Appelles' poor old mother;
and her life is a failure.  Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck with Appelles, and the
mother is spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight.  Timoleus, the gay satirist of the
first two acts, who scoffed at the pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing
ways of the great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-eyed and
racked with disease in the third, has lost his stately purities, and
watered the acid of his wit.  His life has suffered defeat.  Unthinkingly
he swears by Zeus--from ancient habit--and then quakes with fright; for a
fellow-communicant is passing by.  Reproached by a pagan friend of his
youth for his apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsupported by
an assenting stomach, has to climb down.  One must have bread; and 'the
bread is Christian now.'  Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of his
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In that same act Appelles give his sweet young Christian daughter and her
fine young pagan lover his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy--for five minutes.  Then the priest and the mob come, to tear them
apart and put the girl in a nunnery; for marriage between the sects is
forbidden.  Appelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she wants to do
it; but under priestly pressure she wavers; then, fearing that in
providing happiness for her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to her own, she goes over to the opposition, and throws the casting vote
for the nunnery.  The blight has fallen upon the young couple, and their
life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a prosperous and enviable
start in the first act, is left alone in the desert, sick, blind,
helpless, incredibly old, to die: not a friend left in the world--another
ruined life.  And in that act, also, Appelles' worshipped boy, Nymphas,
done to death by the mob, breathes out his last sigh in his father's
arms--one more failure.  In the fifth act, Appelles himself dies, and is
glad to do it; he who so ignorantly rejoiced, only four acts before, over
the splendid present of an earthly immortality--the very worst failure of
the lot!


II

Now I approach my project.  Here is the theatre list for Saturday, May 7,
1898, cut from the advertising columns of a New York paper:

[graphic here]

Now I arrive at my project, and make my suggestion.  From the look of
this lightsome feast, I conclude that what you need is a tonic.  Send for
'The Master of Palmyra.'  You are trying to make yourself believe that
life is a comedy, that its sole business is fun, that there is nothing
serious in it.  You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.  Send for
'The Master of Palmyra.'  You are neglecting a valuable side of your
life; presently it will be atrophied.  You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the intellect.  You need a
tonic; you need it very much.  Send for 'The Master of Palmyra.'  You
will not need to translate it; its story is as plain as a procession of
pictures.

I have made my suggestion.  Now I wish to put an annex to it.  And that
is this: It is right and wholesome to have those light comedies and
entertaining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them diminished.  But
none of us is always in the comedy spirit; we have our graver moods; they
come to us all; the lightest of us cannot escape them.  These moods have
their appetites--healthy and legitimate appetites--and there ought to be
some way of satisfying them.  It seems to me that New York ought to have
one theatre devoted to tragedy.  With her three millions of population,
and seventy outside millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it.  America devotes more time, labour, money and attention to
distributing literary and musical culture among the general public than
does any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her neglecting what is
possibly the most effective of all the breeders and nurses and
disseminators of high literary taste and lofty emotion--the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the culture-wagon with a
crippled team.  Nowadays, when a mood comes which only Shakespeare can
set to music, what must we do?  Read Shakespeare ourselves!  Isn't it
pitiful?  It is playing an organ solo on a jew's-harp.  We can't read.
None but the Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played 'Hamlet' a hundred nights in New
York.  With three times the population, how often is 'Hamlet' played now
in a year?  If Booth were back now in his prime, how often could he play
it in New York?  Some will say twenty-five nights.  I will say three
hundred, and say it with confidence.  The tragedians are dead; but I
think that the taste and intelligence which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?  During the first half of
this century tragedies and great tragedians were as common with us as
farce and comedy; and it was the same in England.  Now we have not a
tragedian, I believe, and London, with her fifty shows and theatres, has
but three, I think.  It is an astonishing thing, when you come to
consider it.  Vienna remains upon the ancient basis: there has been no
change.  She sticks to the former proportions: a number of rollicking
comedies, admirably played, every night; and also every night at the Burg
Theatre--that wonder of the world for grace and beauty and richness and
splendour and costliness--a majestic drama of depth and seriousness, or a
standard old tragedy.  It is only within the last dozen years that men
have learned to do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as this that we have
reduced our scenery mainly to different breeds of parlours and varying
aspects of furniture and rugs.  I think we must have a Burg in New York,
and Burg scenery, and a great company like the Burg company.  Then, with
a tragedy-tonic once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies all
the better.  Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but we all know that there is
wholesome refreshment for both mind and heart in an occasional climb
among the solemn pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakespeare and those others.  Do I seem to be preaching?  It is out of
my life: I only do it because the rest of the clergy seem to be on
vacation.






TRAVELLING WITH A REFORMER

Last spring I went out to Chicago to see the Fair, and although I did not
see it my trip was not wholly lost--there were compensations.  In New
York I was introduced to a Major in the regular army who said he was
going to the Fair, and we agreed to go together.  I had to go to Boston
first, but that did not interfere; he said he would go along and put in
the time.  He was a handsome man and built like a gladiator.  But his
ways were gentle, and his speech was soft and persuasive.  He was
companionable, but exceedingly reposeful.  Yes, and wholly destitute of
the sense of humour.  He was full of interest in everything that went on
around him, but his serenity was indestructible; nothing disturbed him,
nothing excited him.

But before the day was done I found that deep down in him somewhere he
had a passion, quiet as he was--a passion for reforming petty public
abuses.  He stood for citizenship--it was his hobby.  His idea was that
every citizen of the republic ought to consider himself an unofficial
policeman, and keep unsalaried watch and ward over the laws and their
execution.  He thought that the only effective way of preserving and
protecting public rights was for each citizen to do his share in
preventing or punishing such infringements of them as came under his
personal notice.

It was a good scheme, but I thought it would keep a body in trouble all
the time; it seemed to me that one would be always trying to get
offending little officials discharged, and perhaps getting laughed at for
all reward.  But he said no, I had the wrong idea: that there was no
occasion to get anybody discharged; that in fact you mustn't get anybody
discharged; that that would itself be a failure; no, one must reform the
man--reform him and make him useful where he was.

'Must one report the offender and then beg his superior not to discharge
him, but reprimand him and keep him?'

'No, that is not the idea; you don't report him at all, for then you risk
his bread and butter.  You can act as if you are going to report him--
when nothing else will answer.  But that's an extreme case.  That is a
sort of force, and force is bad.  Diplomacy is the effective thing.  Now
if a man has tact--if a man will exercise diplomacy--'

For two minutes we had been standing at a telegraph wicket, and during
all this time the Major had been trying to get the attention of one of
the young operators, but they were all busy skylarking.  The Major spoke
now, and asked one of them to take his telegram.  He got for reply:

'I reckon you can wait a minute, can't you?' And the skylarking went on.

The Major said yes, he was not in a hurry.  Then he wrote another
telegram:

     'President Western Union Tel. Co.:

     'Come and dine with me this evening.  I can tell you how business is
     conducted in one of your branches.'

Presently the young fellow who had spoken so pertly a little before
reached out and took the telegram, and when he read it he lost colour and
began to apologise and explain.  He said he would lose his place if this
deadly telegram was sent, and he might never get another.  If he could be
let off this time he would give no cause of complaint again.  The
compromise was accepted.

As we walked away, the Major said:

'Now, you see, that was diplomacy--and you see how it worked.  It
wouldn't do any good to bluster, the way people are always doing.  That
boy can always give you as good as you send, and you'll come out defeated
and ashamed of yourself pretty nearly always.  But you see he stands no
chance against diplomacy.  Gentle words and diplomacy--those are the
tools to work with.'

'Yes, I see: but everybody wouldn't have had your opportunity.  It isn't
everybody that is on those familiar terms with the President of the
Western Union.'

'Oh, you misunderstand.  I don't know the President--I only use him
diplomatically.  It is for his good and for the public good.  There's no
harm in it.'

I said with hesitation and diffidence:

'But is it ever right or noble to tell a lie?'

He took no note of the delicate self-righteousness of the question, but
answered with undisturbed gravity and simplicity:

'Yes, sometimes.  Lies told to injure a person and lies told to profit
yourself are not justifiable, but lies told to help another person, and
lies told in the public interest--oh, well, that is quite another matter.
Anybody knows that.  But never mind about the methods: you see the
result.  That youth is going to be useful now, and well-behaved.  He had
a good face.  He was worth saving.  Why, he was worth saving on his
mother's account if not his own.  Of course, he has a mother--sisters,
too.  Damn these people who are always forgetting that!  Do you know,
I've never fought a duel in my life--never once--and yet have been
challenged, like other people.  I could always see the other man's
unoffending women folks or his little children standing between him and
me.  They hadn't done anything--I couldn't break their hearts, you know.'

He corrected a good many little abuses in the course of the day, and
always without friction--always with a fine and dainty 'diplomacy' which
left no sting behind; and he got such happiness and such contentment out
of these performances that I was obliged to envy him his trade--and
perhaps would have adopted it if I could have managed the necessary
deflections from fact as confidently with my mouth as I believe I could
with a pen, behind the shelter of print, after a little practice.

Away late that night we were coming up-town in a horse-car when three
boisterous roughs got aboard, and began to fling hilarious obscenities
and profanities right and left among the timid passengers, some of whom
were women and children.  Nobody resisted or retorted; the conductor
tried soothing words and moral suasion, but the toughs only called him
names and laughed at him.  Very soon I saw that the Major realised that
this was a matter which was in his line; evidently he was turning over
his stock of diplomacy in his mind and getting ready.  I felt that the
first diplomatic remark he made in this place would bring down a
landslide of ridicule upon him, and maybe something worse; but before I
could whisper to him and check him he had begun, and it was too late.  He
said, in a level and dispassionate tone:

'Conductor, you must put these swine out.  I will help you.'

I was not looking for that.  In a flash the three roughs plunged at him.
But none of them arrived.  He delivered three such blows as one could not
expect to encounter outside the prize-ring, and neither of the men had
life enough left in him to get up from where he fell.  The Major dragged
them out and threw them off the car, and we got under way again.

I was astonished: astonished to see a lamb act so; astonished at the
strength displayed, and the clean and comprehensive result; astonished at
the brisk and business-like style of the whole thing.  The situation had
a humorous side to it, considering how much I had been hearing about mild
persuasion and gentle diplomacy all day from this pile-driver, and I
would have liked to call his attention to that feature and do some
sarcasms about it; but when I looked at him I saw that it would be of no
use--his placid and contented face had no ray of humour in it; he would
not have understood.  When we left the car, I said:

'That was a good stroke of diplomacy--three good strokes of diplomacy, in
fact.'

'That?  That wasn't diplomacy.  You are quite in the wrong.  Diplomacy is
a wholly different thing.  One cannot apply it to that sort; they would
not understand it.  No, that was not diplomacy; it was force.'

'Now that you mention it, I--yes, I think perhaps you are right.'

'Right?  Of course I am right.  It was just force.'

'I think, myself, it had the outside aspect of it.  Do you often have to
reform people in that way?'

'Far from it.  It hardly ever happens.  Not oftener than once in half a
year, at the outside.'

'Those men will get well?'

'Get well?  Why, certainly they will.  They are not in any danger.  I
know how to hit and where to hit.  You noticed that I did not hit them
under the jaw.  That would have killed them.'

I believed that.  I remarked--rather wittily, as I thought--that he had
been a lamb all day, but now had all of a sudden developed into a ram--
battering-ram; but with dulcet frankness and simplicity he said no, a
battering-ram was quite a different thing, and not in use now.  This was
maddening, and I came near bursting out and saying he had no more
appreciation of wit than a jackass--in fact, I had it right on my tongue,
but did not say it, knowing there was no hurry and I could say it just as
well some other time over the telephone.

We started to Boston the next afternoon.  The smoking compartment in the
parlour-car was full, and he went into the regular smoker.  Across the
aisle in the front seat sat a meek, farmer-looking old man with a sickly
pallor in his face, and he was holding the door open with his foot to get
the air.  Presently a big brakeman came rushing through, and when he got
to the door he stopped, gave the farmer an ugly scowl, then wrenched the
door to with such energy as to almost snatch the old man's boot off.
Then on he plunged about his business.  Several passengers laughed, and
the old gentleman looked pathetically shamed and grieved.

After a little the conductor passed along, and the Major stopped him and
asked him a question in his habitually courteous way:

'Conductor, where does one report the misconduct of a brakeman?  Does one
report to you?'

'You can report him at New Haven if you want to.  What has he been
doing?'

The Major told the story.  The conductor seemed amused.  He said, with
just a touch of sarcasm in his bland tones:

'As I understand you, the brakeman didn't say anything?'

'No, he didn't say anything.'

'But he scowled, you say?'

'Yes.'

'And snatched the door loose in a rough way?'

'Yes.'

'That's the whole business, is it?'

'Yes, that is the whole of it.'

The conductor smiled pleasantly, and said:

'Well, if you want to report him, all right, but I don't quite make out
what it's going to amount to.  You'll say--as I understand you--that the
brakeman insulted this old gentleman.  They'll ask you what he said.
You'll say he didn't say anything at all.  I reckon they'll say, How are
you going to make out an insult when you acknowledge yourself that he
didn't say a word?'

There was a murmur of applause at the conductor's compact reasoning, and
it gave him pleasure--you could see it in his face.  But the Major was
not disturbed.  He said:

'There--now you have touched upon a crying defect in the complaint
system.  The railway officials--as the public think and as you also seem
to think--are not aware that there are any insults except spoken ones.
So nobody goes to headquarters and reports insults of manner, insults of
gesture, look, and so forth; and yet these are sometimes harder to bear
than any words.  They are bitter hard to bear because there is nothing
tangible to take hold of; and the insulter can always say, if called
before the railway officials, that he never dreamed of intending any
offence.  It seems to me that the officials ought to specially and
urgently request the public to report unworded affronts and
incivilities.'

The conductor laughed, and said:

'Well, that would be trimming it pretty fine, sure!'

'But not too fine, I think.  I will report this matter at New Haven, and
I have an idea that I'll be thanked for it.'

The conductor's face lost something of its complacency; in fact, it
settled to a quite sober cast as the owner of it moved away.  I said:

'You are not really going to bother with that trifle, are you?'

'It isn't a trifle.  Such things ought always to be reported.  It is a
public duty and no citizen has a right to shirk it.  But I sha'n't' have
to report this case.'

'Why?'

'It won't be necessary.  Diplomacy will do the business.  You'll see.'

Presently the conductor came on his rounds again, and when he reached the
Major he leaned over and said:

'That's all right.  You needn't report him.  He's responsible to me, and
if he does it again I'll give him a talking to.'

The Major's response was cordial:

'Now that is what I like!  You mustn't think that I was moved by any
vengeful spirit, for that wasn't the case.  It was duty--just a sense of
duty, that was all.  My brother-in-law is one of the directors of the
road, and when he learns that you are going to reason with your brakeman
the very next time he brutally insults an unoffending old man it will
please him, you may be sure of that.'

The conductor did not look as joyous as one might have thought he would,
but on the contrary looked sickly and uncomfortable.  He stood around a
little; then said:

'I think something ought to be done to him now.  I'll discharge him.'

'Discharge him!  What good would that do?  Don't you think it would be
better wisdom to teach him better ways and keep him?'

'Well, there's something in that.  What would you suggest?'

'He insulted the old gentleman in presence of all these people.  How
would it do to have him come and apologise in their presence?'

'I'll have him here right off.  And I want to say this: If people would
do as you've done, and report such things to me instead of keeping mum
and going off and blackguarding the road, you'd see a different state of
things pretty soon.  I'm much obliged to you.'

The brakeman came and apologised.  After he was gone the Major said:

'Now you see how simple and easy that was.  The ordinary citizen would
have accomplished nothing--the brother-in-law of a directory can
accomplish anything he wants to.'

'But are you really the brother-in-law of a director?'

'Always.  Always when the public interests require it.  I have a brother-
in-law on all the boards--everywhere.  It saves me a world of trouble.'

'It is a good wide relationship.'

'Yes.  I have over three hundred of them.'

'Is the relationship never doubted by a conductor?'

'I have never met with a case.  It is the honest truth--I never have.'

'Why didn't you let him go ahead and discharge the brakeman, in spite of
your favourite policy.  You know he deserved it.'

The Major answered with something which really had a sort of distant
resemblance to impatience:

'If you would stop and think a moment you wouldn't ask such a question as
that.  Is a brakeman a dog, that nothing but dogs' methods will do for
him?  He is a man and has a man's fight for life.  And he always has a
sister, or a mother, or wife and children to support.  Always--there are
no exceptions.  When you take his living away from him you take theirs
away too--and what have they done to you?  Nothing.  And where is the
profit in discharging an uncourteous brakeman and hiring another just
like him?  It's unwisdom.  Don't you see that the rational thing to do is
to reform the brakeman and keep him?  Of course it is.'

Then he quoted with admiration the conduct of a certain division
superintendent of the Consolidated road, in a case where a switchman of
two years' experience was negligent once and threw a train off the track
and killed several people.  Citizens came in a passion to urge the man's
dismissal, but the superintendent said:

'No, you are wrong.  He has learned his lesson, he will throw no more
trains off the track.  He is twice as valuable as he was before.  I shall
keep him.'

We had only one more adventure on the train.  Between Hartford and
Springfield the train-boy came shouting with an armful of literature, and
dropped a sample into a slumbering gentleman's lap, and the man woke up
with a start.  He was very angry, and he and a couple of friends
discussed the outrage with much heat.  They sent for the parlour-car
conductor and described the matter, and were determined to have the boy
expelled from his situation.  The three complainants were wealthy Holyoke
merchants, and it was evident that the conductor stood in some awe of
them.  He tried to pacify them, and explained that the boy was not under
his authority, but under that of one of the news companies; but he
accomplished nothing.

Then the Major volunteered some testimony for the defence.  He said:

'I saw it all.  You gentlemen have not meant to exaggerate the
circumstances, but still that is what you have done.  The boy has done
nothing more than all train-boys do.  If you want to get his ways
softened down and his manners reformed, I am with you and ready to help,
but it isn't fair to get him discharged without giving him a chance.'

But they were angry, and would hear of no compromise.  They were well
acquainted with the President of the Boston and Albany, they said, and
would put everything aside next day and go up to Boston and fix that boy.

The Major said he would be on hand too, and would do what he could to
save the boy.  One of the gentlemen looked him over and said:

'Apparently it is going to be a matter of who can wield the most
influence with the President.  Do you know Mr. Bliss personally?'

The Major said, with composure:

'Yes; he is my uncle.'

The effect was satisfactory.  There was an awkward silence for a minute
or more; then the hedging and the half-confessions of over-haste and
exaggerated resentment began, and soon everything was smooth and friendly
and sociable, and it was resolved to drop the matter and leave the boy's
bread and butter unmolested.

It turned out as I had expected: the President of the road was not the
Major's uncle at all--except by adoption, and for this day and train
only.

We got into no episodes on the return journey.  Probably it was because
we took a night train and slept all the way.

We left New York Saturday night by the Pennsylvania road.  After
breakfast the next morning we went into the parlour-car, but found it a
dull place and dreary.  There were but few people in it and nothing going
on.  Then we went into the little smoking compartment of the same car and
found three gentlemen in there.  Two of them were grumbling over one of
the rules of the road--a rule which forbade card-playing on the trains on
Sunday.  They had started an innocent game of high-low-jack and had been
stopped.  The Major was interested.  He said to the third gentleman:

'Did you object to the game?'

'Not at all.  I am a Yale professor and a religious man, but my
prejudices are not extensive.'

Then the Major said to the others:

'You are at perfect liberty to resume your game, gentlemen; no one here
objects.'

One of them declined the risk, but the other one said he would like to
begin again if the Major would join him.  So they spread an overcoat over
their knees and the game proceeded.  Pretty soon the parlour-car
conductor arrived, and said, brusquely:

'There, there, gentlemen, that won't do.  Put up the cards--it's not
allowed.'

The Major was shuffling.  He continued to shuffle, and said:

'By whose order is it forbidden?'

'It's my order.  I forbid it.'

The dealing began.  The Major asked:

'Did you invent the idea?'

'What idea?'

'The idea of forbidding card-playing on Sunday.'

'No--of course not.'

'Who did?'

'The company.'

'Then it isn't your order, after all, but the company's.  Is that it?'

'Yes.  But you don't stop playing!  I have to require you to stop playing
immediately.'

'Nothing is gained by hurry, and often much is lost.  Who authorised the
company to issue such an order?'

'My dear sir, that is a matter of no consequence to me, and--'

'But you forget that you are not the only person concerned.  It may be a
matter of consequence to me.  It is, indeed, a matter of very great
importance to me.  I cannot violate a legal requirement of my country
without dishonouring myself; I cannot allow any man or corporation to
hamper my liberties with illegal rules--a thing which railway companies
are always trying to do--without dishonouring my citizenship.  So I come
back to that question: By whose authority has the company issued this
order?'

'I don't know.  That's their affair.'

'Mine, too.  I doubt if the company has any right to issue such a rule.
This road runs through several States.  Do you know what State we are in
now, and what its laws are in matters of this kind?'

'Its laws do not concern me, but the company's orders do.  It is my duty
to stop this game, gentlemen, and it must be stopped.'

'Possibly; but still there is no hurry.  In hotels they post certain
rules in the rooms, but they always quote passages from the State law as
authority for these requirements.  I see nothing posted here of this
sort.  Please produce your authority and let us arrive at a decision, for
you see yourself that you are marring the game.'

'I have nothing of the kind, but I have my orders, and that is
sufficient.  They must be obeyed.'

'Let us not jump to conclusions.  It will be better all around to examine
into the matter without heat or haste, and see just where we stand before
either of us makes a mistake--for the curtailing of the liberties of a
citizen of the United States is a much more serious matter than you and
the railroads seem to think, and it cannot be done in my person until the
curtailer proves his right to do so.  Now--'

'My dear sir, will you put down those cards?'

'All in good time, perhaps.  It depends.  You say this order must be
obeyed.  Must.  It is a strong word.  You see yourself how strong it is.
A wise company would not arm you with so drastic an order as this, of
course, without appointing a penalty for its infringement.  Otherwise it
runs the risk of being a dead letter and a thing to laugh at.  What is
the appointed penalty for an infringement of this law?'

'Penalty?  I never heard of any.'

'Unquestionably you must be mistaken.  Your company orders you to come
here and rudely break up an innocent amusement, and furnishes you no way
to enforce the order!  Don't you see that that is nonsense?  What do you
do when people refuse to obey this order?  Do you take the cards away
from them?'

'No.'

'Do you put the offender off at the next station?'

'Well, no--of course we couldn't if he had a ticket.'

'Do you have him up before a court?'

The conductor was silent and apparently troubled.  The Major started a
new deal, and said:

'You see that you are helpless, and that the company has placed you in a
foolish position.  You are furnished with an arrogant order, and you
deliver it in a blustering way, and when you come to look into the matter
you find you haven't any way of enforcing obedience.'

The conductor said, with chill dignity:

'Gentlemen, you have heard the order, and my duty is ended.  As to
obeying it or not, you will do as you think fit.'  And he turned to
leave.

'But wait.  The matter is not yet finished.  I think you are mistaken
about your duty being ended; but if it really is, I myself have a duty to
perform yet.'

'How do you mean?'

'Are you going to report my disobedience at headquarters in Pittsburg?'

'No.  What good would that do?'

'You must report me, or I will report you.'

'Report me for what?'

'For disobeying the company's orders in not stopping this game.  As a
citizen it is my duty to help the railway companies keep their servants
to their work.'

'Are you in earnest?'

'Yes, I am in earnest.  I have nothing against you as a man, but I have
this against you as an officer--that you have not carried out that order,
and if you do not report me I must report you.  And I will.'

The conductor looked puzzled, and was thoughtful a moment; then he burst
out with:

'I seem to be getting myself into a scrape!  It's all a muddle; I can't
make head or tail of it; it never happened before; they always knocked
under and never said a word, and so I never saw how ridiculous that
stupid order with no penalty is.  I don't want to report anybody, and I
don't want to be reported--why, it might do me no end of harm!  No do go
on with the game--play the whole day if you want to--and don't let's have
any more trouble about it!'

'No, I only sat down here to establish this gentleman's rights--he can
have his place now.  But before won't you tell me what you think the
company made this rule for?  Can you imagine an excuse for it?  I mean a
rational one--an excuse that is not on its face silly, and the invention
of an idiot.?'

'Why, surely I can.  The reason it was made is plain enough.  It is to
save the feelings of the other passengers--the religious ones among them,
I mean.  They would not like it to have the Sabbath desecrated by card-
playing on the train.'

'I just thought as much.  They are willing to desecrate it themselves by
travelling on Sunday, but they are not willing that other people--'

'By gracious, you've hit it!  I never thought of that before.  The fact
is, it is a silly rule when you come to look into it.'

At this point the train conductor arrived, and was going to shut down the
game in a very high-handed fashion, but the parlour-car conductor stopped
him, and took him aside to explain.  Nothing more was heard of the
matter.

I was ill in bed eleven days in Chicago and got no glimpse of the Fair,
for I was obliged to return East as soon as I was able to travel.  The
Major secured and paid for a state-room in a sleeper the day before we
left, so that I could have plenty of room and be comfortable; but when we
arrived at the station a mistake had been made and our car had not been
put on.  The conductor had reserved a section for us--it was the best he
could do, he said.  But Major said we were not in a hurry, and would wait
for the car to be put on.  The conductor responded, with pleasant irony:

'It may be that you are not in a hurry, just as you say, but we are.
Come, get aboard, gentlemen, get aboard--don't keep us waiting.'

But the Major would not get aboard himself nor allow me to do it.  He
wanted his car, and said he must have it.  This made the hurried and
perspiring conductor impatient, and he said:

'It's the best we can do--we can't do impossibilities.  You will take the
section or go without.  A mistake has been made and can't be rectified at
this late hour.  It's a thing that happens now and then, and there is
nothing for it but to put up with it and make the best of it.  Other
people do.'

'Ah, that is just it, you see.  If they had stuck to their rights and
enforced them you wouldn't be trying to trample mine underfoot in this
bland way now.  I haven't any disposition to give you unnecessary
trouble, but it is my duty to protect the next man from this kind of
imposition.  So I must have my car.  Otherwise I will wait in Chicago and
sue the company for violating its contract.'

'Sue the company?--for a thing like that!'

'Certainly.'

'Do you really mean that?'

'Indeed, I do.'

The conductor looked the Major over wonderingly, and then said:

'It beats me--it's bran-new--I've never struck the mate to it before.
But I swear I think you'd do it.  Look here, I'll send for the station-
master.'

When the station-master came he was a good deal annoyed--at the Major,
not at the person who had made the mistake.  He was rather brusque, and
took the same position which the conductor had taken in the beginning;
but he failed to move the soft-spoken artilleryman, who still insisted
that he must have his car.  However, it was plain that there was only one
strong side in this case, and that that side was the Major's.  The
station-master banished his annoyed manner, and became pleasant and even
half-apologetic.  This made a good opening for a compromise, and the
Major made a concession.  He said he would give up the engaged state-
room, but he must have a state-room.  After a deal of ransacking, one was
found whose owner was persuadable; he exchanged it for our section, and
we got away at last.  The conductor called on us in the evening, and was
kind and courteous and obliging, and we had a long talk and got to be
good friends.  He said he wished the public would make trouble oftener--
it would have a good effect.  He said that the railroads could not be
expected to do their whole duty by the traveller unless the traveller
would take some interest in the matter himself.

I hoped that we were done reforming for the trip now, but it was not so.
In the hotel car, in the morning, the Major called for broiled chicken.
The waiter said:

'It's not in the bill of fare, sir; we do not serve anything but what is
in the bill.'

'That gentleman yonder is eating a broiled chicken.'

'Yes, but that is different.  He is one of the superintendents of the
road.'

'Then all the more must I have broiled chicken.  I do not like these
discriminations.  Please hurry--bring me a broiled chicken.'

The waiter brought the steward, who explained in a low and polite voice
that the thing was impossible--it was against the rule, and the rule was
rigid.

'Very well, then, you must either apply it impartially or break it
impartially.  You must take that gentleman's chicken away from him or
bring me one.'

The steward was puzzled, and did not quite know what to do.  He began an
incoherent argument, but the conductor came along just then, and asked
what the difficulty was.  The steward explained that here was a gentleman
who was insisting on having a chicken when it was dead against the rule
and not in the bill.  The conductor said:

'Stick by your rules--you haven't any option.  Wait a moment--is this the
gentleman?' Then he laughed and said: 'Never mind your rules--it's my
advice, and sound: give him anything he wants--don't get him started on
his rights.  Give him whatever he asks for; and it you haven't got it,
stop the train and get it.'

The Major ate the chicken, but said he did it from a sense of duty and to
establish a principle, for he did not like chicken.

I missed the Fair it is true, but I picked up some diplomatic tricks
which I and the reader may find handy and useful as we go along.






DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

VIENNA, January 5--I find in this morning's papers the statement that the
Government of the United States has paid to the two members of the Peace
Commission entitled to receive money for their services 100,000 dollars
each for their six weeks' work in Paris.

I hope that this is true.  I will allow myself the satisfaction of
considering that it is true, and of treating it as a thing finished and
settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one to our country.  A
precedent always has a chance to be valuable (as well as the other way);
and its best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is when it takes
such a striking form as to fix a whole nation's attention upon it.  If it
come justified out of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realise that the edifice of public justice is built of precedents,
from the ground upward; but we do not always realise that all the other
details of our civilisation are likewise built of precedents.  The
changes also which they undergo are due to the intrusion of new
precedents, which hold their ground against opposition, and keep their
place.  A precedent may die at birth, or it may live--it is mainly a
matter of luck.  If it be imitated once, it has a chance; if twice a
better chance; if three times it is reaching a point where account must
be taken of it; if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay--for a whole century, possibly.  If a town start a new bow, or a new
dance, or a new temperance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of that precedent is
begun; and it will be unsafe to bet as to where the end of its journey is
going to be.  It may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but, if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will attract vast
attention, and its chances for a career are so great as to amount almost
to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage from a couple of disastrous
precedents.  One is the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic in foreign lands; the
other is a precedent condemning them to exhibit themselves officially in
clothes which are not only without grace or dignity, but are a pretty
loud and pious rebuke to the vain and frivolous costumes worn by the
other officials.  To our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects.  At a public function in a
European court all foreign representatives except ours wear clothes which
in some way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and mark them as
standing for their countries.  But our representative appears in a plain
black swallow-tail, which stands for neither country, nor people.  It has
no nationality.  It is found in all countries; it is as international as
a night-shirt.  It has no particular meaning; but our Government tries to
give it one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Simplicity, modesty
and unpretentiousness.  Tries, and without doubt fails, for it is not
conceivable that this loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-leaf really brings its
modesty under suspicion.  Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail
is a declaration of ungracious independence in the matter of manners, and
is uncourteous.  It says to all around: 'In Rome we do not choose to do
as Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and your traditions; we
make no sacrifices to anyone's customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to
the courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and intrude them here.'

That is not the true American spirit, and those clothes misrepresent us.
When a foreigner comes among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so; but our Government
commands our ambassadors to wear abroad an official dress which is an
offence against foreign manners and customers; and the discredit of it
falls upon the nation.

We did not dress our public functionaries in undistinguished raiment
before Franklin's time; and the change would not have come if he had been
an obscurity.  But he was such a colossal figure in the world that
whatever he did of an unusual nature attracted the world's attention,
and became a precedent.  In the case of clothes, the next representative
after him, and the next, had to imitate it.  After that, the thing was
custom; and custom is a petrifaction: nothing but dynamite can dislodge
it for a century.  We imagine that our queer official costumery was
deliberately devised to symbolise our Republican Simplicity--a quality
which we have never possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it.  But it is not so; there was
nothing deliberate about it; it grew naturally and heedlessly out of the
precedent set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based upon a principle, it would
not have stopped where it did: we should have applied it further.
Instead of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-martial and
other public functions, in superb dress uniforms blazing with colour and
gold, the Government would put them in swallow-tails and white cravats,
and make them look like ambassadors and lackeys.  If I am wrong in making
Franklin the father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter--he
will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion--and I make no charge for the suggestion--that, whenever
we appoint an ambassador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow him to wear the
corresponding uniform at public functions in foreign countries.  I would
recommend this for the reason that it is not consonant with the dignity
of the United States of America that her representative should appear
upon occasions of state in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does when it appears, with
its dismal smudge, in the midst of the butterfly splendours of a
Continental court.  It is a most trying position for a shy man, a modest
man, a man accustomed to being like other people.  He is the most
striking figure present; there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes.
It would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle, to see the
hunted creature in his solemn sables scuffling around in that sea of
vivid colour, like a mislaid Presbyterian in perdition.  We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too much attention; for
anybody but an Indian chief knows that that is a vulgarity.  I am saying
these things in the interest of our national pride and dignity.  Our
representative is the flag.  He is the Republic.  He is the United States
of America.  And when these embodiments pass by, we do not want them
scoffed at; we desire that people shall be obliged to concede that they
are worthily clothed, and politely.

Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this matter of official dress.
When its representative is a civilian who has not been a solider, it
restricts him to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a solider, it allows him to wear the uniform of his
former rank as an official dress.  When General Sickles was minister to
Spain, he always wore, when on official duty, the dress uniform of a
major-general.  When General Grant visited foreign courts, he went
handsomely and properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and was
introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own Presidential
Administration.  The latter, by official necessity, went in the meek and
lowly swallow-tail--a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honourable dignity of the nation; the other,
the cheap hypocrisy of the Republican Simplicity tradition.  In Paris our
present representative can perform his official functions reputably
clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil War.  In London our late
ambassador was similarly situated; for he, also, was an officer in the
Civil War.  But Mr. Choate must represent the Great Republic--even at
official breakfasts at seven in the morning--in that same old funny
swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of costume are indeed very,
very odd--as suggested by that last fact.  The swallow-tail is recognised
the world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a night-dress, and a
night-dress only--a night-shirt is not more so.  Yet, when our
representative makes an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by
his Government to go in that night-dress.  It makes the very cab-horses
laugh.

The truth is, that for awhile during the present century, and up to
something short of forty years ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped
the Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign representatives
in a handsome and becoming official costume.  This was discarded by-and-
by, and the swallow-tail substituted.  I believe it is not now known
which statesman brought about this change; but we all know that, stupid
as he was as to diplomatic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent
his daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume, nor to a corn-
shucking in a state-ball costume, to be harshly criticised as an ill-
mannered offender against the proprieties of custom in both places.  And
we know another thing, viz.  that he himself would not have wounded the
tastes and feelings of a family of mourners by attending a funeral in
their house in a costume which was an offence against the dignities and
decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified by custom.  Yet that man
was so heedless as not to reflect that all the social customs of
civilised peoples are entitled to respectful observance, and that no man
with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has any disposition to
transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational diplomatic dress--a
business argument.  We are a trading nation; and our representative is a
business agent.  If he is respected, esteemed, and liked where he is
stationed, he can exercise an influence which can extend our trade and
forward our prosperity.  A considerable number of his business activities
have their field in his social relations; and clothes which do not offend
against local manners and customers and prejudices are a valuable part of
his equipment in this matter--would be, if Franklin had died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet.  We made a great deal of
valuable advance when we instituted the office of ambassador.  That lofty
rank endows its possessor with several times as much influence,
consideration, and effectiveness as the rank of minister bestows.  For
the sake of the country's dignity and for the sake of her advantage
commercially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at the great
courts of the world.

But not at present salaries!  No; if we are to maintain present salaries,
let us make no more ambassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made.  The great position, without the means of respectably maintaining
it--there could be no wisdom in that.  A foreign representative, to be
valuable to his country, must be on good terms with the officials of the
capital and with the rest of the influential folk.  He must mingle with
this society; he cannot sit at home--it is not business, it butters no
commercial parsnips.  He must attend the dinners, banquets, suppers,
balls, receptions, and must return these hospitalities.  He should return
as good as he gets, too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business.  Have we ever had a minister or an ambassador
who could do this on his salary?  No--not once, from Franklin's time to
ours.  Other countries understand the commercial value of properly lining
the pockets of their representatives; but apparently our Government has
not learned it.  England is the most successful trader of the several
trading nations; and she takes good care of the watchmen who keep guard
in her commercial towers.  It has been a long time, now, since we needed
to blush for our representatives abroad.  It has become custom to send
our fittest.  We send men of distinction, cultivation, character--our
ablest, our choicest, our best.  Then we cripple their efficiency through
the meagreness of their pay.  Here is a list of salaries for English and
American ministers and ambassadors:



City                               Salaries

                             American       English

Paris                         $17,500       $45,000
Berlin                         17,500        40,000
Vienna                         12,000        40,000
Constantinople                 10,000        40,000
St.  Petersburg                17,500        39,000
Rome                           12,000        35,000
Washington                        --         32,500



Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at Washington, has a very
fine house besides--at no damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house rent; they live in palaces owned by
England.  Our representatives pay house-rent out of their salaries.  You
can judge by the above figures what kind of houses the United States of
America has been used to living in abroad, and what sort of return-
entertaining she has done.  There is not a salary in our list which would
properly house the representative receiving it, and, in addition, pay
$3,000 toward his family's bacon and doughnuts--the strange but
economical and customary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations not only have generous
salaries, but their Governments provide them with money wherewith to pay
a considerable part of their hospitality bills.  I believe our Government
pays no hospitality bills except those incurred by the navy.  Through
this concession to the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic.  But why the Government
does not think it well and politic that our diplomats should be able to
do us like credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsistencies which
have been puzzling me ever since I stopped trying to understand baseball
and took up statesmanship as a pastime.

To return to the matter of house-rent.  Good houses, properly furnished,
in European capitals, are not to be had at small figures.  Consequently,
our foreign representatives have been accustomed to live in garrets--
sometimes on the roof.  Being poor men, it has been the best they could
do on the salary which the Government has paid them.  How could they
adequately return the hospitalities shown them?  It was impossible.  It
would have exhausted the salary in three months.  Still, it was their
official duty to entertain their influentials after some sort of fashion;
and they did the best they could with their limited purse.  In return for
champagne they furnished lemonade; in return for game they furnished ham;
in return for whale they furnished sardines; in return for liquors they
furnished condensed milk; in return for the battalion of liveried and
powdered flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for the fairy
wilderness of sumptuous decorations they draped the stove with the
American flag; in return for the orchestra they furnished zither and
ballads by the family; in return for the ball--but they didn't return the
ball, except in cases where the United States lived on the roof and had
room.

Is this an exaggeration?  It can hardly be called that.  I saw nearly the
equivalent of it, a good many years ago.  A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth ten millions a
year to the agriculturists of the Republic; and our Government had
furnished him ham and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.  The
minister did not succeed.  He might not have succeeded if his salary had
been what it ought to have been--$50,000 or $60,00 a year--but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.  And in any case, he and
his dinners and his country would not have been joked about by the hard-
hearted and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced 'drummer' will testify that, when you want to do
business, there is no economy in ham and lemonade.  The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the circus; dines him, wines
him, entertains him all the day and all the night in luxurious style; and
plays upon his human nature in all seductive ways.  For he knows, by old
experience, that this is the best way to get a profitable order out of
him.  He has this reward.  All Governments except our own play the same
policy, with the same end in view; and they, also, have their reward.
But ours refuses to do business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade.  This is the most expensive diet known to the diplomatic
service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that pays its foreign
representatives trifling salaries.  If we were poor, we could not find
great fault with these economies, perhaps--at least one could find a sort
of plausible excuse for them.  But we are not poor; and the excuse fails.
As shown above, some of our important diplomatic representatives receive
$12,000; others, $17,500.  These salaries are all ham and lemonade, and
unworthy of the flag.  When we have a rich ambassador in London or Paris,
he lives as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to live, and it
costs him $100,000 a year to do it.  But why should we allow him to pay
that out of his private pocket?  There is nothing fair about it; and the
Republic is no proper subject for any one's charity.  In several cases
our salaries of $12,000 should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of
$17,500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay no representative's
house-rent.  Our State Department realises the mistake which we are
making, and would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recognised as being a woman.
She adds six inches to her skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and
balls her hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her little
sister and has a room to herself, and becomes in many ways a thundering
expense.  But she is in society now; and papa has to stand it.  There is
no avoiding it.  Very well.  The Great Republic lengthened her skirts
last year, balled up her hair, and entered the world's society.  This
means that, if she would prosper and stand fair with society, she must
put aside some of her dearest and darlingest young ways and
superstitions, and do as society does.  Of course, she can decline if she
wants to; but this would be unwise.  She ought to realise, now that she
has 'come out,' that this is a right and proper time to change a part of
her style.  She is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when one is
in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome does.  To advantage Rome?  No--to
advantage herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives of ours on the Paris
Commission $100,000 apiece for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is
the best cash investment the nation has made in many years.  For it seems
quite impossible that, with that precedent on the books, the Government
will be able to find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P.S.--VIENNA, January 10.--I see, by this morning's telegraphic news,
that I am not to be the new ambassador here, after all.  This--well, I
hardly know what to say.  I--well, of course, I do not care anything
about it; but it is at least a surprise.  I have for many months been
using my influence at Washington to get this diplomatic see expanded into
an ambassadorship, with the idea, of course th--But never mind.  Let it
go.  It is of no consequence.  I say it calmly; for I am calm.  But at
the same time--However, the subject has no interest for me, and never
had.  I never really intended to take the place, anyway--I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.  But now, while I am
calm, I would like to say this--that so long as I shall continue to
possess an American's proper pride in the honour and dignity of his
country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the gift of the flag at a
salary short of $75,000 a year.  If I shall be charged with wanting to
live beyond my country's means, I cannot help it.  A country which cannot
afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar ambassador!
Particularly for America.  Why it is the most ludicrous spectacle, the
most inconsistent and incongruous spectable, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination.  It is a billionaire in a paper collar, a king in a
breechclout, an archangel in a tin halo.  And, for pure sham and
hypocrisy, the salary is just the match of the ambassador's official
clothes--that boastful advertisement of a Republican Simplicity which
manifests itself at home in Fifty-thousand-dollar salaries to insurance
presidents and railway lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and splendour and
richness the fittings and furnishings of the palaces of the sceptred
masters of Europe; and which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the electric trolley, the
best bicycles, the best motor-cars, the steam-heater, the best and
smartest systems of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot and cold water on tap),
the palace-hotel, with its multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows,
and luxuries, the--oh, the list is interminable!  In a word, Republican
Simplicity found Europe with one shirt on her back, so to speak, as far
as real luxuries, conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter.  We are the lavishest and
showiest and most luxury-loving people on the earth; and at our masthead
we fly one true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world has ever
seen.  Oh, Republican Simplicity, there are many, many humbugs in the
world, but none to which you need take off your hat!






LUCK

[NOTE.--This is not a fancy sketch.  I got it from a clergyman who was
an instructor at Woolwich forty years ago, and who vouched for its truth.
--M.T.]

It was at a banquet in London in honour of one of the two or three
conspicuously illustrious English military names of this generation.
For reasons which will presently appear, I will withhold his real name
and titles, and call him Lieutenant-General Lord Arthur Scoresby, V.C.,
K.C.B., etc., etc., etc.  What a fascination there is in a renowned name!
There say the man, in actual flesh, whom I had heard of so many thousands
of times since that day, thirty years before, when his name shot suddenly
to the zenith from a Crimean battle-field, to remain for ever celebrated.
It was food and drink to me to look, and look, and look at that demigod;
scanning, searching, noting: the quietness, the reserve, the noble
gravity of his countenance; the simple honesty that expressed itself all
over him; the sweet unconsciousness of his greatness--unconsciousness of
the hundreds of admiring eyes fastened upon him, unconsciousness of the
deep, loving, sincere worship welling out of the breasts of those people
and flowing toward him.

The clergyman at my left was an old acquaintance of mine--clergyman now,
but had spent the first half of his life in the camp and field, and as an
instructor in the military school at Woolwich.  Just at the moment I have
been talking about, a veiled and singular light glimmered in his eyes,
and he leaned down and muttered confidentially to me--indicating the hero
of the banquet with a gesture,--'Privately--his glory is an accident--
just a product of incredible luck.'

This verdict was a great surprise to me.  If its subject had been
Napoleon, or Socrates, or Solomon, my astonishment could not have been
greater.

Some days later came the explanation of this strange remark, and this is
what the Reverend told me.

About forty years ago I was an instructor in the military academy at
Woolwich.  I was present in one of the sections when young Scoresby
underwent his preliminary examination.  I was touched to the quick with
pity; for the rest of the class answered up brightly and handsomely,
while he--why, dear me, he didn't know anything, so to speak.  He was
evidently good, and sweet, and lovable, and guileless; and so it was
exceedingly painful to see him stand there, as serene as a graven image,
and deliver himself of answers which were veritably miraculous for
stupidity and ignorance.  All the compassion in me was aroused in his
behalf.  I said to myself, when he comes to be examined again, he will be
flung over, of course; so it will be simple a harmless act of charity to
ease his fall as much as I can.

I took him aside, and found that he knew a little of Caesar's history;
and as he didn't know anything else, I went to work and drilled him like
a galley-slave on a certain line of stock questions concerning Caesar
which I knew would be used.  If you'll believe me, he went through with
flying colours on examination day!  He went through on that purely
superficial 'cram', and got compliments, too, while others, who knew a
thousand times more than he, got plucked.  By some strangely lucky
accident--an accident not likely to happen twice in a century--he was
asked no question outside of the narrow limits of his drill.

It was stupefying.  Well, although through his course I stood by him,
with something of the sentiment which a mother feels for a crippled
child; and he always saved himself--just by miracle, apparently.

Now of course the thing that would expose him and kill him at last was
mathematics.  I resolved to make his death as easy as I could; so I
drilled him and crammed him, and crammed him and drilled him, just on the
line of questions which the examiner would be most likely to use, and
then launched him on his fate.  Well, sir, try to conceive of the result:
to my consternation, he took the first prize!  And with it he got a
perfect ovation in the way of compliments.

Sleep!  There was no more sleep for me for a week.  My conscience
tortured me day and night.  What I had done I had done purely through
charity, and only to ease the poor youth's fall--I never had dreamed of
any such preposterous result as the thing that had happened.  I felt as
guilty and miserable as the creator of Frankenstein.  Here was a wooden-
head whom I had put in the way of glittering promotions and prodigious
responsibilities, and but one thing could happen: he and his
responsibilities would all go to ruin together at the first opportunity.

The Crimean war had just broken out.  Of course there had to be a war, I
said to myself: we couldn't have peace and give this donkey a chance to
die before he is found out.  I waited for the earthquake.  It came.  And
it made me reel when it did come.  He was actually gazetted to a
captaincy in a marching regiment!  Better men grow old and gray in the
service before they climb to a sublimity like that.  And who could ever
have foreseen that they would go and put such a load of responsibility on
such green and inadequate shoulders?  I could just barely have stood it
if they had made him a cornet; but a captain--think of it!  I thought my
hair would turn white.

Consider what I did--I who so loved repose and inaction.  I said to
myself, I am responsible to the country for this, and I must go along
with him and protect the country against him as far as I can.  So I took
my poor little capital that I had saved up through years of work and
grinding economy, and went with a sigh and bought a cornetcy in his
regiment, and away we went to the field.

And there--oh dear, it was awful.  Blunders?  why, he never did anything
but blunder.  But, you see, nobody was in the fellow's secret--everybody
had him focused wrong, and necessarily misinterpreted his performance
every time--consequently they took his idiotic blunders for inspirations
of genius; they did honestly!  His mildest blunders were enough to make a
man in his right mind cry; and they did make me cry--and rage and rave
too, privately.  And the thing that kept me always in a sweat of
apprehension was the fact that every fresh blunder he made increased the
lustre of his reputation!  I kept saying to myself, he'll get so high
that when discovery does finally come it will be like the sun falling out
of the sky.

He went right along up, from grade to grade, over the dead bodies of his
superiors, until at last, in the hottest moment of the battle of....
down went our colonel, and my heart jumped into my mouth, for Scoresby
was next in rank!  Now for it, said I; we'll all land in Sheol in ten
minutes, sure.

The battle was awfully hot; the allies were steadily giving way all over
the field.  Our regiment occupied a position that was vital; a blunder
now must be destruction.  At this critical moment, what does this
immortal fool do but detach the regiment from its place and order a
charge over a neighbouring hill where there wasn't a suggestion of an
enemy!  'There you go!' I said to myself; 'this is the end at last.'

And away we did go, and were over the shoulder of the hill before the
insane movement could be discovered and stopped.  And what did we find?
An entire and unsuspected Russian army in reserve!  And what happened?
We were eaten up?  That is necessarily what would have happened in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred.  But no; those Russians argued that
no single regiment would come browsing around there at such a time.  It
must be the entire English army, and that the sly Russian game was
detected and blocked; so they turned tail, and away they went, pell-mell,
over the hill and down into the field, in wild confusion, and we after
them; they themselves broke the solid Russia centre in the field, and
tore through, and in no time there was the most tremendous rout you ever
saw, and the defeat of the allies was turned into a sweeping and splendid
victory!  Marshal Canrobert looked on, dizzy with astonishment,
admiration, and delight; and sent right off for Scoresby, and hugged him,
and decorated him on the field in presence of all the armies!

And what was Scoresby's blunder that time?  Merely the mistaking his
right hand for his left--that was all.  An order had come to him to fall
back and support our right; and instead he fell forward and went over the
hill to the left.  But the name he won that day as a marvellous military
genius filled the world with his glory, and that glory will never fade
while history books last.

He is just as good and sweet and lovable and unpretending as a man can
be, but he doesn't know enough to come in when it rains.  He has been
pursued, day by day and year by year, by a most phenomenal and
astonishing luckiness.  He has been a shining soldier in all our wars for
half a generation; he has littered his military life with blunders, and
yet has never committed one that didn't make him a knight or a baronet or
a lord or something.  Look at his breast; why, he is just clothed in
domestic and foreign decorations.  Well, sir, every one of them is a
record of some shouting stupidity or other; and, taken together, they are
proof that the very best thing in all this world that can befall a man is
to be born lucky.







THE CAPTAIN'S STORY

There was a good deal of pleasant gossip about old Captain 'Hurricane'
Jones, of the Pacific Ocean--peace to his ashes!  Two or three of us
present had known him; I, particularly well, for I had made four sea-
voyages with him.  He was a very remarkable man.  He was born on a ship;
he picked up what little education he had among his ship-mates; he began
life in the forecastle, and climbed grade by grade to the captaincy.
More than fifty years of his sixty-five were spent at sea.  He had sailed
all oceans, seen all lands, and borrowed a tint from all climates.  When
a man has been fifty years at sea, he necessarily knows nothing of men,
nothing of the world but its surface, nothing of the world's thought,
nothing of the world's learning but it's a B C, and that blurred and
distorted by the unfocussed lenses of an untrained mind.  Such a man is
only a gray and bearded child.  That is what old Hurricane Jones was--
simply an innocent, lovable old infant.  When his spirit was in repose he
was as sweet and gentle as a girl; when his wrath was up he was a
hurricane that made his nickname seem tamely descriptive.  He was
formidable in a fight, for he was of powerful build and dauntless
courage.  He was frescoed from head to heel with pictures and mottoes
tattooed in red and blue India ink.  I was with him one voyage when he
got his last vacant space tattooed; this vacant space was around his left
ankle.  During three days he stumped about the ship with his ankle bare
and swollen, and this legend gleaming red and angry out from a clouding
of India ink: 'Virtue is its own R'd.'  (There was a lack of room.) He
was deeply and sincerely pious, and swore like a fish-woman.  He
considered swearing blameless, because sailors would not understand an
order unillumined by it.  He was a profound Biblical scholar--that is, he
thought he was.  He believed everything in the Bible, but he had his own
methods of arriving at his beliefs.  He was of the 'advanced' school of
thinkers, and applied natural laws to the interpretation of all miracles,
somewhat on the plan of the people who make the six days of creation six
geological epochs, and so forth.  Without being aware of it, he was a
rather severe satirist on modern scientific religionists.  Such a man as
I have been describing is rabidly fond of disquisition and argument; one
knows that without being told it.

One trip the captain had a clergyman on board, but did not know he was a
clergyman, since the passenger list did not betray the fact.  He took a
great liking to this Rev. Mr. Peters, and talked with him a great deal:
told him yarns, gave him toothsome scraps of personal history, and wove a
glittering streak of profanity through his garrulous fabric that was
refreshing to a spirit weary of the dull neutralities of undecorated
speech.  One day the captain said, 'Peters, do you ever read the Bible?'

'Well--yes.'

'I judge it ain't often, by the way you say it.  Now, you tackle it in
dead earnest once, and you'll find it'll pay.  Don't you get discouraged,
but hang right on.  First you won't understand it; but by-and-by things
will begin to clear up, and then you wouldn't lay it down to ^^^ear.'

'Yes, I have heard that said.'

'And it's so too.  There ain't a book that begins with it.  It lays over
'em all, Peters.  There's some pretty tough things in it--there ain't any
getting around that--but you stick to them and think them out, and when
once you get on the inside everything's plain as day.'

'The miracles, too, captain?'

'Yes, sir!  the miracles, too.  Every one of them.  Now, there's that
business with the prophets of Baal; like enough that stumped you?'

'Well, I don't know but--'

'Own up, now; it stumped you.  Well, I don't wonder.  You hadn't any
experience in ravelling such things out, and naturally it was too many
for you.  Would you like to have me explain that thing to you, and show
you how to get at the meat of these matters?'

'Indeed, I would, captain, if you don't mind.'

Then the captain proceeded as follows: 'I'll do it with pleasure.  First,
you see, I read and read, and thought and thought, till I got to
understand what sort of people they were in the old Bible times, and then
after that it was clear and easy.  Now, this was the way I put it up,
concerning Isaac[1] and the prophets of Baal.  There was some mighty
sharp men amongst the public characters of that old ancient day, and
Isaac was one of them.  Isaac had his failings--plenty of them, too; it
ain't for me to apologise for Isaac; he played a cold deck on the
prophets of Baal, and like enough he was justifiable, considering the
odds that was against him.  No, all I say it, 't' wa'n't any miracle, and
that I'll show you so's 't you can see it yourself.

'Well, times had been getting rougher and rougher for prophets--that is,
prophets of Isaac's denomination.  There were four hundred and fifty
prophets of Baal in the community, and only one Presbyterian; that is, if
Isaac was a Presbyterian, which I reckon he was, but it don't say.
Naturally, the prophets of Baal took all the trade.  Isaac was pretty low
spirited, I reckon, but he was a good deal of a man, and no doubt he went
a-prophesying around, letting on to be doing a land-office business, but
't' wa'n't any use; he couldn't run any opposition to amount to anything.
By-and-by things got desperate with him; he sets his head to work and
thinks it all out, and then what does he do?  Why he begins to throw out
hints that the other parties are this and that and t'other,--nothing very
definite, may be, but just kind of undermining their reputation in a
quiet way.  This made talk, of course, and finally got to the King.  The
King asked Isaac what he meant by his talk.  Says Isaac, "Oh, nothing
particular; only, can they pray down fire from heaven on an altar?  It
ain't much, maybe, your majesty, only can they do it?  That's the idea."
So the King was a good deal disturbed, and he went to the prophets of
Baal, and they said, pretty airy, that if he had an altar ready, they
were ready; and they intimated he better get it insured, too.

'So next morning all the Children of Israel and their parents and the
other people gathered themselves together.  Well, here was that great
crowd of prophets of Baal packed together on one side, and Isaac walking
up and down all alone on the other, putting up his job.  When time was
called, Isaac let on to be comfortable and indifferent; told the other
team to take the first innings.  So they went at it, the whole four
hundred and fifty, praying around the altar, very hopefully, and doing
their level best.  They prayed an hour--two hours--three hours--and so
on, plumb till noon.  It wa'n't any use; they hadn't took a trick.  Of
course they felt kind of ashamed before all those people, and well they
might.  Now, what would a magnanimous man do?  Keep still, wouldn't he?
Of course.  What did Isaac do?  He graveled the prophets of Baal every
way he could think of.  Says he, "You don't speak up loud enough; your
god's asleep, like enough, or may be he's taking a walk; you want to
holler, you know," or words to that effect; I don't recollect the exact
language.  Mind I don't apologise for Isaac; he had his faults.

'Well, the prophets of Baal prayed along the best they knew how all the
afternoon, and never raised a spark.  At last, about sundown, they were
all tuckered out, and they owned up and quit.

'What does Isaac do, now?  He steps up and says to some friends of his,
there, "Pour four barrels of water on the altar!"  Everybody was
astonished; for the other side had prayed at it dry, you know, and got
whitewashed.  They poured it on.  Says he, "Heave on four more barrels."
Then he says, "Heave on four more."  Twelve barrels, you see, altogether.
The water ran all over the altar, and all down the sides, and filled up a
trench around it that would hold a couple of hogsheads--"measures," it
says: I reckon it means about a hogshead.  Some of the people were going
to put on their things and go, for they allowed he was crazy.  They
didn't know Isaac.  Isaac knelt down and began to pray: he strung along,
and strung along, about the heathen in distant lands, and about the
sister churches, and about the state and the country at large, and about
those that's in authority in the government, and all the usual programme,
you know, till everybody had got tired and gone to thinking about
something else, and then, all of a sudden, when nobody was noticing, he
outs with a match and rakes it on the under side of his leg, and pff! up
the whole thing blazes like a house afire!  Twelve barrels of water?
Petroleum, sir, PETROLEUM!  that's what it was!'

'Petroleum, captain?'

'Yes, sir; the country was full of it.  Isaac knew all about that.  You
read the Bible.  Don't you worry about the tough places.  They ain't
tough when you come to think them out and throw light on them.  There
ain't a thing in the Bible but what is true; all you want is to go
prayerfully to work and cipher out how 'twas done.'

[1] This is the captain's own mistake.






STIRRING TIMES IN AUSTRIA


I.  THE GOVERNMENT IN THE FRYING-PAN.

Here in Vienna in these closing days of 1897 one's blood gets no chance
to stagnate.  The atmosphere is brimful of political electricity.  All
conversation is political; every man is a battery, with brushes overworn,
and gives out blue sparks when you set him going on the common topic.
Everybody has an opinion, and lets you have it frank and hot, and out of
this multitude of counsel you get merely confusion and despair.  For no
one really understands this political situation, or can tell you what is
going to be the outcome of it.

Things have happened here recently which would set any country but
Austria on fire from end to end, and upset the Government to a certainty;
but no one feels confident that such results will follow here.  Here,
apparently, one must wait and see what will happen, then he will know,
and not before; guessing is idle; guessing cannot help the matter.  This
is what the wise tell you; they all say it; they say it every day, and it
is the sole detail upon which they all agree.

There is some approach to agreement upon another point: that there will
be no revolution.  Men say: 'Look at our history, revolutions have not
been in our line; and look at our political map, its construction is
unfavourable to an organised uprising, and without unity what could a
revolt accomplish?  It is disunion which has held our empire together for
centuries, and what it has done in the past it may continue to do now and
in the future.'

The most intelligible sketch I have encountered of this unintelligible
arrangement of things was contributed to the 'Traveller's Record' by Mr.
Forrest Morgan, of Hartford, three years ago.  He says:

     'The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy is the patchwork-quilt, the Midway
     Plaisance, the national chain-gang of Europe; a state that is not a
     nation, but a collection of nations, some with national memories and
     aspirations and others without, some occupying distinct provinces
     almost purely their own, and others mixed with alien races, but each
     with a different language, and each mostly holding the others
     foreigners as much as if the link of a common government did not
     exist.  Only one of its races even now comprises so much as one-
     fourth of the whole, and not another so much as one-sixth; and each
     has remained for ages as unchanged in isolation, however mingled
     together in locality, as globules of oil in water.  There is nothing
     else in the modern world that is nearly like it, though there have
     been plenty in past ages; it seems unreal and impossible even though
     we know it is true; it violates all our feeling as to what a country
     should be in order to have a right to exist; and it seems as though
     it was too ramshackle to go on holding together any length of time.
     Yet it has survived, much in its present shape, two centuries of
     storms that have swept perfectly unified countries from existence
     and others that have brought it to the verge of ruin, has survived
     formidable European coalitions to dismember it, and has steadily
     gained force after each; forever changing in its exact make-up,
     losing in the West but gaining in the East, the changes leave the
     structure as firm as ever, like the dropping off and adding on of
     logs in a raft, its mechanical union of pieces showing all the
     vitality of genuine national life.'

That seems to confirm and justify the prevalent Austrian faith that in
this confusion of unrelated and irreconcilable elements, this condition
of incurable disunion, there is strength--for the Government.  Nearly
every day some one explains to me that a revolution would not succeed
here.  'It couldn't, you know.  Broadly speaking, all the nations in the
empire hate the Government--but they all hate each other too, and with
devoted and enthusiastic bitterness; no two of them can combine; the
nation that rises must rise alone; then the others would joyfully join
the Government against her, and she would have just a fly's chance
against a combination of spiders.  This Government is entirely
independent.  It can go its own road, and do as it pleases; it has
nothing to fear.  In countries like England and America, where there is
one tongue and the public interests are common, the Government must take
account of public opinion; but in Austria-Hungary there are nineteen
public opinions--one for each state.  No--two or three for each state,
since there are two or three nationalities in each.  A Government cannot
satisfy all these public opinions; it can only go through the motions of
trying.  This Government does that.  It goes through the motions, and
they do not succeed; but that does not worry the Government much.'

The next man will give you some further information.  'The Government has
a policy--a wise one--and sticks to it.  This policy is--tranquillity:
keep this hive of excitable nations as quiet as possible; encourage them
to amuse themselves with things less inflammatory that politics.  To this
end it furnishes them an abundance of Catholic priests to teach them to
be docile and obedient, and to be diligent in acquiring ignorance about
things here below, and knowledge about the kingdom of heaven, to whose
historic delights they are going to add the charm of their society by-
and-by; and further--to this same end--it cools off the newspapers every
morning at five o'clock, whenever warm events are happening.'  There is a
censor of the press, and apparently he is always on duty and hard at
work.  A copy of each morning paper is brought to him at five o'clock.
His official wagons wait at the doors of the newspaper offices and scud
to him with the first copies that come from the press.  His company of
assistants read every line in these papers, and mark everything which
seems to have a dangerous look; then he passes final judgment upon these
markings.  Two things conspire to give to the results a capricious and
unbalanced look: his assistants have diversified notions as to what is
dangerous and what isn't; he can't get time to examine their criticisms
in much detail; and so sometimes the very same matter which is suppressed
in one paper fails to be damned in another one, and gets published in
full feather and unmodified.  Then the paper in which it was suppressed
blandly copies the forbidden matter into its evening edition--provokingly
giving credit and detailing all the circumstances in courteous and
inoffensive language--and of course the censor cannot say a word.

Sometimes the censor sucks all the blood out of a newspaper and leaves it
colourless and inane; sometimes he leaves it undisturbed, and lets it
talk out its opinions with a frankness and vigour hardly to be surpassed,
I think, in the journals of any country.  Apparently the censor sometimes
revises his verdicts upon second thought, for several times lately he has
suppressed journals after their issue and partial distribution.  The
distributed copies are then sent for by the censor and destroyed.  I have
two of these, but at the time they were sent for I could not remember
what I had done with them.

If the censor did his work before the morning edition was printed, he
would be less of an inconvenience than he is; but, of course, the papers
cannot wait many minutes after five o'clock to get his verdict; they
might as well go out of business as do that; so they print and take their
chances.  Then, if they get caught by a suppression, they must strike out
the condemned matter and print the edition over again.  That delays the
issue several hours, and is expensive besides.  The Government gets the
suppressed edition for nothing.  If it bought it, that would be joyful,
and would give great satisfaction.  Also, the edition would be larger.
Some of the papers do not replace the condemned paragraphs with other
matter; they merely snatch they out and leave blanks behind--mourning
blanks, marked 'Confiscated'.

The Government discourages the dissemination of newspaper information in
other ways.  For instance, it does not allow newspapers to be sold on the
streets: therefore the newsboy is unknown in Vienna.  And there is a
stamp duty of nearly a cent upon each copy of a newspaper's issue.  Every
American paper that reaches me has a stamp upon it, which has been pasted
there in the post-office or downstairs in the hotel office; but no matter
who put it there, I have to pay for it, and that is the main thing.
Sometimes friends send me so many papers that it takes all I can earn
that week to keep this Government going.

I must take passing notice of another point in the Government's measures
for maintaining tranquillity.  Everybody says it does not like to see any
individual attain to commanding influence in the country, since such a
man can become a disturber and an inconvenience.  'We have as much talent
as the other nations,' says the citizen, resignedly, and without
bitterness, 'but for the sake of the general good of the country, we are
discouraged from making it over-conspicuous; and not only discouraged,
but tactfully and skillfully prevented from doing it, if we show too much
persistence.  Consequently we have no renowned men; in centuries we have
seldom produced one--that is, seldom allowed one to produce himself.  We
can say to-day what no other nation of first importance in the family of
Christian civilisations can say--that there exists no Austrian who has
made an enduring name for himself which is familiar all around the globe.

Another helper toward tranquillity is the army.  It is as pervasive as
the atmosphere.  It is everywhere.  All the mentioned creators,
promoters, and preservers of the public tranquillity do their several
shares in the quieting work.  They make a restful and comfortable
serenity and reposefulness.  This is disturbed sometimes for a little
while: a mob assembles to protest against something; it gets noisy--
noisier--still noisier--finally too noisy; then the persuasive soldiery
comes charging down upon it, and in a few minutes all is quiet again, and
there is no mob.

There is a Constitution and there is a Parliament.  The House draws its
membership of 425 deputies from the nineteen or twenty states heretofore
mentioned.  These men represent peoples who speak eleven different
languages.  That means eleven distinct varieties of jealousies,
hostilities, and warring interests.  This could be expected to furnish
forth a parliament of a pretty inharmonious sort, and make legislation
difficult at times--and it does that.  The Parliament is split up into
many parties--the Clericals, the Progressists, the German Nationalists,
the Young Czechs, the Social Democrats, the Christian Socialists, and
some others--and it is difficult to get up working combinations among
them.  They prefer to fight apart sometimes.

The recent troubles have grown out of Count Badeni's necessities.  He
could not carry on his Government without a majority vote in the House at
his back, and in order to secure it he had to make a trade of some sort.
He made it with the Czechs--the Bohemians.  The terms were not easy for
him: he must issue an ordinance making the Czech tongue the official
language in Bohemia in place of the German.  This created a storm.  All
the Germans in Austria were incensed.  In numbers they form but a fourth
part of the empire's population, but they urge that the country's public
business should be conducted in one common tongue, and that tongue a
world language--which German is.

However, Badeni secured his majority.  The German element in Parliament
was apparently become helpless.  The Czech deputies were exultant.

Then the music began.  Badeni's voyage, instead of being smooth, was
disappointingly rough from the start.  The Government must get the
Ausgleich through.  It must not fail.  Badeni's majority was ready to
carry it through; but the minority was determined to obstruct it and
delay it until the obnoxious Czech-language measure should be shelved.

The Ausgleich is an Adjustment, Arrangement, Settlement, which holds
Austria and Hungary together.  It dates from 1867, and has to be renewed
every ten years.  It establishes the share which Hungary must pay toward
the expenses of the imperial Government.  Hungary is a kingdom (the
Emperor of Austria is its King), and has its own Parliament and
governmental machinery.  But it has no foreign office, and it has no
army--at least its army is a part of the imperial army, is paid out of
the imperial treasury, and is under the control of the imperial war
office.

The ten-year arrangement was due a year ago, but failed to connect.  At
least completely.  A year's compromise was arranged.  A new arrangement
must be effected before the last day of this year.  Otherwise the two
countries become separate entities.  The Emperor would still be King of
Hungary--that is, King of an independent foreign country.  There would be
Hungarian custom-houses on the Austrian border, and there would be a
Hungarian army and a Hungarian foreign office.  Both countries would be
weakened by this, both would suffer damage.

The Opposition in the House, although in the minority, had a good weapon
to fight with in the pending Ausgleich.  If it could delay the Ausgleich
a few weeks, the Government would doubtless have to withdraw the hated
language ordinance or lose Hungary.

The Opposition began its fight.  Its arms were the Rules of the House.
It was soon manifest that by applying these Rules ingeniously it could
make the majority helpless, and keep it so as long as it pleased.  It
could shut off business every now and then with a motion to adjourn.  It
could require the ayes and noes on the motion, and use up thirty minutes
on that detail.  It could call for the reading and verification of the
minutes of the preceding meeting, and use up half a day in that way.  It
could require that several of its members be entered upon the list of
permitted speakers previously to the opening of a sitting; and as there
is no time-limit, further delays could thus be accomplished.

These were all lawful weapons, and the men of the Opposition (technically
called the Left) were within their rights in using them.  They used them
to such dire purpose that all parliamentary business was paralysed.  The
Right (the Government side) could accomplish nothing.  Then it had a
saving idea.  This idea was a curious one.  It was to have the President
and the Vice-Presidents of the Parliament trample the Rules under foot
upon occasion!

This, for a profoundly embittered minority constructed out of fire and
gun-cotton!  It was time for idle strangers to go and ask leave to look
down out of a gallery and see what would be the result of it.


II.  A MEMORABLE SITTING.

And now took place that memorable sitting of the House which broke two
records.  It lasted the best part of two days and a night, surpassing by
half an hour the longest sitting known to the world's previous
parliamentary history, and breaking the long-speech record with Dr.
Lecher's twelve-hour effort, the longest flow of unbroken talk that ever
came out of one mouth since the world began.

At 8.45 on the evening of the 28th of October, when the House had been
sitting a few minutes short of ten hours, Dr. Lecher was granted the
floor.  It was a good place for theatrical effects.  I think that no
other Senate House is so shapely as this one, or so richly and showily
decorated.  Its plan is that of an opera-house.  Up toward the straight
side of it--the stage side--rise a couple of terraces of desks for the
ministry, and the official clerks or secretaries--terraces thirty feet
long, and each supporting about half a dozen desks with spaces between
them.  Above these is the President's terrace, against the wall.  Along
it are distributed the proper accommodations for the presiding officer
and his assistants.  The wall is of richly coloured marble highly
polished, its paneled sweep relieved by fluted columns and pilasters of
distinguished grace and dignity, which glow softly and frostily in the
electric light.  Around the spacious half-circle of the floor bends the
great two-storied curve of the boxes, its frontage elaborately ornamented
and sumptuously gilded.  On the floor of the House the 425 desks radiate
fanwise from the President's tribune.

The galleries are crowded on this particular evening, for word has gone
about that the Ausgleich is before the House; that the President, Ritter
von Abrahamowicz, has been throttling the Rules; that the Opposition are
in an inflammable state in consequence, and that the night session is
likely to be of an exciting sort.

The gallery guests are fashionably dressed, and the finery of the women
makes a bright and pretty show under the strong electric light.  But down
on the floor there is no costumery.

The deputies are dressed in day clothes; some of the clothes neat and
trim, others not; there may be three members in evening dress, but not
more.  There are several Catholic priests in their long black gowns, and
with crucifixes hanging from their necks.  No member wears his hat.  One
may see by these details that the aspects are not those of an evening
sitting of an English House of Commons, but rather those of a sitting of
our House of Representatives.

In his high place sits the President, Abrahamowicz, object of the
Opposition's limitless hatred.  He is sunk back in the depths of his arm-
chair, and has his chin down.  He brings the ends of his spread fingers
together, in front of his breast, and reflectively taps them together,
with the air of one who would like to begin business, but must wait, and
be as patient as he can.  It makes you think of Richelieu.  Now and then
he swings his head up to the left or to the right and answers something
which some one has bent down to say to him.  Then he taps his fingers
again.  He looks tired, and maybe a trifle harassed.  He is a gray-
haired, long, slender man, with a colourless long face, which, in repose,
suggests a death-mask; but when not in repose is tossed and rippled by a
turbulent smile which washes this way and that, and is not easy to keep
up with--a pious smile, a holy smile, a saintly smile, a deprecating
smile, a beseeching and supplicating smile; and when it is at work the
large mouth opens, and the flexible lips crumple, and unfold, and crumple
again, and move around in a genial and persuasive and angelic way, and
expose large glimpses of the teeth; and that interrupts the sacredness of
the smile and gives it momentarily a mixed worldly and political and
satanic cast.  It is a most interesting face to watch.  And then the long
hands and the body--they furnish great and frequent help to the face in
the business of adding to the force of the statesman's words.

To change the tense.  At the time of which I have just been speaking the
crowds in the galleries were gazing at the stage and the pit with rapt
interest and expectancy.  One half of the great fan of desks was in
effect empty, vacant; in the other half several hundred members were
bunched and jammed together as solidly as the bristles in a brush; and
they also were waiting and expecting.  Presently the Chair delivered this
utterance:

'Dr. Lecher has the floor.'

Then burst out such another wild and frantic and deafening clamour as has
not been heard on this planet since the last time the Comanches surprised
a white settlement at night.  Yells from the Left, counter-yells from the
Right, explosions of yells from all sides at once, and all the air sawed
and pawed and clawed and cloven by a writhing confusion of gesturing arms
and hands.  Out of the midst of this thunder and turmoil and tempest rose
Dr. Lecher, serene and collected, and the providential length of his
enabled his head to show out of it.  He began his twelve-hour speech.  At
any rate, his lips could be seen to move, and that was evidence.  On high
sat the President, imploring order, with his long hands put together as
in prayer, and his lips visibly but not hearably speaking.  At intervals
he grasped his bell and swung it up and down with vigour, adding its keen
clamour to the storm weltering there below.

Dr. Lecher went on with his pantomime speech, contented, untroubled.
Here and there and now and then powerful voices burst above the din, and
delivered an ejaculation that was heard.  Then the din ceased for a
moment or two, and gave opportunity to hear what the Chair might answer;
then the noise broke out again.  Apparently the President was being
charged with all sorts of illegal exercises of power in the interest of
the Right (the Government side): among these, with arbitrarily closing an
Order of Business before it was finished; with an unfair distribution of
the right to the floor; with refusal of the floor, upon quibble and
protest, to members entitled to it; with stopping a speaker's speech upon
quibble and protest; and with other transgressions of the Rules of the
House.  One of the interrupters who made himself heard was a young fellow
of slight build and neat dress, who stood a little apart from the solid
crowd and leaned negligently, with folded arms and feet crossed, against
a desk.  Trim and handsome; strong face and thin features; black hair
roughed up; parsimonious moustache; resonant great voice, of good tone
and pitch.  It is Wolf, capable and hospitable with sword and pistol;
fighter of the recent duel with Count Badeni, the head of the Government.
He shot Badeni through the arm and then walked over in the politest way
and inspected his game, shook hands, expressed regret, and all that.  Out
of him came early this thundering peal, audible above the storm:

'I demand the floor.  I wish to offer a motion.'

In the sudden lull which followed, the President answered, 'Dr. Lecher
has the floor.'

Wolf.  'I move the close of the sitting!'

P.  'Representative Lecher has the floor.'  [Stormy outburst from the
Left--that is, the Opposition.]

Wolf.  'I demand the floor for the introduction of a formal notion.
[Pause].  Mr. President, are you going to grant it, or not?  [Crash of
approval from the Left.] I will keep on demanding the floor till I get
it.'

P.  'I call Representative Wolf to order.  Dr. Lecher has the floor.'

Wolf.  'Mr. President, are you going to observe the Rules of this House?'
[Tempest of applause and confused ejaculations from the Left--a boom and
roar which long endured, and stopped all business for the time being.]

Dr. von Pessler.  'By the Rules motions are in order, and the Chair must
put them to vote.'

For answer the President (who is a Pole--I make this remark in passing)
began to jangle his bell with energy at the moment that that wild
pandemonium of voices broke out again.

Wolf (hearable above the storm).  'Mr. President, I demand the floor.  We
intend to find out, here and now, which is the hardest, a Pole's skull or
a German's!'

This brought out a perfect cyclone of satisfaction from the Left.  In the
midst of it someone again moved an Adjournment.  The President blandly
answered that Dr. Lecher had the floor.  Which was true; and he was
speaking, too, calmly, earnestly, and argumentatively; and the official
stenographers had left their places and were at his elbows taking down
his words, he leaning and orating into their ears--a most curious and
interesting scene.

Dr. von Pessler (to the Chair).  'Do not drive us to extremities!'

The tempest burst out again: yells of approval from the Left, catcalls
and ironical laughter from the Right.  At this point a new and most
effective noise-maker was pressed into service.  Each desk has an
extension, consisting of a removable board eighteen inches long, six
wide, and a half-inch thick.  A member pulled one of these out and began
to belabour the top of his desk with it.  Instantly other members
followed suit, and perhaps you can imagine the result.  Of all
conceivable rackets it is the most ear-splitting, intolerable, and
altogether fiendish.

The persecuted President leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes,
clasped his hands in his lap, and a look of pathetic resignation crept
over his long face.  It is the way a country schoolmaster used to look in
days long past when he had refused his school a holiday and it had risen
against him in ill-mannered riot and violence and insurrection.  Twice a
motion to adjourn had been offered--a motion always in order in other
Houses, and doubtless so in this one also.  The President had refused to
put these motions.  By consequence, he was not in a pleasant place now,
and was having a right hard time.  Votes upon motions, whether carried or
defeated, could make endless delay, and postpone the Ausgleich to next
century.

In the midst of these sorrowful circumstances and this hurricane of yells
and screams and satanic clatter of desk-boards, Representative Dr.
Kronawetter unfeelingly reminds the Chair that a motion has been offered,
and adds: 'Say yes, or no!  What do you sit there for, and give no
answer?'

P.  'After I have given a speaker the floor, I cannot give it to another.
After Dr. Lecher is through, I will put your motion.'  [Storm of
indignation from the Left.]

Wolf (to the Chair).  'Thunder and lightning! look at the Rule governing
the case!'

Kronawetter.  'I move the close of the sitting!  And I demand the ayes
and noes!'

Dr. Lecher.  'Mr. President, have I the floor?'

P.  'You have the floor.'

Wolf (to the Chair, in a stentorian voice which cleaves its way through
the storm).  'It is by such brutalities as these that you drive us to
extremities!  Are you waiting till someone shall throw into your face the
word that shall describe what you are bringing about?[1]  [Tempest of
insulted fury from the Right.]  Is that what you are waiting for, old
Grayhead?' [Long-continued clatter of desk-boards from the Left, with
shouts of 'The vote! the vote!' An ironical shout from the Right, 'Wolf
is boss!']

Wolf keeps on demanding the floor for his motion.  At length--

P.  'I call Representative Wolf to order!  Your conduct is unheard of,
sir!  You forget that you are in a parliament; you must remember where
you are, sir.'  [Applause from the Right.  Dr. Lecher is still peacefully
speaking, the stenographers listening at his lips.]

Wolf (banging on his desk with his desk-board).  'I demand the floor for
my motion!  I won't stand this trampling of the Rules under foot--no, not
if I die for it!  I will never yield.  You have got to stop me by force.
Have I the floor?'

P.  'Representative Wolf, what kind of behaviour is this?  I call you to
order again.  You should have some regard for your dignity.'

Dr. Lecher speaks on.  Wolf turns upon him with an offensive innuendo.

Dr. Lecher.  'Mr. Wolf, I beg you to refrain from that sort of
suggestions.'  [Storm of hand-clapping from the Right.]

This was applause from the enemy, for Lecher himself, like Wolf, was an
Obstructionist.

Wolf growls to Lecher, 'You can scribble that applause in your album!'

P.  'Once more I call Representative Wolf to order!  Do not forget that
you are a Representative, sir!'

Wolf (slam-banging with his desk-board).  'I will force this matter!  Are
you going to grant me the floor, or not?'

And still the sergeant-at-arms did not appear.  It was because there
wasn't any.  It is a curious thing, but the Chair has no effectual means
of compelling order.

After some more interruptions:

Wolf (banging with his board).  'I demand the floor.  I will not yield!'

P.  'I have no recourse against Representative Wolf.  In the presence of
behaviour like this it is to be regretted that such is the case.'  [A
shout from the Right, 'Throw him out!']

It is true he had no effective recourse.  He had an official called an
'Ordner,' whose help he could invoke in desperate cases, but apparently
the Ordner is only a persuader, not a compeller.  Apparently he is a
sergeant-at-arms who is not loaded; a good enough gun to look at, but not
valuable for business.

For another twenty or thirty minutes Wolf went on banging with his board
and demanding his rights; then at last the weary President threatened to
summon the dread order-maker.  But both his manner and his words were
reluctant.  Evidently it grieved him to have to resort to this dire
extremity.  He said to Wolf, 'If this goes on, I shall feel obliged to
summon the Ordner, and beg him to restore order in the House.'

Wolf.  'I'd like to see you do it!  Suppose you fetch in a few policemen
too!  [Great tumult.] Are you going to put my motion to adjourn, or not?'

Dr. Lecher continues his speech.  Wolf accompanies him with his board-
clatter.

The President despatches the Ordner, Dr. Lang (himself a deputy), on his
order-restoring mission.  Wolf, with his board uplifted for defence,
confronts the Ordner with a remark which Boss Tweed might have translated
into 'Now let's see what you are going to do about it!' [Noise and tumult
all over the House.]

Wolf stands upon his rights, and says he will maintain them until he is
killed in his tracks.  Then he resumes his banging, the President jangles
his bell and begs for order, and the rest of the House augments the
racket the best it can.

Wolf.  'I require an adjournment, because I find myself personally
threatened.  [Laughter from the Right.]  Not that I fear for myself;
I am only anxious about what will happen to the man who touches me.'

The Ordner.  'I am not going to fight with you.'

Nothing came of the efforts of the angel of peace, and he presently
melted out of the scene and disappeared.  Wolf went on with his noise
and with his demands that he be granted the floor, resting his board at
intervals to discharge criticisms and epithets at the Chair.  Once he
reminded the Chairman of his violated promise to grant him (Wolf) the
floor, and said, 'Whence I came, we call promise-breakers rascals!'
And he advised the Chairman to take his conscience to bed with him and
use it as a pillow.  Another time he said that the Chair was making
itself ridiculous before all Europe.  In fact, some of Wolf's language
was almost unparliamentary.  By-and-by he struck the idea of beating out
a tune with his board.  Later he decided to stop asking for the floor,
and to confer it upon himself.  And so he and Dr. Lecher now spoke at the
same time, and mingled their speeches with the other noises, and nobody
heard either of them.  Wolf rested himself now and then from speech-
making by reading, in his clarion voice, from a pamphlet.

I will explain that Dr. Lecher was not making a twelve-hour speech for
pastime, but for an important purpose.  It was the Government's intention
to push the Ausgleich through its preliminary stages in this one sitting
(for which it was the Order of the Day), and then by vote refer it to a
select committee.  It was the Majority's scheme--as charged by the
Opposition--to drown debate upon the bill by pure noise--drown it out and
stop it.  The debate being thus ended, the vote upon the reference would
follow--with victory for the Government.  But into the Government's
calculations had not entered the possibility of a single-barrelled speech
which should occupy the entire time-limit of the setting, and also get
itself delivered in spite of all the noise.  Goliath was not expecting
David.  But David was there; and during twelve hours he tranquilly pulled
statistical, historical, and argumentative pebbles out of his scrip and
slung them at the giant; and when he was done he was victor, and the day
was saved.

In the English House an obstructionist has held the floor with Bible-
readings and other outside matters; but Dr. Lecher could not have that
restful and recuperative privilege--he must confine himself strictly to
the subject before the House.  More than once, when the President could
not hear him because of the general tumult, he sent persons to listen and
report as to whether the orator was speaking to the subject or not.

The subject was a peculiarly difficult one, and it would have troubled
any other deputy to stick to it three hours without exhausting his
ammunition, because it required a vast and intimate knowledge--detailed
and particularised knowledge--of the commercial, railroading, financial,
and international banking relations existing between two great
sovereignties, Hungary and the Empire.  But Dr. Lecher is President of
the Board of Trade of his city of Brunn, and was master of the situation.
His speech was not formally prepared.  He had a few notes jotted down for
his guidance; he had his facts in his head; his heard was in his work;
and for twelve hours he stood there, undisturbed by the clamour around
him, and with grace and ease and confidence poured out the riches of his
mind, in closely reasoned arguments, clothed in eloquent and faultless
phrasing.

He is a young man of thirty-seven.  He is tall and well-proportioned, and
has cultivated and fortified his muscle by mountain-climbing.  If he were
a little handsomer he would sufficiently reproduce for me the Chauncey
Depew of the great New England dinner nights of some years ago; he has
Depew's charm of manner and graces of language and delivery.

There was but one way for Dr. Lecher to hold the floor--he must stay on
his legs.  If he should sit down to rest a moment, the floor would be
taken from him by the enemy in the Chair.  When he had been talking three
or four hours he himself proposed an adjournment, in order that he might
get some rest from his wearing labours; but he limited his motion with
the condition that if it was lost he should be allowed to continue his
speech, and if it was carried he should have the floor at the next
sitting.  Wolf was now appeased, and withdrew his own thousand-times-
offered motion, and Dr. Lecher's was voted upon--and lost.  So he went on
speaking.

By one o'clock in the morning, excitement and noise-making had tired out
nearly everybody but the orator.  Gradually the seats of the Right
underwent depopulation; the occupants had slipped out to the refreshment-
rooms to eat and drink, or to the corridors to chat.  Some one remarked
that there was no longer a quorum present, and moved a call of the House.
The Chair (Vice-President Dr. Kramarz) refused to put it to vote.  There
was a small dispute over the legality of this ruling, but the Chair held
its ground.

The Left remained on the battle-field to support their champion.  He went
steadily on with his speech; and always it was strong, virile,
felicitous, and to the point.  He was earning applause, and this enabled
his party to turn that fact to account.  Now and then they applauded him
a couple of minutes on a stretch, and during that time he could stop
speaking and rest his voice without having the floor taken from him.

At a quarter to two a member of the Left demanded that Dr. Lecher be
allowed a recess for rest, and said that the Chairman was 'heartless.'
Dr. Lecher himself asked for ten minutes.  The Chair allowed him five.
Before the time had run out Dr. Lecher was on his feet again.

Wolf burst out again with a motion to adjourn.  Refused by the Chair.
Wolf said the whole Parliament wasn't worth a pinch of powder.  The Chair
retorted that that was true in a case where a single member was able to
make all parliamentary business impossible.  Dr. Lecher continued his
speech.

The members of the Majority went out by detachments from time to time and
took naps upon sofas in the reception-rooms; and also refreshed
themselves with food and drink--in quantities nearly unbelievable--but
the Minority stayed loyally by their champion.  Some distinguished
deputies of the Majority stayed by him too, compelled thereto by
admiration of his great performance.  When a man has been speaking eight
hours, is it conceivable that he can still be interesting, still
fascinating?  When Dr. Lecher had been speaking eight hours he was still
compactly surrounded by friends who would not leave him, and by foes (of
all parties) who could not; and all hung enchanted and wondering upon his
words, and all testified their admiration with constant and cordial
outbursts of applause.  Surely this was a triumph without precedent in
history.

During the twelve-hour effort friends brought to the orator three glasses
of wine, four cups of coffee, and one glass of beer--a most stingy re-
enforcement of his wasting tissues, but the hostile Chair would permit no
addition to it.  But, no matter, the Chair could not beat that man.  He
was a garrison holding a fort, and was not to be starved out.

When he had been speaking eight hours his pulse was 72; when he had
spoken twelve, it was 100.

He finished his long speech in these terms, as nearly as a permissibly
free translation can convey them:

'I will now hasten to close my examination of the subject.  I conceive
that we of the Left have made it clear to the honourable gentlemen of the
other side of the House that we are stirred by no intemperate enthusiasm
for this measure in its present shape...

'What we require, and shall fight for with all lawful weapons, is a
formal, comprehensive, and definitive solution and settlement of these
vexed matters.  We desire the restoration of the earlier condition of
things; the cancellation of all this incapable Government's pernicious
trades with Hungary; and then--release from the sorry burden of the
Badeni ministry!

'I voice the hope--I know not if it will be fulfilled--I voice the deep
and sincere and patriotic hope that the committee into whose hands this
bill will eventually be committed will take its stand upon high ground,
and will return the Ausgleich-Provisorium to this House in a form which
shall make it the protector and promoter alike of the great interests
involved and of the honour of our fatherland.'  After a pause, turning
towards the Government benches: 'But in any case, gentlemen of the
Majority, make sure of this: henceforth, as before, you find us at our
post.  The Germans of Austria will neither surrender nor die!'

Then burst a storm of applause which rose and fell, rose and fell, burst
out again and again and again, explosion after explosion, hurricane after
hurricane, with no apparent promise of ever coming to an end; and
meantime the whole Left was surging and weltering about the champion, all
bent upon wringing his hand and congratulating him and glorifying him.

Finally he got away, and went home and ate five loaves and twelve baskets
of fish, read the morning papers, slept three hours, took a short drive,
then returned to the House, and sat out the rest of the thirty-three-hour
session.

To merely stand up in one spot twelve hours on a stretch is a feat which
very few men could achieve; to add to the task the utterance of a hundred
thousand words would be beyond the possibilities of the most of those
few; to superimpose the requirement that the words should be put into the
form of a compact, coherent, and symmetrical oration would probably rule
out the rest of the few, bar Dr. Lecher.


III.--CURIOUS PARLIAMENTARY ETIQUETTE.

In consequence of Dr. Lecher's twelve-hour speech and the other
obstructions furnished by the Minority, the famous thirty-three-hour
sitting of the House accomplished nothing.  The Government side had made
a supreme effort, assisting itself with all the helps at hand, both
lawful and unlawful, yet had failed to get the Ausgleich into the hands
of a committee.  This was a severe defeat.  The Right was mortified, the
Left jubilant.

Parliament was adjourned for a week--to let the members cool off,
perhaps--a sacrifice of precious time; for but two months remained in
which to carry the all-important Ausgleich to a consummation.

If I have reported the behaviour of the House intelligibly, the reader
has been surprised by it, and has wondered whence these law-makers come
and what they are made of; and he has probably supposed that the conduct
exhibited at the Long Sitting was far out of the common, and due to
special excitement and irritation.  As to the make-up of the House, it is
this: the deputies come from all the walks of life and from all the
grades of society.  There are princes, counts, barons, priests, peasants,
mechanics, labourers, lawyers, judges, physicians, professors, merchants,
bankers, shopkeepers.  They are religious men, they are earnest, sincere,
devoted, and they hate the Jews.  The title of Doctor is so common in the
House that one may almost say that the deputy who does not bear it is by
that reason conspicuous.  I am assured that it is not a self-granted
title, and not an honorary one, but an earned one; that in Austria it is
very seldom conferred as a mere compliment; that in Austria the degrees
of Doctor of Music, Doctor of Philosophy, and so on, are not conferred by
the seats of learning; and so, when an Austrian is called Doctor, it
means that he is either a lawyer or a physician, and that he is not a
self-educated man, but is college-bred, and has been diplomaed for merit.

That answers the question of the constitution of the House.  Now as to
the House's curious manners.  The manners exhibited by this convention of
Doctors were not at that time being tried as a wholly new experiment.  I
will go back to a previous sitting in order to show that the deputies had
already had some practice.

There had been an incident.  The dignity of the House had been wounded by
improprieties indulged in in its presence by a couple of the members.
This matter was placed in the hands of a committee to determine where the
guilt lay and the degree of it, and also to suggest the punishment.  The
chairman of the committee brought in his report.  By this it appeared
that in the course of a speech, Deputy Schrammel said that religion had
no proper place in the public schools--it was a private matter.
Whereupon Deputy Gregorig shouted, 'How about free love!'

To this, Deputy Iro flung out this retort: 'Soda-water at the Wimberger!'

This appeared to deeply offend Deputy Gregorig, who shouted back at Iro,
'You cowardly blatherskite, say that again!'

The committee had sat three hours.  Gregorig had apologised.  Iro
explained that he didn't say anything about soda-water at the Wimberger.
He explained in writing, and was very explicit: 'I declare upon my word
of honour that I did not say the words attributed to me.'

Unhappily for his word of honour, it was proved by the official
stenographers and by the testimony of several deputies that he did say
them.

The committee did not officially know why the apparently inconsequential
reference to soda-water at the Wimberger should move Deputy Gregorig to
call the utterer of it a cowardly blatherskite; still, after proper
deliberation, it was of the opinion that the House ought to formally
censure the whole business.  This verdict seems to have been regarded as
sharply severe.  I think so because Deupty Dr. Lueger, Burgermeister of
Vienna, felt it a duty to soften the blow to his friend Gregorig by
showing that the soda-water remark was not so innocuous as it might look;
that, indeed, Gregorig's tough retory was justifiable--and he proceeded
to explain why.  He read a number of scandalous post-cards which he
intimated had proceeded from Iro, as indicated by the handwriting, though
they were anonymous.  Some of them were posted to Gregorig at his place
of business and could have been read by all his subordinates; the others
were posted to Gregorig's wife.  Lueger did not say--but everybody knew--
that the cards referred to a matter of town gossip which made Mr.
Gregorig a chief actor in a tavern scene where siphon-squirting played a
prominent and humorous part, and wherein women had a share.

There were several of the cards; more than several, in fact; no fewer
than five were sent in one day.  Dr. Lueger read some of them, and
described others.  Some of them had pictures on them; one a picture of a
hog with a monstrous snout, and beside it a squirting soda-siphon; below
it some sarcastic doggerel.

Gregorig dealt in shirts, cravats, etc.  One of the cards bore these
words: 'Much-respected Deputy and collar-sewer--or stealer.'

Another: 'Hurrah for the Christian-Social work among the women-
assemblages!  Hurrah for the soda-squirter!' Comment by Dr. Lueger: 'I
cannot venture to read the rest of that one, nor the signature, either.'

Another: 'Would you mind telling me if....'  Comment by Dr. Lueger: 'The
rest of it is not properly readable.'

To Deputy Gregorig's wife: 'Much-respected Madam Gregorig,--The
undersigned desires an invitation to the next soda-squirt.'  Comment by
Dr. Lueger: 'Neither the rest of the card nor the signature can I venture
to read to the House, so vulgar are they.'

The purpose of this card--to expose Gregorig to his family--was repeated
in others of these anonymous missives.

The House, by vote, censured the two improper deputies.

This may have had a modifying effect upon the phraseology of the
membership for a while, and upon its general exuberance also, but it was
not for long.  As has been seen, it had become lively once more on the
night of the Long Sitting.  At the next sitting after the long one there
was certainly no lack of liveliness.  The President was persistently
ignoring the Rules of the House in the interest of the government side,
and the Minority were in an unappeasable fury about it.  The ceaseless
din and uproar, the shouting and stamping and desk-banging, were
deafening, but through it all burst voices now and then that made
themselves heard.  Some of the remarks were of a very candid sort, and I
believe that if they had been uttered in our House of Representatives
they would have attracted attention.  I will insert some samples here.
Not in their order, but selected on their merits:

Mr. Mayreder (to the President).  'You have lied!  You conceded the floor
to me; make it good, or you have lied!'

Mr. Glockner (to the President).  'Leave!  Get out!'

Wolf (indicating the President).  'There sits a man to whom a certain
title belongs!'

Unto Wolf, who is continuously reading, in a powerful voice, from a
newspaper, arrive these personal remarks from the Majority: 'Oh, shut
your mouth!' 'Put him out!' 'Out with him!' Wolf stops reading a moment
to shout at Dr. Lueger, who has the floor but cannot get a hearing,
'Please, Betrayer of the People, begin!'

Dr. Lueger, 'Meine Herren--' ['Oho!' and groans.]

Wolf.  'That's the holy light of the Christian Socialists!'

Mr. Kletzenbauer (Christian Socialist).  'Dam--nation!  Are you ever
going to quiet down?'

Wolf discharges a galling remark at Mr. Wohlmeyer.

Wohlmeyer (responding).  'You Jew, you!'

There is a moment's lull, and Dr. Lueger begins his speech.  Graceful,
handsome man, with winning manners and attractive bearing, a bright and
easy speaker, and is said to know how to trim his political sails to
catch any favouring wind that blows.  He manages to say a few words, then
the tempest overwhelms him again.

Wolf stops reading his paper a moment to say a drastic thing about Lueger
and his Christian-Social pieties, which sets the C.S.S. in a sort of
frenzy.

Mr. Vielohlawek.  'You leave the Christian Socialists alone, you word-of-
honour-breaker!  Obstruct all you want to, but you leave them alone!
You've no business in this House; you belong in a gin-mill!'

Mr. Prochazka.  'In a lunatic-asylum, you mean!'

Vielohlawek.  'It's a pity that such man should be leader of the Germans;
he disgraces the German name!'

Dr. Scheicher.  'It's a shame that the like of him should insult us.'

Strohbach (to Wolf).  'Contemptible cub--we will bounce thee out of
this!' [It is inferable that the 'thee' is not intended to indicate
affection this time, but to re-enforce and emphasise Mr. Storhbach's
scorn.]

Dr. Scheicher.  'His insults are of no consequence.  He wants his ears
boxed.'

Dr. Lueger (to Wolf).  'You'd better worry a trifle over your Iro's word
of honour.  You are behaving like a street arab.'

Dr. Scheicher.  'It is infamous!'

Dr. Lueger.  'And these shameless creatures are the leaders of the German
People's Party!'

Meantime Wolf goes whooping along with his newspaper readings in great
contentment.

Dr. Pattai.  'Shut up!  Shut up!  Shut up!  You haven't the floor!'

Strohbach.  'The miserable cub!'

Dr. Lueger (to Wolf, raising his voice strenuously above the storm).
'You are a wholly honourless street brat!' [A voice, 'Fire the
rapscallion out!'  But Wolf's soul goes marching noisily on, just the
same.]

Schonerer (vast and muscular, and endowed with the most powerful voice in
the Reichsrath; comes ploughing down through the standing crowds, red,
and choking with anger; halts before Deputy Wohlmeyer, grabs a rule and
smashes it with a blow upon a desk, threatens Wohlmeyer's face with his
fist, and bellows out some personalities, and a promise).  'Only you
wait--we'll teach you!' [A whirlwind of offensive retorts assails him
from the band of meek and humble Christian Socialists compacted around
their leader, that distinguished religious expert, Dr. Lueger,
Burgermeister of Vienna.  Our breath comes in excited gasps now, and we
are full of hope.  We imagine that we are back fifty years ago in the
Arkansas Legislature, and we think we know what is going to happen, and
are glad we came, and glad we are up in the gallery, out of the way,
where we can see the whole thing and yet not have to supply any of the
material for the inquest.  However, as it turns out, our confidence is
abused, our hopes are misplaced.]

Dr. Pattai (wildly excited).  'You quiet down, or we shall turn ourselves
loose!  There will be cuffing of ears!'

Prochazka (in a fury).  'No--not ear boxing, but genuine blows!'

Vieholawek.  'I would rather take my hat off to a Jew than to Wolf!'

Strohbach (to Wolf).  'Jew flunky!  Here we have been fighting the Jews
for ten years, and now you are helping them to power again.  How much do
you get for it?'

Holansky.  'What he wants is a strait-jacket!'

Wolf continues his reading.  It is a market report now.

Remark flung across the House to Schonerer: 'Die Grossmutter auf dem
Misthaufen erzeugt worden!'

It will be judicious not to translate that.  Its flavour is pretty high,
in any case, but it becomes particularly gamy when you remember that the
first gallery was well stocked with ladies.

Apparently it was a great hit.  It fetched thunders of joyous enthusiasm
out of the Christian Socialists, and in their rapture they flung biting
epithets with wasteful liberality at specially detested members of the
Opposition; among others, this one at Schonerer, 'Bordell in der
Krugerstrasse!' Then they added these words, which they whooped, howled,
and also even sand, in a deep-voiced chorus: 'Schmul Leeb Kohn!  Schmul
Leeb Kohn!  Schmul Leeb Kohn!' and made it splendidly audible above the
banging of desk-boards and the rest of the roaring cyclone of fiendish
noises.  [A gallery witticism comes flitting by from mouth to mouth
around the great curve: 'The swan-song of Austrian representative
government!' You can note its progress by the applausive smiles and nods
it gets as it skims along.]

Kletzenbauer.  'Holofernes, where is Judith?' [Storm of laughter.]

Gregorig (the shirt-merchant).  'This Wolf-Theatre is costing 6,000
florins!'

Wolf (with sweetness).  'Notice him, gentlemen; it is Mr. Gregorig.'
[Laughter.]

Vieholawek (to Wolf).  'You Judas!'

Schneider.  'Brothel-knight!'

Chorus of Voices.  'East-German offal tub!'

And so the war of epithets crashes along, with never-diminishing energy,
for a couple of hours.

The ladies in the gallery were learning.  That was well; for by-and-by
ladies will form a part of the membership of all the legislatures in the
world; as soon as they can prove competency they will be admitted.  At
present, men only are competent to legislate; therefore they look down
upon women, and would feel degraded if they had to have them for
colleagues in their high calling.

Wolf is yelling another market report now.

Gessman.  'Shut up, infamous louse-brat!'

During a momentary lull Dr. Lueger gets a hearing for three sentences of
his speech.  The demand and require that the President shall suppress the
four noisiest members of the Opposition.

Wolf (with a that-settles-it toss of the head).  'The shifty trickster of
Vienna has spoken!'

Iro belonged to Schonerer's party.  The word-of-honour incident has given
it a new name.  Gregorig is a Christian Socialist, and hero of the post-
cards and the Wimberger soda-squirting incident.  He stands vast and
conspicuous, and conceited and self-satisfied, and roosterish and
inconsequential, at Lueger's elbow, and is proud and cocky to be in such
a great company.  He looks very well indeed; really majestic, and aware
of it.  He crows out his little empty remark, now and then, and looks as
pleased as if he had been delivered of the Ausgleich.  Indeed, he does
look notably fine.  He wears almost the only dress vest on the floor; it
exposes a continental spread of white shirt-front; his hands are posed at
ease in the lips of his trousers pockets; his head is tilted back
complacently; he is attitudinising; he is playing to the gallery.
However, they are all doing that.  It is curious to see.  Men who only
vote, and can't make speeches, and don't know how to invent witty
ejaculations, wander about the vacated parts of the floor, and stop in a
good place and strike attitudes--attitudes suggestive of weighty thought,
mostly--and glance furtively up at the galleries to see how it works; or
a couple will come together and shake hands in an artificial way, and
laugh a gay manufactured laugh, and do some constrained and self-
conscious attitudinising; and they steal glances at the galleries to see
if they are getting notice.  It is like a scene on the stage--by-play by
minor actors at the back while the stars do the great work at the front.
Even Count Badeni attitudinises for a moment; strikes a reflective
Napoleonic attitude of fine picturesqueness--but soon thinks better of it
and desists.  There are two who do not attitudinise--poor harried and
insulted President Abrahamowicz, who seems wholly miserable, and can find
no way to put in the dreary time but by swinging his bell and discharging
occasional remarks which nobody can hear; and a resigned and patient
priest, who sits lonely in a great vacancy on Majority territory and
munches an apple.

Schonerer uplifts his fog-horn of a voice and shakes the roof with an
insult discharged at the Majority.

Dr. Lueger.  'The Honourless Party would better keep still here!'

Gregorig (the echo, swelling out his shirt-front).  'Yes, keep quiet,
pimp!'

Schonerer (to Lueger).  'Political mountebank!'

Prochazka (to Schonerer).  'Drunken clown!'

During the final hour of the sitting many happy phrases were distributed
through the proceedings.  Among them were these--and they are strikingly
good ones:

'Blatherskite!'

'Blackguard!'

'Scoundrel!'

'Brothel-daddy!'

This last was the contribution of Dr. Gessman, and gave great
satisfaction.  And deservedly.  It seems to me that it was one of the
most sparkling things that was said during the whole evening.

At half-past two in the morning the House adjourned.  The victory was
with the Opposition.  No; not quite that.  The effective part of it was
snatched away from them by an unlawful exercise of Presidential force--
another contribution toward driving the mistreated Minority out of their
minds.

At other sittings of the parliament, gentlemen of the Opposition, shaking
their fists toward the President, addressed him as 'Polish Dog'.  At one
sitting an angry deputy turned upon a colleague and shouted,
'----------!'

You must try to imagine what it was.  If I should offer it even in the
original it would probably not get by the editor's blue pencil; to offer
a translation would be to waste my ink, of course.  This remark was
frankly printed in its entirety by one of the Vienna dailies, but the
others disguised the toughest half of it with stars.

If the reader will go back over this chapter and gather its array of
extraordinary epithets into a bunch and examine them, he will marvel at
two things: how this convention of gentlemen could consent to use such
gross terms; and why the users were allowed to get out the place alive.
There is no way to understand this strange situation.  If every man in
the House were a professional blackguard, and had his home in a sailor
boarding-house, one could still not understand it; for, although that
sort do use such terms, they never take them.  These men are not
professional blackguards; they are mainly gentlemen, and educated; yet
they use the terms, and take them too.  They really seem to attach no
consequence to them.  One cannot say that they act like schoolboys; for
that is only almost true, not entirely.  Schoolboys blackguard each other
fiercely, and by the hour, and one would think that nothing would ever
come of it but noise; but that would be a mistake.  Up to a certain limit
the result would be noise only, but, that limit overstepped, trouble
would follow right away.  There are certain phrases--phrases of a
peculiar character--phrases of the nature of that reference to
Schonerer's grandmother, for instance--which not even the most spiritless
schoolboy in the English-speaking world would allow to pass unavenged.
One difference between schoolboys and the law-makers of the Reichsrath
seems to be that the law-makers have no limit, no danger-line.
Apparently they may call each other what they please, and go home
unmutilated.

Now, in fact, they did have a scuffle on two occasions, but it was not on
account of names called.  There has been no scuffle where that was the
cause.

It is not to be inferred that the House lacks a sense of honour because
it lacks delicacy.  That would be an error.  Iro was caught in a lie, and
it profoundly disgraced him.  The House cut him, turned its back upon
him.  He resigned his seat; otherwise he would have been expelled.  But
it was lenient with Gregorig, who had called Iro a cowardly blatherskite
in debate.  It merely went through the form of mildly censuring him.
That did not trouble Gregorig.

The Viennese say of themselves that they are an easy-going, pleasure-
loving community, making the best of life, and not taking it very
seriously.  Nevertheless, they are grieved about the ways of their
Parliament, and say quite frankly that they are ashamed.  They claim that
the low condition of the parliament's manners is new, not old.  A
gentleman who was at the head of the government twenty years ago confirms
this, and says that in his time the parliament was orderly and well-
behaved.  An English gentleman of long residence here endorses this, and
says that a low order of politicians originated the present forms of
questionable speech on the stump some years ago, and imported them into
the parliament.[2] However, some day there will be a Minister of
Etiquette and a sergeant-at-arms, and then things will go better.  I mean
if parliament and the Constitution survive the present storm.


IV.--THE HISTORIC CLIMAX

During the whole of November things went from bad to worse.  The all-
important Ausgleich remained hard aground, and could not be sparred off.
Badeni's government could not withdraw the Language Ordinance and keep
its majority, and the Opposition could not be placated on easier terms.
One night, while the customary pandemonium was crashing and thundering
along at its best, a fight broke out.  It was a surging, struggling,
shoulder-to-shoulder scramble.  A great many blows were struck.  Twice
Schonerer lifted one of the heavy ministerial fauteuils--some say with
one hand--and threatened members of the Majority with it, but it was
wrenched away from him; a member hammered Wolf over the head with the
President's bell, and another member choked him; a professor was flung
down and belaboured with fists and choked; he held up an open penknife as
a defence against the blows; it was snatched from him and flung to a
distance; it hit a peaceful Christian Socialist who wasn't doing
anything, and brought blood from his hand.  This was the only blood
drawn.  The men who got hammered and choked looked sound and well next
day.  The fists and the bell were not properly handled, or better results
would have been apparent.  I am quite sure that the fighters were not in
earnest.

On Thanksgiving Day the sitting was a history-making one.  On that day
the harried, bedevilled, and despairing government went insane.  In order
to free itself from the thraldom of the Opposition it committed this
curiously juvenile crime; it moved an important change of the Rules of
the House, forbade debate upon the motion, put it to a stand-up vote
instead of ayes and noes, and then gravely claimed that it had been
adopted; whereas, to even the dullest witness--if I without immodesty may
pretend to that place--it was plain that nothing legitimately to be
called a vote had been taken at all.

I think that Saltpeter never uttered a truer thing than when he said,
'Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad.'  Evidently the
government's mind was tottering when this bald insults to the House was
the best way it could contrive for getting out of the frying-pan.

The episode would have been funny if the matter at stake had been a
trifle; but in the circumstances it was pathetic.  The usual storm was
raging in the House.  As usual, many of the Majority and the most of the
Minority were standing up--to have a better chance to exchange epithets
and make other noises.  Into this storm Count Falkenhayn entered, with
his paper in his hand; and at once there was a rush to get near him and
hear him read his motion.  In a moment he was walled in by listeners.
The several clauses of his motion were loudly applauded by these allies,
and as loudly disapplauded--if I may invent a word--by such of the
Opposition as could hear his voice.  When he took his seat the President
promptly put the motion--persons desiring to vote in the affirmative,
stand up!  The House was already standing up; had been standing for an
hour; and before a third of it had found out what the President had been
saying, he had proclaimed the adoption of the motion!  And only a few
heard that.  In fact, when that House is legislating you can't tell it
from artillery practice.

You will realise what a happy idea it was to side-track the lawful ayes
and noes and substitute a stand-up vote by this fact: that a little
later, when a deputation of deputies waited upon the President and asked
him if he was actually willing to claim that that measure had been
passed, he answered, 'Yes--and unanimously.'  It shows that in effect the
whole House was on its feet when that trick was sprung.

The 'Lex Falkenhayn,' thus strangely born, gave the President power to
suspend for three days any deputy who should continue to be disorderly
after being called to order twice, and it also placed at his disposal
such force as might be necessary to make the suspension effective.  So
the House had a sergeant-at-arms at last, and a more formidable one, as
to power, than any other legislature in Christendom had ever possessed.
The Lex Falkenhayn also gave the House itself authority to suspend
members for thirty days.

On these terms the Ausgleich could be put through in an hour--apparently.
The Opposition would have to sit meek and quiet, and stop obstructing, or
be turned into the street, deputy after deputy, leaving the Majority an
unvexed field for its work.

Certainly the thing looked well.  The government was out of the frying-
pan at last.  It congratulated itself, and was almost girlishly happy.
Its stock rose suddenly from less than nothing to a premium.  It
confessed to itself, with pride, that its Lex Falkenhayn was a master-
stroke--a work of genius.

However, there were doubters--men who were troubled, and believed that a
grave mistake had been made.  It might be that the Opposition was
crushed, and profitably for the country, too; but the manner of it--the
manner of it!  That was the serious part.  It could have far-reaching
results; results whose gravity might transcend all guessing.  It might be
the initial step toward a return to government by force, a restoration of
the irresponsible methods of obsolete times.

There were no vacant seats in the galleries next day.  In fact, standing-
room outside the building was at a premium.  There were crowds there, and
a glittering array of helmeted and brass-buttoned police, on foot and on
horseback, to keep them from getting too much excited.  No one could
guess what was going to happen, but every one felt that something was
going to happen, and hoped he might have a chance to see it, or at least
get the news of it while it was fresh.

At noon the House was empty--for I do not count myself.  Half an hour
later the two galleries were solidly packed, the floor still empty.
Another half-hour later Wolf entered and passed to his place; then other
deputies began to stream in, among them many forms and faces grown
familiar of late.  By one o'clock the membership was present in full
force.  A band of Socialists stood grouped against the ministerial desks,
in the shadow of the Presidential tribune.  It was observable that these
official strongholds were now protected against rushes by bolted gates,
and that these were in ward of servants wearing the House's livery.  Also
the removable desk-boards had been taken away, and nothing left for
disorderly members to slat with.

There was a pervading, anxious hush--at least what stood very well for a
hush in that House.  It was believed by many that the Opposition was
cowed, and that there would be no more obstruction, no more noise.  That
was an error.

Presently the President entered by the distant door to the right,
followed by Vice-President Fuchs, and the two took their way down past
the Polish benches toward the tribune.  Instantly the customary storm of
noises burst out, and rose higher and higher, and wilder and wilder, and
really seemed to surpass anything that had gone before it in that place.
The President took his seat and begged for order, but no one could hear
him.  His lips moved--one could see that; be bowed his body forward
appealingly, and spread his great hand eloquently over his breast--one
could see that; but as concerned his uttered words, he probably could not
hear them himself.  Below him was that crowd of two dozen Socialists
glaring up at him, shaking their fists at him, roaring imprecations and
insulting epithets at him.  This went on for some time.  Suddenly the
Socialists burst through the gates and stormed up through the ministerial
benches, and a man in a red cravat reached up and snatched the documents
that lay on the President's desk and flung them abroad.  The next moment
he and his allies were struggling and fighting with the half-dozen
uniformed servants who were there to protect the new gates.  Meantime a
detail of Socialists had swarmed up the side steps and overflowed the
President and the Vice, and were crowding and shouldering and shoving
them out of the place.  They crowded them out, and down the steps and
across the House, past the Polish benches; and all about them swarmed
hostile Poles and Czechs, who resisted them.  One could see fists go up
and come down, with other signs and shows of a heady fight; then the
President and the Vice disappeared through the door of entrance, and the
victorious Socialists turned and marched back, mounted the tribune, flung
the President's bell and his remaining papers abroad, and then stood
there in a compact little crowd, eleven strong, and held the place as if
it were a fortress.  Their friends on the floor were in a frenzy of
triumph, and manifested it in their deafening way.  The whole House was
on its feet, amazed and wondering.

It was an astonishing situation, and imposingly dramatic.  Nobody had
looked for this.  The unexpected had happened.  What next?  But there can
be no next; the play is over; the grand climax is reached; the
possibilities are exhausted; ring down the curtain.

Not yet.  That distant door opens again.  And now we see what history
will be talking of five centuries hence: a uniformed and helmeted
battalion of bronzed and stalwart men marching in double file down the
floor of the House--a free parliament profaned by an invasion of brute
force!

It was an odious spectacle--odious and awful.  For one moment it was an
unbelievable thing--a thing beyond all credibility; it must be a
delusion, a dream, a nightmare.  But no, it was real--pitifully real,
shamefully real, hideously real.  These sixty policemen had been
soldiers, and they went at their work with the cold unsentimentality of
their trade.  They ascended the steps of the tribune, laid their hands
upon the inviolable persons of the representatives of a nation, and
dragged and tugged and hauled them down the steps and out at the door;
then ranged themselves in stately military array in front of the
ministerial estrade, and so stood.

It was a tremendous episode.  The memory of it will outlast all the
thrones that exist to-day.  In the whole history of free parliaments the
like of it had been seen but three times before.  It takes its imposing
place among the world's unforgettable things.  It think that in my
lifetime I have not twice seen abiding history made before my eyes, but I
know that I have seen it once.

Some of the results of this wild freak followed instantly.  The Badeni
government came down with a crash; there was a popular outbreak or two in
Vienna; there were three or four days of furious rioting in Prague,
followed by the establishing there of martial law; the Jews and Germans
were harried and plundered, and their houses destroyed; in other Bohemian
towns there was rioting--in some cases the Germans being the rioters, in
others the Czechs--and in all cases the Jew had to roast, no matter which
side he was on.  We are well along in December now;[3] the next new
Minister-President has not been able to patch up a peace among the
warring factions of the parliament, therefore there is no use in calling
it together again for the present; public opinion believes that
parliamentary government and the Constitution are actually threatened
with extinction, and that the permanency of the monarchy itself is a not
absolutely certain thing!

Yes, the Lex Falkenhayn was a great invention, and did what was claimed
for it--it got the government out of the frying-pan.

[1] That is, revolution.

[2] 'In that gracious bygone time when a mild and good-tempered spirit
was the atmosphere of our House, when the manner of our speakers was
studiously formal and academic, and the storms and explosions of to-day
were wholly unknown,' etc.--Translation of the opening remark of a
leading article in this morning's 'Neue Freie Presse,' December 11.

[3] It is the 9th.--M.T.






PRIVATE HISTORY OF THE 'JUMPING FROG' STORY

Five or six years ago a lady from Finland asked me to tell her a story in
our Negro dialect, so that she could get an idea of what that variety of
speech was like.  I told her one of Hopkinson Smith's Negro stories, and
gave her a copy of 'Harper's Monthly' containing it.  She translated it
for a Swedish newspaper, but by an oversight named me as the author of it
instead of Smith.  I was very sorry for that, because I got a good
lashing in the Swedish press, which would have fallen to his share but
for that mistake; for it was shown that Boccaccio had told that very
story, in his curt and meagre fashion, five hundred years before Smith
took hold of it and made a good and tellable thing out of it.

I have always been sorry for Smith.  But my own turn has come now.  A few
weeks ago Professor Van Dyke, of Princeton, asked this question:

'Do you know how old your "Jumping Frog" story is?'

And I answered:

'Yes--forty-five years.  The thing happened in Calaveras County, in the
spring of 1849.'

'No; it happened earlier--a couple of thousand years earlier; it is a
Greek story.'

I was astonished--and hurt.  I said:

'I am willing to be a literary thief if it has been so ordained; I am
even willing to be caught robbing the ancient dead alongside of Hopkinson
Smith, for he is my friend and a good fellow, and I think would be as
honest as any one if he could do it without occasioning remark; but I am
not willing to antedate his crimes by fifteen hundred years.  I must ask
you to knock off part of that.'

But the professor was not chaffing: he was in earnest, and could not
abate a century.  He offered to get the book and send it to me and the
Cambridge text-book containing the English translation also.  I thought I
would like the translation best, because Greek makes me tired.  January
30th he sent me the English version, and I will presently insert it in
this article.  It is my 'Jumping Frog' tale in every essential.  It is
not strung out as I have strung it out, but it is all there.

To me this is very curious and interesting.  Curious for several reasons.
For instance:

I heard the story told by a man who was not telling it to his hearers as
a thing new to them, but as a thing which they had witnessed and would
remember.  He was a dull person, and ignorant; he had no gift as a story-
teller, and no invention; in his mouth this episode was merely history--
history and statistics; and the gravest sort of history, too; he was
entirely serious, for he was dealing with what to him were austere facts,
and they interested him solely because they were facts; he was drawing on
his memory, not his mind; he saw no humour in his tale, neither did his
listeners; neither he nor they ever smiled or laughed; in my time I have
not attended a more solemn conference.  To him and to his fellow gold-
miners there were just two things in the story that were worth
considering.  One was the smartness of its hero, Jim Smiley, in taking
the stranger in with a loaded frog; and the other was Smiley's deep
knowledge of a frog's nature--for he knew (as the narrator asserted and
the listeners conceded) that a frog likes shot and is already ready to
eat it.  Those men discussed those two points, and those only.  They were
hearty in their admiration of them, and none of the party was aware that
a first-rate story had been told in a first-rate way, and that it brimful
of a quality whose presence they never suspected--humour.

Now, then, the interesting question is, did the frog episode happen in
Angel's Camp in the spring of '49, as told in my hearing that day in the
fall of 1865?  I am perfectly sure that it did.  I am also sure that its
duplicate happened in Boeotia a couple of thousand years ago.  I think it
must be a case of history actually repeating itself, and not a case of a
good story floating down the ages and surviving because too good to be
allowed to perish.

I would now like to have the reader examine the Greek story and the story
told by the dull and solemn Californian, and observe how exactly alike
they are in essentials.




[Translation.]


THE ATHENIAN AND THE FROG.[1]

An Athenian once fell in with a Boeotian who was sitting by the road-side
looking at a frog.  Seeing the other approach, the Boeotian said his was
a remarkable frog, and asked if he would agree to start a contest of
frogs, on condition that he whose frog jumped farthest should receive a
large sum of money.  The Athenian replied that he would if the other
would fetch him a frog, for the lake was near.  To this he agreed, and
when he was gone the Athenian took the frog, and, opening its mouth,
poured some stones into its stomach, so that it did not indeed seem
larger than before, but could not jump.  The Boeotian soon returned with
the other frog, and the contest began.  The second frog first was
pinched, and jumped moderately; then they pinched the Boeotian frog.  And
he gathered himself for a leap, and used the utmost effort, but he could
not move his body the least.  So the Athenian departed with the money.
When he was gone the Boeotian, wondering what was the matter with the
frog, lifted him up and examined him.  And being turned upside down, he
opened his mouth and vomited out the stones.


And here is the way it happened in California:

FROM 'THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY'

Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers and chicken cocks, and tom-cats,
and all of them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't
fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you.  He ketched a frog
one day, and took him home, and said he cal'lated to educate him; and so
he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn
that frog to jump.  And you bet you he did learn him, too.  He'd give him
a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling
in the air like a doughnut--see him turn one summerset, or maybe a couple
if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a
cat.  He got him up so in the matter of ketching flies, and kep'him in
practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as fur as he could
see him.  Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do
'most anything--and I believe him.  Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster
down here on this flor--Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog--and sing
out, 'Flies, Dan'l, flies!' and quicker'n you could wink he'd spring
straight up and snake a fly off'n the counter there, and flop down on the
floor ag'in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of
his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd
been doin' any more'n any frog might do.  You never see a frog so modest
and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted.  And when it
come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more
ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see.
Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it
came to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red.
Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers
that had travelled and been everywheres all said he laid over any frog
that ever they see.

Well, Smiley kep' the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch
him down-town sometimes and lay for a bet.  One day a feller--a stranger
in the camp, he was--come acrost him with his box, and says:

'What might it be that you've got in the box?'

And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, 'It might be a parrot, or it
might be a canary, maybe, but it's ain't--it's only just a frog.'

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round
this way and that, and says, 'H'm--so 'tis.  Well, what's he good for?'

'Well,' Smiley says, easy and careless, 'he's good enough for one thing,
I should judge--he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.'

The feller took the box again and took another long, particular look, and
give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, 'Well,' he says, 'I
don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog.'

'Maybe you don't,' Smiley says.  'Maybe you understand frogs and maybe
you don't understand 'em; maybe you've had experience, and maybe you
ain't only a amature, as it were.  Anyways, I've got my opinion, and I'll
resk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.'

And the feller studies a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, 'Well,
I'm only a stranger here, and I ain't got no frog, but if I had a frog
I'd bet you.'

And then Smiley says: 'That's all right--that's all right; if you'll hold
my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog.'  And so the feller took the
box and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley's and set down to
wait.

So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself, and then
he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon and
filled him full of quail shot--filled him pretty near up to his chin--and
set him on the floor.  Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in
the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog and fetched him in
and give him to this feller, and says:

'Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his fore-paws
just even with Dan'l's, and I'll give the word.'  Then he says, 'One--
two--three--git!' and him and the feller touched up the frogs from
behind, and the new frog hopped off lively; but Dan'l give a heave, and
hysted up his shoulders--so--like a Frenchman, but it warn't no use--he
couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as a church, and he couldn't no
more stir than if he was anchored out.  Smiley was a good deal surprised,
and he was disgusted, too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter
was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at
the door he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder--so--at Dan'l, and
says again, very deliberate: 'Well,' he says, 'I don't see no p'ints
about that frog that's any better'n any other frog.'

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long
time, and at last he says, 'I do wonder what in the nation that frog
throw'd off for--I wonder if there ain't something the matter with him--
he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.'  And he ketched Dan'l by the
nape of the neck, and hefted him, and says, 'Why, blame my cats if he
don't weigh five pound!' and turned him upside down, and he belched out a
double handful of shot.  And then he see how it was, and he was the
maddest man--he set the frog down and took out after that feeler, but he
never ketched him.


The resemblances are deliciously exact.  There you have the wily Boeotain
and the wily Jim Smiley waiting--two thousand years apart--and waiting,
each equipped with his frog and 'laying' for the stranger.  A contest is
proposed--for money.  The Athenian would take a chance 'if the other
would fetch him a frog'; the Yankee says: 'I'm only a stranger here, and
I ain't got a frog; but if I had a frog I'd bet you.'  The wily Boeotian
and the wily Californian, with that vast gulf of two thousand years
between, retire eagerly and go frogging in the marsh; the Athenian and
the Yankee remain behind and work a best advantage, the one with pebbles,
the other with shot.  Presently the contest began.  In the one case 'they
pinched the Boeotian frog'; in the other, 'him and the feller touched up
the frogs from behind.'  The Boeotian frog 'gathered himself for a leap'
(you can just see him!), but 'could not move his body in the least'; the
Californian frog 'give a heave, but it warn't no use--he couldn't budge.'
In both the ancient and the modern cases the strangers departed with the
money.  The Boeotian and the Californian wonder what is the matter with
their frogs; they lift them and examine; they turn them upside down and
out spills the informing ballast.

Yes, the resemblances are curiously exact.  I used to tell the story of
the 'Jumping Frog' in San Francisco, and presently Artemus Ward came
along and wanted it to help fill out a little book which he was about to
publish; so I wrote it out and sent it to his publisher, Carleton; but
Carleton thought the book had enough matter in it, so he gave the story
to Henry Clapp as a present, and Clapp put it in his 'Saturday Press,'
and it killed that paper with a suddenness that was beyond praise.  At
least the paper died with that issue, and none but envious people have
ever tried to rob me of the honour and credit of killing it.  The
'Jumping Frog' was the first piece of writing of mine that spread itself
through the newspapers and brought me into public notice.  Consequently,
the 'Saturday Press' was a cocoon and I the worm in it; also, I was the
gay-coloured literary moth which its death set free.  This simile has
been used before.

Early in '66 the 'Jumping Frog' was issued in book form, with other
sketches of mine.  A year or two later Madame Blanc translated it into
French and published it in the 'Revue des Deux Mondes,' but the result
was not what should have been expected, for the 'Revue' struggled along
and pulled through, and is alive yet.  I think the fault must have been
in the translation.  I ought to have translated it myself.  I think so
because I examined into the matter and finally retranslated the sketch
from the French back into English, to see what the trouble was; that is,
to see just what sort of a focus the French people got upon it.  Then the
mystery was explained.  In French the story is too confused and chaotic
and unreposeful and ungrammatical and insane; consequently it could only
cause grief and sickness--it could not kill.  A glance at my
retranslation will show the reader that this must be true.




[My Retranslation.]

THE FROG JUMPING OF THE COUNTY OF CALAVERAS

Eh bien!  this Smiley nourished some terriers a rats, and some cocks of
combat, and some cats, and all sorts of things: and with his rage of
betting one no had more of repose.  He trapped one day a frog and him
imported with him (et l'emporta chez lui) saying that he pretended to
make his education.  You me believe if you will, but during three months
he not has nothing done but to him apprehend to jump (apprendre a sauter)
in a court retired of her mansion (de sa maison).  And I you respond that
he have succeeded.  He him gives a small blow by behind, and the instant
after you shall see the frog turn in the air like a grease-biscuit, make
one summersault, sometimes two, when she was well started, and refall
upon his feet like a cat.  He him had accomplished in the art of to
gobble the flies (gober des mouches), and him there exercised
continually--so well that a fly at the most far that she appeared was a
fly lost.  Smiley had custom to say that all which lacked to a frog it
was the education, but with the education she could do nearly all--and I
him believe.  Tenez, I him have seen pose Daniel Webster there upon this
plank--Daniel Webster was the name of the frog--and to him sing, 'Some
flies, Daniel, some flies!'--in a fash of the eye Daniel had bounded and
seized a fly here upon the counter, then jumped anew at the earth, where
he rested truly to himself scratch the head with his behind-foot, as if
he no had not the least idea of his superiority.  Never you not have seen
frog as modest, as natural, sweet as she was.  And when he himself
agitated to jump purely and simply upon plain earth, she does more ground
in one jump than any beast of his species than you can know.

To jump plain--this was his strong.  When he himself agitated for that
Smiley multiplied the bests upon her as long as there to him remained a
red.  It must to know, Smiley was monstrously proud of his frog, and he
of it was right, for some men who were travelled, who had all seen, said
that they to him would be injurious to him compare to another frog.
Smiley guarded Daniel in a little box latticed which he carried bytimes
to the village for some bet.

One day an individual stranger at the camp him arrested with his box and
him said:

'What is this that you have then shut up there within?'

Smiley said, with an air indifferent:

'That could be a paroquet, or a syringe (ou un serin), but this no is
nothing of such, it not is but a frog.'

The individual it took, it regarded with care, it turned from one side
and from the other, then he said:

'Tiens!  in effect!--At what is she good?'

'My God!' responded Smiley, always with an air disengaged, 'she is good
for one thing, to my notice (a mon avis), she can better in jumping (elle
peut batter en sautant) all frogs of the county of Calaveras.'

The individual retook the box, it examined of new longly, and it rendered
to Smiley in saying with an air deliberate:

'Eh bien!  I no saw not that that frog had nothing of better than each
frog.'  (Je ne vois pas que cette grenouille ait rien de mieux qu'aucune
grenouille.) [If that isn't grammar gone to seed, then I count myself no
judge.--M.T.]

'Possible that you not it saw not,' said Smiley; 'possible that you--you
comprehend frogs; possible that you not you there comprehend nothing;
possible that you had of the experience, and possible that you not be but
an amateur.  Of all manner (de toute maniere) I bet forty dollars that
she batter in jumping no matter which frog of the country of Calaveras.'

The individual reflected a second, and said like sad:

'I not am but a stranger here, I no have not a frog; but if I of it had
one, I would embrace the bet.'

'Strong, well!' respond Smiley; 'nothing of more facility.  If you will
hold my box a minute, I go you to search a frog (j'irai vous chercher.)'

Behold, then, the individual who guards the box, who puts his forty
dollars upon those of Smiley, and who attends (et qui attendre).  He
attended enough longtimes, reflecting all solely.  And figure you that he
takes Daniel, him opens the mouth by force and with a teaspoon him fills
with shot of the hunt, even him fills just to the chin, then he him puts
by the earth.  Smiley during these times was at slopping in a swamp.
Finally he trapped (attrape) a frog, him carried to that individual, and
said:

'Now if you be ready, put him all against Daniel, with their before-feet
upon the same line, and I give the signal'--then he added: 'One, two
three--advance!'

Him and the individual touched their frogs by behind, and the frog new
put to jump smartly, but Daniel himself lifted ponderously, exhalted the
shoulders thus, like a Frenchman--to what good?  He could not budge, he
is planted solid like a church, he not advance no more than if one him
had put at the anchor.

Smiley was surprised and disgusted, but he not himself doubted not of the
turn being intended (mais il ne se doutait pas du tour bien entendre).
The indidivual empocketed the silver, himself with it went, and of it
himself in going is that he no gives not a jerk of thumb over the
shoulder--like that--at the poor Daniel, in saying with his air
deliberate--(L'individu empoche l'argent, s'en va et en s'en allant est-
ce qu'il ne donne pas un coup de pouce pas-dessus l'epaule, comme ca, au
pauvre Daniel, en disant de son air delibere).

'Eh bien!  I no see not that that frog has nothing of better than
another.'

Smiley himself scratched longtimes the head, the eyes fixed upon Daniel,
until that which at last he said:

'I me demand how the devil it makes itself that this beast has refused.
Is it that she had something?  One would believe that she is stuffed.'

He grasped Daniel by the skin of the neck, him lifted and said:

'The wolf me bite if he no weigh not five pounds.'

He him reversed and the unhappy belched two handfuls of shot (et le
malheureux, etc.).  When Smiley recognised how it was, he was like mad.
He deposited his frog by the earth and ran after that individual, but he
not him caught never.


It may be that there are people who can translate better than I can, but
I am not acquainted with them.

So ends the private and public history of the Jumping Frog of Calaveras
County, an incident which has this unique feature about it--that it is
both old and new, a 'chestnut' and not a 'chestnut;' for it was original
when it happened two thousand years ago, and was again original when it
happened in California in our own time.

P.S.

London, July, 1900.--Twice, recently, I have been asked this question:

'Have you seen the Greek version of the "Jumping Frog"?'

And twice I have answered -'No.'

'Has Professor Van Dyke seen it?'

'I suppose so.'

'Then you supposition is at fault.'

'Why?'

'Because there isn't any such version.'

'Do you mean to intimate that the tale is modern, and not borrowed from
some ancient Greek book.'

'Yes.  It is not permissible for any but the very young and innocent to
be so easily beguiled as you and Van Dyke have been.'

'Do you mean that we have fallen a prey to our ignorance and simplicity?'

'Yes.  Is Van Dyke a Greek scholar?'

'I believe so.'

'Then he knew where to find the ancient Greek version if one existed.
Why didn't he look?  Why did he jump to conclusions?'

'I don't know.  And was it worth the trouble, anyway?'

As it turns out, now, it was not claimed that the story had been
translated from the Greek.  It had its place among other uncredited
stories, and was there to be turned into Greek by students of that
language.  'Greek Prose Composition'--that title is what made the
confusion.  It seemed to mean that the originals were Greek.  It was not
well chosen, for it was pretty sure to mislead.

Thus vanishes the Greek Frog, and I am sorry: for he loomed fine and
grand across the sweep of the ages, and I took a great pride in him.

M.T.

[1] Sidgwick, Greek Prose Composition, page 116







MY MILITARY CAMPAIGN

You have heard from a great many people who did something in the war; is
it not fair and right that you listen a little moment to one who started
out to do something in it, but didn't?  Thousands entered the war, got
just a taste of it, and then stepped out again, permanently.  These, by
their very numbers, are respectable, and are therefore entitled to a sort
of voice--not a loud one, but a modest one; not a boastful one, but an
apologetic one.  They ought not to be allowed much space among better
people--people who did something--I grant that; but they ought at least
to be allowed to state why they didn't do anything, and also to explain
the process by which they didn't do anything.  Surely this kind of light
must have a sort of value.

Out West there was a good deal of confusion in men's minds during the
first months of the great trouble--a good deal of unsettledness, of
leaning first this way, then that, then the other way.  It was hard for
us to get our bearings.  I call to mind an instance of this.  I was
piloting on the Mississippi when the news came that South Carolina had
gone out of the Union on December 20, 1860.  My pilot-mate was a New
Yorker.  He was strong for the Union; so was I.  But he would not listen
to me with any patience; my loyalty was smirched, to his eye, because my
father had owned slaves.  I said, in palliation of this dark fact, that I
had heard my father say, some years before he died, that slavery was a
great wrong, and that he would free the solitary Negro he then owned if
he could think it right to give away the property of the family when he
was so straitened in means.  My mate retorted that a mere impulse was
nothing--anybody could pretend to a good impulse; and went on decrying my
Unionism and libelling my ancestry.  A month later the secession
atmosphere had considerably thickened on the Lower Mississippi, and I
became a rebel; so did he.  We were together in New Orleans, January 26,
when Louisiana went out of the Union.  He did his full share of the rebel
shouting, but was bitterly opposed to letting me do mine.  He said that I
came of bad stock--of a father who had been willing to set slaves free.
In the following summer he was piloting a Federal gun-boat and shouting
for the Union again, and I was in the Confederate army.  I held his note
for some borrowed money.  He was one of the most upright men I ever knew;
but he repudiated that note without hesitation, because I was a rebel,
and the son of a man who had owned slaves.

In that summer--of 1861--the first wash of the wave of war broke upon the
shores of Missouri.  Our State was invaded by the Union forces.  They
took possession of St.  Louis, Jefferson Barracks, and some other points.
The Governor, Claib Jackson, issued his proclamation calling out fifty
thousand militia to repel the invader.

I was visiting in the small town where my boyhood had been spent--
Hannibal, Marion County.  Several of us got together in a secret place by
night and formed ourselves into a military company.  One Tom Lyman, a
young fellow of a good deal of spirit but of no military experience, was
made captain; I was made second lieutenant.  We had no first lieutenant;
I do not know why; it was long ago.  There were fifteen of us.  By the
advice of an innocent connected with the organisation, we called
ourselves the Marion Rangers.  I do not remember that any one found fault
with the name.  I did not; I thought it sounded quite well.  The young
fellow who proposed this title was perhaps a fair sample of the kind of
stuff we were made of.  He was young, ignorant, good-natured, well-
meaning, trivial, full of romance, and given to reading chivalric novels
and singing forlorn love-ditties.  He had some pathetic little nickel-
plated aristocratic instincts, and detested his name, which was Dunlap;
detested it, partly because it was nearly as common in that region as
Smith, but mainly because it had a plebeian sound to his ear.  So he
tried to ennoble it by writing it in this way: d'Unlap.  That contented
his eye, but left his ear unsatisfied, for people gave the new name the
same old pronunciation--emphasis on the front end of it.  He then did the
bravest thing that can be imagined--a thing to make one shiver when one
remembers how the world is given to resenting shams and affectations; he
began to write his name so: d'Un Lap.  And he waited patiently through
the long storm of mud that was flung at this work of art, and he had his
reward at last; for he lived to see that name accepted, and the emphasis
put where he wanted it, by people who had known him all his life, and to
whom the tribe of Dunlaps had been as familiar as the rain and the
sunshine for forty years.  So sure of victory at last is the courage that
can wait.  He said he had found, by consulting some ancient French
chronicles, that the name was rightly and originally written d'Un Lap;
and said that if it were translated into English it would mean Peterson:
Lap, Latin or Greek, he said, for stone or rock, same as the French
Pierre, that is to say, Peter; d', of or from; un, a or one; hence d'Un
Lap, of or from a stone or a Peter; that is to say, one who is the son of
a stone, the son of a Peter--Peterson.  Our militia company were not
learned, and the explanation confused them; so they called him Peterson
Dunlap.  He proved useful to us in his way; he named our camps for us,
and he generally struck a name that was 'no slouch,' as the boys said.

That is one sample of us.  Another was Ed Stevens, son of the town
jeweller,--trim-built, handsome, graceful, neat as a cat; bright,
educated, but given over entirely to fun.  There was nothing serious in
life to him.  As far as he was concerned, this military expedition of
ours was simply a holiday.  I should say that about half of us looked
upon it in the same way; not consciously, perhaps, but unconsciously.
We did not think; we were not capable of it.  As for myself, I was full
of unreasoning joy to be done with turning out of bed at midnight and
four in the morning, for a while; grateful to have a change, new scenes,
new occupations, a new interest.  In my thoughts that was as far as I
went; I did not go into the details; as a rule one doesn't at twenty-
five.

Another sample was Smith, the blacksmith's apprentice.  This vast donkey
had some pluck, of a slow and sluggish nature, but a soft heart; at one
time he would knock a horse down for some impropriety, and at another he
would get homesick and cry.  However, he had one ultimate credit to his
account which some of us hadn't: he stuck to the war, and was killed in
battle at last.

Jo Bowers, another sample, was a huge, good-natured, flax-headed lubber;
lazy, sentimental, full of harmless brag, a grumbler by nature; an
experienced, industrious, ambitious, and often quite picturesque liar,
and yet not a successful one, for he had had no intelligent training, but
was allowed to come up just any way.  This life was serious enough to
him, and seldom satisfactory.  But he was a good fellow, anyway, and the
boys all liked him.  He was made orderly sergeant; Stevens was made
corporal.

These samples will answer--and they are quite fair ones.  Well, this herd
of cattle started for the war.  What could you expect of them?  They did
as well as they knew how, but really what was justly to be expected of
them?  Nothing, I should say.  That is what they did.

We waited for a dark night, for caution and secrecy were necessary; then,
toward midnight, we stole in couples and from various directions to the
Griffith place, beyond the town; from that point we set out together on
foot.  Hannibal lies at the extreme south-eastern corner of Marion
County, on the Mississippi River; our objective point was the hamlet of
New London, ten miles away, in Ralls County.

The first hour was all fun, all idle nonsense and laughter.  But that
could not be kept up.  The steady trudging came to be like work; the play
had somehow oozed out of it; the stillness of the woods and the
sombreness of the night began to throw a depressing influence over the
spirits of the boys, and presently the talking died out and each person
shut himself up in his own thoughts.  During the last half of the second
hour nobody said a word.

Now we approached a log farm-house where, according to report, there was
a guard of five Union soldiers.  Lyman called a halt; and there, in the
deep gloom of the overhanging branches, he began to whisper a plan of
assault upon that house, which made the gloom more depressing than it was
before.  It was a crucial moment; we realised, with a cold suddenness,
that here was no jest--we were standing face to face with actual war.  We
were equal to the occasion.  In our response there was no hesitation, no
indecision: we said that if Lyman wanted to meddle with those soldiers,
he could go ahead and do it; but if he waited for us to follow him, he
would wait a long time.

Lyman urged, pleaded, tried to shame us, but it had no effect.  Our
course was plain, our minds were made up: we would flank the farmhouse--
go out around.  And that is what we did.  We turned the position.

We struck into the woods and entered upon a rough time, stumbling over
roots, getting tangled in vines, and torn by briers.  At last we reached
an open place in a safe region, and sat down, blown and hot, to cool off
and nurse our scratches and bruises.  Lyman was annoyed, but the rest of
us were cheerful; we had flanked the farm-house, we had made our first
military movement, and it was a success; we had nothing to fret about, we
were feeling just the other way.  Horse-play and laughing began again;
the expedition was become a holiday frolic once more.

Then we had two more hours of dull trudging and ultimate silence and
depression; then, about dawn, we straggled into New London, soiled, heel-
blistered, fagged with our little march, and all of us except Stevens in
a sour and raspy humour and privately down on the war.  We stacked our
shabby old shot-guns in Colonel Ralls's barn, and then went in a body and
breakfasted with that veteran of the Mexican War.  Afterwards he took us
to a distant meadow, and there in the shade of a tree we listened to an
old-fashioned speech from him, full of gunpowder and glory, full of that
adjective-piling, mixed metaphor, and windy declamation which was
regarded as eloquence in that ancient time and that remote region; and
then he swore us on the Bible to be faithful to the State of Missouri and
drive all invaders from her soil, no matter whence they might come or
under what flag they might march.  This mixed us considerably, and we
could not make out just what service we were embarked in; but Colonel
Ralls, the practised politician and phrase-juggler, was not similarly in
doubt; he knew quite clearly that he had invested us in the cause of the
Southern Confederacy.  He closed the solemnities by belting around me the
sword which his neighbour, colonel Brown, had worn at Buena Vista and
Molino del Rey; and he accompanied this act with another impressive
blast.

Then we formed in line of battle and marched four miles to a shady and
pleasant piece of woods on the border of the far-reached expanses of a
flowery prairie.  It was an enchanting region for war--our kind of war.

We pierced the forest about half a mile, and took up a strong position,
with some low, rocky, and wooded hills behind us, and a purling, limpid
creek in front.  Straightway half the command were in swimming, and the
other half fishing.  The ass with the French name gave this position a
romantic title, but it was too long, so the boys shortened and simplified
it to Camp Ralls.

We occupied an old maple-sugar camp, whose half-rotted troughs were still
propped against the trees.  A long corn-crib served for sleeping quarters
for the battalion.  On our left, half a mile away, was Mason's farm and
house; and he was a friend to the cause.  Shortly after noon the farmers
began to arrive from several directions, with mules and horses for our
use, and these they lent us for as long as the war might last, which they
judged would be about three months.  The animals were of all sizes, all
colours, and all breeds.  They were mainly young and frisky, and nobody
in the command could stay on them long at a time; for we were town boys,
and ignorant of horsemanship.  The creature that fell to my share was a
very small mule, and yet so quick and active that it could throw me
without difficulty; and it did this whenever I got on it.  Then it would
bray--stretching its neck out, laying its ears back, and spreading its
jaws till you could see down to its works.  It was a disagreeable animal,
in every way.  If I took it by the bridle and tried to lead it off the
grounds, it would sit down and brace back, and no one could budge it.
However, I was not entirely destitute of military resources, and I did
presently manage to spoil this game; for I had seen many a steam-boat
aground in my time, and knew a trick or two which even a grounded mule
would be obliged to respect.  There was a well by the corn-crib; so I
substituted thirty fathom of rope for the bridle, and fetched him home
with the windlass.

I will anticipate here sufficiently to say that we did learn to ride,
after some days' practice, but never well.  We could not learn to like
our animals; they were not choice ones, and most of them had annoying
peculiarities of one kind or another.  Stevens's horse would carry him,
when he was not noticing, under the huge excrescences which form on the
trunks of oak-trees, and wipe him out of the saddle; in this way Stevens
got several bad hurts.  Sergeant Bowers's horse was very large and tall,
with slim, long legs, and looked like a railroad bridge.  His size
enabled him to reach all about, and as far as he wanted to, with his
head; so he was always biting Bowers's legs.  On the march, in the sun,
Bowers slept a good deal; and as soon as the horse recognised that he was
asleep he would reach around and bite him on the leg.  His legs were
black and blue with bites.  This was the only thing that could ever make
him swear, but this always did; whenever the horse bit him he always
swore, and of course Stevens, who laughed at everything, laughed at this,
and would even get into such convulsions over it as to lose his balance
and fall off his horse; and then Bowers, already irritated by the pain of
the horse-bite, would resent the laughter with hard language, and there
would be a quarrel; so that horse made no end of trouble and bad blood in
the command.

However, I will get back to where I was--our first afternoon in the
sugar-camp.  The sugar-troughs came very handy as horse-troughs, and we
had plenty of corn to fill them with.  I ordered Sergeant Bowers to feed
my mule; but he said that if I reckoned he went to war to be dry-nurse to
a mule, it wouldn't take me very long to find out my mistake.  I believed
that this was insubordination, but I was full of uncertainties about
everything military, and so I let the thing pass, and went and ordered
Smith, the blacksmith's apprentice, to feed the mule; but he merely gave
me a large, cold, sarcastic grin, such as an ostensibly seven-year-old
horse gives you when you lift his lip and find he is fourteen, and turned
his back on me.  I then went to the captain, and asked if it was not
right and proper and military for me to have an orderly.  He said it was,
but as there was only one orderly in the corps, it was but right that he
himself should have Bowers on his staff.  Bowers said he wouldn't serve
on anybody's staff; and if anybody thought he could make him, let him try
it.  So, of course, the thing had to be dropped; there was no other way.

Next, nobody would cook; it was considered a degradation; so we had no
dinner.  We lazied the rest of the pleasant afternoon away, some dozing
under the trees, some smoking cob-pipes and talking sweethearts and war,
some playing games.  By late supper-time all hands were famished; and to
meet the difficulty all hands turned to, on an equal footing, and
gathered wood, built fires, and cooked the meal.  Afterward everything
was smooth for a while; then trouble broke out between the corporal and
the sergeant, each claiming to rank the other.  Nobody knew which was the
higher office; so Lyman had to settle the matter by making the rank of
both officers equal.  The commander of an ignorant crew like that has
many troubles and vexations which probably do not occur in the regular
army at all.  However, with the song-singing and yarn-spinning around the
camp-fire, everything presently became serene again; and by-and-by we
raked the corn down level in one end of the crib, and all went to bed on
it, tying a horse to the door, so that he would neigh if any one tried to
get in.[1]

We had some horsemanship drill every forenoon; then, afternoons, we rode
off here and there in squads a few miles, and visited the farmers' girls,
and had a youthful good time, and got an honest good dinner or supper,
and then home again to camp, happy and content.

For a time, life was idly delicious, it was perfect; there was nothing to
mar it.  Then came some farmers with an alarm one day.  They said it was
rumoured that the enemy were advancing in our direction, from over Hyde's
prairie.  The result was a sharp stir among us, and general
consternation.  It was a rude awakening from our pleasant trance.  The
rumour was but a rumour--nothing definite about it; so, in the confusion,
we did not know which way to retreat.  Lyman was for not retreating at
all, in these uncertain circumstances; but he found that if he tried to
maintain that attitude he would fare badly, for the command were in no
humour to put up with insubordination.  So he yielded the point and
called a council of war--to consist of himself and the three other
officers; but the privates made such a fuss about being left out, that we
had to allow them to remain, for they were already present, and doing the
most of the talking too.  The question was, which way to retreat; but all
were so flurried that nobody seemed to have even a guess to offer.
Except Lyman.  He explained in a few calm words, that inasmuch as the
enemy were approaching from over Hyde's prairie, our course was simple:
all we had to do was not to retreat toward him; any other direction would
answer our needs perfectly.  Everybody saw in a moment how true this was,
and how wise; so Lyman got a great many compliments.  It was now decided
that we should fall back upon Mason's farm.

It was after dark by this time, and as we could not know how soon the
enemy might arrive, it did not seem best to try to take the horses and
things with us; so we only took the guns and ammunition, and started at
once.  The route was very rough and hilly and rocky, and presently the
night grew very black and rain began to fall; so we had a troublesome
time of it, struggling and stumbling along in the dark; and soon some
person slipped and fell, and then the next person behind stumbled over
him and fell, and so did the rest, one after the other; and then Bowers
came with the keg of powder in his arms, whilst the command were all
mixed together, arms and legs, on the muddy slope; and so he fell, of
course, with the keg, and this started the whole detachment down the hill
in a body, and they landed in the brook at the bottom in a pile, and each
that was undermost pulling the hair and scratching and biting those that
were on top of him; and those that were being scratched and bitten,
scratching and biting the rest in their turn, and all saying they would
die before they would ever go to war again if they ever got out of this
brook this time, and the invader might rot for all they cared, and the
country along with them--and all such talk as that, which was dismal to
hear and take part in, in such smothered, low voices, and such a grisly
dark place and so wet, and the enemy maybe coming any moment.

The keg of powder was lost, and the guns too; so the growling and
complaining continued straight along whilst the brigade pawed around the
pasty hillside and slopped around in the brook hunting for these things;
consequently we lost considerable time at this; and then we heard a
sound, and held our breath and listened, and it seemed to be the enemy
coming, though it could have been a cow, for it had a cough like a cow;
but we did not wait, but left a couple of guns behind and struck out for
Mason's again as briskly as we could scramble along in the dark.  But we
got lost presently among the rugged little ravines, and wasted a deal of
time finding the way again, so it was after nine when we reached Mason's
stile at last; and then before we could open our mouths to give the
countersign, several dogs came bounding over the fence, with great riot
and noise, and each of them took a soldier by the slack of his trousers
and began to back away with him.  We could not shoot the dogs without
endangering the persons they were attached to; so we had to look on,
helpless, at what was perhaps the most mortifying spectacle of the civil
war.  There was light enough, and to spare, for the Masons had now run
out on the porch with candles in their hands.  The old man and his son
came and undid the dogs without difficulty, all but Bowers's; but they
couldn't undo his dog, they didn't know his combination; he was of the
bull kind, and seemed to be set with a Yale time-lock; but they got him
loose at last with some scalding water, of which Bowers got his share and
returned thanks.  Peterson Dunlap afterwards made up a fine name for this
engagement, and also for the night march which preceded it, but both have
long ago faded out of my memory.

We now went into the house, and they began to ask us a world of
questions, whereby it presently came out that we did not know anything
concerning who or what we were running from; so the old gentleman made
himself very frank, and said we were a curious breed of soldiers, and
guessed we could be depended on to end up the war in time, because no
Government could stand the expense of the shoe-leather we should cost it
trying to follow us around.  'Marion Rangers!  good name, b'gosh!' said
he.  And wanted to know why we hadn't had a picket-guard at the place
where the road entered the prairie, and why we hadn't sent out a scouting
party to spy out the enemy and bring us an account of his strength, and
so on, before jumping up and stampeding out of a strong position upon a
mere vague rumour--and so on, and so forth, till he made us all fell
shabbier than the dogs had done, and not half so enthusiastically
welcome.  So we went to bed shamed and low-spirited; except Stevens.
Soon Stevens began to devise a garment for Bowers which could be made to
automatically display his battle-scars to the grateful, or conceal them
from the envious, according to his occasions; but Bowers was in no humour
for this, so there was a fight, and when it was over Stevens had some
battle-scars of his own to think about.

Then we got a little sleep.  But after all we had gone through, our
activities were not over for the night; for about two o'clock in the
morning we heard a shout of warning from down the lane, accompanied by a
chorus from all the dogs, and in a moment everybody was up and flying
around to find out what the alarm was about.  The alarmist was a horseman
who gave notice that a detachment of Union soldiers was on its way from
Hannibal with orders to capture and hang any bands like ours which it
could find, and said we had no time to lose.  Farmer Mason was in a
flurry this time, himself.  He hurried us out of the house with all
haste, and sent one of his negroes with us to show us where to hide
ourselves and our tell-tale guns among the ravines half a mile away.  It
was raining heavily.

We struck down the lane, then across some rocky pasture-land which
offered good advantages for stumbling; consequently we were down in the
mud most of the time, and every time a man went down he blackguarded the
war, and the people who started it, and everybody connected with it, and
gave himself the master dose of all for being so foolish as to go into
it.  At last we reached the wooded mouth of a ravine, and there we
huddled ourselves under the streaming trees, and sent the negro back
home.  It was a dismal and heart-breaking time.  We were like to be
drowned with the rain, deafened with the howling wind and the booming
thunder, and blinded by the lightning.  It was indeed a wild night.  The
drenching we were getting was misery enough, but a deeper misery still
was the reflection that the halter might end us before we were a day
older.  A death of this shameful sort had not occurred to us as being
among the possibilities of war.  It took the romance all out of the
campaign, and turned our dreams of glory into a repulsive nightmare.  As
for doubting that so barbarous an order had been given, not one of us did
that.

The long night wore itself out at last, and then the negro came to us
with the news that the alarm had manifestly been a false one, and that
breakfast would soon be ready.  Straightway we were light-hearted again,
and the world was bright, and life as full of hope and promise as ever--
for we were young then.  How long ago that was!  Twenty-four years.

The mongrel child of philology named the night's refuse Camp Devastation,
and no soul objected.  The Masons gave us a Missouri country breakfast,
in Missourian abundance, and we needed it: hot biscuits; hot 'wheat
bread' prettily criss-crossed in a lattice pattern on top; hot corn pone;
fried chicken; bacon, coffee, eggs, milk, buttermilk, etc.;--and the
world may be confidently challenged to furnish the equal to such a
breakfast, as it is cooked in the South.

We stayed several days at Mason's; and after all these years the memory
of the dullness, the stillness and lifelessness of that slumberous farm-
house still oppresses my spirit as with a sense of the presence of death
and mourning.  There was nothing to do, nothing to think about; there was
no interest in life.  The male part of the household were away in the
fields all day, the women were busy and out of our sight; there was no
sound but the plaintive wailing of a spinning-wheel, forever moaning out
from some distant room--the most lonesome sound in nature, a sound
steeped and sodden with homesickness and the emptiness of life.  The
family went to bed about dark every night, and as we were not invited to
intrude any new customs, we naturally followed theirs.  Those nights were
a hundred years long to youths accustomed to being up till twelve.  We
lay awake and miserable till that hour every time, and grew old and
decrepit waiting through the still eternities for the clock-strikes.
This was no place for town boys.  So at last it was with something very
like joy that we received news that the enemy were on our track again.
With a new birth of the old warrior spirit, we sprang to our places in
line of battle and fell back on Camp Ralls.

Captain Lyman had taken a hint from Mason's talk, and he now gave ordered
that our camp should be guarded against surprise by the posting of
pickets.  I was ordered to place a picket at the forks of the road in
Hyde's prairie.  Night shut down black and threatening.  I told Sergeant
Bowers to go out to that place and stay till midnight; and, just as I was
expecting, he said he wouldn't do it.  I tried to get others to go, but
all refused.  Some excused themselves on account of the weather; but the
rest were frank enough to say they wouldn't go in any kind of weather.
This kind of thing sounds odd now, and impossible, but it seemed a
perfectly natural thing to do.  There were scores of little camps
scattered over Missouri where the same thing was happening.  These camps
were composed of young men who had been born and reared to a sturdy
independence, and who did not know what it meant to be ordered around by
Tom, Dick, and Harry, whom they had known familiarly all their lives, in
the village or on the farm.  It is quite within the probabilities that
this same thing was happening all over the South.  James Redpath
recognised the justice of this assumption, and furnished the following
instance in support of it.  During a short stay in East Tennessee he was
in a citizen colonel's tent one day, talking, when a big private appeared
at the door, and without salute or other circumlocution said to the
colonel:

'Say, Jim, I'm a-goin' home for a few days.'

'What for?'

'Well, I hain't b'en there for a right smart while, and I'd like to see
how things is comin' on.'

'How long are you going to be gone?'

''Bout two weeks.'

'Well don't be gone longer than that; and get back sooner if you can.'

That was all, and the citizen officer resumed his conversation where the
private had broken  it off.  This was in the first months of the war, of
course.  The camps in our part of Missouri were under Brigadier-General
Thomas H.  Harris.  He was a townsman of ours, a first-rate fellow, and
well liked; but we had all familiarly known him as the sole and modest-
salaried operator in our telegraph office, where he had to send about one
dispatch a week in ordinary times, and two when there was a rush of
business; consequently, when he appeared in our midst one day, on the
wing, and delivered a military command of some sort, in a large military
fashion, nobody was surprised at the response which he got from the
assembled soldiery:

'Oh, now, what'll you take to don't, Tom Harris!'

It was quite the natural thing.  One might justly imagine that we were
hopeless material for war.  And so we seemed, in our ignorant state; but
there were those among us who afterward learned the grim trade; learned
to obey like machines; became valuable soldiers; fought all through the
war, and came out at the end with excellent records.  One of the very
boys who refused to go out on picket duty that night, and called me an
ass for thinking he would expose himself to danger in such a foolhardy
way, had become distinguished for intrepidity before he was a year older.

I did secure my picket that night--not by authority, but by diplomacy.  I
got Bowers to go, by agreeing to exchange ranks with him for the time
being, and go along and stand the watch with him as his subordinate.  We
stayed out there a couple of dreary hours in the pitchy darkness and the
rain, with nothing to modify the dreariness but Bowers's monotonous
growlings at the war and the weather; then we began to nod, and presently
found it next to impossible to stay in the saddle; so we gave up the
tedious job, and went back to the camp without waiting for the relief
guard.  We rode into camp without interruption or objection from anybody,
and the enemy could have done the same, for there were no sentries.
Everybody was asleep; at midnight there was nobody to send out another
picket, so none was sent.  We never tried to establish a watch at night
again, as far as I remember, but we generally kept a picket out in the
daytime.

In that camp the whole command slept on the corn in the big corn-crib;
and there was usually a general row before morning, for the place was
full of rats, and they would scramble over the boys' bodies and faces,
annoying and irritating everybody; and now and then they would bite some
one's toe, and the person who owned the toe would start up and magnify
his English and begin to throw corn in the dark.  The ears were half as
heavy as bricks, and when they struck they hurt.  The persons struck
would respond, and inside of five minutes every man would be locked in a
death-grip with his neighbour.  There was a grievous deal of blood shed
in the corn-crib, but this was all that was spilt while I was in the war.
No, that is not quite true.  But for one circumstance it would have been
all.  I will come to that now.

Our scares were frequent.  Every few days rumours would come that the
enemy were approaching.  In these cases we always fell back on some other
camp of ours; we never stayed where we were.  But the rumours always
turned out to be false; so at last even we began to grow indifferent to
them.  One night a negro was sent to our corn-crib with the same old
warning: the enemy was hovering in our neighbourhood.  We all said let
him hover.  We resolved to stay still and be comfortable.  It was a fine
warlike resolution, and no doubt we all felt the stir of it in our veins
--for a moment.  We had been having a very jolly time, that was full of
horse-play and school-boy hilarity; but that cooled down now, and
presently the fast-waning fire of forced jokes and forced laughs died out
altogether, and the company became silent.  Silent and nervous.  And soon
uneasy--worried--apprehensive.  We had said we would stay, and we were
committed.  We could have been persuaded to go, but there was nobody
brave enough to suggest it.  An almost noiseless movement presently began
in the dark, by a general and unvoiced impulse.  When the movement was
completed, each man knew that he was not the only person who had crept to
the front wall and had his eye at a crack between the logs.  No, we were
all there; all there with our hearts in our throats, and staring out
toward the sugar-troughs where the forest foot-path came through.  It was
late, and there was a deep woodsy stillness everywhere.  There was a
veiled moonlight, which was only just strong enough to enable us to mark
the general shape of objects.  Presently a muffled sound caught our ears,
and we recognised it as the hoof-beats of a horse or horses.  And right
away a figure appeared in the forest path; it could have been made of
smoke, its mass had so little sharpness of outline.  It was a man on
horseback; and it seemed to me that there were others behind him.  I got
hold of a gun in the dark, and pushed it through a crack between the
logs, hardly knowing what I was doing, I was so dazed with fright.
Somebody said 'Fire!' I pulled the trigger.  I seemed to see a hundred
flashes and hear a hundred reports, then I saw the man fall down out of
the saddle.  My first feeling was of surprised gratification; my first
impulse was an apprentice-sportsman's impulse to run and pick up his
game.  Somebody said, hardly audibly, 'Good--we've got him!--wait for the
rest.'  But the rest did not come.  There was not a sound, not the
whisper of a leaf; just perfect stillness; an uncanny kind of stillness,
which was all the more uncanny on account of the damp, earthy, late-night
smells now rising and pervading it.  Then, wondering, we crept stealthily
out, and approached the man.  When we got to him the moon revealed him
distinctly.  He was lying on his back, with his arms abroad; his mouth
was open and his chest heaving with long gasps, and his white shirt-front
was all splashed with blood.  The thought shot through me that I was a
murderer; that I had killed a man--a man who had never done me any harm.
That was the coldest sensation that ever went through my marrow.  I was
down by him in a moment, helplessly stroking his forehead; and I would
have given anything then--my own life freely--to make him again what he
had been five minutes before.  And all the boys seemed to be feeling in
the same way; they hung over him, full of pitying interest, and tried all
they could to help him, and said all sorts of regretful things.  They had
forgotten all about the enemy; they thought only of this one forlorn unit
of the foe.  Once my imagination persuaded me that the dying man gave me
a reproachful look out of his shadowy eyes, and it seemed to me that I
would rather he had stabbed me than done that.  He muttered and mumbled
like a dreamer in his sleep, about his wife and child; and I thought with
a new despair, 'This thing that I have done does not end with him; it
falls upon them too, and they never did me any harm, any more than he.'

In a little while the man was dead.  He was killed in war; killed in fair
and legitimate war; killed in battle, as you might say; and yet he was as
sincerely mourned by the opposing force as if he had been their brother.
The boys stood there a half hour sorrowing over him, and recalling the
details of the tragedy, and wondering who he might be, and if he were a
spy, and saying that if it were to do over again they would not hurt him
unless he attacked them first.  It soon came out that mine was not the
only shot fired; there were five others--a division of the guilt which
was a grateful relief to me, since it in some degree lightened and
diminished the burden I was carrying.  There were six shots fired at
once; but I was not in my right mind at the time, and my heated
imagination had magnified my one shot into a volley.

The man was not in uniform, and was not armed.  He was a stranger in the
country; that was all we ever found out about him.  The thought of him
got to preying upon me every night; I could not get rid of it.  I could
not drive it away, the taking of that unoffending life seemed such a
wanton thing.  And it seemed an epitome of war; that all war must be just
that--the killing of strangers against whom you feel no personal
animosity; strangers whom, in other circumstances, you would help if you
found them in trouble, and who would help you if you needed it.  My
campaign was spoiled.  It seemed to me that I was not rightly equipped
for this awful business; that war was intended for men, and I for a
child's nurse.  I resolved to retire from this avocation of sham
soldiership while I could save some remnant of my self-respect.  These
morbid thoughts clung to me against reason; for at bottom I did not
believe I had touched that man.  The law of probabilities decreed me
guiltless of his blood; for in all my small experience with guns I had
never hit anything I had tried to hit, and I knew I had done my best to
hit him.  Yet there was no solace in the thought.  Against a diseased
imagination, demonstration goes for nothing.

The rest of my war experience was of a piece with what I have already
told of it.  We kept monotonously falling back upon one camp or another,
and eating up the country--I marvel now at the patience of the farmers
and their families.  They ought to have shot us; on the contrary, they
were as hospitably kind and courteous to us as if we had deserved it.
In one of these camps we found Ab Grimes, an Upper Mississippi pilot, who
afterwards became famous as a dare-devil rebel spy, whose career bristled
with desperate adventures.  The look and style of his comrades suggested
that they had not come into the war to play, and their deeds made good
the conjecture later.  They were fine horsemen and good revolver-shots;
but their favourite arm was the lasso.  Each had one at his pommel, and
could snatch a man out of the saddle with it every time, on a full
gallop, at any reasonable distance.

In another camp the chief was a fierce and profane old blacksmith of
sixty, and he had furnished his twenty recruits with gigantic home-made
bowie-knives, to be swung with the two hands, like the machetes of the
Isthmus.  It was a grisly spectacle to see that earnest band practising
their murderous cuts and slashes under the eye of that remorseless old
fanatic.

The last camp which we fell back upon was in a hollow near the village of
Florida, where I was born--in Monroe County.  Here we were warned, one
day, that a Union colonel was sweeping down on us with a whole regiment
at his heels.  This looked decidedly serious.  Our boys went apart and
consulted; then we went back and told the other companies present that
the war was a disappointment to us and we were going to disband.  They
were getting ready, themselves, to fall back on some place or other, and
were only waiting for General Tom Harris, who was expected to arrive at
any moment; so they tried to persuade us to wait a little while, but the
majority of us said no, we were accustomed to falling back, and didn't
need any of Tom Harris's help; we could get along perfectly well without
him and save time too.  So about half of our fifteen, including myself,
mounted and left on the instant; the others yielded to persuasion and
stayed--stayed through the war.

An hour later we met General Harris on the road, with two or three people
in his company--his staff, probably, but we could not tell; none of them
was in uniform; uniforms had not come into vogue among us yet.  Harris
ordered us back; but we told him there was a Union colonel coming with a
whole regiment in his wake, and it looked as if there was going to be a
disturbance; so we had concluded to go home.  He raged a little, but it
was of no use; our minds were made up.  We had done our share; had killed
one man, exterminated one army, such as it was; let him go and kill the
rest, and that would end the war.  I did not see that brisk young general
again until last year; then he was wearing white hair and whiskers.

In time I came to know that Union colonel whose coming frightened me out
of the war and crippled the Southern cause to that extent--General Grant.
I came within a few hours of seeing him when he was as unknown as I was
myself; at a time when anybody could have said, 'Grant?--Ulysses S.
Grant?  I do not remember hearing the name before.'  It seems difficult
to realise that there was once a time when such a remark could be
rationally made; but there was, and I was within a few miles of the place
and the occasion too, though proceeding in the other direction.

The thoughtful will not throw this war-paper of mine lightly aside as
being valueless.  It has this value: it is a not unfair picture of what
went on in many and many a militia camp in the first months of the
rebellion, when the green recruits were without discipline, without the
steadying and heartening influence or trained leaders; when all their
circumstances were new and strange, and charged with exaggerated terrors,
and before the invaluable experience of actual collision in the field had
turned them from rabbits into soldiers.  If this side of the picture of
that early day has not before been put into history, then history has
been to that degree incomplete, for it had and has its rightful place
there.  There was more Bull Run material scattered through the early
camps of this country than exhibited itself at Bull Run.  And yet it
learned its trade presently, and helped to fight the great battles later.
I could have become a soldier myself, if I had waited.  I had got part of
it learned; I knew more about retreating than the man that invented
retreating.

[1] It was always my impression that that was what the horse was there
for, and I know that it was also the impression of at least one other of
the command, for we talked about it at the time, and admired the military
ingenuity of the device; but when I was out West three years ago I was
told by Mr. A. G. Fuqua, a member of our company, that the horse was his,
that the leaving him tied at the door was a matter of mere forgetfulness,
and that to attribute it to intelligent invention was to give him quite
too much credit.  In support of his position, he called my attention to
the suggestive fact that the artifice was not employed again.  I had not
thought of that before.






MEISTERSCHAFT

IN THREE ACTS [1]



DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

MR. STEPHENSON.         MARGARET STEPHENSON.
GEORGE FRANKLIN.        ANNIE STEPHENSON.
WILLIAM JACKSON.        MRS. BLUMENTHAL, the Wirthin.
GRETCHEN, Kellnerin



ACT I. SCENE I.

Scene of the play, the parlour of a small private dwelling in a village.
(MARGARET discovered crocheting--has a pamphlet.)

MARGARET.  (Solus.) Dear, dear!  it's dreary enough, to have to study
this impossible German tongue: to be exiled from home and all human
society except a body's sister in order to do it, is just simply
abscheulich.  Here's only three weeks of the three months gone, and it
seems like three years.  I don't believe I can live through it, and I'm
sure Annie can't.  (Refers to her book, and rattles through, several
times, like one memorising:)  Entschuldigen Sie, mein Herr, konnen Sie
mir vielleicht sagen, um wie viel Uhr der erste Zug nach Dresden abgeht?
(Makes mistakes and corrects them.) I just hate Meisterschaft!  We may
see people; we can have society; yes, on condition that the conversation
shall be in German, and in German only--every single word of it!  Very
kind--oh, very! when neither Annie nor I can put two words together,
except as they are put together for us in Meisterschaft or that idiotic
Ollendorff!  (Refers to book, and memorises: Mein Bruder hat Ihren Herrn
Vater nicht gesehen, als er gestern in dem Laden des deutschen Kaufmannes
war.)  Yes, we can have society, provided we talk German.  What would
conversation be like!  If you should stick to Meisterschaft, it would
change the subject every two minutes; and if you stuck to Ollendorff, it
would be all about your sister's mother's good stocking of thread, or
your grandfather's aunt's good hammer of the carpenter, and who's got it,
and there an end.  You couldn't keep up your interest in such topics.
(Memorising: Wenn irgend moglich--mochte ich noch heute Vormittag
Geschaftsfreunde zu treffen.) My mind is made up to one thing: I will be
an exile, in spirit and in truth: I will see no one during these three
months.  Father is very ingenious--oh, very! thinks he is, anyway.
Thinks he has invented a way to force us to learn to speak German.  He is
a dear good soul, and all that; but invention isn't his fach'.  He will
see.  (With eloquent energy.)  Why, nothing in the world shall--Bitte,
konnen Sie mir vielleicht sagen, ob Herr Schmidt mit diesem Zuge
angekommen ist?  Oh, dear, dear George--three weeks!  It seems a whole
century since I saw him.  I wonder if he suspects that I--that I--care
for him--j-just a wee, wee bit?  I believe he does.  And I believe Will
suspects that Annie cares for him a little, that I do.  And I know
perfectly well that they care for us.  They agree with all our opinions,
no matter what they are; and if they have a prejudice, they change it, as
soon as they see how foolish it is.  Dear George! at first he just
couldn't abide cats; but now, why now he's just all for cats; he fairly
welters in cats.  I never saw such a reform.  And it's just so with all
his principles: he hasn't got one that he had before.  Ah, if all men
were like him, this world would--(Memorising: Im Gegentheil, mein Herr,
dieser Stoff ist sehr billig.  Bitte, sehen Sie sich nur die Qualitat
an.) Yes, and what did they go to studying German for, if it wasn't an
inspiration of the highest and purest sympathy?  Any other explanation is
nonsense--why, they'd as soon have thought of studying American history.

[Turns her back, buries herself in her pamphlet, first memorising aloud,
until Annie enters, then to herself, rocking to and fro, and rapidly
moving her lips, without uttering a sound.]

Enter ANNIE, absorbed in her pamphlet--does not at first see MARGARET.

ANNIE.  (Memorising: Er liess mich gestern fruh rufen, und sagte mir dass
er einen sehr unangenehmen Brief von Ihrem Lehrer erhalten hatte.
Repeats twice aloud, then to herself, briskly moving her lips.)

M. (Still not seeing her sister.) Wie geht es Ihrem Herrn Schwiegervater?
Es freut mich sehr dass Ihre Frau Mutter wieder wohl ist.  (Repeats.
Then mouths in silence.)

A.  (Repeats her sentence a couple of times aloud; then looks up, working
her lips, and discovers Margaret.) Oh, you here?  (Running to her.) O
lovey-dovey, dovey-lovey, I've got the gr-reatest news!  Guess, guess,
guess!  You'll never guess in a hundred thousand million years--and more!

M.  Oh, tell me, tell me, dearie; don't keep me in agony.

A.  Well I will.  What--do--you--think?  They're here!

M.  Wh-a-t!  Who?  When?  Which?  Speak!

A.  Will and George!

M.  Annie Alexandra Victoria Stephenson, what do you mean?

A.  As sure as guns!

M. (Spasmodically embracing and kissing her.) 'Sh!  don't use such
language.  O darling, say it again!

A.  As sure as guns!

M.  I don't mean that!  Tell me again, that--

A.  (Springing up and waltzing about the room.) They're here--in this
very village--to learn German--for three months!  Es sollte mich sehr
freuen wenn Sie--

M.  (Joining in the dance.) Oh, it's just too lovely for anything!
(Unconsciously memorising:) Es ware mir lieb wenn Sie morgen mit mir in
die Kirche gehen konnten, aber ich kann selbst nicht gehen, weil ich
Sonntags gewohnlich krank bin.  Juckhe!

A.  (Finishing some unconscious memorising.)--morgen Mittag bei mir
speisen konnten.  Juckhe!  Sit down and I'll tell you all I've heard.
(They sit.) They're here, and under that same odious law that fetters us
--our tongues, I mean; the metaphor's faulty, but no matter.  They can go
out, and see people, only on condition that they hear and speak German,
and German only.

M. Isn't--that--too lovely!

A.  And they're coming to see us!

M.  Darling!  (Kissing her.) But are you sure?

A.  Sure as guns--Gatling guns!

M. 'Sh!  don't, child, it's schrecklich!  Darling--you aren't mistaken?

A.  As sure as g--batteries!  [They jump up and dance a moment--then--]

M. (With distress.)  But, Annie dear!--we can't talk German--and neither
can they!

A.  (Sorrowfully.) I didn't think of that.

M.  How cruel it is!  What can we do?

A.  (After a reflective pause, resolutely.) Margaret--we've got to.

M.  Got to what?

A.  Speak German.

M.  Why, how, child?

A.  (Contemplating her pamphlet with earnestness.)  I can tell you one
thing.  Just give me the blessed privilege: just hinsetzen Will Jackson
here in front of me, and I'll talk German to him as long as this
Meisterschaft holds out to burn.

M.  (Joyously.) Oh, what an elegant idea!  You certainly have got a mind
that's a mine of resources, if ever anybody had one.

A.  I'll skin this Meisterschaft to the last sentence in it!

M.  (With a happy idea.) Why Annie, it's the greatest thing in the world.
I've been all this time struggling and despairing over these few little
Meisterschaft primers: but as sure as you live, I'll have the whole
fifteen by heart before this time day after to-morrow.  See if I don't.

A.  And so will I; and I'll trowel in a layer of Ollendorff mush between
every couple of courses of Meisterschaft bricks.  Juckhe!

M.  Hoch!  hoch!  hoch!

A.  Stoss an!

M.  Juckhe!  Wir werden gleich gute deutsche Schulerinnen werden!  Juck--

A. --he!

M.  Annie, when are they coming to see us?  To-night?

A.  No.

M.  No?  Why not?  When are they coming?  What are they waiting for?  The
idea!  I never heard of such a thing!  What do you--

A.  (Breaking in.) Wait, wait, wait!  give a body a chance.  They have
their reasons.

M.  Reasons?--what reasons?

A.  Well, now, when you stop and think, they're royal good ones.  They've
got to talk German when they come, haven't they?  Of course.  Well, they
don't know any German but Wie befinden Sie sich, and Haben Sie gut
geschlafen, and Vater unser, and Ich trinke lieber Bier als Wasser, and a
few little parlour things like that; but when it comes to talking, why,
they don't know a hundred and fifteen German words, put them all
together.

M.  Oh, I see.

A.  So they're going to neither eat, sleep, smoke, nor speak the truth
till they've crammed home the whole fifteen Meisterschafts auswendig!

M.  Noble hearts!

A.  They've given themselves till day after to-morrow, half-past 7 P.M.,
and then they'll arrive here loaded.

M.  Oh, how lovely, how gorgeous, how beautiful!  Some think this world
is made of mud; I think it's made of rainbows.  (Memorising.) Wenn irgend
moglich, so mochte ich noch heute Vormittag dort ankommen, da es mir sehr
daran gelegen ist--Annie, I can learn it just like nothing!

A.  So can I.  Meisterschaft's mere fun--I don't see how it ever could
have seemed difficult.  Come!  We can't be disturbed here; let's give
orders that we don't want anything to eat for two days; and are absent to
friends, dead to strangers, and not at home even to nougat peddlers--

M.  Schon! and we'll lock ourselves into our rooms, and at the end of two
days, whosoever may ask us a Meisterschaft question shall get a
Meisterschaft answer--and hot from the bat!

BOTH.  (Reciting in unison.) Ich habe einen Hut fur meinen Sohn, ein Paar
Handschuhe fur meinen Bruder, und einen Kamm fur mich selbst gekauft.
[Exeunt.]

Enter Mrs. BLUMENTHAL, the Wirthin.

WIRTHIN.  (Solus.) Ach, die armen Madchen, sie hassen die deutsche
Sprache, drum ist es ganz und gar unmoglich dass sie sie je lernen
konnen.  Es bricht mir ja mein Herz ihre Kummer uber die Studien
anzusehen...  Warum haben sie den Entchluss gefasst in ihren Zimmern ein
Paar Tagezu bleiben?...  Ja--gewiss--das versteht sich; sie sind
entmuthigt--arme Kinder!(A knock at the door.) Herein!

Enter GRETCHEN with card.

GR.  Er ist schon wieder da, und sagt dass er nur Sie sehen will.  (Hands
the card.) Auch-WIRTHIN.  Gott im Himmel--der Vater der Madchen?  (Puts
the card in her pocket.) Er wunscht die Tochter nicht zu treffen?  Ganz
recht; also, Du schweigst.

GR.  Zu Befehl.  WIRTHIN.  Lass ihn hereinkommen.

GR.  Ja, Frau Wirthin!  [Exit GRETCHEN.]

WIRTHIN.  (Solus.) Ah--jetzt muss ich ihm die Wahrheit offenbaren.

Enter Mr. STEPHENSON.

STEPHENSON.  Good-morning, Mrs. Blumenthal--keep your seat, keep your
seat, please.  I'm only here for a moment--merely to get your report, you
know.  (Seating himself.) Don't want to see the girls--poor things,
they'd want to go home with me.  I'm afraid I couldn't have the heart to
say no.  How's the German getting along?

WIRTHIN.  N-not very well; I was afraid you would ask me that.  You see,
they hate it, they don't take the least interest in it, and there isn't
anything to incite them to an interest, you see.  And so they can't talk
at all.

S.  M-m.  That's bad.  I had an idea that they'd get lonesome, and have
to seek society; and then, of course, my plan would work, considering the
cast-iron conditions of it.

WIRTHIN.  But it hasn't, so far.  I've thrown nice company in their way--
I've done my very best, in every way I could think of--but it's no use;
they won't go out, and they won't receive anybody.  And a body can't
blame them; they'd be tongue-tied--couldn't do anything with a German
conversation.  Now, when I started to learn German--such poor German as I
know--the case was very different: my intended was a German.  I was to
live among Germans the rest of my life; and so I had to learn.  Why,
bless my heart!  I nearly lost the man the first time he asked me--I
thought he was talking about the measles.  They were very prevalent at
the time.  Told him I didn't want any in mine.  But I found out the
mistake, and I was fixed for him next time...  Oh yes, Mr. Stephenson, a
sweetheart's a prime incentive.

S.  (Aside.) Good soul!  she doesn't suspect that my plan is a double
scheme--includes a speaking knowledge of German, which I am bound they
shall have, and the keeping them away from those two young fellows--
though if I had known that those boys were going off for a year's foreign
travel, I--however, the girls would never learn that language at home;
they're here, and I won't relent--they've got to stick the three months
out.  (Aloud.) So they are making poor progress?  Now tell me--will they
learn it--after a sort of fashion, I mean--in three months?

WIRTHIN.  Well, now, I'll tell you the only chance I see.  Do what I
will, they won't answer my German with anything but English; if that goes
on, they'll stand stock-still.  Now I'm willing to do this: I'll
straighten everything up, get matters in smooth running order, and day
after to-morrow I'll go to bed sick, and stay sick three weeks.

S.  Good!  You are an angel?  I see your idea.  The servant girl--

WIRTHIN.  That's it; that's my project.  She doesn't know a word of
English.  And Gretchen's a real good soul, and can talk the slates off a
roof.  Her tongue's just a flutter-mill.  I'll keep my room--just ailing
a little--and they'll never see my face except when they pay their little
duty-visits to me, and then I'll say English disorders my mind.  They'll
be shut up with Gretchen's windmill, and she'll just grind them to
powder.  Oh, they'll get a start in the language--sort of a one, sure's
you live.  You come back in three weeks.

S.  Bless you, my Retterin!  I'll be here to the day!  Get ye to your
sick-room--you shall have treble pay.  (Looking at watch.) Good!  I can
just catch my train.  Leben Sie wohl!  [Exit.]

WIRTHIN.  Leben Sie wohl!  mein Herr!





ACT II.  SCENE I.

Time, a couple of days later.  The girls discovered with their work and
primers.

ANNIE.  Was fehlt der Wirthin?

MARGARET.  Das weiss ich nicht.  Sie ist schon vor zwei Tagen ins Bett
gegangen--

A.  My! how fliessend you speak!

M.  Danke schon--und sagte dass sie nicht wohl sei.

A.  Good?  Oh no, I don't mean that!  no--only lucky for us--glucklich,
you know I mean because it'll be so much nicer to have them all to
ourselves.

M.  Oh, naturlich!  Ja!  Dass ziehe ich durchaus vor.  Do you believe
your Meisterschaft will stay with you, Annie?

A.  Well, I know it is with me--every last sentence of it; and a couple
of hods of Ollendorff, too, for emergencies.  Maybe they'll refuse to
deliver--right off--at first, you know--der Verlegenheit wegen--aber ich
will sie spater herausholen--when I get my hand in--und vergisst Du das
nicht!

M.  Sei nicht grob, Liebste.  What shall we talk about first--when they
come?

A.  Well--let me see.  There's shopping--and--all that about the trains,
you know--and going to church--and--buying tickets to London, and Berlin,
and all around--and all that subjunctive stuff about the battle in
Afghanistan, and where the American was said to be born, and so on--and--
and ah--oh, there's so many things--I don't think a body can choose
beforehand, because you know the circumstances and the atmosphere always
have so much to do in directing a conversation, especially a German
conversation, which is only a kind of an insurrection, anyway.  I believe
it's best to just depend on Prov--(Glancing at watch, and gasping.)--
half-past--seven!

M.  Oh, dear, I'm all of a tremble!  Let's get something ready, Annie!
(Both fall nervously to reciting): Entschuldigen Sie, mein Herr, konnen
Sie mir vielleicht sagen wie ich nach dem norddeutschen Bahnhof gehe?
(They repeat it several times, losing their grip and mixing it all up.)

BOTH.  Herein!  Oh, dear!  O der heilige--

Enter GRETCHEN.

GRETCHEN (Ruffled and indignant.) Entschuldigen Sie, meine gnadigsten
Fraulein, es sind zwei junge rasende Herren draussen, die herein wollen,
aber ich habe ihnen geschworen dass--(Handing the cards.)

M. Due liebe Zeit, they're here!  And of course down goes my back hair!
Stay and receive them, dear, while I--(Leaving.)

A.  I--alone?  I won't!  I'll go with you!  (To GR.) Lassen Sie die
Herren naher treten; und sagen Sie ihnen dass wir gleich zuruckkommen
werden.  [Exit.]

GR.  (Solus.) Was!  Sie freuen sich daruber?  Und ich sollte wirklich
diese Blodsinnigen, dies grobe Rindvieh hereinlassen?  In den hulflosen
Umstanden meiner gnadigen jungen Damen?--Unsinn!  (Pause--thinking.)
Wohlan!  Ich werde sie mal beschutzen!  Sollte man nicht glauben, dass
sie einen Sparren zu viel hatten?  (Tapping her skull significantly.) Was
sie mir doch Alles gesagt haben!  Der Eine: Guten Morgen!  wie geht es
Ihrem Herrn Schwiegervater?  Du liebe Zeit!  Wie sollte ich einen
Schwiegervater haben konnen!  Und der Andere: 'Es thut mir sehr leid dass
Ihrer Herr Vater meinen Bruder nicht gesehen hat, als er doch gestern in
dem Laden des deutschen Kaufmannes war!' Potztausendhimmelsdonnerwetter!
Oh, ich war ganz rasend!  Wie ich aber rief: 'Meine Herren, ich kenne Sie
nicht, und Sie kennen meinen Vater nicht, wissen Sie, denn er ist schon
lange durchgebrannt, und geht nicht beim Tage in einen Laden hinein,
wissen Sie--und ich habe keinen Schwiegervater, Gott sei Dank, werde auch
nie einen kriegen, werde uberhaupt, wissen Sie, ein solches Ding nie
haben, nie dulden, nie ausstehen: warum greifen Sie ein Madchen an, das
nur Unschuld kennt, das Ihnen nie Etwas zu Leide gethan hat?' Dann haben
sie sich beide die Finger in die Ohren gesteckt und gebetet:
'Allmachtiger Gott!  Erbarme Dich unser?' (Pauses.) Nun, ich werde schon
diesen Schurken Einlass gonnen, aber ich werde ein Auge mit ihnen haben,
damit sie sich nicht wie reine Teufel geberden sollen.  [Exit, grumbling
and shaking her head.]

Enter WILLIAM and GEORGE.

W.  My land, what a girl!  and what an incredible gift of gabble!--kind
of patent climate-proof compensation-balance self-acting automatic
Meisterschaft--touch her button, and br-r-r! away she goes!

GEO.  Never heard anything like it; tongue journalled on ball-bearings!
I wonder what she said; seemed to be swearing, mainly.

W.  (After mumbling Meisterschaft a while.)  Look here, George, this is
awful--come to think--this project: we can't talk this frantic language.

GEO.  I know it, Will, and it is awful; but I can't live without seeing
Margaret--I've endured it as long as I can.  I should die if I tried to
hold out longer--and even German is preferable to death.

W.  (Hesitatingly.) Well, I don't know; it's a matter of opinion.

GEO.  (Irritably.) It isn't a matter of opinion either.  German is
preferable to death.

W.  (Reflectively.) Well, I don't know--the problem is so sudden--but I
think you may be right: some kinds of death.  It is more than likely that
a slow, lingering--well, now, there in Canada in the early times a couple
of centuries ago, the Indians would take a missionary and skin him, and
get some hot ashes and boiling water and one thing and another, and by-
and-by that missionary--well, yes, I can see that, by-and-by, talking
German could be a pleasant change for him.

GEO.  Why, of course.  Das versteht sich; but you have to always think a
thing out, or you're not satisfied.  But let's not go to bothering about
thinking out this present business; we're here, we're in for it; you are
as moribund to see Annie as I am to see Margaret; you know the terms:
we've got to speak German.  Now stop your mooning and get at your
Meisterschaft; we've got nothing else in the world.

W.  Do you think that'll see us through?

GEO.  Why it's got to.  Suppose we wandered out of it and took a chance
at the language on our own responsibility, where the nation would we be!
Up a stump, that's where.  Our only safety is in sticking like wax to the
text.

W.  But what can we talk about?

GEO.  Why, anything that Meisterschaft talks about.  It ain't our affair.

W.  I know; but Meisterschaft talks about everything.

GEO.  And yet don't talk about anything long enough for it to get
embarrassing.  Meisterschaft is just splendid for general conversation.

W.  Yes, that's so; but it's so blamed general!  Won't it sound foolish?

GEO.  Foolish!  Why, of course; all German sounds foolish.

W.  Well, that is true; I didn't think of that.

GEO.  Now, don't fool around any more.  Load up; load up; get ready.  Fix
up some sentences; you'll need them in two minutes new.  [They walk up
and down, moving their lips in dumb-show memorising.]

W.  Look here--when we've said all that's in the book on a topic, and
want to change the subject, how can we say so?--how would a German say
it?

GEO.  Well, I don't know.  But you know when they mean 'Change cars,'
they say Umsteigen.  Don't you reckon that will answer?

W.  Tip-top!  It's short and goes right to the point; and it's got a
business whang to it that's almost American.  Umsteigen!--change subject!
--why, it's the very thing!

GEO.  All right, then, you umsteigen--for I hear them coming.

Enter the girls.

A. to W.  (With solemnity.) Guten Morgen, mein Herr, es freut mich sehr,
Sie zu sehen.

W.  Guten Morgen, mein Fraulein, es freut mich sehr Sie zu sehen.

[MARGARET and GEORGE repeat the same sentences.  Then, after an
embarrassing silence, MARGARET refers to her book and says:]

M.  Bitte, meine Herren, setzen Sie sich.

THE GENTLEMEN.  Danke schon.[The four seat themselves in couples, the
width of the stage apart, and the two conversations begin.  The talk is
not flowing--at any rate at first; there are painful silences all along.
Each couple worry out a remark and a reply: there is a pause of silent
thinking, and then the other couple deliver themselves.]

W.  Haben Sie meinen Vater in dem Laden meines Bruders nicht gesehen?

A.  Nein, mein Herr, ich habe Ihren Herrn Vater in dem Laden Ihres Herrn
Bruders nicht gesehen.

GEO.  Waren Sie gestern Abend im Koncert, oder im Theater?

M. Nein, ich war gestern Abend nicht im Koncert, noch im Theater, ich war
gestern Abend zu Hause.[General break-down--long pause.]

W.  Ich store doch nicht etwa?

A.  Sie storen mich durchaus nicht.

GEO.  Bitte, lassen Sie sich nicht von mir storen.

M.  Aber ich bitte Sie, Sie storen mich durchaus nicht.

W.  (To both girls.) Wenn wir Sie storen so gehen wir gleich wieder.

A.  O, nein!  Gewiss, nein!

M.  Im Gegentheil, es freut uns sehr, Sie zu sehen, alle beide.

W.  Schon!

GEO.  Gott sei dank!

M.  (Aside.) It's just lovely!

A.  (Aside.) It's like a poem.  [Pause.]

W.  Umsteigen!

M.  Um--welches?

W.  Umsteigen.

GEO.  Auf English, change cars--oder subject.

BOTH GIRLS.  Wie schon!

W.  Wir haben uns die Freiheit genommen, bei Ihnen vorzusprechen.

A.  Sie sind sehr gutig.

GEO.  Wir wollten uns erkundigen, wie Sie sich befanden.

M.  Ich bin Ihnen sehr verbunden--meine Schwester auch.

W.  Meine Frau lasst sich Ihnen bestens empfehlen.

A.  Ihre Frau?

W.  (Examining his book.) Vielleicht habe ich mich geirrt.  (Shows the
place.)  Nein, gerade so sagt das Buch.

A.  (Satisfied.) Ganz recht.  Aber--

W.  Bitte empfehlen Sie mich Ihrem Herrn Bruder.

A.  Ah, das ist viel besser--viel besser.  (Aside.) Wenigstens es ware
viel besser wenn ich einen Bruder hatte.

GEO.  Wie ist es Ihnen gegangen, seitdem ich das Vergnugen hatte, Sie
anderswo zu sehen?

M.  Danke bestens, ich befinde mich gewohnlich ziemlich wohl.

[GRETCHEN slips in with a gun, and listens.]

GEO.  (Still to Margaret.)  Befindet sich Ihre Frau Gemahlin wohl?

GR.  (Raising hands and eyes.)  Frau Gemahlin--heiliger Gott! [Is like to
betray herself with her smothered laughter, and glides out.]

M.  Danke sehr, meine Frau ist ganz wohl.  [Pause.]

W.  Durfen wir vielleicht--umsteigen?

THE OTHERS.  Gut!

GEO.  (Aside.) I feel better, now.  I'm beginning to catch on.  (Aloud.)
Ich mochte gern morgen fruh einige Einkaufe machen und wurde Ihnen seht
verbunden sein, wenn Sie mir den Gefallen thaten, mir die Namen der
besten hiesigen Firmen aufzuschreiben.

M. (Aside.) How sweet!

W.  (Aside.) Hang it, I was going to say that!  That's one of the noblest
things in the book.

A.  Ich mochte Ihnen gern begleiten, aber es ist mir wirklich heute
Morgen ganz unmoglich auszugehen.  (Aside.) It's getting as easy as 9
times 7 is 46.

M.  Sagen Sie dem Brieftrager, wenn's gefallig ist, er, mochte Ihnen den
eingeschriebenen Brief geben lassen.

W.  Ich wurde Ihnen sehr verbunden sein, wenn Sie diese Schachtel fur
mich nach der Post tragen wurden, da mir sehr daran liegt einen meiner
Geschaftsfreunde in dem Laden des deutschen Kaufmanns heute Abend treffen
zu konnen.  (Aside.)  All down but nine; set'm up on the other alley!

A.  Aber, Herr Jackson!  Sie haven die Satze gemischt.  Es ist
unbegreiflich wie Sie das haben thun konnen.  Zwischen Ihrem ersten Theil
und Ihrem letzten Theil haben Sie ganz funfzig Seiten ubergeschlagen!
Jetzt bin ich ganz verloren.  Wie kann man reden, wenn man seinen Platz
durchaus nicht wieder finden kann?

W.  Oh, bitte, verzeihen Sie; ich habe das wirklich nicht beabsichtigt.

A.  (Mollified.) Sehr wohl, lassen Sie gut sein.  Aber thun Sie es nicht
wieder.  Sie mussen ja doch einraumen, das solche Dinge unertragliche
Verwirrung mit sich fuhren.

[GRETCHEN slips in again with her gun.]

W.  Unzweifelhaft haben Sic Recht, meine holdselige Landsmannin...
Umsteigen!

[As GEORGE gets fairly into the following, GRETCHEN draws a bead on him,
and lets drive at the close, but the gun snaps.]

GEO.  Glauben Sie dass ich ein hubsches Wohnzimmer fur mich selbst und
ein kleines Schlafzimmer fur meinen Sohn in diesem Hotel fur funfzehn
Mark die Woche bekommen kann, oder, wurden Sie mir rathen, in einer
Privatwohnung Logis zu nehmen?  (Aside.) That's a daisy!

GR.  (Aside.) Schade!  [She draws her charge and reloads.]

M.  Glauben Sie nicht Sie werden besser thun bei diesem Wetter zu Hause
zu bleiben?

A.  Freilich glaube ich, Herr Franklin, Sie werden sich erkalten, wenn
Sie bei diesem unbestandigen Wetter ohne Ueberrock ausgehen.

GR.  (Relieved--aside.)  So?  Man redet von Ausgehen.  Das klingt schon
besser.  [Sits.]

W.  (To A.)  Wie theuer haben Sie das gekauft?  [Indicating a part of her
dress.]

A.  Das hat achtzehn Mark gekostet.

W.  Das ist sehr theuer.

GEO.  Ja, obgleich dieser Stoff wunderschon ist und das Muster sehr
geschmackvoll und auch das Vorzuglichste dass es in dieser Art gibt, so
ist es doch furchtbat theuer fur einen solcehn Artikel.

M. (Aside.)  How sweet is this communion of soul with soul!

A.  Im Gegentheil, mein Herr, das ist sehr billig.  Sehen Sie sich nur
die Qualitat an.

[They all examine it.]

GEO.  Moglicherweise ist es das allerneuste das man in diesem Stoff hat;
aber das Muster gefallt mir nicht.

[Pause.]

W.  Umsteigen!

A.  Welchen Hund haben Sie?  Haben Sie den hubschen Hund des Kaufmanns,
oder den hasslichen Hund der Urgrossmutter des Lehrlings des
bogenbeinigen Zimmermanns?

W.  (Aside.)  Oh, come, she's ringing in a cold deck on us: that's
Ollendorff.

GEO.  Ich habe nicht den Hund des--des--(Aside.) Stuck!  That's no
Meisterschaft; they don't play fair.  (Aloud.)  Ich habe nicht den Hund
des--des--In unserem Buche leider, gibt es keinen Hund; daher, ob ich
auch gern von solchen Thieren sprechen mochte, ist es mir doch unmoglich,
weil ich nicht vorbereitet bin.  Entschuldigen Sie, meine Damen.

GR.  (Aside) Beim Teufel, sie sind alle blodsinnig geworden.  In meinem
Leben habe ich nie ein so narrisches, verfluchtes, verdammtes Gesprach
gehort.

W.  Bitte, umsteigen.

[Run the following rapidly through.]

M. (Aside.) Oh, I've flushed an easy batch!  (Aloud.)  Wurden Sie mir
erlauben meine Reisetasche heir hinzustellen?

GR.  (Aside.) Wo ist seine Reisetasche?  Ich sehe keine.

W.  Bitte sehr.

GEO.  Ist meine Reisetasche Ihnen im Wege?

GR.  (Aside.) Und wo ist seine Reisetasche?

A.  Erlauben Sie mir Sie von meiner Reisetasche zu bereien.

GR.  (Aside.) Du Esel!

W.  Ganz und gar nicht.  (To Geo.) Es ist sehr schwul in diesem Coupe.

GR.  (Aside.)  Coupe.

GEO.  Sie haben Recht.  Erlauben Sie mir, gefalligst, das Fenster zu
offnen.  Ein wenig Luft wurde uns gut thun.

M. Wir fahren sehr rasch.

A.  Haben Sie den Namen jener Station gehort?

W.  Wie lange halten wir auf dieser Station an?

GEO.  Ich reise nach Dresden, Schaffner.  Wo muss ich umsteigen?

GR.  (Aside.) Sie sind ja alle ganz und gar verruckt.  Man denke sich sie
glauben dass sie auf der Eisenbahn reisen.

GEO.  (Aside, to William.)  Now brace up; pull all your confidence
together, my boy, and we'll try that lovely goodbye business a flutter.
I think it's about the gaudiest thing in the book, if you boom it right
along and don't get left on a base.  It'll impress the girls.  (Aloud.)
Lassen Sie uns gehen: es ist schon sehr spat, und ich muss morgen ganz
fruh aufstehen.

GR.  (Aside--grateful.) Gott sei Dank dass sie endlich gehen.

[Sets her gun aside.]

W.  (To Geo.)  Ich danke Ihnen hoflichst fur die Ehre die Sie mir
erweisen, aber ich kann nicht langer bleiben.

GEO.  (To W.) Entschuldigen Sie mich gutigst, aber ich kann wirklich
nicht langer bleiben.

[GRETCHEN looks on stupefied.]

W.  (To Geo.) Ich habe schon eine Einladung angenommen; ich kann wirklich
nicht langer bleiben.

[GRETCHEN fingers her gun again.]

GEO.  (To W.)  Ich muss gehen.

W.  (To GEO.)  Wie!  Sie wollen schon wieder gehen?  Sie sind ja eben
erst gekommen.

M.  (Aside.) It's just music!

A.  (Aside.) Oh, how lovely they do it!

GEO.  (To W.)  Also denken Sie doch noch nicht an's Gehen.

W.  (To Geo.) Es thut mir unendlich leid, aber ich muss nach Hause.
Meine Frau wird sich wundern, was aus mir geworden ist.

GEO.  (To W.)  Meine Frau hat keine Ahnung wo ich bin: ich muss wirklich
jetzt fort.

W.  (To Geo.)  Dann will ich Sie nicht langer aufhalten; ich bedaure sehr
dass Sie uns einen so kurzen Besuch gemacht haben.

GEO.  (To W.)  Adieu--auf recht baldiges Wiedersehen.

W.  UMSTEIGNEN!

[Great hand-clapping from the girls.]

M.  (Aside.) Oh, how perfect! how elegant!

A.  (Aside.) Per-fectly enchanting!

JOYOUS CHORUS.  (All)  Ich habe gehabt, du hast gehabt, er hat gehabt,
wir haben gehabt, ihr habet gehabt, sie haben gehabt.

[GRETCHEN faints, and tumbles from her chair, and the gun goes off with a
crash.  Each girl, frightened, seizes the protecting hand of her
sweetheart.  GRETCHEN scrambles up.  Tableau.]

W.  (Takes out some money--beckons Gretchen to him.  George adds money to
the pile.) Hubsches Madchen (giving her some of the coins), hast Du etwas
gesehen?

GR.  (Courtesy--aside.) Der Engel!  (Aloud--impressively.) Ich habe
nichts gesehen.

W.  (More money.)  Hast Du etwas gehort?

GR.  Ich habe nichts gehort.

W.  (More money.)  Und morgen?

GR.  Morgen--ware es nothig--bin ich taub und blind.

W.  Unvergleichbares Madchen!  Und (giving the rest of the money)
darnach?

GR.  (Deep courtesy--aside.)  Erzengel!  (Aloud.)  Darnach, mein
gnadgister, betrachten Sie mich also taub--blind--todt!

ALL.  (In chorus--with reverent joy.) Ich habe gehabt, du hast gehabt, er
hat gehabt, wir haben gehabt, ihr habet gehabt, sie haben gehabt!




ACT III.

Three weeks later.

SCENE I.

Enter GRETCHEN, and puts her shawl on a chair.  Brushing around with the
traditional feather-duster of the drama.  Smartly dressed, for she is
prosperous.


GR.  Wie hatte man sich das vorstellen konnen!  In nur drei Wochen bin
ich schon reich geworden!  (Gets out of her pocket handful after handful
of silver, which she piles on the table, and proceeds to repile and
count, occasionally ringing or biting a piece to try its quality.)  Oh,
dass (with a sigh) die Frau Wirthin nur ewig krank bliebe!...  Diese
edlen jungen Manner--sie sind ja so liebenswurdig!  Und so fleissig!--
und so treu!  Jeden Morgen kommen sie gerade um drei Viertel auf neun;
und plaudern und schwatzen, und plappern, und schnattern, die jungen
Damen auch; um Schlage zwolf nehmen sie Abschied; um Sclage eins kommen
sie schon wieder, und plauden und schwatzen und plappern und schnattern;
gerade um sechs Uhr nehmen sie wiederum Abschied; um halb acht kehren sie
noche'mal zuruck, und plaudern und schwatzen und plappern und schnattern
bis zehn Uhr, oder vielleicht ein Viertel nach, falls ihre Uhren nach
gehen (und stets gehen sie nach am Ende des Besuchs, aber stets vor
Beginn desselben), und zuweilen unterhalten sich die jungen Leute beim
Spazierengehen; und jeden Sonntag gehen sie dreimal in die Kirche; und
immer plaudern sie, und schwatzen und plappern und schnattern bis ihnen
die Zahne aus dem Munde fallen.  Und ich?  Durch Mangel an Uebung, ist
mir die Zunge mit Moos belegt worden!  Freilich ist's mir eine dumme Zei
gewesen.  Aber--um Gotteswillen, was geht das mir an?  Was soll ich
daraus machen?  Taglich sagt die Frau Wirthin, 'Gretchen' (dumb-show of
paying a piece of money into her hand), 'du bist eine der besten Sprach-
Lehrerinnen der Welt!' Act, Gott!  Und taglich sagen die edlen jungen
Manner, 'Gretchen, liebes Kind' (money-paying again in dumb-show--three
coins), 'bleib' taub--blind--todt!' und so bleibe ich...  Jetzt wird es
ungefahr neun Uhr sein; bald kommen sie vom Spaziergehen zuruck.  Also,
es ware gut dass ich meinem eigenen Schatz einen Besuch abstatte und
spazieren gehe.

[Dons her shawl.  Exit.  L.]

Enter WIRTHIN.  R.

WIRTHIN.  That was Mr. Stephenson's train that just came in.  Evidently
the girls are out walking with Gretchen;--can't find them, and she
doesn't seem to be around.  (A ring at the door.)  That's him.  I'll go
see.  [Exit.  R.]

Enter STEPHENSON and WIRTHIN.  R.

S.  Well, how does sickness seem to agree with you?

WIRTHIN.  So well that I've never been out of my room since, till I heard
your train come in.

S.  Thou miracle of fidelity!  Now I argue from that, that the new plan
is working.

WIRTHIN.  Working?  Mr. Stephenson, you never saw anything like it in the
whole course of your life!  It's absolutely wonderful the way it works.

S.  Succeeds?  No--you don't mean it.

WIRTHIN.  Indeed I do mean it.  I tell you, Mr. Stephenson, that plan was
just an inspiration--that's what it was.  You could teach a cat German by
it.

S.  Dear me, this is noble news!  Tell me about it.

WIRTHIN.  Well, it's all Gretchen--ev-ery bit of it.  I told you she was
a jewel.  And then the sagacity of that child--why, I never dreamed it
was in her.  Sh-she, 'Never you ask the young ladies a question--never
let on--just keep mum--leave the whole thing to me,' sh-she.

S.  Good!  And she justified, did she?

WIRTHIN.  Well, sir, the amount of German gabble that that child crammed
into those two girls inside the next forty-eight hours--well, I was
satisfied!  So I've never asked a question--never wanted to ask any.
I've just lain curled up there, happy.  The little dears! they've flitted
in to see me a moment, every morning and noon and supper-time; and as
sure as I'm sitting here, inside of six days they were clattering German
to me like a house afire!

S.  Sp-lendid, splendid!

WIRTHIN.  Of course it ain't grammatical--the inventor of the language
can't talk grammatical; if the dative didn't fetch him the accusative
would; but it's German all the same, and don't you forget it!

S.  Go on--go on--this is delicious news--

WIRTHIN.  Gretchen, she says to me at the start, 'Never you mind about
company for 'em,' sh-she--'I'm company enough.'  And I says, 'All right--
fix it your own way, child;' and that she was right is shown by the fact
that to this day they don't care a straw for any company but hers.

S.  Dear me; why, it's admirable!

WIRTHIN.  Well, I should think so!  They just dote on that hussy--can't
seem to get enough of her.  Gretchen tells me so herself.  And the care
she takes of them!  She tells me that every time there's a moonlight
night she coaxes them out for a walk; and if a body can believe her, she
actually bullies them off to church three times every Sunday!

S.  Why, the little dev--missionary!  Really, she's a genius!

WIRTHIN.  She's a bud, I tell you!  Dear me, how she's brought those
girls' health up!  Cheeks?--just roses.  Gait?--they walk on watch-
springs!  And happy?--by the bliss in their eyes, you'd think they're in
Paradise!  Ah, that Gretchen!  Just you imagine our trying to achieve
these marvels!

S.  You're right--every time.  Those girls--why, all they'd have wanted
to know was what we wanted done, and then they wouldn't have done it--the
mischievous young rascals!

WIRTHIN.  Don't tell me?  Bless you, I found that out early--when I was
bossing.

S.  Well, I'm im-mensely pleased.  Now fetch them down.  I'm not afraid
now.  They won't want to go home.

WIRTHIN.  Home!  I don't believe you could drag them away from Gretchen
with nine span of horses.  But if you want to see them, put on your hat
and come along; they're out somewhere trapseing along with Gretchen.
[Going.]

S.  I'm with you--lead on.

WIRTHIN.  We'll go out the side door.  It's towards the Anlage.  [Exit
both.  L.]

Enter GEORGE and MARGARET.  R.  Her head lies upon his shoulder, his arm
is about her waist; they are steeped in sentiment.

M. (Turning a fond face up at him.)  Du Engel!

GEO.  Liebste!

M.  Oh, das Liedchen dass Du mir gewidmet hast--es ist so schon, so
wunderschon.  Wie hatte ich je geahnt dass Du ein Poet warest!

GEO.  Mein Schatzchen!--es ist mir lieb wenn Dir die Kleinigkeit
gefallt.

M.  Ah, es ist mit der zartlichsten Musik gefullt--klingt ja so suss und
selig--wie das Flustern des Sommerwindes die Abenddammerung hindurch.
Wieder--Theuerste!--sag'es wieder.

GEO.  Du bist wie eine Blume!  -So schon und hold und rein--Ich schau'
Dich an, und WehmuthSchleicht mir ins Herz hinein.  Mir ist als ob ich
die HandeAufs Haupt Dir legen sollt', Betend, dass Gott Dich erhalte, So
rein und schon und hold.

M.  A-ch!  (Dumb-show sentimentalisms.)  Georgie--

GEO.  Kindchen!

M.  Warum kommen sie nicht?

GEO.  Das weiss ich gar night.  Sie waren--

M.  Es wird spat.  Wir mussen sie antreiben.  Komm!

GEO.  Ich glaube sie werden recht bald ankommen, aber--[Exit both.  L.]

Enter GRETCHEN, R., in a state of mind.  Slumps into a chair limp with
despair.

GR.  Ach!  was wird jetzt aus mir werden!  Zufallig habe ich in der Ferne
den verdammten Papa gesehen!--und die Frau Wirthin auch!  Oh, diese
Erscheinung--die hat mir beinahe das Leben genommen.  Sie suchen die
jungen Damen--das weiss ich wenn sie diese und die jungen Herren zusammen
fanden--du heileger Gott!  Wenn das gescheiht, waren wir Alle ganz und
gar verloren!  Ich muss sie gleich finden, und ihr eine Warnung geben!
[Exit.  L.]

Enter ANNIE and WILL, R., posed like the former couple and sentimental.

A.  Ich liebe Dich schon so sehr--Deiner edlen Natur wegen.  Dass du dazu
auch ein Dichter bist!--ach, mein Leben ist ubermassig reich geworden!
Wer hatte sich doch einbilden konnen dass ich einen Mann zu einem so
wunderschonen Gedicht hatte begeistern konnen?

W.  Liebste!  Es ist nur eine Kleinigkeit.

A.  Nein, nein, es ist ein echtes Wunder!  Sage es noch einmal--ich flehe
Dich an.

W.  Du bist wie eine Blume!--So schon und hold und rein--Ich schau' Dich
an, und WehmuthSchleicht mir ins Herz hinein.  Mir ist als ob ich die
HandeAufs Haupt Dir legen sollt', Betend, dass Gott Dich erhalt, So rein
und schon und hold.

A.  Ach, es ist himmlisch--einfach himmlisch.  [Kiss.] Schreibt auch
George Gedicht?

W.  Oh, ja--zuweilen.

A.  Wie schon!

W.  (Aside.) Smouches 'em, same as I do!  It was a noble good idea to
play that little thing on her.  George wouldn't ever think of that--
somehow he never had any invention.

A.  (Arranging chairs.)  Jetzt will ich bei Dir sitzen bleiben, und Du--

W.  (They sit.) Ja--und ich--

A.  Du wirst mir die alte Geschichte, die immer neu bleibt, noch wieder
erzahlen.

W.  Zum Beispiel, dass ich Dich liebe!

A.  Wieder!

W.  Ich--sie kommen!

Enter GEORGE and MARGARET.

A.  Das macht nichts.  Fortan!  [GEORGE unties M.'s bonnet.  She reties
his cravat--interspersings of love-pats, etc., and dumb show of love-
quarrellings.]

W.  Ich liebe Dich.

A.  Ach!  Noch einmal!

W.  Ich habe Dich vom Herzen lieb.

A.  Ach!  Abermals!

W.  Bist Du denn noch nicht satt?

A.  Nein!  (The other couple sit down, and MARGARET begins a retying of
the cravat.  Enter the WIRTHIN and STEPHENSON, he imposing silence with a
sign.)  Mich hungert sehr, ich verhungre!

W.  Oh, Du armes Kind!  (Lays her head on his shoulder.  Dumb-show
between STEPHENSON and WIRTHIN.) Und hungert es nicht mich?  Du hast mir
nicht einmal gesagt--

A.  Dass ich Dich liebe?  Mein Eigener!  (Frau WIRTHIN threatens to
faint--is supported by STEPHENSON.)  Hore mich nur an: Ich liebe Dich,
ich liebe Dich--

Enter GRETCHEN.

GR.  (Tears her hair.)  Oh, dass ich in der Holle ware!

M. Ich liebe Dich, ich liebe Dich!  Ah, ich bin so glucklich dass ich
nicht schlafen kann, nicht lesen kann, nicht reden kann, nicht--

A.  Und ich!  Ich bin auch so glucklich dass ich nicht speisen kann,
nicht studieren, arbeiten, denken, schreiben--

S.  (To Wirthin--aside.)  Oh, there isn't any mistake about it--
Gretchen's just a rattling teacher!

WIRTHIN.  (To Stephenson--aside.)  I'll skin her alive when I get my
hands on her!

M.  Komm, alle Verliebte! [They jump up, join hands, and sing in chorus--]
Du, Du, wie ich Dich liebe, Du, Du, liebest auch mich!  Die, die
zartlichsten Triebe--

S.  (Stepping forward.) Well!  [The girls throw themselves upon his neck
with enthusiasm.]

THE GIRLS.  Why, father!

S.  My darlings! [The young men hesitate a moment, they they add their
embrace, flinging themselves on Stephenson's neck, along with the girls.]

THE YOUNG MEN.  Why, father!

S.  (Struggling.) Oh, come, this is too thin!--too quick, I mean.  Let
go, you rascals!

GEO.  We'll never let go till you put us on the family list.

M.  Right! hold to him!

A.  Cling to him, Will!  [GRETCHEN rushes in and joins the general
embrace, but is snatched away by the WIRTHIN, crushed up against the
wall, and threatened with destruction.]

S.  (Suffocating.) All right, all right--have it your own way, you
quartette of swindlers!

W.  He's a darling!  Three cheers for papa!

EVERYBODY.  (Except Stephenson, who bows with hand on heart) Hip--hip--
hip: hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!

GR.  Der Tiger--ah-h-h!

WIRTHIN.  Sei ruhig, you hussy!

S.  Well, I've lost a couple of precious daughters, but I've gained a
couple of precious scamps to fill up the gap with; so it's all right.
I'm satisfied, and everybody's forgiven--[With mock threats at Gretchen.]

W.  Oh, wir werden fur Dich sorgen--dur herrliches Gretchen!

GR.  Danke schon!

M. (To Wirthin.) Und fur Sie auch; denn wenn Sie nicht so freundlich
gewesen waren, krank zu werden, wie waren wir je so glucklich geworden
wie jetzt?

WIRTHIN.  Well, dear, I was kind, but I didn't mean it.  But I ain't
sorry--not one bit--that I ain't.  [Tableau.]

S.  Come, now, the situation is full of hope, and grace, and tender
sentiment.  If I had in the least poetic gift, I know I could improvise
under such an inspiration (each girl nudges her sweetheart) something
worthy to--to--Is there no poet among us?  [Each youth turns solemnly his
back upon the other, and raises his hands in benediction over his
sweetheart's bowed head.]

BOTH YOUTHS AT ONCE.  Mir ist als ob ich die HandeAufs Haupt Dir legen
sollt'--[They turn and look reproachfully at each other--the girls
contemplate them with injured surprise.

S.  (Reflectively.) I think I've heard that before somewhere.

WIRTHIN.  (Aside.) Why, the very cats in Germany know it!

(Curtain.)


[1] [EXPLANATORY.]  I regard the idea of this play as a valuable
invention.  I call it the Patent Universally-Applicable Automatically-
Adjustable Language Drama.  This indicates that it is adjustable to any
tongue, and performable in any tongue.  The English portions of the play
are to remain just as they are, permanently; but you change the foreign
portions to any language you please, at will.  Do you see?  You at once
have the same old play in a new tongue.  And you can keep changing it
from language to language, until your private theatrical pupils have
become glib and at home in the speech of all nations.  Zum Beispiel,
suppose we wish to adjust the play to the French tongue.  First, we give
Mrs. Blumenthal and Gretchen French names.  Next, we knock the German
Meisterschaft sentences out of the first scene, and replace them with
sentences from the French Meisterschaft--like this, for instance: 'Je
voudrais faire des emplettes ce matin; voulez-vous avoir l'obligeance de
venir avec moi chez le tailleur francais?'  And so on.  Wherever you find
German, replace it with French, leaving the English parts undisturbed.
When you come to the long conversation in the second act, turn to any
pamphlet of your French Meisterschaft, and shovel in as much French talk
on any subject as will fill up the gaps left by the expunged German.
Example--page 423, French Meisterschaft: On dirait qu'il va faire chaud.
J'ai chaud.  J'ai extremement chaud.  Ah!  qu'il fait chaud!  Il fait une
chaleur etouffante!  L'air est brulant. Je meurs de chaleur.  Il est
presque impossible de supporter la chaleur.  Cela vous fait transpirer.
Mettons-nous a l'ombre.  Il fait du vent.  Il fait un vent froid.  Il
fait un tres agreable pour se promener aujourd'hui.  And so on, all the
way through.  It is very easy to adjust the play to any desired language.
Anybody can do it.






MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood?  No, they have not been realised.  For all who
are old, there is something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no greyhead's case can it suggest any but one
thing--disappointment.  Disappointment is its own reason for its pain:
the quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter aside.  The
dreamer's valuation of the thing lost--not another man's--is the only
standard to measure it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.  We should
carefully remember that.  There are sixteen hundred million people in the
world.  Of these there is but a trifling number--in fact, only thirty-
eight millions--who can understand why a person should have an ambition
to belong to the French army; and why, belonging to it, he should be
proud of that; and why, having got down that far, he should want to go on
down, down, down till he struck the bottom and got on the General Staff;
and why, being stripped of this livery, or set free and reinvested with
his self-respect by any other quick and thorough process, let it be what
it might, he should wish to return to his strange serfage.  But no
matter: the estimate put upon these things by the fifteen hundred and
sixty millions is no proper measure of their value: the proper measure,
the just measure, is that which is put upon them by Dreyfus, and is
cipherable merely upon the littleness or the vastness of the
disappointment which their loss cost him.  There you have it: the measure
of the magnitude of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappointment
the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in others' eyes, of the thing
lost, has nothing to do with the matter.  With this straightening out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us, perhaps we can put
ourselves in his place and respect his dream--Dreyfus's, and the dreams
our friends have cherished and reveal to us.  Some that I call to mind,
some that have been revealed to me, are curious enough; but we may not
smile at them, for they were precious to the dreamers, and their failure
has left scars which give them dignity and pathos.  With this theme in my
mind, dear heads that were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to speak for them, and
most lovingly will I do it.  Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus--how their young hopes and ambitions come flooding back to
my memory now, out of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the
lamented past!  I remember it so well--that night we met together--it was
in Boston, and Mr. Fiends was there, and Mr. Osgood, Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years--and under the seal of
confidence revealed to each other what our boyhood dreams had been: reams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which was stealing the grey
of the night that was to come--a night which we prophetically felt, and
this feeling oppressed us and made us sad.  I remember that Howells's
voice broke twice, and it was only with great difficulty that he was able
to go on; in the end he wept.  For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his goal, and how at last he
attained to within a single step of the coveted summit.  But there
misfortune after misfortune assailed him, and he went down, and down, and
down, until now at last, weary and disheartened, he had for the present
given up the struggle and become the editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830.  Seventy years are gone since, and where now is his
dream?  It will never be fulfilled.  And it is best so; he is no longer
fitted for the position; no one would take him now; even if he got it,
he would not be able to do himself credit in it, on account of his
deliberateness of speech and lack of trained professional vivacity;
he would be put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing younger
and abler men intrusted with the furniture and other such goods--goods
which draw a mixed and intellectually low order of customers, who must be
beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialised humour and sparkle,
accompanied with antics.  But it is not the thing lost that counts, but
only the disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that had coveted
that thing and had set his heart of hearts upon it, and when we remember
this, a great wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and we
wish for his sake that his fate could have been different.  At that time
Hay's boyhood dream was not yet past hope of realisation, but it was
fading, dimming, wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehension was
blowing cold over the perishing summer of his life.  In the pride of his
young ambition he had aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy saw
himself dominating a forecastle some day on the Mississippi and dictating
terms to roustabouts in high and wounding terms.  I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sorrow the stages of
that dream's destruction.  Hay's history is but Howells's, with
differences of detail.  Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-plank, his eye upon the
capstan, misfortune came and his fall began.  Down--down--down--ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel in the field; Charge
d'Affaires in Paris; Charge d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the
Tribune; Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England; and now at last
there he lies--Secretary of State, Head of Foreign Affairs.  And he has
fallen like Lucifer, never to rise again.  And his dream--where now is
his dream?  Gone down in blood and tears with the dream of the
auctioneer.  And the young dream of Aldrich--where is that?  I remember
yet how he sat there that night fondling it, petting it; seeing it recede
and ever recede; trying to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be a horse-doctor.  He
also climbed high, but, like the others, fell; then fell again, and yet
again, and again and again.  And now at last he can fall no further.  He
is old now, he has ceased to struggle, and is only a poet.  No one would
risk a horse with him now.  His dream is over. Has any boyhood dream ever
been fulfilled?  I must doubt it.  Look at Brander Matthews.  He wanted
to be a cowboy.  What is he to-day?  Nothing but a professor in a
university.  Will he ever be a cowboy?  It is hardly conceivable.  Look
at Stockton.  What was Stockton's young dream?  He hoped to be a
barkeeper.  See where he has landed.  Is it better with Cable?  What was
Cable's young dream?  To be ring-master in the circus, and swell around
and crack the whip.  What is he to-day?  Nothing but a theologian and
novelist.  And Uncle Remus--what was his young dream?  To be a buccaneer.
Look at him now.  Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they are,
and how perishable!  The ruins of these might-have-beens, how pathetic!
The heart-secrets that were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice!  Those sweet privacies, how they
endeared us to each other!  We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate when speaking with
persons whom I thought not worthy to hear them.  Oh, our lost Youth--God
keep its memory green in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the
indignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!






TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE


Sleep! for the Sun that scores another Day
Against the Tale allotted You to stay,
Reminding You, is Risen, and now
Serves Notice--ah, ignore it while You stay!

The chill Wind blew, and those who stood before
The Tavern murmured, 'Having drunk his Score,
Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,
The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more

'Come, leave the Cup, and on the Winter's Snow
Your Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:
Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,
Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow.'

While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,
I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,
'O Youth, O whither gone? Return,
And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine.'

In this subduing Draught of tender green
And kindly Absinth, with its wimpling Sheen
Of dusky half-lights, let me drown
The haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.

For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,
We pay some day its Weight in golden Grief
Mined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not--
From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!

The Joy of Life, that streaming through their Veins
Tumultuous swept, falls slack--and wanes
The Glory in the Eye--and one by one
Life's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.

Whether one hide in some secluded Nook--
Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook--
'Tis one. Old Age will search him out--and He--
He--He--when ready will know where to look.

From Cradle unto Grave I keep a House
OF Entertainment where may drowse
Bacilli and kindred Germs--or feed--or breed
Their festering Species in a deep Carouse.

Think--in this battered Caravanserai,
Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,
How Microbe after Microbe with his Pomp
Arrives unasked, and comes to stay.

Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the Lust
Of masticating, once, now own Disgust
Of Clay-Plug'd Cavities--full soon our Snags
Are emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.

Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,
And fat, like over-riped Figs--we know
The Sign--the Riggs' Disease is ours, and we
Must list this Sorrow, add another Woe;

Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,
And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and off
Our fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat--
We scoffered before, but now we may not scoff.

Some for the Bunions that afflict us prate
Of Plasters unsurpassable, and hate
To Cut a corn--ah cut, and let the Plaster go,
Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.

Some for the Honours of Old Age, and some
Long for its Respite from the Hum
And Clash of sordid Strife--O Fools,
The Past should teach them what's to Come:

Lo, for the Honours, cold Neglect instead!
For Respite, disputatious Heirs a Bed
Of Thorns for them will furnish. Go,
Seek not Here for Peace--but Yonder--with the Dead.

For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,
And even smitten thus, will not repine,
Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,
The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.

O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!
Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,
O whither are ye flown? Come back,
And break my heart, but bless my grieving ear.

Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,
And answer not when some that love it call:
Be glad for Me when this you note--and think
I've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.

So let me grateful drain the Magic Bowl
That medicines hurt Minds and on the Soul
The Healing of its Peace doth lay--if then
Death claim me--Welcome be his Dole!

SANNA, SWEDEN, September 15th.


Private.--If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is, the
dentist will tell you.  I've had it--and it is more than interesting.
                                             M.T.


EDITORIAL NOTE

Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of this
article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them to
correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a
disordered mind.  They have no recollection of any such night in Boston,
nor elsewhere; and in their opinion there was never any such night.  They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him--particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence.  Further, they think it
a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious to
see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all.  Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his
article pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest
of truth.

P.S.--These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in some
fear lest they distress Mr. Twain if published without his privity, we
judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an opportunity to
defend himself.  But he does not seem to be troubled, or even aware that
he is in a delicate situation.  He merely says: 'Do not worry about those
former young people.  They can write good literature, but when it comes
to speaking the truth, they have not had my training.--MARK TWAIN.'
The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate
construction.  It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the
responsibility of doing it.--EDITOR.






IN MEMORIAM

OLIVIA SUSAN CLEMENS

DIED AUGUST 18, 1896; AGED 24

In a fair valley--oh, how long ago, how long ago!--
Where all the broad expanse was clothed in vines,
And fruitful fields and meadows starred with flowers,
And clear streams wandered at their idle will;
And still lakes slept, their burnished surfaces
A dream of painted clouds, and soft airs
Went whispering with odorous breath,
And all was peace--in that fair vale,
Shut from the troubled world, a nameless hamlet drowsed.

Hard by, apart, a temple stood;
And strangers from the outer world
Passing, noted it with tired eyes,
And seeing, saw it not:
A glimpse of its fair form--an answering momentary thrill--
And they passed on, careless and unaware.

They could not know the cunning of its make;
They could not know the secret shut up in its heart;
Only the dwellers of the hamlet knew;
They knew that what seemed brass was gold;
What marble seemed, was ivory;
The glories that enriched the milky surfaces--
The trailing vines, and interwoven flowers,
And tropic birds a-wing, clothed all in tinted fires--
They knew for what they were, not what they seemed:
Encrustings all of gems, not perishable splendours of the brush.
They knew the secret spot where one must stand--
They knew the surest hour, the proper slant of sun--
To gather in, unmarred, undimmed,
The vision of the fane in all its fairy grace,
A fainting dream against the opal sky.

And more than this. They knew
That in the temple's inmost place a spirit dwelt,
Made all of light!
For glimpses of it they had caught
Beyond the curtains when the priests
That served the altar came and went.

All loved that light and held it dear
That had this partial grace;
But the adoring priests alone who lived
By day and night submerged in its immortal glow
Knew all its power and depth, and could appraise the loss
If it should fade and fail and come no more.

All this was long ago--so long ago!

The light burned on; and they that worshipped it,
And they that caught its flash at intervals and held it dear,
Contented lived in its secure possession. Ah,
How long ago it was!

And then when they
Were nothing fearing, and God's peace was in the air,
And none was prophesying harm,
The vast disaster fell:
Where stood the temple when the sun went down
Was vacant desert when it rose again!

Ah yes! 'Tis ages since it chanced!
So long ago it was,
That from the memory of the hamlet-folk the Light has passed--
They scarce believing, now, that once it was,
Or if believing, yet not missing it,
And reconciled to have it gone.

Not so the priests! Oh, not so
The stricken ones that served it day and night,
Adoring it, abiding in the healing of its peace:
They stand, yet, where erst they stood
Speechless in that dim morning long ago;
And still they gaze, as then they gazed,
And murmur, 'It will come again;
It knows our pain--it knows--it knows--
Ah surely it will come again.

S.L.C.

LAKE LUCERNE, August 18, 1897.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Hadleyburg Other Stories,
by Mark Twain






WHAT IS MAN?  AND OTHER ESSAYS OF MARK TWAIN

    (Samuel Langhorne Clemens, 1835-1910)



CONTENTS


What Is Man?

The Death of Jean

The Turning-Point of My Life

How to Make History Dates Stick

The Memorable Assassination

A Scrap of Curious History

Switzerland, the Cradle of Liberty

At the Shrine of St. Wagner

William Dean Howells

English as She is Taught

A Simplified Alphabet

As Concerns Interpreting the Deity

Concerning Tobacco

Taming the Bicycle

Is Shakespeare Dead?

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



 WHAT IS MAN?


I

a. Man the Machine.  b.  Personal Merit


[The Old Man and the Young Man had been conversing.  The Old
Man had asserted that the human being is merely a machine, and
nothing more.  The Young Man objected, and asked him to go into
particulars and furnish his reasons for his position.]

Old Man.  What are the materials of which a steam-engine is made?

Young Man.  Iron, steel, brass, white-metal, and so on.

O.M.  Where are these found?

Y.M.  In the rocks.

O.M.  In a pure state?

Y.M.  No--in ores.

O.M.  Are the metals suddenly deposited in the ores?

Y.M.  No--it is the patient work of countless ages.

O.M.  You could make the engine out of the rocks themselves?

Y.M.  Yes, a brittle one and not valuable.

O.M.  You would not require much, of such an engine as that?

Y.M.  No--substantially nothing.

O.M.  To make a fine and capable engine, how would you
proceed?

Y.M.  Drive tunnels and shafts into the hills; blast out the
iron ore; crush it, smelt it, reduce it to pig-iron; put some of
it through the Bessemer process and make steel of it.  Mine and
treat and combine several metals of which brass is made.

O.M.  Then?

Y.M.  Out of the perfected result, build the fine engine.

O.M.  You would require much of this one?

Y.M.  Oh, indeed yes.

O.M.  It could drive lathes, drills, planers, punches,
polishers, in a word all the cunning machines of a great factory?

Y.M.  It could.

O.M.  What could the stone engine do?

Y.M.  Drive a sewing-machine, possibly--nothing more,
perhaps.

O.M.  Men would admire the other engine and rapturously
praise it?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  But not the stone one?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  The merits of the metal machine would be far above
those of the stone one?

Y.M.  Of course.

O.M.  Personal merits?

Y.M.  PERSONAL merits?  How do you mean?

O.M.  It would be personally entitled to the credit of its
own performance?

Y.M.  The engine?  Certainly not.

O.M.  Why not?

Y.M.  Because its performance is not personal.  It is the
result of the law of construction.  It is not a MERIT that it
does the things which it is set to do--it can't HELP doing them.

O.M.  And it is not a personal demerit in the stone machine
that it does so little?

Y.M.  Certainly not.  It does no more and no less than the
law of its make permits and compels it to do.  There is nothing
PERSONAL about it; it cannot choose.  In this process of "working
up to the matter" is it your idea to work up to the proposition
that man and a machine are about the same thing, and that there
is no personal merit in the performance of either?

O.M.  Yes--but do not be offended; I am meaning no offense.
What makes the grand difference between the stone engine and the
steel one?  Shall we call it training, education?  Shall we call
the stone engine a savage and the steel one a civilized man?  The
original rock contained the stuff of which the steel one was
built--but along with a lot of sulphur and stone and other
obstructing inborn heredities, brought down from the old geologic
ages--prejudices, let us call them.  Prejudices which nothing
within the rock itself had either POWER to remove or any DESIRE
to remove.  Will you take note of that phrase?

Y.M.  Yes.  I have written it down; "Prejudices which
nothing within the rock itself had either power to remove or any
desire to remove."  Go on.

O.M.  Prejudices must be removed by OUTSIDE INFLUENCES or
not at all.  Put that down.

Y.M.  Very well; "Must be removed by outside influences or
not at all."  Go on.

O.M.  The iron's prejudice against ridding itself of the
cumbering rock.  To make it more exact, the iron's absolute
INDIFFERENCE as to whether the rock be removed or not.  Then
comes the OUTSIDE INFLUENCE and grinds the rock to powder and
sets the ore free.  The IRON in the ore is still captive.  An
OUTSIDE INFLUENCE smelts it free of the clogging ore.  The iron
is emancipated iron, now, but indifferent to further progress.
An OUTSIDE INFLUENCE beguiles it into the Bessemer furnace and
refines it into steel of the first quality.  It is educated, now
--its training is complete.  And it has reached its limit.  By no
possible process can it be educated into GOLD.  Will you set that
down?

Y.M.  Yes.  "Everything has its limit--iron ore cannot be
educated into gold."

O.M.  There are gold men, and tin men, and copper men, and
leaden mean, and steel men, and so on--and each has the
limitations of his nature, his heredities, his training, and his
environment.  You can build engines out of each of these metals,
and they will all perform, but you must not require the weak ones
to do equal work with the strong ones.  In each case, to get the
best results, you must free the metal from its obstructing
prejudicial ones by education--smelting, refining, and so forth.

Y.M.  You have arrived at man, now?

O.M.  Yes.  Man the machine--man the impersonal engine.
Whatsoever a man is, is due to his MAKE, and to the INFLUENCES
brought to bear upon it by his heredities, his habitat, his
associations.  He is moved, directed, COMMANDED, by EXTERIOR
influences--SOLELY.  He ORIGINATES nothing, not even a thought.

Y.M.  Oh, come!  Where did I get my opinion that this which
you are talking is all foolishness?

O.M.  It is a quite natural opinion--indeed an inevitable
opinion--but YOU did not create the materials out of which it is
formed.  They are odds and ends of thoughts, impressions,
feelings, gathered unconsciously from a thousand books, a
thousand conversations, and from streams of thought and feeling
which have flowed down into your heart and brain out of the
hearts and brains of centuries of ancestors.  PERSONALLY you did
not create even the smallest microscopic fragment of the
materials out of which your opinion is made; and personally you
cannot claim even the slender merit of PUTTING THE BORROWED
MATERIALS TOGETHER.  That was done AUTOMATICALLY--by your mental
machinery, in strict accordance with the law of that machinery's
construction.  And you not only did not make that machinery
yourself, but you have NOT EVEN ANY COMMAND OVER IT.

Y.M.  This is too much.  You think I could have formed no
opinion but that one?

O.M.  Spontaneously?  No.  And YOU DID NOT FORM THAT ONE;
your machinery did it for you--automatically and instantly,
without reflection or the need of it.

Y.M.  Suppose I had reflected?  How then?

O.M.  Suppose you try?

Y.M.  (AFTER A QUARTER OF AN HOUR.)  I have reflected.

O.M.  You mean you have tried to change your opinion--as an
experiment?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  With success?

Y.M.  No.  It remains the same; it is impossible to change
it.

O.M.  I am sorry, but you see, yourself, that your mind is
merely a machine, nothing more.  You have no command over it, it
has no command over itself--it is worked SOLELY FROM THE OUTSIDE.
That is the law of its make; it is the law of all machines.

Y.M.  Can't I EVER change one of these automatic opinions?

O.M.  No.  You can't yourself, but EXTERIOR INFLUENCES can
do it.

Y.M.  And exterior ones ONLY?

O.M.  Yes--exterior ones only.

Y.M.  That position is untenable--I may say ludicrously
untenable.

O.M.  What makes you think so?

Y.M.  I don't merely think it, I know it.  Suppose I resolve
to enter upon a course of thought, and study, and reading, with
the deliberate purpose of changing that opinion; and suppose I
succeed.  THAT is not the work of an exterior impulse, the whole
of it is mine and personal; for I originated the project.

O.M.  Not a shred of it.  IT GREW OUT OF THIS TALK WITH ME.
But for that it would not have occurred to you.  No man ever
originates anything.  All his thoughts, all his impulses, come
FROM THE OUTSIDE.

Y.M.  It's an exasperating subject.  The FIRST man had
original thoughts, anyway; there was nobody to draw from.

O.M.  It is a mistake.  Adam's thoughts came to him from the
outside.  YOU have a fear of death.  You did not invent that--you
got it from outside, from talking and teaching.  Adam had no fear
of death--none in the world.

Y.M.  Yes, he had.

O.M.  When he was created?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  When, then?

Y.M.  When he was threatened with it.

O.M.  Then it came from OUTSIDE.  Adam is quite big enough;
let us not try to make a god of him.  NONE BUT GODS HAVE EVER HAD
A THOUGHT WHICH DID NOT COME FROM THE OUTSIDE.  Adam probably had
a good head, but it was of no sort of use to him until it was
filled up FROM THE OUTSIDE.  He was not able to invent the
triflingest little thing with it.  He had not a shadow of a
notion of the difference between good and evil--he had to get the
idea FROM THE OUTSIDE.  Neither he nor Eve was able to originate
the idea that it was immodest to go naked; the knowledge came in
with the apple FROM THE OUTSIDE.  A man's brain is so constructed
that IT CAN ORIGINATE NOTHING WHATSOEVER.  It can only use
material obtained OUTSIDE.  It is merely a machine; and it works
automatically, not by will-power.  IT HAS NO COMMAND OVER ITSELF,
ITS OWNER HAS NO COMMAND OVER IT.

Y.M.  Well, never mind Adam:  but certainly Shakespeare's
creations--

O.M.  No, you mean Shakespeare's IMITATIONS.  Shakespeare
created nothing.  He correctly observed, and he marvelously
painted.  He exactly portrayed people whom GOD had created; but
he created none himself.  Let us spare him the slander of
charging him with trying.  Shakespeare could not create.  HE WAS
A MACHINE, AND MACHINES DO NOT CREATE.

Y.M.  Where WAS his excellence, then?

O.M.  In this.  He was not a sewing-machine, like you and
me; he was a Gobelin loom.  The threads and the colors came into
him FROM THE OUTSIDE; outside influences, suggestions,
EXPERIENCES (reading, seeing plays, playing plays, borrowing
ideas, and so on), framed the patterns in his mind and started up
his complex and admirable machinery, and IT AUTOMATICALLY turned
out that pictured and gorgeous fabric which still compels the
astonishment of the world.  If Shakespeare had been born and bred
on a barren and unvisited rock in the ocean his mighty intellect
would have had no OUTSIDE MATERIAL to work with, and could have
invented none; and NO OUTSIDE INFLUENCES, teachings, moldings,
persuasions, inspirations, of a valuable sort, and could have
invented none; and so Shakespeare would have produced nothing.
In Turkey he would have produced something--something up to the
highest limit of Turkish influences, associations, and training.
In France he would have produced something better--something up
to the highest limit of the French influences and training.  In
England he rose to the highest limit attainable through the
OUTSIDE HELPS AFFORDED BY THAT LAND'S IDEALS, INFLUENCES, AND
TRAINING.  You and I are but sewing-machines.  We must turn out
what we can; we must do our endeavor and care nothing at all when
the unthinking reproach us for not turning out Gobelins.

Y.M.  And so we are mere machines!  And machines may not
boast, nor feel proud of their performance, nor claim personal
merit for it, nor applause and praise.  It is an infamous
doctrine.

O.M.  It isn't a doctrine, it is merely a fact.

Y.M.  I suppose, then, there is no more merit in being brave
than in being a coward?

O.M.  PERSONAL merit?  No.  A brave man does not CREATE his
bravery.  He is entitled to no personal credit for possessing it.
It is born to him.  A baby born with a billion dollars--where is
the personal merit in that?  A baby born with nothing--where is
the personal demerit in that?  The one is fawned upon, admired,
worshiped, by sycophants, the other is neglected and despised--
where is the sense in it?

Y.M.  Sometimes a timid man sets himself the task of
conquering his cowardice and becoming brave--and succeeds.  What
do you say to that?

O.M.  That it shows the value of TRAINING IN RIGHT
DIRECTIONS OVER TRAINING IN WRONG ONES.  Inestimably valuable is
training, influence, education, in right directions--TRAINING
ONE'S SELF-APPROBATION TO ELEVATE ITS IDEALS.

Y.M.  But as to merit--the personal merit of the victorious
coward's project and achievement?

O.M.  There isn't any.  In the world's view he is a worthier
man than he was before, but HE didn't achieve the change--the
merit of it is not his.

Y.M.  Whose, then?

O.M.  His MAKE, and the influences which wrought upon it
from the outside.

Y.M.  His make?

O.M.  To start with, he was NOT utterly and completely a
coward, or the influences would have had nothing to work upon.
He was not afraid of a cow, though perhaps of a bull:  not afraid
of a woman, but afraid of a man.  There was something to build
upon.  There was a SEED.  No seed, no plant.  Did he make that
seed himself, or was it born in him?  It was no merit of HIS that
the seed was there.

Y.M.  Well, anyway, the idea of CULTIVATING it, the
resolution to cultivate it, was meritorious, and he originated
that.

O.M.  He did nothing of the kind.  It came whence ALL
impulses, good or bad, come--from OUTSIDE.  If that timid man had
lived all his life in a community of human rabbits, had never
read of brave deeds, had never heard speak of them, had never
heard any one praise them nor express envy of the heroes that had
done them, he would have had no more idea of bravery than Adam
had of modesty, and it could never by any possibility have
occurred to him to RESOLVE to become brave.  He COULD NOT
ORIGINATE THE IDEA--it had to come to him from the OUTSIDE.  And
so, when he heard bravery extolled and cowardice derided, it woke
him up.  He was ashamed.  Perhaps his sweetheart turned up her
nose and said, "I am told that you are a coward!"  It was not HE
that turned over the new leaf--she did it for him.  HE must not
strut around in the merit of it--it is not his.

Y.M.  But, anyway, he reared the plant after she watered the
seed.

O.M.  No.  OUTSIDE INFLUENCES reared it.  At the command--
and trembling--he marched out into the field--with other soldiers
and in the daytime, not alone and in the dark.  He had the
INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE, he drew courage from his comrades' courage;
he was afraid, and wanted to run, but he did not dare; he was
AFRAID to run, with all those soldiers looking on.  He was
progressing, you see--the moral fear of shame had risen superior
to the physical fear of harm.  By the end of the campaign
experience will have taught him that not ALL who go into battle
get hurt--an outside influence which will be helpful to him; and
he will also have learned how sweet it is to be praised for
courage and be huzza'd at with tear-choked voices as the war-worn
regiment marches past the worshiping multitude with flags flying
and the drums beating.  After that he will be as securely brave
as any veteran in the army--and there will not be a shade nor
suggestion of PERSONAL MERIT in it anywhere; it will all have
come from the OUTSIDE.  The Victoria Cross breeds more heroes
than--

Y.M.  Hang it, where is the sense in his becoming brave if
he is to get no credit for it?

O.M.  Your question will answer itself presently.  It
involves an important detail of man's make which we have not yet
touched upon.

Y.M.  What detail is that?

O.M.  The impulse which moves a person to do things--the
only impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing.

Y.M.  The ONLY one!  Is there but one?

O.M.  That is all.  There is only one.

Y.M.  Well, certainly that is a strange enough doctrine.
What is the sole impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing?

O.M.  The impulse to CONTENT HIS OWN SPIRIT--the NECESSITY
of contenting his own spirit and WINNING ITS APPROVAL.

Y.M.  Oh, come, that won't do!

O.M.  Why won't it?

Y.M.  Because it puts him in the attitude of always looking
out for his own comfort and advantage; whereas an unselfish man
often does a thing solely for another person's good when it is a
positive disadvantage to himself.

O.M.  It is a mistake.  The act must do HIM good, FIRST;
otherwise he will not do it.  He may THINK he is doing it solely
for the other person's sake, but it is not so; he is contenting
his own spirit first--the other's person's benefit has to always
take SECOND place.

Y.M.  What a fantastic idea!  What becomes of self-
sacrifice?  Please answer me that.

O.M.  What is self-sacrifice?

Y.M.  The doing good to another person where no shadow nor
suggestion of benefit to one's self can result from it.



II

Man's Sole Impulse--the Securing of His Own Approval


Old Man.  There have been instances of it--you think?

Young Man.  INSTANCES?  Millions of them!

O.M.  You have not jumped to conclusions?  You have examined
them--critically?

Y.M.  They don't need it:  the acts themselves reveal the
golden impulse back of them.

O.M.  For instance?

Y.M.  Well, then, for instance.  Take the case in the book
here.  The man lives three miles up-town.  It is bitter cold,
snowing hard, midnight.  He is about to enter the horse-car when
a gray and ragged old woman, a touching picture of misery, puts
out her lean hand and begs for rescue from hunger and death.  The
man finds that he has a quarter in his pocket, but he does not
hesitate:  he gives it her and trudges home through the storm.
There--it is noble, it is beautiful; its grace is marred by no
fleck or blemish or suggestion of self-interest.

O.M.  What makes you think that?

Y.M.  Pray what else could I think?  Do you imagine that
there is some other way of looking at it?

O.M.  Can you put yourself in the man's place and tell me
what he felt and what he thought?

Y.M.  Easily.  The sight of that suffering old face pierced
his generous heart with a sharp pain.  He could not bear it.  He
could endure the three-mile walk in the storm, but he could not
endure the tortures his conscience would suffer if he turned his
back and left that poor old creature to perish.  He would not
have been able to sleep, for thinking of it.

O.M.  What was his state of mind on his way home?

Y.M.  It was a state of joy which only the self-sacrificer
knows.  His heart sang, he was unconscious of the storm.

O.M.  He felt well?

Y.M.  One cannot doubt it.

O.M.  Very well.  Now let us add up the details and see how
much he got for his twenty-five cents.  Let us try to find out
the REAL why of his making the investment.  In the first place HE
couldn't bear the pain which the old suffering face gave him.  So
he was thinking of HIS pain--this good man.  He must buy a salve
for it.  If he did not succor the old woman HIS conscience would
torture him all the way home.  Thinking of HIS pain again.  He
must buy relief for that.  If he didn't relieve the old woman HE
would not get any sleep.  He must buy some sleep--still thinking
of HIMSELF, you see.  Thus, to sum up, he bought himself free of
a sharp pain in his heart, he bought himself free of the tortures
of a waiting conscience, he bought a whole night's sleep--all for
twenty-five cents!  It should make Wall Street ashamed of itself.
On his way home his heart was joyful, and it sang--profit on top
of profit!  The impulse which moved the man to succor the old
woman was--FIRST--to CONTENT HIS OWN SPIRIT; secondly to relieve
HER sufferings.  Is it your opinion that men's acts proceed from
one central and unchanging and inalterable impulse, or from a
variety of impulses?

Y.M.  From a variety, of course--some high and fine and
noble, others not.  What is your opinion?

O.M.  Then there is but ONE law, one source.

Y.M.  That both the noblest impulses and the basest proceed
from that one source?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  Will you put that law into words?

O.M.  Yes.  This is the law, keep it in your mind.  FROM HIS
CRADLE TO HIS GRAVE A MAN NEVER DOES A SINGLE THING WHICH HAS ANY
FIRST AND FOREMOST OBJECT BUT ONE--TO SECURE PEACE OF MIND,
SPIRITUAL COMFORT, FOR HIMSELF.

Y.M.  Come!  He never does anything for any one else's
comfort, spiritual or physical?

O.M.  No.  EXCEPT ON THOSE DISTINCT TERMS--that it shall
FIRST secure HIS OWN spiritual comfort.  Otherwise he will not do
it.

Y.M.  It will be easy to expose the falsity of that
proposition.

O.M.  For instance?

Y.M.  Take that noble passion, love of country, patriotism.
A man who loves peace and dreads pain, leaves his pleasant home
and his weeping family and marches out to manfully expose himself
to hunger, cold, wounds, and death.  Is that seeking spiritual
comfort?

O.M.  He loves peace and dreads pain?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  Then perhaps there is something that he loves MORE
than he loves peace--THE APPROVAL OF HIS NEIGHBORS AND THE
PUBLIC.  And perhaps there is something which he dreads more than
he dreads pain--the DISAPPROVAL of his neighbors and the public.
If he is sensitive to shame he will go to the field--not because
his spirit will be ENTIRELY comfortable there, but because it
will be more comfortable there than it would be if he remained at
home.  He will always do the thing which will bring him the MOST
mental comfort--for that is THE SOLE LAW OF HIS LIFE.  He leaves
the weeping family behind; he is sorry to make them
uncomfortable, but not sorry enough to sacrifice his OWN comfort
to secure theirs.

Y.M.  Do you really believe that mere public opinion could
force a timid and peaceful man to--

O.M.  Go to war?  Yes--public opinion can force some men to
do ANYTHING.

Y.M.  ANYTHING?

O.M.  Yes--anything.

Y.M.  I don't believe that.  Can it force a right-principled
man to do a wrong thing?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  Can it force a kind man to do a cruel thing?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  Give an instance.

O.M.  Alexander Hamilton was a conspicuously high-principled
man.  He regarded dueling as wrong, and as opposed to the
teachings of religion--but in deference to PUBLIC OPINION he
fought a duel.  He deeply loved his family, but to buy public
approval he treacherously deserted them and threw his life away,
ungenerously leaving them to lifelong sorrow in order that he
might stand well with a foolish world.  In the then condition of
the public standards of honor he could not have been comfortable
with the stigma upon him of having refused to fight.  The
teachings of religion, his devotion to his family, his kindness
of heart, his high principles, all went for nothing when they
stood in the way of his spiritual comfort.  A man will do
ANYTHING, no matter what it is, TO SECURE HIS SPIRITUAL COMFORT;
and he can neither be forced nor persuaded to any act which has
not that goal for its object.  Hamilton's act was compelled by
the inborn necessity of contenting his own spirit; in this it was
like all the other acts of his life, and like all the acts of all
men's lives.  Do you see where the kernel of the matter lies?  A
man cannot be comfortable without HIS OWN approval.  He will
secure the largest share possible of that, at all costs, all
sacrifices.

Y.M.  A minute ago you said Hamilton fought that duel to get
PUBLIC approval.

O.M.  I did.  By refusing to fight the duel he would have
secured his family's approval and a large share of his own; but
the public approval was more valuable in his eyes than all other
approvals put together--in the earth or above it; to secure that
would furnish him the MOST comfort of mind, the most SELF-
approval; so he sacrificed all other values to get it.

Y.M.  Some noble souls have refused to fight duels, and have
manfully braved the public contempt.

O.M.  They acted ACCORDING TO THEIR MAKE.  They valued their
principles and the approval of their families ABOVE the public
approval.  They took the thing they valued MOST and let the rest
go.  They took what would give them the LARGEST share of PERSONAL
CONTENTMENT AND APPROVAL--a man ALWAYS does.  Public opinion
cannot force that kind of men to go to the wars.  When they go it
is for other reasons.  Other spirit-contenting reasons.

Y.M.  Always spirit-contenting reasons?

O.M.  There are no others.

Y.M.  When a man sacrifices his life to save a little child
from a burning building, what do you call that?

O.M.  When he does it, it is the law of HIS make.  HE can't
bear to see the child in that peril (a man of a different make
COULD), and so he tries to save the child, and loses his life.
But he has got what he was after--HIS OWN APPROVAL.

Y.M.  What do you call Love, Hate, Charity, Revenge,
Humanity, Magnanimity, Forgiveness?

O.M.  Different results of the one Master Impulse:  the
necessity of securing one's self approval.  They wear diverse
clothes and are subject to diverse moods, but in whatsoever ways
they masquerade they are the SAME PERSON all the time.  To change
the figure, the COMPULSION that moves a man--and there is but the
one--is the necessity of securing the contentment of his own
spirit.  When it stops, the man is dead.

Y.M.  That is foolishness.  Love--

O.M.  Why, love is that impulse, that law, in its most
uncompromising form.  It will squander life and everything else
on its object.  Not PRIMARILY for the object's sake, but for ITS
OWN.  When its object is happy IT is happy--and that is what it
is unconsciously after.

Y.M.  You do not even except the lofty and gracious passion
of mother-love?

O.M.  No, IT is the absolute slave of that law.  The mother
will go naked to clothe her child; she will starve that it may
have food; suffer torture to save it from pain; die that it may
live.  She takes a living PLEASURE in making these sacrifices.
SHE DOES IT FOR THAT REWARD--that self-approval, that
contentment, that peace, that comfort.  SHE WOULD DO IT FOR YOUR
CHILD IF SHE COULD GET THE SAME PAY.

Y.M.  This is an infernal philosophy of yours.

O.M.  It isn't a philosophy, it is a fact.

Y.M.  Of course you must admit that there are some acts which--

O.M.  No.  There is NO act, large or small, fine or mean,
which springs from any motive but the one--the necessity of
appeasing and contenting one's own spirit.

Y.M.  The world's philanthropists--

O.M.  I honor them, I uncover my head to them--from habit
and training; and THEY could not know comfort or happiness or
self-approval if they did not work and spend for the unfortunate.
It makes THEM happy to see others happy; and so with money and
labor they buy what they are after--HAPPINESS, SELF-APPROVAL.
Why don't miners do the same thing?  Because they can get a
thousandfold more happiness by NOT doing it.  There is no
other reason.  They follow the law of their make.

Y.M.  What do you say of duty for duty's sake?

O.M.  That IS DOES NOT EXIST.  Duties are not performed for
duty's SAKE, but because their NEGLECT would make the man
UNCOMFORTABLE.  A man performs but ONE duty--the duty of
contenting his spirit, the duty of making himself agreeable to
himself.  If he can most satisfyingly perform this sole and only
duty by HELPING his neighbor, he will do it; if he can most
satisfyingly perform it by SWINDLING his neighbor, he will do it.
But he always looks out for Number One--FIRST; the effects upon
others are a SECONDARY matter.  Men pretend to self-sacrifices,
but this is a thing which, in the ordinary value of the phrase,
DOES NOT EXIST AND HAS NOT EXISTED.  A man often honestly THINKS
he is sacrificing himself merely and solely for some one else,
but he is deceived; his bottom impulse is to content a
requirement of his nature and training, and thus acquire peace
for his soul.

Y.M.  Apparently, then, all men, both good and bad ones,
devote their lives to contenting their consciences.

O.M.  Yes.  That is a good enough name for it:  Conscience--
that independent Sovereign, that insolent absolute Monarch inside
of a man who is the man's Master.  There are all kinds of
consciences, because there are all kinds of men.  You satisfy an
assassin's conscience in one way, a philanthropist's in another,
a miser's in another, a burglar's in still another.  As a GUIDE
or INCENTIVE to any authoritatively prescribed line of morals or
conduct (leaving TRAINING out of the account), a man's conscience
is totally valueless.  I know a kind-hearted Kentuckian whose
self-approval was lacking--whose conscience was troubling him, to
phrase it with exactness--BECAUSE HE HAD NEGLECTED TO KILL A
CERTAIN MAN--a man whom he had never seen.  The stranger had
killed this man's friend in a fight, this man's Kentucky training
made it a duty to kill the stranger for it.  He neglected his
duty--kept dodging it, shirking it, putting it off, and his
unrelenting conscience kept persecuting him for this conduct.  At
last, to get ease of mind, comfort, self-approval, he hunted up
the stranger and took his life.  It was an immense act of SELF-
SACRIFICE (as per the usual definition), for he did not want to
do it, and he never would have done it if he could have bought a
contented spirit and an unworried mind at smaller cost.  But we
are so made that we will pay ANYTHING for that contentment--even
another man's life.

Y.M.  You spoke a moment ago of TRAINED consciences.  You mean
that we are not BORN with consciences competent to guide us aright?

O.M.  If we were, children and savages would know right from wrong,
and not have to be taught it.

Y.M.  But consciences can be TRAINED?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  Of course by parents, teachers, the pulpit, and books.

O.M.  Yes--they do their share; they do what they can.

Y.M.  And the rest is done by--

O.M.  Oh, a million unnoticed influences--for good or bad:
influences which work without rest during every waking moment of
a man's life, from cradle to grave.

Y.M.  You have tabulated these?

O.M.  Many of them--yes.

Y.M.  Will you read me the result?

O.M.  Another time, yes.  It would take an hour.

Y.M.  A conscience can be trained to shun evil and prefer good?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  But will it for spirit-contenting reasons only?

O.M.  It CAN'T be trained to do a thing for any OTHER reason.
The thing is impossible.

Y.M.  There MUST be a genuinely and utterly self-sacrificing
act recorded in human history somewhere.

O.M.  You are young.  You have many years before you.
Search one out.

Y.M.  It does seem to me that when a man sees a fellow-being
struggling in the water and jumps in at the risk of his life to
save him--

O.M.  Wait.  Describe the MAN.  Describe the FELLOW-BEING.
State if there is an AUDIENCE present; or if they are ALONE.

Y.M.  What have these things to do with the splendid act?

O.M.  Very much.  Shall we suppose, as a beginning, that the
two are alone, in a solitary place, at midnight?

Y.M.  If you choose.

O.M.  And that the fellow-being is the man's daughter?

Y.M.  Well, n-no--make it someone else.

O.M.  A filthy, drunken ruffian, then?

Y.M.  I see.  Circumstances alter cases.  I suppose that if there
was no audience to observe the act, the man wouldn't perform it.

O.M.  But there is here and there a man who WOULD.  People,
for instance, like the man who lost his life trying to save the
child from the fire; and the man who gave the needy old woman his
twenty-five cents and walked home in the storm--there are here
and there men like that who would do it.  And why?  Because they
couldn't BEAR to see a fellow-being struggling in the water and
not jump in and help.  It would give THEM pain.  They would save
the fellow-being on that account.  THEY WOULDN'T DO IT OTHERWISE.
They strictly obey the law which I have been insisting upon.  You
must remember and always distinguish the people who CAN'T BEAR
things from people who CAN.  It will throw light upon a number of
apparently "self-sacrificing" cases.

Y.M.  Oh, dear, it's all so disgusting.

O.M.  Yes.  And so true.

Y.M.  Come--take the good boy who does things he doesn't
want to do, in order to gratify his mother.

O.M.  He does seven-tenths of the act because it gratifies
HIM to gratify his mother.  Throw the bulk of advantage the other
way and the good boy would not do the act.  He MUST obey the iron
law.  None can escape it.

Y.M.  Well, take the case of a bad boy who--

O.M.  You needn't mention it, it is a waste of time.  It is
no matter about the bad boy's act.  Whatever it was, he had a
spirit-contenting reason for it.  Otherwise you have been
misinformed, and he didn't do it.

Y.M.  It is very exasperating.  A while ago you said that man's
conscience is not a born judge of morals and conduct, but has to
be taught and trained.  Now I think a conscience can get drowsy
and lazy, but I don't think it can go wrong; if you wake it up--



A Little Story


O.M.  I will tell you a little story:

Once upon a time an Infidel was guest in the house of a
Christian widow whose little boy was ill and near to death.  The
Infidel often watched by the bedside and entertained the boy with
talk, and he used these opportunities to satisfy a strong longing
in his nature--that desire which is in us all to better other
people's condition by having them think as we think.  He was
successful.  But the dying boy, in his last moments, reproached
him and said:

"I BELIEVED, AND WAS HAPPY IN IT; YOU HAVE TAKEN MY BELIEF
AWAY, AND MY COMFORT.  NOW I HAVE NOTHING LEFT, AND I DIE
MISERABLE; FOR THE THINGS WHICH YOU HAVE TOLD ME DO NOT TAKE THE
PLACE OF THAT WHICH I HAVE LOST."

And the mother, also, reproached the Infidel, and said:

"MY CHILD IS FOREVER LOST, AND MY HEART IS BROKEN.  HOW
COULD YOU DO THIS CRUEL THING?  WE HAVE DONE YOU NO HARM, BUT
ONLY KINDNESS; WE MADE OUR HOUSE YOUR HOME, YOU WERE WELCOME TO
ALL WE HAD, AND THIS IS OUR REWARD."

The heart of the Infidel was filled with remorse for what he
had done, and he said:

"IT WAS WRONG--I SEE IT NOW; BUT I WAS ONLY TRYING TO DO HIM
GOOD.  IN MY VIEW HE WAS IN ERROR; IT SEEMED MY DUTY TO TEACH HIM
THE TRUTH."

Then the mother said:

"I HAD TAUGHT HIM, ALL HIS LITTLE LIFE, WHAT I BELIEVED TO
BE THE TRUTH, AND IN HIS BELIEVING FAITH BOTH OF US WERE HAPPY.
NOW HE IS DEAD,--AND LOST; AND I AM MISERABLE.  OUR FAITH CAME
DOWN TO US THROUGH CENTURIES OF BELIEVING ANCESTORS; WHAT RIGHT
HAD YOU, OR ANY ONE, TO DISTURB IT?  WHERE WAS YOUR HONOR, WHERE
WAS YOUR SHAME?"

Y.M.  He was a miscreant, and deserved death!

O.M.  He thought so himself, and said so.

Y.M.  Ah--you see, HIS CONSCIENCE WAS AWAKENED1!

O.M.  Yes, his Self-Disapproval was.  It PAINED him to see
the mother suffer.  He was sorry he had done a thing which
brought HIM pain.  It did not occur to him to think of the mother
when he was misteaching the boy, for he was absorbed in providing
PLEASURE for himself, then.  Providing it by satisfying what he
believed to be a call of duty.

Y.M.  Call it what you please, it is to me a case of
AWAKENED CONSCIENCE.  That awakened conscience could never get
itself into that species of trouble again.  A cure like that is a
PERMANENT cure.

O.M.  Pardon--I had not finished the story.  We are
creatures of OUTSIDE INFLUENCES--we originate NOTHING within.
Whenever we take a new line of thought and drift into a new line
of belief and action, the impulse is ALWAYS suggested from the
OUTSIDE.  Remorse so preyed upon the Infidel that it dissolved
his harshness toward the boy's religion and made him come to
regard it with tolerance, next with kindness, for the boy's sake
and the mother's.  Finally he found himself examining it.  From
that moment his progress in his new trend was steady and rapid.
He became a believing Christian.  And now his remorse for having
robbed the dying boy of his faith and his salvation was bitterer
than ever.  It gave him no rest, no peace.  He MUST have rest and
peace--it is the law of nature.  There seemed but one way to get
it; he must devote himself to saving imperiled souls.  He became
a missionary.  He landed in a pagan country ill and helpless.  A
native widow took him into her humble home and nursed him back to
convalescence.  Then her young boy was taken hopelessly ill, and
the grateful missionary helped her tend him.  Here was his first
opportunity to repair a part of the wrong done to the other boy
by doing a precious service for this one by undermining his
foolish faith in his false gods.  He was successful.  But the
dying boy in his last moments reproached him and said:

"I BELIEVED, AND WAS HAPPY IN IT; YOU HAVE TAKEN MY BELIEF
AWAY, AND MY COMFORT.  NOW I HAVE NOTHING LEFT, AND I DIE
MISERABLE; FOR THE THINGS WHICH YOU HAVE TOLD ME DO NOT TAKE THE
PLACE OF THAT WHICH I HAVE LOST."

And the mother, also, reproached the missionary, and said:

"MY CHILD IS FOREVER LOST, AND MY HEART IS BROKEN.  HOW
COULD YOU DO THIS CRUEL THING?  WE HAD DONE YOU NO HARM, BUT ONLY
KINDNESS; WE MADE OUR HOUSE YOUR HOME, YOU WERE WELCOME TO ALL WE
HAD, AND THIS IS OUR REWARD."

The heart of the missionary was filled with remorse for what
he had done, and he said:

"IT WAS WRONG--I SEE IT NOW; BUT I WAS ONLY TRYING TO DO HIM
GOOD.  IN MY VIEW HE WAS IN ERROR; IT SEEMED MY DUTY TO TEACH HIM
THE TRUTH."

Then the mother said:

"I HAD TAUGHT HIM, ALL HIS LITTLE LIFE, WHAT I BELIEVED TO
BE THE TRUTH, AND IN HIS BELIEVING FAITH BOTH OF US WERE HAPPY.
NOW HE IS DEAD--AND LOST; AND I AM MISERABLE.  OUR FAITH CAME
DOWN TO US THROUGH CENTURIES OF BELIEVING ANCESTORS; WHAT RIGHT
HAD YOU, OR ANY ONE, TO DISTURB IT?  WHERE WAS YOUR HONOR, WHERE
WAS YOUR SHAME?"

The missionary's anguish of remorse and sense of treachery
were as bitter and persecuting and unappeasable, now, as they had
been in the former case.  The story is finished.  What is your
comment?

Y.M.  The man's conscience is a fool!  It was morbid.  It
didn't know right from wrong.

O.M.  I am not sorry to hear you say that.  If you grant
that ONE man's conscience doesn't know right from wrong, it is an
admission that there are others like it.  This single admission
pulls down the whole doctrine of infallibility of judgment in
consciences.  Meantime there is one thing which I ask you to
notice.

Y.M.  What is that?

O.M.  That in both cases the man's ACT gave him no spiritual
discomfort, and that he was quite satisfied with it and got
pleasure out of it.  But afterward when it resulted in PAIN to
HIM, he was sorry.  Sorry it had inflicted pain upon the others,
BUT FOR NO REASON UNDER THE SUN EXCEPT THAT THEIR PAIN GAVE HIM
PAIN.  Our consciences take NO notice of pain inflicted upon
others until it reaches a point where it gives pain to US.  In
ALL cases without exception we are absolutely indifferent to
another person's pain until his sufferings make us uncomfortable.
Many an infidel would not have been troubled by that Christian
mother's distress.  Don't you believe that?

Y.M.  Yes.  You might almost say it of the AVERAGE infidel,
I think.

O.M.  And many a missionary,  sternly fortified by his sense
of duty, would not have been troubled by the pagan mother's
distress--Jesuit missionaries in Canada in the early French
times, for instance; see episodes quoted by Parkman.

Y.M.  Well, let us adjourn.  Where have we arrived?

O.M.  At this.  That we (mankind) have ticketed ourselves
with a number of qualities to which we have given misleading
names.  Love, Hate, Charity, Compassion, Avarice, Benevolence,
and so on.  I mean we attach misleading MEANINGS to the names.
They are all forms of self-contentment, self-gratification, but
the names so disguise them that they distract our attention from
the fact.  Also we have smuggled a word into the dictionary which
ought not to be there at all--Self-Sacrifice.  It describes a
thing which does not exist.  But worst of all, we ignore and
never mention the Sole Impulse which dictates and compels a man's
every act:  the imperious necessity of securing his own approval,
in every emergency and at all costs.  To it we owe all that we
are.  It is our breath, our heart, our blood.  It is our only
spur, our whip, our goad, our only impelling power; we have no
other.  Without it we should be mere inert images, corpses; no
one would do anything, there would be no progress, the world
would stand still.  We ought to stand reverently uncovered when
the name of that stupendous power is uttered.

Y.M.  I am not convinced.

O.M.  You will be when you think.



III

Instances in Point


Old Man.  Have you given thought to the Gospel of Self-
Approval since we talked?

Young Man.  I have.

O.M.  It was I that moved you to it.  That is to say an
OUTSIDE INFLUENCE moved you to it--not one that originated in
your head.  Will you try to keep that in mind and not forget it?

Y.M.  Yes.  Why?

O.M.  Because by and by in one of our talks, I wish to
further impress upon you that neither you, nor I, nor any man
ever originates a thought in his own head.  THE UTTERER OF A
THOUGHT ALWAYS UTTERS A SECOND-HAND ONE.

Y.M.  Oh, now--

O.M.  Wait.  Reserve your remark till we get to that part of
our discussion--tomorrow or next day, say.  Now, then, have you
been considering the proposition that no act is ever born of any
but a self-contenting impulse--(primarily).  You have sought.
What have you found?

Y.M.  I have not been very fortunate.  I have examined many
fine and apparently self-sacrificing deeds in romances and
biographies, but--

O.M.  Under searching analysis the ostensible self-sacrifice
disappeared?  It naturally would.

Y.M.  But here in this novel is one which seems to promise.
In the Adirondack woods is a wage-earner and lay preacher in the
lumber-camps who is of noble character and deeply religious.  An
earnest and practical laborer in the New York slums comes up
there on vacation--he is leader of a section of the University
Settlement.  Holme, the lumberman, is fired with a desire to
throw away his excellent worldly prospects and go down and save
souls on the East Side.  He counts it happiness to make this
sacrifice for the glory of God and for the cause of Christ.  He
resigns his place, makes the sacrifice cheerfully, and goes to
the East Side and preaches Christ and Him crucified every day and
every night to little groups of half-civilized foreign paupers
who scoff at him.  But he rejoices in the scoffings, since he is
suffering them in the great cause of Christ.  You have so filled
my mind with suspicions that I was constantly expecting to find a
hidden questionable impulse back of all this, but I am thankful
to say I have failed.  This man saw his duty, and for DUTY'S SAKE
he sacrificed self and assumed the burden it imposed.

O.M.  Is that as far as you have read?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  Let us read further, presently.  Meantime, in
sacrificing himself--NOT for the glory of God, PRIMARILY, as HE
imagined, but FIRST to content that exacting and inflexible
master within him--DID HE SACRIFICE ANYBODY ELSE?

Y.M.  How do you mean?

O.M.  He relinquished a lucrative post and got mere food and
lodging in place of it.  Had he dependents?

Y.M.  Well--yes.

O.M.  In what way and to what extend did his self-sacrifice
affect THEM?

Y.M.  He was the support of a superannuated father.  He had
a young sister with a remarkable voice--he was giving her a
musical education, so that her longing to be self-supporting
might be gratified.  He was furnishing the money to put a young
brother through a polytechnic school and satisfy his desire to
become a civil engineer.

O.M.  The old father's comforts were now curtailed?

Y.M.  Quite seriously.  Yes.

O.M.  The sister's music-lessens had to stop?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  The young brother's education--well, an extinguishing
blight fell upon that happy dream, and he had to go to sawing
wood to support the old father, or something like that?

Y.M.  It is about what happened.  Yes.

O.M.  What a handsome job of self-sacrificing he did do!  It
seems to me that he sacrificed everybody EXCEPT himself.  Haven't
I told you that no man EVER sacrifices himself; that there is no
instance of it upon record anywhere; and that when a man's
Interior Monarch requires a thing of its slave for either its
MOMENTARY or its PERMANENT contentment, that thing must and will
be furnished and that command obeyed, no matter who may stand in
the way and suffer disaster by it?  That man RUINED HIS FAMILY to
please and content his Interior Monarch--

Y.M.  And help Christ's cause.

O.M.  Yes--SECONDLY.  Not firstly.  HE thought it was firstly.

Y.M.  Very well, have it so, if you will.  But it could be
that he argued that if he saved a hundred souls in New York--

O.M.  The sacrifice of the FAMILY would be justified by that
great profit upon the--the--what shall we call it?

Y.M.  Investment?

O.M.  Hardly.  How would SPECULATION do?  How would GAMBLE
do?  Not a solitary soul-capture was sure.  He played for a
possible thirty-three-hundred-per-cent profit.  It was GAMBLING--
with his family for "chips."  However let us see how the game
came out.  Maybe we can get on the track of the secret original
impulse, the REAL impulse, that moved him to so nobly self-
sacrifice his family in the Savior's cause under the superstition
that he was sacrificing himself.  I will read a chapter or so. .
. .  Here we have it!  It was bound to expose itself sooner or
later.  He preached to the East-Side rabble a season, then went
back to his old dull, obscure life in the lumber-camps "HURT TO
THE HEART, HIS PRIDE HUMBLED."  Why?  Were not his efforts
acceptable to the Savior, for Whom alone they were made?  Dear
me, that detail is LOST SIGHT OF, is not even referred to, the
fact that it started out as a motive is entirely forgotten!  Then
what is the trouble?  The authoress quite innocently and
unconsciously gives the whole business away.  The trouble was
this:  this man merely PREACHED to the poor; that is not the
University Settlement's way; it deals in larger and better things
than that, and it did not enthuse over that crude Salvation-Army
eloquence.  It was courteous to Holme--but cool.  It did not pet
him, did not take him to its bosom.  "PERISHED WERE ALL HIS
DREAMS OF DISTINCTION, THE PRAISE AND GRATEFUL APPROVAL--"  Of
whom?  The Savior?  No; the Savior is not mentioned.  Of whom,
then?  Of "His FELLOW-WORKERS."  Why did he want that?  Because
the Master inside of him wanted it, and would not be content
without it.  That emphasized sentence quoted above, reveals the
secret we have been seeking, the original impulse, the REAL
impulse, which moved the obscure and unappreciated Adirondack
lumberman to sacrifice his family and go on that crusade to the
East Side--which said original impulse was this, to wit:  without
knowing it HE WENT THERE TO SHOW A NEGLECTED WORLD THE LARGE
TALENT THAT WAS IN HIM, AND RISE TO DISTINCTION.  As I have
warned you before, NO act springs from any but the one law, the
one motive.  But I pray you, do not accept this law upon my say-
so; but diligently examine for yourself.  Whenever you read of a
self-sacrificing act or hear of one, or of a duty done for DUTY'S
SAKE, take it to pieces and look for the REAL motive.  It is
always there.

Y.M.  I do it every day.  I cannot help it, now that I have
gotten started upon the degrading and exasperating quest.  For it
is hatefully interesting!--in fact, fascinating is the word.  As
soon as I come across a golden deed in a book I have to stop and
take it apart and examine it, I cannot help myself.

O.M.  Have you ever found one that defeated the rule?

Y.M.  No--at least, not yet.  But take the case of servant-
tipping in Europe.  You pay the HOTEL for service; you owe the
servants NOTHING, yet you pay them besides.  Doesn't that defeat it?

O.M.  In what way?

Y.M.  You are not OBLIGED to do it, therefore its source is
compassion for their ill-paid condition, and--

O.M.  Has that custom ever vexed you, annoyed you, irritated you?

Y.M.  Well, yes.

O.M.  Still you succumbed to it?

Y.M.  Of course.

O.M.  Why of course?

Y.M.  Well, custom is law, in a way, and laws must be
submitted to--everybody recognizes it as a DUTY.

O.M.  Then you pay for the irritating tax for DUTY'S sake?

Y.M.  I suppose it amounts to that.

O.M.  Then the impulse which moves you to submit to the tax
is not ALL compassion, charity, benevolence?

Y.M.  Well--perhaps not.

O.M.  Is ANY of it?

Y.M.  I--perhaps I was too hasty in locating its source.

O.M.  Perhaps so.  In case you ignored the custom would you
get prompt and effective service from the servants?

Y.M.  Oh, hear yourself talk!  Those European servants?
Why, you wouldn't get any of all, to speak of.

O.M.  Couldn't THAT work as an impulse to move you to pay
the tax?

Y.M.  I am not denying it.

O.M.  Apparently, then, it is a case of for-duty's-sake with
a little self-interest added?

Y.M.  Yes, it has the look of it.  But here is a point:
we pay that tax knowing it to be unjust and an extortion; yet we
go away with a pain at the heart if we think we have been stingy
with the poor fellows; and we heartily wish we were back again,
so that we could do the right thing, and MORE than the right
thing, the GENEROUS thing.  I think it will be difficult for you
to find any thought of self in that impulse.

O.M.  I wonder why you should think so.  When you find
service charged in the HOTEL bill does it annoy you?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  Do you ever complain of the amount of it?

Y.M.  No, it would not occur to me.

O.M.  The EXPENSE, then, is not the annoying detail.  It is
a fixed charge, and you pay it cheerfully, you pay it without a
murmur.  When you came to pay the servants, how would you like it
if each of the men and maids had a fixed charge?

Y.M.  Like it?  I should rejoice!

O.M.  Even if the fixed tax were a shade MORE than you had
been in the habit of paying in the form of tips?

Y.M.  Indeed, yes!

O.M.  Very well, then.  As I understand it, it isn't really
compassion nor yet duty that moves you to pay the tax, and it
isn't the AMOUNT of the tax that annoys you.  Yet SOMETHING
annoys you.  What is it?

Y.M.  Well, the trouble is, you never know WHAT to pay, the
tax varies so, all over Europe.

O.M.  So you have to guess?

Y.M.  There is no other way.  So you go on thinking and
thinking, and calculating and guessing, and consulting with other
people and getting their views; and it spoils your sleep nights,
and makes you distraught in the daytime, and while you are
pretending to look at the sights you are only guessing and
guessing and guessing all the time, and being worried and
miserable.

O.M.  And all about a debt which you don't owe and don't
have to pay unless you want to!  Strange.  What is the purpose of
the guessing?

Y.M.  To guess out what is right to give them, and not be
unfair to any of them.

O.M.  It has quite a noble look--taking so much pains and using up
so much valuable time in order to be just and fair to a poor servant
to whom you owe nothing, but who needs money and is ill paid.

Y.M.  I think, myself, that if there is any ungracious
motive back of it it will be hard to find.

O.M.  How do you know when you have not paid a servant fairly?

Y.M.  Why, he is silent; does not thank you.  Sometimes he
gives you a look that makes you ashamed.  You are too proud to
rectify your mistake there, with people looking, but afterward
you keep on wishing and wishing you HAD done it.  My, the shame
and the pain of it!  Sometimes you see, by the signs, that you
have it JUST RIGHT, and you go away mightily satisfied.
Sometimes the man is so effusively thankful that you know you
have given him a good deal MORE than was necessary.

O.M.  NECESSARY?  Necessary for what?

Y.M.  To content him.

O.M.  How do you feel THEN?

Y.M.  Repentant.

O.M.  It is my belief that you have NOT been concerning
yourself in guessing out his just dues, but only in ciphering out
what would CONTENT him.  And I think you have a self-deluding
reason for that.

Y.M.  What was it?

O.M.  If you fell short of what he was expecting and
wanting, you would get a look which would SHAME YOU BEFORE FOLK.
That would give you PAIN.  YOU--for you are only working for
yourself, not HIM.  If you gave him too much you would be ASHAMED
OF YOURSELF for it, and that would give YOU pain--another case of
thinking of YOURSELF, protecting yourself, SAVING YOURSELF FROM
DISCOMFORT.  You never think of the servant once--except to guess
out how to get HIS APPROVAL.  If you get that, you get your OWN
approval, and that is the sole and only thing you are after.  The
Master inside of you is then satisfied, contented, comfortable;
there was NO OTHER thing at stake, as a matter of FIRST interest,
anywhere in the transaction.



Further Instances

Y.M.  Well, to think of it; Self-Sacrifice for others, the
grandest thing in man, ruled out! non-existent!

O.M.  Are you accusing me of saying that?

Y.M.  Why, certainly.

O.M.  I haven't said it.

Y.M.  What did you say, then?

O.M.  That no man has ever sacrificed himself in the common
meaning of that phrase--which is, self-sacrifice for another
ALONE.  Men make daily sacrifices for others, but it is for their
own sake FIRST.  The act must content their own spirit FIRST.
The other beneficiaries come second.

Y.M.  And the same with duty for duty's sake?

O.M.  Yes.  No man performs a duty for mere duty's sake; the act
must content his spirit FIRST.  He must feel better for DOING the
duty than he would for shirking it.  Otherwise he will not do it.

Y.M.  Take the case of the BERKELEY CASTLE.

O.M.  It was a noble duty, greatly performed.  Take it to
pieces and examine it, if you like.

Y.M.  A British troop-ship crowded with soldiers and their
wives and children.  She struck a rock and began to sink.  There
was room in the boats for the women and children only.  The
colonel lined up his regiment on the deck and said "it is our
duty to die, that they may be saved."  There was no murmur, no
protest.  The boats carried away the women and children.  When
the death-moment was come, the colonel and his officers took
their several posts, the men stood at shoulder-arms, and so, as
on dress-parade, with their flag flying and the drums beating,
they went down, a sacrifice to duty for duty's sake.  Can you
view it as other than that?

O.M.  It was something as fine as that, as exalted as that.
Could you have remained in those ranks and gone down to your
death in that unflinching way?

Y.M.  Could I?  No, I could not.

O.M.  Think.  Imagine yourself there, with that watery doom
creeping higher and higher around you.

Y.M.  I can imagine it.  I feel all the horror of it.  I could
not have endured it, I could not have remained in my place.
I know it.

O.M.  Why?

Y.M.  There is no why about it:  I know myself, and I know I
couldn't DO it.

O.M.  But it would be your DUTY to do it.

Y.M.  Yes, I know--but I couldn't.

O.M.  It was more than thousand men, yet not one of them
flinched.  Some of them must have been born with your
temperament; if they could do that great duty for duty's SAKE,
why not you?  Don't you know that you could go out and gather
together a thousand clerks and mechanics and put them on that
deck and ask them to die for duty's sake, and not two dozen of
them would stay in the ranks to the end?

Y.M.  Yes, I know that.

O.M.  But your TRAIN them, and put them through a campaign
or two; then they would be soldiers; soldiers, with a soldier's
pride, a soldier's self-respect, a soldier's ideals.  They would
have to content a SOLDIER'S spirit then, not a clerk's, not a
mechanic's.  They could not content that spirit by shirking a
soldier's duty, could they?

Y.M.  I suppose not.

O.M.  Then they would do the duty not for the DUTY'S sake,
but for their OWN sake--primarily.  The DUTY was JUST THE SAME,
and just as imperative, when they were clerks, mechanics, raw
recruits, but they wouldn't perform it for that.  As clerks and
mechanics they had other ideals, another spirit to satisfy, and
they satisfied it.  They HAD to; it is the law.  TRAINING is
potent.  Training toward higher and higher, and ever higher
ideals is worth any man's thought and labor and diligence.

Y.M.  Consider the man who stands by his duty and goes to
the stake rather than be recreant to it.

O.M.  It is his make and his training.  He has to content
the spirit that is in him, though it cost him his life.  Another
man, just as sincerely religious, but of different temperament,
will fail of that duty, though recognizing it as a duty, and
grieving to be unequal to it:  but he must content the spirit
that is in him--he cannot help it.  He could not perform that
duty for duty's SAKE, for that would not content his spirit, and
the contenting of his spirit must be looked to FIRST.  It takes
precedence of all other duties.

Y.M.  Take the case of a clergyman of stainless private
morals who votes for a thief for public office, on his own
party's ticket, and against an honest man on the other ticket.

O.M.  He has to content his spirit.  He has no public
morals; he has no private ones, where his party's prosperity is
at stake.  He will always be true to his make and training.



IV

Training

Young Man.  You keep using that word--training.  By it do
you particularly mean--

Old Man.  Study, instruction, lectures, sermons?  That is a
part of it--but not a large part.  I mean ALL the outside
influences.  There are a million of them.  From the cradle to the
grave, during all his waking hours, the human being is under
training.  In the very first rank of his trainers stands
ASSOCIATION.  It is his human environment which influences his
mind and his feelings, furnishes him his ideals, and sets him on
his road and keeps him in it.  If he leave that road he will find
himself shunned by the people whom he most loves and esteems, and
whose approval he most values.  He is a chameleon; by the law of
his nature he takes the color of his place of resort.  The
influences about him create his preferences, his aversions, his
politics, his tastes, his morals, his religion.  He creates none
of these things for himself.  He THINKS he does, but that is
because he has not examined into the matter.  You have seen
Presbyterians?

Y.M.  Many.

O.M.  How did they happen to be Presbyterians and not
Congregationalists?  And why were the Congregationalists not
Baptists, and the Baptists Roman Catholics, and the Roman
Catholics Buddhists, and the Buddhists Quakers, and the Quakers
Episcopalians, and the Episcopalians Millerites and the
Millerites Hindus, and the Hindus Atheists, and the Atheists
Spiritualists, and the Spiritualists Agnostics, and the Agnostics
Methodists, and the Methodists Confucians, and the Confucians
Unitarians, and the Unitarians Mohammedans, and the Mohammedans
Salvation Warriors, and the Salvation Warriors Zoroastrians, and
the Zoroastrians Christian Scientists, and the Christian
Scientists Mormons--and so on?

Y.M.  You may answer your question yourself.

O.M.  That list of sects is not a record of STUDIES,
searchings, seekings after light; it mainly (and sarcastically)
indicates what ASSOCIATION can do.  If you know a man's
nationality you can come within a split hair of guessing the
complexion of his religion:  English--Protestant; American--
ditto; Spaniard, Frenchman, Irishman, Italian, South American--
Roman Catholic; Russian--Greek Catholic; Turk--Mohammedan; and so
on.  And when you know the man's religious complexion, you know
what sort of religious books he reads when he wants some more
light, and what sort of books he avoids, lest by accident he get
more light than he wants.  In America if you know which party-
collar a voter wears, you know what his associations are, and how
he came by his politics, and which breed of newspaper he reads to
get light, and which breed he diligently avoids, and which breed
of mass-meetings he attends in order to broaden his political
knowledge, and which breed of mass-meetings he doesn't attend,
except to refute its doctrines with brickbats.  We are always
hearing of people who are around SEEKING AFTER TRUTH.  I have
never seen a (permanent) specimen.  I think he had never lived.
But I have seen several entirely sincere people who THOUGHT they
were (permanent) Seekers after Truth.  They sought diligently,
persistently, carefully, cautiously, profoundly, with perfect
honesty and nicely adjusted judgment--until they believed that
without doubt or question they had found the Truth.  THAT WAS THE
END OF THE SEARCH.  The man spent the rest of his life hunting up
shingles wherewith to protect his Truth from the weather.  If he
was seeking after political Truth he found it in one or another
of the hundred political gospels which govern men in the earth;
if he was seeking after the Only True Religion he found it in one
or another of the three thousand that are on the market.  In any
case, when he found the Truth HE SOUGHT NO FURTHER; but from that
day forth, with his soldering-iron in one hand and his bludgeon
in the other he tinkered its leaks and reasoned with objectors.
There have been innumerable Temporary Seekers of Truth--have you
ever heard of a permanent one?  In the very nature of man such a
person is impossible.  However, to drop back to the text--
training:  all training is one from or another of OUTSIDE
INFLUENCE, and ASSOCIATION is the largest part of it.  A man is
never anything but what his outside influences have made him.
They train him downward or they train him upward--but they TRAIN
him; they are at work upon him all the time.

Y.M.  Then if he happen by the accidents of life to be
evilly placed there is no help for him, according to your
notions--he must train downward.

O.M.  No help for him?  No help for this chameleon?  It is a
mistake.  It is in his chameleonship that his greatest good
fortune lies.  He has only to change his habitat--his
ASSOCIATIONS.  But the impulse to do it must come from the
OUTSIDE--he cannot originate it himself, with that purpose in
view.  Sometimes a very small and accidental thing can furnish
him the initiatory impulse and start him on a new road, with a
new idea.  The chance remark of a sweetheart, "I hear that you
are a coward," may water a seed that shall sprout and bloom and
flourish, and ended in producing a surprising fruitage--in the
fields of war.  The history of man is full of such accidents.
The accident of a broken leg brought a profane and ribald soldier
under religious influences and furnished him a new ideal.  From
that accident sprang the Order of the Jesuits, and it has been
shaking thrones, changing policies, and doing other tremendous
work for two hundred years--and will go on.  The chance reading
of a book or of a paragraph in a newspaper can start a man on a
new track and make him renounce his old associations and seek new
ones that are IN SYMPATHY WITH HIS NEW IDEAL:  and the result,
for that man, can be an entire change of his way of life.

Y.M.  Are you hinting at a scheme of procedure?

O.M.  Not a new one--an old one.  One as mankind.

Y.M.  What is it?

O.M.  Merely the laying of traps for people.  Traps baited
with INITIATORY IMPULSES TOWARD HIGH IDEALS.  It is what the
tract-distributor does.  It is what the missionary does.  It is
what governments ought to do.

Y.M.  Don't they?

O.M.  In one way they do, in another they don't.  They
separate the smallpox patients from the healthy people, but in
dealing with crime they put the healthy into the pest-house along
with the sick.  That is to say, they put the beginners in with
the confirmed criminals.  This would be well if man were
naturally inclined to good, but he isn't, and so ASSOCIATION
makes the beginners worse than they were when they went into
captivity.  It is putting a very severe punishment upon the
comparatively innocent at times.  They hang a man--which is a
trifling punishment; this breaks the hearts of his family--which
is a heavy one.  They comfortably jail and feed a wife-beater,
and leave his innocent wife and family to starve.

Y.M.  Do you believe in the doctrine that man is equipped
with an intuitive perception of good and evil?

O.M.  Adam hadn't it.

Y.M.  But has man acquired it since?

O.M.  No.  I think he has no intuitions of any kind.  He
gets ALL his ideas, all his impressions, from the outside.  I
keep repeating this, in the hope that I may impress it upon you
that you will be interested to observe and examine for yourself
and see whether it is true or false.

Y.M.  Where did you get your own aggravating notions?

O.M.  From the OUTSIDE.  I did not invent them.  They are
gathered from a thousand unknown sources.  Mainly UNCONSCIOUSLY
gathered.

Y.M.  Don't you believe that God could make an inherently
honest man?

O.M.  Yes, I know He could.  I also know that He never did
make one.

Y.M.  A wiser observer than you has recorded the fact that
"an honest man's the noblest work of God."

O.M.  He didn't record a fact, he recorded a falsity.  It is windy,
and sounds well, but it is not true.  God makes a man with honest
and dishonest POSSIBILITIES in him and stops there.  The man's
ASSOCIATIONS develop the possibilities--the one set or the other.
The result is accordingly an honest man or a dishonest one.

Y.M.  And the honest one is not entitled to--

O.M.  Praise?  No.  How often must I tell you that?  HE is
not the architect of his honesty.

Y.M.  Now then, I will ask you where there is any sense in
training people to lead virtuous lives.  What is gained by it?

O.M.  The man himself gets large advantages out of it, and
that is the main thing--to HIM.  He is not a peril to his
neighbors, he is not a damage to them--and so THEY get an
advantage out of his virtues.  That is the main thing to THEM.
It can make this life comparatively comfortable to the parties
concerned; the NEGLECT of this training can make this life a
constant peril and distress to the parties concerned.

Y.M.  You have said that training is everything; that
training is the man HIMSELF, for it makes him what he is.

O.M.  I said training and ANOTHER thing.  Let that other
thing pass, for the moment.  What were you going to say?

Y.M.  We have an old servant.  She has been with us twenty-
two years.  Her service used to be faultless, but now she has
become very forgetful.  We are all fond of her; we all recognize
that she cannot help the infirmity which age has brought her; the
rest of the family do not scold her for her remissnesses, but at
times I do--I can't seem to control myself.  Don't I try?  I do
try.  Now, then, when I was ready to dress, this morning, no
clean clothes had been put out.  I lost my temper; I lose it
easiest and quickest in the early morning.  I rang; and
immediately began to warn myself not to show temper, and to be
careful and speak gently.  I safe-guarded myself most carefully.
I even chose the very word I would use:  "You've forgotten the
clean clothes, Jane."  When she appeared in the door I opened my
mouth to say that phrase--and out of it, moved by an instant
surge of passion which I was not expecting and hadn't time to put
under control, came the hot rebuke, "You've forgotten them
again!"  You say a man always does the thing which will best
please his Interior Master.  Whence came the impulse to make
careful preparation to save the girl the humiliation of a rebuke?
Did that come from the Master, who is always primarily concerned
about HIMSELF?

O.M.  Unquestionably.  There is no other source for any
impulse.  SECONDARILY you made preparation to save the girl, but
PRIMARILY its object was to save yourself, by contenting the
Master.

Y.M.  How do you mean?

O.M.  Has any member of the family ever implored you to
watch your temper and not fly out at the girl?

Y.M.  Yes.  My mother.

O.M.  You love her?

Y.M.  Oh, more than that!

O.M.  You would always do anything in your power to please her?

Y.M.  It is a delight to me to do anything to please her!

O.M.  Why?  YOU WOULD DO IT FOR PAY, SOLELY--for PROFIT.
What profit would you expect and certainly receive from
the investment?

Y.M.  Personally?  None.  To please HER is enough.

O.M.  It appears, then, that your object, primarily, WASN'T
to save the girl a humiliation, but to PLEASE YOUR MOTHER.  It
also appears that to please your mother gives YOU a strong
pleasure.  Is not that the profit which you get out of the
investment?  Isn't that the REAL profits and FIRST profit?

Y.M.  Oh, well?  Go on.

O.M.  In ALL transactions, the Interior Master looks to it
that YOU GET THE FIRST PROFIT.  Otherwise there is no
transaction.

Y.M.  Well, then, if I was so anxious to get that profit and
so intent upon it, why did I threw it away by losing my temper?

O.M.  In order to get ANOTHER profit which suddenly
superseded it in value.

Y.M.  Where was it?

O.M.  Ambushed behind your born temperament, and waiting for
a chance.  Your native warm temper suddenly jumped to the front,
and FOR THE MOMENT its influence was more powerful than your
mother's, and abolished it.  In that instance you were eager to
flash out a hot rebuke and enjoy it.  You did enjoy it, didn't you?

Y.M.  For--for a quarter of a second.  Yes--I did.

O.M.  Very well, it is as I have said:  the thing which will
give you the MOST pleasure, the most satisfaction, in any moment
or FRACTION of a moment, is the thing you will always do.  You
must content the Master's LATEST whim, whatever it may be.

Y.M.  But when the tears came into the old servant's eyes I
could have cut my hand off for what I had done.

O.M.  Right.  You had humiliated YOURSELF, you see, you had
given yourself PAIN.  Nothing is of FIRST importance to a man
except results which damage HIM or profit him--all the rest is
SECONDARY.  Your Master was displeased with you, although you had
obeyed him.  He required a prompt REPENTANCE; you obeyed again;
you HAD to--there is never any escape from his commands.  He is a
hard master and fickle; he changes his mind in the fraction of a
second, but you must be ready to obey, and you will obey, ALWAYS.
If he requires repentance, you content him, you will always
furnish it.  He must be nursed, petted, coddled, and kept
contented, let the terms be what they may.

Y.M.  Training!  Oh, what's the use of it?  Didn't I, and
didn't my mother try to train me up to where I would no longer
fly out at that girl?

O.M.  Have you never managed to keep back a scolding?

Y.M.  Oh, certainly--many times.

O.M.  More times this year than last?

Y.M.  Yes, a good many more.

O.M.  More times last year than the year before?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  There is a large improvement, then, in the two years?

Y.M.  Yes, undoubtedly.

O.M.  Then your question is answered.  You see there IS use in
training.  Keep on.  Keeping faithfully on.  You are doing well.

Y.M.  Will my reform reach perfection?

O.M.  It will.  UP to YOUR limit.

Y.M.  My limit?  What do you mean by that?

O.M.  You remember that you said that I said training was
EVERYTHING.  I corrected you, and said "training and ANOTHER
thing."  That other thing is TEMPERAMENT--that is, the
disposition you were born with.  YOU CAN'T ERADICATE YOUR
DISPOSITION NOR ANY RAG OF IT--you can only put a pressure on it
and keep it down and quiet.  You have a warm temper?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  You will never get rid of it; but by watching it you
can keep it down nearly all the time.  ITS PRESENCE IS YOUR
LIMIT.  Your reform will never quite reach perfection, for your
temper will beat you now and then, but you come near enough.  You
have made valuable progress and can make more.  There IS use in
training.  Immense use.  Presently you will reach a new stage of
development, then your progress will be easier; will proceed on a
simpler basis, anyway.

Y.M.  Explain.

O.M.  You keep back your scoldings now, to please YOURSELF
by pleasing your MOTHER; presently the mere triumphing over your
temper will delight your vanity and confer a more delicious
pleasure and satisfaction upon you than even the approbation of
your MOTHER confers upon you now.  You will then labor for
yourself directly and at FIRST HAND, not by the roundabout way
through your mother.  It simplifies the matter, and it also
strengthens the impulse.

Y.M.  Ah, dear!  But I sha'n't ever reach the point where I
will spare the girl for HER sake PRIMARILY, not mine?

O.M.  Why--yes.  In heaven.

Y.M.  (AFTER A REFLECTIVE PAUSE)  Temperament.  Well, I see
one must allow for temperament.  It is a large factor, sure
enough.  My mother is thoughtful, and not hot-tempered.  When I
was dressed I went to her room; she was not there; I called, she
answered from the bathroom.  I heard the water running.  I
inquired.  She answered, without temper, that Jane had forgotten
her bath, and she was preparing it herself.  I offered to ring,
but she said, "No, don't do that; it would only distress her to
be confronted with her lapse, and would be a rebuke; she doesn't
deserve that--she is not to blame for the tricks her memory
serves her."  I say--has my mother an Interior Master?--and where
was he?

O.M.  He was there.  There, and looking out for his own
peace and pleasure and contentment.  The girl's distress would
have pained YOUR MOTHER.  Otherwise the girl would have been rung
up, distress and all.  I know women who would have gotten a No. 1
PLEASURE out of ringing Jane up--and so they would infallibly
have pushed the button and obeyed the law of their make and
training, which are the servants of their Interior Masters.  It
is quite likely that a part of your mother's forbearance came
from training.  The GOOD kind of training--whose best and highest
function is to see to it that every time it confers a
satisfaction upon its pupil a benefit shall fall at second hand
upon others.

Y.M.  If you were going to condense into an admonition your
plan for the general betterment of the race's condition, how
would you word it?



Admonition

O.M.  Diligently train your ideals UPWARD and STILL UPWARD
toward a summit where you will find your chiefest pleasure in
conduct which, while contenting you, will be sure to confer
benefits upon your neighbor and the community.

Y.M.  Is that a new gospel?

O.M.  No.

Y.M.  It has been taught before?

O.M.  For ten thousand years.

Y.M.  By whom?

O.M.  All the great religions--all the great gospels.

Y.M.  Then there is nothing new about it?

O.M.  Oh yes, there is.  It is candidly stated, this time.
That has not been done before.

Y.M.  How do you mean?

O.M.  Haven't I put YOU FIRST, and your neighbor and the
community AFTERWARD?

Y.M.  Well, yes, that is a difference, it is true.

O.M.  The difference between straight speaking and crooked;
the difference between frankness and shuffling.

Y.M.  Explain.

O.M.  The others offer your a hundred bribes to be good,
thus conceding that the Master inside of you must be conciliated
and contented first, and that you will do nothing at FIRST HAND
but for his sake; then they turn square around and require you to
do good for OTHER'S sake CHIEFLY; and to do your duty for duty's
SAKE, chiefly; and to do acts of SELF-SACRIFICE.  Thus at the
outset we all stand upon the same ground--recognition of the
supreme and absolute Monarch that resides in man, and we all
grovel before him and appeal to him; then those others dodge and
shuffle, and face around and unfrankly and inconsistently and
illogically change the form of their appeal and direct its
persuasions to man's SECOND-PLACE powers and to powers which have
NO EXISTENCE in him, thus advancing them to FIRST place; whereas
in my Admonition I stick logically and consistently to the
original position:  I place the Interior Master's requirements
FIRST, and keep them there.

Y.M.  If we grant, for the sake of argument, that your
scheme and the other schemes aim at and produce the same result--
RIGHT LIVING--has yours an advantage over the others?

O.M.  One, yes--a large one.  It has no concealments, no
deceptions.  When a man leads a right and valuable life under it
he is not deceived as to the REAL chief motive which impels him
to it--in those other cases he is.

Y.M.  Is that an advantage?  Is it an advantage to live a
lofty life for a mean reason?  In the other cases he lives the
lofty life under the IMPRESSION that he is living for a lofty
reason.  Is not that an advantage?

O.M.  Perhaps so.  The same advantage he might get out of
thinking himself a duke, and living a duke's life and parading in
ducal fuss and feathers, when he wasn't a duke at all, and could
find it out if he would only examine the herald's records.

Y.M.  But anyway, he is obliged to do a duke's part; he puts
his hand in his pocket and does his benevolences on as big a
scale as he can stand, and that benefits the community.

O.M.  He could do that without being a duke.

Y.M.  But would he?

O.M.  Don't you see where you are arriving?

Y.M.  Where?

O.M.  At the standpoint of the other schemes:  That it is
good morals to let an ignorant duke do showy benevolences for his
pride's sake, a pretty low motive, and go on doing them unwarned,
lest if he were made acquainted with the actual motive which
prompted them he might shut up his purse and cease to be good?

Y.M.  But isn't it best to leave him in ignorance, as long
as he THINKS he is doing good for others' sake?

O.M.  Perhaps so.  It is the position of the other schemes.
They think humbug is good enough morals when the dividend on it
is good deeds and handsome conduct.

Y.M.  It is my opinion that under your scheme of a man's
doing a good deed for his OWN sake first-off, instead of first
for the GOOD DEED'S sake, no man would ever do one.

O.M.  Have you committed a benevolence lately?

Y.M.  Yes.  This morning.

O.M.  Give the particulars.

Y.M.  The cabin of the old negro woman who used to nurse me
when I was a child and who saved my life once at the risk of her
own, was burned last night, and she came mourning this morning,
and pleading for money to build another one.

O.M.  You furnished it?

Y.M.  Certainly.

O.M.  You were glad you had the money?

Y.M.  Money?  I hadn't.  I sold my horse.

O.M.  You were glad you had the horse?

Y.M.  Of course I was; for if I hadn't had the horse I
should have been incapable, and my MOTHER would have captured the
chance to set old Sally up.

O.M.  You were cordially glad you were not caught out and
incapable?

Y.M.  Oh, I just was!

O.M.  Now, then--

Y.M.  Stop where you are!  I know your whole catalog of
questions, and I could answer every one of them without your
wasting the time to ask them; but I will summarize the whole
thing in a single remark:  I did the charity knowing it was
because the act would give ME a splendid pleasure, and because
old Sally's moving gratitude and delight would give ME another
one; and because the reflection that she would be happy now and
out of her trouble would fill ME full of happiness.  I did the
whole thing with my eyes open and recognizing and realizing that
I was looking out for MY share of the profits FIRST.  Now then, I
have confessed.  Go on.

O.M.  I haven't anything to offer; you have covered the
whole ground.  Can you have been any MORE strongly moved to help
Sally out of her trouble--could you have done the deed any more
eagerly--if you had been under the delusion that you were doing
it for HER sake and profit only?

Y.M.  No!  Nothing in the world could have made the impulse
which moved me more powerful, more masterful, more thoroughly
irresistible.  I played the limit!

O.M.  Very well.  You begin to suspect--and I claim to KNOW
--that when a man is a shade MORE STRONGLY MOVED to do ONE of two
things or of two dozen things than he is to do any one of the
OTHERS, he will infallibly do that ONE thing, be it good or be it
evil; and if it be good, not all the beguilements of all the
casuistries can increase the strength of the impulse by a single
shade or add a shade to the comfort and contentment he will get
out of the act.

Y.M.  Then you believe that such tendency toward doing good
as is in men's hearts would not be diminished by the removal of
the delusion that good deeds are done primarily for the sake of
No. 2 instead of for the sake of No. 1?

O.M.  That is what I fully believe.

Y.M.  Doesn't it somehow seem to take from the dignity of the deed?

O.M.  If there is dignity in falsity, it does.  It removes that.

Y.M.  What is left for the moralists to do?

O.M.  Teach unreservedly what he already teaches with one
side of his mouth and takes back with the other:  Do right FOR
YOUR OWN SAKE, and be happy in knowing that your NEIGHBOR will
certainly share in the benefits resulting.

Y.M.  Repeat your Admonition.

O.M.  DILIGENTLY TRAIN YOUR IDEALS UPWARD AND STILL UPWARD
TOWARD A SUMMIT WHERE YOU WILL FIND YOUR CHIEFEST PLEASURE IN
CONDUCT WHICH, WHILE CONTENTING YOU, WILL BE SURE TO CONFER
BENEFITS UPON YOUR NEIGHBOR AND THE COMMUNITY.

Y.M.  One's EVERY act proceeds from EXTERIOR INFLUENCES, you think?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  If I conclude to rob a person, I am not the ORIGINATOR
of the idea, but it comes in from the OUTSIDE?  I see him
handling money--for instance--and THAT moves me to the crime?

O.M.  That, by itself?  Oh, certainly not.  It is merely the
LATEST outside influence of a procession of preparatory
influences stretching back over a period of years.  No SINGLE
outside influence can make a man do a thing which is at war with
his training.  The most it can do is to start his mind on a new
tract and open it to the reception of NEW influences--as in the
case of Ignatius Loyola.  In time these influences can train him
to a point where it will be consonant with his new character to
yield to the FINAL influence and do that thing.  I will put the
case in a form which will make my theory clear to you, I think.
Here are two ingots of virgin gold.  They shall represent a
couple of characters which have been refined and perfected in the
virtues by years of diligent right training.  Suppose you wanted
to break down these strong and well-compacted characters--what
influence would you bring to bear upon the ingots?

Y.M.  Work it out yourself.  Proceed.

O.M.  Suppose I turn upon one of them a steam-jet during a
long succession of hours.  Will there be a result?

Y.M.  None that I know of.

O.M.  Why?

Y.M.  A steam-jet cannot break down such a substance.

O.M.  Very well.  The steam is an OUTSIDE INFLUENCE, but it
is ineffective because the gold TAKES NO INTEREST IN IT.  The
ingot remains as it was.  Suppose we add to the steam some
quicksilver in a vaporized condition, and turn the jet upon the
ingot, will there be an instantaneous result?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  The QUICKSILVER is an outside influence which gold (by
its peculiar nature--say TEMPERAMENT, DISPOSITION) CANNOT BE
INDIFFERENT TO.  It stirs up the interest of the gold, although
we do not perceive it; but a SINGLE application of the influence
works no damage.  Let us continue the application in a steady
stream, and call each minute a year.  By the end of ten or twenty
minutes--ten or twenty years--the little ingot is sodden with
quicksilver, its virtues are gone, its character is degraded.  At
last it is ready to yield to a temptation which it would have
taken no notice of, ten or twenty years ago.  We will apply that
temptation in the form of a pressure of my finger.  You note the
result?

Y.M.  Yes; the ingot has crumbled to sand.  I understand,
now.  It is not the SINGLE outside influence that does the work,
but only the LAST one of a long and disintegrating accumulation
of them.  I see, now, how my SINGLE impulse to rob the man is not
the one that makes me do it, but only the LAST one of a
preparatory series.  You might illustrate with a parable.



A Parable

O.M.  I will.  There was once a pair of New England boys--
twins.  They were alike in good dispositions, feckless morals,
and personal appearance.  They were the models of the Sunday-
school.  At fifteen George had the opportunity to go as cabin-boy
in a whale-ship, and sailed away for the Pacific.  Henry remained
at home in the village.  At eighteen George was a sailor before
the mast, and Henry was teacher of the advanced Bible class.  At
twenty-two George, through fighting-habits and drinking-habits
acquired at sea and in the sailor boarding-houses of the European
and Oriental ports, was a common rough in Hong-Kong, and out of a
job; and Henry was superintendent of the Sunday-school.  At
twenty-six George was a wanderer, a tramp, and Henry was pastor
of the village church.  Then George came home, and was Henry's
guest.  One evening a man passed by and turned down the lane, and
Henry said, with a pathetic smile, "Without intending me a
discomfort, that man is always keeping me reminded of my pinching
poverty, for he carries heaps of money about him, and goes by
here every evening of his life."  That OUTSIDE INFLUENCE--that
remark--was enough for George, but IT was not the one that made
him ambush the man and rob him, it merely represented the eleven
years' accumulation of such influences, and gave birth to the act
for which their long gestation had made preparation.  It had
never entered the head of Henry to rob the man--his ingot had
been subjected to clean steam only; but George's had been
subjected to vaporized quicksilver.



V

More About the Machine

Note.--When Mrs. W. asks how can a millionaire give a single
dollar to colleges and museums while one human being is destitute
of bread, she has answered her question herself.  Her feeling for
the poor shows that she has a standard of benevolence; there she
has conceded the millionaire's privilege of having a standard;
since she evidently requires him to adopt her standard, she is by
that act requiring herself to adopt his.  The human being always
looks down when he is examining another person's standard; he
never find one that he has to examine by looking up.




The Man-Machine Again


Young Man.  You really think man is a mere machine?

Old Man.  I do.

Y.M.  And that his mind works automatically and is
independent of his control--carries on thought on its own hook?

O.M.  Yes.  It is diligently at work, unceasingly at work,
during every waking moment.  Have you never tossed about all
night, imploring, beseeching, commanding your mind to stop work
and let you go to sleep?--you who perhaps imagine that your mind
is your servant and must obey your orders, think what you tell it
to think, and stop when you tell it to stop.  When it chooses to
work, there is no way to keep it still for an instant.  The
brightest man would not be able to supply it with subjects if he
had to hunt them up.  If it needed the man's help it would wait
for him to give it work when he wakes in the morning.

Y.M.  Maybe it does.

O.M.  No, it begins right away, before the man gets wide
enough awake to give it a suggestion.  He may go to sleep saying,
"The moment I wake I will think upon such and such a subject,"
but he will fail.  His mind will be too quick for him; by the
time he has become nearly enough awake to be half conscious, he
will find that it is already at work upon another subject.  Make
the experiment and see.

Y.M.  At any rate, he can make it stick to a subject if he
wants to.

O.M.  Not if it find another that suits it better.  As a
rule it will listen to neither a dull speaker nor a bright one.
It refuses all persuasion.  The dull speaker wearies it and sends
it far away in idle dreams; the bright speaker throws out
stimulating ideas which it goes chasing after and is at once
unconscious of him and his talk.  You cannot keep your mind from
wandering, if it wants to; it is master, not you.



After an Interval of Days


O.M.  Now, dreams--but we will examine that later.
Meantime, did you try commanding your mind to wait for orders
from you, and not do any thinking on its own hook?

Y.M.  Yes, I commanded it to stand ready to take orders when
I should wake in the morning.

O.M.  Did it obey?

Y.M.  No.  It went to thinking of something of its own
initiation, without waiting for me.  Also--as you suggested--at
night I appointed a theme for it to begin on in the morning, and
commanded it to begin on that one and no other.

O.M.  Did it obey?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  How many times did you try the experiment?

Y.M.  Ten.

O.M.  How many successes did you score?

Y.M.  Not one.

O.M.  It is as I have said:  the mind is independent of the
man.  He has no control over it; it does as it pleases.  It will
take up a subject in spite of him; it will stick to it in spite
of him; it will throw it aside in spite of him.  It is entirely
independent of him.

Y.M.  Go on.  Illustrate.

O.M.  Do you know chess?

Y.M.  I learned it a week ago.

O.M.  Did your mind go on playing the game all night that
first night?

Y.M.  Don't mention it!

O.M.  It was eagerly, unsatisfiably interested; it rioted in
the combinations; you implored it to drop the game and let you
get some sleep?

Y.M.  Yes.  It wouldn't listen; it played right along.  It
wore me out and I got up haggard and wretched in the morning.

O.M.  At some time or other you have been captivated by a
ridiculous rhyme-jingle?

Y.M.  Indeed, yes!

"I saw Esau kissing Kate,
And she saw I saw Esau;
I saw Esau, he saw Kate,
And she saw--"

And so on.  My mind went mad with joy over it.  It repeated it
all day and all night for a week in spite of all I could do to
stop it, and it seemed to me that I must surely go crazy.

O.M.  And the new popular song?

Y.M.  Oh yes!  "In the Swee-eet By and By"; etc.  Yes, the
new popular song with the taking melody sings through one's head
day and night, asleep and awake, till one is a wreck.  There is
no getting the mind to let it alone.

O.M.  Yes, asleep as well as awake.  The mind is quite
independent.  It is master.  You have nothing to do with it.  It
is so apart from you that it can conduct its affairs, sing its
songs, play its chess, weave its complex and ingeniously
constructed dreams, while you sleep.  It has no use for your
help, no use for your guidance, and never uses either, whether
you be asleep or awake.  You have imagined that you could
originate a thought in your mind, and you have sincerely believed
you could do it.

Y.M.  Yes, I have had that idea.

O.M.  Yet you can't originate a dream-thought for it to work
out, and get it accepted?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  And you can't dictate its procedure after it has
originated a dream-thought for itself?

Y.M.  No.  No one can do it.  Do you think the waking mind
and the dream mind are the same machine?

O.M.  There is argument for it.  We have wild and fantastic
day-thoughts?  Things that are dream-like?

Y.M.  Yes--like Mr. Wells's man who invented a drug that made
him invisible; and like the Arabian tales of the Thousand Nights.

O.M.  And there are dreams that are rational, simple,
consistent, and unfantastic?

Y.M.  Yes.  I have dreams that are like that.  Dreams that
are just like real life; dreams in which there are several
persons with distinctly differentiated characters--inventions of
my mind and yet strangers to me:  a vulgar person; a refined one;
a wise person; a fool; a cruel person; a kind and compassionate
one; a quarrelsome person; a peacemaker; old persons and young;
beautiful girls and homely ones.  They talk in character, each
preserves his own characteristics.  There are vivid fights, vivid
and biting insults, vivid love-passages; there are tragedies and
comedies, there are griefs that go to one's heart, there are
sayings and doings that make you laugh:  indeed, the whole thing
is exactly like real life.

O.M.  Your dreaming mind originates the scheme, consistently
and artistically develops it, and carries the little drama
creditably through--all without help or suggestion from you?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  It is argument that it could do the like awake without help
or suggestion from you--and I think it does.  It is argument that
it is the same old mind in both cases, and never needs your help.
I think the mind is purely a machine, a thoroughly independent
machine, an automatic machine.  Have you tried the other
experiment which I suggested to you?

Y.M.  Which one?

O.M.  The one which was to determine how much influence you
have over your mind--if any.

Y.M.  Yes, and got more or less entertainment out of it.  I
did as you ordered:  I placed two texts before my eyes--one a
dull one and barren of interest, the other one full of interest,
inflamed with it, white-hot with it.  I commanded my mind to busy
itself solely with the dull one.

O.M.  Did it obey?

Y.M.  Well, no, it didn't.  It busied itself with the other one.

O.M.  Did you try hard to make it obey?

Y.M.  Yes, I did my honest best.

O.M.  What was the text which it refused to be interested in
or think about?

Y.M.  It was this question:  If A owes B a dollar and a
half, and B owes C two and three-quarter, and C owes A thirty-
five cents, and D and A together owe E and B three-sixteenths of
--of--I don't remember the rest, now, but anyway it was wholly
uninteresting, and I could not force my mind to stick to it even
half a minute at a time; it kept flying off to the other text.

O.M.  What was the other text?

Y.M.  It is no matter about that.

O.M.  But what was it?

Y.M.  A photograph.

O.M.  Your own?

Y.M.  No.  It was hers.

O.M.  You really made an honest good test.  Did you make a
second trial?

Y.M.  Yes.  I commanded my mind to interest itself in the
morning paper's report of the pork-market, and at the same time I
reminded it of an experience of mine of sixteen years ago.  It
refused to consider the pork and gave its whole blazing interest
to that ancient incident.

O.M.  What was the incident?

Y.M.  An armed desperado slapped my face in the presence of
twenty spectators.  It makes me wild and murderous every time I
think of it.

O.M.  Good tests, both; very good tests.  Did you try my
other suggestion?

Y.M.  The one which was to prove to me that if I would leave
my mind to its own devices it would find things to think about
without any of my help, and thus convince me that it was a
machine, an automatic machine, set in motion by exterior
influences, and as independent of me as it could be if it were in
some one else's skull.  Is that the one?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  I tried it.  I was shaving.  I had slept well, and my
mind was very lively, even gay and frisky.  It was reveling in a
fantastic and joyful episode of my remote boyhood which had
suddenly flashed up in my memory--moved to this by the spectacle
of a yellow cat picking its way carefully along the top of the
garden wall.  The color of this cat brought the bygone cat before
me, and I saw her walking along the side-step of the pulpit; saw
her walk on to a large sheet of sticky fly-paper and get all her
feet involved; saw her struggle and fall down, helpless and
dissatisfied, more and more urgent, more and more unreconciled,
more and more mutely profane; saw the silent congregation
quivering like jelly, and the tears running down their faces.  I
saw it all.  The sight of the tears whisked my mind to a far
distant and a sadder scene--in Terra del Fuego--and with Darwin's
eyes I saw a naked great savage hurl his little boy against the
rocks for a trifling fault; saw the poor mother gather up her
dying child and hug it to her breast and weep, uttering no word.
Did my mind stop to mourn with that nude black sister of mine?
No--it was far away from that scene in an instant, and was
busying itself with an ever-recurring and disagreeable dream of
mine.  In this dream I always find myself, stripped to my shirt,
cringing and dodging about in the midst of a great drawing-room
throng of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen, and wondering how
I got there.  And so on and so on, picture after picture,
incident after incident, a drifting panorama of ever-changing,
ever-dissolving views manufactured by my mind without any help
from me--why, it would take me two hours to merely name the
multitude of things my mind tallied off and photographed in
fifteen minutes, let alone describe them to you.

O.M.  A man's mind, left free, has no use for his help.  But
there is one way whereby he can get its help when he desires it.

Y.M.  What is that way?

O.M.  When your mind is racing along from subject to subject
and strikes an inspiring one, open your mouth and begin talking
upon that matter--or--take your pen and use that.  It will
interest your mind and concentrate it, and it will pursue the
subject with satisfaction.  It will take full charge, and furnish
the words itself.

Y.M.  But don't I tell it what to say?

O.M.  There are certainly occasions when you haven't time.
The words leap out before you know what is coming.

Y.M.  For instance?

O.M.  Well, take a "flash of wit"--repartee.  Flash is the
right word.  It is out instantly.  There is no time to arrange
the words.  There is no thinking, no reflecting.  Where there is
a wit-mechanism it is automatic in its action and needs no help.
Where the whit-mechanism is lacking, no amount of study and
reflection can manufacture the product.

Y.M.  You really think a man originates nothing, creates nothing.



The Thinking-Process

O.M.  I do.  Men perceive, and their brain-machines
automatically combine the things perceived.  That is all.

Y.M.  The steam-engine?

O.M.  It takes fifty men a hundred years to invent it.  One
meaning of invent is discover.  I use the word in that sense.
Little by little they discover and apply the multitude of details
that go to make the perfect engine.  Watt noticed that confined
steam was strong enough to lift the lid of the teapot.  He didn't
create the idea, he merely discovered the fact; the cat had
noticed it a hundred times.  From the teapot he evolved the
cylinder--from the displaced lid he evolved the piston-rod.  To
attach something to the piston-rod to be moved by it, was a
simple matter--crank and wheel.  And so there was a working
engine. [1]

One by one, improvements were discovered by men who used
their eyes, not their creating powers--for they hadn't any--and
now, after a hundred years the patient contributions of fifty or
a hundred observers stand compacted in the wonderful machine
which drives the ocean liner.

Y.M.  A Shakespearean play?

O.M.  The process is the same.  The first actor was a
savage.  He reproduced in his theatrical war-dances, scalp-
dances, and so on, incidents which he had seen in real life.  A
more advanced civilization produced more incidents, more
episodes; the actor and the story-teller borrowed them.  And so
the drama grew, little by little, stage by stage.  It is made up
of the facts of life, not creations.  It took centuries to
develop the Greek drama.  It borrowed from preceding ages; it
lent to the ages that came after.  Men observe and combine, that
is all.  So does a rat.

Y.M.  How?

O.M.  He observes a smell, he infers a cheese, he seeks and
finds.  The astronomer observes this and that; adds his this and
that to the this-and-thats of a hundred predecessors, infers an
invisible planet, seeks it and finds it.  The rat gets into a
trap; gets out with trouble; infers that cheese in traps lacks
value, and meddles with that trap no more.  The astronomer is
very proud of his achievement, the rat is proud of his.  Yet both
are machines; they have done machine work, they have originated
nothing, they have no right to be vain; the whole credit belongs
to their Maker.  They are entitled to no honors, no praises, no
monuments when they die, no remembrance.  One is a complex and
elaborate machine, the other a simple and limited machine, but
they are alike in principle, function, and process, and neither
of them works otherwise than automatically, and neither of them
may righteously claim a PERSONAL superiority or a personal
dignity above the other.

Y.M.  In earned personal dignity, then, and in personal merit
for what he does, it follows of necessity that he is on the
same level as a rat?

O.M.  His brother the rat; yes, that is how it seems to me.
Neither of them being entitled to any personal merit for what he
does, it follows of necessity that neither of them has a right to
arrogate to himself (personally created) superiorities over his
brother.

Y.M.  Are you determined to go on believing in these
insanities?  Would you go on believing in them in the face of
able arguments backed by collated facts and instances?

O.M.  I have been a humble, earnest, and sincere Truth-Seeker.

Y.M.  Very well?

O.M.  The humble, earnest, and sincere Truth-Seeker is
always convertible by such means.

Y.M.  I am thankful to God to hear you say this, for now I
know that your conversion--

O.M.  Wait.  You misunderstand.  I said I have BEEN a Truth-Seeker.

Y.M.  Well?

O.M.  I am not that now.  Have your forgotten?  I told you
that there are none but temporary Truth-Seekers; that a permanent
one is a human impossibility; that as soon as the Seeker finds
what he is thoroughly convinced is the Truth, he seeks no
further, but gives the rest of his days to hunting junk to patch
it and caulk it and prop it with, and make it weather-proof and
keep it from caving in on him.  Hence the Presbyterian remains a
Presbyterian, the Mohammedan a Mohammedan, the Spiritualist a
Spiritualist, the Democrat a Democrat, the Republican a
Republican, the Monarchist a Monarchist; and if a humble,
earnest, and sincere Seeker after Truth should find it in the
proposition that the moon is made of green cheese nothing could
ever budge him from that position; for he is nothing but an
automatic machine, and must obey the laws of his construction.

Y.M.  After so--

O.M.  Having found the Truth; perceiving that beyond question
man has but one moving impulse--the contenting of his own spirit--
and is merely a machine and entitled to no personal merit for
anything he does, it is not humanly possible for me to seek further.
The rest of my days will be spent in patching and painting and
puttying and caulking my priceless possession and in looking the
other way when an imploring argument or a damaging fact approaches.

-----
1.  The Marquess of Worcester had done all of this more than a
century earlier.



VI


Instinct and Thought

Young Man.  It is odious.  Those drunken theories of yours,
advanced a while ago--concerning the rat and all that--strip Man
bare of all his dignities, grandeurs, sublimities.

Old Man.  He hasn't any to strip--they are shams, stolen
clothes.  He claims credits which belong solely to his Maker.

Y.M.  But you have no right to put him on a level with a rat.

O.M.  I don't--morally.  That would not be fair to the rat.
The rat is well above him, there.

Y.M.  Are you joking?

O.M.  No, I am not.

Y.M.  Then what do you mean?

O.M.  That comes under the head of the Moral Sense.  It is a
large question.  Let us finish with what we are about now, before
we take it up.

Y.M.  Very well.  You have seemed to concede that you place
Man and the rat on A level.  What is it?  The intellectual?

O.M.  In form--not a degree.

Y.M.  Explain.

O.M.  I think that the rat's mind and the man's mind are the
same machine, but of unequal capacities--like yours and Edison's;
like the African pygmy's and Homer's; like the Bushman's and Bismarck's.

Y.M.  How are you going to make that out, when the lower animals
have no mental quality but instinct, while man possesses reason?

O.M.  What is instinct?

Y.M.  It is merely unthinking and mechanical exercise of
inherited habit.

O.M.  What originated the habit?

Y.M.  The first animal started it, its descendants have
inherited it.

O.M.  How did the first one come to start it?

Y.M.  I don't know; but it didn't THINK it out.

O.M.  How do you know it didn't?

Y.M.  Well--I have a right to suppose it didn't, anyway.

O.M.  I don't believe you have.  What is thought?

Y.M.  I know what you call it:  the mechanical and automatic
putting together of impressions received from outside, and
drawing an inference from them.

O.M.  Very good.  Now my idea of the meaningless term "instinct" is,
that it is merely PETRIFIED THOUGHT; solidified and made inanimate
by habit; thought which was once alive and awake, but it become
unconscious--walks in its sleep, so to speak.

Y.M.  Illustrate it.

O.M.  Take a herd of cows, feeding in a pasture.  Their
heads are all turned in one direction.  They do that
instinctively; they gain nothing by it, they have no reason for
it, they don't know why they do it.  It is an inherited habit
which was originally thought--that is to say, observation of an
exterior fact, and a valuable inference drawn from that
observation and confirmed by experience.  The original wild ox
noticed that with the wind in his favor he could smell his enemy
in time to escape; then he inferred that it was worth while to
keep his nose to the wind.  That is the process which man calls
reasoning.  Man's thought-machine works just like the other
animals', but it is a better one and more Edisonian.  Man, in the
ox's place, would go further, reason wider:  he would face part
of the herd the other way and protect both front and rear.

Y.M.  Did you stay the term instinct is meaningless?

O.M.  I think it is a bastard word.  I think it confuses us;
for as a rule it applies itself to habits and impulses which had
a far-off origin in thought, and now and then breaks the rule and
applies itself to habits which can hardly claim a thought-origin.

Y.M.  Give an instance.

O.M.  Well, in putting on trousers a man always inserts the same old
leg first--never the other one.  There is no advantage in that,
and no sense in it.  All men do it, yet no man thought it out
and adopted it of set purpose, I imagine.  But it is a habit which
is transmitted, no doubt, and will continue to be transmitted.

Y.M.  Can you prove that the habit exists?

O.M.  You can prove it, if you doubt.  If you will take a
man to a clothing-store and watch him try on a dozen pairs of
trousers, you will see.

Y.M.  The cow illustration is not--

O.M.  Sufficient to show that a dumb animal's mental machine
is just the same as a man's and its reasoning processes the same?
I will illustrate further.  If you should hand Mr. Edison a box
which you caused to fly open by some concealed device he would
infer a spring, and would hunt for it and find it.  Now an uncle
of mine had an old horse who used to get into the closed lot
where the corn-crib was and dishonestly take the corn.  I got the
punishment myself, as it was supposed that I had heedlessly
failed to insert the wooden pin which kept the gate closed.
These persistent punishments fatigued me; they also caused me to
infer the existence of a culprit, somewhere; so I hid myself and
watched the gate.  Presently the horse came and pulled the pin
out with his teeth and went in.  Nobody taught him that; he had
observed--then thought it out for himself.  His process did not
differ from Edison's; he put this and that together and drew an
inference--and the peg, too; but I made him sweat for it.

Y.M.  It has something of the seeming of thought about it.
Still it is not very elaborate.  Enlarge.

O.M.  Suppose Mr. Edison has been enjoying some one's
hospitalities.  He comes again by and by, and the house is
vacant.  He infers that his host has moved.  A while afterward,
in another town, he sees the man enter a house; he infers that
that is the new home, and follows to inquire.  Here, now, is the
experience of a gull, as related by a naturalist.  The scene is a
Scotch fishing village where the gulls were kindly treated.  This
particular gull visited a cottage; was fed; came next day and was
fed again; came into the house, next time, and ate with the
family; kept on doing this almost daily, thereafter.  But, once
the gull was away on a journey for a few days, and when it
returned the house was vacant.  Its friends had removed to a
village three miles distant.  Several months later it saw the
head of the family on the street there, followed him home,
entered the house without excuse or apology, and became a daily
guest again.  Gulls do not rank high mentally, but this one had
memory and the reasoning faculty, you see, and applied them
Edisonially.

Y.M.  Yet it was not an Edison and couldn't be developed into one.

O.M.  Perhaps not.  Could you?

Y.M.  That is neither here nor there.  Go on.

O.M.  If Edison were in trouble and a stranger helped him
out of it and next day he got into the same difficulty again, he
would infer the wise thing to do in case he knew the stranger's
address.  Here is a case of a bird and a stranger as related by a
naturalist.  An Englishman saw a bird flying around about his
dog's head, down in the grounds, and uttering cries of distress.
He went there to see about it.  The dog had a young bird in his
mouth--unhurt.  The gentleman rescued it and put it on a bush and
brought the dog away.  Early the next morning the mother bird
came for the gentleman, who was sitting on his veranda, and by
its maneuvers persuaded him to follow it to a distant part of the
grounds--flying a little way in front of him and waiting for him
to catch up, and so on; and keeping to the winding path, too,
instead of flying the near way across lots.  The distance covered
was four hundred yards.  The same dog was the culprit; he had the
young bird again, and once more he had to give it up.  Now the
mother bird had reasoned it all out:  since the stranger had
helped her once, she inferred that he would do it again; she knew
where to find him, and she went upon her errand with confidence.
Her mental processes were what Edison's would have been.  She put
this and that together--and that is all that thought IS--and out
of them built her logical arrangement of inferences.  Edison
couldn't have done it any better himself.

Y.M.  Do you believe that many of the dumb animals can think?

O.M.  Yes--the elephant, the monkey, the horse, the dog, the
parrot, the macaw, the mocking-bird, and many others.  The
elephant whose mate fell into a pit, and who dumped dirt and
rubbish into the pit till bottom was raised high enough to enable
the captive to step out, was equipped with the reasoning quality.
I conceive that all animals that can learn things through
teaching and drilling have to know how to observe, and put this
and that together and draw an inference--the process of thinking.
Could you teach an idiot of manuals of arms, and to advance,
retreat, and go through complex field maneuvers at the word of
command?

Y.M.  Not if he were a thorough idiot.

O.M.  Well, canary-birds can learn all that; dogs and elephants
learn all sorts of wonderful things.  They must surely be able
to notice, and to put things together, and say to themselves,
"I get the idea, now:  when I do so and so, as per order,
I am praised and fed; when I do differently I am punished."
Fleas can be taught nearly anything that a Congressman can.

Y.M.  Granting, then, that dumb animals are able to think
upon a low plane, is there any that can think upon a high one?
Is there one that is well up toward man?

O.M.  Yes.  As a thinker and planner the ant is the equal of
any savage race of men; as a self-educated specialist in several
arts she is the superior of any savage race of men; and in one or
two high mental qualities she is above the reach of any man,
savage or civilized!

Y.M.  Oh, come! you are abolishing the intellectual frontier
which separates man and beast.

O.M.  I beg your pardon.  One cannot abolish what does not exist.

Y.M.  You are not in earnest, I hope.  You cannot mean to
seriously say there is no such frontier.

O.M.  I do say it seriously. The instances of the horse, the
gull, the mother bird, and the elephant show that those creatures
put their this's and thats together just as Edison would have
done it and drew the same inferences that he would have drawn.
Their mental machinery was just like his, also its manner of
working.  Their equipment was as inferior to the Strasburg clock,
but that is the only difference--there is no frontier.

Y.M.  It looks exasperatingly true; and is distinctly
offensive.  It elevates the dumb beasts to--to--

O.M.  Let us drop that lying phrase, and call them the
Unrevealed Creatures; so far as we can know, there is no such
thing as a dumb beast.

Y.M.  On what grounds do you make that assertion?

O.M.  On quite simple ones.  "Dumb" beast suggests an animal
that has no thought-machinery, no understanding, no speech, no
way of communicating what is in its mind.  We know that a hen HAS
speech.  We cannot understand everything she says, but we easily
learn two or three of her phrases.  We know when she is saying,
"I have laid an egg"; we know when she is saying to the chicks,
"Run here, dears, I've found a worm"; we know what she is saying
when she voices a warning:  "Quick! hurry! gather yourselves
under mamma, there's a hawk coming!"  We understand the cat when
she stretches herself out, purring with affection and contentment
and lifts up a soft voice and says, "Come, kitties, supper's
ready"; we understand her when she goes mourning about and says,
"Where can they be?  They are lost.  Won't you help me hunt for
them?" and we understand the disreputable Tom when he challenges
at midnight from his shed, "You come over here, you product of
immoral commerce, and I'll make your fur fly!"  We understand a
few of a dog's phrases and we learn to understand a few of the
remarks and gestures of any bird or other animal that we
domesticate and observe.  The clearness and exactness of the few
of the hen's speeches which we understand is argument that she
can communicate to her kind a hundred things which we cannot
comprehend--in a word, that she can converse.  And this argument
is also applicable in the case of others of the great army of the
Unrevealed.  It is just like man's vanity and impertinence to
call an animal dumb because it is dumb to his dull perceptions.
Now as to the ant--

Y.M.  Yes, go back to the ant, the creature that--as you
seem to think--sweeps away the last vestige of an intellectual
frontier between man and the Unrevealed.

O.M.  That is what she surely does.  In all his history the
aboriginal Australian never thought out a house for himself and
built it.  The ant is an amazing architect.  She is a wee little
creature, but she builds a strong and enduring house eight feet
high--a house which is as large in proportion to her size as is
the largest capitol or cathedral in the world compared to man's
size.  No savage race has produced architects who could approach
the air in genius or culture.  No civilized race has produced
architects who could plan a house better for the uses proposed
than can hers.  Her house contains a throne-room; nurseries for
her young; granaries; apartments for her soldiers, her workers,
etc.; and they and the multifarious halls and corridors which
communicate with them are arranged and distributed with an
educated and experienced eye for convenience and adaptability.

Y.M.  That could be mere instinct.

O.M.  It would elevate the savage if he had it.  But let us
look further before we decide.  The ant has soldiers--battalions,
regiments, armies; and they have their appointed captains and
generals, who lead them to battle.

Y.M.  That could be instinct, too.

O.M.  We will look still further.  The ant has a system of
government; it is well planned, elaborate, and is well carried on.

Y.M.  Instinct again.

O.M.  She has crowds of slaves, and is a hard and unjust
employer of forced labor.

Y.M.  Instinct.

O.M.  She has cows, and milks them.

Y.M.  Instinct, of course.

O.M.  In Texas she lays out a farm twelve feet square, plants it,
weeds it, cultivates it, gathers the crop and stores it away.

Y.M.  Instinct, all the same.

O.M.  The ant discriminates between friend and stranger.
Sir John Lubbock took ants from two different nests, made them
drunk with whiskey and laid them, unconscious, by one of the
nests, near some water.  Ants from the nest came and examined and
discussed these disgraced creatures, then carried their friends
home and threw the strangers overboard.  Sir John repeated the
experiment a number of times.  For a time the sober ants did as
they had done at first--carried their friends home and threw the
strangers overboard.  But finally they lost patience, seeing that
their reformatory efforts went for nothing, and threw both
friends and strangers overboard.  Come--is this instinct, or is
it thoughtful and intelligent discussion of a thing new--
absolutely new--to their experience; with a verdict arrived at,
sentence passed, and judgment executed?  Is it instinct?--thought
petrified by ages of habit--or isn't it brand-new thought,
inspired by the new occasion, the new circumstances?

Y.M.  I have to concede it.  It was not a result of habit;
it has all the look of reflection, thought, putting this and that
together, as you phrase it.  I believe it was thought.

O.M.  I will give you another instance of thought.  Franklin
had a cup of sugar on a table in his room.  The ants got at it.
He tried several preventives; and ants rose superior to them.
Finally he contrived one which shut off access--probably set the
table's legs in pans of water, or drew a circle of tar around the
cup, I don't remember.  At any rate, he watched to see what they
would do.  They tried various schemes--failures, every one.  The
ants were badly puzzled.  Finally they held a consultation,
discussed the problem, arrived at a decision--and this time they
beat that great philosopher.  They formed in procession, cross
the floor, climbed the wall, marched across the ceiling to a
point just over the cup, then one by one they let go and fell
down into it!  Was that instinct--thought petrified by ages of
inherited habit?

Y.M.  No, I don't believe it was.  I believe it was a newly
reasoned scheme to meet a new emergency.

O.M.  Very well.  You have conceded the reasoning power in
two instances.  I come now to a mental detail wherein the ant is
a long way the superior of any human being.  Sir John Lubbock
proved by many experiments that an ant knows a stranger ant of
her own species in a moment, even when the stranger is disguised
--with paint.  Also he proved that an ant knows every individual
in her hive of five hundred thousand souls.  Also, after a year's
absence one of the five hundred thousand she will straightway
recognize the returned absentee and grace the recognition with a
affectionate welcome.  How are these recognitions made?  Not by
color, for painted ants were recognized.  Not by smell, for ants
that had been dipped in chloroform were recognized.  Not by
speech and not by antennae signs nor contacts, for the drunken
and motionless ants were recognized and the friend discriminated
from the stranger.  The ants were all of the same species,
therefore the friends had to be recognized by form and feature--
friends who formed part of a hive of five hundred thousand!  Has
any man a memory for form and feature approaching that?

Y.M.  Certainly not.

O.M.  Franklin's ants and Lubbuck's ants show fine
capacities of putting this and that together in new and untried
emergencies and deducting smart conclusions from the
combinations--a man's mental process exactly.  With memory to
help, man preserves his observations and reasonings, reflects
upon them, adds to them, recombines, and so proceeds, stage by
stage, to far results--from the teakettle to the ocean
greyhound's complex engine; from personal labor to slave labor;
from wigwam to palace; from the capricious chase to agriculture
and stored food; from nomadic life to stable government and
concentrated authority; from incoherent hordes to massed armies.
The ant has observation, the reasoning faculty, and the
preserving adjunct of a prodigious memory; she has duplicated
man's development and the essential features of his civilization,
and you call it all instinct!

Y.M.  Perhaps I lacked the reasoning faculty myself.

O.M.  Well, don't tell anybody, and don't do it again.

Y.M.  We have come a good way.  As a result--as I understand it--
I am required to concede that there is absolutely no intellectual
frontier separating Man and the Unrevealed Creatures?

O.M.  That is what you are required to concede.  There is no
such frontier--there is no way to get around that.  Man has a
finer and more capable machine in him than those others, but it
is the same machine and works in the same way.  And neither he
nor those others can command the machine--it is strictly
automatic, independent of control, works when it pleases, and
when it doesn't please, it can't be forced.

Y.M.  Then man and the other animals are all alike, as to mental
machinery, and there isn't any difference of any stupendous
magnitude between them, except in quality, not in kind.

O.M.  That is about the state of it--intellectuality.  There
are pronounced limitations on both sides.  We can't learn to
understand much of their language, but the dog, the elephant,
etc., learn to understand a very great deal of ours.  To that
extent they are our superiors.  On the other hand, they can't
learn reading, writing, etc., nor any of our fine and high
things, and there we have a large advantage over them.

Y.M.  Very well, let them have what they've got, and welcome;
there is still a wall, and a lofty one.  They haven't got the
Moral Sense; we have it, and it lifts us immeasurably above them.

O.M.  What makes you think that?

Y.M.  Now look here--let's call a halt.  I have stood the
other infamies and insanities and that is enough; I am not going
to have man and the other animals put on the same level morally.

O.M.  I wasn't going to hoist man up to that.

Y.M.  This is too much!  I think it is not right to jest
about such things.

O.M.  I am not jesting, I am merely reflecting a plain and
simple truth--and without uncharitableness.  The fact that man
knows right from wrong proves his INTELLECTUAL superiority to the
other creatures; but the fact that he can DO wrong proves his
MORAL inferiority to any creature that CANNOT.  It is my belief
that this position is not assailable.



Free Will

Y.M.  What is your opinion regarding Free Will?

O.M.  That there is no such thing.  Did the man possess it
who gave the old woman his last shilling and trudged home in the
storm?

Y.M.  He had the choice between succoring the old woman and
leaving her to suffer.  Isn't it so?

O.M.  Yes, there was a choice to be made, between bodily
comfort on the one hand and the comfort of the spirit on the
other.  The body made a strong appeal, of course--the body would
be quite sure to do that; the spirit made a counter appeal.  A
choice had to be made between the two appeals, and was made.  Who
or what determined that choice?

Y.M.  Any one but you would say that the man determined it,
and that in doing it he exercised Free Will.

O.M.  We are constantly assured that every man is endowed
with Free Will, and that he can and must exercise it where he is
offered a choice between good conduct and less-good conduct.  Yet
we clearly saw that in that man's case he really had no Free
Will:  his temperament, his training, and the daily influences
which had molded him and made him what he was, COMPELLED him to
rescue the old woman and thus save HIMSELF--save himself from
spiritual pain, from unendurable wretchedness.  He did not make
the choice, it was made FOR him by forces which he could not
control.  Free Will has always existed in WORDS, but it stops
there, I think--stops short of FACT.  I would not use those
words--Free Will--but others.

Y.M.  What others?

O.M.  Free Choice.

Y.M.  What is the difference?

O.M.  The one implies untrammeled power to ACT as you please,
the other implies nothing beyond a mere MENTAL PROCESS:
the critical ability to determine which of two things
is nearest right and just.

Y.M.  Make the difference clear, please.

O.M.  The mind can freely SELECT, CHOOSE, POINT OUT the
right and just one--its function stops there.  It can go no
further in the matter.  It has no authority to say that the right
one shall be acted upon and the wrong one discarded.
That authority is in other hands.

Y.M.  The man's?

O.M.  In the machine which stands for him.  In his born
disposition and the character which has been built around it by
training and environment.

Y.M.  It will act upon the right one of the two?

O.M.  It will do as it pleases in the matter.  George Washington's
machine would act upon the right one; Pizarro would act upon the wrong one.

Y.M.  Then as I understand it a bad man's mental machinery calmly
and judicially points out which of two things is right and just--

O.M.  Yes, and his MORAL machinery will freely act upon
the other or the other, according to its make, and be quite
indifferent to the MIND'S feeling concerning the matter--that is,
WOULD be, if the mind had any feelings; which it hasn't.
It is merely a thermometer:  it registers the heat and the cold,
and cares not a farthing about either.

Y.M.  Then we must not claim that if a man KNOWS which of
two things is right he is absolutely BOUND to do that thing?

O.M.  His temperament and training will decide what he shall
do, and he will do it; he cannot help himself, he has no
authority over the mater.  Wasn't it right for David to go out
and slay Goliath?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  Then it would have been equally RIGHT for any one else to do it?

Y.M.  Certainly.

O.M.  Then it would have been RIGHT for a born coward to attempt it?

Y.M.  It would--yes.

O.M.  You know that no born coward ever would have attempted it, don't you?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  You know that a born coward's make and temperament
would be an absolute and insurmountable bar to his ever essaying
such a thing, don't you?

Y.M.  Yes, I know it.

O.M.  He clearly perceives that it would be RIGHT to try it?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  His mind has Free Choice in determining that it would
be RIGHT to try it?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  Then if by reason of his inborn cowardice he simply
can NOT essay it, what becomes of his Free Will?  Where is his
Free Will?  Why claim that he has Free Will when the plain facts
show that he hasn't?  Why content that because he and David SEE
the right alike, both must ACT alike?  Why impose the same laws
upon goat and lion?

Y.M.  There is really no such thing as Free Will?

O.M.  It is what I think.  There is WILL.  But it has
nothing to do with INTELLECTUAL PERCEPTIONS OF RIGHT AND WRONG,
and is not under their command.  David's temperament and training
had Will, and it was a compulsory force; David had to obey its
decrees, he had no choice.  The coward's temperament and training
possess Will, and IT is compulsory; it commands him to avoid
danger, and he obeys, he has no choice.  But neither the Davids
nor the cowards possess Free Will--will that may do the right or
do the wrong, as their MENTAL verdict shall decide.



Not Two Values, But Only One

Y.M.  There is one thing which bothers me:  I can't tell
where you draw the line between MATERIAL covetousness and
SPIRITUAL covetousness.

O.M.  I don't draw any.

Y.M.  How do you mean?

O.M.  There is no such thing as MATERIAL covetousness.
All covetousness is spiritual

Y.M.  ALL longings, desires, ambitions SPIRITUAL, never material?

O.M.  Yes.  The Master in you requires that in ALL cases you
shall content his SPIRIT--that alone.  He never requires anything
else, he never interests himself in any other matter.

Y.M.  Ah, come!  When he covets somebody's money--isn't that
rather distinctly material and gross?

O.M.  No.  The money is merely a symbol--it represents in
visible and concrete form a SPIRITUAL DESIRE.  Any so-called
material thing that you want is merely a symbol:  you want it not
for ITSELF, but because it will content your spirit for the moment.

Y.M.  Please particularize.

O.M.  Very well.  Maybe the thing longed for is a new hat.
You get it and your vanity is pleased, your spirit contented.
Suppose your friends deride the hat, make fun of it:  at once it
loses its value; you are ashamed of it, you put it out of your
sight, you never want to see it again.

Y.M.  I think I see.  Go on.

O.M.  It is the same hat, isn't it?  It is in no way
altered.  But it wasn't the HAT you wanted, but only what it
stood for--a something to please and content your SPIRIT.  When
it failed of that, the whole of its value was gone.  There are no
MATERIAL values; there are only spiritual ones.  You will hunt in
vain for a material value that is ACTUAL, REAL--there is no such
thing.  The only value it possesses, for even a moment, is the
spiritual value back of it:  remove that end and it is at once
worthless--like the hat.

Y.M.  Can you extend that to money?

O.M.  Yes.  It is merely a symbol, it has no MATERIAL value;
you think you desire it for its own sake, but it is not so.  You
desire it for the spiritual content it will bring; if it fail of
that, you discover that its value is gone.  There is that
pathetic tale of the man who labored like a slave, unresting,
unsatisfied, until he had accumulated a fortune, and was happy
over it, jubilant about it; then in a single week a pestilence
swept away all whom he held dear and left him desolate.  His
money's value was gone.  He realized that his joy in it came not
from the money itself, but from the spiritual contentment he got
out of his family's enjoyment of the pleasures and delights it
lavished upon them.  Money has no MATERIAL value; if you remove
its spiritual value nothing is left but dross.  It is so with all
things, little or big, majestic or trivial--there are no
exceptions.  Crowns, scepters, pennies, paste jewels, village
notoriety, world-wide fame--they are all the same, they have no
MATERIAL value:  while they content the SPIRIT they are precious,
when this fails they are worthless.



A Difficult Question

Y.M.  You keep me confused and perplexed all the time by
your elusive terminology.  Sometimes you divide a man up into two
or three separate personalities, each with authorities,
jurisdictions, and responsibilities of its own, and when he is in
that condition I can't grasp it.  Now when _I_ speak of a man, he
is THE WHOLE THING IN ONE, and easy to hold and contemplate.

O.M.  That is pleasant and convenient, if true.  When you
speak of "my body" who is the "my"?

Y.M.  It is the "me."

O.M.  The body is a property then, and the Me owns it.
Who is the Me?

Y.M.  The Me is THE WHOLE THING; it is a common property; an
undivided ownership, vested in the whole entity.

O.M.  If the Me admires a rainbow, is it the whole Me that
admires it, including the hair, hands, heels, and all?

Y.M.  Certainly not.  It is my MIND that admires it.

O.M.  So YOU divide the Me yourself.  Everybody does;
everybody must.  What, then, definitely, is the Me?

Y.M.  I think it must consist of just those two parts--
the body and the mind.

O.M.  You think so?  If you say "I believe the world is round,"
who is the "I" that is speaking?

Y.M.  The mind.

O.M.  If you say "I grieve for the loss of my father,"
who is the "I"?

Y.M.  The mind.

O.M.  Is the mind exercising an intellectual function when
it examines and accepts the evidence that the world is round?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  Is it exercising an intellectual function when it
grieves for the loss of your father?

Y.M.  That is not cerebration, brain-work, it is a matter of FEELING.

O.M.  Then its source is not in your mind, but in your MORAL territory?

Y.M.  I have to grant it.

O.M.  Is your mind a part of your PHYSICAL equipment?

Y.M.  No.  It is independent of it; it is spiritual.

O.M.  Being spiritual, it cannot be affected by physical influences?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  Does the mind remain sober with the body is drunk?

Y.M.  Well--no.

O.M.  There IS a physical effect present, then?

Y.M.  It looks like it.

O.M.  A cracked skull has resulted in a crazy mind.  Why
should it happen if the mind is spiritual, and INDEPENDENT of
physical influences?

Y.M.  Well--I don't know.

O.M.  When you have a pain in your foot, how do you know it?

Y.M.  I feel it.

O.M.  But you do not feel it until a nerve reports the hurt
to the brain.  Yet the brain is the seat of the mind, is it not?

Y.M.  I think so.

O.M.  But isn't spiritual enough to learn what is happening
in the outskirts without the help of the PHYSICAL messenger?  You
perceive that the question of who or what the Me is, is not a
simple one at all.  You say "I admire the rainbow," and "I
believe the world is round," and in these cases we find that the
Me is not speaking, but only the MENTAL part.  You say, "I
grieve," and again the Me is not all speaking, but only the MORAL
part.  You say the mind is wholly spiritual; then you say "I have
a pain" and find that this time the Me is mental AND spiritual
combined.  We all use the "I" in this indeterminate fashion,
there is no help for it.  We imagine a Master and King over what
you call The Whole Thing, and we speak of him as "I," but when we
try to define him we find we cannot do it.  The intellect and the
feelings can act quite INDEPENDENTLY of each other; we recognize
that, and we look around for a Ruler who is master over both, and
can serve as a DEFINITE AND INDISPUTABLE "I," and enable us to
know what we mean and who or what we are talking about when we
use that pronoun, but we have to give it up and confess that we
cannot find him.  To me, Man is a machine, made up of many
mechanisms, the moral and mental ones acting automatically in
accordance with the impulses of an interior Master who is built
out of born-temperament and an accumulation of multitudinous
outside influences and trainings; a machine whose ONE function is
to secure the spiritual contentment of the Master, be his desires
good or be they evil; a machine whose Will is absolute and must
be obeyed, and always IS obeyed.

Y.M.  Maybe the Me is the Soul?

O.M.  Maybe it is.  What is the Soul?

Y.M.  I don't know.

O.M.  Neither does any one else.



The Master Passion


Y.M.  What is the Master?--or, in common speech, the
Conscience?  Explain it.

O.M.  It is that mysterious autocrat, lodged in a man, which
compels the man to content its desires.  It may be called the
Master Passion--the hunger for Self-Approval.

Y.M.  Where is its seat?

O.M.  In man's moral constitution.

Y.M.  Are its commands for the man's good?

O.M.  It is indifferent to the man's good; it never concerns
itself about anything but the satisfying of its own desires.  It
can be TRAINED to prefer things which will be for the man's good,
but it will prefer them only because they will content IT better
than other things would.

Y.M.  Then even when it is trained to high ideals it is still
looking out for its own contentment, and not for the man's good.

O.M.  True.  Trained or untrained, it cares nothing for the man's good,
and never concerns itself about it.

Y.M.  It seems to be an IMMORAL force seated in the man's
moral constitution.

O.M.  It is a COLORLESS force seated in the man's moral constitution.
Let us call it an instinct--a blind, unreasoning instinct, which cannot
and does not distinguish between good morals and bad ones, and cares
nothing for results to the man provided its own contentment be secured;
and it will ALWAYS secure that.

Y.M.  It seeks money, and it probably considers that that is
an advantage for the man?

O.M.  It is not always seeking money, it is not always
seeking power, nor office, nor any other MATERIAL advantage.  In
ALL cases it seeks a SPIRITUAL contentment, let the MEANS be what
they may.  Its desires are determined by the man's temperament--
and it is lord over that.  Temperament, Conscience,
Susceptibility, Spiritual Appetite, are, in fact, the same thing.
Have you ever heard of a person who cared nothing for money?

Y.M.  Yes.  A scholar who would not leave his garret and his
books to take a place in a business house at a large salary.

O.M.  He had to satisfy his master--that is to say, his temperament,
his Spiritual Appetite--and it preferred books to money.  Are there
other cases?

Y.M.  Yes, the hermit.

O.M.  It is a good instance.  The hermit endures solitude,
hunger, cold, and manifold perils, to content his autocrat, who
prefers these things, and prayer and contemplation, to money or
to any show or luxury that money can buy.  Are there others?

Y.M.  Yes.  The artist, the poet, the scientist.

O.M.  Their autocrat prefers the deep pleasures of these
occupations, either well paid or ill paid, to any others in the
market, at any price.  You REALIZE that the Master Passion--the
contentment of the spirit--concerns itself with many things
besides so-called material advantage, material prosperity, cash,
and all that?

Y.M.  I think I must concede it.

O.M.  I believe you must.  There are perhaps as many
Temperaments that would refuse the burdens and vexations and
distinctions of public office as there are that hunger after
them.  The one set of Temperaments seek the contentment of the
spirit, and that alone; and this is exactly the case with the
other set.  Neither set seeks anything BUT the contentment of the
spirit.  If the one is sordid, both are sordid; and equally so,
since the end in view is precisely the same in both cases.  And
in both cases Temperament decides the preference--and Temperament
is BORN, not made.



Conclusion

O.M.  You have been taking a holiday?

Y.M.  Yes; a mountain tramp covering a week.  Are you ready to talk?

O.M.  Quite ready.  What shall we begin with?

Y.M.  Well, lying abed resting up, two days and nights, I
have thought over all these talks, and passed them carefully in
review.  With this result:  that . . . that . . . are you
intending to publish your notions about Man some day?

O.M.  Now and then, in these past twenty years, the Master
inside of me has half-intended to order me to set them to paper
and publish them.  Do I have to tell you why the order has
remained unissued, or can you explain so simply a thing without
my help?

Y.M.  By your doctrine, it is simplicity itself:  outside
influences moved your interior Master to give the order; stronger
outside influences deterred him.  Without the outside influences,
neither of these impulses could ever have been born, since a
person's brain is incapable or originating an idea within itself.

O.M.  Correct.  Go on.

Y.M.  The matter of publishing or withholding is still in your
Master's hands.  If some day an outside influence shall determine
him to publish, he will give the order, and it will be obeyed.

O.M.  That is correct.  Well?

Y.M.  Upon reflection I have arrived at the conviction
that the publication of your doctrines would be harmful.
Do you pardon me?

O.M.  Pardon YOU?  You have done nothing.  You are an
instrument--a speaking-trumpet.  Speaking-trumpets are not
responsible for what is said through them.  Outside influences--
in the form of lifelong teachings, trainings, notions,
prejudices, and other second-hand importations--have persuaded
the Master within you that the publication of these doctrines
would be harmful.  Very well, this is quite natural, and was to
be expected; in fact, was inevitable.  Go on; for the sake of
ease and convenience, stick to habit:  speak in the first person,
and tell me what your Master thinks about it.

Y.M.  Well, to begin:  it is a desolating doctrine; it is
not inspiring, enthusing, uplifting.  It takes the glory out of
man, it takes the pride out of him, it takes the heroism out of
him, it denies him all personal credit, all applause; it not only
degrades him to a machine, but allows him no control over the
machine; makes a mere coffee-mill of him, and neither permits him
to supply the coffee nor turn the crank, his sole and piteously
humble function being to grind coarse or fine, according to his
make, outside impulses doing the rest.

O.M.  It is correctly stated.  Tell me--what do men admire
most in each other?

Y.M.  Intellect, courage, majesty of build, beauty of
countenance, charity, benevolence, magnanimity, kindliness,
heroism, and--and--

O.M.  I would not go any further.  These are ELEMENTALS.
Virtue, fortitude, holiness, truthfulness, loyalty, high ideals--
these, and all the related qualities that are named in the
dictionary, are MADE OF THE ELEMENTALS, by blendings,
combinations, and shadings of the elementals, just as one makes
green by blending blue and yellow, and makes several shades and
tints of red by modifying the elemental red.  There are several
elemental colors; they are all in the rainbow; out of them we
manufacture and name fifty shades of them.  You have named the
elementals of the human rainbow, and also one BLEND--heroism,
which is made out of courage and magnanimity.  Very well, then;
which of these elements does the possessor of it manufacture for
himself?  Is it intellect?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  Why?

Y.M.  He is born with it.

O.M.  Is it courage?

Y.M.  No.  He is born with it.

O.M.  Is it majesty of build, beauty of countenance?

Y.M.  No.  They are birthrights.

O.M.  Take those others--the elemental moral qualities--
charity, benevolence, magnanimity, kindliness; fruitful seeds,
out of which spring, through cultivation by outside influences,
all the manifold blends and combinations of virtues named in the
dictionaries:  does man manufacture any of those seeds, or are
they all born in him?

Y.M.  Born in him.

O.M.  Who manufactures them, then?

Y.M.  God.

O.M.  Where does the credit of it belong?

Y.M.  To God.

O.M.  And the glory of which you spoke, and the applause?

Y.M.  To God.

O.M.  Then it is YOU who degrade man.  You make him claim
glory, praise, flattery, for every valuable thing he possesses--
BORROWED finery, the whole of it; no rag of it earned by himself,
not a detail of it produced by his own labor.  YOU make man a
humbug; have I done worse by him?

Y.M.  You have made a machine of him.

O.M.  Who devised that cunning and beautiful mechanism, a
man's hand?

Y.M.  God.

O.M.  Who devised the law by which it automatically hammers
out of a piano an elaborate piece of music, without error, while
the man is thinking about something else, or talking to a friend?

Y.M.  God.

O.M.  Who devised the blood?  Who devised the wonderful
machinery which automatically drives its renewing and refreshing
streams through the body, day and night, without assistance or
advice from the man?  Who devised the man's mind, whose machinery
works automatically, interests itself in what it pleases,
regardless of its will or desire, labors all night when it likes,
deaf to his appeals for mercy?  God devised all these things.
_I_ have not made man a machine, God made him a machine.  I am
merely calling attention to the fact, nothing more.  Is it wrong
to call attention to the fact?  Is it a crime?

Y.M.  I think it is wrong to EXPOSE a fact when harm can
come of it.

O.M.  Go on.

Y.M.  Look at the matter as it stands now.  Man has been
taught that he is the supreme marvel of the Creation; he believes
it; in all the ages he has never doubted it, whether he was a
naked savage, or clothed in purple and fine linen, and civilized.
This has made his heart buoyant, his life cheery.  His pride in
himself, his sincere admiration of himself, his joy in what he
supposed were his own and unassisted achievements, and his
exultation over the praise and applause which they evoked--these
have exalted him, enthused him, ambitioned him to higher and
higher flights; in a word, made his life worth the living.  But
by your scheme, all this is abolished; he is degraded to a
machine, he is a nobody, his noble prides wither to mere
vanities; let him strive as he may, he can never be any better
than his humblest and stupidest neighbor; he would never be
cheerful again, his life would not be worth the living.

O.M.  You really think that?

Y.M.  I certainly do.

O.M.  Have you ever seen me uncheerful, unhappy.

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  Well, _I_ believe these things.  Why have they not
made me unhappy?

Y.M.  Oh, well--temperament, of course!  You never let THAT
escape from your scheme.

O.M.  That is correct.  If a man is born with an unhappy
temperament, nothing can make him happy; if he is born with a
happy temperament, nothing can make him unhappy.

Y.M.  What--not even a degrading and heart-chilling system
of beliefs?

O.M.  Beliefs?  Mere beliefs?  Mere convictions?  They are
powerless.  They strive in vain against inborn temperament.

Y.M.  I can't believe that, and I don't.

O.M.  Now you are speaking hastily.  It shows that you have
not studiously examined the facts.  Of all your intimates, which
one is the happiest?  Isn't it Burgess?

Y.M.  Easily.

O.M.  And which one is the unhappiest?  Henry Adams?

Y.M.  Without a question!

O.M.  I know them well.  They are extremes, abnormals; their
temperaments are as opposite as the poles.  Their life-histories
are about alike--but look at the results!  Their ages are about
the same--about around fifty.  Burgess had always been buoyant,
hopeful, happy; Adams has always been cheerless, hopeless,
despondent.  As young fellows both tried country journalism--and
failed.  Burgess didn't seem to mind it; Adams couldn't smile, he
could only mourn and groan over what had happened and torture
himself with vain regrets for not having done so and so instead
of so and so--THEN he would have succeeded.  They tried the law--
and failed.  Burgess remained happy--because he couldn't help it.
Adams was wretched--because he couldn't help it.  From that day
to this, those two men have gone on trying things and failing:
Burgess has come out happy and cheerful every time; Adams the
reverse.  And we do absolutely know that these men's inborn
temperaments have remained unchanged through all the vicissitudes
of their material affairs.  Let us see how it is with their
immaterials.  Both have been zealous Democrats; both have been
zealous Republicans; both have been zealous Mugwumps.  Burgess
has always found happiness and Adams unhappiness in these several
political beliefs and in their migrations out of them.  Both of
these men have been Presbyterians, Universalists, Methodists,
Catholics--then Presbyterians again, then Methodists again.
Burgess has always found rest in these excursions, and Adams
unrest.  They are trying Christian Science, now, with the
customary result, the inevitable result.  No political or
religious belief can make Burgess unhappy or the other man happy.
I assure you it is purely a matter of temperament.  Beliefs are
ACQUIREMENTS, temperaments are BORN; beliefs are subject to
change, nothing whatever can change temperament.

Y.M.  You have instanced extreme temperaments.

O.M.  Yes, the half-dozen others are modifications of the
extremes.  But the law is the same.  Where the temperament is
two-thirds happy, or two-thirds unhappy, no political or
religious beliefs can change the proportions.  The vast majority
of temperaments are pretty equally balanced; the intensities are
absent, and this enables a nation to learn to accommodate itself
to its political and religious circumstances and like them, be
satisfied with them, at last prefer them.  Nations do not THINK,
they only FEEL. They get their feelings at second hand through
their temperaments, not their brains.  A nation can be brought--
by force of circumstances, not argument--to reconcile itself to
ANY KIND OF GOVERNMENT OR RELIGION THAT CAN BE DEVISED; in time
it will fit itself to the required conditions; later, it will
prefer them and will fiercely fight for them.  As instances, you
have all history:  the Greeks, the Romans, the Persians, the
Egyptians, the Russians, the Germans, the French, the English,
the Spaniards, the Americans, the South Americans, the Japanese,
the Chinese, the Hindus, the Turks--a thousand wild and tame
religions, every kind of government that can be thought of, from
tiger to house-cat, each nation KNOWING it has the only true
religion and the only sane system of government, each despising
all the others, each an ass and not suspecting it, each proud of
its fancied supremacy, each perfectly sure it is the pet of God,
each without undoubting confidence summoning Him to take command
in time of war, each surprised when He goes over to the enemy,
but by habit able to excuse it and resume compliments--in a word,
the whole human race content, always content, persistently
content, indestructibly content, happy, thankful, proud, NO
MATTER WHAT ITS RELIGION IS, NOR WHETHER ITS MASTER BE TIGER OR
HOUSE-CAT.  Am I stating facts?  You know I am.  Is the human
race cheerful?  You know it is.  Considering what it can stand,
and be happy, you do me too much honor when you think that _I_
can place before it a system of plain cold facts that can take
the cheerfulness out of it.  Nothing can do that.  Everything has
been tried.  Without success.  I beg you not to be troubled.

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



    THE DEATH OF JEAN



The death of Jean Clemens occurred early in the morning of
December 24, 1909.  Mr. Clemens was in great stress of mind when
I first saw him, but a few hours later I found him writing
steadily.

"I am setting it down," he said, "everything.  It is a
relief to me to write it.  It furnishes me an excuse for
thinking."  At intervals during that day and the next I looked
in, and usually found him writing.  Then on the evening of the
26th, when he knew that Jean had been laid to rest in Elmira, he
came to my room with the manuscript in his hand.

"I have finished it," he said; "read it.  I can form no
opinion of it myself.  If you think it worthy, some day--at the
proper time--it can end my autobiography.  It is the final
chapter."

Four months later--almost to the day--(April 21st) he was
with Jean.


Albert Bigelow Paine.



Stormfield, Christmas Eve, 11 A.M., 1909.


JEAN IS DEAD!

Has any one ever tried to put upon paper all the little
happenings connected with a dear one--happenings of the twenty-
four hours preceding the sudden and unexpected death of that dear
one?  Would a book contain them?  Would two books contain them?
I think not.  They pour into the mind in a flood.  They are
little things that have been always happening every day, and were
always so unimportant and easily forgettable before--but now!
Now, how different! how precious they are, now dear, how
unforgettable, how pathetic, how sacred, how clothed with dignity!

Last night Jean, all flushed with splendid health, and I the
same, from the wholesome effects of my Bermuda holiday, strolled
hand in hand from the dinner-table and sat down in the library
and chatted, and planned, and discussed, cheerily and happily
(and how unsuspectingly!)--until nine--which is late for us--then
went upstairs, Jean's friendly German dog following.  At my door
Jean said, "I can't kiss you good night, father:  I have a cold,
and you could catch it."  I bent and kissed her hand.  She was
moved--I saw it in her eyes--and she impulsively kissed my hand
in return.  Then with the usual gay "Sleep well, dear!" from
both, we parted.

At half past seven this morning I woke, and heard voices
outside my door.  I said to myself, "Jean is starting on her
usual horseback flight to the station for the mail."  Then Katy
[1] entered, stood quaking and gasping at my bedside a moment,
then found her tongue:

"MISS JEAN IS DEAD!"

Possibly I know now what the soldier feels when a bullet
crashes through his heart.

In her bathroom there she lay, the fair young creature,
stretched upon the floor and covered with a sheet.  And looking
so placid, so natural, and as if asleep.  We knew what had
happened.  She was an epileptic:  she had been seized with a
convulsion and heart failure in her bath.  The doctor had to come
several miles.  His efforts, like our previous ones, failed to
bring her back to life.

It is noon, now.  How lovable she looks, how sweet and how
tranquil!  It is a noble face, and full of dignity; and that was
a good heart that lies there so still.

In England, thirteen years ago, my wife and I were stabbed
to the heart with a cablegram which said, "Susy was mercifully
released today."  I had to send a like shot to Clara, in Berlin,
this morning.  With the peremptory addition, "You must not come
home."  Clara and her husband sailed from here on the 11th of
this month.  How will Clara bear it?  Jean, from her babyhood,
was a worshiper of Clara.

Four days ago I came back from a month's holiday in Bermuda
in perfected health; but by some accident the reporters failed to
perceive this.  Day before yesterday, letters and telegrams began
to arrive from friends and strangers which indicated that I was
supposed to be dangerously ill.  Yesterday Jean begged me to
explain my case through the Associated Press.  I said it was not
important enough; but she was distressed and said I must think of
Clara.  Clara would see the report in the German papers, and as
she had been nursing her husband day and night for four months
[2] and was worn out and feeble, the shock might be disastrous.
There was reason in that; so I sent a humorous paragraph by
telephone to the Associated Press denying the "charge" that I was
"dying," and saying "I would not do such a thing at my time of
life."

Jean was a little troubled, and did not like to see me treat
the matter so lightly; but I said it was best to treat it so, for
there was nothing serious about it.  This morning I sent the
sorrowful facts of this day's irremediable disaster to the
Associated Press.  Will both appear in this evening's papers?--
the one so blithe, the other so tragic?


I lost Susy thirteen years ago; I lost her mother--her
incomparable mother!--five and a half years ago; Clara has gone
away to live in Europe; and now I have lost Jean.  How poor I am,
who was once so rich!  Seven months ago Mr. Roger died--one of
the best friends I ever had, and the nearest perfect, as man and
gentleman, I have yet met among my race; within the last six
weeks Gilder has passed away, and Laffan--old, old friends of
mine.  Jean lies yonder, I sit here; we are strangers under our
own roof; we kissed hands good-by at this door last night--and it
was forever, we never suspecting it.  She lies there, and I sit
here--writing, busying myself, to keep my heart from breaking.
How dazzlingly the sunshine is flooding the hills around!  It is
like a mockery.

Seventy-four years ago twenty-four days ago.  Seventy-four
years old yesterday.  Who can estimate my age today?

I have looked upon her again.  I wonder I can bear it.  She
looks just as her mother looked when she lay dead in that
Florentine villa so long ago.  The sweet placidity of death! it
is more beautiful than sleep.

I saw her mother buried.  I said I would never endure that
horror again; that I would never again look into the grave of any
one dear to me.  I have kept to that.  They will take Jean from
this house tomorrow, and bear her to Elmira, New York, where lie
those of us that have been released, but I shall not follow.

Jean was on the dock when the ship came in, only four days
ago.  She was at the door, beaming a welcome, when I reached this
house the next evening.  We played cards, and she tried to teach
me a new game called "Mark Twain."  We sat chatting cheerily in
the library last night, and she wouldn't let me look into the
loggia, where she was making Christmas preparations.  She said
she would finish them in the morning, and then her little French
friend would arrive from New York--the surprise would follow; the
surprise she had been working over for days.  While she was out
for a moment I disloyally stole a look.  The loggia floor was
clothed with rugs and furnished with chairs and sofas; and the
uncompleted surprise was there:  in the form of a Christmas tree
that was drenched with silver film in a most wonderful way; and
on a table was prodigal profusion of bright things which she was
going to hang upon it today.  What desecrating hand will ever
banish that eloquent unfinished surprise from that place?  Not
mine, surely.  All these little matters have happened in the last
four days.  "Little."  Yes--THEN.  But not now.  Nothing she said
or thought or did is little now.  And all the lavish humor!--what
is become of it?  It is pathos, now.  Pathos, and the thought of
it brings tears.

All these little things happened such a few hours ago--and
now she lies yonder.  Lies yonder, and cares for nothing any
more.  Strange--marvelous--incredible!  I have had this
experience before; but it would still be incredible if I had had
it a thousand times.


"MISS JEAN IS DEAD!"

That is what Katy said.  When I heard the door open behind
the bed's head without a preliminary knock, I supposed it was
Jean coming to kiss me good morning, she being the only person
who was used to entering without formalities.

And so--

I have been to Jean's parlor.  Such a turmoil of Christmas
presents for servants and friends!  They are everywhere; tables,
chairs, sofas, the floor--everything is occupied, and over-
occupied.  It is many and many a year since I have seen the like.
In that ancient day Mrs. Clemens and I used to slip softly into
the nursery at midnight on Christmas Eve and look the array of
presents over.  The children were little then.  And now here is
Jean's parlor looking just as that nursery used to look.  The
presents are not labeled--the hands are forever idle that would
have labeled them today.  Jean's mother always worked herself
down with her Christmas preparations.  Jean did the same
yesterday and the preceding days, and the fatigue has cost her
her life.  The fatigue caused the convulsion that attacked her
this morning.  She had had no attack for months.


Jean was so full of life and energy that she was constantly
is danger of overtaxing her strength.  Every morning she was in
the saddle by half past seven, and off to the station for her
mail.  She examined the letters and I distributed them:  some to
her, some to Mr. Paine, the others to the stenographer and
myself.  She dispatched her share and then mounted her horse
again and went around superintending her farm and her poultry the
rest of the day.  Sometimes she played billiards with me after
dinner, but she was usually too tired to play, and went early to
bed.

Yesterday afternoon I told her about some plans I had been
devising while absent in Bermuda, to lighten her burdens.  We
would get a housekeeper; also we would put her share of the
secretary-work into Mr. Paine's hands.

No--she wasn't willing.  She had been making plans herself.
The matter ended in a compromise, I submitted.  I always did.
She wouldn't audit the bills and let Paine fill out the checks--
she would continue to attend to that herself.  Also, she would
continue to be housekeeper, and let Katy assist.  Also, she would
continue to answer the letters of personal friends for me.  Such
was the compromise.  Both of us called it by that name, though I
was not able to see where my formidable change had been made.

However, Jean was pleased, and that was sufficient for me.
She was proud of being my secretary, and I was never able to persuade
her to give up any part of her share in that unlovely work.

In the talk last night I said I found everything going so
smoothly that if she were willing I would go back to Bermuda in
February and get blessedly out of the clash and turmoil again for
another month.  She was urgent that I should do it, and said that
if I would put off the trip until March she would take Katy and
go with me.  We struck hands upon that, and said it was settled.
I had a mind to write to Bermuda by tomorrow's ship and secure a
furnished house and servants.  I meant to write the letter this
morning.  But it will never be written, now.

For she lies yonder, and before her is another journey than that.

Night is closing down; the rim of the sun barely shows above the
sky-line of the hills.

I have been looking at that face again that was growing dearer
and dearer to me every day.  I was getting acquainted with
Jean in these last nine months.  She had been long an exile from
home when she came to us three-quarters of a year ago.  She had
been shut up in sanitariums, many miles from us.  How eloquent
glad and grateful she was to cross her father's threshold again!

Would I bring her back to life if I could do it?  I would not.
If a word would do it, I would beg for strength to withhold
the word.  And I would have the strength; I am sure of it.  In
her loss I am almost bankrupt, and my life is a bitterness, but I
am content:  for she has been enriched with the most precious of
all gifts--that gift which makes all other gifts mean and poor--
death.  I have never wanted any released friend of mine restored
to life since I reached manhood.  I felt in this way when Susy
passed away; and later my wife, and later Mr. Rogers.  When Clara
met me at the station in New York and told me Mr. Rogers had died
suddenly that morning, my thought was, Oh, favorite of fortune--
fortunate all his long and lovely life--fortunate to his latest
moment!  The reporters said there were tears of sorrow in my
eyes.  True--but they were for ME, not for him.  He had suffered
no loss.  All the fortunes he had ever made before were poverty
compared with this one.


Why did I build this house, two years ago?  To shelter this
vast emptiness?  How foolish I was!  But I shall stay in it.  The
spirits of the dead hallow a house, for me.  It was not so with
other members of the family.  Susy died in the house we built in
Hartford.  Mrs. Clemens would never enter it again.  But it made
the house dearer to me.  I have entered it once since, when it
was tenantless and silent and forlorn, but to me it was a holy
place and beautiful.  It seemed to me that the spirits of the
dead were all about me, and would speak to me and welcome me if
they could:  Livy, and Susy, and George, and Henry Robinson, and
Charles Dudley Warner.  How good and kind they were, and how
lovable their lives!  In fancy I could see them all again, I
could call the children back and hear them romp again with
George--that peerless black ex-slave and children's idol who came
one day--a flitting stranger--to wash windows, and stayed
eighteen years.  Until he died.  Clara and Jean would never enter
again the New York hotel which their mother had frequented in
earlier days.  They could not bear it.  But I shall stay in this
house.  It is dearer to me tonight than ever it was before.
Jean's spirit will make it beautiful for me always.  Her lonely
and tragic death--but I will not think of that now.


Jean's mother always devoted two or three weeks to Christmas
shopping, and was always physically exhausted when Christmas Eve
came.  Jean was her very own child--she wore herself out present-
hunting in New York these latter days.  Paine has just found on
her desk a long list of names--fifty, he thinks--people to whom
she sent presents last night.  Apparently she forgot no one.  And
Katy found there a roll of bank-notes, for the servants.

Her dog has been wandering about the grounds today,
comradeless and forlorn.  I have seen him from the windows.  She
got him from Germany.  He has tall ears and looks exactly like a
wolf.  He was educated in Germany, and knows no language but the
German.  Jean gave him no orders save in that tongue.  And so
when the burglar-alarm made a fierce clamor at midnight a
fortnight ago, the butler, who is French and knows no German,
tried in vain to interest the dog in the supposed burglar.  Jean
wrote me, to Bermuda, about the incident.  It was the last letter
I was ever to receive from her bright head and her competent hand.
The dog will not be neglected.


There was never a kinder heart than Jean's.  From her
childhood up she always spent the most of her allowance on
charities of one kind or another.  After she became secretary and
had her income doubled she spent her money upon these things with
a free hand.  Mine too, I am glad and grateful to say.

She was a loyal friend to all animals, and she loved them
all, birds, beasts, and everything--even snakes--an inheritance
from me.  She knew all the birds; she was high up in that lore.
She became a member of various humane societies when she was
still a little girl--both here and abroad--and she remained an
active member to the last.  She founded two or three societies
for the protection of animals, here and in Europe.

She was an embarrassing secretary, for she fished my
correspondence out of the waste-basket and answered the letters.
She thought all letters deserved the courtesy of an answer.
Her mother brought her up in that kindly error.

She could write a good letter, and was swift with her pen.
She had but an indifferent ear music, but her tongue took to
languages with an easy facility.  She never allowed her Italian,
French, and German to get rusty through neglect.

The telegrams of sympathy are flowing in, from far and wide,
now, just as they did in Italy five years and a half ago, when
this child's mother laid down her blameless life.  They cannot
heal the hurt, but they take away some of the pain.  When Jean
and I kissed hands and parted at my door last, how little did we
imagine that in twenty-two hours the telegraph would be bringing
words like these:

"From the bottom of our hearts we send out sympathy,
dearest of friends."


For many and many a day to come, wherever I go in this house,
remembrancers of Jean will mutely speak to me of her.  Who can
count the number of them?

She was in exile two years with the hope of healing her
malady--epilepsy.  There are no words to express how grateful I
am that she did not meet her fate in the hands of strangers, but
in the loving shelter of her own home.


"MISS JEAN IS DEAD!"

It is true.  Jean is dead.

A month ago I was writing bubbling and hilarious articles
for magazines yet to appear, and now I am writing--this.


CHRISTMAS DAY.  NOON.--Last night I went to Jean's room at
intervals, and turned back the sheet and looked at the peaceful
face, and kissed the cold brow, and remembered that heartbreaking
night in Florence so long ago, in that cavernous and silent vast
villa, when I crept downstairs so many times, and turned back a
sheet and looked at a face just like this one--Jean's mother's
face--and kissed a brow that was just like this one.  And last
night I saw again what I had seen then--that strange and lovely
miracle--the sweet, soft contours of early maidenhood restored by
the gracious hand of death!  When Jean's mother lay dead, all
trace of care, and trouble, and suffering, and the corroding
years had vanished out of the face, and I was looking again upon
it as I had known and worshipped it in its young bloom and beauty
a whole generation before.

About three in the morning, while wandering about the house
in the deep silences, as one dies in times like these, when there
is a dumb sense that something has been lost that will never be
found again, yet must be sought, if only for the employment the
useless seeking gives, I came upon Jean's dog in the hall
downstairs, and noted that he did not spring to greet me,
according to his hospitable habit, but came slow and sorrowfully;
also I remembered that he had not visited Jean's apartment since
the tragedy.  Poor fellow, did he know?  I think so.  Always when
Jean was abroad in the open he was with her; always when she was
in the house he was with her, in the night as well as in the day.
Her parlor was his bedroom.  Whenever I happened upon him on the
ground floor he always followed me about, and when I went
upstairs he went too--in a tumultuous gallop.  But now it was
different:  after patting him a little I went to the library--he
remained behind; when I went upstairs he did not follow me, save
with his wistful eyes.  He has wonderful eyes--big, and kind, and
eloquent.  He can talk with them.  He is a beautiful creature,
and is of the breed of the New York police-dogs.  I do not like
dogs, because they bark when there is no occasion for it; but I
have liked this one from the beginning, because he belonged to
Jean, and because he never barks except when there is occasion--
which is not oftener than twice a week.

In my wanderings I visited Jean's parlor.  On a shelf I
found a pile of my books, and I knew what it meant.  She was
waiting for me to come home from Bermuda and autograph them, then
she would send them away.  If I only knew whom she intended them
for!  But I shall never know.  I will keep them.  Her hand has
touched them--it is an accolade--they are noble, now.

And in a closet she had hidden a surprise for me--a thing I
have often wished I owned:  a noble big globe.  I couldn't see it
for the tears.  She will never know the pride I take in it, and
the pleasure.  Today the mails are full of loving remembrances
for her:  full of those old, old kind words she loved so well,
"Merry Christmas to Jean!"  If she could only have lived one day
longer!

At last she ran out of money, and would not use mine.  So
she sent to one of those New York homes for poor girls all the
clothes she could spare--and more, most likely.


CHRISTMAS NIGHT.--This afternoon they took her away from her
room.  As soon as I might, I went down to the library, and there
she lay, in her coffin, dressed in exactly the same clothes she
wore when she stood at the other end of the same room on the 6th
of October last, as Clara's chief bridesmaid.  Her face was
radiant with happy excitement then; it was the same face now,
with the dignity of death and the peace of God upon it.

They told me the first mourner to come was the dog.  He came
uninvited, and stood up on his hind legs and rested his fore paws
upon the trestle, and took a last long look at the face that was
so dear to him, then went his way as silently as he had come.
HE KNOWS.

At mid-afternoon it began to snow.  The pity of it--that
Jean could not see it!  She so loved the snow.

The snow continued to fall.  At six o'clock the hearse drew
up to the door to bear away its pathetic burden.  As they lifted
the casket, Paine began playing on the orchestrelle Schubert's
"Impromptu," which was Jean's favorite.  Then he played the
Intermezzo; that was for Susy; then he played the Largo; that was
for their mother.  He did this at my request.  Elsewhere in my
Autobiography I have told how the Intermezzo and the Largo came
to be associated in my heart with Susy and Livy in their last
hours in this life.

From my windows I saw the hearse and the carriages wind
along the road and gradually grow vague and spectral in the
falling snow, and presently disappear.  Jean was gone out of my
life, and would not come back any more.  Jervis, the cousin she
had played with when they were babies together--he and her
beloved old Katy--were conducting her to her distant childhood
home, where she will lie by her mother's side once more, in the
company of Susy and Langdon.


DECEMBER 26TH.  The dog came to see me at eight o'clock this
morning.  He was very affectionate, poor orphan!  My room will be
his quarters hereafter.

The storm raged all night.  It has raged all the morning.
The snow drives across the landscape in vast clouds, superb,
sublime--and Jean not here to see.


2:30 P.M.--It is the time appointed.  The funeral has begun.
Four hundred miles away, but I can see it all, just as if I were
there.  The scene is the library in the Langdon homestead.
Jean's coffin stands where her mother and I stood, forty years
ago, and were married; and where Susy's coffin stood thirteen
years ago; where her mother's stood five years and a half ago;
and where mine will stand after a little time.


FIVE O'CLOCK.--It is all over.


When Clara went away two weeks ago to live in Europe, it was
hard, but I could bear it, for I had Jean left.  I said WE would
be a family.  We said we would be close comrades and happy--just
we two.  That fair dream was in my mind when Jean met me at the
steamer last Monday; it was in my mind when she received me at
the door last Tuesday evening.  We were together; WE WERE A
FAMILY! the dream had come true--oh, precisely true, contentedly,
true, satisfyingly true! and remained true two whole days.

And now?  Now Jean is in her grave!

In the grave--if I can believe it.  God rest her sweet
spirit!

-----

1.  Katy Leary, who had been in the service of the Clemens family
for twenty-nine years.

2.  Mr. Gabrilowitsch had been operated on for appendicitis.

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




THE TURNING-POINT OF MY LIFE


I

If I understand the idea, the BAZAR invites several of us to
write upon the above text.  It means the change in my life's
course which introduced what must be regarded by me as the most
IMPORTANT condition of my career.  But it also implies--without
intention, perhaps--that that turning-point ITSELF was the
creator of the new condition.  This gives it too much
distinction, too much prominence, too much credit.  It is only
the LAST link in a very long chain of turning-points commissioned
to produce the cardinal result; it is not any more important than
the humblest of its ten thousand predecessors.  Each of the ten
thousand did its appointed share, on its appointed date, in
forwarding the scheme, and they were all necessary; to have left
out any one of them would have defeated the scheme and brought
about SOME OTHER result.  It know we have a fashion of saying
"such and such an event was the turning-point in my life," but we
shouldn't say it.  We should merely grant that its place as LAST
link in the chain makes it the most CONSPICUOUS link; in real
importance it has no advantage over any one of its predecessors.

Perhaps the most celebrated turning-point recorded in
history was the crossing of the Rubicon.  Suetonius says:


Coming up with his troops on the banks of the Rubicon, he
halted for a while, and, revolving in his mind the importance of
the step he was on the point of taking, he turned to those about
him and said, "We may still retreat; but if we pass this little
bridge, nothing is left for us but to fight it out in arms."


This was a stupendously important moment.  And all the
incidents, big and little, of Caesar's previous life had been
leading up to it, stage by stage, link by link.  This was the
LAST link--merely the last one, and no bigger than the others;
but as we gaze back at it through the inflating mists of our
imagination, it looks as big as the orbit of Neptune.

You, the reader, have a PERSONAL interest in that link, and
so have I; so has the rest of the human race.  It was one of the
links in your life-chain, and it was one of the links in mine.
We may wait, now, with baited breath, while Caesar reflects.
Your fate and mine are involved in his decision.

While he was thus hesitating, the following incident
occurred.  A person remarked for his noble mien and graceful
aspect appeared close at hand, sitting and playing upon a pipe.
When not only the shepherds, but a number of soldiers also,
flocked to listen to him, and some trumpeters among them, he
snatched a trumpet from one of them, ran to the river with it,
and, sounding the advance with a piercing blast, crossed to the
other side.  Upon this, Caesar exclaimed:  "Let us go whither the
omens of the gods and the iniquity of our enemies call up.
THE DIE IS CAST."

So he crossed--and changed the future of the whole human
race, for all time.  But that stranger was a link in Caesar's
life-chain, too; and a necessary one.  We don't know his name, we
never hear of him again; he was very casual; he acts like an
accident; but he was no accident, he was there by compulsion of
HIS life-chain, to blow the electrifying blast that was to make
up Caesar's mind for him, and thence go piping down the aisles of
history forever.

If the stranger hadn't been there!  But he WAS.  And Caesar
crossed.  With such results!  Such vast events--each a link in
the HUMAN RACE'S life-chain; each event producing the next one,
and that one the next one, and so on:  the destruction of the
republic; the founding of the empire; the breaking up of the
empire; the rise of Christianity upon its ruins; the spread of
the religion to other lands--and so on; link by link took its
appointed place at its appointed time, the discovery of America
being one of them; our Revolution another; the inflow of English
and other immigrants another; their drift westward (my ancestors
among them) another; the settlement of certain of them in
Missouri, which resulted in ME.  For I was one of the unavoidable
results of the crossing of the Rubicon.  If the stranger, with
his trumpet blast, had stayed away (which he COULDN'T, for he was
the appointed link) Caesar would not have crossed.  What would
have happened, in that case, we can never guess.  We only know
that the things that did happen would not have happened.  They
might have been replaced by equally prodigious things, of course,
but their nature and results are beyond our guessing.  But the
matter that interests me personally is that I would not be HERE
now, but somewhere else; and probably black--there is no telling.
Very well, I am glad he crossed.  And very really and thankfully
glad, too, though I never cared anything about it before.



II

To me, the most important feature of my life is its literary
feature.  I have been professionally literary something more than
forty years.  There have been many turning-points in my life, but
the one that was the link in the chain appointed to conduct me to
the literary guild is the most CONSPICUOUS link in that chain.
BECAUSE it was the last one.  It was not any more important than
its predecessors.  All the other links have an inconspicuous
look, except the crossing of the Rubicon; but as factors in
making me literary they are all of the one size, the crossing of
the Rubicon included.

I know how I came to be literary, and I will tell the steps
that lead up to it and brought it about.

The crossing of the Rubicon was not the first one, it was
hardly even a recent one; I should have to go back ages before
Caesar's day to find the first one.  To save space I will go back
only a couple of generations and start with an incident of my
boyhood.  When I was twelve and a half years old, my father died.
It was in the spring.  The summer came, and brought with it an
epidemic of measles.  For a time a child died almost every day.
The village was paralyzed with fright, distress, despair.
Children that were not smitten with the disease were imprisoned
in their homes to save them from the infection.  In the homes
there were no cheerful faces, there was no music, there was no
singing but of solemn hymns, no voice but of prayer, no romping
was allowed, no noise, no laughter, the family moved spectrally
about on tiptoe, in a ghostly hush.  I was a prisoner.  My soul
was steeped in this awful dreariness--and in fear.  At some time
or other every day and every night a sudden shiver shook me to
the marrow, and I said to myself, "There, I've got it! and I
shall die."  Life on these miserable terms was not worth living,
and at last I made up my mind to get the disease and have it
over, one way or the other.  I escaped from the house and went to
the house of a neighbor where a playmate of mine was very ill
with the malady.  When the chance offered I crept into his room
and got into bed with him.  I was discovered by his mother and
sent back into captivity.  But I had the disease; they could not
take that from me.  I came near to dying.  The whole village was
interested, and anxious, and sent for news of me every day; and
not only once a day, but several times.  Everybody believed I
would die; but on the fourteenth day a change came for the worse
and they were disappointed.

This was a turning-point of my life.  (Link number one.)
For when I got well my mother closed my school career and
apprenticed me to a printer.  She was tired of trying to keep me
out of mischief, and the adventure of the measles decided her to
put me into more masterful hands than hers.

I became a printer, and began to add one link after another
to the chain which was to lead me into the literary profession.
A long road, but I could not know that; and as I did not know
what its goal was, or even that it had one, I was indifferent.
Also contented.

A young printer wanders around a good deal, seeking and
finding work; and seeking again, when necessity commands.  N. B.
Necessity is a CIRCUMSTANCE; Circumstance is man's master--and
when Circumstance commands, he must obey; he may argue the
matter--that is his privilege, just as it is the honorable
privilege of a falling body to argue with the attraction of
gravitation--but it won't do any good, he must OBEY.  I wandered
for ten years, under the guidance and dictatorship of
Circumstance, and finally arrived in a city of Iowa, where I
worked several months.  Among the books that interested me in
those days was one about the Amazon.  The traveler told an
alluring tale of his long voyage up the great river from Para to
the sources of the Madeira, through the heart of an enchanted
land, a land wastefully rich in tropical wonders, a romantic land
where all the birds and flowers and animals were of the museum
varieties, and where the alligator and the crocodile and the
monkey seemed as much at home as if they were in the Zoo.  Also,
he told an astonishing tale about COCA, a vegetable product of
miraculous powers, asserting that it was so nourishing and so
strength-giving that the native of the mountains of the Madeira
region would tramp up hill and down all day on a pinch of
powdered coca and require no other sustenance.

I was fired with a longing to ascend the Amazon.  Also with
a longing to open up a trade in coca with all the world.  During
months I dreamed that dream, and tried to contrive ways to get to
Para and spring that splendid enterprise upon an unsuspecting
planet.  But all in vain.  A person may PLAN as much as he wants
to, but nothing of consequence is likely to come of it until the
magician CIRCUMSTANCE steps in and takes the matter off his
hands.  At last Circumstance came to my help.  It was in this
way.  Circumstance, to help or hurt another man, made him lose a
fifty-dollar bill in the street; and to help or hurt me, made me
find it.  I advertised the find, and left for the Amazon the same
day.  This was another turning-point, another link.

Could Circumstance have ordered another dweller in that town
to go to the Amazon and open up a world-trade in coca on a fifty-
dollar basis and been obeyed?  No, I was the only one.  There
were other fools there--shoals and shoals of them--but they were
not of my kind.  I was the only one of my kind.

Circumstance is powerful, but it cannot work alone; it has
to have a partner.  Its partner is man's TEMPERAMENT--his natural
disposition.  His temperament is not his invention, it is BORN in
him, and he has no authority over it, neither is he responsible
for its acts.  He cannot change it, nothing can change it,
nothing can modify it--except temporarily.  But it won't stay
modified.  It is permanent, like the color of the man's eyes and
the shape of his ears.  Blue eyes are gray in certain unusual lights;
but they resume their natural color when that stress is removed.

A Circumstance that will coerce one man will have no effect
upon a man of a different temperament.  If Circumstance had
thrown the bank-note in Caesar's way, his temperament would not
have made him start for the Amazon.  His temperament would have
compelled him to do something with the money, but not that.  It
might have made him advertise the note--and WAIT.  We can't tell.
Also, it might have made him go to New York and buy into the
Government, with results that would leave Tweed nothing to learn
when it came his turn.

Very well, Circumstance furnished the capital, and my
temperament told me what to do with it.  Sometimes a temperament
is an ass.  When that is the case of the owner of it is an ass,
too, and is going to remain one.  Training, experience,
association, can temporarily so polish him, improve him, exalt
him that people will think he is a mule, but they will be
mistaken.  Artificially he IS a mule, for the time being, but at
bottom he is an ass yet, and will remain one.

By temperament I was the kind of person that DOES things.
Does them, and reflects afterward.  So I started for the Amazon
without reflecting and without asking any questions.  That was
more than fifty years ago.  In all that time my temperament has
not changed, by even a shade.  I have been punished many and many
a time, and bitterly, for doing things and reflecting afterward,
but these tortures have been of no value to me; I still do the
thing commanded by Circumstance and Temperament, and reflect
afterward.  Always violently.  When I am reflecting, on these
occasions, even deaf persons can hear me think.

I went by the way of Cincinnati, and down the Ohio and
Mississippi.  My idea was to take ship, at New Orleans, for Para.
In New Orleans I inquired, and found there was no ship leaving
for Para.  Also, that there never had BEEN one leaving for Para.
I reflected.  A policeman came and asked me what I was doing, and
I told him.  He made me move on, and said if he caught me
reflecting in the public street again he would run me in.

After a few days I was out of money.  Then Circumstance
arrived, with another turning-point of my life--a new link.  On
my way down, I had made the acquaintance of a pilot.  I begged
him to teach me the river, and he consented.  I became a pilot.

By and by Circumstance came again--introducing the Civil
War, this time, in order to push me ahead another stage or two
toward the literary profession.  The boats stopped running, my
livelihood was gone.

Circumstance came to the rescue with a new turning-point and
a fresh link.  My brother was appointed secretary to the new
Territory of Nevada, and he invited me to go with him and help
him in his office.  I accepted.

In Nevada, Circumstance furnished me the silver fever and I
went into the mines to make a fortune, as I supposed; but that
was not the idea.  The idea was to advance me another step toward
literature.  For amusement I scribbled things for the Virginia
City ENTERPRISE.  One isn't a printer ten years without setting
up acres of good and bad literature, and learning--unconsciously
at first, consciously later--to discriminate between the two,
within his mental limitations; and meantime he is unconsciously
acquiring what is called a "style."  One of my efforts attracted
attention, and the ENTERPRISE sent for me and put me on its staff.

And so I became a journalist--another link.  By and by Circumstance
and the Sacramento UNION sent me to the Sandwich Islands for five
or six months, to write up sugar.  I did it; and threw in a good
deal of extraneous matter that hadn't anything to do with sugar.
But it was this extraneous matter that helped me to another link.

It made me notorious, and San Francisco invited me to lecture.
Which I did.  And profitably.  I had long had a desire to travel
and see the world, and now Circumstance had most kindly and
unexpectedly hurled me upon the platform and furnished me the means.
So I joined the "Quaker City Excursion."

When I returned to America, Circumstance was waiting on the pier--
with the LAST link--the conspicuous, the consummating, the
victorious link:  I was asked to WRITE A BOOK, and I did it, and
called it THE INNOCENTS ABROAD.  Thus I became at last a member
of the literary guild.  That was forty-two years ago, and I have
been a member ever since.  Leaving the Rubicon incident away back
where it belongs, I can say with truth that the reason I am in
the literary profession is because I had the measles when I was
twelve years old.


III

Now what interests me, as regards these details, is not the
details themselves, but the fact that none of them was foreseen
by me, none of them was planned by me, I was the author of none
of them.  Circumstance, working in harness with my temperament,
created them all and compelled them all.  I often offered help,
and with the best intentions, but it was rejected--as a rule,
uncourteously.  I could never plan a thing and get it to come out
the way I planned it.  It came out some other way--some way I had
not counted upon.

And so I do not admire the human being--as an intellectual
marvel--as much as I did when I was young, and got him out of
books, and did not know him personally.  When I used to read that
such and such a general did a certain brilliant thing, I believed
it.  Whereas it was not so.  Circumstance did it by help of his
temperament.  The circumstances would have failed of effect with
a general of another temperament:  he might see the chance, but
lose the advantage by being by nature too slow or too quick or
too doubtful.  Once General Grant was asked a question about a
matter which had been much debated by the public and the
newspapers; he answered the question without any hesitancy.
"General, who planned the the march through Georgia?"  "The
enemy!"  He added that the enemy usually makes your plans for
you.  He meant that the enemy by neglect or through force of
circumstances leaves an opening for you, and you see your chance
and take advantage of it.

Circumstances do the planning for us all, no doubt, by help
of our temperaments.  I see no great difference between a man and
a watch, except that the man is conscious and the watch isn't,
and the man TRIES to plan things and the watch doesn't.  The
watch doesn't wind itself and doesn't regulate itself--these
things are done exteriorly.  Outside influences, outside
circumstances, wind the MAN and regulate him.  Left to himself,
he wouldn't get regulated at all, and the sort of time he would
keep would not be valuable.  Some rare men are wonderful watches,
with gold case, compensation balance, and all those things, and
some men are only simple and sweet and humble Waterburys.  I am a
Waterbury.  A Waterbury of that kind, some say.

A nation is only an individual multiplied.  It makes plans
and Circumstances comes and upsets them--or enlarges them.  Some
patriots throw the tea overboard; some other patriots destroy a
Bastille.  The PLANS stop there; then Circumstance comes in,
quite unexpectedly, and turns these modest riots into a revolution.

And there was poor Columbus.  He elaborated a deep plan to
find a new route to an old country.  Circumstance revised his
plan for him, and he found a new WORLD.  And HE gets the credit
of it to this day.  He hadn't anything to do with it.

Necessarily the scene of the real turning-point of my life
(and of yours) was the Garden of Eden.  It was there that the
first link was forged of the chain that was ultimately to lead to
the emptying of me into the literary guild.  Adam's TEMPERAMENT
was the first command the Deity ever issued to a human being on
this planet.  And it was the only command Adam would NEVER be
able to disobey.  It said, "Be weak, be water, be characterless,
be cheaply persuadable."  The latter command, to let the fruit
alone, was certain to be disobeyed.  Not by Adam himself, but by
his TEMPERAMENT--which he did not create and had no authority
over.  For the TEMPERAMENT is the man; the thing tricked out with
clothes and named Man is merely its Shadow, nothing more.  The
law of the tiger's temperament is, Thou shalt kill; the law of
the sheep's temperament is Thou shalt not kill.  To issue later
commands requiring the tiger to let the fat stranger alone, and
requiring the sheep to imbue its hands in the blood of the lion
is not worth while, for those commands CAN'T be obeyed.  They
would invite to violations of the law of TEMPERAMENT, which is
supreme, and take precedence of all other authorities.  I cannot
help feeling disappointed in Adam and Eve.  That is, in their
temperaments.  Not in THEM, poor helpless young creatures--
afflicted with temperaments made out of butter; which butter was
commanded to get into contact with fire and BE MELTED.  What I
cannot help wishing is, that Adam had been postponed, and Martin
Luther and Joan of Arc put in their place--that splendid pair
equipped with temperaments not made of butter, but of asbestos.
By neither sugary persuasions nor by hell fire could Satan have
beguiled THEM to eat the apple.    There would have been results!
Indeed, yes.  The apple would be intact today; there would be no
human race; there would be no YOU; there would be no ME.  And the
old, old creation-dawn scheme of ultimately launching me into the
literary guild would have been defeated.

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


HOW TO MAKE HISTORY DATES STICK

These chapters are for children, and I shall try to make the
words large enough to command respect.  In the hope that you are
listening, and that you have confidence in me, I will proceed.
Dates are difficult things to acquire; and after they are
acquired it is difficult to keep them in the head.  But they are
very valuable.  They are like the cattle-pens of a ranch--they
shut in the several brands of historical cattle, each within its
own fence, and keep them from getting mixed together.  Dates are
hard to remember because they consist of figures; figures are
monotonously unstriking in appearance, and they don't take hold,
they form no pictures, and so they give the eye no chance to
help.  Pictures are the thing.  Pictures can make dates stick.
They can make nearly anything stick--particularly IF YOU MAKE THE
PICTURES YOURSELF.  Indeed, that is the great point--make the
pictures YOURSELF.  I know about this from experience.  Thirty
years ago I was delivering a memorized lecture every night, and
every night I had to help myself with a page of notes to keep
from getting myself mixed.  The notes consisted of beginnings of
sentences, and were eleven in number, and they ran something like
this:

"IN THAT REGION THE WEATHER--"

"AT THAT TIME IT WAS A CUSTOM--"

"BUT IN CALIFORNIA ONE NEVER HEARD--"

Eleven of them.  They initialed the brief divisions of the
lecture and protected me against skipping.  But they all looked
about alike on the page; they formed no picture; I had them by
heart, but I could never with certainty remember the order of
their succession; therefore I always had to keep those notes by
me and look at them every little while.  Once I mislaid them; you
will not be able to imagine the terrors of that evening.  I now
saw that I must invent some other protection.  So I got ten of
the initial letters by heart in their proper order--I, A, B, and
so on--and I went on the platform the next night with these
marked in ink on my ten finger-nails.  But it didn't answer.  I
kept track of the figures for a while; then I lost it, and after
that I was never quite sure which finger I had used last.  I
couldn't lick off a letter after using it, for while that would
have made success certain it also would have provoked too much
curiosity.  There was curiosity enough without that.  To the
audience I seemed more interested in my fingernails than I was in
my subject; one or two persons asked me afterward what was the
matter with my hands.

It was now that the idea of pictures occurred to me; then my
troubles passed away.  In two minutes I made six pictures with a
pen, and they did the work of the eleven catch-sentences, and did
it perfectly.  I threw the pictures away as soon as they were
made, for I was sure I could shut my eyes and see them any time.
That was a quarter of a century ago; the lecture vanished out of
my head more than twenty years ago, but I would rewrite it from
the pictures--for they remain.  Here are three of them: (Fig. 1).

The first one is a haystack--below it a rattlesnake--and it
told me where to begin to talk ranch-life in Carson Valley.  The
second one told me where to begin the talk about a strange and
violent wind that used to burst upon Carson City from the Sierra
Nevadas every afternoon at two o'clock and try to blow the town
away.  The third picture, as you easily perceive, is lightning;
its duty was to remind me when it was time to begin to talk about
San Francisco weather, where there IS no lightning--nor thunder,
either--and it never failed me.

I will give you a valuable hint.  When a man is making a
speech and you are to follow him don't jot down notes to speak
from, jot down PICTURES.  It is awkward and embarrassing to have
to keep referring to notes; and besides it breaks up your speech
and makes it ragged and non-coherent; but you can tear up your
pictures as soon as you have made them--they will stay fresh and
strong in your memory in the order and sequence in which you
scratched them down.  And many will admire to see what a good
memory you are furnished with, when perhaps your memory is not
any better than mine.

Sixteen years ago when my children were little creatures the
governess was trying to hammer some primer histories into their
heads.  Part of this fun--if you like to call it that--consisted
in the memorizing of the accession dates of the thirty-seven
personages who had ruled England from the Conqueror down.  These
little people found it a bitter, hard contract.  It was all
dates, and all looked alike, and they wouldn't stick.  Day after
day of the summer vacation dribbled by, and still the kings held
the fort; the children couldn't conquer any six of them.

With my lecture experience in mind I was aware that I could
invent some way out of the trouble with pictures, but I hoped a
way could be found which would let them romp in the open air
while they learned the kings.  I found it, and they mastered
all the monarchs in a day or two.

The idea was to make them SEE the reigns with their eyes;
that would be a large help.  We were at the farm then.  From the
house-porch the grounds sloped gradually down to the lower fence
and rose on the right to the high ground where my small work-den
stood.  A carriage-road wound through the grounds and up the
hill.  I staked it out with the English monarchs, beginning with
the Conqueror, and you could stand on the porch and clearly see
every reign and its length, from the Conquest down to Victoria,
then in the forty-sixth year of her reign--EIGHT HUNDRED AND
SEVENTEEN YEARS OF English history under your eye at once!

English history was an unusually live topic in America just
then.  The world had suddenly realized that while it was not
noticing the Queen had passed Henry VIII., passed Henry VI. and
Elizabeth, and gaining in length every day.  Her reign had
entered the list of the long ones; everybody was interested now--
it was watching a race.  Would she pass the long Edward?  There
was a possibility of it.  Would she pass the long Henry?
Doubtful, most people said.  The long George?  Impossible!
Everybody said it.  But we have lived to see her leave him two
years behind.

I measured off 817 feet of the roadway, a foot representing
a year, and at the beginning and end of each reign I drove a
three-foot white-pine stake in the turf by the roadside and wrote
the name and dates on it.  Abreast the middle of the porch-front
stood a great granite flower-vase overflowing with a cataract of
bright-yellow flowers--I can't think of their name.  The vase of
William the Conqueror.  We put his name on it and his accession
date, 1066.  We started from that and measured off twenty-one
feet of the road, and drove William Rufus's state; then thirteen
feet and drove the first Henry's stake; then thirty-five feet and
drove Stephen's; then nineteen feet, which brought us just past
the summer-house on the left; then we staked out thirty-five,
ten, and seventeen for the second Henry and Richard and John;
turned the curve and entered upon just what was needed for Henry
III.--a level, straight stretch of fifty-six feet of road without
a crinkle in it.  And it lay exactly in front of the house, in
the middle of the grounds.  There couldn't have been a better
place for that long reign; you could stand on the porch and see
those two wide-apart stakes almost with your eyes shut. (Fig. 2.)

That isn't the shape of the road--I have bunched it up like
that to save room.  The road had some great curves in it, but
their gradual sweep was such that they were no mar to history.
No, in our road one could tell at a glance who was who by the size
of the vacancy between stakes--with LOCALITY to help, of course.

Although I am away off here in a Swedish village [1] and
those stakes did not stand till the snow came, I can see them
today as plainly as ever; and whenever I think of an English
monarch his stakes rise before me of their own accord and I
notice the large or small space which he takes up on our road.
Are your kings spaced off in your mind?  When you think of
Richard III. and of James II. do the durations of their reigns
seem about alike to you?  It isn't so to me; I always notice that
there's a foot's difference.  When you think of Henry III. do you
see a great long stretch of straight road?  I do; and just at the
end where it joins on to Edward I. I always see a small pear-bush
with its green fruit hanging down.  When I think of the
Commonwealth I see a shady little group of these small saplings
which we called the oak parlor; when I think of George III. I see
him stretching up the hill, part of him occupied by a flight of
stone steps; and I can locate Stephen to an inch when he comes
into my mind, for he just filled the stretch which went by the
summer-house.  Victoria's reign reached almost to my study door
on the first little summit; there's sixteen feet to be added now;
I believe that that would carry it to a big pine-tree that was
shattered by some lightning one summer when it was trying to hit me.

We got a good deal of fun out of the history road; and
exercise, too.  We trotted the course from the conqueror to the
study, the children calling out the names, dates, and length of
reigns as we passed the stakes, going a good gait along the long
reigns, but slowing down when we came upon people like Mary and
Edward VI., and the short Stuart and Plantagenet, to give time to
get in the statistics.  I offered prizes, too--apples.  I threw
one as far as I could send it, and the child that first shouted
the reign it fell in got the apple.

The children were encouraged to stop locating things as
being "over by the arbor," or "in the oak parlor," or "up at the
stone steps," and say instead that the things were in Stephen, or
in the Commonwealth, or in George III.  They got the habit
without trouble.  To have the long road mapped out with such
exactness was a great boon for me, for I had the habit of leaving
books and other articles lying around everywhere, and had not
previously been able to definitely name the place, and so had
often been obliged to go to fetch them myself, to save time and
failure; but now I could name the reign I left them in, and send
the children.

Next I thought I would measure off the French reigns, and
peg them alongside the English ones, so that we could always have
contemporaneous French history under our eyes as we went our
English rounds.  We pegged them down to the Hundred Years' War,
then threw the idea aside, I do not now remember why.  After that
we made the English pegs fence in European and American history
as well as English, and that answered very well.  English and
alien poets, statesmen, artists, heroes, battles, plagues,
cataclysms, revolutions--we shoveled them all into the English
fences according to their dates.  Do you understand?  We gave
Washington's birth to George II.'s pegs and his death to George
III.'s; George II. got the Lisbon earthquake and George III. the
Declaration of Independence.  Goethe, Shakespeare, Napoleon,
Savonarola, Joan of Arc, the French Revolution, the Edict of
Nantes, Clive, Wellington, Waterloo, Plassey, Patay, Cowpens,
Saratoga, the Battle of the Boyne, the invention of the
logarithms, the microscope, the steam-engine, the telegraph--
anything and everything all over the world--we dumped it all
in among the English pegs according to it date and regardless
of its nationality.

If the road-pegging scheme had not succeeded I should have
lodged the kings in the children's heads by means of pictures--
that is, I should have tried.  It might have failed, for the
pictures could only be effective WHEN MADE BY THE PUPIL; not the
master, for it is the work put upon the drawing that makes the
drawing stay in the memory, and my children were too little to make
drawings at that time.  And, besides, they had no talent for art,
which is strange, for in other ways they are like me.

But I will develop the picture plan now, hoping that you will
be able to use it.  It will come good for indoors when the
weather is bad and one cannot go outside and peg a road.  Let us
imagine that the kings are a procession, and that they have come
out of the Ark and down Ararat for exercise and are now starting
back again up the zigzag road.  This will bring several of them
into view at once, and each zigzag will represent the length of
a king's reign.

And so on.  You will have plenty of space, for by my project
you will use the parlor wall.  You do not mark on the wall; that
would cause trouble.  You only attach bits of paper to it with
pins or thumb-tacks.  These will leave no mark.

Take your pen now, and twenty-one pieces of white paper,
each two inches square, and we will do the twenty-one years of
the Conqueror's reign.  On each square draw a picture of a whale
and write the dates and term of service.  We choose the whale for
several reasons:  its name and William's begin with the same
letter; it is the biggest fish that swims, and William is the
most conspicuous figure in English history in the way of a
landmark; finally, a whale is about the easiest thing to draw.
By the time you have drawn twenty-one wales and written "William
I.--1066-1087--twenty-one years" twenty-one times, those details
will be your property; you cannot dislodge them from your memory
with anything but dynamite.  I will make a sample for you to copy:
(Fig. 3).

I have got his chin up too high, but that is no matter; he
is looking for Harold.  It may be that a whale hasn't that fin up
there on his back, but I do not remember; and so, since there is
a doubt, it is best to err on the safe side.  He looks better,
anyway, than he would without it.

Be very careful and ATTENTIVE while you are drawing your
first whale from my sample and writing the word and figures under
it, so that you will not need to copy the sample any more.
Compare your copy with the sample; examine closely; if you find
you have got everything right and can shut your eyes and see the
picture and call the words and figures, then turn the sample and
copy upside down and make the next copy from memory; and also the
next and next, and so on, always drawing and writing from memory
until you have finished the whole twenty-one.  This will take you
twenty minutes, or thirty, and by that time you will find that
you can make a whale in less time than an unpracticed person can
make a sardine; also, up to the time you die you will always be
able to furnish William's dates to any ignorant person that
inquires after them.

You will now take thirteen pieces of BLUE paper, each two
inches square, and do William II. (Fig. 4.)

Make him spout his water forward instead of backward; also
make him small, and stick a harpoon in him and give him that sick
look in the eye.  Otherwise you might seem to be continuing the
other William, and that would be confusing and a damage.  It is
quite right to make him small; he was only about a No. 11 whale,
or along there somewhere; there wasn't room in him for his
father's great spirit.  The barb of that harpoon ought not to
show like that, because it is down inside the whale and ought to
be out of sight, but it cannot be helped; if the barb were
removed people would think some one had stuck a whip-stock into
the whale.  It is best to leave the barb the way it is, then
every one will know it is a harpoon and attending to business.
Remember--draw from the copy only once; make your other twelve
and the inscription from memory.

Now the truth is that whenever you have copied a picture and
its inscription once from my sample and two or three times from
memory the details will stay with you and be hard to forget.
After that, if you like, you may make merely the whale's HEAD and
WATER-SPOUT for the Conqueror till you end his reign, each time
SAYING the inscription in place of writing it; and in the case of
William II. make the HARPOON alone, and say over the inscription
each time you do it.  You see, it will take nearly twice as long
to do the first set as it will to do the second, and that will
give you a marked sense of the difference in length of the two reigns.

Next do Henry I. on thirty-five squares of RED paper.
(Fig. 5.)

That is a hen, and suggests Henry by furnishing the first syllable.
When you have repeated the hen and the inscription until you are
perfectly sure of them, draw merely the hen's head the rest of the
thirty-five times, saying over the inscription each time.  Thus:
(Fig. 6).

You begin to understand how how this procession is going to
look when it is on the wall.  First there will be the Conqueror's
twenty-one whales and water-spouts, the twenty-one white squares
joined to one another and making a white stripe three and one-
half feet long; the thirteen blue squares of William II. will be
joined to that--a blue stripe two feet, two inches long, followed
by Henry's red stripe five feet, ten inches long, and so on.  The
colored divisions will smartly show to the eye the difference in
the length of the reigns and impress the proportions on the
memory and the understanding. (Fig. 7.)

Stephen of Blois comes next.  He requires nineteen two-inch
squares of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 8.)

That is a steer.  The sound suggests the beginning of
Stephen's name.  I choose it for that reason.  I can make a
better steer than that when I am not excited.  But this one will
do.  It is a good-enough steer for history.  The tail is
defective, but it only wants straightening out.

Next comes Henry II.  Give him thirty-five squares of RED paper.
These hens must face west, like the former ones. (Fig. 9.)

This hen differs from the other one.  He is on his way to
inquire what has been happening in Canterbury.

How we arrive at Richard I., called Richard of the Lion-
heart because he was a brave fighter and was never so contented
as when he was leading crusades in Palestine and neglecting his
affairs at home.  Give him ten squares of WHITE paper. (Fig. 10).

That is a lion.  His office is to remind you of the lion-
hearted Richard.  There is something the matter with his legs,
but I do not quite know what it is, they do not seem right.
I think the hind ones are the most unsatisfactory; the front
ones are well enough, though it would be better if they were
rights and lefts.

Next comes King John, and he was a poor circumstance.
He was called Lackland.  He gave his realm to the Pope.
Let him have seventeen squares of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 11.)

That creature is a jamboree.  It looks like a trademark, but
that is only an accident and not intentional.  It is prehistoric
and extinct.  It used to roam the earth in the Old Silurian
times, and lay eggs and catch fish and climb trees and live on
fossils; for it was of a mixed breed, which was the fashion then.
It was very fierce, and the Old Silurians were afraid of it, but
this is a tame one.  Physically it has no representative now, but
its mind has been transmitted.  First I drew it sitting down, but
have turned it the other way now because I think it looks more
attractive and spirited when one end of it is galloping.  I love
to think that in this attitude it gives us a pleasant idea of
John coming all in a happy excitement to see what the barons have
been arranging for him at Runnymede, while the other one gives us
an idea of him sitting down to wring his hands and grieve over it.

We now come to Henry III.; RED squares again, of course--
fifty-six of them.  We must make all the Henrys the same color;
it will make their long reigns show up handsomely on the wall.
Among all the eight Henrys there were but two short ones.  A
lucky name, as far as longevity goes.  The reigns of six of the
Henrys cover 227 years.  It might have been well to name all the
royal princes Henry, but this was overlooked until it was too late.
(Fig. 12.)

This is the best one yet.  He is on his way (1265) to have a
look at the first House of Commons in English history.  It was a
monumental event, the situation in the House, and was the second
great liberty landmark which the century had set up.  I have made
Henry looking glad, but this was not intentional.

Edward I. comes next; LIGHT-BROWN paper, thirty-five squares.
(Fig. 13.)

That is an editor.  He is trying to think of a word.  He
props his feet on a chair, which is the editor's way; then he can
think better.  I do not care much for this one; his ears are not
alike; still, editor suggests the sound of Edward, and he will
do.  I could make him better if I had a model, but I made this
one from memory.  But is no particular matter; they all look
alike, anyway.  They are conceited and troublesome, and don't pay
enough.  Edward was the first really English king that had yet
occupied the throne.  The editor in the picture probably looks
just as Edward looked when it was first borne in upon him that
this was so.  His whole attitude expressed gratification and
pride mixed with stupefaction and astonishment.

Edward II. now; twenty BLUE squares. (Fig. 14.)

Another editor. That thing behind his ear is his pencil.
Whenever he finds a bright thing in your manuscript he strikes it
out with that.  That does him good, and makes him smile and show
his teeth, the way he is doing in the picture.  This one has just
been striking out a smart thing, and now he is sitting there with
his thumbs in his vest-holes, gloating.  They are full of envy
and malice, editors are.  This picture will serve to remind you
that Edward II. was the first English king who was DEPOSED.  Upon
demand, he signed his deposition himself.  He had found kingship
a most aggravating and disagreeable occupation, and you can see
by the look of him that he is glad he resigned.  He has put his
blue pencil up for good now.  He had struck out many a good thing
with it in his time.

Edward III. next; fifty RED squares. (Fig. 15.)

This editor is a critic.  He has pulled out his carving-
knife and his tomahawk and is starting after a book which he is
going to have for breakfast.  This one's arms are put on wrong.
I did not notice it at first, but I see it now.  Somehow he has
got his right arm on his left shoulder, and his left arm on his
right shoulder, and this shows us the back of his hands in both
instances.  It makes him left-handed all around, which is a thing
which has never happened before, except perhaps in a museum.
That is the way with art, when it is not acquired but born to
you:  you start in to make some simple little thing, not
suspecting that your genius is beginning to work and swell and
strain in secret, and all of a sudden there is a convulsion and
you fetch out something astonishing.  This is called inspiration.
It is an accident; you never know when it is coming.  I might
have tried as much as a year to think of such a strange thing as
an all-around left-handed man and I could not have done it, for
the more you try to think of an unthinkable thing the more it
eludes you; but it can't elude inspiration; you have only to bait
with inspiration and you will get it every time.  Look at
Botticelli's "Spring."  Those snaky women were unthinkable, but
inspiration secured them for us, thanks to goodness.  It is too
late to reorganize this editor-critic now; we will leave him as
he is.  He will serve to remind us.

Richard II. next; twenty-two WHITE squares.  (Fig. 16.)

We use the lion again because this is another Richard.  Like
Edward II., he was DEPOSED.  He is taking a last sad look at his
crown before they take it away.  There was not room enough and I
have made it too small; but it never fitted him, anyway.

Now we turn the corner of the century with a new line of
monarchs--the Lancastrian kings.

Henry IV.; fourteen squares of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 17.)

This hen has laid the egg of a new dynasty and realizes the
magnitude of the event.  She is giving notice in the usual way.
You notice I am improving in the construction of hens.  At first
I made them too much like other animals, but this one is
orthodox.  I mention this to encourage you.  You will find that
the more you practice the more accurate you will become.  I could
always draw animals, but before I was educated I could not tell
what kind they were when I got them done, but now I can.  Keep up
your courage; it will be the same with you, although you may not
think it.  This Henry died the year after Joan of Arc was born.

Henry V.; nine BLUE squares. (Fig. 18)

There you see him lost in meditation over the monument which
records the amazing figures of the battle of Agincourt.  French
history says 20,000 Englishmen routed 80,000 Frenchmen there; and
English historians say that the French loss, in killed and
wounded, was 60,000.

Henry VI.; thirty-nine RED squares. (Fig. 19)

This is poor Henry VI., who reigned long and scored many
misfortunes and humiliations.  Also two great disasters:  he lost
France to Joan of Arc and he lost the throne and ended the
dynasty which Henry IV. had started in business with such good
prospects.  In the picture we see him sad and weary and downcast,
with the scepter falling from his nerveless grasp.  It is a
pathetic quenching of a sun which had risen in such splendor.

Edward IV.; twenty-two LIGHT-BROWN squares. (Fig. 20.)

That is a society editor, sitting there elegantly dressed,
with his legs crossed in that indolent way, observing the clothes
the ladies wear, so that he can describe them for his paper and
make them out finer than they are and get bribes for it and
become wealthy.  That flower which he is wearing in his
buttonhole is a rose--a white rose, a York rose--and will serve
to remind us of the War of the Roses, and that the white one was
the winning color when Edward got the throne and dispossessed the
Lancastrian dynasty.

Edward V.; one-third of a BLACK square. (Fig. 21.)

His uncle Richard had him murdered in the tower.  When you
get the reigns displayed upon the wall this one will be
conspicuous and easily remembered.  It is the shortest one in
English history except Lady Jane Grey's, which was only nine
days.  She is never officially recognized as a monarch of
England, but if you or I should ever occupy a throne we should
like to have proper notice taken of it; and it would be only fair
and right, too, particularly if we gained nothing by it and lost
our lives besides.

Richard III.; two WHITE squares. (Fig. 22.)

That is not a very good lion, but Richard was not a very
good king.  You would think that this lion has two heads, but
that is not so; one is only a shadow.  There would be shadows for
the rest of him, but there was not light enough to go round, it
being a dull day, with only fleeting sun-glimpses now and then.
Richard had a humped back and a hard heart, and fell at the
battle of Bosworth.  I do not know the name of that flower in the
pot, but we will use it as Richard's trade-mark, for it is said
that it grows in only one place in the world--Bosworth Field--and
tradition says it never grew there until Richard's royal blood
warmed its hidden seed to life and made it grow.

Henry VII.; twenty-four BLUE squares. (Fig. 23.)

Henry VII. had no liking for wars and turbulence; he
preferred peace and quiet and the general prosperity which such
conditions create.  He liked to sit on that kind of eggs on his
own private account as well as the nation's, and hatch them out
and count up their result.  When he died he left his heir
2,000,000 pounds, which was a most unusual fortune for a king to
possess in those days.  Columbus's great achievement gave him the
discovery-fever, and he sent Sebastian Cabot to the New World to
search out some foreign territory for England.  That is Cabot's
ship up there in the corner.  This was the first time that
England went far abroad to enlarge her estate--but not the last.

Henry VIII.; thirty-eight RED squares. (Fig. 24.)

That is Henry VIII. suppressing a monastery in his arrogant fashion.

Edward VI.; six squares of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 25.)

He is the last Edward to date.  It is indicated by that
thing over his head, which is a LAST--shoemaker's last.

Mary; five squares of BLACK paper. (Fig. 26.)

The picture represents a burning martyr.  He is in back of
the smoke.  The first three letters of Mary's name and the first
three of the word martyr are the same.  Martyrdom was going out
in her day and martyrs were becoming scarcer, but she made
several.  For this reason she is sometimes called Bloody Mary.

This brings us to the reign of Elizabeth, after passing
through a period of nearly five hundred years of England's
history--492 to be exact.  I think you may now be trusted to go
the rest of the way without further lessons in art or
inspirations in the matter of ideas.  You have the scheme now,
and something in the ruler's name or career will suggest the
pictorial symbol.  The effort of inventing such things will not
only help your memory, but will develop originality in art.  See
what it has done for me.  If you do not find the parlor wall big
enough for all of England's history, continue it into the dining-
room and into other rooms.  This will make the walls interesting
and instructive and really worth something instead of being just
flat things to hold the house together.

-----
1.  Summer of 1899.

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


THE MEMORABLE ASSASSINATION

Note.--The assassination of the Empress of Austria at
Geneva, September 10, 1898, occurred during Mark Twain's Austrian
residence.  The news came to him at Kaltenleutgeben, a summer
resort a little way out of Vienna.  To his friend, the Rev. Jos.
H. Twichell, he wrote:

"That good and unoffending lady, the Empress, is killed by a
madman, and I am living in the midst of world-history again.  The
Queen's Jubilee last year, the invasion of the Reichsrath by the
police, and now this murder, which will still be talked of and
described and painted a thousand a thousand years from now.  To
have a personal friend of the wearer of two crowns burst in at
the gate in the deep dusk of the evening and say, in a voice
broken with tears, 'My God! the Empress is murdered,' and fly
toward her home before we can utter a question--why, it brings
the giant event home to you, makes you a part of it and
personally interested; it is as if your neighbor, Antony, should
come flying and say, 'Caesar is butchered--the head of the world
is fallen!'

"Of course there is no talk but of this.  The mourning is
universal and genuine, the consternation is stupefying.  The
Austrian Empire is being draped with black.  Vienna will be a
spectacle to see by next Saturday, when the funeral cort`ege
marches."

He was strongly moved by the tragedy, impelled to write
concerning it.  He prepared the article which follows, but did
not offer it for publication, perhaps feeling that his own close
association with the court circles at the moment prohibited this
personal utterance.  There appears no such reason for withholding
its publication now.

A. B. P.


The more one thinks of the assassination, the more imposing
and tremendous the event becomes.  The destruction of a city is a
large event, but it is one which repeats itself several times in
a thousand years; the destruction of a third part of a nation by
plague and famine is a large event, but it has happened several
times in history; the murder of a king is a large event, but it
has been frequent.

The murder of an empress is the largest of all events.  One
must go back about two thousand years to find an instance to put
with this one.  The oldest family of unchallenged descent in
Christendom lives in Rome and traces its line back seventeen
hundred years, but no member of it has been present in the earth
when an empress was murdered, until now.  Many a time during
these seventeen centuries members of that family have been
startled with the news of extraordinary events--the destruction
of cities, the fall of thrones, the murder of kings, the wreck of
dynasties, the extinction of religions, the birth of new systems
of government; and their descendants have been by to hear of it
and talk about it when all these things were repeated once,
twice, or a dozen times--but to even that family has come news at
last which is not staled by use, has no duplicates in the long
reach of its memory.

It is an event which confers a curious distinction upon
every individual now living in the world:  he has stood alive and
breathing in the presence of an event such as has not fallen
within the experience of any traceable or untraceable ancestor of
his for twenty centuries, and it is not likely to fall within the
experience of any descendant of his for twenty more.

Time has made some great changes since the Roman days.  The
murder of an empress then--even the assassination of Caesar
himself--could not electrify the world as this murder has
electrified it.  For one reason, there was then not much of a
world to electrify; it was a small world, as to known bulk, and
it had rather a thin population, besides; and for another reason,
the news traveled so slowly that its tremendous initial thrill
wasted away, week by week and month by month, on the journey, and
by the time it reached the remoter regions there was but little
of it left.  It was no longer a fresh event, it was a thing of
the far past; it was not properly news, it was history.  But the
world is enormous now, and prodigiously populated--that is one
change; and another is the lightning swiftness of the flight of
tidings, good and bad.  "The Empress is murdered!"  When those
amazing words struck upon my ear in this Austrian village last
Saturday, three hours after the disaster, I knew that it was
already old news in London, Paris, Berlin, New York, San
Francisco, Japan, China, Melbourne, Cape Town, Bombay, Madras,
Calcutta, and that the entire globe with a single voice, was
cursing the perpetrator of it.  Since the telegraph first began
to stretch itself wider and wider about the earth, larger and
increasingly larger areas of the world have, as time went on,
received simultaneously the shock of a great calamity; but this
is the first time in history that the entire surface of the globe
has been swept in a single instant with the thrill of so gigantic
an event.

And who is the miracle-worker who has furnished to the world
this spectacle?  All the ironies are compacted in the answer.  He
is at the bottom of the human ladder, as the accepted estimates
of degree and value go:  a soiled and patched young loafer,
without gifts, without talents, without education, without
morals, without character, without any born charm or any acquired
one that wins or beguiles or attracts; without a single grace of
mind or heart or hand that any tramp or prostitute could envy
him; an unfaithful private in the ranks, an incompetent stone-
cutter, an inefficient lackey; in a word, a mangy, offensive,
empty, unwashed, vulgar, gross, mephitic, timid, sneaking, human
polecat.  And it was within the privileges and powers of this
sarcasm upon the human race to reach up--up--up--and strike from
its far summit in the social skies the world's accepted ideal of
Glory and Might and Splendor and Sacredness!  It realizes to us
what sorry shows and shadows we are.  Without our clothes and our
pedestals we are poor things and much of a size; our dignities
are not real, our pomps are shams.  At our best and stateliest we
are not suns, as we pretended, and teach, and believe, but only
candles; and any bummer can blow us out.

And now we get realized to us once more another thing which
we often forget--or try to:  that no man has a wholly undiseased
mind; that in one way or another all men are mad.  Many are mad
for money.  When this madness is in a mild form it is harmless
and the man passes for sane; but when it develops powerfully and
takes possession of the man, it can make him cheat, rob, and
kill; and when he has got his fortune and lost it again it can
land him in the asylum or the suicide's coffin.  Love is a
madness; if thwarted it develops fast; it can grow to a frenzy of
despair and make an otherwise sane and highly gifted prince, like
Rudolph, throw away the crown of an empire and snuff out his own
life.  All the whole list of desires, predilections, aversions,
ambitions, passions, cares, griefs, regrets, remorses, are
incipient madness, and ready to grow, spread, and consume, when
the occasion comes.  There are no healthy minds, and nothing
saves any man but accident--the accident of not having his malady
put to the supreme test.

One of the commonest forms of madness is the desire to be
noticed, the pleasure derived from being noticed.  Perhaps it is
not merely common, but universal.  In its mildest form it
doubtless is universal.  Every child is pleased at being noticed;
many intolerable children put in their whole time in distressing
and idiotic effort to attract the attention of visitors; boys are
always "showing off"; apparently all men and women are glad and
grateful when they find that they have done a thing which has
lifted them for a moment out of obscurity and caused wondering
talk.  This common madness can develop, by nurture, into a hunger
for notoriety in one, for fame in another.  It is this madness
for being noticed and talked about which has invented kingship
and the thousand other dignities, and tricked them out with
pretty and showy fineries; it has made kings pick one another's
pockets, scramble for one another's crowns and estates, slaughter
one another's subjects; it has raised up prize-fighters, and
poets, and villages mayors, and little and big politicians, and
big and little charity-founders, and bicycle champions, and
banditti chiefs, and frontier desperadoes, and Napoleons.
Anything to get notoriety; anything to set the village, or the
township, or the city, or the State, or the nation, or the planet
shouting, "Look--there he goes--that is the man!"  And in five
minutes' time, at no cost of brain, or labor, or genius this
mangy Italian tramp has beaten them all, transcended them all,
outstripped them all, for in time their names will perish; but by
the friendly help of the insane newspapers and courts and kings
and historians, his is safe and live and thunder in the world all
down the ages as long as human speech shall endure!  Oh, if it
were not so tragic how ludicrous it would be!

She was so blameless, the Empress; and so beautiful, in mind
and heart, in person and spirit; and whether with a crown upon
her head or without it and nameless, a grace to the human race,
and almost a justification of its creation; WOULD be, indeed, but
that the animal that struck her down re-establishes the doubt.

In her character was every quality that in woman invites and
engages respect, esteem, affection, and homage.  Her tastes, her
instincts, and her aspirations were all high and fine and all her
life her heart and brain were busy with activities of a noble
sort.  She had had bitter griefs, but they did not sour her
spirit, and she had had the highest honors in the world's gift,
but she went her simple way unspoiled.  She knew all ranks, and
won them all, and made them her friends.  An English fisherman's
wife said, "When a body was in trouble she didn't send her help,
she brought it herself."  Crowns have adorned others, but she
adorned her crowns.

It was a swift celebrity the assassin achieved.  And it is
marked by some curious contrasts.  At noon last, Saturday there
was no one in the world who would have considered
acquaintanceship with him a thing worth claiming or mentioning;
no one would have been vain of such an acquaintanceship; the
humblest honest boot-black would not have valued the fact that he
had met him or seen him at some time or other; he was sunk in
abysmal obscurity, he was away beneath the notice of the bottom
grades of officialdom.  Three hours later he was the one subject
of conversation in the world, the gilded generals and admirals
and governors were discussing him, all the kings and queens and
emperors had put aside their other interests to talk about him.
And wherever there was a man, at the summit of the world or the
bottom of it, who by chance had at some time or other come across
that creature, he remembered it with a secret satisfaction, and
MENTIONED it--for it was a distinction, now!  It brings human
dignity pretty low, and for a moment the thing is not quite
realizable--but it is perfectly true.  If there is a king who can
remember, now, that he once saw that creature in a time past, he
has let that fact out, in a more or less studiedly casual and
indifferent way, some dozens of times during the past week.  For
a king is merely human; the inside of him is exactly like the
inside of any other person; and it is human to find satisfaction
in being in a kind of personal way connected with amazing events.
We are all privately vain of such a thing; we are all alike; a
king is a king by accident; the reason the rest of us are not
kings is merely due to another accident; we are all made out of
the same clay, and it is a sufficient poor quality.

Below the kings, these remarks are in the air these days; I
know it well as if I were hearing them:

THE COMMANDER:  "He was in my army."

THE GENERAL:  "He was in my corps."

THE COLONEL:  "He was in my regiment.  A brute.  I remember
him well."

THE CAPTAIN:  "He was in my company.  A troublesome
scoundrel.  I remember him well."

THE SERGEANT:  "Did I know him?  As well as I know you.
Why, every morning I used to--" etc., etc.; a glad, long story,
told to devouring ears.

THE LANDLADY:  "Many's the time he boarded with me.  I can
show you his very room, and the very bed he slept in.  And the
charcoal mark there on the wall--he made that.  My little Johnny
saw him do it with his own eyes.  Didn't you, Johnny?"

It is easy to see, by the papers, that the magistrate and
the constables and the jailer treasure up the assassin's daily
remarks and doings as precious things, and as wallowing this week
in seas of blissful distinction.  The interviewer, too; he tried
to let on that he is not vain of his privilege of contact with
this man whom few others are allowed to gaze upon, but he is
human, like the rest, and can no more keep his vanity corked in
than could you or I.

Some think that this murder is a frenzied revolt against the
criminal militarism which is impoverishing Europe and driving the
starving poor mad.  That has many crimes to answer for, but not
this one, I think.  One may not attribute to this man a generous
indignation against the wrongs done the poor; one may not dignify
him with a generous impulse of any kind.  When he saw his
photograph and said, "I shall be celebrated," he laid bare the
impulse that prompted him.  It was a mere hunger for notoriety.
There is another confessed case of the kind which is as old as
history--the burning of the temple of Ephesus.

Among the inadequate attempts to account for the
assassination we must concede high rank to the many which have
described it as a "peculiarly brutal crime" and then added that
it was "ordained from above."  I think this verdict will not be
popular "above."  If the deed was ordained from above, there is
no rational way of making this prisoner even partially
responsible for it, and the Genevan court cannot condemn him
without manifestly committing a crime.  Logic is logic, and by
disregarding its laws even the most pious and showy theologian
may be beguiled into preferring charges which should not be
ventured upon except in the shelter of plenty of lightning-rods.

I witnessed the funeral procession, in company with friends,
from the windows of the Krantz, Vienna's sumptuous new hotel.  We
came into town in the middle of the forenoon, and I went on foot
from the station.  Black flags hung down from all the houses; the
aspects were Sunday-like; the crowds on the sidewalks were quiet
and moved slowly; very few people were smoking; many ladies wore
deep mourning, gentlemen were in black as a rule; carriages were
speeding in all directions, with footmen and coachmen in black
clothes and wearing black cocked hats; the shops were closed; in
many windows were pictures of the Empress:  as a beautiful young
bride of seventeen; as a serene and majestic lady with added
years; and finally in deep black and without ornaments--the
costume she always wore after the tragic death of her son nine
years ago, for her heart broke then, and life lost almost all its
value for her.  The people stood grouped before these pictures,
and now and then one saw women and girls turn away wiping the
tears from their eyes.

In front of the Krantz is an open square; over the way was
the church where the funeral services would be held.  It is small
and old and severely plain, plastered outside and whitewashed or
painted, and with no ornament but a statue of a monk in a niche
over the door, and above that a small black flag.  But in its
crypt lie several of the great dead of the House of Habsburg,
among them Maria Theresa and Napoleon's son, the Duke of Reichstadt.
Hereabouts was a Roman camp, once, and in it the Emperor Marcus
Aurelius died a thousand years before the first Habsburg ruled
in Vienna, which was six hundred years ago and more.

The little church is packed in among great modern stores and
houses, and the windows of them were full of people.  Behind the
vast plate-glass windows of the upper floors of the house on the
corner one glimpsed terraced masses of fine-clothed men and
women, dim and shimmery, like people under water.  Under us the
square was noiseless, but it was full of citizens; officials in
fine uniforms were flitting about on errands, and in a doorstep
sat a figure in the uttermost raggedness of poverty, the feet
bare, the head bent humbly down; a youth of eighteen or twenty,
he was, and through the field-glass one could see that he was
tearing apart and munching riffraff that he had gathered
somewhere.  Blazing uniforms flashed by him, making a sparkling
contrast with his drooping ruin of moldy rags, but he took not
notice; he was not there to grieve for a nation's disaster; he
had his own cares, and deeper.  From two directions two long
files of infantry came plowing through the pack and press in
silence; there was a low, crisp order and the crowd vanished, the
square save the sidewalks was empty, the private mourner was
gone.  Another order, the soldiers fell apart and enclosed the
square in a double-ranked human fence.  It was all so swift,
noiseless, exact--like a beautifully ordered machine.

It was noon, now.  Two hours of stillness and waiting
followed.  Then carriages began to flow past and deliver the two
and three hundred court personages and high nobilities privileged
to enter the church.  Then the square filled up; not with
civilians, but with army and navy officers in showy and beautiful
uniforms.  They filled it compactly, leaving only a narrow
carriage path in front of the church, but there was no civilian
among them.  And it was better so; dull clothes would have marred
the radiant spectacle.  In the jam in front of the church, on its
steps, and on the sidewalk was a bunch of uniforms which made a
blazing splotch of color--intense red, gold, and white--which
dimmed the brilliancies around them; and opposite them on the
other side of the path was a bunch of cascaded bright-green
plumes above pale-blue shoulders which made another splotch of
splendor emphatic and conspicuous in its glowing surroundings.
It was a sea of flashing color all about, but these two groups
were the high notes.  The green plumes were worn by forty or
fifty Austrian generals, the group opposite them were chiefly
Knights of Malta and knights of a German order.  The mass of
heads in the square were covered by gilt helmets and by military
caps roofed with a mirror-like gaze, and the movements of the
wearers caused these things to catch the sun-rays, and the effect
was fine to see--the square was like a garden of richly colored
flowers with a multitude of blinding and flashing little suns
distributed over it.

Think of it--it was by command of that Italian loafer yonder
on his imperial throne in the Geneva prison that this splendid
multitude was assembled there; and the kings and emperors that
were entering the church from a side street were there by his will.
It is so strange, so unrealizable.

At three o'clock the carriages were still streaming by in
single file.  At three-five a cardinal arrives with his
attendants; later some bishops; then a number of archdeacons--all
in striking colors that add to the show.  At three-ten a
procession of priests passed along, with crucifix.  Another one,
presently; after an interval, two more; at three-fifty another
one--very long, with many crosses, gold-embroidered robes, and
much white lace; also great pictured banners, at intervals,
receding into the distance.

A hum of tolling bells makes itself heard, but not sharply.
At three-fifty-eight a waiting interval.  Presently a long
procession of gentlemen in evening dress comes in sight and
approaches until it is near to the square, then falls back
against the wall of soldiers at the sidewalk, and the white
shirt-fronts show like snowflakes and are very conspicuous where
so much warm color is all about.

A waiting pause.  At four-twelve the head of the funeral
procession comes into view at last.  First, a body of cavalry,
four abreast, to widen the path.  Next, a great body of lancers,
in blue, with gilt helmets.  Next, three six-horse mourning-
coaches; outriders and coachmen in black, with cocked hats and
white wigs.  Next, troops in splendid uniforms, red, gold, and
white, exceedingly showy.

Now the multitude uncover.  The soldiers present arms; there
is a low rumble of drums; the sumptuous great hearse approaches,
drawn at a walk by eight black horses plumed with black bunches
of nodding ostrich feathers; the coffin is borne into the church,
the doors are closed.

The multitude cover their heads, and the rest of the
procession moves by; first the Hungarian Guard in their
indescribably brilliant and picturesque and beautiful uniform,
inherited from the ages of barbaric splendor, and after them
other mounted forces, a long and showy array.

Then the shining crown in the square crumbled apart, a
wrecked rainbow, and melted away in radiant streams, and in the
turn of a wrist the three dirtiest and raggedest and cheerfulest
little slum-girls in Austria were capering about in the spacious
vacancy.  It was a day of contrasts.

Twice the Empress entered Vienna in state.  The first time
was in 1854, when she was a bride of seventeen, and then she rode
in measureless pomp and with blare of music through a fluttering
world of gay flags and decorations, down streets walled on both
hands with a press of shouting and welcoming subjects; and the
second time was last Wednesday, when she entered the city in her
coffin and moved down the same streets in the dead of the night
under swaying black flags, between packed human walls again; but
everywhere was a deep stillness, now--a stillness emphasized,
rather than broken, by the muffled hoofbeats of the long
cavalcade over pavements cushioned with sand, and the low sobbing
of gray-headed women who had witnessed the first entry forty-four
years before, when she and they were young--and unaware!

A character in Baron von Berger's recent fairy drama
"Habsburg" tells about the first coming of the girlish Empress-
Queen, and in his history draws a fine picture:  I cannot make a
close translation of it, but will try to convey the spirit of the
verses:


I saw the stately pageant pass:
In her high place I saw the Empress-Queen:
I could not take my eyes away
From that fair vision, spirit-like and pure,
That rose serene, sublime, and figured to my sense
A noble Alp far lighted in the blue,
That in the flood of morning rends its veil of cloud
And stands a dream of glory to the gaze
Of them that in the Valley toil and plod.
------------------------------------------------------------------




A SCRAP OF CURIOUS HISTORY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



SWITZERLAND, THE CRADLE OF LIBERTY


Interlaken, Switzerland, 1891.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

"In Greece."

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

"No."

"Do you speak Greek?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

"That's about it, yes."

"Are you traveling for the house now?"

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

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

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

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

"I've a rather large family--"

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

"Well, I thought--"

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

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

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

"Well, no--I thought--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think it is doubtful; very doubtful."

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

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

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

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

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


AT THE SHRINE OF ST. WAGNER


Bayreuth, Aug. 2d, 1891


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS



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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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


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

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


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


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


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


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

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


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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

". . . she said, laughing nervously."

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

". . . she answered, vaguely."

". . . she reluctantly admitted."

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

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

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

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

". . . murmured Gladys, blushing."

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

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

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

". . . murmured the chambermaid, blushing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


ENGLISH AS SHE IS TAUGHT

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


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

"What was to bring Cato to an end?"

She said it was a knife.

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

"My aunt Polly said it was a knife."

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

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

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

He then said:

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

The highest peaks of the Karakorum range.

The number of universities in Prussia.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


ABORIGINES, a system of mountains.

ALIAS, a good man in the Bible.

AMENABLE, anything that is mean.

AMMONIA, the food of the gods.

ASSIDUITY, state of being an acid.

AURIFEROUS, pertaining to an orifice.

CAPILLARY, a little caterpillar.

CORNIFEROUS, rocks in which fossil corn is found.

EMOLUMENT, a headstone to a grave.

EQUESTRIAN, one who asks questions.

EUCHARIST, one who plays euchre.

FRANCHISE, anything belonging to the French.

IDOLATER, a very idle person.

IPECAC, a man who likes a good dinner.

IRRIGATE, to make fun of.

MENDACIOUS, what can be mended.

MERCENARY, one who feels for another.

PARASITE, a kind of umbrella.

PARASITE, the murder of an infant.

PUBLICAN, a man who does his prayers in public.

TENACIOUS, ten acres of land.


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


REPUBLICAN, a sinner mentioned in the Bible.


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


PLAGIARIST, a writer of plays.

DEMAGOGUE, a vessel containing beer and other liquids.


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


ASPHYXIA, a grumbling, fussy temper.

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

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

QUARTERNIONS, a religious convention held every hundred
years.

SIBILANT, the state of being idiotic.

CROSIER, a staff carried by the Deity.


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


The marriage was illegible.

He was totally dismasted with the whole performance.

He enjoys riding on a philosopher.

She was very quick at repertoire.

He prayed for the waters to subsidize.

The leopard is watching his sheep.

They had a strawberry vestibule.


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


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


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


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

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

He preached to an egregious congregation.

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

You should take caution and be precarious.

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


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


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


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


There are a good many donkeys in theological gardens.

Some of the best fossils are found in theological gardens.


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


Gender is the distinguishing nouns without regard to sex.

A verb is something to eat.

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

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


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


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


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


A straight line is any distance between two places.

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

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

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

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


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


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

North America is separated by Spain.

America consists from north to south about five hundred miles.

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

The capital of the United States is Long Island.

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

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

The Alaginnies are mountains in Philadelphia.

The Rocky Mountains are on the western side of Philadelphia.

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

Mason and Dixon's line is the Equator.

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

In Austria the principal occupation is gathering Austrich feathers.

Gibraltar is an island built on a rock.

Russia is very cold and tyrannical.

Sicily is one of the Sandwich Islands.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

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


George Washington was born in 1492.

Washington wrote the Declaration of Independence in 1492.

St. Bartholemew was massacred in 1492.

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

The earth is 1492 miles in circumference.



To proceed with "History"


Christopher Columbus was called the Father of his Country.

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

The Indian wars were very desecrating to the country.

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

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

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

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

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

Gorilla warfare was where men rode on gorillas.

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

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

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

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

John Bright is noted for an incurable disease.

Lord James Gordon Bennet instigated the Gordon Riots.

The Middle Ages come in between antiquity and posterity.

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

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

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

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

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

The Persian war lasted about 500 years.

Greece had only 7 wise men.

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


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


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


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


Abraham Lincoln was born in Wales in 1599.


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

Bracebridge Hall was written by Henry Irving.

Show Bound was written by Peter Cooper.

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

Edgar A. Poe was a very curdling writer.

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

Beowulf wrote the Scriptures.

Ben Johnson survived Shakspeare in some respects.

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

Chaucer was the father of English pottery.

Chaucer was a bland verse writer of the third century.

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

Bulwell is considered a good writer.

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

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


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


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

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

Holmes is a very profligate and amusing writer.


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


A bill becomes a law when the President vetoes it.

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

The first conscientious Congress met in Philadelphia.

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


Truth crushed to earth will rise again.  As follows:


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


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


Congress is divided into civilized half civilized and savage.


Here are some results of study in music and oratory:


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

A rest means you are not to sing it.

Emphasis is putting more distress on one word than another.


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

Physillogigy is to study about your bones stummick and vertebry.

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

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

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

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

The gastric juice keeps the bones from creaking.

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

The salivary glands are used to salivate the body.

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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



ON GIRLS

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


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


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

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



A SIMPLIFIED ALPHABET


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


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

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

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

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

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

What should we gain?

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

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

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

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

PRESENT FORM:  through, laugh, highland.

SIMPLIFIED FORM:  thru, laff, hyland.

PHONOGRAPHIC FORM:  [Figure 2]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Figure 9] is probably [Figure 10].

Let us hope so, anyway.


AS CONCERNS INTERPRETING THE DEITY


I

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


After five years of study Champollion translated it thus:


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Here is another difficult text:  [Figure 2]


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

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


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

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


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


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

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


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


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

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


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


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


II

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

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

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


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


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

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


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


But the English got the victory.


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


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


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


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

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


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


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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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


CONCERNING TOBACCO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


THE BEE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



TAMING THE BICYCLE

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


A. B. P.



I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?

(from My Autobiography)


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

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


What man dare, _I_ dare!

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"From books."

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

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

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


II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


III

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

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



Facts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Within six months the first child was born.

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

Then came twins--1585.  February.

Two blank years follow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In 1597 he bought New Place, Stratford.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He left her that "second-best bed."

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

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

It mentioned NOT A SINGLE BOOK.

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

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

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

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

He signed the will in three places.

In earlier years he signed two other official documents.

These five signatures still exist.

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

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

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

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


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

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


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


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


IV

Conjectures

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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



 V

"We May Assume"

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

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

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

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

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

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


VI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


VII

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

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

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

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

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


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


Again:


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


Once more.  A race in the Pacific:


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


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


MASTER.  Boatswain!

BOATSWAIN.  Here, master; what cheer?

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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



VIII

Shakespeare as a Lawyer [1]


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Who did write these Works, then?

I wish I knew.

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


IX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



X

The Rest of the Equipment


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


Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare:
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones
And curst be he yt moves my bones.
Ben Jonson says of Bacon, as orator:


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


From Macaulay:


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


Again:


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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


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



 XI


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

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

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




XII


Irreverence

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



XIII


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

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

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



Mark Twain.


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


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

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

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

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


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

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


Mark Twain.


End of The Project Gutenberg Edition of "What Is Man?" by Mark Twain






THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

by Mark Twain



CONTENTS:

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
A FABLE
HUNTING THE DECEITFUL TURKEY
THE McWILLIAMSES AND THE BURGLAR ALARM




THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER


Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What ones?"

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

"Will you let us see you do them?"

"Do--please!" the others said.

"You won't run away again?"

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

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

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

"Orange!"

"Apple!"

"Grapes!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes--he is my uncle."

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

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

"Before the Fall he was blameless."

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

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

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

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

"Eight--thousand!"

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

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

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

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




Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But they are gone to hell!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you know him, Satan?"

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am going on my errand now."

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

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

"When?  To-night?  Say when."

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

"We like you."

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

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

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

"I suppose none of it has happened."

Nikolaus sighed and said about the same.

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

"A little while, Father."

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

"Yes, Father."

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

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

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

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

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

"Boys, did you do this?"

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

"Who has been here?"

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

"Not a human being."

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

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

"Not a human being."

"That is sufficient; I know you are telling me the truth."

He began to count the money on the path, we on our knees eagerly helping
to stack it in little piles.

"It's eleven hundred ducats odd!" he said.  "Oh dear!  if it were only
mine--and I need it so!" and his voice broke and his lips quivered.

"It is yours, sir!" we all cried out at once, "every heller!"

"No--it isn't mine.  Only four ducats are mine; the rest...!" He fell to
dreaming, poor old soul, and caressing some of the coins in his hands,
and forgot where he was, sitting there on his heels with his old gray
head bare; it was pitiful to see.  "No," he said, waking up, "it isn't
mine.  I can't account for it.  I think some enemy...  it must be a
trap."

Nikolaus said: "Father Peter, with the exception of the astrologer you
haven't a real enemy in the village--nor Marget, either.  And not even a
half-enemy that's rich enough to chance eleven hundred ducats to do you a
mean turn.  I'll ask you if that's so or not?"

He couldn't get around that argument, and it cheered him up.  "But it
isn't mine, you see--it isn't mine, in any case."

He said it in a wistful way, like a person that wouldn't be sorry, but
glad, if anybody would contradict him.

"It is yours, Father Peter, and we are witness to it.  Aren't we, boys?"

"Yes, we are--and we'll stand by it, too."

"Bless your hearts, you do almost persuade me; you do, indeed.  If I had
only a hundred-odd ducats of it!  The house is mortgaged for it, and
we've no home for our heads if we don't pay to-morrow.  And that four
ducats is all we've got in the--"

"It's yours, every bit of it, and you've got to take it--we are bail that
it's all right.  Aren't we, Theodor?  Aren't we, Seppi?"

We two said yes, and Nikolaus stuffed the money back into the shabby old
wallet and made the owner take it.  So he said he would use two hundred
of it, for his house was good enough security for that, and would put the
rest at interest till the rightful owner came for it; and on our side we
must sign a paper showing how he got the money--a paper to show to the
villagers as proof that he had not got out of his troubles dishonestly.




Chapter 4

It made immense talk next day, when Father Peter paid Solomon Isaacs in
gold and left the rest of the money with him at interest.  Also, there
was a pleasant change; many people called at the house to congratulate
him, and a number of cool old friends became kind and friendly again;
and, to top all, Marget was invited to a party.

And there was no mystery; Father Peter told the whole circumstance just
as it happened, and said he could not account for it, only it was the
plain hand of Providence, so far as he could see.

One or two shook their heads and said privately it looked more like the
hand of Satan; and really that seemed a surprisingly good guess for
ignorant people like that.  Some came slyly buzzing around and tried to
coax us boys to come out and "tell the truth;" and promised they wouldn't
ever tell, but only wanted to know for their own satisfaction, because
the whole thing was so curious.  They even wanted to buy the secret, and
pay money for it; and if we could have invented something that would
answer--but we couldn't; we hadn't the ingenuity, so we had to let the
chance go by, and it was a pity.

We carried that secret around without any trouble, but the other one, the
big one, the splendid one, burned the very vitals of us, it was so hot to
get out and we so hot to let it out and astonish people with it.  But we
had to keep it in; in fact, it kept itself in.  Satan said it would, and
it did.  We went off every day and got to ourselves in the woods so that
we could talk about Satan, and really that was the only subject we
thought of or cared anything about; and day and night we watched for him
and hoped he would come, and we got more and more impatient all the time.
We hadn't any interest in the other boys any more, and wouldn't take part
in their games and enterprises.  They seemed so tame, after Satan; and
their doings so trifling and commonplace after his adventures in
antiquity and the constellations, and his miracles and meltings and
explosions, and all that.

During the first day we were in a state of anxiety on account of one
thing, and we kept going to Father Peter's house on one pretext or
another to keep track of it.  That was the gold coin; we were afraid it
would crumble and turn to dust, like fairy money.  If it did--But it
didn't.  At the end of the day no complaint had been made about it, so
after that we were satisfied that it was real gold, and dropped the
anxiety out of our minds.

There was a question which we wanted to ask Father Peter, and finally we
went there the second evening, a little diffidently, after drawing
straws, and I asked it as casually as I could, though it did not sound as
casual as I wanted, because I didn't know how:

"What is the Moral Sense, sir?"

He looked down, surprised, over his great spectacles, and said, "Why, it
is the faculty which enables us to distinguish good from evil."

It threw some light, but not a glare, and I was a little disappointed,
also to some degree embarrassed.  He was waiting for me to go on, so, in
default of anything else to say, I asked, "Is it valuable?"

"Valuable?  Heavens! lad, it is the one thing that lifts man above the
beasts that perish and makes him heir to immortality!"

This did not remind me of anything further to say, so I got out, with the
other boys, and we went away with that indefinite sense you have often
had of being filled but not fatted.  They wanted me to explain, but I was
tired.

We passed out through the parlor, and there was Marget at the spinnet
teaching Marie Lueger.  So one of the deserting pupils was back; and an
influential one, too; the others would follow.  Marget jumped up and ran
and thanked us again, with tears in her eyes--this was the third time--
for saving her and her uncle from being turned into the street, and we
told her again we hadn't done it; but that was her way, she never could
be grateful enough for anything a person did for her; so we let her have
her say.  And as we passed through the garden, there was Wilhelm Meidling
sitting there waiting, for it was getting toward the edge of the evening,
and he would be asking Marget to take a walk along the river with him
when she was done with the lesson.  He was a young lawyer, and succeeding
fairly well and working his way along, little by little.  He was very
fond of Marget, and she of him.  He had not deserted along with the
others, but had stood his ground all through.  His faithfulness was not
lost on Marget and her uncle.  He hadn't so very much talent, but he was
handsome and good, and these are a kind of talents themselves and help
along.  He asked us how the lesson was getting along, and we told him it
was about done.  And maybe it was so; we didn't know anything about it,
but we judged it would please him, and it did, and didn't cost us
anything.




Chapter 5

On the fourth day comes the astrologer from his crumbling old tower up
the valley, where he had heard the news, I reckon.  He had a private talk
with us, and we told him what we could, for we were mightily in dread of
him.  He sat there studying and studying awhile to himself; then he
asked:

"How many ducats did you say?"

"Eleven hundred and seven, sir."

Then he said, as if he were talking to himself: "It is ver-y singular.
Yes...  very strange.  A curious coincidence."  Then he began to ask
questions, and went over the whole ground from the beginning, we
answering.  By and by he said: "Eleven hundred and six ducats.  It is a
large sum."

"Seven," said Seppi, correcting him.

"Oh, seven, was it?  Of course a ducat more or less isn't of consequence,
but you said eleven hundred and six before."

It would not have been safe for us to say he was mistaken, but we knew he
was.  Nikolaus said, "We ask pardon for the mistake, but we meant to say
seven."

"Oh, it is no matter, lad; it was merely that I noticed the discrepancy.
It is several days, and you cannot be expected to remember precisely.
One is apt to be inexact when there is no particular circumstance to
impress the count upon the memory."

"But there was one, sir," said Seppi, eagerly.

"What was it, my son?" asked the astrologer, indifferently.

"First, we all counted the piles of coin, each in turn, and all made it
the same--eleven hundred and six.  But I had slipped one out, for fun,
when the count began, and now I slipped it back and said, 'I think there
is a mistake--there are eleven hundred and seven; let us count again.'
We did, and of course I was right.  They were astonished; then I told how
it came about."

The astrologer asked us if this was so, and we said it was.

"That settles it," he said.  "I know the thief now.  Lads, the money was
stolen."

Then he went away, leaving us very much troubled, and wondering what he
could mean.  In about an hour we found out; for by that time it was all
over the village that Father Peter had been arrested for stealing a great
sum of money from the astrologer.  Everybody's tongue was loose and
going.  Many said it was not in Father Peter's character and must be a
mistake; but the others shook their heads and said misery and want could
drive a suffering man to almost anything.  About one detail there were no
differences; all agreed that Father Peter's account of how the money came
into his hands was just about unbelievable--it had such an impossible
look.  They said it might have come into the astrologer's hands in some
such way, but into Father Peter's, never!  Our characters began to suffer
now.  We were Father Peter's only witnesses; how much did he probably pay
us to back up his fantastic tale?  People talked that kind of talk to us
pretty freely and frankly, and were full of scoffings when we begged them
to believe really we had told only the truth.  Our parents were harder on
us than any one else.  Our fathers said we were disgracing our families,
and they commanded us to purge ourselves of our lie, and there was no
limit to their anger when we continued to say we had spoken true.  Our
mothers cried over us and begged us to give back our bribe and get back
our honest names and save our families from shame, and come out and
honorably confess.  And at last we were so worried and harassed that we
tried to tell the whole thing, Satan and all--but no, it wouldn't come
out.  We were hoping and longing all the time that Satan would come and
help us out of our trouble, but there was no sign of him.

Within an hour after the astrologer's talk with us, Father Peter was in
prison and the money sealed up and in the hands of the officers of the
law.  The money was in a bag, and Solomon Isaacs said he had not touched
it since he had counted it; his oath was taken that it was the same
money, and that the amount was eleven hundred and seven ducats.  Father
Peter claimed trial by the ecclesiastical court, but our other priest,
Father Adolf, said an ecclesiastical court hadn't jurisdiction over a
suspended priest.  The bishop upheld him.  That settled it; the case
would go to trial in the civil court.  The court would not sit for some
time to come.  Wilhelm Meidling would be Father Peter's lawyer and do the
best he could, of course, but he told us privately that a weak case on
his side and all the power and prejudice on the other made the outlook
bad.

So Marget's new happiness died a quick death.  No friends came to condole
with her, and none were expected; an unsigned note withdrew her
invitation to the party.  There would be no scholars to take lessons.
How could she support herself?  She could remain in the house, for the
mortgage was paid off, though the government and not poor Solomon Isaacs
had the mortgage-money in its grip for the present.  Old Ursula, who was
cook, chambermaid, housekeeper, laundress, and everything else for Father
Peter, and had been Marget's nurse in earlier years, said God would
provide.  But she said that from habit, for she was a good Christian.
She meant to help in the providing, to make sure, if she could find a
way.

We boys wanted to go and see Marget and show friendliness for her, but
our parents were afraid of offending the community and wouldn't let us.
The astrologer was going around inflaming everybody against Father Peter,
and saying he was an abandoned thief and had stolen eleven hundred and
seven gold ducats from him.  He said he knew he was a thief from that
fact, for it was exactly the sum he had lost and which Father Peter
pretended he had "found."

In the afternoon of the fourth day after the catastrophe old Ursula
appeared at our house and asked for some washing to do, and begged my
mother to keep this secret, to save Marget's pride, who would stop this
project if she found it out, yet Marget had not enough to eat and was
growing weak.  Ursula was growing weak herself, and showed it; and she
ate of the food that was offered her like a starving person, but could
not be persuaded to carry any home, for Marget would not eat charity
food.  She took some clothes down to the stream to wash them, but we saw
from the window that handling the bat was too much for her strength; so
she was called back and a trifle of money offered her, which she was
afraid to take lest Marget should suspect; then she took it, saying she
would explain that she found it in the road.  To keep it from being a lie
and damning her soul, she got me to drop it while she watched; then she
went along by there and found it, and exclaimed with surprise and joy,
and picked it up and went her way.  Like the rest of the village, she
could tell every-day lies fast enough and without taking any precautions
against fire and brimstone on their account; but this was a new kind of
lie, and it had a dangerous look because she hadn't had any practice in
it.  After a week's practice it wouldn't have given her any trouble.  It
is the way we are made.

I was in trouble, for how would Marget live?  Ursula could not find a
coin in the road every day--perhaps not even a second one.  And I was
ashamed, too, for not having been near Marget, and she so in need of
friends; but that was my parents' fault, not mine, and I couldn't help
it.

I was walking along the path, feeling very down-hearted, when a most
cheery and tingling freshening-up sensation went rippling through me, and
I was too glad for any words, for I knew by that sign that Satan was by.
I had noticed it before.  Next moment he was alongside of me and I was
telling him all my trouble and what had been happening to Marget and her
uncle.  While we were talking we turned a curve and saw old Ursula
resting in the shade of a tree, and she had a lean stray kitten in her
lap and was petting it.  I asked her where she got it, and she said it
came out of the woods and followed her; and she said it probably hadn't
any mother or any friends and she was going to take it home and take care
of it.  Satan said:

"I understand you are very poor.  Why do you want to add another mouth to
feed?  Why don't you give it to some rich person?"

Ursula bridled at this and said: "Perhaps you would like to have it.  You
must be rich, with your fine clothes and quality airs."  Then she sniffed
and said: "Give it to the rich--the idea!  The rich don't care for
anybody but themselves; it's only the poor that have feeling for the
poor, and help them.  The poor and God.  God will provide for this
kitten."

"What makes you think so?"

Ursula's eyes snapped with anger.  "Because I know it!" she said.  "Not a
sparrow falls to the ground without His seeing it."

"But it falls, just the same.  What good is seeing it fall?"

Old Ursula's jaws worked, but she could not get any word out for the
moment, she was so horrified.  When she got her tongue, she stormed out,
"Go about your business, you puppy, or I will take a stick to you!"

I could not speak, I was so scared.  I knew that with his notions about
the human race Satan would consider it a matter of no consequence to
strike her dead, there being "plenty more"; but my tongue stood still, I
could give her no warning.  But nothing happened; Satan remained
tranquil--tranquil and indifferent.  I suppose he could not be insulted
by Ursula any more than the king could be insulted by a tumble-bug.  The
old woman jumped to her feet when she made her remark, and did it as
briskly as a young girl.  It had been many years since she had done the
like of that.  That was Satan's influence; he was a fresh breeze to the
weak and the sick, wherever he came.  His presence affected even the lean
kitten, and it skipped to the ground and began to chase a leaf.  This
surprised Ursula, and she stood looking at the creature and nodding her
head wonderingly, her anger quite forgotten.

"What's come over it?" she said.  "Awhile ago it could hardly walk."

"You have not seen a kitten of that breed before," said Satan.

Ursula was not proposing to be friendly with the mocking stranger, and
she gave him an ungentle look and retorted: "Who asked you to come here
and pester me, I'd like to know?  And what do you know about what I've
seen and what I haven't seen?"

"You haven't seen a kitten with the hair-spines on its tongue pointing to
the front, have you?"

"No--nor you, either."

"Well, examine this one and see."

Ursula was become pretty spry, but the kitten was spryer, and she could
not catch it, and had to give it up.  Then Satan said:

"Give it a name, and maybe it will come."

Ursula tried several names, but the kitten was not interested.

"Call it Agnes.  Try that."

The creature answered to the name and came.  Ursula examined its tongue.
"Upon my word, it's true!" she said.  "I have not seen this kind of a cat
before.  Is it yours?"

"No."

"Then how did you know its name so pat?"

"Because all cats of that breed are named Agnes; they will not answer to
any other."

Ursula was impressed.  "It is the most wonderful thing!" Then a shadow of
trouble came into her face, for her superstitions were aroused, and she
reluctantly put the creature down, saying: "I suppose I must let it go; I
am not afraid--no, not exactly that, though the priest--well, I've heard
people--indeed, many people...  And, besides, it is quite well now and
can take care of itself."  She sighed, and turned to go, murmuring: "It
is such a pretty one, too, and would be such company--and the house is so
sad and lonesome these troubled days...  Miss Marget so mournful and just
a shadow, and the old master shut up in jail."

"It seems a pity not to keep it," said Satan.

Ursula turned quickly--just as if she were hoping some one would
encourage her.

"Why?" she asked, wistfully.

"Because this breed brings luck."

"Does it?  Is it true?  Young man, do you know it to be true?  How does
it bring luck?"

"Well, it brings money, anyway."

Ursula looked disappointed.  "Money?  A cat bring money?  The idea!  You
could never sell it here; people do not buy cats here; one can't even
give them away."  She turned to go.

"I don't mean sell it.  I mean have an income from it.  This kind is
called the Lucky Cat.  Its owner finds four silver groschen in his pocket
every morning."

I saw the indignation rising in the old woman's face.  She was insulted.
This boy was making fun of her.  That was her thought.  She thrust her
hands into her pockets and straightened up to give him a piece of her
mind.  Her temper was all up, and hot.  Her mouth came open and let out
three words of a bitter sentence,...  then it fell silent, and the anger
in her face turned to surprise or wonder or fear, or something, and she
slowly brought out her hands from her pockets and opened them and held
them so.  In one was my piece of money, in the other lay four silver
groschen.  She gazed a little while, perhaps to see if the groschen would
vanish away; then she said, fervently:

"It's true--it's true--and I'm ashamed and beg forgiveness, O dear master
and benefactor!" And she ran to Satan and kissed his hand, over and over
again, according to the Austrian custom.

In her heart she probably believed it was a witch-cat and an agent of the
Devil; but no matter, it was all the more certain to be able to keep its
contract and furnish a daily good living for the family, for in matters
of finance even the piousest of our peasants would have more confidence
in an arrangement with the Devil than with an archangel.  Ursula started
homeward, with Agnes in her arms, and I said I wished I had her privilege
of seeing Marget.

Then I caught my breath, for we were there.  There in the parlor, and
Marget standing looking at us, astonished.  She was feeble and pale, but
I knew that those conditions would not last in Satan's atmosphere, and it
turned out so.  I introduced Satan--that is, Philip Traum--and we sat
down and talked.  There was no constraint.  We were simple folk, in our
village, and when a stranger was a pleasant person we were soon friends.
Marget wondered how we got in without her hearing us.  Traum said the
door was open, and we walked in and waited until she should turn around
and greet us.  This was not true; no door was open; we entered through
the walls or the roof or down the chimney, or somehow; but no matter,
what Satan wished a person to believe, the person was sure to believe,
and so Marget was quite satisfied with that explanation.  And then the
main part of her mind was on Traum, anyway; she couldn't keep her eyes
off him, he was so beautiful.  That gratified me, and made me proud.  I
hoped he would show off some, but he didn't.  He seemed only interested
in being friendly and telling lies.  He said he was an orphan.  That made
Marget pity him.  The water came into her eyes.  He said he had never
known his mamma; she passed away while he was a young thing; and said his
papa was in shattered health, and had no property to speak of--in fact,
none of any earthly value--but he had an uncle in business down in the
tropics, and he was very well off and had a monopoly, and it was from
this uncle that he drew his support.  The very mention of a kind uncle
was enough to remind Marget of her own, and her eyes filled again.  She
said she hoped their two uncles would meet, some day.  It made me
shudder.  Philip said he hoped so, too; and that made me shudder again.

"Maybe they will," said Marget.  "Does your uncle travel much?"

"Oh yes, he goes all about; he has business everywhere."

And so they went on chatting, and poor Marget forgot her sorrow for one
little while, anyway.  It was probably the only really bright and cheery
hour she had known lately.  I saw she liked Philip, and I knew she would.
And when he told her he was studying for the ministry I could see that
she liked him better than ever.  And then, when he promised to get her
admitted to the jail so that she could see her uncle, that was the
capstone.  He said he would give the guards a little present, and she
must always go in the evening after dark, and say nothing, "but just show
this paper and pass in, and show it again when you come out"--and he
scribbled some queer marks on the paper and gave it to her, and she was
ever so thankful, and right away was in a fever for the sun to go down;
for in that old, cruel time prisoners were not allowed to see their
friends, and sometimes they spent years in the jails without ever seeing
a friendly face.  I judged that the marks on the paper were an
enchantment, and that the guards would not know what they were doing, nor
have any memory of it afterward; and that was indeed the way of it.
Ursula put her head in at the door now and said:

"Supper's ready, miss."  Then she saw us and looked frightened, and
motioned me to come to her, which I did, and she asked if we had told
about the cat.  I said no, and she was relieved, and said please don't;
for if Miss Marget knew, she would think it was an unholy cat and would
send for a priest and have its gifts all purified out of it, and then
there wouldn't be any more dividends.  So I said we wouldn't tell, and
she was satisfied.  Then I was beginning to say good-by to Marget, but
Satan interrupted and said, ever so politely--well, I don't remember just
the words, but anyway he as good as invited himself to supper, and me,
too.  Of course Marget was miserably embarrassed, for she had no reason
to suppose there would be half enough for a sick bird.  Ursula heard him,
and she came straight into the room, not a bit pleased.  At first she was
astonished to see Marget looking so fresh and rosy, and said so; then she
spoke up in her native tongue, which was Bohemian, and said--as I learned
afterward--"Send him away, Miss Marget; there's not victuals enough."

Before Marget could speak, Satan had the word, and was talking back to
Ursula in her own language--which was a surprise to her, and for her
mistress, too.  He said, "Didn't I see you down the road awhile ago?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, that pleases me; I see you remember me."  He stepped to her and
whispered: "I told you it is a Lucky Cat.  Don't be troubled; it will
provide."

That sponged the slate of Ursula's feelings clean of its anxieties, and a
deep, financial joy shone in her eyes.  The cat's value was augmenting.
It was getting full time for Marget to take some sort of notice of
Satan's invitation, and she did it in the best way, the honest way that
was natural to her.  She said she had little to offer, but that we were
welcome if we would share it with her.

We had supper in the kitchen, and Ursula waited at table.  A small fish
was in the frying-pan, crisp and brown and tempting, and one could see
that Marget was not expecting such respectable food as this.  Ursula
brought it, and Marget divided it between Satan and me, declining to take
any of it herself; and was beginning to say she did not care for fish to-
day, but she did not finish the remark.  It was because she noticed that
another fish had appeared in the pan.  She looked surprised, but did not
say anything.  She probably meant to inquire of Ursula about this later.
There were other surprises: flesh and game and wines and fruits--things
which had been strangers in that house lately; but Marget made no
exclamations, and now even looked unsurprised, which was Satan's
influence, of course.  Satan talked right along, and was entertaining,
and made the time pass pleasantly and cheerfully; and although he told a
good many lies, it was no harm in him, for he was only an angel and did
not know any better.  They do not know right from wrong; I knew this,
because I remembered what he had said about it.  He got on the good side
of Ursula.  He praised her to Marget, confidentially, but speaking just
loud enough for Ursula to hear.  He said she was a fine woman, and he
hoped some day to bring her and his uncle together.  Very soon Ursula was
mincing and simpering around in a ridiculous girly way, and smoothing out
her gown and prinking at herself like a foolish old hen, and all the time
pretending she was not hearing what Satan was saying.  I was ashamed, for
it showed us to be what Satan considered us, a silly race and trivial.
Satan said his uncle entertained a great deal, and to have a clever woman
presiding over the festivities would double the attractions of the place.

"But your uncle is a gentleman, isn't he?" asked Marget.

"Yes," said Satan indifferently; "some even call him a Prince, out of
compliment, but he is not bigoted; to him personal merit is everything,
rank nothing."

My hand was hanging down by my chair; Agnes came along and licked it; by
this act a secret was revealed.  I started to say, "It is all a mistake;
this is just a common, ordinary cat; the hair-needles on her tongue point
inward, not outward."  But the words did not come, because they couldn't.
Satan smiled upon me, and I understood.

When it was dark Marget took food and wine and fruit, in a basket, and
hurried away to the jail, and Satan and I walked toward my home.  I was
thinking to myself that I should like to see what the inside of the jail
was like; Satan overheard the thought, and the next moment we were in the
jail.  We were in the torture-chamber, Satan said.  The rack was there,
and the other instruments, and there was a smoky lantern or two hanging
on the walls and helping to make the place look dim and dreadful.  There
were people there--and executioners--but as they took no notice of us, it
meant that we were invisible.  A young man lay bound, and Satan said he
was suspected of being a heretic, and the executioners were about to
inquire into it.  They asked the man to confess to the charge, and he
said he could not, for it was not true.  Then they drove splinter after
splinter under his nails, and he shrieked with the pain.  Satan was not
disturbed, but I could not endure it, and had to be whisked out of there.
I was faint and sick, but the fresh air revived me, and we walked toward
my home.  I said it was a brutal thing.

"No, it was a human thing.  You should not insult the brutes by such a
misuse of that word; they have not deserved it," and he went on talking
like that.  "It is like your paltry race--always lying, always claiming
virtues which it hasn't got, always denying them to the higher animals,
which alone possess them.  No brute ever does a cruel thing--that is the
monopoly of those with the Moral Sense.  When a brute inflicts pain he
does it innocently; it is not wrong; for him there is no such thing as
wrong.  And he does not inflict pain for the pleasure of inflicting it--
only man does that.  Inspired by that mongrel Moral Sense of his!  A
sense whose function is to distinguish between right and wrong, with
liberty to choose which of them he will do.  Now what advantage can he
get out of that?  He is always choosing, and in nine cases out of ten he
prefers the wrong.  There shouldn't be any wrong; and without the Moral
Sense there couldn't be any.  And yet he is such an unreasoning creature
that he is not able to perceive that the Moral Sense degrades him to the
bottom layer of animated beings and is a shameful possession.  Are you
feeling better?  Let me show you something."




Chapter 6

In a moment we were in a French village.  We walked through a great
factory of some sort, where men and women and little children were
toiling in heat and dirt and a fog of dust; and they were clothed in
rags, and drooped at their work, for they were worn and half starved, and
weak and drowsy.  Satan said:

"It is some more Moral Sense.  The proprietors are rich, and very holy;
but the wage they pay to these poor brothers and sisters of theirs is
only enough to keep them from dropping dead with hunger.  The work-hours
are fourteen per day, winter and summer--from six in the morning till
eight at night--little children and all.  And they walk to and from the
pigsties which they inhabit--four miles each way, through mud and slush,
rain, snow, sleet, and storm, daily, year in and year out.  They get four
hours of sleep.  They kennel together, three families in a room, in
unimaginable filth and stench; and disease comes, and they die off like
flies.  Have they committed a crime, these mangy things?  No.  What have
they done, that they are punished so?  Nothing at all, except getting
themselves born into your foolish race.  You have seen how they treat a
misdoer there in the jail; now you see how they treat the innocent and
the worthy.  Is your race logical?  Are these ill-smelling innocents
better off than that heretic?  Indeed, no; his punishment is trivial
compared with theirs.  They broke him on the wheel and smashed him to
rags and pulp after we left, and he is dead now, and free of your
precious race; but these poor slaves here--why, they have been dying for
years, and some of them will not escape from life for years to come.  It
is the Moral Sense which teaches the factory proprietors the difference
between right and wrong--you perceive the result.  They think themselves
better than dogs.  Ah, you are such an illogical, unreasoning race!  And
paltry--oh, unspeakably!"

Then he dropped all seriousness and just overstrained himself making fun
of us, and deriding our pride in our warlike deeds, our great heroes, our
imperishable fames, our mighty kings, our ancient aristocracies, our
venerable history--and laughed and laughed till it was enough to make a
person sick to hear him; and finally he sobered a little and said, "But,
after all, it is not all ridiculous; there is a sort of pathos about it
when one remembers how few are your days, how childish your pomps, and
what shadows you are!"

Presently all things vanished suddenly from my sight, and I knew what it
meant.  The next moment we were walking along in our village; and down
toward the river I saw the twinkling lights of the Golden Stag.  Then in
the dark I heard a joyful cry:

"He's come again!"

It was Seppi Wohlmeyer.  He had felt his blood leap and his spirits rise
in a way that could mean only one thing, and he knew Satan was near,
although it was too dark to see him.  He came to us, and we walked along
together, and Seppi poured out his gladness like water.  It was as if he
were a lover and had found his sweetheart who had been lost.  Seppi was a
smart and animated boy, and had enthusiasm and expression, and was a
contrast to Nikolaus and me.  He was full of the last new mystery, now--
the disappearance of Hans Oppert, the village loafer.  People were
beginning to be curious about it, he said.  He did not say anxious--
curious was the right word, and strong enough.  No one had seen Hans for
a couple of days.

"Not since he did that brutal thing, you know," he said.

"What brutal thing?" It was Satan that asked.

"Well, he is always clubbing his dog, which is a good dog, and his only
friend, and is faithful, and loves him, and does no one any harm; and two
days ago he was at it again, just for nothing--just for pleasure--and the
dog was howling and begging, and Theodor and I begged, too, but he
threatened us, and struck the dog again with all his might and knocked
one of his eyes out, and he said to us, 'There, I hope you are satisfied
now; that's what you have got for him by your damned meddling'--and he
laughed, the heartless brute."  Seppi's voice trembled with pity and
anger.  I guessed what Satan would say, and he said it.

"There is that misused word again--that shabby slander.  Brutes do not
act like that, but only men."

"Well, it was inhuman, anyway."

"No, it wasn't, Seppi; it was human--quite distinctly human.  It is not
pleasant to hear you libel the higher animals by attributing to them
dispositions which they are free from, and which are found nowhere but in
the human heart.  None of the higher animals is tainted with the disease
called the Moral Sense.  Purify your language, Seppi; drop those lying
phrases out of it."

He spoke pretty sternly--for him--and I was sorry I hadn't warned Seppi
to be more particular about the word he used.  I knew how he was feeling.
He would not want to offend Satan; he would rather offend all his kin.
There was an uncomfortable silence, but relief soon came, for that poor
dog came along now, with his eye hanging down, and went straight to
Satan, and began to moan and mutter brokenly, and Satan began to answer
in the same way, and it was plain that they were talking together in the
dog language.  We all sat down in the grass, in the moonlight, for the
clouds were breaking away now, and Satan took the dog's head in his lap
and put the eye back in its place, and the dog was comfortable, and he
wagged his tail and licked Satan's hand, and looked thankful and said the
same; I knew he was saying it, though I did not understand the words.
Then the two talked together a bit, and Satan said:

"He says his master was drunk."

"Yes, he was," said we.

"And an hour later he fell over the precipice there beyond the Cliff
Pasture."

"We know the place; it is three miles from here."

"And the dog has been often to the village, begging people to go there,
but he was only driven away and not listened to."

We remembered it, but hadn't understood what he wanted.

"He only wanted help for the man who had misused him, and he thought only
of that, and has had no food nor sought any.  He has watched by his
master two nights.  What do you think of your race?  Is heaven reserved
for it, and this dog ruled out, as your teachers tell you?  Can your race
add anything to this dog's stock of morals and magnanimities?" He spoke
to the creature, who jumped up, eager and happy, and apparently ready for
orders and impatient to execute them.  "Get some men; go with the dog--he
will show you that carrion; and take a priest along to arrange about
insurance, for death is near."

With the last word he vanished, to our sorrow and disappointment.  We got
the men and Father Adolf, and we saw the man die.  Nobody cared but the
dog; he mourned and grieved, and licked the dead face, and could not be
comforted.  We buried him where he was, and without a coffin, for he had
no money, and no friend but the dog.  If we had been an hour earlier the
priest would have been in time to send that poor creature to heaven, but
now he was gone down into the awful fires, to burn forever.  It seemed
such a pity that in a world where so many people have difficulty to put
in their time, one little hour could not have been spared for this poor
creature who needed it so much, and to whom it would have made the
difference between eternal joy and eternal pain.  It gave an appalling
idea of the value of an hour, and I thought I could never waste one again
without remorse and terror.  Seppi was depressed and grieved, and said it
must be so much better to be a dog and not run such awful risks.  We took
this one home with us and kept him for our own.  Seppi had a very good
thought as we were walking along, and it cheered us up and made us feel
much better.  He said the dog had forgiven the man that had wronged him
so, and maybe God would accept that absolution.

There was a very dull week, now, for Satan did not come, nothing much was
going on, and we boys could not venture to go and see Marget, because the
nights were moonlit and our parents might find us out if we tried.  But
we came across Ursula a couple of times taking a walk in the meadows
beyond the river to air the cat, and we learned from her that things were
going well.  She had natty new clothes on and bore a prosperous look.
The four groschen a day were arriving without a break, but were not being
spent for food and wine and such things--the cat attended to all that.

Marget was enduring her forsakenness and isolation fairly well, all
things considered, and was cheerful, by help of Wilhelm Meidling.  She
spent an hour or two every night in the jail with her uncle, and had
fattened him up with the cat's contributions.  But she was curious to
know more about Philip Traum, and hoped I would bring him again.  Ursula
was curious about him herself, and asked a good many questions about his
uncle.  It made the boys laugh, for I had told them the nonsense Satan
had been stuffing her with.  She got no satisfaction out of us, our
tongues being tied.

Ursula gave us a small item of information: money being plenty now, she
had taken on a servant to help about the house and run errands.  She
tried to tell it in a commonplace, matter-of-course way, but she was so
set up by it and so vain of it that her pride in it leaked out pretty
plainly.  It was beautiful to see her veiled delight in this grandeur,
poor old thing, but when we heard the name of the servant we wondered if
she had been altogether wise; for although we were young, and often
thoughtless, we had fairly good perception on some matters.  This boy was
Gottfried Narr, a dull, good creature, with no harm in him and nothing
against him personally; still, he was under a cloud, and properly so, for
it had not been six months since a social blight had mildewed the family
--his grandmother had been burned as a witch.  When that kind of a malady
is in the blood it does not always come out with just one burning.  Just
now was not a good time for Ursula and Marget to be having dealings with
a member of such a family, for the witch-terror had risen higher during
the past year than it had ever reached in the memory of the oldest
villagers.  The mere mention of a witch was almost enough to frighten us
out of our wits.  This was natural enough, because of late years there
were more kinds of witches than there used to be; in old times it had
been only old women, but of late years they were of all ages--even
children of eight and nine; it was getting so that anybody might turn out
to be a familiar of the Devil--age and sex hadn't anything to do with it.
In our little region we had tried to extirpate the witches, but the more
of them we burned the more of the breed rose up in their places.

Once, in a school for girls only ten miles away, the teachers found that
the back of one of the girls was all red and inflamed, and they were
greatly frightened, believing it to be the Devil's marks.  The girl was
scared, and begged them not to denounce her, and said it was only fleas;
but of course it would not do to let the matter rest there.  All the
girls were examined, and eleven out of the fifty were badly marked, the
rest less so.  A commission was appointed, but the eleven only cried for
their mothers and would not confess.  Then they were shut up, each by
herself, in the dark, and put on black bread and water for ten days and
nights; and by that time they were haggard and wild, and their eyes were
dry and they did not cry any more, but only sat and mumbled, and would
not take the food.  Then one of them confessed, and said they had often
ridden through the air on broomsticks to the witches' Sabbath, and in a
bleak place high up in the mountains had danced and drunk and caroused
with several hundred other witches and the Evil One, and all had
conducted themselves in a scandalous way and had reviled the priests and
blasphemed God.  That is what she said--not in narrative form, for she
was not able to remember any of the details without having them called to
her mind one after the other; but the commission did that, for they knew
just what questions to ask, they being all written down for the use of
witch-commissioners two centuries before.  They asked, "Did you do so and
so?" and she always said yes, and looked weary and tired, and took no
interest in it.  And so when the other ten heard that this one confessed,
they confessed, too, and answered yes to the questions.  Then they were
burned at the stake all together, which was just and right; and everybody
went from all the countryside to see it.  I went, too; but when I saw
that one of them was a bonny, sweet girl I used to play with, and looked
so pitiful there chained to the stake, and her mother crying over her and
devouring her with kisses and clinging around her neck, and saying, "Oh,
my God!  oh, my God!" it was too dreadful, and I went away.

It was bitter cold weather when Gottfried's grandmother was burned.  It
was charged that she had cured bad headaches by kneading the person's
head and neck with her fingers--as she said--but really by the Devil's
help, as everybody knew.  They were going to examine her, but she stopped
them, and confessed straight off that her power was from the Devil.  So
they appointed to burn her next morning, early, in our market-square.
The officer who was to prepare the fire was there first, and prepared it.
She was there next--brought by the constables, who left her and went to
fetch another witch.  Her family did not come with her.  They might be
reviled, maybe stoned, if the people were excited.  I came, and gave her
an apple.  She was squatting at the fire, warming herself and waiting;
and her old lips and hands were blue with the cold.  A stranger came
next.  He was a traveler, passing through; and he spoke to her gently,
and, seeing nobody but me there to hear, said he was sorry for her.  And
he asked if what she confessed was true, and she said no.  He looked
surprised and still more sorry then, and asked her:

"Then why did you confess?"

"I am old and very poor," she said, "and I work for my living.  There was
no way but to confess.  If I hadn't they might have set me free.  That
would ruin me, for no one would forget that I had been suspected of being
a witch, and so I would get no more work, and wherever I went they would
set the dogs on me.  In a little while I would starve.  The fire is best;
it is soon over.  You have been good to me, you two, and I thank you."

She snuggled closer to the fire, and put out her hands to warm them, the
snow-flakes descending soft and still on her old gray head and making it
white and whiter.  The crowd was gathering now, and an egg came flying
and struck her in the eye, and broke and ran down her face.  There was a
laugh at that.

I told Satan all about the eleven girls and the old woman, once, but it
did not affect him.  He only said it was the human race, and what the
human race did was of no consequence.  And he said he had seen it made;
and it was not made of clay; it was made of mud--part of it was, anyway.
I knew what he meant by that--the Moral Sense.  He saw the thought in my
head, and it tickled him and made him laugh.  Then he called a bullock
out of a pasture and petted it and talked with it, and said:

"There--he wouldn't drive children mad with hunger and fright and
loneliness, and then burn them for confessing to things invented for them
which had never happened.  And neither would he break the hearts of
innocent, poor old women and make them afraid to trust themselves among
their own race; and he would not insult them in their death-agony.  For
he is not besmirched with the Moral Sense, but is as the angels are, and
knows no wrong, and never does it."

Lovely as he was, Satan could be cruelly offensive when he chose; and he
always chose when the human race was brought to his attention.  He always
turned up his nose at it, and never had a kind word for it.

Well, as I was saying, we boys doubted if it was a good time for Ursula
to be hiring a member of the Narr family.  We were right.  When the
people found it out they were naturally indignant.  And, moreover, since
Marget and Ursula hadn't enough to eat themselves, where was the money
coming from to feed another mouth?  That is what they wanted to know; and
in order to find out they stopped avoiding Gottfried and began to seek
his society and have sociable conversations with him.  He was pleased--
not thinking any harm and not seeing the trap--and so he talked
innocently along, and was no discreeter than a cow.

"Money!" he said; "they've got plenty of it.  They pay me two groschen a
week, besides my keep.  And they live on the fat of the land, I can tell
you; the prince himself can't beat their table."

This astonishing statement was conveyed by the astrologer to Father Adolf
on a Sunday morning when he was returning from mass.  He was deeply
moved, and said:

"This must be looked into."

He said there must be witchcraft at the bottom of it, and told the
villagers to resume relations with Marget and Ursula in a private and
unostentatious way, and keep both eyes open.  They were told to keep
their own counsel, and not rouse the suspicions of the household.  The
villagers were at first a bit reluctant to enter such a dreadful place,
but the priest said they would be under his protection while there, and
no harm could come to them, particularly if they carried a trifle of holy
water along and kept their beads and crosses handy.  This satisfied them
and made them willing to go; envy and malice made the baser sort even
eager to go.

And so poor Marget began to have company again, and was as pleased as a
cat.  She was like 'most anybody else--just human, and happy in her
prosperities and not averse from showing them off a little; and she was
humanly grateful to have the warm shoulder turned to her and be smiled
upon by her friends and the village again; for of all the hard things to
bear, to be cut by your neighbors and left in contemptuous solitude is
maybe the hardest.

The bars were down, and we could all go there now, and we did--our
parents and all--day after day.  The cat began to strain herself.  She
provided the top of everything for those companies, and in abundance--
among them many a dish and many a wine which they had not tasted before
and which they had not even heard of except at second-hand from the
prince's servants.  And the tableware was much above ordinary, too.

Marget was troubled at times, and pursued Ursula with questions to an
uncomfortable degree; but Ursula stood her ground and stuck to it that it
was Providence, and said no word about the cat.  Marget knew that nothing
was impossible to Providence, but she could not help having doubts that
this effort was from there, though she was afraid to say so, lest
disaster come of it.  Witchcraft occurred to her, but she put the thought
aside, for this was before Gottfried joined the household, and she knew
Ursula was pious and a bitter hater of witches.  By the time Gottfried
arrived Providence was established, unshakably intrenched, and getting
all the gratitude.  The cat made no murmur, but went on composedly
improving in style and prodigality by experience.

In any community, big or little, there is always a fair proportion of
people who are not malicious or unkind by nature, and who never do unkind
things except when they are overmastered by fear, or when their self-
interest is greatly in danger, or some such matter as that.  Eseldorf had
its proportion of such people, and ordinarily their good and gentle
influence was felt, but these were not ordinary times--on account of the
witch-dread--and so we did not seem to have any gentle and compassionate
hearts left, to speak of.  Every person was frightened at the
unaccountable state of things at Marget's house, not doubting that
witchcraft was at the bottom of it, and fright frenzied their reason.
Naturally there were some who pitied Marget and Ursula for the danger
that was gathering about them, but naturally they did not say so; it
would not have been safe.  So the others had it all their own way, and
there was none to advise the ignorant girl and the foolish woman and warn
them to modify their doings.  We boys wanted to warn them, but we backed
down when it came to the pinch, being afraid.  We found that we were not
manly enough nor brave enough to do a generous action when there was a
chance that it could get us into trouble.  Neither of us confessed this
poor spirit to the others, but did as other people would have done--
dropped the subject and talked about something else.  And I knew we all
felt mean, eating and drinking Marget's fine things along with those
companies of spies, and petting her and complimenting her with the rest,
and seeing with self-reproach how foolishly happy she was, and never
saying a word to put her on her guard.  And, indeed, she was happy, and
as proud as a princess, and so grateful to have friends again.  And all
the time these people were watching with all their eyes and reporting all
they saw to Father Adolf.

But he couldn't make head or tail of the situation.  There must be an
enchanter somewhere on the premises, but who was it?  Marget was not seen
to do any jugglery, nor was Ursula, nor yet Gottfried; and still the
wines and dainties never ran short, and a guest could not call for a
thing and not get it.  To produce these effects was usual enough with
witches and enchanters--that part of it was not new; but to do it without
any incantations, or even any rumblings or earthquakes or lightnings or
apparitions--that was new, novel, wholly irregular.  There was nothing in
the books like this.  Enchanted things were always unreal.  Gold turned
to dirt in an unenchanted atmosphere, food withered away and vanished.
But this test failed in the present case.  The spies brought samples:
Father Adolf prayed over them, exorcised them, but it did no good; they
remained sound and real, they yielded to natural decay only, and took the
usual time to do it.

Father Adolf was not merely puzzled, he was also exasperated; for these
evidences very nearly convinced him--privately--that there was no
witchcraft in the matter.  It did not wholly convince him, for this could
be a new kind of witchcraft.  There was a way to find out as to this: if
this prodigal abundance of provender was not brought in from the outside,
but produced on the premises, there was witchcraft, sure.




Chapter 7

Marget announced a party, and invited forty people; the date for it was
seven days away.  This was a fine opportunity.  Marget's house stood by
itself, and it could be easily watched.  All the week it was watched
night and day.  Marget's household went out and in as usual, but they
carried nothing in their hands, and neither they nor others brought
anything to the house.  This was ascertained.  Evidently rations for
forty people were not being fetched.  If they were furnished any
sustenance it would have to be made on the premises.  It was true that
Marget went out with a basket every evening, but the spies ascertained
that she always brought it back empty.

The guests arrived at noon and filled the place.  Father Adolf followed;
also, after a little, the astrologer, without invitation.  The spies had
informed him that neither at the back nor the front had any parcels been
brought in.  He entered, and found the eating and drinking going on
finely, and everything progressing in a lively and festive way.  He
glanced around and perceived that many of the cooked delicacies and all
of the native and foreign fruits were of a perishable character, and he
also recognized that these were fresh and perfect.  No apparitions, no
incantations, no thunder.  That settled it.  This was witchcraft.  And
not only that, but of a new kind--a kind never dreamed of before.  It was
a prodigious power, an illustrious power; he resolved to discover its
secret.  The announcement of it would resound throughout the world,
penetrate to the remotest lands, paralyze all the nations with amazement-
-and carry his name with it, and make him renowned forever.  It was a
wonderful piece of luck, a splendid piece of luck; the glory of it made
him dizzy.

All the house made room for him; Marget politely seated him; Ursula
ordered Gottfried to bring a special table for him.  Then she decked it
and furnished it, and asked for his orders.

"Bring me what you will," he said.

The two servants brought supplies from the pantry, together with white
wine and red--a bottle of each.  The astrologer, who very likely had
never seen such delicacies before, poured out a beaker of red wine, drank
it off, poured another, then began to eat with a grand appetite.

I was not expecting Satan, for it was more than a week since I had seen
or heard of him, but now he came in--I knew it by the feel, though people
were in the way and I could not see him.  I heard him apologizing for
intruding; and he was going away, but Marget urged him to stay, and he
thanked her and stayed.  She brought him along, introducing him to the
girls, and to Meidling, and to some of the elders; and there was quite a
rustle of whispers: "It's the young stranger we hear so much about and
can't get sight of, he is away so much."  "Dear, dear, but he is
beautiful--what is his name?" "Philip Traum."  "Ah, it fits him!" (You
see, "Traum" is German for "Dream.") "What does he do?" "Studying for the
ministry, they say."  "His face is his fortune--he'll be a cardinal some
day."  "Where is his home?"  "Away down somewhere in the tropics, they
say--has a rich uncle down there."  And so on.  He made his way at once;
everybody was anxious to know him and talk with him.  Everybody noticed
how cool and fresh it was, all of a sudden, and wondered at it, for they
could see that the sun was beating down the same as before, outside, and
the sky was clear of clouds, but no one guessed the reason, of course.

The astrologer had drunk his second beaker; he poured out a third.  He
set the bottle down, and by accident overturned it.  He seized it before
much was spilled, and held it up to the light, saying, "What a pity--it
is royal wine."  Then his face lighted with joy or triumph, or something,
and he said, "Quick!  Bring a bowl."

It was brought--a four-quart one.  He took up that two-pint bottle and
began to pour; went on pouring, the red liquor gurgling and gushing into
the white bowl and rising higher and higher up its sides, everybody
staring and holding their breath--and presently the bowl was full to the
brim.

"Look at the bottle," he said, holding it up; "it is full yet!" I glanced
at Satan, and in that moment he vanished.  Then Father Adolf rose up,
flushed and excited, crossed himself, and began to thunder in his great
voice, "This house is bewitched and accursed!" People began to cry and
shriek and crowd toward the door.  "I summon this detected household
to--"

His words were cut off short.  His face became red, then purple, but he
could not utter another sound.  Then I saw Satan, a transparent film,
melt into the astrologer's body; then the astrologer put up his hand, and
apparently in his own voice said, "Wait--remain where you are."  All
stopped where they stood.  "Bring a funnel!"  Ursula brought it,
trembling and scared, and he stuck it in the bottle and took up the great
bowl and began to pour the wine back, the people gazing and dazed with
astonishment, for they knew the bottle was already full before he began.
He emptied the whole of the bowl into the bottle, then smiled out over
the room, chuckled, and said, indifferently: "It is nothing--anybody can
do it!  With my powers I can even do much more."

A frightened cry burst out everywhere.  "Oh, my God, he is possessed!"
and there was a tumultuous rush for the door which swiftly emptied the
house of all who did not belong in it except us boys and Meidling.
We boys knew the secret, and would have told it if we could, but we
couldn't.  We were very thankful to Satan for furnishing that good help
at the needful time.

Marget was pale, and crying; Meidling looked kind of petrified; Ursula
the same; but Gottfried was the worst--he couldn't stand, he was so weak
and scared.  For he was of a witch family, you know, and it would be bad
for him to be suspected.  Agnes came loafing in, looking pious and
unaware, and wanted to rub up against Ursula and be petted, but Ursula
was afraid of her and shrank away from her, but pretending she was not
meaning any incivility, for she knew very well it wouldn't answer to have
strained relations with that kind of a cat.  But we boys took Agnes and
petted her, for Satan would not have befriended her if he had not had a
good opinion of her, and that was indorsement enough for us.  He seemed
to trust anything that hadn't the Moral Sense.

Outside, the guests, panic-stricken, scattered in every direction and
fled in a pitiable state of terror; and such a tumult as they made with
their running and sobbing and shrieking and shouting that soon all the
village came flocking from their houses to see what had happened, and
they thronged the street and shouldered and jostled one another in
excitement and fright; and then Father Adolf appeared, and they fell
apart in two walls like the cloven Red Sea, and presently down this lane
the astrologer came striding and mumbling, and where he passed the lanes
surged back in packed masses, and fell silent with awe, and their eyes
stared and their breasts heaved, and several women fainted; and when he
was gone by the crowd swarmed together and followed him at a distance,
talking excitedly and asking questions and finding out the facts.
Finding out the facts and passing them on to others, with improvements--
improvements which soon enlarged the bowl of wine to a barrel, and made
the one bottle hold it all and yet remain empty to the last.

When the astrologer reached the market-square he went straight to a
juggler, fantastically dressed, who was keeping three brass balls in the
air, and took them from him and faced around upon the approaching crowd
and said: "This poor clown is ignorant of his art.  Come forward and see
an expert perform."

So saying, he tossed the balls up one after another and set them whirling
in a slender bright oval in the air, and added another, then another and
another, and soon--no one seeing whence he got them--adding, adding,
adding, the oval lengthening all the time, his hands moving so swiftly
that they were just a web or a blur and not distinguishable as hands; and
such as counted said there were now a hundred balls in the air.  The
spinning great oval reached up twenty feet in the air and was a shining
and glinting and wonderful sight.  Then he folded his arms and told the
balls to go on spinning without his help--and they did it.  After a
couple of minutes he said, "There, that will do," and the oval broke and
came crashing down, and the balls scattered abroad and rolled every
whither.  And wherever one of them came the people fell back in dread,
and no one would touch it.  It made him laugh, and he scoffed at the
people and called them cowards and old women.  Then he turned and saw the
tight-rope, and said foolish people were daily wasting their money to see
a clumsy and ignorant varlet degrade that beautiful art; now they should
see the work of a master.  With that he made a spring into the air and
lit firm on his feet on the rope.  Then he hopped the whole length of it
back and forth on one foot, with his hands clasped over his eyes; and
next he began to throw somersaults, both backward and forward, and threw
twenty-seven.

The people murmured, for the astrologer was old, and always before had
been halting of movement and at times even lame, but he was nimble enough
now and went on with his antics in the liveliest manner.  Finally he
sprang lightly down and walked away, and passed up the road and around
the corner and disappeared.  Then that great, pale, silent, solid crowd
drew a deep breath and looked into one another's faces as if they said:
"Was it real?  Did you see it, or was it only I--and was I dreaming?"
Then they broke into a low murmur of talking, and fell apart in couples,
and moved toward their homes, still talking in that awed way, with faces
close together and laying a hand on an arm and making other such gestures
as people make when they have been deeply impressed by something.

We boys followed behind our fathers, and listened, catching all we could
of what they said; and when they sat down in our house and continued
their talk they still had us for company.  They were in a sad mood, for
it was certain, they said, that disaster for the village must follow this
awful visitation of witches and devils.  Then my father remembered that
Father Adolf had been struck dumb at the moment of his denunciation.

"They have not ventured to lay their hands upon an anointed servant of
God before," he said; "and how they could have dared it this time I
cannot make out, for he wore his crucifix.  Isn't it so?"

"Yes," said the others, "we saw it."

"It is serious, friends, it is very serious.  Always before, we had a
protection.  It has failed."

The others shook, as with a sort of chill, and muttered those words over-
-"It has failed."  "God has forsaken us."

"It is true," said Seppi Wohlmeyer's father; "there is nowhere to look
for help."

"The people will realize this," said Nikolaus's father, the judge, "and
despair will take away their courage and their energies.  We have indeed
fallen upon evil times."

He sighed, and Wohlmeyer said, in a troubled voice: "The report of it all
will go about the country, and our village will be shunned as being under
the displeasure of God.  The Golden Stag will know hard times."

"True, neighbor," said my father; "all of us will suffer--all in repute,
many in estate.  And, good God!--"

"What is it?"

"That can come--to finish us!"

"Name it--um Gottes Willen!"

"The Interdict!"

It smote like a thunderclap, and they were like to swoon with the terror
of it.  Then the dread of this calamity roused their energies, and they
stopped brooding and began to consider ways to avert it.  They discussed
this, that, and the other way, and talked till the afternoon was far
spent, then confessed that at present they could arrive at no decision.
So they parted sorrowfully, with oppressed hearts which were filled with
bodings.

While they were saying their parting words I slipped out and set my
course for Marget's house to see what was happening there.  I met many
people, but none of them greeted me.  It ought to have been surprising,
but it was not, for they were so distraught with fear and dread that they
were not in their right minds, I think; they were white and haggard, and
walked like persons in a dream, their eyes open but seeing nothing, their
lips moving but uttering nothing, and worriedly clasping and unclasping
their hands without knowing it.

At Marget's it was like a funeral.  She and Wilhelm sat together on the
sofa, but said nothing, and not even holding hands.  Both were steeped in
gloom, and Marget's eyes were red from the crying she had been doing.
She said:

"I have been begging him to go, and come no more, and so save himself
alive.  I cannot bear to be his murderer.  This house is bewitched, and
no inmate will escape the fire.  But he will not go, and he will be lost
with the rest."

Wilhelm said he would not go; if there was danger for her, his place was
by her, and there he would remain.  Then she began to cry again, and it
was all so mournful that I wished I had stayed away.  There was a knock,
now, and Satan came in, fresh and cheery and beautiful, and brought that
winy atmosphere of his and changed the whole thing.  He never said a word
about what had been happening, nor about the awful fears which were
freezing the blood in the hearts of the community, but began to talk and
rattle on about all manner of gay and pleasant things; and next about
music--an artful stroke which cleared away the remnant of Marget's
depression and brought her spirits and her interests broad awake.  She
had not heard any one talk so well and so knowingly on that subject
before, and she was so uplifted by it and so charmed that what she was
feeling lit up her face and came out in her words; and Wilhelm noticed it
and did not look as pleased as he ought to have done.  And next Satan
branched off into poetry, and recited some, and did it well, and Marget
was charmed again; and again Wilhelm was not as pleased as he ought to
have been, and this time Marget noticed it and was remorseful.

I fell asleep to pleasant music that night--the patter of rain upon the
panes and the dull growling of distant thunder.  Away in the night Satan
came and roused me and said: "Come with me.  Where shall we go?"

"Anywhere--so it is with you."

Then there was a fierce glare of sunlight, and he said, "This is China."

That was a grand surprise, and made me sort of drunk with vanity and
gladness to think I had come so far--so much, much farther than anybody
else in our village, including Bartel Sperling, who had such a great
opinion of his travels.  We buzzed around over that empire for more than
half an hour, and saw the whole of it.  It was wonderful, the spectacles
we saw; and some were beautiful, others too horrible to think.  For
instance--However, I may go into that by and by, and also why Satan chose
China for this excursion instead of another place; it would interrupt my
tale to do it now.  Finally we stopped flitting and lit.

We sat upon a mountain commanding a vast landscape of mountain-range and
gorge and valley and plain and river, with cities and villages slumbering
in the sunlight, and a glimpse of blue sea on the farther verge.  It was
a tranquil and dreamy picture, beautiful to the eye and restful to the
spirit.  If we could only make a change like that whenever we wanted to,
the world would be easier to live in than it is, for change of scene
shifts the mind's burdens to the other shoulder and banishes old, shop-
worn wearinesses from mind and body both.

We talked together, and I had the idea of trying to reform Satan and
persuade him to lead a better life.  I told him about all those things he
had been doing, and begged him to be more considerate and stop making
people unhappy.  I said I knew he did not mean any harm, but that he
ought to stop and consider the possible consequences of a thing before
launching it in that impulsive and random way of his; then he would not
make so much trouble.  He was not hurt by this plain speech; he only
looked amused and surprised, and said:

"What?  I do random things?  Indeed, I never do.  I stop and consider
possible consequences?  Where is the need?  I know what the consequences
are going to be--always."

"Oh, Satan, then how could you do these things?"

"Well, I will tell you, and you must understand if you can.  You belong
to a singular race.  Every man is a suffering-machine and a happiness-
machine combined.  The two functions work together harmoniously, with a
fine and delicate precision, on the give-and-take principle.  For every
happiness turned out in the one department the other stands ready to
modify it with a sorrow or a pain--maybe a dozen.  In most cases the
man's life is about equally divided between happiness and unhappiness.
When this is not the case the unhappiness predominates--always; never the
other.  Sometimes a man's make and disposition are such that his misery-
machine is able to do nearly all the business.  Such a man goes through
life almost ignorant of what happiness is.  Everything he touches,
everything he does, brings a misfortune upon him.  You have seen such
people?  To that kind of a person life is not an advantage, is it?  It is
only a disaster.  Sometimes for an hour's happiness a man's machinery
makes him pay years of misery.  Don't you know that?  It happens every
now and then.  I will give you a case or two presently.  Now the people
of your village are nothing to me--you know that, don't you?"

I did not like to speak out too flatly, so I said I had suspected it.

"Well, it is true that they are nothing to me.  It is not possible that
they should be.  The difference between them and me is abysmal,
immeasurable.  They have no intellect."

"No intellect?"

"Nothing that resembles it.  At a future time I will examine what man
calls his mind and give you the details of that chaos, then you will see
and understand.  Men have nothing in common with me--there is no point of
contact; they have foolish little feelings and foolish little vanities
and impertinences and ambitions; their foolish little life is but a
laugh, a sigh, and extinction; and they have no sense.  Only the Moral
Sense.  I will show you what I mean.  Here is a red spider, not so big as
a pin's head.  Can you imagine an elephant being interested in him--
caring whether he is happy or isn't, or whether he is wealthy or poor, or
whether his sweetheart returns his love or not, or whether his mother is
sick or well, or whether he is looked up to in society or not, or whether
his enemies will smite him or his friends desert him, or whether his
hopes will suffer blight or his political ambitions fail, or whether he
shall die in the bosom of his family or neglected and despised in a
foreign land?  These things can never be important to the elephant; they
are nothing to him; he cannot shrink his sympathies to the microscopic
size of them.  Man is to me as the red spider is to the elephant.  The
elephant has nothing against the spider--he cannot get down to that
remote level; I have nothing against man.  The elephant is indifferent; I
am indifferent.  The elephant would not take the trouble to do the spider
an ill turn; if he took the notion he might do him a good turn, if it
came in his way and cost nothing.  I have done men good service, but no
ill turns.

"The elephant lives a century, the red spider a day; in power, intellect,
and dignity the one creature is separated from the other by a distance
which is simply astronomical.  Yet in these, as in all qualities, man is
immeasurably further below me than is the wee spider below the elephant.

"Man's mind clumsily and tediously and laboriously patches little
trivialities together and gets a result--such as it is.  My mind creates!
Do you get the force of that?  Creates anything it desires--and in a
moment.  Creates without material.  Creates fluids, solids, colors--
anything, everything--out of the airy nothing which is called Thought.  A
man imagines a silk thread, imagines a machine to make it, imagines a
picture, then by weeks of labor embroiders it on canvas with the thread.
I think the whole thing, and in a moment it is before you--created.

"I think a poem, music, the record of a game of chess--anything--and it
is there.  This is the immortal mind--nothing is beyond its reach.
Nothing can obstruct my vision; the rocks are transparent to me, and
darkness is daylight.  I do not need to open a book; I take the whole of
its contents into my mind at a single glance, through the cover; and in a
million years I could not forget a single word of it, or its place in the
volume.  Nothing goes on in the skull of man, bird, fish, insect, or
other creature which can be hidden from me.  I pierce the learned man's
brain with a single glance, and the treasures which cost him threescore
years to accumulate are mine; he can forget, and he does forget, but I
retain.

"Now, then, I perceive by your thoughts that you are understanding me
fairly well.  Let us proceed.  Circumstances might so fall out that the
elephant could like the spider--supposing he can see it--but he could not
love it.  His love is for his own kind--for his equals.  An angel's love
is sublime, adorable, divine, beyond the imagination of man--infinitely
beyond it!  But it is limited to his own august order.  If it fell upon
one of your race for only an instant, it would consume its object to
ashes.  No, we cannot love men, but we can be harmlessly indifferent to
them; we can also like them, sometimes.  I like you and the boys, I like
Father Peter, and for your sakes I am doing all these things for the
villagers."

He saw that I was thinking a sarcasm, and he explained his position.

"I have wrought well for the villagers, though it does not look like it
on the surface.  Your race never know good fortune from ill.  They are
always mistaking the one for the other.  It is because they cannot see
into the future.  What I am doing for the villagers will bear good fruit
some day; in some cases to themselves; in others, to unborn generations
of men.  No one will ever know that I was the cause, but it will be none
the less true, for all that.  Among you boys you have a game: you stand a
row of bricks on end a few inches apart; you push a brick, it knocks its
neighbor over, the neighbor knocks over the next brick--and so on till
all the row is prostrate.  That is human life.  A child's first act
knocks over the initial brick, and the rest will follow inexorably.  If
you could see into the future, as I can, you would see everything that
was going to happen to that creature; for nothing can change the order of
its life after the first event has determined it.  That is, nothing will
change it, because each act unfailingly begets an act, that act begets
another, and so on to the end, and the seer can look forward down the
line and see just when each act is to have birth, from cradle to grave."

"Does God order the career?"

"Foreordain it?  No.  The man's circumstances and environment order it.
His first act determines the second and all that follow after.  But
suppose, for argument's sake, that the man should skip one of these acts;
an apparently trifling one, for instance; suppose that it had been
appointed that on a certain day, at a certain hour and minute and second
and fraction of a second he should go to the well, and he didn't go.
That man's career would change utterly, from that moment; thence to the
grave it would be wholly different from the career which his first act as
a child had arranged for him.  Indeed, it might be that if he had gone to
the well he would have ended his career on a throne, and that omitting to
do it would set him upon a career that would lead to beggary and a
pauper's grave.  For instance: if at any time--say in boyhood--Columbus
had skipped the triflingest little link in the chain of acts projected
and made inevitable by his first childish act, it would have changed his
whole subsequent life, and he would have become a priest and died obscure
in an Italian village, and America would not have been discovered for two
centuries afterward.  I know this.  To skip any one of the billion acts
in Columbus's chain would have wholly changed his life.  I have examined
his billion of possible careers, and in only one of them occurs the
discovery of America.  You people do not suspect that all of your acts
are of one size and importance, but it is true; to snatch at an appointed
fly is as big with fate for you as is any other appointed act--"

"As the conquering of a continent, for instance?"

"Yes.  Now, then, no man ever does drop a link--the thing has never
happened!  Even when he is trying to make up his mind as to whether he
will do a thing or not, that itself is a link, an act, and has its proper
place in his chain; and when he finally decides an act, that also was the
thing which he was absolutely certain to do.  You see, now, that a man
will never drop a link in his chain.  He cannot.  If he made up his mind
to try, that project would itself be an unavoidable link--a thought bound
to occur to him at that precise moment, and made certain by the first act
of his babyhood."

It seemed so dismal!

"He is a prisoner for life," I said sorrowfully, "and cannot get free."

"No, of himself he cannot get away from the consequences of his first
childish act.  But I can free him."

I looked up wistfully.

"I have changed the careers of a number of your villagers."

I tried to thank him, but found it difficult, and let it drop.

"I shall make some other changes.  You know that little Lisa Brandt?"

"Oh yes, everybody does.  My mother says she is so sweet and so lovely
that she is not like any other child.  She says she will be the pride of
the village when she grows up; and its idol, too, just as she is now."

"I shall change her future."

"Make it better?" I asked.

"Yes.  And I will change the future of Nikolaus."

I was glad, this time, and said, "I don't need to ask about his case; you
will be sure to do generously by him."

"It is my intention."

Straight off I was building that great future of Nicky's in my
imagination, and had already made a renowned general of him and
hofmeister at the court, when I noticed that Satan was waiting for me to
get ready to listen again.  I was ashamed of having exposed my cheap
imaginings to him, and was expecting some sarcasms, but it did not
happen.  He proceeded with his subject:

"Nicky's appointed life is sixty-two years."

"That's grand!" I said.

"Lisa's, thirty-six.  But, as I told you, I shall change their lives and
those ages.  Two minutes and a quarter from now Nikolaus will wake out of
his sleep and find the rain blowing in.  It was appointed that he should
turn over and go to sleep again.  But I have appointed that he shall get
up and close the window first.  That trifle will change his career
entirely.  He will rise in the morning two minutes later than the chain
of his life had appointed him to rise.  By consequence, thenceforth
nothing will ever happen to him in accordance with the details of the old
chain."  He took out his watch and sat looking at it a few moments, then
said: "Nikolaus has risen to close the window.  His life is changed, his
new career has begun.  There will be consequences."

It made me feel creepy; it was uncanny.

"But for this change certain things would happen twelve days from now.
For instance, Nikolaus would save Lisa from drowning.  He would arrive on
the scene at exactly the right moment--four minutes past ten, the long-
ago appointed instant of time--and the water would be shoal, the
achievement easy and certain.  But he will arrive some seconds too late,
now; Lisa will have struggled into deeper water.  He will do his best,
but both will drown."

"Oh, Satan!  oh, dear Satan!" I cried, with the tears rising in my eyes,
"save them!  Don't let it happen.  I can't bear to lose Nikolaus, he is
my loving playmate and friend; and think of Lisa's poor mother!"

I clung to him and begged and pleaded, but he was not moved.  He made me
sit down again, and told me I must hear him out.

"I have changed Nikolaus's life, and this has changed Lisa's.  If I had
not done this, Nikolaus would save Lisa, then he would catch cold from
his drenching; one of your race's fantastic and desolating scarlet fevers
would follow, with pathetic after-effects; for forty-six years he would
lie in his bed a paralytic log, deaf, dumb, blind, and praying night and
day for the blessed relief of death.  Shall I change his life back?"

"Oh no!  Oh, not for the world!  In charity and pity leave it as it is."

"It is best so.  I could not have changed any other link in his life and
done him so good a service.  He had a billion possible careers, but not
one of them was worth living; they were charged full with miseries and
disasters.  But for my intervention he would do his brave deed twelve
days from now--a deed begun and ended in six minutes--and get for all
reward those forty-six years of sorrow and suffering I told you of.  It
is one of the cases I was thinking of awhile ago when I said that
sometimes an act which brings the actor an hour's happiness and self-
satisfaction is paid for--or punished--by years of suffering."

I wondered what poor little Lisa's early death would save her from.  He
answered the thought:

"From ten years of pain and slow recovery from an accident, and then from
nineteen years' pollution, shame, depravity, crime, ending with death at
the hands of the executioner.  Twelve days hence she will die; her mother
would save her life if she could.  Am I not kinder than her mother?"

"Yes--oh, indeed yes; and wiser."

"Father Peter's case is coming on presently.  He will be acquitted,
through unassailable proofs of his innocence."

"Why, Satan, how can that be?  Do you really think it?"

"Indeed, I know it.  His good name will be restored, and the rest of his
life will be happy."

"I can believe it.  To restore his good name will have that effect."

"His happiness will not proceed from that cause.  I shall change his life
that day, for his good.  He will never know his good name has been
restored."

In my mind--and modestly--I asked for particulars, but Satan paid no
attention to my thought.  Next, my mind wandered to the astrologer, and I
wondered where he might be.

"In the moon," said Satan, with a fleeting sound which I believed was a
chuckle.  "I've got him on the cold side of it, too.  He doesn't know
where he is, and is not having a pleasant time; still, it is good enough
for him, a good place for his star studies.  I shall need him presently;
then I shall bring him back and possess him again.  He has a long and
cruel and odious life before him, but I will change that, for I have no
feeling against him and am quite willing to do him a kindness.  I think I
shall get him burned."

He had such strange notions of kindness!  But angels are made so, and do
not know any better.  Their ways are not like our ways; and, besides,
human beings are nothing to them; they think they are only freaks.  It
seems to me odd that he should put the astrologer so far away; he could
have dumped him in Germany just as well, where he would be handy.

"Far away?" said Satan.  "To me no place is far away; distance does not
exist for me.  The sun is less than a hundred million miles from here,
and the light that is falling upon us has taken eight minutes to come;
but I can make that flight, or any other, in a fraction of time so minute
that it cannot be measured by a watch.  I have but to think the journey,
and it is accomplished."

I held out my hand and said, "The light lies upon it; think it into a
glass of wine, Satan."

He did it.  I drank the wine.

"Break the glass," he said.

I broke it.

"There--you see it is real.  The villagers thought the brass balls were
magic stuff and as perishable as smoke.  They were afraid to touch them.
You are a curious lot--your race.  But come along; I have business.  I
will put you to bed."  Said and done.  Then he was gone; but his voice
came back to me through the rain and darkness saying, "Yes, tell Seppi,
but no other."

It was the answer to my thought.




Chapter 8

Sleep would not come.  It was not because I was proud of my travels and
excited about having been around the big world to China, and feeling
contemptuous of Bartel Sperling, "the traveler," as he called himself,
and looked down upon us others because he had been to Vienna once and was
the only Eseldorf boy who had made such a journey and seen the world's
wonders.  At another time that would have kept me awake, but it did not
affect me now.  No, my mind was filled with Nikolaus, my thoughts ran
upon him only, and the good days we had seen together at romps and
frolics in the woods and the fields and the river in the long summer
days, and skating and sliding in the winter when our parents thought we
were in school.  And now he was going out of this young life, and the
summers and winters would come and go, and we others would rove and play
as before, but his place would be vacant; we should see him no more.  To-
morrow he would not suspect, but would be as he had always been, and it
would shock me to hear him laugh, and see him do lightsome and frivolous
things, for to me he would be a corpse, with waxen hands and dull eyes,
and I should see the shroud around his face; and next day he would not
suspect, nor the next, and all the time his handful of days would be
wasting swiftly away and that awful thing coming nearer and nearer, his
fate closing steadily around him and no one knowing it but Seppi and me.
Twelve days--only twelve days.  It was awful to think of.  I noticed that
in my thoughts I was not calling him by his familiar names, Nick and
Nicky, but was speaking of him by his full name, and reverently, as one
speaks of the dead.  Also, as incident after incident of our comradeship
came thronging into my mind out of the past, I noticed that they were
mainly cases where I had wronged him or hurt him, and they rebuked me and
reproached me, and my heart was wrung with remorse, just as it is when we
remember our unkindnesses to friends who have passed beyond the veil, and
we wish we could have them back again, if only for a moment, so that we
could go on our knees to them and say, "Have pity, and forgive."

Once when we were nine years old he went a long errand of nearly two
miles for the fruiterer, who gave him a splendid big apple for reward,
and he was flying home with it, almost beside himself with astonishment
and delight, and I met him, and he let me look at the apple, not thinking
of treachery, and I ran off with it, eating it as I ran, he following me
and begging; and when he overtook me I offered him the core, which was
all that was left; and I laughed.  Then he turned away, crying, and said
he had meant to give it to his little sister.  That smote me, for she was
slowly getting well of a sickness, and it would have been a proud moment
for him, to see her joy and surprise and have her caresses.  But I was
ashamed to say I was ashamed, and only said something rude and mean, to
pretend I did not care, and he made no reply in words, but there was a
wounded look in his face as he turned away toward his home which rose
before me many times in after years, in the night, and reproached me and
made me ashamed again.  It had grown dim in my mind, by and by, then it
disappeared; but it was back now, and not dim.

Once at school, when we were eleven, I upset my ink and spoiled four
copy-books, and was in danger of severe punishment; but I put it upon
him, and he got the whipping.

And only last year I had cheated him in a trade, giving him a large fish-
hook which was partly broken through for three small sound ones.  The
first fish he caught broke the hook, but he did not know I was blamable,
and he refused to take back one of the small hooks which my conscience
forced me to offer him, but said, "A trade is a trade; the hook was bad,
but that was not your fault."

No, I could not sleep.  These little, shabby wrongs upbraided me and
tortured me, and with a pain much sharper than one feels when the wrongs
have been done to the living.  Nikolaus was living, but no matter; he was
to me as one already dead.  The wind was still moaning about the eaves,
the rain still pattering upon the panes.

In the morning I sought out Seppi and told him.  It was down by the
river.  His lips moved, but he did not say anything, he only looked dazed
and stunned, and his face turned very white.  He stood like that a few
moments, the tears welling into his eyes, then he turned away and I
locked my arm in his and we walked along thinking, but not speaking.  We
crossed the bridge and wandered through the meadows and up among the
hills and the woods, and at last the talk came and flowed freely, and it
was all about Nikolaus and was a recalling of the life we had lived with
him.  And every now and then Seppi said, as if to himself:

"Twelve days!--less than twelve days."

We said we must be with him all the time; we must have all of him we
could; the days were precious now.  Yet we did not go to seek him.  It
would be like meeting the dead, and we were afraid.  We did not say it,
but that was what we were feeling.  And so it gave us a shock when we
turned a curve and came upon Nikolaus face to face.  He shouted, gaily:

"Hi-hi!  What is the matter?  Have you seen a ghost?"

We couldn't speak, but there was no occasion; he was willing to talk for
us all, for he had just seen Satan and was in high spirits about it.
Satan had told him about our trip to China, and he had begged Satan to
take him a journey, and Satan had promised.  It was to be a far journey,
and wonderful and beautiful; and Nikolaus had begged him to take us, too,
but he said no, he would take us some day, maybe, but not now.  Satan
would come for him on the 13th, and Nikolaus was already counting the
hours, he was so impatient.

That was the fatal day.  We were already counting the hours, too.

We wandered many a mile, always following paths which had been our
favorites from the days when we were little, and always we talked about
the old times.  All the blitheness was with Nikolaus; we others could not
shake off our depression.  Our tone toward Nikolaus was so strangely
gentle and tender and yearning that he noticed it, and was pleased; and
we were constantly doing him deferential little offices of courtesy, and
saying, "Wait, let me do that for you," and that pleased him, too.  I
gave him seven fish-hooks--all I had--and made him take them; and Seppi
gave him his new knife and a humming-top painted red and yellow--
atonements for swindles practised upon him formerly, as I learned later,
and probably no longer remembered by Nikolaus now.  These things touched
him, and he could not have believed that we loved him so; and his pride
in it and gratefulness for it cut us to the heart, we were so undeserving
of them.  When we parted at last, he was radiant, and said he had never
had such a happy day.

As we walked along homeward, Seppi said, "We always prized him, but never
so much as now, when we are going to lose him."

Next day and every day we spent all of our spare time with Nikolaus; and
also added to it time which we (and he) stole from work and other duties,
and this cost the three of us some sharp scoldings, and some threats of
punishment.  Every morning two of us woke with a start and a shudder,
saying, as the days flew along, "Only ten days left;" "only nine days
left;" "only eight;" "only seven."  Always it was narrowing.  Always
Nikolaus was gay and happy, and always puzzled because we were not.  He
wore his invention to the bone trying to invent ways to cheer us up, but
it was only a hollow success; he could see that our jollity had no heart
in it, and that the laughs we broke into came up against some obstruction
or other and suffered damage and decayed into a sigh.  He tried to find
out what the matter was, so that he could help us out of our trouble or
make it lighter by sharing it with us; so we had to tell many lies to
deceive him and appease him.

But the most distressing thing of all was that he was always making
plans, and often they went beyond the 13th!  Whenever that happened it
made us groan in spirit.  All his mind was fixed upon finding some way to
conquer our depression and cheer us up; and at last, when he had but
three days to live, he fell upon the right idea and was jubilant over it-
-a boys-and-girls' frolic and dance in the woods, up there where we first
met Satan, and this was to occur on the 14th.  It was ghastly, for that
was his funeral day.  We couldn't venture to protest; it would only have
brought a "Why?" which we could not answer.  He wanted us to help him
invite his guests, and we did it--one can refuse nothing to a dying
friend.  But it was dreadful, for really we were inviting them to his
funeral.

It was an awful eleven days; and yet, with a lifetime stretching back
between to-day and then, they are still a grateful memory to me, and
beautiful.  In effect they were days of companionship with one's sacred
dead, and I have known no comradeship that was so close or so precious.
We clung to the hours and the minutes, counting them as they wasted away,
and parting with them with that pain and bereavement which a miser feels
who sees his hoard filched from him coin by coin by robbers and is
helpless to prevent it.

When the evening of the last day came we stayed out too long; Seppi and I
were in fault for that; we could not bear to part with Nikolaus; so it
was very late when we left him at his door.  We lingered near awhile,
listening; and that happened which we were fearing.  His father gave him
the promised punishment, and we heard his shrieks.  But we listened only
a moment, then hurried away, remorseful for this thing which we had
caused.  And sorry for the father, too; our thought being, "If he only
knew--if he only knew!"

In the morning Nikolaus did not meet us at the appointed place, so we
went to his home to see what the matter was.  His mother said:

"His father is out of all patience with these goings-on, and will not
have any more of it.  Half the time when Nick is needed he is not to be
found; then it turns out that he has been gadding around with you two.
His father gave him a flogging last night.  It always grieved me before,
and many's the time I have begged him off and saved him, but this time he
appealed to me in vain, for I was out of patience myself."

"I wish you had saved him just this one time," I said, my voice trembling
a little; "it would ease a pain in your heart to remember it some day."

She was ironing at the time, and her back was partly toward me.  She
turned about with a startled or wondering look in her face and said,
"What do you mean by that?"

I was not prepared, and didn't know anything to say; so it was awkward,
for she kept looking at me; but Seppi was alert and spoke up:

"Why, of course it would be pleasant to remember, for the very reason we
were out so late was that Nikolaus got to telling how good you are to
him, and how he never got whipped when you were by to save him; and he
was so full of it, and we were so full of the interest of it, that none
of us noticed how late it was getting."

"Did he say that?  Did he?" and she put her apron to her eyes.

"You can ask Theodor--he will tell you the same."

"It is a dear, good lad, my Nick," she said.  "I am sorry I let him get
whipped; I will never do it again.  To think--all the time I was sitting
here last night, fretting and angry at him, he was loving me and praising
me!  Dear, dear, if we could only know!  Then we shouldn't ever go wrong;
but we are only poor, dumb beasts groping around and making mistakes.  I
shan't ever think of last night without a pang."

She was like all the rest; it seemed as if nobody could open a mouth, in
these wretched days, without saying something that made us shiver.  They
were "groping around," and did not know what true, sorrowfully true
things they were saying by accident.

Seppi asked if Nikolaus might go out with us.

"I am sorry," she answered, "but he can't.  To punish him further, his
father doesn't allow him to go out of the house to-day."

We had a great hope!  I saw it in Seppi's eyes.  We thought, "If he
cannot leave the house, he cannot be drowned."  Seppi asked, to make
sure:

"Must he stay in all day, or only the morning?"

"All day.  It's such a pity, too; it's a beautiful day, and he is so
unused to being shut up.  But he is busy planning his party, and maybe
that is company for him.  I do hope he isn't too lonesome."

Seppi saw that in her eye which emboldened him to ask if we might go up
and help him pass his time.

"And welcome!" she said, right heartily.  "Now I call that real
friendship, when you might be abroad in the fields and the woods, having
a happy time.  You are good boys, I'll allow that, though you don't
always find satisfactory ways of improving it.  Take these cakes--for
yourselves--and give him this one, from his mother."

The first thing we noticed when we entered Nikolaus's room was the time--
a quarter to 10.  Could that be correct?  Only such a few minutes to
live!  I felt a contraction at my heart.  Nikolaus jumped up and gave us
a glad welcome.  He was in good spirits over his plannings for his party
and had not been lonesome.

"Sit down," he said, "and look at what I've been doing.  And I've
finished a kite that you will say is a beauty.  It's drying, in the
kitchen; I'll fetch it."

He had been spending his penny savings in fanciful trifles of various
kinds, to go as prizes in the games, and they were marshaled with fine
and showy effect upon the table.  He said:

"Examine them at your leisure while I get mother to touch up the kite
with her iron if it isn't dry enough yet."

Then he tripped out and went clattering down-stairs, whistling.

We did not look at the things; we couldn't take any interest in anything
but the clock.  We sat staring at it in silence, listening to the
ticking, and every time the minute-hand jumped we nodded recognition--one
minute fewer to cover in the race for life or for death.  Finally Seppi
drew a deep breath and said:

"Two minutes to ten.  Seven minutes more and he will pass the death-
point.  Theodor, he is going to be saved!  He's going to--"

"Hush!  I'm on needles.  Watch the clock and keep still."

Five minutes more.  We were panting with the strain and the excitement.
Another three minutes, and there was a footstep on the stair.

"Saved!" And we jumped up and faced the door.

The old mother entered, bringing the kite.  "Isn't it a beauty?" she
said.  "And, dear me, how he has slaved over it--ever since daylight, I
think, and only finished it awhile before you came."  She stood it
against the wall, and stepped back to take a view of it.  "He drew the
pictures his own self, and I think they are very good.  The church isn't
so very good, I'll have to admit, but look at the bridge--any one can
recognize the bridge in a minute.  He asked me to bring it up....  Dear
me!  it's seven minutes past ten, and I--"

"But where is he?"

"He?  Oh, he'll be here soon; he's gone out a minute."

"Gone out?"

"Yes.  Just as he came down-stairs little Lisa's mother came in and said
the child had wandered off somewhere, and as she was a little uneasy I
told Nikolaus to never mind about his father's orders--go and look her
up....  Why, how white you two do look!  I do believe you are sick.  Sit
down; I'll fetch something.  That cake has disagreed with you.  It is a
little heavy, but I thought--"

She disappeared without finishing her sentence, and we hurried at once to
the back window and looked toward the river.  There was a great crowd at
the other end of the bridge, and people were flying toward that point
from every direction.

"Oh, it is all over--poor Nikolaus!  Why, oh, why did she let him get out
of the house!"

"Come away," said Seppi, half sobbing, "come quick--we can't bear to meet
her; in five minutes she will know."

But we were not to escape.  She came upon us at the foot of the stairs,
with her cordials in her hands, and made us come in and sit down and take
the medicine.  Then she watched the effect, and it did not satisfy her;
so she made us wait longer, and kept upbraiding herself for giving us the
unwholesome cake.

Presently the thing happened which we were dreading.  There was a sound
of tramping and scraping outside, and a crowd came solemnly in, with
heads uncovered, and laid the two drowned bodies on the bed.

"Oh, my God!" that poor mother cried out, and fell on her knees, and put
her arms about her dead boy and began to cover the wet face with kisses.
"Oh, it was I that sent him, and I have been his death.  If I had obeyed,
and kept him in the house, this would not have happened.  And I am
rightly punished; I was cruel to him last night, and him begging me, his
own mother, to be his friend."

And so she went on and on, and all the women cried, and pitied her, and
tried to comfort her, but she could not forgive herself and could not be
comforted, and kept on saying if she had not sent him out he would be
alive and well now, and she was the cause of his death.

It shows how foolish people are when they blame themselves for anything
they have done.  Satan knows, and he said nothing happens that your first
act hasn't arranged to happen and made inevitable; and so, of your own
motion you can't ever alter the scheme or do a thing that will break a
link.  Next we heard screams, and Frau Brandt came wildly plowing and
plunging through the crowd with her dress in disorder and hair flying
loose, and flung herself upon her dead child with moans and kisses and
pleadings and endearments; and by and by she rose up almost exhausted
with her outpourings of passionate emotion, and clenched her fist and
lifted it toward the sky, and her tear-drenched face grew hard and
resentful, and she said:

"For nearly two weeks I have had dreams and presentiments and warnings
that death was going to strike what was most precious to me, and day and
night and night and day I have groveled in the dirt before Him praying
Him to have pity on my innocent child and save it from harm--and here is
His answer!"

Why, He had saved it from harm--but she did not know.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks, and stood awhile gazing
down at the child and caressing its face and its hair with her hands;
then she spoke again in that bitter tone: "But in His hard heart is no
compassion.  I will never pray again."

She gathered her dead child to her bosom and strode away, the crowd
falling back to let her pass, and smitten dumb by the awful words they
had heard.  Ah, that poor woman!  It is as Satan said, we do not know
good fortune from bad, and are always mistaking the one for the other.
Many a time since I have heard people pray to God to spare the life of
sick persons, but I have never done it.

Both funerals took place at the same time in our little church next day.
Everybody was there, including the party guests.  Satan was there, too;
which was proper, for it was on account of his efforts that the funerals
had happened.  Nikolaus had departed this life without absolution, and a
collection was taken up for masses, to get him out of purgatory.  Only
two-thirds of the required money was gathered, and the parents were going
to try to borrow the rest, but Satan furnished it.  He told us privately
that there was no purgatory, but he had contributed in order that
Nikolaus's parents and their friends might be saved from worry and
distress.  We thought it very good of him, but he said money did not cost
him anything.

At the graveyard the body of little Lisa was seized for debt by a
carpenter to whom the mother owed fifty groschen for work done the year
before.  She had never been able to pay this, and was not able now.  The
carpenter took the corpse home and kept it four days in his cellar, the
mother weeping and imploring about his house all the time; then he buried
it in his brother's cattle-yard, without religious ceremonies.  It drove
the mother wild with grief and shame, and she forsook her work and went
daily about the town, cursing the carpenter and blaspheming the laws of
the emperor and the church, and it was pitiful to see.  Seppi asked Satan
to interfere, but he said the carpenter and the rest were members of the
human race and were acting quite neatly for that species of animal.  He
would interfere if he found a horse acting in such a way, and we must
inform him when we came across that kind of horse doing that kind of
human thing, so that he could stop it.  We believed this was sarcasm, for
of course there wasn't any such horse.

But after a few days we found that we could not abide that poor woman's
distress, so we begged Satan to examine her several possible careers, and
see if he could not change her, to her profit, to a new one.  He said the
longest of her careers as they now stood gave her forty-two years to
live, and her shortest one twenty-nine, and that both were charged with
grief and hunger and cold and pain.  The only improvement he could make
would be to enable her to skip a certain three minutes from now; and he
asked us if he should do it.  This was such a short time to decide in
that we went to pieces with nervous excitement, and before we could pull
ourselves together and ask for particulars he said the time would be up
in a few more seconds; so then we gasped out, "Do it!"

"It is done," he said; "she was going around a corner; I have turned her
back; it has changed her career."

"Then what will happen, Satan?"

"It is happening now.  She is having words with Fischer, the weaver.  In
his anger Fischer will straightway do what he would not have done but for
this accident.  He was present when she stood over her child's body and
uttered those blasphemies."

"What will he do?"

"He is doing it now--betraying her.  In three days she will go to the
stake."

We could not speak; we were frozen with horror, for if we had not meddled
with her career she would have been spared this awful fate.  Satan
noticed these thoughts, and said:

"What you are thinking is strictly human-like--that is to say, foolish.
The woman is advantaged.  Die when she might, she would go to heaven.  By
this prompt death she gets twenty-nine years more of heaven than she is
entitled to, and escapes twenty-nine years of misery here."

A moment before we were bitterly making up our minds that we would ask no
more favors of Satan for friends of ours, for he did not seem to know any
way to do a person a kindness but by killing him; but the whole aspect of
the case was changed now, and we were glad of what we had done and full
of happiness in the thought of it.

After a little I began to feel troubled about Fischer, and asked,
timidly, "Does this episode change Fischer's life-scheme, Satan?"

"Change it?  Why, certainly.  And radically.  If he had not met Frau
Brandt awhile ago he would die next year, thirty-four years of age.  Now
he will live to be ninety, and have a pretty prosperous and comfortable
life of it, as human lives go."

We felt a great joy and pride in what we had done for Fischer, and were
expecting Satan to sympathize with this feeling; but he showed no sign
and this made us uneasy.  We waited for him to speak, but he didn't; so,
to assuage our solicitude we had to ask him if there was any defect in
Fischer's good luck.  Satan considered the question a moment, then said,
with some hesitation:

"Well, the fact is, it is a delicate point.  Under his several former
possible life-careers he was going to heaven."

We were aghast.  "Oh, Satan!  and under this one--"

"There, don't be so distressed.  You were sincerely trying to do him a
kindness; let that comfort you."

"Oh, dear, dear, that cannot comfort us.  You ought to have told us what
we were doing, then we wouldn't have acted so."

But it made no impression on him.  He had never felt a pain or a sorrow,
and did not know what they were, in any really informing way.  He had no
knowledge of them except theoretically--that is to say, intellectually.
And of course that is no good.  One can never get any but a loose and
ignorant notion of such things except by experience.  We tried our best
to make him comprehend the awful thing that had been done and how we were
compromised by it, but he couldn't seem to get hold of it.  He said he
did not think it important where Fischer went to; in heaven he would not
be missed, there were "plenty there."  We tried to make him see that he
was missing the point entirely; that Fischer, and not other people, was
the proper one to decide about the importance of it; but it all went for
nothing; he said he did not care for Fischer--there were plenty more
Fischers.

The next minute Fischer went by on the other side of the way, and it made
us sick and faint to see him, remembering the doom that was upon him, and
we the cause of it.  And how unconscious he was that anything had
happened to him!  You could see by his elastic step and his alert manner
that he was well satisfied with himself for doing that hard turn for poor
Frau Brandt.  He kept glancing back over his shoulder expectantly.  And,
sure enough, pretty soon Frau Brandt followed after, in charge of the
officers and wearing jingling chains.  A mob was in her wake, jeering and
shouting, "Blasphemer and heretic!" and some among them were neighbors
and friends of her happier days.  Some were trying to strike her, and the
officers were not taking as much trouble as they might to keep them from
it.

"Oh, stop them, Satan!" It was out before we remembered that he could not
interrupt them for a moment without changing their whole after-lives.  He
puffed a little puff toward them with his lips and they began to reel and
stagger and grab at the empty air; then they broke apart and fled in
every direction, shrieking, as if in intolerable pain.  He had crushed a
rib of each of them with that little puff.  We could not help asking if
their life-chart was changed.

"Yes, entirely.  Some have gained years, some have lost them.  Some few
will profit in various ways by the change, but only that few."

We did not ask if we had brought poor Fischer's luck to any of them.  We
did not wish to know.  We fully believed in Satan's desire to do us
kindnesses, but we were losing confidence in his judgment.  It was at
this time that our growing anxiety to have him look over our life-charts
and suggest improvements began to fade out and give place to other
interests.

For a day or two the whole village was a chattering turmoil over Frau
Brandt's case and over the mysterious calamity that had overtaken the
mob, and at her trial the place was crowded.  She was easily convicted of
her blasphemies, for she uttered those terrible words again and said she
would not take them back.  When warned that she was imperiling her life,
she said they could take it in welcome, she did not want it, she would
rather live with the professional devils in perdition than with these
imitators in the village.  They accused her of breaking all those ribs by
witchcraft, and asked her if she was not a witch?  She answered
scornfully:

"No.  If I had that power would any of you holy hypocrites be alive five
minutes?  No; I would strike you all dead.  Pronounce your sentence and
let me go; I am tired of your society."

So they found her guilty, and she was excommunicated and cut off from the
joys of heaven and doomed to the fires of hell; then she was clothed in a
coarse robe and delivered to the secular arm, and conducted to the
market-place, the bell solemnly tolling the while.  We saw her chained to
the stake, and saw the first film of blue smoke rise on the still air.
Then her hard face softened, and she looked upon the packed crowd in
front of her and said, with gentleness:

"We played together once, in long-agone days when we were innocent little
creatures.  For the sake of that, I forgive you."

We went away then, and did not see the fires consume her, but we heard
the shrieks, although we put our fingers in our ears.  When they ceased
we knew she was in heaven, notwithstanding the excommunication; and we
were glad of her death and not sorry that we had brought it about.

One day, a little while after this, Satan appeared again.  We were always
watching out for him, for life was never very stagnant when he was by.
He came upon us at that place in the woods where we had first met him.
Being boys, we wanted to be entertained; we asked him to do a show for
us.

"Very well," he said; "would you like to see a history of the progress of
the human race?--its development of that product which it calls
civilization?"

We said we should.

So, with a thought, he turned the place into the Garden of Eden, and we
saw Abel praying by his altar; then Cain came walking toward him with his
club, and did not seem to see us, and would have stepped on my foot if I
had not drawn it in.  He spoke to his brother in a language which we did
not understand; then he grew violent and threatening, and we knew what
was going to happen, and turned away our heads for the moment; but we
heard the crash of the blows and heard the shrieks and the groans; then
there was silence, and we saw Abel lying in his blood and gasping out his
life, and Cain standing over him and looking down at him, vengeful and
unrepentant.

Then the vision vanished, and was followed by a long series of unknown
wars, murders, and massacres.  Next we had the Flood, and the Ark tossing
around in the stormy waters, with lofty mountains in the distance showing
veiled and dim through the rain.  Satan said:

"The progress of your race was not satisfactory.  It is to have another
chance now."

The scene changed, and we saw Noah overcome with wine.

Next, we had Sodom and Gomorrah, and "the attempt to discover two or
three respectable persons there," as Satan described it.  Next, Lot and
his daughters in the cave.

Next came the Hebraic wars, and we saw the victors massacre the survivors
and their cattle, and save the young girls alive and distribute them
around.

Next we had Jael; and saw her slip into the tent and drive the nail into
the temple of her sleeping guest; and we were so close that when the
blood gushed out it trickled in a little, red stream to our feet, and we
could have stained our hands in it if we had wanted to.

Next we had Egyptian wars, Greek wars, Roman wars, hideous drenchings of
the earth with blood; and we saw the treacheries of the Romans toward the
Carthaginians, and the sickening spectacle of the massacre of those brave
people.  Also we saw Caesar invade Britain--"not that those barbarians
had done him any harm, but because he wanted their land, and desired to
confer the blessings of civilization upon their widows and orphans," as
Satan explained.

Next, Christianity was born.  Then ages of Europe passed in review before
us, and we saw Christianity and Civilization march hand in hand through
those ages, "leaving famine and death and desolation in their wake, and
other signs of the progress of the human race," as Satan observed.

And always we had wars, and more wars, and still other wars--all over
Europe, all over the world.  "Sometimes in the private interest of royal
families," Satan said, "sometimes to crush a weak nation; but never a war
started by the aggressor for any clean purpose--there is no such war in
the history of the race."

"Now," said Satan, "you have seen your progress down to the present, and
you must confess that it is wonderful--in its way.  We must now exhibit
the future."

He showed us slaughters more terrible in their destruction of life, more
devastating in their engines of war, than any we had seen.

"You perceive," he said, "that you have made continual progress.  Cain
did his murder with a club; the Hebrews did their murders with javelins
and swords; the Greeks and Romans added protective armor and the fine
arts of military organization and generalship; the Christian has added
guns and gunpowder; a few centuries from now he will have so greatly
improved the deadly effectiveness of his weapons of slaughter that all
men will confess that without Christian civilization war must have
remained a poor and trifling thing to the end of time."

Then he began to laugh in the most unfeeling way, and make fun of the
human race, although he knew that what he had been saying shamed us and
wounded us.  No one but an angel could have acted so; but suffering is
nothing to them; they do not know what it is, except by hearsay.

More than once Seppi and I had tried in a humble and diffident way to
convert him, and as he had remained silent we had taken his silence as a
sort of encouragement; necessarily, then, this talk of his was a
disappointment to us, for it showed that we had made no deep impression
upon him.  The thought made us sad, and we knew then how the missionary
must feel when he has been cherishing a glad hope and has seen it
blighted.  We kept our grief to ourselves, knowing that this was not the
time to continue our work.

Satan laughed his unkind laugh to a finish; then he said: "It is a
remarkable progress.  In five or six thousand years five or six high
civilizations have risen, flourished, commanded the wonder of the world,
then faded out and disappeared; and not one of them except the latest
ever invented any sweeping and adequate way to kill people.  They all did
their best--to kill being the chiefest ambition of the human race and the
earliest incident in its history--but only the Christian civilization has
scored a triumph to be proud of.  Two or three centuries from now it will
be recognized that all the competent killers are Christians; then the
pagan world will go to school to the Christian--not to acquire his
religion, but his guns.  The Turk and the Chinaman will buy those to kill
missionaries and converts with."

By this time his theater was at work again, and before our eyes nation
after nation drifted by, during two or three centuries, a mighty
procession, an endless procession, raging, struggling, wallowing through
seas of blood, smothered in battle-smoke through which the flags glinted
and the red jets from the cannon darted; and always we heard the thunder
of the guns and the cries of the dying.

"And what does it amount to?" said Satan, with his evil chuckle.
"Nothing at all.  You gain nothing; you always come out where you went
in.  For a million years the race has gone on monotonously propagating
itself and monotonously reperforming this dull nonsense--to what end?  No
wisdom can guess!  Who gets a profit out of it?  Nobody but a parcel of
usurping little monarchs and nobilities who despise you; would feel
defiled if you touched them; would shut the door in your face if you
proposed to call; whom you slave for, fight for, die for, and are not
ashamed of it, but proud; whose existence is a perpetual insult to you
and you are afraid to resent it; who are mendicants supported by your
alms, yet assume toward you the airs of benefactor toward beggar; who
address you in the language of master to slave, and are answered in the
language of slave to master; who are worshiped by you with your mouth,
while in your heart--if you have one--you despise yourselves for it.  The
first man was a hypocrite and a coward, qualities which have not yet
failed in his line; it is the foundation upon which all civilizations
have been built.  Drink to their perpetuation!  Drink to their
augmentation!  Drink to--" Then he saw by our faces how much we were
hurt, and he cut his sentence short and stopped chuckling, and his manner
changed.  He said, gently: "No, we will drink one another's health, and
let civilization go.  The wine which has flown to our hands out of space
by desire is earthly, and good enough for that other toast; but throw
away the glasses; we will drink this one in wine which has not visited
this world before."

We obeyed, and reached up and received the new cups as they descended.
They were shapely and beautiful goblets, but they were not made of any
material that we were acquainted with.  They seemed to be in motion, they
seemed to be alive; and certainly the colors in them were in motion.
They were very brilliant and sparkling, and of every tint, and they were
never still, but flowed to and fro in rich tides which met and broke and
flashed out dainty explosions of enchanting color.  I think it was most
like opals washing about in waves and flashing out their splendid fires.
But there is nothing to compare the wine with.  We drank it, and felt a
strange and witching ecstasy as of heaven go stealing through us, and
Seppi's eyes filled and he said worshipingly:

"We shall be there some day, and then--"

He glanced furtively at Satan, and I think he hoped Satan would say,
"Yes, you will be there some day," but Satan seemed to be thinking about
something else, and said nothing.  This made me feel ghastly, for I knew
he had heard; nothing, spoken or unspoken, ever escaped him.  Poor Seppi
looked distressed, and did not finish his remark.  The goblets rose and
clove their way into the sky, a triplet of radiant sundogs, and
disappeared.  Why didn't they stay?  It seemed a bad sign, and depressed
me.  Should I ever see mine again?  Would Seppi ever see his?




Chapter 9

It was wonderful, the mastery Satan had over time and distance.  For him
they did not exist.  He called them human inventions, and said they were
artificialities.  We often went to the most distant parts of the globe
with him, and stayed weeks and months, and yet were gone only a fraction
of a second, as a rule.  You could prove it by the clock.  One day when
our people were in such awful distress because the witch commission were
afraid to proceed against the astrologer and Father Peter's household, or
against any, indeed, but the poor and the friendless, they lost patience
and took to witch-hunting on their own score, and began to chase a born
lady who was known to have the habit of curing people by devilish arts,
such as bathing them, washing them, and nourishing them instead of
bleeding them and purging them through the ministrations of a barber-
surgeon in the proper way.  She came flying down, with the howling and
cursing mob after her, and tried to take refuge in houses, but the doors
were shut in her face.  They chased her more than half an hour, we
following to see it, and at last she was exhausted and fell, and they
caught her.  They dragged her to a tree and threw a rope over the limb,
and began to make a noose in it, some holding her, meantime, and she
crying and begging, and her young daughter looking on and weeping, but
afraid to say or do anything.

They hanged the lady, and I threw a stone at her, although in my heart I
was sorry for her; but all were throwing stones and each was watching his
neighbor, and if I had not done as the others did it would have been
noticed and spoken of.  Satan burst out laughing.

All that were near by turned upon him, astonished and not pleased.  It
was an ill time to laugh, for his free and scoffing ways and his
supernatural music had brought him under suspicion all over the town and
turned many privately against him.  The big blacksmith called attention
to him now, raising his voice so that all should hear, and said:

"What are you laughing at?  Answer!  Moreover, please explain to the
company why you threw no stone."

"Are you sure I did not throw a stone?"

"Yes.  You needn't try to get out of it; I had my eye on you."

"And I--I noticed you!" shouted two others.

"Three witnesses," said Satan: "Mueller, the blacksmith; Klein, the
butcher's man; Pfeiffer, the weaver's journeyman.  Three very ordinary
liars.  Are there any more?"

"Never mind whether there are others or not, and never mind about what
you consider us--three's enough to settle your matter for you.  You'll
prove that you threw a stone, or it shall go hard with you."

"That's so!" shouted the crowd, and surged up as closely as they could to
the center of interest.

"And first you will answer that other question," cried the blacksmith,
pleased with himself for being mouthpiece to the public and hero of the
occasion.  "What are you laughing at?"

Satan smiled and answered, pleasantly: "To see three cowards stoning a
dying lady when they were so near death themselves."

You could see the superstitious crowd shrink and catch their breath,
under the sudden shock.  The blacksmith, with a show of bravado, said:

"Pooh!  What do you know about it?"

"I?  Everything.  By profession I am a fortune-teller, and I read the
hands of you three--and some others--when you lifted them to stone the
woman.  One of you will die to-morrow week; another of you will die to-
night; the third has but five minutes to live--and yonder is the clock!"

It made a sensation.  The faces of the crowd blanched, and turned
mechanically toward the clock.  The butcher and the weaver seemed smitten
with an illness, but the blacksmith braced up and said, with spirit:

"It is not long to wait for prediction number one.  If it fails, young
master, you will not live a whole minute after, I promise you that."

No one said anything; all watched the clock in a deep stillness which was
impressive.  When four and a half minutes were gone the blacksmith gave a
sudden gasp and clapped his hands upon his heart, saying, "Give me
breath!  Give me room!" and began to sink down.  The crowd surged back,
no one offering to support him, and he fell lumbering to the ground and
was dead.  The people stared at him, then at Satan, then at one another;
and their lips moved, but no words came.  Then Satan said:

"Three saw that I threw no stone.  Perhaps there are others; let them
speak."

It struck a kind of panic into them, and, although no one answered him,
many began to violently accuse one another, saying, "You said he didn't
throw," and getting for reply, "It is a lie, and I will make you eat it!"
And so in a moment they were in a raging and noisy turmoil, and beating
and banging one another; and in the midst was the only indifferent one--
the dead lady hanging from her rope, her troubles forgotten, her spirit
at peace.

So we walked away, and I was not at ease, but was saying to myself, "He
told them he was laughing at them, but it was a lie--he was laughing at
me."

That made him laugh again, and he said, "Yes, I was laughing at you,
because, in fear of what others might report about you, you stoned the
woman when your heart revolted at the act--but I was laughing at the
others, too."

"Why?"

"Because their case was yours."

"How is that?"

"Well, there were sixty-eight people there, and sixty-two of them had no
more desire to throw a stone than you had."

"Satan!"

"Oh, it's true.  I know your race.  It is made up of sheep.  It is
governed by minorities, seldom or never by majorities.  It suppresses its
feelings and its beliefs and follows the handful that makes the most
noise.  Sometimes the noisy handful is right, sometimes wrong; but no
matter, the crowd follows it.  The vast majority of the race, whether
savage or civilized, are secretly kind-hearted and shrink from inflicting
pain, but in the presence of the aggressive and pitiless minority they
don't dare to assert themselves.  Think of it!  One kind-hearted creature
spies upon another, and sees to it that he loyally helps in iniquities
which revolt both of them.  Speaking as an expert, I know that ninety-
nine out of a hundred of your race were strongly against the killing of
witches when that foolishness was first agitated by a handful of pious
lunatics in the long ago.  And I know that even to-day, after ages of
transmitted prejudice and silly teaching, only one person in twenty puts
any real heart into the harrying of a witch.  And yet apparently
everybody hates witches and wants them killed.  Some day a handful will
rise up on the other side and make the most noise--perhaps even a single
daring man with a big voice and a determined front will do it--and in a
week all the sheep will wheel and follow him, and witch-hunting will come
to a sudden end.

"Monarchies, aristocracies, and religions are all based upon that large
defect in your race--the individual's distrust of his neighbor, and his
desire, for safety's or comfort's sake, to stand well in his neighbor's
eye.  These institutions will always remain, and always flourish, and
always oppress you, affront you, and degrade you, because you will always
be and remain slaves of minorities.  There was never a country where the
majority of the people were in their secret hearts loyal to any of these
institutions."

I did not like to hear our race called sheep, and said I did not think
they were.

"Still, it is true, lamb," said Satan.  "Look at you in war--what mutton
you are, and how ridiculous!"

"In war?  How?"

"There has never been a just one, never an honorable one--on the part of
the instigator of the war.  I can see a million years ahead, and this
rule will never change in so many as half a dozen instances.  The loud
little handful--as usual--will shout for the war.  The pulpit will--
warily and cautiously--object--at first; the great, big, dull bulk of the
nation will rub its sleepy eyes and try to make out why there should be a
war, and will say, earnestly and indignantly, "It is unjust and
dishonorable, and there is no necessity for it."  Then the handful will
shout louder.  A few fair men on the other side will argue and reason
against the war with speech and pen, and at first will have a hearing and
be applauded; but it will not last long; those others will outshout them,
and presently the anti-war audiences will thin out and lose popularity.
Before long you will see this curious thing: the speakers stoned from the
platform, and free speech strangled by hordes of furious men who in their
secret hearts are still at one with those stoned speakers--as earlier--
but do not dare to say so.  And now the whole nation--pulpit and all--
will take up the war-cry, and shout itself hoarse, and mob any honest man
who ventures to open his mouth; and presently such mouths will cease to
open.  Next the statesmen will invent cheap lies, putting the blame upon
the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of those
conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse
to examine any refutations of them; and thus he will by and by convince
himself that the war is just, and will thank God for the better sleep he
enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception."




Chapter 10

Days and days went by now, and no Satan.  It was dull without him.  But
the astrologer, who had returned from his excursion to the moon, went
about the village, braving public opinion, and getting a stone in the
middle of his back now and then when some witch-hater got a safe chance
to throw it and dodge out of sight.  Meantime two influences had been
working well for Marget.  That Satan, who was quite indifferent to her,
had stopped going to her house after a visit or two had hurt her pride,
and she had set herself the task of banishing him from her heart.
Reports of Wilhelm Meidling's dissipation brought to her from time to
time by old Ursula had touched her with remorse, jealousy of Satan being
the cause of it; and so now, these two matters working upon her together,
she was getting a good profit out of the combination--her interest in
Satan was steadily cooling, her interest in Wilhelm as steadily warming.
All that was needed to complete her conversion was that Wilhelm should
brace up and do something that should cause favorable talk and incline
the public toward him again.

The opportunity came now.  Marget sent and asked him to defend her uncle
in the approaching trial, and he was greatly pleased, and stopped
drinking and began his preparations with diligence.  With more diligence
than hope, in fact, for it was not a promising case.  He had many
interviews in his office with Seppi and me, and threshed out our
testimony pretty thoroughly, thinking to find some valuable grains among
the chaff, but the harvest was poor, of course.

If Satan would only come!  That was my constant thought.  He could invent
some way to win the case; for he had said it would be won, so he
necessarily knew how it could be done.  But the days dragged on, and
still he did not come.  Of course I did not doubt that it would be won,
and that Father Peter would be happy for the rest of his life, since
Satan had said so; yet I knew I should be much more comfortable if he
would come and tell us how to manage it.  It was getting high time for
Father Peter to have a saving change toward happiness, for by general
report he was worn out with his imprisonment and the ignominy that was
burdening him, and was like to die of his miseries unless he got relief
soon.

At last the trial came on, and the people gathered from all around to
witness it; among them many strangers from considerable distances.  Yes,
everybody was there except the accused.  He was too feeble in body for
the strain.  But Marget was present, and keeping up her hope and her
spirit the best she could.  The money was present, too.  It was emptied
on the table, and was handled and caressed and examined by such as were
privileged.

The astrologer was put in the witness-box.  He had on his best hat and
robe for the occasion.

QUESTION.  You claim that this money is yours?

ANSWER.  I do.

Q.  How did you come by it?

A.  I found the bag in the road when I was returning from a journey.

Q.  When?

A.  More than two years ago.

Q.  What did you do with it?

A.  I brought it home and hid it in a secret place in my observatory,
intending to find the owner if I could.

Q.  You endeavored to find him?

A.  I made diligent inquiry during several months, but nothing came of
it.

Q.  And then?

A.  I thought it not worth while to look further, and was minded to use
the money in finishing the wing of the foundling-asylum connected with
the priory and nunnery.  So I took it out of its hiding-place and counted
it to see if any of it was missing.  And then--

Q.  Why do you stop?  Proceed.

A.  I am sorry to have to say this, but just as I had finished and was
restoring the bag to its place, I looked up and there stood Father Peter
behind me.

Several murmured, "That looks bad," but others answered, "Ah, but he is
such a liar!"

Q.  That made you uneasy?

A.  No; I thought nothing of it at the time, for Father Peter often came
to me unannounced to ask for a little help in his need.

Marget blushed crimson at hearing her uncle falsely and impudently
charged with begging, especially from one he had always denounced as a
fraud, and was going to speak, but remembered herself in time and held
her peace.

Q.  Proceed.

A.  In the end I was afraid to contribute the money to the foundling-
asylum, but elected to wait yet another year and continue my inquiries.
When I heard of Father Peter's find I was glad, and no suspicion entered
my mind; when I came home a day or two later and discovered that my own
money was gone I still did not suspect until three circumstances
connected with Father Peter's good fortune struck me as being singular
coincidences.

Q.  Pray name them.

A.  Father Peter had found his money in a path--I had found mine in a
road.  Father Peter's find consisted exclusively of gold ducats--mine
also.  Father Peter found eleven hundred and seven ducats--I exactly the
same.

This closed his evidence, and certainly it made a strong impression on
the house; one could see that.

Wilhelm Meidling asked him some questions, then called us boys, and we
told our tale.  It made the people laugh, and we were ashamed.  We were
feeling pretty badly, anyhow, because Wilhelm was hopeless, and showed
it.  He was doing as well as he could, poor young fellow, but nothing was
in his favor, and such sympathy as there was was now plainly not with his
client.  It might be difficult for court and people to believe the
astrologer's story, considering his character, but it was almost
impossible to believe Father Peter's.  We were already feeling badly
enough, but when the astrologer's lawyer said he believed he would not
ask us any questions--for our story was a little delicate and it would be
cruel for him to put any strain upon it--everybody tittered, and it was
almost more than we could bear.  Then he made a sarcastic little speech,
and got so much fun out of our tale, and it seemed so ridiculous and
childish and every way impossible and foolish, that it made everybody
laugh till the tears came; and at last Marget could not keep up her
courage any longer, but broke down and cried, and I was so sorry for her.

Now I noticed something that braced me up.  It was Satan standing
alongside of Wilhelm!  And there was such a contrast!--Satan looked so
confident, had such a spirit in his eyes and face, and Wilhelm looked so
depressed and despondent.  We two were comfortable now, and judged that
he would testify and persuade the bench and the people that black was
white and white black, or any other color he wanted it.  We glanced
around to see what the strangers in the house thought of him, for he was
beautiful, you know--stunning, in fact--but no one was noticing him; so
we knew by that that he was invisible.

The lawyer was saying his last words; and while he was saying them Satan
began to melt into Wilhelm.  He melted into him and disappeared; and then
there was a change, when his spirit began to look out of Wilhelm's eyes.

That lawyer finished quite seriously, and with dignity.  He pointed to
the money, and said:

"The love of it is the root of all evil.  There it lies, the ancient
tempter, newly red with the shame of its latest victory--the dishonor of
a priest of God and his two poor juvenile helpers in crime.  If it could
but speak, let us hope that it would be constrained to confess that of
all its conquests this was the basest and the most pathetic."

He sat down.  Wilhelm rose and said:

"From the testimony of the accuser I gather that he found this money in a
road more than two years ago.  Correct me, sir, if I misunderstood you."

The astrologer said his understanding of it was correct.

"And the money so found was never out of his hands thenceforth up to a
certain definite date--the last day of last year.  Correct me, sir, if I
am wrong."

The astrologer nodded his head.  Wilhelm turned to the bench and said:

"If I prove that this money here was not that money, then it is not his?"

"Certainly not; but this is irregular.  If you had such a witness it was
your duty to give proper notice of it and have him here to--" He broke
off and began to consult with the other judges.  Meantime that other
lawyer got up excited and began to protest against allowing new witnesses
to be brought into the case at this late stage.

The judges decided that his contention was just and must be allowed.

"But this is not a new witness," said Wilhelm.  "It has already been
partly examined.  I speak of the coin."

"The coin?  What can the coin say?"

"It can say it is not the coin that the astrologer once possessed.  It
can say it was not in existence last December.  By its date it can say
this."

And it was so!  There was the greatest excitement in the court while that
lawyer and the judges were reaching for coins and examining them and
exclaiming.  And everybody was full of admiration of Wilhelm's brightness
in happening to think of that neat idea.  At last order was called and
the court said:

"All of the coins but four are of the date of the present year.  The
court tenders its sincere sympathy to the accused, and its deep regret
that he, an innocent man, through an unfortunate mistake, has suffered
the undeserved humiliation of imprisonment and trial.  The case is
dismissed."

So the money could speak, after all, though that lawyer thought it
couldn't.  The court rose, and almost everybody came forward to shake
hands with Marget and congratulate her, and then to shake with Wilhelm
and praise him; and Satan had stepped out of Wilhelm and was standing
around looking on full of interest, and people walking through him every
which way, not knowing he was there.  And Wilhelm could not explain why
he only thought of the date on the coins at the last moment, instead of
earlier; he said it just occurred to him, all of a sudden, like an
inspiration, and he brought it right out without any hesitation, for,
although he didn't examine the coins, he seemed, somehow, to know it was
true.  That was honest of him, and like him; another would have pretended
he had thought of it earlier, and was keeping it back for a surprise.

He had dulled down a little now; not much, but still you could notice
that he hadn't that luminous look in his eyes that he had while Satan was
in him.  He nearly got it back, though, for a moment when Marget came and
praised him and thanked him and couldn't keep him from seeing how proud
she was of him.  The astrologer went off dissatisfied and cursing, and
Solomon Isaacs gathered up the money and carried it away.  It was Father
Peter's for good and all, now.

Satan was gone.  I judged that he had spirited himself away to the jail
to tell the prisoner the news; and in this I was right.  Marget and the
rest of us hurried thither at our best speed, in a great state of
rejoicing.

Well, what Satan had done was this: he had appeared before that poor
prisoner, exclaiming, "The trial is over, and you stand forever disgraced
as a thief--by verdict of the court!"

The shock unseated the old man's reason.  When we arrived, ten minutes
later, he was parading pompously up and down and delivering commands to
this and that and the other constable or jailer, and calling them Grand
Chamberlain, and Prince This and Prince That, and Admiral of the Fleet,
Field Marshal in Command, and all such fustian, and was as happy as a
bird.  He thought he was Emperor!

Marget flung herself on his breast and cried, and indeed everybody was
moved almost to heartbreak.  He recognized Marget, but could not
understand why she should cry.  He patted her on the shoulder and said:

"Don't do it, dear; remember, there are witnesses, and it is not becoming
in the Crown Princess.  Tell me your trouble--it shall be mended; there
is nothing the Emperor cannot do."  Then he looked around and saw old
Ursula with her apron to her eyes.  He was puzzled at that, and said,
"And what is the matter with you?"

Through her sobs she got out words explaining that she was distressed to
see him--"so."  He reflected over that a moment, then muttered, as if to
himself: "A singular old thing, the Dowager Duchess--means well, but is
always snuffling and never able to tell what it is about.  It is because
she doesn't know."  His eyes fell on Wilhelm.  "Prince of India," he
said, "I divine that it is you that the Crown Princess is concerned
about.  Her tears shall be dried; I will no longer stand between you; she
shall share your throne; and between you you shall inherit mine.  There,
little lady, have I done well?  You can smile now--isn't it so?"

He petted Marget and kissed her, and was so contented with himself and
with everybody that he could not do enough for us all, but began to give
away kingdoms and such things right and left, and the least that any of
us got was a principality.  And so at last, being persuaded to go home,
he marched in imposing state; and when the crowds along the way saw how
it gratified him to be hurrahed at, they humored him to the top of his
desire, and he responded with condescending bows and gracious smiles, and
often stretched out a hand and said, "Bless you, my people!"

As pitiful a sight as ever I saw.  And Marget, and old Ursula crying all
the way.

On my road home I came upon Satan, and reproached him with deceiving me
with that lie.  He was not embarrassed, but said, quite simply and
composedly:

"Ah, you mistake; it was the truth.  I said he would be happy the rest of
his days, and he will, for he will always think he is the Emperor, and
his pride in it and his joy in it will endure to the end.  He is now, and
will remain, the one utterly happy person in this empire."

"But the method of it, Satan, the method!  Couldn't you have done it
without depriving him of his reason?"

It was difficult to irritate Satan, but that accomplished it.

"What an ass you are!" he said.  "Are you so unobservant as not to have
found out that sanity and happiness are an impossible combination?  No
sane man can be happy, for to him life is real, and he sees what a
fearful thing it is.  Only the mad can be happy, and not many of those.
The few that imagine themselves kings or gods are happy, the rest are no
happier than the sane.  Of course, no man is entirely in his right mind
at any time, but I have been referring to the extreme cases.  I have
taken from this man that trumpery thing which the race regards as a Mind;
I have replaced his tin life with a silver-gilt fiction; you see the
result--and you criticize!  I said I would make him permanently happy,
and I have done it.  I have made him happy by the only means possible to
his race--and you are not satisfied!" He heaved a discouraged sigh, and
said, "It seems to me that this race is hard to please."

There it was, you see.  He didn't seem to know any way to do a person a
favor except by killing him or making a lunatic out of him.  I
apologized, as well as I could; but privately I did not think much of his
processes--at that time.

Satan was accustomed to say that our race lived a life of continuous and
uninterrupted self-deception.  It duped itself from cradle to grave with
shams and delusions which it mistook for realities, and this made its
entire life a sham.  Of the score of fine qualities which it imagined it
had and was vain of, it really possessed hardly one.  It regarded itself
as gold, and was only brass.  One day when he was in this vein he
mentioned a detail--the sense of humor.  I cheered up then, and took
issue.  I said we possessed it.

"There spoke the race!" he said; "always ready to claim what it hasn't
got, and mistake its ounce of brass filings for a ton of gold-dust.  You
have a mongrel perception of humor, nothing more; a multitude of you
possess that.  This multitude see the comic side of a thousand low-grade
and trivial things--broad incongruities, mainly; grotesqueries,
absurdities, evokers of the horse-laugh.  The ten thousand high-grade
comicalities which exist in the world are sealed from their dull vision.
Will a day come when the race will detect the funniness of these
juvenilities and laugh at them--and by laughing at them destroy them?
For your race, in its poverty, has unquestionably one really effective
weapon--laughter.  Power, money, persuasion, supplication, persecution--
these can lift at a colossal humbug--push it a little--weaken it a
little, century by century; but only laughter can blow it to rags and
atoms at a blast.  Against the assault of laughter nothing can stand.
You are always fussing and fighting with your other weapons.  Do you ever
use that one?  No; you leave it lying rusting.  As a race, do you ever
use it at all?  No; you lack sense and the courage."

We were traveling at the time and stopped at a little city in India and
looked on while a juggler did his tricks before a group of natives.  They
were wonderful, but I knew Satan could beat that game, and I begged him
to show off a little, and he said he would.  He changed himself into a
native in turban and breech-cloth, and very considerately conferred on me
a temporary knowledge of the language.

The juggler exhibited a seed, covered it with earth in a small flower-
pot, then put a rag over the pot; after a minute the rag began to rise;
in ten minutes it had risen a foot; then the rag was removed and a little
tree was exposed, with leaves upon it and ripe fruit.  We ate the fruit,
and it was good.  But Satan said:

"Why do you cover the pot?  Can't you grow the tree in the sunlight?"

"No," said the juggler; "no one can do that."

"You are only an apprentice; you don't know your trade.  Give me the
seed.  I will show you."  He took the seed and said, "What shall I raise
from it?"

"It is a cherry seed; of course you will raise a cherry."

"Oh no; that is a trifle; any novice can do that.  Shall I raise an
orange-tree from it?"

"Oh yes!" and the juggler laughed.

"And shall I make it bear other fruits as well as oranges?"

"If God wills!" and they all laughed.

Satan put the seed in the ground, put a handful of dust on it, and said,
"Rise!"

A tiny stem shot up and began to grow, and grew so fast that in five
minutes it was a great tree, and we were sitting in the shade of it.
There was a murmur of wonder, then all looked up and saw a strange and
pretty sight, for the branches were heavy with fruits of many kinds and
colors--oranges, grapes, bananas, peaches, cherries, apricots, and so on.
Baskets were brought, and the unlading of the tree began; and the people
crowded around Satan and kissed his hand, and praised him, calling him
the prince of jugglers.  The news went about the town, and everybody came
running to see the wonder--and they remembered to bring baskets, too.
But the tree was equal to the occasion; it put out new fruits as fast as
any were removed; baskets were filled by the score and by the hundred,
but always the supply remained undiminished.  At last a foreigner in
white linen and sun-helmet arrived, and exclaimed, angrily:

"Away from here!  Clear out, you dogs; the tree is on my lands and is my
property."

The natives put down their baskets and made humble obeisance.  Satan made
humble obeisance, too, with his fingers to his forehead, in the native
way, and said:

"Please let them have their pleasure for an hour, sir--only that, and no
longer.  Afterward you may forbid them; and you will still have more
fruit than you and the state together can consume in a year."

This made the foreigner very angry, and he cried out, "Who are you, you
vagabond, to tell your betters what they may do and what they mayn't!"
and he struck Satan with his cane and followed this error with a kick.

The fruits rotted on the branches, and the leaves withered and fell.  The
foreigner gazed at the bare limbs with the look of one who is surprised,
and not gratified.  Satan said:

"Take good care of the tree, for its health and yours are bound together.
It will never bear again, but if you tend it well it will live long.
Water its roots once in each hour every night--and do it yourself; it
must not be done by proxy, and to do it in daylight will not answer.  If
you fail only once in any night, the tree will die, and you likewise.  Do
not go home to your own country any more--you would not reach there; make
no business or pleasure engagements which require you to go outside your
gate at night--you cannot afford the risk; do not rent or sell this
place--it would be injudicious."

The foreigner was proud and wouldn't beg, but I thought he looked as if
he would like to.  While he stood gazing at Satan we vanished away and
landed in Ceylon.

I was sorry for that man; sorry Satan hadn't been his customary self and
killed him or made him a lunatic.  It would have been a mercy.  Satan
overheard the thought, and said:

"I would have done it but for his wife, who has not offended me.  She is
coming to him presently from their native land, Portugal.  She is well,
but has not long to live, and has been yearning to see him and persuade
him to go back with her next year.  She will die without knowing he can't
leave that place."

"He won't tell her?"

"He?  He will not trust that secret with any one; he will reflect that it
could be revealed in sleep, in the hearing of some Portuguese guest's
servant some time or other."

"Did none of those natives understand what you said to him?"

"None of them understood, but he will always be afraid that some of them
did.  That fear will be torture to him, for he has been a harsh master to
them.  In his dreams he will imagine them chopping his tree down.  That
will make his days uncomfortable--I have already arranged for his
nights."

It grieved me, though not sharply, to see him take such a malicious
satisfaction in his plans for this foreigner.

"Does he believe what you told him, Satan?"

"He thought he didn't, but our vanishing helped.  The tree, where there
had been no tree before--that helped.  The insane and uncanny variety of
fruits--the sudden withering--all these things are helps.  Let him think
as he may, reason as he may, one thing is certain, he will water the
tree.  But between this and night he will begin his changed career with a
very natural precaution--for him."

"What is that?"

"He will fetch a priest to cast out the tree's devil.  You are such a
humorous race--and don't suspect it."

"Will he tell the priest?"

"No.  He will say a juggler from Bombay created it, and that he wants the
juggler's devil driven out of it, so that it will thrive and be fruitful
again.  The priest's incantations will fail; then the Portuguese will
give up that scheme and get his watering-pot ready."

"But the priest will burn the tree.  I know it; he will not allow it to
remain."

"Yes, and anywhere in Europe he would burn the man, too.  But in India
the people are civilized, and these things will not happen.  The man will
drive the priest away and take care of the tree."

I reflected a little, then said, "Satan, you have given him a hard life,
I think."

"Comparatively.  It must not be mistaken for a holiday."

We flitted from place to place around the world as we had done before,
Satan showing me a hundred wonders, most of them reflecting in some way
the weakness and triviality of our race.  He did this now every few days-
-not out of malice--I am sure of that--it only seemed to amuse and
interest him, just as a naturalist might be amused and interested by a
collection of ants.




Chapter 11

For as much as a year Satan continued these visits, but at last he came
less often, and then for a long time he did not come at all.  This always
made me lonely and melancholy.  I felt that he was losing interest in our
tiny world and might at any time abandon his visits entirely.  When one
day he finally came to me I was overjoyed, but only for a little while.
He had come to say good-by, he told me, and for the last time.  He had
investigations and undertakings in other corners of the universe, he
said, that would keep him busy for a longer period than I could wait for
his return.

"And you are going away, and will not come back any more?"

"Yes," he said.  "We have comraded long together, and it has been
pleasant--pleasant for both; but I must go now, and we shall not see each
other any more."

"In this life, Satan, but in another?  We shall meet in another, surely?"

Then, all tranquilly and soberly, he made the strange answer, "There is
no other."

A subtle influence blew upon my spirit from his, bringing with it a
vague, dim, but blessed and hopeful feeling that the incredible words
might be true--even must be true.

"Have you never suspected this, Theodor?"

"No.  How could I?  But if it can only be true--"

"It is true."

A gust of thankfulness rose in my breast, but a doubt checked it before
it could issue in words, and I said, "But--but--we have seen that future
life--seen it in its actuality, and so--"

"It was a vision--it had no existence."

I could hardly breathe for the great hope that was struggling in me.
"A vision?--a vi--"

"Life itself is only a vision, a dream."

It was electrical.  By God!  I had had that very thought a thousand times
in my musings!

"Nothing exists; all is a dream.  God--man--the world--the sun, the moon,
the wilderness of stars--a dream, all a dream; they have no existence.
Nothing exists save empty space--and you!"

"I!"

"And you are not you--you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a
thought.  I myself have no existence; I am but a dream--your dream,
creature of your imagination.  In a moment you will have realized this,
then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the
nothingness out of which you made me....

"I am perishing already--I am failing--I am passing away.  In a little
while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless
solitudes without friend or comrade forever--for you will remain a
thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable,
indestructible.  But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself
and set you free.  Dream other dreams, and better!

"Strange!  that you should not have suspected years ago--centuries, ages,
eons, ago!--for you have existed, companionless, through all the
eternities.  Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that
your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction!
Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane--like all
dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet
preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy,
yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life,
yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness
unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels
painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and
maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell--mouths
mercy and invented hell--mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied
by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other
people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them
all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the
responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it
where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine
obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him!...

"You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a
dream.  You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly
creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks--in a
word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it.  The dream-marks
are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.

"It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no
universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell.  It is all
a dream--a grotesque and foolish dream.  Nothing exists but you.  And you
are but a thought--a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless
thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"

He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realized, that all he
had said was true.






A FABLE

Once upon a time an artist who had painted a small and very beautiful
picture placed it so that he could see it in the mirror.  He said, "This
doubles the distance and softens it, and it is twice as lovely as it was
before."

The animals out in the woods heard of this through the housecat, who was
greatly admired by them because he was so learned, and so refined and
civilized, and so polite and high-bred, and could tell them so much which
they didn't know before, and were not certain about afterward.  They were
much excited about this new piece of gossip, and they asked questions, so
as to get at a full understanding of it.  They asked what a picture was,
and the cat explained.

"It is a flat thing," he said; "wonderfully flat, marvelously flat,
enchantingly flat and elegant.  And, oh, so beautiful!"

That excited them almost to a frenzy, and they said they would give the
world to see it.  Then the bear asked:

"What is it that makes it so beautiful?"

"It is the looks of it," said the cat.

This filled them with admiration and uncertainty, and they were more
excited than ever.  Then the cow asked:

"What is a mirror?"

"It is a hole in the wall," said the cat.  "You look in it, and there you
see the picture, and it is so dainty and charming and ethereal and
inspiring in its unimaginable beauty that your head turns round and
round, and you almost swoon with ecstasy."

The ass had not said anything as yet; he now began to throw doubts.
He said there had never been anything as beautiful as this before, and
probably wasn't now.  He said that when it took a whole basketful of
sesquipedalian adjectives to whoop up a thing of beauty, it was time for
suspicion.

It was easy to see that these doubts were having an effect upon the
animals, so the cat went off offended.  The subject was dropped for a
couple of days, but in the meantime curiosity was taking a fresh start,
aid there was a revival of interest perceptible.  Then the animals
assailed the ass for spoiling what could possibly have been a pleasure to
them, on a mere suspicion that the picture was not beautiful, without any
evidence that such was the case.  The ass was not, troubled; he was calm,
and said there was one way to find out who was in the right, himself or
the cat: he would go and look in that hole, and come back and tell what
he found there.  The animals felt relieved and grateful, and asked him to
go at once--which he did.

But he did not know where he ought to stand; and so, through error, he
stood between the picture and the mirror.  The result was that the
picture had no chance, and didn't show up.  He returned home and said:

"The cat lied.  There was nothing in that hole but an ass.  There wasn't
a sign of a flat thing visible.  It was a handsome ass, and friendly, but
just an ass, and nothing more."

The elephant asked:

"Did you see it good and clear?  Were you close to it?"

"I saw it good and clear, O Hathi, King of Beasts.  I was so close that I
touched noses with it."

"This is very strange," said the elephant; "the cat was always truthful
before--as far as we could make out.  Let another witness try.  Go,
Baloo, look in the hole, and come and report."

So the bear went.  When he came back, he said:

"Both the cat and the ass have lied; there was nothing in the hole but a
bear."

Great was the surprise and puzzlement of the animals.  Each was now
anxious to make the test himself and get at the straight truth.  The
elephant sent them one at a time.

First, the cow.  She found nothing in the hole but a cow.

The tiger found nothing in it but a tiger.

The lion found nothing in it but a lion.

The leopard found nothing in it but a leopard.

The camel found a camel, and nothing more.

Then Hathi was wroth, and said he would have the truth, if he had to go
and fetch it himself.  When he returned, he abused his whole subjectry
for liars, and was in an unappeasable fury with the moral and mental
blindness of the cat.  He said that anybody but a near-sighted fool could
see that there was nothing in the hole but an elephant.

                            MORAL, BY THE CAT

You can find in a text whatever you bring, if you will stand between it
and the mirror of your imagination.  You may not see your ears, but they
will be there.






HUNTING THE DECEITFUL TURKEY

When I was a boy my uncle and his big boys hunted with the rifle, the
youngest boy Fred and I with a shotgun--a small single-barrelled shotgun
which was properly suited to our size and strength; it was not much
heavier than a broom.  We carried it turn about, half an hour at a time.
I was not able to hit anything with it, but I liked to try.  Fred and I
hunted feathered small game, the others hunted deer, squirrels, wild
turkeys, and such things.  My uncle and the big boys were good shots.
They killed hawks and wild geese and such like on the wing; and they
didn't wound or kill squirrels, they stunned them.  When the dogs treed a
squirrel, the squirrel would scamper aloft and run out on a limb and
flatten himself along it, hoping to make himself invisible in that way--
and not quite succeeding.  You could see his wee little ears sticking up.
You couldn't see his nose, but you knew where it was.  Then the hunter,
despising a "rest" for his rifle, stood up and took offhand aim at the
limb and sent a bullet into it immediately under the squirrel's nose, and
down tumbled the animal, unwounded,  but unconscious; the dogs gave him a
shake and he was dead.  Sometimes when the distance was great and the
wind not accurately allowed for, the bullet would hit the squirrel's
head; the dogs could do as they pleased with that one--the hunter's pride
was hurt, and he wouldn't allow it to go into the gamebag.

In the first faint gray of the dawn the stately wild turkeys would be
stalking around in great flocks, and ready to be sociable and answer
invitations to come and converse with other excursionists of their kind.
The hunter concealed himself and imitated the turkey-call by sucking the
air through the leg-bone of a turkey which had previously answered a call
like that and lived only just long enough to regret it.  There is nothing
that furnishes a perfect turkey-call except that bone.  Another of
Nature's treacheries, you see.  She is full of them; half the time she
doesn't know which she likes best--to betray her chid or protect it.
In the case of the turkey she is badly mixed: she gives it a bone to be
used in getting it into trouble, and she also furnishes it with a trick
for getting itself out of the trouble again.  When a mamma-turkey answers
an invitation and finds she has made a mistake in accepting it, she does
as the mamma-partridge does--remembers a previous engagement--and goes
limping and scrambling away, pretending to be very lame; and at the same
time she is saying to her not-visible children, "Lie low, keep still,
don't expose yourselves; I shall be back as soon as I have beguiled this
shabby swindler out of the country."

When a person is ignorant and confiding, this immoral device can have
tiresome results.  I followed an ostensibly lame turkey over a
considerable part of the United States one morning, because I believed in
her and could not think she would deceive a mere boy, and one who was
trusting her and considering her honest.  I had the single-barrelled
shotgun, but my idea was to catch her alive.  I often got within rushing
distance of her, and then made my rush; but always, just as I made my
final plunge and put my hand down where her back had been, it wasn't
there; it was only two or three inches from there and I brushed the tail-
feathers as I landed on my stomach--a very close call, but still not
quite close enough; that is, not close enough for success, but just close
enough to convince me that I could do it next time.  She always waited
for me, a little piece away, and let on to be resting and greatly
fatigued; which was a lie, but I believed it, for I still thought her
honest long after I ought to have begun to doubt her, suspecting that
this was no way for a high-minded bird to be acting.  I followed, and
followed, and followed, making my periodical rushes, and getting up and
brushing the dust off, and resuming the voyage with patient confidence;
indeed, with a confidence which grew, for I could see by the change of
climate and vegetation that we were getting up into the high latitudes,
and as she always looked a little tireder and a little more discouraged
after each rush, I judged that I was safe to win, in the end, the
competition being purely a matter of staying power and the advantage
lying with me from the start because she was lame.

Along in the afternoon I began to feel fatigued myself.  Neither of us
had had any rest since we first started on the excursion, which was
upwards of ten hours before, though latterly we had paused awhile after
rushes, I letting on to be thinking about something else; but neither of
us sincere, and both of us waiting for the other to call game but in no
real hurry about it, for indeed those little evanescent snatches of rest
were very grateful to the feelings of us both; it would naturally be so,
skirmishing along like that ever since dawn and not a bite in the
meantime; at least for me, though sometimes as she lay on her side
fanning herself with a wing and praying for strength to get out of this
difficulty a grasshopper happened along whose time had come, and that was
well for her, and fortunate, but I had nothing--nothing the whole day.

More than once, after I was very tired, I gave up taking her alive, and
was going to shoot her, but I never did it, although it was my right, for
I did not believe I could hit her; and besides, she always stopped and
posed, when I raised the gun, and this made me suspicious that she knew
about me and my marksmanship, and so I did not care to expose myself to
remarks.

I did not get her, at all.  When she got tired of the game at last, she
rose from almost under my hand and flew aloft with the rush and whir of a
shell and lit on the highest limb of a great tree and sat down and
crossed her legs and smiled down at me, and seemed gratified to see me so
astonished.

I was ashamed, and also lost; and it was while wandering the woods
hunting for myself that I found a deserted log cabin and had one of the
best meals there that in my life-days I have eaten.  The weed-grown
garden was full of ripe tomatoes, and I ate them ravenously, though I had
never liked them before.  Not more than two or three times since have I
tasted anything that was so delicious as those tomatoes.  I surfeited
myself with them, and did not taste another one until I was in middle
life.  I can eat them now, but I do not like the look of them.  I suppose
we have all experienced a surfeit at one time or another.  Once, in
stress of circumstances, I ate part of a barrel of sardines, there being
nothing else at hand, but since then I have always been able to get along
without sardines.






THE McWILLIAMSES AND THE BURGLAR ALARM

The conversation drifted smoothly and pleasantly along from weather to
crops, from crops to literature, from literature to scandal, from scandal
to religion; then took a random jump, and landed on the subject of
burglar alarms.  And now for the first time Mr. McWilliams showed
feeling.  Whenever I perceive this sign on this man's dial, I comprehend
it, and lapse into silence, and give him opportunity to unload his heart.
Said he, with but ill-controlled emotion:

"I do not go one single cent on burglar alarms, Mr. Twain--not a single
cent--and I will tell you why.  When we were finishing our house, we
found we had a little cash left over, on account of the plumber not
knowing it.  I was for enlightening the heathen with it, for I was always
unaccountably down on the heathen somehow; but Mrs. McWilliams said no,
let's have a burglar alarm.  I agreed to this compromise.  I will explain
that whenever I want a thing, and Mrs. McWilliams wants another thing,
and we decide upon the thing that Mrs. McWilliams wants--as we always do
--she calls that a compromise.  Very well: the man came up from New York
and put in the alarm, and charged three hundred and twenty-five dollars
for it, and said we could sleep without uneasiness now.  So we did for
awhile--say a month.  Then one night we smelled smoke, and I was advised
to get up and see what the matter was.  I lit a candle, and started
toward the stairs, and met a burglar coming out of a room with a basket
of tinware, which he had mistaken for solid silver in the dark.  He was
smoking a pipe.  I said, 'My friend, we do not allow smoking in this
room.'  He said he was a stranger, and could not be expected to know the
rules of the house: said he had been in many houses just as good as this
one, and it had never been objected to before.  He added that as far as
his experience went, such rules had never been considered to apply to
burglars, anyway.

"I said: 'Smoke along, then, if it is the custom, though I think that the
conceding of a privilege to a burglar which is denied to a bishop is a
conspicuous sign of the looseness of the times.  But waiving all that,
what business have you to be entering this house in this furtive and
clandestine way, without ringing the burglar alarm?'

"He looked confused and ashamed, and said, with embarrassment: 'I beg a
thousand pardons.  I did not know you had a burglar alarm, else I would
have rung it.  I beg you will not mention it where my parents may hear of
it, for they are old and feeble, and such a seemingly wanton breach of
the hallowed conventionalities of our Christian civilization might all
too rudely sunder the frail bridge which hangs darkling between the pale
and evanescent present and the solemn great deeps of the eternities.  May
I trouble you for a match?'

"I said: 'Your sentiments do you honor, but if you will allow me to say
it, metaphor is not your best hold.  Spare your thigh; this kind light
only on the box, and seldom there, in fact, if my experience may be
trusted.  But to return to business: how did you get in here?'

"'Through a second-story window.'

"It was even so.  I redeemed the tinware at pawnbroker's rates, less cost
of advertising, bade the burglar good-night, closed the window after him,
and retired to headquarters to report.  Next morning we sent for the
burglar-alarm man, and he came up and explained that the reason the alarm
did not 'go off' was that no part of the house but the first floor was
attached to the alarm.  This was simply idiotic; one might as well have
no armor on at all in battle as to have it only on his legs.  The expert
now put the whole second story on the alarm, charged three hundred
dollars for it, and went his way.  By and by, one night, I found a
burglar in the third story, about to start down a ladder with a lot of
miscellaneous property.  My first impulse was to crack his head with a
billiard cue; but my second was to refrain from this attention, because
he was between me and the cue rack.  The second impulse was plainly the
soundest, so I refrained, and proceeded to compromise.  I redeemed the
property at former rates, after deducting ten per cent. for use of
ladder, it being my ladder, and, next day we sent down for the expert
once more, and had the third story attached to the alarm, for three
hundred dollars.

"By this time the 'annunciator' had grown to formidable dimensions.  It
had forty-seven tags on it, marked with the names of the various rooms
and chimneys, and it occupied the space of an ordinary wardrobe.  The
gong was the size of a wash-bowl, and was placed above the head of our
bed.  There was a wire from the house to the coachman's quarters in the
stable, and a noble gong alongside his pillow.

"We should have been comfortable now but for one defect.  Every morning
at five the cook opened the kitchen door, in the way of business, and rip
went that gong!  The first time this happened I thought the last day was
come sure.  I didn't think it in bed--no, but out of it--for the first
effect of that frightful gong is to hurl you across the house, and slam
you against the wall, and then curl you up, and squirm you like a spider
on a stove lid, till somebody shuts the kitchen door.  In solid fact,
there is no clamor that is even remotely comparable to the dire clamor
which that gong makes.  Well, this catastrophe happened every morning
regularly at five o'clock, and lost us three hours sleep; for, mind you,
when that thing wakes you, it doesn't merely wake you in spots; it wakes
you all over, conscience and all, and you are good for eighteen hours of
wide-awakeness subsequently--eighteen hours of the very most
inconceivable wide-awakeness that you ever experienced in your life.
A stranger died on our hands one time, aid we vacated and left him in our
room overnight.  Did that stranger wait for the general judgment?  No,
sir; he got up at five the next morning in the most prompt and
unostentatious way.  I knew he would; I knew it mighty well.  He
collected his life-insurance, and lived happy ever after, for there was
plenty of proof as to the perfect squareness of his death.

"Well, we were gradually fading toward a better land, on account of the
daily loss of sleep; so we finally had the expert up again, and he ran a
wire to the outside of the door, and placed a switch there, whereby
Thomas, the butler, always made one little mistake--he switched the alarm
off at night when he went to bed, and switched it on again at daybreak in
the morning, just in time for the cook to open the kitchen door, and
enable that gong to slam us across the house, sometimes breaking a window
with one or the other of us.  At the end of a week we recognized that
this switch business was a delusion and a snare.  We also discovered that
a band of burglars had been lodging in the house the whole time--not
exactly to steal, for there wasn't much left now, but to hide from the
police, for they were hot pressed, and they shrewdly judged that the
detectives would never think of a tribe of burglars taking sanctuary in a
house notoriously protected by the most imposing and elaborate burglar
alarm in America.

"Sent down for the expert again, and this time he struck a most dazzling
idea--he fixed the thing so that opening the kitchen door would take off
the alarm.  It was a noble idea, and he charged accordingly.  But you
already foresee the result.  I switched on the alarm every night at bed-
time, no longer trusting on Thomas's frail memory; and as soon as the
lights were out the burglars walked in at the kitchen door, thus taking
the alarm off without waiting for the cook to do it in the morning.  You
see how aggravatingly we were situated.  For months we couldn't have any
company.  Not a spare bed in the house; all occupied by burglars.

"Finally, I got up a cure of my own.  The expert answered the call, and
ran another ground wire to the stable, and established a switch there, so
that the coachman could put on and take off the alarm.  That worked first
rate, and a season of peace ensued, during which we got to inviting
company once more and enjoying life.

"But by and by the irrepressible alarm invented a new kink.  One winter's
night we were flung out of bed by the sudden music of that awful gong,
and when we hobbled to the annunciator, turned up the gas, and saw the
word 'Nursery' exposed, Mrs. McWilliams fainted dead away, and I came
precious near doing the same thing myself.  I seized my shotgun, and
stood timing the coachman whilst that appalling buzzing went on.  I knew
that his gong had flung him out, too, and that he would be along with his
gun as soon as he could jump into his clothes.  When I judged that the
time was ripe, I crept to the room next the nursery, glanced through the
window, and saw the dim outline of the coachman in the yard below,
standing at present-arms and waiting for a chance.  Then I hopped into
the nursery and fired, and in the same instant the coachman fired at the
red flash of my gun.  Both of us were successful; I crippled a nurse, and
he shot off all my back hair.  We turned up the gas, and telephoned for a
surgeon.  There was not a sign of a burglar, and no window had been
raised.  One glass was absent, but that was where the coachman's charge
had come through.  Here was a fine mystery--a burglar alarm 'going off'
at midnight of its own accord, and not a burglar in the neighborhood!

"The expert answered the usual call, and explained that it was a 'False
alarm.' Said it was easily fixed.  So he overhauled the nursery window,
charged a remunerative figure for it, and departed.

"What we suffered from false alarms for the next three years no
stylographic pen can describe.  During the next three months I always
flew with my gun to the room indicated, and the coachman always sallied
forth with his battery to support me.  But there was never anything to
shoot at--windows all tight and secure.  We always sent down for the
expert next day, and he fixed those particular windows so they would keep
quiet a week or so, and always remembered to send us a bill about like
this:

          Wire ............................$2.15
          Nipple...........................  .75
          Two hours' labor ................ 1.50
          Wax..............................  .47
          Tape.............................  .34
          Screws...........................  .15
          Recharging battery ..............  .98
          Three hours' labor .............. 2.25
          String...........................  .02
          Lard ............................  .66
          Pond's Extract .................. 1.25
          Springs at 50.................... 2.00
          Railroad fares................... 7.25


"At length a perfectly natural thing came about--after we had answered
three or four hundred false alarms--to wit, we stopped answering them.
Yes, I simply rose up calmly, when slammed across the house by the alarm,
calmly inspected the annunciator, took note of the room indicated; and
then calmly disconnected that room from the alarm, and went back to bed
as if nothing had happened.  Moreover, I left that room off permanently,
and did not send for the expert.  Well, it goes without saying that in
the course of time all the rooms were taken off, and the entire machine
was out of service.

"It was at this unprotected time that the heaviest calamity of all
happened.  The burglars walked in one night and carried off the burglar
alarm! yes, sir, every hide and hair of it: ripped it out, tooth and
nail; springs, bells, gongs, battery, and all; they took a hundred and
fifty miles of copper wire; they just cleaned her out, bag and baggage,
and never left us a vestige of her to swear at--swear by, I mean.

"We had a time of it to get her back; but we accomplished it finally, for
money.  The alarm firm said that what we needed now was to have her put
in right--with their new patent springs in the windows to make false
alarms impossible, and their new patent clock attached to take off and
put on the alarm morning and night without human assistance.  That seemed
a good scheme.  They promised to have the whole thing finished in ten
days.  They began work, and we left for the summer.  They worked a couple
of days; then they left for the summer.  After which the burglars moved
in, and began their summer vacation.  When we returned in the fall, the
house was as empty as a beer closet in premises where painters have been
at work.  We refurnished, and then sent down to hurry up the expert.  He
came up and finished the job, and said: 'Now this clock is set to put on
the alarm every night at 10, and take it off every morning at 5:45.  All
you've got to do is to wind her up every week, and then leave her alone--
she will take care of the alarm herself.'

"After that we had a most tranquil season during three months.  The bill
was prodigious, of course, and I had said I would not pay it until the
new machinery had proved itself to be flawless.  The time stipulated was
three months.  So I paid the bill, and the very next day the alarm went
to buzzing like ten thousand bee swarms at ten o'clock in the morning.
I turned the hands around twelve hours, according to instructions, and
this took off the alarm; but there was another hitch at night, and I had
to set her ahead twelve hours once more to get her to put the alarm on
again.  That sort of nonsense went on a week or two, then the expert came
up and put in a new clock.  He came up every three months during the next
three years, and put in a new clock.  But it was always a failure.  His
clocks all had the same perverse defect: they would put the alarm on in
the daytime, and they would not put it on at night; and if you forced it
on yourself, they would take it off again the minute your back was
turned.

"Now there is the history of that burglar alarm--everything just as it
happened; nothing extenuated, and naught set down in malice.  Yes, sir,--
and when I had slept nine years with burglars, and maintained an
expensive burglar alarm the whole time, for their protection, not mine,
and at my sole cost--for not a d---d cent could I ever get THEM to
contribute--I just said to Mrs.  McWilliams that I had had enough of that
kind of pie; so with her full consent I took the whole thing out and
traded it off for a dog, and shot the dog.  I don't know what you think
about it, Mr.  Twain; but I think those things are made solely in the
interest of the burglars.  Yes, sir, a burglar alarm combines in its
person all that is objectionable about a fire, a riot, and a harem, and
at the same time had none of the compensating advantages, of one sort or
another, that customarily belong with that combination.  Good-by: I get
off here."




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Mysterious Stranger
by Mark Twain






A DOUBLE BARRELLED DETECTIVE

by Mark Twain




PART I

          "We ought never to do wrong when people are looking."


I

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the time, 1880.  There
has been a wedding, between a handsome young man of slender means and a
rich young girl--a case of love at first sight and a precipitate
marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years old, is of an old but
unconsidered family which had by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and
for King James's purse's profit, so everybody said--some maliciously the
rest merely because they believed it.  The bride is nineteen and
beautiful.  She is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably proud of
her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her love for her young husband.
For its sake she braved her father's displeasure, endured his reproaches,
listened with loyalty unshaken to his warning predictions and went from
his house without his blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had made its home in
her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad surprise for her.  Her
husband put aside her proffered caresses, and said:

"Sit down.  I have something to say to you.  I loved you.  That was
before I asked your father to give you to me.  His refusal is not my
grievance--I could have endured that.  But the things he said of me to
you--that is a different matter.  There--you needn't speak; I know quite
well what they were; I got them from authentic sources.  Among other
things he said that my character was written in my face; that I was
treacherous, a dissembler, a coward, and a brute without sense of pity or
compassion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it--and 'white-sleeve
badge.'  Any other man in my place would have gone to his house and shot
him down like a dog.  I wanted to do it, and was minded to do it, but a
better thought came to me: to put him to shame; to break his heart; to
kill him by inches.  How to do it?  Through my treatment of you, his
idol!  I would marry you; and then--Have patience.  You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the young wife suffered all
the humiliations, all the insults, all the miseries that the diligent and
inventive mind of the husband could contrive, save physical injuries
only.  Her strong pride stood by her, and she kept the secret of her
troubles.  Now and then the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?"  Then he invented new tortures, applied them, and
asked again.  She always answered, "He shall never know by my mouth," and
taunted him with his origin; said she was the lawful slave of a scion of
slaves, and must obey, and would--up to that point, but no further; he
could kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it was not in the
Sedgemoor breed to do it.  At the end of the three months he said, with a
dark significance in his manner, "I have tried all things but one"--and
waited for her reply.  "Try that," she said, and curled her lip in
mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his clothes, then said to her:

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed--as always, without a word.  He led her half a mile from the
house, and proceeded to lash her to a tree by the side of the public
road; and succeeded, she screaming and struggling.  He gagged her then,
struck her across the face with his cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on
her.  They tore the clothes off her, and she was naked.  He called the
dogs off, and said:

"You will be found--by the passing public.  They will be dropping along
about three hours from now, and will spread the news--do you hear?  Good-
by.  You have seen the last of me."

He went away then.  She moaned to herself:

"I shall bear a child--to him!  God grant it may be a boy!"


The farmers released her by and by--and spread the news, which was
natural.  They raised the country with lynching intentions, but the bird
had flown.  The young wife shut herself up in her father's house; he shut
himself up with her, and thenceforth would see no one.  His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by day, and even his
daughter rejoiced when death relieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.




II

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest house near a secluded New
England village, with no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaintanceships, and had none.
The butcher, the baker, and the others that served her could tell the
villagers nothing about her further than that her name was Stillman, and
that she called the child Archy.  Whence she came they had not been able
to find out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.  The child had
no playmates and no comrade, and no teacher but the mother.  She taught
him diligently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the results--
even a little proud of them.  One day Archy said:

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not.  Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and asked me if the postman had
been by and I said yes, and she said how long since I saw him and I said
I hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know he'd been by, then,
and I said because I smelt his track on the sidewalk, and she said I was
a dum fool and made a mouth at me.  What did she do that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to herself, "It's a birth mark!
The gift of the bloodhound is in him."  She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God has appointed the way!"
Her eyes were burning with a fierce light, and her breath came short and
quick with excitement.  She said to herself: "The puzzle is solved now;
many a time it has been a mystery to me, the impossible things the child
has done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said:

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her dressing-table several small
articles and put them out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the
bed; a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small ivory paper-knife
under the wardrobe.  Then she returned, and said:

"There!  I have left some things which I ought to have brought down."
She named them, and said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon back again with the
things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the bookcase, taken several books
from the bottom shelf, opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting
its number in her memory, then restored them to their places.  Now she
said:

"I have been doing something while you have been gone, Archy.  Do you
think you can find out what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the books that had been touched,
and opened them at the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear.  I have found out that in one way
you are quite different from other people.  You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the talents of a bloodhound.
They are good and valuable things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret.  If people found it out, they would speak of you as an odd child,
a strange child, and children would be disagreeable to you, and give you
nicknames.  In this world one must be like everybody else if he doesn't
want to provoke scorn or envy or jealousy.  It is a great and fine
distinction which has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will keep
it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was busy with excited
thinkings; with plans, projects, schemes, each and all of them uncanny,
grim, and dark.  Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell light of
their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.  She was in a fever of
unrest; she could not sit, stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her
but in movement.  She tested her boy's gift in twenty ways, and kept
saying to herself all the time, with her mind in the past: "He broke my
father's heart, and night and day all these years I have tried, and all
in vain, to think out a way to break his.  I have found it now--I have
found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed her.  She went on
with her tests; with a candle she traversed the house from garret to
cellar, hiding pins, needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the bin; then sent the
little fellow in the dark to find them; which he did, and was happy and
proud when she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new complexion for her.  She said,
"The future is secure--I can wait, and enjoy the waiting."  The most of
her lost interests revived.  She took up music again, and languages,
drawing, painting, and the other long-discarded delights of her
maidenhood.  She was happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the development of her boy, and was
contented with it.  Not altogether, but nearly that.  The soft side of
his heart was larger than the other side of it.  It was his only defect,
in her eyes.  But she considered that his love for her and worship of her
made up for it.  He was a good hater--that was well; but it was a
question if the materials of his hatreds were of as tough and enduring a
quality as those of his friendships--and that was not so well.


The years drifted on.  Archy was become a handsome, shapely, athletic
youth, courteous, dignified, companionable, pleasant in his ways, and
looking perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.  One
evening his mother said she had something of grave importance to say to
him, adding that he was old enough to hear it now, and old enough and
possessed of character enough and stability enough to carry out a stern
plan which she had been for years contriving and maturing.  Then she told
him her bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness.  For a while the
boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand.  We are Southerners; and by our custom and nature there is
but one atonement.  I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him?  No!  Death is release, emancipation; death is a favor.  Do I
owe him favors?  You must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is my law and my pleasure.
Tell me what to do and I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and she said:

"You will go and find him.  I have known his hiding-place for eleven
years; it cost me five years and more of inquiry, and much money, to
locate it.  He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.  He lives
in Denver.  His name is Jacob Fuller.  There--it is the first time I have
spoken it since that unforgettable night.  Think!  That name could have
been yours if I had not saved you that shame and furnished you a cleaner
one.  You will drive him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and again, persistently,
relentlessly, poisoning his life, filling it with mysterious terrors,
loading it with weariness and misery, making him wish for death, and that
he had a suicide's courage; you will make of him another Wandering Jew;
he shall know no rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep; you
shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him, till you break his heart,
as he broke my father's and mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child.  The preparations are all made; everything is
ready.  Here is a letter of credit; spend freely, there is no lack of
money.  At times you may need disguises.  I have provided them; also some
other conveniences."  She took from the drawer of the typewriter-table
several squares of paper.  They all bore these typewritten words:

                           $10,000 REWARD

It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern state
is sojourning here.  In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife
to a tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a
cowhide, and made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her
naked.  He left her there, and fled the country.  A blood-relative
of hers has searched for him for seventeen years.  Address .  .  .
.  .  .  .  .  .  , .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  , Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted yourself with his scent, you will
go in the night and placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some other prominent place.
It will be the talk of the region.  At first you must give him several
days in which to force a sale of his belongings at something approaching
their value.  We will ruin him by and by, but gradually; we must not
impoverish him at once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms from the drawer--
duplicates--and read one:

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  , .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  , 18.
                                                          .  .  .
To Jacob Fuller:

You have .  .  .  .  .  .  days in which to settle your affairs.
You will not be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at .
.  .  .  .  .  M., on the .  .  .  .  .  .  of .  .  .  .  .  .  .
You must then MOVE ON.  If you are still in the place after the
named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls, detailing your
crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of it, with all
names concerned, including your own.  Have no fear of bodily injury
--it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.  You
brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart.  What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature.  He must receive this before he learns of the
reward placard--before he rises in the morning--lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."

"You will need to use these forms only in the beginning--once may he
enough.  Afterward, when you are ready for him to vanish out of a place,
see that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:

              "MOVE ON.  You have .  .  .  .  .  .  days."

"He will obey.  That is sure."




III

Extracts from letters to the mother:

                                              DENVER, April 3, 1897
I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob Fuller.
I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions of infantry and
find him.  I have often been near him and heard him talk.  He owns a good
mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is not rich.  He learned
mining in a good way--by working at it for wages.  He is a cheerful
creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly upon him; he could pass
for a younger man--say thirty-six or thirty-seven.  He has never married
again--passes himself off for a widower.  He stands well, is liked, is
popular, and has many friends.  Even I feel a drawing toward him--the
paternal blood in me making its claim.  How blind and unreasoning and
arbitrary are some of the laws of nature--the most of them, in fact!  My
task is become hard now--you realize it?  you comprehend, and make
allowances?--and the fire of it has cooled, more than I like to confess
to myself, But I will carry it out.  Even with the pleasure paled, the
duty remains, and I will not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that he
who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not suffered by
it.  The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character, and in the
change he is happy.  He, the guilty party, is absolved from all
suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it.  But be comforted--
he shall harvest his share.


                                                  SILVER GULCH, May 19
I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I slipped
Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave Denver at or
before 11.50 the night of the 14th.

Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that.  In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"--that is, he got a
valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it.  And so his
paper--the principal one in the town--had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to our
reward on the paper's account!  The journals out here know how to do the
noble thing--when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat--selected because it afforded a
view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the talk
that went on at his table.  Seventy-five or a hundred people were in the
room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the seeker
would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence from the
town--with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave--folded up--in one hand,
and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half a pang to
see him.  His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old and pinched
and ashy.  And then--only think of the things he had to listen to!
Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him with epithets
and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and phrase-books
of Satan's own authorized editions down below.  And more than that, he
had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.  His applause tasted
bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise that from me; and it
was observable that his appetite was gone; he only nibbled; he couldn't
eat.  Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel.  I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared!  He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico, and
wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give the
property his personal attention.  He played his cards well; said he would
take $40,000--a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that as he
greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would diminish
his terms for cash in full, He sold out for $30,000.  And then, what do
you think he did?  He asked for greenbacks, and took them, saying the man
in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head full of crotchets, and
preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts.  People thought it queer, since a
draft on New York could produce greenbacks quite conveniently.  There was
talk of this odd thing, but only for a day; that is as long as any topic
lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time.  As soon as the sale was completed and the
money paid--which was on the 11th--I began to stick to Fuller's track
without dropping it for a moment.  That night--no, 12th, for it was a
little past midnight--I tracked him to his room, which was four doors
from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my muddy day-
laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down in my room in the
gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it, and my door ajar.  For
I suspected that the bird would take wing now.  In half an hour an old
woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the familiar whiff, and
followed with my grip, for it was Fuller.  He left the hotel by a side
entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfrequented street and
walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy darkness, and got into a
two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for him by appointment.  I
took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform behind, and we drove
briskly off.  We drove ten miles, and the hack stopped at a way-station
and was discharged.  Fuller got out and took a seat on a barrow under the
awning, as far as he could get from the light; I went inside, and watched
the ticket-office.  Fuller bought no ticket; I bought none.  Presently
the train came along, and he boarded a car; I entered the same car at the
other end, and came down the aisle and took the seat behind him.  When he
paid the conductor and named his objective point, I dropped back several
seats, while the conductor was changing a bill, and when he came to me I
paid to the same place--about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance.  He traveled here and
there and yonder--always on a general westward trend--but he was not a
woman after the first day.  He was a laborer, like myself, and wore bushy
false whiskers.  His outfit was perfect, and he could do the character
without thinking about it, for he had served the trade for wages.  His
nearest friend could not have recognized him.  At last he located himself
here, the obscurest little mountain camp in Montana; he has a shanty, and
goes out prospecting daily; is gone all day, and avoids society.  I am
living at a miner's boardinghouse, and it is an awful place: the bunks,
the food, the dirt--everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but once;
but every night I go over his track and post myself.  As soon as he
engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and telegraphed
that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.  I need
nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that with me.


                                                 SILVER GULCH, June 12
The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think.  I know the
most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least in
my hearing.  Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.  He
has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in the
mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.  Ah,
but the change in him!  He never smiles, and he keeps quite to himself,
consorting with no one--he who was so fond of company and so cheery only
two months ago.  I have seen him passing along several times recently--
drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his step, a pathetic figure.  He
calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him.  Since you insist, I
will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhappier than he
already is.  I will go hack to Denver and treat myself to a little season
of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily decency; then
I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson to move on.


                                                       DENVER, June 19
They miss him here.  They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and they
do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts.  You know
you can always tell.  I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.  But if
you were in my place you would have charity for me.  Yes, I know what you
will say, and you are right: if I were in your place, and carried your
scalding memories in my heart--

I will take the night train back to-morrow.


                                                   DENVER, June 20
God forgive us, mother, me are hunting the wrong man!  I have not slept
any all night.  I am now awaiting, at dawn, for the morning train--and
how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one.  How stupid we have been
not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his own name
after that fiendish deed!  The Denver Fuller is four years younger than
the other one; he came here a young widower in '79, aged twenty-one--a
year before you were married; and the documents to prove it are
innumerable.  Last night I talked with familiar friends of his who have
known him from the day of his arrival.  I said nothing, but a few days
from now I will land him in this town again, with the loss upon his mine
made good; and there will be a banquet, and a torch-light procession, and
there will not be any expense on anybody but me.  Do you call this
"gush"?  I am only a boy, as you well know; it is my privilege.  By and
by I shall not be a boy any more.


                                                  SILVER GULCH, July 3
Mother, he is gone!  Gone, and left no trace.  The scent was cold when I
came.  To-day I am out of bed for the first time since.  I wish I were
not a boy; then I could stand shocks better.  They all think he went
west.  I start to-night, in a wagon--two or three hours of that, then I
get a train.  I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to try to keep
still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.  This
means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him.  Indeed it
is what I expect.  Do you see, mother?  It is I that am the Wandering
Jew.  The irony of it!  We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties!  And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him.  But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled.  "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter."  Do you see?  He would think it a trap.
Well, any one would.  If I should say, "It is now known that he was not
the man wanted, but another man--a man who once bore the same name, but
discarded it for good reasons"--would that answer?  But the Denver people
would wake up then and say "Oho!" and they would remember about the
suspicious greenbacks, and say, "Why did he run away if he wasn't the
right man?--it is too thin."  If I failed to find him he would be ruined
there--there where there is no taint upon him now.  You have a better
head than mine.  Help me.

I have one clue, and only one.  I know his handwriting.  If he puts his
new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too much,
it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


                                          SAN FRANCISCO, June 28, 1898
You already know how well I have searched the states from Colorado to the
Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once.  Well, I have had
another close miss.  It was here, yesterday.  I struck his trail, hot, on
the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel.  That was a costly
mistake; a dog would have gone the other way.  But I am only part dog,
and can get very humanly stupid when excited.  He had been stopping in
that house ten days; I almost know, now, that he stops long nowhere, the
past six or eight months, but is restless and has to keep moving.  I
understand that feeling!  and I know what it is to feel it.  He still
uses the name he had registered when I came so near catching him nine
months ago--"James Walker"; doubtless the same he adopted when he fled
from Silver Gulch.  An unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy
names.  I recognized the hand easily, through its slight disguise.  A
square man, and not good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't say
where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his address;
had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot--a "stingy old
person, and not much loss to the house."  "Old!" I suppose he is, now I
hardly heard; I was there but a moment.  I rushed along his trail, and it
led me to a wharf.  Mother, the smoke of the steamer he had taken was
just fading out on the horizon!  I should have saved half on hour if I
had gone in the right direction at first.  I could have taken a fast tug,
and should have stood a chance of catching that vessel.  She is bound for
Melbourne.


                              HOPE CANYON, CALIFORNIA, October 3, 1900
You have a right to complain.  "A letter a year" is a paucity; I freely
acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to write
about but failures?  No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart,

I told you--it seems ages ago, now--how I missed him at Melbourne, and
then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in Bombay;
traced him all around--to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow, Lahore, Cawnpore,
Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras--oh, everywhere; week after week, month after
month, through the dust and swelter--always approximately on his track,
sometimes close upon him, get never catching him.  And down to Ceylon,
and then to--Never mind; by and by I will write it all out.

I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back again to
California.  Since then I have been hunting him about the state from the
first of last January down to a month ago.  I feel almost sure he is not
far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty miles from here, but
there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now--modified by searchings for the lost trail.  I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming
uncomfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles.  I have
been here a month.  I am cabining with a young fellow named "Sammy"
Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother--like me--and
loves her dearly, and writes to her every week--part of which is like me.
He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect--well, he cannot be
depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he is well liked; he
is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and luxury to sit and
talk with him and have a comradeship again.  I wish "James Walker" could
have it.  He had friends; he liked company.  That brings up that picture
of him, the time that I saw him last.  The pathos of it!  It comes before
me often and often.  At that very time, poor thing, I was girding up my
conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the
community, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp--Flint Buckner--and the only man Flint ever talks with or allows to
talk with him.  He says he knows Flint's history, and that it is trouble
that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as charitable toward
him as one can.  Now none but a pretty large heart could find space to
accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear about him
outside.  I think that this one detail will give you a better idea of
Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could furnish you of
him.  In one of our talks he said something about like this: "Flint is a
kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to me--empties his
breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.  There couldn't be
any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life had been made up of misery of
mind--he isn't near as old as he looks.  He has lost the feel of
reposefulness and peace--oh, years and years ago!  He doesn't know what
good luck is--never has had any; often says he wishes he was in the other
hell, he is so tired of this one."




IV
           "No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the
            presence of ladies."

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.  The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the wingless
wild things that have their homes in the tree-tops and would visit
together; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the
woodland; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in he empty sky a solitary oesophagus
slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God.

October is the time--1900; Hope Canyon is the place, a silver-mining camp
away down in the Esmeralda region.  It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its occupants to be rich in
metal--a year or two's prospecting will decide that matter one way or the
other.  For inhabitants, the camp has about two hundred miners, one white
woman and child, several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a dozen
vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes, battered plug hats, and tin-
can necklaces.  There are no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper.  The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big strike; the world is
ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise wall-like, three thousand
feet, and the long spiral of straggling huts down in its narrow bottom
gets a kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails over at noon.
The village is a couple of miles long; the cabins stand well apart from
each other.  The tavern is the only "frame" house--the only house, one
might say.  It occupies a central position, and is the evening resort of
the population.  They drink there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also
billiards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn places
repaired with court-plaster; there are some cues, but no leathers; some
chipped balls which clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a cube of chalk, with
a projecting jag of flint in it; and the man who can score six on a
single break can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the village, going south; his
silver-claim was at the other end of the village, northward, and a little
beyond the last hut in that direction.  He was a sour creature,
unsociable, and had no companionships.  People who had tried to get
acquainted with him had regretted it and dropped him.  His history was
not known.  Some believed that Sammy Hillyer knew it; others said no.
If asked, Hillyer said no, he was not acquainted with it.  Flint had a
meek English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him, whom he treated
roughly, both in public and in private; and of course this lad was
applied to for information, but with no success.  Fetlock Jones--name of
the youth--said that Flint picked him up on a prospecting tramp, and as
he had neither home nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay
and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the salary, which was bacon
and beans.  Further than this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now, and under his meek
exterior he was slowly consuming to a cinder with the insults and
humiliations which his master had put upon him.  For the meek suffer
bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, perhaps, than do the manlier
sort, who can burst out and get relief with words or blows when the limit
of endurance has been reached.  Good-hearted people wanted to help
Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried to get him to leave Buckner; but
the boy showed fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't."  Pat Riley
urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with me; don't you be afraid.  I'll
take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but shuddered and said he
"dasn't risk it"; he said Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then--"Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.  Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake you; skip out for the coast
some night."  But all these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this.  The boy's miseries went steadily
on, week after week.  It is quite likely that the people would have
understood if they had known how he was employing his spare time.  He
slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and there, nights, he nursed his
bruises and his humiliations, and studied and studied over a single
problem--how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be found out.  It was
the only joy he had in life; these hours were the only ones in the
twenty-four which he looked forward to with eagerness and spent in
happiness.

He thought of poison.  No--that would not serve; the inquest would reveal
where it was procured and who had procured it.  He thought of a shot in
the back in a lonely place when Flint would be homeward bound at
midnight--his unvarying hour for the trip.  No--somebody might be near,
and catch him.  He thought of stabbing him in his sleep.  No--he might
strike an inefficient blow, and Flint would seize him.  He examined a
hundred different ways--none of them would answer; for in even the very
obscurest and secretest of them there was always the fatal defect of a
risk, a chance, a possibility that he might be found out.  He would have
none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient.  There was no hurry, he said to
himself.  He would never leave Flint till he left him a corpse; there was
no hurry--he would find the way.  It was somewhere, and he would endure
shame and pain and misery until he found it.  Yes, somewhere there was a
way which would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clue to the
murderer--there was no hurry--he would find that way, and then--oh, then,
it would just be good to be alive!  Meantime he would diligently keep up
his reputation for meekness; and also, as always theretofore, he would
allow no one to hear him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October morning Flint had bought
some things, and he and Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner; a tin can of
blasting-powder, which they placed upon the candle-box; a keg of
blasting-powder, which they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of
fuse, which they hung on a peg.  Fetlock reasoned that Flint's mining
operations had outgrown the pick, and that blasting was about to begin
now.  He had seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the process, but
he had never helped in it.  His conjecture was right--blasting-time had
come.  In the morning the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to get into it and out of
it a short ladder was used.  They descended, and by command Fetlock held
the drill--without any instructions as to the right way to hold it--and
Flint proceeded to strike.  The sledge came down; the drill sprang out of
Fetlock's hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to hold a drill?  Pick it up!
Stand it up!  There--hold fast.  D--you!  I'll teach you!"

At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up!  You can't lie sniveling there.  Now, then, stick in the fuse
first.  Now put in the powder.  Hold on, hold on!  Are you going to fill
the hole all up?  Of all the sap-headed milksops I--Put in some dirt!
Put in some gravel!  Tamp it down!  Hold on, hold on!  Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and tamped the charge himself,
meantime cursing and blaspheming like a fiend.  Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away, Fetlock following.
They stood waiting a few minutes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks
burst high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after a little there
was a shower of descending stones; then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled another hole, and put
in another charge.

"Look here!  How much fuse are you proposing to waste?  Don't you know
how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't!  Well, if you don't beat anything I ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:

"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day?  Cut the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began:

"If you please, sir, I--"

"You talk back to me?  Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott!  a one-minute fuse!  I wish you were in--"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft and ran.  The boy was
aghast.

"Oh, my God!  Help.  Help!  Oh, save me!" he implored.  "Oh, what can I
do!  What can I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could; the sputtering fuse
frightened the voice out of him; his breath stood still; he stood gazing
and impotent; in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be flying
toward the sky torn to fragments.  Then he had an inspiration.  He sprang
at the fuse; severed the inch of it that was left above ground, and was
saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright, his strength gone; but
he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me!  I knew there was a way, if I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the shaft, looking
worried and uneasy, and peered down into it.  He took in the situation;
he saw what had happened.  He lowered the ladder, and the boy dragged
himself weakly up it.  He was very white.  His appearance added something
to Buckner's uncomfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret and
sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know.  Don't say anything about it to anybody;
I was excited, and didn't notice what I was doing.  You're not looking
well; you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my cabin and eat what
you want, and rest.  It's just an accident, you know, on account of my
being excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away; "but I learnt
something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner, following him with his eye.
"I wonder if he'll tell?  Mightn't he?...  I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the matter of resting; he
employed it in work, eager and feverish and happy work.  A thick growth
of chaparral extended down the mountainside clear to Flint's cabin; the
most of Fetlock's labor was done in the dark intricacies of that stubborn
growth; the rest of it was done in his own shanty.  At last all was
complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell on him, he won't keep
them long, to-morrow.  He will see that I am the same milksop as I always
was--all day and the next.  And the day after to-morrow night there 'll
be an end of him; nobody will ever guess who finished him up nor how it
was done.  He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."




V

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five minutes the new morning will
begin.  The scene is in the tavern billiard-room.  Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch-hats, breeches stuffed into boot-tops, some with vests,
none with coats, are grouped about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy
cheeks and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard-balls are
clacking; there is no other sound--that is, within; the wind is fitfully
moaning without.  The men look bored; also expectant.  A hulking broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whiskers, and an
unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face, rises, slips a coil of fuse
upon his arm, gathers up some other personal properties, and departs
without word or greeting to anybody.  It is Flint Buckner.  As the door
closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake Parker, the blacksmith:
"you can tell when it's twelve just by him leaving, without looking at
your Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I know," said Peter Hawes,
miner.

"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson.
"If I was running this shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch."  This with a suggestive glance at the
barkeeper, who did not choose to see it, since the man under discussion
was a good customer, and went home pretty well set up, every night, with
refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any of you boys ever recollect of
him asking you to take a drink?"

"Him?  Flint Buckner?  Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous general outburst in one
form of words or another from the crowd.  After a brief silence, Pat
Riley, miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss.  And his boy's another one.  I can't make
them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and if they are 15-puzzles how
are you going to rank up that other one?  When it comes to A 1 right-down
solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of them.  Easy--don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it.  Every man but one.  He was the new-comer--Peterson.
He ordered the drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.  All
answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery?  Is Archy Stillman a mystery?" said Wells-Fargo's man,
Ferguson.  "Why, the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody wanted to tell him;
everybody began.  But Billy Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to
order, and said one at a time was best.  He distributed the drinks, and
appointed Ferguson to lead.  Ferguson said:

"Well, he's a boy.  And that is just about all we know about him.  You
can pump him till you are tired; it ain't any use; you won't get
anything.  At least about his intentions, or line of business, or where
he's from, and such things as that.  And as for getting at the nature and
get-up of his main big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all.  You can guess till you're black in the face--it's your
privilege--but suppose you do, where do you arrive at?  Nowhere, as near
as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe.  Hearing, maybe.  Instinct, maybe.  Magic, maybe.  Take
your choice--grownups, twenty-five; children and servants, half price.
Now I'll tell you what he can do.  You can start here, and just
disappear; you can go and hide wherever you want to, I don't care where
it is, nor how far--and he'll go straight and put his finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though.  Weather's nothing to him--elemental conditions is
nothing to him--he don't even take notice of them."

"Oh, come!  Dark?  Rain?  Snow?  Hey?"

"It's all the same to him.  He don't give a damn."

"Oh, say--including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog!  he's got an eye 't can plunk through it like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted.  "Go on, Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with the boys, and you can
slip out and go to any cabin in this camp and open a book--yes, sir, a
dozen of them--and take the page in your memory, and he'll start out and
go straight to that cabin and open every one of them books at the right
page, and call it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it.  Now I'll tell you a perfectly wonderful
thing that he done.  The other night he--"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds outside, the door flew open,
and an excited crowd burst in, with the camp's one white woman in the
lead and crying:

"My child!  my child!  she's lost and gone!  For the love of God help me
to find Archy Stillman; we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:

"Sit down, sit down, Mrs.  Hogan, and don't worry.  He asked for a bed
three hours ago, tuckered out tramping the trails the way he's always
doing, and went up-stairs.  Ham Sandwich, run up and roust him out; he's
in No. 14."

The youth was soon down-stairs and ready.  He asked Mrs. Hogan for
particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there was.  I put her to sleep
at seven in the evening, and when I went in there an hour ago to go to
bed myself, she was gone.  I rushed for your cabin, dear, and you wasn't
there, and I've hunted for you ever since, at every cabin down the gulch,
and now I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and scared and heart-
broke; but, thanks to God, I've found you at last, dear heart, and you'll
find my child.  Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam.  Go to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the hunt.  All the southern half
of the village was up, a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns.  The mass fell into columns
by threes and fours to accommodate itself to the narrow road, and strode
briskly along southward in the wake of the leaders.  In a few minutes the
Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs.  Hogan; "there's where she was; it's where
I laid her at seven o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."

"Hand me a lantern," said Archy.  He set it on the hard earth floor and
knelt by it, pretending to examine the ground closely.  "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there and yonder with his
finger.  "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees and did their best to
see.  One or two thought they discerned something like a track; the
others shook their heads and confessed that the smooth hard surface had
no marks upon it which their eyes were sharp enough to discover.  One
said, "Maybe a child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't see
how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to the ground, turned
leftward, and moved three steps, closely examining; then said, "I've got
the direction--come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files following, swaying and bending
in and out with the deep curves of the gorge.  Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched the sagebrush plain, dim,
vast, and vague.  Stillman called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start
wrong, now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a matter of twenty yards;
then said, "Come on; it's all right," and gave up the lantern.  In and
out among the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bearing
gradually to the right; then took a new direction and made another great
semicircle; then changed again and moved due west nearly half a mile--and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap.  Hold the lantern.  You can see
where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was surfaced like steel, and no
person in the party was quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that
could detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.  The bereaved
mother fell upon her knees and kissed the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said.  "She didn't stay here.  We can
see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place, with the lantern,
pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone, "I don't understand it."
He examined again.  "No use.  She was here--that's certain; she never
walked away from here--and that's certain.  It's a puzzle; I can't make
it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying beast has got her.  I'll
never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy.  "We'll find her--don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!" and she seized his hand
and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place, wasn't it?  Hardly worth while
to come so far, though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well--hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo.  He said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't been here?  I tell you
the child has been here!  Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as--"

"All right!" sang out Stillman.  "Come, everybody, and look at this!  It
was right under our noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the place where the child
was alleged to have rested, and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see
the thing that Archy's finger was resting upon.  There was a pause, then
a several-barreled sigh of disappointment.  Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich
said, in the one breath:

"What is it, Archy?  There's nothing here."

"Nothing?  Do you call that nothing?" and he swiftly traced upon the
ground a form with his finger.  "There--don't you recognize it now?  It's
Injun Billy's track.  He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern.  I've got the direction.  Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the sage-bushes a matter of
three hundred yards, and disappeared over a sand-wave; the others
struggled after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.  Ten steps
away was a little wickiup, a dim and formless shelter of rags and old
horse-blankets, a dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad.  "It's your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickiup, and saw, with her, the
picture its interior afforded.  Injun Billy was sitting on the ground;
the child was asleep beside him.  The mother hugged it with a wild
embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the grateful tears running down
her face, and in a choked and broken voice she poured out a golden stream
of that wealth of worshiping endearments which has its home in full
richness nowhere but in the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy explained.  "She 'sleep out
yonder, ve'y tired--face wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed
her, she heap much hungry--go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived rank and hugged him
too, calling him "the angel of God in disguise."  And he probably was in
disguise if he was that kind of an official.  He was dressed for the
character.

At half past one in the morning the procession burst into the village
singing, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," waving its lanterns and
swallowing the drinks that were brought out all along its course.  It
concentrated at the tavern, and made a night of what was left of the
morning.






PART II


I

The next afternoon the village was electrified with an immense sensation.
A grave and dignified foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance
had arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable name upon the
register:

                            SHERLOCK HOLMES

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim to claim; tools were
dropped, and the town swarmed toward the center of interest.  A man
passing out at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat Riley,
whose claim was the next one to Flint Buckner's.  At that time Fetlock
Jones seemed to turn sick.  He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock!  The mean luck of it!--that he should come just when..."
He dropped into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But what's the
use of being afraid of him?  Anybody that knows him the way I do knows he
can't detect a crime except where he plans it all out beforehand and
arranges the clues and hires some fellow to commit it according to
instructions....  Now there ain't going to be any clues this time--so,
what show has he got?  None at all.  No, sir; everything's ready.  If I
was to risk putting it off--No, I won't run any risk like that.  Flint
Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for sure."  Then another trouble
presented itself.  "Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid of him? for I've got
to be at my cabin a minute or two about eight o'clock."  This was an
awkward matter, and cost him much thought.  But he found a way to beat
the difficulty.  "We'll go for a walk, and I'll leave him in the road a
minute, so that he won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along when you are
preparing the thing.  Yes, that's the safest--I'll take him with me."


Meantime the road in front of the tavern was blocked with villagers
waiting and hoping for a glimpse of the great man.  But he kept his room,
and did not appear.  None but Ferguson, Jake Parker the blacksmith, and
Ham Sandwich had any luck.  These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-baggage lockup, which
looked into the detective's room across a little alleyway ten or twelve
feet wide, ambushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in the
window-blind.  Mr. Holmes's blinds were down; but by and by he raised
them.  It gave the spies a hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find
themselves face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had filled the
world with the fame of his more than human ingenuities.  There he sat
--not a myth, not a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed voice.  "By gracious!
that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep reverence.  "Look at his nose!
look at his eyes!  Intellect?  Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.  "Comes from thought--that's what
it comes from.  Hell!  duffers like us don't know what real thought is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson.  "What we take for thinking is just
blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo.  And look at that frown--that's deep
thinking--away down, down, forty fathom into the bowels of things.  He's
on the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it.  Say--look at that awful gravity--
look at that pallid solemness--there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars!  And it's his'n by hereditary rights, too;
he's been dead four times a'ready, and there's history for it.  Three
times natural, once by accident.  I've heard say he smells damp and cold,
like a grave.  And he--"

"'Sh!  Watch him!  There--he's got his thumb on the bump on the near
corner of his forehead, and his forefinger on the off one.  His think-
works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other shirt."

"That's so.  And now he's gazing up toward heaven and stroking his
mustache slow, and--"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his clues together on his
left fingers with his right finger.  See?  he touches the forefinger--now
middle finger--now ring-finger--"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl!  He can't seem to make out that clue.  So he--"

"See him smile!--like a tiger--and tally off the other fingers like
nothing!  He's got it, boys; he's got it sure!"

"Well, I should say!  I'd hate to be in that man's place that he's
after."

Mr.  Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down with his back to the
spies, and proceeded to write.  The spies withdrew their eyes from the
peep-holes, lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfortable
smoke and talk.  Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use talking, he's a wonder!  He's got the signs of it all
over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that, Wells-Fargo," said Jake
Parker.  "Say, wouldn't it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Ferguson.  "Then we'd have seen
scientific work.  Intellect--just pure intellect--away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow.  Archy is all right, and it don't become anybody to
belittle him, I can tell you.  But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp
as an owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand natural animal
talent, no more, no less, and prime as far as it goes, but no intellect
in it, and for awfulness and marvelousness no more to be compared to what
this man does than--than--Why, let me tell you what he'd have done.  He'd
have stepped over to Hogan's and glanced--just glanced, that's all--at
the premises, and that's enough.  See everything?  Yes, sir, to the last
little detail; and he'll know more about that place than the Hogans would
know in seven years.  Next, he would sit down on the bunk, just as ca'm,
and say to Mrs. Hogan--Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.  Hogan.  I'll
ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please--attention--do not let your mind wander.  Now,
then--sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um--female.  Very good, very good.  Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um--young, weak--two miles.  Weariness will overtake it then.  It will
sink down and sleep.  We shall find it two miles away, or less.  Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.' You see, boys, he knows a
clue when he sees it, when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody else.
'Stockings, madam?  Shoes?'

"'Yes, your Honor--both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps?  Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor.  And kip.'

"'Um--kip.  This complicates the matter.  However, let it go--we shall
manage.  Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good.  Snip me a bit from the bed blanket, please.  Ah, thanks.
Part wool--foreign make.  Very well.  A snip from some garment of the
child's, please.  Thanks.  Cotton.  Shows wear.  An excellent clue,
excellent.  Pass me a pallet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind.
Thanks, many thanks.  Ah, admirable, admirable!  Now we know where we
are, I think.' You see, boys, he's got all the clues he wants now; he
don't need anything more.  Now, then, what does this Extraordinary Man
do?  He lays those snips and that dirt out on the table and leans over
them on his elbows, and puts them together side by side and studies them
--mumbles to himself, 'Female'; changes them around--mumbles, 'Six years
old'; changes them this way and that--again mumbles: 'Five teeth--one a-
coming--Catholic--yarn--cotton--kip--damn that kip.'  Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands through his hair--plows
and plows, muttering, 'Damn that kip!'  Then he stands up and frowns, and
begins to tally off his clues on his fingers--and gets stuck at the ring-
finger.  But only just a minute--then his face glares all up in a smile
like a house afire, and he straightens up stately and majestic, and says
to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a couple of you, and go down to Injun
Billy's and fetch the child--the rest of you go 'long home to bed; good-
night, madam; good-night, gents.' And he bows like the Matterhorn, and
pulls out for the tavern.  That's his style, and the Only--scientific,
intellectual--all over in fifteen minutes--no poking around all over the
sage-brush range an hour and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him,
boys--you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.  "Wells-Fargo, you've got
him down to a dot.  He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books.  By George, I can just see him--can't you, boys?"

"You bet you!  It's just a photograft, that's what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success, and grateful.  He sat
silently enjoying his happiness a little while, then he murmured, with a
deep awe in his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham Sandwich said, reverently:

"Not all at one time, I reckon."




VII

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were groping their way past
Flint Buckner's cabin in the frosty gloom.  They were Sherlock Holmes and
his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said Fetlock, "while I run to my
cabin; I won't be gone a minute."

He asked for something--the uncle furnished it--then he disappeared in
the darkness, but soon returned, and the talking-walk was resumed.  By
nine o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.  They worked their way
through the billiard-room, where a crowd had gathered in the hope of
getting a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man.  A royal cheer was raised.
Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compliment with a series of courtly bows, and
as he was passing out his nephew said to the assemblage:

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentlemen, that 'll keep him till
twelve or one; but he'll be down again then, or earlier if he can, and
hopes some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys!  Three cheers for Sherlock Holmes,
the greatest man that ever lived!" shouted Ferguson.  "Hip, hip, hip--"

"Hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah!  Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the feeling the boys put
into their welcome.  Up-stairs the uncle reproached the nephew gently,
saying:

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do you, uncle?  Well, then,
don't you put on any exclusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all.  The
boys admire you; but if you was to leave without taking a drink with
them, they'd set you down for a snob.  And besides, you said you had home
talk enough in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise--the uncle acknowledged it.  The boy was wise
in another detail which he did not mention--except to himself: "Uncle and
the others will come handy--in the way of nailing an alibi where it can't
be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three hours.  Then, about
midnight, Fetlock stepped down-stairs and took a position in the dark a
dozen steps from the tavern, and waited.  Five minutes later Flint
Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-room and almost brushed him as
he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy.  He continued to himself, looking after
the shadowy form: "Good-by--good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you called
my mother a--well, never mind what: it's all right, now; you're taking
your last walk, friend."

He went musing back into the tavern.  "From now till one is an hour.
We'll spend it with the boys; it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-room, which was jammed with
eager and admiring miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun
began.  Everybody was happy; everybody was complimentary; the ice was
soon broken, songs, anecdotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew.  At six minutes to one, when the jollity was at its
highest--

BOOM!!

There was silence instantly.  The deep sound came rolling and rumbling
frown peak to peak up the gorge, then died down, and ceased.  The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door, saying:

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said, "It's away down the gorge; I saw
the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon--Holmes, Fetlock, Archy Stillman,
everybody.  They made the mile in a few minutes.  By the light of a
lantern they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint Buckner's
cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige remained, not a rag nor a
splinter.  Nor any sign of Flint.  Search-parties sought here and there
and yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true.  Fifty yards down the gulch they had found him--that is,
they had found a crushed and lifeless mass which represented him.
Fetlock Jones hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair.  Ham Sandwich, foreman of the
jury, handed up the verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit: that "deceased came
to his death by his own act or some other person or persons unknown to
this jury not leaving any family or similar effects behind but his cabin
which was blown away and God have mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd, for the storm-center of
interest was there--Sherlock Holmes.  The miners stood silent and
reverent in a half-circle, inclosing a large vacant space which included
the front exposure of the site of the late premises.  In this
considerable space the Extraordinary Man was moving about, attended by
his nephew with a lantern.  With a tape he took measurements of the cabin
site; of the distance from the wall of chaparral to the road; of the
height of the chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.  He
gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch of earth yonder,
inspected them profoundly, and preserved them.  He took the "lay" of the
place with a pocket-compass, allowing two seconds for magnetic variation.
He took the time (Pacific) by his watch, correcting it for local time.
He paced off the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and
corrected that for tidal differentiation.  He took the altitude with a
pocket-aneroid, and the temperature with a pocket-thermometer.  Finally
he said, with a stately bow:

"It is finished.  Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and the crowd fell into his
wake, earnestly discussing and admiring the Extraordinary Man, and
interlarding guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the author
of it might he.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here--hey, boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham Sandwich.  "It 'll go
all over the world; you mark my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker, the blacksmith.  "It 'll boom this camp.
Ain't it so, Wells-Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion--if it's any sign of how I think about it,
I can tell you this: yesterday I was holding the Straight Flush claim at
two dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get it at sixteen
to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo!  It's the grandest luck a new camp ever
struck.  Say, did you see him collar them little rags and dirt and
things?  What an eye!  He just can't overlook a clue--'tain't in him."

"That's so.  And they wouldn't mean a thing to anybody else; but to him,
why, they're just a book--large print at that."

"Sure's you're born!  Them odds and ends have got their little old
secret, and they think there ain't anybody can pull it; but, land!  when
he sets his grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you forget it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to roust out the child;
this is a bigger thing, by a long sight.  Yes, sir, and more tangled up
and scientific and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this way.  Glad?  'George!
it ain't any name for it.  Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something
if he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of how that man works
the system.  But no; he went poking up into the chaparral and just missed
the whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself.  Well, Archy's young.  He'll know
better one of these days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a world of unsatisfying
conjecture.  Various men were mentioned as possibilities, but one by one
they were discarded as not being eligible.  No one but young Hillyer had
been intimate with Flint Buckner; no one had really had a quarrel with
him; he had affronted every man who had tried to make up to him, although
not quite offensively enough to require bloodshed.  There was one name
that was upon every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get
utterance--Fetlock Jones's.  It was Pat Riley that mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all thought of him, because
he had a million rights to kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain
duty to do it.  But all the same there's two things we can't get around:
for one thing, he hasn't got the sand; and for another, he wasn't
anywhere near the place when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat.  "He was there in the billiard-room with us when
it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before it happened."

"It's so.  And lucky for him, too.  He'd have been suspected in a minute
if it hadn't been for that."




III

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its furniture save one
six-foot pine table and a chair.  This table was against one end of the
room; the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, imposing,
impressive, sat in the chair.  The public stood.  The room was full.  The
tobacco-smoke was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to command additional silence; held
it in the air a few moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with "Um-ums," nods of the
head, and so on.  By this process he learned all about Flint Buckner,
his character, conduct, and habits, that the people were able to tell
him.  It thus transpired that the Extraordinary Man's nephew was the only
person in the camp who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the witness, and asked, languidly:

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where the lad Fetlock Jones was
at the time of the explosion?"

A thunderous response followed:

"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah.  And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah.  It is about--about--well, about how far might it be to the scene of
the explosions"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah.  It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but--"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts of "By jiminy, but he's
chain-lightning!" and "Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped his blushing face
in pathetic shame.  The inquisitor resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection with the case" (laughter)
"having been disposed of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the
tragedy, and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clues and arranged them on a sheet of
cardboard on his knee.  The house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, corrected for magnetic
variation, and this gives us the exact location of the tragedy.  We have
the altitude, the temperature, and the degree of humidity prevailing--
inestimably valuable, since they enable us to estimate with precision the
degree of influence which they would exercise upon the mood and
disposition of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By George, but he's deep.") He
fingered his clues.  "And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak to
us.

"Here we have an empty linen shot-bag.  What is its message?  This: that
robbery was the motive, not revenge.  What is its further message?  This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence--shall we say light-
witted, or perhaps approaching that?  How do we know this?  Because a
person of sound intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.  But the assassin might have
been a stranger?  Let the bag speak again.  I take from it this article.
It is a bit of silver-bearing quartz.  It is peculiar.  Examine it,
please--you--and you--and you.  Now pass it back, please.  There is but
one lode on this coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly two miles on a
stretch, and in my opinion is destined, at no distant day, to confer upon
its locality a globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred owners
riches beyond the dreams of avarice.  Name that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary Ann!" was the prompt
response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man reached for his
neighbor's hand and wrung it, with tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo
Ferguson shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up she goes to
a hunched and fifty a foot--you hear me!"

When quiet fell, Mr.  Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are established, to wit: the
assassin was approximately light-witted; he was not a stranger; his
motive was robbery, not revenge.  Let us proceed.  I hold in my hand a
small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell of fire upon it.  What is
its testimony?  Taken with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it
reveals to us that the assassin was a miner.  What does it tell us
further?  This, gentlemen: that the assassination was consummated by
means of an explosive.  What else does it say?  This: that the explosive
was located against the side of the cabin nearest the road--the front
side--for within six feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match--the kind one rubs on a
safety-box.  I found it in the road, six hundred and twenty-two feet from
the abolished cabin.  What does it say?  This: that the train was fired
from that point.  What further does it tell us?  This: that the assassin
was left-handed.  How do I know this?  I should not be able to explain to
you, gentlemen, how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only long
experience and deep study can enable one to detect them.  But the signs
are here, and they are reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives--that all assassins are left-
handed."

"By Jackson, that's so."  said Ham Sandwich, bringing his great hand down
with a resounding slap upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several.  "Oh, there can't anything escape him--
look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his doomed victim, he did
not wholly escape injury.  This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to
you struck him.  It drew blood.  Wherever he is, he bears the telltale
mark.  I picked it up where he stood when he fired the fatal train,"
He looked out over the house from his high perch, and his countenance
began to darken; he slowly raised his hand, and pointed:

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with amazement; then twenty voices
burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer?  Oh, hell, no!  Him?  It's pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen--be not hasty.  Observe--he has the blood-mark on
his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright.  He was near to crying.  He turned this
way and that, appealing to every face for help and sympathy; and held out
his supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to plead:

"Don't, oh, don't!  I never did it; I give my word I never did it.  The
way I got this hurt on my forehead was--"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes.  "I will swear out the warrant."

The constable moved reluctantly forward--hesitated--stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal.  "Oh, Archy, don't let them do it;
it would kill mother!  You know how I got the hurt.  Tell them, and save
me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you.  Don't be afraid."  Then he said to the house,
"Never mind how he got the hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case,
and isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy!  Go in, boy, and play 'em a knock-down flush to their
two pair 'n' a jack!" shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly in the public heart
and changing the whole attitude of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease; then he said:

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door yonder, and Constable
Harris to stand by the other one here, and not let anybody leave the
room.

"Said and done.  Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe.  I will show him to you before long,
in case I am right in my guess.  Now I will tell you all about the
tragedy, from start to finish.  The motive wasn't robbery; it was
revenge.  The murderer wasn't light-witted.  He didn't stand six hundred
and twenty-two feet away.  He didn't get hit with a piece of wood.  He
didn't place the explosive against the cabin.  He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed.  With the exception of these errors,
the distinguished guest's statement of the case is substantially
correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house; friend nodded to friend, as
much as to say, "That's the word, with the bark on it.  Good lad, good
boy.  He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed.  Stillman resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently tell you where you can
find some more."  He held up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned
their necks to see.  "It has a smooth coating of melted tallow on it.
And here is a candle which is burned half-way down.  The remaining half
of it has marks cut upon it an inch apart.  Soon I will tell you where I
found these things.  I will now put aside reasonings, guesses, the
impressive hitchings of odds and ends of clues together, and the other
showy theatricals of the detective trade, and tell you in a plain,
straightforward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect--to allow silence and suspense to
intensify and concentrate the house's interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good deal of pains.  It was a
good plan, very ingenious, and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble
one.  It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off all suspicion
from its inventor.  In the first place, he marked a candle into spaces an
inch apart, and lit it and timed it.  He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it.  I tried it myself for half an hour, awhile ago,
up-stairs here, while the inquiry into Flint Buckner's character and ways
was being conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at the rate
of a candle's consumption when sheltered from the wind.  Having proved
his trial candle's rate, he blew it out--I have already shown it to you--
and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.  Then at the five-hour mark
he bored a hole through the candle with a red-hot wire.  I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on it--tallow that had
been melted and had cooled.

"With labor--very hard labor, I should say--he struggled up through the
stiff chaparral that clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him.  He placed it in that
absolutely secure hiding-place, and in the bottom of it he set the
candlestick.  Then he measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse--the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin.  He bored a hole in the
side of the barrel--here is the large gimlet he did it with.  He went on
and finished his work; and when it was done, one end of the fuse was in
Buckner's cabin, and the other end, with a notch chipped in it to expose
the powder, was in the hole in the candle--timed to blow the place up at
one o'clock this morning, provided the candle was lit about eight o'clock
yesterday evening--which I am betting it was--and provided there was an
explosive in the cabin and connected with that end of the fuse--which I
am also betting there was, though I can't prove it.  Boys, the barrel is
there in the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin stick;
the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the other end is down the hill
where the late cabin stood.  I saw them all an hour or two ago, when the
Professor here was measuring off unimplicated vacancies and collecting
relics that hadn't anything to do with the case."

He paused.  The house drew a long, deep breath, shook its strained cords
and muscles free and burst into cheers.  "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral, instead of picking
up points out of the P'fessor's game.  Looky here--he ain't no fool,
boys."

"No, sir!  Why, great Scott--"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago, the owner of the gimlet and
the trial candle took them from a place where he had concealed them--it
was not a good place--and carried them to what he probably thought was a
better one, two hundred yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles.  It was there that I found them.
The gimlet exactly fits the hole in the barrel.  And now--"

The Extraordinary Man interrupted him.  He said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy tale, gentlemen--very pretty indeed.
Now I would like to ask this young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said:

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.  Mr.  Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy tale in a consecutive and
orderly way--by geometrical progression, so to speak--linking detail to
detail in a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent and
unassailable march upon this tinsel toy fortress of error, the dream
fabric of a callow imagination.  To begin with, young sir, I desire to
ask you but three questions at present--at present.  Did I understand you
to say it was your opinion that the supposititious candle was lighted at
about eight o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir--about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um.  If a person had been passing along there just about that time, he
would have been almost sure to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all.  For the present.  I say, all for the present."

"Dern him.  he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.

"It's so," said Ham Sandwich.  "I don't like the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest, "I was along there myself at half-
past eight--no, about nine."

"In-deed?  This is interesting--this is very interesting.  Perhaps you
encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah.  Then--if you will excuse the remark--I do not quite see the
relevancy of the information."

"It has none.  At present.  I say it has none--at present."

He paused.  Presently he resumed: "I did not encounter the assassin, but
I am on his track, I am sure, for I believe he is in this room.  I will
ask you all to pass one by one in front of me--here, where there is a
good light--so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the march began, the guest
looking on with an iron attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified
success.  Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his hand, and gazed down
intently at each pair of feet as it passed.  Fifty men tramped
monotonously by--with no result.  Sixty.  Seventy.  The thing was
beginning to look absurd.  The guest remarked, with suave irony:

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor if it, and refreshed itself with a cordial laugh.
Ten or twelve more candidates tramped by--no, danced by, with airy and
ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators--then suddenly Stillman
put out his hand and said:

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared the crowd; and at once
let fly a pyrotechnic explosion and dazzle and confusion of stirring
remarks inspired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched out his hand, commanding
peace.  The authority of a great name and a great personality laid its
mysterious compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.  Out of the panting
calm which succeeded, the guest spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious.  It strikes at an innocent life.  Innocent beyond
suspicion!  Innocent beyond peradventure!  Hear me prove it; observe how
simple a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.  Listen.  My
friends, that lad was never out of my sight yesterday evening at any
time!"

It made a deep impression.  Men turned their eyes upon Stillman with
grave inquiry in them.  His face brightened, and he said:

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped briskly to the table and
glanced at the guest's feet, then up at his face, and said: "You were
with him!  You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the candle that
by and by fired the powder!"  (Sensation.)  "And what is more, you
furnished the matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the public.  He opened his
mouth to speak; the words did not come freely.

"This--er--this is insanity--this--"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home.  He held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them.  I found it in the barrel--and there's another one
there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes--and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot.  Stillman retorted.

"It is wax--a breed unknown to this camp.  I am ready to be searched for
the box.  Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time--the dullest eye could see it.  He
fumbled with his hands; once or twice his lips moved, but the words did
not come.  The house waited and watched, in tense suspense, the stillness
adding effect to the situation.  Presently Stillman said, gently:

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments; then the guest answered,
in a low voice:

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about the house one voice after
another muttered:

"That settles it!  He's Archy's meat."

What to do now?  Nobody seemed to know.  It was an embarrassing situation
for the moment--merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpractised minds were not prepared
for it, and had come to a standstill, like a stopped clock, under the
shock.  But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their heads together and
privately buzzed over this and that and the other proposition.  One of
these propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer upon the
assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint Buckner, and let him go.
But the cooler heads opposed it, pointing out that addled brains in the
Eastern states would pronounce it a scandal, and make no end of foolish
noise about it.  Finally the cool heads got the upper hand, and obtained
general consent to a proposition of their own; their leader then called
the house to order and stated it--to this effect: that Fetlock Jones be
jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried.  Apparently there was nothing further to do now,
and the people were glad, for, privately, they were impatient to get out
and rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that barrel and the
other things were really there or not.

But no--the break-up got a check.  The surprises were not over yet.  For
a while Fetlock Jones had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the
absorbing excitements which had been following one another so
persistently for some time; but when his arrest and trial were decreed,
he broke out despairingly, and said:

"No!  it's no use.  I don't want any jail, I don't want any trial; I've
had all the hard luck I want, and all the miseries.  Hang me now, and let
me out!  It would all come out, anyway--there couldn't anything save me.
He has told it all, just as if he'd been with me and seen it--I don't
know how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and things, and then I
wouldn't have any chance any more.  I killed him; and you'd have done it
too, if he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy, and weak and
poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in Ham Sandwich.  "Looky here,
boys--"

From the constable: "Order!  Order, gentlemen!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that, how did you venture to risk
having him along--and him a detective?  How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an embarrassed way, then
said, shyly:

"I know about detectives, on account of having them in the family; and if
you don't want them to find out about a thing, it's best to have them
around when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this native discharge of wisdom did
not modify the poor little waif's embarrassment in any large degree.




IV

      From a letter to Mrs.  Stillman, dated merely "Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log cabin, and
left there to await his trial.  Constable Harris provided him with a
couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard over
himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.

Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship, and
helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I acted as
first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief.  Just as we had
finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an old
hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I had
chased around the globe!  It was the odor of Paradise to my perishing
hope!

In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder.  He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled to
his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chattering
jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said:

"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God is my
witness I have never done any man harm!"

A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane.  That was my
work, mother!  The tidings of your death can some day repeat the misery I
felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it.  The boys lifted
him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him, and said
the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up and don't
be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take care of him,
and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on him.  They are just
like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys are, when you wake up
the south side of their hearts; yes, and just like so many reckless and
unreasoning children when you wake up the opposite of that muscle.  They
did everything they could think of to comfort him, but nothing succeeded
until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who is a clever strategist, said:

"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't worry any
more."

"Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly.

"Because he's dead again."

"Dead!  Dead!  Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me.  Is he dead?
On honor, now--is he telling me true, boys?"

"True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all backed
up the statement in a body.

"They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson, clinching
the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you.  Mistook him for
another man.  They're sorry, but they can't help it now."

"They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with the air of a
person who had contributed to it, and knew.

"James Walker" drew a deep sigh--evidently a sigh of relief--and said
nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his countenance
cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little.  We all went to our
cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp could furnish the
materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and I outfitted him
from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and made a comely and
presentable old gentleman of him.  "Old" is the right word, and a pity,
too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon his hair, and the marks
which sorrow and distress have left upon his face; though he is only in
his prime in the matter of years.  While he ate, we smoked and chatted;
and when he was finishing he found his voice at last, and of his own
accord broke out with his personal history.  I cannot furnish his exact
words, but I will come as near it as I can.


                        THE "WRONG MAN'S" STORY

It happened like this: I was in Denver.  I had been there many years;
sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't--but it isn't any
matter.  All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would be exposed
for a horrible crime committed long before--years and years before--in
the East.

I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin of
mine of the same name.  What should I better do?  My head was all
disordered by fear, and I didn't know.  I was allowed very little time--
only one day, I think it was.  I would be ruined if I was published, and
the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.  It is always the
way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake they are sorry,
but it is too late--the same as it was with Mr. Holmes, you see.  So I
said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run away until it
blew over and I could come back with my proofs.  Then I escaped in the
night and went a long way off in the mountains somewhere, and lived
disguised and had a false name.

I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made me see
spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear on any
subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up, because my
head hurt so.  It got to be worse and worse; more spirits and more
voices.  They were about me all the time; at first only in the night,
then in the day too.  They were always whispering around my bed and
plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged out,
because I got no good rest.

And then came the worst.  One night the whispers said, "We'll never
manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to the
people."

They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.  He can be
here in twelve days."

They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy.  But my heart
broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would be to have
him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and tireless energies.

The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the middle of
the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag that had my
money in it--thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are in the bag
there yet.  It was forty days before that man caught up on my track.
I just escaped.  From habit he had written his real name on a tavern
register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget Barclay" in the
place of it.  But fear gives you a watchful eye and keen, and I read the
true name through the scratches, and fled like a deer.

He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half--the
Pacific states, Australasia, India--everywhere you can think of; then
back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any rest; but
that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left of me is
alive yet.  And I am so tired!  A cruel time he has given me, yet I give
you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.

That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-heat,
he sure of it.  As for me--each word burnt a hole in me where it struck.

We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest and
Hillyer's.  I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as he is
well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabilitate
his fortunes.

The boys gave the old fellow the bone-smashing good-fellowship handshake
of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.

At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich called us
softly out, and said, privately:

"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has spread
all around, and the camps are up.  They are piling in from everywhere,
and are going to lynch the P'fessor.  Constable Harris is in a dead funk,
and has telephoned the sheriff.  Come along!"

We started on a run.  The others were privileged to feel as they chose,
but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in time; for I
had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my deeds, as you
can easily believe.  I had heard a good deal about the sheriff, but for
reassurance's sake I asked:

"Can he stop a mob?"

"Can he stop a mob!  Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob!  Well, I should smile!
Ex-desperado--nineteen scalps on his string.  Can he!  Oh, I say!"

As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose faintly
on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.  Roar
after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and at
last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area in
front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening.  Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the calmest
man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if any fear of
death was in his British heart, his iron personality was master of it and
no sign of it was allowed to appear.

"Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shadbelly Higgins.
"Quick! is it hang, or shoot?"

"Neither!" shouted one of his comrades.  "He'll be alive again in a week;
burning's the only permanency for him."

The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thundercrash of
approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and closed
around him, shouting, "Fire!  fire's the ticket!" They dragged him to the
horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and piled wood and
pine cones around him waist-deep.  Still the strong face did not blench,
and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips.

"A match!  fetch a match!"

Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it under
a pine cone.  A deep silence fell upon the mob.  The cone caught, a tiny
flame flickered about it a moment or two.  I seemed to catch the sound of
distant hoofs--it grew more distinct--still more and more distinct, more
and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did not appear to notice it.
The match went out.  The man struck another, stooped, and again the flame
rose; this time it took hold and began to spread--here and there men
turned away their faces.  The executioner stood with the charred match in
his fingers, watching his work.  The hoof-beats turned a projecting crag,
and now they came thundering down upon us.  Almost the next moment there
was a shout:

"The sheriff!"

And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse almost on
his hind feet, and said:

"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"

He was obeyed.  By all but their leader.  He stood his ground, and his
hand went to his revolver.  The sheriff covered him promptly, and said:

"Drop your hand, you parlor desperado.  Kick the fire away.  Now unchain
the stranger."

The parlor desperado obeyed.  Then the sheriff made a speech; sitting his
horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any touch of fire,
but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and in a tone which
harmonized with their character and made them impressively disrespectful.

"You're a nice lot--now ain't you?  Just about eligible to travel with
this bilk here--Shadbelly Higgins--this loud-mouthed sneak that shoots
people in the back and calls himself a desperado.  If there's anything I
do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen one that
had a man in it.  It has to tally up a hundred against one before it can
pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor.  It's made up of cowards,
and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine times out of a
hundred the sheriff's another one."  He paused--apparently to turn that
last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it--then he went on:
"The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away from him is the lowest-
down coward there is.  By the statistics there was a hundred and eighty-
two of them drawing sneak pay in America last year.  By the way it's
going, pretty soon there 'll be a new disease in the doctor-books--
sheriff complaint."  That idea pleased him--any one could see it.
"People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?'  'Yes; got the same old thing.'
And next there 'll be a new title.  People won't say, 'He's running for
sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance; they'll say, 'He's running for
Coward of Rapaho.'  Lord, the idea of a grown-up person being afraid of a
lynch mob!"

He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you, and
what have you been doing?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing anything."

It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name made on the
sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted.  He spoke up with
feeling, and said it was a blot on the county that a man whose marvelous
exploits had filled the world with their fame and their ingenuity, and
whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by the brilliancy
and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under the Stars
and Stripes by an outrage like this.  He apologized in the name of the
whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow, and told Constable
Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself personally
responsible if he was molested again.  Then he turned to the mob and
said:

"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said: "Follow me,
Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself.  No--keep your popgun;
whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you behind me with
that thing, it 'll be time for me to join last year's hundred and eighty-
two"; and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.

When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time, we ran
upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up in the
night and is gone!  Nobody is sorry.  Let his uncle track him out if he
likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.




V

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind shows improvement
too.  I start with him for Denver to-morrow morning.

Next night.  Brief note, mailed at a way-station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep this
news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb his
mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of was really
committed--and by his cousin, as he said.  We buried the real criminal
the other day--the unhappiest man that has lived in a century--Flint
Buckner.  His real name was Jacob Fuller!"  There, mother, by help of me,
an unwitting mourner, your husband and my father is in his grave.  Let
him rest.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Double Barrelled Detective
by Mark Twain






A DOG'S TALE

by Mark Twain



CHAPTER I

My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a
Presbyterian.  This is what my mother told me, I do not know these nice
distinctions myself.  To me they are only fine large words meaning
nothing.  My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say them, and
see other dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering how she got so
much education.  But, indeed, it was not real education; it was only
show: she got the words by listening in the dining-room and drawing-room
when there was company, and by going with the children to Sunday-school
and listening there; and whenever she heard a large word she said it over
to herself many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a
dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood, then she would get it off, and
surprise and distress them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff, which
rewarded her for all her trouble.  If there was a stranger he was nearly
sure to be suspicious, and when he got his breath again he would ask her
what it meant.  And she always told him.  He was never expecting this but
thought he would catch her; so when she told him, he was the one that
looked ashamed, whereas he had thought it was going to be she.  The
others were always waiting for this, and glad of it and proud of her, for
they knew what was going to happen, because they had had experience.
When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up with
admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it was the right
one; and that was natural, because, for one thing, she answered up so
promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking, and for another
thing, where could they find out whether it was right or not? for she was
the only cultivated dog there was.  By and by, when I was older, she
brought home the word Unintellectual, one time, and worked it pretty hard
all the week at different gatherings, making much unhappiness and
despondency; and it was at this time that I noticed that during that week
she was asked for the meaning at eight different assemblages, and flashed
out a fresh definition every time, which showed me that she had more
presence of mind than culture, though I said nothing, of course.  She had
one word which she always kept on hand, and ready, like a life-preserver,
a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was likely to get washed
overboard in a sudden way--that was the word Synonymous.  When she
happened to fetch out a long word which had had its day weeks before and
its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile, if there was a stranger
there of course it knocked him groggy for a couple of minutes, then he
would come to, and by that time she would be away down wind on another
tack, and not expecting anything; so when he'd hail and ask her to cash
in, I (the only dog on the inside of her game) could see her canvas
flicker a moment--but only just a moment--then it would belly out taut
and full, and she would say, as calm as a summer's day, "It's synonymous
with supererogation," or some godless long reptile of a word like that,
and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack, perfectly
comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger looking profane and
embarrassed, and the initiated slatting the floor with their tails in
unison and their faces transfigured with a holy joy.

And it was the same with phrases.  She would drag home a whole phrase, if
it had a grand sound, and play it six nights and two matinees, and
explain it a new way every time--which she had to, for all she cared for
was the phrase; she wasn't interested in what it meant, and knew those
dogs hadn't wit enough to catch her, anyway.  Yes, she was a daisy!  She
got so she wasn't afraid of anything, she had such confidence in the
ignorance of those creatures.  She even brought anecdotes that she had
heard the family and the dinner-guests laugh and shout over; and as a
rule she got the nub of one chestnut hitched onto another chestnut,
where, of course, it didn't fit and hadn't any point; and when she
delivered the nub she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and
barked in the most insane way, while I could see that she was wondering
to herself why it didn't seem as funny as it did when she first heard it.
But no harm was done; the others rolled and barked too, privately ashamed
of themselves for not seeing the point, and never suspecting that the
fault was not with them and there wasn't any to see.

You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and frivolous
character; still, she had virtues, and enough to make up, I think.  She
had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harbored resentments for
injuries done her, but put them easily out of her mind and forgot them;
and she taught her children her kindly way, and from her we learned also
to be brave and prompt in time of danger, and not to run away, but face
the peril that threatened friend or stranger, and help him the best we
could without stopping to think what the cost might be to us.  And she
taught us not by words only, but by example, and that is the best way and
the surest and the most lasting.  Why, the brave things she did, the
splendid things! she was just a soldier; and so modest about it--well,
you couldn't help admiring her, and you couldn't help imitating her; not
even a King Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her
society.  So, as you see, there was more to her than her education.




CHAPTER II

When I was well grown, at last, I was sold and taken away, and I never
saw her again.  She was broken-hearted, and so was I, and we cried; but
she comforted me as well as she could, and said we were sent into this
world for a wise and good purpose, and must do our duties without
repining, take our life as we might find it, live it for the best good of
others, and never mind about the results; they were not our affair.  She
said men who did like this would have a noble and beautiful reward by and
by in another world, and although we animals would not go there, to do
well and right without reward would give to our brief lives a worthiness
and dignity which in itself would be a reward.  She had gathered these
things from time to time when she had gone to the Sunday-school with the
children, and had laid them up in her memory more carefully than she had
done with those other words and phrases; and she had studied them deeply,
for her good and ours.  One may see by this that she had a wise and
thoughtful head, for all there was so much lightness and vanity in it.

So we said our farewells, and looked our last upon each other through our
tears; and the last thing she said--keeping it for the last to make me
remember it the better, I think--was, "In memory of me, when there is a
time of danger to another do not think of yourself, think of your mother,
and do as she would do."

Do you think I could forget that?  No.




CHAPTER III

It was such a charming home!--my new one; a fine great house, with
pictures, and delicate decorations, and rich furniture, and no gloom
anywhere, but all the wilderness of dainty colors lit up with flooding
sunshine; and the spacious grounds around it, and the great garden--oh,
greensward, and noble trees, and flowers, no end!  And I was the same as
a member of the family; and they loved me, and petted me, and did not
give me a new name, but called me by my old one that was dear to me
because my mother had given it me--Aileen Mavourneen.  She got it out of
a song; and the Grays knew that song, and said it was a beautiful name.

Mrs. Gray was thirty, and so sweet and so lovely, you cannot imagine it;
and Sadie was ten, and just like her mother, just a darling slender
little copy of her, with auburn tails down her back, and short frocks;
and the baby was a year old, and plump and dimpled, and fond of me, and
never could get enough of hauling on my tail, and hugging me, and
laughing out its innocent happiness; and Mr. Gray was thirty-eight, and
tall and slender and handsome, a little bald in front, alert, quick in
his movements, business-like, prompt, decided, unsentimental, and with
that kind of trim-chiseled face that just seems to glint and sparkle with
frosty intellectuality!  He was a renowned scientist.  I do not know what
the word means, but my mother would know how to use it and get effects.
She would know how to depress a rat-terrier with it and make a lap-dog
look sorry he came.  But that is not the best one; the best one was
Laboratory.  My mother could organize a Trust on that one that would skin
the tax-collars off the whole herd.  The laboratory was not a book, or a
picture, or a place to wash your hands in, as the college president's dog
said--no, that is the lavatory; the laboratory is quite different, and is
filled with jars, and bottles, and electrics, and wires, and strange
machines; and every week other scientists came there and sat in the
place, and used the machines, and discussed, and made what they called
experiments and discoveries; and often I came, too, and stood around and
listened, and tried to learn, for the sake of my mother, and in loving
memory of her, although it was a pain to me, as realizing what she was
losing out of her life and I gaining nothing at all; for try as I might,
I was never able to make anything out of it at all.

Other times I lay on the floor in the mistress's work-room and slept, she
gently using me for a foot-stool, knowing it pleased me, for it was a
caress; other times I spent an hour in the nursery, and got well tousled
and made happy; other times I watched by the crib there, when the baby
was asleep and the nurse out for a few minutes on the baby's affairs;
other times I romped and raced through the grounds and the garden with
Sadie till we were tired out, then slumbered on the grass in the shade of
a tree while she read her book; other times I went visiting among the
neighbor dogs--for there were some most pleasant ones not far away, and
one very handsome and courteous and graceful one, a curly-haired Irish
setter by the name of Robin Adair, who was a Presbyterian like me, and
belonged to the Scotch minister.

The servants in our house were all kind to me and were fond of me, and
so, as you see, mine was a pleasant life.  There could not be a happier
dog that I was, nor a gratefuller one.  I will say this for myself, for
it is only the truth:  I tried in all ways to do well and right, and
honor my mother's memory and her teachings, and earn the happiness that
had come to me, as best I could.

By and by came my little puppy, and then my cup was full, my happiness
was perfect.  It was the dearest little waddling thing, and so smooth and
soft and velvety, and had such cunning little awkward paws, and such
affectionate eyes, and such a sweet and innocent face; and it made me so
proud to see how the children and their mother adored it, and fondled it,
and exclaimed over every little wonderful thing it did.  It did seem to
me that life was just too lovely to--

Then came the winter.  One day I was standing a watch in the nursery.
That is to say, I was asleep on the bed.  The baby was asleep in the
crib, which was alongside the bed, on the side next the fireplace.  It
was the kind of crib that has a lofty tent over it made of gauzy stuff
that you can see through.  The nurse was out, and we two sleepers were
alone.  A spark from the wood-fire was shot out, and it lit on the slope
of the tent.  I suppose a quiet interval followed, then a scream from the
baby awoke me, and there was that tent flaming up toward the ceiling!
Before I could think, I sprang to the floor in my fright, and in a second
was half-way to the door; but in the next half-second my mother's
farewell was sounding in my ears, and I was back on the bed again.
I reached my head through the flames and dragged the baby out by the
waist-band, and tugged it along, and we fell to the floor together in a
cloud of smoke; I snatched a new hold, and dragged the screaming little
creature along and out at the door and around the bend of the hall, and
was still tugging away, all excited and happy and proud, when the
master's voice shouted:

"Begone you cursed beast!" and I jumped to save myself; but he was
furiously quick, and chased me up, striking furiously at me with his
cane, I dodging this way and that, in terror, and at last a strong blow
fell upon my left foreleg, which made me shriek and fall, for the moment,
helpless; the came went up for another blow, but never descended, for the
nurse's voice rang wildly out, "The nursery's on fire!" and the master
rushed away in that direction, and my other bones were saved.

The pain was cruel, but, no matter, I must not lose any time; he might
come back at any moment; so I limped on three legs to the other end of
the hall, where there was a dark little stairway leading up into a garret
where old boxes and such things were kept, as I had heard say, and where
people seldom went.  I managed to climb up there, then I searched my way
through the dark among the piles of things, and hid in the secretest
place I could find.  It was foolish to be afraid there, yet still I was;
so afraid that I held in and hardly even whimpered, though it would have
been such a comfort to whimper, because that eases the pain, you know.
But I could lick my leg, and that did some good.

For half an hour there was a commotion downstairs, and shoutings, and
rushing footsteps, and then there was quiet again.  Quiet for some
minutes, and that was grateful to my spirit, for then my fears began to
go down; and fears are worse than pains--oh, much worse.  Then came a
sound that froze me.  They were calling me--calling me by name--hunting
for me!

It was muffled by distance, but that could not take the terror out of it,
and it was the most dreadful sound to me that I had ever heard.  It went
all about, everywhere, down there:  along the halls, through all the
rooms, in both stories, and in the basement and the cellar; then outside,
and farther and farther away--then back, and all about the house again,
and I thought it would never, never stop.  But at last it did, hours and
hours after the vague twilight of the garret had long ago been blotted
out by black darkness.

Then in that blessed stillness my terrors fell little by little away, and
I was at peace and slept.  It was a good rest I had, but I woke before
the twilight had come again.  I was feeling fairly comfortable, and I
could think out a plan now.  I made a very good one; which was, to creep
down, all the way down the back stairs, and hide behind the cellar door,
and slip out and escape when the iceman came at dawn, while he was inside
filling the refrigerator; then I would hide all day, and start on my
journey when night came; my journey to--well, anywhere where they would
not know me and betray me to the master.  I was feeling almost cheerful
now; then suddenly I thought:  Why, what would life be without my puppy!

That was despair.  There was no plan for me; I saw that; I must say where
I was; stay, and wait, and take what might come--it was not my affair;
that was what life is--my mother had said it.  Then--well, then the
calling began again!  All my sorrows came back.  I said to myself, the
master will never forgive.  I did not know what I had done to make him so
bitter and so unforgiving, yet I judged it was something a dog could not
understand, but which was clear to a man and dreadful.

They called and called--days and nights, it seemed to me.  So long that
the hunger and thirst near drove me mad, and I recognized that I was
getting very weak.  When you are this way you sleep a great deal, and I
did.  Once I woke in an awful fright--it seemed to me that the calling
was right there in the garret!  And so it was:  it was Sadie's voice, and
she was crying; my name was falling from her lips all broken, poor thing,
and I could not believe my ears for the joy of it when I heard her say:

"Come back to us--oh, come back to us, and forgive--it is all so sad
without our--"

I broke in with SUCH a grateful little yelp, and the next moment Sadie
was plunging and stumbling through the darkness and the lumber and
shouting for the family to hear, "She's found, she's found!"

 The days that followed--well, they were wonderful.  The mother and Sadie
and the servants--why, they just seemed to worship me.  They couldn't
seem to make me a bed that was fine enough; and as for food, they
couldn't be satisfied with anything but game and delicacies that were out
of season; and every day the friends and neighbors flocked in to hear
about my heroism--that was the name they called it by, and it means
agriculture.  I remember my mother pulling it on a kennel once, and
explaining it in that way, but didn't say what agriculture was, except
that it was synonymous with intramural incandescence; and a dozen times a
day Mrs. Gray and Sadie would tell the tale to new-comers, and say I
risked my life to say the baby's, and both of us had burns to prove it,
and then the company would pass me around and pet me and exclaim about
me, and you could see the pride in the eyes of Sadie and her mother; and
when the people wanted to know what made me limp, they looked ashamed and
changed the subject, and sometimes when people hunted them this way and
that way with questions about it, it looked to me as if they were going
to cry.

And this was not all the glory; no, the master's friends came, a whole
twenty of the most distinguished people, and had me in the laboratory,
and discussed me as if I was a kind of discovery; and some of them said
it was wonderful in a dumb beast, the finest exhibition of instinct they
could call to mind; but the master said, with vehemence, "It's far above
instinct; it's REASON, and many a man, privileged to be saved and go with
you and me to a better world by right of its possession, has less of it
that this poor silly quadruped that's foreordained to perish"; and then
he laughed, and said:  "Why, look at me--I'm a sarcasm! bless you, with
all my grand intelligence, the only think I inferred was that the dog had
gone mad and was destroying the child, whereas but for the beast's
intelligence--it's REASON, I tell you!--the child would have perished!"

They disputed and disputed, and I was the very center of subject of it
all, and I wished my mother could know that this grand honor had come to
me; it would have made her proud.

Then they discussed optics, as they called it, and whether a certain
injury to the brain would produce blindness or not, but they could not
agree about it, and said they must test it by experiment by and by; and
next they discussed plants, and that interested me, because in the summer
Sadie and I had planted seeds--I helped her dig the holes, you know--and
after days and days a little shrub or a flower came up there, and it was
a wonder how that could happen; but it did, and I wished I could talk--I
would have told those people about it and shown then how much I knew, and
been all alive with the subject; but I didn't care for the optics; it was
dull, and when the came back to it again it bored me, and I went to
sleep.

Pretty soon it was spring, and sunny and pleasant and lovely, and the
sweet mother and the children patted me and the puppy good-by, and went
away on a journey and a visit to their kin, and the master wasn't any
company for us, but we played together and had good times, and the
servants were kind and friendly, so we got along quite happily and
counted the days and waited for the family.

And one day those men came again, and said, now for the test, and they
took the puppy to the laboratory, and I limped three-leggedly along, too,
feeling proud, for any attention shown to the puppy was a pleasure to me,
of course.  They discussed and experimented, and then suddenly the puppy
shrieked, and they set him on the floor, and he went staggering around,
with his head all bloody, and the master clapped his hands and shouted:

"There, I've won--confess it!  He's a blind as a bat!"

And they all said:

"It's so--you've proved your theory, and suffering humanity owes you a
great debt from henceforth," and they crowded around him, and wrung his
hand cordially and thankfully, and praised him.

But I hardly saw or heard these things, for I ran at once to my little
darling, and snuggled close to it where it lay, and licked the blood, and
it put its head against mine, whimpering softly, and I knew in my heart
it was a comfort to it in its pain and trouble to feel its mother's
touch, though it could not see me.  Then it dropped down, presently, and
its little velvet nose rested upon the floor, and it was still, and did
not move any more.

Soon the master stopped discussing a moment, and rang in the footman, and
said, "Bury it in the far corner of the garden," and then went on with
the discussion, and I trotted after the footman, very happy and grateful,
for I knew the puppy was out of its pain now, because it was asleep.  We
went far down the garden to the farthest end, where the children and the
nurse and the puppy and I used to play in the summer in the shade of a
great elm, and there the footman dug a hole, and I saw he was going to
plant the puppy, and I was glad, because it would grow and come up a fine
handsome dog, like Robin Adair, and be a beautiful surprise for the
family when they came home; so I tried to help him dig, but my lame leg
was no good, being stiff, you know, and you have to have two, or it is no
use.  When the footman had finished and covered little Robin up, he
patted my head, and there were tears in his eyes, and he said:  "Poor
little doggie, you saved HIS child!"

I have watched two whole weeks, and he doesn't come up!  This last week a
fright has been stealing upon me.  I think there is something terrible
about this.  I do not know what it is, but the fear makes me sick, and I
cannot eat, though the servants bring me the best of food; and they pet
me so, and even come in the night, and cry, and say, "Poor doggie--do
give it up and come home; don't break our hearts!" and all this terrifies
me the more, and makes me sure something has happened.  And I am so weak;
since yesterday I cannot stand on my feet anymore.  And within this hour
the servants, looking toward the sun where it was sinking out of sight
and the night chill coming on, said things I could not understand, but
they carried something cold to my heart.

"Those poor creatures!  They do not suspect.  They will come home in the
morning, and eagerly ask for the little doggie that did the brave deed,
and who of us will be strong enough to say the truth to them:  'The
humble little friend is gone where go the beasts that perish.'"




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of A Dog's Tale
by Mark Twain






 THE $30,000 BEQUEST
 and Other Stories

 by
 Mark Twain
 (Samuel L. Clemens)

 The $30,000 Bequest
 A Dog's Tale
 Was It Heaven?  Or Hell?
 A Cure for the Blues
 The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant
 The Californian's Tale
 A Helpless Situation
 A Telephonic Conversation
 Edward Mills and George Benton:  A Tale
 The Five Boons of Life
 The First Writing-machines
 Italian without a Master
 Italian with Grammar
 A Burlesque Biography
 How to Tell a Story
 General Washington's Negro Body-servant
 Wit Inspirations of the "Two-year-olds"
 An Entertaining Article
 A Letter to the Secretary of the Treasury
 Amended Obituaries
 A Monument to Adam
 A Humane Word from Satan
 Introduction to "The New Guide of the
 Conversation in Portuguese and English"
 Advice to Little Girls
 Post-mortem Poetry
 The Danger of Lying in Bed
 Portrait of King William III
 Does the Race of Man Love a Lord?
 Extracts from Adam's Diary
 Eve's Diary


***


THE $30,000 BEQUEST


CHAPTER I


Lakeside was a pleasant little town of five or six thousand inhabitants,
and a rather pretty one, too, as towns go in the Far West.
It had church accommodations for thirty-five thousand, which is
the way of the Far West and the South, where everybody is religious,
and where each of the Protestant sects is represented and has a plant
of its own.  Rank was unknown in Lakeside--unconfessed, anyway;
everybody knew everybody and his dog, and a sociable friendliness
was the prevailing atmosphere.

Saladin Foster was book-keeper in the principal store, and the only
high-salaried man of his profession in Lakeside.  He was thirty-five
years old, now; he had served that store for fourteen years;
he had begun in his marriage-week at four hundred dollars a year,
and had climbed steadily up, a hundred dollars a year, for four years;
from that time forth his wage had remained eight hundred--a handsome
figure indeed, and everybody conceded that he was worth it.

His wife, Electra, was a capable helpmeet, although--like himself--
a dreamer of dreams and a private dabbler in romance.  The first thing
she did, after her marriage--child as she was, aged only nineteen--
was to buy an acre of ground on the edge of the town, and pay
down the cash for it--twenty-five dollars, all her fortune.
Saladin had less, by fifteen.  She instituted a vegetable garden there,
got it farmed on shares by the nearest neighbor, and made it pay
her a hundred per cent.  a year.  Out of Saladin's first year's wage
she put thirty dollars in the savings-bank, sixty out of his second,
a hundred out of his third, a hundred and fifty out of his fourth.
His wage went to eight hundred a year, then, and meantime two children
had arrived and increased the expenses, but she banked two hundred
a year from the salary, nevertheless, thenceforth.  When she had been
married seven years she built and furnished a pretty and comfortable
two-thousand-dollar house in the midst of her garden-acre, paid
half of the money down and moved her family in.  Seven years later
she was out of debt and had several hundred dollars out earning
its living.

Earning it by the rise in landed estate; for she had long ago bought
another acre or two and sold the most of it at a profit to pleasant
people who were willing to build, and would be good neighbors and
furnish a general comradeship for herself and her growing family.
She had an independent income from safe investments of about a hundred
dollars a year; her children were growing in years and grace;
and she was a pleased and happy woman.  Happy in her husband, happy in
her children, and the husband and the children were happy in her.
It is at this point that this history begins.

The youngest girl, Clytemnestra--called Clytie for short--
was eleven; her sister, Gwendolen--called Gwen for short--
was thirteen; nice girls, and comely.  The names betray the latent
romance-tinge in the parental blood, the parents' names indicate
that the tinge was an inheritance.  It was an affectionate family,
hence all four of its members had pet names, Saladin's was a curious
and unsexing one--Sally; and so was Electra's--Aleck.  All day
long Sally was a good and diligent book-keeper and salesman;
all day long Aleck was a good and faithful mother and housewife,
and thoughtful and calculating business woman; but in the cozy
living-room at night they put the plodding world away, and lived in
another and a fairer, reading romances to each other, dreaming dreams,
comrading with kings and princes and stately lords and ladies in the
flash and stir and splendor of noble palaces and grim and ancient castles.



CHAPTER II


Now came great news!  Stunning news--joyous news, in fact.
It came from a neighboring state, where the family's only surviving
relative lived.  It was Sally's relative--a sort of vague and indefinite
uncle or second or third cousin by the name of Tilbury Foster,
seventy and a bachelor, reputed well off and corresponding sour
and crusty.  Sally had tried to make up to him once, by letter,
in a bygone time, and had not made that mistake again.  Tilbury now
wrote to Sally, saying he should shortly die, and should leave him
thirty thousand dollars, cash; not for love, but because money
had given him most of his troubles and exasperations, and he wished
to place it where there was good hope that it would continue its
malignant work.  The bequest would be found in his will, and would
be paid over.  PROVIDED, that Sally should be able to prove to the
executors that he had TAKEN NO NOTICE OF THE GIFT BY SPOKEN WORD OR
BY LETTER, HAD MADE NO INQUIRIES CONCERNING THE MORIBUND'S PROGRESS
TOWARD THE EVERLASTING TROPICS, AND HAD NOT ATTENDED THE FUNERAL.

As soon as Aleck had partially recovered from the tremendous
emotions created by the letter, she sent to the relative's habitat
and subscribed for the local paper.

Man and wife entered into a solemn compact, now, to never mention
the great news to any one while the relative lived, lest some
ignorant person carry the fact to the death-bed and distort it
and make it appear that they were disobediently thankful for
the bequest, and just the same as confessing it and publishing it,
right in the face of the prohibition.

For the rest of the day Sally made havoc and confusion with his books,
and Aleck could not keep her mind on her affairs, not even take up
a flower-pot or book or a stick of wood without forgetting what she
had intended to do with it.  For both were dreaming.

"Thir-ty thousand dollars!"

All day long the music of those inspiring words sang through
those people's heads.

From his marriage-day forth, Aleck's grip had been upon the purse,
and Sally had seldom known what it was to be privileged to squander
a dime on non-necessities.

"Thir-ty thousand dollars!" the song went on and on.  A vast sum,
an unthinkable sum!

All day long Aleck was absorbed in planning how to invest it,
Sally in planning how to spend it.

There was no romance-reading that night.  The children took
themselves away early, for their parents were silent, distraught,
and strangely unentertaining.  The good-night kisses might as well
have been impressed upon vacancy, for all the response they got;
the parents were not aware of the kisses, and the children had
been gone an hour before their absence was noticed.  Two pencils
had been busy during that hour--note-making; in the way of plans.
It was Sally who broke the stillness at last.  He said, with exultation:

"Ah, it'll be grand, Aleck!  Out of the first thousand we'll have
a horse and a buggy for summer, and a cutter and a skin lap-robe
for winter."

Aleck responded with decision and composure--

"Out of the CAPITAL?  Nothing of the kind.  Not if it was a million!"

Sally was deeply disappointed; the glow went out of his face.

"Oh, Aleck!" he said, reproachfully.  "We've always worked so hard
and been so scrimped:  and now that we are rich, it does seem--"

He did not finish, for he saw her eye soften; his supplication
had touched her.  She said, with gentle persuasiveness:

"We must not spend the capital, dear, it would not be wise.
Out of the income from it--"

"That will answer, that will answer, Aleck!  How dear and good you are!
There will be a noble income and if we can spend that--"

"Not ALL of it, dear, not all of it, but you can spend a part of it.
That is, a reasonable part.  But the whole of the capital--
every penny of it--must be put right to work, and kept at it.
You see the reasonableness of that, don't you?"

"Why, ye-s. Yes, of course.  But we'll have to wait so long.
Six months before the first interest falls due."

"Yes--maybe longer."

"Longer, Aleck?  Why?  Don't they pay half-yearly?"

"THAT kind of an investment--yes; but I sha'n't invest in that way."

"What way, then?"

"For big returns."

"Big.  That's good.  Go on, Aleck.  What is it?"

"Coal.  The new mines.  Cannel.  I mean to put in ten thousand.
Ground floor.  When we organize, we'll get three shares for one."

"By George, but it sounds good, Aleck!  Then the shares will be worth--
how much?  And when?"

"About a year.  They'll pay ten per cent.  half yearly, and be
worth thirty thousand.  I know all about it; the advertisement
is in the Cincinnati paper here."

"Land, thirty thousand for ten--in a year!  Let's jam in the whole
capital and pull out ninety!  I'll write and subscribe right now--
tomorrow it maybe too late."

He was flying to the writing-desk, but Aleck stopped him and put
him back in his chair.  She said:

"Don't lose your head so.  WE mustn't subscribe till we've got
the money; don't you know that?"

Sally's excitement went down a degree or two, but he was not
wholly appeased.

"Why, Aleck, we'll HAVE it, you know--and so soon, too.  He's probably
out of his troubles before this; it's a hundred to nothing he's
selecting his brimstone-shovel this very minute.  Now, I think--"

Aleck shuddered, and said:

"How CAN you, Sally!  Don't talk in that way, it is perfectly scandalous."

"Oh, well, make it a halo, if you like, _I_ don't care for his outfit,
I was only just talking.  Can't you let a person talk?"

"But why should you WANT to talk in that dreadful way?  How would
you like to have people talk so about YOU, and you not cold yet?"

"Not likely to be, for ONE while, I reckon, if my last act was
giving away money for the sake of doing somebody a harm with it.
But never mind about Tilbury, Aleck, let's talk about something worldly.
It does seem to me that that mine is the place for the whole thirty.
What's the objection?"

"All the eggs in one basket--that's the objection."

"All right, if you say so.  What about the other twenty?
What do you mean to do with that?"

"There is no hurry; I am going to look around before I do anything
with it."

"All right, if your mind's made up," signed Sally.  He was deep
in thought awhile, then he said:

"There'll be twenty thousand profit coming from the ten a year
from now.  We can spend that, can we, Aleck?"

Aleck shook her head.

"No, dear," she said, "it won't sell high till we've had the first
semi-annual dividend.  You can spend part of that."

"Shucks, only THAT--and a whole year to wait!  Confound it, I--"

"Oh, do be patient!  It might even be declared in three months--
it's quite within the possibilities."

"Oh, jolly! oh, thanks!" and Sally jumped up and kissed his wife
in gratitude.  "It'll be three thousand--three whole thousand!
how much of it can we spend, Aleck?  Make it liberal!--do, dear,
that's a good fellow."

Aleck was pleased; so pleased that she yielded to the pressure and
conceded a sum which her judgment told her was a foolish extravagance--
a thousand dollars.  Sally kissed her half a dozen times and even
in that way could not express all his joy and thankfulness.
This new access of gratitude and affection carried Aleck quite
beyond the bounds of prudence, and before she could restrain
herself she had made her darling another grant--a couple
of thousand out of the fifty or sixty which she meant to clear
within a year of the twenty which still remained of the bequest.
The happy tears sprang to Sally's eyes, and he said:

"Oh, I want to hug you!"  And he did it.  Then he got his
notes and sat down and began to check off, for first purchase,
the luxuries which he should earliest wish to secure.
"Horse--buggy--cutter--lap-robe--patent-leathers--dog--plug-hat--
church-pew--stem-winder--new teeth--SAY, Aleck!"

"Well?"

"Ciphering away, aren't you?  That's right.  Have you got the twenty
thousand invested yet?"

"No, there's no hurry about that; I must look around first,
and think."

"But you are ciphering; what's it about?"

"Why, I have to find work for the thirty thousand that comes out
of the coal, haven't I?"

"Scott, what a head!  I never thought of that.  How are you
getting along?  Where have you arrived?"

"Not very far--two years or three.  I've turned it over twice;
once in oil and once in wheat."

"Why, Aleck, it's splendid!  How does it aggregate?"

"I think--well, to be on the safe side, about a hundred and eighty
thousand clear, though it will probably be more."

"My! isn't it wonderful?  By gracious! luck has come our way at last,
after all the hard sledding, Aleck!"

"Well?"

"I'm going to cash in a whole three hundred on the missionaries--
what real right have we care for expenses!"

"You couldn't do a nobler thing, dear; and it's just like your
generous nature, you unselfish boy."

The praise made Sally poignantly happy, but he was fair and just
enough to say it was rightfully due to Aleck rather than to himself,
since but for her he should never have had the money.

Then they went up to bed, and in their delirium of bliss they forgot
and left the candle burning in the parlor.  They did not remember
until they were undressed; then Sally was for letting it burn;
he said they could afford it, if it was a thousand.  But Aleck went
down and put it out.

A good job, too; for on her way back she hit on a scheme that would
turn the hundred and eighty thousand into half a million before it
had had time to get cold.



CHAPTER III


The little newspaper which Aleck had subscribed for was a Thursday sheet;
it would make the trip of five hundred miles from Tilbury's village
and arrive on Saturday.  Tilbury's letter had started on Friday,
more than a day too late for the benefactor to die and get into
that week's issue, but in plenty of time to make connection for the
next output.  Thus the Fosters had to wait almost a complete week to
find out whether anything of a satisfactory nature had happened to him
or not.  It was a long, long week, and the strain was a heavy one.
The pair could hardly have borne it if their minds had not had the
relief of wholesome diversion.  We have seen that they had that.
The woman was piling up fortunes right along, the man was spending them--
spending all his wife would give him a chance at, at any rate.

At last the Saturday came, and the WEEKLY SAGAMORE arrived.
Mrs. Eversly Bennett was present.  She was the Presbyterian
parson's wife, and was working the Fosters for a charity.
Talk now died a sudden death--on the Foster side.  Mrs. Bennett
presently discovered that her hosts were not hearing a word she
was saying; so she got up, wondering and indignant, and went away.
The moment she was out of the house, Aleck eagerly tore the wrapper
from the paper, and her eyes and Sally's swept the columns for the
death-notices. Disappointment!  Tilbury was not anywhere mentioned.
Aleck was a Christian from the cradle, and duty and the force of
habit required her to go through the motions.  She pulled herself
together and said, with a pious two-per-cent. trade joyousness:

"Let us be humbly thankful that he has been spared; and--"

"Damn his treacherous hide, I wish--"

"Sally!  For shame!"

"I don't care!" retorted the angry man.  "It's the way YOU feel,
and if you weren't so immorally pious you'd be honest and say so."

Aleck said, with wounded dignity:

"I do not see how you can say such unkind and unjust things.
There is no such thing as immoral piety."

Sally felt a pang, but tried to conceal it under a shuffling attempt
to save his case by changing the form of it--as if changing the form
while retaining the juice could deceive the expert he was trying
to placate.  He said:

"I didn't mean so bad as that, Aleck; I didn't really mean
immoral piety, I only meant--meant--well, conventional piety,
you know; er--shop piety; the--the--why, YOU know what I mean.
Aleck--the--well, where you put up that plated article and play
it for solid, you know, without intending anything improper,
but just out of trade habit, ancient policy, petrified custom,
loyalty to--to--hang it, I can't find the right words, but YOU
know what I mean, Aleck, and that there isn't any harm in it.
I'll try again.  You see, it's this way.  If a person--"

"You have said quite enough," said Aleck, coldly; "let the subject
be dropped."

"I'M willing," fervently responded Sally, wiping the sweat from
his forehead and looking the thankfulness he had no words for.
Then, musingly, he apologized to himself.  "I certainly held threes--
I KNOW it--but I drew and didn't fill.  That's where I'm so often
weak in the game.  If I had stood pat--but I didn't. I never do.
I don't know enough."

Confessedly defeated, he was properly tame now and subdued.
Aleck forgave him with her eyes.

The grand interest, the supreme interest, came instantly to the
front again; nothing could keep it in the background many minutes
on a stretch.  The couple took up the puzzle of the absence
of Tilbury's death-notice. They discussed it every which way,
more or less hopefully, but they had to finish where they began,
and concede that the only really sane explanation of the absence
of the notice must be--and without doubt was--that Tilbury was
not dead.  There was something sad about it, something even a
little unfair, maybe, but there it was, and had to be put up with.
They were agreed as to that.  To Sally it seemed a strangely
inscrutable dispensation; more inscrutable than usual, he thought;
one of the most unnecessary inscrutable he could call to mind,
in fact--and said so, with some feeling; but if he was hoping
to draw Aleck he failed; she reserved her opinion, if she had one;
she had not the habit of taking injudicious risks in any market,
worldly or other.

The pair must wait for next week's paper--Tilbury had
evidently postponed.  That was their thought and their decision.
So they put the subject away and went about their affairs
again with as good heart as they could.


Now, if they had but known it, they had been wronging Tilbury
all the time.  Tilbury had kept faith, kept it to the letter;
he was dead, he had died to schedule.  He was dead more than four
days now and used to it; entirely dead, perfectly dead, as dead
as any other new person in the cemetery; dead in abundant time to get
into that week's SAGAMORE, too, and only shut out by an accident;
an accident which could not happen to a metropolitan journal,
but which happens easily to a poor little village rag like the SAGAMORE.
On this occasion, just as the editorial page was being locked up,
a gratis quart of strawberry ice-water arrived from Hostetter's
Ladies and Gents Ice-Cream Parlors, and the stickful of rather
chilly regret over Tilbury's translation got crowded out to make
room for the editor's frantic gratitude.

On its way to the standing-galley Tilbury's notice got pied.
Otherwise it would have gone into some future edition, for WEEKLY
SAGAMORES do not waste "live" matter, and in their galleys "live"
matter is immortal, unless a pi accident intervenes.  But a thing
that gets pied is dead, and for such there is no resurrection;
its chance of seeing print is gone, forever and ever.  And so,
let Tilbury like it or not, let him rave in his grave to his fill,
no matter--no mention of his death would ever see the light in the
WEEKLY SAGAMORE.



CHAPTER IV


Five weeks drifted tediously along.  The SAGAMORE arrived regularly on
the Saturdays, but never once contained a mention of Tilbury Foster.
Sally's patience broke down at this point, and he said, resentfully:

"Damn his livers, he's immortal!"

Aleck give him a very severe rebuke, and added with icy solemnity:

"How would you feel if you were suddenly cut out just after such
an awful remark had escaped out of you?"

Without sufficient reflection Sally responded:

"I'd feel I was lucky I hadn't got caught with it IN me."

Pride had forced him to say something, and as he could not think
of any rational thing to say he flung that out.  Then he stole a base--
as he called it--that is, slipped from the presence, to keep from
being brayed in his wife's discussion-mortar.

Six months came and went.  The SAGAMORE was still silent about Tilbury.
Meantime, Sally had several times thrown out a feeler--that is,
a hint that he would like to know.  Aleck had ignored the hints.
Sally now resolved to brace up and risk a frontal attack.
So he squarely proposed to disguise himself and go to Tilbury's
village and surreptitiously find out as to the prospects.
Aleck put her foot on the dangerous project with energy and decision.
She said:

"What can you be thinking of?  You do keep my hands full!
You have to be watched all the time, like a little child, to keep
you from walking into the fire.  You'll stay right where you are!"

"Why, Aleck, I could do it and not be found out--I'm certain of it."

"Sally Foster, don't you know you would have to inquire around?"

"Of course, but what of it?  Nobody would suspect who I was."

"Oh, listen to the man!  Some day you've got to prove to the
executors that you never inquired.  What then?"

He had forgotten that detail.  He didn't reply; there wasn't
anything to say.  Aleck added:

"Now then, drop that notion out of your mind, and don't ever meddle
with it again.  Tilbury set that trap for you.  Don't you know it's
a trap?  He is on the watch, and fully expecting you to blunder
into it.  Well, he is going to be disappointed--at least while I
am on deck.  Sally!"

"Well?"

"As long as you live, if it's a hundred years, don't you ever make
an inquiry.  Promise!"

"All right," with a sigh and reluctantly.

Then Aleck softened and said:

"Don't be impatient.  We are prospering; we can wait; there is
no hurry.  Our small dead-certain income increases all the time;
and as to futures, I have not made a mistake yet--they are piling
up by the thousands and tens of thousands.  There is not another
family in the state with such prospects as ours.  Already we are
beginning to roll in eventual wealth.  You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Aleck, it's certainly so."

"Then be grateful for what God is doing for us and stop worrying.
You do not believe we could have achieved these prodigious results
without His special help and guidance, do you?"

Hesitatingly, "N-no, I suppose not."  Then, with feeling
and admiration, "And yet, when it comes to judiciousness
in watering a stock or putting up a hand to skin Wall Street
I don't give in that YOU need any outside amateur help, if I do wish I--"

"Oh, DO shut up!  I know you do not mean any harm or any irreverence,
poor boy, but you can't seem to open your mouth without letting out
things to make a person shudder.  You keep me in constant dread.
For you and for all of us.  Once I had no fear of the thunder,
but now when I hear it I--"

Her voice broke, and she began to cry, and could not finish.
The sight of this smote Sally to the heart and he took her in his
arms and petted her and comforted her and promised better conduct,
and upbraided himself and remorsefully pleaded for forgiveness.
And he was in earnest, and sorry for what he had done and ready for any
sacrifice that could make up for it.

And so, in privacy, he thought long and deeply over the matter,
resolving to do what should seem best.  It was easy to PROMISE reform;
indeed he had already promised it.  But would that do any real good,
any permanent good?  No, it would be but temporary--he knew
his weakness, and confessed it to himself with sorrow--he could
not keep the promise.  Something surer and better must be devised;
and he devised it.  At cost of precious money which he had long
been saving up, shilling by shilling, he put a lightning-rod on
the house.

At a subsequent time he relapsed.

What miracles habit can do! and how quickly and how easily habits
are acquired--both trifling habits and habits which profoundly change us.
If by accident we wake at two in the morning a couple of nights
in succession, we have need to be uneasy, for another repetition can
turn the accident into a habit; and a month's dallying with whiskey--
but we all know these commonplace facts.

The castle-building habit, the day-dreaming habit--how it grows!
what a luxury it becomes; how we fly to its enchantments at every
idle moment, how we revel in them, steep our souls in them,
intoxicate ourselves with their beguiling fantasies--oh yes,
and how soon and how easily our dram life and our material life
become so intermingled and so fused together that we can't quite
tell which is which, any more.

By and by Aleck subscribed to a Chicago daily and for the WALL
STREET POINTER.  With an eye single to finance she studied these
as diligently all the week as she studied her Bible Sundays.
Sally was lost in admiration, to note with what swift and sure strides
her genius and judgment developed and expanded in the forecasting and
handling of the securities of both the material and spiritual markets.
He was proud of her nerve and daring in exploiting worldly stocks,
and just as proud of her conservative caution in working her
spiritual deals.  He noted that she never lost her head in either case;
that with a splendid courage she often went short on worldly futures,
but heedfully drew the line there--she was always long on the others.
Her policy was quite sane and simple, as she explained it to him:
what she put into earthly futures was for speculation, what she put
into spiritual futures was for investment; she was willing to go into
the one on a margin, and take chances, but in the case of the other,
"margin her no margins"--she wanted to cash in a hundred cents per
dollar's worth, and have the stock transferred on the books.

It took but a very few months to educate Aleck's imagination
and Sally's. Each day's training added something to the spread
and effectiveness of the two machines.  As a consequence, Aleck made
imaginary money much faster than at first she had dreamed of making it,
and Sally's competency in spending the overflow of it kept pace with
the strain put upon it, right along.  In the beginning, Aleck had
given the coal speculation a twelvemonth in which to materialize,
and had been loath to grant that this term might possibly be shortened
by nine months.  But that was the feeble work, the nursery work,
of a financial fancy that had had no teaching, no experience,
no practice.  These aids soon came, then that nine months vanished,
and the imaginary ten-thousand-dollar investment came marching
home with three hundred per cent.  profit on its back!

It was a great day for the pair of Fosters.  They were speechless
for joy.  Also speechless for another reason:  after much watching
of the market, Aleck had lately, with fear and trembling, made her
first flyer on a "margin," using the remaining twenty thousand of
the bequest in this risk.  In her mind's eye she had seen it climb,
point by point--always with a chance that the market would break--
until at last her anxieties were too great for further endurance--
she being new to the margin business and unhardened, as yet--and she
gave her imaginary broker an imaginary order by imaginary telegraph
to sell.  She said forty thousand dollars' profit was enough.
The sale was made on the very day that the coal venture had returned
with its rich freight.  As I have said, the couple were speechless.
they sat dazed and blissful that night, trying to realize that they were
actually worth a hundred thousand dollars in clean, imaginary cash.
Yet so it was.

It was the last time that ever Aleck was afraid of a margin;
at least afraid enough to let it break her sleep and pale her cheek
to the extent that this first experience in that line had done.

Indeed it was a memorable night.  Gradually the realization that they
were rich sank securely home into the souls of the pair, then they
began to place the money.  If we could have looked out through
the eyes of these dreamers, we should have seen their tidy little
wooden house disappear, and two-story brick with a cast-iron fence
in front of it take its place; we should have seen a three-globed
gas-chandelier grow down from the parlor ceiling; we should have seen
the homely rag carpet turn to noble Brussels, a dollar and a half
a yard; we should have seen the plebeian fireplace vanish away and
a recherch'e, big base-burner with isinglass windows take position
and spread awe around.  And we should have seen other things,
too; among them the buggy, the lap-robe, the stove-pipe hat, and so on.

From that time forth, although the daughters and the neighbors
saw only the same old wooden house there, it was a two-story
brick to Aleck and Sally and not a night went by that Aleck did
not worry about the imaginary gas-bills, and get for all comfort
Sally's reckless retort:  "What of it?  We can afford it."

Before the couple went to bed, that first night that they were rich,
they had decided that they must celebrate.  They must give a party--
that was the idea.  But how to explain it--to the daughters and
the neighbors?  They could not expose the fact that they were rich.
Sally was willing, even anxious, to do it; but Aleck kept her head
and would not allow it.  She said that although the money was as
good as in, it would be as well to wait until it was actually in.
On that policy she took her stand, and would not budge.
The great secret must be kept, she said--kept from the daughters and
everybody else.

The pair were puzzled.  They must celebrate, they were determined
to celebrate, but since the secret must be kept, what could
they celebrate?  No birthdays were due for three months.
Tilbury wasn't available, evidently he was going to live forever;
what the nation COULD they celebrate?  That was Sally's way
of putting it; and he was getting impatient, too, and harassed.
But at last he hit it--just by sheer inspiration, as it seemed to him--
and all their troubles were gone in a moment; they would celebrate
the Discovery of America.  A splendid idea!

Aleck was almost too proud of Sally for words--she said SHE never would
have thought of it.  But Sally, although he was bursting with delight
in the compliment and with wonder at himself, tried not to let on,
and said it wasn't really anything, anybody could have done it.
Whereat Aleck, with a prideful toss of her happy head, said:

"Oh, certainly!  Anybody could--oh, anybody!  Hosannah Dilkins,
for instance!  Or maybe Adelbert Peanut--oh, DEAR--yes!  Well, I'd like
to see them try it, that's all.  Dear-me-suz, if they could think
of the discovery of a forty-acre island it's more than _I_ believe
they could; and as for the whole continent, why, Sally Foster,
you know perfectly well it would strain the livers and lights
out of them and THEN they couldn't!"

The dear woman, she knew he had talent; and if affection made
her over-estimate the size of it a little, surely it was a sweet
and gentle crime, and forgivable for its source's sake.



CHAPTER V


The celebration went off well.  The friends were all present,
both the young and the old.  Among the young were Flossie and
Gracie Peanut and their brother Adelbert, who was a rising young
journeyman tinner, also Hosannah Dilkins, Jr., journeyman plasterer,
just out of his apprenticeship.  For many months Adelbert and Hosannah
had been showing interest in Gwendolen and Clytemnestra Foster,
and the parents of the girls had noticed this with private satisfaction.
But they suddenly realized now that that feeling had passed.
They recognized that the changed financial conditions had raised
up a social bar between their daughters and the young mechanics.
The daughters could now look higher--and must.  Yes, must.  They need
marry nothing below the grade of lawyer or merchant; poppa and momma
would take care of this; there must be no m'esalliances.

However, these thinkings and projects of their were private,
and did not show on the surface, and therefore threw no shadow
upon the celebration.  What showed upon the surface was a serene
and lofty contentment and a dignity of carriage and gravity of
deportment which compelled the admiration and likewise the wonder
of the company.  All noticed it and all commented upon it, but none
was able to divine the secret of it.  It was a marvel and a mystery.
Three several persons remarked, without suspecting what clever
shots they were making:

"It's as if they'd come into property."

That was just it, indeed.

Most mothers would have taken hold of the matrimonial matter in the
old regulation way; they would have given the girls a talking to,
of a solemn sort and untactful--a lecture calculated to defeat its
own purpose, by producing tears and secret rebellion; and the said
mothers would have further damaged the business by requesting
the young mechanics to discontinue their attentions.  But this
mother was different.  She was practical.  She said nothing to any
of the young people concerned, nor to any one else except Sally.
He listened to her and understood; understood and admired.
He said:

"I get the idea.  Instead of finding fault with the samples on view,
thus hurting feelings and obstructing trade without occasion,
you merely offer a higher class of goods for the money, and leave
nature to take her course.  It's wisdom, Aleck, solid wisdom,
and sound as a nut.  Who's your fish?  Have you nominated him yet?"

No, she hadn't. They must look the market over--which they did.
To start with, they considered and discussed Brandish, rising young
lawyer, and Fulton, rising young dentist.  Sally must invite them
to dinner.  But not right away; there was no hurry, Aleck said.
Keep an eye on the pair, and wait; nothing would be lost by going
slowly in so important a matter.

It turned out that this was wisdom, too; for inside of three
weeks Aleck made a wonderful strike which swelled her imaginary
hundred thousand to four hundred thousand of the same quality.
She and Sally were in the clouds that evening.  For the first
time they introduced champagne at dinner.  Not real champagne,
but plenty real enough for the amount of imagination expended on it.
It was Sally that did it, and Aleck weakly submitted.  At bottom both
were troubled and ashamed, for he was a high-up Son of Temperance,
and at funerals wore an apron which no dog could look upon and retain
his reason and his opinion; and she was a W. C. T. U., with all that
that implies of boiler-iron virtue and unendurable holiness.  But there
is was; the pride of riches was beginning its disintegrating work.
They had lived to prove, once more, a sad truth which had been proven
many times before in the world:  that whereas principle is a great
and noble protection against showy and degrading vanities and vices,
poverty is worth six of it.  More than four hundred thousand
dollars to the good.  They took up the matrimonial matter again.
Neither the dentist nor the lawyer was mentioned; there was no occasion,
they were out of the running.  Disqualified.  They discussed the son
of the pork-packer and the son of the village banker.  But finally,
as in the previous case, they concluded to wait and think, and go
cautiously and sure.

Luck came their way again.  Aleck, ever watchful saw a great
and risky chance, and took a daring flyer.  A time of trembling,
of doubt, of awful uneasiness followed, for non-success meant absolute
ruin and nothing short of it.  Then came the result, and Aleck,
faint with joy, could hardly control her voice when she said:

"The suspense is over, Sally--and we are worth a cold million!"

Sally wept for gratitude, and said:

"Oh, Electra, jewel of women, darling of my heart, we are free
at last, we roll in wealth, we need never scrimp again.  it's a
case for Veuve Cliquot!" and he got out a pint of spruce-beer
and made sacrifice, he saying "Damn the expense," and she rebuking
him gently with reproachful but humid and happy eyes.

They shelved the pork-packer's son and the banker's son, and sat
down to consider the Governor's son and the son of the Congressman.



CHAPTER VI


It were a weariness to follow in detail the leaps and bounds the Foster
fictitious finances took from this time forth.  It was marvelous,
it was dizzying, it was dazzling.  Everything Aleck touched turned
to fairy gold, and heaped itself glittering toward the firmament.
Millions upon millions poured in, and still the mighty stream flowed
thundering along, still its vast volume increased.  Five millions--
ten millions--twenty--thirty--was there never to be an end?

Two years swept by in a splendid delirium, the intoxicated Fosters
scarcely noticing the flight of time.  They were now worth three hundred
million dollars; they were in every board of directors of every
prodigious combine in the country; and still as time drifted along,
the millions went on piling up, five at a time, ten at a time,
as fast as they could tally them off, almost.  The three hundred
double itself--then doubled again--and yet again--and yet once more.

Twenty-four hundred millions!

The business was getting a little confused.  It was necessary
to take an account of stock, and straighten it out.  The Fosters
knew it, they felt it, they realized that it was imperative;
but they also knew that to do it properly and perfectly the task
must be carried to a finish without a break when once it was begun.
A ten-hours' job; and where could THEY find ten leisure hours
in a bunch?  Sally was selling pins and sugar and calico all day
and every day; Aleck was cooking and washing dishes and sweeping
and making beds all day and every day, with none to help,
for the daughters were being saved up for high society.  The Fosters
knew there was one way to get the ten hours, and only one.
Both were ashamed to name it; each waited for the other to do it.
Finally Sally said:

"Somebody's got to give in.  It's up to me.  Consider that I've
named it--never mind pronouncing it out aloud."

Aleck colored, but was grateful.  Without further remark, they fell.
Fell, and--broke the Sabbath.  For that was their only free
ten-hour stretch.  It was but another step in the downward path.
Others would follow.  Vast wealth has temptations which fatally
and surely undermine the moral structure of persons not habituated
to its possession.

They pulled down the shades and broke the Sabbath.  With hard
and patient labor they overhauled their holdings and listed them.
And a long-drawn procession of formidable names it was!
Starting with the Railway Systems, Steamer Lines, Standard Oil,
Ocean Cables, Diluted Telegraph, and all the rest, and winding
up with Klondike, De Beers, Tammany Graft, and Shady Privileges
in the Post-office Department.

Twenty-four hundred millions, and all safely planted in Good Things,
gilt-edged and interest-bearing. Income, $120,000,000 a year.
Aleck fetched a long purr of soft delight, and said:

"Is it enough?"

"It is, Aleck."

"What shall we do?"

"Stand pat."

"Retire from business?"

"That's it."

"I am agreed.  The good work is finished; we will take a long rest
and enjoy the money."

"Good!  Aleck!"

"Yes, dear?"

"How much of the income can we spend?"

"The whole of it."

It seemed to her husband that a ton of chains fell from his limbs.
He did not say a word; he was happy beyond the power of speech.

After that, they broke the Sabbaths right along as fast as they
turned up.  It is the first wrong step that counts.  Every Sunday
they put in the whole day, after morning service, on inventions--
inventions of ways to spend the money.  They got to continuing this
delicious dissipation until past midnight; and at every s'eance Aleck
lavished millions upon great charities and religious enterprises,
and Sally lavished like sums upon matters to which (at first)
he gave definite names.  Only at first.  Later the names gradually
lost sharpness of outline, and eventually faded into "sundries,"
thus becoming entirely--but safely--undescriptive.  For Sally
was crumbling.  The placing of these millions added seriously
and most uncomfortably to the family expenses--in tallow candles.
For a while Aleck was worried.  Then, after a little, she ceased
to worry, for the occasion of it was gone.  She was pained,
she was grieved, she was ashamed; but she said nothing, and so became
an accessory.  Sally was taking candles; he was robbing the store.
It is ever thus.  Vast wealth, to the person unaccustomed to it,
is a bane; it eats into the flesh and bone of his morals.
When the Fosters were poor, they could have been trusted with
untold candles.  But now they--but let us not dwell upon it.
From candles to apples is but a step:  Sally got to taking apples;
then soap; then maple-sugar; then canned goods; then crockery.
How easy it is to go from bad to worse, when once we have started upon a
downward course!

Meantime, other effects had been milestoning the course of the Fosters'
splendid financial march.  The fictitious brick dwelling had
given place to an imaginary granite one with a checker-board
mansard roof; in time this one disappeared and gave place to a
still grander home--and so on and so on.  Mansion after mansion,
made of air, rose, higher, broader, finer, and each in its turn
vanished away; until now in these latter great days, our dreamers
were in fancy housed, in a distant region, in a sumptuous vast
palace which looked out from a leafy summit upon a noble prospect
of vale and river and receding hills steeped in tinted mists--
and all private, all the property of the dreamers; a palace swarming
with liveried servants, and populous with guests of fame and power,
hailing from all the world's capitals, foreign and domestic.

This palace was far, far away toward the rising sun, immeasurably remote,
astronomically remote, in Newport, Rhode Island, Holy Land
of High Society, ineffable Domain of the American Aristocracy.
As a rule they spent a part of every Sabbath--after morning service--
in this sumptuous home, the rest of it they spent in Europe,
or in dawdling around in their private yacht.  Six days of sordid
and plodding fact life at home on the ragged edge of Lakeside
and straitened means, the seventh in Fairlyand--such had been
their program and their habit.

In their sternly restricted fact life they remained as of old--
plodding, diligent, careful, practical, economical.  They stuck
loyally to the little Presbyterian Church, and labored faithfully
in its interests and stood by its high and tough doctrines with all
their mental and spiritual energies.  But in their dream life they
obeyed the invitations of their fancies, whatever they might be,
and howsoever the fancies might change.  Aleck's fancies were not
very capricious, and not frequent, but Sally's scattered a good deal.
Aleck, in her dream life, went over to the Episcopal camp, on account
of its large official titles; next she became High-church on account
of the candles and shows; and next she naturally changed to Rome,
where there were cardinals and more candles.  But these excursions
were a nothing to Sally's. His dream life was a glowing and continuous
and persistent excitement, and he kept every part of it fresh and
sparkling by frequent changes, the religious part along with the rest.
He worked his religions hard, and changed them with his shirt.

The liberal spendings of the Fosters upon their fancies began
early in their prosperities, and grew in prodigality step by step
with their advancing fortunes.  In time they became truly enormous.
Aleck built a university or two per Sunday; also a hospital or two;
also a Rowton hotel or so; also a batch of churches; now and then
a cathedral; and once, with untimely and ill-chosen playfulness,
Sally said, "It was a cold day when she didn't ship a cargo of
missionaries to persuade unreflecting Chinamen to trade off twenty-four
carat Confucianism for counterfeit Christianity."

This rude and unfeeling language hurt Aleck to the heart, and she
went from the presence crying.  That spectacle went to his own heart,
and in his pain and shame he would have given worlds to have
those unkind words back.  She had uttered no syllable of reproach--
and that cut him.  Not one suggestion that he look at his own record--
and she could have made, oh, so many, and such blistering ones!
Her generous silence brought a swift revenge, for it turned his
thoughts upon himself, it summoned before him a spectral procession,
a moving vision of his life as he had been leading it these past
few years of limitless prosperity, and as he sat there reviewing
it his cheeks burned and his soul was steeped in humiliation.
Look at her life--how fair it was, and tending ever upward; and look
at his own--how frivolous, how charged with mean vanities, how selfish,
how empty, how ignoble!  And its trend--never upward, but downward,
ever downward!

He instituted comparisons between her record and his own.  He had found
fault with her--so he mused--HE!  And what could he say for himself?
When she built her first church what was he doing?  Gathering other
blas'e multimillionaires into a Poker Club; defiling his own palace
with it; losing hundreds of thousands to it at every sitting,
and sillily vain of the admiring notoriety it made for him.
When she was building her first university, what was he doing?
Polluting himself with a gay and dissipated secret life in the
company of other fast bloods, multimillionaires in money and paupers
in character.  When she was building her first foundling asylum,
what was he doing?  Alas!  When she was projecting her noble Society
for the Purifying of the Sex, what was he doing?  Ah, what, indeed!
When she and the W. C. T. U. and the Woman with the Hatchet,
moving with resistless march, were sweeping the fatal bottle from
the land, what was he doing?  Getting drunk three times a day.
When she, builder of a hundred cathedrals, was being gratefully
welcomed and blest in papal Rome and decorated with the Golden Rose
which she had so honorably earned, what was he doing?  Breaking the
bank at Monte Carlo.

He stopped.  He could go no farther; he could not bear the rest.
He rose up, with a great resolution upon his lips:  this secret
life should be revealing, and confessed; no longer would he live
it clandestinely, he would go and tell her All.

And that is what he did.  He told her All; and wept upon
her bosom; wept, and moaned, and begged for her forgiveness.
It was a profound shock, and she staggered under the blow, but he
was her own, the core of her heart, the blessing of her eyes,
her all in all, she could deny him nothing, and she forgave him.
She felt that he could never again be quite to her what he had
been before; she knew that he could only repent, and not reform;
yet all morally defaced and decayed as he was, was he not her own,
her very own, the idol of her deathless worship?  She said she
was his serf, his slave, and she opened her yearning heart and took
him in.



CHAPTER VII


One Sunday afternoon some time after this they were sailing the
summer seas in their dream yacht, and reclining in lazy luxury under
the awning of the after-deck. There was silence, for each was busy
with his own thoughts.  These seasons of silence had insensibly
been growing more and more frequent of late; the old nearness and
cordiality were waning.  Sally's terrible revelation had done its work;
Aleck had tried hard to drive the memory of it out of her mind,
but it would not go, and the shame and bitterness of it were
poisoning her gracious dream life.  She could see now (on Sundays)
that her husband was becoming a bloated and repulsive Thing.
She could not close her eyes to this, and in these days she
no longer looked at him, Sundays, when she could help it.

But she--was she herself without blemish?  Alas, she knew she was not.
She was keeping a secret from him, she was acting dishonorably
toward him, and many a pang it was costing her.  SHE WAS BREAKING
THE COMPACT, AND CONCEALING IT FROM HIM.  Under strong temptation
she had gone into business again; she had risked their whole
fortune in a purchase of all the railway systems and coal and steel
companies in the country on a margin, and she was now trembling,
every Sabbath hour, lest through some chance word of hers he find
it out.  In her misery and remorse for this treachery she could
not keep her heart from going out to him in pity; she was filled
with compunctions to see him lying there, drunk and contented,
and ever suspecting.  Never suspecting--trusting her with a perfect
and pathetic trust, and she holding over him by a thread a possible
calamity of so devastating a--

"SAY--Aleck?"

The interrupting words brought her suddenly to herself.  She was
grateful to have that persecuting subject from her thoughts,
and she answered, with much of the old-time tenderness in her tone:

"Yes, dear."

"Do you know, Aleck, I think we are making a mistake--that is,
you are.  I mean about the marriage business."  He sat up, fat and
froggy and benevolent, like a bronze Buddha, and grew earnest.
"Consider--it's more than five years.  You've continued the same
policy from the start:  with every rise, always holding on for five
points higher.  Always when I think we are going to have some weddings,
you see a bigger thing ahead, and I undergo another disappointment.
_I_ think you are too hard to please.  Some day we'll get left.
First, we turned down the dentist and the lawyer.  That was all right--
it was sound.  Next, we turned down the banker's son and the
pork-butcher's heir--right again, and sound.  Next, we turned
down the Congressman's son and the Governor's--right as a trivet,
I confess it.  Next the Senator's son and the son of the Vice-President
of the United States--perfectly right, there's no permanency about
those little distinctions.  Then you went for the aristocracy;
and I thought we had struck oil at last--yes.  We would make
a plunge at the Four Hundred, and pull in some ancient lineage,
venerable, holy, ineffable, mellow with the antiquity of a hundred
and fifty years, disinfected of the ancestral odors of salt-cod
and pelts all of a century ago, and unsmirched by a day's work since,
and then! why, then the marriages, of course.  But no, along comes
a pair a real aristocrats from Europe, and straightway you throw over
the half-breeds. It was awfully discouraging, Aleck!  Since then,
what a procession!  You turned down the baronets for a pair
of barons; you turned down the barons for a pair of viscounts;
the viscounts for a pair of earls; the earls for a pair of marquises;
the marquises for a brace of dukes.  NOW, Aleck, cash in!--
you've played the limit.  You've got a job lot of four dukes
under the hammer; of four nationalities; all sound in the wind
and limb and pedigree, all bankrupt and in debt up to the ears.
They come high, but we can afford it.  Come, Aleck, don't delay
any longer, don't keep up the suspense:  take the whole lay-out,
and leave the girls to choose!"

Aleck had been smiling blandly and contentedly all through this
arraignment of her marriage policy, a pleasant light, as of triumph
with perhaps a nice surprise peeping out through it, rose in her eyes,
and she said, as calmly as she could:

"Sally, what would you say to--ROYALTY?"

Prodigious!  Poor man, it knocked him silly, and he fell over the
garboard-strake and barked his shin on the cat-heads. He was dizzy
for a moment, then he gathered himself up and limped over and sat
down by his wife and beamed his old-time admiration and affection
upon her in floods, out of his bleary eyes.

"By George!" he said, fervently, "Aleck, you ARE great--the greatest
woman in the whole earth!  I can't ever learn the whole size of you.
I can't ever learn the immeasurable deeps of you.  Here I've been
considering myself qualified to criticize your game.  _I!_ Why,
if I had stopped to think, I'd have known you had a lone hand up
your sleeve.  Now, dear heart, I'm all red-hot impatience--tell me
about it!"

The flattered and happy woman put her lips to his ear and whispered
a princely name.  It made him catch his breath, it lit his face
with exultation.

"Land!" he said, "it's a stunning catch!  He's got a gambling-hall,
and a graveyard, and a bishop, and a cathedral--all his very own.
And all gilt-edged five-hundred-per-cent. stock, every detail of it;
the tidiest little property in Europe.  and that graveyard--
it's the selectest in the world:  none but suicides admitted;
YES, sir, and the free-list suspended, too, ALL the time.
There isn't much land in the principality, but there's enough:
eight hundred acres in the graveyard and forty-two outside.
It's a SOVEREIGNTY--that's the main thing; LAND'S nothing.
There's plenty land, Sahara's drugged with it."

Aleck glowed; she was profoundly happy.  She said:

"Think of it, Sally--it is a family that has never married outside
the Royal and Imperial Houses of Europe:  our grandchildren will
sit upon thrones!"

"True as you live, Aleck--and bear scepters, too; and handle
them as naturally and nonchantly as I handle a yardstick.
it's a grand catch, Aleck.  He's corralled, is he?  Can't get away?
You didn't take him on a margin?"

"No. Trust me for that.  He's not a liability, he's an asset.
So is the other one."

"Who is it, Aleck?"

"His Royal Highness
Sigismund-Siegfriend-Lauenfeld-Dinkelspiel-Schwartzenberg
Blutwurst, Hereditary Grant Duke of Katzenyammer."

"No!  You can't mean it!"

"It's as true as I'm sitting here, I give you my word," she answered.

His cup was full, and he hugged her to his heart with rapture, saying:

"How wonderful it all seems, and how beautiful!  It's one of the
oldest and noblest of the three hundred and sixty-four ancient
German principalities, and one of the few that was allowed to
retain its royal estate when Bismarck got done trimming them.
I know that farm, I've been there.  It's got a rope-walk and a
candle-factory and an army.  Standing army.  Infantry and cavalry.
Three soldier and a horse.  Aleck, it's been a long wait, and full
of heartbreak and hope deferred, but God knows I am happy now.
Happy, and grateful to you, my own, who have done it all.
When is it to be?"

"Next Sunday."

"Good.  And we'll want to do these weddings up in the very regalest
style that's going.  It's properly due to the royal quality of the
parties of the first part.  Now as I understand it, there is only one
kind of marriage that is sacred to royalty, exclusive to royalty:
it's the morganatic."

"What do they call it that for, Sally?"

"I don't know; but anyway it's royal, and royal only."

"Then we will insist upon it.  More--I will compel it.
It is morganatic marriage or none."

"That settles it!" said Sally, rubbing his hands with delight.
"And it will be the very first in America.  Aleck, it will make
Newport sick."

Then they fell silent, and drifted away upon their dream wings
to the far regions of the earth to invite all the crowned heads
and their families and provide gratis transportation to them.



CHAPTER VIII


During three days the couple walked upon air, with their heads in
the clouds.  They were but vaguely conscious of their surroundings;
they saw all things dimly, as through a veil; they were steeped
in dreams, often they did not hear when they were spoken to;
they often did not understand when they heard; they answered confusedly
or at random; Sally sold molasses by weight, sugar by the yard,
and furnished soap when asked for candles, and Aleck put the cat
in the wash and fed milk to the soiled linen.  Everybody was stunned
and amazed, and went about muttering, "What CAN be the matter
with the Fosters?"

Three days.  Then came events!  Things had taken a happy turn,
and for forty-eight hours Aleck's imaginary corner had been booming.
Up--up--still up!  Cost point was passed.  Still up--and up--
and up!  Cost point was passed.  STill up--and up--and up!
Five points above cost--then ten--fifteen--twenty!  Twenty points
cold profit on the vast venture, now, and Aleck's imaginary brokers
were shouting frantically by imaginary long-distance, "Sell! sell!
for Heaven's sake SELL!"

She broke the splendid news to Sally, and he, too, said,
"Sell! sell--oh, don't make a blunder, now, you own the earth!--
sell, sell!"  But she set her iron will and lashed it amidships,
and said she would hold on for five points more if she died for it.

It was a fatal resolve.  The very next day came the historic crash,
the record crash, the devastating crash, when the bottom fell out
of Wall Street, and the whole body of gilt-edged stocks dropped
ninety-five points in five hours, and the multimillionaire was seen
begging his bread in the Bowery.  Aleck sternly held her grip
and "put up" ass long as she could, but at last there came a call
which she was powerless to meet, and her imaginary brokers sold
her out.  Then, and not till then, the man in her was vanished,
and the woman in her resumed sway.  She put her arms about her
husband's neck and wept, saying:

"I am to blame, do not forgive me, I cannot bear it.  We are paupers!
Paupers, and I am so miserable.  The weddings will never come off;
all that is past; we could not even buy the dentist, now."

A bitter reproach was on Sally's tongue:  "I BEGGED you to sell,
but you--" He did not say it; he had not the heart to add a hurt
to that broken and repentant spirit.  A nobler thought came to him
and he said:

"Bear up, my Aleck, all is not lost!  You really never invested
a penny of my uncle's bequest, but only its unmaterialized future;
what we have lost was only the incremented harvest from that future
by your incomparable financial judgment and sagacity.  Cheer up,
banish these griefs; we still have the thirty thousand untouched;
and with the experience which you have acquired, think what you will
be able to do with it in a couple years!  The marriages are not off,
they are only postponed."

These are blessed words.  Aleck saw how true they were, and their
influence was electric; her tears ceased to flow, and her great spirit
rose to its full stature again.  With flashing eye and grateful heart,
and with hand uplifted in pledge and prophecy, she said:

"Now and here I proclaim--"

But she was interrupted by a visitor.  It was the editor and proprietor
of the SAGAMORE.  He had happened into Lakeside to pay a duty-call upon
an obscure grandmother of his who was nearing the end of her pilgrimage,
and with the idea of combining business with grief he had looked up
the Fosters, who had been so absorbed in other things for the past
four years that they neglected to pay up their subscription.
Six dollars due.  No visitor could have been more welcome.  He would
know all about Uncle Tilbury and what his chances might be getting
to be, cemeterywards.  They could, of course, ask no questions,
for that would squelch the bequest, but they could nibble around on
the edge of the subject and hope for results.  The scheme did not work.
The obtuse editor did not know he was being nibbled at; but at last,
chance accomplished what art had failed in.  In illustration of something
under discussion which required the help of metaphor, the editor said:

"Land, it's a tough as Tilbury Foster!--as WE say."

It was sudden, and it made the Fosters jump.  The editor noticed,
and said, apologetically:

"No harm intended, I assure you.  It's just a saying; just a joke,
you know--nothing of it.  Relation of yours?"

Sally crowded his burning eagerness down, and answered with all
the indifference he could assume:

"I--well, not that I know of, but we've heard of him."  The editor
was thankful, and resumed his composure.  Sally added:  "Is he--
is he--well?"

"Is he WELL?  Why, bless you he's in Sheol these five years!"

The Fosters were trembling with grief, though it felt like joy.
Sally said, non-committally--and tentatively:

"Ah, well, such is life, and none can escape--not even the rich
are spared."

The editor laughed.

"If you are including Tilbury," said he, "it don't apply.
HE hadn't a cent; the town had to bury him."

The Fosters sat petrified for two minutes; petrified and cold.
Then, white-faced and weak-voiced, Sally asked:

"Is it true?  Do you KNOW it to be true?"

"Well, I should say!  I was one of the executors.  He hadn't
anything to leave but a wheelbarrow, and he left that to me.
It hadn't any wheel, and wasn't any good.  Still, it was something,
and so, to square up, I scribbled off a sort of a little obituarial
send-off for him, but it got crowded out."

The Fosters were not listening--their cup was full, it could
contain no more.  They sat with bowed heads, dead to all things
but the ache at their hearts.

An hour later.  Still they sat there, bowed, motionless, silent,
the visitor long ago gone, they unaware.

Then they stirred, and lifted their heads wearily, and gazed at each
other wistfully, dreamily, dazed; then presently began to twaddle
to each other in a wandering and childish way.  At intervals they
lapsed into silences, leaving a sentence unfinished, seemingly either
unaware of it or losing their way.  Sometimes, when they woke
out of these silences they had a dim and transient consciousness
that something had happened to their minds; then with a dumb
and yearning solicitude they would softly caress each other's
hands in mutual compassion and support, as if they would say:
"I am near you, I will not forsake you, we will bear it together;
somewhere there is release and forgetfulness, somewhere there
is a grave and peace; be patient, it will not be long."

They lived yet two years, in mental night, always brooding,
steeped in vague regrets and melancholy dreams, never speaking;
then release came to both on the same day.

Toward the end the darkness lifted from Sally's ruined mind
for a moment, and he said:

"Vast wealth, acquired by sudden and unwholesome means, is a snare.
It did us no good, transient were its feverish pleasures;
yet for its sake we threw away our sweet and simple and happy life--
let others take warning by us."

He lay silent awhile, with closed eyes; then as the chill of death
crept upward toward his heart, and consciousness was fading from
his brain, he muttered:

"Money had brought him misery, and he took his revenge upon us,
who had done him no harm.  He had his desire:  with base and cunning
calculation he left us but thirty thousand, knowing we would try
to increase it, and ruin our life and break our hearts.  Without added
expense he could have left us far above desire of increase, far above
the temptation to speculate, and a kinder soul would have done it;
but in him was no generous spirit, no pity, no--"

***



A DOG'S TALE



CHAPTER I


My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am
a Presbyterian.  This is what my mother told me, I do not know
these nice distinctions myself.  To me they are only fine large
words meaning nothing.  My mother had a fondness for such;
she liked to say them, and see other dogs look surprised and envious,
as wondering how she got so much education.  But, indeed, it was not
real education; it was only show:  she got the words by listening
in the dining-room and drawing-room when there was company,
and by going with the children to Sunday-school and listening there;
and whenever she heard a large word she said it over to herself
many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a dogmatic
gathering in the neighborhood, then she would get it off,
and surprise and distress them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff,
which rewarded her for all her trouble.  If there was a stranger
he was nearly sure to be suspicious, and when he got his breath
again he would ask her what it meant.  And she always told him.
He was never expecting this but thought he would catch her;
so when she told him, he was the one that looked ashamed,
whereas he had thought it was going to be she.  The others were
always waiting for this, and glad of it and proud of her, for they
knew what was going to happen, because they had had experience.
When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up
with admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it
was the right one; and that was natural, because, for one thing,
she answered up so promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking,
and for another thing, where could they find out whether it was right
or not? for she was the only cultivated dog there was.  By and by,
when I was older, she brought home the word Unintellectual, one time,
and worked it pretty hard all the week at different gatherings,
making much unhappiness and despondency; and it was at this time
that I noticed that during that week she was asked for the meaning
at eight different assemblages, and flashed out a fresh definition
every time, which showed me that she had more presence of mind
than culture, though I said nothing, of course.  She had one word
which she always kept on hand, and ready, like a life-preserver,
a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was likely to get
washed overboard in a sudden way--that was the word Synonymous.
When she happened to fetch out a long word which had had its day
weeks before and its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile,
if there was a stranger there of course it knocked him groggy for
a couple of minutes, then he would come to, and by that time she
would be away down wind on another tack, and not expecting anything;
so when he'd hail and ask her to cash in, I (the only dog on
the inside of her game) could see her canvas flicker a moment--
but only just a moment--then it would belly out taut and full,
and she would say, as calm as a summer's day, "It's synonymous
with supererogation," or some godless long reptile of a word
like that, and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack,
perfectly comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger looking
profane and embarrassed, and the initiated slatting the floor
with their tails in unison and their faces transfigured with a
holy joy.

And it was the same with phrases.  She would drag home a whole phrase,
if it had a grand sound, and play it six nights and two matinees,
and explain it a new way every time--which she had to, for all she
cared for was the phrase; she wasn't interested in what it meant,
and knew those dogs hadn't wit enough to catch her, anyway.
Yes, she was a daisy!  She got so she wasn't afraid of anything,
she had such confidence in the ignorance of those creatures.
She even brought anecdotes that she had heard the family and the
dinner-guests laugh and shout over; and as a rule she got the nub
of one chestnut hitched onto another chestnut, where, of course,
it didn't fit and hadn't any point; and when she delivered the nub
she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and barked
in the most insane way, while I could see that she was wondering
to herself why it didn't seem as funny as it did when she first
heard it.  But no harm was done; the others rolled and barked too,
privately ashamed of themselves for not seeing the point, and never
suspecting that the fault was not with them and there wasn't any
to see.

You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and
frivolous character; still, she had virtues, and enough to make up,
I think.  She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harbored
resentments for injuries done her, but put them easily out of her
mind and forgot them; and she taught her children her kindly way,
and from her we learned also to be brave and prompt in time of danger,
and not to run away, but face the peril that threatened friend
or stranger, and help him the best we could without stopping to think
what the cost might be to us.  And she taught us not by words only,
but by example, and that is the best way and the surest and the
most lasting.  Why, the brave things she did, the splendid things! she
was just a soldier; and so modest about it--well, you couldn't help
admiring her, and you couldn't help imitating her; not even a King
Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society.
So, as you see, there was more to her than her education.



CHAPTER II


When I was well grown, at last, I was sold and taken away,
and I never saw her again.  She was broken-hearted, and so was I,
and we cried; but she comforted me as well as she could, and said
we were sent into this world for a wise and good purpose, and must
do our duties without repining, take our life as we might find it,
live it for the best good of others, and never mind about the results;
they were not our affair.  She said men who did like this would have
a noble and beautiful reward by and by in another world, and although
we animals would not go there, to do well and right without reward
would give to our brief lives a worthiness and dignity which in
itself would be a reward.  She had gathered these things from time
to time when she had gone to the Sunday-school with the children,
and had laid them up in her memory more carefully than she had done
with those other words and phrases; and she had studied them deeply,
for her good and ours.  One may see by this that she had a wise
and thoughtful head, for all there was so much lightness and vanity
in it.

So we said our farewells, and looked our last upon each other through
our tears; and the last thing she said--keeping it for the last
to make me remember it the better, I think--was, "In memory of me,
when there is a time of danger to another do not think of yourself,
think of your mother, and do as she would do."

Do you think I could forget that?  No.



CHAPTER III


It was such a charming home!--my new one; a fine great house,
with pictures, and delicate decorations, and rich furniture,
and no gloom anywhere, but all the wilderness of dainty colors lit up
with flooding sunshine; and the spacious grounds around it, and the
great garden--oh, greensward, and noble trees, and flowers, no end!
And I was the same as a member of the family; and they loved me,
and petted me, and did not give me a new name, but called me by my
old one that was dear to me because my mother had given it me--
Aileen Mavoureen.  She got it out of a song; and the Grays knew
that song, and said it was a beautiful name.

Mrs. Gray was thirty, and so sweet and so lovely, you cannot
imagine it; and Sadie was ten, and just like her mother, just a
darling slender little copy of her, with auburn tails down her back,
and short frocks; and the baby was a year old, and plump and dimpled,
and fond of me, and never could get enough of hauling on my tail,
and hugging me, and laughing out its innocent happiness; and Mr. Gray
was thirty-eight, and tall and slender and handsome, a little bald
in front, alert, quick in his movements, business-like, prompt,
decided, unsentimental, and with that kind of trim-chiseled face
that just seems to glint and sparkle with frosty intellectuality!
He was a renowned scientist.  I do not know what the word means,
but my mother would know how to use it and get effects.  She would
know how to depress a rat-terrier with it and make a lap-dog
look sorry he came.  But that is not the best one; the best one
was Laboratory.  My mother could organize a Trust on that one that
would skin the tax-collars off the whole herd.  The laboratory
was not a book, or a picture, or a place to wash your hands in,
as the college president's dog said--no, that is the lavatory;
the laboratory is quite different, and is filled with jars,
and bottles, and electrics, and wires, and strange machines;
and every week other scientists came there and sat in the place,
and used the machines, and discussed, and made what they called
experiments and discoveries; and often I came, too, and stood
around and listened, and tried to learn, for the sake of my mother,
and in loving memory of her, although it was a pain to me, as realizing
what she was losing out of her life and I gaining nothing at all;
for try as I might, I was never able to make anything out of it
at all.

Other times I lay on the floor in the mistress's work-room and slept,
she gently using me for a foot-stool, knowing it pleased me,
for it was a caress; other times I spent an hour in the nursery,
and got well tousled and made happy; other times I watched by the
crib there, when the baby was asleep and the nurse out for a few
minutes on the baby's affairs; other times I romped and raced
through the grounds and the garden with Sadie till we were tired out,
then slumbered on the grass in the shade of a tree while she read
her book; other times I went visiting among the neighbor dogs--
for there were some most pleasant ones not far away, and one very
handsome and courteous and graceful one, a curly-haired Irish
setter by the name of Robin Adair, who was a Presbyterian like me,
and belonged to the Scotch minister.

The servants in our house were all kind to me and were fond of me,
and so, as you see, mine was a pleasant life.  There could not be
a happier dog that I was, nor a gratefuler one.  I will say this
for myself, for it is only the truth:  I tried in all ways to do
well and right, and honor my mother's memory and her teachings,
and earn the happiness that had come to me, as best I could.

By and by came my little puppy, and then my cup was full, my happiness
was perfect.  It was the dearest little waddling thing, and so smooth
and soft and velvety, and had such cunning little awkward paws,
and such affectionate eyes, and such a sweet and innocent face;
and it made me so proud to see how the children and their mother
adored it, and fondled it, and exclaimed over every little wonderful
thing it did.  It did seem to me that life was just too lovely to--

Then came the winter.  One day I was standing a watch in the nursery.
That is to say, I was asleep on the bed.  The baby was asleep in
the crib, which was alongside the bed, on the side next the fireplace.
It was the kind of crib that has a lofty tent over it made of gauzy
stuff that you can see through.  The nurse was out, and we two
sleepers were alone.  A spark from the wood-fire was shot out, and it
lit on the slope of the tent.  I suppose a quiet interval followed,
then a scream from the baby awoke me, and there was that tent
flaming up toward the ceiling!  Before I could think, I sprang
to the floor in my fright, and in a second was half-way to the door;
but in the next half-second my mother's farewell was sounding
in my ears, and I was back on the bed again., I reached my head
through the flames and dragged the baby out by the waist-band,
and tugged it along, and we fell to the floor together in a cloud
of smoke; I snatched a new hold, and dragged the screaming little
creature along and out at the door and around the bend of the hall,
and was still tugging away, all excited and happy and proud,
when the master's voice shouted:

"Begone you cursed beast!" and I jumped to save myself; but he
was furiously quick, and chased me up, striking furiously at me
with his cane, I dodging this way and that, in terror, and at last a
strong blow fell upon my left foreleg, which made me shriek and fall,
for the moment, helpless; the came went up for another blow,
but never descended, for the nurse's voice rang wildly out,
"The nursery's on fire!" and the master rushed away in that direction,
and my other bones were saved.

The pain was cruel, but, no matter, I must not lose any time;
he might come back at any moment; so I limped on three legs to the
other end of the hall, where there was a dark little stairway leading
up into a garret where old boxes and such things were kept, as I had
heard say, and where people seldom went.  I managed to climb up there,
then I searched my way through the dark among the piles of things,
and hid in the secretest place I could find.  It was foolish to be
afraid there, yet still I was; so afraid that I held in and hardly
even whimpered, though it would have been such a comfort to whimper,
because that eases the pain, you know.  But I could lick my leg,
and that did some good.

For half an hour there was a commotion downstairs, and shoutings,
and rushing footsteps, and then there was quiet again.  Quiet for
some minutes, and that was grateful to my spirit, for then my fears
began to go down; and fears are worse than pains--oh, much worse.
Then came a sound that froze me.  They were calling me--calling me
by name--hunting for me!

It was muffled by distance, but that could not take the terror out of it,
and it was the most dreadful sound to me that I had ever heard.
It went all about, everywhere, down there:  along the halls, through all
the rooms, in both stories, and in the basement and the cellar;
then outside, and farther and farther away--then back, and all
about the house again, and I thought it would never, never stop.
But at last it did, hours and hours after the vague twilight of
the garret had long ago been blotted out by black darkness.

Then in that blessed stillness my terrors fell little by little away,
and I was at peace and slept.  It was a good rest I had, but I woke
before the twilight had come again.  I was feeling fairly comfortable,
and I could think out a plan now.  I made a very good one;
which was, to creep down, all the way down the back stairs,
and hide behind the cellar door, and slip out and escape when the
iceman came at dawn, while he was inside filling the refrigerator;
then I would hide all day, and start on my journey when night came;
my journey to--well, anywhere where they would not know me and betray
me to the master.  I was feeling almost cheerful now; then suddenly
I thought:  Why, what would life be without my puppy!

That was despair.  There was no plan for me; I saw that;
I must say where I was; stay, and wait, and take what might come--
it was not my affair; that was what life is--my mother had said it.
Then--well, then the calling began again!  All my sorrows came back.
I said to myself, the master will never forgive.  I did not know
what I had done to make him so bitter and so unforgiving, yet I
judged it was something a dog could not understand, but which was
clear to a man and dreadful.

They called and called--days and nights, it seemed to me.
So long that the hunger and thirst near drove me mad, and I
recognized that I was getting very weak.  When you are this way you
sleep a great deal, and I did.  Once I woke in an awful fright--
it seemed to me that the calling was right there in the garret!
And so it was:  it was Sadie's voice, and she was crying; my name
was falling from her lips all broken, poor thing, and I could not
believe my ears for the joy of it when I heard her say:

"Come back to us--oh, come back to us, and forgive--it is all so sad
without our--"

I broke in with SUCH a grateful little yelp, and the next moment
Sadie was plunging and stumbling through the darkness and the lumber
and shouting for the family to hear, "She's found, she's found!"


The days that followed--well, they were wonderful.  The mother
and Sadie and the servants--why, they just seemed to worship me.
They couldn't seem to make me a bed that was fine enough;
and as for food, they couldn't be satisfied with anything but game
and delicacies that were out of season; and every day the friends
and neighbors flocked in to hear about my heroism--that was the
name they called it by, and it means agriculture.  I remember my
mother pulling it on a kennel once, and explaining it in that way,
but didn't say what agriculture was, except that it was synonymous
with intramural incandescence; and a dozen times a day Mrs. Gray
and Sadie would tell the tale to new-comers, and say I risked my life
to say the baby's, and both of us had burns to prove it, and then
the company would pass me around and pet me and exclaim about me,
and you could see the pride in the eyes of Sadie and her mother;
and when the people wanted to know what made me limp, they looked
ashamed and changed the subject, and sometimes when people hunted
them this way and that way with questions about it, it looked to me
as if they were going to cry.

And this was not all the glory; no, the master's friends came,
a whole twenty of the most distinguished people, and had me in
the laboratory, and discussed me as if I was a kind of discovery;
and some of them said it was wonderful in a dumb beast, the finest
exhibition of instinct they could call to mind; but the master said,
with vehemence, "It's far above instinct; it's REASON, and many a man,
privileged to be saved and go with you and me to a better world
by right of its possession, has less of it that this poor silly
quadruped that's foreordained to perish"; and then he laughed,
and said:  "Why, look at me--I'm a sarcasm! bless you, with all
my grand intelligence, the only think I inferred was that the dog
had gone mad and was destroying the child, whereas but for the
beast's intelligence--it's REASON, I tell you!--the child would
have perished!"

They disputed and disputed, and _I_ was the very center of subject
of it all, and I wished my mother could know that this grand honor
had come to me; it would have made her proud.

Then they discussed optics, as they called it, and whether a certain
injury to the brain would produce blindness or not, but they could
not agree about it, and said they must test it by experiment by and by;
and next they discussed plants, and that interested me, because in
the summer Sadie and I had planted seeds--I helped her dig the holes,
you know--and after days and days a little shrub or a flower came
up there, and it was a wonder how that could happen; but it did,
and I wished I could talk--I would have told those people about it
and shown then how much I knew, and been all alive with the subject;
but I didn't care for the optics; it was dull, and when the came back
to it again it bored me, and I went to sleep.

Pretty soon it was spring, and sunny and pleasant and lovely,
and the sweet mother and the children patted me and the puppy
good-by, and went away on a journey and a visit to their kin,
and the master wasn't any company for us, but we played together
and had good times, and the servants were kind and friendly,
so we got along quite happily and counted the days and waited
for the family.

And one day those men came again, and said, now for the test,
and they took the puppy to the laboratory, and I limped
three-leggedly along, too, feeling proud, for any attention shown
to the puppy was a pleasure to me, of course.  They discussed
and experimented, and then suddenly the puppy shrieked,
and they set him on the floor, and he went staggering around,
with his head all bloody, and the master clapped his hands and shouted:

"There, I've won--confess it!  He's a blind as a bat!"

And they all said:

"It's so--you've proved your theory, and suffering humanity owes
you a great debt from henceforth," and they crowded around him,
and wrung his hand cordially and thankfully, and praised him.

But I hardly saw or heard these things, for I ran at once to my
little darling, and snuggled close to it where it lay, and licked
the blood, and it put its head against mine, whimpering softly,
and I knew in my heart it was a comfort to it in its pain and
trouble to feel its mother's touch, though it could not see me.
Then it dropped down, presently, and its little velvet nose rested
upon the floor, and it was still, and did not move any more.

Soon the master stopped discussing a moment, and rang in the footman,
and said, "Bury it in the far corner of the garden," and then went
on with the discussion, and I trotted after the footman, very happy
and grateful, for I knew the puppy was out of its pain now, because it
was asleep.  We went far down the garden to the farthest end,
where the children and the nurse and the puppy and I used to play
in the summer in the shade of a great elm, and there the footman dug
a hole, and I saw he was going to plant the puppy, and I was glad,
because it would grow and come up a fine handsome dog, like Robin Adair,
and be a beautiful surprise for the family when they came home;
so I tried to help him dig, but my lame leg was no good, being stiff,
you know, and you have to have two, or it is no use.  When the
footman had finished and covered little Robin up, he patted my head,
and there were tears in his eyes, and he said:  "Poor little doggie,
you saved HIS child!"

I have watched two whole weeks, and he doesn't come up!  This last week
a fright has been stealing upon me.  I think there is something terrible
about this.  I do not know what it is, but the fear makes me sick,
and I cannot eat, though the servants bring me the best of food;
and they pet me so, and even come in the night, and cry, and say,
"Poor doggie--do give it up and come home; DON't break our hearts!"
and all this terrifies me the more, and makes me sure something
has happened.  And I am so weak; since yesterday I cannot stand on my
feet anymore.  And within this hour the servants, looking toward the
sun where it was sinking out of sight and the night chill coming on,
said things I could not understand, but they carried something cold
to my heart.

"Those poor creatures!  They do not suspect.  They will come home
in the morning, and eagerly ask for the little doggie that did
the brave deed, and who of us will be strong enough to say the truth
to them:  'The humble little friend is gone where go the beasts
that perish.'"


***




WAS IT HEAVEN?  OR HELL?



CHAPTER I


"You told a LIE?"

"You confess it--you actually confess it--you told a lie!"



CHAPTER II


The family consisted of four persons:  Margaret Lester, widow,
aged thirty six; Helen Lester, her daughter, aged sixteen;
Mrs. Lester's maiden aunts, Hannah and Hester Gray, twins, aged
sixty-seven. Waking and sleeping, the three women spent their days
and night in adoring the young girl; in watching the movements
of her sweet spirit in the mirror of her face; in refreshing their
souls with the vision of her bloom and beauty; in listening to the
music of her voice; in gratefully recognizing how rich and fair
for them was the world with this presence in it; in shuddering
to think how desolate it would be with this light gone out of it.

By nature--and inside--the aged aunts were utterly dear and lovable
and good, but in the matter of morals and conduct their training
had been so uncompromisingly strict that it had made them
exteriorly austere, not to say stern.  Their influence was effective
in the house; so effective that the mother and the daughter
conformed to its moral and religious requirements cheerfully,
contentedly, happily, unquestionably.  To do this was become
second nature to them.  And so in this peaceful heaven there
were no clashings, no irritations, no fault-finding, no heart-burnings.

In it a lie had no place.  In it a lie was unthinkable.
In it speech was restricted to absolute truth, iron-bound truth,
implacable and uncompromising truth, let the resulting consequences
be what they might.  At last, one day, under stress of circumstances,
the darling of the house sullied her lips with a lie--and confessed it,
with tears and self-upbraidings. There are not any words that can paint
the consternation of the aunts.  It was as if the sky had crumpled
up and collapsed and the earth had tumbled to ruin with a crash.
They sat side by side, white and stern, gazing speechless upon
the culprit, who was on her knees before them with her face
buried first in one lap and then the other, moaning and sobbing,
and appealing for sympathy and forgiveness and getting no response,
humbly kissing the hand of the one, then of the other, only to see
it withdrawn as suffering defilement by those soiled lips.

Twice, at intervals, Aunt Hester said, in frozen amazement:

"You told a LIE?"

Twice, at intervals, Aunt Hannah followed with the muttered
and amazed ejaculation:

"You confess it--you actually confess it--you told a lie!"

It was all they could say.  The situation was new, unheard of,
incredible; they could not understand it, they did not know
how to take hold of it, it approximately paralyzed speech.

At length it was decided that the erring child must be taken to
her mother, who was ill, and who ought to know what had happened.
Helen begged, besought, implored that she might be spared this
further disgrace, and that her mother might be spared the grief
and pain of it; but this could not be:  duty required this sacrifice,
duty takes precedence of all things, nothing can absolve one from
a duty, with a duty no compromise is possible.

Helen still begged, and said the sin was her own, her mother had
had no hand in it--why must she be made to suffer for it?

But the aunts were obdurate in their righteousness, and said the
law that visited the sins of the parent upon the child was by all
right and reason reversible; and therefore it was but just that the
innocent mother of a sinning child should suffer her rightful share
of the grief and pain and shame which were the allotted wages of the sin.

The three moved toward the sick-room.


At this time the doctor was approaching the house.  He was still
a good distance away, however.  He was a good doctor and a good man,
and he had a good heart, but one had to know him a year to get
over hating him, two years to learn to endure him, three to learn
to like him, and four and five to learn to live him.  It was a slow
and trying education, but it paid.  He was of great stature; he had
a leonine head, a leonine face, a rough voice, and an eye which was
sometimes a pirate's and sometimes a woman's, according to the mood.
He knew nothing about etiquette, and cared nothing about it; in speech,
manner, carriage, and conduct he was the reverse of conventional.
He was frank, to the limit; he had opinions on all subjects; they were
always on tap and ready for delivery, and he cared not a farthing
whether his listener liked them or didn't. Whom he loved he loved,
and manifested it; whom he didn't live he hated, and published
it from the housetops.  In his young days he had been a sailor,
and the salt-airs of all the seas blew from him yet.  He was a sturdy
and loyal Christian, and believed he was the best one in the land,
and the only one whose Christianity was perfectly sound, healthy,
full-charged with common sense, and had no decayed places in it.
People who had an ax to grind, or people who for any reason wanted
wanted to get on the soft side of him, called him The Christian--
a phrase whose delicate flattery was music to his ears, and whose
capital T was such an enchanting and vivid object to him that he
could SEE it when it fell out of a person's mouth even in the dark.
Many who were fond of him stood on their consciences with both feet
and brazenly called him by that large title habitually, because it
was a pleasure to them to do anything that would please him;
and with eager and cordial malice his extensive and diligently
cultivated crop of enemies gilded it, beflowered it, expanded it
to "The ONLY Christian."  Of these two titles, the latter had
the wider currency; the enemy, being greatly in the majority,
attended to that.  Whatever the doctor believed, he believed with
all his heart, and would fight for it whenever he got the chance;
and if the intervals between chances grew to be irksomely wide,
he would invent ways of shortening them himself.  He was
severely conscientious, according to his rather independent lights,
and whatever he took to be a duty he performed, no matter whether
the judgment of the professional moralists agreed with his own
or not.  At sea, in his young days, he had used profanity freely,
but as soon as he was converted he made a rule, which he rigidly stuck
to ever afterward, never to use it except on the rarest occasions,
and then only when duty commanded.  He had been a hard drinker at sea,
but after his conversion he became a firm and outspoken teetotaler,
in order to be an example to the young, and from that time forth he
seldom drank; never, indeed, except when it seemed to him to be a duty--
a condition which sometimes occurred a couple of times a year, but never
as many as five times.

Necessarily, such a man is impressionable, impulsive, emotional.
This one was, and had no gift at hiding his feelings; or if he
had it he took no trouble to exercise it.  He carried his soul's
prevailing weather in his face, and when he entered a room
the parasols or the umbrellas went up--figuratively speaking--
according to the indications.  When the soft light was in his eye
it meant approval, and delivered a benediction; when he came with a
frown he lowered the temperature ten degrees.  He was a well-beloved
man in the house of his friends, but sometimes a dreaded one.

He had a deep affection for the Lester household and its several
members returned this feeling with interest.  They mourned over
his kind of Christianity, and he frankly scoffed at theirs;
but both parties went on loving each other just the same.

He was approaching the house--out of the distance; the aunts
and the culprit were moving toward the sick-chamber.



CHAPTER III


The three last named stood by the bed; the aunts austere,
the transgressor softly sobbing.  The mother turned her head
on the pillow; her tired eyes flamed up instantly with sympathy
and passionate mother-love when they fell upon her child,
and she opened the refuge and shelter of her arms.

"Wait!" said Aunt Hannah, and put out her hand and stayed the girl
from leaping into them.

"Helen," said the other aunt, impressively, "tell your mother all.
Purge your soul; leave nothing unconfessed."

Standing stricken and forlorn before her judges, the young girl
mourned her sorrowful tale through the end, then in a passion
of appeal cried out:

"Oh, mother, can't you forgive me? won't you forgive me?--I am
so desolate!"

"Forgive you, my darling?  Oh, come to my arms!--there, lay your head
upon my breast, and be at peace.  If you had told a thousand lies--"

There was a sound--a warning--the clearing of a throat.  The aunts
glanced up, and withered in their clothes--there stood the doctor,
his face a thunder-cloud. Mother and child knew nothing of
his presence; they lay locked together, heart to heart, steeped in
immeasurable content, dead to all things else.  The physician
stood many moments glaring and glooming upon the scene before him;
studying it, analyzing it, searching out its genesis; then he put
up his hand and beckoned to the aunts.  They came trembling to him,
and stood humbly before him and waited.  He bent down and whispered:

"Didn't I tell you this patient must be protected from all excitement?
What the hell have you been doing?  Clear out of the place?"

They obeyed.  Half an hour later he appeared in the parlor,
serene, cheery, clothed in sunshine, conducting Helen, with his
arm about her waist, petting her, and saying gentle and playful
things to her; and she also was her sunny and happy self again.

"Now, then;" he said, "good-by, dear.  Go to your room, and keep
away from your mother, and behave yourself.  But wait--put out
your tongue.  There, that will do--you're as sound as a nut!"
He patted her cheek and added, "Run along now; I want to talk
to these aunts."

She went from the presence.  His face clouded over again at once;
and as he sat down he said:

"You too have been doing a lot of damage--and maybe some good.
Some good, yes--such as it is.  That woman's disease is typhoid!
You've brought it to a show-up, I think, with your insanities,
and that's a service--such as it is.  I hadn't been able to determine
what it was before."

With one impulse the old ladies sprang to their feet, quaking with terror.

"Sit down!  What are you proposing to do?"

"Do?  We must fly to her.  We--"

"You'll do nothing of the kind; you've done enough harm for one day.
Do you want to squander all your capital of crimes and follies on a
single deal?  Sit down, I tell you.  I have arranged for her to sleep;
she needs it; if you disturb her without my orders, I'll brain you--
if you've got the materials for it.

They sat down, distressed and indignant, but obedient, under compulsion.
He proceeded:

"Now, then, I want this case explained.  THEY wanted to explain it
to me--as if there hadn't been emotion or excitement enough already.
You knew my orders; how did you dare to go in there and get up
that riot?"

Hester looked appealing at Hannah; Hannah returned a beseeching look
at Hester--neither wanted to dance to this unsympathetic orchestra.
The doctor came to their help.  He said:

"Begin, Hester."

Fingering at the fringes of her shawl, and with lowered eyes,
Hester said, timidly:

"We should not have disobeyed for any ordinary cause, but this
was vital.  This was a duty.  With a duty one has no choice;
one must put all lighter considerations aside and perform it.
We were obliged to arraign her before her mother.  She had told
a lie."

The doctor glowered upon the woman a moment, and seemed
to be trying to work up in his mind an understand of a wholly
incomprehensible proposition; then he stormed out:

"She told a lie!  DID she?  God bless my soul!  I tell a million a day!
And so does every doctor.  And so does everybody--including you--
for that matter.  And THAT was the important thing that authorized
you to venture to disobey my orders and imperil that woman's life!
Look here, Hester Gray, this is pure lunacy; that girl COULDN'T tell
a lie that was intended to injure a person.  The thing is impossible--
absolutely impossible.  You know it yourselves--both of you;
you know it perfectly well."

Hannah came to her sister's rescue:

"Hester didn't mean that it was that kind of a lie, and it wasn't.
But it was a lie."

"Well, upon my word, I never heard such nonsense!  Haven't you
got sense enough to discriminate between lies!  Don't you know
the difference between a lie that helps and a lie that hurts?"

"ALL lies are sinful," said Hannah, setting her lips together
like a vise; "all lies are forbidden."

The Only Christian fidgeted impatiently in his chair.  He went to attack
this proposition, but he did not quite know how or where to begin.
Finally he made a venture:

"Hester, wouldn't you tell a lie to shield a person from an undeserved
injury or shame?"

"No."

"Not even a friend?"

"No."

"Not even your dearest friend?"

"No. I would not."

The doctor struggled in silence awhile with this situation;
then he asked:

"Not even to save him from bitter pain and misery and grief?"

"No. Not even to save his life."

Another pause.  Then:

"Nor his soul?"

There was a hush--a silence which endured a measurable interval--
then Hester answered, in a low voice, but with decision:

"Nor his soul?"

No one spoke for a while; then the doctor said:

"Is it with you the same, Hannah?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I ask you both--why?"

"Because to tell such a lie, or any lie, is a sin, and could cost
us the loss of our own souls--WOULD, indeed, if we died without
time to repent."

"Strange . . . strange . . . it is past belief."  Then he
asked, roughly:  "Is such a soul as that WORTH saving?"
He rose up, mumbling and grumbling, and started for the door,
stumping vigorously along.  At the threshold he turned and rasped
out an admonition:  "Reform!  Drop this mean and sordid and selfish
devotion to the saving of your shabby little souls, and hunt up
something to do that's got some dignity to it!  RISK your souls! risk
them in good causes; then if you lose them, why should you care?  Reform!"

The good old gentlewomen sat paralyzed, pulverized, outraged, insulted,
and brooded in bitterness and indignation over these blasphemies.
They were hurt to the heart, poor old ladies, and said they could
never forgive these injuries.

"Reform!"

They kept repeating that word resentfully.  "Reform--and learn
to tell lies!"

Time slipped along, and in due course a change came over their spirits.
They had completed the human being's first duty--which is to think
about himself until he has exhausted the subject, then he is in a
condition to take up minor interests and think of other people.
This changes the complexion of his spirits--generally wholesomely.
The minds of the two old ladies reverted to their beloved niece
and the fearful disease which had smitten her; instantly they forgot
the hurts their self-love had received, and a passionate desire
rose in their hearts to go to the help of the sufferer and comfort
her with their love, and minister to her, and labor for her the best
they could with their weak hands, and joyfully and affectionately
wear out their poor old bodies in her dear service if only they might
have the privilege.

"And we shall have it!" said Hester, with the tears running
down her face.  "There are no nurses comparable to us, for there
are no others that will stand their watch by that bed till they
drop and die, and God knows we would do that."

"Amen," said Hannah, smiling approval and endorsement through the
mist of moisture that blurred her glasses.  "The doctor knows us,
and knows we will not disobey again; and he will call no others.
He will not dare!"

"Dare?" said Hester, with temper, and dashing the water from her eyes;
"he will dare anything--that Christian devil!  But it will do no
good for him to try it this time--but, laws!  Hannah! after all's
said and done, he is gifted and wise and good, and he would not
think of such a thing.  . . . It is surely time for one of us to go
to that room.  What is keeping him?  Why doesn't he come and say so?"

They caught the sound of his approaching step.  He entered, sat down,
and began to talk.

"Margaret is a sick woman," he said.  "She is still sleeping,
but she will wake presently; then one of you must go to her.
She will be worse before she is better.  Pretty soon a night-and-day
watch must be set.  How much of it can you two undertake?"

"All of it!" burst from both ladies at once.

The doctor's eyes flashed, and he said, with energy:

"You DO ring true, you brave old relics!  And you SHALL do all of
the nursing you can, for there's none to match you in that divine
office in this town; but you can't do all of it, and it would
be a crime to let you."  It was grand praise, golden praise,
coming from such a source, and it took nearly all the resentment
out of the aged twin's hearts.  "Your Tilly and my old Nancy shall
do the rest--good nurses both, white souls with black skins,
watchful, loving, tender--just perfect nurses!--and competent liars
from the cradle.  . . . Look you! keep a little watch on Helen;
she is sick, and is going to be sicker."

The ladies looked a little surprised, and not credulous; and Hester said:

"How is that?  It isn't an hour since you said she was as sound
as a nut."

The doctor answered, tranquilly:

"It was a lie."

The ladies turned upon him indignantly, and Hannah said:

"How can you make an odious confession like that, in so indifferent
a tone, when you know how we feel about all forms of--"

"Hush!  You are as ignorant as cats, both of you, and you don't know
what you are talking about.  You are like all the rest of the moral moles;
you lie from morning till night, but because you don't do it with
your mouths, but only with your lying eyes, your lying inflections,
your deceptively misplaced emphasis, and your misleading gestures,
you turn up your complacent noses and parade before God and
the world as saintly and unsmirched Truth-Speakers, in whose
cold-storage souls a lie would freeze to death if it got there!
Why will you humbug yourselves with that foolish notion that no
lie is a lie except a spoken one?  What is the difference between
lying with your eyes and lying with your mouth?  There is none;
and if you would reflect a moment you would see that it is so.
There isn't a human being that doesn't tell a gross of lies every day
of his life; and you--why, between you, you tell thirty thousand;
yet you flare up here in a lurid hypocritical horror because I
tell that child a benevolent and sinless lie to protect her from
her imagination, which would get to work and warm up her blood to a
fever in an hour, if I were disloyal enough to my duty to let it.
Which I should probably do if I were interested in saving my soul
by such disreputable means.

"Come, let us reason together.  Let us examine details.  When you
two were in the sick-room raising that riot, what would you have
done if you had known I was coming?"

"Well, what?"

"You would have slipped out and carried Helen with you--wouldn't you?"

The ladies were silent.

"What would be your object and intention?"

"Well, what?"

"To keep me from finding out your guilt; to beguile me to infer that
Margaret's excitement proceeded from some cause not known to you.
In a word, to tell me a lie--a silent lie.  Moreover, a possibly
harmful one."

The twins colored, but did not speak.

"You not only tell myriads of silent lies, but you tell lies
with your mouths--you two."

"THAT is not so!"

"It is so.  But only harmless ones.  You never dream of uttering
a harmful one.  Do you know that that is a concession--and a confession?"

"How do you mean?"

"It is an unconscious concession that harmless lies are not criminal;
it is a confession that you constantly MAKE that discrimination.
For instance, you declined old Mrs. Foster's invitation last week
to meet those odious Higbies at supper--in a polite note in which you
expressed regret and said you were very sorry you could not go.
It was a lie.  It was as unmitigated a lie as was ever uttered.
Deny it, Hester--with another lie."

Hester replied with a toss of her head.

"That will not do.  Answer.  Was it a lie, or wasn't it?"

The color stole into the cheeks of both women, and with a struggle
and an effort they got out their confession:

"It was a lie."

"Good--the reform is beginning; there is hope for you yet;
you will not tell a lie to save your dearest friend's soul, but you
will spew out one without a scruple to save yourself the discomfort
of telling an unpleasant truth."

He rose.  Hester, speaking for both, said; coldly:

"We have lied; we perceive it; it will occur no more.  To lie is
a sin.  We shall never tell another one of any kind whatsoever,
even lies of courtesy or benevolence, to save any one a pang
or a sorrow decreed for him by God."

"Ah, how soon you will fall!  In fact, you have fallen already;
for what you have just uttered is a lie.  Good-by. Reform!
One of you go to the sick-room now."



CHAPTER IV


Twelve days later.

Mother and child were lingering in the grip of the hideous disease.
Of hope for either there was little.  The aged sisters looked white
and worn, but they would not give up their posts.  Their hearts
were breaking, poor old things, but their grit was steadfast
and indestructible.  All the twelve days the mother had pined for
the child, and the child for the mother, but both knew that the prayer
of these longings could not be granted.  When the mother was told--
on the first day--that her disease was typhoid, she was frightened,
and asked if there was danger that Helen could have contracted it the
day before, when she was in the sick-chamber on that confession visit.
Hester told her the doctor had poo-pooed the idea.  It troubled
Hester to say it, although it was true, for she had not believed
the doctor; but when she saw the mother's joy in the news, the pain
in her conscience lost something of its force--a result which made
her ashamed of the constructive deception which she had practiced,
though not ashamed enough to make her distinctly and definitely
wish she had refrained from it.  From that moment the sick woman
understood that her daughter must remain away, and she said she would
reconcile herself to the separation the best she could, for she
would rather suffer death than have her child's health imperiled.
That afternoon Helen had to take to her bed, ill.  She grew worse
during the night.  In the morning her mother asked after her:

"Is she well?"

Hester turned cold; she opened her lips, but the words refused to come.
The mother lay languidly looking, musing, waiting; suddenly she
turned white and gasped out:

"Oh, my God! what is it? is she sick?"

Then the poor aunt's tortured heart rose in rebellion, and words came:

"No--be comforted; she is well."

The sick woman put all her happy heart in her gratitude:

"Thank God for those dear words!  Kiss me.  How I worship you
for saying them!"

Hester told this incident to Hannah, who received it with
a rebuking look, and said, coldly:

"Sister, it was a lie."

Hester's lips trembled piteously; she choked down a sob, and said:

"Oh, Hannah, it was a sin, but I could not help it.  I could not
endure the fright and the misery that were in her face."

"No matter.  It was a lie.  God will hold you to account for it."

"Oh, I know it, I know it," cried Hester, wringing her hands,
"but even if it were now, I could not help it.  I know I should do
it again."

"Then take my place with Helen in the morning.  I will make
the report myself."

Hester clung to her sister, begging and imploring.

"Don't, Hannah, oh, don't--you will kill her."

"I will at least speak the truth."

In the morning she had a cruel report to bear to the mother,
and she braced herself for the trial.  When she returned from
her mission, Hester was waiting, pale and trembling, in the hall.
She whispered:

"Oh, how did she take it--that poor, desolate mother?"

Hannah's eyes were swimming in tears.  She said:

"God forgive me, I told her the child was well!"

Hester gathered her to her heart, with a grateful "God bless you, Hannah!"
and poured out her thankfulness in an inundation of worshiping praises.

After that, the two knew the limit of their strength, and accepted
their fate.  They surrendered humbly, and abandoned themselves to the
hard requirements of the situation.  Daily they told the morning lie,
and confessed their sin in prayer; not asking forgiveness, as not
being worthy of it, but only wishing to make record that they
realized their wickedness and were not desiring to hide it or excuse it.

Daily, as the fair young idol of the house sank lower and lower,
the sorrowful old aunts painted her glowing bloom and her fresh young
beauty to the wan mother, and winced under the stabs her ecstasies
of joy and gratitude gave them.

In the first days, while the child had strength to hold a pencil,
she wrote fond little love-notes to her mother, in which she concealed
her illness; and these the mother read and reread through happy
eyes wet with thankful tears, and kissed them over and over again,
and treasured them as precious things under her pillow.

Then came a day when the strength was gone from the hand, and the
mind wandered, and the tongue babbled pathetic incoherences.
this was a sore dilemma for the poor aunts.  There were no love-notes
for the mother.  They did not know what to do.  Hester began a
carefully studied and plausible explanation, but lost the track of it
and grew confused; suspicion began to show in the mother's face,
then alarm.  Hester saw it, recognized the imminence of the danger,
and descended to the emergency, pulling herself resolutely together
and plucking victor from the open jaws of defeat.  In a placid
and convincing voice she said:

"I thought it might distress you to know it, but Helen spent the night
at the Sloanes'. There was a little party there, and, although she
did not want to go, and you so sick, we persuaded her, she being
young and needing the innocent pastimes of youth, and we believing
you would approve.  Be sure she will write the moment she comes."

"How good you are, and how dear and thoughtful for us both!
Approve?  Why, I thank you with all my heart.  My poor little exile!
Tell her I want her to have every pleasure she can--I would not rob
her of one.  Only let her keep her health, that is all I ask.
Don't let that suffer; I could not bear it.  How thankful I am that she
escaped this infection--and what a narrow risk she ran, Aunt Hester!
Think of that lovely face all dulled and burned with fever.
I can't bear the thought of it.  Keep her health.  Keep her bloom!
I can see her now, the dainty creature--with the big, blue, earnest eyes;
and sweet, oh, so sweet and gentle and winning!  Is she as beautiful
as ever, dear Aunt Hester?"

"Oh, more beautiful and bright and charming than ever she was before,
if such a thing can be"--and Hester turned away and fumbled with
the medicine-bottles, to hide her shame and grief.



CHAPTER V


After a little, both aunts were laboring upon a difficult and baffling
work in Helen's chamber.  Patiently and earnestly, with their stiff
old fingers, they were trying to forge the required note.  They made
failure after failure, but they improved little by little all the time.
The pity of it all, the pathetic humor of it, there was none to see;
they themselves were unconscious of it.  Often their tears fell
upon the notes and spoiled them; sometimes a single misformed word
made a note risky which could have been ventured but for that;
but at last Hannah produced one whose script was a good enough
imitation of Helen's to pass any but a suspicious eye, and bountifully
enriched it with the petting phrases and loving nicknames that
had been familiar on the child's lips from her nursery days.
She carried it to the mother, who took it with avidity, and kissed it,
and fondled it, reading its precious words over and over again,
and dwelling with deep contentment upon its closing paragraph:

"Mousie darling, if I could only see you, and kiss your eyes,
and feel your arms about me!  I am so glad my practicing does not
disturb you.  Get well soon.  Everybody is good to me, but I am
so lonesome without you, dear mamma."

"The poor child, I know just how she feels.  She cannot be quite
happy without me; and I--oh, I live in the light of her eyes!
Tell her she must practice all she pleases; and, Aunt Hannah--
tell her I can't hear the piano this far, nor hear dear voice
when she sings:  God knows I wish I could.  No one knows how sweet
that voice is to me; and to think--some day it will be silent!
What are you crying for?

"Only because--because--it was just a memory.  When I came away she
was singing, 'Loch Lomond.'  The pathos of it!  It always moves
me so when she sings that."

"And me, too.  How heartbreakingly beautiful it is when some youthful
sorrow is brooding in her breast and she sings it for the mystic
healing it brings.  . . . Aunt Hannah?"

"Dear Margaret?"

"I am very ill.  Sometimes it comes over me that I shall never hear
that dear voice again."

"Oh, don't--don't, Margaret!  I can't bear it!"

Margaret was moved and distressed, and said, gently:

"There--there--let me put my arms around you.
Don't cry.  There--put your cheek to mine.  Be comforted.
I wish to live.  I will live if I can.  Ah, what could she
do without me! . . . Does she often speak of me?--but I know she does."

"Oh, all the time--all the time!"

"My sweet child!  She wrote the note the moment she came home?"

"Yes--the first moment.  She would not wait to take off her things."

"I knew it.  It is her dear, impulsive, affectionate way.  I knew it
without asking, but I wanted to hear you say it.  The petted wife
knows she is loved, but she makes her husband tell her so every day,
just for the joy of hearing it.  . . . She used the pen this time.
That is better; the pencil-marks could rub out, and I should grieve
for that.  Did you suggest that she use the pen?"

"Y--no--she--it was her own idea.

The mother looked her pleasure, and said:

"I was hoping you would say that.  There was never such a dear
and thoughtful child! . . . Aunt Hannah?"

"Dear Margaret?"

"Go and tell her I think of her all the time, and worship her.
Why--you are crying again.  Don't be so worried about me, dear;
I think there is nothing to fear, yet."

The grieving messenger carried her message, and piously delivered
it to unheeding ears.  The girl babbled on unaware; looking up
at her with wondering and startled eyes flaming with fever,
eyes in which was no light of recognition:

"Are you--no, you are not my mother.  I want her--oh, I want her!
She was here a minute ago--I did not see her go.  Will she come? will
she come quickly? will she come now? . . . There are so many houses
. . . and they oppress me so . . . and everything whirls and turns
and whirls . . . oh, my head, my head!"--and so she wandered on
and on, in her pain, flitting from one torturing fancy to another,
and tossing her arms about in a weary and ceaseless persecution
of unrest.

Poor old Hannah wetted the parched lips and softly stroked the
hot brow, murmuring endearing and pitying words, and thanking
the Father of all that the mother was happy and did not know.



CHAPTER VI


Daily the child sank lower and steadily lower towards the grave,
and daily the sorrowing old watchers carried gilded tidings of her
radiant health and loveliness to the happy mother, whose pilgrimage
was also now nearing its end.  And daily they forged loving and cheery
notes in the child's hand, and stood by with remorseful consciences
and bleeding hearts, and wept to see the grateful mother devour
them and adore them and treasure them away as things beyond price,
because of their sweet source, and sacred because her child's hand
had touched them.

At last came that kindly friend who brings healing and peace to all.
The lights were burning low.  In the solemn hush which precedes the
dawn vague figures flitted soundless along the dim hall and gathered
silent and awed in Helen's chamber, and grouped themselves about
her bed, for a warning had gone forth, and they knew.  The dying
girl lay with closed lids, and unconscious, the drapery upon her
breast faintly rising and falling as her wasting life ebbed away.
At intervals a sigh or a muffled sob broke upon the stillness.
The same haunting thought was in all minds there:  the pity of
this death, the going out into the great darkness, and the mother
not here to help and hearten and bless.

Helen stirred; her hands began to grope wistfully about as if they
sought something--she had been blind some hours.  The end was come;
all knew it.  With a great sob Hester gathered her to her breast,
crying, "Oh, my child, my darling!"  A rapturous light broke in the
dying girl's face, for it was mercifully vouchsafed her to mistake
those sheltering arms for another's; and she went to her rest murmuring,
"Oh, mamma, I am so happy--I longed for you--now I can die."


Two hours later Hester made her report.  The mother asked:

"How is it with the child?"

"She is well."



CHAPTER VII


A sheaf of white crape and black was hung upon the door of the house,
and there it swayed and rustled in the wind and whispered its tidings.
At noon the preparation of the dead was finished, and in the
coffin lay the fair young form, beautiful, and in the sweet face
a great peace.  Two mourners sat by it, grieving and worshipping--
Hannah and the black woman Tilly.  Hester came, and she was trembling,
for a great trouble was upon her spirit.  She said:

"She asks for a note."

Hannah's face blanched.  She had not thought of this; it had seemed
that that pathetic service was ended.  But she realized now that
that could not be.  For a little while the two women stood looking
into each other's face, with vacant eyes; then Hannah said:

"There is no way out of it--she must have it; she will suspect, else."

"And she would find out."

"Yes.  It would break her heart."  She looked at the dead face,
and her eyes filled.  "I will write it," she said.

Hester carried it.  The closing line said:

"Darling Mousie, dear sweet mother, we shall soon be together again.
Is not that good news?  And it is true; they all say it is true."

The mother mourned, saying:

"Poor child, how will she bear it when she knows?  I shall never see
her again in life.  It is hard, so hard.  She does not suspect?
You guard her from that?"

"She thinks you will soon be well."

"How good you are, and careful, dear Aunt Hester!  None goes near
herr who could carry the infection?"

"It would be a crime."

"But you SEE her?"

"With a distance between--yes."

"That is so good.  Others one could not trust; but you two guardian
angels--steel is not so true as you.  Others would be unfaithful;
and many would deceive, and lie."

Hester's eyes fell, and her poor old lips trembled.

"Let me kiss you for her, Aunt Hester; and when I am gone,
and the danger is past, place the kiss upon her dear lips some day,
and say her mother sent it, and all her mother's broken heart is
in it."

Within the hour, Hester, raining tears upon the dead face,
performed her pathetic mission.



CHAPTER VIII


Another day dawned, and grew, and spread its sunshine in the earth.
Aunt Hannah brought comforting news to the failing mother, and a
happy note, which said again, "We have but a little time to wait,
darling mother, then se shall be together."

The deep note of a bell came moaning down the wind.

"Aunt Hannah, it is tolling.  Some poor soul is at rest.
As I shall be soon.  You will not let her forget me?"

"Oh, God knows she never will!"

"Do not you hear strange noises, Aunt Hannah?  It sounds like
the shuffling of many feet."

"We hoped you would not hear it, dear.  It is a little company
gathering, for--for Helen's sake, poor little prisoner.  There will
be music--and she loves it so.  We thought you would not mind."

"Mind?  Oh no, no--oh, give her everything her dear heart can desire.
How good you two are to her, and how good to me!  God bless you
both always!"

After a listening pause:

"How lovely!  It is her organ.  Is she playing it herself, do you think?"
Faint and rich and inspiring the chords floating to her ears on
the still air.  "Yes, it is her touch, dear heart, I recognize it.
They are singing.  Why--it is a hymn! and the sacredest of all,
the most touching, the most consoling.  . . . It seems to open
the gates of paradise to me.  . . . If I could die now.  . . ."

Faint and far the words rose out of the stillness:


Nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer to Thee,

E'en though it be a cross

That raiseth me.


With the closing of the hymn another soul passed to its rest,
and they that had been one in life were not sundered in death.
The sisters, mourning and rejoicing, said:

"How blessed it was that she never knew!"



CHAPTER IX


At midnight they sat together, grieving, and the angel of the Lord
appeared in the midst transfigured with a radiance not of earth;
and speaking, said:

"For liars a place is appointed.  There they burn in the fires
of hell from everlasting unto everlasting.  Repent!"

The bereaved fell upon their knees before him and clasped their
hands and bowed their gray heads, adoring.  But their tongues
clove to the roof of their mouths, and they were dumb.

"Speak! that I may bear the message to the chancery of heaven
and bring again the decree from which there is no appeal."

Then they bowed their heads yet lower, and one said:

"Our sin is great, and we suffer shame; but only perfect and final
repentance can make us whole; and we are poor creatures who have learned
our human weakness, and we know that if we were in those hard straits
again our hearts would fail again, and we should sin as before.
The strong could prevail, and so be saved, but we are lost."

They lifted their heads in supplication.  The angel was gone.
While they marveled and wept he came again; and bending low,
he whispered the decree.



CHAPTER X


Was it Heaven?  Or Hell?


***



A CURE FOR THE BLUES



By courtesy of Mr. Cable I came into possession of a singular book
eight or ten years ago.  It is likely that mine is now the only copy
in existence.  Its title-page, unabbreviated, reads as follows:

"The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant.  By G. Ragsdale McClintock,
[1] author of 'An Address,' etc., delivered at Sunflower Hill,
South Carolina, and member of the Yale Law School.  New Haven:
published by T. H. Pease, 83 Chapel Street, 1845."

No one can take up this book and lay it down again unread.
Whoever reads one line of it is caught, is chained; he has become
the contented slave of its fascinations; and he will read and read,
devour and devour, and will not let it go out of his hand till it
is finished to the last line, though the house be on fire over
his head.  And after a first reading he will not throw it aside,
but will keep it by him, with his Shakespeare and his Homer,
and will take it up many and many a time, when the world is dark
and his spirits are low, and be straightway cheered and refreshed.
Yet this work has been allowed to lie wholly neglected, unmentioned,
and apparently unregretted, for nearly half a century.

The reader must not imagine that he is to find in it wisdom,
brilliancy, fertility of invention, ingenuity of construction,
excellence of form, purity of style, perfection of imagery,
truth to nature, clearness of statement, humanly possible situations,
humanly possible people, fluent narrative, connected sequence of events--
or philosophy, or logic, or sense.  No; the rich, deep, beguiling charm
of the book lies in the total and miraculous ABSENCE from it of all
these qualities--a charm which is completed and perfected by the
evident fact that the author, whose naive innocence easily and surely
wins our regard, and almost our worship, does not know that they
are absent, does not even suspect that they are absent.  When read
by the light of these helps to an understanding of the situation,
the book is delicious--profoundly and satisfyingly delicious.

I call it a book because the author calls it a book, I call it a work
because he calls it a work; but, in truth, it is merely a duodecimo
pamphlet of thirty-one pages.  It was written for fame and money,
as the author very frankly--yes, and very hopefully, too, poor fellow--
says in his preface.  The money never came--no penny of it ever came;
and how long, how pathetically long, the fame has been deferred--
forty-seven years!  He was young then, it would have been so much to
him then; but will he care for it now?

As time is measured in America, McClintock's epoch is antiquity.
In his long-vanished day the Southern author had a passion for
"eloquence"; it was his pet, his darling.  He would be eloquent,
or perish.  And he recognized only one kind of eloquence--the lurid,
the tempestuous, the volcanic.  He liked words--big words,
fine words, grand words, rumbling, thundering, reverberating words;
with sense attaching if it could be got in without marring the sound,
but not otherwise.  He loved to stand up before a dazed world,
and pour forth flame and smoke and lava and pumice-stone into
the skies, and work his subterranean thunders, and shake himself
with earthquakes, and stench himself with sulphur fumes.  If he
consumed his own fields and vineyards, that was a pity, yes; but he
would have his eruption at any cost.  Mr. McClintock's eloquence--
and he is always eloquent, his crater is always spouting--is of the
pattern common to his day, but he departs from the custom of the time
in one respect:  his brethren allowed sense to intrude when it did
not mar the sound, but he does not allow it to intrude at all.
For example, consider this figure, which he used in the village
"Address" referred to with such candid complacency in the title-page
above quoted--"like the topmost topaz of an ancient tower."
Please read it again; contemplate it; measure it; walk around it;
climb up it; try to get at an approximate realization of the size of it.
Is the fellow to that to be found in literature, ancient or modern,
foreign or domestic, living or dead, drunk or sober?  One notices
how fine and grand it sounds.  We know that if it was loftily uttered,
it got a noble burst of applause from the villagers; yet there isn't
a ray of sense in it, or meaning to it.

McClintock finished his education at Yale in 1843, and came to
Hartford on a visit that same year.  I have talked with men who at
that time talked with him, and felt of him, and knew he was real.
One needs to remember that fact and to keep fast hold of it;
it is the only way to keep McClintock's book from undermining one's
faith in McClintock's actuality.

As to the book.  The first four pages are devoted to an inflamed eulogy
of Woman--simply woman in general, or perhaps as an institution--
wherein, among other compliments to her details, he pays a unique
one to her voice.  He says it "fills the breast with fond alarms,
echoed by every rill."  It sounds well enough, but it is not true.
After the eulogy he takes up his real work and the novel begins.
It begins in the woods, near the village of Sunflower Hill.


Brightening clouds seemed to rise from the mist of the fair Chattahoochee,
to spread their beauty over the thick forest, to guide the hero whose
bosom beats with aspirations to conquer the enemy that would tarnish
his name, and to win back the admiration of his long-tried friend.


It seems a general remark, but it is not general; the hero mentioned
is the to-be hero of the book; and in this abrupt fashion,
and without name or description, he is shoveled into the tale.
"With aspirations to conquer the enemy that would tarnish his name"
is merely a phrase flung in for the sake of the sound--let it
not mislead the reader.  No one is trying to tarnish this person;
no one has thought of it.  The rest of the sentence is also merely
a phrase; the man has no friend as yet, and of course has had no
chance to try him, or win back his admiration, or disturb him in any
other way.

The hero climbs up over "Sawney's Mountain," and down the other side,
making for an old Indian "castle"--which becomes "the red man's hut"
in the next sentence; and when he gets there at last, he "surveys
with wonder and astonishment" the invisible structure, "which time
has buried in the dust, and thought to himself his happiness was
not yet complete."  One doesn't know why it wasn't, nor how near it
came to being complete, nor what was still wanting to round it up
and make it so.  Maybe it was the Indian; but the book does not say.
At this point we have an episode:


Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man, about eighteen or twenty,
who seemed to be reading some favorite book, and who had a remarkably
noble countenance--eyes which betrayed more than a common mind.
This of course made the youth a welcome guest, and gained him
friends in whatever condition of his life he might be placed.
The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure which showed
strength and grace in every movement.  He accordingly addressed
him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way
to the village.  After he had received the desired information,
and was about taking his leave, the youth said, "Are you not
Major Elfonzo, the great musician [2]--the champion of a noble cause--
the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?"
"I bear that name," said the Major, "and those titles,
trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry
me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,"
continued the Major, "you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds,
I should like to make you my confidant and learn your address."
The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment,
and began:  "My name is Roswell.  I have been recently admitted
to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success
in that honorable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall
look down from the lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall
ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity,
and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be
called from its buried GREATNESS."  The Major grasped him by the hand,
and exclaimed:  "O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration--thou flame
of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare
of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede
your progress!"


There is a strange sort of originality about McClintock;
he imitates other people's styles, but nobody can imitate his,
not even an idiot.  Other people can be windy, but McClintock blows
a gale; other people can blubber sentiment, but McClintock spews it;
other people can mishandle metaphors, but only McClintock knows
how to make a business of it.  McClintock is always McClintock,
he is always consistent, his style is always his own style.  He does
not make the mistake of being relevant on one page and irrelevant
on another; he is irrelevant on all of them.  He does not make
the mistake of being lucid in one place and obscure in another;
he is obscure all the time.  He does not make the mistake of slipping
in a name here and there that is out of character with his work;
he always uses names that exactly and fantastically fit his lunatics.
In the matter of undeviating consistency he stands alone in authorship.
It is this that makes his style unique, and entitles it to a name
of its own--McClintockian.  It is this that protects it from being
mistaken for anybody else's. Uncredited quotations from other writers
often leave a reader in doubt as to their authorship, but McClintock
is safe from that accident; an uncredited quotation from him would
always be recognizable.  When a boy nineteen years old, who had
just been admitted to the bar, says, "I trust, sir, like the Eagle,
I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man,"
we know who is speaking through that boy; we should recognize
that note anywhere.  There be myriads of instruments in this
world's literary orchestra, and a multitudinous confusion of sounds
that they make, wherein fiddles are drowned, and guitars smothered,
and one sort of drum mistaken for another sort; but whensoever the
brazen note of the McClintockian trombone breaks through that fog
of music, that note is recognizable, and about it there can be no blur
of doubt.

The novel now arrives at the point where the Major goes home to see
his father.  When McClintock wrote this interview he probably
believed it was pathetic.


The road which led to the town presented many attractions Elfonzo
had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was now wending
his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness.  The south winds
whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed against the banks,
as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars.  This brought him to
remember while alone, that he quietly left behind the hospitality
of a father's house, and gladly entered the world, with higher hopes
than are often realized.  But as he journeyed onward, he was mindful
of the advice of his father, who had often looked sadly on the ground,
when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened his eyes.  Elfonzo had
been somewhat a dutiful son; yet fond of the amusements of life--
had been in distant lands--had enjoyed the pleasure of the world,
and had frequently returned to the scenes of his boyhood,
almost destitute of many of the comforts of life.  In this condition,
he would frequently say to his father, "Have I offended you,
that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon me with
stinging looks?  Will you not favor me with the sound of your voice?
If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread a humid veil
of darkness around your expectations, send me back into the world,
where no heart beats for me--where the foot of man had never yet trod;
but give me at least one kind word--allow me to come into the presence
sometimes of thy winter-worn locks."  "Forbid it, Heaven, that I
should be angry with thee," answered the father, "my son, and yet
I send thee back to the children of the world--to the cold charity
of the combat, and to a land of victory.  I read another destiny
in thy countenance--I learn thy inclinations from the flame that has
already kindled in my soul a strange sensation.  It will seek thee,
my dear ELFONZO, it will find thee--thou canst not escape that
lighted torch, which shall blot out from the remembrance of men
a long train of prophecies which they have foretold against thee.
I once thought not so.  Once, I was blind; but now the path of life
is plain before me, and my sight is clear; yet, Elfonzo, return to thy
worldly occupation--take again in thy hand that chord of sweet sounds--
struggle with the civilized world and with your own heart;
fly swiftly to the enchanted ground--let the night-OWL send forth
its screams from the stubborn oak--let the sea sport upon the beach,
and the stars sing together; but learn of these, Elfonzo, thy doom,
and thy hiding-place. Our most innocent as well as our most lawful
DESIRES must often be denied us, that we may learn to sacrifice them
to a Higher will."

Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately
urged by the recollection of his father's family to keep moving.


McClintock has a fine gift in the matter of surprises; but as a
rule they are not pleasant ones, they jar upon the feelings.
His closing sentence in the last quotation is of that sort.
It brings one down out of the tinted clouds in too sudden and collapsed
a fashion.  It incenses one against the author for a moment.
It makes the reader want to take him by this winter-worn locks,
and trample on his veneration, and deliver him over to the cold
charity of combat, and blot him out with his own lighted torch.
But the feeling does not last.  The master takes again in his hand that
concord of sweet sounds of his, and one is reconciled, pacified.


His steps became quicker and quicker--he hastened through the PINY woods,
dark as the forest was, and with joy he very soon reached the little
village of repose, in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry.
His close attention to every important object--his modest questions
about whatever was new to him--his reverence for wise old age,
and his ardent desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought
him into respectable notice.

One mild winter day, as he walked along the streets toward the Academy,
which stood upon a small eminence, surrounded by native growth--
some venerable in its appearance, others young and prosperous--
all seemed inviting, and seemed to be the very place for learning as
well as for genius to spend its research beneath its spreading shades.
He entered its classic walls in the usual mode of southern manners.


The artfulness of this man!  None knows so well as he how to pique
the curiosity of the reader--and how to disappoint it.  He raises
the hope, here, that he is going to tell all about how one enters
a classic wall in the usual mode of Southern manners; but does he?
No; he smiles in his sleeve, and turns aside to other matters.


The principal of the Institution begged him to be seated and listen
to the recitations that were going on.  He accordingly obeyed
the request, and seemed to be much pleased.  After the school
was dismissed, and the young hearts regained their freedom,
with the songs of the evening, laughing at the anticipated pleasures
of a happy home, while others tittered at the actions of the past day,
he addressed the teacher in a tone that indicated a resolution--
with an undaunted mind.  He said he had determined to become
a student, if he could meet with his approbation.  "Sir," said he,
"I have spent much time in the world.  I have traveled among
the uncivilized inhabitants of America.  I have met with friends,
and combated with foes; but none of these gratify my ambition,
or decide what is to be my destiny.  I see the learned world
have an influence with the voice of the people themselves.
The despoilers of the remotest kingdoms of the earth refer their
differences to this class of persons.  This the illiterate and
inexperienced little dream of; and now if you will receive me as I am,
with these deficiencies--with all my misguided opinions, I will give
you my honor, sir, that I will never disgrace the Institution,
or those who have placed you in this honorable station."
The instructor, who had met with many disappointments, knew how to
feel for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities
of an unfeeling community.  He looked at him earnestly, and said:
"Be of good cheer--look forward, sir, to the high destination you
may attain.  Remember, the more elevated the mark at which you aim,
the more sure, the more glorious, the more magnificent the prize."
From wonder to wonder, his encouragement led the impatient listener.
A strange nature bloomed before him--giant streams promised
him success--gardens of hidden treasures opened to his view.
All this, so vividly described, seemed to gain a new witchery from his
glowing fancy.


It seems to me that this situation is new in romance.  I feel
sure it has not been attempted before.  Military celebrities have
been disguised and set at lowly occupations for dramatic effect,
but I think McClintock is the first to send one of them to school.
Thus, in this book, you pass from wonder to wonder, through gardens
of hidden treasure, where giant streams bloom before you,
and behind you, and all around, and you feel as happy, and groggy,
and satisfied with your quart of mixed metaphor aboard as you would
if it had been mixed in a sample-room and delivered from a jug.

Now we come upon some more McClintockian surprise--a sweetheart
who is sprung upon us without any preparation, along with a name
for her which is even a little more of a surprise than she herself is.


In 1842 he entered the class, and made rapid progress in the English
and Latin departments.  Indeed, he continued advancing with such
rapidity that he was like to become the first in his class,
and made such unexpected progress, and was so studious, that he had
almost forgotten the pictured saint of his affections.  The fresh
wreaths of the pine and cypress had waited anxiously to drop once
more the dews of Heaven upon the heads of those who had so often
poured forth the tender emotions of their souls under its boughs.
He was aware of the pleasure that he had seen there.  So one evening ,as
he was returning from his reading, he concluded he would pay a visit
to this enchanting spot.  Little did he think of witnessing a shadow
of his former happiness, though no doubt he wished it might be so.
He continued sauntering by the roadside, meditating on the past.
The nearer he approached the spot, the more anxious he became.
At that moment a tall female figure flitted across his path, with a
bunch of roses in her hand; her countenance showed uncommon vivacity,
with a resolute spirit; her ivory teeth already appeared as she
smiled beautifully, promenading--while her ringlets of hair dangled
unconsciously around her snowy neck.  Nothing was wanting to complete
her beauty.  The tinge of the rose was in full bloom upon her cheek;
the charms of sensibility and tenderness were always her associates.
In Ambulinia's bosom dwelt a noble soul--one that never faded--
one that never was conquered.


Ambulinia!  It can hardly be matched in fiction.  The full name
is Ambulinia Valeer.  Marriage will presently round it out and
perfect it.  Then it will be Mrs. Ambulinia Valeer Elfonzo.
It takes the chromo.


Her heart yielded to no feeling but the love of Elfonzo, on whom
she gazed with intense delight, and to whom she felt herself
more closely bound, because he sought the hand of no other.
Elfonzo was roused from his apparent reverie.  His books no longer
were his inseparable companions--his thoughts arrayed themselves
to encourage him to the field of victory.  He endeavored to speak
to his supposed Ambulinia, but his speech appeared not in words.
No, his effort was a stream of fire, that kindled his soul into
a flame of admiration, and carried his senses away captive.
Ambulinia had disappeared, to make him more mindful of his duty.
As she walked speedily away through the piny woods, she calmly echoed:
"O!  Elfonzo, thou wilt now look from thy sunbeams.  Thou shalt
now walk in a new path--perhaps thy way leads through darkness;
but fear not, the stars foretell happiness."


To McClintock that jingling jumble of fine words meant something,
no doubt, or seemed to mean something; but it is useless for us to try
to divine what it was.  Ambulinia comes--we don't know whence nor why;
she mysteriously intimates--we don't know what; and then she goes
echoing away--we don't know whither; and down comes the curtain.
McClintock's art is subtle; McClintock's art is deep.


Not many days afterward, as surrounded by fragrant flowers she sat
one evening at twilight, to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered
notes of melody along the distant groves, the little birds perched
on every side, as if to watch the movements of their new visitor.
The bells were tolling, when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild
wood flowers, holding in his hand his favorite instrument of music--
his eye continually searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed
to perceive him, as she played carelessly with the songsters
that hopped from branch to branch.  Nothing could be more striking
than the difference between the two.  Nature seemed to have given
the more tender soul to Elfonzo, and the stronger and more courageous
to Ambulinia.  A deep feeling spoke from the eyes of Elfonzo--
such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who are blessed
as admirers, and by those who are able to return the same with
sincerity of heart.  He was a few years older than Ambulinia:
she had turned a little into her seventeenth.  He had almost grown
up in the Cherokee country, with the same equal proportions as one
of the natives.  But little intimacy had existed between them until
the year forty-one--because the youth felt that the character of such
a lovely girl was too exalted to inspire any other feeling than
that of quiet reverence.  But as lovers will not always be insulted,
at all times and under all circumstances, by the frowns and cold
looks of crabbed old age, which should continually reflect dignity
upon those around, and treat the unfortunate as well as the fortunate
with a graceful mien, he continued to use diligence and perseverance.
All this lighted a spark in his heart that changed his whole character,
and like the unyielding Deity that follows the storm to check its
rage in the forest, he resolves for the first time to shake off
his embarrassment and return where he had before only worshiped.


At last we begin to get the Major's measure.  We are able to put
this and that casual fact together, and build the man up before
our eyes, and look at him.  And after we have got him built, we find
him worth the trouble.  By the above comparison between his age
and Ambulinia's, we guess the war-worn veteran to be twenty-two;
and the other facts stand thus:  he had grown up in the Cherokee
country with the same equal proportions as one of the natives--
how flowing and graceful the language, and yet how tantalizing
as to meaning!--he had been turned adrift by his father, to whom he
had been "somewhat of a dutiful son"; he wandered in distant lands;
came back frequently "to the scenes of his boyhood, almost destitute
of many of the comforts of life," in order to get into the presence
of his father's winter-worn locks, and spread a humid veil of
darkness around his expectations; but he was always promptly sent
back to the cold charity of the combat again; he learned to play
the fiddle, and made a name for himself in that line; he had dwelt
among the wild tribes; he had philosophized about the despoilers
of the kingdoms of the earth, and found out--the cunning creature--
that they refer their differences to the learned for settlement;
he had achieved a vast fame as a military chieftain, the Achilles
of the Florida campaigns, and then had got him a spelling-book
and started to school; he had fallen in love with Ambulinia Valeer
while she was teething, but had kept it to himself awhile, out of
the reverential awe which he felt for the child; but now at last,
like the unyielding Deity who follows the storm to check its rage in
the forest, he resolves to shake off his embarrassment, and to return
where before he had only worshiped.  The Major, indeed, has made up
his mind to rise up and shake his faculties together, and to see
if HE can't do that thing himself.  This is not clear.  But no matter
about that:  there stands the hero, compact and visible; and he is
no mean structure, considering that his creator had never structure,
considering that his creator had never created anything before,
and hadn't anything but rags and wind to build with this time.
It seems to me that no one can contemplate this odd creature, this quaint
and curious blatherskite, without admiring McClintock, or, at any rate,
loving him and feeling grateful to him; for McClintock made him,
he gave him to us; without McClintock we could not have had him,
and would now be poor.

But we must come to the feast again.  Here is a courtship scene, down
there in the romantic glades among the raccoons, alligators, and things,
that has merit, peculiar literary merit.  See how Achilles woos.
Dwell upon the second sentence (particularly the close of it) and the
beginning of the third.  Never mind the new personage, Leos, who is
intruded upon us unheralded and unexplained.  That is McClintock's way;
it is his habit; it is a part of his genius; he cannot help it;
he never interrupts the rush of his narrative to make introductions.


It could not escape Ambulinia's penetrating eye that he sought
an interview with her, which she as anxiously avoided, and assumed
a more distant calmness than before, seemingly to destroy all hope.
After many efforts and struggles with his own person, with timid
steps the Major approached the damsel, with the same caution
as he would have done in a field of battle.  "Lady Ambulinia,"
said he, trembling, "I have long desired a moment like this.
I dare not let it escape.  I fear the consequences; yet I hope
your indulgence will at least hear my petition.  Can you not
anticipate what I would say, and what I am about to express?
Will not you, like Minerva, who sprung from the brain of Jupiter,
release me from thy winding chains or cure me--" "Say no more,
Elfonzo," answered Ambulinia, with a serious look, raising her hand
as if she intended to swear eternal hatred against the whole world;
"another lady in my place would have perhaps answered your question
in bitter coldness.  I know not the little arts of my sex.
I care but little for the vanity of those who would chide me,
and am unwilling as well as ashamed to be guilty of anything
that would lead you to think 'all is not gold that glitters';
so be no rash in your resolution.  It is better to repent now,
than to do it in a more solemn hour.  Yes, I know what you would say.
I know you have a costly gift for me--the noblest that man can make--
YOUR HEART!  You should not offer it to one so unworthy.
Heaven, you know, has allowed my father's house to be made a house
of solitude, a home of silent obedience, which my parents say
is more to be admired than big names and high-sounding titles.
Notwithstanding all this, let me speak the emotions of an honest heart--
allow me to say in the fullness of my hopes that I anticipate
better days.  The bird may stretch its wings toward the sun,
which it can never reach; and flowers of the field appear to
ascend in the same direction, because they cannot do otherwise;
but man confides his complaints to the saints in whom he believes;
for in their abodes of light they know no more sorrow.  From your
confession and indicative looks, I must be that person; if so deceive
not yourself."

Elfonzo replied, "Pardon me, my dear madam, for my frankness.
I have loved you from my earliest days--everything grand and beautiful
hath borne the image of Ambulinia; while precipices on every hand
surrounded me, your GUARDIAN ANGEL stood and beckoned me away from
the deep abyss.  In every trial, in every misfortune, I have met
with your helping hand; yet I never dreamed or dared to cherish
thy love, till a voice impaired with age encouraged the cause,
and declared they who acquired thy favor should win a victory.
I saw how Leos worshiped thee.  I felt my own unworthiness.
I began to KNOW JEALOUSLY, a strong guest--indeed, in my bosom,--
yet I could see if I gained your admiration Leos was to be my rival.
I was aware that he had the influence of your parents, and the wealth
of a deceased relative, which is too often mistaken for permanent
and regular tranquillity; yet I have determined by your permission
to beg an interest in your prayers--to ask you to animate my drooping
spirits by your smiles and your winning looks; for if you but speak
I shall be conqueror, my enemies shall stagger like Olympus shakes.
And though earth and sea may tremble, and the charioteer of the sun
may forget his dashing steed, yet I am assured that it is only
to arm me with divine weapons which will enable me to complete my
long-tried intention."

"Return to yourself, Elfonzo," said Ambulinia, pleasantly:  "a dream
of vision has disturbed your intellect; you are above the atmosphere,
dwelling in the celestial regions; nothing is there that urges
or hinders, nothing that brings discord into our present litigation.
I entreat you to condescend a little, and be a man, and forget it all.
When Homer describes the battle of the gods and noble men fighting
with giants and dragons, they represent under this image our struggles
with the delusions of our passions.  You have exalted me, an unhappy girl,
to the skies; you have called me a saint, and portrayed in your
imagination an angel in human form.  Let her remain such to you,
let her continue to be as you have supposed, and be assured that she
will consider a share in your esteem as her highest treasure.
Think not that I would allure you from the path in which your
conscience leads you; for you know I respect the conscience of others,
as I would die for my own.  Elfonzo, if I am worthy of thy love,
let such conversation never again pass between us.  Go, seek a nobler
theme! we will seek it in the stream of time, as the sun set in
the Tigris."  As she spake these words she grasped the hand of Elfonzo,
saying at the same time--"Peace and prosperity attend you, my hero;
be up and doing!"  Closing her remarks with this expression,
she walked slowly away, leaving Elfonzo astonished and amazed.
He ventured not to follow or detain her.  Here he stood alone,
gazing at the stars; confounded as he was, here he stood.


Yes; there he stood.  There seems to be no doubt about that.
Nearly half of this delirious story has now been delivered to the reader.
It seems a pity to reduce the other half to a cold synopsis.
Pity! it is more than a pity, it is a crime; for to synopsize McClintock
is to reduce a sky-flushing conflagration to dull embers, it is to
reduce barbaric splendor to ragged poverty.  McClintock never wrote
a line that was not precious; he never wrote one that could be spared;
he never framed one from which a word could be removed without damage.
Every sentence that this master has produced may be likened to a
perfect set of teeth, white, uniform, beautiful.  If you pull one,
the charm is gone.

Still, it is now necessary to begin to pull, and to keep it up;
for lack of space requires us to synopsize.

We left Elfonzo standing there amazed.  At what, we do not know.
Not at the girl's speech.  No; we ourselves should have been
amazed at it, of course, for none of us has ever heard anything
resembling it; but Elfonzo was used to speeches made up of noise
and vacancy, and could listen to them with undaunted mind like
the "topmost topaz of an ancient tower"; he was used to making
them himself; he--but let it go, it cannot be guessed out; we shall
never know what it was that astonished him.  He stood there awhile;
then he said, "Alas! am I now Grief's disappointed son at last?"
He did not stop to examine his mind, and to try to find out what
he probably meant by that, because, for one reason, "a mixture
of ambition and greatness of soul moved upon his young heart,"
and started him for the village.  He resumed his bench in school,
"and reasonably progressed in his education."  His heart was heavy,
but he went into society, and sought surcease of sorrow in its
light distractions.  He made himself popular with his violin,
"which seemed to have a thousand chords--more symphonious than the
Muses of Apollo, and more enchanting than the ghost of the Hills."
This is obscure, but let it go.

During this interval Leos did some unencouraged courting, but at last,
"choked by his undertaking," he desisted.

Presently "Elfonzo again wends his way to the stately walls and
new-built village."  He goes to the house of his beloved; she opens
the door herself.  To my surprise--for Ambulinia's heart had still
seemed free at the time of their last interview--love beamed from the
girl's eyes.  One sees that Elfonzo was surprised, too; for when he caught
that light, "a halloo of smothered shouts ran through every vein."
A neat figure--a very neat figure, indeed!  Then he kissed her.
"The scene was overwhelming."  They went into the parlor.  The girl
said it was safe, for her parents were abed, and would never know.
Then we have this fine picture--flung upon the canvas with hardly
an effort, as you will notice.


Advancing toward him, she gave a bright display of her rosy neck,
and from her head the ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance;
her robe hung waving to his view, while she stood like a goddess
confessed before him.


There is nothing of interest in the couple's interview.  Now at this
point the girl invites Elfonzo to a village show, where jealousy is
the motive of the play, for she wants to teach him a wholesome lesson,
if he is a jealous person.  But this is a sham, and pretty shallow.
McClintock merely wants a pretext to drag in a plagiarism of his upon
a scene or two in "Othello."

The lovers went to the play.  Elfonzo was one of the fiddlers.
He and Ambulinia must not been seen together, lest trouble follow with
the girl's malignant father; we are made to understand that clearly.
So the two sit together in the orchestra, in the midst of the musicians.
This does not seem to be good art.  In the first place, the girl would
be in the way, for orchestras are always packed closely together,
and there is no room to spare for people's girls; in the next place,
one cannot conceal a girl in an orchestra without everybody taking
notice of it.  There can be no doubt, it seems to me, that this is
bad art.

Leos is present.  Of course, one of the first things that catches
his eye is the maddening spectacle of Ambulinia "leaning upon
Elfonzo's chair."  This poor girl does not seem to understand even
the rudiments of concealment.  But she is "in her seventeenth,"
as the author phrases it, and that is her justification.

Leos meditates, constructs a plan--with personal violence as a basis,
of course.  It was their way down there.  It is a good plain plan,
without any imagination in it.  He will go out and stand at the
front door, and when these two come out he will "arrest Ambulinia
from the hands of the insolent Elfonzo," and thus make for himself
a "more prosperous field of immortality than ever was decreed
by Omnipotence, or ever pencil drew or artist imagined."  But, dear me,
while he is waiting there the couple climb out at the back window
and scurry home!  This is romantic enough, but there is a lack
of dignity in the situation.

At this point McClintock puts in the whole of his curious play--
which we skip.

Some correspondence follows now.  The bitter father and the
distressed lovers write the letters.  Elopements are attempted.
They are idiotically planned, and they fail.  Then we have several
pages of romantic powwow and confusion dignifying nothing.
Another elopement is planned; it is to take place on Sunday,
when everybody is at church.  But the "hero" cannot keep the secret;
he tells everybody.  Another author would have found another
instrument when he decided to defeat this elopement; but that is
not McClintock's way.  He uses the person that is nearest at hand.

The evasion failed, of course.  Ambulinia, in her flight,
takes refuge in a neighbor's house.  Her father drags her home.
The villagers gather, attracted by the racket.


Elfonzo was moved at this sight.  The people followed on to see
what was going to become of Ambulinia, while he, with downcast looks,
kept at a distance, until he saw them enter the abode of the father,
thrusting her, that was the sigh of his soul, out of his presence
into a solitary apartment, when she exclaimed, "Elfonzo!  Elfonzo! oh,
Elfonzo! where art thou, with all thy heroes? haste, oh! haste,
come thou to my relief.  Ride on the wings of the wind!  Turn thy
force loose like a tempest, and roll on thy army like a whirlwind,
over this mountain of trouble and confusion.  Oh friends! if any
pity me, let your last efforts throng upon the green hills,
and come to the relief of Ambulinia, who is guilty of nothing
but innocent love."  Elfonzo called out with a loud voice, "My God,
can I stand this! arouse up, I beseech you, and put an end to
this tyranny.  Come, my brave boys," said he, "are you ready to go
forth to your duty?"  They stood around him.  "Who," said he,
"will call us to arms?  Where are my thunderbolts of war?  Speak ye,
the first who will meet the foe!  Who will go forward with me
in this ocean of grievous temptation?  If there is one who desires
to go, let him come and shake hands upon the altar of devotion,
and swear that he will be a hero; yes, a Hector in a cause like this,
which calls aloud for a speedy remedy."  "Mine be the deed,"
said a young lawyer, "and mine alone; Venus alone shall quit her
station before I will forsake one jot or tittle of my promise to you;
what is death to me? what is all this warlike army, if it is not
to win a victory?  I love the sleep of the lover and the mighty;
nor would I give it over till the blood of my enemies should wreak
with that of my own.  But God forbid that our fame should soar
on the blood of the slumberer."  Mr. Valeer stands at his door
with the frown of a demon upon his brow, with his dangerous weapon
[3] ready to strike the first man who should enter his door.
"Who will arise and go forward through blood and carnage to the rescue
of my Ambulinia?" said Elfonzo.  "All," exclaimed the multitude;
and onward they went, with their implements of battle.  Others, of a
more timid nature, stood among the distant hills to see the result of
the contest.


It will hardly be believed that after all this thunder and lightning
not a drop of rain fell; but such is the fact.  Elfonzo and his
gang stood up and black-guarded Mr. Valeer with vigor all night,
getting their outlay back with interest; then in the early
morning the army and its general retired from the field,
leaving the victory with their solitary adversary and his crowbar.
This is the first time this has happened in romantic literature.
The invention is original.  Everything in this book is original;
there is nothing hackneyed about it anywhere.  Always, in other
romances, when you find the author leading up to a climax,
you know what is going to happen.  But in this book it is different;
the thing which seems inevitable and unavoidable never happens;
it is circumvented by the art of the author every time.

Another elopement was attempted.  It failed.

We have now arrived at the end.  But it is not exciting.
McClintock thinks it is; but it isn't. One day Elfonzo sent Ambulinia
another note--a note proposing elopement No. 16.  This time the plan
is admirable; admirable, sagacious, ingenious, imaginative, deep--
oh, everything, and perfectly easy.  One wonders why it was never
thought of before.  This is the scheme.  Ambulinia is to leave the
breakfast-table, ostensibly to "attend to the placing of those flowers,
which should have been done a week ago"--artificial ones, of course;
the others wouldn't keep so long--and then, instead of fixing
the flowers, she is to walk out to the grove, and go off with Elfonzo.
The invention of this plan overstrained the author that is plain,
for he straightway shows failing powers.  The details of the plan
are not many or elaborate.  The author shall state them himself--
this good soul, whose intentions are always better than his English:


"You walk carelessly toward the academy grove, where you will find
me with a lightning steed, elegantly equipped to bear you off
where we shall be joined in wedlock with the first connubial rights."


Last scene of all, which the author, now much enfeebled,
tries to smarten up and make acceptable to his spectacular heart
by introducing some new properties--silver bow, golden harp,
olive branch--things that can all come good in an elopement,
no doubt, yet are not to be compared to an umbrella for real
handiness and reliability in an excursion of that kind.


And away she ran to the sacred grove, surrounded with glittering pearls,
that indicated her coming.  Elfonzo hails her with his silver bow
and his golden harp.  The meet--Ambulinia's countenance brightens--
Elfonzo leads up the winged steed.  "Mount," said he, "ye true-hearted,
ye fearless soul--the day is ours."  She sprang upon the back
of the young thunderbolt, a brilliant star sparkles upon her head,
with one hand she grasps the reins, and with the other she holds
an olive branch.  "Lend thy aid, ye strong winds," they exclaimed,
"ye moon, ye sun, and all ye fair host of heaven, witness the
enemy conquered."  "Hold," said Elfonzo, "thy dashing steed."
"Ride on," said Ambulinia, "the voice of thunder is behind us."
And onward they went, with such rapidity that they very soon arrived
at Rural Retreat, where they dismounted, and were united with all
the solemnities that usually attended such divine operations.


There is but one Homer, there is but one Shakespeare, there is but
one McClintock--and his immortal book is before you.  Homer could
not have written this book, Shakespeare could not have written it,
I could not have done it myself.  There is nothing just like it
in the literature of any country or of any epoch.  It stands alone;
it is monumental.  It adds G. Ragsdale McClintock's to the sum of
the republic's imperishable names.

- - -

1.  The name here given is a substitute for the one actually
attached to the pamphlet.

2.  Further on it will be seen that he is a country expert
on the fiddle, and has a three-township fame.

3.  It is a crowbar.


***



THE CURIOUS BOOK


Complete



[The foregoing review of the great work of G. Ragsdale McClintock is
liberally illuminated with sample extracts, but these cannot appease
the appetite.  Only the complete book, unabridged, can do that.
Therefore it is here printed.--M.T.]



THE ENEMY CONQUERED; OR, LOVE TRIUMPHANT



Sweet girl, thy smiles are full of charms,

Thy voice is sweeter still,

It fills the breast with fond alarms,

Echoed by every rill.


I begin this little work with an eulogy upon woman, who has ever
been distinguished for her perseverance, her constancy, and her
devoted attention to those upon whom she has been pleased to place
her AFFECTIONS.  Many have been the themes upon which writers and
public speakers have dwelt with intense and increasing interest.
Among these delightful themes stands that of woman, the balm
to all our sighs and disappointments, and the most pre-eminent
of all other topics.  Here the poet and orator have stood and gazed
with wonder and with admiration; they have dwelt upon her innocence,
the ornament of all her virtues.  First viewing her external charms,
such as set forth in her form and benevolent countenance, and then passing
to the deep hidden springs of loveliness and disinterested devotion.
In every clime, and in every age, she has been the pride of her NATION.
Her watchfulness is untiring; she who guarded the sepulcher was
the first to approach it, and the last to depart from its awful
yet sublime scene.  Even here, in this highly favored land,
we look to her for the security of our institutions, and for our
future greatness as a nation.  But, strange as it may appear,
woman's charms and virtues are but slightly appreciated by thousands.
Those who should raise the standard of female worth, and paint her
value with her virtues, in living colors, upon the banners that are
fanned by the zephyrs of heaven, and hand them down to posterity
as emblematical of a rich inheritance, do not properly estimate them.

Man is not sensible, at all times, of the nature and the emotions
which bear that name; he does not understand, he will not comprehend;
his intelligence has not expanded to that degree of glory which
drinks in the vast revolution of humanity, its end, its mighty
destination, and the causes which operated, and are still operating,
to produce a more elevated station, and the objects which energize
and enliven its consummation.  This he is a stranger to;
he is not aware that woman is the recipient of celestial love,
and that man is dependent upon her to perfect his character;
that without her, philosophically and truly speaking, the brightest
of his intelligence is but the coldness of a winter moon,
whose beams can produce no fruit, whose solar light is not its own,
but borrowed from the great dispenser of effulgent beauty.
We have no disposition in the world to flatter the fair sex,
we would raise them above those dastardly principles which only
exist in little souls, contracted hearts, and a distracted brain.
Often does she unfold herself in all her fascinating loveliness,
presenting the most captivating charms; yet we find man frequently
treats such purity of purpose with indifference.  Why does he do it?
Why does he baffle that which is inevitably the source of his
better days?  Is he so much of a stranger to those excellent qualities
as not to appreciate woman, as not to have respect to her dignity?
Since her art and beauty first captivated man, she has been his
delight and his comfort; she has shared alike in his misfortunes
and in his prosperity.

Whenever the billows of adversity and the tumultuous waves of trouble
beat high, her smiles subdue their fury.  Should the tear of sorrow
and the mournful sigh of grief interrupt the peace of his mind,
her voice removes them all, and she bends from her circle to encourage
him onward.  When darkness would obscure his mind, and a thick cloud
of gloom would bewilder its operations, her intelligent eye darts
a ray of streaming light into his heart.  Mighty and charming is that
disinterested devotion which she is ever ready to exercise toward man,
not waiting till the last moment of his danger, but seeks to relieve
him in his early afflictions.  It gushes forth from the expansive
fullness of a tender and devoted heart, where the noblest, the purest,
and the most elevated and refined feelings are matured and developed
in those may kind offices which invariably make her character.

In the room of sorrow and sickness, this unequaled characteristic
may always been seen, in the performance of the most charitable acts;
nothing that she can do to promote the happiness of him who she
claims to be her protector will be omitted; all is invigorated by
the animating sunbeams which awaken the heart to songs of gaiety.
Leaving this point, to notice another prominent consideration,
which is generally one of great moment and of vital importance.
Invariably she is firm and steady in all her pursuits and aims.
There is required a combination of forces and extreme opposition to
drive her from her position; she takes her stand, not to be moved by
the sound of Apollo's lyre or the curved bow of pleasure.

Firm and true to what she undertakes, and that which she requires
by her own aggrandizement, and regards as being within the strict rules
of propriety, she will remain stable and unflinching to the last.
A more genuine principle is not to be found in the most determined,
resolute heart of man.  For this she deserves to be held in the
highest commendation, for this she deserves the purest of all
other blessings, and for this she deserves the most laudable reward
of all others.  It is a noble characteristic and is worthy of imitation
of any age.  And when we look at it in one particular aspect,
it is still magnified, and grows brighter and brighter the more we
reflect upon its eternal duration.  What will she not do, when her
word as well as her affections and LOVE are pledged to her lover?
Everything that is dear to her on earth, all the hospitalities
of kind and loving parents, all the sincerity and loveliness
of sisters, and the benevolent devotion of brothers, who have
surrounded her with every comfort; she will forsake them all,
quit the harmony and sweet sound of the lute and the harp,
and throw herself upon the affections of some devoted admirer,
in whom she fondly hopes to find more than she has left behind,
which is not often realized by many.  Truth and virtue all combined!
How deserving our admiration and love!  Ah cruel would it be in man,
after she has thus manifested such an unshaken confidence in him,
and said by her determination to abandon all the endearments and
blandishments of home, to act a villainous part, and prove a traitor
in the revolution of his mission, and then turn Hector over the
innocent victim whom he swore to protect, in the presence of Heaven,
recorded by the pen of an angel.

Striking as this train may unfold itself in her character,
and as pre-eminent as it may stand among the fair display of her
other qualities, yet there is another, which struggles into existence,
and adds an additional luster to what she already possesses.
I mean that disposition in woman which enables her, in sorrow,
in grief, and in distress, to bear all with enduring patience.
This she has done, and can and will do, amid the din of war and
clash of arms.  Scenes and occurrences which, to every appearance,
are calculated to rend the heart with the profoundest emotions of trouble,
do not fetter that exalted principle imbued in her very nature.
It is true, her tender and feeling heart may often be moved (as she
is thus constituted), but she is not conquered, she has not given up
to the harlequin of disappointments, her energies have not become
clouded in the last movement of misfortune, but she is continually
invigorated by the archetype of her affections.  She may bury her face
in her hands, and let the tear of anguish roll, she may promenade
the delightful walks of some garden, decorated with all the flowers
of nature, or she may steal out along some gently rippling stream,
and there, as the silver waters uninterruptedly move forward,
shed her silent tears; they mingle with the waves, and take a last
farewell of their agitated home, to seek a peaceful dwelling among
the rolling floods; yet there is a voice rushing from her breast,
that proclaims VICTORY along the whole line and battlement of
her affections.  That voice is the voice of patience and resignation;
that voice is one that bears everything calmly and dispassionately,
amid the most distressing scenes; when the fates are arrayed against
her peace, and apparently plotting for her destruction, still she
is resigned.

Woman's affections are deep, consequently her troubles may be made
to sink deep.  Although you may not be able to mark the traces of her
grief and the furrowings of her anguish upon her winning countenance,
yet be assured they are nevertheless preying upon her inward person,
sapping the very foundation of that heart which alone was made
for the weal and not the woe of man.  The deep recesses of the soul
are fields for their operation.  But they are not destined simply
to take the regions of the heart for their dominion, they are not
satisfied merely with interrupting her better feelings; but after
a while you may see the blooming cheek beginning to droop and fade,
her intelligent eye no longer sparkles with the starry light of heaven,
her vibrating pulse long since changed its regular motion, and her
palpitating bosom beats once more for the midday of her glory.
Anxiety and care ultimately throw her into the arms of the haggard
and grim monster death.  But, oh, how patient, under every
pining influence!  Let us view the matter in bolder colors;
see her when the dearest object of her affections recklessly seeks
every bacchanalian pleasure, contents himself with the last rubbish
of creation.  With what solicitude she awaits his return!  Sleep fails
to perform its office--she weeps while the nocturnal shades of the
night triumph in the stillness.  Bending over some favorite book,
whilst the author throws before her mind the most beautiful imagery,
she startles at every sound.  The midnight silence is broken
by the solemn announcement of the return of another morning.
He is still absent; she listens for that voice which has so often
been greeted by the melodies of her own; but, alas! stern silence
is all that she receives for her vigilance.

Mark her unwearied watchfulness, as the night passes away.
At last, brutalized by the accursed thing, he staggers along
with rage, and, shivering with cold, he makes his appearance.
Not a murmur is heard from her lips.  On the contrary, she meets him
with a smile--she caresses him with tender arms, with all the gentleness
and softness of her sex.  Here, then, is seen her disposition,
beautifully arrayed.  Woman, thou art more to be admired than the spicy
gales of Arabia, and more sought for than the gold of Golconda.
We believe that Woman should associate freely with man, and we believe
that it is for the preservation of her rights.  She should become
acquainted with the metaphysical designs of those who condescended
to sing the siren song of flattery.  This, we think, should be
according to the unwritten law of decorum, which is stamped upon
every innocent heart.  The precepts of prudery are often steeped
in the guilt of contamination, which blasts the expectations of
better moments.  Truth, and beautiful dreams--loveliness, and delicacy
of character, with cherished affections of the ideal woman--
gentle hopes and aspirations, are enough to uphold her in the storms
of darkness, without the transferred colorings of a stained sufferer.
How often have we seen it in our public prints, that woman occupies
a false station in the world! and some have gone so far as to say it
was an unnatural one.  So long has she been regarded a weak creature,
by the rabble and illiterate--they have looked upon her as an
insufficient actress on the great stage of human life--a mere puppet,
to fill up the drama of human existence--a thoughtless, inactive being--
that she has too often come to the same conclusion herself, and has
sometimes forgotten her high destination, in the meridian of her glory.
We have but little sympathy or patience for those who treat her as
a mere Rosy Melindi--who are always fishing for pretty complements--
who are satisfied by the gossamer of Romance, and who can be
allured by the verbosity of high-flown words, rich in language,
but poor and barren in sentiment.  Beset, as she has been, by the
intellectual vulgar, the selfish, the designing, the cunning, the hidden,
and the artful--no wonder she has sometimes folded her wings in despair,
and forgotten her HEAVENLY mission in the delirium of imagination;
no wonder she searches out some wild desert, to find a peaceful home.
But this cannot always continue.  A new era is moving gently onward,
old things are rapidly passing away; old superstitions, old prejudices,
and old notions are now bidding farewell to their old associates
and companions, and giving way to one whose wings are plumed
with the light of heaven and tinged by the dews of the morning.
There is a remnant of blessedness that clings to her in spite of all
evil influence, there is enough of the Divine Master left to accomplish
the noblest work ever achieved under the canopy of the vaulted skies;
and that time is fast approaching, when the picture of the true
woman will shine from its frame of glory, to captivate, to win back,
to restore, and to call into being once more, THE OBJECT OF HER MISSION.


Star of the brave! thy glory shed,

O'er all the earth, thy army led--

Bold meteor of immortal birth!

Why come from Heaven to dwell on Earth?


Mighty and glorious are the days of youth; happy the moments
of the LOVER, mingled with smiles and tears of his devoted,
and long to be remembered are the achievements which he gains with a
palpitating heart and a trembling hand.  A bright and lovely dawn,
the harbinger of a fair and prosperous day, had arisen over the
beautiful little village of Cumming, which is surrounded by the
most romantic scenery in the Cherokee country.  Brightening clouds
seemed to rise from the mist of the fair Chattahoochee, to spread
their beauty over the the thick forest, to guide the hero whose
bosom beats with aspirations to conquer the enemy that would tarnish
his name, and to win back the admiration of his long-tried friend.
He endeavored to make his way through Sawney's Mountain, where many meet
to catch the gales that are continually blowing for the refreshment
of the stranger and the traveler.  Surrounded as he was by hills
on every side, naked rocks dared the efforts of his energies.
Soon the sky became overcast, the sun buried itself in the clouds,
and the fair day gave place to gloomy twilight, which lay heavily
on the Indian Plains.  He remembered an old Indian Castle,
that once stood at the foot of the mountain.  He thought if he could
make his way to this, he would rest contented for a short time.
The mountain air breathed fragrance--a rosy tinge rested on the glassy
waters that murmured at its base.  His resolution soon brought him
to the remains of the red man's hut:  he surveyed with wonder and
astonishment the decayed building, which time had buried in the dust,
and thought to himself, his happiness was not yet complete.
Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man, about eighteen or twenty,
who seemed to be reading some favorite book, and who had a remarkably
noble countenance--eyes which betrayed more than a common mind.
This of course made the youth a welcome guest, and gained him
friends in whatever condition of life he might be placed.
The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure, which showed
strength and grace in every movement.  He accordingly addressed
him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way
to the village.  After he had received the desired information,
and was about taking his leave, the youth said, "Are you not
Major Elfonzo, the great musician--the champion of a noble cause--
the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?"
"I bear that name," said the Major, "and those titles,
trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry
me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,"
continued the Major, "you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds,
I should like to make you my confidant and learn your address."
The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment,
and began:  "My name is Roswell.  I have been recently admitted
to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success
in that honorable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle,
I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall
ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity,
and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be
called from its buried GREATNESS."  The Major grasped him by the hand,
and exclaimed:  "O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration--thou flame
of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare
of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede
your progress!"

The road which led to the town presented many attractions.
Elfonzo had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was
not wending his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness.
The south winds whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed
against the banks, as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars.
This brought him to remember while alone, that he quietly left behind
the hospitality of a father's house, and gladly entered the world,
with higher hopes than are often realized.  But as he journeyed onward,
he was mindful of the advice of his father, who had often looked
sadly on the ground when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened
his eye.  Elfonzo had been somewhat of a dutiful son; yet fond
of the amusements of life--had been in distant lands--had enjoyed
the pleasure of the world and had frequently returned to the scenes
of his boyhood, almost destitute of many of the comforts of life.
In this condition, he would frequently say to his father, "Have I
offended you, that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon
me with stinging looks?  Will you not favor me with the sound of
your voice?  If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread
a humid veil of darkness around your expectations, send me back into
the world where no heart beats for me--where the foot of man has
never yet trod; but give me at least one kind word--allow me to come
into the presence sometimes of thy winter-worn locks."  "Forbid it,
Heaven, that I should be angry with thee," answered the father,
"my son, and yet I send thee back to the children of the world--
to the cold charity of the combat, and to a land of victory.  I read
another destiny in thy countenance--I learn thy inclinations from
the flame that has already kindled in my soul a stranger sensation.
It will seek thee, my dear ELFONZO, it will find thee--thou canst
not escape that lighted torch, which shall blot out from the
remembrance of men a long train of prophecies which they have
foretold against thee.  I once thought not so.  Once, I was blind;
but now the path of life is plain before me, and my sight is clear;
yet Elfonzo, return to thy worldly occupation--take again in thy
hand that chord of sweet sounds--struggle with the civilized world,
and with your own heart; fly swiftly to the enchanted ground--
let the night-OWL send forth its screams from the stubborn oak--
let the sea sport upon the beach, and the stars sing together;
but learn of these, Elfonzo, thy doom, and thy hiding-place. Our most
innocent as well as our most lawful DESIRES must often be denied us,
that we may learn to sacrifice them to a Higher will."

Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately
urged by the recollection of his father's family to keep moving.
His steps became quicker and quicker--he hastened through the PINY woods,
dark as the forest was, and with joy he very soon reached the little
village or repose, in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry.
His close attention to every important object--his modest questions
about whatever was new to him--his reverence for wise old age,
and his ardent desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought him
into respectable notice.

One mild winter day as he walked along the streets toward the Academy,
which stood upon a small eminence, surrounded by native growth--
some venerable in its appearance, others young and prosperous--
all seemed inviting, and seemed to be the very place for learning as
well as for genius to spend its research beneath its spreading shades.
He entered its classic walls in the usual mode of southern manners.
The principal of the Institution begged him to be seated and listen
to the recitations that were going on.  He accordingly obeyed
the request, and seemed to be much pleased.  After the school
was dismissed, and the young hearts regained their freedom,
with the songs of the evening, laughing at the anticipated pleasures
of a happy home, while others tittered at the actions of the past day,
he addressed the teacher in a tone that indicated a resolution--
with an undaunted mind.  He said he had determined to become
a student, if he could meet with his approbation.  "Sir," said he,
"I have spent much time in the world.  I have traveled among
the uncivilized inhabitants of America.  I have met with friends,
and combated with foes; but none of these gratify my ambition,
or decide what is to be my destiny.  I see the learned would
have an influence with the voice of the people themselves.
The despoilers of the remotest kingdoms of the earth refer their
differences to this class of persons.  This the illiterate and
inexperienced little dream of; and now if you will receive me as I am,
with these deficiencies--with all my misguided opinions, I will give
you my honor, sir, that I will never disgrace the Institution,
or those who have placed you in this honorable station."
The instructor, who had met with many disappointments, knew how to
feel for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities
of an unfeeling community.  He looked at him earnestly, and said:
"Be of good cheer--look forward, sir, to the high destination you
may attain.  Remember, the more elevated the mark at which you aim,
the more sure, the more glorious, the more magnificent the prize."
From wonder to wonder, his encouragement led the impatient listener.
A stranger nature bloomed before him--giant streams promised
him success--gardens of hidden treasures opened to his view.
All this, so vividly described, seemed to gain a new witchery from his
glowing fancy.

In 1842 he entered the class, and made rapid progress in the English
and Latin departments.  Indeed, he continued advancing with such
rapidity that he was like to become the first in his class,
and made such unexpected progress, and was so studious, that he had
almost forgotten the pictured saint of his affections.  The fresh
wreaths of the pine and cypress had waited anxiously to drop once
more the dews of Heavens upon the heads of those who had so often
poured forth the tender emotions of their souls under its boughs.
He was aware of the pleasure that he had seen there.  So one evening,
as he was returning from his reading, he concluded he would pay a visit
to this enchanting spot.  Little did he think of witnessing a shadow
of his former happiness, though no doubt he wished it might be so.
He continued sauntering by the roadside, meditating on the past.
The nearer he approached the spot, the more anxious he became.
At the moment a tall female figure flitted across his path, with a
bunch of roses in her hand; her countenance showed uncommon vivacity,
with a resolute spirit; her ivory teeth already appeared as she
smiled beautifully, promenading--while her ringlets of hair dangled
unconsciously around her snowy neck.  Nothing was wanting to complete
her beauty.  The tinge of the rose was in full bloom upon her cheek;
the charms of sensibility and tenderness were always her associates..
In Ambulinia's bosom dwelt a noble soul--one that never faded--
one that never was conquered.  Her heart yielded to no feeling
but the love of Elfonzo, on whom she gazed with intense delight,
and to whom she felt herself more closely bound ,because he sought
the hand of no other.  Elfonzo was roused from his apparent reverie.
His books no longer were his inseparable companions--his thoughts
arrayed themselves to encourage him in the field of victory.
He endeavored to speak to his supposed Ambulinia, but his speech
appeared not in words.  No, his effort was a stream of fire,
that kindled his soul into a flame of admiration, and carried
his senses away captive.  Ambulinia had disappeared, to make him
more mindful of his duty.  As she walked speedily away through
the piny woods she calmly echoed:  "O!  Elfonzo, thou wilt
now look from thy sunbeams.  Thou shalt now walk in a new path--
perhaps thy way leads through darkness; but fear not, the stars
foretell happiness."

Not many days afterward, as surrounded by fragrant flowers she sat
one evening at twilight, to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered
notes of melody along the distant groves, the little birds perched
on every side, as if to watch the movements of their new visitor.
The bells were tolling when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild
wood flowers, holding in his hand his favorite instrument of music--
his eye continually searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed
to perceive him, as she played carelessly with the songsters
that hopped from branch to branch.  Nothing could be more striking
than the difference between the two.  Nature seemed to have given
the more tender soul to Elfonzo, and the stronger and more courageous
to Ambulinia.  A deep feeling spoke from the eyes of Elfonzo--
such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who are blessed
as admirers, and by those who are able to return the same with
sincerity of heart.  He was a few years older than Ambulinia:
she had turned a little into her seventeenth.  He had almost grown
up in the Cherokee country, with the same equal proportions as one
of the natives.  But little intimacy had existed between them until
the year forty-one--because the youth felt that the character of such
a lovely girl was too exalted to inspire any other feeling than
that of quiet reverence.  But as lovers will not always be insulted,
at all times and under all circumstances, by the frowns and cold
looks of crabbed old age, which should continually reflect dignity
upon those around, and treat unfortunate as well as the fortunate
with a graceful mien, he continued to use diligence and perseverance.
All this lighted a spark in his heart that changed his whole character,
and like the unyielding Deity that follows the storm to check its
rage in the forest, he resolves for the first time to shake off
his embarrassment and return where he had before only worshiped.

It could not escape Ambulinia's penetrating eye that he sought
an interview with her, which she as anxiously avoided, and assumed
a more distant calmness than before, seemingly to destroy all hope.
After many efforts and struggles with his own person, with timid
steps the Major approached the damsel, with the same caution
as he would have done in a field of battle.  "Lady Ambulinia,"
said he, trembling, "I have long desired a moment like this.
I dare not let it escape.  I fear the consequences; yet I hope
your indulgence will at least hear my petition.  Can you not
anticipate what I would say, and what I am about to express?
Will not you, like Minerva, who sprung from the brain of Jupiter,
release me from thy winding chains or cure me--" "Say no more,
Elfonzo," answered Ambulinia, with a serious look, raising her hand
as if she intended to swear eternal hatred against the whole world;
"another lady in my place would have perhaps answered your question
in bitter coldness.  I know not the little arts of my sex.
I care but little for the vanity of those who would chide me,
and am unwilling as well as shamed to be guilty of anything
that would lead you to think 'all is not gold that glitters';
so be not rash in your resolution.  It is better to repent now than
to do it in a more solemn hour.  Yes, I know what you would say.
I know you have a costly gift for me--the noblest that man can make--
YOUR HEART! you should not offer it to one so unworthy.
Heaven, you know, has allowed my father's house to be made a house
of solitude, a home of silent obedience, which my parents say
is more to be admired than big names and high-sounding titles.
Notwithstanding all this, let me speak the emotions of an honest heart;
allow me to say in the fullness of my hopes that I anticipate
better days.  The bird may stretch its wings toward the sun,
which it can never reach; and flowers of the field appear to
ascend in the same direction, because they cannot do otherwise;
but man confides his complaints to the saints in whom he believes;
for in their abodes of light they know no more sorrow.  From your
confession and indicative looks, I must be that person; if so,
deceive not yourself."

Elfonzo replied, "Pardon me, my dear madam, for my frankness.
I have loved you from my earliest days; everything grand and beautiful
hath borne the image of Ambulinia; while precipices on every hand
surrounded me, your GUARDIAN ANGEL stood and beckoned me away from
the deep abyss.  In every trial, in every misfortune, I have met
with your helping hand; yet I never dreamed or dared to cherish
thy love till a voice impaired with age encouraged the cause,
and declared they who acquired thy favor should win a victory.
I saw how Leos worshipped thee.  I felt my own unworthiness.
I began to KNOW JEALOUSY--a strong guest, indeed, in my bosom--
yet I could see if I gained your admiration Leos was to be my rival.
I was aware that he had the influence of your parents, and the wealth
of a deceased relative, which is too often mistaken for permanent
and regular tranquillity; yet I have determined by your permission
to beg an interest in your prayers--to ask you to animate my dropping
spirits by your smiles and your winning looks; for if you but speak
I shall be conqueror, my enemies shall stagger like Olympus shakes.
And though earth and sea may tremble, and the charioteer of the sun
may forget his dashing steed, yet I am assured that it is only
to arm me with divine weapons which will enable me to complete my
long-tried intention."

"Return to your self, Elfonzo," said Ambulinia, pleasantly; "a dream
of vision has disturbed your intellect; you are above the atmosphere,
dwelling in the celestial regions; nothing is there that urges
or hinders, nothing that brings discord into our present litigation.
I entreat you to condescend a little, and be a man, and forget it all.
When Homer describes the battle of the gods and noble men fighting
with giants and dragons, they represent under this image our struggles
with the delusions of our passions.  You have exalted me, an unhappy girl,
to the skies; you have called me a saint, and portrayed in your
imagination an angel in human form.  Let her remain such to you,
let her continue to be as you have supposed, and be assured that she
will consider a share in your esteem as her highest treasure.
Think not that I would allure you from the path in which your
conscience leads you; for you know I respect the conscience of others,
as I would die for my own.  Elfonzo, if I am worthy of thy love,
let such conversation never again pass between us.  Go, seek a nobler
theme! we will seek it in the stream of time as the sun set in
the Tigris."  As she spake these words she grasped the hand of Elfonzo,
saying at the same time, "Peace and prosperity attend you, my hero:
be up and doing!'  Closing her remarks with this expression,
she walked slowly away, leaving Elfonzo astonished and amazed.
He ventured not to follow or detain her.  Here he stood alone,
gazing at the stars; confounded as he was, here he stood.  The rippling
stream rolled on at his feet.  Twilight had already begun to draw
her sable mantle over the earth, and now and then the fiery smoke
would ascend from the little town which lay spread out before him.
The citizens seemed to be full of life and good-humor; but poor Elfonzo
saw not a brilliant scene.  No; his future life stood before him,
stripped of the hopes that once adorned all his sanguine desires.
"Alas!" said he, "am I now Grief's disappointed son at last."
Ambulinia's image rose before his fancy.  A mixture of ambition
and greatness of soul moved upon his young heart, and encouraged
him to bear all his crosses with the patience of a Job,
notwithstanding he had to encounter with so many obstacles.
He still endeavored to prosecute his studies, and reasonable
progressed in his education.  Still, he was not content; there was
something yet to be done before his happiness was complete.
He would visit his friends and acquaintances.  They would invite him
to social parties, insisting that he should partake of the amusements
that were going on.  This he enjoyed tolerably well.  The ladies
and gentlemen were generally well pleased with the Major; as he
delighted all with his violin, which seemed to have a thousand chords--
more symphonious than the Muses of Apollo and more enchanting
than the ghost of the Hills.  He passed some days in the country.
During that time Leos had made many calls upon Ambulinia, who was
generally received with a great deal of courtesy by the family.
They thought him to be a young man worthy of attention, though he
had but little in his soul to attract the attention or even win
the affections of her whose graceful manners had almost made
him a slave to every bewitching look that fell from her eyes.
Leos made several attempts to tell her of his fair prospects--
how much he loved her, and how much it would add to his bliss if he
could but think she would be willing to share these blessings
with him; but, choked by his undertaking, he made himself more like an
inactive drone than he did like one who bowed at beauty's shrine.

Elfonzo again wends his way to the stately walls and new-built village.
He now determines to see the end of the prophesy which had been
foretold to him.  The clouds burst from his sight; he believes
if he can but see his Ambulinia, he can open to her view the bloody
altars that have been misrepresented to stigmatize his name.
He knows that her breast is transfixed with the sword of reason,
and ready at all times to detect the hidden villainy of her enemies.
He resolves to see her in her own home, with the consoling theme:
"'I can but perish if I go.'  Let the consequences be what they may,"
said he, "if I die, it shall be contending and struggling for my
own rights."

Night had almost overtaken him when he arrived in town.  Colonel Elder,
a noble-hearted, high-minded, and independent man, met him at
his door as usual, and seized him by the hand.  "Well, Elfonzo,"
said the Colonel, "how does the world use you in your efforts?"
"I have no objection to the world," said Elfonzo, "but the people
are rather singular in some of their opinions."  "Aye, well,"
said the Colonel, "you must remember that creation is made up of
many mysteries; just take things by the right handle; be always sure
you know which is the smooth side before you attempt your polish;
be reconciled to your fate, be it what it may; and never find fault
with your condition, unless your complaining will benefit it.
Perseverance is a principle that should be commendable in those who have
judgment to govern it.  I should never had been so successful in my
hunting excursions had I waited till the deer, by some magic dream,
had been drawn to the muzzle of the gun before I made an attempt to fire
at the game that dared my boldness in the wild forest.  The great
mystery in hunting seems to be--a good marksman, a resolute mind,
a fixed determination, and my world for it, you will never return
home without sounding your horn with the breath of a new victory.
And so with every other undertaking.  Be confident that your ammunition
is of the right kind--always pull your trigger with a steady hand,
and so soon as you perceive a calm, touch her off, and the spoils
are yours."

This filled him with redoubled vigor, and he set out with a stronger
anxiety than ever to the home of Ambulinia.  A few short steps soon
brought him to the door, half out of breath.  He rapped gently.
Ambulinia, who sat in the parlor alone, suspecting Elfonzo was near,
ventured to the door, opened it, and beheld the hero, who stood
in an humble attitude, bowed gracefully, and as they caught each
other's looks the light of peace beamed from the eyes of Ambulinia.
Elfonzo caught the expression; a halloo of smothered shouts ran
through every vein, and for the first time he dared to impress a kiss
upon her cheek.  The scene was overwhelming; had the temptation
been less animating, he would not have ventured to have acted
so contrary to the desired wish of his Ambulinia; but who could
have withstood the irrestistable temptation!  What society condemns
the practice but a cold, heartless, uncivilized people that know
nothing of the warm attachments of refined society?  Here the dead
was raised to his long-cherished hopes, and the lost was found.
Here all doubt and danger were buried in the vortex of oblivion;
sectional differences no longer disunited their opinions; like the freed
bird from the cage, sportive claps its rustling wings, wheels about
to heaven in a joyful strain, and raises its notes to the upper sky.
Ambulinia insisted upon Elfonzo to be seated, and give her a history
of his unnecessary absence; assuring him the family had retired,
consequently they would ever remain ignorant of his visit.
Advancing toward him, she gave a bright display of her rosy neck,
and from her head the ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance;
her robe hung waving to his view, while she stood like a goddess
confessed before him.

"It does seem to me, my dear sir," said Ambulinia, "that you have
been gone an age.  Oh, the restless hours I have spent since I last
saw you, in yon beautiful grove.  There is where I trifled with your
feelings for the express purpose of trying your attachment for me.
I now find you are devoted; but ah!  I trust you live not unguarded
by the powers of Heaven.  Though oft did I refuse to join my hand
with thine, and as oft did I cruelly mock thy entreaties with
borrowed shapes:  yes, I feared to answer thee by terms, in words
sincere and undissembled.  O! could I pursue, and you have leisure
to hear the annals of my woes, the evening star would shut Heaven's
gates upon the impending day before my tale would be finished,
and this night would find me soliciting your forgiveness."

"Dismiss thy fears and thy doubts," replied Elfonzo.

"Look, O! look:  that angelic look of thine--bathe not thy visage
in tears; banish those floods that are gathering; let my confession
and my presence being thee some relief."  "Then, indeed, I will
be cheerful," said Ambulinia, "and I think if we will go to the
exhibition this evening, we certainly will see something worthy
of our attention.  One of the most tragical scenes is to be acted
that has ever been witnessed, and one that every jealous-hearted person
should learn a lesson from.  It cannot fail to have a good effect,
as it will be performed by those who are young and vigorous,
and learned as well as enticing.  You are aware, Major Elfonzo, who are
to appear on the stage, and what the characters are to represent."
"I am acquainted with the circumstances," replied Elfonzo, "and as I
am to be one of the musicians upon that interesting occasion,
I should be much gratified if you would favor me with your company
during the hours of the exercises."

"What strange notions are in your mind?" inquired Ambulinia.
"Now I know you have something in view, and I desire you to tell
me why it is that you are so anxious that I should continue
with you while the exercises are going on; though if you think I
can add to your happiness and predilections, I have no particular
objection to acquiesce in your request.  Oh, I think I foresee,
now, what you anticipate."  "And will you have the goodness to tell
me what you think it will be?" inquired Elfonzo.  "By all means,"
answered Ambulinia; "a rival, sir, you would fancy in your own mind;
but let me say for you, fear not! fear not!  I will be one of the
last persons to disgrace my sex by thus encouraging every one who
may feel disposed to visit me, who may honor me with their graceful
bows and their choicest compliments.  It is true that young men too
often mistake civil politeness for the finer emotions of the heart,
which is tantamount to courtship; but, ah! how often are they deceived,
when they come to test the weight of sunbeams with those on whose
strength hangs the future happiness of an untried life."

The people were now rushing to the Academy with impatient anxiety;
the band of music was closely followed by the students; then the parents
and guardians; nothing interrupted the glow of spirits which ran
through every bosom, tinged with the songs of a Virgil and the tide
of a Homer.  Elfonzo and Ambulinia soon repaired to the scene,
and fortunately for them both the house was so crowded that they took
their seats together in the music department, which was not in view
of the auditory.  This fortuitous circumstances added more the bliss
of the Major than a thousand such exhibitions would have done.
He forgot that he was man; music had lost its charms for him;
whenever he attempted to carry his part, the string of the instrument
would break, the bow became stubborn, and refused to obey the loud
calls of the audience.  Here, he said, was the paradise of his home,
the long-sought-for opportunity; he felt as though he could
send a million supplications to the throne of Heaven for such
an exalted privilege.  Poor Leos, who was somewhere in the crowd,
looking as attentively as if he was searching for a needle in a haystack;
here is stood, wondering to himself why Ambulinia was not there.
"Where can she be?  Oh! if she was only here, how I could relish
the scene!  Elfonzo is certainly not in town; but what if he is?
I have got the wealth, if I have not the dignity, and I am sure that
the squire and his lady have always been particular friends of mine,
and I think with this assurance I shall be able to get upon the blind
side of the rest of the family and make the heaven-born Ambulinia
the mistress of all I possess."  Then, again, he would drop his head,
as if attempting to solve the most difficult problem in Euclid.
While he was thus conjecturing in his own mind, a very interesting
part of the exhibition was going on, which called the attention
of all present.  The curtains of the stage waved continually
by the repelled forces that were given to them, which caused
Leos to behold Ambulinia leaning upon the chair of Elfonzo.
Her lofty beauty, seen by the glimmering of the chandelier,
filled his heart with rapture, he knew not how to contain himself;
to go where they were would expose him to ridicule; to continue
where he was, with such an object before him, without being allowed
an explanation in that trying hour, would be to the great injury
of his mental as well as of his physical powers; and, in the name
of high heaven, what must he do?  Finally, he resolved to contain
himself as well as he conveniently could, until the scene was over,
and then he would plant himself at the door, to arrest Ambulinia from
the hands of the insolent Elfonzo, and thus make for himself a more
prosperous field of immortality than ever was decreed by Omnipotence,
or ever pencil drew or artist imagined.  Accordingly he made
himself sentinel, immediately after the performance of the evening--
retained his position apparently in defiance of all the world; he waited,
he gazed at every lady, his whole frame trembled; here he stood,
until everything like human shape had disappeared from the institution,
and he had done nothing; he had failed to accomplish that which he
so eagerly sought for.  Poor, unfortunate creature! he had not
the eyes of an Argus, or he might have seen his Juno and Elfonzo,
assisted by his friend Sigma, make their escape from the window,
and, with the rapidity of a race-horse, hurry through the blast of
the storm to the residence of her father, without being recognized.
He did not tarry long, but assured Ambulinia the endless chain
of their existence was more closely connected than ever, since he
had seen the virtuous, innocent, imploring, and the constant
Amelia murdered by the jealous-hearted Farcillo, the accursed of
the land.

The following is the tragical scene, which is only introduced
to show the subject-matter that enabled Elfonzo to come to such
a determinate resolution that nothing of the kind should ever
dispossess him of his true character, should he be so fortunate
as to succeed in his present undertaking.

Amelia was the wife of Farcillo, and a virtuous woman; Gracia,
a young lady, was her particular friend and confidant.  Farcillo grew
jealous of Amelia, murders her, finds out that he was deceived,
AND STABS HIMSELF.  Amelia appears alone, talking to herself.

A. Hail, ye solitary ruins of antiquity, ye sacred tombs and
silent walks! it is your aid I invoke; it is to you, my soul,
wrapt in deep mediating, pours forth its prayer.  Here I wander upon
the stage of mortality, since the world hath turned against me.
Those whom I believed to be my friends, alas! are now my enemies,
planting thorns in all my paths, poisoning all my pleasures,
and turning the past to pain.  What a lingering catalogue of sighs
and tears lies just before me, crowding my aching bosom with
the fleeting dream of humanity, which must shortly terminate.
And to what purpose will all this bustle of life, these agitations
and emotions of the heart have conduced, if it leave behind it
nothing of utility, if it leave no traces of improvement?  Can it
be that I am deceived in my conclusions?  No, I see that I have
nothing to hope for, but everything for fear, which tends to drive
me from the walks of time.


Oh! in this dead night, if loud winds arise,

To lash the surge and bluster in the skies,

May the west its furious rage display,

Toss me with storms in the watery way.


(Enter Gracia.)


G. Oh, Amelia, is it you, the object of grief, the daughter of opulence,
of wisdom and philosophy, that thus complaineth?  It cannot be you
are the child of misfortune, speaking of the monuments of former ages,
which were allotted not for the reflection of the distressed,
but for the fearless and bold.

A. Not the child of poverty, Gracia, or the heir of glory and peace,
but of fate.  Remember, I have wealth more than wit can number; I have
had power more than kings could emcompass; yet the world seems a desert;
all nature appears an afflictive spectacle of warring passions.
This blind fatality, that capriciously sports with the rules
and lives of mortals, tells me that the mountains will never again
send forth the water of their springs to my thirst.  Oh, that I
might be freed and set at liberty from wretchedness!  But I fear,
I fear this will never be.

G. Why, Amelia, this untimely grief?  What has caused the sorrows
that bespeak better and happier days, to those lavish out such
heaps of misery?  You are aware that your instructive lessons
embellish the mind with holy truths, by wedding its attention
to none but great and noble affections.

A. This, of course, is some consolation.  I will ever love my own
species with feelings of a fond recollection, and while I am
studying to advance the universal philanthropy, and the spotless
name of my own sex, I will try to build my own upon the pleasing
belief that I have accelerated the advancement of one who whispers
of departed confidence.


And I, like some poor peasant fated to reside

Remote from friends, in a forest wide.

Oh, see what woman's woes and human wants require,

Since that great day hath spread the seed of sinful fire.


G. Look up, thou poor disconsolate; you speak of quitting
earthly enjoyments.  Unfold thy bosom to a friend, who would be
willing to sacrifice every enjoyment for the restoration of the
dignity and gentleness of mind which used to grace your walks,
and which is so natural to yourself; not only that, but your
paths were strewed with flowers of every hue and of every order.


With verdant green the mountains glow,

For thee, for thee, the lilies grow;

Far stretched beneath the tented hills,

A fairer flower the valley fills.


A. Oh, would to Heaven I could give you a short narrative of my
former prospects for happiness, since you have acknowledged to be
an unchangeable confidant--the richest of all other blessings.
Oh, ye names forever glorious, ye celebrated scenes, ye renowned
spot of my hymeneal moments; how replete is your chart with
sublime reflections!  How many profound vows, decorated with
immaculate deeds, are written upon the surface of that precious
spot of earth where I yielded up my life of celibacy, bade youth
with all its beauties a final adieu, took a last farewell of the
laurels that had accompanied me up the hill of my juvenile career.
It was then I began to descend toward the valley of disappointment
and sorrow; it was then I cast my little bark upon a mysterious ocean
of wedlock, with him who then smiled and caressed me, but, alas! now
frowns with bitterness, and has grown jealous and cold toward me,
because the ring he gave me is misplaced or lost.  Oh, bear me,
ye flowers of memory, softly through the eventful history of
past times; and ye places that have witnessed the progression of man
in the circle of so many societies, and, of, aid my recollection,
while I endeavor to trace the vicissitudes of a life devoted
in endeavoring to comfort him that I claim as the object of my wishes.


Ah! ye mysterious men, of all the world, how few

Act just to Heaven and to your promise true!

But He who guides the stars with a watchful eye,

The deeds of men lay open without disguise;

Oh, this alone will avenge the wrongs I bear,

For all the oppressed are His peculiar care.


(F. makes a slight noise.)


A. Who is there--Farcillo?

G. Then I must gone.  Heaven protect you.  Oh, Amelia, farewell,
be of good cheer.


May you stand like Olympus' towers,

Against earth and all jealous powers!

May you, with loud shouts ascend on high

Swift as an eagle in the upper sky.


A. Why so cold and distant tonight, Farcillo?  Come, let us each
other greet, and forget all the past, and give security for the future.

F. Security! talk to me about giving security for the future--
what an insulting requisition!  Have you said your prayers tonight,
Madam Amelia?

A. Farcillo, we sometimes forget our duty, particularly when we
expect to be caressed by others.

F. If you bethink yourself of any crime, or of any fault, that is
yet concealed from the courts of Heaven and the thrones of grace,
I bid you ask and solicit forgiveness for it now.

A. Oh, be kind, Farcillo, don't treat me so.  What do you mean
by all this?

F. Be kind, you say; you, madam, have forgot that kindness you owe
to me, and bestowed it upon another; you shall suffer for your
conduct when you make your peace with your God.  I would not slay thy
unprotected spirit.  I call to Heaven to be my guard and my watch--
I would not kill thy soul, in which all once seemed just, right,
and perfect; but I must be brief, woman.

A. What, talk you of killing?  Oh, Farcillo, Farcillo, what is
the matter?

F. Aye, I do, without doubt; mark what I say, Amelia.

A. Then, O God, O Heaven, and Angels, be propitious, and have mercy
upon me.

F. Amen to that, madam, with all my heart, and with all my soul.

A. Farcillo, listen to me one moment; I hope you will not kill me.

F. Kill you, aye, that I will; attest it, ye fair host of light,
record it, ye dark imps of hell!

A. Oh, I fear you--you are fatal when darkness covers your brow;
yet I know not why I should fear, since I never wronged you in all
my life.  I stand, sir, guiltless before you.

F. You pretend to say you are guiltless!  Think of thy sins,
Amelia; think, oh, think, hidden woman.

A. Wherein have I not been true to you?  That death is unkind,
cruel, and unnatural, that kills for living.

F. Peace, and be still while I unfold to thee.

A. I will, Farcillo, and while I am thus silent, tell me the cause
of such cruel coldness in an hour like this.

F. That RING, oh, that ring I so loved, and gave thee as the ring
of my heart; the allegiance you took to be faithful, when it
was presented; the kisses and smiles with which you honored it.
You became tired of the donor, despised it as a plague, and finally
gave it to Malos, the hidden, the vile traitor.

A. No, upon my word and honor, I never did; I appeal to the Most
High to bear me out in this matter.  Send for Malos, and ask him.

F. Send for Malos, aye!  Malos you wish to see; I thought so.
I knew you could not keep his name concealed.  Amelia, sweet Amelia,
take heed, take heed of perjury; you are on the stage of death,
to suffer for YOUR SINS.

A. What, not to die I hope, my Farcillo, my ever beloved.

F. Yes, madam, to die a traitor's death.  Shortly your spirit shall
take its exit; therefore confess freely thy sins, for to deny tends
only to make me groan under the bitter cup thou hast made for me.
Thou art to die with the name of traitor on thy brow!

A. Then, O Lord, have mercy upon me; give me courage, give me grace
and fortitude to stand this hour of trial.

F. Amen, I say, with all my heart.

A. And, oh, Farcillo, will you have mercy, too?  I never
intentionally offended you in all my life, never LOVED Malos,
never gave him cause to think so, as the high court of Justice
will acquit me before its tribunal.

F. Oh, false, perjured woman, thou didst chill my blood, and makest
me a demon like thyself.  I saw the ring.

A. He found it, then, or got it clandestinely; send for him,
and let him confess the truth; let his confession be sifted.

F. And you still with to see him!  I tell you, madam, he hath
already confessed, and thou knowest the darkness of thy heart.

A. What, my deceived Farcillo, that I gave him the ring, in which
all my affections were concentrated?  Oh, surely not.

F. Aye, he did.  Ask thy conscience, and it will speak with a voice
of thunder to thy soul.

A. He will not say so, he dare not, he cannot.

F. No, he will not say so now, because his mouth, I trust, is hushed
in death, and his body stretched to the four winds of heaven,
to be torn to pieces by carnivorous birds.

A. What, he is dead, and gone to the world of spirits with that
declaration in his mouth?  Oh, unhappy man!  Oh, insupportable hour!

F. Yes, and had all his sighs and looks and tears been lives, my great
revenge could have slain them all, without the least condemnation.

A. Alas! he is ushered into eternity without testing the matter
for which I am abused and sentenced and condemned to die.

F. Cursed, infernal woman!  Weepest thou for him to my face?  He that
hath robbed me of my peace, my energy, the whole love of my life?
Could I call the fabled Hydra, I would have him live and perish,
survive and die, until the sun itself would grow dim with age.
I would make him have the thirst of a Tantalus, and roll the
wheel of an Ixion, until the stars of heaven should quit their
brilliant stations.

A. Oh, invincible God, save me!  Oh, unsupportable moment!  Oh, heavy
hour!  Banish me,, Farcillo--send me where no eye can ever see me, where
no sound shall ever great my ear; but, oh, slay me not, Farcillo; vent thy
rage and thy spite upon this emaciated frame of mine, only spare my life.

F. Your petitions avail nothing, cruel Amelia.

A. Oh, Farcillo, perpetrate the dark deed tomorrow; let me live
till then, for my past kindness to you, and it may be some kind
angel will show to you that I am not only the object of innocence,
but one who never loved another but your noble self.

F. Amelia, the decree has gone forth, it is to be done, and that quickly;
thou art to die, madam.

A. But half an hour allow me, to see my father and my only child,
to tell her the treachery and vanity of this world.

F. There is no alternative, there is no pause:  my daughter shall
not see its deceptive mother die; your father shall not know that his
daughter fell disgraced, despised by all but her enchanting Malos.

A. Oh, Farcillo, put up thy threatening dagger into its scabbard;
let it rest and be still, just while I say one prayer for thee and
for my child.

F. It is too late, thy doom is fixed, thou hast not confessed
to Heaven or to me, my child's protector--thou art to die.
Ye powers of earth and heaven, protect and defend me in this alone.
(STABS HER WHILE IMPLORING FOR MERCY.)

A. Oh, Farcillo, Farcillo, a guiltless death I die.

F. Die! die! die!


(Gracia enters running, falls on her knees weeping, and kisses Amelia.)


G. Oh, Farcillo, Farcillo! oh, Farcillo!

F. I am here, the genius of the age, and the avenger of my wrongs.

G. Oh, lady, speak once more; sweet Amelia, on, speak again.
Gone, gone--yes, forever gone!  Farcillo, oh, cold-hearted Farcillo,
some evil fiend hath urged you to do this, Farcillo.

F. Say not so again, or you shall receive the same fate.  I did
the glorious deed, madam--beware, then, how you talk.

G. I fear not your implements of war; I will let you know you have
not the power to do me harm.  If you have a heart of triple brass,
it shall be reached and melted, and thy blood shall chill thy veins
and grow stiff in thy arteries.  Here is the ring of the virtuous
and innocent murdered Amelia; I obtained it from Malos, who yet lives,
in hopes that he will survive the wound given him, and says he got
it clandestinely--declares Amelia to be the princess of truth and virtue,
invulnerable to anything like forgetting her first devotion to thee.
The world has heard of your conduct and your jealousy, and with
one universal voice declares her to be the best of all in piety;
that she is the star of this great universe, and a more virtuous
woman never lived since the wheels of time began.  Oh, had you waited
till tomorrow, or until I had returned, some kind window would have
been opened to her relief.  But, alas! she is gone--yes, forever gone,
to try the realities of an unknown world!


(Farcillo leaning over the body of Amelia.)


F. Malos not dead, and here is my ring!  Oh, Amelia! falsely murdered!
Oh, bloody deed!  Oh, wretch that I am!  Oh, angels forgive me!  Oh, God,
withhold thy vengeance!  Oh, Amelia! if Heaven would make a thousand
worlds like this, set with diamonds, and all of one perfect chrysolite,
I would not have done this for them all, I would not have frowned
and cursed as I did.  Oh, she was heavenly true, nursed in the very
lap of bright angels!  Cursed slave that I am!  Jealousy, oh! thou
infernal demon!  Lost, lost to every sense of honor!  Oh!  Amelia--
heaven-born Amelia--dead, dead!  Oh! oh! oh!--then let me die with
thee.  Farewell! farewell! ye world that deceived me!  (STABS HIMSELF.)


Soon after the excitement of this tragical scene was over,
and the enlisted feeling for Amelia had grown more buoyant with
Elfonzo and Ambulinia, he determined to visit his retired home,
and make the necessary improvements to enjoy a better day;
consequently he conveyed the following lines to Ambulinia:


Go tell the world that hope is glowing,

Go bid the rocks their silence break,

Go tell the stars that love is glowing,

Then bid the hero his lover take.


In the region where scarcely the foot of man hath ever trod,
where the woodman hath not found his way, lies a blooming grove,
seen only by the sun when he mounts his lofty throne, visited only
by the light of the stars, to whom are entrusted the guardianship
of earth, before the sun sinks to rest in his rosy bed.  High cliffs
of rocks surround the romantic place, and in the small cavity of
the rocky wall grows the daffodil clear and pure; and as the wind
blows along the enchanting little mountain which surrounds the
lonely spot, it nourishes the flowers with the dew-drops of heaven.
Here is the seat of Elfonzo; darkness claims but little victory over
this dominion, and in vain does she spread out her gloomy wings.
Here the waters flow perpetually, and the trees lash their tops
together to bid the welcome visitor a happy muse.  Elfonzo, during his
short stay in the country, had fully persuaded himself that it was
his duty to bring this solemn matter to an issue.  A duty that he
individually owed, as a gentleman, to the parents of Ambulinia,
a duty in itself involving not only his own happiness and his own
standing in society, but one that called aloud the act of the parties
to make it perfect and complete.  How he should communicate his
intentions to get a favorable reply, he was at a loss to know;
he knew not whether to address Esq. Valeer in prose or in poetry,
in a jocular or an argumentative manner, or whether he should use
moral suasion, legal injunction, or seizure and take by reprisal;
if it was to do the latter, he would have no difficulty in deciding
in his own mind, but his gentlemanly honor was at stake; so he
concluded to address the following letter to the father and mother
of Ambulinia, as his address in person he knew would only aggravate
the old gentleman, and perhaps his lady.



Cumming, Ga., January 22, 1844

Mr. and Mrs. Valeer--


Again I resume the pleasing task of addressing you, and once more beg
an immediate answer to my many salutations.  From every circumstance
that has taken place, I feel in duty bound to comply with my obligations;
to forfeit my word would be more than I dare do; to break my pledge,
and my vows that have been witnessed, sealed, and delivered in the
presence of an unseen Deity, would be disgraceful on my part, as well
as ruinous to Ambulinia.  I wish no longer to be kept in suspense
about this matter.  I wish to act gentlemanly in every particular.
It is true, the promises I have made are unknown to any but Ambulinia,
and I think it unnecessary to here enumerate them, as they who
promise the most generally perform the least.  Can you for a moment
doubt my sincerity or my character?  My only wish is, sir, that you
may calmly and dispassionately look at the situation of the case,
and if your better judgment should dictate otherwise, my obligations
may induce me to pluck the flower that you so diametrically opposed.
We have sword by the saints--by the gods of battle, and by that
faith whereby just men are made perfect--to be united.  I hope,
my dear sir, you will find it convenient as well as agreeable
to give me a favorable answer, with the signature of Mrs. Valeer,
as well as yourself.


With very great esteem,

your humble servant,

J. I. Elfonzo.



The moon and stars had grown pale when Ambulinia had retired
to rest.  A crowd of unpleasant thoughts passed through her bosom.
Solitude dwelt in her chamber--no sound from the neighboring
world penetrated its stillness; it appeared a temple of silence,
of repose, and of mystery.  At that moment she heard a still voice
calling her father.  In an instant, like the flash of lightning,
a thought ran through her mind that it must be the bearer
of Elfonzo's communication.  "It is not a dream!" she said,
"no, I cannot read dreams.  Oh!  I would to Heaven I was near
that glowing eloquence--that poetical language--it charms the
mind in an inexpressible manner, and warms the coldest heart."
While consoling herself with this strain, her father rushed into
her room almost frantic with rage, exclaiming:  "Oh, Ambulinia!
Ambulinia!! undutiful, ungrateful daughter!  What does this mean?
Why does this letter bear such heart-rending intelligence?
Will you quit a father's house with this debased wretch, without a
place to lay his distracted head; going up and down the country,
with every novel object that many chance to wander through this region.
He is a pretty man to make love known to his superiors, and you,
Ambulinia, have done but little credit to yourself by honoring
his visits.  Oh, wretchedness! can it be that my hopes of happiness
are forever blasted!  Will you not listen to a father's entreaties,
and pay some regard to a mother's tears.  I know, and I do pray that God
will give me fortitude to bear with this sea of troubles, and rescue
my daughter, my Ambulinia, as a brand from the eternal burning."
"Forgive me, father, oh! forgive thy child," replied Ambulinia.
"My heart is ready to break, when I see you in this grieved state
of agitation.  Oh! think not so meanly of me, as that I mourn
for my own danger.  Father, I am only woman.  Mother, I am only
the templement of thy youthful years, but will suffer courageously
whatever punishment you think proper to inflict upon me, if you will
but allow me to comply with my most sacred promises--if you will but
give me my personal right and my personal liberty.  Oh, father! if
your generosity will but give me these, I ask nothing more.
When Elfonzo offered me his heart, I gave him my hand, never to
forsake him, and now may the mighty God banish me before I leave him
in adversity.  What a heart must I have to rejoice in prosperity
with him whose offers I have accepted, and then, when poverty comes,
haggard as it may be, for me to trifle with the oracles of Heaven,
and change with every fluctuation that may interrupt our happiness--
like the politician who runs the political gantlet for office one day,
and the next day, because the horizon is darkened a little, he is
seen running for his life, for fear he might perish in its ruins.
Where is the philosophy, where is the consistency, where is the charity,
in conduct like this?  Be happy then, my beloved father, and forget me;
let the sorrow of parting break down the wall of separation and make
us equal in our feeling; let me now say how ardently I love you;
let me kiss that age-worn cheek, and should my tears bedew thy face,
I will wipe them away.  Oh, I never can forget you; no, never, never!"

"Weep not," said the father, "Ambulinia.  I will forbid Elfonzo
my house, and desire that you may keep retired a few days.  I will
let him know that my friendship for my family is not linked together
by cankered chains; and if he ever enters upon my premises again,
I will send him to his long home."  "Oh, father! let me entreat you
to be calm upon this occasion, and though Elfonzo may be the sport
of the clouds and winds, yet I feel assured that no fate will send
him to the silent tomb until the God of the Universe calls him
hence with a triumphant voice."

Here the father turned away, exclaiming:  "I will answer his letter
in a very few words, and you, madam, will have the goodness to stay
at home with your mother; and remember, I am determined to protect
you from the consuming fire that looks so fair to your view."



Cumming, January 22, 1844.


Sir--In regard to your request, I am as I ever have been, utterly opposed
to your marrying into my family; and if you have any regard for yourself,
or any gentlemanly feeling, I hope you will mention it to me no more;
but seek some other one who is not so far superior to you in standing.


W. W. Valeer.



When Elfonzo read the above letter, he became so much depressed
in spirits that many of his friends thought it advisable to use
other means to bring about the happy union.  "Strange," said he,
"that the contents of this diminutive letter should cause me to have
such depressed feelings; but there is a nobler theme than this.  I know
not why my MILITARY TITLE is not as great as that of SQUIRE VALEER.
For my life I cannot see that my ancestors are inferior to those
who are so bitterly opposed to my marriage with Ambulinia.  I know
I have seen huge mountains before me, yet, when I think that I know
gentlemen will insult me upon this delicate matter, should I become
angry at fools and babblers, who pride themselves in their impudence
and ignorance?  No. My equals!  I know not where to find them.
My inferiors!  I think it beneath me; and my superiors!  I think
it presumption; therefore, if this youthful heart is protected
by any of the divine rights, I never will betray my trust."

He was aware that Ambulinia had a confidence that was, indeed,
as firm and as resolute as she was beautiful and interesting.
He hastened to the cottage of Louisa, who received him in her usual
mode of pleasantness, and informed him that Ambulinia had just that
moment left.  "Is it possible?" said Elfonzo.  "Oh, murdered hours!
Why did she not remain and be the guardian of my secrets?
But hasten and tell me how she has stood this trying scene,
and what are her future determinations."  "You know," said Louisa,
"Major Elfonzo, that you have Ambulinia's first love, which is
of no small consequence.  She came here about twilight, and shed
many precious tears in consequence of her own fate with yours.
We walked silently in yon little valley you see, where we spent
a momentary repose.  She seemed to be quite as determined as ever,
and before we left that beautiful spot she offered up a prayer
to Heaven for thee."  "I will see her then," replied Elfonzo,
"though legions of enemies may oppose.  She is mine by foreordination--
she is mine by prophesy--she is mine by her own free will, and I
will rescue her from the hands of her oppressors.  Will you not,
Miss Louisa, assist me in my capture?"

"I will certainly, by the aid of Divine Providence," answered Louisa,
"endeavor to break those slavish chains that bind the richest of prizes;
though allow me, Major, to entreat you to use no harsh means on this
important occasion; take a decided stand, and write freely to Ambulinia
upon this subject, and I will see that no intervening cause hinders
its passage to her.  God alone will save a mourning people.  Now is
the day and now is the hour to obey a command of such valuable worth."
The Major felt himself grow stronger after this short interview
with Louisa.  He felt as if he could whip his weight in wildcats--
he knew he was master of his own feelings, and could now write
a letter that would bring this litigation to AN ISSUE.



Cumming, January 24, 1844.

Dear Ambulinia--


We have now reached the most trying moment of our lives; we are
pledged not to forsake our trust; we have waited for a favorable hour
to come, thinking your friends would settle the matter agreeably
among themselves, and finally be reconciled to our marriage;
but as I have waited in vain, and looked in vain, I have determined
in my own mind to make a proposition to you, though you may think
it not in accord with your station, or compatible with your rank;
yet, "sub loc signo vinces."  You know I cannot resume my visits,
in consequence of the utter hostility that your father has to me;
therefore the consummation of our union will have to be sought
for in a more sublime sphere, at the residence of a respectable
friend of this village.  You cannot have an scruples upon this
mode of proceeding, if you will but remember it emanates from one
who loves you better than his own life--who is more than anxious
to bid you welcome to a new and happy home.  Your warmest associates
say come; the talented, the learned, the wise, and the experienced
say come;--all these with their friends say, come.  Viewing these,
with many other inducements, I flatter myself that you will come
to the embraces of your Elfonzo; for now is the time of your
acceptance of the day of your liberation.  You cannot be ignorant,
Ambulinia, that thou art the desire of my heart; its thoughts
are too noble, and too pure, to conceal themselves from you.
I shall wait for your answer to this impatiently, expecting that you
will set the time to make your departure, and to be in readiness
at a moment's warning to share the joys of a more preferable life.
This will be handed to you by Louisa, who will take a pleasure in
communicating anything to you that may relieve your dejected spirits,
and will assure you that I now stand ready, willing, and waiting
to make good my vows.

I am, dear Ambulinia, your

truly, and forever,

J. I. Elfonzo.



Louisa made it convenient to visit Mr. Valeer's, though they
did not suspect her in the least the bearer of love epistles;
consequently, she was invited in the room to console Ambulinia,
where they were left alone.  Ambulinia was seated by a small table--
her head resting on her hand--her brilliant eyes were bathed in tears.
Louisa handed her the letter of Elfonzo, when another spirit animated
her features--the spirit of renewed confidence that never fails
to strengthen the female character in an hour of grief and sorrow
like this, and as she pronounced the last accent of his name,
she exclaimed, "And does he love me yet!  I never will forget
your generosity, Louisa.  Oh, unhappy and yet blessed Louisa! may you
never feel what I have felt--may you never know the pangs of love.
Had I never loved, I never would have been unhappy; but I turn to Him
who can save, and if His wisdom does not will my expected union,
I know He will give me strength to bear my lot.  Amuse yourself
with this little book, and take it as an apology for my silence,"
said Ambulinia, "while I attempt to answer this volume of consolation."
"Thank you," said Louisa, "you are excusable upon this occasion;
but I pray you, Ambulinia, to be expert upon this momentous subject,
that there may be nothing mistrustful upon my part."  "I will,"
said Ambulinia, and immediately resumed her seat and addressed the
following to Elfonzo:



Cumming, Ga., January 28, 1844.

Devoted Elfonzo--


I hail your letter as a welcome messenger of faith, and can now
say truly and firmly that my feelings correspond with yours.
Nothing shall be wanting on my part to make my obedience your fidelity.
Courage and perseverance will accomplish success.  Receive this
as my oath, that while I grasp your hand in my own imagination,
we stand united before a higher tribunal than any on earth.
All the powers of my life, soul, and body, I devote to thee.
Whatever dangers may threaten me, I fear not to encounter them.
Perhaps I have determined upon my own destruction, by leaving
the house of the best of parents; be it so; I flee to you; I share
your destiny, faithful to the end.  The day that I have concluded
upon for this task is SABBATH next, when the family with the citizens
are generally at church.  For Heaven's sake let not that day
pass unimproved:  trust not till tomorrow, it is the cheat of life--
the future that never comes--the grave of many noble births--
the cavern of ruined enterprise:  which like the lightning's
flash is born, and dies, and perishes, ere the voice of him
who sees can cry, BEHOLD!  BEHOLD!! You may trust to what I say,
no power shall tempt me to betray confidence.  Suffer me to add one
word more.


I will soothe thee, in all thy grief,

Beside the gloomy river;

And though thy love may yet be brief;

Mine is fixed forever.


Receive the deepest emotions of my heart for thy constant love,
and may the power of inspiration by thy guide, thy portion, and thy all.
In great haste,

Yours faithfully,

Ambulinia.



"I now take my leave of you, sweet girl," said Louisa, "sincerely
wishing you success on Sabbath next."  When Ambulinia's letter was
handed to Elfonzo, he perused it without doubting its contents.
Louisa charged him to make but few confidants; but like most young
men who happened to win the heart of a beautiful girl, he was so
elated with the idea that he felt as a commanding general on parade,
who had confidence in all, consequently gave orders to all.
The appointed Sabbath, with a delicious breeze and cloudless sky,
made its appearance.  The people gathered in crowds to the church--
the streets were filled with neighboring citizens, all marching
to the house of worship.  It is entirely useless for me to attempt
to describe the feelings of Elfonzo and Ambulinia, who were silently
watching the movements of the multitude, apparently counting them as then
entered the house of God, looking for the last one to darken the door.
The impatience and anxiety with which they waited, and the bliss
they anticipated on the eventful day, is altogether indescribable.
Those that have been so fortunate as to embark in such a noble
enterprise know all its realities; and those who have not had this
inestimable privilege will have to taste its sweets before they can
tell to others its joys, its comforts, and its Heaven-born worth.
Immediately after Ambulinia had assisted the family off to church,
she took advantage of that opportunity to make good her promises.
She left a home of enjoyment to be wedded to one whose love had
been justifiable.  A few short steps brought her to the presence
of Louisa, who urged her to make good use of her time, and not
to delay a moment, but to go with her to her brother's house,
where Elfonzo would forever make her happy.  With lively speed,
and yet a graceful air, she entered the door and found herself
protected by the champion of her confidence.  The necessary
arrangements were fast making to have the two lovers united--
everything was in readiness except the parson; and as they are
generally very sanctimonious on such occasions, the news got
to the parents of Ambulinia before the everlasting knot was tied,
and they both came running, with uplifted hands and injured feelings,
to arrest their daughter from an unguarded and hasty resolution.
Elfonzo desired to maintain his ground, but Ambulinia thought
it best for him to leave, to prepare for a greater contest.
He accordingly obeyed, as it would have been a vain endeavor for him
to have battled against a man who was armed with deadly weapons;
and besides, he could not resist the request of such a pure heart.
Ambulinia concealed herself in the upper story of the house, fearing
the rebuke of her father; the door was locked, and no chastisement
was now expected.  Esquire Valeer, whose pride was already touched,
resolved to preserve the dignity of his family.  He entered the house
almost exhausted, looking wildly for Ambulinia.  "Amazed and astonished
indeed I am," said he, "at a people who call themselves civilized,
to allow such behavior as this.  Ambulinia, Ambulinia!" he cried,
"come to the calls of your first, your best, and your only friend.
I appeal to you, sir," turning to the gentleman of the house,
"to know where Ambulinia has gone, or where is she?"  "Do you mean
to insult me, sir, in my own house?" inquired the gentleman.
"I will burst," said Mr. V., "asunder every door in your dwelling,
in search of my daughter, if you do not speak quickly, and tell me
where she is.  I care nothing about that outcast rubbish of creation,
that mean, low-lived Elfonzo, if I can but obtain Ambulinia.
Are you not going to open this door?" said he.  "By the Eternal
that made Heaven and earth!  I will go about the work instantly,
if this is not done!"  The confused citizens gathered from all
parts of the village, to know the cause of this commotion.
Some rushed into the house; the door that was locked flew open,
and there stood Ambulinia, weeping.  "Father, be still," said she,
"and I will follow thee home."  But the agitated man seized her,
and bore her off through the gazing multitude.  "Father!" she exclaimed,
"I humbly beg your pardon--I will be dutiful--I will obey thy commands.
Let the sixteen years I have lived in obedience to thee by my
future security."  "I don't like to be always giving credit,
when the old score is not paid up, madam," said the father.  The mother
followed almost in a state of derangement, crying and imploring
her to think beforehand, and ask advice from experienced persons,
and they would tell her it was a rash undertaking.  "Oh!" said she,
"Ambulinia, my daughter, did you know what I have suffered--
did you know how many nights I have whiled away in agony,
in pain, and in fear, you would pity the sorrows of a heartbroken
mother."

"Well, mother," replied Ambulinia, "I know I have been disobedient;
I am aware that what I have done might have been done much better;
but oh! what shall I do with my honor? it is so dear to me;
I am pledged to Elfonzo.  His high moral worth is certainly worth
some attention; moreover, my vows, I have no doubt, are recorded
in the book of life, and must I give these all up? must my fair
hopes be forever blasted?  Forbid it, father; oh! forbid it, mother;
forbid it, Heaven."  "I have seen so many beautiful skies overclouded,"
replied the mother, "so many blossoms nipped by the frost,
that I am afraid to trust you to the care of those fair days,
which may be interrupted by thundering and tempestuous nights.
You no doubt think as I did--life's devious ways were strewn with
sweet-scented flowers, but ah! how long they have lingered around me
and took their flight in the vivid hope that laughs at the drooping
victims it has murdered."  Elfonzo was moved at this sight.
The people followed on to see what was going to become of Ambulinia,
while he, with downcast looks, kept at a distance, until he saw
them enter the abode of the father, thrusting her, that was the
sigh of his soul, out of his presence into a solitary apartment,
when she exclaimed, "Elfonzo!  Elfonzo! oh, Elfonzo! where art thou,
with all thy heroes? haste, oh! haste, come thou to my relief.
Ride on the wings of the wind!  Turn thy force loose like a tempest,
and roll on thy army like a whirlwind, over this mountain of trouble
and confusion.  Oh, friends! if any pity me, let your last efforts
throng upon the green hills, and come to the relief of Ambulinia,
who is guilty of nothing but innocent love."  Elfonzo called out with
a loud voice, "My God, can I stand this! arise up, I beseech you,
and put an end to this tyranny.  Come, my brave boys," said he,
"are you ready to go forth to your duty?"  They stood around him.
"Who," said he, "will call us to arms?  Where are my thunderbolts of war?
Speak ye, the first who will meet the foe!  Who will go forward with me
in this ocean of grievous temptation?  If there is one who desires
to go, let him come and shake hands upon the altar of devotion,
and swear that he will be a hero; yes, a Hector in a cause like this,
which calls aloud for a speedy remedy."  "Mine be the deed,"
said a young lawyer, "and mine alone; Venus alone shall quit her
station before I will forsake one jot or tittle of my promise to you;
what is death to me? what is all this warlike army, if it is not
to win a victory?  I love the sleep of the lover and the mighty;
nor would I give it over till the blood of my enemies should wreak
with that of my own.  But God forbid that our fame should soar
on the blood of the slumberer."  Mr. Valeer stands at his door
with the frown of a demon upon his brow, with his dangerous
weapon ready to strike the first man who should enter his door.
"Who will arise and go forward through blood and carnage to the rescue
of my Ambulinia?" said Elfonzo.  "All," exclaimed the multitude;
and onward they went, with their implements of battle.  Others, of a
more timid nature, stood among the distant hills to see the result of
the contest.

Elfonzo took the lead of his band.  Night arose in clouds;
darkness concealed the heavens; but the blazing hopes that stimulated
them gleamed in every bosom.  All approached the anxious spot;
they rushed to the front of the house and, with one exclamation,
demanded Ambulinia.  "Away, begone, and disturb my peace no more,"
said Mr. Valeer.  "You are a set of base, insolent, and infernal rascals.
Go, the northern star points your path through the dim twilight of
the night; go, and vent your spite upon the lonely hills; pour forth
your love, you poor, weak-minded wretch, upon your idleness and upon
your guitar, and your fiddle; they are fit subjects for your admiration,
for let me assure you, though this sword and iron lever are cankered,
yet they frown in sleep, and let one of you dare to enter my
house this night and you shall have the contents and the weight
of these instruments."  "Never yet did base dishonor blur my name,"
said Elfonzo; "mine is a cause of renown; here are my warriors;
fear and tremble, for this night, though hell itself should oppose,
I will endeavor to avenge her whom thou hast banished in solitude.
The voice of Ambulinia shall be heard from that dark dungeon."
At that moment Ambulinia appeared at the window above, and with a
tremulous voice said, "Live, Elfonzo! oh! live to raise my stone
of moss! why should such language enter your heart? why should thy
voice rend the air with such agitation?  I bid thee live, once more
remembering these tears of mine are shed alone for thee, in this dark
and gloomy vault, and should I perish under this load of trouble,
join the song of thrilling accents with the raven above my grave,
and lay this tattered frame beside the banks of the Chattahoochee
or the stream of Sawney's brook; sweet will be the song of death to
your Ambulinia.  My ghost shall visit you in the smiles of Paradise,
and tell your high fame to the minds of that region, which is far more
preferable than this lonely cell.  My heart shall speak for thee till
the latest hour; I know faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow,
yet our souls, Elfonzo, shall hear the peaceful songs together.
One bright name shall be ours on high, if we are not permitted to be
united here; bear in mind that I still cherish my old sentiments,
and the poet will mingle the names of Elfonzo and Ambulinia
in the tide of other days."  "Fly, Elfonzo, " said the voices
of his united band, "to the wounded heart of your beloved.
All enemies shall fall beneath thy sword.  Fly through the clefts,
and the dim spark shall sleep in death."  Elfonzo rushes forward
and strikes his shield against the door, which was barricaded,
to prevent any intercourse.  His brave sons throng around him.
The people pour along the streets, both male and female, to prevent or
witness the melancholy scene.

"To arms, to arms!" cried Elfonzo; "here is a victory to be won,
a prize to be gained that is more to me that the whole world beside."
"It cannot be done tonight," said Mr. Valeer.  "I bear the clang
of death; my strength and armor shall prevail.  My Ambulinia shall
rest in this hall until the break of another day, and if we fall,
we fall together.  If we die, we die clinging to our tattered rights,
and our blood alone shall tell the mournful tale of a murdered
daughter and a ruined father."  Sure enough, he kept watch all night,
and was successful in defending his house and family.  The bright
morning gleamed upon the hills, night vanished away, the Major
and his associates felt somewhat ashamed that they had not been as
fortunate as they expected to have been; however, they still leaned
upon their arms in dispersed groups; some were walking the streets,
others were talking in the Major's behalf.  Many of the citizen
suspended business, as the town presented nothing but consternation.
A novelty that might end in the destruction of some worthy
and respectable citizens.  Mr. Valeer ventured in the streets,
though not without being well armed.  Some of his friends congratulated
him on the decided stand he had taken, and hoped he would settle
the matter amicably with Elfonzo, without any serious injury.
"Me," he replied, "what, me, condescend to fellowship with a coward,
and a low-lived, lazy, undermining villain? no, gentlemen, this cannot be;
I had rather be borne off, like the bubble upon the dark blue ocean,
with Ambulinia by my side, than to have him in the ascending
or descending line of relationship.  Gentlemen," continued he,
"if Elfonzo is so much of a distinguished character, and is so
learned in the fine arts, why do you not patronize such men? why
not introduce him into your families, as a gentleman of taste
and of unequaled magnanimity? why are you so very anxious that he
should become a relative of mine?  Oh, gentlemen, I fear you yet
are tainted with the curiosity of our first parents, who were
beguiled by the poisonous kiss of an old ugly serpent, and who,
for one APPLE, DAMNED all mankind.  I wish to divest myself, as far
as possible, of that untutored custom.  I have long since learned
that the perfection of wisdom, and the end of true philosophy,
is to proportion our wants to our possessions, our ambition to
our capacities; we will then be a happy and a virtuous people."
Ambulinia was sent off to prepare for a long and tedious journey.
Her new acquaintances had been instructed by her father how to treat her,
and in what manner, and to keep the anticipated visit entirely secret.
Elfonzo was watching the movements of everybody; some friends
had told him of the plot that was laid to carry off Ambulinia.
At night, he rallied some two or three of his forces, and went
silently along to the stately mansion; a faint and glimmering light
showed through the windows; lightly he steps to the door; there were
many voices rallying fresh in fancy's eye; he tapped the shutter;
it was opened instantly, and he beheld once more, seated beside
several ladies, the hope of all his toils; he rushed toward her,
she rose from her seat, rejoicing; he made one mighty grasp,
when Ambulinia exclaimed, "Huzza for Major Elfonzo!  I will defend
myself and you, too, with this conquering instrument I hold in my hand;
huzza, I say, I now invoke time's broad wing to shed around us some
dewdrops of verdant spring."

But the hour had not come for this joyous reunion; her friends
struggled with Elfonzo for some time, and finally succeeded
in arresting her from his hands.  He dared not injure them,
because they were matrons whose courage needed no spur;
she was snatched from the arms of Elfonzo, with so much eagerness,
and yet with such expressive signification, that he calmly withdrew
from this lovely enterprise, with an ardent hope that he should be
lulled to repose by the zephyrs which whispered peace to his soul.
Several long days and night passed unmolested, all seemed to have
grounded their arms of rebellion, and no callidity appeared to be
going on with any of the parties.  Other arrangements were made
by Ambulinia; she feigned herself to be entirely the votary of a
mother's care, and she, by her graceful smiles, that manhood might
claim his stern dominion in some other region, where such boisterous
love was not so prevalent.  This gave the parents a confidence
that yielded some hours of sober joy; they believed that Ambulinia
would now cease to love Elfonzo, and that her stolen affections
would now expire with her misguided opinions.  They therefore
declined the idea of sending her to a distant land.  But oh! they
dreamed not of the rapture that dazzled the fancy of Ambulinia,
who would say, when alone, youth should not fly away on his rosy
pinions, and leave her to grapple in the conflict with unknown admirers.


No frowning age shall control

The constant current of my soul,

Nor a tear from pity's eye

Shall check my sympathetic sigh.


With this resolution fixed in her mind, one dark and dreary night,
when the winds whistled and the tempest roared, she received intelligence
that Elfonzo was then waiting, and every preparation was then ready,
at the residence of Dr. Tully, and for her to make a quick escape
while the family was reposing.  Accordingly she gathered her books,
went the wardrobe supplied with a variety of ornamental dressing,
and ventured alone in the streets to make her way to Elfonzo,
who was near at hand, impatiently looking and watching her arrival.
"What forms," said she, "are those rising before me?  What is
that dark spot on the clouds?  I do wonder what frightful ghost
that is, gleaming on the red tempest?  Oh, be merciful and tell me
what region you are from.  Oh, tell me, ye strong spirits, or ye
dark and fleeting clouds, that I yet have a friend."  "A friend,"
said a low, whispering voice.  "I am thy unchanging, thy aged,
and thy disappointed mother.  Why brandish in that hand of thine
a javelin of pointed steel?  Why suffer that lip I have kissed
a thousand times to equivocate?  My daughter, let these tears sink
deep into thy soul, and no longer persist in that which may be your
destruction and ruin.  Come, my dear child, retract your steps,
and bear me company to your welcome home."  Without one retorting word,
or frown from her brow, she yielded to the entreaties of her mother,
and with all the mildness of her former character she went along
with the silver lamp of age, to the home of candor and benevolence.
Her father received her cold and formal politeness--"Where has
Ambulinia been, this blustering evening, Mrs. Valeer?" inquired he.
"Oh, she and I have been taking a solitary walk," said the mother;
"all things, I presume, are now working for the best."

Elfonzo heard this news shortly after it happened.  "What," said he,
"has heaven and earth turned against me?  I have been disappointed
times without number.  Shall I despair?--must I give it over?
Heaven's decrees will not fade; I will write again--I will try again;
and if it traverses a gory field, I pray forgiveness at the altar
of justice."



Desolate Hill, Cumming, Geo., 1844.

Unconquered and Beloved Ambulinia--

I have only time to say to you, not to despair; thy fame shall
not perish; my visions are brightening before me.  The whirlwind's
rage is past, and we now shall subdue our enemies without doubt.
On Monday morning, when your friends are at breakfast, they will
not suspect your departure, or even mistrust me being in town,
as it has been reported advantageously that I have left for the west.
You walk carelessly toward the academy grove, where you will find
me with a lightning steed, elegantly equipped to bear you off where
we shall be joined in wedlock with the first connubial rights.
Fail not to do this--think not of the tedious relations of our wrongs--
be invincible.  You alone occupy all my ambition, and I alone will
make you my happy spouse, with the same unimpeached veracity.
I remain, forever, your devoted friend and admirer, J. L. Elfonzo.



The appointed day ushered in undisturbed by any clouds; nothing disturbed
Ambulinia's soft beauty.  With serenity and loveliness she obeys
the request of Elfonzo.  The moment the family seated themselves
at the table--"Excuse my absence for a short time," said she,
"while I attend to the placing of those flowers, which should have
been done a week ago."  And away she ran to the sacred grove,
surrounded with glittering pearls, that indicated her coming.
Elfonzo hails her with his silver bow and his golden harp.  They meet--
Ambulinia's countenance brightens--Elfonzo leads up his winged steed.
"Mount," said he, "ye true-hearted, ye fearless soul--the day
is ours."  She sprang upon the back of the young thunder bolt,
a brilliant star sparkles upon her head, with one hand she
grasps the reins, and with the other she holds an olive branch.
"Lend thy aid, ye strong winds," they exclaimed, "ye moon, ye sun,
and all ye fair host of heaven, witness the enemy conquered."
"Hold," said Elfonzo, "thy dashing steed."  "Ride on," said Ambulinia,
"the voice of thunder is behind us."  And onward they went,
with such rapidity that they very soon arrived at Rural Retreat,
where they dismounted, and were united with all the solemnities
that usually attend such divine operations.  They passed the day
in thanksgiving and great rejoicing, and on that evening they
visited their uncle, where many of their friends and acquaintances
had gathered to congratulate them in the field of untainted bliss.
The kind old gentleman met them in the yard:  "Well," said he, "I wish
I may die, Elfonzo, if you and Ambulinia haven't tied a knot with your
tongue that you can't untie with your teeth.  But come in, come in,
never mind, all is right--the world still moves on, and no one has
fallen in this great battle."

Happy now is there lot!  Unmoved by misfortune, they live among the
fair beauties of the South.  Heaven spreads their peace and fame upon
the arch of the rainbow, and smiles propitiously at their triumph,
THROUGH THE TEARS OF THE STORM.


***



THE CALIFORNIAN'S TALE



Thirty-five years ago I was out prospecting on the Stanislaus,
tramping all day long with pick and pan and horn, and washing a hatful
of dirt here and there, always expecting to make a rich strike,
and never doing it.  It was a lovely reason, woodsy, balmy, delicious,
and had once been populous, long years before, but now the
people had vanished and the charming paradise was a solitude.
They went away when the surface diggings gave out.  In one place,
where a busy little city with banks and newspapers and fire companies
and a mayor and aldermen had been, was nothing but a wide expanse
of emerald turf, with not even the faintest sign that human life
had ever been present there.  This was down toward Tuttletown.
In the country neighborhood thereabouts, along the dusty roads,
one found at intervals the prettiest little cottage homes, snug and cozy,
and so cobwebbed with vines snowed thick with roses that the doors
and windows were wholly hidden from sight--sign that these were
deserted homes, forsaken years ago by defeated and disappointed
families who could neither sell them nor give them away.  Now and then,
half an hour apart, one came across solitary log cabins of the earliest
mining days, built by the first gold-miners, the predecessors of the
cottage-builders. In some few cases these cabins were still occupied;
and when this was so, you could depend upon it that the occupant
was the very pioneer who had built the cabin; and you could depend
on another thing, too--that he was there because he had once had
his opportunity to go home to the States rich, and had not done it;
had rather lost his wealth, and had then in his humiliation resolved
to sever all communication with his home relatives and friends,
and be to them thenceforth as one dead.  Round about California
in that day were scattered a host of these living dead men--
pride-smitten poor fellows, grizzled and old at forty, whose secret
thoughts were made all of regrets and longings--regrets for their
wasted lives, and longings to be out of the struggle and done with it all.

It was a lonesome land!  Not a sound in all those peaceful expanses
of grass and woods but the drowsy hum of insects; no glimpse
of man or beast; nothing to keep up your spirits and make you glad
to be alive.  And so, at last, in the early part of the afternoon,
when I caught sight of a human creature, I felt a most grateful uplift.
This person was a man about forty-five years old, and he was
standing at the gate of one of those cozy little rose-clad cottages
of the sort already referred to.  However, this one hadn't
a deserted look; it had the look of being lived in and petted
and cared for and looked after; and so had its front yard,
which was a garden of flowers, abundant, gay, and flourishing.
I was invited in, of course, and required to make myself at home--
it was the custom of the country..

It was delightful to be in such a place, after long weeks of daily
and nightly familiarity with miners' cabins--with all which this
implies of dirt floor, never-made beds, tin plates and cups,
bacon and beans and black coffee, and nothing of ornament but war
pictures from the Eastern illustrated papers tacked to the log walls.
That was all hard, cheerless, materialistic desolation, but here was a
nest which had aspects to rest the tired eye and refresh that something
in one's nature which, after long fasting, recognizes, when confronted
by the belongings of art, howsoever cheap and modest they may be,
that it has unconsciously been famishing and now has found nourishment.
I could not have believed that a rag carpet could feast me so,
and so content me; or that there could be such solace to the soul
in wall-paper and framed lithographs, and bright-colored tidies
and lamp-mats, and Windsor chairs, and varnished what-nots, with
sea-shells and books and china vases on them, and the score of little
unclassifiable tricks and touches that a woman's hand distributes
about a home, which one sees without knowing he sees them, yet would
miss in a moment if they were taken away.  The delight that was
in my heart showed in my face, and the man saw it and was pleased;
saw it so plainly that he answered it as if it had been spoken.

"All her work," he said, caressingly; "she did it all herself--
every bit," and he took the room in with a glance which was full
of affectionate worship.  One of those soft Japanese fabrics
with which women drape with careful negligence the upper part of a
picture-frame was out of adjustment.  He noticed it, and rearranged
it with cautious pains, stepping back several times to gauge
the effect before he got it to suit him.  Then he gave it a light
finishing pat or two with his hand, and said:  "She always does that.
You can't tell just what it lacks, but it does lack something
until you've done that--you can see it yourself after it's done,
but that is all you know; you can't find out the law of it.
It's like the finishing pats a mother gives the child's hair
after she's got it combed and brushed, I reckon.  I've seen her
fix all these things so much that I can do them all just her way,
though I don't know the law of any of them.  But she knows the law.
She knows the why and the how both; but I don't know the why;
I only know the how."

He took me into a bedroom so that I might wash my hands; such a bedroom
as I had not seen for years:  white counterpane, white pillows,
carpeted floor, papered walls, pictures, dressing-table, with mirror
and pin-cushion and dainty toilet things; and in the corner a wash-stand,
with real china-ware bowl and pitcher, and with soap in a china dish,
and on a rack more than a dozen towels--towels too clean and white
for one out of practice to use without some vague sense of profanation.
So my face spoke again, and he answered with gratified words:

"All her work; she did it all herself--every bit.  Nothing here
that hasn't felt the touch of her hand.  Now you would think--
But I mustn't talk so much."

By this time I was wiping my hands and glancing from detail to detail
of the room's belongings, as one is apt to do when he is in a new place,
where everything he sees is a comfort to his eye and his spirit;
and I became conscious, in one of those unaccountable ways,
you know, that there was something there somewhere that the man
wanted me to discover for myself.  I knew it perfectly, and I knew
he was trying to help me by furtive indications with his eye, so I
tried hard to get on the right track, being eager to gratify him.
I failed several times, as I could see out of the corner of my eye
without being told; but at last I knew I must be looking straight
at the thing--knew it from the pleasure issuing in invisible waves
from him.  He broke into a happy laugh, and rubbed his hands together,
and cried out:

"That's it!  You've found it.  I knew you would.  It's her picture."

I went to the little black-walnut bracket on the farther wall,
and did find there what I had not yet noticed--a daguerreotype-case.
It contained the sweetest girlish face, and the most beautiful,
as it seemed to me, that I had ever seen.  The man drank the admiration
from my face, and was fully satisfied.

"Nineteen her last birthday," he said, as he put the picture back;
"and that was the day we were married.  When you see her--ah, just wait
till you see her!"

"Where is she?  When will she be in?"

"Oh, she's away now.  She's gone to see her people.  They live
forty or fifty miles from here.  She's been gone two weeks today."

"When do you expect her back?"

"This is Wednesday.  She'll be back Saturday, in the evening--
about nine o'clock, likely."

I felt a sharp sense of disappointment.

"I'm sorry, because I'll be gone then," I said, regretfully.

"Gone?  No--why should you go?  Don't go.  She'll be disappointed."

She would be disappointed--that beautiful creature!  If she had said
the words herself they could hardly have blessed me more.  I was
feeling a deep, strong longing to see her--a longing so supplicating,
so insistent, that it made me afraid.  I said to myself:  "I will
go straight away from this place, for my peace of mind's sake."

"You see, she likes to have people come and stop with us--
people who know things, and can talk--people like you.  She delights
in it; for she knows--oh, she knows nearly everything herself,
and can talk, oh, like a bird--and the books she reads, why, you would
be astonished.  Don't go; it's only a little while, you know,
and she'll be so disappointed."

I heard the words, but hardly noticed them, I was so deep in my
thinkings and strugglings.  He left me, but I didn't know.
Presently he was back, with the picture case in his hand, and he
held it open before me and said:

"There, now, tell her to her face you could have stayed to see her,
and you wouldn't."

That second glimpse broke down my good resolution.  I would stay
and take the risk.  That night we smoked the tranquil pipe,
and talked till late about various things, but mainly about her;
and certainly I had had no such pleasant and restful time for many
a day.  The Thursday followed and slipped comfortably away.
Toward twilight a big miner from three miles away came--one of
the grizzled, stranded pioneers--and gave us warm salutation,
clothed in grave and sober speech.  Then he said:

"I only just dropped over to ask about the little madam, and when
is she coming home.  Any news from her?"

"Oh, yes, a letter.  Would you like to hear it, Tom?"

"Well, I should think I would, if you don't mind, Henry!"

Henry got the letter out of his wallet, and said he would skip
some of the private phrases, if we were willing; then he went
on and read the bulk of it--a loving, sedate, and altogether
charming and gracious piece of handiwork, with a postscript full
of affectionate regards and messages to Tom, and Joe, and Charley,
and other close friends and neighbors.

As the reader finished, he glanced at Tom, and cried out:

"Oho, you're at it again!  Take your hands away, and let me see
your eyes.  You always do that when I read a letter from her.
I will write and tell her."

"Oh no, you mustn't, Henry.  I'm getting old, you know, and any
little disappointment makes me want to cry.  I thought she'd
be here herself, and now you've got only a letter."

"Well, now, what put that in your head?  I thought everybody knew
she wasn't coming till Saturday."

"Saturday!  Why, come to think, I did know it.  I wonder
what's the matter with me lately?  Certainly I knew it.
Ain't we all getting ready for her?  Well, I must be going now.
But I'll be on hand when she comes, old man!"

Late Friday afternoon another gray veteran tramped over from his
cabin a mile or so away, and said the boys wanted to have a little
gaiety and a good time Saturday night, if Henry thought she wouldn't
be too tired after her journey to be kept up.

"Tired?  She tired!  Oh, hear the man!  Joe, YOU know she'd sit up
six weeks to please any one of you!"

When Joe heard that there was a letter, he asked to have it read,
and the loving messages in it for him broke the old fellow all up;
but he said he was such an old wreck that THAT would happen to him
if she only just mentioned his name.  "Lord, we miss her so!"
he said.

Saturday afternoon I found I was taking out my watch pretty often.
Henry noticed it, and said, with a startled look:

"You don't think she ought to be here soon, do you?"

I felt caught, and a little embarrassed; but I laughed, and said
it was a habit of mine when I was in a state of expenctancy.
But he didn't seem quite satisfied; and from that time on he began
to show uneasiness.  Four times he walked me up the road to a point
whence we could see a long distance; and there he would stand,
shading his eyes with his hand, and looking.  Several times he said:

"I'm getting worried, I'm getting right down worried.  I know
she's not due till about nine o'clock, and yet something seems
to be trying to warn me that something's happened.  You don't
think anything has happened, do you?"

I began to get pretty thoroughly ashamed of him for his childishness;
and at last, when he repeated that imploring question still another time,
I lost my patience for the moment, and spoke pretty brutally to him.
It seemed to shrivel him up and cow him; and he looked so wounded
and so humble after that, that I detested myself for having done
the cruel and unnecessary thing.  And so I was glad when Charley,
another veteran, arrived toward the edge of the evening, and nestled
up to Henry to hear the letter read, and talked over the preparations
for the welcome.  Charley fetched out one hearty speech after another,
and did his best to drive away his friend's bodings and apprehensions.

"Anything HAPPENED to her?  Henry, that's pure nonsense.  There isn't
anything going to happen to her; just make your mind easy as to that.
What did the letter say?  Said she was well, didn't it?  And said
she'd be here by nine o'clock, didn't it?  Did you ever know her
to fail of her word?  Why, you know you never did.  Well, then,
don't you fret; she'll BE here, and that's absolutely certain,
and as sure as you are born.  Come, now, let's get to decorating--
not much time left."

Pretty soon Tom and Joe arrived, and then all hands set about adoring
the house with flowers.  Toward nine the three miners said that
as they had brought their instruments they might as well tune up,
for the boys and girls would soon be arriving now, and hungry for
a good, old-fashioned break-down. A fiddle, a banjo, and a clarinet--
these were the instruments.  The trio took their places side by side,
and began to play some rattling dance-music, and beat time with
their big boots.

It was getting very close to nine.  Henry was standing in the door
with his eyes directed up the road, his body swaying to the torture
of his mental distress.  He had been made to drink his wife's
health and safety several times, and now Tom shouted:

"All hands stand by!  One more drink, and she's here!"

Joe brought the glasses on a waiter, and served the party.
I reached for one of the two remaining glasses, but Joe growled
under his breath:

"Drop that!  Take the other."

Which I did.  Henry was served last.  He had hardly swallowed his
drink when the clock began to strike.  He listened till it finished,
his face growing pale and paler; then he said:

"Boys, I'm sick with fear.  Help me--I want to lie down!"

They helped him to the sofa.  He began to nestle and drowse,
but presently spoke like one talking in his sleep, and said:
"Did I hear horses' feet?  Have they come?"

One of the veterans answered, close to his ear:  "It was Jimmy
Parish come to say the party got delayed, but they're right up
the road a piece, and coming along.  Her horse is lame, but she'll
be here in half an hour."

"Oh, I'm SO thankful nothing has happened!"

He was asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth.
In a moment those handy men had his clothes off, and had tucked
him into his bed in the chamber where I had washed my hands.
They closed the door and came back.  Then they seemed preparing to leave;
but I said:  "Please don't go, gentlemen.  She won't know me; I am
a stranger."

They glanced at each other.  Then Joe said:

"She?  Poor thing, she's been dead nineteen years!"

"Dead?"

"That or worse.  She went to see her folks half a year after she
was married, and on her way back, on a Saturday evening, the Indians
captured her within five miles of this place, and she's never been
heard of since."

"And he lost his mind in consequence?"

"Never has been sane an hour since.  But he only gets bad when
that time of year comes round.  Then we begin to drop in here,
three days before she's due, to encourage him up, and ask if he's heard
from her, and Saturday we all come and fix up the house with flowers,
and get everything ready for a dance.  We've done it every year
for nineteen years.  The first Saturday there was twenty-seven
of us, without counting the girls; there's only three of us now,
and the girls are gone.  We drug him to sleep, or he would go wild;
then he's all right for another year--thinks she's with him till the
last three or four days come round; then he begins to look for her,
and gets out his poor old letter, and we come and ask him to read it
to us.  Lord, she was a darling!"


***




A HELPLESS SITUATION



Once or twice a year I get a letter of a certain pattern,
a pattern that never materially changes, in form and substance,
yet I cannot get used to that letter--it always astonishes me.
It affects me as the locomotive always affects me:  I saw to myself,
"I have seen you a thousand times, you always look the same way,
yet you are always a wonder, and you are always impossible; to contrive
you is clearly beyond human genius--you can't exist, you don't exist,
yet here you are!"

I have a letter of that kind by me, a very old one.  I yearn to print it,
and where is the harm?  The writer of it is dead years ago, no doubt,
and if I conceal her name and address--her this-world address--
I am sure her shade will not mind.  And with it I wish to print
the answer which I wrote at the time but probably did not send.
If it went--which is not likely--it went in the form of a copy,
for I find the original still here, pigeonholed with the said letter.
To that kind of letters we all write answers which we do not send,
fearing to hurt where we have no desire to hurt; I have done it many
a time, and this is doubtless a case of the sort.


THE LETTER


X------, California, JUNE 3, 1879.

Mr. S. L. Clemens, HARTFORD, CONN.:


Dear Sir,--You will doubtless be surprised to know who has presumed
to write and ask a favor of you.  let your memory go back to your days
in the Humboldt mines--'62-'63. You will remember, you and Clagett
and Oliver and the old blacksmith Tillou lived in a lean-to which was
half-way up the gulch, and there were six log cabins in the camp--
strung pretty well separated up the gulch from its mouth at the
desert to where the last claim was, at the divide.  The lean-to
you lived in was the one with a canvas roof that the cow fell down
through one night, as told about by you in ROUGHING IT--my uncle
Simmons remembers it very well.  He lived in the principal cabin,
half-way up the divide, along with Dixon and Parker and Smith.
It had two rooms, one for kitchen and the other for bunks,
and was the only one that had.  You and your party were there on
the great night, the time they had dried-apple-pie, Uncle Simmons
often speaks of it.  It seems curious that dried-apple-pie should
have seemed such a great thing, but it was, and it shows how far
Humboldt was out of the world and difficult to get to, and how slim
the regular bill of fare was.  Sixteen years ago--it is a long time.
I was a little girl then, only fourteen.  I never saw you, I lived
in Washoe.  But Uncle Simmons ran across you every now and then,
all during those weeks that you and party were there working
your claim which was like the rest.  The camp played out long
and long ago, there wasn't silver enough in it to make a button.
You never saw my husband, but he was there after you left, AND LIVED
IN THAT VERY LEAN-TO, a bachelor then but married to me now.
He often wishes there had been a photographer there in those days,
he would have taken the lean-to. He got hurt in the old Hal Clayton
claim that was abandoned like the others, putting in a blast
and not climbing out quick enough, though he scrambled the best
he could.  It landed him clear down on the train and hit a Piute.
For weeks they thought he would not get over it but he did,
and is all right, now.  Has been ever since.  This is a long
introduction but it is the only way I can make myself known.
The favor I ask I feel assured your generous heart will grant:
Give me some advice about a book I have written.  I do not claim
anything for it only it is mostly true and as interesting as most
of the books of the times.  I am unknown in the literary world
and you know what that means unless one has some one of influence
(like yourself) to help you by speaking a good word for you.
I would like to place the book on royalty basis plan with any one you
would suggest.

This is a secret from my husband and family.  I intend
it as a surprise in case I get it published.

Feeling you will take an interest in this and if possible write
me a letter to some publisher, or, better still, if you could see
them for me and then let me hear.

I appeal to you to grant me this favor.  With deepest gratitude I
think you for your attention.


One knows, without inquiring, that the twin of that embarrassing
letter is forever and ever flying in this and that and the other
direction across the continent in the mails, daily, nightly, hourly,
unceasingly, unrestingly.  It goes to every well-known merchant,
and railway official, and manufacturer, and capitalist, and Mayor,
and Congressman, and Governor, and editor, and publisher, and author,
and broker, and banker--in a word, to every person who is supposed
to have "influence."  It always follows the one pattern:  "You do
not know me, BUT YOU ONCE KNEW A RELATIVE OF MINE," etc., etc.
We should all like to help the applicants, we should all be glad
to do it, we should all like to return the sort of answer that
is desired, but--Well, there is not a thing we can do that would
be a help, for not in any instance does that latter ever come from
anyone who CAN be helped.  The struggler whom you COULD help does
his own helping; it would not occur to him to apply to you, stranger.
He has talent and knows it, and he goes into his fight eagerly and
with energy and determination--all alone, preferring to be alone.
That pathetic letter which comes to you from the incapable,
the unhelpable--how do you who are familiar with it answer it?
What do you find to say?  You do not want to inflict a wound;
you hunt ways to avoid that.  What do you find?  How do you get out
of your hard place with a contend conscience?  Do you try to explain?
The old reply of mine to such a letter shows that I tried that once.
Was I satisfied with the result?  Possibly; and possibly not;
probably not; almost certainly not.  I have long ago forgotten all
about it.  But, anyway, I append my effort:


THE REPLY


I know Mr. H., and I will go to him, dear madam, if upon reflection
you find you still desire it.  There will be a conversation.
I know the form it will take.  It will be like this:


MR.  H. How do her books strike you?

MR.  CLEMENS.  I am not acquainted with them.

H. Who has been her publisher?

C. I don't know.

H. She HAS one, I suppose?

C. I--I think not.

H. Ah.  You think this is her first book?

C. Yes--I suppose so.  I think so.

H. What is it about?  What is the character of it?

C. I believe I do not know.

H. Have you seen it?

C. Well--no, I haven't.

H. Ah-h. How long have you known her?

C. I don't know her.

H. Don't know her?

C. No.

H. Ah-h. How did you come to be interested in her book, then?

C. Well, she--she wrote and asked me to find a publisher for her,
and mentioned you.

H. Why should she apply to you instead of me?

C. She wished me to use my influence.

H. Dear me, what has INFLUENCE to do with such a matter?

C. Well, I think she thought you would be more likely to examine
her book if you were influenced.

H. Why, what we are here FOR is to examine books--anybody's book
that comes along.  It's our BUSINESS.  Why should we turn away
a book unexamined because it's a stranger's? It would be foolish.
No publisher does it.  On what ground did she request your influence,
since you do not know her?  She must have thought you knew her
literature and could speak for it.  Is that it?

C. No; she knew I didn't.

H. Well, what then?  She had a reason of SOME sort for believing you
competent to recommend her literature, and also under obligations
to do it?

C. Yes, I--I knew her uncle.

H. Knew her UNCLE?

C. Yes.

H. Upon my word!  So, you knew her uncle; her uncle knows her literature;
he endorses it to you; the chain is complete, nothing further needed;
you are satisfied, and therefore--

C. NO, that isn't all, there are other ties.  I know the cabin
her uncle lived in, in the mines; I knew his partners, too; also I
came near knowing her husband before she married him, and I DID
know the abandoned shaft where a premature blast went off and he
went flying through the air and clear down to the trail and hit
an Indian in the back with almost fatal consequences.

H. To HIM, or to the Indian?

C. She didn't say which it was.

H. (WITH A SIGH). It certainly beats the band!  You don't know HER,
you don't know her literature, you don't know who got hurt when
the blast went off, you don't know a single thing for us to build
an estimate of her book upon, so far as I--

C. I knew her uncle.  You are forgetting her uncle.

H. Oh, what use is HE?  Did you know him long?  How long was it?

C. Well, I don't know that I really knew him, but I must have
met him, anyway.  I think it was that way; you can't tell about
these things, you know, except when they are recent.

H. Recent?  When was all this?

C. Sixteen years ago.

H. What a basis to judge a book upon!  As first you said you knew him,
and not you don't know whether you did or not.

C. Oh yes, I know him; anyway, I think I thought I did; I'm perfectly
certain of it.

H. What makes you think you thought you knew him?

C. Why, she says I did, herself.

H. SHE says so!

C. Yes, she does, and I DID know him, too, though I don't remember
it now.

H. Come--how can you know it when you don't remember it.

C. _I_ don't know.  That is, I don't know the process, but I DO know
lots of things that I don't remember, and remember lots of things
that I don't know.  It's so with every educated person.

H. (AFTER A PAUSE). Is your time valuable?

C. No--well, not very.

H. Mine is.

So I came away then, because he was looking tired.  Overwork, I reckon;
I never do that; I have seen the evil effects of it.  My mother
was always afraid I work overwork myself, but I never did.

Dear madam, you see how it would happen if I went there.  He would
ask me those questions, and I would try to answer them to suit him,
and he would hunt me here and there and yonder and get me embarrassed
more and more all the time, and at last he would look tired on
account of overwork, and there it would end and nothing done.
I wish I could be useful to you, but, you see, they do not
care for uncles or any of those things; it doesn't move them,
it doesn't have the least effect, they don't care for anything
but the literature itself, and they as good as despise influence.
But they do care for books, and are eager to get them and examine them,
no matter whence they come, nor from whose pen.  If you will send
yours to a publisher--any publisher--he will certainly examine it,
I can assure you of that.


***



A TELEPHONIC CONVERSATION



Consider that a conversation by telephone--when you are simply siting
by and not taking any part in that conversation--is one of the solemnest
curiosities of modern life.  Yesterday I was writing a deep article
on a sublime philosophical subject while such a conversation was
going on in the room.  I notice that one can always write best when
somebody is talking through a telephone close by.  Well, the thing
began in this way.  A member of our household came in and asked me
to have our house put into communication with Mr. Bagley's downtown.
I have observed, in many cities, that the sex always shrink from
calling up the central office themselves.  I don't know why,
but they do.  So I touched the bell, and this talk ensued:

CENTRAL OFFICE.  (GRUFFY.) Hello!

I. Is it the Central Office?

C. O. Of course it is.  What do you want?

I. Will you switch me on to the Bagleys, please?

C. O. All right.  Just keep your ear to the telephone.

Then I heard K-LOOK, K-LOOK, K'LOOK--KLOOK-KLOOK-KLOOK-LOOK-LOOK! then
a horrible "gritting" of teeth, and finally a piping female voice:
Y-e-s? (RISING INFLECTION.) Did you wish to speak to me?

Without answering, I handed the telephone to the applicant, and sat down.
Then followed that queerest of all the queer things in this world--
a conversation with only one end of it.  You hear questions asked;
you don't hear the answer.  You hear invitations given; you hear
no thanks in return.  You have listening pauses of dead silence,
followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations
of glad surprise or sorrow or dismay.  You can't make head or tail
of the talk, because you never hear anything that the person at the
other end of the wire says.  Well, I heard the following remarkable
series of observations, all from the one tongue, and all shouted--
for you can't ever persuade the sex to speak gently into a telephone:

Yes?  Why, how did THAT happen?

Pause.

What did you say?

Pause.

Oh no, I don't think it was.

Pause.

NO!  Oh no, I didn't mean THAT.  I meant, put it in while it
is still boiling--or just before it COMES to a boil.

Pause.

WHAT?

Pause.

I turned it over with a backstitch on the selvage edge.

Pause.

Yes, I like that way, too; but I think it's better to baste it
on with Valenciennes or bombazine, or something of that sort.
It gives it such an air--and attracts so much noise.

Pause.

It's forty-ninth Deuteronomy, sixty-forth to ninety-seventh inclusive.
I think we ought all to read it often.

Pause.

Perhaps so; I generally use a hair pin.

Pause.

What did you say?  (ASIDE.) Children, do be quiet!

Pause

OH!  B FLAT!  Dear me, I thought you said it was the cat!

Pause.

Since WHEN?

Pause.

Why, _I_ never heard of it.

Pause.

You astound me!  It seems utterly impossible!

Pause.

WHO did?

Pause.

Good-ness gracious!

Pause.

Well, what IS this world coming to?  Was it right in CHURCH?

Pause.

And was her MOTHER there?

Pause.

Why, Mrs. Bagley, I should have died of humiliation!  What did
they DO?

Long pause.

I can't be perfectly sure, because I haven't the notes by me;
but I think it goes something like this:  te-rolly-loll-loll, loll
lolly-loll-loll, O tolly-loll-loll-LEE-LY-LI-I-do! And then REPEAT,
you know.

Pause.

Yes, I think it IS very sweet--and very solemn and impressive,
if you get the andantino and the pianissimo right.

Pause.

Oh, gum-drops, gum-drops! But I never allow them to eat striped candy.
And of course they CAN'T, till they get their teeth, anyway.

Pause.

WHAT?

Pause.

Oh, not in the least--go right on.  He's here writing--it doesn't
bother HIM.

Pause.

Very well, I'll come if I can.  (ASIDE.) Dear me, how it does tire
a person's arm to hold this thing up so long!  I wish she'd--

Pause.

Oh no, not at all; I LIKE to talk--but I'm afraid I'm keeping you
from your affairs.

Pause.

Visitors?

Pause.

No, we never use butter on them.

Pause.

Yes, that is a very good way; but all the cook-books say they
are very unhealthy when they are out of season.  And HE doesn't
like them, anyway--especially canned.

Pause.

Oh, I think that is too high for them; we have never paid over fifty
cents a bunch.

Pause.

MUST you go?  Well, GOOD-by.

Pause.

Yes, I think so.  GOOD-by.

Pause.

Four o'clock, then--I'll be ready.  GOOD-by.

Pause.

Thank you ever so much.  GOOD-by.

Pause.

Oh, not at all!--just as fresh--WHICH?  Oh, I'm glad to hear you
say that.  GOOD-by.

(Hangs up the telephone and says, "Oh, it DOES tire a person's
arm so!")

A man delivers a single brutal "Good-by," and that is the end of it.
Not so with the gentle sex--I say it in their praise; they cannot
abide abruptness.



***


EDWARD MILLS AND GEORGE BENTON:  A TALE



These two were distantly related to each other--seventh cousins,
or something of that sort.  While still babies they became orphans,
and were adopted by the Brants, a childless couple, who quickly
grew very fond of them.  The Brants were always saying:  "Be pure,
honest, sober, industrious, and considerate of others, and success
in life is assured."  The children heard this repeated some thousands
of times before they understood it; they could repeat it themselves
long before they could say the Lord's Prayer; it was painted over
the nursery door, and was about the first thing they learned to read.
It was destined to be the unswerving rule of Edward Mills's life.
Sometimes the Brants changed the wording a little, and said:
"Be pure, honest, sober, industrious, considerate, and you will never
lack friends."

Baby Mills was a comfort to everybody about him.  When he wanted
candy and could not have it, he listened to reason, and contented
himself without it.  When Baby Benton wanted candy, he cried for it
until he got it.  Baby Mills took care of his toys; Baby Benton
always destroyed his in a very brief time, and then made himself
to insistently disagreeable that, in order to have peace in the house,
little Edward was persuaded to yield up his play-things to him.

When the children were a little older, Georgie became a heavy expense
in one respect:  he took no care of his clothes; consequently, he
shone frequently in new ones, with was not the case with Eddie.
The boys grew apace.  Eddie was an increasing comfort, Georgie an
increasing solicitude.  It was always sufficient to say, in answer
to Eddie's petitions, "I would rather you would not do it"--
meaning swimming, skating, picnicking, berrying, circusing,
and all sorts of things which boys delight in.  But NO answer
was sufficient for Georgie; he had to be humored in his desires,
or he would carry them with a high hand.  Naturally, no boy got
more swimming skating, berrying, and so forth than he; no body
ever had a better time.  The good Brants did not allow the boys
to play out after nine in summer evenings; they were sent to bed
at that hour; Eddie honorably remained, but Georgie usually slipped
out of the window toward ten, and enjoyed himself until midnight.
It seemed impossible to break Georgie of this bad habit, but the
Brants managed it at last by hiring him, with apples and marbles,
to stay in.  The good Brants gave all their time and attention
to vain endeavors to regulate Georgie; they said, with grateful
tears in their eyes, that Eddie needed no efforts of theirs,
he was so good, so considerate, and in all ways so perfect.

By and by the boys were big enough to work, so they were apprenticed
to a trade:  Edward went voluntarily; George was coaxed and bribed.
Edward worked hard and faithfully, and ceased to be an expense to the
good Brants; they praised him, so did his master; but George ran away,
and it cost Mr. Brant both money and trouble to hunt him up and get
him back.  By and by he ran away again--more money and more trouble.
He ran away a third time--and stole a few things to carry with him.
Trouble and expense for Mr. Brant once more; and, besides, it was with
the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in persuading the master
to let the youth go unprosecuted for the theft.

Edward worked steadily along, and in time became a full partner
in his master's business.  George did not improve; he kept the loving
hearts of his aged benefactors full of trouble, and their hands full
of inventive activities to protect him from ruin.  Edward, as a boy,
had interested himself in Sunday-schools, debating societies,
penny missionary affairs, anti-tobacco organizations, anti-profanity
associations, and all such things; as a man, he was a quiet but
steady and reliable helper in the church, the temperance societies,
and in all movements looking to the aiding and uplifting of men.  This
excited no remark, attracted no attention--for it was his "natural bent."

Finally, the old people died.  The will testified their loving
pride in Edward, and left their little property to George--
because he "needed it"; whereas, "owing to a bountiful Providence,"
such was not the case with Edward.  The property was left to
George conditionally:  he must buy out Edward's partner with it;
else it must go to a benevolent organization called the Prisoner's
Friend Society.  The old people left a letter, in which they begged
their dear son Edward to take their place and watch over George,
and help and shield him as they had done.

Edward dutifully acquiesced, and George became his partner in
the business.  He was not a valuable partner:  he had been meddling
with drink before; he soon developed into a constant tippler now,
and his flesh and eyes showed the fact unpleasantly.  Edward had
been courting a sweet and kindly spirited girl for some time.
They loved each other dearly, and--But about this period George began
to haunt her tearfully and imploringly, and at last she went crying
to Edward, and said her high and holy duty was plain before her--
she must not let her own selfish desires interfere with it:
she must marry "poor George" and "reform him."  It would break
her heart, she knew it would, and so on; but duty was duty.
So she married George, and Edward's heart came very near breaking,
as well as her own.  However, Edward recovered, and married another girl--
a very excellent one she was, too.

Children came to both families.  Mary did her honest best to reform
her husband, but the contract was too large.  George went on drinking,
and by and by he fell to misusing her and the little ones sadly.
A great many good people strove with George--they were always at it,
in fact--but he calmly took such efforts as his due and their duty,
and did not mend his ways.  He added a vice, presently--that of
secret gambling.  He got deeply in debt; he borrowed money on the
firm's credit, as quietly as he could, and carried this system so far
and so successfully that one morning the sheriff took possession of
the establishment, and the two cousins found themselves penniless.

Times were hard, now, and they grew worse.  Edward moved his family
into a garret, and walked the streets day and night, seeking work.
He begged for it, but in was really not to be had.  He was astonished
to see how soon his face became unwelcome; he was astonished
and hurt to see how quickly the ancient interest which people had
had in him faded out and disappeared.  Still, he MUST get work;
so he swallowed his chagrin, and toiled on in search of it.
At last he got a job of carrying bricks up a ladder in a hod,
and was a grateful man in consequence; but after that NOBODY knew
him or cared anything about him.  He was not able to keep up
his dues in the various moral organizations to which he belonged,
and had to endure the sharp pain of seeing himself brought under
the disgrace of suspension.

But the faster Edward died out of public knowledge and interest,
the faster George rose in them.  He was found lying, ragged and drunk,
in the gutter one morning.  A member of the Ladies' Temperance Refuge
fished him out, took him in hand, got up a subscription for him,
kept him sober a whole week, then got a situation for him.
An account of it was published.

General attention was thus drawn to the poor fellow, and a great
many people came forward and helped him toward reform with their
countenance and encouragement.  He did not drink a drop for two months,
and meantime was the pet of the good.  Then he fell--in the gutter;
and there was general sorrow and lamentation.  But the noble
sisterhood rescued him again.  They cleaned him up, they fed him,
they listened to the mournful music of his repentances, they got
him his situation again.  An account of this, also, was published,
and the town was drowned in happy tears over the re-restoration
of the poor beast and struggling victim of the fatal bowl.
A grand temperance revival was got up, and after some rousing
speeches had been made the chairman said, impressively:  "We are
not about to call for signers; and I think there is a spectacle
in store for you which not many in this house will be able to view
with dry eyes."  There was an eloquent pause, and then George Benton,
escorted by a red-sashed detachment of the Ladies of the Refuge,
stepped forward upon the platform and signed the pledge.  The air
was rent with applause, and everybody cried for joy.  Everybody wrung
the hand of the new convert when the meeting was over; his salary
was enlarged next day; he was the talk of the town, and its hero.
An account of it was published.

George Benton fell, regularly, every three months, but was faithfully
rescued and wrought with, every time, and good situations were
found for him.  Finally, he was taken around the country lecturing,
as a reformed drunkard, and he had great houses and did an immense
amount of good.

He was so popular at home, and so trusted--during his sober intervals--
that he was enabled to use the name of a principal citizen, and get
a large sum of money at the bank.  A mighty pressure was brought
to bear to save him from the consequences of his forgery, and it
was partially successful--he was "sent up" for only two years.
When, at the end of a year, the tireless efforts of the benevolent
were crowned with success, and he emerged from the penitentiary
with a pardon in his pocket, the Prisoner's Friend Society met him
at the door with a situation and a comfortable salary, and all
the other benevolent people came forward and gave him advice,
encouragement and help.  Edward Mills had once applied to the Prisoner's
Friend Society for a situation, when in dire need, but the question,
"Have you been a prisoner?" made brief work of his case.

While all these things were going on, Edward Mills had been
quietly making head against adversity.  He was still poor, but was
in receipt of a steady and sufficient salary, as the respected
and trusted cashier of a bank.  George Benton never came near him,
and was never heard to inquire about him.  George got to indulging
in long absences from the town; there were ill reports about him,
but nothing definite.

One winter's night some masked burglars forced their way into the bank,
and found Edward Mills there alone.  They commanded him to reveal
the "combination," so that they could get into the safe.  He refused.
They threatened his life.  He said his employers trusted him,
and he could not be traitor to that trust.  He could die, if he must,
but while he lived he would be faithful; he would not yield up
the "combination."  The burglars killed him.

The detectives hunted down the criminals; the chief one proved
to be George Benton.  A wide sympathy was felt for the widow and
orphans of the dead man, and all the newspapers in the land begged
that all the banks in the land would testify their appreciation
of the fidelity and heroism of the murdered cashier by coming
forward with a generous contribution of money in aid of his family,
now bereft of support.  The result was a mass of solid cash amounting
to upward of five hundred dollars--an average of nearly three-eights
of a cent for each bank in the Union.  The cashier's own bank
testified its gratitude by endeavoring to show (but humiliatingly
failed in it) that the peerless servant's accounts were not square,
and that he himself had knocked his brains out with a bludgeon
to escape detection and punishment.

George Benton was arraigned for trial.  Then everybody seemed to
forget the widow and orphans in their solicitude for poor George.
Everything that money and influence could do was done to save him,
but it all failed; he was sentenced to death.  Straightway the
Governor was besieged with petitions for commutation or pardon;
they were brought by tearful young girls; by sorrowful old maids;
by deputations of pathetic widows; by shoals of impressive orphans.
But no, the Governor--for once--would not yield.

Now George Benton experienced religion.  The glad news flew all around.
From that time forth his cell was always full of girls and women and
fresh flowers; all the day long there was prayer, and hymn-singing,
and thanksgiving, and homilies, and tears, with never an interruption,
except an occasional five-minute intermission for refreshments.

This sort of thing continued up to the very gallows, and George
Benton went proudly home, in the black cap, before a wailing
audience of the sweetest and best that the region could produce.
His grave had fresh flowers on it every day, for a while,
and the head-stone bore these words, under a hand pointing aloft:
"He has fought the good fight."

The brave cashier's head-stone has this inscription:  "Be pure,
honest, sober, industrious, considerate, and you will never--"

Nobody knows who gave the order to leave it that way, but it was
so given.

The cashier's family are in stringent circumstances, now, it is said;
but no matter; a lot of appreciative people, who were not willing
that an act so brave and true as his should go unrewarded,
have collected forty-two thousand dollars--and built a Memorial
Church with it.


***



THE FIVE BOONS OF LIFE



Chapter I


In the morning of life came a good fairy with her basket, and said:

"Here are gifts.  Take one, leave the others.  And be wary,
chose wisely; oh, choose wisely! for only one of them is valuable."

The gifts were five:  Fame, Love, Riches, Pleasure, Death.
The youth said, eagerly:

"There is no need to consider"; and he chose Pleasure.

He went out into the world and sought out the pleasures that youth
delights in.  But each in its turn was short-lived and disappointing,
vain and empty; and each, departing, mocked him.  In the end he said:
"These years I have wasted.  If I could but choose again, I would
choose wisely.



Chapter II


The fairy appeared, and said:

"Four of the gifts remain.  Choose once more; and oh, remember--
time is flying, and only one of them is precious."

The man considered long, then chose Love; and did not mark the tears
that rose in the fairy's eyes.

After many, many years the man sat by a coffin, in an empty home.
And he communed with himself, saying:  "One by one they have gone
away and left me; and now she lies here, the dearest and the last.
Desolation after desolation has swept over me; for each hour
of happiness the treacherous trader, Love, as sold me I have paid
a thousand hours of grief.  Out of my heart of hearts I curse him."



Chapter III


"Choose again."  It was the fairy speaking.

"The years have taught you wisdom--surely it must be so.
Three gifts remain.  Only one of them has any worth--remember it,
and choose warily."

The man reflected long, then chose Fame; and the fairy, sighing,
went her way.

Years went by and she came again, and stood behind the man where he
sat solitary in the fading day, thinking.  And she knew his thought:

"My name filled the world, and its praises were on every tongue,
and it seemed well with me for a little while.  How little a while
it was!  Then came envy; then detraction; then calumny; then hate;
then persecution.  Then derision, which is the beginning of the end.
And last of all came pity, which is the funeral of fame.  Oh,
the bitterness and misery of renown! target for mud in its prime,
for contempt and compassion in its decay."



Chapter IV


"Chose yet again."  It was the fairy's voice.

"Two gifts remain.  And do not despair.  In the beginning there
was but one that was precious, and it is still here."

"Wealth--which is power!  How blind I was!" said the man.
"Now, at last, life will be worth the living.  I will spend,
squander, dazzle.  These mockers and despisers will crawl in the
dirt before me, and I will feed my hungry heart with their envy.
I will have all luxuries, all joys, all enchantments of the spirit,
all contentments of the body that man holds dear.  I will buy,
buy, buy! deference, respect, esteem, worship--every pinchbeck
grace of life the market of a trivial world can furnish forth.
I have lost much time, and chosen badly heretofore, but let that pass;
I was ignorant then, and could but take for best what seemed so."

Three short years went by, and a day came when the man sat shivering
in a mean garret; and he was gaunt and wan and hollow-eyed,
and clothed in rags; and he was gnawing a dry crust and mumbling:

"Curse all the world's gifts, for mockeries and gilded lies!
And miscalled, every one.  They are not gifts, but merely lendings.
Pleasure, Love, Fame, Riches:  they are but temporary disguises for
lasting realities--Pain, Grief, Shame, Poverty.  The fairy said true;
in all her store there was but one gift which was precious,
only one that was not valueless.  How poor and cheap and mean I
know those others now to be, compared with that inestimable one,
that dear and sweet and kindly one, that steeps in dreamless and
enduring sleep the pains that persecute the body, and the shames
and griefs that eat the mind and heart.  Bring it!  I am weary,
I would rest."



Chapter V


The fairy came, bringing again four of the gifts, but Death was wanting.
She said:

"I gave it to a mother's pet, a little child.  It was ignorant,
but trusted me, asking me to choose for it.  You did not ask me
to choose."

"Oh, miserable me!  What is left for me?"

"What not even you have deserved:  the wanton insult of Old Age."


***



THE FIRST WRITING-MACHINES


From My Unpublished Autobiography



Some days ago a correspondent sent in an old typewritten sheet,
faded by age, containing the following letter over the signature
of Mark Twain:


"Hartford, March 10, 1875.


"Please do not use my name in any way.  Please do not even divulge
that fact that I own a machine.  I have entirely stopped using
the typewriter, for the reason that I never could write a letter
with it to anybody without receiving a request by return mail that I
would not only describe the machine, but state what progress I had
made in the use of it, etc., etc.  I don't like to write letters,
and so I don't want people to know I own this curiosity-breeding
little joker."


A note was sent to Mr. Clemens asking him if the letter was genuine
and whether he really had a typewriter as long ago as that.
Mr. Clemens replied that his best answer is the following chapter
from his unpublished autobiography:



1904.  VILLA QUARTO, FLORENCE, JANUARY.


Dictating autobiography to a typewriter is a new experience for me,
but it goes very well, and is going to save time and "language"--
the kind of language that soothes vexation.

I have dictated to a typewriter before--but not autobiography.
Between that experience and the present one there lies a mighty gap--
more than thirty years!  It is sort of lifetime.  In that wide interval
much has happened--to the type-machine as well as to the rest of us.
At the beginning of that interval a type-machine was a curiosity.
The person who owned one was a curiosity, too.  But now it is the
other way about:  the person who DOESN'T own one is a curiosity.
I saw a type-machine for the first time in--what year?  I suppose it
was 1873--because Nasby was with me at the time, and it was in Boston.
We must have been lecturing, or we could not have been in Boston,
I take it.  I quitted the platform that season.

But never mind about that, it is no matter.  Nasby and I saw
the machine through a window, and went in to look at it.
The salesman explained it to us, showed us samples of its work,
and said it could do fifty-seven words a minute--a statement
which we frankly confessed that we did not believe.  So he put
his type-girl to work, and we timed her by the watch.  She actually
did the fifty-seven in sixty seconds.  We were partly convinced,
but said it probably couldn't happen again.  But it did.
We timed the girl over and over again--with the same result always:
she won out.  She did her work on narrow slips of paper, and we
pocketed them as fast as she turned them out, to show as curiosities.
The price of the machine was one hundred and twenty-five dollars.
I bought one, and we went away very much excited.

At the hotel we got out our slips and were a little disappointed
to find that they contained the same words.  The girl had economized
time and labor by using a formula which she knew by heart.
However, we argued--safely enough--that the FIRST type-girl must
naturally take rank with the first billiard-player: neither of them
could be expected to get out of the game any more than a third or a
half of what was in it.  If the machine survived--IF it survived--
experts would come to the front, by and by, who would double the girl's
output without a doubt.  They would do one hundred words a minute--
my talking speed on the platform.  That score has long ago been beaten.

At home I played with the toy, repeated and repeating and repeated "The
Boy stood on the Burning Deck," until I could turn that boy's adventure
out at the rate of twelve words a minute; then I resumed the pen,
for business, and only worked the machine to astonish inquiring visitors.
They carried off many reams of the boy and his burning deck.

By and by I hired a young woman, and did my first dictating (letters,
merely), and my last until now.  The machine did not do both capitals
and lower case (as now), but only capitals.  Gothic capitals they were,
and sufficiently ugly.  I remember the first letter I dictated.
it was to Edward Bok, who was a boy then.  I was not acquainted
with him at that time.  His present enterprising spirit is not new--
he had it in that early day.  He was accumulating autographs, and was
not content with mere signatures, he wanted a whole autograph LETTER.
I furnished it--in type-written capitals, SIGNATURE AND ALL.
It was long; it was a sermon; it contained advice; also reproaches.
I said writing was my TRADE, my bread-and-butter; I said it was
not fair to ask a man to give away samples of his trade; would he
ask the blacksmith for a horseshoe? would he ask the doctor for
a corpse?

Now I come to an important matter--as I regard it.  In the year
'74 the young woman copied a considerable part of a book of mine
ON THE MACHINE.  In a previous chapter of this Autobiography I
have claimed that I was the first person in the world that ever had
a telephone in the house for practical purposes; I will now claim--
until dispossess--that I was the first person in the world to APPLY
THE TYPE-MACHINE TO LITERATURE.  That book must have been THE
ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER.  I wrote the first half of it in '72,
the rest of it in '74.  My machinist type-copied a book for me
in '74, so I concluded it was that one.

That early machine was full of caprices, full of defects--devilish ones.
It had as many immoralities as the machine of today has virtues.
After a year or two I found that it was degrading my character,
so I thought I would give it to Howells.  He was reluctant, for he
was suspicious of novelties and unfriendly toward them, and he remains
so to this day.  But I persuaded him.  He had great confidence in me,
and I got him to believe things about the machine that I did not
believe myself.  He took it home to Boston, and my morals began
to improve, but his have never recovered.

He kept it six months, and then returned it to me.  I gave it away
twice after that, but it wouldn't stay; it came back.  Then I
gave it to our coachman, Patrick McAleer, who was very grateful,
because he did not know the animal, and thought I was trying to
make him wiser and better.  As soon as he got wiser and better he
traded it to a heretic for a side-saddle which he could not use,
and there my knowledge of its history ends.


***



ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER



It is almost a fortnight now that I am domiciled in a medieval
villa in the country, a mile or two from Florence.  I cannot speak
the language; I am too old not to learn how, also too busy when I
am busy, and too indolent when I am not; wherefore some will
imagine that I am having a dull time of it.  But it is not so.
The "help" are all natives; they talk Italian to me, I answer
in English; I do not understand them, they do not understand me,
consequently no harm is done, and everybody is satisfied.  In order
to be just and fair, I throw in an Italian word when I have one,
and this has a good influence.  I get the word out of the morning paper.
I have to use it while it is fresh, for I find that Italian words
do not keep in this climate.  They fade toward night, and next
morning they are gone.  But it is no matter; I get a new one out
of the paper before breakfast, and thrill the domestics with it
while it lasts.  I have no dictionary, and I do not want one;
I can select words by the sound, or by orthographic aspect.
Many of them have French or German or English look, and these are
the ones I enslave for the day's service.  That is, as a rule.
Not always.  If I find a learnable phrase that has an imposing look
and warbles musically along I do not care to know the meaning of it;
I pay it out to the first applicant, knowing that if I pronounce it
carefully HE will understand it, and that's enough.

Yesterday's word was AVANTI.  It sounds Shakespearian, and probably
means Avaunt and quit my sight.  Today I have a whole phrase:
SONO DISPIACENTISSIMO.  I do not know what it means, but it seems
to fit in everywhere and give satisfaction.  Although as a rule
my words and phrases are good for one day and train only, I have
several that stay by me all the time, for some unknown reason,
and these come very handy when I get into a long conversation and need
things to fire up with in monotonous stretches.  One of the best ones
is DOV' `E IL GATTO.  It nearly always produces a pleasant surprise,
therefore I save it up for places where I want to express applause
or admiration.  The fourth word has a French sound, and I think
the phrase means "that takes the cake."

During my first week in the deep and dreamy stillness of this woodsy
and flowery place I was without news of the outside world, and was
well content without it.  It has been four weeks since I had seen
a newspaper, and this lack seemed to give life a new charm and grace,
and to saturate it with a feeling verging upon actual delight.
Then came a change that was to be expected:  the appetite for news
began to rise again, after this invigorating rest.  I had to feed it,
but I was not willing to let it make me its helpless slave again;
I determined to put it on a diet, and a strict and limited one.
So I examined an Italian paper, with the idea of feeding it on that,
and on that exclusively.  On that exclusively, and without help of
a dictionary.  In this way I should surely be well protected against
overloading and indigestion.

A glance at the telegraphic page filled me with encouragement.
There were no scare-heads. That was good--supremely good.  But there
were headings--one-liners and two-liners--and that was good too;
for without these, one must do as one does with a German paper--pay our
precious time in finding out what an article is about, only to discover,
in many cases, that there is nothing in it of interest to you.
The headline is a valuable thing.

Necessarily we are all fond of murders, scandals, swindles,
robberies, explosions, collisions, and all such things, when we
knew the people, and when they are neighbors and friends, but when
they are strangers we do not get any great pleasure out of them,
as a rule.  Now the trouble with an American paper is that it has
no discrimination; it rakes the whole earth for blood and garbage,
and the result is that you are daily overfed and suffer a surfeit.
By habit you stow this muck every day, but you come by and by to
take no vital interest in it--indeed, you almost get tired of it.
As a rule, forty-nine-fiftieths of it concerns strangers only--
people away off yonder, a thousand miles, two thousand miles,
ten thousand miles from where you are.  Why, when you come to think
of it, who cares what becomes of those people?  I would not give
the assassination of one personal friend for a whole massacre
of those others.  And, to my mind, one relative or neighbor mixed
up in a scandal is more interesting than a whole Sodom and Gomorrah
of outlanders gone rotten.  Give me the home product every time.

Very well.  I saw at a glance that the Florentine paper would
suit me:  five out of six of its scandals and tragedies were local;
they were adventures of one's very neighbors, one might almost say
one's friends.  In the matter of world news there was not too much,
but just about enough.  I subscribed.  I have had no occasion
to regret it.  Every morning I get all the news I need for the day;
sometimes from the headlines, sometimes from the text.  I have never
had to call for a dictionary yet.  I read the paper with ease.
Often I do not quite understand, often some of the details escape me,
but no matter, I get the idea.  I will cut out a passage or two,
then you see how limpid the language is:


Il ritorno dei Beati d'Italia

Elargizione del Re all' Ospedale italiano


The first line means that the Italian sovereigns are coming back--
they have been to England.  The second line seems to mean that they
enlarged the King at the Italian hospital.  With a banquet, I suppose.
An English banquet has that effect.  Further:


Il ritorno dei Sovrani

a Roma


ROMA, 24, ore 22,50.--I Sovrani e le Principessine Reali si attendono
a Roma domani alle ore 15,51.


Return of the sovereigns to Rome, you see.  Date of the telegram,
Rome, November 24, ten minutes before twenty-three o'clock. The
telegram seems to say, "The Sovereigns and the Royal Children expect
themselves at Rome tomorrow at fifty-one minutes after fifteen o'clock."

I do not know about Italian time, but I judge it begins at midnight
and runs through the twenty-four hours without breaking bulk.
In the following ad, the theaters open at half-past twenty.
If these are not matinees, 20.30 must mean 8.30 P.M., by my reckoning.


Spettacolli del di 25

TEATRO DELLA PERGOLA--(Ore 20,30)--Opera.  BOH`EME. TEATRO
ALFIERI.--Compagnia drammatica Drago--(Ore 20,30)--LA LEGGE.
ALHAMBRA--(Ore 20,30)--Spettacolo variato.  SALA EDISON--
Grandiosoo spettacolo Cinematografico:  QUO VADIS?--Inaugurazione della
Chiesa Russa--In coda al Direttissimo--Vedute di Firenze con
gran movimeno--America:  Transporto tronchi giganteschi--I ladri
in casa del Diavolo--Scene comiche.  CINEMATOGRAFO--Via Brunelleschi
n.  4.--Programma straordinario, DON CHISCIOTTE--Prezzi populari.


The whole of that is intelligible to me--and sane and rational, too--
except the remark about the Inauguration of a Russian Chinese.
That one oversizes my hand.  Give me five cards.

This is a four-page paper; and as it is set in long primer leaded
and has a page of advertisements, there is no room for the crimes,
disasters, and general sweepings of the outside world--thanks be!
Today I find only a single importation of the off-color sort:


Una Principessa

che fugge con un cocchiere


PARIGI, 24.--Il MATIN ha da Berlino che la principessa
Schovenbare-Waldenbure scomparve il 9 novembre.  Sarebbe partita
col suo cocchiere.

La Principassa ha 27 anni.


Twenty-seven years old, and scomparve--scampered--on the 9th November.
You see by the added detail that she departed with her coachman.
I hope Sarebbe has not made a mistake, but I am afraid the chances
are that she has.  SONO DISPIACENTISSIMO.

There are several fires:  also a couple of accidents.  This is
one of them:


Grave disgrazia sul Ponte Vecchio


Stammattina, circe le 7,30, mentre Giuseppe Sciatti, di anni 55,
di Casellina e Torri, passava dal Ponte Vecchio, stando seduto sopra
un barroccio carico di verdura, perse l' equilibrio e cadde al suolo,
rimanendo con la gamba destra sotto una ruota del veicolo.

Lo Sciatti fu subito raccolto da alcuni cittadini, che, per mezzo
della pubblica vettura n.  365, lo transporto a San Giovanni di Dio.

Ivi il medico di guardia gli riscontro la frattura della gamba
destra e alcune lievi escoriazioni giudicandolo guaribile in 50
giorni salvo complicazioni.


What it seems to say is this:  "Serious Disgrace on the Old
Old Bridge.  This morning about 7.30, Mr. Joseph Sciatti, aged 55,
of Casellina and Torri, while standing up in a sitting posture
on top of a carico barrow of vedure (foliage? hay? vegetables?),
lost his equilibrium and fell on himself, arriving with his left
leg under one of the wheels of the vehicle.

"Said Sciatti was suddenly harvested (gathered in?) by several citizens,
who by means of public cab No. 365 transported to St. John of God."

Paragraph No. 3 is a little obscure, but I think it says that
the medico set the broken left leg--right enough, since there
was nothing the matter with the other one--and that several
are encouraged to hope that fifty days well fetch him around
in quite giudicandolo-guaribile way, if no complications intervene.

I am sure I hope so myself.

There is a great and peculiar charm about reading news-scraps in a
language which you are not acquainted with--the charm that always goes
with the mysterious and the uncertain.  You can never be absolutely
sure of the meaning of anything you read in such circumstances;
you are chasing an alert and gamy riddle all the time, and the
baffling turns and dodges of the prey make the life of the hunt.
A dictionary would spoil it.  Sometimes a single word of doubtful
purport will cast a veil of dreamy and golden uncertainty over a
whole paragraph of cold and practical certainties, and leave steeped
in a haunting and adorable mystery an incident which had been vulgar
and commonplace but for that benefaction.  Would you be wise to draw
a dictionary on that gracious word? would you be properly grateful?

After a couple of days' rest I now come back to my subject and seek
a case in point.  I find it without trouble, in the morning paper;
a cablegram from Chicago and Indiana by way of Paris.  All the words
save one are guessable by a person ignorant of Italian:


Revolverate in teatro


PARIGI, 27.--La PATRIE ha da Chicago:

Il guardiano del teatro dell'opera di Walace (Indiana), avendo voluto
espellare uno spettatore che continuava a fumare malgrado il diviety,
questo spalleggiato dai suoi amici tir`o diversi colpi di rivoltella.
Il guardiano ripose.  Nacque una scarica generale.  Grande panico
tra gli spettatori.  Nessun ferito.


TRANSLATION.--"Revolveration in Theater.  PARIS, 27TH.  LA PATRIE
has from Chicago:  The cop of the theater of the opera of Wallace,
Indiana, had willed to expel a spectator which continued to smoke
in spite of the prohibition, who, spalleggiato by his friends,
tir'o (Fr. TIR'E, Anglice PULLED) manifold revolver-shots;
great panic among the spectators.  Nobody hurt."

It is bettable that that harmless cataclysm in the theater of the opera
of Wallace, Indiana, excited not a person in Europe but me, and so
came near to not being worth cabling to Florence by way of France.
But it does excite me.  It excites me because I cannot make out,
for sure, what it was that moved the spectator to resist the officer.
I was gliding along smoothly and without obstruction or accident,
until I came to that word "spalleggiato," then the bottom fell out.
You notice what a rich gloom, what a somber and pervading mystery,
that word sheds all over the whole Wallachian tragedy.  That is the charm
of the thing, that is the delight of it.  This is where you begin,
this is where you revel.  You can guess and guess, and have all
the fun you like; you need not be afraid there will be an end to it;
none is possible, for no amount of guessing will ever furnish you
a meaning for that word that you can be sure is the right one.
All the other words give you hints, by their form, their sound,
or their spelling--this one doesn't, this one throws out no hints,
this one keeps its secret.  If there is even the slightest slight
shadow of a hint anywhere, it lies in the very meagerly suggestive
fact that "spalleggiato" carries our word "egg" in its stomach.
Well, make the most out of it, and then where are you at?
You conjecture that the spectator which was smoking in spite
of the prohibition and become reprohibited by the guardians,
was "egged on" by his friends, and that was owing to that evil
influence that he initiated the revolveration in theater that has
galloped under the sea and come crashing through the European
press without exciting anybody but me.  But are you sure,
are you dead sure, that that was the way of it?  No. Then the
uncertainty remains, the mystery abides, and with it the charm.
Guess again.

If I had a phrase-book of a really satisfactory sort I would
study it, and not give all my free time to undictionarial readings,
but there is no such work on the market.  The existing phrase-books
are inadequate.  They are well enough as far as they go, but when
you fall down and skin your leg they don't tell you what to say.


***



ITALIAN WITH GRAMMAR



I found that a person of large intelligence could read this beautiful
language with considerable facility without a dictionary, but I presently
found that to such a parson a grammar could be of use at times.
It is because, if he does not know the WERE'S and the WAS'S and the
MAYBE'S and the HAS-BEENS'S apart, confusions and uncertainties
can arise.  He can get the idea that a thing is going to happen next
week when the truth is that it has already happened week before last.
Even more previously, sometimes.  Examination and inquiry showed
me that the adjectives and such things were frank and fair-minded
and straightforward, and did not shuffle; it was the Verb that mixed
the hands, it was the Verb that lacked stability, it was the Verb that
had no permanent opinion about anything, it was the Verb that was always
dodging the issue and putting out the light and making all the trouble.

Further examination, further inquiry, further reflection,
confirmed this judgment, and established beyond peradventure the
fact that the Verb was the storm-center. This discovery made plain
the right and wise course to pursue in order to acquire certainty
and exactness in understanding the statements which the newspaper
was daily endeavoring to convey to me:  I must catch a Verb and
tame it.  I must find out its ways, I must spot its eccentricities,
I must penetrate its disguises, I must intelligently foresee and
forecast at least the commoner of the dodges it was likely to try
upon a stranger in given circumstances, I must get in on its main
shifts and head them off, I must learn its game and play the limit.

I had noticed, in other foreign languages, that verbs are bred
in families, and that the members of each family have certain features
or resemblances that are common to that family and distinguish it
from the other families--the other kin, the cousins and what not.
I had noticed that this family-mark is not usually the nose or the hair,
so to speak, but the tail--the Termination--and that these tails
are quite definitely differentiated; insomuch that an expert can
tell a Pluperfect from a Subjunctive by its tail as easily and as
certainly as a cowboy can tell a cow from a horse by the like process,
the result of observation and culture.  I should explain that I
am speaking of legitimate verbs, those verbs which in the slang
of the grammar are called Regular.  There are other--I am not meaning
to conceal this; others called Irregulars, born out of wedlock,
of unknown and uninteresting parentage, and naturally destitute
of family resemblances, as regards to all features, tails included.
But of these pathetic outcasts I have nothing to say.  I do not
approve of them, I do not encourage them; I am prudishly delicate
and sensitive, and I do not allow them to be used in my presence.

But, as I have said, I decided to catch one of the others and break
it into harness.  One is enough.  Once familiar with its assortment
of tails, you are immune; after that, no regular verb can conceal
its specialty from you and make you think it is working the past
or the future or the conditional or the unconditional when it is
engaged in some other line of business--its tail will give it away.
I found out all these things by myself, without a teacher.

I selected the verb AMARE, TO LOVE.  Not for any personal reason,
for I am indifferent about verbs; I care no more for one verb than
for another, and have little or no respect for any of them; but in
foreign languages you always begin with that one.  Why, I don't know.
It is merely habit, I suppose; the first teacher chose it,
Adam was satisfied, and there hasn't been a successor since with
originality enough to start a fresh one.  For they ARE a pretty
limited lot, you will admit that?  Originality is not in their line;
they can't think up anything new, anything to freshen up the old
moss-grown dullness of the language lesson and put life and "go"
into it, and charm and grace and picturesqueness.

I knew I must look after those details myself; therefore I thought
them out and wrote them down, and set for the FACCHINO and explained
them to him, and said he must arrange a proper plant, and get together
a good stock company among the CONTADINI, and design the costumes,
and distribute the parts; and drill the troupe, and be ready in three
days to begin on this Verb in a shipshape and workman-like manner.
I told him to put each grand division of it under a foreman,
and each subdivision under a subordinate of the rank of sergeant
or corporal or something like that, and to have a different uniform
for each squad, so that I could tell a Pluperfect from a Compound
Future without looking at the book; the whole battery to be under
his own special and particular command, with the rank of Brigadier,
and I to pay the freight.

I then inquired into the character and possibilities of the selected verb,
and was much disturbed to find that it was over my size, it being
chambered for fifty-seven rounds--fifty-seven ways of saying I LOVE
without reloading; and yet none of them likely to convince a girl
that was laying for a title, or a title that was laying for rocks.

It seemed to me that with my inexperience it would be foolish to go
into action with this mitrailleuse, so I ordered it to the rear
and told the facchino to provide something a little more primitive
to start with, something less elaborate, some gentle old-fashioned
flint-lock, smooth-bore, double-barreled thing, calculated to cripple
at two hundred yards and kill at forty--an arrangement suitable for a
beginner who could be satisfied with moderate results on the offstart
and did not wish to take the whole territory in the first campaign.

But in vain.  He was not able to mend the matter, all the verbs being
of the same build, all Gatlings, all of the same caliber and delivery,
fifty-seven to the volley, and fatal at a mile and a half.
But he said the auxiliary verb AVERE, TO HAVE, was a tidy thing,
and easy to handle in a seaway, and less likely to miss stays in
going about than some of the others; so, upon his recommendation I
chose that one, and told him to take it along and scrape its bottom
and break out its spinnaker and get it ready for business.

I will explain that a facchino is a general-utility domestic.
Mine was a horse-doctor in his better days, and a very good one.


At the end of three days the facchino-doctor-brigadier was ready.
I was also ready, with a stenographer.  We were in a room called
the Rope-Walk. This is a formidably long room, as is indicated
by its facetious name, and is a good place for reviews.  At 9:30
the F.-D.-B. took his place near me and gave the word of command;
the drums began to rumble and thunder, the head of the forces appeared
at an upper door, and the "march-past" was on.  Down they filed,
a blaze of variegated color, each squad gaudy in a uniform of its own
and bearing a banner inscribed with its verbal rank and quality:
first the Present Tense in Mediterranean blue and old gold, then the
Past Definite in scarlet and black, then the Imperfect in green
and yellow, then the Indicative Future in the stars and stripes,
then the Old Red Sandstone Subjunctive in purple and silver--
and so on and so on, fifty-seven privates and twenty commissioned
and non-commissioned officers; certainly one of the most fiery and
dazzling and eloquent sights I have ever beheld.  I could not keep back
the tears.  Presently:

"Halt!" commanded the Brigadier.

"Front--face!"

"Right dress!"

"Stand at ease!"

"One--two--three.  In unison--RECITE!"

It was fine.  In one noble volume of sound of all the fifty-seven
Haves in the Italian language burst forth in an exalting
and splendid confusion.  Then came commands:

"About--face!  Eyes--front!  Helm alee--hard aport!  Forward--march!"
and the drums let go again.

When the last Termination had disappeared, the commander said
the instruction drill would now begin, and asked for suggestions.
I said:

"They say I HAVE, THOU HAST, HE HAS, and so on, but they don't say WHAT.
It will be better, and more definite, if they have something
to have; just an object, you know, a something--anything will do;
anything that will give the listener a sort of personal as well
as grammatical interest in their joys and complaints, you see."

He said:

"It is a good point.  Would a dog do?"

I said I did not know, but we could try a dog and see.  So he sent
out an aide-de-camp to give the order to add the dog.


The six privates of the Present Tense now filed in, in charge
of Sergeant AVERE (TO HAVE), and displaying their banner.
They formed in line of battle, and recited, one at a time, thus:

"IO HO UN CANE, I have a dog."

"TU HAI UN CANE, thou hast a dog."

"EGLI HA UN CANE, he has a dog."

"NOI ABBIAMO UN CANE, we have a dog."

"VOI AVETE UN CANE, you have a dog."

"EGLINO HANNO UN CANE, they have a dog."

No comment followed.  They returned to camp, and I reflected a while.
The commander said:

"I fear you are disappointed."

"Yes," I said; "they are too monotonous, too singsong, to dead-and-alive;
they have no expression, no elocution.  It isn't natural; it could
never happen in real life.  A person who had just acquired a dog
is either blame' glad or blame' sorry.  He is not on the fence.
I never saw a case.  What the nation do you suppose is the matter
with these people?"

He thought maybe the trouble was with the dog.  He said:

"These are CONTADINI, you know, and they have a prejudice against dogs--
that is, against marimane.  Marimana dogs stand guard over people's
vines and olives, you know, and are very savage, and thereby a grief
and an inconvenience to persons who want other people's things
at night.  In my judgment they have taken this dog for a marimana,
and have soured on him."

I saw that the dog was a mistake, and not functionable:
we must try something else; something, if possible, that could
evoke sentiment, interest, feeling.

"What is cat, in Italian?"  I asked.

"Gatto."

"Is it a gentleman cat, or a lady?"

"Gentleman cat."

"How are these people as regards that animal?"

"We-ll, they--they--"

"You hesitate:  that is enough.  How are they about chickens?"

He tilted his eyes toward heaven in mute ecstasy.  I understood.

"What is chicken, in Italian?"  I asked.

"Pollo, PODERE."  (Podere is Italian for master.  It is a title
of courtesy, and conveys reverence and admiration.) "Pollo is one
chicken by itself; when there are enough present to constitute
a plural, it is POLLI."

"Very well, polli will do.  Which squad is detailed for duty next?"

"The Past Definite."

"Send out and order it to the front--with chickens.  And let them
understand that we don't want any more of this cold indifference."

He gave the order to an aide, adding, with a haunting tenderness
in his tone and a watering mouth in his aspect:

"Convey to them the conception that these are unprotected chickens."
He turned to me, saluting with his hand to his temple, and explained,
"It will inflame their interest in the poultry, sire."

A few minutes elapsed.  Then the squad marched in and formed up,
their faces glowing with enthusiasm, and the file-leader shouted:

"EBBI POLLI, I had chickens!"

"Good!"  I said.  "Go on, the next."

"AVEST POLLI, thou hadst chickens!"

"Fine!  Next!"

"EBBE POLLI, he had chickens!"

"Moltimoltissimo!  Go on, the next!"

"AVEMMO POLLI, we had chickens!"

"Basta-basta aspettatto avanti--last man--CHARGE!"

"EBBERO POLLI, they had chickens!"

Then they formed in echelon, by columns of fours, refused the left,
and retired in great style on the double-quick. I was enchanted,
and said:

"Now, doctor, that is something LIKE!  Chickens are the ticket,
there is no doubt about it.  What is the next squad?"

"The Imperfect."

"How does it go?"

"IO AVENA, I had, TU AVEVI, thou hadst, EGLI AVENA, he had,
NOI AV--"

Wait--we've just HAD the hads.  what are you giving me?"

"But this is another breed."

"What do we want of another breed?  Isn't one breed enough?
HAD is HAD, and your tricking it out in a fresh way of spelling
isn't going to make it any hadder than it was before; now you know
that yourself."

"But there is a distinction--they are not just the same Hads."

"How do you make it out?"

"Well, you use that first Had when you are referring to something
that happened at a named and sharp and perfectly definite moment;
you use the other when the thing happened at a vaguely defined time
and in a more prolonged and indefinitely continuous way."

'Why, doctor, it is pure nonsense; you know it yourself.  Look here:
If I have had a had, or have wanted to have had a had, or was in a
position right then and there to have had a had that hadn't had any chance
to go out hadding on account of this foolish discrimination which lets
one Had go hadding in any kind of indefinite grammatical weather but
restricts the other one to definite and datable meteoric convulsions,
and keeps it pining around and watching the barometer all the time,
and liable to get sick through confinement and lack of exercise,
and all that sort of thing, why--why, the inhumanity of it is enough,
let alone the wanton superfluity and uselessness of any such a loafing
consumptive hospital-bird of a Had taking up room and cumbering
the place for nothing.  These finical refinements revolt me;
it is not right, it is not honorable; it is constructive nepotism
to keep in office a Had that is so delicate it can't come out when
the wind's in the nor'west--I won't have this dude on the payroll.
Cancel his exequator; and look here--"

"But you miss the point.  It is like this.  You see--"

"Never mind explaining, I don't care anything about it.  Six Hads
is enough for me; anybody that needs twelve, let him subscribe;
I don't want any stock in a Had Trust.  Knock out the Prolonged
and Indefinitely Continuous; four-fifths of it is water, anyway."

"But I beg you, podere!  It is often quite indispensable in cases where--"

"Pipe the next squad to the assault!"

But it was not to be; for at that moment the dull boom of the noon gun
floated up out of far-off Florence, followed by the usual softened
jangle of church-bells, Florentine and suburban, that bursts out in
murmurous response; by labor-union law the COLAZIONE [1] must stop;
stop promptly, stop instantly, stop definitely, like the chosen
and best of the breed of Hads.

- - -

1.  Colazione is Italian for a collection, a meeting, a seance,
a sitting.--M.T.


***



A BURLESQUE BIOGRAPHY



Two or three persons having at different times intimated that if I
would write an autobiography they would read it when they got leisure,
I yield at last to this frenzied public demand and herewith tender
my history.

Ours is a noble house, and stretches a long way back into antiquity.
The earliest ancestor the Twains have any record of was a friend of
the family by the name of Higgins.  This was in the eleventh century,
when our people were living in Aberdeen, county of Cork, England.
Why it is that our long line has ever since borne the maternal
name (except when one of them now and then took a playful
refuge in an alias to avert foolishness), instead of Higgins,
is a mystery which none of us has ever felt much desire to stir.
It is a kind of vague, pretty romance, and we leave it alone.
All the old families do that way.

Arthour Twain was a man of considerable note--a solicitor on the
highway in William Rufus's time.  At about the age of thirty he went
to one of those fine old English places of resort called Newgate,
to see about something, and never returned again.  While there he
died suddenly.

Augustus Twain seems to have made something of a stir about the
year 1160.  He was as full of fun as he could be, and used to take his old
saber and sharpen it up, and get in a convenient place on a dark night,
and stick it through people as they went by, to see them jump.
He was a born humorist.  But he got to going too far with it;
and the first time he was found stripping one of these parties,
the authorities removed one end of him, and put it up on a nice high
place on Temple Bar, where it could contemplate the people and have
a good time.  He never liked any situation so much or stuck to it so long.

Then for the next two hundred years the family tree shows
a succession of soldiers--noble, high-spirited fellows,
who always went into battle singing, right behind the army,
and always went out a-whooping, right ahead of it.

This is a scathing rebuke to old dead Froissart's poor witticism
that our family tree never had but one limb to it, and that that
one stuck out at right angles, and bore fruit winter and summer.

Early in the fifteenth century we have Beau Twain, called "the Scholar."
He wrote a beautiful, beautiful hand.  And he could imitate anybody's
hand so closely that it was enough to make a person laugh his head
off to see it.  He had infinite sport with his talent.  But by and
by he took a contract to break stone for a road, and the roughness
of the work spoiled his hand.  Still, he enjoyed life all the time
he was in the stone business, which, with inconsiderable intervals,
was some forty-two years.  In fact, he died in harness.  During all
those long years he gave such satisfaction that he never was through
with one contract a week till the government gave him another.  He was
a perfect pet.  And he was always a favorite with his fellow-artists,
and was a conspicuous member of their benevolent secret society,
called the Chain Gang.  He always wore his hair short, had a
preference for striped clothes, and died lamented by the government.
He was a sore loss to his country.  For he was so regular.

Some years later we have the illustrious John Morgan Twain.
He came over to this country with Columbus in 1492 as a passenger.
He appears to have been of a crusty, uncomfortable disposition.
He complained of the food all the way over, and was always threatening
to go ashore unless there was a change.  He wanted fresh shad.
Hardly a day passed over his head that he did not go idling about
the ship with his nose in the air, sneering about the commander,
and saying he did not believe Columbus knew where he was going
to or had ever been there before.  The memorable cry of "Land ho!"
thrilled every heart in the ship but his.  He gazed awhile through a
piece of smoked glass at the penciled line lying on the distant water,
and then said:  "Land be hanged--it's a raft!"

When this questionable passenger came on board the ship, be brought
nothing with him but an old newspaper containing a handkerchief
marked "B. G.," one cotton sock marked "L. W. C.," one woolen one
marked "D. F.," and a night-shirt marked "O. M. R." And yet during
the voyage he worried more about his "trunk," and gave himself more
airs about it, than all the rest of the passengers put together.
If the ship was "down by the head," and would not steer, he would
go and move his "trunk" further aft, and then watch the effect.
If the ship was "by the stern," he would suggest to Columbus to detail
some men to "shift that baggage."  In storms he had to be gagged,
because his wailings about his "trunk" made it impossible for the
men to hear the orders.  The man does not appear to have been
openly charged with any gravely unbecoming thing, but it is noted
in the ship's log as a "curious circumstance" that albeit he brought
his baggage on board the ship in a newspaper, he took it ashore in
four trunks, a queensware crate, and a couple of champagne baskets.
But when he came back insinuating, in an insolent, swaggering way,
that some of this things were missing, and was going to search
the other passengers' baggage, it was too much, and they threw
him overboard.  They watched long and wonderingly for him to
come up, but not even a bubble rose on the quietly ebbing tide.
But while every one was most absorbed in gazing over the side,
and the interest was momentarily increasing, it was observed with
consternation that the vessel was adrift and the anchor-cable hanging
limp from the bow.  Then in the ship's dimmed and ancient log we
find this quaint note:

"In time it was discouvered yt ye troblesome passenger hadde gone
downe and got ye anchor, and toke ye same and solde it to ye dam
sauvages from ye interior, saying yt he hadde founde it, ye sonne
of a ghun!"

Yet this ancestor had good and noble instincts, and it is with
pride that we call to mind the fact that he was the first white
person who ever interested himself in the work of elevating
and civilizing our Indians.  He built a commodious jail and put
up a gallows, and to his dying day he claimed with satisfaction
that he had had a more restraining and elevating influence on
the Indians than any other reformer that ever labored among them.
At this point the chronicle becomes less frank and chatty,
and closes abruptly by saying that the old voyager went to see
his gallows perform on the first white man ever hanged in America,
and while there received injuries which terminated in his death.

The great-grandson of the "Reformer" flourished in sixteen hundred
and something, and was known in our annals as "the old Admiral,"
though in history he had other titles.  He was long in command of
fleets of swift vessels, well armed and manned, and did great service
in hurrying up merchantmen.  Vessels which he followed and kept
his eagle eye on, always made good fair time across the ocean.
But if a ship still loitered in spite of all he could do,
his indignation would grow till he could contain himself no longer--
and then he would take that ship home where he lived and keep it
there carefully, expecting the owners to come for it, but they never did.
And he would try to get the idleness and sloth out of the sailors
of that ship by compelling them to take invigorating exercise and
a bath.  He called it "walking a plank."  All the pupils liked it.
At any rate, they never found any fault with it after trying it.
When the owners were late coming for their ships, the Admiral always
burned them, so that the insurance money should not be lost.
At last this fine old tar was cut down in the fullness of his years
and honors.  And to her dying day, his poor heart-broken widow believed
that if he had been cut down fifteen minutes sooner he might have
been resuscitated.

Charles Henry Twain lived during the latter part of the seventeenth
century, and was a zealous and distinguished missionary.
He converted sixteen thousand South Sea islanders, and taught them
that a dog-tooth necklace and a pair of spectacles was not enough
clothing to come to divine service in.  His poor flock loved
him very, very dearly; and when his funeral was over, they got up
in a body (and came out of the restaurant) with tears in their eyes,
and saying, one to another, that he was a good tender missionary,
and they wished they had some more of him.

Pah-go-to-wah-wah-pukketekeewis (Mighty-Hunter-with-a-Hog-Eye-Twain)
adorned the middle of the eighteenth century, and aided General
Braddock with all his heart to resist the oppressor Washington.
It was this ancestor who fired seventeen times at our Washington
from behind a tree.  So far the beautiful romantic narrative
in the moral story-books is correct; but when that narrative goes
on to say that at the seventeenth round the awe-stricken savage
said solemnly that that man was being reserved by the Great Spirit
for some mighty mission, and he dared not lift his sacrilegious rifle
against him again, the narrative seriously impairs the integrity
of history.  What he did say was:

"It ain't no (hic) no use.  'At man's so drunk he can't stan'
still long enough for a man to hit him.  I (hic) I can't 'ford
to fool away any more am'nition on him."

That was why he stopped at the seventeenth round, and it was a good,
plain, matter-of-fact reason, too, and one that easily commends itself
to us by the eloquent, persuasive flavor of probability there is about it.

I also enjoyed the story-book narrative, but I felt a marring misgiving
that every Indian at Braddock's Defeat who fired at a soldier
a couple of times (two easily grows to seventeen in a century),
and missed him, jumped to the conclusion that the Great Spirit
was reserving that soldier for some grand mission; and so I somehow
feared that the only reason why Washington's case is remembered
and the others forgotten is, that in his the prophecy came true,
and in that of the others it didn't. There are not books enough
on earth to contain the record of the prophecies Indians and other
unauthorized parties have made; but one may carry in his overcoat
pockets the record of all the prophecies that have been fulfilled.

I will remark here, in passing, that certain ancestors of mine are
so thoroughly well-known in history by their aliases, that I have
not felt it to be worth while to dwell upon them, or even mention
them in the order of their birth.  Among these may be mentioned
Richard Brinsley Twain, alias Guy Fawkes; John Wentworth Twain,
alias Sixteen-String Jack; William Hogarth Twain, alias Jack Sheppard;
Ananias Twain, alias Baron Munchausen; John George Twain,
alias Captain Kydd; and then there are George Francis Twain,
Tom Pepper, Nebuchadnezzar, and Baalam's Ass--they all belong
to our family, but to a branch of it somewhat distinctly removed
from the honorable direct line--in fact, a collateral branch,
whose members chiefly differ from the ancient stock in that, in order
to acquire the notoriety we have always yearned and hungered for,
they have got into a low way of going to jail instead of getting hanged.

It is not well, when writing an autobiography, to follow your ancestry
down too close to your own time--it is safest to speak only vaguely
of your great-grandfather, and then skip from there to yourself,
which I now do.

I was born without teeth--and there Richard III.  had the advantage
of me; but I was born without a humpback, likewise, and there I
had the advantage of him.  My parents were neither very poor nor
conspicuously honest.

But now a thought occurs to me.  My own history would really seem
so tame contrasted with that of my ancestors, that it is simply wisdom
to leave it unwritten until I am hanged.  If some other biographies I
have read had stopped with the ancestry until a like event occurred,
it would have been a felicitous thing for the reading public.
How does it strike you?


***



HOW TO TELL A STORY

The Humorous Story an American Development.--Its Difference

from Comic and Witty Stories



I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told.
I only claim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been
almost daily in the company of the most expert story-tellers for
many years.

There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind--
the humorous.  I will talk mainly about that one.  The humorous story
is American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French.
The humorous story depends for its effect upon the MANNER of the telling;
the comic story and the witty story upon the MATTER.

The humorous story may be spun out to great length, and may wander
around as much as it pleases, and arrive nowhere in particular;
but the comic and witty stories must be brief and end with a point.
The humorous story bubbles gently along, the others burst.

The humorous story is strictly a work of art--high and delicate art--
and only an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling
the comic and the witty story; anybody can do it.  The art of telling
a humorous story--understand, I mean by word of mouth, not print--
was created in America, and has remained at home.

The humorous story is told gravely; the teller does his best
to conceal the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is
anything funny about it; but the teller of the comic story tells you
beforehand that it is one of the funniest things he has ever heard,
then tells it with eager delight, and is the first person to laugh
when he gets through.  And sometimes, if he has had good success,
he is so glad and happy that he will repeat the "nub" of it
and glance around from face to face, collecting applause,
and then repeat it again.  It is a pathetic thing to see.

Very often, of course, the rambling and disjointed humorous story
finishes with a nub, point, snapper, or whatever you like to call it.
Then the listener must be alert, for in many cases the teller will
divert attention from that nub by dropping it in a carefully casual
and indifferent way, with the pretense that he does not know it
is a nub.

Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal; then when the belated audience
presently caught the joke he would look up with innocent surprise,
as if wondering what they had found to laugh at.  Dan Setchell
used it before him, Nye and Riley and others use it today.

But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub;
he shouts it at you--every time.  And when he prints it,
in England, France, Germany, and Italy, he italicizes it,
puts some whopping exclamation-points after it, and sometimes
explains it in a parenthesis.  All of which is very depressing,
and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

Let me set down an instance of the comic method, using an anecdote
which has been popular all over the world for twelve or fifteen
hundred years.  The teller tells it in this way:


THE WOUNDED SOLDIER


In the course of a certain battle a soldier whose leg had been shot off
appealed to another soldier who was hurrying by to carry him to the rear,
informing him at the same time of the loss which he had sustained;
whereupon the generous son of Mars, shouldering the unfortunate,
proceeded to carry out his desire.  The bullets and cannon-balls
were flying in all directions, and presently one of the latter
took the wounded man's head off--without, however, his deliverer
being aware of it.  In no long time he was hailed by an officer,
who said:

"Where are you going with that carcass?"

"To the rear, sir--he's lost his leg!"

"His leg, forsooth?" responded the astonished officer; "you mean
his head, you booby."

Whereupon the soldier dispossessed himself of his burden, and stood
looking down upon it in great perplexity.  At length he said:

"It is true, sir, just as you have said."  Then after a pause he added,
"BUT HE TOLD ME IT WAS HIS LEG!!!!!"


Here the narrator bursts into explosion after
explosion of thunderous horse-laughter, repeating that
nub from time to time through his gasping and shriekings and suffocatings.

It takes only a minute and a half to tell that in its comic-story form;
and isn't worth the telling, after all.  Put into the humorous-story
form it takes ten minutes, and is about the funniest thing I have
ever listened to--as James Whitcomb Riley tells it.

He tells it in the character of a dull-witted old farmer who has
just heard it for the first time, thinks it is unspeakably funny,
and is trying to repeat it to a neighbor.  But he can't remember it;
so he gets all mixed up and wanders helplessly round and round,
putting in tedious details that don't belong in the tale and only
retard it; taking them out conscientiously and putting in others
that are just as useless; making minor mistakes now and then
and stopping to correct them and explain how he came to make them;
remembering things which he forgot to put in in their proper place
and going back to put them in there; stopping his narrative a good
while in order to try to recall the name of the soldier that was hurt,
and finally remembering that the soldier's name was not mentioned,
and remarking placidly that the name is of no real importance, anyway--
better, of course, if one knew it, but not essential, after all--
and so on, and so on, and so on.

The teller is innocent and happy and pleased with himself,
and has to stop every little while to hold himself in and keep
from laughing outright; and does hold in, but his body quakes
in a jelly-like way with interior chuckles; and at the end of the
ten minutes the audience have laughed until they are exhausted,
and the tears are running down their faces.

The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness
of the old farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result
is a performance which is thoroughly charming and delicious.
This is art--and fine and beautiful, and only a master can compass it;
but a machine could tell the other story.

To string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering
and sometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that they
are absurdities, is the basis of the American art, if my position
is correct.  Another feature is the slurring of the point.  A third
is the dropping of a studied remark apparently without knowing it,
as if one where thinking aloud.  The fourth and last is the pause.

Artemus Ward dealt in numbers three and four a good deal.  He would
begin to tell with great animation something which he seemed to
think was wonderful; then lose confidence, and after an apparently
absent-minded pause add an incongruous remark in a soliloquizing way;
and that was the remark intended to explode the mine--and it did.

For instance, he would say eagerly, excitedly, "I once knew a man
in New Zealand who hadn't a tooth in his head"--here his animation
would die out; a silent, reflective pause would follow, then he
would say dreamily, and as if to himself, "and yet that man could
beat a drum better than any man I ever saw."

The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story,
and a frequently recurring feature, too.  It is a dainty thing,
and delicate, and also uncertain and treacherous; for it must
be exactly the right length--no more and no less--or it fails
of its purpose and makes trouble.  If the pause is too short the
impressive point is passed, and the audience have had time to divine
that a surprise is intended--and then you can't surprise them,
of course.

On the platform I used to tell a negro ghost story that had a pause
in front of the snapper on the end, and that pause was the most important
thing in the whole story.  If I got it the right length precisely,
I could spring the finishing ejaculation with effect enough to make
some impressible girl deliver a startled little yelp and jump out
of her seat--and that was what I was after.  This story was called
"The Golden Arm," and was told in this fashion.  You can practice
with it yourself--and mind you look out for the pause and get it right.


THE GOLDEN ARM


Once 'pon a time dey wuz a momsus mean man, en he live 'way out in de
prairie all 'lone by hisself, 'cep'n he had a wife.  En bimeby she died,
en he tuck en toted her way out dah in de prairie en buried her.
Well, she had a golden arm--all solid gold, fum de shoulder down.
He wuz pow'ful mean--pow'ful; en dat night he couldn't sleep,
caze he want dat golden arm so bad.

When it come midnight he couldn't stan' it no mo'; so he git up,
he did, en tuck his lantern en shoved out thoo de storm en dug her
up en got de golden arm; en he bent his head down 'gin de 'win, en
plowed en plowed en plowed thoo de snow.  Den all on a sudden he
stop (make a considerable pause here, and look startled, and take
a listening attitude) en say:  "My LAN', what's dat?"

En he listen--en listen--en de win' say (set your teeth together
and imitate the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind),
"Bzzz-z-zzz"--en den, way back yonder whah de grave is, he hear
a VOICE!--he hear a voice all mix' up in de win'--can't hardly
tell 'em 'part--"Bzzz--zzz--W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n ARM?"
(You must begin to shiver violently now.)

En he begin to shiver en shake, en say, "Oh, my!  OH, my lan'!" en de win'
blow de lantern out, en de snow en sleet blow in his face en mos'
choke him, en he start a-plowin' knee-deep toward home mos' dead,
he so sk'yerd--en pooty soon he hear de voice agin, en (pause) it 'us
comin AFTER him!  "Bzzz--zzz--zzz W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n--ARM?"

When he git to de pasture he hear it agin--closter now,
en A-COMIN'!--a-comin' back dah in de dark en de storm--(repeat
the wind and the voice). When he git to de house he rush upstairs
en jump in de bed en kiver up, head and years, en lay da shiverin'
en shakin'--en den way out dah he hear it AGIN!--en a-COMIN'! En
bimeby he hear (pause--awed, listening attitude)--pat--pat--pat HIT'S
A-COMIN' UPSTAIRS!  Den he hear de latch, en he KNOW it's in de room!

Den pooty soon he know it's a-STANNIN' BY DE BED!  (Pause.) Den--
he know it's a-BENDIN' DOWN OVER HIM--en he cain't skasely git
his breath!  Den--den--he seem to feel someth'n' C-O-L-D, right down
'most agin his head!  (Pause.)

Den de voice say, RIGHT AT HIS YEAR--"W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y g-o-l-d-e-n ARM?"
(You must wail it out very plaintively and accusingly; then you stare
steadily and impressively into the face of the farthest-gone auditor--
a girl, preferably--and let that awe-inspiring pause begin to build
itself in the deep hush.  When it has reached exactly the right length,
jump suddenly at that girl and yell, "YOU'VE got it!"

If you've got the PAUSE right, she'll fetch a dear little yelp and
spring right out of her shoes.  But you MUST get the pause right;
and you will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and
uncertain thing you ever undertook.


***



GENERAL WASHINGTON'S NEGRO BODY-SERVANT


A Biographical Sketch



The stirring part of this celebrated colored man's life properly began
with his death--that is to say, the notable features of his biography
began with the first time he died.  He had been little heard of up
to that time, but since then we have never ceased to hear of him;
we have never ceased to hear of him at stated, unfailing intervals.
His was a most remarkable career, and I have thought that its history
would make a valuable addition to our biographical literature.
Therefore, I have carefully collated the materials for such a work,
from authentic sources, and here present them to the public.  I have
rigidly excluded from these pages everything of a doubtful character,
with the object in view of introducing my work into the schools
for the instruction of the youth of my country.

The name of the famous body-servant of General Washington was George.
After serving his illustrious master faithfully for half a century,
and enjoying throughout his long term his high regard and confidence,
it became his sorrowful duty at last to lay that beloved master
to rest in his peaceful grave by the Potomac.  Ten years afterward--
in 1809--full of years and honors, he died himself, mourned by all
who knew him.  The Boston GAZETTE of that date thus refers to
the event:


George, the favorite body-servant of the lamented Washington,
died in Richmond, Va., last Tuesday, at the ripe age of 95 years.
His intellect was unimpaired, and his memory tenacious, up to
within a few minutes of his decease.  He was present at the second
installation of Washington as President, and also at his funeral,
and distinctly remembered all the prominent incidents connected with
those noted events.


From this period we hear no more of the favorite body-servant of
General Washington until May, 1825, at which time he died again.
A Philadelphia paper thus speaks of the sad occurrence:


At Macon, Ga., last week, a colored man named George, who was the
favorite body-servant of General Washington, died at the advanced
age of 95 years.  Up to within a few hours of his dissolution he
was in full possession of all his faculties, and could distinctly
recollect the second installation of Washington, his death
and burial, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battle of Trenton,
the griefs and hardships of Valley Forge, etc.  Deceased was
followed to the grave by the entire population of Macon.


On the Fourth of July, 1830, and also of 1834 and 1836, the subject
of this sketch was exhibited in great state upon the rostrum
of the orator of the day, and in November of 1840 he died again.
The St. Louis REPUBLICAN of the 25th of that month spoke as follows:


"ANOTHER RELIC OF THE REVOLUTION GONE.


"George, once the favorite body-servant of General Washington,
died yesterday at the house of Mr. John Leavenworth in this city,
at the venerable age of 95 years.  He was in the full possession
of his faculties up to the hour of his death, and distinctly
recollected the first and second installations and death of
President Washington, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battles
of Trenton and Monmouth, the sufferings of the patriot army at
Valley Forge, the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence,
the speech of Patrick Henry in the Virginia House of Delegates,
and many other old-time reminiscences of stirring interest.
Few white men die lamented as was this aged negro.  The funeral
was very largely attended."


During the next ten or eleven years the subject of this sketch
appeared at intervals at Fourth-of-July celebrations in various
parts of the country, and was exhibited upon the rostrum with
flattering success.  But in the fall of 1855 he died again.
The California papers thus speak of the event:


ANOTHER OLD HERO GONE


Died, at Dutch Flat, on the 7th of March, George (once the confidential
body-servant of General Washington), at the great age of 95 years.
His memory, which did not fail him till the last, was a wonderful
storehouse of interesting reminiscences.  He could distinctly recollect
the first and second installations and death of President Washington,
the surrender of Cornwallis, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth,
and Bunker Hill, the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence,
and Braddock's defeat.  George was greatly respected in Dutch Flat,
and it is estimated that there were 10,000 people present at
his funeral.


The last time the subject of this sketch died was in June, 1864; and until
we learn the contrary, it is just to presume that he died permanently
this time.  The Michigan papers thus refer to the sorrowful event:


ANOTHER CHERISHED REMNANT OF THE REVOLUTION GONE


George, a colored man, and once the favorite body-servant of
George Washington, died in Detroit last week, at the patriarchal age
of 95 years.  To the moment of his death his intellect was unclouded,
and he could distinctly remember the first and second installations
and death of Washington, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battles
of Trenton and Monmouth, and Bunker Hill, the proclamation of the
Declaration of Independence, Braddock's defeat, the throwing over
of the tea in Boston harbor, and the landing of the Pilgrims.
He died greatly respected, and was followed to the grave by a vast
concourse of people.


The faithful old servant is gone!  We shall never see him more until
he turns up again.  He has closed his long and splendid career
of dissolution, for the present, and sleeps peacefully, as only they sleep
who have earned their rest.  He was in all respects a remarkable man.
He held his age better than any celebrity that has figured in history;
and the longer he lived the stronger and longer his memory grew.
If he lives to die again, he will distinctly recollect the discovery
of America.

The above r'esum'e of his biography I believe to be substantially
correct, although it is possible that he may have died once or twice
in obscure places where the event failed of newspaper notoriety.
One fault I find in all the notices of his death I have quoted,
and this ought to be correct.  In them he uniformly and impartially
died at the age of 95.  This could not have been.  He might have
done that once, or maybe twice, but he could not have continued
it indefinitely.  Allowing that when he first died, he died at
the age of 95, he was 151 years old when he died last, in 1864.
But his age did not keep pace with his recollections.  When he died
the last time, he distinctly remembered the landing of the Pilgrims,
which took place in 1620.  He must have been about twenty years
old when he witnessed that event, wherefore it is safe to assert
that the body-servant of General Washington was in the neighborhood
of two hundred and sixty or seventy years old when he departed this
life finally.

Having waited a proper length of time, to see if the subject of his
sketch had gone from us reliably and irrevocably, I now publish his
biography with confidence, and respectfully offer it to a mourning nation.

P.S.--I see by the papers that this imfamous old fraud has just
died again, in Arkansas.  This makes six times that he is known
to have died, and always in a new place.  The death of Washington's
body-servant has ceased to be a novelty; it's charm is gone;
the people are tired of it; let it cease.  This well-meaning
but misguided negro has not put six different communities to the
expense of burying him in state, and has swindled tens of thousands
of people into following him to the grave under the delusion that
a select and peculiar distinction was being conferred upon them.
Let him stay buried for good now; and let that newspaper suffer
the severest censure that shall ever, in all the future time,
publish to the world that General Washington's favorite colored
body-servant has died again.


***



WIT INSPIRATIONS OF THE "TWO-YEAR-OLDS"



All infants appear to have an impertinent and disagreeable fashion
nowadays of saying "smart" things on most occasions that offer,
and especially on occasions when they ought not to be saying anything
at all.  Judging by the average published specimens of smart sayings,
the rising generation of children are little better than idiots.
And the parents must surely be but little better than the children,
for in most cases they are the publishers of the sunbursts of infantile
imbecility which dazzle us from the pages of our periodicals.
I may seem to speak with some heat, not to say a suspicion of
personal spite; and I do admit that it nettles me to hear about so
many gifted infants in these days, and remember that I seldom said
anything smart when I was a child.  I tried it once or twice, but it
was not popular.  The family were not expecting brilliant remarks
from me, and so they snubbed me sometimes and spanked me the rest.
But it makes my flesh creep and my blood run cold to think what might
have happened to me if I had dared to utter some of the smart things
of this generation's "four-year-olds" where my father could hear me.
To have simply skinned me alive and considered his duty at an end
would have seemed to him criminal leniency toward one so sinning.
He was a stern, unsmiling man, and hated all forms of precocity.
If I had said some of the things I have referred to, and said them in
his hearing, he would have destroyed me.  He would, indeed.  He would,
provided the opportunity remained with him.  But it would not,
for I would have had judgment enough to take some strychnine first
and say my smart thing afterward.  The fair record of my life has
been tarnished by just one pun.  My father overheard that, and he
hunted me over four or five townships seeking to take my life.
If I had been full-grown, of course he would have been right;
but, child as I was, I could not know how wicked a thing I
had done.

I made one of those remarks ordinarily called "smart things"
before that, but it was not a pun.  Still, it came near causing a
serious rupture between my father and myself.  My father and mother,
my uncle Ephraim and his wife, and one or two others were present,
and the conversation turned on a name for me.  I was lying there
trying some India-rubber rings of various patterns, and endeavoring
to make a selection, for I was tired of trying to cut my teeth on
people's fingers, and wanted to get hold of something that would
enable me to hurry the thing through and get something else.
Did you ever notice what a nuisance it was cutting your teeth on
your nurse's finger, or how back-breaking and tiresome it was trying
to cut them on your big toe?  And did you never get out of patience
and wish your teeth were in Jerico long before you got them half cut?
To me it seems as if these things happened yesterday.  And they did,
to some children.  But I digress.  I was lying there trying the
India-rubber rings.  I remember looking at the clock and noticing
that in an hour and twenty-five minutes I would be two weeks old,
and thinking how little I had done to merit the blessings that were so
unsparingly lavished upon me.  My father said:

"Abraham is a good name.  My grandfather was named Abraham."

My mother said:

"Abraham is a good name.  Very well.  Let us have Abraham for one
of his names."

I said:

"Abraham suits the subscriber."

My father frowned, my mother looked pleased; my aunt said:

"What a little darling it is!"

My father said:

"Isaac is a good name, and Jacob is a good name."

My mother assented, and said:

"No names are better.  Let us add Isaac and Jacob to his names."

I said:

"All right.  Isaac and Jacob are good enough for yours truly.
Pass me that rattle, if you please.  I can't chew India-rubber rings
all day."

Not a soul made a memorandum of these sayings of mine, for publication.
I saw that, and did it myself, else they would have been utterly lost.
So far from meeting with a generous encouragement like other children
when developing intellectually, I was now furiously scowled upon
by my father; my mother looked grieved and anxious, and even my aunt
had about her an expression of seeming to think that maybe I had
gone too far.  I took a vicious bite out of an India-rubber ring,
and covertly broke the rattle over the kitten's head, but said nothing.
Presently my father said:

"Samuel is a very excellent name."

I saw that trouble was coming.  Nothing could prevent it.  I laid
down my rattle; over the side of the cradle I dropped my uncle's
silver watch, the clothes-brush, the toy dog, my tin soldier,
the nutmeg-grater, and other matters which I was accustomed to examine,
and meditate upon and make pleasant noises with, and bang and batter
and break when I needed wholesome entertainment.  Then I put on my
little frock and my little bonnet, and took my pygmy shoes in one
hand and my licorice in the other, and climbed out on the floor.
I said to myself, Now, if the worse comes to worst, I am ready.
Then I said aloud, in a firm voice:

"Father, I cannot, cannot wear the name of Samuel."

"My son!"

"Father, I mean it.  I cannot."

"Why?"

"Father, I have an invincible antipathy to that name."

"My son, this is unreasonable.  Many great and good men have been
named Samuel."

"Sir, I have yet to hear of the first instance."

"What!  There was Samuel the prophet.  Was not he great and good?"

"Not so very."

"My son!  With His own voice the Lord called him."

"Yes, sir, and had to call him a couple times before he could come!"

And then I sallied forth, and that stern old man sallied forth after me.
He overtook me at noon the following day, and when the interview was
over I had acquired the name of Samuel, and a thrashing, and other
useful information; and by means of this compromise my father's
wrath was appeased and a misunderstanding bridged over which might
have become a permanent rupture if I had chosen to be unreasonable.
But just judging by this episode, what would my father have done
to me if I had ever uttered in his hearing one of the flat,
sickly things these "two-years-olds" say in print nowadays?
In my opinion there would have been a case of infanticide in our family.


***



AN ENTERTAINING ARTICLE



I take the following paragraph from an article in the Boston ADVERTISER:


AN ENGLISH CRITIC ON MARK TWAIN


Perhaps the most successful flights of humor of Mark Twain have been
descriptions of the persons who did not appreciate his humor at all.
We have become familiar with the Californians who were thrilled with
terror by his burlesque of a newspaper reporter's way of telling a story,
and we have heard of the Pennsylvania clergyman who sadly returned
his INNOCENTS ABROAD to the book-agent with the remark that "the
man who could shed tears over the tomb of Adam must be an idiot."
But Mark Twain may now add a much more glorious instance to his string
of trophies.  The SATURDAY REVIEW, in its number of October 8th,
reviews his book of travels, which has been republished in England,
and reviews it seriously.  We can imagine the delight of the humorist
in reading this tribute to his power; and indeed it is so amusing
in itself that he can hardly do better than reproduce the article
in full in his next monthly Memoranda.


(Publishing the above paragraph thus, gives me a sort of authority
for reproducing the SATURDAY REVIEW'S article in full in these pages.
I dearly wanted to do it, for I cannot write anything half so
delicious myself.  If I had a cast-iron dog that could read this
English criticism and preserve his austerity, I would drive him
off the door-step.)


(From the London "Saturday Review.")


REVIEWS OF NEW BOOKS


THE INNOCENTS ABROAD.  A Book of Travels.  By Mark Twain.
London:  Hotten, publisher.  1870.


Lord Macaulay died too soon.  We never felt this so deeply as when we
finished the last chapter of the above-named extravagant work.
Macaulay died too soon--for none but he could mete out complete
and comprehensive justice to the insolence, the impertinence,
the presumption, the mendacity, and, above all, the majestic ignorance
of this author.

To say that the INNOCENTS ABROAD is a curious book, would be to
use the faintest language--would be to speak of the Matterhorn
as a neat elevation or of Niagara as being "nice" or "pretty."
"Curious" is too tame a word wherewith to describe the imposing insanity
of this work.  There is no word that is large enough or long enough.
Let us, therefore, photograph a passing glimpse of book and author,
and trust the rest to the reader.  Let the cultivated English student
of human nature picture to himself this Mark Twain as a person capable
of doing the following-described things--and not only doing them,
but with incredible innocence PRINTING THEM calmly and tranquilly
in a book.  For instance:

He states that he entered a hair-dresser's in Paris to get shaved,
and the first "rake" the barber gave him with his razor it LOOSENED
HIS "HIDE" and LIFTED HIM OUT OF THE CHAIR.

This is unquestionably exaggerated.  In Florence he was so annoyed
by beggars that he pretends to have seized and eaten one in a
frantic spirit of revenge.  There is, of course, no truth in this.
He gives at full length a theatrical program seventeen or eighteen
hundred years old, which he professes to have found in the ruins
of the Coliseum, among the dirt and mold and rubbish.  It is a
sufficient comment upon this statement to remark that even a cast-iron
program would not have lasted so long under such circumstances.
In Greece he plainly betrays both fright and flight upon one occasion,
but with frozen effrontery puts the latter in this falsely tamed form:
"We SIDLED toward the Piraeus."  "Sidled," indeed!  He does not hesitate
to intimate that at Ephesus, when his mule strayed from the proper course,
he got down, took him under his arm, carried him to the road again,
pointed him right, remounted, and went to sleep contentedly till
it was time to restore the beast to the path once more.  He states
that a growing youth among his ship's passengers was in the constant
habit of appeasing his hunger with soap and oakum between meals.
In Palestine he tells of ants that came eleven miles to spend
the summer in the desert and brought their provisions with them;
yet he shows by his description of the country that the feat was
an impossibility.  He mentions, as if it were the most commonplace
of matters, that he cut a Moslem in two in broad daylight in Jerusalem,
with Godfrey de Bouillon's sword, and would have shed more blood IF
HE HAD HAD A GRAVEYARD OF HIS OWN.  These statements are unworthy
a moment's attention.  Mr. Twain or any other foreigner who did
such a thing in Jerusalem would be mobbed, and would infallibly
lose his life.  But why go on?  Why repeat more of his audacious
and exasperating falsehoods?  Let us close fittingly with this one:
he affirms that "in the mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople
I got my feet so stuck up with a complication of gums, slime,
and general impurity, that I wore out more than two thousand
pair of bootjacks getting my boots off that night, and even then
some Christian hide peeled off with them."  It is monstrous.
Such statements are simply lies--there is no other name for them.
Will the reader longer marvel at the brutal ignorance that pervades
the American nation when we tell him that we are informed upon perfectly
good authority that this extravagant compilation of falsehoods,
this exhaustless mine of stupendous lies, this INNOCENTS ABROAD,
has actually been adopted by the schools and colleges of several
of the states as a text-book!

But if his falsehoods are distressing, his innocence and his ignorance
are enough to make one burn the book and despise the author.  In one
place he was so appalled at the sudden spectacle of a murdered man,
unveiled by the moonlight, that he jumped out of the window,
going through sash and all, and then remarks with the most childlike
simplicity that he "was not scared, but was considerably agitated."
It puts us out of patience to note that the simpleton is densely
unconscious that Lucrezia Borgia ever existed off the stage.
He is vulgarly ignorant of all foreign languages, but is frank enough
to criticize, the Italians' use of their own tongue.  He says they
spell the name of their great painter "Vinci, but pronounce it Vinchy"--
and then adds with a na:ivet'e possible only to helpless ignorance,
"foreigners always spell better than they pronounce."  In another
place he commits the bald absurdity of putting the phrase "tare
an ouns" into an Italian's mouth.  In Rome he unhesitatingly
believes the legend that St. Philip Neri's heart was so inflamed
with divine love that it burst his ribs--believes it wholly
because an author with a learned list of university degrees strung
after his name endorses it--"otherwise," says this gentle idiot,
"I should have felt a curiosity to know what Philip had for dinner."
Our author makes a long, fatiguing journey to the Grotto del Cane
on purpose to test its poisoning powers on a dog--got elaborately
ready for the experiment, and then discovered that he had no dog.
A wiser person would have kept such a thing discreetly to himself,
but with this harmless creature everything comes out.  He hurts
his foot in a rut two thousand years old in exhumed Pompeii,
and presently, when staring at one of the cinder-like corpses unearthed
in the next square, conceives the idea that maybe it is the remains
of the ancient Street Commissioner, and straightway his horror softens
down to a sort of chirpy contentment with the condition of things.
In Damascus he visits the well of Ananias, three thousand years old,
and is as surprised and delighted as a child to find that the water
is "as pure and fresh as if the well had been dug yesterday."
In the Holy Land he gags desperately at the hard Arabic and Hebrew
Biblical names, and finally concludes to call them Baldwinsville,
Williamsburgh, and so on, "for convenience of spelling."

We have thus spoken freely of this man's stupefying simplicity
and innocence, but we cannot deal similarly with his colossal ignorance.
We do not know where to begin.  And if we knew where to begin,
we certainly would not know where to leave off.  We will give
one specimen, and one only.  He did not know, until he got to Rome,
that Michael Angelo was dead!  And then, instead of crawling away
and hiding his shameful ignorance somewhere, he proceeds to express
a pious, grateful sort of satisfaction that he is gone and out
of his troubles!

No, the reader may seek out the author's exhibition of his
uncultivation for himself.  The book is absolutely dangerous,
considering the magnitude and variety of its misstatements,
and the convincing confidence with which they are made.
And yet it is a text-book in the schools of America.

The poor blunderer mouses among the sublime creations of the
Old Masters, trying to acquire the elegant proficiency in
art-knowledge, which he has a groping sort of comprehension is a
proper thing for a traveled man to be able to display.  But what is
the manner of his study?  And what is the progress he achieves?
To what extent does he familiarize himself with the great pictures
of Italy, and what degree of appreciation does he arrive at?  Read:

"When we see a monk going about with a lion and looking up into heaven,
we know that that is St. Mark.  When we see a monk with a book and a pen,
looking tranquilly up to heaven, trying to think of a word, we know
that that is St. Matthew.  When we see a monk sitting on a rock,
looking tranquilly up to heaven, with a human skull beside him,
and without other baggage, we know that that is St. Jerome.
Because we know that he always went flying light in the matter
of baggage.  When we see other monks looking tranquilly up to heaven,
but having no trade-mark, we always ask who those parties are.
We do this because we humbly wish to learn."

He then enumerates the thousands and thousand of copies of these
several pictures which he has seen, and adds with accustomed
simplicity that he feels encouraged to believe that when he has seen
"Some More" of each, and had a larger experience, he will eventually
"begin to take an absorbing interest in them"--the vulgar boor.

That we have shown this to be a remarkable book, we think no one
will deny.  That is a pernicious book to place in the hands of the
confiding and uniformed, we think we have also shown.  That the book
is a deliberate and wicked creation of a diseased mind, is apparent
upon every page.  Having placed our judgment thus upon record,
let us close with what charity we can, by remarking that even in this
volume there is some good to be found; for whenever the author talks
of his own country and lets Europe alone, he never fails to make
himself interesting, and not only interesting but instructive.
No one can read without benefit his occasional chapters and paragraphs,
about life in the gold and silver mines of California and Nevada;
about the Indians of the plains and deserts of the West,
and their cannibalism; about the raising of vegetables in kegs of
gunpowder by the aid of two or three teaspoons of guano; about the
moving of small arms from place to place at night in wheelbarrows
to avoid taxes; and about a sort of cows and mules in the Humboldt
mines, that climb down chimneys and disturb the people at night.
These matters are not only new, but are well worth knowing.
It is a pity the author did not put in more of the same kind.
His book is well written and is exceedingly entertaining, and so it
just barely escaped being quite valuable also.


(One month later)


Latterly I have received several letters, and see a number of
newspaper paragraphs, all upon a certain subject, and all of about
the same tenor.  I here give honest specimens.  One is from a New
York paper, one is from a letter from an old friend, and one is
from a letter from a New York publisher who is a stranger to me.
I humbly endeavor to make these bits toothsome with the remark that
the article they are praising (which appeared in the December GALAXY,
and PRETENDED to be a criticism from the London SATURDAY REVIEW
on my INNOCENTS ABROAD) WAS WRITTEN BY MYSELF, EVERY LINE OF IT:


The HERALD says the richest thing out is the "serious critique"
in the London SATURDAY REVIEW, on Mark Twain's INNOCENTS ABROAD.
We thought before we read it that it must be "serious," as everybody
said so, and were even ready to shed a few tears; but since perusing it,
we are bound to confess that next to Mark Twain's "Jumping Frog"
it's the finest bit of humor and sarcasm that we've come across in many
a day.


(I do not get a compliment like that every day.)


I used to think that your writings were pretty good, but after reading
the criticism in THE GALAXY from the LONDON REVIEW, have discovered
what an ass I must have been.  If suggestions are in order, mine is,
that you put that article in your next edition of the INNOCENTS,
as an extra chapter, if you are not afraid to put your own humor
in competition with it.  It is as rich a thing as I ever read.


(Which is strong commendation from a book publisher.)


The London Reviewer, my friend, is not the stupid, "serious" creature
he pretends to be, _I_ think; but, on the contrary, has a keep
appreciation and enjoyment of your book.  As I read his article in
THE GALAXY, I could imagine him giving vent to many a hearty laugh.
But he is writing for Catholics and Established Church people,
and high-toned, antiquated, conservative gentility, whom it is
a delight to him to help you shock, while he pretends to shake his
head with owlish density.  He is a magnificent humorist himself.


(Now that is graceful and handsome.  I take off my hat to my life-long
friend and comrade, and with my feet together and my fingers spread
over my heart, I say, in the language of Alabama, "You do me proud.")

I stand guilty of the authorship of the article, but I did not mean
any harm.  I saw by an item in the Boston ADVERTISER that a solemn,
serious critique on the English edition of my book had appeared
in the London SATURDAY REVIEW, and the idea of SUCH a literary
breakfast by a stolid, ponderous British ogre of the quill was too
much for a naturally weak virtue, and I went home and burlesqued it--
reveled in it, I may say.  I never saw a copy of the real SATURDAY
REVIEW criticism until after my burlesque was written and mailed
to the printer.  But when I did get hold of a copy, I found it
to be vulgar, awkwardly written, ill-natured, and entirely serious
and in earnest.  The gentleman who wrote the newspaper paragraph
above quoted had not been misled as to its character.

If any man doubts my word now, I will kill him.  No, I will not
kill him; I will win his money.  I will bet him twenty to one,
and let any New York publisher hold the stakes, that the statements I
have above made as to the authorship of the article in question are
entirely true.  Perhaps I may get wealthy at this, for I am willing
to take all the bets that offer; and if a man wants larger odds,
I will give him all he requires.  But he ought to find out whether
I am betting on what is termed "a sure thing" or not before he
ventures his money, and he can do that by going to a public
library and examining the London SATURDAY REVIEW of October 8th,
which contains the real critique.

Bless me, some people thought that _I_ was the "sold" person!


P.S.--I cannot resist the temptation to toss in this most savory
thing of all--this easy, graceful, philosophical disquisition,
with his happy, chirping confidence.  It is from the Cincinnati ENQUIRER:


Nothing is more uncertain than the value of a fine cigar.
Nine smokers out of ten would prefer an ordinary domestic article,
three for a quarter, to fifty-cent Partaga, if kept in ignorance
of the cost of the latter.  The flavor of the Partaga is too delicate
for palates that have been accustomed to Connecticut seed leaf.
So it is with humor.  The finer it is in quality, the more danger
of its not being recognized at all.  Even Mark Twain has been taken
in by an English review of his INNOCENTS ABROAD.  Mark Twain is by
no means a coarse humorist, but the Englishman's humor is so much
finer than his, that he mistakes it for solid earnest, and "lafts
most consumedly."


A man who cannot learn stands in his own light.  Hereafter, when I
write an article which I know to be good, but which I may have reason
to fear will not, in some quarters, be considered to amount to much,
coming from an American, I will aver that an Englishman wrote it
and that it is copied from a London journal.  And then I will occupy
a back seat and enjoy the cordial applause.


(Still later)


Mark Twain at last sees that the SATURDAY REVIEW'S criticism of his
INNOCENTS ABROAD was not serious, and he is intensely mortified at the
thought of having been so badly sold.  He takes the only course left him,
and in the last GALAXY claims that HE wrote the criticism himself,
and published it in THE GALAXY to sell the public.  This is ingenious,
but unfortunately it is not true.  If any of our readers will take
the trouble to call at this office we sill show them the original
article in the SATURDAY REVIEW of October 8th, which, on comparison,
will be found to be identical with the one published in THE GALAXY.
The best thing for Mark to do will be to admit that he was sold,
and say no more about it.


The above is from the Cincinnati ENQUIRER, and is a falsehood.
Come to the proof.  If the ENQUIRER people, through any agent,
will produce at THE GALAXY office a London SATURDAY REVIEW
of October 8th, containing an "article which, on comparison,
will be found to be identical with the one published in THE GALAXY,
I will pay to that agent five hundred dollars cash.  Moreover, if at
any specified time I fail to produce at the same place a copy
of the London SATURDAY REVIEW of October 8th, containing a lengthy
criticism upon the INNOCENTS ABROAD, entirely different, in every
paragraph and sentence, from the one I published in THE GALAXY,
I will pay to the ENQUIRER agent another five hundred dollars cash.
I offer Sheldon & Co., publishers, 500 Broadway, New York,
as my "backers."  Any one in New York, authorized by the ENQUIRER,
will receive prompt attention.  It is an easy and profitable way
for the ENQUIRER people to prove that they have not uttered a pitiful,
deliberate falsehood in the above paragraphs.  Will they swallow
that falsehood ignominiously, or will they send an agent to THE
GALAXY office.  I think the Cincinnati ENQUIRER must be edited
by children.


***



A LETTER TO THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY



Riverdale-on-the-Hudson, OCTOBER 15, 1902.

THE HON.  THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY, WASHINGTON, D. C.:


Sir,--Prices for the customary kinds of winter fuel having reached
an altitude which puts them out of the reach of literary persons in
straitened circumstances, I desire to place with you the following order:

Forty-five tons best old dry government bonds, suitable for furnace,
gold 7 per cents., 1864, preferred.

Twelve tons early greenbacks, range size, suitable for cooking.

Eight barrels seasoned 25 and 50 cent postal currency, vintage of 1866,
eligible for kindlings.

Please deliver with all convenient despatch at my house in Riverdale
at lowest rates for spot cash, and send bill to

Your obliged servant,

Mark Twain, Who will be very grateful, and will vote right.


***



AMENDED OBITUARIES

TO THE EDITOR:


Sir,--I am approaching seventy; it is in sight; it is only three
years away.  Necessarily, I must go soon.  It is but matter-of-course
wisdom, then, that I should begin to set my worldly house in
order now, so that it may be done calmly and with thoroughness,
in place of waiting until the last day, when, as we have often seen,
the attempt to set both houses in order at the same time has been
marred by the necessity for haste and by the confusion and waste
of time arising from the inability of the notary and the ecclesiastic
to work together harmoniously, taking turn about and giving each
other friendly assistance--not perhaps in fielding, which could
hardly be expected, but at least in the minor offices of keeping
game and umpiring; by consequence of which conflict of interests
and absence of harmonious action a draw has frequently resulted
where this ill-fortune could not have happened if the houses had been
set in order one at a time and hurry avoided by beginning in season,
and giving to each the amount of time fairly and justly proper to it.

In setting my earthly house in order I find it of moment that I
should attend in person to one or two matters which men in my
position have long had the habit of leaving wholly to others,
with consequences often most regrettable.  I wish to speak of only
one of these matters at this time:  Obituaries.  Of necessity,
an Obituary is a thing which cannot be so judiciously edited by any hand
as by that of the subject of it.  In such a work it is not the Facts
that are of chief importance, but the light which the obituarist
shall throw upon them, the meaning which he shall dress them in,
the conclusions which he shall draw from them, and the judgments
which he shall deliver upon them.  The Verdicts, you understand:
that is the danger-line.

In considering this matter, in view of my approaching change,
it has seemed to me wise to take such measures as may be feasible,
to acquire, by courtesy of the press, access to my standing obituaries,
with the privilege--if this is not asking too much--of editing,
not their Facts, but their Verdicts.  This, not for the present profit,
further than as concerns my family, but as a favorable influence
usable on the Other Side, where there are some who are not friendly
to me.

With this explanation of my motives, I will now ask you of your
courtesy to make an appeal for me to the public press.  It is my
desire that such journals and periodicals as have obituaries of me
lying in their pigeonholes, with a view to sudden use some day,
will not wait longer, but will publish them now, and kindly send
me a marked copy.  My address is simply New York City--I have no
other that is permanent and not transient.

I will correct them--not the Facts, but the Verdicts--striking out
such clauses as could have a deleterious influence on the Other Side,
and replacing them with clauses of a more judicious character.
I should, of course, expect to pay double rates for both the omissions
and the substitutions; and I should also expect to pay quadruple
rates for all obituaries which proved to be rightly and wisely worded
in the originals, thus requiring no emendations at all.

It is my desire to leave these Amended Obituaries neatly bound
behind me as a perennial consolation and entertainment to my family,
and as an heirloom which shall have a mournful but definite
commercial value for my remote posterity.

I beg, sir, that you will insert this Advertisement (1t-eow, agate,
inside), and send the bill to

Yours very respectfully.

Mark Twain.


P.S.--For the best Obituary--one suitable for me to read in public,
and calculated to inspire regret--I desire to offer a Prize,
consisting of a Portrait of me done entirely by myself in pen and ink
without previous instructions.  The ink warranted to be the kind
used by the very best artists.


***



A MONUMENT TO ADAM



Some one has revealed to the TRIBUNE that I once suggested
to Rev. Thomas K. Beecher, of Elmira, New York, that we get up
a monument to Adam, and that Mr. Beecher favored the project.
There is more to it than that.  The matter started as a joke,
but it came somewhat near to materializing.

It is long ago--thirty years.  Mr. Darwin's DESCENT OF MAN has been
in print five or six years, and the storm of indignation raised
by it was still raging in pulpits and periodicals.  In tracing
the genesis of the human race back to its sources, Mr. Darwin had
left Adam out altogether.  We had monkeys, and "missing links,"
and plenty of other kinds of ancestors, but no Adam.  Jesting with
Mr. Beecher and other friends in Elmira, I said there seemed to be
a likelihood that the world would discard Adam and accept the monkey,
and that in the course of time Adam's very name would be forgotten
in the earth; therefore this calamity ought to be averted;
a monument would accomplish this, and Elmira ought not to waste
this honorable opportunity to do Adam a favor and herself a credit.

Then the unexpected happened.  Two bankers came forward and took
hold of the matter--not for fun, not for sentiment, but because they
saw in the monument certain commercial advantages for the town.
The project had seemed gently humorous before--it was more than
that now, with this stern business gravity injected into it.
The bankers discussed the monument with me.  We met several times.
They proposed an indestructible memorial, to cost twenty-five
thousand dollars.  The insane oddity of a monument set up in a village
to preserve a name that would outlast the hills and the rocks without
any such help, would advertise Elmira to the ends of the earth--
and draw custom.  It would be the only monument on the planet
to Adam, and in the matter of interest and impressiveness could
never have a rival until somebody should set up a monument to the
Milky Way.

People would come from every corner of the globe and stop off
to look at it, no tour of the world would be complete that left out
Adam's monument.  Elmira would be a Mecca; there would be pilgrim
ships at pilgrim rates, pilgrim specials on the continent's railways;
libraries would be written about the monument, every tourist would
kodak it, models of it would be for sale everywhere in the earth,
its form would become as familiar as the figure of Napoleon.

One of the bankers subscribed five thousand dollars, and I think
the other one subscribed half as much, but I do not remember with
certainty now whether that was the figure or not.  We got designs made--
some of them came from Paris.

In the beginning--as a detail of the project when it was yet a joke--
I had framed a humble and beseeching and perfervid petition to
Congress begging the government to built the monument, as a testimony
of the Great Republic's gratitude to the Father of the Human Race
and as a token of her loyalty to him in this dark day of humiliation
when his older children were doubting and deserting him.  It seemed
to me that this petition ought to be presented, now--it would be
widely and feelingly abused and ridiculed and cursed, and would
advertise our scheme and make our ground-floor stock go off briskly.
So I sent it to General Joseph R. Hawley, who was then in the House,
and he said he would present it.  But he did not do it.  I think
he explained that when he came to read it he was afraid of it:
it was too serious, to gushy, too sentimental--the House might take it
for earnest.

We ought to have carried out our monument scheme; we could
have managed it without any great difficulty, and Elmira would
now be the most celebrated town in the universe.

Very recently I began to build a book in which one of the minor
characters touches incidentally upon a project for a monument to Adam,
and now the TRIBUNE has come upon a trace of the forgotten jest of
thirty years ago.  Apparently mental telegraphy is still in business.
It is odd; but the freaks of mental telegraphy are usually odd.


***



A HUMANE WORD FROM SATAN



[The following letter, signed by Satan and purporting to come from him,
we have reason to believe was not written by him, but by Mark Twain.--
Editor.]

TO THE EDITOR OF HARPER'S WEEKLY:


Dear Sir and Kinsman,--Let us have done with this frivolous talk.
The American Board accepts contributions from me every year:
then why shouldn't it from Mr. Rockefeller?  In all the ages,
three-fourths of the support of the great charities has been
conscience-money, as my books will show:  then what becomes of
the sting when that term is applied to Mr. Rockefeller's gift?
The American Board's trade is financed mainly from the graveyards.
Bequests, you understand.  Conscience-money. Confession of an old
crime and deliberate perpetration of a new one; for deceased's
contribution is a robbery of his heirs.  Shall the Board decline
bequests because they stand for one of these offenses every time and
generally for both?

Allow me to continue.  The charge must persistently and resentfully
and remorselessly dwelt upon is that Mr. Rockefeller's contribution is
incurably tainted by perjury--perjury proved against him in the courts.
IT MAKES US SMILE--down in my place!  Because there isn't a rich
man in your vast city who doesn't perjure himself every year before
the tax board.  They are all caked with perjury, many layers thick.
Iron-clad, so to speak.  If there is one that isn't, I desire
to acquire him for my museum, and will pay Dinosaur rates.
Will you say it isn't infraction of the law, but only annual evasion
of it?  Comfort yourselves with that nice distinction if you like--
FOR THE PRESENT.  But by and by, when you arrive, I will show you
something interesting:  a whole hell-full of evaders!  Sometimes a
frank law-breaker turns up elsewhere, but I get those others every time.

To return to my muttons.  I wish you to remember that my rich
perjurers are contributing to the American Board with frequency:
it is money filched from the sworn-off personal tax; therefore it
is the wages of sin; therefore it is my money; therefore it is _I_
that contribute it; and, finally, it is therefore as I have said:
since the Board daily accepts contributions from me, why should it
decline them from Mr. Rockefeller, who is as good as I am, let the
courts say what they may?


Satan.


***




INTRODUCTION TO "THE NEW GUIDE OF THE CONVERSATION IN

PORTUGUESE AND ENGLISH"


by Pedro Carolino



In this world of uncertainties, there is, at any rate, one thing
which may be pretty confidently set down as a certainty:  and that is,
that this celebrated little phrase-book will never die while the
English language lasts.  Its delicious unconscious ridiculousness,
and its enchanting na:ivet'e, as are supreme and unapproachable,
in their way, as are Shakespeare's sublimities.  Whatsoever is
perfect in its kind, in literature, is imperishable:  nobody can
imitate it successfully, nobody can hope to produce its fellow;
it is perfect, it must and will stand alone:  its immortality
is secure.

It is one of the smallest books in the world, but few big books have
received such wide attention, and been so much pondered by the grave
and learned, and so much discussed and written about by the thoughtful,
the thoughtless, the wise, and the foolish.  Long notices of it
have appeared, from time to time, in the great English reviews,
and in erudite and authoritative philological periodicals; and it
has been laughed at, danced upon, and tossed in a blanket by nearly
every newspaper and magazine in the English-speaking world.
Every scribbler, almost, has had his little fling at it, at one time
or another; I had mine fifteen years ago.  The book gets out of print,
every now and then, and one ceases to hear of it for a season;
but presently the nations and near and far colonies of our tongue
and lineage call for it once more, and once more it issues from some
London or Continental or American press, and runs a new course around
the globe, wafted on its way by the wind of a world's laughter.

Many persons have believed that this book's miraculous stupidities
were studied and disingenuous; but no one can read the volume
carefully through and keep that opinion.  It was written in
serious good faith and deep earnestness, by an honest and upright
idiot who believed he knew something of the English language,
and could impart his knowledge to others.  The amplest proof
of this crops out somewhere or other upon each and every page.
There are sentences in the book which could have been manufactured
by a man in his right mind, and with an intelligent and deliberate
purposes to seem innocently ignorant; but there are other sentences,
and paragraphs, which no mere pretended ignorance could ever achieve--
nor yet even the most genuine and comprehensive ignorance,
when unbacked by inspiration.

It is not a fraud who speaks in the following paragraph of the
author's Preface, but a good man, an honest man, a man whose conscience
is at rest, a man who believes he has done a high and worthy work for
his nation and his generation, and is well pleased with his performance:


We expect then, who the little book (for the care what we wrote him,
and for her typographical correction) that may be worth the
acceptation of the studious persons, and especially of the Youth,
at which we dedicate him particularly.


One cannot open this book anywhere and not find richness.
To prove that this is true, I will open it at random and copy
the page I happen to stumble upon.  Here is the result:



DIALOGUE 16


For To See the Town



Anothony, go to accompany they gentilsmen, do they see the town.

We won't to see all that is it remarquable here.

Come with me, if you please.  I shall not folget nothing what can
to merit your attention.  Here we are near to cathedral; will you
come in there?

We will first to see him in oudside, after we shall go in there
for to look the interior.

Admire this master piece gothic architecture's.

The chasing of all they figures is astonishing' indeed.

The cupola and the nave are not less curious to see.

What is this palace how I see yonder?

It is the town hall.

And this tower here at this side?

It is the Observatory.

The bridge is very fine, it have ten arches, and is constructed
of free stone.

The streets are very layed out by line and too paved.

What is the circuit of this town?

Two leagues.

There is it also hospitals here?

It not fail them.

What are then the edifices the worthest to have seen?

It is the arsnehal, the spectacle's hall, the Cusiomhouse,
and the Purse.

We are going too see the others monuments such that the public
pawnbroker's office, the plants garden's, the money office's,
the library.

That it shall be for another day; we are tired.



DIALOGUE 17


To Inform One'self of a Person



How is that gentilman who you did speak by and by?

Is a German.

I did think him Englishman.

He is of the Saxony side.

He speak the french very well.

Tough he is German, he speak so much well italyan, french, spanish
and english, that among the Italyans, they believe him Italyan,
he speak the frenche as the Frenches himselves.  The Spanishesmen
believe him Spanishing, and the Englishes, Englishman.  It is
difficult to enjoy well so much several languages.


The last remark contains a general truth; but it ceases to be a truth
when one contracts it and apples it to an individual--provided that
that individual is the author of this book, Sehnor Pedro Carolino.
I am sure I should not find it difficult "to enjoy well so much
several languages"--or even a thousand of them--if he did the
translating for me from the originals into his ostensible English.


***



ADVICE TO LITTLE GIRLS



Good little girls ought not to make mouths at their teachers for
every trifling offense.  This retaliation should only be resorted
to under peculiarly aggravated circumstances.

If you have nothing but a rag-doll stuffed with sawdust, while one
of your more fortunate little playmates has a costly China one,
you should treat her with a show of kindness nevertheless.
And you ought not to attempt to make a forcible swap with her unless
your conscience would justify you in it, and you know you are able
to do it.

You ought never to take your little brother's "chewing-gum" away
from him by main force; it is better to rope him in with the promise
of the first two dollars and a half you find floating down the
river on a grindstone.  In the artless simplicity natural to this
time of life, he will regard it as a perfectly fair transaction.
In all ages of the world this eminently plausible fiction has lured
the obtuse infant to financial ruin and disaster.

If at any time you find it necessary to correct your brother,
do not correct him with mud--never, on any account, throw mud at him,
because it will spoil his clothes.  It is better to scald him a little,
for then you obtain desirable results.  You secure his immediate
attention to the lessons you are inculcating, and at the same time
your hot water will have a tendency to move impurities from his person,
and possibly the skin, in spots.

If your mother tells you to do a thing, it is wrong to reply
that you won't. It is better and more becoming to intimate
that you will do as she bids you, and then afterward act quietly
in the matter according to the dictates of your best judgment.

You should ever bear in mind that it is to your kind parents that you
are indebted for your food, and for the privilege of staying home
from school when you let on that you are sick.  Therefore you ought
to respect their little prejudices, and humor their little whims,
and put up with their little foibles until they get to crowding you
too much.

Good little girls always show marked deference for the aged.
You ought never to "sass" old people unless they "sass" you first.


***



POST-MORTEM POETRY [1]



In Philadelphia they have a custom which it would be pleasant
to see adopted throughout the land.  It is that of appending to
published death-notices a little verse or two of comforting poetry.
Any one who is in the habit of reading the daily Philadelphia
LEDGER must frequently be touched by these plaintive tributes
to extinguished worth.  In Philadelphia, the departure of a child
is a circumstance which is not more surely followed by a burial
than by the accustomed solacing poesy in the PUBLIC LEDGER.
In that city death loses half its terror because the knowledge
of its presence comes thus disguised in the sweet drapery of verse.
For instance, in a late LEDGER I find the following (I change
the surname):


DIED


Hawks.--On the 17th inst., Clara, the daughter of Ephraim
and Laura Hawks, aged 21 months and 2 days.


That merry shout no more I hear,

No laughing child I see,

No little arms are around my neck,

No feet upon my knee;


No kisses drop upon my cheek,

These lips are sealed to me.

Dear Lord, how could I give Clara up

To any but to Thee?


A child thus mourned could not die wholly discontented.
From the LEDGER of the same date I make the following extract,
merely changing the surname, as before:


Becket.--On Sunday morning, 19th inst., John P., infant son
of George and Julia Becket, aged 1 year, 6 months, and 15 days.


That merry shout no more I hear,

No laughing child I see,

No little arms are round my neck,

No feet upon my knee;


No kisses drop upon my cheek;

These lips are sealed to me.

Dear Lord, how could I give Johnnie up

To any but to Thee?


The similarity of the emotions as produced in the mourners in these
two instances is remarkably evidenced by the singular similarity
of thought which they experienced, and the surprising coincidence
of language used by them to give it expression.

In the same journal, of the same date, I find the following
(surname suppressed, as before):


Wagner.--On the 10th inst., Ferguson G., the son of William
L. and Martha Theresa Wagner, aged 4 weeks and 1 day.


That merry shout no more I hear,

No laughing child I see,

No little arms are round my neck,

No feet upon my knee;


No kisses drop upon my cheek,

These lips are sealed to me.

Dear Lord, how could I give Ferguson up

To any but to Thee?


It is strange what power the reiteration of an essentially poetical
thought has upon one's feelings.  When we take up the LEDGER
and read the poetry about little Clara, we feel an unaccountable
depression of the spirits.  When we drift further down the column
and read the poetry about little Johnnie, the depression and spirits
acquires and added emphasis, and we experience tangible suffering.
When we saunter along down the column further still and read
the poetry about little Ferguson, the word torture but vaguely
suggests the anguish that rends us.

In the LEDGER (same copy referred to above) I find the following
(I alter surname, as usual):


Welch.--On the 5th inst., Mary C. Welch, wife of William B. Welch,
and daughter of Catharine and George W. Markland, in the 29th year
of her age.


A mother dear, a mother kind,

Has gone and left us all behind.

Cease to weep, for tears are vain,

Mother dear is out of pain.


Farewell, husband, children dear,

Serve thy God with filial fear,

And meet me in the land above,

Where all is peace, and joy, and love.


What could be sweeter than that?  No collection of salient facts
(without reduction to tabular form) could be more succinctly stated
than is done in the first stanza by the surviving relatives,
and no more concise and comprehensive program of farewells,
post-mortuary general orders, etc., could be framed in any
form than is done in verse by deceased in the last stanza.
These things insensibly make us wiser and tenderer, and better.
Another extract:


Ball.--On the morning of the 15th inst., Mary E., daughter of John
and Sarah F. Ball.


'Tis sweet to rest in lively hope

That when my change shall come

Angels will hover round my bed,

To waft my spirit home.


The following is apparently the customary form for heads of families:


Burns.--On the 20th inst., Michael Burns, aged 40 years.


Dearest father, thou hast left us,

Hear thy loss we deeply feel;

But 'tis God that has bereft us,

He can all our sorrows heal.


Funeral at 2 o'clock sharp.


There is something very simple and pleasant about the following,
which, in Philadelphia, seems to be the usual form for consumptives
of long standing.  (It deplores four distinct cases in the single
copy of the LEDGER which lies on the Memoranda editorial table):


Bromley.--On the 29th inst., of consumption, Philip Bromley,
in the 50th year of his age.


Affliction sore long time he bore,

Physicians were in vain--

Till God at last did hear him mourn,

And eased him of his pain.


That friend whom death from us has torn,

We did not think so soon to part;

An anxious care now sinks the thorn

Still deeper in our bleeding heart.


This beautiful creation loses nothing by repetition.  On the contrary,
the oftener one sees it in the LEDGER, the more grand and awe-inspiring
it seems.

With one more extract I will close:


Doble.--On the 4th inst., Samuel Pervil Worthington Doble,
aged 4 days.


Our little Sammy's gone,

His tiny spirit's fled;

Our little boy we loved so dear

Lies sleeping with the dead.


A tear within a father's eye,

A mother's aching heart,

Can only tell the agony

How hard it is to part.


Could anything be more plaintive than that, without requiring further
concessions of grammar?  Could anything be likely to do more toward
reconciling deceased to circumstances, and making him willing to go?
Perhaps not.  The power of song can hardly be estimated.  There is
an element about some poetry which is able to make even physical
suffering and death cheerful things to contemplate and consummations
to be desired.  This element is present in the mortuary poetry
of Philadelphia degree of development.

The custom I have been treating of is one that should be adopted
in all the cities of the land.

It is said that once a man of small consequence died, and the
Rev. T. K. Beecher was asked to preach the funeral sermon--
a man who abhors the lauding of people, either dead or alive,
except in dignified and simple language, and then only for merits
which they actually possessed or possess, not merits which they
merely ought to have possessed.  The friends of the deceased got
up a stately funeral.  They must have had misgivings that the
corpse might not be praised strongly enough, for they prepared
some manuscript headings and notes in which nothing was left
unsaid on that subject that a fervid imagination and an unabridged
dictionary could compile, and these they handed to the minister
as he entered the pulpit.  They were merely intended as suggestions,
and so the friends were filled with consternation when the minister
stood in the pulpit and proceeded to read off the curious odds
and ends in ghastly detail and in a loud voice!  And their
consternation solidified to petrification when he paused at the end,
contemplated the multitude reflectively, and then said, impressively:

"The man would be a fool who tried to add anything to that.
Let us pray!"

And with the same strict adhesion to truth it can be said that the
man would be a fool who tried to add anything to the following
transcendent obituary poem.  There is something so innocent,
so guileless, so complacent, so unearthly serene and self-satisfied
about this peerless "hog-wash," that the man must be made of stone
who can read it without a dulcet ecstasy creeping along his backbone
and quivering in his marrow.  There is no need to say that this
poem is genuine and in earnest, for its proofs are written all
over its face.  An ingenious scribbler might imitate it after
a fashion, but Shakespeare himself could not counterfeit it.
It is noticeable that the country editor who published it did
not know that it was a treasure and the most perfect thing of its
kind that the storehouses and museums of literature could show.
He did not dare to say no to the dread poet--for such a poet
must have been something of an apparition--but he just shoveled
it into his paper anywhere that came handy, and felt ashamed,
and put that disgusted "Published by Request" over it, and hoped
that his subscribers would overlook it or not feel an impulse to read it:


(Published by Request


LINES

Composed on the death of Samuel and Catharine Belknap's children


by M. A. Glaze



Friends and neighbors all draw near,

And listen to what I have to say;

And never leave your children dear

When they are small, and go away.


But always think of that sad fate,

That happened in year of '63;

Four children with a house did burn,

Think of their awful agony.


Their mother she had gone away,

And left them there alone to stay;

The house took fire and down did burn;

Before their mother did return.


Their piteous cry the neighbors heard,

And then the cry of fire was given;

But, ah! before they could them reach,

Their little spirits had flown to heaven.


Their father he to war had gone,

And on the battle-field was slain;

But little did he think when he went away,

But what on earth they would meet again.


The neighbors often told his wife

Not to leave his children there,

Unless she got some one to stay,

And of the little ones take care.


The oldest he was years not six,

And the youngest only eleven months old,

But often she had left them there alone,

As, by the neighbors, I have been told.


How can she bear to see the place.

Where she so oft has left them there,

Without a single one to look to them,

Or of the little ones to take good care.


Oh, can she look upon the spot,

Whereunder their little burnt bones lay,

But what she thinks she hears them say,

''Twas God had pity, and took us on high.'


And there may she kneel down and pray,

And ask God her to forgive;

And she may lead a different life

While she on earth remains to live.


Her husband and her children too,

God has took from pain and woe.

May she reform and mend her ways,

That she may also to them go.


And when it is God's holy will,

O, may she be prepared

To meet her God and friends in peace,

And leave this world of care.

- - -


1.  Written in 1870.


***



THE DANGER OF LYING IN BED



The man in the ticket-office said:

"Have an accident insurance ticket, also?"

"No," I said, after studying the matter over a little.  "No, I
believe not; I am going to be traveling by rail all day today.
However, tomorrow I don't travel.  Give me one for tomorrow."

The man looked puzzled.  He said:

"But it is for accident insurance, and if you are going to travel
by rail--"

"If I am going to travel by rail I sha'n't need it.  Lying at home
in bed is the thing _I_ am afraid of."

I had been looking into this matter.  Last year I traveled twenty
thousand miles, almost entirely by rail; the year before, I traveled
over twenty-five thousand miles, half by sea and half by rail;
and the year before that I traveled in the neighborhood of ten
thousand miles, exclusively by rail.  I suppose if I put in all
the little odd journeys here and there, I may say I have traveled
sixty thousand miles during the three years I have mentioned.
AND NEVER AN ACCIDENT.

For a good while I said to myself every morning:  "Now I
have escaped thus far, and so the chances are just that much
increased that I shall catch it this time.  I will be shrewd,
and buy an accident ticket."  And to a dead moral certainty I
drew a blank, and went to bed that night without a joint started
or a bone splintered.  I got tired of that sort of daily bother,
and fell to buying accident tickets that were good for a month.
I said to myself, "A man CAN'T buy thirty blanks in one bundle."

But I was mistaken.  There was never a prize in the the lot.
I could read of railway accidents every day--the newspaper
atmosphere was foggy with them; but somehow they never came my way.
I found I had spent a good deal of money in the accident business,
and had nothing to show for it.  My suspicions were aroused, and I
began to hunt around for somebody that had won in this lottery.
I found plenty of people who had invested, but not an individual
that had ever had an accident or made a cent.  I stopped buying
accident tickets and went to ciphering.  The result was astounding.
THE PERIL LAY NOT IN TRAVELING, BUT IN STAYING AT HOME.

I hunted up statistics, and was amazed to find that after all
the glaring newspaper headlines concerning railroad disasters,
less than THREE HUNDRED people had really lost their lives by those
disasters in the preceding twelve months.  The Erie road was set
down as the most murderous in the list.  It had killed forty-six--
or twenty-six, I do not exactly remember which, but I know the
number was double that of any other road.  But the fact straightway
suggested itself that the Erie was an immensely long road, and did
more business than any other line in the country; so the double
number of killed ceased to be matter for surprise.

By further figuring, it appeared that between New York and Rochester
the Erie ran eight passenger-trains each way every day--16 altogether;
and carried a daily average of 6,000 persons.  That is about a million
in six months--the population of New York City.  Well, the Erie kills
from 13 to 23 persons of ITS million in six months; and in the same
time 13,000 of New York's million die in their beds!  My flesh crept,
my hair stood on end.  "This is appalling!"  I said.  "The danger
isn't in traveling by rail, but in trusting to those deadly beds.
I will never sleep in a bed again."

I had figured on considerably less than one-half the length of
the Erie road.  It was plain that the entire road must transport
at least eleven or twelve thousand people every day.  There are
many short roads running out of Boston that do fully half as much;
a great many such roads.  There are many roads scattered about the
Union that do a prodigious passenger business.  Therefore it was fair
to presume that an average of 2,500 passengers a day for each road
in the country would be almost correct.  There are 846 railway
lines in our country, and 846 times 2,500 are 2,115,000. So the
railways of America move more than two millions of people every day;
six hundred and fifty millions of people a year, without counting
the Sundays.  They do that, too--there is no question about it;
though where they get the raw material is clear beyond the jurisdiction
of my arithmetic; for I have hunted the census through and through,
and I find that there are not that many people in the United States,
by a matter of six hundred and ten millions at the very least.
They must use some of the same people over again, likely.

San Francisco is one-eighth as populous as New York; there are 60
deaths a week in the former and 500 a week in the latter--if they
have luck.  That is 3,120 deaths a year in San Francisco, and eight
times as many in New York--say about 25,000 or 26,000. The health
of the two places is the same.  So we will let it stand as a fair
presumption that this will hold good all over the country, and that
consequently 25,000 out of every million of people we have must die
every year.  That amounts to one-fortieth of our total population.
One million of us, then, die annually.  Out of this million ten
or twelve thousand are stabbed, shot, drowned, hanged, poisoned,
or meet a similarly violent death in some other popular way,
such as perishing by kerosene-lamp and hoop-skirt conflagrations,
getting buried in coal-mines, falling off house-tops, breaking
through church, or lecture-room floors, taking patent medicines,
or committing suicide in other forms.  The Erie railroad kills 23 to 46;
the other 845 railroads kill an average of one-third of a man each;
and the rest of that million, amounting in the aggregate to that
appalling figure of 987,631 corpses, die naturally in their beds!

You will excuse me from taking any more chances on those beds.
The railroads are good enough for me.

And my advice to all people is, Don't stay at home any more than
you can help; but when you have GOT to stay at home a while,
buy a package of those insurance tickets and sit up nights.
You cannot be too cautious.

[One can see now why I answered that ticket-agent in the manner
recorded at the top of this sketch.]

The moral of this composition is, that thoughtless people grumble
more than is fair about railroad management in the United States.
When we consider that every day and night of the year full fourteen
thousand railway-trains of various kinds, freighted with life
and armed with death, go thundering over the land, the marvel is,
NOT that they kill three hundred human beings in a twelvemonth,
but that they do not kill three hundred times three hundred!


***



PORTRAIT OF KING WILLIAM III



I never can look at those periodical portraits in THE GALAXY magazine
without feeling a wild, tempestuous ambition to be an artist.
I have seen thousands and thousands of pictures in my time--
acres of them here and leagues of them in the galleries of Europe--
but never any that moved me as these portraits do.

There is a portrait of Monsignore Capel in the November number,
now COULD anything be sweeter than that?  And there was Bismarck's,
in the October number; who can look at that without being purer
and stronger and nobler for it?  And Thurlow and Weed's picture
in the September number; I would not have died without seeing that,
no, not for anything this world can give.  But looks back still
further and recall my own likeness as printed in the August number;
if I had been in my grave a thousand years when that appeared,
I would have got up and visited the artist.

I sleep with all these portraits under my pillow every night, so that I
can go on studying them as soon as the day dawns in the morning.
I know them all as thoroughly as if I had made them myself; I know
every line and mark about them.  Sometimes when company are present
I shuffle the portraits all up together, and then pick them out
one by one and call their names, without referring to the printing
on the bottom.  I seldom make a mistake--never, when I am calm.

I have had the portraits framed for a long time, waiting till
my aunt gets everything ready for hanging them up in the parlor.
But first one thing and then another interferes, and so the thing
is delayed.  Once she said they would have more of the peculiar kind
of light they needed in the attic.  The old simpleton! it is as dark
as a tomb up there.  But she does not know anything about art,
and so she has no reverence for it.  When I showed her my "Map of
the Fortifications of Paris," she said it was rubbish.

Well, from nursing those portraits so long, I have come at last
to have a perfect infatuation for art.  I have a teacher now,
and my enthusiasm continually and tumultuously grows, as I learn
to use with more and more facility the pencil, brush, and graver.
I am studying under De Mellville, the house and portrait painter.
[His name was Smith when he lived in the West.] He does any kind
of artist work a body wants, having a genius that is universal,
like Michael Angelo.  Resembles that great artist, in fact.
The back of his head is like this, and he wears his hat-brim tilted
down on his nose to expose it.

I have been studying under De Mellville several months now.
The first month I painted fences, and gave general satisfaction.
The next month I white-washed a barn.  The third, I was doing
tin roofs; the forth, common signs; the fifth, statuary to stand
before cigar shops.  This present month is only the sixth, and I am
already in portraits!

The humble offering which accompanies these remarks [see figure]--
the portrait of his Majesty William III., King of Prussia--
is my fifth attempt in portraits, and my greatest success.
It has received unbounded praise from all classes of the community,
but that which gratifies me most is the frequent and cordial verdict
that it resembles the GALAXY portraits.  Those were my first love,
my earliest admiration, the original source and incentive of my
art-ambition. Whatever I am in Art today, I owe to these portraits.
I ask no credit for myself--I deserve none.  And I never take any,
either.  Many a stranger has come to my exhibition (for I have had my
portrait of King William on exhibition at one dollar a ticket), and
would have gone away blessing ME, if I had let him, but I never did.
I always stated where I got the idea.

King William wears large bushy side-whiskers, and some critics have
thought that this portrait would be more complete if they were added.
But it was not possible.  There was not room for side-whiskers and
epaulets both, and so I let the whiskers go, and put in the epaulets,
for the sake of style.  That thing on his hat is an eagle.
The Prussian eagle--it is a national emblem.  When I saw hat I
mean helmet; but it seems impossible to make a picture of a helmet
that a body can have confidence in.

I wish kind friends everywhere would aid me in my endeavor to attract
a little attention to the GALAXY portraits.  I feel persuaded it can
be accomplished, if the course to be pursued be chosen with judgment.
I write for that magazine all the time, and so do many abler men,
and if I can get these portraits into universal favor, it is all I ask;
the reading-matter will take care of itself.


COMMENDATIONS OF THE PORTRAIT


There is nothing like it in the Vatican.  Pius IX.


It has none of that vagueness, that dreamy spirituality about it,
which many of the first critics of Arkansas have objected to in the
Murillo school of Art.  Ruskin.


The expression is very interesting.  J.W. Titian.


(Keeps a macaroni store in Venice, at the old family stand.)


It is the neatest thing in still life I have seen for years.

Rosa Bonheur.


The smile may be almost called unique.  Bismarck.


I never saw such character portrayed in a picture face before.
De Mellville.


There is a benignant simplicity about the execution of this
work which warms the heart toward it as much, full as much,
as it fascinates the eye.  Landseer.


One cannot see it without longing to contemplate the artist.

Frederick William.


Send me the entire edition--together with the plate and the
original portrait--and name your own price.  And--would you
like to come over and stay awhile with Napoleon at Wilhelmsh:ohe?
It shall not cost you a cent.  William III.


***



DOES THE RACE OF MAN LOVE A LORD?



Often a quite assified remark becomes sanctified by use and
petrified by custom; it is then a permanency, its term of activity
a geologic period.



The day after the arrival of Prince Henry I met an English friend,
and he rubbed his hands and broke out with a remark that was charged
to the brim with joy--joy that was evidently a pleasant salve
to an old sore place:

"Many a time I've had to listen without retort to an old saying
that is irritatingly true, and until now seemed to offer no chance
for a return jibe:  'An Englishman does dearly love a lord';
but after this I shall talk back, and say, 'How about the Americans?'"

It is a curious thing, the currency that an idiotic saying can get.
The man that first says it thinks he has made a discovery.
The man he says it to, thinks the same.  It departs on its travels,
is received everywhere with admiring acceptance, and not only as
a piece of rare and acute observation, but as being exhaustively
true and profoundly wise; and so it presently takes its place
in the world's list of recognized and established wisdoms,
and after that no one thinks of examining it to see whether it is
really entitled to its high honors or not.  I call to mind instances
of this in two well-established proverbs, whose dullness is not
surpassed by the one about the Englishman and his love for a lord:
one of them records the American's Adoration of the Almighty Dollar,
the other the American millionaire-girl's ambition to trade cash for
a title, with a husband thrown in.

It isn't merely the American that adores the Almighty Dollar,
it is the human race.  The human race has always adored the hatful
of shells, or the bale of calico, or the half-bushel of brass rings,
or the handful of steel fish-hooks, or the houseful of black wives,
or the zareba full of cattle, or the two-score camels and asses,
or the factory, or the farm, or the block of buildings, or the
railroad bonds, or the bank stock, or the hoarded cash, or--
anything that stands for wealth and consideration and independence,
and can secure to the possessor that most precious of all things,
another man's envy.  It was a dull person that invented the idea
that the American's devotion to the dollar is more strenuous than
another's.

Rich American girls do buy titles, but they did not invent that idea;
it had been worn threadbare several hundred centuries before America
was discovered.  European girls still exploit it as briskly as ever;
and, when a title is not to be had for the money in hand, they buy
the husband without it.  They must put up the "dot," or there is
no trade.  The commercialization of brides is substantially universal,
except in America.  It exists with us, to some little extent,
but in no degree approaching a custom.

"The Englishman dearly loves a lord."

What is the soul and source of this love?  I think the thing could
be more correctly worded:

"The human race dearly envies a lord."

That is to say, it envies the lord's place.  Why?  On two accounts,
I think:  its Power and its Conspicuousness.

Where Conspicuousness carries with it a Power which, by the light
of our own observation and experience, we are able to measure
and comprehend, I think our envy of the possessor is as deep and as
passionate as is that of any other nation.  No one can care less
for a lord than the backwoodsman, who has had no personal contact
with lords and has seldom heard them spoken of; but I will not
allow that any Englishman has a profounder envy of a lord than has
the average American who has lived long years in a European capital
and fully learned how immense is the position the lord occupies.

Of any ten thousand Americans who eagerly gather, at vast inconvenience,
to get a glimpse of Prince Henry, all but a couple of hundred
will be there out of an immense curiosity; they are burning up
with desire to see a personage who is so much talked about.
They envy him; but it is Conspicuousness they envy mainly, not the
Power that is lodged in his royal quality and position, for they
have but a vague and spectral knowledge and appreciation of that;
though their environment and associations they have been accustomed
to regard such things lightly, and as not being very real; consequently,
they are not able to value them enough to consumingly envy them.

But, whenever an American (or other human being) is in the presence,
for the first time, of a combination of great Power and Conspicuousness
which he thoroughly understands and appreciates, his eager curiosity
and pleasure will be well-sodden with that other passion--envy--
whether he suspects it or not.  At any time, on any day, in any part
of America, you can confer a happiness upon any passing stranger
by calling his attention to any other passing stranger and saying:

"Do you see that gentleman going along there?  It is Mr. Rockefeller."

Watch his eye.  It is a combination of power and conspicuousness
which the man understands.

When we understand rank, we always like to rub against it.
When a man is conspicuous, we always want to see him.  Also, if he
will pay us an attention we will manage to remember it.  Also, we
will mention it now and then, casually; sometimes to a friend,
or if a friend is not handy, we will make out with a stranger.

Well, then, what is rank, and what is conspicuousness?  At once we
think of kings and aristocracies, and of world-wide celebrities
in soldierships, the arts, letters, etc., and we stop there.
But that is a mistake.  Rank holds its court and receives its homage
on every round of the ladder, from the emperor down to the rat-catcher;
and distinction, also, exists on every round of the ladder,
and commands its due of deference and envy.

To worship rank and distinction is the dear and valued privilege
of all the human race, and it is freely and joyfully exercised
in democracies as well as in monarchies--and even, to some extent,
among those creatures whom we impertinently call the Lower Animals.
For even they have some poor little vanities and foibles, though in
this matter they are paupers as compared to us.

A Chinese Emperor has the worship of his four hundred millions
of subjects, but the rest of the world is indifferent to him.
A Christian Emperor has the worship of his subjects and of a large
part of the Christian world outside of his domains; but he is
a matter of indifference to all China.  A king, class A, has an
extensive worship; a king, class B, has a less extensive worship;
class C, class D, class E get a steadily diminishing share of worship;
class L (Sultan of Zanzibar), class P (Sultan of Sulu), and class W
(half-king of Samoa), get no worship at all outside their own little
patch of sovereignty.

Take the distinguished people along down.  Each has his group
of homage-payers. In the navy, there are many groups; they start
with the Secretary and the Admiral, and go down to the quartermaster--
and below; for there will be groups among the sailors, and each of
these groups will have a tar who is distinguished for his battles,
or his strength, or his daring, or his profanity, and is admired
and envied by his group.  The same with the army; the same
with the literary and journalistic craft; the publishing craft;
the cod-fishery craft; Standard Oil; U. S. Steel; the class A hotel--
and the rest of the alphabet in that line; the class A prize-fighter--
and the rest of the alphabet in his line--clear down to the lowest
and obscurest six-boy gang of little gamins, with its one boy
that can thrash the rest, and to whom he is king of Samoa,
bottom of the royal race, but looked up to with a most ardent
admiration and envy.

There is something pathetic, and funny, and pretty, about this
human race's fondness for contact with power and distinction,
and for the reflected glory it gets out of it.  The king, class A,
is happy in the state banquet and the military show which the
emperor provides for him, and he goes home and gathers the queen
and the princelings around him in the privacy of the spare room,
and tells them all about it, and says:

"His Imperial Majesty put his hand upon my shoulder in the most
friendly way--just as friendly and familiar, oh, you can't imagine it!--
and everybody SEEING him do it; charming, perfectly charming!"

The king, class G, is happy in the cold collation and the police
parade provided for him by the king, class B, and goes home
and tells the family all about it, and says:

"And His Majesty took me into his own private cabinet for a smoke
and a chat, and there we sat just as sociable, and talking away
and laughing and chatting, just the same as if we had been born
in the same bunk; and all the servants in the anteroom could see
us doing it!  Oh, it was too lovely for anything!"

The king, class Q, is happy in the modest entertainment furnished him
by the king, class M, and goes home and tells the household about it,
and is as grateful and joyful over it as were his predecessors
in the gaudier attentions that had fallen to their larger lot.

Emperors, kings, artisans, peasants, big people, little people--at the
bottom we are all alike and all the same; all just alike on the inside,
and when our clothes are off, nobody can tell which of us is which.
We are unanimous in the pride we take in good and genuine compliments
paid us, and distinctions conferred upon us, in attentions shown.
There is not one of us, from the emperor down,, but is made like that.
Do I mean attentions shown us by the guest?  No, I mean simply
flattering attentions, let them come whence they may.  We despise
no source that can pay us a pleasing attention--there is no source
that is humble enough for that.  You have heard a dear little girl
say to a frowzy and disreputable dog:  "He came right to me and let
me pat him on the head, and he wouldn't let the others touch him!"
and you have seen her eyes dance with pride in that high distinction.
You have often seen that.  If the child were a princess, would that
random dog be able to confer the like glory upon her with his
pretty compliment?  Yes; and even in her mature life and seated
upon a throne, she would still remember it, still recall it,
still speak of it with frank satisfaction.  That charming and
lovable German princess and poet, Carmen Sylva, Queen of Roumania,
remembers yet that the flowers of the woods and fields "talked to her"
when she was a girl, and she sets it down in her latest book;
and that the squirrels conferred upon her and her father the valued
compliment of not being afraid of them; and "once one of them,
holding a nut between its sharp little teeth, ran right up against
my father"--it has the very note of "He came right to me and let
me pat him on the head"--"and when it saw itself reflected in his
boot it was very much surprised, and stopped for a long time to
contemplate itself in the polished leather"--then it went its way.
And the birds! she still remembers with pride that "they came
boldly into my room," when she had neglected her "duty" and put
no food on the window-sill for them; she knew all the wild birds,
and forgets the royal crown on her head to remember with pride
that they knew her; also that the wasp and the bee were personal
friends of hers, and never forgot that gracious relationship
to her injury:  "never have I been stung by a wasp or a bee."
And here is that proud note again that sings in that little child's
elation in being singled out, among all the company of children,
for the random dog's honor-conferring attentions.  "Even in the very
worst summer for wasps, when, in lunching out of doors, our table
was covered with them and every one else was stung, they never
hurt me."

When a queen whose qualities of mind and heart and character are
able to add distinction to so distinguished a place as a throne,
remembers with grateful exultation, after thirty years, honors and
distinctions conferred upon her by the humble, wild creatures of
the forest, we are helped to realize that complimentary attentions,
homage, distinctions, are of no caste, but are above all cast--
that they are a nobility-conferring power apart.

We all like these things.  When the gate-guard at the railway-station
passes me through unchallenged and examines other people's tickets,
I feel as the king, class A, felt when the emperor put the imperial
hand on his shoulder, "everybody seeing him do it"; and as the child
felt when the random dog allowed her to pat his head and ostracized
the others; and as the princess felt when the wasps spared her
and stung the rest; and I felt just so, four years ago in Vienna
(and remember it yet), when the helmeted police shut me off,
with fifty others, from a street which the Emperor was to pass through,
and the captain of the squad turned and saw the situation and said
indignantly to that guard:

"Can't you see it is the Herr Mark Twain?  Let him through!"

It was four years ago; but it will be four hundred before I forget
the wind of self-complacency that rose in me, and strained my
buttons when I marked the deference for me evoked in the faces of my
fellow-rabble, and noted, mingled with it, a puzzled and resentful
expression which said, as plainly as speech could have worded it:
"And who in the nation is the Herr Mark Twain UM GOTTESWILLEN?"

How many times in your life have you heard this boastful remark:

"I stood as close to him as I am to you; I could have put out my
hand and touched him."

We have all heard it many and many a time.  It was a proud
distinction to be able to say those words.  It brought envy to
the speaker, a kind of glory; and he basked in it and was happy
through all his veins.  And who was it he stood so close to?
The answer would cover all the grades.  Sometimes it was a king;
sometimes it was a renowned highwayman; sometimes it was an unknown
man killed in an extraordinary way and made suddenly famous by it;
always it was a person who was for the moment the subject of public
interest of a village.

"I was there, and I saw it myself."  That is a common and
envy-compelling remark.  It can refer to a battle; to a handing;
to a coronation; to the killing of Jumbo by the railway-train;
to the arrival of Jenny Lind at the Battery; to the meeting of the
President and Prince Henry; to the chase of a murderous maniac;
to the disaster in the tunnel; to the explosion in the subway;
to a remarkable dog-fight; to a village church struck by lightning.
It will be said, more or less causally, by everybody in America who has
seen Prince Henry do anything, or try to.  The man who was absent
and didn't see him to anything, will scoff.  It is his privilege;
and he can make capital out of it, too; he will seem, even to himself,
to be different from other Americans, and better.  As his opinion
of his superior Americanism grows, and swells, and concentrates
and coagulates, he will go further and try to belittle the distinction
of those that saw the Prince do things, and will spoil their pleasure
in it if he can.  My life has been embittered by that kind of persons.
If you are able to tell of a special distinction that has fallen
to your lot, it gravels them; they cannot bear it; and they try
to make believe that the thing you took for a special distinction
was nothing of the kind and was meant in quite another way.
Once I was received in private audience by an emperor.  Last week
I was telling a jealous person about it, and I could see him wince
under it, see him bite, see him suffer.  I revealed the whole episode
to him with considerable elaboration and nice attention to detail.
When I was through, he asked me what had impressed me most.
I said:

"His Majesty's delicacy.  They told me to be sure and back
out from the presence, and find the door-knob as best I could;
it was not allowable to face around.  Now the Emperor knew it would
be a difficult ordeal for me, because of lack of practice; and so,
when it was time to part, he turned, with exceeding delicacy,
and pretended to fumble with things on his desk, so I could get
out in my own way, without his seeing me."

It went home!  It was vitriol!  I saw the envy and disgruntlement rise
in the man's face; he couldn't keep it down.  I saw him try to fix
up something in his mind to take the bloom off that distinction.
I enjoyed that, for I judged that he had his work cut out for him.
He struggled along inwardly for quite a while; then he said,
with a manner of a person who has to say something and hasn't anything
relevant to say:

"You said he had a handful of special-brand cigars on the table?"

"Yes; _I_ never said anything to match them."

I had him again.  He had to fumble around in his mind as much
as another minute before he could play; then he said in as mean
a way as I ever heard a person say anything:

"He could have been counting the cigars, you know."

I cannot endure a man like that.  It is nothing to him how unkind
he is, so long as he takes the bloom off.  It is all he cares for.

"An Englishman (or other human being) does dearly love a lord,"
(or other conspicuous person.) It includes us all.  We love to be
noticed by the conspicuous person; we love to be associated with such,
or with a conspicuous event, even in a seventh-rate fashion,
even in the forty-seventh, if we cannot do better.  This accounts
for some of our curious tastes in mementos.  It accounts for the large
private trade in the Prince of Wales's hair, which chambermaids
were able to drive in that article of commerce when the Prince made
the tour of the world in the long ago--hair which probably did
not always come from his brush, since enough of it was marketed
to refurnish a bald comet; it accounts for the fact that the rope
which lynches a negro in the presence of ten thousand Christian
spectators is salable five minutes later at two dollars and inch;
it accounts for the mournful fact that a royal personage does not
venture to wear buttons on his coat in public.

We do love a lord--and by that term I mean any person whose situation
is higher than our own.  The lord of the group, for instance:
a group of peers, a group of millionaires, a group of hoodlums,
a group of sailors, a group of newsboys, a group of saloon politicians,
a group of college girls.  No royal person has ever been the object
of a more delirious loyalty and slavish adoration than is paid
by the vast Tammany herd to its squalid idol in Wantage.  There is
not a bifurcated animal in that menagerie that would not be proud
to appear in a newspaper picture in his company.  At the same time,
there are some in that organization who would scoff at the people
who have been daily pictured in company with Prince Henry, and would
say vigorously that THEY would not consent to be photographed
with him--a statement which would not be true in any instance.
There are hundreds of people in America who would frankly say to you
that they would not be proud to be photographed in a group with
the Prince, if invited; and some of these unthinking people would
believe it when they said it; yet in no instance would it be true.
We have a large population, but we have not a large enough one,
by several millions, to furnish that man.  He has not yet been begotten,
and in fact he is not begettable.

You may take any of the printed groups, and there isn't a person
in the dim background who isn't visibly trying to be vivid; if it
is a crowd of ten thousand--ten thousand proud, untamed democrats,
horny-handed sons of toil and of politics, and fliers of the eagle--
there isn't one who is trying to keep out of range, there isn't one
who isn't plainly meditating a purchase of the paper in the morning,
with the intention of hunting himself out in the picture and of framing
and keeping it if he shall find so much of his person in it as his
starboard ear.

We all love to get some of the drippings of Conspicuousness, and we
will put up with a single, humble drip, if we can't get any more.
We may pretend otherwise, in conversation; but we can't pretend
it to ourselves privately--and we don't. We do confess in public
that we are the noblest work of God, being moved to it by long habit,
and teaching, and superstition; but deep down in the secret places
of our souls we recognize that, if we ARE the noblest work, the less
said about it the better.

We of the North poke fun at the South for its fondness of titles--
a fondness for titles pure and simple, regardless of whether they
are genuine or pinchbeck.  We forget that whatever a Southerner
likes the rest of the human race likes, and that there is no law of
predilection lodged in one people that is absent from another people.
There is no variety in the human race.  We are all children,
all children of the one Adam, and we love toys.  We can soon acquire
that Southern disease if some one will give it a start.  It already
has a start, in fact.  I have been personally acquainted with over
eighty-four thousand persons who, at one time or another in their lives,
have served for a year or two on the staffs of our multitudinous
governors, and through that fatality have been generals temporarily,
and colonels temporarily, and judge-advocates temporarily; but I
have known only nine among them who could be hired to let the title
go when it ceased to be legitimate.  I know thousands and thousands
of governors who ceased to be governors away back in the last century;
but I am acquainted with only three who would answer your letter
if you failed to call them "Governor" in it.  I know acres and acres
of men who have done time in a legislature in prehistoric days,
but among them is not half an acre whose resentment you would not
raise if you addressed them as "Mr." instead of "Hon." The first thing
a legislature does is to convene in an impressive legislative attitude,
and get itself photographed.  Each member frames his copy and takes
it to the woods and hangs it up in the most aggressively conspicuous
place in his house; and if you visit the house and fail to inquire
what that accumulation is, the conversation will be brought around
to it by that aforetime legislator, and he will show you a figure
in it which in the course of years he has almost obliterated
with the smut of his finger-marks, and say with a solemn joy, "It's me!"

Have you ever seen a country Congressman enter the hotel breakfast-room
in Washington with his letters?--and sit at his table and let on
to read them?--and wrinkle his brows and frown statesman-like?--
keeping a furtive watch-out over his glasses all the while to see
if he is being observed and admired?--those same old letters
which he fetches in every morning?  Have you seen it?  Have you
seen him show off?  It is THE sight of the national capital.
Except one; a pathetic one.  That is the ex-Congressman: the poor
fellow whose life has been ruined by a two-year taste of glory
and of fictitious consequence; who has been superseded, and ought
to take his heartbreak home and hide it, but cannot tear himself
away from the scene of his lost little grandeur; and so he lingers,
and still lingers, year after year, unconsidered, sometimes snubbed,
ashamed of his fallen estate, and valiantly trying to look otherwise;
dreary and depressed, but counterfeiting breeziness and gaiety,
hailing with chummy familiarity, which is not always welcomed,
the more-fortunes who are still in place and were once his mates.
Have you seen him?  He clings piteously to the one little shred that
is left of his departed distinction--the "privilege of the floor";
and works it hard and gets what he can out of it.  That is the saddest
figure I know of.

Yes, we do so love our little distinctions!  And then we loftily
scoff at a Prince for enjoying his larger ones; forgetting that if we
only had his chance--ah!  "Senator" is not a legitimate title.
A Senator has no more right to be addressed by it than have you
or I; but, in the several state capitals and in Washington,
there are five thousand Senators who take very kindly to
that fiction, and who purr gratefully when you call them by it--
which you may do quite unrebuked.  Then those same Senators smile
at the self-constructed majors and generals and judges of the South!

Indeed, we do love our distinctions, get them how we may.
And we work them for all they are worth.  In prayer we call
ourselves "worms of the dust," but it is only on a sort of tacit
understanding that the remark shall not be taken at par.  WE--
worms of the dust!  Oh, no, we are not that.  Except in fact;
and we do not deal much in fact when we are contemplating ourselves.

As a race, we do certainly love a lord--let him be Croker, or a duke,
or a prize-fighter, or whatever other personage shall chance to be the
head of our group.  Many years ago, I saw a greasy youth in overalls
standing by the HERALD office, with an expectant look in his face.
Soon a large man passed out, and gave him a pat on the shoulder.
That was what the boy was waiting for--the large man's notice.
The pat made him proud and happy, and the exultation inside of him
shone out through his eyes; and his mates were there to see the pat
and envy it and wish they could have that glory.  The boy belonged
down cellar in the press-room, the large man was king of the
upper floors, foreman of the composing-room. The light in the boy's
face was worship, the foreman was his lord, head of his group.
The pat was an accolade.  It was as precious to the boy as it would
have been if he had been an aristocrat's son and the accolade had
been delivered by his sovereign with a sword.  The quintessence
of the honor was all there; there was no difference in values;
in truth there was no difference present except an artificial one--
clothes.

All the human race loves a lord--that is, loves to look upon
or be noticed by the possessor of Power or Conspicuousness;
and sometimes animals, born to better things and higher ideals,
descend to man's level in this matter.  In the Jardin des Plantes
I have see a cat that was so vain of being the personal friend
of an elephant that I was ashamed of her.


***



EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY



MONDAY.--This new creature with the long hair is a good deal
in the way.  It is always hanging around and following me about.
I don't like this; I am not used to company.  I wish it would stay
with the other animals.  . . . Cloudy today, wind in the east;
think we shall have rain.  . . . WE?  Where did I get that word--
the new creature uses it.

TUESDAY.--Been examining the great waterfall.  It is the finest thing
on the estate, I think.  The new creature calls it Niagara Falls--
why, I am sure I do not know.  Says it LOOKS like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and imbecility.
I get no chance to name anything myself.  The new creature names
everything that comes along, before I can get in a protest.
And always that same pretext is offered--it LOOKS like the thing.
There is a dodo, for instance.  Says the moment one looks at it
one sees at a glance that it "looks like a dodo."  It will have to
keep that name, no doubt.  It wearies me to fret about it, and it
does no good, anyway.  Dodo!  It looks no more like a dodo than
I do.

WEDNESDAY.--Built me a shelter against the rain, but could not
have it to myself in peace.  The new creature intruded.  When I
tried to put it out it shed water out of the holes it looks with,
and wiped it away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they are in distress.
I wish it would not talk; it is always talking.  That sounds like a
cheap fling at the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any new and strange
sound intruding itself here upon the solemn hush of these dreaming
solitudes offends my ear and seems a false note.  And this new sound
is so close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used only to sounds
that are more or less distant from me.

FRIDAY.  The naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything I can do.
I had a very good name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty--
GARDEN OF EDEN.  Privately, I continue to call it that, but not any
longer publicly.  The new creature says it is all woods and rocks
and scenery, and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.  Says it
LOOKS like a park, and does not look like anything BUT a park.
Consequently, without consulting me, it has been new-named NIAGARA
FALLS PARK.  This is sufficiently high-handed, it seems to me.
And already there is a sign up:


KEEP OFF


THE GRASS


My life is not as happy as it was.

SATURDAY.--The new creature eats too much fruit.  We are going
to run short, most likely.  "We" again--that is ITS word; mine, too,
now, from hearing it so much.  Good deal of fog this morning.
I do not go out in the fog myself.  This new creature does.
It goes out in all weathers, and stumps right in with its muddy feet.
And talks.  It used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

SUNDAY.--Pulled through.  This day is getting to be more and more trying.
It was selected and set apart last November as a day of rest.
I had already six of them per week before.  This morning found
the new creature trying to clod apples out of that forbidden tree.

MONDAY.--The new creature says its name is Eve.  That is all right,
I have no objections.  Says it is to call it by, when I want it
to come.  I said it was superfluous, then.  The word evidently
raised me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good word
and will bear repetition.  It says it is not an It, it is a She.
This is probably doubtful; yet it is all one to me; what she is were
nothing to me if she would but go by herself and not talk.

TUESDAY.--She has littered the whole estate with execrable names
and offensive signs:


This way to the Whirlpool


This way to Goat Island


Cave of the Winds this way


She says this park would make a tidy summer resort if there was
any custom for it.  Summer resort--another invention of hers--
just words, without any meaning.  What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for explaining.

FRIDAY.--She has taken to beseeching me to stop going over the Falls.
What harm does it do?  Says it makes her shudder.  I wonder why;
I have always done it--always liked the plunge, and coolness.
I supposed it was what the Falls were for.  They have no other
use that I can see, and they must have been made for something.
She says they were only made for scenery--like the rhinoceros and
the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel--not satisfactory to her.
Went over in a tub--still not satisfactory.  Swam the Whirlpool and
the Rapids in a fig-leaf suit.  It got much damaged.  Hence, tedious
complaints about my extravagance.  I am too much hampered here.
What I need is a change of scene.

SATURDAY.--I escaped last Tuesday night, and traveled two days,
and built me another shelter in a secluded place, and obliterated my
tracks as well as I could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came making that pitiful
noise again, and shedding that water out of the places she looks with.
I was obliged to return with her, but will presently emigrate again
when occasion offers.  She engages herself in many foolish things;
among others; to study out why the animals called lions and tigers
live on grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth they
wear would indicate that they were intended to eat each other.
This is foolish, because to do that would be to kill each other,
and that would introduce what, as I understand, is called "death";
and death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the Park.
Which is a pity, on some accounts.

SUNDAY.--Pulled through.

MONDAY.--I believe I see what the week is for:  it is to give time
to rest up from the weariness of Sunday.  It seems a good idea.
. . . She has been climbing that tree again.  Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking.  Seems to consider that a sufficient
justification for chancing any dangerous thing.  Told her that.
The word justification moved her admiration--and envy, too, I thought.
It is a good word.

TUESDAY.--She told me she was made out of a rib taken from my body.
This is at least doubtful, if not more than that.  I have not
missed any rib.  . . . She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't raise it;
thinks it was intended to live on decayed flesh.  The buzzard must
get along the best it can with what is provided.  We cannot overturn
the whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

SATURDAY.--She fell in the pond yesterday when she was looking at
herself in it, which she is always doing.  She nearly strangled,
and said it was most uncomfortable.  This made her sorry for the
creatures which live in there, which she calls fish, for she continues
to fasten names on to things that don't need them and don't come
when they are called by them, which is a matter of no consequence
to her, she is such a numbskull, anyway; so she got a lot of them out
and brought them in last night and put them in my bed to keep warm,
but I have noticed them now and then all day and I don't see that
they are any happier there then they were before, only quieter.
When night comes I shall throw them outdoors.  I will not sleep
with them again, for I find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among
when a person hasn't anything on.

SUNDAY.--Pulled through.

TUESDAY.--She has taken up with a snake now.  The other animals are glad,
for she was always experimenting with them and bothering them;
and I am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me to get
a rest.

FRIDAY.--She says the snake advises her to try the fruit of the tree,
and says the result will be a great and fine and noble education.
I told her there would be another result, too--it would introduce
death into the world.  That was a mistake--it had been better
to keep the remark to myself; it only gave her an idea--she could
save the sick buzzard, and furnish fresh meat to the despondent
lions and tigers.  I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble.  Will emigrate.

WEDNESDAY.--I have had a variegated time.  I escaped last night,
and rode a horse all night as fast as he could go, hoping to get
clear of the Park and hide in some other country before the
trouble should begin; but it was not to be.  About an hour after
sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain where thousands
of animals were grazing, slumbering, or playing with each other,
according to their wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest
of frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a frantic commotion
and every beast was destroying its neighbor.  I knew what it meant--
Eve had eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
. . . The tigers ate my house, paying no attention when I ordered
them to desist, and they would have eaten me if I had stayed--
which I didn't, but went away in much haste.  . . . I found this place,
outside the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few days, but she
has found me out.  Found me out, and has named the place Tonawanda--
says it LOOKS like that.  In fact I was not sorry she came,
for there are but meager pickings here, and she brought some
of those apples.  I was obliged to eat them, I was so hungry.
It was against my principles, but I find that principles have no
real force except when one is well fed.  . . . She came curtained
in boughs and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what she
meant by such nonsense, and snatched them away and threw them down,
she tittered and blushed.  I had never seen a person titter
and blush before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.  This was correct.
Hungry as I was, I laid down the apple half-eaten--certainly the
best one I ever saw, considering the lateness of the season--
and arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and branches, and then
spoke to her with some severity and ordered her to go and get some
more and not make a spectacle or herself.  She did it, and after this
we crept down to where the wild-beast battle had been, and collected
some skins, and I made her patch together a couple of suits proper
for public occasions.  They are uncomfortable, it is true, but stylish,
and that is the main point about clothes.  . . . I find she is a
good deal of a companion.  I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.  Another thing,
she says it is ordered that we work for our living hereafter.
She will be useful.  I will superintend.

TEN DAYS LATER.--She accuses ME of being the cause of our disaster!
She says, with apparent sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured
her that the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any chestnuts.
She said the Serpent informed her that "chestnut" was a figurative
term meaning an aged and moldy joke.  I turned pale at that,
for I have made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some of them
could have been of that sort, though I had honestly supposed
that they were new when I made them.  She asked me if I had made
one just at the time of the catastrophe.  I was obliged to admit
that I had made one to myself, though not aloud.  It was this.
I was thinking about the Falls, and I said to myself, "How wonderful
it is to see that vast body of water tumble down there!"
Then in an instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I let
it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful to see it tumble
UP there!"--and I was just about to kill myself with laughing at
it when all nature broke loose in war and death and I had to flee
for my life.  "There," she said, with triumph, "that is just it;
the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and called it the First Chestnut,
and said it was coeval with the creation."  Alas, I am indeed
to blame.  Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never had
that radiant thought!

NEXT YEAR.--We have named it Cain.  She caught it while I was up country
trapping on the North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out--or it might have been four, she isn't
certain which.  It resembles us in some ways, and may be a relation.
That is what she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that it is a different
and new kind of animal--a fish, perhaps, though when I put it in the
water to see, it sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to determine the matter.
I still think it is a fish, but she is indifferent about what it is,
and will not let me have it to try.  I do not understand this.
The coming of the creature seems to have changed her whole nature
and made her unreasonable about experiments.  She thinks more
of it than she does of any of the other animals, but is not able
to explain why.  Her mind is disordered--everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the night when it
complains and wants to get to the water.  At such times the water
comes out of the places in her face that she looks out of, and she
pats the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her mouth
to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude in a hundred ways.
I have never seen her do like this with any other fish, and it
troubles me greatly.  She used to carry the young tigers around so,
and play with them, before we lost our property, but it was only play;
she never took on about them like this when their dinner disagreed
with them.

SUNDAY.--She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies around all tired out,
and likes to have the fish wallow over her; and she makes fool
noises to amuse it, and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes
it laugh.  I have not seen a fish before that could laugh.
This makes me doubt.  . . . I have come to like Sunday myself.
Superintending all the week tires a body so.  There ought to be
more Sundays.  In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.

WEDNESDAY.--It isn't a fish.  I cannot quite make out what it is.
It makes curious devilish noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is.  It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk; it is not
a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog, for it doesn't hop;
it is not a snake, for it doesn't crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish,
though I cannot get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with its feet up.
I have not seen any other animal do that before.  I said I believed it
was an enigma; but she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some king of a bug.
If it dies, I will take it apart and see what its arrangements are.
I never had a thing perplex me so.

THREE MONTHS LATER.--The perplexity augments instead of diminishing.
I sleep but little.  It has ceased from lying around, and goes about on
its four legs now.  Yet it differs from the other four legged animals,
in that its front legs are unusually short, consequently this
causes the main part of its person to stick up uncomfortably high
in the air, and this is not attractive.  It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of our breed.
The short front legs and long hind ones indicate that it is a of
the kangaroo family, but it is a marked variation of that species,
since the true kangaroo hops, whereas this one never does.
Still it is a curious and interesting variety, and has not been
catalogued before.  As I discovered it, I have felt justified
in securing the credit of the discovery by attaching my name to it,
and hence have called it KANGAROORUM ADAMIENSIS.  . . . It must have
been a young one when it came, for it has grown exceedingly since.
It must be five times as big, now, as it was then, and when
discontented it is able to make from twenty-two to thirty-eight times
the noise it made at first.  Coercion does not modify this, but has
the contrary effect.  For this reason I discontinued the system.
She reconciles it by persuasion, and by giving it things which she
had previously told me she wouldn't give it.  As already observed,
I was not at home when it first came, and she told me she found it
in the woods.  It seems odd that it should be the only one, yet it
must be so, for I have worn myself out these many weeks trying to find
another one to add to my collection, and for this to play with;
for surely then it would be quieter and we could tame it more easily.
But I find none, nor any vestige of any; and strangest of all,
no tracks.  It has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a track?
I have set a dozen traps, but they do no good.  I catch all small
animals except that one; animals that merely go into the trap out
of curiosity, I think, to see what the milk is there for.  They never
drink it.

THREE MONTHS LATER.--The Kangaroo still continues to grow, which is
very strange and perplexing.  I never knew one to be so long getting
its growth.  It has fur on its head now; not like kangaroo fur,
but exactly like our hair except that it is much finer and softer,
and instead of being black is red.  I am like to lose my mind over
the capricious and harassing developments of this unclassifiable
zoological freak.  If I could catch another one--but that is hopeless;
it is a new variety, and the only sample; this is plain.  But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking that this one,
being lonesome, would rather have that for company than have no kin
at all, or any animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers who do not
know its ways or habits, or what to do to make it feel that it
is among friends; but it was a mistake--it went into such fits at
the sight of the kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen
one before.  I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there is
nothing I can do to make it happy.  If I could tame it--but that is
out of the question; the more I try the worse I seem to make it.
It grieves me to the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow
and passion.  I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't hear of it.
That seemed cruel and not like her; and yet she may be right.
It might be lonelier than ever; for since I cannot find another one,
how could IT?

FIVE MONTHS LATER.--It is not a kangaroo.  No, for it supports
itself by holding to her finger, and thus goes a few steps on its
hind legs, and then falls down.  It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail--as yet--and no fur, except upon its head.
It still keeps on growing--that is a curious circumstance,
for bears get their growth earlier than this.  Bears are dangerous--
since our catastrophe--and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a muzzle on.
I have offered to get her a kangaroo if she would let this one go,
but it did no good--she is determined to run us into all sorts
of foolish risks, I think.  She was not like this before she lost
her mind.

A FORTNIGHT LATER.--I examined its mouth.  There is no danger yet:
it has only one tooth.  It has no tail yet.  It makes more noise
now than it ever did before--and mainly at night.  I have moved out.
But I shall go over, mornings, to breakfast, and see if it has
more teeth.  If it gets a mouthful of teeth it will be time for it
to go, tail or no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to
be dangerous.

FOUR MONTHS LATER.--I have been off hunting and fishing a month,
up in the region that she calls Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it
is because there are not any buffaloes there.  Meantime the bear
has learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind legs,
and says "poppa" and "momma."  It is certainly a new species.
This resemblance to words may be purely accidental, of course,
and may have no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other bear can do.
This imitation of speech, taken together with general absence of fur
and entire absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a new
kind of bear.  The further study of it will be exceedingly interesting.
Meantime I will go off on a far expedition among the forests of
the north and make an exhaustive search.  There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less dangerous when it
has company of its own species.  I will go straightway; but I will
muzzle this one first.

THREE MONTHS LATER.--It has been a weary, weary hunt, yet I have
had no success.  In the mean time, without stirring from the
home estate, she has caught another one!  I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I never would
have run across that thing.

NEXT DAY.--I have been comparing the new one with the old one,
and it is perfectly plain that they are of the same breed.
I was going to stuff one of them for my collection, but she
is prejudiced against it for some reason or other; so I have
relinquished the idea, though I think it is a mistake.  It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get away.
The old one is tamer than it was and can laugh and talk like a parrot,
having learned this, no doubt, from being with the parrot so much,
and having the imitative faculty in a high developed degree.
I shall be astonished if it turns out to be a new kind of parrot;
and yet I ought not to be astonished, for it has already been
everything else it could think of since those first days when it
was a fish.  The new one is as ugly as the old one was at first;
has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat complexion and the same singular
head without any fur on it.  She calls it Abel.

TEN YEARS LATER.--They are BOYS; we found it out long ago.
It was their coming in that small immature shape that puzzled us;
we were not used to it.  There are some girls now.  Abel is a good boy,
but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have improved him.  After all
these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning;
it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her.  At first I thought she talked too much; but now I should
be sorry to have that voice fall silent and pass out of my life.
Blessed be the chestnut that brought us near together and taught me
to know the goodness of her heart and the sweetness of her spirit!


***



EVE'S DIARY


Translated from the Original



SATURDAY.--I am almost a whole day old, now.  I arrived yesterday.
That is as it seems to me.  And it must be so, for if there was
a day-before-yesterday I was not there when it happened, or I
should remember it.  It could be, of course, that it did happen,
and that I was not noticing.  Very well; I will be very watchful now,
and if any day-before-yesterdays happen I will make a note of it.
It will be best to start right and not let the record get confused,
for some instinct tells me that these details are going to be
important to the historian some day.  For I feel like an experiment,
I feel exactly like an experiment; it would be impossible for a person
to feel more like an experiment than I do, and so I am coming to feel
convinced that that is what I AM--an experiment; just an experiment,
and nothing more.

Then if I am an experiment, am I the whole of it?  No, I think not;
I think the rest of it is part of it.  I am the main part of it,
but I think the rest of it has its share in the matter.  Is my
position assured, or do I have to watch it and take care of it?
The latter, perhaps.  Some instinct tells me that eternal vigilance
is the price of supremacy.  [That is a good phrase, I think, for one
so young.]

Everything looks better today than it did yesterday.  In the rush of
finishing up yesterday, the mountains were left in a ragged condition,
and some of the plains were so cluttered with rubbish and remnants
that the aspects were quite distressing.  Noble and beautiful works
of art should not be subjected to haste; and this majestic new world
is indeed a most noble and beautiful work.  And certainly marvelously
near to being perfect, notwithstanding the shortness of the time.
There are too many stars in some places and not enough in others,
but that can be remedied presently, no doubt.  The moon got
loose last night, and slid down and fell out of the scheme--
a very great loss; it breaks my heart to think of it.  There isn't
another thing among the ornaments and decorations that is comparable
to it for beauty and finish.  It should have been fastened better.
If we can only get it back again--

But of course there is no telling where it went to.  And besides,
whoever gets it will hide it; I know it because I would do it myself.
I believe I can be honest in all other matters, but I already
begin to realize that the core and center of my nature is love
of the beautiful, a passion for the beautiful, and that it would
not be safe to trust me with a moon that belonged to another person
and that person didn't know I had it.  I could give up a moon that I
found in the daytime, because I should be afraid some one was looking;
but if I found it in the dark, I am sure I should find some kind
of an excuse for not saying anything about it.  For I do love moons,
they are so pretty and so romantic.  I wish we had five or six;
I would never go to bed; I should never get tired lying on the moss-bank
and looking up at them.

Stars are good, too.  I wish I could get some to put in my hair.
But I suppose I never can.  You would be surprised to find how far
off they are, for they do not look it.  When they first showed,
last night, I tried to knock some down with a pole, but it didn't reach,
which astonished me; then I tried clods till I was all tired out,
but I never got one.  It was because I am left-handed and cannot
throw good.  Even when I aimed at the one I wasn't after I
couldn't hit the other one, though I did make some close shots,
for I saw the black blot of the clod sail right into the midst of
the golden clusters forty or fifty times, just barely missing them,
and if I could have held out a little longer maybe I could have
got one.

So I cried a little, which was natural, I suppose, for one of my age,
and after I was rested I got a basket and started for a place on the
extreme rim of the circle, where the stars were close to the ground
and I could get them with my hands, which would be better, anyway,
because I could gather them tenderly then, and not break them.
But it was farther than I thought, and at last I had go give it up;
I was so tired I couldn't drag my feet another step; and besides,
they were sore and hurt me very much.

I couldn't get back home; it was too far and turning cold;
but I found some tigers and nestled in among them and was most
adorably comfortable, and their breath was sweet and pleasant,
because they live on strawberries.  I had never seen a tiger before,
but I knew them in a minute by the stripes.  If I could have one
of those skins, it would make a lovely gown.

Today I am getting better ideas about distances.  I was so eager
to get hold of every pretty thing that I giddily grabbed for it,
sometimes when it was too far off, and sometimes when it was but
six inches away but seemed a foot--alas, with thorns between!
I learned a lesson; also I made an axiom, all out of my own head--
my very first one; THE SCRATCHED EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE THORN.
I think it is a very good one for one so young.

I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon,
at a distance, to see what it might be for, if I could.  But I was
not able to make out.  I think it is a man.  I had never seen a man,
but it looked like one, and I feel sure that that is what it is.
I realize that I feel more curiosity about it than about any
of the other reptiles.  If it is a reptile, and I suppose it is;
for it has frowzy hair and blue eyes, and looks like a reptile.
It has no hips; it tapers like a carrot; when it stands, it spreads
itself apart like a derrick; so I think it is a reptile, though it may
be architecture.

I was afraid of it at first, and started to run every time it
turned around, for I thought it was going to chase me; but by
and by I found it was only trying to get away, so after that I
was not timid any more, but tracked it along, several hours,
about twenty yards behind, which made it nervous and unhappy.
At last it was a good deal worried, and climbed a tree.  I waited
a good while, then gave it up and went home.

Today the same thing over.  I've got it up the tree again.

SUNDAY.--It is up there yet.  Resting, apparently.  But that is
a subterfuge:  Sunday isn't the day of rest; Saturday is appointed
for that.  It looks to me like a creature that is more interested
in resting than it anything else.  It would tire me to rest so much.
It tires me just to sit around and watch the tree.  I do wonder
what it is for; I never see it do anything.

They returned the moon last night, and I was SO happy!  I think
it is very honest of them.  It slid down and fell off again,
but I was not distressed; there is no need to worry when one has
that kind of neighbors; they will fetch it back.  I wish I could
do something to show my appreciation.  I would like to send them
some stars, for we have more than we can use.  I mean I, not we,
for I can see that the reptile cares nothing for such things.

It has low tastes, and is not kind.  When I went there yesterday
evening in the gloaming it had crept down and was trying to catch
the little speckled fishes that play in the pool, and I had
to clod it to make it go up the tree again and let them alone.
I wonder if THAT is what it is for?  Hasn't it any heart?
Hasn't it any compassion for those little creature?  Can it be
that it was designed and manufactured for such ungentle work?
It has the look of it.  One of the clods took it back of the ear,
and it used language.  It gave me a thrill, for it was the first time I
had ever heard speech, except my own.  I did not understand the words,
but they seemed expressive.

When I found it could talk I felt a new interest in it, for I
love to talk; I talk, all day, and in my sleep, too, and I am
very interesting, but if I had another to talk to I could be twice
as interesting, and would never stop, if desired.

If this reptile is a man, it isn't an IT, is it?  That wouldn't
be grammatical, would it?  I think it would be HE.  I think so.
In that case one would parse it thus:  nominative, HE; dative, HIM;
possessive, HIS'N. Well, I will consider it a man and call it he
until it turns out to be something else.  This will be handier
than having so many uncertainties.

NEXT WEEK SUNDAY.--All the week I tagged around after him and tried
to get acquainted.  I had to do the talking, because he was shy,
but I didn't mind it.  He seemed pleased to have me around, and I
used the sociable "we" a good deal, because it seemed to flatter him
to be included.

WEDNESDAY.--We are getting along very well indeed, now, and getting
better and better acquainted.  He does not try to avoid me any more,
which is a good sign, and shows that he likes to have me with him.
That pleases me, and I study to be useful to him in every way I can,
so as to increase his regard.  During the last day or two I
have taken all the work of naming things off his hands, and this
has been a great relief to him, for he has no gift in that line,
and is evidently very grateful.  He can't think of a rational name
to save him, but I do not let him see that I am aware of his defect.
Whenever a new creature comes along I name it before he has time
to expose himself by an awkward silence.  In this way I have
saved him many embarrassments.  I have no defect like this.
The minute I set eyes on an animal I know what it is.  I don't
have to reflect a moment; the right name comes out instantly,
just as if it were an inspiration, as no doubt it is, for I am
sure it wasn't in me half a minute before.  I seem to know just
by the shape of the creature and the way it acts what animal
it is.

When the dodo came along he thought it was a wildcat--I saw it
in his eye.  But I saved him.  And I was careful not to do it
in a way that could hurt his pride.  I just spoke up in a quite
natural way of pleasing surprise, and not as if I was dreaming
of conveying information, and said, "Well, I do declare, if there
isn't the dodo!"  I explained--without seeming to be explaining--
how I know it for a dodo, and although I thought maybe he was
a little piqued that I knew the creature when he didn't, it was
quite evident that he admired me.  That was very agreeable, and I
thought of it more than once with gratification before I slept.
How little a thing can make us happy when we feel that we have
earned it!

THURSDAY.--my first sorrow.  Yesterday he avoided me and seemed
to wish I would not talk to him.  I could not believe it,
and thought there was some mistake, for I loved to be with him,
and loved to hear him talk, and so how could it be that he could
feel unkind toward me when I had not done anything?  But at last it
seemed true, so I went away and sat lonely in the place where I first
saw him the morning that we were made and I did not know what he
was and was indifferent about him; but now it was a mournful place,
and every little think spoke of him, and my heart was very sore.
I did not know why very clearly, for it was a new feeling; I had
not experienced it before, and it was all a mystery, and I could
not make it out.

But when night came I could not bear the lonesomeness, and went
to the new shelter which he has built, to ask him what I had done
that was wrong and how I could mend it and get back his kindness again;
but he put me out in the rain, and it was my first sorrow.

SUNDAY.--It is pleasant again, now, and I am happy; but those were
heavy days; I do not think of them when I can help it.

I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot learn to
throw straight.  I failed, but I think the good intention pleased him.
They are forbidden, and he says I shall come to harm; but so I
come to harm through pleasing him, why shall I care for that harm?

MONDAY.--This morning I told him my name, hoping it would interest him.
But he did not care for it.  It is strange.  If he should tell me
his name, I would care.  I think it would be pleasanter in my ears
than any other sound.

He talks very little.  Perhaps it is because he is not bright,
and is sensitive about it and wishes to conceal it.  It is
such a pity that he should feel so, for brightness is nothing;
it is in the heart that the values lie.  I wish I could make him
understand that a loving good heart is riches, and riches enough,
and that without it intellect is poverty.

Although he talks so little, he has quite a considerable
vocabulary.  This morning he used a surprisingly good word.
He evidently recognized, himself, that it was a good one, for he
worked in in twice afterward, casually.  It was good casual art,
still it showed that he possesses a certain quality of perception.
Without a doubt that seed can be made to grow, if cultivated.

Where did he get that word?  I do not think I have ever used it.

No, he took no interest in my name.  I tried to hide my disappointment,
but I suppose I did not succeed.  I went away and sat on the
moss-bank with my feet in the water.  It is where I go when I hunger
for companionship, some one to look at, some one to talk to.
It is not enough--that lovely white body painted there in the pool--
but it is something, and something is better than utter loneliness.
It talks when I talk; it is sad when I am sad; it comforts me with
its sympathy; it says, "Do not be downhearted, you poor friendless girl;
I will be your friend."  It IS a good friend to me, and my only one;
it is my sister.

That first time that she forsook me! ah, I shall never forget that--
never, never.  My heart was lead in my body!  I said, "She was all
I had, and now she is gone!"  In my despair I said, "Break, my heart;
I cannot bear my life any more!" and hid my face in my hands,
and there was no solace for me.  And when I took them away,
after a little, there she was again, white and shining and beautiful,
and I sprang into her arms!

That was perfect happiness; I had known happiness before, but it was
not like this, which was ecstasy.  I never doubted her afterward.
Sometimes she stayed away--maybe an hour, maybe almost the
whole day, but I waited and did not doubt; I said, "She is busy,
or she is gone on a journey, but she will come."  And it was so:
she always did.  At night she would not come if it was dark, for she
was a timid little thing; but if there was a moon she would come.
I am not afraid of the dark, but she is younger than I am; she was
born after I was.  Many and many are the visits I have paid her;
she is my comfort and my refuge when my life is hard--and it is
mainly that.

TUESDAY.--All the morning I was at work improving the estate;
and I purposely kept away from him in the hope that he would get
lonely and come.  But he did not.

At noon I stopped for the day and took my recreation by flitting all
about with the bees and the butterflies and reveling in the flowers,
those beautiful creatures that catch the smile of God out of the
sky and preserve it!  I gathered them, and made them into wreaths
and garlands and clothed myself in them while I ate my luncheon--
apples, of course; then I sat in the shade and wished and waited.
But he did not come.

But no matter.  Nothing would have come of it, for he does not
care for flowers.  He called them rubbish, and cannot tell one
from another, and thinks it is superior to feel like that.  He does
not care for me, he does not care for flowers, he does not care
for the painted sky at eventide--is there anything he does care for,
except building shacks to coop himself up in from the good clean rain,
and thumping the melons, and sampling the grapes, and fingering
the fruit on the trees, to see how those properties are coming along?

I laid a dry stick on the ground and tried to bore a hole in it
with another one, in order to carry out a scheme that I had,
and soon I got an awful fright.  A thin, transparent bluish film
rose out of the hole, and I dropped everything and ran!  I thought
it was a spirit, and I WAS so frightened!  But I looked back, and it
was not coming; so I leaned against a rock and rested and panted,
and let my limps go on trembling until they got steady again;
then I crept warily back, alert, watching, and ready to fly if there
was occasion; and when I was come near, I parted the branches
of a rose-bush and peeped through--wishing the man was about,
I was looking so cunning and pretty--but the sprite was gone.
I went there, and there was a pinch of delicate pink dust in the hole.
I put my finger in, to feel it, and said OUCH! and took it
out again.  It was a cruel pain.  I put my finger in my mouth;
and by standing first on one foot and then the other, and grunting,
I presently eased my misery; then I was full of interest, and began
to examine.

I was curious to know what the pink dust was.  Suddenly the name of it
occurred to me, though I had never heard of it before.  It was FIRE!
I was as certain of it as a person could be of anything in the world.
So without hesitation I named it that--fire.

I had created something that didn't exist before; I had added
a new thing to the world's uncountable properties; I realized this,
and was proud of my achievement, and was going to run and find him
and tell him about it, thinking to raise myself in his esteem--
but I reflected, and did not do it.  No--he would not care for it.
He would ask what it was good for, and what could I answer? for if it
was not GOOD for something, but only beautiful, merely beautiful--

So I sighed, and did not go.  For it wasn't good for anything;
it could not build a shack, it could not improve melons, it could
not hurry a fruit crop; it was useless, it was a foolishness
and a vanity; he would despise it and say cutting words.
But to me it was not despicable; I said, "Oh, you fire, I love you,
you dainty pink creature, for you are BEAUTIFUL--and that is enough!"
and was going to gather it to my breast.  But refrained.
Then I made another maxim out of my head, though it was so nearly
like the first one that I was afraid it was only a plagiarism:
"THE BURNT EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE FIRE."

I wrought again; and when I had made a good deal of fire-dust I emptied
it into a handful of dry brown grass, intending to carry it home
and keep it always and play with it; but the wind struck it and it
sprayed up and spat out at me fiercely, and I dropped it and ran.
When I looked back the blue spirit was towering up and stretching
and rolling away like a cloud, and instantly I thought of the name
of it--SMOKE!--though, upon my word, I had never heard of smoke before.

Soon brilliant yellow and red flares shot up through the smoke,
and I named them in an instant--FLAMES--and I was right, too,
though these were the very first flames that had ever been
in the world.  They climbed the trees, then flashed splendidly
in and out of the vast and increasing volume of tumbling smoke,
and I had to clap my hands and laugh and dance in my rapture,
it was so new and strange and so wonderful and so beautiful!

He came running, and stopped and gazed, and said not a word for
many minutes.  Then he asked what it was.  Ah, it was too bad that he
should ask such a direct question.  I had to answer it, of course,
and I did.  I said it was fire.  If it annoyed him that I should know
and he must ask; that was not my fault; I had no desire to annoy him.
After a pause he asked:

"How did it come?"

Another direct question, and it also had to have a direct answer.

"I made it."

The fire was traveling farther and farther off.  He went to the edge
of the burned place and stood looking down, and said:

"What are these?"

"Fire-coals."

He picked up one to examine it, but changed his mind and put it
down again.  Then he went away.  NOTHING interests him.

But I was interested.  There were ashes, gray and soft and delicate
and pretty--I knew what they were at once.  And the embers;
I knew the embers, too.  I found my apples, and raked them out,
and was glad; for I am very young and my appetite is active.
But I was disappointed; they were all burst open and spoiled.
Spoiled apparently; but it was not so; they were better than raw ones.
Fire is beautiful; some day it will be useful, I think.

FRIDAY.--I saw him again, for a moment, last Monday at nightfall,
but only for a moment.  I was hoping he would praise me for trying
to improve the estate, for I had meant well and had worked hard.
But he was not pleased, and turned away and left me.  He was also
displeased on another account:  I tried once more to persuade him
to stop going over the Falls.  That was because the fire had revealed
to me a new passion--quite new, and distinctly different from love,
grief, and those others which I had already discovered--FEAR.  And it
is horrible!--I wish I had never discovered it; it gives me dark moments,
it spoils my happiness, it makes me shiver and tremble and shudder.
But I could not persuade him, for he has not discovered fear yet,
and so he could not understand me.


Extract from Adam's Diary


Perhaps I ought to remember that she is very young, a mere girl and
make allowances.  She is all interest, eagerness, vivacity, the world
is to her a charm, a wonder, a mystery, a joy; she can't speak for
delight when she finds a new flower, she must pet it and caress it
and smell it and talk to it, and pour out endearing names upon it.
And she is color-mad: brown rocks, yellow sand, gray moss, green foliage,
blue sky; the pearl of the dawn, the purple shadows on the mountains,
the golden islands floating in crimson seas at sunset, the pallid moon
sailing through the shredded cloud-rack, the star-jewels glittering
in the wastes of space--none of them is of any practical value,
so far as I can see, but because they have color and majesty,
that is enough for her, and she loses her mind over them.
If she could quiet down and keep still a couple minutes at a time,
it would be a reposeful spectacle.  In that case I think I could
enjoy looking at her; indeed I am sure I could, for I am coming
to realize that she is a quite remarkably comely creature--
lithe, slender, trim, rounded, shapely, nimble, graceful; and once
when she was standing marble-white and sun-drenched on a boulder,
with her young head tilted back and her hand shading her eyes,
watching the flight of a bird in the sky, I recognized that she
was beautiful.

MONDAY NOON.--If there is anything on the planet that she is not
interested in it is not in my list.  There are animals that I am
indifferent to, but it is not so with her.  She has no discrimination,
she takes to all of them, she thinks they are all treasures,
every new one is welcome.

When the mighty brontosaurus came striding into camp, she regarded
it as an acquisition, I considered it a calamity; that is a good
sample of the lack of harmony that prevails in our views of things.
She wanted to domesticate it, I wanted to make it a present of the
homestead and move out.  She believed it could be tamed by kind
treatment and would be a good pet; I said a pet twenty-one feet
high and eight-four feet long would be no proper thing to have
about the place, because, even with the best intentions and without
meaning any harm, it could sit down on the house and mash it,
for any one could see by the look of its eye that it was absent-minded.

Still, her heart was set upon having that monster, and she
couldn't give it up.  She thought we could start a dairy with it,
and wanted me to help milk it; but I wouldn't; it was too risky.
The sex wasn't right, and we hadn't any ladder anyway.  Then she
wanted to ride it, and look at the scenery.  Thirty or forty feet
of its tail was lying on the ground, like a fallen tree, and she
thought she could climb it, but she was mistaken; when she got
to the steep place it was too slick and down she came, and would
have hurt herself but for me.

Was she satisfied now?  No. Nothing ever satisfies her but demonstration;
untested theories are not in her line, and she won't have them.
It is the right spirit, I concede it; it attracts me; I feel the
influence of it; if I were with her more I think I should take it
up myself.  Well, she had one theory remaining about this colossus:
she thought that if we could tame it and make him friendly we could
stand in the river and use him for a bridge.  It turned out that he
was already plenty tame enough--at least as far as she was concerned--
so she tried her theory, but it failed:  every time she got him
properly placed in the river and went ashore to cross over him,
he came out and followed her around like a pet mountain.  Like the
other animals.  They all do that.


FRIDAY.--Tuesday--Wednesday--Thursday--and today:  all without
seeing him.  It is a long time to be alone; still, it is better
to be alone than unwelcome.

I HAD to have company--I was made for it, I think--so I made
friends with the animals.  They are just charming, and they have
the kindest disposition and the politest ways; they never look sour,
they never let you feel that you are intruding, they smile at you
and wag their tail, if they've got one, and they are always ready
for a romp or an excursion or anything you want to propose.
I think they are perfect gentlemen.  All these days we have had such
good times, and it hasn't been lonesome for me, ever.  Lonesome!  No,
I should say not.  Why, there's always a swarm of them around--
sometimes as much as four or five acres--you can't count them;
and when you stand on a rock in the midst and look out over the
furry expanse it is so mottled and splashed and gay with color
and frisking sheen and sun-flash, and so rippled with stripes,
that you might think it was a lake, only you know it isn't;
and there's storms of sociable birds, and hurricanes of whirring wings;
and when the sun strikes all that feathery commotion, you have a blazing
up of all the colors you can think of, enough to put your eyes out.

We have made long excursions, and I have see a great deal of the world;
almost all of it, I think; and so I am the first traveler,
and the only one.  When we are on the march, it is an imposing sight--
there's nothing like it anywhere.  For comfort I ride a tiger
or a leopard, because it is soft and has a round back that fits me,
and because they are such pretty animals; but for long distance
or for scenery I ride the elephant.  He hoists me up with his trunk,
but I can get off myself; when we are ready to camp, he sits and I
slide down the back way.

The birds and animals are all friendly to each other, and there
are no disputes about anything.  They all talk, and they all talk
to me, but it must be a foreign language, for I cannot make out
a word they say; yet they often understand me when I talk back,
particularly the dog and the elephant.  It makes me ashamed.
It shows that they are brighter than I am, for I want to be the
principal Experiment myself--and I intend to be, too.

I have learned a number of things, and am educated, now, but I
wasn't at first.  I was ignorant at first.  At first it used to vex
me because, with all my watching, I was never smart enough to be
around when the water was running uphill; but now I do not mind it.
I have experimented and experimented until now I know it never
does run uphill, except in the dark.  I know it does in the dark,
because the pool never goes dry, which it would, of course,
if the water didn't come back in the night.  It is best to prove
things by actual experiment; then you KNOW; whereas if you depend
on guessing and supposing and conjecturing, you never get educated.

Some things you CAN'T find out; but you will never know you can't
by guessing and supposing:  no, you have to be patient and go on
experimenting until you find out that you can't find out.  And it is
delightful to have it that way, it makes the world so interesting.
If there wasn't anything to find out, it would be dull.  Even trying
to find out and not finding out is just as interesting as trying
to find out and finding out, and I don't know but more so.
The secret of the water was a treasure until I GOT it; then the
excitement all went away, and I recognized a sense of loss.

By experiment I know that wood swims, and dry leaves, and feathers,
and plenty of other things; therefore by all that cumulative evidence
you know that a rock will swim; but you have to put up with simply
knowing it, for there isn't any way to prove it--up to now.
But I shall find a way--then THAT excitement will go.  Such things
make me sad; because by and by when I have found out everything
there won't be any more excitements, and I do love excitements so!
The other night I couldn't sleep for thinking about it.

At first I couldn't make out what I was made for, but now I think it
was to search out the secrets of this wonderful world and be happy
and thank the Giver of it all for devising it.  I think there are many
things to learn yet--I hope so; and by economizing and not hurrying
too fast I think they will last weeks and weeks.  I hope so.  When you
cast up a feather it sails away on the air and goes out of sight;
then you throw up a clod and it doesn't. It comes down, every time.
I have tried it and tried it, and it is always so.  I wonder why
it is?  Of course it DOESN'T come down, but why should it SEEM to?
I suppose it is an optical illusion.  I mean, one of them is.
I don't know which one.  It may be the feather, it may be the clod;
I can't prove which it is, I can only demonstrate that one or the other
is a fake, and let a person take his choice.

By watching, I know that the stars are not going to last.
I have seen some of the best ones melt and run down the sky.
Since one can melt, they can all melt; since they can all melt,
they can all melt the same night.  That sorrow will come--I know it.
I mean to sit up every night and look at them as long as I can
keep awake; and I will impress those sparkling fields on my memory,
so that by and by when they are taken away I can by my fancy restore
those lovely myriads to the black sky and make them sparkle again,
and double them by the blur of my tears.


After the Fall


When I look back, the Garden is a dream to me.  It was beautiful,
surpassingly beautiful, enchantingly beautiful; and now it is lost,
and I shall not see it any more.

The Garden is lost, but I have found HIM, and am content.
He loves me as well as he can; I love him with all the strength
of my passionate nature, and this, I think, is proper to my youth
and sex.  If I ask myself why I love him, I find I do not know,
and do not really much care to know; so I suppose that this kind
of love is not a product of reasoning and statistics, like one's
love for other reptiles and animals.  I think that this must be so.
I love certain birds because of their song; but I do not love Adam
on account of his singing--no, it is not that; the more he sings
the more I do not get reconciled to it.  Yet I ask him to sing,
because I wish to learn to like everything he is interested in.
I am sure I can learn, because at first I could not stand it,
but now I can.  It sours the milk, but it doesn't matter; I can get
used to that kind of milk.

It is not on account of his brightness that I love him--no, it is
not that.  He is not to blame for his brightness, such as it is,
for he did not make it himself; he is as God make him, and that
is sufficient.  There was a wise purpose in it, THAT I know.
In time it will develop, though I think it will not be sudden;
and besides, there is no hurry; he is well enough just as he is.

It is not on account of his gracious and considerate ways and
his delicacy that I love him.  No, he has lacks in this regard,
but he is well enough just so, and is improving.

It is not on account of his industry that I love him--no, it is
not that.  I think he has it in him, and I do not know why he
conceals it from me.  It is my only pain.  Otherwise he is frank
and open with me, now.  I am sure he keeps nothing from me but this.
It grieves me that he should have a secret from me, and sometimes it
spoils my sleep, thinking of it, but I will put it out of my mind;
it shall not trouble my happiness, which is otherwise full
to overflowing.

It is not on account of his education that I love him--no, it is
not that.  He is self-educated, and does really know a multitude
of things, but they are not so.

It is not on account of his chivalry that I love him--no, it is not that.
He told on me, but I do not blame him; it is a peculiarity of sex,
I think, and he did not make his sex.  Of course I would not have
told on him, I would have perished first; but that is a peculiarity
of sex, too, and I do not take credit for it, for I did not make
my sex.

Then why is it that I love him?  MERELY BECAUSE HE IS MASCULINE,
I think.

At bottom he is good, and I love him for that, but I could love
him without it.  If he should beat me and abuse me, I should go
on loving him.  I know it.  It is a matter of sex, I think.

He is strong and handsome, and I love him for that, and I admire him
and am proud of him, but I could love him without those qualities.
He he were plain, I should love him; if he were a wreck, I should
love him; and I would work for him, and slave over him, and pray
for him, and watch by his bedside until I died.

Yes, I think I love him merely because he is MINE and is MASCULINE.
There is no other reason, I suppose.  And so I think it is as I
first said:  that this kind of love is not a product of reasonings
and statistics.  It just COMES--none knows whence--and cannot
explain itself.  And doesn't need to.

It is what I think.  But I am only a girl, the first that has
examined this matter, and it may turn out that in my ignorance
and inexperience I have not got it right.


Forty Years Later


It is my prayer, it is my longing, that we may pass from this
life together--a longing which shall never perish from the earth,
but shall have place in the heart of every wife that loves,
until the end of time; and it shall be called by my name.

But if one of us must go first, it is my prayer that it shall be I;
for he is strong, I am weak, I am not so necessary to him as he is
to me--life without him would not be life; now could I endure it?
This prayer is also immortal, and will not cease from being offered up
while my race continues.  I am the first wife; and in the last wife I
shall be repeated.


At Eve's Grave


ADAM:  Wheresoever she was, THERE was Eden.


***

The End of Project Gutenberg etext of "The $30,000 Bequest"






A HORSE'S TALE

By Mark Twain



CHAPTER I - SOLDIER BOY - PRIVATELY TO HIMSELF

I am Buffalo Bill's horse.  I have spent my life under his saddle -
with him in it, too, and he is good for two hundred pounds, without
his clothes; and there is no telling how much he does weigh when he
is out on the war-path and has his batteries belted on.  He is over
six feet, is young, hasn't an ounce of waste flesh, is straight,
graceful, springy in his motions, quick as a cat, and has a
handsome face, and black hair dangling down on his shoulders, and
is beautiful to look at; and nobody is braver than he is, and
nobody is stronger, except myself.  Yes, a person that doubts that
he is fine to see should see him in his beaded buck-skins, on my
back and his rifle peeping above his shoulder, chasing a hostile
trail, with me going like the wind and his hair streaming out
behind from the shelter of his broad slouch.  Yes, he is a sight to
look at then - and I'm part of it myself.

I am his favorite horse, out of dozens.  Big as he is, I have
carried him eighty-one miles between nightfall and sunrise on the
scout; and I am good for fifty, day in and day out, and all the
time.  I am not large, but I am built on a business basis.  I have
carried him thousands and thousands of miles on scout duty for the
army, and there's not a gorge, nor a pass, nor a valley, nor a
fort, nor a trading post, nor a buffalo-range in the whole sweep of
the Rocky Mountains and the Great Plains that we don't know as well
as we know the bugle-calls.  He is Chief of Scouts to the Army of
the Frontier, and it makes us very important.  In such a position
as I hold in the military service one needs to be of good family
and possess an education much above the common to be worthy of the
place.  I am the best-educated horse outside of the hippodrome,
everybody says, and the best-mannered.  It may be so, it is not for
me to say; modesty is the best policy, I think.  Buffalo Bill
taught me the most of what I know, my mother taught me much, and I
taught myself the rest.  Lay a row of moccasins before me - Pawnee,
Sioux, Shoshone, Cheyenne, Blackfoot, and as many other tribes as
you please - and I can name the tribe every moccasin belongs to by
the make of it.  Name it in horse-talk, and could do it in American
if I had speech.

I know some of the Indian signs - the signs they make with their
hands, and by signal-fires at night and columns of smoke by day.
Buffalo Bill taught me how to drag wounded soldiers out of the line
of fire with my teeth; and I've done it, too; at least I've dragged
HIM out of the battle when he was wounded.  And not just once, but
twice.  Yes, I know a lot of things.  I remember forms, and gaits,
and faces; and you can't disguise a person that's done me a
kindness so that I won't know him thereafter wherever I find him.
I know the art of searching for a trail, and I know the stale track
from the fresh.  I can keep a trail all by myself, with Buffalo
Bill asleep in the saddle; ask him - he will tell you so.  Many a
time, when he has ridden all night, he has said to me at dawn,
"Take the watch, Boy; if the trail freshens, call me."  Then he
goes to sleep.  He knows he can trust me, because I have a
reputation.  A scout horse that has a reputation does not play with
it.

My mother was all American - no alkali-spider about HER, I can tell
you; she was of the best blood of Kentucky, the bluest Blue-grass
aristocracy, very proud and acrimonious - or maybe it is
ceremonious.  I don't know which it is.  But it is no matter; size
is the main thing about a word, and that one's up to standard.  She
spent her military life as colonel of the Tenth Dragoons, and saw a
deal of rough service - distinguished service it was, too.  I mean,
she CARRIED the Colonel; but it's all the same.  Where would he be
without his horse?  He wouldn't arrive.  It takes two to make a
colonel of dragoons.  She was a fine dragoon horse, but never got
above that.  She was strong enough for the scout service, and had
the endurance, too, but she couldn't quite come up to the speed
required; a scout horse has to have steel in his muscle and
lightning in his blood.

My father was a bronco.  Nothing as to lineage - that is, nothing
as to recent lineage - but plenty good enough when you go a good
way back.  When Professor Marsh was out here hunting bones for the
chapel of Yale University he found skeletons of horses no bigger
than a fox, bedded in the rocks, and he said they were ancestors of
my father.  My mother heard him say it; and he said those skeletons
were two million years old, which astonished her and made her
Kentucky pretensions look small and pretty antiphonal, not to say
oblique.  Let me see. . . . I used to know the meaning of those
words, but . . . well, it was years ago, and 'tisn't as vivid now
as it was when they were fresh.  That sort of words doesn't keep,
in the kind of climate we have out here.  Professor Marsh said
those skeletons were fossils.  So that makes me part blue grass and
part fossil; if there is any older or better stock, you will have
to look for it among the Four Hundred, I reckon.  I am satisfied
with it.  And am a happy horse, too, though born out of wedlock.

And now we are back at Fort Paxton once more, after a forty-day
scout, away up as far as the Big Horn.  Everything quiet.  Crows
and Blackfeet squabbling - as usual - but no outbreaks, and
settlers feeling fairly easy.

The Seventh Cavalry still in garrison, here; also the Ninth
Dragoons, two artillery companies, and some infantry.  All glad to
see me, including General Alison, commandant.  The officers' ladies
and children well, and called upon me - with sugar.  Colonel Drake,
Seventh Cavalry, said some pleasant things; Mrs. Drake was very
complimentary; also Captain and Mrs. Marsh, Company B, Seventh
Cavalry; also the Chaplain, who is always kind and pleasant to me,
because I kicked the lungs out of a trader once.  It was Tommy
Drake and Fanny Marsh that furnished the sugar - nice children, the
nicest at the post, I think.

That poor orphan child is on her way from France - everybody is
full of the subject.  Her father was General Alison's brother;
married a beautiful young Spanish lady ten years ago, and has never
been in America since.  They lived in Spain a year or two, then
went to France.  Both died some months ago.  This little girl that
is coming is the only child.  General Alison is glad to have her.
He has never seen her.  He is a very nice old bachelor, but is an
old bachelor just the same and isn't more than about a year this
side of retirement by age limit; and so what does he know about
taking care of a little maid nine years old?  If I could have her
it would be another matter, for I know all about children, and they
adore me.  Buffalo Bill will tell you so himself.

I have some of this news from over-hearing the garrison-gossip, the
rest of it I got from Potter, the General's dog.  Potter is the
great Dane.  He is privileged, all over the post, like Shekels, the
Seventh Cavalry's dog, and visits everybody's quarters and picks up
everything that is going, in the way of news.  Potter has no
imagination, and no great deal of culture, perhaps, but he has a
historical mind and a good memory, and so he is the person I depend
upon mainly to post me up when I get back from a scout.  That is,
if Shekels is out on depredation and I can't get hold of him.




CHAPTER II - LETTER FROM ROUEN - TO GENERAL ALISON

My dear Brother-in-Law, - Please let me write again in Spanish, I
cannot trust my English, and I am aware, from what your brother
used to say, that army officers educated at the Military Academy of
the United States are taught our tongue.  It is as I told you in my
other letter:  both my poor sister and her husband, when they found
they could not recover, expressed the wish that you should have
their little Catherine - as knowing that you would presently be
retired from the army - rather than that she should remain with me,
who am broken in health, or go to your mother in California, whose
health is also frail.

You do not know the child, therefore I must tell you something
about her.  You will not be ashamed of her looks, for she is a copy
in little of her beautiful mother - and it is that Andalusian
beauty which is not surpassable, even in your country.  She has her
mother's charm and grace and good heart and sense of justice, and
she has her father's vivacity and cheerfulness and pluck and spirit
of enterprise, with the affectionate disposition and sincerity of
both parents.

My sister pined for her Spanish home all these years of exile; she
was always talking of Spain to the child, and tending and
nourishing the love of Spain in the little thing's heart as a
precious flower; and she died happy in the knowledge that the
fruitage of her patriotic labors was as rich as even she could
desire.

Cathy is a sufficiently good little scholar, for her nine years;
her mother taught her Spanish herself, and kept it always fresh
upon her ear and her tongue by hardly ever speaking with her in any
other tongue; her father was her English teacher, and talked with
her in that language almost exclusively; French has been her
everyday speech for more than seven years among her playmates here;
she has a good working use of governess - German and Italian.  It
is true that there is always a faint foreign fragrance about her
speech, no matter what language she is talking, but it is only just
noticeable, nothing more, and is rather a charm than a mar, I
think.  In the ordinary child-studies Cathy is neither before nor
behind the average child of nine, I should say.  But I can say this
for her:  in love for her friends and in high-mindedness and good-
heartedness she has not many equals, and in my opinion no
superiors.  And I beg of you, let her have her way with the dumb
animals - they are her worship.  It is an inheritance from her
mother.  She knows but little of cruelties and oppressions - keep
them from her sight if you can.  She would flare up at them and
make trouble, in her small but quite decided and resolute way; for
she has a character of her own, and lacks neither promptness nor
initiative.  Sometimes her judgment is at fault, but I think her
intentions are always right.  Once when she was a little creature
of three or four years she suddenly brought her tiny foot down upon
the floor in an apparent outbreak of indignation, then fetched it a
backward wipe, and stooped down to examine the result.  Her mother
said:

"Why, what is it, child?  What has stirred you so?"

"Mamma, the big ant was trying to kill the little one."

"And so you protected the little one."

"Yes, manure, because he had no friend, and I wouldn't let the big
one kill him."

"But you have killed them both."

Cathy was distressed, and her lip trembled.  She picked up the
remains and laid them upon her palm, and said:

"Poor little anty, I'm so sorry; and I didn't mean to kill you, but
there wasn't any other way to save you, it was such a hurry."

She is a dear and sweet little lady, and when she goes it will give
me a sore heart.  But she will be happy with you, and if your heart
is old and tired, give it into her keeping; she will make it young
again, she will refresh it, she will make it sing.  Be good to her,
for all our sakes!

My exile will soon be over now.  As soon as I am a little stronger
I shall see my Spain again; and that will make me young again!

MERCEDES.




CHAPTER III - GENERAL ALISON TO HIS MOTHER

I am glad to know that you are all well, in San Bernardino.

. . . That grandchild of yours has been here - well, I do not quite
know how many days it is; nobody can keep account of days or
anything else where she is!  Mother, she did what the Indians were
never able to do.  She took the Fort - took it the first day!  Took
me, too; took the colonels, the captains, the women, the children,
and the dumb brutes; took Buffalo Bill, and all his scouts; took
the garrison - to the last man; and in forty-eight hours the Indian
encampment was hers, illustrious old Thunder-Bird and all.  Do I
seem to have lost my solemnity, my gravity, my poise, my dignity?
You would lose your own, in my circumstances.  Mother, you never
saw such a winning little devil.  She is all energy, and spirit,
and sunshine, and interest in everybody and everything, and pours
out her prodigal love upon every creature that will take it, high
or low, Christian or pagan, feathered or furred; and none has
declined it to date, and none ever will, I think.  But she has a
temper, and sometimes it catches fire and flames up, and is likely
to burn whatever is near it; but it is soon over, the passion goes
as quickly as it comes.  Of course she has an Indian name already;
Indians always rechristen a stranger early.  Thunder-Bird attended
to her case.  He gave her the Indian equivalent for firebug, or
fire-fly.  He said:

"'Times, ver' quiet, ver' soft, like summer night, but when she mad
she blaze."

Isn't it good?  Can't you see the flare?  She's beautiful, mother,
beautiful as a picture; and there is a touch of you in her face,
and of her father - poor George! and in her unresting activities,
and her fearless ways, and her sunbursts and cloudbursts, she is
always bringing George back to me.  These impulsive natures are
dramatic.  George was dramatic, so is this Lightning-Bug, so is
Buffalo Bill.  When Cathy first arrived - it was in the forenoon -
Buffalo Bill was away, carrying orders to Major Fuller, at Five
Forks, up in the Clayton Hills.  At mid-afternoon I was at my desk,
trying to work, and this sprite had been making it impossible for
half an hour.  At last I said:

"Oh, you bewitching little scamp, CAN'T you be quiet just a minute
or two, and let your poor old uncle attend to a part of his
duties?"

"I'll try, uncle; I will, indeed," she said.

"Well, then, that's a good child - kiss me.  Now, then, sit up in
that chair, and set your eye on that clock.  There - that's right.
If you stir - if you so much as wink - for four whole minutes, I'll
bite you!"

It was very sweet and humble and obedient she looked, sitting
there, still as a mouse; I could hardly keep from setting her free
and telling her to make as much racket as she wanted to.  During as
much as two minutes there was a most unnatural and heavenly quiet
and repose, then Buffalo Bill came thundering up to the door in all
his scout finery, flung himself out of the saddle, said to his
horse, "Wait for me, Boy," and stepped in, and stopped dead in his
tracks - gazing at the child.  She forgot orders, and was on the
floor in a moment, saying:

"Oh, you are so beautiful!  Do you like me?"

"No, I don't, I love you!" and he gathered her up with a hug, and
then set her on his shoulder - apparently nine feet from the floor.

She was at home.  She played with his long hair, and admired his
big hands and his clothes and his carbine, and asked question after
question, as fast as he could answer, until I excused them both for
half an hour, in order to have a chance to finish my work.  Then I
heard Cathy exclaiming over Soldier Boy; and he was worthy of her
raptures, for he is a wonder of a horse, and has a reputation which
is as shining as his own silken hide.



CHAPTER IV - CATHY TO HER AUNT MERCEDES



Oh, it is wonderful here, aunty dear, just paradise!  Oh, if you
could only see it! everything so wild and lovely; such grand
plains, stretching such miles and miles and miles, all the most
delicious velvety sand and sage-brush, and rabbits as big as a dog,
and such tall and noble jackassful ears that that is what they name
them by; and such vast mountains, and so rugged and craggy and
lofty, with cloud-shawls wrapped around their shoulders, and
looking so solemn and awful and satisfied; and the charming
Indians, oh, how you would dote on them, aunty dear, and they would
on you, too, and they would let you hold their babies, the way they
do me, and they ARE the fattest, and brownest, and sweetest little
things, and never cry, and wouldn't if they had pins sticking in
them, which they haven't, because they are poor and can't afford
it; and the horses and mules and cattle and dogs - hundreds and
hundreds and hundreds, and not an animal that you can't do what you
please with, except uncle Thomas, but I don't mind him, he's
lovely; and oh, if you could hear the bugles:  TOO - TOO - TOO-TOO
- TOO - TOO, and so on - perfectly beautiful!  Do you recognize
that one?  It's the first toots of the REVEILLE; it goes, dear me,
SO early in the morning! - then I and every other soldier on the
whole place are up and out in a minute, except uncle Thomas, who is
most unaccountably lazy, I don't know why, but I have talked to him
about it, and I reckon it will be better, now.  He hasn't any
faults much, and is charming and sweet, like Buffalo Bill, and
Thunder-Bird, and Mammy Dorcas, and Soldier Boy, and Shekels, and
Potter, and Sour-Mash, and - well, they're ALL that, just angels,
as you may say.

The very first day I came, I don't know how long ago it was,
Buffalo Bill took me on Soldier Boy to Thunder-Bird's camp, not the
big one which is out on the plain, which is White Cloud's, he took
me to THAT one next day, but this one is four or five miles up in
the hills and crags, where there is a great shut-in meadow, full of
Indian lodges and dogs and squaws and everything that is
interesting, and a brook of the clearest water running through it,
with white pebbles on the bottom and trees all along the banks cool
and shady and good to wade in, and as the sun goes down it is
dimmish in there, but away up against the sky you see the big peaks
towering up and shining bright and vivid in the sun, and sometimes
an eagle sailing by them, not flapping a wing, the same as if he
was asleep; and young Indians and girls romping and laughing and
carrying on, around the spring and the pool, and not much clothes
on except the girls, and dogs fighting, and the squaws busy at
work, and the bucks busy resting, and the old men sitting in a
bunch smoking, and passing the pipe not to the left but to the
right, which means there's been a row in the camp and they are
settling it if they can, and children playing JUST the same as any
other children, and little boys shooting at a mark with bows, and I
cuffed one of them because he hit a dog with a club that wasn't
doing anything, and he resented it but before long he wished he
hadn't:  but this sentence is getting too long and I will start
another.  Thunder-Bird put on his Sunday-best war outfit to let me
see him, and he was splendid to look at, with his face painted red
and bright and intense like a fire-coal and a valance of eagle
feathers from the top of his head all down his back, and he had his
tomahawk, too, and his pipe, which has a stem which is longer than
my arm, and I never had such a good time in an Indian camp in my
life, and I learned a lot of words of the language, and next day BB
took me to the camp out on the Plains, four miles, and I had
another good time and got acquainted with some more Indians and
dogs; and the big chief, by the name of White Cloud, gave me a
pretty little bow and arrows and I gave him my red sash-ribbon, and
in four days I could shoot very well with it and beat any white boy
of my size at the post; and I have been to those camps plenty of
times since; and I have learned to ride, too, BB taught me, and
every day he practises me and praises me, and every time I do
better than ever he lets me have a scamper on Soldier Boy, and
THAT'S the last agony of pleasure! for he is the charmingest horse,
and so beautiful and shiny and black, and hasn't another color on
him anywhere, except a white star in his forehead, not just an
imitation star, but a real one, with four points, shaped exactly
like a star that's hand-made, and if you should cover him all up
but his star you would know him anywhere, even in Jerusalem or
Australia, by that.  And I got acquainted with a good many of the
Seventh Cavalry, and the dragoons, and officers, and families, and
horses, in the first few days, and some more in the next few and
the next few and the next few, and now I know more soldiers and
horses than you can think, no matter how hard you try.  I am
keeping up my studies every now and then, but there isn't much time
for it.  I love you so! and I send you a hug and a kiss.

CATHY.

P.S. - I belong to the Seventh Cavalry and Ninth Dragoons, I am an
officer, too, and do not have to work on account of not getting any
wages.




CHAPTER V - GENERAL ALISON TO MERCEDES

She has been with us a good nice long time, now.  You are troubled
about your sprite because this is such a wild frontier, hundreds of
miles from civilization, and peopled only by wandering tribes of
savages?  You fear for her safety?  Give yourself no uneasiness
about her.  Dear me, she's in a nursery! and she's got more than
eighteen hundred nurses.  It would distress the garrison to suspect
that you think they can't take care of her.  They think they can.
They would tell you so themselves.  You see, the Seventh Cavalry
has never had a child of its very own before, and neither has the
Ninth Dragoons; and so they are like all new mothers, they think
there is no other child like theirs, no other child so wonderful,
none that is so worthy to be faithfully and tenderly looked after
and protected.  These bronzed veterans of mine are very good
mothers, I think, and wiser than some other mothers; for they let
her take lots of risks, and it is a good education for her; and the
more risks she takes and comes successfully out of, the prouder
they are of her.  They adopted her, with grave and formal military
ceremonies of their own invention - solemnities is the truer word;
solemnities that were so profoundly solemn and earnest, that the
spectacle would have been comical if it hadn't been so touching.
It was a good show, and as stately and complex as guard-mount and
the trooping of the colors; and it had its own special music,
composed for the occasion by the bandmaster of the Seventh; and the
child was as serious as the most serious war-worn soldier of them
all; and finally when they throned her upon the shoulder of the
oldest veteran, and pronounced her "well and truly adopted," and
the bands struck up and all saluted and she saluted in return, it
was better and more moving than any kindred thing I have seen on
the stage, because stage things are make-believe, but this was real
and the players' hearts were in it.

It happened several weeks ago, and was followed by some additional
solemnities.  The men created a couple of new ranks, thitherto
unknown to the army regulations, and conferred them upon Cathy,
with ceremonies suitable to a duke.  So now she is Corporal-General
of the Seventh Cavalry, and Flag-Lieutenant of the Ninth Dragoons,
with the privilege (decreed by the men) of writing U.S.A. after her
name!  Also, they presented her a pair of shoulder-straps - both
dark blue, the one with F. L. on it, the other with C. G.  Also, a
sword.  She wears them.  Finally, they granted her the SALUTE.  I
am witness that that ceremony is faithfully observed by both
parties - and most gravely and decorously, too.  I have never seen
a soldier smile yet, while delivering it, nor Cathy in returning
it.

Ostensibly I was not present at these proceedings, and am ignorant
of them; but I was where I could see.  I was afraid of one thing -
the jealousy of the other children of the post; but there is
nothing of that, I am glad to say.  On the contrary, they are proud
of their comrade and her honors.  It is a surprising thing, but it
is true.  The children are devoted to Cathy, for she has turned
their dull frontier life into a sort of continuous festival; also
they know her for a stanch and steady friend, a friend who can
always be depended upon, and does not change with the weather.

She has become a rather extraordinary rider, under the tutorship of
a more than extraordinary teacher - BB, which is her pet name for
Buffalo Bill.  She pronounces it BEEBY.  He has not only taught her
seventeen ways of breaking her neck, but twenty-two ways of
avoiding it.  He has infused into her the best and surest
protection of a horseman - CONFIDENCE.  He did it gradually,
systematically, little by little, a step at a time, and each step
made sure before the next was essayed.  And so he inched her along
up through terrors that had been discounted by training before she
reached them, and therefore were not recognizable as terrors when
she got to them.  Well, she is a daring little rider, now, and is
perfect in what she knows of horsemanship.  By-and-by she will know
the art like a West Point cadet, and will exercise it as
fearlessly.  She doesn't know anything about side-saddles.  Does
that distress you?  And she is a fine performer, without any saddle
at all.  Does that discomfort you?  Do not let it; she is not in
any danger, I give you my word.

You said that if my heart was old and tired she would refresh it,
and you said truly.  I do not know how I got along without her,
before.  I was a forlorn old tree, but now that this blossoming
vine has wound itself about me and become the life of my life, it
is very different.  As a furnisher of business for me and for Mammy
Dorcas she is exhaustlessly competent, but I like my share of it
and of course Dorcas likes hers, for Dorcas "raised" George, and
Cathy is George over again in so many ways that she brings back
Dorcas's youth and the joys of that long-vanished time.  My father
tried to set Dorcas free twenty years ago, when we still lived in
Virginia, but without success; she considered herself a member of
the family, and wouldn't go.  And so, a member of the family she
remained, and has held that position unchallenged ever since, and
holds it now; for when my mother sent her here from San Bernardino
when we learned that Cathy was coming, she only changed from one
division of the family to the other.  She has the warm heart of her
race, and its lavish affections, and when Cathy arrived the pair
were mother and child in five minutes, and that is what they are to
date and will continue.  Dorcas really thinks she raised George,
and that is one of her prides, but perhaps it was a mutual raising,
for their ages were the same - thirteen years short of mine.  But
they were playmates, at any rate; as regards that, there is no room
for dispute.

Cathy thinks Dorcas is the best Catholic in America except herself.
She could not pay any one a higher compliment than that, and Dorcas
could not receive one that would please her better.  Dorcas is
satisfied that there has never been a more wonderful child than
Cathy.  She has conceived the curious idea that Cathy is TWINS, and
that one of them is a boy-twin and failed to get segregated - got
submerged, is the idea.  To argue with her that this is nonsense is
a waste of breath - her mind is made up, and arguments do not
affect it.  She says:

"Look at her; she loves dolls, and girl-plays, and everything a
girl loves, and she's gentle and sweet, and ain't cruel to dumb
brutes - now that's the girl-twin, but she loves boy-plays, and
drums and fifes and soldiering, and rough-riding, and ain't afraid
of anybody or anything - and that's the boy-twin; 'deed you needn't
tell ME she's only ONE child; no, sir, she's twins, and one of them
got shet up out of sight.  Out of sight, but that don't make any
difference, that boy is in there, and you can see him look out of
her eyes when her temper is up."

Then Dorcas went on, in her simple and earnest way, to furnish
illustrations.

"Look at that raven, Marse Tom.  Would anybody befriend a raven but
that child?  Of course they wouldn't; it ain't natural.  Well, the
Injun boy had the raven tied up, and was all the time plaguing it
and starving it, and she pitied the po' thing, and tried to buy it
from the boy, and the tears was in her eyes.  That was the girl-
twin, you see.  She offered him her thimble, and he flung it down;
she offered him all the doughnuts she had, which was two, and he
flung them down; she offered him half a paper of pins, worth forty
ravens, and he made a mouth at her and jabbed one of them in the
raven's back.  That was the limit, you know.  It called for the
other twin.  Her eyes blazed up, and she jumped for him like a
wild-cat, and when she was done with him she was rags and he wasn't
anything but an allegory.  That was most undoubtedly the other
twin, you see, coming to the front.  No, sir; don't tell ME he
ain't in there.  I've seen him with my own eyes - and plenty of
times, at that."

"Allegory?  What is an allegory?"

"I don't know, Marse Tom, it's one of her words; she loves the big
ones, you know, and I pick them up from her; they sound good and I
can't help it."

"What happened after she had converted the boy into an allegory?"

"Why, she untied the raven and confiscated him by force and fetched
him home, and left the doughnuts and things on the ground.  Petted
him, of course, like she does with every creature.  In two days she
had him so stuck after her that she - well, YOU know how he follows
her everywhere, and sets on her shoulder often when she rides her
breakneck rampages - all of which is the girl-twin to the front,
you see - and he does what he pleases, and is up to all kinds of
devilment, and is a perfect nuisance in the kitchen.  Well, they
all stand it, but they wouldn't if it was another person's bird."

Here she began to chuckle comfortably, and presently she said:

"Well, you know, she's a nuisance herself, Miss Cathy is, she IS so
busy, and into everything, like that bird.  It's all just as
innocent, you know, and she don't mean any harm, and is so good and
dear; and it ain't her fault, it's her nature; her interest is
always a-working and always red-hot, and she can't keep quiet.
Well, yesterday it was 'Please, Miss Cathy, don't do that'; and,
'Please, Miss Cathy, let that alone'; and, 'Please, Miss Cathy,
don't make so much noise'; and so on and so on, till I reckon I had
found fault fourteen times in fifteen minutes; then she looked up
at me with her big brown eyes that can plead so, and said in that
odd little foreign way that goes to your heart,

"'Please, mammy, make me a compliment."

"And of course you did it, you old fool?"

"Marse Tom, I just grabbed her up to my breast and says, 'Oh, you
po' dear little motherless thing, you ain't got a fault in the
world, and you can do anything you want to, and tear the house
down, and yo' old black mammy won't say a word!'"

"Why, of course, of course - I knew you'd spoil the child."

She brushed away her tears, and said with dignity:

"Spoil the child? spoil THAT child, Marse Tom?  There can't ANYBODY
spoil her.  She's the king bee of this post, and everybody pets her
and is her slave, and yet, as you know, your own self, she ain't
the least little bit spoiled."  Then she eased her mind with this
retort:  "Marse Tom, she makes you do anything she wants to, and
you can't deny it; so if she could be spoilt, she'd been spoilt
long ago, because you are the very WORST!  Look at that pile of
cats in your chair, and you sitting on a candle-box, just as
patient; it's because they're her cats."

If Dorcas were a soldier, I could punish her for such large
frankness as that.  I changed the subject, and made her resume her
illustrations.  She had scored against me fairly, and I wasn't
going to cheapen her victory by disputing it.  She proceeded to
offer this incident in evidence on her twin theory:

"Two weeks ago when she got her finger mashed open, she turned
pretty pale with the pain, but she never said a word.  I took her
in my lap, and the surgeon sponged off the blood and took a needle
and thread and began to sew it up; it had to have a lot of
stitches, and each one made her scrunch a little, but she never let
go a sound.  At last the surgeon was so full of admiration that he
said, 'Well, you ARE a brave little thing!' and she said, just as
ca'm and simple as if she was talking about the weather, 'There
isn't anybody braver but the Cid!'  You see? it was the boy-twin
that the surgeon was a-dealing with.

"Who is the Cid?"

"I don't know, sir - at least only what she says.  She's always
talking about him, and says he was the bravest hero Spain ever had,
or any other country.  They have it up and down, the children do,
she standing up for the Cid, and they working George Washington for
all he is worth."

"Do they quarrel?"

"No; it's only disputing, and bragging, the way children do.  They
want her to be an American, but she can't be anything but a
Spaniard, she says.  You see, her mother was always longing for
home, po' thing! and thinking about it, and so the child is just as
much a Spaniard as if she'd always lived there.  She thinks she
remembers how Spain looked, but I reckon she don't, because she was
only a baby when they moved to France.  She is very proud to be a
Spaniard."

Does that please you, Mercedes?  Very well, be content; your niece
is loyal to her allegiance:  her mother laid deep the foundations
of her love for Spain, and she will go back to you as good a
Spaniard as you are yourself.  She has made me promise to take her
to you for a long visit when the War Office retires me.

I attend to her studies myself; has she told you that?  Yes, I am
her school-master, and she makes pretty good progress, I think,
everything considered.  Everything considered - being translated -
means holidays.  But the fact is, she was not born for study, and
it comes hard.  Hard for me, too; it hurts me like a physical pain
to see that free spirit of the air and the sunshine laboring and
grieving over a book; and sometimes when I find her gazing far away
towards the plain and the blue mountains with the longing in her
eyes, I have to throw open the prison doors; I can't help it.  A
quaint little scholar she is, and makes plenty of blunders.  Once I
put the question:

"What does the Czar govern?"

She rested her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand and took
that problem under deep consideration.  Presently she looked up and
answered, with a rising inflection implying a shade of uncertainty,

"The dative case?"

Here are a couple of her expositions which were delivered with
tranquil confidence:

"CHAPLAIN, diminutive of chap.  LASS is masculine, LASSIE is
feminine."

She is not a genius, you see, but just a normal child; they all
make mistakes of that sort.  There is a glad light in her eye which
is pretty to see when she finds herself able to answer a question
promptly and accurately, without any hesitation; as, for instance,
this morning:

"Cathy dear, what is a cube?"

"Why, a native of Cuba."

She still drops a foreign word into her talk now and then, and
there is still a subtle foreign flavor or fragrance about even her
exactest English - and long may this abide! for it has for me a
charm that is very pleasant.  Sometimes her English is daintily
prim and bookish and captivating.  She has a child's sweet tooth,
but for her health's sake I try to keep its inspirations under
cheek.  She is obedient - as is proper for a titled and recognized
military personage, which she is - but the chain presses sometimes.
For instance, we were out for a walk, and passed by some bushes
that were freighted with wild goose-berries.  Her face brightened
and she put her hands together and delivered herself of this
speech, most feelingly:

"Oh, if I was permitted a vice it would be the GOURMANDISE!"

Could I resist that?  No.  I gave her a gooseberry.

You ask about her languages.  They take care of themselves; they
will not get rusty here; our regiments are not made up of natives
alone - far from it.  And she is picking up Indian tongues
diligently.




CHAPTER VI - SOLDIER BOY AND THE MEXICAN PLUG

"When did you come?"

"Arrived at sundown."

"Where from?"

"Salt Lake."

"Are you in the service?"

"No.  Trade."

"Pirate trade, I reckon."

"What do you know about it?"

"I saw you when you came.  I recognized your master.  He is a bad
sort.  Trap-robber, horse-thief, squaw-man, renegado - Hank Butters
- I know him very well.  Stole you, didn't he?"

"Well, it amounted to that."

"I thought so.  Where is his pard?"

"He stopped at White Cloud's camp."

"He is another of the same stripe, is Blake Haskins."  (ASIDE.)
They are laying for Buffalo Bill again, I guess.  (ALOUD.)  "What
is your name?"

"Which one?"

"Have you got more than one?"

"I get a new one every time I'm stolen.  I used to have an honest
name, but that was early; I've forgotten it.  Since then I've had
thirteen ALIASES."

"Aliases?  What is alias?"

"A false name."

"Alias.  It's a fine large word, and is in my line; it has quite a
learned and cerebrospinal incandescent sound.  Are you educated?"

"Well, no, I can't claim it.  I can take down bars, I can
distinguish oats from shoe-pegs, I can blaspheme a saddle-boil with
the college-bred, and I know a few other things - not many; I have
had no chance, I have always had to work; besides, I am of low
birth and no family.  You speak my dialect like a native, but you
are not a Mexican Plug, you are a gentleman, I can see that; and
educated, of course."

"Yes, I am of old family, and not illiterate.  I am a fossil."

"A which?"

"Fossil.  The first horses were fossils.  They date back two
million years."

"Gr-eat sand and sage-brush! do you mean it?"

"Yes, it is true.  The bones of my ancestors are held in reverence
and worship, even by men.  They do not leave them exposed to the
weather when they find them, but carry them three thousand miles
and enshrine them in their temples of learning, and worship them."

"It is wonderful!  I knew you must be a person of distinction, by
your fine presence and courtly address, and by the fact that you
are not subjected to the indignity of hobbles, like myself and the
rest.  Would you tell me your name?"

"You have probably heard of it - Soldier Boy."

"What! - the renowned, the illustrious?"

"Even so."

"It takes my breath!  Little did I dream that ever I should stand
face to face with the possessor of that great name.  Buffalo Bill's
horse!  Known from the Canadian border to the deserts of Arizona,
and from the eastern marches of the Great Plains to the foot-hills
of the Sierra!  Truly this is a memorable day.  You still serve the
celebrated Chief of Scouts?"

"I am still his property, but he has lent me, for a time, to the
most noble, the most gracious, the most excellent, her Excellency
Catherine, Corporal-General Seventh Cavalry and Flag-Lieutenant
Ninth Dragoons, U.S.A., - on whom be peace!"

"Amen.  Did you say HER Excellency?"

"The same.  A Spanish lady, sweet blossom of a ducal house.  And
truly a wonder; knowing everything, capable of everything; speaking
all the languages, master of all sciences, a mind without horizons,
a heart of gold, the glory of her race!  On whom be peace!"

"Amen.  It is marvellous!"

"Verily.  I knew many things, she has taught me others.  I am
educated.  I will tell you about her."

"I listen - I am enchanted."

"I will tell a plain tale, calmly, without excitement, without
eloquence.  When she had been here four or five weeks she was
already erudite in military things, and they made her an officer -
a double officer.  She rode the drill every day, like any soldier;
and she could take the bugle and direct the evolutions herself.
Then, on a day, there was a grand race, for prizes - none to enter
but the children.  Seventeen children entered, and she was the
youngest.  Three girls, fourteen boys - good riders all.  It was a
steeplechase, with four hurdles, all pretty high.  The first prize
was a most cunning half-grown silver bugle, and mighty pretty, with
red silk cord and tassels.  Buffalo Bill was very anxious; for he
had taught her to ride, and he did most dearly want her to win that
race, for the glory of it.  So he wanted her to ride me, but she
wouldn't; and she reproached him, and said it was unfair and
unright, and taking advantage; for what horse in this post or any
other could stand a chance against me? and she was very severe with
him, and said, 'You ought to be ashamed - you are proposing to me
conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.'  So he just tossed
her up in the air about thirty feet and caught her as she came
down, and said he was ashamed; and put up his handkerchief and
pretended to cry, which nearly broke her heart, and she petted him,
and begged him to forgive her, and said she would do anything in
the world he could ask but that; but he said he ought to go hang
himself, and he MUST, if he could get a rope; it was nothing but
right he should, for he never, never could forgive himself; and
then SHE began to cry, and they both sobbed, the way you could hear
him a mile, and she clinging around his neck and pleading, till at
last he was comforted a little, and gave his solemn promise he
wouldn't hang himself till after the race; and wouldn't do it at
all if she won it, which made her happy, and she said she would win
it or die in the saddle; so then everything was pleasant again and
both of them content.  He can't help playing jokes on her, he is so
fond of her and she is so innocent and unsuspecting; and when she
finds it out she cuffs him and is in a fury, but presently forgives
him because it's him; and maybe the very next day she's caught with
another joke; you see she can't learn any better, because she
hasn't any deceit in her, and that kind aren't ever expecting it in
another person.

"It was a grand race.  The whole post was there, and there was such
another whooping and shouting when the seventeen kids came flying
down the turf and sailing over the hurdles - oh, beautiful to see!
Half-way down, it was kind of neck and neck, and anybody's race and
nobody's.  Then, what should happen but a cow steps out and puts
her head down to munch grass, with her broadside to the battalion,
and they a-coming like the wind; they split apart to flank her, but
SHE? - why, she drove the spurs home and soared over that cow like
a bird! and on she went, and cleared the last hurdle solitary and
alone, the army letting loose the grand yell, and she skipped from
the horse the same as if he had been standing still, and made her
bow, and everybody crowded around to congratulate, and they gave
her the bugle, and she put it to her lips and blew 'boots and
saddles' to see how it would go, and BB was as proud as you can't
think!  And he said, 'Take Soldier Boy, and don't pass him back
till I ask for him!' and I can tell you he wouldn't have said that
to any other person on this planet.  That was two months and more
ago, and nobody has been on my back since but the Corporal-General
Seventh Cavalry and Flag-Lieutenant of the Ninth Dragoons, U.S.A.,
- on whom be peace!"

"Amen.  I listen - tell me more."

"She set to work and organized the Sixteen, and called it the First
Battalion Rocky Mountain Rangers, U.S.A., and she wanted to be
bugler, but they elected her Lieutenant-General and Bugler.  So she
ranks her uncle the commandant, who is only a Brigadier.  And
doesn't she train those little people!  Ask the Indians, ask the
traders, ask the soldiers; they'll tell you.  She has been at it
from the first day.  Every morning they go clattering down into the
plain, and there she sits on my back with her bugle at her mouth
and sounds the orders and puts them through the evolutions for an
hour or more; and it is too beautiful for anything to see those
ponies dissolve from one formation into another, and waltz about,
and break, and scatter, and form again, always moving, always
graceful, now trotting, now galloping, and so on, sometimes near
by, sometimes in the distance, all just like a state ball, you
know, and sometimes she can't hold herself any longer, but sounds
the 'charge,' and turns me loose! and you can take my word for it,
if the battalion hasn't too much of a start we catch up and go over
the breastworks with the front line.

"Yes, they are soldiers, those little people; and healthy, too, not
ailing any more, the way they used to be sometimes.  It's because
of her drill.  She's got a fort, now - Fort Fanny Marsh.  Major-
General Tommy Drake planned it out, and the Seventh and Dragoons
built it.  Tommy is the Colonel's son, and is fifteen and the
oldest in the Battalion; Fanny Marsh is Brigadier-General, and is
next oldest - over thirteen.  She is daughter of Captain Marsh,
Company B, Seventh Cavalry.  Lieutenant-General Alison is the
youngest by considerable; I think she is about nine and a half or
three-quarters.  Her military rig, as Lieutenant-General, isn't for
business, it's for dress parade, because the ladies made it.  They
say they got it out of the Middle Ages - out of a book - and it is
all red and blue and white silks and satins and velvets; tights,
trunks, sword, doublet with slashed sleeves, short cape, cap with
just one feather in it; I've heard them name these things; they got
them out of the book; she's dressed like a page, of old times, they
say.  It's the daintiest outfit that ever was - you will say so,
when you see it.  She's lovely in it - oh, just a dream!  In some
ways she is just her age, but in others she's as old as her uncle,
I think.  She is very learned.  She teaches her uncle his book.  I
have seen her sitting by with the book and reciting to him what is
in it, so that he can learn to do it himself.

"Every Saturday she hires little Injuns to garrison her fort; then
she lays siege to it, and makes military approaches by make-believe
trenches in make-believe night, and finally at make-believe dawn
she draws her sword and sounds the assault and takes it by storm.
It is for practice.  And she has invented a bugle-call all by
herself, out of her own head, and it's a stirring one, and the
prettiest in the service.  It's to call ME - it's never used for
anything else.  She taught it to me, and told me what it says:  'IT
IS I, SOLDIER - COME!' and when those thrilling notes come floating
down the distance I hear them without fail, even if I am two miles
away; and then - oh, then you should see my heels get down to
business!

"And she has taught me how to say good-morning and good-night to
her, which is by lifting my right hoof for her to shake; and also
how to say good-bye; I do that with my left foot - but only for
practice, because there hasn't been any but make-believe good-
byeing yet, and I hope there won't ever be.  It would make me cry
if I ever had to put up my left foot in earnest.  She has taught me
how to salute, and I can do it as well as a soldier.  I bow my head
low, and lay my right hoof against my cheek.  She taught me that
because I got into disgrace once, through ignorance.  I am
privileged, because I am known to be honorable and trustworthy, and
because I have a distinguished record in the service; so they don't
hobble me nor tie me to stakes or shut me tight in stables, but let
me wander around to suit myself.  Well, trooping the colors is a
very solemn ceremony, and everybody must stand uncovered when the
flag goes by, the commandant and all; and once I was there, and
ignorantly walked across right in front of the band, which was an
awful disgrace:  Ah, the Lieutenant-General was so ashamed, and so
distressed that I should have done such a thing before all the
world, that she couldn't keep the tears back; and then she taught
me the salute, so that if I ever did any other unmilitary act
through ignorance I could do my salute and she believed everybody
would think it was apology enough and would not press the matter.
It is very nice and distinguished; no other horse can do it; often
the men salute me, and I return it.  I am privileged to be present
when the Rocky Mountain Rangers troop the colors and I stand
solemn, like the children, and I salute when the flag goes by.  Of
course when she goes to her fort her sentries sing out 'Turn out
the guard!' and then . . . do you catch that refreshing early-
morning whiff from the mountain-pines and the wild flowers?  The
night is far spent; we'll hear the bugles before long.  Dorcas, the
black woman, is very good and nice; she takes care of the
Lieutenant-General, and is Brigadier-General Alison's mother, which
makes her mother-in-law to the Lieutenant-General.  That is what
Shekels says.  At least it is what I think he says, though I never
can understand him quite clearly. He - "

"Who is Shekels?"

"The Seventh Cavalry dog.  I mean, if he IS a dog.  His father was
a coyote and his mother was a wild-cat.  It doesn't really make a
dog out of him, does it?"

"Not a real dog, I should think.  Only a kind of a general dog, at
most, I reckon.  Though this is a matter of ichthyology, I suppose;
and if it is, it is out of my depth, and so my opinion is not
valuable, and I don't claim much consideration for it."

"It isn't ichthyology; it is dogmatics, which is still more
difficult and tangled up.  Dogmatics always are."

"Dogmatics is quite beyond me, quite; so I am not competing.  But
on general principles it is my opinion that a colt out of a coyote
and a wild-cat is no square dog, but doubtful.  That is my hand,
and I stand pat."

"Well, it is as far as I can go myself, and be fair and
conscientious.  I have always regarded him as a doubtful dog, and
so has Potter.  Potter is the great Dane.  Potter says he is no
dog, and not even poultry - though I do not go quite so far as
that.

"And I wouldn't, myself.  Poultry is one of those things which no
person can get to the bottom of, there is so much of it and such
variety.  It is just wings, and wings, and wings, till you are
weary:  turkeys, and geese, and bats, and butterflies, and angels,
and grasshoppers, and flying-fish, and - well, there is really no
end to the tribe; it gives me the heaves just to think of it.  But
this one hasn't any wings, has he?"

"No."

"Well, then, in my belief he is more likely to be dog than poultry.
I have not heard of poultry that hadn't wings.  Wings is the SIGN
of poultry; it is what you tell poultry by.  Look at the mosquito."

"What do you reckon he is, then?  He must be something."

"Why, he could be a reptile; anything that hasn't wings is a
reptile."

"Who told you that?"

"Nobody told me, but I overheard it."

"Where did you overhear it?"

"Years ago.  I was with the Philadelphia Institute expedition in
the Bad Lands under Professor Cope, hunting mastodon bones, and I
overheard him say, his own self, that any plantigrade circumflex
vertebrate bacterium that hadn't wings and was uncertain was a
reptile.  Well, then, has this dog any wings?  No.  Is he a
plantigrade circumflex vertebrate bacterium?  Maybe so, maybe not;
but without ever having seen him, and judging only by his illegal
and spectacular parentage, I will bet the odds of a bale of hay to
a bran mash that he looks it.  Finally, is he uncertain?  That is
the point - is he uncertain?  I will leave it to you if you have
ever heard of a more uncertainer dog than what this one is?"

"No, I never have."

"Well, then, he's a reptile.  That's settled."

"Why, look here, whatsyourname"

"Last alias, Mongrel."

"A good one, too.  I was going to say, you are better educated than
you have been pretending to be.  I like cultured society, and I
shall cultivate your acquaintance.  Now as to Shekels, whenever you
want to know about any private thing that is going on at this post
or in White Cloud's camp or Thunder-Bird's, he can tell you; and if
you make friends with him he'll be glad to, for he is a born
gossip, and picks up all the tittle-tattle.  Being the whole
Seventh Cavalry's reptile, he doesn't belong to anybody in
particular, and hasn't any military duties; so he comes and goes as
he pleases, and is popular with all the house cats and other
authentic sources of private information.  He understands all the
languages, and talks them all, too.  With an accent like gritting
your teeth, it is true, and with a grammar that is no improvement
on blasphemy - still, with practice you get at the meat of what he
says, and it serves. . . Hark!  That's the reveille. . . .

[THE REVEILLE]

"Faint and far, but isn't it clear, isn't it sweet?  There's no
music like the bugle to stir the blood, in the still solemnity of
the morning twilight, with the dim plain stretching away to nothing
and the spectral mountains slumbering against the sky.  You'll hear
another note in a minute - faint and far and clear, like the other
one, and sweeter still, you'll notice.  Wait . . . listen.  There
it goes!  It says, 'IT IS I, SOLDIER - COME!' . . .

[SOLDIER BOY'S BUGLE CALL]

. . . Now then, watch me leave a blue streak behind!"




CHAPTER VII - SOLDIER BOY AND SHEKELS

"Did you do as I told you?  Did you look up the Mexican Plug?"

"Yes, I made his acquaintance before night and got his friendship."

"I liked him.  Did you?"

"Not at first.  He took me for a reptile, and it troubled me,
because I didn't know whether it was a compliment or not.  I
couldn't ask him, because it would look ignorant.  So I didn't say
anything, and soon liked him very well indeed.  Was it a
compliment, do you think?"

"Yes, that is what it was.  They are very rare, the reptiles; very
few left, now-a-days."

"Is that so?  What is a reptile?"

"It is a plantigrade circumflex vertebrate bacterium that hasn't
any wings and is uncertain."

"Well, it - it sounds fine, it surely does."

"And it IS fine.  You may be thankful you are one."

"I am.  It seems wonderfully grand and elegant for a person that is
so humble as I am; but I am thankful, I am indeed, and will try to
live up to it.  It is hard to remember.  Will you say it again,
please, and say it slow?"

"Plantigrade circumflex vertebrate bacterium that hasn't any wings
and is uncertain."

"It is beautiful, anybody must grant it; beautiful, and of a noble
sound.  I hope it will not make me proud and stuck-up - I should
not like to be that.  It is much more distinguished and honorable
to be a reptile than a dog, don't you think, Soldier?"

"Why, there's no comparison.  It is awfully aristocratic.  Often a
duke is called a reptile; it is set down so, in history."

"Isn't that grand!  Potter wouldn't ever associate with me, but I
reckon he'll be glad to when he finds out what I am."

"You can depend upon it."

"I will thank Mongrel for this. He is a very good sort, for a
Mexican Plug.  Don't you think he is?"

"It is my opinion of him; and as for his birth, he cannot help
that.  We cannot all be reptiles, we cannot all be fossils; we have
to take what comes and be thankful it is no worse.  It is the true
philosophy."

"For those others?"

"Stick to the subject, please.  Did it turn out that my suspicions
were right?"

"Yes, perfectly right.  Mongrel has heard them planning.  They are
after BB's life, for running them out of Medicine Bow and taking
their stolen horses away from them."

"Well, they'll get him yet, for sure."

"Not if he keeps a sharp look-out."

"HE keep a sharp lookout!  He never does; he despises them, and all
their kind.  His life is always being threatened, and so it has
come to be monotonous."

"Does he know they are here?"

"Oh yes, he knows it.  He is always the earliest to know who comes
and who goes.  But he cares nothing for them and their threats; he
only laughs when people warn him.  They'll shoot him from behind a
tree the first he knows.  Did Mongrel tell you their plans?"

"Yes.  They have found out that he starts for Fort Clayton day
after to-morrow, with one of his scouts; so they will leave to-
morrow, letting on to go south, but they will fetch around north
all in good time."

"Shekels, I don't like the look of it."




CHAPTER VIII - THE SCOUT-START.  BB AND LIEUTENANT-GENERAL ALISON

BB (SALUTING).  "Good! handsomely done!  The Seventh couldn't beat
it!  You do certainly handle your Rangers like an expert, General.
And where are you bound?"

"Four miles on the trail to Fort Clayton."

"Glad am I, dear!  What's the idea of it?"

"Guard of honor for you and Thorndike."

"Bless - your - HEART!  I'd rather have it from you than from the
Commander-in-Chief of the armies of the United States, you
incomparable little soldier! - and I don't need to take any oath to
that, for you to believe it."

"I THOUGHT you'd like it, BB."

"LIKE it?  Well, I should say so!  Now then - all ready - sound the
advance, and away we go!"




CHAPTER IX - SOLDIER BOY AND SHEKELS AGAIN

"Well, this is the way it happened.  We did the escort duty; then
we came back and struck for the plain and put the Rangers through a
rousing drill - oh, for hours!  Then we sent them home under
Brigadier-General Fanny Marsh; then the Lieutenant-General and I
went off on a gallop over the plains for about three hours, and
were lazying along home in the middle of the afternoon, when we met
Jimmy Slade, the drummer-boy, and he saluted and asked the
Lieutenant-General if she had heard the news, and she said no, and
he said:

"'Buffalo Bill has been ambushed and badly shot this side of
Clayton, and Thorndike the scout, too; Bill couldn't travel, but
Thorndike could, and he brought the news, and Sergeant Wilkes and
six men of Company B are gone, two hours ago, hotfoot, to get Bill.
And they say - '

"'GO!' she shouts to me - and I went."

"Fast?"

"Don't ask foolish questions.  It was an awful pace.  For four
hours nothing happened, and not a word said, except that now and
then she said, 'Keep it up, Boy, keep it up, sweetheart; we'll save
him!'  I kept it up.  Well, when the dark shut down, in the rugged
hills, that poor little chap had been tearing around in the saddle
all day, and I noticed by the slack knee-pressure that she was
tired and tottery, and I got dreadfully afraid; but every time I
tried to slow down and let her go to sleep, so I could stop, she
hurried me up again; and so, sure enough, at last over she went!

"Ah, that was a fix to be in I for she lay there and didn't stir,
and what was I to do?  I couldn't leave her to fetch help, on
account of the wolves.  There was nothing to do but stand by.  It
was dreadful.  I was afraid she was killed, poor little thing!  But
she wasn't.  She came to, by-and-by, and said, 'Kiss me, Soldier,'
and those were blessed words.  I kissed her - often; I am used to
that, and we like it.  But she didn't get up, and I was worried.
She fondled my nose with her hand, and talked to me, and called me
endearing names - which is her way - but she caressed with the same
hand all the time.  The other arm was broken, you see, but I didn't
know it, and she didn't mention it.  She didn't want to distress
me, you know.

"Soon the big gray wolves came, and hung around, and you could hear
them snarl, and snap at each other, but you couldn't see anything
of them except their eyes, which shone in the dark like sparks and
stars.  The Lieutenant-General said, 'If I had the Rocky Mountain
Rangers here, we would make those creatures climb a tree.'  Then
she made believe that the Rangers were in hearing, and put up her
bugle and blew the 'assembly'; and then, 'boots and saddles'; then
the 'trot'; 'gallop'; 'charge!'  Then she blew the 'retreat,' and
said, 'That's for you, you rebels; the Rangers don't ever retreat!'

"The music frightened them away, but they were hungry, and kept
coming back.  And of course they got bolder and bolder, which is
their way.  It went on for an hour, then the tired child went to
sleep, and it was pitiful to hear her moan and nestle, and I
couldn't do anything for her.  All the time I was laying for the
wolves.  They are in my line; I have had experience.  At last the
boldest one ventured within my lines, and I landed him among his
friends with some of his skull still on him, and they did the rest.
In the next hour I got a couple more, and they went the way of the
first one, down the throats of the detachment.  That satisfied the
survivors, and they went away and left us in peace.

"We hadn't any more adventures, though I kept awake all night and
was ready.  From midnight on the child got very restless, and out
of her head, and moaned, and said, 'Water, water - thirsty'; and
now and then, 'Kiss me, Soldier'; and sometimes she was in her fort
and giving orders to her garrison; and once she was in Spain, and
thought her mother was with her.  People say a horse can't cry; but
they don't know, because we cry inside.

"It was an hour after sunup that I heard the boys coming, and
recognized the hoof-beats of Pomp and Caesar and Jerry, old mates
of mine; and a welcomer sound there couldn't ever be.

Buffalo Bill was in a horse-litter, with his leg broken by a
bullet, and Mongrel and Blake Haskins's horse were doing the work.
Buffalo Bill and Thorndike had lolled both of those toughs.

"When they got to us, and Buffalo Bill saw the child lying there so
white, he said, 'My God!' and the sound of his voice brought her to
herself, and she gave a little cry of pleasure and struggled to get
up, but couldn't, and the soldiers gathered her up like the
tenderest women, and their eyes were wet and they were not ashamed,
when they saw her arm dangling; and so were Buffalo Bill's, and
when they laid her in his arms he said, 'My darling, how does this
come?' and she said, 'We came to save you, but I was tired, and
couldn't keep awake, and fell off and hurt myself, and couldn't get
on again.'  'You came to save me, you dear little rat?  It was too
lovely of you!'  'Yes, and Soldier stood by me, which you know he
would, and protected me from the wolves; and if he got a chance he
kicked the life out of some of them - for you know he would, BB.'
The sergeant said, 'He laid out three of them, sir, and here's the
bones to show for it.'  'He's a grand horse,' said BB; 'he's the
grandest horse that ever was! and has saved your life, Lieutenant-
General Alison, and shall protect it the rest of his life - he's
yours for a kiss!'  He got it, along with a passion of delight, and
he said, 'You are feeling better now, little Spaniard - do you
think you could blow the advance?'  She put up the bugle to do it,
but he said wait a minute first.  Then he and the sergeant set her
arm and put it in splints, she wincing but not whimpering; then we
took up the march for home, and that's the end of the tale; and I'm
her horse.  Isn't she a brick, Shekels?

"Brick?  She's more than a brick, more than a thousand bricks -
she's a reptile!"

"It's a compliment out of your heart, Shekels.  God bless you for
it!"




CHAPTER X - GENERAL ALISON AND DORCAS

"Too much company for her, Marse Tom.  Betwixt you, and Shekels,
the Colonel's wife, and the Cid - "

"The Cid?  Oh, I remember - the raven."

 " - and Mrs. Captain Marsh and Famine and Pestilence the baby
COYOTES, and Sour-Mash and her pups, and Sardanapalus and her
kittens - hang these names she gives the creatures, they warp my
jaw - and Potter:   you - all sitting around in the house, and
Soldier Boy at the window the entire time, it's a wonder to me she
comes along as well as she does.  She - "

"You want her all to yourself, you stingy old thing!"

"Marse Tom, you know better.  It's too much company.  And then the
idea of her receiving reports all the time from her officers, and
acting upon them, and giving orders, the same as if she was well!
It ain't good for her, and the surgeon don't like it, and tried to
persuade her not to and couldn't; and when he ORDERED her, she was
that outraged and indignant, and was very severe on him, and
accused him of insubordination, and said it didn't become him to
give orders to an officer of her rank.  Well, he saw he had excited
her more and done more harm than all the rest put together, so he
was vexed at himself and wished he had kept still.  Doctors DON'T
know much, and that's a fact.  She's too much interested in things
- she ought to rest more.  She's all the time sending messages to
BB, and to soldiers and Injuns and whatnot, and to the animals."

"To the animals?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who carries them?"

"Sometimes Potter, but mostly it's Shekels."

"Now come! who can find fault with such pretty make-believe as
that?"

"But it ain't make-believe, Marse Tom.  She does send them."

"Yes, I don't doubt that part of it."

"Do you doubt they get them, sir?"

"Certainly.  Don't you?"

"No, sir.  Animals talk to one another.  I know it perfectly well,
Marse Tom, and I ain't saying it by guess."

"What a curious superstition!"

"It ain't a superstition, Marse Tom.  Look at that Shekels - look
at him, NOW.  Is he listening, or ain't he?  NOW you see! he's
turned his head away.  It's because he was caught - caught in the
act.  I'll ask you - could a Christian look any more ashamed than
what he looks now? - LAY DOWN!  You see? he was going to sneak out.
Don't tell ME, Marse Tom!  If animals don't talk, I miss MY guess.
And Shekels is the worst.  He goes and tells the animals everything
that happens in the officers' quarters; and if he's short of facts,
he invents them.  He hasn't any more principle than a blue jay; and
as for morals, he's empty.  Look at him now; look at him grovel.
He knows what I am saying, and he knows it's the truth.  You see,
yourself, that he can feel shame; it's the only virtue he's got.
It's wonderful how they find out everything that's going on - the
animals.  They - "

"Do you really believe they do, Dorcas?"

"I don't only just believe it, Marse Tom, I know it.  Day before
yesterday they knew something was going to happen.  They were that
excited, and whispering around together; why, anybody could see
that they -  But my! I must get back to her, and I haven't got to
my errand yet."

"What is it, Dorcas?"

"Well, it's two or three things.  One is, the doctor don't salute
when he comes . . . Now, Marse Tom, it ain't anything to laugh at,
and so - "

"Well, then, forgive me; I didn't mean to laugh - I got caught
unprepared."

"You see, she don't want to hurt the doctor's feelings, so she
don't say anything to him about it; but she is always polite,
herself, and it hurts that kind for people to be rude to them."

"I'll have that doctor hanged."

"Marse Tom, she don't WANT him hanged.  She - "

"Well, then, I'll have him boiled in oil."

"But she don't WANT him boiled.  I - "

"Oh, very well, very well, I only want to please her; I'll have him
skinned."

"Why, SHE don't want him skinned; it would break her heart.  Now -
"

"Woman, this is perfectly unreasonable.  What in the nation DOES
she want?"

"Marse Tom, if you would only be a little patient, and not fly off
the handle at the least little thing.  Why, she only wants you to
speak to him."

"Speak to him!  Well, upon my word!  All this unseemly rage and row
about such a - a -  Dorcas, I never saw you carry on like this
before.  You have alarmed the sentry; he thinks I am being
assassinated; he thinks there's a mutiny, a revolt, an
insurrection; he - "

"Marse Tom, you are just putting on; you know it perfectly well; I
don't know what makes you act like that - but you always did, even
when you was little, and you can't get over it, I reckon.  Are you
over it now, Marse Tom?"

"Oh, well, yes; but it would try anybody to be doing the best he
could, offering every kindness he could think of, only to have it
rejected with contumely and . . . Oh, well, let it go; it's no
matter - I'll talk to the doctor.  Is that satisfactory, or are you
going to break out again?"

"Yes, sir, it is; and it's only right to talk to him, too, because
it's just as she says; she's trying to keep up discipline in the
Rangers, and this insubordination of his is a bad example for them
- now ain't it so, Marse Tom?"

"Well, there IS reason in it, I can't deny it; so I will speak to
him, though at bottom I think hanging would be more lasting.  What
is the rest of your errand, Dorcas?"

"Of course her room is Ranger headquarters now, Marse Tom, while
she's sick.  Well, soldiers of the cavalry and the dragoons that
are off duty come and get her sentries to let them relieve them and
serve in their place.  It's only out of affection, sir, and because
they know military honors please her, and please the children too,
for her sake; and they don't bring their muskets; and so - "

"I've noticed them there, but didn't twig the idea.  They are
standing guard, are they?"

"Yes, sir, and she is afraid you will reprove them and hurt their
feelings, if you see them there; so she begs, if - if you don't
mind coming in the back way - "

"Bear me up, Dorcas; don't let me faint."

"There - sit up and behave, Marse Tom.  You are not going to faint;
you are only pretending - you used to act just so when you was
little; it does seem a long time for you to get grown up."

"Dorcas, the way the child is progressing, I shall be out of my job
before long - she'll have the whole post in her hands.  I must make
a stand, I must not go down without a struggle.  These
encroachments. . . . Dorcas, what do you think she will think of
next?"

"Marse Tom, she don't mean any harm."

"Are you sure of it?"

"Yes, Marse Tom."

"You feel sure she has no ulterior designs?"

"I don't know what that is, Marse Tom, but I know she hasn't."

"Very well, then, for the present I am satisfied.  What else have
you come about?"

"I reckon I better tell you the whole thing first, Marse Tom, then
tell you what she wants.  There's been an emeute, as she calls it.
It was before she got back with BB.  The officer of the day
reported it to her this morning.  It happened at her fort.  There
was a fuss betwixt Major-General Tommy Drake and Lieutenant-Colonel
Agnes Frisbie, and he snatched her doll away, which is made of
white kid stuffed with sawdust, and tore every rag of its clothes
off, right before them all, and is under arrest, and the charge is
conduct un - "

"Yes, I know - conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman - a
plain case, too, it seems to me.  This is a serious matter.  Well,
what is her pleasure?"

"Well, Marse Tom, she has summoned a court-martial, but the doctor
don't think she is well enough to preside over it, and she says
there ain't anybody competent but her, because there's a major-
general concerned; and so she - she - well, she says, would you
preside over it for her? . . . Marse Tom, SIT up!  You ain't any
more going to faint than Shekels is."

"Look here, Dorcas, go along back, and be tactful.  Be persuasive;
don't fret her; tell her it's all right, the matter is in my hands,
but it isn't good form to hurry so grave a matter as this.  Explain
to her that we have to go by precedents, and that I believe this
one to be new.  In fact, you can say I know that nothing just like
it has happened in our army, therefore I must be guided by European
precedents, and must go cautiously and examine them carefully.
Tell her not to be impatient, it will take me several days, but it
will all come out right, and I will come over and report progress
as I go along.  Do you get the idea, Dorcas?"

"I don't know as I do, sir."

"Well, it's this.  You see, it won't ever do for me, a brigadier in
the regular army, to preside over that infant court-martial - there
isn't any precedent for it, don't you see.  Very well.  I will go
on examining authorities and reporting progress until she is well
enough to get me out of this scrape by presiding herself.  Do you
get it now?"

"Oh, yes, sir, I get it, and it's good, I'll go and fix it with
her.  LAY DOWN! and stay where you are."

"Why, what harm is he doing?"

"Oh, it ain't any harm, but it just vexes me to see him act so."

"What was he doing?"

"Can't you see, and him in such a sweat?  He was starting out to
spread it all over the post.  NOW I reckon you won't deny, any
more, that they go and tell everything they hear, now that you've
seen it with yo' own eyes."

"Well, I don't like to acknowledge it, Dorcas, but I don't see how
I can consistently stick to my doubts in the face of such
overwhelming proof as this dog is furnishing."

"There, now, you've got in yo' right mind at last!  I wonder you
can be so stubborn, Marse Tom.  But you always was, even when you
was little.  I'm going now."

"Look here; tell her that in view of the delay, it is my judgment
that she ought to enlarge the accused on his parole."

"Yes, sir, I'll tell her.  Marse Tom?"

"Well?"

"She can't get to Soldier Boy, and he stands there all the time,
down in the mouth and lonesome; and she says will you shake hands
with him and comfort him?  Everybody does."

"It's a curious kind of lonesomeness; but, all right, I will."




CHAPTER XI - SEVERAL MONTHS LATER.  ANTONIO AND THORNDIKE

"Thorndike, isn't that Plug you're riding an assert of the scrap
you and Buffalo Bill had with the late Blake Haskins and his pal a
few months back?"

"Yes, this is Mongrel - and not a half-bad horse, either."

"I've noticed he keeps up his lick first-rate.  Say - isn't it a
gaudy morning?"

"Right you are!"

"Thorndike, it's Andalusian! and when that's said, all's said."

"Andalusian AND Oregonian, Antonio!  Put it that way, and you have
my vote.  Being a native up there, I know.  You being Andalusian-
born - "

"Can speak with authority for that patch of paradise?  Well, I can.
Like the Don! like Sancho!  This is the correct Andalusian dawn now
- crisp, fresh, dewy, fragrant, pungent - "


"'What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle - '


- GIT up, you old cow! stumbling like that when we've just been
praising you! out on a scout and can't live up to the honor any
better than that?  Antonio, how long have you been out here in the
Plains and the Rockies?"

"More than thirteen years."

"It's a long time.  Don't you ever get homesick?"

"Not till now."

"Why NOW? - after such a long cure."

"These preparations of the retiring commandant's have started it
up."

"Of course.  It's natural."

"It keeps me thinking about Spain.  I know the region where the
Seventh's child's aunt lives; I know all the lovely country for
miles around; I'll bet I've seen her aunt's villa many a time; I'll
bet I've been in it in those pleasant old times when I was a
Spanish gentleman."

"They say the child is wild to see Spain."

"It's so; I know it from what I hear."

"Haven't you talked with her about it?"

"No.  I've avoided it.  I should soon be as wild as she is.  That
would not be comfortable."

"I wish I was going, Antonio.  There's two things I'd give a lot to
see.  One's a railroad."

"She'll see one when she strikes Missouri."

"The other's a bull-fight."

"I've seen lots of them; I wish I could see another."

"I don't know anything about it, except in a mixed-up, foggy way,
Antonio, but I know enough to know it's grand sport."

"The grandest in the world!  There's no other sport that begins
with it.  I'll tell you what I've seen, then you can judge.  It was
my first, and it's as vivid to me now as it was when I saw it.  It
was a Sunday afternoon, and beautiful weather, and my uncle, the
priest, took me as a reward for being a good boy and because of my
own accord and without anybody asking me I had bankrupted my
savings-box and given the money to a mission that was civilizing
the Chinese and sweetening their lives and softening their hearts
with the gentle teachings of our religion, and I wish you could
have seen what we saw that day, Thorndike.

"The amphitheatre was packed, from the bull-ring to the highest row
- twelve thousand people in one circling mass, one slanting, solid
mass - royalties, nobles, clergy, ladies, gentlemen, state
officials, generals, admirals, soldiers, sailors, lawyers, thieves,
merchants, brokers, cooks, housemaids, scullery-maids, doubtful
women, dudes, gamblers, beggars, loafers, tramps, American ladies,
gentlemen, preachers, English ladies, gentlemen, preachers, German
ditto, French ditto, and so on and so on, all the world
represented:  Spaniards to admire and praise, foreigners to enjoy
and go home and find fault - there they were, one solid, sloping,
circling sweep of rippling and flashing color under the downpour of
the summer sun - just a garden, a gaudy, gorgeous flower-garden!
Children munching oranges, six thousand fans fluttering and
glimmering, everybody happy, everybody chatting gayly with their
intimates, lovely girl-faces smiling recognition and salutation to
other lovely girl-faces, gray old ladies and gentlemen dealing in
the like exchanges with each other - ah, such a picture of cheery
contentment and glad anticipation! not a mean spirit, nor a sordid
soul, nor a sad heart there - ah, Thorndike, I wish I could see it
again.

"Suddenly, the martial note of a bugle cleaves the hum and murmur -
clear the ring!

"They clear it.  The great gate is flung open, and the procession
marches in, splendidly costumed and glittering:  the marshals of
the day, then the picadores on horseback, then the matadores on
foot, each surrounded by his quadrille of CHULOS.  They march to
the box of the city fathers, and formally salute.  The key is
thrown, the bull-gate is unlocked.  Another bugle blast - the gate
flies open, the bull plunges in, furious, trembling, blinking in
the blinding light, and stands there, a magnificent creature,
centre of those multitudinous and admiring eyes, brave, ready for
battle, his attitude a challenge.  He sees his enemy:  horsemen
sitting motionless, with long spears in rest, upon blindfolded
broken-down nags, lean and starved, fit only for sport and
sacrifice, then the carrion-heap.

"The bull makes a rush, with murder in his eye, but a picador meets
him with a spear-thrust in the shoulder.  He flinches with the
pain, and the picador skips out of danger.  A burst of applause for
the picador, hisses for the bull.  Some shout 'Cow!' at the bull,
and call him offensive names.  But he is not listening to them, he
is there for business; he is not minding the cloak-bearers that
come fluttering around to confuse him; he chases this way, he
chases that way, and hither and yon, scattering the nimble
banderillos in every direction like a spray, and receiving their
maddening darts in his neck as they dodge and fly - oh, but it's a
lively spectacle, and brings down the house!  Ah, you should hear
the thundering roar that goes up when the game is at its wildest
and brilliant things are done!

"Oh, that first bull, that day, was great!  From the moment the
spirit of war rose to flood-tide in him and he got down to his
work, he began to do wonders.  He tore his way through his
persecutors, flinging one of them clear over the parapet; he bowled
a horse and his rider down, and plunged straight for the next, got
home with his horns, wounding both horse and man; on again, here
and there and this way and that; and one after another he tore the
bowels out of two horses so that they gushed to the ground, and
ripped a third one so badly that although they rushed him to cover
and shoved his bowels back and stuffed the rents with tow and rode
him against the bull again, he couldn't make the trip; he tried to
gallop, under the spur, but soon reeled and tottered and fell, all
in a heap.  For a while, that bull-ring was the most thrilling and
glorious and inspiring sight that ever was seen.  The bull
absolutely cleared it, and stood there alone! monarch of the place.
The people went mad for pride in him, and joy and delight, and you
couldn't hear yourself think, for the roar and boom and crash of
applause."

"Antonio, it carries me clear out of myself just to hear you tell
it; it must have been perfectly splendid.  If I live, I'll see a
bull-fight yet before I die.  Did they kill him?"

"Oh yes; that is what the bull is for.  They tired him out, and got
him at last.  He kept rushing the matador, who always slipped
smartly and gracefully aside in time, waiting for a sure chance;
and at last it came; the bull made a deadly plunge for him - was
avoided neatly, and as he sped by, the long sword glided silently
into him, between left shoulder and spine - in and in, to the hilt.
He crumpled down, dying."

"Ah, Antonio, it IS the noblest sport that ever was.  I would give
a year of my life to see it.  Is the bull always killed?"

"Yes.  Sometimes a bull is timid, finding himself in so strange a
place, and he stands trembling, or tries to retreat.  Then
everybody despises him for his cowardice and wants him punished and
made ridiculous; so they hough him from behind, and it is the
funniest thing in the world to see him hobbling around on his
severed legs; the whole vast house goes into hurricanes of laughter
over it; I have laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks to see
it.  When he has furnished all the sport he can, he is not any
longer useful, and is killed."

"Well, it is perfectly grand, Antonio, perfectly beautiful.
Burning a nigger don't begin."




CHAPTER XII - MONGREL AND THE OTHER HORSE

"Sage-Brush, you have been listening?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it strange?"

"Well, no, Mongrel, I don't know that it is."

"Why don't you?"

"I've seen a good many human beings in my time.  They are created
as they are; they cannot help it.  They are only brutal because
that is their make; brutes would be brutal if it was THEIR make."

"To me, Sage-Brush, man is most strange and unaccountable.  Why
should he treat dumb animals that way when they are not doing any
harm?"

"Man is not always like that, Mongrel; he is kind enough when he is
not excited by religion."

"Is the bull-fight a religious service?"

"I think so.  I have heard so.  It is held on Sunday."

(A REFLECTIVE PAUSE, LASTING SOME MOMENTS.)  Then:

"When we die, Sage-Brush, do we go to heaven and dwell with man?"

"My father thought not.  He believed we do not have to go there
unless we deserve it."




PART II - IN SPAIN




CHAPTER XIII - GENERAL ALISON TO HIS MOTHER



It was a prodigious trip, but delightful, of course, through the
Rockies and the Black Hills and the mighty sweep of the Great
Plains to civilization and the Missouri border - where the
railroading began and the delightfulness ended.  But no one is the
worse for the journey; certainly not Cathy, nor Dorcas, nor Soldier
Boy; and as for me, I am not complaining.

Spain is all that Cathy had pictured it - and more, she says.  She
is in a fury of delight, the maddest little animal that ever was,
and all for joy.  She thinks she remembers Spain, but that is not
very likely, I suppose.  The two - Mercedes and Cathy - devour each
other.  It is a rapture of love, and beautiful to see.  It is
Spanish; that describes it.  Will this be a short visit?

No.  It will be permanent.  Cathy has elected to abide with Spain
and her aunt.  Dorcas says she (Dorcas) foresaw that this would
happen; and also says that she wanted it to happen, and says the
child's own country is the right place for her, and that she ought
not to have been sent to me, I ought to have gone to her.  I
thought it insane to take Soldier Boy to Spain, but it was well
that I yielded to Cathy's pleadings; if he had been left behind,
half of her heart would have remained with him, and she would not
have been contented.  As it is, everything has fallen out for the
best, and we are all satisfied and comfortable.  It may be that
Dorcas and I will see America again some day; but also it is a case
of maybe not.

We left the post in the early morning.  It was an affecting time.
The women cried over Cathy, so did even those stern warriors, the
Rocky Mountain Rangers; Shekels was there, and the Cid, and
Sardanapalus, and Potter, and Mongrel, and Sour-Mash, Famine, and
Pestilence, and Cathy kissed them all and wept; details of the
several arms of the garrison were present to represent the rest,
and say good-bye and God bless you for all the soldiery; and there
was a special squad from the Seventh, with the oldest veteran at
its head, to speed the Seventh's Child with grand honors and
impressive ceremonies; and the veteran had a touching speech by
heart, and put up his hand in salute and tried to say it, but his
lips trembled and his voice broke, but Cathy bent down from the
saddle and kissed him on the mouth and turned his defeat to
victory, and a cheer went up.

The next act closed the ceremonies, and was a moving surprise.  It
may be that you have discovered, before this, that the rigors of
military law and custom melt insensibly away and disappear when a
soldier or a regiment or the garrison wants to do something that
will please Cathy.  The bands conceived the idea of stirring her
soldierly heart with a farewell which would remain in her memory
always, beautiful and unfading, and bring back the past and its
love for her whenever she should think of it; so they got their
project placed before General Burnaby, my successor, who is Cathy's
newest slave, and in spite of poverty of precedents they got his
permission.  The bands knew the child's favorite military airs.  By
this hint you know what is coming, but Cathy didn't.  She was asked
to sound the "reveille," which she did.

[REVEILLE]

With the last note the bands burst out with a crash:  and woke the
mountains with the "Star-Spangled Banner" in a way to make a body's
heart swell and thump and his hair rise!  It was enough to break a
person all up, to see Cathy's radiant face shining out through her
gladness and tears.  By request she blew the "assembly," now. . . .

[THE ASSEMBLY]

. . . Then the bands thundered in, with "Rally round the flag,
boys, rally once again!"  Next, she blew another call ("to the
Standard") . . .

[TO THE STANDARD]

. . .  and the bands responded with "When we were marching through
Georgia."  Straightway she sounded "boots and saddles," that
thrilling and most expediting call. . . .

[BOOTS AND SADDLES]

and the bands could hardly hold in for the final note; then they
turned their whole strength loose on "Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys
are marching," and everybody's excitement rose to blood-heat.

Now an impressive pause - then the bugle sang "TAPS" -
translatable, this time, into "Good-bye, and God keep us all!" for
taps is the soldier's nightly release from duty, and farewell:
plaintive, sweet, pathetic, for the morning is never sure, for him;
always it is possible that he is hearing it for the last time. . .
.

[TAPS]

. . . Then the bands turned their instruments towards Cathy and
burst in with that rollicking frenzy of a tune, "Oh, we'll all get
blind drunk when Johnny comes marching home - yes, we'll all get
blind drunk when Johnny comes marching home!" and followed it
instantly with "Dixie," that antidote for melancholy, merriest and
gladdest of all military music on any side of the ocean - and that
was the end.  And so - farewell!

I wish you could have been there to see it all, hear it all, and
feel it:  and get yourself blown away with the hurricane huzza that
swept the place as a finish.

When we rode away, our main body had already been on the road an
hour or two - I speak of our camp equipage; but we didn't move off
alone:  when Cathy blew the "advance" the Rangers cantered out in
column of fours, and gave us escort, and were joined by White Cloud
and Thunder -Bird in all their gaudy bravery, and by Buffalo Bill
and four subordinate scouts.  Three miles away, in the Plains, the
Lieutenant-General halted, sat her horse like a military statue,
the bugle at her lips, and put the Rangers through the evolutions
for half an hour; and finally, when she blew the "charge," she led
it herself.  "Not for the last time," she said, and got a cheer,
and we said good-bye all around, and faced eastward and rode away.

POSTSCRIPT.  A DAY LATER.  Soldier Boy was stolen last night.
Cathy is almost beside herself, and we cannot comfort her.
Mercedes and I are not much alarmed about the horse, although this
part of Spain is in something of a turmoil, politically, at
present, and there is a good deal of lawlessness.  In ordinary
times the thief and the horse would soon be captured.  We shall
have them before long, I think.



CHAPTER XIV - SOLDIER BOY - TO HIMSELF



It is five months.  Or is it six?  My troubles have clouded my
memory.  I have been all over this land, from end to end, and now I
am back again since day before yesterday, to that city which we
passed through, that last day of our long journey, and which is
near her country home.  I am a tottering ruin and my eyes are dim,
but I recognized it.  If she could see me she would know me and
sound my call.  I wish I could hear it once more; it would revive
me, it would bring back her face and the mountains and the free
life, and I would come - if I were dying I would come!  She would
not know ME, looking as I do, but she would know me by my star.
But she will never see me, for they do not let me out of this
shabby stable - a foul and miserable place, with most two wrecks
like myself for company.

How many times have I changed hands?  I think it is twelve times -
I cannot remember; and each time it was down a step lower, and each
time I got a harder master.  They have been cruel, every one; they
have worked me night and day in degraded employments, and beaten
me; they have fed me ill, and some days not at all.  And so I am
but bones, now, with a rough and frowsy skin humped and cornered
upon my shrunken body - that skin which was once so glossy, that
skin which she loved to stroke with her hand.  I was the pride of
the mountains and the Great Plains; now I am a scarecrow and
despised.  These piteous wrecks that are my comrades here say we
have reached the bottom of the scale, the final humiliation; they
say that when a horse is no longer worth the weeds and discarded
rubbish they feed to him, they sell him to the bull-ring for a
glass of brandy, to make sport for the people and perish for their
pleasure.

To die - that does not disturb me; we of the service never care for
death.  But if I could see her once more! if I could hear her bugle
sing again and say, "It is I, Soldier - come!"



CHAPTER XV - GENERAL ALISON TO MRS. DRAKE, THE COLONEL'S WIFE



To return, now, to where I was, and tell you the rest.  We shall
never know how she came to be there; there is no way to account for
it.  She was always watching for black and shiny and spirited
horses - watching, hoping, despairing, hoping again; always giving
chase and sounding her call, upon the meagrest chance of a
response, and breaking her heart over the disappointment; always
inquiring, always interested in sales-stables and horse
accumulations in general.  How she got there must remain a mystery.

At the point which I had reached in a preceding paragraph of this
account, the situation was as follows:  two horses lay dying; the
bull had scattered his persecutors for the moment, and stood
raging, panting, pawing the dust in clouds over his back, when the
man that had been wounded returned to the ring on a remount, a poor
blindfolded wreck that yet had something ironically military about
his bearing - and the next moment the bull had ripped him open and
his bowls were dragging upon the ground:  and the bull was charging
his swarm of pests again.  Then came pealing through the air a
bugle-call that froze my blood - "IT IS I, SOLDIER - COME!"  I
turned; Cathy was flying down through the massed people; she
cleared the parapet at a bound, and sped towards that riderless
horse, who staggered forward towards the remembered sound; but his
strength failed, and he fell at her feet, she lavishing kisses upon
him and sobbing, the house rising with one impulse, and white with
horror!  Before help could reach her the bull was back again -

She was never conscious again in life.  We bore her home, all
mangled and drenched in blood, and knelt by her and listened to her
broken and wandering words, and prayed for her passing spirit, and
there was no comfort - nor ever will be, I think.  But she was
happy, for she was far away under another sky, and comrading again
with her Rangers, and her animal friends, and the soldiers.  Their
names fell softly and caressingly from her lips, one by one, with
pauses between.  She was not in pain, but lay with closed eyes,
vacantly murmuring, as one who dreams.  Sometimes she smiled,
saying nothing; sometimes she smiled when she uttered a name - such
as Shekels, or BB, or Potter.  Sometimes she was at her fort,
issuing commands; sometimes she was careering over the plain at the
head of her men; sometimes she was training her horse; once she
said, reprovingly, "You are giving me the wrong foot; give me the
left - don't you know it is good-bye?"

After this, she lay silent some time; the end was near.  By-and-by
she murmured, "Tired . . . sleepy . . . take Cathy, mamma."  Then,
"Kiss me, Soldier."  For a little time, she lay so still that we
were doubtful if she breathed.  Then she put out her hand and began
to feel gropingly about; then said, "I cannot find it; blow
'taps.'"  It was the end.




End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of A Horse's Tale, by Mark Twain






CHRISTIAN SCIENCE

by Mark Twain



PREFACE

Book I of this volume occupies a quarter or a third of the volume,
and consists of matter written about four years ago, but not hitherto
published in book form.  It contained errors of judgment and of fact.
I have now corrected these to the best of my ability and later knowledge.


Book II was written at the beginning of 1903, and has not until now
appeared in any form.  In it my purpose has been to present a character-
portrait of Mrs. Eddy, drawn from her own acts and words solely, not from
hearsay and rumor; and to explain the nature and scope of her Monarchy,
as revealed in the Laws by which she governs it, and which she wrote
herself.

MARK TWAIN
NEW YORK.  January, 1907.





BOOK I CHRISTIAN SCIENCE

     "It is the first time since the dawn-days of Creation that
     a Voice has gone crashing through space with such
     placid and complacent confidence and command."



CHAPTER I
VIENNA 1899.

This last summer, when I was on my way back to Vienna from the Appetite-
Cure in the mountains, I fell over a cliff in the twilight, and broke
some arms and legs and one thing or another, and by good luck was found
by some peasants who had lost an ass, and they carried me to the nearest
habitation, which was one of those large, low, thatch-roofed farm-houses,
with apartments in the garret for the family, and a cunning little porch
under the deep gable decorated with boxes of bright colored flowers and
cats; on the ground floor a large and light sitting-room, separated from
the milch-cattle apartment by a partition; and in the front yard rose
stately and fine the wealth and pride of the house, the manure-pile.
That sentence is Germanic, and shows that I am acquiring that sort of
mastery of the art and spirit of the language which enables a man to
travel all day in one sentence without changing cars.

There was a village a mile away, and a horse doctor lived there, but
there was no surgeon.  It seemed a bad outlook; mine was distinctly a
surgery case.  Then it was remembered that a lady from Boston was
summering in that village, and she was a Christian Science doctor and
could cure anything.  So she was sent for.  It was night by this time,
and she could not conveniently come, but sent word that it was no matter,
there was no hurry, she would give me "absent treatment" now, and come
in the morning; meantime she begged me to make myself tranquil and
comfortable and remember that there was nothing the matter with me.
I thought there must be some mistake.

"Did you tell her I walked off a cliff seventy-five feet high?"

"Yes."

"And struck a boulder at the bottom and bounced?"

"Yes."

"And struck another one and bounced again?"

"Yes."

"And struck another one and bounced yet again?"

"Yes."

"And broke the boulders?"

"Yes."

"That accounts for it; she is thinking of the boulders.  Why didn't you
tell her I got hurt, too?"

"I did.  I told her what you told me to tell her: that you were now but
an incoherent series of compound fractures extending from your scalp-lock
to your heels, and that the comminuted projections caused you to look
like a hat-rack."

"And it was after this that she wished me to remember that there was
nothing the matter with me?"

"Those were her words."

"I do not understand it.  I believe she has not diagnosed the case with
sufficient care.  Did she look like a person who was theorizing, or did
she look like one who has fallen off precipices herself and brings to the
aid of abstract science the confirmations of personal experience?"

"Bitte?"

It was too large a contract for the Stubenmadchen's vocabulary; she
couldn't call the hand.  I allowed the subject to rest there, and asked
for something to eat and smoke, and something hot to drink, and a basket
to pile my legs in; but I could not have any of these things.

"Why?"

"She said you would need nothing at all."

"But I am hungry and thirsty, and in desperate pain."

"She said you would have these delusions, but must pay no attention to
them.  She wants you to particularly remember that there are no such
things as hunger and thirst and pain.''

"She does does she?"

"It is what she said."

Does she seem to be in full and functionable possession of her
intellectual plant, such as it is?"

"Bitte?"

"Do they let her run at large, or do they tie her up?"

"Tie her up?"

"There, good-night, run along, you are a good girl, but your mental
Geschirr is not arranged for light and airy conversation.  Leave me to my
delusions."




CHAPTER II

It was a night of anguish, of course-at least, I supposed it was, for it
had all the symptoms of it--but it passed at last, and the Christian
Scientist came, and I was glad She was middle-aged, and large and bony,
and erect, and had an austere face and a resolute jaw and a Roman beak
and was a widow in the third degree, and her name was Fuller.  I was
eager to get to business and find relief, but she was distressingly
deliberate.  She unpinned and unhooked and uncoupled her upholsteries one
by one, abolished the wrinkles with a flirt of her hand, and hung the
articles up; peeled off her gloves and disposed of them, got a book out
of her hand-bag, then drew a chair to the bedside, descended into it
without hurry, and I hung out my tongue.  She said, with pity but without
passion:

"Return it to its receptacle.  We deal with the mind only, not with its
dumb servants."

I could not offer my pulse, because the connection was broken; but she
detected the apology before I could word it, and indicated by a negative
tilt of her head that the pulse was another dumb servant that she had no
use for.  Then I thought I would tell her my symptoms and how I felt, so
that she would understand the case; but that was another inconsequence,
she did not need to know those things; moreover, my remark about how I
felt was an abuse of language, a misapplication of terms.

"One does not feel," she explained; "there is no such thing as feeling:
therefore, to speak of a non-existent thing as existent is a
contradiction.  Matter has no existence; nothing exists but mind; the
mind cannot feel pain, it can only imagine it."

"But if it hurts, just the same--"

"It doesn't.  A thing which is unreal cannot exercise the functions of
reality.  Pain is unreal; hence, pain cannot hurt."

In making a sweeping gesture to indicate the act of shooing the illusion
of pain out of the mind, she raked her hand on a pin in her dress, said
"Ouch!" and went tranquilly on with her talk.  "You should never allow
yourself to speak of how you feel, nor permit others to ask you how you
are feeling; you should never concede that you are ill, nor permit others
to talk about disease or pain or death or similar nonexistences in your
presence.  Such talk only encourages the mind to continue its empty
imaginings."  Just at that point the Stuben-madchen trod on the cat's
tail, and the cat let fly a frenzy of cat-profanity.  I asked, with
caution:

"Is a cat's opinion about pain valuable?"

"A cat has no opinion; opinions proceed from mind only; the lower
animals, being eternally perishable, have not been granted mind; without
mind, opinion is impossible."

"She merely imagined she felt a pain--the cat?"

"She cannot imagine a pain, for imagining is an effect of mind; without
mind, there is no imagination.  A cat has no imagination."

"Then she had a real pain?"

"I have already told you there is no such thing as real pain."

"It is strange and interesting.  I do wonder what was the matter with the
cat.  Because, there being no such thing as a real pain, and she not
being able to imagine an imaginary one, it would seem that God in His
pity has compensated the cat with some kind of a mysterious emotion
usable when her tail is trodden on which, for the moment, joins cat and
Christian in one common brotherhood of--"

She broke in with an irritated--

"Peace!  The cat feels nothing, the Christian feels nothing.  Your empty
and foolish imaginings are profanation and blasphemy, and can do you an
injury.  It is wiser and better and holier to recognize and confess that
there is no such thing as disease or pain or death."

"I am full of imaginary tortures," I said, "but I do not think I could be
any more uncomfortable if they were real ones.  What must I do to get rid
of them?"

"There is no occasion to get rid of them.  since they do not exist.  They
are illusions propagated by matter, and matter has no existence; there is
no such thing as matter."

"It sounds right and clear, but yet it seems in a degree elusive; it
seems to slip through, just when you think you are getting a grip on it."

"Explain."

"Well, for instance: if there is no such thing as matter, how can matter
propagate things?"

In her compassion she almost smiled.  She would have smiled if there were
any such thing as a smile.

"It is quite simple," she said; "the fundamental propositions of
Christian Science explain it, and they are summarized in the four
following self-evident propositions:
1.  God is All in all.
2.  God is good.  Good is Mind
3.  God, Spirit, being all, nothing is matter
4.  Life, God, omnipotent Good, deny death, evil, sin, disease.

"There--now you see."

It seemed nebulous; it did not seem to say anything about the difficulty
in hand--how non-existent matter can propagate illusions I said, with
some hesitancy:

"Does--does it explain?"

"Doesn't it?  Even if read backward it will do it."

With a budding hope, I asked her to do it backwards.

"Very well.  Disease sin evil death deny Good omnipotent God life matter
is nothing all being Spirit God Mind is Good good is God all in All is
God.  There do you understand now?

"It--it--well, it is plainer than it was before; still--"

"Well?"

"Could you try it some more ways?"

"As many as you like; it always means the same.  Interchanged in any way
you please it cannot be made to mean anything different from what it
means when put in any other way.  Because it is perfect.  You can jumble
it all up, and it makes no difference: it always comes out the way it was
before.  It was a marvelous mind that produced it.  As a mental tour de
force it is without a mate, it defies alike the simple, the concrete, and
the occult."

"It seems to be a corker."

I blushed for the word, but it was out before I could stop it.

"A what?"

"A--wonderful structure--combination, so to speak, of profound thoughts--
unthinkable ones--um--"

It is true.  Read backward, or forward, or perpendicularly, or at any
given angle, these four propositions will always be found to agree in
statement and proof."

"Ah--proof.  Now we are coming at it.  The statements agree; they agree
with--with--anyway, they agree; I noticed that; but what is it they prove
I mean, in particular?"

"Why, nothing could be clearer.  They prove:

"1.  GOD--Principle, Life,
Truth, Love, Soul, Spirit, Mind.  Do you get that?"

"I--well, I seem to.  Go on, please."

"2.  MAN--God's universal idea, individual, perfect, eternal.  Is it
clear?"

"It--I think so.  Continue."

"3.  IDEA--An image in Mind; the immediate object of understanding.
There it is--the whole sublime Arcana of Christian Science in a nutshell.
Do you find a weak place in it anywhere?"

"Well--no; it seems strong."

"Very well There is more.  Those three constitute the Scientific
Definition of Immortal Mind.  Next, we have the Scientific Definition of
Mortal Mind.  Thus.  FIRST DEGREE: Depravity I.  Physical-Passions and
appetites, fear, depraved will, pride, envy, deceit, hatred, revenge,
sin, disease, death."

"Phantasms, madam--unrealities, as I understand it."

"Every one.  SECOND DEGREE: Evil Disappearing.  I.  Moral-Honesty,
affection, compassion, hope, faith, meekness, temperance.  Is it clear?"

"Crystal."

"THIRD DEGREE: Spiritual Salvation.  I.  Spiritual-Faith, wisdom, power,
purity, understanding, health, love.  You see how searchingly and co-
ordinately interdependent and anthropomorphous it all is.  In this Third
Degree, as we know by the revelations of Christian Science, mortal mind
disappears."

"Not earlier?"

"No, not until the teaching and preparation for the Third Degree are
completed."

"It is not until then that one is enabled to take hold of Christian
Science effectively, and with the right sense of sympathy and kinship,
as I understand you.  That is to say, it could not succeed during the
processes of the Second Degree, because there would still be remains of
mind left; and therefore--but I interrupted you.  You were about to
further explain the good results proceeding from the erosions and
disintegrations effected by the Third Degree.  It is very interesting;
go on, please."

"Yes, as I was saying, in this Third Degree mortal mind disappears.
Science so reverses the evidence before the corporeal human senses as to
make this scriptural testimony true in our hearts, 'the last shall be
first and the first shall be last,' that God and His idea may be to us--
what divinity really is, and must of necessity be all-inclusive."

"It is beautiful.  And with what exhaustive exactness your choice and
arrangement of words confirm and establish what you have claimed for the
powers and functions of the Third Degree.  The Second could probably
produce only temporary absence of mind; it is reserved to the Third to
make it permanent.  A sentence framed under the auspices of the Second
could have a kind of meaning--a sort of deceptive semblance of it--
whereas it is only under the magic of the Third that that defect would
disappear.  Also, without doubt, it is the Third Degree that contributes
another remarkable specialty to Christian Science--viz., ease and flow
and lavishness of words, and rhythm and swing and smoothness.  There must
be a special reason for this?"

"Yes--God--all, all--God, good God, non-Matter, Matteration, Spirit,
Bones, Truth."

"That explains it."

"There is nothing in Christian Science that is not explicable; for God is
one, Time is one, Individuality is one, and may be one of a series, one
of many, as an individual man, individual horse; whereas God is one, not
one of a series, but one alone and without an equal."

"These are noble thoughts.  They make one burn to know more.  How does
Christian Science explain the spiritual relation of systematic duality to
incidental deflection?"

"Christian Science reverses the seeming relation of Soul and body--as
astronomy reverses the human perception of the movement of the solar
system--and makes body tributary to the Mind.  As it is the earth which
is in motion, While the sun is at rest, though in viewing the sun rise
one finds it impossible to believe the sun not to be really rising, so
the body is but the humble servant of the restful Mind, though it seems
otherwise to finite sense; but we shall never understand this while we
admit that soul is in body, or mind in matter, and that man is included
in non-intelligence.  Soul is God, unchangeable and eternal; and man
coexists with and reflects Soul, for the All-in-all is the Altogether,
and the Altogether embraces the All-one, Soul-Mind, Mind-Soul, Love,
Spirit, Bones, Liver, one of a series, alone and without an equal."

"What is the origin of Christian Science?  Is it a gift of God, or did it
just happen?"

"In a sense, it is a gift of God.  That is to say, its powers are from
Him, but the credit of the discovery of the powers and what they are for
is due to an American lady."

"Indeed?  When did this occur?"

"In 1866.  That is the immortal date when pain and disease and death
disappeared from the earth to return no more forever.  That is, the
fancies for which those terms stand disappeared.  The things themselves
had never existed; therefore, as soon as it was perceived that there were
no such things, they were easily banished.  The history and nature of the
great discovery are set down in the book here, and--"

"Did the lady write the book?"

"Yes, she wrote it all, herself.  The title is Science and Health, with
Key to the Scriptures--for she explains the Scriptures; they were not
understood before.  Not even by the twelve Disciples.  She begins thus--
I will read it to you."

But she had forgotten to bring her glasses.

"Well, it is no matter," she said.  "I remember the words--indeed, all
Christian Scientists know the book by heart; it is necessary in our
practice.  We should otherwise make mistakes and do harm.  She begins
thus: 'In the year 1866 I discovered the Science of Metaphysical
Healing, and named it Christian Science.'  And She says quite beautifully,
I think--'Through Christian Science, religion and medicine are inspired
with a diviner nature and essence, fresh pinions are given to faith and
understanding, and thoughts acquaint themselves intelligently with God.'
Her very words."

"It is elegant.  And it is a fine thought, too--marrying religion to
medicine, instead of medicine to the undertaker in the old way; for
religion and medicine properly belong together, they being the basis of
all spiritual and physical health.  What kind of medicine do you give for
the ordinary diseases, such as--"

"We never give medicine in any circumstances whatever!  We--"

"But, madam, it says--"

"I don't care what it says, and I don't wish to talk about it."

"I am sorry if I have offended, but you see the mention seemed in some
way inconsistent, and--"

"There are no inconsistencies in Christian Science.  The thing is
impossible, for the Science is absolute.  It cannot be otherwise, since
it proceeds directly from the All-in-all and the Everything-in-Which,
also Soul, Bones, Truth, one of a series, alone and without equal.  It is
Mathematics purified from material dross and made spiritual."

"I can see that, but--"

"It rests upon the immovable basis of an Apodictical Principle."

The word flattened itself against my mind in trying to get in, and
disordered me a little, and before I could inquire into its pertinency,
she was already throwing the needed light:

"This Apodictical Principle is the absolute Principle of Scientific Mind-
healing, the sovereign Omnipotence which delivers the children of men
from pain, disease, decay, and every ill that flesh is heir to."

"Surely not every ill, every decay?"

"Every one; there are no exceptions; there is no such thing as decay--it
is an unreality, it has no existence."

"But without your glasses your failing eyesight does not permit you to--"

"My eyesight cannot fail; nothing can fail; the Mind is master, and the
Mind permits no retrogression."

She was under the inspiration of the Third Degree, therefore there could
be no profit in continuing this part of the subject.  I shifted to other
ground and inquired further concerning the Discoverer of the Science.

"Did the discovery come suddenly, like Klondike, or after long study and
calculation, like America?"

"The comparisons are not respectful, since they refer to trivialities--
but let it pass.  I will answer in the Discoverer's own words: 'God had
been graciously fitting me, during many years, for the reception of a
final revelation of the absolute Principle of Scientific Mind-healing."

"Many years.  How many?"

"Eighteen centuries!"

"All--God, God--good, good--God, Truth, Bones, Liver, one of a series,
alone and without equal--it is amazing!"

"You may well say it, sir.  Yet it is but the truth This American lady,
our revered and sacred Founder, is distinctly referred to, and her coming
prophesied, in the twelfth chapter of the Apocalypse; she could not have
been more plainly indicated by St. John without actually mentioning her
name."

"How strange, how wonderful!"

"I will quote her own words, from her Key to the Scriptures: 'The twelfth
chapter of the Apocalypse has a special suggestiveness in connection with
this nineteenth century.' There--do you note that?  Think--note it well."


"But--what does it mean?"

"Listen, and you will know.  I quote her inspired words again: 'In the
opening of the Sixth Seal, typical of six thousand years since Adam,
there is one distinctive feature which has special reference to the
present age.  Thus:

"'Revelation xii.  I.  And there appeared a great wonder in heaven--a
woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her
head a crown of twelve stars.'

"That is our Head, our Chief, our Discoverer of Christian Science--
nothing can be plainer, nothing surer.  And note this:

"'Revelation xii.  6.  And the woman fled into the wilderness, where she
had a place prepared of God.'

"That is Boston.  I recognize it, madam.  These are sublime things, and
impressive; I never understood these passages before; please go on with
the--with the--proofs."

"Very well.  Listen:

"'And I saw another mighty angel come down from heaven, clothed with a
cloud; and a rainbow was upon his head, and his face was as it were the
sun, and his feet as pillars of fire.  And he held in his hand a little
book.'

"A little book, merely a little book--could words be modester?  Yet how
stupendous its importance!  Do you know what book that was?"

"Was it--"

"I hold it in my hand--Christian Science!"

"Love, Livers, Lights, Bones, Truth, Kidneys, one of a series, alone and
without equal--it is beyond imagination for wonder!"

"Hear our Founder's eloquent words: 'Then will a voice from harmony cry,
"Go and take the little book: take it and eat it up, and it shall make
thy belly bitter; but it shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey."  Mortal,
obey the heavenly evangel.  Take up Divine Science.  Read it from
beginning to end.  Study it, ponder it.  It will be, indeed, sweet at its
first taste, when it heals you; but murmur not over Truth, if you find
its digestion bitter.' You now know the history of our dear and holy
Science, sir, and that its origin is not of this earth, but only its
discovery.  I will leave the book with you and will go, now; but give
yourself no uneasiness--I will give you absent treatment from now till I
go to bed."




CHAPTER III

Under the powerful influence of the near treatment and the absent
treatment together, my bones were gradually retreating inward and
disappearing from view.  The good work took a brisk start, now, and went
on swiftly.  My body was diligently straining and stretching, this way
and that, to accommodate the processes of restoration, and every minute
or two I heard a dull click inside and knew that the two ends of a
fracture had been successfully joined.  This muffled clicking and
gritting and grinding and rasping continued during the next three hours,
and then stopped--the connections had all been made.  All except
dislocations; there were only seven of these: hips, shoulders, knees,
neck; so that was soon over; one after another they slipped into their
sockets with a sound like pulling a distant cork, and I jumped up as good
as new, as to framework, and sent for the horse-doctor.

I was obliged to do this because I had a stomach-ache and a cold in the
head, and I was not willing to trust these things any longer in the hands
of a woman whom I did not know, and whose ability to successfully treat
mere disease I had lost all confidence.  My position was justified by the
fact that the cold and the ache had been in her charge from the first,
along with the fractures, but had experienced not a shade of relief; and,
indeed, the ache was even growing worse and worse, and more and more
bitter, now, probably on account of the protracted abstention from food
and drink.

The horse-doctor came, a pleasant man and full of hope and professional
interest in the case.  In the matter of smell he was pretty aromatic--in
fact, quite horsy--and I tried to arrange with him for absent treatment,
but it was not in his line, so, out of delicacy, I did not press it.  He
looked at my teeth and examined my hock, and said my age and general
condition were favorable to energetic measures; therefore he would give
me something to turn the stomach-ache into the botts and the cold in the
head into the blind staggers; then he should be on his own beat and would
know what to do.  He made up a bucket of bran-mash, and said a dipperful
of it every two hours, alternated with a drench with turpentine and axle-
grease in it, would either knock my ailments out of me in twenty-four
hours, or so interest me in other ways as to make me forget they were on
the premises.  He administered my first dose himself, then took his
leave, saying I was free to eat and drink anything I pleased and in any
quantity I liked.  But I was not hungry any more, and did not care for
food.

I took up the Christian Science book and read half of it, then took a
dipperful of drench and read the other half.  The resulting experiences
were full of interest and adventure.  All through the rumblings and
grindings and quakings and effervescings accompanying the evolution of
the ache into the botts and the cold into the blind staggers I could note
the generous struggle for mastery going on between the mash and the
drench and the literature; and often I could tell which was ahead, and
could easily distinguish the literature from the others when the others
were separate, though not when they were mixed; for when a bran-mash and
an eclectic drench are mixed together they look just like the Apodictical
Principle out on a lark, and no one can tell it from that.  The finish
was reached at last, the evolutions were complete, and a fine success,
but I think that this result could have been achieved with fewer
materials.  I believe the mash was necessary to the conversion of the
stomach-ache into the botts, but I think one could develop the blind
staggers out of the literature by itself; also, that blind staggers
produced in this way would be of a better quality and more lasting than
any produced by the artificial processes of the horse-doctor.

For of all the strange and frantic and incomprehensible and
uninterpretable books which the imagination of man has created, surely
this one is the prize sample.  It is written with a limitless confidence
and complacency, and with a dash and stir and earnestness which often
compel the effects of eloquence, even when the words do not seem to have
any traceable meaning.  There are plenty of people who imagine they
understand the book; I know this, for I have talked with them; but in all
cases they were people who also imagined that there were no such things
as pain, sickness, and death, and no realities in the world; nothing
actually existent but Mind.  It seems to me to modify the value of their
testimony.  When these people talk about Christian Science they do as
Mrs. Fuller did: they do not use their own language, but the book's; they
pour out the book's showy incoherences, and leave you to find out later
that they were not originating, but merely quoting; they seem to know the
volume by heart, and to revere it as they would a Bible--another Bible,
perhaps I ought to say.  Plainly the book was written under the mental
desolations of the Third Degree, and I feel sure that none but the
membership of that Degree can discover meanings in it.  When you read it
you seem to be listening to a lively and aggressive and oracular speech
delivered in an unknown tongue, a speech whose spirit you get but not the
particulars; or, to change the figure, you seem to be listening to a
vigorous instrument which is making a noise which it thinks is a tune,
but which, to persons not members of the band, is only the martial
tooting of a trombone, and merrily stirs the soul through the noise, but
does not convey a meaning.

The book's serenities of self-satisfaction do almost seem to smack of a
heavenly origin--they have no blood-kin in the earth.  It is more than
human to be so placidly certain about things, and so finely superior, and
so airily content with one's performance.  Without ever presenting
anything which may rightfully be called by the strong name of Evidence,
and sometimes without even mentioning a reason for a deduction at all, it
thunders out the startling words, "I have Proved" so and so.  It takes
the Pope and all the great guns of his Church in battery assembled to
authoritatively settle and establish the meaning of a sole and single
unclarified passage of Scripture, and this at vast cost of time and study
and reflection, but the author of this work is superior to all that: she
finds the whole Bible in an unclarified audition, and at small expense of
time and no expense of mental effort she clarifies it from lid to lid,
reorganizes and improves the meanings, then authoritatively settles and
establishes them with formulas which you cannot tell from "Let there be
light!" and "Here you have it!" It is the first time since the dawn-days
of Creation that a Voice has gone crashing through space with such placid
and complacent confidence and command.

[January, 1903.  The first reading of any book whose terminology is
new and strange is nearly sure to leave the reader in a bewildered and
sarcastic state of mind.  But now that, during the past two months, I
have, by diligence gained a fair acquaintanceship with Science and Health
technicalities, I no longer find the bulk of that work hard to
understand.--M.  T.]

P.S.  The wisdom harvested from the foregoing thoughts has already done
me a service and saved me a sorrow.  Nearly a month ago there came to me
from one of the universities a tract by Dr.  Edward Anthony Spitzka on
the "Encephalic Anatomy of the Races."  I judged that my opinion was
desired by the university, and I was greatly pleased with this attention
and wrote and said I would furnish it as soon as I could.  That night I
put my plodding and disheartening Christian Science mining aside and took
hold of the matter.  I wrote an eager chapter, and was expecting to
finish my opinion the next day, but was called away for a week, and my
mind was soon charged with other interests.  It was not until to-day,
after the lapse of nearly a month, that I happened upon my Encephalic
chapter again.  Meantime, the new wisdom had come to me, and I read it
with shame.  I recognized that I had entered upon that work in far from
the right temper--far from the respectful and judicial spirit which was
its due of reverence.  I had begun upon it with the following paragraph
for fuel:

"FISSURES OF THE PARIETAL AND OCCIPITAL LOBES (LATERAL SURFACE).--The
Postcentral Fissural Complex--In this hemicerebrum, the postcentral and
subcentral are combined to form a continuous fissure, attaining a length
of 8.5 cm.  Dorsally, the fissure bifurcates, embracing the gyre indented
by the caudal limb of the paracentral.  The caudal limb of the
postcentral is joined by a transparietal piece.  In all, five additional
rami spring from the combined fissure.  A vadum separates it from the
parietal; another from the central."

It humiliates me, now, to see how angry I got over that; and how
scornful.  I said that the style was disgraceful; that it was labored and
tumultuous, and in places violent, that the treatment was involved and
erratic, and almost, as a rule, bewildering; that to lack of simplicity
was added a lack of vocabulary; that there was quite too much feeling
shown; that if I had a dog that would get so excited and incoherent over
a tranquil subject like Encephalic Anatomy I would not pay his tax; and
at that point I got excited myself and spoke bitterly of these mongrel
insanities, and said a person might as well try to understand Science and
Health.

[I know, now, where the trouble was, and am glad of the interruption that
saved me from sending my verdict to the university.  It makes me cold to
think what those people might have thought of me.--M.  T.]




CHAPTER IV

No one doubts--certainly not I--that the mind exercises a powerful
influence over the body.  From the beginning of time, the sorcerer, the
interpreter of dreams, the fortune-teller, the charlatan, the quack, the
wild medicine-man, the educated physician, the mesmerist, and the
hypnotist have made use of the client's imagination to help them in their
work.  They have all recognized the potency and availability of that
force.  Physicians cure many patients with a bread pill; they know that
where the disease is only a fancy, the patient's confidence in the doctor
will make the bread pill effective.

Faith in the doctor.  Perhaps that is the entire thing.  It seems to look
like it.  In old times the King cured the king's evil by the touch of the
royal hand.  He frequently made extraordinary cures.  Could his footman
have done it?  No--not in his own clothes.  Disguised as the King, could
he have done it?  I think we may not doubt it.  I think we may feel sure
that it was not the King's touch that made the cure in any instance, but
the patient's faith in the efficacy of a King's touch.  Genuine and
remarkable cures have been achieved through contact with the relics of a
saint.  Is it not likely that any other bones would have done as well if
the substitution had been concealed from the patient?  When I was a boy a
farmer's wife who lived five miles from our village had great fame as a
faith-doctor--that was what she called herself.  Sufferers came to her
from all around, and she laid her hand upon them and said, "Have faith--
it is all that is necessary," and they went away well of their ailments.
She was not a religious woman, and pretended to no occult powers.  She
said that the patient's faith in her did the work.  Several times I saw
her make immediate cures of severe toothaches.  My mother was the
patient.  In Austria there is a peasant who drives a great trade in this
sort of industry, and has both the high and the low for patients.  He
gets into prison every now and then for practising without a diploma, but
his business is as brisk as ever when he gets out, for his work is
unquestionably successful and keeps his reputation high.  In Bavaria
there is a man who performed so many great cures that he had to retire
from his profession of stage-carpentering in order to meet the demand of
his constantly increasing body of customers.  He goes on from year to
year doing his miracles, and has become very rich.  He pretends to no
religious helps, no supernatural aids, but thinks there is something in
his make-up which inspires the confidence of his patients, and that it is
this confidence which does the work, and not some mysterious power
issuing from himself.

Within the last quarter of a century, in America, several sects of curers
have appeared under various names and have done notable things in the way
of healing ailments without the use of medicines.  There are the Mind
Cure the Faith Cure, the Prayer Cure, the Mental Science Cure, and the
Christian-Science Cure; and apparently they all do their miracles with
the same old, powerful instrument--the patient's imagination.  Differing
names, but no difference in the process.  But they do not give that
instrument the credit; each sect claims that its way differs from the
ways of the others.

They all achieve some cures, there is no question about it; and the Faith
Cure and the Prayer Cure probably do no harm when they do no good, since
they do not forbid the patient to help out the cure with medicines if he
wants to; but the others bar medicines, and claim ability to cure every
conceivable human ailment through the application of their mental forces
alone.  There would seem to be an element of danger here.  It has the
look of claiming too much, I think.  Public confidence would probably be
increased if less were claimed.

The Christian Scientist was not able to cure my stomach-ache and my cold;
but the horse-doctor did it.  This convinces me that Christian Science
claims too much.  In my opinion it ought to let diseases alone and
confine itself to surgery.  There it would have everything its own way.

The horse-doctor charged me thirty kreutzers, and I paid him; in fact, I
doubled it and gave him a shilling.  Mrs. Fuller brought in an itemized
bill for a crate of broken bones mended in two hundred and thirty-four
places--one dollar per fracture.

"Nothing exists but Mind?"

"Nothing," she answered.  "All else is substanceless, all else is
imaginary."

I gave her an imaginary check, and now she is suing me for substantial
dollars.  It looks inconsistent.




CHAPTER V

Let us consider that we are all partially insane.  It will explain us to
each other; it will unriddle many riddles; it will make clear and simple
many things which are involved in haunting and harassing difficulties and
obscurities now.

Those of us who are not in the asylum, and not demonstrably due there,
are nevertheless, no doubt, insane in one or two particulars.  I think we
must admit this; but I think that we are otherwise healthy-minded.  I
think that when we all see one thing alike, it is evidence that, as
regards that one thing, our minds are perfectly sound.  Now there are
really several things which we do all see alike; things which we all
accept, and about which we do not dispute.  For instance, we who are
outside of the asylum all agree that water seeks its level; that the sun
gives light and heat; that fire consumes; that fog is damp; that six
times six are thirty-six, that two from ten leaves eight; that eight and
seven are fifteen.  These are, perhaps, the only things we are agreed
about; but, although they are so few, they are of inestimable value,
because they make an infallible standard of sanity.  Whosoever accepts
them him we know to be substantially sane; sufficiently sane; in the
working essentials, sane.  Whoever disputes a single one of them him we
know to be wholly insane, and qualified for the asylum.

Very well, the man who disputes none of them we concede to be entitled to
go at large.  But that is concession enough.  We cannot go any further
than that; for we know that in all matters of mere opinion that same man
is insane--just as insane as we are; just as insane as Shakespeare was.
We know exactly where to put our finger upon his insanity: it is where
his opinion differs from ours.

That is a simple rule, and easy to remember.  When I, a thoughtful and
unblessed Presbyterian, examine the Koran, I know that beyond any
question every Mohammedan is insane; not in all things, but in religious
matters.  When a thoughtful and unblessed Mohammedan examines the
Westminster Catechism, he knows that beyond any question I am spiritually
insane.  I cannot prove to him that he is insane, because you never can
prove anything to a lunatic--for that is a part of his insanity and the
evidence of it.  He cannot prove to me that I am insane, for my mind has
the same defect that afflicts his.  All Democrats are insane, but not one
of them knows it; none but the Republicans and Mugwumps know it.  All the
Republicans are insane, but only the Democrats and Mugwumps can perceive
it.  The rule is perfect: in all matters of opinion our adversaries are
insane.  When I look around me, I am often troubled to see how many
people are mad.  To mention only a few:

The Atheist, The Theosophists, The Infidel, The Swedenborgians, The
Agnostic, The Shakers, The Baptist, The Millerites, The Methodist, The
Mormons, The Christian Scientist, The Laurence Oliphant Harrisites, The
Catholic, and the 115 Christian sects, the Presbyterian excepted, The
Grand Lama's people, The Monarchists, The Imperialists, The 72 Mohammedan
sects, The Democrats, The Republicans (but not the Mugwumps), The
Buddhist, The Blavatsky-Buddhist, The Mind-Curists, The Faith-Curists,
The Nationalist, The Mental Scientists, The Confucian, The Spiritualist,
The Allopaths, The 2000 East Indian sects, The Homeopaths, The
Electropaths, The Peculiar People, The----

But there's no end to the list; there are millions of them!  And all
insane; each in his own way; insane as to his pet fad or opinion, but
otherwise sane and rational.  This should move us to be charitable
towards one another's lunacies.  I recognize that in his special belief
the Christian Scientist is insane, because he does not believe as I do;
but I hail him as my mate and fellow, because I am as insane as he insane
from his point of view, and his point of view is as authoritative as mine
and worth as much.  That is to say, worth a brass farthing.  Upon a great
religious or political question, the opinion of the dullest head in the
world is worth the same as the opinion of the brightest head in the
world--a brass farthing.  How do we arrive at this?  It is simple.  The
affirmative opinion of a stupid man is neutralized by the negative
opinion of his stupid neighbor no decision is reached; the affirmative
opinion of the intellectual giant Gladstone is neutralized by the
negative opinion of the intellectual giant Newman--no decision is
reached.  Opinions that prove nothing are, of course, without value any
but a dead person knows that much.  This obliges us to admit the truth of
the unpalatable proposition just mentioned above--that, in disputed
matters political and religious, one man's opinion is worth no more than
his peer's, and hence it followers that no man's opinion possesses any
real value.  It is a humbling thought, but there is no way to get around
it: all opinions upon these great subjects are brass-farthing opinions.

It is a mere plain, simple fact--as clear and as certain as that eight
and seven make fifteen.  And by it we recognize that we are all insane,
as concerns those matters.  If we were sane, we should all see a
political or religious doctrine alike; there would be no dispute: it
would be a case of eight and seven--just as it is in heaven, where all
are sane and none insane.  There there is but one religion, one belief;
the harmony is perfect; there is never a discordant note.

Under protection of these preliminaries, I suppose I may now repeat
without offence that the Christian Scientist is insane.  I mean him no
discourtesy, and I am not charging--nor even imagining--that he is
insaner than the rest of the human race.  I think he is more
picturesquely insane than some of us.  At the same time, I am quite sure
that in one important and splendid particular he is much saner than is
the vast bulk of the race.

Why is he insane?  I told you before: it is because his opinions are not
ours.  I know of no other reason, and I do not need any other; it is the
only way we have of discovering insanity when it is not violent.  It is
merely the picturesqueness of his insanity that makes it more interesting
than my kind or yours.  For instance, consider his "little book"; the
"little book" exposed in the sky eighteen centuries ago by the flaming
angel of the Apocalypse, and handed down in our day to Mrs. Mary Baker G.
Eddy, of New Hampshire, and translated by her, word for word, into
English (with help of a polisher), and now published and distributed in
hundreds of editions by her at a clear profit per volume, above cost, of
seven hundred per cent.!--a profit which distinctly belongs to the angel
of the Apocalypse, and let him collect it if he can; a "little book"
which the C.S.  very frequently calls by just that name, and always
enclosed in quotation-marks to keep its high origin exultantly in mind; a
"little book" which "explains" and reconstructs and new-paints and
decorates the Bible, and puts a mansard roof on it and a lightning-rod
and all the other modern improvements; a "little book" which for the
present affects to travel in yoke with the Bible and be friendly to it,
and within half a century will hitch the Bible in the rear and
thenceforth travel tandem, itself in the lead, in the coming great march
of Christian Scientism through the Protestant dominions of the planet.




CHAPTER VI

"Hungry ones throng to hear the Bible read in connection with the text-
book of Christian Science, Science and Health, with Key to the
Scriptures, by Mary Baker G.  Eddy.  These are our only preachers.  They
are the word of God."  "Christian Science Journal", October, 1898.

Is that picturesque?  A lady has told me that in a chapel of the Mosque
in Boston there is a picture or image of Mrs. Eddy, and that before it
burns a never-extinguished light.  Is that picturesque?  How long do you
think it will be before the Christian Scientist will be worshipping that
picture or image and praying to it?  How long do you think it will be
before it is claimed that Mrs. Eddy is a Redeemer, a Christ, and Christ's
equal?  Already her army of disciples speak of her reverently as "Our
Mother."

How long will it be before they place her on the steps of the Throne
beside the Virgin--and, later, a step higher?  First, Mary the Virgin and
Mary the Matron; later, with a change of precedence, Mary the Matron and
Mary the Virgin.  Let the artist get ready with his canvas and his
brushes; the new Renaissance is on its way, and there will be money in
altar-canvases--a thousand times as much as the Popes and their Church
ever spent on the Old Masters; for their riches were poverty as compared
with what is going to pour into the treasure-chest of the Christian-
Scientist Papacy by-and-by, let us not doubt it.  We will examine the
financial outlook presently and see what it promises.  A favorite subject
of the new Old Master will be the first verse of the twelfth chapter of
Revelation--a verse which Mrs. Eddy says (in her Annex to the Scriptures)
has "one distinctive feature which has special reference to the present
age"--and to her, as is rather pointedly indicated:

"And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the
sun, and the moon under her feet," etc.

The woman clothed with the sun will be a portrait of Mrs. Eddy.

Is it insanity to believe that Christian Scientism is destined to make
the most formidable show that any new religion has made in the world
since the birth and spread of Mobammedanism, and that within a century
from now it may stand second to Rome only, in numbers and power in
Christendom?

If this is a wild dream it will not be easy to prove it so just yet, I
think.  There seems argument that it may come true.  The Christian-
Science "boom," proper, is not yet five years old; yet already it has two
hundred and fifty churches.

It has its start, you see, and it is a phenomenally good one.  Moreover,
it is latterly spreading with a constantly accelerating swiftness.  It
has a better chance to grow and prosper and achieve permanency than any
other existing "ism"; for it has more to offer than any other.  The past
teaches us that in order to succeed, a movement like this must not be a
mere philosophy, it must be a religion; also, that it must not claim
entire originality, but content itself with passing for an improvement on
an existing religion, and show its hand later, when strong and
prosperous--like Mohammedanism.

Next, there must be money--and plenty of it.

Next, the power and authority and capital must be concentrated in the
grip of a small and irresponsible clique, with nobody outside privileged
to ask questions or find fault.

Next, as before remarked, it must bait its hook with some new and
attractive advantages over the baits offered by its competitors.  A new
movement equipped with some of these endowments--like spiritualism, for
instance may count upon a considerable success; a new movement equipped
with the bulk of them--like Mohammedanism, for instance--may count upon
a widely extended conquest.  Mormonism had all the requisites but one it
had nothing new and nothing valuable to bait with.  Spiritualism lacked
the important detail of concentration of money and authority in the hands
of an irresponsible clique.

The above equipment is excellent, admirable, powerful, but not perfect.
There is yet another detail which is worth the whole of it put together
and more; a detail which has never been joined (in the beginning of a
religious movement) to a supremely good working equipment since the world
began, until now: a new personage to worship.  Christianity had the
Saviour, but at first and for generations it lacked money and
concentrated power.  In Mrs. Eddy, Christian Science possesses the new
personage for worship, and in addition--here in the very beginning--a
working equipment that has not a flaw in it.  In the beginning,
Mohammedanism had no money; and it has never had anything to offer its
client but heaven--nothing here below that was valuable.  In addition to
heaven hereafter, Christian Science has present health and a cheerful
spirit to offer; and in comparison with this bribe all other this-world
bribes are poor and cheap.  You recognize that this estimate is
admissible, do you not?

To whom does Bellamy's "Nationalism" appeal?  Necessarily to the few:
people who read and dream, and are compassionate, and troubled for the
poor and the hard-driven.  To whom does Spiritualism appeal?  Necessarily
to the few; its "boom" has lasted for half a century, and I believe it
claims short of four millions of adherents in America.  Who are attracted
by Swedenborgianism and some of the other fine and delicate "isms"?  The
few again: educated people, sensitively organized, with superior mental
endowments, who seek lofty planes of thought and find their contentment
there.  And who are attracted by Christian Science?  There is no limit;
its field is horizonless; its appeal is as universal as is the appeal of
Christianity itself.  It appeals to the rich, the poor, the high, the
low, the cultured, the ignorant, the gifted, the stupid, the modest, the
vain, the wise, the silly, the soldier, the civilian, the hero, the
coward, the idler, the worker, the godly, the godless, the freeman, the
slave, the adult, the child; they who are ailing in body or mind, they
who have friends that are ailing in body or mind.  To mass it in a
phrase, its clientage is the Human Race.  Will it march?  I think so.

Remember its principal great offer: to rid the Race of pain and disease.
Can it do so?  In large measure, yes.  How much of the pain and disease
in the world is created by the imaginations of the sufferers, and then
kept alive by those same imaginations?  Four-fifths?  Not anything short
of that, I should think.  Can Christian Science banish that four-fifths?
I think so.  Can any other (organized) force do it?  None that I know of.
Would this be a new world when that was accomplished?  And a pleasanter
one--for us well people, as well as for those fussy and fretting sick
ones?  Would it seem as if there was not as much gloomy weather as there
used to be?  I think so.

In the mean time, would the Scientist kill off a good many patients?
I think so.  More than get killed off now by the legalized methods?
I will take up that question presently.

At present, I wish to ask you to examine some of the Scientist's
performances, as registered in his magazine, The Christian Science
Journal--October number, 1898.  First, a Baptist clergyman gives us this
true picture of "the average orthodox Christian"--and he could have added
that it is a true picture of the average (civilized) human being:

"He is a worried and fretted and fearful man; afraid of himself and his
propensities, afraid of colds and fevers, afraid of treading on serpents
or drinking deadly things."

Then he gives us this contrast:

"The average Christian Scientist has put all anxiety and fretting under
his feet.  He does have a victory over fear and care that is not achieved
by the average orthodox Christian."

He has put all anxiety and fretting under his feet.  What proportion of
your earnings or income would you be willing to pay for that frame of
mind, year in, year out?  It really outvalues any price that can be put
upon it.  Where can you purchase it, at any outlay of any sort, in any
Church or out of it, except the Scientist's?

Well, it is the anxiety and fretting about colds, and fevers, and
draughts, and getting our feet wet, and about forbidden food eaten in
terror of indigestion, that brings on the cold and the fever and the
indigestion and the most of our other ailments; and so, if the Science
can banish that anxiety from the world I think it can reduce the world's
disease and pain about four-fifths.

In this October number many of the redeemed testify and give thanks; and
not coldly, but with passionate gratitude.  As a rule they seem drunk
with health, and with the surprise of it, the wonder of it, the
unspeakable glory and splendor of it, after a long, sober spell spent in
inventing imaginary diseases and concreting them with doctor-stuff.  The
first witness testifies that when "this most beautiful Truth first dawned
on him" he had "nearly all the ills that flesh is heir to"; that those he
did not have he thought he had--and this made the tale about complete.
What was the natural result?  Why, he was a dump-pit "for all the
doctors, druggists, and patent medicines of the country."  Christian
Science came to his help, and "the old sick conditions passed away," and
along with them the "dismal forebodings" which he had been accustomed to
employ in conjuring up ailments.  And so he was a healthy and cheerful
man, now, and astonished.

But I am not astonished, for from other sources I know what must have
been his method of applying Christian Science.  If I am in the right, he
watchfully and diligently diverted his mind from unhealthy channels and
compelled it to travel in healthy ones.  Nothing contrivable by human
invention could be more formidably effective than that, in banishing
imaginary ailments and in closing the entrances against sub-sequent
applicants of their breed.  I think his method was to keep saying, "I am
well!  I am sound!--sound and well!  well and sound!  Perfectly sound,
perfectly well!  I have no pain; there's no such thing as pain!  I have
no disease; there's no such thing as disease!  Nothing is real but Mind;
all is Mind, All-Good Good-Good, Life, Soul, Liver, Bones, one of a
series, ante and pass the buck!"

I do not mean that that was exactly the formula used, but that it
doubtless contains the spirit of it.  The Scientist would attach value to
the exact formula, no doubt, and to the religious spirit in which it was
used.  I should think that any formula that would divert the mind from
unwholesome channels and force it into healthy ones would answer every
purpose with some people, though not with all.  I think it most likely
that a very religious man would find the addition of the religious spirit
a powerful reinforcement in his case.

The second witness testifies that the Science banished "an old organic
trouble," which the doctor and the surgeon had been nursing with drugs
and the knife for seven years.

He calls it his "claim."  A surface-miner would think it was not his
claim at all, but the property of the doctor and his pal the surgeon--for
he would be misled by that word, which is Christian-Science slang for
"ailment."  The Christian Scientist has no ailment; to him there is no
such thing, and he will not use the hateful word.  All that happens to
him is that upon his attention an imaginary disturbance sometimes
obtrudes itself which claims to be an ailment but isn't.

This witness offers testimony for a clergyman seventy years old who had
preached forty years in a Christian church, and has now gone over to the
new sect.  He was "almost blind and deaf."  He was treated by the C. S.
method, and "when he heard the voice of Truth he saw spiritually."  Saw
spiritually?  It is a little indefinite; they had better treat him again.
Indefinite testimonies might properly be waste-basketed, since there is
evidently no lack of definite ones procurable; but this C. S.  magazine
is poorly edited, and so mistakes of this kind must be expected.

The next witness is a soldier of the Civil War.  When Christian Science
found him, he had in stock the following claims:

Indigestion,
Rheumatism,
Catarrh,
Chalky deposits in
Shoulder-joints,
Arm-joints,
Hand-joints,
Insomnia,
Atrophy of the muscles of
Arms.
Shoulders,
Stiffness of all those joints,
Excruciating pains most of the time.

These claims have a very substantial sound.  They came of exposure in the
campaigns.  The doctors did all they could, but it was little.  Prayers
were tried, but "I never realized any physical relief from that source."
After thirty years of torture, he went to a Christian Scientist and took
an hour's treatment and went home painless.  Two days later, he "began to
eat like a well man."  Then "the claims vanished--some at once, others
more gradually"; finally, "they have almost entirely disappeared."  And--
a thing which is of still greater value--he is now "contented and happy."
That is a detail which, as earlier remarked, is a Scientist-Church
specialty.  And, indeed, one may go further and assert with little or no
exaggeration that it is a Christian-Science monopoly.  With thirty-one
years' effort, the Methodist Church had not succeeded in furnishing it to
this harassed soldier.

And so the tale goes on.  Witness after witness bulletins his claims,
declares their prompt abolishment, and gives Mrs. Eddy's Discovery the
praise.  Milk-leg is cured; nervous prostration is cured; consumption is
cured; and St.  Vitus's dance is made a pastime.  Even without a fiddle.
And now and then an interesting new addition to the Science slang appears
on the page.  We have "demonstrations over chilblains" and such things.
It seems to be a curtailed way of saying "demonstrations of the power of
Christian-Science Truth over the fiction which masquerades under the name
of Chilblains."  The children, as well as the adults, share in the
blessings of the Science.  "Through the study of the 'little book' they
are learning how to be healthful, peaceful, and wise."  Sometimes they
are cured of their little claims by the professional healer, and
sometimes more advanced children say over the formula and cure
themselves.

A little Far-Western girl of nine, equipped with an adult vocabulary,
states her age and says, "I thought I would write a demonstration to
you."  She had a claim, derived from getting flung over a pony's head and
landed on a rockpile.  She saved herself from disaster by remembering to
say "God is All" while she was in the air.  I couldn't have done it.  I
shouldn't even have thought of it.  I should have been too excited.
Nothing but Christian Science could have enabled that child to do that
calm and thoughtful and judicious thing in those circumstances.  She came
down on her head, and by all the rules she should have broken it; but the
intervention of the formula prevented that, so the only claim resulting
was a blackened eye.  Monday morning it was still swollen and shut.  At
school "it hurt pretty badly--that is, it seemed to."  So "I was excused,
and went down to the basement and said, 'Now I am depending on mamma
instead of God, and I will depend on God instead of mamma.'" No doubt
this would have answered; but, to make sure, she added Mrs. Eddy to the
team and recited "the Scientific Statement of Being," which is one of the
principal incantations, I judge.  Then "I felt my eye opening."  Why,
dear, it would have opened an oyster.  I think it is one of the
touchingest things in child-history, that pious little rat down cellar
pumping away at the Scientific Statement of Being.

There is a page about another good child--little Gordon.  Little Gordon
"came into the world without the assistance of surgery or anaesthetics."
He was a "demonstration."  A painless one; therefore, his coming evoked
"joy and thankfulness to God and the Discoverer of Christian Science."
It is a noticeable feature of this literature--the so frequent linking
together of the Two Beings in an equal bond; also of Their Two Bibles.
When little Gordon was two years old, "he was playing horse on the bed,
where I had left my 'little book.' I noticed him stop in his play, take
the book carefully in his little hands, kiss it softly, then look about
for the highest place of safety his arms could reach, and put it there."
This pious act filled the mother "with such a train of thought as I had
never experienced before.  I thought of the sweet mother of long ago who
kept things in her heart," etc.  It is a bold comparison; however,
unconscious profanations are about as common in the mouths of the lay
member ship of the new Church as are frank and open ones in the mouths of
its consecrated chiefs.

Some days later, the family library--Christian-Science books--was lying
in a deep-seated window.  This was another chance for the holy child to
show off.  He left his play and went there and pushed all the books to
one side, except the Annex "It he took in both hands, slowly raised it to
his lips, then removed it carefully, and seated himself in the window."
It had seemed to the mother too wonderful to be true, that first time;
but now she was convinced that "neither imagination nor accident had
anything to do with it."  Later, little Gordon let the author of his
being see him do it.  After that he did it frequently; probably every
time anybody was looking.  I would rather have that child than a chromo.
If this tale has any object, it is to intimate that the inspired book was
supernaturally able to convey a sense of its sacred and awful character
to this innocent little creature, without the intervention of outside
aids.  The magazine is not edited with high-priced discretion.  The
editor has a "claim," and he ought to get it treated.

Among other witnesses there is one who had a "jumping toothache," which
several times tempted her to "believe that there was sensation in matter,
but each time it was overcome by the power of Truth."  She would not
allow the dentist to use cocaine, but sat there and let him punch and
drill and split and crush the tooth, and tear and slash its ulcerations,
and pull out the nerve, and dig out fragments of bone; and she wouldn't
once confess that it hurt.  And to this day she thinks it didn't, and I
have not a doubt that she is nine-tenths right, and that her Christian-
Science faith did her better service than she could have gotten out of
cocaine.

There is an account of a boy who got broken all up into small bits by an
accident, but said over the Scientific Statement of Being, or some of the
other incantations, and got well and sound without having suffered any
real pain and without the intrusion of a surgeon.

Also, there is an account of the restoration to perfect health, in a
single night, of a fatally injured horse, by the application of Christian
Science.  I can stand a good deal, but I recognize that the ice is
getting thin, here.  That horse had as many as fifty claims; how could he
demonstrate over them?  Could he do the All-Good, Good-Good, Good-
Gracious, Liver, Bones, Truth, All down but Nine, Set them up on the
Other Alley?  Could he intone the Scientific Statement of Being?  Now,
could he?  Wouldn't it give him a relapse?  Let us draw the line at
horses.  Horses and furniture.

There is plenty of other testimonies in the magazine, but these quoted
samples will answer.  They show the kind of trade the Science is driving.
Now we come back to the question, Does the Science kill a patient here
and there and now and then?  We must concede it.  Does it compensate for
this?  I am persuaded that it can make a plausible showing in that
direction.  For instance: when it lays its hand upon a soldier who has
suffered thirty years of helpless torture and makes him whole in body and
mind, what is the actual sum of that achievement?  This, I think: that it
has restored to life a subject who had essentially died ten deaths a year
for thirty years, and each of them a long and painful one.  But for its
interference that man in the three years which have since elapsed, would
have essentially died thirty times more.  There are thousands of young
people in the land who are now ready to enter upon a life-long death
similar to that man's.  Every time the Science captures one of these and
secures to him life-long immunity from imagination-manufactured disease,
it may plausibly claim that in his person it has saved three hundred
lives.  Meantime, it will kill a man every now and then.  But no matter,
it will still be ahead on the credit side.

[NOTE.--I have received several letters (two from educated and ostensibly
intelligent persons), which contained, in substance, this protest: "I
don't object to men and women chancing their lives with these people, but
it is a burning shame that the law should allow them to trust their
helpless little children in their deadly hands.  "Isn't it touching?
Isn't it deep?  Isn't it modest?  It is as if the person said: "I know
that to a parent his child is the core of his heart, the apple of his
eye, a possession so dear, so precious that he will trust its life in no
hands but those which he believes, with all his soul, to be the very best
and the very safest, but it is a burning shame that the law does not
require him to come to me to ask what kind of healer I will allow him to
call."  The public is merely a multiplied "me."--M.T.]




CHAPTER VII

"We consciously declare that Science and Health, with Key to the
Scriptures, was foretold, as well as its author, Mary Baker Eddy, in
Revelation x.  She is the 'mighty angel,' or God's highest thought to
this age (verse 1), giving us the spiritual interpretation of the Bible
in the 'little book open' (verse 2).  Thus we prove that Christian
Science is the second coming of Christ-Truth-Spirit."--Lecture by Dr.
George Tomkins, D.D. C.S.

There you have it in plain speech.  She is the mighty angel; she is the
divinely and officially sent bearer of God's highest thought.  For the
present, she brings the Second Advent.  We must expect that before she
has been in her grave fifty years she will be regarded by her following
as having been herself the Second Advent.  She is already worshiped, and
we must expect this feeling to spread, territorially, and also to deepen
in intensity.

Particularly after her death; for then, as any one can foresee, Eddy-
Worship will be taught in the Sunday-schools and pulpits of the cult.
Already whatever she puts her trade-mark on, though it be only a
memorial-spoon, is holy and is eagerly and gratefully bought by the
disciple, and becomes a fetish in his house.  I say bought, for the
Boston Christian-Science Trust gives nothing away; everything it has is
for sale.  And the terms are cash; and not only cash, but cash in
advance.  Its god is Mrs. Eddy first, then the Dollar.  Not a spiritual
Dollar, but a real one.  From end to end of the Christian Science
literature not a single (material) thing in the world is conceded to be
real, except the Dollar.  But all through and through its advertisements
that reality is eagerly and persistently recognized.

The Dollar is hunted down in all sorts of ways; the Christian-Science
Mother-Church and Bargain-Counter in Boston peddles all kinds of
spiritual wares to the faithful, and always on the one condition--cash,
cash in advance.  The Angel of the Apocalypse could not go there and get
a copy of his own pirated book on credit.  Many, many precious Christian-
Science things are to be had there for cash: Bible Lessons; Church
Manual; C. S.  Hymnal; History of the building of the Mother-Church; lot
of Sermons; Communion Hymn, "Saw Ye My Saviour," by Mrs. Eddy, half a
dollar a copy, "words used by special permission of Mrs. Eddy."  Also we
have Mrs. Eddy's and the Angel's little Blue-Annex in eight styles of
binding at eight kinds of war-prices; among these a sweet thing in
"levant, divinity circuit, leather lined to edge, round corners, gold
edge, silk sewed, each, prepaid, $6," and if you take a million you get
them a shilling cheaper--that is to say, "prepaid, $5.75."  Also we have
Mrs. Eddy's Miscellaneous Writings, at 'andsome big prices, the divinity-
circuit style heading the exertions, shilling discount where you take an
edition Next comes Christ and Christmas, by the fertile Mrs. Eddy--a
poem--would God I could see it!--price $3, cash in advance.  Then
follow five more books by Mrs. Eddy, at highwayman's rates, some of them
in "leatherette covers," some of them in "pebble cloth," with divinity-
circuit, compensation-balance, twin-screw, and the other modern
improvements; and at the same bargain-counter can be had The Christian
Science Journal.

Christian-Science literary discharges are a monopoly of the Mother-Church
Headquarters Factory in Boston; none genuine without the trade-mark of
the Trust.  You must apply there and not elsewhere.

One hundred dollars for it.  And I have a case among my statistics where
the student had a three weeks' course and paid three hundred for it.

The Trust does love the Dollar, when it isn't a spiritual one.

In order to force the sale of Mrs Eddy's Bible-Annex, no healer,
Metaphysical-College-bred or other, is allowed to practice the game
unless he possesses a copy of that book.  That means a large and
constantly augmenting income for the Trust.  No C.S.  family would
consider itself loyal or pious or pain-proof without an Annex or two in
the house.  That means an income for the Trust, in the near future, of
millions; not thousands-millions a year.

No member, young or old, of a branch Christian-Scientist church can
acquire and retain membership in the Mother-Church unless he pay
"capitation tax" (of "not less than a dollar," say the By-Laws) to the
Boston Trust every year.  That means an income for the Trust, in the near
future, of--let us venture to say--millions more per year.

It is a reasonably safe guess that in America in 1920 there will be ten
million Christian Scientists, and three millions in Great Britain; that
these figures will be trebled in 1930; that in America in 1920 the
Christian Scientists will be a political force, in 1930 politically
formidable, and in 1940 the governing power in the Republic--to remain
that, permanently.  And I think it a reasonable guess that the Trust
(which is already in our day pretty brusque in its ways) will then be the
most insolent and unscrupulous and tyrannical politico-religious master
that has dominated a people since the palmy days of the Inquisition.  And
a stronger master than the strongest of bygone times, because this one
will have a financial strength not dreamed of by any predecessor; as
effective a concentration of irresponsible power as any predecessor has
had; in the railway, the telegraph, and the subsidized newspaper, better
facilities for watching and managing his empire than any predecessor has
had; and, after a generation or two, he will probably divide Christendom
with the Catholic Church.

The Roman Church has a perfect organization, and it has an effective
centralization of power--but not of its cash.  Its multitude of Bishops
are rich, but their riches remain in large measure in their own hands.
They collect from two hundred millions of people, but they keep the bulk
of the result at home.  The Boston Pope of by-and-by will draw his
dollar-a-head capitation-tax from three hundred millions of the human
race, and the Annex and the rest of his book-shop stock will fetch in as
much more; and his Metaphysical Colleges, the annual Pilgrimage to Mrs.
Eddy's tomb, from all over the world-admission, the Christian-Science
Dollar (payable in advance)--purchases of consecrated glass beads,
candles, memorial spoons, aureoled chrome-portraits and bogus autographs
of Mrs. Eddy; cash offerings at her shrine no crutches of cured cripples
received, and no imitations of miraculously restored broken legs and
necks allowed to be hung up except when made out of the Holy Metal and
proved by fire-assay; cash for miracles worked at the tomb: these money-
sources, with a thousand to be yet invented and ambushed upon the
devotee, will bring the annual increment well up above a billion.  And
nobody but the Trust will have the handling of it.  In that day, the
Trust will monopolize the manufacture and sale of the Old and New
Testaments as well as the Annex, and raise their price to Annex rates,
and compel the devotee to buy (for even to-day a healer has to have the
Annex and the Scriptures or he is not allowed to work the game), and that
will bring several hundred million dollars more.  In those days, the
Trust will have an income approaching five million dollars a day, and no
expenses to be taken out of it; no taxes to pay, and no charities to
support.  That last detail should not be lightly passed over by the
reader; it is well entitled to attention.

No charities to support.  No, nor even to contribute to.  One searches in
vain the Trust's advertisements and the utterances of its organs for any
suggestion that it spends a penny on orphans, widows, discharged
prisoners, hospitals, ragged schools, night missions, city missions,
libraries, old people's homes, or any other object that appeals to a
human being's purse through his heart.

I have hunted, hunted, and hunted, by correspondence and otherwise, and
have not yet got upon the track of a farthing that the Trust has spent
upon any worthy object.  Nothing makes a Scientist so uncomfortable as to
ask him if he knows of a case where Christian Science has spent money on
a benevolence, either among its own adherents or elsewhere.  He is
obliged to say "No" And then one discovers that the person questioned has
been asked the question many times before, and that it is getting to be a
sore subject with him.  Why a sore subject?  Because he has written his
chiefs and asked with high confidence for an answer that will confound
these questioners--and the chiefs did not reply.  He has written again,
and then again--not with confidence, but humbly, now--and has begged for
defensive ammunition in the voice of supplication.  A reply does at last
come to this effect: "We must have faith in Our Mother, and rest content
in the conviction that whatever She does with the money it is in
accordance with orders from Heaven, for She does no act of any kind
without first 'demonstrating over' it."

That settles it--as far as the disciple is concerned.  His mind is
satisfied with that answer; he gets down his Annex and does an
incantation or two, and that mesmerizes his spirit and puts that to
sleep--brings it peace.  Peace and comfort and joy, until some inquirer
punctures the old sore again.

Through friends in America I asked some questions, and in some cases got
definite and informing answers; in other cases the answers were not
definite and not valuable.  To the question, "Does any of the money go to
charities?" the answer from an authoritative source was: "No, not in the
sense usually conveyed by this word."  (The italics are mine.) That
answer is cautious.  But definite, I think--utterly and unassailably
definite--although quite Christian-Scientifically foggy in its phrasing.
Christian-Science testimony is generally foggy, generally diffuse,
generally garrulous.  The writer was aware that the first word in his
phrase answered the question which I was asking, but he could not help
adding nine dark words.  Meaningless ones, unless explained by him.  It
is quite likely, as intimated by him, that Christian Science has invented
a new class of objects to apply the word "charity" to, but without an
explanation we cannot know what they are.  We quite easily and naturally
and confidently guess that they are in all cases objects which will
return five hundred per cent. on the Trust's investment in them, but
guessing is not knowledge; it is merely, in this case, a sort of nine-
tenths certainty deducible from what we think we know of the Trust's
trade principles and its sly and furtive and shifty ways.

Sly?  Deep?  Judicious?  The Trust understands its business.  The Trust
does not give itself away.  It defeats all the attempts of us
impertinents to get at its trade secrets.  To this day, after all our
diligence, we have not been able to get it to confess what it does with
the money.  It does not even let its own disciples find out.  All it says
is, that the matter has been "demonstrated over."  Now and then a lay
Scientist says, with a grateful exultation, that Mrs. Eddy is enormously
rich, but he stops there; as to whether any of the money goes to other
charities or not, he is obliged to admit that he does not know.  However,
the Trust is composed of human beings; and this justifies the conjecture
that if it had a charity on its list which it was proud of, we should
soon hear of it.

"Without money and without price."  Those used to be the terms.  Mrs.
Eddy's Annex cancels them.  The motto of Christian Science is, "The
laborer is worthy of his hire."  And now that it has been "demonstrated
over," we find its spiritual meaning to be, "Do anything and everything
your hand may find to do; and charge cash for it, and collect the money
in advance."  The Scientist has on his tongue's end a cut-and-dried,
Boston-supplied set of rather lean arguments, whose function is to show
that it is a Heaven-commanded duty to do this, and that the croupiers of
the game have no choice but to obey.

The Trust seems to be a reincarnation.  Exodus xxxii. 4.

I have no reverence for the Trust, but I am not lacking in reverence for
the sincerities of the lay membership of the new Church.  There is every
evidence that the lay members are entirely sincere in their faith, and I
think sincerity is always entitled to honor and respect, let the
inspiration of the sincerity be what it may.  Zeal and sincerity can
carry a new religion further than any other missionary except fire and
sword, and I believe that the new religion will conquer the half of
Christendom in a hundred years.  I am not intending this as a compliment
to the human race; I am merely stating an opinion.  And yet I think that
perhaps it is a compliment to the race.  I keep in mind that saying of an
orthodox preacher--quoted further back.  He conceded that this new
Christianity frees its possessor's life from frets, fears, vexations,
bitterness, and all sorts of imagination-propagated maladies and pains,
and fills his world with sunshine and his heart with gladness.  If
Christian Science, with this stupendous equipment--and final salvation
added--cannot win half the Christian globe, I must be badly mistaken in
the make-up of the human race.

I think the Trust will be handed down like Me other Papacy, and will
always know how to handle its limitless cash.  It will press the button;
the zeal, the energy, the sincerity, the enthusiasm of its countless
vassals will do the rest.




CHAPTER VIII

The power which a man's imagination has over his body to heal it or make
it sick is a force which none of us is born without.  The first man had
it, the last one will possess it.  If left to himself, a man is most
likely to use only the mischievous half of the force--the half which
invents imaginary ailments for him and cultivates them; and if he is one
of these--very wise people, he is quite likely to scoff at the beneficent
half of the force and deny its existence.  And so, to heal or help that
man, two imaginations are required: his own and some outsider's.  The
outsider, B, must imagine that his incantations are the healing-power
that is curing A, and A must imagine that this is so.  I think it is not
so, at all; but no matter, the cure is effected, and that is the main
thing.  The outsider's work is unquestionably valuable; so valuable that
it may fairly be likened to the essential work performed by the engineer
when he handles the throttle and turns on the steam; the actual power is
lodged exclusively in the engine, but if the engine were left alone it
would never start of itself.  Whether the engineer be named Jim, or Bob,
or Tom, it is all one--his services are necessary, and he is entitled to
such wage as he can get you to pay.  Whether he be named Christian
Scientist, or Mental Scientist, or Mind Curist, or King's-Evil Expert, or
Hypnotist, it is all one; he is merely the Engineer; he simply turns on
the same old steam and the engine does the whole work.

The Christian-Scientist engineer drives exactly the same trade as the
other engineers, yet he out-prospers the whole of them put together.

Is it because he has captured the takingest name?  I think that that is
only a small part of it.  I think that the secret of his high prosperity
lies elsewhere.

The Christian Scientist has organized the business.  Now that was
certainly a gigantic idea.  Electricity, in limitless volume, has existed
in the air and the rocks and the earth and everywhere since time began--
and was going to waste all the while.  In our time we have organized that
scattered and wandering force and set it to work, and backed the business
with capital, and concentrated it in few and competent hands, and the
results are as we see.

The Christian Scientist has taken a force which has been lying idle in
every member of the human race since time began, and has organized it,
and backed the business with capital, and concentrated it at Boston
headquarters in the hands of a small and very competent Trust, and there
are results.

Therein lies the promise that this monopoly is going to extend its
commerce wide in the earth.  I think that if the business were conducted
in the loose and disconnected fashion customary with such things, it
would achieve but little more than the modest prosperity usually secured
by unorganized great moral and commercial ventures; but I believe that so
long as this one remains compactly organized and closely concentrated in
a Trust, the spread of its dominion will continue.




CHAPTER IX

Four years ago I wrote the preceding chapters.  I was assured by the wise
that Christian Science was a fleeting craze and would soon perish.  This
prompt and all-competent stripe of prophet is always to be had in the
market at ground-floor rates.  He does not stop to load, or consider, or
take aim, but lets fly just as he stands.  Facts are nothing to him, he
has no use for such things; he works wholly by inspiration.  And so, when
he is asked why he considers a new movement a passing fad and quickly
perishable, he finds himself unprepared with a reason and is more or less
embarrassed.  For a moment.  Only for a moment.  Then he waylays the
first spectre of a reason that goes flitting through the desert places of
his mind, and is at once serene again and ready for conflict.  Serene and
confident.  Yet he should not be so, since he has had no chance to
examine his catch, and cannot know whether it is going to help his
contention or damage it.

The impromptu reason furnished by the early prophets of whom I have
spoken was this:

"There is nothing to Christian Science; there is nothing about it that
appeals to the intellect; its market will be restricted to the
unintelligent, the mentally inferior, the people who do not think."

They called that a reason why the cult would not flourish and endure.  It
seems the equivalent of saying:

"There is no money in tinware; there is nothing about it that appeals to
the rich; its market will be restricted to the poor."

It is like bringing forward the best reason in the world why Christian
Science should flourish and live, and then blandly offering it as a
reason why it should sicken and die.

That reason was furnished me by the complacent and unfrightened prophets
four years ago, and it has been furnished me again to-day.  If
conversions to new religions or to old ones were in any considerable
degree achieved through the intellect, the aforesaid reason would be
sound and sufficient, no doubt; the inquirer into Christian Science might
go away unconvinced and unconverted.  But we all know that conversions
are seldom made in that way; that such a thing as a serious and
painstaking and fairly competent inquiry into the claims of a religion or
of a political dogma is a rare occurrence; and that the vast mass of men
and women are far from being capable of making such an examination.  They
are not capable, for the reason that their minds, howsoever good they may
be, are not trained for such examinations.  The mind not trained for that
work is no more competent to do it than are lawyers and farmers competent
to make successful clothes without learning the tailor's trade.  There
are seventy-five million men and women among us who do not know how to
cut out and make a dress-suit, and they would not think of trying; yet
they all think they can competently think out a political or religious
scheme without any apprenticeship to the business, and many of them
believe they have actually worked that miracle.  But, indeed, the truth
is, almost all the men and women of our nation or of any other get their
religion and their politics where they get their astronomy--entirely at
second hand.  Being untrained, they are no more able to intelligently
examine a dogma or a policy than they are to calculate an eclipse.

Men are usually competent thinkers along the lines of their specialized
training only.  Within these limits alone are their opinions and
judgments valuable; outside of these limits they grope and are lost--
usually without knowing it.  In a church assemblage of five hundred
persons, there will be a man or two whose trained minds can seize upon
each detail of a great manufacturing scheme and recognize its value or
its lack of value promptly; and can pass the details in intelligent
review, section by section, and finally as a whole, and then deliver a
verdict upon the scheme which cannot be flippantly set aside nor easily
answered.  And there will be one or two other men there who can do the
same thing with a great and complicated educational project; and one or
two others who can do the like with a large scheme for applying
electricity in a new and unheard-of way; and one or two others who can do
it with a showy scheme for revolutionizing the scientific world's
accepted notions regarding geology.  And so on, and so on.  But the
manufacturing experts will not be competent to examine the educational
scheme intelligently, and their opinion about it would not be valuable;
neither of these two groups will be able to understand and pass upon the
electrical scheme; none of these three batches of experts will be able to
understand and pass upon the geological revolution; and probably not one
man in the entire lot will be competent to examine, capably, the
intricacies of a political or religious scheme, new or old, and deliver a
judgment upon it which any one need regard as precious.

There you have the top crust.  There will be four hundred and seventy-
five men and women present who can draw upon their training and deliver
incontrovertible judgments concerning cheese, and leather, and cattle,
and hardware, and soap, and tar, and candles, and patent medicines, and
dreams, and apparitions, and garden trucks, and cats, and baby food, and
warts, and hymns, and time-tables, and freight-rates, and summer resorts,
and whiskey, and law, and surgery, and dentistry, and blacksmithing, and
shoemaking, and dancing, and Huyler's candy, and mathematics, and dog
fights, and obstetrics, and music, and sausages, and dry goods, and
molasses, and railroad stocks, and horses, and literature, and labor
unions, and vegetables, and morals, and lamb's fries, and etiquette, and
agriculture.  And not ten among the five hundred--let their minds be ever
so good and bright--will be competent, by grace of the requisite
specialized mental training, to take hold of a complex abstraction of any
kind and make head or tail of it.

The whole five hundred are thinkers, and they are all capable thinkers--
but only within the narrow limits of their specialized trainings.  Four
hundred and ninety of them cannot competently examine either a religious
plan or a political one.  A scattering few of them do examine both--that
is, they think they do.  With results as precious as when I examine the
nebular theory and explain it to myself.

If the four hundred and ninety got their religion through their minds,
and by weighed and measured detail, Christian Science would not be a
scary apparition.  But they don't; they get a little of it through their
minds, more of it through their feelings, and the overwhelming bulk of it
through their environment.

Environment is the chief thing to be considered when one is proposing to
predict the future of Christian Science.  It is not the ability to reason
that makes the Presbyterian, or the Baptist, or the Methodist, or the
Catholic, or the Mohammedan, or the Buddhist, or the Mormon; it is
environment.  If religions were got by reasoning, we should have the
extraordinary spectacle of an American family with a Presbyterian in it,
and a Baptist, a Methodist, a Catholic, a Mohammedan, a Buddhist, and a
Mormon.  A Presbyterian family does not produce Catholic families or
other religious brands, it produces its own kind; and not by intellectual
processes, but by association.  And so also with Mohammedanism, the cult
which in our day is spreading with the sweep of a world-conflagration
through the Orient, that native home of profound thought and of subtle
intellectual fence, that fertile womb whence has sprung every great
religion that exists.  Including our own; for with all our brains we
cannot invent a religion and market it.

The language of my quoted prophets recurs to us now, and we wonder to
think how small a space in the world the mighty Mohammedan Church would
be occupying now, if a successful trade in its line of goods had been
conditioned upon an exhibit that would "appeal to the intellect" instead
of to "the unintelligent, the mentally inferior, the people who do not
think."

The Christian Science Church, like the Mohammedan Church, makes no
embarrassing appeal to the intellect, has no occasion to do it, and can
get along quite well without it.

Provided.  Provided what?  That it can secure that thing which is worth
two or three hundred thousand times more than an "appeal to the
intellect"--an environment.  Can it get that?  Will it be a menace to
regular Christianity if it gets that?  Is it time for regular
Christianity to get alarmed?  Or shall regular Christianity smile a smile
and turn over and take another nap?  Won't it be wise and proper for
regular Christianity to do the old way, Me customary way, the historical
way--lock the stable-door after the horse is gone?  Just as Protestantism
has smiled and nodded this long time (while the alert and diligent
Catholic was slipping in and capturing the public schools), and is now
beginning to hunt around for the key when it is too late?

Will Christian Science get a chance to show its wares?  It has already
secured that chance.  Will it flourish and spread and prosper if it shall
create for itself the one thing essential to those conditions--an
environment?  It has already created an environment.  There are families
of Christian Scientists in every community in America, and each family is
a factory; each family turns out a Christian Science product at the
customary intervals, and contributes it to the Cause in the only way in
which contributions of recruits to Churches are ever made on a large
scale--by the puissant forces of personal contact and association.  Each
family is an agency for the Cause, and makes converts among the
neighbors, and starts some more factories.

Four years ago there were six Christian Scientists in a certain town that
I am acquainted with; a year ago there were two hundred and fifty there;
they have built a church, and its membership now numbers four hundred.
This has all been quietly done; done without frenzied revivals, without
uniforms, brass bands, street parades, corner oratory, or any of the
other customary persuasions to a godly life.  Christian Science, like
Mohammedanism, is "restricted" to the "unintelligent, the people who do
not think."  There lies the danger.  It makes Christian Science
formidable.  It is "restricted" to ninety-nine one-hundredths of the
human race, and must be reckoned with by regular Christianity.  And will
be, as soon as it is too late.






BOOK II

"There were remarkable things about the stranger called the Man--Mystery-
things so very extraordinary that they monopolized attention and made all
of him seem extraordinary; but this was not so, the most of his qualities
being of the common, every-day size and like anybody else's.  It was
curious.  He was of the ordinary stature, and had the ordinary aspects;
yet in him were hidden such strange contradictions and disproportions!
He was majestically fearless and heroic; he had the strength of thirty
men and the daring of thirty thousand; handling armies, organizing
states, administering governments--these were pastimes to him; he
publicly and ostentatiously accepted the human race at its own valuation-
-as demigods--and privately and successfully dealt with it at quite
another and juster valuation--as children and slaves; his ambitions were
stupendous, and his dreams had no commerce with the humble plain, but
moved with the cloud-rack among the snow-summits.  These features of him
were, indeed, extraordinary, but the rest of him was ordinary and usual.
He was so mean-minded, in the matter of jealousy, that it was thought he
was descended from a god; he was vain in little ways, and had a pride in
trivialities; he doted on ballads about moonshine and bruised hearts; in
education he was deficient, he was indifferent to literature, and knew
nothing of art; he was dumb upon all subjects but one, indifferent to all
except that one--the Nebular Theory.  Upon that one his flow of words was
full and free, he was a geyser.  The official astronomers disputed his
facts and deeded his views, and said that he had invented both, they not
being findable in any of the books.  But many of the laity, who wanted
their nebulosities fresh, admired his doctrine and adopted it, and it
attained to great prosperity in spite of the hostility of the experts."
--The Legend of the Man-Mystery, ch. i.




CHAPTER I

JANUARY, 1903.  When we do not know a public man personally, we guess him
out by the facts of his career.  When it is Washington, we all arrive at
about one and the same result.  We agree that his words and his acts
clearly interpret his character to us, and that they never leave us in
doubt as to the motives whence the words and acts proceeded.  It is the
same with Joan of Arc, it is the same with two or three or five or six
others among the immortals.  But in the matter of motives and of a few
details of character we agree to disagree upon Napoleon, Cromwell, and
all the rest; and to this list we must add Mrs. Eddy.  I think we can
peacefully agree as to two or three extraordinary features of her make-
up, but not upon the other features of it.  We cannot peacefully agree as
to her motives, therefore her character must remain crooked to some of us
and straight to the others.

No matter, she is interesting enough without an amicable agreement.  In
several ways she is the most interesting woman that ever lived, and the
most extraordinary.  The same may be said of her career, and the same may
be said of its chief result.  She started from nothing.  Her enemies
charge that she surreptitiously took from Quimby a peculiar system of
healing which was mind-cure with a Biblical basis.  She and her friends
deny that she took anything from him.  This is a matter which we can
discuss by-and-by.  Whether she took it or invented it, it was--
materially--a sawdust mine when she got it, and she has turned it into a
Klondike; its spiritual dock had next to no custom, if any at all: from
it she has launched a world-religion which has now six hundred and sixty-
three churches, and she charters a new one every four days.  When we do
not know a person--and also when we do--we have to judge his size by the
size and nature of his achievements, as compared with the achievements of
others in his special line of business--there is no other way.  Measured
by this standard, it is thirteen hundred years since the world has
produced any one who could reach up to Mrs. Eddy's waistbelt.

Figuratively speaking, Mrs. Eddy is already as tall as the Eiffel tower.
She is adding surprisingly to her stature every day.  It is quite within
the probabilities that a century hence she will be the most imposing
figure that has cast its shadow across the globe since the inauguration
of our era.  I grant that after saying these strong things, it is
necessary that I offer some details calculated to satisfactorily
demonstrate the proportions which I have claimed for her.  I will do that
presently; but before exhibiting the matured sequoia gigantea, I believe
it will be best to exhibit the sprout from which it sprang.  It may save
the reader from making miscalculations.  The person who imagines that a
Big Tree sprout is bigger than other kinds of sprouts is quite mistaken.
It is the ordinary thing; it makes no show, it compels no notice, it
hasn't a detectible quality in it that entitles it to attention, or
suggests the future giant its sap is suckling.  That is the kind of
sprout Mrs. Eddy was.

From her childhood days up to where she was running a half-century a
close race and gaining on it, she was most humanly commonplace.

She is the witness I am drawing this from.  She has revealed it in her
autobiography not intentionally, of course--I am not claiming that.  An
autobiography is the most treacherous thing there is.  It lets out every
secret its author is trying to keep; it lets the truth shine unobstructed
through every harmless little deception he tries to play; it pitilessly
exposes him as a tin hero worshipping himself as Big Metal every time he
tries to do the modest-unconsciousness act before the reader.  This is
not guessing; I am speaking from autobiographical personal experience; I
was never able to refrain from mentioning, with a studied casualness that
could deceive none but the most incautious reader, that an ancestor of
mine was sent ambassador to Spain by Charles I., nor that in a remote
branch of my family there exists a claimant to an earldom, nor that an
uncle of mine used to own a dog that was descended from the dog that was
in the Ark; and at the same time I was never able to persuade myself to
call a gibbet by its right name when accounting for other ancestors of
mine, but always spoke of it as the "platform"--puerilely intimating that
they were out lecturing when it happened.

It is Mrs. Eddy over again.  As regards her minor half, she is as
commonplace as the rest of us.  Vain of trivial things all the first half
of her life, and still vain of them at seventy and recording them with
naive satisfaction--even rescuing some early rhymes of hers of the sort
that we all scribble in the innocent days of our youth--rescuing them and
printing them without pity or apology, just as the weakest and commonest
of us do in our gray age.  More--she still frankly admires them; and in
her introduction of them profanely confers upon them the holy name of
"poetry."  Sample:

     "And laud the land whose talents rock
     The cradle of her power,
     And wreaths are twined round Plymouth Rock
     From erudition's bower."

     "Minerva's silver sandals still
     Are loosed and not effete."

You note it is not a shade above the thing which all human beings churn
out in their youth.

You would not think that in a little wee primer--for that is what the
Autobiography is--a person with a tumultuous career of seventy years
behind her could find room for two or three pages of padding of this
kind, but such is the case.  She evidently puts narrative together with
difficulty and is not at home in it, and is glad to have something ready-
made to fill in with.  Another sample:

     "Here fame-honored Hickory rears his bold form,
     And bears a brave breast to the lightning and storm,
     While Palm, Bay, and Laurel in classical glee,
     Chase Tulip, Magnolia, and fragrant Fringe-tree."

Vivid?  You can fairly see those trees galloping around.  That she could
still treasure up, and print, and manifestly admire those Poems,
indicates that the most daring and masculine and masterful woman that has
appeared in the earth in centuries has the same soft, girly-girly places
in her that the rest of us have.

When it comes to selecting her ancestors she is still human, natural,
vain, commonplace--as commonplace as I am myself when I am sorting
ancestors for my autobiography.  She combs out some creditable Scots, and
labels them and sets them aside for use, not overlooking the one to whom
Sir William Wallace gave "a heavy sword encased in a brass scabbard," and
naively explaining which Sir William Wallace it was, lest we get the
wrong one by the hassock; this is the one "from whose patriotism and
bravery comes that heart-stirring air, 'Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled.'"
Hannah More was related to her ancestors.  She explains who Hannah More
was.

Whenever a person informs us who Sir William Wallace was, or who wrote
"Hamlet," or where the Declaration of Independence was fought, it fills
us with a suspicion wellnigh amounting to conviction, that that person
would not suspect us of being so empty of knowledge if he wasn't
suffering from the same "claim" himself.  Then we turn to page 20 of the
Autobiography and happen upon this passage, and that hasty suspicion
stands rebuked:

"I gained book-knowledge with far less labor than is usually requisite.
At ten years of age I was as familiar with Lindley Murray's Grammar as
with the Westminster Catechism; and the latter I had to repeat every
Sunday.  My favorite studies were Natural Philosophy, Logic, and Moral
Science.  From my brother A1bert I received lessons in the ancient
tongues, Hebrew, Greek, and Latin."

You catch your breath in astonishment, and feel again and still again the
pang of that rebuke.  But then your eye falls upon the next sentence but
one, and the pain passes away and you set up the suspicion again with
evil satisfaction:

"After my discovery of Christian Science, most of the knowledge I had
gleaned from school-books vanished like a dream."

That disappearance accounts for much in her miscellaneous writings.  As I
was saying, she handles her "ancestral shadows," as she calls them, just
as I do mine.  It is remarkable.  When she runs across "a relative of my
Grandfather Baker, General Henry Knox, of Revolutionary fame," she sets
him down; when she finds another good one, "the late Sir John Macneill,
in the line of my Grandfather Baker's family," she sets him down, and
remembers that he "was prominent in British politics, and at one time
held the position of ambassador to Persia"; when she discovers that her
grandparents "were likewise connected with Captain John Lovewell, whose
gallant leadership and death in the Indian troubles of 1722-25 caused
that prolonged contest to be known historically as Lovewell's War," she
sets the Captain down; when it turns out that a cousin of her grandmother
"was John Macneill, the New Hampshire general, who fought at Lundy's Lane
and won distinction in 1814 at the battle of Chippewa," she catalogues
the General.  (And tells where Chippewa was.) And then she skips all her
platform people; never mentions one of them.  It shows that she is just
as human as any of us.

Yet, after all, there is something very touching in her pride in these
worthy small-fry, and something large and fine in her modesty in not
caring to remember that their kinship to her can confer no distinction
upon her, whereas her mere mention of their names has conferred upon them
a faceless earthly immortality.




CHAPTER II

When she wrote this little biography her great life-work had already been
achieved, she was become renowned; to multitudes of reverent disciples
she was a sacred personage, a familiar of God, and His inspired channel
of communication with the human race.  Also, to them these following
things were facts, and not doubted:

She had written a Bible in middle age, and had published it; she had
recast it, enlarged it, and published it again; she had not stopped
there, but had enlarged it further, polished its phrasing, improved its
form, and published it yet again.  It was at last become a compact,
grammatical, dignified, and workman-like body of literature.  This was
good training, persistent training; and in all arts it is training that
brings the art to perfection.  We are now confronted with one of the most
teasing and baffling riddles of Mrs. Eddy's history--a riddle which may
be formulated thus:

How is it that a primitive literary gun which began as a hundred-yard
flint-lock smooth-bore muzzle-loader, and in the course of forty years
has acquired one notable improvement after another--percussion cap; fixed
cartridge; rifled barrel; efficiency at half a mile how is it that such a
gun, sufficiently good on an elephant hunt (Christian Science) from the
beginning, and growing better and better all the time during forty years,
has always collapsed back to its original flint-lock estate the moment
the huntress trained it on any other creature than an elephant?

Something more than a generation ago Mrs. Eddy went out with her flint-
lock on the rabbit range; and this was a part of the result:

"After his decease, and a severe casualty deemed fatal by skilful
physicians, we discovered that the Principle of all healing and the law
that governs it is God, a divine Principle, and a spiritual not material
law, and regained health."--Preface to Science and Health, first
revision, 1883.

N.B.  Not from the book itself; from the Preface.

You will notice the awkwardness of that English.  If you should carry
that paragraph up to the Supreme Court of the United States in order to
find out for good and all whether the fatal casualty happened to the dead
man--as the paragraph almost asserts--or to some person or persons not
even hinted at in the paragraph, the Supreme Court would be obliged to
say that the evidence established nothing with certainty except that
there had been a casualty--victim not known.

The context thinks it explains who the victim was, but it does nothing of
the kind.  It furnishes some guessing-material of a sort which enables
you to infer that it was "we" that suffered the mentioned injury, but if
you should carry the language to a court you would not be able to prove
that it necessarily meant that.  "We" are Mrs. Eddy; a funny little
affectation.  She replaced it later with the more dignified third person.


The quoted paragraph is from Mrs. Eddy's preface to the first revision of
Science and Health (1883).  Sixty-four pages further along--in the body
of the book (the elephant-range), she went out with that same flint-lock
and got this following result.  Its English is very nearly as straight
and clean and competent as is the English of the latest revision of
Science and Health after the gun has been improved from smooth-bore
musket up to globe-sighted, long distance rifle:

"Man controlled by his Maker has no physical suffering.  His body is
harmonious, his days are multiplying instead of diminishing, he is
journeying towards Life instead of death, and bringing out the new man
and crucifying the old affections, cutting them off in every material
direction until he learns the utter supremacy of Spirit and yields
obedience thereto."

In the latest revision of Science and Health (1902), the perfected gun
furnishes the following.  The English is clean, compact, dignified,
almost perfect.  But it is observable that it is not prominently better
than it is in the above paragraph, which was a product of the primitive
flint-lock:

"How unreasonable is the belief that we are wearing out life and
hastening to death, and at the same time we are communing with
immortality?  If the departed are in rapport with mortality, or matter,
they are not spiritual, but must still be mortal, sinful, suffering, and
dying.  Then wherefore look to them--even were communication possible--
for proofs of immortality and accept them as oracles?"--Edition of 1902,
page 78.

With the above paragraphs compare these that follow.  It is Mrs. Eddy
writing--after a good long twenty years of pen-practice.  Compare also
with the alleged Poems already quoted.  The prominent characteristic of
the Poems is affectation, artificiality; their makeup is a complacent and
pretentious outpour of false figures and fine writing, in the sophomoric
style.  The same qualities and the same style will be found, unchanged,
unbettered, in these following paragraphs--after a lapse of more than
fifty years, and after--as aforesaid--long literary training.  The
italics are mine:

1.  "What plague spot or bacilli were [sic] gnawing [sic] at the heart of
this metropolis .  .  .  and bringing it [the heart] on bended knee?
Why, it was an institute that had entered its vitals--that, among other
things, taught games," et cetera.--C.S.  Journal, p.  670, article
entitled "A Narrative--by Mary Baker G.  Eddy."

2.  "Parks sprang up [sic] .  .  .  electric-cars run [sic] merrily
through several streets, concrete sidewalks and macadamized roads dotted
[sic] the place," et cetera.--Ibid.

3.  "Shorn [sic] of its suburbs it had indeed little left to admire, save
to [sic] such as fancy a skeleton above ground breathing [sic] slowly
through a barren [sic] breast."--Ibid.

This is not English--I mean, grown-up English.  But it is fifteen-year--
old English, and has not grown a month since the same mind produced the
Poems.  The standard of the Poems and of the plague-spot-and-bacilli
effort is exactly the same.  It is most strange that the same intellect
that worded the simple and self-contained and clean-cut paragraph
beginning with "How unreasonable is the belief," should in the very same
lustrum discharge upon the world such a verbal chaos as the utterance
concerning that plague-spot or bacilli which were gnawing at the insides
of the metropolis and bringing its heart on bended knee, thus exposing to
the eye the rest of the skeleton breathing slowly through a barren
breast.

The immense contrast between the legitimate English of Science and Health
and the bastard English of Mrs. Eddy's miscellaneous work, and between
the maturity of the one diction and the juvenility of the other,
suggests--compels--the question, Are there two guns?  It would seem so.
Is there a poor, foolish, old, scattering flint-lock for rabbit, and a
long-range, centre-driving, up-to-date Mauser-magazine for elephant?  It
looks like it.  For it is observable that in Science and Health (the
elephant-ground) the practice was good at the start and has remained so,
and that the practice in the miscellaneous, outside, small-game field was
very bad at the start and was never less bad at any later time.

I wish to say that of Mrs. Eddy I am not requiring perfect English, but
only good English.  No one can write perfect English and keep it up
through a stretch of ten chapters.  It has never been done.  It was
approached in the "well of English undefiled"; it has been approached in
Mrs. Eddy's Annex to that Book; it has been approached in several English
grammars; I have even approached it myself; but none of us has made port.

Now, the English of Science and Health is good.  In passages to be found
in Mrs. Eddy's Autobiography (on pages 53, 57, 101, and 113), and on page
6 of her squalid preface to Science and Health, first revision, she seems
to me to claim the whole and sole authorship of the book.  That she wrote
the Autobiography, and that preface, and the Poems, and the Plague-spot-
Bacilli, we are not permitted to doubt.  Indeed, we know she wrote them.
But the very certainty that she wrote these things compels a doubt that
she wrote Science and Health.  She is guilty of little awkwardnesses of
expression in the Autobiography which a practiced pen would hardly allow
to go uncorrected in even a hasty private letter, and could not dream of
passing by uncorrected in passages intended for print.  But she passes
them placidly by; as placidly as if she did not suspect that they were
offenses against third-class English.  I think that that placidity was
born of that very unawareness, so to speak.  I will cite a few instances
from the Autobiography.  The italics are mine:

"I remember reading in my childhood certain manuscripts containing
Scriptural Sonnets, besides other verses and enigmas," etc.  Page 7.

[On page 27.] "Many pale cripples went into the Church leaning on
crutches who came out carrying them on their shoulders."

It is awkward, because at the first glance it seems to say that the
cripples went in leaning on crutches which went out carrying the cripples
on their shoulders.  It would have cost her no trouble to put her "who"
after her "cripples."  I blame her a little; I think her proof-reader
should have been shot.  We may let her capital C pass, but it is another
awkwardness, for she is talking about a building, not about a religious
society.

"Marriage and Parentage "[Chapter-heading.  Page 30].  You imagine that
she is going to begin a talk about her marriage and finish with some
account of her father and mother.  And so you will be deceived.
"Marriage" was right, but "Parentage" was not the best word for the rest
of the record.  It refers to the birth of her own child.  After a certain
period of time "my babe was born."  Marriage and Motherhood-Marriage and
Maternity-Marriage and Product-Marriage and Dividend--either of these
would have fitted the facts and made the matter clear.

"Without my knowledge he was appointed a guardian."  Page 32.

She is speaking of her child.  She means that a guardian for her child
was appointed, but that isn't what she says.

"If spiritual conclusions are separated from their premises, the nexus is
lost, and the argument with its rightful conclusions, becomes
correspondingly obscure."  Page 34.

We shall never know why she put the word "correspondingly" in there.  Any
fine, large word would have answered just as well: psychosuperintangibly
--electroincandescently--oligarcheologically--sanchrosynchro-
stereoptically--any of these would have answered, any of these would have
filled the void.

"His spiritual noumenon and phenomenon silenced portraiture."  Page 34.

Yet she says she forgot everything she knew, when she discovered
Christian Science.  I realize that noumenon is a daisy; and I will not
deny that I shall use it whenever I am in a company which I think I can
embarrass with it; but, at the same time, I think it is out of place
among friends in an autobiography.  There, I think a person ought not to
have anything up his sleeve.  It undermines confidence.  But my
dissatisfaction with the quoted passage is not on account of noumenon; it
is on account of the misuse of the word "silenced."  You cannot silence
portraiture with a noumenon; if portraiture should make a noise, a way
could be found to silence it, but even then it could not be done with a
noumenon.  Not even with a brick, some authorities think.

"It may be that the mortal life-battle still wages," etc.  Page 35.

That is clumsy.  Battles do not wage, battles are waged.  Mrs. Eddy has
one very curious and interesting peculiarity: whenever she notices that
she is chortling along without saying anything, she pulls up with a
sudden "God is over us all," or some other sounding irrelevancy, and for
the moment it seems to light up the whole district; then, before you can
recover from the shock, she goes flitting pleasantly and meaninglessly
along again, and you hurry hopefully after her, thinking you are going to
get something this time; but as soon as she has led you far enough away
from her turkey lot she takes to a tree.  Whenever she discovers that she
is getting pretty disconnected, she couples-up with an ostentatious "But"
which has nothing to do with anything that went before or is to come
after, then she hitches some empties to the train-unrelated verses from
the Bible, usually--and steams out of sight and leaves you wondering how
she did that clever thing.  For striking instances, see bottom paragraph
on page 34 and the paragraph on page 35 of her Autobiography.  She has a
purpose--a deep and dark and artful purpose--in what she is saying in the
first paragraph, and you guess what it is, but that is due to your own
talent, not hers; she has made it as obscure as language could do it.
The other paragraph has no meaning and no discoverable intention.  It is
merely one of her God-over-alls.  I cannot spare room for it in this
place.

"I beheld with ineffable awe our great Master's marvelous skill in
demanding neither obedience to hygienic laws nor," etc.  Page 41.

The word is loosely chosen-skill.  She probably meant judgment,
intuition, penetration, or wisdom.

"Naturally, my first jottings were but efforts to express in feeble
diction Truth's ultimate."  Page 42.

One understands what she means, but she should have been able to say what
she meant--at any time before she discovered Christian Science and forgot
everything she knew--and after it, too.  If she had put "feeble" in front
of "efforts" and then left out "in" and "diction," she would have scored.

" .  .  .  its written expression increases in perfection under the
guidance of the great Master."  Page 43.

It is an error.  Not even in those advantageous circumstances can
increase be added to perfection.

"Evil is not mastered by evil; it can only be overcome with Good.  This
brings out the nothingness of evil, and the eternal Somethingness
vindicates the Divine Principle and improves the race of Adam."  Page 76.

This is too extraneous for me.  That is the trouble with Mrs. Eddy when
she sets out to explain an over-large exhibit: the minute you think the
light is bursting upon you the candle goes out and your mind begins to
wander.

"No one else can drain the cup which I have drunk to the dregs, as the
discoverer and teacher of Christian Science" Page 47.

That is saying we cannot empty an empty cup.  We knew it before; and we
know she meant to tell us that that particular cup is going to remain
empty.  That is, we think that that was the idea, but we cannot be sure.
She has a perfectly astonishing talent for putting words together in such
a way as to make successful inquiry into their intention impossible.

She generally makes us uneasy when she begins to tune up on her fine-
writing timbrel.  It carries me back to her Plague-Spot and Poetry days,
and I just dread those:

"Into mortal mind's material obliquity I gazed and stood abashed.
Blanched was the cheek of pride.  My heart bent low before the
omnipotence of Spirit, and a tint of humility soft as the heart of a
moonbeam mantled the earth.  Bethlehem and Bethany, Gethsemane and
Calvary, spoke to my chastened sense as by the tearful lips of a babe."
Page 48.

The heart of a moonbeam is a pretty enough Friendship's-Album expression
--let it pass, though I do think the figure a little strained; but
humility has no tint, humility has no complexion, and if it had it could
not mantle the earth.  A moonbeam might--I do not know--but she did not
say it was the moonbeam.  But let it go, I cannot decide it, she mixes me
up so.  A babe hasn't "tearful lips," it's its eyes.  You find none of
Mrs. Eddy's kind of English in Science and Health--not a line of it.




CHAPTER III

Setting aside title-page, index, etc., the little Autobiography begins on
page 7 and ends on page 130.  My quotations are from the first forty
pages.  They seem to me to prove the presence of the 'prentice hand.  The
style of the forty pages is loose and feeble and 'prentice-like.  The
movement of the narrative is not orderly and sequential, but rambles
around, and skips forward and back and here and there and yonder,
'prentice-fashion.  Many a journeyman has broken up his narrative and
skipped about and rambled around, but he did it for a purpose, for an
advantage; there was art in it, and points to be scored by it; the
observant reader perceived the game, and enjoyed it and respected it, if
it was well played.  But Mrs. Eddy's performance was without intention,
and destitute of art.  She could score no points by it on those terms,
and almost any reader can see that her work was the uncalculated
puttering of a novice.

In the above paragraph I have described the first third of the booklet.
That third being completed, Mrs. Eddy leaves the rabbit-range, crosses
the frontier, and steps out upon her far-spreading big-game territory--
Christian Science and there is an instant change!  The style smartly
improves; and the clumsy little technical offenses disappear.  In these
two-thirds of the booklet I find only one such offence, and it has the
look of being a printer's error.

I leave the riddle with the reader.  Perhaps he can explain how it is
that a person-trained or untrained--who on the one day can write nothing
better than Plague-Spot-Bacilli and feeble and stumbling and wandering
personal history littered with false figures and obscurities and
technical blunders, can on the next day sit down and write fluently,
smoothly, compactly, capably, and confidently on a great big thundering
subject, and do it as easily and comfortably as a whale paddles around
the globe.

As for me, I have scribbled so much in fifty years that I have become
saturated with convictions of one sort and another concerning a
scribbler's limitations; and these are so strong that when I am familiar
with a literary person's work I feel perfectly sure that I know enough
about his limitations to know what he can not do.  If Mr. Howells should
pretend to me that he wrote the Plague-Spot Bacilli rhapsody, I should
receive the statement courteously; but I should know it for a--well, for
a perversion.  If the late Josh Billings should rise up and tell me that
he wrote Herbert Spencer's philosophies; I should answer and say that the
spelling casts a doubt upon his claim.  If the late Jonathan Edwards
should rise up and tell me he wrote Mr. Dooley's books, I should answer
and say that the marked difference between his style and Dooley's is
argument against the soundness of his statement.  You see how much I
think of circumstantial evidence.  In literary matters--in my belief--it
is often better than any person's word, better than any shady character's
oath.  It is difficult for me to believe that the same hand that wrote
the Plague-Spot-Bacilli and the first third of the little Eddy biography
wrote also Science and Health.  Indeed, it is more than difficult, it is
impossible.

Largely speaking, I have read acres of what purported to be Mrs. Eddy's
writings, in the past two months.  I cannot know, but I am convinced,
that the circumstantial evidence shows that her actual share in the work
of composing and phrasing these things was so slight as to be
inconsequential.  Where she puts her literary foot down, her trail across
her paid polisher's page is as plain as the elephant's in a Sunday-school
procession.  Her verbal output, when left undoctored by her clerks, is
quite unmistakable It always exhibits the strongly distinctive features
observable in the virgin passages from her pen already quoted by me:

Desert vacancy, as regards thought.
Self-complacency.
Puerility.
Sentimentality.
Affectations of scholarly learning.
Lust after eloquent and flowery expression.
Repetition of pet poetic picturesquenesses.
Confused and wandering statement.
Metaphor gone insane.
Meaningless words, used because they are pretty, or showy, or unusual.
Sorrowful attempts at the epigrammatic.
Destitution of originality.

The fat volume called Miscellaneous Writings of Mrs. Eddy contains
several hundred pages.  Of the five hundred and fifty-four pages of prose
in it I find ten lines, on page 319, to be Mrs. Eddy's; also about a page
of the preface or "Prospectus"; also about fifteen pages scattered along
through the book.  If she wrote any of the rest of the prose, it was
rewritten after her by another hand.  Here I will insert two-thirds of
her page of the prospectus.  It is evident that whenever, under the
inspiration of the Deity, she turns out a book, she is always allowed to
do some of the preface.  I wonder why that is?  It always mars the work.
I think it is done in humorous malice I think the clerks like to see her
give herself away.  They know she will, her stock of usable materials
being limited and her procedure in employing them always the same,
substantially.  They know that when the initiated come upon her first
erudite allusion, or upon any one of her other stage-properties, they can
shut their eyes and tell what will follow.  She usually throws off an
easy remark all sodden with Greek or Hebrew or Latin learning; she
usually has a person watching for a star--she can seldom get away from
that poetic idea--sometimes it is a Chaldee, sometimes a Walking
Delegate, sometimes an entire stranger, but be he what he may, he is
generally there when the train is ready to move, and has his pass in his
hat-band; she generally has a Being with a Dome on him, or some other
cover that is unusual and out of the fashion; she likes to fire off a
Scripture-verse where it will make the handsomest noise and come nearest
to breaking the connection; she often throws out a Forefelt, or a
Foresplendor, or a Foreslander where it will have a fine nautical
foreto'gallant sound and make the sentence sing; after which she is
nearly sure to throw discretion away and take to her deadly passion,
Intoxicated Metaphor.  At such a time the Mrs. Eddy that does not
hesitate is lost:

"The ancient Greek looked longingly for the Olympiad.  The Chaldee
watched the appearing of a star; to him no higher destiny dawned on the
dome of being than that foreshadowed by signs in the heavens.  The meek
Nazarene, the scoffed of all scoffers, said, 'Ye can discern the face of
the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times?'--for He forefelt
and foresaw the ordeal of a perfect Christianity, hated by sinners.

"To kindle all minds with a gleam of gratitude, the new idea that comes
welling up from infinite Truth needs to be understood.  The seer of this
age should be a sage.

"Humility is the stepping-stone to a higher recognition of Deity.  The
mounting sense gathers fresh forms and strange fire from the ashes of
dissolving self, and drops the world.  Meekness heightens immortal
attributes, only by removing the dust that dims them.  Goodness reveals
another scene and another self seemingly rolled up in shades, but brought
to light by the evolutions of advancing thought, whereby we discern the
power of Truth and Love to heal the sick.

"Pride is ignorance; those assume most who have the least wisdom or
experience; and they steal from their neighbor, because they have so
little of their own."--Miscellaneous Writings, page 1, and six lines at
top of page 2.

It is not believable that the hand that wrote those clumsy and affected
sentences wrote the smooth English of Science and Health.




CHAPTER IV

It is often said in print that Mrs. Eddy claims that God was the Author
of Science and Health.  Mr. Peabody states in his pamphlet that "she says
not she but God was the Author."  I cannot find that in her autobiography
she makes this transference of the authorship, but I think that in it she
definitely claims that she did her work under His inspiration--definitely
for her; for as a rule she is not a very definite person, even when she
seems to be trying her best to be clear and positive.  Speaking of the
early days when her Science was beginning to unfold itself and gather
form in her mind, she says (Autobiography, page 43):

"The divine hand led me into a new world of light and Life, a fresh
universe--old to God, but new to His 'little one.'"

She being His little one, as I understand it.

The divine hand led her.  It seems to mean "God inspired me"; but when a
person uses metaphors instead of statistics--and that is Mrs. Eddy's
common fashion--one cannot always feel sure about the intention.

[Page 56.] "Even the Scripture gave no direct interpretation of the
Scientific basis for demonstrating the spiritual Principle of healing,
until our Heavenly Father saw fit, through the Key to the Scriptures, in
Science and Health, to unlock this 'mystery of godliness.'"

Another baffling metaphor.  If she had used plain forecastle English, and
said "God wrote the Key and I put it in my book"; or if she had said "God
furnished me the solution of the mystery and I put it on paper"; or if
she had said "God did it all," then we should understand; but her phrase
is open to any and all of those translations, and is a Key which unlocks
nothing--for us.  However, it seems to at least mean "God inspired me,"
if nothing more.

There was personal and intimate communion, at any rate we get that much
out of the riddles.  The connection extended to business, after the
establishment of the teaching and healing industry.

[Page 71.] "When God impelled me to set a price on my instruction," etc.
Further down: "God has since shown me, in multitudinous ways, the wisdom
of this decision."

She was not able to think of a "financial equivalent"--meaning a
pecuniary equivalent--for her "instruction in Christian Science Mind-
healing."  In this emergency she was "led" to charge three hundred
dollars for a term of "twelve half-days."  She does not say who led her,
she only says that the amount greatly troubled her.  I think it means
that the price was suggested from above, "led" being a theological term
identical with our commercial phrase "personally conducted."  She "shrank
from asking it, but was finally led, by a strange providence, to accept
this fee."  "Providence" is another theological term.  Two leds and a
providence, taken together, make a pretty strong argument for
inspiration.  I think that these statistics make it clear that the price
was arranged above.  This view is constructively supported by the fact,
already quoted, that God afterwards approved, "in multitudinous ways,"
her wisdom in accepting the mentioned fee.  "Multitudinous ways"--
multitudinous encoring--suggests enthusiasm.  Business enthusiasm.  And
it suggests nearness.  God's nearness to his "little one."  Nearness, and
a watchful personal interest.  A warm, palpitating, Standard-Oil
interest, so to speak.  All this indicates inspiration.  We may assume,
then, two inspirations: one for the book, the other for the business.

The evidence for inspiration is further augmented by the testimony of
Rev. George Tomkins, D.D., already quoted, that Mrs. Eddy and her book
were foretold in Revelation, and that Mrs. Eddy "is God's brightest
thought to this age, giving us the spiritual interpretation of the Bible
in the 'little book'" of the Angel.

I am aware that it is not Mr. Tomkins that is speaking, but Mrs. Eddy.
The commissioned lecturers of the Christian Science Church have to be
members of the Board of Lectureship.  (By-laws Sec. 2, p. 70.) The
Board of Lectureship is selected by the Board of Directors of the Church.
(By-laws, Sec.  3, p. 70.) The Board of Directors of the Church is the
property of Mrs. Eddy.  (By-laws, p. 22.) Mr. Tomkins did not make that
statement without authorization from headquarters.  He necessarily got it
from the Board of Directors, the Board of Directors from Mrs. Eddy, Mrs.
Eddy from the Deity.  Mr. Tomkins would have been turned down by that
procession if his remarks had been unsatisfactory to it.

It may be that there is evidence somewhere--as has been claimed--that
Mrs. Eddy has charged upon the Deity the verbal authorship of Science and
Health.  But if she ever made the charge, she has withdrawn it (as it
seems to me), and in the most formal and unqualified; of all ways.  See
Autobiography, page 57:

"When the demand for this book increased .  .  .  the copyright was
infringed.  I entered a suit at Law, and my copyright was protected."

Thus it is plain that she did not plead that the Deity was the (verbal)
Author; for if she had done that, she would have lost her case--and with
rude promptness.  It was in the old days before the Berne Convention and
before the passage of our amended law of 1891, and the court would have
quoted the following stern clause from the existing statute and frowned
her out of the place:

"No Foreigner can acquire copyright in the United States."

To sum up.  The evidence before me indicates three things:

1.  That Mrs. Eddy claims the verbal author ship for herself.
2.  That she denies it to the Deity.
3.  That--in her belief--she wrote the book under the inspiration of the
Deity, but furnished the language herself.

In one place in the Autobiography she claims both the language and the
ideas; but when this witness is testifying, one must draw the line
somewhere, or she will prove both sides of her case-nine sides, if
desired.

It is too true.  Much too true.  Many, many times too true.  She is a
most trying witness--the most trying witness that ever kissed the Book, I
am sure.  There is no keeping up with her erratic testimony.  As soon as
you have got her share of the authorship nailed where you half hope and
half believe it will stay and cannot be joggled loose any more, she
joggles it loose again--or seems to; you cannot be sure, for her habit of
dealing in meaningless metaphors instead of in plain, straightforward
statistics, makes it nearly always impossible to tell just what it is she
is trying to say.  She was definite when she claimed both the language
and the ideas of the book.  That seemed to settle the matter.  It seemed
to distribute the percentages of credit with precision between the
collaborators: ninety-two per cent.  to Mrs. Eddy, who did all the work,
and eight per cent.  to the Deity, who furnished the inspiration not
enough of it to damage the copyright in a country closed against
Foreigners, and yet plenty to advertise the book and market it at famine
rates.  Then Mrs. Eddy does not keep still, but fetches around and comes
forward and testifies again.  It is most injudicious.  For she resorts to
metaphor this time, and it makes trouble, for she seems to reverse the
percentages and claim only the eight per cent.  for her self.  I quote
from Mr. Peabody's book (Eddyism, or Christian Science.  Boston: 15 Court
Square, price twenty-five cents):

"Speaking of this book, Mrs. Eddy, in January last (1901) said: 'I should
blush to write of Science and Health, with Key to the Scriptures, as I
have, were it of human origin, and I, apart from God, its author; but as
I was only a scribe echoing the harmonies of Heaven in divine
metaphysics, I cannot be supermodest of the Christian Science text-
book."'

Mr. Peabody's comment:

"Nothing could be plainer than that.  Here is a distinct avowal that the
book entitled Science and Health was the work of Almighty God."

It does seem to amount to that.  She was only a "scribe."  Confound the
word, it is just a confusion, it has no determinable meaning there, it
leaves us in the air.  A scribe is merely a person who writes.  He may be
a copyist, he may be an amanuensis, he may be a writer of originals, and
furnish both the language and the ideas.  As usual with Mrs. Eddy, the
connection affords no help--"echoing" throws no light upon "scribe."  A
rock can reflect an echo, a wall can do it, a mountain can do it, many
things can do it, but a scribe can't.  A scribe that could reflect an
echo could get over thirty dollars a week in a side-show.  Many
impresarios would rather have him than a cow with four tails.  If we
allow that this present scribe was setting down the "harmonies of
Heaven"--and certainly that seems to have been the case then there was
only one way to do it that I can think of: listen to the music and put
down the notes one after another as they fell.  In that case Mrs. Eddy
did not invent the tune, she only entered it on paper.  Therefore
dropping the metaphor--she was merely an amanuensis, and furnished
neither the language of Science and Health nor the ideas.  It reduces her
to eight per cent.  (and the dividends on that and the rest).

Is that it?  We shall never know.  For Mrs. Eddy is liable to testify
again at any time.  But until she does it, I think we must conclude that
the Deity was Author of the whole book, and Mrs. Eddy merely His
telephone and stenographer.  Granting this, her claim as the Voice of God
stands-for the present--justified and established.




POSTSCRIPT

I overlooked something.  It appears that there was more of that utterance
than Mr. Peabody has quoted in the above paragraph.  It will be found in
Mrs. Eddy's organ, the Christian Science Journal (January, 1901) and
reads as follows:

"It was not myself .  .  .  which dictated Science and Health, with Key
to the Scriptures."

That is certainly clear enough.  The words which I have removed from that
important sentence explain Who it was that did the dictating.  It was
done by

"the divine power of Truth and Love, infinitely above me."

Certainly that is definite.  At last, through her personal testimony, we
have a sure grip upon the following vital facts, and they settle the
authorship of Science and Health beyond peradventure:

1.  Mrs. Eddy furnished "the ideas and the language."
2.  God furnished the ideas and the language.

It is a great comfort to have the matter authoritatively settled.




CHAPTER V

It is hard to locate her, she shifts about so much.  She is a shining
drop of quicksilver which you put your finger on and it isn't there.
There is a paragraph in the Autobiography (page 96) which places in
seemingly darkly significant procession three Personages:

1.  The Virgin Mary
2.  Jesus of Nazareth.
3.  Mrs. Eddy.

This is the paragraph referred to:

"No person can take the individual place of the Virgin Mary.  No person
can compass or fulfil the individual mission of Jesus of Nazareth.  No
person can take the place of the author of Science and Health, the
discoverer and founder of Christian Science.  Each individual must fill
his own niche in time and eternity."

I have read it many times, but I still cannot be sure that I rightly
understand it.  If the Saviour's name had been placed first and the
Virgin Mary's second and Mrs. Eddy's third, I should draw the inference
that a descending scale from First Importance to Second Importance and
then to Small Importance was indicated; but to place the Virgin first,
the Saviour second, and Mrs. Eddy third, seems to turn the scale the
other way and make it an ascending scale of Importances, with Mrs. Eddy
ranking the other two and holding first place.

I think that that was perhaps the intention, but none but a seasoned
Christian Scientist can examine a literary animal of Mrs. Eddy's creation
and tell which end of it the tail is on.  She is easily the most baffling
and bewildering writer in the literary trade.

Eddy is a commonplace name, and would have an unimpressive aspect in the
list of the reformed Holy Family.  She has thought of that.  In the book
of By-laws written by her--"impelled by a power not one's own"--there is
a paragraph which explains how and when her disciples came to confer a
title upon her; and this explanation is followed by a warning as to what
will happen to any female Scientist who shall desecrate it:

"The title of Mother.  Therefore if a student of Christian Science shall
apply this title, either to herself or to others, except as the term for
kinship according to the flesh, it shall be regarded by the Church as an
indication of disrespect for their Pastor Emeritus, and unfitness to be a
member of the Mother-Church."

She is the Pastor Emeritus.

While the quoted paragraph about the Procession seems to indicate that
Mrs. Eddy is expecting to occupy the First Place in it, that expectation
is not definitely avowed.  In an earlier utterance of hers she is
clearer--clearer, and does not claim the first place all to herself, but
only the half of it.  I quote from Mr. Peabody's book again:

"In the Christian Science Journal for April, 1889, when it was her
property, and published by her, it was claimed for her, and with her
sanction, that she was equal with Jesus, and elaborate effort was made to
establish the claim.

"Mrs. Eddy has distinctly authorized the claim in her behalf that she
herself was the chosen successor to and equal of Jesus."

In her Miscellaneous Writings (using her once favorite "We" for "I") she
says that "While we entertain decided views .  .  .  and shall express
them as duty demands, we shall claim no especial gift from our divine
origin," etc.

Our divine origin.  It suggests Equal again.  It is inferable, then, that
in the near by-and-by the new Church will officially rank the Holy Family
in the following order:

1.  Jesus of Nazareth.--1.  Our Mother.
2.  The Virgin Mary.




SUMMARY

I am not playing with Christian Science and its founder, I am examining
them; and I am doing it because of the interest I feel in the inquiry.
My results may seem inadequate to the reader, but they have for me
clarified a muddle and brought a sort of order out of a chaos, and so I
value them.

My readings of Mrs. Eddy's uninspired miscellaneous literary efforts have
convinced me of several things:

1.  That she did not write Science and Health.
2.  That the Deity did (or did not) write it.
3.  That She thinks She wrote it.
4.  That She believes She wrote it under the Deity's inspiration.
5.  That She believes She is a Member of the Holy Family.
6.  That She believes She is the equal of the Head of it.

Finally, I think She is now entitled to the capital S--on her own
evidence.




CHAPTER VI

Thus far we have a part of Mrs. Eddy's portrait.  Not made of fictions,
surmises, reports, rumors, innuendoes, dropped by her enemies; no, she
has furnished all of the materials herself, and laid them on the canvas,
under my general superintendence and direction.  As far as she has gone
with it, it is the presentation of a complacent, commonplace, illiterate
New England woman who "forgot everything she knew" when she discovered
her discovery, then wrote a Bible in good English under the inspiration
of God, and climbed up it to the supremest summit of earthly grandeur
attainable by man--where she sits serene to-day, beloved and worshiped by
a multitude of human beings of as good average intelligence as is
possessed by those that march under the banner of any competing cult.
This is not intended to flatter the competing cults, it is merely a
statement of cold fact.

That a commonplace person should go climbing aloft and become a god or a
half-god or a quarter-god and be worshiped by men and women of average
intelligence, is nothing.  It has happened a million times, it will
happen a hundred million more.  It has been millions of years since the
first of these supernaturals appeared, and by the time the last one in
that inconceivably remote future shall have performed his solemn little
high-jinks on the stage and closed the business, there will be enough of
them accumulated in the museum on the Other Side to start a heaven of
their own-and jam it.

Each in his turn those little supernaturals of our by-gone ages and aeons
joined the monster procession of his predecessors and marched
horizonward, disappeared, and was forgotten.  They changed nothing, they
built nothing, they left nothing behind them to remember them by, nothing
to hold their disciples together, nothing to solidify their work and
enable it to defy the assaults of time and the weather.  They passed, and
left a vacancy.  They made one fatal mistake; they all made it, each in
his turn: they failed to organize their forces, they failed to centralize
their strength, they failed to provide a fresh Bible and a sure and
perpetual cash income for business, and often they failed to provide a
new and accepted Divine Personage to worship.

Mrs. Eddy is not of that small fry.  The materials that go to the making
of the rest of her portrait will prove it.  She will furnish them
herself:

She published her book.  She copyrighted it.  She copyrights everything.
If she should say, "Good-morning; how do you do?" she would copyright it;
for she is a careful person, and knows the value of small things.

She began to teach her Science, she began to heal, she began to gather
converts to her new religion--fervent, sincere, devoted, grateful people.
A year or two later she organized her first Christian Science
"Association," with six of her disciples on the roster.

She continued to teach and heal.  She was charging nothing, she says,
although she was very poor.  She taught and healed gratis four years
altogether, she says.

Then, in 1879-81 she was become strong enough, and well enough
established, to venture a couple of impressively important moves.  The
first of these moves was to aggrandize the "Association" to a "Church."
Brave?  It is the right name for it, I think.  The former name suggests
nothing, invited no remark, no criticism, no inquiry, no hostility; the
new name invited them all.  She must have made this intrepid venture on
her own motion.  She could have had no important advisers at that early
day.  If we accept it as her own idea and her own act--and I think we
must--we have one key to her character.  And it will explain subsequent
acts of hers that would merely stun us and stupefy us without it.  Shall
we call it courage?  Or shall we call it recklessness?  Courage observes;
reflects; calculates; surveys the whole situation; counts the cost,
estimates the odds, makes up its mind; then goes at the enterprise
resolute to win or perish.  Recklessness does not reflect, it plunges
fearlessly in with a hurrah, and takes the risks, whatever they may be,
regardless of expense.  Recklessness often fails, Mrs. Eddy has never
failed--from the point of view of her followers.  The point of view of
other people is naturally not a matter of weighty importance to her.

The new Church was not born loose-jointed and featureless, but had a
defined plan, a definite character, definite aims, and a name which was a
challenge, and defied all comers.  It was "a Mind-healing Church."  It
was "without a creed."  Its name, "The Church of Christ, Scientist."

Mrs. Eddy could not copyright her Church, but she chartered it, which was
the same thing and relieved the pain.  It had twenty-six charter members.
Mrs. Eddy was at once installed as its pastor.

The other venture, above referred to, was Mrs. Eddy's Massachusetts
Metaphysical College, in which was taught "the pathology of spiritual
power."  She could not copyright it, but she got it chartered.  For
faculty it had herself, her husband of the period (Dr.  Eddy), and her
adopted son, Dr.  Foster-Eddy.  The college term was "barely three
weeks," she says.  Again she was bold, brave, rash, reckless--choose for
yourself--for she not only began to charge the student, but charged him a
hundred dollars a week for the enlightenments.  And got it?  some may
ask.  Easily.  Pupils flocked from far and near.  They came by the
hundred.  Presently the term was cut down nearly half, but the price
remained as before.  To be exact, the term-cut was to seven lessons--
price, three hundred dollars.  The college "yielded a large income."
This is believable.  In seven years Mrs. Eddy taught, as she avers, over
four thousand students in it.  (Preface to 1902 edition of Science and
Health.) Three hundred times four thousand is--but perhaps you can cipher
it yourself.  I could do it ordinarily, but I fell down yesterday and
hurt my leg.  Cipher it; you will see that it is a grand sum for a woman
to earn in seven years.  Yet that was not all she got out of her college
in the seven.

At the time that she was charging the primary student three hundred
dollars for twelve lessons she was not content with this tidy assessment,
but had other ways of plundering him.  By advertisement she offered him
privileges whereby he could add eighteen lessons to his store for five
hundred dollars more.  That is to say, he could get a total of thirty
lessons in her college for eight hundred dollars.

Four thousand times eight hundred is--but it is a difficult sum for a
cripple who has not been "demonstrated over" to cipher; let it go.  She
taught "over" four thousand students in seven years.  "Over" is not
definite, but it probably represents a non-paying surplus of learners
over and above the paying four thousand.  Charity students, doubtless.  I
think that as interesting an advertisement as has been printed since the
romantic old days of the other buccaneers is this one from the Christian
Science Journal for September, 1886:


"MASSACHUSETTS METAPHYSICAL COLLEGE

"Rev. MARY BAKER G.  EDDY, PRESIDENT

"571 Columbus Avenue, Boston

"The collegiate course in Christian Science metaphysical healing includes
twelve lessons.  Tuition, three hundred dollars.

"Course in metaphysical obstetrics includes six daily lectures, and is
open only to students from this college.  Tuition, one hundred dollars.

"Class in theology, open (like the above) to graduates, receives six
additional lectures on the Scriptures, and summary of the principle and
practice of Christian Science, two hundred dollars.

"Normal class is open to those who have taken the first course at this
college; six daily lectures complete the Normal course.  Tuition, two
hundred dollars.

"No invalids, and only persons of good moral character, are accepted as
students.  All students are subject to examination and rejection; and
they are liable to leave the class if found unfit to remain in it.

"A limited number of clergymen received free of charge.

"Largest discount to indigent students, one hundred dollars on the first
course.

"No deduction on the others.

"Husband and wife, entered together, three hundred dollars.

"Tuition for all strictly in advance."


There it is--the horse-leech's daughter alive again, after a three-
century vacation.  Fifty or sixty hours' lecturing for eight hundred
dollars.

I was in error as to one matter: there are no charity students.  Gratis-
taught clergymen must not be placed under that head; they are merely an
advertisement.  Pauper students can get into the infant class on a two-
third rate (cash in advance), but not even an archangel can get into the
rest of the game at anything short of par, cash down.  For it is "in the
spirit of Christ's charity, as one who is joyful to bear healing to the
sick "that Mrs. Eddy is working the game.  She sends the healing to them
outside.  She cannot bear it to them inside the college, for the reason
that she does not allow a sick candidate to get in.  It is true that this
smells of inconsistency, but that is nothing; Mrs. Eddy would not be Mrs.
Eddy if she should ever chance to be consistent about anything two days
running.

Except in the matter of the Dollar.  The Dollar, and appetite for power
and notoriety.  English must also be added; she is always consistent, she
is always Mrs. Eddy, in her English: it is always and consistently
confused and crippled and poor.  She wrote the Advertisement; her
literary trade-marks are there.  When she says all "students" are subject
to examination, she does not mean students, she means candidates for that
lofty place When she says students are "liable" to leave the class if
found unfit to remain in it, she does not mean that if they find
themselves unfit, or be found unfit by others, they will be likely to ask
permission to leave the class; she means that if she finds them unfit she
will be "liable" to fire them out.  When she nobly offers "tuition for
all strictly in advance," she does not mean "instruction for all in
advance-payment for it later."  No, that is only what she says, it is not
what she means.  If she had written Science and Health, the oldest man in
the world would not be able to tell with certainty what any passage in it
was intended to mean.

Her Church was on its legs.

She was its pastor.  It was prospering.

She was appointed one of a committee to draught By-laws for its
government.  It may be observed, without overplus of irreverence, that
this was larks for her.  She did all of the draughting herself.  From the
very beginning she was always in the front seat when there was business
to be done; in the front seat, with both eyes open, and looking sharply
out for Number One; in the front seat, working Mortal Mind with fine
effectiveness and giving Immortal Mind a rest for Sunday.  When her
Church was reorganized, by-and-by, the By-laws were retained.  She saw to
that.  In these Laws for the government of her Church, her empire, her
despotism, Mrs. Eddy's character is embalmed for good and all.  I think a
particularized examination of these Church-laws will be found
interesting.  And not the less so if we keep in mind that they were
"impelled by a power not one's own," as she says--Anglice.  the
inspiration of God.

It is a Church "without a creed."  Still, it has one.  Mrs. Eddy
draughted it--and copyrighted it.  In her own name.  You cannot become a
member of the Mother-Church (nor of any Christian Science Church) without
signing it.  It forms the first chapter of the By-laws, and is called
"Tenets."  "Tenets of The Mother Church, The First Church of Christ,
Scientist."  It has no hell in it--it throws it overboard.




THE PASTOR EMERITUS

About the time of the reorganization, Mrs. Eddy retired from her position
of pastor of her Church, abolished the office of pastor in all branch
Churches, and appointed her book, Science and Health, to be pastor-
universal.  Mrs. Eddy did not disconnect herself from the office
entirely, when she retired, but appointed herself Pastor Emeritus.  It is
a misleading title, and belongs to the family of that phrase "without a
creed."  It advertises her as being a merely honorary official, with
nothing to do, and no authority.  The Czar of Russia is Emperor Emeritus
on the same terms.  Mrs. Eddy was Autocrat of the Church before, with
limitless authority, and she kept her grip on that limitless authority
when she took that fictitious title.

It is curious and interesting to note with what an unerring instinct the
Pastor Emeritus has thought out and forecast all possible encroachments
upon her planned autocracy, and barred the way against them, in the By-
laws which she framed and copyrighted--under the guidance of the Supreme
Being.




THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS

For instance, when Article I.  speaks of a President and Board of
Directors, you think you have discovered a formidable check upon the
powers and ambitions of the honorary pastor, the ornamental pastor, the
functionless pastor, the Pastor Emeritus, but it is a mistake.  These
great officials are of the phrase--family of the Church-Without-a-Creed
and the Pastor-With-Nothing-to-Do; that is to say, of the family of
Large-Names-Which-Mean-Nothing.  The Board is of so little consequence
that the By-laws do not state how it is chosen, nor who does it; but they
do state, most definitely, that the Board cannot fill a vacancy in its
number "except the candidate is approved by the Pastor Emeritus."

The "candidate."  The Board cannot even proceed to an election until the
Pastor Emeritus has examined the list and squelched such candidates as
are not satisfactory to her.

Whether the original first Board began as the personal property of Mrs.
Eddy or not, it is foreseeable that in time, under this By-law, she would
own it.  Such a first Board might chafe under such a rule as that, and
try to legislate it out of existence some day.  But Mrs. Eddy was awake.
She foresaw that danger, and added this ingenious and effective clause:

"This By-law can neither be amended nor annulled, except by consent of
Mrs. Eddy, the Pastor Emeritus"




THE PRESIDENT

The Board of Directors, or Serfs, or Ciphers, elects the President.

On these clearly worded terms: "Subject to the approval of the Pastor
Emeritus."

Therefore She elects him.

A long term can invest a high official with influence and power, and make
him dangerous.  Mrs. Eddy reflected upon that; so she limits the
President's term to a year.  She has a capable commercial head, an
organizing head, a head for government.




TREASURER AND CLERK

There are a Treasurer and a Clerk.  They are elected by the Board of
Directors.  That is to say, by Mrs. Eddy.

Their terms of office expire on the first Tuesday in June of each year,
"or upon the election of their successors."  They must be watchfully
obedient and satisfactory to her, or she will elect and install their
successors with a suddenness that can be unpleasant to them.  It goes
without saying that the Treasurer manages the Treasury to suit Mrs. Eddy,
and is in fact merely Temporary Deputy Treasurer.

Apparently the Clerk has but two duties to perform: to read messages from
Mrs. Eddy to First Members assembled in solemn Council, and provide lists
of candidates for Church membership.  The select body entitled First
Members are the aristocracy of the Mother-Church, the Charter Members,
the Aborigines, a sort of stylish but unsalaried little College of
Cardinals, good for show, but not indispensable.  Nobody is indispensable
in Mrs. Eddy's empire; she sees to that.

When the Pastor Emeritus sends a letter or message to that little
Sanhedrin, it is the Clerk's "imperative duty" to read it "at the place
and time specified."  Otherwise, the world might come to an end.  These
are fine, large frills, and remind us of the ways of emperors and such.
Such do not use the penny-post, they send a gilded and painted special
messenger, and he strides into the Parliament, and business comes to a
sudden and solemn and awful stop; and in the impressive hush that
follows, the Chief Clerk reads the document.  It is his "imperative
duty."  If he should neglect it, his official life would end.  It is the
same with this Mother-Church Clerk; "if he fail to perform this important
function of his office," certain majestic and unshirkable solemnities
must follow: a special meeting "shall" be called; a member of the Church
"shall" make formal complaint; then the Clerk "shall" be "removed from
office."  Complaint is sufficient, no trial is necessary.

There is something very sweet and juvenile and innocent and pretty about
these little tinsel vanities, these grave apings of monarchical fuss and
feathers and ceremony, here on our ostentatiously democratic soil.  She
is the same lady that we found in the Autobiography, who was so naively
vain of all that little ancestral military riffraff that she had dug up
and annexed.  A person's nature never changes.  What it is in childhood,
it remains.  Under pressure, or a change of interest, it can partially or
wholly disappear from sight, and for considerable stretches of time, but
nothing can ever permanently modify it, nothing can ever remove it.




BOARD OF TRUSTEES

There isn't any--now.  But with power and money piling up higher and
higher every day and the Church's dominion spreading daily wider and
farther, a time could come when the envious and ambitious could start the
idea that it would be wise and well to put a watch upon these assets--
a watch equipped with properly large authority.  By custom, a Board of
Trustees.  Mrs. Eddy has foreseen that probability--for she is a woman
with a long, long look ahead, the longest look ahead that ever a woman
had--and she has provided for that emergency.  In Art. I., Sec. 5, she
has decreed that no Board of Trustees shall ever exist in the Mother-
Church "except it be constituted by the Pastor Emeritus."

The magnificence of it, the daring of it!  Thus far, she is

The Massachusetts Metaphysical College;
Pastor Emeritus;
President;
Board of Directors;
Treasurer;
Clerk;
and future Board of Trustees;

and is still moving onward, ever onward.  When I contemplate her from a
commercial point of view, there are no words that can convey my
admiration of her.




READERS

These are a feature of first importance in the church-machinery of
Christian Science.  For they occupy the pulpit.  They hold the place that
the preacher holds in the other Christian Churches.  They hold that
place, but they do not preach.  Two of them are on duty at a time--a man
and a woman.  One reads a passage from the Bible, the other reads the
explanation of it from Science and Health--and so they go on alternating.
This constitutes the service--this, with choir-music.  They utter no word
of their own.  Art. IV., Sec. 6, closes their mouths with this
uncompromising gag:

"They shall make no remarks explanatory of the Lesson-Sermon at any time
during the service."

It seems a simple little thing.  One is not startled by it at a first
reading of it; nor at the second, nor the third.  One may have to read it
a dozen times before the whole magnitude of it rises before the mind.  It
far and away oversizes and outclasses the best business-idea yet invented
for the safe-guarding and perpetuating of a religion.  If it had been
thought of and put in force eighteen hundred and seventy years ago, there
would be but one Christian sect in the world now, instead of ten dozens
of them.

There are many varieties of men in the world, consequently there are many
varieties of minds in its pulpits.  This insures many differing
interpretations of important Scripture texts, and this in turn insures
the splitting up of a religion into many sects.  It is what has happened;
it was sure to happen.

Mrs. Eddy has noted this disastrous result of preaching, and has put up
the bars.  She will have no preaching in her Church.  She has explained
all essential Scriptures, and set the explanations down in her book.  In
her belief her underlings cannot improve upon those explanations, and in
that stern sentence "they shall make no explanatory remarks" she has
barred them for all time from trying.  She will be obeyed; there is no
question about that.

In arranging her government she has borrowed ideas from various sources--
not poor ones, but the best in the governmental market--but this one is
new, this one came out of no ordinary business-head, this one must have
come out of her own, there has been no other commercial skull in a
thousand centuries that was equal to it.  She has borrowed freely and
wisely, but I am sure that this idea is many times larger than all her
borrowings bulked together.  One must respect the business-brain that
produced it--the splendid pluck and impudence that ventured to promulgate
it, anyway.




ELECTION OF READERS

Readers are not taken at hap-hazard, any more than preachers are taken at
hap-hazard for the pulpits of other sects.  No, Readers are elected by
the Board of Directors.  But--

"Section 3.  The Board shall inform the Pas.  for Emeritus of the names
of candidates for Readers before they are elected, and if she objects to
the nomination, said candidates shall not be chosen."

Is that an election--by the Board?  Thus far I have not been able to find
out what that Board of Spectres is for.  It certainly has no real
function, no duty which the hired girl could not perform, no office
beyond the mere recording of the autocrat's decrees.

There are no dangerously long office-terms in Mrs. Eddy's government.
The Readers are elected for but one year.  This insures their
subserviency to their proprietor.

Readers are not allowed to copy out passages and read them from the
manuscript in the pulpit; they must read from Mrs. Eddy's book itself.
She is right.  Slight changes could be slyly made, repeated, and in time
get acceptance with congregations.  Branch sects could grow out of these
practices.  Mrs. Eddy knows the human race, and how far to trust it.  Her
limit is not over a quarter of an inch.  It is all that a wise person
will risk.

Mrs. Eddy's inborn disposition to copyright everything, charter
everything, secure the rightful and proper credit to herself for
everything she does, and everything she thinks she does, and everything
she thinks, and everything she thinks she thinks or has thought or
intends to think, is illustrated in Sec. 5 of Art. IV., defining the
duties of official Readers--in church:

"Naming Book and Author.  The Reader of Science and Health, with Key to
the Scriptures, before commencing to read from this book, shall
distinctly announce its full title and give the author's name."

Otherwise the congregation might get the habit of forgetting who
(ostensibly) wrote the book.




THE ARISTOCRACY

This consists of First Members and their apostolic succession.  It is a
close corporation, and its membership limit is one hundred.  Forty will
answer, but if the number fall below that, there must be an election, to
fill the grand quorum.

This Sanhedrin can't do anything of the slightest importance, but it can
talk.  It can "discuss."  That is, it can discuss "important questions
relative to Church members", evidently persons who are already Church
members.  This affords it amusement, and does no harm.

It can "fix the salaries of the Readers."

Twice a year it "votes on" admitting candidates.  That is, for Church
membership.  But its work is cut out for it beforehand, by Art. IX.:

"Every recommendation for membership In the Church 'shall be
countersigned by a loyal student of Mrs. Eddy's, by a Director of this
Church, or by a First Member.'"

All these three classes of beings are the personal property of Mrs. Eddy.
She has absolute control of the elections.

Also it must "transact any Church business that may properly come before
it."

"Properly" is a thoughtful word.  No important business can come before
it.  The By laws have attended to that.  No important business goes
before any one for the final word except Mrs. Eddy.  She has looked to
that.

The Sanhedrin "votes on" candidates for admission to its own body.  But
is its vote worth any more than mine would be?  No, it isn't.  Sec.  4,
of Art.  V.--Election of First Members--makes this quite plain:

"Before being elected, the candidates for First Members shall be approved
by the Pastor Emeritus over her own signature."

Thus the Sanhedrin is the personal property of Mrs. Eddy.  She owns it.
It has no functions, no authority, no real existence.  It is another
Board of Shadows.  Mrs. Eddy is the Sanhedrin herself.

But it is time to foot up again and "see where we are at."  Thus far,
Mrs. Eddy is

The Massachusetts Metaphysical College;
Pastor Emeritus,
President;
Board of Directors;
Treasurer;
Clerk;
Future Board of Trustees;
Proprietor of the Priesthood:
Dictator of the Services;
Proprietor of the Sanhedrin.  She has come far, and is still on her way.




CHURCH MEMBERSHIP

In this Article there is another exhibition of a couple of the large
features of Mrs. Eddy's remarkable make-up: her business-talent and her
knowledge of human nature.

She does not beseech and implore people to join her Church.  She knows
the human race better than that.  She gravely goes through the motions of
reluctantly granting admission to the applicant as a favor to him.  The
idea is worth untold shekels.  She does not stand at the gate of the fold
with welcoming arms spread, and receive the lost sheep with glad emotion
and set up the fatted calf and invite the neighbor and have a time.  No,
she looks upon him coldly, she snubs him, she says:

"Who are you?  Who is your sponsor?  Who asked you to come here?  Go
away, and don't come again until you are invited."

It is calculated to strikingly impress a person accustomed to Moody and
Sankey and Sam Jones revivals; accustomed to brain-turning appeals to the
unknown and unendorsed sinner to come forward and enter into the joy,
etc.--"just as he is"; accustomed to seeing him do it; accustomed to
seeing him pass up the aisle through sobbing seas of welcome, and love,
and congratulation, and arrive at the mourner's bench and be received
like a long-lost government bond.

No, there is nothing of that kind in Mrs. Eddy's system.  She knows that
if you wish to confer upon a human being something which he is not sure
he wants, the best way is to make it apparently difficult for him to get
it--then he is no son of Adam if that apple does not assume an interest
in his eyes which it lacked before.  In time this interest can grow into
desire.  Mrs. Eddy knows that when you cannot get a man to try--free of
cost--a new and effective remedy for a disease he is afflicted with, you
can generally sell it to him if you will put a price upon it which he
cannot afford.  When, in the beginning, she taught Christian Science
gratis (for good reasons), pupils were few and reluctant, and required
persuasion; it was when she raised the limit to three hundred dollars for
a dollar's worth that she could not find standing room for the invasion
of pupils that followed.

With fine astuteness she goes through the motions of making it difficult
to get membership in her Church.  There is a twofold value in this
system: it gives membership a high value in the eyes of the applicant;
and at the same time the requirements exacted enable Mrs. Eddy to keep
him out if she has doubts about his value to her.  A word further as to
applications for membership:

"Applications of students of the Metaphysical College must be signed by
the Board of Directors."

That is safe.  Mrs. Eddy is proprietor of that Board.

Children of twelve may be admitted if invited by "one of Mrs. Eddy's
loyal students, or by a First Member, or by a Director."

These sponsors are the property of Mrs. Eddy, therefore her Church is
safeguarded from the intrusion of undesirable children.

Other Students.  Applicants who have not studied with Mrs. Eddy can get
in only "by invitation and recommendation from students of Mrs. Eddy....
or from members of the Mother-Church."

Other paragraphs explain how two or three other varieties of applicants
are to be challenged and obstructed, and tell us who is authorized to
invite them, recommend them endorse them, and all that.

The safeguards are definite, and would seem to be sufficiently strenuous
--to Mr. Sam Jones, at any rate.  Not for Mrs. Eddy.  She adds this
clincher:

"The candidates be elected by a majority vote of the First Members
present."

That is the aristocracy, the aborigines, the Sanhedrin.  It is Mrs.
Eddy's property.  She herself is the Sanhedrin.  No one can get into the
Church if she wishes to keep him out.

This veto power could some time or other have a large value for her,
therefore she was wise to reserve it.

It is likely that it is not frequently used.  It is also probable that
the difficulties attendant upon getting admission to membership have been
instituted more to invite than to deter, more to enhance the value of
membership and make people long for it than to make it really difficult
to get.  I think so, because the Mother.  Church has many thousands of
members more than its building can accommodate.




AND SOME ENGLISH REQUIRED

Mrs. Eddy is very particular as regards one detail curiously so, for her,
all things considered.  The Church Readers must be "good English
scholars"; they must be "thorough English scholars."

She is thus sensitive about the English of her subordinates for cause,
possibly.  In her chapter defining the duties of the Clerk there is an
indication that she harbors resentful memories of an occasion when the
hazy quality of her own English made unforeseen and mortifying trouble:

"Understanding Communications.  Sec.  2.  If the Clerk of this Church
shall receive a communication from the Pastor Emeritus which he does not
fully understand, he shall inform her of this fact before presenting it
to the Church, and obtain a clear understanding of the matter--then act
in accordance therewith."

She should have waited to calm down, then, but instead she added this,
which lacks sugar:

"Failing to adhere to this By-law, the Clerk must resign."

I wish I could see that communication that broke the camel's back.  It
was probably the one beginning: "What plague spot or bacilli were gnawing
at the heart of this metropolis and bringing it on bended knee?" and I
think it likely that the kindly disposed Clerk tried to translate it into
English and lost his mind and had to go to the hospital.  That Bylaw was
not the offspring of a forecast, an intuition, it was certainly born of a
sorrowful experience.  Its temper gives the fact away.

The little book of By-laws has manifestly been tinkered by one of Mrs.
Eddy's "thorough English scholars," for in the majority of cases its
meanings are clear.  The book is not even marred by Mrs. Eddy's peculiar
specialty--lumbering clumsinesses of speech.  I believe the salaried
polisher has weeded them all out but one.  In one place, after referring
to Science and Health, Mrs. Eddy goes on to say "the Bible and the above-
-named book, with other works by the same author," etc.

It is an unfortunate sentence, for it could mislead a hasty or careless
reader for a moment.  Mrs. Eddy framed it--it is her very own--it bears
her trade-mark.  "The Bible and Science and Health, with other works by
the same author," could have come from no literary vacuum but the one
which produced the remark (in the Autobiography): "I remember reading, in
my childhood, certain manuscripts containing Scriptural Sonnets, besides
other verses and enigmas."

We know what she means, in both instances, but a low-priced Clerk would
not necessarily know, and on a salary like his he could quite excusably
aver that the Pastor Emeritus had commanded him to come and make
proclamation that she was author of the Bible, and that she was thinking
of discharging some Scriptural sonnets and other enigmas upon the
congregation.  It could lose him his place, but it would not be fair, if
it happened before the edict about "Understanding Communications" was
promulgated.




"READERS" AGAIN

The By-law book makes a showy pretence of orderliness and system, but it
is only a pretence.  I will not go so far as to say it is a harum-scarum
jumble, for it is not that, but I think it fair to say it is at least
jumbulacious in places.  For instance, Articles III.  and IV.  set forth
in much detail the qualifications and duties of Readers, she then skips
some thirty pages and takes up the subject again.  It looks like
slovenliness, but it may be only art.  The belated By-law has a
sufficiently quiet look, but it has a ton of dynamite in it.  It makes
all the Christian Science Church Readers on the globe the personal
chattels of Mrs. Eddy.  Whenever she chooses, she can stretch her long
arm around the world's fat belly and flirt a Reader out of his pulpit,
though he be tucked away in seeming safety and obscurity in a lost
village in the middle of China:

"In any Church.  Sec.  2.  The Pastor Emeritus of the Mother-Church shall
have the right (through a letter addressed to the individual and Church
of which he is the Reader) to remove a Reader from this office in any
Church of Christ, Scientist, both in America and in foreign nations; or
to appoint the Reader to fill any office belonging to the Christian
Science denomination."

She does not have to prefer charges against him, she does not have to
find him lazy, careless, incompetent, untidy, ill-mannered, unholy,
dishonest, she does not have to discover a fault of any kind in him, she
does not have to tell him nor his congregation why she dismisses and
disgraces him and insults his meek flock, she does not have to explain to
his family why she takes the bread out of their mouths and turns them
out-of-doors homeless and ashamed in a strange land; she does not have to
do anything but send a letter and say: "Pack!--and ask no questions!"

Has the Pope this power?--the other Pope--the one in Rome.  Has he
anything approaching it?  Can he turn a priest out of his pulpit and
strip him of his office and his livelihood just upon a whim, a caprice,
and meanwhile furnishing no reasons to the parish?  Not in America.  And
not elsewhere, we may believe.

It is odd and strange, to see intelligent and educated people among us
worshipping this self-seeking and remorseless tyrant as a God.  This
worship is denied--by persons who are themselves worshippers of Mrs.
Eddy.  I feel quite sure that it is a worship which will continue during
ages.

That Mrs. Eddy wrote that amazing By-law with her own hand we have much
better evidence than her word.  We have her English.  It is there.  It
cannot be imitated.  She ought never to go to the expense of copyrighting
her verbal discharges.  When any one tries to claim them she should call
me; I can always tell them from any other literary apprentice's at a
glance.  It was like her to call America a "nation"; she would call a
sand-bar a nation if it should fall into a sentence in which she was
speaking of peoples, for she would not know how to untangle it and get it
out and classify it by itself.  And the closing arrangement of that By-
law is in true Eddysonian form, too.  In it she reserves authority to
make a Reader fill any office connected with a Science church-sexton,
grave-digger, advertising-agent, Annex-polisher, leader of the choir,
President, Director, Treasurer, Clerk, etc.  She did not mean that.  She
already possessed that authority.  She meant to clothe herself with
power, despotic and unchallengeable, to appoint all Science Readers to
their offices, both at home and abroad.  The phrase "or to appoint" is
another miscarriage of intention; she did not mean "or," she meant "and."


That By-law puts into Mrs. Eddy's hands absolute command over the most
formidable force and influence existent in the Christian Science kingdom
outside of herself, and it does this unconditionally and (by auxiliary
force of Laws already quoted) irrevocably.  Still, she is not quite
satisfied.  Something might happen, she doesn't know what.  Therefore she
drives in one more nail, to make sure, and drives it deep:

"This By-law can neither be amended nor annulled, except by consent of
the Pastor Emeritus."

Let some one with a wild and delirious fancy try and see if he can
imagine her furnishing that consent.




MONOPOLY OF SPIRITUAL BREAD

Very properly, the first qualification for membership in the Mother-
Church is belief in the doctrines of Christian Science.

But these doctrines must not be gathered from secondary sources.  There
is but one recognized source.  The candidate must be a believer in the
doctrines of Christian Science "according to the platform and teaching
contained in the Christian Science text-book, 'Science and Health, with
Key to the Scriptures,' by Rev. Mary Baker G.  Eddy."

That is definite, and is final.  There are to be no commentaries, no
labored volumes of exposition and explanation by anybody except Mrs.
Eddy.  Because such things could sow error, create warring opinions,
split the religion into sects, and disastrously cripple its power.  Mrs.
Eddy will do the whole of the explaining, Herself--has done it, in fact.
She has written several books.  They are to be had (for cash in advance),
they are all sacred; additions to them can never be needed and will never
be permitted.  They tell the candidate how to instruct himself, how to
teach others, how to do all things comprised in the business--and they
close the door against all would-be competitors, and monopolize the
trade:

"The Bible and the above--named book [Science and Health], with other
works by the same author," must be his only text-books for the commerce--
he cannot forage outside.

Mrs. Eddy's words are to be the sole elucidators of the Bible and Science
and Health--forever.  Throughout the ages, whenever there is doubt as to
the meaning of a passage in either of these books the inquirer will not
dream of trying to explain it to himself; he would shudder at the thought
of such temerity, such profanity, he would be haled to the Inquisition
and thence to the public square and the stake if he should be caught
studying into text-meanings on his own hook; he will be prudent and seek
the meanings at the only permitted source, Mrs. Eddy's commentaries.

Value of this Strait-jacket.  One must not underrate the magnificence of
this long-headed idea, one must not underestimate its giant possibilities
in the matter of trooping the Church solidly together and keeping it so.
It squelches independent inquiry, and makes such a thing impossible,
profane, criminal, it authoritatively settles every dispute that can
arise.  It starts with finality--a point which the Roman Church has
travelled towards fifteen or sixteen centuries, stage by stage, and has
not yet reached.  The matter of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin
Mary was not authoritatively settled until the days of Pius IX.--
yesterday, so to speak.

As already noticed, the Protestants are broken up into a long array of
sects, a result of disputes about the meanings of texts, disputes made
unavoidable by the absence of an infallible authority to submit doubtful
passages to.  A week or two ago (I am writing in the middle of January,
1903), the clergy and others hereabouts had a warm dispute in the papers
over this question: Did Jesus anywhere claim to be God?  It seemed an
easy question, but it turned out to be a hard one.  It was ably and
elaborately discussed, by learned men of several denominations, but in
the end it remained unsettled.

A week ago, another discussion broke out.  It was over this text:

"Sell all that thou hast and distribute unto the poor."

One verdict was worded as follows:

"When Christ answered the rich young man and said for him to give to the
poor all he possessed or he could not gain everlasting life, He did not
mean it in the literal sense.  My interpretation of His words is that we
should part with what comes between us and Christ.

"There is no doubt that Jesus believed that the rich young man thought
more of his wealth than he did of his soul, and, such being the case, it
was his duty to give up the wealth.

"Every one of us knows that there is something we should give up for
Christ.  Those who are true believers and followers know what they have
given up, and those who are not yet followers know down in their hearts
what they must give up."

Ten clergymen of various denominations were interviewed, and nine of them
agreed with that verdict.  That did not settle the matter, because the
tenth said the language of Jesus was so strait and definite that it
explained itself: "Sell all," not a percentage.

There is a most unusual feature about that dispute: the nine persons who
decided alike, quoted not a single authority in support of their
position.  I do not know when I have seen trained disputants do the like
of that before.  The nine merely furnished their own opinions, founded
upon--nothing at all.  In the other dispute ("Did Jesus anywhere claim to
be God?") the same kind of men--trained and learned clergymen--backed up
their arguments with chapter and verse.  On both sides.  Plenty of
verses.  Were no reinforcing verses to be found in the present case?  It
looks that way.

The opinion of the nine seems strange to me, for it is unsupported by
authority, while there was at least constructive authority for the
opposite view.

It is hair-splitting differences of opinion over disputed text-meanings
that have divided into many sects a once united Church.  One may infer
from some of the names in the following list that some of the differences
are very slight--so slight as to be not distinctly important, perhaps--
yet they have moved groups to withdraw from communions to which they
belonged and set up a sect of their own.  The list--accompanied by
various Church statistics for 1902, compiled by Rev. Dr.  H.  K.
Carroll--was published, January 8, 1903, in the New York Christian
Advocate:

Adventists (6 bodies), Baptists (13 bodies), Brethren (Plymouth) (4
bodies), Brethren (River) (3 bodies), Catholics (8 bodies), Catholic
Apostolic, Christadelphians, Christian Connection, Christian Catholics,
Christian Missionary Association, Christian Scientists, Church of God
(Wine-brennarian), Church of the New Jerusalem, Congregationalists,
Disciples of Christ, Dunkards (4 bodies), Evangelical (2 bodies), Friends
(4 bodies), Friends of the Temple, German Evangelical Protestant, German
Evangelical Synod, Independent congregations, Jews (2 bodies), Latter-day
Saints (2 bodies), Lutherans (22 bodies), Mennonites (12 bodies),
Methodists (17 bodies), Moravians, Presbyterians (12 bodies), Protestant
Episcopal (2 bodies), Reformed (3 bodies), Schwenkfeldians, Social
Brethren, Spiritualists, Swedish Evangelical Miss.  Covenant
(Waldenstromians), Unitarians, United Brethren (2 bodies), Universalists,

Total of sects and splits--139.

In the present month (February), Mr. E. I. Lindh, A..M., has
communicated to the Boston Transcript a hopeful article on the solution
of the problem of the "divided church."  Divided is not too violent a
term.  Subdivided could have been permitted if he had thought of it.  He
came near thinking of it, for he mentions some of the subdivisions
himself: "the 12 kinds of Presbyterians, the 17 kinds of Methodists, the
13 kinds of Baptists, etc."  He overlooked the 12 kinds of Mennonites and
the 22 kinds of Lutherans, but they are in Rev. Mr. Carroll's list.
Altogether, 76 splits under 5 flags.  The Literary Digest (February 14th)
is pleased with Mr. Lindh's optimistic article, and also with the signs
of the times, and perceives that "the idea of Church unity is in the
air."

Now, then, is not Mrs. Eddy profoundly wise in forbidding, for all time,
all explanations of her religion except such as she shall let on to be
her own?

I think so.  I think there can be no doubt of it.  In a way, they will be
her own; for, no matter which member of her clerical staff shall furnish
the explanations, not a line of them will she ever allow to be printed
until she shall have approved it, accepted it, copyrighted it, cabbaged
it.  We may depend on that with a four-ace confidence.




THE NEW INFALLIBILITY

All in proper time Mrs. Eddy's factory will take hold of that
Commandment, and explain it for good and all.  It may be that one member
of the shift will vote that the word "all" means all; it may be that ten
members of the shift will vote that "all" means only a percentage; but it
is Mrs. Eddy, not the eleven, who will do the deciding.  And if she says
it is percentage, then percentage it is, forevermore--and that is what I
am expecting, for she doesn't sell all herself, nor any considerable part
of it, and as regards the poor, she doesn't declare any dividend; but if
she says "all" means all, then all it is, to the end of time, and no
follower of hers will ever be allowed to reconstruct that text, or shrink
it, or inflate it, or meddle with it in any way at all.  Even to-day--
right here in the beginning--she is the sole person who, in the matter of
Christian Science exegesis, is privileged to exploit the Spiral Twist.
The Christian world has two Infallibles now.

Of equal power?  For the present only.  When Leo XIII.  passes to his
rest another Infallible will ascend his throne; others, and yet others,
and still others will follow him, and be as infallible as he, and decide
questions of doctrine as long as they may come up, all down the far
future; but Mary Baker G.  Eddy is the only Infallible that will ever
occupy the Science throne.  Many a Science Pope will succeed her, but she
has closed their mouths; they will repeat and reverently praise and adore
her infallibilities, but venture none themselves.  In her grave she will
still outrank all other Popes, be they of what Church they may.  She will
hold the supremest of earthly titles, The Infallible--with a capital T.
Many in the world's history have had a hunger for such nuggets and slices
of power as they might reasonably hope to grab out of an empire's or a
religion's assets, but Mrs. Eddy is the only person alive or dead who has
ever struck for the whole of them.  For small things she has the eye of a
microscope, for large ones the eye of a telescope, and whatever she sees,
she wants.  Wants it all.




THE SACRED POEMS

When Mrs. Eddy's "sacred revelations" (that is the language of the By-
laws) are read in public, their authorship must be named.  The By-laws
twice command this, therefore we mention it twice, to be fair.

But it is also commanded that when a member publicly quotes "from the
poems of our Pastor Emeritus" the authorship shall be named.  For these
are sacred, too.  There are kindly people who may suspect a hidden
generosity in that By-law; they may think it is there to protect the
Official Reader from the suspicion of having written the poems himself.
Such do not know Mrs. Eddy.  She does an inordinate deal of protecting,
but in no distinctly named and specified case in her history has Number
Two been the object of it.  Instances have been claimed, but they have
failed of proof, and even of plausibility.

"Members shall also instruct their students" to look out and advertise
the authorship when they read those poems and things.  Not on Mrs. Eddy's
account, but "for the good of our Cause."




THE CHURCH EDIFICE

1.  Mrs. Eddy gave the land.  It was not of much value at the time, but
it is very valuable now.
2.  Her people built the Mother-Church edifice on it, at a cost of two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
3.  Then they gave the whole property to her.
4.  Then she gave it to the Board of Directors.  She is the Board of
Directors.  She took it out of one pocket and put it in the other.
5.  Sec.  10 (of the deed).  "Whenever said Directors shall determine
that it is inexpedient to maintain preaching, reading, or speaking in
said church in accordance with the terms of this deed, they are
authorized and required to reconvey forthwith said lot of land with the
building thereon to Mary Baker G.  Eddy, her heirs and assigns forever,
by a proper deed of conveyance."

She is never careless, never slipshod, about a matter of business.
Owning the property through her Board of Waxworks was safe enough, still
it was sound business to set another grip on it to cover accidents, and
she did it.  Her barkers (what a curious name; I wonder if it is
copyrighted); her barkers persistently advertise to the public her
generosity in giving away a piece of land which cost her a trifle, and a
two--hundred--and--fifty--thousand--dollar church which cost her nothing;
and they can hardly speak of the unselfishness of it without breaking
down and crying; yet they know she gave nothing away, and never intended
to.  However, such is the human race.  Often it does seem such a pity
that Noah and his party did not miss the boat.

Some of the hostiles think that Mrs. Eddy's idea in protecting this
property in the interest of her heirs, and in accumulating a great money
fortune, is, that she may leave her natural heirs well provided for when
she goes.  I think it is a mistake.  I think she is of late years giving
herself large concern about only one interest-her power and glory, and
the perpetuation and worship of her Name--with a capital N.  Her Church
is her pet heir, and I think it will get her wealth.  It is the torch
which is to light the world and the ages with her glory.

I think she once prized money for the ease and comfort it could bring,
the showy vanities it could furnish, and the social promotion it could
command; for we have seen that she was born into the world with little
ways and instincts and aspirations and affectations that are duplicates
of our own.  I do not think her money-passion has ever diminished in
ferocity, I do not think that she has ever allowed a dollar that had no
friends to get by her alive, but I think her reason for wanting it has
changed.  I think she wants it now to increase and establish and
perpetuate her power and glory with, not to add to her comforts and
luxuries, not to furnish paint and fuss and feathers for vain display.  I
think her ambitions have soared away above the fuss-and-feather stage.
She still likes the little shows and vanities--a fact which she exposed
in a public utterance two or three days ago when she was not noticing--
but I think she does not place a large value upon them now.  She could
build a mighty and far-shining brass-mounted palace if she wanted to, but
she does not do it.  She would have had that kind of an ambition in the
early scrabbling times.  She could go to England to-day and be worshiped
by earls, and get a comet's attention from the million, if she cared for
such things.  She would have gone in the early scrabbling days for much
less than an earl, and been vain of it, and glad to show off before the
remains of the Scotch kin.  But those things are very small to her now--
next to invisible, observed through the cloud-rack from the dizzy summit
where she perches in these great days.  She does not want that church
property for herself.  It is worth but a quarter of a million--a sum she
could call in from her far-spread flocks to-morrow with a lift of her
hand.  Not a squeeze of it, just a lift.  It would come without a murmur;
come gratefully, come gladly.  And if her glory stood in more need of the
money in Boston than it does where her flocks are propagating it, she
would lift the hand, I think.

She is still reaching for the Dollar, she will continue to reach for it;
but not that she may spend it upon herself; not that she may spend it
upon charities; not that she may indemnify an early deprivation and
clothe herself in a blaze of North Adams gauds; not that she may have
nine breeds of pie for breakfast, as only the rich New-Englander can; not
that she may indulge any petty material vanity or appetite that once was
hers and prized and nursed, but that she may apply that Dollar to
statelier uses, and place it where it may cast the metallic sheen of her
glory farthest across the receding expanses of the globe.




PRAYER

A brief and good one is furnished in the book of By-laws.  The Scientist
is required to pray it every day.




THE LORD'S PRAYER-AMENDED

This is not in the By-laws, it is in the first chapter of Science and
Health, edition of 1902.  I do not find it in the edition of 1884.  It is
probable that it had not at that time been handed down.  Science and
Health's (latest) rendering of its "spiritual sense" is as follows:

"Our Father-Mother God' all-harmonious, adorable One.  Thy kingdom is
within us, Thou art ever-present.  Enable us to know--as in heaven, so on
earth--God is supreme.  Give us grace for to-day; feed the famished
affections.  And infinite Love is reflected in love.  And Love leadeth us
not into temptation, but delivereth from sin, disease, and death.  For
God is now and forever all Life, Truth, and Love."

If I thought my opinion was desired and would be properly revered, I
should say that in my judgment that is as good a piece of carpentering as
any of those eleven Commandment--experts could do with the material after
all their practice.  I notice only one doubtful place."  Lead us not into
temptation" seems to me to be a very definite request, and that the new
rendering turns the definite request into a definite assertion.  I shall
be glad to have that turned back to the old way and the marks of the
Spiral Twist removed, or varnished over; then I shall be satisfied, and
will do the best I can with what is left.  At the same time, I do feel
that the shrinkage in our spiritual assets is getting serious.  First the
Commandments, now the Prayer.  I never expected to see these steady old
reliable securities watered down to this.  And this is not the whole of
it.  Last summer the Presbyterians extended the Calling and Election
suffrage to nearly everybody entitled to salvation.  They did not even
stop there, but let out all the unbaptized American infants we had been
accumulating for two hundred years and more.  There are some that believe
they would have let the Scotch ones out, too, if they could have done it.
Everything is going to ruin; in no long time we shall have nothing left
but the love of God.




THE NEW UNPARDONABLE SIN

"Working Against the Cause.  Sec.  2.  If a member of this Church shall
work against the accomplishment of what the Discoverer and Founder of
Christian Science understands is advantageous to the individual, to this
Church, and to the Cause of Christian Science"--out he goes.  Forever.

The member may think that what he is doing will advance the Cause, but he
is not invited to do any thinking.  More than that, he is not permitted
to do any--as he will clearly gather from this By-law.  When a person
joins Mrs. Eddy's Church he must leave his thinker at home.  Leave it
permanently.  To make sure that it will not go off some time or other
when he is not watching, it will be safest for him to spike it.  If he
should forget himself and think just once, the By-law provides that he
shall be fired out-instantly-forever-no return.

"It shall be the duty of this Church immediately to call a meeting, and
drop forever the name of this member from its records."

My, but it breathes a towering indignation!

There are forgivable offenses, but this is not one of them; there are
admonitions, probations, suspensions, in several minor cases; mercy is
shown the derelict, in those cases he is gently used, and in time he can
get back into the fold--even when he has repeated his offence.  But let
him think, just once, without getting his thinker set to Eddy time, and
that is enough; his head comes off.  There is no second offence, and
there is no gate open to that lost sheep, ever again.

"This rule cannot be changed, amended, or annulled, except by unanimous
vote of all the First Members."

The same being Mrs. Eddy.  It is naively sly and pretty to see her keep
putting forward First Members, and Boards of This and That, and other
broideries and ruffles of her raiment, as if they were independent
entities, instead of a part of her clothes, and could do things all by
themselves when she was outside of them.

Mrs. Eddy did not need to copyright the sentence just quoted, its English
would protect it.  None but she would have shovelled that comically
superfluous "all" in there.

The former Unpardonable Sin has gone out of service.  We may frame the
new Christian Science one thus:

"Whatsoever Member shall think, and without Our Mother's permission act
upon his think, the same shall be cut off from the Church forever."

It has been said that I make many mistakes about Christian Science
through being ignorant of the spiritual meanings of its terminology.  I
believe it is true.  I have been misled all this time by that word
Member, because there was no one to tell me that its spiritual meaning
was Slave.




AXE AND BLOCK

There is a By-law which forbids Members to practice hypnotism; the
penalty is excommunication.

1.  If a member is found to be a mental practitioner--
2.  Complaint is to be entered against him--
3.  By the Pastor Emeritus, and by none else;
4.  No member is allowed to make complaint to her in the matter;
5.  Upon Mrs. Eddy's mere "complaint"--unbacked by evidence or proof, and
without giving the accused a chance to be heard--" his name shall be
dropped from this Church."

Mrs. Eddy has only to say a member is guilty--that is all.  That ends it.
It is not a case of he "may" be cut off from Christian Science salvation,
it is a case of he "shall" be.  Her serfs must see to it, and not say a
word.

Does the other Pope possess this prodigious and irresponsible power?
Certainly not in our day.

Some may be curious to know how Mrs. Eddy finds out that a member is
practicing hypnotism, since no one is allowed to come before her throne
and accuse him.  She has explained this in Christian Science History,
first and second editions, page 16:

"I possess a spiritual sense of what the malicious mental practitioner is
mentally arguing which cannot be deceived; I can discern in the human
mind thoughts, motives, and purposes, and neither mental arguments nor
psychic power can affect this spiritual insight."

A marvelous woman; with a hunger for power such as has never been seen in
the world before.  No thing, little or big, that contains any seed or
suggestion of power escapes her avaricious eye; and when once she gets
that eye on it, her remorseless grip follows.  There isn't a Christian
Scientist who isn't ecclesiastically as much her property as if she had
bought him and paid for him, and copyrighted him and got a charter.  She
cannot be satisfied when she has handcuffed a member, and put a leg-chain
and ball on him and plugged his ears and removed his thinker, she goes on
wrapping needless chains round and round him, just as a spider would.
For she trusts no one, believes in no one's honesty, judges every one by
herself.  Although we have seen that she has absolute and irresponsible
command over her spectral Boards and over every official and servant of
her Church, at home and abroad, over every minute detail of her Church's
government, present and future, and can purge her membership of guilty or
suspected persons by various plausible formalities and whenever she will,
she is still not content, but must set her queer mind to work and invent
a way by which she can take a member--any member--by neck and crop and
fling him out without anything resembling a formality at all.

She is sole accuser and sole witness, and her testimony is final and
carries uncompromising and irremediable doom with it.

The Sole-Witness Court!  It should make the Council of Ten and the
Council of Three turn in their graves for shame, to see how little they
knew about satanic concentrations of irresponsible power.  Here we have
one Accuser, one Witness, one Judge, one Headsman--and all four bunched
together in Mrs. Eddy, the Inspired of God, His Latest Thought to His
People, New Member of the Holy Family, the Equal of Jesus.

When a Member is not satisfactory to Mrs. Eddy, and yet is blameless in
his life and faultless in his membership and in his Christian Science
walk and conversation, shall he hold up his head and tilt his hat over
one ear and imagine himself safe because of these perfections?  Why, in
that very moment Mrs. Eddy will cast that spiritual X-ray of hers through
his dungarees and say:

"I see his hypnotism working, among his insides--remove him to the
block!"

What shall it profit him to know it isn't so?  Nothing.  His testimony is
of no value.  No one wants it, no one will ask for it.  He is not present
to offer it (he does not know he has been accused), and if he were there
to offer it, it would not be listened to.

It was out of powers approaching Mrs. Eddy's--though not equalling them
--that the Inquisition and the devastations of the Interdict grew.  She
will transmit hers.  The man born two centuries from now will think he
has arrived in hell; and all in good time he will think he knows it.
Vast concentrations of irresponsible power have never in any age been
used mercifully, and there is nothing to suggest that the Christian
Science Papacy is going to spend money on novelties.

Several Christian Scientists have asked me to refrain from prophecy.
There is no prophecy in our day but history.  But history is a
trustworthy prophet.  History is always repeating itself, because
conditions are always repeating themselves.  Out of duplicated conditions
history always gets a duplicate product.




READING LETTERS AT MEETINGS

I wonder if there is anything a Member can do that will not raise Mrs.
Eddy's jealousy?  The By-laws seem to hunt him from pillar to post all
the time, and turn all his thoughts and acts and words into sins against
the meek and lowly new deity of his worship.  Apparently her jealousy
never sleeps.  Apparently any trifle can offend it, and but one penalty
appease it--excommunication.  The By-laws might properly and reasonably
be entitled Laws for the Coddling and Comforting of Our Mother's Petty
Jealousies.  The By-law named at the head of this paragraph reads its
transgressor out of the Church if he shall carry a letter from Mrs. Eddy
to the congregation and forget to read it or fail to read the whole of
it.




HONESTY REQUISITE

Dishonest members are to be admonished; if they continue in dishonest
practices, excommunication follows.  Considering who it is that draughted
this law, there is a certain amount of humor in it.




FURTHER APPLICATIONS OF THE AXE

Here follow the titles of some more By-laws whose infringement is
punishable by excommunication:


Silence Enjoined.
Misteaching.
Departure from Tenets.
Violation of Christian Fellowship.
Moral Offences.
Illegal Adoption.
Broken By-laws.
Violation of By-laws.  (What is the difference?)
Formulas Forbidden.
Official Advice.  (Forbids Tom, Dick, and Harry's clack.)
Unworthy of Membership.
Final Excommunication.
Organizing Churches.

This looks as if Mrs. Eddy had devoted a large share of her time and
talent to inventing ways to get rid of her Church members.  Yet in
another place she seems to invite membership.  Not in any urgent way, it
is true, still she throws out a bait to such as like notice and
distinction (in other words, the Human Race).  Page 82:

"It is important that these seemingly strict conditions be complied with,
as the names of the Members of the Mother-Church will be recorded in the
history of the Church and become a part thereof."

We all want to be historical.




MORE SELF-PROTECTIONS

The Hymnal.  There is a Christian Science Hymnal.  Entrance to it was
closed in 1898.  Christian Science students who make hymns nowadays may
possibly get them sung in the Mother-Church, "but not unless approved by
the Pastor Emeritus."  Art.  XXVII, Sec.  2.

Solo Singers.  Mrs. Eddy has contributed the words of three of the hymns
in the Hymnal.  Two of them appear in it six times altogether, each of
them being set to three original forms of musical anguish.  Mrs. Eddy,
always thoughtful, has promulgated a By-law requiring the singing of one
of her three hymns in the Mother Church "as often as once each month."
It is a good idea.  A congregation could get tired of even Mrs. Eddy's
muse in the course of time, without the cordializing incentive of
compulsion.  We all know how wearisome the sweetest and touchingest
things can become, through rep-rep-repetition, and still rep-rep-
repetition, and more rep-rep-repetition-like "the sweet by-and-by, in the
sweet by-and-by," for instance, and "Tah-rah-rah boom-de-aye"; and surely
it is not likely that Mrs. Eddy's machine has turned out goods that could
outwear those great heart-stirrers, without the assistance of the lash.
"O'er Waiting Harpstrings of the Mind" is pretty good, quite fair to
middling--the whole seven of the stanzas--but repetition would be certain
to take the excitement out of it in the course of time, even if there
were fourteen, and then it would sound like the multiplication table, and
would cease to save.  The congregation would be perfectly sure to get
tired; in fact, did get tired--hence the compulsory By-law.  It is a
measure born of experience, not foresight.

The By-laws say that "if a solo singer shall neglect or refuse to sing
alone" one of those three hymns as often as once a month, and oftener if
so directed by the Board of Directors--which is Mrs. Eddy--the singer's
salary shall be stopped.  It is circumstantial evidence that some
soloists neglected this sacrament and others refused it.  At least that
is the charitable view to take of it.  There is only one other view to
take: that Mrs. Eddy did really foresee that there would be singers who
would some day get tired of doing her hymns and proclaiming the
authorship, unless persuaded by a Bylaw, with a penalty attached.  The
idea could of course occur to her wise head, for she would know that a
seven-stanza break might well be a calamitous strain upon a soloist, and
that he might therefore avoid it if unwatched.  He could not curtail it,
for the whole of anything that Mrs. Eddy does is sacred, and cannot be
cut.




BOARD OF EDUCATION

It consists of four members, one of whom is President of it.  Its members
are elected annually.  Subject to Mrs. Eddy's approval.  Art. XXX., Sec. 2.

She owns the Board--is the Board.

Mrs. Eddy is President of the Metaphysical College.  If at any time she
shall vacate that office, the Directors of the College (that is to say,
Mrs. Eddy) "shall" elect to the vacancy the President of the Board of
Education (which is merely re-electing herself).

It is another case of "Pastor Emeritus."  She gives up the shadow of
authority, but keeps a good firm hold on the substance.




PUBLIC TEACHERS

Applicants for admission to this industry must pass a thorough three
days' examination before the Board of Education "in Science and Health,
chapter on 'Recapitulation'; the Platform of Christian Science; page 403
of Christian Science Practice, from line second to the second paragraph
of page 405; and page 488, second and third paragraphs."




BOARD OF LECTURESHIP

The lecturers are exceedingly important servants of Mrs. Eddy, and she
chooses them with great care.  Each of them has an appointed territory in
which to perform his duties--in the North, the South, the East, the West,
in Canada, in Great Britain, and so on--and each must stick to his own
territory and not forage beyond its boundaries.  I think it goes without
saying--from what we have seen of Mrs. Eddy--that no lecture is delivered
until she has examined and approved it, and that the lecturer is not
allowed to change it afterwards.

The members of the Board of Lectureship are elected annually--

"Subject to the approval of Rev. Mary Baker G.  Eddy."




MISSIONARIES

There are but four.  They are elected--like the rest of the domestics--
annually.  So far as I can discover, not a single servant of the Sacred
Household has a steady job except Mrs. Eddy.  It is plain that she trusts
no human being but herself.




THE BY-LAWS

The branch Churches are strictly forbidden to use them.

So far as I can see, they could not do it if they wanted to.  The By-laws
are merely the voice of the master issuing commands to the servants.
There is nothing and nobody for the servants to re-utter them to.

That useless edict is repeated in the little book, a few pages farther
on.  There are several other repetitions of prohibitions in the book that
could be spared-they only take up room for nothing.




THE CREED
It is copyrighted.  I do not know why, but I suppose it is to keep
adventurers from some day claiming that they invented it, and not Mrs.
Eddy and that "strange Providence" that has suggested so many clever
things to her.

No Change.  It is forbidden to change the Creed.  That is important, at
any rate.



COPYRIGHT

I can understand why Mrs. Eddy copyrighted the early editions and
revisions of Science and Health, and why she had a mania for copyrighting
every scrap of every sort that came from her pen in those jejune days
when to be in print probably seemed a wonderful distinction to her in her
provincial obscurity, but why she should continue this delirium in these
days of her godship and her far-spread fame, I cannot explain to myself.
And particularly as regards Science and Health.  She knows, now, that
that Annex is going to live for many centuries; and so, what good is a
fleeting forty-two-year copyright going to do it?

Now a perpetual copyright would be quite another matter.  I would like to
give her a hint.  Let her strike for a perpetual copyright on that book.
There is precedent for it.  There is one book in the world which bears
the charmed life of perpetual copyright (a fact not known to twenty
people in the world).  By a hardy perversion of privilege on the part of
the lawmaking power the Bible has perpetual copyright in Great Britain.
There is no justification for it in fairness, and no explanation of it
except that the Church is strong enough there to have its way, right or
wrong.  The recent Revised Version enjoys perpetual copyright, too--a
stronger precedent, even, than the other one.

Now, then, what is the Annex but a Revised Version itself?  Which of
course it is--Lord's Prayer and all.  With that pair of formidable
British precedents to proceed upon, what Congress of ours--

But how short-sighted I am.  Mrs. Eddy has thought of it long ago.  She
thinks of everything.  She knows she has only to keep her copyright of
1902 alive through its first stage of twenty-eight years, and perpetuity
is assured.  A Christian Science Congress will reign in the Capitol then.
She probably attaches small value to the first edition (1875).  Although
it was a Revelation from on high, it was slim, lank, incomplete, padded
with bales of refuse rags, and puffs from lassoed celebrities to fill it
out, an uncreditable book, a book easily sparable, a book not to be
mentioned in the same year with the sleek, fat, concise, compact,
compressed, and competent Annex of to-day, in its dainty flexible covers,
gilt--edges, rounded corners, twin screw, spiral twist, compensation
balance, Testament-counterfeit, and all that; a book just born to curl up
on the hymn-book-shelf in church and look just too sweet and holy for
anything.  Yes, I see now what she was copyrighting that child for.




CHRISTIAN SCIENCE PUBLISHING ASSOCIATION

It is true in matters of business Mrs. Eddy thinks of everything.  She
thought of an organ, to disseminate the Truth as it was in Mrs. Eddy.
Straightway she started one--the Christian Science Journal.

It is true--in matters of business Mrs. Eddy thinks of everything.  As
soon as she had got the Christian Science Journal sufficiently in debt to
make its presence on the premises disagreeable to her, it occurred to her
to make somebody a present of it.  Which she did, along with its debts.
It was in the summer of 1889.  The victim selected was her Church--
called, in those days, The National Christian Scientist Association.

She delivered this sorrow to those lambs as a "gift" in consideration of
their "loyalty to our great cause."

Also--still thinking of everything--she told them to retain Mr. Bailey in
the editorship and make Mr. Nixon publisher.  We do not know what it was
she had against those men; neither do we know whether she scored on
Bailey or not, we only know that God protected Nixon, and for that I am
sincerely glad, although I do not know Nixon and have never even seen
him.

Nixon took the Journal and the rest of the Publishing Society's
liabilities, and demonstrated over them during three years, then brought
in his report:

"On assuming my duties as publisher, there was not a dollar in the
treasury; but on the contrary the Society owed unpaid printing and paper
bills to the amount of several hundred dollars, not to mention a
contingent liability of many more hundreds"--represented by advance--
subscriptions paid for the Journal and the "Series," the which goods Mrs.
Eddy had not delivered.  And couldn't, very well, perhaps, on a
Metaphysical College income of but a few thousand dollars a day, or a
week, or whatever it was in those magnificently flourishing times.  The
struggling Journal had swallowed up those advance-payments, but its
"claim" was a severe one and they had failed to cure it.  But Nixon cured
it in his diligent three years, and joyously reported the news that he
had cleared off all the debts and now had a fat six thousand dollars in
the bank.

It made Mrs. Eddy's mouth water.

At the time that Mrs. Eddy had unloaded that dismal gift on to her
National Association, she had followed her inveterate custom: she had
tied a string to its hind leg, and kept one end of it hitched to her
belt.  We have seen her do that in the case of the Boston Mosque.  When
she deeds property, she puts in that string-clause.  It provides that
under certain conditions she can pull the string and land the property in
the cherished home of its happy youth.  In the present case she believed
that she had made provision that if at any time the National Christian
Science Association should dissolve itself by a formal vote, she could
pull.

A year after Nixon's handsome report, she writes the Association that she
has a "unique request to lay before it."  It has dissolved, and she is
not quite sure that the Christian Science Journal has "already fallen
into her hands" by that act, though it "seems" to her to have met with
that accident; so she would like to have the matter decided by a formal
vote.  But whether there is a doubt or not, "I see the wisdom," she says,
"of again owning this Christian Science waif."

I think that that is unassailable evidence that the waif was making
money, hands down.

She pulled her gift in.  A few years later she donated the Publishing
Society, along with its real estate, its buildings, its plant, its
publications, and its money--the whole worth twenty--two thousand
dollars, and free of debt--to--Well, to the Mother-Church!

That is to say, to herself.  There is an act count of it in the Christian
Science Journal, and of how she had already made some other handsome
gifts--to her Church--and others to--to her Cause besides "an almost
countless number of private charities" of cloudy amount and otherwise
indefinite.  This landslide of generosities overwhelmed one of her
literary domestics.  While he was in that condition he tried to express
what he felt:

"Let us endeavor to lift up our hearts in thankfulness to .  .  .  our
Mother in Israel for these evidences of generosity and self-sacrifice
that appeal to our deepest sense of gratitude, even while surpassing our
comprehension."

A year or two later, Mrs. Eddy promulgated some By-laws of a self-
sacrificing sort which assuaged him, perhaps, and perhaps enabled his
surpassed comprehension to make a sprint and catch up.  These are to be
found in Art. XII., entitled.




THE CHRISTIAN SCIENCE PUBLISHING SOCIETY

This Article puts the whole publishing business into the hands of a
publishing Board--special.  Mrs. Eddy appoints to its vacancies.

The profits go semi-annually to the Treasurer of the Mother-Church.  Mrs.
Eddy owns the Treasurer.

Editors and publishers of the Christian Science Journal cannot be elected
or removed without Mrs. Eddy's knowledge and consent.

Every candidate for employment in a high capacity or a low one, on the
other periodicals or in the publishing house, must first be "accepted by
Mrs. Eddy as suitable."  And "by the Board of Directors"--which is
surplusage, since Mrs. Eddy owns the Board.

If at any time a weekly shall be started, "it shall be owned by The First
Church of Christ, Scientist"--which is Mrs. Eddy.




CHAPTER VIII

I think that any one who will carefully examine the By-laws (I have
placed all of the important ones before the reader), will arrive at the
conclusion that of late years the master-passion in Mrs. Eddy's heart is
a hunger for power and glory; and that while her hunger for money still
remains, she wants it now for the expansion and extension it can furnish
to that power and glory, rather than what it can do for her towards
satisfying minor and meaner ambitions.

I wish to enlarge a little upon this matter.  I think it is quite clear
that the reason why Mrs. Eddy has concentrated in herself all powers, all
distinctions, all revenues that are within the command of the Christian
Science Church Universal is that she desires and intends to devote them
to the purpose just suggested--the upbuilding of her personal glory--
hers, and no one else's; that, and the continuing of her name's glory
after she shall have passed away.  If she has overlooked a single power,
howsoever minute, I cannot discover it.  If she has found one, large or
small, which she has not seized and made her own, there is no record of
it, no trace of it.  In her foragings and depredations she usually puts
forward the Mother-Church--a lay figure--and hides behind it.  Whereas,
she is in manifest reality the Mother-Church herself.  It has an
impressive array of officials, and committees, and Boards of Direction,
of Education, of Lectureship, and so on--geldings, every one, shadows,
spectres, apparitions, wax-figures: she is supreme over them all, she can
abolish them when she will; blow them out as she would a candle.  She is
herself the Mother-Church.  Now there is one By-law which says that the
Mother-Church:

"shall be officially controlled by no other church."

That does not surprise us--we know by the rest of the By-laws that that
is a quite irrelevant remark.  Yet we do vaguely and hazily wonder why
she takes the trouble to say it; why she wastes the words; what her
object can be--seeing that that emergency has been in so many, many ways,
and so effectively and drastically barred off and made impossible.  Then
presently the object begins to dawn upon us.  That is, it does after we
have read the rest of the By-law three or four times, wondering and
admiring to see Mrs. Eddy--Mrs. Eddy--Mrs. Eddy, of all persons--throwing
away power!--making a fair exchange--doing a fair thing for once more,
an almost generous thing!  Then we look it through yet once more
unsatisfied, a little suspicious--and find that it is nothing but a sly,
thin make-believe, and that even the very title of it is a sarcasm and
embodies a falsehood--"self" government:

"Local Self-Government.  The First Church of Christ, Scientist, in
Boston, Massachusetts, shall assume no official control of other churches
of this denomination.  It shall be officially controlled by no other
church."

It has a most pious and deceptive give-and-take air of perfect fairness,
unselfishness, magnanimity--almost godliness, indeed.  But it is all art.


In the By-laws, Mrs. Eddy, speaking by the mouth of her other self, the
Mother-Church, proclaims that she will assume no official control of
other churches-branch churches.  We examine the other By-laws, and they
answer some important questions for us:

1.  What is a branch Church?  It is a body of Christian Scientists,
organized in the one and only permissible way--by a member, in good
standing, of the Mother-Church, and who is also a pupil of one of Mrs.
Eddy's accredited students.  That is to say, one of her properties.  No
other can do it.  There are other indispensable requisites; what are
they?

2.  The new Church cannot enter upon its functions until its members have
individually signed, and pledged allegiance to, a Creed furnished by Mrs.
Eddy.

3.  They are obliged to study her books, and order their lives by them.
And they must read no outside religious works.

4.  They must sing the hymns and pray the prayers provided by her, and
use no others in the services, except by her permission.

5.  They cannot have preachers and pastors.  Her law.

6.  In their Church they must have two Readers--a man and a woman.

7.  They must read the services framed and appointed by her.

8.  She--not the branch Church--appoints those Readers.

9.  She--not the branch Church--dismisses them and fills the vacancies.

1O.  She can do this without consulting the branch Church, and without
explaining.

11.  The branch Church can have a religious lecture from time to time.
By applying to Mrs. Eddy.  There is no other way.

12.  But the branch Church cannot select the lecturer.  Mrs. Eddy does
it.

13.  The branch Church pays his fee.

14.  The harnessing of all Christian Science wedding-teams, members of
the branch Church, must be done by duly authorized and consecrated
Christian Science functionaries.  Her factory is the only one that makes
and licenses them.

[15.  Nothing is said about christenings.  It is inferable from this that
a Christian Science child is born a Christian Scientist and requires no
tinkering.]

[16.  Nothing is said about funerals.  It is inferable, then, that a
branch Church is privileged to do in that matter as it may choose.]

To sum up.  Are any important Church-functions absent from the list?  I
cannot call any to mind.  Are there any lacking ones whose exercise could
make the branch in any noticeable way independent of the Mother.  Church?
--even in any trifling degree?  I think of none.  If the named functions
were abolished would there still be a Church left?  Would there be even a
shadow of a Church left?  Would there be anything at all left?  even the
bare name?

Manifestly not.  There isn't a single vital and essential Church-function
of any kind, that is not named in the list.  And over every one of them
the Mother-Church has permanent and unchallengeable control, upon every
one of them Mrs. Eddy has set her irremovable grip.  She holds, in
perpetuity, autocratic and indisputable sovereignty and control over
every branch Church in the earth; and yet says, in that sugary, naive,
angel-beguiling way of hers, that the Mother-Church:

"shall assume no official control of other churches of this
denomination."

Whereas in truth the unmeddled-with liberties of a branch Christian
Science Church are but very, very few in number, and are these:

1.  It can appoint its own furnace-stoker, winters.
2.  It can appoint its own fan-distributors, summers.
3.  It can, in accordance with its own choice in the matter, burn, bury,
or preserve members who are pretending to be dead--whereas there is no
such thing as death.
4.  It can take up a collection.

The branch Churches have no important liberties, none that give them an
important voice in their own affairs.  Those are all locked up, and Mrs.
Eddy has the key.  "Local Self-Government" is a large name and sounds
well; but the branch Churches have no more of it than have the privates
in the King of Dahomey's army.




"MOTHER-CHURCH UNIQUE"

Mrs. Eddy, with an envious and admiring eye upon the solitary and
rivalless and world-shadowing majesty of St.  Peter's, reveals in her By-
laws her purpose to set the Mother-Church apart by itself in a stately
seclusion and make it duplicate that lone sublimity under the Western
sky.  The By-law headed "Mother-Church Unique "says--

"In its relation to other Christian Science churches, the Mother-Church
stands alone.

"It occupies a position that no other Church can fill.

"Then for a branch Church to assume such position would be disastrous to
Christian Science,

"Therefore--"

Therefore no branch Church is allowed to have branches.  There shall be
no Christian Science St. Peter's in the earth but just one--the Mother-
Church in Boston.




"NO FIRST MEMBERS"

But for the thoughtful By-law thus entitled, every Science branch in the
earth would imitate the Mother-Church and set up an aristocracy.  Every
little group of ground-floor Smiths and Furgusons and Shadwells and
Simpsons that organized a branch would assume that great title, of "First
Members," along with its vast privileges of "discussing" the weather and
casting blank ballots, and soon there would be such a locust-plague of
them burdening the globe that the title would lose its value and have to
be abolished.

But where business and glory are concerned, Mrs. Eddy thinks of
everything, and so she did not fail to take care of her Aborigines, her
stately and exclusive One Hundred, her college of functionless cardinals,
her Sanhedrin of Privileged Talkers (Limited).  After taking away all the
liberties of the branch Churches, and in the same breath disclaiming all
official control over their affairs, she smites them on the mouth with
this--the very mouth that was watering for those nobby ground-floor
honors--

"No First Members.  Branch Churches shall not organize with First
Members, that special method of organization being adapted to the Mother-
Church alone."

And so, first members being prohibited, we pierce through the cloud of
Mrs. Eddy's English and perceive that they must then necessarily organize
with Subsequent Members.  There is no other way.  It will occur to them
by-and-by to found an aristocracy of Early Subsequent Members.  There is
no By-law against it.




"THE"

I uncover to that imperial word.  And to the mind, too, that conceived
the idea of seizing and monopolizing it as a title.  I believe it is Mrs.
Eddy's dazzlingest invention.  For show, and style, and grandeur, and
thunder and lightning and fireworks it outclasses all the previous
inventions of man, and raises the limit on the Pope.  He can never put
his avid hand on that word of words--it is pre-empted.  And copyrighted,
of course.  It lifts the Mother-Church away up in the sky, and
fellowships it with the rare and select and exclusive little company of
the THE's of deathless glory--persons and things whereof history and the
ages could furnish only single examples, not two: the Saviour, the
Virgin, the Milky Way, the Bible, the Earth, the Equator, the Devil, the
Missing Link--and now The First Church, Scientist.  And by clamor of
edict and By-law Mrs. Eddy gives personal notice to all branch Scientist
Churches on this planet to leave that THE alone.

She has demonstrated over it and made it sacred to the Mother-Church:

"The article 'The' must not be used before the titles of branch
Churches--

"Nor written on applications for membership in naming such churches."

Those are the terms.  There can and will be a million First Churches of
Christ, Scientist, scattered over the world, in a million towns and
villages and hamlets and cities, and each may call itself (suppressing
the article), "First Church of Christ.  Scientist"--it is permissible,
and no harm; but there is only one The Church of Christ, Scientist, and
there will never be another.  And whether that great word fall in the
middle of a sentence or at the beginning of it, it must always have its
capital T.

I do not suppose that a juvenile passion for fussy little worldly shows
and vanities can furnish a match to this, anywhere in the history of the
nursery.  Mrs. Eddy does seem to be a shade fonder of little special
distinctions and pomps than is usual with human beings.

She instituted that immodest "The" with her own hand; she did not wait
for somebody else to think of it.




A LIFE-TERM MONOPOLY

There is but one human Pastor in the whole Christian Science world; she
reserves that exalted place to herself.




A PERPETUAL ONE

There is but one other object in the whole Christian Science world
honored with that title and holding that office: it is her book, the
Annex--permanent Pastor of The First Church, and of all branch Churches.

With her own hand she draughted the By-laws which make her the only
really absolute sovereign that lives to-day in Christendom.

She does not allow any objectionable pictures to be exhibited in the room
where her book is sold, nor any indulgence in idle gossip there; and from
the general look of that By-law I judge that a lightsome and improper
person can be as uncomfortable in that place as he could be in heaven.




THE SANCTUM SANCTORUM AND SACRED CHAIR

In a room in The First Church of Christ, Scientist, there is a museum of
objects which have attained to holiness through contact with Mrs. Eddy--
among them an electrically lighted oil-picture of a chair which she used
to sit in--and disciples from all about the world go softly in there, in
restricted groups, under proper guard, and reverently gaze upon those
relics.  It is worship.  Mrs. Eddy could stop it if she was not fond of
it, for her sovereignty over that temple is supreme.

The fitting-up of that place as a shrine is not an accident, nor a
casual, unweighed idea; it is imitated from age--old religious custom.
In Treves the pilgrim reverently gazes upon the Seamless Robe, and humbly
worships; and does the same in that other continental church where they
keep a duplicate; and does likewise in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,
in Jerusalem, where memorials of the Crucifixion are preserved; and now,
by good fortune we have our Holy Chair and things, and a market for our
adorations nearer home.

But is there not a detail that is new, fresh, original?  Yes, whatever
old thing Mrs. Eddy touches gets something new by the contact--something
not thought of before by any one--something original, all her own, and
copyrightable.  The new feature is self worship--exhibited in permitting
this shrine to be installed during her lifetime, and winking her sacred
eye at it.

A prominent Christian Scientist has assured me that the Scientists do not
worship Mrs. Eddy, and I think it likely that there may be five or six of
the cult in the world who do not worship her, but she herself is
certainly not of that company.  Any healthy-minded person who will
examine Mrs. Eddy's little Autobiography and the Manual of By-laws
written by her will be convinced that she worships herself; and that she
brings to this service a fervor of devotion surpassing even that which
she formerly laid at the feet of the Dollar, and equalling any which
rises to the Throne of Grace from any quarter.

I think this is as good a place as any to salve a hurt which I was the
means of inflicting upon a Christian Scientist lately.  The first third
of this book was written in 1899 in Vienna.  Until last summer I had
supposed that that third had been printed in a book which I published
about a year later--a hap which had not happened.  I then sent the
chapters composing it to the North American Review, but failed.  in one
instance, to date them.  And so, In an undated chapter I said a lady told
me "last night" so and so.  There was nothing to indicate to the reader
that that "last night" was several years old, therefore the phrase seemed
to refer to a night of very recent date.  What the lady had told me was,
that in a part of the Mother-Church in Boston she had seen Scientists
worshipping a portrait of Mrs. Eddy before which a light was kept
constantly burning.

A Scientist came to me and wished me to retract that "untruth."  He said
there was no such portrait, and that if I wanted to be sure of it I could
go to Boston and see for myself.  I explained that my "last night" meant
a good while ago; that I did not doubt his assertion that there was no
such portrait there now, but that I should continue to believe it had
been there at the time of the lady's visit until she should retract her
statement herself.  I was at no time vouching for the truth of the
remark, nevertheless I considered it worth par.

And yet I am sorry the lady told me, since a wound which brings me no
happiness has resulted.  I am most willing to apply such salve as I can.
The best way to set the matter right and make everything pleasant and
agreeable all around will be to print in this place a description of the
shrine as it appeared to a recent visitor, Mr. Frederick W.  Peabody, of
Boston.  I will copy his newspaper account, and the reader will see that
Mrs. Eddy's portrait is not there now:

"We lately stood on the threshold of the Holy of Holies of the Mother-
Church, and with a crowd of worshippers patiently waited for admittance
to the hallowed precincts of the 'Mother's Room.' Over the doorway was a
sign informing us that but four persons at a time would be admitted; that
they would be permitted to remain but five minutes only, and would please
retire from the 'Mother's Room' at the ringing of the bell.  Entering
with three of the faithful, we looked with profane eyes upon the
consecrated furnishings.  A show-woman in attendance monotonously
announced the character of the different appointments.  Set in a recess
of the wall and illumined with electric light was an oil-painting the
show-woman seriously declared to be a lifelike and realistic picture of
the Chair in which the Mother sat when she composed her 'inspired' work.
It was a picture of an old-fashioned?  country, hair cloth rocking-chair,
and an exceedingly commonplace-looking table with a pile of manuscript,
an ink-bottle, and pen conspicuously upon it.  On the floor were sheets
of manuscript.  'The mantel-piece is of pure onyx,' continued the show-
woman, 'and the beehive upon the window-sill is made from one solid block
of onyx; the rug is made of a hundred breasts of eider-down ducks, and
the toilet-room you see in the corner is of the latest design, with gold-
plated drain-pipes; the painted windows are from the Mother's poem,
"Christ and Christmas," and that case contains complete copies of all the
Mother's books.' The chairs upon which the sacred person of the Mother
had reposed were protected from sacrilegious touch by a broad band of
satin ribbon.  My companions expressed their admiration in subdued and
reverent tones, and at the tinkling of the bell we reverently tiptoed out
of the room to admit another delegation of the patient waiters at the
door."

Now, then, I hope the wound is healed.  I am willing to relinquish the
portrait, and compromise on the Chair.  At the same time, if I were going
to worship either, I should not choose the Chair.

As a picturesquely and persistently interesting personage, there is no
mate to Mrs. Eddy, the accepted Equal of the Saviour.  But some of her
tastes are so different from His!  I find it quite impossible to imagine
Him, in life, standing sponsor for that museum there, and taking pleasure
in its sumptuous shows.  I believe He would put that Chair in the fire,
and the bell along with it; and I think He would make the show-woman go
away.  I think He would break those electric bulbs, and the "mantel-piece
of pure onyx," and say reproachful things about the golden drain-pipes of
the lavatory, and give the costly rug of duck-breasts to the poor, and
sever the satin ribbon and invite the weary to rest and ease their aches
in the consecrated chairs.  What He would do with the painted windows we
can better conjecture when we come presently to examine their
peculiarities.




THE CHRISTIAN SCIENCE PASTOR-UNIVERSAL

When Mrs. Eddy turned the pastors out of all the Christian Science
churches and abolished the office for all time as far as human occupancy
is concerned--she appointed the Holy Ghost to fill their place.  If this
language be blasphemous, I did not invent the blasphemy, I am merely
stating a fact.  I will quote from page 227 of Science and Health
(edition 1899), as a first step towards an explanation of this startling
matter--a passage which sets forth and classifies the Christian Science
Trinity:

"Life, Truth, and Love constitute the triune God, or triply divine
Principle.  They represent a trinity in unity, three in one--the same in
essence, though multiform in office: God the Father; Christ the type of
Sonship; Divine Science, or the Holy Comforter.  .  .

"The Holy Ghost, or Spirit, reveals this triune Principle, and (the Holy
Ghost) is expressed in Divine Science, which is the Comforter, leading
into all Truth, and revealing the divine Principle of the universe--
universal and perpetual harmony."

I will cite another passage.  Speaking of Jesus--

"His students then received the Holy Ghost.  By this is meant, that by
all they had witnessed and suffered they were roused to an enlarged
understanding of Divine Science, even to the spiritual interpretation . .
. . . of His teachings," etc.

Also, page 579, in the chapter called the Glossary:

"HOLY GHOST.  Divine Science; the developments of Life, Truth, and Love."

The Holy Ghost reveals the massed spirit of the fused trinity; this
massed spirit is expressed in Divine Science, and is the Comforter;
Divine Science conveys to men the "spiritual interpretation" of the
Saviour's teachings.  That seems to be the meaning of the quoted
passages.

Divine Science is Christian Science; the book Science and Health is a
"revelation" of the whole spirit of the Trinity, and is therefore "The
Holy Ghost"; it conveys to men the "spiritual interpretation" of the
Bible's teachings.  and therefore is "the Comforter."

I do not find this analyzing work easy, I would rather saw wood; and a
person can never tell whether he has added up a Science and Health sum
right or not, anyway, after all his trouble.  Neither can he easily find
out whether the texts are still on the market or have been discarded from
the Book; for two hundred and fifty-eight editions of it have been
issued, and no two editions seem to be alike.  The annual changes--in
technical terminology; in matter and wording; in transpositions of
chapters and verses; in leaving out old chapters and verses and putting
in new ones--seem to be next to innumerable, and as there is no index,
there is no way to find a thing one wants without reading the book
through.  If ever I inspire a Bible-Annex I will not rush at it in a
half-digested, helter-skelter way and have to put in thirty-eight years
trying to get some of it the way I want it, I will sit down and think it
out and know what it is I want to say before I begin.  An inspirer cannot
inspire for Mrs. Eddy and keep his reputation.  I have never seen such
slipshod work, bar the ten that interpreted for the home market the "sell
all thou hast."  I have quoted one "spiritual" rendering of the Lord's
Prayer, I have seen one other one, and am told there are five more.  Yet
the inspirer of Mrs. Eddy the new Infallible casts a complacent critical
stone at the other Infallible for being unable to make up its mind about
such things.  Science and Health, edition 1899, page 33:

"The decisions, by vote of Church Councils, as to what should and should
not be considered Holy Writ, the manifest mistakes in the ancient
versions: the thirty thousand different readings in the Old Testament and
the three hundred thousand in the New--these facts show how a mortal and
material sense stole into the divine record, darkening, to some extent,
the inspired pages with its own hue."

To some extent, yes--speaking cautiously.  But it is nothing, really
nothing; Mrs. Eddy is only a little way behind, and if her inspirer lives
to get her Annex to suit him that Catholic record will have to "go 'way
back and set down," as the ballad says.  Listen to the boastful song of
Mrs. Eddy's organ, the Christian Science Journal for March, 1902, about
that year's revamping and half-soling of Science and Health, whose
official name is the Holy Ghost, the Comforter, and who is now the
Official Pastor and Infallible and Unerring Guide of every Christian
Science church in the two hemispheres, hear Simple Simon that met the
pieman brag of the Infallible's fallibility:

"Throughout the entire book the verbal changes are so numerous as to
indicate the vast amount of time and labor Mrs. Eddy has devoted to this
revision.  The time and labor thus bestowed is relatively as great as
that of--the committee who revised the Bible....  Thus we have
additional evidence of the herculean efforts our beloved Leader has made
and is constantly making for the promulgation of Truth and the
furtherance of her divinely bestowed mission," etc.

It is a steady job.  I could help inspire if desired; I am not doing much
now, and would work for half-price, and should not object to the country.




PRICE OF THE PASTOR-UNIVERSAL

The price of the Pastor-Universal, Science and Health, called in Science
literature the Comforter--and by that other sacred Name--is three
dollars in cloth, as heretofore, six when it is finely bound, and shaped
to imitate the Testament, and is broken into verses.  Margin of profit
above cost of manufacture, from five hundred to seven hundred per cent.,
as already noted In the profane subscription-trade, it costs the
publisher heavily to canvass a three-dollar book; he must pay the general
agent sixty per cent. commission--that is to say, one dollar and eighty-
cents.  Mrs. Eddy escapes this blistering tax, because she owns the
Christian Science canvasser, and can compel him to work for nothing.
Read the following command--not request--fulminated by Mrs. Eddy, over
her signature, in the Christian Science Journal for March, 1897, and
quoted by Mr. Peabody in his book.  The book referred to is Science and
Health:

"It shall be the duty of all Christian Scientists to circulate and to
sell as many of these books as they can."

That is flung at all the elect, everywhere that the sun shines, but no
penalty is shaken over their heads to scare them.  The same command was
issued to the members (numbering to-day twenty-five thousand) of The
Mother-Church, also, but with it went a threat, of the infliction, in
case of disobedience, of the most dreaded punishment that has a place in
the Church's list of penalties for transgressions of Mrs. Eddy's edicts
--excommunication:

"If a member of The First Church of Christ, Scientist, shall fail to obey
this injunction, it will render him liable to lose his membership in this
Church.  MARY BAKER EDDY."

It is the spirit of the Spanish Inquisition.

None but accepted and well established gods can venture an affront like
that and do it with confidence.  But the human race will take anything
from that class.  Mrs. Eddy knows the human race; knows it better than
any mere human being has known it in a thousand centuries.  My confidence
in her human-beingship is getting shaken, my confidence in her godship is
stiffening.




SEVEN HUNDRED PER CENT.

A Scientist out West has visited a bookseller--with intent to find fault
with me--and has brought away the information that the price at which
Mrs. Eddy sells Science and Health is not an unusually high one for the
size and make of the book.  That is true.  But in the book-trade--that
profit-devourer unknown to Mrs. Eddy's book--a three-dollar book that is
made for thirty-five or forty cents in large editions is put at three
dollars because the publisher has to pay author, middleman, and
advertising, and if the price were much below three the profit accruing
would not pay him fairly for his time and labor.  At the same time, if he
could get ten dollars for the book he would take it, and his morals would
not fall under criticism.

But if he were an inspired person commissioned by the Deity to receive
and print and spread broadcast among sorrowing and suffering and poor men
a precious message of healing and cheer and salvation, he would have to
do as Bible Societies do--sell the book at a pinched margin above cost to
such as could pay, and give it free to all that couldn't; and his name
would be praised.  But if he sold it at seven hundred per cent. profit
and put the money in his pocket, his name would be mocked and derided.
Just as Mrs. Eddy's is.  And most justifiably, as it seems to me.

The complete Bible contains one million words.  The New Testament by
itself contains two hundred and forty thousand words.

My '84 edition of Science and Health contains one hundred and twenty
thousand words--just half as many as the New Testament.

Science and Health has since been so inflated by later inspirations that
the 1902 edition contains one hundred and eighty thousand words--not
counting the thirty thousand at the back, devoted by Mrs. Eddy to
advertising the book's healing abilities--and the inspiring continues
right along.

If you have a book whose market is so sure and so great that you can give
a printer an everlasting order for thirty or forty or fifty thousand
copies a year he will furnish them at a cheap rate, because whenever
there is a slack time in his press-room and bindery he can fill the idle
intervals on your book and be making something instead of losing.  That
is the kind of contract that can be let on Science and Health every year.
I am obliged to doubt that the three-dollar Science and Health costs Mrs.
Eddy above fifteen cents, or that the six dollar copy costs her above
eighty cents.  I feel quite sure that the average profit to her on these
books, above cost of manufacture, is all of seven hundred per cent.

Every proper Christian Scientist has to buy and own (and canvass for)
Science and Health (one hundred and eighty thousand words), and he must
also own a Bible (one million words).  He can buy the one for from three
to six dollars, and the other for fifteen cents.  Or, if three dollars is
all the money he has, he can get his Bible for nothing.  When the Supreme
Being disseminates a saving Message through uninspired agents--the New
Testament, for instance--it can be done for five cents a copy, but when
He sends one containing only two-thirds as many words through the shop of
a Divine Personage, it costs sixty times as much.  I think that in
matters of such importance it is bad economy to employ a wild-cat agency.

Here are some figures which are perfectly authentic, and which seem to
justify my opinion.

"These [Bible] societies, inspired only by a sense of religious duty, are
issuing the Bible at a price so small that they have made it the cheapest
book printed.  For example, the American Bible Society offers an edition
of the whole Bible as low as fifteen cents and the New Testament at five
cents, and the British Society at sixpence and one penny, respectively.
These low prices, made possible by their policy of selling the books at
cost or below cost," etc.--New York Sun, February 25, 1903.




CHAPTER IX

We may now make a final footing-up of Mrs. Eddy, and see what she is, in
the fulness of her powers.  She is

The Massachusetts Metaphysical College
Pastor Emeritus;
President;
Board of Directors;
Board of Education;
Board of Lectureships;
Future Board of Trustees,
Proprietor of the Publishing-House and Periodicals;
Treasurer;
Clerk;
Proprietor of the Teachers;
Proprietor of the Lecturers;
Proprietor of the Missionaries;
Proprietor of the Readers;
Dictator of the Services; sole Voice of the Pulpit;
Proprietor of the Sanhedrin;
Sole Proprietor of the Creed.  (Copyrighted.);
Indisputable Autocrat of the Branch Churches, with their life and death
in her hands;
Sole Thinker for The First Church (and the others);
Sole and Infallible Expounder of Doctrine, in life and in death;
Sole permissible Discoverer, Denouncer, Judge, and Executioner of
Ostensible Hypnotists;
Fifty-handed God of Excommunication--with a thunderbolt in every hand;
Appointer and Installer of the Pastor of all the Churches--the Perpetual
Pastor-Universal, Science and Health, "the Comforter."




CHAPTER X

There she stands-painted by herself.  No witness but herself has been
allowed to testify.  She stands there painted by her acts, and decorated
by her words.  When she talks, she has only a decorative value as a
witness, either for or against herself, for she deals mainly in
unsupported assertion; and in the rare cases where she puts forward a
verifiable fact she gets out of it a meaning which it refuses to furnish
to anybody else.  Also, when she talks, she is unstable, she wanders, she
is incurably inconsistent; what she says to-day she contradicts tomorrow.

But her acts are consistent.  They are always faithful to her, they never
misinterpret her, they are a mirror which always reflects her exactly,
precisely, minutely, unerringly, and always the same, to date, with only
those progressive little natural changes in stature, dress, complexion,
mood, and carriage that mark--exteriorly--the march of the years and
record the accumulations of experience, while--interiorly--through all
this steady drift of evolution the one essential detail, the commanding
detail, the master detail of the make-up remains as it was in the
beginning, suffers no change and can suffer none; the basis of the
character; the temperament, the disposition, that indestructible iron
framework upon which the character is built, and whose shape it must
take, and keep, throughout life.  We call it a person's nature.

The man who is born stingy can be taught to give liberally--with his
hands; but not with his heart.  The man born kind and compassionate can
have that disposition crushed down out of sight by embittering
experience; but if it were an organ the post-mortem would find it still
in his corpse.  The man born ambitious of power and glory may live long
without finding it out, but when the opportunity comes he will know, will
strike for the largest thing within the limit of his chances at the time-
constable, perhaps--and will be glad and proud when he gets it, and will
write home about it.  But he will not stop with that start; his appetite
will come again; and by-and-by again, and yet again; and when he has
climbed to police commissioner it will at last begin to dawn upon him
that what his Napoleon soul wants and was born for is something away
higher up--he does not quite know what, but Circumstance and Opportunity
will indicate the direction and he will cut a road through and find out.

I think Mrs. Eddy was born with a far-seeing business-eye, but did not
know it; and with a great organizing and executive talent, and did not
know it; and with a large appetite for power and distinction, and did not
know it.  I think the reason that her make did not show up until middle
life was that she had General Grant's luck--Circumstance and Opportunity
did not come her way when she was younger.  The qualities that were born
in her had to wait for circumstance and opportunity--but they were there:
they were there to stay, whether they ever got a chance to fructify or
not.  If they had come early, they would have found her ready and
competent.  And they--not she--would have determined what they would set
her at and what they would make of her.  If they had elected to
commission her as second-assistant cook in a bankrupt boarding-house,
I know the rest of it--I know what would have happened.  She would have
owned the boarding-house within six months; she would have had the late
proprietor on salary and humping himself, as the worldly say; she would
have had that boarding-house spewing money like a mint; she would have
worked the servants and the late landlord up to the limit; she would have
squeezed the boarders till they wailed, and by some mysterious quality
born in her she would have kept the affections of certain of the lot
whose love and esteem she valued, and flung the others down the back
area; in two years she would own all the boarding-houses in the town, in
five all the boarding-houses in the State, in twenty all the hotels in
America, in forty all the hotels on the planet, and would sit at home
with her finger on a button and govern the whole combination as easily as
a bench-manager governs a dog-show.

It would be a grand thing to see, and I feel a kind of disappointment--
but never mind, a religion is better and larger; and there is more to it.
And I have not been steeping myself in Christian Science all these weeks
without finding out that the one sensible thing to do with a
disappointment is to put it out of your mind and think of something
cheerfuler.

We outsiders cannot conceive of Mrs. Eddy's Christian Science Religion as
being a sudden and miraculous birth, but only as a growth from a seed
planted by circumstances, and developed stage by stage by command and
compulsion of the same force.  What the stages were we cannot know, but
are privileged to guess.  She may have gotten the mental-healing idea
from Quimby--it had been experimented with for ages, and was no one's
special property.  [For the present, for convenience' sake, let us
proceed upon the hypothesis that that was all she got of him, and that
she put up the rest of the assets herself.  This will strain us, but let
us try it.] In each and all its forms and under all its many names,
mental healing had had limits, always, and they were rather narrow ones--
Mrs. Eddy, let us imagine, removed the fence, abolished the frontiers.
Not by expanding mental-healing, but by absorbing its small bulk into the
vaster bulk of Christian Science--Divine Science, The Holy Ghost, the
Comforter--which was a quite different and sublimer force, and one which
had long lain dormant and unemployed.

The Christian Scientist believes that the Spirit of God (life and love)
pervades the universe like an atmosphere; that whoso will study Science
and Health can get from it the secret of how to inhale that transforming
air; that to breathe it is to be made new; that from the new man all
sorrow, all care, all miseries of the mind vanish away, for that only
peace, contentment and measureless joy can live in that divine fluid;
that it purifies the body from disease, which is a vicious creation of
the gross human mind, and cannot continue to exist in the presence of the
Immortal Mind, the renewing Spirit of God.

The Scientist finds this reasonable, natural, and not harder to believe
than that the disease germ, a creature of darkness, perishes when exposed
to the light of the great sun--a new revelation of profane science which
no one doubts.  He reminds us that the actinic ray, shining upon lupus,
cures it--a horrible disease which was incurable fifteen years ago, and
had been incurable for ten million years before; that this wonder,
unbelievable by the physicians at first, is believed by them now; and so
he is tranquilly confident that the time is coming when the world will be
educated up to a point where it will comprehend and grant that the light
of the Spirit of God, shining unobstructed upon the soul, is an actinic
ray which can purge both mind and body from disease and set them free and
make them whole.

It is apparent, then, that in Christian Science it is not one man's mind
acting upon another man's mind that heals; that it is solely the Spirit
of God that heals; that the healer's mind performs no office but to
convey that force to the patient; that it is merely the wire which
carries the electric fluid, so to speak, and delivers the message.
Therefore, if these things be true, mental-healing and Science-healing
are separate and distinct processes, and no kinship exists between them.

To heal the body of its ills and pains is a mighty benefaction, but in
our day our physicians and surgeons work a thousand miracles--prodigies
which would have ranked as miracles fifty years ago--and they have so
greatly extended their domination over disease that we feel so well
protected that we are able to look with a good deal of composure and
absence of hysterics upon the claims of new competitors in that field.

But there is a mightier benefaction than the healing of the body, and
that is the healing of the spirit--which is Christian Science's other
claim.  So far as I know, so far as I can find out, it makes it good.
Personally I have not known a Scientist who did not seem serene,
contented, unharassed.  I have not found an outsider whose observation of
Scientists furnished him a view that differed from my own.  Buoyant
spirits, comfort of mind, freedom from care these happinesses we all
have, at intervals; but in the spaces between, dear me, the black hours!
They have put a curse upon the life of every human being I have ever
known, young or old.  I concede not a single exception.  Unless it might
be those Scientists just referred to.  They may have been playing a part
with me; I hope they were not, and I believe they were not.

Time will test the Science's claim.  If time shall make it good; if time
shall prove that the Science can heal the persecuted spirit of man and
banish its troubles and keep it serene and sunny and content--why, then
Mrs. Eddy will have a monument that will reach above the clouds.  For if
she did not hit upon that imperial idea and evolve it and deliver it, its
discoverer can never be identified with certainty, now, I think.  It is
the giant feature, it is the sun that rides in the zenith of Christian
Science, the auxiliary features are of minor consequence [Let us still
leave the large "if" aside, for the present, and proceed as if it had no
existence.]

It is not supposable that Mrs. Eddy realized, at first, the size of her
plunder.  (No, find--that is the word; she did not realize the size of
her find, at first.) It had to grow upon her, by degrees, in accordance
with the inalterable custom of Circumstance, which works by stages, and
by stages only, and never furnishes any mind with all the materials for a
large idea at one time.

In the beginning, Mrs. Eddy was probably interested merely in the mental-
healing detail And perhaps mainly interested in it pecuniary, for she was
poor.

She would succeed in anything she undertook.  She would attract pupils,
and her commerce would grow.  She would inspire in patient and pupil
confidence in her earnestness, her history is evidence that she would not
fail of that.

There probably came a time, in due course, when her students began to
think there was something deeper in her teachings than they had been
suspecting--a mystery beyond mental-healing, and higher.  It is
conceivable that by consequence their manner towards her changed little
by little, and from respectful became reverent.  It is conceivable that
this would have an influence upon her; that it would incline her to
wonder if their secret thought--that she was inspired--might not be a
well-grounded guess.  It is conceivable that as time went on the thought
in their minds and its reflection in hers might solidify into conviction.

She would remember, then, that as a child she had been called, more than
once, by a mysterious voice--just as had happened to little Samuel.
(Mentioned in her Autobiography.) She would be impressed by that ancient
reminiscence, now, and it could have a prophetic meaning for her.

It is conceivable that the persuasive influences around her and within
her would give a new and powerful impulse to her philosophizings, and
that from this, in time, would result that great birth, the healing of
body and mind by the inpouring of the Spirit of God--the central and
dominant idea of Christian Science--and that when this idea came she
would not doubt that it was an inspiration direct from Heaven.




CHAPTER XI

[I must rest a little, now.  To sit here and painstakingly spin out a
scheme which imagines Mrs. Eddy, of all people, working her mind on a
plane above commercialism; imagines her thinking, philosophizing,
discovering majestic things; and even imagines her dealing in
sincerities--to be frank, I find it a large contract But I have begun it,
and I will go through with it.]




CHAPTER XII

It is evident that she made disciples fast, and that their belief in her
and in the authenticity of her heavenly ambassadorship was not of the
lukewarm and half-way sort, but was profoundly earnest and sincere.  Her
book was issued from the press in 1875, it began its work of convert-
making, and within six years she had successfully launched a new Religion
and a new system of healing, and was teaching them to crowds of eager
students in a College of her own, at prices so extraordinary that we are
almost compelled to accept her statement (no, her guarded intimation)
that the rates were arranged on high, since a mere human being
unacquainted with commerce and accustomed to think in pennies could
hardly put up such a hand as that without supernatural help.

From this stage onward--Mrs. Eddy being what she was--the rest of the
development--stages would follow naturally and inevitably.

But if she had been anybody else, there would have been a different
arrangement of them, with different results.  Being the extraordinary
person she was, she realized her position and its possibilities; realized
the possibilities, and had the daring to use them for all they were
worth.

We have seen what her methods were after she passed the stage where her
divine ambassadorship was granted its executer in the hearts and minds of
her followers; we have seen how steady and fearless and calculated and
orderly was her march thenceforth from conquest to conquest; we have seen
her strike dead, without hesitancy, any hostile or questionable force
that rose in her path: first, the horde of pretenders that sprang up and
tried to take her Science and its market away from her--she crushed them,
she obliterated them; when her own National Christian Science Association
became great in numbers and influence, and loosely and dangerously
garrulous, and began to expound the doctrines according to its own
uninspired notions, she took up her sponge without a tremor of fear and
wiped that Association out; when she perceived that the preachers in her
pulpits were becoming afflicted with doctrine-tinkering, she recognized
the danger of it, and did not hesitate nor temporize, but promptly
dismissed the whole of them in a day, and abolished their office
permanently; we have seen that, as fast as her power grew, she was
competent to take the measure of it, and that as fast as its expansion
suggested to her gradually awakening native ambition a higher step she
took it; and so, by this evolutionary process, we have seen the gross
money-lust relegated to second place, and the lust of empire and glory
rise above it.  A splendid dream; and by force of the qualities born in
her she is making it come true.

These qualities--and the capacities growing out of them by the nurturing
influences of training, observation, and experience seem to be clearly
indicated by the character of her career and its achievements.  They seem
to be:

A clear head for business, and a phenomenally long one;
Clear understanding of business situations;
Accuracy in estimating the opportunities they offer;
Intelligence in planning a business move;
Firmness in sticking to it after it has been decided upon;
Extraordinary daring;
Indestructible persistency;
Devouring ambition;
Limitless selfishness;
A knowledge of the weaknesses and poverties and docilities of human
nature and how to turn them to account which has never been surpassed, if
ever equalled;

And--necessarily--the foundation-stone of Mrs. Eddy's character is a
never-wavering confidence in herself.

It is a granite character.  And--quite naturally--a measure of the talc
of smallnesses common to human nature is mixed up in it and distributed
through it.  When Mrs. Eddy is not dictating servilities from her throne
in the clouds to her official domestics in Boston or to her far-spread
subjects round about the planet, but is down on the ground, she is kin to
us and one of us: sentimental as a girl, garrulous, ungrammatical,
incomprehensible, affected, vain of her little human ancestry, unstable,
inconsistent, unreliable in statement, and naively and everlastingly
self-contradictory-oh, trivial and common and commonplace as the
commonest of us! just a Napoleon as Madame de Remusat saw him, a brass
god with clay legs.




CHAPTER XIII

In drawing Mrs. Eddy's portrait it has been my purpose to restrict myself
to materials furnished by herself, and I believe I have done that.  If I
have misinterpreted any of her acts, it was not done intentionally.

It will be noticed that in skeletonizing a list of the qualities which
have carried her to the dizzy summit which she occupies, I have not
mentioned the power which was the commanding force employed in achieving
that lofty flight.  It did not belong in that list; it was a force that
was not a detail of her character, but was an outside one.  It was the
power which proceeded from her people's recognition of her as a
supernatural personage, conveyer of the Latest Word, and divinely
commissioned to deliver it to the world.  The form which such a
recognition takes, consciously or unconsciously, is worship; and worship
does not question nor criticize, it obeys.  The object of it does not
need to coddle it, bribe it, beguile it, reason with it, convince it--it
commands it; that is sufficient; the obedience rendered is not reluctant,
but prompt and whole-hearted.  Admiration for a Napoleon, confidence in
him, pride in him, affection for him, can lift him high and carry him
far; and these are forms of worship, and are strong forces, but they are
worship of a mere human being, after all, and are infinitely feeble, as
compared with those that are generated by that other worship, the worship
of a divine personage.  Mrs. Eddy has this efficient worship, this massed
and centralized force, this force which is indifferent to opposition,
untroubled by fear, and goes to battle singing, like Cromwell's soldiers;
and while she has it she can command and it will obey, and maintain her
on her throne, and extend her empire.

She will have it until she dies; and then we shall see a curious and
interesting further development of her revolutionary work begin.




CHAPTER XIV

The President and Board of Directors will succeed her, and the government
will go on without a hitch.  The By-laws will bear that interpretation.
All the Mother-Church's vast powers are concentrated in that Board.  Mrs.
Eddy's unlimited personal reservations make the Board's ostensible
supremacy, during her life, a sham, and the Board itself a shadow.  But
Mrs. Eddy has not made those reservations for any one but herself--they
are distinctly personal, they bear her name, they are not usable by
another individual.  When she dies her reservations die, and the Board's
shadow-powers become real powers, without the change of any important By-
law, and the Board sits in her place as absolute and irresponsible a
sovereign as she was.

It consists of but five persons, a much more manageable Cardinalate than
the Roman Pope's.  I think it will elect its Pope from its own body, and
that it will fill its own vacancies.  An elective Papacy is a safe and
wise system, and a long-liver.




CHAPTER XV

We may take that up now.

It is not a single if, but a several-jointed one; not an oyster, but a
vertebrate.

1.  Did Mrs. Eddy borrow from Quimby the Great Idea, or only the little
one, the old-timer, the ordinary mental-healing-healing by "mortal" mind?

2.  If she borrowed the Great Idea, did she carry it away in her head, or
in manuscript?

3.  Did she hit upon the Great Idea herself?  By the Great Idea I mean,
of course, the conviction that the Force involved was still existent, and
could be applied now just as it was applied by Christ's Disciples and
their converts, and as successfully.
4.  Did she philosophize it, systematize it, and write it down in a book?

5.  Was it she, and not another, that built a new Religion upon the book
and organized it?

I think No.  5 can be answered with a Yes, and dismissed from the
controversy.  And I think that the Great Idea, great as it was, would
have enjoyed but a brief activity, and would then have gone to sleep
again for some more centuries, but for the perpetuating impulse it got
from that organized and tremendous force.

As for Nos.  1, 2, and 4, the hostiles contend that Mrs. Eddy got the
Great Idea from Quimby and carried it off in manuscript.  But their
testimony, while of consequence, lacks the most important detail; so far
as my information goes, the Quimby manuscript has not been produced.  I
think we cannot discuss No. 1 and No. 2 profitably.  Let them go.

For me, No. 3 has a mild interest, and No. 4 a violent one.

As regards No.  3, Mrs. Eddy was brought up, from the cradle, an old-
time, boiler-iron, Westminster-Catechism Christian, and knew her Bible as
well as Captain Kydd knew his, "when he sailed, when he sailed," and
perhaps as sympathetically.  The Great Idea had struck a million Bible-
readers before her as being possible of resurrection and application--it
must have struck as many as that, and been cogitated, indolently,
doubtingly, then dropped and forgotten--and it could have struck her, in
due course.  But how it could interest her, how it could appeal to her--
with her make this a thing that is difficult to understand.

For the thing back of it is wholly gracious and beautiful: the power,
through loving mercifulness and compassion, to heal fleshly ills and
pains and grief--all--with a word, with a touch of the hand!  This power
was given by the Saviour to the Disciples, and to all the converted.
All--every one.  It was exercised for generations afterwards.  Any
Christian who was in earnest and not a make-believe, not a policy--
Christian, not a Christian for revenue only, had that healing power, and
could cure with it any disease or any hurt or damage possible to human
flesh and bone.  These things are true, or they are not.  If they were
true seventeen and eighteen and nineteen centuries ago it would be
difficult to satisfactorily explain why or how or by what argument that
power should be nonexistent in Christians now.

To wish to exercise it could occur to Mrs. Eddy--but would it?

Grasping, sordid, penurious, famishing for everything she sees--money,
power, glory--vain, untruthful, jealous, despotic, arrogant, insolent,
pitiless where thinkers and hypnotists are concerned, illiterate,
shallow, incapable of reasoning outside of commercial lines, immeasurably
selfish--

Of course the Great Idea could strike her, we have to grant that, but why
it should interest her is a question which can easily overstrain the
imagination and bring on nervous prostration, or something like that, and
is better left alone by the judicious, it seems to me--

Unless we call to our help the alleged other side of Mrs. Eddy's make and
character the side which her multitude of followers see, and sincerely
believe in.  Fairness requires that their view be stated here.  It is the
opposite of the one which I have drawn from Mrs. Eddy's history and from
her By-laws.  To her followers she is this:

Patient, gentle, loving, compassionate, noble hearted, unselfish,
sinless, widely cultured, splendidly equipped mentally, a profound
thinker, an able writer, a divine personage, an inspired messenger whose
acts are dictated from the Throne, and whose every utterance is the Voice
of God.

She has delivered to them a religion which has revolutionized their
lives, banished the glooms that shadowed them, and filled them and
flooded them with sunshine and gladness and peace; a religion which has
no hell; a religion whose heaven is not put off to another time, with a
break and a gulf between, but begins here and now, and melts into
eternity as fancies of the waking day melt into the dreams of sleep.

They believe it is a Christianity that is in the New Testament; that it
has always been there, that in the drift of ages it was lost through
disuse and neglect, and that this benefactor has found it and given it
back to men, turning the night of life into day, its terrors into myths,
its lamentations into songs of emancipation and rejoicing.

There we have Mrs. Eddy as her followers see her.  She has lifted them
out of grief and care and doubt and fear, and made their lives beautiful;
she found them wandering forlorn in a wintry wilderness, and has led them
to a tropic paradise like that of which the poet sings:

     "O, islands there are on the face of the deep
     Where the leaves never fade and the skies never weep."

To ask them to examine with a microscope the character of such a
benefactor; to ask them to examine it at all; to ask them to look at a
blemish which another person believes he has found in it--well, in their
place could you do it?  Would you do it?  Wouldn't you be ashamed to do
it?  If a tramp had rescued your child from fire and death, and saved its
mother's heart from breaking, could you see his rags?  Could you smell
his breath?  Mrs. Eddy has done more than that for these people.

They are prejudiced witnesses.  To the credit of human nature it is not
possible that they should be otherwise.  They sincerely believe that Mrs.
Eddy's character is pure and perfect and beautiful, and her history
without stain or blot or blemish.  But that does not settle it.  They
sincerely believe she did not borrow the Great Idea from Quimby, but hit
upon it herself.  It may be so, and it could be so.  Let it go--there is
no way to settle it.  They believe she carried away no Quimby
manuscripts.  Let that go, too--there is no way to settle it.  They
believe that she, and not another, built the Religion upon the book, and
organized it.  I believe it, too.

Finally, they believe that she philosophized Christian Science, explained
it, systematized it, and wrote it all out with her own hand in the book
Science and Health.

I am not able to believe that.  Let us draw the line there.  The known
and undisputed products of her pen are a formidable witness against her.
They do seem to me to prove, quite clearly and conclusively, that
writing, upon even simple subjects, is a difficult labor for her: that
she has never been able to write anything above third-rate English; that
she is weak in the matter of grammar; that she has but a rude and dull
sense of the values of words; that she so lacks in the matter of literary
precision that she can seldom put a thought into words that express it
lucidly to the reader and leave no doubts in his mind as to whether he
has rightly understood or not; that she cannot even draught a Preface
that a person can fully comprehend, nor one which can by any art be
translated into a fully understandable form; that she can seldom inject
into a Preface even single sentences whose meaning is uncompromisingly
clear--yet Prefaces are her specialty, if she has one.

Mrs. Eddy's known and undisputed writings are very limited in bulk; they
exhibit no depth, no analytical quality, no thought above school
composition size, and but juvenile ability in handling thoughts of even
that modest magnitude.  She has a fine commercial ability, and could
govern a vast railway system in great style; she could draught a set of
rules that Satan himself would say could not be improved on--for
devilish effectiveness--by his staff; but we know, by our excursions
among the Mother-Church's By-laws, that their English would discredit the
deputy baggage-smasher.  I am quite sure that Mrs. Eddy cannot write well
upon any subject, even a commercial one.

In the very first revision of Science and Health (1883), Mrs. Eddy wrote
a Preface which is an unimpeachable witness that the rest of the book was
written by somebody else.  I have put it in the Appendix along with a
page or two taken from the body of the book, and will ask the reader to
compare the labored and lumbering and confused gropings of this Preface
with the easy and flowing and direct English of the other exhibit, and
see if he can believe that the one hand and brain produced both.

And let him take the Preface apart, sentence by sentence, and searchingly
examine each sentence word by word, and see if he can find half a dozen
sentences whose meanings he is so sure of that he can rephrase them--in
words of his own--and reproduce what he takes to be those meanings.
Money can be lost on this game.  I know, for I am the one that lost it.

Now let the reader turn to the excerpt which I have made from the chapter
on "Prayer" (last year's edition of Science and Health), and compare that
wise and sane and elevated and lucid and compact piece of work with the
aforesaid Preface, and with Mrs. Eddy's poetry concerning the gymnastic
trees, and Minerva's not yet effete sandals, and the wreaths imported
from Erudition's bower for the decoration of Plymouth Rock, and the
Plague-spot and Bacilli, and my other exhibits (turn back to my Chapters
I.  and II.) from the Autobiography, and finally with the late
Communication concerning me, and see if he thinks anybody's affirmation,
or anybody's sworn testimony, or any other testimony of any imaginable
kind would ever be likely to convince him that Mrs. Eddy wrote that
chapter on Prayer.

I do not wish to impose my opinion on any one who will not permit it, but
such as it is I offer it here for what it is worth.  I cannot believe,
and I do not believe, that Mrs. Eddy originated any of the thoughts and
reasonings out of which the book Science and Health is constructed; and I
cannot believe, and do not believe that she ever wrote any part of that
book.

I think that if anything in the world stands proven, and well and solidly
proven, by unimpeachable testimony--the treacherous testimony of her own
pen in her known and undisputed literary productions--it is that Mrs.
Eddy is not capable of thinking upon high planes, nor of reasoning
clearly nor writing intelligently upon low ones.

Inasmuch as--in my belief--the very first editions of the book Science
and Health were far above the reach of Mrs. Eddy's mental and literary
abilities, I think she has from the very beginning been claiming as her
own another person's book, and wearing as her own property laurels
rightfully belonging to that person--the real author of Science and
Health.  And I think the reason--and the only reason--that he has not
protested is because his work was not exposed to print until after he was
safely dead.

That with an eye to business, and by grace of her business talent, she
has restored to the world neglected and abandoned features of the
Christian religion which her thousands of followers find gracious and
blessed and contenting, I recognize and confess; but I am convinced that
every single detail of the work except just that one--the delivery of the
Product to the world--was conceived and performed by another.




APPENDIX A

ORIGINAL FIRST PREFACE TO SCIENCE AND HEALTH

There seems a Christian necessity of learning God's power and purpose to
heal both mind and body.  This thought grew out of our early seeking Him
in all our ways, and a hopeless as singular invalidism that drugs
increased instead of diminished, and hygiene benefited only for a season.
By degrees we have drifted into more spiritual latitudes of thought, and
experimented as we advanced until demonstrating fully the power of mind
over the body.  About the year 1862, having heard of a mesmerist in
Portland who was treating the sick by manipulation, we visited him; he
helped us for a time, then we relapsed somewhat.  After his decease, and
a severe casualty deemed fatal by skilful physicians, we discovered that
the Principle of all healing and the law that governs it is God, a divine
Principle, and a spiritual not material law, and regained health.

It was not an individual or mortal mind acting upon another so-called
mind that healed us.  It was the glorious truths of Christian Science
that we discovered as we neared that verge of so-called material life
named death; yea, it was the great Shekinah, the spirit of Life, Truth,
and Love illuminating our understanding of the action and might of
Omnipotence!  The old gentleman to whom we have referred had some very
advanced views on healing, but he was not avowedly religious neither
scholarly.  We interchanged thoughts on the subject of healing the sick.
I restored some patients of his that he failed to heal, and left in his
possession some manuscripts of mine containing corrections of his
desultory pennings, which I am informed at his decease passed into the
hands of a patient of his, now residing in Scotland.  He died in 1865 and
left no published works.  The only manuscript that we ever held of his,
longer than to correct it, was one of perhaps a dozen pages, most of
which we had composed.  He manipulated the sick; hence his ostensible
method of healing was physical instead of mental.

We helped him in the esteem of the public by our writings, but never knew
of his stating orally or in writing that he treated his patients
mentally; never heard him give any directions to that effect; and have it
from one of his patients, who now asserts that he was the founder of
mental healing, that he never revealed to anyone his method.  We refer to
these facts simply to refute the calumnies and false claims of our
enemies, that we are preferring dishonest claims to the discovery and
founding at this period of Metaphysical Healing or Christian Science.

The Science and laws of a purely mental healing and their method of
application through spiritual power alone, else a mental argument against
disease, are our own discovery at this date.  True, the Principle is
divine and eternal, but the application of it to heal the sick had been
lost sight of, and required to be again spiritually discerned and its
science discovered, that man might retain it through the understanding.
Since our discovery in 1866 of the divine science of Christian Healing,
we have labored with tongue and pen to found this system.  In this
endeavor every obstacle has been thrown in our path that the envy and
revenge of a few disaffected students could devise.  The superstition and
ignorance of even this period have not failed to contribute their mite
towards misjudging us, while its Christian advancement and scientific
research have helped sustain our feeble efforts.

Since our first Edition of Science and Health, published in 1875, two of
the aforesaid students have plagiarized and pirated our works.  In the
issues of E. J. A., almost exclusively ours, were thirteen paragraphs,
without credit, taken verbatim from our books.

Not one of our printed works was ever copied or abstracted from the
published or from the unpublished writings of anyone.  Throughout our
publications of Metaphysical Healing or Christian Science, when writing
or dictating them, we have given ourselves to contemplation wholly apart
from the observation of the material senses: to look upon a copy would
have distracted our thoughts from the subject before us.  We were seldom
able to copy our own compositions, and have employed an amanuensis for
the last six years.  Every work that we have had published has been
extemporaneously written; and out of fifty lectures and sermons that we
have delivered the last year, forty-four have been extemporaneous.  We
have distributed many of our unpublished manuscripts; loaned to one of
our youngest students, R. K--------y, between three and four hundred pages,
of which we were sole author--giving him liberty to copy but not to
publish them.

Leaning on the sustaining Infinite with loving trust, the trials of to-
day grow brief, and to-morrow is big with blessings.

The wakeful shepherd, tending his flocks, beholds from the mountain's top
the first faint morning beam ere cometh the risen day.  So from Soul's
loftier summits shines the pale star to prophet-shepherd, and it
traverses night, over to where the young child lies, in cradled
obscurity, that shall waken a world.  Over the night of error dawn the
morning beams and guiding star of Truth, and "the wise men" are led by it
to Science, which repeats the eternal harmony that it reproduced, in
proof of immortality.  The time for thinkers has come; and the time for
revolutions, ecclesiastical and civil, must come.  Truth, independent of
doctrines or time-honored systems, stands at the threshold of history.
Contentment with the past, or the cold conventionality of custom, may no
longer shut the door on science; though empires fall, "He whose right it
is shall reign."  Ignorance of God should no longer be the stepping-stone
to faith; understanding Him, "whom to know aright is Life eternal," is
the only guaranty of obedience.

This volume may not open a new thought, and make it at once familiar.  It
has the sturdy task of a pioneer, to hack away at the tall oaks and cut
the rough granite, leaving future ages to declare what it has done.  We
made our first discovery of the adaptation of metaphysics to the
treatment of disease in the winter of 1866; since then we have tested the
Principle on ourselves and others, and never found it to fail to prove
the statements herein made of it.  We must learn the science of Life, to
reach the perfection of man.  To understand God as the Principle of all
being, and to live in accordance with this Principle, is the Science of
Life.  But to reproduce this harmony of being, the error of personal
sense must yield to science, even as the science of music corrects tones
caught from the ear, and gives the sweet concord of sound.  There are
many theories of physic and theology, and many calls in each of their
directions for the right way; but we propose to settle the question of
"What is Truth?" on the ground of proof, and let that method of healing
the sick and establishing Christianity be adopted that is found to give
the most health and to make the best Christians; science will then have a
fair field, in which case we are assured of its triumph over all opinions
and beliefs.  Sickness and sin have ever had their doctors; but the
question is, Have they become less because of them?  The longevity of our
antediluvians would say, No!  and the criminal records of today utter
their voices little in favor of such a conclusion.  Not that we would
deny to Caesar the things that are his, but that we ask for the things
that belong to Truth; and safely affirm, from the demonstrations we have
been able to make, that the science of man understood would have
eradicated sin, sickness, and death, in a less period than six thousand
years.  We find great difficulties in starting this work right.  Some
shockingly false claims are already made to a metaphysical practice;
mesmerism, its very antipodes, is one of them.  Hitherto we have never,
in a single instance of our discovery, found the slightest resemblance
between mesmerism and metaphysics.  No especial idiosyncrasy is requisite
to acquire a knowledge of metaphysical healing; spiritual sense is more
important to its discernment than the intellect; and those who would
learn this science without a high moral standard of thought and action,
will fail to understand it until they go up higher.  Owing to our
explanations constantly vibrating between the same points, an irksome
repetition of words must occur; also the use of capital letters, genders,
and technicalities peculiar to the science.  Variety of language, or
beauty of diction, must give place to close analysis and unembellished
thought.  "Hoping all things, enduring all things," to do good to our
enemies, to bless them that curse us, and to bear to the sorrowing and
the sick consolation and healing, we commit these pages to posterity.

MARY BAKER G.  EDDY.




APPENDIX B

The Gospel narratives bear brief testimony even to the life of our great
Master.  His spiritual noumenon and phenomenon, silenced portraiture.
Writers, less wise than the Apostles, essayed in the Apocryphal New
Testament, a legendary and traditional history of the early life of
Jesus.  But Saint Paul summarized the character of Jesus as the model of
Christianity, in these words: "Consider Him who endured such
contradictions of sinners against Himself.  Who for the joy that was set
before Him, endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at
the right hand of the throne of God."

It may be that the mortal life battle still wages, and must continue till
its involved errors are vanquished by victory-bringing Science; but this
triumph will come!  God is over all.  He alone is our origin, aim, and
Being.  The real man is not of the dust, nor is he ever created through
the flesh; for his father and mother are the one Spirit, and his brethren
are all the children of one parent, the eternal Good.

Any kind of literary composition was excessively difficult for Mrs. Eddy.
She found it grinding hard work to dig out anything to say.  She
realized, at the above stage in her life, that with all her trouble she
had not been able to scratch together even material enough for a child's
Autobiography, and also that what she had secured was in the main not
valuable, not important, considering the age and the fame of the person
she was writing about; and so it occurred to her to attempt, in that
paragraph, to excuse the meagreness and poor quality of the feast she was
spreading, by letting on that she could do ever so much better if she
wanted to, but was under constraint of Divine etiquette.  To feed with
more than a few indifferent crumbs a plebeian appetite for personal
details about Personages in her class was not the correct thing, and she
blandly points out that there is Precedent for this reserve.  When Mrs.
Eddy tries to be artful--in literature--it is generally after the
manner of the ostrich; and with the ostrich's luck.  Please try to find
the connection between the two paragraphs.--M.  T.




APPENDIX C

The following is the spiritual signification of the Lord's Prayer:

Principle, eternal and harmonious,
Nameless and adorable Intelligence,
Thou art ever present and supreme.
And when this supremacy of Spirit shall appear, the dream of matter will
disappear.
Give us the understanding of Truth and Love.
And loving we shall learn God, and Truth will destroy all error.
And lead us unto the Life that is Soul, and deliver us from the errors of
sense, sin, sickness, and death,
For God is Life, Truth, and Love for ever.
--Science and Health, edition of 1881.

It seems to me that this one is distinctly superior to the one that was
inspired for last year's edition.  It is strange, but to my mind plain,
that inspiring is an art which does not improve with practice.--M.  T.




APPENDIX D

"For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain,
Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in
his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come
to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.  Therefore I say unto you,
What things soever ye desire when ye pray, believe that ye receive them,
and ye shall have them.

"Your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask Him."
--CHRIST JESUS.

The prayer that reclaims the sinner and heals the sick, is an absolute
faith that all things are possible to God--a spiritual understanding of
Him--an unselfed love.  Regardless of what another may say or think on
this subject, I speak from experience.  This prayer, combined with self-
sacrifice and toil, is the means whereby God has enabled me to do what I
have done for the religion and health of mankind.

Thoughts unspoken are not unknown to the divine Mind.  Desire is prayer;
and no less can occur from trusting God with our desires, that they may
be moulded and exalted before they take form in audible word, and in
deeds.

What are the motives for prayer?  Do we pray to make ourselves better, or
to benefit those that hear us; to enlighten the Infinite, or to be heard
of men?  Are we benefited by praying?  Yes, the desire which goes forth
hungering after righteousness is blessed of our Father, and it does not
return unto us void.

God is not moved by the breath of praise to do more than He has already
done; nor can the Infinite do less than bestow all good, since He is
unchanging Wisdom and Love.  We can do more for ourselves by humble
fervent petitions; but the All-loving does not grant them simply on the
ground of lip-service, for He already knows all.

Prayer cannot change the Science of Being, but it does bring us into
harmony with it.  Goodness reaches the demonstration of Truth.  A request
that another may work for us never does our work.  The habit of pleading
with the divine Mind, as one pleads with a human being, perpetuates the
belief in God as humanly circumscribed--an error which impedes spiritual
growth.

God is Love.  Can we ask Him to be more?  God is Intelligence.  Can we
inform the infinite Mind, or tell Him anything He does not already
comprehend?  Do we hope to change perfection?  Shall we plead for more at
the open fount, which always pours forth more than we receive?  The
unspoken prayer does bring us nearer the Source of all existence and
blessedness.

Asking God to be God is a "vain repetition."  God is "the same yesterday,
and to-day, and forever"; and He who is immutably right will do right,
without being reminded of His province.  The wisdom of man is not
sufficient to warrant him in advising God.

Who would stand before a blackboard, and pray the principle of
mathematics to work out the problem?  The rule is already established,
and it is our task to work out the solution.  Shall we ask the divine
Principle of all goodness to do His own work?  His work is done; and we
have only to avail ourselves of God's rule, in order to receive the
blessing thereof.

The divine Being must be reflected by man--else man is not the image and
likeness of the patient, tender, and true, the one "altogether lovely";
but to understand God is the work of eternity, and demands absolute
concentration of thought and energy.

How empty are our conceptions of Deity!  We admit theoretically that God
is good, omnipotent, omnipresent, infinite, and then we try to give
information to this infinite Mind; and plead for unmerited pardon, and a
liberal outpouring of benefactions.  Are we really grateful for the good
already received?  Then we shall avail ourselves of the blessings we
have, and thus be fitted to receive more.  Gratitude is much more than a
verbal expression of thanks Action expresses more gratitude than speech.

If we are ungrateful for Life, Truth, and Love, and yet return thanks to
God for all blessings, we are insincere; and incur the sharp censure our
Master pronounces on hypocrites.  In such a case the only acceptable
prayer is to put the finger on the lips and remember our blessings.
While the heart is far from divine Truth and Love, we cannot conceal the
ingratitude of barren lives, for God knoweth all things.

What we most need is the prayer of fervent desire for growth in grace,
expressed in patience, meekness, love, and good deeds.  To keep the
commandments of our Master and follow his example, is our proper debt to
Him, and the only worthy evidence of our gratitude for all He has done.
Outward worship is not of itself sufficient to express loyal and
heartfelt gratitude, since He has said: "If ye love Me, keep My
Commandments."

The habitual struggle to be always good, is unceasing prayer.  Its
motives are made manifest in the blessings they bring--which, if not
acknowledged in audible words, attest our worthiness to be made partakers
of Love.

Simply asking that we may love God will never make us love Him; but the
longing to be better and holier--expressed in daily watchfulness, and in
striving to assimilate more of the divine character--this will mould and
fashion us anew, until we awake in His likeness.  We reach the Science of
Christianity through demonstration of the divine nature; but in this
wicked world goodness will "be evil spoken of," and patience must work
experience.

Audible prayer can never do the works of spiritual understanding, which
regenerates; but silent prayer, watchfulness, and devout obedience,
enable us to follow Jesus' example.  Long prayers, ecclesiasticism, and
creeds, have clipped the divine pinions of Love, and clad religion in
human robes.  They materialize worship, hinder the Spirit, and keep man
from demonstrating his power over error.

Sorrow for wrong-doing is but one step towards reform, and the very
easiest step.  The next and great step required by Wisdom is the test of
our sincerity--namely, reformation.  To this end we are placed under the
stress of circumstances.  Temptation bids us repeat the offence, and woe
comes in return for what is done.  So it will ever be, till we learn that
there is no discount in the law of justice, and that we must pay "the
uttermost farthing."  The measure ye mete "shall be measured to you
again," and it will be full "and running over."

Saints and sinners get their full award, but not always in this world.
The followers of Christ drank His cup.  Ingratitude and persecution
filled it to the brim; but God pours the riches of His love into the
understanding and affections, giving us strength according to our day.
Sinners flourish "like a green bay-tree"; but, looking farther, the
Psalmist could see their end--namely, the destruction of sin through
suffering.

Prayer is sometimes used, as a confessional to cancel sin.  This error
impedes true religion.  Sin is forgiven, only as it is destroyed by
Christ-Truth and Life If prayer nourishes the belief that sin is
cancelled, and that man is made better by merely praying, it is an evil.
He grows worse who continues in sin because he thinks himself forgiven.

An apostle says that the Son of God (Christ) came to "destroy the works
of the devil."  We should follow our divine Exemplar, and seek the
destruction of all evil works, error and disease included.  We cannot
escape the penalty due for sin.  The Scriptures say, that if we deny
Christ, "He also will deny us."

The divine Love corrects and governs man.  Men may pardon, but this
divine Principle alone reforms the sinner.  God is not separate from the
wisdom He bestows.  The talents He gives we must improve.  Calling on Him
to forgive our work, badly done or left undone, implies the vain
supposition that we have nothing to do but to ask pardon, and that
afterwards we shall be free to repeat the offence.

To cause suffering, as the result of sin, is the means of destroying sin.
Every supposed pleasure in sin will furnish more than its equivalent of
pain, until belief in material life and sin is destroyed.  To reach
heaven, the harmony of Being, we must understand the divine Principle of
Being.

"God is Love."  More than this we cannot ask; higher we cannot look;
farther we cannot go.  To suppose that God forgives or punishes sin,
according as His mercy is sought or unsought, is to misunderstand Love
and make prayer the safety-valve for wrong-doing.

Jesus uncovered and rebuked sin before He cast it out.  Of a sick woman
He said that Satan had bound her; and to Peter He said, "Thou art an
offense unto me."  He came teaching and showing men how to destroy sin,
sickness, and death.  He said of the fruitless tree, "It is hewn down."

It is believed by many that a certain magistrate, who lived in the time
of Jesus, left this record: "His rebuke is fearful."  The strong language
of our Master confirms this description.

The only civil sentence which He had for error was, "Get thee behind Me,
Satan."  Still stronger evidence that Jesus' reproof was pointed and
pungent is in His own words--showing the necessity for such forcible
utterance, when He cast out devils and healed the sick and sinful.  The
relinquishment of error deprives material sense of its false claims.

Audible prayer is impressive; it gives momentary solemnity and elevation
to thought; but does it produce any lasting benefit?  Looking deeply into
these things, we find that "a zeal .  .  .  not according to knowledge,"
gives occasion for reaction unfavorable to spiritual growth, sober
resolve, and wholesome perception of God's requirements.  The motives for
verbal prayer may embrace too much love of applause to induce or
encourage Christian sentiment.

Physical sensation, not Soul, produces material ecstasy, and emotions.
If spiritual sense always guided men at such times, there would grow out
of those ecstatic moments a higher experience and a better life, with
more devout self-abnegation, and purity.  A self-satisfied ventilation of
fervent sentiments never makes a Christian.  God is not influenced by
man.  The "divine ear" is not an auditoria!  nerve.  It is the all-
hearing and all-knowing Mind, to whom each want of man is always known,
and by whom it will be supplied.

The danger from audible prayer is, that it may lead us into temptation.
By it we may become involuntary hypocrites, uttering desires which are
not real, and consoling ourselves in the midst of sin, with the
recollection that we have prayed over it--or mean to ask forgiveness at
some later day.  Hypocrisy is fatal to religion.

A wordy prayer may afford a quiet sense of self-justification, though it
makes the sinner a hypocrite.  We never need despair of an honest heart,
but there is little hope for those who only come spasmodically face to
face with their wickedness, and then seek to hide it.  Their prayers are
indexes which do not correspond with their character.  They hold secret
fellowship with sin; and such externals are spoken of by Jesus as "like
unto whited sepulchres .  .  .  full of all uncleanness."

If a man, though apparently fervent and prayerful, is impure, and
therefore insincere, what must be the comment upon him?  If he had
reached the loftiness of his prayer, there would be no occasion for such
comment.  If we feel the aspiration, humility, gratitude, and love which
our words express--this God accepts; and it is wise not to try to deceive
our.  selves or others, for "there is nothing covered that shall not be
revealed."  Professions and audible prayers are like charity in one
respect--they "cover a multitude of sins."  Praying for humility, with
whatever fervency of expression, does not always mean a desire for it.
If we turn away from the poor, we are not ready to receive the reward of
Him who blesses the poor.  We confess to having a very wicked heart, and
ask that it may be laid bare before us; but do we not already know more
of this heart than we are willing to have our neighbor see?

We ought to examine ourselves, and learn what is the affection and
purpose of the heart; for this alone can show us what we honestly are.
If a friend informs us of a fault, do we listen to the rebuke patiently,
and credit what is said?  Do we not rather give thanks that we are "not
as other men?" During many years the author has been most grateful for
merited rebuke.  The sting lies in unmerited censure--in the falsehood
which does no one any good.

The test of all prayer lies in the answer to these questions: Do we love
our neighbor better because of this asking?  Do we pursue the old
selfishness, satisfied with having prayed for something better, though we
give no evidence of the sincerity of our requests by living consistently
with our prayer?  If selfishness has given place to kindness, we shall
regard our neighbor unselfishly, and bless them that curse us; but we
shall never meet this great duty by simply asking that it may be done.
There is a cross to be taken up, before we can enjoy the fruition of our
hope and faith.

Dost thou "love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy
soul, and with all thy mind?" This command includes much--even the
surrender of all merely material sensation, affection, and worship.  This
is the E1 Dorado of Christianity.  It involves the Science of Life, and
recognizes only the divine control of Spirit, wherein Soul is our master,
and material sense and human will have no place.

Are you willing to leave all for Christ, for Truth, and so be counted
among sinners?  No!  Do you really desire to attain this point?  No!
Then why make long prayers about it, and ask to be Christians, since you
care not to tread in the footsteps of our dear Master?  If unwilling to
follow His example, wherefore pray with the lips that you may be
partakers of His nature?  Consistent prayer is the desire to do right.
Prayer means that we desire to, and will, walk in the light so far as we
receive it, even though with bleeding footsteps, and waiting patiently on
the Lord, will leave our real desires to be rewarded by Him.

The world must grow to the spiritual understanding of prayer.  If good
enough to profit by Jesus' cup of earthly sorrows, God will sustain us
under these sorrows.  Until we are thus divinely qualified, and willing
to drink His cup, millions of vain repetitions will never pour into
prayer the unction of Spirit, in demonstration of power, and "with signs
following."  Christian Science reveals a necessity for overcoming the
world, the flesh and evil, and thus destroying all error.

Seeking is not sufficient.  It is striving which enables us to enter.
Spiritual attainments open the door to a higher understanding of the
divine Life.

One of the forms of worship in Thibet is to carry a praying-machine
through the streets, and stop at the doors to earn a penny by grinding
out a prayer; whereas civilization pays for clerical prayers, in lofty
edifices.  Is the difference very great, after all?

Experience teaches us that we do not always receive the blessings we ask
for in prayer.

There is some misapprehension of the source and means of all goodness and
blessedness, or we should certainly receive what we ask for.  The
Scriptures say: "Ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss, that ye
may consume it upon your lusts."  What we desire and ask for it is not
always best for us to receive.  In this case infinite Love will not grant
the request.  Do you ask Wisdom to be merciful and not punish sin?  Then
"ye ask amiss."  Without punishment, sin would multiply.  Jesus' prayer,
"forgive us our debts," specified also the terms of forgiveness.  When
forgiving the adulterous woman He said, "Go, and sin no more."

A magistrate sometimes remits the penalty, but this may be no moral
benefit to the criminal; and at best, it only saves him from one form of
punishment.  The moral law, which has the right to acquit or condemn,
always demands restitution, before mortals can "go up higher."  Broken
law brings penalty, in order to compel this progress.

Mere legal pardon (and there is no other, for divine Principle never
pardons our sins or mistakes till they are corrected) leaves the offender
free to repeat the offense; if, indeed, he has not already suffered
sufficiently from vice to make him turn from it with loathing.  Truth
bestows no pardon upon error, but wipes it out in the most effectual
manner.  Jesus suffered for our sins, not to annul the divine sentence
against an individual's sin, but to show that sin must bring inevitable
suffering.

Petitions only bring to mortals the results of their own faith.  We know
that a desire for holiness is requisite in order to gain it; but if we
desire holiness above all else, we shall sacrifice everything for it.  We
must be willing to do this, that we may walk securely in the only
practical road to holiness.  Prayer alone cannot change the unalterable
Truth, or give us an understanding of it; but prayer coupled with a
fervent habitual desire to know and do the will of God will bring us into
all Truth.  Such a desire has little need of audible expression.  It is
best expressed in thought and life.




APPENDIX E

Reverend Heber Newton on Christian Science:

To begin, then, at the beginning, Christian Science accepts the work of
healing sickness as an integral part of the discipleship of Jesus Christ.
In Christ it finds, what the Church has always recognized, theoretically,
though it has practically ignored the fact--the Great Physician.  That
Christ healed the sick, we none of us question.  It stands plainly upon
the record.  This ministry of healing was too large a part of His work to
be left out from any picture of that life.  Such service was not an
incident of His career--it was an essential element of that career.  It
was an integral factor in His mission.  The Evangelists leave us no
possibility of confusion on this point.  Co-equal with his work of
instruction and inspiration was His work of healing.

The records make it equally clear that the Master laid His charge upon
His disciples to do as He had done.  "When He had called unto Him His
twelve disciples, He gave them power over unclean spirits, to cast them
out, and to heal all manner of sickness and all manner of disease."  In
sending them forth, "He commanded them, saying, .  .  .  As ye go,
preach, saying, The kingdom of heaven is at hand.  Heal the sick, cleanse
the lepers, raise the dead, cast out demons."

That the twelve disciples undertook to do the Master's work of healing,
and that they, in their measure, succeeded, seems beyond question.  They
found in themselves the same power that the Master found in Himself, and
they used it as He had used His power.  The record of The Acts of the
Apostles, if at all trustworthy history, shows that they, too, healed the
sick.

Beyond the circle of the original twelve, it is equally clear that the
early disciples believed themselves charged with the same mission, and
that they sought to fulfil it.  The records of the early Church make it
indisputable that powers of healing were recognized as among the gifts of
the Spirit.  St.  Paul's letters render it certain that these gifts were
not a privilege of the original twelve, merely, but that they were the
heritage into which all the disciples entered.

Beyond the era of the primitive Church, through several generations, the
early Christians felt themselves called to the same ministry of healing,
and enabled with the same secret of power.  Through wellnigh three
centuries, the gifts of healing appear to have been, more or less,
recognized and exercised in the Church.  Through those generations,
however, there was a gradual disuse of this power, following upon a
failing recognition of its possession.  That which was originally the
rule became the exception.  By degrees, the sense of authority and power
to heal passed out from the consciousness of the Church.  It ceased to be
a sign of the indwelling Spirit.  For fifteen centuries, the recognition
of this authority and power has been altogether exceptional.  Here and
there, through the history of these centuries, there have been those who
have entered into this belief of their own privilege and duty, and have
used the gift which they recognized.  The Church has never been left
without a line of witnesses to this aspect of the discipleship of Christ.
But she has come to accept it as the normal order of things that what was
once the rule in the Christian Church should be now only the exception.
Orthodoxy has framed a theory of the words of Jesus to account for this
strange departure of His Church from them.  It teaches us to believe that
His example was not meant to be followed, in this respect, by all His
disciples.  The power of healing which was in Him was a purely
exceptional power.  It was used as an evidence of His divine mission.  It
was a miraculous gift.  The gift of working miracles was not bestowed
upon His Church at large.  His original disciples, the twelve apostles,
received this gift, as a necessity of the critical epoch of Christianity
--the founding of the Church.  Traces of the power lingered on, in
weakening activity, until they gradually ceased, and the normal condition
of the Church was entered upon, in which miracles are no longer possible.


We accept this, unconsciously, as the true state of things in
Christianity.  But it is a conception which will not bear a moment's
examination.  There is not the slightest suggestion upon record that
Christ set any limit to this charge which He gave His disciples.  On the
contrary, there are not lacking hints that He looked for the possession
and exercise of this power wherever His spirit breathed in men.

Even if the concluding paragraph of St. Mark's Gospel were a later
appendix, it may none the less have been a faithful echo of words of the
Master, as it certainly is a trustworthy record of the belief of the
early Christians as to the thought of Jesus concerning His followers.  In
that interesting passage, Jesus, after His death, appeared to the eleven,
and formally commissioned them, again, to take up His work in the world;
bidding them, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every
creature."  "And these signs," He tells them, "shall follow them that
believe"--not the apostles only, but "them that believe," without limit
of time; "in My name they shall cast out devils .  .  .  they shall lay
hands on the sick and they shall recover."  The concluding discourse to
the disciples, recorded in the Gospel according to St.  John, affirms the
same expectation on the part of Jesus; emphasizing it in His solemn way:
"Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that believeth on Me, the works that
I do shall he do also; and greater works than these shall he do."




APPENDIX F

Few will deny that an intelligence apart from man formed and governs the
spiritual universe and man; and this intelligence is the eternal Mind,
and neither matter nor man created this intelligence and divine
Principle; nor can this Principle produce aught unlike itself.  All that
we term sin, sickness, and death is comprised in the belief of matter.
The realm of the real is spiritual; the opposite of Spirit is matter; and
the opposite of the real is unreal or material.  Matter is an error of
statement, for there is no matter.  This error of premises leads to error
of conclusion in every statement of matter as a basis.  Nothing we can
say or believe regarding matter is true, except that matter is unreal,
simply a belief that has its beginning and ending.

The conservative firm called matter and mind God never formed.  The
unerring and eternal Mind destroys this imaginary copartnership, formed
only to be dissolved in a manner and at a period unknown.  This
copartnership is obsolete.  Placed under the microscope of metaphysics
matter disappears.  Only by understanding there are not two, matter and
mind, is a logical and correct conclusion obtained by either one.
Science gathers not grapes of thorns or figs of thistles.  Intelligence
never produced non-intelligence, such as matter: the immortal never
produced mortality, good never resulted in evil.  The science of Mind
shows conclusively that matter is a myth.  Metaphysics are above physics,
and drag not matter, or what is termed that, into one of its premises or
conclusions.  Metaphysics resolves things into thoughts, and exchanges
the objects of sense for the ideas of Soul.  These ideas are perfectly
tangible and real to consciousness, and they have this advantage--they
are eternal.  Mind and its thoughts comprise the whole of God, the
universe, and of man.  Reason and revelation coincide with this
statement, and support its proof every hour, for nothing is harmonious or
eternal that is not spiritual: the realization of this will bring out
objects from a higher source of thought; hence more beautiful and
immortal.

The fact of spiritualization produces results in striking contrast to the
farce of materialization: the one produces the results of chastity and
purity, the other the downward tendencies and earthward gravitation of
sensualism and impurity.

The exalting and healing effects of metaphysics show their fountain.
Nothing in pathology has exceeded the application of metaphysics.
Through mind alone we have prevented disease and preserved health.  In
cases of chronic and acute diseases, in their severest forms, we have
changed the secretions, renewed structure, and restored health; have
elongated shortened limbs, relaxed rigid muscles, made cicatrized joints
supple; restored carious bones to healthy conditions, renewed that which
is termed the lost substance of the lungs; and restored healthy
organizations where disease was organic instead of functional.




MRS. EDDY IN ERROR

I feel almost sure that Mrs. Eddy's inspiration--works are getting out of
repair.  I think so because they made some errors in a statement which
she uttered through the press on the 17th of January.  Not large ones,
perhaps, still it is a friend's duty to straighten such things out and
get them right when he can.  Therefore I will put my other duties aside
for a moment and undertake this helpful service.  She said as follows:

"In view of the circulation of certain criticisms from the pen of Mark
Twain, I submit the following statement:

"It is a fact, well understood, that I begged the students who first gave
me the endearing appellative 'mother' not to name me thus.  But, without
my consent, that word spread like wildfire.  I still must think the name
is not applicable to me.  I stand in relation to this century as a
Christian discoverer, founder, and leader.  I regard self-deification as
blasphemous; I may be more loved, but I am less lauded, pampered,
provided for, and cheered than others before me--and wherefore?  Because
Christian Science is not yet popular, and I refuse adulation.

"My visit to the Mother-Church after it was built and dedicated pleased
me, and the situation was satisfactory.  The dear members wanted to greet
me with escort and the ringing of bells, but I declined, and went alone
in my carriage to the church, entered it, and knelt in thanks upon the
steps of its altar.  There the foresplendor of the beginnings of truth
fell mysteriously upon my spirit.  I believe in one Christ, teach one
Christ, know of but one Christ.  I believe in but one incarnation, one
Mother Mary, and know I am not that one, and never claimed to be.  It
suffices me to learn the Science of the Scriptures relative to this
subject.

"Christian Scientists have no quarrel with Protestants, Catholics, or any
other sect.  They need to be understood as following the divine Principle
God, Love and not imagined to be unscientific worshippers of a human
being.

"In the aforesaid article, of which I have seen only extracts, Mark
Twain's wit was not wasted In certain directions.  Christian Science
eschews divine rights in human beings.  If the individual governed human
consciousness, my statement of Christian Science would be disproved, but
to understand the spiritual idea is essential to demonstrate Science and
its pure monotheism--one God, one Christ, no idolatry, no human
propaganda.  Jesus taught and proved that what feeds a few feeds all.
His life-work subordinated the material to the spiritual, and He left
this legacy of truth to mankind.  His metaphysics is not the sport of
philosophy, religion, or Science; rather it is the pith and finale of
them all.

"I have not the inspiration or aspiration to be a first or second Virgin-
Mother--her duplicate, antecedent, or subsequent.  What I am remains to
be proved by the good I do.  We need much humility, wisdom, and love to
perform the functions of foreshadowing and foretasting heaven within us.
This glory is molten in the furnace of affliction."

She still thinks the name of Our Mother not applicable to her; and she is
also able to remember that it distressed her when it was conferred upon
her, and that she begged to have it suppressed.  Her memory is at fault
here.  If she will take her By-laws, and refer to Section 1 of Article
XXII., written with her own hand--she will find that she has reserved
that title to herself, and is so pleased with it, and so--may we say
jealous?--about it, that she threatens with excommunication any sister
Scientist who shall call herself by it.  This is that Section 1:

"The Title of Mother.  In the year 1895 loyal Christian Scientists had
given to the author of their text-book, the Founder of Christian Science,
the individual, endearing term of Mother.  Therefore, if a student of
Christian Science shall apply this title, either to herself or to others,
except as the term for kinship according to the flesh, it shall be
regarded by the Church as an indication of disrespect for their Pastor
Emeritus, and unfitness to be a member of the Mother-Church."

Mrs. Eddy is herself the Mother-Church--its powers and authorities are in
her possession solely--and she can abolish that title whenever it may
please her to do so.  She has only to command her people, wherever they
may be in the earth, to use it no more, and it will never be uttered
again.  She is aware of this.

It may be that she "refuses adulation" when she is not awake, but when
she is awake she encourages it and propagates it in that museum called
"Our Mother's Room," in her Church in Boston.  She could abolish that
institution with a word, if she wanted to.  She is aware of that.  I will
say a further word about the museum presently.

Further down the column, her memory is unfaithful again:

"I believe in .  .  .  but one Mother Mary, and know I am not that one,
and never claimed to be."

At a session of the National Christian Science Association, held in the
city of New York on the 27th of May, 1890, the secretary was "instructed
to send to our Mother greetings and words of affection from her assembled
children."

Her telegraphic response was read to the Association at next day's
meeting:

"All hail!  He hath filled the hungry with good things and the sick hath
He not sent empty away.--MOTHER MARY."

Which Mother Mary is this one?  Are there two?  If so, she is both of
them; for, when she signed this telegram in this satisfied and
unprotesting way, the Mother-title which she was going to so strenuously
object to, and put from her with humility, and seize with both hands, and
reserve as her sole property, and protect her monopoly of it with a stern
By-law, while recognizing with diffidence that it was "not applicable" to
her (then and to-day)--that Mother--title was not yet born, and would not
be offered to her until five years later.  The date of the above "Mother
Mary" is 1890; the "individual, endearing title of Mother" was given her
"in 1895"--according to her own testimony.  See her By-law quoted above.

In his opening Address to that Convention of 1890, the President
recognized this Mary--our Mary-and abolished all previous ones.  He said:

"There is but one Moses, one Jesus; and there is but one Mary."

The confusions being now dispersed, we have this clarified result:

Were had been a Moses at one time, and only one; there had been a Jesus
at one time, and only one; there is a Mary and "only one."  She is not a
Has Been, she is an Is--the "Author of Science and Health; and we cannot
ignore her."

1.  In 1890, there was but one Mother Mary.  The President said so.
2.  Mrs. Eddy was that one.  She said so, in signing the telegram.
3.  Mrs. Eddy was not that one for she says so, in her Associated Press
utterance of January 17th.
4.  And has "never claimed to be "that one--unless the signature to the
telegram is a claim.

Thus it stands proven and established that she is that Mary and isn't,
and thought she was and knows she wasn't.  That much is clear.

She is also "The Mother," by the election of 1895, and did not want the
title, and thinks it is not applicable to her, end will excommunicate any
one that tries to take it away from her.  So that is clear.

I think that the only really troublesome confusion connected with these
particular matters has arisen from the name Mary.  Much vexation, much
misunderstanding, could have been avoided if Mrs. Eddy had used some of
her other names in place of that one.  "Mother Mary" was certain to stir
up discussion.  It would have been much better if she had signed the
telegram "Mother Baker"; then there would have been no Biblical
competition, and, of course, that is a thing to avoid.  But it is not too
late, yet.

I wish to break in here with a parenthesis, and then take up this
examination of Mrs. Eddy's Claim of January 17th again.

The history of her "Mother Mary" telegram--as told to me by one who ought
to be a very good authority--is curious and interesting.  The telegram
ostensibly quotes verse 53 from the "Magnificat," but really makes some
pretty formidable changes in it.  This is St.  Luke's version:

"He hath filled the hungry with good things, and the rich He hath sent
empty away."

This is "Mother Mary's" telegraphed version:

"He hath filled the hungry with good things, and the sick hath He not
sent empty away."

To judge by the Official Report, the bursting of this bombshell in that
massed convention of trained Christians created no astonishment, since it
caused no remark, and the business of the convention went tranquilly on,
thereafter, as if nothing had happened.

Did those people detect those changes?  We cannot know.  I think they
must have noticed them, the wording of St.  Luke's verse being as
familiar to all Christians as is the wording of the Beatitudes; and I
think that the reason the new version provoked no surprise and no comment
was, that the assemblage took it for a "Key"--a spiritualized explanation
of verse 53, newly sent down from heaven through Mrs. Eddy.  For all
Scientists study their Bibles diligently, and they know their Magnificat.
I believe that their confidence in the authenticity of Mrs. Eddy's
inspirations is so limitless and so firmly established that no change,
however violent, which she might make in a Bible text could disturb their
composure or provoke from them a protest.

Her improved rendition of verse 53 went into the convention's report and
appeared in a New York paper the next day.  The (at that time) Scientist
whom I mentioned a minute ago, and who had not been present at the
convention, saw it and marvelled; marvelled and was indignant--indignant
with the printer or the telegrapher, for making so careless and so
dreadful an error.  And greatly distressed, too; for, of course, the
newspaper people would fall foul of it, and be sarcastic, and make fun of
it.  and have a blithe time over it, and be properly thankful for the
chance.  It shows how innocent he was; it shows that he did not know the
limitations of newspaper men in the matter of Biblical knowledge.  The
new verse 53 raised no insurrection in the press; in fact, it was not
even remarked upon; I could have told him the boys would not know there
was anything the matter with it.  I have been a newspaper man myself, and
in those days I had my limitations like the others.

The Scientist hastened to Concord and told Mrs. Eddy what a disastrous
mistake had been made, but he found to his bewilderment that she was
tranquil about it, and was not proposing to correct it.  He was not able
to get her to promise to make a correction.  He asked her secretary if he
had heard aright when the telegram was dictated to him; the secretary
said he had, and took the filed copy of it and verified its authenticity
by comparing it with the stenographic notes.

Mrs. Eddy did make the correction, two months later, in her official
organ.  It attracted no attention among the Scientists; and, naturally,
none elsewhere, for that periodical's circulation was practically
confined to disciples of the cult.

That is the tale as it was told to me by an ex-Scientist.  Verse 53--
renovated and spiritualized--had a narrow escape from a tremendous
celebrity.  The newspaper men would have made it as famous as the
assassination of Caesar, but for their limitations.

To return to the Claim.  I find myself greatly embarrassed by Mrs. Eddy's
remark: "I regard self-deification as blasphemous."  If she is right
about that, I have written a half-ream of manuscript this past week which
I must not print, either in the book which I am writing, or elsewhere:
for it goes into that very matter with extensive elaboration, citing, in
detail, words and acts of Mrs. Eddy's which seem to me to prove that she
is a faithful and untiring worshipper of herself, and has carried self-
deification to a length which has not been before ventured in ages.  If
ever.  There is not room enough in this chapter for that Survey, but I
can epitomize a portion of it here.

With her own untaught and untrained mind, and without outside help, she
has erected upon a firm and lasting foundation the most minutely perfect,
and wonderful, and smoothly and exactly working, and best safe-guarded
system of government that has yet been devised in the world, as I
believe, and as I am sure I could prove if I had room for my documentary
evidences here.

It is a despotism (on this democratic soil); a sovereignty more absolute
than the Roman Papacy, more absolute than the Russian Czarship; it has
not a single power, not a shred of authority, legislative or executive,
which is not lodged solely in the sovereign; all its dreams, its
functions, its energies, have a single object, a single reason for
existing, and only the one--to build to the sky the glory of the
sovereign, and keep it bright to the end of time.

Mrs. Eddy is the sovereign; she devised that great place for herself, she
occupies that throne.

In 1895, she wrote a little primer, a little body of autocratic laws,
called the Manual of The First Church of Christ, Scientist, and put those
laws in force, in permanence.  Her government is all there; all in that
deceptively innocent-looking little book, that cunning little devilish
book, that slumbering little brown volcano, with hell in its bowels.  In
that book she has planned out her system, and classified and defined its
purposes and powers.




MAIN PARTS OF THE MACHINE

A Supreme Church.  At Boston.
Branch Churches.  All over the world
One Pastor for the whole of them: to wit, her book, Science and Health.
Term of the book's office--forever.

In every C.S. pulpit, two "Readers," a man and a woman.  No talkers, no
preachers, in any Church-readers only.  Readers of the Bible and her
books--no others.  No commentators allowed to write or print.

A Church Service.  She has framed it--for all the C.S. Churches--
selected its readings, its prayers, and the hymns to be used, and has
appointed the order of procedure.  No changes permitted.

A Creed.  She wrote it.  All C.S. Churches must subscribe to it.  No
other permitted.

A Treasury.  At Boston.  She carries the key.

A C.S. Book--Publishing House.  For books approved by her.  No others
permitted.

Journals and Magazines.  These are organs of hers, and are controlled by
her.

A College.  For teaching C.S.




DISTRIBUTION OF THE MACHINE'S POWERS AND DIGNITIES

Supreme Church.
Pastor Emeritus--Mrs. Eddy.
Board of Directors.
Board of Education.
Board of Finance.
College Faculty.
Various Committees.
Treasurer.
Clerk.
First Members (of the Supreme Church).
Members of the Supreme Church.

It looks fair, it looks real, but it is all a fiction.

Even the little "Pastor Emeritus" is a fiction.  Instead of being merely
an honorary and ornamental official, Mrs. Eddy is the only official in
the entire body that has the slightest power.  In her Manual, she has
provided a prodigality of ways and forms whereby she can rid herself of
any functionary in the government whenever she wants to.  The officials
are all shadows, save herself; she is the only reality.  She allows no
one to hold office more than a year--no one gets a chance to become
over-popular or over-useful, and dangerous.  "Excommunication" is the
favorite penalty-it is threatened at every turn.  It is evidently the pet
dread and terror of the Church's membership.

The member who thinks, without getting his thought from Mrs. Eddy before
uttering it, is banished permanently.  One or two kinds of sinners can
plead their way back into the fold, but this one, never.  To think--in
the Supreme Church--is the New Unpardonable Sin.

To nearly every severe and fierce rule, Mrs. Eddy adds this rivet: "This
By-law shall not be changed without the consent of the Pastor Emeritus."

Mrs. Eddy is the entire Supreme Church, in her own person, in the matter
of powers and authorities.

Although she has provided so many ways of getting rid of unsatisfactory
members and officials, she was still afraid she might have left a life-
preserver lying around somewhere, therefore she devised a rule to cover
that defect.  By applying it, she can excommunicate (and this is
perpetual again) every functionary connected with the Supreme Church, and
every one of the twenty-five thousand members of that Church, at an
hour's notice--and do it all by herself without anybody's help.

By authority of this astonishing By-law, she has only to say a person
connected with that Church is secretly practicing hypnotism or mesmerism;
whereupon, immediate excommunication, without a hearing, is his portion!
She does not have to order a trial and produce evidence--her accusation
is all that is necessary.

Where is the Pope? and where the Czar?  As the ballad says:

     "Ask of the winds that far away
     With fragments strewed the sea!"

The Branch Church's pulpit is occupied by two "Readers."  Without them
the Branch Church is as dead as if its throat had been cut.  To have
control, then, of the Readers, is to have control of the Branch Churches.
Mrs. Eddy has that control--a control wholly without limit, a control
shared with no one.

1.  No Reader can be appointed to any Church in the Christian Science
world without her express approval.

2.  She can summarily expel from his or her place any Reader, at home or
abroad, by a mere letter of dismissal, over her signature, and without
furnishing any reason for it, to either the congregation or the Reader.

Thus she has as absolute control over all Branch Churches as she has over
the Supreme Church.  This power exceeds the Pope's.

In simple truth, she is the only absolute sovereign in all Christendom.
The authority of the other sovereigns has limits, hers has none, none
whatever.  And her yoke does not fret, does not offend.  Many of the
subjects of the other monarchs feel their yoke, and are restive under it;
their loyalty is insincere.  It is not so with this one's human property;
their loyalty is genuine, earnest, sincere, enthusiastic.  The sentiment
which they feel for her is one which goes out in sheer perfection to no
other occupant of a throne; for it is love, pure from doubt, envy,
exaction, fault-seeking, a love whose sun has no spot--that form of love,
strong, great, uplifting, limitless, whose vast proportions are
compassable by no word but one, the prodigious word, Worship.  And it is
not as a human being that her subjects worship her, but as a supernatural
one, a divine one, one who has comradeship with God, and speaks by His
voice.

Mrs. Eddy has herself created all these personal grandeurs and
autocracies--with others which I have not (in this article) mentioned.
They place her upon an Alpine solitude and supremacy of power and
spectacular show not hitherto attained by any other self-seeking enslaver
disguised in the Christian name, and they persuade me that, although she
may regard "self-deification as blasphemous," she is as fond of it as I
am of pie.

She knows about "Our Mother's Room" in the Supreme Church in Boston--
above referred to--for she has been in it.  In a recently published North
American Review article, I quoted a lady as saying Mrs. Eddy's portrait
could be seen there in a shrine, lit by always-burning lights, and that
C.S. disciples came and worshiped it.  That remark hurt the feelings of
more than one Scientist.  They said it was not true, and asked me to
correct it.  I comply with pleasure.  Whether the portrait was there four
years ago or not, it is not there now, for I have inquired.  The only
object in the shrine now, and lit by electrics--and worshiped--is an oil-
portrait of the horse-hair chair Mrs. Eddy used to sit in when she was
writing Science and Health!  It seems to me that adulation has struck
bottom, here.

Mrs. Eddy knows about that.  She has been there, she has seen it, she has
seen the worshippers.  She could abolish that sarcasm with a word.  She
withholds the word.  Once more I seem to recognize in her exactly the
same appetite for self-deification that I have for pie.  We seem to be
curiously alike; for the love of self-deification is really only the
spiritual form of the material appetite for pie, and nothing could be
more strikingly Christian-Scientifically "harmonious."

I note this phrase:

"Christian Science eschews divine rights in human beings."

"Rights" is vague; I do not know what it means there.  Mrs. Eddy is not
well acquainted with the English language, and she is seldom able to say
in it what she is trying to say.  She has no ear for the exact word, and
does not often get it.  "Rights."  Does it mean "honors?" "attributes?"

"Eschews."  This is another umbrella where there should be a torch; it
does not illumine the sentence, it only deepens the shadows.  Does she
mean "denies?" "refuses?" "forbids?" or something in that line?  Does she
mean:

"Christian Science denies divine honors to human beings?" Or:

"Christian Science refuses to recognize divine attributes in human
beings?" Or:

"Christian Science forbids the worship of human beings?"

The bulk of the succeeding sentence is to me a tunnel, but, when I emerge
at this end of it, I seem to come into daylight.  Then I seem to
understand both sentences--with this result:

"Christian Science recognizes but one God, forbids the worship of human
beings, and refuses to recognize the possession of divine attributes by
any member of the race."

I am subject to correction, but I think that that is about what Mrs. Eddy
was intending to convey.  Has her English--which is always difficult to
me--beguiled me into misunderstanding the following remark, which she
makes (calling herself "we," after an old regal fashion of hers) in her
preface to her Miscellaneous Writings?

"While we entertain decided views as to the best method for elevating the
race physically, morally, and spiritually, and shall express these views
as duty demands, we shall claim no especial gift from our divine organ,
no supernatural power."

Was she meaning to say:

"Although I am of divine origin and gifted with supernatural power, I
shall not draw upon these resources in determining the best method of
elevating the race?"

If she had left out the word "our," she might then seem to say:

"I claim no especial or unusual degree of divine origin--"

Which is awkward--most awkward; for one either has a divine origin or
hasn't; shares in it, degrees of it, are surely impossible.  The idea of
crossed breeds in cattle is a thing we can entertain, for we are used to
it, and it is possible; but the idea of a divine mongrel is unthinkable.

Well, then, what does she mean?  I am sure I do not know, for certain.
It is the word "our" that makes all the trouble.  With the "our" in, she
is plainly saying "my divine origin."  The word "from" seems to be
intended to mean "on account of."  It has to mean that or nothing, if
"our" is allowed to stay.  The clause then says:

"I shall claim no especial gift on account of my divine origin."

And I think that the full sentence was intended to mean what I have
already suggested:

"Although I am of divine origin, and gifted with supernatural power, I
shall not draw upon these resources in determining the best method of
elevating the race."

When Mrs. Eddy copyrighted that Preface seven years ago, she had long
been used to regarding herself as a divine personage.  I quote from Mr.
F. W. Peabody's book:

"In the Christian Science Journal for April, 1889, when it was her
property, and published by her, it was claimed for her, and with her
sanction, that she was equal with Jesus, and elaborate effort was made to
establish the claim."

"Mrs. Eddy has distinctly authorized the claim in her behalf, that she
herself was the chosen successor to and equal of Jesus."

The following remark in that April number, quoted by Mr. Peabody,
indicates that her claim had been previously made, and had excited
"horror" among some "good people":

"Now, a word about the horror many good people have of our making the
Author of Science and Health 'equal with Jesus.'"

Surely, if it had excited horror in Mrs. Eddy also, she would have
published a disclaimer.  She owned the paper; she could say what she
pleased in its columns.  Instead of rebuking her editor, she lets him
rebuke those "good people" for objecting to the claim.

These things seem to throw light upon those words, "our [my] divine
origin."

It may be that "Christian Science eschews divine rights in human beings,"
and forbids worship of any but "one God, one Christ"; but, if that is the
case, it looks as if Mrs. Eddy is a very unsound Christian Scientist, and
needs disciplining.  I believe she has a serious malady--"self-
deification"; and that it will be well to have one of the experts
demonstrate over it.

Meantime, let her go on living--for my sake.  Closely examined,
painstakingly studied, she is easily the most interesting person on the
planet, and, in several ways, as easily the most extraordinary woman that
was ever born upon it.


P.S.--Since I wrote the foregoing, Mr. McCrackan's article appeared (in
the March number of the North American Review).  Before his article
appeared--that is to say, during December, January, and February--I had
written a new book, a character-portrait of Mrs. Eddy, drawn from her own
acts and words, and it was then--together with the three brief articles
previously published in the North American Review--ready to be delivered
to the printer for issue in book form.  In that book, by accident and
good luck, I have answered the objections made by Mr. McCrackan to my
views, and therefore do not need to add an answer here.  Also, in it I
have corrected certain misstatements of mine which he has noticed, and
several others which he has not referred to.  There are one or two
important matters of opinion upon which he and I are not in disagreement;
but there are others upon which we must continue to disagree, I suppose;
indeed, I know we must; for instance, he believes Mrs. Eddy wrote Science
and Health, whereas I am quite sure I can convince a person unhampered by
predilections that she did not.

As concerns one considerable matter I hope to convert him.  He believes
Mrs. Eddy's word; in his article he cites her as a witness, and takes her
testimony at par; but if he will make an excursion through my book when
it comes out, and will dispassionately examine her testimonies as there
accumulated, I think he will in candor concede that she is by a large
percentage the most erratic and contradictory and untrustworthy witness
that has occupied the stand since the days of the lamented Ananias.




CONCLUSION

Broadly speaking, the hostiles reject and repudiate all the pretensions
of Christian Science Christianity.  They affirm that it has added nothing
new to Christianity; that it can do nothing that Christianity could not
do and was not doing before Christian Science was born.

In that case is there no field for the new Christianity, no opportunity
for usefulness, precious usefulness, great and distinguished usefulness?
I think there is.  I am far from being confident that it can fill it, but
I will indicate that unoccupied field--without charge--and if it can
conquer it, it will deserve the praise and gratitude of the Christian
world, and will get it, I am sure.

The present Christianity makes an excellent private Christian, but its
endeavors to make an excellent public one go for nothing, substantially.

This is an honest nation--in private life.  The American Christian is a
straight and clean and honest man, and in his private commerce with his
fellows can be trusted to stand faithfully by the principles of honor and
honesty imposed upon him by his religion.  But the moment he comes
forward to exercise a public trust he can be confidently counted upon to
betray that trust in nine cases out of ten, if "party loyalty" shall
require it.

If there are two tickets in the field in his city, one composed of honest
men and the other of notorious blatherskites and criminals, he will not
hesitate to lay his private Christian honor aside and vote for the
blatherskites if his "party honor" shall exact it.  His Christianity is
of no use to him and has no influence upon him when he is acting in a
public capacity.  He has sound and sturdy private morals, but he has no
public ones.  In the last great municipal election in New York, almost a
complete one-half of the votes representing 3,500,000 Christians were
cast for a ticket that had hardly a man on it whose earned and proper
place was outside of a jail.  But that vote was present at church next
Sunday the same as ever, and as unconscious of its perfidy as if nothing
had happened.

Our Congresses consist of Christians.  In their private life they are
true to every obligation of honor; yet in every session they violate them
all, and do it without shame; because honor to party is above honor to
themselves.  It is an accepted law of public life that in it a man may
soil his honor in the interest of party expediency--must do it when
party expediency requires it.  In private life those men would bitterly
resent--and justly--any insinuation that it would not be safe to leave
unwatched money within their reach; yet you could not wound their
feelings by reminding them that every time they vote ten dollars to the
pension appropriation nine of it is stolen money and they the marauders.
They have filched the money to take care of the party; they believe it
was right to do it; they do not see how their private honor is affected;
therefore their consciences are clear and at rest.  By vote they do
wrongful things every day, in the party interest, which they could not be
persuaded to do in private life.  In the interest of party expediency
they give solemn pledges, they make solemn compacts; in the interest of
party expediency they repudiate them without a blush.  They would not
dream of committing these strange crimes in private life.

Now then, can Christian Science introduce the Congressional Blush?  There
are Christian Private Morals, but there are no Christian Public Morals,
at the polls, or in Congress or anywhere else--except here and there and
scattered around like lost comets in the solar system.  Can Christian
Science persuade the nation and Congress to throw away their public
morals and use none but their private ones henceforth in all their
activities, both public and private?

I do not think so; but no matter about me: there is the field--a grand
one, a splendid one, a sublime one, and absolutely unoccupied.  Has
Christian Science confidence enough in itself to undertake to enter in
and try to possess it?

Make the effort, Christian Science; it is a most noble cause, and it
might succeed.  It could succeed.  Then we should have a new literature,
with romances entitled, How To Be an Honest Congressman Though a
Christian; How To Be a Creditable Citizen Though a Christian.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Christian Science,
by Mark Twain






EXTRACT FROM CAPTAIN STORMFIELD'S VISIT TO HEAVEN

By Mark Twain



CHAPTER I



Well, when I had been dead about thirty years I begun to get a
little anxious.  Mind you, had been whizzing through space all that
time, like a comet.  LIKE a comet!  Why, Peters, I laid over the
lot of them!  Of course there warn't any of them going my way, as a
steady thing, you know, because they travel in a long circle like
the loop of a lasso, whereas I was pointed as straight as a dart
for the Hereafter; but I happened on one every now and then that
was going my way for an hour or so, and then we had a bit of a
brush together.  But it was generally pretty one-sided, because I
sailed by them the same as if they were standing still.  An
ordinary comet don't make more than about 200,000 miles a minute.
Of course when I came across one of that sort - like Encke's and
Halley's comets, for instance - it warn't anything but just a flash
and a vanish, you see.  You couldn't rightly call it a race.  It
was as if the comet was a gravel-train and I was a telegraph
despatch.  But after I got outside of our astronomical system, I
used to flush a comet occasionally that was something LIKE.  WE
haven't got any such comets - ours don't begin.  One night I was
swinging along at a good round gait, everything taut and trim, and
the wind in my favor - I judged I was going about a million miles a
minute - it might have been more, it couldn't have been less - when
I flushed a most uncommonly big one about three points off my
starboard bow.  By his stern lights I judged he was bearing about
northeast-and-by-north-half-east.  Well, it was so near my course
that I wouldn't throw away the chance; so I fell off a point,
steadied my helm, and went for him.  You should have heard me whiz,
and seen the electric fur fly!  In about a minute and a half I was
fringed out with an electrical nimbus that flamed around for miles
and miles and lit up all space like broad day.  The comet was
burning blue in the distance, like a sickly torch, when I first
sighted him, but he begun to grow bigger and bigger as I crept up
on him.  I slipped up on him so fast that when I had gone about
150,000,000 miles I was close enough to be swallowed up in the
phosphorescent glory of his wake, and I couldn't see anything for
the glare.  Thinks I, it won't do to run into him, so I shunted to
one side and tore along.  By and by I closed up abreast of his
tail.  Do you know what it was like?  It was like a gnat closing up
on the continent of America.  I forged along.  By and by I had
sailed along his coast for a little upwards of a hundred and fifty
million miles, and then I could see by the shape of him that I
hadn't even got up to his waistband yet.  Why, Peters, WE don't
know anything about comets, down here.  If you want to see comets
that ARE comets, you've got to go outside of our solar system -
where there's room for them, you understand.  My friend, I've seen
comets out there that couldn't even lay down inside the ORBITS of
our noblest comets without their tails hanging over.

Well, I boomed along another hundred and fifty million miles, and
got up abreast his shoulder, as you may say.  I was feeling pretty
fine, I tell you; but just then I noticed the officer of the deck
come to the side and hoist his glass in my direction.  Straight off
I heard him sing out - "Below there, ahoy!  Shake her up, shake her
up!  Heave on a hundred million billion tons of brimstone!"

"Ay-ay, sir!"

"Pipe the stabboard watch!  All hands on deck!"

"Ay-ay, sir!"

"Send two hundred thousand million men aloft to shake out royals
and sky-scrapers!"

"Ay-ay, sir!"

"Hand the stuns'ls!  Hang out every rag you've got!  Clothe her
from stem to rudder-post!"

"Ay-ay, sir!"

In about a second I begun to see I'd woke up a pretty ugly
customer, Peters.  In less than ten seconds that comet was just a
blazing cloud of red-hot canvas.  It was piled up into the heavens
clean out of sight - the old thing seemed to swell out and occupy
all space; the sulphur smoke from the furnaces - oh, well, nobody
can describe the way it rolled and tumbled up into the skies, and
nobody can half describe the way it smelt.  Neither can anybody
begin to describe the way that monstrous craft begun to crash
along.  And such another powwow - thousands of bo's'n's whistles
screaming at once, and a crew like the populations of a hundred
thousand worlds like ours all swearing at once.  Well, I never
heard the like of it before.

We roared and thundered along side by side, both doing our level
best, because I'd never struck a comet before that could lay over
me, and so I was bound to beat this one or break something.  I
judged I had some reputation in space, and I calculated to keep it.
I noticed I wasn't gaining as fast, now, as I was before, but still
I was gaining.  There was a power of excitement on board the comet.
Upwards of a hundred billion passengers swarmed up from below and
rushed to the side and begun to bet on the race.  Of course this
careened her and damaged her speed.  My, but wasn't the mate mad!
He jumped at that crowd, with his trumpet in his hand, and sung out
-

"Amidships! amidships, you -! (1) or I'll brain the last idiot of
you!"

Well, sir, I gained and gained, little by little, till at last I
went skimming sweetly by the magnificent old conflagration's nose.
By this time the captain of the comet had been rousted out, and he
stood there in the red glare for'ard, by the mate, in his shirt-
sleeves and slippers, his hair all rats' nests and one suspender
hanging, and how sick those two men did look!  I just simply
couldn't help putting my thumb to my nose as I glided away and
singing out:

"Ta-ta! ta-ta!  Any word to send to your family?"

Peters, it was a mistake.  Yes, sir, I've often regretted that - it
was a mistake.  You see, the captain had given up the race, but
that remark was too tedious for him - he couldn't stand it.  He
turned to the mate, and says he -

"Have we got brimstone enough of our own to make the trip?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sure?"

"Yes, sir - more than enough."

"How much have we got in cargo for Satan?"

"Eighteen hundred thousand billion quintillions of kazarks."

"Very well, then, let his boarders freeze till the next comet
comes.  Lighten ship!  Lively, now, lively, men!  Heave the whole
cargo overboard!"

Peters, look me in the eye, and be calm.  I found out, over there,
that a kazark is exactly the bulk of a HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE
WORLDS LIKE OURS!  They hove all that load overboard.  When it fell
it wiped out a considerable raft of stars just as clean as if
they'd been candles and somebody blowed them out.  As for the race,
that was at an end.  The minute she was lightened the comet swung
along by me the same as if I was anchored.  The captain stood on
the stern, by the after-davits, and put his thumb to his nose and
sung out -

"Ta-ta! ta-ta!  Maybe YOU'VE got some message to send your friends
in the Everlasting Tropics!"

Then he hove up his other suspender and started for'ard, and inside
of three-quarters of an hour his craft was only a pale torch again
in the distance.  Yes, it was a mistake, Peters - that remark of
mine.  I don't reckon I'll ever get over being sorry about it.  I'd
'a' beat the bully of the firmament if I'd kept my mouth shut.


But I've wandered a little off the track of my tale; I'll get back
on my course again.  Now you see what kind of speed I was making.
So, as I said, when I had been tearing along this way about thirty
years I begun to get uneasy.  Oh, it was pleasant enough, with a
good deal to find out, but then it was kind of lonesome, you know.
Besides, I wanted to get somewhere.  I hadn't shipped with the idea
of cruising forever.  First off, I liked the delay, because I
judged I was going to fetch up in pretty warm quarters when I got
through; but towards the last I begun to feel that I'd rather go to
- well, most any place, so as to finish up the uncertainty.

Well, one night - it was always night, except when I was rushing by
some star that was occupying the whole universe with its fire and
its glare - light enough then, of course, but I necessarily left it
behind in a minute or two and plunged into a solid week of darkness
again.  The stars ain't so close together as they look to be.
Where was I?  Oh yes; one night I was sailing along, when I
discovered a tremendous long row of blinking lights away on the
horizon ahead.  As I approached, they begun to tower and swell and
look like mighty furnaces.  Says I to myself -

"By George, I've arrived at last - and at the wrong place, just as
I expected!"

Then I fainted.  I don't know how long I was insensible, but it
must have been a good while, for, when I came to, the darkness was
all gone and there was the loveliest sunshine and the balmiest,
fragrantest air in its place.  And there was such a marvellous
world spread out before me - such a glowing, beautiful, bewitching
country.  The things I took for furnaces were gates, miles high,
made all of flashing jewels, and they pierced a wall of solid gold
that you couldn't see the top of, nor yet the end of, in either
direction.  I was pointed straight for one of these gates, and a-
coming like a house afire.  Now I noticed that the skies were black
with millions of people, pointed for those gates.  What a roar they
made, rushing through the air!  The ground was as thick as ants
with people, too - billions of them, I judge.

I lit.  I drifted up to a gate with a swarm of people, and when it
was my turn the head clerk says, in a business-like way -

"Well, quick!  Where are you from?"

"San Francisco," says I.

"San Fran - WHAT?" says he.

"San Francisco."

He scratched his head and looked puzzled, then he says -

"Is it a planet?"

By George, Peters, think of it!  "PLANET?" says I; "it's a city.
And moreover, it's one of the biggest and finest and - "

"There, there!" says he, "no time here for conversation.  We don't
deal in cities here.  Where are you from in a GENERAL way?"

"Oh," I says, "I beg your pardon.  Put me down for California."

I had him AGAIN, Peters!  He puzzled a second, then he says, sharp
and irritable -

"I don't know any such planet - is it a constellation?"

"Oh, my goodness!" says I.  "Constellation, says you?  No - it's a
State."

"Man, we don't deal in States here.  WILL you tell me where you are
from IN GENERAL - AT LARGE, don't you understand?"

"Oh, now I get your idea," I says.  "I'm from America, - the United
States of America."

Peters, do you know I had him AGAIN?  If I hadn't I'm a clam!  His
face was as blank as a target after a militia shooting-match.  He
turned to an under clerk and says -

"Where is America?  WHAT is America?"

The under clerk answered up prompt and says -

"There ain't any such orb."

"ORB?" says I.  "Why, what are you talking about, young man?  It
ain't an orb; it's a country; it's a continent.  Columbus
discovered it; I reckon likely you've heard of HIM, anyway.
America - why, sir, America - "

"Silence!" says the head clerk.  "Once for all, where - are - you -
FROM?"

"Well," says I, "I don't know anything more to say - unless I lump
things, and just say I'm from the world."

"Ah," says he, brightening up, "now that's something like!  WHAT
world?"

Peters, he had ME, that time.  I looked at him, puzzled, he looked
at me, worried.  Then he burst out -

"Come, come, what world?"

Says I, "Why, THE world, of course."

"THE world!" he says.  "H'm! there's billions of them! . . . Next!"

That meant for me to stand aside.  I done so, and a sky-blue man
with seven heads and only one leg hopped into my place.  I took a
walk.  It just occurred to me, then, that all the myriads I had
seen swarming to that gate, up to this time, were just like that
creature.  I tried to run across somebody I was acquainted with,
but they were out of acquaintances of mine just then.  So I thought
the thing all over and finally sidled back there pretty meek and
feeling rather stumped, as you may say.

"Well?" said the head clerk.

"Well, sir," I says, pretty humble, "I don't seem to make out which
world it is I'm from.  But you may know it from this - it's the one
the Saviour saved."

He bent his head at the Name.  Then he says, gently -

"The worlds He has saved are like to the gates of heaven in number
- none can count them.  What astronomical system is your world in?
- perhaps that may assist."

"It's the one that has the sun in it - and the moon - and Mars" -
he shook his head at each name - hadn't ever heard of them, you see
- "and Neptune - and Uranus - and Jupiter - "

"Hold on!" says he - "hold on a minute!  Jupiter . . . Jupiter . .
. Seems to me we had a man from there eight or nine hundred years
ago - but people from that system very seldom enter by this gate."
All of a sudden he begun to look me so straight in the eye that I
thought he was going to bore through me.  Then he says, very
deliberate, "Did you come STRAIGHT HERE from your system?"

"Yes, sir," I says - but I blushed the least little bit in the
world when I said it.

He looked at me very stern, and says -

"That is not true; and this is not the place for prevarication.
You wandered from your course.  How did that happen?"

Says I, blushing again -

"I'm sorry, and I take back what I said, and confess.  I raced a
little with a comet one day - only just the least little bit - only
the tiniest lit - "

"So - so," says he - and without any sugar in his voice to speak
of.

I went on, and says -

"But I only fell off just a bare point, and I went right back on my
course again the minute the race was over."

"No matter - that divergence has made all this trouble.  It has
brought you to a gate that is billions of leagues from the right
one.  If you had gone to your own gate they would have known all
about your world at once and there would have been no delay.  But
we will try to accommodate you."  He turned to an under clerk and
says -

"What system is Jupiter in?"

"I don't remember, sir, but I think there is such a planet in one
of the little new systems away out in one of the thinly worlded
corners of the universe.  I will see."

He got a balloon and sailed up and up and up, in front of a map
that was as big as Rhode Island.  He went on up till he was out of
sight, and by and by he came down and got something to eat and went
up again.  To cut a long story short, he kept on doing this for a
day or two, and finally he came down and said he thought he had
found that solar system, but it might be fly-specks.  So he got a
microscope and went back.  It turned out better than he feared.  He
had rousted out our system, sure enough.  He got me to describe our
planet and its distance from the sun, and then he says to his chief
-

"Oh, I know the one he means, now, sir.  It is on the map.  It is
called the Wart."

Says I to myself, "Young man, it wouldn't be wholesome for you to
go down THERE and call it the Wart."

Well, they let me in, then, and told me I was safe forever and
wouldn't have any more trouble.

Then they turned from me and went on with their work, the same as
if they considered my case all complete and shipshape.  I was a
good deal surprised at this, but I was diffident about speaking up
and reminding them.  I did so hate to do it, you know; it seemed a
pity to bother them, they had so much on their hands.  Twice I
thought I would give up and let the thing go; so twice I started to
leave, but immediately I thought what a figure I should cut
stepping out amongst the redeemed in such a rig, and that made me
hang back and come to anchor again.  People got to eying me -
clerks, you know - wondering why I didn't get under way.  I
couldn't stand this long - it was too uncomfortable.  So at last I
plucked up courage and tipped the head clerk a signal.  He says -

"What! you here yet?  What's wanting?"

Says I, in a low voice and very confidential, making a trumpet with
my hands at his ear -

"I beg pardon, and you mustn't mind my reminding you, and seeming
to meddle, but hain't you forgot something?"

He studied a second, and says -

"Forgot something? . . . No, not that I know of."

"Think," says I.

He thought.  Then he says -

"No, I can't seem to have forgot anything.  What is it?"

"Look at me," says I, "look me all over."

He done it.

"Well?" says he.

"Well," says I, "you don't notice anything?  If I branched out
amongst the elect looking like this, wouldn't I attract
considerable attention? - wouldn't I be a little conspicuous?"

"Well," he says, "I don't see anything the matter.  What do you
lack?"

"Lack!  Why, I lack my harp, and my wreath, and my halo, and my
hymn-book, and my palm branch - I lack everything that a body
naturally requires up here, my friend."

Puzzled?  Peters, he was the worst puzzled man you ever saw.
Finally he says -

"Well, you seem to be a curiosity every way a body takes you.  I
never heard of these things before."

I looked at the man awhile in solid astonishment; then I says -

"Now, I hope you don't take it as an offence, for I don't mean any,
but really, for a man that has been in the Kingdom as long as I
reckon you have, you do seem to know powerful little about its
customs."

"Its customs!" says he.  "Heaven is a large place, good friend.
Large empires have many and diverse customs.  Even small dominions
have, as you doubtless know by what you have seen of the matter on
a small scale in the Wart.  How can you imagine I could ever learn
the varied customs of the countless kingdoms of heaven?  It makes
my head ache to think of it.  I know the customs that prevail in
those portions inhabited by peoples that are appointed to enter by
my own gate - and hark ye, that is quite enough knowledge for one
individual to try to pack into his head in the thirty-seven
millions of years I have devoted night and day to that study.  But
the idea of learning the customs of the whole appalling expanse of
heaven - O man, how insanely you talk!  Now I don't doubt that this
odd costume you talk about is the fashion in that district of
heaven you belong to, but you won't be conspicuous in this section
without it."

I felt all right, if that was the case, so I bade him good-day and
left.  All day I walked towards the far end of a prodigious hall of
the office, hoping to come out into heaven any moment, but it was a
mistake.  That hall was built on the general heavenly plan - it
naturally couldn't be small.  At last I got so tired I couldn't go
any farther; so I sat down to rest, and begun to tackle the
queerest sort of strangers and ask for information, but I didn't
get any; they couldn't understand my language, and I could not
understand theirs.  I got dreadfully lonesome.  I was so down-
hearted and homesick I wished a hundred times I never had died.  I
turned back, of course.  About noon next day, I got back at last
and was on hand at the booking-office once more.  Says I to the
head clerk -

"I begin to see that a man's got to be in his own Heaven to be
happy."

"Perfectly correct," says he.  "Did you imagine the same heaven
would suit all sorts of men?"

"Well, I had that idea - but I see the foolishness of it.  Which
way am I to go to get to my district?"

He called the under clerk that had examined the map, and he gave me
general directions.  I thanked him and started; but he says -

"Wait a minute; it is millions of leagues from here.  Go outside
and stand on that red wishing-carpet; shut your eyes, hold your
breath, and wish yourself there."

"I'm much obliged," says I; "why didn't you dart me through when I
first arrived?"

"We have a good deal to think of here; it was your place to think
of it and ask for it.  Good-by; we probably sha'n't see you in this
region for a thousand centuries or so."

"In that case, O REVOOR," says I.

I hopped onto the carpet and held my breath and shut my eyes and
wished I was in the booking-office of my own section.  The very
next instant a voice I knew sung out in a business kind of a way -

"A harp and a hymn-book, pair of wings and a halo, size 13, for
Cap'n Eli Stormfield, of San Francisco! - make him out a clean bill
of health, and let him in."

I opened my eyes.  Sure enough, it was a Pi Ute Injun I used to
know in Tulare County; mighty good fellow - I remembered being at
his funeral, which consisted of him being burnt and the other
Injuns gauming their faces with his ashes and howling like
wildcats.  He was powerful glad to see me, and you may make up your
mind I was just as glad to see him, and feel that I was in the
right kind of a heaven at last.

Just as far as your eye could reach, there was swarms of clerks,
running and bustling around, tricking out thousands of Yanks and
Mexicans and English and Arabs, and all sorts of people in their
new outfits; and when they gave me my kit and I put on my halo and
took a look in the glass, I could have jumped over a house for joy,
I was so happy.  "Now THIS is something like!" says I.  "Now," says
I, "I'm all right - show me a cloud."

Inside of fifteen minutes I was a mile on my way towards the cloud-
banks and about a million people along with me.  Most of us tried
to fly, but some got crippled and nobody made a success of it.  So
we concluded to walk, for the present, till we had had some wing
practice.

We begun to meet swarms of folks who were coming back.  Some had
harps and nothing else; some had hymn-books and nothing else; some
had nothing at all; all of them looked meek and uncomfortable; one
young fellow hadn't anything left but his halo, and he was carrying
that in his hand; all of a sudden he offered it to me and says -

"Will you hold it for me a minute?"

Then he disappeared in the crowd.  I went on.  A woman asked me to
hold her palm branch, and then SHE disappeared.  A girl got me to
hold her harp for her, and by George, SHE disappeared; and so on
and so on, till I was about loaded down to the guards.  Then comes
a smiling old gentleman and asked me to hold HIS things.  I swabbed
off the perspiration and says, pretty tart -

"I'll have to get you to excuse me, my friend, - I ain't no hat-
rack."

About this time I begun to run across piles of those traps, lying
in the road.  I just quietly dumped my extra cargo along with them.
I looked around, and, Peters, that whole nation that was following
me were loaded down the same as I'd been.  The return crowd had got
them to hold their things a minute, you see.  They all dumped their
loads, too, and we went on.

When I found myself perched on a cloud, with a million other
people, I never felt so good in my life.  Says I, "Now this is
according to the promises; I've been having my doubts, but now I am
in heaven, sure enough."  I gave my palm branch a wave or two, for
luck, and then I tautened up my harp-strings and struck in.  Well,
Peters, you can't imagine anything like the row we made.  It was
grand to listen to, and made a body thrill all over, but there was
considerable many tunes going on at once, and that was a drawback
to the harmony, you understand; and then there was a lot of Injun
tribes, and they kept up such another war-whooping that they kind
of took the tuck out of the music.  By and by I quit performing,
and judged I'd take a rest.  There was quite a nice mild old
gentleman sitting next me, and I noticed he didn't take a hand; I
encouraged him, but he said he was naturally bashful, and was
afraid to try before so many people.  By and by the old gentleman
said he never could seem to enjoy music somehow.  The fact was, I
was beginning to feel the same way; but I didn't say anything.  Him
and I had a considerable long silence, then, but of course it
warn't noticeable in that place.  After about sixteen or seventeen
hours, during which I played and sung a little, now and then -
always the same tune, because I didn't know any other - I laid down
my harp and begun to fan myself with my palm branch.  Then we both
got to sighing pretty regular.  Finally, says he -

"Don't you know any tune but the one you've been pegging at all
day?"

"Not another blessed one," says I.

"Don't you reckon you could learn another one?" says he.

"Never," says I; "I've tried to, but I couldn't manage it."

"It's a long time to hang to the one - eternity, you know."

"Don't break my heart," says I; "I'm getting low-spirited enough
already."

After another long silence, says he -

"Are you glad to be here?"

Says I, "Old man, I'll be frank with you.  This AIN'T just as near
my idea of bliss as I thought it was going to be, when I used to go
to church."

Says he, "What do you say to knocking off and calling it half a
day?"

"That's me," says I.  "I never wanted to get off watch so bad in my
life."

So we started.  Millions were coming to the cloud-bank all the
time, happy and hosannahing; millions were leaving it all the time,
looking mighty quiet, I tell you.  We laid for the new-comers, and
pretty soon I'd got them to hold all my things a minute, and then I
was a free man again and most outrageously happy.  Just then I ran
across old Sam Bartlett, who had been dead a long time, and stopped
to have a talk with him.  Says I -

"Now tell me - is this to go on forever?  Ain't there anything else
for a change?"

Says he -

"I'll set you right on that point very quick.  People take the
figurative language of the Bible and the allegories for literal,
and the first thing they ask for when they get here is a halo and a
harp, and so on.  Nothing that's harmless and reasonable is refused
a body here, if he asks it in the right spirit.  So they are
outfitted with these things without a word.  They go and sing and
play just about one day, and that's the last you'll ever see them
in the choir.  They don't need anybody to tell them that that sort
of thing wouldn't make a heaven - at least not a heaven that a sane
man could stand a week and remain sane.  That cloud-bank is placed
where the noise can't disturb the old inhabitants, and so there
ain't any harm in letting everybody get up there and cure himself
as soon as he comes.

"Now you just remember this - heaven is as blissful and lovely as
it can be; but it's just the busiest place you ever heard of.
There ain't any idle people here after the first day.  Singing
hymns and waving palm branches through all eternity is pretty when
you hear about it in the pulpit, but it's as poor a way to put in
valuable time as a body could contrive.  It would just make a
heaven of warbling ignoramuses, don't you see?  Eternal Rest sounds
comforting in the pulpit, too.  Well, you try it once, and see how
heavy time will hang on your hands.  Why, Stormfield, a man like
you, that had been active and stirring all his life, would go mad
in six months in a heaven where he hadn't anything to do.  Heaven
is the very last place to come to REST in, - and don't you be
afraid to bet on that!"

Says I -

"Sam, I'm as glad to hear it as I thought I'd be sorry.  I'm glad I
come, now."

Says he -

"Cap'n, ain't you pretty physically tired?"

Says I -

"Sam, it ain't any name for it!  I'm dog-tired."

"Just so - just so.  You've earned a good sleep, and you'll get it.
You've earned a good appetite, and you'll enjoy your dinner.  It's
the same here as it is on earth - you've got to earn a thing,
square and honest, before you enjoy it.  You can't enjoy first and
earn afterwards.  But there's this difference, here:  you can
choose your own occupation, and all the powers of heaven will be
put forth to help you make a success of it, if you do your level
best.  The shoe-maker on earth that had the soul of a poet in him
won't have to make shoes here."

"Now that's all reasonable and right," says I.  "Plenty of work,
and the kind you hanker after; no more pain, no more suffering - "

"Oh, hold on; there's plenty of pain here - but it don't kill.
There's plenty of suffering here, but it don't last.  You see,
happiness ain't a THING IN ITSELF - it's only a CONTRAST with
something that ain't pleasant.  That's all it is.  There ain't a
thing you can mention that is happiness in its own self - it's only
so by contrast with the other thing.  And so, as soon as the
novelty is over and the force of the contrast dulled, it ain't
happiness any longer, and you have to get something fresh.  Well,
there's plenty of pain and suffering in heaven - consequently
there's plenty of contrasts, and just no end of happiness."

Says I, "It's the sensiblest heaven I've heard of yet, Sam, though
it's about as different from the one I was brought up on as a live
princess is different from her own wax figger."


Along in the first months I knocked around about the Kingdom,
making friends and looking at the country, and finally settled down
in a pretty likely region, to have a rest before taking another
start.  I went on making acquaintances and gathering up
information.  I had a good deal of talk with an old bald-headed
angel by the name of Sandy McWilliams.  He was from somewhere in
New Jersey.  I went about with him, considerable.  We used to lay
around, warm afternoons, in the shade of a rock, on some meadow-
ground that was pretty high and out of the marshy slush of his
cranberry-farm, and there we used to talk about all kinds of
things, and smoke pipes.  One day, says I -

"About how old might you be, Sandy?"

"Seventy-two."

"I judged so.  How long you been in heaven?"

"Twenty-seven years, come Christmas."

"How old was you when you come up?"

"Why, seventy-two, of course."

"You can't mean it!"

"Why can't I mean it?"

"Because, if you was seventy-two then, you are naturally ninety-
nine now."

"No, but I ain't.  I stay the same age I was when I come."

"Well," says I, "come to think, there's something just here that I
want to ask about.  Down below, I always had an idea that in heaven
we would all be young, and bright, and spry."

"Well, you can be young if you want to.  You've only got to wish."

"Well, then, why didn't you wish?"

"I did.  They all do.  You'll try it, some day, like enough; but
you'll get tired of the change pretty soon."

"Why?"

"Well, I'll tell you.  Now you've always been a sailor; did you
ever try some other business?"

"Yes, I tried keeping grocery, once, up in the mines; but I
couldn't stand it; it was too dull - no stir, no storm, no life
about it; it was like being part dead and part alive, both at the
same time.  I wanted to be one thing or t'other.  I shut up shop
pretty quick and went to sea."

"That's it.  Grocery people like it, but you couldn't.  You see you
wasn't used to it.  Well, I wasn't used to being young, and I
couldn't seem to take any interest in it.  I was strong, and
handsome, and had curly hair, - yes, and wings, too! - gay wings
like a butterfly.  I went to picnics and dances and parties with
the fellows, and tried to carry on and talk nonsense with the
girls, but it wasn't any use; I couldn't take to it - fact is, it
was an awful bore.  What I wanted was early to bed and early to
rise, and something to DO; and when my work was done, I wanted to
sit quiet, and smoke and think - not tear around with a parcel of
giddy young kids.  You can't think what I suffered whilst I was
young."

"How long was you young?"

"Only two weeks.  That was plenty for me.  Laws, I was so lonesome!
You see, I was full of the knowledge and experience of seventy-two
years; the deepest subject those young folks could strike was only
A-B-C to me.  And to hear them argue - oh, my! it would have been
funny, if it hadn't been so pitiful.  Well, I was so hungry for the
ways and the sober talk I was used to, that I tried to ring in with
the old people, but they wouldn't have it.  They considered me a
conceited young upstart, and gave me the cold shoulder.  Two weeks
was a-plenty for me.  I was glad to get back my bald head again,
and my pipe, and my old drowsy reflections in the shade of a rock
or a tree."

"Well," says I, "do you mean to say you're going to stand still at
seventy-two, forever?"

"I don't know, and I ain't particular.  But I ain't going to drop
back to twenty-five any more - I know that, mighty well.  I know a
sight more than I did twenty-seven years ago, and I enjoy learning,
all the time, but I don't seem to get any older.  That is, bodily -
my mind gets older, and stronger, and better seasoned, and more
satisfactory."

Says I, "If a man comes here at ninety, don't he ever set himself
back?"

"Of course he does.  He sets himself back to fourteen; tries it a
couple of hours, and feels like a fool; sets himself forward to
twenty; it ain't much improvement; tries thirty, fifty, eighty, and
finally ninety - finds he is more at home and comfortable at the
same old figure he is used to than any other way.  Or, if his mind
begun to fail him on earth at eighty, that's where he finally
sticks up here.  He sticks at the place where his mind was last at
its best, for there's where his enjoyment is best, and his ways
most set and established."

"Does a chap of twenty-five stay always twenty-five, and look it?"

"If he is a fool, yes.  But if he is bright, and ambitious and
industrious, the knowledge he gains and the experiences he has,
change his ways and thoughts and likings, and make him find his
best pleasure in the company of people above that age; so he allows
his body to take on that look of as many added years as he needs to
make him comfortable and proper in that sort of society; he lets
his body go on taking the look of age, according as he progresses,
and by and by he will be bald and wrinkled outside, and wise and
deep within."

"Babies the same?"

"Babies the same.  Laws, what asses we used to be, on earth, about
these things!  We said we'd be always young in heaven.  We didn't
say HOW young - we didn't think of that, perhaps - that is, we
didn't all think alike, anyway.  When I was a boy of seven, I
suppose I thought we'd all be twelve, in heaven; when I was twelve,
I suppose I thought we'd all be eighteen or twenty in heaven; when
I was forty, I begun to go back; I remember I hoped we'd all be
about THIRTY years old in heaven.  Neither a man nor a boy ever
thinks the age he HAS is exactly the best one - he puts the right
age a few years older or a few years younger than he is.  Then he
makes that ideal age the general age of the heavenly people.  And
he expects everybody TO STICK at that age - stand stock-still - and
expects them to enjoy it! - Now just think of the idea of standing
still in heaven!  Think of a heaven made up entirely of hoop-
rolling, marble-playing cubs of seven years! - or of awkward,
diffident, sentimental immaturities of nineteen! - or of vigorous
people of thirty, healthy-minded, brimming with ambition, but
chained hand and foot to that one age and its limitations like so
many helpless galley-slaves!  Think of the dull sameness of a
society made up of people all of one age and one set of looks,
habits, tastes and feelings.  Think how superior to it earth would
be, with its variety of types and faces and ages, and the
enlivening attrition of the myriad interests that come into
pleasant collision in such a variegated society."

"Look here," says I, "do you know what you're doing?"

"Well, what am I doing?"

"You are making heaven pretty comfortable in one way, but you are
playing the mischief with it in another."

"How d'you mean?"

"Well," I says, "take a young mother that's lost her child, and - "

"Sh!" he says.  "Look!"

It was a woman.  Middle-aged, and had grizzled hair.  She was
walking slow, and her head was bent down, and her wings hanging
limp and droopy; and she looked ever so tired, and was crying, poor
thing!  She passed along by, with her head down, that way, and the
tears running down her face, and didn't see us.  Then Sandy said,
low and gentle, and full of pity:

"SHE'S hunting for her child!  No, FOUND it, I reckon.  Lord, how
she's changed!  But I recognized her in a minute, though it's
twenty-seven years since I saw her.  A young mother she was, about
twenty two or four, or along there; and blooming and lovely and
sweet? oh, just a flower!  And all her heart and all her soul was
wrapped up in her child, her little girl, two years old.  And it
died, and she went wild with grief, just wild!  Well, the only
comfort she had was that she'd see her child again, in heaven -
'never more to part,' she said, and kept on saying it over and
over, 'never more to part.'  And the words made her happy; yes,
they did; they made her joyful, and when I was dying, twenty-seven
years ago, she told me to find her child the first thing, and say
she was coming - 'soon, soon, VERY soon, she hoped and believed!'"

"Why, it's pitiful, Sandy."

He didn't say anything for a while, but sat looking at the ground,
thinking.  Then he says, kind of mournful:

"And now she's come!"

"Well?  Go on."

"Stormfield, maybe she hasn't found the child, but I think she has.
Looks so to me.  I've seen cases before.  You see, she's kept that
child in her head just the same as it was when she jounced it in
her arms a little chubby thing.  But here it didn't elect to STAY a
child.  No, it elected to grow up, which it did.  And in these
twenty-seven years it has learned all the deep scientific learning
there is to learn, and is studying and studying and learning and
learning more and more, all the time, and don't give a damn for
anything BUT learning; just learning, and discussing gigantic
problems with people like herself."

"Well?"

"Stormfield, don't you see?  Her mother knows CRANBERRIES, and how
to tend them, and pick them, and put them up, and market them; and
not another blamed thing!  Her and her daughter can't be any more
company for each other NOW than mud turtle and bird o' paradise.
Poor thing, she was looking for a baby to jounce; I think she's
struck a disapp'intment."

"Sandy, what will they do - stay unhappy forever in heaven?"

"No, they'll come together and get adjusted by and by.  But not
this year, and not next.  By and by."



CHAPTER II



I had been having considerable trouble with my wings.  The day
after I helped the choir I made a dash or two with them, but was
not lucky.  First off, I flew thirty yards, and then fouled an
Irishman and brought him down - brought us both down, in fact.
Next, I had a collision with a Bishop - and bowled him down, of
course.  We had some sharp words, and I felt pretty cheap, to come
banging into a grave old person like that, with a million strangers
looking on and smiling to themselves.

I saw I hadn't got the hang of the steering, and so couldn't
rightly tell where I was going to bring up when I started.  I went
afoot the rest of the day, and let my wings hang.  Early next
morning I went to a private place to have some practice.  I got up
on a pretty high rock, and got a good start, and went swooping
down, aiming for a bush a little over three hundred yards off; but
I couldn't seem to calculate for the wind, which was about two
points abaft my beam.  I could see I was going considerable to
looard of the bush, so I worked my starboard wing slow and went
ahead strong on the port one, but it wouldn't answer; I could see I
was going to broach to, so I slowed down on both, and lit.  I went
back to the rock and took another chance at it.  I aimed two or
three points to starboard of the bush - yes, more than that -
enough so as to make it nearly a head-wind.  I done well enough,
but made pretty poor time.  I could see, plain enough, that on a
head-wind, wings was a mistake.  I could see that a body could sail
pretty close to the wind, but he couldn't go in the wind's eye.  I
could see that if I wanted to go a-visiting any distance from home,
and the wind was ahead, I might have to wait days, maybe, for a
change; and I could see, too, that these things could not be any
use at all in a gale; if you tried to run before the wind, you
would make a mess of it, for there isn't anyway to shorten sail -
like reefing, you know - you have to take it ALL in - shut your
feathers down flat to your sides.  That would LAND you, of course.
You could lay to, with your head to the wind - that is the best you
could do, and right hard work you'd find it, too.  If you tried any
other game, you would founder, sure.

I judge it was about a couple of weeks or so after this that I
dropped old Sandy McWilliams a note one day - it was a Tuesday -
and asked him to come over and take his manna and quails with me
next day; and the first thing he did when he stepped in was to
twinkle his eye in a sly way, and say, -

"Well, Cap, what you done with your wings?"

I saw in a minute that there was some sarcasm done up in that rag
somewheres, but I never let on.  I only says, -

"Gone to the wash."

"Yes," he says, in a dry sort of way, "they mostly go to the wash -
about this time - I've often noticed it.  Fresh angels are powerful
neat.  When do you look for 'em back?"

"Day after to-morrow," says I.

He winked at me, and smiled.

Says I, -

"Sandy, out with it.  Come - no secrets among friends.  I notice
you don't ever wear wings - and plenty others don't.  I've been
making an ass of myself - is that it?"

"That is about the size of it.  But it is no harm.  We all do it at
first.  It's perfectly natural.  You see, on earth we jump to such
foolish conclusions as to things up here.  In the pictures we
always saw the angels with wings on - and that was all right; but
we jumped to the conclusion that that was their way of getting
around - and that was all wrong.  The wings ain't anything but a
uniform, that's all.  When they are in the field - so to speak, -
they always wear them; you never see an angel going with a message
anywhere without his wings, any more than you would see a military
officer presiding at a court-martial without his uniform, or a
postman delivering letters, or a policeman walking his beat, in
plain clothes.  But they ain't to FLY with!  The wings are for
show, not for use.  Old experienced angels are like officers of the
regular army - they dress plain, when they are off duty.  New
angels are like the militia - never shed the uniform - always
fluttering and floundering around in their wings, butting people
down, flapping here, and there, and everywhere, always imagining
they are attracting the admiring eye - well, they just think they
are the very most important people in heaven.  And when you see one
of them come sailing around with one wing tipped up and t'other
down, you make up your mind he is saying to himself:  'I wish Mary
Ann in Arkansaw could see me now.  I reckon she'd wish she hadn't
shook me.'  No, they're just for show, that's all - only just for
show."

"I judge you've got it about right, Sandy," says I.

"Why, look at it yourself," says he.  "YOU ain't built for wings -
no man is.  You know what a grist of years it took you to come here
from the earth - and yet you were booming along faster than any
cannon-ball could go.  Suppose you had to fly that distance with
your wings - wouldn't eternity have been over before you got here?
Certainly.  Well, angels have to go to the earth every day -
millions of them - to appear in visions to dying children and good
people, you know - it's the heft of their business.  They appear
with their wings, of course, because they are on official service,
and because the dying persons wouldn't know they were angels if
they hadn't wings - but do you reckon they fly with them?  It
stands to reason they don't.  The wings would wear out before they
got half-way; even the pin-feathers would be gone; the wing frames
would be as bare as kite sticks before the paper is pasted on.  The
distances in heaven are billions of times greater; angels have to
go all over heaven every day; could they do it with their wings
alone?  No, indeed; they wear the wings for style, but they travel
any distance in an instant by WISHING.  The wishing-carpet of the
Arabian Nights was a sensible idea - but our earthly idea of angels
flying these awful distances with their clumsy wings was foolish.

"Our young saints, of both sexes, wear wings all the time - blazing
red ones, and blue and green, and gold, and variegated, and
rainbowed, and ring-streaked-and-striped ones - and nobody finds
fault.  It is suitable to their time of life.  The things are
beautiful, and they set the young people off.  They are the most
striking and lovely part of their outfit - a halo don't BEGIN."

"Well," says I, "I've tucked mine away in the cupboard, and I allow
to let them lay there till there's mud."

"Yes - or a reception."

"What's that?"

"Well, you can see one to-night if you want to.  There's a
barkeeper from Jersey City going to be received."

"Go on - tell me about it."

"This barkeeper got converted at a Moody and Sankey meeting, in New
York, and started home on the ferry-boat, and there was a collision
and he got drowned.  He is of a class that think all heaven goes
wild with joy when a particularly hard lot like him is saved; they
think all heaven turns out hosannahing to welcome them; they think
there isn't anything talked about in the realms of the blest but
their case, for that day.  This barkeeper thinks there hasn't been
such another stir here in years, as his coming is going to raise. -
And I've always noticed this peculiarity about a dead barkeeper -
he not only expects all hands to turn out when he arrives, but he
expects to be received with a torchlight procession."

"I reckon he is disappointed, then."

"No, he isn't.  No man is allowed to be disappointed here.
Whatever he wants, when he comes - that is, any reasonable and
unsacrilegious thing - he can have.  There's always a few millions
or billions of young folks around who don't want any better
entertainment than to fill up their lungs and swarm out with their
torches and have a high time over a barkeeper.  It tickles the
barkeeper till he can't rest, it makes a charming lark for the
young folks, it don't do anybody any harm, it don't cost a rap, and
it keeps up the place's reputation for making all comers happy and
content."

"Very good.  I'll be on hand and see them land the barkeeper."

"It is manners to go in full dress.  You want to wear your wings,
you know, and your other things."

"Which ones?"

"Halo, and harp, and palm branch, and all that."

"Well," says I, "I reckon I ought to be ashamed of myself, but the
fact is I left them laying around that day I resigned from the
choir.  I haven't got a rag to wear but this robe and the wings."

"That's all right.  You'll find they've been raked up and saved for
you.  Send for them."

"I'll do it, Sandy.  But what was it you was saying about
unsacrilegious things, which people expect to get, and will be
disappointed about?"

"Oh, there are a lot of such things that people expect and don't
get.  For instance, there's a Brooklyn preacher by the name of
Talmage, who is laying up a considerable disappointment for
himself.  He says, every now and then in his sermons, that the
first thing he does when he gets to heaven, will be to fling his
arms around Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and kiss them and weep on
them.  There's millions of people down there on earth that are
promising themselves the same thing.  As many as sixty thousand
people arrive here every single day, that want to run straight to
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and hug them and weep on them.  Now mind
you, sixty thousand a day is a pretty heavy contract for those old
people.  If they were a mind to allow it, they wouldn't ever have
anything to do, year in and year out, but stand up and be hugged
and wept on thirty-two hours in the twenty-four.  They would be
tired out and as wet as muskrats all the time.  What would heaven
be, to THEM?  It would be a mighty good place to get out of - you
know that, yourself.  Those are kind and gentle old Jews, but they
ain't any fonder of kissing the emotional highlights of Brooklyn
than you be.  You mark my words, Mr. T.'s endearments are going to
be declined, with thanks.  There are limits to the privileges of
the elect, even in heaven.  Why, if Adam was to show himself to
every new comer that wants to call and gaze at him and strike him
for his autograph, he would never have time to do anything else but
just that.  Talmage has said he is going to give Adam some of his
attentions, as well as A., I. and J.  But he will have to change
his mind about that."

"Do you think Talmage will really come here?"

"Why, certainly, he will; but don't you be alarmed; he will run
with his own kind, and there's plenty of them.  That is the main
charm of heaven - there's all kinds here - which wouldn't be the
case if you let the preachers tell it.  Anybody can find the sort
he prefers, here, and he just lets the others alone, and they let
him alone.  When the Deity builds a heaven, it is built right, and
on a liberal plan."

Sandy sent home for his things, and I sent for mine, and about nine
in the evening we begun to dress.  Sandy says, -

"This is going to be a grand time for you, Stormy.  Like as not
some of the patriarchs will turn out."

"No, but will they?"

"Like as not.  Of course they are pretty exclusive.  They hardly
ever show themselves to the common public.  I believe they never
turn out except for an eleventh-hour convert.  They wouldn't do it
then, only earthly tradition makes a grand show pretty necessary on
that kind of an occasion."

"Do they an turn out, Sandy?"

"Who? - all the patriarchs?  Oh, no - hardly ever more than a
couple.  You will be here fifty thousand years - maybe more -
before you get a glimpse of all the patriarchs and prophets.  Since
I have been here, Job has been to the front once, and once Ham and
Jeremiah both at the same time.  But the finest thing that has
happened in my day was a year or so ago; that was Charles Peace's
reception - him they called 'the Bannercross Murderer' - an
Englishman.  There were four patriarchs and two prophets on the
Grand Stand that time - there hasn't been anything like it since
Captain Kidd came; Abel was there - the first time in twelve
hundred years.  A report got around that Adam was coming; well, of
course, Abel was enough to bring a crowd, all by himself, but there
is nobody that can draw like Adam.  It was a false report, but it
got around, anyway, as I say, and it will be a long day before I
see the like of it again.  The reception was in the English
department, of course, which is eight hundred and eleven million
miles from the New Jersey line.  I went, along with a good many of
my neighbors, and it was a sight to see, I can tell you.  Flocks
came from all the departments.  I saw Esquimaux there, and Tartars,
Negroes, Chinamen - people from everywhere.  You see a mixture like
that in the Grand Choir, the first day you land here, but you
hardly ever see it again.  There were billions of people; when they
were singing or hosannahing, the noise was wonderful; and even when
their tongues were still the drumming of the wings was nearly
enough to burst your head, for all the sky was as thick as if it
was snowing angels.  Although Adam was not there, it was a great
time anyway, because we had three archangels on the Grand Stand -
it is a seldom thing that even one comes out."

"What did they look like, Sandy?"

"Well, they had shining faces, and shining robes, and wonderful
rainbow wings, and they stood eighteen feet high, and wore swords,
and held their heads up in a noble way, and looked like soldiers."

"Did they have halos?"

"No - anyway, not the hoop kind.  The archangels and the upper-
class patriarchs wear a finer thing than that.  It is a round,
solid, splendid glory of gold, that is blinding to look at.  You
have often seen a patriarch in a picture, on earth, with that thing
on - you remember it? - he looks as if he had his head in a brass
platter.  That don't give you the right idea of it at all - it is
much more shining and beautiful."

"Did you talk with those archangels and patriarchs, Sandy?"

"Who - I?  Why, what can you be thinking about, Stormy?  I ain't
worthy to speak to such as they."

"Is Talmage?"

"Of course not.  You have got the same mixed-up idea about these
things that everybody has down there.  I had it once, but I got
over it.  Down there they talk of the heavenly King - and that is
right - but then they go right on speaking as if this was a
republic and everybody was on a dead level with everybody else, and
privileged to fling his arms around anybody he comes across, and be
hail-fellow-well-met with all the elect, from the highest down.
How tangled up and absurd that is!  How are you going to have a
republic under a king?  How are you going to have a republic at
all, where the head of the government is absolute, holds his place
forever, and has no parliament, no council to meddle or make in his
affairs, nobody voted for, nobody elected, nobody in the whole
universe with a voice in the government, nobody asked to take a
hand in its matters, and nobody ALLOWED to do it?  Fine republic,
ain't it?"

"Well, yes - it IS a little different from the idea I had - but I
thought I might go around and get acquainted with the grandees,
anyway - not exactly splice the main-brace with them, you know, but
shake hands and pass the time of day."

"Could Tom, Dick and Harry call on the Cabinet of Russia and do
that? - on Prince Gortschakoff, for instance?"

"I reckon not, Sandy."

"Well, this is Russia - only more so.  There's not the shadow of a
republic about it anywhere.  There are ranks, here.  There are
viceroys, princes, governors, sub-governors, sub-sub-governors, and
a hundred orders of nobility, grading along down from grand-ducal
archangels, stage by stage, till the general level is struck, where
there ain't any titles.  Do you know what a prince of the blood is,
on earth?"

"No."

"Well, a prince of the blood don't belong to the royal family
exactly, and he don't belong to the mere nobility of the kingdom;
he is lower than the one, and higher than t'other.  That's about
the position of the patriarchs and prophets here.  There's some
mighty high nobility here - people that you and I ain't worthy to
polish sandals for - and THEY ain't worthy to polish sandals for
the patriarchs and prophets.  That gives you a kind of an idea of
their rank, don't it?  You begin to see how high up they are, don't
you? just to get a two-minute glimpse of one of them is a thing for
a body to remember and tell about for a thousand years.  Why,
Captain, just think of this:  if Abraham was to set his foot down
here by this door, there would be a railing set up around that
foot-track right away, and a shelter put over it, and people would
flock here from all over heaven, for hundreds and hundreds of
years, to look at it.  Abraham is one of the parties that Mr.
Talmage, of Brooklyn, is going to embrace, and kiss, and weep on,
when he comes.  He wants to lay in a good stock of tears, you know,
or five to one he will go dry before he gets a chance to do it."

"Sandy," says I, "I had an idea that I was going to be equals with
everybody here, too, but I will let that drop.  It don't matter,
and I am plenty happy enough anyway."

"Captain, you are happier than you would be, the other way.  These
old patriarchs and prophets have got ages the start of you; they
know more in two minutes than you know in a year.  Did you ever try
to have a sociable improving-time discussing winds, and currents
and variations of compass with an undertaker?"

"I get your idea, Sandy.  He couldn't interest me.  He would be an
ignoramus in such things - he would bore me, and I would bore him."

"You have got it.  You would bore the patriarchs when you talked,
and when they talked they would shoot over your head.  By and by
you would say, 'Good morning, your Eminence, I will call again' -
but you wouldn't.  Did you ever ask the slush-boy to come up in the
cabin and take dinner with you?"

"I get your drift again, Sandy.  I wouldn't be used to such grand
people as the patriarchs and prophets, and I would be sheepish and
tongue-tied in their company, and mighty glad to get out of it.
Sandy, which is the highest rank, patriarch or prophet?"

"Oh, the prophets hold over the patriarchs.  The newest prophet,
even, is of a sight more consequence than the oldest patriarch.
Yes, sir, Adam himself has to walk behind Shakespeare."

"Was Shakespeare a prophet?"

"Of course he was; and so was Homer, and heaps more.  But
Shakespeare and the rest have to walk behind a common tailor from
Tennessee, by the name of Billings; and behind a horse-doctor named
Sakka, from Afghanistan.  Jeremiah, and Billings and Buddha walk
together, side by side, right behind a crowd from planets not in
our astronomy; next come a dozen or two from Jupiter and other
worlds; next come Daniel, and Sakka and Confucius; next a lot from
systems outside of ours; next come Ezekiel, and Mahomet, Zoroaster,
and a knife-grinder from ancient Egypt; then there is a long
string, and after them, away down toward the bottom, come
Shakespeare and Homer, and a shoemaker named Marais, from the back
settlements of France."

"Have they really rung in Mahomet and all those other heathens?"

"Yes - they all had their message, and they all get their reward.
The man who don't get his reward on earth, needn't bother - he will
get it here, sure."

"But why did they throw off on Shakespeare, that way, and put him
away down there below those shoe-makers and horse-doctors and
knife-grinders - a lot of people nobody ever heard of?"

"That is the heavenly justice of it - they warn't rewarded
according to their deserts, on earth, but here they get their
rightful rank.  That tailor Billings, from Tennessee, wrote poetry
that Homer and Shakespeare couldn't begin to come up to; but nobody
would print it, nobody read it but his neighbors, an ignorant lot,
and they laughed at it.  Whenever the village had a drunken frolic
and a dance, they would drag him in and crown him with cabbage
leaves, and pretend to bow down to him; and one night when he was
sick and nearly starved to death, they had him out and crowned him,
and then they rode him on a rail about the village, and everybody
followed along, beating tin pans and yelling.  Well, he died before
morning.  He wasn't ever expecting to go to heaven, much less that
there was going to be any fuss made over him, so I reckon he was a
good deal surprised when the reception broke on him."

"Was you there, Sandy?"

"Bless you, no!"

"Why?  Didn't you know it was going to come off?"

"Well, I judge I did.  It was the talk of these realms - not for a
day, like this barkeeper business, but for twenty years before the
man died."

"Why the mischief didn't you go, then?"

"Now how you talk!  The like of me go meddling around at the
reception of a prophet?  A mudsill like me trying to push in and
help receive an awful grandee like Edward J. Billings?  Why, I
should have been laughed at for a billion miles around.  I
shouldn't ever heard the last of it."

"Well, who did go, then?"

"Mighty few people that you and I will ever get a chance to see,
Captain.  Not a solitary commoner ever has the luck to see a
reception of a prophet, I can tell you.  All the nobility, and all
the patriarchs and prophets - every last one of them - and all the
archangels, and all the princes and governors and viceroys, were
there, - and NO small fry - not a single one.  And mind you, I'm
not talking about only the grandees from OUR world, but the princes
and patriarchs and so on from ALL the worlds that shine in our sky,
and from billions more that belong in systems upon systems away
outside of the one our sun is in.  There were some prophets and
patriarchs there that ours ain't a circumstance to, for rank and
illustriousness and all that.  Some were from Jupiter and other
worlds in our own system, but the most celebrated were three poets,
Saa, Bo and Soof, from great planets in three different and very
remote systems.  These three names are common and familiar in every
nook and corner of heaven, clear from one end of it to the other -
fully as well known as the eighty Supreme Archangels, in fact -
where as our Moses, and Adam, and the rest, have not been heard of
outside of our world's little corner of heaven, except by a few
very learned men scattered here and there - and they always spell
their names wrong, and get the performances of one mixed up with
the doings of another, and they almost always locate them simply IN
OUR SOLAR SYSTEM, and think that is enough without going into
little details such as naming the particular world they are from.
It is like a learned Hindoo showing off how much he knows by saying
Longfellow lives in the United States - as if he lived all over the
United States, and as if the country was so small you couldn't
throw a brick there without hitting him.  Between you and me, it
does gravel me, the cool way people from those monster worlds
outside our system snub our little world, and even our system.  Of
course we think a good deal of Jupiter, because our world is only a
potato to it, for size; but then there are worlds in other systems
that Jupiter isn't even a mustard-seed to - like the planet Goobra,
for instance, which you couldn't squeeze inside the orbit of
Halley's comet without straining the rivets.  Tourists from Goobra
(I mean parties that lived and died there - natives) come here, now
and then, and inquire about our world, and when they find out it is
so little that a streak of lightning can flash clear around it in
the eighth of a second, they have to lean up against something to
laugh.  Then they screw a glass into their eye and go to examining
us, as if we were a curious kind of foreign bug, or something of
that sort.  One of them asked me how long our day was; and when I
told him it was twelve hours long, as a general thing, he asked me
if people where I was from considered it worth while to get up and
wash for such a day as that.  That is the way with those Goobra
people - they can't seem to let a chance go by to throw it in your
face that their day is three hundred and twenty-two of our years
long.  This young snob was just of age - he was six or seven
thousand of his days old - say two million of our years - and he
had all the puppy airs that belong to that time of life - that
turning-point when a person has got over being a boy and yet ain't
quite a man exactly.  If it had been anywhere else but in heaven, I
would have given him a piece of my mind.  Well, anyway, Billings
had the grandest reception that has been seen in thousands of
centuries, and I think it will have a good effect.  His name will
be carried pretty far, and it will make our system talked about,
and maybe our world, too, and raise us in the respect of the
general public of heaven.  Why, look here - Shakespeare walked
backwards before that tailor from Tennessee, and scattered flowers
for him to walk on, and Homer stood behind his chair and waited on
him at the banquet.  Of course that didn't go for much THERE,
amongst all those big foreigners from other systems, as they hadn't
heard of Shakespeare or Homer either, but it would amount to
considerable down there on our little earth if they could know
about it.  I wish there was something in that miserable
spiritualism, so we could send them word.  That Tennessee village
would set up a monument to Billings, then, and his autograph would
outsell Satan's.  Well, they had grand times at that reception - a
small-fry noble from Hoboken told me all about it - Sir Richard
Duffer, Baronet."

"What, Sandy, a nobleman from Hoboken?  How is that?"

"Easy enough.  Duffer kept a sausage-shop and never saved a cent in
his life because he used to give all his spare meat to the poor, in
a quiet way.  Not tramps, - no, the other sort - the sort that will
starve before they will beg - honest square people out of work.
Dick used to watch hungry-looking men and women and children, and
track them home, and find out all about them from the neighbors,
and then feed them and find them work.  As nobody ever saw him give
anything to anybody, he had the reputation of being mean; he died
with it, too, and everybody said it was a good riddance; but the
minute he landed here, they made him a baronet, and the very first
words Dick the sausage-maker of Hoboken heard when he stepped upon
the heavenly shore were, 'Welcome, Sir Richard Duffer!'  It
surprised him some, because he thought he had reasons to believe he
was pointed for a warmer climate than this one."


All of a sudden the whole region fairly rocked under the crash of
eleven hundred and one thunder blasts, all let off at once, and
Sandy says, -

"There, that's for the barkeep."

I jumped up and says, -

"Then let's be moving along, Sandy; we don't want to miss any of
this thing, you know."

"Keep your seat," he says; "he is only just telegraphed, that is
all."

"How?"

"That blast only means that he has been sighted from the signal-
station.  He is off Sandy Hook.  The committees will go down to
meet him, now, and escort him in.  There will be ceremonies and
delays; they won't he coming up the Bay for a considerable time,
yet.  It is several billion miles away, anyway."

"I could have been a barkeeper and a hard lot just as well as not,"
says I, remembering the lonesome way I arrived, and how there
wasn't any committee nor anything.

"I notice some regret in your voice," says Sandy, "and it is
natural enough; but let bygones be bygones; you went according to
your lights, and it is too late now to mend the thing."

"No, let it slide, Sandy, I don't mind.  But you've got a Sandy
Hook HERE, too, have you?"

"We've got everything here, just as it is below.  All the States
and Territories of the Union, and all the kingdoms of the earth and
the islands of the sea are laid out here just as they are on the
globe - all the same shape they are down there, and all graded to
the relative size, only each State and realm and island is a good
many billion times bigger here than it is below.  There goes
another blast."

"What is that one for?"

"That is only another fort answering the first one.  They each fire
eleven hundred and one thunder blasts at a single dash - it is the
usual salute for an eleventh-hour guest; a hundred for each hour
and an extra one for the guest's sex; if it was a woman we would
know it by their leaving off the extra gun."

"How do we know there's eleven hundred and one, Sandy, when they
all go off at once? - and yet we certainly do know."

"Our intellects are a good deal sharpened up, here, in some ways,
and that is one of them.  Numbers and sizes and distances are so
great, here, that we have to be made so we can FEEL them - our old
ways of counting and measuring and ciphering wouldn't ever give us
an idea of them, but would only confuse us and oppress us and make
our heads ache."

After some more talk about this, I says:  "Sandy, I notice that I
hardly ever see a white angel; where I run across one white angel,
I strike as many as a hundred million copper-colored ones - people
that can't speak English.  How is that?"

"Well, you will find it the same in any State or Territory of the
American corner of heaven you choose to go to.  I have shot along,
a whole week on a stretch, and gone millions and millions of miles,
through perfect swarms of angels, without ever seeing a single
white one, or hearing a word I could understand.  You see, America
was occupied a billion years and more, by Injuns and Aztecs, and
that sort of folks, before a white man ever set his foot in it.
During the first three hundred years after Columbus's discovery,
there wasn't ever more than one good lecture audience of white
people, all put together, in America - I mean the whole thing,
British Possessions and all; in the beginning of our century there
were only 6,000,000 or 7,000,000 - say seven; 12,000,000 or
14,000,000 in 1825; say 23,000,000 in 1850; 40,000,000 in 1875.
Our death-rate has always been 20 in 1000 per annum.  Well, 140,000
died the first year of the century; 280,000 the twenty-fifth year;
500,000 the fiftieth year; about a million the seventy-fifth year.
Now I am going to be liberal about this thing, and consider that
fifty million whites have died in America from the beginning up to
to-day - make it sixty, if you want to; make it a hundred million -
it's no difference about a few millions one way or t'other.  Well,
now, you can see, yourself, that when you come to spread a little
dab of people like that over these hundreds of billions of miles of
American territory here in heaven, it is like scattering a ten-cent
box of homoeopathic pills over the Great Sahara and expecting to
find them again.  You can't expect us to amount to anything in
heaven, and we DON'T - now that is the simple fact, and we have got
to do the best we can with it.  The learned men from other planets
and other systems come here and hang around a while, when they are
touring around the Kingdom, and then go back to their own section
of heaven and write a book of travels, and they give America about
five lines in it.  And what do they say about us?  They say this
wilderness is populated with a scattering few hundred thousand
billions of red angels, with now and then a curiously complected
DISEASED one.  You see, they think we whites and the occasional
nigger are Injuns that have been bleached out or blackened by some
leprous disease or other - for some peculiarly rascally SIN, mind
you.  It is a mighty sour pill for us all, my friend - even the
modestest of us, let alone the other kind, that think they are
going to be received like a long-lost government bond, and hug
Abraham into the bargain.  I haven't asked you any of the
particulars, Captain, but I judge it goes without saying - if my
experience is worth anything - that there wasn't much of a hooraw
made over you when you arrived - now was there?"

"Don't mention it, Sandy," says I, coloring up a little; "I
wouldn't have had the family see it for any amount you are a mind
to name.  Change the subject, Sandy, change the subject."

"Well, do you think of settling in the California department of
bliss?"

"I don't know.  I wasn't calculating on doing anything really
definite in that direction till the family come.  I thought I would
just look around, meantime, in a quiet way, and make up my mind.
Besides, I know a good many dead people, and I was calculating to
hunt them up and swap a little gossip with them about friends, and
old times, and one thing or another, and ask them how they like it
here, as far as they have got.  I reckon my wife will want to camp
in the California range, though, because most all her departed will
be there, and she likes to be with folks she knows."

"Don't you let her.  You see what the Jersey district of heaven is,
for whites; well, the Californian district is a thousand times
worse.  It swarms with a mean kind of leather-headed mud-colored
angels - and your nearest white neighbor is likely to be a million
miles away.  WHAT A MAN MOSTLY MISSES, IN HEAVEN, IS COMPANY -
company of his own sort and color and language.  I have come near
settling in the European part of heaven once or twice on that
account."

"Well, why didn't you, Sandy?"

"Oh, various reasons.  For one thing, although you SEE plenty of
whites there, you can't understand any of them, hardly, and so you
go about as hungry for talk as you do here.  I like to look at a
Russian or a German or an Italian - I even like to look at a
Frenchman if I ever have the luck to catch him engaged in anything
that ain't indelicate - but LOOKING don't cure the hunger - what
you want is talk."

"Well, there's England, Sandy - the English district of heaven."

"Yes, but it is not so very much better than this end of the
heavenly domain.  As long as you run across Englishmen born this
side of three hundred years ago, you are all right; but the minute
you get back of Elizabeth's time the language begins to fog up, and
the further back you go the foggier it gets.  I had some talk with
one Langland and a man by the name of Chaucer - old-time poets -
but it was no use, I couldn't quite understand them, and they
couldn't quite understand me.  I have had letters from them since,
but it is such broken English I can't make it out.  Back of those
men's time the English are just simply foreigners, nothing more,
nothing less; they talk Danish, German, Norman French, and
sometimes a mixture of all three; back of THEM, they talk Latin,
and ancient British, Irish, and Gaelic; and then back of these come
billions and billions of pure savages that talk a gibberish that
Satan himself couldn't understand.  The fact is, where you strike
one man in the English settlements that you can understand, you
wade through awful swarms that talk something you can't make head
nor tail of.  You see, every country on earth has been overlaid so
often, in the course of a billion years, with different kinds of
people and different sorts of languages, that this sort of mongrel
business was bound to be the result in heaven."

"Sandy," says I, "did you see a good many of the great people
history tells about?"

"Yes - plenty.  I saw kings and all sorts of distinguished people."

"Do the kings rank just as they did below?"

"No; a body can't bring his rank up here with him.  Divine right is
a good-enough earthly romance, but it don't go, here.  Kings drop
down to the general level as soon as they reach the realms of
grace.  I knew Charles the Second very well - one of the most
popular comedians in the English section - draws first rate.  There
are better, of course - people that were never heard of on earth -
but Charles is making a very good reputation indeed, and is
considered a rising man.  Richard the Lion-hearted is in the prize-
ring, and coming into considerable favor.  Henry the Eighth is a
tragedian, and the scenes where he kills people are done to the
very life.  Henry the Sixth keeps a religious-book stand."

"Did you ever see Napoleon, Sandy?"

"Often - sometimes in the Corsican range, sometimes in the French.
He always hunts up a conspicuous place, and goes frowning around
with his arms folded and his field-glass under his arm, looking as
grand, gloomy and peculiar as his reputation calls for, and very
much bothered because he don't stand as high, here, for a soldier,
as he expected to."

"Why, who stands higher?"

"Oh, a LOT of people WE never heard of before - the shoemaker and
horse-doctor and knife-grinder kind, you know - clodhoppers from
goodness knows where that never handled a sword or fired a shot in
their lives - but the soldiership was in them, though they never
had a chance to show it.  But here they take their right place, and
Caesar and Napoleon and Alexander have to take a back seat.  The
greatest military genius our world ever produced was a brick-layer
from somewhere back of Boston - died during the Revolution - by the
name of Absalom Jones.  Wherever he goes, crowds flock to see him.
You see, everybody knows that if he had had a chance he would have
shown the world some generalship that would have made all
generalship before look like child's play and 'prentice work.  But
he never got a chance; he tried heaps of times to enlist as a
private, but he had lost both thumbs and a couple of front teeth,
and the recruiting sergeant wouldn't pass him.  However, as I say,
everybody knows, now, what he WOULD have been, - and so they flock
by the million to get a glimpse of him whenever they hear he is
going to be anywhere.  Caesar, and Hannibal, and Alexander, and
Napoleon are all on his staff, and ever so many more great
generals; but the public hardly care to look at THEM when HE is
around.  Boom!  There goes another salute.  The barkeeper's off
quarantine now."


Sandy and I put on our things.  Then we made a wish, and in a
second we were at the reception-place.  We stood on the edge of the
ocean of space, and looked out over the dimness, but couldn't make
out anything.  Close by us was the Grand Stand - tier on tier of
dim thrones rising up toward the zenith.  From each side of it
spread away the tiers of seats for the general public.  They spread
away for leagues and leagues - you couldn't see the ends.  They
were empty and still, and hadn't a cheerful look, but looked
dreary, like a theatre before anybody comes - gas turned down.
Sandy says, -

"We'll sit down here and wait.  We'll see the head of the
procession come in sight away off yonder pretty soon, now."

Says I, -

"It's pretty lonesome, Sandy; I reckon there's a hitch somewheres.
Nobody but just you and me - it ain't much of a display for the
barkeeper."

"Don't you fret, it's all right.  There'll be one more gun-fire -
then you'll see.

In a little while we noticed a sort of a lightish flush, away off
on the horizon.

"Head of the torchlight procession," says Sandy.

It spread, and got lighter and brighter:  soon it had a strong
glare like a locomotive headlight; it kept on getting brighter and
brighter till it was like the sun peeping above the horizon-line at
sea - the big red rays shot high up into the sky.

"Keep your eyes on the Grand Stand and the miles of seats - sharp!"
says Sandy, "and listen for the gun-fire."

Just then it burst out, "Boom-boom-boom!" like a million
thunderstorms in one, and made the whole heavens rock.  Then there
was a sudden and awful glare of light all about us, and in that
very instant every one of the millions of seats was occupied, and
as far as you could see, in both directions, was just a solid pack
of people, and the place was all splendidly lit up!  It was enough
to take a body's breath away.  Sandy says, -

"That is the way we do it here.  No time fooled away; nobody
straggling in after the curtain's up.  Wishing is quicker work than
travelling.  A quarter of a second ago these folks were millions of
miles from here.  When they heard the last signal, all they had to
do was to wish, and here they are."

The prodigious choir struck up, -


We long to hear thy voice,
To see thee face to face.


It was noble music, but the uneducated chipped in and spoilt it,
just as the congregations used to do on earth.

The head of the procession began to pass, now, and it was a
wonderful sight.  It swept along, thick and solid, five hundred
thousand angels abreast, and every angel carrying a torch and
singing - the whirring thunder of the wings made a body's head
ache.  You could follow the line of the procession back, and
slanting upward into the sky, far away in a glittering snaky rope,
till it was only a faint streak in the distance.  The rush went on
and on, for a long time, and at last, sure enough, along comes the
barkeeper, and then everybody rose, and a cheer went up that made
the heavens shake, I tell you!  He was all smiles, and had his halo
tilted over one ear in a cocky way, and was the most satisfied-
looking saint I ever saw.  While he marched up the steps of the
Grand Stand, the choir struck up, -


The whole wide heaven groans,
And waits to hear that voice."


There were four gorgeous tents standing side by side in the place
of honor, on a broad railed platform in the centre of the Grand
Stand, with a shining guard of honor round about them.  The tents
had been shut up all this time.  As the barkeeper climbed along up,
bowing and smiling to everybody, and at last got to the platform,
these tents were jerked up aloft all of a sudden, and we saw four
noble thrones of gold, all caked with jewels, and in the two middle
ones sat old white-whiskered men, and in the two others a couple of
the most glorious and gaudy giants, with platter halos and
beautiful armor.  All the millions went down on their knees, and
stared, and looked glad, and burst out into a joyful kind of
murmurs.  They said, -

"Two archangels! - that is splendid.  Who can the others be?"

The archangels gave the barkeeper a stiff little military bow; the
two old men rose; one of them said, "Moses and Esau welcome thee!"
and then all the four vanished, and the thrones were empty.

The barkeeper looked a little disappointed, for he was calculating
to hug those old people, I judge; but it was the gladdest and
proudest multitude you ever saw - because they had seen Moses and
Esau.  Everybody was saying, "Did you see them? - I did - Esau's
side face was to me, but I saw Moses full in the face, just as
plain as I see you this minute!"

The procession took up the barkeeper and moved on with him again,
and the crowd broke up and scattered.  As we went along home, Sandy
said it was a great success, and the barkeeper would have a right
to be proud of it forever.  And he said we were in luck, too; said
we might attend receptions for forty thousand years to come, and
not have a chance to see a brace of such grand moguls as Moses and
Esau.  We found afterwards that we had come near seeing another
patriarch, and likewise a genuine prophet besides, but at the last
moment they sent regrets.  Sandy said there would be a monument put
up there, where Moses and Esau had stood, with the date and
circumstances, and all about the whole business, and travellers
would come for thousands of years and gawk at it, and climb over
it, and scribble their names on it.



Footnotes:

(1)  The captain could not remember what this word was.  He said it
was in a foreign tongue.





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Captain Stormfield by Mark Twain
[Extract]






IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?
FROM MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY



CHAPTER I


Scattered here and there through the stacks of unpublished
manuscript which constitute this formidable Autobiography and Diary
of mine, certain chapters will in some distant future be found
which deal with "Claimants"--claimants historically notorious:
Satan, Claimant; the Golden Calf, Claimant; the Veiled Prophet of
Khorassan, Claimant; Louis XVII., Claimant; William Shakespeare,
Claimant; Arthur Orton, Claimant; Mary Baker G. Eddy, Claimant--and
the rest of them.  Eminent Claimants, successful Claimants,
defeated Claimants, royal Claimants, pleb Claimants, showy
Claimants, shabby Claimants, revered Claimants, despised Claimants,
twinkle starlike here and there and yonder through the mists of
history and legend and tradition--and oh, all the darling tribe are
clothed in mystery and romance, and we read about them with deep
interest and discuss them with loving sympathy or with rancorous
resentment, according to which side we hitch ourselves to.  It has
always been so with the human race.  There was never a Claimant
that couldn't get a hearing, nor one that couldn't accumulate a
rapturous following, no matter how flimsy and apparently
unauthentic his claim might be.  Arthur Orton's claim that he was
the lost Tichborne baronet come to life again was as flimsy as Mrs.
Eddy's that she wrote Science and Health from the direct dictation
of the Deity; yet in England near forty years ago Orton had a huge
army of devotees and incorrigible adherents, many of whom remained
stubbornly unconvinced after their fat god had been proven an
impostor and jailed as a perjurer, and to-day Mrs. Eddy's following
is not only immense, but is daily augmenting in numbers and
enthusiasm.  Orton had many fine and educated minds among his
adherents, Mrs. Eddy has had the like among hers from the
beginning.  Her church is as well equipped in those particulars as
is any other church.  Claimants can always count upon a following,
it doesn't matter who they are, nor what they claim, nor whether
they come with documents or without.  It was always so.  Down out
of the long-vanished past, across the abyss of the ages, if you
listen you can still hear the believing multitudes shouting for
Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel.

A friend has sent me a new book, from England--The Shakespeare
Problem Restated--well restated and closely reasoned; and my fifty
years' interest in that matter--asleep for the last three years--is
excited once more.  It is an interest which was born of Delia
Bacon's book--away back in that ancient day--1857, or maybe 1856.
About a year later my pilot-master, Bixby, transferred me from his
own steamboat to the Pennsylvania, and placed me under the orders
and instructions of George Ealer--dead now, these many, many years.
I steered for him a good many months--as was the humble duty of the
pilot-apprentice:  stood a daylight watch and spun the wheel under
the severe superintendence and correction of the master.  He was a
prime chess player and an idolater of Shakespeare.  He would play
chess with anybody; even with me, and it cost his official dignity
something to do that.  Also--quite uninvited--he would read
Shakespeare to me; not just casually, but by the hour, when it was
his watch, and I was steering.  He read well, but not profitably
for me, because he constantly injected commands into the text.
That broke it all up, mixed it all up, tangled it all up--to that
degree, in fact, that if we were in a risky and difficult piece of
river an ignorant person couldn't have told, sometimes, which
observations were Shakespeare's and which were Ealer's.  For
instance:


What man dare, _I_ dare!

Approach thou WHAT are you laying in the leads for? what a hell of
an idea! like the rugged ease her off a little, ease her off!
rugged Russian bear, the armed rhinoceros or the THERE she goes!
meet her, meet her! didn't you KNOW she'd smell the reef if you
crowded it like that?  Hyrcan tiger; take any shape but that and my
firm nerves she'll be in the WOODS the first you know! stop the
starboard! come ahead strong on the larboard! back the starboard! .
. . NOW then, you're all right; come ahead on the starboard;
straighten up and go 'long, never tremble:  or be alive again, and
dare me to the desert damnation can't you keep away from that
greasy water? pull her down! snatch her! snatch her baldheaded!
with thy sword; if trembling I inhabit then, lay in the leads!--no,
only the starboard one, leave the other alone, protest me the baby
of a girl.  Hence horrible shadow! eight bells--that watchman's
asleep again, I reckon, go down and call Brown yourself, unreal
mockery, hence!"


He certainly was a good reader, and splendidly thrilling and stormy
and tragic, but it was a damage to me, because I have never since
been able to read Shakespeare in a calm and sane way.  I cannot rid
it of his explosive interlardings, they break in everywhere with
their irrelevant "What in hell are you up to NOW! pull her down!
more! MORE!--there now, steady as you go," and the other
disorganizing interruptions that were always leaping from his
mouth.  When I read Shakespeare now, I can hear them as plainly as
I did in that long-departed time--fifty-one years ago.  I never
regarded Ealer's readings as educational.  Indeed they were a
detriment to me.

His contributions to the text seldom improved it, but barring that
detail he was a good reader, I can say that much for him.  He did
not use the book, and did not need to; he knew his Shakespeare as
well as Euclid ever knew his multiplication table.

Did he have something to say--this Shakespeare-adoring Mississippi
pilot--anent Delia Bacon's book?  Yes.  And he said it; said it all
the time, for months--in the morning watch, the middle watch, the
dog watch; and probably kept it going in his sleep.  He bought the
literature of the dispute as fast as it appeared, and we discussed
it all through thirteen hundred miles of river four times traversed
in every thirty-five days--the time required by that swift boat to
achieve two round trips.  We discussed, and discussed, and
discussed, and disputed and disputed and disputed; at any rate he
did, and I got in a word now and then when he slipped a cog and
there was a vacancy.  He did his arguing with heat, with energy,
with violence; and I did mine with the reserve and moderation of a
subordinate who does not like to be flung out of a pilot-house that
is perched forty feet above the water.  He was fiercely loyal to
Shakespeare and cordially scornful of Bacon and of all the
pretensions of the Baconians.  So was I--at first.  And at first he
was glad that that was my attitude.  There were even indications
that he admired it; indications dimmed, it is true, by the distance
that lay between the lofty boss-pilotical altitude and my lowly
one, yet perceptible to me; perceptible, and translatable into a
compliment--compliment coming down from above the snow-line and not
well thawed in the transit, and not likely to set anything afire,
not even a cub-pilot's self-conceit; still a detectable compliment,
and precious.

Naturally it flattered me into being more loyal to Shakespeare--if
possible--than I was before, and more prejudiced against Bacon--if
possible than I was before.  And so we discussed and discussed,
both on the same side, and were happy.  For a while.  Only for a
while.  Only for a very little while, a very, very, very little
while.  Then the atmosphere began to change; began to cool off.

A brighter person would have seen what the trouble was, earlier
than I did, perhaps, but I saw it early enough for all practical
purposes.  You see, he was of an argumentative disposition.
Therefore it took him but a little time to get tired of arguing
with a person who agreed with everything he said and consequently
never furnished him a provocative to flare up and show what he
could do when it came to clear, cold, hard, rose-cut, hundred-
faceted, diamond-flashing reasoning.  That was his name for it.  It
has been applied since, with complacency, as many as several times,
in the Bacon-Shakespeare scuffle.  On the Shakespeare side.

Then the thing happened which has happened to more persons than to
me when principle and personal interest found themselves in
opposition to each other and a choice had to be made:  I let
principle go, and went over to the other side.  Not the entire way,
but far enough to answer the requirements of the case.  That is to
say, I took this attitude, to wit:  I only BELIEVED Bacon wrote
Shakespeare, whereas I KNEW Shakespeare didn't.  Ealer was
satisfied with that, and the war broke loose.  Study, practice,
experience in handling my end of the matter presently enabled me to
take my new position almost seriously; a little bit later, utterly
seriously; a little later still, lovingly, gratefully, devotedly;
finally:  fiercely, rabidly, uncompromisingly.  After that, I was
welded to my faith, I was theoretically ready to die for it, and I
looked down with compassion not unmixed with scorn, upon everybody
else's faith that didn't tally with mine.  That faith, imposed upon
me by self-interest in that ancient day, remains my faith to-day,
and in it I find comfort, solace, peace, and never-failing joy.
You see how curiously theological it is.  The "rice Christian" of
the Orient goes through the very same steps, when he is after rice
and the missionary is after HIM; he goes for rice, and remains to
worship.

Ealer did a lot of our "reasoning"--not to say substantially all of
it.  The slaves of his cult have a passion for calling it by that
large name.  We others do not call our inductions and deductions
and reductions by any name at all.  They show for themselves, what
they are, and we can with tranquil confidence leave the world to
ennoble them with a title of its own choosing.

Now and then when Ealer had to stop to cough, I pulled my
induction-talents together and hove the controversial lead myself:
always getting eight feet, eight-and-a-half, often nine, sometimes
even quarter-less-twain--as _I_ believed; but always "no bottom,"
as HE said.

I got the best of him only once.  I prepared myself.  I wrote out a
passage from Shakespeare--it may have been the very one I quoted a
while ago, I don't remember--and riddled it with his wild
steamboatful interlardings.  When an unrisky opportunity offered,
one lovely summer day, when we had sounded and buoyed a tangled
patch of crossings known as Hell's Half Acre, and were aboard again
and he had sneaked the Pennsylvania triumphantly through it without
once scraping sand, and the A. T. Lacey had followed in our wake
and got stuck, and he was feeling good, I showed it to him.  It
amused him.  I asked him to fire it off:  read it; read it, I
diplomatically added, as only he could read dramatic poetry.  The
compliment touched him where he lived.  He did read it; read it
with surpassing fire and spirit; read it as it will never be read
again; for HE knew how to put the right music into those thunderous
interlardings and make them seem a part of the text, make them
sound as if they were bursting from Shakespeare's own soul, each
one of them a golden inspiration and not to be left out without
damage to the massed and magnificent whole.

I waited a week, to let the incident fade; waited longer; waited
until he brought up for reasonings and vituperation my pet
position, my pet argument, the one which I was fondest of, the one
which I prized far above all others in my ammunition-wagon, to wit:
that Shakespeare couldn't have written Shakespeare's works, for the
reason that the man who wrote them was limitlessly familiar with
the laws, and the law-courts, and law-proceedings, and lawyer-talk,
and lawyer-ways--and if Shakespeare was possessed of the
infinitely-divided star-dust that constituted this vast wealth, how
did he get it, and WHERE, and WHEN?

"From books."

From books!  That was always the idea.  I answered as my readings
of the champions of my side of the great controversy had taught me
to answer:  that a man can't handle glibly and easily and
comfortably and successfully the argot of a trade at which he has
not personally served.  He will make mistakes; he will not, and
cannot, get the trade-phrasings precisely and exactly right; and
the moment he departs, by even a shade, from a common trade-form,
the reader who has served that trade will know the writer HASN'T.
Ealer would not be convinced; he said a man could learn how to
correctly handle the subtleties and mysteries and free-masonries of
any trade by careful reading and studying.  But when I got him to
read again the passage from Shakespeare with the interlardings, he
perceived, himself, that books couldn't teach a student a
bewildering multitude of pilot-phrases so thoroughly and perfectly
that he could talk them off in book and play or conversation and
make no mistake that a pilot would not immediately discover.  It
was a triumph for me.  He was silent awhile, and I knew what was
happening:  he was losing his temper.  And I knew he would
presently close the session with the same old argument that was
always his stay and his support in time of need; the same old
argument, the one I couldn't answer--because I dasn't:  the
argument that I was an ass, and better shut up.  He delivered it,
and I obeyed.

Oh, dear, how long ago it was--how pathetically long ago!  And here
am I, old, forsaken, forlorn and alone, arranging to get that
argument out of somebody again.

When a man has a passion for Shakespeare, it goes without saying
that he keeps company with other standard authors.  Ealer always
had several high-class books in the pilot-house, and he read the
same ones over and over again, and did not care to change to newer
and fresher ones.  He played well on the flute, and greatly enjoyed
hearing himself play.  So did I.  He had a notion that a flute
would keep its health better if you took it apart when it was not
standing a watch; and so, when it was not on duty it took its rest,
disjointed, on the compass-shelf under the breast-board.  When the
Pennsylvania blew up and became a drifting rack-heap freighted with
wounded and dying poor souls (my young brother Henry among them),
pilot Brown had the watch below, and was probably asleep and never
knew what killed him; but Ealer escaped unhurt.  He and his pilot-
house were shot up into the air; then they fell, and Ealer sank
through the ragged cavern where the hurricane deck and the boiler
deck had been, and landed in a nest of ruins on the main deck, on
top of one of the unexploded boilers, where he lay prone in a fog
of scalding and deadly steam.  But not for long.  He did not lose
his head:  long familiarity with danger had taught him to keep it,
in any and all emergencies.  He held his coat-lappels to his nose
with one hand, to keep out the steam, and scrabbled around with the
other till he found the joints of his flute, then he is took
measures to save himself alive, and was successful.  I was not on
board.  I had been put ashore in New Orleans by Captain
Klinefelter.  The reason--however, I have told all about it in the
book called Old Times on the Mississippi, and it isn't important
anyway, it is so long ago.



CHAPTER II



When I was a Sunday-school scholar something more than sixty years
ago, I became interested in Satan, and wanted to find out all I
could about him.  I began to ask questions, but my class-teacher,
Mr. Barclay the stone-mason, was reluctant about answering them, it
seemed to me.  I was anxious to be praised for turning my thoughts
to serious subjects when there wasn't another boy in the village
who could be hired to do such a thing.  I was greatly interested in
the incident of Eve and the serpent, and thought Eve's calmness was
perfectly noble.  I asked Mr. Barclay if he had ever heard of
another woman who, being approached by a serpent, would not excuse
herself and break for the nearest timber.  He did not answer my
question, but rebuked me for inquiring into matters above my age
and comprehension.  I will say for Mr. Barclay that he was willing
to tell me the facts of Satan's history, but he stopped there:  he
wouldn't allow any discussion of them.

In the course of time we exhausted the facts.  There were only five
or six of them, you could set them all down on a visiting-card.  I
was disappointed.  I had been meditating a biography, and was
grieved to find that there were no materials.  I said as much, with
the tears running down.  Mr. Barclay's sympathy and compassion were
aroused, for he was a most kind and gentle-spirited man, and he
patted me on the head and cheered me up by saying there was a whole
vast ocean of materials!  I can still feel the happy thrill which
these blessed words shot through me.

Then he began to bail out that ocean's riches for my encouragement
and joy.  Like this:  it was "conjectured"--though not established-
-that Satan was originally an angel in heaven; that he fell; that
he rebelled, and brought on a war; that he was defeated, and
banished to perdition.  Also, "we have reason to believe" that
later he did so-and-so; that "we are warranted in supposing" that
at a subsequent time he travelled extensively, seeking whom he
might devour; that a couple of centuries afterward, "as tradition
instructs us," he took up the cruel trade of tempting people to
their ruin, with vast and fearful results; that by-and-by, "as the
probabilities seem to indicate," he may have done certain things,
he might have done certain other things, he must have done still
other things.

And so on and so on.  We set down the five known facts by
themselves, on a piece of paper, and numbered it "page 1"; then on
fifteen hundred other pieces of paper we set down the
"conjectures," and "suppositions," and "maybes," and "perhapses,"
and "doubtlesses," and "rumors," and "guesses," and
"probabilities," and "likelihoods," and "we are permitted to
thinks," and "we are warranted in believings," and "might have
beens," and "could have beens," and "must have beens," and
"unquestionablys," and "without a shadow of doubts"--and behold!

MATERIALS?  Why, we had enough to build a biography of Shakespeare!

Yet he made me put away my pen; he would not let me write the
history of Satan.  Why?  Because, as he said, he had suspicions;
suspicions that my attitude in this matter was not reverent; and
that a person must be reverent when writing about the sacred
characters.  He said any one who spoke flippantly of Satan would be
frowned upon by the religious world and also be brought to account.

I assured him, in earnest and sincere words, that he had wholly
misconceived my attitude; that I had the highest respect for Satan,
and that my reverence for him equalled, and possibly even exceeded,
that of any member of any church.  I said it wounded me deeply to
perceive by his words that he thought I would make fun of Satan,
and deride him, laugh at him, scoff at him:  whereas in truth I had
never thought of such a thing, but had only a warm desire to make
fun of those others and laugh at THEM.  "What others?"  "Why, the
Supposers, the Perhapsers, the Might-Have-Beeners, the Could-Have-
Beeners, the Must-Have-Beeners, the Without-a-Shadow-of-Doubters,
the We-are-Warranted-in-Believingers, and all that funny crop of
solemn architects who have taken a good solid foundation of five
indisputable and unimportant facts and built upon it a Conjectural
Satan thirty miles high."

What did Mr. Barclay do then?  Was he disarmed?  Was he silenced?
No.  He was shocked.  He was so shocked that he visibly shuddered.
He said the Satanic Traditioners and Perhapsers and Conjecturers
were THEMSELVES sacred!  As sacred as their work.  So sacred that
whoso ventured to mock them or make fun of their work, could not
afterward enter any respectable house, even by the back door.

How true were his words, and how wise!  How fortunate it would have
been for me if I had heeded them.  But I was young, I was but seven
years of age, and vain, foolish, and anxious to attract attention.
I wrote the biography, and have never been in a respectable house
since.



CHAPTER III



How curious and interesting is the parallel--as far as poverty of
biographical details is concerned--between Satan and Shakespeare.
It is wonderful, it is unique, it stands quite alone, there is
nothing resembling it in history, nothing resembling it in romance,
nothing approaching it even in tradition.  How sublime is their
position, and how over-topping, how sky-reaching, how supreme--the
two Great Unknowns, the two Illustrious Conjecturabilities!  They
are the best-known unknown persons that have ever drawn breath upon
the planet.

For the instruction of the ignorant I will make a list, now, of
those details of Shakespeare's history which are FACTS--verified
facts, established facts, undisputed facts.


FACTS


He was born on the 23d of April, 1564.

Of good farmer-class parents who could not read, could not write,
could not sign their names.

At Stratford, a small back settlement which in that day was shabby
and unclean, and densely illiterate.  Of the nineteen important men
charged with the government of the town, thirteen had to "make
their mark" in attesting important documents, because they could
not write their names.

Of the first eighteen years of his life NOTHING is known.  They are
a blank.

On the 27th of November (1582) William Shakespeare took out a
license to marry Anne Whateley.

Next day William Shakespeare took out a license to marry Anne
Hathaway.  She was eight years his senior.

William Shakespeare married Anne Hathaway.  In a hurry.  By grace
of a reluctantly-granted dispensation there was but one publication
of the banns.

Within six months the first child was born.

About two (blank) years followed, during which period NOTHING AT
ALL HAPPENED TO SHAKESPEARE, so far as anybody knows.

Then came twins--1585.  February.

Two blank years follow.

Then--1587--he makes a ten-year visit to London, leaving the family
behind.

Five blank years follow.  During this period NOTHING HAPPENED TO
HIM, as far as anybody actually knows.

Then--1592--there is mention of him as an actor.

Next year--1593--his name appears in the official list of players.

Next year--1594--he played before the queen.  A detail of no
consequence:  other obscurities did it every year of the forty-five
of her reign.  And remained obscure.

Three pretty full years follow.  Full of play-acting.  Then

In 1597 he bought New Place, Stratford.

Thirteen or fourteen busy years follow; years in which he
accumulated money, and also reputation as actor and manager.

Meantime his name, liberally and variously spelt, had become
associated with a number of great plays and poems, as (ostensibly)
author of the same.

Some of these, in these years and later, were pirated, but he made
no protest.  Then--1610-11--he returned to Stratford and settled
down for good and all, and busied himself in lending money, trading
in tithes, trading in land and houses; shirking a debt of forty-one
shillings, borrowed by his wife during his long desertion of his
family; suing debtors for shillings and coppers; being sued himself
for shillings and coppers; and acting as confederate to a neighbor
who tried to rob the town of its rights in a certain common, and
did not succeed.

He lived five or six years--till 1616--in the joy of these elevated
pursuits.  Then he made a will, and signed each of its three pages
with his name.

A thoroughgoing business man's will.  It named in minute detail
every item of property he owned in the world--houses, lands, sword,
silver-gilt bowl, and so on--all the way down to his "second-best
bed" and its furniture.

It carefully and calculatingly distributed his riches among the
members of his family, overlooking no individual of it. Not even
his wife:  the wife he had been enabled to marry in a hurry by
urgent grace of a special dispensation before he was nineteen; the
wife whom he had left husbandless so many years; the wife who had
had to borrow forty-one shillings in her need, and which the lender
was never able to collect of the prosperous husband, but died at
last with the money still lacking.  No, even this wife was
remembered in Shakespeare's will.

He left her that "second-best bed."

And NOT ANOTHER THING; not even a penny to bless her lucky
widowhood with.

It was eminently and conspicuously a business man's will, not a
poet's.

It mentioned NOT A SINGLE BOOK.

Books were much more precious than swords and silver-gilt bowls and
second-best beds in those days, and when a departing person owned
one he gave it a high place in his will.

The will mentioned NOT A PLAY, NOT A POEM, NOT AN UNFINISHED
LITERARY WORK, NOT A SCRAP OF MANUSCRIPT OF ANY KIND.

Many poets have died poor, but this is the only one in history that
has died THIS poor; the others all left literary remains behind.
Also a book.  Maybe two.

If Shakespeare had owned a dog--but we need not go into that:  we
know he would have mentioned it in his will.  If a good dog,
Susanna would have got it; if an inferior one his wife would have
got a dower interest in it.  I wish he had had a dog, just so we
could see how painstakingly he would have divided that dog among
the family, in his careful business way.

He signed the will in three places.

In earlier years he signed two other official documents.

These five signatures still exist.

There are NO OTHER SPECIMENS OF HIS PENMANSHIP IN EXISTENCE.  Not a
line.

Was he prejudiced against the art?  His granddaughter, whom he
loved, was eight years old when he died, yet she had had no
teaching, he left no provision for her education although he was
rich, and in her mature womanhood she couldn't write and couldn't
tell her husband's manuscript from anybody else's--she thought it
was Shakespeare's.

When Shakespeare died in Stratford IT WAS NOT AN EVENT.  It made no
more stir in England than the death of any other forgotten theatre-
actor would have made.  Nobody came down from London; there were no
lamenting poems, no eulogies, no national tears--there was merely
silence, and nothing more.  A striking contrast with what happened
when Ben Jonson, and Francis Bacon, and Spenser, and Raleigh and
the other distinguished literary folk of Shakespeare's time passed
from life!  No praiseful voice was lifted for the lost Bard of
Avon; even Ben Jonson waited seven years before he lifted his.

SO FAR AS ANYBODY ACTUALLY KNOWS AND CAN PROVE, Shakespeare of
Stratford-on-Avon never wrote a play in his life.

SO FAR AS ANYBODY KNOWS AND CAN PROVE, he never wrote a letter to
anybody in his life.

SO FAR AS ANY ONE KNOWS, HE RECEIVED ONLY ONE LETTER DURING HIS
LIFE.

So far as any one KNOWS AND CAN PROVE, Shakespeare of Stratford
wrote only one poem during his life.  This one is authentic.  He
did write that one--a fact which stands undisputed; he wrote the
whole of it; he wrote the whole of it out of his own head.  He
commanded that this work of art be engraved upon his tomb, and he
was obeyed.  There it abides to this day.  This is it:


Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare:
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones
And curst be he yt moves my bones.


In the list as above set down, will be found EVERY POSITIVELY KNOWN
fact of Shakespeare's life, lean and meagre as the invoice is.
Beyond these details we know NOT A THING about him.  All the rest
of his vast history, as furnished by the biographers, is built up,
course upon course, of guesses, inferences, theories, conjectures--
an Eiffel Tower of artificialities rising sky-high from a very flat
and very thin foundation of inconsequential facts.



CHAPTER IV



CONJECTURES


The historians "suppose" that Shakespeare attended the Free School
in Stratford from the time he was seven years old till he was
thirteen.  There is no EVIDENCE in existence that he ever went to
school at all.

The historians "infer" that he got his Latin in that school--the
school which they "suppose" he attended.

They "suppose" his father's declining fortunes made it necessary
for him to leave the school they supposed he attended, and get to
work and help support his parents and their ten children.  But
there is no evidence that he ever entered or retired from the
school they suppose he attended.

They "suppose" he assisted his father in the butchering business;
and that, being only a boy, he didn't have to do full-grown
butchering, but only slaughtered calves.  Also, that whenever he
killed a calf he made a high-flown speech over it.  This
supposition rests upon the testimony of a man who wasn't there at
the time; a man who got it from a man who could have been there,
but did not say whether he was or not; and neither of them thought
to mention it for decades, and decades, and decades, and two more
decades after Shakespeare's death (until old age and mental decay
had refreshed and vivified their memories).  They hadn't two facts
in stock about the long-dead distinguished citizen, but only just
the one:  he slaughtered calves and broke into oratory while he was
at it.  Curious.  They had only one fact, yet the distinguished
citizen had spent twenty-six years in that little town--just half
his lifetime.  However, rightly viewed, it was the most important
fact, indeed almost the only important fact, of Shakespeare's life
in Stratford.  Rightly viewed.  For experience is an author's most
valuable asset; experience is the thing that puts the muscle and
the breath and the warm blood into the book he writes.  Rightly
viewed, calf-butchering accounts for Titus Andronicus, the only
play--ain't it?--that the Stratford Shakespeare ever wrote; and yet
it is the only one everybody tries to chouse him out of, the
Baconians included.

The historians find themselves "justified in believing" that the
young Shakespeare poached upon Sir Thomas Lucy's deer preserves and
got haled before that magistrate for it.  But there is no shred of
respectworthy evidence that anything of the kind happened.

The historians, having argued the thing that MIGHT have happened
into the thing that DID happen, found no trouble in turning Sir
Thomas Lucy into Mr. Justice Shallow.  They have long ago convinced
the world--on surmise and without trustworthy evidence--that
Shallow IS Sir Thomas.

The next addition to the young Shakespeare's Stratford history
comes easy.  The historian builds it out of the surmised deer-
stealing, and the surmised trial before the magistrate, and the
surmised vengeance-prompted satire upon the magistrate in the play:
result, the young Shakespeare was a wild, wild, wild, oh SUCH a
wild young scamp, and that gratuitous slander is established for
all time!  It is the very way Professor Osborn and I built the
colossal skeleton brontosaur that stands fifty-seven feet long and
sixteen feet high in the Natural History Museum, the awe and
admiration of all the world, the stateliest skeleton that exists on
the planet.  We had nine bones, and we built the rest of him out of
plaster of paris.  We ran short of plaster of paris, or we'd have
built a brontosaur that could sit down beside the Stratford
Shakespeare and none but an expert could tell which was biggest or
contained the most plaster.

Shakespeare pronounced Venus and Adonis "the first heir of his
invention," apparently implying that it was his first effort at
literary composition.  He should not have said it.  It has been an
embarrassment to his historians these many, many years.  They have
to make him write that graceful and polished and flawless and
beautiful poem before he escaped from Stratford and his family--
1586 or '87--age, twenty-two, or along there; because within the
next five years he wrote five great plays, and could not have found
time to write another line.

It is sorely embarrassing.  If he began to slaughter calves, and
poach deer, and rollick around, and learn English, at the earliest
likely moment--say at thirteen, when he was supposably wrenched
from that school where he was supposably storing up Latin for
future literary use--he had his youthful hands full, and much more
than full.  He must have had to put aside his Warwickshire dialect,
which wouldn't be understood in London, and study English very
hard.  Very hard indeed; incredibly hard, almost, if the result of
that labor was to be the smooth and rounded and flexible and
letter-perfect English of the Venus and Adonis in the space of ten
years; and at the same time learn great and fine and unsurpassable
literary form.

However, it is "conjectured" that he accomplished all this and
more, much more:  learned law and its intricacies; and the complex
procedure of the law courts; and all about soldiering, and
sailoring, and the manners and customs and ways of royal courts and
aristocratic society; and likewise accumulated in his one head
every kind of knowledge the learned then possessed, and every kind
of humble knowledge possessed by the lowly and the ignorant; and
added thereto a wider and more intimate knowledge of the world's
great literatures, ancient and modern, than was possessed by any
other man of his time--for he was going to make brilliant and easy
and admiration-compelling use of these splendid treasures the
moment he got to London.  And according to the surmisers, that is
what he did.  Yes, although there was no one in Stratford able to
teach him these things, and no library in the little village to dig
them out of.  His father could not read, and even the surmisers
surmise that he did not keep a library.

It is surmised by the biographers that the young Shakespeare got
his vast knowledge of the law and his familiar and accurate
acquaintance with the manners and customs and shop-talk of lawyers
through being for a time the CLERK OF A STRATFORD COURT; just as a
bright lad like me, reared in a village on the banks of the
Mississippi, might become perfect in knowledge of the Behring
Strait whale-fishery and the shop-talk of the veteran exercisers of
that adventure-bristling trade through catching catfish with a
"trot-line" Sundays.  But the surmise is damaged by the fact that
there is no evidence--and not even tradition--that the young
Shakespeare was ever clerk of a law court.

It is further surmised that the young Shakespeare accumulated his
law-treasures in the first years of his sojourn in London, through
"amusing himself" by learning book-law in his garret and by picking
up lawyer-talk and the rest of it through loitering about the law-
courts and listening.  But it is only surmise; there is no EVIDENCE
that he ever did either of those things.  They are merely a couple
of chunks of plaster of paris.

There is a legend that he got his bread and butter by holding
horses in front of the London theatres, mornings and afternoons.
Maybe he did.  If he did, it seriously shortened his law-study
hours and his recreation-time in the courts.  In those very days he
was writing great plays, and needed all the time he could get.  The
horse-holding legend ought to be strangled; it too formidably
increases the historian's difficulty in accounting for the young
Shakespeare's erudition--an erudition which he was acquiring, hunk
by hunk and chunk by chunk every day in those strenuous times, and
emptying each day's catch into next day's imperishable drama.

He had to acquire a knowledge of war at the same time; and a
knowledge of soldier-people and sailor-people and their ways and
talk; also a knowledge of some foreign lands and their languages:
for he was daily emptying fluent streams of these various
knowledges, too, into his dramas.  How did he acquire these rich
assets?

In the usual way:  by surmise.  It is SURMISED that he travelled in
Italy and Germany and around, and qualified himself to put their
scenic and social aspects upon paper; that he perfected himself in
French, Italian and Spanish on the road; that he went in
Leicester's expedition to the Low Countries, as soldier or sutler
or something, for several months or years--or whatever length of
time a surmiser needs in his business--and thus became familiar
with soldiership and soldier-ways and soldier-talk, and generalship
and general-ways and general-talk, and seamanship and sailor-ways
and sailor-talk.

Maybe he did all these things, but I would like to know who held
the horses in the meantime; and who studied the books in the
garret; and who frollicked in the law-courts for recreation.  Also,
who did the call-boying and the play-acting.

For he became a call-boy; and as early as '93 he became a
"vagabond"--the law's ungentle term for an unlisted actor; and in
'94 a "regular" and properly and officially listed member of that
(in those days) lightly-valued and not much respected profession.

Right soon thereafter he became a stockholder in two theatres, and
manager of them.  Thenceforward he was a busy and flourishing
business man, and was raking in money with both hands for twenty
years.  Then in a noble frenzy of poetic inspiration he wrote his
one poem--his only poem, his darling--and laid him down and died:


Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare:
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones
And curst be he yt moves my bones.


He was probably dead when he wrote it.  Still, this is only
conjecture.  We have only circumstantial evidence.  Internal
evidence.

Shall I set down the rest of the Conjectures which constitute the
giant Biography of William Shakespeare?  It would strain the
Unabridged Dictionary to hold them.  He is a Brontosaur:  nine
bones and six hundred barrels of plaster of paris.



CHAPTER V



"We May Assume"

In the Assuming trade three separate and independent cults are
transacting business.  Two of these cults are known as the
Shakespearites and the Baconians, and I am the other one--the
Brontosaurian.

The Shakespearite knows that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare's Works;
the Baconian knows that Francis Bacon wrote them; the Brontosaurian
doesn't really know which of them did it, but is quite composedly
and contentedly sure that Shakespeare DIDN'T, and strongly suspects
that Bacon DID.  We all have to do a good deal of assuming, but I
am fairly certain that in every case I can call to mind the
Baconian assumers have come out ahead of the Shakespearites.  Both
parties handle the same materials, but the Baconians seem to me to
get much more reasonable and rational and persuasive results out of
them than is the case with the Shakespearites.  The Shakespearite
conducts his assuming upon a definite principle, an unchanging and
immutable law--which is:  2 and 8 and 7 and 14, added together,
make 165.  I believe this to be an error.  No matter, you cannot
get a habit-sodden Shakespearite to cipher-up his materials upon
any other basis.  With the Baconian it is different.  If you place
before him the above figures and set him to adding them up, he will
never in any case get more than 45 out of them, and in nine cases
out of ten he will get just the proper 31.

Let me try to illustrate the two systems in a simple and homely way
calculated to bring the idea within the grasp of the ignorant and
unintelligent.  We will suppose a case:  take a lap-bred, house-
fed, uneducated, inexperienced kitten; take a rugged old Tom that's
scarred from stem to rudder-post with the memorials of strenuous
experience, and is so cultured, so educated, so limitlessly erudite
that one may say of him "all cat-knowledge is his province"; also,
take a mouse.  Lock the three up in a holeless, crackless, exitless
prison-cell.  Wait half an hour, then open the cell, introduce a
Shakespearite and a Baconian, and let them cipher and assume.  The
mouse is missing:  the question to be decided is, where is it?  You
can guess both verdicts beforehand.  One verdict will say the
kitten contains the mouse; the other will as certainly say the
mouse is in the tomcat.

The Shakespearite will Reason like this--(that is not my word, it
is his).  He will say the kitten MAY HAVE BEEN attending school
when nobody was noticing; therefore WE ARE WARRANTED IN ASSUMING
that it did so; also, it COULD HAVE BEEN training in a court-
clerk's office when no one was noticing; since that could have
happened, WE ARE JUSTIFIED IN ASSUMING that it did happen; it COULD
HAVE STUDIED CATOLOGY IN A GARRET when no one was noticing--
therefore it DID; it COULD HAVE attended cat-assizes on the shed-
roof nights, for recreation, when no one was noticing, and
harvested a knowledge of cat court-forms and cat lawyer-talk in
that way:  it COULD have done it, therefore without a doubt it did;
it could have gone soldiering with a war-tribe when no one was
noticing, and learned soldier-wiles and soldier-ways, and what to
do with a mouse when opportunity offers; the plain inference,
therefore is, that that is what it DID.  Since all these manifold
things COULD have occurred, we have EVERY RIGHT TO BELIEVE they did
occur.  These patiently and painstakingly accumulated vast
acquirements and competences needed but one thing more--
opportunity--to convert themselves into triumphant action.  The
opportunity came, we have the result; BEYOND SHADOW OF QUESTION the
mouse is in the kitten.

It is proper to remark that when we of the three cults plant a "WE
THINK WE MAY ASSUME," we expect it, under careful watering and
fertilizing and tending, to grow up into a strong and hardy and
weather-defying "THERE ISN'T A SHADOW OF A DOUBT" at last--and it
usually happens.

We know what the Baconian's verdict would be:  "THERE IS NOT A RAG
OF EVIDENCE THAT THE KITTEN HAS HAD ANY TRAINING, ANY EDUCATION,
ANY EXPERIENCE QUALIFYING IT FOR THE PRESENT OCCASION, OR IS INDEED
EQUIPPED FOR ANY ACHIEVEMENT ABOVE LIFTING SUCH UNCLAIMED MILK AS
COMES ITS WAY; BUT THERE IS ABUNDANT EVIDENCE--UNASSAILABLE PROOF,
IN FACT--THAT THE OTHER ANIMAL IS EQUIPPED, TO THE LAST DETAIL,
WITH EVERY QUALIFICATION NECESSARY FOR THE EVENT.  WITHOUT SHADOW
OF DOUBT THE TOMCAT CONTAINS THE MOUSE."



CHAPTER VI



When Shakespeare died, in 1616, great literary productions
attributed to him as author had been before the London world and in
high favor for twenty-four years.  Yet his death was not an event.
It made no stir, it attracted no attention.  Apparently his eminent
literary contemporaries did not realize that a celebrated poet had
passed from their midst.  Perhaps they knew a play-actor of minor
rank had disappeared, but did not regard him as the author of his
Works.  "We are justified in assuming" this.

His death was not even an event in the little town of Stratford.
Does this mean that in Stratford he was not regarded as a celebrity
of ANY kind?

"We are privileged to assume"--no, we are indeed OBLIGED to assume-
-that such was the case.  He had spent the first twenty-two or
twenty-three years of his life there, and of course knew everybody
and was known by everybody of that day in the town, including the
dogs and the cats and the horses.  He had spent the last five or
six years of his life there, diligently trading in every big and
little thing that had money in it; so we are compelled to assume
that many of the folk there in those said latter days knew him
personally, and the rest by sight and hearsay.  But not as a
CELEBRITY?  Apparently not.  For everybody soon forgot to remember
any contact with him or any incident connected with him.  The
dozens of townspeople, still alive, who had known of him or known
about him in the first twenty-three years of his life were in the
same unremembering condition:  if they knew of any incident
connected with that period of his life they didn't tell about it.
Would they if they had been asked?  It is most likely.  Were they
asked?  It is pretty apparent that they were not.  Why weren't
they?  It is a very plausible guess that nobody there or elsewhere
was interested to know.

For seven years after Shakespeare's death nobody seems to have been
interested in him.  Then the quarto was published, and Ben Jonson
awoke out of his long indifference and sang a song of praise and
put it in the front of the book.  Then silence fell AGAIN.

For sixty years.  Then inquiries into Shakespeare's Stratford life
began to be made, of Stratfordians.  Of Stratfordians who had known
Shakespeare or had seen him?  No.  Then of Stratfordians who had
seen people who had known or seen people who had seen Shakespeare?
No.  Apparently the inquiries were only made of Stratfordians who
were not Stratfordians of Shakespeare's day, but later comers; and
what they had learned had come to them from persons who had not
seen Shakespeare; and what they had learned was not claimed as
FACT, but only as legend--dim and fading and indefinite legend;
legend of the calf-slaughtering rank, and not worth remembering
either as history or fiction.

Has it ever happened before--or since--that a celebrated person who
had spent exactly half of a fairly long life in the village where
he was born and reared, was able to slip out of this world and
leave that village voiceless and gossipless behind him--utterly
voiceless, utterly gossipless?  And permanently so?  I don't
believe it has happened in any case except Shakespeare's.  And
couldn't and wouldn't have happened in his case if he had been
regarded as a celebrity at the time of his death.

When I examine my own case--but let us do that, and see if it will
not be recognizable as exhibiting a condition of things quite
likely to result, most likely to result, indeed substantially SURE
to result in the case of a celebrated person, a benefactor of the
human race.  Like me.

My parents brought me to the village of Hannibal, Missouri, on the
banks of the Mississippi, when I was two and a half years old.  I
entered school at five years of age, and drifted from one school to
another in the village during nine and a half years.  Then my
father died, leaving his family in exceedingly straitened
circumstances; wherefore my book-education came to a standstill
forever, and I became a printer's apprentice, on board and clothes,
and when the clothes failed I got a hymn-book in place of them.
This for summer wear, probably.  I lived in Hannibal fifteen and a
half years, altogether, then ran away, according to the custom of
persons who are intending to become celebrated.  I never lived
there afterward.  Four years later I became a "cub" on a
Mississippi steamboat in the St. Louis and New Orleans trade, and
after a year and a half of hard study and hard work the U. S.
inspectors rigorously examined me through a couple of long sittings
and decided that I knew every inch of the Mississippi--thirteen
hundred miles--in the dark and in the day--as well as a baby knows
the way to its mother's paps day or night.  So they licensed me as
a pilot--knighted me, so to speak--and I rose up clothed with
authority, a responsible servant of the United States government.

Now then.  Shakespeare died young--he was only fifty-two.  He had
lived in his native village twenty-six years, or about that.  He
died celebrated (if you believe everything you read in the books).
Yet when he died nobody there or elsewhere took any notice of it;
and for sixty years afterward no townsman remembered to say
anything about him or about his life in Stratford.  When the
inquirer came at last he got but one fact--no, LEGEND--and got that
one at second hand, from a person who had only heard it as a rumor,
and didn't claim copyright in it as a production of his own.  He
couldn't, very well, for its date antedated his own birth-date.
But necessarily a number of persons were still alive in Stratford
who, in the days of their youth, had seen Shakespeare nearly every
day in the last five years of his life, and they would have been
able to tell that inquirer some first-hand things about him if he
had in those last days been a celebrity and therefore a person of
interest to the villagers.  Why did not the inquirer hunt them up
and interview them?  Wasn't it worth while?  Wasn't the matter of
sufficient consequence?  Had the inquirer an engagement to see a
dog-fight and couldn't spare the time?

It all seems to mean that he never had any literary celebrity,
there or elsewhere, and no considerable repute as actor and
manager.

Now then, I am away along in life--my seventy-third year being
already well behind me--yet SIXTEEN of my Hannibal schoolmates are
still alive to-day, and can tell--and do tell--inquirers dozens and
dozens of incidents of their young lives and mine together; things
that happened to us in the morning of life, in the blossom of our
youth, in the good days, the dear days, "the days when we went
gipsying, a long time ago."  Most of them creditable to me, too.
One child to whom I paid court when she was five years old and I
eight still lives in Hannibal, and she visited me last summer,
traversing the necessary ten or twelve hundred miles of railroad
without damage to her patience or to her old-young vigor.  Another
little lassie to whom I paid attention in Hannibal when she was
nine years old and I the same, is still alive--in London--and hale
and hearty, just as I am.  And on the few surviving steamboats--
those lingering ghosts and remembrancers of great fleets that plied
the big river in the beginning of my water-career--which is exactly
as long ago as the whole invoice of the life-years of Shakespeare
number--there are still findable two or three river-pilots who saw
me do creditable things in those ancient days; and several white-
headed engineers; and several roustabouts and mates; and several
deck-hands who used to heave the lead for me and send up on the
still night air the "six--feet--SCANT!" that made me shudder, and
the "M-a-r-k--twain!" that took the shudder away, and presently the
darling "By the d-e-e-p--four!" that lifted me to heaven for joy.
{1}  They know about me, and can tell.  And so do printers, from
St. Louis to New York; and so do newspaper reporters, from Nevada
to San Francisco.  And so do the police.  If Shakespeare had really
been celebrated, like me, Stratford could have told things about
him; and if my experience goes for anything, they'd have done it.



CHAPTER VII



If I had under my superintendence a controversy appointed to decide
whether Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare or not, I believe I would
place before the debaters only the one question, WAS SHAKESPEARE
EVER A PRACTICING LAWYER? and leave everything else out.

It is maintained that the man who wrote the plays was not merely
myriad-minded, but also myriad-accomplished:  that he not only knew
some thousands of things about human life in all its shades and
grades, and about the hundred arts and trades and crafts and
professions which men busy themselves in, but that he could TALK
about the men and their grades and trades accurately, making no
mistakes.  Maybe it is so, but have the experts spoken, or is it
only Tom, Dick, and Harry?  Does the exhibit stand upon wide, and
loose, and eloquent generalizing--which is not evidence, and not
proof--or upon details, particulars, statistics, illustrations,
demonstrations?

Experts of unchallengeable authority have testified definitely as
to only one of Shakespeare's multifarious craft-equipments, so far
as my recollections of Shakespeare-Bacon talk abide with me--his
law-equipment.  I do not remember that Wellington or Napoleon ever
examined Shakespeare's battles and sieges and strategies, and then
decided and established for good and all, that they were militarily
flawless; I do not remember that any Nelson, or Drake or Cook ever
examined his seamanship and said it showed profound and accurate
familiarity with that art; I don't remember that any king or prince
or duke has ever testified that Shakespeare was letter-perfect in
his handling of royal court-manners and the talk and manners of
aristocracies; I don't remember that any illustrious Latinist or
Grecian or Frenchman or Spaniard or Italian has proclaimed him a
past-master in those languages; I don't remember--well, I don't
remember that there is TESTIMONY--great testimony--imposing
testimony--unanswerable and unattackable testimony as to any of
Shakespeare's hundred specialties, except one--the law.

Other things change, with time, and the student cannot trace back
with certainty the changes that various trades and their processes
and technicalities have undergone in the long stretch of a century
or two and find out what their processes and technicalities were in
those early days, but with the law it is different:  it is mile-
stoned and documented all the way back, and the master of that
wonderful trade, that complex and intricate trade, that awe-
compelling trade, has competent ways of knowing whether
Shakespeare-law is good law or not; and whether his law-court
procedure is correct or not, and whether his legal shop-talk is the
shop-talk of a veteran practitioner or only a machine-made
counterfeit of it gathered from books and from occasional
loiterings in Westminster.

Richard H. Dana served two years before the mast, and had every
experience that falls to the lot of the sailor before the mast of
our day.  His sailor-talk flows from his pen with the sure touch
and the ease and confidence of a person who has LIVED what he is
talking about, not gathered it from books and random listenings.
Hear him:


Having hove short, cast off the gaskets, and made the bunt of each
sail fast by the jigger, with a man on each yard, at the word the
whole canvas of the ship was loosed, and with the greatest rapidity
possible everything was sheeted home and hoisted up, the anchor
tripped and cat-headed, and the ship under headway.


Again:


The royal yards were all crossed at once, and royals and sky-sails
set, and, as we had the wind free, the booms were run out, and all
were aloft, active as cats, laying out on the yards and booms,
reeving the studding-sail gear; and sail after sail the captain
piled upon her, until she was covered with canvas, her sails
looking like a great white cloud resting upon a black speck.


Once more.  A race in the Pacific:


Our antagonist was in her best trim.  Being clear of the point, the
breeze became stiff, and the royal-masts bent under our sails, but
we would not take them in until we saw three boys spring into the
rigging of the California; then they were all furled at once, but
with orders to our boys to stay aloft at the top-gallant mast-heads
and loose them again at the word.  It was my duty to furl the fore-
royal; and while standing by to loose it again, I had a fine view
of the scene.  From where I stood, the two vessels seemed nothing
but spars and sails, while their narrow decks, far below, slanting
over by the force of the wind aloft, appeared hardly capable of
supporting the great fabrics raised upon them.  The California was
to windward of us, and had every advantage; yet, while the breeze
was stiff we held our own.  As soon as it began to slacken she
ranged a little ahead, and the order was given to loose the royals.
In an instant the gaskets were off and the bunt dropped.  "Sheet
home the fore-royal!"--"Weather sheet's home!"--"Lee sheet's
home!"--"Hoist away, sir!" is bawled from aloft.  "Overhaul your
clewlines!" shouts the mate.  "Aye-aye, sir, all clear!"--"Taut
leech! belay!  Well the lee brace; haul taut to windward!" and the
royals are set.


What would the captain of any sailing-vessel of our time say to
that?  He would say, "The man that wrote that didn't learn his
trade out of a book, he has BEEN there!"  But would this same
captain be competent to sit in judgment upon Shakespeare's
seamanship--considering the changes in ships and ship-talk that
have necessarily taken place, unrecorded, unremembered, and lost to
history in the last three hundred years?  It is my conviction that
Shakespeare's sailor-talk would be Choctaw to him.  For instance--
from The Tempest:


Master.  Boatswain!

Boatswain.  Here, master; what cheer?

Master.  Good, speak to the mariners:  fall to't, yarely, or we run
ourselves to ground; bestir, bestir!

(Enter mariners.)

Boatswain.  Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare,
yare!  Take in the topsail.  Tend to the master's whistle . . .
Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower!  Bring her to try wi'
the main course . . . Lay her a-hold, a-hold!  Set her two courses.
Off to sea again; lay her off.


That will do, for the present; let us yare a little, now, for a
change.

If a man should write a book and in it make one of his characters
say, "Here, devil, empty the quoins into the standing galley and
the imposing stone into the hell-box; assemble the comps around the
frisket and let them jeff for takes and be quick about it," I
should recognize a mistake or two in the phrasing, and would know
that the writer was only a printer theoretically, not practically.

I have been a quartz miner in the silver regions--a pretty hard
life; I know all the palaver of that business:  I know all about
discovery claims and the subordinate claims; I know all about
lodes, ledges, outcroppings, dips, spurs, angles, shafts, drifts,
inclines, levels, tunnels, air-shafts, "horses," clay casings,
granite casings; quartz mills and their batteries; arastras, and
how to charge them with quicksilver and sulphate of copper; and how
to clean them up, and how to reduce the resulting amalgam in the
retorts, and how to cast the bullion into pigs; and finally I know
how to screen tailings, and also how to hunt for something less
robust to do, and find it.  I know the argot of the quartz-mining
and milling industry familiarly; and so whenever Bret Harte
introduces that industry into a story, the first time one of his
miners opens his mouth I recognize from his phrasing that Harte got
the phrasing by listening--like Shakespeare--I mean the Stratford
one--not by experience.  No one can talk the quartz dialect
correctly without learning it with pick and shovel and drill and
fuse.

I have been a surface-miner--gold--and I know all its mysteries,
and the dialect that belongs with them; and whenever Harte
introduces that industry into a story I know by the phrasing of his
characters that neither he nor they have ever served that trade.

I have been a "pocket" miner--a sort of gold mining not findable in
any but one little spot in the world, so far as I know.  I know
how, with horn and water, to find the trail of a pocket and trace
it step by step and stage by stage up the mountain to its source,
and find the compact little nest of yellow metal reposing in its
secret home under the ground.  I know the language of that trade,
that capricious trade, that fascinating buried-treasure trade, and
can catch any writer who tries to use it without having learned it
by the sweat of his brow and the labor of his hands.

I know several other trades and the argot that goes with them; and
whenever a person tries to talk the talk peculiar to any of them
without having learned it at its source I can trap him always
before he gets far on his road.

And so, as I have already remarked, if I were required to
superintend a Bacon-Shakespeare controversy, I would narrow the
matter down to a single question--the only one, so far as the
previous controversies have informed me, concerning which
illustrious experts of unimpeachable competency have testified:
WAS THE AUTHOR OF SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS A LAWYER?--a lawyer deeply
read and of limitless experience?  I would put aside the guesses,
and surmises, and perhapses, and might-have-beens, and could-have
beens, and must-have-beens, and we-are justified-in-presumings, and
the rest of those vague spectres and shadows and indefinitenesses,
and stand or fall, win or lose, by the verdict rendered by the jury
upon that single question.  If the verdict was Yes, I should feel
quite convinced that the Stratford Shakespeare, the actor, manager,
and trader who died so obscure, so forgotten, so destitute of even
village consequence that sixty years afterward no fellow-citizen
and friend of his later days remembered to tell anything about him,
did not write the Works.

Chapter XIII of The Shakespeare Problem Restated bears the heading
"Shakespeare as a Lawyer," and comprises some fifty pages of expert
testimony, with comments thereon, and I will copy the first nine,
as being sufficient all by themselves, as it seems to me, to settle
the question which I have conceived to be the master-key to the
Shakespeare-Bacon puzzle.



CHAPTER VIII



Shakespeare as a Lawyer {2}

The Plays and Poems of Shakespeare supply ample evidence that their
author not only had a very extensive and accurate knowledge of law,
but that he was well acquainted with the manners and customs of
members of the Inns of Court and with legal life generally.

"While novelists and dramatists are constantly making mistakes as
to the laws of marriage, of wills, and inheritance, to
Shakespeare's law, lavishly as he expounds it, there can neither be
demurrer, nor bill of exceptions, nor writ of error."  Such was the
testimony borne by one of the most distinguished lawyers of the
nineteenth century who was raised to the high office of Lord Chief
Justice in 1850, and subsequently became Lord Chancellor.  Its
weight will, doubtless, be more appreciated by lawyers than by
laymen, for only lawyers know how impossible it is for those who
have not served an apprenticeship to the law to avoid displaying
their ignorance if they venture to employ legal terms and to
discuss legal doctrines.  "There is nothing so dangerous," wrote
Lord Campbell, "as for one not of the craft to tamper with our
freemasonry."  A layman is certain to betray himself by using some
expression which a lawyer would never employ.  Mr. Sidney Lee
himself supplies us with an example of this.  He writes (p. 164):
"On February 15, 1609, Shakespeare . . . obtained judgment from a
jury against Addenbroke for the payment of No. 6, and No. 1. 5s.
0d. costs."  Now a lawyer would never have spoken of obtaining
"judgment from a jury," for it is the function of a jury not to
deliver judgment (which is the prerogative of the court), but to
find a verdict on the facts.  The error is, indeed, a venial one,
but it is just one of those little things which at once enable a
lawyer to know if the writer is a layman or "one of the craft."

But when a layman ventures to plunge deeply into legal subjects, he
is naturally apt to make an exhibition of his incompetence.  "Let a
non-professional man, however acute," writes Lord Campbell again,
"presume to talk law, or to draw illustrations from legal science
in discussing other subjects, and he will speedily fall into
laughable absurdity."

And what does the same high authority say about Shakespeare?  He
had "a deep technical knowledge of the law," and an easy
familiarity with "some of the most abstruse proceedings in English
jurisprudence."  And again:  "Whenever he indulges this propensity
he uniformly lays down good law."  Of Henry IV., Part 2, he says:
"If Lord Eldon could be supposed to have written the play, I do not
see how he could be chargeable with having forgotten any of his law
while writing it."  Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke speak of "the
marvelous intimacy which he displays with legal terms, his frequent
adoption of them in illustration, and his curiously technical
knowledge of their form and force."  Malone, himself a lawyer,
wrote:  "His knowledge of legal terms is not merely such as might
be acquired by the casual observation of even his all-comprehending
mind; it has the appearance of technical skill."  Another lawyer
and well-known Shakespearean, Richard Grant White, says:  "No
dramatist of the time, not even Beaumont, who was the younger son
of a judge of the Common Pleas, and who after studying in the Inns
of Court abandoned law for the drama, used legal phrases with
Shakespeare's readiness and exactness.  And the significance of
this fact is heightened by another, that it is only to the language
of the law that he exhibits this inclination.  The phrases peculiar
to other occupations serve him on rare occasions by way of
description, comparison or illustration, generally when something
in the scene suggests them, but legal phrases flow from his pen as
part of his vocabulary, and parcel of his thought.  Take the word
'purchase' for instance, which, in ordinary use, means to acquire
by giving value, but applies in law to all legal modes of obtaining
property except by inheritance or descent, and in this peculiar
sense the word occurs five times in Shakespeare's thirty-four
plays, and only in one single instance in the fifty-four plays of
Beaumont and Fletcher.  It has been suggested that it was in
attendance upon the courts in London that he picked up his legal
vocabulary.  But this supposition not only fails to account for
Shakespeare's peculiar freedom and exactness in the use of that
phraseology, it does not even place him in the way of learning
those terms his use of which is most remarkable, which are not such
as he would have heard at ordinary proceedings at nisi prius, but
such as refer to the tenure or transfer of real property, 'fine and
recovery,' 'statutes merchant,' 'purchase,' 'indenture,' 'tenure,'
'double voucher,' 'fee simple,' 'fee farm,' 'remainder,'
'reversion,' 'forfeiture,' etc.  This conveyancer's jargon could
not have been picked up by hanging round the courts of law in
London two hundred and fifty years ago, when suits as to the title
of real property were comparatively rare.  And beside, Shakespeare
uses his law just as freely in his first plays, written in his
first London years, as in those produced at a later period.  Just
as exactly, too; for the correctness and propriety with which these
terms are introduced have compelled the admiration of a Chief
Justice and a Lord Chancellor."

Senator Davis wrote:  "We seem to have something more than a
sciolist's temerity of indulgence in the terms of an unfamiliar
art.  No legal solecisms will be found.  The abstrusest elements of
the common law are impressed into a disciplined service.  Over and
over again, where such knowledge is unexampled in writers unlearned
in the law, Shakespeare appears in perfect possession of it.  In
the law of real property, its rules of tenure and descents, its
entails, its fines and recoveries, their vouchers and double
vouchers, in the procedure of the Courts, the method of bringing
writs and arrests, the nature of actions, the rules of pleading,
the law of escapes and of contempt of court, in the principles of
evidence, both technical and philosophical, in the distinction
between the temporal and spiritual tribunals, in the law of
attainder and forfeiture, in the requisites of a valid marriage, in
the presumption of legitimacy, in the learning of the law of
prerogative, in the inalienable character of the Crown, this
mastership appears with surprising authority."

To all this testimony (and there is much more which I have not
cited) may now be added that of a great lawyer of our own times,
viz.:  Sir James Plaisted Wilde, Q.C. created a Baron of the
Exchequer in 1860, promoted to the post of Judge-Ordinary and Judge
of the Courts of Probate and Divorce in 1863, and better known to
the world as Lord Penzance, to which dignity he was raised in 1869.
Lord Penzance, as all lawyers know, and as the late Mr. Inderwick,
K.C., has testified, was one of the first legal authorities of his
day, famous for his "remarkable grasp of legal principles," and
"endowed by nature with a remarkable facility for marshalling
facts, and for a clear expression of his views."

Lord Penzance speaks of Shakespeare's "perfect familiarity with not
only the principles, axioms, and maxims, but the technicalities of
English law, a knowledge so perfect and intimate that he was never
incorrect and never at fault . . . The mode in which this knowledge
was pressed into service on all occasions to express his meaning
and illustrate his thoughts, was quite unexampled.  He seems to
have had a special pleasure in his complete and ready mastership of
it in all its branches.  As manifested in the plays, this legal
knowledge and learning had therefore a special character which
places it on a wholly different footing from the rest of the
multifarious knowledge which is exhibited in page after page of the
plays.  At every turn and point at which the author required a
metaphor, simile, or illustration, his mind ever turned FIRST to
the law.  He seems almost to have THOUGHT in legal phrases, the
commonest of legal expressions were ever at the end of his pen in
description or illustration.  That he should have descanted in
lawyer language when he had a forensic subject in hand, such as
Shylock's bond, was to be expected, but the knowledge of law in
'Shakespeare' was exhibited in a far different manner:  it
protruded itself on all occasions, appropriate or inappropriate,
and mingled itself with strains of thought widely divergent from
forensic subjects."  Again:  "To acquire a perfect familiarity with
legal principles, and an accurate and ready use of the technical
terms and phrases not only of the conveyancer's office but of the
pleader's chambers and the Courts at Westminster, nothing short of
employment in some career involving constant contact with legal
questions and general legal work would be requisite.  But a
continuous employment involves the element of time, and time was
just what the manager of two theatres had not at his disposal.  In
what portion of Shakespeare's (i.e. Shakspere's) career would it be
possible to point out that time could be found for the
interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or offices of
practising lawyers?"

Stratfordians, as is well known, casting about for some possible
explanation of Shakespeare's extraordinary knowledge of law, have
made the suggestion that Shakespeare might, conceivably, have been
a clerk in an attorney's office before he came to London.  Mr.
Collier wrote to Lord Campbell to ask his opinion as to the
probability of this being true.  His answer was as follows:  "You
require us to believe implicitly a fact, of which, if true,
positive and irrefragable evidence in his own handwriting might
have been forthcoming to establish it.  Not having been actually
enrolled as an attorney, neither the records of the local court at
Stratford nor of the superior Courts at Westminster would present
his name as being concerned in any suit as an attorney, but it
might reasonably have been expected that there would be deeds or
wills witnessed by him still extant, and after a very diligent
search none such can be discovered."

Upon this Lord Penzance comments:  "It cannot be doubted that Lord
Campbell was right in this.  No young man could have been at work
in an attorney's office without being called upon continually to
act as a witness, and in many other ways leaving traces of his work
and name."  There is not a single fact or incident in all that is
known of Shakespeare, even by rumor or tradition, which supports
this notion of a clerkship.  And after much argument and surmise
which has been indulged in on this subject, we may, I think, safely
put the notion on one side, for no less an authority than Mr. Grant
White says finally that the idea of his having been clerk to an
attorney has been "blown to pieces."

It is altogether characteristic of Mr. Churton Collins that he,
nevertheless, adopts this exploded myth.  "That Shakespeare was in
early life employed as a clerk in an attorney's office, may be
correct.  At Stratford there was by royal charter a Court of Record
sitting every fortnight, with six attorneys, beside the town clerk,
belonging to it, and it is certainly not straining probability to
suppose that the young Shakespeare may have had employment in one
of them.  There is, it is true, no tradition to this effect, but
such traditions as we have about Shakespeare's occupation between
the time of leaving school and going to London are so loose and
baseless that no confidence can be placed in them.  It is, to say
the least, more probable that he was in an attorney's office than
that he was a butcher killing calves 'in a high style,' and making
speeches over them."

This is a charming specimen of Stratfordian argument.  There is, as
we have seen, a very old tradition that Shakespeare was a butcher's
apprentice.  John Dowdall, who made a tour in Warwickshire in 1693,
testifies to it as coming from the old clerk who showed him over
the church, and it is unhesitatingly accepted as true by Mr.
Halliwell-Phillipps.  (Vol I, p. 11, and see Vol. II, p. 71, 72.)
Mr. Sidney Lee sees nothing improbable in it, and it is supported
by Aubrey, who must have written his account some time before 1680,
when his manuscript was completed.  Of the attorney's clerk
hypothesis, on the other hand, there is not the faintest vestige of
a tradition.  It has been evolved out of the fertile imaginations
of embarrassed Stratfordians, seeking for some explanation of the
Stratford rustic's marvellous acquaintance with law and legal terms
and legal life.  But Mr. Churton Collins has not the least
hesitation in throwing over the tradition which has the warrant of
antiquity and setting up in its stead this ridiculous invention,
for which not only is there no shred of positive evidence, but
which, as Lord Campbell and Lord Penzance point out, is really put
out of court by the negative evidence, since "no young man could
have been at work in an attorney's office without being called upon
continually to act as a witness, and in many other ways leaving
traces of his work and name."  And as Mr. Edwards further points
out, since the day when Lord Campbell's book was published (between
forty and fifty years ago), "every old deed or will, to say nothing
of other legal papers, dated during the period of William
Shakespeare's youth, has been scrutinized over half a dozen shires,
and not one signature of the young man has been found."

Moreover, if Shakespeare had served as clerk in an attorney's
office it is clear that he must have so served for a considerable
period in order to have gained (if indeed it is credible that he
could have so gained) his remarkable knowledge of law.  Can we then
for a moment believe that, if this had been so, tradition would
have been absolutely silent on the matter?  That Dowdall's old
clerk, over eighty years of age, should have never heard of it
(though he was sure enough about the butcher's apprentice), and
that all the other ancient witnesses should be in similar
ignorance!

But such are the methods of Stratfordian controversy.  Tradition is
to be scouted when it is found inconvenient, but cited as
irrefragable truth when it suits the case.  Shakespeare of
Stratford was the author of the Plays and Poems, but the author of
the Plays and Poems could not have been a butcher's apprentice.
Away, therefore, with tradition.  But the author of the Plays and
Poems must have had a very large and a very accurate knowledge of
the law.  Therefore, Shakespeare of Stratford must have been an
attorney's clerk!  The method is simplicity itself.  By similar
reasoning Shakespeare has been made a country schoolmaster, a
soldier, a physician, a printer, and a good many other things
beside, according to the inclination and the exigencies of the
commentator.  It would not be in the least surprising to find that
he was studying Latin as a schoolmaster and law in an attorney's
office at the same time.

However, we must do Mr. Collins the justice of saying that he has
fully recognized, what is indeed tolerably obvious, that
Shakespeare must have had a sound legal training.  "It may, of
course, be urged," he writes, "that Shakespeare's knowledge of
medicine, and particularly that branch of it which related to
morbid psychology, is equally remarkable, and that no one has ever
contended that he was a physician.  (Here Mr. Collins is wrong;
that contention also has been put forward.)  It may be urged that
his acquaintance with the technicalities of other crafts and
callings, notably of marine and military affairs, was also
extraordinary, and yet no one has suspected him of being a sailor
or a soldier.  (Wrong again.  Why even Messrs. Garnett and Gosse
'suspect' that he was a soldier!)  This may be conceded, but the
concession hardly furnishes an analogy.  To these and all other
subjects he recurs occasionally, and in season, but with
reminiscences of the law his memory, as is abundantly clear, was
simply saturated.  In season and out of season now in manifest, now
in recondite application, he presses it into the service of
expression and illustration.  At least a third of his myriad
metaphors are derived from it.  It would indeed be difficult to
find a single act in any of his dramas, nay, in some of them, a
single scene, the diction and imagery of which is not colored by
it.  Much of his law may have been acquired from three books easily
accessible to him, namely Tottell's Precedents (1572), Pulton's
Statutes (1578), and Fraunce's Lawier's Logike (1588), works with
which he certainly seems to have been familiar; but much of it
could only have come from one who had an intimate acquaintance with
legal proceedings.  We quite agree with Mr. Castle that
Shakespeare's legal knowledge is not what could have been picked up
in an attorney's office, but could only have been learned by an
actual attendance at the Courts, at a Pleader's Chambers, and on
circuit, or by associating intimately with members of the Bench and
Bar."

This is excellent.  But what is Mr. Collins' explanation.  "Perhaps
the simplest solution of the problem is to accept the hypothesis
that in early life he was in an attorney's office (!), that he
there contracted a love for the law which never left him, that as a
young man in London, he continued to study or dabble in it for his
amusement, to stroll in leisure hours into the Courts, and to
frequent the society of lawyers.  On no other supposition is it
possible to explain the attraction which the law evidently had for
him, and his minute and undeviating accuracy in a subject where no
layman who has indulged in such copious and ostentatious display of
legal technicalities has ever yet succeeded in keeping himself from
tripping."

A lame conclusion.  "No other supposition" indeed!  Yes, there is
another, and a very obvious supposition, namely, that Shakespeare
was himself a lawyer, well versed in his trade, versed in all the
ways of the courts, and living in close intimacy with judges and
members of the Inns of Court.

One is, of course, thankful that Mr. Collins has appreciated the
fact that Shakespeare must have had a sound legal training, but I
may be forgiven if I do not attach quite so much importance to his
pronouncements on this branch of the subject as to those of Malone,
Lord Campbell, Judge Holmes, Mr. Castle, K.C., Lord Penzance, Mr.
Grant White, and other lawyers, who have expressed their opinion on
the matter of Shakespeare's legal acquirements.

Here it may, perhaps, be worth while to quote again from Lord
Penzance's book as to the suggestion that Shakespeare had somehow
or other managed "to acquire a perfect familiarity with legal
principles, and an accurate and ready use of the technical terms
and phrases, not only of the conveyancer's office, but of the
pleader's chambers and the courts at Westminster."  This, as Lord
Penzance points out, "would require nothing short of employment in
some career involving CONSTANT CONTACT with legal questions and
general legal work."  But "in what portion of Shakespeare's career
would it be possible to point out that time could be found for the
interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or offices of
practising lawyers? . . . It is beyond doubt that at an early
period he was called upon to abandon his attendance at school and
assist his father, and was soon after, at the age of sixteen, bound
apprentice to a trade.  While under the obligation of this bond he
could not have pursued any other employment.  Then he leaves
Stratford and comes to London.  He has to provide himself with the
means of a livelihood, and this he did in some capacity at the
theatre.  No one doubts that.  The holding of horses is scouted by
many, and perhaps with justice, as being unlikely and certainly
unproved; but whatever the nature of his employment was at the
theatre, there is hardly room for the belief that it could have
been other than continuous, for his progress there was so rapid.
Ere long he had been taken into the company as an actor, and was
soon spoken of as a 'Johannes Factotum.'  His rapid accumulation of
wealth speaks volumes for the constancy and activity of his
services.  One fails to see when there could be a break in the
current of his life at this period of it, giving room or
opportunity for legal or indeed any other employment.  'In 1589,'
says Knight, 'we have undeniable evidence that he had not only a
casual engagement, was not only a salaried servant, as many players
were, but was a shareholder in the company of the Queen's players
with other shareholders below him on the list.'  This (1589) would
be within two years after his arrival in London, which is placed by
White and Halliwell-Phillipps about the year 1587.  The difficulty
in supposing that, starting with a state of ignorance in 1587, when
he is supposed to have come to London, he was induced to enter upon
a course of most extended study and mental culture, is almost
insuperable.  Still it was physically possible, provided always
that he could have had access to the needful books.  But this legal
training seems to me to stand on a different footing.  It is not
only unaccountable and incredible, but it is actually negatived by
the known facts of his career."  Lord Penzance then refers to the
fact that "by 1592 (according to the best authority, Mr. Grant
White) several of the plays had been written.  The Comedy of Errors
in 1589, Love's Labour's Lost in 1589, Two Gentlemen of Verona in
1589 or 1590, and so forth, and then asks, "with this catalogue of
dramatic work on hand . . . was it possible that he could have
taken a leading part in the management and conduct of two theatres,
and if Mr. Phillipps is to be relied upon, taken his share in the
performances of the provincial tours of his company--and at the
same time devoted himself to the study of the law in all its
branches so efficiently as to make himself complete master of its
principles and practice, and saturate his mind with all its most
technical terms?"

I have cited this passage from Lord Penzance's book, because it lay
before me, and I had already quoted from it on the matter of
Shakespeare's legal knowledge; but other writers have still better
set forth the insuperable difficulties, as they seem to me, which
beset the idea that Shakespeare might have found time in some
unknown period of early life, amid multifarious other occupations,
for the study of classics, literature and law, to say nothing of
languages and a few other matters.  Lord Penzance further asks his
readers:  "Did you ever meet with or hear of an instance in which a
young man in this country gave himself up to legal studies and
engaged in legal employments, which is the only way of becoming
familiar with the technicalities of practice, unless with the view
of practicing in that profession?  I do not believe that it would
be easy, or indeed possible, to produce an instance in which the
law has been seriously studied in all its branches, except as a
qualification for practice in the legal profession."


This testimony is so strong, so direct, so authoritative; and so
uncheapened, unwatered by guesses, and surmises, and maybe-so's,
and might-have-beens, and could-have-beens, and must-have-beens,
and the rest of that ton of plaster of paris out of which the
biographers have built the colossal brontosaur which goes by the
Stratford actor's name, that it quite convinces me that the man who
wrote Shakespeare's Works knew all about law and lawyers.  Also,
that that man could not have been the Stratford Shakespeare--and
WASN'T.

Who did write these Works, then?

I wish I knew.



CHAPTER IX



Did Francis Bacon write Shakespeare's Works?

Nobody knows.

We cannot say we KNOW a thing when that thing has not been proved.
KNOW is too strong a word to use when the evidence is not final and
absolutely conclusive.  We can infer, if we want to, like those
slaves . . . No, I will not write that word, it is not kind, it is
not courteous.  The upholders of the Stratford-Shakespeare
superstition call US the hardest names they can think of, and they
keep doing it all the time; very well, if they like to descend to
that level, let them do it, but I will not so undignify myself as
to follow them.  I cannot call them harsh names; the most I can do
is to indicate them by terms reflecting my disapproval; and this
without malice, without venom.

To resume.  What I was about to say, was, those thugs have built
their entire superstition upon INFERENCES, not upon known and
established facts.  It is a weak method, and poor, and I am glad to
be able to say our side never resorts to it while there is anything
else to resort to.

But when we must, we must; and we have now arrived at a place of
that sort.

Since the Stratford Shakespeare couldn't have written the Works, we
infer that somebody did.  Who was it, then?  This requires some
more inferring.

Ordinarily when an unsigned poem sweeps across the continent like a
tidal wave, whose roar and boom and thunder are made up of
admiration, delight and applause, a dozen obscure people rise up
and claim the authorship.  Why a dozen, instead of only one or two?
One reason is, because there's a dozen that are recognizably
competent to do that poem.  Do you remember "Beautiful Snow"?  Do
you remember "Rock Me to Sleep, Mother, Rock Me to Sleep"?  Do you
remember "Backward, turn backward, O Time, in thy flight!  Make me
a child again just for to-night"?  I remember them very well.
Their authorship was claimed by most of the grown-up people who
were alive at the time, and every claimant had one plausible
argument in his favor, at least:  to wit, he could have done the
authoring; he was competent.

Have the Works been claimed by a dozen?  They haven't.  There was
good reason.  The world knows there was but one man on the planet
at the time who was competent--not a dozen, and not two.  A long
time ago the dwellers in a far country used now and then to find a
procession of prodigious footprints stretching across the plain--
footprints that were three miles apart, each footprint a third of a
mile long and a furlong deep, and with forests and villages mashed
to mush in it.  Was there any doubt as to who had made that mighty
trail?  Were there a dozen claimants?  Were there two?  No--the
people knew who it was that had been along there:  there was only
one Hercules.

There has been only one Shakespeare.  There couldn't be two;
certainly there couldn't be two at the same time.  It takes ages to
bring forth a Shakespeare, and some more ages to match him.  This
one was not matched before his time; nor during his time; and
hasn't been matched since.  The prospect of matching him in our
time is not bright.

The Baconians claim that the Stratford Shakespeare was not
qualified to write the Works, and that Francis Bacon was.  They
claim that Bacon possessed the stupendous equipment--both natural
and acquired--for the miracle; and that no other Englishman of his
day possessed the like; or, indeed, anything closely approaching
it.

Macaulay, in his Essay, has much to say about the splendor and
horizonless magnitude of that equipment.  Also, he has synopsized
Bacon's history:  a thing which cannot be done for the Stratford
Shakespeare, for he hasn't any history to synopsize.  Bacon's
history is open to the world, from his boyhood to his death in old
age--a history consisting of known facts, displayed in minute and
multitudinous detail; FACTS, not guesses and conjectures and might-
have-beens.

Whereby it appears that he was born of a race of statesmen, and had
a Lord Chancellor for his father, and a mother who was
"distinguished both as a linguist and a theologian:  she
corresponded in Greek with Bishop Jewell, and translated his
Apologia from the Latin so correctly that neither he nor Archbishop
Parker could suggest a single alteration."  It is the atmosphere we
are reared in that determines how our inclinations and aspirations
shall tend.  The atmosphere furnished by the parents to the son in
this present case was an atmosphere saturated with learning; with
thinkings and ponderings upon deep subjects; and with polite
culture.  It had its natural effect.  Shakespeare of Stratford was
reared in a house which had no use for books, since its owners, his
parents, were without education.  This may have had an effect upon
the son, but we do not know, because we have no history of him of
an informing sort.  There were but few books anywhere, in that day,
and only the well-to-do and highly educated possessed them, they
being almost confined to the dead languages.  "All the valuable
books then extant in all the vernacular dialects of Europe would
hardly have filled a single shelf"--imagine it!  The few existing
books were in the Latin tongue mainly.  "A person who was ignorant
of it was shut out from all acquaintance--not merely with Cicero
and Virgil, but with the most interesting memoirs, state papers,
and pamphlets of his own time"--a literature necessary to the
Stratford lad, for his fictitious reputation's sake, since the
writer of his Works would begin to use it wholesale and in a most
masterly way before the lad was hardly more than out of his teens
and into his twenties.

At fifteen Bacon was sent to the university, and he spent three
years there.  Thence he went to Paris in the train of the English
Ambassador, and there he mingled daily with the wise, the cultured,
the great, and the aristocracy of fashion, during another three
years.  A total of six years spent at the sources of knowledge;
knowledge both of books and of men.  The three spent at the
university were coeval with the second and last three spent by the
little Stratford lad at Stratford school supposedly, and
perhapsedly, and maybe, and by inference--with nothing to infer
from.  The second three of the Baconian six were "presumably" spent
by the Stratford lad as apprentice to a butcher.  That is, the
thugs presume it--on no evidence of any kind.  Which is their way,
when they want a historical fact.  Fact and presumption are, for
business purposes, all the same to them.  They know the difference,
but they also know how to blink it.  They know, too, that while in
history-building a fact is better than a presumption, it doesn't
take a presumption long to bloom into a fact when THEY have the
handling of it.  They know by old experience that when they get
hold of a presumption-tadpole he is not going to STAY tadpole in
their history-tank; no, they know how to develop him into the giant
four-legged bullfrog of FACT, and make him sit up on his hams, and
puff out his chin, and look important and insolent and come-to-
stay; and assert his genuine simon-pure authenticity with a
thundering bellow that will convince everybody because it is so
loud.  The thug is aware that loudness convinces sixty persons
where reasoning convinces but one.  I wouldn't be a thug, not even
if--but never mind about that, it has nothing to do with the
argument, and it is not noble in spirit besides.  If I am better
than a thug, is the merit mine?  No, it is His.  Then to Him be the
praise.  That is the right spirit.

They "presume" the lad severed his "presumed" connection with the
Stratford school to become apprentice to a butcher.  They also
"presume" that the butcher was his father.  They don't know.  There
is no written record of it, nor any other actual evidence.  If it
would have helped their case any, they would have apprenticed him
to thirty butchers, to fifty butchers, to a wilderness of butchers-
-all by their patented method "presumption."  If it will help their
case they will do it yet; and if it will further help it, they will
"presume" that all those butchers were his father.  And the week
after, they will SAY it.  Why, it is just like being the past tense
of the compound reflexive adverbial incandescent hypodermic
irregular accusative Noun of Multitude; which is father to the
expression which the grammarians call Verb.  It is like a whole
ancestry, with only one posterity.

To resume.  Next, the young Bacon took up the study of law, and
mastered that abstruse science.  From that day to the end of his
life he was daily in close contact with lawyers and judges; not as
a casual onlooker in intervals between holding horses in front of a
theatre, but as a practicing lawyer--a great and successful one, a
renowned one, a Launcelot of the bar, the most formidable lance in
the high brotherhood of the legal Table Round; he lived in the
law's atmosphere thenceforth, all his years, and by sheer ability
forced his way up its difficult steeps to its supremest summit, the
Lord Chancellorship, leaving behind him no fellow craftsman
qualified to challenge his divine right to that majestic place.

When we read the praises bestowed by Lord Penzance and the other
illustrious experts upon the legal condition and legal aptnesses,
brilliances, profundities and felicities so prodigally displayed in
the Plays, and try to fit them to the history-less Stratford stage-
manager, they sound wild, strange, incredible, ludicrous; but when
we put them in the mouth of Bacon they do not sound strange, they
seem in their natural and rightful place, they seem at home there.
Please turn back and read them again.  Attributed to Shakespeare of
Stratford they are meaningless, they are inebriate extravagancies--
intemperate admirations of the dark side of the moon, so to speak;
attributed to Bacon, they are admirations of the golden glories of
the moon's front side, the moon at the full--and not intemperate,
not overwrought, but sane and right, and justified.  "At every turn
and point at which the author required a metaphor, simile or
illustration, his mind ever turned FIRST to the law; he seems
almost to have THOUGHT in legal phrases; the commonest legal
phrases, the commonest of legal expressions were ever at the end of
his pen."  That could happen to no one but a person whose TRADE was
the law; it could not happen to a dabbler in it.  Veteran mariners
fill their conversation with sailor-phrases and draw all their
similes from the ship and the sea and the storm, but no mere
PASSENGER ever does it, be he of Stratford or elsewhere; or could
do it with anything resembling accuracy, if he were hardy enough to
try.  Please read again what Lord Campbell and the other great
authorities have said about Bacon when they thought they were
saying it about Shakespeare of Stratford.



CHAPTER X



The Rest of the Equipment

The author of the Plays was equipped, beyond every other man of his
time, with wisdom, erudition, imagination, capaciousness of mind,
grace and majesty of expression.  Every one has said it, no one
doubts it.  Also, he had humor, humor in rich abundance, and always
wanting to break out.  We have no evidence of any kind that
Shakespeare of Stratford possessed any of these gifts or any of
these acquirements.  The only lines he ever wrote, so far as we
know, are substantially barren of them--barren of all of them.


Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare:
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones
And curst be he yt moves my bones.


Ben Jonson says of Bacon, as orator:


His language, WHERE HE COULD SPARE AND PASS BY A JEST, was nobly
censorious.  No man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more
weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he
uttered.  No member of his speech but consisted of his (its) own
graces . . . The fear of every man that heard him was lest he
should make an end.


From Macaulay:


He continued to distinguish himself in Parliament, particularly by
his exertions in favor of one excellent measure on which the King's
heart was set--the union of England and Scotland.  It was not
difficult for such an intellect to discover many irresistible
arguments in favor of such a scheme.  He conducted the great case
of the Post Nati in the Exchequer Chamber; and the decision of the
judges--a decision the legality of which may be questioned, but the
beneficial effect of which must be acknowledged--was in a great
measure attributed to his dexterous management.


Again:


While actively engaged in the House of Commons and in the courts of
law, he still found leisure for letters and philosophy.  The noble
treatise on the Advancement of Learning, which at a later period
was expanded into the De Augmentis, appeared in 1605

The Wisdom of the Ancients, a work which if it had proceeded from
any other writer would have been considered as a masterpiece of wit
and learning, was printed in 1609.

In the meantime the Novum Organum was slowly proceeding.  Several
distinguished men of learning had been permitted to see portions of
that extraordinary book, and they spoke with the greatest
admiration of his genius.

Even Sir Thomas Bodley, after perusing the Cogitata et Visa, one of
the most precious of those scattered leaves out of which the great
oracular volume was afterward made up, acknowledged that "in all
proposals and plots in that book, Bacon showed himself a master
workman"; and that "it could not be gainsaid but all the treatise
over did abound with choice conceits of the present state of
learning, and with worthy contemplations of the means to procure
it."

In 1612 a new edition of the Essays appeared, with additions
surpassing the original collection both in bulk and quality.

Nor did these pursuits distract Bacon's attention from a work the
most arduous, the most glorious, and the most useful that even his
mighty powers could have achieved, "the reducing and recompiling,"
to use his own phrase, "of the laws of England."

To serve the exacting and laborious offices of Attorney General and
Solicitor General would have satisfied the appetite of any other
man for hard work, but Bacon had to add the vast literary
industries just described, to satisfy his.  He was a born worker.


The service which he rendered to letters during the last five years
of his life, amid ten thousand distractions and vexations, increase
the regret with which we think on the many years which he had
wasted, to use the words of Sir Thomas Bodley, "on such study as
was not worthy such a student."

He commenced a digest of the laws of England, a History of England
under the Princes of the House of Tudor, a body of National
History, a Philosophical Romance.  He made extensive and valuable
additions to his Essays.  He published the inestimable Treatise De
Argumentis Scientiarum.


Did these labors of Hercules fill up his time to his contentment,
and quiet his appetite for work?  Not entirely:


The trifles with which he amused himself in hours of pain and
languor bore the mark of his mind.  THE BEST JESTBOOK IN THE WORLD
is that which he dictated from memory, without referring to any
book, on a day on which illness had rendered him incapable of
serious study.


Here are some scattered remarks (from Macaulay) which throw light
upon Bacon, and seem to indicate--and maybe demonstrate--that he
was competent to write the Plays and Poems:


With great minuteness of observation he had an amplitude of
comprehension such as has never yet been vouchsafed to any other
human being.

The "Essays" contain abundant proofs that no nice feature of
character, no peculiarity in the ordering of a house, a garden or a
court-masque, could escape the notice of one whose mind was capable
of taking in the whole world of knowledge.


His understanding resembled the tent which the fairy Paribanou gave
to Prince Ahmed:  fold it, and it seemed a toy for the hand of a
lady; spread it, and the armies of powerful Sultans might repose
beneath its shade.


The knowledge in which Bacon excelled all men was a knowledge of
the mutual relations of all departments of knowledge.


In a letter written when he was only thirty-one, to his uncle, Lord
Burleigh, he said, "I have taken all knowledge to be my province."


Though Bacon did not arm his philosophy with the weapons of logic,
he adorned her profusely with all the richest decorations of
rhetoric.


The practical faculty was powerful in Bacon; but not, like his wit,
so powerful as occasionally to usurp the place of his reason, and
to tyrannize over the whole man.


There are too many places in the Plays where this happens.  Poor
old dying John of Gaunt volleying second-rate puns at his own name,
is a pathetic instance of it.  "We may assume" that it is Bacon's
fault, but the Stratford Shakespeare has to bear the blame.

No imagination was ever at once so strong and so thoroughly
subjugated.  It stopped at the first check from good sense.


In truth much of Bacon's life was passed in a visionary world--amid
things as strange as any that are described in the "Arabian Tales"
. . . amid buildings more sumptuous than the palace of Aladdin,
fountains more wonderful than the golden water of Parizade,
conveyances more rapid than the hippogryph of Ruggiero, arms more
formidable than the lance of Astolfo, remedies more efficacious
than the balsam of Fierabras.  Yet in his magnificent day-dreams
there was nothing wild--nothing but what sober reason sanctioned.


Bacon's greatest performance is the first book of the Novum Organum
. . . Every part of it blazes with wit, but with wit which is
employed only to illustrate and decorate truth.  No book ever made
so great a revolution in the mode of thinking, overthrew so many
prejudices, introduced so many new opinions.

But what we most admire is the vast capacity of that intellect
which, without effort, takes in at once all the domains of science-
-all the past, the present and the future, all the errors of two
thousand years, all the encouraging signs of the passing times, all
the bright hopes of the coming age.


He had a wonderful talent for packing thought close and rendering
it portable.


His eloquence would alone have entitled him to a high rank in
literature.


It is evident that he had each and every one of the mental gifts
and each and every one of the acquirements that are so prodigally
displayed in the Plays and Poems, and in much higher and richer
degree than any other man of his time or of any previous time.  He
was a genius without a mate, a prodigy not matable.  There was only
one of him; the planet could not produce two of him at one birth,
nor in one age.  He could have written anything that is in the
Plays and Poems.  He could have written this:


The cloud-cap'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like an insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.  We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.


Also, he could have written this, but he refrained:


Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare:
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones
And curst be ye yt moves my bones.


When a person reads the noble verses about the cloud-cap'd towers,
he ought not to follow it immediately with Good friend for Iesus
sake forbeare, because he will find the transition from great
poetry to poor prose too violent for comfort.  It will give him a
shock.  You never notice how commonplace and unpoetic gravel is,
until you bite into a layer of it in a pie.



CHAPTER XI



Am I trying to convince anybody that Shakespeare did not write
Shakespeare's Works?  Ah, now, what do you take me for?  Would I be
so soft as that, after having known the human race familiarly for
nearly seventy-four years?  It would grieve me to know that any one
could think so injuriously of me, so uncomplimentarily, so
unadmiringly of me.  No-no, I am aware that when even the brightest
mind in our world has been trained up from childhood in a
superstition of any kind, it will never be possible for that mind,
in its maturity, to examine sincerely, dispassionately, and
conscientiously any evidence or any circumstance which shall seem
to cast a doubt upon the validity of that superstition.  I doubt if
I could do it myself.  We always get at second hand our notions
about systems of government; and high-tariff and low-tariff; and
prohibition and anti-prohibition; and the holiness of peace and the
glories of war; and codes of honor and codes of morals; and
approval of the duel and disapproval of it; and our beliefs
concerning the nature of cats; and our ideas as to whether the
murder of helpless wild animals is base or is heroic; and our
preferences in the matter of religious and political parties; and
our acceptance or rejection of the Shakespeares and the Arthur
Ortons and the Mrs. Eddys.  We get them all at second-hand, we
reason none of them out for ourselves.  It is the way we are made.
It is the way we are all made, and we can't help it, we can't
change it.  And whenever we have been furnished a fetish, and have
been taught to believe in it, and love it and worship it, and
refrain from examining it, there is no evidence, howsoever clear
and strong, that can persuade us to withdraw from it our loyalty
and our devotion.  In morals, conduct, and beliefs we take the
color of our environment and associations, and it is a color that
can safely be warranted to wash.  Whenever we have been furnished
with a tar baby ostensibly stuffed with jewels, and warned that it
will be dishonorable and irreverent to disembowel it and test the
jewels, we keep our sacrilegious hands off it.  We submit, not
reluctantly, but rather gladly, for we are privately afraid we
should find, upon examination, that the jewels are of the sort that
are manufactured at North Adams, Mass.

I haven't any idea that Shakespeare will have to vacate his
pedestal this side of the year 2209.  Disbelief in him cannot come
swiftly, disbelief in a healthy and deeply-loved tar baby has never
been known to disintegrate swiftly, it is a very slow process.  It
took several thousand years to convince our fine race--including
every splendid intellect in it--that there is no such thing as a
witch; it has taken several thousand years to convince that same
fine race--including every splendid intellect in it--that there is
no such person as Satan; it has taken several centuries to remove
perdition from the Protestant Church's program of postmortem
entertainments; it has taken a weary long time to persuade American
Presbyterians to give up infant damnation and try to bear it the
best they can; and it looks as if their Scotch brethren will still
be burning babies in the everlasting fires when Shakespeare comes
down from his perch.

We are The Reasoning Race.  We can't prove it by the above
examples, and we can't prove it by the miraculous "histories" built
by those Stratfordolaters out of a hatful of rags and a barrel of
sawdust, but there is a plenty of other things we can prove it by,
if I could think of them.  We are The Reasoning Race, and when we
find a vague file of chipmunk-tracks stringing through the dust of
Stratford village, we know by our reasoning powers that Hercules
has been along there.  I feel that our fetish is safe for three
centuries yet.  The bust, too--there in the Stratford Church.  The
precious bust, the priceless bust, the calm bust, the serene bust,
the emotionless bust, with the dandy moustache, and the putty face,
unseamed of care--that face which has looked passionlessly down
upon the awed pilgrim for a hundred and fifty years and will still
look down upon the awed pilgrim three hundred more, with the deep,
deep, deep, subtle, subtle, subtle, expression of a bladder.



CHAPTER XII



Irreverence

One of the most trying defects which I find in these--these--what
shall I call them? for I will not apply injurious epithets to them,
the way they do to us, such violations of courtesy being repugnant
to my nature and my dignity.  The furthest I can go in that
direction is to call them by names of limited reverence--names
merely descriptive, never unkind, never offensive, never tainted by
harsh feeling.  If THEY would do like this, they would feel better
in their hearts.  Very well, then--to proceed.  One of the most
trying defects which I find in these Stratfordolaters, these
Shakesperoids, these thugs, these bangalores, these troglodytes,
these herumfrodites, these blatherskites, these buccaneers, these
bandoleers, is their spirit of irreverence.  It is detectable in
every utterance of theirs when they are talking about us.  I am
thankful that in me there is nothing of that spirit.  When a thing
is sacred to me it is impossible for me to be irreverent toward it.
I cannot call to mind a single instance where I have ever been
irreverent, except toward the things which were sacred to other
people.  Am I in the right?  I think so.  But I ask no one to take
my unsupported word; no, look at the dictionary; let the dictionary
decide.  Here is the definition:


Irreverence.  The quality or condition of irreverence toward God
and sacred things.


What does the Hindu say?  He says it is correct.  He says
irreverence is lack of respect for Vishnu, and Brahma, and
Chrishna, and his other gods, and for his sacred cattle, and for
his temples and the things within them.  He endorses the
definition, you see; and there are 300,000,000 Hindus or their
equivalents back of him.

The dictionary had the acute idea that by using the capital G it
could restrict irreverence to lack of reverence for OUR Deity and
our sacred things, but that ingenious and rather sly idea
miscarried:  for by the simple process of spelling HIS deities with
capitals the Hindu confiscates the definition and restricts it to
his own sects, thus making it clearly compulsory upon us to revere
HIS gods and HIS sacred things, and nobody's else.  We can't say a
word, for he has our own dictionary at his back, and its decision
is final.

This law, reduced to its simplest terms, is this:  1.  Whatever is
sacred to the Christian must be held in reverence by everybody
else; 2, whatever is sacred to the Hindu must be held in reverence
by everybody else; 3, therefore, by consequence, logically, and
indisputably, whatever is sacred to ME must be held in reverence by
everybody else.

Now then, what aggravates me is, that these troglodytes and
muscovites and bandoleers and buccaneers are ALSO trying to crowd
in and share the benefit of the law, and compel everybody to revere
their Shakespeare and hold him sacred.  We can't have that:
there's enough of us already.  If you go on widening and spreading
and inflating the privilege, it will presently come to be conceded
that each man's sacred things are the ONLY ones, and the rest of
the human race will have to be humbly reverent toward them or
suffer for it.  That can surely happen, and when it happens, the
word Irreverence will be regarded as the most meaningless, and
foolish, and self-conceited, and insolent, and impudent and
dictatorial word in the language.  And people will say, "Whose
business is it, what gods I worship and what things hold sacred?
Who has the right to dictate to my conscience, and where did he get
that right?"

We cannot afford to let that calamity come upon us.  We must save
the word from this destruction.  There is but one way to do it, and
that is, to stop the spread of the privilege, and strictly confine
it to its present limits:  that is, to all the Christian sects, to
all the Hindu sects, and me.  We do not need any more, the stock is
watered enough, just as it is.

It would be better if the privilege were limited to me alone.  I
think so because I am the only sect that knows how to employ it
gently, kindly, charitably, dispassionately.  The other sects lack
the quality of self-restraint.  The Catholic Church says the most
irreverent things about matters which are sacred to the
Protestants, and the Protestant Church retorts in kind about the
confessional and other matters which Catholics hold sacred; then
both of these irreverencers turn upon Thomas Paine and charge HIM
with irreverence.  This is all unfortunate, because it makes it
difficult for students equipped with only a low grade of mentality
to find out what Irreverence really IS.

It will surely be much better all around if the privilege of
regulating the irreverent and keeping them in order shall
eventually be withdrawn from all the sects but me.  Then there will
be no more quarrelling, no more bandying of disrespectful epithets,
no more heart burnings.

There will then be nothing sacred involved in this Bacon-
Shakespeare controversy except what is sacred to me.  That will
simplify the whole matter, and trouble will cease.  There will be
irreverence no longer, because I will not allow it.  The first time
those criminals charge me with irreverence for calling their
Stratford myth an Arthur-Orton-Mary-Baker-Thompson-Eddy-Louis-the-
Seventeenth-Veiled-Prophet-of-Khorassan will be the last.  Taught
by the methods found effective in extinguishing earlier offenders
by the Inquisition, of holy memory, I shall know how to quiet them.



CHAPTER XIII



Isn't it odd, when you think of it:  that you may list all the
celebrated Englishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen of modern times,
clear back to the first Tudors--a list containing five hundred
names, shall we say?--and you can go to the histories, biographies
and cyclopedias and learn the particulars of the lives of every one
of them.  Every one of them except one--the most famous, the most
renowned--by far the most illustrious of them all--Shakespeare!
You can get the details of the lives of all the celebrated
ecclesiastics in the list; all the celebrated tragedians,
comedians, singers, dancers, orators, judges, lawyers, poets,
dramatists, historians, biographers, editors, inventors, reformers,
statesmen, generals, admirals, discoverers, prize-fighters,
murderers, pirates, conspirators, horse-jockeys, bunco-steerers,
misers, swindlers, explorers, adventurers by land and sea, bankers,
financiers, astronomers, naturalists, Claimants, impostors,
chemists, biologists, geologists, philologists, college presidents
and professors, architects, engineers, painters, sculptors,
politicians, agitators, rebels, revolutionists, patriots,
demagogues, clowns, cooks, freaks, philosophers, burglars,
highwaymen, journalists, physicians, surgeons--you can get the
life-histories of all of them but ONE.  Just one--the most
extraordinary and the most celebrated of them all--Shakespeare!

You may add to the list the thousand celebrated persons furnished
by the rest of Christendom in the past four centuries, and you can
find out the life-histories of all those people, too.  You will
then have listed 1500 celebrities, and you can trace the authentic
life-histories of the whole of them.  Save one--far and away the
most colossal prodigy of the entire accumulation--Shakespeare!
About him you can find out NOTHING.  Nothing of even the slightest
importance.  Nothing worth the trouble of stowing away in your
memory.  Nothing that even remotely indicates that he was ever
anything more than a distinctly common-place person--a manager, an
actor of inferior grade, a small trader in a small village that did
not regard him as a person of any consequence, and had forgotten
all about him before he was fairly cold in his grave.  We can go to
the records and find out the life-history of every renowned RACE-
HORSE of modern times--but not Shakespeare's!  There are many
reasons why, and they have been furnished in cartloads (of guess
and conjecture) by those troglodytes; but there is one that is
worth all the rest of the reasons put together, and is abundantly
sufficient all by itself--HE HADN'T ANY HISTORY TO RECORD.  There
is no way of getting around that deadly fact.  And no sane way has
yet been discovered of getting around its formidable significance.

Its quite plain significance--to any but those thugs (I do not use
the term unkindly) is, that Shakespeare had no prominence while he
lived, and none until he had been dead two or three generations.
The Plays enjoyed high fame from the beginning; and if he wrote
them it seems a pity the world did not find it out.  He ought to
have explained that he was the author, and not merely a nom de
plume for another man to hide behind.  If he had been less
intemperately solicitous about his bones, and more solicitous about
his Works, it would have been better for his good name, and a
kindness to us.  The bones were not important.  They will moulder
away, they will turn to dust, but the Works will endure until the
last sun goes down.

MARK TWAIN.


P.S.  March 25.  About two months ago I was illuminating this
Autobiography with some notions of mine concerning the Bacon-
Shakespeare controversy, and I then took occasion to air the
opinion that the Stratford Shakespeare was a person of no public
consequence or celebrity during his lifetime, but was utterly
obscure and unimportant.  And not only in great London, but also in
the little village where he was born, where he lived a quarter of a
century, and where he died and was buried.  I argued that if he had
been a person of any note at all, aged villagers would have had
much to tell about him many and many a year after his death,
instead of being unable to furnish inquirers a single fact
connected with him.  I believed, and I still believe, that if he
had been famous, his notoriety would have lasted as long as mine
has lasted in my native village out in Missouri.  It is a good
argument, a prodigiously strong one, and a most formidable one for
even the most gifted, and ingenious, and plausible Stratfordolater
to get around or explain away.  To-day a Hannibal Courier-Post of
recent date has reached me, with an article in it which reinforces
my contention that a really celebrated person cannot be forgotten
in his village in the short space of sixty years.  I will make an
extract from it:


Hannibal, as a city, may have many sins to answer for, but
ingratitude is not one of them, or reverence for the great men she
has produced, and as the years go by her greatest son Mark Twain,
or S. L. Clemens as a few of the unlettered call him, grows in the
estimation and regard of the residents of the town he made famous
and the town that made him famous.  His name is associated with
every old building that is torn down to make way for the modern
structures demanded by a rapidly growing city, and with every hill
or cave over or through which he might by any possibility have
roamed, while the many points of interest which he wove into his
stories, such as Holiday Hill, Jackson's Island, or Mark Twain
Cave, are now monuments to his genius.  Hannibal is glad of any
opportunity to do him honor as he has honored her.

So it has happened that the "old timers" who went to school with
Mark or were with him on some of his usual escapades have been
honored with large audiences whenever they were in a reminiscent
mood and condescended to tell of their intimacy with the ordinary
boy who came to be a very extraordinary humorist and whose every
boyish act is now seen to have been indicative of what was to come.
Like Aunt Beckey and Mrs. Clemens, they can now see that Mark was
hardly appreciated when he lived here and that the things he did as
a boy and was whipped for doing were not all bad after all.  So
they have been in no hesitancy about drawing out the bad things he
did as well as the good in their efforts to get a "Mark Twain
story," all incidents being viewed in the light of his present
fame, until the volume of "Twainiana" is already considerable and
growing in proportion as the "old timers" drop away and the stories
are retold second and third hand by their descendants.  With some
seventy-three years young and living in a villa instead of a house
he is a fair target, and let him incorporate, copyright, or patent
himself as he will, there are some of his "works" that will go
swooping up Hannibal chimneys as long as gray-beards gather about
the fires and begin with "I've heard father tell" or possibly "Once
when I."


The Mrs. Clemens referred to is my mother--WAS my mother.

And here is another extract from a Hannibal paper.  Of date twenty
days ago:


Miss Becca Blankenship died at the home of William Dickason, 408
Rock Street, at 2.30 o'clock yesterday afternoon, aged 72 years.
The deceased was a sister of "Huckleberry Finn," one of the famous
characters in Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer.  She had been a member of
the Dickason family--the housekeeper--for nearly forty-five years,
and was a highly respected lady.  For the past eight years she had
been an invalid, but was as well cared for by Mr. Dickason and his
family as if she had been a near relative.  She was a member of the
Park Methodist Church and a Christian woman.


I remember her well.  I have a picture of her in my mind which was
graven there, clear and sharp and vivid, sixty-three years ago.
She was at that time nine years old, and I was about eleven.  I
remember where she stood, and how she looked; and I can still see
her bare feet, her bare head, her brown face, and her short tow-
linen frock.  She was crying.  What it was about, I have long ago
forgotten.  But it was the tears that preserved the picture for me,
no doubt.  She was a good child, I can say that for her.  She knew
me nearly seventy years ago.  Did she forget me, in the course of
time?  I think not.  If she had lived in Stratford in Shakespeare's
time, would she have forgotten him?  Yes.  For he was never famous
during his lifetime, he was utterly obscure in Stratford, and there
wouldn't be any occasion to remember him after he had been dead a
week.

"Injun Joe," "Jimmy Finn," and "General Gaines" were prominent and
very intemperate ne'er-do-weels in Hannibal two generations ago.
Plenty of gray-heads there remember them to this day, and can tell
you about them.  Isn't it curious that two "town-drunkards" and one
half-breed loafer should leave behind them, in a remote Missourian
village, a fame a hundred times greater and several hundred times
more particularized in the matter of definite facts than
Shakespeare left behind him in the village where he had lived the
half of his lifetime?

MARK TWAIN.



Footnotes:

{1}  Four fathoms--twenty-four feet.

{2}  From chapter XIII of "The Shakespeare Problem Restated."




End of the Project Gutenberg eText Is Shakespeare Dead?






ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING

by Mark Twain [Samuel Clemens]




ESSAY, FOR DISCUSSION, READ AT A MEETING OF THE HISTORICAL
AND ANTIQUARIAN CLUB OF HARTFORD, AND OFFERED FOR THE
THIRTY-DOLLAR PRIZE.[*]

[*] Did not take the prize.




  Observe, I do not mean to suggest that the _custom_ of lying has
suffered any decay or interruption--no, for the Lie, as a Virtue, A Principle,
is eternal; the Lie, as a recreation, a solace, a refuge in time of need, the
fourth Grace, the tenth Muse, man's best and surest friend, is immortal, and
cannot perish from the earth while this club remains. My complaint simply
concerns the decay of the _art_ of lying. No high-minded man, no man of right
feeling, can contemplate the lumbering and slovenly lying of the present day
without grieving to see a noble art so prostituted. In this veteran presence I
naturally enter upon this theme with diffidence; it is like an old maid trying
to teach nursery matters to the mothers in Israel. It would not become to me
to criticise you, gentlemen--who are nearly all my elders--and my superiors,
in this thing--if I should here and there _seem_ to do it, I trust it will in
most cases be more in a spirit of admiration than fault-finding; indeed if
this finest of the fine arts had everywhere received the attention, the
encouragement, and conscientious practice and development which this club has
devoted to it, I should not need to utter this lament, or shred a single tear.
I do not say this to flatter: I say it in a spirit of just and appreciative
recognition. [It had been my intention, at this point, to mention names and
to give illustrative specimens, but indications observable about me admonished
me to beware of the particulars and confine myself to generalities.]

  No fact is more firmly established than that lying is a necessity of our
circumstances--the deduction that it is then a Virtue goes without saying.
No virtue can reach its highest usefulness without careful and diligent
cultivation--therefore, it goes without saying that this one ought to be
taught in the public schools--even in the newspapers. What chance has the
ignorant uncultivated liar against the educated expert? What chance have I
against Mr. Per--against a lawyer? _Judicious_ lying is what the world needs.
I sometimes think it were even better and safer not to lie at all than to lie
injudiciously. An awkward, unscientific lie is often as ineffectual as the
truth.

  Now let us see what the philosophers say. Note that venerable proverb:
Children and fools _always_ speak the truth. The deduction is plain--adults
and wise persons _never_speak it. Parkman, the historian, says, "The principle
of truth may itself be carried into an absurdity." In another place in the same
chapters he says, "The saying is old that truth should not be spoken at all
times; and those whom a sick conscience worries into habitual violation of
the maxim are imbeciles and nuisances." It is strong language, but true. None
of us could _live_ with an habitual truth-teller; but thank goodness none of
us has to. An habitual truth-teller is simply an impossible creature; he does
not exist; he never has existed. Of course there are people who _think_ they
never lie, but it is not so--and this ignorance is one of the very things that
shame our so-called civilization. Everybody lies--every day; every hour;
awake; asleep; in his dreams; in his joy; in his mourning; if he keeps his
tongue still, his hands, his feet, his eyes, his attitude, will convey
deception--and purposely. Even in sermons--but that is a platitude.

  In a far country where I once lived the ladies used to go around paying
calls, under the humane and kindly pretence of wanting to see each other;
and when they returned home, they would cry out with a glad voice, saying,
"We made sixteen calls and found fourteen of them out"--not meaning that
they found out anything important against the fourteen--no, that was only
a colloquial phrase to signify that they were not at home--and their manner
of saying it expressed their lively satisfaction in that fact. Now their
pretence of wanting to see the fourteen--and the other two whom they had been
less lucky with--was that commonest and mildest form of lying which is
sufficiently described as a deflection from the truth. Is it justifiable?
Most certainly. It is beautiful, it is noble; for its object is, _not_ to reap
profit, but to convey a pleasure to the sixteen. The iron-souled truth-monger
would plainly manifest, or even utter the fact that he didn't want to see
those people--and he would be an ass, and inflict totally unnecessary pain.
And next, those ladies in that far country--but never mind, they had a thousand
pleasant ways of lying, that grew out of gentle impulses, and were a credit
to their intelligence and an honor to their hearts. Let the particulars go.

  The men in that far country were liars, every one. Their mere howdy-do was a
lie, because _they_ didn't care how you did, except they were undertakers. To
the ordinary inquirer you lied in return; for you made no conscientious
diagnostic of your case, but answered at random, and usually missed it
considerably. You lied to the undertaker, and said your health was failing--a
wholly commendable lie, since it cost you nothing and pleased the other man.
If a stranger called and interrupted you, you said with your hearty tongue,
"I'm glad to see you," and said with your heartier soul, "I wish you were with
the cannibals and it was dinner-time." When he went, you said regretfully,
"_Must_ you go?" and followed it with a "Call again;" but you did no harm, for
you did not deceive anybody nor inflict any hurt, whereas the truth would have
made you both unhappy.

  I think that all this courteous lying is a sweet and loving art, and should
be cultivated. The highest perfection of politeness is only a beautiful
edifice, built, from the base to the dome, of graceful and gilded forms of
charitable and unselfish lying.

  What I bemoan is the growing prevalence of the brutal truth. Let us do what
we can to eradicate it. An injurious truth has no merit over an injurious lie.
Neither should ever be uttered. The man who speaks an injurious truth lest
his soul be not saved if he do otherwise, should reflect that that sort of a
soul is not strictly worth saving. The man who tells a lie to help a poor
devil out of trouble, is one of whom the angels doubtless say, "Lo, here is
an heroic soul who casts his own welfare in jeopardy to succor his neighbor's;
let us exalt this magnanimous liar."

  An injurious lie is an uncommendable thing; and so, also, and in the same
degree, is an injurious truth--a fact that is recognized by the law of libel.

  Among other common lies, we have the _silent_ lie--the deception which one
conveys by simply keeping still and concealing the truth. Many obstinate
truth-mongers indulge in this dissipation, imagining that if they _speak_ no
lie, they lie not at all. In that far country where I once lived, there was
a lovely spirit, a lady whose impulses were always high and pure, and whose
character answered to them. One day I was there at dinner, and remarked, in
a general way, that we are all liars. She was amazed, and said, "Not _all_?"
It was before "Pinafore's" time. so I did not make the response which would
naturally follow in our day, but frankly said, "Yes, _all_--we are all liars.
There are no exceptions." She looked almost offended, "Why, do you include
_me_?" "Certainly," I said. "I think you even rank as an expert." She said
"Sh-'sh! the children!" So the subject was changed in deference to the
children's presence, and we went on talking about other things. But as soon
as the young people were out of the way, the lady came warmly back to the
matter and said, "I have made a rule of my life to never tell a lie; and I
have never departed from it in a single instance." I said, "I don't mean the
least harm or disrespect, but really you have been lying like smoke ever
since I've been sitting here. It has caused me a good deal of pain, because
I'm not used to it." She required of me an instance--just a single instance.
So I said--

  "Well, here is the unfilled duplicate of the blank, which the Oakland
hospital people sent to you by the hand of the sick-nurse when she came here
to nurse your little nephew through his dangerous illness. This blank asks
all manners of questions as to the conduct of that sick-nurse: 'Did she ever
sleep on her watch? Did she ever forget to give the medicine?' and so forth
and so on. You are warned to be very careful and explicit in your answers, for
the welfare of the service requires that the nurses be promptly fined or
otherwise punished for derelictions. You told me you were perfectly delighted
with this nurse--that she had a thousand perfections and only one fault: you
found you never could depend on her wrapping Johnny up half sufficiently while
he waited in a chilly chair for her to rearrange the warm bed.
You filled up the duplicate of this paper, and sent it back to the hospital
by the hand of the nurse. How did you answer this question--'Was the nurse
at any time guilty of a negligence which was likely to result in the patient's
taking cold?' Come--everything is decided by a bet here in California: ten
dollars to ten cents you lied when you answered that question." She said, "I
didn't; _I left it blank!_" "Just so--you have told a _silent_ lie; you have
left it to be inferred that you had no fault to find in that matter." She said,
"Oh, was that a lie? And _how_ could I mention her one single fault, and she
is so good?--It would have been cruel." I said, "One ought always to lie, when
one can do good by it; your impulse was right, but your judgment was crude;
this comes of unintelligent practice. Now observe the results of this inexpert
deflection of yours. You know Mr. Jones's Willie is lying very low with
scarlet-fever; well, your recommendation was so enthusiastic that that girl
is there nursing him, and the worn-out family have all been trustingly sound
asleep for the last fourteen hours, leaving their darling with full confidence
in those fatal hands, because you, like young George Washington, have a reputa--
However, if you are not going to have anything to do, I will come around
to-morrow and we'll attend the funeral together, for, of course, you'll
naturally feel a peculiar interest in Willie's case--as personal a one, in
fact, as the undertaker."

  But that was not all lost. Before I was half-way through she was in a carriage
and making thirty miles an hour toward the Jones mansion to save what was left
of Willie and tell all she knew about the deadly nurse. All of which was
unnecessary, as Willie wasn't sick; I had been lying myself. But that same day,
all the same, she sent a line to the hospital which filled up the neglected
blank, and stated the _facts,_ too, in the squarest possible manner.

  Now, you see, this lady's fault was _not_ in lying, but in lying
injudiciously. She should have told the truth, _there,_ and made it up to the
nurse with a fraudulent compliment further along in the paper. She could have
said, "In one respect this sick-nurse is perfection--when she is on the watch,
she never snores." Almost any little pleasant lie would have taken the sting
out of that troublesome but necessary expression of the truth.

  Lying is universal--we _all_ do it. Therefore, the wise thing is for us
diligently to train ourselves to lie thoughtfully, judiciously; to lie with
a good object, and not an evil one; to lie for others' advantage, and not our
own; to lie healingly, charitably, humanely, not cruelly, hurtfully,
maliciously; to lie gracefully and graciously, not awkwardly and clumsily;
to lie firmly, frankly, squarely, with head erect, not haltingly, tortuously,
with pusillanimous mien, as being ashamed of our high calling. Then shall we
be rid of the rank and pestilent truth that is rotting the land; then shall
we be great and good and beautiful, and worthy dwellers in a world where even
benign Nature habitually lies, except when she promises execrable weather.
Then--But am I but a new and feeble student in this gracious art; I cannot
instruct _this_ club.

  Joking aside, I think there is much need of wise examination into what sorts
of lies are best and wholesomest to be indulged, seeing we _must_ all lie and
we _do_ all lie, and what sorts it may be best to avoid--and this is a thing
which I feel I can confidently put into the hands of this experienced Club--a
ripe body, who may be termed, in this regard, and without undue flattery, Old
Masters.





End of Project Gutenberg Etext On the Decay of the Art of Lying, by Twain






GOLDSMITH'S FRIEND ABROAD AGAIN

by Mark Twain



NOTE.--No experience is set down in the following letters which had to be
invented.  Fancy is not needed to give variety to the history of a
Chinaman's sojourn in America.  Plain fact is amply sufficient.


LETTER I

                                             SHANGHAI, 18--.
DEAR CHING-FOO: It is all settled, and I am to leave my oppressed and
overburdened native land and cross the sea to that noble realm where all
are free and all equal, and none reviled or abused--America!  America,
whose precious privilege it is to call herself the Land of the Free and
the Home of the Brave.  We and all that are about us here look over the
waves longingly, contrasting the privations of this our birthplace with
the opulent comfort of that happy refuge.  We know how America has
welcomed the Germans and the Frenchmen and the stricken and sorrowing
Irish, and we know how she has given them bread and work, and liberty,
and how grateful they are.  And we know that America stands ready to
welcome all other oppressed peoples and offer her abundance to all that
come, without asking what their nationality is, or their creed or color.
And, without being told it, we know that the, foreign sufferers she has
rescued from oppression and starvation are the most eager of her children
to welcome us, because, having suffered themselves, they know what
suffering is, and having been generously succored, they long to be
generous to other unfortunates and thus show that magnanimity is not
wasted upon them.
                                             AH SONG HI.



LETTER II

                                                  AT SEA, 18--.
DEAR CHING-FOO:  We are far away at sea now; on our way to the beautiful
Land of the Free and Home of the Brave.  We shall soon be where all men
are alike, and where sorrow is not known.

The good American who hired me to go to his country is to pay me $12 a
month, which is immense wages, you know--twenty times as much as one gets
in China.  My passage in the ship is a very large sum--indeed, it is a
fortune--and this I must pay myself eventually, but I am allowed ample
time to make it good to my employer in, he advancing it now.  For a mere
form, I have turned over my wife, my boy, and my two daughters to my
employer's partner for security for the payment of the ship fare.  But my
employer says they are in no danger of being sold, for he knows I will be
faithful to him, and that is the main security.

I thought I would have twelve dollars to, begin life with in America, but
the American Consul took two of them for making a certificate that I was
shipped on the steamer.  He has no right to do more than charge the ship
two dollars for one certificate for the ship, with the number of her
Chinese passengers set down in it; but he chooses to force a certificate
upon each and every Chinaman and put the two dollars in his pocket.  As
1,300 of my countrymen are in this vessel, the Consul received $2,600 for
certificates.  My employer tells me that the Government at Washington
know of this fraud, and are so bitterly opposed to the existence of such
a wrong that they tried hard to have the extor--the fee, I mean,
legalised by the last Congress;--[Pacific and Mediterranean steamship
bills.(Ed.  Mem.)]--but as the bill did not pass, the Consul will have
to take the fee dishonestly until next Congress makes it legitimate.  It
is a great and good and noble country, and hates all forms of vice and
chicanery.

We are in that part of the vessel always reserved for my countrymen.
It is called the steerage.  It is kept for us, my employer says, because
it is not subject to changes of temperature and dangerous drafts of air.
It is only another instance of the loving unselfishness of the Americans
for all unfortunate foreigners.  The steerage is a little crowded, and
rather warm and close, but no doubt it is best for us that it should be
so.

Yesterday our people got to quarrelling among themselves, and the captain
turned a volume of hot steam upon a mass of them and scalded eighty or
ninety of them more or less severely.  Flakes and ribbons of skin came
off some of them.  There was wild shrieking and struggling while the
vapour enveloped the great throng, and so some who were not scalded got
trampled upon and hurt.  We do not complain, for my employer says this is
the usual way of quieting disturbances on board the ship, and that it is
done in the cabins among the Americans every day or two.

Congratulate me, Ching-Fool In ten days more I shall step upon the shore
of America, and be received by her great-hearted people; and I shall
straighten myself up and feel that I am a free man among freemen.

                                                       AH SONG HI.



LETTER III

                                             SAN FRANCISCO, 18--.
DEAR CHING-FOO: I stepped ashore jubilant!  I wanted to dance, shout,
sing, worship the generous Land of the Free and Home of the Brave.  But
as I walked from the gangplank a man in a gray uniform--[Policeman]--
kicked me violently behind and told me to look out--so my employer
translated it.  As I turned, another officer of the same kind struck me
with a short club and also instructed me to look out.  I was about to
take hold of my end of the pole which had mine and Hong-Wo's basket and
things suspended from it, when a third officer hit me with his club to
signify that I was to drop it, and then kicked me to signify that he was
satisfied with my promptness.  Another person came now, and searched all
through our basket and bundles, emptying everything out on the dirty
wharf.  Then this person and another searched us all over.  They found a
little package of opium sewed into the artificial part of Hong-Wo's
queue, and they took that, and also they made him prisoner and handed him
over to an officer, who marched him away.  They took his luggage, too,
because of his crime, and as our luggage was so mixed together that they
could not tell mine from his, they took it all.  When I offered to help
divide it, they kicked me and desired me to look out.

Having now no baggage and no companion, I told my employer that if he was
willing, I would walk about a little and see the city and the people
until he needed me.  I did not like to seem disappointed with my
reception in the good land of refuge for the oppressed, and so I looked
and spoke as cheerily as I could.  But he said, wait a minute--I must be
vaccinated to prevent my taking the small-pox.  I smiled and said I had
already had the small-pox, as he could see by the marks, and so I need
not wait to be "vaccinated," as he called it.  But he said it was the
law, and I must be vaccinated anyhow.  The doctor would never let me
pass, for the law obliged him to vaccinate all Chinamen and charge them
ten dollars apiece for it, and I might be sure that no doctor who would
be the servant of that law would let a fee slip through his fingers to
accommodate any absurd fool who had seen fit to have the disease in some
other country.  And presently the doctor came and did his work and took
my last penny--my ten dollars which were the hard savings of nearly a
year and a half of labour and privation.  Ah, if the law-makers had only
known there were plenty of doctors in the city glad of a chance to
vaccinate people for a dollar or two, they would never have put the price
up so high against a poor friendless Irish, or Italian, or Chinese pauper
fleeing to the good land to escape hunger and hard times.

                                                            AH SONG HI.




LETTER IV

                                             SAN FRANCISCO, 18--.
DEAR CHING-FOO: I have been here about a month now, and am learning a
little of the language every day.  My employer was disappointed in the
matter of hiring us out to service to the plantations in the far eastern
portion of this continent.  His enterprise was a failure, and so he set
us all free, merely taking measures to secure to himself the repayment of
the passage money which he paid for us.  We are to make this good to him
out of the first moneys we earn here.  He says it is sixty dollars
apiece.

We were thus set free about two weeks after we reached here.  We had been
massed together in some small houses up to that time, waiting.  I walked
forth to seek my fortune.  I was to begin life a stranger in a strange
land, without a friend, or a penny, or any clothes but those I had on my
back.  I had not any advantage on my side in the world--not one, except
good health and the lack of any necessity to waste any time or anxiety on
the watching of my baggage.  No, I forget.  I reflected that I had one
prodigious advantage over paupers in other lands--I was in America!  I
was in the heaven-provided refuge of the oppressed and the forsaken!

Just as that comforting thought passed through my mind, some young men
set a fierce dog on me.  I tried to defend myself, but could do nothing.
I retreated to the recess of a closed doorway, and there the dog had me
at his mercy, flying at my throat and face or any part of my body that
presented itself.  I shrieked for help, but the young men only jeered and
laughed.  Two men in gray uniforms ( policemen is their official title)
looked on for a minute and then walked leisurely away.  But a man stopped
them and brought them back and told them it was a shame to leave me in
such distress.  Then the two policemen beat off the dog with small clubs,
and a comfort it was to be rid of him, though I was just rags and blood
from head to foot.  The man who brought the policemen asked the young men
why they abused me in that way, and they said they didn't want any of his
meddling.  And they said to him:

"This Ching divil comes till Ameriky to take the bread out o' dacent
intilligent white men's mouths, and whir they try to defind their rights
there's a dale o' fuss made about it."

They began to threaten my benefactor, and as he saw no friendliness in
the faces that had gathered meanwhile, he went on his way.  He got many a
curse when he was gone.  The policemen now told me I was under arrest and
must go with them.  I asked one of them what wrong I had done to any one
that I should be arrested, and he only struck me with his club and
ordered me to "hold my yap."  With a jeering crowd of street boys and
loafers at my heels, I was taken up an alley and into a stone-paved
dungeon which had large cells all down one side of it, with iron gates to
them.  I stood up by a desk while a man behind it wrote down certain
things about me on a slate.  One of my captors said:

"Enter a charge against this Chinaman of being disorderly and disturbing
the peace."

I attempted to say a word, but he said:

"Silence!  Now ye had better go slow, my good fellow.  This is two or
three times you've tried to get off some of your d---d insolence.  Lip
won't do here.  You've got to simmer down, and if you don't take to it
paceable we'll see if we can't make you.  Fat's your name?"

"Ah Song Hi."

"Alias what?"

I said I did not understand, and he said what he wanted was my true name,
for he guessed I picked up this one since I stole my last chickens.  They
all laughed loudly at that.

Then they searched me.  They found nothing, of course.  They seemed very
angry and asked who I supposed would "go my bail or pay my fine."  When
they explained these things to me, I said I had done nobody any harm, and
why should I need to have bail or pay a fine?  Both of them kicked me and
warned me that I would find it to my advantage to try and be as civil as
convenient.  I protested that I had not meant anything disrespectful.
Then one of them took me to one side and said:

"Now look here, Johnny, it's no use you playing softly wid us.  We mane
business, ye know; and the sooner ye put us on the scent of a V, the
asier yell save yerself from a dale of trouble.  Ye can't get out o' this
for anny less.  Who's your frinds?"

I told him I had not a single friend in all the land of America, and that
I was far from home and help, and very poor.  And I begged him to let me
go.

He gathered the slack of my blouse collar in his grip and jerked and
shoved and hauled at me across the dungeon, and then unlocking an iron
cell-gate thrust me in with a kick and said:

"Rot there, ye furrin spawn, till ye lairn that there's no room in
America for the likes of ye or your nation."

                                                  AH SONG HI.




LETTER V

                                                  SAN FRANCISCO, 18--.
DEAR CHING-FOO: You will remember that I had just been thrust violently
into a cell in the city prison when I wrote last.  I stumbled and fell on
some one.  I got a blow and a curse= and on top of these a kick or two
and a shove.  In a second or two it was plain that I was in a nest of
prisoners and was being "passed around"--for the instant I was knocked
out of the way of one I fell on the head or heels of another and was
promptly ejected, only to land on a third prisoner and get a new
contribution of kicks and curses and a new destination.  I brought up at
last in an unoccupied corner, very much battered and bruised and sore,
but glad enough to be let alone for a little while.  I was on the flag-
stones, for there was, no furniture in the den except a long, broad
board, or combination of boards, like a barn-door, and this bed was
accommodating five or six persons, and that was its full capacity.  They
lay stretched side by side, snoring--when not fighting.  One end of the
board was four, inches higher than the other, and so the slant answered
for a pillow.  There were no blankets, and the night was a little chilly;
the nights are always a little chilly in San Francisco, though never
severely cold.  The board was a deal more comfortable than the stones,
and occasionally some flag-stone plebeian like me would try to creep to a
place on it; and then the aristocrats would hammer him good and make him
think a flag pavement was a nice enough place after all.

I lay quiet in my corner, stroking my bruises, and listening to the
revelations the prisoners made to each other--and to me for some that
were near me talked to me a good deal.  I had long had an idea that
Americans, being free, had no need of prisons, which are a contrivance of
despots for keeping restless patriots out of mischief.  So I was
considerably surprised to find out my mistake.

Ours was a big general cell, it seemed, for the temporary accommodation
of all comers whose crimes were trifling.  Among us they were two
Americans, two "Greasers" (Mexicans), a Frenchman, a German, four
Irishmen, a Chilenean (and, in the next cell, only separated from us by a
grating, two women), all drunk, and all more or less noisy; and as night
fell and advanced, they grew more and more discontented and disorderly,
occasionally; shaking the prison bars and glaring through them at the
slowly pacing officer, and cursing him with all their hearts.  The two
women were nearly middle-aged, and they had only had enough liquor to
stimulate instead of stupefy them.  Consequently they would fondle and
kiss each other for some minutes, and then fall to fighting and keep it
up till they were just two grotesque tangles of rags and blood and
tumbled hair.  Then they would rest awhile and pant and swear.  While
they were affectionate they always spoke of each other as "ladies," but
while they were fighting "strumpet" was the mildest name they could think
of--and they could only make that do by tacking some sounding profanity
to it.  In their last fight, which was toward midnight, one of them bit
off the other's finger, and then the officer interfered and put the
"Greaser" into the "dark cell" to answer for it because the woman that
did it laid it on him, and the other woman did not deny it because, as
she said afterward, she "wanted another crack at the huzzy when her
finger quit hurting," and so she did not want her removed.  By this time
those two women had mutilated each other's clothes to that extent that
there was not sufficient left to cover their nakedness.  I found that one
of these creatures had spent nine years in the county jail, and that the
other one had spent about four or five years in the same place.  They had
done it from choice.  As soon as they were discharged from captivity they
would go straight and get drunk, and then steal some trifling thing while
an officer was observing them.  That would entitle them to another two,
months in jail, and there they would occupy clean, airy apartments, and
have good food in plenty, and being at no expense at all, they, could
make shirts for the clothiers at half a dollar apiece and thus keep
themselves in smoking tobacco and such other luxuries as they wanted.
When the two months were up they would go just as straight as they could
walk to Mother Leonard's and get drunk; and from there to Kearney street
and steal something; and thence to this city prison, and next day back to
the old quarters in the county jail again.  One of them had really kept
this up for nine years and the other four or five, and both said they
meant to end their days in that prison. **--[**The former of the two
did.--Ed. Men.]--Finally, both these creatures fell upon me while I was
dozing with my head against their grating, and battered me considerably,
because they discovered that I was a Chinaman, and they said I was "a
bloody interlopin' loafer come from the devil's own country to take the
bread out of dacent people's mouths and put down the wages for work whin
it was all a Christian could do to kape body and sowl together as it
was."  "Loafer" means one who will not work.
                                                       AH SONG HI.




LETTER VI

                                             SAN FRANCISCO, 18--.

DEAR CHING-FOO:  To continue--the two women became reconciled to each
other again through the common bond of interest and sympathy created
between them by pounding me in partnership, and when they had finished me
they fell to embracing each other again and swearing more eternal
affection like that which had subsisted between them all the evening,
barring occasional interruptions.  They agreed to swear the finger-biting
on the Greaser in open court, and get him sent to the penitentiary for
the crime of mayhem.

Another of our company was a boy of fourteen who had been watched for
some time by officers and teachers, and repeatedly detected in enticing
young girls from the public schools to the lodgings of gentlemen down
town.  He  had been furnished with lures in the form of pictures and
books of a peculiar kind, and these he had distributed among his clients.
There were likenesses of fifteen of these young girls on exhibition (only
to prominent citizens and persons in authority, it was said, though most
people came to get a sight) at the police headquarters, but no punishment
at all was to be inflicted on the poor little misses.  The boy was
afterward sent into captivity at the House of Correction for some months,
and there was a strong disposition to punish the gentlemen who had
employed the boy to entice the girls, but as that could not be done
without making public the names of those gentlemen and thus injuring them
socially, the idea was finally given up.

There was also in our cell that night a photographer (a kind of artist
who makes likenesses of people with a machine), who had been for some
time patching the pictured heads of well-known and respectable young
ladies to the nude, pictured bodies of another class of women; then from
this patched creation he would make photographs and sell them privately
at high prices to rowdies and blackguards, averring that these, the best
young ladies of the city, had hired him to take their likenesses in that
unclad condition.  What a lecture the police judge read that photographer
when he was convicted!  He told him his crime was little less than an
outrage.  He abused that photographer till he almost made him sink
through the floor, and then he fined him a hundred dollars.  And he told
him he might consider himself lucky that he didn't fine him a hundred and
twenty-five dollars.  They are awfully severe on crime here.

About two or two and a half hours after midnight, of that first
experience of mine in the city prison, such of us as were dozing were
awakened by a noise of beating and dragging and groaning, and in a little
while a man was pushed into our den with a "There, d---n you, soak there
a spell!"--and then the gate was closed and the officers went away again.
The man who was thrust among us fell limp and helpless by the grating,
but as nobody could reach him with a kick without the trouble of hitching
along toward him or getting fairly up to deliver it, our people only
grumbled at him, and cursed him, and called him insulting names--for
misery and hardship do not make their victims gentle or charitable toward
each other.  But as he neither tried humbly to conciliate our people nor
swore back at them, his unnatural conduct created surprise, and several
of the party crawled to him where he lay in the dim light that came
through the grating, and examined into his case.  His head was very
bloody and his wits were gone.  After about an hour, he sat up and stared
around; then his eyes grew more natural and he began to tell how that he
was going along with a bag on his shoulder and a brace of policemen
ordered him to stop, which he did not do--was chased and caught, beaten
ferociously about the head on the way to the prison and after arrival
there, and finally I thrown into our den like a dog.

And in a few seconds he sank down again and grew flighty of speech.  One
of our people was at last penetrated with something vaguely akin to
compassion, may be, for he looked out through the gratings at the
guardian officer, pacing to and fro, and said:

"Say, Mickey, this shrimp's goin' to die."

"Stop your noise!" was all the answer he got.  But presently our man
tried it again.  He drew himself to the gratings, grasping them with his
hands, and looking out through them, sat waiting till the officer was
passing once more, and then said:

"Sweetness, you'd better mind your eye, now, because you beats have
killed this cuss.  You've busted his head and he'll pass in his checks
before sun-up.  You better go for a doctor, now, you bet you had."

The officer delivered a sudden rap on our man's knuckles with his club,
that sent him scampering and howling among the sleeping forms on the
flag-stones, and an answering burst of laughter came from the half dozen
policemen idling about the railed desk in the middle of the dungeon.

But there was a putting of heads together out there presently, and a
conversing in low voices, which seemed to show that our man's talk had
made an impression; and presently an officer went away in a hurry, and
shortly came back with a person who entered our cell and felt the bruised
man's pulse and threw the glare of a lantern on his drawn face, striped
with blood, and his glassy eyes, fixed and vacant.  The doctor examined
the man's broken head also, and presently said:

"If you'd called me an hour ago I might have saved this man, may be too
late now."

Then he walked out into the dungeon and the officers surrounded him, and
they kept up a low and earnest buzzing of conversation for fifteen
minutes, I should think, and then the doctor took his departure from the
prison.  Several of the officers now came in and worked a little with the
wounded man, but toward daylight he died.

It was the longest, longest night!  And when the daylight came filtering
reluctantly into the dungeon at last, it was the grayest, dreariest,
saddest daylight!  And yet, when an officer by and by turned off the
sickly yellow gas flame, and immediately the gray of dawn became fresh
and white, there was a lifting of my spirits that acknowledged and
believed that the night was gone, and straightway I fell to stretching my
sore limbs, and looking about me with a grateful sense of relief and a
returning interest in life.  About me lay the evidences that what seemed
now a feverish dream and a nightmare was the memory of a reality instead.
For on the boards lay four frowsy, ragged, bearded vagabonds, snoring--
one turned end-for-end and resting an unclean foot, in a ruined
stocking, on the hairy breast of a neighbour; the young boy was uneasy,
and lay moaning in his sleep; other forms lay half revealed and half
concealed about the floor; in the furthest corner the gray light fell
upon a sheet, whose elevations and depressions indicated the places of
the dead man's face and feet and folded hands; and through the dividing
bars one could discern the almost nude forms of the two exiles from the
county jail twined together in a drunken embrace, and sodden with sleep.

By and by all the animals in all the cages awoke, and stretched
themselves, and exchanged a few cuffs and curses, and then began to
clamour for breakfast.  Breakfast was brought in at last--bread and
beefsteak on tin plates, and black coffee in tin cups, and no grabbing
allowed.  And after several dreary hours of waiting, after this, we were
all marched out into the dungeon and joined there by all manner of
vagrants and vagabonds, of all shades and colours and nationalities, from
the other cells and cages of the place; and pretty soon our whole
menagerie was marched up-stairs and locked fast behind a high railing in
a dirty room with a dirty audience in it.  And this audience stared at
us, and at a man seated on high behind what they call a pulpit in this
country, and at some clerks and other officials seated below him--and
waited.  This was the police court.

The court opened.  Pretty soon I was compelled to notice that a culprit's
nationality made for or against him in this court.  Overwhelming proofs
were necessary to convict an Irishman of crime, and even then his
punishment amounted to little; Frenchmen, Spaniards, and Italians had
strict and unprejudiced justice meted out to them, in exact accordance
with the evidence; negroes were promptly punished, when there was the
slightest preponderance of testimony against them; but Chinamen were
punished always, apparently.  Now this gave me some uneasiness, I
confess.  I knew that this state of things must of necessity be
accidental, because in this country all men were free and equal, and one
person could not take to himself an advantage not accorded to all other
individuals.  I knew that, and yet in spite of it I was uneasy.

And I grew still more uneasy, when I found that any succored and
befriended refugee from Ireland or elsewhere could stand up before that
judge and swear, away the life or liberty or character of a refugee from
China; but that by the law of the land the Chinaman could not testify
against the Irishman.  I was really and truly uneasy, but still my faith
in the universal liberty that America accords and defends, and my deep
veneration for the land that offered all distressed outcasts a home and
protection, was strong within me, and I said to myself that it would all
come out right yet.
                                                  AH SONG HI.




LETTER VII

                                                  SAN FRANCISCO, 18--.
DEAR CHING FOO:  I was glad enough when my case came up.  An hour's
experience had made me as tired of the police court as of the dungeon.
I was not uneasy about the result of the trial, but on the contrary felt
that as soon as the large auditory of Americans present should hear how
that the rowdies had set the dogs on me when I was going peacefully along
the street, and how, when I was all torn and bleeding, the officers
arrested me and put me in jail and let the rowdies go free, the gallant
hatred of oppression which is part of the very flesh and blood of every
American would be stirred to its utmost, and I should be instantly set at
liberty.  In truth I began to fear for the other side.  There in full
view stood the ruffians who had misused me, and I began to fear that in
the first burst of generous anger occasioned by the revealment of what
they had done, they might be harshly handled, and possibly even banished
the country as having dishonoured her and being no longer worthy to
remain upon her sacred soil.

The official interpreter of the court asked my name, and then spoke it
aloud so that all could hear.  Supposing that all was now ready, I
cleared my throat and began--in Chinese, because of my imperfect English:

"Hear, O high and mighty mandarin, and believe!  As I went about my
peaceful business in the street, behold certain men set a dog on me,
and--

"Silence!"

It was the judge that spoke.  The interpreter whispered to me that I must
keep perfectly still.  He said that no statement would be received from
me--I must only talk through my lawyer.

I had no lawyer.  In the early morning a police court lawyer (termed, in
the higher circles of society, a "shyster") had come into our den in the
prison and offered his services to me, but I had been obliged to go
without them because I could not pay in advance or give security.  I told
the interpreter how the matter stood.  He said I must take my chances on
the witnesses then.  I glanced around, and my failing confidence revived.

"Call those four Chinamen yonder," I said.  "They saw it all.  I remember
their faces perfectly.  They will prove that the white men set the dog on
me when I was not harming them."

"That won't work," said he.  "In this country white men can testify
against Chinamen all they want to, but Chinamen ain't allowed to testify
against white men!"

What a chill went through me!  And then I felt the indignant blood rise
to my cheek at this libel upon the Home of the Oppressed, where all men
are free and equal--perfectly equal--perfectly free and perfectly equal.
I despised this Chinese-speaking Spaniard for his mean slander of the
land that was sheltering and feeding him.  I sorely wanted to sear his
eyes with that sentence from the great and good American Declaration of
Independence which we have copied in letters of gold in China and keep
hung up over our family altars and in our temples--I mean the one about
all men being created free and equal.

But woe is me, Ching Foo, the man was right.  He was right, after all.
There were my witnesses, but I could not use them.  But now came a new
hope.  I saw my white friend come in, and I felt that he had come there
purposely to help me.  I may almost say I knew it.  So I grew easier.
He passed near enough to me to say under his breath, "Don't be afraid,"
and then I had no more fear.  But presently the rowdies recognised him
and began to scowl at him in no friendly way, and to make threatening
signs at him.  The two officers that arrested me fixed their eyes
steadily on his; he bore it well, but gave in presently, and dropped his
eyes.  They still gazed at his eyebrows, and every time he raised his
eyes he encountered their winkless stare--until after a minute or two he
ceased to lift his head at all.  The judge had been giving some
instructions privately to some one for a little while, but now he was
ready to resume business.  Then the trial so unspeakably important to me,
and freighted with such prodigious consequence to my wife and children,
began, progressed, ended, was recorded in the books, noted down by the
newspaper reporters, and forgotten by everybody but me--all in the little
space of two minutes!

"Ah Song Hi, Chinaman.  Officers O'Flannigan and O'Flaherty, witnesses.
Come forward, Officer O'Flannigan."

OFFICER--"He was making a disturbance in Kearny street."

JUDGE--"Any witnesses on the other side?"  No response.  The white friend
raised his eyes encountered Officer O'Flaherty's--blushed a little--got
up and left the courtroom, avoiding all glances and not taking his own
from the floor.

JUDGE--"Give him five dollars or ten days."

In my desolation there was a glad surprise in the words; but it passed
away when I found that he only meant that I was to be fined five dollars
or imprisoned ten days longer in default of it.

There were twelve or fifteen Chinamen in our crowd of prisoners, charged
with all manner of little thefts and misdemeanors, and their cases were
quickly disposed of, as a general thing.  When the charge came from a
policeman or other white man, he made his statement and that was the end
of it, unless the Chinaman's lawyer could find some white person to
testify in his client's behalf, for, neither the accused Chinaman nor his
countrymen being allowed to say anything, the statement of the officers
or other white person was amply sufficient to convict.  So, as I said,
the Chinamen's cases were quickly disposed of, and fines and imprisonment
promptly distributed among them.  In one or two of the cases the charges
against Chinamen were brought by Chinamen themselves, and in those cases
Chinamen testified against Chinamen, through the interpreter; but the
fixed rule of the court being that the preponderance of testimony in such
cases should determine the prisoner's guilt or innocence, and there being
nothing very binding about an oath administered to the lower orders of
our people without the ancient solemnity of cutting off a chicken's head
and burning some yellow paper at the same time, the interested parties
naturally drum up a cloud of witnesses who are cheerfully willing to give
evidence without ever knowing anything about the matter in hand.  The
judge has a custom of rattling through with as much of this testimony as
his patience will stand, and then shutting off the rest and striking an
average.

By noon all the business of the court was finished, and then several of
us who had not fared well were remanded to prison; the judge went home;
the lawyers, and officers, and spectators departed their several ways,
and left the uncomely court-room to silence, solitude, and Stiggers, the
newspaper reporter, which latter would now write up his items (said an
ancient Chinaman to me), in the which he would praise all the policemen
indiscriminately and abuse the Chinamen and dead people.

                                                       AH SONG HI.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Goldsmiths Friend Abroad Again,
by Mark Twain






HOW TO TELL A STORY AND OTHERS

by Mark Twain




CONTENTS:
     HOW TO TELL A STORY
          THE WOUNDED SOLDIER
          THE GOLDEN ARM
     MENTAL TELEGRAPHY AGAIN
     THE INVALIDS STORY



HOW TO TELL A STORY

          The Humorous Story an American Development.--Its Difference
          from Comic and Witty Stories.

I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told.  I only
claim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been almost daily
in the company of the most expert story-tellers for many years.

There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind--the
humorous.  I will talk mainly about that one.  The humorous story is
American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French.  The
humorous story depends for its effect upon the manner of the telling;
the comic story and the witty story upon the matter.

The humorous story may be spun out to great length, and may wander around
as much as it pleases, and arrive nowhere in particular; but the comic
and witty stories must be brief and end with a point.  The humorous story
bubbles gently along, the others burst.

The humorous story is strictly a work of art--high and delicate art--
and only an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling the
comic and the witty story; anybody can do it.  The art of telling a
humorous story--understand, I mean by word of mouth, not print--was
created in America, and has remained at home.

The humorous story is told gravely; the teller does his best to conceal
the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny about
it; but the teller of the comic story tells you beforehand that it is one
of the funniest things he has ever heard, then tells it with eager
delight, and is the first person to laugh when he gets through.  And
sometimes, if he has had good success, he is so glad and happy that he
will repeat the "nub" of it and glance around from face to face,
collecting applause, and then repeat it again.  It is a pathetic thing to
see.

Very often, of course, the rambling and disjointed humorous story
finishes with a nub, point, snapper, or whatever you like to call it.
Then the listener must be alert, for in many cases the teller will divert
attention from that nub by dropping it in a carefully casual and
indifferent way, with the pretence that he does not know it is a nub.

Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal; then when the belated audience
presently caught the joke he would look up with innocent surprise, as if
wondering what they had found to laugh at.  Dan Setchell used it before
him, Nye and Riley and others use it to-day.

But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub; he shouts it at
you--every time.  And when he prints it, in England, France, Germany, and
Italy, he italicizes it, puts some whooping exclamation-points after it,
and sometimes explains it in a parenthesis.  All of which is very
depressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

Let me set down an instance of the comic method, using an anecdote which
has been popular all over the world for twelve or fifteen hundred years.
The teller tells it in this way:

                           THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.

In the course of a certain battle a soldier whose leg had been shot off
appealed to another soldier who was hurrying by to carry him to the rear,
informing him at the same time of the loss which he had sustained;
whereupon the generous son of Mars, shouldering the unfortunate,
proceeded to carry out his desire.  The bullets and cannon-balls were
flying in all directions, and presently one of the latter took the
wounded man's head off--without, however, his deliverer being aware of
it.  In no-long time he was hailed by an officer, who said:

"Where are you going with that carcass?"

"To the rear, sir--he's lost his leg!"

"His leg, forsooth?" responded the astonished officer; "you mean his
head, you booby."

Whereupon the soldier dispossessed himself of his burden, and stood
looking down upon it in great perplexity.  At length he said:

"It is true, sir, just as you have said."  Then after a pause he added,
"But he TOLD me IT WAS HIS LEG!  !  !  !  !"


Here the narrator bursts into explosion after explosion of thunderous
horse-laughter, repeating that nub from time to time through his gaspings
and shriekings and suffocatings.

It takes only a minute and a half to tell that in its comic-story form;
and isn't worth the telling, after all.  Put into the humorous-story form
it takes ten minutes, and is about the funniest thing I have ever
listened to--as James Whitcomb Riley tells it.

He tells it in the character of a dull-witted old farmer who has just
heard it for the first time, thinks it is unspeakably funny, and is
trying to repeat it to a neighbor.  But he can't remember it; so he gets
all mixed up and wanders helplessly round and round, putting in tedious
details that don't belong in the tale and only retard it; taking them out
conscientiously and putting in others that are just as useless; making
minor mistakes now and then and stopping to correct them and explain how
he came to make them; remembering things which he forgot to put in in
their proper place and going back to put them in there; stopping his
narrative a good while in order to try to recall the name of the soldier
that was hurt, and finally remembering that the soldier's name was not
mentioned, and remarking placidly that the name is of no real importance,
anyway--better, of course, if one knew it, but not essential, after all--
and so on, and so on, and so on.

The teller is innocent and happy and pleased with himself, and has to
stop every little while to hold himself in and keep from laughing
outright; and does hold in, but his body quakes in a jelly-like way with
interior chuckles; and at the end of the ten minutes the audience have
laughed until they are exhausted, and the tears are running down their
faces.

The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness of the old
farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result is a performance which is
thoroughly charming and delicious.  This is art and fine and beautiful,
and only a master can compass it; but a machine could tell the other
story.

To string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering and
sometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that they are
absurdities, is the basis of the American art, if my position is correct.
Another feature is the slurring of the point.  A third is the dropping of
a studied remark apparently without knowing it, as if one were thinking
aloud.  The fourth and last is the pause.

Artemus Ward dealt in numbers three and four a good deal.  He would begin
to tell with great animation something which he seemed to think was
wonderful; then lose confidence, and after an apparently absent-minded
pause add an incongruous remark in a soliloquizing way; and that was the
remark intended to explode the mine--and it did.

For instance, he would say eagerly, excitedly, "I once knew a man in New
Zealand who hadn't a tooth in his head"--here his animation would die
out; a silent, reflective pause would follow, then he would say dreamily,
and as if to himself, "and yet that man could beat a drum better than any
man I ever saw."

The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story, and a
frequently recurring feature, too.  It is a dainty thing, and delicate,
and also uncertain and treacherous; for it must be exactly the right
length--no more and no less--or it fails of its purpose and makes
trouble.  If the pause is too short the impressive point is passed, and
[and if too long] the audience have had time to divine that a surprise is
intended--and then you can't surprise them, of course.

On the platform I used to tell a negro ghost story that had a pause in
front of the snapper on the end, and that pause was the most important
thing in the whole story.  If I got it the right length precisely, I
could spring the finishing ejaculation with effect enough to make some
impressible girl deliver a startled little yelp and jump out of her seat
--and that was what I was after.  This story was called "The Golden Arm,"
and was told in this fashion.  You can practise with it yourself--and
mind you look out for the pause and get it right.

                             THE GOLDEN ARM.

Once 'pon a time dey wuz a monsus mean man, en he live 'way out in de
prairie all 'lone by hisself, 'cep'n he had a wife.  En bimeby she died,
en he tuck en toted her way out dah in de prairie en buried her.  Well,
she had a golden arm--all solid gold, fum de shoulder down.  He wuz
pow'ful mean--pow'ful; en dat night he couldn't sleep, Gaze he want dat
golden arm so bad.

When it come midnight he couldn't stan' it no mo'; so he git up, he did,
en tuck his lantern en shoved out thoo de storm en dug her up en got de
golden arm; en he bent his head down 'gin de win', en plowed en plowed en
plowed thoo de snow.  Den all on a sudden he stop (make a considerable
pause here, and look startled, and take a listening attitude) en say:
"My LAN', what's dat!"

En he listen--en listen--en de win' say (set your teeth together and
imitate the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind), "Bzzz-z-zzz"---
en den, way back yonder whah de grave is, he hear a voice!  he hear a
voice all mix' up in de win' can't hardly tell 'em 'part--" Bzzz-zzz--
W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n arm?  --zzz--zzz-- W-h-o g-o-t m-y g-o-l-
d-e-n arm!" (You must begin to shiver violently now.)

En he begin to shiver en shake, en say, "Oh, my!  OH, my lan'!  "en de
win' blow de lantern out, en de snow en sleet blow in his face en mos'
choke him, en he start a-plowin' knee-deep towards home mos' dead, he so
sk'yerd--en pooty soon he hear de voice agin, en (pause) it 'us comin'
after him!  "Bzzz--zzz--zzz--W-h-o--g-o-t m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n--arm?"

When he git to de pasture he hear it agin closter now, en a-comin'!--
a-comin' back dah in de dark en de storm--(repeat the wind and the
voice).  When he git to de house he rush up-stairs en jump in de bed en
kiver up, head and years, en lay dah shiverin' en shakin'--en den way out
dah he hear it agin!--en a-comin'!  En bimeby he hear (pause--awed,
listening attitude)--pat--pat--pat--hit's acomin' up-stairs!  Den he
hear de latch, en he know it's in de room!

Den pooty soon he know it's a-stannin' by de bed!  (Pause.) Den--he know
it's a-bendin' down over him--en he cain't skasely git his breath!  Den--
den--he seem to feel someth' n c-o-l-d, right down 'most agin his head!
(Pause.)

Den de voice say, right at his year--"W-h-o g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n
arm?" (You must wail it out very plaintively and accusingly; then you
stare steadily and impressively into the face of the farthest-gone
auditor--a girl, preferably--and let that awe-inspiring pause begin to
build itself in the deep hush.  When it has reached exactly the right
length, jump suddenly at that girl and yell, "You've got it!")

If you've got the pause right, she'll fetch a dear little yelp and spring
right out of her shoes.  But you must get the pause right; and you will
find it the most troublesome and aggravating and uncertain thing you ever
undertook.







MENTAL TELEGRAPHY AGAIN

I have three or four curious incidents to tell about.  They seem to come
under the head of what I named "Mental Telegraphy" in a paper written
seventeen years ago, and published long afterwards.--[The paper entitled
"Mental Telegraphy," which originally appeared in Harper's Magazine for
December, 1893, is included in the volume entitled The American Claimant
and Other Stories and Sketches.]

Several years ago I made a campaign on the platform with Mr. George W.
Cable.  In Montreal we were honored with a reception.  It began at two in
the afternoon in a long drawing-room in the Windsor Hotel.  Mr. Cable and
I stood at one end of this room, and the ladies and gentlemen entered it
at the other end, crossed it at that end, then came up the long left-hand
side, shook hands with us, said a word or two, and passed on, in the
usual way.  My sight is of the telescopic sort, and I presently
recognized a familiar face among the throng of strangers drifting in at
the distant door, and I said to myself, with surprise and high
gratification, "That is Mrs. R.; I had forgotten that she was a
Canadian."  She had been a great friend of mine in Carson City, Nevada,
in the early days.  I had not seen her or heard of her for twenty years;
I had not been thinking about her; there was nothing to suggest her to
me, nothing to bring her to my mind; in fact, to me she had long ago
ceased to exist, and had disappeared from my consciousness.  But I knew
her instantly; and I saw her so clearly that I was able to note some of
the particulars of her dress, and did note them, and they remained in my
mind.  I was impatient for her to come.  In the midst of the hand-
shakings I snatched glimpses of her and noted her progress with the slow-
moving file across the end of the room; then I saw her start up the side,
and this gave me a full front view of her face.  I saw her last when she
was within twenty-five feet of me.  For an hour I kept thinking she must
still be in the room somewhere and would come at last, but I was
disappointed.

When I arrived in the lecture-hall that evening some one said: "Come into
the waiting-room; there's a friend of yours there who wants to see you.
You'll not be introduced--you are to do the recognizing without help if
you can."

I said to myself: "It is Mrs. R.; I shan't have any trouble."

There were perhaps ten ladies present, all seated.  In the midst of them
was Mrs. R., as I had expected.  She was dressed exactly as she was when
I had seen her in the afternoon.  I went forward and shook hands with her
and called her by name, and said:

"I knew you the moment you appeared at the reception this afternoon."
She looked surprised, and said: "But I was not at the reception.  I have
just arrived from Quebec, and have not been in town an hour."

It was my turn to be surprised now.  I said: "I can't help it.  I give
you my word of honor that it is as I say.  I saw you at the reception,
and you were dressed precisely as you are now.  When they told me a
moment ago that I should find a friend in this room, your image rose
before me, dress and all, just as I had seen you at the reception."

Those are the facts.  She was not at the reception at all, or anywhere
near it; but I saw her there nevertheless, and most clearly and
unmistakably.  To that I could make oath.  How is one to explain this?  I
was not thinking of her at the time; had not thought of her for years.
But she had been thinking of me, no doubt; did her thoughts flit through
leagues of air to me, and bring with it that clear and pleasant vision of
herself?  I think so.  That was and remains my sole experience in the
matter of apparitions--I mean apparitions that come when one is
(ostensibly) awake.  I could have been asleep for a moment; the
apparition could have been the creature of a dream.  Still, that is
nothing to the point; the feature of interest is the happening of the
thing just at that time, instead of at an earlier or later time, which is
argument that its origin lay in thought-transference.

My next incident will be set aside by most persons as being merely
a "coincidence," I suppose.  Years ago I used to think sometimes of
making a lecturing trip through the antipodes and the borders of the
Orient, but always gave up the idea, partly because of the great length
of the journey and partly because my wife could not well manage to go
with me.  Towards the end of last January that idea, after an interval of
years, came suddenly into my head again--forcefully, too, and without any
apparent reason.  Whence came it?  What suggested it?  I will touch upon
that presently.

I was at that time where I am now--in Paris.  I wrote at once to Henry M.
Stanley (London), and asked him some questions about his Australian
lecture tour, and inquired who had conducted him and what were the terms.
After a day or two his answer came.  It began:

          "The lecture agent for Australia and New Zealand is par
          excellence Mr.  R. S. Smythe, of Melbourne."

He added his itinerary, terms, sea expenses, and some other matters, and
advised me to write Mr. Smythe, which I did--February 3d.  I began my
letter by saying in substance that while he did not know me personally we
had a mutual friend in Stanley, and that would answer for an
introduction.  Then I proposed my trip, and asked if he would give me the
same terms which he had given Stanley.

I mailed my letter to Mr. Smythe February 6th, and three days later I got
a letter from the selfsame Smythe, dated Melbourne, December 17th.  I
would as soon have expected to get a letter from the late George
Washington.  The letter began somewhat as mine to him had begun--with a
self-introduction:

          "DEAR MR. CLEMENS,--It is so long since Archibald Forbes and I
          spent that pleasant afternoon in your comfortable house at
          Hartford that you have probably quite forgotten the occasion."

In the course of his letter this occurs:

          "I am willing to give you" [here be named the terms which he
          had given Stanley] "for an antipodean tour to last, say, three
          months."

Here was the single essential detail of my letter answered three days
after I had mailed my inquiry.  I might have saved myself the trouble and
the postage--and a few years ago I would have done that very thing, for I
would have argued that my sudden and strong impulse to write and ask some
questions of a stranger on the under side of the globe meant that the
impulse came from that stranger, and that he would answer my questions of
his own motion if I would let him alone.

Mr. Smythe's letter probably passed under my nose on its way to lose
three weeks traveling to America and back, and gave me a whiff of its
contents as it went along.  Letters often act like that.  Instead of the
thought coming to you in an instant from Australia, the (apparently)
unsentient letter imparts it to you as it glides invisibly past your
elbow in the mail-bag.

Next incident.  In the following month--March--I was in America.  I spent
a Sunday at Irvington-on-the-Hudson with Mr. John Brisben Walker, of the
Cosmopolitan magazine.  We came into New York next morning, and went to
the Century Club for luncheon.  He said some praiseful things about the
character of the club and the orderly serenity and pleasantness of its
quarters, and asked if I had never tried to acquire membership in it.
I said I had not, and that New York clubs were a continuous expense to
the country members without being of frequent use or benefit to them.

"And now I've got an idea!" said I.  "There's the Lotos--the first New
York club I was ever a member of--my very earliest love in that line.
I have been a member of it for considerably more than twenty years, yet
have seldom had a chance to look in and see the boys.  They turn gray and
grow old while I am not watching.  And my dues go on.  I am going to
Hartford this afternoon for a day or two, but as soon as I get back I
will go to John Elderkin very privately and say: 'Remember the veteran
and confer distinction upon him, for the sake of old times.  Make me an
honorary member and abolish the tax.  If you haven't any such thing as
honorary membership, all the better--create it for my honor and glory.'
That would be a great thing; I will go to John Elderkin as soon as I get
back from Hartford."

I took the last express that afternoon, first telegraphing Mr. F. G.
Whitmore to come and see me next day.  When he came he asked: "Did you
get a letter from Mr. John Elderkin, secretary of the Lotos Club, before
you left New York?"

"Then it just missed you.  If I had known you were coming I would have
kept it.  It is beautiful, and will make you proud.  The Board of
Directors, by unanimous vote, have made you a life member, and squelched
those dues; and, you are to be on hand and receive your distinction on
the night of the 30th, which is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the
founding of the club, and it will not surprise me if they have some great
times there."

What put the honorary membership in my head that day in the Century Club?
for I had never thought of it before.  I don't know what brought the
thought to me at that particular time instead of earlier, but I am well
satisfied that it originated with the Board of Directors, and had been on
its way to my brain through the air ever since the moment that saw their
vote recorded.

Another incident.  I was in Hartford two or three days as a guest of the
Rev. Joseph H. Twichell.  I have held the rank of Honorary Uncle to his
children for a quarter of a century, and I went out with him in the
trolley-car to visit one of my nieces, who is at Miss Porter's famous
school in Farmington.  The distance is eight or nine miles.  On the way,
talking, I illustrated something with an anecdote.  This is the anecdote:

Two years and a half ago I and the family arrived at Milan on our way to
Rome, and stopped at the Continental.  After dinner I went below and took
a seat in the stone-paved court, where the customary lemon-trees stand in
the customary tubs, and said to myself, "Now this is comfort, comfort and
repose, and nobody to disturb it; I do not know anybody in Milan."

Then a young gentleman stepped up and shook hands, which damaged my
theory.  He said, in substance:

"You won't remember me, Mr. Clemens, but I remember you very well.  I was
a cadet at West Point when you and Rev. Joseph H. Twichell came there
some years ago and talked to us on a Hundredth Night.  I am a lieutenant
in the regular army now, and my name is H.  I am in Europe, all alone,
for a modest little tour; my regiment is in Arizona."

We became friendly and sociable, and in the course of the talk he told me
of an adventure which had befallen him--about to this effect:

"I was at Bellagio, stopping at the big hotel there, and ten days ago I
lost my letter of credit.  I did not know what in the world to do.  I was
a stranger; I knew no one in Europe; I hadn't a penny in my pocket; I
couldn't even send a telegram to London to get my lost letter replaced;
my hotel bill was a week old, and the presentation of it imminent--so
imminent that it could happen at any moment now.  I was so frightened
that my wits seemed to leave me.  I tramped and tramped, back and forth,
like a crazy person.  If anybody approached me I hurried away, for no
matter what a person looked like, I took him for the head waiter with the
bill.

"I was at last in such a desperate state that I was ready to do any wild
thing that promised even the shadow of help, and so this is the insane
thing that I did.  I saw a family lunching at a small table on the
veranda, and recognized their nationality--Americans--father, mother, and
several young daughters--young, tastefully dressed, and pretty--the rule
with our people.  I went straight there in my civilian costume, named my
name, said I was a lieutenant in the army, and told my story and asked
for help.

"What do you suppose the gentleman did?  But you would not guess in
twenty years.  He took out a handful of gold coin and told me to help
myself--freely.  That is what he did."

The next morning the lieutenant told me his new letter of credit had
arrived in the night, so we strolled to Cook's to draw money to pay back
the benefactor with.  We got it, and then went strolling through the
great arcade.  Presently he said, "Yonder they are; come and be
introduced."  I was introduced to the parents and the young ladies; then
we separated, and I never saw him or them any m---

"Here we are at Farmington," said Twichell, interrupting.

We left the trolley-car and tramped through the mud a hundred yards or so
to the school, talking about the time we and Warner walked out there
years ago, and the pleasant time we had.

We had a visit with my niece in the parlor, then started for the trolley
again.  Outside the house we encountered a double rank of twenty or
thirty of Miss Porter's young ladies arriving from a walk, and we stood
aside, ostensibly to let them have room to file past, but really to look
at them.  Presently one of them stepped out of the rank and said:

"You don't know me, Mr. Twichell; but I know your daughter, and that
gives me the privilege of shaking hands with you."

Then she put out her hand to me, and said:

"And I wish to shake hands with you too, Mr. Clemens.  You don't remember
me, but you were introduced to me in the arcade in Milan two years and a
half ago by Lieutenant H."

What had put that story into my head after all that stretch of time?  Was
it just the proximity of that young girl, or was it merely an odd
accident?







THE INVALID'S STORY

I seem sixty and married, but these effects are due to my condition and
sufferings, for I am a bachelor, and only forty-one.  It will be hard for
you to believe that I, who am now but a shadow, was a hale, hearty man
two short years ago, a man of iron, a very athlete!--yet such is the
simple truth.  But stranger still than this fact is the way in which I
lost my health.  I lost it through helping to take care of a box of guns
on a two-hundred-mile railway journey one winter's night.  It is the
actual truth, and I will tell you about it.

I belong in Cleveland, Ohio.  One winter's night, two years ago, I
reached home just after dark, in a driving snow-storm, and the first
thing I heard when I entered the house was that my dearest boyhood friend
and schoolmate, John B. Hackett, had died the day before, and that his
last utterance had been a desire that I would take his remains home to
his poor old father and mother in Wisconsin.  I was greatly shocked and
grieved, but there was no time to waste in emotions; I must start at
once.  I took the card, marked "Deacon Levi Hackett, Bethlehem,
Wisconsin," and hurried off through the whistling storm to the railway
station.  Arrived there I found the long white-pine box which had been
described to me; I fastened the card to it with some tacks, saw it put
safely aboard the express car, and then ran into the eating-room to
provide myself with a sandwich and some cigars.  When I returned,
presently, there was my coffin-box back again, apparently, and a young
fellow examining around it, with a card in his hands, and some tacks and
a hammer!  I was astonished and puzzled.  He began to nail on his card,
and I rushed out to the express car, in a good deal of a state of mind,
to ask for an explanation.  But no--there was my box, all right, in the
express car; it hadn't been disturbed.  [The fact is that without my
suspecting it a prodigious mistake had been made.  I was carrying off a
box of guns which that young fellow had come to the station to ship to a
rifle company in Peoria, Illinois, and he had got my corpse!]  Just then
the conductor sung out "All aboard," and I jumped into the express car
and got a comfortable seat on a bale of buckets.  The expressman was
there, hard at work,--a plain man of fifty, with a simple, honest, good-
natured face, and a breezy, practical heartiness in his general style.
As the train moved off a stranger skipped into the car and set a package
of peculiarly mature and capable Limburger cheese on one end of my
coffin-box--I mean my box of guns.  That is to say, I know now that it
was Limburger cheese, but at that time I never had heard of the article
in my life, and of course was wholly ignorant of its character.  Well, we
sped through the wild night, the bitter storm raged on, a cheerless
misery stole over me, my heart went down, down, down!  The old expressman
made a brisk remark or two about the tempest and the arctic weather,
slammed his sliding doors to, and bolted them, closed his window down
tight, and then went bustling around, here and there and yonder, setting
things to rights, and all the time contentedly humming "Sweet By and By,"
in a low tone, and flatting a good deal.  Presently I began to detect a
most evil and searching odor stealing about on the frozen air.  This
depressed my spirits still more, because of course I attributed it to my
poor departed friend.  There was something infinitely saddening about his
calling himself to my remembrance in this dumb pathetic way, so it was
hard to keep the tears back.  Moreover, it distressed me on account of
the old expressman, who, I was afraid, might notice it.  However, he went
humming tranquilly on, and gave no sign; and for this I was grateful.
Grateful, yes, but still uneasy; and soon I began to feel more and more
uneasy every minute, for every minute that went by that odor thickened up
the more, and got to be more and more gamey and hard to stand.
Presently, having got things arranged to his satisfaction, the expressman
got some wood and made up a tremendous fire in his stove.

This distressed me more than I can tell, for I could not but feel that it
was a mistake.  I was sure that the effect would be deleterious upon my
poor departed friend.  Thompson--the expressman's name was Thompson, as I
found out in the course of the night--now went poking around his car,
stopping up whatever stray cracks he could find, remarking that it didn't
make any difference what kind of a night it was outside, he calculated to
make us comfortable, anyway.  I said nothing, but I believed he was not
choosing the right way.  Meantime he was humming to himself just as
before; and meantime, too, the stove was getting hotter and hotter, and
the place closer and closer.  I felt myself growing pale and qualmish,
but grieved in silence and said nothing.

Soon I noticed that the "Sweet By and By" was gradually fading out; next
it ceased altogether, and there was an ominous stillness.  After a few
moments Thompson said,

"Pfew!  I reckon it ain't no cinnamon 't I've loaded up thish-yer stove
with!"

He gasped once or twice, then moved toward the cof--gun-box, stood over
that Limburger cheese part of a moment, then came back and sat down near
me, looking a good deal impressed.  After a contemplative pause, he said,
indicating the box with a gesture,

"Friend of yourn?"

"Yes," I said with a sigh.

"He's pretty ripe, ain't he!"

Nothing further was said for perhaps a couple of minutes, each being busy
with his own thoughts; then Thompson said, in a low, awed voice,

"Sometimes it's uncertain whether they're really gone or not,--seem gone,
you know--body warm, joints limber--and so, although you think they're
gone, you don't really know.  I've had cases in my car.  It's perfectly
awful, becuz you don't know what minute they'll rise up and look at you!"
Then, after a pause, and slightly lifting his elbow toward the box,--
"But he ain't in no trance!  No, sir, I go bail for him!"

We sat some time, in meditative silence, listening to the wind and the
roar of the train; then Thompson said, with a good deal of feeling,

"Well-a-well, we've all got to go, they ain't no getting around it.  Man
that is born of woman is of few days and far between, as Scriptur' says.
Yes, you look at it any way you want to, it's awful solemn and cur'us:
they ain't nobody can get around it; all's got to go--just everybody, as
you may say.  One day you're hearty and strong"--here he scrambled to his
feet and broke a pane and stretched his nose out at it a moment or two,
then sat down again while I struggled up and thrust my nose out at the
same place, and this we kept on doing every now and then--" and next day
he's cut down like the grass, and the places which knowed him then knows
him no more forever, as Scriptur' says.  Yes'ndeedy, it's awful solemn
and cur'us; but we've all got to go, one time or another; they ain't no
getting around it."

There was another long pause; then,--

"What did he die of?"

I said I didn't know.

"How long has he ben dead?"

It seemed judicious to enlarge the facts to fit the probabilities; so I
said,

"Two or three days."

But it did no good; for Thompson received it with an injured look which
plainly said, "Two or three years, you mean."  Then he went right along,
placidly ignoring my statement, and gave his views at considerable length
upon the unwisdom of putting off burials too long.  Then he lounged off
toward the box, stood a moment, then came back on a sharp trot and
visited the broken pane, observing,

"'Twould 'a' ben a dum sight better, all around, if they'd started him
along last summer."

Thompson sat down and buried his face in his red silk handkerchief, and
began to slowly sway and rock his body like one who is doing his best to
endure the almost unendurable.  By this time the fragrance--if you may
call it fragrance--was just about suffocating, as near as you can come at
it.  Thompson's face was turning gray; I knew mine hadn't any color left
in it.  By and by Thompson rested his forehead in his left hand, with his
elbow on his knee, and sort of waved his red handkerchief towards the box
with his other hand, and said,--

"I've carried a many a one of 'em,--some of 'em considerable overdue,
too,--but, lordy, he just lays over 'em all!--and does it easy Cap., they
was heliotrope to HIM!"

This recognition of my poor friend gratified me, in spite of the sad
circumstances, because it had so much the sound of a compliment.

Pretty soon it was plain that something had got to be done.  I suggested
cigars.  Thompson thought it was a good idea.  He said,

"Likely it'll modify him some."

We puffed gingerly along for a while, and tried hard to imagine that
things were improved.  But it wasn't any use.  Before very long, and
without any consultation, both cigars were quietly dropped from our
nerveless fingers at the same moment.  Thompson said, with a sigh,

"No, Cap., it don't modify him worth a cent.  Fact is, it makes him
worse, becuz it appears to stir up his ambition.  What do you reckon we
better do, now?"

I was not able to suggest anything; indeed, I had to be swallowing and
swallowing, all the time, and did not like to trust myself to speak.
Thompson fell to maundering, in a desultory and low-spirited way, about
the miserable experiences of this night; and he got to referring to my
poor friend by various titles,--sometimes military ones, sometimes civil
ones; and I noticed that as fast as my poor friend's effectiveness grew,
Thompson promoted him accordingly,--gave him a bigger title.  Finally he
said,

"I've got an idea.  Suppos' n we buckle down to it and give the Colonel a
bit of a shove towards t'other end of the car? --about ten foot, say.  He
wouldn't have so much influence, then, don't you reckon?"

I said it was a good scheme.  So we took in a good fresh breath at the
broken pane, calculating to hold it till we got through; then we went
there and bent over that deadly cheese and took a grip on the box.
Thompson nodded "All ready," and then we threw ourselves forward with all
our might; but Thompson slipped, and slumped down with his nose on the
cheese, and his breath got loose.  He gagged and gasped, and floundered
up and made a break for the door, pawing the air and saying hoarsely,
"Don't hender me! --gimme the road!  I'm a-dying; gimme the road!"
Out on the cold platform I sat down and held his head a while, and he
revived.  Presently he said,

"Do you reckon we started the Gen'rul any?"

I said no; we hadn't budged him.

"Well, then, that idea's up the flume.  We got to think up something
else.  He's suited wher' he is, I reckon; and if that's the way he feels
about it, and has made up his mind that he don't wish to be disturbed,
you bet he's a-going to have his own way in the business.  Yes, better
leave him right wher' he is, long as he wants it so; becuz he holds all
the trumps, don't you know, and so it stands to reason that the man that
lays out to alter his plans for him is going to get left."

But we couldn't stay out there in that mad storm; we should have frozen
to death.  So we went in again and shut the door, and began to suffer
once more and take turns at the break in the window.  By and by, as we
were starting away from a station where we had stopped a moment Thompson.
pranced in cheerily, and exclaimed,

"We're all right, now!  I reckon we've got the Commodore this time.  I
judge I've got the stuff here that'll take the tuck out of him."

It was carbolic acid.  He had a carboy of it.  He sprinkled it all around
everywhere; in fact he drenched everything with it, rifle-box, cheese and
all.  Then we sat down, feeling pretty hopeful.  But it wasn't for long.
You see the two perfumes began to mix, and then--well, pretty soon we
made a break for the door; and out there Thompson swabbed his face with
his bandanna and said in a kind of disheartened way,

"It ain't no use.  We can't buck agin him.  He just utilizes everything
we put up to modify him with, and gives it his own flavor and plays it
back on us.  Why, Cap., don't you know, it's as much as a hundred times
worse in there now than it was when he first got a-going.  I never did
see one of 'em warm up to his work so, and take such a dumnation interest
in it.  No, Sir, I never did, as long as I've ben on the road; and I've
carried a many a one of 'em, as I was telling you."

We went in again after we were frozen pretty stiff; but my, we couldn't
stay in, now.  So we just waltzed back and forth, freezing, and thawing,
and stifling, by turns.  In about an hour we stopped at another station;
and as we left it Thompson came in with a bag, and said,--

"Cap., I'm a-going to chance him once more,--just this once; and if we
don't fetch him this time, the thing for us to do, is to just throw up
the sponge and withdraw from the canvass.  That's the way I put it up."
He had brought a lot of chicken feathers, and dried apples, and leaf
tobacco, and rags, and old shoes, and sulphur, and asafoetida, and one
thing or another; and he, piled them on a breadth of sheet iron in the
middle of the floor, and set fire to them.

When they got well started, I couldn't see, myself, how even the corpse
could stand it.  All that went before was just simply poetry to that
smell,--but mind you, the original smell stood up out of it just as
sublime as ever,--fact is, these other smells just seemed to give it a
better hold; and my, how rich it was!  I didn't make these reflections
there--there wasn't time--made them on the platform.  And breaking for
the platform, Thompson got suffocated and fell; and before I got him
dragged out, which I did by the collar, I was mighty near gone myself.
When we revived, Thompson said dejectedly,--

"We got to stay out here, Cap.  We got to do it.  They ain't no other
way.  The Governor wants to travel alone, and he's fixed so he can
outvote us."

And presently he added,

"And don't you know, we're pisoned.  It's our last trip, you can make up
your mind to it.  Typhoid fever is what's going to come of this.  I feel
it acoming right now.  Yes, sir, we're elected, just as sure as you're
born."

We were taken from the platform an hour later, frozen and insensible, at
the next station, and I went straight off into a virulent fever, and
never knew anything again for three weeks.  I found out, then, that I had
spent that awful night with a harmless box of rifles and a lot of
innocent cheese; but the news was too late to save me; imagination had
done its work, and my health was permanently shattered; neither Bermuda
nor any other land can ever bring it back tome.  This is my last trip; I
am on my way home to die.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of How Tell a Story and Others
by Mark Twain






MARK TWAIN'S SPEECHES

by Mark Twain



CONTENTS:

     INTRODUCTION
     PREFACE
     THE STORY OF A SPEECH
     PLYMOUTH ROCK AND THE PILGRIMS
     COMPLIMENTS AND DEGREES
     BOOKS, AUTHORS, AND HATS
     DEDICATION SPEECH
     DIE SCHRECKEN DER DEUTSCHEN SPRACHE.
     THE HORRORS OF THE GERMAN LANGUAGE
     GERMAN FOR THE HUNGARIANS
     A NEW GERMAN WORD
     UNCONSCIOUS PLAGIARISM
     THE WEATHER
     THE BABIES
     OUR CHILDREN AND GREAT DISCOVERIES
     EDUCATING THEATRE-GOERS
     THE EDUCATIONAL THEATRE
     POETS AS POLICEMEN
     PUDD'NHEAD WILSON DRAMATIZED
     DALY THEATRE
     THE DRESS OF CIVILIZED WOMAN
     DRESS REFORM AND COPYRIGHT
     COLLEGE GIRLS
     GIRLS
     THE LADIES
     WOMAN'S PRESS CLUB
     VOTES FOR WOMEN
     WOMAN-AN OPINION
     ADVICE TO GIRLS
     TAXES AND MORALS
     TAMMANY AND CROKER
     MUNICIPAL CORRUPTION
     MUNICIPAL GOVERNMENT
     CHINA AND THE PHILIPPINES
     THEORETICAL AND PRACTICAL MORALS
     LAYMAN'S SERMON
     UNIVERSITY SETTLEMENT SOCIETY
     PUBLIC EDUCATION ASSOCIATION
     EDUCATION AND CITIZENSHIP
     COURAGE
     THE DINNER TO MR. CHOATE
     ON STANLEY AND LIVINGSTONE
     HENRY M. STANLEY
     DINNER TO MR. JEROME
     HENRY IRVING
     DINNER TO HAMILTON W. MABIE
     INTRODUCING NYE AND RILEY
     DINNER TO WHITELAW REID
     ROGERS AND RAILROADS
     THE OLD-FASHIONED PRINTER
     SOCIETY OF AMERICAN AUTHORS
     READING-ROOM OPENING
     LITERATURE
     DISAPPEARANCE OF LITERATURE
     THE NEW YORK PRESS CLUB DINNER
     THE ALPHABET AND SIMPLIFIED SPELLING
     SPELLING AND PICTURES
     BOOKS AND BURGLARS
     AUTHORS' CLUB
     BOOKSELLERS
     "MARK TWAIN's FIRST APPEARANCE"
     MORALS AND MEMORY
     QUEEN VICTORIA
     JOAN OF ARC
     ACCIDENT INSURANCE--ETC.
     OSTEOPATHY
     WATER-SUPPLY
     MISTAKEN IDENTITY
     CATS AND CANDY
     OBITUARY POETRY
     CIGARS AND TOBACCO
     BILLIARDS
     THE UNION RIGHT OR WRONG?
     AN IDEAL FRENCH ADDRESS
     STATISTICS
     GALVESTON ORPHAN BAZAAR
     SAN FRANCISCO EARTHQUAKE
     CHARITY AND ACTORS
     RUSSIAN REPUBLIC
     RUSSIAN SUFFERERS
     WATTERSON AND TWAIN AS REBELS
     ROBERT FULTON FUND
     FULTON DAY, JAMESTOWN
     LOTOS CLUB DINNER IN HONOR OF MARK TWAIN
     COPYRIGHT
     IN AID OF THE BLIND
     DR. MARK TWAIN, FARMEOPATH
     MISSOURI UNIVERSITY SPEECH
     BUSINESS
     CARNEGIE THE BENEFACTOR
     ON POETRY, VERACITY, AND SUICIDE
     WELCOME HOME
     AN UNDELIVERED SPEECH
     SIXTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY
     TO THE WHITEFRIARS
     THE ASCOT GOLD CUP
     THE SAVAGE CLUB DINNER
     GENERAL MILES AND THE DOG
     WHEN IN DOUBT, TELL THE TRUTH
     THE DAY WE CELEBRATE
     INDEPENDENCE DAY
     AMERICANS AND THE ENGLISH
     ABOUT LONDON
     PRINCETON
     THE ST. LOUIS HARBOR-BOAT "MARK TWAIN"
     SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY




INTRODUCTION

These speeches will address themselves to the minds and hearts of those
who read them, but not with the effect they had with those who heard
them; Clemens himself would have said, not with half the effect.  I have
noted elsewhere how he always held that the actor doubled the value of
the author's words; and he was a great actor as well as a great author.
He was a most consummate actor, with this difference from other actors,
that he was the first to know the thoughts and invent the fancies to
which his voice and action gave the color of life.  Representation is the
art of other actors; his art was creative as well as representative; it
was nothing at second hand.

I never heard Clemens speak when I thought he quite failed; some burst
or spurt redeemed him when he seemed flagging short of the goal, and,
whoever else was in the running, he came in ahead.  His near-failures
were the error of a rare trust to the spontaneity in which other speakers
confide, or are believed to confide, when they are on their feet.  He
knew that from the beginning of oratory the orator's spontaneity was for
the silence and solitude of the closet where he mused his words to an
imagined audience; that this was the use of orators from Demosthenes and
Cicero up and down.  He studied every word and syllable, and memorized
them by a system of mnemonics peculiar to himself, consisting of an
arbitrary arrangement of things on a table--knives, forks, salt-cellars;
inkstands, pens, boxes, or whatever was at hand--which stood for points
and clauses and climaxes, and were at once indelible diction and constant
suggestion.  He studied every tone and every gesture, and he forecast the
result with the real audience from its result with that imagined
audience.  Therefore, it was beautiful to see him and to hear him; he
rejoiced in the pleasure he gave and the blows of surprise which he
dealt; and because he had his end in mind, he knew when to stop.

I have been talking of his method and manner; the matter the reader has
here before him; and it is good matter, glad, honest, kind, just.

                                             W.  D.  HOWELLS.






PREFACE

FROM THE PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION OF "MARK TWAIN'S SKETCHES"

If I were to sell the reader a barrel of molasses, and he, instead of
sweetening his substantial dinner with the same at judicious intervals,
should eat the entire barrel at one sitting, and then abuse me for making
him sick, I would say that he deserved to be made sick for not knowing
any better how to utilize the blessings this world affords.  And if I
sell to the reader this volume of nonsense, and he, instead of seasoning
his graver reading with a chapter of it now and then, when his mind
demands such relaxation, unwisely overdoses himself with several chapters
of it at a single sitting, he will deserve to be nauseated, and he will
have nobody to blame but himself if he is.  There is no more sin in
publishing an entire volume of nonsense than there is in keeping a
candy-store with no hardware in it.  It lies wholly with the customer
whether he will injure himself by means of either, or will derive from
them the benefits which they will afford him if he uses their
possibilities judiciously.
                                   Respectfully submitted,
                                                       THE AUTHOR.





                          MARK TWAIN'S SPEECHES




THE STORY OF A SPEECH

          An address delivered in 1877, and a review of it twenty-nine
          years later.  The original speech was delivered at a dinner
          given by the publishers of The Atlantic Monthly in honor of the
          seventieth anniversary o f the birth of John Greenleaf
          Whittier, at the Hotel Brunswick, Boston, December 17, 1877.

This is an occasion peculiarly meet for the digging up of pleasant
reminiscences concerning literary folk; therefore I will drop lightly
into history myself.  Standing here on the shore of the Atlantic and
contemplating certain of its largest literary billows, I am reminded of a
thing which happened to me thirteen years ago, when I had just succeeded
in stirring up a little Nevadian literary puddle myself, whose
spume-flakes were beginning to blow thinly Californiaward.  I started an
inspection tramp through the southern mines of California.  I was callow
and conceited, and I resolved to try the virtue of my 'nom de guerre'.

I very soon had an opportunity.  I knocked at a miner's lonely log cabin
in the foot-hills of the Sierras just at nightfall.  It was snowing at
the time.  A jaded, melancholy man of fifty, barefooted, opened the door
to me.  When he heard my 'nom de guerre' he looked more dejected than
before.  He let me in--pretty reluctantly, I thought--and after the
customary bacon and beans, black coffee and hot whiskey, I took a pipe.
This sorrowful man had not said three words up to this time.  Now he
spoke up and said, in the voice of one who is secretly suffering, "You're
the fourth--I'm going to move."  "The fourth what?" said I.  "The fourth
littery man that has been here in twenty-four hours--I'm going to move."
"You don't tell me!" said I; "who were the others?"  "Mr. Longfellow,
Mr. Emerson, and Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes--consound the lot!"

You can, easily believe I was interested.  I supplicated--three hot
whiskeys did the rest--and finally the melancholy miner began.  Said he:

"They came here just at dark yesterday evening, and I let them in of
course.  Said they were going to the Yosemite.  They were a rough lot,
but that's nothing; everybody looks rough that travels afoot.
Mr. Emerson was a seedy little bit of a chap, red-headed.  Mr. Holmes was
as fat as a balloon; he weighed as much as three hundred, and had double
chins all the way down to his stomach.  Mr. Longfellow was built like a
prizefighter.  His head was cropped and bristly, like as if he had a wig
made of hair-brushes.  His nose lay straight down, his face, like a
finger with the end joint tilted up.  They had been drinking, I could see
that.  And what queer talk they used!  Mr. Holmes inspected this cabin,
then he took me by the buttonhole, and says he:

          "'Through the deep caves of thought
          I hear a voice that sings,
          Build thee more stately mansions,
          O my soul!'

"Says I, 'I can't afford it, Mr. Holmes, and moreover I don't want to.'
Blamed if I liked it pretty well, either, coming from a stranger, that
way.  However, I started to get out my bacon and beans, when Mr. Emerson
came and looked on awhile, and then he takes me aside by the buttonhole
and says:

          "'Give me agates for my meat;
          Give me cantharids to eat;
          From air and ocean bring me foods,
          From all zones and altitudes.'

"Says I, 'Mr. Emerson, if you'll excuse me, this ain't no hotel.'
You see it sort of riled me--I warn't used to the ways of littery swells.
But I went on a-sweating over my work, and next comes Mr. Longfellow and
buttonholes me, and interrupts me.  Says he:

          "'Honor be to Mudjekeewis!
          You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis--'

"But I broke in, and says I, 'Beg your pardon, Mr. Longfellow, if you'll
be so kind as to hold your yawp for about five minutes and let me get
this grub ready, you'll do me proud.'  Well, sir, after they'd filled up
I set out the jug.  Mr. Holmes looks at it, and then he fires up all of a
sudden and yells:

          "Flash out a stream of blood-red wine!
          For I would drink to other days.'

"By George, I was getting kind of worked up.  I don't deny it, I was
getting kind of worked up.  I turns to Mr. Holmes, and says I, 'Looky
here, my fat friend, I'm a-running this shanty, and if the court knows
herself, you'll take whiskey straight or you'll go dry.'  Them's the very
words I said to him.  Now I don't want to sass such famous littery
people, but you see they kind of forced me.  There ain't nothing
onreasonable 'bout me; I don't mind a passel of guests a-treadin' on my
tail three or four times, but when it comes to standing on it it's
different, 'and if the court knows herself,' I says, 'you'll take whiskey
straight or you'll go dry.'  Well, between drinks they'd swell around the
cabin and strike attitudes and spout; and pretty soon they got out a
greasy old deck and went to playing euchre at ten cents a corner--on
trust.  I began to notice some pretty suspicious things.  Mr. Emerson
dealt, looked at his hand, shook his head, says:

          "'I am the doubter and the doubt--'

and ca'mly bunched the hands and went to shuffling for a new layout.
Says he:

          "'They reckon ill who leave me out;
          They know not well the subtle ways I keep.
          I pass and deal again!'

Hang'd if he didn't go ahead and do it, too!  Oh, he was a cool one!
Well, in about a minute things were running pretty tight, but all of a
sudden I see by Mr. Emerson's eye he judged he had 'em.  He had already
corralled two tricks, and each of the others one.  So now he kind of
lifts a little in his chair and says:

          "'I tire of globes and aces!
          Too long the game is played!'

--and down he fetched a right bower.  Mr. Longfellow smiles as sweet as
pie and says:

          "'Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
          For the lesson thou hast taught,'

--and blamed if he didn't down with another right bower!  Emerson claps
his hand on his bowie, Longfellow claps his on his revolver, and I went
under a bunk.  There was going to be trouble; but that monstrous Holmes
rose up, wobbling his double chins, and says he, 'Order, gentlemen; the
first man that draws, I'll lay down on him and smother him!'  All quiet
on the Potomac, you bet!

"They were pretty how-come-you-so' by now, and they begun to blow.
Emerson says, 'The nobbiest thing I ever wrote was "Barbara Frietchie."'
Says Longfellow, 'It don't begin with my "Biglow Papers."'  Says Holmes,
'My "Thanatopsis" lays over 'em both.'  They mighty near ended in a fight.
Then they wished they had some more company--and Mr. Emerson pointed to
me and says:

          "'Is yonder squalid peasant all
          That this proud nursery could breed?'

He was a-whetting his bowie on his boot--so I let it pass.  Well, sir,
next they took it into their heads that they would like some music; so
they made me stand up and sing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" till I
dropped-at thirteen minutes past four this morning.  That's what I've
been through, my friend.  When I woke at seven, they were leaving, thank
goodness, and Mr. Longfellow had my only boots on, and his'n under his
arm.  Says I, 'Hold on, there, Evangeline, what are you going to do with
them?'  He says, 'Going to make tracks with 'em; because:

          "'Lives of great men all remind us
          We can make our lives sublime;
          And, departing, leave behind us
          Footprints on the sands of time.'

"As I said, Mr. Twain, you are the fourth in twenty-four hours--and I'm
going to move; I ain't suited to a littery atmosphere."

I said to the miner, "Why, my dear sir, these were not the gracious
singers to whom we and the world pay loving reverence and homage; these
were impostors."

The miner investigated me with a calm eye for a while; then said he, "Ah!
impostors, were they?  Are you?"

I did not pursue the subject, and since then I have not travelled on my
'nom de guerre' enough to hurt.  Such was the reminiscence I was moved to
contribute, Mr. Chairman.  In my enthusiasm I may have exaggerated the
details a little, but you will easily forgive me that fault, since I
believe it is the first time I have ever deflected from perpendicular
fact on an occasion like this.

                        .........................

From Mark Twain's Autobiography.

                                             January 11, 1906.

Answer to a letter received this morning:

     DEAR MRS. H.,--I am forever your debtor for reminding me of that
     curious passage in my life.  During the first year or, two after it
     happened, I could not bear to think of it.  My pain and shame were
     so intense, and my sense of having been an imbecile so settled,
     established and confirmed, that I drove the episode entirely from my
     mind--and so all these twenty-eight or twenty-nine years I have
     lived in the conviction that my performance of that time was coarse,
     vulgar, and destitute of humor.  But your suggestion that you and
     your family found humor in it twenty-eight years ago moved me to
     look into the matter.  So I commissioned a Boston typewriter to
     delve among the Boston papers of that bygone time and send me a copy
     of it.

     It came this morning, and if there is any vulgarity about it I am
     not able to discover it.  If it isn't innocently and ridiculously
     funny, I am no judge.  I will see to it that you get a copy.


What I have said to Mrs. H. is true.  I did suffer during a year or two
from the deep humiliations of that episode.  But at last, in 1888, in
Venice, my wife and I came across Mr. and Mrs.  A. P. C., of Concord,
Massachusetts, and a friendship began then of the sort which nothing but
death terminates.  The C.'s were very bright people and in every way
charming and companionable.  We were together a month or two in Venice
and several months in Rome, afterward, and one day that lamented break of
mine was mentioned.  And when I was on the point of lathering those
people for bringing it to my mind when I had gotten the memory of it
almost squelched, I perceived with joy that the C.'s were indignant about
the way that my performance had been received in Boston.  They poured out
their opinions most freely and frankly about the frosty attitude of the
people who were present at that performance, and about the Boston
newspapers for the position they had taken in regard to the matter.
That position was that I had been irreverent beyond belief, beyond
imagination.  Very well; I had accepted that as a fact for a year or two,
and had been thoroughly miserable about it whenever I thought of it
--which was not frequently, if I could help it.  Whenever I thought of it
I wondered how I ever could have been inspired to do so unholy a thing.
Well, the C.'s comforted me, but they did not persuade me to continue to
think about the unhappy episode.  I resisted that.  I tried to get it out
of my mind, and let it die, and I succeeded.  Until Mrs. H.'s letter
came, it had been a good twenty-five years since I had thought of that
matter; and when she said that the thing was funny I wondered if possibly
she might be right.  At any rate, my curiosity was aroused, and I wrote
to Boston and got the whole thing copied, as above set forth.

I vaguely remember some of the details of that gathering--dimly I can see
a hundred people--no, perhaps fifty--shadowy figures sitting at tables
feeding, ghosts now to me, and nameless forevermore.  I don't know who
they were, but I can very distinctly see, seated at the grand table and
facing the rest of us, Mr. Emerson, supernaturally grave, unsmiling;
Mr. Whittier, grave, lovely, his beautiful spirit shining out of his
face; Mr. Longfellow, with his silken white hair and his benignant face;
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, flashing smiles and affection and all good-
fellowship everywhere like a rose-diamond whose facets are being turned
toward the light first one way and then another--a charming man, and
always fascinating, whether he was talking or whether he was sitting
still (what he would call still, but what would be more or less motion to
other people).  I can see those figures with entire distinctness across
this abyss of time.

One other feature is clear--Willie Winter (for these past thousand years
dramatic editor of the New York Tribune, and still occupying that high
post in his old age) was there.  He was much younger then than he is now,
and he showed 'it.  It was always a pleasure to me to see Willie Winter
at a banquet.  During a matter of twenty years I was seldom at a banquet
where Willie Winter was not also present, and where he did not read a
charming poem written for the occasion.  He did it this time, and it was
up to standard: dainty, happy, choicely phrased, and as good to listen to
as music, and sounding exactly as if it was pouring unprepared out of
heart and brain.

Now at that point ends all that was pleasurable about that notable
celebration of Mr. Whittier's seventieth birthday--because I got up at
that point and followed Winter, with what I have no doubt I supposed
would be the gem of the evening--the gay oration above quoted from the
Boston paper.  I had written it all out the day before and had perfectly
memorized it, and I stood up there at my genial and happy and self-
satisfied ease, and began to deliver it.  Those majestic guests; that row
of venerable and still active volcanoes, listened; as did everybody else
in the house, with attentive interest.  Well, I delivered myself of--
we'll say the first two hundred words of my speech.  I was expecting no
returns from that part of the speech, but this was not the case as
regarded the rest of it.  I arrived now at the dialogue:  "The old miner
said, 'You are the fourth, I'm going to move.'  'The fourth what?' said
I.  He answered, 'The fourth littery man that has been here in twenty-
four hours.  I am going to move.'  'Why, you don't tell me;' said I.
'Who were the others?'  'Mr. Longfellow, Mr. Emerson, Mr. Oliver Wendell
Holmes, consound the lot--'"

Now, then, the house's attention continued, but the expression of
interest in the faces turned to a sort of black frost.  I wondered what
the trouble was.  I didn't know.  I went on, but with difficulty--
I struggled along, and entered upon that miner's fearful description of
the bogus Emerson, the bogus Holmes, the bogus Longfellow, always hoping
--but with a gradually perishing hope that somebody--would laugh, or that
somebody would at least smile, but nobody did.  I didn't know enough to
give it up and sit down, I was too new to public speaking, and so I went
on with this awful performance, and carried it clear through to the end,
in front of a body of people who seemed turned to stone with horror.
It was the sort of expression their faces would have worn if I had been
making these remarks about the Deity and the rest of the Trinity; there
is no milder way, in which to describe the petrified condition and the
ghastly expression of those people.

When I sat down it was with a heart which had long ceased to beat.
I shall never be as dead again as I was then.  I shall never be as
miserable again as I was then.  I speak now as one who doesn't know what
the condition of things may be in the next world, but in this one I shall
never be as wretched again as I was then.  Howells, who was near me,
tried to say a comforting word, but couldn't get beyond a gasp.  There
was no use--he understood the whole size of the disaster.  He had good
intentions, but the words froze before they could get out.  It was an
atmosphere that would freeze anything.  If Benvenuto Cellini's salamander
had been in that place he would not have survived to be put into
Cellini's autobiography.  There was a frightful pause.  There was an
awful silence, a desolating silence.  Then the next man on the list had
to get up--there was no help for it.  That was Bishop--Bishop had just
burst handsomely upon the world with a most acceptable novel, which had
appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, a place which would make any novel
respectable and any author noteworthy.  In this case the novel itself was
recognized as being, without extraneous help, respectable.  Bishop was
away up in the public favor, and he was an object of high interest,
consequently there was a sort of national expectancy in the air; we may
say our American millions were standing, from Maine to Texas and from
Alaska to Florida, holding their breath, their lips parted, their hands
ready to applaud, when Bishop should get up on that occasion, and for the
first time in his life speak in public.  It was under these damaging
conditions that he got up to "make good," as the vulgar say.  I had
spoken several times before, and that is the reason why I was able to go
on without dying in my tracks, as I ought to have done--but Bishop had
had no experience.  He was up facing those awful deities--facing those
other people, those strangers--facing human beings for the first time in
his life, with a speech to utter.  No doubt it was well packed away in
his memory, no doubt it was fresh and usable, until I had been heard
from.  I suppose that after that, and under the smothering pall of that
dreary silence, it began to waste away and disappear out of his head like
the rags breaking from the edge of a fog, and presently there wasn't any
fog left.  He didn't go on--he didn't last long.  It was not many
sentence's after his first before he began to hesitate, and break, and
lose his grip, and totter, and wobble, and at last he slumped down in a
limp and mushy pile.

Well, the programme for the occasion was probably not more than one-
third finished, but it ended there.  Nobody rose.  The next man hadn't
strength enough to get up, and everybody looked so dazed, so stupefied,
paralyzed; it was impossible for anybody to do anything, or even try.
Nothing could go on in that strange atmosphere.  Howells mournfully, and
without words, hitched himself to Bishop and me and supported us out of
the room.  It was very kind--he was most generous.  He towed us tottering
away into same room in that building, and we sat down there.  I don't
know what my remark was now, but I know the nature of it.  It was the
kind of remark you make when you know that nothing in the world can help
your case.  But Howells was honest--he had to say the heart-breaking
things he did say: that there was no help for this calamity, this
shipwreck, this cataclysm; that this was the most disastrous thing that
had ever happened in anybody's history--and then he added, "That is, for
you--and consider what you have done for Bishop.  It is bad enough in
your case, you deserve, to suffer.  You have committed this crime, and
you deserve to have all you are going to get.  But here is an innocent
man.  Bishop had never done you any harm, and see what you have done to
him.  He can never hold his head up again.  The world can never look upon
Bishop as being a live person.  He is a corpse."

That is the history of that episode of twenty-eight years ago, which
pretty nearly killed me with shame during that first year or two whenever
it forced its way into my mind.

Now then, I take that speech up and examine it.  As I said, it arrived
this morning, from Boston.  I have read it twice, and unless I am an
idiot, it hasn't a single defect in it from the first word to the last.
It is just as good as good can be.  It is smart; it is saturated with
humor.  There isn't a suggestion of coarseness or vulgarity in it
anywhere.  What could have been the matter with that house?  It is
amazing, it is incredible, that they didn't shout with laughter, and
those deities the loudest of them all.  Could the fault have been with
me?  Did I lose courage when I saw those great men up there whom I was
going to describe in such a strange fashion?  If that happened, if I
showed doubt, that can account for it, for you can't be successfully
funny if you show that you are afraid of it.  Well, I can't account for
it, but if I had those beloved and revered old literary immortals back
here now on the platform at Carnegie Hall I would take that same old
speech, deliver it, word for word, and melt them till they'd run all over
that stage.  Oh, the fault must have been with me, it is not in the
speech at all.






PLYMOUTH ROCK AND THE PILGRIMS

          ADDRESS AT THE FIRST ANNUAL DINNER, N. E.  SOCIETY,
          PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER 22, 1881

          On calling upon Mr. Clemens to make response,
          President Rollins said:

          "This sentiment has been assigned to one who was never exactly
          born in New England, nor, perhaps, were any of his ancestors.
          He is not technically, therefore, of New England descent.
          Under the painful circumstances in which he has found himself,
          however, he has done the best he could--he has had all his
          children born there, and has made of himself a New England
          ancestor.  He is a self-made man.  More than this, and better
          even, in cheerful, hopeful, helpful literature he is of New
          England ascent.  To ascend there in any thing that's reasonable
          is difficult; for--confidentially, with the door shut--we all
          know that they are the brightest, ablest sons of that goodly
          land who never leave it, and it is among and above them that
          Mr. Twain has made his brilliant and permanent ascent--become
          a man of mark."

I rise to protest.  I have kept still for years; but really I think there
is no sufficient justification for this sort of thing.  What do you want
to celebrate those people for?--those ancestors of yours of 1620--the
Mayflower tribe, I mean.  What do you want to celebrate them for?  Your
pardon: the gentleman at my left assures me that you are not celebrating
the Pilgrims themselves, but the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth rock
on the 22d of December.  So you are celebrating their landing.  Why, the
other pretext was thin enough, but this is thinner than ever; the other
was tissue, tinfoil, fish-bladder, but this is gold-leaf.  Celebrating
their lauding!  What was there remarkable about it, I would like to know?
What can you be thinking of?  Why, those Pilgrims had been at sea three
or four months.  It was the very middle of winter: it was as cold as
death off Cape Cod there.  Why shouldn't they come ashore?  If they
hadn't landed there would be some reason for celebrating the fact: It
would have been a case of monumental leatherheadedness which the world
would not willingly let die.  If it had been you, gentlemen, you probably
wouldn't have landed, but you have no shadow of right to be celebrating,
in your ancestors, gifts which they did not exercise, but only
transmitted.  Why, to be celebrating the mere landing of the Pilgrims--
to be trying to make out that this most natural and simple and customary
procedure was an extraordinary circumstance--a circumstance to be amazed
at, and admired, aggrandized and glorified, at orgies like this for two
hundred and sixty years--hang it, a horse would have known enough to
land; a horse--Pardon again; the gentleman on my right assures me that
it was not merely the landing of the Pilgrims that we are celebrating,
but the Pilgrims themselves.  So we have struck an inconsistency here--
one says it was the landing, the other says it was the Pilgrims.  It is
an inconsistency characteristic of your intractable and disputatious
tribe, for you never agree about anything but Boston.  Well, then, what
do you want to celebrate those Pilgrims for?  They were a mighty hard
lot--you know it.  I grant you, without the slightest unwillingness, that
they were a deal more gentle and merciful and just than were the people
of Europe of that day; I grant you that they are better than their
predecessors.  But what of that?--that is nothing.  People always
progress.  You are better than your fathers and grandfathers were (this
is the first time I have ever aimed a measureless slander at the
departed, for I consider such things improper).  Yes, those among you who
have not been in the penitentiary, if such there be, are better than your
fathers and grandfathers were; but is that any sufficient reason, for
getting up annual dinners and celebrating you?  No, by no means--by no
means.  Well, I repeat, those Pilgrims were a hard lot.  They took good
care of themselves, but they abolished everybody else's ancestors.  I am
a border-ruffian from the State of Missouri.  I am a Connecticut Yankee
by adoption.  In me, you have Missouri morals, Connecticut culture; this,
gentlemen, is the combination which makes the perfect man.  But where are
my ancestors?  Whom shall I celebrate?  Where shall I find the raw
material?

My first American ancestor, gentlemen, was an Indian--an early Indian.
Your ancestors skinned him alive, and I am an orphan.  Not one drop of my
blood flows in that Indian's veins today.  I stand here, lone and
forlorn, without an ancestor.  They skinned him!  I do not object to
that, if they needed his fur; but alive, gentlemen-alive!  They skinned
him alive--and before company!  That is what rankles.  Think how he must
have felt; for he was a sensitive person and easily embarrassed.  If he
had been a bird, it would have been all right, and no violence done to
his feelings, because he would have been considered "dressed."  But he
was not a bird, gentlemen, he was a man, and probably one of the most
undressed men that ever was.  I ask you to put yourselves in his place.
I ask it as a favor; I ask it as a tardy act of justice; I ask it in the
interest of fidelity to the traditions of your ancestors; I ask it that
the world may contemplate, with vision unobstructed by disguising
swallow-tails and white cravats, the spectacle which the true New England
Society ought to present.  Cease to come to these annual orgies in this
hollow modern mockery--the surplusage of raiment.  Come in character;
come in the summer grace, come in the unadorned simplicity, come in the
free and joyous costume which your sainted ancestors provided for mine.

Later ancestors of mine were the Quakers William Robinson, Marmaduke
Stevenson, et al.  Your tribe chased them put of the country for their
religion's sake; promised them death if they came back; for your
ancestors had forsaken the homes they loved, and braved the perils of the
sea, the implacable climate, and the savage wilderness, to acquire that
highest and most precious of boons, freedom for every man on this broad
continent to worship according to the dictates of his own conscience--and
they were not going to allow a lot of pestiferous Quakers to interfere
with it.  Your ancestors broke forever the chains of political slavery,
and gave the vote to every man in this wide land, excluding none!--none
except those who did not belong to the orthodox church.  Your ancestors--
yes, they were a hard lot; but, nevertheless, they gave us religious
liberty to worship as they required us to worship, and political liberty
to vote as the church required; and so I the bereft one, I the forlorn
one, am here to do my best to help you celebrate them right.

The Quaker woman Elizabeth Hooton was an ancestress of mine.  Your people
were pretty severe with her you will confess that.  But, poor thing!
I believe they changed her opinions before she died, and took her into
their fold; and so we have every reason to presume that when she died she
went to the same place which your ancestors went to.  It is a great pity,
for she was a good woman.  Roger Williams was an ancestor of mine.
I don't really remember what your people did with him.  But they banished
him to Rhode Island, anyway.  And then, I believe, recognizing that this
was really carrying harshness to an unjustifiable extreme, they took pity
on him and burned him.  They were a hard lot!  All those Salem witches
were ancestors of mine!  Your people made it tropical for them.  Yes,
they did; by pressure and the gallows they made such a clean deal with
them that there hasn't been a witch and hardly a halter in our family
from that day to this, and that is one hundred and eighty-nine years.
The first slave brought into New England out of Africa by your
progenitors was an ancestor of mine--for I am of a mixed breed, an
infinitely shaded and exquisite Mongrel.  I'm not one of your sham
meerschaums that you can color in a week.  No, my complexion is the
patient art of eight generations.  Well, in my own time, I had acquired a
lot of my kin--by purchase, and swapping around, and one way and another
--and was getting along very well.  Then, with the inborn perversity of
your lineage, you got up a war, and took them all away from me.  And so,
again am I bereft, again am I forlorn; no drop of my blood flows in the
veins of any living being who is marketable.

O my friends, hear me and reform!  I seek your good, not mine.  You have
heard the speeches.  Disband these New England societies--nurseries of a
system of steadily augmenting laudation and hosannaing, which; if
persisted in uncurbed, may some day in the remote future beguile you into
prevaricating and bragging.  Oh, stop, stop, while you are still
temperate in your appreciation of your ancestors!  Hear me, I beseech
you; get up an auction and sell Plymouth Rock!  The Pilgrims were a
simple and ignorant race.  They never had seen any good rocks before, or
at least any that were not watched, and so they were excusable for
hopping ashore in frantic delight and clapping an iron fence around this
one.  But you, gentlemen, are educated; you are enlightened; you know
that in the rich land of your nativity, opulent New England, overflowing
with rocks, this one isn't worth, at the outside, more than thirty-five
cents.  Therefore, sell it, before it is injured by exposure, or at least
throw it open to the patent-medicine advertisements, and let it earn its
taxes:

Yes, hear your true friend-your only true friend--list to his voice.
Disband these societies, hotbeds of vice, of moral decay--perpetuators of
ancestral superstition.  Here on this board I see water, I see milk, I
see the wild and deadly lemonade.  These are but steps upon the downward
path.  Next we shall see tea, then chocolate, then coffee--hotel coffee.
A few more years--all too few, I fear--mark my words, we shall have
cider!  Gentlemen, pause ere it be too late.  You are on the broad road
which leads to dissipation, physical ruin, moral decay, gory crime and
the gallows!  I beseech you, I implore you, in the name of your anxious
friends, in the name of your suffering families, in the name of your
impending widows and orphans, stop ere it be too late.  Disband these New
England societies, renounce these soul-blistering saturnalia, cease from
varnishing the rusty reputations of your long-vanished ancestors--the
super-high-moral old iron-clads of Cape Cod, the pious buccaneers of
Plymouth Rock--go home, and try to learn to behave!

However, chaff and nonsense aside, I think I honor and appreciate your
Pilgrim stock as much as you do yourselves, perhaps; and I endorse and
adopt a sentiment uttered by a grandfather of mine once--a man of sturdy
opinions, of sincere make of mind, and not given to flattery.  He said:
"People may talk as they like about that Pilgrim stock, but, after all's
said and done, it would be pretty hard to improve on those people; and,
as for me, I don't mind coming out flatfooted and saying there ain't any
way to improve on them--except having them born in, Missouri!"






COMPLIMENTS AND DEGREES

          DELIVERED AT THE LOTOS CLUB, JANUARY 11, 1908

          In introducing Mr. Clemens, Frank R.  Lawrence, the President
          of the Lotos Club, recalled the fact that the first club dinner
          in the present club-house, some fourteen years ago, was in
          honor of Mark Twain.

I wish to begin this time at the beginning, lest I forget it altogether;
that is to say, I wish to thank you for this welcome that you are giving,
and the welcome which you gave me seven years ago, and which I forgot to
thank you for at that time.  I also wish to thank you for the welcome you
gave me fourteen years ago, which I also forgot to thank you for at the
time.

I hope you will continue this custom to give me a dinner every seven
years before I join the hosts in the other world--I do not know which
world.

Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Porter have paid me many compliments.  It is very
difficult to take compliments.  I do not care whether you deserve the
compliments or not, it is just as difficult to take them.  The other
night I was at the Engineers' Club, and enjoyed the sufferings of
Mr. Carnegie.  They were complimenting him there; there it was all
compliments, and none of them deserved.  They say that you cannot live
by bread alone, but I can live on compliments.

I do not make any pretence that I dislike compliments.  The stronger the
better, and I can manage to digest them.  I think I have lost so much by
not making a collection of compliments, to put them away and take them
out again once in a while.  When in England I said that I would start to
collect compliments, and I began there and I have brought some of them
along.

The first one of these lies--I wrote them down and preserved them--
I think they are mighty good and extremely just.  It is one of Hamilton
Mabie's compliments.  He said that La Salle was the first one to make a
voyage of the Mississippi, but Mark Twain was the first to chart, light,
and navigate it for the whole world.

If that had been published at the time that I issued that book [Life on
the Mississippi], it would have been money in my pocket.  I tell you, it
is a talent by itself to pay compliments gracefully and have them ring
true.  It's an art by itself.

Here is another compliment by Albert Bigelow Paine, my biographer.  He is
writing four octavo volumes about me, and he has been at my elbow two and
one-half years.

I just suppose that he does not know me, but says he knows me.  He says
"Mark Twain is not merely a great writer, a great philosopher, a great
man; he is the supreme expression of the human being, with his strength
and his weakness."  What a talent for compression!  It takes a genius in
compression to compact as many facts as that.

W. D. Howells spoke of me as first of Hartford, and ultimately of the
solar system, not to say of the universe:

You know how modest Howells is.  If it can be proved that my fame reaches
to Neptune and Saturn; that will satisfy even me.  You know how modest
and retiring Howells seems to be, but deep down he is as vain as I am.

Mr. Howells had been granted a degree at Oxford, whose gown was red.
He had been invited to an exercise at Columbia, and upon inquiry had been
told that it was usual to wear the black gown: Later he had found that
three other men wore bright gowns, and he had lamented that he had been
one of the black mass, and not a red torch.

Edison wrote: "The average American loves his family.  If he has any love
left over for some other person, he generally selects Mark Twain."

Now here's the compliment of a little Montana girl which came to me
indirectly.  She was in a room in which there was a large photograph of
me.  After gazing at it steadily for a time, she said:

"We've got a John the Baptist like that."  She also said: "Only ours has
more trimmings."

I suppose she meant the halo.  Now here is a gold-miner's compliment.
It is forty-two years old.  It was my introduction to an audience to
which I lectured in a log school-house.  There were no ladies there.
I wasn't famous then.  They didn't know me.  Only the miners were there,
with their breeches tucked into their boottops and with clay all over
them.  They wanted some one to introduce me, and they selected a miner,
who protested, saying:

"I don't know anything about this man.  Anyhow, I only know two things
about him.  One is, he has never been in jail, and the other is, I don't
know why."

There's one thing I want to say about that English trip.  I knew his
Majesty the King of England long years ago, and I didn't meet him for the
first time then.  One thing that I regret was that some newspapers said
I talked with the Queen of England with my hat on.  I don't do that with
any woman.  I did not put it on until she asked me to.  Then she told me
to put it on, and it's a command there.  I thought I had carried my
American democracy far enough.  So I put it on.  I have no use for a hat,
and never did have.

Who was it who said that the police of London knew me?  Why, the police
know me everywhere.  There never was a day over there when a policeman
did not salute me, and then put up his hand and stop the traffic of the
world.  They treated me as though I were a duchess.

The happiest experience I had in England was at a dinner given in the
building of the Punch publication, a humorous paper which is appreciated
by all Englishmen.  It was the greatest privilege ever allowed a
foreigner.  I entered the dining-room of the building, where those men
get together who have been running the paper for over fifty years.  We
were about to begin dinner when the toastmaster said: "Just a minute;
there ought to be a little ceremony."  Then there was that meditating
silence for a while, and out of a closet there came a beautiful little
girl dressed in pink, holding in her hand a copy of the previous week's
paper, which had in it my cartoon.  It broke me all up.  I could not even
say "Thank you."  That was the prettiest incident of the dinner, the
delight of all that wonderful table.  When she was about to go; I said,
"My child, you are not going to leave me; I have hardly got acquainted
with you." She replied, "You know I've got to go; they never let me come
in here before, and they never will again."  That is one of the beautiful
incidents that I cherish.

          [At the conclusion of his speech, and while the diners were
          still cheering him, Colonel Porter brought forward the red-and-
          gray gown of the Oxford "doctor," and Mr. Clemens was made to
          don it.  The diners rose to their feet in their enthusiasm.
          With the mortar-board on his head, and looking down admiringly
          at himself, Mr. Twain said--]

I like that gown.  I always did like red.  The redder it is the better
I like it.  I was born for a savage.  Now, whoever saw any red like this?
There is no red outside the arteries of an archangel that could compare
with this.  I know you all envy me.  I am going to have luncheon shortly
with ladies just ladies.  I will be the only lady of my sex present, and
I shall put on this gown and make those ladies look dim.






BOOKS, AUTHORS, AND HATS

          ADDRESS AT THE PILGRIMS' CLUB LUNCHEON, GIVEN IN HONOR OF Mr.
          CLEMENS AT THE SAVOY HOTEL, LONDON, JUNE 25, 1907.

          Mr. Birrell, M.P., Chief-Secretary for Ireland, in introducing
          Mr. Clemens said: "We all love Mark Twain, and we are here to
          tell him so.  One more point--all the world knows it, and that
          is why it is dangerous to omit it--our guest is a distinguished
          citizen of the Great Republic beyond the seas.  In America his
          'Huckleberry Finn' and his 'Tom Sawyer' are what 'Robinson
          Crusoe' and 'Tom Brown's School Days' have been to us.  They
          are racy of the soil.  They are books to which it is impossible
          to place any period of termination.  I will not speak of the
          classics--reminiscences of much evil in our early lives.  We do
          not meet here to-day as critics with our appreciations and
          depreciations, our twopenny little prefaces or our forewords.
          I am not going to say what the world a thousand years hence
          will think of Mark Twain.  Posterity will take care of itself,
          will read what it wants to read, will forget what it chooses to
          forget, and will pay no attention whatsoever to our critical
          mumblings and jumblings.  Let us therefore be content to say to
          our friend and guest that we are here speaking for ourselves
          and for our children, to say what he has been to us.  I
          remember in Liverpool, in 1867, first buying the copy, which I
          still preserve, of the celebrated 'Jumping Frog.'  It had a few
          words of preface which reminded me then that our guest in those
          days was called 'the wild humorist of the Pacific slope,' and a
          few lines later down, 'the moralist of the Main.'  That was
          some forty years ago.  Here he is, still the humorist, still
          the moralist.  His humor enlivens and enlightens his morality,
          and his morality is all the better for his humor.  That is one
          of the reasons why we love him.  I am not here to mention any
          book of his--that is a subject of dispute in my family circle,
          which is the best and which is the next best--but I must put in
          a word, lest I should not be true to myself--a terrible thing--
          for his Joan of Arc, a book of chivalry, of nobility, and of
          manly sincerity for which I take this opportunity of thanking
          him.  But you can all drink this toast, each one of you with
          his own intention.  You can get into it what meaning you like.
          Mark Twain is a man whom English and Americans do well to
          honor.  He is the true consolidator of nations.  His delightful
          humor is of the kind which dissipates and destroys national
          prejudices.  His truth and his honor, his love of truth, and
          his love of honor, overflow all boundaries.  He has made the
          world better by his presence.  We rejoice to see him here.
          Long may he live to reap the plentiful harvest of hearty,
          honest human affection!"

Pilgrims, I desire first to thank those undergraduates of Oxford.  When a
man has grown so old as I am, when he has reached the verge of seventy-
two years, there is nothing that carries him back to the dreamland of his
life, to his boyhood, like recognition of those young hearts up yonder.
And so I thank them out of my heart.  I desire to thank the Pilgrims of
New York also for their kind notice and message which they have cabled
over here.  Mr. Birrell says he does not know how he got here.  But he
will be able to get away all right--he has not drunk anything since he
came here.  I am glad to know about those friends of his, Otway and
Chatterton--fresh, new names to me.  I am glad of the disposition he has
shown to rescue them from the evils of poverty, and if they are still in
London, I hope to have a talk with them.  For a while I thought he was
going to tell us the effect which my book had upon his growing manhood.
I thought he was going to tell us how much that effect amounted to, and
whether it really made him what he now is, but with the discretion born
of Parliamentary experience he dodged that, and we do not know now
whether he read the book or not.  He did that very neatly.  I could not
do it any better myself.

My books have had effects, and very good ones, too, here and there, and
some others not so good.  There is no doubt about that.  But I remember
one monumental instance of it years and years ago.  Professor Norton, of
Harvard, was over here, and when he came back to Boston I went out with
Howells to call on him.  Norton was allied in some way by marriage with
Darwin.

Mr. Norton was very gentle in what he had to say, and almost delicate,
and he said: "Mr. Clemens, I have been spending some time with Mr. Darwin
in England, and I should like to tell you something connected with that
visit.  You were the object of it, and I myself would have been very
proud of it, but you may not be proud of it.  At any rate, I am going to
tell you what it was, and to leave to you to regard it as you please.
Mr. Darwin took me up to his bedroom and pointed out certain things
there-pitcher-plants, and so on, that he was measuring and watching from
day to day--and he said: 'The chambermaid is permitted to do what she
pleases in this room, but she must never touch those plants and never
touch those books on that table by that candle.  With those books I read
myself to sleep every night.'  Those were your own books."  I said:
"There is no question to my mind as to whether I should regard that as a
compliment or not.  I do regard it as a very great compliment and a very
high honor that that great mind, laboring for the whole human race,
should rest itself on my books.  I am proud that he should read himself
to sleep with them."

Now, I could not keep that to myself--I was so proud of it.  As soon as I
got home to Hartford I called up my oldest friend--and dearest enemy on
occasion--the Rev. Joseph Twichell, my pastor, and I told him about that,
and, of course, he was full of interest and venom.  Those people who get
no compliments like that feel like that.  He went off.  He did not issue
any applause of any kind, and I did not hear of that subject for some
time.  But when Mr. Darwin passed away from this life, and some time
after Darwin's Life and Letters came out, the Rev. Mr. Twichell procured
an early copy of that work and found something in it which he considered
applied to me.  He came over to my house--it was snowing, raining,
sleeting, but that did not make any difference to Twichell.  He produced
the book, and turned over and over, until he came to a certain place,
when he said: "Here, look at this letter from Mr. Darwin to Sir Joseph
Hooker."  What Mr. Darwin said--I give you the idea and not the very
words--was this: I do not know whether I ought to have devoted my whole
life to these drudgeries in natural history and the other sciences or
not, for while I may have gained in one way I have lost in another.  Once
I had a fine perception and appreciation of high literature, but in me
that quality is atrophied.  "That was the reason," said Mr. Twichell, "he
was reading your books."

Mr. Birrell has touched lightly--very lightly, but in not an
uncomplimentary way--on my position in this world as a moralist.  I am
glad to have that recognition, too, because I have suffered since I have
been in this town; in the first place, right away, when I came here, from
a newsman going around with a great red, highly displayed placard in the
place of an apron.  He was selling newspapers, and there were two
sentences on that placard which would have been all right if they had
been punctuated; but they ran those two sentences together without a
comma or anything, and that would naturally create a wrong impression,
because it said, "Mark Twain arrives Ascot Cup stolen."  No doubt many a
person was misled by those sentences joined together in that unkind way.
I have no doubt my character has suffered from it.  I suppose I ought to
defend my character, but how can I defend it?  I can say here and now--
and anybody can see by my face that I am sincere, that I speak the truth-
-that I have never seen that Cup.  I have not got the Cup--I did not have
a chance to get it.  I have always had a good character in that way.  I
have hardly ever stolen anything, and if I did steal anything I had
discretion enough to know about the value of it first.  I do not steal
things that are likely to get myself into trouble.  I do not think any of
us do that.  I know we all take things--that is to be expected--but
really, I have never taken anything, certainly in England, that amounts
to any great thing.  I do confess that when I was here seven years ago I
stole a hat, but that did not amount to anything.  It was not a good hat,
and was only a clergyman's hat, anyway.

I was at a luncheon party, and Archdeacon Wilberforce was there also.  I
dare say he is Archdeacon now--he was a canon then--and he was serving in
the Westminster battery, if that is the proper term--I do not know, as
you mix military and ecclesiastical things together so much.  He left the
luncheon table before I did.  He began this.  I did steal his hat, but he
began by taking mine.  I make that interjection because I would not
accuse Archdeacon Wilberforce of stealing my hat--I should not think of
it.  I confine that phrase to myself.  He merely took my hat.
And with good judgment, too--it was a better hat than his.  He came out
before the luncheon was over, and sorted the hats in the hall, and
selected one which suited.  It happened to be mine.  He went off with it.
When I came out by-and-by there was no hat there which would go on my
head except his, which was left behind.  My head was not the customary
size just at that time.  I had been receiving a good many very nice and
complimentary attentions, and my head was a couple of sizes larger than
usual, and his hat just suited me.  The bumps and corners were all right
intellectually.  There were results pleasing to me--possibly so to him.
He found out whose hat it was, and wrote me saying it was pleasant that
all the way home, whenever he met anybody his gravities, his solemnities,
his deep thoughts, his eloquent remarks were all snatched up by the
people he met, and mistaken for brilliant humorisms.

I had another experience.  It was not unpleasing.  I was received with a
deference which was entirely foreign to my experience by everybody whom I
met, so that before I got home I had a much higher opinion of myself than
I have ever had before or since.  And there is in that very connection an
incident which I remember at that old date which is rather melancholy to
me, because it shows how a person can deteriorate in a mere seven years.
It is seven years ago.  I have not that hat now.  I was going down Pall-
Mall, or some other of your big streets, and I recognized that that hat
needed ironing.  I went into a big shop and passed in my hat, and asked
that it might be ironed.  They were courteous, very courteous, even
courtly.  They brought that hat back to me presently very sleek and nice,
and I asked how much there was to pay.  They replied that they did not
charge the clergy anything.  I have cherished the delight of that moment
from that day to this.  It was the first thing I did the other day to go
and hunt up that shop and hand in my hat to have it ironed.  I said when
it came back, "How much to pay?"  They said, "Ninepence."  In seven years
I have acquired all that worldliness, and I am sorry to be back where I
was seven years ago.

But now I am chaffing and chaffing and chaffing here, and I hope you will
forgive me for that; but when a man stands on the verge of seventy-two
you know perfectly well that he never reached that place without knowing
what this life is heart-breaking bereavement.  And so our reverence is
for our dead.  We do not forget them; but our duty is toward the living;
and if we can be cheerful, cheerful in spirit, cheerful in speech and in
hope, that is a benefit to those who are around us.

My own history includes an incident which will always connect me with
England in a pathetic way, for when I arrived here seven years ago with
my wife and my daughter--we had gone around the globe lecturing to raise
money to clear off a debt--my wife and one of my daughters started across
the ocean to bring to England our eldest daughter.  She was twenty four
years of age and in the bloom of young womanhood, and we were
unsuspecting.  When my wife and daughter--and my wife has passed from
this life since--when they had reached mid Atlantic, a cablegram--one of
those heartbreaking cablegrams which we all in our days have to
experience--was put into my hand.  It stated that that daughter of ours
had gone to her long sleep. And so, as I say, I cannot always be
cheerful, and I cannot always be chaffing; I must sometimes lay the cap
and bells aside, and recognize that I am of the human race like the rest,
and must have my cares and griefs.  And therefore I noticed what Mr.
Birrell said--I was so glad to hear him say it--something that was in the
nature of these verses here at the top of this:

              "He lit our life with shafts of sun
               And vanquished pain.
               Thus two great nations stand as one
               In honoring Twain."

I am very glad to have those verses.  I am very glad and very grateful
for what Mr. Birrell said in that connection.  I have received since I
have been here, in this one week, hundreds of letters from all conditions
of people in England--men, women, and children--and there is in them
compliment, praise, and, above all and better than all, there is in them
a note of affection.  Praise is well, compliment is well, but affection
--that is the last and final and most precious reward that any man can
win, whether by character or achievement, and I am very grateful to have
that reward.  All these letters make me feel that here in England--as in
America--when I stand under the English flag, I am not a stranger.  I am
not an alien, but at home.






DEDICATION SPEECH

          AT THE DEDICATION OF THE COLLEGE OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK,
          MAY 16, 1908

          Mr. Clemens wore his gown as Doctor of Laws, Oxford University.
          Ambassador Bryce and Mr. Choate had made the formal addresses.

How difficult, indeed, is the higher education.  Mr. Choate needs a
little of it.  He is not only short as a statistician of New York, but he
is off, far off, in his mathematics.  The four thousand citizens of
Greater New York, indeed!

But I don't think it was wise or judicious on the part of Mr. Choate to
show this higher education he has obtained.  He sat in the lap of that
great education (I was there at the time), and see the result--the
lamentable result.  Maybe if he had had a sandwich here to sustain him
the result would not have been so serious.

For seventy-two years I have been striving to acquire that higher
education which stands for modesty and diffidence, and it doesn't work.

And then look at Ambassador Bryce, who referred to his alma mater,
Oxford.  He might just as well have included me.  Well, I am a later
production.

If I am the latest graduate, I really and sincerely hope I am not the
final flower of its seven centuries; I hope it may go on for seven ages
longer.






DIE SCHRECKEN DER DEUTSCHEN SPRACHE [THE HORRORS OF THE GERMAN LANGUAGE]

          ADDRESS TO THE VIENNA PRESS CLUB, NOVEMBER 21, 1897,
          DELIVERED IN GERMAN [Here in literal translation]

It has me deeply touched, my gentlemen, here so hospitably received to
be.  From colleagues out of my own profession, in this from my own home
so far distant land.  My heart is full of gratitude, but my poverty of
German words forces me to greater economy of expression.  Excuse you, my
gentlemen, that I read off, what I you say will.  [But he didn't read].

The German language speak I not good, but have numerous connoisseurs me
assured that I her write like an angel.  Maybe--maybe--I know not.  Have
till now no acquaintance with the angels had.  That comes later--when it
the dear God please--it has no hurry.

Since long, my gentlemen, have I the passionate longing nursed a speech
on German to hold, but one has me not permitted.  Men, who no feeling for
the art had, laid me ever hindrance in the way and made naught my desire
--sometimes by excuses, often by force.  Always said these men to me:
"Keep you still, your Highness!  Silence!  For God's sake seek another
way and means yourself obnoxious to make."

In the present case, as usual it is me difficult become, for me the
permission to obtain.  The committee sorrowed deeply, but could me the
permission not grant on account of a law which from the Concordia demands
she shall the German language protect.  Du liebe Zeit!  How so had one to
me this say could--might--dared--should?  I am indeed the truest friend
of the German language--and not only now, but from long since--yes,
before twenty years already.  And never have I the desire had the noble
language to hurt; to the contrary, only wished she to improve--I would
her only reform.  It is the dream of my life been.  I have already visits
by the various German governments paid and for contracts prayed.  I am
now to Austria in the same task come.  I would only some changes effect.
I would only the language method--the luxurious, elaborate construction
compress, the eternal parenthesis suppress, do away with, annihilate; the
introduction of more than thirteen subjects in one sentence forbid; the
verb so far to the front pull that one it without a telescope discover
can.  With one word, my gentlemen, I would your beloved language simplify
so that, my gentlemen, when you her for prayer need, One her yonder-up
understands.

I beseech you, from me yourself counsel to let, execute these mentioned
reforms.  Then will you an elegant language possess, and afterward, when
you some thing say will, will you at least yourself understand what you
said had.  But often nowadays, when you a mile-long sentence from you
given and you yourself somewhat have rested, then must you have a
touching inquisitiveness have yourself to determine what you actually
spoken have.  Before several days has the correspondent of a local paper
a sentence constructed which hundred and twelve words contain, and
therein were seven parentheses smuggled in, and the subject seven times
changed.  Think you only, my gentlemen, in the course of the voyage of a
single sentence must the poor, persecuted, fatigued subject seven times
change position!

Now, when we the mentioned reforms execute, will it no longer so bad be.
Doch noch eins.  I might gladly the separable verb also a little bit
reform.  I might none do let what Schiller did: he has the whole history
of the Thirty Years' War between the two members of a separable verb in-
pushed.  That has even Germany itself aroused, and one has Schiller the
permission refused the History of the Hundred Years' War to compose--God
be it thanked!  After all these reforms established be will, will the
German language the noblest and the prettiest on the world be.

Since to you now, my gentlemen, the character of my mission known is,
beseech I you so friendly to be and to me your valuable help grant.
Mr. Potzl has the public believed make would that I to Vienna come am in
order the bridges to clog up and the traffic to hinder, while I
observations gather and note.  Allow you yourselves but not from him
deceived.  My frequent presence on the bridges has an entirely innocent
ground.  Yonder gives it the necessary space, yonder can one a noble long
German sentence elaborate, the bridge-railing along, and his whole
contents with one glance overlook.  On the one end of the railing pasted
I the first member of a separable verb and the final member cleave I to
the other end--then spread the body of the sentence between it out!
Usually are for my purposes the bridges of the city long enough; when I
but Potzl's writings study will I ride out and use the glorious endless
imperial bridge.  But this is a calumny; Potzl writes the prettiest
German.  Perhaps not so pliable as the mine, but in many details much
better.  Excuse you these flatteries.  These are well deserved.

Now I my speech execute--no, I would say I bring her to the close.  I am a
foreigner--but here, under you, have I it entirely forgotten.  And so
again and yet again proffer I you my heartiest thanks.






GERMAN FOR THE HUNGARIANS

          ADDRESS AT THE JUBILEE CELEBRATION OF THE EMANCIPATION OF THE
          HUNGARIAN PRESS,  MARCH 26, 1899

          The Ministry and members of Parliament were present.  The
          subject was the "Ausgleich"--i. e., the arrangement for the
          apportionment of the taxes between Hungary and Austria.
          Paragraph 14 of the ausgleich fixes the proportion each country
          must pay to the support of the army.  It is the paragraph which
          caused the trouble and prevented its renewal.

Now that we are all here together, I think it will be a good idea to
arrange the ausgleich.  If you will act for Hungary I shall be quite
willing to act for Austria, and this is the very time for it.  There
couldn't be a better, for we are all feeling friendly, fair-minded, and
hospitable now, and, full of admiration for each other, full of
confidence in each other, full of the spirit of welcome, full of the
grace of forgiveness, and the disposition to let bygones be bygones.

Let us not waste this golden, this beneficent, this providential
opportunity.  I am willing to make any concession you want, just so we
get it settled.  I am not only willing to let grain come in free, I am
willing to pay the freight on it, and you may send delegates to the
Reichsrath if you like.  All I require is that they shall be quiet,
peaceable people like your own deputies, and not disturb our proceedings.

If you want the Gegenseitigengeldbeitragendenverhaltnismassigkeiten
rearranged and readjusted I am ready for that.  I will let you off at
twenty-eight per cent.--twenty-seven--even twenty-five if you insist,
for there is nothing illiberal about me when I am out on a diplomatic
debauch.

Now, in return for these concessions, I am willing to take anything in
reason, and I think we may consider the business settled and the
ausgleich ausgegloschen at last for ten solid years, and we will sign the
papers in blank, and do it here and now.

Well, I am unspeakably glad to have that ausgleich off my hands.  It has
kept me awake nights for anderthalbjahr.

But I never could settle it before, because always when I called at the
Foreign Office in Vienna to talk about it, there wasn't anybody at home,
and that is not a place where you can go in and see for yourself whether
it is a mistake or not, because the person who takes care of the front
door there is of a size that discourages liberty of action and the free
spirit of investigation.  To think the ausgleich is abgemacht at last!
It is a grand and beautiful consummation, and I am glad I came.

The way I feel now I do honestly believe I would rather be just my own
humble self at this moment than paragraph 14.






A NEW GERMAN WORD

          To aid a local charity Mr. Clemens appeared before a
          fashionable audience in Vienna, March 10, 1899, reading his
          sketch "The Lucerne Girl," and describing how he had been
          interviewed and ridiculed.  He said in part:

I have not sufficiently mastered German, to allow my using it with
impunity.  My collection of fourteen-syllable German words is still
incomplete.  But I have just added to that collection a jewel--
a veritable jewel.  I found it in a telegram from Linz, and it contains
ninety-five letters:

Personaleinkommensteuerschatzungskommissionsmitgliedsreisekostenrechnungs
erganzungsrevisionsfund

If I could get a similar word engraved upon my tombstone I should sleep
beneath it in peace.






UNCONSCIOUS PLAGIARISM

          DELIVERED AT THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE PUBLISHERS OF "THE
          ATLANTIC MONTHLY" TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, IN HONOR OF HIS
          SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, AUGUST 29, 1879

I would have travelled a much greater distance than I have come to
witness the paying of honors to Doctor Holmes; for my feeling toward him
has always been one of peculiar warmth.  When one receives a letter from
a great man for the first time in his life, it is a large event to him,
as all of you know by your own experience.  You never can receive letters
enough from famous men afterward to obliterate that one, or dim the
memory of the pleasant surprise it was, and the gratification it gave
you.  Lapse of time cannot make it commonplace or cheap.

Well, the first great man who ever wrote me a letter was our guest--
Oliver Wendell Holmes.  He was also the first great literary man I ever
stole anything from--and that is how I came to write to him and he to me.
When my first book was new, a friend of mine said to me, "The dedication
is very neat."  Yes, I said, I thought it was.  My friend said, "I always
admired it, even before I saw it in The Innocents Abroad."  I naturally
said: "What do you mean?   Where did you ever see it before?"  "Well, I
saw it first some years ago as Doctor Holmes's dedication to his Songs in
Many Keys."  Of course, my first impulse was to prepare this man's
remains for burial, but upon reflection I said I would reprieve him for a
moment or two and give him a chance to prove his assertion if he could:
We stepped into a book-store, and he did prove it.  I had really stolen
that dedication, almost word for word.  I could not imagine how this
curious thing had happened; for I knew one thing--that a certain amount
of pride always goes along with a teaspoonful of brains, and that this
pride protects a man from deliberately stealing other people's ideas.
That is what a teaspoonful of brains will do for a man--and admirers had
often told me I had nearly a basketful--though they were rather reserved
as to the size of the basket.

However, I thought the thing out, and solved the mystery.  Two years
before, I had been laid up a couple of weeks in the Sandwich Islands, and
had read and re-read Doctor Holmes's poems till my mental reservoir was
filled up with them to the brim.  The dedication lay on the top, and
handy, so, by-and-by, I unconsciously stole it.  Perhaps I unconsciously
stole the rest of the volume, too, for many people have told me that my
book was pretty poetical, in one way or another.  Well, of course, I
wrote Doctor Holmes and told him I hadn't meant to steal, and he wrote
back and said in the kindest way that it was all right and no harm done;
and added that he believed we all unconsciously worked over ideas
gathered in reading and hearing, imagining they were original with
ourselves.  He stated a truth, and did it in such a pleasant way, and
salved over my sore spot so gently and so healingly, that I was rather
glad I had committed the crime, far the sake of the letter.  I afterward
called on him and told him to make perfectly free with any ideas of mine
that struck him as being good protoplasm for poetry.  He could see by
that that there wasn't anything mean about me; so we got along right from
the start.  I have not met Doctor Holmes many times since; and lately he
said--However, I am wandering wildly away from the one thing which I got
on my feet to do; that is, to make my compliments to you, my fellow-
teachers of the great public, and likewise to say that I am right glad to
see that Doctor Holmes is still in his prime and full of generous life;
and as age is not determined by years, but by trouble and infirmities of
mind and body, I hope it may be a very long time yet before any one can
truthfully say, "He is growing old."






THE WEATHER

          ADDRESS AT THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY'S SEVENTY FIRST
          ANNUAL DINNER, NEW YORK CITY

The next toast was: "The Oldest Inhabitant-The Weather of New England."

                   "Who can lose it and forget it?
                    Who can have it and regret it?
                    Be interposer 'twixt us Twain."
                                        --Merchant of Venice.

I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in
New England but the weather.  I don't know who makes that, but I think it
must be raw apprentices in the weather-clerk's factory who experiment and
learn how, in New England, for board and clothes, and then are promoted
to make weather for countries that require a good article, and will take
their custom elsewhere if they don't get it.  There is a sumptuous
variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger's
admiration--and regret.  The weather is always doing something there;
always attending strictly to business; always getting up new designs and
trying them on the people to see how they will go.  But it gets through
more business in spring than in any other season.  In the spring I have
counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of
four-and-twenty hours.  It was I that made the fame and fortune of that
man that had that marvellous collection of weather on exhibition at the
Centennial, that so astounded the foreigners.  He was going to travel all
over the world and get specimens from all the climes.  I said, "Don't you
do it; you come to New England on a favorable spring day."  I told him
what we could do in the way of style, variety, and quantity.  Well, he
came and he made his collection in four days.  As to variety, why, he
confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of weather that he had never
heard of before.  And as to quantity well, after he had picked out and
discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not only had weather
enough, but weather to spare; weather to hire out; weather to sell; to
deposit; weather to invest; weather to give to the poor.  The people of
New England are by nature patient and forbearing, but there are some
things which they will not stand.  Every year they kill a lot of poets
for writing about "Beautiful Spring."  These are generally casual
visitors, who bring their notions of spring from somewhere else, and
cannot, of course, know how the natives feel about spring.  And so the
first thing they know the opportunity to inquire how they feel has
permanently gone by.  Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for
accurate prophecy, and thoroughly well deserves it.  You take up the
paper and observe how crisply and confidently he checks off what to-day's
weather is going to be on the Pacific, down South, in the Middle States,
in the Wisconsin region.  See him sail along in the joy and pride of his
power till he gets to New England, and then see his tail drop.
He doesn't know what the weather is going to be in New England.
Well, he mulls over it, and by and-by he gets out something about like
this:  Probably northeast to southwest winds, varying to the southward
and westward and eastward, and points between, high and low barometer
swapping around from place to place; probable areas of rain, snow, hail,
and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes, with thunder and
lightning.  Then he jots down his postscript from his wandering mind, to
cover accidents.  "But it is possible that the programme may be wholly
changed in the mean time."  Yes, one of the brightest gems in the New
England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it.  There is only one
thing certain about it: you are certain there is going to be plenty of
it--a perfect grand review; but you never can tell which end of the
procession is going to move first.  You fix up for the drought; you leave
your umbrella in the house and sally out, and two to one you get
drowned.  You make up your mind that the earthquake is due; you stand
from under, and take hold of something to steady yourself, and the first
thing you know you get struck by lightning.  These are great
disappointments; but they can't be helped.  The lightning there is
peculiar; it is so convincing, that when it strikes a thing it doesn't
leave enough of that thing behind for you to tell whether--Well, you'd
think it was something valuable, and a Congressman had been there.
And the thunder.  When the thunder begins to merely tune up and scrape
and saw, and key up the instruments for the performance, strangers say,
"Why, what awful thunder you have here!" But when the baton is raised and
the real concert begins, you'll find that stranger down in the cellar
with his head in the ash-barrel.  Now as to the size of the weather in
New England--lengthways, I mean.  It is utterly disproportioned to the
size of that little country.  Half the time, when it is packed as full as
it can stick, you will see that New England weather sticking out beyond
the edges and projecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles over the
neighboring States.  She can't hold a tenth part of her weather.  You can
see cracks all about where she has strained herself trying to do it.
I could speak volumes about the inhuman perversity of the New England
weather, but I will give but a single specimen.  I like to hear rain on a
tin roof.  So I covered part of my roof with tin, with an eye to that
luxury.  Well, sir, do you think it ever rains on that tin?  No, sir;
skips it every time.  Mind, in this speech I have been trying merely to
do honor to the New England weather--no language could do it justice.
But, after all, there is at least one or two things about that weather
(or, if you please, effects produced by it) which we residents would not
like to part with.  If we hadn't our bewitching autumn foliage, we should
still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for
all its bullying vagaries--the ice-storm: when a leafless tree is clothed
with ice from the bottom to the top--ice that is as bright and clear as
crystal; when every bough and twig is strung with ice-beads, frozen dew-
drops, and the whole tree sparkles cold and white, like the Shah of
Persia's diamond plume.  Then the wind waves the branches and the sun
comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms that
glow and burn and flash with all manner of colored fires, which change
and change again with inconceivable rapidity from blue to red, from red
to green, and green to gold--the tree becomes a spraying fountain, a very
explosion of dazzling jewels; and it stands there the acme, the climax,
the supremest possibility in art or nature, of bewildering, intoxicating,
intolerable magnificence.  One cannot make the words too strong.






THE BABIES

THE BABIES

          DELIVERED AT THE BANQUET, IN CHICAGO, GIVEN BY THE ARMY OF THE
          TENNESSEE TO THEIR FIRST COMMANDER, GENERAL U. S. GRANT,
          NOVEMBER, 1879

          The fifteenth regular toast was "The Babies.--As they comfort
          us in our sorrows, let us not forget them in our festivities."

I like that.  We have not all had the good fortune to be ladies.  We have
not all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works
down to the babies, we stand on common ground.  It is a shame that for a
thousand years the world's banquets have utterly ignored the baby, as if
he didn't amount to anything.  If you will stop and think a minute--if
you will go back fifty or one hundred years to your early married life
and recontemplate your first baby--you will remember that he amounted to
a good deal, and even something over.  You soldiers all know that when
that little fellow arrived at family headquarters you had to hand in your
resignation.  He took entire command.  You became his lackey, his mere
body-servant, and you had to stand around too.  He was not a commander
who made allowances for time, distance, weather, or anything else.  You
had to execute his order whether it was possible or not.  And there was
only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was the
double-quick.  He treated you with every sort of insolence and
disrespect, and the bravest of you didn't dare to say a word.  You could
face the death-storm at Donelson and Vicksburg, and give back blow for
blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and twisted
your nose, you had to take it.  When the thunders of war were sounding in
your ears you set your faces toward the batteries, and advanced with
steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his war whoop you
advanced in the other direction, and mighty glad of the chance, too.
When he called for soothing-syrup, did you venture to throw out any side-
remarks about certain services being unbecoming an officer and a
gentleman?  No.  You got up and got it.  When he ordered his pap bottle
and it was not warm, did you talk back?  Not you.  You went to work and
warmed it.  You even descended so far in your menial office as to take a
suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was right--three
parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the colic, and a
drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccoughs.  I can taste that
stuff yet.  And how many things you learned as you went along!
Sentimental young folks still take stock in that beautiful old saying
that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the angels are
whispering to him.  Very pretty, but too thin--simply wind on the
stomach, my friends.  If the baby proposed to take a walk at his usual
hour, two o'clock in the morning, didn't you rise up promptly and remark,
with a mental addition which would not improve a Sunday-school book much,
that that was the very thing you were about to propose yourself?  Oh!
you were under good discipline, and as you went fluttering up and down
the room in your undress uniform, you not only prattled undignified baby-
talk, but even tuned up your martial voices and tried to sing!--Rock a-by
Baby in the Tree-top, for instance.  What a spectacle far an Army of the
Tennessee!  And what an affliction for the neighbors, too; for it is not
everybody within, a mile around that likes military music at three in the
morning.  And, when you had been keeping this sort of thing up two or
three hours, and your little velvet head intimated that nothing suited
him like exercise and noise, what did you do?  You simply went on until
you dropped in the last ditch.  The idea that a baby doesn't amount to
anything!  Why, one baby is just a house and a front yard full by itself.
One baby can, furnish more business than you and your whole Interior
Department can attend to.  He is enterprising, irrepressible, brimful of
lawless activities.  Do what you please, you can't make him stay on the
reservation.  Sufficient unto the day is one baby.  As long as you are in
your right mind don't you ever pray for twins.  Twins amount to a
permanent riot.  And there ain't any real difference between triplets and
an insurrection.

Yes, it was high time for a toast-master to recognize the importance of
the babies.  Think what is in store for the present crop!  Fifty years
from now we shall all be dead, I trust, and then this flag, if it still
survive (and let us hope it may), will be floating over a Republic
numbering 200,000,000 souls, according to the settled laws of our
increase.  Our present schooner of State will have grown into a political
leviathan--a Great Eastern.  The cradled babies of to-day will be on
deck.  Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract
on their hands.  Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in
the land are some which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred
things, if we could know which ones they are.  In one of these cradles
the unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething think
of it! and putting in a world of dead earnest, unarticulated, but
perfectly justifiable profanity over it, too.  In another the future
renowned astronomer is blinking at the shining Milky Way with but a
languid interest poor little chap!--and wondering what has become of that
other one they call the wet-nurse.  In another the future great historian
is lying--and doubtless will continue to lie until his earthly mission is
ended.  In another the future President is busying himself with no
profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of his hair
so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now some
60,000 future office-seekers, getting ready to furnish him occasion to
grapple with that same old problem a second, time.  And in still one more
cradle, some where under the flag, the future illustrious commander-in-
chief of the American armies is so little burdened with his approaching
grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole strategic mind
at this moment to trying to find out some way to get his big toe into his
mouth--an achievement which, meaning no disrespect, the illustrious guest
of this evening turned his entire attention to some fifty-six years ago;
and if the child is but a prophecy of the man, there are mighty few who
will doubt that he succeeded.






OUR CHILDREN AND GREAT DISCOVERIES

          DELIVERED AT THE AUTHORS' CLUB, NEW YORK

Our children--yours--and--mine.  They seem like little things to talk
about--our children, but little things often make up the sum of human
life--that's a good sentence.  I repeat it, little things often produce
great things.  Now, to illustrate, take Sir Isaac Newton--I presume some
of you have heard of Mr. Newton.  Well, once when Sir Isaac Newton--
a mere lad--got over into the man's apple orchard--I don't know what he
was doing there--I didn't come all the way from Hartford to q-u-e-s-t-i-
o-n Mr. Newton's honesty--but when he was there--in the main orchard--
he saw an apple fall and he was a-t-t-racted toward it, and that led to
the discovery--not of Mr. Newton but of the great law of attraction and
gravitation.

And there was once another great discoverer--I've forgotten his name,
and I don't remember what he discovered, but I know it was something very
important, and I hope you will all tell your children about it when you
get home.  Well, when the great discoverer was once loafn' around down in
Virginia, and a-puttin' in his time flirting with Pocahontas--oh!
Captain John Smith, that was the man's name--and while he and Poca were
sitting in Mr. Powhatan's garden, he accidentally put his arm around her
and picked something simple weed, which proved to be tobacco--and now we
find it in every Christian family, shedding its civilizing influence
broadcast throughout the whole religious community.

Now there was another great man, I can't think of his name either, who
used to loaf around and watch the great chandelier in the cathedral at
Pisa., which set him to thinking about the great law of gunpowder, and
eventually led to the discovery of the cotton-gin.

Now, I don't say this as an inducement for our young men to loaf around
like Mr. Newton and Mr. Galileo and Captain Smith, but they were once
little babies two days old, and they show what little things have
sometimes accomplished.






EDUCATING THEATRE-GOERS

          The children of the Educational Alliance gave a performance of
          "The Prince and the Pauper" on the afternoon of April 14, 1907,
          in the theatre of the Alliance Building in East Broadway.  The
          audience was composed of nearly one thousand children of the
          neighborhood.  Mr. Clemens, Mr. Howells, and Mr. Daniel Frohman
          were among the invited guests.

I have not enjoyed a play so much, so heartily, and so thoroughly since I
played Miles Hendon twenty-two years ago.  I used to play in this piece
(" The Prince and the Pauper") with my children, who, twenty-two years
ago, were little youngsters.  One of my daughters was the Prince, and a
neighbor's daughter was the Pauper, and the children of other neighbors
played other parts.  But we never gave such a performance as we have seen
here to-day.  It would have been beyond us.

My late wife was the dramatist and stage-manager.  Our coachman was the
stage-manager, second in command.  We used to play it in this simple way,
and the one who used to bring in the crown on a cushion--he was a little
fellow then--is now a clergyman way up high--six or seven feet high--and
growing higher all the time.  We played it well, but not as well as you
see it here, for you see it done by practically trained professionals.

I was especially interested in the scene which we have just had, for
Miles Hendon was my part.  I did it as well as a person could who never
remembered his part.  The children all knew their parts.  They did not
mind if I did not know mine.  I could thread a needle nearly as well as
the player did whom you saw to-day.  The words of my part I could supply
on the spot.  The words of the song that Miles Hendon sang here I did not
catch.  But I was great in that song.

          [Then Mr. Clemens hummed a bit of doggerel that the reporter
          made out as this:

                   "There was a woman in her town,
                    She loved her husband well,
                    But another man just twice as well."

          "How is that?" demanded Mr. Clemens.  Then resuming]

It was so fresh and enjoyable to make up a new set of words each time
that I played the part.

If I had a thousand citizens in front of me, I would like to give them
information, but you children already know all that I have found out
about the Educational Alliance.  It's like a man living within thirty
miles of Vesuvius and never knowing about a volcano.  It's like living
for a lifetime in Buffalo, eighteen miles from Niagara, and never going
to see the Falls.  So I had lived in New York and knew nothing about the
Educational Alliance.

This theatre is a part of the work, and furnishes pure and clean plays.
This theatre is an influence.  Everything in the world is accomplished by
influences which train and educate.  When you get to be seventy-one and a
half, as I am, you may think that your education is over, but it isn't.

If we had forty theatres of this kind in this city of four millions, how
they would educate and elevate!  We should have a body of educated
theatre-goers.

It would make better citizens, honest citizens.  One of the best gifts a
millionaire could make would be a theatre here and a theatre there.  It
would make of you a real Republic, and bring about an educational level.






THE EDUCATIONAL THEATRE

          On November 19, 1907, Mr. Clemens entertained a party of six or
          seven hundred of his friends, inviting them to witness the
          representation of "The Prince and the Pauper," flayed by boys
          and girls of the East Side at the Children's Educational
          Theatre, New York.

Just a word or two to let you know how deeply I appreciate the honor
which the children who are the actors and frequenters of this cozy
playhouse have conferred upon me.  They have asked me to be their
ambassador to invite the hearts and brains of New York to come down here
and see the work they are doing.  I consider it a grand distinction to be
chosen as their intermediary.  Between the children and myself there is
an indissoluble bond of friendship.

I am proud of this theatre and this performance--proud, because I am
naturally vain--vain of myself and proud of the children.

I wish we could reach more children at one time.  I am glad to see that
the children of the East Side have turned their backs on the Bowery
theatres to come to see the pure entertainments presented here.

This Children's Theatre is a great educational institution.  I hope the
time will come when it will be part of every public school in the land.
I may be pardoned in being vain.  I was born vain, I guess.  [At this
point the stage-manager's whistle interrupted Mr. Clemens.]  That settles
it; there's my cue to stop.  I was to talk until the whistle blew, but it
blew before I got started.  It takes me longer to get started than most
people.  I guess I was born at slow speed.  My time is up, and if you'll
keep quiet for two minutes I'll tell you something about Miss Herts, the
woman who conceived this splendid idea.  She is the originator and the
creator of this theatre.  Educationally, this institution coins the gold
of young hearts into external good.


          [On April 23, 1908, he spoke again at the same place]

I will be strictly honest with you; I am only fit to be honorary
president.  It is not to be expected that I should be useful as a real
president.  But when it comes to things ornamental I, of course, have no
objection.  There is, of course, no competition.  I take it as a very
real compliment because there are thousands of children who have had a
part in this request.  It is promotion in truth.

It is a thing worth doing that is done here.  You have seen the children
play.  You saw how little Sally reformed her burglar.  She could reform
any burglar.  She could reform me.  This is the only school in which can
be taught the highest and most difficult lessons--morals.  In other
schools the way of teaching morals is revolting.  Here the children who
come in thousands live through each part.

They are terribly anxious for the villain to get his bullet, and that I
take to be a humane and proper sentiment.  They spend freely the ten
cents that is not saved without a struggle.  It comes out of the candy
money, and the money that goes for chewing-gum and other necessaries of
life.  They make the sacrifice freely.  This is the only school which
they are sorry to leave.






POETS AS POLICEMEN

          Mr. Clemens was one of the speakers at the Lotos Club dinner to
          Governor Odell, March 24, 1900.  The police problem was
          referred to at length.

Let us abolish policemen who carry clubs and revolvers, and put in a
squad of poets armed to the teeth with poems on Spring and Love.  I would
be very glad to serve as commissioner, not because I think I am
especially qualified, but because I am too tired to work and would like
to take a rest.

Howells would go well as my deputy.  He is tired too, and needs a rest
badly.

I would start in at once to elevate, purify, and depopulate the red-light
district.  I would assign the most soulful poets to that district,
all heavily armed with their poems.  Take Chauncey Depew as a sample.
I would station them on the corners after they had rounded up all the
depraved people of the district so they could not escape, and then have
them read from their poems to the poor unfortunates.  The plan would be
very effective in causing an emigration of the depraved element.






PUDD'NHEAD WILSON DRAMATIZED

          When Mr. Clemens arrived from Europe in 1895 one of the first
          things he did was to see the dramatization of Pudd'nhead
          Wilson.  The audience becoming aware of the fact that Mr.
          Clemens was in the house called upon him for a speech.

Never in my life have I been able to make a speech without preparation,
and I assure you that this position in which I find myself is one totally
unexpected.

I have been hemmed in all day by William Dean Howells and other frivolous
persons, and I have been talking about everything in the world except
that of which speeches are constructed.  Then, too, seven days on the
water is not conducive to speech-making.  I will only say that I
congratulate Mr. Mayhew; he has certainly made a delightful play out of
my rubbish.  His is a charming gift.  Confidentially I have always had
an idea that I was well equipped to write plays, but I have never
encountered a manager who has agreed with me.






DALY THEATRE

          ADDRESS AT A DINNER AFTER THE ONE HUNDREDTH PERFORMANCE OF
          "THE TAMING OF THE SHREW."

          Mr. Clemens made the following speech, which he incorporated
          afterward in Following the Equator.

I am glad to be here.  This is the hardest theatre in New York to get
into, even at the front door.  I never, got in without hard work.  I am
glad we have got so far in at last.  Two or three years ago I had an
appointment to meet Mr. Daly on the stage of this theatre at eight
o'clock in the evening.  Well, I got on a train at Hartford to come to
New York and keep the appointment.  All I had to do was to come to the
back door of the theatre on Sixth Avenue.  I did not believe that; I did
not believe it could be on Sixth Avenue, but that is what Daly's note
said--come to that door, walk right in, and keep the appointment.  It
looked very easy.  It looked easy enough, but I had not much confidence
in the Sixth Avenue door.

Well, I was kind of bored on the train, and I bought some newspapers--New
Haven newspapers--and there was not much news in them, so I read the
advertisements.  There was one advertisement of a bench-show.  I had
heard of bench-shows, and I often wondered what there was about them to
interest people.  I had seen bench-shows--lectured to bench-shows, in
fact--but I didn't want to advertise them or to brag about them.  Well,
I read on a little, and learned that a bench-show was not a bench-show
--but dogs, not benches at all--only dogs.  I began to be interested,
and as there was nothing else to do I read every bit of the
advertisement, and learned that the biggest thing in this show was a St.
Bernard dog that weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds.  Before I got
to New York I was so interested in the bench-shows that I made up my mind
to go to one the first chance I got.  Down on Sixth Avenue, near where
that back door might be, I began to take things leisurely.  I did not
like to be in too much of a hurry.  There was not anything in sight that
looked like a back door.  The nearest approach to it was a cigar store.
So I went in and bought a cigar, not too expensive, but it cost enough to
pay for any information I might get and leave the dealer a fair profit.
Well, I did not like to be too abrupt, to make the man think me crazy, by
asking him if that was the way to Daly's Theatre, so I started gradually
to lead up to the subject, asking him first if that was the way to Castle
Garden.  When I got to the real question, and he said he would show me
the way, I was astonished.  He sent me through a long hallway, and I
found myself in a back yard.  Then I went through a long passageway and
into a little room, and there before my eyes was a big St. Bernard dog
lying on a bench.  There was another door beyond and I went there, and
was met by a big, fierce man with a fur cap on and coat off, who
remarked, "Phwat do yez want?"  I told him I wanted to see Mr. Daly.
"Yez can't see Mr. Daly this time of night," he responded.  I urged that
I had an appointment with Mr. Daly, and gave him my card, which did not
seem to impress him much.  "Yez can't get in and yez can't shmoke here.
Throw away that cigar.  If yez want to see Mr. Daly, yez 'll have to be
after going to the front door and buy a ticket, and then if yez have luck
and he's around that way yez may see him."  I was getting discouraged,
but I had one resource left that had been of good service in similar
emergencies.  Firmly but kindly I told him my name was Mark Twain, and I
awaited results.  There was none.  He was not fazed a bit.  "Phwere's
your order to see Mr. Daly?" he asked.  I handed him the note, and he
examined it intently.  "My friend," I remarked, "you can read that better
if you hold it the other side up."  But he took no notice of the
suggestion, and finally asked: "Where's Mr. Daly's name?"  "There it is,"
I told him, "on the top of the page."  "That's all right," he said,
"that's where he always puts it; but I don't see the 'W' in his name,"
and he eyed me distrustfully.  Finally, he asked, "Phwat do yez want to
see Mr. Daly for?"  "Business."  "Business?"  "Yes."  It was my only
hope.  "Phwat kind--theatres?" that was too much.  "No."  "What kind of
shows, then?"  "Bench-shows."  It was risky, but I was desperate."
Bench--shows, is it--where?"  The big man's face changed, and he began to
look interested.  "New Haven."  "New Haven, it is?  Ah, that's going to
be a fine show.  I'm glad to see you.  Did you see a big dog in the other
room?"  "Yes."  "How much do you think that dog weighs?"  "One hundred
and forty-five pounds."  "Look at that, now!  He's a good judge of dogs,
and no mistake.  He weighs all of one hundred and thirty-eight.  Sit down
and shmoke--go on and shmoke your cigar, I'll tell Mr. Daly you are
here."  In a few minutes I was on the stage shaking hands with Mr. Daly,
and the big man standing around glowing with satisfaction.  "Come around
in front," said Mr. Daly, "and see the performance.  I will put you into
my own box."  And as I moved away I heard my honest friend mutter, "Well,
he desarves it."






THE DRESS OF CIVILIZED WOMAN

A large part of the daughter of civilization is her dress--as it should
be.  Some civilized women would lose half their charm without dress, and
some would lose all of it.  The daughter Of modern civilization dressed
at her utmost best is a marvel of exquisite and beautiful art and
expense.  All the lands, all the climes, and all the arts are laid under
tribute to furnish her forth.  Her linen is from Belfast, her robe is
from Paris, her lace is from Venice, or Spain, or France, her feathers
are from the remote regions of Southern Africa, her furs from the remoter
region of the iceberg and the aurora, her fan from Japan, her diamonds
from Brazil, her bracelets from California, her pearls from Ceylon, her
cameos from Rome.  She has gems and trinkets from buried Pompeii, and
others that graced comely Egyptian forms that have been dust and ashes
now for forty centuries.  Her watch is from Geneva, her card case is from
China, her hair is from--from--I don't know where her hair is from; I
never could find out; that is, her other hair--her public hair, her
Sunday hair; I don't mean the hair she goes to bed with.

And that reminds me of a trifle.  Any time you want to you can glance
around the carpet of a Pullman car, and go and pick up a hair-pin; but
not to save your life can you get any woman in that car to acknowledge
that hair-pin.  Now, isn't that strange?  But it's true.  The woman who
has never swerved from cast-iron veracity and fidelity in her whole life
will, when confronted with this crucial test, deny her hair-pin.  She
will deny that hair-pin before a hundred witnesses.  I have stupidly got
into more trouble and more hot water trying to hunt up the owner of a
hair-pin in a Pullman than by any other indiscretion of my life.






DRESS REFORM AND COPYRIGHT

          When the present copyright law was under discussion, Mr.
          Clemens appeared before the committee.  He had sent Speaker
          Cannon the following letter:

          "DEAR UNCLE JOSEPH,--Please get me the thanks of Congress, not
          next week but right away.  It is very necessary.  Do accomplish
          this for your affectionate old friend right away--
          by, persuasion if you can, by violence if you must, for it is
          imperatively necessary that I get on the floor of the House for
          two or three hours and talk to the members, man by man, in
          behalf of support; encouragement, and protection of one of the
          nation's most valuable assets and industries--its literature.
          I have arguments with me--also a barrel with liquid in it.

          "Give me a chance.  Get me the thanks of Congress.  Don't wait
          for others--there isn't time; furnish them to me yourself and
          let Congress ratify later.  I have stayed away and let Congress
          alone for seventy-one years and am entitled to the thanks.
          Congress knows this perfectly well, and I have long felt hurt
          that this quite proper and earned expression of gratitude has
          been merely felt by the House and never publicly uttered.

          "Send me an order on the sergeant-at-arms quick.  When shall I
          come?
                                   "With love and a benediction,
                                                       "MARK TWAIN."


          While waiting to appear before the committee, My.  Clemens
          talked to the reporters:

Why don't you ask why I am wearing such apparently unseasonable clothes?
I'll tell you.  I have found that when a man reaches the advanced age of
seventy-one years, as I have, the continual sight of dark clothing is
likely to have a depressing effect upon him.  Light-colored clothing is
more pleasing to the eye and enlivens the spirit.  Now, of course, I
cannot compel every one to wear such clothing just for my especial
benefit, so I do the next best thing and wear it myself.

Of course, before a man reaches my years the fear of criticism might
prevent him from indulging his fancy.  I am not afraid of that.  I am
decidedly for pleasing color combinations in dress.  I like to see the
women's clothes, say, at the opera.  What can be more depressing than the
sombre black which custom requires men to wear upon state occasions?
A group of men in evening clothes looks like a flock of crows, and is
just about as inspiring.

After all, what is the purpose of clothing?  Are not clothes intended
primarily to preserve dignity and also to afford comfort to their wearer?
Now I know of nothing more uncomfortable than the present-day clothes of
men.  The finest clothing made is a person's own skin, but, of course,
society demands something more than this.

The best-dressed man I have ever seen, however, was a native of the
Sandwich Islands who attracted my attention thirty years ago.  Now, when
that man wanted to don especial dress to honor a public occasion or a
holiday, why, he occasionally put on a pair of spectacles.  Otherwise the
clothing with which God had provided him sufficed.

Of course, I have ideas of dress reform.  For one thing, why not adopt
some of the women's styles?  Goodness knows, they adopt enough of ours.
Take the peek-a-boo waist, for instance.  It has the obvious advantages
of being cool and comfortable, and in addition it is almost always made
up in pleasing colors which cheer and do not depress.

It is true that I dressed the Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur's Court
in a plug-hat, but, let's see, that was twenty-five years ago.  Then no
man was considered fully dressed until he donned a plug-hat.  Nowadays I
think that no man is dressed until he leaves it home.  Why, when I left
home yesterday they trotted out a plug-hat for me to wear.

"You must wear it," they told me; "why, just think of going to Washington
without a plug-hat!"  But I said no; I would wear a derby or nothing.
Why, I believe I could walk along the streets of New York--I never do--
but still I think I could--and I should never see a well-dressed man
wearing a plug-hat.  If I did I should suspect him of something.  I don't
know just what, but I would suspect him.

Why, when I got up on the second story of that Pennsylvania ferry-boat
coming down here yesterday I saw Howells coming along.  He was the only
man on the boat with a plug-hat, and I tell you he felt ashamed of
himself.  He said he had been persuaded to wear it against his better
sense.  But just think of a man nearly seventy years old who has not a
mind of his own on such matters!

"Are you doing any work now?" the youngest and most serious reporter
asked.

Work?  I retired from work on my seventieth birthday.  Since then I have
been putting in merely twenty-six hours a day dictating my autobiography,
which, as John Phoenix said in regard to his autograph, may be relied
upon as authentic, as it is written exclusively by me.  But it is not to
be published in full until I am thoroughly dead.  I have made it as
caustic, fiendish, and devilish as possible.  It will fill many volumes,
and I shall continue writing it until the time comes for me to join the
angels.  It is going to be a terrible autobiography.  It will make the
hair of some folks curl.  But it cannot be published until I am dead, and
the persons mentioned in it and their children and grandchildren are
dead.  It is something awful!

"Can you tell us the names of some of the notables that are here to see
you off?"

I don't know.  I am so shy.  My shyness takes a peculiar phase.  I never
look a person in the face.  The reason is that I am afraid they may know
me and that I may not know them, which makes it very embarrassing for
both of us.  I always wait for the other person to speak.  I know lots of
people, but I don't know who they are.  It is all a matter of ability to
observe things.  I never observe anything now.  I gave up the habit years
ago.  You should keep a habit up if you want to become proficient in it.
For instance, I was a pilot once, but I gave it up, and I do not believe
the captain of the Minneapolis would let me navigate his ship to London.
Still, if I think that he is not on the job I may go up on the bridge and
offer him a few suggestions.






COLLEGE GIRLS

          Five hundred undergraduates, under the auspices of the Woman's
          University Club, New York, welcomed Mr. Clemens as their guest,
          April 3, 1906, and gave him the freedom of the club, which the
          chairman explained was freedom to talk individually to any girl
          present.

I've worked for the public good thirty years, so for the rest of my life
I shall work for my personal contentment.  I am glad Miss Neron has fed
me, for there is no telling what iniquity I might wander into on an empty
stomach--I mean, an empty mind.

I am going to tell you a practical story about how once upon a time I was
blind--a story I should have been using all these months, but I never
thought about telling it until the other night, and now it is too late,
for on the nineteenth of this month I hope to take formal leave of the
platform forever at Carnegie Hall--that is, take leave so far as talking
for money and for people who have paid money to hear me talk.  I shall
continue to infest the platform on these conditions--that there is nobody
in the house who has paid to hear me, that I am not paid to be heard, and
that there will be none but young women students in the audience.  [Here
Mr. Clemens told the story of how he took a girl to the theatre while he
was wearing tight boots, which appears elsewhere in this volume, and
ended by saying:  "And now let this be a lesson to you--I don't know what
kind of a lesson; I'll let you think it out."]






GIRLS

In my capacity of publisher I recently received a manuscript from a
teacher which embodied a number of answers given by her pupils to
questions propounded.  These answers show that the children had nothing
but the sound to go by--the sense was perfectly empty.  Here are some of
their answers to words they were asked to define:  Auriferous--pertaining
to an orifice; ammonia--the food of the gods; equestrian--one who asks
questions; parasite--a kind of umbrella; ipecaca--man who likes a good
dinner.  And here is the definition of an ancient word honored by a great
party: Republican--a sinner mentioned in the Bible.  And here is an
innocent deliverance of a zoological kind: "There are a good many donkeys
in the theological gardens."  Here also is a definition which really
isn't very bad in its way: Demagogue--a vessel containing beer and other
liquids.  Here, too, is a sample of a boy's composition on girls, which,
I must say, I rather like:

"Girls are very stuckup and dignified in their manner and behaveyour.
They think more of dress than anything and like to play with dowls and
rags.  They cry if they see a cow in a far distance and are afraid of
guns.  They stay at home all the time and go to church every Sunday.
They are al-ways sick.  They are al-ways furry and making fun of boys
hands and they say how dirty.  They cant play marbles.  I pity them poor
things.  They make fun of boys and then turn round and love them.
I don't belave they ever kiled a cat or anything.  They look out every
nite and say, 'Oh, a'nt the moon lovely!'--Thir is one thing I have not
told and that is they al-ways now their lessons bettern boys."






THE LADIES

          DELIVERED AT THE ANNIVERSARY FESTIVAL, 1872, OF THE SCOTTISH
          CORPORATION OF LONDON

          Mr. Clemens replied to the toast "The Ladies."

I am proud, indeed, of the distinction of being chosen to respond to this
especial toast, to "The Ladies," or to women if you please, for that is
the preferable term, perhaps; it is certainly the older, and therefore
the more entitled to reverence.  I have noticed that the Bible, with that
plain, blunt honesty which is such a conspicuous characteristic of the
Scriptures, is always particular to never refer to even the illustrious
mother of all mankind as a "lady," but speaks of her as a woman.  It is
odd, but you will find it is so.  I am peculiarly proud of this honor,
because I think that the toast to women is one which, by right and by
every rule of gallantry, should take precedence of all others--of the
army, of the navy, of even royalty itself--perhaps, though the latter is
not necessary in this day and in this land, for the reason that, tacitly,
you do drink a broad general health to all good women when you drink the
health of the Queen of England and the Princess of Wales.  I have in mind
a poem just now which is familiar to you all, familiar to everybody.  And
what an inspiration that was, and how instantly the present toast recalls
the verses to all our minds when the most noble, the most gracious, the
purest, and sweetest of all poets says:

                         "Woman!  O woman!---er
                         Wom----"

However, you remember the lines; and you remember how feelingly, how
daintily, how almost imperceptibly the verses raise up before you,
feature by feature, the ideal of a true and perfect woman; and how, as
you contemplate the finished marvel, your homage grows into worship of
the intellect that could create so fair a thing out of mere breath, mere
words.  And you call to mind now, as I speak, how the poet, with stern
fidelity to the history of all humanity, delivers this beautiful child of
his heart and his brain over to the trials and sorrows that must come to
all, sooner or later, that abide in the earth, and how the pathetic story
culminates in that apostrophe--so wild, so regretful, so full of mournful
retrospection.  The lines run thus:

                        "Alas!--alas!--a--alas!
                         ----Alas!--------alas!"

--and so on.  I do not remember the rest; but, taken together, it seems
to me that poem is the noblest tribute to woman that human genius has
ever brought forth--and I feel that if I were to talk hours I could not
do my great theme completer or more graceful justice than I have now done
in simply quoting that poet's matchless words.  The phases of the womanly
nature are infinite in their variety.  Take any type of woman, and you
shall find in it something to respect, something to admire, something to
love.  And you shall find the whole joining you heart and hand.  Who was
more patriotic than Joan of Arc?  Who was braver?  Who has given us a
grander instance of self-sacrificing devotion?  Ah! you remember, you
remember well, what a throb of pain, what a great tidal wave of grief
swept over us all when Joan of Arc fell at Waterloo.  Who does not sorrow
for the loss of Sappho, the sweet singer of Israel?  Who among us does
not miss the gentle ministrations, the softening influences, the humble
piety of Lucretia Borgia?  Who can join in the heartless libel that says
woman is extravagant in dress when he can look back and call to mind our
simple and lowly mother Eve arrayed in her modification of the Highland
costume?  Sir, women have been soldiers, women have been painters, women
have been poets.  As long as language lives the name of Cleopatra will
live.  And not because she conquered George III.--but because she wrote
those divine lines:

                   "Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
                    For God hath made them so."

The story of the world is adorned with the names of illustrious ones of
our own sex--some of, them sons of St. Andrew, too--Scott, Bruce, Burns,
the warrior Wallace, Ben Nevis--the gifted Ben Lomond, and the great new
Scotchman, Ben Disraeli.--[Mr. Benjamin Disraeli, at that time Prime
Minister of England, had just been elected Lord Rector of Glasgow
University, and had made a speech which gave rise to a world of
discussion]--Out of the great plains of history tower whole mountain
ranges of sublime women: the Queen of Sheba, Josephine, Semiramis, Sairey
Gamp; the list is endless--but I will not call the mighty roll, the names
rise up in your own memories at the mere suggestion, luminous with the
glory of deeds that cannot die, hallowed by the loving worship of the
good and the true of all epochs and all climes.  Suffice it for our pride
and our honor that we in our day have added to it such names as those of
Grace Darling and Florence Nightingale.  Woman is all that she should be
gentle, patient, longsuffering, trustful, unselfish, full of generous
impulses.  It is her blessed mission to comfort the sorrowing, plead for
the erring, encourage the faint of purpose, succor the distressed, uplift
the fallen, befriend the friendless--in a word, afford the healing of her
sympathies and a home in her heart for all the bruised and persecuted
children that knock at its hospitable door.  And when I say, God bless
her, there is none among us who has known the ennobling affection of a
wife, or the steadfast devotion of a mother but in his heart will say,
Amen!






WOMAN'S PRESS CLUB

          On October 27, 1900, the New York Woman's Press Club gave a tea
          in Carnegie Hall.  Mr. Clemens was the guest of honor.

If I were asked an opinion I would call this an ungrammatical nation.
There is no such thing as perfect grammar, and I don't always speak good
grammar myself.  But I have been foregathering for the past few days with
professors of American universities, and I've heard them all say things
like this: "He don't like to do it."  [There was a stir.] Oh, you'll hear
that to-night if you listen, or, "He would have liked to have done it."
You'll catch some educated Americans saying that.  When these men take
pen in hand they write with as good grammar as any.  But the moment they
throw the pen aside they throw grammatical morals aside with it.

To illustrate the desirability and possibility of concentration, I must
tell you a story of my little six-year-old daughter.  The governess had
been teaching her about the reindeer, and, as the custom was, she related
it to the family.  She reduced the history of that reindeer to two or
three sentences when the governess could not have put it into a page.
She said:  "The reindeer is a very swift animal.  A reindeer once drew a
sled four hundred miles in two hours."  She appended the comment:  "This
was regarded as extraordinary."  And concluded:  "When that reindeer was
done drawing that sled four hundred miles in two hours it died."

As a final instance of the force of limitations in the development of
concentration, I must mention that beautiful creature, Helen Keller, whom
I have known for these many years.  I am filled with the wonder of her
knowledge, acquired because shut out from all distraction.  If I could
have been deaf, dumb, and blind I also might have arrived at something.






VOTES FOR WOMEN

          AT THE ANNUAL MEETING OF THE HEBREW TECHNICAL SCHOOL FOR GIRLS,
          HELD IN THE TEMPLE EMMANUEL, JANUARY 20, 1901

          Mr. Clemens was introduced by President Meyer, who said: "In
          one of Mr. Clemens's works he expressed his opinion of men,
          saying he had no choice between Hebrew and Gentile, black men
          or white; to him all men were alike.  But I never could find
          that he expressed his opinion of women; perhaps that opinion
          was so exalted that he could not express it.  We shall now be
          called to hear what he thinks of women."

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--It is a small help that I can afford, but it is
just such help that one can give as coming from the heart through the
mouth.  The report of Mr. Meyer was admirable, and I was as interested in
it as you have been.  Why, I'm twice as old as he, and I've had so much
experience that I would say to him, when he makes his appeal for help:
"Don't make it for to-day or to-morrow, but collect the money on the
spot."

We are all creatures of sudden impulse.  We must be worked up by steam,
as it were.  Get them to write their wills now, or it may be too late by
-and-by.  Fifteen or twenty years ago I had an experience I shall never
forget.  I got into a church which was crowded by a sweltering and
panting multitude.  The city missionary of our town--Hartford--made a
telling appeal for help.  He told of personal experiences among the poor
in cellars and top lofts requiring instances of devotion and help.  The
poor are always good to the poor.  When a person with his millions gives
a hundred thousand dollars it makes a great noise in the world, but he
does not miss it; it's the widow's mite that makes no noise but does the
best work.

I remember on that occasion in the Hartford church the collection was
being taken up.  The appeal had so stirred me that I could hardly wait
for the hat or plate to come my way.  I had four hundred dollars in my
pocket, and I was anxious to drop it in the plate and wanted to borrow
more.  But the plate was so long in coming my way that the fever-heat of
beneficence was going down lower and lower--going down at the rate of a
hundred dollars a minute.  The plate was passed too late.  When it
finally came to me, my enthusiasm had gone down so much that I kept my
four hundred dollars--and stole a dime from the plate.  So, you see, time
sometimes leads to crime.

Oh, many a time have I thought of that and regretted it, and I adjure you
all to give while the fever is on you.

Referring to woman's sphere in life, I'll say that woman is always right.
For twenty-five years I've been a woman's rights man.  I have always
believed, long before my mother died, that, with her gray hairs and
admirable intellect, perhaps she knew as much as I did.  Perhaps she knew
as much about voting as I.

I should like to see the time come when women shall help to make the
laws.  I should like to see that whip-lash, the ballot, in the hands of
women.  As for this city's government, I don't want to say much, except
that it is a shame--a shame; but if I should live twenty-five years
longer--and there is no reason why I shouldn't--I think I'll see women
handle the ballot.  If women had the ballot to-day, the state of things
in this town would not exist.

If all the women in this town had a vote to-day they would elect a mayor
at the next election, and they would rise in their might and change the
awful state of things now existing here.






WOMAN-AN OPINION

          ADDRESS AT AN EARLY BANQUET OF THE WASHINGTON
          CORRESPONDENTS' CLUB

          The twelfth toast was as follows: "Woman--The pride of any
          profession, and the jewel of ours."

MR. PRESIDENT,--I do not know why I should be singled out to receive the
greatest distinction of the evening--for so the office of replying to the
toast of woman has been regarded in every age. I do not know why I have
received his distinction, unless it be that I am a trifle less homely
than the other members of the club.  But be this as it may, Mr.
President, I am proud of the position, and you could not have chosen any
one who would have accepted it more gladly, or labored with a heartier
good-will to do the subject justice than I--because, sir, I love the sex.
I love all the women, irrespective of age or color.

Human intellect cannot estimate what we owe to woman, sir.  She sews on
our buttons; she mends our clothes; she ropes us in at the church fairs;
she confides in us; she tells us whatever she can find out about the
little private affairs of the neighbors; she gives us good advice, and
plenty of it; she soothes our aching brows; she bears our children--ours
as a general thing.  In all relations of life, sir, it is but a just and
graceful tribute to woman to say of her that she is a brick.

Wheresoever you place woman, sir--in whatever position or estate--she is
an ornament to the place she occupies, and a treasure to the world. [Here
Mr. Clemens paused, looked inquiringly at his hearers, and remarked that
the applause should come in at this point. It came in. He resumed his
eulogy.]  Look at Cleopatra! look at Desdemona!--look at Florence
Nightingale!--look at Joan of Arc!--look at Lucretia Borgia!
[Disapprobation expressed.]  Well [said Mr. Clemens, scratching his head,
doubtfully], suppose we let Lucretia slide.  Look at Joyce Heth!--look at
Mother Eve!  You need not look at her unless you want to, but [said Mr.
Clemens, reflectively, after a pause] Eve was ornamental, sir--
particularly before the fashions changed.  I repeat, sir, look at the
illustrious names of history. Look at the Widow Machree!--look at Lucy
Stone!--look at Elizabeth Cady Stanton!--look at George Francis Train!
And, sir, I say it with bowed head and deepest veneration--look at the
mother of Washington!  She raised a boy that could not tell a lie--could
not tell a lie!  But he never had any chance.  It might have been
different if he had belonged to the Washington Newspaper Correspondents'
Club.

I repeat, sir, that in whatever position you place a woman she is an
ornament to society and a treasure to the world.  As a sweetheart, she
has few equals and no superiors; as a cousin, she is convenient; as a
wealthy grandmother with an incurable distemper, she is precious; as a
wetnurse, she has no equal among men.

What, sir, would the people of the earth be without woman?  They would be
scarce, sir, almighty scarce.  Then let us cherish her; let us protect
her; let us give her our support, our encouragement, our sympathy,
ourselves--if we get a chance.

But, jesting aside, Mr. President, woman is lovable, gracious, kind of
heart, beautiful--worthy of all respect, of all esteem, of all deference.
Not any here will refuse to drink her health right cordially in this
bumper of wine, for each and every one has personally known, and loved,
and honored the very best one of them all--his own mother.






ADVICE TO GIRLS

          In 1907 a young girl whom Mr. Clemens met on the steamer
          Minnehaha called him "grandpa," and he called her his
          granddaughter.  She was attending St. Timothy's School, at
          Catonsville, Maryland, and Mr. Clemens promised her to see her
          graduate.  He accordingly made the journey from New York on
          June 10, 1909, and delivered a short address.

I don't know what to tell you girls to do.  Mr. Martin has told you
everything you ought to do, and now I must give you some don'ts.

There are three things which come to my mind which I consider excellent
advice:

First, girls, don't smoke--that is, don't smoke to excess.  I am seventy-
three and a half years old, and have been smoking seventy-three of them.
But I never smoke to excess--that is, I smoke in moderation, only one
cigar at a time.

Second, don't drink--that is, don't drink to excess.

Third, don't marry--I mean, to excess.

Honesty is the best policy.  That is an old proverb; but you don't want
ever to forget it in your journey through life.






TAXES AND MORALS

ADDRESS DELIVERED IN NEW YORK, JANUARY 22, 1906

          At the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of Tuskeegee
          Institute by Booker Washington, Mr. Choate presided, and in
          introducing Mr. Clemens made fun of him because he made play
          his work, and that when he worked hardest he did so lying in
          bed.

I came here in the responsible capacity of policeman to watch Mr. Choate.
This is an occasion of grave and serious importance, and it seems
necessary for me to be present, so that if he tried to work off any
statement that required correction, reduction, refutation, or exposure,
there would be a tried friend of the public to protect the house.  He has
not made one statement whose veracity fails to tally exactly with my own
standard.  I have never seen a person improve so.  This makes me thankful
and proud of a country that can produce such men--two such men.  And all
in the same country.  We can't be with you always; we are passing away,
and then--well, everything will have to stop, I reckon.  It is a sad
thought.  But in spirit I shall still be with you.  Choate, too--if he
can.

Every born American among the eighty millions, let his creed or
destitution of creed be what it may, is indisputably a Christian--to this
degree that his moral constitution is Christian.

There are two kinds of Christian morals, one private and the other
public.  These two are so distinct, so unrelated, that they are no more
akin to each other than are archangels and politicians.  During three
hundred and sixty-three days in the year the American citizen is true to
his Christian private morals, and keeps undefiled the nation's character
at its best and highest; then in the other two days of the year he leaves
his Christian private morals at home and carries his Christian public
morals to the tax office and the polls, and does the best he can to
damage and undo his whole year's faithful and righteous work.  Without a
blush he will vote for an unclean boss if that boss is his party's Moses,
without compunction he will vote against the best man in the whole land
if he is on the other ticket.  Every year in a number of cities and
States he helps put corrupt men in office, whereas if he would but throw
away his Christian public morals, and carry his Christian private morals
to the polls, he could promptly purify the public service and make the
possession of office a high and honorable distinction.

Once a year he lays aside his Christian private morals and hires a ferry-
boat and piles up his bonds in a warehouse in New Jersey for three days,
and gets out his Christian public morals and goes to the tax office and
holds up his hands and swears he wishes he may never--never if he's got a
cent in the world, so help him.  The next day the list appears in the
papers--a column and a quarter of names, in fine print, and every man in
the list a billionaire and member of a couple of churches.  I know all
those people.  I have friendly, social, and criminal relations with the
whole lot of them.  They never miss a sermon when they are so's to be
around, and they never miss swearing-off day, whether they are so's to be
around or not.

I used to be an honest man.  I am crumbling.  No--I have crumbled.  When
they assessed me at $75,000 a fortnight ago I went out and tried to
borrow the money, and couldn't; then when I found they were letting a
whole crop of millionaires live in New York at a third of the price they
were charging me I was hurt, I was indignant, and said: "This is the last
feather.  I am not going to run this town all by myself."  In that
moment--in that memorable moment--I began to crumble.  In fifteen minutes
the disintegration was complete.  In fifteen minutes I had become just a
mere moral sand-pile; and I lifted up my hand along with those seasoned
and experienced deacons and swore off every rag of personal property I've
got in the world, clear down to cork leg, glass eye, and what is left of
my wig.

Those tax officers were moved; they were profoundly moved.  They had long
been accustomed to seeing hardened old grafters act like that, and they
could endure the spectacle; but they were expecting better things of me,
a chartered, professional moralist, and they were saddened.

I fell visibly in their respect and esteem, and I should have fallen in
my own, except that I had already struck bottom, and there wasn't any
place to fall to.

At Tuskeegee they will jump to misleading conclusions from insufficient
evidence, along with Doctor Parkhurst, and they will deceive the student
with the superstition that no gentleman ever swears.

Look at those good millionaires; aren't they gentlemen?  Well, they
swear.  Only once in a year, maybe, but there's enough bulk to it to make
up for the lost time.  And do they lose anything by it?  No, they don't;
they save enough in three minutes to support the family seven years.
When they swear, do we shudder?  No--unless they say "damn!"  Then we do.
It shrivels us all up.  Yet we ought not to feel so about it, because we
all swear--everybody.  Including the ladies.  Including Doctor Parkhurst,
that strong and brave and excellent citizen, but superficially educated.

For it is not the word that is the sin, it is the spirit back of the
word.  When an irritated lady says "oh!" the spirit back of it is "damn!"
and that is the way it is going to be recorded against her.  It always
makes me so sorry when I hear a lady swear like that.  But if she says
"damn," and says it in an amiable, nice way, it isn't going to be
recorded at all.

The idea that no gentleman ever swears is all wrong; he can swear and
still be a gentleman if he does it in a nice and, benevolent and
affectionate way.  The historian, John Fiske, whom I knew well and loved,
was a spotless and most noble and upright Christian gentleman, and yet he
swore once.  Not exactly that, maybe; still, he--but I will tell you
about it.

One day, when he was deeply immersed in his work, his wife came in, much
moved and profoundly distressed, and said: "I am sorry to disturb you,
John, but I must, for this is a serious matter, and needs to be attended
to at once."

Then, lamenting, she brought a grave accusation against their little son.
She said: "He has been saying his Aunt Mary is a fool and his Aunt Martha
is a damned fool."  Mr. Fiske reflected upon the matter a minute, then
said: "Oh, well, it's about the distinction I should make between them
myself."

Mr. Washington, I beg you to convey these teachings to your great and
prosperous and most beneficent educational institution, and add them to
the prodigal mental and moral riches wherewith you equip your fortunate
proteges for the struggle of life.






TAMMANY AND CROKER

          Mr. Clemens made his debut as a campaign orator on October 7,
          1901, advocating the election of Seth Low for Mayor, not as a
          Republican, but as a member of the "Acorns," which he described
          as a "third party having no political affiliation, but was
          concerned only in the selection of the best candidates and the
          best member."

Great Britain had a Tammany and a Croker a good while ago.  This Tammany
was in India, and it began its career with the spread of the English
dominion after the Battle of Plassey.  Its first boss was Clive, a
sufficiently crooked person sometimes, but straight as a yard stick
when compared with the corkscrew crookedness of the second boss, Warren
Hastings.

That old-time Tammany was the East India Company's government, and had
its headquarters at Calcutta.  Ostensibly it consisted of a Great Council
of four persons, of whom one was the Governor-General, Warren Hastings;
really it consisted of one person--Warren Hastings; for by usurpation he
concentrated all authority in himself and governed the country like an
autocrat.

Ostensibly the Court of Directors, sitting in London and representing the
vast interests of the stockholders, was supreme in authority over the
Calcutta Great Council, whose membership it appointed and removed at
pleasure, whose policies it dictated, and to whom it conveyed its will in
the form of sovereign commands; but whenever it suited Hastings, he
ignored even that august body's authority and conducted the mighty
affairs of the British Empire in India to suit his own notions.

At his mercy was the daily bread of every official, every trader, every
clerk, every civil servant, big and little, in the whole huge India
Company's machine, and the man who hazarded his bread by any failure of
subserviency to the boss lost it.

Now then, let the supreme masters of British India, the giant corporation
of the India Company of London, stand for the voters of the city of New
York; let the Great Council of Calcutta stand for Tammany; let the
corrupt and money-grubbing great hive of serfs which served under the
Indian Tammany's rod stand for New York Tammany's serfs; let Warren
Hastings stand for Richard Croker, and it seems to me that the parallel
is exact and complete.  And so let us be properly grateful and thank God
and our good luck that we didn't invent Tammany.

Edmund Burke, regarded by many as the greatest orator of all times,
conducted the case against Warren Hastings in that renowned trial which
lasted years, and which promises to keep its renown for centuries to
come.  I wish to quote some of the things he said.  I wish to imagine him
arraigning Mr. Croker and Tammany before the voters of New York City and
pleading with them for the overthrow of that combined iniquity of the 5th
of November, and will substitute for "My Lords," read "Fellow-Citizens";
for "Kingdom," read "City"; for "Parliamentary Process," read "Political
Campaign"; for "Two Houses," read "Two Parties," and so it reads:

"Fellow--citizens, I must look upon it as an auspicious circumstance to
this cause, in which the honor of the city is involved, that from the
first commencement of our political campaign to this the hour of solemn
trial not the smallest difference of opinion has arisen, between the two
parties.

"You will see, in the progress of this cause, that there is not only a
long, connected, systematic series of misdemeanors, but an equally
connected system of maxims and principles invented to justify them.
Upon both of these you must judge.

"It is not only the interest of the city of New York, now the most
considerable part of the city of the Americans, which is concerned, but
the credit and honor of the nation itself will be decided by this
decision."

          At a later meeting of the Acorn Club, Mr. Clemens said:

Tammany is dead, and there's no use in blackguarding a corpse.

The election makes me think of a story of a man who was dying.  He had
only two minutes to live, so he sent for a clergyman and asked him,
"Where is the best place to go to?"  He was undecided about it.  So the
minister told him that each place had its advantages--heaven for climate,
and hell for society.






MUNICIPAL CORRUPTION

          ADDRESS AT THE CITY CLUB DINNER, JANUARY 4,1901

          Bishop Potter told how an alleged representative of Tammany
          Hall asked him in effect if he would cease his warfare upon the
          Police Department if a certain captain and inspector were
          dismissed.  He replied that he would never be satisfied until
          the "man at the top" and the "system" which permitted evils in
          the Police Department were crushed.

The Bishop has just spoken of a condition of things which none of us can
deny, and which ought not to exist; that is, the lust of gain--a lust
which does not stop short of the penitentiary or the jail to accomplish
its ends.  But we may be sure of one thing, and that is that this sort of
thing is not universal.  If it were, this country would not be.  You may
put this down as a fact: that out of every fifty men, forty-nine are
clean.  Then why is it, you may ask, that the forty-nine don't have
things the way they want them?  I'll tell you why it is.  A good deal has
been said here to-night about what is to be accomplished by organization.
That's just the thing.  It's because the fiftieth fellow and his pals are
organized and the other forty-nine are not that the dirty one rubs it
into the clean fellows every time.

You may say organize, organize, organize; but there may be so much
organization that it will interfere with the work to be done.  The Bishop
here had an experience of that sort, and told all about it down-town the
other night.  He was painting a barn--it was his own barn--and yet he was
informed that his work must stop; he was a non-union painter, and
couldn't continue at that sort of job.

Now, all these conditions of which you complain should be remedied, and I
am here to tell you just how to do it.  I've been a statesman without
salary for many years, and I have accomplished great and widespread good.
I don't know that it has benefited anybody very much, even if it was
good; but I do know that it hasn't harmed me very much, and is hasn't
made me any richer.

We hold the balance of power.  Put up your best men for office, and we
shall support the better one.  With the election of the best man for
Mayor would follow the selection of the best man for Police Commissioner
and Chief of Police.

My first lesson in the craft of statesmanship was taken at an early age.
Fifty-one years ago I was fourteen years old, and we had a society in the
town I lived in, patterned after the Freemasons, or the Ancient Order of
United Farmers, or some such thing--just what it was patterned after
doesn't matter.  It had an inside guard and an outside guard, and a past-
grand warden, and a lot of such things, so as to give dignity to the
organization and offices to the members.

Generally speaking it was a pretty good sort of organization, and some of
the very best boys in the village, including--but I mustn't get personal
on an occasion like this--and the society would have got along pretty
well had it not been for the fact that there were a certain number of the
members who could be bought.  They got to be an infernal nuisance.  Every
time we had an election the candidates had to go around and see the
purchasable members.  The price per vote was paid in doughnuts, and it
depended somewhat on the appetites of the individuals as to the price
of the votes.

This thing ran along until some of us, the really very best boys in the
organization, decided that these corrupt practices must stop, and for the
purpose of stopping them we organized a third party.  We had a name, but
we were never known by that name. Those who didn't like us called us the
Anti-Doughnut party, but we didn't mind that.

We said: "Call us what you please; the name doesn't matter.  We are
organized for a principle."  By-and-by the election came around, and
we made a big mistake.  We were triumphantly beaten.  That taught us a
lesson.  Then and there we decided never again to nominate anybody for
anything.  We decided simply to force the other two parties in the
society to nominate their very best men.  Although we were organized for
a principle, we didn't care much about that.  Principles aren't of much
account anyway, except at election-time.  After that you hang them up to
let them season.

The next time we had an election we told both the other parties that we'd
beat any candidates put up by any one of them of whom we didn't approve.
In that election we did business.  We got the man we wanted.  I suppose
they called us the Anti-Doughnut party because they couldn't buy us with
their doughnuts.  They didn't have enough of them.  Most reformers arrive
at their price sooner or later, and I suppose we would have had our
price; but our opponents weren't offering anything but doughnuts, and
those we spurned.

Now it seems to me that an Anti-Doughnut party is just what is wanted in
the present emergency. I would have the Anti-Doughnuts felt in every city
and hamlet and school district in this State and in the United States.
I was an Anti-Doughnut in my boyhood, and I'm an Anti-Doughnut still.
The modern designation is Mugwump.  There used to be quite a number of us
Mugwumps, but I think I'm the only one left.  I had a vote this fall, and
I began to make some inquiries as to what I had better do with it.

I don't know anything about finance, and I never did, but I know some
pretty shrewd financiers, and they told me that Mr. Bryan wasn't safe on
any financial question.  I said to myself, then, that it wouldn't do for
me to vote for Bryan, and I rather thought--I know now--that McKinley
wasn't just right on this Philippine question, and so I just didn't vote
for anybody.  I've got that vote yet, and I've kept it clean, ready to
deposit at some other election.  It wasn't cast for any wildcat financial
theories, and it wasn't cast to support the man who sends our boys as
volunteers out into the Philippines to get shot down under a polluted
flag.






MUNICIPAL GOVERNMENT

ADDRESS AT THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE ST. NICHOLAS SOCIETY, NEW YORK,
DECEMBER 6, 1900

          Doctor Mackay, in his response to the toast "St. Nicholas,"
          referred to Mr. Clemens, saying:--"Mark Twain is as true a
          preacher of true righteousness as any bishop, priest, or
          minister of any church to-day, because he moves men to forget
          their faults by cheerful well-doing instead of making them sour
          and morbid by everlastingly bending their attention to the
          seamy and sober side of life."

MR. CHAIRMAN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE ST. NICHOLAS SOCIETY,--These are,
indeed, prosperous days for me.  Night before last, in a speech, the
Bishop of the Diocese of New York complimented me for my contribution to
theology, and to-night the Reverend Doctor Mackay has elected me to the
ministry.  I thanked Bishop Potter then for his compliment, and I thank
Doctor Mackay now for that promotion.  I think that both have discerned
in me what I long ago discerned, but what I was afraid the world would
never learn to recognize.

In this absence of nine years I find a great improvement in the city of
New York.  I am glad to speak on that as a toast--"The City of New York."
Some say it has improved because I have been away.  Others, and I agree
with them, say it has improved because I have come back.  We must judge
of a city, as of a man, by its external appearances and by its inward
character.  In externals the foreigner coming to these shores is more
impressed at first by our sky-scrapers.  They are new to him.  He has not
done anything of the sort since he built the tower of Babel.  The
foreigner is shocked by them.

In the daylight they are ugly.  They are--well, too chimneyfied and too
snaggy--like a mouth that needs attention from a dentist; like a cemetery
that is all monuments and no gravestones.  But at night, seen from the
river where they are columns towering against the sky, all sparkling with
light, they are fairylike; they are beauty more satisfactory to the soul
and more enchanting than anything that man has dreamed of since the
Arabian nights.  We can't always have the beautiful aspect of things.
Let us make the most of our sights that are beautiful and let the others
go.  When your foreigner makes disagreeable comments on New York by
daylight, float him down the river at night.

What has made these sky-scrapers possible is the elevator.  The cigar-box
which the European calls a "lift" needs but to be compared with our
elevators to be appreciated.  The lift stops to reflect between floors.
That is all right in a hearse, but not in elevators.  The American
elevator acts like the man's patent purge--it worked.  As the inventor
said, "This purge doesn't waste any time fooling around; it attends
strictly to business."

That New-Yorkers have the cleanest, quickest, and most admirable system
of street railways in the world has been forced upon you by the abnormal
appreciation you have of your hackman.  We ought always to be grateful to
him for that service.  Nobody else would have brought such a system into
existence for us.  We ought to build him a monument.  We owe him one as
much as we owe one to anybody.  Let it be a tall one.  Nothing permanent,
of course; build it of plaster, say.  Then gaze at it and realize how
grateful we are--for the time being--and then pull it down and throw it
on the ash-heap.  That's the way to honor your public heroes.

As to our streets, I find them cleaner than they used to be.  I miss
those dear old landmarks, the symmetrical mountain ranges of dust and
dirt that used to be piled up along the streets for the wind and rain to
tear down at their pleasure.  Yes, New York is cleaner than Bombay.
I realize that I have been in Bombay, that I now am in New York; that it
is not my duty to flatter Bombay, but rather to flatter New York.

Compared with the wretched attempts of London to light that city, New
York may fairly be said to be a well-lighted city.  Why, London's attempt
at good lighting is almost as bad as London's attempt at rapid transit.
There is just one good system of rapid transit in London--the "Tube," and
that, of course, had been put in by Americans.  Perhaps, after a while,
those Americans will come back and give New York also a good underground
system.  Perhaps they have already begun.  I have been so busy since I
came back that I haven't had time as yet to go down cellar.

But it is by the laws of the city, it is by the manners of the city, it
is by the ideals of the city, it is by the customs of the city and by the
municipal government which all these elements correct, support, and
foster, by which the foreigner judges the city.  It is by these that he
realizes that New York may, indeed, hold her head high among the cities
of the world.  It is by these standards that he knows whether to class
the city higher or lower than the other municipalities of the world.

Gentlemen, you have the best municipal government in the world--
the purest and the most fragrant.  The very angels envy you, and wish
they could establish a government like it in heaven.  You got it by a
noble fidelity to civic duty.  You got it by stern and ever-watchful
exertion of the great powers with which you are charged by the rights
which were handed down to you by your forefathers, by your manly refusal
to let base men invade the high places of your government, and by instant
retaliation when any public officer has insulted you in the city's name
by swerving in the slightest from the upright and full performance of his
duty.  It is you who have made this city the envy of the cities of the
world.  God will bless you for it--God will bless you for it.  Why, when
you approach the final resting-place the angels of heaven will gather at
the gates and cry out:

"Here they come!  Show them to the archangel's box, and turn the lime-
light on them!"





CHINA AND THE PHILIPPINES

          AT A DINNER GIVEN IN THE WALDORF-ASTORIA HOTEL, DECEMBER, 1900

          Winston Spencer Churchill was introduced by Mr. Clemens.

For years I've been a self-appointed missionary to bring about the union
of America and the motherland.  They ought to be united.  Behold America,
the refuge of the oppressed from everywhere (who can pay fifty dollars'
admission)--any one except a Chinaman--standing up for human rights
everywhere, even helping China let people in free when she wants to
collect fifty dollars upon them.  And how unselfishly England has wrought
for the open door for all!  And how piously America has wrought for that
open door in all cases where it was not her own!

Yes, as a missionary I've sung my songs of praise.  And yet I think that
England sinned when she got herself into a war in South Africa which she
could have avoided, just as we sinned in getting into a similar war in
the Philippines.  Mr. Churchill, by his father, is an Englishman; by his
mother he is an American--no doubt a blend that makes the perfect man.
England and America; yes, we are kin.  And now that we are also kin in
sin, there is nothing more to be desired.  The harmony is complete, the
blend is perfect.






THEORETICAL MORALS

          The New Vagabonds Club of London, made up of the leading
          younger literary men of the day, gave a dinner in honor of Mr.
          and Mrs. Clemens, July 8, 1899.

It has always been difficult--leave that word difficult--not exceedingly
difficult, but just difficult, nothing more than that, not the slightest
shade to add to that--just difficult--to respond properly, in the right
phraseology, when compliments are paid to me; but it is more than
difficult when the compliments are paid to a better than I--my wife.

And while I am not here to testify against myself--I can't be expected to
do so, a prisoner in your own country is not admitted to do so--as to
which member of the family wrote my books, I could say in general that
really I wrote the books myself.  My wife puts the facts in, and they
make it respectable.  My modesty won't suffer while compliments are being
paid to literature, and through literature to my family.  I can't get
enough of them.

I am curiously situated to-night.  It so rarely happens that I am
introduced by a humorist; I am generally introduced by a person of grave
walk and carriage.  That makes the proper background of gravity for
brightness.  I am going to alter to suit, and haply I may say some
humorous things.

When you start with a blaze of sunshine and upburst of humor, when you
begin with that, the proper office of humor is to reflect, to put you
into that pensive mood of deep thought, to make you think of your sins,
if you wish half an hour to fly.  Humor makes me reflect now to-night, it
sets the thinking machinery in motion.  Always, when I am thinking, there
come suggestions of what I am, and what we all are, and what we are
coming to.  A sermon comes from my lips always when I listen to a
humorous speech.

I seize the opportunity to throw away frivolities, to say something to
plant the seed, and make all better than when I came.  In Mr. Grossmith's
remarks there was a subtle something suggesting my favorite theory of the
difference between theoretical morals and practical morals.  I try to
instil practical morals in the place of theatrical--I mean theoretical;
but as an addendum--an annex--something added to theoretical morals.

When your chairman said it was the first time he had ever taken the
chair, he did not mean that he had not taken lots of other things; he
attended my first lecture and took notes.  This indicated the man's
disposition.  There was nothing else flying round, so he took notes; he
would have taken anything he could get.

I can bring a moral to bear here which shows the difference between
theoretical morals and practical morals.  Theoretical morals are the sort
you get on your mother's knee, in good books, and from the pulpit.  You
gather them in your head, and not in your heart; they are theory without
practice.  Without the assistance of practice to perfect them, it is
difficult to teach a child to "be honest, don't steal."

I will teach you how it should be done, lead you into temptation, teach
you how to steal, so that you may recognize when you have stolen and feel
the proper pangs.  It is no good going round and bragging you have never
taken the chair.

As by the fires of experience, so by commission of crime, you learn real
morals.  Commit all the crimes, familiarize yourself with all sins, take
them in rotation (there are only two or three thousand of them), stick to
it, commit two or three every day, and by-and-by you will be proof
against them.  When you are through you will be proof against all sins
and morally perfect.  You will be vaccinated against every possible
commission of them.  This is the only way.

I will read you a written statement upon the subject that I wrote three
years ago to read to the Sabbath-schools.  [Here the lecturer turned his
pockets out, but without success.] No!  I have left it at home.  Still,
it was a mere statement of fact, illustrating the value of practical
morals produced by the commission of crime.

It was in my boyhood just a statement of fact, reading is only more
formal, merely facts, merely pathetic facts, which I can state so as to
be understood.  It relates to the first time I ever stole a watermelon;
that is, I think it was the first time; anyway, it was right along there
somewhere.

I stole it out of a farmer's wagon while he was waiting on another
customer.  "Stole" is a harsh term.  I withdrew--I retired that
watermelon.  I carried it to a secluded corner of a lumber-yard.  I broke
it open.  It was green--the greenest watermelon raised in the valley that
year.

The minute I saw it was green I was sorry, and began to reflect--
reflection is the beginning of reform.  If you don't reflect when you
commit a crime then that crime is of no use; it might just as well have
been committed by some one else: You must reflect or the value is lost;
you are not vaccinated against committing it again.

I began to reflect.  I said to myself: "What ought a boy to do who has
stolen a green watermelon?  What would George Washington do, the father
of his country, the only American who could not tell a lie?  What would
he do?  There is only one right, high, noble thing for any boy to do who
has stolen a watermelon of that class he must make restitution; he must
restore that stolen property to its rightful owner."  I said I would do
it when I made that good resolution.  I felt it to be a noble, uplifting
obligation.  I rose up spiritually stronger and refreshed.  I carried
that watermelon back--what was left of it--and restored it to the farmer,
and made him give me a ripe one in its place.

Now you see that this constant impact of crime upon crime protects you
against further commission of crime.  It builds you up.  A man can't
become morally perfect by stealing one or a thousand green watermelons,
but every little helps.

I was at a great school yesterday (St. Paul's), where for four hundred
years they have been busy with brains, and building up England by
producing Pepys, Miltons, and Marlboroughs.  Six hundred boys left to
nothing in the world but theoretical morality.  I wanted to become the
professor of practical morality, but the high master was away, so I
suppose I shall have to go on making my living the same old way--
by adding practical to theoretical morality.

What are the glory that was Greece, the grandeur that was Rome, compared
to the glory and grandeur and majesty of a perfected morality such as you
see before you?

The New Vagabonds are old vagabonds (undergoing the old sort of reform).
You drank my health; I hope I have not been unuseful.  Take this system
of morality to your hearts.  Take it home to your neighbors and your
graves, and I hope that it will be a long time before you arrive there.






LAYMAN'S SERMON

          The Young Men's Christian Association asked Mr. Clemens to
          deliver a lay sermon at the Majestic Theatre, New York, March
          4, 1906.  More than five thousand young men tried to get into
          the theatre, and in a short time traffic was practically
          stopped in the adjacent streets.  The police reserves had to be
          called out to thin the crowd.  Doctor Fagnani had said
          something before about the police episode, and Mr. Clemens took
          it up.

I have been listening to what was said here, and there is in it a lesson
of citizenship.  You created the police, and you are responsible for
them.  One must pause, therefore, before criticising them too harshly.
They are citizens, just as we are.  A little of citizenship ought to be
taught at the mother's knee and in the nursery.  Citizenship is what
makes a republic; monarchies can get along without it.  What keeps a
republic on its legs is good citizenship.

Organization is necessary in all things.  It is even necessary in reform.
I was an organization myself once--for twelve hours.  I was in Chicago a
few years ago about to depart for New York.  There were with me Mr.
Osgood, a publisher, and a stenographer.  I picked out a state-room on a
train, the principal feature of which was that it contained the privilege
of smoking.  The train had started but a short time when the conductor
came in and said that there had been a mistake made, and asked that we
vacate the apartment.  I refused, but when I went out on the platform
Osgood and the stenographer agreed to accept a section.  They were too
modest.

Now, I am not modest.  I was born modest, but it didn't last.  I asserted
myself; insisted upon my rights, and finally the Pullman Conductor and
the train conductor capitulated, and I was left in possession.

I went into the dining--car the next morning for breakfast.  Ordinarily
I only care for coffee and rolls, but this particular morning I espied an
important-looking man on the other side of the car eating broiled
chicken.  I asked for broiled chicken, and I was told by the waiter and
later by the dining-car conductor that there was no broiled chicken.
There must have been an argument, for the Pullman conductor came in and
remarked: "If he wants broiled chicken, give it to him.  If you haven't
got it on the train, stop somewhere.  It will be better for all
concerned!"  I got the chicken.

It is from experiences such as these that you get your education of life,
and you string them into jewels or into tinware, as you may choose.
I have received recently several letters asking my counsel or advice.
The principal request is for some incident that may prove helpful to the
young.  There were a lot of incidents in my career to help me along--
sometimes they helped me along faster than I wanted to go.

Here is such a request.  It is a telegram from Joplin, Missouri, and it
reads:  "In what one of your works can we find the definition of a
gentleman?"

I have not answered that telegram, either; I couldn't.  It seems to me
that if  any man has just merciful and kindly instincts he would be a
gentleman, for he would need nothing else in the world.

I received the other day a letter from my old friend, William Dean
Howells--Howells, the head of American literature.  No one is able to
stand with him.  He is an old, old friend of mine, and he writes me,
"To-morrow I shall be sixty-nine years old."  Why, I am surprised at
Howells writing that!  I have known him longer than that.  I'm sorry to
see a man trying to appear so young.  Let's see.  Howells says now,
"I see you have been burying Patrick.  I suppose he was old, too."

No, he was never old--Patrick.  He came to us thirty-six years ago.  He
was my coachman on the morning that I drove my young bride to our new
home.  He was a young Irishman, slender, tall, lithe, honest, truthful,
and he never changed in all his life.  He really was with us but twenty-
five years, for he did not go with us to Europe, but he never regarded
that as separation.  As the children grew up he was their guide.  He was
all honor, honesty, and affection.  He was with us in New Hampshire, with
us last summer, and his hair was just as black, his eyes were just as
blue, his form just as straight, and his heart just as good as on the day
we first met.  In all the long years Patrick never made a mistake.  He
never needed an order, he never received a command.  He knew.  I have
been asked for my idea of an ideal gentleman, and I give it to you
Patrick McAleer.






UNIVERSITY SETTLEMENT SOCIETY

          After the serious addresses were made, Seth Low introduced Mr.
          Clemens at the Settlement House, February 2, 1901.

The older we grow the greater becomes our, wonder at how much ignorance
one can contain without bursting one's clothes.  Ten days ago I did not
know anything about the University Settlement except what I'd read in the
pamphlets sent me.  Now, after being here and hearing Mrs. Hewitt and
Mrs. Thomas, it seems to me I know of nothing like it at all.  It's a
charity that carries no humiliation with it.  Marvellous it is, to think
of schools where you don't have to drive the children in but drive them
out.  It was not so in my day.

Down-stairs just now I saw a dancing lesson going on.  You must pay a
cent for a lesson.  You can't get it for nothing.  That's the reason I
never learned to dance.

But it was the pawnbroker's shop you have here that interested me
mightily.  I've known something about pawnbrokers' shops in my time, but
here you have a wonderful plan.  The ordinary pawnbroker charges thirty--
six per cent. a year for a loan, and I've paid more myself, but here a
man or woman in distress can obtain a loan for one per cent. a month!
It's wonderful!

I've been interested in all I've heard to-day, especially in the romances
recounted by Mrs. Thomas, which reminds me that I have a romance of my
own in my autobiography, which I am building for the instruction of the
world.

In San Francisco, many years ago, when I was a newspaper reporter
(perhaps I should say I had been and was willing to be), a pawnbroker was
taking care of what property I had.  There was a friend of mine, a poet,
out of a job, and he was having a hard time of it, too.  There was
passage in it, but I guess I've got to keep that for the autobiography.

Well, my friend the poet thought his life was a failure, and I told him I
thought it was, and then he said he thought he ought to commit suicide,
and I said "all right," which was disinterested advice to a friend in
trouble; but, like all such advice, there was just a little bit of self-
interest back of it, for if I could get a "scoop" on the other newspapers
I could get a job.

The poet could be spared, and so, largely for his own good and partly for
mine, I kept the thing in his mind, which was necessary, as would-be
suicides are very changeable aid hard to hold to their purpose.  He had a
preference for a pistol, which was an extravagance, for we hadn't enough
between us to hire a pistol.  A fork would have been easier.

And so he concluded to drown himself, and I said it was an excellent
idea--the only trouble being that he was so good a swimmer.  So we went
down to the beach.  I went along to see that the thing was done right.
Then something most romantic happened.  There came in on the sea
something that had been on its way for three years.  It rolled in across
the broad Pacific with a message that was full of meaning to that poor
poet and cast itself at his feet.  It was a life-preserver!  This was a
complication.  And then I had an idea--he never had any, especially when
he was going to write poetry; I suggested that we pawn the life-preserver
and get a revolver.

The pawnbroker gave us an old derringer with a bullet as big as a hickory
nut.  When he heard that it was only a poet that was going to kill
himself he did not quibble.  Well, we succeeded in sending a bullet right
through his head.  It was a terrible moment when he placed that pistol
against his forehead and stood for an instant.  I said, "Oh, pull the
trigger!" and he did, and cleaned out all the gray matter in his brains.
It carried the poetic faculty away, and now he's a useful member of
society.

Now, therefore, I realize that there's no more beneficent institution
than this penny fund of yours, and I want all the poets to know this.
I did think about writing you a check, but now I think I'll send you a
few copies of what one of your little members called 'Strawberry Finn'.






PUBLIC EDUCATION ASSOCIATION

          ADDRESS AT A MEETING OF THE BERKELEY LYCEUM, NEW YORK,
          NOVEMBER 23, 1900

I don't suppose that I am called here as an expert on education, for that
would show a lack of foresight on your part and a deliberate intention to
remind me of my shortcomings.

As I sat here looking around for an idea it struck me that I was called
for two reasons.  One was to do good to me, a poor unfortunate traveller
on the world's wide ocean, by giving me a knowledge of the nature and
scope of your society and letting me know that others beside myself have
been of some use in the world.  The other reason that I can see is that
you have called me to show by way of contrast what education can
accomplish if administered in the right sort of doses.

Your worthy president said that the school pictures, which have received
the admiration of the world at the Paris Exposition, have been sent to
Russia, and this was a compliment from that Government--which is very
surprising to me.  Why, it is only an hour since I read a cablegram in
the newspapers beginning "Russia Proposes to Retrench."  I was not
expecting such a thunderbolt, and I thought what a happy thing it will be
for Russians when the retrenchment will bring home the thirty thousand
Russian troops now in Manchuria, to live in peaceful pursuits.  I thought
this was what Germany should do also without delay, and that France and
all the other nations in China should follow suit.

Why should not China be free from the foreigners, who are only making
trouble on her soil?  If they would only all go home, what a pleasant
place China would be for the Chinese!  We do not allow Chinamen to come
here, and I say in all seriousness that it would be a graceful thing to
let China decide who shall go there.

China never wanted foreigners any more than foreigners wanted Chinamen,
and on this question I am with the Boxers every time.  The Boxer is a
patriot.  He loves his country better than he does the countries of other
people.  I wish him success.  The Boxer believes in driving us out of his
country.  I am a Boxer too, for I believe in driving him out of our
country.

When I read the Russian despatch further my dream of world peace
vanished.  It said that the vast expense of maintaining the army had made
it necessary to retrench, and so the Government had decided that to
support the army it would be necessary to withdraw the appropriation from
the public schools.  This is a monstrous idea to us.

We believe that out of the public school grows the greatness of a nation.

It is curious to reflect how history repeats itself the world over.  Why,
I remember the same thing was done when I was a boy on the Mississippi
River.  There was a proposition in a township there to discontinue public
schools because they were too expensive.  An old farmer spoke up and said
if they stopped the schools they would not save anything, because every
time a school was closed a jail had to be built.

It's like feeding a dog on his own tail.  He'll never get fat.  I believe
it is better to support schools than jails.

The work of your association is better and shows more wisdom than the
Czar of Russia and all his people.  This is not much of a compliment, but
it's the best I've got in stock.






EDUCATION AND CITIZENSHIP

          On the evening of May 14, 1908, the alumni of the College of
          the City of New York celebrated the opening of the new college
          buildings at a banquet in the Waldorf Astoria.  Mr. Clemens
          followed Mayor McClellan.

I agreed when the Mayor said that there was not a man within hearing who
did not agree that citizenship should be placed above everything else,
even learning.

Have you ever thought about this?  Is there a college in the whole
country where there is a chair of good citizenship?  There is a kind of
bad citizenship which is taught in the schools, but no real good
citizenship taught.  There are some which teach insane citizenship,
bastard citizenship, but that is all.  Patriotism!  Yes; but patriotism
is usually the refuge of the scoundrel.  He is the man who talks the
loudest.

You can begin that chair of citizenship in the College of the City of New
York.  You can place it above mathematics and literature, and that is
where it belongs.

We used to trust in God.  I think it was in 1863 that some genius
suggested that it be put upon the gold and silver coins which circulated
among the rich.  They didn't put it on the nickels and coppers because
they didn't think the poor folks had any trust in God.

Good citizenship would teach accuracy of thinking and accuracy of
statement.  Now, that motto on the coin is an overstatement.  Those
Congressmen had no right to commit this whole country to a theological
doctrine.  But since they did, Congress ought to state what our creed
should be.

There was never a nation in the world that put its whole trust in God.
It is a statement made on insufficient evidence.  Leaving out the
gamblers, the burglars, and the plumbers, perhaps we do put our trust in
God after a fashion.  But, after all, it is an overstatement.

If the cholera or black plague should come to these shores, perhaps the
bulk of the nation would pray to be delivered from it, but the rest would
put their trust in the Health Board of the City of New York.

I read in the papers within the last day or two of a poor young girl who
they said was a leper.  Did the people in that populous section of the
country where she was--did they put their trust in God?  The girl was
afflicted with the leprosy, a disease which cannot be communicated from
one person to another.

Yet, instead of putting their trust in God, they harried that poor
creature, shelterless and friendless, from place to place, exactly as
they did in the Middle Ages, when they made lepers wear bells, so that
people could be warned of their approach and avoid them.  Perhaps those
people in the Middle Ages thought they were putting their trust in God.

The President ordered the removal of that motto from the coin, and I
thought that it was well.  I thought that overstatement should not stay
there.  But I think it would better read, "Within certain judicious
limitations we trust in God," and if there isn't enough room on the coin
for this, why, enlarge the coin.

Now I want to tell a story about jumping at conclusions.  It was told to
me by Bram Stoker, and it concerns a christening.  There was a little
clergyman who was prone to jump at conclusions sometimes.  One day he was
invited to officiate at a christening.  He went.  There sat the
relatives--intelligent-looking relatives they were.  The little
clergyman's instinct came to him to make a great speech.  He was given to
flights of oratory that way--a very dangerous thing, for often the wings
which take one into clouds of oratorical enthusiasm are wax and melt up
there, and down you come.

But the little clergyman couldn't resist.  He took the child in his arms,
and, holding it, looked at it a moment.  It wasn't much of a child.  It
was little, like a sweet-potato.  Then the little clergyman waited
impressively, and then: "I see in your countenances," he said,
"disappointment of him.  I see you are disappointed with this baby.  Why?
Because he is so little.  My friends, if you had but the power of looking
into the future you might see that great things may come of little
things.  There is the great ocean, holding the navies of the world, which
comes from little drops of water no larger than a woman's tears.  There
are the great constellations in the sky, made up of little bits of stars.
Oh, if you could consider his future you might see that he might become
the greatest poet of the universe, the greatest warrior the world has
ever known, greater than Caesar, than Hannibal, than--er--er" (turning to
the father)--"what's his name?"

The father hesitated, then whispered back: "His name?  Well, his name is
Mary Ann."






COURAGE

          At a beefsteak dinner, given by artists, caricaturists, and
          humorists of New York City, April 18, 1908, Mr. Clemens, Mr. H.
          H. Rogers, and Mr. Patrick McCarren were the guests of honor.
          Each wore a white apron, and each made a short speech.

In the matter of courage we all have our limits.

There never was a hero who did not have his bounds.  I suppose it may be
said of Nelson and all the others whose courage has been advertised that
there came times in their lives when their bravery knew it had come to
its limit.

I have found mine a good many times.  Sometimes this was expected--often
it was unexpected.  I know a man who is not afraid to sleep with a
rattlesnake, but you could not get him to sleep with a safety-razor.

I never had the courage to talk across a long, narrow room I should be at
the end of the room facing all the audience.  If I attempt to talk across
a room I find myself turning this way and that, and thus at alternate
periods I have part of the audience behind me.  You ought never to have
any part of the audience behind you; you never can tell what they are
going to do.

I'll sit down.






THE DINNER TO MR. CHOATE

          AT A DINNER GIVEN IN HONOR OF AMBASSADOR JOSEPH H. CHOATE AT
          THE LOTOS CLUB, NOVEMBER 24, 7902

          The speakers, among others, were: Senator Depew, William Henry
          White, Speaker Thomas Reed, and Mr. Choate.  Mr. Clemens spoke,
          in part, as follows:

The greatness of this country rests on two anecdotes.  The first one is
that of Washington and his hatchet, representing the foundation of true
speaking, which is the characteristic of our people.  The second one is
an old one, and I've been waiting to hear it to-night; but as nobody has
told it yet, I will tell it.

You've heard it before, and you'll hear it many, many times more.  It is
an anecdote of our guest, of the time when he was engaged as a young man
with a gentle Hebrew, in the process of skinning the client.  The main
part in that business is the collection of the bill for services in
skinning the man.  "Services" is the term used in that craft for the
operation of that kind-diplomatic in its nature.

Choate's--co-respondent--made out a bill for $500 for his services, so
called.  But Choate told him he had better leave the matter to him, and
the next day he collected the bill for the services and handed the Hebrew
$5000, saying, "That's your half of the loot," and inducing that
memorable response: "Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian."

The deep-thinkers didn't merely laugh when that happened.  They stopped
to think, and said "There's a rising man.  He must be rescued from the
law and consecrated to diplomacy.  The commercial advantages of a great
nation lie there in that man's keeping.  We no longer require a man to
take care of our moral character before the world.  Washington and his
anecdote have done that.  We require a man to take care of our commercial
prosperity."

Mr. Choate has carried that trait with him, and, as Mr. Carnegie has
said, he has worked like a mole underground.

We see the result when American railroad iron is sold so cheap in England
that the poorest family can have it.  He has so beguiled that Cabinet of
England.

He has been spreading the commerce of this nation, and has depressed
English commerce in the same ratio.  This was the principle underlying
that anecdote, and the wise men saw it; the principle of give and take--
give one and take ten--the principle of diplomacy.






ON STANLEY AND LIVINGSTONE

          Mr. Clemens was entertained at dinner by the Whitefriars' Club,
          London, at the Mitre Tavern, on the evening of August 6, 1872.
          In reply to the toast in his honor he said:

GENTLEMEN,--I thank you very heartily indeed for this expression of
kindness toward me.  What I have done for England and civilization in the
arduous affairs which I have engaged in (that is good: that is so smooth
that I will say it again and again)--what I have done for England and
civilization in the arduous part I have performed I have done with a
single-hearted devotion and with no hope of reward.  I am proud, I am
very proud, that it was reserved for me to find Doctor Livingstone and
for Mr. Stanley to get all the credit.  I hunted for that man in Africa
all over seventy-five or one hundred parishes, thousands and thousands of
miles in the wilds and deserts all over the place, sometimes riding
negroes and sometimes travelling by rail.  I didn't mind the rail or
anything else, so that I didn't come in for the tar and feathers.  I
found that man at Ujiji--a place you may remember if you have ever been
there--and it was a very great satisfaction that I found him just in the
nick of time.  I found that poor old man deserted by his niggers and by
his geographers, deserted by all of his kind except the gorillas--
dejected, miserable, famishing, absolutely famishing--but he was
eloquent.  Just as I found him he had eaten his last elephant, and he
said to me: "God knows where I shall get another."  He had nothing to
wear except his venerable and honorable naval suit, and nothing to eat
but his diary.

But I said to him: "It is all right; I have discovered you, and Stanley
will be here by the four-o'clock train and will discover you officially,
and then we will turn to and have a reg'lar good time."  I said: "Cheer
up, for Stanley has got corn, ammunition, glass beads, hymn-books,
whiskey, and everything which the human heart can desire; he has got all
kinds of valuables, including telegraph-poles and a few cart-loads of
money.  By this time communication has been made with the land of Bibles
and civilization, and property will advance."  And then we surveyed all
that country, from Ujiji, through Unanogo and other places, to
Unyanyembe.  I mention these names simply for your edification, nothing
more--do not expect it--particularly as intelligence to the Royal
Geographical Society.  And then, having filled up the old man, we were
all too full for utterance and departed.  We have since then feasted on
honors.

Stanley has received a snuff-box and I have received considerable snuff;
he has got to write a book and gather in the rest of the credit, and I am
going to levy on the copyright and to collect the money.  Nothing comes
amiss to me--cash or credit; but, seriously, I do feel that Stanley is
the chief man and an illustrious one, and I do applaud him with all my
heart.  Whether he is an American or a Welshman by birth, or one, or
both, matters not to me.  So far as I am personally concerned, I am
simply here to stay a few months, and to see English people and to learn
English manners and customs, and to enjoy myself; so the simplest thing I
can do is to thank you for the toast you have honored me with and for the
remarks you have made, and to wish health and prosperity to the
Whitefriars' Club, and to sink down to my accustomed level.






HENRY M.  STANLEY

          ADDRESS DELIVERED IN BOSTON, NOVEMBER, 1886

          Mr. Clemens introduced Mr. Stanley.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, if any should ask, Why is it that you are here as
introducer of the lecturer?  I should answer that I happened to be around
and was asked to perform this function.  I was quite willing to do so,
and, as there was no sort of need of an introduction, anyway, it could be
necessary only that some person come forward for a moment and do an
unnecessary thing, and this is quite in my line.  Now, to introduce so
illustrious a name as Henry M. Stanley by any detail of what the man has
done is clear aside from my purpose; that would be stretching the
unnecessary to an unconscionable degree.  When I contrast what I have
achieved in my measurably brief life with what he has achieved in his
possibly briefer one, the effect is to sweep utterly away the ten-story
edifice of my own self-appreciation and leave nothing behind but the
cellar.  When you compare these achievements of his with the achievements
of really great men who exist in history, the comparison, I believe, is
in his favor.  I am not here to disparage Columbus.

No, I won't do that; but when you come to regard the achievements of
these two men, Columbus and Stanley, from the standpoint of the
difficulties they encountered, the advantage is with Stanley and against
Columbus.  Now, Columbus started out to discover America.  Well, he
didn't need to do anything at all but sit in the cabin of his ship and
hold his grip and sail straight on, and America would discover itself.
Here it was, barring his passage the whole length and breadth of the
South American continent, and he couldn't get by it.  He'd got to
discover it.  But Stanley started out to find Doctor Livingstone, who was
scattered abroad, as you may say, over the length and breadth of a vast
slab of Africa as big as the United States.

It was a blind kind of search.  He was the worst scattered of men.  But I
will throw the weight of this introduction upon one very peculiar feature
of Mr. Stanley's character, and that is his indestructible Americanism--
an Americanism which he is proud of.  And in this day and time, when it
is the custom to ape and imitate English methods and fashion, it is like
a breath of fresh air to stand in the presence of this untainted American
citizen who has been caressed and complimented by half of the crowned
heads of Europe who could clothe his body from his head to his heels with
the orders and decorations lavished upon him.  And yet, when the untitled
myriads of his own country put out their hands in welcome to him and
greet him, "Well done," through the Congress of the United States, that
is the crown that is worth all the rest to him.  He is a product of
institutions which exist in no other country on earth-institutions that
bring out all that is best and most heroic in a man.  I introduce Henry
M. Stanley.






DINNER TO MR. JEROME

          A dinner to express their confidence in the integrity and good
          judgment of District-Attorney Jerome was given at Delmonico's
          by over three hundred of his admirers on the evening of May 7,
          1909.

Indeed, that is very sudden.  I was not informed that the verdict was
going to depend upon my judgment, but that makes not the least difference
in the world when you already know all about it.  It is not any matter
when you are called upon to express it; you can get up and do it, and my
verdict has already been recorded in my heart and in my head as regards
Mr. Jerome and his administration of the criminal affairs of this county.

I agree with everything Mr. Choate has said in his letter regarding Mr.
Jerome; I agree with everything Mr. Shepard has said; and I agree with
everything Mr. Jerome has said in his own commendation.  And I thought
Mr. Jerome was modest in that.  If he had been talking about another
officer of this county, he could have painted the joys and sorrows of
office and his victories in even stronger language than he did.

I voted for Mr. Jerome in those old days, and I should like to vote for
him again if he runs for any office.  I moved out of New York, and that
is the reason, I suppose, I cannot vote for him again.  There may be some
way, but I have not found it out.  But now I am a farmer--a farmer up in
Connecticut, and winning laurels.  Those people already speak with such
high favor, admiration, of my farming, and they say that I am the only
man that has ever come to that region who could make two blades of grass
grow where only three grew before.

Well, I cannot vote for him.  You see that.  As it stands now, I cannot.
I am crippled in that way and to that extent, for I would ever so much
like to do it.  I am not a Congress, and I cannot distribute pensions,
and I don't know any other legitimate way to buy a vote.  But if I should
think of any legitimate way, I shall make use of it, and then I shall
vote for Mr. Jerome.






HENRY IRVING

          The Dramatic and Literary Society of London gave a welcome-home
          dinner to Sir Henry Irving at the Savoy Hotel, London, June 9,
          1900.  In proposing the toast of "The Drama" Mr. Clemens said:

I find my task a very easy one.  I have been a dramatist for thirty
years.  I have had an ambition in all that time to overdo the work of the
Spaniard who said he left behind him four hundred dramas when he died.
I leave behind me four hundred and fifteen, and am not yet dead.

The greatest of all the arts is to write a drama.  It is a most difficult
thing.  It requires the highest talent possible and the rarest gifts.
No, there is another talent that ranks with it--for anybody can write a
drama--I had four hundred of them--but to get one accepted requires real
ability.  And I have never had that felicity yet.

But human nature is so constructed, we are so persistent, that when we
know that we are born to a thing we do not care what the world thinks
about it.  We go on exploiting that talent year after year, as I have
done.  I shall go on writing dramas, and some day the impossible may
happen, but I am not looking for it.

In writing plays the chief thing is novelty.  The world grows tired of
solid forms in all the arts.  I struck a new idea myself years ago.
I was not surprised at it.  I was always expecting it would happen.
A person who has suffered disappointment for many years loses confidence,
and I thought I had better make inquiries before I exploited my new idea
of doing a drama in the form of a dream, so I wrote to a great authority
on knowledge of all kinds, and asked him whether it was new.

I could depend upon him.  He lived in my dear home in America--that dear
home, dearer to me through taxes.  He sent me a list of plays in which
that old device had been used, and he said that there was also a modern
lot.  He travelled back to China and to a play dated two thousand six
hundred years before the Christian era.  He said he would follow it up
with a list of the previous plays of the kind, and in his innocence would
have carried them back to the Flood.

That is the most discouraging thing that has ever happened to me in my
dramatic career.  I have done a world of good in a silent and private
way, and have furnished Sir Henry Irving with plays and plays and plays.
What has he achieved through that influence.  See where he stands now--
on the summit of his art in two worlds and it was I who put him there
--that partly put him there.

I need not enlarge upon the influence the drama has exerted upon
civilization.  It has made good morals entertaining.  I am to be followed
by Mr. Pinero.  I conceive that we stand at the head of the profession.
He has not written as many plays as I have, but he has lead that God-
given talent, which I lack, of working hem off on the manager.  I couple
his name with this toast, and add the hope that his influence will be
supported in exercising his masterly handicraft in that great gift, and
that he will long live to continue his fine work.






DINNER TO HAMILTON W. MABIE

          ADDRESS DELIVERED APRIL 29, 1901

          In introducing Mr. Clemens, Doctor Van Dyke said:

          "The longer the speaking goes on to-night the more I wonder how
          I got this job, and the only explanation I can give for it is
          that it is the same kind of compensation for the number of
          articles I have sent to The Outlook, to be rejected by Hamilton
          W. Mabie.  There is one man here to-night that has a job cut
          out for him that none of you would have had--a man whose humor
          has put a girdle of light around the globe, and whose sense of
          humor has been an example for all five continents.  He is going
          to speak to you.  Gentlemen, you know him best as Mark Twain."

MR. CHAIRMAN AND GENTLEMEN,--This man knows now how it feels to be the
chief guest, and if he has enjoyed it he is the first man I have ever
seen in that position that did enjoy it.  And I know, by side-remarks
which he made to me before his ordeal came upon him, that he was feeling
as some of the rest of us have felt under the same circumstances.  He was
afraid that he would not do himself justice; but he did--to my surprise.
It is a most serious thing to be a chief guest on an occasion like this,
and it is admirable, it is fine.  It is a great compliment to a man that
he shall come out of it so gloriously as Mr. Mabie came out of it
tonight--to my surprise.  He did it well.

He appears to be editor of The Outlook, and notwithstanding that, I have
every admiration, because when everything is said concerning The Outlook,
after all one must admit that it is frank in its delinquencies, that it
is outspoken in its departures from fact, that it is vigorous in its
mistaken criticisms of men like me.  I have lived in this world a long,
long time, and I know you must not judge a man by the editorials that he
puts in his paper.  A man is always better than his printed opinions.
A man always reserves to himself on the inside a purity and an honesty
and a justice that are a credit to him, whereas the things that he prints
are just the reverse.

Oh yes, you must not judge a man by what he writes in his paper.  Even in
an ordinary secular paper a man must observe some care about it; he must
be better than the principles which he puts in print.  And that is the
case with Mr. Mabie.  Why, to see what he writes about me and the
missionaries you would think he did not have any principles.  But that is
Mr. Mabie in his public capacity.  Mr. Mabie in his private capacity is
just as clean a man as I am.

In this very room, a month or two ago, some people admired that portrait;
some admired this, but the great majority fastened on that, and said,
"There is a portrait that is a beautiful piece of art."  When that
portrait is a hundred years old it will suggest what were the manners and
customs in our time.  Just as they talk about Mr. Mabie to-night, in that
enthusiastic way, pointing out the various virtues of the man and the
grace of his spirit, and all that, so was that portrait talked about.
They were enthusiastic, just as we men have been over the character and
the work of Mr. Mabie.  And when they were through they said that
portrait, fine as it is, that work, beautiful as it is, that piece of
humanity on that canvas, gracious and fine as it is, does not rise to
those perfections that exist in the man himself.  Come up, Mr. Alexander.
[The reference was to James W. Alexander, who happened to be sitting--
beneath the portrait of himself on the wall.]  Now, I should come up and
show myself.  But he cannot do it, he cannot do it.  He was born that
way, he was reared in that way.  Let his modesty be an example, and I
wish some of you had it, too.  But that is just what I have been saying
--that portrait, fine as it is, is not as fine as the man it represents,
and all the things that have been said about Mr. Mabie, and certainly
they have been very nobly worded and beautiful, still fall short of the
real Mabie.






INTRODUCING NYE AND RILEY

          James Whitcomb Riley and Edgar Wilson Nye (Bill Nye) were to
          give readings in Tremont Temple, Boston, November, 1888.  Mr.
          Clemens was induced to introduce Messrs. Riley and Nye.  His
          appearance on the platform was a surprise to the audience, and
          when they recognized him there was a tremendous demonstration.

I am very glad indeed to introduce these young people to you, and at the
same time get acquainted with them myself.  I have seen them more than
once for a moment, but have not had the privilege of knowing them
personally as intimately as I wanted to.  I saw them first, a great many
years ago, when Mr. Barnum had them, and they were just fresh from Siam.
The ligature was their best hold then, the literature became their best
hold later, when one of them committed an indiscretion, and they had to
cut the old bond to accommodate the sheriff.

In that old former time this one was Chang, that one was Eng.  The
sympathy existing between the two was most extraordinary; it was so fine,
so strong, so subtle, that what the one ate the other digested; when one
slept, the other snored; if one sold a thing, the other scooped the
usufruct.  This independent and yet dependent action was observable in
all the details of their daily life--I mean this quaint and arbitrary
distribution of originating cause and resulting effect between the two-
between, I may say, this dynamo and the other always motor, or, in other
words, that the one was always the creating force, the other always the
utilizing force; no, no, for while it is true that within certain well-
defined zones of activity the one was always dynamo and the other always
motor, within certain other well-defined zones these positions became
exactly reversed.

For instance, in moral matters Mr. Chang Riley was always dynamo, Mr. Eng
Nye was always motor; for while Mr. Chang Riley had a high--in fact, an
abnormally high and fine moral sense, he had no machinery to work it
with; whereas, Mr. Eng Nye, who hadn't any moral sense at all, and hasn't
yet, was equipped with all the necessary plant for putting a noble deed
through, if he could only get the inspiration on reasonable terms
outside.

In intellectual matters, on the other hand, Mr. Eng Nye was always
dynamo, Mr. Chang Riley was always motor; Mr. Eng Nye had a stately
intellect, but couldn't make it go; Mr. Chang Riley hadn't, but could.
That is to say, that while Mr. Chang Riley couldn't think things himself,
he had a marvellous natural grace in setting them down and weaving them
together when his pal furnished the raw material.

Thus, working together, they made a strong team; laboring together, they
could do miracles; but break the circuit, and both were impotent.  It has
remained so to this day: they must travel together, hoe, and plant, and
plough, and reap, and sell their public together, or there's no result.

I have made this explanation, this analysis, this vivisection, so to
speak, in order that you may enjoy these delightful adventurers
understandingly.  When Mr. Eng Nye's deep and broad and limpid
philosophies flow by in front of you, refreshing all the regions round
about with their gracious floods, you will remember that it isn't his
water; it's the other man's, and he is only working the pump.  And when
Mr. Chang Riley enchants your ear, and soothes your spirit, and touches
your heart with the sweet and genuine music of his poetry--as sweet and
as genuine as any that his friends, the birds and the bees, make about
his other friends, the woods and the flowers--you will remember, while
placing justice where justice is due, that it isn't his music, but the
other man's--he is only turning the crank.

I beseech for these visitors a fair field, a singleminded, one-eyed
umpire, and a score bulletin barren of goose-eggs if they earn it--and I
judge they will and hope they will.  Mr. James Whitcomb Chang Riley will
now go to the bat.






DINNER TO WHITELAW REID

          ADDRESS AT THE DINNER IN HONOR OF AMBASSADOR REID, GIVEN BY THE
          PILGRIMS' CLUB OF NEW YORK ON FEBRUARY 19, 1908

I am very proud to respond to this toast, as it recalls the proudest day
of my life.  The delightful hospitality shown me at the time of my visit
to Oxford I shall cherish until I die.  In that long and distinguished
career of mine I value that degree above all other honors.  When the ship
landed even the stevedores gathered on the shore and gave an English
cheer.  Nothing could surpass in my life the pleasure of those four
weeks.  No one could pass by me without taking my hand, even the
policemen.  I've been in all the principal capitals of Christendom in my
life, and have always been an object of interest to policemen.  Sometimes
there was suspicion in their eyes, but not always.  With their puissant
hand they would hold up the commerce of the world to let me pass.

I noticed in the papers this afternoon a despatch from Washington, saying
that Congress would immediately pass a bill restoring to our gold coinage
the motto "In God We Trust."  I'm glad of that; I'm glad of that.  I was
troubled when that motto was removed.  Sure enough, the prosperities of
the whole nation went down in a heap when we ceased to trust in God in
that conspicuously advertised way.  I knew there would be trouble.  And
if Pierpont Morgan hadn't stepped in--Bishop Lawrence may now add to his
message to the old country that we are now trusting in God again.  So we
can discharge Mr. Morgan from his office with honor.

Mr. Reid said an hour or so ago something about my ruining my activities
last summer.  They are not ruined, they are renewed.  I am stronger now
--much stronger.  I suppose that the spiritual uplift I received
increased my physical power more than anything I ever had before.  I was
dancing last night at 1.30 o'clock.

Mr. Choate has mentioned Mr. Reid's predecessors.  Mr. Choate's head is
full of history, and some of it is true, too.  I enjoyed hearing him tell
about the list of the men who had the place before he did.  He mentioned
a long list of those predecessors, people I never heard of before, and
elected five of them to the Presidency by his own vote.  I'm glad and
proud to find Mr. Reid in that high position, because he didn't look it
when I knew him forty years ago.  I was talking to Reid the other day,
and he showed me my autograph on an old paper twenty years old.  I didn't
know I had an autograph twenty years ago.  Nobody ever asked me for it.

I remember a dinner I had long ago with Whitelaw Reid and John Hay at
Reid's expense.  I had another last summer when I was in London at the
embassy that Choate blackguards so.  I'd like to live there.

Some people say they couldn't live on the salary, but I could live on the
salary and the nation together.  Some of us don't appreciate what this
country can do.  There's John Hay, Reid, Choate, and me.  This is the
only country in the world where youth, talent, and energy can reach such
heights.  It shows what we could do without means, and what people can do
with talent and energy when they find it in people like us.

When I first came to New York they were all struggling young men, and I
am glad to see that they have got on in the world.  I knew John Hay when
I had no white hairs in my head and more hair than Reid has now.  Those
were days of joy and hope.  Reid and Hay were on the staff of the
Tribune.  I went there once in that old building, and I looked all around
and I finally found a door ajar and looked in.  It wasn't Reid or Hay
there, but it was Horace Greeley.  Those were in the days when Horace
Greeley was a king.  That was the first time I ever saw him and the last.

I was admiring him when he stopped and seemed to realize that there was a
fine presence there somewhere.  He tried to smile, but he was out of
smiles.  He looked at me a moment, and said:

"What in H---do you want?"

He began with that word "H." That's a long word and a profane word.
I don't remember what the word was now, but I recognized the power of it.
I had never used that language myself, but at that moment I was
converted.  It has been a great refuge for me in time of trouble.  If a
man doesn't know that language he can't express himself on strenuous
occasions.  When you have that word at your command let trouble come.

But later Hay rose, and you know what summit Whitelaw Reid has reached,
and you see me.  Those two men have regulated troubles of nations and
conferred peace upon mankind.  And in my humble way, of which I am quite
vain, I was the principal moral force in all those great international
movements.  These great men illustrated what I say.  Look at us great
people--we all come from the dregs of society.  That's what can be done
in this country.  That's what this country does for you.

Choate here--he hasn't got anything to say, but he says it just the same,
and he can do it so felicitously, too.  I said long ago he was the
handsomest man America ever produced.  May the progress of civilization
always rest on such distinguished men as it has in the past!






ROGERS AND RAILROADS

          AT A BANQUET GIVEN MR. H. H. ROGERS BY THE BUSINESS MEN OF
          NORFOLK, VA., CELEBRATING THE OPENING OF THE VIRGINIAN RAILWAY,
          APRIL, 3, 1909

          Toastmaster:

          "I have often thought that when the time comes, which must come
          to all of us, when we reach that Great Way in the Great Beyond,
          and the question is propounded, 'What have you done to gain
          admission into this great realm?' if the answer could be
          sincerely made, 'I have made men laugh,' it would be the surest
          passport to a welcome entrance.  We have here to-night one who
          has made millions laugh--not the loud laughter that bespeaks
          the vacant mind, but the laugh of intelligent mirth that helps
          the human heart and the human mind.  I refer, of course, to
          Doctor Clemens.  I was going to say Mark Twain, his literary
          title, which is a household phrase in more homes than that of
          any other man, and you know him best by that dear old title."

I thank you, Mr. Toastmaster, for the compliment which you have paid me,
and I am sure I would rather have made people laugh than cry, yet in my
time I have made some of them cry; and before I stop entirely I hope to
make some more of them cry.  I like compliments.  I deal in them myself.
I have listened with the greatest pleasure to the compliments which the
chairman has paid to Mr. Rogers and that road of his to-night, and I hope
some of them are deserved.

It is no small distinction to a man like that to sit here before an
intelligent crowd like this and to be classed with Napoleon and Caesar.
Why didn't he say that this was the proudest day of his life?  Napoleon
and Caesar are dead, and they can't be here to defend themselves.  But
I'm here!

The chairman said, and very truly, that the most lasting thing in the
hands of man are the roads which Caesar built, and it is true that he
built a lot of them; and they are there yet.

Yes, Caesar built a lot of roads in England, and you can find them.  But
Rogers has only built one road, and he hasn't finished that yet.  I like
to hear my old friend complimented, but I don't like to hear it overdone.

I didn't go around to-day with the others to see what he is doing.  I
will do that in a quiet time, when there is not anything going on, and
when I shall not be called upon to deliver intemperate compliments on a
railroad in which I own no stock.

They proposed that I go along with the committee and help inspect that
dump down yonder.  I didn't go.  I saw that dump.  I saw that thing when
I was coming in on the steamer, and I didn't go because I was diffident,
sentimentally diffident, about going and looking at that thing again--
that great, long, bony thing; it looked just like Mr. Rogers's foot.

The chairman says Mr. Rogers is full of practical wisdom, and he is.
It is intimated here that he is a very ingenious man, and he, is a very
competent financier.  Maybe he is now, but it was not always so.  I know
lots of private things in his life which people don't know, and I know
how he started; and it was not a very good start.  I could have done
better myself.  The first time he crossed the Atlantic he had just made
the first little strike in oil, and he was so young he did not like to
ask questions.  He did not like to appear ignorant.  To this day he don't
like to appear ignorant, but he can look as ignorant as anybody.
On board the ship they were betting on the run of the ship, betting a
couple of shillings, or half a crown, and they proposed that this youth
from the oil regions should bet on the run of the ship.  He did not like
to ask what a half-crown was, and he didn't know; but rather than be
ashamed of himself he did bet half a crown on the run of the ship, and in
bed he could not sleep.  He wondered if he could afford that outlay in
case he lost.  He kept wondering over it, and said to himself: "A king's
crown must be worth $20,000, so half a crown would cost $10,000."
He could not afford to bet away $10,000 on the run of the ship, so he
went up to the stakeholder and gave him $150 to let him off.

I like to hear Mr. Rogers complimented.  I am not stingy in compliments
to him myself.  Why, I did it to-day when I sent his wife a telegram to
comfort her.  That is the kind of person I am.  I knew she would be
uneasy about him.  I knew she would be solicitous about what he might do
down here, so I did it to quiet her and to comfort her.  I said he was
doing well for a person out of practice.  There is nothing like it.
He is like I used to be.  There were times when I was careless--careless
in my dress when I got older.  You know how uncomfortable your wife can
get when you are going away without her superintendence.  Once when my
wife could not go with me (she always went with me when she could--
I always did meet that kind of luck), I was going to Washington once, a
long time ago, in Mr. Cleveland's first administration, and she could not
go; but, in her anxiety that I should not desecrate the house, she made
preparation.  She knew that there was to be a reception of those authors
at the White House at seven o'clock in the evening.  She said, "If I
should tell you now what I want to ask of you, you would forget it before
you get to Washington, and, therefore, I have written it on a card, and
you will find it in your dress--vest pocket when you are dressing at the
Arlington--when you are dressing to see the President."  I never thought
of it again until I was dressing, and I felt in that pocket and took it
out, and it said, in a kind of imploring way, "Don't wear your arctics in
the White House."

You complimented Mr. Rogers on his energy, his foresightedness,
complimented him in various ways, and he has deserved those compliments,
although I say it myself; and I enjoy them all.  There is one side of Mr.
Rogers that has not been mentioned.  If you will leave that to me I will
touch upon that.  There was a note in an editorial in one of the Norfolk
papers this morning that touched upon that very thing, that hidden side
of Mr. Rogers, where it spoke of Helen Keller and her affection for Mr.
Rogers, to whom she dedicated her life book.  And she has a right to feel
that way, because, without the public knowing anything about it, he
rescued, if I may use that term, that marvellous girl, that wonderful
Southern girl, that girl who was stone deaf, blind, and dumb from
scarlet-fever when she was a baby eighteen months old; and who now is as
well and thoroughly educated as any woman on this planet at twenty-nine
years of age.  She is the most marvellous person of her sex that has
existed on this earth since Joan of Arc.

That is not all Mr. Rogers has done; but you never see that side of his
character, because it is never protruding; but he lends a helping hand
daily out of that generous heart of his.  You never hear of it.  He is
supposed to be a moon which has one side dark and the other bright.
But the other side, though you don't see it, is not dark; it is bright,
and its rays penetrate, and others do see it who are not God.

I would take this opportunity to tell something that I have never been
allowed to tell by Mr. Rogers, either by my mouth or in print, and if I
don't look at him I can tell it now.

In 1893, when the publishing company of Charles L. Webster, of which I
was financial agent, failed, it left me heavily in debt.  If you will
remember what commerce was at that time you will recall that you could
not sell anything, and could not buy anything, and I was on my back; my
books were not worth anything at all, and I could not give away my
copyrights.  Mr. Rogers had long enough vision ahead to say, "Your books
have supported you before, and after the panic is over they will support
you again," and that was a correct proposition.  He saved my copyrights,
and saved me from financial ruin.  He it was who arranged with my
creditors to allow me to roam the face of the earth for four years and
persecute the nations thereof with lectures, promising that at the end of
four years I would pay dollar for dollar.  That arrangement was made;
otherwise I would now be living out-of-doors under an umbrella, and a
borrowed one at that.

You see his white mustache and his head trying to get white (he is always
trying to look like me--I don't blame him for that).  These are only
emblematic of his character, and that is all.  I say, without exception,
hair and all, he is the whitest man I have ever known.






THE OLD-FASHIONED PRINTER

          ADDRESS AT THE TYPOTHETAE DINNER GIVEN AT DELMONICO'S,
          JANUARY 18, 1886, COMMEMORATING THE BIRTHDAY OF
          BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

          Mr. Clemens responded to the toast "The Compositor."

The chairman's historical reminiscences of Gutenberg have caused me to
fall into reminiscences, for I myself am something of an antiquity.
All things change in the procession of years, and it may be that I am
among strangers.  It may be that the printer of to-day is not the printer
of thirty-five years ago.  I was no stranger to him.  I knew him well.
I built his fire for him in the winter mornings; I brought his water from
the village pump; I swept out his office; I picked up his type from under
his stand; and, if he were there to see, I put the good type in his case
and the broken ones among the "hell matter"; and if he wasn't there to
see, I dumped it all with the "pi" on the imposing-stone--for that was
the furtive fashion of the cub, and I was a cub.  I wetted down the paper
Saturdays, I turned it Sundays--for this was a country weekly; I rolled,
I washed the rollers, I washed the forms, I folded the papers, I carried
them around at dawn Thursday mornings.  The carrier was then an object of
interest to all the dogs in town.  If I had saved up all the bites I ever
received, I could keep M. Pasteur busy for a year.  I enveloped the
papers that were for the mail--we had a hundred town subscribers and
three hundred and fifty country ones; the town subscribers paid in
groceries and the country ones in cabbages and cord-wood--when they paid
at all, which was merely sometimes, and then we always stated the fact in
the paper, and gave them a puff; and if we forgot it they stopped the
paper.  Every man on the town list helped edit the thing--that is,
he gave orders as to how it was to be edited; dictated its opinions,
marked out its course for it, and every time the boss failed to connect
he stopped his paper.  We were just infested with critics, and we tried
to satisfy them all over.  We had one subscriber who paid cash, and he
was more trouble than all the rest.  He bought us once a year, body and
soul, for two dollars.  He used to modify our politics every which way,
and he made us change our religion four times in five years.  If we ever
tried to reason with him, he would threaten to stop his paper, and, of
course, that meant bankruptcy and destruction. That man used to write
articles a column and a half long, leaded long primer, and sign them
"Junius," or "Veritas," or "Vox Populi," or some other high-sounding rot;
and then, after it was set up, he would come in and say he had changed
his mind-which was a gilded figure of speech, because he hadn't any--and
order it to be left out.  We couldn't afford "bogus" in that office, so
we always took the leads out, altered the signature, credited the article
to the rival paper in the next village, and put it in.  Well, we did have
one or two kinds of "bogus."  Whenever there was a barbecue, or a circus,
or a baptizing, we knocked off for half a day, and then to make up for
short matter we would "turn over ads"--turn over the whole page and
duplicate it.  The other "bogus" was deep philosophical stuff, which we
judged nobody ever read; so we kept a galley of it standing, and kept on
slapping the same old batches of it in, every now and then, till it got
dangerous.  Also, in the early days of the telegraph we used to economize
on the news.  We picked out the items that were pointless and barren of
information and stood them on a galley, and changed the dates and
localities, and used them over and over again till the public interest in
them was worn to the bone.  We marked the ads, but we seldom paid any
attention to the marks afterward; so the life of a "td" ad and a "tf" ad
was equally eternal.  I have seen a "td" notice of a sheriff's sale still
booming serenely along two years after the sale was over, the sheriff
dead, and the whole circumstance become ancient history.  Most of the
yearly ads were patent-medicine stereotypes, and we used to fence with
them.

I can see that printing-office of prehistoric times yet, with its horse
bills on, the walls, its "d" boxes clogged with tallow, because we always
stood the candle in the "k" box nights, its towel, which was not
considered soiled until it could stand alone, and other signs and symbols
that marked the establishment of that kind in the Mississippi Valley;
and I can see, also, the tramping "jour," who flitted by in the summer
and tarried a day, with his wallet stuffed with one shirt and a hatful of
handbills; for if he couldn't get any type to set he would do a
temperance lecture.  His way of life was simple, his needs not complex;
all he wanted was plate and bed and money enough to get drunk on, and he
was satisfied.  But it may be, as I have said, that I am among strangers,
and sing the glories of a forgotten age to unfamiliar ears, so I will
"make even" and stop.






SOCIETY OF AMERICAN AUTHORS

          On November 15, 1900, the society gave a reception to Mr.
          Clemens, who came with his wife and daughter.  So many members
          surrounded the guests that Mr. Clemens asked: "Is this genuine
          popularity or is it all a part of a prearranged programme?"

MR. CHAIRMAN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--It seems a most difficult thing for
any man to say anything about me that is not complimentary.  I don't know
what the charm is about me which makes it impossible for a person to say
a harsh thing about me and say it heartily, as if he was glad to say it.

If this thing keeps on it will make me believe that I am what these kind
chairmen say of me.  In introducing me, Judge Ransom spoke of my modesty
as if he was envious of me.  I would like to have one man come out flat-
footed and say something harsh and disparaging of me, even if it were
true.  I thought at one time, as the learned judge was speaking, that I
had found that man; but he wound up, like all the others, by saying
complimentary things.

I am constructed like everybody else, and enjoy a compliment as well as
any other fool, but I do like to have the other side presented.  And
there is another side.  I have a wicked side.  Estimable friends who know
all about it would tell you and take a certain delight in telling you
things that I have done, and things further that I have not repented.

The real life that I live, and the real life that I suppose all of you
live, is a life of interior sin.  That is what makes life valuable and
pleasant.  To lead a life of undiscovered sin!  That is true joy.

Judge Ransom seems to have all the virtues that he ascribes to me.  But,
oh my! if you could throw an X-ray through him.  We are a pair.  I have
made a life-study of trying to appear to be what he seems to think I am.
Everybody believes that I am a monument of all the virtues, but it is
nothing of the sort.  I am living two lives, and it keeps me pretty busy.

Some day there will be a chairman who will forget some of these merits of
mine, and then he will make a speech.

I have more personal vanity than modesty, and twice as much veracity as
the two put together.

When that fearless  and forgetful chairman is found there will be another
story told.  At the Press Club recently I thought that I had found
him.  He started in in the way that I knew I should be painted with all
sincerity, and was leading to things that would not be to my credit; but
when he said that he never read a book of mine I knew at once that he was
a liar, because he never could have had all the wit and intelligence with
which he was blessed unless he had read my works as a basis.

I like compliments.  I like to go home and tell them all over again to
the members of my family.  They don't believe them, but I like to tell
them in the home circle, all the same.  I like to dream of them if I can.

I thank everybody for their compliments, but I don't think that I am
praised any more than I am entitled to be.






READING-ROOM OPENING

          On October 13, 1900, Mr. Clemens made his last address
          preceding his departure for America at Kensal Rise, London.

I formally declare this reading-room open, and I think that the
legislature should not compel a community to provide itself with
intelligent food, but give it the privilege of providing it if the
community so desires.

If the community is anxious to have a reading-room it would put its hand
in its pocket and bring out the penny tax.  I think it a proof of the
healthy, moral, financial, and mental condition of the community if it
taxes itself for its mental food.

A reading-room is the proper introduction to a library, leading up
through the newspapers and magazines to other literature.  What would we
do without newspapers?

Look at the rapid manner in which the news of the Galveston disaster was
made known to the entire world.  This reminds me of an episode which
occurred fifteen years ago when I was at church in Hartford, Connecticut.

The clergyman decided to make a collection for the survivors, if any.
He did not include me among the leading citizens who took the plates
around for collection.  I complained to the governor of his lack of
financial trust in me, and he replied: "I would trust you myself--if you
had a bell-punch."

You have paid me many compliments, and I like to listen to compliments.
I indorse all your chairman has said to you about the union of England
and America.  He also alluded to my name, of which I am rather fond.

A little girl wrote me from New Zealand in a letter I received yesterday,
stating that her father said my proper name was not Mark Twain but Samuel
Clemens, but that she knew better, because Clemens was the name of the
man who sold the patent medicine, and his name was not Mark.  She was
sure it was Mark Twain, because Mark is in the Bible and Twain is in the
Bible.

I was very glad to get that expression of confidence in my origin, and as
I now know my name to be a scriptural one, I am not without hopes of
making it worthy.






LITERATURE

          ADDRESS AT THE ROYAL LITERARY FUND BANQUET, LONDON, MAY 4, 1900

          Anthony Hope introduced Mr. Clemens to make the response to the
          toast "Literature."

MR. HOPE has been able to deal adequately with this toast without
assistance from me.  Still, I was born generous.  If he had advanced any
theories that needed refutation or correction I would have attended to
them, and if he had made any statements stronger than those which he is
in the habit of making I would have dealt with them.

In fact, I was surprised at the mildness of his statements.  I could not
have made such statements if I had preferred to, because to exaggerate is
the only way I can approximate to the truth.  You cannot have a theory
without principles.  Principles is another name for prejudices.  I have
no prejudices in politics, religion, literature, or anything else.

I am now on my way to my own country to run for the presidency because
there are not yet enough candidates in the field, and those who have
entered are too much hampered by their own principles, which are
prejudices.

I propose to go there to purify the political atmosphere.  I am in favor
of everything everybody is in favor of.  What you should do is to satisfy
the whole nation, not half of it, for then you would only be half a
President.

There could not be a broader platform than mine.  I am in favor of
anything and everything--of temperance and intemperance, morality and
qualified immorality, gold standard and free silver.

I have tried all sorts of things, and that is why I want to by the great
position of ruler of a country.  I have been in turn reporter, editor,
publisher, author, lawyer, burglar.  I have worked my way up, and wish to
continue to do so.

I read to-day in a magazine article that Christendom issued last year
fifty-five thousand new books.  Consider what that means!  Fifty-five
thousand new books meant fifty-four thousand new authors.  We are going
to have them all on our hands to take care of sooner or later.
Therefore, double your, subscriptions to the literary fund!






DISAPPEARANCE OF LITERATURE

          ADDRESS AT THE DINNER OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY CLUB, AT
          SHERRY'S, NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 20, 1900

          Mr. Clemens spoke to the toast "The Disappearance of
          Literature."  Doctor Gould presided, and in introducing
          Mr. Clemens said that he (the speaker), when in Germany, had to
          do a lot of apologizing for a certain literary man who was
          taking what the Germans thought undue liberties with their
          language.

It wasn't necessary for your chairman to apologize for me in Germany.
It wasn't necessary at all.  Instead of that he ought to have impressed
upon those poor benighted Teutons the service I rendered them.  Their
language had needed untangling for a good many years.  Nobody else seemed
to want to take the job, and so I took it, and I flatter myself that I
made a pretty good job of it.  The Germans have an inhuman way of cutting
up their verbs.  Now a verb has a hard time enough of it in this world
when it's all together.  It's downright inhuman to split it up.  But
that's just what those Germans do.  They take part of a verb and put it
down here, like a stake, and they take the other part of it and put it
away over yonder like another stake, and between these two limits they
just shovel in German.  I maintain that there is no necessity for
apologizing for a man who helped in a small way to stop such mutilation.

We have heard a discussion to-night on the disappearance of literature.
That's no new thing.  That's what certain kinds of literature have been
doing for several years.  The fact is, my friends, that the fashion in
literature changes, and the literary tailors have to change their cuts or
go out of business.  Professor Winchester here, if I remember fairly
correctly what he said, remarked that few, if any, of the novels produced
to-day would live as long as the novels of Walter Scott.  That may be his
notion.  Maybe he is right; but so far as I am concerned, I don't care if
they don't.

Professor Winchester also said something about there being no modern
epics like Paradise Lost.  I guess he's right.  He talked as if he was
pretty familiar with that piece of literary work, and nobody would
suppose that he never had read it.  I don't believe any of you have ever
read Paradise Lost, and you don't want to.  That's something that you
just want to take on trust.  It's a classic, just as Professor Winchester
says, and it meets his definition of a classic--something that everybody
wants to have read and nobody wants to read.

Professor Trent also had a good deal to say about the disappearance of
literature.  He said that Scott would outlive all his critics.  I guess
that's true.  The fact of the business is, you've got to be one of two
ages to appreciate Scott.  When you're eighteen you can read Ivanhoe, and
you want to wait until you are ninety to read some of the rest.  It takes
a pretty well-regulated, abstemious critic to live ninety years.

But as much as these two gentlemen have talked about the disappearance of
literature, they didn't say anything about my books.  Maybe they think
they've disappeared.  If they do, that just shows their ignorance on the
general subject of literature.  I am not as young as I was several years
ago, and maybe I'm not so fashionable, but I'd be willing to take my
chances with Mr. Scott to-morrow morning in selling a piece of literature
to the Century Publishing Company.  And I haven't got much of a pull
here, either.  I often think that the highest compliment ever paid to my
poor efforts was paid by Darwin through President Eliot, of Harvard
College.  At least, Eliot said it was a compliment, and I always take the
opinion of great men like college presidents on all such subjects as
that.

I went out to Cambridge one day a few years ago and called on President
Eliot.  In the course of the conversation he said that he had just
returned from England, and that he was very much touched by what he
considered the high compliment Darwin was paying to my books, and he went
on to tell me something like this:

"Do you know that there is one room in Darwin's house, his bedroom, where
the housemaid is never allowed to touch two things?  One is a plant he is
growing and studying while it grows" (it was one of those insect-
devouring plants which consumed bugs and beetles and things for the
particular delectation of Mr. Darwin) "and the other some books that lie
on the night table at the head of his bed.  They are your books, Mr.
Clemens, and Mr. Darwin reads them every night to lull him to sleep."

My friends, I thoroughly appreciated that compliment, and considered it
the highest one that was ever paid to me.  To be the means of soothing to
sleep a brain teeming with bugs and squirming things like Darwin's was
something that I had never hoped for, and now that he is dead I never
hope to be able to do it again.






THE NEW YORK PRESS CLUB DINNER

          AT THE ANNUAL DINNER, NOVEMBER 13, 1900

          Col. William L. Brown, the former editor of the Daily News, as
          president of the club, introduced Mr. Clemens as the principal
          ornament of American literature.

I must say that I have already begun to regret that I left my gun at
home.  I've said so many times when a chairman has distressed me with
just such compliments that the next time such a thing occurs I will
certainly use a gun on that chairman.  It is my privilege to compliment
him in return.  You behold before you a very, very old man.  A cursory
glance at him would deceive the most penetrating.  His features seem to
reveal a person dead to all honorable instincts--they seem to bear the
traces of all the known crimes, instead of the marks of a life spent for
the most part, and now altogether, in the Sunday-school of a life that
may well stand as an example to all generations that have risen or will
riz--I mean to say, will rise.  His private character is altogether
suggestive of virtues which to all appearances he has got.  If you
examine his past history you will find it as deceptive as his features,
because it is marked all over with waywardness and misdemeanor--mere
effects of a great spirit upon a weak body--mere accidents of a great
career.  In his heart he cherishes every virtue on the list of virtues,
and he practises them all--secretly--always secretly.  You all know him
so well that there is no need for him to be introduced here.  Gentlemen,
Colonel Brown.






THE ALPHABET AND SIMPLIFIED SPELLING

          ADDRESS AT THE DINNER GIVEN TO MR. CARNEGIE AT THE DEDICATION
          OF THE NEW YORK ENGINEERS' CLUB, DECEMBER 9, 1907

          Mr. Clemens was introduced by the president of the club, who,
          quoting from the Mark Twain autobiography, recalled the day
          when the distinguished writer came to New York with $3 in small
          change in his pockets and a $10 bill sewed in his clothes.

It seems to me that I was around here in the neighborhood of the Public
Library about fifty or sixty years ago.  I don't deny the circumstance,
although I don't see how you got it out of my autobiography, which was
not to be printed until I am dead, unless I'm dead now.  I had that $3 in
change, and I remember well the $10 which was sewed in my coat.  I have
prospered since.  Now I have plenty of money and a disposition to
squander it, but I can't.  One of those trust companies is taking care of
it.

Now, as this is probably the last time that I shall be out after
nightfall this winter, I must say that I have come here with a mission,
and I would make my errand of value.

Many compliments have been paid to Mr. Carnegie to-night.  I was
expecting them.  They are very gratifying to me.

I have been a guest of honor myself, and I know what Mr. Carnegie is
experiencing now.  It is embarrassing to get compliments and compliments
and only compliments, particularly when he knows as well as the rest of
us that on the other side of him there are all sorts of things worthy of
our condemnation.

Just look at Mr. Carnegie's face.  It is fairly scintillating with
fictitious innocence.  You would think, looking at him, that he had never
committed a crime in his life.  But no--look at his pestiferious
simplified spelling.  You can't any of you imagine what a crime that has
been.  Torquemada was nothing to Mr. Carnegie.  That old fellow shed some
blood in the Inquisition, but Mr. Carnegie has brought destruction to the
entire race.  I know he didn't mean it to be a crime, but it was, just
the same.  He's got us all so we can't spell anything.

The trouble with him is that he attacked orthography at the wrong end.
He meant well, but he, attacked the symptoms and not the cause of the
disease.  He ought to have gone to work on the alphabet.  There's not a
vowel in it with a definite value, and not a consonant that you can hitch
anything to.  Look at the "h's" distributed all around.  There's
"gherkin."  What are you going to do with the "h" in that?  What the
devil's the use of "h" in gherkin, I'd like to know.  It's one thing I
admire the English for: they just don't mind anything about them at all.

But look at the "pneumatics" and the "pneumonias" and the rest of them.
A real reform would settle them once and for all, and wind up by giving
us an alphabet that we wouldn't have to spell with at all, instead of
this present silly alphabet, which I fancy was invented by a drunken
thief.  Why, there isn't a man who doesn't have to throw out about
fifteen hundred words a day when he writes his letters because he can't
spell them!  It's like trying to do a St. Vitus's dance with wooden legs.

Now I'll bet there isn't a man here who can spell "pterodactyl," not even
the prisoner at the bar.  I'd like to hear him try once--but not in
public, for it's too near Sunday, when all extravagant histrionic
entertainments are barred.  I'd like to hear him try in private, and when
he got through trying to spell "pterodactyl" you wouldn't know whether it
was a fish or a beast or a bird, and whether it flew on its legs or
walked with its wings.  The chances are that he would give it tusks and
make it lay eggs.

Let's get Mr. Carnegie to reform the alphabet, and we'll pray for him--
if he'll take the risk.  If we had adequate, competent vowels, with a
system of accents, giving to each vowel its own soul and value, so every
shade of that vowel would be shown in its accent, there is not a word in
any tongue that we could not spell accurately.  That would be competent,
adequate, simplified spelling, in contrast to the clipping, the hair
punching, the carbuncles, and the cancers which go by the name of
simplified spelling.  If I ask you what b-o-w spells you can't tell me
unless you know which b-o-w I mean, and it is the same with r-o-w, b-o-r-
e, and the whole family of words which were born out of lawful wedlock
and don't know their own origin.

Now, if we had an alphabet that was adequate and competent, instead of
inadequate and incompetent, things would be different.  Spelling reform
has only made it bald-headed and unsightly.  There is the whole tribe of
them, "row" and "read" and "lead"--a whole family who don't know who they
are.  I ask you to pronounce s-o-w, and you ask me what kind of a one.

If we had a sane, determinate alphabet, instead of a hospital of
comminuted eunuchs, you would know whether one referred to the act of a
man casting the seed over the ploughed land or whether one wished to
recall the lady hog and the future ham.

It's a rotten alphabet.  I appoint Mr. Carnegie to get after it, and
leave simplified spelling alone.

Simplified spelling brought about sun-spots, the San Francisco
earthquake, and the recent business depression, which we would never have
had if spelling had been left all alone.

Now, I hope I have soothed Mr. Carnegie and made him more comfortable
than he would have been had he received only compliment after compliment,
and I wish to say to him that simplified spelling is all right, but, like
chastity, you can carry it too far.






SPELLING AND PICTURES

          ADDRESS AT THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE ASSOCIATED PRESS, AT THE
          WALDORF-ASTORIA, SEPTEMBER 18, 1906

I am here to make an appeal to the nations in behalf of the simplified
spelling.  I have come here because they cannot all be reached except
through you.  There are only two forces that can carry light to all the
corners of the globe--only two--the sun in the heavens and the Associated
Press down here.  I may seem to be flattering the sun, but I do not mean
it so; I am meaning only to be just and fair all around.  You speak with
a million voices; no one can reach so many races, so many hearts and
intellects, as you--except Rudyard Kipling, and he cannot do it without
your help.  If the Associated Press will adopt and use our simplified
forms, and thus spread them to the ends of the earth, covering the whole
spacious planet with them as with a garden of flowers, our difficulties
are at an end.

Every day of the three hundred and sixty-five the only pages of the
world's countless newspapers that are read by all the human beings and
angels and devils that can read, are these pages that are built out of
Associated Press despatches.  And so I beg you, I beseech you--oh, I
implore you to spell them in our simplified forms.  Do this daily,
constantly, persistently, for three months--only three months--it is all
I ask.  The infallible result?--victory, victory all down the line.  For
by that time all eyes here and above and below will have become adjusted
to the change and in love with it, and the present clumsy and ragged
forms will be grotesque to the eye and revolting to the soul.  And we
shall be rid of phthisis and phthisic and pneumonia and pneumatics, and
diphtheria and pterodactyl, and all those other insane words which no man
addicted to the simple Christian life can try to spell and not lose some
of the bloom of his piety in the demoralizing attempt.  Do not doubt it.
We are chameleons, and our partialities and prejudices change places with
an easy and blessed facility, and we are soon wonted to the change and
happy in it.  We do not regret our old, yellow fangs and snags and tushes
after we have worn nice, fresh, uniform store teeth a while.

Do I seem to be seeking the good of the world?  That is the idea.  It is
my public attitude; privately I am merely seeking my own profit.  We all
do it, but it is sound and it is virtuous, for no public interest is
anything other or nobler than a massed accumulation of private interests.
In 1883, when the simplified-spelling movement first tried to make a
noise, I was indifferent to it; more--I even irreverently scoffed at it.
What I needed was an object-lesson, you see.  It is the only way to teach
some people.  Very well, I got it.  At that time I was scrambling along,
earning the family's bread on magazine work at seven cents a word,
compound words at single rates, just as it is in the dark present.
I was the property of a magazine, a seven-cent slave under a boiler-iron
contract.  One day there came a note from the editor requiring me to
write ten pages--on this revolting text: "Considerations concerning the
alleged subterranean holophotal extemporaneousness of the conchyliaceous
superimbrication of the Ornithorhyncus, as foreshadowed by the
unintelligibility of its plesiosaurian anisodactylous aspects."

Ten pages of that.  Each and every word a seventeen-jointed vestibuled
railroad train.  Seven cents a word.  I saw starvation staring the family
in the face.  I went to the editor, and I took a stenographer along so as
to have the interview down in black and white, for no magazine editor can
ever remember any part of a business talk except the part that's got
graft in it for him and the magazine.  I said, "Read that text, Jackson,
and let it go on the record; read it out loud."  He read it:
"Considerations concerning the alleged subterranean holophotal
extemporaneousness of the conchyliaceous superimbrication of the
Ornithorhyncus, as foreshadowed by the unintelligibility of its
plesiosaurian anisodactylous aspects."

I said, "You want ten pages of those rumbling, great, long, summer
thunderpeals, and you expect to get them at seven cents a peal?"

He said, "A word's a word, and seven cents is the contract; what are you
going to do about it?"

I said, "Jackson, this is cold-blooded oppression.  What's an average
English word?"

He said, "Six letters."

I said, "Nothing of the kind; that's French, and includes the spaces
between the words; an average English word is four letters and a half.
By hard, honest labor I've dug all the large words out of my vocabulary
and shaved it down till the average is three letters and a half.  I can
put one thousand and two hundred words on your page, and there's not
another man alive that can come within two hundred of it.  My page is
worth eighty-four dollars to me.  It takes exactly as long to fill your
magazine page with long words as it does with short ones-four hours.
Now, then, look at the criminal injustice of this requirement of yours.
I am careful, I am economical of my time and labor.  For the family's
sake I've got to be so.  So I never write 'metropolis' for seven cents,
because I can get the same money for 'city.' I never write 'policeman,'
because I can get the same price for 'cop.' And so on and so on.  I never
write 'valetudinarian' at all, for not even hunger and wretchedness can
humble me to the point where I will do a word like that for seven cents;
I wouldn't do it for fifteen.  Examine your obscene text, please; count
the words."

He counted and said it was twenty-four.  I asked him to count the
letters.  He made it two hundred and three.

I said, "Now, I hope you see the whole size of your crime.  With my
vocabulary I would make sixty words out of those two hundred and five
letters, and get four dollars and twenty cents for it; whereas for your
inhuman twenty-four I would get only one dollar and sixty-eight cents.
Ten pages of these sky-scrapers of yours would pay me only about three
hundred dollars; in my simplified vocabulary the same space and the same
labor would pay me eight hundred and forty dollars.  I do not wish to
work upon this scandalous job by the piece.  I want to be hired by the
year."  He coldly refused.  I said:

"Then for the sake of the family, if you have no feeling for me, you
ought at least to allow me overtime on that word extemporaneousness."
Again he coldly refused.  I seldom say a harsh word to any one, but I was
not master of myself then, and I spoke right out and called him an
anisodactylous plesiosaurian conchyliaceous Ornithorhyncus, and rotten to
the heart with holoaophotal subterranean extemporaneousness.  God forgive
me for that wanton crime; he lived only two hours.

From that day to this I have been a devoted and hard-working member of
the heaven-born institution, the International Association for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Authors, and now I am laboring with Carnegie's
Simplified Committee, and with my heart in the work .  .  .  .

Now then, let us look at this mighty question reasonably, rationally,
sanely--yes, and calmly, not excitedly.  What is the real function, the
essential function, the supreme function, of language?  Isn't it merely
to convey ideas and emotions?  Certainly.  Then if we can do it with
words of fonetic brevity and compactness, why keep the present cumbersome
forms?  But can we?  Yes.  I hold in my hand the proof of it.  Here is a
letter written by a woman, right out of her heart of hearts.  I think she
never saw a spelling-book in her life.  The spelling is her own.  There
isn't a waste letter in it anywhere.  It reduces the fonetics to the last
gasp--it squeezes the surplusage out of every word--there's no spelling
that can begin with it on this planet outside of the White House.  And as
for the punctuation, there isn't any.  It is all one sentence, eagerly
and breathlessly uttered, without break or pause in it anywhere.  The
letter is absolutely genuine--I have the proofs of that in my possession.
I  can't stop to spell the words for you, but you can take the letter
presently and comfort your eyes with it.  I will read the letter:

"Miss dear freind I took some Close into the armerry and give them to you
to Send too the suffrers out to California and i Hate to treble you but i
got to have one of them Back it was a black oll wolle Shevyott With a
jacket to Mach trimed Kind of Fancy no 38 Burst measure and palsy
menterry acrost the front And the color i woodent Trubble you but it
belonged to my brothers wife and she is Mad about it i thoght she was
willin but she want she says she want done with it and she was going to
Wear it a Spell longer she ant so free harted as what i am and she Has
got more to do with Than i have having a Husband to Work and slave For
her i gels you remember Me I am shot and stout and light complected i
torked with you quite a spell about the suffrars and said it was orful
about that erth quake I shoodent wondar if they had another one rite off
seeine general Condision of the country is Kind of Explossive i hate to
take that Black dress away from the suffrars but i will hunt round And
see if i can get another One if i can i will call to the armerry for it
if you will jest lay it asside so no more at present from your True
freind

"i liked your
appearance very Much"

Now you see what simplified spelling can do.

It can convey any fact you need to convey; and it can pour out emotions
like a sewer.  I beg you, I beseech you, to adopt our spelling, and print
all your despatches in it.

Now I wish to say just one entirely serious word:

I have reached a time of life, seventy years and a half, where none of
the concerns of this world have much interest for me personally.  I think
I can speak dispassionately upon this matter, because in the little while
that I have got to remain here I can get along very well with these old-
fashioned forms, and I don't propose to make any trouble about it at all.
I shall soon be where they won't care how I spell so long as I keep the
Sabbath.

There are eighty-two millions of us people that use this orthography, and
it ought to be simplified in our behalf, but it is kept in its present
condition to satisfy one million people who like to have their literature
in the old form.  That looks to me to be rather selfish, and we keep the
forms as they are while we have got one million people coming in here
from foreign countries every year and they have got to struggle with this
orthography of ours, and it keeps them back and damages their citizenship
for years until they learn to spell the language, if they ever do learn.
This is merely sentimental argument.

People say it is the spelling of Chaucer and Spencer and Shakespeare and
a lot of other people who do not know how to spell anyway, and it has
been transmitted to us and we preserved it and wish to preserve it
because of its ancient and hallowed associations.

Now, I don't see that there is any real argument about that.  If that
argument is good, then it would be a good argument not to banish the
flies and the cockroaches from hospitals because they have been there so
long that the patients have got used to them and they feel a tenderness
for them on account of the associations.  Why, it is like preserving a
cancer in a family because it is a family cancer, and we are bound to it
by the test of affection and reverence and old, mouldy antiquity.

I think that this declaration to improve this orthography of ours is our
family cancer, and I wish we could reconcile ourselves to have it cut out
and let the family cancer go.

Now, you see before you the wreck and ruin of what was once a young
person like yourselves.  I am exhausted by the heat of the day.  I must
take what is left of this wreck and run out of your presence and carry it
away to my home and spread it out there and sleep the sleep of the
righteous.  There is nothing much left of me but my age and my
righteousness, but I leave with you my love and my blessing, and may you
always keep your youth.






BOOKS AND BURGLARS

          ADDRESS TO THE REDDING (CONN.) LIBRARY ASSOCIATION,
          OCTOBER 28, 1908

Suppose this library had been in operation a few weeks ago, and the
burglars who happened along and broke into my house--taking a lot of
things they didn't need, and for that matter which I didn't need--had
first made entry into this institution.

Picture them seated here on the floor, poring by the light of their dark-
lanterns over some of the books they found, and thus absorbing moral
truths and getting a moral uplift.  The whole course of their lives would
have been changed.  As it was, they kept straight on in their immoral way
and were sent to jail.

For all we know, they may next be sent to Congress.

And, speaking of burglars, let us not speak of them too harshly.  Now, I
have known so many burglars--not exactly known, but so many of them have
come near me in my various dwelling-places, that I am disposed to allow
them credit for whatever good qualities they possess.

Chief among these, and, indeed, the only one I just now think of, is
their great care while doing business to avoid disturbing people's sleep.

Noiseless as they may be while at work, however, the effect of their
visitation is to murder sleep later on.

Now we are prepared for these visitors.  All sorts of alarm devices have
been put in the house, and the ground for half a mile around it has been
electrified.  The burglar who steps within this danger zone will set
loose a bedlam of sounds, and spring into readiness for action our
elaborate system of defences.  As for the fate of the trespasser, do not
seek to know that.  He will never be heard of more.







AUTHORS' CLUB

          ADDRESS AT THE DINNER GIVEN IN HONOR OF MR. CLEMENS, LONDON,
          JUNE, 1899

          Mr. Clemens was introduced by Sir Walter Besant.

It does not embarrass me to hear my books praised so much.  It only
pleases and delights me.  I have not gone beyond the age when
embarrassment is possible, but I have reached the age when I know how to
conceal it.  It is such a satisfaction to me to hear Sir Walter Besant,
who is much more capable than I to judge of my work, deliver a judgment
which is such a contentment to my spirit.

Well, I have thought well of the books myself, but I think more of them
now.  It charms me also to hear Sir Spencer Walpole deliver a similar
judgment, and I shall treasure his remarks also.  I shall not discount
the praises in any possible way.  When I report them to my family they
shall lose nothing.  There are, however, certain heredities which come
down to us which our writings of the present day may be traced to.
I, for instance, read the Walpole Letters when I was a boy.  I absorbed
them, gathered in their grace, wit, and humor, and put them away to be
used by-and-by.  One does that so unconsciously with things one really
likes.  I am reminded now of what use those letters have been to me.

They must not claim credit in America for what was really written in
another form so long ago.  They must only claim that I trimmed this,
that, and the other, and so changed their appearance as to make them seem
to be original.  You now see what modesty I have in stock.  But it has
taken long practice to get it there.

But I must not stand here talking.  I merely meant to get up and give my
thanks for the pleasant things that preceding speakers have said of me.
I wish also to extend my thanks to the Authors' Club for constituting me
a member, at a reasonable price per year, and for giving me the benefit
of your legal adviser.

I believe you keep a lawyer.  I have always kept a lawyer, too, though I
have never made anything out of him.  It is service to an author to have
a lawyer.  There is something so disagreeable in having a personal
contact with a publisher.  So it is better to work through a lawyer--and
lose your case.  I understand that the publishers have been meeting
together also like us.  I don't know what for, but possibly they are
devising new and mysterious ways for remunerating authors.  I only wish
now to thank you for electing me a member of this club--I believe I have
paid my dues--and to thank you again for the pleasant things you have
said of me.

Last February, when Rudyard Kipling was ill in America, the sympathy
which was poured out to him was genuine and sincere, and I believe that
which cost Kipling so much will bring England and America closer
together.  I have been proud and pleased to see this growing affection
and respect between the two countries.  I hope it will continue to grow,
and, please God, it will continue to grow.  I trust we authors will leave
to posterity, if we have nothing else to leave, a friendship between
England and America that will count for much.  I will now confess that
I have been engaged for the past eight days in compiling a publication.
I have brought it here to lay at your feet.  I do not ask your indulgence
in presenting it, but for your applause.

Here it is:  "Since England and America may be joined together in
Kipling, may they not be severed in 'Twain.'"






BOOKSELLERS

          Address at banquet on Wednesday evening, May 20, 1908, of the
          American Booksellers' Association, which included most of the
          leading booksellers of America, held at the rooms of the Aldine
          Association, New York.

This annual gathering of booksellers from all over America comes together
ostensibly to eat and drink, but really to discuss, business; therefore
I am required to, talk shop.  I am required to furnish a statement of the
indebtedness under which I lie to you gentlemen for your help in enabling
me to earn my living.  For something over forty years I have acquired my
bread by print, beginning with The Innocents Abroad, followed at
intervals of a year or so by Roughing It, Tom Sawyer, Gilded Age, and so
on.  For thirty-six years my books were sold by subscription.  You are
not interested in those years, but only in the four which have since
followed.  The books passed into the hands of my present publishers at
the beginning of 1900, and you then became the providers of my diet.
I think I may say, without flattering you, that you have done exceedingly
well by me.  Exceedingly well is not too strong a phrase, since the
official statistics show that in four years you have sold twice as many
volumes of my venerable books as my contract with my publishers bound you
and them to sell in five years.  To your sorrow you are aware that
frequently, much too frequently, when a book gets to be five or ten years
old its annual sale shrinks to two or three hundred copies, and after an
added ten or twenty years ceases to sell.  But you sell thousands of my
moss-backed old books every year--the youngest of them being books that
range from fifteen to twenty-seven years old, and the oldest reaching
back to thirty-five and forty.

By the terms of my contract my publishers had to account to me for,
50,000 volumes per year for five years, and pay me for them whether they
sold them or not.  It is at this point that you gentlemen come in, for it
was your business to unload 250,000 volumes upon the public in five years
if you possibly could.  Have you succeeded?  Yes, you have--and more.
For in four years, with a year still to spare, you have sold the 250,000
volumes, and 240,000 besides.

Your sales have increased each year.  In the first year you sold 90,328;
in the second year, 104,851; in the third, 133,975; in the fourth year--
which was last year--you sold 160,000.  The aggregate for the four years
is 500,000 volumes, lacking 11,000.

Of the oldest book, The Innocents Abroad,--now forty years old--you sold
upward of 46,000 copies in the four years; of Roughing It--now thirty-
eight years old; I think--you sold 40,334; of Tom Sawyer, 41,000.  And so
on.

And there is one thing that is peculiarly gratifying to me: the Personal
Recollections of Joan of Arc is a serious book; I wrote it for love, and
never expected it to sell, but you have pleasantly disappointed me in
that matter.  In your hands its sale has increased each year.  In 1904
you sold 1726 copies; in 1905, 2445; in 1906, 5381; and last year, 6574.






"MARK TWAIN'S FIRST APPEARANCE"

          On October 5, 1906, Mr. Clemens, following a musical recital by
          his daughter in Norfolk, Conn., addressed her audience on the
          subject of stage-fright.  He thanked the people for making
          things as easy as possible for his daughter's American debut as
          a contralto, and then told of his first experience before the
          public.

My heart goes out in sympathy to any one who is making his first
appearance before an audience of human beings.  By a direct process of
memory I go back forty years, less one month--for I'm older than I look.

I recall the occasion of my first appearance.  San Francisco knew me then
only as a reporter, and I was to make my bow to San Francisco as a
lecturer.  I knew that nothing short of compulsion would get me to the
theatre.  So I bound myself by a hard-and-fast contract so that I could
not escape.  I got to the theatre forty-five minutes before the hour set
for the lecture.  My knees were shaking so that I didn't know whether I
could stand up.  If there is an awful, horrible malady in the world, it
is stage-fright-and seasickness.  They are a pair.  I had stage-fright
then for the first and last time.  I was only seasick once, too.  It was
on a little ship on which there were two hundred other passengers.  I--
was--sick.  I was so sick that there wasn't any left for those other two
hundred passengers.

It was dark and lonely behind the scenes in that theatre, and I peeked
through the little peekholes they have in theatre curtains and looked
into the big auditorium.  That was dark and empty, too.  By-and-by it
lighted up, and the audience began to arrive.

I had got a number of friends of mine, stalwart men, to sprinkle
themselves through the audience armed with big clubs.  Every time I said
anything they could possibly guess I intended to be funny they were to
pound those clubs on the floor.  Then there was a kind lady in a box up
there, also a good friend of mine, the wife of the Governor.  She was to
watch me intently, and whenever I glanced toward her she was going to
deliver a gubernatorial laugh that would lead the whole audience into
applause.

At last I began.  I had the manuscript tucked under a United States flag
in front of me where I could get at it in case of need.  But I managed to
get started without it.  I walked up and down--I was young in those days
and needed the exercise--and talked and talked.

Right in the middle of the speech I had placed a gem.  I had put in a
moving, pathetic part which was to get at the hearts and souls of my
hearers.  When I delivered it they did just what I hoped and expected.
They sat silent and awed.  I had touched them.  Then I happened to glance
up at the box where the Governor's wife was--you know what happened.

Well, after the first agonizing five minutes, my stage-fright left me,
never to return.  I know if I was going to be hanged I could get up and
make a good showing, and I intend to.  But I shall never forget my
feelings before the agony left me, and I got up here to thank you for her
for helping my daughter, by your kindness, to live through her first
appearance.  And I want to thank you for your appreciation of her
singing, which is, by-the-way, hereditary.






MORALS AND MEMORY

          Mr. Clemens was the guest of honor at a reception held at
          Barnard College (Columbia University), March 7, 1906, by the
          Barnard Union.  One of the young ladies presented Mr. Clemens,
          and thanked him for his amiability in coming to make them an
          address.  She closed with the expression of the great joy it
          gave her fellow-collegians, "because we all love you."

If any one here loves me, she has my sincere thanks.  Nay, if any one
here is so good as to love me--why, I'll be a brother to her.  She shall
have my sincere, warm, unsullied affection.  When I was coming up in the
car with the very kind young lady who was delegated to show me the way,
she asked me what I was going to talk about.  And I said I wasn't sure.
I said I had some illustrations, and I was going to bring them in.
I said I was certain to give those illustrations, but that I hadn't the
faintest notion what they were going to illustrate.

Now, I've been thinking it over in this forest glade [indicating the
woods of Arcady on the scene setting], and I've decided to work them in
with something about morals and the caprices of memory.  That seems to me
to be a pretty good subject.  You see, everybody has a memory and it's
pretty sure to have caprices.  And, of course, everybody has morals.

It's my opinion that every one I know has morals, though I wouldn't like
to ask.  I know I have.  But I'd rather teach them than practice them any
day.  "Give them to others"--that's my motto.  Then you never have any
use for them when you're left without.  Now, speaking of the caprices of
memory in general, and of mine in particular, it's strange to think of
all the tricks this little mental process plays on us.  Here we're
endowed with a faculty of mind that ought to be more supremely
serviceable to us than them all.  And what happens?  This memory of ours
stores up a perfect record of the most useless facts and anecdotes and
experiences.  And all the things that we ought to know--that we need to
know--that we'd profit by knowing--it casts aside with the careless
indifference of a girl refusing her true lover.  It's terrible to think
of this phenomenon.  I tremble in all my members when I consider all the
really valuable things that I've forgotten in seventy years--when I
meditate upon the caprices of my memory.

There's a bird out in California that is one perfect symbol of the human
memory.  I've forgotten the bird's name (just because it would be
valuable for me to know it--to recall it to your own minds, perhaps).

But this fool of a creature goes around collecting the most ridiculous
things you can imagine and storing them up.  He never selects a thing
that could ever prove of the slightest help to him; but he goes about
gathering iron forks, and spoons, and tin cans, and broken mouse-traps
--all sorts of rubbish that is difficult for him to carry and yet be any
use when he gets it.  Why, that bird will go by a gold watch to bring
back one of those patent cake-pans.

Now, my mind is just like that, and my mind isn't very different from
yours--and so our minds are just like that bird.  We pass by what would
be of inestimable value to us, and pack our memories with the most
trivial odds and ends that never by any chance; under any circumstances
whatsoever, could be of the slightest use to any one.

Now, things that I have remembered are constantly popping into my head.
And I am repeatedly startled by the vividness with which they recur to me
after the lapse of years and their utter uselessness in being remembered
at all.

I was thinking over some on my way up here.  They were the illustrations
I spoke about to the young lady on the way up.  And I've come to the
conclusion, curious though it is, that I can use every one of these
freaks of memory to teach you all a lesson.  I'm convinced that each one
has its moral.  And I think it's my duty to hand the moral on to you.

Now, I recall that when I was a boy I was a good boy--I was a very good
boy.  Why, I was the best boy in my school.  I was the best boy in that
little Mississippi town where I lived.  The population was only about
twenty million.  You may not believe it, but I was the best boy in that
State--and in the United States, for that matter.

But I don't know why I never heard any one say that but myself.  I always
recognized it.  But even those nearest and dearest to me couldn't seem to
see it.  My mother, especially, seemed to think there was something wrong
with that estimate.  And she never got over that prejudice.

Now, when my mother got to be eighty-five years old her memory failed
her.  She forgot little threads that hold life's patches of meaning
together.  She was living out West then, and I went on to visit her.

I hadn't seen my mother in a year or so.  And when I got there she knew
my face; knew I was married; knew I had a family, and that I was living
with them.  But she couldn't, for the life of her, tell my name or who I
was.  So I told her I was her boy.

"But you don't live with me," she said.

"No," said I, "I'm living in Rochester."

"What are you doing there?"

"Going to school."

"Large school?"

"Very large."

"All boys?"

"All boys."

"And how do you stand?" said my mother.

"I'm the best boy in that school," I answered.

"Well," said my mother, with a return of her old fire, "I'd like to know
what the other boys are like."

Now, one point in this story is the fact that my mother's mind went back
to my school days, and remembered my little youthful self-prejudice when
she'd forgotten everything else about me.

The other point is the moral.  There's one there that you will find if
you search for it.

Now, here's something else I remember.  It's about the first time I ever
stole a watermelon.  "Stole" is a strong word.  Stole?  Stole?  No, I
don't mean that.  It was the first time I ever withdrew a watermelon.
It was the first time I ever extracted a watermelon.  That is exactly the
word I want--"extracted." It is definite.  It is precise.  It perfectly
conveys my idea.  Its use in dentistry connotes the delicate shade of
meaning I am looking for.  You know we never extract our own teeth.

And it was not my watermelon that I extracted.  I extracted that
watermelon from a farmer's wagon while he was inside negotiating with an
other customer.  I carried that watermelon to one of the secluded
recesses of the lumber-yard, and there I broke it open.

It was a green watermelon.

Well, do you know when I saw that I began to feel sorry--sorry--sorry.
It seemed to me that I had done wrong.  I reflected deeply.  I reflected
that I was young--I think I was just eleven.  But I knew that though
immature I did not lack moral advancement.  I knew what a boy ought to do
who had extracted a watermelon--like that.

I considered George Washington, and what action he would have taken under
similar circumstances.  Then I knew there was just one thing to make me
feel right inside, and that was--Restitution.

So I said to myself:  "I will do that.  I will take that green watermelon
back where I got it from."  And the minute I had said it I felt that
great moral uplift that comes to you when you've made a noble resolution.

So I gathered up the biggest fragments, and I carried them back to the
farmer's wagon, and I restored the watermelon--what was left of it.  And
I made him give me a good one in place of it, too.

And I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself going around working off
his worthless, old, green watermelons on trusting purchasers who had to
rely on him.  How could they tell from the outside whither the melons
were good or not?  That was his business.  Arid if he didn't reform, I
told him I'd see that he didn't get any more of my trade--nor anybody,
else's I knew, if I could help it.

You know that man was as contrite as a revivalist's last convert.
He said he was all broken up to think I'd gotten a green watermelon.
He promised the he would never carry another green watermelon if he
starved for it.  And he drove off--a better man.

Now, do you see what I did for that man?  He was on a downward path, and
I rescued him.  But all I got out of it was a watermelon.

Yet I'd rather have that memory--just that memory of the good I did for
that depraved farmer--than all the material gain you can think of.  Look
at the lesson he got!  I never got anything like that from it.  But I
ought to be satisfied:  I was only eleven years old, but I secured
everlasting benefit to other people.

The moral in this is perfectly clear, and I think there's one in they
next memory I'm going to tell you about.

To go back to my childhood, there's another little incident that comes to
me from which you can draw even another moral.  It's about one of the
times I went fishing.  You see, in our house there was a sort of family
prejudice against going fishing if you hadn't permission.  But it would
frequently be bad judgment to ask.  So I went fishing secretly, as it
were--way up the Mississippi.  It was an exquisitely happy trip, I
recall, with a very pleasant sensation.

Well, while I was away there was a tragedy in our town.  A stranger,
stopping over on his way East from California; was stabbed to death in an
unseemly brawl.

Now; my father was justice of the peace, and because he was justice of
the peace he was coroner; and since he was coroner he was also constable;
and being constable he vas sheriff; and out of consideration for his
holding the office of sheriff he was likewise county clerk and a dozen
other officials I don't think of just this minute.

I thought he had power of life or death, only he didn't use it over other
boys.  He was sort of an austere man.  Somehow I didn't like being round
him when I'd done anything he, disapproved of.  So that's the reason I
wasn't often around.

Well, when this gentleman got knifed they communicated with the proper
authority; the coroner, and they laid, the corpse out in the coroner's
office--our front sitting-room--in preparation for the inquest the next
morning.

About 9 or 10 o'clock I got back from fishing.  It was a little too late
for me to be received by my folks, so I took my shoes off and slipped
noiselessly up the back way to the sitting-room.  I was very tired, and I
didn't wish to disturb my people.  So I groped my way to the sofa and lay
down.

Now, I didn't know anything of what had happened during my absence.
But I was sort of nervous on my own account-afraid of being caught,
and rather dubious about the morning affair.  And I had been lying there
a few moments when my eyes gradually got used to the darkness, and I
became aware of something on the other side of the room.

It was something foreign to the apartment.  It had an uncanny appearance.
And I sat up looking very hard, and wondering what in heaven this long,
formless, vicious-looking thing might be.

First I thought I'd go and see.  Then I thought, "Never mind that."

Mind you, I had no cowardly sensations whatever, but it didn't seem
exactly prudent to investigate.  But I somehow couldn't keep my eyes off
the thing.  And the more I looked at it the more disagreeably it grew on
me.  But I was resolved to play the man.  So I decided to turn over and
count a hundred, and let the patch of moonlight creep up and show me what
the dickens it was.

I turned over and tried to count, but I couldn't keep my mind on it.
I kept thinking of that grewsome mass.  I was losing count all the time,
and going back and beginning over again.  Oh no; I wasn't frightened--
just annoyed.  But by the time I'd gotten to the century mark I turned
cautiously over and opened my eyes with great fortitude.

The moonlight revealed to me a marble-white human hand.  Well, maybe I
wasn't embarrassed!  But then that changed to a creepy feeling again, and
I thought I'd try the counting again.  I don't know how many hours or
weeks it was that I lay there counting hard.  But the moonlight crept up
that white arm, and it showed me a lead face and a terrible wound over
the heart.

I could scarcely say that I was terror-stricken or anything like that.
But somehow his eyes interested me so that I went right out of the
window.  I didn't need the sash.  But it seemed easier to take it than
leave it behind.

Now, let that teach you a lesson--I don't know just what it is.  But at
seventy years old I find that memory of peculiar value to me.  I have
been unconsciously guided by it all these years.  Things that seemed
pigeon-holed and remote are a perpetual influence.  Yes, you're taught in
so many ways.  And you're so felicitously taught when you don't know it.

Here's something else that taught me a good deal.

When I was seventeen I was very bashful, and a sixteen-year-old girl came
to stay a week with us.  She was a peach, and I was seized with a
happiness not of this world.

One evening my mother suggested that, to entertain her, I take her to the
theatre.  I didn't really like to, because I was seventeen and sensitive
about appearing in the streets with a girl.  I couldn't see my way to
enjoying my delight in public.  But we went.

I didn't feel very happy.  I couldn't seem to keep my mind on the play.
I became conscious, after a while, that that was due less to my lovely
company than my boots.  They were sweet to look upon, as smooth as skin,
but fitted ten time as close.  I got oblivious to the play and the girl
and the other people and everything but my boots until--I hitched one
partly off.  The sensation was sensuously perfect: I couldn't help it.  I
had to get the other off, partly.  Then I was obliged to get them off
altogether, except that I kept my feet in the legs so they couldn't get
away.

From that time I enjoyed the play.  But the first thing I knew the
curtain came down, like that, without my notice, and--I hadn't any boots
on.  What's more, they wouldn't go on.  I tugged strenuously.  And the
people in our row got up and fussed and said things until the peach and I
simply had to move on.

We moved--the girl on one arm and the boots under the other.

We walked home that way, sixteen blocks, with a retinue a mile long:
Every time we passed a lamp-post, death gripped one at the throat.  But
we, got home--and I had on white socks.

If I live to be nine hundred and ninety-nine years old I don't suppose I
could ever forget that walk.  I, remember, it about as keenly as the
chagrin I suffered on another occasion.

At one time in our domestic history we had a colored butler who had a
failing.  He could never remember to ask people who came to the door to
state their business.  So I used to suffer a good many calls
unnecessarily.

One morning when I was especially busy he brought me a card engraved with
a name I did not know.  So I said, "What does he wish to see me for?" and
Sylvester said, "Ah couldn't ask him, sah; he, wuz a genlinun."  "Return
instantly," I thundered, "and inquire his mission.  Ask him what's his
game."  Well, Sylvester returned with the announcement that he had
lightning-rods to sell.  "Indeed," said I, "things are coming to a fine
pass when lightning-rod agents send up engraved cards."  "He has
pictures," added Sylvester.  "Pictures, indeed!  He maybe peddling
etchings.  Has he a Russia leather case?"  But Sylvester was too
frightened to remember.  I said; "I am going down to make it hot for that
upstart!"

I went down the stairs, working up my temper all the way.  When I got to
the parlor I was in a fine frenzy concealed beneath a veneer of frigid
courtesy.  And when I looked in the door, sure enough he had a Russia
leather case in his hand.  But I didn't happen to notice that it was our
Russia leather case.

And if you'd believe me, that man was sitting with a whole gallery of
etchings spread out before him.  But I didn't happen to notice that they
were our etchings, spread out by some member of my family for some
unguessed purpose.

Very curtly I asked the gentleman his business.  With a surprised, timid
manner he faltered that he had met my wife and daughter at Onteora, and
they had asked him to call.  Fine lie, I thought, and I froze him.

He seemed to be kind of non-plussed, and sat there fingering the etchings
in the case until I told him he needn't bother, because we had those.
That pleased him so much that he leaned over, in an embarrassed way, to
pick up another from the floor.  But I stopped him.  I said, "We've got
that, too." He seemed pitifully amazed, but I was congratulating myself
on my great success.

Finally the gentleman asked where Mr. Winton lived; he'd met him in the
mountains, too.  So I said I'd show him gladly.  And I did on the spot.
And when he was gone I felt queer, because there were all his etchings
spread out on the floor.

Well, my wife came in and asked me who had been in.  I showed her the
card, and told her all exultantly.  To my dismay she nearly fainted. She
told me he had been a most kind friend to them in the country, and had
forgotten to tell me that he was expected our way.  And she pushed me out
of the door, and commanded me to get over to the Wintons in a hurry and
get him back.

I came into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Winton was sitting up very stiff
in a chair, beating me at my own game.  Well, I began, to put another
light on things.  Before many seconds Mrs. Winton saw it was time to
change her temperature.  In five minutes I had asked the man to luncheon,
and she to dinner, and so on.

We made that fellow change his trip and stay a week, and we gave him the
time of his life.  Why, I don't believe we let him get sober the whole
time.

I trust that you will carry away some good thought from these lessons I
have given you, and that the memory of them will inspire you to higher
things, and elevate you to plans far above the old--and--and--

And I tell you one thing, young ladies: I've had a better time with you
to-day than with that peach fifty-three years ago.






QUEEN VICTORIA

          ADDRESS TO THE BRITISH SCHOOLS AND UNIVERSITIES CLUB, AT
          DELMONICO'S, MONDAY, MAY 25, IN HONOR OF QUEEN VICTORIA'S
          BIRTHDAY

          Mr. Clemens told the story of his duel with a rival editor: how
          he practised firing at a barn door and failed to hit it, but a
          friend of his took off the head of a little bird at thirty-five
          yards and attributed the shot to Mark twain.  The duel did not
          take place.  Mr. Clemens continued as follows:

It also happened that I was the means of stopping duelling in Nevada, for
a law was passed sending all duellists to jail for two years, and the
Governor, hearing of my marksmanship, said that if he got me I should go
to prison for the full term.  That's why I left Nevada, and I have not
been there since.

You do me a high honor, indeed, in selecting me to speak of my country
in this commemoration of the birthday of that noble lady whose life was
consecrated to the virtues and the humanities and to the promotion of
lofty ideals, and was a model upon which many a humbler life was formed
and made beautiful while she lived, and upon which many such lives will
still be formed in the generations that are to come--a life which finds
its just image in the star which falls out of its place in the sky and
out of existence, but whose light still streams with unfaded lustre
across the abysses of space long after its fires have been extinguished
at their source.

As a woman the Queen was all that the most exacting standards could
require.  As a far-reaching and effective beneficent moral force she had
no peer in her time among either, monarchs or commoners.  As a monarch
she was without reproach in her great office.  We may not venture,
perhaps, to say so sweeping a thing as this in cold blood about any
monarch that preceded her upon either her own throne or upon any other.
It is a colossal eulogy, but it is justified.

In those qualities of the heart which beget affection in all sorts and
conditions of men she was rich, surprisingly rich, and for this she will
still be remembered and revered in the far-off ages when the political
glories of her reign shall have faded from vital history and fallen to a
place in that scrap-heap of unverifiable odds and ends which we call
tradition.  Which is to say, in briefer phrase, that her name will live
always.  And with it her character--a fame rare in the history of
thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers, since it will not rest
upon harvested selfish and sordid ambitions, but upon love, earned and
freely vouchsafed.  She mended broken hearts where she could, but she
broke none.

What she did for us in America in our time of storm and stress we shall
not forget, and whenever we call it to mind we shall always remember the
wise and righteous mind that guided her in it and sustained and supported
her--Prince Albert's.  We need not talk any idle talk here to-night about
either possible or impossible war between the two countries; there will
be no war while we remain sane and the son of Victoria and Albert sits
upon the throne.  In conclusion, I believe I may justly claim to utter
the voice of my country in saying that we hold him in deep honor, and
also in cordially wishing him a long life and a happy reign.






JOAN OF ARC

          ADDRESS AT THE DINNER OF THE SOCIETY OF ILLUSTRATORS, GIVEN AT
          THE ALDINE ASSOCIATION CLUB, DECEMBER 22, 1905

          Just before Mr. Clemens made his speech, a young woman attired
          as Joan of Arc, with a page bearing her flag of battle,
          courtesied reverently and tendered Mr. Clemens a laurel wreath
          on a satin pillow.  He tried to speak, but his voice failed
          from excess of emotion. "I thank you!" he finally exclaimed,
          and, pulling him self together, he began his speech.

Now there is an illustration [pointing to the retreating Joan of Arc].
That is exactly what I wanted--precisely what I wanted--when I was
describing to myself Joan of Arc, after studying her history and her
character for twelve years diligently.

That was the product--not the conventional Joan of Arc.  Wherever you
find the conventional Joan of Arc in history she is an offence to anybody
who knows the story of that wonderful girl.

Why, she was--she was almost supreme in several details.  She had a
marvellous intellect; she had a great heart, had a noble spirit, was
absolutely pure in her character, her feeling, her language, her words,
her everything--she was only eighteen years old.

Now put that heart into such a breast--eighteen years old--and give it
that masterly intellect which showed in the face, and furnish it with
that almost god-like spirit, and what are you going to have?
The conventional Joan of Arc?  Not by any means.  That is impossible.
I cannot comprehend any such thing as that.

You must have a creature like that young and fair and beautiful girl we
just saw.  And her spirit must look out of the eyes.  The figure should
be--the figure should be in harmony with all that, but, oh, what we get
in the conventional picture, and it is always the conventional picture!

I hope you will allow me to say that your guild, when you take the
conventional, you have got it at second-hand.  Certainly, if you had
studied and studied, then you might have something else as a result, but
when you have the common convention you stick to that.

You cannot prevail upon the artist to do it; he always gives you a Joan
of Arc--that lovely creature that started a great career at thirteen, but
whose greatness arrived when she was eighteen; and merely, because she
was a girl he can not see the divinity in her, and so he paints a
peasant, a coarse and lubberly figure--the figure of a cotton-bale, and
he clothes that in the coarsest raiment of the peasant region just like a
fish woman, her hair cropped short like a Russian peasant, and that face
of hers, which should be beautiful and which should radiate all the
glories which are in the spirit and in her heart that expression in that
face is always just the fixed expression of a ham.

But now Mr. Beard has intimated a moment ago, and so has Sir Purdon-
Clarke also, that the artist, the, illustrator, does not often get the
idea of the man whose book he is illustrating.  Here is a very remarkable
instance of the other thing in Mr. Beard, who illustrated a book of mine.
You may never have heard of it.  I will tell you about it now--A Yankee
in King Arthur's Court.

Now, Beard got everything that I put into that book and a little more
besides.  Those pictures of Beard's in that book--oh, from the first page
to the last is one vast sardonic laugh at the trivialities, the
servilities of our poor human race, and also at the professions and the
insolence of priest-craft and king-craft--those creatures that make
slaves of themselves and have not the manliness to shake it off.  Beard
put it all in that book.  I meant it to be there.  I put a lot of it
there and Beard put the rest.

What publisher of mine in Hartford had an eye for the pennies, and he
saved them.  He did not waste any on the illustrations.  He had a very
good artist--Williams--who had never taken a lesson in drawing.
Everything he did was original.  The publisher hired the cheapest wood-
engraver he could find, and in my early books you can see a trace of
that.  You can see that if Williams had had a chance he would have made
some very good pictures.  He had a good heart and good intentions.

I had a character in the first book he illustrated--The Innocents Abroad.
That was a boy seventeen or eighteen years old--Jack Van Nostrand--a New
York boy, who, to my mind, was a very remarkable creature.  He and I
tried to get Williams to understand that boy, and make a picture of Jack
that would be worthy of Jack.

Jack was a most singular combination.  He was born and reared in New York
here.  He was as delicate in his feelings, as clean and pure and refined
in his feelings as any lovely girl that ever was, but whenever he
expressed a feeling he did it in Bowery slang, and it was a most curious
combination--that delicacy of his and that apparent coarseness.  There
was no coarseness inside of Jack at all, and Jack, in the course of
seventeen or eighteen years, had acquired a capital of ignorance that was
marvellous--ignorance of various things, not of all things.  For
instance, he did not know anything about the Bible.  He had never been in
Sunday-school.  Jack got more out of the Holy Land than anybody else,
because the others knew what they were expecting, but it was a land of
surprises to him.

I said in the book that we found him watching a turtle on a log, stoning
that turtle, and he was stoning that turtle because he had read that "The
song of the turtle was heard in the land," and this turtle wouldn't sing.
It sounded absurd, but it was charged on Jack as a fact, and as he went
along through that country he had a proper foil in an old rebel colonel,
who was superintendent and head engineer in a large Sunday-school in
Wheeling, West Virginia.  That man was full of enthusiasm wherever he
went, and would stand and deliver himself of speeches, and Jack would
listen to those speeches of the colonel and wonder.

Jack had made a trip as a child almost across this continent in the first
overland stage-coach.  That man's name who ran that line of stages--well,
I declare that name is gone.  Well, names will go.

Halliday--ah, that's the name--Ben Halliday, your uncle [turning to Mr.
Carnegie].  That was the fellow--Ben Halliday--and Jack was full of
admiration at the prodigious speed that that line of stages made--and it
was good speed--one hundred and twenty-five miles a day, going day and
night, and it was the event of Jack's life, and there at the Fords of the
Jordan the colonel was inspired to a speech (he was always making a
speech), so he called us up to him.  He called up five sinners and three
saints.  It has been only lately that Mr. Carnegie beatified me.  And he
said: "Here are the Fords of the Jordan--a monumental place.  At this
very point, when Moses brought the children of Israel through--he brought
the children of Israel from Egypt through the desert you see them--he
guarded them through that desert patiently, patiently during forty years,
and brought them to this spot safe and sound.  There you see--there is
the scene of what Moses did."

And Jack said: "Moses who?"

"Oh," he says, "Jack, you ought not to ask that!  Moses, the great law-
giver!  Moses, the great patriot!  Moses, the great warrior!  Moses, the
great guide, who, as I tell you, brought these people through these three
hundred miles of sand in forty years, and landed there safe and sound."

Jack said: "There's nothin' in that three hundred miles in forty years.
Ben Halliday would have snaked 'em through in thirty--six hours."

Well, I was speaking of Jack's innocence, and it was beautiful.  Jack was
not ignorant on all subjects.  That boy was a deep student in the history
of Anglo-Saxon liberty, and he was a patriot all the way through to the
marrow.  There was a subject that interested him all the time.  Other
subjects were of no concern to Jack, but that quaint, inscrutable
innocence of his I could not get Williams to put into the picture.

Yes, Williams wanted to do it.  He said: "I will make him as innocent as
a virgin."  He thought a moment, and then said, "I will make him as
innocent as an unborn virgin;" which covered the ground.

I was reminded of Jack because I came across a letter to-day which is
over thirty years old that Jack wrote.  Jack was doomed to consumption.
He was very long and slim, poor creature; and in a year or two after he
got back from that excursion, to the Holy Land he went on a ride on
horseback through Colorado, and he did not last but a year or two.

He wrote this letter, not to me, but to a friend of mine; and he said:
"I have ridden horseback"--this was three years after--"I hate ridden
horseback four hundred miles through a desert country where you never see
anything but cattle now and then, and now and then a cattle station--ten
miles apart, twenty miles apart.  Now you tell Clemens that in all that
stretch of four hundred miles I have seen only two books--the Bible and
'Innocents Abroad'.  Tell Clemens the Bible was in a very good
condition."

I say that he had studied, and he had, the real Saxon liberty, the
acquirement of our liberty, and Jack used to repeat some verses--I don't
know where they came from, but I thought of them to-day when I saw that
letter--that that boy could have been talking of himself in those quoted
lines from that unknown poet:

               "For he had sat at Sidney's feet
               And walked with him in plain apart,
               And through the centuries heard the beat
               Of Freedom's march through Cromwell's heart."

And he was that kind of a boy.  He should have lived, and yet he should
not have lived, because he died at that early age--he couldn't have been
more than twenty--he had seen all there was to see in the world that was
worth the trouble of living in it; he had seen all of this world that is
valuable; he had seen all of this world that was illusion, and illusion,
is the only valuable thing in it.  He had arrived at that point where
presently the illusions would cease and he would have entered upon the
realities of life, and God help the man that has arrived at that point.






ACCIDENT INSURANCE--ETC.

          DELIVERED IN HARTFORD, AT A DINNER TO CORNELIUS WALFORD,
          OF LONDON

GENTLEMAN,--I am glad, indeed, to assist in welcoming the distinguished
guest of this occasion to a city whose fame as an insurance centre has
extended to all lands, and given us the name of being a quadruple band of
brothers working sweetly hand in hand--the Colt's arms company making the
destruction of our race easy and convenient, our life-insurance citizens
paying for the victims when they pass away, Mr. Batterson perpetuating
their memory with his stately monuments, and our fire-insurance comrades
taking care of their hereafter.  I am glad to assist in welcoming our
guest--first, because he is an Englishman, and I owe a heavy debt of
hospitality to certain of his fellow-countrymen; and secondly, because he
is in sympathy with insurance, and has been the means of making many
other men cast their sympathies in the same direction.

Certainly there is no nobler field for human effort than the insurance
line of business--especially accident insurance.  Ever since I have been
a director in an accident-insurance company I have felt that I am a
better man.  Life has seemed more precious.  Accidents have assumed a
kindlier aspect.  Distressing special providences have lost half their
horror.  I look upon a cripple now with affectionate interest--as an
advertisement.  I do not seem, to care for poetry any more.  I do not
care for politics--even agriculture does not excite me.  But to me now
there is a charm about a railway collision that is unspeakable.

There is nothing more beneficent than accident insurance.  I have seen an
entire family lifted out of poverty and into affluence by the simple boon
of a broken leg.  I have had people come to me on crutches, with tears in
their eyes, to bless this beneficent institution.  In all my experience
of life, I have seen nothing so seraphic as the look that comes into a
freshly mutilated man's face when he feels in his vest pocket with his
remaining hand and finds his accident ticket all right.  And I have seen
nothing so sad as the look that came into another splintered customer's
face when he found he couldn't collect on a wooden leg.

I will remark here, by way of advertisement, that that noble charity
which we have named the HARTFORD ACCIDENT INSURANCE COMPANY is an
institution, which is peculiarly to be depended upon.  A man is bound to
prosper who gives it his custom.  No man pan take out a policy in it and
not get crippled before the year is out.  Now there was one indigent man
who had been disappointed so often with other companies that he had grown
disheartened, his appetite left him, he ceased to smile--said life was
but a weariness.  Three weeks ago I got him to insure with us, and now he
is the brightest, happiest spirit in this land--has a good steady income
and a stylish suit of new bandages every day, and travels around on a
shutter.

I will say in conclusion, that my share of the welcome to our guest is
none the less hearty because I talk so much nonsense, and I know that I
curl say the same far the rest of the speakers.






OSTEOPATHY

          On February 27, 1901, Mr. Clemens appeared before the Assembly
          Committee in Albany, New York, in favor of the Seymour bill
          legalizing the practice of osteopathy.

MR. CHAIRMAN AND GENTLEMEN,--Dr. Van Fleet is the gentleman who gave me
the character.  I have heard my character discussed a thousand times
before you were born, sir, and shown the iniquities in it, and you did
not get more than half of them.

I was touched and distressed when they brought that part of a child in
here, and proved that you cannot take a child to pieces in that way.
What remarkable names those diseases have!  It makes me envious of the
man that has them all.  I have had many diseases, and am thankful for all
I have had.

One of the gentlemen spoke of the knowledge of something else found in
Sweden, a treatment which I took.  It is, I suppose, a kindred thing.
There is apparently no great difference between them.  I was a year and a
half in London and Sweden, in the hands of that grand old man, Mr.
Kildren.

I cannot call him a doctor, for he has not the authority to give a
certificate if a patient should die, but fortunately they don't.

The State stands as a mighty Gibraltar clothed with power.  It stands
between me and my body, and tells me what kind of a doctor I must employ.
When my soul is sick unlimited spiritual liberty is given me by the
State.  Now then, it doesn't seem logical that the State shall depart
from this great policy, the health of the soul, and change about and take
the other position in the matter of smaller consequence--the health of
the body.

The Bell bill limitations would drive the osteopaths out of the State.
Oh, dear me! when you drive somebody out of the State you create the same
condition as prevailed in the Garden of Eden.

You want the thing that you can't have.  I didn't care much about the
osteopaths, but as soon as I found they were going to drive them out I
got in a state of uneasiness, and I can't sleep nights now.

I know how Adam felt in the Garden of Eden about the prohibited apple.
Adam didn't want the apple till he found out he couldn't have it,
just as he would have wanted osteopathy if he couldn't have it.

Whose property is my body?  Probably mine.  I so regard it.  If I
experiment with it, who must be answerable?  I, not the State.  If I
choose injudiciously, does the State die?  Oh no.

I was the subject of my mother's experiment.  She was wise.  She made
experiments cautiously.  She didn't pick out just any child in the flock.
No, she chose judiciously.  She chose one she could spare, and she
couldn't spare the others.  I was the choice child of the flock; so I had
to take all of the experiments.

In 1844 Kneipp filled the world with the wonder of the water cure.
Mother wanted to try it, but on sober second thought she put me through.
A bucket of ice-water was poured over to see the effect.  Then I was
rubbed down with flannels, sheet was dipped in the water, and I was put
to bed.  I perspired so much that mother put a life-preserver to bed with
me.

But this had nothing but a spiritual effect on me, and I didn't care for
that.  When they took off the sheet it was yellow from the output of my
conscience, the exudation of sin.  It purified me spiritually, and it
remains until this day.

I have experimented with osteopathy and allopathy.  I took a chance at
the latter for old times' sake, for, three tines, when a boy, mother's
new methods got me so near death's door she had to call in the family
physician to pull me out.

The physicians think they are moved by regard for the best interests of
the public.  Isn't there a little touch of self-interest back of it all?
It seems to me there is, and I don't claim to have all the virtues--only
nine or ten of them.

I was born in the "Banner State," and by "Banner State" I mean Missouri.
Osteopathy was born in the same State, and both of us are getting along
reasonably well.  At a time during my younger days my attention was
attracted to a picture of a house which bore the inscription, "Christ
Disputing with the Doctors."

I could attach no other meaning to it than that Christ was actually
quarreling with the doctors.  So I asked an old slave, who was a sort of
a herb doctor in a small way--unlicensed, of course--what the meaning of
the picture was.  "What had has done?" I asked.  And the colored man
replied "Humph, he ain't got no license."






WATER-SUPPLY

          Mr. Clemens visited Albany on February 21 and 28, 1901. The
          privileges of the floor were granted and he was asked to make a
          short address to the Senate.

MR. PRESIDENT AND GENTLEMEN,--I do not know how to thank you sufficiently
for this high honor which you are conferring upon me.  I have for the
second time now enjoyed this kind of prodigal hospitality--in the other
House yesterday, to-day in this one.  I am a modest man, and diffident
about appearing before legislative bodies, and yet utterly an entirely
appreciative of a courtesy like this when it is extended to me, and I
thank you very much for it.

If I had the privilege, which unfortunately I have not got, of suggesting
things to the legislators in my individual capacity, I would so enjoy the
opportunity that I would not charge anything for it at all.  I would do
that without a salary.  I would give them the benefit of my wisdom and
experience in legislative bodies, and if I could have had the privilege
for a few minutes of giving advice to the other House I should have liked
to, but of course I could not undertake it, as they did not ask me to do
it--but if they had only asked me!

Now that the House is considering a measure which is to furnish a water-
supply to the city of New York, why, permit me to say I live in New York
myself.  I know all about its ways, its desires, and its residents, and--
if I had the privilege--I should have urged them not to weary themselves
over a measure like that to furnish water to the city of New York, for we
never drink it.

But I will not venture to advise this body, as I only venture to advise
bodies who are, not present.






MISTAKEN IDENTITY

ADDRESS AT THE ANNUAL "LADIES' DAY," PAPYRUS CLUB, BOSTON

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--I am perfectly astonished--a-s-t-o-n-i-s-h-e-d--
ladies and gentlemen--astonished at the way history repeats itself.
I find myself situated at this moment exactly and precisely as I was once
before, years ago, to a jot, to a tittle--to a very hair.  There isn't a
shade of difference.  It is the most astonishing coincidence that ever--
but wait.  I will tell you the former instance, and then you will see it
for yourself.  Years ago I arrived one day at Salamanca, New York,
eastward bound; must change cars there and take the sleeper train.  There
were crowds of people there, and they were swarming into the long sleeper
train and packing it full, and it was a perfect purgatory of dust and
confusion and gritting of teeth and soft, sweet, and low profanity.
I asked the young man in the ticket-office if I could have a sleeping-
section, and he answered "No," with a snarl that shrivelled me up like
burned leather.  I went off, smarting under this insult to my dignity,
and asked another local official, supplicatingly, if I couldn't have some
poor little corner somewhere in a sleeping-car; but he cut me short with
a venomous "No, you can't; every corner is full.  Now, don't bother me
any more"; and he turned his back and walked off.  My dignity was in a
state now which cannot be described.  I was so ruffled that--well, I said
to my companion, "If these people knew who I am they--"But my companion
cut me short there--"Don't talk such folly," he said; "if they did know
who you are, do you suppose it would help your high-mightiness to a
vacancy in a train which has no vacancies in it?"

This did not improve my condition any to speak of, but just then I
observed that the colored porter of a sleeping-car had his eye on me.
I saw his dark countenance light up.  He whispered to the uniformed
conductor, punctuating with nods and jerks toward me, and straightway
this conductor came forward, oozing politeness from every pore.

"Can I be of any service to you ?" he asked.  "Will you have a place in
the sleeper?"

"Yes," I said, "and much oblige me, too.  Give me anything--anything will
answer."

"We have nothing left but the big family state-room," he continued, "with
two berths and a couple of arm-chairs in it, but it is entirely at your
disposal.  Here, Tom, take these satchels aboard!"

Then he touched his hat and we and the colored Tom moved along.  I was
bursting to drop just one little remark to my companion, but I held in
and waited.  Tom made us comfortable in that sumptuous great apartment,
and then said, with many bows and a perfect affluence of smiles:

"Now, is dey anything you want, sah?  Case you kin have jes' anything you
wants.  It don't make no difference what it is."

"Can I have some hot water and a tumbler at nine to-night-blazing hot?"
I asked.  "You know about the right temperature for a hot Scotch punch?"

"Yes, sah, dat you kin; you kin pen on it; I'll get it myself."

"Good!  Now, that lamp is hung too high.  Can I have a big coach candle
fixed up just at the head of my bed, so that I can read comfortably?"

"Yes, sah, you kin; I'll fix her up myself, an' I'll fix her so she'll
burn all night.  Yes, sah; an' you can jes' call for anything you want,
and dish yer whole railroad'll be turned wrong end up an' inside out for
to get it for you.  Dat's so."  And he disappeared.

Well, I tilted my head back, hooked my thumbs in my armholes, smiled a
smile on my companion, and said, gently:

"Well, what do you say now?"

My companion was not in the humor to respond, and didn't.  The next
moment that smiling black face was thrust in at the crack of the door,
and this speech followed:

"Laws bless you, sah, I knowed you in a minute.  I told de conductah so.
Laws!  I knowed you de minute I sot eyes on you."

"Is that so, my boy?" (Handing him a quadruple fee.) "Who am I?"

"Jenuel McClellan," and he disappeared again.

My companion said, vinegarishly, "Well, well!  what do you say now?"
Right there comes in the marvellous coincidence I mentioned a while ago
--viz., I was speechless, and that is my condition now.  Perceive it?






CATS AND CANDY

          The following address was delivered at a social meeting of
          literary men in New York in 1874:

When I was fourteen I was living with my parents, who were very poor--and
correspondently honest.  We had a youth living with us by the name of Jim
Wolfe.  He was an excellent fellow, seventeen years old, and very
diffident.  He and I slept together--virtuously; and one bitter winter's
night a cousin Mary--she's married now and gone--gave what they call a
candy-pulling in those days in the West, and they took the saucers of hot
candy outside of the house into the snow, under a sort of old bower that
came from the eaves--it was a sort of an ell then, all covered with
vines--to cool this hot candy in the snow, and they were all sitting
there.  In the mean time we were gone to bed.  We were not invited to
attend this party; we were too young.

The young ladies and gentlemen were assembled there, and Jim and I were
in bed.  There was about four inches of snow on the roof of this ell, and
our windows looked out on it; and it was frozen hard.  A couple of tom-
cats--it is possible one might have been of the opposite sex--were
assembled on the chimney in the middle of this ell, and they were
growling at a fearful rate, and switching their tails about and going on,
and we couldn't sleep at all.

Finally Jim said, "For two cents I'd go out and snake them cats off that
chimney."  So I said, "Of course you would."  He said, "Well, I would;
I have a mighty good notion to do it."  Says I, "Of course you have;
certainly you have, you have a great notion to do it."  I hoped he might
try it, but I was afraid he wouldn't.

Finally I did get his ambition up, and he raised the window and climbed
out on the icy roof, with nothing on but his socks and a very short
shirt.  He went climbing along on all fours on the roof toward the
chimney where the cats were.  In the mean time these young ladies and
gentlemen were enjoying themselves down under the eaves, and when Jim got
almost to that chimney he made a pass at the cats, and his heels flew up
and he shot down and crashed through those vines, and lit in the midst of
the ladies and gentlemen, and sat down in those hot saucers of candy.

There was a stampede, of course, and he came up-stairs dropping pieces of
chinaware and candy all the way up, and when he got up there--now anybody
in the world would have gone into profanity or something calculated to
relieve the mind, but he didn't; he scraped the candy off his legs,
nursed his blisters a little, and said, "I could have ketched them cats
if I had had on a good ready."

[Does any reader know what a "ready" was in 1840?  D.W.]






OBITUARY POETRY

          ADDRESS AT THE ACTORS' FUND FAIR, PHILADELPHIA, in 1895

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--The--er this--er--welcome occasion gives me an--
er--opportunity to make an--er--explanation that I have long desired to
deliver myself of.  I rise to the highest honors before a Philadelphia
audience.  In the course of my checkered career I have, on divers
occasions, been charged--er--maliciously with a more or less serious
offence.  It is in reply to one of the more--er--important of these that
I wish to speak.  More than once I have been accused of writing obituary
poetry in the Philadelphia Ledger.

I wish right here to deny that dreadful assertion.  I will admit that
once, when a compositor in the Ledger establishment, I did set up some of
that poetry, but for a worse offence than that no indictment can be found
against me.  I did not write that poetry--at least, not all of it.






CIGARS AND TOBACCO

My friends for some years now have remarked that I am an inveterate
consumer of tobacco.  That is true, but my habits with regard to tobacco
have changed.  I have no doubt that you will say, when I have explained
to you what my present purpose is, that my taste has deteriorated, but I
do not so regard it.

Whenever I held a smoking-party at my house, I found that my guests had
always just taken the pledge.

Let me tell you briefly the history of my personal relation to tobacco.
It began, I think, when I was a lad, and took the form of a quid, which I
became expert in tucking under my tongue.  Afterward I learned the
delights of the pipe, and I suppose there was no other youngster of my
age who could more deftly cut plug tobacco so as to make it available for
pipe-smoking.

Well, time ran on, and there came a time when I was able to gratify one
of my youthful ambitions--I could buy the choicest Havana cigars without
seriously interfering with my income.  I smoked a good many, changing off
from the Havana cigars to the pipe in the course of a day's smoking.

At last it occurred to n1e that something was lacking in the Havana
cigar.  It did not quite fulfil my youthful anticipations.
I experimented.  I bought what was called a seed-leaf cigar with a
Connecticut wrapper.  After a while I became satiated of these, and I
searched for something else, The Pittsburg stogy was recommended to me.
It certainly had the merit of cheapness, if that be a merit in tobacco,
and I experimented with the stogy.

Then, once more, I changed off, so that I might acquire the subtler
flavor of the Wheeling toby.  Now that palled, and I looked around New
York in the hope of finding cigars which would seem to most people vile,
but which, I am sure, would be ambrosial to me.  I couldn't find any.
They put into my hands some of those little things that cost ten cents a
box, but they are a delusion.

I said to a friend, "I want to know if you can direct me to an honest
tobacco merchant who will tell me what is the worst cigar in the New York
market, excepting those made for Chinese consumption--I want real
tobacco.  If you will do this and I find the man is as good as his word,
I will guarantee him a regular market for a fair amount of his cigars."

We found a tobacco dealer who would tell the truth--who, if a cigar was
bad, would boldly say so.  He produced what he called the very worst
cigars he had ever had in his shop.  He let me experiment with one then
and there.  The test was satisfactory.

This was, after all, the real thing.  I negotiated for a box of them and
took them away with me, so that I might be sure of having them handy when
I want them.

I discovered that the "worst cigars," so called, are the best for me,
after all.






BILLIARDS

          Mr. Clemens attended a billiard tourney on the evening of April
          24, 1906, and was called on to tell a story.

The game of billiards has destroyed my naturally sweet disposition.
Once, when I was an underpaid reporter in Virginia City, whenever I
wished to play billiards I went out to look for an easy mark.  One day a
stranger came to town and opened a billiard parlor.  I looked him over
casually.  When he proposed a game, I answered, "All right."

"Just knock the balls around a little so that I can get your gait," he
said; and when I had done so, he remarked: "I will be perfectly fair with
you.  I'll play you left-handed."  I felt hurt, for he was cross-eyed,
freckled, and had red hair, and I determined to teach him a lesson.  He
won first shot, ran out, took my half-dollar, and all I got was the
opportunity to chalk my cue.

"If you can play like that with your left hand," I said, "I'd like to see
you play with your right."

"I can't," he said.  "I'm left-handed."






THE UNION RIGHT OR WRONG

          REMINISCENCES OF NEVADA

I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that Nevada had lively newspapers
in those days.

My great competitor among the reporters was Boggs, of the Union, an
excellent reporter.

Once in three or four months he would get a little intoxicated; but, as a
general thing, he was a wary and cautious drinker, although always ready
to damp himself a little with the enemy.

He had the advantage of me in one thing: he could get the monthly public-
school report and I could not, because the principal hated my sheet--the
'Enterprise'.

One snowy night, when the report was due, I started out, sadly wondering
how I was to get it.

Presently, a few steps up the almost deserted street, I stumbled on
Boggs, and asked him where he was going.

"After the school report."

"I'll go along with you."

"No, Sir.  I'll excuse you."

"Have it your own way."

A saloon-keeper's boy passed by with a steaming pitcher of hot punch, and
Boggs snuffed the fragrance gratefully.

He gazed fondly after the boy, and saw him start up the Enterprise
stairs.

I said:

"I wish you could help me get that school business, but since you can't,
I must run up to the Union office and see if I can get a proof of it
after it's set up, though I don't begin to suppose I can.  Good night."

"Hold on a minute.  I don't mind getting the report and sitting around
with the boys a little while you copy it, if you're willing to drop down
to the principal's with me."

"Now you talk like a human being.  Come along."

We ploughed a couple of blocks through the snow, got the report--a short
document--and soon copied it in our office.

Meantime, Boggs helped himself to the punch.

I gave the manuscript back to him, and we started back to get an inquest.

At four o'clock in the morning, when we had gone to press and were having
a relaxing concert as usual (for some of the printers were good singers
and others good performers on the guitar and on that atrocity the
accordion), the proprietor of the Union strode in and asked if anybody
had heard anything of Boggs or the school report.

We stated the case, and all turned out to help hunt for the delinquent.

We found him standing on a table in a saloon, with an old tin lantern in
one hand and the school report in the other, haranguing a gang of
"corned" miners on, the iniquity of squandering the public money on
education "when hundreds and hundreds of honest, hard-working men were
literally starving for whiskey."

He had been assisting in a regal spree with those parties for hours.

We dragged him away, and put him into bed.

Of course there was no school report in the Union, and Boggs held me
accountable, though I was innocent of any intention or desire to compass
its absence from that paper, and was as sorry as any one that the
misfortune had occurred.  But we were perfectly friendly.

The day the next school report was due the proprietor of the Tennessee
Mine furnished us a buggy, and asked us to go down and write something
about the property--a very common request, and one always gladly acceded
to when people furnished buggies, for we were as fond of pleasure
excursions as other people.

The "mine" was a hole in the ground ninety feet deep, and no way of
getting down into it but by holding on to a rope and being lowered with a
windlass.

The workmen had just gone off somewhere to dinner.

I was not strong enough to lower Boggs's bulk, so I took an unlighted
candle in my teeth, made a loop for my foot in the end of the rope,
implored Boggs not to go to sleep or let the windlass get the start of
him, and then swung out over the shaft.

I reached the bottom muddy and bruised about the elbows, but safe.

I lit the candle, made an examination of the rock, selected some
specimens, and shouted to Boggs to hoist away.

No answer.

Presently a head appeared in the circle of daylight away aloft, and a
voice came down:

"Are you all set?"

"All set-hoist away!"

"Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly."

"Could you wait a little?"

"Oh, certainly-no particular hurry."

"Well-good-bye."

"Why, where are you going?"

"After the school report!"

And he did.

I stayed down there an hour, and surprised the workmen when they hauled
up and found a man on the rope instead of a bucket of rock.

I walked home, too--five miles-up-hill.

We had no school report next morning--but the Union had.






AN IDEAL FRENCH ADDRESS

     EXTRACT FROM "PARIS NOTES," IN "TOM SAWYER ABROAD," ETC.

I am told that a French sermon is like a French speech--it never names an
historical event, but only the date of it; if you are not up in dates,
you get left.  A French speech is something like this:

"Comrades, citizens, brothers, noble parts of the only sublime and
perfect nation, let us not forget that the 21st January cast off our
chains; that the 10th August relieved us of the shameful presence of
foreign spies; that the 5th September was its own justification before
Heaven and humanity; that the 18th Brumaire contained the seeds of its
own punishment; that the 14th July was the mighty voice of liberty
proclaiming the resurrection, the new day, and inviting the oppressed
peoples of the earth to look upon the divine face of France and live;
and let us here record our everlasting curse against the man of the
2d December, and declare in thunder tones, the native tones of France,
that but for him there had been no 17th Mardi in history, no 12th
October, nor 9th January, no 22d April, no 16th November, no 30th
September, no 2d July, no 14th February, no 29th June, no 15th August, no
31st May--that but for him, France, the pure, the grand, the peerless,
had had a serene and vacant almanac to-day."

I have heard of one French sermon which closed in this odd yet eloquent
way:

"My hearers, we have sad cause to remember the man of the 13th January.
The results of the vast crime of the 13th January have been in just
proportion to the magnitude of the act itself.  But for it there had been
no 30th November--sorrowful spectacle!  The grisly deed of the 16th June
had not been done but for it, nor had the man of the 16th June known
existence; to it alone the 3d September was due, also the fatal 12th
October.  Shall we, then, be grateful for the 13th January, with its
freight of death for you and me and all that breathe?  Yes, my friends,
for it gave us also that which had never come but for it, and it alone--
the blessed 25th December."

It may be well enough to explain.  The man of the 13th January is Adam;
the crime of that date was the eating of the apple; the sorrowful
spectacle of the 30th November was the expulsion from Eden; the grisly
deed of the 16th June was the murder of Abel; the act of the 3d September
was the beginning of the journey to the land of Nod; the 12th day of
October, the last mountaintops disappeared under the flood.  When you go
to church in France, you want to take your almanac with you--annotated.






STATISTICS

          EXTRACT FROM "THE HISTORY OF THE SAVAGE CLUB"

          During that period of gloom when domestic bereavement had
          forced Mr. Clemens and his dear ones to secure the privacy they
          craved until their wounds should heal, his address was known to
          only a very few of his closest friends.  One old friend in New
          York, after vain efforts to get his address, wrote him a letter
          addressed as follows

                    MARK TWAIN,
                         God Knows Where,
                                   Try London.

          The letter found him, and Mr. Clemens replied to the letter
          expressing himself surprised and complimented that the person
          who was credited with knowing his whereabouts should take so
          much interest in him, adding: "Had the letter been addressed to
          the care of the 'other party,' I would naturally have expected
          to receive it without delay."

          His correspondent tried again, and addressed the second letter:

                    MARK TWAIN,
                         The Devil Knows Where,
                              Try London.

          This found him also no less promptly.

          On June 9, 1899, he consented to visit the Savage Club, London,
          on condition that there was to be no publicity and no speech
          was to be expected from him.  The toastmaster, in proposing the
          health of their guest, said that as a Scotchman, and therefore
          as a born expert, he thought Mark Twain had little or no claim
          to the title of humorist.  Mr. Clemens had tried to be funny
          but had failed, and his true role in life was statistics; that
          he was a master of statistics, and loved them for their own
          sake, and it would be the easiest task he ever undertook if he
          would try to count all the real jokes he had ever made.  While
          the toastmaster was speaking, the members saw Mr. Clemens's
          eyes begin to sparkle and his cheeks to flush.  He jumped up,
          and made a characteristic speech.

Perhaps I am not a humorist, but I am a first-class fool--a simpleton;
for up to this moment I have believed Chairman MacAlister to be a decent
person whom I could allow to mix up with my friends and relatives.  The
exhibition he has just made of himself reveals him to be a scoundrel and
a knave of the deepest dye.  I have been cruelly deceived, and it serves
me right for trusting a Scotchman.  Yes, I do understand figures, and I
can count.  I have counted the words in MacAlister's drivel (I certainly
cannot call it a speech), and there were exactly three thousand four
hundred and thirty-nine.  I also carefully counted the lies--there were
exactly three thousand four hundred and thirty-nine.  Therefore, I leave
MacAlister to his fate.

I was sorry to have my name mentioned as one of the great authors,
because they have a sad habit of dying off.  Chaucer is dead, Spencer is
dead, so is Milton, so is Shakespeare, and I am not feeling very well
myself.






GALVESTON ORPHAN BAZAAR

          ADDRESS AT A FAIR HELD AT THE WALDORF-ASTORIA, NEW YORK, IN
          OCTOBER, 1900, IN AID OF THE ORPHANS AT GALVESTON

I expected that the Governor of Texas would occupy this place first and
would speak to you, and in the course of his remarks would drop a text
for me to talk from; but with the proverbial obstinacy that is proverbial
with governors, they go back on their duties, and he has not come here,
and has not furnished me with a text, and I am here without a text.  I
have no text except what you furnish me with your handsome faces, and--
but I won't continue that, for I could go on forever about attractive
faces, beautiful dresses, and other things.  But, after all, compliments
should be in order in a place like this.

I have been in New York two or three days, and have been in a condition
of strict diligence night and day, the object of this diligence being to
regulate the moral and political situation on this planet--put it on a
sound basis--and when you are regulating the conditions of a planet it
requires a great deal of talk in a great many kinds of ways, and when you
have talked a lot the emptier you get, and get also in a position of
corking.  When I am situated like that, with nothing to say, I feel as
though I were a sort of fraud; I seem to be playing a part, and please
consider I am playing a part for want of something better, and this, is
not unfamiliar to me; I have often done this before.

When I was here about eight years ago I was coming up in a car of the
elevated road.  Very few people were in that car, and on one end of it
there was no one, except on the opposite seat, where sat a man about
fifty years old, with a most winning face and an elegant eye--a beautiful
eye; and I took him from his dress to be a master mechanic, a man who had
a vocation.  He had with him a very fine little child of about four or
five years.  I was watching the affection which existed between those
two.  I judged he was the grandfather, perhaps.  It was really a pretty
child, and I was admiring her, and as soon as he saw I was admiring her
he began to notice me.

I could see his admiration of me in his eye, and I did what everybody
else would do--admired the child four times as much, knowing I would get
four times as much of his admiration.  Things went on very pleasantly.
I was making my way into his heart.

By-and-by, when he almost reached the station where he was to get off,
he got up, crossed over, and he said: "Now I am going to say something to
you which I hope you will regard as a compliment."  And then he went on
to say: "I have never seen Mark Twain, but I have seen a portrait of him,
and any friend of mine will tell you that when I have once seen a
portrait of a man I place it in my eye and store it away in my memory,
and I can tell you now that you look enough like Mark Twain to be his
brother.  Now," he said, "I hope you take this as a compliment.  Yes, you
are a very good imitation; but when I come to look closer, you are
probably not that man."

I said: "I will be frank with you.  In my desire to look like that
excellent character I have dressed for the character; I have been playing
a part."

He said: "That is all right, that is all right; you look very well on the
outside, but when it comes to the inside you are not in it with the
original"

So when I come to a place like this with nothing valuable to say I always
play a part.  But I will say before I sit down that when it comes to
saying anything here I will express myself in this way: I am heartily in
sympathy with you in your efforts to help those who were sufferers in
this calamity, and in your desire to heap those who were rendered
homeless, and in saying this I wish to impress on you the fact that I am
not playing a part.






SAN FRANCISCO EARTHQUAKE

          After the address at the Robert Fulton Fund meeting, June 19,
          1906, Mr. Clemens talked to the assembled reporters about the
          San Francisco earthquake.

I haven't been there since 1868, and that great city of San Francisco has
grown up since my day.  When I was there she had one hundred and eighteen
thousand people, and of this number eighteen thousand were Chinese.
I was a reporter on the Virginia City Enterprise in Nevada in 1862, and
stayed there, I think, about two years, when I went to San Francisco and
got a job as a reporter on The Call.  I was there three or four
years.

I remember one day I was walking down Third Street in San Francisco.  It
was a sleepy, dull Sunday afternoon, and no one was stirring.  Suddenly
as I looked up the street about three hundred yards the whole side of a
house fell out.  The street was full of bricks and mortar.  At the same
time I was knocked against the side of a house, and stood there stunned
for a moment.

I thought it was an earthquake.  Nobody else had heard anything about it
and no one said earthquake to me afterward, but I saw it and I wrote it.
Nobody else wrote it, and the house I saw go into the street was the only
house in the city that felt it.  I've always wondered if it wasn't a
little performance gotten up for my especial entertainment by the nether
regions.






CHARITY AND ACTORS

          ADDRESS AT THE ACTORS' FUND FAIR IN THE METROPOLITAN
          OPERA HOUSE, NEW YORK, MAY 6, 1907

          Mr. Clemens, in his white suit, formally declared the fair
          open.  Mr. Daniel Frohman, in introducing Mr. Clemens, said:

          "We intend to make this a banner week in the history of the
          Fund, which takes an interest in every one on the stage, be he
          actor, singer, dancer, or workman.  We have spent more than
          $40,000 during the past year.  Charity covers a multitude of
          sins, but it also reveals a multitude of virtues.  At the
          opening of the former fair we had the assistance of Edwin Booth
          and Joseph Jefferson.  In their place we have to-day that
          American institution and apostle of wide humanity--Mark Twain."

As Mr. Frohman has said, charity reveals a multitude of virtues.  This is
true, and it is to be proved here before the week is over.  Mr. Frohman
has told you something of the object and something of the character of
the work.  He told me he would do this--and he has kept his word!  I had
expected to hear of it through the newspapers.  I wouldn't trust anything
between Frohman and the newspapers--except when it's a case of charity!

You should all remember that the actor has been your benefactor many and
many a year.  When you have been weary and downcast he has lifted your
heart out of gloom and given you a fresh impulse.  You are all under
obligation to him.  This is your opportunity to be his benefactor--to
help provide for him in his old age and when he suffers from infirmities.

At this fair no one is to be persecuted to buy.  If you offer a twenty-
dollar bill in payment for a purchase of $1 you will receive $19 in
change.  There is to be no robbery here.  There is to be no creed here--
no religion except charity.  We want to raise $250,000--and that is a
great task to attempt.

The President has set the fair in motion by pressing the button in
Washington.  Now your good wishes are to be transmuted into cash.

By virtue of the authority in me vested I declare the fair open.  I call
the ball game.  Let the transmuting begin!






RUSSIAN REPUBLIC

The American auxiliary movement to aid the cause of freedom in Russia was
launched on the evening of April 11, 1906, at the Club A house, 3 Fifth
Avenue, with Mr. Clemens and Maxim Gorky as the principal spokesmen.
Mr. Clemens made an introductory address, presenting Mr. Gorky.

If we can build a Russian republic to give to the persecuted people of
the Tsar's domain the same measure of freedom that we enjoy, let us go
ahead and do it.  We need not discuss the methods by which that purpose
is to be attained.  Let us hope that fighting will be postponed or
averted.  for a while, but if it must come--

I am most emphatically in sympathy with the movement, now on foot in
Russia, to make that country free.  I am certain that it will be
successful, as it deserves to be.  Any such movement should have and
deserves our earnest and unanimous co-operation, and such a petition for
funds as has been explained by Mr. Hunter, with its just and powerful
meaning, should have the utmost support of each and every one of us.
Anybody whose ancestors were in this country when we were trying to free
ourselves from oppression, must sympathize with those who now are trying
to do the same thing in Russia.

The parallel I have just drawn only goes to show that it makes no
difference whether the oppression is bitter or not; men with red, warm
blood in their veins will not endure it, but will seek to cast it off.
If we keep our hearts in this matter Russia will be free.






RUSSIAN SUFFERERS

          On December 18, 1905, an entertainment was given at the Casino
          for the benefit of the Russian sufferers.  After the
          performance Mr. Clemens spoke.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--It seems a sort of cruelty to inflict upon an
audience like this our rude English tongue, after we have heard that
divine speech flowing in that lucid Gallic tongue.

It has always been a marvel to me--that French language; it has always
been a puzzle to me.  How beautiful that language is.  How expressive it
seems to be.  How full of grace it is.

And when it comes from lips like those, how eloquent and how liquid it
is.  And, oh, I am always deceived--I always think I am going to
understand it.

Oh, it is such a delight to me, such a delight to me, to meet Madame
Bernhardt, and laugh hand to hand and heart to heart with her.

I have seen her play, as we all have, and oh, that is divine; but I have
always wanted to know Madame Bernhardt herself--her fiery self.  I have
wanted to know that beautiful character.

Why, she is the youngest person I ever saw, except myself--for I always
feel young when I come in the presence of young people.

I have a pleasant recollection of an incident so many years ago--when
Madame Bernhardt came to Hartford, where I lived, and she was going to
play and the tickets were three dollars, and there were two lovely women
--a widow and her daughter--neighbors of ours, highly cultivated ladies
they were; their tastes were fine and elevated, but they were very poor,
and they said "Well, we must not spend six dollars on a pleasure of the
mind, a pleasure of the intellect; we must spend it, if it must go at
all, to furnish to somebody bread to eat."

And so they sorrowed over the fact that they had to give up that great
pleasure of seeing Madame Bernhardt, but there were two neighbors equally
highly cultivated and who could not afford bread, and those good-hearted
Joneses sent that six dollars--deprived themselves of it--and sent it to
those poor Smiths to buy bread with.  And those Smiths took it and bought
tickets with it to see Madame Bernhardt.

Oh yes, some people have tastes and intelligence also.

Now, I was going to make a speech--I supposed I was, but I am not.  It is
late, late; and so I am going to tell a story; and there is this
advantage about a story, anyway, that whatever moral or valuable thing
you put into a speech, why, it gets diffused among those involuted
sentences and possibly your audience goes away without finding out what
that valuable thing was that you were trying to confer upon it; but, dear
me, you put the same jewel into a story and it becomes the keystone of
that story, and you are bound to get it--it flashes, it flames, it is the
jewel in the toad's head--you don't overlook that.

Now, if I am going to talk on such a subject as, for instance, the lost
opportunity--oh, the lost opportunity.  Anybody in this house who has
reached the turn of life--sixty, or seventy, or even fifty, or along
there--when he goes back along his history, there he finds it mile-stoned
all the way with the lost opportunity, and you know how pathetic that is.

You younger ones cannot know the full pathos that lies in those words--
the lost opportunity; but anybody who is old, who has really lived and
felt this life, he knows the pathos of the lost opportunity.

Now, I will tell you a story whose moral is that, whose lesson is that,
whose lament is that.

I was in a village which is a suburb of New Bedford several years ago--
well, New Bedford is a suburb of Fair Haven, or perhaps it is the other
way; in any case, it took both of those towns to make a great centre of
the great whaling industry of the first half of the nineteenth century,
and I was up there at Fair Haven some years ago with a friend of mine.

There was a dedication of a great town-hall, a public building, and we
were there in the afternoon.  This great building was filled, like this
great theatre, with rejoicing villagers, and my friend and I started down
the centre aisle.  He saw a man standing in that aisle, and he said "Now,
look at that bronzed veteran--at that mahogany-faced man.  Now, tell me,
do you see anything about that man's face that is emotional?  Do you see
anything about it that suggests that inside that man anywhere there are
fires that can be started?  Would you ever imagine that that is a human
volcano?"

"Why, no," I said, "I would not.  He looks like a wooden Indian in front
of a cigar store."

"Very well," said my friend, "I will show you that there is emotion even
in that unpromising place.  I will just go to that man and I will just
mention in the most casual way an incident in his life.  That man is
getting along toward ninety years old.  He is past eighty.  I will
mention an incident of fifty or sixty years ago.  Now, just watch the
effect, and it will be so casual that if you don't watch you won't know
when I do say that thing--but you just watch the effect."

He went on down there and accosted this antiquity, and made a remark or
two.  I could not catch up.  They were so casual I could not recognize
which one it was that touched that bottom, for in an instant that old man
was literally in eruption and was filling the whole place with profanity
of the most exquisite kind.  You never heard such accomplished profanity.
I never heard it also delivered with such eloquence.

I never enjoyed profanity as I enjoyed it then--more than if I had been
uttering it myself.  There is nothing like listening to an artist--all
his passions passing away in lava, smoke, thunder, lightning, and
earthquake.

Then this friend said to me: "Now, I will tell you about that.  About
sixty years ago that man was a young fellow of twenty-three, and had just
come home from a three years' whaling voyage.  He came into that village
of his, happy and proud because now, instead of being chief mate, he was
going to be master of a whaleship, and he was proud and happy about it.

"Then he found that there had been a kind of a cold frost come upon that
town and the whole region roundabout; for while he had been away the
Father Mathew temperance excitement had come upon the whole region.
Therefore, everybody had taken the pledge; there wasn't anybody for miles
and miles around that had not taken the pledge.

"So you can see what a solitude it was to this young man, who was fond of
his grog.  And he was just an outcast, because when they found he would
not join Father Mathew's Society they ostracized him, and he went about
that town three weeks, day and night, in utter loneliness--the only human
being in the whole place who ever took grog, and he had to take it
privately.

"If you don't know what it is to be ostracized, to be shunned by your
fellow-man, may you never know it.  Then he recognized that there was
something more valuable in this life than grog, and that is the
fellowship of your fellow-man.  And at last he gave it up, and at nine
o'clock one night he went down to the Father Mathew Temperance Society,
and with a broken heart he said: 'Put my name down for membership in this
society.'

"And then he went away crying, and at earliest dawn the next morning they
came for him and routed him out, and they said that new ship of his was
ready to sail on a three years' voyage.  In a minute he was on board that
ship and gone.

"And he said--well, he was not out of sight of that town till he began to
repent, but he had made up his mind that he would not take a drink, and
so that whole voyage of three years was a three years' agony to that man
because he saw all the time the mistake he had made.

"He felt it all through; he had constant reminders of it, because the
crew would pass him with their grog, come out on the deck and take it,
and there was the torturous Smell of it.

"He went through the whole, three years of suffering, and at last coming
into port it was snowy, it was cold, he was stamping through the snow two
feet deep on the deck and longing to get home, and there was his crew
torturing him to the last minute with hot grog, but at last he had his
reward.  He really did get to shore at fast, and jumped and ran and
bought a jug and rushed to the society's office, and said to the
secretary:

"'Take my name off your membership books, and do it right away!  I have
got a three years' thirst on.'

"And the secretary said: 'It is not necessary.  You were blackballed!'"






WATTERSON AND TWAIN AS REBELS

          ADDRESS AT THE CELEBRATION OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S 92D BIRTHDAY
          ANNIVERSARY, CARNEGIE HALL, FEBRUARY 11, 1901, TO RAISE FUNDS
          FOR THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL UNIVERSITY AT CUMBERLAND GAP, TENN.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--The remainder of my duties as presiding chairman
here this evening are but two--only two.  One of them is easy, and the
other difficult.  That is to say, I must introduce the orator, and then
keep still and give him a chance.  The name of Henry Watterson carries
with it its own explanation.  It is like an electric light on top of
Madison Square Garden; you touch the button and the light flashes up out
of the darkness.  You mention the name of Henry Watterson, and your minds
are at once illuminated with the splendid radiance of his fame and
achievements.  A journalist, a soldier, an orator, a statesman, a rebel.
Yes, he was a rebel; and, better still, now he is a reconstructed rebel.

It is a curious circumstance, a circumstance brought about without any
collusion or prearrangement, that he and I, both of whom were rebels
related by blood to each other, should be brought here together this
evening bearing a tribute in our hands and bowing our heads in reverence
to that noble soul who for three years we tried to destroy.  I don't know
as the fact has ever been mentioned before, but it is a fact,
nevertheless.  Colonel Watterson and I were both rebels, and we are blood
relations.  I was a second lieutenant in a Confederate company for a
while--oh, I could have stayed on if I had wanted to.  I made myself
felt, I left tracks all around the country.  I could have stayed on, but
it was such weather.  I never saw such weather to be out-of-doors in, in
all my life.

The Colonel commanded a regiment, and did his part, I suppose, to destroy
the Union.  He did not succeed, yet if he had obeyed me he would have
done so.  I had a plan, and I fully intended to drive General Grant into
the Pacific Ocean--if I could get transportation.  I told Colonel
Watterson about it.  I told him what he had to do.  What I wanted him to
do was to surround the Eastern army and wait until I came up.  But he was
insubordinate; he stuck on some quibble of military etiquette about a
second lieutenant giving orders to a colonel or something like that.  And
what was the consequence?  The Union was preserved.  This is the first
time I believe that that secret has ever been revealed.

No one outside of the family circle, I think, knew it before; but there
the facts are.  Watterson saved the Union; yes, he saved the Union.  And
yet there he sits, and not a step has been taken or a movement made
toward granting him a pension.  That is the way things are done.  It is a
case where some blushing ought to be done.  You ought to blush, and I
ought to blush, and he--well, he's a little out of practice now.






ROBERT FULTON FUND

          ADDRESS MADE ON THE EVENING OF APRIL 19, 1906

          Mr. Clemens had been asked to address the association by Gen.
          Frederick D. Grant, president.  He was offered a fee of $1,000,
          but refused it, saying:

          "I shall be glad to do it, but I must stipulate that you keep
          the $1,000, and add it to the Memorial Fund as my contribution
          to erect a monument in New York to the memory of the man who
          applied steam to navigation."

          At this meeting Mr. Clemens made this formal announcement from
          the platform:

          "This is my last appearance on the paid platform.  I shall not
          retire from the gratis platform until I am buried, and courtesy
          will compel me to keep still and not disturb the others.  Now,
          since I must, I shall say good-bye.  I see many faces in this
          audience well known to me.  They are all my friends, and I feel
          that those I don't know are my friends, too.  I wish to
          consider that you represent the nation, and  that in saying
          good-bye to you I am saying good-bye to the nation.  In the
          great name of humanity, let me say this final word: I offer an
          appeal in behalf of that vast, pathetic multitude of fathers,
          mothers, and helpless little children.  They were sheltered and
          happy two days ago.  Now they are wandering, forlorn, hopeless,
          and homeless, the victims of a great disaster.  So I beg of
          you, I beg of you, to open your hearts and open your purses and
          remember San Francisco, the smitten city."

I wish to deliver a historical address.  I've been studying the history
of---er--a--let me see--a [then he stopped in confusion, and walked over
to Gen. Fred D.  Grant, who sat at the head of the platform.  He leaned
over an a whisper, and then returned to the front of the stage and
continued].  Oh yes!  I've been studying Robert Fulton.  I've been
studying a biographical sketch of Robert Fulton, the inventor of--er--a--
let's see--ah yes, the inventor of the electric telegraph and the Morse
sewing--machine.  Also, I understand he invented the air--diria--pshaw!
I have it at last--the dirigible balloon.  Yes, the dirigible--but it is
a difficult word, and I don't see why anybody should marry a couple of
words like that when they don't want to be married at all and are likely
to quarrel with each other all the time.  I should put that couple of
words under the ban of the United States Supreme Court, under its
decision of a few days ago, and take 'em out and drown 'em.

I used to know Fulton.  It used to do me good to see him dashing through
tile town on a wild broncho.

And Fulton was born in---er--a--Well, it doesn't make much difference
where he was born, does it?  I remember a man who came to interview me
once, to get a sketch of my life.  I consulted with a friend--a practical
man--before he came, to know how I should treat him.

"Whenever you give the interviewer a fact," he said, "give him another
fact that will contradict it.  Then he'll go away with a jumble that he
can't use at all.  Be gentle, be sweet, smile like an idiot--just be
natural."  That's what my friend told me to do, and I did it.

"Where were you born?" asked the interviewer.

"Well-er-a," I began, "I was born in Alabama, or Alaska, or the Sandwich
Islands; I don't know where, but right around there somewhere.  And you
had better put it down before you forget it."

"But you weren't born in all those places," he said.

"Well, I've offered you three places.  Take your choice.  They're all at
the same price."

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I shall be nineteen in June," I said.

"Why, there's such a discrepancy between your age and your looks," he
said.

"Oh, that's nothing," I said, "I was born discrepantly."

Then we got to talking about my brother Samuel, and he told me my
explanations were confusing.

"I suppose he is dead," I said.  "Some said that he was dead and some
said that he wasn't."

"Did you bury him without knowing whether he was dead or not?" asked the
reporter.

"There was a mystery," said I.  "We were twins, and one day when we were
two weeks old--that is, he was one week old, and I was one week old--we
got mixed up in the bath-tub, and one of us drowned.  We never could tell
which.  One of us had a strawberry birthmark on the back of his hand.
There it is on my hand.  This is the one that was drowned.  There's no
doubt about it.

"Where's the mystery?" he said.

"Why, don't you see how stupid it was to bury the wrong twin?"
I answered.  I didn't explain it any more because he said the explanation
confused him.  To me it is perfectly plain.

But, to get back to Fulton.  I'm going along like an old man I used to
know who used to start to tell a story about his grandfather.  He had an
awfully retentive memory, and he never finished the story, because he
switched off into something else.  He used to tell about how his
grandfather one day went into a pasture, where there was a ram.  The old
man dropped a silver dime in the grass, and stooped over to pick it up.
The ram was observing him, and took the old man's action as an
invitation.

Just as he was going to finish about the ram this friend of mine would
recall that his grandfather had a niece who had a glass eye.  She used to
loan that glass eye to another lady friend, who used it when she received
company.  The eye didn't fit the friend's face, and it was loose.  And
whenever she winked it would turn aver.

Then he got on the subject of accidents, and he would tell a story about
how he believed accidents never happened.

"There was an Irishman coming down a ladder with a hod of bricks," he
said, "and a Dutchman was standing on the ground below.  The Irishman
fell on the Dutchman and killed him.  Accident?  Never!  If the Dutchman
hadn't been there the Irishman would have been killed.  Why didn't the
Irishman fall on a dog which was next, to the Dutchman?  Because the dog
would have seen him coming."

Then he'd get off from the Dutchman to an uncle named Reginald Wilson.
Reginald went into a carpet factory one day, and got twisted into the
machinery's belt.  He went excursioning around the factory until he was
properly distributed and was woven into sixty-nine yards of the best
three-ply carpet.  His wife bought the carpet, and then she erected a
monument to his memory.  It read:

                          Sacred to the memory
                                   of
             sixty-nine yards of the best three-ply carpet
                  containing the mortal remainders of

                            REGINALD WILSON

                        Go thou and do likewise

And so an he would ramble about telling the story of his grandfather
until we never were told whether he found the ten-cent piece or whether
something else happened.






FULTON DAY, JAMESTOWN

          ADDRESS DELIVERED SEPTEMBER 23, 1907

          Lieutenant-Governor Ellyson, of Virginia, in introducing Mr.
          Clemens, said:

          "The people have come here to bring a tribute of affectionate
          recollection for the man who has contributed so much to the
          progress of the world and the happiness of mankind."  As Mr.
          Clemens came down to the platform the applause became louder
          and louder, until Mr. Clemens held out his hand for silence.
          It was a great triumph, and it was almost a minute after the
          applause ceased before Mr. Clemens could speak.  He attempted
          it once, and when the audience noticed his emotion, it cheered
          again loudly.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--I am but human, and when you, give me a reception
like that I am obliged to wait a little while I get my voice.  When you
appeal to my head, I don't feel it; but when you appeal to my heart, I do
feel it.

We are here to celebrate one of the greatest events of American history,
and not only in American history, but in the world's history.

Indeed it was--the application of steam by Robert Fulton.

It was a world event--there are not many of them.  It is peculiarly an
American event, that is true, but the influence was very broad in effect.
We should regard this day as a very great American holiday.  We have not
many that are exclusively American holidays.  We have the Fourth of July,
which we regard as an American holiday, but it is nothing of the kind.
I am waiting for a dissenting voice.  All great efforts that led up to
the Fourth of July were made, not by Americans, but by English residents
of America, subjects of the King of England.

They fought all the fighting that was done, they shed and spilt all the
blood that was spilt, in securing to us the invaluable liberties which
are incorporated in the Declaration of Independence; but they were not
Americans.  They signed the Declaration of Independence; no American's
name is signed to that document at all.  There never was an American such
as you and I are until after the Revolution, when it had all been fought
out and liberty secured, after the adoption of the Constitution, and the
recognition of the Independence of America by all powers.

While we revere the Fourth of July--and let us always revere it, and the
liberties it conferred upon us--yet it was not an American event, a great
American day.

It was an American who applied that steam successfully.  There are not a
great many world events, and we have our full share.  The telegraph,
telephone, and the application of steam to navigation--these are great
American events.

To-day I have been requested, or I have requested myself, not to confine
myself to furnishing you with information, but to remind you of things,
and to introduce one of the nation's celebrants.

Admiral Harrington here is going to tell you all that I have left untold.
I am going to tell you all that I know, and then he will follow up with
such rags and remnants as he can find, and tell you what he knows.

No doubt you have heard a great deal about Robert Fulton and the
influences that have grown from his invention, but the little steamboat
is suffering neglect.

You probably do not know a great deal about that boat.  It was the most
important steamboat in the world.  I was there and saw it.  Admiral
Harrington was there at the time.  It need not surprise you, for he is
not as old as he looks.  That little boat was interesting in every way.
The size of it.  The boat was one [consults Admiral], he said ten feet
long.  The breadth of that boat [consults Admiral], two hundred feet.
You see, the first and most important detail is the length, then the
breadth, and then the depth; the depth of that boat was [consults again]
--the Admiral says it was a flat boat.  Then her tonnage--you know
nothing about a boat until you know two more things: her speed and her
tonnage.  We know the speed she made.  She made four miles---and
sometimes five miles.  It was on her initial trip, on, August 11, 1807,
that she made her initial trip, when she went from [consults Admiral]
Jersey City--to Chicago.  That's right.  She went by way of Albany.
Now comes the tonnage of that boat.  Tonnage of a boat means the amount
of displacement; displacement means the amount of water a vessel can
shove in a day.  The tonnage of man is estimated by the amount of whiskey
he can displace in a day.

Robert Fulton named the 'Clermont' in honor of his bride, that is,
Clermont was the name of the county-seat.

I feel that it surprises you that I know so much.  In my remarks of
welcome of Admiral Harrington I am not going to give him compliments.
Compliments always embarrass a man.  You do not know anything to say.
It does not inspire you with words.  There is nothing you can say in
answer to a compliment.  I have been complimented myself a great many
times, and they always embarrass me--I always feel that they have not
said enough.

The Admiral and myself have held public office, and were associated
together a great deal a friendly way in the time of Pocahontas.  That
incident where Pocahontas saves the life of Smith from her father,
Powhatan's club, was gotten up by the Admiral and myself to advertise
Jamestown.

At that time the Admiral and myself did not have the facilities of
advertising that you have.

I have known Admiral Harrington in all kinds of situations--in public
service, on the platform, and in the chain-gang now and then--but it was
a mistake.  A case of mistaken identity.  I do not think it is at all a
necessity to tell you Admiral Harrington's public history.  You know that
it is in the histories.  I am not here to tell you anything about his
public life, but to expose his private life.

I am something of a poet.  When the great poet laureate, Tennyson, died,
and I found that the place was open, I tried to get it--but I did not get
it.  Anybody can write the first line of a poem, but it is a very
difficult task to make the second line rhyme with the first.  When I was
down in Australia there were two towns named Johnswood and Par-am.  I
made this rhyme:

               "The people of Johnswood are pious and good;
               The people of Par-am they don't care a----."

I do not want to compliment Admiral Harrington, but as long as such men
as he devote their lives to the public service the credit of the country
will never cease.  I will say that the same high qualities, the same
moral and intellectual attainments, the same graciousness of manner, of
conduct, of observation, and expression have caused Admiral Harrington to
be mistaken for me--and I have been mistaken for him.

A mutual compliment can go no further, and I now have the honor and
privilege of introducing to you Admiral Harrington.






LOTOS CLUB DINNER IN HONOR OF MARK TWAIN

          ADDRESS AT THE FIRST FORMAL DINNER IN THE NEW CLUB-HOUSE,
          NOVEMBER 11, 1893

          In introducing the guest of the evening, Mr. Lawrence said:

          "To-night the old faces appear once more amid new surroundings.
          The place where last we met about the table has vanished, and
          to-night we have our first Lotos dinner in a home that is all
          our own.  It is peculiarly fitting that the board should now be
          spread in honor of one who has been a member of the club for
          full a score of years, and it is a happy augury for the future
          that our fellow-member whom we assemble to greet should be the
          bearer of a most distinguished name in the world of letters;
          for the Lotos Club is ever at its best when paying homage to
          genius in literature or in art.  Is there a civilized being who
          has not heard the name of Mark Twain?  We knew him long years
          ago, before he came out of the boundless West, brimful of wit
          and eloquence, with no reverence for anything, and went abroad
          to educate the untutored European in the subtleties of the
          American joke.  The world has looked on and applauded while he
          has broken many images.  He has led us in imagination all over
          the globe.  With him as our guide we have traversed alike the
          Mississippi and the Sea of Galilee.  At his bidding we have
          laughed at a thousand absurdities.  By a laborious process of
          reasoning he has convinced us that the Egyptian mummies are
          actually dead.  He has held us spellbound upon the plain at the
          foot of the great Sphinx, and we have joined him in weeping
          bitter tears at the tomb of Adam.  To-night we greet him in the
          flesh.  What name is there in literature that can be likened to
          his?  Perhaps some of the distinguished gentlemen about this
          table can tell us, but I know of none.  Himself his only
          parallel!"

MR. PRESIDENT, GENTLEMEN, AND MY FELLOW-MEMBERS OF THE LOTOS CLUB,--I
have seldom in my lifetime listened to compliments so felicitously
phrased or so well deserved.  I return thanks for them from a full heart
and an appreciative spirit, and I will say this in self-defence:  While I
am charged with having no reverence for anything, I wish to say that I
have reverence for the man who can utter such truths, and I also have a
deep reverence and a sincere one for a club that can do such justice to
me.  To be the chief guest of such a club is something to be envied, and
if I read your countenances rightly I am envied.  I am glad to see this
club in such palatial quarters.  I remember it twenty years ago when it
was housed in a stable.

Now when I was studying for the ministry there were two or three things
that struck my attention particularly.  At the first banquet mentioned in
history that other prodigal son who came back from his travels was
invited to stand up and have his say.  They were all there, his brethren,
David and Goliath, and--er, and if he had had such experience as I have
had he would have waited until those other people got through talking.
He got up and testified to all his failings.  Now if he had waited before
telling all about his riotous living until the others had spoken he might
not have given himself away as he did, and I think that I would give
myself away if I should go on.  I think I'd better wait until the others
hand in their testimony; then if it is necessary for me to make an
explanation, I will get up and explain, and if I cannot do that, I'll
deny it happened.

          Later in the evening Mr. Clemens made another speech, replying
          to a fire of short speeches by Charles Dudley Warner, Charles
          A. Dana, Seth Low, General Porter, and many others, each
          welcoming the guest of honor.

I don't see that I have a great deal to explain.  I got off very well,
considering the opportunities that these other fellows had.  I don't see
that Mr. Low said anything against me, and neither did Mr. Dana.
However, I will say that I never heard so many lies told in one evening
as were told by Mr. McKelway--and I consider myself very capable; but
even in his case, when he got through, I was gratified by finding how
much he hadn't found out.  By accident he missed the very things that I
didn't want to have said, and now, gentlemen, about Americanism.

I have been on the continent of Europe for two and a half years.  I have
met many Americans there, some sojourning for a short time only, others
making protracted stays, and it has been very gratifying to me to find
that nearly all preserved their Americanism.  I have found they all like
to see the Flag fly, and that their hearts rise when they see the Stars
and Stripes.  I met only one lady who had forgotten the land of her birth
and glorified monarchical institutions.

I think it is a great thing to say that in two and a half years I met
only one person who had fallen a victim to the shams--I think we may call
them shams--of nobilities and of heredities.  She was entirely lost in
them.  After I had listened to her for a long time, I said to her:  "At
least you must admit that we have one merit.  We are not like the
Chinese, who refuse to allow their citizens who are tired of the country
to leave it.  Thank God, we don't!"






COPYRIGHT

          With Mr. Howells, Edward Everett Hale, Thomas Nelson Page, and
          a number of other authors, Mr. Clemens appeared before the
          committee December 6, 1906.  The new Copyright Bill
          contemplated an author's copyright for the term of his life and
          for fifty years thereafter, applying also for the benefit of
          artists, musicians, and others, but the authors did most of the
          talking.  F. D. Millet made a speech for the artists, and John
          Philip Sousa for the musicians.

          Mr. Clemens was the last speaker of the day, and its chief
          feature.  He made a speech, the serious parts of which created
          a strong impression, and the humorous parts set the Senators
          and Representatives in roars of laughter.

I have read this bill.  At least I have read such portions as I could
understand.  Nobody but a practised legislator can read the bill and
thoroughly understand it, and I am not a practised legislator.

I am interested particularly and especially in the part of the bill which
concerns my trade.  I like that extension of copyright life to the
author's life and fifty years afterward.  I think that would satisfy any
reasonable author, because it would take care of his children.  Let the
grandchildren take care of themselves.  That would take care of my
daughters, and after that I am not particular.  I shall then have long
been out of this struggle, independent of it, indifferent to it.

It isn't objectionable to me that all the trades and professions in the
United States are protected by the bill.  I like that.  They are all
important and worthy, and if we can take care of them under the Copyright
law I should like to see it done.  I should like to see oyster culture
added, and anything else.

I am aware that copyright must have a limit, because that is required by
the Constitution of the United States, which sets aside the earlier
Constitution, which we call the decalogue.  The decalogue says you shall
not take away from any man his profit.  I don't like to be obliged to use
the harsh term.  What the decalogue really says is, "Thou shaft not
steal," but I am trying to use more polite language.

The laws of England and America do take it away, do select but one class,
the people who create the literature of the land.  They always talk
handsomely about the literature of the land, always what a fine, great,
monumental thing a great literature is, and in the midst of their
enthusiasm they turn around and do what they can to discourage it.

I know we must have a limit, but forty-two years is too much of a limit.
I am quite unable to guess why there should be a limit at all to the
possession of the product of a man's labor.  There is no limit to real
estate.

Doctor Bale has suggested that a man might just as well, after
discovering a coal-mine and working it forty-two years, have the
Government step in and take it away.

What is the excuse?  It is that the author who produced that book has had
the profit of it long enough, and therefore the Government takes a profit
which does not belong to it and generously gives it to the 88,000,000 of
people.  But it doesn't do anything of the kind.  It merely takes the
author's property, takes his children's bread, and gives the publisher
double profit.  He goes on publishing the book and as many of his
confederates as choose to go into the conspiracy do so, and they rear
families in affluence.

And they continue the enjoyment of those ill-gotten gains generation
after generation forever, for they never die.  In a few weeks or months
or years I shall be out of it, I hope under a monument.  I hope I shall
not be entirely forgotten, and I shall subscribe to the monument myself.
But I shall not be caring what happens if there are fifty years left of
my copyright.  My copyright produces annually a good deal more than I can
use, but my children can use it.  I can get along; I know a lot of
trades.  But that goes to my daughters, who can't get along as well as I
can because I have carefully raised them as young ladies, who don't know
anything and can't do anything.  I hope Congress will extend to them the
charity which they have failed to get from me.

Why, if a man who is not even mad, but only strenuous--strenuous about
race-suicide--should come to me and try to get me to use my large
political and ecclesiastical influence to get a bill passed by this
Congress limiting families to twenty-two children by one mother, I should
try to calm him down.  I should reason with him.  I should say to him,
"Leave it alone.  Leave it alone and it will take care of itself.  Only
one couple a year in the United States can reach that limit.  If they
have reached that limit let them go right on.  Let them have all the
liberty they want.  In restricting that family to twenty-two children you
are merely conferring discomfort and unhappiness on one family per year
in a nation of 88,000,000, which is not worth while."

It is the very same with copyright.  One author per year produces a book
which can outlive the forty-two-year limit; that's all.  This nation
can't produce two authors a year that can do it; the thing is
demonstrably impossible.  All that the limited copyright can do is to
take the bread out of the mouths of the children of that one author per
year.

I made an estimate some years ago, when I appeared before a committee of
the House of Lords, that we had published in this country since the
Declaration of Independence 220,000 books.  They have all gone.  They had
all perished before they were ten years old.  It is only one book in 1000
that can outlive the forty-two year limit.  Therefore why put a limit at
all?  You might as well limit the family to twenty-two children.

If you recall the Americans in the nineteenth century who wrote books
that lived forty-two years you will have to begin with Cooper; you can
follow with Washington Irving, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Edgar Allan Poe,
and there you have to wait a long time.  You come to Emerson, and you
have to stand still and look further.  You find Howells and T. B.
Aldrich, and then your numbers begin to run pretty thin, and you question
if you can name twenty persons in the United States who--in a whole
century have written books that would live forty-two years.  Why, you
could take them all and put them on one bench there [pointing].  Add the
wives and children and you could put the result on, two or three more
benches.

One hundred persons--that is the little, insignificant crowd whose bread-
and-butter is to be taken away for what purpose, for what profit to
anybody?  You turn these few books into the hands of the pirate and of
the legitimate publisher, too, and they get the profit that should have
gone to the wife and children.

When I appeared before that committee of the House of Lords the chairman
asked me what limit I would propose.  I said, "Perpetuity." I could see
some resentment in his manner, and he said the idea was illogical, for
the reason that it has long ago been decided that there can be no such
thing as property in ideas.  I said there was property in ideas before
Queen Anne's time; they had perpetual copyright.  He said, "What is a
book?  A book is just built from base to roof on ideas, and there can be
no property in it."

I said I wished he could mention any kind of property on this planet that
had a pecuniary value which was not derived from an idea or ideas.

He said real estate.  I put a supposititious case, a dozen Englishmen who
travel through South Africa and camp out, and eleven of them see
nothing at all; they are mentally blind.  But there is one in the party
who knows what this harbor means and what the lay of the land means.  To
him it means that some day a railway will go through here, and there on
that harbor a great city will spring up.  That is his idea.  And he has
another idea, which is to go and trade his last bottle of Scotch whiskey
and his last horse-blanket to the principal chief of that region and
buy a piece of land the size of Pennsylvania.

That was the value of an idea that the day would come when the Cape to
Cairo Railway would be built.

Every improvement that is put upon the real estate is the result of an
idea in somebody's head.  The skyscraper is another idea; the railroad is
another; the telephone and all those things are merely symbols which
represent ideas.  An andiron, a wash-tub, is the result of an idea that
did not exist before.

So if, as that gentleman said, a book does consist solely of ideas, that
is the best argument in the world that it is property, and should not be
under any limitation at all.  We don't ask for that.  Fifty years from
now we shall ask for it.

I hope the bill will pass without any deleterious amendments.  I do seem
to be extraordinarily interested in a whole lot of arts and things that I
have got nothing to do with.  It is a part of my generous, liberal
nature; I can't help it.  I feel the same sort of charity to everybody
that was manifested by a gentleman who arrived at home at two o'clock in
the morning from the club and was feeling so perfectly satisfied with
life, so happy, and so comfortable, and there was his house weaving,
weaving, weaving around.  He watched his chance, and by and by when the
steps got in his neighborhood he made a jump and climbed up and got on
the portico.

And the house went on weaving and weaving and weaving, but he watched the
door, and when it came around his way he plunged through it.  He got to
the stairs, and when he went up on all fours the house was so unsteady
that he could hardly make his way, but at last he got to the top and
raised his foot and put it on the top step.  But only the toe hitched on
the step, and he rolled down and fetched up on the bottom step, with his
arm around the newel-post, and he said:

"God pity the poor sailors out at sea on a night like this."






IN AID OF THE BLIND

          ADDRESS AT A PUBLIC MEETING OF THE NEW YORK ASSOCIATION FOR
          PROMOTING THE INTERESTS OF THE BLIND AT THE WALDORF ASTORIA,
          MARCH 29, 1906

If you detect any awkwardness in my movements and infelicities in my
conduct I will offer the explanation that I never presided at a meeting
of any kind before in my life, and that I do find it out of my line.
I supposed I could do anything anybody else could, but I recognize that
experience helps, and I do feel the lack of that experience.  I don't
feel as graceful and easy as I ought to be in order to impress an
audience.  I shall not pretend that I know how to umpire a meeting like
this, and I shall just take the humble place of the Essex band.

There was a great gathering in a small New England town, about twenty-
five years ago.  I remember that circumstance because there was something
that happened at that time.  It was a great occasion.  They gathered in
the militia and orators and everybody from all the towns around.  It was
an extraordinary occasion.

The little local paper threw itself into ecstasies of admiration and
tried to do itself proud from beginning to end.  It praised the orators,
the militia, and all the bands that came from everywhere, and all this in
honest country newspaper detail, but the writer ran out of adjectives
toward the end.  Having exhausted his whole magazine of praise and
glorification, he found he still had one band left over.  He had to say
something about it, and he said: "The Essex band done the best it could."

I am an Essex band on this occasion, and I am going to get through as
well as inexperience and good intentions will enable me.  I have got all
the documents here necessary to instruct you in the objects and
intentions of this meeting and also of the association which has called
the meeting.  But they are too voluminous.  I could not pack those
statistics into my head, and I had to give it up.  I shall have to just
reduce all that mass of statistics to a few salient facts.  There are too
many statistics and figures for me.  I never could do anything with
figures, never had any talent for mathematics, never accomplished
anything in my efforts at that rugged study, and to-day the only
mathematics I know is multiplication, and the minute I get away up in
that, as soon as I reach nine times seven--

[Mr. Clemens lapsed into deep thought for a moment.  He was trying to
figure out nine times seven, but it was a hopeless task, and he turned to
St. Clair McKelway, who sat near him.  Mr. McKelway whispered the answer,
and the speaker resumed:]

I've got it now.  It's eighty-four.  Well, I can get that far all right
with a little hesitation.  After that I am uncertain, and I can't manage
a statistic.

"This association for the--"

[Mr. Clemens was in another dilemma.  Again he was obliged to turn to Mr.
McKelway.]

Oh yes, for promoting the interests of the blind.  It's a long name.  If
I could I would write it out for you and let you take it home and study
it, but I don't know how to spell it.  And Mr. Carnegie is down in
Virginia somewhere.  Well, anyway, the object of that association which
has been recently organized, five months ago, in fact, is in the hands of
very, very energetic, intelligent, and capable people, and they will push
it to success very surely, and all the more surely if you will give them
a little of your assistance out of your pockets.

The intention, the purpose, is to search out all the blind and find work
for them to do so that they may earn, their own bread.  Now it is dismal
enough to be blind--it is dreary, dreary life at best, but it can be
largely ameliorated by finding something for these poor blind people to
do with their hands.  The time passes so heavily that it is never day or
night with them, it is always night, and when they have to sit with
folded hands and with nothing to do to amuse or entertain or employ their
minds, it is drearier and drearier.

And then the knowledge they have that they must subsist on charity, and
so often reluctant charity, it would renew their lives if they could have
something to do with their hands and pass their time and at the same time
earn their bread, and know the sweetness of the bread which is the result
of the labor of one's own hands.  They need that cheer and pleasure.  It
is the only way you can turn their night into day, to give them happy
hearts, the only thing you can put in the place of the blessed sun.  That
you can do in the way I speak of.

Blind people generally who have seen the light know what it is to miss
the light.  Those who have gone blind since they were twenty years old--
their lives are unendingly dreary.  But they can be taught to use their
hands and to employ themselves at a great many industries.  That
association from which this draws its birth in Cambridge, Massachusetts,
has taught its blind to make many things.  They make them better than
most people, and more honest than people who have the use of their eyes.
The goods they make are readily salable.  People like them.  And so they
are supporting themselves, and it is a matter of cheer, cheer.  They pass
their time now not too irksomely as they formerly did.

What this association needs and wants is $15,000.  The figures are set
down, and what the money is for, and there is no graft in it or I would
not be here.  And they hope to beguile that out of your pockets, and you
will find affixed to the programme an opportunity, that little blank
which you will fill out and promise so much money now or to-morrow or
some time.  Then, there is another opportunity which is still better, and
that is that you shall subscribe an annual sum.

I have invented a good many useful things in my time, but never anything
better than that of getting money out of people who don't want to part
with it.  It is always for good objects, of course.  This is the plan:
When you call upon a person to contribute to a great and good object, and
you think he should furnish about $1,000, he disappoints you as like as
not.  Much the best way to work him to supply that thousand dollars is to
split it into parts and contribute, say a hundred dollars a year, or
fifty, or whatever the sum maybe.  Let him contribute ten or twenty a
year.  He doesn't feel that, but he does feel it when you call upon him
to contribute a large amount.  When you get used to it you would rather
contribute than borrow money.

I tried it in Helen Keller's case.  Mr. Hutton wrote me in 1896 or 1897
when I was in London and said: "The gentleman who has been so liberal in
taking care of Helen Keller has died without making provision for her in
his will, and now they don't know what to do."  They were proposing to
raise a fund, and he thought $50,000 enough to furnish an income of $2400
or $2500 a year for the support of that wonderful girl and her wonderful
teacher, Miss Sullivan, now Mrs.  Macy.  I wrote to Mr. Hutton and said:
"Go on, get up your fund.  It will be slow, but if you want quick work,
I propose this system," the system I speak of, of asking people to
contribute such and such a sum from year to year and drop out whenever
they please, and he would find there wouldn't be any difficulty, people
wouldn't feel the burden of it.  And he wrote back saying he had raised
the $2400 a year indefinitely by that system in, a single afternoon.  We
would like to do something just like that to-night.  We will take as many
checks as you care to give.  You can leave your donations in the big room
outside.

I knew once what it was to be blind.  I shall never forget that
experience.  I have been as blind as anybody ever was for three or four
hours, and the sufferings that I endured and the mishaps and the
accidents that are burning in my memory make my sympathy rise when I feel
for the blind and always shall feel.  I once went to Heidelberg on an
excursion.  I took a clergyman along with me, the Rev. Joseph Twichell,
of Hartford, who is still among the living despite that fact.  I always
travel with clergymen when I can.  It is better for them, it is better
for me.  And any preacher who goes out with me in stormy weather and
without a lightning rod is a good one.  The Reverend Twichell is one of
those people filled with patience and endurance, two good ingredients for
a man travelling with me, so we got along very well together.  In that
old town they have not altered a house nor built one in 1500 years.  We
went to the inn and they placed Twichell and me in a most colossal
bedroom, the largest I ever saw or heard of.  It was as big as this room.

I didn't take much notice of the place.  I didn't really get my bearings.
I noticed Twichell got a German bed about two feet wide, the kind in
which you've got to lie on your edge, because there isn't room to lie on
your back, and he was way down south in that big room, and I was way up
north at the other end of it, with a regular Sahara in between.

We went to bed.  Twichell went to sleep, but then he had his conscience
loaded and it was easy for him to get to sleep.  I couldn't get to sleep.
It was one of those torturing kinds of lovely summer nights when you hear
various kinds of noises now and then.  A mouse away off in the southwest.
You throw things at the mouse.  That encourages the mouse.  But I
couldn't stand it, and about two o'clock I got up and thought I would
give it up and go out in the square where there was one of those tinkling
fountains, and sit on its brink and dream, full of romance.

I got out of bed, and I ought to have lit a candle, but I didn't think of
it until it was too late.  It was the darkest place that ever was.  There
has never been darkness any thicker than that.  It just lay in cakes.

I thought that before dressing I would accumulate my clothes.  I pawed
around in the dark and found everything packed together on the floor
except one sock.  I couldn't get on the track of that sock.  It might
have occurred to me that maybe it was in the wash.  But I didn't think of
that.  I went excursioning on my hands and knees.  Presently I thought,
"I am never going to find it; I'll go back to bed again."  That is what I
tried to do during the next three hours.  I had lost the bearings of that
bed.  I was going in the wrong direction all the time.  By-and-by I came
in collision with a chair and that encouraged me.

It seemed to me, as far as I could recollect, there was only a chair here
and there and yonder, five or six of them scattered over this territory,
and I thought maybe after I found that chair I might find the next one.
Well, I did.  And I found another and another and another.  I kept going
around on my hands and knees, having those sudden collisions, and finally
when I banged into another chair I almost lost my temper.  And I raised
up, garbed as I was, not for public exhibition, right in front of a
mirror fifteen or sixteen feet high.

I hadn't noticed the mirror; didn't know it was there.  And when I saw
myself in the mirror I was frightened out of my wits.  I don't allow any
ghosts to bite me, and I took up a chair and smashed at it.  A million
pieces.  Then I reflected.  That's the way I always do, and it's
unprofitable unless a man has had much experience that way and has clear
judgment.  And I had judgment, and I would have had to pay for that
mirror if I hadn't recollected to say it was Twichell who broke it.

Then I got down, on my hands and knees and went on another exploring
expedition.

As far as I could  remember there were six chairs in that Oklahoma, and
one table, a great big heavy table, not a good table to hit with your
head when rushing madly along.  In the course of time I collided with
thirty-five chairs and tables enough to stock that dining-room out there.
It was a hospital for decayed furniture, and it was in a worse condition
when I got through with it.  I went on and on, and at last got to a place
where I could feel my way up, and there was a shelf.  I knew that wasn't
in the middle of the room.  Up to that time I was afraid I had gotten out
of the city.

I was very careful and pawed along that shelf, and there was a pitcher of
water about a foot high, and it was at the head of Twichell's bed, but I
didn't know it.  I felt that pitcher going and I grabbed at it, but it
didn't help any and came right down in Twichell's face and nearly drowned
him.  But it woke him up.  I was grateful to have company on any terms.
He lit a match, and there I was, way down south when I ought to have been
back up yonder.  My bed was out of sight it was so far away.  You needed
a telescope to find it.  Twichell comforted me and I scrubbed him off and
we got sociable.

But that night wasn't wasted.  I had my pedometer on my leg.  Twichell
and I were in a pedometer match.  Twichell had longer legs than I.  The
only way I could keep up was to wear my pedometer to bed.  I always walk
in my sleep, and on this occasion I gained sixteen miles on him.  After
all, I never found that sock.  I never have seen it from that day to
this.  But that adventure taught me what it is to be blind.  That was one
of the most serious occasions of my whole life, yet I never can speak of
it without somebody thinking it isn't serious.  You try it and see how
serious it is to be as the blind are and I was that night.

[Mr. Clemens read several letters of regret.  He then introduced Joseph
H. Choate, saying:]

It is now my privilege to present to you Mr. Choate.  I don't have to
really introduce him.  I don't have to praise him, or to flatter him.
I could say truly that in the forty-seven years I have been familiarly
acquainted with him he has always been the handsomest man America has
ever produced.  And I hope and believe he will hold the belt forty-five
years more.  He has served his country ably, faithfully, and brilliantly.
He stands at the summit, at the very top in the esteem and regard of his
countrymen, and if I could say one word which would lift him any higher
in his countrymen's esteem and affection, I would say that word whether
it was true or not.






DR. MARK TWAIN, FARMEOPATH

          ADDRESS AT THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE NEW YORK POST-GRADUATE
          MEDICAL SCHOOL AND HOSPITAL, JANUARY 21, 1909

          The president, Dr.  George N.  Miller, in introducing Mr.
          Clemens, referred to his late experience with burglars.

GENTLEMEN AND DOCTORS,--I am glad to be among my own kind to-night.
I was once a sharpshooter, but now I practise a much higher and equally
as deadly a profession.  It wasn't so very long ago that I became a
member of your cult, and for the time I've been in the business my record
is one that can't be scoffed at.

As to the burglars, I am perfectly familiar with these people.  I have
always had a good deal to do with burglars--not officially, but through
their attentions to me.  I never suffered anything at the hands of a
burglar.  They have invaded my house time and time again.  They never got
anything.  Then those people who burglarized our house in September--we
got back the plated ware they took off, we jailed them, and I have been
sorry ever since.  They did us a great service they scared off all the
servants in the place.

I consider the Children's Theatre, of which I am president, and the Post-
Graduate Medical School as the two greatest institutions in the country.
This school, in bringing its twenty thousand physicians from all parts of
the country, bringing them up to date, and sending them back with renewed
confidence, has surely saved hundreds of thousands of lives which
otherwise would have been lost.

I have been practising now for seven months.  When I settled on my farm
in Connecticut in June I found the Community very thinly settled--and
since I have been engaged in practice it has become more thinly settled
still.  This gratifies me, as indicating that I am making an impression
on my community.  I suppose it is the same with all of you.

I have always felt that I ought to do something for you, and so I
organized a Redding (Connecticut) branch of the Post-Graduate School.
I am only a country farmer up there, but I am doing the best I can.

Of course, the practice of medicine and surgery in a remote country
district has its disadvantages, but in my case I am happy in a division
of responsibility.  I practise in conjunction with a horse-doctor, a
sexton, and an undertaker.  The combination is air-tight, and once a man
is stricken in our district escape is impossible for him.

These four of us--three in the regular profession and the fourth an
undertaker--are all good men.  There is Bill Ferguson, the Redding
undertaker.  Bill is there in every respect.  He is a little lukewarm on
general practice, and writes his name with a rubber stamp.  Like my old
Southern, friend, he is one of the finest planters anywhere.

Then there is Jim Ruggles, the horse-doctor.  Ruggles is one of the best
men I have got.  He also is not much on general medicine, but he is a
fine horse-doctor.  Ferguson doesn't make any money off him.

You see, the combination started this way.  When I got up to Redding and
had become a doctor, I looked around to see what my chances were for
aiding in, the great work.  The first thing I did was to determine what
manner of doctor I was to be.  Being a Connecticut farmer, I naturally
consulted my farmacopia, and at once decided to become a farmeopath.

Then I got circulating about, and got in touch with Ferguson and
Ruggles.  Ferguson joined readily in my ideas, but Ruggles kept saying
that, while it was all right for an undertaker to get aboard, he couldn't
see where it helped horses.

Well, we started to find out what was the trouble with the community, and
it didn't take long to find out that there was just one disease, and that
was race-suicide.  And driving about the country-side I was told by my
fellow-farmers that it was the only rational human and valuable disease.
But it is cutting into our profits so that we'll either have to stop it
or we'll have to move.

We've had some funny experiences up there in Redding.  Not long ago a
fellow came along with a rolling gait and a distressed face.  We asked
him what was the matter.  We always hold consultations on every case, as
there isn't business enough for four.  He said he didn't know, but that
he was a sailor, and perhaps that might help us to give a diagnosis.  We
treated him for that, and I never saw a man die more peacefully.

That same afternoon my dog Tige treed an African gentleman.  We chained
up the dog, and then the gentleman came down and said he had
appendicitis.  We asked him if he wanted to be cut open, and he said yes,
that he'd like to know if there was anything in it.  So we cut him open
and found nothing in him but darkness.  So we diagnosed his case as
infidelity, because he was dark inside.  Tige is a very clever dog, and
aids us greatly.

The other day a patient came to me and inquired if I was old Doctor
Clemens--

As a practitioner I have given a great deal of my attention to Bright's
disease. I have made some rules for treating it that may be valuable.
Listen:

Rule 1.  When approaching the bedside of one whom an all-wise President--
I mean an all-wise Providence--well, anyway, it's the same thing--has
seen fit to afflict with disease--well, the rule is simple, even if it is
old-fashioned.

Rule 2.  I've forgotten just what it is, but--

Rule 3.  This is always indispensable: Bleed your patient.






MISSOURI UNIVERSITY SPEECH

          ADDRESS DELIVERED JUNE 4, 1902, AT COLUMBIA, MO.

          When the name of Samuel L. Clemens was called the humorist
          stepped forward, put his hand to his hair, and apparently
          hesitated.  There was a dead silence for a moment.  Suddenly
          the entire audience rose and stood in silence.  Some one began
          to spell out the word Missouri with an interval between the
          letters.  All joined in.  Then the house again became silent.
          Mr. Clemens broke the spell:

As you are all standing [he drawled in his characteristic voice], I
guess, I suppose I had better stand too.

[Then came a laugh and loud cries for a speech.  As the great humorist
spoke of his recent visit to Hannibal, his old home, his voice trembled.]

You cannot know what a strain it was on my emotions [he said].  In fact,
when I found myself shaking hands with persons I had not seen for fifty
years and looking into wrinkled faces that were so young and joyous when
I last saw them, I experienced emotions that I had never expected, and
did not know were in me.  I was profoundly moved anal saddened to think
that this was the last time, perhaps, that I would ever behold those kind
old faces and dear old scenes of childhood.

[The humorist then changed to a lighter mood, and for a time the audience
was in a continual roar of laughter.  He was particularly amused at the
eulogy on himself read by Gardiner Lathrop in conferring the degree.] He
has a fine opportunity to distinguish himself [said Mr. Clemens] by
telling the truth about me.

I have seen it stated in print that as a boy I had been guilty of
stealing peaches, apples, and watermelons.  I read a story to this effect
very closely not long ago, and I was convinced of one thing, which was
that the man who wrote it was of the opinion that it was wrong to steal,
and that I had not acted right in doing so.  I wish now, however, to make
an honest statement, which is that I do not believe, in all my checkered
career, I stole a ton of peaches.

One night I stole--I mean I removed--a watermelon from a wagon while the
owner was attending to another customer.  I crawled off to a secluded
spot, where I found that it was green.  It was the greenest melon in the
Mississippi Valley.  Then I began to reflect.  I began to be sorry.  I
wondered what George Washington would have done had he been in my place.
I thought a long time, and then suddenly felt that strange feeling which
comes to a man with a good resolution, and I took up that watermelon and
took it back to its owner.  I handed him the watermelon and told him to
reform.  He took my lecture much to heart, and, when he gave me a good
one in place of the green melon, I forgave him.

I told him that I would still be a customer of his, and that I cherished
no ill-feeling because of the incident--that would remain green in my
memory.






BUSINESS

          The alumni of Eastman College gave their annual banquet,
          March 30, 1901, at the Y. M. C. A. Building. Mr. James G.
          Cannon, of the Fourth National Bank, made the first speech of
          the evening, after which Mr. Clemens was introduced by Mr.
          Bailey as the personal friend of Tom Sawyer, who was one of the
          types of successful business men.

MR. CANNON has furnished me with texts enough to last as slow a speaker
as myself all the rest of the night.  I took exception to the introducing
of Mr. Cannon as a great financier, as if he were the only great
financier present.  I am a financier.  But my methods are not the same as
Mr. Cannon's.

I cannot say that I have turned out the great business man that I thought
I was when I began life.  But I am comparatively young yet, and may
learn.  I am rather inclined to believe that what troubled me was that I
got the big-head early in the game.  I want to explain to you a few
points of difference between the principles of business as I see them and
those that Mr. Cannon believes in.

He says that the primary rule of business success is loyalty to your
employer.  That's all right--as a theory.  What is the matter with
loyalty to yourself?  As nearly as I can understand Mr. Cannon's
methods, there is one great drawback to them.  He wants you to work a
great deal.  Diligence is a good thing, but taking things easy is much
more-restful.  My idea is that the employer should be the busy man, and
the employee the idle one.  The employer should be the worried man, and
the employee the happy one.  And why not?  He gets the salary.  My plan
is to get another man to do the work for me.  In that there's more
repose.  What I want is repose first, last, and all the time.

Mr. Cannon says that there are three cardinal rules of business success;
they are diligence, honesty, and truthfulness.  Well, diligence is all
right.  Let it go as a theory.  Honesty is the best policy--when there is
money in it.  But truthfulness is one of the most dangerous--why, this
man is misleading you.

I had an experience to-day with my wife which illustrates this.  I was
acknowledging a belated invitation to another dinner for this evening,
which seemed to have been sent about ten days ago.  It only reached me
this morning.  I was mortified at the discourtesy into which I had been
brought by this delay, and wondered what was being thought of me by my
hosts.  As I had accepted your invitation, of course I had to send
regrets to my other friends.

When I started to write this note my wife came up and stood looking over
my shoulder.  Women always want to know what is going on.  Said she
"Should not that read in the third person?"  I conceded that it should,
put aside what I was writing, and commenced over again.  That seemed to
satisfy her, and so she sat down and let me proceed.  I then--finished my
first note--and so sent what I intended.  I never could have done this if
I had let my wife know the truth about it.  Here is what I wrote:

     TO THE OHIO SOCIETY,--I have at this moment received a most kind
     invitation (eleven days old) from Mr. Southard, president; and a
     like one (ten days old) from Mr. Bryant, president of the Press
     Club.  I thank the society cordially for the compliment of these
     invitations, although I am booked elsewhere and cannot come.

     But, oh, I should like to know the name of the Lightning Express by
     which they were forwarded; for I owe a friend a dozen chickens, and
     I believe it will be cheaper to send eggs instead, and let them
     develop on the road.
                    Sincerely yours,
                                        Mark TWAIN.


I want to tell you of some of my experiences in business, and then I will
be in a position to lay down one general rule for the guidance of those
who want to succeed in business.  My first effort was about twenty-five
years ago.  I took hold of an invention--I don't know now what it was all
about, but some one came to me tend told me it was a good thing, and that
there was lots of money in it.  He persuaded me to invest $15,000, and I
lived up to my beliefs by engaging a man to develop it.  To make a long
story short, I sunk $40,000 in it.

Then I took up the publication of a book.  I called in a publisher and
said to him: "I want you to publish this book along lines which I shall
lay down.  I am the employer, and you are the employee.  I am going to
show them some new kinks in the publishing business.  And I want you to
draw on me for money as you go along," which he did.  He drew on me for
$56,000.  Then I asked him to take the book and call it off.  But he
refused to do that.

My next venture was with a machine for doing something or other.  I knew
less about that than I did about the invention.  But I sunk $170,000 in
the business, and I can't for the life of me recollect what it was the
machine was to do.

I was still undismayed.  You see, one of the strong points about my
business life was that I never gave up.  I undertook to publish General
Grant's book, and made $140,000 in six months.  My axiom is, to succeed
in business: avoid my example.






CARNEGIE THE BENEFACTOR

          At the dinner given in honor of Andrew Carnegie by the Lotos
          Club, March 17, 1909, Mr. Clemens appeared in a white suit from
          head to feet.  He wore a white double-breasted coat, white
          trousers, and white shoes.  The only relief was a big black
          cigar, which he confidentially informed the company was not
          from his usual stack bought at $3 per barrel.

The State of Missouri has for its coat of arms a barrel-head with two
Missourians, one on each side of it, and mark the motto--"United We
Stand, Divided We Fall."  Mr. Carnegie, this evening, has suffered from
compliments.  It is interesting to hear what people will say about a man.
Why, at the banquet given by this club in my honor, Mr. Carnegie had the
inspiration for which the club is now honoring him.  If Dunfermline
contributed so much to the United States in contributing Mr. Carnegie,
what would have happened if all Scotland had turned out?  These
Dunfermline folk have acquired advantages in coming to America.

Doctor McKelway paid the top compliment, the cumulation, when he said of
Mr. Carnegie:

"There is a man who wants to pay more taxes than he is charged." Richard
Watson Gilder did very well for a poet.  He advertised his magazine.  He
spoke of hiring Mr. Carnegie--the next thing he will be trying to hire
me.

If I undertook--to pay compliments I would do it stronger than any others
have done it, for what Mr. Carnegie wants are strong compliments.  Now,
the other side of seventy, I have preserved, as my chiefest virtue,
modesty.






ON POETRY, VERACITY, AND SUICIDE

          ADDRESS AT A DINNER OF THE MANHATTAN DICKENS FELLOWSHIP,
          NEW YORK CITY, FEBRUARY 7, 1906

          This dinner was in commemoration of the ninety-fourth
          anniversary of the birth of Charles Dickens.  On an other
          occasion Mr. Clemens told the same story with variations and a
          different conclusion to the University Settlement Society.

I always had taken an interest in young people who wanted to become
poets.  I remember I was particularly interested in one budding poet when
I was a reporter.  His name was Butter.

One day he came to me and said, disconsolately, that he was going to
commit suicide--he was tired of life, not being able to express his
thoughts in poetic form.  Butter asked me what I thought of the idea.

I said I would; that it was a good idea.  "You can do me a friendly turn.
You go off in a private place and do it there, and I'll get it all.  You
do it, and I'll do as much for you some time."

At first he determined to drown himself.  Drowning is so nice and clean,
and writes up so well in a newspaper.

But things ne'er do go smoothly in weddings, suicides, or courtships.
Only there at the edge of the water, where Butter was to end himself,
lay a life-preserver--a big round canvas one, which would float after the
scrap-iron was soaked out of it.

Butter wouldn't kill himself with the life-preserver in sight, and so I
had an idea.  I took it to a pawnshop, and [soaked] it for a revolver:
The pawnbroker didn't think much of the exchange, but when I explained
the situation he acquiesced.  We went up on top of a high building, and
this is what happened to the poet:

He put the revolver to his forehead and blew a tunnel straight through
his head.  The tunnel was about the size of your finger.  You could look
right through it.  The job was complete; there was nothing in it.

Well, after that that man never could write prose, but he could write
poetry.  He could write it after he had blown his brains out.  There is
lots of that talent all over the country, but the trouble is they don't
develop it.

I am suffering now from the fact that I, who have told the truth a good
many times in my life, have lately received more letters than anybody
else urging me to lead a righteous life.  I have more friends who want to
see me develop on a high level than anybody else.

Young John D. Rockefeller, two weeks ago, taught his Bible class all
about veracity, and why it was better that everybody should always keep a
plentiful supply on hand.  Some of the letters I have received suggest
that I ought to attend his class and learn, too.  Why, I know Mr.
Rockefeller, and he is a good fellow.  He is competent in many ways to
teach a Bible class, but when it comes to veracity he is only thirty-five
years old.  I'm seventy years old.  I have been familiar with veracity
twice as long as he.

And the story about George Washington and his little hatchet has also
been suggested to me in these letters--in a fugitive way, as if I needed
some of George Washington and his hatchet in my constitution.  Why, dear
me, they overlook the real point in that story.  The point is not the one
that is usually suggested, and you can readily see that.

The point is not that George said to his father, "Yes, father, I cut down
the cheery-tree; I can't tell a lie," but that the little boy--only seven
years old--should have his sagacity developed under such circumstances.
He was a boy wise beyond his years.  His conduct then was a prophecy of
later years.  Yes, I think he was the most remarkable man the country
ever produced-up to my time, anyway.

Now then, little George realized that circumstantial evidence was against
him.  He knew that his father would know from the size of the chips that
no full-grown hatchet cut that tree down, and that no man would have
haggled it so.  He knew that his father would send around the plantation
and inquire for a small boy with a hatchet, and he had the wisdom to come
out and confess it.  Now, the idea that his father was overjoyed when he
told little George that he would rather have him cut down, a thousand
cheery-trees than tell a lie is all nonsense.  What did he really mean?
Why, that he was absolutely astonished that he had a son who had the
chance to tell a lie and didn't.

I admire old George--if that was his name--for his discernment.  He knew
when he said that his son couldn't tell a lie that he was stretching it a
good deal.  He wouldn't have to go to John D. Rockefeller's Bible class
to find that out.  The way the old George Washington story goes down it
doesn't do anybody any good.  It only discourages people who can tell a
lie.






WELCOME HOME

          ADDRESS AT THE DINNER IN HIS HONOR AT THE LOTOS CLUB,
          NOVEMBER 10, 1900

In August, 1895, just before sailing for Australia, Mr. Clemens issued
the following statement:

"It has been reported that I sacrificed, for the benefit of the
creditors, the property of the publishing firm whose financial backer I
was, and that I am now lecturing for my own benefit.

"This is an error.  I intend the lectures, as well as the property, for
the creditors.  The law recognizes no mortgage on a man's brains, and a
merchant who has given up all he has may take advantage of the laws of
insolvency and may start free again for himself.  But I am not a business
man, and honor is a harder master than the law.  It cannot compromise for
less than one hundred cents on a dollar, and its debts are never
outlawed.

"I had a two-thirds interest in the publishing firm whose capital I
furnished.  If the firm had prospered I would have expected to collect
two-thirds of the profits.  As it is, I expect to pay all the debts.  My
partner has no resources, and I do not look for assistance to my wife,
whose contributions in cash from her own means have nearly equalled the
claims of all the creditors combined.  She has taken nothing; on the
contrary, she has helped and intends to help me to satisfy the
obligations due to the rest of the creditors.

"It is my intention to ask my creditors to accept that as a legal
discharge, and trust to my honor to pay the other fifty per cent. as fast
as I can earn it.  From my reception thus far on my lecturing tour, I am
confident that if I live I can pay off the last debt within four years.

"After which, at the age of sixty-four, I can make a fresh and
unincumbered start in life.  I am going to Australia, India, and South
Africa, and next year I hope to make a tour of the great cities of the
United States."

I thank you all out of my heart for this fraternal welcome, and it seems
almost too fine, almost too magnificent, for a humble Missourian such as
I am, far from his native haunts on the banks of the Mississippi; yet my
modesty is in a degree fortified by observing that I am not the only
Missourian who has been honored here to-night, for I see at this very
table-here is a Missourian [indicating Mr. McKelway], and there is a
Missourian [indicating Mr. Depew], and there is another Missourian--and
Hendrix and Clemens; and last but not least, the greatest Missourian of
them all--here he sits--Tom Reed, who has always concealed his birth till
now.  And since I have been away I know what has been happening in his
case: he has deserted politics, and now is leading a creditable life.  He
has reformed, and God prosper him; and I judge, by a remark which he made
up-stairs awhile ago, that he had found a new business that is utterly
suited to his make and constitution, and all he is doing now is that he
is around raising the average of personal beauty.

But I am grateful to the president for the kind words which he has said
of me, and it is not for me to say whether these praises were deserved or
not.  I prefer to accept them just as they stand, without concerning
myself with the statistics upon which they have been built, but only with
that large matter, that essential matter, the good-fellowship, the
kindliness, the magnanimity, and generosity that prompted their
utterance.  Well, many things have happened since I sat here before, and
now that I think of it, the president's reference to the debts which were
left by the bankrupt firm of Charles L. Webster & Co. gives me an
opportunity to say a word which I very much wish to say, not for myself,
but for ninety-five men and women whom I shall always hold in high esteem
and in pleasant remembrance--the creditors of that firm.  They treated me
well; they treated me handsomely.  There were ninety-six of them, and by
not a finger's weight did ninety-five of them add to the burden of that
time for me.  Ninety-five out of the ninety-six--they didn't indicate by
any word or sign that they were anxious about their money.  They treated
me well, and I shall not forget it; I could not forget it if I wanted to.
Many of them said, "Don't you worry, don't you hurry"; that's what they
said.  Why, if I could have that kind of creditors always, and that
experience, I would recognize it as a personal loss to be out of debt.
I owe those ninety-five creditors a debt of homage, and I pay it now in
such measure as one may pay so fine a debt in mere words.  Yes, they said
that very thing.  I was not personally acquainted with ten of them, and
yet they said, "Don't you worry, and don't you hurry."  I know that
phrase by heart, and if all the other music should perish out of the
world it would still sing to me.  I appreciate that; I am glad to say
this word; people say so much about me, and they forget those creditors.
They were handsomer than I was--or Tom Reed.

Oh, you have been doing many things in this time that I have been absent;
you have done lots of things, some that are well worth remembering, too.
Now, we have fought a righteous war since I have gone, and that is rare
in history--a righteous war is so rare that it is almost unknown in
history; but by the grace of that war we set Cuba free, and we joined her
to those three or four nations that exist on this earth; and we started
out to set those poor Filipinos free, too, and why, why, why that most
righteous purpose of ours has apparently miscarried I suppose I never
shall know.

But we have made a most creditable record in China in these days--our
sound and level-headed administration has made a most creditable record
over there, and there are some of the Powers that cannot say that by any
means.  The Yellow Terror is threatening this world to-day.  It is
looming vast and ominous on that distant horizon.  I do not know what is
going to be the result of that Yellow Terror, but our government has had
no hand in evoking it, and let's be happy in that and proud of it.

We have nursed free silver, we watched by its cradle; we have done the
best we could to raise that child, but those pestiferous Republicans have
--well, they keep giving it the measles every chance they get, and we
never shall raise that child.  Well, that's no matter--there's plenty of
other things to do, and we must think of something else.  Well, we have
tried a President four years, criticised him and found fault with him the
whole time, and turned around a day or two ago with votes enough to spare
to elect another.  O consistency!  consistency!  thy name--I don't know
what thy name is--Thompson will do--any name will do--but you see there
is the fact, there is the consistency.  Then we have tried for governor
an illustrious Rough Rider, and we liked him so much in that great office
that now we have made him Vice-President--not in order that that office
shall give him distinction, but that he may confer distinction upon that
office.  And it's needed, too--it's needed.  And now, for a while anyway,
we shall not be stammering and embarrassed when a stranger asks us, "What
is the name of the Vice-President?"  This one is known; this one is
pretty well known, pretty widely known, and in some quarters favorably.
I am not accustomed to dealing in these fulsome compliments, and I am
probably overdoing it a little; but--well, my old affectionate admiration
for Governor Roosevelt has probably betrayed me into the complimentary
excess; but I know him, and you know him; and if you give him rope
enough--I mean if--oh yes, he will justify that compliment; leave it just
as it is.  And now we have put in his place Mr. Odell, another Rough
Rider, I suppose; all the fat things go to that profession now.  Why, I
could have been a Rough Rider myself if I had known that this political
Klondike was going to open up, and I would have been a Rough Rider if I
could have gone to war on an automobile but not on a horse!  No, I know
the horse too well; I have known the horse in war and in peace, and there
is no place where a horse is comfortable.  The horse has too many
caprices, and he is too much given to initiative.  He invents too many
new ideas.  No, I don't want anything to do with a horse.

And then we have taken Chauncey Depew out of a useful and active life and
made him a Senator--embalmed him, corked him up.  And I am not grieving.
That man has said many a true thing about me in his time, and I always
said something would happen to him.  Look at that [pointing to Mr. Depew]
gilded mummy!  He has made my life a sorrow to me at many a banquet on
both sides of the ocean, and now he has got it.  Perish the hand that
pulls that cork!

All these things have happened, all these things have come to pass, while
I have been away, and it just shows how little a Mugwump can be missed in
a cold, unfeeling world, even when he is the last one that is left--
a GRAND OLD PARTY all by himself.  And there is another thing that has
happened, perhaps the most imposing event of them all: the institution
called the Daughters of the--Crown--the Daughters of the Royal Crown--has
established itself and gone into business. Now, there's an American idea
for you; there's an idea born of God knows what kind of specialized
insanity, but not softening of the brain--you cannot soften a thing that
doesn't exist--the Daughters of the Royal Crown!  Nobody eligible but
American descendants of Charles II.  Dear me, how the fancy product of
that old harem still holds out!

Well, I am truly glad to foregather with you again, and partake of the
bread and salt of this hospitable house once more.  Seven years ago, when
I was your guest here, when I was old and despondent, you gave me the
grip and the word that lift a man up and make him glad to be alive; and
now I come back from my exile young again, fresh and alive, and ready to
begin life once more, and your welcome puts the finishing touch upon my
restored youth and makes it real to me, and not a gracious dream that
must vanish with the morning.  I thank you.






AN UNDELIVERED SPEECH

          The steamship St. Paul was to have been launched from Cramp's
          shipyard in Philadelphia on March 25, 1895.  After the
          launching a luncheon was to nave been given, at which Mr.
          Clemens was to make a speech.  Just before the final word was
          given a reporter asked Mr. Clemens for a copy of his speech to
          be delivered at the luncheon.  To facilitate the work of the
          reporter he loaned him a typewritten copy of the speech.  It
          happened, however, that when the blocks were knocked away the
          big ship refused to budge, and no amount of labor could move
          her an inch.  She had stuck fast upon the ways.  As a result,
          the launching was postponed for a week or two; but in the mean
          time Mr. Clemens had gone to Europe.  Years after a reporter
          called on Mr. Clemens and submitted the manuscript of the
          speech, which was as follows:

Day after to-morrow I sail for England in a ship of this line, the Paris.
It will be my fourteenth crossing in three years and a half.  Therefore,
my presence here, as you see, is quite natural, quite commercial.  I am
interested in ships.  They interest me more now than hotels do.  When a
new ship is launched I feel a desire to go and see if she will be good
quarters for me to live in, particularly if she belongs to this line, for
it is by this line that I have done most of my ferrying.

People wonder why I go so much.  Well, I go partly for my health, partly
to familiarize myself with the road.  I have gone over the same road so
many times now that I know all the whales that belong along the route,
and latterly it is an embarrassment to me to meet them, for they do not
look glad to see me, but annoyed, and they seem to say: "Here is this old
derelict again."

Earlier in life this would have pained me and made me ashamed, but I am
older now, and when I am behaving myself, and doing right, I do not care
for a whale's opinion about me.  When we are young we generally estimate
an opinion by the size of the person that holds it, but later we find
that that is an uncertain rule, for we realize that there are times when
a hornet's opinion disturbs us more than an emperor's.

I do not mean that I care nothing at all for a whale's opinion, for that
would be going to too great a length.  Of course, it is better to have
the good opinion of a whale than his disapproval; but my position is that
if you cannot have a whale's good opinion, except at some sacrifice of
principle or personal dignity, it is better to try to live without it.
That is my idea about whales.

Yes, I have gone over that same route so often that I know my way without
a compass, just by the waves.  I know all the large waves and a good many
of the small ones.  Also the sunsets.  I know every sunset and where it
belongs just by its color.  Necessarily, then, I do not make the passage
now for scenery.  That is all gone by.

What I prize most is safety, and in, the second place swift transit and
handiness.  These are best furnished, by the American line, whose
watertight compartments have no passage through them; no doors to be left
open, and consequently no way for water to get from one of them to
another in time of collision.  If you nullify the peril which collisions
threaten you with, you nullify the only very serious peril which attends
voyages in the great liners of our day, and makes voyaging safer than
staying at home.

When the Paris was half-torn to pieces some years ago, enough of the
Atlantic ebbed and flowed through one end of her, during her long agony,
to sink the fleets of the world if distributed among them; but she
floated in perfect safety, and no life was lost.  In time of collision
the rock of Gibraltar is not safer than the Paris and other great ships
of this line.  This seems to be the only great line in the world that
takes a passenger from metropolis to metropolis without the intervention
of tugs and barges or bridges--takes him through without breaking bulk,
so to speak.

On the English side he lands at a dock; on the dock a special train is
waiting; in an hour and three-quarters he is in, London.  Nothing could
be handier.  If your journey were from a sand-pit on our side to a
lighthouse on the other, you could make it quicker by other lines, but
that is not the case.  The journey is from the city of New York to the
city of London, and no line can do that journey quicker than this one,
nor anywhere near as conveniently and handily.  And when the passenger
lands on our side he lands on the American side of the river, not in the
provinces.  As a very learned man said on the last voyage (he is head
quartermaster of the New York land garboard streak of the middle watch)

"When we land a passenger on the American side there's nothing betwix him
and his hotel but hell and the hackman."

I am glad, with you and the nation, to welcome the new ship.  She is
another pride, another consolation, for a great country whose mighty
fleets have all vanished, and which has almost forgotten, what it is to
fly its flag to sea.  I am not sure as to which St. Paul she is named
for.  Some think it is the one that is on the upper Mississippi, but the
head quartermaster told me it was the one that killed Goliath.  But it is
not important.  No matter which it is, let us give her hearty welcome and
godspeed.






SIXTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY

          AT THE METROPOLITAN CLUB, NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 28, 1902

          Address at a dinner given in honor of Mr. Clemens by Colonel
          Harvey, President of Harper & Brothers.

I think I ought to be allowed to talk as long as I want to, for the
reason that I have cancelled all my winter's engagements of every kind,
for good and sufficient reasons, and am making no new engagements for
this winter, and, therefore, this is the only chance I shall have to
disembowel my skull for a year--close the mouth in that portrait for a
year.  I want to offer thanks and homage to the chairman for this
innovation which he has introduced here, which is an improvement, as I
consider it, on the old-fashioned style of conducting occasions like
this.  That was bad that was a bad, bad, bad arrangement.  Under that old
custom the chairman got up and made a speech, he introduced the prisoner
at the bar, and covered him all over with compliments, nothing but
compliments, not a thing but compliments, never a slur, and sat down and
left that man to get up and talk without a text.  You cannot talk on
compliments; that is not a text.  No modest person, and I was born one,
can talk on compliments.  A man gets up and is filled to the eyes with
happy emotions, but his tongue is tied; he has nothing to say; he is in
the condition of Doctor Rice's friend who came home drunk and explained
it to his wife, and his wife said to him, "John, when you have drunk all
the whiskey you want, you ought to ask for sarsaparilla."  He said, "Yes,
but when I have drunk all the whiskey I want I can't say sarsaparilla."
And so I think it is much better to leave a man unmolested until the
testimony and pleadings are all in.  Otherwise he is dumb--he is at the
sarsaparilla stage.

Before I get to the higgledy-piggledy point, as Mr. Howells suggested I
do, I want to thank you, gentlemen, for this very high honor you are
doing me, and I am quite competent to estimate it at its value.  I see
around me captains of all the illustrious industries, most distinguished
men; there are more than fifty here, and I believe I know thirty-nine of
them well.  I could probably borrow money from--from the others, anyway.
It is a proud thing to me, indeed, to see such a distinguished company
gather here on such an occasion as this, when there is no foreign prince
to be feted--when you have come here not to do honor to hereditary
privilege and ancient lineage, but to do reverence to mere moral
excellence and elemental veracity-and, dear me, how old it seems to make
me!  I look around me and I see three or four persons I have known so
many, many years.  I have known Mr. Secretary Hay--John Hay, as the
nation and the rest of his friends love to call him--I have known John
Hay and Tom Reed and the Reverend Twichell close upon thirty-six years.
Close upon thirty-six years I have known those venerable men.  I have
known Mr. Howells nearly thirty-four years, and I knew Chauncey Depew
before he could walk straight, and before he learned to tell the truth.
Twenty-seven years ago, I heard him make the most noble and eloquent and
beautiful speech that has ever fallen from even his capable lips.  Tom
Reed said that my principal defect was inaccuracy of statement.  Well,
suppose that that is true.  What's the use of telling the truth all the
time?  I never tell the truth about Tom Reed--but that is his defect,
truth; he speaks the truth always.  Tom Reed has a good heart, and he has
a good intellect, but he hasn't any judgment.  Why, when Tom Reed was
invited to lecture to the Ladies' Society for the Procreation or
Procrastination, or something, of morals, I don't know what it was--
advancement, I suppose, of pure morals--he had the immortal indiscretion
to begin by saying that some of us can't be optimists, but by judiciously
utilizing the opportunities that Providence puts in our way we can all be
bigamists.  You perceive his limitations.  Anything he has in his mind he
states, if he thinks it is true.  Well, that was true, but that was no
place to say it--so they fired him out.

A lot of accounts have been settled here tonight for me; I have held
grudges against some of these people, but they have all been wiped out by
the very handsome compliments that have been paid me.  Even Wayne
MacVeagh--I have had a grudge against him many years.  The first time I
saw Wayne MacVeagh was at a private dinner-party at Charles A. Dana's,
and when I got there he was clattering along, and I tried to get a word
in here and there; but you know what Wayne MacVeagh is when he is
started, and I could not get in five words to his one--or one word to his
five.  I struggled along and struggled along, and--well, I wanted to tell
and I was trying to tell a dream I had had the night before, and it was a
remarkable dream, a dream worth people's while to listen to, a dream
recounting Sam Jones the revivalist's reception in heaven.  I was on a
train, and was approaching the celestial way-station--I had a through
ticket--and I noticed a man sitting alongside of me asleep, and he had
his ticket in his hat.  He was the remains of the Archbishop of
Canterbury; I recognized him by his photograph.  I had nothing against
him, so I took his ticket and let him have mine.  He didn't object--he
wasn't in a condition to object--and presently when the train stopped at
the heavenly station--well, I got off, and he went on by request--but
there they all were, the angels, you know, millions of them, every one
with a torch; they had arranged for a torch-light procession; they were
expecting the Archbishop, and when I got off they started to raise a
shout, but it didn't materialize.  I don't know whether they were
disappointed.  I suppose they had a lot of superstitious ideas about the
Archbishop and what he should look like, and I didn't fill the bill, and
I was trying to explain to Saint Peter, and was doing it in the German
tongue, because I didn't want to be too explicit.  Well, I found it was
no use, I couldn't get along, for Wayne MacVeagh was occupying the whole
place, and I said to Mr. Dana, "What is the matter with that man?  Who is
that man with the long tongue?  What's the trouble with him, that long,
lank cadaver, old oil-derrick out of a job--who is that?"  "Well, now,"
Mr. Dana said, "you don't want to meddle with him; you had better keep
quiet; just keep quiet, because that's a bad man.  Talk!  He was born to
talk. Don't let him get out with you; he'll skin you."  I said, "I have
been skinned, skinned, and skinned for years, there is nothing left."
He said, "Oh, you'll find there is; that man is the very seed and
inspiration of that proverb which says, 'No matter how close you skin an
onion, a clever man can always peel it again.'"  Well, I reflected and
I quieted down.  That would never occur to Tom Reed.  He's got no
discretion.  Well, MacVeagh is just the same man; he hasn't changed a bit
in all those years; he has been peeling Mr. Mitchell lately.  That's the
kind of man he is.

Mr. Howells--that poem of his is admirable; that's the way to treat a
person.  Howells has a peculiar gift for seeing the merits of people,
and he has always exhibited them in my favor.  Howells has never written
anything about me that I couldn't read six or seven times a day; he is
always just and always fair; he has written more appreciatively of me
than any one in this world, and published it in the North American
Review.  He did me the justice to say that my intentions--he italicized
that--that my intentions were always good, that I wounded people's
conventions rather than their convictions.  Now, I wouldn't want anything
handsomer than that said of me.  I would rather wait, with anything harsh
I might have to say, till the convictions become conventions.  Bangs has
traced me all the way down.  He can't find that honest man, but I will
look for him in the looking-glass when I get home.  It was intimated by
the Colonel that it is New England that makes New York and builds up this
country and makes it great, overlooking the fact that there's a lot of
people here who came from elsewhere, like John Hay from away out West,
and Howells from Ohio, and St. Clair McKelway and me from Missouri, and
we are doing what we can to build up New York a little-elevate it.  Why,
when I was living in that village of Hannibal, Missouri, on the banks of
the Mississippi, and Hay up in the town of Warsaw, also on the banks of
the Mississippi River it is an emotional bit of the Mississippi, and when
it is low water you have to climb up to it on a ladder, and when it
floods you have to hunt for it; with a deep-sea lead--but it is a great
and beautiful country.  In that old time it was a paradise for
simplicity--it was a simple, simple life, cheap but comfortable, and full
of sweetness, and there was nothing of this rage of modern civilization
there at all.  It was a delectable land.  I went out there last June,
and I met in that town of Hannibal a schoolmate of mine, John Briggs,
whom I had not seen for more than fifty years. I tell you, that was a
meeting!  That pal whom I had known as a little boy long ago, and knew
now as a stately man three or four inches over six feet and browned by
exposure to many climes, he was back there to see that old place again.
We spent a whole afternoon going about here and there and yonder, and
hunting up the scenes and talking of the crimes which we had committed so
long ago.  It was a heartbreaking delight, full of pathos, laughter, and
tears, all mixed together; and we called the roll of the boys and girls
that we picnicked and sweethearted with so many years ago, and there were
hardly half a dozen of them left; the rest were in their graves; and we
went up there on the summit of that hill, a treasured place in my memory,
the summit of Holiday's Hill, and looked out again over that magnificent
panorama of the Mississippi River, sweeping along league after league, a
level green paradise on one side, and retreating capes and promontories
as far as you could see on the other, fading away in the soft, rich
lights of the remote distance.  I recognized then that I was seeing now
the most enchanting river view the planet could furnish.  I never knew it
when I was a boy; it took an educated eye that had travelled over the
globe to know and appreciate it; and John said, "Can you point out the
place where Bear Creek used to be before the railroad came?"  I said,
"Yes, it ran along yonder."  "And can you point out the swimming-hole?"
"Yes, out there."  And he said, "Can you point out the place where we
stole the skiff?"  Well, I didn't know which one he meant.  Such a
wilderness of events had intervened since that day, more than fifty years
ago, it took me more than five minutes to call back that little incident,
and then I did call it back; it was a white skiff, and we painted it red
to allay suspicion.  And the saddest, saddest man came along--a stranger
he was--and he looked that red skiff over so pathetically, and he said:
"Well, if it weren't for the complexion I'd know whose skiff that was."
He said it in that pleading way, you know, that appeals for sympathy and
suggestion; we were full of sympathy for him, but we weren't in any
condition to offer suggestions.  I can see him yet as he turned away with
that same sad look on his face and vanished out of history forever.
I wonder what became of that man.  I know what became of the skiff.
Well, it was a beautiful life, a lovely life.  There was no crime.
Merely little things like pillaging orchards and watermelon-patches and
breaking the Sabbath--we didn't break the Sabbath often enough to
signify--once a week perhaps.  But we were good boys, good Presbyterian
boys, all Presbyterian boys, and loyal and all that; anyway, we were good
Presbyterian boys when the weather was doubtful; when it was fair, we did
wander a little from the fold.

Look at John Hay and me.  There we were in obscurity, and look where we
are now.  Consider the ladder which he has climbed, the illustrious
vocations he has served--and vocations is the right word; he has in all
those vocations acquitted himself with high credit and honor to his
country and to the mother that bore him.  Scholar, soldier, diplomat,
poet, historian--now, see where we are.  He is Secretary of State and I
am a gentleman.  It could not happen in any other country.  Our
institutions give men the positions that of right belong to them through
merit; all you men have won your places, not by heredities, and not by
family influence or extraneous help, but only by the natural gifts God
gave you at your birth, made effective by your own energies; this is the
country to live in.

Now, there is one invisible guest here.  A part of me is present; the
larger part, the better part, is yonder at her home; that is my wife,
and she has a good many personal friends here, and I think it won't
distress any one of them to know that, although she is going to be
confined to that bed for many months to come from that nervous
prostration, there is not any danger and she is coming along very well--
and I think it quite appropriate that I should speak of her.  I knew her
for the first time just in the same year that I first knew John Hay and
Tom Reed and Mr. Twichell--thirty-six years ago--and she has been the
best friend I have ever had, and that is saying a good deal; she has
reared me--she and Twichell together--and what I am I owe to them.
Twichell why, it is such a pleasure to look upon Twichell's face!
For five-and-twenty years I was under the Rev.  Mr. Twichell's tuition,
I was in his pastorate, occupying a pew in his church, and held him in
due reverence.  That man is full of all the graces that go to make a
person companionable and beloved; and wherever Twichell goes to start a
church the people flock there to buy the land; they find real estate goes
up all around the spot, and the envious and the thoughtful always try to
get Twichell to move to their neighborhood and start a church; and
wherever you see him go you can go and buy land there with confidence,
feeling sure that there will be a double price for you before very long.
I am not saying this to flatter Mr. Twichell; it is the fact.  Many and
many a time I have attended the annual sale in his church, and bought up
all the pews on a margin--and it would have been better for me
spiritually and financially if I had stayed under his wing.

I have tried to do good in this world, and it is marvellous in how many
different ways I have done good, and it is comfortable to reflect--now,
there's Mr. Rogers--just out of the affection I bear that man many a time
I have given him points in finance that he had never thought of--and if
he could lay aside envy, prejudice, and superstition, and utilize those
ideas in his business, it would make a difference in his bank account.

Well, I like the poetry.  I like all the speeches and the poetry, too.
I liked Doctor Van Dyke's poem.  I wish I could return thanks in proper
measure to you, gentlemen, who have spoken and violated your feelings to
pay me compliments; some were merited and some you overlooked, it is
true; and Colonel Harvey did slander every one of you, and put things
into my mouth that I never said, never thought of at all.

And now, my wife and I, out of our single heart, return you our deepest
and most grateful thanks, and--yesterday was her birthday.






TO THE WHITEFRIARS

          ADDRESS AT THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE WHITEFRIARS CLUB IN HONOR OF
          MR. CLEMENS, LONDON, JUNE 20, 1899

          The Whitefriars Club was founded by Dr. Samuel Johnson, and Mr.
          Clemens was made an honorary member in 1874.  The members are
          representative of literary and journalistic London.  The toast
          of "Our Guest" was proposed by Louis F. Austin, of the
          Illustrated London News, and in the course of some humorous
          remarks he referred to the vow and to the imaginary woes of the
          "Friars," as the members of the club style themselves.

MR. CHAIRMAN AND BRETHREN OF THE VOW--in whatever the vow is; for
although I have been a member of this club for five-and twenty years,
I don't know any more about what that vow is than Mr. Austin seems to.
But what ever the vow is, I don't care what it is.  I have made a
thousand vows.

There is no pleasure comparable to making a vow in the presence of one
who appreciates that vow, in the presence of men who honor and appreciate
you for making the vow, and men who admire you for making the vow.

There is only one pleasure higher than that, and that is to get outside
and break the vow.  A vow is always a pledge of some kind or other for
the protection of your own morals and principles or somebody else's,
and generally, by the irony of fate, it is for the protection of your own
morals.

Hence we have pledges that make us eschew tobacco or wine, and while you
are taking the pledge there is a holy influence about that makes you feel
you are reformed, and that you can never be so happy again in this world
until--you get outside and take a drink.

I had forgotten that I was a member of this club--it is so long ago.
But now I remember that I was here five-and-twenty years ago, and that I
was then at a dinner of the Whitefriars Club, and it was in those old
days when you had just made two great finds.  All London was talking
about nothing else than that they had found Livingstone, and that the
lost Sir Roger Tichborne had been found--and they were trying him for it.

And at the dinner, Chairman (I do not know who he was)--failed to come to
time.  The gentleman who had been appointed to pay me the customary
compliments and to introduce me forgot the compliments, and did not know
what they were.

And George Augustus Sala came in at the last moment, just when I was
about to go without compliments altogether.  And that man was a gifted
man.  They just called on him instantaneously, while he was going to sit
down, to introduce the stranger, and Sala, made one of those marvellous
speeches which he was capable of making.  I think no man talked so fast
as Sala did.  One did not need wine while he was making a speech.  The
rapidity of his utterance made a man drunk in a minute.  An incomparable
speech was that, an impromptu speech, and--an impromptu speech is a
seldom thing, and he did it so well.

He went into the whole history of the United States, and made it entirely
new to me.  He filled it with episodes and incidents that Washington
never heard of, and he did it so convincingly that although I knew none
of it had happened, from that day to this I do not know any history but
Sala's.

I do not know anything so sad as a dinner where you are going to get up
and say something by-and-by, and you do not know what it is.  You sit and
wonder and wonder what the gentleman is going to say who is going to
introduce you.  You know that if he says something severe, that if he
will deride you, or traduce you, or do anything of that kind, he will
furnish you with a text, because anybody can get up and talk against
that.

Anybody can get up and straighten out his character.  But when a
gentleman gets up and merely tells the truth about you, what can you do?

Mr. Austin has done well.  He has supplied so many texts that I will have
to drop out a lot of them, and that is about as difficult as when you do
not have any text at all.  Now, he made a beautiful and smooth speech
without any difficulty at all, and I could have done that if I had gone
on with the schooling with which I began.  I see here a gentleman on my
left who was my master in the art of oratory more than twenty-five years
ago.

When I look upon the inspiring face of Mr. Depew, it carries me a long
way back.  An old and valued friend of mine is he, and I saw his career
as it came along, and it has reached pretty well up to now, when he, by
another miscarriage of justice, is a United States Senator.  But those
were delightful days when I was taking lessons in oratory.

My other master the Ambassador-is not here yet.  Under those two
gentlemen I learned to make after-dinner speeches, and it was charming.

You know the New England dinner is the great occasion on the other side
of the water.  It is held every year to celebrate the landing of the
Pilgrims.  Those Pilgrims were a lot of people who were not needed in
England, and you know they had great rivalry, and they were persuaded to
go elsewhere, and they chartered a ship called Mayflower and set sail,
and I have heard it said that they pumped the Atlantic Ocean through that
ship sixteen times.

They fell in over there with the Dutch from Rotterdam, Amsterdam, and a
lot of other places with profane names, and it is from that gang that Mr.
Depew is descended.

On the other hand, Mr. Choate is descended from those Puritans who landed
on a bitter night in December.  Every year those people used to meet at a
great banquet in New York, and those masters of mind in oratory had to
make speeches.  It was Doctor Depew's business to get up there and
apologise for the Dutch, and Mr. Choate had to get up later and explain
the crimes of the Puritans, and grand, beautiful times we used to have.

It is curious that after that long lapse of time I meet the Whitefriars
again, some looking as young and fresh as in the old days, others showing
a certain amount of wear and tear, and here, after all this time, I find
one of the masters of oratory and the others named in the list.

And here we three meet again as exiles on one pretext or another, and you
will notice that while we are absent there is a pleasing tranquillity in
America--a building up of public confidence.  We are doing the best we
can for our country.  I think we have spent our lives in serving our
country, and we never serve it to greater advantage than when we get out
of it.

But impromptu speaking--that is what I was trying to learn.  That is a
difficult thing.  I used to do it in this way.  I used to begin about a
week ahead, and write out my impromptu, speech and get it by heart.  Then
I brought it to the New England dinner printed on a piece of paper in my
pocket, so that I could pass it to the reporters all cut and dried, and
in order to do an impromptu speech as it should be done you have to
indicate the places for pauses and hesitations.  I put them all in it.
And then you want the applause in the right places.

When I got to the place where it should come in, if it did not come in
I did not care, but I had it marked in the paper.  And these masters of
mind used to wonder why it was my speech came out in the morning in the
first person, while theirs went through the butchery of synopsis.

I do that kind of speech (I mean an offhand speech), and do it well, and
make no mistake in such a way to deceive the audience completely and make
that audience believe it is an impromptu speech--that is art.

I was frightened out of it at last by an experience of Doctor Hayes.  He
was a sort of Nansen of that day.  He had been to the North Pole, and it
made him celebrated.  He had even seen the polar bear climb the pole.

He had made one of those magnificent voyages such as Nansen made, and in
those days when a man did anything which greatly distinguished him for
the moment he had to come on to the lecture platform and tell all about
it.

Doctor Hayes was a great, magnificent creature like Nansen, superbly
built.  He was to appear in Boston.  He wrote his lecture out, and it was
his purpose to read it from manuscript; but in an evil hour he concluded
that it would be a good thing to preface it with something rather
handsome, poetical, and beautiful that he could get off by heart and
deliver as if it were the thought of the moment.

He had not had my experience, and could not do that.  He came on the
platform, held his manuscript down, and began with a beautiful piece of
oratory.  He spoke something like this:

"When a lonely human being, a pigmy in the midst of the architecture of
nature, stands solitary on those icy waters and looks abroad to the
horizon and sees mighty castles and temples of eternal ice raising up
their pinnacles tipped by the pencil of the departing sun--"

Here a man came across the platform and touched him on the shoulder, and
said: "One minute."  And then to the audience:

"Is Mrs. John Smith in the house?  Her husband has slipped on the ice and
broken his leg."

And you could see the Mrs. John Smiths get up everywhere and drift out of
the house, and it made great gaps everywhere.  Then Doctor Hayes began
again: "When a lonely man, a pigmy in the architecture--"  The janitor
came in again and shouted: "It is not Mrs. John Smith!  It is Mrs. John
Jones!"

Then all the Mrs. Jones got up and left.  Once more the speaker started,
and was in the midst of the sentence when he was interrupted again, and
the result was that the lecture was not delivered.  But the lecturer
interviewed the janitor afterward in a private room, and of the fragments
of the janitor they took "twelve basketsful."

Now, I don't want to sit down just in this way.  I have been talking with
so much levity that I have said no serious thing, and you are really no
better or wiser, although Robert Buchanan has suggested that I am a
person who deals in wisdom.  I have said nothing which would make you
better than when you came here.

I should be sorry to sit down without having said one serious word which
you can carry home and relate to your children and the old people who are
not able to get away.

And this is just a little maxim which has saved me from many a difficulty
and many a disaster, and in times of tribulation and uncertainty has come
to my rescue, as it shall to yours if you observe it as I do day and
night.

I always use it in an emergency, and you can take it home as a legacy
from me, and it is "When in doubt, tell the truth."






THE ASCOT GOLD CUP

          The news of Mr. Clemens's arrival in England in June, 1907, was
          announced in the papers with big headlines.  Immediately
          following the announcement was the news--also with big
          headlines--that the Ascot Gold Cup had been stolen the same
          day.  The combination, MARK TWAIN ARRIVES-ASCOT CUP STOLEN,
          amused the public.  The Lord Mayor of London gave a banquet at
          the Mansion House in honor of Mr. Clemens.

I do assure you that I am not so dishonest as I look.  I have been so
busy trying to rehabilitate my honor about that Ascot Cup that I have had
no time to prepare a speech.

I was not so honest in former days as I am now, but I have always been
reasonably honest.  Well, you know how a man is influenced by his
surroundings.  Once upon a time I went to a public meeting where the
oratory of a charitable worker so worked on my feelings that, in common
with others, I would have dropped something substantial in the hat--if it
had come round at that moment.

The speaker had the power of putting those vivid pictures before one.
We were all affected.  That was the moment for the hat.  I would have put
two hundred dollars in.  Before he had finished I could have put in four
hundred dollars.  I felt I could have filled up a blank check--with
somebody else's name--and dropped it in.

Well, now, another speaker got up, and in fifteen minutes damped my
spirit; and during the speech of the third speaker all my enthusiasm went
away.  When at last the hat came round I dropped in ten cents--and took
out twenty-five.

I came over here to get the honorary degree from Oxford, and I would have
encompassed the seven seas for an honor like that--the greatest honor
that has ever fallen to my share.  I am grateful to Oxford for conferring
that honor upon me, and I am sure my country appreciates it, because
first and foremost it is an honor to my country.

And now I am going home again across the sea.  I am in spirit young but
in the flesh old, so that it is unlikely that when I go away I shall ever
see England again.  But I shall go with the recollection of the generous
and kindly welcome I have had.

I suppose I must say "Good-bye."  I say it not with my lips only, but
from the heart.






THE SAVAGE CLUB DINNER

          A portrait of Mr. Clemens, signed by all the members of the
          club attending the dinner, was presented to him, July 6, 1907,
          and in submitting the toast "The Health of Mark Twain" Mr. J.
          Scott Stokes recalled the fact that he had read parts of Doctor
          Clemens's works to Harold Frederic during Frederic's last
          illness.

MR. CHAIRMAN AND FELLOW-SAVAGES,--I am very glad indeed to have that
portrait.  I think it is the best one that I have ever had, and there
have been opportunities before to get a good photograph.  I have sat to
photographers twenty-two times to-day.  Those sittings added to those
that have preceded them since I have been in Europe--if we average at
that rate--must have numbered one hundred to two hundred sittings.  Out
of all those there ought to be some good photographs.  This is the best I
have had, and I am glad to have your honored names on it.  I did not know
Harold Frederic personally, but I have heard a great deal about him, and
nothing that was not pleasant and nothing except such things as lead a
man to honor another man and to love him.  I consider that it is a
misfortune of mine that I have never had the luck to meet him, and if any
book of mine read to him in his last hours made those hours easier for
him and more comfortable, I am very glad and proud of that.  I call to
mind such a case many years ago of an English authoress, well known in
her day, who wrote such beautiful child tales, touching and lovely in
every possible way.  In a little biographical sketch of her I found that
her last hours were spent partly in reading a book of mine, until she was
no longer able to read.  That has always remained in my mind, and I have
always cherished it as one of the good things of my life.  I had read
what she had written, and had loved her for what she had done.

Stanley apparently  carried a book of mine feloniously away to Africa,
and I have not a doubt that it had a noble and uplifting influence there
in the wilds of Africa--because on his previous journeys he never carried
anything to read except Shakespeare and the Bible.  I did not know of
that circumstance.  I did not know that he had carried a book of mine.
I only noticed that when he came back he was a reformed man.  I knew
Stanley very well in those old days.  Stanley was the first man who ever
reported a lecture of mine, and that was in St. Louis.  When I was down
there the next time to give the same lecture I was told to give them
something fresh, as they had read that in the papers.  I met Stanley here
when he came back from that first expedition of his which closed with the
finding of Livingstone.  You remember how he would break out at the
meetings of the British Association, and find fault with what people
said, because Stanley had notions of his own, and could not contain them.
They had to come out or break him up--and so he would go round and
address geographical societies.  He was always on the warpath in those
days, and people always had to have Stanley contradicting their geography
for them and improving it.  But he always came back and sat drinking beer
with me in the hotel up to two in the morning, and he was then one of the
most civilized human beings that ever was.

I saw in a newspaper this evening a reference to an interview which
appeared in one of the papers the other day, in which the interviewer
said that I characterized Mr. Birrell's speech the other day at the
Pilgrims' Club as "bully."  Now, if you will excuse me, I never use slang
to an interviewer or anybody else.  That distresses me.  Whatever I said
about Mr. Birrell's speech was said in English, as good English as
anybody uses.  If I could not describe Mr. Birrell's delightful speech
without using slang I would not describe it at all.  I would close my
mouth and keep it closed, much as it would discomfort me.

Now that comes of interviewing a man in the first person, which is an
altogether wrong way to interview him.  It is entirely wrong because none
of you, I, or anybody else, could interview a man--could listen to a man
talking any length of time and then go off and reproduce that talk in the
first person.  It can't be done.  What results is merely that the
interviewer gives the substance of what is said and puts it in his own
language and puts it in your mouth.  It will always be either better
language than you use or worse, and in my case it is always worse.
I have a great respect for the English language.  I am one of its
supporters, its promoters, its elevators.  I don't degrade it.  A slip of
the tongue would be the most that you would get from me.  I have always
tried hard and faithfully to improve my English and never to degrade it.
I always try to use the best English to describe what I think and what I
feel, or what I don't feel and what I don't think.

I am not one of those who in expressing opinions confine themselves to
facts.  I don't know anything that mars good literature so completely as
too much truth.  Facts contain a deal of poetry, but you can't use too
many of them without damaging your literature.  I love all literature,
and as long as I am a doctor of literature--I have suggested to you for
twenty years I have been diligently trying to improve my own literature,
and now, by virtue of the University of Oxford, I mean to doctor
everybody else's.

Now I think I ought to apologize for my clothes.  At home I venture
things that I am not permitted by my family to venture in foreign parts.
I was instructed before I left home and ordered to refrain from white
clothes in England.  I meant to keep that command fair and clean, and I
would have done it if I had been in the habit of obeying instructions,
but I can't invent a new process in life right away.  I have not had
white clothes on since I crossed the ocean until now.

In these three or four weeks I have grown so tired of gray and black that
you have earned my gratitude in permitting me to come as I have.  I wear
white clothes in the depth of winter in my home, but I don't go out in
the streets in them.  I don't go out to attract too much attention.
I like to attract some, and always I would like to be dressed so that I
may be more conspicuous than anybody else.

If I had been an ancient Briton, I would not have contented myself with
blue paint, but I would have bankrupted the rainbow.  I so enjoy gay
clothes in which women clothe themselves that it always grieves me when I
go to the opera to see that, while women look like a flower-bed, the men
are a few gray stumps among them in their black evening dress.  These are
two or three reasons why I wish to wear white clothes:  When I find
myself in assemblies like this, with everybody in black clothes, I know I
possess something that is superior to everybody else's.  Clothes are
never clean.  You don't know whether they are clean or not, because you
can't see.

Here or anywhere you must scour your head every two or three days or it
is full of grit.  Your clothes must collect just as much dirt as your
hair.  If you wear white clothes you are clean, and your cleaning bill
gets so heavy that you have to take care.  I am proud to say that I can
wear a white suit of clothes without a blemish for three days.  If you
need any further instruction in the matter of clothes I shall be glad to
give it to you.  I hope I have convinced some of you that it is just as
well to wear white clothes as any other kind.  I do not want to boast.
I only want to make you understand that you are not clean.

As to age, the fact that I am nearly seventy-two years old does not
clearly indicate how old I am, because part of every day--it is with me
as with you, you try to describe your age, and you cannot do it.
Sometimes you are only fifteen; sometimes you are twenty-five.  It is
very seldom in a day that I am seventy-two years old.  I am older now
sometimes than I was when I used to rob orchards; a thing which I would
not do to-day--if the orchards were watched.  I am so glad to be here to-
night.  I am so glad to renew with the Savages that now ancient time when
I first sat with a company of this club in London in 1872.  That is a
long time ago.  But I did stay with the Savages a night in London long
ago, and as I had come into a very strange land, and was with friends,
as I could see, that has always remained in my mind as a peculiarly
blessed evening, since it brought me into contact with men of my own kind
and my own feelings.

I am glad to be here, and to see you all again, because it is very likely
that I shall not see you again.  It is easier than I thought to come
across the Atlantic.  I have been received, as you know, in the most
delightfully generous way in England ever since I came here.  It keeps me
choked up all the time.  Everybody is so generous, and they do seem to
give you such a hearty welcome.  Nobody in the world can appreciate it
higher than I do.  It did not wait till I got to London, but when I came
ashore at Tilbury the stevedores on the dock raised the first welcome
--a good and hearty welcome from the men who do the heavy labor in the
world, and save you and me having to do it.  They are the men who with
their hands build empires and make them prosper.  It is because of them
that the others are wealthy and can live in luxury.  They received me
with a "Hurrah!" that went to my heart.  They are the men that build
civilization, and without them no civilization can be built.  So I came
first to the authors and creators of civilization, and I blessedly end
this happy meeting with the Savages who destroy it.






GENERAL MILES AND THE DOG

          Mr. Clemens was the guest of honor at a dinner given by the
          Pleiades Club at the Hotel Brevoort, December 22, 1907.  The
          toastmaster introduced the guest of the evening with a high
          tribute to his place in American literature, saying that he was
          dear to the hearts of all Americans.

It is hard work to make a speech when you have listened to compliments
from the powers in authority.  A compliment is a hard text to preach to.
When the chairman introduces me as a person of merit, and when he says
pleasant things about me, I always feel like answering simply that what
he says is true; that it is all right; that, as far as I am concerned,
the things he said can stand as they are.  But you always have to say
something, and that is what frightens me.

I remember out in Sydney once having to respond to some complimentary
toast, and my one desire was to turn in my tracks like any other worm--
and run, for it.  I was remembering that occasion at a later date when I
had to introduce a speaker.  Hoping, then, to spur his speech by putting
him, in joke, on the defensive, I accused him in my introduction of
everything I thought it impossible for him to have committed.  When I
finished there was an awful calm.  I had been telling his life history by
mistake.

One must keep up one's character.  Earn a character first if you can, and
if you can't, then assume one.  From the code of morals I have been
following and revising and revising for seventy-two years I remember one
detail.  All my life I have been honest--comparatively honest.  I could
never use money I had not made honestly--I could only lend it.

Last spring I met General Miles again, and he commented on the fact that
we had known each other thirty years.  He said it was strange that we had
not met years before, when we had both been in Washington.  At that point
I changed the subject, and I changed it with art.  But the facts are
these:

I was then under contract for my Innocents Abroad, but did not have a
cent to live on while I wrote it.  So I went to Washington to do a little
journalism.  There I met an equally poor friend, William Davidson, who
had not a single vice, unless you call it a vice in a Scot to love
Scotch.  Together we devised the first and original newspaper syndicate,
selling two letters a week to twelve newspapers and getting $1 a letter.
That $24 a week would have been enough for us--if we had not had to
support the jug.

But there was a day when we felt that we must have $3 right away--$3 at
once.  That was how I met the General.  It doesn't matter now what we
wanted so much money at one time for, but that Scot and I did
occasionally want it.  The Scot sent me out one day to get it.  He had a
great belief in Providence, that Scottish friend of mine.  He said: "The
Lord will provide."

I had given up trying to find the money lying about, and was in a hotel
lobby in despair, when I saw a beautiful unfriended dog.  The dog saw me,
too, and at once we became acquainted.  Then General Miles came in,
admired the dog, and asked me to price it.  I priced it at $3.  He
offered me an opportunity to reconsider the value of the beautiful
animal, but I refused to take more than Providence knew I needed.  The
General carried the dog to his room.

Then came in a sweet little middle-aged man, who at once began looking
around the lobby.

"Did you lose a dog?" I asked.  He said he had.

"I think I could find it," I volunteered, "for a small sum."

"'How much?'" he asked.  And I told him $3.

He urged me to accept more, but I did not wish to outdo Providence.  Then
I went to the General's room and asked for the dog back.  He was very
angry, and wanted to know why I had sold him a dog that did not belong to
me.

"That's a singular question to ask me, sir," I replied.  "Didn't you ask
me to sell him?  You started it."  And he let me have him.  I gave him
back his $3 and returned the dog, collect, to its owner.  That second $3
I earned home to the Scot, and we enjoyed it, but the first $3, the money
I got from the General, I would have had to lend.

The General seemed not to remember my part in that adventure, and I never
had the heart to tell him about it.






WHEN IN DOUBT, TELL THE TRUTH

          Mark Twain's speech at the dinner of the "Freundschaft
          Society," March 9, 1906, had as a basis the words of
          introduction used by Toastmaster Frank, who, referring to
          Pudd'nhead Wilson, used the phrase, "When in doubt, tell the
          truth."

MR. CHAIRMAN, Mr. PUTZEL, AND GENTLEMEN OF THE FREUNDSCHAFT,--That maxim
I did invent, but never expected it to be applied to me.  I did say,
"When you are in doubt," but when I am in doubt myself I use more
sagacity.

Mr. Grout suggested that if I have anything to say against Mr. Putzel, or
any criticism of his career or his character, I am the last person to
come out on account of that maxim and tell the truth.  That is altogether
a mistake.

I do think it is right for other people to be virtuous so that they can
be happy hereafter, but if I knew every impropriety that even Mr. Putzel
has committed in his life, I would not mention one of them.  My judgment
has been maturing for seventy years, and I have got to that point where I
know better than that.

Mr. Putzel stands related to me in a very tender way (through the tax
office), and it does not behoove me to say anything which could by any
possibility militate against that condition of things.

Now, that word--taxes, taxes, taxes!  I have heard it to-night.  I have
heard it all night.  I wish somebody would change that subject; that is a
very sore subject to me.

I was so relieved when judge Leventritt did find something that was not
taxable--when he said that the commissioner could not tax your patience.
And that comforted me.  We've got so much taxation.  I don't know of a
single foreign product that enters this country untaxed except the answer
to prayer.

On an occasion like this the proprieties require that you merely pay
compliments to the guest of the occasion, and I am merely here to pay
compliments to the guest of the occasion, not to criticise him in any
way, and I can say only complimentary things to him.

When I went down to the tax office some time ago, for the first time in
New York, I saw Mr. Putzel sitting in the "Seat of Perjury." I recognized
him right away.  I warmed to him on the spot.  I didn't know that I had
ever seen him before, but just as soon as I saw him I recognized him.
I had met him twenty-five years before, and at that time had achieved a
knowledge of his abilities and something more than that.

I thought: "Now, this is the man whom I saw twenty-five years ago."
On that occasion I not only went free at his hands, but carried off
something more than that.  I hoped it would happen again.

It was twenty-five years ago when I saw a young clerk in Putnam's
bookstore.  I went in there and asked for George Haven Putnam, and handed
him my card, and then the young man said Mr. Putnam was busy and I
couldn't see him.  Well, I had merely called in a social way, and so it
didn't matter.

I was going out when I saw a great big, fat, interesting-looking book
lying there, and I took it up.  It was an account of the invasion of
England in the fourteenth century by the Preaching Friar, and it
interested me.

I asked him the price of it, and he said four dollars.

"Well," I said, "what discount do you allow to publishers?"

He said: "Forty percent. off."

I said: "All right, I am a publisher."

He put down the figure, forty per cent. off, on a card.

Then I said: "What discount do you allow to authors?"

He said: "Forty per cent. off."

"Well," I said,  "set me down as an author."

"Now," said I, "what discount do you allow to the clergy?"

He said: "Forty per cent. off."

I said to him that I was only on the road, and that I was studying for
the ministry.  I asked him wouldn't he knock off twenty per cent. for
that.  He set down the figure, and he never smiled once.

I was working off these humorous brilliancies on him and getting no
return--not a scintillation in his eye, not a spark of recognition of
what I was doing there.  I was almost in despair.

I thought I might try him once more, so I said "Now, I am also a member
of the human race.  Will you let me have the ten per cent. off for that?"
He set it down, and never smiled.

Well, I gave it up.  I said: "There is my card with my address on it,
but I have not any money with me.  Will you please send the bill to
Hartford?"  I took up the book and was going away.

He said: "Wait a minute.  There is forty cents coming to you."

When I met him in the tax office I thought maybe I could make something
again, but I could not.  But I had not any idea I could when I came, and
as it turned out I did get off entirely free.

I put up my hand and made a statement.  It gave me a good deal of pain to
do that.  I was not used to it.  I was born and reared in the higher
circles of Missouri, and there we don't do such things--didn't in my
time, but we have got that little matter settled--got a sort of tax
levied on me.

Then he touched me.  Yes, he touched me this time, because he cried--
cried!  He was moved to tears to see that I, a virtuous person only a
year before, after immersion for one year--during one year in the New
York morals--had no more conscience than a millionaire.






THE DAY WE CELEBRATE,

          ADDRESS AT THE FOURTH-OF-JULY DINNER OF THE AMERICAN SOCIETY,
          LONDON, 1899.

I noticed in Ambassador Choate's speech that he said: "You may be
Americans or Englishmen, but you cannot be both at the same time."
You responded by applause.

Consider the effect of a short residence here.  I find the Ambassador
rises first to speak to a toast, followed by a Senator, and I come third.
What a subtle tribute that to monarchial influence of the country when
you place rank above respectability!

I was born modest, and if I had not been things like this would force it
upon me.  I understand it quite well.  I am here to see that between them
they do justice to the day we celebrate, and in case they do not I must
do it myself.  But I notice they have considered this day merely from one
side--its sentimental, patriotic, poetic side.  But it has another side.
It has a commercial, a business side that needs reforming.  It has a
historical side.

I do not say "an" historical side, because I am speaking the American
language.  I do not see why our cousins should continue to say "an"
hospital, "an" historical fact, "an" horse.  It seems to me the Congress
of Women, now in session, should look to it.  I think "an" is having a
little too much to do with it.  It comes of habit, which accounts for
many things.

Yesterday, for example, I was at a luncheon party.  At the end of the
party a great dignitary of the English Established Church went away half
an hour before anybody else and carried off my hat.  Now, that was an
innocent act on his part.  He went out first, and of course had the
choice of hats.  As a rule I try to get out first myself.  But I hold
that it was an innocent, unconscious act, due, perhaps, to heredity.
He was thinking about ecclesiastical matters, and when a man is in that
condition of mind he will take anybody's hat.  The result was that the
whole afternoon I was under the influence of his clerical hat and could
not tell a lie.  Of course, he was hard at it.

It is a compliment to both of us.  His hat fitted me exactly; my hat
fitted him exactly.  So I judge I was born to rise to high dignity in the
Church some how or other, but I do not know what he was born for.  That
is an illustration of the influence of habit, and it is perceptible here
when they say "an" hospital, "an" European, "an" historical.

The business aspects of the Fourth of July is not perfect as it stands.
See what it costs us every year with loss of life, the crippling of
thousands with its fireworks, and the burning down of property.  It is
not only sacred to patriotism sand universal freedom, but to the surgeon,
the undertaker, the insurance offices--and they are working, it for all
it is worth.

I am pleased to see that we have a cessation of war for the time.  This
coming from me, a soldier, you will appreciate.  I was a soldier in the
Southern war for two weeks, and when gentlemen get up to speak of the
great deeds our army and navy have recently done, why, it goes all
through me and fires up the old war spirit.  I had in my first engagement
three horses shot under me.  The next ones went over my head, the next
hit me in the back.  Then I retired to meet an engagement.

I thank you, gentlemen, for making even a slight reference to the war
profession, in which I distinguished myself, short as my career was.






INDEPENDENCE DAY

          The American Society in London gave a banquet, July 4, 1907, at
          the Hotel Cecil.  Ambassador Choate called on Mr. Clemens to
          respond to the toast "The Day We Celebrate."

MR. CHAIRMAN, MY LORD, AND GENTLEMEN,--Once more it happens, as it has
happened so often since I arrived in England a week or two ago, that
instead of celebrating the Fourth of July properly as has been indicated,
I have to first take care of my personal character.  Sir Mortimer Durand
still remains unconvinced.  Well, I tried to convince these people from
the beginning that I did not take the Ascot Cup; and as I have failed to
convince anybody that I did not take the cup, I might as well confess I
did take it and be done with it.  I don't see why this uncharitable
feeling should follow me everywhere, and why I should have that crime
thrown up to me on all occasions.  The tears that I have wept over it
ought to have created a different feeling than this--and, besides,
I don't think it is very right or fair that, considering England has been
trying to take a cup of ours for forty years--I don't see why they should
take so much trouble when I tried to go into the business myself.

Sir Mortimer Durand, too, has had trouble from going to a dinner here,
and he has told you what he suffered in consequence.  But what did he
suffer?  He only missed his train, and one night of discomfort, and he
remembers it to this day.  Oh! if you could only think what I have
suffered from a similar circumstance.  Two or three years ago, in New
York, with that Society there which is made up of people from all British
Colonies, and from Great Britain generally, who were educated in British
colleges and.  British schools, I was there to respond to a toast of some
kind or other, and I did then what I have been in the habit of doing,
from a selfish motive, for a long time, and that is, I got myself placed
No, 3 in the list of speakers--then you get home early.

I had to go five miles up-river, and had to catch a, particular train or
not get there.  But see the magnanimity which is born in me, which I have
cultivated all my life.  A very famous and very great British clergyman
came to me presently, and he said: "I am away down in the list; I have
got to catch a certain train this Saturday night; if I don't catch that
train I shall be carried beyond midnight and break the Sabbath.  Won't
you change places with me?"  I said: "Certainly I will." I did it at
once.  Now, see what happened.

Talk about Sir Mortimer Durand's sufferings for a single night!  I have
suffered ever since because I saved that gentleman from breaking the
Sabbath-yes, saved him.  I took his place, but I lost my train, and it
was I who broke the Sabbath.  Up to that time I never had broken the
Sabbath in my life, and from that day to this I never have kept it.

Oh!  I am learning much here to-night.  I find I didn't know anything
about the American Society--that is, I didn't know its chief virtue.
I didn't know its chief virtue until his Excellency our Ambassador
revealed it--I may say, exposed it.  I was intending to go home on the
13th of this month, but I look upon that in a different light now.  I am
going to stay here until the American Society pays my passage.

Our Ambassador has spoken of our Fourth of July and the noise it makes.
We have got a double Fourth of July--a daylight Fourth and a midnight
Fourth.  During the day in America, as our Ambassador has indicated, we
keep the Fourth of July properly in a reverent spirit.  We devote it to
teaching our children patriotic things--reverence for the Declaration of
Independence.  We honor the day all through the daylight hours, and when
night comes we dishonor it.  Presently--before long--they are getting
nearly ready to begin now--on the Atlantic coast, when night shuts down,
that pandemonium will begin, and there will be noise, and noise, and
noise--all night long--and there will be more than noise there will be
people crippled, there will be people killed, there will be people who
will lose their eyes, and all through that permission which we give to
irresponsible boys to play with firearms and fire-crackers, and all sorts
of dangerous things: We turn that Fourth of July, alas! over to rowdies
to drink and get drunk and make the night hideous, and we cripple and
kill more people than you would imagine.

We probably began to celebrate our Fourth-of-July night in that way one
hundred and twenty-five years ago, and on every Fourth-of-July night
since these horrors have grown and grown, until now, in our five thousand
towns of America, somebody gets killed or crippled on every Fourth-of-
July night, besides those cases of sick persons whom we never hear of,
who die as the result of the noise or the shock.  They cripple and kill
more people on the Fourth of July in, America than they kill and cripple
in our wars nowadays, and there are no pensions for these folk.  And,
too, we burn houses.  Really we destroy more property on every Fourth-of-
July night than the whole of the United States was worth one hundred and
twenty-five years ago.  Really our Fourth of July is our day of mourning,
our day of sorrow.  Fifty thousand people who have lost friends, or who
have had friends crippled, receive that Fourth of July, when it comes, as
a day of mourning for the losses they have sustained in their families.

I have suffered in that way myself.  I have had relatives killed in that
way.  One was in Chicago years ago--an uncle of mine, just as good an
uncle as I have ever had, and I had lots of them--yes, uncles to burn,
uncles to spare.  This poor uncle, full of patriotism, opened his mouth
to hurrah, and a rocket went down his throat.  Before that man could ask
for a drink of water to quench that thing, it blew up and scattered him
all, over the forty-five States, and--really, now, this is true--I know
about it myself--twenty-four hours after that it was raining buttons,
recognizable as his, on the Atlantic seaboard.  A person cannot have a
disaster like that and be entirely cheerful the rest of his life.  I had
another uncle, on an entirely different Fourth of July, who was blown up
that way, and really it trimmed him as it would a tree.  He had hardly a
limb left on him anywhere.  All we have left now is an expurgated edition
of that uncle.  But never mind about these things; they are merely
passing matters.  Don't let me make you sad.

Sir Mortimer Durand said that you, the English people, gave up your
colonies over there--got tired of them--and did it with reluctance.
Now I wish you just to consider that he was right about that, and that he
had his reasons for saying that England did not look upon our Revolution
as a foreign war, but as a civil war fought by Englishmen.

Our Fourth of July which we honor so much, and which we love so much, and
which we take so much pride in, is an English institution, not an
American one, and it comes of a great ancestry.  The first Fourth of July
in that noble genealogy dates back seven centuries lacking eight years.
That is the day of the Great Charter--the Magna Charta--which was born at
Runnymede in the next to the last year of King John, and portions of the
liberties secured thus by those hardy Barons from that reluctant King
John are a part of our Declaration of Independence, of our Fourth of
July, of our American liberties.  And the second of those Fourths of July
was not born, until four centuries later, in, Charles the First's time,
in the Bill of Rights, and that is ours, that is part of our liberties.
The next one was still English, in New England, where they established
that principle which remains with us to this day, and will continue to
remain with us--no taxation without representation.  That is always going
to stand, and that the English Colonies in New England gave us.

The Fourth of July, and the one which you are celebrating now, born, in
Philadelphia on the 4th of July, 1776--that is English, too.  It is not
American.  Those were English colonists, subjects of King George III.,
Englishmen at heart, who protested against the oppressions of the Home
Government.  Though they proposed to cure those oppressions and remove
them, still remaining under the Crown, they were not intending a
revolution.  The revolution was brought about by circumstances which they
could not control.  The Declaration of Independence was written by a
British subject, every name signed to it was the name of a British
subject.  There was not the name of a single American attached to the
Declaration of Independence--in fact, there was not an American in the
country in that day except the Indians out on the plains.  They were
Englishmen, all Englishmen--Americans did not begin until seven, years
later, when that Fourth of July had become seven years old, and then, the
American Republic was established.  Since then, there have been
Americans.  So you see what we owe to England in the matter of liberties.

We have, however, one Fourth of July which is absolutely our own, and
that is that great proclamation issued forty years ago by that great
American to whom Sir Mortimer Durand paid that just and beautiful
tribute--Abraham Lincoln.  Lincoln's proclamation, which not only set the
black slaves free, but set the white man free also.  The owner was set
free from the burden and offence, that sad condition of things where he
was in so many instances a master and owner of slaves when he did not
want to be.  That proclamation set them all free.  But even in this
matter England suggested it, for England had set her slaves free thirty
years before, and we followed her example.  We always followed her
example, whether it was good or bad.

And it was an English judge that issued that other great proclamation,
and established that great principle that, when a slave, let him belong
to whom he may, and let him come whence he may, sets his foot upon
English soil, his fetters by that act fall away and he is a free man
before the world.  We followed the example of 1833, and we freed our
slaves as I have said.

It is true, then, that all our Fourths of July, and we have five of them,
England gave to us, except that one that I have mentioned--the
Emancipation Proclamation, and, lest we forget, let us all remember that
we owe these things to England.  Let us be able to say to Old England,
this great-hearted, venerable old mother of the race, you gave us our
Fourths of July that we love and that we honor and revere, you gave us
the Declaration of Independence, which is the Charter of our rights, you,
the venerable Mother of Liberties, the Protector of Anglo-Saxon Freedom-
you gave us these things, and we do most honestly thank you for them.






AMERICANS AND THE ENGLISH

     ADDRESS AT A GATHERING OF AMERICANS IN LONDON, JULY 4, 1872

MR. CHAIRMAN AND LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--I thank you for the compliment
which has just been tendered me, and to show my appreciation of it I will
not afflict you with many words.  It is pleasant to celebrate in this
peaceful way, upon this old mother soil, the anniversary of an experiment
which was born of war with this same land so long ago, and wrought out to
a successful issue by the devotion of our ancestors.  It has taken nearly
a hundred years to bring the English and Americans into kindly and
mutually appreciative relations, but I believe it has been accomplished
at last.  It was a great step when the two last misunderstandings were
settled by arbitration instead of cannon.  It is another great step when
England adopts our sewing-machines without claiming the invention--as
usual.  It was another when they imported one of our sleeping-cars the
other day.  And it warmed my heart more than, I can tell, yesterday, when
I witnessed the spectacle of an Englishman, ordering an American sherry
cobbler of his own free will and accord--and not only that but with a
great brain and a level head reminding the barkeeper not to forget the
strawberries.  With a common origin, a common language, a common
literature, a common religion, and--common drinks, what is longer needful
to the cementing of the two nations together in a permanent bond of
brotherhood?

This is an age of progress, and ours is a progressive land.  A great and
glorious land, too--a land which has developed a Washington, a Franklin,
a Wm. M. Tweed, a Longfellow, a Motley, a Jay Gould, a Samuel C.
Pomeroy, a recent Congress which has never had its equal (in some
respects), and a United States Army which conquered sixty Indians in
eight months by tiring them out which is much better than uncivilized
slaughter, God knows.  We have a criminal jury system which is superior
to any in the world; and its efficiency is only marred by the difficulty
of finding twelve men every day who don't know anything and can't read.
And I may observe that we have an insanity plea that would have saved
Cain.  I think I can say, and say with pride, that we have some
legislatures that bring higher prices than any in the world.

I refer with effusion to our railway system, which consents to let us
live, though it might do the opposite, being our owners.  It only
destroyed three thousand and seventy lives last year by collisions, and
twenty-seven thousand two hundred and sixty by running over heedless and
unnecessary people at crossings.  The companies seriously regretted the
killing of these thirty thousand people, and went so far as to pay for
some of them--voluntarily, of course, for the meanest of us would not
claim that we possess a court treacherous enough to enforce a law against
a railway company.  But, thank Heaven, the railway companies are
generally disposed to do the right and kindly thing without--compulsion.
I know of an instance which greatly touched me at the time.  After an
accident the company sent home the remains of a dear distant old relative
of mine in a basket, with the remark, "Please state what figure you hold
him at--and return the basket."  Now there couldn't be anything
friendlier than that.

But I must not stand here and brag all night. However, you won't mind a
body bragging a little about his country on the Fourth of July.  It is a
fair and legitimate time to fly the eagle.  I will say only one more word
of brag--and a hopeful one.  It is this.  We have a form of government
which gives each man a fair chance and no favor.  With us no individual
is born with a right to look down upon his neighbor and hold him in
contempt.  Let such of us as are not dukes find our consolation in that.
And we may find hope for the future in the fact that as unhappy as is the
condition of our political morality to-day, England has risen up out of a
far fouler since the days when Charles I. ennobled courtesans and all
political place was a matter of bargain and sale.  There is hope for us
yet.*

          *At least the above is the speech which I was going to make,
          but our minister, General Schenck, presided, and after the
          blessing, got up and made a great, long, inconceivably dull
          harangue, and wound up by saying that inasmuch as speech-making
          did not seem to exhilarate the guests much, all further oratory
          would be dispensed with during the evening, and we could just
          sit and talk privately to our elbow-neighbors and have a good,
          sociable time.  It is known that in consequence of that remark
          forty-four perfected speeches died in the womb.  The
          depression, the gloom, the solemnity that reigned over the
          banquet from that time forth will be a lasting memory with many
          that were there.  By that one thoughtless remark General
          Schenck lost forty-four of the best friends he had in England.
          More than one said that night: "And this is the sort of person
          that is sent to represent us in a great sister empire!"






ABOUT LONDON

          ADDRESS AT A DINNER GIVEN BY THE SAVAGE CLUB,
          LONDON, SEPTEMBER 28, 1872.

          Reported by Moncure D. Conway in the Cincinnati Commercial.

It affords me sincere pleasure to meet this distinguished club, a club
which has extended its hospitalities and its cordial welcome to so many
of my countrymen.  I hope [and here the speaker's voice became low and
fluttering] you will excuse these clothes.  I am going to the theatre;
that will explain these clothes.  I have other clothes than these.
Judging human nature by what I have seen of it, I suppose that the
customary thing for a stranger to do when he stands here is to make a pun
on the name of this club, under the impression, of course, that he is the
first man that that idea has occurred to.  It is a credit to our human
nature, not a blemish upon it; for it shows that underlying all our
depravity (and God knows and you know we are depraved enough) and all our
sophistication, and untarnished by them, there is a sweet germ of
innocence and simplicity still.  When a stranger says to me, with a glow
of inspiration in his eye, some gentle, innocuous little thing about
"Twain and one flesh," and all that sort of thing, I don't try to crush
that man into the earth--no.  I feel like saying: "Let me take you by the
hand, sir; let me embrace you; I have not heard that pun for weeks."
We will deal in palpable puns.  We will call parties named King "Your
Majesty," and we will say to the Smiths that we think we have heard that
name before somewhere.  Such is human nature.  We cannot alter this.
It is God that made us so for some good and wise purpose.  Let us not
repine.  But though I may seem strange, may seem eccentric, I mean to
refrain from punning upon the name of this club, though I could make a
very good one if I had time to think about it--a week.

I cannot express to you what entire enjoyment I find in this first visit
to this prodigious metropolis of yours.  Its wonders seem to me to be
limitless.  I go about as in a dream--as in a realm of enchantment--where
many things are rare and beautiful, and all things are strange and
marvellous.  Hour after hour I stand--I stand spellbound, as it were--and
gaze upon the statuary in Leicester Square.  [Leicester Square being a
horrible chaos, with the relic of an equestrian statue in the centre, the
king being headless and limbless, and the horse in little better
condition.] I visit the mortuary effigies of noble old Henry VIII., and
Judge Jeffreys, and the preserved gorilla, and try to make up my mind
which of my ancestors I admire the most.  I go to that matchless Hyde
Park and drive all around it, and then I start to enter it at the Marble
Arch---and--am induced to "change my mind."  [Cabs are not permitted in
Hyde Park--nothing less aristocratic than a private carriage.]  It is a
great benefaction--is Hyde Park.  There, in his hansom cab, the invalid
can go--the poor, sad child of misfortune--and insert his nose between
the railings, and breathe the pure, health--giving air of the country and
of heaven.  And if he is a swell invalid, who isn't obliged to depend
upon parks for his country air, he can drive inside--if he owns his
vehicle.  I drive round and round Hyde Park, and the more I see of the
edges of it the more grateful I am that the margin is extensive.

And I have been to the Zoological Gardens.  What a wonderful place that
is!  I never have seen such a curious and interesting variety of wild
animals in any garden before--except "Mabilie."  I never believed before
there were so many different kinds of animals in the world as you can
find there--and I don't believe it yet.  I have been to the British
Museum.  I would advise you to drop in there some time when you have
nothing to do for--five minutes--if you have never been there: It seems
to me the noblest monument that this nation has yet erected to her
greatness.  I say to her, our greatness--as a nation.  True, she has
built other monuments, and stately ones, as well; but these she has
uplifted in honor of two or three colossal demigods who have stalked
across the world's stage, destroying tyrants and delivering nations, and
whose prodigies will still live in the memories of men ages after their
monuments shall have crumbled to dust--I refer to the Wellington and
Nelson monuments, and--the Albert memorial.  [Sarcasm.  The Albert
memorial is the finest monument in the world, and celebrates the
existence of as commonplace a person as good luck ever lifted out of
obscurity.]

The library at the British Museum I find particularly astounding.
I have read there hours together, and hardly made an impression on it.
I revere that library.  It is the author's friend.  I don't care how mean
a book is, it always takes one copy.  [A copy of every book printed in
Great Britain must by law be sent to the British Museum, a law much
complained of by publishers.]  And then every day that author goes there
to gaze at that book, and is encouraged to go on in the good work.
And what a touching sight it is of a Saturday afternoon to see the poor,
careworn clergymen gathered together in that vast reading--room cabbaging
sermons for Sunday.  You will pardon my referring to these things.

Everything in this monster city interests me, and I cannot keep from
talking, even at the risk of being instructive.  People here seem always
to express distances by parables.  To a stranger it is just a little
confusing to be so parabolic--so to speak.  I collar a citizen, and I
think I am going to get some valuable information out of him.  I ask him
how far it is to Birmingham, and he says it is twenty-one shillings and
sixpence.  Now we know that doesn't help a man who is trying to learn.
I find myself down-town somewhere, and I want to get some sort of idea
where I am--being usually lost when alone--and I stop a citizen and say:
"How far is it to Charing Cross?"  "Shilling fare in a cab," and off he
goes.  I suppose if I were to ask a Londoner how far it, is from the
sublime to the ridiculous, he would try to express it in coin.  But I am
trespassing upon your time with these geological statistics and
historical reflections.  I will not longer keep you from your orgies.
'Tis a real pleasure for me to be here, and I thank you for it.  The name
of the Savage Club is associated in my mind with the kindly interest and
the friendly offices which you lavished upon an old friend of mine who
came among you a stranger, and you opened your English hearts to him and
gave him welcome and a home--Artemus Ward.  Asking that you will join me,
I give you his memory.






PRINCETON

          Mr. Clemens spent several days in May, 1901, in Princeton, New
          Jersey, as the guest of Lawrence Hutton.  He gave a reading one
          evening before a large audience composed of university students
          and professors.  Before the reading Mr. Clemens said:

I feel exceedingly surreptitious in coming down here without an
announcement of any kind.  I do not want to see any advertisements
around, for the reason that I'm not a lecturer any longer.  I reformed
long ago, and I break over and commit this sin only just one time this
year: and that is moderate, I think, for a person of my disposition.  It
is not my purpose to lecture any more as long as I live.  I never intend
to stand up on a platform any more--unless by the request of a sheriff or
something like that.






THE ST. LOUIS HARBOR-BOAT "MARK TWAIN"

          The Countess de Rochambeau christened the St. Louis harbor-boat
          'Mark Twain' in honor of Mr. Clemens, June 6, 1902.  Just
          before the luncheon he acted as pilot.

          "Lower away lead!" boomed out the voice of the pilot.

          "Mark twain, quarter five and one-half-six feet!" replied the
          leadsman below.

          "You are all dead safe as long as I have the wheel--but this is
          my last time at the wheel."

          At the luncheon Mr. Clemens made a short address.

First of all, no--second of all--I wish to offer my thanks for the honor
done me by naming this last rose of summer of the Mississippi Valley for
me, this boat which represents a perished interest, which I fortified
long ago, but did not save its life.  And, in the first place, I wish to
thank the Countess de Rochambeau for the honor she has done me in
presiding at this christening.

I believe that it is peculiarly appropriate that I should be allowed the
privilege of joining my voice with the general voice of St. Louis and
Missouri in welcoming to the Mississippi Valley and this part of the
continent these illustrious visitors from France.

When La Salle came down this river a century and a quarter ago there was
nothing on its banks but savages.  He opened up this great river, and by
his simple act was gathered in this great Louisiana territory.  I would
have done it myself for half the money.






SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

          ADDRESS AT A DINNER GIVEN BY COLONEL GEORGE HARVEY AT
          DELMONICO'S, DECEMBER 5, 1905, TO CELEBRATE THE SEVENTIETH
          ANNIVERSARY OF MR. CLEMENS' BIRTH

          Mr. Howells introduced Mr. Clemens:

          "Now, ladies and gentlemen, and Colonel Harvey, I will try not
          to be greedy on your behalf in wishing the health of our
          honored and, in view of his great age, our revered guest.  I
          will not say, 'Oh King, live forever!' but 'Oh King, live as
          long as you like!'" [Amid great applause and waving of napkins
          all rise and drink to Mark Twain.]

Well, if I made that joke, it is the best one I ever made, and it is in
the prettiest language, too.--I never can get quite to that height.  But
I appreciate that joke, and I shall remember it--and I shall use it when
occasion requires.

I have had a great many birthdays in my time. I remember the first one
very well, and I always think of it with indignation; everything was so
crude, unaesthetic, primeval.  Nothing like this at all.  No proper
appreciative preparation made; nothing really ready.  Now, for a person
born with high and delicate instincts--why, even the cradle wasn't
whitewashed--nothing ready at all.  I hadn't any hair, I hadn't any
teeth, I hadn't any clothes, I had to go to my first banquet just like
that.  Well, everybody came swarming in.  It was the merest little bit of
a village--hardly that, just a little hamlet, in the backwoods of
Missouri, where nothing ever happened, and the people were all
interested, and they all came; they looked me over to see if there was
anything fresh in my line.  Why, nothing ever happened in that village--
I--why, I was the only thing that had really happened there for months
and months and months; and although I say it myself that shouldn't, I
came the nearest to being a real event that had happened in that village
in more than, two years.  Well, those people came, they came with that
curiosity which is so provincial, with that frankness which also is so
provincial, and they examined me all around and gave their opinion.
Nobody asked them, and I shouldn't have minded if anybody had paid me a
compliment, but nobody did.  Their opinions were all just green with
prejudice, and I feel those opinions to this day.  Well, I stood that as
long as--well, you know I was born courteous, and I stood it to the
limit.  I stood it an hour, and then the worm turned.  I was the warm; it
was my turn to turn, and I turned.  I knew very well the strength of my
position; I knew that I was the only spotlessly pure and innocent person
in that whole town, and I came out and said so: And they could not say a
word.  It was so true: They blushed; they were embarrassed.  Well, that
was the first after-dinner speech I ever made: I think it was after
dinner.

It's a long stretch between that first birthday speech and this one.
That was my cradle-song; and this is my swan-song, I suppose.  I am used
to swan-songs; I have sung them several, times.

This is my seventieth birthday, and I wonder if you all rise to the size
of that proposition, realizing all the significance of that phrase,
seventieth birthday.

The seventieth birthday!  It is the time of life when you arrive at a new
and awful dignity; when you may throw aside the decent reserves which
have oppressed you for a generation and stand unafraid and unabashed upon
your seven-terraced summit and look down and teach--unrebuked.  You can
tell the world how you got there.  It is what they all do.  You shall
never get tired of telling by what delicate arts and deep moralities you
climbed up to that great place.  You will explain the process and dwell
on the particulars with senile rapture.  I have been anxious to explain
my own system this long time, and now at last I have the right.

I have achieved my seventy years in the usual way: by sticking strictly
to a scheme of life which would kill anybody else.  It sounds like an
exaggeration, but that is really the common rule for attaining to old
age.  When we examine the programme of any of these garrulous old people
we always find that the habits which have preserved them would have
decayed us; that the way of life which enabled them to live upon the
property of their heirs so long, as Mr. Choate says, would have put us
out of commission ahead of time.  I will offer here, as a sound maxim,
this: That we can't reach old age by another man's road.

I will now teach, offering my way of life to whomsoever desires to commit
suicide by the scheme which has enabled me to beat the doctor and the
hangman for seventy years.  Some of the details may sound untrue, but
they are not.  I am not here to deceive; I am here to teach.

We have no permanent habits until we are forty.  Then they begin to
harden, presently they petrify, then business begins.  Since forty I have
been regular about going to bed and getting up--and that is one of the
main things.  I have made it a rule to go to bed when there wasn't
anybody left to sit up with; and I have made it a rule to get up when I
had to.  This has resulted in an unswerving regularity of irregularity.
It has saved me sound, but it would injure another person.

In the matter of diet--which is another main thing--I have been
persistently strict in sticking to the things which didn't agree with me
until one or the other of us got the best of it.  Until lately I got the
best of it myself.  But last spring I stopped frolicking with mince-pie
after midnight; up to then I had always believed it wasn't loaded.  For
thirty years I have taken coffee and bread at eight in the morning, and
no bite nor sup until seven-thirty in the evening.  Eleven hours.  That
is all right for me, and is wholesome, because I have never had a
headache in my life, but headachy people would not reach seventy
comfortably by that road, and they would be foolish to try it.  And I
wish to urge upon you this--which I think is wisdom--that if you find you
can't make seventy by any but an uncomfortable road, don't you go.  When
they take off the Pullman and retire you to the rancid smoker, put on
your things, count your checks, and get out at the first way station
where there's a cemetery.

I have made it a rule never to smoke more than one cigar at a time.
I have no other restriction as regards smoking.  I do not know just when
I began to smoke, I only know that it was in my father's lifetime, and
that I was discreet.  He passed from this life early in 1847, when I was
a shade past eleven; ever since then I have smoked publicly.  As an
example to others, and--not that I care for moderation myself, it has
always been my rule never to smoke when asleep, and never to refrain when
awake.  It is a good rule.  I mean, for me; but some of you know quite
well that it wouldn't answer for everybody that's trying to get to be
seventy.

I smoke in bed until I have to go to sleep; I wake up in the night,
sometimes once, sometimes twice; sometimes three times, and I never waste
any of these opportunities to smoke.  This habit is so old and dear and
precious to me that I would feel as you, sir, would feel if you should
lose the only moral you've got--meaning the chairman--if you've got one:
I am making no charges: I will grant, here, that I have stopped smoking
now and then, for a few months at a time, but it was not on principle, it
was only to show off; it was to pulverize those critics who said I was a
slave to my habits and couldn't break my bonds.

To-day it is all of sixty years since I began to smoke the limit.  I have
never bought cigars with life-belts around them.  I early found that
those were too expensive for me: I have always bought cheap cigars--
reasonably cheap, at any rate.  Sixty years ago they cost me four dollars
a barrel, but my taste has improved, latterly, and I pay seven, now.  Six
or seven.  Seven, I think.  Yes; it's seven.  But that includes the
barrel.  I often have smoking-parties at my house; but the people that
come have always just taken the pledge.  I wonder why that is?

As for drinking, I  have no rule about that.  When the others drink I
like to help; otherwise I remain dry, by habit and preference.  This
dryness does not hurt me, but it could easily hurt you, because you are
different.  You let it alone.

Since I was seven years old I have seldom take, a dose of medicine, and
have still seldomer needed one.  But up to seven I lived exclusively on
allopathic medicines.  Not that I needed them, for I don't think I did;
it was for economy; my father took a drug-store for a debt, and it made
cod-liver oil cheaper than the other breakfast foods.  We had nine
barrels of it, and it lasted me seven years.  Then I was weaned.  The
rest of the family had to get along with rhubarb and ipecac and such
things, because I was the pet.  I was the first Standard Oil Trust.
I had it all.  By the time the drugstore was exhausted my health was
established, and there has never been much the matter with me since.
But you know very well it would be foolish for the average child to start
for seventy on that basis.  It happened to be just the thing for me,
but that was merely an accident; it couldn't happen again in a century.

I have never taken any exercise, except sleeping and resting, and I never
intend to take any.  Exercise is loathsome.  And it cannot be any benefit
when you are tired; and I was always tired.  But let another person try
my way, and see where he will come out.  I desire now to repeat and
emphasise that maxim: We can't reach old age by another man's road.  My
habits protect my life, but they would assassinate you.

I have lived a severely moral life.  But it would be a mistake for other
people to try that, or for me to recommend it.  Very few would succeed:
you have to have a perfectly colossal stock of morals; and you can't get
them on a margin; you have to have the whole thing, and put them in your
box.  Morals are an acquirement--like music, like a foreign language,
like piety, poker, paralysis--no man is born with them.  I wasn't myself,
I started poor.  I hadn't a single moral.  There is hardly a man in this
house that is poorer than I was then.  Yes, I started like that--the
world before me, not a moral in the slot.  Not even an insurance moral.
I can remember the first one I ever got.  I can remember the landscape,
the weather, the--I can remember how everything looked.  It was an old
moral, an old second-hand moral, all out of repair, and didn't fit,
anyway.  But if you are careful with a thing like that, and keep it in a
dry place, and save it for processions, and Chautauquas, and World's
Fairs, and so on, and disinfect it now and then, and give it a fresh coat
of whitewash once in a while, you will be surprised to see how well she
will last and how long she will keep sweet, or at least inoffensive.
When I got that mouldy old moral, she had stopped growing, because she
hadn't any exercise; but I worked her hard, I worked her Sundays and all.
Under this cultivation she waxed in might and stature beyond belief, and
served me well and was my pride and joy for sixty-three years; then she
got to associating with insurance presidents, and lost flesh and
character, and was a sorrow to look at and no longer competent for
business.  She was a great loss to me.  Yet not all loss.  I sold her--
ah, pathetic skeleton, as she was--I sold her to Leopold, the pirate King
of Belgium; he sold her to our Metropolitan Museum, and it was very glad
to get her, for without a rag on, she stands 57 feet long and 16 feet
high, and they think she's a brontosaur.  Well, she looks it.  They
believe it will take nineteen geological periods to breed her match.

Morals are of inestimable value, for every man is born crammed with sin
microbes, and the only thing that can extirpate these sin microbes is
morals.  Now you take a sterilized Christian--I mean, you take the
sterilized Christian, for there's only one.  Dear sir, I wish you
wouldn't look at me like that.

Threescore years and ten!

It is the Scriptural statute of limitations.  After that, you owe no
active duties; for you the strenuous life is over.  You are a time-
expired man, to use Kipling's military phrase: You have served your term,
well or less well, and you are mustered out.  You are become an honorary
member of the republic, you are emancipated, compulsions are not for you,
nor any bugle-tail but "lights out."  You pay the time-worn duty bills if
you choose, or decline if you prefer--and without prejudice--for they are
not legally collectable.

The previous-engagement plea, which in forty years has cost you so many
tinges, you cam lay aside forever; on this side of the grave you will
never need it again.  If you shrink at thought of night, and winter, and
the late home-coming from the banquet and the lights and the laughter
through the deserted streets--a desolation which would not remind you
now, as for a generation it did, that your friends are sleeping, and you
must creep in a-tiptoe and not disturb them, but would only remind you
that you need not tiptoe, you can never disturb them more--if you shrink
at thought of these things, you need only reply, "Your invitation honors
me, and pleases me because you still keep me in your remembrance, but I
am seventy; seventy, and would nestle in the chimney-corner, and smoke my
pipe, and read my book, and take my rest, wishing you well in all
affection; and that when you in your return shall arrive at pier No. 70
you may step aboard your waiting ship with a reconciled spirit, and lay
your course toward the sinking sun with a contented heart."




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Mark Twain's Speeches
by Mark Twain






MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS, Complete

ARRANGED WITH COMMENT BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE




VOLUME I

1835[1853]-1866



FOREWORD

Nowhere is the human being more truly revealed than in his letters.
Notin literary letters--prepared with care, and the thought of possible
publication--but in those letters wrought out of the press of
circumstances, and with no idea of print in mind.  A collection of such
documents, written by one whose life has become of interest to mankind at
large, has a value quite aside from literature, in that it reflects in
some degree at least the soul of the writer.

The letters of Mark Twain are peculiarly of the revealing sort.  He was a
man of few restraints and of no affectations.  In his correspondence,
as in his talk, he spoke what was in his mind, untrammeled by literary
conventions.

Necessarily such a collection does not constitute a detailed life story,
but is supplementary to it.  An extended biography of Mark Twain has
already been published.  His letters are here gathered for those who wish
to pursue the subject somewhat more exhaustively from the strictly
personal side.  Selections from this correspondence were used in the
biography mentioned.  Most of these are here reprinted in the belief that
an owner of the "Letters" will wish the collection to be reasonably
complete.


[Etext Editor's Note:  A. B. Paine considers this compendium a supplement
to his "Mark Twain, A Biography", I have arranged the volumes of the
"Letters" to correspond as closely as possible with the dates of the
Project Gutenberg six volumes of the "Biography".  D.W.]



MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS

MARK TWAIN--A BIOGRAPHICAL SUMMARY

SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS, for nearly half a century known and celebrated
as "Mark Twain," was born in Florida, Missouri, on November 30, 1835.
He was one of the foremost American philosophers of his day; he was the
world's most famous humorist of any day.  During the later years of his
life he ranked not only as America's chief man of letters, but likewise
as her best known and best loved citizen.

The beginnings of that life were sufficiently unpromising.  The family
was a good one, of old Virginia and Kentucky stock, but its circumstances
were reduced, its environment meager and disheartening.  The father, John
Marshall Clemens--a lawyer by profession, a merchant by vocation--had
brought his household to Florida from Jamestown, Tennessee, somewhat
after the manner of judge Hawkins as pictured in The Gilded Age.  Florida
was a small town then, a mere village of twenty-one houses located on
Salt River, but judge Clemens, as he was usually called, optimistic and
speculative in his temperament, believed in its future.  Salt River would
be made navigable; Florida would become a metropolis.  He established a
small business there, and located his family in the humble frame cottage
where, five months later, was born a baby boy to whom they gave the name
of Samuel--a family name--and added Langhorne, after an old Virginia
friend of his father.

The child was puny, and did not make a very sturdy fight for life.
Still he weathered along, season after season, and survived two stronger
children, Margaret and Benjamin.  By 1839 Judge Clemens had lost faith in
Florida.  He removed his family to Hannibal, and in this Mississippi
River town the little lad whom the world was to know as Mark Twain spent
his early life.  In Tom Sawyer we have a picture of the Hannibal of those
days and the atmosphere of his boyhood there.

His schooling was brief and of a desultory kind.  It ended one day in
1847, when his father died and it became necessary that each one should
help somewhat in the domestic crisis.  His brother Orion, ten years his
senior, was already a printer by trade.  Pamela, his sister; also
considerably older, had acquired music, and now took a few pupils.
The little boy Sam, at twelve, was apprenticed to a printer named Ament.
His wages consisted of his board and clothes--"more board than clothes,"
as he once remarked to the writer.

He remained with Ament until his brother Orion bought out a small paper
in Hannibal in 1850.  The paper, in time, was moved into a part of the
Clemens home, and the two brothers ran it, the younger setting most of
the type.  A still younger brother, Henry, entered the office as an
apprentice.  The Hannibal journal was no great paper from the beginning,
and it did not improve with time.  Still, it managed to survive--country
papers nearly always manage to survive--year after year, bringing in some
sort of return.  It was on this paper that young Sam Clemens began his
writings--burlesque, as a rule, of local characters and conditions--
usually published in his brother's absence; generally resulting in
trouble on his return.  Yet they made the paper sell, and if Orion had
but realized his brother's talent he might have turned it into capital
even then.

In 1853 (he was not yet eighteen) Sam Clemens grew tired of his
limitations and pined for the wider horizon of the world.  He gave out to
his family that he was going to St. Louis, but he kept on to New York,
where a World's Fair was then going on.  In New York he found employment
at his trade, and during the hot months of 1853 worked in a printing-
office in Cliff Street.  By and by he went to Philadelphia, where he
worked a brief time; made a trip to Washington, and presently set out for
the West again, after an absence of more than a year.

Onion, meanwhile, had established himself at Muscatine, Iowa, but soon
after removed to Keokuk, where the brothers were once more together,
till following their trade.  Young Sam Clemens remained in Keokuk until
the winter of 1856-57, when he caught a touch of the South-American fever
then prevalent; and decided to go to Brazil.  He left Keokuk for
Cincinnati, worked that winter in a printing-office there, and in April
took the little steamer, Paul Jones, for New Orleans, where he expected
to find a South-American vessel.  In Life on the Mississippi we have his
story of how he met Horace Bixby and decided to become a pilot instead of
a South American adventurer--jauntily setting himself the stupendous task
of learning the twelve hundred miles of the Mississippi River between St.
Louis and New Orleans--of knowing it as exactly and as unfailingly, even
in the dark, as one knows the way to his own features.  It seems
incredible to those who knew Mark Twain in his later years--dreamy,
unpractical, and indifferent to details--that he could have acquired so
vast a store of minute facts as were required by that task.  Yet within
eighteen months he had become not only a pilot, but one of the best and
most careful pilots on the river, intrusted with some of the largest and
most valuable steamers.  He continued in that profession for two and a
half years longer, and during that time met with no disaster that cost
his owners a single dollar for damage.

Then the war broke out.  South Carolina seceded in December, 1860 and
other States followed.  Clemens was in New Orleans in January, 1861, when
Louisiana seceded, and his boat was put into the Confederate service and
sent up the Red River.  His occupation gone, he took steamer for the
North--the last one before the blockade closed.  A blank cartridge was
fired at them from Jefferson Barracks when they reached St. Louis, but
they did not understand the signal, and kept on.  Presently a shell
carried away part of the pilot-house and considerably disturbed its
inmates.  They realized, then, that war had really begun.

In those days Clemens's sympathies were with the South.  He hurried up to
Hannibal and enlisted with a company of young fellows who were recruiting
with the avowed purpose of "throwing off the yoke of the invader." They
were ready for the field, presently, and set out in good order, a sort of
nondescript cavalry detachment, mounted on animals more picturesque than
beautiful.  Still, it was a resolute band, and might have done very well,
only it rained a good deal, which made soldiering disagreeable and hard.
Lieutenant Clemens resigned at the end of two weeks, and decided to go to
Nevada with Orion, who was a Union abolitionist and had received an
appointment from Lincoln as Secretary of the new Territory.

In 'Roughing It' Mark Twain gives us the story of the overland journey
made by the two brothers, and a picture of experiences at the other end
--true in aspect, even if here and there elaborated in detail.  He was
Orion's private secretary, but there was no private-secretary work to do,
and no salary attached to the position.  The incumbent presently went to
mining, adding that to his other trades.

He became a professional miner, but not a rich one.  He was at Aurora,
California, in the Esmeralda district, skimping along, with not much to
eat and less to wear, when he was summoned by Joe Goodman, owner and
editor of the Virginia City Enterprise, to come up and take the local
editorship of that paper.  He had been contributing sketches to it now
and then, under the pen, name of "Josh," and Goodman, a man of fine
literary instincts, recognized a talent full of possibilities.  This was
in the late summer of 1862.  Clemens walked one hundred and thirty miles
over very bad roads to take the job, and arrived way-worn and travel-
stained.  He began on a salary of twenty-five dollars a week, picking up
news items here and there, and contributing occasional sketches,
burlesques, hoaxes, and the like.  When the Legislature convened at
Carson City he was sent down to report it, and then, for the first time,
began signing his articles "Mark Twain," a river term, used in making
soundings, recalled from his piloting days.  The name presently became
known up and down the Pacific coast.  His articles were, copied and
commented upon.  He was recognized as one of the foremost among a little
coterie of overland writers, two of whom, Mark Twain and Bret Harte, were
soon to acquire a world-wide fame.

He left Carson City one day, after becoming involved in a duel, the
result of an editorial squib written in Goodman's absence, and went
across the Sierras to San Francisco.  The duel turned out farcically
enough, but the Nevada law, which regarded even a challenge or its
acceptance as a felony, was an inducement to his departure.  Furthermore,
he had already aspired to a wider field of literary effort.  He attached
himself to the Morning Call, and wrote occasionally for one or two
literary papers--the Golden Era and the Californian---prospering well
enough during the better part of the year.  Bret Harte and the rest of
the little Pacific-slope group were also on the staff of these papers,
and for a time, at least, the new school of American humor mustered in
San Francisco.

The connection with the Call was not congenial.  In due course it came to
a natural end, and Mark Twain arranged to do a daily San Francisco letter
for his old paper, the Enterprise.  The Enterprise letters stirred up
trouble.  They criticized the police of San Francisco so severely that
the officials found means of making the writer's life there difficult and
comfortless.  With Jim Gillis, brother of a printer of whom he was fond,
and who had been the indirect cause of his troubles, he went up into
Calaveras County, to a cabin on jackass Hill.  Jim Gillis, a lovable,
picturesque character (the Truthful James of Bret Harte), owned mining
claims.  Mark Twain decided to spend his vacation in pocket-mining, and
soon added that science to his store of knowledge.  It was a halcyon,
happy three months that he lingered there, but did not make his fortune;
he only laid the corner-stone.

They tried their fortune at Angel's Camp, a place well known to readers
of Bret Harte.  But it rained pretty steadily, and they put in most of
their time huddled around the single stove of the dingy hotel of Angel's,
telling yarns.  Among the stories was one told by a dreary narrator named
Ben Coon.  It was about a frog that had been trained to jump, but failed
to win a wager because the owner of a rival frog had surreptitiously
loaded him with shot.  The story had been circulated among the camps, but
Mark Twain had never heard it until then.  The tale and the tiresome
fashion of its telling amused him.  He made notes to remember it.

Their stay in Angel's Camp came presently to an end.  One day, when the
mining partners were following the specks of gold that led to a pocket
somewhere up the hill, a chill, dreary rain set in.  Jim, as usual was
washing, and Clemens was carrying water.  The "color" became better and
better as they ascended, and Gillis, possessed with the mining passion,
would have gone on, regardless of the rain.  Clemens, however, protested,
and declared that each pail of water was his last.  Finally he said, in
his deliberate drawl:

"Jim, I won't carry any more water.  This work is too disagreeable.
Let's go to the house and wait till it clears up."

Gillis had just taken out a pan of earth.  "Bring one more pail, Sam," he
pleaded.

"I won't do it, Jim!  Not a drop!  Not if I knew there was a million
dollars in that pan!"

They left the pan standing there and went back to Angel's Camp.  The rain
continued and they returned to jackass Hill without visiting their claim
again.  Meantime the rain had washed away the top of the pan of earth
left standing on the slope above Angel's, and exposed a handful of
nuggets-pure gold.  Two strangers came along and, observing it, had sat
down to wait until the thirty-day claim-notice posted by Jim Gillis
should expire.  They did not mind the rain--not with that gold in sight--
and the minute the thirty days were up they followed the lead a few pans
further, and took out-some say ten, some say twenty, thousand dollars.
It was a good pocket.  Mark Twain missed it by one pail of water.  Still,
it is just as well, perhaps, when one remembers The Jumping Frog.

Matters having quieted down in San Francisco, he returned and took up his
work again.  Artemus Ward, whom he had met in Virginia City, wrote him
for something to use in his (Ward's) new book.  Clemens sent the frog
story, but he had been dilatory in preparing it, and when it reached New
York, Carleton, the publisher, had Ward's book about ready for the press.
It did not seem worth while to Carleton to include the frog story, and
handed it over to Henry Clapp, editor of the Saturday Press--a perishing
sheet-saying:

"Here, Clapp, here's something you can use."

The story appeared in the Saturday Press of November 18, 1865.  According
to the accounts of that time it set all New York in a roar, which
annoyed, rather than gratified, its author.  He had thought very little
of it, indeed, yet had been wondering why some of his more highly
regarded work had not found fuller recognition.

But The Jumping Frog did not die.  Papers printed it and reprinted it,
and it was translated into foreign tongues.  The name of "Mark Twain"
became known as the author of that sketch, and the two were permanently
associated from the day of its publication.

Such fame as it brought did not yield heavy financial return.  Its author
continued to win a more or less precarious livelihood doing miscellaneous
work, until March, 1866, when he was employed by the Sacramento Union to
contribute a series of letters from the Sandwich Islands.  They were
notable letters, widely read and freely copied, and the sojourn there was
a generally fortunate one.  It was during his stay in the islands that
the survivors of the wrecked vessel, the Hornet, came in, after long
privation at sea.  Clemens was sick at the time, but Anson Burlingame,
who was in Honolulu, on the way to China, had him carried in a cot to the
hospital, where he could interview the surviving sailors and take down
their story.  It proved a great "beat" for the Union, and added
considerably to its author's prestige.  On his return to San Francisco he
contributed an article on the Hornet disaster to Harper's Magazine, and
looked forward to its publication as a beginning of a real career.  But,
alas!  when it appeared the printer and the proof-reader had somehow
converted "Mark Twain" into "Mark Swain," and his dreams perished.

Undecided as to his plans, he was one day advised by a friend to deliver
a lecture.  He was already known as an entertaining talker, and his
adviser judged his possibilities well.  In Roughing It we find the story
of that first lecture and its success.  He followed it with other
lectures up and down the Coast.  He had added one more profession to his
intellectual stock in trade.

Mark Twain, now provided with money, decided to pay a visit to his
people.  He set out for the East in December, 1866, via Panama, arriving
in New York in January.  A few days later he was with his mother, then
living with his sister, in St. Louis.  A little later he lectured in
Keokuk, and in Hannibal, his old home.

It was about this time that the first great Mediterranean steamship
excursion began to be exploited.  No such ocean picnic had ever been
planned before, and it created a good deal of interest East and West.
Mark Twain heard of it and wanted to go.  He wrote to friends on the
'Alta California,' of San Francisco, and the publishers of that paper had
sufficient faith to advance the money for his passage, on the
understanding that he was to contribute frequent letters, at twenty
dollars apiece.  It was a liberal offer, as rates went in those days, and
a godsend in the fullest sense of the word to Mark Twain.

Clemens now hurried to New York in order to be there in good season for
the sailing date, which was in June.  In New York he met Frank Fuller,
whom he had known as territorial Governor of Utah, an energetic and
enthusiastic admirer of the Western humorist.  Fuller immediately
proposed that Clemens give a lecture in order to establish his reputation
on the Atlantic coast.  Clemens demurred, but Fuller insisted, and
engaged Cooper Union for the occasion.  Not many tickets were sold.
Fuller, however, always ready for an emergency, sent out a flood of
complimentaries to the school-teachers of New York and adjacent
territory, and the house was crammed.  It turned out to be a notable
event.  Mark Twain was at his best that night; the audience laughed
until, as some of them declared when the lecture was over, they were too
weak to leave their seats.  His success as a lecturer was assured.

The Quaker City was the steamer selected for the great oriental tour.
It sailed as advertised, June 8, 1867, and was absent five months, during
which Mark Twain contributed regularly to the 'Alta-California', and
wrote several letters for the New York Tribune.  They were read and
copied everywhere.  They preached a new gospel in travel literature--
a gospel of seeing with an overflowing honesty; a gospel of sincerity in
according praise to whatever he considered genuine, and ridicule to the
things believed to be shams.  It was a gospel that Mark Twain continued
to preach during his whole career.  It became, in fact, his chief
literary message to the world, a world ready for that message.

He returned to find himself famous.  Publishers were ready with plans for
collecting the letters in book form.  The American Publishing Company,
of Hartford, proposed a volume, elaborately illustrated, to be sold by
subscription.  He agreed with them as to terms, and went to Washington'
to prepare copy.  But he could not work quietly there, and presently was
back in San Francisco, putting his book together, lecturing occasionally,
always to crowded houses.  He returned in August, 1868, with the
manuscript of the Innocents Abroad, and that winter, while his book was
being manufactured, lectured throughout the East and Middle West, making
his headquarters in Hartford, and in Elmira, New York.

He had an especial reason for going to Elmira.  On the Quaker City he had
met a young man by the name of Charles Langdon, and one day, in the Bay
of Smyrna, had seen a miniature of the boy's sister, Olivia Langdon, then
a girl of about twenty-two.  He fell in love with that picture, and still
more deeply in love with the original when he met her in New York on his
return.  The Langdon home was in Elmira, and it was for this reason that
as time passed he frequently sojourned there.  When the proofs of the
Innocents Abroad were sent him he took them along, and he and sweet
"Livy" Langdon read them together.  What he lacked in those days in
literary delicacy she detected, and together they pruned it away.  She
became his editor that winter--a position which she held until her death.

The book was published in July, 1869, and its success was immediate and
abundant.  On his wedding-day, February 2, 1870, Clemens received a check
from his publishers for more than four thousand dollars, royalty
accumulated during the three months preceding.  The sales soon amounted
to more than fifty thousand copies, and had increased to very nearly one
hundred thousand at the end of the first three years.  It was a book of
travel, its lowest price three dollars and fifty cents.  Even with our
increased reading population no such sale is found for a book of that
description to-day.  And the Innocents Abroad holds its place--still
outsells every other book in its particular field. [This in 1917. D.W.]

Mark Twain now decided to settle down.  He had bought an interest in the
Express, of Buffalo, New York, and took up his residence in that city in
a house presented to the young couple by Mr. Langdon.  It did not prove a
fortunate beginning.  Sickness, death, and trouble of many kinds put a
blight on the happiness of their first married year and gave, them a
distaste for the home in which they had made such a promising start.
A baby boy, Langdon Clemens, came along in November, but he was never a
strong child.  By the end of the following year the Clemenses had
arranged for a residence in Hartford, temporary at first, later made
permanent.  It was in Hartford that little Langdon died, in 1872.

Clemens, meanwhile, had sold out his interest in the Express, severed his
connection with the Galaxy, a magazine for which he was doing a
department each month, and had written a second book for the American
Publishing Company, Roughing It, published in 1872.  In August of the
same year he made a trip to London, to get material for a book on
England, but was too much sought after, too continuously feted, to do any
work.  He went alone, but in November returned with the purpose of taking
Mrs. Clemens and the new baby, Susy, to England the following spring.
They sailed in April, 1873, and spent a good portion of the year in
England and Scotland.  They returned to America in November, and Clemens
hurried back to London alone to deliver a notable series of lectures
under the management of George Dolby, formerly managing agent for Charles
Dickens.  For two months Mark Twain lectured steadily to London
audiences--the big Hanover Square rooms always filled.  He returned to
his family in January, 1874.

Meantime, a home was being built for them in Hartford, and in the autumn
of 1874 they took up residence in ita happy residence, continued through
seventeen years--well-nigh perfect years.  Their summers they spent in
Elmira, on Quarry Farm--a beautiful hilltop, the home of Mrs. Clemens's
sister.  It was in Elmira that much of Mark Twain's literary work was
done.  He had a special study there, some distance from the house, where
he loved to work out his fancies and put them into visible form.

It was not so easy to work at Hartford; there was too much going on.
The Clemens home was a sort of general headquarters for literary folk,
near and far, and for distinguished foreign visitors of every sort.
Howells and Aldrich used it as their half-way station between Boston and
New York, and every foreign notable who visited America made a pilgrimage
to Hartford to see Mark Twain.  Some even went as far as Elmira, among
them Rudyard Kipling, who recorded his visit in a chapter of his American
Notes.  Kipling declared he had come all the way from India to see Mark
Twain.

Hartford had its own literary group.  Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe lived
near the Clemens home; also Charles Dudley Warner.  The Clemens and
Warner families were constantly associated, and The Gilded Age, published
in 1873, resulted from the friendship of Warner and Mark Twain.  The
character of Colonel Sellers in that book has become immortal, and it is
a character that only Mark Twain could create, for, though drawn from his
mother's cousin, James Lampton, it embodies--and in no very exaggerated
degree--characteristics that were his own.  The tendency to make millions
was always imminent; temptation was always hard to resist.  Money-making
schemes are continually being placed before men of means and prominence,
and Mark Twain, to the day of his death, found such schemes fatally
attractive.

It was because of the Sellers characteristics in him that he invested in
a typesetting-machine which cost him nearly two hundred thousand dollars
and helped to wreck his fortunes by and by.  It was because of this
characteristic that he invested in numberless schemes of lesser
importance, but no less disastrous in the end.  His one successful
commercial venture was his association with Charles L. Webster in the
publication of the Grant Memoirs, of which enough copies were sold to pay
a royalty of more than four hundred thousand dollars to Grant's widow--
the largest royalty ever paid from any single publication.  It saved the
Grant family from poverty.  Yet even this triumph was a misfortune to
Mark Twain, for it led to scores of less profitable book ventures and
eventual disaster.

Meanwhile he had written and published a number of books.  Tom Sawyer,
The Prince and the Pauper, Life on the Mississippi, Huckleberry Finn, and
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court were among the volumes that
had entertained the world and inspired it with admiration and love for
their author.  In 1878-79 he had taken his family to Europe, where they
spent their time in traveling over the Continent.  It was during this
period that he was joined by his intimate friend, the Rev. Joseph H.
Twichell, of Hartford, and the two made a journey, the story of which is
told in A Tramp Abroad.

In 1891 the Hartford house was again closed, this time indefinitely,
and the family, now five in number, took up residence in Berlin.  The
typesetting-machine and the unfortunate publishing venture were drawing
heavily on the family finances at this period, and the cost of the
Hartford establishment was too great to be maintained.  During the next
three years he was distracted by the financial struggle which ended in
April, 1894, with the failure of Charles L. Webster & Co. Mark Twain now
found himself bankrupt, and nearly one hundred thousand dollars in debt.
It had been a losing fight, with this bitter ending always in view;
yet during this period of hard, hopeless effort he had written a large
portion of the book which of all his works will perhaps survive the
longest--his tender and beautiful story of Joan of Arc.  All his life
Joan had been his favorite character in the world's history, and during
those trying months and years of the early nineties--in Berlin, in
Florence, in Paris--he was conceiving and putting his picture of that
gentle girl-warrior into perfect literary form.  It was published in
Harper's Magazine--anonymously, because, as he said, it would not have
been received seriously had it appeared over his own name.  The
authorship was presently recognized.  Exquisitely, reverently, as the
story was told, it had in it the, touch of quaint and gentle humor which
could only have been given to it by Mark Twain.

It was only now and then that Mark Twain lectured during these years.
He had made a reading tour with George W. Cable during the winter of
1884-85, but he abominated the platform, and often vowed he would never
appear before an audience again.  Yet, in 1895, when he was sixty years
old, he decided to rebuild his fortunes by making a reading tour around
the world.  It was not required of him to pay his debts in full.  The
creditors were willing to accept fifty per cent. of the liabilities, and
had agreed to a settlement on that basis.  But this did not satisfy Mrs.
Clemens, and it did not satisfy him.  They decided to pay dollar for
dollar.  They sailed for America, and in July, 1895, set out from Elmira
on the long trail across land and sea.  Mrs. Clemens, and Clara Clemens,
joined this pilgrimage, Susy and Jean Clemens remaining at Elmira with
their aunt.  Looking out of the car windows, the travelers saw Susy
waving them an adieu.  It was a picture they would long remember.

The reading tour was one of triumph.  High prices and crowded houses
prevailed everywhere.  The author-reader visited Australia, New Zealand,
India, Ceylon, South Africa, arriving in England, at last, with the money
and material which would pay off the heavy burden of debt and make him
once more free before the world.  And in that hour of triumph came the
heavy blow.  Susy Clemens, never very strong, had been struck down.  The
first cable announced her illness.  The mother and Clara sailed at once.
Before they were half-way across the ocean a second cable announced that
Susy was dead.  The father had to meet and endure the heartbreak alone;
he could not reach America, in time for the burial.  He remained in
England, and was joined there by the sorrowing family.

They passed that winter in London, where he worked at the story of his
travels, Following the Equator, the proofs of which he read the next
summer in Switzerland.  The returns from it, and from his reading
venture, wiped away Mark Twain's indebtedness and made him free.  He
could go back to America; as he said, able to look any man in the face
again.

Yet he did not go immediately.  He could live more economically abroad,
and economy was still necessary.  The family spent two winters in Vienna,
and their apartments there constituted a veritable court where the
world's notables gathered.  Another winter in England followed, and then,
in the latter part of 1900, they went home--that is, to America.  Mrs.
Clemens never could bring herself to return to Hartford, and never saw
their home there again.

Mark Twain's return to America, was in the nature of a national event.
Wherever he appeared throngs turned out to bid him welcome.  Mighty
banquets were planned in his honor.

In a house at 14 West Tenth Street, and in a beautiful place at
Riverdale, on the Hudson, most of the next three years were passed.  Then
Mrs. Clemens's health failed, and in the autumn of 1903 the family went
to Florence for her benefit.  There, on the 5th of June, 1904, she died.
They brought her back and laid her beside Susy, at Elmira.  That winter
the family took up residence at 21 Fifth Avenue, New York, and remained
there until the completion of Stormfield, at Redding, Connecticut, in
1908.

In his later life Mark Twain was accorded high academic honors.  Already,
in 1888, he had received from Yale College the degree of Master of Arts,
and the same college made him a Doctor of Literature in 1901.  A year
later the university of his own State, at Columbia, Missouri, conferred
the same degree, and then, in 1907, came the crowning honor, when
venerable Oxford tendered him the doctor's robe.

"I don't know why they should give me a degree like that," he said,
quaintly.  "I never doctored any literature--I wouldn't know how."

He had thought never to cross the ocean again, but he declared he would
travel to Mars and back, if necessary, to get that Oxford degree.
He appreciated its full meaning-recognition by the world's foremost
institution of learning of the achievements of one who had no learning of
the institutionary kind.  He sailed in June, and his sojourn in England
was marked by a continuous ovation.  His hotel was besieged by callers.
Two secretaries were busy nearly twenty hours a day attending to visitors
and mail.  When he appeared on the street his name went echoing in every
direction and the multitudes gathered.  On the day when he rose, in his
scarlet robe and black mortar-board, to receive his degree (he must have
made a splendid picture in that dress, with his crown of silver hair),
the vast assembly went wild.  What a triumph, indeed, for the little
Missouri printer-boy!  It was the climax of a great career.

Mark Twain's work was always of a kind to make people talk, always
important, even when it was mere humor.  Yet it was seldom that; there
was always wisdom under it, and purpose, and these things gave it dynamic
force and enduring life.  Some of his aphorisms--so quaint in form as to
invite laughter--are yet fairly startling in their purport.  His
paraphrase, "When in doubt, tell the truth," is of this sort.  "Frankness
is a jewel; only the young can afford it," he once said to the writer,
apropos of a little girl's remark.  His daily speech was full of such
things.  The secret of his great charm was his great humanity and the
gentle quaintness and sincerity of his utterance.

His work did not cease when the pressing need of money came to an end.
He was full of ideas, and likely to begin a new article or story at any
time.  He wrote and published a number of notable sketches, articles,
stories, even books, during these later years, among them that marvelous
short story--"The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg." In that story, as in
most of his later work, he proved to the world that he was much more than
a humorist--that he was, in fact, a great teacher, moralist, philosopher-
-the greatest, perhaps, of his age.

His life at Stormfield--he had never seen the place until the day of his
arrival, June 18, 1908--was a peaceful and serene old age.  Not that he
was really old; he never was that.  His step, his manner, his point of
view, were all and always young.  He was fond of children and frequently
had them about him.  He delighted in games--especially in billiards--and
in building the house at Stormfield the billiard-room was first
considered.  He had a genuine passion for the sport; without it his
afternoon was not complete.  His mornings he was likely to pass in bed,
smoking--he was always smoking--and attending to his correspondence and
reading.  History and the sciences interested him, and his bed was strewn
with biographies and stories of astronomical and geological research.
The vastness of distances and periods always impressed him.  He had no
head for figures, but he would labor for hours over scientific
calculations, trying to compass them and to grasp their gigantic import.
I remember once finding him highly elated over the fact that he had
figured out for himself the length in hours and minutes of a "light
year." He showed me the pages covered with figures, and was more proud of
them than if they had been the pages of an immortal story.  Then we
played billiards, but even his favorite game could not make him
altogether forget his splendid achievement.

It was on the day before Christmas, 1909, that heavy bereavement once
more came into the life of Mark Twain.  His daughter Jean, long subject
to epileptic attacks, was seized with a convulsion while in her bath and
died before assistance reached her.  He was dazed by the suddenness of
the blow.  His philosophy sustained him.  He was glad, deeply glad for
the beautiful girl that had been released.

"I never greatly envied anybody but the dead," he said, when he had
looked at her.  "I always envy the dead."

The coveted estate of silence, time's only absolute gift, it was the one
benefaction he had ever considered worth while.

Yet the years were not unkindly to Mark Twain.  They brought him sorrow,
but they brought him likewise the capacity and opportunity for large
enjoyment, and at the last they laid upon him a kind of benediction.
Naturally impatient, he grew always more gentle, more generous, more
tractable and considerate as the seasons passed.  His final days may be
said to have been spent in the tranquil light of a summer afternoon.

His own end followed by a few months that of his daughter.  There were
already indications that his heart was seriously affected, and soon after
Jean's death he sought the warm climate of Bermuda.  But his malady made
rapid progress, and in April he returned to Stormfield.  He died there
just a week later, April 21, 1910.

Any attempt to designate Mark Twain's place in the world's literary
history would be presumptuous now.  Yet I cannot help thinking that he
will maintain his supremacy in the century that produced him.  I think so
because, of all the writers of that hundred years, his work was the most
human his utterances went most surely to the mark.  In the long analysis
of the ages it is the truth that counts, and he never approximated, never
compromised, but pronounced those absolute verities to which every human
being of whatever rank must instantly respond.

His understanding of subjective human nature--the vast, unwritten life
within--was simply amazing.  Such knowledge he acquired at the
fountainhead--that is, from himself.  He recognized in himself an extreme
example of the human being with all the attributes of power and of
weakness, and he made his exposition complete.

The world will long miss Mark Twain; his example and his teaching will be
neither ignored nor forgotten.  Genius defies the laws of perspective and
looms larger as it recedes.  The memory of Mark Twain remains to us a
living and intimate presence that today, even more than in life,
constitutes a stately moral bulwark reared against hypocrisy and
superstition--a mighty national menace to sham.






                           MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS


I

EARLY LETTERS, 1853.  NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA

     We have no record of Mark Twain's earliest letters.  Very likely
     they were soiled pencil notes, written to some school sweetheart--
     to "Becky Thatcher," perhaps--and tossed across at lucky moments,
     or otherwise, with happy or disastrous results.  One of those
     smudgy, much-folded school notes of the Tom Sawyer period would be
     priceless to-day, and somewhere among forgotten keepsakes it may
     exist, but we shall not be likely to find it.  No letter of his
     boyhood, no scrap of his earlier writing, has come to light except
     his penciled name, SAM CLEMENS, laboriously inscribed on the inside
     of a small worn purse that once held his meager, almost non-existent
     wealth.  He became a printer's apprentice at twelve, but as he
     received no salary, the need of a purse could not have been urgent.
     He must have carried it pretty steadily, however, from its
     appearance--as a kind of symbol of hope, maybe--a token of that
     Sellers-optimism which dominated his early life, and was never
     entirely subdued.

     No other writing of any kind has been preserved from Sam Clemens's
     boyhood, none from that period of his youth when he had served his
     apprenticeship and was a capable printer on his brother's paper, a
     contributor to it when occasion served.  Letters and manuscripts of
     those days have vanished--even his contributions in printed form are
     unobtainable.  It is not believed that a single number of Orion
     Clemens's paper, the Hannibal Journal, exists to-day.

     It was not until he was seventeen years old that Sam Clemens wrote a
     letter any portion of which has survived.  He was no longer in
     Hannibal.  Orion's unprosperous enterprise did not satisfy him.
     His wish to earn money and to see the world had carried him first to
     St. Louis, where his sister Pamela was living, then to New York
     City, where a World's Fair in a Crystal Palace was in progress.
     The letter tells of a visit to this great exhibition.  It is not
     complete, and the fragment bears no date, but it was written during
     the summer of 1853.


      Fragment of a letter from Sam L.  Clemens to his sister
           Pamela Moffett, in St. Louis, summer of 1853:

.  .  .  From the gallery (second floor) you have a glorious sight--the
flags of the different countries represented, the lofty dome, glittering
jewelry, gaudy tapestry, &c., with the busy crowd passing to and fro--tis
a perfect fairy palace--beautiful beyond description.

The Machinery department is on the main floor, but I cannot enumerate any
of it on account of the lateness of the hour (past 8 o'clock.) It would
take more than a week to examine everything on exhibition; and as I was
only in a little over two hours tonight, I only glanced at about one-
third of the articles; and having a poor memory; I have enumerated
scarcely any of even the principal objects.  The visitors to the Palace
average 6,000 daily--double the population of Hannibal.  The price of
admission being 50 cents, they take in about $3,000.

The Latting Observatory (height about 280 feet) is near the Palace--from
it you can obtain a grand view of the city and the country round.  The
Croton Aqueduct, to supply the city with water, is the greatest wonder
yet.  Immense sewers are laid across the bed of the Hudson River, and
pass through the country to Westchester county, where a whole river is
turned from its course, and brought to New York.  From the reservoir in
the city to the Westchester county reservoir, the distance is thirty-
eight miles! and if necessary, they could supply every family in New York
with one hundred barrels of water per day!

I am very sorry to learn that Henry has been sick.  He ought to go to the
country and take exercise; for he is not half so healthy as Ma thinks he
is.  If he had my walking to do, he would be another boy entirely.  Four
times every day I walk a little over one mile; and working hard all day,
and walking four miles, is exercise--I am used to it, now, though, and it
is no trouble.  Where is it Orion's going to?  Tell Ma my promises are
faithfully kept, and if I have my health I will take her to Ky. in the
spring--I shall save money for this.  Tell Jim and all the rest of them
to write, and give me all the news.  I am sorry to hear such bad news
from Will and Captain Bowen.  I shall write to Will soon.  The Chatham-
square Post Office and the Broadway office too, are out of my way, and I
always go to the General Post Office; so you must write the direction of
my letters plain, "New York City, N. Y.," without giving the street or
anything of the kind, or they may go to some of the other offices.  (It
has just struck 2 A.M.  and I always get up at 6, and am at work at 7.)
You ask me where I spend my evenings.  Where would you suppose, with a
free printers' library containing more than 4,000 volumes within a
quarter of a mile of me, and nobody at home to talk to?  I shall write to
Ella soon.  Write soon
                         Truly your Brother
                                             SAM.

P. S.  I have written this by a light so dim that you nor Ma could not
read by it.


     He was lodging in a mechanics' cheap boarding-house in Duane Street,
     and we may imagine the bareness of his room, the feeble poverty of
     his lamp.

     "Tell Ma my promises are faithfully kept."  It was the day when he
     had left Hannibal.  His mother, Jane Clemens, a resolute, wiry woman
     of forty-nine, had put together his few belongings.  Then, holding
     up a little Testament:

     "I want you to take hold of the end of this, Sam," she said, "and
     make me a promise.  I want you to repeat after me these words:
     'I do solemnly swear that I will not throw a card, or drink a drop
     of liquor while I am gone.'"

     It was this oath, repeated after her, that he was keeping
     faithfully.  The Will Bowen mentioned is a former playmate, one of
     Tom Sawyer's outlaw band.  He had gone on the river to learn
     piloting with an elder brother, the "Captain."  What the bad news
     was is no longer remembered, but it could not have been very
     serious, for the Bowen boys remained on the river for many years.
     "Ella" was Samuel Clemens's cousin and one-time sweetheart, Ella
     Creel.  "Jim" was Jim Wolfe, an apprentice in Orion's office, and
     the hero of an adventure which long after Mark Twain wrote under the
     title of, "Jim Wolfe and the Cats."

     There is scarcely a hint of the future Mark Twain in this early
     letter.  It is the letter of a boy of seventeen who is beginning to
     take himself rather seriously--who, finding himself for the first
     time far from home and equal to his own responsibilities, is willing
     to carry the responsibility of others.  Henry, his brother, three
     years younger, had been left in the printing-office with Orion, who,
     after a long, profitless fight, is planning to remove from Hannibal.
     The young traveler is concerned as to the family outlook, and will
     furnish advice if invited.  He feels the approach of prosperity, and
     will take his mother on a long-coveted trip to her old home in the
     spring.  His evenings?  Where should he spend them, with a free
     library of four thousand volumes close by?  It is distinctly a
     youthful letter, a bit pretentious, and wanting in the spontaneity
     and humor of a later time.  It invites comment, now, chiefly because
     it is the first surviving document in the long human story.

     He was working in the printing-office of John A. Gray and Green, on
     Cliff Street, and remained there through the summer.  He must have
     written more than once during this period, but the next existing
     letter--also to Sister Pamela--was written in October.  It is
     perhaps a shade more natural in tone than the earlier example, and
     there is a hint of Mark Twain in the first paragraph.


                      To Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                              NEW YORK .  .  .  , Oct. Saturday '53.
MY DEAR SISTER,--I have not written to any of the family for some time,
from the fact, firstly, that I didn't know where they were, and secondly,
because I have been fooling myself with the idea that I was going to
leave New York every day for the last two weeks.  I have taken a liking
to the abominable place, and every time I get ready to leave, I put it
off a day or so, from some unaccountable cause.  It is as hard on my
conscience to leave New York, as it was easy to leave Hannibal.  I think
I shall get off Tuesday, though.

Edwin Forrest has been playing, for the last sixteen days, at the
Broadway Theatre, but I never went to see him till last night.  The play
was the "Gladiator."  I did not like parts of it much, but other portions
were really splendid.  In the latter part of the last act, where the
"Gladiator" (Forrest) dies at his brother's feet, (in all the fierce
pleasure of gratified revenge,) the man's whole soul seems absorbed in
the part he is playing; and it is really startling to see him.  I am
sorry I did not see him play "Damon and Pythias" the former character
being his greatest.  He appears in Philadelphia on Monday night.

I have not received a letter from home lately, but got a "'Journal'" the
other day, in which I see the office has been sold.  I suppose Ma, Orion
and Henry are in St. Louis now.  If Orion has no other project in his
head, he ought to take the contract for getting out some weekly paper, if
he cannot get a foremanship.  Now, for such a paper as the "Presbyterian"
(containing about 60,000,--[Sixty thousand ems, type measurement.])
he could get $20 or $25 per week, and he and Henry could easily do the
work; nothing to do but set the type and make up the forms....

If my letters do not come often, you need not bother yourself about me;
for if you have a brother nearly eighteen years of age, who is not able
to take care of himself a few miles from home, such a brother is not
worth one's thoughts: and if I don't manage to take care of No. 1, be
assured you will never know it.  I am not afraid, however; I shall ask
favors from no one, and endeavor to be (and shall be) as "independent as
a wood-sawyer's clerk."

I never saw such a place for military companies as New York.  Go on the
street when you will, you are sure to meet a company in full uniform,
with all the usual appendages of drums, fifes, &c.  I saw a large company
of soldiers of 1812 the other day, with a '76 veteran scattered here and
there in the ranks.  And as I passed through one of the parks lately,
I came upon a company of boys on parade.  Their uniforms were neat, and
their muskets about half the common size.  Some of them were not more
than seven or eight years of age; but had evidently been well-drilled.

Passage to Albany (160 miles) on the finest steamers that ply' the
Hudson, is now 25 cents--cheap enough, but is generally cheaper than that
in the summer.

I want you to write as soon as I tell you where to direct your letter.
I would let you know now, if I knew myself.  I may perhaps be here a week
longer; but I cannot tell.  When you write tell me the whereabouts of the
family.  My love to Mr. Moffett and Ella.  Tell Ella I intend to write to
her soon, whether she wants me to nor not.
                              Truly your Brother,
                                        SAML L. CLEMENS.


     He was in Philadelphia when he wrote the nest letter that has come
     down to us, and apparently satisfied with the change.  It is a
     letter to Orion Clemens, who had disposed of his paper, but
     evidently was still in Hannibal.  An extended description of a trip
     to Fairmount Park is omitted because of its length, its chief
     interest being the tendency it shows to descriptive writing--the
     field in which he would make his first great fame.  There is,
     however, no hint of humor, and only a mild suggestion of the author
     of the Innocents Abroad in this early attempt.  The letter as here
     given is otherwise complete, the omissions being indicated.


                      To Orion Clemens, in Hannibal:

                                   PHILADELPHIA, PA. Oct. 26,1853.
MY DEAR BROTHER,--It was at least two weeks before I left New York, that
I received my last letter from home: and since then, not a word have I
heard from any of you.  And now, since I think of it, it wasn't a letter,
either, but the last number of the "Daily Journal," saying that that
paper was sold, and I very naturally supposed from that, that the family
had disbanded, and taken up winter quarters in St. Louis.  Therefore, I
have been writing to Pamela, till I've tired of it, and have received no
answer.  I have been writing for the last two or three weeks, to send Ma
some money, but devil take me if I knew where she was, and so the money
has slipped out of my pocket somehow or other, but I have a dollar left,
and a good deal owing to me, which will be paid next Monday.  I shall
enclose the dollar in this letter, and you can hand it to her.  I know
it's a small amount, but then it will buy her a handkerchief, and at the
same time serve as a specimen of the kind of stuff we are paid with in
Philadelphia, for you see it's against the law, in Pennsylvania, to keep
or pass a bill of less denomination than $5.  I have only seen two or
three bank bills since I have been in the State.  On Monday the hands are
paid off in sparkling gold, fresh from the Mint; so your dreams are not
troubled with the fear of having doubtful money in your pocket.

I am subbing at the Inquirer office.  One man has engaged me to work for
him every Sunday till the first of next April, (when I shall return home
to take Ma to Ky;) and another has engaged my services for the 24th of
next month; and if I want it, I can get subbing every night of the week.
I go to work at 7 o'clock in the evening, and work till 3 o'clock the
next morning.  I can go to the theatre and stay till 12 o'clock and then
go to the office, and get work from that till 3 the next morning; when I
go to bed, and sleep till 11 o'clock, then get up and loaf the rest of
the day.  The type is mostly agate and minion, with some bourgeois; and
when one gets a good agate take,--["Agate," "minion," etc., sizes of
type; "take," a piece of work.  Type measurement is by ems, meaning the
width of the letter 'm'.]--he is sure to make money.  I made $2.50 last
Sunday, and was laughed at by all the hands, the poorest of whom sets
11,000 on Sunday; and if I don't set 10,000, at least, next Sunday, I'll
give them leave to laugh as much as they want to.  Out of the 22
compositors in this office, 12 at least, set 15,000 on Sunday.

Unlike New York, I like this Philadelphia amazingly, and the people in
it.  There is only one thing that gets my "dander" up--and that is the
hands are always encouraging me: telling me--"it's no use to get
discouraged--no use to be down-hearted, for there is more work here than
you can do!"  "Down-hearted," the devil!  I have not had a particle of
such a feeling since I left Hannibal, more than four months ago.  I fancy
they'll have to wait some time till they see me down-hearted or afraid of
starving while I have strength to work and am in a city of 400,000
inhabitants.  When I was in Hannibal, before I had scarcely stepped out
of the town limits, nothing could have convinced me that I would starve
as soon as I got a little way from home....

The grave of Franklin is in Christ Church-yard, corner of Fifth and Arch
streets.  They keep the gates locked, and one can only see the flat slab
that lies over his remains and that of his wife; but you cannot see the
inscription distinctly enough to read it.  The inscription, I believe,
reads thus:

                        "Benjamin  |
                         and       |  Franklin"
                         Deborah   |

I counted 27 cannons (6 pounders) planted in the edge of the sidewalk in
Water St. the other day.  They are driven into the ground, about a foot,
with the mouth end upwards.  A ball is driven fast into the mouth of
each, to exclude the water; they look like so many posts.  They were put
there during the war.  I have also seen them planted in this manner,
round the old churches, in N. Y.....

There is one fine custom observed in Phila.  A gentleman is always
expected to hand up a lady's money for her.  Yesterday, I sat in the
front end of the 'bus, directly under the driver's box--a lady sat
opposite me.  She handed me her money, which was right.  But, Lord!
a St. Louis lady would think herself ruined, if she should be so familiar
with a stranger.  In St. Louis a man will sit in the front end of the
stage, and see a lady stagger from the far end, to pay her fare.  The
Phila. 'bus drivers cannot cheat.  In the front of the stage is a thing
like an office clock, with figures from 0 to 40, marked on its face.
When the stage starts, the hand of the clock is turned toward the 0.
When you get in and pay your fare, the driver strikes a bell, and the
hand moves to the figure 1--that is, "one fare, and paid for," and there
is your receipt, as good as if you had it in your pocket.  When a
passenger pays his fare and the driver does not strike the bell
immediately, he is greeted "Strike that bell!  will you?"

I must close now.  I intend visiting the Navy Yard, Mint, etc., before I
write again.  You must write often.  You see I have nothing to write
interesting to you, while you can write nothing that will not interest
me.  Don't say my letters are not long enough.  Tell Jim Wolfe to write.
Tell all the boys where I am, and to write.  Jim Robinson, particularly.
I wrote to him from N. Y.  Tell me all that is going on in H--l.
                                   Truly your brother
                                                       SAM.


Those were primitive times.  Imagine a passenger in these easy-going days
calling to a driver or conductor to "Strike that bell!"

"H--l" is his abbreviation for Hannibal.  He had first used it in a title
of a poem which a few years before, during one of Orion's absences, he
had published in the paper.  "To Mary in Hannibal" was too long to set as
a display head in single column.  The poem had no great merit, but under
the abbreviated title it could hardly fail to invite notice.  It was one
of several things he did to liven up the circulation during a brief
period of his authority.

The doubtful money he mentions was the paper issued by private banks,
"wild cat," as it was called.  He had been paid with it in New York,
and found it usually at a discount--sometimes even worthless.  Wages and
money were both better in Philadelphia, but the fund for his mother's
trip to Kentucky apparently did not grow very rapidly.

The next letter, written a month later, is also to Orion Clemens, who had
now moved to Muscatine, Iowa, and established there a new paper with an
old title, 'The Journal'.


                  To Orion Clemens, in Muscatine, Iowa:

                                   PHILADELPHIA, Nov. 28th, 1853.
MY DEAR BROTHER,--I received your letter today.  I think Ma ought to
spend the winter in St. Louis.  I don't believe in that climate--it's too
cold for her.

The printers' annual ball and supper came off the other night.  The
proceeds amounted to about $1,000.  The printers, as well as other
people, are endeavoring to raise money to erect a monument to Franklin,
but there are so many abominable foreigners here (and among printers,
too,) who hate everything American, that I am very certain as much money
for such a purpose could be raised in St. Louis, as in Philadelphia.
I was in Franklin's old office this morning--the "North American"
(formerly "Philadelphia Gazette") and there was at least one foreigner
for every American at work there.

How many subscribers has the Journal got?  What does the job-work pay?
and what does the whole concern pay?.....

I will try to write for the paper occasionally, but I fear my letters
will be very uninteresting, for this incessant night-work dulls one's
ideas amazingly.

From some cause, I cannot set type nearly so fast as when I was at home.
Sunday is a long day, and while others set 12 and 15,000, yesterday, I
only set 10,000.  However, I will shake this laziness off, soon, I reckon
....

How do you like "free-soil?"--I would like amazingly to see a good old-
fashioned negro.
                                   My love to all
                                        Truly your brother
                                                       SAM.


     We may believe that it never occurred to the young printer, looking
     up landmarks of Ben Franklin, that time would show points of
     resemblance between the great Franklin's career and his own.  Yet
     these seem now rather striking.  Like Franklin, he had been taken
     out of school very young and put at the printer's trade; like
     Franklin, he had worked in his brother's office, and had written for
     the paper.  Like him, too, he had left quietly for New York and
     Philadelphia to work at the trade of printing, and in time Samuel
     Clemens, like Benjamin Franklin, would become a world-figure, many-
     sided, human, and of incredible popularity.  The boy Sam Clemens may
     have had such dreams, but we find no trace of them.

     There is but one more letter of this early period.  Young Clemens
     spent some time in Washington, but if he wrote from there his
     letters have disappeared.  The last letter is from Philadelphia and
     seems to reflect homesickness.  The novelty of absence and travel
     was wearing thin.


                      To Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                   PHILADELPHIA, Dec. 5, '53.
MY DEAR SISTER,--I have already written two letters within the last two
hours, and you will excuse me if this is not lengthy.  If I had the
money, I would come to St. Louis now, while the river is open; but within
the last two or three weeks I have spent about thirty dollars for
clothing, so I suppose I shall remain where I am.  I only want to return
to avoid night-work, which is injuring my eyes.  I have received one or
two letters from home, but they are not written as they should be, and I
know no more about what is going on there than the man in the moon.  One
only has to leave home to learn how to write an interesting letter to an
absent friend when he gets back.  I suppose you board at Mrs. Hunter's
yet--and that, I think, is somewhere in Olive street above Fifth.
Philadelphia is one of the healthiest places in the Union.  I wanted to
spend this winter in a warm climate, but it is too late now.  I don't
like our present prospect for cold weather at all.
                                   Truly your brother
                                                       SAM.


     But he did not return to the West for another half year.  The
     letters he wrote during that period have not survived.  It was late
     in the summer of 1854 when he finally started for St. Louis.  He sat
     up for three days and nights in a smoking-car to make the journey,
     and arrived exhausted.  The river packet was leaving in a few hours
     for Muscatine, Iowa, where his mother and his two brothers were now
     located.  He paid his sister a brief visit, and caught the boat.
     Worn-out, he dropped into his berth and slept the thirty-six hours
     of the journey.

     It was early when-he arrived--too early to arouse the family.  In
     the office of the little hotel where he waited for daylight he found
     a small book.  It contained portraits of the English rulers, with
     the brief facts of their reigns.  Young Clemens entertained himself
     by learning this information by heart.  He had a fine memory for
     such things, and in an hour or two had the printed data perfectly
     and permanently committed.  This incidentally acquired knowledge
     proved of immense value to him.  It was his groundwork for all
     English history.




II

LETTERS 1856-61.  KEOKUK, AND THE RIVER.  END OF PILOTING

     There comes a period now of nearly four years, when Samuel Clemens
     was either a poor correspondent or his letters have not been
     preserved.  Only two from this time have survived--happily of
     intimate biographical importance.

     Young Clemens had not remained in Muscatine.  His brother had no
     inducements to offer, and he presently returned to St. Louis, where
     he worked as a compositor on the Evening News until the following
     spring, rooming with a young man named Burrough, a journeyman chair-
     maker with a taste for the English classics.  Orion Clemens,
     meantime, on a trip to Keokuk, had casually married there, and a
     little later removed his office to that city.  He did not move the
     paper; perhaps it did not seem worth while, and in Keokuk he
     confined himself to commercial printing.  The Ben Franklin Book and
     Job Office started with fair prospects.  Henry Clemens and a boy
     named Dick Hingham were the assistants, and somewhat later, when
     brother Sam came up from St. Louis on a visit, an offer of five
     dollars a week and board induced him to remain.  Later, when it
     became increasingly difficult to pay the five dollars, Orion took
     his brother into partnership, which perhaps relieved the financial
     stress, though the office methods would seem to have left something
     to be desired.  It is about at this point that the first of the two
     letters mentioned was written.  The writer addressed it to his
     mother and sister--Jane Clemens having by this time taken up her
     home with her daughter, Mrs. Moffett.


             To Mrs. Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                        KEOKUK, Iowa, June 10th, 1856.
MY DEAR MOTHER & SISTER,--I have nothing to write.  Everything is going
on well.  The Directory is coming on finely.  I have to work on it
occasionally, which I don't like a particle I don't like to work at too
many things at once.  They take Henry and Dick away from me too.  Before
we commenced the Directory, I could tell before breakfast just how much
work could be done during the day, and manage accordingly--but now, they
throw all my plans into disorder by taking my hands away from their work.
I have nothing to do with the book--if I did I would have the two book
hands do more work than they do, or else I would drop it.  It is not a
mere supposition that they do not work fast enough--I know it; for
yesterday the two book hands were at work all day, Henry and Dick all the
afternoon, on the advertisements, and they set up five pages and a half-
and I set up two pages and a quarter of the same matter after supper,
night before last, and I don't work fast on such things.  They are either
excessively slow motioned or very lazy.  I am not getting along well with
the job work.  I can't work blindly--without system.  I gave Dick a job
yesterday, which I calculated he would set in two hours and I could work
off in three, and therefore just finish it by supper time, but he was
transferred to the Directory, and the job, promised this morning, remains
untouched.  Through all the great pressure of job work lately, I never
before failed in a promise of the kind.
                                        Your Son
                                                  SAM
Excuse brevity this is my 3rd letter to-night.


     Samuel Clemens was never celebrated for his patience; we may imagine
     that the disorder of the office tried his nerves.  He seems, on the
     whole, however, to have been rather happy in Keokuk.  There were
     plenty of young people there, and he was a favorite among them.  But
     he had grown dissatisfied, and when one day some weeks later there
     fell into His hands an account of the riches of the newly explored
     regions of the upper Amazon, he promptly decided to find his fortune
     at the headwaters of the great South-American river.  The second
     letter reports this momentous decision.  It was written to Henry
     Clemens, who was temporarily absent-probably in Hannibal.


                            To Henry Clemens:

                                        KEOKUK, August 5th, '56.
MY DEAR BROTHER,--..... Ward and I held a long consultation, Sunday
morning, and the result was that we two have determined to start to
Brazil, if possible, in six weeks from now, in order to look carefully
into matters there and report to Dr.  Martin in time for him to follow on
the first of March.  We propose going via New York.  Now, between you and
I and the fence you must say nothing about this to Orion, for he thinks
that Ward is to go clear through alone, and that I am to stop at New York
or New Orleans until he reports.  But that don't suit me.  My confidence
in human nature does not extend quite that far.  I won't depend upon
Ward's judgment, or anybody's else--I want to see with my own eyes, and
form my own opinion.  But you know what Orion is.  When he gets a notion
into his head, and more especially if it is an erroneous one, the Devil
can't get it out again.  So I know better than to combat his arguments
long, but apparently yielded, inwardly determined to go clear through.
Ma knows my determination, but even she counsels me to keep it from
Orion.  She says I can treat him as I did her when I started to St. Louis
and went to New York--I can start to New York and go to South America!
Although Orion talks grandly about furnishing me with fifty or a hundred
dollars in six weeks, I could not depend upon him for ten dollars, so I
have "feelers" out in several directions, and have already asked for a
hundred dollars from one source (keep it to yourself.) I will lay on my
oars for awhile, and see how the wind sets, when I may probably try to
get more.  Mrs. Creel is a great friend of mine, and has some influence
with Ma and Orion, though I reckon they would not acknowledge it.  I am
going up there tomorrow, to press her into my service.  I shall take care
that Ma and Orion are plentifully supplied with South American books.
They have Herndon's Report now.  Ward and the Dr. and myself will hold a
grand consultation tonight at the office.  We have agreed that no more
shall be admitted into our company.

I believe the Guards went down to Quincy today to escort our first
locomotive home.
                         Write soon.
                                   Your Brother,
                                                  SAM.


     Readers familiar with the life of Mark Twain know that none of the
     would-be adventurers found their way to the Amazon: His two
     associates gave up the plan, probably for lack of means.  Young
     Clemens himself found a fifty-dollar bill one bleak November day
     blowing along the streets of Keokuk, and after duly advertising his
     find without result, set out for the Amazon, by way of Cincinnati
     and New Orleans.

     "I advertised the find and left for the Amazon the same day," he
     once declared, a statement which we may take with a literary
     discount.

     He remained in Cincinnati that winter (1856-57) working at his
     trade.  No letters have been preserved from that time, except two
     that were sent to a Keokuk weekly, the Saturday Post, and as these
     were written for publication, and are rather a poor attempt at
     burlesque humor--their chief feature being a pretended illiteracy--
     they would seem to bear no relation to this collection.  He roomed
     that winter with a rugged, self-educated Scotchman--a mechanic, but
     a man of books and philosophies, who left an impress on Mark Twain's
     mental life.

     In April he took up once more the journey toward South America, but
     presently forgot the Amazon altogether in the new career that opened
     to him.  All through his boyhood and youth Samuel Clemens had wanted
     to be a pilot.  Now came the long-deferred opportunity.  On the
     little Cincinnati steamer, the Paul Jones, there was a pilot named
     Horace Bixby.  Young Clemens idling in the pilot-house was one
     morning seized with the old ambition, and laid siege to Bixby to
     teach him the river.  The terms finally agreed upon specified a fee
     to Bixby of five hundred dollars, one hundred down, the balance when
     the pupil had completed the course and was earning money.  But all
     this has been told in full elsewhere, and is only summarized here
     because the letters fail to complete the story.

     Bixby soon made some trips up the Missouri River, and in his absence
     turned his apprentice, or "cub," over to other pilots, such being
     the river custom.  Young Clemens, in love with the life, and a
     favorite with his superiors, had a happy time until he came under a
     pilot named Brown.  Brown was illiterate and tyrannical, and from
     the beginning of their association pilot and apprentice disliked
     each other cordially.

     It is at this point that the letters begin once more--the first
     having been written when young Clemens, now twenty-two years old,
     had been on the river nearly a year.  Life with Brown, of course,
     was not all sorrow, and in this letter we find some of the fierce
     joy of adventure which in those days Samuel Clemens loved.


               To Onion Clemens and Wife, in Keokuk, Iowa:

                                        SAINT LOUIS, March 9th, 1858.
DEAR BROTHER AND SISTER,--I must take advantage of the opportunity now
presented to write you, but I shall necessarily be dull, as I feel
uncommonly stupid.  We have had a hard trip this time.  Left Saint Louis
three weeks ago on the Pennsylvania.  The weather was very cold, and the
ice running densely.  We got 15 miles below town, landed the boat, and
then one pilot.  Second Mate and four deck hands took the sounding boat
and shoved out in the ice to hunt the channel.  They failed to find it,
and the ice drifted them ashore.  The pilot left the men with the boat
and walked back to us, a mile and a half.  Then the other pilot and
myself, with a larger crew of men started out and met with the same fate.
We drifted ashore just below the other boat.  Then the fun commenced.  We
made fast a line 20 fathoms long, to the bow of the yawl, and put the men
(both crews) to it like horses, on the shore.  Brown, the pilot, stood in
the bow, with an oar, to keep her head out, and I took the tiller.  We
would start the men, and all would go well till the yawl would bring up
on a heavy cake of ice, and then the men would drop like so many ten-
pins, while Brown assumed the horizontal in the bottom of the boat.
After an hour's hard work we got back, with ice half an inch thick on the
oars.  Sent back and warped up the other yawl, and then George (the first
mentioned pilot,) and myself, took a double crew of fresh men and tried
it again.  This time we found the channel in less than half an hour,
and landed on an island till the Pennsylvania came along and took us off.
The next day was colder still.  I was out in the yawl twice, and then we
got through, but the infernal steamboat came near running over us.  We
went ten miles further, landed, and George and I cleared out again--found
the channel first trial, but got caught in the gorge and drifted
helplessly down the river.  The Ocean Spray came along and started into
the ice after us, but although she didn't succeed in her kind intention
of taking us aboard, her waves washed us out, and that was all we wanted.
We landed on an island, built a big fire and waited for the boat.  She
started, and ran aground!  It commenced raining and sleeting, and a very
interesting time we had on that barren sandbar for the next four hours,
when the boat got off and took us aboard.  The next day was terribly
cold.  We sounded Hat Island, warped up around a bar and sounded again--
but in order to understand our situation you will have to read Dr. Kane.
It would have been impossible to get back to the boat.  But the Maria
Denning was aground at the head of the island--they hailed us--we ran
alongside and they hoisted us in and thawed us out.  We had then been out
in the yawl from 4 o'clock in the morning till half past 9 without being
near a fire.  There was a thick coating of ice over men, yawl, ropes and
everything else, and we looked like rock-candy statuary.  We got to Saint
Louis this morning, after an absence of 3 weeks--that boat generally
makes the trip in 2.

Henry was doing little or nothing here, and I sent him to our clerk to
work his way for a trip, by measuring wood piles, counting coal boxes,
and other clerkly duties, which he performed satisfactorily.  He may go
down with us again, for I expect he likes our bill of fare better than
that of his boarding house.

I got your letter at Memphis as I went down.  That is the best place to
write me at.  The post office here is always out of my route, somehow or
other.  Remember the direction: "S.L.C., Steamer Pennsylvania Care Duval
& Algeo, Wharfboat, Memphis."  I cannot correspond with a paper, because
when one is learning the river, he is not allowed to do or think about
anything else.

I am glad to see you in such high spirits about the land, and I hope you
will remain so, if you never get richer.  I seldom venture to think about
our landed wealth, for "hope deferred maketh the heart sick."

I did intend to answer your letter, but I am too lazy and too sleepy now.
We have had a rough time during the last 24 hours working through the ice
between Cairo and Saint Louis, and I have had but little rest.

I got here too late to see the funeral of the 10 victims by the burning
of the Pacific hotel in 7th street.  Ma says there were 10 hearses, with
the fire companies (their engines in mourning--firemen in uniform,) the
various benevolent societies in uniform and mourning, and a multitude of
citizens and strangers, forming, altogether, a procession of 30,000
persons!  One steam fire engine was drawn by four white horses, with
crape festoons on their heads.
                    Well I am--just--about--asleep--
                                   Your brother
                                                  SAM.


     Among other things, we gather from this letter that Orion Clemens
     had faith in his brother as a newspaper correspondent, though the
     two contributions from Cincinnati, already mentioned, were not
     promising.  Furthermore, we get an intimation of Orion's unfailing
     confidence in the future of the "land"--that is to say, the great
     tract of land in Eastern Tennessee which, in an earlier day, his
     father had bought as a heritage for his children.  It is the same
     Tennessee land that had "millions in it" for Colonel Sellers--the
     land that would become, as Orion Clemens long afterward phrased it,
     "the worry of three generations."

     The Doctor Kane of this letter is, of course, Dr. Elisha Kent Kane,
     the American Arctic explorer.  Any book of exploration always
     appealed to Mark Twain, and in those days Kane was a favorite.

     The paragraph concerning Henry, and his employment on the
     Pennsylvania, begins the story of a tragedy.  The story has been
     fully told elsewhere,--[Mark Twain: A Biography, by same author.]--
     and need only be sketched briefly here.  Henry, a gentle, faithful
     boy, shared with his brother the enmity of the pilot Brown.  Some
     two months following the date of the foregoing letter, on a down
     trip of the Pennsylvania, an unprovoked attack made by Brown upon
     the boy brought his brother Sam to the rescue.  Brown received a
     good pummeling at the hands of the future humorist, who, though
     upheld by the captain, decided to quit the Pennsylvania at New
     Orleans and to come up the river by another boat.  The Brown episode
     has no special bearing on the main tragedy, though now in retrospect
     it seems closely related to it.  Samuel Clemens, coming up the river
     on the A. T. Lacey, two days behind the Pennsylvania, heard a voice
     shout as they approached the Greenville, Mississippi, landing:

     "The Pennsylvania is blown up just below Memphis, at Ship Island!
     One hundred and fifty lives lost!"

     It was a true report.  At six o'clock of a warm, mid-June morning,
     while loading wood, sixty miles below Memphis, the Pennsylvania's
     boilers had exploded with fearful results.  Henry Clemens was among
     the injured.  He was still alive when his brother reached Memphis on
     the Lacey, but died a few days later.  Samuel Clemens had idolized
     the boy, and regarded himself responsible for his death.  The letter
     that follows shows that he was overwrought by the scenes about him
     and the strain of watching, yet the anguish of it is none the less
     real.


                          To Mrs. Onion Clemens:

                              MEMPHIS, TENN., Friday, June 18th, 1858.
DEAR SISTER MOLLIE,--Long before this reaches you, my poor Henry my
darling, my pride, my glory, my all, will have finished his blameless
career, and the light of my life will have gone out in utter darkness.
(O, God!  this is hard to bear.)  Hardened, hopeless,--aye, lost--lost--
lost and ruined sinner as I am--I, even I, have humbled myself to the
ground and prayed as never man prayed before, that the great God might
let this cup pass from me--that he would strike me to the earth, but
spare my brother--that he would pour out the fulness of his just wrath
upon my wicked head, but have mercy, mercy, mercy upon that unoffending
boy.  The horrors of three days have swept over me--they have blasted my
youth and left me an old man before my time.  Mollie, there are gray
hairs in my head tonight.  For forty-eight hours I labored at the bedside
of my poor burned and bruised, but uncomplaining brother, and then the
star of my hope went out and left me in the gloom of despair.  Men take
me by the hand and congratulate me, and call me "lucky" because I was not
on the Pennsylvania when she blew up!  May God forgive them, for they
know not what they say.

Mollie you do not understand why I was not on that boat--I will tell you.
I left Saint Louis on her, but on the way down, Mr. Brown, the pilot that
was killed by the explosion (poor fellow,) quarreled with Henry without
cause, while I was steering.  Henry started out of the pilot-house--Brown
jumped up and collared him--turned him half way around and struck him in
the face!--and him nearly six feet high--struck my little brother.  I was
wild from that moment.  I left the boat to steer herself, and avenged the
insult--and the Captain said I was right--that he would discharge Brown
in N. Orleans if he could get another pilot, and would do it in St.
Louis, anyhow.  Of course both of us could not return to St. Louis on the
same boat--no pilot could be found, and the Captain sent me to the A. T.
Lacey, with orders to her Captain to bring me to Saint Louis.  Had
another pilot been found, poor Brown would have been the "lucky" man.

I was on the Pennsylvania five minutes before she left N. Orleans, and I
must tell you the truth, Mollie--three hundred human beings perished by
that fearful disaster.  Henry was asleep--was blown up--then fell back on
the hot boilers, and I suppose that rubbish fell on him, for he is
injured internally.  He got into the water and swam to shore, and got
into the flatboat with the other survivors.--[Henry had returned once to
the Pennsylvania to render assistance to the passengers.  Later he had
somehow made his way to the flatboat.]--He had nothing on but his wet
shirt, and he lay there burning up with a southern sun and freezing in
the wind till the Kate Frisbee carne along.  His wounds were not dressed
till he got to Memphis, 15 hours after the explosion.  He was senseless
and motionless for 12 hours after that.  But may God bless Memphis, the
noblest city on the face of the earth.  She has done her duty by these
poor afflicted creatures--especially Henry, for he has had five--aye,
ten, fifteen, twenty times the care and attention that any one else has
had.  Dr. Peyton, the best physician in Memphis (he is exactly like the
portraits of Webster) sat by him for 36 hours.  There are 32 scalded men
in that room, and you would know Dr. Peyton better than I can describe
him, if you could follow him around and hear each man murmur as he
passes, "May the God of Heaven bless you, Doctor!"  The ladies have done
well, too.  Our second Mate, a handsome, noble hearted young fellow, will
die.  Yesterday a beautiful girl of 15 stooped timidly down by his side
and handed him a pretty bouquet.  The poor suffering boy's eyes kindled,
his lips quivered out a gentle "God bless you, Miss," and he burst into
tears.  He made them write her name on a card for him, that he might not
forget it.

Pray for me, Mollie, and pray for my poor sinless brother.
                         Your unfortunate Brother,
                                        SAML. L. CLEMENS.

P. S.  I got here two days after Henry.


     It is said that Mark Twain never really recovered from the tragedy
     of his brother's death--that it was responsible for the serious,
     pathetic look that the face of the world's greatest laugh-maker
     always wore in repose.

     He went back to the river, and in September of the same year, after
     an apprenticeship of less than eighteen months, received his license
     as a St. Louis and New Orleans pilot, and was accepted by his old
     chief, Bixby, as full partner on an important boat.  In Life on the
     Mississippi Mark Twain makes the period of his study from two to two
     and a half years, but this is merely an attempt to magnify his
     dullness.  He was, in fact, an apt pupil and a pilot of very high
     class.

     Clemens was now suddenly lifted to a position of importance.  The
     Mississippi River pilot of those days was a person of distinction,
     earning a salary then regarded as princely.  Certainly two hundred
     and fifty dollars a month was large for a boy of twenty-three.  At
     once, of course, he became the head of the Clemens family.  His
     brother Orion was ten years older, but he had not the gift of
     success.  By common consent the younger brother assumed permanently
     the position of family counselor and financier.  We expect him to
     feel the importance of his new position, and he is too human to
     disappoint us.  Incidentally, we notice an improvement in his
     English.  He no longer writes "between you and I"


         Fragment of a letter to Orion Clemens.  Written at St.
                             Louis in 1859:

.....I am not talking nonsense, now--I am in earnest, I want you to keep
your troubles and your plans out of the reach of meddlers, until the
latter are consummated, so that in case you fail, no one will know it but
yourself.

Above all things (between you and me) never tell Ma any of your troubles;
she never slept a wink the night your last letter came, and she looks
distressed yet.  Write only cheerful news to her.  You know that she will
not be satisfied so long as she thinks anything is going on that she is
ignorant of--and she makes a little fuss about it when her suspicions are
awakened; but that makes no difference--.  I know that it is better that
she be kept in the dark concerning all things of an unpleasant nature.
She upbraids me occasionally for giving her only the bright side of my
affairs (but unfortunately for her she has to put up with it, for I know
that troubles that I curse awhile and forget, would disturb her slumbers
for some time.) (Parenthesis No. 2--Possibly because she is deprived of
the soothing consolation of swearing.) Tell her the good news and me the
bad.

Putting all things together, I begin to think I am rather lucky than
otherwise--a notion which I was slow to take up.  The other night I was
about to round to for a storm--but concluded that I could find a smoother
bank somewhere.  I landed 5 miles below.  The storm came--passed away and
did not injure us.  Coming up, day before yesterday, I looked at the spot
I first chose, and half the trees on the bank were torn to shreds.  We
couldn't have lived 5 minutes in such a tornado.  And I am also lucky in
having a berth, while all the young pilots are idle.  This is the
luckiest circumstance that ever befell me.  Not on account of the wages--
for that is a secondary consideration--but from the fact that the City of
Memphis is the largest boat in the trade and the hardest to pilot, and
consequently I can get a reputation on her, which is a thing I never
could accomplish on a transient boat.  I can "bank" in the neighborhood
of $100 a month on her, and that will satisfy me for the present
(principally because the other youngsters are sucking their fingers.)
Bless me! what a pleasure there is in revenge! and what vast respect
Prosperity commands!  Why, six months ago, I could enter the "Rooms," and
receive only a customary fraternal greeting--but now they say, "Why, how
are you, old fellow--when did you get in?"

And the young pilots who used to tell me, patronizingly, that I could
never learn the river cannot keep from showing a little of their chagrin
at seeing me so far ahead of them.  Permit me to "blow my horn," for I
derive a living pleasure from these things, and I must confess that when
I go to pay my dues, I rather like to let the d---d rascals get a glimpse
of a hundred dollar bill peeping out from amongst notes of smaller
dimensions, whose face I do not exhibit!  You will despise this egotism,
but I tell you there is a "stern joy" in it.....

Pilots did not remain long on one boat, as a rule; just why it is not so
easy to understand.  Perhaps they liked the experience of change; perhaps
both captain and pilot liked the pursuit of the ideal.  In the light-
hearted letter that follows--written to a friend of the family, formerly
of Hannibal--we get something of the uncertainty of the pilot's
engagements.


               To Mrs. Elizabeth W.  Smith, in Jackson,
                      Cape Girardeau County, Mo.:

                                   ST.  Louis, Oct. 31 [probably 1859].
DEAR AUNT BETSEY,--Ma has not written you, because she did not know when
I would get started down the river again.....

You see, Aunt Betsey, I made but one trip on the packet after you left,
and then concluded to remain at home awhile.  I have just discovered this
morning that I am to go to New Orleans on the "Col.  Chambers"--fine,
light-draught, swift-running passenger steamer--all modern accommodations
and improvements--through with dispatch--for freight or passage apply on
board, or to--but--I have forgotten the agent's name--however, it makes
no difference--and as I was saying, or had intended to say, Aunt Betsey,
probably, if you are ready to come up, you had better take the "Ben
Lewis," the best boat in the packet line.  She will be at Cape Girardeau
at noon on Saturday (day after tomorrow,) and will reach here at
breakfast time, Sunday.  If  Mr. Hamilton is chief clerk,--very well,
I am slightly acquainted with him.  And if Messrs. Carter Gray and Dean
Somebody (I have forgotten his other name,) are in the pilot-house--very
well again-I am acquainted with them.  Just tell Mr. Gray, Aunt Betsey--
that I wish him to place himself at your command.

All the family are well--except myself--I am in a bad way again--disease,
Love, in its most malignant form.  Hopes are entertained of my recovery,
however.  At the dinner table--excellent symptom--I am still as "terrible
as an army with banners."

Aunt Betsey--the wickedness of this world--but I haven't time to moralize
this morning.
                                   Goodbye
                                        SAM CLEMENS.


     As we do not hear of this "attack" again, the recovery was probably
     prompt.  His letters are not frequent enough for us to keep track of
     his boats, but we know that he was associated with Bixby from time
     to time, and now and again with one of the Bowen boys, his old
     Hannibal schoolmates.  He was reveling in the river life, the ease
     and distinction and romance of it.  No other life would ever suit
     him as well.  He was at the age to enjoy just what it brought him
     --at the airy, golden, overweening age of youth.


                    To Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Iowa:

                                        ST. LOUIS, Mch. 1860.
MY DEAR BRO.,--Your last has just come to hand.  It reminds me strongly
of Tom Hood's letters to his family, (which I have been reading lately).
But yours only remind me of his, for although there is a striking
likeness, your humour is much finer than his, and far better expressed.
Tom Hood's wit, (in his letters) has a savor of labor about it which is
very disagreeable.  Your letter is good.  That portion of it wherein the
old sow figures is the very best thing I have seen lately.  Its quiet
style resembles Goldsmith's "Citizen of the World," and "Don Quixote,"--
which are my beau ideals of fine writing.

You have paid the preacher!  Well, that is good, also.  What a man wants
with religion in these breadless times, surpasses my comprehension.

Pamela and I have just returned from a visit to the most wonderfully
beautiful painting which this city has ever seen--Church's "Heart of the
Andes"--which represents a lovely valley with its rich vegetation in all
the bloom and glory of a tropical summer--dotted with birds and flowers
of all colors and shades of color, and sunny slopes, and shady corners,
and twilight groves, and cool cascades--all grandly set off with a
majestic mountain in the background with its gleaming summit clothed in
everlasting ice and snow!  I have seen it several times, but it is always
a new picture--totally new--you seem to see nothing the second time which
you saw the first.  We took the opera glass, and examined its beauties
minutely, for the naked eye cannot discern the little wayside flowers,
and soft shadows and patches of sunshine, and half-hidden bunches of
grass and jets of water which form some of its most enchanting features.
There is no slurring of perspective effect about it--the most distant--
the minutest object in it has a marked and distinct personality--so that
you may count the very leaves on the trees.  When you first see the tame,
ordinary-looking picture, your first impulse is to turn your back upon
it, and say "Humbug"--but your third visit will find your brain gasping
and straining with futile efforts to take all the wonder in--and
appreciate it in its fulness--and understand how such a miracle could
have been conceived and executed by human brain and human hands.  You
will never get tired of looking at the picture, but your reflections--
your efforts to grasp an intelligible Something--you hardly know what
--will grow so painful that you will have to go away from the thing,
in order to obtain relief.  You may find relief, but you cannot banish
the picture--It remains with you still.  It is in my mind now--and the
smallest feature could not be removed without my detecting it.  So much
for the "Heart of the Andes."

Ma was delighted with her trip, but she was disgusted with the girls for
allowing me to embrace and kiss them--and she was horrified at the
Schottische as performed by Miss Castle and myself.  She was perfectly
willing for me to dance until 12 o'clock at the imminent peril of my
going to sleep on the after watch--but then she would top off with a very
inconsistent sermon on dancing in general; ending with a terrific
broadside aimed at that heresy of heresies, the Schottische.

I took Ma and the girls in a carriage, round that portion of New Orleans
where the finest gardens and residences are to be seen, and although it
was a blazing hot dusty day, they seemed hugely delighted.  To use an
expression which is commonly ignored in polite society, they were "hell-
bent" on stealing some of the luscious-looking oranges from branches
which overhung the fences, but I restrained them.  They were not aware
before that shrubbery could be made to take any queer shape which a
skilful gardener might choose to twist it into, so they found not only
beauty but novelty in their visit.  We went out to Lake Pontchartrain in
the cars.
                                   Your Brother
                                             SAM CLEMENS


     We have not before heard of Miss Castle, who appears to have been
     one of the girls who accompanied Jane Clemens on the trip which her
     son gave her to New Orleans, but we may guess that the other was his
     cousin and good comrade, Ella Creel.  One wishes that he might have
     left us a more extended account of that long-ago river journey, a
     fuller glimpse of a golden age that has vanished as completely as
     the days of Washington.

     We may smile at the natural youthful desire to air his reading, and
     his art appreciation, and we may find his opinions not without
     interest.  We may even commend them--in part.  Perhaps we no longer
     count the leaves on Church's trees, but Goldsmith and Cervantes
     still deserve the place assigned them.

     He does not tell us what boat he was on at this time, but later in
     the year he was with Bixby again, on the Alonzo Child.  We get a bit
     of the pilot in port in his next.


                    To Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Iowa:

                         "ALONZO CHILD," N. ORLEANS, Sep. 28th 1860.
DEAR BROTHER,--I just received yours and Mollies letter yesterday--they
had been here two weeks--forwarded from St. Louis.  We got here
yesterday--will leave at noon to-day.  Of course I have had no time, in
24 hours, to do anything.  Therefore I'll answer after we are under way
again.  Yesterday, I had many things to do, but Bixby and I got with the
pilots of two other boats and went off dissipating on a ten dollar dinner
at a French restaurant breathe it not unto Ma!--where we ate sheep-head,
fish with mushrooms, shrimps and oysters--birds--coffee with brandy burnt
in it, &c &c,-ate, drank and smoked, from 2 p.m. until 5 o'clock, and
then--then the day was too far gone to do any thing.

Please find enclosed and acknowledge receipt of--$20.00
                                   In haste
                                        SAM L. CLEMENS


     It should be said, perhaps, that when he became pilot Jane Clemens
     had released her son from his pledge in the matter of cards and
     liquor.  This license did not upset him, however.  He cared very
     little for either of these dissipations.  His one great indulgence
     was tobacco, a matter upon which he was presently to receive some
     grave counsel.  He reports it in his next letter, a sufficiently
     interesting document.  The clairvoyant of this visit was Madame
     Caprell, famous in her day.  Clemens had been urged to consult her,
     and one idle afternoon concluded to make the experiment.  The letter
     reporting the matter to his brother is fragmentary, and is the last
     remaining to us of the piloting period.


         Fragment of a letter to Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Iowa:

                                        NEW ORLEANS February 6, 1862.
.....She's a very pleasant little lady--rather pretty--about 28,--say
5 feet 2 and one quarter--would weigh 116--has black eyes and hair--is
polite and intelligent--used good language, and talks much faster than I
do.

She invited me into the little back parlor, closed the door; and we were
alone.  We sat down facing each other.  Then she asked my age.  Then she
put her hands before her eyes a moment, and commenced talking as if she
had a good deal to say and not much time to say it in.  Something after
this style:

MADAME.  Yours is a watery planet; you gain your livelihood on the water;
but you should have been a lawyer--there is where your talents lie: you
might have distinguished yourself as an orator, or as an editor; you have
written a great deal; you write well--but you are rather out of practice;
no matter--you will be in practice some day; you have a superb
constitution, and as excellent health as any man in the world; you have
great powers of endurance; in your profession your strength holds out
against the longest sieges, without flagging; still, the upper part of
your lungs, the top of them is slightly affected--you must take care of
yourself; you do not drink, but you use entirely too much tobacco; and
you must stop it; mind, not moderate, but stop the use of it totally;
then I can almost promise you 86 when you will surely die; otherwise look
out for 28, 31, 34, 47, and 65; be careful--for you are not of a long-
lived race, that is on your father's side; you are the only healthy
member of your family, and the only one in it who has anything like the
certainty of attaining to a great age--so, stop using tobacco, and be
careful of yourself.....  In some respects you take after your father,
but you are much more like your mother, who belongs to the long-lived,
energetic side of the house....  You never brought all your energies to
bear upon any subject but what you accomplished it--for instance, you are
self-made, self-educated.

S. L. C.  Which proves nothing.

MADAME.  Don't interrupt.  When you sought your present occupation you
found a thousand obstacles in the way--obstacles unknown--not even
suspected by any save you and me, since you keep such matters to
yourself--but you fought your way, and hid the long struggle under a mask
of cheerfulness, which saved your friends anxiety on your account.  To do
all this requires all the qualities I have named.

S. L. C.  You flatter well, Madame.

MADAME.  Don't interrupt: Up to within a short time you had always lived
from hand to mouth-now you are in easy circumstances--for which you need
give credit to no one but yourself.  The turning point in your life
occurred in 1840-7-8.

S. L. C.  Which was?

MADAME.  A death perhaps, and this threw you upon the world and made you
what you are; it was always intended that you should make yourself;
therefore, it was well that this calamity occurred as early as it did.
You will never die of water, although your career upon it in the future
seems well sprinkled with misfortune.  You will continue upon the water
for some time yet; you will not retire finally until ten years from now
....  What is your brother's age?  35--and a lawyer? and in pursuit of an
office?  Well, he stands a better chance than the other two, and he may
get it; he is too visionary--is always flying off on a new hobby; this
will never do--tell him I said so.  He is a good lawyer--a, very good
lawyer--and a fine speaker--is very popular and much respected, and makes
many friends; but although he retains their friendship, he loses their
confidence by displaying his instability of character.....  The land he
has now will be very valuable after a while--

S. L. C.  Say a 50 years hence, or thereabouts.  Madame--

MADAME.  No--less time-but never mind the land, that is a secondary
consideration--let him drop that for the present, and devote himself to
his business and politics with all his might, for he must hold offices
under the Government.....

After a while you will possess a good deal of property--retire at the end
of ten years--after which your pursuits will be literary--try the law--
you will certainly succeed.  I am done now.  If you have any questions to
ask--ask them freely--and if it be in my power, I will answer without
reserve--without reserve.

I asked a few questions of minor importance--paid her $2--and left, under
the decided impression that going to the fortune teller's was just as
good as going to the opera, and the cost scarcely a trifle more--ergo,
I will disguise myself and go again, one of these days, when other
amusements fail.  Now isn't she the devil?  That is to say, isn't she a
right smart little woman?

When you want money, let Ma know, and she will send it.  She and Pamela
are always fussing about change, so I sent them a hundred and twenty
quarters yesterday--fiddler's change enough to last till I get back, I
reckon.
                                             SAM.


     It is not so difficult to credit Madame Caprell with clairvoyant
     powers when one has read the letters of Samuel Clemens up to this
     point.  If we may judge by those that have survived, her prophecy of
     literary distinction for him was hardly warranted by anything she
     could have known of his past performance.  These letters of his
     youth have a value to-day only because they were written by the man
     who later was to become Mark Twain.  The squibs and skits which he
     sometimes contributed to the New Orleans papers were bright,
     perhaps, and pleasing to his pilot associates, but they were without
     literary value.  He was twenty-five years old.  More than one author
     has achieved reputation at that age.  Mark Twain was of slower
     growth; at that age he had not even developed a definite literary
     ambition:  Whatever the basis of Madame Caprell's prophecy, we must
     admit that she was a good guesser on several matters, "a right smart
     little woman," as Clemens himself phrased it.

     She overlooked one item, however: the proximity of the Civil War.
     Perhaps it was too close at hand for second sight.  A little more
     than two months after the Caprell letter was written Fort Sumter was
     fired upon.  Mask Twain had made his last trip as a pilot up the
     river to St. Louis--the nation was plunged into a four years'
     conflict.

     There are no letters of this immediate period.  Young Clemens went
     to Hannibal, and enlisting in a private company, composed mainly of
     old schoolmates, went soldiering for two rainy, inglorious weeks,
     by the end of which he had had enough of war, and furthermore had
     discovered that he was more of a Union abolitionist than a slave-
     holding secessionist, as he had at first supposed.  Convictions were
     likely to be rather infirm during those early days of the war, and
     subject to change without notice.  Especially was this so in a
     border State.




III

LETTERS 1861-62.  ON THE FRONTIER.  MINING ADVENTURES.
JOURNALISTIC BEGINNINGS

     Clemens went from the battle-front to Keokuk, where Orion was
     preparing to accept the appointment prophesied by Madame Caprell.
     Orion was a stanch Unionist, and a member of Lincoln's Cabinet had
     offered him the secretaryship of the new Territory of Nevada.  Orion
     had accepted, and only needed funds to carry him to his destination.
     His pilot brother had the funds, and upon being appointed "private"
     secretary, agreed to pay both passages on the overland stage, which
     would bear them across the great plains from St. Jo to Carson City.
     Mark Twain, in Roughing It, has described that glorious journey and
     the frontier life that followed it.  His letters form a supplement
     of realism to a tale that is more or less fictitious, though
     marvelously true in color and background.  The first bears no date,
     but it was written not long after their arrival, August 14, 1861.
     It is not complete, but there is enough of it to give us a very fair
     picture of Carson City, "a wooden town; its population two thousand
     souls."


           Part of a letter to Mrs. Jane Clemens, in St. Louis:

                              (Date not given, but Sept, or Oct., 1861.)
MY DEAR MOTHER,--I hope you will all come out here someday.  But I shan't
consent to invite you, until we can receive you in style.  But I guess we
shall be able to do that, one of these days.  I intend that Pamela shall
live on Lake Bigler until she can knock a bull down with her fist--say,
about three months.

"Tell everything as it is--no better, and no worse."

Well, "Gold Hill" sells at $5,000 per foot, cash down; "Wild cat" isn't
worth ten cents.  The country is fabulously rich in gold, silver, copper,
lead, coal, iron, quick silver, marble, granite, chalk, plaster of Paris,
(gypsum,) thieves, murderers, desperadoes, ladies, children, lawyers,
Christians, Indians, Chinamen, Spaniards, gamblers, sharpers, coyotes
(pronounced Ki-yo-ties,) poets, preachers, and jackass rabbits.
I overheard a gentleman say, the other day, that it was "the d---dest
country under the sun."--and that comprehensive conception I fully
subscribe to.  It never rains here, and the dew never falls.  No flowers
grow here, and no green thing gladdens the eye.  The birds that fly over
the land carry their provisions with them.  Only the crow and the raven
tarry with us.  Our city lies in the midst of a desert of the purest--
most unadulterated, and compromising sand--in which infernal soil nothing
but that fag-end of vegetable creation, "sage-brush," ventures to grow.
If you will take a Lilliputian cedar tree for a model, and build a dozen
imitations of it with the stiffest article of telegraph wire--set them
one foot apart and then try to walk through them, you'll understand
(provided the floor is covered 12 inches deep with sand,) what it is to
wander through a sage-brush desert.  When crushed, sage brush emits an
odor which isn't exactly magnolia and equally isn't exactly polecat but
is a sort of compromise between the two.  It looks a good deal like
grease-wood, and is the ugliest plant that was ever conceived of.  It is
gray in color.  On the plains, sage-brush and grease-wood grow about
twice as large as the common geranium--and in my opinion they are a very
good substitute for that useless vegetable.  Grease-wood is a perfect-
most perfect imitation in miniature of a live oak tree-barring the color
of it.  As to the other fruits and flowers of the country, there ain't
any, except "Pulu" or "Tuler," or what ever they call it,--a species of
unpoetical willow that grows on the banks of the Carson--a RIVER, 20
yards wide, knee deep, and so villainously rapid and crooked, that it
looks like it had wandered into the country without intending it, and had
run about in a bewildered way and got lost, in its hurry to get out again
before some thirsty man came along and drank it up.  I said we are
situated in a flat, sandy desert--true.  And surrounded on all sides by
such prodigious mountains, that when you gaze at them awhile,--and begin
to conceive of their grandeur--and next to feel their vastness expanding
your soul--and ultimately find yourself growing and swelling and
spreading into a giant--I say when this point is reached, you look
disdainfully down upon the insignificant village of Carson, and in that
instant you are seized with a burning desire to stretch forth your hand,
put the city in your pocket, and walk off with it.

As to churches, I believe they have got a Catholic one here, but like
that one the New York fireman spoke of, I believe "they don't run her
now:" Now, although we are surrounded by sand, the greatest part of the
town is built upon what was once a very pretty grassy spot; and the
streams of pure water that used to poke about it in rural sloth and
solitude, now pass through on dusty streets and gladden the hearts of men
by reminding them that there is at least something here that hath its
prototype among the homes they left behind them.  And up "King's Canon,"
(please pronounce canyon, after the manner of the natives,) there are
"ranches," or farms, where they say hay grows, and grass, and beets and
onions, and turnips, and other "truck" which is suitable for cows--yes,
and even Irish potatoes; also, cabbage, peas and beans.

The houses are mostly frame, unplastered, but "papered" inside with
flour-sacks sewed together, and the handsomer the "brand" upon the sacks
is, the neater the house looks.  Occasionally, you stumble on a stone
house.  On account of the dryness of the country, the shingles on the
houses warp till they look like short joints of stove pipe split
lengthwise.

(Remainder missing.)


     In this letter is something of the "wild freedom of the West," which
     later would contribute to his fame.  The spirit of the frontier--of
     Mark Twain--was beginning to stir him.

     There had been no secretary work for him to do, and no provision for
     payment.  He found his profit in studying human nature and in
     prospecting native resources.  He was not interested in mining not
     yet.  With a boy named John Kinney he made an excursion to Lake
     Bigler--now Tahoe--and located a timber claim, really of great
     value.  They were supposed to build a fence around it, but they were
     too full of the enjoyment of camp-life to complete it.  They put in
     most of their time wandering through the stately forest or drifting
     over the transparent lake in a boat left there by lumbermen.  They
     built themselves a brush house, but they did not sleep in it.  In
     'Roughing It' he writes, "It never occurred to us, for one thing;
     and, besides, it was built to hold the ground, and that was enough.
     We did not wish to strain it."

     They were having a glorious time, when their camp-fire got away from
     them and burned up their claim.  His next letter, of which the
     beginning is missing, describes the fire.


             Fragment of a letter to Mrs. Jane Clemens and
                      Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

.....The level ranks of flame were relieved at intervals by the standard-
bearers, as we called the tall dead trees, wrapped in fire, and waving
their blazing banners a hundred feet in the air.  Then we could turn from
this scene to the Lake, and see every branch, and leaf, and cataract of
flame upon its bank perfectly reflected as in a gleaming, fiery mirror.
The mighty roaring of the conflagration, together with our solitary and
somewhat unsafe position (for there was no one within six miles of us,)
rendered the scene very impressive.  Occasionally, one of us would remove
his pipe from his mouth and say, "Superb!  magnificent!  Beautiful!  but-
by the Lord God Almighty, if we attempt to sleep in this little patch
tonight, we'll never live till morning! for if we don't burn up, we'll
certainly suffocate."  But he was persuaded to sit up until we felt
pretty safe as far as the fire was concerned, and then we turned in, with
many misgivings.  When we got up in the morning, we found that the fire
had burned small pieces of drift wood within six feet of our boat, and
had made its way to within 4 or 5 steps of us on the South side.  We
looked like lava men, covered as we were with ashes, and begrimed with
smoke.  We were very black in the face, but we soon washed ourselves
white again.

John D. Kinney, a Cincinnati boy, and a first-rate fellow, too, who came
out with judge Turner, was my comrade.  We staid at the Lake four days--
I had plenty of fun, for John constantly reminded me of Sam Bowen when we
were on our campaign in Missouri.  But first and foremost, for Annie's,
Mollies, and Pamela's comfort, be it known that I have never been guilty
of profane language since I have been in this Territory, and Kinney
hardly ever swears.--But sometimes human nature gets the better of him.
On the second day we started to go by land to the lower camp, a distance
of three miles, over the mountains, each carrying an axe.  I don't think
we got lost exactly, but we wandered four hours over the steepest,
rockiest and most dangerous piece of country in the world.  I couldn't
keep from laughing at Kinney's distress, so I kept behind, so that he
could not see me.  After he would get over a dangerous place, with
infinite labor and constant apprehension, he would stop, lean on his axe,
and look around, then behind, then ahead, and then drop his head and
ruminate awhile.--Then he would draw a long sigh, and say: "Well--could
any Billygoat have scaled that place without breaking his --- ------ neck?"
And I would reply, "No,--I don't think he could."  "No--you don't think
he could--" (mimicking me,) "Why don't you curse the infernal place?
You know you want to.--I do, and will curse the --- ------ thieving
country as long as I live."  Then we would toil on in silence for awhile.
Finally I told him--"Well, John, what if we don't find our way out of
this today--we'll know all about the country when we do get out."  "Oh
stuff--I know enough--and too much about the d---d villainous locality
already."  Finally, we reached the camp.  But as we brought no provisions
with us, the first subject that presented itself to us was, how to get
back.  John swore he wouldn't walk back, so we rolled a drift log apiece
into the Lake, and set about making paddles, intending to straddle the
logs and paddle ourselves back home sometime or other.  But the Lake
objected--got stormy, and we had to give it up.  So we set out for the
only house on this side of the Lake--three miles from there, down the
shore.  We found the way without any trouble, reached there before
sundown, played three games of cribbage, borrowed a dug-out and pulled
back six miles to the upper camp.  As we had eaten nothing since sunrise,
we did not waste time in cooking our supper or in eating it, either.
After supper we got out our pipes--built a rousing camp fire in the open
air-established a faro bank (an institution of this country,) on our huge
flat granite dining table, and bet white beans till one o'clock, when
John went to bed.  We were up before the sun the next morning, went out
on the Lake and caught a fine trout for breakfast.  But unfortunately, I
spoilt part of the breakfast.  We had coffee and tea boiling on the fire,
in coffee-pots and fearing they might not be strong enough, I added more
ground coffee, and more tea, but--you know mistakes will happen.--I put
the tea in the coffee-pot, and the coffee in the teapot--and if you
imagine that they were not villainous mixtures, just try the effect once.

And so Bella is to be married on the 1st of Oct.  Well, I send her and
her husband my very best wishes, and--I may not be here--but wherever I
am on that night, we'll have a rousing camp-fire and a jollification in
honor of the event.

In a day or two we shall probably go to the Lake and build another cabin
and fence, and get everything into satisfactory trim before our trip to
Esmeralda about the first of November.

What has become of Sam Bowen?  I would give my last shirt to have him out
here.  I will make no promises, but I believe if John would give him a
thousand dollars and send him out here he would not regret it.  He might
possibly do very well here, but he could do little without capital.

Remember me to all my St. Louis and Keokuk friends, and tell Challie and
Hallie Renson that I heard a military band play "What are the Wild Waves
Saying?" the other night, and it reminded me very forcibly of them.  It
brought Ella Creel and Belle across the Desert too in an instant, for
they sang the song in Orion's yard the first time I ever heard it.  It
was like meeting an old friend.  I tell you I could have swallowed that
whole band, trombone and all, if such a compliment would have been any
gratification to them.
                         Love to the young folks,
                                                  SAM.


The reference in the foregoing letter to Esmeralda has to do with mining
plans.  He was beginning to be mildly interested, and, with his brother
Orion, had acquired "feet" in an Esmeralda camp, probably at a very small
price--so small as to hold out no exciting prospect of riches.  In his
next letter he gives us the size of this claim, which he has visited.
His interest, however, still appears to be chiefly in his timber claim on
Lake Bigler (Tahoe), though we are never to hear of it again after this
letter.


                      To Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                             CARSON CITY, Oct. 25, 1861.
MY DEAR SISTER,--I have just finished reading your letter and Ma's of
Sept. 8th.  How in the world could they have been so long coming?  You
ask me if I have for gotten my promise to lay a claim for Mr. Moffett.
By no means.  I have already laid a timber claim on the borders of a lake
(Bigler) which throws Como in the shade--and if we succeed in getting one
Mr. Jones, to move his saw-mill up there, Mr. Moffett can just consider
that claim better than bank stock.  Jones says he will move his mill up
next spring.  In that claim I took up about two miles in length by one in
width--and the names in it are as follows: "Sam. L  Clemens, Wm. A.
Moffett, Thos. Nye" and three others.  It is situated on "Sam Clemens
Bay"--so named by Capt. Nye--and it goes by that name among the
inhabitants of that region.  I had better stop about "the Lake," though,
--for whenever I think of it I want to go there and die, the place is so
beautiful.  I'll build a country seat there one of these days that will
make the Devil's mouth water if he ever visits the earth.  Jim Lampton
will never know whether I laid a claim there for him or not until he
comes here himself.  We have now got about 1,650 feet of mining ground--
and if it proves good, Mr. Moffett's name will go in--if not, I can get
"feet" for him in the Spring which will be good.  You see, Pamela, the
trouble does not consist in getting mining ground--for that is plenty
enough--but the money to work it with after you get it is the mischief.
When I was in Esmeralda, a young fellow gave me fifty feet in the "Black
Warrior"--an unprospected claim.  The other day he wrote me that he had
gone down eight feet on the ledge, and found it eight feet thick--and
pretty good rock, too.  He said he could take out rock now if there were
a mill to crush it--but the mills are all engaged (there are only four of
them) so, if I were willing, he would suspend work until Spring.  I wrote
him to let it alone at present--because, you see, in the Spring I can go
down myself and help him look after it.  There will then be twenty mills
there.  Orion and I have confidence enough in this country to think that
if the war will let us alone we can make Mr. Moffett rich without its
ever costing him a cent of money or particle of trouble.  We shall lay
plenty of claims for him, but if they never pay him anything, they will
never cost him anything, Orion and I are not financiers.  Therefore, you
must persuade Uncle Jim to come out here and help us in that line.
I have written to him twice to come.  I wrote him today.  In both letters
I told him not to let you or Ma know that we dealt in such romantic
nonsense as "brilliant prospects," because I always did hate for anyone
to know what my plans or hopes or prospects were--for, if I kept people
in ignorance in these matters, no one could be disappointed but myself,
if they were not realized.  You know I never told you that I went on the
river under a promise to pay Bixby $500, until I had paid the money and
cleared my skirts of the possibility of having my judgment criticised.
I would not say anything about our prospects now, if we were nearer home.
But I suppose at this distance you are more anxious than you would be if
you saw us every month-and therefore it is hardly fair to keep you in the
dark.  However, keep these matters to yourselves, and then if we fail,
we'll keep the laugh in the family.

What we want now is something that will commence paying immediately.
We have got a chance to get into a claim where they say a tunnel has been
run 150 feet, and the ledge struck.  I got a horse yesterday, and went
out with the Attorney-General and the claim-owner--and we tried to go to
the claim by a new route, and got lost in the mountains--sunset overtook
us before we found the claim--my horse got too lame to carry me, and I
got down and drove him ahead of me till within four miles of town--then
we sent Rice on ahead.  Bunker, (whose horse was in good condition,)
undertook, to lead mine, and I followed after him.  Darkness shut him out
from my view in less than a minute, and within the next minute I lost the
road and got to wandering in the sage brush.  I would find the road
occasionally and then lose it again in a minute or so.  I got to Carson
about nine o'clock, at night, but not by the road I traveled when I left
it.  The General says my horse did very well for awhile, but soon refused
to lead.  Then he dismounted, and had a jolly time driving both horses
ahead of him and chasing them here and there through the sage brush (it
does my soul good when I think of it) until he got to town, when both
animals deserted him, and he cursed them handsomely and came home alone.
Of course the horses went to their stables.

Tell Sammy I will lay a claim for him, and he must come out and attend to
it.  He must get rid of that propensity for tumbling down, though, for
when we get fairly started here, I don't think we shall have time to pick
up those who fall.....

That is Stoughter's house, I expect, that Cousin Jim has moved into.
This is just the country for Cousin Jim to live in.  I don't believe it
would take him six months to make $100,000 here, if he had 3,000 dollars
to commence with.  I suppose he can't leave his family though.

Tell Mrs. Benson I never intend to be a lawyer.  I have been a slave
several times in my life, but I'll never be one again.  I always intend
to be so situated (unless I marry,) that I can "pull up stakes" and clear
out whenever I feel like it.

We are very thankful to you, Pamela, for the papers you send.  We have
received half a dozen or more, and, next to letters, they are the most
welcome visitors we have.
                              Write oftener, Pamela.
                                             Yr.  Brother
                                                            SAM.


The "Cousin Jim" mentioned in this letter is the original of the
character of Colonel Sellers.  Whatever Mark Twain's later opinion of
Cousin Jim Lampton's financial genius may have been, he seems to have
respected it at this time.

More than three months pass until we have another letter, and in that
time the mining fever had become well seated.  Mark Twain himself was
full of the Sellers optimism, and it was bound to overflow, fortify as he
would against it.

He met with little enough encouragement.  With three companions, in
midwinter, he made a mining excursion to the much exploited Humboldt
region, returning empty-handed after a month or two of hard experience.
This is the trip picturesquely described in Chapters XXVII to XXXIII of
Roughing It.--[It is set down historically in Mark Twain 'A Biography.'
Harper & brothers.]--He, mentions the Humboldt in his next letter, but
does not confess his failure.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                             CARSON CITY, Feb. 8, 1862.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--By George Pamela, I begin to fear that I have
invoked a Spirit of some kind or other which I will find some difficulty
in laying.  I wasn't much terrified by your growing inclinations, but
when you begin to call presentiments to your aid, I confess that I
"weaken."  Mr. Moffett is right, as I said before--and I am not much
afraid of his going wrong.  Men are easily dealt with--but when you get
the women started, you are in for it, you know.  But I have decided on
two things, viz: Any of you, or all of you, may live in California, for
that is the Garden of Eden reproduced--but you shall never live in
Nevada; and secondly, none of you, save Mr. Moffett, shall ever cross the
Plains.  If you were only going to Pike's Peak, a little matter of 700
miles from St. Jo, you might take the coach, and I wouldn't say a word.
But I consider it over 2,000 miles from St. Jo to Carson, and the first
6 or 800 miles is mere Fourth of July, compared to the balance of the
route.  But Lord bless you, a man enjoys every foot of it.  If you ever
come here or to California, it must be by sea.  Mr. Moffett must come by
overland coach, though, by all means.  He would consider it the jolliest
little trip he ever took in his life.  Either June, July, or August are
the proper months to make the journey in.  He could not suffer from heat,
and three or four heavy army blankets would make the cold nights
comfortable.  If the coach were full of passengers, two good blankets
would probably be sufficient.  If he comes, and brings plenty of money,
and fails to invest it to his entire satisfaction; I will prophesy no
more.

But I will tell you a few things which you wouldn't have found out if I
hadn't got myself into this scrape.  I expect to return to St. Louis in
July--per steamer.  I don't say that I will return then, or that I shall
be able to do it--but I expect to--you bet.  I came down here from
Humboldt, in order to look after our Esmeralda interests, and my sore-
backed horse and the bad roads have prevented me from making the journey.
Yesterday one of my old Esmeralda friends, Bob Howland, arrived here, and
I have had a talk with him.  He owns with me in the "Horatio and Derby"
ledge.  He says our tunnel is in 52 feet, and a small stream of water has
been struck, which bids fair to become a "big thing" by the time the
ledge is reached--sufficient to supply a mill.  Now, if you knew anything
of the value of water, here; you would perceive, at a glance that if the
water should amount to 50 or 100 inches, we wouldn't care whether school
kept or not.  If the ledge should prove to be worthless, we'd sell the
water for money enough to give us quite a lift.  But you see, the ledge
will not prove to be worthless.  We have located, near by, a fine site
for a mill; and when we strike the ledge, you know, we'll have a mill-
site, water power, and pay-rock, all handy.  Then we shan't care whether
we have capital or not.  Mill-folks will build us a mill, and wait for
their pay.  If nothing goes wrong, we'll strike the ledge in June--and if
we do, I'll be home in July, you know.

Pamela, don't you know that undemonstrated human calculations won't do
to bet on?  Don't you know that I have only talked, as yet, but proved
nothing?  Don't you know that I have expended money in this country but
have made none myself?  Don't you know that I have never held in my hands
a gold or silver bar that belonged to me?  Don't you know that it's all
talk and no cider so far?  Don't you know that people who always feel
jolly, no matter where they are or what happens to them--who have the
organ of hope preposterously developed--who are endowed with an
uncongealable sanguine temperament--who never feel concerned about the
price of corn--and who cannot, by any possibility, discover any but the
bright side of a picture--are very apt to go to extremes, and exaggerate
with 40-horse microscopic power?  Of course I never tried to raise these
suspicions in your mind, but then your knowledge of the fact that some
people's poor frail human nature is a sort of crazy institution anyhow,
ought to have suggested them to you.  Now, if I hadn't thoughtlessly got
you into the notion of coming out here, and thereby got myself into a
scrape, I wouldn't have given you that highly-colored paragraph about the
mill, etc., because, you know, if that pretty little picture should fail,
and wash out, and go the Devil generally, it wouldn't cost me the loss of
an hour's sleep, but you fellows would be so much distressed on my
account as I could possibly be if "circumstances beyond my control" were
to prevent my being present at my own funeral.  But--but--

               "In the bright lexicon of youth,
               There's no such word as Fail--"
                                             and I'll prove it!

And look here.  I came near forgetting it.  Don't you say a word to me
about "trains" across the plains.  Because I am down on that arrangement.
That sort of thing is "played out," you know.  The Overland Coach or the
Mail Steamer is the thing.

You want to know something about the route between California and Nevada
Territory?  Suppose you take my word for it, that it is exceedingly
jolly.  Or take, for a winter view, J. Ross Brown's picture, in Harper's
Monthly, of pack mules tumbling fifteen hundred feet down the side of a
mountain.  Why bless you, there's scenery on that route.  You can stand
on some of those noble peaks and see Jerusalem and the Holy Land.  And
you can start a boulder, and send it tearing up the earth and crashing
over trees-down-down-down-to the very devil, Madam.  And you would
probably stand up there and look, and stare and wonder at the
magnificence spread out before you till you starved to death, if let
alone.  But you should take someone along to keep you moving.

Since you want to know, I will inform you that an eight-stamp water mill,
put up and ready for business would cost about $10,000 to $12,000.  Then,
the water to run it with would cost from $1,000 to $30,000--and even
more, according to the location.  What I mean by that, is, that water
powers in THIS vicinity, are immensely valuable.  So, also, in Esmeralda.
But Humboldt is a new country, and things don't cost so much there yet.
I saw a good water power sold there for $750.00.  But here is the way the
thing is managed.  A man with a good water power on Carson river will
lean his axe up against a tree (provided you find him chopping cord-wood
at $4 a day,) and taking his chalk pipe out of his mouth to afford him an
opportunity to answer your questions, will look you coolly in the face
and tell you his little property is worth forty or fifty thousand
dollars!  But you can easily fix him.  You tell him that you'll build a
quartz mill on his property, and make him a fourth or a third, or half
owner in said mill in consideration of the privilege of using said
property--and that will bring him to his milk in a jiffy.  So he spits on
his hands, and goes in again with his axe, until the mill is finished,
when lo! out pops the quondam wood-chopper, arrayed in purple and fine
linen, and prepared to deal in bank-stock, or bet on the races, or take
government loans, with an air, as to the amount, of the most don't care-
a-d---dest unconcern that you can conceive of.  By George, if I just had
a thousand dollars--I'd be all right!  Now there's the "Horatio," for
instance.  There are five or six shareholders in it, and I know I could
buy half of their interests at, say $20 per foot, now that flour is worth
$50 per barrel and they are pressed for money.  But I am hard up myself,
and can't buy--and in June they'll strike the ledge and then "good-bye
canary."  I can't get it for love or money.  Twenty dollars a foot!
Think of it.  For ground that is proven to be rich.  Twenty dollars,
Madam--and we wouldn't part with a foot of our 75 for five times the sum.
So it will be in Humboldt next summer.  The boys will get pushed and sell
ground for a song that is worth a fortune.  But I am at the helm, now.
I have convinced Orion that he hasn't business talent enough to carry on
a peanut stand, and he has solemnly promised me that he will meddle no
more with mining, or other matters not connected with the Secretary's
office.  So, you see, if mines are to be bought or sold, or tunnels run,
or shafts sunk, parties have to come to me--and me only.  I'm the "firm,"
you know.

"How long does it take one of those infernal trains to go through?"
Well, anywhere between three and five months.

Tell Margaret that if you ever come to live in California, that you can
promise her a home for a hundred years, and a bully one--but she wouldn't
like the country.  Some people are malicious enough to think that if the
devil were set at liberty and told to confine himself to Nevada
Territory, that he would come here--and look sadly around, awhile, and
then get homesick and go back to hell again.  But I hardly believe it,
you know.  I am saying, mind you, that Margaret wouldn't like the
country, perhaps--nor the devil either, for that matter, or any other man
but I like it.  When it rains here, it never lets up till it has done all
the raining it has got to do--and after that, there's a dry spell, you
bet.  Why, I have had my whiskers and moustaches so full of alkali dust
that you'd have thought I worked in a starch factory and boarded in a
flour barrel.

Since we have been here there has not been a fire--although the houses
are built of wood.  They "holler" fire sometimes, though, but I am always
too late to see the smoke before the fire is out, if they ever have any.
Now they raised a yell here in front of the office a moment ago.  I put
away my papers, and locked up everything of value, and changed my boots,
and pulled off my coat, and went and got a bucket of water, and came back
to see what the matter was, remarking to myself, "I guess I'll be on hand
this time, any way."  But I met a friend on the pavement, and he said,
"Where you been?  Fire's out half an hour ago."

Ma says Axtele was above "suspition"--but I have searched through
Webster's Unabridged, and can't find the word.  However, it's of no
consequence--I hope he got down safely.  I knew Axtele and his wife as
well as I know Dan Haines.  Mrs. A. once tried to embarrass me in the
presence of company by asking me to name her baby, when she was well
aware that I didn't know the sex of that Phenomenon.  But I told her to
call it Frances, and spell it to suit herself.  That was about nine years
ago, and Axtele had no property, and could hardly support his family by
his earnings.  He was a pious cuss, though.  Member of Margaret Sexton's
Church.

And Ma says "it looks like a man can't hold public office and be honest."
Why, certainly not, Madam.  A man can't hold public office and be honest.
Lord bless you, it is a common practice with Orion to go about town
stealing little things that happen to be lying around loose.  And I don't
remember having heard him speak the truth since we have been in Nevada.
He even tries to prevail upon me to do these things, Ma, but I wasn't
brought up in that way, you know.  You showed the public what you could
do in that line when you raised me, Madam.  But then you ought to have
raised me first, so that Orion could have had the benefit of my example.
Do you know that he stole all the stamps out of an 8 stamp quartz mill
one night, and brought them home under his over-coat and hid them in the
back room?
                              Yrs. etc.,
                                             SAM


     A little later he had headed for the Esmeralda Hills.  Some time in
     February he was established there in a camp with a young man by the
     name of Horatio Phillips (Raish).  Later he camped with Bob Howland,
     who, as City Marshal of Aurora, became known as the most fearless
     man in the Territory, and, still later, with Calvin H. Higbie (Cal),
     to whom 'Roughing It' would one day be dedicated.  His own funds
     were exhausted by this time, and Orion, with his rather slender
     salary, became the financial partner of the firm.

     It was a comfortless life there in the Esmeralda camp.  Snow covered
     everything.  There was nothing to do, and apparently nothing to
     report; for there are no letters until April.  Then the first one is
     dated Carson City, where he seems to be making a brief sojourn.  It
     is a rather heavy attempt to be light-hearted; its playfulness
     suggests that of a dancing bear.


                   To Mrs. Jane Clemens, in St. Louis:

                                        CARSON CITY, April 2, 1862.
MY DEAR MOTHER,--Yours of March 2nd has just been received.  I see I am
in for it again--with Annie.  But she ought to know that I was always
stupid.  She used to try to teach me lessons from the Bible, but I never
could understand them.  Doesn't she remember telling me the story of
Moses, one Sunday, last Spring, and how hard she tried to explain it and
simplify it so that I could understand it--but I couldn't?  And how she
said it was strange that while her ma and her grandma and her uncle Orion
could understand anything in the world, I was so dull that I couldn't
understand the "ea-siest thing?"  And doesn't she remember that finally a
light broke in upon me and I said it was all right--that I knew old Moses
himself--and that he kept a clothing store in Market Street?  And then
she went to her ma and said she didn't know what would become of her
uncle Sam he was too dull to learn anything--ever!  And I'm just as dull
yet.  Now I have no doubt her letter was spelled right, and was correct
in all particulars--but then I had to read it according to my lights; and
they being inferior, she ought to overlook the mistakes I make specially,
as it is not my fault that I wasn't born with good sense.  I am sure she
will detect an encouraging ray of intelligence in that last argument.....

I am waiting here, trying to rent a better office for Orion.  I have got
the refusal after next week of a room on first floor of a fire-proof
brick-rent, eighteen hundred dollars a year.  Don't know yet whether we
can get it or not.  If it is not rented before the week is up, we can.

I was sorry to hear that Dick was killed.  I gave him his first lesson in
the musket drill.  We had half a dozen muskets in our office when it was
over Isbell's Music Rooms.

I hope I am wearing the last white shirt that will embellish my person
for many a day--for I do hope that I shall be out of Carson long before
this reaches you.
                                   Love to all.
                                             Very Respectfully
                                                                 SAM.


     The "Annie" in this letter was his sister Pamela's little daughter;
     long years after, she would be the wife of Charles L. Webster, Mark
     Twain's publishing partner.  "Dick" the reader may remember as Dick
     Hingham, of the Keokuk printing-office; he was killed in charging
     the works at Fort Donelson.

     Clemens was back in Esmeralda when the next letter was written, and
     we begin now to get pictures of that cheerless mining-camp, and to
     know something of the alternate hopes and discouragements of the
     hunt for gold--the miner one day soaring on wings of hope, on the
     next becoming excited, irritable, profane.  The names of new mines
     appear constantly and vanish almost at a touch, suggesting the
     fairy-like evanescence of their riches.

     But a few of the letters here will best speak for themselves; not
     all of them are needed.  It is perhaps unnecessary to say that there
     is no intentional humor in these documents.


                    To Orion Clemens, in Carson City:

                                        ESMERALDA, 13th April, 1862.
MY DEAR BROTHER,--Wasson got here night before last "from the wars."
Tell Lockhart he is not wounded and not killed--is altogether unhurt.
He says the whites left their stone fort before he and Lieut. Noble got
there.  A large amount of provisions and ammunition, which they left
behind them, fell into the hands of the Indians.  They had a pitched
battle with the savages some fifty miles from the fort, in which Scott
(sheriff) and another man was killed.  This was the day before the
soldiers came up with them.  I mean Noble's men, and those under Cols.
Evans and Mayfield, from Los Angeles.  Evans assumed the chief command--
and next morning the forces were divided into three parties, and marched
against the enemy.  Col. Mayfield was killed, and Sergeant Gillespie,
also Noble's colonel was wounded.  The California troops went back home,
and Noble remained, to help drive the stock over here.  And, as Cousin
Sally Dillard says, this is all I know about the fight.

Work not yet begun on the H. and Derby--haven't seen it yet.  It is still
in the snow.  Shall begin on it within 3 or 4 weeks--strike the ledge in
July.  Guess it is good--worth from $30 to $50 a foot in California.

Why didn't you send the "Live Yankee" deed-the very one I wanted?  Have
made no inquiries about it, much.  Don't intend to until I get the deed.
Send it along--by mail--d---n the Express--have to pay three times for
all express matter; once in Carson and twice here.  I don't expect to
take the saddle-bags out of the express office.  I paid twenty-five cts.
for the Express deeds.

Man named Gebhart shot here yesterday while trying to defend a claim on
Last Chance Hill.  Expect he will die.

These mills here are not worth a d---n-except Clayton's--and it is not in
full working trim yet.

Send me $40 or $50--by mail--immediately.

The Red Bird is probably good--can't work on the tunnel on account of
snow.  The "Pugh" I have thrown away--shan't re-locate it.  It is nothing
but bed-rock croppings--too much work to find the ledge, if there is one.
Shan't record the "Farnum" until I know more about it--perhaps not at
all.

"Governor" under the snow.

"Douglas" and "Red Bird" are both recorded.

I have had opportunities to get into several ledges, but refused all but
three--expect to back out of two of them.

Stir yourself as much as possible, and lay up $100 or $15,000, subject to
my call.  I go to work to-morrow, with pick and shovel.  Something's got
to come, by G--, before I let go, here.

Col. Youngs says you must rent Kinkead's room by all means--Government
would rather pay $150 a month for your office than $75 for Gen. North's.
Says you are playing your hand very badly, for either the Government's
good opinion or anybody's else, in keeping your office in a shanty.  Says
put Gov. Nye in your place and he would have a stylish office, and no
objections would ever be made, either.  When old Col. Youngs talks this
way, I think it time to get a fine office.  I wish you would take that
office, and fit it up handsomely, so that I can omit telling people that
by this time you are handsomely located, when I know it is no such thing.

I am living with "Ratio Phillips."  Send him one of those black
portfolios--by the stage, and put a couple of pen-holders and a dozen
steel pens in it.

If you should have occasion to dispose of the long desk before I return,
don't forget to break open the middle drawer and take out my things.
Envelop my black cloth coat in a newspaper and hang it in the back room.

Don't buy anything while I am here--but save up some money for me.  Don't
send any money home.  I shall have your next quarter's salary spent
before you get it, I think.  I mean to make or break here within the next
two or three months.
                                   Yrs.
                                             SAM


The "wars" mentioned in the opening paragraph of this letter were
incident to the trouble concerning the boundary line between California
and Nevada.  The trouble continued for some time, with occasional
bloodshed.  The next letter is an exultant one.  There were few enough of
this sort.  We cannot pretend to keep track of the multiplicity of mines
and shares which lure the gold-hunters, pecking away at the flinty
ledges, usually in the snow.  It has been necessary to abbreviate this
letter, for much of it has lost all importance with the years, and is
merely confusing.  Hope is still high in the writer's heart, and
confidence in his associates still unshaken.  Later he was to lose faith
in "Raish," whether with justice or not we cannot know now.


                     To Orion Clowns, in Carson City:

                                        ESMERALDA, May 11, 1862.
MY DEAR BRO.,--TO use a French expression I have "got my d--d satisfy" at
last.  Two years' time will make us capitalists, in spite of anything.
Therefore, we need fret and fume, and worry and doubt no more, but just
lie still and put up with privations for six months.  Perhaps three
months will "let us out."  Then, if Government refuses to pay the rent on
your new office we can do it ourselves.  We have got to wait six weeks,
anyhow, for a dividend, maybe longer--but that it will come there is no
shadow of a doubt, I have got the thing sifted down to a dead moral
certainty.  I own one-eighth of the new "Monitor Ledge, Clemens Company,"
and money can't buy a foot of it; because I know it to contain our
fortune.  The ledge is six feet wide, and one needs no glass to see gold
and silver in it.  Phillips and I own one half of a segregated claim in
the "Flyaway" discovery, and good interests in two extensions on it.
We put men to work on our part of the discovery yesterday, and last night
they brought us some fine specimens.  Rock taken from ten feet below the
surface on the other part of the discovery, has yielded $150.00 to the
ton in the mill and we are at work 300 feet from their shaft.

May 12--Yours by the mail received last night.  "Eighteen hundred feet in
the C. T. Rice's Company!"  Well, I am glad you did not accept of the 200
feet.  Tell Rice to give it to some poor man.

But hereafter, when anybody holds up a glittering prospect before you,
just argue in this wise, viz: That, if all spare change be devoted to
working the "Monitor" and "Flyaway," 12 months, or 24 at furthest, will
find all our earthly wishes satisfied, so far as money is concerned--and
the more "feet" we have, the more anxiety we must bear--therefore, why
not say "No--d---n your 'prospects,' I wait on a sure thing--and a man
is less than a man, if he can't wait 2 years for a fortune?"  When you
and I came out here, we did not expect '63 or '64 to find us rich men--
and if that proposition had been made, we would have accepted it gladly.
Now, it is made.

Well, I am willing, now, that "Neary's tunnel," or anybody else's tunnel
shall succeed.  Some of them may beat us a few months, but we shall be on
hand in the fullness of time, as sure as fate.  I would hate to swap
chances with any member of the "tribe"--in fact, I am so lost to all
sense and reason as to be capable of refusing to trade "Flyaway" (with
but 200 feet in the Company of four,) foot for foot for that splendid
"Lady Washington," with its lists of capitalist proprietors, and its
35,000 feet of Priceless ground.

I wouldn't mind being in some of those Clear Creek claims, if I lived in
Carson and we could spare the money.  But I have struck my tent in
Esmeralda, and I care for no mines but those which I can superintend
myself.  I am a citizen here now, and I am satisfied--although R. and I
are strapped and we haven't three days' rations in the house.

Raish is looking anxiously for money and so am I.  Send me whatever you
can spare conveniently--I want it to work the Flyaway with.  My fourth of
that claim only cost me $50, (which isn't paid yet, though,) and I
suppose I could sell it here in town for ten times that amount today, but
I shall probably hold onto it till the cows come home.  I shall work the
"Monitor" and the other claims with my own hands.  I prospected of a
pound of "M," yesterday, and Raish reduced it with the blow-pipe, and got
about ten or twelve cents in gold and silver, besides the other half of
it which we spilt on the floor and didn't get.  The specimen came from
the croppings, but was a choice one, and showed much free gold to the
naked eye.

Well, I like the corner up-stairs office amazingly--provided, it has one
fine, large front room superbly carpeted, for the safe and a $150 desk,
or such a matter--one handsome room amidships, less handsomely gotten up,
perhaps, for records and consultations, and one good-sized bedroom and
adjoining it a kitchen, neither of which latter can be entered by anybody
but yourself--and finally, when one of the ledges begins to pay, the
whole to be kept in parlor order by two likely contrabands at big wages,
the same to be free of expense to the Government.  You want the entire
second story--no less room than you would have had in Harris and Co's.
Make them fix for you before the 1st of July-for maybe you might want to
"come out strong" on the 4th, you know.

No, the Post Office is all right and kept by a gentleman but W. F.
Express isn't.  They charge 25 cts to express a letter from here, but I
believe they have quit charging twice for letters that arrive prepaid.

The "Flyaway" specimen I sent you, (taken by myself from DeKay's shaft,
300 feet from where we are going to sink) cannot be called "choice,"
exactly--say something above medium, to be on the safe side.  But I have
seen exceedingly choice chunks from that shaft.  My intention at first in
sending the Antelope specimen was that you might see that it resembles
the Monitor--but, come to think, a man can tell absolutely nothing about
that without seeing both ledges themselves.  I tried to break a handsome
chunk from a huge piece of my darling Monitor which we brought from the
croppings yesterday, but it all splintered up, and I send you the scraps.
I call that "choice"--any d---d fool would.  Don't ask if it has been
assayed, for it hasn't.  It don't need it.  It is amply able to speak for
itself.  It is six feet wide on top, and traversed through and through
with veins whose color proclaims their worth.  What the devil does a man
want with any more feet when he owns in the Flyaway and the invincible
bomb-proof Monitor?

If I had anything more to say I have forgotten what it was, unless,
perhaps, that I want a sum of money--anywhere from $20 to $150, as soon
as possible.

Raish sends regards.  He or I, one will drop a line to the "Age"
occasionally.  I suppose you saw my letters in the "Enterprise."
                                   Yr.  BRO,
                                             SAM

P. S.  I suppose Pamela never will regain her health, but she could
improve it by coming to California--provided the trip didn't kill her.

You see Bixby is on the flag-ship.  He always was the best pilot on the
Mississippi, and deserves his "posish."  They have done a reckless thing,
though, in putting Sam Bowen on the "Swan"--for if a bomb-shell happens
to come his way, he will infallibly jump overboard.

Send me another package of those envelopes, per Bagley's coat pocket.


     We see how anxious he was for his brother to make a good official
     showing.  If a niggardly Government refused to provide decent
     quarters--no matter; the miners, with gold pouring in, would
     themselves pay for a suite "superbly carpeted," and all kept in
     order by "two likely contrabands"--that is to say, negroes.  Samuel
     Clemens in those days believed in expansion and impressive
     surroundings.  His brother, though also mining mad, was rather
     inclined to be penny wise in the matter of office luxury--not a bad
     idea, as it turned out.

     Orion, by the way, was acquiring "feet" on his own account, and in
     one instance, at least, seems to have won his brother's
     commendation.

     The 'Enterprise' letters mentioned we shall presently hear of again.


                    To Orion Clemens, in Carson City:

                                        ESMERALDA, Sunday, May--, 1862.
MY DEAR BROTHER,--Well, if you haven't "struck it rich--"that is, if the
piece of rock you sent me came from a bona fide ledge--and it looks as if
it did.  If that is a ledge, and you own 200 feet in it, why, it's a big
thing--and I have nothing more to say.  If you have actually made
something by helping to pay somebody's prospecting expenses it is a
wonder of the first magnitude, and deserves to rank as such.

If that rock came from a well-defined ledge, that particular vein must be
at least an inch wide, judging from this specimen, which is fully that
thick.

When I came in the other evening, hungry and tired and ill-natured, and
threw down my pick and shovel, Raish gave me your specimen--said Bagley
brought it, and asked me if it were cinnabar.  I examined it by the
waning daylight, and took the specks of fine gold for sulphurets--wrote
you I did not think much of it--and posted the letter immediately.

But as soon as I looked at it in the broad light of day, I saw my
mistake.  During the week, we have made three horns, got a blow-pipe, &c,
and yesterday, all prepared, we prospected the "Mountain House."  I broke
the specimen in two, and found it full of fine gold inside.  Then we
washed out one-fourth of it, and got a noble prospect.  This we reduced
with the blow-pipe, and got about two cents (herewith enclosed) in pure
gold.

As the fragment prospected weighed rather less than an ounce, this would
give about $500 to the ton.  We were eminently well satisfied.
Therefore, hold on to the "Mountain House," for it is a "big thing."
Touch it lightly, as far as money is concerned, though, for it is well to
reserve the code of justice in the matter of quartz ledges--that is,
consider them all (and their owners) guilty (of "shenanigan") until they
are proved innocent.

P. S.--Monday--Ratio and I have bought one-half of a segregated claim in
the original "Flyaway," for $100--$50 down.  We haven't a cent in the
house.  We two will work the ledge, and have full control, and pay all
expenses.  If you can spare $100 conveniently, let me have it--or $50,
anyhow, considering that I own one fourth of this, it is of course more
valuable than one 1/7 of the "Mountain House," although not so rich ....


     There is too much of a sameness in the letters of this period to use
     all of them.  There are always new claims, and work done, apparently
     without system or continuance, hoping to uncover sudden boundless
     affluence.

     In the next letter and the one following it we get a hint of an
     episode, or rather of two incidents which he combined into an
     episode in Roughing It.  The story as told in that book is an
     account of what might have happened, rather than history.  There was
     never really any money in the "blind lead" of the Wide West claim,
     except that which was sunk in it by unfortunate investors.  Only
     extracts from these letters are given.  The other portions are
     irrelevant and of slight value.


         Extract from a letter to Orion Clemens, in Carson City:

                                                            1862.
Two or three of the old "Salina" company entered our hole on the Monitor
yesterday morning, before our men got there, and took possession, armed
with revolvers.  And according to the d---d laws of this forever d---d
country, nothing but the District Court (and there ain't any) can touch
the matter, unless it assumes the shape of an infernal humbug which they
call "forcible entry and detainer," and in order to bring that about, you
must compel the jumpers to use personal violence toward you!  We went up
and demanded possession, and they refused.  Said they were in the hole,
armed and meant to die for it, if necessary.

I got in with them, and again demanded possession.  They said I might
stay in it as long as I pleased, and work but they would do the same.
I asked one of our company to take my place in the hole, while I went to
consult a lawyer.  He did so.  The lawyer said it was no go.  They must
offer some "force."

Our boys will try to be there first in the morning--in which case they
may get possession and keep it.  Now you understand the shooting scrape
in which Gebhart was killed the other day.  The Clemens Company--all of
us--hate to resort to arms in this matter, and it will not be done until
it becomes a forced hand--but I think that will be the end of it, never-
the-less.


     The mine relocated in this letter was not the "Wide West," but it
     furnished the proper incident.  The only mention of the "Wide West"
     is found in a letter written in July.


         Extract from a letter to Orion Clemens, in Carson City:
                                                                 1862
If I do not forget it, I will send you, per next mail, a pinch of decom.
(decomposed rock) which I pinched with thumb and finger from "Wide West"
ledge awhile ago.  Raish and I have secured 200 out of a 400 ft. in it,
which perhaps (the ledge, I mean) is a spur from the W. W.--our shaft is
about 100 ft.  from the W. W. shaft.  In order to get in, we agreed to
sink 30 ft.  We have sub-let to another man for 50 ft., and we pay for
powder and sharpening tools.


     The "Wide West" claim was forfeited, but there is no evidence to
     show that Clemens and his partners were ever, except in fiction,
     "millionaires for ten days."  The background, the local color, and
     the possibilities are all real enough, but Mark Twain's aim in this,
     as in most of his other reminiscent writing, was to arrange and
     adapt his facts to the needs of a good story.

     The letters of this summer (1862) most of them bear evidence of
     waning confidence in mining as a source of fortune--the miner has
     now little faith in his own judgment, and none at all in that of his
     brother, who was without practical experience.


                 Letter to Orion Clemens, in Carson City:

                                             ESMERALDA, Thursday.
MY DEAR BRO.,--Yours of the 17th, per express, just received.  Part of it
pleased me exceedingly, and part of it didn't.  Concerning the letter,
for instance: You have PROMISED me that you would leave all mining
matters, and everything involving an outlay of money, in my hands.

Sending a man fooling around the country after ledges, for God's sake!
when there are hundreds of feet of them under my nose here, begging for
owners, free of charge.  I don't want any more feet, and I won't touch
another foot--so you see, Orion, as far as any ledges of Perry's are
concerned, (or any other except what I examine first with my own eyes,)
I freely yield my right to share ownership with you.

The balance of your letter, I say, pleases me exceedingly.  Especially
that about the H. and D. being worth from $30 to $50 in Cal.  It pleases
me because, if the ledges prove to be worthless, it will be a pleasant
reflection to know that others were beaten worse than ourselves.  Raish
sold a man 30 feet, yesterday, at $20 a foot, although I was present at
the sale, and told the man the ground wasn't worth a d---n.  He said he
had been hankering after a few feet in the H. and D. for a long time, and
he had got them at last, and he couldn't help thinking he had secured a
good thing.  We went and looked at the ledges, and both of them
acknowledged that there was nothing in them but good "indications."  Yet
the owners in the H. and D.  will part with anything else sooner than
with feet in these ledges.  Well, the work goes slowly--very slowly on,
in the tunnel, and we'll strike it some day.  But--if we "strike it
rich,"--I've lost my guess, that's all.  I expect that the way it got so
high in Cal. was, that Raish's brother, over there was offered $750.00
for 20 feet of it, and he refused .....

Couldn't go on the hill today.  It snowed.  It always snows here, I
expect.

Don't you suppose they have pretty much quit writing, at home?

When you receive your next 1/4 yr's salary, don't send any of it here
until after you have told me you have got it.  Remember this.  I am
afraid of that H. and D.

They have struck the ledge in the Live Yankee tunnel, and I told the
President, Mr. Allen, that it wasn't as good as the croppings.  He said
that was true enough, but they would hang to it until it did prove rich.
He is much of a gentleman, that man Allen.

And ask Gaslerie why the devil he don't send along my commission as
Deputy Sheriff.  The fact of my being in California, and out of his
country, wouldn't amount to a d---n with me, in the performance of my
official duties.

I have nothing to report, at present, except that I shall find out all I
want to know about this locality before I leave it.

How do the Records pay?
                              Yr.  Bro.
                                        SAM.


     In one of the foregoing letters--the one dated May 11 there is a
     reference to the writer's "Enterprise Letters."  Sometimes, during
     idle days in the camp, the miner had followed old literary impulses
     and written an occasional burlesque sketch, which he had signed
     "Josh," and sent to the Territorial Enterprise, at Virginia City.--
     [One contribution was sent to a Keokuk paper, The Gate City, and a
     letter written by Mrs. Jane Clemens at the time would indicate that
     Mark Twain's mother did not always approve of her son's literary
     efforts.  She hopes that he will do better, and some time write
     something "that his kin will be proud of."]--The rough, vigorous
     humor of these had attracted some attention, and Orion, pleased with
     any measure of success that might come to his brother, had allowed
     the authorship of them to become known.  When, in July, the
     financial situation became desperate, the Esmeralda miner was moved
     to turn to literature for relief.  But we will let him present the
     situation himself.


                    To Orion Clemens, in Carson City:

                                        ESMERALDA, July 23d, 1862.
MY DEAR BRO.,--No, I don't own a foot in the "Johnson" ledge--I will tell
the story some day in a more intelligible manner than Tom has told it.
You needn't take the trouble to deny Tom's version, though.  I own 25
feet (1-16) of the 1st east ex. on it--and Johnson himself has contracted
to find the ledge for 100 feet.  Contract signed yesterday.  But as the
ledge will be difficult to find he is allowed six months to find it in.
An eighteenth of the Ophir was a fortune to John D. Winters--and the
Ophir can't beat the Johnson any.....

My debts are greater than I thought for; I bought $25 worth of clothing,
and sent $25 to Higbie, in the cement diggings.  I owe about $45 or $50,
and have got about $45 in my pocket.  But how in the h--l I am going to
live on something over $100 until October or November, is singular.  The
fact is, I must have something to do, and that shortly, too.....

Now write to the Sacramento Union folks, or to Marsh, and tell them I'll
write as many letters a week as they want, for $10 a week--my board must
be paid.  Tell them I have corresponded with the N. Orleans Crescent, and
other papers--and the Enterprise.  California is full of people who have
interests here, and it's d---d seldom they hear from this country.
I can't write a specimen letter--now, at any rate--I'd rather undertake
to write a Greek poem.  Tell 'em the mail and express leave three times a
week, and it costs from 25 to 50 cents to send letters by the blasted
express.  If they want letters from here, who'll run from morning till
night collecting materials cheaper.  I'll write a short letter twice a
week, for the present, for the "Age," for $5 per week.  Now it has been a
long time since I couldn't make my own living, and it shall be a long
time before I loaf another year.....

If I get the other 25 feet in the Johnson ex., I shan't care a d---n.
I'll be willing to curse awhile and wait.  And if I can't move the bowels
of those hills this fall, I will come up and clerk for you until I get
money enough to go over the mountains for the winter.
                                   Yr.  Bro.
                                                  SAM.


     The Territorial Enterprise at Virginia City was at this time owned
     by Joseph T. Goodman, who had bought it on the eve of the great
     Comstock silver-mining boom, and from a struggling, starving sheet
     had converted it into one of the most important--certainly the most
     picturesque-papers on the coast.  The sketches which the Esmeralda
     miner had written over the name of "Josh" fitted into it exactly,
     and when a young man named Barstow, in the business office, urged
     Goodman to invite "Josh" to join their staff, the Enterprise owner
     readily fell in with the idea.  Among a lot of mining matters of no
     special interest, Clemens, July 3oth, wrote his brother: "Barstow
     has offered me the post as local reporter for the Enterprise at $25
     a week, and I have written him that I will let him know next mail,
     if possible."

     In Roughing It we are told that the miner eagerly accepted the
     proposition to come to Virginia City, but the letters tell a
     different story.  Mark Twain was never one to abandon any
     undertaking easily.  His unwillingness to surrender in a lost cause
     would cost him more than one fortune in the years to come.  A week
     following the date of the foregoing he was still undecided.


                    To Orion Clemens, in Carson City:

                                        ESMERALDA, Aug. 7, 1862.
MY DEAR BRO,--Barstow wrote that if I wanted the place I could have it.
I wrote him that I guessed I would take it, and asked him how long before
I must come up there.  I have not heard from him since.

Now, I shall leave at mid-night tonight, alone and on foot for a walk of
60 or 70 miles through a totally uninhabited country, and it is barely
possible that mail facilities may prove infernally "slow" during the few
weeks I expect to spend out there.  But do you write Barstow that I have
left here for a week or so, and in case he should want me he must write
me here, or let me know through you.

The Contractors say they will strike the Fresno next week.  After fooling
with those assayers a week, they concluded not to buy "Mr. Flower" at
$50, although they would have given five times the sum for it four months
ago.  So I have made out a deed for one half of all Johnny's ground and
acknowledged and left in judge F. K. Becktel's hands, and if judge Turner
wants it he must write to Becktel and pay him his Notary fee of $1.50.
I would have paid that fee myself, but I want money now as I leave town
tonight.  However, if you think it isn't right, you can pay the fee to
judge Turner yourself.

Hang to your money now.  I may want some when I get back.....

See that you keep out of debt-to anybody.  Bully for B.!  Write him that
I would write him myself, but I am to take a walk tonight and haven't
time.  Tell him to bring his family out with him.  He can rely upon what
I say--and I say the land has lost its ancient desolate appearance; the
rose and the oleander have taken the place of the departed sage-bush; a
rich black loam, garnished with moss, and flowers, and the greenest of
grass, smiles to Heaven from the vanished sand-plains; the "endless
snows" have all disappeared, and in their stead, or to repay us for their
loss, the mountains rear their billowy heads aloft, crowned with a
fadeless and eternal verdure; birds, and fountains, and trees-tropical
bees--everywhere!--and the poet dreamt of Nevada when he wrote:

               "and Sharon waves, in solemn praise,
               Her silent groves of palm."

and today the royal Raven listens in a dreamy stupor to the songs of the
thrush and the nightingale and the canary--and shudders when the gaudy--
plumaged birds of the distant South sweep by him to the orange groves of
Carson.  Tell him he wouldn't recognize the d--d country.  He should
bring his family by all means.

I intended to write home, but I haven't done it.
                                             Yr.  Bro.
                                                       SAM.


     In this letter we realize that he had gone into the wilderness to
     reflect--to get a perspective on the situation.  He was a great
     walker in those days, and sometimes with Higbie, sometimes alone,
     made long excursions.  One such is recorded in Roughing It, the trip
     to Mono Lake.  We have no means of knowing where his seventy-mile
     tour led him now, but it is clear that he still had not reached a
     decision on his return.  Indeed, we gather that he is inclined to
     keep up the battle among the barren Esmeralda hills.


        Last mining letter; written to Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                   ESMERALDA, CAL., Aug. 15, 1862.
MY DEAR SISTER,-I mailed a letter to you and Ma this morning, but since
then I have received yours to Orion and me.  Therefore, I must answer
right away, else I may leave town without doing it at all.  What in
thunder are pilot's wages to me? which question, I beg humbly to observe,
is of a general nature, and not discharged particularly at you.  But it
is singular, isn't it, that such a matter should interest Orion, when it
is of no earthly consequence to me?  I never have once thought of
returning home to go on the river again, and I never expect to do any
more piloting at any price.  My livelihood must be made in this country--
and if I have to wait longer than I expected, let it be so--I have no
fear of failure.  You know I have extravagant hopes, for Orion tells you
everything which he ought to keep to himself--but it's his nature to do
that sort of thing, and I let him alone.  I did think for awhile of going
home this fall--but when I found that that was and had been the cherished
intention and the darling aspiration every year, of these old care-worn
Californians for twelve weary years--I felt a little uncomfortable, but
I stole a march on Disappointment and said I would not go home this fall.
I will spend the winter in San Francisco, if possible.  Do not tell any
one that I had any idea of piloting again at present--for it is all a
mistake.  This country suits me, and--it shall suit me, whether or no....

Dan Twing and I and Dan's dog, "cabin" together--and will continue to do
so for awhile--until I leave for--

The mansion is 10x12, with a "domestic" roof.  Yesterday it rained--the
first shower for five months.  "Domestic," it appears to me, is not
water-proof.  We went outside to keep from getting wet.  Dan makes the
bed when it is his turn to do it--and when it is my turn, I don't, you
know.  The dog is not a good hunter, and he isn't worth shucks to watch--
but he scratches up the dirt floor of the cabin, and catches flies, and
makes himself generally useful in the way of washing dishes.  Dan gets up
first in the morning and makes a fire--and I get up last and sit by it,
while he cooks breakfast.  We have a cold lunch at noon, and I cook
supper--very much against my will.  However, one must have one good meal
a day, and if I were to live on Dan's abominable cookery, I should lose
my appetite, you know.  Dan attended Dr. Chorpenning's funeral yesterday,
and he felt as though he ought to wear a white shirt--and we had a jolly
good time finding such an article.  We turned over all our traps, and he
found one at last--but I shall always think it was suffering from yellow
fever.  He also found an old black coat, greasy, and wrinkled to that
degree that it appeared to have been quilted at some time or other.  In
this gorgeous costume he attended the funeral.  And when he returned, his
own dog drove him away from the cabin, not recognizing him.  This is
true.

You would not like to live in a country where flour was $40 a barrel?
Very well; then, I suppose you would not like to live here, where flour
was $100 a barrel when I first came here.  And shortly afterwards, it
couldn't be had at any price--and for one month the people lived on
barley, beans and beef--and nothing beside.  Oh, no--we didn't luxuriate
then!  Perhaps not.  But we said wise and severe things about the vanity
and wickedness of high living.  We preached our doctrine and practised
it.  Which course I respectfully recommend to the clergymen of St. Louis.

Where is Beack Jolly?--[a pilot]--and Bixby?
                                             Your Brother
                                                            SAM.




IV

LETTERS 1863-64.  "MARK TWAIN."  COMSTOCK JOURNALISM.  ARTEMUS WARD

There is a long hiatus in the correspondence here.  For a space of many
months there is but one letter to continue the story.  Others were
written, of course, but for some reason they have not survived.  It was
about the end of August (1862) when the miner finally abandoned the
struggle, and with his pack on his shoulders walked the one and thirty
miles over the mountains to Virginia City, arriving dusty, lame, and
travel-stained to claim at last his rightful inheritance.  At the
Enterprise office he was welcomed, and in a brief time entered into his
own.  Goodman, the proprietor, himself a man of great ability, had
surrounded himself with a group of gay-hearted fellows, whose fresh, wild
way of writing delighted the Comstock pioneers far more than any sober
presentation of mere news.  Samuel Clemens fitted exactly into this
group.  By the end of the year he had become a leader of it.  When he
asked to be allowed to report the coming Carson legislature, Goodman
consented, realizing that while Clemens knew nothing of parliamentary
procedure, he would at least make the letters picturesque.

It was in the midst of this work that he adopted the name which he was to
make famous throughout the world.  The story of its adoption has been
fully told elsewhere and need not be repeated here.--[See Mark Twain: A
Biography, by the same author; Chapter XL.]

"Mark Twain" was first signed to a Carson letter, February 2, 1863, and
from that time was attached to all of Samuel Clemens's work.  The letters
had already been widely copied, and the name now which gave them
personality quickly obtained vogue.  It was attached to himself as well
as to the letters; heretofore he had been called Sam or Clemens, now he
became almost universally Mark Twain and Mark.

This early period of Mark Twain's journalism is full of delicious
history, but we are permitted here to retell only such of it as will
supply connection to the infrequent letters.  He wrote home briefly in
February, but the letter contained nothing worth preserving.  Then two
months later he gives us at least a hint of his employment.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                             VIRGINIA, April 11, 1863.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--It is very late at night, and I am writing
in my room, which is not quite as large or as nice as the one I had at
home.  My board, washing and lodging cost me seventy-five dollars a
month.

I have just received your letter, Ma, from Carson--the one in which you
doubt my veracity about the statements I made in a letter to you.  That's
right.  I don't recollect what the statements were, but I suppose they
were mining statistics.  I have just finished writing up my report for
the morning paper, and giving the Unreliable a column of advice about how
to conduct himself in church, and now I will tell you a few more lies,
while my hand is in.  For instance, some of the boys made me a present of
fifty feet in the East India G. and S. M.  Company ten days ago.  I was
offered ninety-five dollars a foot for it, yesterday, in gold.  I refused
it--not because I think the claim is worth a cent for I don't but because
I had a curiosity to see how high it would go, before people find out how
worthless it is.  Besides, what if one mining claim does fool me?  I have
got plenty more.  I am not in a particular hurry to get rich.  I suppose
I couldn't well help getting rich here some time or other, whether I
wanted to or not.  You folks do not believe in Nevada, and I am glad you
don't.  Just keep on thinking so.

I was at the Gould and Curry mine, the other day, and they had two or
three tons of choice rock piled up, which was valued at $20,000 a ton.
I gathered up a hat-full of chunks, on account of their beauty as
specimens--they don't let everybody supply themselves so liberally.  I
send Mr. Moffett a little specimen of it for his cabinet.  If you don't
know what the white stuff on it is, I must inform you that it is purer
silver than the minted coin.  There is about as much gold in it as there
is silver, but it is not visible.  I will explain to you some day how to
detect it.

Pamela, you wouldn't do for a local reporter--because you don't
appreciate the interest that attaches to names.  An item is of no use
unless it speaks of some person, and not then, unless that person's name
is distinctly mentioned.  The most interesting letter one can write, to
an absent friend, is one that treats of persons he has been acquainted
with rather than the public events of the day.  Now you speak of a young
lady who wrote to Hollie Benson that she had seen me; and you didn't
mention her name.  It was just a mere chance that I ever guessed who she
was--but I did, finally, though I don't remember her name, now.  I was
introduced to her in San Francisco by Hon. A. B. Paul, and saw her
afterwards in Gold Hill.  They were a very pleasant lot of girls--she and
her sisters.

P. S.  I have just heard five pistol shots down street--as such things
are in my line, I will go and see about it.

P. S.  No 2--5 A.M.--The pistol did its work well--one man--a Jackson
County Missourian, shot two of my friends, (police officers,) through the
heart--both died within three minutes.  Murderer's name is John Campbell.

     The "Unreliable" of this letter was a rival reporter on whom Mark
     Twain had conferred this name during the legislative session.  His
     real name was Rice, and he had undertaken to criticize Clemens's
     reports.  The brisk reply that Rice's letters concealed with a show
     of parliamentary knowledge a "festering mass of misstatements the
     author of whom should be properly termed the 'Unreliable," fixed
     that name upon him for life.  This burlesque warfare delighted the
     frontier and it did not interfere with friendship.  Clemens and Rice
     were constant associates, though continually firing squibs at each
     other in their respective papers--a form of personal journalism much
     in vogue on the Comstock.

     In the next letter we find these two journalistic "blades" enjoying
     themselves together in the coast metropolis.  This letter is labeled
     "No. 2," meaning, probably, the second from San Francisco, but No. 1
     has disappeared, and even No, 2 is incomplete.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

No. 2--($20.00 Enclosed)
                                        LICK HOUSE, S. F., June 1, '63.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--The Unreliable and myself are still here,
and still enjoying ourselves.  I suppose I know at least a thousand
people here--a, great many of them citizens of San Francisco, but the
majority belonging in Washoe--and when I go down Montgomery street,
shaking hands with Tom, Dick and Harry, it is just like being in Main
street in Hannibal and meeting the old familiar faces.  I do hate to go
back to Washoe.  We fag ourselves completely out every day, and go to
sleep without rocking, every night.  We dine out and we lunch out, and we
eat, drink and are happy--as it were.  After breakfast, I don't often see
the hotel again until midnight--or after.  I am going to the Dickens
mighty fast.  I know a regular village of families here in the house, but
I never have time to call on them.  Thunder! we'll know a little more
about this town, before we leave, than some of the people who live in it.
We take trips across the Bay to Oakland, and down to San Leandro, and
Alameda, and those places; and we go out to the Willows, and Hayes Park,
and Fort Point, and up to Benicia; and yesterday we were invited out on a
yachting excursion, and had a sail in the fastest yacht on the Pacific
Coast.  Rice says: "Oh, no--we are not having any fun, Mark--Oh, no, I
reckon not--it's somebody else--it's probably the 'gentleman in the
wagon'!" (popular slang phrase.)  When I invite Rice to the Lick House to
dinner, the proprietors send us champagne and claret, and then we do put
on the most disgusting airs.  Rice says our calibre is too light--we
can't stand it to be noticed!

I rode down with a gentleman to the Ocean House, the other day, to see
the sea horses, and also to listen to the roar of the surf, and watch the
ships drifting about, here, and there, and far away at sea.  When I stood
on the beach and let the surf wet my feet, I recollected doing the same
thing on the shores of the Atlantic--and then I had a proper appreciation
of the vastness of this country--for I had traveled from ocean to ocean
across it.
                         (Remainder missing.)


     Not far from Virginia City there are some warm springs that
     constantly send up jets of steam through fissures in the
     mountainside.  The place was a health resort, and Clemens, always
     subject to bronchial colds, now and again retired there for a cure.

     A letter written in the late summer--a gay, youthful document--
     belongs to one of these periods of convalescence.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

No. 12--$20 enclosed.
                              STEAMBOAT SPRINGS, August 19, '63.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--Ma, you have given my vanity a deadly thrust.
Behold, I am prone to boast of having the widest reputation, as a local
editor, of any man on the Pacific coast, and you gravely come forward and
tell me "if I work hard and attend closely to my business, I may aspire
to a place on a big San Francisco daily, some day."  There's a comment on
human vanity for you!  Why, blast it, I was under the impression that I
could get such a situation as that any time I asked for it.  But I don't
want it.  No paper in the United States can afford to pay me what my
place on the "Enterprise" is worth.  If I were not naturally a lazy,
idle, good-for-nothing vagabond, I could make it pay me $20,000 a year.
But I don't suppose I shall ever be any account.  I lead an easy life,
though, and I don't care a cent whether school keeps or not.  Everybody
knows me, and I fare like a prince wherever I go, be it on this side of
the mountains or the other.  And I am proud to say I am the most
conceited ass in the Territory.

You think that picture looks old?  Well, I can't help it--in reality I am
not as old as I was when I was eighteen.

I took a desperate cold more than a week ago, and I seduced Wilson (a
Missouri boy, reporter of the Daily Union,) from his labors, and we went
over to Lake Bigler.  But I failed to cure my cold.  I found the "Lake
House" crowded with the wealth and fashion of Virginia, and I could not
resist the temptation to take a hand in all the fun going.  Those
Virginians--men and women both--are a stirring set, and I found if I went
with them on all their eternal excursions, I should bring the consumption
home with me--so I left, day before yesterday, and came back into the
Territory again.  A lot of them had purchased a site for a town on the
Lake shore, and they gave me a lot.  When you come out, I'll build you a
house on it.  The Lake seems more supernaturally beautiful now, than
ever.  It is the masterpiece of the Creation.

The hotel here at the Springs is not so much crowded as usual, and I am
having a very comfortable time of it.  The hot, white steam puffs up out
of fissures in the earth like the jets that come from a steam-boat's
'scape pipes, and it makes a boiling, surging noise like a steam-boat,
too-hence the name.  We put eggs in a handkerchief and dip them in the
springs--they "soft boil" in 2 Minutes, and boil as hard as a rock in
4 minutes.  These fissures extend more than a quarter of a mile, and the
long line of steam columns looks very pretty.  A large bath house is
built over one of the springs, and we go in it and steam ourselves as
long as we can stand it, and then come out and take a cold shower bath.
You get baths, board and lodging, all for $25 a week--cheaper than living
in Virginia without baths.....
                                   Yrs aft
                                             MARK.


     It was now the autumn of 1863.  Mark Twain was twenty-eight years
     old.  On the Coast he had established a reputation as a gaily
     original newspaper writer.  Thus far, however, he had absolutely no
     literary standing, nor is there any evidence that he had literary
     ambitions; his work was unformed, uncultivated--all of which seems
     strange, now, when we realize that somewhere behind lay the
     substance of immortality.  Rudyard Kipling at twenty-eight had done
     his greatest work.

     Even Joseph Goodman, who had a fine literary perception and a deep
     knowledge of men, intimately associated with Mark Twain as he was,
     received at this time no hint of his greater powers.  Another man on
     the staff of the Enterprise, William Wright, who called himself "Dan
     de Quille," a graceful humorist, gave far more promise, Goodman
     thought, of future distinction.

     It was Artemus Ward who first suspected the value of Mark Twain's
     gifts, and urged him to some more important use of them.  Artemus in
     the course of a transcontinental lecture tour, stopped in Virginia
     City, and naturally found congenial society on the Enterprise staff.
     He had intended remaining but a few days, but lingered three weeks,
     a period of continuous celebration, closing only with the holiday
     season.  During one night of final festivities, Ward slipped away
     and gave a performance on his own account.  His letter to Mark
     Twain, from Austin, Nevada, written a day or two later, is most
     characteristic.


                   Artemus Ward's letter to Mark Twain:

                                             AUSTIN, Jan. 1, '64.
MY DEAREST LOVE,--I arrived here yesterday a.m. at 2 o'clock.  It is a
wild, untamable place, full of lionhearted boys.  I speak tonight.  See
small bills.

Why did you not go with me and save me that night?--I mean the night I
left you after that dinner party.  I went and got drunker, beating, I may
say, Alexander the Great, in his most drinkinist days, and I blackened my
face at the Melodeon, and made a gibbering, idiotic speech.  God-dam it!
I suppose the Union will have it.  But let it go.  I shall always
remember Virginia as a bright spot in my existence, as all others must or
rather cannot be, as it were.

Love to Jo. Goodman and Dan.  I shall write soon, a powerfully convincing
note to my friends of "The Mercury."  Your notice, by the way, did much
good here, as it doubtlessly will elsewhere.  The miscreants of the Union
will be batted in the snout if they ever dare pollute this rapidly rising
city with their loathsome presence.

Some of the finest intellects in the world have been blunted by liquor.

Do not, sir--do not flatter yourself that you are the only chastely-
humorous writer onto the Pacific slopes.

Good-bye, old boy--and God bless you!  The matter of which I spoke to you
so earnestly shall be just as earnestly attended to--and again with very
many warm regards for Jo. and Dan., and regards to many of the good
friends we met.
                         I am Faithfully, gratefully yours,
                                                  ARTEMUS WARD.


     The Union which Ward mentions was the rival Virginia.  City paper;
     the Mercury was the New York Sunday Mercury, to which he had urged
     Mark Twain to contribute.  Ward wrote a second letter, after a siege
     of illness at Salt Lake City.  He was a frail creature, and three
     years later, in London, died of consumption.  His genius and
     encouragement undoubtedly exerted an influence upon Mark Twain.
     Ward's second letter here follows.


                      Artemus Ward to S. L. Clemens:

                                        SALT LAKE CITY, Jan. 21, '64.
MY DEAR MARK,--I have been dangerously ill for the past two weeks here,
of congestive fever.  Very grave fears were for a time entertained of my
recovery, but happily the malady is gone, though leaving me very, very
weak.  I hope to be able to resume my journey in a week or so.  I think
I shall speak in the Theater here, which is one of the finest
establishments of the kind in America.

The Saints have been wonderfully kind to me, I could not have been better
or more tenderly nursed at home--God bless them!

I am still exceedingly weak--can't write any more.  Love to Jo and Dan,
and all the rest.  Write me at St. Louis.
                                        Always yours,
                                                  ARTEMUS WARD.


     If one could only have Mark Twain's letters in reply to these!  but
     they have vanished and are probably long since dust.  A letter which
     he wrote to his mother assures us that he undertook to follow Ward's
     advice.  He was not ready, however, for serious literary effort.
     The article, sent to the Mercury, was distinctly of the Comstock
     variety; it was accepted, but it apparently made no impression, and
     he did not follow it up.

     For one thing, he was just then too busy reporting the Legislature
     at Carson City and responding to social demands.  From having been a
     scarcely considered unit during the early days of his arrival in
     Carson Mark Twain had attained a high degree of importance in the
     little Nevada capital.  In the Legislature he was a power; as
     correspondent for the Enterprise he was feared and respected as well
     as admired.  His humor, his satire, and his fearlessness were
     dreaded weapons.

     Also, he was of extraordinary popularity.  Orion's wife, with her
     little daughter, Jennie, had come out from the States.  The Governor
     of Nevada had no household in Carson City, and was generally absent.
     Orion Clemens reigned in his stead, and indeed was usually addressed
     as "Governor" Clemens.  His home became the social center of the
     capital, and his brilliant brother its chief ornament.  From the
     roughest of miners of a year before he had become, once more, almost
     a dandy in dress, and no occasion was complete without him.  When
     the two Houses of the Legislature assembled, in January, 1864, a
     burlesque Third House was organized and proposed to hold a session,
     as a church benefit.  After very brief consideration it was decided
     to select Mark Twain to preside at this Third House assembly under
     the title of "Governor," and a letter of invitation was addressed to
     him.  His reply to it follows:


                 To S. Pixley and G. A. Sears, Trustees:

                                        CARSON CITY, January 23, 1864.
GENTLEMEN, Certainly.  If the public can find anything in a grave state
paper worth paying a dollar for, I am willing that they should pay that
amount, or any other; and although I am not a very dusty Christian
myself, I take an absorbing interest in religious affairs, and would
willingly inflict my annual message upon the Church itself if it might
derive benefit thereby.  You can charge what you please; I promise the
public no amusement, but I do promise a reasonable amount of instruction.
I am responsible to the Third House only, and I hope to be permitted to
make it exceedingly warm for that body, without caring whether the
sympathies of the public and the Church be enlisted in their favor, and
against myself, or not.
                                   Respectfully,
                                             MARK TWAIN.


     There is a quality in this letter more suggestive of the later Mark
     Twain than anything that has preceded it.  His Third House address,
     unfortunately, has not been preserved, but those who heard it
     regarded it as a classic.  It probably abounded in humor of the
     frontier sort-unsparing ridicule of the Governor, the Legislature,
     and individual citizens.  It was all taken in good part, of course,
     and as a recognition of his success he received a gold watch, with
     the case properly inscribed to "The Governor of the Third House."
     This was really his first public appearance in a field in which he
     was destined to achieve very great fame.




V

LETTERS 1864-66.  SAN FRANCISCO AND HAWAII

     Life on the Comstock came to an end for Mark Twain in May, 1864.  It
     was the time of The Flour Sack Sanitary Fund, the story of which he
     has told in Roughing It.  He does not, however, refer to the
     troubles which this special fund brought upon himself.  Coming into
     the Enterprise office one night, after a gay day of "Fund"
     celebration, Clemens wrote, for next day's paper, a paragraph
     intended to be merely playful, but which proved highly offending to
     certain ladies concerned with the flour-sack enterprise.  No files
     of the paper exist today, so we cannot judge of the quality of humor
     that stirred up trouble.

     The trouble, however, was genuine enough, Virginia's rival paper
     seized upon the chance to humiliate its enemy, and presently words
     were passed back and forth until nothing was left to write but a
     challenge.  The story of this duel, which did not come off, has been
     quite fully told elsewhere, both by Mark Twain and the present
     writer; but the following letter--a revelation of his inner feelings
     in the matter of his offense--has never before been published.


                     To Mrs. Cutler, in Carson City:

                                        VIRGINIA, May 23rd, 1864.
MRS. W. K.  CUTLER:

MADAM,--I address a lady in every sense of the term.  Mrs. Clemens has
informed me of everything that has occurred in Carson in connection with
that unfortunate item of mine about the Sanitary Funds accruing from the
ball, and from what I can understand, you are almost the only lady in
your city who has understood the circumstances under which my fault was
committed, or who has shown any disposition to be lenient with me.  Had
the note of the ladies been properly worded, I would have published an
ample apology instantly--and possibly I might even have done so anyhow,
had that note arrived at any other time--but it came at a moment when I
was in the midst of what ought to have been a deadly quarrel with the
publishers of the Union, and I could not come out and make public
apologies to any one at such a time.  It is bad policy to do it even now
(as challenges have already passed between myself and a proprietor of the
Union, and the matter is still in abeyance,) but I suppose I had better
say a word or two to show the ladies that I did not wilfully and
maliciously do them a wrong.

But my chief object, Mrs. Cutler, in writing you this note (and you will
pardon the liberty I have taken,) was to thank you very kindly and
sincerely for the consideration you have shown me in this matter, and for
your continued friendship for Mollie while others are disposed to
withdraw theirs on account of a fault for which I alone am responsible.
                              Very truly yours,
                                             SAM. L. CLEMENS.


     The matter did not end with the failure of the duel.  A very strict
     law had just been passed, making it a felony even to send or accept
     a challenge.  Clemens, on the whole, rather tired of Virginia City
     and Carson, thought it a good time to go across the mountains to San
     Francisco.  With Steve Gillis, a printer, of whom he was very fond--
     an inveterate joker, who had been more than half responsible for the
     proposed duel, and was to have served as his second--he took the
     stage one morning, and in due time was in the California metropolis,
     at work on the Morning Call.

     Clemens had been several times in San Francisco, and loved the
     place.  We have no letter of that summer, the first being dated
     several months after his arrival.  He was still working on the Call
     when it was written, and contributing literary articles to the
     Californian, of which Bret Harte, unknown to fame, was editor.
     Harte had his office just above the rooms of the Call, and he and
     Clemens were good friends.  San Francisco had a real literary group
     that, for a time at least, centered around the offices of the Golden
     Era.  In a letter that follows Clemens would seem to have scorned
     this publication, but he was a frequent contributor to it at one
     period.  Joaquin Miller was of this band of literary pioneers; also
     Prentice Mulford, Charles Warren Stoddard, Fitzhugh Ludlow, and
     Orpheus C.  Kerr.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                                  Sept. 25, 1864.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--You can see by my picture that this superb
climate agrees with me.  And it ought, after living where I was never out
of sight of snow peaks twenty-four hours during three years.  Here we
have neither snow nor cold weather; fires are never lighted, and yet
summer clothes are never worn--you wear spring clothing the year round.

Steve Gillis, who has been my comrade for two years, and who came down
here with me, is to be married, in a week or two, to a very pretty girl
worth $130,000 in her own right--and then I shall be alone again, until
they build a house, which they will do shortly.

We have been here only four months, yet we have changed our lodgings five
times, and our hotel twice.  We are very comfortably fixed where we are,
now, and have no fault to find with the rooms or with the people--we are
the only lodgers in a well-to-do private family, with one grown daughter
and a piano in the parlor adjoining our room.  But I need a change, and
must move again.  I have taken rooms further down the street.  I shall
stay in this little quiet street, because it is full of gardens and
shrubbery, and there are none but dwelling houses in it.

I am taking life easy, now, and I mean to keep it up for awhile.  I don't
work at night any more.  I told the "Call" folks to pay me $25 a week and
let me work only in daylight.  So I get up at ten every morning, and quit
work at five or six in the afternoon.  You ask if I work for greenbacks?
Hardly.  What do you suppose I could do with greenbacks here?

I have engaged to write for the new literary paper--the "Californian"--
same pay I used to receive on the "Golden Era"--one article a week, fifty
dollars a month.  I quit the "Era," long ago.  It wasn't high-toned
enough.  The "Californian" circulates among the highest class of the
community, and is the best weekly literary paper in the United States
--and I suppose I ought to know.

I work as I always did--by fits and starts.  I wrote two articles last
night for the Californian, so that lets me out for two weeks.  That would
be about seventy-five dollars, in greenbacks, wouldn't it?

Been down to San Jose (generally pronounced Sannozay--emphasis on last
syllable)--today fifty miles from here, by railroad.  Town of 6,000
inhabitants, buried in flowers and shrubbery.  The climate is finer than
ours here, because it is not so close to the ocean, and is protected from
the winds by the coast range.

I had an invitation today, to go down on an excursion to San Luis Obispo,
and from thence to the city of Mexico, to be gone six or eight weeks, or
possibly longer, but I could not accept, on account of my contract to act
as chief mourner or groomsman at Steve's wedding.

I have triumphed.  They refused me and other reporters some information
at a branch of the Coroner's office--Massey's undertaker establishment,
a few weeks ago.  I published the wickedest article on them I ever wrote
in my life, and you can rest assured we got all the information we wanted
after that.

By the new census, San Francisco has a population of 130,000.  They don't
count the hordes of Chinamen.
                                   Yrs aftly,
                                             SAM.


I send a picture for Annie, and one for Aunt Ella--that is, if she will
have it.


     Relations with the Call ceased before the end of the year, though
     not in the manner described in Roughing It.  Mark Twain loved to
     make fiction of his mishaps, and to show himself always in a bad
     light.  As a matter of fact, he left the Call with great
     willingness, and began immediately contributing a daily letter to
     the Enterprise, which brought him a satisfactory financial return.

     In the biographical sketch with which this volume opens, and more
     extendedly elsewhere, has been told the story of the trouble growing
     out of the Enterprise letters, and of Mark Twain's sojourn with
     James Gillis in the Tuolumne Hills.  Also how, in the frowsy hotel
     at Angel's Camp, he heard the frog anecdote that would become the
     corner-stone of his fame.  There are no letters of this period--only
     some note-book entries.  It is probable that he did not write home,
     believing, no doubt, that he had very little to say.

     For more than a year there is not a line that has survived.  Yet it
     had been an important year; the jumping frog story, published in New
     York, had been reprinted East and West, and laughed over in at least
     a million homes.  Fame had not come to him, but it was on the way.

     Yet his outlook seems not to have been a hopeful one.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                        SAN FRANCISCO, Jan. 20, 1866.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I do not know what to write; my life is so
uneventful.  I wish I was back there piloting up and down the river
again.  Verily, all is vanity and little worth--save piloting.

To think that, after writing many an article a man might be excused for
thinking tolerably good, those New York people should single out a
villainous backwoods sketch to compliment me on!  "Jim Smiley and His
Jumping Frog"--a squib which would never have been written but to please
Artemus Ward, and then it reached New York too late to appear in his
book.

But no matter.  His book was a wretchedly poor one, generally speaking,
and it could be no credit to either of us to appear between its covers.

This paragraph is from the New York correspondence of the San Francisco
Alta:

(Clipping pasted in.)

     "Mark Twain's story in the Saturday Press of November 18th, called
     'Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog,' has set all New York in a roar,
     and he may be said to have made his mark.  I have been asked fifty
     times about it and its author, and the papers are copying it far and
     near.  It is voted the best thing of the day.  Cannot the
     Californian afford to keep Mark all to itself?  It should not let
     him scintillate so widely without first being filtered through the
     California press."

The New York publishing house of Carleton & Co.  gave the sketch to the
Saturday Press when they found it was too late for the book.

Though I am generally placed at the head of my breed of scribblers in
this part of the country, the place properly belongs to Bret Harte,
I think, though he denies it, along with the rest.  He wants me to club a
lot of old sketches together with a lot of his, and publish a book.
I wouldn't do it, only he agrees to take all the trouble.  But I want to
know whether we are going to make anything out of it, first.  However, he
has written to a New York publisher, and if we are offered a bargain that
will pay for a month's labor we will go to work and prepare the volume
for the press.
                                   Yours affy,
                                             SAM.


     Bret Harte and Clemens had by this time quit the Californian,
     expecting to contribute to Eastern periodicals.  Clemens, however,
     was not yet through with Coast journalism.  There was much interest
     just at this time in the Sandwich Islands, and he was selected by
     the foremost Sacramento paper to spy out the islands and report
     aspects and conditions there.  His letters home were still
     infrequent, but this was something worth writing.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                   SAN FRANCISCO, March 5th, 1866.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I start to do Sandwich Islands day after
tomorrow, (I suppose Annie is geographer enough by this time to find them
on the map), in the steamer "Ajax."  We shall arrive there in about
twelve days.  My friends seem determined that I shall not lack
acquaintances, for I only decided today to go, and they have already sent
me letters of introduction to everybody down there worth knowing.  I am
to remain there a month and ransack the islands, the great cataracts and
the volcanoes completely, and write twenty or thirty letters to the
Sacramento Union--for which they pay me as much money as I would get if I
staid at home.

If I come back here I expect to start straight across the continent by
way of the Columbia river, the Pend d'Oreille Lakes, through Montana and
down the Missouri river,--only 200 miles of land travel from San
Francisco to New Orleans.
                              Goodbye for the present.
                                        Yours,
                                                  SAM.


     His home letters from the islands are numerous enough; everything
     there being so new and so delightful that he found joy in telling of
     it; also, he was still young enough to air his triumphs a little,
     especially when he has dined with the Grand Chamberlain and is going
     to visit the King!

     The languorous life of the islands exactly suited Mask Twain.  All
     his life he remembered them--always planning to return, some day, to
     stay there until he died.  In one of his note-books he wrote: "Went
     with Mr. Dam to his cool, vine-shaded home; no care-worn or eager,
     anxious faces in this land of happy contentment.  God, what a
     contrast with California and the Washoe!"

     And again:

     "Oh, Islands there are on the face of the deep
     Where the leaves never fade and the skies never weep."

     The letters tell the story of his sojourn, which stretched itself
     into nearly five months.

           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                              HONOLULU, SANDWICH ISLANDS, April 3, 1866.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I have been here two or three weeks, and like
the beautiful tropical climate better and better.  I have ridden on
horseback all over this island (Oahu) in the meantime, and have visited
all the ancient battle-fields and other places of interest.  I have got a
lot of human bones which I took from one of these battle-fields--I guess
I will bring you some of them.  I went with the American Minister and
took dinner this evening with the King's Grand Chamberlain, who is
related to the royal family, and although darker than a mulatto, he has
an excellent English education and in manners is an accomplished
gentleman.  The dinner was as ceremonious as any I ever attended in
California--five regular courses, and five kinds of wine and one of
brandy.  He is to call for me in the morning with his carriage, and we
will visit the King at the palace--both are good Masons--the King is a
Royal Arch Mason.  After dinner tonight they called in the "singing
girls," and we had some beautiful music; sung in the native tongue.

The steamer I came here in sails tomorrow, and as soon as she is gone I
shall sail for the other islands of the group and visit the great
volcano--the grand wonder of the world.  Be gone two months.
                                        Yrs.
                                                  SAM.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                   WAILUKU SUGAR PLANTATION,
                                   ISLAND OF MAUI, H. I., May 4,1866.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--11 O'clock at night.--This is the
infernalist darkest country, when the moon don't shine; I stumbled and
fell over my horse's lariat a minute ago and hurt my leg, so I must stay
here tonight.

I got the same leg hurt last week; I said I hadn't got hold of a spirited
horse since I had been on the island, and one of the proprietors loaned
me a big vicious colt; he was altogether too spirited; I went to tighten
the cinch before mounting him, when he let out with his left leg (?) and
kicked me across a ten-acre lot.  A native rubbed and doctored me so well
that I was able to stand on my feet in half an hour.  It was then half
after four and I had an appointment to go seven miles and get a girl and
take her to a card party at five.

I have been clattering around among the plantations for three weeks, now,
and next week I am going to visit the extinct crater of Mount Haleakala--
the largest in the world; it is ten miles to the foot of the mountain; it
rises 10,000 feet above the valley; the crater is 29 miles in
circumference and 1,000 feet deep.  Seen from the summit, the city of St.
Louis would look like a picture in the bottom of it.

As soon as I get back from Haleakala (pronounced Hally-ekka-lah) I will
sail for Honolulu again and thence to the Island of Hawaii (pronounced
Hah-wy-ye,) to see the greatest active volcano in the world--that of
Kilauea (pronounced Kee-low-way-ah)--and from thence back to San
Francisco--and then, doubtless, to the States.  I have been on this trip
two months, and it will probably be two more before I get back to
California.
                                   Yrs affy
                                             SAM.


     He was having a glorious time--one of the most happy, carefree
     adventures of his career.  No form of travel or undertaking could
     discountenance Mark Twain at thirty.


                  To Mrs. Orion Clemens, in Carson City:

                                             HONOLULU, May 22, 1866.
MY DEAR SISTER,--I have just got back from a sea voyage--from the
beautiful island of Maui, I have spent five weeks there, riding backwards
and forwards among the sugar plantations--looking up the splendid scenery
and visiting the lofty crater of Haleakala.  It has been a perfect
jubilee to me in the way of pleasure.

I have not written a single line, and have not once thought of business,
or care or human toil or trouble or sorrow or weariness.  Few such months
come in a lifetime.

I set sail again, a week hence, for the island of Hawaii, to see the
great active volcano of Kilauea.  I shall not get back here for four or
five weeks, and shall not reach San Francisco before the latter part of
July.

So it is no use to wait for me to go home.  Go on yourselves.

If I were in the east now, I could stop the publication of a piratical
book which has stolen some of my sketches.

It is late-good-bye, Mollie,
                                   Yr Bro
                                             SAM.


          To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St.  Louis:

                              HONOLULU, SANDWICH ISLANDS, June 21,1866.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I have just got back from a hard trip through
the Island of Hawaii, begun on the 26th of May and finished on the 18th
of June--only six or seven days at sea--all the balance horse-back, and
the hardest mountain road in the world.  I staid at the volcano about a
week and witnessed the greatest eruption that has occurred for years.
I lived well there.  They charge $4 a day for board, and a dollar or two
extra for guides and horses.  I had a pretty good time.  They didn't
charge me anything.  I have got back sick--went to bed as soon as I
arrived here--shall not be strong again for several days yet.  I rushed
too fast.  I ought to have taken five or six weeks on that trip.

A week hence I start for the Island of Kauai, to be gone three weeks and
then I go back to California.

The Crown Princess is dead and thousands of natives cry and wail and
dance and dance for the dead, around the King's Palace all night and
every night.  They will keep it up for a month and then she will be
buried.

Hon. Anson Burlingame, U. S. Minister to China, and Gen. Van Valkenburgh,
Minister to Japan, with their families and suites, have just arrived here
en route.  They were going to do me the honor to call on me this morning,
and that accounts for my being out of bed now.  You know what condition
my room is always in when you are not around--so I climbed out of bed and
dressed and shaved pretty quick and went up to the residence of the
American Minister and called on them.  Mr. Burlingame told me a good deal
about Hon. Jere Clemens and that Virginia Clemens who was wounded in a
duel.  He was in Congress years with both of them.  Mr. B. sent for his
son, to introduce him--said he could tell that frog story of mine as well
as anybody.  I told him I was glad to hear it for I never tried to tell
it myself without making a botch of it.  At his request I have loaned Mr.
Burlingame pretty much everything I ever wrote.  I guess he will be an
almighty wise man by the time he wades through that lot.

If the New United States Minister to the Sandwich Islands (Hon. Edwin
McCook,) were only here now, so that I could get his views on this new
condition of Sandwich Island politics, I would sail for California at
once.  But he will not arrive for two weeks yet and so I am going to
spend that interval on the island of Kauai.

I stopped three days with Hon. Mr. Cony, Deputy Marshal of the Kingdom,
at Hilo, Hawaii, last week and by a funny circumstance he knew everybody
that I ever knew in Hannibal and Palmyra.  We used to sit up all night
talking and then sleep all day.  He lives like a Prince.  Confound that
Island!  I had a streak of fat and a streak of lean all over it--got lost
several times and had to sleep in huts with the natives and live like a
dog.

Of course I couldn't speak fifty words of the language.  Take it
altogether, though, it was a mighty hard trip.
                                        Yours Affect.
                                                       SAM.


     Burlingame and Van Valkenburgh were on their way to their posts,
     and their coming to the islands just at this time proved a most
     important circumstance to Mark Twain.  We shall come to this
     presently, in a summary of the newspaper letters written to the
     Union.  June 27th he wrote to his mother and sister a letter, only a
     fragment of which survives, in which he tells of the arrival in
     Honolulu of the survivors of the ship Hornet, burned on the line,
     and of his securing the first news report of the lost vessel.


  Part of a letter to Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                             HONOLULU, June 27, 1866 .
.  .  .  with a gill of water a day to each man.  I got the whole story
from the third mate and two of the sailors.  If my account gets to the
Sacramento Union first, it will be published first all over the United
States, France, England, Russia and Germany--all over the world; I may
say.  You will see it.  Mr. Burlingame went with me all the time, and
helped me question the men--throwing away invitations to dinner with the
princes and foreign dignitaries, and neglecting all sorts of things to
accommodate me.  You know how I appreciate that kind of thing--especially
from such a man, who is acknowledged to have no superior in the
diplomatic circles of the world, and obtained from China concessions in
favor of America which were refused to Sir Frederick Bruce and Envoys of
France and Russia until procured for them by Burlingame himself--which
service was duly acknowledged by those dignitaries.  He hunted me up as
soon as he came here, and has done me a hundred favors since, and says if
I will come to China in the first trip of the great mail steamer next
January and make his house in Pekin my home, he will afford me facilities
that few men can have there for seeing and learning.  He will give me
letters to the chiefs of the great Mail Steamship Company which will be
of service to me in this matter.  I expect to do all this, but I expect
to go to the States first--and from China to the Paris World's Fair.

Don't show this letter.
                                   Yours affly
                                                  SAM.

P. S.  The crown Princess of this Kingdom will be buried tomorrow with
great ceremony--after that I sail in two weeks for California.


     This concludes Mark Twain's personal letters from the islands.
     Of his descriptive news letters there were about twenty, and they
     were regarded by the readers of the Union as distinctly notable.
     Re-reading those old letters to-day it is not altogether easy to
     understand why.  They were set in fine nonpareil type, for one
     thing, which present-day eyes simply refuse at any price, and the
     reward, by present-day standards, is not especially tempting.

     The letters began in the Union with the issue of April the 16th,
     1866.  The first--of date March 18th--tells of the writer's arrival
     at Honolulu.  The humor in it is not always of a high order; it
     would hardly pass for humor today at all.  That the same man who
     wrote the Hawaiian letters in 1866 (he was then over thirty years
     old) could, two years later, have written that marvelous book, the
     Innocents Abroad, is a phenomenon in literary development.

     The Hawaiian letters, however, do show the transition stage between
     the rough elemental humor of the Comstock and the refined and subtle
     style which flowered in the Innocents Abroad.  Certainly Mark
     Twain's genius was finding itself, and his association with the
     refined and cultured personality of Anson Burlingame undoubtedly
     aided in that discovery.  Burlingame pointed out his faults to him,
     and directed him to a better way.  No more than that was needed at
     such a time to bring about a transformation.

     The Sandwich Islands letters, however, must have been precisely
     adapted to their audience--a little more refined than the log
     Comstock, a little less subtle than the Atlantic public--and they
     added materially to his Coast prestige.  But let us consider a
     sample extract from the first Sandwich Islands letter:


Our little band of passengers were as well and thoughtfully cared for by
the friends they left weeping upon the wharf, as ever were any similar
body of pilgrims.  The traveling outfit conferred upon me began with a
naval uniform, continued with a case of wine, a small assortment of
medicinal liquors and brandy, several boxes of cigars, a bunch of
matches, a fine-toothed comb, and a cake of soap, and ended with a pair
of socks.  (N. B.  I gave the soap to Brown, who bit into it, and then.
shook his head and said that, as a general thing, he liked to prospect
curious, foreign dishes, and find out what they were made of, but he
couldn't go that, and threw it overboard.)

     It is nearly impossible to imagine humor in this extract, yet it is
     a fair sample of the entire letter.

     He improves in his next, at least, in description, and gives us a
     picture of the crater.  In this letter, also, he writes well and
     seriously, in a prophetic strain, of the great trade that is to be
     established between San Francisco and Hawaii, and argues for a line
     of steamers between the ports, in order that the islands might be
     populated by Americans, by which course European trade in that
     direction could be superseded.  But the humor in this letter, such
     as it is, would scarcely provoke a smile to-day.

     As the letters continue, he still urges the fostering of the island
     trade by the United States, finds himself impressed by the work of
     the missionaries, who have converted cannibals to Christians, and
     gives picturesque bits of the life and scenery.

     Hawaii was then dominated chiefly by French and English; though the
     American interests were by no means small.

     Extract from letter No. 4:


Cap. Fitch said "There's the king.  That's him in the buggy.  I know him
as far as I can see him."

I had never seen a king, and I naturally took out a note-book and put him
down: "Tall, slender, dark, full-bearded; green frock-coat, with lapels
and collar bordered with gold band an inch wide; plug hat, broad gold
band around it; royal costume looks too much like livery; this man is not
as fleshy as I thought he was."

I had just got these notes when Cap. Fitch discovered that he'd got hold
of the wrong king, or rather, that he'd got hold of the king's driver,
or a carriage driver of one of the nobility.  The king wasn't present at
all.  It was a great disappointment to me.  I heard afterwards that the
comfortable, easy-going king, Kamehameha V., had been seen sitting on a
barrel on the wharf, the day before, fishing.  But there was no
consolation in that.  That did not restore me my lost king.


     This has something of the flavor of the man we were to know later;
     the quaint, gentle resignation to disappointment which is one of the
     finest touches in his humor.

     Further on he says: "I had not shaved since I left San Francisco.
     As soon as I got ashore I hunted up a striped pole, and shortly
     found one.  I always had a yearning to be a king.  This may never
     be, I suppose, but, at any rate, it will always be a satisfaction to
     me to know that, if I am not a king, I am the next thing to it.
     I have been shaved by the king's barber."

     Honolulu was a place of cats.  He saw cats of every shade and
     variety.  He says: "I saw cats--tomcats, Mary-Ann cats, bobtailed
     cats, blind cats, one-eyed cats, wall-eyed cats, cross-eyed cats,
     gray cats, black cats, white cats, yellow cats, striped cats,
     spotted cats, tame cats, wild cats, singed cats, individual cats,
     groups of cats, platoons of cats, companies of cats, armies of cats,
     multitudes of cats, millions of cats, and all of them sleek, fat,
     and lazy, and sound asleep."  Which illustrates another
     characteristic of the humor we were to know later--the humor of
     grotesque exaggeration, in which he was always strong.

     He found the islands during his periods of inaction conducive to
     indolence.  "If I were not so fond of looking into the rich mass of
     green leaves," he says, "that swathe the stately tamarind right
     before my door, I would idle less, and write more, I think."

     The Union made good use of his letters.  Sometimes it printed them
     on the front page.  Evidently they were popular from the beginning.
     The Union was a fine, handsome paper--beautiful in its minute
     typography, and in its press-work; more beautiful than most papers
     of to-day, with their machine-set type, their vulgar illustrations,
     and their chain-lightning presses.  A few more extracts:

     "The only cigars here are those trifling, insipid, tasteless,
     flavorless things they call Manilas--ten for twenty-five cents--and
     it would take a thousand of them to be worth half the money.  After
     you have smoked about thirty-five dollars' worth of them in the
     forenoon, you feel nothing but a desperate yearning to go out
     somewhere and take a smoke."

     "Captains and ministers form about half the population.  The third
     fourth is composed of Kanakas and mercantile foreigners and their
     families.  The final fourth is made up of high officers of the
     Hawaiian government, and there are just about enough cats to go
     round."

     In No. 6, April the 2d, he says: "An excursion to Diamond Head, and
     the king's cocoanut grove, was planned to-day, at 4.30 P. M., the
     party to consist of half a dozen gentlemen and three ladies.  They
     all started at the appointed hour except myself.  Somebody remarked
     that it was twenty minutes past five o'clock, and that woke me up.
     It was a fortunate circumstance that Cap. Phillips was there with
     his 'turn-out,' as he calls his top buggy that Cap. Cook brought
     here in 1778, and a horse that was here when Cap. Cook came."

     This bit has something the savor of his subsequent work, but, as a
     rule, the humor compares poorly with that which was to come later.

     In No. 7 he speaks of the natives singing American songs--not always
     to his comfort.  "Marching Through Georgia" was one of their
     favorite airs.  He says: "If it had been all the same to Gen.
     Sherman, I wish he had gone around by the way of the Gulf of Mexico,
     instead of marching through Georgia."

     Letters Nos. 8, 9, and 10 were not of special importance.  In No. 10
     he gives some advice to San Francisco as to the treatment of
     whalers.  He says:

     "If I were going to advise San Francisco as to the best strategy to
     employ in order to secure the whaling trade, I should say, 'Cripple
     your facilities for "pulling" sea captains on any pretence that
     sailors can trump up, and show the whaler a little more
     consideration when he is in port."'

     In No. 11, May 24th, he tells of a trip to the Kalehi Valley, and
     through historic points.  At one place he looked from a precipice
     over which old Kamehameha I. drove the army of Oahu, three-quarters
     of a century before.

     The vegetation and glory of the tropics attracted him.  "In one open
     spot a vine of a species unknown had taken possession of two tall
     dead stumps, and wound around and about them, and swung out from
     their tops, and twined their meeting tendrils together into a
     faultless arch.  Man, with all his art, could not improve upon its
     symmetry."

     He saw Sam Brannan's palace, "The Bungalow," built by one Shillaber
     of San Francisco at a cost of from thirty to forty thousand dollars.
     In its day it had outshone its regal neighbor, the palace of the
     king, but had fallen to decay after passing into Brannan's hands,
     and had become a picturesque Theban ruin by the time of Mark Twain's
     visit.

     In No. 12, June 20th (written May 23d), he tells of the Hawaiian
     Legislature, and of his trip to the island of Maui, where, as he
     says, he never spent so pleasant a month before, or bade any place
     good-by so regretfully.

     In No. 13 he continues the Legislature, and gives this picture of
     Minister Harris: "He is six feet high, bony and rather slender;
     long, ungainly arms; stands so straight he leans back a little; has
     small side whiskers; his head long, up and down; he has no command
     of language or ideas; oratory all show and pretence; a big washing
     and a small hang-out; weak, insipid, and a damn fool in general."

     In No. 14, June 22d, published July 16th, he tells of the death and
     burial ceremonies of the Princess Victoria K. K., and, what was to
     be of more importance to him, of the arrival of Anson Burlingame,
     U. S. Minister to China, and Gen. Van Valkenburgh, U. S. Minister to
     Japan.  They were to stay ten or fourteen days, he said, but an
     effort would be made to have them stay over July 4th.

     Speaking of Burlingame: "Burlingame is a man who could be esteemed,
     respected, and popular anywhere, no matter whether he was among
     Christians or cannibals."  Then, in the same letter, comes the great
     incident.  "A letter arrived here yesterday, giving a meagre account
     of the arrival, on the Island of Hawaii, of nineteen poor, starving
     wretches, who had been buffeting a stormy sea, in an open boat, for
     forty-three days.  Their ship, the Hornet, from New York, with a
     quantity of kerosene on board had taken fire and burned in Lat. 2d.
     north, and Long. 35d. west.  When they had been entirely out of
     provisions for a day or two, and the cravings of hunger become
     insufferable, they yielded to the ship-wrecked mariner's fearful and
     awful alternative, and solemnly drew lots to determine who of their
     number should die, to furnish food for his comrades; and then the
     morning mists lifted, and they saw land.  They are being cared for
     at Sanpahoe (Not yet corroborated)."

     The Hornet disaster was fully told in his letter of June 27th.  The
     survivors were brought to Honolulu, and with the assistance of the
     Burlingame party, Clemens, laid up with saddle boils, was carried on
     a stretcher to the hospital, where, aided by Burlingame, he
     interviewed the shipwrecked men, securing material for the most
     important piece of serious writing he had thus far performed.
     Letter No. 15 to the Union--of date June 25th--occupied the most of
     the first page in the issue of July 19.  It was a detailed account
     of the sufferings of officers and crew, as given by the third
     officer and members of the crew.

     From letter No. 15:

In the postscript of a letter which I wrote two or three days ago, and
sent by the ship "Live Yankee," I gave you the substance of a letter
received here from Hilo, by Walker Allen and Co., informing them that a
boat, containing fifteen men in a helpless and starving condition, had
drifted ashore at Sanpahoe, Island of Hawaii, and that they had belonged
to the clipper ship "Hornet"--Cap. Mitchell, master--had been afloat
since the burning of that vessel, about one hundred miles north of the
equator, on the third of May--forty-three days.

The Third Mate, and ten of the seamen have arrived here, and are now in
the hospital.  Cap. Mitchell, one seaman named Antonio Passene, and two
passengers, Samuel and Henry Ferguson, of New York City, eighteen and
twenty-eight years, are still at Hilo, but are expected here within the
week.  In the Captain's modest epitome of the terrible romance you detect
the fine old hero through it.  It reads like Grant.


     Here follows the whole terrible narrative, which has since been
     published in more substantial form, and has been recognized as
     literature.  It occupied three and a half columns on the front page
     of the Union, and, of course, constituted a great beat for that
     paper--a fact which they appreciated to the extent of one hundred
     dollars the column upon the writer's return from the islands.

     In letters Nos. 14. and 15. he gives further particulars of the
     month of mourning for the princess, and funeral ceremonials.  He
     refers to Burlingame, who was still in the islands.  The remaining
     letters are unimportant.

     The Hawaiian episode in Mark Twain's life was one of those spots
     that seemed to him always filled with sunlight.  From beginning to
     end it had been a long luminous dream; in the next letter, written
     on the homeward-bound ship, becalmed under a cloudless sky, we
     realize the fitting end of the experience.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                        ON BOARD SHIP Smyrniote,
                                        AT SEA, July 30, 1866.
DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I write, now, because I must go hard at work as
soon as I get to San Francisco, and then I shall have no time for other
things--though truth to say I have nothing now to write which will be
calculated to interest you much.  We left the, Sandwich Islands eight or
ten days--or twelve days ago--I don't know which, I have been so hard at
work until today (at least part of each day,) that the time has slipped
away almost unnoticed.  The first few days we came at a whooping gait
being in the latitude of the "North-east trades," but we soon ran out of
them.  We used them as long as they lasted-hundred of miles--and came
dead straight north until exactly abreast of San Francisco precisely
straight west of the city in a bee-line--but a long bee-line, as we were
about two thousand miles at sea-consequently, we are not a hundred yards
nearer San Francisco than you are.  And here we lie becalmed on a glassy
sea--we do not move an inch-we throw banana and orange peel overboard and
it lies still on the water by the vessel's side.  Sometimes the ocean is
as dead level as the Mississippi river, and glitters glassily as if
polished--but usually, of course, no matter how calm the weather is, we
roll and surge over the grand ground-swell.  We amuse ourselves tying
pieces of tin to the ship's log and sinking them to see how far we can
distinguish them under water--86 feet was the deepest we could see a
small piece of tin, but a white plate would show about as far down as the
steeple of Dr. Bullard's church would reach, I guess.  The sea is very
dark and blue here.

Ever since we got becalmed--five days--I have been copying the diary of
one of the young Fergusons (the two boys who starved and suffered, with
thirteen others, in an open boat at sea for forty-three days, lately,
after their ship, the "Hornet," was burned on the equator.)  Both these
boys, and Captain Mitchell, are passengers with us.  I am copying the
diary to publish in Harper's Magazine, if I have time to fix it up
properly when I get to San Francisco.

I suppose, from present appearances,--light winds and calms,--that we
shall be two or three weeks at sea, yet--and I hope so--I am in no hurry
to go to work.


                                             Sunday Morning, Aug. 6.
This is rather slow.  We still drift, drift, drift along--at intervals a
spanking breeze and then--drift again--hardly move for half a day.  But I
enjoy it.  We have such snowy moonlight, and such gorgeous sunsets.
And the ship is so easy--even in a gale she rolls very little, compared
to other vessels--and in this calm we could dance on deck, if we chose.
You can walk a crack, so steady is she.  Very different from the Ajax.
My trunk used to get loose in the stateroom and rip and tear around the
place as if it had life in it, and I always had to take my clothes off in
bed because I could not stand up and do it.

There is a ship in sight--the first object we have seen since we left
Honolulu.  We are still 1300 or 1400 miles from land and so anything like
this that varies the vast solitude of the ocean makes all hands light-
hearted and cheerful.  We think the ship is the "Comet," which left
Honolulu several hours before we did.  She is about twelve miles away,
and so we cannot see her hull, but the sailors think it is the Comet
because of some peculiarity about her fore-top-gallant sails.  We have
watched her all the forenoon.

Afternoon We had preaching on the quarter-deck by Rev. Mr. Rising, of
Virginia City, old friend of mine.  Spread a flag on the booby-hatch,
which made a very good pulpit, and then ranged the chairs on either side
against the bulwarks; last Sunday we had the shadow of the mainsail, but
today we were on the opposite tack, close hauled, and had the sun.  I am
leader of the choir on this ship, and a sorry lead it is.  I hope they
will have a better opinion of our music in Heaven than I have down here.
If they don't a thunderbolt will come down and knock the vessel endways.

The other ship is the Comet--she is right abreast three miles away,
sailing on our course--both of us in a dead calm.  With the glasses we
can see what we take to be men and women on her decks.  I am well
acquainted with nearly all her passengers, and being so close seems right
sociable.

Monday 7--I had just gone to bed a little after midnight when the 2d mate
came and roused up the captain and said "The Comet has come round and is
standing away on the other tack."  I went up immediately, and so did all
our passengers, without waiting to dress-men, women and children.  There
was a perceptible breeze.  Pretty soon the other ship swept down upon us
with all her sails set, and made a fine show in the luminous starlight.
She passed within a hundred yards of us, so we could faintly see persons
on her decks.  We had two minutes' chat with each other, through the
medium of hoarse shouting, and then she bore away to windward.

In the morning she was only a little black peg standing out of the glassy
sea in the distant horizon--an almost invisible mark in the bright sky.
Dead calm.  So the ships have stood, all day long--have not moved 100
yards.

Aug. 8--The calm continues.  Magnificent weather. The gentlemen have all
turned boys.  They play boyish games on the poop and quarter-deck.  For
instance: They lay a knife on the fife-rail of the mainmast--stand off
three steps, shut one eye, walk up and strike at it with the fore-finger;
(seldom hit it;) also they lay a knife on the deck and walk seven or
eight steps with eyes close shut, and try to find it.  They kneel--place
elbows against knees--extend hands in front along the deck--place knife
against end of fingers--then clasp hands behind back and bend forward and
try to pick up the knife with their teeth and rise up from knees without
rolling over or losing their balance.  They tie a string to the shrouds--
stand with back against it walk three steps (eyes shut)--turn around
three times and go and put finger on the string; only a military man can
do it.  If you want to know how perfectly ridiculous a grown man looks
performing such absurdities in the presence of ladies, get one to try it.

Afternoon--The calm is no more.  There are three vessels in sight.  It is
so sociable to have them hovering about us on this broad waste of water.
It is sunny and pleasant, but blowing hard.  Every rag about the ship is
spread to the breeze and she is speeding over the sea like a bird.  There
is a large brig right astern of us with all her canvas set and chasing us
at her best.  She came up fast while the winds were light, but now it is
hard to tell whether she gains or not.  We can see the people on the
forecastle with the glass.  The race is exciting.  I am sorry to know
that we shall soon have to quit the vessel and go ashore if she keeps up
this speed.

Friday, Aug. 10--We have breezes and calms alternately.  The brig is two
miles to three astern, and just stays there.  We sail directly east--this
brings the brig, with all her canvas set, almost in the eye of the sun,
when it sets--beautiful.  She looks sharply cut and black as a coal,
against a background of fire and in the midst of a sea of blood.

San Francisco, Aug. 20.--We never saw the Comet again till the 13th, in
the morning, three miles away.  At three o'clock that afternoon, 25 days
out from Honolulu, both ships entered the Golden Gate of San Francisco
side by side, and 300 yards apart.  There was a gale blowing, and both
vessels clapped on every stitch of canvas and swept up through the
channel and past the fortresses at a magnificent gait.

I have been up to Sacramento and squared accounts with the Union.  They
paid me a great deal more than they promised me.
                                   Yrs aff
                                             SAM.




VI.

LETTERS 1866-67.  THE LECTURER.  SUCCESS ON THE COAST.  IN NEW YORK.
THE GREAT OCEAN EXCURSION

     It was August 13th when he reached San Francisco and wrote in his
     note-book, "Home again.  No--not home again--in prison again, and
     all the wild sense of freedom gone.  City seems so cramped and so
     dreary with toil and care and business anxieties.  God help me, I
     wish I were at sea again!"

     The transition from the dreamland of a becalmed sailing-vessel to
     the dull, cheerless realities of his old life, and the uncertainties
     of his future, depressed him--filled him with forebodings.  At one
     moment he felt himself on the verge of suicide--the world seemed so
     little worth while.

     He wished to make a trip around the world, a project that required
     money.  He contemplated making a book of his island letters and
     experiences, and the acceptance by Harper's Magazine of the revised
     version of the Hornet Shipwreck story encouraged this thought.

     Friends urged him to embody in a lecture the picturesque aspect of
     Hawaiian life.  The thought frightened him, but it also appealed to
     him strongly.  He believed he could entertain an audience, once he
     got started on the right track.  As Governor of the Third House at
     Carson City he had kept the audience in hand.  Men in whom he had
     the utmost confidence insisted that he follow up the lecture idea
     and engage the largest house in the city for his purpose.  The
     possibility of failure appalled him, but he finally agreed to the
     plan.

     In Roughing It, and elsewhere, has been told the story of this
     venture--the tale of its splendid success.  He was no longer
     concerned, now, as to his immediate future.  The lecture field was
     profitable.  His audience laughed and shouted.  He was learning the
     flavor of real success and exulting in it.  With Dennis McCarthy,
     formerly one of the partners in the Enterprise, as manager, he made
     a tour of California and Nevada.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and others, in St. Louis:

                                        VIRGINIA CITY, Nov. 1, 1866.
ALL THE FOLKS, AFFECTIONATE GREETING,--You know the flush time's are
past, and it has long been impossible to more than half fill the Theatre
here, with any sort of attraction, but they filled it for me, night
before last--full--dollar all over the house.

I was mighty dubious about Carson, but the enclosed call and some
telegrams set that all right--I lecture there tomorrow night.

They offer a full house and no expense in Dayton--go there next.  Sandy
Baldwin says I have made the most sweeping success of any man he knows
of.

I have lectured in San Francisco, Sacramento, Marysville, Grass Valley,
Nevada, You Bet, Red Dog and Virginia.  I am going to talk in Carson,
Gold Hill, Silver City, Dayton, Washoe, San Francisco again, and again
here if I have time to re-hash the lecture.

Then I am bound for New York--lecture on the Steamer, maybe.

I'll leave toward 1st December--but I'll telegraph you.
                                   Love to all.
                                             Yrs.
                                                  MARK.


His lecture tour continued from October until December, a period of
picturesque incident, the story of which has been recorded elsewhere.
--[See Mark Twain: A Biography, by the same author]--It paid him well;
he could go home now, without shame.  Indeed, from his next letter, full
of the boyish elation which always to his last years was the complement
of his success, we gather that he is going home with special honors--
introductions from ministers and the like to distinguished personages of
the East.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:

                                             SAN F., Dec. 4, 1866.
MY DEAR FOLKS,--I have written to Annie and Sammy and Katie some time
ago--also, to the balance of you.

I called on Rev. Dr. Wadsworth last night with the City College man,
but he wasn't at home.  I was sorry, because I wanted to make his
acquaintance.  I am thick as thieves with the Rev. Stebbings, and I am
laying for the Rev. Scudder and the Rev. Dr. Stone.  I am running on
preachers, now, altogether.  I find them gay.  Stebbings is a regular
brick.  I am taking letters of introduction to Henry Ward Beecher, Rev.
Dr. Tyng, and other eminent parsons in the east.  Whenever anybody offers
me a letter to a preacher, now I snaffle it on the spot.  I shall make
Rev. Dr. Bellows trot out the fast nags of the cloth for me when I get to
New York.  Bellows is an able, upright and eloquent man--a man of
imperial intellect and matchless power--he is Christian in the truest
sense of the term and is unquestionably a brick....

Gen. Drum has arrived in Philadelphia and established his head-quarters
there, as Adjutant Genl. to Maj. Gen. Meade.  Col. Leonard has received a
letter from him in which he offers me a complimentary benefit if I will
come there.  I am much obliged, really, but I am afraid I shan't lecture
much in the States.

The China Mail Steamer is getting ready and everybody says I am throwing
away a fortune in not going in her.  I firmly believe it myself.

I sail for the States in the Opposition steamer of the 5th inst.,
positively and without reserve.  My room is already secured for me, and
is the choicest in the ship.  I know all the officers.

                                   Yrs.  Affy
                                             MARK.


     We get no hint of his plans, and perhaps he had none.  If his
     purpose was to lecture in the East, he was in no hurry to begin.
     Arriving in New York, after an adventurous voyage, he met a number
     of old Californians--men who believed in him--and urged him to
     lecture.  He also received offers of newspaper engagements, and from
     Charles Henry Webb, who had published the Californian, which Bret
     Harte had edited, came the proposal to collect his published
     sketches, including the jumping Frog story, in book form.  Webb
     himself was in New York, and offered the sketches to several
     publishers, including Canton, who had once refused the Frog story by
     omitting it from Artemus Ward's book.  It seems curious that Canton
     should make a second mistake and refuse it again, but publishers
     were wary in those days, and even the newspaper success of the Frog
     story did not tempt him to venture it as the title tale of a book.
     Webb finally declared he would publish the book himself, and
     Clemens, after a few weeks of New York, joined his mother and family
     in St. Louis and gave himself up to a considerable period of
     visiting, lecturing meantime in both Hannibal and Keokuk.

     Fate had great matters in preparation for him.  The Quaker City
     Mediterranean excursion, the first great ocean picnic, was announced
     that spring, and Mark Twain realized that it offered a possible
     opportunity for him to see something of the world.  He wrote at once
     to the proprietors of the Alta-California and proposed that they
     send him as their correspondent.  To his delight his proposition was
     accepted, the Alta agreeing to the twelve hundred dollars passage
     money, and twenty dollars each for letters.

     The Quaker City was not to sail until the 8th of June, but the Alta
     wished some preliminary letters from New York.  Furthermore, Webb
     had the Frog book in press, and would issue it May 1st.  Clemens,
     therefore, returned to New York in April, and now once more being
     urged by the Californians to lecture, he did not refuse.  Frank
     Fuller, formerly Governor of Utah, took the matter in hand and
     engaged Cooper Union for the venture.  He timed it for May 6th,
     which would be a few days after the appearance of Webb's book.
     Clemens was even more frightened at the prospect of this lecture
     than he had been in San Francisco, and with more reason, for in New
     York his friends were not many, and competition for public favor was
     very great.  There are two letters written May 1st, one to his
     people, and one to Bret Harte, in San Francisco; that give us the
     situation.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Letters Vol. 1, by Mark Twain






MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS 1867-1875

ARRANGED WITH COMMENT BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE



VOLUME II.



                     To Bret Harte, in San Francisco:

                                   WESTMINSTER HOTEL, May 1, 1867.
DEAR BRET,--I take my pen in hand to inform you that I am well and hope
these few lines will find you enjoying the same God's blessing.

The book is out, and is handsome.  It is full of damnable errors of
grammar and deadly inconsistencies of spelling in the Frog sketch because
I was away and did not read the proofs; but be a friend and say nothing
about these things.  When my hurry is over, I will send you an autograph
copy to pisen the children with.

I am to lecture in Cooper Institute next Monday night.  Pray for me.

We sail for the Holy Land June 8.  Try to write me (to this hotel,) and
it will be forwarded to Paris, where we remain 10 or 15 days.

Regards and best wishes to Mrs. Bret and the family.
                              Truly Yr Friend
                                                  MARK.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:

                                   WESTMINSTER HOTEL, May 1, 1867.
DEAR FOLKS,--Don't expect me to write for a while.  My hands are full of
business on account of my lecture for the 6th inst., and everything looks
shady, at least, if not dark.  I have got a good agent--but now after we
have hired Cooper Institute and gone to an expense in one way or another
of $500, it comes out that I have got to play against Speaker Colfax at
Irving Hall, Ristori, and also the double troupe of Japanese jugglers,
the latter opening at the great Academy of Music--and with all this
against me I have taken the largest house in New York and cannot back
water.  Let her slide!  If nobody else cares I don't.

I'll send the book soon.  I am awfully hurried now, but not worried.
                                   Yrs.
                                             SAM.


The Cooper Union lecture proved a failure, and a success.  When it became
evident to Fuller that the venture was not going to pay, he sent out a
flood of complimentaries to the school-teachers of New York City and the
surrounding districts.  No one seems to have declined them.  Clemens
lectured to a jammed house and acquired much reputation.  Lecture
proposals came from several directions, but he could not accept them now.
He wrote home that he was eighteen Alta letters behind and had refused
everything.  Thos. Nast, the cartoonist, then in his first fame, propped
a joint tour, Clemens to lecture while he, Nast, would illustrate with
"lightning" sketches; but even this could not be considered now.  In a
little while he would sail, and the days were overfull.  A letter written
a week before he sailed is full of the hurry and strain of these last
days.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:

                         WESTMINSTER HOTEL, NEW YORK, June 1, 1867.
DEAR FOLKS,--I know I ought to write oftener (just got your last,) and
more fully, but I cannot overcome my repugnance to telling what I am
doing or what I expect to do or propose to do.  Then, what have I left to
write about?  Manifestly nothing.

It isn't any use for me to talk about the voyage, because I can have no
faith in that voyage till the ship is under way.  How do I know she will
ever sail?  My passage is paid, and if the ship sails, I sail in her--but
I make no calculations, have bought no cigars, no sea-going clothing
--have made no preparation whatever--shall not pack my trunk till the
morning we sail.  Yet my hands are full of what I am going to do the day
before we sail--and what isn't done that day will go undone.

All I do know or feel, is, that I am wild with impatience to move--move
--move!  Half a dozen times I have wished I had sailed long ago in some
ship that wasn't going to keep me chained here to chafe for lagging ages
while she got ready to go.  Curse the endless delays!  They always kill
me--they make me neglect every duty and then I have a conscience that
tears me like a wild beast.  I wish I never had to stop anywhere a month.
I do more mean things, the moment I get a chance to fold my hands and sit
down than ever I can get forgiveness for.

Yes, we are to meet at Mr. Beach's next Thursday night, and I suppose we
shall have to be gotten up regardless of expense, in swallow-tails, white
kids and everything en regle.

I am resigned to Rev. Mr. Hutchinson's or anybody else's supervision.
I don't mind it.  I am fixed.  I have got a splendid, immoral, tobacco-
smoking, wine-drinking, godless room-mate who is as good and true and
right-minded a man as ever lived--a man whose blameless conduct and
example will always be an eloquent sermon to all who shall come within
their influence.  But send on the professional preachers--there are none
I like better to converse with.  If they're not narrow minded and bigoted
they make good companions.

I asked them to send the N. Y. Weekly to you--no charge.  I am not going
to write for it.  Like all other, papers that pay one splendidly it
circulates among stupid people and the 'canaille.'  I have made no
arrangement with any New York paper--I will see about that Monday or
Tuesday.
                              Love to all
                                   Good bye,
                                        Yrs affy
                                                  SAM.


     The "immoral" room-mate whose conduct was to be an "eloquent
     example" was Dan Slote, immortalized in the Innocents as "Dan"
     --a favorite on the ship, and later beloved by countless readers.

     There is one more letter, written the night before the Quaker City
     sailed-a letter which in a sense marks the close of the first great
     period of his life--the period of aimless wandering--adventure
     --youth.

     Perhaps a paragraph of explanation should precede this letter.
     Political changes had eliminated Orion in Nevada, and he was now
     undertaking the practice of law.  "Bill Stewart" was Senator
     Stewart, of Nevada, of whom we shall hear again.  The "Sandwich
     Island book," as may be imagined, was made up of his letters to the
     Sacramento Union.  Nothing came of the venture, except some chapters
     in 'Roughing It', rewritten from the material.  "Zeb and John
     Leavenworth" were pilots whom he had known on the river.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family in St. Louis:

                                        NEW YORK, June 7th, 1867.
DEAR FOLKS, I suppose we shall be many a league at sea tomorrow night,
and goodness knows I shall be unspeakably glad of it.

I haven't got anything to write, else I would write it.  I have just
written myself clear out in letters to the Alta, and I think they are the
stupidest letters that were ever written from New York.  Corresponding
has been a perfect drag ever since I got to the states.  If it continues
abroad, I don't know what the Tribune and Alta folks will think.
I have withdrawn the Sandwich Island book--it would be useless to publish
it in these dull publishing times.  As for the Frog book, I don't believe
that will ever pay anything worth a cent.  I published it simply to
advertise myself--not with the hope of making anything out of it.

Well, I haven't anything to write, except that I am tired of staying in
one place--that I am in a fever to get away.  Read my Alta letters--they
contain everything I could possibly write to you.  Tell Zeb and John
Leavenworth to write me.  They can get plenty of gossip from the pilots.

An importing house sent two cases of exquisite champagne aboard the ship
for me today--Veuve Clicquot and Lac d'Or.  I and my room-mate have set
apart every Saturday as a solemn fast day, wherein we will entertain no
light matters of frivolous conversation, but only get drunk.  (That is a
joke.) His mother and sisters are the best and most homelike people I
have yet found in a brown stone front.  There is no style about them,
except in house and furniture.

I wish Orion were going on this voyage, for I believe he could not help
but be cheerful and jolly.  I often wonder if his law business is going
satisfactorily to him, but knowing that the dull season is setting in now
(it looked like it had already set in before) I have felt as if I could
almost answer the question myself--which is to say in plain words, I was
afraid to ask.  I wish I had gone to Washington in the winter instead of
going West.  I could have gouged an office out of Bill Stewart for him,
and that would atone for the loss of my home visit.  But I am so
worthless that it seems to me I never do anything or accomplish anything
that lingers in my mind as a pleasant memory.  My mind is stored full of
unworthy conduct toward Orion and towards you all, and an accusing
conscience gives me peace only in excitement and restless moving from
place to place.  If I could say I had done one thing for any of you that
entitled me to your good opinion, (I say nothing of your love, for I am
sure of that, no matter how unworthy of it I may make myself, from Orion
down you have always given me that, all the days of my life, when God
Almighty knows I seldom deserve it,) I believe I could go home and stay
there and I know I would care little for the world's praise or blame.
There is no satisfaction in the world's praise anyhow, and it has no
worth to me save in the way of business.  I tried to gather up its
compliments to send to you, but the work was distasteful and I dropped
it.

You observe that under a cheerful exterior I have got a spirit that is
angry with me and gives me freely its contempt.  I can get away from that
at sea, and be tranquil and satisfied-and so, with my parting love and
benediction for Orion and all of you, I say goodbye and God bless you
all--and welcome the wind that wafts a weary soul to the sunny lands of
the Mediterranean!
                              Yrs.  Forever,
                                             SAM.




VII.

LETTERS 1867.  THE TRAVELER.  THE VOYAGE OF THE "QUAKER CITY"

Mark Twain, now at sea, was writing many letters; not personal letters,
but those unique descriptive relations of travel which would make him his
first great fame--those fresh first impressions preserved to us now as
chapters of The Innocents Abroad.  Yet here and there in the midst of
sight-seeing and reporting he found time to send a brief line to those at
home, merely that they might have a word from his own hand, for he had
ordered the papers to which he was to contribute--the Alta and the New
York Tribune--sent to them, and these would give the story of his
travels.  The home letters read like notebook entries.


          Letters to Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:


                                   FAYAL (Azores,) June 20th, 1867.
DEAR FOLKS,--We are having a lively time here, after a stormy trip.  We
meant to go to San Miguel, but were driven here by stress of weather.
Beautiful climate.
                         Yrs.
                              Affect.
                                        SAM.


                                   GIBRALTAR, June 30th, 1867.
DEAR FOLKS,--Arrived here this morning, and am clear worn out with
riding and climbing in and over and around this monstrous rock and its
fortifications.  Summer climate and very pleasant.
                                   Yrs.
                                        SAM.


                              TANGIER, MOROCCO, (AFRICA), July 1, 1867.
DEAR FOLKS, Half a dozen of us came here yesterday from Gibraltar and
some of the company took the other direction; went up through Spain, to
Paris by rail.  We decided that Gibraltar and San Roque were all of Spain
that we wanted to see at present and are glad we came here among the
Africans, Moors, Arabs and Bedouins of the desert.  I would not give this
experience for all the balance of the trip combined.  This is the
infernalest hive of infernally costumed barbarians I have ever come
across yet.
                              Yrs.
                                   SAM.


                                        AT SEA, July 2, 1867.
DR. FOLKS,--We are far up the intensely blue and ravishingly beautiful
Mediterranean.  And now we are just passing the island of Minorca.  The
climate is perfectly lovely and it is hard to drive anybody to bed, day
or night.  We remain up the whole night through occasionally, and by this
means enjoy the rare sensation of seeing the sun rise.  But the sunsets
are soft, rich, warm and superb!

We had a ball last night under the awnings of the quarter deck, and the
share of it of three of us was masquerade.  We had full, flowing,
picturesque Moorish costumes which we purchased in the bazaars of
Tangier.
                              Yrs.
                                   SAM.


                                   MARSEILLES, FRANCE, July 5, 1867.
We are here.  Start for Paris tomorrow.  All well.  Had gorgeous 4th of
July jollification yesterday at sea.
                              Yrs.
                                   SAM.


     The reader may expand these sketchy outlines to his heart's content
     by following the chapters in The Innocents Abroad, which is very
     good history, less elaborated than might be supposed.  But on the
     other hand, the next letter adds something of interest to the book-
     circumstances which a modest author would necessarily omit.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:

                                        YALTA, RUSSIA, Aug.  25, 1867.
DEAR FOLKS,--We have been representing the United States all we knew how
today.  We went to Sebastopol, after we got tired of Constantinople (got
your letter there, and one at Naples,) and there the Commandant and the
whole town came aboard and were as jolly and sociable as old friends.
They said the Emperor of Russia was at Yalta, 30 miles or 40 away, and
urged us to go there with the ship and visit him--promised us a cordial
welcome.  They insisted on sending a telegram to the Emperor, and also a
courier overland to announce our coming.  But we knew that a great
English Excursion party, and also the Viceroy of Egypt, in his splendid
yacht, had been refused an audience within the last fortnight, so we
thought it not safe to try it.  They said, no difference--the Emperor
would hardly visit our ship, because that would be a most extraordinary
favor, and one which he uniformly refuses to accord under any
circumstances, but he would certainly receive us at his palace.  We still
declined.  But we had to go to Odessa, 250 miles away, and there the
Governor General urged us, and sent a telegram to the Emperor, which we
hardly expected to be answered, but it was, and promptly.  So we sailed
back to Yalta.

We all went to the palace at noon, today, (3 miles) in carriages and on
horses sent by the Emperor, and we had a jolly time.  Instead of the
usual formal audience of 15 minutes, we staid 4 hours and were made a
good deal more at home than we could have been in a New York drawing-
room.  The whole tribe turned out to receive our party-Emperor, Empress,
the oldest daughter (Grand-Duchess Marie, a pretty girl of 14,) a little
Grand Duke, her brother, and a platoon of Admirals, Princes, Peers of the
Empire, etc., and in a little while an aid-de-camp arrived with a request
from the Grand Duke Michael, the Emperor's brother, that we would visit
his palace and breakfast with him.  The Emperor also invited us, on
behalf of his absent eldest son and heir (aged 22,) to visit his palace
and consider it a visit to him.  They all talk English and they were all
very neatly but very plainly dressed.  You all dress a good deal finer
than they were dressed.  The Emperor and his family threw off all reserve
and showed us all over the palace themselves.  It is very rich and very
elegant, but in no way gaudy.

I had been appointed chairman of a committee to draught an address to the
Emperor in behalf of the passengers, and as I fully expected, and as they
fully intended, I had to write the address myself.  I didn't mind it,
because I have no modesty and would as soon write to an Emperor as to
anybody else--but considering that there were 5 on the committee I
thought they might have contributed one paragraph among them, anyway.
They wanted me to read it to him, too, but I declined that honor--not
because I hadn't cheek enough (and some to spare,) but because our Consul
at Odessa was along, and also the Secretary of our Legation at St.
Petersburgh, and of course one of those ought to read it.  The Emperor
accepted the address--it was his business to do it--and so many others
have praised it warmly that I begin to imagine it must be a wonderful
sort of document and herewith send you the original draught of it to be
put into alcohol and preserved forever like a curious reptile.

They live right well at the Grand Duke Michael's their breakfasts are not
gorgeous but very excellent--and if Mike were to say the word I would go
there and breakfast with him tomorrow.
                                   Yrs aff
                                             SAM.

P. S.  [Written across the face of the last page.] They had told us it
would be polite to invite the Emperor to visit the ship, though he would
not be likely to do it.  But he didn't give us a chance--he has requested
permission to come on board with his family and all his relations
tomorrow and take a sail, in case it is calm weather.  I can, entertain
them.  My hand is in, now, and if you want any more Emperors feted in
style, trot them out.


     The next letter is of interest in that it gives us the program and
     volume of his work.  With all the sight seeing he was averaging a
     full four letters a week--long letters, requiring careful
     observation and inquiry.  How fresh and impressionable and full of
     vigor he was, even in that fierce southern heat! No one makes the
     Mediterranean trip in summer to-day, and the thought of adding
     constant letter-writing to steady travel through southern France,
     Italy, Greece, and Turkey in blazing midsummer is stupefying.  And
     Syria and Egypt in September!


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:

                                        CONSTANTINOPLE, Sept. 1, '67.

DEAR FOLKS,--All well.  Do the Alta's come regularly?  I wish I knew
whether my letters reach them or not.  Look over the back papers and see.
I wrote them as follows:
     1 Letter from Fayal, in the Azores Islands.
     1 from Gibraltar, in Spain.
     1 from Tangier, in Africa.
     2 from Paris and Marseilles, in France.
     1 from Genoa, in Italy.
     1 from Milan.
     1 from Lake Como.
     1 from some little place in Switzerland--have forgotten the name.
     4 concerning Lecce, Bergamo, Padua, Verona, Battlefield of Marengo,
Pestachio, and some other cities in Northern Italy.
     2 from Venice.
     1 about Bologna.
     1 from Florence.
     1 from Pisa.
     1 from Leghorn.
     1 from Rome and Civita Vecchia.
     2 from Naples.
     1 about Pazzuoli, where St. Paul landed, the Baths of Nero, and the
ruins of Baia, Virgil's tomb, the Elysian Fields, the Sunken Cities and
the spot where Ulysses landed.
     1 from Herculaneum and Vesuvius.
     1 from Pompeii.
     1 from the Island of Ischia.
     1 concerning the Volcano of Stromboli, the city and Straits of
Messina, the land of Sicily, Scylla and Charybdis etc.
     1 about the Grecian Archipelago.
     1 about a midnight visit to Athens, the Piraeus and the ruins of the
Acropolis.
     1 about the Hellespont, the site of ancient Troy, the Sea of
Marmara, etc.
     2 about Constantinople, the Golden Horn and the beauties of the
Bosphorus.
     1 from Odessa and Sebastopol in Russia, the Black Sea, etc.
     2 from Yalta, Russia, concerning a visit to the Czar.
And yesterday I wrote another letter from Constantinople and
     1 today about its neighbor in Asia, Scatter.  I am not done with
Turkey yet.  Shall write 2 or 3 more.

I have written to the New York Herald 2 letters from Naples, (no name
signed,) and 1 from Constantinople.

To the New York Tribune I have written
     1 from Fayal.
     1 from Civita Vecchia in the Roman States.
     2 from Yalta, Russia.
     And 1 from Constantinople.

I have never seen any of these letters in print except the one to the
Tribune from Fayal and that was not worth printing.

We sail hence tomorrow, perhaps, and my next letters will be mailed at
Smyrna, in Syria.  I hope to write from the Sea of Tiberius, Damascus,
Jerusalem, Joppa, and possibly other points in the Holy Land.  The
letters from Egypt, the Nile and Algiers I will look out for, myself.
I will bring them in my pocket.

They take the finest photographs in the world here.  I have ordered some.
They will be sent to Alexandria, Egypt.

You cannot conceive of anything so beautiful as Constantinople, viewed
from the Golden Horn or the Bosphorus.  I think it must be the handsomest
city in the world.  I will go on deck and look at it for you, directly.
I am staying in the ship, tonight.  I generally stay on shore when we are
in port.  But yesterday I just ran myself down.  Dan Slote, my room-mate,
is on shore.  He remained here while we went up the Black Sea, but it
seems he has not got enough of it yet.  I thought Dan had got the state-
room pretty full of rubbish at last, but a while ago his dragoman arrived
with a bran new, ghastly tomb-stone of the Oriental pattern, with his
name handsomely carved and gilded on it, in Turkish characters.  That
fellow will buy a Circassian slave, next.

I am tired.  We are going on a trip, tomorrow.  I must to bed.  Love to
all.
               Yrs
                    SAM.


               U. S. CONSUL'S OFFICE, BEIRUT, SYRIA, Sept. 11. (1867)
DEAR FOLKS,--We are here, eight of us, making a contract with a dragoman
to take us to Baalbek, then to Damascus, Nazareth, &c.  then to Lake
Genassareth (Sea of Tiberias,) then South through all the celebrated
Scriptural localities to Jerusalem--then to the Dead Sea, the Cave of
Macpelah and up to Joppa where the ship will be.  We shall be in the
saddle three weeks--we have horses, tents, provisions, arms, a dragoman
and two other servants, and we pay five dollars a day apiece, in gold.
                         Love to all, yrs.
                                             SAM.

We leave tonight, at two o'clock in the morning.


     There appear to be no further home letters written from Syria--and
     none from Egypt.  Perhaps with the desert and the delta the heat at
     last became too fearful for anything beyond the actual requirements
     of the day.  When he began his next it was October, and the fiercer
     travel was behind him.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:

                                   CAGHARI, SARDINIA, Oct, 12, 1867.
DEAR FOLKS,--We have just dropped anchor before this handsome city and--

                                   ALGIERS, AFRICA, Oct. 15.
They would not let us land at Caghari on account of cholera.  Nothing to
write.

                                   MALAGA, SPAIN, Oct.  17.
The Captain and I are ashore here under guard, waiting to know whether
they will let the ship anchor or not.  Quarantine regulations are very
strict here on all vessels coming from Egypt.  I am a little anxious
because I want to go inland to Granada and see the Alhambra.  I can go on
down by Seville and Cordova, and be picked up at Cadiz.

Later: We cannot anchor--must go on.  We shall be at Gibraltar before
midnight and I think I will go horseback (a long days) and thence by rail
and diligence to Cadiz.  I will not mail this till I see the Gibraltar
lights--I begin to think they won't let us in anywhere.

11.30 P. M.--Gibraltar.
At anchor and all right, but they won't let us land till morning--it is a
waste of valuable time.  We shall reach New York middle of November.
                                   Yours,
                                             SAM.


                                        CADIZ, Oct 24, 1867.
DEAR FOLKS,--We left Gibraltar at noon and rode to Algeciras, (4 hours)
thus dodging the quarantine, took dinner and then rode horseback all
night in a swinging trot and at daylight took a caleche (a wheeled
vehicle) and rode 5 hours--then took cars and traveled till twelve at
night.  That landed us at Seville and we were over the hard part of our
trip, and somewhat tired.  Since then we have taken things comparatively
easy, drifting around from one town to another and attracting a good deal
of attention, for I guess strangers do not wander through Andalusia and
the other Southern provinces of Spain often.  The country is precisely as
it was when Don Quixote and Sancho Panza were possible characters.

But I see now what the glory of Spain must have been when it was under
Moorish domination.  No, I will not say that, but then when one is
carried away, infatuated, entranced, with the wonders of the Alhambra and
the supernatural beauty of the Alcazar, he is apt to overflow with
admiration for the splendid intellects that created them.

I cannot write now.  I am only dropping a line to let you know I am well.
The ship will call for us here tomorrow.  We may stop at Lisbon, and
shall at the Bermudas, and will arrive in New York ten days after this
letter gets there.
                                   SAM.

     This is the last personal letter written during that famous first
     sea-gipsying, and reading it our regret grows that he did not put
     something of his Spanish excursion into his book.  He never returned
     to Spain, and he never wrote of it.  Only the barest mention of
     "seven beautiful days" is found in The Innocents Abroad.




VIII.

LETTERS 1867-68.  WASHINGTON AND SAN FRANCISCO. THE PROPOSED BOOK OF
TRAVEL.  A NEW LECTURE

     From Mark Twain's home letters we get several important side-lights
     on this first famous book.  We learn, for in stance, that it was he
     who drafted the ship address to the Emperor--the opening lines of
     which became so wearisome when repeated by the sailors.
     Furthermore, we learn something of the scope and extent of his
     newspaper correspondence, which must have kept him furiously busy,
     done as it was in the midst of super-heated and continuous sight-
     seeing.  He wrote fifty three letters to the Alta-California, six to
     the New York Tribune, and at least two to the New York Herald more
     than sixty, all told, of an average, length of three to four
     thousand words each. Mark Twain always claimed to be a lazy man, and
     certainly he was likely to avoid an undertaking not suited to his
     gifts, but he had energy in abundance for work in his chosen field.
     To have piled up a correspondence of that size in the time, and
     under the circumstances already noted, quality considered, may be
     counted a record in the history of travel letters.

     They made him famous.  Arriving in New York, November 19, 1867, Mark
     Twain found himself no longer unknown to the metropolis, or to any
     portion of America.  Papers East and West had copied his Alta and
     Tribune letters and carried his name into every corner of the States
     and Territories.  He had preached a new gospel in travel literature,
     the gospel of frankness and sincerity that Americans could
     understand.  Also his literary powers had awakened at last.  His
     work was no longer trivial, crude, and showy; it was full of
     dignity, beauty, and power; his humor was finer, worthier.  The
     difference in quality between the Quaker City letters and those
     written from the Sandwich Islands only a year before can scarcely be
     measured.

     He did not remain in New York, but went down to Washington, where he
     had arranged for a private secretaryship with Senator William M.
     Stewart,--[The "Bill" Stewart mentioned in the preceding chapter.]
     whom he had known in Nevada.  Such a position he believed would make
     but little demand upon his time, and would afford him an insight
     into Washington life, which he could make valuable in the shape of
     newspaper correspondence.

     But fate had other plans for him.  He presently received the
     following letter:

                   From Elisha Bliss, Jr., in Hartford
                OFFICE OF THE AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY.

                                        HARTFORD, CONN, Nov 21, 1867.
SAMUEL L. CLEMENS Esq.
Tribune Office, New York.

DR. SIR,--We take the liberty to address you this, in place of a letter
which we had recently written and was about to forward to you, not
knowing your arrival home was expected so soon.  We are desirous of
obtaining from you a work of some kind, perhaps compiled from your
letters from the East, &c., with such interesting additions as may be
proper.  We are the publishers of A. D. Richardson's works, and flatter
ourselves that we can give an author as favorable terms and do as full
justice to his productions as any other house in the country.  We are
perhaps the oldest subscription house in the country, and have never
failed to give a book an immense circulation.  We sold about 100,000
copies of Richardson's F. D. & E.  (Field, Dungeon and Escape) and are
now printing 41,000, of "Beyond the Mississippi," and large orders ahead.
If you have any thought of writing a book, or could be induced to do so,
we should be pleased to see you; and will do so.  Will you do us the
favor to reply at once, at your earliest convenience.
                                   Very truly, &c.,
                                                  E. BLISS, Jr.
                                                       Secty.

     Clemens had already the idea of a book in mind and.  welcomed this
     proposition.


                    To Elisha Bliss, Jr., in Hartford:

                                        WASHINGTON, Dec.  2, 1867.
E. BLISS, Jr. Esq.
Sec'y American Publishing Co.--

DEAR SIR,--I only received your favor of Nov. 21st last night, at the
rooms of the Tribune Bureau here.  It was forwarded from the Tribune
office, New York, where it had lain eight or ten days.  This will be
a sufficient apology for the seeming discourtesy of my silence.

I wrote fifty-two (three) letters for the San Francisco "Alta California"
during the Quaker City excursion, about half of which number have been
printed, thus far.  The "Alta" has few exchanges in the East, and I
suppose scarcely any of these letters have been copied on this side of
the Rocky Mountains.  I could weed them of their chief faults of
construction and inelegancies of expression and make a volume that would
be more acceptable in many respects than any I could now write.  When
those letters were written my impressions were fresh, but now they have
lost that freshness; they were warm then--they are cold, now.  I could
strike out certain letters, and write new ones wherewith to supply their
places.  If you think such a book would suit your purpose, please drop me
a line, specifying the size and general style of the volume; when the
matter ought to be ready; whether it should have pictures in it or not;
and particularly what your terms with me would be, and what amount of
money I might possibly make out of it.  The latter clause has a degree of
importance for me which is almost beyond my own comprehension.  But you
understand that, of course.

I have other propositions for a book, but have doubted the propriety of
interfering with good newspaper engagements, except my way as an author
could be demonstrated to be plain before me.  But I know Richardson, and
learned from him some months ago, something of an idea of the
subscription plan of publishing.  If that is your plan invariably, it
looks safe.

I am on the N. Y. Tribune staff here as an "occasional,", among other
things, and a note from you addressed to
                                   Very truly &c.
                                             SAM L. CLEMENS,

New York Tribune Bureau, Washington, will find me, without fail.


     The exchange of these two letters marked the beginning of one of the
     most notable publishing connections in American literary history.
     The book, however, was not begun immediately.  Bliss was in poor
     health and final arrangements were delayed; it was not until late in
     January that Clemens went to Hartford and concluded the arrangement.

     Meantime, fate had disclosed another matter of even greater
     importance; we get the first hint of it in the following letter,
     though to him its beginning had been earlier--on a day in the blue
     harbor of Smyrna, when young Charles Langdon, a fellow-passenger on
     the Quaker City, had shown to Mark Twain a miniature of young
     Langdon's sister at home:


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                   224 F. STREET, WASH, Jan. 8, 1868.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--And so the old Major has been there, has he?
I would like mighty well to see him.  I was a sort of benefactor to him
once.  I helped to snatch him out when he was about to ride into a
Mohammedan Mosque in that queer old Moorish town of Tangier, in Africa.
If he had got in, the Moors would have knocked his venerable old head
off, for his temerity.

I have just arrived from New York-been there ever since Christmas staying
at the house of Dan Slote my Quaker City room-mate, and having a splendid
time.  Charley Langdon, Jack Van Nostrand, Dan and I, (all Quaker City
night-hawks,) had a blow-out at Dan's' house and a lively talk over old
times.  We went through the Holy Land together, and I just laughed till
my sides ached, at some of our reminiscences.  It was the unholiest gang
that ever cavorted through Palestine, but those are the best boys in the
world.  We needed Moulton badly.  I started to make calls, New Year's
Day, but I anchored for the day at the first house I came to--Charlie
Langdon's sister was there (beautiful girl,) and Miss Alice Hooker,
another beautiful girl, a niece of Henry Ward Beecher's.  We sent the old
folks home early, with instructions not to send the carriage till
midnight, and then I just staid there and worried the life out of those
girls.  I am going to spend a few days with the Langdon's in Elmira, New
York, as soon as I get time, and a few days at Mrs. Hooker's in Hartford,
Conn., shortly.

Henry Ward Beecher sent for me last Sunday to come over and dine (he
lives in Brooklyn, you know,) and I went.  Harriet Beecher Stowe was
there, and Mrs. and Miss Beecher, Mrs. Hooker and my old Quaker City
favorite, Emma Beach.

We had a very gay time, if it was Sunday.  I expect I told more lies than
I have told before in a month.

I went back by invitation, after the evening service, and finished the
blow-out, and then staid all night at Mr. Beach's.  Henry Ward is a
brick.

I found out at 10 o'clock, last night, that I was to lecture tomorrow
evening and so you must be aware that I have been working like sin all
night to get a lecture written.  I have finished it, I call it "Frozen
Truth."  It is a little top-heavy, though, because there is more truth in
the title than there is in the lecture.

But thunder, I mustn't sit here writing all day, with so much business
before me.

Good by, and kind regards to all.
                         Yrs affy
                                   SAM L. CLEMENS.


     Jack Van Nostrand of this letter is "Jack" of the Innocents.  Emma
     Beach was the daughter of Moses S.  Beach, of the 'New York Sun.'
     Later she became the wife of the well-known painter, Abbot H.
     Thayer.

     We do not hear of Miss Langdon again in the letters of that time,
     but it was not because she was absent from his thoughts.  He had
     first seen her with her father and brother at the old St. Nicholas
     Hotel, on lower Broadway, where, soon after the arrival of the
     Quaker City in New York, he had been invited to dine.  Long
     afterward he said: "It is forty years ago; from that day to this she
     has never been out of my mind."

     From his next letter we learn of the lecture which apparently was
     delivered in Washington.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                        WASH. Jan. 9, 1868.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--That infernal lecture is over, thank Heaven!
It came near being a villainous failure.  It was not advertised at all.
The manager was taken sick yesterday, and the man who was sent to tell
me, never got to me till afternoon today.  There was the dickens to pay.
It was too late to do anything--too late to stop the lecture.  I scared
up a door-keeper, and was ready at the proper time, and by pure good luck
a tolerably good house assembled and I was saved!  I hardly knew what I
was going to talk about, but it went off in splendid style.  I was to
have preached again Saturday night, but I won't--I can't get along
without a manager.

I have been in New York ever since Christmas, you know, and now I shall
have to work like sin to catch up my correspondence.

And I have got to get up that book, too.  Cut my letters out of the
Alta's and send them to me in an envelop.  Some, here, that are not
mailed yet, I shall have to copy, I suppose.

I have got a thousand things to do, and am not doing any of them.  I feel
perfectly savage.
                         Good bye
                                   Yrs aff
                                             SAM.


     On the whole, matters were going well with him.  His next letter is
     full of his success--overflowing with the boyish radiance which he
     never quite outgrew.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                        HARTFORD, CONN.  Jan. 24-68.
DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--This is a good week for me.  I stopped in the
Herald office as I came through New York, to see the boys on the staff,
and young James Gordon Bennett asked me to write twice a week,
impersonally, for the Herald, and said if I would I might have full
swing, and (write) about anybody and everybody I wanted to.  I said I
must have the very fullest possible swing, and he said "all right."
I said "It's a contract--" and that settled that matter.

I'll make it a point to write one letter a week, any-how.

But the best thing that has happened was here.  This great American
Publishing Company kept on trying to bargain with me for a book till I
thought I would cut the matter short by coming up for a talk.  I met Rev.
Henry Ward Beecher in Brooklyn, and with his usual whole-souled way of
dropping his own work to give other people a lift when he gets a chance,
he said, "Now, here, you are one of the talented men of the age--nobody
is going to deny that---but in matters of business, I don't suppose you
know more than enough to came in when it rains.  I'll tell you what to
do, and how to do it."  And he did.

And I listened well, and then came up here and made a splendid contract
for a Quaker City book of 5 or 600 large pages, with illustrations, the
manuscript to be placed in the publishers' hands by the middle of July.
My percentage is to be a fifth more than they have ever paid any author,
except Horace Greeley.  Beecher will be surprised, I guess, when he hears
this.

But I had my mind made up to one thing--I wasn't going to touch a book
unless there was money in it, and a good deal of it.  I told them so.
I had the misfortune to "bust out" one author of standing.  They had his
manuscript, with the understanding that they would publish his book if
they could not get a book from me, (they only publish two books at a
time, and so my book and Richardson's Life of Grant will fill the bill
for next fall and winter)--so that manuscript was sent back to its author
today.

These publishers get off the most tremendous editions of their books you
can imagine.  I shall write to the Enterprise and Alta every week,
as usual, I guess, and to the Herald twice a week--occasionally to the
Tribune and the Magazines (I have a stupid article in the Galaxy, just
issued) but I am not going to write to this, that and the other paper any
more.

The Chicago Tribune wants letters, but I hope and pray I have charged
them so much that they will not close the contract.  I am gradually
getting out of debt, but these trips to New York do cost like sin.
I hope you have cut out and forwarded my printed letters to Washington
--please continue to do so as they arrive.

I have had a tip-top time, here, for a few days (guest of Mr. Jno.
Hooker's family--Beecher's relatives-in a general way of Mr. Bliss, also,
who is head of the publishing firm.) Puritans are mighty straight-laced
and they won't let me smoke in the parlor, but the Almighty don't make
any better people.

Love to all-good-bye.  I shall be in New York 3 days--then go on to the
Capital.
                    Yrs affly, especially Ma.,
                                                  Yr SAM.

I have to make a speech at the annual Herald dinner on the 6th of May.


     No formal contract for the book had been made when this letter was
     written.  A verbal agreement between Bliss and Clemens had been
     reached, to be ratified by an exchange of letters in the near
     future.  Bliss had made two propositions, viz., ten thousand
     dollars, cash in hand, or a 5-per-cent. royalty on the selling price
     of the book.  The cash sum offered looked very large to Mark Twain,
     and he was sorely tempted to accept it.  He had faith, however, in
     the book, and in Bliss's ability to sell it.  He agreed, therefore,
     to the royalty proposition; "The best business judgment I ever
     displayed" he often declared in after years.  Five per cent.
     royalty sounds rather small in these days of more liberal contracts.
     But the American Publishing Company sold its books only by
     subscription, and the agents' commissions and delivery expenses ate
     heavily into the profits.  Clemens was probably correct in saying
     that his percentage was larger than had been paid to any previous
     author except Horace Greeley.  The John Hooker mentioned was the
     husband of Henry Ward Beecher's sister, Isabel.  It was easy to
     understand the Beecher family's robust appreciation of Mark Twain.

     From the office of Dan Slote, his room-mate of the Quaker City--
     "Dan" of the Innocents--Clemens wrote his letter that closed the
     agreement with Bliss.


                    To Elisha Bliss, Jr., in Hartford:

               Office of SLOTE & WOODMAN, Blank Book Manufacturers,
                                   Nos. 119-121 William St.
                                        NEW YORK, January 27, 1868.
Mr. E. Bliss, Jr.
     Sec'y American Publishing Co.
          Hartford Conn.

DEAR SIR, Your favor of Jan. 25th is received, and in reply, I will say
that I accede to your several propositions, viz: That I furnish to the
American Publishing Company, through you, with MSS sufficient for a
volume of 500 to 600 pages, the subject to be the Quaker City, the
voyage, description of places, &c., and also embodying the substance of
the letters written by me during that trip, said MSS to be ready about
the first of August, next, I to give all the usual and necessary
attention in preparing said MSS for the press, and in preparation of
illustrations, in correction of proofs--no use to be made by me of the
material for this work in any way which will conflict with its interest
--the book to be sold by the American Publishing Co., by subscription--
and for said MS and labor on my part said Company to pay me a copyright
of 5 percent, upon the subscription price of the book for all copies
sold.

As further proposed by you, this understanding, herein set forth shall be
considered a binding contract upon all parties concerned, all minor
details to be arranged between us hereafter.
                         Very truly yours,
                                   SAM. L. CLEMENS.


                          (Private and General.)

I was to have gone to Washington tonight, but have held over a day, to
attend a dinner given by a lot of newspaper Editors and literary
scalliwags, at the Westminster Hotel.  Shall go down to-morrow, if I
survive the banquet.
                         Yrs truly
                              SAM. CLEMENS.


     Mark Twain, in Washington, was in line for political preferment: His
     wide acquaintance on the Pacific slope, his new fame and growing
     popularity, his powerful and dreaded pen, all gave him special
     distinction at the capital.  From time to time the offer of one
     office or another tempted him, but he wisely, or luckily, resisted.
     In his letters home are presented some of his problems.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                              224 F. STREET WASHINGTON Feb.  6, 1868.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--For two months there have been some fifty
applications before the government for the postmastership of San
Francisco, which is the heaviest concentration of political power on the
coast and consequently is a post which is much coveted.,

When I found that a personal friend of mine, the Chief Editor of the Alta
was an applicant I said I didn't want it--I would not take $10,000 a year
out of a friend's pocket.

The two months have passed, I heard day before yesterday that a new and
almost unknown candidate had suddenly turned up on the inside track, and
was to be appointed at once.  I didn't like that, and went after his case
in a fine passion.  I hunted up all our Senators and representatives and
found that his name was actually to come from the President early in the
morning.

Then Judge Field said if I wanted the place he could pledge me the
President's appointment--and Senator Conness said he would guarantee me
the Senate's confirmation.  It was a great temptation, but it would
render it impossible to fill my book contract, and I had to drop the
idea.

I have to spend August and September in Hartford which isn't San
Francisco.  Mr. Conness offers me any choice out of five influential
California offices.  Now, some day or other I shall want an office and
then, just my luck, I can't get it, I suppose.

They want to send me abroad, as a Consul or a Minister.  I said I didn't
want any of the pie.  God knows I am mean enough and lazy enough, now,
without being a foreign consul.

Sometime in the course of the present century I think they will create a
Commissioner of Patents, and then I hope to get a berth for Orion.

I published 6 or 7 letters in the Tribune while I was gone, now I cannot
get them.  I suppose I must have them copied.
                                   Love to all
                                              SAM.


Orion Clemens was once more a candidate for office: Nevada had become a
State; with regularly elected officials, and Orion had somehow missed
being chosen.  His day of authority had passed, and the law having failed
to support him, he was again back at his old occupation, setting type in
St. Louis.  He was, as ever, full of dreams and inventions that would
some day lead to fortune.  With the gift of the Sellers imagination,
inherited by all the family, he lacked the driving power which means
achievement.  More and more as the years went by he would lean upon his
brother for moral and physical support.  The chances for him in
Washington do not appear to have been bright.  The political situation
under Andrew Johnson was not a happy one.


                     To Orion Clemens, in St. Louis:

                              224 F. STREET, WASH., Feb. 21. (1868)
MY DEAR BRO.,--I am glad you do not want the clerkship, for that Patent
Office is in such a muddle that there would be no security for the
permanency of a place in it.  The same remark will apply to all offices
here, now, and no doubt will, till the close of the present
administration.

Any man who holds a place here, now, stands prepared at all times to
vacate it.  You are doing, now, exactly what I wanted you to do a year
ago.

We chase phantoms half the days of our lives.

It is well if we learn wisdom even then, and save the other half.

I am in for it.  I must go on chasing them until I marry--then I am done
with literature and all other bosh,--that is, literature wherewith to
please the general public.

I shall write to please myself, then.  I hope you will set type till you
complete that invention, for surely government pap must be nauseating
food for a man--a man whom God has enabled to saw wood and be
independent.  It really seemed to me a falling from grace, the idea of
going back to San Francisco nothing better than a mere postmaster, albeit
the public would have thought I came with gilded honors, and in great
glory.

I only retain correspondence enough, now, to make a living for myself,
and have discarded all else, so that I may have time to spare for the
book.  Drat the thing, I wish it were done, or that I had no other
writing to do.

This is the place to get a poor opinion of everybody in.  There isn't one
man in Washington, in civil office, who has the brains of Anson
Burlingame--and I suppose if China had not seized and saved his great
talents to the world, this government would have discarded him when his
time was up.

There are more pitiful intellects in this Congress!  Oh, geeminy!  There
are few of them that I find pleasant enough company to visit.

I am most infernally tired of Wash.  and its "attractions."  To be busy
is a man's only happiness--and I am--otherwise I should die
                                             Yrs.  aff
                                                  SAM.


     The secretarial position with Senator Stewart was short-lived.  One
     cannot imagine Mark Twain as anybody's secretary, and doubtless
     there was little to be gained on either side by the arrangement.
     They parted without friction, though in later years, when Stewart
     had become old and irascible, he used to recount a list of
     grievances and declare that he had been obliged to threaten violence
     in order to bring Mark to terms; but this was because the author of
     Roughing It had in that book taken liberties with the Senator, to
     the extent of an anecdote and portrait which, though certainly
     harmless enough, had for some reason given deep offense.

     Mark Twain really had no time for secretary work.  For one thing he
     was associated with John Swinton in supplying a Washington letter to
     a list of newspapers, and then he was busy collecting his Quaker
     City letters, and preparing the copy for his book.  Matters were
     going well enough, when trouble developed from an unexpected
     quarter.  The Alta-California had copyrighted the letters and
     proposed to issue them in book form.  There had been no contract
     which would prevent this, and the correspondence which Clemens
     undertook with the Alta management led to nothing.  He knew that he
     had powerful friends among the owners, if he could reach them
     personally, and he presently concluded to return to San Francisco,
     make what arrangement he could, and finish his book there.  It was
     his fashion to be prompt; in his next letter we find him already on
     the way.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:

                              AT SEA, Sunday, March 15, Lat. 25. (1868)
DEAR FOLKS,--I have nothing to write, except that I am well--that the
weather is fearfully hot-that the Henry Chauncey is a magnificent ship--
that we have twelve hundred, passengers on board-that I have two
staterooms, and so am not crowded--that I have many pleasant friends
here, and the people are not so stupid as on the Quaker City--that we had
Divine Service in the main saloon at 10.30 this morning--that we expect
to meet the upward bound vessel in Latitude 23, and this is why I am
writing now.

We shall reach Aspinwall Thursday morning at 6 o'clock, and San Francisco
less than two weeks later.  I worry a great deal about being obliged to
go without seeing you all, but it could not be helped.

Dan Slote, my splendid room-mate in the Quaker City and the noblest man
on earth, will call to see you within a month.  Make him dine with you
and spend the evening.  His house is my home always in.  New York.
                                             Yrs affy,
                                                  SAM.


The San Francisco trip proved successful.  Once on the ground Clemens had
little difficulty in convincing the Alta publishers that they had
received full value in the newspaper use of the letters, and that the
book rights remained with the author.  A letter to Bliss conveys the
situation.


                    To Elisha Bliss, Jr., in Hartford:

                                        SAN FRANCISCO, May 5, '68.

E.  BLISS, Jr.  Esq.

Dr. SIR,--The Alta people, after some hesitation, have given me
permission to use my printed letters, and have ceased to think of
publishing them themselves in book form.  I am steadily at work, and
shall start East with the completed Manuscript, about the middle of June.

I lectured here, on the trip, the other night-over sixteen hundred
dollars in gold in the house--every seat taken and paid for before night.
                              Yrs truly,
                                        MARK TWAIN.


     But he did not sail in June.  His friends persuaded him to cover his
     lecture circuit of two years before, telling the story of his
     travels.  This he did with considerable profit, being everywhere
     received with great honors.  He ended this tour with a second
     lecture in San Francisco, announced in a droll and characteristic
     fashion which delighted his Pacific admirers, and insured him a
     crowded house.--[See Mark Twain: A Biography, chap  xlvi, and
     Appendix H.]

     His agreement had been to deliver his MS. about August 1st.
     Returning by the Chauncey, July 28th, he was two days later in
     Hartford, and had placid the copy for the new book in Bliss's hands.
     It was by no means a compilation of his newspaper letters.  His
     literary vision was steadily broadening.  All of the letters had
     been radically edited, some had been rewritten, some entirely
     eliminated.  He probably thought very well of the book, an opinion
     shared by Bliss, but it is unlikely that either of them realized
     that it was to become a permanent classic, and the best selling book
     of travel for at least fifty years.




IX.

LETTERS 1868-70.  COURTSHIP, AND "THE INNOCENTS ABROAD"

     The story of Mark Twain's courtship has been fully told in the
     completer story of his life; it need only be briefly sketched here
     as a setting for the letters of this period.  In his letter of
     January 8th we note that he expects to go to Elmira for a few days
     as soon as he has time.

     But he did not have time, or perhaps did not receive a pressing
     invitation until he had returned with his MS. from California.
     Then, through young Charles Langdon, his Quaker City shipmate, he
     was invited to Elmira.  The invitation was given for a week, but
     through a subterfuge--unpremeditated, and certainly fair enough in
     a matter of love-he was enabled to considerably prolong his visit.
     By the end of his stay he had become really "like one of the
     family," though certainly not yet accepted as such.  The fragmentary
     letter that follows reflects something of his pleasant situation.
     The Mrs. Fairbanks mentioned in this letter had been something more
     than a "shipmother" to Mark Twain.  She was a woman of fine literary
     taste, and Quaker City correspondent for her husband's paper, the
     Cleveland Herald.  She had given Mark Twain sound advice as to his
     letters, which he had usually read to her, and had in no small
     degree modified his early natural tendency to exaggeration and
     outlandish humor.  He owed her much, and never failed to pay her
     tribute.

     Part of a letter to Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:

                                   ELMIRA, N.Y.  Aug.  26, 1868.
DEAR FOLKS,--You see I am progressing--though slowly.  I shall be here
a week yet maybe two--for Charlie Langdon cannot get away until his
father's chief business man returns from a journey--and a visit to Mrs.
Fairbanks, at Cleveland, would lose half its pleasure if Charlie were not
along.  Moulton of St. Louis ought to be there too.  We three were Mrs.
F's "cubs," in the Quaker City.  She took good care that we were at
church regularly on Sundays; at the 8-bells prayer meeting every night;
and she kept our buttons sewed on and our clothing in order--and in a
word was as busy and considerate, and as watchful over her family of
uncouth and unruly cubs, and as patient and as long-suffering, withal, as
a natural mother.  So we expect.....

                                        Aug.  25th.
Didn't finish yesterday.  Something called me away.  I am most
comfortably situated here.  This is the pleasantest family I ever knew.
I only have one trouble, and that is they give me too much thought and
too much time and invention to the object of making my visit pass
delightfully.  It needs----

     Just how and when he left the Langdon home the letters do not
     record.  Early that fall he began a lecture engagement with James
     Redpath, proprietor of the Boston Lyceum Bureau, and his engagements
     were often within reach of Elmira.  He had a standing invitation now
     to the Langdon home, and the end of the week often found him there.
     Yet when at last he proposed for the hand of Livy Langdon the
     acceptance was by no means prompt.  He was a favorite in the Langdon
     household, but his suitability as a husband for the frail and gentle
     daughter was questioned.

     However, he was carrying everything, just then, by storm.  The
     largest houses everywhere were crowded to hear him.  Papers spoke of
     him as the coming man of the age, people came to their doors to see
     him pass.  There is but one letter of this period, but it gives us
     the picture.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:

                                             CLEVELAND, Nov. 20, 1868.
DEAR FOLKS,--I played against the Eastern favorite, Fanny Kemble, in
Pittsburgh, last night.  She had 200 in her house, and I had upwards of
1,500.  All the seats were sold (in a driving rain storm, 3 days ago,)
as reserved seats at 25 cents extra, even those in the second and third
tiers--and when the last seat was gone the box office had not been open
more than 2 hours.  When I reached the theatre they were turning people
away and the house was crammed, 150 or 200 stood up, all the evening.

I go to Elmira tonight.  I am simply lecturing for societies, at $100 a
pop.
                         Yrs
                                   SAM.


     It would be difficult for any family to refuse relationship with one
     whose star was so clearly ascending, especially when every
     inclination was in his favor, and the young lady herself encouraged
     his suit.  A provisional engagement was presently made, but it was
     not finally ratified until February of the following year.  Then in
     a letter from one of his lecture points he tells his people
     something of his happiness.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:

                                        LOCKPORT, N. Y.  Feb. 27, 1868.
DEAR FOLKS,--I enclose $20 for Ma.  I thought I was getting ahead of her
little assessments of $35 a month, but find I am falling behind with her
instead, and have let her go without money.  Well, I did not mean to do
it.  But you see when people have been getting ready for months in a
quiet way to get married, they are bound to grow stingy, and go to saving
up money against that awful day when it is sure to be needed.  I am
particularly anxious to place myself in a position where I can carry on
my married life in good shape on my own hook, because I have paddled my
own canoe so long that I could not be satisfied now to let anybody help
me--and my proposed father-in-law is naturally so liberal that it would
be just like him to want to give us a start in life.  But I don't want it
that way.  I can start myself.  I don't want any help.  I can run this
institution without any outside assistance, and I shall have a wife who
will stand by me like a soldier through thick and thin, and never
complain.  She is only a little body, but she hasn't her peer in
Christendom.  I gave her only a plain gold engagement ring, when fashion
imperatively demands a two-hundred dollar diamond one, and told her it
was typical of her future lot--namely, that she would have to flourish on
substantials rather than luxuries.  (But you see I know the girl--she
don't care anything about luxuries.) She is a splendid girl.  She spends
no money but her usual year's allowance, and she spends nearly every cent
of that on other people.  She will be a good sensible little wife,
without any airs about her.  I don't make intercession for her beforehand
and ask you to love her, for there isn't any use in that--you couldn't
help it if you were to try.

I warn you that whoever comes within the fatal influence of her beautiful
nature is her willing slave for evermore.  I take my affidavit on that
statement.  Her father and mother and brother embrace and pet her
constantly, precisely as if she were a sweetheart, instead of a blood
relation.  She has unlimited power over her father, and yet she never
uses it except to make him help people who stand in need of help....

But if I get fairly started on the subject of my bride, I never shall get
through--and so I will quit right here.  I went to Elmira a little over a
week ago, and staid four days and then had to go to New York on business.

                         ......................

     No further letters have been preserved until June, when he is in
     Elmira and with his fiancee reading final proofs on the new book.
     They were having an idyllic good time, of course, but it was a
     useful time, too, for Olivia Langdon had a keen and refined literary
     instinct, and the Innocents Abroad, as well as Mark Twain's other
     books, are better to-day for her influence.

     It has been stated that Mark Twain loved the lecture platform, but
     from his letters we see that even at this early date, when he was at
     the height of his first great vogue as a public entertainer, he had
     no love for platform life.  Undoubtedly he rejoiced in the brief
     periods when he was actually before his audience and could play upon
     it with his master touch, but the dreary intermissions of travel and
     broken sleep were too heavy a price to pay.


              To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis

                                        ELMIRA, June 4. (1868)
DEAR FOLKS,--Livy sends you her love and loving good wishes, and I send
you mine.  The last 3 chapters of the book came tonight--we shall read it
in the morning and then thank goodness, we are done.

In twelve months (or rather I believe it is fourteen,) I have earned just
eighty dollars by my pen--two little magazine squibs and one newspaper
letter--altogether the idlest, laziest 14 months I ever spent in my life.
And in that time my absolute and necessary expenses have been scorchingly
heavy--for I have now less than three thousand six hundred dollars in
bank out of the eight or nine thousand I have made during those months,
lecturing.  My expenses were something frightful during the winter.
I feel ashamed of my idleness, and yet I have had really no inclination
to do anything but court Livy.  I haven't any other inclination yet.
I have determined not to work as hard traveling, any more, as I did last
winter, and so I have resolved not to lecture outside of the 6 New
England States next winter.  My Western course would easily amount to
$10,000, but I would rather make 2 or 3 thousand in New England than
submit again to so much wearing travel.  (I have promised to talk ten
nights for a thousand dollars in the State of New York, provided the
places are close together.) But after all if I get located in a newspaper
in a way to suit me, in the meantime, I don't want to lecture at all next
winter, and probably shan't.  I most cordially hate the lecture field.
And after all, I shudder to think that I may never get out of it.

In all conversations with Gough, and Anna Dickinson, Nasby, Oliver
Wendell Holmes, Wendell Phillips and the other old stagers, I could not
observe that they ever expected or hoped to get out of the business.
I don't want to get wedded to it as they are.  Livy thinks we can live on
a very moderate sum and that we'll not need to lecture.  I know very well
that she can live on a small allowance, but I am not so sure about
myself.  I can't scare her by reminding her that her father's family
expenses are forty thousand dollars a year, because she produces the
documents at once to show that precious little of this outlay is on her
account.  But I must not commence writing about Livy, else I shall never
stop.  There isn't such another little piece of perfection in the world
as she is.

My time is become so short, now, that I doubt if I get to California this
summer.  If I manage to buy into a paper, I think I will visit you a
while and not go to Cal. at all.  I shall know something about it after
my next trip to Hartford.  We all go there on the l0th--the whole family
--to attend a wedding, on the 17th.  I am offered an interest in a
Cleveland paper which would pay me $2,300 to $2,500 a year, and a salary
added of $3,000.  The salary is fair enough, but the interest is not
large enough, and so I must look a little further.  The Cleveland folks
say they can be induced to do a little better by me, and urge me to come
out and talk business.  But it don't strike me--I feel little or no
inclination to go.

I believe I haven't anything else to write, and it is bed-time.  I want
to write to Orion, but I keep putting it off--I keep putting everything
off.  Day after day Livy and I are together all day long and until 10 at
night, and then I feel dreadfully sleepy.  If Orion will bear with me and
forgive me I will square up with him yet.  I will even let him kiss Livy.

My love to Mollie and Annie and Sammie and all.  Good-bye.
                              Affectionately,
                                                  SAM.


     It is curious, with his tendency to optimism and general expansion
     of futures, that he says nothing of the possible sales of the new
     book, or of his expectations in that line.  It was issued in July,
     and by June the publishers must have had promising advance orders
     from their canvassers; but apparently he includes none of these
     chickens in his financial forecast.  Even when the book had been out
     a full month, and was being shipped at the rate of several hundreds
     a day, he makes no reference to it in a letter to his sister, other
     than to ask if she has not received a copy.  This, however, was a
     Mark Twain peculiarity.  Writing was his trade; the returns from it
     seldom excited him.  It was only when he drifted into strange and
     untried fields that he began to chase rainbows, to blow iridescent
     bubbles, and count unmined gold.


                     To Mrs.  Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                        BUFFALO, Aug. 20, 1869.
MY DEAR SISTER,--I have only time to write a line.  I got your letter
this morning and mailed it to Livy.  She will be expecting me tonight and
I am sorry to disappoint her so, but then I couldn't well get away.  I
will go next Saturday.

I have bundled up Livy's picture and will try and recollect to mail it
tomorrow.  It is a porcelaintype and I think you will like it.

I am sorry I never got to St. Louis, because I may be too busy to go, for
a long time.  But I have been busy all the time and St. Louis is clear
out of the way, and remote from the world and all ordinary routes of
travel.  You must not place too much weight upon this idea of moving the
capital from Washington.  St. Louis is in some respects a better place
for it than Washington, though there isn't more than a toss-up between
the two after all.  One is dead and the other in a trance.  Washington is
in the centre of population and business, while St. Louis is far removed
from both.  And you know there is no geographical centre any more.  The
railroads and telegraph have done away with all that.  It is no longer
a matter of sufficient importance to be gravely considered by thinking
men.  The only centres, now, are narrowed down to those of intelligence,
capital and population. As I said before Washington is the nearest to
those and you don't have to paddle across a river on ferry boats of a
pattern popular in the dark ages to get to it, nor have to clamber up
vilely paved hills in rascally omnibuses along with a herd of all sorts
of people after you are there. Secondly, the removal of the capital is
one of those old, regular, reliable dodges that are the bread-and meat of
back country congressmen.  It is agitated every year.  It always has
been, it always will be; It is not new in any respect.  Thirdly.  The
Capitol has cost $40,000,000 already and lacks a good deal of being
finished, yet.  There are single stones in the Treasury building (and a
good many of them) that cost twenty-seven thousand dollars apiece--and
millions were spent in the construction of that and the Patent Office and
the other great government buildings.  To move to St. Louis, the country
must throw away a hundred millions of capital invested in those
buildings, and go right to work to spend a hundred millions on new
buildings in St. Louis.  Shall we ever have a Congress, a majority of
whose members are hopelessly insane?  Probably not.  But it is possible-
unquestionably such a thing is possible.  Only I don't believe it will
happen in our time; and I am satisfied the capital will not be moved
until it does happen.  But if St. Louis would donate the ground and the
buildings, it would be a different matter.  No, Pamela, I don't see any
good reason to believe you or I will ever see the capital moved.

I have twice instructed the publishers to send you a book--it was the
first thing I did--long before the proofs were finished.  Write me if it
is not yet done.

Livy says we must have you all at our marriage, and I say we can't.
It will be at Christmas or New Years, when such a trip across the country
would be equivalent to murder & arson & everything else.--And it would
cost five hundred dollars--an amount of money she don't know the value of
now, but will before a year is gone.  She grieves over it, poor little
rascal, but it can't be helped.  She must wait awhile, till I am firmly
on my legs, & then she shall see you.  She says her father and mother
will invite you just as soon as the wedding date is definitely fixed,
anyway--& she thinks that's bound to settle it.  But the ice & snow, &
the long hard journey, & the injudiciousness of laying out any money
except what we are obliged to part with while we are so much in debt,
settles the case differently.  For it is a debt.

.....Mr. Langdon is just as good as bound for $25,000 for me, and has
already advanced half of it in cash.  I wrote and asked whether I had
better send him my note, or a due-bill, or how he would prefer to have
the indebtedness made of record and he answered every other topic in the
letter pleasantly but never replied to that at all.  Still, I shall give
my note into the hands of his business agent here, and pay him the
interest as it falls due.  We must "go slow."  We are not in the
Cleveland Herald.  We are a hundred thousand times better off, but there
isn't so much money in it.

(Remainder missing.)


     In spite of the immediate success of his book--a success the like of
     which had scarcely been known in America-Mark Twain held himself to
     be, not a literary man, but a journalist: He had no plans for
     another book; as a newspaper owner and editor he expected, with his
     marriage, to settle down and devote the rest of his life to
     journalism.  The paper was the Buffalo Express; his interest in it
     was one-third--the purchase price, twenty-five thousand dollars, of
     which he had paid a part, Jervis Langdon, his future father-in-law,
     having furnished cash and security for the remainder.  He was
     already in possession in August, but he was not regularly in Buffalo
     that autumn, for he had agreed with Redpath to deliver his Quaker
     City lecture, and the tour would not end until a short time before
     his wedding-day, February 2, 1870.

     Our next letter hardly belongs in this collection; as it was
     doubtless written with at least the possibility of publication in
     view.  But it is too amusing, too characteristic of Mark Twain, to
     be omitted.  It was sent in response to an invitation from the New
     York Society of California Pioneers to attend a banquet given in New
     York City, October 13, 1869, and was, of course, read to the
     assembled diners.


    To the New York Society of California Pioneers, in New York City:

                                        ELMIRA, October 11, 1869.
GENTLEMEN,--Circumstances render it out of my power to take advantage of
the invitation extended to me through Mr. Simonton, and be present at
your dinner at New York.  I regret this very much, for there are several
among you whom I would have a right to join hands with on the score of
old friendship, and I suppose I would have a sublime general right to
shake hands with the rest of you on the score of kinship in California
ups and downs in search of fortune.

If I were to tell some of my experience, you would recognize California
blood in me; I fancy the old, old story would sound familiar, no doubt.
I have the usual stock of reminiscences.  For instance: I went to
Esmeralda early.  I purchased largely in the "Wide West,"  "Winnemucca,"
and other fine claims, and was very wealthy.  I fared sumptuously on
bread when flour was $200 a barrel and had beans for dinner every Sunday,
when none but bloated aristocrats could afford such grandeur.  But I
finished by feeding batteries in a quartz mill at $15 a week, and wishing
I was a battery myself and had somebody to feed me.  My claims in
Esmeralda are there yet.  I suppose I could be persuaded to sell.

I went to Humboldt District when it was new; I became largely interested
in the "Alba Nueva" and other claims with gorgeous names, and was rich
again--in prospect.  I owned a vast mining property there.  I would not
have sold out for less than $400,000 at that time.  But I will now.
Finally I walked home--200 miles partly for exercise, and partly because
stage fare was expensive.  Next I entered upon an affluent career in
Virginia City, and by a judicious investment of labor and the capital of
friends, became the owner of about all the worthless wild cat mines there
were in that part of the country.  Assessments did the business for me
there.  There were a hundred and seventeen assessments to one dividend,
and the proportion of income to outlay was a little against me.  My
financial barometer went down to 32 Fahrenheit, and the subscriber was
frozen out.

I took up extensions on the main lead-extensions that reached to British
America, in one direction, and to the Isthmus of Panama in the other--and
I verily believe I would have been a rich man if I had ever found those
infernal extensions.  But I didn't.  I ran tunnels till I tapped the
Arctic Ocean, and I sunk shafts till I broke through the roof of
perdition; but those extensions turned up missing every time.  I am
willing to sell all that property and throw in the improvements.

Perhaps you remember that celebrated "North Ophir?"  I bought that mine.
It was very rich in pure silver.  You could take it out in lumps as large
as a filbert.  But when it was discovered that those lumps were melted
half dollars, and hardly melted at that, a painful case of "salting" was
apparent, and the undersigned adjourned to the poorhouse again.

I paid assessments on "Hale and Norcross" until they sold me out, and I
had to take in washing for a living--and the next month that infamous
stock went up to $7,000 a foot.

I own millions and millions of feet of affluent silver leads in Nevada--
in fact the entire undercrust of that country nearly, and if Congress
would move that State off my property so that I could get at it, I would
be wealthy yet.  But no, there she squats--and here am I.  Failing health
persuades me to sell.  If you know of any one desiring a permanent
investment, I can furnish one that will have the virtue of being eternal.

I have been through the California mill, with all its "dips, spurs and
angles, variations and sinuosities."  I have worked there at all the
different trades and professions known to the catalogues.  I have been
everything, from a newspaper editor down to a cow-catcher on a
locomotive, and I am encouraged to believe that if there had been a few
more occupations to experiment on, I might have made a dazzling success
at last, and found out what mysterious designs Providence had in creating
me.

But you perceive that although I am not a Pioneer, I have had a
sufficiently variegated time of it to enable me to talk Pioneer like a
native, and feel like a Forty-Niner.  Therefore, I cordially welcome you
to your old-remembered homes and your long deserted firesides, and close
this screed with the sincere hope that your visit here will be a happy
one, and not embittered by the sorrowful surprises that absence and lapse
of years are wont to prepare for wanderers; surprises which come in the
form of old friends missed from their places; silence where familiar
voices should be; the young grown old; change and decay everywhere; home
a delusion and a disappointment; strangers at hearthstone; sorrow where
gladness was; tears for laughter; the melancholy-pomp of death where the
grace of life has been!

With all good wishes for the Returned Prodigals, and regrets that I
cannot partake of a small piece of the fatted calf (rare and no gravy,)
                         I am yours, cordially,
                                        MARK TWAIN.


     In the next letter we find him in the midst of a sort of confusion
     of affairs, which, in one form or another, would follow him
     throughout the rest of his life.  It was the price of his success
     and popularity, combined with his general gift for being concerned
     with a number of things, and a natural tendency for getting into hot
     water, which becomes more evident as the years and letters pass in
     review.  Orion Clemens, in his attempt to save money for the
     government, had employed methods and agents which the officials at
     Washington did not understand, and refused to recognize.  Instead of
     winning the credit and commendation he had expected, he now found
     himself pursued by claims of considerable proportions.  The "land"
     referred to is the Tennessee tract, the heritage which John Clemens
     had provided for his children.  Mark Twain had long since lost faith
     in it, and was not only willing, but eager to renounce his rights.

     "Nasby" is, of course, David R.  Locke, of the Toledo Blade, whose
     popularity at this time both as a lecturer and writer was very
     great.  Clemens had met him here and there on their platform tour,
     and they had become good friends.  Clemens, in fact, had once
     proposed to Nasby a joint trip to the Pacific coast.

     The California idea had been given up, but both Mark Twain and Nasby
     found engagements enough, and sufficient profit east of the
     Mississippi.  Boston was often their headquarters that winter ('69
     and '70), and they were much together.  "Josh Billings," another of
     Redpath's lecturers, was likewise often to be found in the Lyceum
     offices.  There is a photograph of Mark Twain, Nasby, and Josh
     Billings together.

     Clemens also, that winter, met William Dean Howells, then in the
     early days of his association with the Atlantic Monthly.  The two
     men, so widely different, became firm friends at sight, and it was
     to Howells in the years to come that Mark Twain would write more
     letters, and more characteristic letters, than to any other living
     man.  Howells had favorably reviewed 'The Innocents Abroad,' and
     after the first moment of their introduction had passed Clemens
     said: "When I read that review of yours I felt like the woman who
     said that she was so glad that her baby had come white."  It was not
     the sort of thing that Howells would have said, but it was the sort
     of thing that he could understand and appreciate from Mark Twain.

     In company with Nasby Clemens, that season, also met Oliver Wendell
     Holmes.  Later he had sent Holmes a copy of his book and received a
     pleasantly appreciative reply.  "I always like," wrote Holmes, "to
     hear what one of my fellow countrymen, who is not a Hebrew scholar,
     or a reader of hiero-glyphics, but a good-humored traveler with a
     pair of sharp, twinkling Yankee (in the broader sense) eyes in his
     head, has to say about the things that learned travelers often make
     unintelligible, and sentimental ones ridiculous or absurd ....  I
     hope your booksellers will sell a hundred thousand copies of your
     travels."  A wish that was realized in due time, though it is
     doubtful if Doctor Holmes or any one else at the moment believed
     that a book of that nature and price (it was $3.50 a copy) would
     ever reach such a sale.



                      To Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

                                                  BOSTON, Nov. 9, 1869.
MY DEAR SISTER,--Three or four letters just received from home.  My first
impulse was to send Orion a check on my publisher for the money he wants,
but a sober second thought suggested that if he has not defrauded the
government out of money, why pay, simply because the government chooses
to consider him in its debt?  No: Right is right.  The idea don't suit
me.  Let him write the Treasury the state of the case, and tell them he
has no money.  If they make his sureties pay, then I will make the
sureties whole, but I won't pay a cent of an unjust claim.  You talk of
disgrace.  To my mind it would be just as disgraceful to allow one's self
to be bullied into paying that which is unjust.

Ma thinks it is hard that Orion's share of the land should be swept away
just as it is right on the point (as it always has been) of becoming
valuable.  Let her rest easy on that point.  This letter is his ample
authority to sell my share of the land immediately and appropriate the
proceeds--giving no account to me, but repaying the amount to Ma first,
or in case of her death, to you or your heirs, whenever in the future he
shall be able to do it.  Now, I want no hesitation in this matter.  I
renounce my ownership from this date, for this purpose, provided it is
sold just as suddenly as he can sell it.

In the next place--Mr. Langdon is old, and is trying hard to withdraw
from business and seek repose.  I will not burden him with a purchase--
but I will ask him to take full possession of a coal tract of the land
without paying a cent, simply conditioning that he shall mine and throw
the coal into market at his own cost, and pay to you and all of you what
he thinks is a fair portion of the profits accruing--you can do as you
please with the rest of the land.  Therefore, send me (to Elmira,)
information about the coal deposits so framed that he can comprehend the
matter and can intelligently instruct an agent how to find it and go to
work.

Tomorrow night I appear for the first time before a Boston audience--
4,000 critics--and on the success of this matter depends my future
success in New England.  But I am not distressed.  Nasby is in the same
boat.  Tonight decides the fate of his brand-new lecture.  He has just
left my room--been reading his lecture to me--was greatly depressed.  I
have convinced him that he has little to fear.

I get just about five hundred more applications to lecture than I can
possibly fill--and in the West they say "Charge all you please, but
come."  I shan't go West at all.  I stop lecturing the 22d of January,
sure.  But I shall talk every night up to that time.  They flood me with
high-priced invitations to write for magazines and papers, and publishers
besiege me to write books.  Can't do any of these things.

I am twenty-two thousand dollars in debt, and shall earn the money and
pay it within two years--and therefore I am not spending any money except
when it is necessary.

I had my life insured for $10,000 yesterday (what ever became of Mr.
Moffett' s life insurance?) "for the benefit of my natural heirs"--the
same being my mother, for Livy wouldn't claim it, you may be sure of
that.  This has taken $200 out of my pocket which I was going to send to
Ma.  But I will send her some, soon.  Tell Orion to keep a stiff upper
lip--when the worst comes to the worst I will come forward.  Must talk in
Providence, R. I., tonight.  Must leave now.  I thank Mollie and Orion
and the rest for your letters, but you see how I am pushed--ought to have
6 clerks.
                              Affectionately,
                                                  SAM.


     By the end of January, 1870 more than thirty thousand copies of the
     Innocents had been sold, and in a letter to his publisher the author
     expressed his satisfaction.


                      To Elisha Bliss, in Hartford:

                                        ELMIRA, Jan. 28 '70.
FRIEND BLISS,--..... Yes, I am satisfied with the way you are running the
book.  You are running it in staving, tip-top, first-class style.  I
never wander into any corner of the country but I find that an agent has
been there before me, and many of that community have read the book.  And
on an average about ten people a day come and hunt me up to thank me and
tell me I'm a benefactor!  I guess this is a part of the programme we
didn't expect in the first place.

I think you are rushing this book in a manner to be proud of; and you
will make the finest success of it that has ever been made with a
subscription book, I believe.  What with advertising, establishing
agencies, &c., you have got an enormous lot of machinery under way and
hard at work in a wonderfully short space of time.  It is easy to see,
when one travels around, that one must be endowed with a deal of genuine
generalship in order to maneuvre a publication whose line of battle
stretches from end to end of a great continent, and whose foragers and
skirmishers invest every hamlet and besiege every village hidden away in
all the vast space between.

I'll back you against any publisher in America, Bliss--or elsewhere.
                                        Yrs as ever
                                                  CLEMENS.


     There is another letter written just at this time which of all
     letters must not be omitted here.  Only five years earlier Mark
     Twain, poor, and comparatively unknown, had been carrying water
     while Jim Gillis and Dick Stoker washed out the pans of dirt in
     search of the gold pocket which they did not find.  Clemens must
     have received a letter from Gillis referring to some particular
     occasion, but it has disappeared; the reply, however, always
     remained one of James Gillis's treasured possessions.


              To James Gillis, in his cabin on Jackass Hill,
                         Tuolumne Co., California:

                                        ELMIRA, N.Y.  Jan.  26, '70.
DEAR JIM,--I remember that old night just as well! And somewhere among my
relics I have your remembrance stored away.  It makes my heart ache yet
to call to mind some of those days.  Still, it shouldn't--for right in
the depths of their poverty and their pocket-hunting vagabondage lay the
germ of my coming good fortune. You remember the one gleam of jollity
that shot across our dismal sojourn in the rain and mud of Angels' Camp
I mean that day we sat around the tavern stove and heard that chap tell
about the frog and how they filled him with shot.  And you remember how
we quoted from the yarn and laughed over it, out there on the hillside
while you and dear old Stoker panned and washed.  I jotted the story down
in my note-book that day, and would have been glad to get ten or fifteen
dollars for it--I was just that blind.  But then we were so hard up!
I published that story, and it became widely known in America, India,
China, England--and the reputation it made for me has paid me thousands
and thousands of dollars since.  Four or five months ago I bought into
the Express (I have ordered it sent to you as long as you live--and if
the book keeper sends you any bills, you let me hear of it.) I went
heavily in debt never could have dared to do that, Jim, if we hadn't
heard the jumping Frog story that day.

And wouldn't I love to take old Stoker by the hand, and wouldn't I love
to see him in his great specialty, his wonderful rendition of "Rinalds"
in the" Burning Shame!"  Where is Dick and what is he doing?  Give him my
fervent love and warm old remembrances.

A week from today I shall be married to a girl even better, and lovelier
than the peerless "Chapparal Quails."  You can't come so far, Jim, but
still I cordially invite you to come, anyhow--and I invite Dick, too.
And if you two boys were to land here on that pleasant occasion, we would
make you right royally welcome.
                              Truly your friend,
                                        SAML L. CLEMENS.

P. S.  "California plums are good, Jim--particularly when they are
stewed."


     Steve Gillis, who sent a copy of his letter to the writer, added:
     "Dick Stoker--dear, gentle unselfish old Dick-died over three years
     ago, aged 78.  I am sure it will be a melancholy pleasure to Mark to
     know that Dick lived in comfort all his later life, sincerely loved
     and respected by all who knew him.  He never left Jackass Hill.  He
     struck a pocket years ago containing enough not only to build
     himself a comfortable house near his old cabin, but to last him,
     without work, to his painless end.  He was a Mason, and was buried
     by the Order in Sonora.

     "The 'Quails'--the beautiful, the innocent, the wild little Quails--
     lived way out in the Chapparal; on a little ranch near the
     Stanislaus River, with their father and mother.  They were famous
     for their beauty and had many suitors."

     The mention of "California plums" refers to some inedible fruit
     which Gillis once, out of pure goodness of heart, bought of a poor
     wandering squaw, and then, to conceal his motive, declared that they
     were something rare and fine, and persisted in eating them, though
     even when stewed they nearly choked him.




X.

LETTERS 1870-71.  MARK TWAIN IN BUFFALO.  MARRIAGE. THE BUFFALO EXPRESS.
"MEMORANDA."  LECTURES.  A NEW BOOK

     Samuel L. Clemens and Olivia Langdon were married in the Langdon
     home at Elmira, February 2, 1870, and took up their residence in
     Buffalo in a beautiful home, a wedding present from the bride's
     father.  The story of their wedding, and the amusing circumstances
     connected with their establishment in Buffalo, have been told
     elsewhere.--[Mark Twain: A Biography, chap. lxxiv.]

     Mark Twain now believed that he was through with lecturing.  Two
     letters to Redpath, his agent, express his comfortable condition.


                       To James Redpath, in Boston:

                                             BUFFALO, March 22, 1890.
DEAR RED,--I am not going to lecture any more forever.  I have got things
ciphered down to a fraction now.  I know just about what it will cost us
to live and I can make the money without lecturing.  Therefore old man,
count me out.
          Your friend,
                    S.  L.  CLEMENS.


                       To James Redpath, in Boston:

                                   ELMIRA, N. Y.  May 10, 1870.
FRIEND REDPATH,--I guess I am out of the field permanently.

Have got a lovely wife; a lovely house, bewitchingly furnished; a lovely
carriage, and a coachman whose style and dignity are simply awe-
inspiring--nothing less--and I am making more money than necessary--by
considerable, and therefore why crucify myself nightly on the platform.
The subscriber will have to be excused from the present season at least.

Remember me to Nasby, Billings and Fall.--[Redpath's partner in the
lecture lyceum.]--Luck to you!  I am going to print your menagerie,
Parton and all, and make comments.

In next Galaxy I give Nasby's friend and mine from Philadelphia (John
Quill, a literary thief) a "hyste."
                         Yours always and after.
                                                  MARK.


     The reference to the Galaxy in the foregoing letter has to do with a
     department called Memoranda, which he had undertaken to conduct for
     the new magazine.  This work added substantially to his income, and
     he believed it would be congenial.  He was allowed free hand to
     write and print what he chose, and some of his best work at this
     time was published in the new department, which he continued for a
     year.

     Mark Twain now seemed to have his affairs well regulated.  His
     mother and sister were no longer far away in St. Louis.  Soon after
     his marriage they had, by his advice, taken up residence at
     Fredonia, New York, where they could be easily visited from Buffalo.

     Altogether, the outlook seemed bright to Mark Twain and his wife,
     during the first months of their marriage.  Then there came a
     change.  In a letter which Clemens wrote to his mother and sister we
     get the first chapter of disaster.


       To Mrs. Jane Clemens, and Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia, N. Y.:

                                        ELMIRA, N. Y.  June 25, 1870.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--We were called here suddenly by telegram, 3
days ago.  Mr. Langdon is very low.  We have well-nigh lost hope--all of
us except Livy.

Mr. Langdon, whose hope is one of his most prominent characteristics,
says himself, this morning, that his recovery is only a possibility, not
a probability.  He made his will this morning--that is, appointed
executors--nothing else was necessary.  The household is sad enough
Charley is in Bavaria.  We telegraphed Munroe & Co. Paris, to notify
Charley to come home--they sent the message to Munich.  Our message left
here at 8 in the morning and Charley's answer arrived less than eight
hours afterward.  He sailed immediately.

He will reach home two weeks from now.  The whole city is troubled.  As I
write (at the office,) a dispatch arrives from Charley who has reached
London, and will sail thence on 28th.  He wants news.  We cannot send him
any.
                         Affectionately
                                        SAM.

P. S.  I sent $300 to Fredonia Bank for Ma--It is in her name.


     Mrs. Clemens, herself, was not in the best of health at this time,
     but devotion to her father took her to his bedside, where she
     insisted upon standing long, hard watches, the strain of which told
     upon her severely.  Meantime, work must go on; the daily demand of
     the newspaper and the monthly call of the Memoranda could not go
     unheeded.  Also, Bliss wanted a new book, and met Mark Twain at
     Elmira to arrange for it.  In a letter to Orion we learn of this
     project.


                     To Orion Clemens, in St. Louis:

                                             ELMIRA, July 15, 1870
MY DEAR BRO.,--Per contract I must have another 600-page book ready for
my publisher Jan.  z, and I only began it today.  The subject of it is a
secret, because I may possibly change it.  But as it stands, I propose to
do up Nevada and Cal., beginning with the trip across the country in the
stage.  Have you a memorandum of the route we took--or the names of any
of the Stations we stopped at?  Do you remember any of the scenes, names,
incidents or adventures of the coach trip?--for I remember next to
nothing about the matter.  Jot down a foolscap page of items for me.
I wish I could have two days' talk with you.

I suppose I am to get the biggest copyright, this time, ever paid on a
subscription book in this country.

Give our love to Mollie.--Mr. Langdon is very low.
                         Yr Bro
                                   SAM.


     The "biggest copyright," mentioned in this letter, was a royalty of
     7 1/2 per cent., which Bliss had agreed to pay, on the retail price
     of the book.  The book was Roughing It, though this title was not
     decided upon until considerably later.  Orion Clemens eagerly
     furnished a detailed memorandum of the route of their overland
     journey, which brought this enthusiastic acknowledgment:


                     To Orion Clemens, in St. Louis:

                                                  BUF., 1870.
DEAR BRO.,--I find that your little memorandum book is going to be ever
so much use to me, and will enable me to make quite a coherent narrative
of the Plains journey instead of slurring it over and jumping 2,000 miles
at a stride.  The book I am writing will sell.  In return for the use of
the little memorandum book I shall take the greatest pleasure in
forwarding to you the third $1,000 which the publisher of the forthcoming
work sends me or the first $1,000, I am not particular--they will both be
in the first quarterly statement of account from the publisher.
                                   In great haste,
                                                  Yr Obliged Bro.
                                                                 SAM.

Love to Mollie.  We are all getting along tolerably well.


     Mr. Langdon died early in August, and Mrs. Clemens returned to
     Buffalo, exhausted in mind and body.  If she hoped for rest now, in
     the quiet of her own home, she was disappointed, as the two brief
     letters that follow clearly show.


                   To Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia, N. Y.:

                                                  BUFFALO, Aug.  31, 70.
MY DEAR SISTER,--I know I ought to be thrashed for not writing you, but
I have kept putting it off.  We get heaps of letters every day; it is a
comfort to have somebody like you that will let us shirk and be patient
over it.  We got the book and I did think I wrote a line thanking you for
it-but I suppose I neglected it.

We are getting along tolerably well.  Mother [Mrs. Langdon] is here, and
Miss Emma Nye.  Livy cannot sleep since her father's death--but I give
her a narcotic every night and make her.  I am just as busy as I can be--
am still writing for the Galaxy and also writing a book like the
"Innocents" in size and style.  I have got my work ciphered down to days,
and I haven't a single day to spare between this and the date which, by
written contract I am to deliver the M.S. of the book to the publisher.
                             ----In a hurry
                                        Affectionately
                                                  SAM


                     To Orion Clemens, in St, Louis:

                                        BUF.  Sept. 9th, 1870.
MY DEAR BRO,--O here!  I don't want to be consulted at all about Tenn.
I don't want it even mentioned to me.  When I make a suggestion it is for
you to act upon it or throw it aside, but I beseech you never to ask my
advice, opinion or consent about that hated property.  If it was because
I felt the slightest personal interest in the infernal land that I ever
made a suggestion, the suggestion would never be made.

Do exactly as you please with the land--always remember this--that so
trivial a percentage as ten per cent will never sell it.

It is only a bid for a somnambulist.

I have no time to turn round, a young lady visitor (schoolmate of Livy's)
is dying in the house of typhoid fever (parents are in South Carolina)
and the premises are full of nurses and doctors and we are all fagged
out.
                              Yrs.
                                        SAM.


     Miss Nye, who had come to cheer her old schoolmate, had been
     prostrated with the deadly fever soon after her arrival.  Another
     period of anxiety and nursing followed.  Mrs. Clemens, in spite of
     her frail health, devoted much time to her dying friend, until by
     the time the end came she was herself in a precarious condition.
     This was at the end of September.  A little more than a month later,
     November 7th, her first child, Langdon Clemens, was prematurely
     born.  To the Rev. Joseph H. Twichell and wife, of Hartford, Mark
     Twain characteristically announced the new arrival.


         To Rev. Joseph H. Twichell and wife, in Hartford, Conn.:

                                        BUFFALO, Nov 12, '70.
DEAR UNCLE AND AUNT,--I came into the world on the 7th inst., and
consequently am about five days old, now.  I have had wretched health
ever since I made my appearance.  First one thing and then another has
kept me under the weather, and as a general thing I have been chilly and
uncomfortable.

I am not corpulent, nor am I robust in any way.  At birth I only weighed
4 1/2 pounds with my clothes on--and the clothes were the chief feature of
the weight, too, I am obliged to confess.  But I am doing finely,
all things considered.  I was at a standstill for 3 days and a half, but
during the last 24 hours I have gained nearly an ounce, avoirdupois.

They all say I look very old and venerable-and I am aware, myself, that I
never smile.  Life seems a serious thing, what I have seen of it--and my
observation teaches me that it is made up mainly of hiccups, unnecessary
washings, and colic.  But no doubt you, who are old, have long since
grown accustomed and reconciled to what seems to me such a disagreeable
novelty.

My father said, this morning, when my face was in repose and thoughtful,
that I looked precisely as young Edward Twichell of Hartford used to look
some is months ago--chin, mouth, forehead, expression--everything.

My little mother is very bright and cheery, and I guess she is pretty
happy, but I don't know what about.  She laughs a great deal,
notwithstanding she is sick abed.  And she eats a great deal, though she
says that is because the nurse desires it.  And when she has had all the
nurse desires her to have, she asks for more.  She is getting along very
well indeed.

My aunt Susie Crane has been here some ten days or two weeks, but goes
home today, and Granny Fairbanks of Cleveland arrives to take her place.
--[Mrs. Fairbanks, of the Quaker City excursion.]
                                   Very lovingly,
                                             LANGDON CLEMENS.

P. S.  Father said I had better write because you would be more
interested in me, just now, than in the rest of the family.


     Clemens had made the acquaintance of the Rev. Joseph Hopkins
     Twichell and his wife during his several sojourns in Hartford, in
     connection with his book publication, and the two men had
     immediately become firm friends.  Twichell had come to Elmira in
     February to the wedding to assist Rev. Thos. K. Beecher in the
     marriage ceremony.  Joseph Twichell was a devout Christian, while
     Mark Twain was a doubter, even a scoffer, where orthodoxy was
     concerned, yet the sincerity and humanity of the two men drew them
     together; their friendship was lifelong.

     A second letter to Twichell, something more than a month later,
     shows a somewhat improved condition in the Clemens household.


                      To Rev. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             BUF. Dec. 19th, 1870.
DEAR J. H.,--All is well with us, I believe--though for some days the
baby was quite ill.  We consider him nearly restored to health now,
however.  Ask my brother about us--you will find him at Bliss's
publishing office, where he is gone to edit Bliss's new paper--left here
last Monday.  Make his and his wife's acquaintance.  Take Mrs. T. to see
them as soon as they are fixed.

Livy is up, and the prince keeps her busy and anxious these latter days
and nights, but I am a bachelor up stairs and don't have to jump up and
get the soothing syrup--though I would as soon do it as not, I assure
you.  (Livy will be certain to read this letter.)

Tell Harmony (Mrs. T.) that I do hold the baby, and do it pretty handily,
too, although with occasional apprehensions that his loose head will fall
off.  I don't have to quiet him--he hardly ever utters a cry.  He is
always thinking about something.  He is a patient, good little baby.

Smoke?  I always smoke from 3 till 5 Sunday afternoons--and in New York
the other day I smoked a week, day and night.  But when Livy is well I
smoke only those two hours on Sunday.  I'm "boss" of the habit, now, and
shall never let it boss me any more.  Originally, I quit solely on Livy's
account, (not that I believed there was the faintest reason in the
matter, but just as I would deprive myself of sugar in my coffee if she
wished it, or quit wearing socks if she thought them immoral,) and I
stick to it yet on Livy's account, and shall always continue to do so,
without a pang.  But somehow it seems a pity that you quit, for Mrs. T.
didn't mind it if I remember rightly.  Ah, it is turning one's back upon
a kindly Providence to spurn away from us the good creature he sent to
make the breath of life a luxury as well as a necessity, enjoyable as
well as useful, to go and quit smoking when then ain't any sufficient
excuse for it!  Why, my old boy, when they use to tell me I would shorten
my life ten years by smoking, they little knew the devotee they were
wasting their puerile word upon--they little knew how trivial and
valueless I would regard a decade that had no smoking in it!  But I won't
persuade you, Twichell--I won't until I see you again--but then we'll
smoke for a week together, and then shut off again.

I would have gone to Hartford from New York last Saturday, but I got so
homesick I couldn't.  But maybe I'll come soon.

No, Sir, catch me in the metropolis again, to get homesick.

I didn't know Warner had a book out.

We send oceans and continents of love--I have worked myself down, today.
                              Yrs always
                                        MARK.


     With his establishment in Buffalo, Clemens, as already noted, had
     persuaded his sister, now a widow, and his mother, to settle in
     Fredonia, not far away.  Later, he had found a position for Orion,
     as editor of a small paper which Bliss had established.  What with
     these several diversions and the sorrows and sicknesses of his own
     household, we can readily imagine that literary work had been
     performed under difficulties.  Certainly, humorous writing under
     such disturbing conditions could not have been easy, nor could we
     expect him to accept an invitation to be present and make a comic
     speech at an agricultural dinner, even though Horace Greeley would
     preside.  However, he sent to the secretary of the association a
     letter which might be read at the gathering:


       To A.  B.  Crandall, in Woodberry Falls, N. Y., to be read
                       at an agricultural dinner:

                                        BUFFALO, Dec. 26, 1870.
GENTLEMEN,--I thank you very much for your invitation to the Agricultural
dinner, and would promptly accept it and as promptly be there but for the
fact that Mr. Greeley is very busy this month and has requested me to
clandestinely continue for him in The Tribune the articles "What I Know
about Farming."  Consequently the necessity of explaining to the readers
of that journal why buttermilk cannot be manufactured profitably at 8
cents a quart out of butter that costs 60 cents a pound compels my stay
at home until the article is written.
                         With reiterated thanks, I am
                                    Yours truly,
                                             MARK TWAIN.


     In this letter Mark Twain made the usual mistake as to the title of
     the Greeley farming series, "What I Know of Farming" being the
     correct form.

     The Buffalo Express, under Mark Twain's management, had become a
     sort of repository for humorous efforts, often of an indifferent
     order.  Some of these things, signed by nom de plumes, were charged
     to Mark Twain.  When Bret Harte's "Heathen Chinee" devastated the
     country, and was so widely parodied, an imitation of it entitled,
     "Three Aces," and signed "Carl Byng," was printed in the Express.
     Thomas Bailey Aldrich, then editor of Every Saturday, had not met
     Mark Twain, and, noticing the verses printed in the exchanges over
     his signature, was one of those who accepted them as Mark Twain's
     work.  He wrote rather an uncomplimentary note in Every Saturday
     concerning the poem and its authorship, characterizing it as a
     feeble imitation of Bret Harte's "Heathen Chinee."  Clemens promptly
     protested to Aldrich, then as promptly regretted having done so,
     feeling that he was making too much of a small matter.  Hurriedly he
     sent a second brief note.


         To Thomas Bailey Aldrich, editor of "Every Saturday,"
                         Boston, Massachusetts:

                                        BUFFALO, Jan. 22, 1870.
DEAR SIR,--Please do not publish the note I sent you the other day about
"Hy. Slocum's" plagiarism entitled "Three Aces"--it is not important
enough for such a long paragraph.  Webb writes me that he has put in a
paragraph about it, too--and I have requested him to suppress it.  If you
would simply state, in a line and a half under "Literary Notes," that you
mistook one "Hy.  Slocum" (no, it was one "Carl Byng," I perceive) "Carl
Byng" for Mark Twain, and that it was the former who wrote the plagiarism
entitled "Three Aces," I think that would do a fair justice without any
unseemly display.  But it is hard to be accused of plagiarism--a crime I
never have committed in my life.
                              Yrs.  Truly
                                        MARK TWAIN.


     But this came too late.  Aldrich replied that he could not be
     prevented from doing him justice, as forty-two thousand copies of
     the first note, with the editor's apology duly appended, were
     already in press.  He would withdraw his apology in the next number
     of Every Saturday, if Mark Twain said so.  Mark Twain's response
     this time assumed the proportions of a letter.


                   To Thomas Bailey Aldrich, in Boston:

                                   472 DELAWARE ST., BUFFALO, Jan. 28.
DEAR MR. ALDRICH,--No indeed, don't take back the apology!  Hang it, I
don't want to abuse a man's civility merely because he gives me the
chance.

I hear a good deal about doing things on the "spur of the moment"--
I invariably regret the things I do on the spur of the moment.  That
disclaimer of mine was a case in point.  I am ashamed every time I think
of my bursting out before an unconcerned public with that bombastic pow-
wow about burning publishers' letters, and all that sort of imbecility,
and about my not being an imitator, etc.  Who would find out that I am a
natural fool if I kept always cool and never let nature come to the
surface?  Nobody.

But I did hate to be accused of plagiarizing Bret Harte, who trimmed and
trained and schooled me patiently until he changed me from an awkward
utterer of coarse grotesquenesses to a writer of paragraphs and chapters
that have found a certain favor in the eyes of even some of the very
decentest people in the land--and this grateful remembrance of mine ought
to be worth its face, seeing that Bret broke our long friendship a year
ago without any cause or provocation that I am aware of.

Well, it is funny, the reminiscences that glare out from murky corners of
one's memory, now and then, without warning.  Just at this moment a
picture flits before me: Scene--private room in Barnum's Restaurant,
Virginia, Nevada; present, Artemus Ward, Joseph T.  Goodman, (editor and
proprietor Daily "Enterprise"), and "Dan de Quille" and myself, reporters
for same; remnants of the feast thin and scattering, but such tautology
and repetition of empty bottles everywhere visible as to be offensive to
the sensitive eye; time, 2.30 A.M.; Artemus thickly reciting a poem about
a certain infant you wot of, and interrupting himself and being
interrupted every few lines by poundings of the table and shouts of
"Splendid, by Shorzhe!"  Finally, a long, vociferous, poundiferous and
vitreous jingling of applause announces the conclusion, and then Artemus:
"Let every man 'at loves his fellow man and 'preciates a poet 'at loves
his fellow man, stan' up!--Stan' up and drink health and long life to
Thomas Bailey Aldrich!--and drink it stanning!" (On all hands fervent,
enthusiastic, and sincerely honest attempts to comply.) Then Artemus:
"Well--consider it stanning, and drink it just as ye are!"  Which was
done.

You must excuse all this stuff from a stranger, for the present, and when
I see you I will apologize in full.

Do you know the prettiest fancy and the neatest that ever shot through
Harte's brain?  It was this:  When they were trying to decide upon a
vignette for the cover of the Overland, a grizzly bear (of the arms of
the State of California) was chosen.  Nahl Bras. carved him and the page
was printed, with him in it, looking thus: [Rude sketch of a grizzly
bear.]

As a bear, he was a success--he was a good bear--.  But then, it was
objected, that he was an objectless bear--a bear that meant nothing in
particular, signified nothing,--simply stood there snarling over his
shoulder at nothing--and was painfully and manifestly a boorish and ill-
natured intruder upon the fair page.  All hands said that--none were
satisfied.  They hated badly to give him up, and yet they hated as much
to have him there when there was no paint to him.  But presently Harte
took a pencil and drew these two simple lines under his feet and behold
he was a magnificent success!--the ancient symbol of California savagery
snarling at the approaching type of high and progressive Civilization,
the first Overland locomotive!: [Sketch of a small section of railway
track.]

I just think that was nothing less than inspiration itself.

Once more I apologize, and this time I do it "stanning!"
                         Yrs.  Truly
                              SAML. L. CLEMENS.


     The "two simple lines," of course, were the train rails under the
     bear's feet, and completed the striking cover design of the Overland
     monthly.

     The brief controversy over the "Three Aces" was the beginning of
     along and happy friendship between Aldrich and Mark Twain.  Howells,
     Aldrich, Twichell, and Charles Dudley Warner--these were Mark
     Twain's intimates, men that he loved, each for his own special charm
     and worth.

     Aldrich he considered the most brilliant of living men.

     In his reply to Clemens's letter, Aldrich declared that he was glad
     now that, for the sake of such a letter, he had accused him falsely,
     and added:

     "Mem.  Always abuse people.

     "When you come to Boston, if you do not make your presence manifest
     to me, I'll put in a !! in 'Every Saturday' to the effect that
     though you are generally known as Mark Twain your favorite nom de
     plume is 'Barry Gray.'"

     Clemens did not fail to let Aldrich know when he was in Boston
     again, and the little coterie of younger writers forgathered to give
     him welcome.

     Buffalo agreed with neither Mrs. Clemens nor the baby.  What with
     nursing and anguish of mind, Mark Twain found that he could do
     nothing on the new book, and that he must give up his magazine
     department.  He had lost interest in his paper and his surroundings
     in general.  Journalism and authorship are poor yoke-mates.  To
     Onion Clemens, at this time editing Bliss's paper at Hartford, he
     explained the situation.


                      To Onion Clemens, in Hartford:

                                             BUFFALO, 4th 1871.
MY DEAR BRO,--What I wanted of the "Liar" Sketch, was to work it into the
California book--which I shall do.  But day before yesterday I concluded
to go out of the Galaxy on the strength of it, so I have turned it into
the last Memoranda I shall ever write, and published it as a "specimen
chapter" of my forthcoming book.

I have written the Galaxy people that I will never furnish them another
article long or short, for any price but $500.00 cash--and have requested
them not to ask me for contributions any more, even at that price.

I hope that lets them out, for I will stick to that.  Now do try and
leave me clear out of the 'Publisher' for the present, for I am
endangering my reputation by writing too much--I want to get out of the
public view for awhile.

I am still nursing Livy night and day and cannot write anything.  I am
nearly worn out.  We shall go to Elmira ten days hence (if Livy can
travel on a mattress then,) and stay there till I have finished the
California book--say three months.  But I can't begin work right away
when I get there--must have a week's rest, for I have been through 30
days' terrific siege.

That makes it after the middle of March before I can go fairly to work--
and then I'll have to hump myself and not lose a moment.  You and Bliss
just put yourselves in my place and you will see that my hands are full
and more than full.

When I told Bliss in N. Y. that I would write something for the Publisher
I could not know that I was just about to lose fifty days.  Do you see
the difference it makes?  Just as soon as ever I can, I will send some
of the book M.S. but right in the first chapter I have got to alter the
whole style of one of my characters and re-write him clear through to
where I am now.  It is no fool of a job, I can tell you, but the book
will be greatly bettered by it.  Hold on a few days--four or five--and
I will see if I can get a few chapters fixed to send to Bliss.

I have offered this dwelling house and the Express for sale, and when we
go to Elmira we leave here for good.  I shall not select a new home till
the book is finished, but we have little doubt that Hartford will be the
place.

We are almost certain of that.  Ask Bliss how it would be to ship our
furniture to Hartford, rent an upper room in a building and unbox it and
store it there where somebody can frequently look after it.  Is not the
idea good?  The furniture is worth $10,000 or $12,000 and must not be
jammed into any kind of a place and left unattended to for a year.

The first man that offers $25,000 for our house can take it--it cost
that.  What are taxes there?  Here, all bunched together--of all kinds,
they are 7 per cent--simply ruin.

The things you have written in the Publisher are tip-top.
                         In haste,
                                   Yr Bro
                                             SAM


     There are no further letters until the end of April, by which time
     the situation had improved.  Clemens had sold his interest in the
     Express (though at a loss), had severed his magazine connection, and
     was located at Quarry Farm, on a beautiful hilltop above Elmira, the
     home of Mrs. Clemens's sister, Mrs. Theodore Crane.  The pure air
     and rest of that happy place, where they were to spend so many
     idyllic summers, had proved beneficial to the sick ones, and work on
     the new book progressed in consequence.  Then Mark Twain's old
     editor, "Joe" Goodman, came from Virginia City for a visit, and his
     advice and encouragement were of the greatest value.  Clemens even
     offered to engage Goodman on a salary, to remain until he had
     finished his book.  Goodman declined the salary, but extended his
     visit, and Mark Twain at last seems to have found himself working
     under ideal conditions.  He jubilantly reports his progress.


                      To Elisha Bliss, in Hartford:

                                   ELMIRA, Monday.  May 15th 1871
FRIEND BLISS,--Yrs rec'd enclosing check for $703.35  The old "Innocents"
holds out handsomely.

I have MS. enough on hand now, to make (allowing for engravings) about
400 pages of the book--consequently am two-thirds done.  I intended to
run up to Hartford about the middle of the week and take it along;
because it has chapters in it that ought by all means to be in the
prospectus; but I find myself so thoroughly interested in my work, now
(a thing I have not experienced for months) that I can't bear to lose a
single moment of the inspiration.  So I will stay here and peg away as
long as it lasts.  My present idea is to write as much more as I have
already written, and then cull from the mass the very best chapters and
discard the rest.  I am not half as well satisfied with the first part of
the book as I am with what I am writing now.  When I get it done I want
to see the man who will begin to read it and not finish it.  If it falls
short of the "Innocents" in any respect I shall lose my guess.

When I was writing the "Innocents" my daily stunt was 30 pages of MS and
I hardly ever got beyond it; but I have gone over that nearly every day
for the last ten.  That shows that I am writing with a red-hot interest.
Nothing grieves me now--nothing troubles me, nothing bothers me or gets
my attention--I don't think of anything but the book, and I don't have an
hour's unhappiness about anything and don't care two cents whether school
keeps or not.  It will be a bully book.  If I keep up my present lick
three weeks more I shall be able and willing to scratch out half of the
chapters of the Overland narrative--and shall do it.

You do not mention having received my second batch of MS, sent a week or
two ago--about 100 pages.

If you want to issue a prospectus and go right to canvassing, say the
word and I will forward some more MS--or send it by hand--special
messenger.  Whatever chapters you think are unquestionably good, we will
retain of course, so they can go into a prospectus as well one time as
another.  The book will be done soon, now.  I have 1200 pages of MS
already written and am now writing 200 a week--more than that, in fact;
during the past week wrote 23 one day, then 30, 33, 35, 52, and 65.
--How's that?

It will be a starchy book, and should be full of snappy pictures--
especially pictures worked in with the letterpress.  The dedication will
be worth the price of the volume--thus:

                           To the Late Cain.
                        This Book is Dedicated:

Not on account of respect for his memory, for it merits little respect;
not on account of sympathy with him, for his bloody deed placed him
without the pale of sympathy, strictly speaking: but out of a mere human
commiseration for him that it was his misfortune to live in a dark age
that knew not the beneficent Insanity Plea.

I think it will do.
                         Yrs.  CLEMENS.

P. S.--The reaction is beginning and my stock is looking up.  I am
getting the bulliest offers for books and almanacs; am flooded with
lecture invitations, and one periodical offers me $6,000 cash for 12
articles, of any length and on any subject, treated humorously or
otherwise.


     The suggested dedication "to the late Cain" may have been the
     humoristic impulse of the moment.  At all events, it did not
     materialize.

     Clemens's enthusiasm for work was now such that he agreed with
     Redpath to return to the platform that autumn, and he began at once
     writing lectures.  His disposal of the Buffalo paper had left him
     considerably in debt, and platforming was a sure and quick method of
     retrenchment.  More than once in the years ahead Mark Twain would
     return to travel and one-night stands to lift a burden of debt.
     Brief letters to Redpath of this time have an interest and even a
     humor of their own.


                   Letters to James Redpath, in Boston:

                                        ELMIRA, June 27, 1871.
DEAR RED,--Wrote another lecture--a third one-today.  It is the one I am
going to deliver.  I think I shall call it "Reminiscences of Some
Pleasant Characters Whom I Have Met," (or should the "whom" be left out?)
It covers my whole acquaintance--kings, lunatics, idiots and all.
Suppose you give the item a start in the Boston papers.  If I write fifty
lectures I shall only choose one and talk that one only.

No sir: Don't you put that scarecrow (portrait) from the Galaxy in, I
won't stand that nightmare.
                              Yours,
                                        MARK.


                                        ELMIRA, July 10, 1871.
DEAR REDPATH,--I never made a success of a lecture delivered in a church
yet.  People are afraid to laugh in a church.  They can't be made to do
it in any possible way.

Success to Fall's carbuncle and many happy returns.
                              Yours,
                                        MARK.


                         To Mr. Fall, in Boston:

                                        ELMIRA, N. Y. July 20, 1871.
FRIEND FALL,--Redpath tells me to blow up.  Here goes!  I wanted you to
scare Rondout off with a big price.  $125 ain't big.  I got $100 the
first time I ever talked there and now they have a much larger hall.
It is a hard town to get to--I run a chance of getting caught by the ice
and missing next engagement.  Make the price $150 and let them draw out.
                              Yours
                                        MARK


                   Letters to James Redpath, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Tuesday Aug. 8, 1871.
DEAR RED,--I am different from other women; my mind changes oftener.
People who have no mind can easily be steadfast and firm, but when a man
is loaded down to the guards with it, as I am, every heavy sea of
foreboding or inclination, maybe of indolence, shifts the cargo.  See?
Therefore, if you will notice, one week I am likely to give rigid
instructions to confine me to New England; next week, send me to Arizona;
the next week withdraw my name; the next week give you full untrammelled
swing; and the week following modify it.  You must try to keep the run of
my mind, Redpath, it is your business being the agent, and it always was
too many for me.  It appears to me to be one of the finest pieces of
mechanism I have ever met with.  Now about the West, this week, I am
willing that you shall retain all the Western engagements.  But what I
shall want next week is still with God.

Let us not profane the mysteries with soiled hands and prying eyes of
sin.
                              Yours,
                                        MARK.

P. S.  Shall be here 2 weeks, will run up there when Nasby comes.


                                        ELMIRA, N. Y. Sept. 15, 1871.
DEAR REDPATH,--I wish you would get me released from the lecture at
Buffalo.  I mortally hate that society there, and I don't doubt they
hired me.  I once gave them a packed house free of charge, and they never
even had the common politeness to thank me.  They left me to shift for
myself, too, a la Bret Harte at Harvard.  Get me rid of Buffalo!
Otherwise I'll have no recourse left but to get sick the day I lecture
there.  I can get sick easy enough, by the simple process of saying the
word--well never mind what word--I am not going to lecture there.
                              Yours,
                                   MARK.


                                        BUFFALO, Sept. 26, 1871.
DEAR REDPATH,--We have thought it all over and decided that we can't
possibly talk after Feb. 2.

We shall take up our residence in Hartford 6 days from now
                              Yours
                                   MARK.




XI.

LETTERS 1871-72.  REMOVAL TO HARTFORD.  A LECTURE TOUR.  "ROUGHING IT."
FIRST LETTER TO HOWELLS

     The house they had taken in Hartford was the Hooker property on
     Forest Street, a handsome place in a distinctly literary
     neighborhood.  Harriet Beecher Stowe, Charles Dudley Warner, and
     other well-known writers were within easy walking distance; Twichell
     was perhaps half a mile away.

     It was the proper environment for Mark Twain.  He settled his little
     family there, and was presently at Redpath's office in Boston, which
     was a congenial place, as we have seen before.  He did not fail to
     return to the company of Nasby, Josh Billings, and those others of
     Redpath's "attractions" as long and as often as distance would
     permit.  Bret Harte, who by this time had won fame, was also in
     Boston now, and frequently, with Howells, Aldrich, and Mark Twain,
     gathered in some quiet restaurant corner for a luncheon that lasted
     through a dim winter afternoon--a period of anecdote, reminiscence,
     and mirth.  They were all young then, and laughed easily.  Howells,
     has written of one such luncheon given by Ralph Keeler, a young
     Californian--a gathering at which James T. Fields was present
     "Nothing remains to me of the happy time but a sense of idle and
     aimless and joyful talk-play, beginning and ending nowhere, of eager
     laughter, of countless good stories from Fields, of a heat-lightning
     shimmer of wit from Aldrich, of an occasional concentration of our
     joint mockeries upon our host, who took it gladly."

     But a lecture circuit cannot be restricted to the radius of Boston.
     Clemens was presently writing to Redpath from Washington and points
     farther west.


                       To James Redpath, in Boston:

                                   WASHINGTON, Tuesday, Oct. 28, 1871.
DEAR RED,--I have come square out, thrown "Reminiscences" overboard, and
taken "Artemus Ward, Humorist," for my subject.  Wrote it here on Friday
and Saturday, and read it from MS last night to an enormous house.  It
suits me and I'll never deliver the nasty, nauseous "Reminiscences" any
more.
                              Yours,
                                   MARK.


     The Artemus Ward lecture lasted eleven days, then he wrote:


                     To Redpath and Fall, in Boston:

                                   BUFFALO DEPOT, Dec. 8, 1871.
REDPATH & FALL, BOSTON,--Notify all hands that from this time I shall
talk nothing but selections from my forthcoming book "Roughing It."
Tried it last night.  Suits me tip-top.
                                   SAM'L L. CLEMENS.


     The Roughing It chapters proved a success, and continued in high
     favor through the rest of the season.


                       To James Redpath, in Boston:

                                   LOGANSPORT, IND.  Jan. 2, 1872.
FRIEND REDPATH,--Had a splendid time with a splendid audience in
Indianapolis last night--a perfectly jammed house, just as I have had all
the time out here.  I like the new lecture but I hate the "Artemus Ward"
talk and won't talk it any more.  No man ever approved that choice of
subject in my hearing, I think.

Give me some comfort.  If I am to talk in New York am I going to have a
good house?  I don't care now to have any appointments cancelled.  I'll
even "fetch" those Dutch Pennsylvanians with this lecture.

Have paid up $4000 indebtedness.  You are the, last on my list.  Shall
begin to pay you in a few days and then I shall be a free man again.
                              Yours,
                                        MARK.


     With his debts paid, Clemens was anxious to be getting home.  Two
     weeks following the above he wrote Redpath that he would accept no
     more engagements at any price, outside of New England, and added,
     "The fewer engagements I have from this time forth the better I
     shall be pleased."  By the end of February he was back in Hartford,
     refusing an engagement in Boston, and announcing to Redpath, "If I
     had another engagement I'd rot before I'd fill it."  From which we
     gather that he was not entirely happy in the lecture field.

     As a matter of fact, Mark Twain loathed the continuous travel and
     nightly drudgery of platform life.  He was fond of entertaining, and
     there were moments of triumph that repaid him for a good deal, but
     the tyranny of a schedule and timetables was a constant
     exasperation.

     Meantime, Roughing It had appeared and was selling abundantly.  Mark
     Twain, free of debt, and in pleasant circumstances, felt that the
     outlook was bright.  It became even more so when, in March, the
     second child, a little girl, Susy, was born, with no attending
     misfortunes.  But, then, in the early summer little Langdon died.
     It was seldom, during all of Mark Twain's life, that he enjoyed more
     than a brief period of unmixed happiness.

     It was in June of that year that Clemens wrote his first letter to
     William Dean Howells the first of several hundred that would follow
     in the years to come, and has in it something that is characteristic
     of nearly all the Clemens-Howells letters--a kind of tender
     playfulness that answered to something in Howells's make-up, his
     sense of humor, his wide knowledge of a humanity which he pictured
     so amusingly to the world.


                   To William Dean Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, June 15, 1872.
FRIEND HOWELLS,--Could you tell me how I could get a copy of your
portrait as published in Hearth and Home?  I hear so much talk about it
as being among the finest works of art which have yet appeared in that
journal, that I feel a strong desire to see it.  Is it suitable for
framing?  I have written the publishers of H & H time and again, but they
say that the demand for the portrait immediately exhausted the edition
and now a copy cannot be had, even for the European demand, which has now
begun.  Bret Harte has been here, and says his family would not be
without that portrait for any consideration.  He says his children get up
in the night and yell for it.  I would give anything for a copy of that
portrait to put up in my parlor.  I have Oliver Wendell Holmes and Bret
Harte's, as published in Every Saturday, and of all the swarms that come
every day to gaze upon them none go away that are not softened and
humbled and made more resigned to the will of God.  If I had yours to put
up alongside of them, I believe the combination would bring more souls to
earnest reflection and ultimate conviction of their lost condition, than
any other kind of warning would.  Where in the nation can I get that
portrait?  Here are heaps of people that want it,--that need it.  There
is my uncle.  He wants a copy.  He is lying at the point of death.  He
has been lying at the point of death for two years.  He wants a copy--and
I want him to have a copy.  And I want you to send a copy to the man that
shot my dog.  I want to see if he is dead to every human instinct.

Now you send me that portrait.  I am sending you mine, in this letter;
and am glad to do it, for it has been greatly admired.  People who are
judges of art, find in the execution a grandeur which has not been
equalled in this country, and an expression which has not been approached
in any.
                                   Yrs truly,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.

P. S.  62,000 copies of "Roughing It" sold and delivered in 4 months.


     The Clemens family did not spend the summer at Quarry Farm that
     year.  The sea air was prescribed for Mrs. Clemens and the baby, and
     they went to Saybrook, Connecticut, to Fenwick Hall.  Clemens wrote
     very little, though he seems to have planned Tom Sawyer, and perhaps
     made its earliest beginning, which was in dramatic form.

     His mind, however, was otherwise active.  He was always more or less
     given to inventions, and in his next letter we find a description of
     one which he brought to comparative perfection.

     He had also conceived the idea of another book of travel, and this
     was his purpose of a projected trip to England.


                      To Orion Clemens, in Hartford:

                                        FENWICK HALL, SAYBROOK, CONN.
                                        Aug. 11, 1872.
MY DEAR BRO.--I shall sail for England in the Scotia, Aug. 21.

But what I wish to put on record now, is my new invention--hence this
note, which you will preserve.  It is this--a self-pasting scrap-book
--good enough idea if some juggling tailor does not come along and ante-
date me a couple of months, as in the case of the elastic veststrap.

The nuisance of keeping a scrap-book is:  1.  One never has paste or gum
tragacanth handy;  2.  Mucilage won't stick, or stay, 4 weeks;
3.  Mucilage sucks out the ink and makes the scraps unreadable;
4.  To daub and paste 3 or 4 pages of scraps is tedious, slow, nasty and
tiresome.  My idea is this: Make a scrap-book with leaves veneered or
coated with gum-stickum of some kind; wet the page with sponge, brush,
rag or tongue, and dab on your scraps like postage stamps.

Lay on the gum in columns of stripes.

Each stripe of gum the length of say 20 ems, small pica, and as broad as
your finger; a blank about as broad as your finger between each 2
stripes--so in wetting the paper you need not wet any more of the gum
than your scrap or scraps will cover--then you may shut up the book and
the leaves won't stick together.

Preserve, also, the envelope of this letter--postmark ought to be good
evidence of the date of this great humanizing and civilizing invention.

I'll put it into Dan Slote's hands and tell him he must send you all over
America, to urge its use upon stationers and booksellers--so don't buy
into a newspaper.  The name of this thing is "Mark Twain's Self-Pasting
Scrapbook."

All well here.  Shall be up a P. M.  Tuesday.  Send the carriage.
                                   Yr Bro.
                                             S.  L.  CLEMENS.


     The Dan Slote of this letter is, of course, his old Quaker City
     shipmate, who was engaged in the blank-book business, the firm being
     Slote & Woodman, located at 119 and 121 William Street, New York.




XII.

LETTERS 1872-73.  MARK TWAIN IN ENGLAND.  LONDON HONORS.  ACQUAINTANCE
WITH DR. JOHN BROWN.  A LECTURE TRIUMPH.  "THE GILDED AGE"

     Clemens did, in fact, sail for England on the given date, and was
     lavishly received there.  All literary London joined in giving him a
     good time.  He had not as yet been received seriously by the older
     American men of letters, but England made no question as to his
     title to first rank.  Already, too, they classified him as of the
     human type of Lincoln, and reveled in him without stint.  Howells
     writes: "In England, rank, fashion, and culture rejoiced in him.
     Lord Mayors, Lord Chief justices, and magnates of many kinds were
     his hosts."

     He was treated so well and enjoyed it all so much that he could not
     write a book--the kind of book he had planned.  One could not poke
     fun at a country or a people that had welcomed him with open arms.
     He made plenty of notes, at first, but presently gave up the book
     idea and devoted himself altogether to having a good time.

     He had one grievance--a publisher by the name of Hotten, a sort of
     literary harpy, of which there were a great number in those days of
     defective copyright, not merely content with pilfering his early
     work, had reprinted, under the name of Mark Twain, the work of a
     mixed assortment of other humorists, an offensive volume bearing the
     title, Screamers and Eye-openers, by Mark Twain.

     They besieged him to lecture in London, and promised him overflowing
     houses.  Artemus Ward, during his last days, had earned London by
     storm with his platform humor, and they promised Mark Twain even
     greater success.  For some reason, however, he did not welcome the
     idea; perhaps there was too much gaiety.  To Mrs. Clemens he wrote:


                      To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford:

                                             LONDON, Sep. 15, 1872.
Livy, darling, everybody says lecture-lecture-lecture--but I have not the
least idea of doing it--certainly not at present.  Mr. Dolby, who took
Dickens to America, is coming to talk business to me tomorrow, though I
have sent him word once before, that I can't be hired to talk here,
because I have no time to spare.

There is too much sociability--I do not get along fast enough with work.
Tomorrow I lunch with Mr. Toole and a Member of Parliament--Toole is the
most able Comedian of the day.  And then I am done for a while.  On
Tuesday I mean to hang a card to my keybox, inscribed--"Gone out of the
City for a week"--and then I shall go to work and work hard.  One can't
be caught in a hive of 4,000,000 people, like this.

I have got such a perfectly delightful razor.  I have a notion to buy
some for Charley, Theodore and Slee--for I know they have no such razors
there.  I have got a neat little watch-chain for Annie--$20.

I love you my darling.  My love to all of you.
                                                  SAML.


     That Mark Twain should feel and privately report something of his
     triumphs we need not wonder at.  Certainly he was never one to give
     himself airs, but to have the world's great literary center paying
     court to him, who only ten years before had been penniless and
     unknown, and who once had been a barefoot Tom Sawyer in Hannibal,
     was quite startling.  It is gratifying to find evidence of human
     weakness in the following heart-to-heart letter to his publisher,
     especially in view of the relating circumstances.


                      To Elisha Bliss, in Hartford:

                                             LONDON, Sept. 28, 1872.
FRIEND BLISS,--I have been received in a sort of tremendous way, tonight,
by the brains of London, assembled at the annual dinner of the Sheriffs
of London--mine being (between you and me) a name which was received with
a flattering outburst of spontaneous applause when the long list of
guests was called.

I might have perished on the spot but for the friendly support and
assistance of my excellent friend Sir John Bennett--and I want you to
paste the enclosed in a couple of the handsomest copies of the
"Innocents" and "Roughing It," and send them to him.  His address is

          "Sir John Bennett,
               Cheapside,
                    London."
                         Yrs Truly
                              S. L. CLEMENS.


     The "relating circumstances" were these: At the abovementioned
     dinner there had been a roll-call of the distinguished guests
     present, and each name had been duly applauded.  Clemens, conversing
     in a whisper with his neighbor, Sir John Bennett, did not give very
     close attention to the names, applauding mechanically with the
     others.

     Finally, a name was read that brought out a vehement hand-clapping.
     Mark Twain, not to be outdone in cordiality, joined vigorously, and
     kept his hands going even after the others finished.  Then,
     remarking the general laughter, he whispered to Sir John: "Whose
     name was that we were just applauding?"

     "Mark Twain's."

     We may believe that the "friendly support" of Sir John Bennett was
     welcome for the moment.  But the incident could do him no harm; the
     diners regarded it as one of his jokes, and enjoyed him all the more
     for it.

     He was ready to go home by November, but by no means had he had
     enough of England.  He really had some thought of returning there
     permanently.  In a letter to Mrs. Crane, at Quarry Farm, he wrote:

     "If you and Theodore will come over in the Spring with Livy and me,
     and spend the summer you will see a country that is so beautiful
     that you will be obliged to believe in Fairyland..... and Theodore
     can browse with me among dusty old dens that look now as they looked
     five hundred years ago; and puzzle over books in the British Museum
     that were made before Christ was born; and in the customs of their
     public dinners, and the ceremonies of every official act, and the
     dresses of a thousand dignitaries, trace the speech and manners of
     all the centuries that have dragged their lagging decades over
     England since the Heptarchy fell asunder.  I would a good deal
     rather live here if I could get the rest of you over."

     In a letter home, to his mother and sister, we get a further picture
     of his enjoyment.


                  To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett:

                                             LONDON, Nov. 6, 1872.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I have been so everlasting busy that I
couldn't write--and moreover I have been so unceasingly lazy that I
couldn't have written anyhow.  I came here to take notes for a book, but
I haven't done much but attend dinners and make speeches.  But have had a
jolly good time and I do hate to go away from these English folks; they
make a stranger feel entirely at home--and they laugh so easily that it
is a comfort to make after-dinner speeches here.  I have made hundreds of
friends; and last night in the crush of the opening of the New Guild-hall
Library and Museum, I was surprised to meet a familiar face every few
steps.  Nearly 4,000 people, of both sexes, came and went during the
evening, so I had a good opportunity to make a great many new
acquaintances.

Livy is willing to come here with me next April and stay several months
--so I am going home next Tuesday.  I would sail on Saturday, but that is
the day of the Lord Mayor's annual grand state dinner, when they say 900
of the great men of the city sit down to table, a great many of them in
their fine official and court paraphernalia, so I must not miss it.
However, I may yet change my mind and sail Saturday.  I am looking at a
fine Magic lantern which will cost a deal of money, and if I buy it Sammy
may come and learn to make the gas and work the machinery, and paint
pictures for it on glass.  I mean to give exhibitions for charitable
purposes in Hartford, and charge a dollar a head.
                    In a hurry,
                              Ys affly
                                        SAM.


     He sailed November 12th on the Batavia, arriving in New York two
     weeks later.  There had been a presidential election in his absence.
     General Grant had defeated Horace Greeley, a result, in some measure
     at least, attributed to the amusing and powerful pictures of the
     cartoonist, Thomas Nast.  Mark Twain admired Greeley's talents, but
     he regarded him as poorly qualified for the nation's chief
     executive.  He wrote:


                    To Th. Nast, in Morristown, N. J.:

                                             HARTFORD, Nov. 1872.
Nast, you more than any other man have won a prodigious victory for
Grant--I mean, rather, for civilization and progress.  Those pictures
were simply marvelous, and if any man in the land has a right to hold his
head up and be honestly proud of his share in this year's vast events
that man is unquestionably yourself.  We all do sincerely honor you, and
are proud of you.
                                   MARK TWAIN.


     Perhaps Mark Twain was too busy at this time to write letters.  His
     success in England had made him more than ever popular in America,
     and he could by no means keep up with the demands on him.  In
     January he contributed to the New York Tribune some letters on the
     Sandwich Islands, but as these were more properly articles they do
     not seem to belong here.

     He refused to go on the lecture circuit, though he permitted Redpath
     to book him for any occasional appearance, and it is due to one of
     these special engagements that we have the only letter preserved
     from this time.  It is to Howells, and written with that
     exaggeration with which he was likely to embellish his difficulties.
     We are not called upon to believe that there were really any such
     demonstrations as those ascribed to Warner and himself.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                   FARMINGTON AVE, Hartford Feb. 27.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I am in a sweat and Warner is in another.  I told
Redpath some time ago I would lecture in Boston any two days he might
choose provided they were consecutive days--

I never dreamed of his choosing days during Lent since that was his
special horror--but all at once he telegraphs me, and hollers at me in
ail manner of ways that I am booked for Boston March 5 of all days in the
year--and to make matters just as mixed and uncertain as possible, I
can't find out to save my life whether he means to lecture me on the 6th
or not.

Warner's been in here swearing like a lunatic, and saying he had written
you to come on the 4th,--and I said, "You leather-head, if I talk in
Boston both afternoon and evening March 5, I'll have to go to Boston the
4th,"--and then he just kicked up his heels and went off cursing after a
fashion I never heard of before.

Now let's just leave this thing to Providence for 24 hours--you bet it
will come out all right.
                                   Yours ever
                                             MARK.


     He was writing a book with Warner at this time--The Gilded Age--
     the two authors having been challenged by their wives one night at
     dinner to write a better book than the current novels they had been
     discussing with some severity.  Clemens already had a story in his
     mind, and Warner agreed to collaborate in the writing.  It was begun
     without delay.  Clemens wrote the first three hundred and ninety-
     nine pages, and read there aloud to Warner, who took up the story at
     this point and continued it through twelve chapters, after which
     they worked alternately, and with great enjoyment.  They also worked
     rapidly, and in April the story was completed.  For a collaboration
     by two men so different in temperament and literary method it was a
     remarkable performance.

     Another thing Mark Twain did that winter was to buy some land on
     Farmington Avenue and begin the building of a home.  He had by no
     means given up returning to England, and made his plans to sail with
     Mrs. Clemens and Susy in May.  Miss Clara Spaulding, of Elmira--
     [Later Mrs. John B. Stanchfield, of New York.]--a girlhood friend of
     Mrs. Clemens--was to accompany them.

     The Daily Graphic heard of the proposed journey, and wrote, asking
     for a farewell word.  His characteristic reply is the only letter of
     any kind that has survived from that spring.


         To the Editor of "The Daily Graphic," in New York City:

                                        HARTFORD, Apl. 17, 1873.
ED. GRAPHIC,--Your note is received.  If the following two lines which I
have cut from it are your natural handwriting, then I understand you to
ask me "for a farewell letter in the name of the American people."  Bless
you, the joy of the American people is just a little premature; I haven't
gone yet.  And what is more, I am not going to stay, when I do go.

Yes, it is true.  I am only going to remain beyond the sea, six months,
that is all.  I love stir and excitement; and so the moment the spring
birds begin to sing, and the lagging weariness of summer to threaten,
I grow restless, I get the fidgets; I want to pack off somewhere where
there's something going on.  But you know how that is--you must have felt
that way.  This very day I saw the signs in the air of the coming
dullness, and I said to myself, "How glad I am that I have already
chartered a steamship!"  There was absolutely nothing in the morning
papers.  You can see for yourself what the telegraphic headings were:

     BY TELEGRAPH

A Father Killed by His Son

A Bloody Fight in Kentucky

A Court House Fired, and
Negroes Therein Shot
while Escaping

A Louisiana Massacre

An Eight-year-old murderer
Two to Three Hundred Men Roasted Alive!

A Town in a State of General Riot

A Lively Skirmish in Indiana
(and thirty other similar headings.)

The items under those headings all bear date yesterday, Apl. 16 (refer to
your own paper)--and I give you my word of honor that that string of
commonplace stuff was everything there was in the telegraphic columns
that a body could call news.  Well, said I to myself this is getting
pretty dull; this is getting pretty dry; there don't appear to be
anything going on anywhere; has this progressive nation gone to sleep?
Have I got to stand another month of this torpidity before I can begin to
browse among the lively capitals of Europe?

But never mind-things may revive while I am away.  During the last two
months my next-door neighbor, Chas. Dudley Warner, has dropped his "Back-
Log Studies," and he and I have written a bulky novel in partnership.
He has worked up the fiction and I have hurled in the facts.  I consider
it one of the most astonishing novels that ever was written.  Night after
night I sit up reading it over and over again and crying.  It will be
published early in the Fall, with plenty of pictures.  Do you consider
this an advertisement?--and if so, do you charge for such things when a
man is your friend?
                         Yours truly,
                                   SAML.  L.  CLEMENS,
                                   "MARK TWAIN,"


     An amusing, even if annoying, incident happened about the time of
     Mark Twain's departure.  A man named Chew related to Twichell a most
     entertaining occurrence.  Twichell saw great possibilities in it,
     and suggested that Mark Twain be allowed to make a story of it,
     sharing the profits with Chew.  Chew agreed, and promised to send
     the facts, carefully set down.  Twichell, in the mean time, told the
     story to Clemens, who was delighted with it and strongly tempted to
     write it at once, while he was in the spirit, without waiting on
     Chew.  Fortunately, he did not do so, for when Chew's material came
     it was in the form of a clipping, the story having been already
     printed in some newspaper.  Chew's knowledge of literary ethics
     would seem to have been slight.  He thought himself entitled to
     something under the agreement with Twichell.  Mark Twain, by this
     time in London, naturally had a different opinion.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                                  LONDON, June 9, '73.
DEAR OLD JOE,--I consider myself wholly at liberty to decline to pay Chew
anything, and at the same time strongly tempted to sue him into the
bargain for coming so near ruining me.  If he hadn't happened to send me
that thing in print, I would have used the story (like an innocent fool)
and would straightway have been hounded to death as a plagiarist.  It
would have absolutely destroyed me. I cannot conceive of a man being such
a hopeless ass (after serving as a legislative reporter, too) as to
imagine that I or any other literary man in his senses would consent to
chew over old stuff that had already been in print.  If that man wern't
an infant in swaddling clothes, his only reply to our petition would have
been, "It has been in print."  It makes me as mad as the very Old Harry
every time I think of Mr. Chew and the frightfully narrow escape I have
had at his hands.  Confound Mr. Chew, with all my heart!  I'm willing
that he should have ten dollars for his trouble of warming over his cold
victuals--cheerfully willing to that--but no more.  If I had had him near
when his letter came, I would have got out my tomahawk and gone for him.
He didn't tell the story half as well as you did, anyhow.

I wish to goodness you were here this moment--nobody in our parlor but
Livy and me,--and a very good view of London to the fore.  We have a
luxuriously ample suite of apartments in the Langham Hotel, 3rd floor,
our bedroom looking straight up Portland Place and our parlor having a
noble array of great windows looking out upon both streets (Portland
Place and the crook that joins it to Regent Street.)

9 P.M.  Full twilight--rich sunset tints lingering in the west.

I am not going to write anything--rather tell it when I get back.  I love
you and Harmony, and that is all the fresh news I've got, anyway.  And I
mean to keep that fresh all the time.
                                   Lovingly
                                             MARK.

P. S.--Am luxuriating in glorious old Pepy's Diary, and smoking.


     Letters are exceedingly scarce through all this period.  Mark Twain,
     now on his second visit to London, was literally overwhelmed with
     honors and entertainment; his rooms at the Langham were like a
     court.  Such men as Robert Browning, Turgenieff, Sir John Millais,
     and Charles Kingsley hastened to call.  Kingsley and others gave him
     dinners.  Mrs. Clemens to her sister wrote: "It is perfectly
     discouraging to try to write you."

     The continuous excitement presently told on her.  In July all
     further engagements were canceled, and Clemens took his little
     family to Scotland, for quiet and rest.  They broke the journey at
     York, and it was there that Mark Twain wrote the only letter
     remaining from this time.


       Part of a letter to Mrs. Jervis Langdon, of Elmira, N.  Y.:

For the present we shall remain in this queer old walled town, with its
crooked, narrow lanes, that tell us of their old day that knew no wheeled
vehicles; its plaster-and-timber dwellings, with upper stories far
overhanging the street, and thus marking their date, say three hundred
years ago; the stately city walls, the castellated gates, the ivy-grown,
foliage-sheltered, most noble and picturesque ruin of St. Mary's Abbey,
suggesting their date, say five hundred years ago, in the heart of
Crusading times and the glory of English chivalry and romance; the vast
Cathedral of York, with its worn carvings and quaintly pictured windows,
preaching of still remoter days; the outlandish names of streets and
courts and byways that stand as a record and a memorial, all these
centuries, of Danish dominion here in still earlier times; the hint here
and there of King Arthur and his knights and their bloody fights with
Saxon oppressors round about this old city more than thirteen hundred
years gone by; and, last of all, the melancholy old stone coffins and
sculptured inscriptions, a venerable arch and a hoary tower of stone that
still remain and are kissed by the sun and caressed by the shadows every
day, just as the sun and the shadows have kissed and caressed them every
lagging day since the Roman Emperor's soldiers placed them here in the
times when Jesus the Son of Mary walked the streets of Nazareth a youth,
with no more name or fame than the Yorkshire boy who is loitering down
this street this moment.

     Their destination was Edinburgh, where they remained a month.  Mrs.
     Clemens's health gave way on their arrival there, and her husband,
     knowing the name of no other physician in the place, looked up Dr.
     John Brown, author of Rab and His Friends, and found in him not only
     a skilful practitioner, but a lovable companion, to whom they all
     became deeply attached.  Little Susy, now seventeen months old,
     became his special favorite.  He named her Megalops, because of her
     great eyes.

     Mrs. Clemens regained her strength and they returned to London.
     Clemens, still urged to lecture, finally agreed with George Dolby to
     a week's engagement, and added a promise that after taking his wife
     and daughter back to America he would return immediately for a more
     extended course.  Dolby announced him to appear at the Queen's
     Concert Rooms, Hanover Square, for the week of October 13-18, his
     lecture to be the old Sandwich Islands talk that seven years before
     had brought him his first success.  The great hall, the largest in
     London, was thronged at each appearance, and the papers declared
     that Mark Twain had no more than "whetted the public appetite" for
     his humor.  Three days later, October 1873, Clemens, with his
     little party, sailed for home.  Half-way across the ocean he wrote
     the friend they had left in Scotland:


                     To Dr. John Brown, in Edinburgh:

                                        MID-ATLANTIC, Oct. 30, 1873.
OUR DEAR FRIEND THE DOCTOR,--We have plowed a long way over the sea,
and there's twenty-two hundred miles of restless water between us, now,
besides the railway stretch.  And yet you are so present with us, so
close to us that a span and a whisper would bridge the distance.

The first three days were stormy, and wife, child, maid, and Miss
Spaulding were all sea-sick 25 hours out of the 24, and I was sorry I
ever started.  However, it has been smooth, and balmy, and sunny and
altogether lovely for a day or two now, and at night there is a broad
luminous highway stretching over the sea to the moon, over which the
spirits of the sea are traveling up and down all through the secret night
and having a genuine good time, I make no doubt.

Today they discovered a "collie" on board!  I find (as per advertisement
which I sent you) that they won't carry dogs in these ships at any price.
This one has been concealed up to this time.  Now his owner has to pay
L10 or heave him overboard.  Fortunately the doggie is a performing
doggie and the money will be paid.  So after all it was just as well you
didn't intrust your collie to us.

A poor little child died at midnight and was buried at dawn this morning
--sheeted and shotted, and sunk in the middle of the lonely ocean in
water three thousand fathoms deep.  Pity the poor mother.
                                        With our love.
                                                  S. L. CLEMENS.


     Mark Twain was back in London, lecturing again at the Queen's
     Concert Rooms, after barely a month's absence.  Charles Warren
     Stoddard, whom he had known in California, shared his apartment at
     the Langham, and acted as his secretary--a very necessary office,
     for he was besieged by callers and bombarded with letters.

     He remained in London two months, lecturing steadily at Hanover
     Square to full houses.  It is unlikely that there is any other
     platform record to match it.  One letter of this period has been
     preserved.  It is written to Twichell, near the end of his
     engagement.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             LONDON, Jan. 5 1874.
MY DEAR OLD JOE,--I knew you would be likely to graduate into an ass if
I came away; and so you have--if you have stopped smoking.  However, I
have a strong faith that it is not too late, yet, and that the
judiciously managed influence of a bad example will fetch you back again.

I wish you had written me some news--Livy tells me precious little.  She
mainly writes to hurry me home and to tell me how much she respects me:
but she's generally pretty slow on news.  I had a letter from her along
with yours, today, but she didn't tell me the book is out.  However, it's
all right.  I hope to be home 20 days from today, and then I'll see her,
and that will make up for a whole year's dearth of news.  I am right down
grateful that she is looking strong and "lovelier than ever."  I only
wish I could see her look her level best, once--I think it would be a
vision.

I have just spent a good part of this day browsing through the Royal
Academy Exhibition of Landseer's paintings.  They fill four or five great
salons, and must number a good many hundreds.  This is the only
opportunity ever to see them, because the finest of them belong to the
queen and she keeps them in her private apartments.  Ah, they're
wonderfully beautiful!  There are such rich moonlights and dusks in "The
Challenge" and "The Combat;" and in that long flight of birds across a
lake in the subdued flush of sunset (or sunrise--for no man can ever tell
tother from which in a picture, except it has the filmy morning mist
breathing itself up from the water).  And there is such a grave
analytical profundity in the faces of "The Connoisseurs;" and such pathos
in the picture of the fawn suckling its dead mother, on a snowy waste,
with only the blood in the footprints to hint that she is not asleep.
And the way he makes animals absolute flesh and blood--insomuch that if
the room were darkened ever so little and a motionless living animal
placed beside a painted one, no man could tell which was which.

I interrupted myself here, to drop a line to Shirley Brooks and suggest
a cartoon for Punch.  It was this.  In one of the Academy salons (in the
suite where these pictures are), a fine bust of Landseer stands on a
pedestal in the centre of the room.  I suggest that some of Landseer's
best known animals be represented as having come down out of their frames
in the moonlight and grouped themselves about the bust in mourning
attitudes.

Well, old man, I am powerful glad to hear from you and shall be powerful
glad to see you and Harmony.  I am not going to the provinces because I
cannot get halls that are large enough.  I always felt cramped in Hanover
Square Rooms, but I find that everybody here speaks with awe and respect
of that prodigious place, and wonder that I could fill it so long.

I am hoping to be back in 20 days, but I have so much to go home to and
enjoy with a jubilant joy, that it seems hardly possible that it can ever
come to pass in so uncertain a world as this.

I have read the novel--[The Gilded Age, published during his absence,
December, 1873.]--here, and I like it.  I have made no inquiries about
it, though.  My interest in a book ceases with the printing of it.
                                   With a world of love,
                                             SAML.




XIII.

LETTERS 1874.  HARTFORD AND ELMIRA.  A NEW STUDY.  BEGINNING "TOM
SAWYER."  THE SELLERS PLAY.

Naturally Redpath would not give him any peace now.  His London success
must not be wasted.  At first his victim refused point-blank, and with
great brevity.  But he was overborne and persuaded, and made occasional
appearances, wiring at last this final defiant word:


                  Telegram to James Redpath, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, March 3, 1874.
JAMES REDPATH,--Why don't you congratulate me?

I never expect to stand on a lecture platform again after Thursday night.
                                        MARK.


     That he was glad to be home again we may gather from a letter sent
     at this time to Doctor Brown, of Edinburgh.


                     To Dr. John Brown, in Edinburgh:

                                        FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD
                                        Feby.  28, 1874.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--We are all delighted with your commendations of the
Gilded Age-and the more so because some of our newspapers have set forth
the opinion that Warner really wrote the book and I only added my name to
the title page in order to give it a larger sale.  I wrote the first
eleven chapters, every word.  and every line.  I also wrote chapters 24,
25, 27, 28, 30, 32, 33, 34, 36, 37, 21, 42,  43,  45, 51, 52.  53, 57,
59, 60, 61, 62, and portions of 35, 49 and 56.  So I wrote 32 of the 63
chapters entirely and part of 3 others beside.

The fearful financial panic hit the book heavily, for we published it in
the midst of it.  But nevertheless in the 8 weeks that have now elapsed
since the day we published, we have sold 40,000 copies; which gives
L3,000 royalty to be divided between the authors.  This is really the
largest two-months' sale which any American book has ever achieved
(unless one excepts the cheaper editions of Uncle Tom's Cabin).  The
average price of our book is 16 shillings a copy--Uncle Tom was 2
shillings a copy.  But for the panic our sale would have been doubled,
I verily believe.  I do not believe the sale will ultimately go over
100,000 copies.

I shipped to you, from Liverpool, Barley's Illustrations of Judd's
"Margaret" (the waiter at the Adelphi Hotel agreeing to ship it securely
per parcel delivery,) and I do hope it did not miscarry, for we in
America think a deal of Barley's--[Felix Octavius Carr barley, 1822-1888,
illustrator of the works of Irving, Cooper, etc.  Probably the most
distinguished American illustrator of his time.]--work.  I shipped the
novel (" Margaret") to you from here a week ago.

Indeed I am thankful for the wife and the child--and if there is one
individual creature on all this footstool who is more thoroughly and
uniformly and unceasingly happy than I am I defy the world to produce him
and prove him.  In my opinion, he doesn't exist.  I was a mighty rough,
coarse, unpromising subject when Livy took charge of me 4 years ago, and
I may still be, to the rest of the world, but not to her.  She has made a
very creditable job of me.

Success to the Mark Twain Club!-and the novel shibboleth of the Whistle.
Of course any member rising to speak would be required to preface his
remark with a keen respectful whistle at the chair-the chair recognizing
the speaker with an answering shriek, and then as the speech proceeded
its gravity and force would be emphasized and its impressiveness
augmented by the continual interjection of whistles in place of
punctuation-pauses; and the applause of the audience would be manifested
in the same way ....

They've gone to luncheon, and I must follow.  With strong love from us
both.
                    Your friend,
                                   SAML. L. CLEMENS.


     These were the days when the Howells and Clemens families began
     visiting back and forth between Boston and Hartford, and sometimes
     Aldrich came, though less frequently, and the gatherings at the
     homes of Warner and Clemens were full of never-to-be-forgotten
     happiness.  Of one such visit Howells wrote:

     "In the good-fellowship of that cordial neighborhood we had two such
     days as the aging sun no longer shines on in his round.  There was
     constant running in and out of friendly houses, where the lively
     hosts and guests called one another by their christian names or
     nicknames, and no such vain ceremony as knocking or ringing at
     doors.  Clemens was then building the stately mansion in which he
     satisfied his love of magnificence as if it had been another
     sealskin coat, and he was at the crest of the prosperity which
     enabled him to humor every whim or extravagance."

     It was the delight of such a visit that kept Clemens constantly
     urging its repetition.  One cannot but feel the genuine affection of
     these letters.


                      To W. D.  Howells, in Boston:

                                                  Mch. 1, 1876.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Now you will find us the most reasonable people in the
world.  We had thought of precipitating upon you George Warner and wife
one day; Twichell and his jewel of a wife another day, and Chas. Perkins
and wife another.  Only those--simply members of our family, they are.
But I'll close the door against them all--which will "fix" all of the lot
except Twichell, who will no more hesitate to climb in at the back window
than nothing.

And you shall go to bed when you please, get up when you please, talk
when you please, read when you please.  Mrs. Howells may even go to New
York Saturday if she feels that she must, but if some gentle, unannoying
coaxing can beguile her into putting that off a few days, we shall be
more than glad, for I do wish she and Mrs. Clemens could have a good
square chance to get acquainted with each other.  But first and last and
all the time, we want you to feel untrammeled and wholly free from
restraint, here.

The date suits--all dates suit.
                              Yrs ever
                                        MARK.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                         FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD, Mch. 20, 1876.
DEAR HOWELLS,--You or Aldrich or both of you must come to Hartford to
live.  Mr. Hall, who lives in the house next to Mrs. Stowe's (just where
we drive in to go to our new house) will sell for $16,000 or $17,000.
The lot is 85 feet front and 150 deep--long time and easy payments on the
purchase?  You can do your work just as well here as in Cambridge, can't
you?  Come, will one of you boys buy that house?  Now say yes.

Mrs. Clemens is an invalid yet, but is getting along pretty fairly.

We send best regards.
                              MARK.


     April found the Clemens family in Elmira.  Mrs. Clemens was not
     over-strong, and the cares of house-building were many.  They went
     early, therefore, remaining at the Langdon home in the city until
     Quarry Farm should feel a touch of warmer sun, Clemens wrote the
     news to Doctor Brown.


                     To Dr. John Brown, in Edinburgh:

                                   ELMIRA, N. Y., April 27, '86.
DEAR DOCTOR,--This town is in the interior of the State of New York--
and was my wife's birth-place.  We are here to spend the whole summer.
Although it is so near summer, we had a great snow-storm yesterday, and
one the day before.  This is rather breaking in upon our plans, as it may
keep us down here in the valley a trifle longer than we desired.  It gets
fearfully hot here in the summer, so we spend our summers on top of a
hill 6 or 700 feet high, about two or three miles from here--it never
gets hot up there.

Mrs. Clemens is pretty strong, and so is the "little wifie" barring a
desperate cold in the head the child grows in grace and beauty
marvellously.  I wish the nations of the earth would combine in a baby
show and give us a chance to compete.  I must try to find one of her
latest photographs to enclose in this.  And this reminds me that Mrs.
Clemens keeps urging me to ask you for your photograph and last night she
said, "and be sure to ask him for a photograph of his sister, and Jock-
but say Master Jock--do not be headless and forget that courtesy; he is
Jock in our memories and our talk, but he has a right to his title when a
body uses his name in a letter."  Now I have got it all in--I can't have
made any mistake this time.  Miss Clara Spaulding looked in, a moment,
yesterday morning, as bright and good as ever.  She would like to lay
her love at your feet if she knew I was writing--as would also fifty
friends of ours whom you have never seen, and whose homage is as fervent
as if the cold and clouds and darkness of a mighty sea did not lie
between their hearts and you.  Poor old Rab had not many "friends" at
first, but if all his friends of today could gather to his grave from the
four corners of the earth what a procession there would be!  And Rab's
friends are your friends.

I am going to work when we get on the hill-till then I've got to lie
fallow, albeit against my will.  We join in love to you and yours.
                                   Your friend ever,
                                             SAML. L. CLEMENS.

P. S.  I enclose a specimen of villainy.  A man pretends to be my brother
and my lecture agent--gathers a great audience together in a city more
than a thousand miles from here, and then pockets the money and elopes,
leaving the audience to wait for the imaginary lecturer!  I am after him
with the law.


     It was a historic summer at the Farm.  A new baby arrived in June; a
     new study was built for Mark Twain by Mrs. Crane, on the hillside
     near the old quarry; a new book was begun in it--The Adventures of
     Tom Sawyer--and a play, the first that Mark Twain had really
     attempted, was completed--the dramatization of The Gilded Age.

     An early word went to Hartford of conditions at the Farm.


                 To Rev. and Mrs. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             ELMIRA, June 11, 1874.

MY DEAR OLD JOE AND HARMONY,--The baby is here and is the great American
Giantess--weighing 7 3/4 pounds.  We had to wait a good long time for
her, but she was full compensation when she did come.

The Modoc was delighted with it, and gave it her doll at once.  There is
nothing selfish about the Modoc.  She is fascinated with the new baby.
The Modoc rips and tears around out doors, most of the time, and
consequently is as hard as a pine knot and as brown as an Indian.  She
is bosom friend to all the ducks, chickens, turkeys and guinea hens on
the place.  Yesterday as she marched along the winding path that leads up
the hill through the red clover beds to the summer-house, there was a
long procession of these fowls stringing contentedly after her, led by a
stately rooster who can look over the Modoc's head.  The devotion of
these vassals has been purchased with daily largess of Indian meal, and
so the Modoc, attended by her bodyguard, moves in state wherever she
goes.

Susie Crane has built the loveliest study for me, you ever saw.  It is
octagonal, with a peaked roof, each octagon filled with a spacious
window, and it sits perched in complete isolation on top of an elevation
that commands leagues of valley and city and retreating ranges of distant
blue hills.  It is a cosy nest, with just room in it for a sofa and a
table and three or four chairs--and when the storms sweep down the remote
valley and the lightning flashes above the hills beyond, and the rain
beats upon the roof over my head, imagine the luxury of it!  It stands
500 feet above the valley and 2 1/2 miles from it.

However one must not write all day.  We send continents of love to you
and yours.
                         Affectionately
                                        MARK.


     We have mentioned before that Clemens had settled his mother and
     sister at Fredonia, New York, and when Mrs. Clemens was in condition
     to travel he concluded to pay them a visit.

     It proved an unfortunate journey; the hot weather was hard on Mrs.
     Clemens, and harder still, perhaps, on Mark Twain's temper.  At any
     period of his life a bore exasperated him, and in these earlier days
     he was far more likely to explode than in his mellower age.  Remorse
     always followed--the price he paid was always costly.  We cannot
     know now who was the unfortunate that invited the storm, but in the
     next letter we get the echoes of it and realize something of its
     damage.


           To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia:

                                             ELMIRA, Aug. 15.
MX DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I came away from Fredonia ashamed of myself;
--almost too much humiliated to hold up my head and say good-bye.  For I
began to comprehend how much harm my conduct might do you socially in
your village.  I would have gone to that detestable oyster-brained bore
and apologized for my inexcusable rudeness to him, but that I was
satisfied he was of too small a calibre to know how to receive an apology
with magnanimity.

Pamela appalled me by saying people had hinted that they wished to visit
Livy when she came, but that she had given them no encouragement.
I feared that those people would merely comprehend that their courtesies
were not wanted, and yet not know exactly why they were not wanted.

I came away feeling that in return for your constant and tireless efforts
to secure our bodily comfort and make our visit enjoyable, I had basely
repaid you by making you sad and sore-hearted and leaving you so.  And
the natural result has fallen to me likewise--for a guilty conscience has
harassed me ever since, and I have not had one short quarter of an hour
of peace to this moment.

You spoke of Middletown.  Why not go there and live?  Mr. Crane says it
is only about a hundred miles this side of New York on the Erie road.
The fact that one or two of you might prefer to live somewhere else is
not a valid objection--there are no 4 people who would all choose the
same place--so it will be vain to wait for the day when your tastes shall
be a unit.  I seriously fear that our visit has damaged you in Fredonia,
and so I wish you were out of it.

The baby is fat and strong, and Susie the same.  Susie was charmed with
the donkey and the doll.
                    Ys affectionately
                                        SAML.

P. S.--DEAR MA AND PAMELA--I am mainly grieved because I have been rude
to a man who has been kind to you--and if you ever feel a desire to
apologize to him for me, you may be sure that I will endorse the apology,
no matter how strong it may be.  I went to his bank to apologize to him,
but my conviction was strong that he was not man enough to know how to
take an apology and so I did not make it.


     William Dean Howells was in those days writing those vividly
     realistic, indeed photographic stories which fixed his place among
     American men of letters.  He had already written 'Their Wedding
     Journey' and 'A Chance Acquaintance' when 'A Foregone Conclusion'
     appeared.  For the reason that his own work was so different, and
     perhaps because of his fondness for the author, Clemens always
     greatly admired the books of Howells.  Howells's exact observation
     and his gift for human detail seemed marvelous to Mark Twain, who
     with a bigger brush was inclined to record the larger rather than
     the minute aspects of life.  The sincerity of his appreciation of
     Howells, however, need not be questioned, nor, for that matter, his
     detestation of Scott.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, Aug. 22, 1874.
DEAR HOWELLS,--I have just finished reading the 'Foregone Conclusion' to
Mrs. Clemens and we think you have even outdone yourself.  I should think
that this must be the daintiest, truest, most admirable workmanship that
was ever put on a story.  The creatures of God do not act out their
natures more unerringly than yours do.  If your genuine stories can die,
I wonder by what right old Walter Scott's artificialities shall continue
to live.

I brought Mrs. Clemens back from her trip in a dreadfully broken-down
condition--so by the doctor's orders we unpacked the trunks sorrowfully
to lie idle here another month instead of going at once to Hartford and
proceeding to furnish the new house which is now finished.  We hate to
have it go longer desolate and tenantless, but cannot help it.

By and by, if the madam gets strong again, we are hoping to have the
Grays there, and you and the Aldrich households, and Osgood, down to
engage in an orgy with them.
                              Ys Ever
                                        MARK


     Howells was editor of the Atlantic by this time, and had been urging
     Clemens to write something suitable for that magazine.  He had done
     nothing, however, until this summer at Quarry Farm.  There, one
     night in the moonlight, Mrs. Crane's colored cook, who had been a
     slave, was induced to tell him her story.  It was exactly the story
     to appeal to Mark Twain, and the kind of thing he could write.  He
     set it down next morning, as nearly in her own words and manner as
     possible, without departing too far from literary requirements.

     He decided to send this to Howells.  He did not regard it very
     highly, but he would take the chance.  An earlier offering to the
     magazine had been returned.  He sent the "True Story," with a brief
     note:


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, Sept. 2, '74.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--.....I enclose also a "True Story" which has no humor
in it.  You can pay as lightly as you choose for that, if you want it,
for it is rather out of my line.  I have not altered the old colored
woman's story except to begin at the beginning, instead of the middle, as
she did--and traveled both ways.....
                                   Yrs Ever
                                             MARK.

     But Howells was delighted with it.  He referred to its "realest kind
     of black talk," and in another place added, "This little story
     delights me more and more.  I wish you had about forty of them."

     Along with the "True Story" Mark Twain had sent the "Fable for Good
     Old Boys and Girls"; but this Howells returned, not, as he said,
     because he didn't like it, but because the Atlantic on matters of
     religion was just in that "Good Lord, Good Devil condition when a
     little fable like yours wouldn't leave it a single Presbyterian,
     Baptist, Unitarian, Episcopalian, Methodist, or Millerite paying
     subscriber, while all the deadheads would stick to it and abuse it
     in the denominational newspapers!"

     But the shorter MS. had been only a brief diversion.  Mark Twain was
     bowling along at a book and a play.  The book was Tom Sawyer, as
     already mentioned, and the play a dramatization from The Gilded Age.
     Clemens had all along intended to dramatize the story of Colonel
     Sellers, and was one day thunderstruck to receive word from
     California that a San Francisco dramatist had appropriated his
     character in a play written for John T. Raymond.  Clemens had taken
     out dramatic copyright on the book, and immediately stopped the
     performance by telegraph.  A correspondence between the author and
     the dramatist followed, leading to a friendly arrangement by which
     the latter agreed to dispose of his version to Mark Twain.  A good
     deal of discussion from time to time having arisen over the
     authorship of the Sellers play, as presented by Raymond, certain
     among the letters that follow may be found of special interest.
     Meanwhile we find Clemens writing to Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh,
     on these matters and events in general.  The book MS., which he
     mentions as having put aside, was not touched again for nearly a
     year.


                     To Dr. John Brown, in Edinburgh:

                                   QUARRY FARM, NEAR ELMIRA, N. Y.
                                   Sept.  4, 1874.
DEAR FRIEND,--I have been writing fifty pages of manuscript a day, on an
average, for sometime now, on a book (a story) and consequently have been
so wrapped up in it and so dead to anything else, that I have fallen
mighty short in letter-writing.  But night before last I discovered that
that day's chapter was a failure, in conception, moral truth to nature,
and execution--enough blemish to impair the excellence of almost any
chapter--and so I must burn up the day's work and do it all over again.
It was plain that I had worked myself out, pumped myself dry.  So I
knocked off, and went to playing billiards for a change.  I haven't had
an idea or a fancy for two days, now--an excellent time to write to
friends who have plenty of ideas and fancies of their own, and so will
prefer the offerings of the heart before those of the head.  Day after
to-morrow I go to a neighboring city to see a five-act-drama of mine
brought out, and suggest amendments in it, and would about as soon spend
a night in the Spanish Inquisition as sit there and be tortured with all
the adverse criticisms I can contrive to imagine the audience is
indulging in.  But whether the play be successful or not, I hope I shall
never feel obliged to see it performed a second time.  My interest in my
work dies a sudden and violent death when the work is done.

I have invented and patented a pretty good sort of scrap-book (I think)
but I have backed down from letting it be known as mine just at present
--for I can't stand being under discussion on a play and a scrap-book at
the same time!

I shall be away two days, and then return to take our tribe to New York,
where we shall remain five days buying furniture for the new house, and
then go to Hartford and settle solidly down for the winter.  After all
that fallow time I ought to be able to go to work again on the book.
We shall reach Hartford about the middle of September, I judge.

We have spent the past four months up here on top of a breezy hill, six
hundred feet high, some few miles from Elmira, N. Y., and overlooking
that town; (Elmira is my wife's birthplace and that of Susie and the new
baby).  This little summer house on the hill-top (named Quarry Farm
because there's a quarry on it,) belongs to my wife's sister, Mrs. Crane.

A photographer came up the other day and wanted to make some views,
and I shall send you the result per this mail.

My study is a snug little octagonal den, with a coal-grate, 6 big
windows, one little one, and a wide doorway (the latter opening upon the
distant town.) On hot days I spread the study wide open, anchor my papers
down with brickbats and write in the midst of the hurricanes, clothed in
the same thin linen we make shirts of.  The study is nearly on the peak
of the hill; it is right in front of the little perpendicular wall of
rock left where they used to quarry stones.  On the peak of the hill is
an old arbor roofed with bark and covered with the vine you call the
"American Creeper"--its green is almost bloodied with red.  The Study is
30 yards below the old arbor and 200 yards above the dwelling-house-it is
remote from all noises.....

Now isn't the whole thing pleasantly situated?

In the picture of me in the study you glimpse (through the left-hand
window) the little rock bluff that rises behind the pond, and the bases
of the little trees on top of it.  The small square window is over the
fireplace; the chimney divides to make room for it.  Without the
stereoscope it looks like a framed picture.  All the study windows have
Venetian blinds; they long ago went out of fashion in America but they
have not been replaced with anything half as good yet.

The study is built on top of a tumbled rock-heap that has morning-glories
climbing about it and a stone stairway leading down through and dividing
it.

There now--if you have not time to read all this, turn it over to "Jock"
and drag in the judge to help.

Mrs. Clemens must put in a late picture of Susie--a picture which she
maintains is good, but which I think is slander on the child.

We revisit the Rutland Street home many a time in fancy, for we hold
every individual in it in happy and grateful memory.
                              Goodbye,
                                   Your friend,
                                        SAML. L. CLEMENS.

P. S.--I gave the P. O. Department a blast in the papers about sending
misdirected letters of mine back to the writers for reshipment, and got a
blast in return, through a New York daily, from the New York postmaster.
But I notice that misdirected letters find me, now, without any
unnecessary fooling around.


     The new house in Hartford was now ready to be occupied, and in a
     letter to Howells, written a little more than a fortnight after the
     foregoing, we find them located in "part" of it.  But what seems
     more interesting is that paragraph of the letter which speaks of
     close friendly relations still existing with the Warners, in that it
     refutes a report current at this time that there was a break between
     Clemens and Warner over the rights in the Sellers play.  There was,
     in fact, no such rupture.  Warner, realizing that he had no hand in
     the character of Sellers, and no share in the work of dramatization,
     generously yielded all claim to any part of the returns.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                         FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD, Sept. 20, 1876.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--All right, my boy, send proof sheets here.  I amend
dialect stuff by talking and talking and talking it till it sounds right-
and I had difficulty with this negro talk because a negro sometimes
(rarely) says "goin" and sometimes "gwyne," and they make just such
discrepancies in other words--and when you come to reproduce them on
paper they look as if the variation resulted from the writer's
carelessness.  But I want to work at the proofs and get the dialect as
nearly right as possible.

We are in part of the new house.  Goodness knows when we'll get in the
rest of it--full of workmen yet.

I worked a month at my play, and launched it in New York last Wednesday.
I believe it will go.  The newspapers have been complimentary.  It is
simply a setting for the one character, Col. Sellers--as a play I guess
it will not bear a critical assault in force.

The Warners are as charming as ever.  They go shortly to the devil for a
year--(which is but a poetical way of saying they are going to afflict
themselves with the unsurpassable--(bad word) of travel for a spell.)
I believe they mean to go and see you, first-so they mean to start from
heaven to the other place; not from earth.  How is that?

I think that is no slouch of a compliment--kind of a dim religious light
about it.  I enjoy that sort of thing.
                                   Yrs ever
                                             MARK.


     Raymond, in a letter to the Sun, stated that not "one line" of the
     California dramatization had been used by Mark Twain, "except that
     which was taken bodily from The Gilded Age."  Clemens himself, in a
     statement that he wrote for the Hartford Post, but suppressed,
     probably at the request of his wife, gave a full history of the
     play's origin, a matter of slight interest to-day.

     Sellers on the stage proved a great success.  The play had no
     special merit as a literary composition, but the character of
     Sellers delighted the public, and both author and actor were richly
     repaid for their entertainment.




XIV.

LETTERS 1874.  MISSISSIPPI CHAPTERS.  VISITS TO BOSTON.
A JOKE ON ALDRICH

"Couldn't you send me some such story as that colored one for our January
number--that is, within a month?" wrote Howells, at the end of September,
and during the week following Mark Twain struggled hard to comply, but
without result.  When the month was nearly up he wrote:


                      To W. D.  Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Oct. 23, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I have delayed thus long, hoping I might do something
for the January number and Mrs. Clemens has diligently persecuted me day
by day with urgings to go to work and do that something, but it's no use
--I find I can't.  We are in such a state of weary and endless confusion
that my head won't go.  So I give it up.....
                              Yrs ever,
                                        MARK.


     But two hours later, when he had returned from one of the long walks
     which he and Twichell so frequently took together, he told a
     different story.


Later, P.M.  HOME, 24th '74.

MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I take back the remark that I can't write for the Jan.
number.  For Twichell and I have had a long walk in the woods and I got
to telling him about old Mississippi days of steam-boating glory and
grandeur as I saw them (during 5 years) from the pilothouse.  He said
"What a virgin subject to hurl into a magazine!" I hadn't thought of that
before.  Would you like a series of papers to run through 3 months or 6
or 9?--or about 4 months, say?
                         Yrs ever,
                                   MARK.


     Howells himself had come from a family of pilots, and rejoiced in
     the idea.  A few days later Mark Twain forwarded the first
     instalment of the new series--those wonderful chapters that begin,
     now, with chapter four in the Mississippi book.  Apparently he was
     not without doubt concerning the manuscript, and accompanied it with
     a brief line.


                      To W.  D.  Howells, in Boston:

DEAR HOWELLS,--Cut it, scarify it, reject it handle it with entire
freedom.
                         Yrs ever,
                                   MARK.


     But Howells had no doubts as to the quality of the new find.  He
     declared that the "piece" about the Mississippi was capital, that it
     almost made the water in their ice-pitcher turn muddy as he read it.
     "The sketch of the low-lived little town was so good that I could
     have wished that there was more of it.  I want the sketches, if you
     can make them, every month."

     The "low-lived little town" was Hannibal, and the reader can turn to
     the vivid description of it in the chapter already mentioned.

     In the same letter Howells refers to a "letter from Limerick," which
     he declares he shall keep until he has shown it around--especially
     to Aldrich and Osgood.

     The "letter from Limerick" has to do with a special episode.
     Mention has just been made of Mark Twain's walk with Twichell.
     Frequently their walks were extended tramps, and once in a daring
     moment one or the other of them proposed to walk to Boston.  The
     time was November, and the bracing air made the proposition seem
     attractive.  They were off one morning early, Twichell carrying a
     little bag, and Clemens a basket of luncheon.  A few days before,
     Clemens had written Redpath that the Rev. J. H. Twichell and he
     expected to start at eight o'clock Thursday morning "to walk to
     Boston in twenty-four hours--or more.  We shall telegraph Young's
     Hotel for rooms Saturday night, in order to allow for a low average
     of pedestrianism."

     They did not get quite to Boston.  In fact, they got only a little
     farther than the twenty-eight miles they made the first day.
     Clemens could hardly walk next morning, but they managed to get to
     North Ashford, where they took a carriage for the nearest railway
     station.  There they telegraphed to Redpath and Howells that they
     would be in Boston that evening.  Howells, of course, had a good
     supper and good company awaiting them at his home, and the
     pedestrians spent two happy days visiting and recounting their
     adventures.

     It was one morning, at his hotel, that Mark Twain wrote the Limerick
     letter.  It was addressed to Mrs. Clemens, but was really intended
     for Howells and Twichell and the others whom it mentions.  It was an
     amusing fancy, rather than a letter, but it deserves place here.


          To Mrs. Clemens---intended for Howells, Aldrich, etc.

                                   BOSTON, Nov. 16, 1935. [1874]
DEAR LIVY, You observe I still call this beloved old place by the name it
had when I was young.  Limerick!  It is enough to make a body sick.

The gentlemen-in-waiting stare to see me sit here telegraphing this
letter to you, and no doubt they are smiling in their sleeves.  But let
them!  The slow old fashions are good enough for me, thank God, and I
will none other.  When I see one of these modern fools sit absorbed,
holding the end of a telegraph wire in his hand, and reflect that a
thousand miles away there is another fool hitched to the other end of it,
it makes me frantic with rage; and then am I more implacably fixed and
resolved than ever, to continue taking twenty minutes to telegraph you
what I communicate in ten sends by the new way if I would so debase
myself.  And when I see a whole silent, solemn drawing-room full of
idiots sitting with their hands on each other's foreheads "communing," I
tug the white hairs from my head and curse till my asthma brings me the
blessed relief of suffocation.  In our old day such a gathering talked
pure drivel and "rot," mostly, but better that, a thousand times, than
these dreary conversational funerals that oppress our spirits in this mad
generation.

It is sixty years since I was here before.  I walked hither, then, with
my precious old friend.  It seems incredible, now, that we did it in two
days, but such is my recollection.  I no longer mention that we walked
back in a single day, it makes me so furious to see doubt in the face of
the hearer.  Men were men in those old times.  Think of one of the
puerile organisms in this effeminate age attempting such a feat.

My air-ship was delayed by a collision with a fellow from China loaded
with the usual cargo of jabbering, copper-colored missionaries, and so I
was nearly an hour on my journey.  But by the goodness of God thirteen of
the missionaries were crippled and several killed, so I was content to
lose the time.  I love to lose time, anyway, because it brings soothing
reminiscences of the creeping railroad days of old, now lost to us
forever.

Our game was neatly played, and successfully.--None expected us, of
course.  You should have seen the guards at the ducal palace stare when
I said, "Announce his grace the Archbishop of Dublin and the Rt. Hon.
the Earl of Hartford."  Arrived within, we were all eyes to see the Duke
of Cambridge and his Duchess, wondering if we might remember their faces,
and they ours.  In a moment, they came tottering in; he, bent and
withered and bald; she blooming with wholesome old age.  He peered
through his glasses a moment, then screeched in a reedy voice: "Come to
my arms!  Away with titles--I'll know ye by no names but Twain and
Twichell!  Then fell he on our necks and jammed his trumpet in his ear,
the which we filled with shoutings to this effect: God bless you, old
Howells what is left of you!"

We talked late that night--none of your silent idiot "communings" for us
--of the olden time.  We rolled a stream of ancient anecdotes over our
tongues and drank till the lord Archbishop grew so mellow in the mellow
past that Dublin ceased to be Dublin to him and resumed its sweeter
forgotten name of New York.  In truth he almost got back into his ancient
religion, too, good Jesuit, as he has always been since O'Mulligan the
First established that faith in the Empire.

And we canvassed everybody.  Bailey Aldrich, Marquis of Ponkapog, came
in, got nobly drunk, and told us all about how poor Osgood lost his
earldom and was hanged for conspiring against the second Emperor--but
he didn't mention how near he himself came to being hanged, too, for
engaging in the same enterprise.  He was as chaffy as he was sixty years
ago, too, and swore the Archbishop and I never walked to Boston--but
there was never a day that Ponkapog wouldn't lie, so be it by the grace
of God he got the opportunity.

The Lord High Admiral came in, a hale gentleman close upon seventy and
bronzed by the suns and storms of many climes and scarred with the wounds
got in many battles, and I told him how I had seen him sit in a high
chair and eat fruit and cakes and answer to the name of Johnny.  His
granddaughter (the eldest) is but lately warned to the youngest of the
Grand Dukes, and so who knows but a day may come when the blood of the
Howells's may reign in the land?  I must not forget to say, while I think
of it, that your new false teeth are done, my dear, and your wig.  Keep
your head well bundled with a shawl till the latter comes, and so cheat
your persecuting neuralgias and rheumatisms.  Would you believe it?--the
Duchess of Cambridge is deafer than you--deafer than her husband.  They
call her to breakfast with a salvo of artillery; and usually when it
thunders she looks up expectantly and says "come in....."

The monument to the author of "Gloverson and His Silent partners" is
finished.  It is the stateliest and the costliest ever erected to the
memory of any man.  This noble classic has now been translated into all
the languages of the earth and is adored by all nations and known to all
creatures.  Yet I have conversed as familiarly with the author of it as I
do with my own great-grandchildren.

I wish you could see old Cambridge and Ponkapog.  I love them as dearly
as ever, but privately, my dear, they are not much improvement on idiots.
It is melancholy to hear them jabber over the same pointless anecdotes
three and four times of an evening, forgetting that they had jabbered
them over three or four times the evening before.  Ponkapog still writes
poetry, but the old-time fire has mostly gone out of it.  Perhaps his
best effort of late years is this:

               "O soul, soul, soul of mine:
               Soul, soul, soul of thine!
               Thy soul, my soul, two souls entwine,
               And sing thy lauds in crystal wine!"

This he goes about repeating to everybody, daily and nightly, insomuch
that he is become a sore affliction to all that know him.

But I must desist.  There are drafts here, everywhere and my gout is
something frightful.  My left foot hath resemblance to a snuff-bladder.
                         God be with you.
                                        HARTFORD.

These to Lady Hartford, in the earldom of Hartford, in the upper portion
of the city of Dublin.


     One may imagine the joy of Howells and the others in this ludicrous
     extravaganza, which could have been written by no one but Mark
     Twain.  It will hardly take rank as prophecy, though certainly true
     forecast in it is not wholly lacking.

     Clemens was now pretty well satisfied with his piloting story, but
     he began to have doubts as to its title, "Old Times on the
     Mississippi."  It seemed to commit him to too large an undertaking.


                      To W.  D.  Howells, in Boston:

                                                  Dec. 3, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Let us change the heading to "Piloting on the Miss in
the Old Times"--or to "Steamboating on the M. in Old Times"--or to
"Personal Old Times on the Miss."--We could change it for Feb. if now
too late for Jan.--I suggest it because the present heading is too
pretentious, too broad and general.  It seems to command me to deliver a
Second Book of Revelation to the world, and cover all the Old Times the
Mississippi (dang that word, it is worse than "type" or "Egypt ") ever
saw--whereas here I have finished Article No. III and am about to start
on No. 4.  and yet I have spoken of nothing but of Piloting as a science
so far; and I doubt if I ever get beyond that portion of my subject.
And I don't care to.  Any muggins can write about Old Times on the Miss.
of 500 different kinds, but I am the only man alive that can scribble
about the piloting of that day--and no man ever has tried to scribble
about it yet.  Its newness pleases me all the time--and it is about the
only new subject I know of.  If I were to write fifty articles they would
all be about pilots and piloting--therefore let's get the word Piloting
into the heading.  There's a sort of freshness about that, too.
                                   Ys ever,
                                             MARK.


     But Howells thought the title satisfactory, and indeed it was the
     best that could have been selected for the series.  He wrote every
     few days of his delight in the papers, and cautioned the author not
     to make an attempt to please any "supposed Atlantic audience,"
     adding, "Yarn it off into my sympathetic ear."  Clemens replied:


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             H't'f'd.  Dec. 8, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--It isn't the Atlantic audience that distresses me; for
it is the only audience that I sit down before in perfect serenity (for
the simple reason that it doesn't require a "humorist" to paint himself
striped and stand on his head every fifteen minutes.) The trouble was,
that I was only bent on "working up an atmosphere" and that is to me a
most fidgety and irksome thing, sometimes.  I avoid it, usually, but in
this case it was absolutely necessary, else every reader would be
applying the atmosphere of his own or sea experiences, and that shirt
wouldn't fit, you know.

I could have sent this Article II a week ago, or more, but I couldn't
bring myself to the drudgery of revising and correcting it.  I have been
at that tedious work 3 hours, now, and by George but I am glad it is
over.

Say--I am as prompt as a clock, if I only know the day a thing is wanted
--otherwise I am a natural procrastinaturalist.  Tell me what day and
date you want Nos. 3 and 4, and I will tackle and revise them and they'll
be there to the minute.

I could wind up with No. 4., but there are some things more which I am
powerfully moved to write.  Which is natural enough, since I am a person
who would quit authorizing in a minute to go to piloting, if the madam
would stand it.  I would rather sink a steamboat than eat, any time.

My wife was afraid to write you--so I said with simplicity, "I will give
you the language--and ideas."  Through the infinite grace of God there
has not been such another insurrection in the family before as followed
this.  However, the letter was written, and promptly, too--whereas,
heretofore she has remained afraid to do such things.

With kind regards to Mrs. Howells,
                         Yrs ever,
                                   MARK.


     The "Old Times" papers appeared each month in the Atlantic until
     July, 1875, and take rank to-day with Mark Twain's best work.  When
     the first number appeared, John Hay wrote: "It is perfect; no more
     nor less.  I don't see how you do it."  Which was reported to
     Howells, who said: "What business has Hay, I should like to know,
     praising a favorite of mine?  It's interfering."

     These were the days when the typewriter was new.  Clemens and
     Twichell, during their stay in Boston, had seen the marvel in
     operation, and Clemens had been unable to resist owning one.  It was
     far from being the perfect machine of to-day; the letters were all
     capitals, and one was never quite certain, even of those.  Mark
     Twain, however, began with enthusiasm and practised faithfully.  On
     the day of its arrival he wrote two letters that have survived, the
     first to his brother, the other to Howells.


             Typewritten letter to W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                   HARTFORD, Dec. 9, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I want to add a short paragraph to article No. 1, when
the proof comes.  Merely a line or two, however.

I don't know whether I am going to make this typewriting machine go or
nto: that last word was intended for n-not; but I guess I shall make some
sort of a succss of it before I run it very long.  I am so thick-fingered
that I miss the keys.

You needn't a swer this; I am only practicing to get three; another slip-
up there; only practici?ng to get the hang of the thing.  I notice I miss
fire & get in a good many unnecessary letters and punctuation marks.
I am simply using you for a target to bang at.  Blame my cats but this
thing requires genius in order to work it just right.
                         Yours ever,
                                        (M)ARK.



     Knowing Mark Twain, Howells wrote: "When you get tired of the
     machine send it to me."  Clemens naturally did get tired of the
     machine; it was ruining his morals, he said.  He presently offered
     it to Howells, who by this time hesitated, but eventually yielded
     and accepted it.  If he was blasted by its influence the fact has
     not been recorded.

     One of the famous Atlantic dinners came along in December.  "Don't
     you dare to refuse that invitation," wrote Howells, "to meet
     Emerson, Aldrich, and all those boys at the Parker House, at six
     o'clock, Tuesday, December 15th.  Come!"

     Clemens had no desire to refuse; he sent word that he would come,
     and followed it with a characteristic line.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                  HARTFORD, Sunday.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I want you to ask Mrs. Howells to let you stay all
night at the Parker House and tell lies and have an improving time, and
take breakfast with me in the morning.  I will have a good room for you,
and a fire.  Can't you tell her it always makes you sick to go home late
at night, or something like that?  That sort of thing rouses Mrs.
Clemens's sympathies, easily; the only trouble is to keep them up.
Twichell and I talked till 2 or 3 in the morning, the night we supped at
your house and it restored his health, on account of his being drooping
for some time and made him much more robuster than what he was before.
Will Mrs. Howells let you?
                              Yrs ever,
                                        S. L. C.

     Aldrich had issued that year a volume of poems, and he presented
     Clemens with a copy of it during this Boston visit.  The letter of
     appreciation which follows contains also reference to an amusing
     incident; but we shall come to that presently.


                   To T. B. Aldrich, in Ponkapog, Mass.

                                        FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD.
                                        Dec.  18, 1874.
MY DEAR ALDRICH,--I read the "Cloth of Gold" through, coming down in the
cars, and it is just lightning poetry--a thing which it gravels me to say
because my own efforts in that line have remained so persistently
unrecognized, in consequence of the envy and jealousy of this generation.
"Baby Bell" always seemed perfection, before, but now that I have
children it has got even beyond that.  About the hour that I was reading
it in the cars, Twichell was reading it at home and forthwith fell upon
me with a burst of enthusiasm about it when I saw him.  This was
pleasant, because he has long been a lover of it.

"Thos. Bailey Aldrich responded" etc., "in one of the brightest speeches
of the evening."

That is what the Tribune correspondent says.  And that is what everybody
that heard it said.  Therefore, you keep still.  Don't ever be so unwise
as to go on trying to unconvince those people.

I've been skating around the place all day with some girls, with Mrs.
Clemens in the window to do the applause.  There would be a power of fun
in skating if you could do it with somebody else's muscles.--There are
about twenty boys booming by the house, now, and it is mighty good to
look at.

I'm keeping you in mind, you see, in the matter of photographs.  I have
a couple to enclose in this letter and I want you to say you got them,
and then I shall know I have been a good truthful child.

I am going to send more as I ferret them out, about the place.--And I
won't forget that you are a "subscriber."

The wife and I unite in warm regards to you and Mrs. Aldrich.
                              Yrs ever,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     A letter bearing the same date as the above went back to Howells, we
     find, in reference to still another incident, which perhaps should
     come first.

     Mark Twain up to this time had worn the black "string" necktie of
     the West--a decoration which disturbed Mrs. Clemens, and invited
     remarks from his friends.  He had persisted in it, however, up to
     the date of the Atlantic dinner, when Howells and Aldrich decided
     that something must be done about it.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Dec.  18, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I left No. 3, (Miss. chapter) in my eldest's reach, and
it may have gone to the postman and it likewise may have gone into the
fire.  I confess to a dread that the latter is the case and that that
stack of MS will have to be written over again.  If so, O for the return
of the lamented Herod!

You and Aldrich have made one woman deeply and sincerely grateful--Mrs.
Clemens.  For months--I may even say years--she had shown unaccountable
animosity toward my neck-tie, even getting up in the night to take it
with the tongs and blackguard it--sometimes also going so far as to
threaten it.

When I said you and Aldrich had given me two new neck-ties, and that they
were in a paper in my overcoat pocket, she was in a fever of happiness
until she found I was going to frame them; then all the venom in her
nature gathered itself together,--insomuch that I, being near to a door,
went without, perceiving danger.

Now I wear one of the new neck-ties, nothing being sacred in Mrs.
Clemens's eyes that can be perverted to a gaud that shall make the person
of her husband more alluring than it was aforetime.

Jo Twichell was the delightedest old boy I ever saw, when he read the
words you had written in that book.  He and I went to the Concert of the
Yale students last night and had a good time.

Mrs. Clemens dreads our going to New Orleans, but I tell her she'll have
to give her consent this time.

With kindest regards unto ye both.
                              Yrs ever,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     The reference to New Orleans at the end of this letter grew
     naturally out of the enthusiasm aroused by the Mississippi papers.
     The more Clemens wrote about the river the more he wished to revisit
     it and take Howells with him.  Howells was willing enough to go and
     they eventually arranged to take their wives on the excursion.  This
     seemed all very well and possible, so long as the time was set for
     some date in the future still unfixed.  But Howells was a busy
     editor, and it was much more easy for him to promise good-naturedly
     than to agree on a definite time of departure.  He explained at
     length why he could not make the journey, and added: "Forgive me
     having led you on to fix a time; I never thought it would come to
     that; I supposed you would die, or something.  I am really more
     sorry and ashamed than I can make it appear."  So the beautiful plan
     was put aside, though it was not entirely abandoned for a long time.

     We now come to the incident mentioned in Mark Twain's letter to
     Aldrich, of December the 18th.  It had its beginning at the Atlantic
     dinner, where Aldrich had abused Clemens for never sending him any
     photographs of himself.  It was suggested by one or the other that
     his name be put down as a "regular subscriber" for all Mark Twain
     photographs as they "came out."  Clemens returned home and hunted up
     fifty-two different specimens, put each into an envelope, and began
     mailing them to him, one each morning.  When a few of them had
     arrived Aldrich wrote, protesting.

     "The police," he said, "have a way of swooping down on that kind of
     publication.  The other day they gobbled up an entire edition of
     'The Life in New York.'"

     Whereupon Clemens bundled up the remaining collection--forty-five
     envelopes of photographs and prints-and mailed them together.

     Aldrich wrote, now, violently declaring the perpetrator of the
     outrage to be known to the police; that a sprawling yellow figure
     against a green background had been recognized as an admirable
     likeness of Mark Twain, alias the jumping Frog, a well-known
     Californian desperado, formerly the chief of Henry Plummer's band of
     road agents in Montana.  The letter was signed, "T. Bayleigh, Chief
     of Police."  On the back of the envelope "T. Bayleigh" had also
     written that it was "no use for the person to send any more letters,
     as the post-office at that point was to be blown up.  Forty-eight
     hogs-head of nitroglycerine had been syrupticiously introduced into
     the cellar of the building, and more was expected.  R.W.E.  H.W.L.
     O.W.H., and other conspirators in masks have been seen flitting
     about the town for some days past.  The greatest excitement combined
     with the most intense quietness reigns at Ponkapog."




XV.

LETTERS FROM HARTFORD, 1875.  MUCH CORRESPONDENCE WITH HOWELLS

Orion Clemens had kept his job with Bliss only a short time.  His mental
make-up was such that it was difficult for him to hold any position long.
He meant to do well, but he was unfortunate in his efforts.  His ideas
were seldom practical, his nature was yielding and fickle.  He had
returned to Keokuk presently, and being convinced there was a fortune in
chickens, had prevailed upon his brother to purchase for him a little
farm not far from the town.  But the chicken business was not lively and
Orion kept the mail hot with manuscripts and propositions of every sort,
which he wanted his brother to take under advisement.

Certainly, to Mark Twain Orion Clemens was a trial.  The letters of the
latter show that scarcely one of them but contains the outline of some
rainbow-chasing scheme, full of wild optimism, and the certainty that
somewhere just ahead lies the pot of gold.  Only, now and then, there is
a letter of abject humiliation and complete surrender, when some golden
vision, some iridescent soap-bubble, had vanished at his touch.  Such
depression did not last; by sunrise he was ready with a new dream, new
enthusiasm, and with a new letter inviting his "brother Sam's" interest
and investment.  Yet, his fear of incurring his brother's displeasure was
pitiful, regardless of the fact that he constantly employed the very
means to insure that result.  At one time Clemens made him sign a sworn
agreement that he would not suggest any plan or scheme of investment for
the period of twelve months.  Orion must have kept this agreement.  He
would have gone to the stake before he would have violated an oath, but
the stake would have probably been no greater punishment than his
sufferings that year.

On the whole, Samuel Clemens was surprisingly patient and considerate
with Orion, and there was never a time that he was not willing to help.
Yet there were bound to be moments of exasperation; and once, when his
mother, or sister, had written, suggesting that he encourage his
brother's efforts, he felt moved to write at considerable freedom.


        To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia, N. Y.:

                                             HARTFORD, Sunday, 1875.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I Saw Gov. Newell today and he said he was
still moving in the matter of Sammy's appointment--[As a West Point
cadet.]--and would stick to it till he got a result of a positive nature
one way or the other, but thus far he did not know whether to expect
success or defeat.

Ma, whenever you need money I hope you won't be backward about saying so
--you can always have it.  We stint ourselves in some ways, but we have
no desire to stint you.  And we don't intend to, either.

I can't "encourage" Orion.  Nobody can do that, conscientiously, for the
reason that before one's letter has time to reach him he is off on some
new wild-goose chase.  Would you encourage in literature a man who, the
older he grows the worse he writes?  Would you encourage Orion in the
glaring insanity of studying law?  If he were packed and crammed full of
law, it would be worthless lumber to him, for his is such a capricious
and ill-regulated mind that he would apply the principles of the law with
no more judgment than a child of ten years.  I know what I am saying.
I laid one of the plainest and simplest of legal questions before Orion
once, and the helpless and hopeless mess he made of it was absolutely
astonishing.  Nothing aggravates me so much as to have Orion mention law
or literature to me.

Well, I cannot encourage him to try the ministry, because he would change
his religion so fast that he would have to keep a traveling agent under
wages to go ahead of him to engage pulpits and board for him.

I cannot conscientiously encourage him to do anything but potter around
his little farm and put in his odd hours contriving new and impossible
projects at the rate of 365 a year--which is his customary average.
He says he did well in Hannibal!  Now there is a man who ought to be
entirely satisfied with the grandeurs, emoluments and activities of a hen
farm--

If you ask me to pity Orion, I can do that.  I can do it every day and
all day long.  But one can't "encourage" quick-silver, because the
instant you put your finger on it it isn't there.  No, I am saying too
much--he does stick to his literary and legal aspirations; and he
naturally would select the very two things which he is wholly and
preposterously unfitted for.  If I ever become able, I mean to put Orion
on a regular pension without revealing the fact that it is a pension.
That is best for him.  Let him consider it a periodical loan, and pay
interest out of the principal.  Within a year's time he would be looking
upon himself as a benefactor of mine, in the way of furnishing me a good
permanent investment for money, and that would make him happy and
satisfied with himself.  If he had money he would share with me in a
moment and I have no disposition to be stingy with him.
                                   Affly
                                        SAM.
Livy sends love.


     The New Orleans plan was not wholly dead at this time.  Howells
     wrote near the end of January that the matter was still being
     debated, now and then, but was far from being decided upon.  He
     hoped to go somewhere with Mrs. Howells for a brief time in March,
     he said.  Clemens, in haste, replied:


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Jan.  26, 1875.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--When Mrs. Clemens read your letter she said: "Well,
then, wherever they go, in March, the direction will be southward and so
they must give us a visit on the way."  I do not know what sort of
control you may be under, but when my wife speaks as positively as that,
I am not in the habit of talking back and getting into trouble.  Situated
as I am, I would not be able to understand, now, how you could pass by
this town without feeling that you were running a wanton risk and doing a
daredevil thing.  I consider it settled that you are to come in March,
and I would be sincerely sorry to learn that you and Mrs. Howells feel
differently about it.

The piloting material has been uncovering itself by degrees, until it has
exposed such a huge hoard to my view that a whole book will be required
to contain it if I use it.  So I have agreed to write the book for Bliss.
--[The book idea was later given up for the time being.]--I won't be
able to run the articles in the Atlantic later than the September number,
for the reason that a subscription book issued in the fall has a much
larger sale than if issued at any other season of the year.  It is funny
when I reflect that when I originally wrote you and proposed to do from 6
to 9 articles for the magazine, the vague thought in my mind was that 6
might exhaust the material and 9 would be pretty sure to do it.  Or
rather it seems to me that that was my thought--can't tell at this
distance.  But in truth 9 chapters don't now seem to more than open up
the subject fairly and start the yarn to wagging.

I have been sick a-bed several days, for the first time in 21 years.
How little confirmed invalids appreciate their advantages.  I was able to
read the English edition of the Greville Memoirs through without
interruption, take my meals in bed, neglect all business without a pang,
and smoke 18 cigars a day.  I try not to look back upon these 21 years
with a feeling of resentment, and yet the partialities of Providence do
seem to me to be slathered around (as one may say) without that gravity
and attention to detail which the real importance of the matter would
seem to suggest.
                              Yrs ever
                                        MARK.


     The New Orleans idea continued to haunt the letters.  The thought of
     drifting down the Mississippi so attracted both Clemens and Howells,
     that they talked of it when they met, and wrote of it when they were
     separated.  Howells, beset by uncertainties, playfully tried to put
     the responsibility upon his wife.  Once he wrote: "She says in the
     noblest way, 'Well, go to New Orleans, if you want to so much' (you
     know the tone).  I suppose it will do if I let you know about the
     middle of February?"

     But they had to give it up in the end.  Howells wrote that he had
     been under the weather, and on half work the whole winter.  He did
     not feel that he had earned his salary, he said, or that he was
     warranted in taking a three weeks' pleasure trip.  Clemens offered
     to pay all the expenses of the trip, but only indefinite
     postponement followed.  It would be seven years more before Mark
     Twain would return to the river, and then not with Howells.

     In a former chapter mention has been made of Charles Warren
     Stoddard, whom Mark Twain had known in his California days.  He was
     fond of Stoddard, who was a facile and pleasing writer of poems and
     descriptive articles.  During the period that he had been acting as
     Mark Twain's secretary in London, he had taken pleasure in
     collecting for him the news reports of the celebrated Tichborn
     Claimant case, then in the English courts.  Clemens thought of
     founding a story on it, and did, in fact, use the idea, though 'The
     American Claimant,' which he wrote years later, had little or no
     connection with the Tichborn episode.


                            To C. W. Stoddard:

                                        HARTFORD, Feb. 1, 1875.
DEAR CHARLEY,--All right about the Tichborn scrapbooks; send them along
when convenient.  I mean to have the Beecher-Tilton trial scrap-book as a
companion.....

I am writing a series of 7-page articles for the Atlantic at $20 a page;
but as they do not pay anybody else as much as that, I do not complain
(though at the same time I do swear that I am not content.)  However the
awful respectability of the magazine makes up.

I have cut your articles about San Marco out of a New York paper (Joe
Twichell saw it and brought it home to me with loud admiration,) and sent
it to Howells.  It is too bad to fool away such good literature in a
perishable daily journal.

Do remember us kindly to Lady Hardy and all that rare family--my wife and
I so often have pleasant talks about them.
                         Ever your friend,
                                   SAML. L. CLEMENS.


     The price received by Mark Twain for the Mississippi papers, as
     quoted in this letter, furnishes us with a realizing sense of the
     improvement in the literary market, with the advent of a flood of
     cheap magazines and the Sunday newspaper.  The Atlantic page
     probably contained about a thousand words, which would make his
     price average, say, two cents per word.  Thirty years later, when
     his fame was not much more extended, his pay for the same matter
     would have been fifteen times as great, that is to say, at the rate
     of thirty cents per word.  But in that early time there were no
     Sunday magazines--no literary magazines at all except the Atlantic,
     and Harpers, and a few fashion periodicals.  Probably there were
     news-stands, but it is hard to imagine what they must have looked
     like without the gay pictorial cover-femininity that to-day pleases
     and elevates the public and makes author and artist affluent.

     Clemens worked steadily on the river chapters, and Howells was
     always praising him and urging him to go on.  At the end of January
     he wrote: "You're doing the science of piloting splendidly.  Every
     word's interesting.  And don't you drop the series 'til you've got
     every bit of anecdote and reminiscence into it."


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Feb. 10, 1875.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Your praises of my literature gave me the solidest
gratification; but I never did have the fullest confidence in my critical
penetration, and now your verdict on S-----has knocked what little I did
have gully-west!  I didn't enjoy his gush, but I thought a lot of his
similes were ever so vivid and good.  But it's just my luck; every time I
go into convulsions of admiration over a picture and want to buy it right
away before I've lost the chance, some wretch who really understands art
comes along and damns it.  But I don't mind.  I would rather have my
ignorance than another man's knowledge, because I have got so much more
of it.

I send you No. 5 today.  I have written and re-written the first half of
it three different times, yesterday and today, and at last Mrs. Clemens
says it will do.  I never saw a woman so hard to please about things she
doesn't know anything about.
                              Yours ever,
                                        MARK.


     Of course, the reference to his wife's criticism in this is tenderly
     playful, as always--of a pattern with the severity which he pretends
     for her in the next.


                   To Mrs. W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                            1875
DEAR MRS. HOWELLS,--Mrs. Clemens is delighted to get the pictures, and so
am I.  I can perceive in the group, that Mr. Howells is feeling as I so
often feel, viz: "Well, no doubt I am in the wrong, though I do not know
how or where or why--but anyway it will be safest to look meek, and walk
circumspectly for a while, and not discuss the thing."  And you look
exactly as Mrs. Clemens does after she has said, "Indeed I do not wonder
that you can frame no reply: for you know only too well, that your
conduct admits of no excuse, palliation or argument--none!"

I shall just delight in that group on account of the good old human
domestic spirit that pervades it--bother these family groups that put on
a state aspect to get their pictures taken in.

We want a heliotype made of our eldest daughter.  How soft and rich and
lovely the picture is.  Mr. Howells must tell me how to proceed in the
matter.
                    Truly Yours
                         SAM. L. CLEMENS.


     In the next letter we have a picture of Susy--[This spelling of the
     name was adopted somewhat later and much preferred.  It appears as
     "Susie" in most of the earlier letters.]--Clemens's third birthday,
     certainly a pretty picture, and as sweet and luminous and tender
     today as it was forty years ago-as it will be a hundred years hence,
     if these lines should survive that long.  The letter is to her uncle
     Charles Langdon, the "Charlie" of the Quaker City.  "Atwater" was
     associated with the Langdon coal interests in Elmira.  "The play"
     is, of course, "The Gilded Age."


                      To Charles Langdon, in Elmira:

                                                  Mch. 19, 1875.
DEAR CHARLIE,--Livy, after reading your letter, used her severest form of
expression about Mr. Atwater--to wit: She did not "approve" of his
conduct.  This made me shudder; for it was equivalent to Allie
Spaulding's saying "Mr. Atwater is a mean thing;" or Rev. Thomas
Beecher's saying "Damn that Atwater," or my saying "I wish Atwater was
three hundred million miles in----!"

However, Livy does not often get into one of these furies, God be
thanked.

In Brooklyn, Baltimore, Washington, Cincinnati, St. Louis and Chicago,
the play paid me an average of nine hundred dollars a week.  In smaller
towns the average is $400 to $500.

This is Susie's birth-day.  Lizzie brought her in at 8.30 this morning
(before we were up) hooded with a blanket, red curl-papers in her hair, a
great red japonica, in one hand (for Livy) and a yellow rose-bud nestled
in violets (for my buttonhole) in the other--and she looked wonderfully
pretty.  She delivered her memorials and received her birth-day kisses.
Livy laid her japonica, down to get a better "holt" for kissing-which
Susie presently perceived, and became thoughtful: then said sorrowfully,
turning the great deeps of her eyes upon her mother: "Don't you care for
you wow?"

Right after breakfast we got up a rousing wood fire in the main hall
(it is a cold morning) illuminated the place with a rich glow from all
the globes of the newell chandelier, spread a bright rug before the fire,
set a circling row of chairs (pink ones and dove-colored) and in the
midst a low invalid-table covered with a fanciful cloth and laden with
the presents--a pink azalia in lavish bloom from Rosa; a gold inscribed
Russia-leather bible from Patrick and Mary; a gold ring (inscribed) from
"Maggy Cook;" a silver thimble (inscribed with motto and initials) from
Lizzie; a rattling mob of Sunday clad dolls from Livy and Annie, and a
Noah's Ark from me, containing 200 wooden animals such as only a human
being could create and only God call by name without referring to the
passenger list.  Then the family and the seven servants assembled there,
and Susie and the "Bay" arrived in state from above, the Bay's head being
fearfully and wonderfully decorated with a profusion of blazing red
flowers and overflowing cataracts of lycopodium.  Wee congratulatory
notes accompanied the presents of the servants.  I tell you it was a
great occasion and a striking and cheery group, taking all the
surroundings into account and the wintry aspect outside.

(Remainder missing.)


     There was to be a centennial celebration that year of the battles of
     Lexington and Concord, and Howells wrote, urging Clemens and his
     wife to visit them and attend it.  Mrs. Clemens did not go, and
     Clemens and Howells did not go, either--to the celebration.  They
     had their own ideas about getting there, but found themselves unable
     to board the thronged train at Concord, and went tramping about in
     the cold and mud, hunting a conveyance, only to return at length to
     the cheer of the home, defeated and rather low in spirits.

     Twichell, who went on his own hook, had no such difficulties.  To
     Howells, Mark Twain wrote the adventures of this athletic and
     strenuous exponent of the gospel.

     The "Winnie" mentioned in this letter was Howells's daughter
     Winifred.  She had unusual gifts, but did not live to develop them.


                      To W.  D.  Howells, in Boston:

                         FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD.  Apl. 23, 1875.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I've got Mrs. Clemens's picture before me, and hope I
shall not forget to send it with this.

Joe Twichell preached morning and evening here last Sunday; took midnight
train for Boston; got an early breakfast and started by rail at 7.30
A. M.  for Concord; swelled around there until 1 P. M., seeing
everything; then traveled on top of a train to Lexington; saw everything
there; traveled on top of a train to Boston, (with hundreds in company)
deluged with dust, smoke and cinders; yelled and hurrahed all the way
like a schoolboy; lay flat down to dodge numerous bridges, and sailed
into the depot, howling with excitement and as black as a chimney-sweep;
got to Young's Hotel at 7 P. M.; sat down in reading-room and immediately
fell asleep; was promptly awakened by a porter who supposed he was drunk;
wandered around an hour and a half; then took 9 P. M. train, sat down in
smoking car and remembered nothing more until awakened by conductor as
the train came into Hartford at 1.30 A. M.  Thinks he had simply a
glorious time--and wouldn't have missed the Centennial for the world.
He would have run out to see us a moment at Cambridge, but was too dirty.
I wouldn't have wanted him there--his appalling energy would have been an
insufferable reproach to mild adventurers like you and me.

Well, he is welcome to the good time he had--I had a deal better one.
My narrative has made Mrs. Clemens wish she could have been there.--When
I think over what a splendid good sociable time I had in your house I
feel ever so thankful to the wise providence that thwarted our several
ably-planned and ingenious attempts to get to Lexington.  I am coming
again before long, and then she shall be of the party.

Now you said that you and Mrs. Howells could run down here nearly any
Saturday.  Very well then, let us call it next Saturday, for a "starter."
Can you do that?  By that time it will really be spring and you won't
freeze.  The birds are already out; a small one paid us a visit
yesterday.  We entertained it and let it go again, Susie protesting.

The spring laziness is already upon me--insomuch that the spirit begins
to move me to cease from Mississippi articles and everything else and
give myself over to idleness until we go to New Orleans.  I have one
article already finished, but somehow it doesn't seem as proper a chapter
to close with as the one already in your hands.  I hope to get in a mood
and rattle off a good one to finish with--but just now all my moods are
lazy ones.

Winnie's literature sings through me yet!  Surely that child has one of
these "futures" before her.

Now try to come--will you?

With the warmest regards of the two of us--
                         Yrs ever,
                              S. L. CLEMENS.

Mrs. Clemens sent a note to Mrs. Howells, which will serve as a pendant
to the foregoing.


              From Mrs. Clemens to Mrs. Howells, in Boston:

MY DEAR MRS. HOWELLS,--Don't dream for one instant that my not getting a
letter from you kept me from Boston.  I am too anxious to go to let such
a thing as that keep me.

Mr. Clemens did have such a good time with you and Mr. Howells.
He evidently has no regret that he did not get to the Centennial.  I was
driven nearly distracted by his long account of Mr. Howells and his
wanderings.  I would keep asking if they ever got there, he would never
answer but made me listen to a very minute account of everything that
they did.  At last I found them back where they started from.

If you find misspelled words in this note, you will remember my infirmity
and not hold me responsible.
                         Affectionately yours,
                                        LIVY L. CLEMENS.

In spite of his success with the Sellers play and his itch to follow it
up, Mark Twain realized what he believed to be his literary limitations.
All his life he was inclined to consider himself wanting in the finer
gifts of character-shading and delicate portrayal.  Remembering Huck
Finn, and the rare presentation of Joan of Arc, we may not altogether
agree with him.  Certainly, he was never qualified to delineate those
fine artificialities of life which we are likely to associate with
culture, and perhaps it was something of this sort that caused the
hesitation confessed in the letter that follows.  Whether the plan
suggested interested Howells or not we do not know.  In later years
Howells wrote a novel called The Story of a Play; this may have been its
beginning.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                         FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD, Apl. 26, 1875.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--An actor named D. H. Harkins has been here to ask me to
put upon paper a 5-act play which he has been mapping out in his mind for
3 or 4 years.   He sat down and told me his plot all through, in a clear,
bright way, and I was a deal taken with it; but it is a line of
characters whose fine shading and artistic development requires an abler
hand than mine; so I easily perceived that I must not make the attempt.
But I liked the man, and thought there was a good deal of stuff in him;
and therefore I wanted his play to be written, and by a capable hand,
too.  So I suggested you, and said I would write and see if you would be
willing to undertake it.  If you like the idea, he will call upon you in
the course of two or three weeks and describe his plot and his
characters.  Then if it doesn't strike you favorably, of course you can
simply decline; but it seems to me well worth while that you should hear
what he has to say.  You could also "average" him while he talks, and
judge whether he could play your priest--though I doubt if any man can do
that justice.

Shan't I write him and say he may call?  If you wish to communicate
directly with him instead, his address is "Larchmont Manor, Westchester
Co., N. Y."

Do you know, the chill of that 19th of April seems to be in my bones yet?
I am inert and drowsy all the time.  That was villainous weather for a
couple of wandering children to be out in.
                                        Ys ever
                                                  MARK.


     The sinister typewriter did not find its way to Howells for nearly a
     year.  Meantime, Mark Twain had refused to allow the manufacturers
     to advertise his ownership.  He wrote to them:


                                        HARTFORD, March 19, 1875.
Please do not use my name in any way.  Please do not even divulge the
fact that I own a machine.  I have entirely stopped using the typewriter,
for the reason that I never could write a letter with it to anybody
without receiving a request by return mail that I would not only describe
the machine, but state what progress I had made in the use of it, etc.,
etc.  I don't like to write letters, and so I don't want people to know
I own this curiosity-breeding little joker.


     Three months later the machine was still in his possession.  Bliss
     had traded a twelve-dollar saddle for it, but apparently showed
     little enthusiasm in his new possession.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                  June 25, 1875.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I told Patrick to get some carpenters and box the
machine and send it to you--and found that Bliss had sent for the machine
and earned it off.

I have been talking to you and writing to you as if you were present when
I traded the machine to Bliss for a twelve-dollar saddle worth $25
(cheating him outrageously, of course--but conscience got the upper hand
again and I told him before I left the premises that I'd pay for the
saddle if he didn't like the machine--on condition that he donate said
machine to a charity)

This was a little over five weeks ago--so I had long ago concluded that
Bliss didn't want the machine and did want the saddle--wherefore I jumped
at the chance of shoving the machine off onto you, saddle or no saddle so
I got the blamed thing out of my sight.

The saddle hangs on Tara's walls down below in the stable, and the
machine is at Bliss's grimly pursuing its appointed mission, slowly and
implacably rotting away another man's chances for salvation.

I have sent Bliss word not to donate it to a charity (though it is a pity
to fool away a chance to do a charity an ill turn,) but to let me know
when he has got his dose, because I've got another candidate for
damnation.  You just wait a couple of weeks and if you don't see the
Type-Writer come tilting along toward Cambridge with an unsatisfied
appetite in its eye, I lose my guess.

Don't you be mad about this blunder, Howells--it only comes of a bad
memory, and the stupidity which is inseparable from true genius.  Nothing
intentionally criminal in it.
                              Yrs ever
                                        MARK.


     It was November when Howells finally fell under the baleful
     influence of the machine.  He wrote:

     "The typewriter came Wednesday night, and is already beginning to
     have its effect on me.  Of course, it doesn't work: if I can
     persuade some of the letters to get up against the ribbon they won't
     get down again without digital assistance.  The treadle refuses to
     have any part or parcel in the performance; and I don't know how to
     get the roller to turn with the paper.  Nevertheless I have begun
     several letters to My d-a-r lemans, as it prefers to spell your
     respected name, and I don't despair yet of sending you something in
     its beautiful handwriting--after I've had a man out from the agent's
     to put it in order.  It's fascinating in the meantime, and it wastes
     my time like an old friend."

     The Clemens family remained in Hartford that summer, with the
     exception of a brief season at Bateman's Point, R. I., near
     Newport.  By this time Mark Twain had taken up and finished the Tom
     Sawyer story begun two years before.  Naturally he wished Howells to
     consider the MS.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, July 5th, 1875.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I have finished the story and didn't take the chap
beyond boyhood.  I believe it would be fatal to do it in any shape but
autobiographically--like Gil Blas.  I perhaps made a mistake in not
writing it in the first person.  If I went on, now, and took him into
manhood, he would just like like all the one-horse men in literature and
the reader would conceive a hearty contempt for him.  It is not a boy's
book, at all.  It will only be read by adults.  It is only written for
adults.

Moreover the book is plenty long enough as it stands.  It is about 900
pages of MS, and may be 1000 when I shall have finished "working up"
vague places; so it would make from 130 to 150 pages of the Atlantic--
about what the Foregone Conclusion made, isn't it?

I would dearly like to see it in the Atlantic, but I doubt if it would
pay the publishers to buy the privilege, or me to sell it.  Bret Harte
has sold his novel (same size as mine, I should say) to Scribner's
Monthly for $6,500 (publication to begin in September, I think,) and he
gets a royalty of 7 1/2 per cent from Bliss in book form afterwards.  He
gets a royalty of ten per cent on it in England (issued in serial
numbers) and the same royalty on it in book form afterwards, and is to
receive an advance payment of five hundred pounds the day the first No.
of the serial appears.  If I could do as well, here, and there, with
mine, it might possibly pay me, but I seriously doubt it though it is
likely I could do better in England than Bret, who is not widely known
there.

You see I take a vile, mercenary view of things--but then my household
expenses are something almost ghastly.

By and by I shall take a boy of twelve and run him on through life (in
the first person) but not Tom Sawyer--he would not be a good character
for it.

I wish you would promise to read the MS of Tom Sawyer some time, and see
if you don't really decide that I am right in closing with him as a boy-
and point out the most glaring defects for me.  It is a tremendous favor
to ask, and I expect you to refuse and would be ashamed to expect you to
do otherwise.  But the thing has been so many months in my mind that it
seems a relief to snake it out.  I don't know any other person whose
judgment I could venture to take fully and entirely.  Don't hesitate
about saying no, for I know how your time is taxed, and I would have
honest need to blush if you said yes.

Osgood and I are "going for" the puppy G---- on infringement of
trademark.  To win one or two suits of this kind will set literary folks
on a firmer bottom.  I wish Osgood would sue for stealing Holmes's poem.
Wouldn't it be gorgeous to sue R---- for petty larceny?  I will promise
to go into court and swear I think him capable of stealing pea-nuts from
a blind pedlar.
                         Yrs ever,
                                   CLEMENS.


     Of course Howells promptly replied that he would read the story,
     adding: "You've no idea what I may ask you to do for me, some day.
     I'm sorry that you can't do it for the Atlantic, but I succumb.
     Perhaps you will do Boy No. 2 for us."  Clemens, conscience-
     stricken, meantime, hastily put the MS. out of reach of temptation.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                  July 13, 1875
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Just as soon as you consented I realized all the
atrocity of my request, and straightway blushed and weakened.
I telegraphed my theatrical agent to come here and carry off the MS and
copy it.

But I will gladly send it to you if you will do as follows: dramatize it,
if you perceive that you can, and take, for your remuneration, half of
the first $6000 which I receive for its representation on the stage.  You
could alter the plot entirely, if you chose.  I could help in the work,
most cheerfully, after you had arranged the plot.  I have my eye upon two
young girls who can play "Tom" and "Huck."  I believe a good deal of a
drama can be made of it.  Come--can't you tackle this in the odd hours of
your vacation?  or later, if you prefer?

I do wish you could come down once more before your holiday.  I'd give
anything!
                    Yrs ever,
                              MARK.


Howells wrote that he had no time for the dramatization and urged Clemens
to undertake it himself.  He was ready to read the story, whenever it
should arrive.  Clemens did not hurry, however, The publication of Tom
Sawyer could wait.  He already had a book in press--the volume of
Sketches New and Old, which he had prepared for Bliss several years
before.

Sketches was issued that autumn, and Howells gave it a good notice--
possibly better than it deserved.

Considered among Mark Twain's books to-day, the collection of sketches
does not seem especially important.  With the exception of the frog story
and the "True Story" most of those included--might be spared.  Clemens
himself confessed to Howells that He wished, when it was too late, that
he had destroyed a number of them.  The book, however, was distinguished
in a special way: it contains Mark Twain's first utterance in print on
the subject of copyright, a matter in which he never again lost interest.
The absurdity and injustice of the copyright laws both amused and
irritated him, and in the course of time he would be largely instrumental
in their improvement.  In the book his open petition to Congress that all
property rights, as well as literary ownership, should be put on the
copyright basis and limited to a "beneficent term of forty-two years,"
was more or less of a joke, but, like so many of Mark Twain's jokes, it
was founded on reason and justice.

He had another idea, that was not a joke: an early plan in the direction
of international copyright.  It was to be a petition signed by the
leading American authors, asking the United States to declare itself to
be the first to stand for right and justice by enacting laws against the
piracy of foreign books.  It was a rather utopian scheme, as most schemes
for moral progress are, in their beginning.  It would not be likely ever
to reach Congress, but it would appeal to Howells and his Cambridge
friends.  Clemens wrote, outlining his plan of action.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Sept. 18, 1875.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--My plan is this--you are to get Mr. Lowell and Mr.
Longfellow to be the first signers of my copyright petition; you must
sign it yourself and get Mr. Whittier to do likewise.  Then Holmes will
sign--he said he would if he didn't have to stand at the head.  Then I'm
fixed.  I will then put a gentlemanly chap under wages and send him
personally to every author of distinction in the country, and corral the
rest of the signatures.  Then I'll have the whole thing lithographed
(about a thousand copies) and move upon the President and Congress in
person, but in the subordinate capacity of a party who is merely the
agent of better and wiser men--men whom the country cannot venture to
laugh at.

I will ask the President to recommend the thing in his message (and if he
should ask me to sit down and frame the paragraph for him I should blush
--but still I would frame it.)

Next I would get a prime leader in Congress: I would also see that votes
enough to carry the measure were privately secured before the bill was
offered.  This I would try through my leader and my friends there.

And then if Europe chose to go on stealing from us, we would say with
noble enthusiasm, "American lawmakers do steal but not from foreign
authors--Not from foreign authors!"

You see, what I want to drive into the Congressional mind is the simple
fact that the moral law is "Thou shalt not steal"--no matter what Europe
may do.

I swear I can't see any use in robbing European authors for the benefit
of American booksellers, anyway.

If we can ever get this thing through Congress, we can try making
copyright perpetual, some day.  There would be no sort of use in it,
since only one book in a hundred millions outlives the present copyright
term--no sort of use except that the writer of that one book have his
rights--which is something.

If we only had some God in the country's laws, instead of being in such a
sweat to get Him into the Constitution, it would be better all around.

The only man who ever signed my petition with alacrity, and said that the
fact that a thing was right was all-sufficient, was Rev. Dr. Bushnell.

I have lost my old petition, (which was brief) but will draft and enclose
another--not in the words it ought to be, but in the substance.  I want
Mr. Lowell to furnish the words (and the ideas too,) if he will do it.

Say--Redpath beseeches me to lecture in Boston in November--telegraphs
that Beecher's and Nast's withdrawal has put him in the tightest kind of
a place.  So I guess I'll do that old "Roughing It" lecture over again in
November and repeat it 2 or 3 times in New York while I am at it.

Can I take a carriage after the lecture and go out and stay with you that
night, provided you find at that distant time that it will not
inconvenience you?  Is Aldrich home yet?
                              With love to you all
                                        Yrs ever,
                                             S. L. C.


     Of course the petition never reached Congress.  Holmes's comment
     that governments were not in the habit of setting themselves up as
     high moral examples, except for revenue, was shared by too many
     others.  The petition was tabled, but Clemens never abandoned his
     purpose and lived to see most of his dream fulfilled.  Meantime,
     Howells's notice of the Sketches appeared in the Atlantic, and
     brought grateful acknowledgment from the author.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                   HARTFORD, Oct. 19, 1875.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--That is a perfectly superb notice.  You can easily
believe that nothing ever gratified me so much before.  The newspaper
praises bestowed upon the "Innocents Abroad" were large and generous, but
somehow I hadn't confidence in the critical judgement of the parties who
furnished them.  You know how that is, yourself, from reading the
newspaper notices of your own books.  They gratify a body, but they
always leave a small pang behind in the shape of a fear that the critic's
good words could not safely be depended upon as authority.  Yours is the
recognized critical Court of Last Resort in this country; from its
decision there is no appeal; and so, to have gained this decree of yours
before I am forty years old, I regard as a thing to be right down proud
of.  Mrs. Clemens says, "Tell him I am just as grateful to him as I can
be."  (It sounds as if she were grateful to you for heroically trampling
the truth under foot in order to praise me but in reality it means that
she is grateful to you for being bold enough to utter a truth which she
fully believes all competent people know, but which none has heretofore
been brave enough to utter.)  You see, the thing that gravels her is that
I am so persistently glorified as a mere buffoon, as if that entirely
covered my case--which she denies with venom.

The other day Mrs. Clemens was planning a visit to you, and so I am
waiting with a pleasurable hope for the result of her deliberations.
We are expecting visitors every day, now, from New York; and afterward
some are to come from Elmira.  I judge that we shall then be free to go
Bostonward.  I should be just delighted; because we could visit in
comfort, since we shouldn't have to do any shopping--did it all in New
York last week, and a tremendous pull it was too.

Mrs. C. said the other day, "We will go to Cambridge if we have to walk;
for I don't believe we can ever get the Howellses to come here again
until we have been there."  I was gratified to see that there was one
string, anyway, that could take her to Cambridge.  But I will do her the
justice to say that she is always wanting to go to Cambridge, independent
of the selfish desire to get a visit out of you by it.  I want her to get
started, now, before children's diseases are fashionable again, because
they always play such hob with visiting arrangements.
                              With love to you all
                                        Yrs Ever
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


     Mark Twain's trips to Boston were usually made alone.  Women require
     more preparation to go visiting, and Mrs. Clemens and Mrs. Howells
     seem to have exchanged visits infrequently.  For Mark Twain,
     perhaps, it was just as well that his wife did not always go with
     him; his absent-mindedness and boyish ingenuousness often led him
     into difficulties which Mrs. Clemens sometimes found embarrassing.
     In the foregoing letter they were planning a visit to Cambridge.  In
     the one that follows they seem to have made it--with certain
     results, perhaps not altogether amusing at the moment.


                      To W.  D.  Howells, in Boston:

                                                  Oct. 4, '75.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--We had a royal good time at your house, and have had a
royal good time ever since, talking about it, both privately and with the
neighbors.

Mrs. Clemens's bodily strength came up handsomely under that cheery
respite from household and nursery cares.  I do hope that Mrs. Howells's
didn't go correspondingly down, under the added burden to her cares and
responsibilities.  Of course I didn't expect to get through without
committing some crimes and hearing of them afterwards, so I have taken
the inevitable lashings and been able to hum a tune while the punishment
went on.  I "caught it" for letting Mrs. Howells bother and bother about
her coffee when it was "a good deal better than we get at home."
I "caught it" for interrupting Mrs. C. at the last moment and losing her
the opportunity to urge you not to forget to send her that MS when the
printers are done with it.  I "caught it" once more for personating that
drunken Col. James.  I "caught it" for mentioning that Mr. Longfellow's
picture was slightly damaged; and when, after a lull in the storm,
I confessed, shame-facedly, that I had privately suggested to you that we
hadn't any frames, and that if you wouldn't mind hinting to Mr. Houghton,
&c., &c., &c., the Madam was simply speechless for the space of a minute.
Then she said:

"How could you, Youth!  The idea of sending Mr. Howells, with his
sensitive nature, upon such a repulsive er--"

"Oh, Howells won't mind it!  You don't know Howells.  Howells is a man
who--" She was gone.  But George was the first person she stumbled on in
the hall, so she took it out of George.  I was glad of that, because it
saved the babies.

I've got another rattling good character for my novel!  That great work
is mulling itself into shape gradually.

Mrs. Clemens sends love to Mrs. Howells--meantime she is diligently
laying up material for a letter to her.
                              Yrs ever
                                        MARK.


     The "George" of this letter was Mark Twain's colored butler, a
     valued and even beloved member of the household--a most picturesque
     character, who "one day came to wash windows," as Clemens used to
     say, "and remained eighteen years."  The fiction of Mrs. Clemens's
     severity he always found amusing, because of its entire contrast
     with the reality of her gentle heart.

     Clemens carried the Tom Sawyer MS. to Boston himself and placed it
     in Howells's hands.  Howells had begged to be allowed to see the
     story, and Mrs. Clemens was especially anxious that he should do so.
     She had doubts as to certain portions of it, and had the fullest
     faith in Howells's opinion.

     It was a gratifying one when it came.  Howells wrote: "I finished
     reading Tom Sawyer a week ago, sitting up till one A.M. to get to
     the end, simply because it was impossible to leave off.  It's
     altogether the best boy's story I ever read.  It will be an immense
     success.  But I think you ought to treat it explicitly as a boy's
     story.  Grown-ups will enjoy it just as much if you do; and if you
     should put it forth as a study of boy character from the grown-up
     point of view, you give the wrong key to it....  The adventures are
     enchanting.  I wish I had been on that island.  The treasure-
     hunting, the loss in the cave--it's all exciting and splendid.
     I shouldn't think of publishing this story serially.  Give me a hint
     when it's to be out, and I'll start the sheep to jumping in the
     right places"--meaning that he would have an advance review ready
     for publication in the Atlantic, which was a leader of criticism in
     America.

     Mark Twain was writing a great deal at this time.  Howells was
     always urging him to send something to the Atlantic, declaring a
     willingness to have his name appear every month in their pages, and
     Clemens was generally contributing some story or sketch.  The
     "proof" referred to in the next letter was of one of these articles.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Nov. 23, '75.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Herewith is the proof.  In spite of myself, how
awkwardly I do jumble words together; and how often I do use three words
where one would answer--a thing I am always trying to guard against.
I shall become as slovenly a writer as Charles Francis Adams, if I don't
look out.  (That is said in jest; because of course I do not seriously
fear getting so bad as that.  I never shall drop so far toward his and
Bret Harte's level as to catch myself saying "It must have been wiser to
have believed that he might have accomplished it if he could have felt
that he would have been supported by those who should have &c.  &c.  &c.")
The reference to Bret Harte reminds me that I often accuse him of being a
deliberate imitator of Dickens; and this in turn reminds me that I have
charged unconscious plagiarism upon Charley Warner; and this in turn
reminds me that I have been delighting my soul for two weeks over a bran
new and ingenious way of beginning a novel--and behold, all at once it
flashes upon me that Charley Warner originated the idea 3 years ago and
told me about it!  Aha!  So much for self-righteousness!  I am well
repaid.  Here are 108 pages of MS, new and clean, lying disgraced in the
waste paper basket, and I am beginning the novel over again in an
unstolen way.  I would not wonder if I am the worst literary thief in the
world, without knowing it.

It is glorious news that you like Tom Sawyer so well.  I mean to see to
it that your review of it shall have plenty of time to appear before the
other notices.  Mrs. Clemens decides with you that the book should issue
as a book for boys, pure and simple--and so do I.  It is surely the
correct idea.  As to that last chapter, I think of just leaving it off
and adding nothing in its place.  Something told me that the book was
done when I got to that point--and so the strong temptation to put Huck's
life at the Widow's into detail, instead of generalizing it in a
paragraph was resisted.  Just send Sawyer to me by express--I enclose
money for it.  If it should get lost it will be no great matter.

Company interfered last night, and so "Private Theatricals" goes over
till this evening, to be read aloud.  Mrs. Clemens is mad, but the story
will take that all out.  This is going to be a splendid winter night for
fireside reading, anyway.

I am almost at a dead stand-still with my new story, on account of the
misery of having to do it all over again.  We--all send love to you--all.
                              Yrs ever
                                        MARK.


The "story" referred to may have been any one of several begun by him at
this time.  His head was full of ideas for literature of every sort.
Many of his beginnings came to nothing, for the reason that he started
wrong, or with no definitely formed plan.  Others of his literary
enterprises were condemned by his wife for their grotesqueness or for the
offense they might give in one way or another, however worthy the
intention behind them.  Once he wrote a burlesque on family history "The
Autobiography of a Damned Fool."  "Livy wouldn't have it," he said later,
"so I gave it up."  The world is indebted to Mark Twain's wife for the
check she put upon his fantastic or violent impulses.  She was his
public, his best public--clearheaded and wise.  That he realized this,
and was willing to yield, was by no means the least of his good fortunes.
We may believe that he did not always yield easily, and perhaps sometimes
only out of love for her.  In the letter which he wrote her on her
thirtieth birthday we realize something of what she had come to mean in
his life.


                To Mrs. Clemens on her Thirtieth Birthday:

                                        HARTFORD, November 27, 1875.
Livy darling, six years have gone by since I made my first great success
in life and won you, and thirty years have passed since Providence made
preparation for that happy success by sending you into the world.  Every
day we live together adds to the security of my confidence, that we can
never any more wish to be separated than that we can ever imagine a
regret that we were ever joined.  You are dearer to me to-day, my child,
than you were upon the last anniversary of this birth-day; you were
dearer then than you were a year before--you have grown more and more
dear from the first of those anniversaries, and I do not doubt that this
precious progression will continue on to the end.

Let us look forward to the coming anniversaries, with their age and their
gray hairs without fear and without depression, trusting and believing
that the love we bear each other will be sufficient to make them blessed.

So, with abounding affection for you and our babies, I hail this day that
brings you the matronly grace and dignity of three decades!

                              Always Yours
                                        S. L. C.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Letters Vol. 2, by Mark Twain






MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS 1876-1885

ARRANGED WITH COMMENT BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE



VOLUME III.


XVI.

LETTERS, 1876, CHIEFLY TO W. D. HOWELLS.  LITERATURE AND POLITICS.
PLANNING A PLAY WITH BRET HARTE

     The Monday Evening Club of Hartford was an association of most of
     the literary talent of that city, and it included a number of very
     distinguished members.  The writers, the editors, the lawyers, and
     the ministers of the gospel who composed it were more often than not
     men of national or international distinction.  There was but one
     paper at each meeting, and it was likely to be a paper that would
     later find its way into some magazine.

     Naturally Mark Twain was one of its favorite members, and his
     contributions never failed to arouse interest and discussion.  A
     "Mark Twain night" brought out every member.  In the next letter we
     find the first mention of one of his most memorable contributions--a
     story of one of life's moral aspects.  The tale, now included in his
     collected works, is, for some reason, little read to-day; yet the
     curious allegory, so vivid in its seeming reality, is well worth
     consideration.


                      To W.  D.  Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Jan. 11, '76.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Indeed we haven't forgotten the Howellses, nor scored
up a grudge of any kind against them; but the fact is I was under the
doctor's hands for four weeks on a stretch and have been disabled from
working for a week or so beside.  I thought I was well, about ten days
ago, so I sent for a short-hand writer and dictated answers to a bushel
or so of letters that had been accumulating during my illness.  Getting
everything shipshape and cleared up, I went to work next day upon an
Atlantic article, which ought to be worth $20 per page (which is the
price they usually pay for my work, I believe) for although it is only 70
pages MS (less than two days work, counting by bulk,) I have spent 3 more
days trimming, altering and working at it.  I shall put in one more day's
polishing on it, and then read it before our Club, which is to meet at
our house Monday evening, the 24th inst.  I think it will bring out
considerable discussion among the gentlemen of the Club--though the title
of the article will not give them much notion of what is to follow,--this
title being "The Facts Concerning the Recent Carnival of Crime in
Connecticut"--which reminds me that today's Tribune says there will be a
startling article in the current Atlantic, in which a being which is
tangible bud invisible will figure-exactly the case with the sketch of
mine which I am talking about!  However, mine can lie unpublished a year
or two as well as not--though I wish that contributor of yours had not
interfered with his coincidence of heroes.

But what I am coming at, is this: won't you and Mrs. Howells come down
Saturday the 22nd and remain to the Club on Monday night?  We always have
a rattling good time at the Club and we do want you to come, ever so
much.  Will you?  Now say you will.  Mrs. Clemens and I are persuading
ourselves that you twain will come.

My volume of sketches is doing very well, considering the times; received
my quarterly statement today from Bliss, by which I perceive that 20,000
copies have been sold--or rather, 20,000 had been sold 3 weeks ago; a lot
more, by this time, no doubt.

I am on the sick list again--and was, day before yesterday--but on the
whole I am getting along.
                              Yrs ever
                                        MARK


     Howells wrote that he could not come down to the club meeting,
     adding that sickness was "quite out of character" for Mark Twain,
     and hardly fair on a man who had made so many other people feel
     well.  He closed by urging that Bliss "hurry out" 'Tom Sawyer.'
     "That boy is going to make a prodigious hit."  Clemens answered:


                      To W.  D.  Howells, in Boston.

                                             HARTFORD, Jan. 18, '76.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Thanks, and ever so many, for the good opinion of 'Tom
Sawyer.'  Williams has made about 300 rattling pictures for it--some of
them very dainty.  Poor devil, what a genius he has and how he does
murder it with rum.  He takes a book of mine, and without suggestion from
anybody builds no end of pictures just from his reading of it.

There was never a man in the world so grateful to another as I was to you
day before yesterday, when I sat down (in still rather wretched health)
to set myself to the dreary and hateful task of making final revision of
Tom Sawyer, and discovered, upon opening the package of MS that your
pencil marks were scattered all along.  This was splendid, and swept away
all labor.  Instead of reading the MS, I simply hunted out the pencil
marks and made the emendations which they suggested.  I reduced the boy
battle to a curt paragraph; I finally concluded to cut the Sunday school
speech down to the first two sentences, leaving no suggestion of satire,
since the book is to be for boys and girls; I tamed the various
obscenities until I judged that they no longer carried offense.  So, at a
single sitting I began and finished a revision which I had supposed would
occupy 3 or 4.  days and leave me mentally and physically fagged out at
the end.  I was careful not to inflict the MS upon you until I had
thoroughly and painstakingly revised it.  Therefore, the only faults left
were those that would discover themselves to others, not me--and these
you had pointed out.

There was one expression which perhaps you overlooked.  When Huck is
complaining to Tom of the rigorous system in vogue at the widow's, he
says the servants harass him with all manner of compulsory decencies, and
he winds up by saying: "and they comb me all to hell."  (No exclamation
point.) Long ago, when I read that to Mrs. Clemens, she made no comment;
another time I created occasion to read that chapter to her aunt and her
mother (both sensitive and loyal subjects of the kingdom of heaven, so to
speak) and they let it pass.  I was glad, for it was the most natural
remark in the world for that boy to make (and he had been allowed few
privileges of speech in the book;) when I saw that you, too, had let it
go without protest, I was glad, and afraid; too--afraid you hadn't
observed it.  Did you?  And did you question the propriety of it?  Since
the book is now professedly and confessedly a boy's and girl's hook, that
darn word bothers me some, nights, but it never did until I had ceased to
regard the volume as being for adults.

Don't bother to answer now, (for you've writing enough to do without
allowing me to add to the burden,) but tell me when you see me again!

Which we do hope will be next Saturday or Sunday or Monday.  Couldn't you
come now and mull over the alterations which you are going to make in
your MS, and make them after you go back?  Wouldn't it assist the work if
you dropped out of harness and routine for a day or two and have that
sort of revivification which comes of a holiday-forgetfulness of the
work-shop?  I can always work after I've been to your house; and if you
will come to mine, now, and hear the club toot their various horns over
the exasperating metaphysical question which I mean to lay before them in
the disguise of a literary extravaganza, it would just brace you up like
a cordial.

(I feel sort of mean trying to persuade a man to put down a critical
piece of work at a critical time, but yet I am honest in thinking it
would not hurt the work nor impair your interest in it to come under the
circumstances.) Mrs. Clemens says, "Maybe the Howellses could come Monday
if they cannot come Saturday; ask them; it is worth trying."  Well, how's
that?  Could you?  It would be splendid if you could.  Drop me a postal
card--I should have a twinge of conscience if I forced you to write a
letter, (I am honest about that,)--and if you find you can't make out to
come, tell me that you bodies will come the next Saturday if the thing is
possible, and stay over Sunday.
                                   Yrs ever
                                             MARK.


     Howells, however, did not come to the club meeting, but promised to
     come soon when they could have a quiet time to themselves together.
     As to Huck's language, he declared:

     "I'd have that swearing out in an instant.  I suppose I didn't
     notice it because the locution was so familiar to my Western sense,
     and so exactly the thing that Huck would say."  Clemens changed the
     phrase to, "They comb me all to thunder," and so it stands to-day.

     The "Carnival of Crime," having served its purpose at the club,
     found quick acceptance by Howells for the Atlantic.  He was so
     pleased with it, in fact, that somewhat later he wrote, urging that
     its author allow it to be printed in a dainty book, by Osgood, who
     made a specialty of fine publishing.  Meantime Howells had written
     his Atlantic notice of Tom Sawyer, and now inclosed Clemens a proof
     of it.  We may judge from the reply that it was satisfactory.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                  Apl 3, '76.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--It is a splendid notice and will embolden weak-kneed
journalistic admirers to speak out, and will modify or shut up the
unfriendly.  To "fear God and dread the Sunday school" exactly described
that old feeling which I used to have, but I couldn't have formulated it.
I want to enclose one of the illustrations in this letter, if I do not
forget it.  Of course the book is to be elaborately illustrated, and I
think that many of the pictures are considerably above the American
average, in conception if not in execution.

I do not re-enclose your review to you, for you have evidently read and
corrected it, and so I judge you do not need it.  About two days after
the Atlantic issues I mean to begin to send books to principal journals
and magazines.

I read the "Carnival of Crime" proof in New York when worn and witless
and so left some things unamended which I might possibly have altered had
I been at home.  For instance, "I shall always address you in your own
S-n-i-v-e-l-i-n-g d-r-a-w-l, baby."  I saw that you objected to something
there, but I did not understand what!  Was it that it was too personal?
Should the language be altered?--or the hyphens taken out?  Won't you
please fix it the way it ought to be, altering the language as you
choose, only making it bitter and contemptuous?

"Deuced" was not strong enough; so I met you halfway with "devilish."

Mrs. Clemens has returned from New York with dreadful sore throat, and
bones racked with rheumatism.  She keeps her bed.  "Aloha nui!" as the
Kanakas say.
                         MARK.


     Henry Irving once said to Mark Twain: "You made a mistake by not
     adopting the stage as a profession.  You would have made even a
     greater actor than a writer."

     Mark Twain would have made an actor, certainly, but not a very
     tractable one.  His appearance in Hartford in "The Loan of a Lover"
     was a distinguished event, and his success complete, though he made
     so many extemporaneous improvements on the lines of thick-headed
     Peter Spuyk, that he kept the other actors guessing as to their
     cues, and nearly broke up the performance.  It was, of course, an
     amateur benefit, though Augustin Daly promptly wrote, offering to
     put it on for a long run.

     The "skeleton novelette" mentioned in the next letter refers to a
     plan concocted by Howells and Clemens, by which each of twelve
     authors was to write a story, using the same plot, "blindfolded" as
     to what the others had written.  It was a regular "Mark Twain"
     notion, and it is hard to-day to imagine Howells's continued
     enthusiasm in it.  Neither he nor Clemens gave up the idea for a
     long time.  It appears in their letters again and again, though
     perhaps it was just as well for literature that it was never carried
     out.


                      To W.  D.  Howells, in Boston:

                                             Apl.  22, 1876.
MY DEAR HOWELLS, You'll see per enclosed slip that I appear for the first
time on the stage next Wednesday.  You and Mrs. H. come down and you
shall skip in free.

I wrote my skeleton novelette yesterday and today.  It will make a little
under 12 pages.

Please tell Aldrich I've got a photographer engaged, and tri-weekly issue
is about to begin.  Show him the canvassing specimens and beseech him to
subscribe.
                    Ever yours,
                              S. L. C.


     In his next letter Mark Twain explains why Tom Sawyer is not to
     appear as soon as planned.  The reference to "The Literary
     Nightmare" refers to the "Punch, Conductor, Punch with Care" sketch,
     which had recently appeared in the Atlantic.  Many other versifiers
     had had their turn at horse-car poetry, and now a publisher was
     anxious to collect it in a book, provided he could use the Atlantic
     sketch.  Clemens does not tell us here the nature of Carlton's
     insult, forgiveness of which he was not yet qualified to grant, but
     there are at least two stories about it, or two halves of the same
     incident, as related afterward by Clemens and Canton.  Clemens said
     that when he took the Jumping Frog book to Carlton, in 1867, the
     latter, pointing to his stock, said, rather scornfully: "Books?
     I don't want your book; my shelves are full of books now," though
     the reader may remember that it was Carlton himself who had given
     the frog story to the Saturday Press and had seen it become famous.
     Carlton's half of the story was that he did not accept Mark Twain's
     book because the author looked so disreputable.  Long afterward,
     when the two men met in Europe, the publisher said to the now rich
     and famous author: "Mr. Clemens, my one claim on immortality is that
     I declined your first book."


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Apl. 25, 1876
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Thanks for giving me the place of honor.

Bliss made a failure in the matter of getting Tom Sawyer ready on time--
the engravers assisting, as usual.  I went down to see how much of a
delay there was going to be, and found that the man had not even put a
canvasser on, or issued an advertisement yet--in fact, that the
electrotypes would not all be done for a month!  But of course the main
fact was that no canvassing had been done--because a subscription harvest
is before publication, (not after, when people have discovered how bad
one's book is.)

Well, yesterday I put in the Courant an editorial paragraph stating that
Tam Sawyer is "ready to issue, but publication is put off in order to
secure English copyright by simultaneous publication there and here.  The
English edition is unavoidably delayed."

You see, part of that is true.  Very well.  When I observed that my
"Sketches" had dropped from a sale of 6 or 7000 a month down to 1200 a
month, I said "this ain't no time to be publishing books; therefore, let
Tom lie still till Autumn, Mr. Bliss, and make a holiday book of him to
beguile the young people withal."

I shall print items occasionally, still further delaying Tom, till I ease
him down to Autumn without shock to the waiting world.

As to that "Literary Nightmare" proposition.  I'm obliged to withhold
consent, for what seems a good reason--to wit: A single page of horse-car
poetry is all that the average reader can stand, without nausea; now, to
stack together all of it that has been written, and then add it to my
article would be to enrage and disgust each and every reader and win the
deathless enmity of the lot.

Even if that reason were insufficient, there would still be a sufficient
reason left, in the fact that Mr. Carlton seems to be the publisher of
the magazine in which it is proposed to publish this horse-car matter.
Carlton insulted me in Feb. 1867, and so when the day arrives that sees
me doing him a civility I shall feel that I am ready for Paradise, since
my list of possible and impossible forgivenesses will then be complete.

Mrs. Clemens says my version of the blindfold novelette "A Murder and A
Marriage" is "good."  Pretty strong language--for her.

The Fieldses are coming down to the play tomorrow, and they promise to
get you and Mrs. Howells to come too, but I hope you'll do nothing of the
kind if it will inconvenience you, for I'm not going to play either
strikingly bad enough or well enough to make the journey pay you.

My wife and I think of going to Boston May 7th to see Anna Dickinson's
debut on the 8th.  If I find we can go, I'll try to get a stage box and
then you and Mrs. Howells must come to Parker's and go with us to the
crucifixion.

(Is that spelt right?--somehow it doesn't look right.)

With our very kindest regards to the whole family.
                              Yrs ever,
                                        MARK.


     The mention of Anna Dickinson, at the end of this letter, recalls a
     prominent reformer and lecturer of the Civil War period.  She had
     begun her crusades against temperance and slavery in 1857, when she
     was but fifteen years old, when her success as a speaker had been
     immediate and extraordinary.  Now, in this later period, at the age
     of thirty-four, she aspired to the stage--unfortunately for her, as
     her gifts lay elsewhere.  Clemens and Howells knew Miss Dickinson,
     and were anxious for the success which they hardly dared hope for.
     Clemens arranged a box party.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                       May 4, '76.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I shall reach Boston on Monday the 8th, either at
4:30 p.m. or 6 p.m.  (Which is best?) and go straight to Parker's.
If you and Mrs. Howells cannot be there by half past 4, I'll not plan to
arrive till the later train-time (6,) because I don't want to be there
alone--even a minute.  Still, Joe Twichell will doubtless go with me
(forgot that,) he is going to try hard to.  Mrs. Clemens has given up
going, because Susy is just recovering from about the savagest assault of
diphtheria a child ever did recover from, and therefore will not be
entirely her healthy self again by the 8th.

Would you and Mrs. Howells like to invite Mr. and Mrs. Aldrich?  I have
a large proscenium box--plenty of room.  Use your own pleasure about it
--I mainly (that is honest,) suggest it because I am seeking to make
matters pleasant for you and Mrs. Howells.  I invited Twichell because I
thought I knew you'd like that.  I want you to fix it so that you and the
Madam can remain in Boston all night; for I leave next day and we can't
have a talk, otherwise.  I am going to get two rooms and a parlor; and
would like to know what you decide about the Aldriches, so as to know
whether to apply for an additional bedroom or not.

Don't dine that evening, for I shall arrive dinnerless and need your
help.

I'll bring my Blindfold Novelette, but shan't exhibit it unless you
exhibit yours.  You would simply go to work and write a novelette that
would make mine sick.  Because you would know all about where my weak
points lay.  No, Sir, I'm one of these old wary birds!

Don't bother to write a letter--3 lines on a postal card is all that I
can permit from a busy man.
                         Yrs ever
                                   MARK.

P. S.  Good!  You'll not have to feel any call to mention that debut in
the Atlantic--they've made me pay the grand cash for my box!--a thing
which most managers would be too worldly-wise to do, with journalistic
folks.  But I'm most honestly glad, for I'd rather pay three prices, any
time, than to have my tongue half paralyzed with a dead-head ticket.

Hang that Anna Dickinson, a body can never depend upon her debuts!  She
has made five or six false starts already.  If she fails to debut this
time, I will never bet on her again.


     In his book, My Mark Twain, Howells refers to the "tragedy" of Miss
     Dickinson's appearance.  She was the author of numerous plays, some
     of which were successful, but her career as an actress was never
     brilliant.

     At Elmira that summer the Clemenses heard from their good friend
     Doctor Brown, of Edinburgh, and sent eager replies.


                     To Dr. John Brown, in Edinburgh:

                              ELMIRA, NEW YORK, U. S. June 22, 1876.
DEAR FRIEND THE DOCTOR,--It was a perfect delight to see the well-known
handwriting again!  But we so grieve to know that you are feeling
miserable.  It must not last--it cannot last.  The regal summer is come
and it will smile you into high good cheer; it will charm away your
pains, it will banish your distresses.  I wish you were here, to spend
the summer with us.  We are perched on a hill-top that overlooks a little
world of green valleys, shining rivers, sumptuous forests and billowy
uplands veiled in the haze of distance.  We have no neighbors.  It is the
quietest of all quiet places, and we are hermits that eschew caves and
live in the sun.  Doctor, if you'd only come!

I will carry your letter to Mrs. C. now, and there will be a glad woman,
I tell you!  And she shall find one of those pictures to put in this for
Mrs. Barclays and if there isn't one here we'll send right away to
Hartford and get one.  Come over, Doctor John, and bring the Barclays,
the Nicolsons and the Browns, one and all!
                         Affectionately,
                                        SAML. L. CLEMENS.


     From May until August no letters appear to have passed between
     Clemens and Howells; the latter finally wrote, complaining of the
     lack of news.  He was in the midst of campaign activities, he said,
     writing a life of Hayes, and gaily added: "You know I wrote the life
     of Lincoln, which elected him."  He further reported a comedy he had
     completed, and gave Clemens a general stirring up as to his own
     work.

     Mark Twain, in his hillside study, was busy enough.  Summer was his
     time for work, and he had tried his hand in various directions.  His
     mention of Huck Finn in his reply to Howells is interesting, in that
     it shows the measure of his enthusiasm, or lack of it, as a gauge of
     his ultimate achievement


                      To  W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, Aug. 9, 1876.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I was just about to write you when your letter came--
and not one of those obscene postal cards, either, but reverently, upon
paper.

I shall read that biography, though the letter of acceptance was amply
sufficient to corral my vote without any further knowledge of the man.
Which reminds me that a campaign club in Jersey City wrote a few days ago
and invited me to be present at the raising of a Tilden and Hendricks
flag there, and to take the stand and give them some "counsel."  Well, I
could not go, but gave them counsel and advice by letter, and in the
kindliest terms as to the raising of the flag--advised them "not to raise
it."

Get your book out quick, for this is a momentous time.  If Tilden is
elected I think the entire country will go pretty straight to--Mrs.
Howells's bad place.

I am infringing on your patent--I started a record of our children's
sayings, last night.  Which reminds me that last week I sent down and got
Susie a vast pair of shoes of a most villainous pattern, for I discovered
that her feet were being twisted and cramped out of shape by a smaller
and prettier article.  She did not complain, but looked degraded and
injured.  At night her mamma gave her the usual admonition when she was
about to say her prayers--to wit:

"Now, Susie--think about God."

"Mamma, I can't, with those shoes."

The farm is perfectly delightful this season.  It is as quiet and
peaceful as a South Sea Island.  Some of the sunsets which we have
witnessed from this commanding eminence were marvelous.  One evening a
rainbow spanned an entire range of hills with its mighty arch, and from a
black hub resting upon the hill-top in the exact centre, black rays
diverged upward in perfect regularity to the rainbow's arch and created a
very strongly defined and altogether the most majestic, magnificent and
startling half-sunk wagon wheel you can imagine.  After that, a world of
tumbling and prodigious clouds came drifting up out of the West and took
to themselves a wonderfully rich and brilliant green color--the decided
green of new spring foliage.  Close by them we saw the intense blue of
the skies, through rents in the cloud-rack, and away off in another
quarter were drifting clouds of a delicate pink color.  In one place hung
a pall of dense black clouds, like compacted pitch-smoke.  And the
stupendous wagon wheel was still in the supremacy of its unspeakable
grandeur.  So you see, the colors present in the sky at once and the same
time were blue, green, pink, black, and the vari-colored splendors of the
rainbow.  All strong and decided colors, too.  I don't know whether this
weird and astounding spectacle most suggested heaven, or hell.  The
wonder, with its constant, stately, and always surprising changes, lasted
upwards of two hours, and we all stood on the top of the hill by my study
till the final miracle was complete and the greatest day ended that we
ever saw.

Our farmer, who is a grave man, watched that spectacle to the end, and
then observed that it was "dam funny."

The double-barreled novel lies torpid.  I found I could not go on with
it.  The chapters I had written were still too new and familiar to me.
I may take it up next winter, but cannot tell yet; I waited and waited to
see if my interest in it would not revive, but gave it up a month ago and
began another boys' book--more to be at work than anything else.  I have
written 400 pages on it--therefore it is very nearly half done.  It is
Huck Finn's Autobiography.  I like it only tolerably well, as far as I
have got, and may possibly pigeonhole or burn the MS when it is done.

So the comedy is done, and with a "fair degree of satisfaction."  That
rejoices me, and makes me mad, too--for I can't plan a comedy, and what
have you done that God should be so good to you?  I have racked myself
baldheaded trying to plan a comedy harness for some promising characters
of mine to work in, and had to give it up.  It is a noble lot of blooded
stock and worth no end of money, but they must stand in the stable and be
profitless.  I want to be present when the comedy is produced and help
enjoy the success.

Warner's book is mighty readable, I think.
                         Love to yez.
                              Yrs ever
                                             MARK


     Howells promptly wrote again, urging him to enter the campaign for
     Hayes.  "There is not another man in this country," he said, "who
     could help him so much as you."  The "farce" which Clemens refers to
     in his reply, was "The Parlor Car," which seems to have been about
     the first venture of Howells in that field.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, August 23, 1876.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I am glad you think I could do Hayes any good, for I
have been wanting to write a letter or make a speech to that end.  I'll
be careful not to do either, however, until the opportunity comes in a
natural, justifiable and unlugged way; and shall not then do anything
unless I've got it all digested and worded just right.  In which case I
might do some good--in any other I should do harm.  When a humorist
ventures upon the grave concerns of life he must do his job better than
another man or he works harm to his cause.

The farce is wonderfully bright and delicious, and must make a hit.  You
read it to me, and it was mighty good; I read it last night and it was
better; I read it aloud to the household this morning and it was better
than ever.  So it would be worth going a long way to see it well played;
for without any question an actor of genius always adds a subtle
something to any man's work that none but the writer knew was there
before.  Even if he knew it.  I have heard of readers convulsing
audiences with my "Aurelia's Unfortunate Young Man."  If there is
anything really funny in the piece, the author is not aware of it.

All right--advertise me for the new volume.  I send you herewith a sketch
which will make 3 pages of the Atlantic.  If you like it and accept it,
you should get it into the December No. because I shall read it in public
in Boston the 13th and 14th of Nov.  If it went in a month earlier it
would be too old for me to read except as old matter; and if it went in a
month later it would be too old for the Atlantic--do you see?  And if you
wish to use it, will you set it up now, and send me three proofs?--one
to correct for Atlantic, one to send to Temple Bar (shall I tell them to
use it not earlier than their November No. and one to use in practising
for my Boston readings.

We must get up a less elaborate and a much better skeleton-plan for the
Blindfold Novels and make a success of that idea.  David Gray spent
Sunday here and said we could but little comprehend what a rattling stir
that thing would make in the country.  He thought it would make a mighty
strike.  So do I.  But with only 8 pages to tell the tale in, the plot
must be less elaborate, doubtless.  What do you think?

When we exchange visits I'll show you an unfinished sketch of Elizabeth's
time which shook David Gray's system up pretty exhaustively.
                                        Yrs ever,
                                                  MARK.


     The MS. sketch mentioned in the foregoing letter was "The
     Canvasser's Tale," later included in the volume, Tom Sawyer Abroad,
     and Other Stories.  It is far from being Mark Twain's best work, but
     was accepted and printed in the Atlantic.  David Gray was an able
     journalist and editor whom Mark Twain had known in Buffalo.

     The "sketch of Elizabeth's time" is a brilliant piece of writing
     --an imaginary record of conversation and court manners in the good
     old days of free speech and performance, phrased in the language of
     the period.  Gray, John Hay, Twichell, and others who had a chance
     to see it thought highly of it, and Hay had it set in type and a few
     proofs taken for private circulation.  Some years afterward a West
     Point officer had a special font of antique type made for it, and
     printed a hundred copies.  But the present-day reader would hardly
     be willing to include "Fireside Conversation in the Time of Queen
     Elizabeth" in Mark Twain's collected works.

     Clemens was a strong Republican in those days, as his letters of
     this period show.  His mention of the "caves" in the next is another
     reference to "The Canvasser's Tale."


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             Sept.  14, 1876.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Yes, the collection of caves was the origin of it.
I changed it to echoes because these being invisible and intangible,
constituted a still more absurd species of property, and yet a man could
really own an echo, and sell it, too, for a high figure--such an echo as
that at the Villa Siminetti, two miles from Milan, for instance.
My first purpose was to have the man make a collection of caves and
afterwards of echoes; but perceived that the element of absurdity and
impracticability was so nearly identical as to amount to a repetition of
an idea.....

I will not, and do not, believe that there is a possibility of Hayes's
defeat, but I want the victory to be sweeping.....

It seems odd to find myself interested in an election.  I never was
before.  And I can't seem to get over my repugnance to reading or
thinking about politics, yet.  But in truth I care little about any
party's politics--the man behind it is the important thing.

You may well know that Mrs. Clemens liked the Parlor Car--enjoyed it ever
so much, and was indignant at you all through, and kept exploding into
rages at you for pretending that such a woman ever existed--closing each
and every explosion with "But it is just what such a woman would do."--
"It is just what such a woman would say."  They all voted the Parlor Car
perfection--except me.  I said they wouldn't have been allowed to court
and quarrel there so long, uninterrupted; but at each critical moment the
odious train-boy would come in and pile foul literature all over them
four or five inches deep, and the lover would turn his head aside and
curse--and presently that train-boy would be back again (as on all those
Western roads) to take up the literature and leave prize candy.

Of course the thing is perfect, in the magazine, without the train-boy;
but I was thinking of the stage and the groundlings.  If the dainty
touches went over their heads, the train-boy and other possible
interruptions would fetch them every time.  Would it mar the flow of the
thing too much to insert that devil?  I thought it over a couple of hours
and concluded it wouldn't, and that he ought to be in for the sake of the
groundlings (and to get new copyright on the piece.)

And it seemed to me that now that the fourth act is so successfully
written, why not go ahead and write the 3 preceding acts?  And then after
it is finished, let me put into it a low-comedy character (the girl's or
the lover's father or uncle) and gobble a big pecuniary interest in your
work for myself.  Do not let this generous proposition disturb your rest
--but do write the other 3 acts, and then it will be valuable to
managers.  And don't go and sell it to anybody, like Harte, but keep it
for yourself.

Harte's play can be doctored till it will be entirely acceptable and then
it will clear a great sum every year.  I am out of all patience with
Harte for selling it.  The play entertained me hugely, even in its
present crude state.
                         Love to you all.
                                   Yrs ever,
                                             MARK


     Following the Sellers success, Clemens had made many attempts at
     dramatic writing.  Such undertakings had uniformly failed, but he
     had always been willing to try again.  In the next letter we get the
     beginning of what proved his first and last direct literary
     association, that is to say, collaboration, with Bret Harte.
     Clemens had great admiration for Harte's ability and believed that
     between them they could turn out a successful play.  Whether or not
     this belief was justified will appear later.  Howells's biography of
     Hayes, meanwhile, had not gone well.  He reported that only two
     thousand copies had been sold in what was now the height of the
     campaign.  "There's success for you," he said; "it makes me despair
     of the Republic."

     Clemens, on his part, had made a speech for Hayes that Howells
     declared had put civil-service reform in a nutshell; he added: "You
     are the only Republican orator, quoted without distinction of party
     by all the newspapers."


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Oct. 11, 1876.
MY DEAR HOWELLS, This is a secret, to be known to nobody but you (of
course I comprehend that Mrs. Howells is part of you) that Bret Harte
came up here the other day and asked me to help him write a play and
divide the swag, and I agreed.  I am to put in Scotty Briggs (See Buck
Fanshaw's Funeral, in "Roughing It.") and he is to put in a Chinaman (a,
wonderfully funny creature, as Bret presents him--for 5 minutes--in his
Sandy Bar play.)  This Chinaman is to be the character of the play, and
both of us will work on him and develop him.  Bret is to draw a plot, and
I am to do the same; we shall use the best of the two, or gouge from both
and build a third.  My plot is built--finished it yesterday--six days'
work, 8 or 9 hours a day, and has nearly killed me.

Now the favor I ask of you is that you will have the words "Ah Sin, a
Drama," printed in the middle of a note-paper page and send the same to
me, with Bill.  We don't want anybody to know that we are building this
play.  I can't get this title page printed here without having to lie so
much that the thought of it is disagreeable to one reared as I have been.
And yet the title of the play must be printed--the rest of the
application for copyright is allowable in penmanship.

We have got the very best gang of servants in America, now.  When George
first came he was one of the most religious of men.  He had but one
fault--young George Washington's.  But I have trained him; and now it
fairly breaks Mrs. Clemens's heart to hear George stand at that front
door and lie to the unwelcome visitor.  But your time is valuable; I must
not dwell upon these things.....I'll ask Warner and Harte if they'll do
Blindfold Novelettes.  Some time I'll simplify that plot.  All it needs
is that the hanging and the marriage shall not be appointed for the same
day.  I got over that difficulty, but it required too much MS to
reconcile the thing--so the movement of the story was clogged.

I came near agreeing to make political speeches with our candidate for
Governor the 16th and 23 inst., but I had to give up the idea, for Harte
and I will be here at work then.
                              Yrs ever,
                                        MARK


     Mark Twain was writing few letters these days to any one but
     Howells, yet in November he sent one to an old friend of his youth,
     Burrough, the literary chair-maker who had roomed with him in the
     days when he had been setting type for the St. Louis Evening News.


                      To Mr. Burrough, of St. Louis:

                                             HARTFORD, Nov. 1, 1876.
MY DEAR BURROUGHS,--As you describe me I can picture myself as I was 20
years ago.  The portrait is correct.  You think I have grown some; upon
my word there was room for it.  You have described a callow fool, a self-
sufficient ass, a mere human tumble-bug.... imagining that he is
remodeling the world and is entirely capable of doing it right.
Ignorance, intolerance, egotism, self-assertion, opaque perception, dense
and pitiful chuckle-headedness--and an almost pathetic unconsciousness of
it all.  That is what I was at 19 and 20; and that is what the average
Southerner is at 60 today.  Northerners, too, of a certain grade.  It is
of children like this that voters are made.  And such is the primal
source of our government!  A man hardly knows whether to swear or cry
over it.

I think I comprehend the position there--perfect freedom to vote just as
you choose, provided you choose to vote as other people think--social
ostracism, otherwise.  The same thing exists here, among the Irish.
An Irish Republican is a pariah among his people.  Yet that race find
fault with the same spirit in Know-Nothingism.

Fortunately a good deal of experience of men enabled me to choose my
residence wisely.  I live in the freest corner of the country.  There are
no social disabilities between me and my Democratic personal friends.
We break the bread and eat the salt of hospitality freely together and
never dream of such a thing as offering impertinent interference in each
other's political opinions.

Don't you ever come to New York again and not run up here to see me.  I
Suppose we were away for the summer when you were East; but no matter,
you could have telegraphed and found out.  We were at Elmira N. Y. and
right on your road, and could have given you a good time if you had
allowed us the chance.

Yes, Will Bowen and I have exchanged letters now and then for several
years, but I suspect that I made him mad with my last--shortly after you
saw him in St. Louis, I judge.  There is one thing which I can't stand
and won't stand, from many people.  That is sham sentimentality--the kind
a school-girl puts into her graduating composition; the sort that makes
up the Original Poetry column of a country newspaper; the rot that deals
in the "happy days of yore," the "sweet yet melancholy past," with its
"blighted hopes" and its "vanished dreams" and all that sort of drivel.
Will's were always of this stamp.  I stood it years.  When I get a letter
like that from a grown man and he a widower with a family, it gives me
the stomach ache.  And I just told Will Bowen so, last summer.  I told
him to stop being 16 at 40; told him to stop drooling about the sweet yet
melancholy past, and take a pill.  I said there was but one solitary
thing about the past worth remembering, and that was the fact that it is
the past--can't be restored.  Well, I exaggerated some of these truths a
little--but only a little--but my idea was to kill his sham
sentimentality once and forever, and so make a good fellow of him again.
I went to the unheard-of trouble of re-writing the letter and saying the
same harsh things softly, so as to sugarcoat the anguish and make it a
little more endurable and I asked him to write and thank me honestly for
doing him the best and kindliest favor that any friend ever had done him
--but he hasn't done it yet.  Maybe he will, sometime.  I am grateful to
God that I got that letter off before he was married (I get that news
from you) else he would just have slobbered all over me and drowned me
when that event happened.

I enclose photograph for the young ladies.  I will remark that I do not
wear seal-skin for grandeur, but because I found, when I used to lecture
in the winter, that nothing else was able to keep a man warm sometimes,
in these high latitudes.  I wish you had sent pictures of yourself and
family--I'll trade picture for picture with you, straight through, if you
are commercially inclined.
                    Your old friend,
                              SAML L. CLEMENS.




XVII.

LETTERS, 1877.  TO BERMUDA WITH TWICHELL.  PROPOSITION TO TH. NAST.
THE WHITTIER DINNER

     Mark Twain must have been too busy to write letters that winter.
     Those that have survived are few and unimportant.  As a matter of
     fact, he was writing the play, "Ah Sin," with Bret Harte, and
     getting it ready for production. Harte was a guest in the Clemens
     home while the play was being written, and not always a pleasant
     one.  He was full of requirements, critical as to the 'menage,' to
     the point of sarcasm.  The long friendship between Clemens and Harte
     weakened under the strain of collaboration and intimate daily
     intercourse, never to renew its old fiber.  It was an unhappy
     outcome of an enterprise which in itself was to prove of little
     profit.  The play, "Ah Sin," had many good features, and with
     Charles T. Parsloe in an amusing Chinese part might have been made a
     success, if the two authors could have harmoniously undertaken the
     needed repairs.  It opened in Washington in May, and a letter from
     Parsloe, written at the moment, gives a hint of the situation.


                From Charles T. Parsloe to S. L. Clemens:

                                   WASHINGTON, D. C.  May 11th, 1877.
MR. CLEMENS,--I forgot whether I acknowledged receipt of check by
telegram.  Harte has been here since Monday last and done little or
nothing yet, but promises to have something fixed by tomorrow morning.
We have been making some improvements among ourselves.  The last act is
weak at the end, and I do hope Mr. Harte will have something for a good
finish to the piece.  The other acts I think are all right, now.

Hope you have entirely recovered.  I am not very well myself, the
excitement of a first night is bad enough, but to have the annoyance with
Harte that I have is too much for a beginner.  I ain't used to it.  The
houses have been picking up since Tuesday Mr. Ford has worked well and
hard for us.
               Yours in, haste,
                    CHAS. THOS.  PARSLOE.


     The play drew some good houses in Washington, but it could not hold
     them for a run.  Never mind what was the matter with it; perhaps a
     very small change at the right point would have turned it into a
     fine success.  We have seen in a former letter the obligation which
     Mark Twain confessed to Harte--a debt he had tried in many ways to
     repay--obtaining for him a liberal book contract with Bliss;
     advancing him frequent and large sums of money which Harte could
     not, or did not, repay; seeking to advance his fortunes in many
     directions.  The mistake came when he introduced another genius into
     the intracacies of his daily life.  Clemens went down to Washington
     during the early rehearsals of "Ah Sin."

     Meantime, Rutherford B. Hayes had been elected President, and
     Clemens one day called with a letter of introduction from Howells,
     thinking to meet the Chief Executive.  His own letter to Howells,
     later, probably does not give the real reason of his failure, but it
     will be amusing to those who recall the erratic personality of
     George Francis Train.  Train and Twain were sometimes confused by
     the very unlettered; or pretendedly, by Mark Twain's friends.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        BALTIMORE, May 1, '77.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Found I was not absolutely needed in Washington so I
only staid 24 hours, and am on my way home, now.  I called at the White
House, and got admission to Col. Rodgers, because I wanted to inquire
what was the right hour to go and infest the, President.  It was my luck
to strike the place in the dead waste and middle of the day, the very
busiest time.  I perceived that Mr. Rodgers took me for George Francis
Train and had made up his mind not to let me get at the President; so at
the end of half an hour I took my letter of introduction from the table
and went away.  It was a great pity all round, and a great loss to the
nation, for I was brim full of the Eastern question.  I didn't get to see
the President or the Chief Magistrate either, though I had sort of a
glimpse of a lady at a window who resembled her portraits.
                                   Yrs ever,
                                             MARK.

     Howells condoled with him on his failure to see the President,
     "but," he added, "if you and I had both been there, our combined
     skill would have no doubt procured us to be expelled from the White
     House by Fred Douglass.  But the thing seems to be a complete
     failure as it was."  Douglass at this time being the Marshal of
     Columbia, gives special point to Howells's suggestion.

     Later, in May, Clemens took Twichell for an excursion to Bermuda.
     He had begged Howells to go with them, but Howells, as usual, was
     full of literary affairs.  Twichell and Clemens spent four glorious
     days tramping the length and breadth of the beautiful island, and
     remembered it always as one of their happiest adventures.  "Put it
     down as an Oasis!" wrote Twichell on his return, "I'm afraid I shall
     not see as green a spot again soon.  And it was your invention and
     your gift.  And your company was the best of it.  Indeed, I never
     took more comfort in being with you than on this journey, which, my
     boy, is saying a great deal."


     To Howells, Clemens triumphantly reported the success of the
     excursion.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                              FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD, May 29, 1877.
Confound you, Joe Twichell and I roamed about Bermuda day and night and
never ceased to gabble and enjoy.  About half the talk was--"It is a
burning shame that Howells isn't here."  "Nobody could get at the very
meat and marrow of this pervading charm and deliciousness like Howells;"
"How Howells would revel in the quaintness, and the simplicity of this
people and the Sabbath repose of this land."  "What an imperishable
sketch Howells would make of Capt. West the whaler, and Capt. Hope with
the patient, pathetic face, wanderer in all the oceans for 42 years,
lucky in none; coming home defeated once more, now, minus his ship--
resigned, uncomplaining, being used to this."  "What a rattling chapter
Howells would make out of the small boy Alfred, with his alert eye and
military brevity and exactness of speech; and out of the old landlady;
and her sacred onions; and her daughter; and the visiting clergyman; and
the ancient pianos of Hamilton and the venerable music in vogue there--
and forty other things which we shall leave untouched or touched but
lightly upon, we not being worthy."  "Dam Howells for not being here!"
(this usually from me, not Twichell.)

O, your insufferable pride, which will have a fall some day!  If you had
gone with us and let me pay the $50 which the trip and the board and the
various nicknacks and mementoes would cost, I would have picked up enough
droppings from your conversation to pay me 500 per cent profit in the way
of the several magazine articles which I could have written, whereas I
can now write only one or two and am therefore largely out of pocket by
your proud ways.  Ponder these things.  Lord, what a perfectly bewitching
excursion it was!  I traveled under an assumed name and was never
molested with a polite attention from anybody.
                         Love to you all.
                                        Yrs ever
                                                  MARK


     Aldrich, meantime, had invited the Clemenses to Ponkapog during the
     Bermuda absence, and Clemens hastened to send him a line expressing
     regrets.  At the close he said:


                  To T. B. Aldrich, in Ponkapog, Mass.:

                              FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD, June 3, 1877.
Day after tomorrow we leave for the hills beyond Elmira, N. Y.  for the
summer, when I shall hope to write a book of some sort or other to beat
the people with.  A work similar to your new one in the Atlantic is what
I mean, though I have not heard what the nature of that one is.  Immoral,
I suppose.  Well, you are right.  Such books sell best, Howells says.
Howells says he is going to make his next book indelicate.  He says he
thinks there is money in it.  He says there is a large class of the
young, in schools and seminaries who--But you let him tell you.  He has
ciphered it all down to a demonstration.

With the warmest remembrances to the pair of you
                                   Ever Yours
                                        SAMUEL L. CLEMENS.


     Clemens would naturally write something about Bermuda, and began at
     once, "Random Notes of an Idle Excursion," and presently completed
     four papers, which Howells eagerly accepted for the Atlantic.  Then
     we find him plunging into another play, this time alone.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, June 27, 1877.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--If you should not like the first 2 chapters, send them
to me and begin with Chapter 3--or Part 3, I believe you call these
things in the magazine.  I have finished No. 4., which closes the series,
and will mail it tomorrow if I think of it.  I like this one, I liked the
preceding one (already mailed to you some time ago) but I had my doubts
about 1 and 2.  Do not hesitate to squelch them, even with derision and
insult.

Today I am deep in a comedy which I began this morning--principal
character, that old detective--I skeletoned the first act and wrote the
second, today; and am dog-tired, now.  Fifty-four close pages of MS in 7
hours.  Once I wrote 55 pages at a sitting--that was on the opening
chapters of the "Gilded Age" novel.  When I cool down, an hour from now,
I shall go to zero, I judge.
                              Yrs ever,
                                        MARK.


     Clemens had doubts as to the quality of the Bermuda papers, and with
     some reason.  They did not represent him at his best.  Nevertheless,
     they were pleasantly entertaining, and Howells expressed full
     approval of them for Atlantic use.  The author remained troubled.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, July 4,1877.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--It is splendid of you to say those pleasant things.
But I am still plagued with doubts about Parts 1 and 2.  If you have any,
don't print.  If otherwise, please make some cold villain like Lathrop
read and pass sentence on them.  Mind, I thought they were good, at
first--it was the second reading that accomplished its hellish purpose on
me.  Put them up for a new verdict.  Part 4 has lain in my pigeon-hole a
good while, and when I put it there I had a Christian's confidence in 4
aces in it; and you can be sure it will skip toward Connecticut tomorrow
before any fatal fresh reading makes me draw my bet.

I've piled up 151 MS pages on my comedy.  The first, second and fourth
acts are done, and done to my satisfaction, too.  Tomorrow and next day
will finish the 3rd act and the play.  I have not written less than 30
pages any day since I began.  Never had so much fun over anything in my
life-never such consuming interest and delight.  (But Lord bless you the
second reading will fetch it!)  And just think!--I had Sol Smith Russell
in my mind's eye for the old detective's part, and hang it he has gone
off pottering with Oliver Optic, or else the papers lie.

I read everything about the President's doings there with exultation.

I wish that old ass of a private secretary hadn't taken me for George
Francis Train.  If ignorance were a means of grace I wouldn't trade that
gorilla's chances for the Archbishop of Canterbury's.

I shall call on the President again, by and by.  I shall go in my war
paint; and if I am obstructed the nation will have the unusual spectacle
of a private secretary with a pen over one ear a tomahawk over the other.

I read the entire Atlantic this time.  Wonderful number.  Mrs. Rose Terry
Cooke's story was a ten-strike.  I wish she would write 12 old-time New
England tales a year.

Good times to you all!  Mind if you don't run here for a few days you
will go to hence without having had a fore-glimpse of heaven.

                                             MARK.


     The play, "Ah Sin," that had done little enough in Washington, was
     that summer given another trial by Augustin Daly, at the Fifth
     Avenue Theater, New York, with a fine company.  Clemens had
     undertaken to doctor the play, and it would seem to have had an
     enthusiastic reception on the opening night.  But it was a summer
     audience, unspoiled by many attractions.  "Ah Sin" was never a
     success in the New York season--never a money-maker on the road.

     The reference in the first paragraph of the letter that follows is
     to the Bermuda chapters which Mark Twain was publishing
     simultaneously in England and America.


                                             ELMIRA, Aug 3,1877.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I have mailed one set of the slips to London, and told
Bentley you would print Sept. 15, in October Atlantic, and he must not
print earlier in Temple Bar.  Have I got the dates and things right?

I am powerful glad to see that No. 1 reads a nation sight better in print
than it did in MS.  I told Bentley we'd send him the slips, each time, 6
weeks before day of publication.  We can do that can't we?  Two months
ahead would be still better I suppose, but I don't know.

"Ah Sin" went a-booming at the Fifth Avenue.  The reception of Col.
Sellers was calm compared to it.

*The criticisms were just; the criticisms of the great New York dailies
are always just, intelligent, and square and honest--notwithstanding,
by a blunder which nobody was seriously to blame for, I was made to say
exactly the opposite of this in a newspaper some time ago.  Never said it
at all, and moreover I never thought it.  I could not publicly correct it
before the play appeared in New York, because that would look as if I had
really said that thing and then was moved by fears for my pocket and my
reputation to take it back.  But I can correct it now, and shall do it;
for now my motives cannot be impugned.  When I began this letter, it had
not occurred to me to use you in this connection, but it occurs to me
now.  Your opinion and mine, uttered a year ago, and repeated more than
once since, that the candor and ability of the New York critics were
beyond question, is a matter which makes it proper enough that I should
speak through you at this time.  Therefore if you will print this
paragraph somewhere, it may remove the impression that I say unjust
things which I do not think, merely for the pleasure of talking.

There, now, Can't you say--

"In a letter to Mr. Howells of the Atlantic Monthly, Mark Twain describes
the reception of the new comedy 'Ali Sin,' and then goes on to say:" etc.

Beginning at the star with the words, "The criticisms were just."  Mrs.
Clemens says, "Don't ask that of Mr. Howells--it will be disagreeable to
him."  I hadn't thought of it, but I will bet two to one on the
correctness of her instinct.  We shall see.

Will you cut that paragraph out of this letter and precede it with the
remarks suggested (or with better ones,) and send it to the Globe or some
other paper?  You can't do me a bigger favor; and yet if it is in the
least disagreeable, you mustn't think of it.  But let me know, right
away, for I want to correct this thing before it grows stale again.
I explained myself to only one critic (the World)--the consequence was a
noble notice of the play.  This one called on me, else I shouldn't have
explained myself to him.

I have been putting in a deal of hard work on that play in New York, but
it is full of incurable defects.

My old Plunkett family seemed wonderfully coarse and vulgar on the stage,
but it was because they were played in such an outrageously and
inexcusably coarse way.  The Chinaman is killingly funny.  I don't know
when I have enjoyed anything as much as I did him.  The people say there
isn't enough of him in the piece.  That's a triumph--there'll never be
any more of him in it.

John Brougham said, "Read the list of things which the critics have
condemned in the piece, and you have unassailable proofs that the play
contains all the requirements of success and a long life."

That is true.  Nearly every time the audience roared I knew it was over
something that would be condemned in the morning (justly, too) but must
be left in--for low comedies are written for the drawing-room, the
kitchen and the stable, and if you cut out the kitchen and the stable the
drawing-room can't support the play by itself.

There was as much money in the house the first two nights as in the first
ten of Sellers.  Haven't heard from the third--I came away.
                                   Yrs ever,
                                             MARK.


     In a former letter we have seen how Mark Twain, working on a story
     that was to stand as an example of his best work, and become one of
     his surest claims to immortality (The Adventures of Huckleberry
     Finn), displayed little enthusiasm in his undertaking.  In the
     following letter, which relates the conclusion of his detective
     comedy, we find him at the other extreme, on very tiptoe with
     enthusiasm over something wholly without literary value or dramatic
     possibility.  One of the hall-marks of genius is the inability to
     discriminate as to the value of its output.  "Simon Wheeler, Amateur
     Detective" was a dreary, absurd, impossible performance, as wild and
     unconvincing in incident and dialogue as anything out of an asylum
     could well be.  The title which he first chose for it, "Balaam's
     Ass," was properly in keeping with the general scheme.  Yet Mark
     Twain, still warm with the creative fever, had the fullest faith in
     it as a work of art and a winner of fortune.  It would never see the
     light of production, of course.  We shall see presently that the
     distinguished playwright, Dion Boucicault, good-naturedly
     complimented it as being better than "Ahi Sin."  One must wonder
     what that skilled artist really thought, and how he could do even
     this violence to his conscience.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        ELMIRA, Wednesday P.M.  (1877)
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--It's finished.  I was misled by hurried mis-paging.
There were ten pages of notes, and over 300 pages of MS when the play was
done.  Did it in 42 hours, by the clock; 40 pages of the Atlantic--but
then of course it's very "fat."  Those are the figures, but I don't
believe them myself, because the thing's impossible.

But let that pass.  All day long, and every day, since I finished (in the
rough) I have been diligently altering, amending, re-writing, cutting
down.  I finished finally today.  Can't think of anything else in the way
of an improvement.  I thought I would stick to it while the interest was
hot--and I am mighty glad I did.  A week from now it will be frozen--then
revising would be drudgery.  (You see I learned something from the fatal
blunder of putting "Ah Sin" aside before it was finished.)

She's all right, now.  She reads in two hours and 20 minutes and will
play not longer than 2 3/4 hours.  Nineteen characters; 3 acts; (I
bunched 2 into 1.)

Tomorrow I will draw up an exhaustive synopsis to insert in the printed
title-page for copyrighting, and then on Friday or Saturday I go to New
York to remain a week or ten days and lay for an actor.  Wish you could
run down there and have a holiday.  'Twould be fun.

My wife won't have "Balaam's Ass"; therefore I call the piece "Cap'n
Simon Wheeler, The Amateur Detective."
                                   Yrs
                                        MARK.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, Aug.  29, 1877.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Just got your letter last night.  No, dern that
article,--[One of the Bermuda chapters.]--it made me cry when I read it
in proof, it was so oppressively and ostentatiously poor.  Skim your eye
over it again and you will think as I do.  If Isaac and the prophets of
Baal can be doctored gently and made permissible, it will redeem the
thing: but if it can't, let's burn all of the articles except the tail-
end of it and use that as an introduction to the next article--as I
suggested in my letter to you of day before yesterday.  (I had this proof
from Cambridge before yours came.)

Boucicault says my new play is ever so much better than "Ah Sin;" says
the Amateur detective is a bully character, too.  An actor is chawing
over the play in New York, to see if the old Detective is suited to his
abilities.  Haven't heard from him yet.

If you've got that paragraph by you yet, and if in your judgment it would
be good to publish it, and if you absolutely would not mind doing it,
then I think I'd like to have you do it--or else put some other words in
my mouth that will be properer, and publish them.  But mind, don't think
of it for a moment if it is distasteful--and doubtless it is.  I value
your judgment more than my own, as to the wisdom of saying anything at
all in this matter.  To say nothing leaves me in an injurious position--
and yet maybe I might do better to speak to the men themselves when I go
to New York.  This was my latest idea, and it looked wise.

We expect to leave here for home Sept. 4, reaching there the 8th--but we
may be delayed a week.

Curious thing.  I read passages from my play, and a full synopsis, to
Boucicault, who was re-writing a play, which he wrote and laid aside 3 or
4 years ago.  (My detective is about that age, you know.) Then he read a
passage from his play, where a real detective does some things that are
as idiotic as some of my old Wheeler's performances.  Showed me the
passages, and behold, his man's name is Wheeler!  However, his Wheeler
is not a prominent character, so we'll not alter the names.  My Wheeler's
name is taken from the old jumping Frog sketch.

I am re-reading Ticknor's diary, and am charmed with it, though I still
say he refers to too many good things when he could just as well have
told them.  Think of the man traveling 8 days in convoy and familiar
intercourse with a band of outlaws through the mountain fastnesses of
Spain--he the fourth stranger they had encountered in thirty years--and
compressing this priceless experience into a single colorless paragraph
of his diary!  They spun yarns to this unworthy devil, too.

I wrote you a very long letter a day or two ago, but Susy Crane wanted to
make a copy of it to keep, so it has not gone yet.  It may go today,
possibly.

We unite in warm regards to you and yours.
                              Yrs ever,
                                        MARK.


     The Ticknor referred to in a former letter was Professor George
     Ticknor, of Harvard College, a history-writer of distinction.  On
     the margin of the "Diary" Mark Twain once wrote, "Ticknor is a
     Millet, who makes all men fall in love with him."  And adds: "Millet
     was the cause of lovable qualities in people, and then he admired
     and loved those persons for the very qualities which he (without
     knowing it) had created in them.  Perhaps it would be strictly truer
     of these two men to say that they bore within them the divine
     something in whose presence the evil in people fled away and hid
     itself, while all that was good in them came spontaneously forward
     out of the forgotten walls and comers in their systems where it was
     accustomed to hide."

     It is Frank Millet, the artist, he is speaking of--a knightly soul
     whom all the Clemens household loved, and who would one day meet his
     knightly end with those other brave men that found death together
     when the Titanic went down.

     The Clemens family was still at Quarry Farm at the end of August,
     and one afternoon there occurred a startling incident which Mark
     Twain thought worth setting down in practically duplicate letters to
     Howells and to Dr. John Brown.  It may be of interest to the reader
     to know that John T. Lewis, the colored man mentioned, lived to a
     good old age--a pensioner of the Clemens family and, in the course
     of time, of H. H. Rogers.  Howells's letter follows.  It is the
     "very long letter" referred to in the foregoing.


                  To W. D. Howells and wife, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, Aug. 25 '77.
MY DEAR HOWELLSES,--I thought I ought to make a sort of record of it for
further reference; the pleasantest way to do that would be to write it to
somebody; but that somebody would let it leak into print and that we wish
to avoid.  The Howellses would be safe--so let us tell the Howellses
about it.

Day before yesterday was a fine summer day away up here on the summit.
Aunt Marsh and Cousin May Marsh were here visiting Susie Crane and Livy
at our farmhouse.  By and by mother Langdon came up the hill in the "high
carriage" with Nora the nurse and little Jervis (Charley Langdon's little
boy)--Timothy the coachman driving.  Behind these came Charley's wife and
little girl in the buggy, with the new, young, spry, gray horse--a high-
stepper.  Theodore Crane arrived a little later.

The Bay and Susy were on hand with their nurse, Rosa.  I was on hand,
too.  Susy Crane's trio of colored servants ditto--these being Josie,
house-maid; Aunty Cord, cook, aged 62, turbaned, very tall, very broad,
very fine every way (see her portrait in "A True Story just as I Heard
It" in my Sketches;) Chocklate (the laundress) (as the Bay calls her--she
can't say Charlotte,) still taller, still more majestic of proportions,
turbaned, very black, straight as an Indian--age 24.  Then there was the
farmer's wife (colored) and her little girl, Susy.

Wasn't it a good audience to get up an excitement before?  Good
excitable, inflammable material?

Lewis was still down town, three miles away, with his two-horse wagon,
to get a load of manure.  Lewis is the farmer (colored).  He is of mighty
frame and muscle, stocky, stooping, ungainly, has a good manly face and a
clear eye.  Age about 45--and the most picturesque of men, when he sits
in his fluttering work-day rags, humped forward into a bunch, with his
aged slouch hat mashed down over his ears and neck.  It is a spectacle to
make the broken-hearted smile.  Lewis has worked mighty hard and remained
mighty poor.  At the end of each whole year's toil he can't show a gain
of fifty dollars.  He had borrowed money of the Cranes till he owed them
$700 and he being conscientious and honest, imagine what it was to him to
have to carry this stubborn, helpless load year in and year out.

Well, sunset came, and Ida the young and comely (Charley Langdon's wife)
and her little Julia and the nurse Nora, drove out at the gate behind the
new gray horse and started down the long hill--the high carriage
receiving its load under the porte cochere.  Ida was seen to turn her
face toward us across the fence and intervening lawn--Theodore waved
good-bye to her, for he did not know that her sign was a speechless
appeal for help.

The next moment Livy said, "Ida's driving too fast down hill!"  She
followed it with a sort of scream, "Her horse is running away!"

We could see two hundred yards down that descent.  The buggy seemed to
fly.  It would strike obstructions and apparently spring the height of a
man from the ground.

Theodore and I left the shrieking crowd behind and ran down the hill
bare-headed and shouting.  A neighbor appeared at his gate--a tenth of a
second too late! the buggy vanished past him like a thought.  My last
glimpse showed it for one instant, far down the descent, springing high
in the air out of a cloud of dust, and then it disappeared.  As I flew
down the road my impulse was to shut my eyes as I turned them to the
right or left, and so delay for a moment the ghastly spectacle of
mutilation and death I was expecting.

I ran on and on, still spared this spectacle, but saying to myself:
"I shall see it at the turn of the road; they never can pass that turn
alive."  When I came in sight of that turn I saw two wagons there bunched
together--one of them full of people.  I said, "Just so--they are staring
petrified at the remains."

But when I got amongst that bunch, there sat Ida in her buggy and nobody
hurt, not even the horse or the vehicle.  Ida was pale but serene.  As I
came tearing down, she smiled back over her shoulder at me and said,
"Well, we're alive yet, aren't we?"  A miracle had been performed--
nothing else.

You see Lewis, the prodigious, humped upon his front seat, had been
toiling up, on his load of manure; he saw the frantic horse plunging down
the hill toward him, on a full gallop, throwing his heels as high as a
man's head at every jump.  So Lewis turned his team diagonally across the
road just at the "turn," thus making a V with the fence--the running
horse could not escape that, but must enter it.  Then Lewis sprang to the
ground and stood in this V.  He gathered his vast strength, and with a
perfect Creedmoor aim he seized the gray horse's bit as he plunged by and
fetched him up standing!

It was down hill, mind you.  Ten feet further down hill neither Lewis nor
any other man could have saved them, for they would have been on the
abrupt "turn," then.  But how this miracle was ever accomplished at all,
by human strength, generalship and accuracy, is clean beyond my
comprehension--and grows more so the more I go and examine the ground and
try to believe it was actually done.  I know one thing, well; if Lewis
had missed his aim he would have been killed on the spot in the trap he
had made for himself, and we should have found the rest of the remains
away down at the bottom of the steep ravine.

Ten minutes later Theodore and I arrived opposite the house, with the
servants straggling after us, and shouted to the distracted group on the
porch, "Everybody safe!"

Believe it?  Why how could they?  They knew the road perfectly.  We might
as well have said it to people who had seen their friends go over
Niagara.

However, we convinced them; and then, instead of saying something, or
going on crying, they grew very still--words could not express it, I
suppose.

Nobody could do anything that night, or sleep, either; but there was a
deal of moving talk, with long pauses between pictures of that flying
carriage, these pauses represented--this picture intruded itself all the
time and disjointed the talk.

But yesterday evening late, when Lewis arrived from down town he found
his supper spread, and some presents of books there, with very
complimentary writings on the fly-leaves, and certain very complimentary
letters, and more or less greenbacks of dignified denomination pinned to
these letters and fly-leaves,--and one said, among other things, (signed
by the Cranes) "We cancel $400 of your indebtedness to us," &c. &c.

(The end thereof is not yet, of course, for Charley Langdon is West and
will arrive ignorant of all these things, today.)

The supper-room had been kept locked and imposingly secret and mysterious
until Lewis should arrive; but around that part of the house were
gathered Lewis's wife and child, Chocklate, Josie, Aunty Cord and our
Rosa, canvassing things and waiting impatiently.  They were all on hand
when the curtain rose.

Now, Aunty Cord is a violent Methodist and Lewis an implacable Dunker--
Baptist.  Those two are inveterate religious disputants.  The revealments
having been made Aunty Cord said with effusion--

"Now, let folks go on saying there ain't no God!  Lewis, the Lord sent
you there to stop that horse."

Says Lewis:

"Then who sent the horse there in sich a shape?"

But I want to call your attention to one thing.  When Lewis arrived the
other evening, after saving those lives by a feat which I think is the
most marvelous of any I can call to mind--when he arrived, hunched up on
his manure wagon and as grotesquely picturesque as usual, everybody
wanted to go and see how he looked.  They came back and said he was
beautiful.  It was so, too--and yet he would have photographed exactly as
he would have done any day these past 7 years that he has occupied this
farm.

                                                       Aug. 27.
P. S.  Our little romance in real life is happily and satisfactorily
completed.  Charley has come, listened, acted--and now John T. Lewis has
ceased to consider himself as belonging to that class called "the poor."

It has been known, during some years, that it was Lewis's purpose to buy
a thirty dollar silver watch some day, if he ever got where he could
afford it.  Today Ida has given him a new, sumptuous gold Swiss stem-
winding stop-watch; and if any scoffer shall say, "Behold this thing is
out of character," there is an inscription within, which will silence
him; for it will teach him that this wearer aggrandizes the watch, not
the watch the wearer.

I was asked beforehand, if this would be a wise gift, and I said "Yes,
the very wisest of all;" I know the colored race, and I know that in
Lewis's eyes this fine toy will throw the other more valuable
testimonials far away into the shade.  If he lived in England the Humane
Society would give him a gold medal as costly as this watch, and nobody
would say: "It is out of character."  If Lewis chose to wear a town
clock, who would become it better?

Lewis has sound common sense, and is not going to be spoiled.  The
instant he found himself possessed of money, he forgot himself in a plan
to make his old father comfortable, who is wretchedly poor and lives down
in Maryland.  His next act, on the spot, was the proffer to the Cranes of
the $300 of his remaining indebtedness to them.  This was put off by them
to the indefinite future, for he is not going to be allowed to pay that
at all, though he doesn't know it.

A letter of acknowledgment from Lewis contains a sentence which raises it
to the dignity of literature:

"But I beg to say, humbly, that inasmuch as divine providence saw fit to
use me as a instrument for the saving of those presshious lives, the
honner conferd upon me was greater than the feat performed."

That is well said.
                    Yrs ever
                                   MARK.


     Howells was moved to use the story in the.  "Contributors' Club,"
     and warned Clemens against letting it get into the newspapers.  He
     declared he thought it one of the most impressive things he had ever
     read.  But Clemens seems never to have allowed it to be used in any
     form.  In its entirety, therefore, it is quite new matter.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Sept.  19, 1877.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I don't really see how the story of the runaway horse
could read well with the little details of names and places and things
left out.  They are the true life of all narrative.  It wouldn't quite
do to print them at this time.  We'll talk about it when you come.
Delicacy--a sad, sad false delicacy--robs literature of the best two
things among its belongings.  Family-circle narrative and obscene
stories.  But no matter; in that better world which I trust we are all
going to I have the hope and belief that they will not be denied us.

Say--Twichell and I had an adventure at sea, 4 months ago, which I did
not put in my Bermuda articles, because there was not enough to it.  But
the press dispatches bring the sequel today, and now there's plenty to
it.  A sailless, wasteless, chartless, compassless, grubless old
condemned tub that has been drifting helpless about the ocean for 4
months and a half, begging bread and water like any other tramp, flying a
signal of distress permanently, and with 13 innocent, marveling
chuckleheaded Bermuda niggers on board, taking a Pleasure Excursion!  Our
ship fed the poor devils on the 25th of last May, far out at sea and left
them to bullyrag their way to New York--and now they ain't as near New
York as they were then by 250 miles!  They have drifted 750 miles and are
still drifting in the relentless Gulf Stream!  What a delicious magazine
chapter it would make--but I had to deny myself.  I had to come right out
in the papers at once, with my details, so as to try to raise the
government's sympathy sufficiently to have better succor sent them than
the cutter Colfax, which went a little way in search of them the other
day and then struck a fog and gave it up.

If the President were in Washington I would telegraph him.

When I hear that the "Jonas Smith" has been found again, I mean to send
for one of those darkies, to come to Hartford and give me his adventures
for an Atlantic article.

Likely you will see my today's article in the newspapers.
                                   Yrs ever,
                                             MARK.

The revenue cutter Colfax went after the Jonas Smith, thinking there was
mutiny or other crime on board.  It occurs to me now that, since there is
only mere suffering and misery and nobody to punish, it ceases to be a
matter which (a republican form of) government will feel authorized to
interfere in further.  Dam a republican form of government.


     Clemens thought he had given up lecturing for good; he was
     prosperous and he had no love for the platform.  But one day an idea
     popped into his head: Thomas Nast, the "father of the American
     cartoon," had delivered a successful series of illustrated lectures-
     talks for which he made the drawings as he went along.  Mark Twain's
     idea was to make a combination with Nast.  His letter gives us the
     plan in full.


                    To Thomas Nast, Morristown, N. J.:

                                             HARTFORD, CONN. 1877.
MY DEAR NAST,--I did not think I should ever stand on a platform again
until the time was come for me to say "I die innocent."  But the same old
offers keep arriving.  I have declined them all, just as usual, though
sorely tempted, as usual.

Now, I do not decline because I mind talking to an audience, but because
(1) traveling alone is so heartbreakingly dreary, and (2) shouldering the
whole show is such a cheer-killing responsibility.

Therefore, I now propose to you what you proposed to me in 1867, ten
years ago (when I was unknown) viz., that you stand on the platform and
make pictures, and I stand by you and blackguard the audience.  I should
enormously enjoy meandering around (to big towns--don't want to go to the
little ones) with you for company.

My idea is not to fatten the lecture agents and lyceums on the spoils,
but put all the ducats religiously into two equal piles, and say to the
artist and lecturer, "Absorb these."

For instance--[Here follows a plan and a possible list of cities to be
visited.  The letter continues]

Call the gross receipts $100,000 for four months and a half, and the
profit from $60,000 to $75,000 (I try to make the figures large enough,
and leave it to the public to reduce them.)

I did not put in Philadelphia because Pugh owns that town, and last
winter when I made a little reading-trip he only paid me $300 and
pretended his concert (I read fifteen minutes in the midst of a concert)
cost him a vast sum, and so he couldn't afford any more.  I could get up
a better concert with a barrel of cats.

I have imagined two or three pictures and concocted the accompanying
remarks to see how the thing would go.  I was charmed.

Well, you think it over, Nast, and drop me a line.  We should have some
fun.
                    Yours truly,
                         SAMUEL L. CLEMENS.


     The plan came to nothing.  Nast, like Clemens, had no special taste
     for platforming, and while undoubtedly there would have been large
     profits in the combination, the promise of the venture did not
     compel his acceptance.

     In spite of his distaste for the platform Mark Twain was always
     giving readings and lectures, without charge, for some worthy
     Hartford cause.  He was ready to do what he could to help an
     entertainment along, if he could do it in his own way--an original
     way, sometimes, and not always gratifying to the committee, whose
     plans were likely to be prearranged.

     For one thing, Clemens, supersensitive in the matter of putting
     himself forward in his own town, often objected to any special
     exploitation of his name.  This always distressed the committee, who
     saw a large profit to their venture in the prestige of his fame.
     The following characteristic letter was written in self-defense
     when, on one such occasion, a committee had become sufficiently
     peevish to abandon a worthy enterprise.


               To an Entertainment Committee, in Hartford:

                                        Nov. 9.
E. S. SYKES, Esq:

Dr. SIR,--Mr. Burton's note puts upon me all the blame of the destruction
of an enterprise which had for its object the succor of the Hartford
poor.  That is to say, this enterprise has been dropped because of the
"dissatisfaction with Mr. Clemens's stipulations."  Therefore I must be
allowed to say a word in my defense.

There were two "stipulations"--exactly two.  I made one of them; if the
other was made at all, it was a joint one, from the choir and me.

My individual stipulation was, that my name should be kept out of the
newspapers.  The joint one was that sufficient tickets to insure a good
sum should be sold before the date of the performance should be set.
(Understand, we wanted a good sum--I do not think any of us bothered
about a good house; it was money we were after)

Now you perceive that my concern is simply with my individual
stipulation.  Did that break up the enterprise?

Eugene Burton said he would sell $300 worth of the tickets himself.--Mr.
Smith said he would sell $200 or $300 worth himself.  My plan for Asylum
Hill Church would have ensured $150 from that quarter.--All this in the
face of my "Stipulation."  It was proposed to raise $1000; did my
stipulation render the raising of $400 or $500 in a dozen churches
impossible?

My stipulation is easily defensible.  When a mere reader or lecturer has
appeared 3 or 4 times in a town of Hartford's size, he is a good deal
more than likely to get a very unpleasant snub if he shoves himself
forward about once or twice more.  Therefore I long ago made up my mind
that whenever I again appeared here, it should be only in a minor
capacity and not as a chief attraction.

Now, I placed that harmless and very justifiable stipulation before the
committee the other day; they carried it to headquarters and it was
accepted there.  I am not informed that any objection was made to it, or
that it was regarded as an offense.  It seems late in the day, now, after
a good deal of trouble has been taken and a good deal of thankless work
done by the committees, to, suddenly tear up the contract and then turn
and bowl me down from long range as being the destroyer of it.

If the enterprise has failed because of my individual stipulation, here
you have my proper and reasonable reasons for making that stipulation.

If it has failed because of the joint stipulation, put the blame there,
and let us share it collectively.

I think our plan was a good one.  I do not doubt that Mr. Burton still
approves of it, too.  I believe the objections come from other quarters,
and not from him.  Mr. Twichell used the following words in last Sunday's
sermon, (if I remember correctly):

"My hearers, the prophet Deuteronomy says this wise thing: 'Though ye
plan a goodly house for the poor, and plan it with wisdom, and do take
off your coats and set to to build it, with high courage, yet shall the
croaker presently come, and lift up his voice, (having his coat on,) and
say, Verily this plan is not well planned--and he will go his way; and
the obstructionist will come, and lift up his voice, (having his coat
on,) and say, Behold, this is but a sick plan--and he will go his way;
and the man that knows it all will come, and lift up his voice, (having
his coat on,) and say, Lo, call they this a plan? then will he go his
way; and the places which knew him once shall know him no more forever,
because he was not, for God took him.  Now therefore I say unto you,
Verily that house will not be budded.  And I say this also: He that
waiteth for all men to be satisfied with his plan, let him seek eternal
life, for he shall need it.'"

This portion of Mr. Twichell's sermon made a great impression upon me,
and I was grieved that some one had not wakened me earlier so that I
might have heard what went before.

                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     Mr. Sykes (of the firm of Sykes & Newton, the Allen House Pharmacy)
     replied that he had read the letter to the committee and that it had
     set those gentlemen right who had not before understood the
     situation.  "If others were as ready to do their part as yourself
     our poor would not want assistance," he said, in closing.

     We come now to an incident which assumes the proportions of an
     episode-even of a catastrophe--in Mark Twain's career.  The disaster
     was due to a condition noted a few pages earlier--the inability of
     genius to judge its own efforts.  The story has now become history--
     printed history--it having been sympathetically told by Howells in
     My Mark Twain, and more exhaustively, with a report of the speech
     that invited the lightning, in a former work by the present writer.

     The speech was made at John Greenleaf Whittier's seventieth birthday
     dinner, given by the Atlantic staff on the evening of December 17,
     1877.  It was intended as a huge joke--a joke that would shake the
     sides of these venerable Boston deities, Longfellow, Emerson,
     Holmes, and the rest of that venerated group.  Clemens had been a
     favorite at the Atlantic lunches and dinners--a speech by him always
     an event.  This time he decided to outdo himself.

     He did that, but not in the way he had intended.  To use one of his
     own metaphors, he stepped out to meet the rainbow and got struck by
     lightning.  His joke was not of the Boston kind or size.  When its
     full nature burst upon the company--when the ears of the assembled
     diners heard the sacred names of Longfellow, Emerson, and Holmes
     lightly associated with human aspects removed--oh, very far removed
    --from Cambridge and Concord, a chill fell upon the diners that
     presently became amazement, and then creeping paralysis.  Nobody
     knew afterward whether the great speech that he had so gaily planned
     ever came to a natural end or not.  Somebody--the next on the
     program--attempted to follow him, but presently the company melted
     out of the doors and crept away into the night.

     It seemed to Mark Twain that his career had come to an end.  Back in
     Hartford, sweating and suffering through sleepless nights, he wrote
     Howells his anguish.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                  Sunday Night.  1877.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--My sense of disgrace does not abate.  It grows.  I see
that it is going to add itself to my list of permanencies--a list of
humiliations that extends back to when I was seven years old, and which
keep on persecuting me regardless of my repentancies.

I feel that my misfortune has injured me all over the country; therefore
it will be best that I retire from before the public at present.  It will
hurt the Atlantic for me to appear in its pages, now.  So it is my
opinion and my wife's that the telephone story had better be suppressed.
Will you return those proofs or revises to me, so that I can use the same
on some future occasion?

It seems as if I must have been insane when I wrote that speech and saw
no harm in it, no disrespect toward those men whom I reverenced so much.
And what shame I brought upon you, after what you said in introducing me!
It burns me like fire to think of it.

The whole matter is a dreadful subject--let me drop it here--at least on
paper.
                         Penitently yrs,
                                        MARK.


     Howells sent back a comforting letter.  "I have no idea of dropping
     you out of the Atlantic," he wrote; "and Mr. Houghton has still
     less, if possible.  You are going to help and not hurt us many a
     year yet, if you will....  You are not going to be floored by it;
     there is more justice than that, even in this world."

     Howells added that Charles Elliot Norton had expressed just the
     right feeling concerning the whole affair, and that many who had not
     heard the speech, but read the newspaper reports of it, had found it
     without offense.

     Clemens wrote contrite letters to Holmes, Emerson, and Longfellow,
     and received most gracious acknowledgments.  Emerson, indeed, had
     not heard the speech: His faculties were already blurred by the
     mental mists that would eventually shut him in.  Clemens wrote again
     to Howells, this time with less anguish.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Friday, 1877.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Your letter was a godsend; and perhaps the welcomest
part of it was your consent that I write to those gentlemen; for you
discouraged my hints in that direction that morning in Boston--rightly,
too, for my offense was yet too new, then.  Warner has tried to hold up
our hands like the good fellow he is, but poor Twichell could not say a
word, and confessed that he would rather take nearly any punishment than
face Livy and me.  He hasn't been here since.

It is curious, but I pitched early upon Mr. Norton as the very man who
would think some generous thing about that matter, whether he said it or
not.  It is splendid to be a man like that--but it is given to few to be.

I wrote a letter yesterday, and sent a copy to each of the three.  I
wanted to send a copy to Mr. Whittier also, since the offense was done
also against him, being committed in his presence and he the guest of the
occasion, besides holding the well-nigh sacred place he does in his
people's estimation; but I didn't know whether to venture or not, and so
ended by doing nothing.  It seemed an intrusion to approach him, and even
Livy seemed to have her doubts as to the best and properest way to do in
the case.  I do not reverence Mr. Emerson less, but somehow I could
approach him easier.

Send me those proofs, if you have got them handy; I want to submit them
to Wylie; he won't show them to anybody.

Had a very pleasant and considerate letter from Mr. Houghton, today, and
was very glad to receive it.

You can't imagine how brilliant and beautiful that new brass fender is,
and how perfectly naturally it takes its place under the carved oak.  How
they did scour it up before they sent it!  I lied a good deal about it
when I came home--so for once I kept a secret and surprised Livy on a
Christmas morning!

I haven't done a stroke of work since the Atlantic dinner; have only
moped around.  But I'm going to try tomorrow.  How could I ever have.

Ah, well, I am a great and sublime fool.  But then I am God's fool, and
all His works must be contemplated with respect.

Livy and I join in the warmest regards to you and yours,
                                        Yrs ever,
                                                  MARK.

Longfellow, in his reply, said: "I do not believe anybody was much hurt.
Certainly I was not, and Holmes tells me he was not.  So I think you may
dismiss the matter from your mind without further remorse."

Holmes wrote: "It never occurred to me for a moment to take offense, or
feel wounded by your playful use of my name."

Miss Ellen Emerson replied for her father (in a letter to Mrs. Clemens)
that the speech had made no impression upon him, giving at considerable
length the impression it had made on herself and other members of the
family.

     Clearly, it was not the principals who were hurt, but only those who
     held them in awe, though one can realize that this would not make it
     much easier for Mark Twain.




XVIII.

LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1878-79.  TRAMPING WITH TWICHELL.  WRITING A NEW
TRAVEL BOOK.  LIFE IN MUNICH

     Whether the unhappy occurrence at the Whittier dinner had anything
     to do with Mark Twain's resolve to spend a year or two in Europe
     cannot be known now.  There were other good reasons for going, one
     in particular being a demand for another book of travel.  It was
     also true, as he explains in a letter to his mother, that his days
     were full of annoyances, making it difficult for him to work.  He
     had a tendency to invest money in almost any glittering enterprise
     that came along, and at this time he was involved in the promotion
     of a variety of patent rights that brought him no return other than
     assessment and vexation.

     Clemens's mother was by this time living with her son Onion and his
     wife, in Iowa.


                  To Mrs. Jane Clemens, in Keokuk, Iowa:

                                             HARTFORD, Feb. 17, 1878
MY DEAR MOTHER,--I suppose I am the worst correspondent in the whole
world; and yet I grow worse and worse all the time.  My conscience
blisters me for not writing you, but it has ceased to abuse me for not
writing other folks.

Life has come to be a very serious matter with me.  I have a badgered,
harassed feeling, a good part of my time.  It comes mainly of business
responsibilities and annoyances, and the persecution of kindly letters
from well meaning strangers--to whom I must be rudely silent or else put
in the biggest half of my time bothering over answers.  There are other
things also that help to consume my time and defeat my projects.  Well,
the consequence is, I cannot write a book at home.  This cuts my income
down.  Therefore, I have about made up my mind to take my tribe and fly
to some little corner of Europe and budge no more until I shall have
completed one of the half dozen books that lie begun, up stairs.  Please
say nothing about this at present.

We propose to sail the 11th of April.  I shall go to Fredonia to meet
you, but it will not be well for Livy to make that trip I am afraid.
However, we shall see.  I will hope she can go.

Mr. Twichell has just come in, so I must go to him.  We are all well, and
send love to you all.
                              Affly,
                                        SAM.


     He was writing few letters at this time, and doing but little work.
     There were always many social events during the winter, and what
     with his European plans and a diligent study of the German language,
     which the entire family undertook, his days and evenings were full
     enough.  Howells wrote protesting against the European travel and
     berating him for his silence:

     "I never was in Berlin and don't know any family hotel there.
     I should be glad I didn't, if it would keep you from going.  You
     deserve to put up at the Sign of the Savage in Vienna.  Really, it's
     a great blow to me to hear of that prospected sojourn.  It's a
     shame.  I must see you, somehow, before you go.  I'm in dreadfully
     low spirits about it.

     "I was afraid your silence meant something wicked."

     Clemens replied promptly, urging a visit to Hartford, adding a
     postscript for Mrs. Howells, characteristic enough to warrant
     preservation.


                    P. S. to Mrs. Howells, in Boston:

                                                       Feb. '78.
DEAR MRS. HOWELLS.  Mrs. Clemens wrote you a letter, and handed it to me
half an hour ago, while I was folding mine to Mr. Howells.  I laid that
letter on this table before me while I added the paragraph about R,'s
application.  Since then I have been hunting and swearing, and swearing
and hunting, but I can't find a sign of that letter.  It is the most
astonishing disappearance I ever heard of.  Mrs. Clemens has gone off
driving--so I will have to try and give you an idea of her communication
from memory.  Mainly it consisted of an urgent desire that you come to
see us next week, if you can possibly manage it, for that will be a
reposeful time, the turmoil of breaking up beginning the week after.  She
wants you to tell her about Italy, and advise her in that connection, if
you will.  Then she spoke of her plans--hers, mind you, for I never have
anything quite so definite as a plan.  She proposes to stop a fortnight
in (confound the place, I've forgotten what it was,) then go and live in
Dresden till sometime in the summer; then retire to Switzerland for the
hottest season, then stay a while in Venice and put in the winter in
Munich.  This program subject to modifications according to
circumstances.  She said something about some little by-trips here and
there, but they didn't stick in my memory because the idea didn't charm
me.

(They have just telephoned me from the Courant office that Bayard Taylor
and family have taken rooms in our ship, the Holsatia, for the 11th
April.)

Do come, if you possibly can!--and remember and don't forget to avoid
letting Mrs. Clemens find out I lost her letter.  Just answer her the
same as if you had got it.
                              Sincerely yours
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


     The Howellses came, as invited, for a final reunion before the
     breaking up.  This was in the early half of March; the Clemenses
     were to sail on the 11th of the following month.

     Orion Clemens, meantime, had conceived a new literary idea and was
     piling in his MS. as fast as possible to get his brother's judgment
     on it before the sailing-date.  It was not a very good time to send
     MS., but Mark Twain seems to have read it and given it some
     consideration.  "The Journey in Heaven," of his own, which he
     mentions, was the story published so many years later under the
     title of "Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven."  He had began it in
     1868, on his voyage to San Francisco, it having been suggested by
     conversations with Capt.  Ned Wakeman, of one of the Pacific
     steamers.  Wakeman also appears in 'Roughing It,' Chap.  L, as Capt.
     Ned Blakely, and again in one of the "Rambling Notes of an Idle
     Excursion," as "Captain Hurricane Jones."


                       To Orion Clemens, in Keokuk:

                                             HARTFORD, Mch.  23, 1878.
MY DEAR BRO.,--Every man must learn his trade--not pick it up.  God
requires that he learn it by slow and painful processes.  The apprentice-
hand, in black-smithing, in medicine, in literature, in everything, is a
thing that can't be hidden.  It always shows.

But happily there is a market for apprentice work, else the "Innocents
Abroad" would have had no sale.  Happily, too, there's a wider market for
some sorts of apprentice literature than there is for the very best of
journey-work.  This work of yours is exceedingly crude, but I am free to
say it is less crude than I expected it to be, and considerably better
work than I believed you could do, it is too crude to offer to any
prominent periodical, so I shall speak to the N. Y. Weekly people.  To
publish it there will be to bury it.  Why could not same good genius have
sent me to the N. Y. Weekly with my apprentice sketches?

You should not publish it in book form at all--for this reason: it is
only an imitation of Verne--it is not a burlesque.  But I think it may be
regarded as proof that Verne cannot be burlesqued.

In accompanying notes I have suggested that you vastly modify the first
visit to hell, and leave out the second visit altogether.  Nobody would,
or ought to print those things.  You are not advanced enough in
literature to venture upon a matter requiring so much practice.  Let me
show you what a man has got to go through:

Nine years ago I mapped out my "Journey in Heaven."  I discussed it with
literary friends whom I could trust to keep it to themselves.

I gave it a deal of thought, from time to time.  After a year or more I
wrote it up.  It was not a success.  Five years ago I wrote it again,
altering the plan.  That MS is at my elbow now.  It was a considerable
improvement on the first attempt, but still it wouldn't do--last year and
year before I talked frequently with Howells about the subject, and he
kept urging me to do it again.

So I thought and thought, at odd moments and at last I struck what I
considered to be the right plan!  Mind I have never altered the ideas,
from the first--the plan was the difficulty.  When Howells was here last,
I laid before him the whole story without referring to my MS and he said:
"You have got it sure this time.  But drop the idea of making mere
magazine stuff of it.  Don't waste it.  Print it by itself--publish it
first in England--ask Dean Stanley to endorse it, which will draw some of
the teeth of the religious press, and then reprint in America."  I doubt
my ability to get Dean Stanley to do anything of the sort, but I shall do
the rest--and this is all a secret which you must not divulge.

Now look here--I have tried, all these years, to think of some way of
"doing" hell too--and have always had to give it up.  Hell, in my book,
will not occupy five pages of MS I judge--it will be only covert hints,
I suppose, and quickly dropped, I may end by not even referring to it.

And mind you, in my opinion you will find that you can't write up hell so
it will stand printing.  Neither Howells nor I believe in hell or the
divinity of the Savior, but no matter, the Savior is none the less a
sacred Personage, and a man should have no desire or disposition to refer
to him lightly, profanely, or otherwise than with the profoundest
reverence.

The only safe thing is not to introduce him, or refer to him at all,
I suspect.  I have entirely rewritten one book 3 (perhaps 4.) times,
changing the plan every time--1200 pages of MS. wasted and burned--and
shall tackle it again, one of these years and maybe succeed at last.
Therefore you need not expect to get your book right the first time.
Go to work and revamp or rewrite it.  God only exhibits his thunder and
lightning at intervals, and so they always command attention.  These are
God's adjectives.  You thunder and lightning too much; the reader ceases
to get under the bed, by and by.

Mr. Perkins will send you and Ma your checks when we are gone.  But don't
write him, ever, except a single line in case he forgets the checks--for
the man is driven to death with work.

I see you are half promising yourself a monthly return for your book.
In my experience, previously counted chickens never do hatch.  How many
of mine I have counted!  and never a one of them but failed!  It is much
better to hedge disappointment by not counting.--Unexpected money is a
delight.  The same sum is a bitterness when you expected more.

My time in America is growing mighty short.  Perhaps we can manage in
this way: Imprimis, if the N. Y. Weekly people know that you are my
brother, they will turn that fact into an advertisement--a thing of value
to them, but not to you and me.  This must be prevented.  I will write
them a note to say you have a friend near Keokuk, Charles S. Miller,
who has a MS for sale which you think is a pretty clever travesty on
Verne; and if they want it they might write to him in your care.  Then if
any correspondence ensues between you and them, let Mollie write for you
and sign your name--your own hand writing representing Miller's.  Keep
yourself out of sight till you make a strike on your own merits there is
no other way to get a fair verdict upon your merits.

Later-I've written the note to Smith, and with nothing in it which he can
use as an advertisement.  I'm called--Good bye-love to you both.

We leave here next Wednesday for Elmira: we leave there Apl. 9 or 10--and
sail 11th
                         Yr Bro.
                                   SAM.


     In the letter that follows the mention of Annie and Sam refers, of
     course, to the children of Mrs. Moffett, who had been, Pamela
     Clemens.  They were grown now, and Annie Moffett was married to
     Charles L.  Webster, who later was to become Mark Twain's business
     partner.  The Moffetts and Websters were living in Fredonia at this
     time, and Clemens had been to pay them a good-by visit.  The Taylor
     dinner mentioned was a farewell banquet given to Bayard Taylor, who
     had been appointed Minister to Germany, and was to sail on the ship
     with Mark Twain.  Mark Twain's mother was visiting in Fredonia when
     this letter was written.


                    To Mrs. Jane Clemens, in Fredonia:

                                                  Apr.  7, '78.
MY DEAR MOTHER,--I have told Livy all about Annie's beautiful house, and
about Sam and Charley, and about Charley's ingenious manufactures and his
strong manhood and good promise, and how glad I am that he and Annie
married.  And I have told her about Annie's excellent house-keeping, also
about the great Bacon conflict; (I told you it was a hundred to one that
neither Livy nor the European powers had heard of that desolating
struggle.)

And I have told her how beautiful you are in your age and how bright your
mind is with its old-time brightness, and how she and the children would
enjoy you.  And I have told her how singularly young Pamela is looking,
and what a fine large fellow Sam is, and how ill the lingering syllable
"my" to his name fits his port and figure.

Well, Pamela, after thinking it over for a day or so, I came near
inquiring about a state-room in our ship for Sam, to please you, but my
wiser former resolution came back to me.  It is not for his good that he
have friends in the ship.  His conduct in the Bacon business shows that
he will develop rapidly into a manly man as soon as he is cast loose from
your apron strings.

You don't teach him to push ahead and do and dare things for himself, but
you do just the reverse.  You are assisted in your damaging work by the
tyrannous ways of a village--villagers watch each other and so make
cowards of each other.  After Sam shall have voyaged to Europe by
himself, and rubbed against the world and taken and returned its cuffs,
do you think he will hesitate to escort a guest into any whisky-mill in
Fredonia when he himself has no sinful business to transact there?
No, he will smile at the idea.  If he avoids this courtesy now from
principle, of course I find no fault with it at all--only if he thinks it
is principle he may be mistaken; a close examination may show it is only
a bowing to the tyranny of public opinion.

I only say it may--I cannot venture to say it will.  Hartford is not a
large place, but it is broader than to have ways of that sort.  Three or
four weeks ago, at a Moody and Sankey meeting, the preacher read a letter
from somebody "exposing" the fact that a prominent clergyman had gone
from one of those meetings, bought a bottle of lager beer and drank it on
the premises (a drug store.)

A tempest of indignation swept the town.  Our clergymen and everybody
else said the "culprit" had not only done an innocent thing, but had done
it in an open, manly way, and it was nobody's right or business to find
fault with it.  Perhaps this dangerous latitude comes of the fact that we
never have any temperance "rot" going on in Hartford.

I find here a letter from Orion, submitting some new matter in his story
for criticism.  When you write him, please tell him to do the best he can
and bang away.  I can do nothing further in this matter, for I have but 3
days left in which to settle a deal of important business and answer a
bushel and a half of letters.  I am very nearly tired to death.

I was so jaded and worn, at the Taylor dinner, that I found I could not
remember 3 sentences of the speech I had memorized, and therefore got up
and said so and excused myself from speaking.  I arrived here at 3
o'clock this morning.  I think the next 3 days will finish me.  The idea
of sitting down to a job of literary criticism is simply ludicrous.

A young lady passenger in our ship has been placed under Livy's charge.
Livy couldn't easily get out of it, and did not want to, on her own
account, but fully expected I would make trouble when I heard of it.
But I didn't.  A girl can't well travel alone, so I offered no objection.
She leaves us at Hamburg.  So I've got 6 people in my care, now--which is
just 6 too many for a man of my unexecutive capacity.  I expect nothing
else but to lose some of them overboard.

We send our loving good-byes to all the household and hope to see you
again after a spell.
                         Affly Yrs.
                                        SAM.


     There are no other American letters of this period.  The Clemens
     party, which included Miss Clara Spaulding, of Elmira, sailed as
     planned, on the Holsatia, April 11, 1878.  As before stated, Bayard
     Taylor was on the ship; also Murat Halstead and family.  On the eve
     of departure, Clemens sent to Howells this farewell word:

     "And that reminds me, ungrateful dog that I am, that I owe as much
     to your training as the rude country job-printer owes to the city
     boss who takes him in hand and teaches him the right way to handle
     his art.  I was talking to Mrs. Clemens about this the other day,
     and grieving because I never mentioned it to you, thereby seeming to
     ignore it, or to be unaware of it.  Nothing that has passed under
     your eye needs any revision before going into a volume, while all my
     other stuff does need so much."

     A characteristic tribute, and from the heart.

     The first European letter came from Frankfort, a rest on their way
     to Heidelberg.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                   FRANKFORT ON THE MAIN, May 4, 1878.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I only propose to write a single line to say we are
still around.  Ah, I have such a deep, grateful, unutterable sense of
being "out of it all."  I think I foretaste some of the advantages of
being dead.  Some of the joy of it.  I don't read any newspapers or care
for them.  When people tell me England has declared war, I drop the
subject, feeling that it is none of my business; when they tell me Mrs.
Tilton has confessed and Mr. B. denied, I say both of them have done that
before, therefore let the worn stub of the Plymouth white-wash brush be
brought out once more, and let the faithful spit on their hands and get
to work again regardless of me--for I am out of it all.

We had 2 almost devilish weeks at sea (and I tell you Bayard Taylor is a
really lovable man--which you already knew) then we staid a week in the
beautiful, the very beautiful city of Hamburg; and since then we have
been fooling along, 4 hours per day by rail, with a courier, spending the
other 20 in hotels whose enormous bedchambers and private parlors are an
overpowering marvel to me: Day before yesterday, in Cassel, we had a love
of a bedroom ,31 feet long, and a parlor with 2 sofas, 12 chairs, a
writing desk and 4 tables scattered around, here and there in it.  Made
of red silk, too, by George.

The times and times I wish you were along!  You could throw some fun into
the journey; whereas I go on, day by day, in a smileless state of solemn
admiration.

What a paradise this is!  What clean clothes, what good faces, what
tranquil contentment, what prosperity, what genuine freedom, what superb
government.  And I am so happy, for I am responsible for none of it.  I
am only here to enjoy.  How charmed I am when I overhear a German word
which I understand.  With love from us 2 to you 2.

                                             MARK.

P. S.  We are not taking six days to go from Hamburg to Heidelberg
because we prefer it.  Quite on the contrary.  Mrs. Clemens picked up a
dreadful cold and sore throat on board ship and still keeps them in
stock--so she could only travel 4 hours a day.  She wanted to dive
straight through, but I had different notions about the wisdom of it.
I found that 4 hours a day was the best she could do.  Before I forget
it, our permanent address is Care Messrs. Koester & Co., Backers,
Heidelberg.  We go there tomorrow.

Poor Susy!  From the day we reached German soil, we have required Rosa to
speak German to the children--which they hate with all their souls.  The
other morning in Hanover, Susy came to us (from Rosa, in the nursery) and
said, in halting syllables, "Papa, vie viel uhr ist es?"--then turned
with pathos in her big eyes, and said, "Mamma, I wish Rosa was made in
English."

(Unfinished)


     Frankfort was a brief halting-place, their destination being
     Heidelberg.  They were presently located there in the beautiful
     Schloss hotel, which overlooks the old castle with its forest
     setting, the flowing Neckar, and the distant valley of the Rhine.
     Clemens, who had discovered the location, and loved it, toward the
     end of May reported to Howells his felicities.


               Part of letter to W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                   SCHLOSS-HOTEL HEIDELBERG,
                                   Sunday, a. m., May 26, 1878.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--....divinely located.  From this airy porch among the
shining groves we look down upon Heidelberg Castle, and upon the swift
Neckar, and the town, and out over the wide green level of the Rhine
valley--a marvelous prospect.  We are in a Cul-de-sac formed of hill-
ranges and river; we are on the side of a steep mountain; the river at
our feet is walled, on its other side, (yes, on both sides,) by a steep
and wooded mountain-range which rises abruptly aloft from the water's
edge; portions of these mountains are densely wooded; the plain of the
Rhine, seen through the mouth of this pocket, has many and peculiar
charms for the eye.

Our bedroom has two great glass bird-cages (enclosed balconies) one
looking toward the Rhine valley and sunset, the other looking up the
Neckar cul-de-sac, and naturally we spend nearly all our time in these-
when one is sunny the other is shady.  We have tables and chairs in them;
we do our reading, writing, studying, smoking and suppering in them.

The view from these bird-cages is my despair.  The pictures change from
one enchanting aspect to another in ceaseless procession, never keeping
one form half an hour, and never taking on an unlovely one.

And then Heidelberg on a dark night!  It is massed, away down there,
almost right under us, you know, and stretches off toward the valley.
Its curved and interlacing streets are a cobweb, beaded thick with
lights--a wonderful thing to see; then the rows of lights on the arched
bridges, and their glinting reflections in the water; and away at the far
end, the Eisenbahnhof, with its twenty solid acres of glittering gas-
jets, a huge garden, as one may say, whose every plant is a flame.

These balconies are the darlingest things.  I have spent all the morning
in this north one.  Counting big and little, it has 256 panes of glass in
it; so one is in effect right out in the free sunshine, and yet sheltered
from wind and rain--and likewise doored and curtained from whatever may
be going on in the bedroom.  It must have been a noble genius who devised
this hotel.  Lord, how blessed is the repose, the tranquillity of this
place!  Only two sounds; the happy clamor of the birds in the groves, and
the muffled music of the Neckar, tumbling over the opposing dykes.  It is
no hardship to lie awake awhile, nights, for this subdued roar has
exactly the sound of a steady rain beating upon a roof.  It is so healing
to the spirit; and it bears up the thread of one's imaginings as the
accompaniment bears up a song.

While Livy and Miss Spaulding have been writing at this table, I have sat
tilted back, near by, with a pipe and the last Atlantic, and read Charley
Warner's article with prodigious enjoyment.  I think it is exquisite.
I think it must be the roundest and broadest and completest short essay
he has ever written.  It is clear, and compact, and charmingly done.

The hotel grounds join and communicate with the Castle grounds; so we and
the children loaf in the winding paths of those leafy vastnesses a great
deal, and drink beer and listen to excellent music.

When we first came to this hotel, a couple of weeks ago, I pointed to a
house across the river, and said I meant to rent the centre room on the
3d floor for a work-room.  Jokingly we got to speaking of it as my
office; and amused ourselves with watching "my people" daily in their
small grounds and trying to make out what we could of their dress, &c.,
without a glass.  Well, I loafed along there one day and found on that
house the only sign of the kind on that side of the river: "Moblirte
Wohnung zu Vermiethen!" I went in and rented that very room which I had
long ago selected.  There was only one other room in the whole double-
house unrented.

(It occurs to me that I made a great mistake in not thinking to deliver a
very bad German speech, every other sentence pieced out with English, at
the Bayard Taylor banquet in New York.  I think I could have made it one
of the features of the occasion.)--[He used this plan at a gathering of
the American students in Heidelberg, on July 4th, with great effect; so
his idea was not wasted.]

We left Hartford before the end of March, and I have been idle ever
since.  I have waited for a call to go to work--I knew it would come.
Well, it began to come a week ago; my note-book comes out more and more
frequently every day since; 3 days ago I concluded to move my manuscript
over to my den.  Now the call is loud and decided at last.  So tomorrow I
shall begin regular, steady work, and stick to it till middle of July or
1st August, when I look for Twichell; we will then walk about Germany 2
or 3 weeks, and then I'll go to work again--(perhaps in Munich.)

We both send a power of love to the Howellses, and we do wish you were
here.  Are you in the new house?  Tell us about it.
                                             Yrs Ever
                                                  MARK.


     There has been no former mention in the letters of the coming of
     Twichell; yet this had been a part of the European plan.  Mark Twain
     had invited his walking companion to make a tramp with him through
     Europe, as his guest.  Material for the new book would grow faster
     with Twichell as a companion; and these two in spite of their widely
     opposed views concerning Providence and the general scheme of
     creation, were wholly congenial comrades.  Twichell, in Hartford,
     expecting to receive the final summons to start, wrote: "Oh, my! do
     you realize, Mark, what a symposium it is to be?  I do.  To begin
     with, I am thoroughly tired, and the rest will be worth everything.
     To walk with you and talk with you for weeks together--why, it's my
     dream of luxury."

     August 1st brought Twichell, and the friends set out without delay
     on a tramp through the Black Forest, making short excursions at
     first, but presently extending them in the direction of Switzerland.
     Mrs. Clemens and the others remained in Heidelberg, to follow at
     their leisure.  To Mrs. Clemens her husband sent frequent reports of
     their wanderings.  It will be seen that their tramp did not confine
     itself to pedestrianism, though they did, in fact, walk a great
     deal, and Mark Twain in a note to his mother declared, "I loathe all
     travel, except on foot."  The reports to Mrs. Clemens follow:


                 Letters to Mrs. Clemens, in Heidelberg:

                              ALLERHEILIGEN  Aug. 5, 1878   8:30 p.m.
Livy darling, we had a rattling good time to-day, but we came very near
being left at Baden-Baden, for instead of waiting in the waiting-room, we
sat down on the platform to wait where the trains come in from the other
direction.  We sat there full ten minutes--and then all of a sudden it
occurred to me that that was not the right place.

On the train the principal of the big English school at Nauheim (of which
Mr. Scheiding was a teacher), introduced himself to me, and then he
mapped out our day for us (for today and tomorrow) and also drew a map
and gave us directions how to proceed through Switzerland.  He had his
entire school with him, taking them on a prodigious trip through
Switzerland--tickets for the round trip ten dollars apiece.  He has done
this annually for 10 years.  We took a post carriage from Aachen to
Otterhofen for 7 marks--stopped at the "Pflug" to drink beer, and saw
that pretty girl again at a distance.  Her father, mother, and two
brothers received me like an ancient customer and sat down and talked as
long as I had any German left.  The big room was full of red-vested
farmers (the Gemeindrath of the district, with the Burgermeister at the
head,) drinking beer and talking public business.  They had held an
election and chosen a new member and had been drinking beer at his
expense for several hours.  (It was intensely Black-foresty.)

There was an Australian there (a student from Stuttgart or somewhere,)
and Joe told him who I was and he laid himself out to make our course
plain, for us--so I am certain we can't get lost between here and
Heidelberg.

We walked the carriage road till we came to that place where one sees the
foot path on the other side of the ravine, then we crossed over and took
that.  For a good while we were in a dense forest and judged we were
lost, but met a native women who said we were all right.  We fooled along
and got there at 6 p.m.--ate supper, then followed down the ravine to the
foot of the falls, then struck into a blind path to see where it would
go, and just about dark we fetched up at the Devil's Pulpit on top of the
hills.  Then home.  And now to bed, pretty sleepy.  Joe sends love and I
send a thousand times as much, my darling.
                                                  S. L. C.


                                                  HOTEL GENNIN.
Livy darling, we had a lovely day jogged right along, with a good horse
and sensible driver--the last two hours right behind an open carriage
filled with a pleasant German family--old gentleman and 3 pretty
daughters.  At table d'hote tonight, 3 dishes were enough for me, and
then I bored along tediously through the bill of fare, with a back-ache,
not daring to get up and bow to the German family and leave.  I meant to
sit it through and make them get up and do the bowing; but at last Joe
took pity on me and said he would get up and drop them a curtsy and put
me out of my misery.  I was grateful.  He got up and delivered a
succession of frank and hearty bows, accompanying them with an atmosphere
of good-fellowship which would have made even an English family
surrender.  Of course the Germans responded--then I got right up and they
had to respond to my salaams, too.  So "that was done."

We walked up a gorge and saw a tumbling waterfall which was nothing to
Giessbach, but it made me resolve to drop you a line and urge you to go
and see Giessbach illuminated.  Don't fail--but take a long day's rest,
first.  I love you, sweetheart.
                                             SAML.


                                   OVER THE GEMMI PASS.
                                   4.30 p.m.  Saturday, Aug. 24, 1878.
Livy darling, Joe and I have had a most noble day.  Started to climb (on
foot) at 8.30 this morning among the grandest peaks!  Every half hour
carried us back a month in the season.  We left them harvesting 2d crop
of hay.  At 9 we were in July and found ripe strawberries; at 9.30 we
were in June and gathered flowers belonging to that month; at 10 we were
in May and gathered a flower which appeared in Heidelberg the 17th of
that month; also forget-me-nots, which disappeared from Heidelberg about
mid-May; at 11.30 we were in April (by the flowers;) at noon we had rain
and hail mixed, and wind and enveloping fogs, and considered it March; at
12.30 we had snowbanks above us and snowbanks below us, and considered it
February.  Not good February, though, because in the midst of the wild
desolation the forget-me-not still bloomed, lovely as ever.

What a flower garden the Gemmi Pass is!  After I had got my hands full
Joe made me a paper bag, which I pinned to my lapel and filled with
choice specimens.  I gathered no flowers which I had ever gathered before
except 4 or 5 kinds.  We took it leisurely and I picked all I wanted to.
I mailed my harvest to you a while ago.  Don't send it to Mrs. Brooks
until you have looked it over, flower by flower.  It will pay.

Among the clouds and everlasting snows I found a brave and bright little
forget-me-not growing in the very midst of a smashed and tumbled stone-
debris, just as cheerful as if the barren and awful domes and ramparts
that towered around were the blessed walls of heaven.  I thought how
Lilly Warner would be touched by such a gracious surprise, if she,
instead of I, had seen it.  So I plucked it, and have mailed it to her
with a note.

Our walk was 7 hours--the last 2 down a path as steep as a ladder,
almost, cut in the face of a mighty precipice.  People are not allowed to
ride down it.  This part of the day's work taxed our knees, I tell you.
We have been loafing about this village (Leukerbad) for an hour, now we
stay here over Sunday.  Not tired at all.  (Joe's hat fell over the
precipice--so he came here bareheaded.) I love you, my darling.

                                             SAML.


                                        ST. NICHOLAS, Aug. 26th, '78.
Livy darling, we came through a-whooping today, 6 hours tramp up steep
hills and down steep hills, in mud and water shoe-deep, and in a steady
pouring rain which never moderated a moment.  I was as chipper and fresh
as a lark all the way and arrived without the slightest sense of fatigue.
But we were soaked and my shoes full of water, so we ate at once,
stripped and went to bed for 2 1/2 hours while our traps were thoroughly
dried, and our boots greased in addition.  Then we put our clothes on hot
and went to table d'hote.

Made some nice English friends and shall see them at Zermatt tomorrow.

Gathered a small bouquet of new flowers, but they got spoiled.  I sent
you a safety-match box full of flowers last night from Leukerbad.

I have just telegraphed you to wire the family news to me at Riffel
tomorrow.  I do hope you are all well and having as jolly a time as we
are, for I love you, sweetheart, and also, in a measure, the Bays.--
[Little Susy's word for "babies."]--Give my love to Clara Spaulding and
also to the cubs.
                                          SAML.


     This, as far as it goes, is a truer and better account of the
     excursion than Mark Twain gave in the book that he wrote later.  A
     Tramp Abroad has a quality of burlesque in it, which did not belong
     to the journey at all, but was invented to satisfy the craving for
     what the public conceived to be Mark Twain's humor.  The serious
     portions of the book are much more pleasing--more like himself.
     The entire journey, as will be seen, lasted one week more than a
     month.

     Twichell also made his reports home, some of which give us
     interesting pictures of his walking partner.  In one place he wrote:
     "Mark is a queer fellow.  There is nothing he so delights in as a
     swift, strong stream.  You can hardly get him to leave one when once
     he is within the influence of its fascinations."

     Twichell tells how at Kandersteg they were out together one evening
     where a brook comes plunging down from Gasternthal and how he pushed
     in a drift to see it go racing along the current.  "When I got back
     to the path Mark was running down stream after it as hard as he
     could go, throwing up his hands and shouting in the wildest ecstasy,
     and when a piece went over a fall and emerged to view in the foam
     below he would jump up and down and yell.  He said afterward that he
     had not been so excited in three months."

     In other places Twichell refers to his companion's consideration for
     the feeling of others, and for animals.  "When we are driving, his
     concern is all about the horse.  He can't bear to see the whip used,
     or to see a horse pull hard."

After the walk over Gemmi Pass he wrote: "Mark to-day was immensely
absorbed in flowers.  He scrambled around and gathered a great variety,
and manifested the intensest pleasure in them.  He crowded a pocket of
his note-book with his specimens, and wanted more room."

Whereupon Twichell got out his needle and thread and some stiff paper he
had and contrived the little paper bag to hang to the front of his vest.

The tramp really ended at Lausanne, where Clemens joined his party, but a
short excursion to Chillon and Chamonix followed, the travelers finally
separating at Geneva, Twichell to set out for home by way of England,
Clemens to remain and try to write the story of their travels.  He
hurried a good-by letter after his comrade:


                        To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell:

                                                       (No date)
DEAR OLD JOE,--It is actually all over!  I was so low-spirited at the
station yesterday, and this morning, when I woke, I couldn't seem to
accept the dismal truth that you were really gone, and the pleasant
tramping and talking at an end.  Ah, my boy!  it has been such a rich
holiday to me, and I feel under such deep and honest obligations to you
for coming.  I am putting out of my mind all memory of the times when I
misbehaved toward you and hurt you: I am resolved to consider it
forgiven, and to store up and remember only the charming hours of the
journeys and the times when I was not unworthy to be with you and share a
companionship which to me stands first after Livy's.  It is justifiable
to do this; for why should I let my small infirmities of disposition live
and grovel among my mental pictures of the eternal sublimities of the
Alps?

Livy can't accept or endure the fact that you are gone.  But you are,
and we cannot get around it.  So take our love with you, and bear it also
over the sea to Harmony, and God bless you both.

                                                  MARK.


     From Switzerland the Clemens party worked down into Italy, sight-
     seeing, a diversion in which Mark Twain found little enough of
     interest.  He had seen most of the sights ten years before, when his
     mind was fresh.  He unburdened himself to Twichell and to Howells,
     after a period of suffering.


                     To J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                                  ROME, Nov. 3, '78.
DEAR JOE,--.....I have received your several letters, and we have
prodigiously enjoyed them.  How I do admire a man who can sit down and
whale away with a pen just the same as if it was fishing--or something
else as full of pleasure and as void of labor.  I can't do it; else, in
common decency, I would when I write to you.  Joe, if I can make a book
out of the matter gathered in your company over here, the book is safe;
but I don't think I have gathered any matter before or since your visit
worth writing up.  I do wish you were in Rome to do my sightseeing for
me.  Rome interests me as much as East Hartford could, and no more.  That
is, the Rome which the average tourist feels an interest in; but there
are other things here which stir me enough to make life worth living.
Livy and Clara Spaulding are having a royal time worshiping the old
Masters, and I as good a time gritting my ineffectual teeth over them.

A friend waits for me.  A power of love to you all.
                                                  Amen.
                                                       MARK.


     In his letter to Howells he said: "I wish I could give those sharp
     satires on European life which you mention, but of course a man
     can't write successful satire except he be in a calm, judicial good-
     humor; whereas I hate travel, and I hate hotels, and I hate the
     opera, and I hate the old masters.  In truth, I don't ever seem to
     be in a good-enough humor with anything to satirize it.  No, I want
     to stand up before it and curse it and foam at the mouth, or take a
     club and pound it to rags and pulp.  I have got in two or three
     chapters about Wagner's operas, and managed to do it without showing
     temper, but the strain of another such effort would burst me!"

     From Italy the Clemens party went to Munich, where they had arranged
     in advance for winter quarters.  Clemens claims, in his report of
     the matter to Howells, that he took the party through without the
     aid of a courier, though thirty years later, in some comment which
     he set down on being shown the letter, he wrote concerning this
     paragraph: "Probably a lie."  He wrote, also, that they acquired a
     great affection for Fraulein Dahlweiner: "Acquired it at once and it
     outlasted the winter we spent in her house."


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                   No 1a, Karlstrasse, 2e Stock.
                                   Care Fraulein Dahlweiner.
                                   MUNICH, Nov. 17, 1878.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--We arrived here night before last, pretty well fagged:
an 8-hour pull from Rome to Florence; a rest there of a day and two
nights; then 5 1/2 hours to Bologna; one night's rest; then from noon to
10:30 p.m.  carried us to Trent, in the Austrian Tyrol, where the
confounded hotel had not received our message, and so at that miserable
hour, in that snowy region, the tribe had to shiver together in fireless
rooms while beds were prepared and warmed, then up at 6 in the morning
and a noble view of snow-peaks glittering in the rich light of a full
moon while the hotel-devils lazily deranged a breakfast for us in the
dreary gloom of blinking candles; then a solid 12 hours pull through the
loveliest snow ranges and snow-draped forest--and at 7 p.m. we hauled up,
in drizzle and fog, at the domicile which had been engaged for us ten
months before.  Munich did seem the horriblest place, the most desolate
place, the most unendurable place!--and the rooms were so small, the
conveniences so meagre, and the porcelain stoves so grim, ghastly,
dismal, intolerable!  So Livy and Clara (Spaulding) sat down forlorn,
and cried, and I retired to a private, place to pray.  By and by we all
retired to our narrow German beds; and when Livy and I finished talking
across the room, it was all decided that we would rest 24 hours then pay
whatever damages were required, and straightway fly to the south of
France.

But you see, that was simply fatigue.  Next morning the tribe fell in
love with the rooms, with the weather, with Munich, and head over heels
in love with Fraulein Dahlweiner.  We got a larger parlor--an ample one
--threw two communicating bedrooms into one, for the children, and now we
are entirely comfortable.  The only apprehension, at present, is that the
climate may not be just right for the children, in which case we shall
have to go to France, but it will be with the sincerest regret.

Now I brought the tribe through from Rome, myself.  We never had so
little trouble before.  The next time anybody has a courier to put out to
nurse, I shall not be in the market.

Last night the forlornities had all disappeared; so we gathered around
the lamp, after supper, with our beer and my pipe, and in a condition of
grateful snugness tackled the new magazines.  I read your new story
aloud, amid thunders of applause, and we all agreed that Captain Jenness
and the old man with the accordion-hat are lovely people and most
skillfully drawn--and that cabin-boy, too, we like.  Of course we are all
glad the girl is gone to Venice--for there is no place like Venice.  Now
I easily understand that the old man couldn't go, because you have a
purpose in sending Lyddy by herself: but you could send the old man over
in another ship, and we particularly want him along.  Suppose you don't
need him there?  What of that?  Can't you let him feed the doves?  Can't
you let him fall in the canal occasionally?  Can't you let his good-
natured purse be a daily prey to guides and beggar-boys?  Can't you let
him find peace and rest and fellowship under Pere Jacopo's kindly wing?
(However, you are writing the book, not I--still, I am one of the people
you are writing it for, you understand.) I only want to insist, in a
friendly way, that the old man shall shed his sweet influence frequently
upon the page--that is all.

The first time we called at the convent, Pere Jacopo was absent; the next
(Just at this moment Miss Spaulding spoke up and said something about
Pere Jacopo--there is more in this acting of one mind upon another than
people think) time, he was there, and gave us preserved rose-leaves to
eat, and talked about you, and Mrs. Howells, and Winnie, and brought out
his photographs, and showed us a picture of "the library of your new
house," but not so--it was the study in your Cambridge house.  He was
very sweet and good.  He called on us next day; the day after that we
left Venice, after a pleasant sojourn Of 3 or 4 weeks.  He expects to
spend this winter in Munich and will see us often, he said.

Pretty soon, I am going to write something, and when I finish it I shall
know whether to put it to itself or in the "Contributors' Club."  That
"Contributors' Club" was a most happy idea.  By the way, I think that the
man who wrote the paragraph beginning at the bottom of page 643 has said
a mighty sound and sensible thing.  I wish his suggestion could be
adopted.

It is lovely of you to keep that old pipe in such a place of honor.

While it occurs to me, I must tell you Susie's last.  She is sorely
badgered with dreams; and her stock dream is that she is being eaten up
by bears.  She is a grave and thoughtful child, as you will remember.
Last night she had the usual dream.  This morning she stood apart (after
telling it,) for some time, looking vacantly at the floor, and absorbed
in meditation.  At last she looked up, and with the pathos of one who
feels he has not been dealt by with even-handed fairness, said "But
Mamma, the trouble is, that I am never the bear, but always the person."

It would not have occurred to me that there might be an advantage, even
in a dream, in occasionally being the eater, instead of always the party
eaten, but I easily perceived that her point was well taken.

I'm sending to Heidelberg for your letter and Winnie's, and I do hope
they haven't been lost.

My wife and I send love to you all.
                                   Yrs ever,
                                             MARK.


     The Howells story, running at this time in the Atlantic, and so much
     enjoyed by the Clemens party, was "The Lady of the Aroostook."  The
     suggestions made for enlarging the part of the "old man" are
     eminently characteristic.

     Mark Twain's forty-third birthday came in Munich, and in his letter
     conveying this fact to his mother we get a brief added outline of
     the daily life in that old Bavarian city.  Certainly, it would seem
     to have been a quieter and more profitable existence than he had
     known amid the confusion of things left behind in, America.


            To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in America:

                                             No. 1a Karlstrasse,
                                             Dec. 1, MUNICH.  1878.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I broke the back of life yesterday and
started down-hill toward old age.  This fact has not produced any effect
upon me that I can detect.

I suppose we are located here for the winter.  I have a pleasant work-
room a mile from here where I do my writing.  The walk to and from that
place gives me what exercise I need, and all I take.  We staid three
weeks in Venice, a week in Florence, a fortnight in Rome, and arrived
here a couple of weeks ago.  Livy and Miss Spaulding are studying drawing
and German, and the children have a German day-governess.  I cannot see
but that the children speak German as well as they do English.

Susie often translates Livy's orders to the servants.  I cannot work and
study German at the same time: so I have dropped the latter, and do not
even read the language, except in the morning paper to get the news.

We have all pretty good health, latterly, and have seldom had to call the
doctor.  The children have been in the open air pretty constantly for
months now.  In Venice they were on the water in the gondola most of the
time, and were great friends with our gondolier; and in Rome and Florence
they had long daily tramps, for Rosa is a famous hand to smell out the
sights of a strange place.  Here they wander less extensively.

The family all join in love to you all and to Orion and Mollie.
                                   Affly
                                        Your son
                                                  SAM.




XIX.

LETTERS 1879.  RETURN TO AMERICA.  THE GREAT GRANT REUNION

Life went on very well in Munich.  Each day the family fell more in love
with Fraulein Dahlweiner and her house.

Mark Twain, however, did not settle down to his work readily.  His
"pleasant work-room" provided exercise, but no inspiration.  When he
discovered he could not find his Swiss note-book he was ready to give up
his travel-writing altogether.  In the letter that follows we find him
much less enthusiastic concerning his own performances than over the
story by Howells, which he was following in the Atlantic.

The "detective" chapter mentioned in this letter was not included in
'A Tramp Abroad.'  It was published separately, as 'The Stolen White
Elephant' in a volume bearing that title.  The play, which he had now
found "dreadfully witless and flat," was no other than "Simon Wheeler,
Detective," which he had once regarded so highly.  The "Stewart" referred
to was the millionaire merchant, A. T. Stewart, whose body was stolen in
the expectation of reward.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        MUNICH, Jan. 21, (1879)
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--It's no use, your letter miscarried in some way and is
lost.  The consul has made a thorough search and says he has not been
able to trace it.  It is unaccountable, for all the letters I did not
want arrived without a single grateful failure.  Well, I have read-up,
now, as far as you have got, that is, to where there's a storm at sea
approaching,--and we three think you are clear, out-Howellsing Howells.
If your literature has not struck perfection now we are not able to see
what is lacking.  It is all such truth--truth to the life; every where
your pen falls it leaves a photograph.  I did imagine that everything had
been said about life at sea that could be said, but no matter, it was all
a failure and lies, nothing but lies with a thin varnish of fact,--only
you have stated it as it absolutely is.  And only you see people and
their ways, and their insides and outsides as they are, and make them
talk as they do talk.  I think you are the very greatest artist in these
tremendous mysteries that ever lived.  There doesn't seem to be anything
that can be concealed from your awful all-seeing eye.  It must be a
cheerful thing for one to live with you and be aware that you are going
up and down in him like another conscience all the time.  Possibly you
will not be a fully accepted classic until you have been dead a hundred
years,--it is the fate of the Shakespeares and of all genuine prophets,
--but then your books will be as common as Bibles, I believe.  You're not
a weed, but an oak; not a summer-house, but a cathedral.  In that day I
shall still be in the Cyclopedias, too, thus: "Mark Twain; history and
occupation unknown--but he was personally acquainted with Howells."
There--I could sing your praises all day, and feel and believe every bit
of it.

My book is half finished; I wish to heaven it was done.  I have given up
writing a detective novel--can't write a novel, for I lack the faculty;
but when the detectives were nosing around after Stewart's loud remains,
I threw a chapter into my present book in which I have very extravagantly
burlesqued the detective business--if it is possible to burlesque that
business extravagantly.  You know I was going to send you that detective
play, so that you could re-write it.  Well I didn't do it because I
couldn't find a single idea in it that could be useful to you.  It was
dreadfully witless and flat.  I knew it would sadden you and unfit you
for work.

I have always been sorry we threw up that play embodying Orion which you
began.  It was a mistake to do that.  Do keep that MS and tackle it
again.  It will work out all right; you will see.  I don't believe that
that character exists in literature in so well-developed a condition as
it exists in Orion's person.  Now won't you put Orion in a story?  Then
he will go handsomely into a play afterwards.  How deliciously you could
paint him--it would make fascinating reading--the sort that makes a
reader laugh and cry at the same time, for Orion is as good and
ridiculous a soul as ever was.

Ah, to think of Bayard Taylor!  It is too sad to talk about.  I was so
glad there was not a single sting and so many good praiseful words in the
Atlantic's criticism of Deukalion.
                                   Love to you all
                                             Yrs Ever
                                                  MARK

We remain here till middle of March.


     In 'A Tramp Abroad' there is an incident in which the author
     describes himself as hunting for a lost sock in the dark, in a vast
     hotel bedroom at Heilbronn.  The account of the real incident, as
     written to Twichell, seems even more amusing.

     The "Yarn About the Limburger Cheese and the Box of Guns," like "The
     Stolen White Elephant," did not find place in the travel-book, but
     was published in the same volume with the elephant story, added to
     the rambling notes of "An Idle Excursion."

     With the discovery of the Swiss note-book, work with Mark Twain was
     going better.  His letter reflects his enthusiasm.


                  To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                                  MUNICH, Jan 26 '79.
DEAR OLD JOE,--Sunday.  Your delicious letter arrived exactly at the
right time.  It was laid by my plate as I was finishing breakfast at 12
noon.  Livy and Clara, (Spaulding) arrived from church 5 minutes later;
I took a pipe and spread myself out on the sofa, and Livy sat by and
read, and I warmed to that butcher the moment he began to swear.  There
is more than one way of praying, and I like the butcher's way because the
petitioner is so apt to be in earnest.  I was peculiarly alive to his
performance just at this time, for another reason, to wit: Last night I
awoke at 3 this morning, and after raging to my self for 2 interminable
hours, I gave it up.  I rose, assumed a catlike stealthiness, to keep
from waking Livy, and proceeded to dress in the pitch dark.  Slowly but
surely I got on garment after garment--all down to one sock; I had one
slipper on and the other in my hand.  Well, on my hands and knees I crept
softly around, pawing and feeling and scooping along the carpet, and
among chair-legs for that missing sock; I kept that up; and still kept it
up and kept it up.  At first I only said to myself, "Blame that sock,"
but that soon ceased to answer; my expletives grew steadily stronger and
stronger,--and at last, when I found I was lost, I had to sit flat down
on the floor and take hold of something to keep from lifting the roof off
with the profane explosion that was trying to get out of me.  I could see
the dim blur of the window, but of course it was in the wrong place and
could give me no information as to where I was.  But I had one comfort
--I had not waked Livy; I believed I could find that sock in silence if
the night lasted long enough.  So I started again and softly pawed all
over the place,--and sure enough at the end of half an hour I laid my
hand on the missing article.  I rose joyfully up and butted the wash-bowl
and pitcher off the stand and simply raised----so to speak.  Livy
screamed, then said, "Who is that? what is the matter?" I said "There
ain't anything the matter--I'm hunting for my sock."  She said, "Are you
hunting for it with a club?"

I went in the parlor and lit the lamp, and gradually the fury subsided
and the ridiculous features of the thing began to suggest themselves.
So I lay on the sofa, with note-book and pencil, and transferred the
adventure to our big room in the hotel at Heilbronn, and got it on paper
a good deal to my satisfaction.

I found the Swiss note-book, some time ago.  When it was first lost I was
glad of it, for I was getting an idea that I had lost my faculty of
writing sketches of travel; therefore the loss of that note-book would
render the writing of this one simply impossible, and let me gracefully
out; I was about to write to Bliss and propose some other book, when the
confounded thing turned up, and down went my heart into my boots.  But
there was now no excuse, so I went solidly to work--tore up a great part
of the MS written in Heidelberg,--wrote and tore up,--continued to write
and tear up,--and at last, reward of patient and noble persistence, my
pen got the old swing again!

Since then I'm glad Providence knew better what to do with the Swiss
note-book than I did, for I like my work, now, exceedingly, and often
turn out over 30 MS pages a day and then quit sorry that Heaven makes the
days so short.

One of my discouragements had been the belief that my interest in this
tour had been so slender that I couldn't gouge matter enough out of it to
make a book.  What a mistake.  I've got 900 pages written (not a word in
it about the sea voyage) yet I stepped my foot out of Heidelberg for the
first time yesterday,--and then only to take our party of four on our
first pedestrian tour--to Heilbronn.  I've got them dressed elaborately
in walking costume--knapsacks, canteens, field-glasses, leather leggings,
patent walking shoes, muslin folds around their hats, with long tails
hanging down behind, sun umbrellas, and Alpenstocks.  They go all the way
to Wimpfen by rail-thence to Heilbronn in a chance vegetable cart drawn
by a donkey and a cow; I shall fetch them home on a raft; and if other
people shall perceive that that was no pedestrian excursion, they
themselves shall not be conscious of it.--This trip will take 100 pages
or more,--oh, goodness knows how many!  for the mood is everything, not
the material, and I already seem to see 300 pages rising before me on
that trip.  Then, I propose to leave Heidelberg for good.  Don't you see,
the book (1800 MS pages,) may really be finished before I ever get to
Switzerland?

But there's one thing; I want to tell Frank Bliss and his father to be
charitable toward me in,--that is, let me tear up all the MS I want to,
and give me time to write more.  I shan't waste the time--I haven't the
slightest desire to loaf, but a consuming desire to work, ever since I
got back my swing.  And you see this book is either going to be compared
with the Innocents Abroad, or contrasted with it, to my disadvantage.
I think I can make a book that will be no dead corpse of a thing and I
mean to do my level best to accomplish that.

My crude plans are crystalizing.  As the thing stands now, I went to
Europe for three purposes.  The first you know, and must keep secret,
even from the Blisses; the second is to study Art; and the third to
acquire a critical knowledge of the German language.  My MS already shows
that the two latter objects are accomplished.  It shows that I am moving
about as an Artist and a Philologist, and unaware that there is any
immodesty in assuming these titles.  Having three definite objects has
had the effect of seeming to enlarge my domain and give me the freedom of
a loose costume.  It is three strings to my bow, too.

Well, your butcher is magnificent.  He won't stay out of my mind.--I keep
trying to think of some way of getting your account of him into my book
without his being offended--and yet confound him there isn't anything you
have said which he would see any offense in,--I'm only thinking of his
friends--they are the parties who busy themselves with seeing things for
people.  But I'm bound to have him in.  I'm putting in the yarn about the
Limburger cheese and the box of guns, too--mighty glad Howells declined
it.  It seems to gather richness and flavor with age.  I have very nearly
killed several companies with that narrative,--the American Artists Club,
here, for instance, and Smith and wife and Miss Griffith (they were here
in this house a week or two.)  I've got other chapters that pretty nearly
destroyed the same parties, too.

O, Switzerland!  the further it recedes into the enriching haze of time,
the more intolerably delicious the charm of it and the cheer of it and
the glory and majesty and solemnity and pathos of it grow.  Those
mountains had a soul; they thought; they spoke,--one couldn't hear it
with the ears of the body, but what a voice it was!--and how real.  Deep
down in my memory it is sounding yet.  Alp calleth unto Alp!--that
stately old Scriptural wording is the right one for God's Alps and God's
ocean.  How puny we were in that awful presence--and how painless it was
to be so; how fitting and right it seemed, and how stingless was the
sense of our unspeakable insignificance.  And Lord how pervading were the
repose and peace and blessedness that poured out of the heart of the
invisible Great Spirit of the Mountains.

Now what is it?  There are mountains and mountains and mountains in this
world--but only these take you by the heart-strings.  I wonder what the
secret of it is.  Well, time and time again it has seemed to me that I
must drop everything and flee to Switzerland once more.  It is a longing
--a deep, strong, tugging longing--that is the word.  We must go again,
Joe.--October days, let us get up at dawn and breakfast at the tower.  I
should like that first rate.

Livy and all of us send deluges of love to you and Harmony and all the
children.  I dreamed last night that I woke up in the library at home and
your children were frolicing around me and Julia was sitting in my lap;
you and Harmony and both families of Warners had finished their welcomes
and were filing out through the conservatory door, wrecking Patrick's
flower pots with their dress skirts as they went.  Peace and plenty abide
with you all!
                                        MARK.

I want the Blisses to know their part of this letter, if possible.  They
will see that my delay was not from choice.


     Following the life of Mark Twain, whether through his letters or
     along the sequence of detailed occurrence, we are never more than a
     little while, or a little distance, from his brother Orion.  In one
     form or another Orion is ever present, his inquiries, his proposals,
     his suggestions, his plans for improving his own fortunes, command
     our attention.  He was one of the most human creatures that ever
     lived; indeed, his humanity excluded every form of artificiality--
     everything that needs to be acquired.  Talented, trusting, child-
     like, carried away by the impulse of the moment, despite a keen
     sense of humor he was never able to see that his latest plan or
     project was not bound to succeed.  Mark Twain loved him, pitied him
     --also enjoyed him, especially with Howells.  Orion's new plan to
     lecture in the interest of religion found its way to Munich, with
     the following result:


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        MUNICH, Feb. 9.  (1879)
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I have just received this letter from Orion--take care
of it, for it is worth preserving.  I got as far as 9 pages in my answer
to it, when Mrs. Clemens shut down on it, and said it was cruel, and made
me send the money and simply wish his lecture success.  I said I couldn't
lose my 9 pages--so she said send them to you.  But I will acknowledge
that I thought I was writing a very kind letter.

Now just look at this letter of Orion's.  Did you ever see the
grotesquely absurd and the heart-breakingly pathetic more closely joined
together?  Mrs. Clemens said "Raise his monthly pension."  So I wrote to
Perkins to raise it a trifle.

Now only think of it!  He still has 100 pages to write on his lecture,
yet in one inking of his pen he has already swooped around the United
States and invested the result!

You must put him in a book or a play right away.  You are the only man
capable of doing it.  You might die at any moment, and your very greatest
work would be lost to the world.  I could write Orion's simple biography,
and make it effective, too, by merely stating the bald facts--and this I
will do if he dies before I do; but you must put him into romance.  This
was the understanding you and I had the day I sailed.

Observe Orion's career--that is, a little of it: (1) He has belonged to
as many as five different religious denominations; last March he withdrew
from the deaconship in a Congregational Church and the Superintendency of
its Sunday School, in a speech in which he said that for many months (it
runs in my mind that he said 13 years,) he had been a confirmed infidel,
and so felt it to be his duty to retire from the flock.

2.  After being a republican for years, he wanted me to buy him a
democratic newspaper.  A few days before the Presidential election, he
came out in a speech and publicly went over to the democrats; he
prudently "hedged" by voting for 6 state republicans, also.

The new convert was made one of the secretaries of the democratic
meeting, and placed in the list of speakers.  He wrote me jubilantly of
what a ten-strike he was going to make with that speech.  All right--but
think of his innocent and pathetic candor in writing me something like
this, a week later:

"I was more diffident than I had expected to be, and this was increased
by the silence with which I was received when I came forward; so I seemed
unable to get the fire into my speech which I had calculated upon, and
presently they began to get up and go out; and in a few minutes they all
rose up and went away."

How could a man uncover such a sore as that and show it to another?  Not
a word of complaint, you see--only a patient, sad surprise.

3.  His next project was to write a burlesque upon Paradise Lost.

4.  Then, learning that the Times was paying Harte $100 a column for
stories, he concluded to write some for the same price.  I read his first
one and persuaded him not to write any more.

5.  Then he read proof on the N. Y. Eve. Post at $10 a week and meekly
observed that the foreman swore at him and ordered him around "like a
steamboat mate."

6.  Being discharged from that post, he wanted to try agriculture--was
sure he could make a fortune out of a chicken farm.  I gave him $900 and
he went to a ten-house village a miles above Keokuk on the river bank--
this place was a railway station.  He soon asked for money to buy a horse
and light wagon,--because the trains did not run at church time on Sunday
and his wife found it rather far to walk.

For a long time I answered demands for "loans" and by next mail always
received his check for the interest due me to date.  In the most
guileless way he let it leak out that he did not underestimate the value
of his custom to me, since it was not likely that any other customer of
mine paid his interest quarterly, and this enabled me to use my capital
twice in 6 months instead of only once.  But alas, when the debt at last
reached $1800 or $2500 (I have forgotten which) the interest ate too
formidably into his borrowings, and so he quietly ceased to pay it or
speak of it.  At the end of two years I found that the chicken farm had
long ago been abandoned, and he had moved into Keokuk.  Later in one of
his casual moments, he observed that there was no money in fattening a
chicken on 65 cents worth of corn and then selling it for 50.

7.  Finally, if I would lend him $500 a year for two years, (this was 4
or 5 years ago,) he knew he could make a success as a lawyer, and would
prove it.  This is the pension which we have just increased to $600.  The
first year his legal business brought him $5.  It also brought him an
unremunerative case where some villains were trying to chouse some negro
orphans out of $700.  He still has this case.  He has waggled it around
through various courts and made some booming speeches on it.  The negro
children have grown up and married off, now, I believe, and their
litigated town-lot has been dug up and carted off by somebody--but Orion
still infests the courts with his documents and makes the welkin ring
with his venerable case.  The second year, he didn't make anything.  The
third he made $6, and I made Bliss put a case in his hands--about half an
hour's work.  Orion charged $50 for it--Bliss paid him $15.  Thus four or
five years of laving has brought him $26, but this will doubtless be
increased when he gets done lecturing and buys that "law library."
Meantime his office rent has been $60 a year, and he has stuck to that
lair day by day as patiently as a spider.

8.  Then he by and by conceived the idea of lecturing around America as
"Mark Twain's Brother"--that to be on the bills.  Subject of proposed
lecture, "On the, Formation of Character."

9.  I protested, and he got on his warpaint, couched his lance, and ran a
bold tilt against total abstinence and the Red Ribbon fanatics.  It
raised a fine row among the virtuous Keokukians.

10.  I wrote to encourage him in his good work, but I had let a mail
intervene; so by the time my letter reached him he was already winning
laurels as a Red Ribbon Howler.

11.  Afterward he took a rabid part in a prayer-meeting epidemic; dropped
that to travesty Jules Verne; dropped that, in the middle of the last
chapter, last March, to digest the matter of an infidel book which he
proposed to write; and now he comes to the surface to rescue our "noble
and beautiful religion" from the sacrilegious talons of Bob Ingersoll.

Now come!  Don't fool away this treasure which Providence has laid at
your feet, but take it up and use it.  One can let his imagination run
riot in portraying Orion, for there is nothing so extravagant as to be
out of character with him.

Well-good-bye, and a short life and a merry one be yours.  Poor old
Methusaleh, how did he manage to stand it so long?
                                        Yrs ever,
                                                  MARK.


                             To Orion Clemens
       (Unsent and inclosed with the foregoing, to W. D. Howells):

                                             MUNICH, Feb. 9, (1879)
MY DEAR BRO.,--Yours has just arrived.  I enclose a draft on Hartford for
$25.  You will have abandoned the project you wanted it for, by the time
it arrives,--but no matter, apply it to your newer and present project,
whatever it is.  You see I have an ineradicable faith in your
unsteadfastness,--but mind you, I didn't invent that faith, you conferred
it on me yourself.  But fire away, fire away!  I don't see why a
changeable man shouldn't get as much enjoyment out of his changes, and
transformations and transfigurations as a steadfast man gets out of
standing still and pegging at the same old monotonous thing all the time.
That is to say, I don't see why a kaleidoscope shouldn't enjoy itself as
much as a telescope, nor a grindstone have as good a time as a whetstone,
nor a barometer as good a time as a yardstick.  I don't feel like girding
at you any more about fickleness of purpose, because I recognize and
realize at last that it is incurable; but before I learned to accept this
truth, each new weekly project of yours possessed the power of throwing
me into the most exhausting and helpless convulsions of profanity.  But
fire away, now!  Your magic has lost its might.  I am able to view your
inspirations dispassionately and judicially, now, and say "This one or
that one or the other one is not up to your average flight, or is above
it, or below it."

And so, without passion, or prejudice, or bias of any kind, I sit in
judgment upon your lecture project, and say it was up to your average,
it was indeed above it, for it had possibilities in it, and even
practical ones.  While I was not sorry you abandoned it, I should not be
sorry if you had stuck to it and given it a trial.  But on the whole you
did the wise thing to lay it aside, I think, because a lecture is a most
easy thing to fail in; and at your time of life, and in your own town,
such a failure would make a deep and cruel wound in your heart and in
your pride.  It was decidedly unwise in you to think for a moment of
coming before a community who knew you, with such a course of lectures;
because Keokuk is not unaware that you have been a Swedenborgian, a
Presbyterian, a Congregationalist, and a Methodist (on probation), and
that just a year ago you were an infidel.  If Keokuk had gone to your
lecture course, it would have gone to be amused, not instructed, for when
a man is known to have no settled convictions of his own he can't
convince other people.  They would have gone to be amused and that would
have been a deep humiliation to you.  It could have been safe for you to
appear only where you were unknown--then many of your hearers would think
you were in earnest.  And they would be right.  You are in earnest while
your convictions are new.  But taking it by and large, you probably did
best to discard that project altogether.  But I leave you to judge of
that, for you are the worst judge I know of.

(Unfinished.)


     That Mark Twain in many ways was hardly less child-like than his
     brother is now and again revealed in his letters.  He was of
     steadfast purpose, and he possessed the driving power which Orion
     Clemens lacked; but the importance to him of some of the smaller
     matters of life, as shown in a letter like the following, bespeaks a
     certain simplicity of nature which he never outgrew:


                  To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             MUNICH, Feb. 24. (1879)
DEAR OLD JOE,--It was a mighty good letter, Joe--and that idea of yours
is a rattling good one.  But I have not sot down here to answer your
letter,--for it is down at my study,--but only to impart some
information.

For a months I had not shaved without crying.  I'd spend 3/4 of an hour
whetting away on my hand--no use, couldn't get an edge.  Tried a razor
strop-same result.  So I sat down and put in an hour thinking out the
mystery.  Then it seemed plain--to wit: my hand can't give a razor an
edge, it can only smooth and refine an edge that has already been given.
I judge that a razor fresh from the hone is this shape V--the long point
being the continuation of the edge--and that after much use the shape is
this V--the attenuated edge all worn off and gone.  By George I knew that
was the explanation.  And I knew that a freshly honed and freshly
strapped razor won't cut, but after strapping on the hand as a final
operation, it will cut.--So I sent out for an oil-stone; none to be had,
but messenger brought back a little piece of rock the size of a Safety-
match box--(it was bought in a shoemaker's shop) bad flaw in middle of
it, too, but I put 4 drops of fine Olive oil on it, picked out the razor
marked "Thursday" because it was never any account and would be no loss
if I spoiled it--gave it a brisk and reckless honing for 10 minutes, then
tried it on a hair--it wouldn't cut.  Then I trotted it through a
vigorous 20-minute course on a razor-strap and tried it on a hair-it
wouldn't cut--tried it on my face--it made me cry--gave it a 5-minute
stropping on my hand, and my land, what an edge she had!  We thought we
knew what sharp razors were when we were tramping in Switzerland, but it
was a mistake--they were dull beside this old Thursday razor of mine--
which I mean to name Thursday October Christian, in gratitude.  I took my
whetstone, and in 20 minutes I put two more of my razors in splendid
condition--but I leave them in the box--I never use any but Thursday O.
C., and shan't till its edge is gone--and then I'll know how to restore
it without any delay.

We all go to Paris next Thursday--address, Monroe & Co., Bankers.
                                   With love
                                             Ys Ever
                                                       MARK.


     In Paris they found pleasant quarters at the Hotel Normandy, but it
     was a chilly, rainy spring, and the travelers gained a rather poor
     impression of the French capital.  Mark Twain's work did not go
     well, at first, because of the noises of the street.  But then he
     found a quieter corner in the hotel and made better progress.  In a
     brief note to Aldrich he said: "I sleep like a lamb and write like a
     lion--I mean the kind of a lion that writes--if any such."  He
     expected to finish the book in six weeks; that is to say, before
     returning to America.  He was looking after its illustrations
     himself, and a letter to Frank Bliss, of The American Publishing
     Company, refers to the frontpiece, which, from time to time, has
     caused question as to its origin.  To Bliss he says: "It is a thing
     which I manufactured by pasting a popular comic picture into the
     middle of a celebrated Biblical one--shall attribute it to Titian.
     It needs to be engraved by a master."

     The weather continued bad in France and they left there in July to
     find it little better in England.  They had planned a journey to
     Scotland to visit Doctor Brown, whose health was not very good.  In
     after years Mark Twain blamed himself harshly for not making the
     trip, which he declared would have meant so much to Mrs. Clemens.
     He had forgotten by that time the real reasons for not going--the
     continued storms and uncertainty of trains (which made it barely
     possible for them to reach Liverpool in time for their sailing-
     date), and with characteristic self-reproach vowed that only
     perversity and obstinacy on his part had prevented the journey to
     Scotland.  From Liverpool, on the eve of sailing, he sent Doctor
     Brown a good-by word.


                     To Dr. John Brown, in Edinburgh:

                              WASHINGTON HOTEL, LIME STREET, LIVERPOOL.
                                                       Aug.  (1879)
MY DEAR MR. BROWN,--During all the 15 months we have been spending on the
continent, we have been promising ourselves a sight of you as our latest
and most prized delight in a foreign land--but our hope has failed, our
plan has miscarried.  One obstruction after another intruded itself, and
our short sojourn of three or four weeks on English soil was thus
frittered gradually away, and we were at last obliged to give up the idea
of seeing you at all.  It is a great disappointment, for we wanted to
show you how much "Megalopis" has grown (she is 7 now) and what a fine
creature her sister is, and how prettily they both speak German.  There
are six persons in my party, and they are as difficult to cart around as
nearly any other menagerie would be.  My wife and Miss Spaulding are
along, and you may imagine how they take to heart this failure of our
long promised Edinburgh trip.  We never even wrote you, because we were
always so sure, from day to day, that our affairs would finally so shape
themselves as to let us get to Scotland.  But no,--everything went wrong
we had only flying trips here and there in place of the leisurely ones
which we had planned.

We arrived in Liverpool an hour ago very tired, and have halted at this
hotel (by the advice of misguided friends)--and if my instinct and
experience are worth anything, it is the very worst hotel on earth,
without any exception.  We shall move to another hotel early in the
morning to spend to-morrow.  We sail for America next day in the
"Gallic."

We all join in the sincerest love to you, and in the kindest remembrance
to "Jock"--[Son of Doctor Brown.]--and your sister.
                              Truly yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     It was September 3, 1879, that Mark Twain returned to America by the
     steamer Gallic.  In the seventeen months of his absence he had taken
     on a "traveled look" and had added gray hairs.  A New York paper
     said of his arrival that he looked older than when he went to
     Germany, and that his hair had turned quite gray.

     Mark Twain had not finished his book of travel in Paris--in fact,
     it seemed to him far from complete--and he settled down rather
     grimly to work on it at Quarry Farm.  When, after a few days no word
     of greeting came from Howells, Clemens wrote to ask if he were dead
     or only sleeping.  Howells hastily sent a line to say that he had
     been sleeping "The sleep of a torpid conscience.  I will feign that
     I did not know where to write you; but I love you and all of yours,
     and I am tremendously glad that you are home again.  When and where
     shall we meet?  Have you come home with your pockets full of
     Atlantic papers?"  Clemens, toiling away at his book, was, as usual,
     not without the prospect of other plans.  Orion, as literary
     material, never failed to excite him.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, Sept. 15, 1879.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--When and where?  Here on the farm would be an elegant
place to meet, but of course you cannot come so far.  So we will say
Hartford or Belmont, about the beginning of November.  The date of our
return to Hartford is uncertain, but will be three or four weeks hence,
I judge.  I hope to finish my book here before migrating.

I think maybe I've got some Atlantic stuff in my head, but there's none
in MS, I believe.

Say--a friend of mine wants to write a play with me, I to furnish the
broad-comedy cuss.  I don't know anything about his ability, but his
letter serves to remind me of our old projects.  If you haven't used
Orion or Old Wakeman, don't you think you and I can get together and
grind out a play with one of those fellows in it?  Orion is a field which
grows richer and richer the more he mulches it with each new top-dressing
of religion or other guano.  Drop me an immediate line about this, won't
you?  I imagine I see Orion on the stage, always gentle, always
melancholy, always changing his politics and religion, and trying to
reform the world, always inventing something, and losing a limb by a new
kind of explosion at the end of each of the four acts.  Poor old chap,
he is good material.  I can imagine his wife or his sweetheart
reluctantly adopting each of his new religious in turn, just in time to
see him waltz into the next one and leave her isolated once more.

(Mem.  Orion's wife has followed him into the outer darkness, after 30
years' rabid membership in the Presbyterian Church.)

Well, with the sincerest and most abounding love to you and yours, from
all this family, I am,
                         Yrs ever
                                   MARK.


     The idea of the play interested Howells, but he had twinges of
     conscience in the matter of using Orion as material.  He wrote:
     "More than once I have taken the skeleton of that comedy of ours and
     viewed it with tears..... I really have a compunction or two about
     helping to put your brother into drama.  You can say that he is your
     brother, to do what you like with him, but the alien hand might
     inflict an incurable hurt on his tender heart."

     As a matter of fact, Orion Clemens had a keen appreciation of his
     own shortcomings, and would have enjoyed himself in a play as much
     as any observer of it.  Indeed, it is more than likely that he would
     have been pleased at the thought of such distinguished
     dramatization.  From the next letter one might almost conclude that
     he had received a hint of this plan, and was bent upon supplying
     rich material.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                  ELMIRA, Oct. 9 '79.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Since my return, the mail facilities have enabled Orion
to keep me informed as to his intentions.  Twenty-eight days ago it was
his purpose to complete a work aimed at religion, the preface to which he
had already written.  Afterward he began to sell off his furniture, with
the idea of hurrying to Leadville and tackling silver-mining--threw up
his law den and took in his sign.  Then he wrote to Chicago and St. Louis
newspapers asking for a situation as "paragrapher"--enclosing a taste of
his quality in the shape of two stanzas of "humorous rhymes."  By a later
mail on the same day he applied to New York and Hartford insurance
companies for copying to do.

However, it would take too long to detail all his projects.  They
comprise a removal to south-west Missouri; application for a reporter's
berth on a Keokuk paper; application for a compositor's berth on a St.
Louis paper; a re-hanging of his attorney's sign, "though it only creaks
and catches no flies;" but last night's letter informs me that he has
retackled the religious question, hired a distant den to write in,
applied to my mother for $50 to re-buy his furniture, which has advanced
in value since the sale--purposes buying $25 worth of books necessary to
his labors which he had previously been borrowing, and his first chapter
is already on its way to me for my decision as to whether it has enough
ungodliness in it or not.  Poor Orion!

Your letter struck me while I was meditating a project to beguile you,
and John Hay and Joe Twichell, into a descent upon Chicago which I dream
of making, to witness the re-union of the great Commanders of the Western
Army Corps on the 9th of next month.  My sluggish soul needs a fierce
upstirring, and if it would not get it when Grant enters the meeting
place I must doubtless "lay" for the final resurrection.  Can you and Hay
go?  At the same time, confound it, I doubt if I can go myself, for this
book isn't done yet.  But I would give a heap to be there.  I mean to
heave some holiness into the Hartford primaries when I go back; and if
there was a solitary office in the land which majestic ignorance and
incapacity, coupled with purity of heart, could fill, I would run for it.
This naturally reminds me of Bret Harte--but let him pass.

We propose to leave here for New York Oct. 21, reaching Hartford 24th or
25th.  If, upon reflection, you Howellses find, you can stop over here on
your way, I wish you would do it, and telegraph me.  Getting pretty
hungry to see you.  I had an idea that this was your shortest way home,
but like as not my geography is crippled again--it usually is.
                                             Yrs ever
                                                       MARK.


     The "Reunion of the Great Commanders," mentioned in the foregoing,
     was a welcome to General Grant after his journey around the world.
     Grant's trip had been one continuous ovation--a triumphal march.
     In '79 most of his old commanders were still alive, and they had
     planned to assemble in Chicago to do him honor.  A Presidential year
     was coming on, but if there was anything political in the project
     there were no surface indications.  Mark Twain, once a Confederate
     soldier, had long since been completely "desouthernized"--at least
     to the point where he felt that the sight of old comrades paying
     tribute to the Union commander would stir his blood as perhaps it
     had not been stirred, even in that earlier time, when that same
     commander had chased him through the Missouri swamps.  Grant,
     indeed, had long since become a hero to Mark Twain, though it is
     highly unlikely that Clemens favored the idea of a third term.  Some
     days following the preceding letter an invitation came for him to be
     present at the Chicago reunion; but by this time he had decided not
     to go.  The letter he wrote has been preserved.


                 To Gen. William E.  Strong, in Chicago:

                                   FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD.
                                   Oct. 28, 1879.
GEN. WM. E. STRONG, CH'M,
     AND GENTLEMEN OF THE COMMITTEE:

I have been hoping during several weeks that it might be my good fortune
to receive an invitation to be present on that great occasion in Chicago;
but now that my desire is accomplished my business matters have so shaped
themselves as to bar me from being so far from home in the first half of
November.  It is with supreme regret that I lost this chance, for I have
not had a thorough stirring up for some years, and I judged that if I
could be in the banqueting hall and see and hear the veterans of the Army
of the Tennessee at the moment that their old commander entered the room,
or rose in his place to speak, my system would get the kind of upheaval
it needs.  General Grant's progress across the continent is of the
marvelous nature of the returning Napoleon's progress from Grenoble to
Paris; and as the crowning spectacle in the one case was the meeting with
the Old Guard, so, likewise, the crowning spectacle in the other will be
our great captain's meeting with his Old Guard--and that is the very
climax which I wanted to witness.

Besides, I wanted to see the General again, any way, and renew the
acquaintance.  He would remember me, because I was the person who did not
ask him for an office.  However, I consume your time, and also wander
from the point--which is, to thank you for the courtesy of your
invitation, and yield up my seat at the table to some other guest who may
possibly grace it better, but will certainly not appreciate its
privileges more, than I should.
                              With great respect,
                                   I am, Gentlemen,
                              Very truly yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.

Private:--I beg to apologize for my delay, gentlemen, but the card of
invitation went to Elmira, N. Y. and hence has only just now reached me.


     This letter was not sent.  He reconsidered and sent an acceptance,
     agreeing to speak, as the committee had requested.  Certainly there
     was something picturesque in the idea of the Missouri private who
     had been chased for a rainy fortnight through the swamps of Ralls
     County being selected now to join in welcome to his ancient enemy.

     The great reunion was to be something more than a mere banquet.  It
     would continue for several days, with processions, great
     assemblages, and much oratory.

     Mark Twain arrived in Chicago in good season to see it all.  Three
     letters to Mrs. Clemens intimately present his experiences: his
     enthusiastic enjoyment and his own personal triumph.

     The first was probably written after the morning of his arrival.
     The Doctor Jackson in it was Dr. A. Reeves Jackson, the guide-
     dismaying "Doctor" of Innocents Abroad.


                      To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford:

                                   PALMER HOUSE, CHICAGO, Nov. 11.
Livy darling, I am getting a trifle leg-weary.  Dr. Jackson called and
dragged me out of bed at noon, yesterday, and then went off.  I went down
stairs and was introduced to some scores of people, and among them an
elderly German gentleman named Raster, who said his wife owed her life to
me--hurt in Chicago fire and lay menaced with death a long time, but the
Innocents Abroad kept her mind in a cheerful attitude, and so, with the
doctor's help for the body she pulled through....  They drove me to Dr.
Jackson's and I had an hour's visit with Mrs. Jackson.  Started to walk
down Michigan Avenue, got a few steps on my way and met an erect,
soldierly looking young gentleman who offered his hand; said, "Mr.
Clemens, I believe--I wish to introduce myself--you were pointed out to
me yesterday as I was driving down street--my name is Grant."

"Col. Fred Grant?"

"Yes.  My house is not ten steps away, and I would like you to come and
have a talk and a pipe, and let me introduce my wife."

So we turned back and entered the house next to Jackson's and talked
something more than an hour and smoked many pipes and had a sociable good
time.  His wife is very gentle and intelligent and pretty, and they have
a cunning little girl nearly as big as Bay but only three years old.
They wanted me to come in and spend an evening, after the banquet, with
them and Gen. Grant, after this grand pow-wow is over, but I said I was
going home Friday.  Then they asked me to come Friday afternoon, when
they and the general will receive a few friends, and I said I would.
Col. Grant said he and Gen. Sherman used the Innocents Abroad as their
guide book when they were on their travels.

I stepped in next door and took Dr. Jackson to the hotel and we played
billiards from 7 to 11.30 P.M.  and then went to a beer-mill to meet some
twenty Chicago journalists--talked, sang songs and made speeches till 6
o'clock this morning.  Nobody got in the least degree "under the
influence," and we had a pleasant time.  Read awhile in bed, slept till
11, shaved, went to breakfast at noon, and by mistake got into the
servants' hall.  I remained there and breakfasted with twenty or thirty
male and female servants, though I had a table to myself.

A temporary structure, clothed and canopied with flags, has been erected
at the hotel front, and connected with the second-story windows of a
drawing-room.  It was for Gen. Grant to stand on and review the
procession.  Sixteen persons, besides reporters, had tickets for this
place, and a seventeenth was issued for me.  I was there, looking down on
the packed and struggling crowd when Gen. Grant came forward and was
saluted by the cheers of the multitude and the waving of ladies'
handkerchiefs--for the windows and roofs of all neighboring buildings
were massed full of life.  Gen. Grant bowed to the people two or three
times, then approached my side of the platform and the mayor pulled me
forward and introduced me.  It was dreadfully conspicuous.  The General
said a word or so--I replied, and then said, "But I'll step back,
General, I don't want to interrupt your speech."

"But I'm not going to make any--stay where you are--I'll get you to make
it for me."

General Sherman came on the platform wearing the uniform of a full
General, and you should have heard the cheers.  Gen. Logan was going to
introduce me, but I didn't want any more conspicuousness.

When the head of the procession passed it was grand to see Sheridan, in
his military cloak and his plumed chapeau, sitting as erect and rigid as
a statue on his immense black horse--by far the most martial figure I
ever saw.  And the crowd roared again.

It was chilly, and Gen. Deems lent me his overcoat until night.  He came
a few minutes ago--5.45 P.M., and got it, but brought Gen. Willard, who
lent me his for the rest of my stay, and will get another for himself
when he goes home to dinner.  Mine is much too heavy for this warm
weather.

I have a seat on the stage at Haverley's Theatre, tonight, where the Army
of the Tennessee will receive Gen. Grant, and where Gen. Sherman will
make a speech.  At midnight I am to attend a meeting of the Owl Club.

I love you ever so much, my darling, and am hoping to
get a word from you yet.
                                   SAML.


     Following the procession, which he describes, came the grand
     ceremonies of welcome at Haverley's Theatre.  The next letter is
     written the following morning, or at least soiree time the following
     day, after a night of ratification.


                      To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford:

                                        CHICAGO, Nov. 12, '79.
Livy darling, it was a great time.  There were perhaps thirty people on
the stage of the theatre, and I think I never sat elbow-to-elbow with so
many historic names before.  Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Schofield, Pope,
Logan, Augur, and so on.  What an iron man Grant is!  He sat facing the
house, with his right leg crossed over his left and his right boot-sole
tilted up at an angle, and his left hand and arm reposing on the arm of
his chair--you note that position?  Well, when glowing references were
made to other grandees on the stage, those grandees always showed a
trifle of nervous consciousness--and as these references came frequently,
the nervous change of position and attitude were also frequent.  But
Grant!--he was under a tremendous and ceaseless bombardment of praise and
gratulation, but as true as I'm sitting here he never moved a muscle of
his body for a single instant, during 30 minutes!  You could have played
him on a stranger for an effigy.  Perhaps he never would have moved, but
at last a speaker made such a particularly ripping and blood-stirring
remark about him that the audience rose and roared and yelled and stamped
and clapped an entire minute--Grant sitting as serene as ever--when Gen.
Sherman stepped to him, laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder,
bent respectfully down and whispered in his ear.  Gen. Grant got up and
bowed, and the storm of applause swelled into a hurricane.  He sat down,
took about the same position and froze to it till by and by there was
another of those deafening and protracted roars, when Sherman made him
get up and bow again.  He broke up his attitude once more--the extent of
something more than a hair's breadth--to indicate me to Sherman when the
house was keeping up a determined and persistent call for me, and poor
bewildered Sherman, (who did not know me), was peering abroad over the
packed audience for me, not knowing I was only three feet from him and
most conspicuously located, (Gen. Sherman was Chairman.)

One of the most illustrious individuals on that stage was "Ole Abe," the
historic war eagle.  He stood on his perch--the old savage-eyed rascal--
three or four feet behind Gen. Sherman, and as he had been in nearly
every battle that was mentioned by the orators his soul was probably
stirred pretty often, though he was too proud to let on.

Read Logan's bosh, and try to imagine a burly and magnificent Indian, in
General's uniform, striking a heroic attitude and getting that stuff off
in the style of a declaiming school-boy.

Please put the enclosed scraps in the drawer and I will scrap-book them.

I only staid at the Owl Club till 3 this morning and drank little or
nothing.  Went to sleep without whisky.  Ich liebe dish.

                                             SAML.


     But it is in the third letter that we get the climax.  On the same
     day he wrote a letter to Howells, which, in part, is very similar in
     substance and need not be included here.

     A paragraph, however, must not be omitted.

     "Imagine what it was like to see a bullet-shredded old battle-flag
     reverently unfolded to the gaze of a thousand middle-aged soldiers,
     most of whom hadn't seen it since they saw it advancing over
     victorious fields, when they were in their prime.  And imagine what
     it was like when Grant, their first commander, stepped into view
     while they were still going mad over the flag, and then right in the
     midst of it all somebody struck up, 'When we were marching through
     Georgia.'  Well, you should have heard the thousand voices lift that
     chorus and seen the tears stream down.  If I live a hundred years I
     shan't ever forget these things, nor be able to talk about them ....
     Grand times, my boy, grand times!"

     At the great banquet Mark Twain's speech had been put last on the
     program, to hold the house.  He had been invited to respond to the
     toast of "The Ladies," but had replied that he had already responded
     to that toast more than once.  There was one class of the community,
     he said, commonly overlooked on these occasions--the babies--he
     would respond to that toast.  In his letter to Howells he had not
     been willing to speak freely of his personal triumph, but to Mrs.
     Clemens he must tell it all, and with that child-like ingenuousness
     which never failed him to his last day.


                      To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford:

                                             CHICAGO, Nov. 14 '79.
A little after 5 in the morning.

I've just come to my room, Livy darling, I guess this was the memorable
night of my life.  By George, I never was so stirred since I was born.
I heard four speeches which I can never forget.  One by Emory Storrs, one
by Gen. Vilas (O, wasn't it wonderful!) one by Gen. Logan (mighty
stirring), one by somebody whose name escapes me, and one by that
splendid old soul, Col. Bob Ingersoll,--oh, it was just the supremest
combination of English words that was ever put together since the world
began.  My soul, how handsome he looked, as he stood on that table, in
the midst of those 500 shouting men, and poured the molten silver from
his lips!  Lord, what an organ is human speech when it is played by a
master!  All these speeches may look dull in print, but how the lightning
glared around them when they were uttered, and how the crowd roared in
response!  It was a great night, a memorable night.  I am so richly
repaid for my journey--and how I did wish with all my whole heart that
you were there to be lifted into the very seventh heaven of enthusiasm,
as I was.  The army songs, the military music, the crashing applause--
Lord bless me, it was unspeakable.

Out of compliment they placed me last in the list--No. 15--I was to "hold
the crowd"--and bless my life I was in awful terror when No. 14. rose,
at a o'clock this morning and killed all the enthusiasm by delivering the
flattest, insipidest, silliest of all responses to "Woman" that ever a
weary multitude listened to.  Then Gen. Sherman (Chairman) announced my
toast, and the crowd gave me a good round of applause as I mounted on top
of the dinner table, but it was only on account of my name, nothing more
--they were all tired and wretched.  They let my first sentence go in.
silence, till I paused and added "we stand on common ground"--then they
burst forth like a hurricane and I saw that I had them!  From that time
on, I stopped at the end of each sentence, and let the tornado of
applause and laughter sweep around me--and when I closed with "And if the
child is but the prophecy of the man, there are mighty few who will doubt
that he succeeded," I say it who oughtn't to say it, the house came down
with a crash.  For two hours and a half, now, I've been shaking hands and
listening to congratulations.  Gen. Sherman said, "Lord bless you, my
boy, I don't know how you do it--it's a secret that's beyond me--but it
was great--give me your hand again."

And do you know, Gen. Grant sat through fourteen speeches like a graven
image, but I fetched him!  I broke him up, utterly!  He told me he
laughed till the tears came and every bone in his body ached.  (And do
you know, the biggest part of the success of the speech lay in the fact
that the audience saw that for once in his life he had been knocked out
of his iron serenity.)

Bless your soul, 'twas immense.  I never was so proud in my life.  Lots
and lots of people--hundreds I might say--told me my speech was the
triumph of the evening--which was a lie.  Ladies, Tom, Dick and Harry-
even the policemen--captured me in the halls and shook hands, and scores
of army officers said "We shall always be grateful to you for coming."
General Pope came to bunt me up--I was afraid to speak to him on that
theatre stage last night, thinking it might be presumptuous to tackle a
man so high up in military history.  Gen. Schofield, and other historic
men, paid their compliments.  Sheridan was ill and could not come, but
I'm to go with a General of his staff and see him before I go to Col.
Grant's.  Gen. Augur--well, I've talked with them all, received
invitations from them all--from people living everywhere--and as I said
before, it's a memorable night.  I wouldn't have missed it for anything
in the world.

But my sakes, you should have heard Ingersoll's speech on that table!
Half an hour ago he ran across me in the crowded halls and put his arms
about me and said "Mark, if I live a hundred years, I'll always be
grateful for your speech--Lord what a supreme thing it was."  But I told
him it wasn't any use to talk, he had walked off with the honors of that
occasion by something of a majority.  Bully boy is Ingersoll--traveled
with him in the cars the other day, and you can make up your mind we had
a good time.

Of course I forgot to go and pay for my hotel car and so secure it, but
the army officers told me an hour ago to rest easy, they would go at
once, at this unholy hour of the night and compel the railways to do
their duty by me, and said "You don't need to request the Army of the
Tennessee to do your desires--you can command its services."

Well, I bummed around that banquet hall from 8 in the evening till 2 in
the morning, talking with people and listening to speeches, and I never
ate a single bite or took a sup of anything but ice water, so if I seem
excited now, it is the intoxication of supreme enthusiasm.  By George, it
was a grand night, a historical night.

And now it is a quarter past 6 A.M.--so good bye and God bless you and
the Bays,--[Family word for babies]--my darlings

                                                  SAML.


Show it to Joe if you want to--I saw some of his friends here.

Mark Twain's admiration for Robert Ingersoll was very great, and we may
believe that he was deeply impressed by the Chicago speech, when we find
him, a few days later, writing to Ingersoll for a perfect copy to read to
a young girls' club in Hartford.  Ingersoll sent the speech, also some of
his books, and the next letter is Mark Twain's acknowledgment.


                      To Col. Robert G.  Ingersoll:

                                             HARTFORD, Dec. 14.
MY DEAR INGERSOLL,--Thank you most heartily for the books--I am devouring
them--they have found a hungry place, and they content it and satisfy it
to a miracle.  I wish I could hear you speak these splendid chapters
before a great audience--to read them by myself and hear the boom of the
applause only in the ear of my imagination, leaves a something wanting--
and there is also a still greater lack, your manner, and voice, and
presence.

The Chicago speech arrived an hour too late, but I was all right anyway,
for I found that my memory had been able to correct all the errors.
I read it to the Saturday Club (of young girls) and told them to remember
that it was doubtful if its superior existed in our language.
                              Truly Yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     The reader may remember Mark Twain's Whittier dinner speech of 1877,
     and its disastrous effects.  Now, in 1879, there was to be another
     Atlantic gathering: a breakfast to Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, to
     which Clemens was invited.  He was not eager to accept; it would
     naturally recall memories of two years before, but being urged by
     both Howells and Warner, he agreed to attend if they would permit
     him to speak.  Mark Twain never lacked courage and he wanted to
     redeem himself.  To Howells he wrote:


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Nov. 28, 1879.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--If anybody talks, there, I shall claim the right to say
a word myself, and be heard among the very earliest--else it would be
confoundedly awkward for me--and for the rest, too.  But you may read
what I say, beforehand, and strike out whatever you choose.

Of course I thought it wisest not to be there at all; but Warner took the
opposite view, and most strenuously.

Speaking of Johnny's conclusion to become an outlaw, reminds me of
Susie's newest and very earnest longing--to have crooked teeth and
glasses--"like Mamma."

I would like to look into a child's head, once, and see what its
processes are.
                    Yrs ever,
                         S. L. CLEMENS.


     The matter turned out well.  Clemens, once more introduced by
     Howells--this time conservatively, it may be said--delivered a
     delicate and fitting tribute to Doctor Holmes, full of graceful
     humor and grateful acknowledgment, the kind of speech he should have
     given at the Whittier dinner of two years before.  No reference was
     made to his former disaster, and this time he came away covered with
     glory, and fully restored in his self-respect.




XX.

LETTERS OF 1880, CHIEFLY TO HOWELLS.  "THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER."  MARK
TWAIN MUGWUMP SOCIETY

The book of travel,--[A Tramp Abroad.]--which Mark Twain had hoped to
finish in Paris, and later in Elmira, for some reason would not come to
an end.  In December, in Hartford, he was still working on it, and he
would seem to have finished it, at last, rather by a decree than by any
natural process of authorship.  This was early in January, 1880.  To
Howells he reports his difficulties, and his drastic method of ending
them.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Jan. 8, '80.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Am waiting for Patrick to come with the carriage.
Mrs. Clemens and I are starting (without the children) to stay
indefinitely in Elmira.  The wear and tear of settling the house broke
her down, and she has been growing weaker and weaker for a fortnight.
All that time--in fact ever since I saw you--I have been fighting a life-
and-death battle with this infernal book and hoping to get done some day.
I required 300 pages of MS, and I have written near 600 since I saw you--
and tore it all up except 288.  This I was about to tear up yesterday and
begin again, when Mrs. Perkins came up to the billiard room and said,
"You will never get any woman to do the thing necessary to save her life
by mere persuasion; you see you have wasted your words for three weeks;
it is time to use force; she must have a change; take her home and leave
the children here."

I said, "If there is one death that is painfuller than another, may I get
it if I don't do that thing."

So I took the 288 pages to Bliss and told him that was the very last line
I should ever write on this book.  (A book which required 2600 pages of
MS, and I have written nearer four thousand, first and last.)

I am as soary (and flighty) as a rocket, to-day, with the unutterable joy
of getting that Old Man of the Sea off my back, where he has been
roosting for more than a year and a half.  Next time I make a contract
before writing the book, may I suffer the righteous penalty and be burnt,
like the injudicious believer.

I am mighty glad you are done your book (this is from a man who, above
all others, feels how much that sentence means) and am also mighty glad
you have begun the next (this is also from a man who knows the felicity
of that, and means straightway to enjoy it.) The Undiscovered starts off
delightfully--I have read it aloud to Mrs. C. and we vastly enjoyed it.

Well, time's about up--must drop a line to Aldrich.
                                             Yrs ever,
                                                       MARK.


     In a letter which Mark Twain wrote to his brother Orion at this
     period we get the first hint of a venture which was to play an
     increasingly important part in the Hartford home and fortunes during
     the next ten or a dozen years.  This was the type-setting machine
     investment, which, in the end, all but wrecked Mark Twain's
     finances.  There is but a brief mention of it in the letter to
     Orion, and the letter itself is not worth preserving, but as
     references to the "machine" appear with increasing frequency, it
     seems proper to record here its first mention.  In the same letter
     he suggests to his brother that he undertake an absolutely truthful
     autobiography, a confession in which nothing is to be withheld.  He
     cites the value of Casanova's memories, and the confessions of
     Rousseau.  Of course, any literary suggestion from "Brother Sam" was
     gospel to Orion, who began at once piling up manuscript at a great
     rate.

     Meantime, Mark Twain himself, having got 'A Tramp Abroad' on the
     presses, was at work with enthusiasm on a story begun nearly three
     years before at Quarry Farm-a story for children-its name, as he
     called.  it then, "The Little Prince and The Little Pauper."  He was
     presently writing to Howells his delight in the new work.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Mch. 11, '80.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--.....I take so much pleasure in my story that I am loth
to hurry, not wanting to get it done.  Did I ever tell you the plot of
it?  It begins at 9 a.m., Jan. 27, 1547, seventeen and a half hours
before Henry VIII's death, by the swapping of clothes and place, between
the prince of Wales and a pauper boy of the same age and countenance (and
half as much learning and still more genius and imagination) and after
that, the rightful small King has a rough time among tramps and ruffians
in the country parts of Kent, whilst the small bogus King has a gilded
and worshipped and dreary and restrained and cussed time of it on the
throne--and this all goes on for three weeks--till the midst of the
coronation grandeurs in Westminster Abbey, Feb. 20, when the ragged true
King forces his way in but cannot prove his genuineness--until the bogus
King, by a remembered incident of the first day is able to prove it for
him--whereupon clothes are changed and the coronation proceeds under the
new and rightful conditions.

My idea is to afford a realizing sense of the exceeding severity of the
laws of that day by inflicting some of their penalties upon the King
himself and allowing him a chance to see the rest of them applied to
others--all of which is to account for certain mildnesses which
distinguished Edward VI's reign from those that preceded and followed it.

Imagine this fact--I have even fascinated Mrs. Clemens with this yarn for
youth.  My stuff generally gets considerable damning with faint praise
out of her, but this time it is all the other way.  She is become the
horseleech's daughter and my mill doesn't grind fast enough to suit her.
This is no mean triumph, my dear sir.

Last night, for the first time in ages, we went to the theatre--to see
Yorick's Love.  The magnificence of it is beyond praise.  The language is
so beautiful, the passion so fine, the plot so ingenious, the whole thing
so stirring, so charming, so pathetic!  But I will clip from the Courant
--it says it right.

And what a good company it is, and how like live people they all acted!
The "thee's" and the "thou's" had a pleasant sound, since it is the
language of the Prince and the Pauper.  You've done the country a service
in that admirable work....
                              Yrs Ever,
                                        MARK.


     The play, "Yorick's Love," mentioned in this letter, was one which
     Howells had done for Lawrence Barrett.

     Onion Clemens, meantime, was forwarding his manuscript, and for once
     seems to have won his brother's approval, so much so that Mark Twain
     was willing, indeed anxious, that Howells should run the
     "autobiography" in the Atlantic.  We may imagine how Onion prized
     the words of commendation which follow:


                            To Orion Clemens:

                                                       May 6, '80.
MY DEAR BROTHER,--It is a model autobiography.

Continue to develop your character in the same gradual inconspicuous and
apparently unconscious way.  The reader, up to this time, may have his
doubts, perhaps, but he can't say decidedly, "This writer is not such a
simpleton as he has been letting on to be."  Keep him in that state of
mind.  If, when you shall have finished, the reader shall say, "The man
is an ass, but I really don't know whether he knows it or not," your work
will be a triumph.

Stop re-writing.  I saw places in your last batch where re-writing had
done formidable injury.  Do not try to find those places, else you will
mar them further by trying to better them.  It is perilous to revise a
book while it is under way.  All of us have injured our books in that
foolish way.

Keep in mind what I told you--when you recollect something which belonged
in an earlier chapter, do not go back, but jam it in where you are.
Discursiveness does not hurt an autobiography in the least.

I have penciled the MS here and there, but have not needed to make any
criticisms or to knock out anything.

The elder Bliss has heart disease badly, and thenceforth his life hangs
upon a thread.
                              Yr Bro
                                        SAM.


     But Howells could not bring himself to print so frank a confession
     as Orion had been willing to make.  "It wrung my heart," he said,
     "and I felt haggard after I had finished it.  The writer's soul is
     laid bare; it is shocking."  Howells added that the best touches in
     it were those which made one acquainted with the writer's brother;
     that is to say, Mark Twain, and that these would prove valuable
     material hereafter--a true prophecy, for Mark Twain's early
     biography would have lacked most of its vital incident, and at least
     half of its background, without those faithful chapters, fortunately
     preserved.  Had Onion continued, as he began, the work might have
     proved an important contribution to literature, but he went trailing
     off into by-paths of theology and discussion where the interest was
     lost.  There were, perhaps, as many as two thousand pages of it,
     which few could undertake to read.

     Mark Twain's mind was always busy with plans and inventions, many of
     them of serious intent, some semi-serious, others of a purely
     whimsical character.  Once he proposed a "Modest Club," of which the
     first and main qualification for membership was modesty.  "At
     present," he wrote, "I am the only member; and as the modesty
     required must be of a quite aggravated type, the enterprise did seem
     for a time doomed to stop dead still with myself, for lack of
     further material; but upon reflection I have come to the conclusion
     that you are eligible.  Therefore, I have held a meeting and voted
     to offer you the distinction of membership.  I do not know that we
     can find any others, though I have had some thought of Hay, Warner,
     Twichell, Aldrich, Osgood, Fields, Higginson, and a few more--
     together with Mrs. Howells, Mrs. Clemens, and certain others of the
     sex."

     Howells replied that the only reason he had for not joining the
     Modest Club was that he was too modest--too modest to confess his
     modesty.  "If I could get over this difficulty I should like to
     join, for I approve highly of the Club and its object....  It ought
     to be given an annual dinner at the public expense.  If you think I
     am not too modest you may put my name down and I will try to think
     the same of you.  Mrs. Howells applauded the notion of the club from
     the very first.  She said that she knew one thing: that she was
     modest enough, anyway.  Her manner of saying it implied that the
     other persons you had named were not, and created a painful
     impression in my mind.  I have sent your letter and the rules to
     Hay, but I doubt his modesty.  He will think he has a right to
     belong to it as much as you or I; whereas, other people ought only
     to be admitted on sufferance."

     Our next letter to Howells is, in the main, pure foolery, but we get
     in it a hint what was to become in time one of Mask Twain's
     strongest interests, the matter of copyright.  He had both a
     personal and general interest in the subject.  His own books were
     constantly pirated in Canada, and the rights of foreign authors were
     not respected in America.  We have already seen how he had drawn a
     petition which Holmes, Lowell, Longfellow, and others were to sign,
     and while nothing had come of this plan he had never ceased to
     formulate others.  Yet he hesitated when he found that the proposed
     protection was likely to work a hardship to readers of the poorer
     class.  Once he wrote: "My notions have mightily changed lately....
     I can buy a lot of the copyright classics, in paper, at from three
     to thirty cents apiece.  These things must find their way into the
     very kitchens and hovels of the country.....  And even if the treaty
     will kill Canadian piracy, and thus save me an average of $5,000 a
     year, I am down on it anyway, and I'd like cussed well to write an
     article opposing the treaty."


                   To W. D. Howells, in Belmont, Mass.:

                                             Thursday, June 6th, 1880.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--There you stick, at Belmont, and now I'm going to
Washington for a few days; and of course, between you and Providence that
visit is going to get mixed, and you'll have been here and gone again
just about the time I get back.  Bother it all, I wanted to astonish you
with a chapter or two from Orion's latest book--not the seventeen which
he has begun in the last four months, but the one which he began last
week.

Last night, when I went to bed, Mrs. Clemens said, "George didn't take
the cat down to the cellar--Rosa says he has left it shut up in the
conservatory."  So I went down to attend to Abner (the cat.) About 3 in
the morning Mrs. C. woke me and said, "I do believe I hear that cat in
the drawing-room--what did you do with him?"  I answered up with the
confidence of a man who has managed to do the right thing for once, and
said "I opened the conservatory doors, took the library off the alarm,
and spread everything open, so that there wasn't any obstruction between
him and the cellar."  Language wasn't capable of conveying this woman's
disgust.  But the sense of what she said, was, "He couldn't have done any
harm in the conservatory--so you must go and make the entire house free
to him and the burglars, imagining that he will prefer the coal-bins to
the drawing-room.  If you had had Mr. Howells to help you, I should have
admired but not been astonished, because I should know that together you
would be equal to it; but how you managed to contrive such a stately
blunder all by yourself, is what I cannot understand."

So, you see, even she knows how to appreciate our gifts.

Brisk times here.--Saturday, these things happened: Our neighbor Chas.
Smith was stricken with heart disease, and came near joining the
majority; my publisher, Bliss, ditto, ditto; a neighbor's child died;
neighbor Whitmore's sixth child added to his five other cases of measles;
neighbor Niles sent for, and responded; Susie Warner down, abed; Mrs.
George Warner threatened with death during several hours; her son Frank,
whilst imitating the marvels in Barnum's circus bills, thrown from his
aged horse and brought home insensible: Warner's friend Max Yortzburgh,
shot in the back by a locomotive and broken into 32 distinct pieces and
his life threatened; and Mrs. Clemens, after writing all these cheerful
things to Clara Spaulding, taken at midnight, and if the doctor had not
been pretty prompt the contemplated Clemens would have called before his
apartments were ready.

However, everybody is all right, now, except Yortzburg, and he is
mending--that is, he is being mended.  I knocked off, during these
stirring times, and don't intend to go to work again till we go away for
the Summer, 3 or 6 weeks hence.  So I am writing to you not because I
have anything to say, but because you don't have to answer and I need
something to do this afternoon.....

I have a letter from a Congressman this morning, and he says Congress
couldn't be persuaded to bother about Canadian pirates at a time like
this when all legislation must have a political and Presidential bearing,
else Congress won't look at it.  So have changed my mind and my course;
I go north, to kill a pirate.  I must procure repose some way, else I
cannot get down to work again.

Pray offer my most sincere and respectful approval to the President--is
approval the proper word?  I find it is the one I most value here in the
household and seldomest get.

With our affection to you both.
                                   Yrs ever
                                             MARK.


     It was always dangerous to send strangers with letters of
     introduction to Mark Twain.  They were so apt to arrive at the wrong
     time, or to find him in the wrong mood.  Howells was willing to risk
     it, and that the result was only amusing instead of tragic is the
     best proof of their friendship.


                   To W. D. Howells, in Belmont, Mass.:

                                                       June 9, '80.
Well, old practical joker, the corpse of Mr. X----has been here, and I
have bedded it and fed it, and put down my work during 24 hours and tried
my level best to make it do something, or say something, or appreciate
something--but no, it was worse than Lazarus.  A kind-hearted, well-
meaning corpse was the Boston young man, but lawsy bless me, horribly
dull company.  Now, old man, unless you have great confidence in Mr. X's
judgment, you ought to make him submit his article to you before he
prints it.  For only think how true I was to you: Every hour that he was
here I was saying, gloatingly, "O G-- d--- you, when you are in bed and
your light out, I will fix you" (meaning to kill him)...., but then the
thought would follow--"  No, Howells sent him--he shall be spared, he
shall be respected he shall travel hell-wards by his own route."

Breakfast is frozen by this time, and Mrs. Clemens correspondingly hot.
Good bye.
                    Yrs ever,
                              MARK.


     "I did not expect you to ask that man to live with you," Howells
     answered.  "What I was afraid of was that you would turn him out of
     doors, on sight, and so I tried to put in a good word for him.
     After this when I want you to board people, I'll ask you.  I am
     sorry for your suffering.  I suppose I have mostly lost my smell for
     bores; but yours is preternaturally keen.  I shall begin to be
     afraid I bore you.  (How does that make you feel?)"

     In a letter to Twichell--a remarkable letter--when baby Jean Clemens
     was about a month old, we get a happy hint of conditions at Quarry
     Farm, and in the background a glimpse of Mark Twain's unfailing
     tragic reflection.


                      To Rev. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             QUARRY FARM, Aug. 29 ['80].
DEAR OLD JOE,--Concerning Jean Clemens, if anybody said he "didn't see no
pints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog," I should think
he was convicting himself of being a pretty poor sort of observer....
I will not go into details; it is not necessary; you will soon be in
Hartford, where I have already hired a hall; the admission fee will be
but a trifle.

It is curious to note the change in the stock-quotation of the Affection
Board brought about by throwing this new security on the market.  Four
weeks ago the children still put Mamma at the head of the list right
along, where she had always been.  But now:

                    Jean
                    Mamma
                    Motley [a cat]
                    Fraulein [another]
                    Papa

That is the way it stands, now Mamma is become No. 2; I have dropped from
No. 4., and am become No. 5.  Some time ago it used to be nip and tuck
between me and the cats, but after the cats "developed" I didn't stand
any more show.

I've got a swollen ear; so I take advantage of it to lie abed most of the
day, and read and smoke and scribble and have a good time.  Last evening
Livy said with deep concern, "O dear, I believe an abscess is forming in
your ear."

I responded as the poet would have done if he had had a cold in the
head--

          "Tis said that abscess conquers love,
          But O believe it not."

This made a coolness.

Been reading Daniel Webster's Private Correspondence.  Have read a
hundred of his diffuse, conceited, "eloquent," bathotic (or bathostic)
letters written in that dim (no, vanished) Past when he was a student;
and Lord, to think that this boy who is so real to me now, and so booming
with fresh young blood and bountiful life, and sappy cynicisms about
girls, has since climbed the Alps of fame and stood against the sun one
brief tremendous moment with the world's eyes upon him, and then--f-z-t-!
where is he?  Why the only long thing, the only real thing about the
whole shadowy business is the sense of the lagging dull and hoary lapse
of time that has drifted by since then; a vast empty level, it seems,
with a formless spectre glimpsed fitfully through the smoke and mist that
lie along its remote verge.

Well, we are all getting along here first-rate; Livy gains strength
daily, and sits up a deal; the baby is five weeks old and--but no more of
this; somebody may be reading this letter 80 years hence.  And so, my
friend (you pitying snob, I mean, who are holding this yellow paper in
your hand in 1960,) save yourself the trouble of looking further; I know
how pathetically trivial our small concerns will seem to you, and I will
not let your eye profane them.  No, I keep my news; you keep your
compassion.  Suffice it you to know, scoffer and ribald, that the little
child is old and blind, now, and once more toothless; and the rest of us
are shadows, these many, many years.  Yes, and your time cometh!

                                                  MARK.


     At the Farm that year Mark Twain was working on The Prince and the
     Pauper, and, according to a letter to Aldrich, brought it to an end
     September 19th.  It is a pleasant letter, worth preserving.  The
     book by Aldrich here mentioned was 'The Stillwater Tragedy.'


                  To T. B. Aldrich, in Ponkapog, Mass.:

                                             ELMIRA, Sept. 15, '80.
MY DEAR ALDRICH,--Thank you ever so much for the book--I had already
finished it, and prodigiously enjoyed it, in the periodical of the
notorious Howells, but it hits Mrs. Clemens just right, for she is having
a reading holiday, now, for the first time in same months; so between-
times, when the new baby is asleep and strengthening up for another
attempt to take possession of this place, she is going to read it.
Her strong friendship for you makes her think she is going to like it.

I finished a story yesterday, myself.  I counted up and found it between
sixty and eighty thousand words--about the size of your book.  It is for
boys and girls--been at work at it several years, off and on.

I hope Howells is enjoying his journey to the Pacific.  He wrote me that
you and Osgood were going, also, but I doubted it, believing he was in
liquor when he wrote it.  In my opinion, this universal applause over his
book is going to land that man in a Retreat inside of two months.
I notice the papers say mighty fine things about your book, too.
You ought to try to get into the same establishment with Howells.
But applause does not affect me--I am always calm--this is because I am
used to it.

Well, good-bye, my boy, and good luck to you.  Mrs. Clemens asks me to
send her warmest regards to you and Mrs. Aldrich--which I do, and add
those of
                    Yrs ever
                              MARK.


     While Mark Twain was a journalist in San Francisco, there was a
     middle-aged man named Soule, who had a desk near him on the Morning
     Call.  Soule was in those days highly considered as a poet by his
     associates, most of whom were younger and less gracefully poetic.
     But Soule's gift had never been an important one.  Now, in his old
     age, he found his fame still local, and he yearned for wider
     recognition.  He wished to have a volume of poems issued by a
     publisher of recognized standing.  Because Mark Twain had been one
     of Soule's admirers and a warm friend in the old days, it was
     natural that Soule should turn to him now, and equally natural that
     Clemens should turn to Howells.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        Sunday, Oct.  2 '80.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Here's a letter which I wrote you to San Francisco the
second time you didn't go there....  I told Soule he needn't write you,
but simply send the MS. to you.  O dear, dear, it is dreadful to be an
unrecognized poet.  How wise it was in Charles Warren Stoddard to take in
his sign and go for some other calling while still young.

I'm laying for that Encyclopedical Scotchman--and he'll need to lock the
door behind him, when he comes in; otherwise when he hears my proposed
tariff his skin will probably crawl away with him.  He is accustomed to
seeing the publisher impoverish the author--that spectacle must be
getting stale to him--if he contracts with the undersigned he will
experience a change in that programme that will make the enamel peel off
his teeth for very surprise--and joy.  No, that last is what Mrs. Clemens
thinks--but it's not so.  The proposed work is growing, mightily, in my
estimation, day by day; and I'm not going to throw it away for any mere
trifle.  If I make a contract with the canny Scot, I will then tell him
the plan which you and I have devised (that of taking in the humor of all
countries)--otherwise I'll keep it to myself, I think.  Why should we
assist our fellowman for mere love of God?
                                        Yrs ever
                                                  MARK.

     One wishes that Howells might have found value enough in the verses
     of Frank Soule to recommend them to Osgood.  To Clemens he wrote:
     "You have touched me in regard to him, and I will deal gently with
     his poetry.  Poor old fellow!  I can imagine him, and how he must
     have to struggle not to be hard or sour."

     The verdict, however, was inevitable.  Soule's graceful verses
     proved to be not poetry at all.  No publisher of standing could
     afford to give them his imprint.

     The "Encyclopedical Scotchman" mentioned in the preceding letter was
     the publisher Gebbie, who had a plan to engage Howells and Clemens
     to prepare some sort of anthology of the world's literature.  The
     idea came to nothing, though the other plan mentioned--for a library
     of humor--in time grew into a book.

     Mark Twain's contracts with Bliss for the publication of his books
     on the subscription plan had been made on a royalty basis, beginning
     with 5 per cent. on 'The Innocents Abroad' increasing to 7 « per
     cent. on 'Roughing It,' and to 10 per cent. on later books.  Bliss
     had held that these later percentages fairly represented one half
     the profits.  Clemens, however, had never been fully satisfied, and
     his brother Onion had more than once urged him to demand a specific
     contract on the half-profit basis.  The agreement for the
     publication of 'A Tramp Abroad' was made on these terms.  Bliss died
     before Clemens received his first statement of sales.  Whatever may
     have been the facts under earlier conditions, the statement proved
     to Mark Twain's satisfaction; at least, that the half-profit
     arrangement was to his advantage.  It produced another result; it
     gave Samuel Clemens an excuse to place his brother Onion in a
     position of independence.


                    To Onion Clemens, in Keokuk, Iowa:

                                             Sunday, Oct 24 '80.
MY DEAR BRO.,--Bliss is dead.  The aspect of the balance-sheet is
enlightening.  It reveals the fact, through my present contract, (which
is for half the profits on the book above actual cost of paper, printing
and binding,) that I have lost considerably by all this nonsense--sixty
thousand dollars, I should say--and if Bliss were alive I would stay with
the concern and get it all back; for on each new book I would require a
portion of that back pay; but as it is (this in the very strictest
confidence,) I shall probably go to a new publisher 6 or 8 months hence,
for I am afraid Frank, with his poor health, will lack push and drive.

Out of the suspicions you bred in me years ago, has grown this result,
--to wit, that I shall within the twelvemonth get $40,000 out of this
"Tramp" instead Of $20,000.  Twenty thousand dollars, after taxes and
other expenses are stripped away, is worth to the investor about $75 a
month--so I shall tell Mr. Perkins to make your check that amount per
month, hereafter, while our income is able to afford it.  This ends the
loan business; and hereafter you can reflect that you are living not on
borrowed money but on money which you have squarely earned, and which has
no taint or savor of charity about it--and you can also reflect that the
money you have been receiving of me all these years is interest charged
against the heavy bill which the next publisher will have to stand who
gets a book of mine.

Jean got the stockings and is much obliged; Mollie wants to know whom she
most resembles, but I can't tell; she has blue eyes and brown hair, and
three chins, and is very fat and happy; and at one time or another she
has resembled all the different Clemenses and Langdons, in turn, that
have ever lived.

Livy is too much beaten out with the baby, nights, to write, these times;
and I don't know of anything urgent to say, except that a basket full of
letters has accumulated in the 7 days that I have been whooping and
cursing over a cold in the head--and I must attack the pile this very
minute.
                         With love from us
                                        Y aff
                                             SAM
$25 enclosed.



     On the completion of The Prince and Pauper story, Clemens had
     naturally sent it to Howells for consideration.  Howells wrote:
     "I have read the two P's and I like it immensely, it begins well and
     it ends well."  He pointed out some things that might be changed or
     omitted, and added: "It is such a book as I would expect from you,
     knowing what a bottom of fury there is to your fun."  Clemens had
     thought somewhat of publishing the story anonymously, in the fear
     that it would not be accepted seriously over his own signature.

     The "bull story" referred to in the next letter is the one later
     used in the Joan of Arc book, the story told Joan by "Uncle Laxart,"
     how he rode a bull to a funeral.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                  Xmas Eve, 1880.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I was prodigiously delighted with what you said about
the book--so, on the whole, I've concluded to publish intrepidly, instead
of concealing the authorship.  I shall leave out that bull story.

I wish you had gone to New York.  The company was small, and we had a
first-rate time.  Smith's an enjoyable fellow.  I liked Barrett, too.
And the oysters were as good as the rest of the company.  It was worth
going there to learn how to cook them.

Next day I attended to business--which was, to introduce Twichell to Gen.
Grant and procure a private talk in the interest of the Chinese
Educational Mission here in the U. S.  Well, it was very funny.  Joe had
been sitting up nights building facts and arguments together into a
mighty and unassailable array and had studied them out and got them by
heart--all with the trembling half-hearted hope of getting Grant to add
his signature to a sort of petition to the Viceroy of China; but Grant
took in the whole situation in a jiffy, and before Joe had more than
fairly got started, the old man said: "I'll write the Viceroy a Letter
--a separate letter--and bring strong reasons to bear upon him; I know
him well, and what I say will have weight with him; I will attend to it
right away.  No, no thanks--I shall be glad to do it--it will be a labor
of love."

So all Joe's laborious hours were for naught!  It was as if he had come
to borrow a dollar, and been offered a thousand before he could unfold
his case....

But it's getting dark.  Merry Christmas to all of you.
                                   Yrs Ever,
                                             MARK.


     The Chinese Educational Mission, mentioned in the foregoing, was a
     thriving Hartford institution, projected eight years before by a
     Yale graduate named Yung Wing.  The mission was now threatened, and
     Yung Wing, knowing the high honor in which General Grant was held in
     China, believed that through him it might be saved.  Twichell, of
     course, was deeply concerned and naturally overjoyed at Grant's
     interest.  A day or two following the return to Hartford, Clemens
     received a letter from General Grant, in which he wrote: "Li Hung
     Chang is the most powerful and most influential Chinaman in his
     country.  He professed great friendship for me when I was there, and
     I have had assurances of the same thing since.  I hope, if he is
     strong enough with his government, that the decision to withdraw the
     Chinese students from this country may be changed."

     But perhaps Li Hung Chang was experiencing one of his partial
     eclipses just then, or possibly he was not interested, for the
     Hartford Mission did not survive.




XXI.

LETTERS 1881, TO HOWELLS AND OTHERS.  ASSISTING A YOUNG SCULPTOR.
LITERARY PLANS

With all of Mark Twain's admiration for Grant, he had opposed him as a
third-term President and approved of the nomination of Garfield.  He had
made speeches for Garfield during the campaign just ended, and had been
otherwise active in his support.  Upon Garfield's election, however, he
felt himself entitled to no special favor, and the single request which
he preferred at length could hardly be classed as, personal, though made
for a "personal friend."


          To President-elect James A.  Garfield, in Washington:

                                             HARTFORD, Jany. 12, '81.
GEN. GARFIELD

DEAR SIR,--Several times since your election persons wanting office have
asked me "to use my influence" with you in their behalf.

To word it in that way was such a pleasant compliment to me that I never
complied.  I could not without exposing the fact that I hadn't any
influence with you and that was a thing I had no mind to do.

It seems to me that it is better to have a good man's flattering estimate
of my influence--and to keep it--than to fool it away with trying to get
him an office.  But when my brother--on my wife's side--Mr. Charles J.
Langdon--late of the Chicago Convention--desires me to speak a word for
Mr. Fred Douglass, I am not asked "to use my influence" consequently I am
not risking anything.  So I am writing this as a simple citizen.  I am
not drawing on my fund of influence at all.  A simple citizen may express
a desire with all propriety, in the matter of a recommendation to office,
and so I beg permission to hope that you will retain Mr. Douglass in his
present office of Marshall of the District of Columbia, if such a course
will not clash with your own preferences or with the expediencies and
interest of your administration.  I offer this petition with peculiar
pleasure and strong desire, because I so honor this man's high and
blemishless character and so admire his brave, long crusade for the
liberties and elevation of his race.

He is a personal friend of mine, but that is nothing to the point, his
history would move me to say these things without that, and I feel them
too.
               With great respect
                         I am, General,
                                   Yours truly,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     Clemens would go out of his way any time to grant favor to the
     colored race.  His childhood associations were partly accountable
     for this, but he also felt that the white man owed the negro a debt
     for generations of enforced bondage.  He would lecture any time in a
     colored church, when he would as likely as not refuse point-blank to
     speak for a white congregation.  Once, in Elmira, he received a
     request, poorly and none too politely phrased, to speak for one of
     the churches.  He was annoyed and about to send a brief refusal,
     when Mrs. Clemens, who was present, said:

     "I think I know that church, and if so this preacher is a colored
     man; he does not know how to write a polished letter--how should
     he?"  Her husband's manner changed so suddenly that she added:
     "I will give you a motto, and it will be useful to you if you will
     adopt it: Consider every man colored until he is proved white."


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Feb.  27, 1881.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I go to West Point with Twichell tomorrow, but shall be
back Tuesday or Wednesday; and then just as soon thereafter as you and
Mrs. Howells and Winny can come you will find us ready and most glad to
see you--and the longer you can stay the gladder we shall be.  I am not
going to have a thing to do, but you shall work if you want to.  On the
evening of March 10th, I am going to read to the colored folk in the
African Church here (no whites admitted except such as I bring with me),
and a choir of colored folk will sing jubilee songs.  I count on a good
time, and shall hope to have you folks there, and Livy.  I read in
Twichell's chapel Friday night and had a most rattling high time--but the
thing that went best of all was Uncle Remus's Tar Baby.  I mean to try
that on my dusky audience.  They've all heard that tale from childhood--
at least the older members have.

I arrived home in time to make a most noble blunder--invited Charley
Warner here (in Livy's name) to dinner with the Gerhardts, and told him
Livy had invited his wife by letter and by word of mouth also.  I don't
know where I got these impressions, but I came home feeling as one does
who realizes that he has done a neat thing for once and left no flaws or
loop-holes.  Well, Livy said she had never told me to invite Charley and
she hadn't dreamed of inviting Susy, and moreover there wasn't any
dinner, but just one lean duck.  But Susy Warner's intuitions were
correct--so she choked off Charley, and staid home herself--we waited
dinner an hour and you ought to have seen that duck when he was done
drying in the oven.
                              MARK.


     Clemens and his wife were always privately assisting worthy and
     ambitious young people along the way of achievement.  Young actors
     were helped through dramatic schools; young men and women were
     assisted through college and to travel abroad.  Among others Clemens
     paid the way of two colored students, one through a Southern
     institution and another through the Yale law school.

     The mention of the name of Gerhardt in the preceding letter
     introduces the most important, or at least the most extensive, of
     these benefactions.  The following letter gives the beginning of the
     story:


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

Private and Confidential.
                                        HARTFORD, Feb. 21, 1881.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Well, here is our romance.

It happened in this way.  One morning, a month ago--no, three weeks--
Livy, and Clara Spaulding and I were at breakfast, at 10 A.M., and I was
in an irritable mood, for the barber was up stairs waiting and his hot
water getting cold, when the colored George returned from answering the
bell and said: "There's a lady in the drawing-room wants to see you."
"A book agent!" says I, with heat.  "I won't see her; I will die in my
tracks, first."

Then I got up with a soul full of rage, and went in there and bent
scowling over that person, and began a succession of rude and raspy
questions--and without even offering to sit down.

Not even the defendant's youth and beauty and (seeming) timidity were
able to modify my savagery, for a time--and meantime question and answer
were going on.  She had risen to her feet with the first question; and
there she stood, with her pretty face bent floorward whilst I inquired,
but always with her honest eyes looking me in the face when it came her
turn to answer.

And this was her tale, and her plea-diffidently stated, but straight-
forwardly; and bravely, and most winningly simply and earnestly: I put it
in my own fashion, for I do not remember her words:

Mr. Karl Gerhardt, who works in Pratt & Whitney's machine shops, has made
a statue in clay, and would I be so kind as to come and look at it, and
tell him if there is any promise in it?  He has none to go to, and he
would be so glad.

"O, dear me," I said, "I don't know anything about art--there's nothing I
could tell him."

But she went on, just as earnestly and as simply as before, with her
plea--and so she did after repeated rebuffs; and dull as I am, even I
began by and by to admire this brave and gentle persistence, and to
perceive how her heart of hearts was in this thing, and how she couldn't
give it up, but must carry her point.  So at last I wavered, and promised
in general terms that I would come down the first day that fell idle--and
as I conducted her to the door, I tamed more and more, and said I would
come during the very next week--"We shall be so glad--but--but, would you
please come early in the week?--the statue is just finished and we are so
anxious--and--and--we did hope you could come this week--and"--well, I
came down another peg, and said I would come Monday, as sure as death;
and before I got to the dining room remorse was doing its work and I was
saying to myself, "Damnation, how can a man be such a hound? why didn't I
go with her now?"  Yes, and how mean I should have felt if I had known
that out of her poverty she had hired a hack and brought it along to
convey me.  But luckily for what was left of my peace of mind, I didn't
know that.

Well, it appears that from here she went to Charley Warner's.  There was
a better light, there, and the eloquence of her face had a better chance
to do its office.  Warner fought, as I had done; and he was in the midst
of an article and very busy; but no matter, she won him completely.  He
laid aside his MS and said, "Come, let us go and see your father's
statue.  That is--is he your father?"  "No, he is my husband."  So this
child was married, you see.

This was a Saturday.  Next day Warner came to dinner and said "Go!--go
tomorrow--don't fail."  He was in love with the girl, and with her
husband too, and said he believed there was merit in the statue.  Pretty
crude work, maybe, but merit in it.

Patrick and I hunted up the place, next day; the girl saw us driving up,
and flew down the stairs and received me.  Her quarters were the second
story of a little wooden house--another family on the ground floor.  The
husband was at the machine shop, the wife kept no servant, she was there
alone.  She had a little parlor, with a chair or two and a sofa; and the
artist-husband's hand was visible in a couple of plaster busts, one of
the wife, and another of a neighbor's child; visible also in a couple of
water colors of flowers and birds; an ambitious unfinished portrait of
his wife in oils: some paint decorations on the pine mantel; and an
excellent human ear, done in some plastic material at 16.

Then we went into the kitchen, and the girl flew around, with enthusiasm,
and snatched rag after rag from a tall something in the corner, and
presently there stood the clay statue, life size--a graceful girlish
creature, nude to the waist, and holding up a single garment with one
hand the expression attempted being a modified scare--she was interrupted
when about to enter the bath.

Then this young wife posed herself alongside the image and so remained
--a thing I didn't understand.  But presently I did--then I said:

"O, it's you!"

"Yes," she said, "I was the model.  He has no model but me.  I have stood
for this many and many an hour--and you can't think how it does tire one!
But I don't mind it.  He works all day at the shop; and then, nights and
Sundays he works on his statue as long as I can keep up."

She got a big chisel, to use as a lever, and between us we managed to
twist the pedestal round and round, so as to afford a view of the statue
from all points.  Well, sir, it was perfectly charming, this girl's
innocence and purity---exhibiting her naked self, as it were, to a
stranger and alone, and never once dreaming that there was the slightest
indelicacy about the matter.  And so there wasn't; but it will be many
along day before I run across another woman who can do the like and show
no trace of self-consciousness.

Well, then we sat down, and I took a smoke, and she told me all about her
people in Massachusetts--her father is a physician and it is an old and
respectable family--(I am able to believe anything she says.)  And she
told me how "Karl" is 26 years old; and how he has had passionate
longings all his life toward art, but has always been poor and obliged to
struggle for his daily bread; and how he felt sure that if he could only
have one or two lessons in--

"Lessons?  Hasn't he had any lessons?"

No.  He had never had a lesson.

And presently it was dinner time and "Karl" arrived--a slender young
fellow with a marvelous head and a noble eye--and he was as simple and
natural, and as beautiful in spirit as his wife was.  But she had to do
the talking--mainly--there was too much thought behind his cavernous eyes
for glib speech.

I went home enchanted.  Told Livy and Clara Spaulding all about the
paradise down yonder where those two enthusiasts are happy with a yearly
expense of $350.  Livy and Clara went there next day and came away
enchanted.  A few nights later the Gerhardts kept their promise and came
here for the evening.  It was billiard night and I had company and so was
not down; but Livy and Clara became more charmed with these children than
ever.

Warner and I planned to get somebody to criticise the statue whose
judgment would be worth something.  So I laid for Champney, and after two
failures I captured him and took him around, and he said "this statue is
full of faults--but it has merits enough in it to make up for them"--
whereat the young wife danced around as delighted as a child.  When we
came away, Champney said, "I did not want to say too much there, but the
truth is, it seems to me an extraordinary performance for an untrained
hand.  You ask if there is promise enough there to justify the Hartford
folk in going to an expense of training this young man.  I should say,
yes, decidedly; but still, to make everything safe, you had better get
the judgment of a sculptor."

Warner was in New York.  I wrote him, and he said he would fetch up Ward
--which he did.  Yesterday they went to the Gerhardts and spent two
hours, and Ward came away bewitched with those people and marveling at
the winning innocence of the young wife, who dropped naturally into
model-attitude beside the statue (which is stark naked from head to heel,
now--G. had removed the drapery, fearing Ward would think he was afraid
to try legs and hips) just as she has always done before.

Livy and I had two long talks with Ward yesterday evening.  He spoke
strongly.  He said, "if any stranger had told me that this apprentice did
not model that thing from plaster casts, I would not have believed it."
He said "it is full of crudities, but it is full of genius, too.  It is
such a statue as the man of average talent would achieve after two years
training in the schools.  And the boldness of the fellow, in going
straight to nature!  He is an apprentice--his work shows that, all over;
but the stuff is in him, sure.  Hartford must send him to Paris--two
years; then if the promise holds good, keep him there three more--and
warn him to study, study, work, work, and keep his name out of the
papers, and neither ask for orders nor accept them when offered."

Well, you see, that's all we wanted.  After Ward was gone Livy came out
with the thing that was in her mind.  She said, "Go privately and start
the Gerhardts off to Paris, and say nothing about it to any one else."

So I tramped down this morning in the snow-storm--and there was a
stirring time.  They will sail a week or ten days from now.

As I was starting out at the front door, with Gerhardt beside me and the
young wife dancing and jubilating behind, this latter cried out
impulsively, "Tell Mrs. Clemens I want to hug her--I want to hug you
both!"

I gave them my old French book and they were going to tackle the
language, straight off.

Now this letter is a secret--keep it quiet--I don't think Livy would mind
my telling you these things, but then she might, you know, for she is a
queer girl.
                              Yrs ever,
                                        MARK.


     Champney was J. Wells Champney, a portrait-painter of distinction;
     Ward was the sculptor, J. Q. A. Ward.

     The Gerhardts were presently off to Paris, well provided with means
     to make their dreams reality; in due time the letters will report
     them again.

     The Uncle Remus tales of Joel Chandler Harris gave Mark Twain great
     pleasure.  He frequently read them aloud, not only at home but in
     public.  Finally, he wrote Harris, expressing his warm appreciation,
     and mentioning one of the negro stories of his own childhood, "The
     Golden Arm," which he urged Harris to look up and add to his
     collection.

     "You have pinned a proud feather in Uncle-Remus's cap," replied
     Harris.  "I do not know what higher honor he could have than to
     appear before the Hartford public arm in arm with Mark Twain."

     He disclaimed any originality for the stories, adding, "I understand
     that my relations toward Uncle Remus are similar to those that exist
     between an almanac maker and the calendar."  He had not heard the
     "Golden Arm" story and asked for the outlines; also for some
     publishing advice, out of Mark Twain's long experience.


                   To Joel Chandler Harris, in Atlanta:

                                             ELMIRA, N.Y., Aug. 10.
MY DEAR MR. HARRIS,--You can argue yourself into the delusion that the
principle of life is in the stories themselves and not in their setting;
but you will save labor by stopping with that solitary convert, for he is
the only intelligent one you will bag.  In reality the stories are only
alligator pears--one merely eats them for the sake of the salad-dressing.
Uncle Remus is most deftly drawn, and is a lovable and delightful
creation; he, and the little boy, and their relations with each other,
are high and fine literature, and worthy to live, for their own sakes;
and certainly the stories are not to be credited with them.  But enough
of this; I seem to be proving to the man that made the multiplication
table that twice one are two.

I have been thinking, yesterday and to-day (plenty of chance to think, as
I am abed with lumbago at our little summering farm among the solitudes
of the Mountaintops,) and I have concluded that I can answer one of your
questions with full confidence--thus: Make it a subscription book.
Mighty few books that come strictly under the head of literature will
sell by subscription; but if Uncle Remus won't, the gift of prophecy has
departed out of me.  When a book will sell by subscription, it will sell
two or three times as many copies as it would in the trade; and the
profit is bulkier because the retail price is greater.....

You didn't ask me for a subscription-publisher.  If you had, I should
have recommended Osgood to you.  He inaugurates his subscription
department with my new book in the fall.....

Now the doctor has been here and tried to interrupt my yarn about "The
Golden Arm," but I've got through, anyway.

Of course I tell it in the negro dialect--that is necessary; but I have
not written it so, for I can't spell it in your matchless way.  It is
marvelous the way you and Cable spell the negro and creole dialects.

Two grand features are lost in print: the weird wailing, the rising and
falling cadences of the wind, so easily mimicked with one's mouth; and
the impressive pauses and eloquent silences, and subdued utterances,
toward the end of the yarn (which chain the attention of the children
hand and foot, and they sit with parted lips and breathless, to be
wrenched limb from limb with the sudden and appalling "You got it").

Old Uncle Dan'l, a slave of my uncle's' aged 60, used to tell us children
yarns every night by the kitchen fire (no other light;) and the last yarn
demanded, every night, was this one.  By this time there was but a
ghastly blaze or two flickering about the back-log.  We would huddle
close about the old man, and begin to shudder with the first familiar
words; and under the spell of his impressive delivery we always fell a
prey to that climax at the end when the rigid black shape in the twilight
sprang at us with a shout.

When you come to glance at the tale you will recollect it--it is as
common and familiar as the Tar Baby.  Work up the atmosphere with your
customary skill and it will "go" in print.

Lumbago seems to make a body garrulous--but you'll forgive it.
                                   Truly yours
                                        S. L. CLEMENS


     The "Golden Arm" story was one that Clemens often used in his public
     readings, and was very effective as he gave it.

     In his sketch, "How to Tell a Story," it appears about as he used to
     tell it.  Harris, receiving the outlines of the old Missouri tale,
     presently announced that he had dug up its Georgia relative, an
     interesting variant, as we gather from Mark Twain's reply.


                   To Joel Chandler Harris, in Atlanta:

                                             HARTFORD, '81.
MY DEAR MR. HARRIS,--I was very sure you would run across that Story
somewhere, and am glad you have.  A Drummond light--no, I mean a Brush
light--is thrown upon the negro estimate of values by his willingness to
risk his soul and his mighty peace forever for the sake of a silver
sev'm-punce.  And this form of the story seems rather nearer the true
field-hand standard than that achieved by my Florida, Mo., negroes with
their sumptuous arm of solid gold.

I judge you haven't received my new book yet--however, you will in a day
or two.  Meantime you must not take it ill if I drop Osgood a hint about
your proposed story of slave life.....

When you come north I wish you would drop me a line and then follow it in
person and give me a day or two at our house in Hartford.  If you will,
I will snatch Osgood down from Boston, and you won't have to go there at
all unless you want to.  Please to bear this strictly in mind, and don't
forget it.
                         Sincerely yours
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     Charles Warren Stoddard, to whom the next letter is written, was one
     of the old California literary crowd, a graceful writer of verse and
     prose, never quite arriving at the success believed by his friends
     to be his due.  He was a gentle, irresponsible soul, well loved by
     all who knew him, and always, by one or another, provided against
     want.  The reader may remember that during Mark Twain's great
     lecture engagement in London, winter of 1873-74, Stoddard lived with
     him, acting as his secretary.  At a later period in his life he
     lived for several years with the great telephone magnate, Theodore
     N. Vail.  At the time of this letter, Stoddard had decided that in
     the warm light and comfort of the Sandwich Islands he could survive
     on his literary earnings.


           To Charles Warren Stoddard, in the Sandwich Islands:

                                             HARTFORD, Oct. 26 '81.
MY DEAR CHARLIE,--Now what have I ever done to you that you should not
only slide off to Heaven before you have earned a right to go, but must
add the gratuitous villainy of informing me of it?.....

The house is full of carpenters and decorators; whereas, what we really
need here, is an incendiary.  If the house would only burn down, we would
pack up the cubs and fly to the isles of the blest, and shut ourselves up
in the healing solitudes of the crater of Haleakala and get a good rest;
for the mails do not intrude there, nor yet the telephone and the
telegraph.  And after resting, we would come down the mountain a piece
and board with a godly, breech-clouted native, and eat poi and dirt and
give thanks to whom all thanks belong, for these privileges, and never
house-keep any more.

I think my wife would be twice as strong as she is, but for this wearing
and wearying slavery of house-keeping.  However, she thinks she must
submit to it for the sake of the children; whereas, I have always had a
tenderness for parents too, so, for her sake and mine, I sigh for the
incendiary.  When the evening comes and the gas is lit and the wear and
tear of life ceases, we want to keep house always; but next morning we
wish, once more, that we were free and irresponsible boarders.

Work?--one can't you know, to any purpose.  I don't really get anything
done worth speaking of, except during the three or four months that we
are away in the Summer.  I wish the Summer were seven years long.  I keep
three or four books on the stocks all the time, but I seldom add a
satisfactory chapter to one of them at home.  Yes, and it is all because
my time is taken up with answering the letters of strangers.  It can't be
done through a short hand amanuensis--I've tried that--it wouldn't work
--I couldn't learn to dictate.  What does possess strangers to write so
many letters?  I never could find that out.  However, I suppose I did it
myself when I was a stranger.  But I will never do it again.

Maybe you think I am not happy?  the very thing that gravels me is that I
am.  I don't want to be happy when I can't work; I am resolved that
hereafter I won't be.  What I have always longed for, was the privilege
of living forever away up on one of those mountains in the Sandwich
Islands overlooking the sea.
                              Yours ever
                                        MARK.

That magazine article of yours was mighty good: up to your very best I
think.  I enclose a book review written by Howells.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Oct. 26 '81.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I am delighted with your review, and so is Mrs.
Clemens.  What you have said, there, will convince anybody that reads it;
a body cannot help being convinced by it.  That is the kind of a review
to have; the doubtful man; even the prejudiced man, is persuaded and
succumbs.

What a queer blunder that was, about the baronet.  I can't quite see how
I ever made it.  There was an opulent abundance of things I didn't know;
and consequently no need to trench upon the vest-pocketful of things I
did know, to get material for a blunder.

Charley Warren Stoddard has gone to the Sandwich Islands permanently.
Lucky devil.  It is the only supremely delightful place on earth.  It
does seem that the more advantage a body doesn't earn, here, the more of
them God throws at his head.  This fellow's postal card has set the
vision of those gracious islands before my mind, again, with not a leaf
withered, nor a rainbow vanished, nor a sun-flash missing from the waves,
and now it will be months, I reckon, before I can drive it away again.
It is beautiful company, but it makes one restless and dissatisfied.

With love and thanks,
                         Yrs ever,
                                   MARK.


     The review mentioned in this letter was of The Prince and the
     Pauper.  What the queer" blunder" about the baronet was, the present
     writer confesses he does not know; but perhaps a careful reader
     could find it, at least in the early edition; very likely it was
     corrected without loss of time.

     Clemens now and then found it necessary to pay a visit to Canada in
     the effort to protect his copyright.  He usually had a grand time on
     these trips, being lavishly entertained by the Canadian literary
     fraternity.  In November, 1881, he made one of these journeys in the
     interest of The Prince and the Pauper, this time with Osgood, who
     was now his publisher.  In letters written home we get a hint of his
     diversions.  The Monsieur Frechette mentioned was a Canadian poet of
     considerable distinction.  "Clara" was Miss Clara Spaulding, of
     Elmira, who had accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Clemens to Europe in 1873,
     and again in 1878.  Later she became Mrs. John B. Staachfield, of
     New York City.  Her name has already appeared in these letters many
     times.


                      To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford:

                                             MONTREAL, Nov. 28 '81.
Livy darling, you and Clara ought to have been at breakfast in the great
dining room this morning.  English female faces, distinctive English
costumes, strange and marvelous English gaits--and yet such honest,
honorable, clean-souled countenances, just as these English women almost
always have, you know.  Right away--

But they've come to take me to the top of Mount Royal, it being a cold,
dry, sunny, magnificent day.  Going in a sleigh.
                         Yours lovingly,
                                        SAML.


                      To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford:

                                   MONTREAL, Sunday, November 27, 1881.
Livy dear, a mouse kept me awake last night till 3 or 4 o'clock--so I am
lying abed this morning.  I would not give sixpence to be out yonder in
the storm, although it is only snow.

[The above paragraph is written in the form of a rebus illustrated with
various sketches.]

There--that's for the children--was not sure that they could read
writing; especially jean, who is strangely ignorant in some things.

I can not only look out upon the beautiful snow-storm, past the vigorous
blaze of my fire; and upon the snow-veiled buildings which I have
sketched; and upon the churchward drifting umbrellas; and upon the
buffalo-clad cabmen stamping their feet and thrashing their arms on the
corner yonder: but I also look out upon the spot where the first white
men stood, in the neighborhood of four hundred years ago, admiring the
mighty stretch of leafy solitudes, and being admired and marveled at by
an eager multitude of naked savages.  The discoverer of this region, and
namer of it, Jacques Cartier, has a square named for him in the city.  I
wish you were here; you would enjoy your birthday, I think.

I hoped for a letter, and thought I had one when the mail was handed in,
a minute ago, but it was only that note from Sylvester Baxter.  You must
write--do you hear?--or I will be remiss myself.

Give my love and a kiss to the children, and ask them to give you my love
and a kiss from
                         SAML.


                      To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford:

                                             QUEBEC, Sunday.  '81.
Livy darling, I received a letter from Monsieur Frechette this morning,
in which certain citizens of Montreal tendered me a public dinner next
Thursday, and by Osgood's advice I accepted it.  I would have accepted
anyway, and very cheerfully but for the delay of two days--for I was
purposing to go to Boston Tuesday and home Wednesday; whereas, now I go
to Boston Friday and home Saturday.  I have to go by Boston on account of
business.

We drove about the steep hills and narrow, crooked streets of this old
town during three hours, yesterday, in a sleigh, in a driving snow-storm.
The people here don't mind snow; they were all out, plodding around on
their affairs--especially the children, who were wallowing around
everywhere, like snow images, and having a mighty good time.  I wish I
could describe the winter costume of the young girls, but I can't.  It is
grave and simple, but graceful and pretty--the top of it is a brimless
fur cap.  Maybe it is the costume that makes pretty girls seem so
monotonously plenty here.  It was a kind of relief to strike a homely
face occasionally.

You descend into some of the streets by long, deep stairways; and in the
strong moonlight, last night, these were very picturesque.  I did wish
you were here to see these things.  You couldn't by any possibility sleep
in these beds, though, or enjoy the food.

Good night, sweetheart, and give my respects to the cubs.

                                        SAML.


     It had been hoped that W. D. Howells would join the Canadian
     excursion, but Howells was not very well that autumn.  He wrote that
     he had been in bed five weeks, "most of the time recovering; so you
     see how bad I must have been to begin with.  But now I am out of any
     first-class pain; I have a good appetite, and I am as abusive and
     peremptory as Guiteau."  Clemens, returning to Hartford, wrote him a
     letter that explains itself.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Dec. 16 '81.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--It was a sharp disappointment--your inability to
connect, on the Canadian raid.  What a gaudy good time we should have
had!

Disappointed, again, when I got back to Boston; for I was promising
myself half an hour's look at you, in Belmont; but your note to Osgood
showed that that could not be allowed out yet.

The Atlantic arrived an hour ago, and your faultless and delicious Police
Report brought that blamed Joe Twichell powerfully before me.  There's a
man who can tell such things himself (by word of mouth,) and has as sure
an eye for detecting a thing that is before his eyes, as any man in the
world, perhaps--then why in the nation doesn't he report himself with a
pen?

One of those drenching days last week, he slopped down town with his
cubs, and visited a poor little beggarly shed where were a dwarf, a fat
woman, and a giant of honest eight feet, on exhibition behind tawdry
show-canvases, but with nobody to exhibit to.  The giant had a broom, and
was cleaning up and fixing around, diligently.  Joe conceived the idea of
getting some talk out of him.  Now that never would have occurred to me.
So he dropped in under the man's elbow, dogged him patiently around,
prodding him with questions and getting irritated snarls in return which
would have finished me early--but at last one of Joe's random shafts
drove the centre of that giant's sympathies somehow, and fetched him.
The fountains of his great deep were broken up, and he rained a flood of
personal history that was unspeakably entertaining.

Among other things it turned out that he had been a Turkish (native)
colonel, and had fought all through the Crimean war--and so, for the
first time, Joe got a picture of the Charge of the Six Hundred that made
him see the living spectacle, the flash of flag and tongue-flame, the
rolling smoke, and hear the booming of the guns; and for the first time
also, he heard the reasons for that wild charge delivered from the mouth
of a master, and realized that nobody had "blundered," but that a cold,
logical, military brain had perceived this one and sole way to win an
already lost battle, and so gave the command and did achieve the victory.

And mind you Joe was able to come up here, days afterwards, and reproduce
that giant's picturesque and admirable history.  But dern him, he can't
write it--which is all wrong, and not as it should be.

And he has gone and raked up the MS autobiography (written in 1848,) of
Mrs. Phebe Brown, (author of "I Love to Steal a While Away,") who
educated Yung Wing in her family when he was a little boy; and I came
near not getting to bed at all, last night, on account of the lurid
fascinations of it.  Why in the nation it has never got into print, I
can't understand.

But, by jings! the postman will be here in a minute; so, congratulations
upon your mending health, and gratitude that it is mending; and love to
you all.
                              Yrs Ever
                                   MARK.

Don't answer--I spare the sick.




XXII.

LETTERS, 1882, MAINLY TO HOWELLS.  WASTED FURY. OLD SCENES REVISITED.
THE MISSISSIPPI BOOK

     A man of Mark Twain's profession and prominence must necessarily be
     the subject of much newspaper comment.  Jest, compliment, criticism
     --none of these things disturbed him, as a rule.  He was pleased
     that his books should receive favorable notices by men whose opinion
     he respected, but he was not grieved by adverse expressions.  Jests
     at his expense, if well written, usually amused him; cheap jokes
     only made him sad; but sarcasms and innuendoes were likely to enrage
     him, particularly if he believed them prompted by malice.  Perhaps
     among all the letters he ever wrote, there is none more
     characteristic than this confession of violence and eagerness for
     reprisal, followed by his acknowledgment of error and a manifest
     appreciation of his own weakness.  It should be said that Mark Twain
     and Whitelaw Reid were generally very good friends, and perhaps for
     the moment this fact seemed to magnify the offense.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Jan.  28 '82.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Nobody knows better than I, that there are times when
swearing cannot meet the emergency.  How sharply I feel that, at this
moment.  Not a single profane word has issued from my lips this mornin
--I have not even had the impulse to swear, so wholly ineffectual would
swearing have manifestly been, in the circumstances.  But I will tell you
about it.

About three weeks ago, a sensitive friend, approaching his revelation
cautiously, intimated that the N. Y. Tribune was engaged in a kind of
crusade against me.  This seemed a higher compliment than I deserved; but
no matter, it made me very angry.  I asked many questions, and gathered,
in substance, this:  Since Reid's return from Europe, the Tribune had
been flinging sneers and brutalities at me with such persistent frequency
"as to attract general remark."  I was an angered--which is just as good
an expression, I take it, as an hungered.  Next, I learned that Osgood,
among the rest of the "general," was worrying over these constant and
pitiless attacks.  Next came the testimony of another friend, that the
attacks were not merely "frequent," but "almost daily."  Reflect upon
that: "Almost daily" insults, for two months on a stretch.  What would
you have done?

As for me, I did the thing which was the natural thing for me to do, that
is, I set about contriving a plan to accomplish one or the other of two
things: 1. Force a peace; or 2. Get revenge.  When I got my plan
finished, it pleased me marvelously.  It was in six or seven sections,
each section to be used in its turn and by itself; the assault to begin
at once with No. 1, and the rest to follow, one after the other, to keep
the communication open while I wrote my biography of Reid.  I meant to
wind up with this latter great work, and then dismiss the subject for
good.

Well, ever since then I have worked day and night making notes and
collecting and classifying material.  I've got collectors at work in
England.  I went to New York and sat three hours taking evidence while a
stenographer set it down.  As my labors grew, so also grew my
fascination.  Malice and malignity faded out of me--or maybe I drove them
out of me, knowing that a malignant book would hurt nobody but the fool
who wrote it.  I got thoroughly in love with this work; for I saw that I
was going to write a book which the very devils and angels themselves
would delight to read, and which would draw disapproval from nobody but
the hero of it, (and Mrs. Clemens, who was bitter against the whole
thing.)  One part of my plan was so delicious that I had to try my hand
on it right away, just for the luxury of it.  I set about it, and sure
enough it panned out to admiration.  I wrote that chapter most carefully,
and I couldn't find a fault with it.  (It was not for the biography--no,
it belonged to an immediate and deadlier project.)

Well, five days ago, this thought came into my mind(from Mrs. Clemens's):
"Wouldn't it be well to make sure that the attacks have been 'almost
daily'?--and to also make sure that their number and character will
justify me in doing what I am proposing to do?"

I at once set a man to work in New York to seek out and copy every
unpleasant reference which had been made to me in the Tribune from Nov.
1st to date.  On my own part I began to watch the current numbers, for I
had subscribed for the paper.

The result arrived from my New York man this morning.  O, what a pitiable
wreck of high hopes!  The "almost daily" assaults, for two months,
consist of--1. Adverse criticism of P. & P.  from an enraged idiot in the
London Atheneum; 2. Paragraph from some indignant Englishman in the Pall
Mall Gazette who pays me the vast compliment of gravely rebuking some
imaginary ass who has set me up in the neighborhood of Rabelais; 3. A
remark of the Tribune's about the Montreal dinner, touched with an almost
invisible satire; 4. A remark of the Tribune's about refusal of Canadian
copyright, not complimentary, but not necessarily malicious--and of
course adverse criticism which is not malicious is a thing which none but
fools irritate themselves about.

There--that is the prodigious bugaboo, in its entirety!  Can you conceive
of a man's getting himself into a sweat over so diminutive a provocation?
I am sure I can't.  What the devil can those friends of mine have been
thinking about, to spread these 3 or 4  harmless things out into two
months of daily sneers and affronts?  The whole offense, boiled down,
amounts to just this: one uncourteous remark of the Tribune about my
book--not me between Nov. 1 and Dec. 20; and a couple of foreign
criticisms (of my writings, not me,) between Nov. 1 and Jan. 26!  If I
can't stand that amount of friction, I certainly need reconstruction.
Further boiled down, this vast outpouring of malice amounts to simply
this: one jest from the Tribune (one can make nothing more serious than
that out of it.) One jest--and that is all; for the foreign criticisms do
not count, they being matters of news, and proper for publication in
anybody's newspaper.

And to offset that one jest, the Tribune paid me one compliment Dec. 23,
by publishing my note declining the New York New England dinner, while
merely (in the same breath,) mentioning that similar letters were read
from General Sherman and other men whom we all know to be persons of real
consequence.

Well, my mountain has brought forth its mouse, and a sufficiently small
mouse it is, God knows.  And my three weeks' hard work have got to go
into the ignominious pigeon-hole.  Confound it, I could have earned ten
thousand dollars with infinitely less trouble.  However, I shouldn't have
done it, for I am too lazy, now, in my sere and yellow leaf, to be
willing to work for anything but love.....  I kind of envy you people who
are permitted for your righteousness' sake to dwell in a boarding house;
not that I should always want to live in one, but I should like the
change occasionally from this housekeeping slavery to that wild
independence.  A life of don't-care-a-damn in a boarding house is what I
have asked for in many a secret prayer.  I shall come by and by and
require of you what you have offered me there.
                                        Yours ever,
                                                  MARK.


     Howells, who had already known something of the gathering storm,
     replied: "Your letter was an immense relief to me, for although I
     had an abiding faith that you would get sick of your enterprise,
     I wasn't easy until I knew that you had given it up."

     Joel Chandler Harris appears again in the letters of this period.
     Twichell, during a trip South about this time, had called on Harris
     with some sort of proposition or suggestion from Clemens that Harris
     appear with him in public, and tell, or read, the Remus stories from
     the platform.  But Harris was abnormally diffident.  Clemens later
     pronounced him "the shyest full-grown man" he had ever met, and the
     word which Twichell brought home evidently did not encourage the
     platform idea.


                   To Joel Chandler Harris, in Atlanta:

                                             HARTFORD, Apl. 2, '82.
Private.

MY DEAR MR. HARRIS,--Jo Twichell brought me your note and told me of his
talk with you.  He said you didn't believe you would ever be able to
muster a sufficiency of reckless daring to make you comfortable and at
ease before an audience.  Well, I have thought out a device whereby I
believe we can get around that difficulty.  I will explain when I see
you.

Jo says you want to go to Canada within a month or six weeks--I forget
just exactly what he did say; but he intimated the trip could be delayed
a while, if necessary.  If this is so, suppose you meet Osgood and me in
New Orleans early in May--say somewhere between the 1st and 6th?

It will be well worth your while to do this, because the author who goes
to Canada unposted, will not know what course to pursue [to secure
copyright] when he gets there; he will find himself in a hopeless
confusion as to what is the correct thing to do.  Now Osgood is the only
man in America, who can lay out your course for you and tell you exactly
what to do.  Therefore, you just come to New Orleans and have a talk with
him.

Our idea is to strike across lots and reach St. Louis the 20th of April--
thence we propose to drift southward, stopping at some town a few hours
or a night, every day, and making notes.

To escape the interviewers, I shall follow my usual course and use a
fictitious name (C. L. Samuel, of New York.) I don't know what Osgood's
name will be, but he can't use his own.

If you see your way to meet us in New Orleans, drop me a line, now, and
as we approach that city I will telegraph you what day we shall arrive
there.

I would go to Atlanta if I could, but shan't be able.  We shall go back
up the river to St. Paul, and thence by rail X-lots home.

(I am making this letter so dreadfully private and confidential because
my movements must be kept secret, else I shan't be able to pick up the
kind of book-material I want.)

If you are diffident, I suspect that you ought to let Osgood be your
magazine-agent.  He makes those people pay three or four times as much as
an article is worth, whereas I never had the cheek to make them pay more
than double.
                              Yrs Sincerely
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     "My backwardness is an affliction," wrote Harris.....  "The ordeal
     of appearing on the stage would be a terrible one, but my experience
     is that when a diffident man does become familiar with his
     surroundings he has more impudence than his neighbors.  Extremes
     meet."

     He was sorely tempted, but his courage became as water at the
     thought of footlights and assembled listeners.  Once in New York he
     appears to have been caught unawares at a Tile Club dinner and made
     to tell a story, but his agony was such that at the prospect of a
     similar ordeal in Boston he avoided that city and headed straight
     for Georgia and safety.

     The New Orleans excursion with Osgood, as planned by Clemens, proved
     a great success.  The little party took the steamer Gold Dust from
     St. Louis down river toward New Orleans.  Clemens was quickly
     recognized, of course, and his assumed name laid aside.  The author
     of "Uncle Remus" made the trip to New Orleans.  George W. Cable was
     there at the time, and we may believe that in the company of Mark
     Twain and Osgood those Southern authors passed two or three
     delightful days.  Clemens also met his old teacher Bixby in New
     Orleans, and came back up the river with him, spending most of his
     time in the pilot-house, as in the old days.  It was a glorious
     trip, and, reaching St. Louis, he continued it northward, stopping
     off at Hannibal and Quincy.'


                      To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford:

                                        QUINCY, ILL.  May 17, '82.
Livy darling, I am desperately homesick.  But I have promised Osgood, and
must stick it out; otherwise I would take the train at once and break for
home.

I have spent three delightful days in Hannibal, loitering around all day
long, examining the old localities and talking with the grey-heads who
were boys and girls with me 30 or 40 years ago.  It has been a moving
time.  I spent my nights with John and Helen Garth, three miles from
town, in their spacious and beautiful house.  They were children with me,
and afterwards schoolmates.  Now they have a daughter 19 or 20 years old.
Spent an hour, yesterday, with A. W. Lamb, who was not married when I saw
him last.  He married a young lady whom I knew.  And now I have been
talking with their grown-up sons and daughters.  Lieutenant Hickman, the
spruce young handsomely-uniformed volunteer of 1846, called on me--a
grisly elephantine patriarch of 65 now, his grace all vanished.

That world which I knew in its blossoming youth is old and bowed and
melancholy, now; its soft cheeks are leathery and wrinkled, the fire is
gone out in its eyes, and the spring from its step.  It will be dust and
ashes when I come again.  I have been clasping hands with the moribund-
and usually they said, "It is for the last time."

Now I am under way again, upon this hideous trip to St. Paul, with a
heart brimming full of thoughts and images of you and Susie and Bay and
the peerless Jean.  And so good night, my love.

                                             SAML.


     Clemens's trip had been saddened by learning, in New Orleans, the
     news of the death of Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh.  To Doctor
     Brown's son, whom he had known as "Jock," he wrote immediately on
     his return to Hartford.


                     To Mr. John Brown, in Edinburgh

                                        HARTFORD, June 1, 1882.
MY DEAR MR. BROWN,--I was three thousand miles from home, at breakfast in
New Orleans, when the damp morning paper revealed the sorrowful news
among the cable dispatches.  There was no place in America, however
remote, or however rich, or poor or high or humble where words of
mourning for your father were not uttered that morning, for his works had
made him known and loved all over the land.  To Mrs. Clemens and me,
the loss is personal; and our grief the grief one feels for one who was
peculiarly near and dear.  Mrs. Clemens has never ceased to express
regret that we came away from England the last time without going to see
him, and often we have since projected a voyage across the Atlantic for
the sole purpose of taking him by the hand and looking into his kind eyes
once more before he should be called to his rest.

We both thank you greatly for the Edinburgh papers which you sent.  My
wife and I join in affectionate remembrances and greetings to yourself
and your aunt, and in the sincere tender of our sympathies.

                              Faithfully yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.

Our Susie is still "Megalops."  He gave her that name:

Can you spare a photograph of your father?  We have none but the one
taken in a group with ourselves.


     William Dean Howells, at the age of forty-five, reached what many
     still regard his highest point of achievement in American realism.
     His novel, The Rise of Silas Lapham, which was running as a Century
     serial during the summer of 1882, attracted wide attention, and upon
     its issue in book form took first place among his published novels.
     Mark Twain, to the end of his life, loved all that Howells wrote.
     Once, long afterward, he said: "Most authors give us glimpses of a
     radiant moon, but Howells's moon shines and sails all night long."
     When the instalments of The Rise of Silas Lapham began to appear, he
     overflowed in adjectives, the sincerity of which we need not doubt,
     in view of his quite open criticisms of the author's reading
     delivery.


                   To W. D. Howells, in Belmont, Mass.:

MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I am in a state of wild enthusiasm over this July
instalment of your story.  It's perfectly dazzling--it's masterly--
incomparable.  Yet I heard you read it--without losing my balance.
Well, the difference between your reading and your writing is-remarkable.
I mean, in the effects produced and the impression left behind.  Why, the
one is to the other as is one of Joe Twichell's yarns repeated by a
somnambulist.  Goodness gracious, you read me a chapter, and it is a
gentle, pearly dawn, with a sprinkle of faint stars in it; but by and by
I strike it in print, and shout to myself, "God bless us, how has that
pallid former spectacle been turned into these gorgeous sunset
splendors!"

Well, I don't care how much you read your truck to me, you can't
permanently damage it for me that way.  It is always perfectly fresh and
dazzling when I come on it in the magazine.  Of course I recognize the
form of it as being familiar--but that is all.  That is, I remember it as
pyrotechnic figures which you set up before me, dead and cold, but ready
for the match--and now I see them touched off and all ablaze with
blinding fires.  You can read, if you want to, but you don't read worth a
damn.  I know you can read, because your readings of Cable and your
repeatings of the German doctor's remarks prove that.

That's the best drunk scene--because the truest--that I ever read.  There
are touches in it that I never saw any writer take note of before.  And
they are set before the reader with amazing accuracy.  How very drunk,
and how recently drunk, and how altogether admirably drunk you must have
been to enable you to contrive that masterpiece!

Why I didn't notice that that religious interview between Marcia and Mrs.
Halleck was so deliciously humorous when you read it to me--but dear me,
it's just too lovely for anything.  (Wrote Clark to collar it for the
"Library.")

Hang it, I know where the mystery is, now; when you are reading, you
glide right along, and I don't get a chance to let the things soak home;
but when I catch it in the magazine, I give a page 20 or 30 minutes in
which to gently and thoroughly filter into me.  Your humor is so very
subtle, and elusive--(well, often it's just a vanishing breath of perfume
which a body isn't certain he smelt till he stops and takes another
smell) whereas you can smell other

(Remainder obliterated.)


     Among Mark Twain's old schoolmates in Hannibal was little Helen
     Kercheval, for whom in those early days he had a very tender spot
     indeed.  But she married another schoolmate, John Garth, who in time
     became a banker, highly respected and a great influence.  John and
     Helen Garth have already been mentioned in the letter of May 17th.


                       To John Garth, in Hannibal:

                                             HARTFORD, July 3 '82.
DEAR JOHN,--Your letter of June i9 arrived just one day after we ought to
have been in Elmira, N. Y. for the summer: but at the last moment the
baby was seized with scarlet fever.  I had to telegraph and countermand
the order for special sleeping car; and in fact we all had to fly around
in a lively way and undo the patient preparations of weeks--rehabilitate
the dismantled house, unpack the trunks, and so on.  A couple of days
later, the eldest child was taken down with so fierce a fever that she
was soon delirious--not scarlet fever, however.  Next, I myself was
stretched on the bed with three diseases at once, and all of them fatal.
But I never did care for fatal diseases if I could only have privacy and
room to express myself concerning them.

We gave early warning, and of course nobody has entered the house in all
this time but one or two reckless old bachelors--and they probably wanted
to carry the disease to the children of former flames of theirs.  The
house is still in quarantine and must remain so for a week or two yet--at
which time we are hoping to leave for Elmira.
                    Always your friend
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     By the end of summer Howells was in Europe, and Clemens, in Elmira,
     was trying to finish his Mississippi book, which was giving him a
     great deal of trouble.  It was usually so with his non-fiction
     books; his interest in them was not cumulative; he was prone to grow
     weary of them, while the menace of his publisher's contract was
     maddening.  Howells's letters, meant to be comforting, or at least
     entertaining, did not always contribute to his peace of mind.  The
     Library of American Humor which they had planned was an added
     burden.  Before sailing, Howells had written: "Do you suppose you
     can do your share of the reading at Elmira, while you are writing at
     the Mississippi book?"

     In a letter from London, Howells writes of the good times he is
     having over there with Osgood, Hutton, John Hay, Aldrich, and Alma
     Tadema, excursioning to Oxford, feasting, especially "at the Mitre
     Tavern, where they let you choose your dinner from the joints
     hanging from the rafter, and have passages that you lose yourself in
     every time you try to go to your room.....  Couldn't you and Mrs.
     Clemens step over for a little while?.....  We have seen lots of
     nice people and have been most pleasantly made of; but I would
     rather have you smoke in my face, and talk for half a day just for
     pleasure, than to go to the best house or club in London."  The
     reader will gather that this could not be entirely soothing to a man
     shackled by a contract and a book that refused to come to an end.


                       To W. D. Howells, in London:

                                        HARTFORD, CONN.  Oct 30, 1882.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I do not expect to find you, so I shan't spend many
words on you to wind up in the perdition of some European dead-letter
office.  I only just want to say that the closing installments of the
story are prodigious.  All along I was afraid it would be impossible for
you to keep up so splendidly to the end; but you were only, I see now,
striking eleven.  It is in these last chapters that you struck twelve.
Go on and write; you can write good books yet, but you can never match
this one.  And speaking of the book, I inclose something which has been
happening here lately.

We have only just arrived at home, and I have not seen Clark on our
matters.  I cannot see him or any one else, until I get my book finished.
The weather turned cold, and we had to rush home, while I still lacked
thirty thousand words.  I had been sick and got delayed.  I am going to
write all day and two thirds of the night, until the thing is done, or
break down at it.  The spur and burden of the contract are intolerable to
me.  I can endure the irritation of it no longer.  I went to work at nine
o'clock yesterday morning, and went to bed an hour after midnight.
Result of the day, (mainly stolen from books, tho' credit given,) 9500
words, so I reduced my burden by one third in one day.  It was five days
work in one.  I have nothing more to borrow or steal; the rest must all
be written.  It is ten days work, and unless something breaks, it will be
finished in five.  We all send love to you and Mrs. Howells, and all the
family.
                         Yours as ever,
                                   MARK.


Again, from Villeneuve, on lake Geneva, Howells wrote urging him this
time to spend the winter with them in Florence, where they would write
their great American Comedy of 'Orme's Motor,' "which is to enrich us
beyond the dreams of avarice.... We could have a lot of fun writing it,
and you could go home with some of the good old Etruscan malaria in your
bones, instead of the wretched pinch-beck Hartford article that you are
suffering from now....  it's a great opportunity for you.  Besides,
nobody over there likes you half as well as I do."

It should be added that 'Orme's Motor' was the provisional title that
Clemens and Howells had selected for their comedy, which was to be built,
in some measure, at least, around the character, or rather from the
peculiarities, of Orion Clemens.  The Cable mentioned in Mark Twain's
reply is, of course, George W. Cable, who only a little while before had
come up from New Orleans to conquer the North with his wonderful tales
and readings.


                    To W. D. Howells, in Switzerland:

                                             HARTFORD, Nov.  4th, 1882.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Yes, it would be profitable for me to do that, because
with your society to help me, I should swiftly finish this now apparently
interminable book.  But I cannot come, because I am not Boss here, and
nothing but dynamite can move Mrs. Clemens away from home in the winter
season.

I never had such a fight over a book in my life before.  And the
foolishest part of the whole business is, that I started Osgood to
editing it before I had finished writing it.  As a consequence, large
areas of it are condemned here and there and yonder, and I have the
burden of these unfilled gaps harassing me and the thought of the broken
continuity of the work, while I am at the same time trying to build the
last quarter of the book.  However, at last I have said with sufficient
positiveness that I will finish the book at no particular date; that I
will not hurry it; that I will not hurry myself; that I will take things
easy and comfortably, write when I choose to write, leave it alone when I
so prefer.  The printers must wait, the artists, the canvassers, and all
the rest.  I have got everything at a dead standstill, and that is where
it ought to be, and that is where it must remain; to follow any other
policy would be to make the book worse than it already is.  I ought to
have finished it before showing to anybody, and then sent it across the
ocean to you to be edited, as usual; for you seem to be a great many
shades happier than you deserve to be, and if I had thought of this thing
earlier, I would have acted upon it and taken the tuck somewhat out of
your joyousness.

In the same mail with your letter, arrived the enclosed from Orme the
motor man.  You will observe that he has an office.  I will explain that
this is a law office and I think it probably does him as much good to
have a law office without anything to do in it, as it would another man
to have one with an active business attached.  You see he is on the
electric light lay now.  Going to light the city and allow me to take all
the stock if I want to.  And he will manage it free of charge.  It never
would occur to this simple soul how much less costly it would be to me,
to hire him on a good salary not to manage it.  Do you observe the same
old eagerness, the same old hurry, springing from the fear that if he
does not move with the utmost swiftness, that colossal opportunity will
escape him?  Now just fancy this same frantic plunging after vast
opportunities, going on week after week with this same man, during fifty
entire years, and he has not yet learned, in the slightest degree, that
there isn't any occasion to hurry; that his vast opportunity will always
wait; and that whether it waits or flies, he certainly will never catch
it.  This immortal hopefulness, fortified by its immortal and unteachable
misjudgment, is the immortal feature of this character, for a play; and
we will write that play.  We should be fools else.  That staccato
postscript reads as if some new and mighty business were imminent, for it
is slung on the paper telegraphically, all the small words left out.
I am afraid something newer and bigger than the electric light is
swinging across his orbit.  Save this letter for an inspiration.  I have
got a hundred more.

Cable has been here, creating worshipers on all hands.  He is a marvelous
talker on a deep subject.  I do not see how even Spencer could unwind a
thought more smoothly or orderly, and do it in a cleaner, clearer,
crisper English.  He astounded Twichell with his faculty.  You know when
it comes down to moral honesty, limpid innocence, and utterly blemishless
piety, the Apostles were mere policemen to Cable; so with this in mind
you must imagine him at a midnight dinner in Boston the other night,
where we gathered around the board of the Summerset Club; Osgood, full,
Boyle O'Reilly, full, Fairchild responsively loaded, and Aldrich and
myself possessing the floor, and properly fortified.  Cable told Mrs.
Clemens when he returned here, that he seemed to have been entertaining
himself with horses, and had a dreamy idea that he must have gone to
Boston in a cattle-car.  It was a very large time.  He called it an orgy.
And no doubt it was, viewed from his standpoint.

I wish I were in Switzerland, and I wish we could go to Florence; but we
have to leave these delights to you; there is no helping it.  We all join
in love to you and all the family.
                                   Yours as ever
                                             MARK.




XXIII.

LETTERS, 1883, TO HOWELLS AND OTHERS.  A GUEST OF THE MARQUIS OF LORNE.
THE HISTORY GAME. A PLAY BY HOWELLS AND MARK TWAIN

     Mark Twain, in due season, finished the Mississippi book and placed
     it in Osgood's hands for publication.  It was a sort of partnership
     arrangement in which Clemens was to furnish the money to make the
     book, and pay Osgood a percentage for handling it.  It was, in fact,
     the beginning of Mark Twain's adventures as a publisher.

     Howells was not as happy in Florence as he had hoped to be.  The
     social life there overwhelmed him.  In February he wrote: "Our two
     months in Florence have been the most ridiculous time that ever even
     half-witted people passed.  We have spent them in chasing round
     after people for whom we cared nothing, and being chased by them.
     My story isn't finished yet, and what part of it is done bears the
     fatal marks of haste and distraction.  Of course, I haven't put pen
     to paper yet on the play.  I wring my hands and beat my breast when
     I think of how these weeks have been wasted; and how I have been
     forced to waste them by the infernal social circumstances from which
     I couldn't escape."

     Clemens, now free from the burden of his own book, was light of
     heart and full of ideas and news; also of sympathy and appreciation.
     Howells's story of this time was "A Woman's Reason."  Governor
     Jewell, of this letter, was Marshall Jewell, Governor of Connecticut
     from 1871 to 1873.  Later, he was Minister to Russia, and in 1874
     was United States Postmaster-General.


                      To W. D. Howells, in Florence:

                                        HARTFORD, March 1st, 1883.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--We got ourselves ground up in that same mill, once, in
London, and another time in Paris.  It is a kind of foretaste of hell.
There is no way to avoid it except by the method which you have now
chosen.  One must live secretly and cut himself utterly off from the
human race, or life in Europe becomes an unbearable burden and work an
impossibility.  I learned something last night, and maybe it may
reconcile me to go to Europe again sometime.  I attended one of the
astonishingly popular lectures of a man by the name of Stoddard, who
exhibits interesting stereopticon pictures and then knocks the interest
all out of them with his comments upon them.  But all the world go there
to look and listen, and are apparently well satisfied.  And they ought to
be fully satisfied, if the lecturer would only keep still, or die in the
first act.  But he described how retired tradesmen and farmers in Holland
load a lazy scow with the family and the household effects, and then loaf
along the waterways of the low countries all the summer long, paying no
visits, receiving none, and just lazying a heavenly life out in their own
private unpestered society, and doing their literary work, if they have
any, wholly uninterrupted.  If you had hired such a boat and sent for us
we should have a couple of satisfactory books ready for the press now
with no marks of interruption, vexatious wearinesses, and other
hellishnesses visible upon them anywhere.  We shall have to do this
another time.  We have lost an opportunity for the present.  Do you
forget that Heaven is packed with a multitude of all nations and that
these people are all on the most familiar how-the-hell-are-you footing
with Talmage swinging around the circle to all eternity hugging the
saints and patriarchs and archangels, and forcing you to do the same
unless you choose to make yourself an object of remark if you refrain?
Then why do you try to get to Heaven?  Be warned in time.

We have all read your two opening numbers in the Century, and consider
them almost beyond praise.  I hear no dissent from this verdict.  I did
not know there was an untouched personage in American life, but I had
forgotten the auctioneer.  You have photographed him accurately.

I have been an utterly free person for a month or two; and I do not
believe I ever so greatly appreciated and enjoyed--and realized the
absence of the chains of slavery as I do this time.  Usually my first
waking thought in the morning is, "I have nothing to do to-day, I belong
to nobody, I have ceased from being a slave."  Of course the highest
pleasure to be got out of freedom, and having nothing to do, is labor.
Therefore I labor.  But I take my time about it.  I work one hour or four
as happens to suit my mind, and quit when I please.  And so these days
are days of entire enjoyment.  I told Clark the other day, to jog along
comfortable and not get in a sweat.  I said I believed you would not be
able to enjoy editing that library over there, where you have your own
legitimate work to do and be pestered to death by society besides;
therefore I thought if he got it ready for you against your return, that
that would be best and pleasantest.

You remember Governor Jewell, and the night he told about Russia, down in
the library.  He was taken with a cold about three weeks ago, and I
stepped over one evening, proposing to beguile an idle hour for him with
a yarn or two, but was received at the door with whispers, and the
information that he was dying.  His case had been dangerous during that
day only and he died that night, two hours after I left.  His taking off
was a prodigious surprise, and his death has been most widely and
sincerely regretted.  Win. E. Dodge, the father-in-law of one of Jewell's
daughters, dropped suddenly dead the day before Jewell died, but Jewell
died without knowing that.  Jewell's widow went down to New York, to
Dodge's house, the day after Jewell's funeral, and was to return here day
before yesterday, and she did--in a coffin.  She fell dead, of heart
disease, while her trunks were being packed for her return home.
Florence Strong, one of Jewell's daughters, who lives in Detroit, started
East on an urgent telegram, but missed a connection somewhere, and did
not arrive here in time to see her father alive.  She was his favorite
child, and they had always been like lovers together.  He always sent her
a box of fresh flowers once a week to the day of his death; a custom
which he never suspended even when he was in Russia.  Mrs. Strong had
only just reached her Western home again when she was summoned to
Hartford to attend her mother's funeral.

I have had the impulse to write you several times.  I shall try to
remember better henceforth.

With sincerest regards to all of you,
                                   Yours as ever,
                                             MARK.


     Mark Twain made another trip to Canada in the interest of copyright-
     this time to protect the Mississippi book.  When his journey was
     announced by the press, the Marquis of Lorne telegraphed an
     invitation inviting him to be his guest at Rideau Hall, in Ottawa.
     Clemens accepted, of course, and was handsomely entertained by the
     daughter of Queen Victoria and her husband, then Governor-General of
     Canada.

     On his return to Hartford he found that Osgood had issued a curious
     little book, for which Clemens had prepared an introduction.  It was
     an absurd volume, though originally issued with serious intent, its
     title being The New Guide of the Conversation in Portuguese and
     English.'--[The New Guide of the Conversation in Portuguese and
     English, by Pedro Caxolino, with an introduction by Mark Twain.
     Osgood, Boston, 1883. ]--Evidently the "New Guide" was prepared by
     some simple Portuguese soul with but slight knowledge of English
     beyond that which could be obtained from a dictionary, and his
     literal translation of English idioms are often startling, as, for
     instance, this one, taken at random:

     "A little learneds are happies enough for to may to satisfy their
     fancies on the literature."

     Mark Twain thought this quaint book might amuse his royal hostess,
     and forwarded a copy in what he considered to be the safe and proper
     form.

                  To Col. De Winton, in Ottawa, Canada:

                                             HARTFORD, June 4, '83.
DEAR COLONEL DE WINTON,--I very much want to send a little book to her
Royal Highness--the famous Portuguese phrase book; but I do not know the
etiquette of the matter, and I would not wittingly infringe any rule of
propriety.  It is a book which I perfectly well know will amuse her "some
at most" if she has not seen it before, and will still amuse her "some at
least," even if she has inspected it a hundred times already.  So I will
send the book to you, and you who know all about the proper observances
will protect me from indiscretion, in case of need, by putting the said
book in the fire, and remaining as dumb as I generally was when I was up
there.  I do not rebind the thing, because that would look as if I
thought it worth keeping, whereas it is only worth glancing at and
casting aside.

Will you please present my compliments to Mrs. De Winton and Mrs.
Mackenzie?--and I beg to make my sincere compliments to you, also, for
your infinite kindnesses to me.  I did have a delightful time up there,
most certainly.
                    Truly yours
                              S. L. CLEMENS.

P. S.  Although the introduction dates a year back, the book is only just
now issued.  A good long delay.

                                        S. L. C.

     Howells, writing from Venice, in April, manifested special interest
     in the play project: "Something that would run like Scheherazade,
     for a thousand and one nights," so perhaps his book was going
     better.  He proposed that they devote the month of October to the
     work, and inclosed a letter from Mallory, who owned not only a
     religious paper, The Churchman, but also the Madison Square Theater,
     and was anxious for a Howells play.  Twenty years before Howells had
     been Consul to Venice, and he wrote, now: "The idea of my being here
     is benumbing and silencing.  I feel like the Wandering Jew, or the
     ghost of the Cardiff giant."

     He returned to America in July.  Clemens sent him word of welcome,
     with glowing reports of his own undertakings.  The story on which he
     was piling up MS. was The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, begun
     seven years before at Quarry Farm.  He had no great faith in it
     then, and though he had taken it up again in 1880, his interest had
     not lasted to its conclusion.  This time, however, he was in the
     proper spirit, and the story would be finished.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        ELMIRA, July 20, '83.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--We are desperately glad you and your gang are home
again--may you never travel again, till you go aloft or alow.  Charley
Clark has gone to the other side for a run--will be back in August.  He
has been sick, and needed the trip very much.

Mrs. Clemens had a long and wasting spell of sickness last Spring, but
she is pulling up, now.  The children are booming, and my health is
ridiculous, it's so robust, notwithstanding the newspaper misreports.

I haven't piled up MS so in years as I have done since we came here to
the farm three weeks and a half ago.  Why, it's like old times, to step
right into the study, damp from the breakfast table, and sail right in
and sail right on, the whole day long, without thought of running short
of stuff or words.

I wrote 4000 words to-day and I touch 3000 and upwards pretty often, and
don't fall below 1600 any working day.  And when I get fagged out, I lie
abed a couple of days and read and smoke, and then go it again for 6 or 7
days.  I have finished one small book, and am away along in a big 433
one that I half-finished two or three years ago.  I expect to complete it
in a month or six weeks or two months more.  And I shall like it, whether
anybody else does or not.

It's a kind of companion to Tom Sawyer.  There's a raft episode from it
in second or third chapter of life on the Mississippi.....

I'm booming, these days--got health and spirits to waste--got an
overplus; and if I were at home, we would write a play.  But we must do
it anyhow by and by.

We stay here till Sep. 10; then maybe a week at Indian Neck for sea air,
then home.

We are powerful glad you are all back; and send love according.

                         Yrs Ever
                              MARK


               To Onion Clemens and family, in Keokuk, Id.:

                                        ELMIRA, July 22, '83.
Private

DEAR MA AND ORION AND MOLLIE,--I don't know that I have anything new to
report, except that Livy is still gaining, and all the rest of us
flourishing.  I haven't had such booming working-days for many years.
I am piling up manuscript in a really astonishing way.  I believe I shall
complete, in two months, a book which I have been fooling over for
7 years.  This summer it is no more trouble to me to write than it is to
lie.

Day before yesterday I felt slightly warned to knock off work for one
day.  So I did it, and took the open air.  Then I struck an idea for the
instruction of the children, and went to work and carried it out.  It
took me all day.  I measured off 817 feet of the road-way in our farm
grounds, with a foot-rule, and then divided it up among the English
reigns, from the Conqueror down to 1883, allowing one foot to the year.
I whittled out a basket of little pegs and drove one in the ground at the
beginning of each reign, and gave it that King's name--thus:

I measured all the reigns exactly as many feet to the reign as there were
years in it.  You can look out over the grounds and see the little pegs
from the front door--some of them close together, like Richard II,
Richard Cromwell, James II, &c; and some prodigiously wide apart, like
Henry III, Edward III, George III, &c.  It gives the children a realizing
sense of the length or brevity of a reign.  Shall invent a violent game
to go with it.

And in bed, last night, I invented a way to play it indoors--in a far
more voluminous way, as to multiplicity of dates and events--on a
cribbage board.

Hello, supper's ready.
          Love to all.
                    Good bye.
                         SAML.


     Onion Clemens would naturally get excited over the idea of the game
     and its commercial possibilities.  Not more so than his brother,
     however, who presently employed him to arrange a quantity of
     historical data which the game was to teach.  For a season, indeed,
     interest in the game became a sort of midsummer madness which
     pervaded the two households, at Keokuk and at Quarry Farm.  Howells
     wrote his approval of the idea of "learning history by the running
     foot," which was a pun, even if unintentional, for in its out-door
     form it was a game of speed as well as knowledge.

     Howells adds that he has noticed that the newspapers are exploiting
     Mark Twain's new invention of a history game, and we shall presently
     see how this happened.

     Also, in this letter, Howells speaks of an English nobleman to whom
     he has given a letter of introduction.  "He seemed a simple, quiet,
     gentlemanly man, with a good taste in literature, which he evinced
     by going about with my books in his pockets, and talking of yours."


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

MY DEAR HOWELLS,--How odd it seems, to sit down to write a letter with
the feeling that you've got time to do it.  But I'm done work, for this
season, and so have got time.  I've done two seasons' work in one, and
haven't anything left to do, now, but revise.  I've written eight or nine
hundred MS pages in such a brief space of time that I mustn't name the
number of days; I shouldn't believe it myself, and of course couldn't
expect you to.  I used to restrict myself to 4 or 5 hours a day and
5 days in the week, but this time I've wrought from breakfast till
5.15 p.m. six days in the week; and once or twice I smouched a Sunday
when the boss wasn't looking.  Nothing is half so good as literature
hooked on Sunday, on the sly.

I wrote you and Twichell on the same night, about the game, and was
appalled to get a note from him saying he was going to print part of my
letter, and was going to do it before I could get a chance to forbid it.
I telegraphed him, but was of course too late.

If you haven't ever tried to invent an indoor historical game, don't.
I've got the thing at last so it will work, I guess, but I don't want any
more tasks of that kind.  When I wrote you, I thought I had it; whereas I
was only merely entering upon the initiatory difficulties of it.  I might
have known it wouldn't be an easy job, or somebody would have invented a
decent historical game long ago--a thing which nobody had done.  I think
I've got it in pretty fair shape--so I have caveated it.

Earl of Onston--is that it?  All right, we shall be very glad to receive
them and get acquainted with them.  And much obliged to you, too.
There's plenty of worse people than the nobilities.  I went up and spent
a week with the Marquis and the Princess Louise, and had as good a time
as I want.

I'm powerful glad you are all back again; and we will come up there if
our little tribe will give us the necessary furlough; and if we can't get
it, you folks must come to us and give us an extension of time.  We get
home Sept. 11.

Hello, I think I see Waring coming!

Good-by-letter from Clark, which explains for him.

Love to you all from the
                         CLEMENSES.

No--it wasn't Waring.  I wonder what the devil has become of that man.
He was to spend to-day with us, and the day's most gone, now.

We are enjoying your story with our usual unspeakableness; and I'm right
glad you threw in the shipwreck and the mystery--I like it.  Mrs. Crane
thinks it's the best story you've written yet.  We--but we always think
the last one is the best.  And why shouldn't it be?  Practice helps.

P. S.  I thought I had sent all our loves to all of you, but Mrs. Clemens
says I haven't.  Damn it, a body can't think of everything; but a woman
thinks you can.  I better seal this, now--else there'll be more
criticism.

I perceive I haven't got the love in, yet.  Well, we do send the love of
all the family to all the Howellses.
                                        S. L. C.


There had been some delay and postponement in the matter of the play
which Howells and Clemens agreed to write.  They did not put in the
entire month of October as they had planned, but they did put in a
portion of that month, the latter half, working out their old idea.
In the end it became a revival of Colonel Sellers, or rather a caricature
of that gentle hearted old visionary.  Clemens had always complained that
the actor Raymond had never brought out the finer shades of Colonel
Sellers's character, but Raymond in his worst performance never belied
his original as did Howells and Clemens in his dramatic revival.  These
two, working together, let their imaginations run riot with disastrous
results.  The reader can judge something of this himself, from The
American Claimant the book which Mark Twain would later build from the
play.

But at this time they thought it a great triumph.  They had "cracked
their sides" laughing over its construction, as Howells once said, and
they thought the world would do the same over its performance.  They
decided to offer it to Raymond, but rather haughtily, indifferently,
because any number of other actors would be waiting for it.

But this was a miscalculation.  Raymond now turned the tables.  Though
favorable to the idea of a new play, he declared this one did not present
his old Sellers at all, but a lunatic.  In the end he returned the MS.
with a brief note.  Attempts had already been made to interest other
actors, and  would continue for some time.




XXIV

LETTERS, 1884, TO HOWELLS AND OTHERS.  CABLE'S GREAT APRIL FOOL.
"HUCK FINN" IN PRESS.  MARK TWAIN FOR CLEVELAND.  CLEMENS AND CABLE

Mark Twain had a lingering attack of the dramatic fever that winter.
He made a play of the Prince and Pauper, which Howells pronounced "too
thin and slight and not half long enough."  He made another of Tom
Sawyer, and probably destroyed it, for no trace of the MS. exists to-day.
Howells could not join in these ventures, for he was otherwise occupied
and had sickness in his household.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                  Jan.  7, '84.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--"O my goodn's", as Jean says.  You have now encountered
at last the heaviest calamity that can befall an author.  The scarlet
fever, once domesticated, is a permanent member of the family.  Money may
desert you, friends forsake you, enemies grow indifferent to you, but the
scarlet fever will be true to you, through thick and thin, till you be
all saved or damned, down to the last one.  I say these things to cheer
you.

The bare suggestion of scarlet fever in the family makes me shudder; I
believe I would almost rather have Osgood publish a book for me.

You folks have our most sincere sympathy.  Oh, the intrusion of this
hideous disease is an unspeakable disaster.

My billiard table is stacked up with books relating to the Sandwich
Islands: the walls axe upholstered with scraps of paper penciled with
notes drawn from them.  I have saturated myself with knowledge of that
unimaginably beautiful land and that most strange and fascinating people.
And I have begun a story.  Its hidden motive will illustrate a but-little
considered fact in human nature; that the religious folly you are born in
you will die in, no matter what apparently reasonabler religious folly
may seem to have taken its place meanwhile, and abolished and obliterated
it.  I start Bill Ragsdale at 12 years of age, and the heroine at 4, in
the midst of the ancient idolatrous system, with its picturesque and
amazing customs and superstitions, 3 months before the arrival of the
missionaries and the erection of a shallow Christianity upon the ruins of
the old paganism.  Then these two will become educated Christians, and
highly civilized.

And then I will jump 15 years, and do Ragsdale's leper business.  When we
came to dramatize, we can draw a deal of matter from the story, all ready
to our hand.
                    Yrs Ever
                              MARK.


     He never finished the Sandwich Islands story which he and Howells
     were to dramatize later.  His head filled up with other projects,
     such as publishing plans, reading-tours, and the like.  The type-
     setting machine does not appear in the letters of this period, but
     it was an important factor, nevertheless.  It was costing several
     thousand dollars a month for construction and becoming a heavy drain
     on Mark Twain's finances.  It was necessary to recuperate, and the
     anxiety for a profitable play, or some other adventure that would
     bring a quick and generous return, grew out of this need.

     Clemens had established Charles L.  Webster, his nephew by marriage,
     in a New York office, as selling agent for the Mississippi book and
     for his plays.  He was also planning to let Webster publish the new
     book, Huck Finn.

     George W. Cable had proven his ability as a reader, and Clemens saw
     possibilities in a reading combination, which was first planned to
     include Aldrich, and Howells, and a private car.

     But Aldrich and Howells did not warm to the idea, and the car was
     eliminated from the plan.  Cable came to visit Clemens in Hartford,
     and was taken with the mumps, so that the reading-trip was
     postponed.

     The fortunes of the Sellers play were most uncertain and becoming
     daily more doubtful.  In February, Howells wrote: "If you have got
     any comfort in regard to our play I wish you would heave it into my
     bosom."

     Cable recovered in time, and out of gratitude planned a great April-
     fool surprise for his host.  He was a systematic man, and did it in
     his usual thorough way.  He sent a "private and confidential"
     suggestion to a hundred and fifty of Mark Twain's friends and
     admirers, nearly all distinguished literary men.  The suggestion was
     that each one of them should send a request for Mark Twain's
     autograph, timing it so that it would arrive on the 1st of April.
     All seemed to have responded.  Mark Twain's writing-table on April
     Fool morning was heaped with letters, asking in every ridiculous
     fashion for his "valuable autograph."  The one from Aldrich was a
     fair sample.  He wrote: "I am making a collection of autographs of
     our distinguished writers, and having read one of your works,
     Gabriel Convoy, I would like to add your name to the list."

     Of course, the joke in this was that Gabriel Convoy was by Bret
     Harte, who by this time was thoroughly detested by Mark Twain.  The
     first one or two of the letters puzzled the victim; then he
     comprehended the size and character of the joke and entered into it
     thoroughly.  One of the letters was from Bloodgood H. Cutter, the
     "Poet Lariat" of Innocents Abroad.  Cutter, of course, wrote in
     "poetry," that is to say, doggerel.  Mark Twain's April Fool was a
     most pleasant one.


           Rhymed letter by Bloodgood H. Cutter to Mark Twain:

                                             LITTLE NECK, LONG ISLAND.

         LONG ISLAND FARMER, TO HIS FRIEND AND PILGRIM BROTHER,
                        SAMUEL L.  CLEMENS, ESQ.

Friends, suggest in each one's behalf
To write, and ask your autograph.
To refuse that, I will not do,
After the long voyage had with you.
That was a memorable time You wrote in prose, I wrote in Rhyme To
describe the wonders of each place, And the queer customs of each race.

That is in my memory yet
For while I live I'll not forget.
I often think of that affair
And the many that were with us there.

As your friends think it for the best
I ask your Autograph with the rest,
Hoping you will it to me send
'Twill please and cheer your dear old friend:

                    Yours truly,
                              BLOODGOOD H.  CUTTER.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Apl 8, '84.
MY DEAR HOWELLS, It took my breath away, and I haven't recovered it yet,
entirely--I mean the generosity of your proposal to read the proofs of
Huck Finn.

Now if you mean it, old man--if you are in earnest--proceed, in God's
name, and be by me forever blest.  I cannot conceive of a rational man
deliberately piling such an atrocious job upon himself; but if there is
such a man and you be that man, why then pile it on.  It will cost me a
pang every time I think of it, but this anguish will be eingebusst to me
in the joy and comfort I shall get out of the not having to read the
verfluchtete proofs myself.  But if you have repented of your
augenblichlicher Tobsucht and got back to calm cold reason again, I won't
hold you to it unless I find I have got you down in writing somewhere.
Herr, I would not read the proof of one of my books for any fair and
reasonable sum whatever, if I could get out of it.

The proof-reading on the P & P cost me the last rags of my religion.
                         M.


Howells had written that he would be glad to help out in the reading of
the proofs of Huck Finn, which book Webster by this time had in hand.
Replying to Clemens's eager and grateful acceptance now, he wrote: "It is
all perfectly true about the generosity, unless I am going to read your
proofs from one of the shabby motives which I always find at the bottom
of my soul if I examine it."  A characteristic utterance, though we may
be permitted to believe that his shabby motives were fewer and less
shabby than those of mankind in general.

The proofs which Howells was reading pleased him mightily.  Once, during
the summer, he wrote: "if I had written half as good a book as Huck Finn
I shouldn't ask anything better than to read the proofs; even as it is,
I don't, so send them on; they will always find me somewhere."

This was the summer of the Blaine-Cleveland campaign.  Mark Twain, in
company with many other leading men, had mugwumped, and was supporting
Cleveland.  From the next letter we gather something of the aspects of
that memorable campaign, which was one of scandal and vituperation.  We
learn, too, that the young sculptor, Karl Gerhardt, having completed a
three years' study in Paris, had returned to America a qualified artist.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                                  ELMIRA, Aug.  21, '84.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--This presidential campaign is too delicious for
anything.  Isn't human nature the most consummate sham and lie that was
ever invented?  Isn't man a creature to be ashamed of in pretty much all
his aspects?  Man, "know thyself "--and then thou wilt despise thyself,
to a dead moral certainty.  Take three quite good specimens--Hawley,
Warner, and Charley Clark.  Even I do not loathe Blaine more than they
do; yet Hawley is howling for Blaine, Warner and Clark are eating their
daily crow in the paper for him, and all three will vote for him.  O
Stultification, where is thy sting, O slave where is thy hickory!

I suppose you heard how a marble monument for which St. Gaudens was
pecuniarily responsible, burned down in Hartford the other day,
uninsured--for who in the world would ever think of insuring a marble
shaft in a cemetery against a fire?--and left St. Gauden out of pocket
$15,000.

It was a bad day for artists.  Gerhardt finished my bust that day, and
the work was pronounced admirable by all the kin and friends; but in
putting it in plaster (or rather taking it out) next day it got ruined.
It was four or five weeks hard work gone to the dogs.  The news flew, and
everybody on the farm flocked to the arbor and grouped themselves about
the wreck in a profound and moving silence--the farm-help, the colored
servants, the German nurse, the children, everybody--a silence
interrupted at wide intervals by absent-minded ejaculations wising from
unconscious breasts as the whole size of the disaster gradually worked
its way home to the realization of one spirit after another.

Some burst out with one thing, some another; the German nurse put up her
hands and said, "Oh, Schade!  oh, schrecklich!  "But Gerhardt said
nothing; or almost that.  He couldn't word it, I suppose.  But he went to
work, and by dark had everything thoroughly well under way for a fresh
start in the morning; and in three days' time had built a new bust which
was a trifle better than the old one--and to-morrow we shall put the
finishing touches on it, and it will be about as good a one as nearly
anybody can make.
                         Yrs Ever
                                   MARK.


If you run across anybody who wants a bust, be sure and recommend
Gerhardt on my say-so.

But Howells was determinedly for Blaine.  "I shall vote for Blaine," he
replied.  "I do not believe he is guilty of the things they accuse him
of, and I know they are not proved against him.  As for Cleveland, his
private life may be no worse than that of most men, but as an enemy of
that contemptible, hypocritical, lop-sided morality which says a woman
shall suffer all the shame of unchastity and man none, I want to see him
destroyed politically by his past.  The men who defend him would take
their wives to the White House if he were president, but if he married
his concubine--'made her an honest woman' they would not go near him.  I
can't stand that."

Certainly this was sound logic, in that day, at least.  But it left
Clemens far from satisfied.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, Sept. 17, '84.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Somehow I can't seem to rest quiet under the idea of
your voting for Blaine.  I believe you said something about the country
and the party.  Certainly allegiance to these is well; but as certainly a
man's first duty is to his own conscience and honor--the party or the
country come second to that, and never first.  I don't ask you to vote at
all--I only urge you to not soil yourself by voting for Blaine.

When you wrote before, you were able to say the charges against him were
not proven.  But you know now that they are proven, and it seems to me
that that bars you and all other honest and honorable men (who are
independently situated) from voting for him.

It is not necessary to vote for Cleveland; the only necessary thing to
do, as I understand it, is that a man shall keep himself clean, (by
withholding his vote for an improper man) even though the party and the
country go to destruction in consequence.  It is not parties that make or
save countries or that build them to greatness--it is clean men, clean
ordinary citizens, rank and file, the masses.  Clean masses are not made
by individuals standing back till the rest become clean.

As I said before, I think a man's first duty is to his own honor; not to
his country and not to his party.  Don't be offended; I mean no offence.
I am not so concerned about the rest of the nation, but--well, good-bye.
                                   Ys Ever
                                             MARK.


     There does not appear to be any further discussion of the matter
     between Howells and Clemens.  Their letters for a time contained no
     suggestion of politics.

     Perhaps Mark Twain's own political conscience was not entirely clear
     in his repudiation of his party; at least we may believe from his
     next letter that his Cleveland enthusiasm was qualified by a
     willingness to support a Republican who would command his admiration
     and honor.  The idea of an eleventh-hour nomination was rather
     startling, whatever its motive.


                        To Mr. Pierce, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Oct.  22, '84.
MY DEAR MR. PIERCE,--You know, as well as I do, that the reason the
majority of republicans are going to vote for Blaine is because they feel
that they cannot help themselves.  Do not you believe that if Mr. Edmunds
would consent to run for President, on the Independent ticket--even at
this late day--he might be elected?

Well, if he wouldn't consent, but should even strenuously protest and say
he wouldn't serve if elected, isn't it still wise and fair to nominate
him and vote for him? since his protest would relieve him from all
responsibility; and he couldn't surely find fault with people for forcing
a compliment upon him.  And do not you believe that his name thus
compulsorily placed at the head of the Independent column would work
absolutely certain defeat to Blain and save the country's honor?

Politicians often carry a victory by springing some disgraceful and
rascally mine under the feet of the adversary at the eleventh hour; would
it not be wholesome to vary this thing for once and spring as formidable
a mine of a better sort under the enemy's works?

If Edmunds's name were put up, I would vote for him in the teeth of all
the protesting and blaspheming he could do in a month; and there are lots
of others who would do likewise.

If this notion is not a foolish and wicked one, won't you just consult
with some chief Independents, and see if they won't call a sudden
convention and whoop the thing through?  To nominate Edmunds the 1st of
November, would be soon enough, wouldn't it?

With kindest regards to you and the Aldriches,
                                   Yr Truly
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


Clemens and Cable set out on their reading-tour in November.  They were a
curiously-assorted pair: Cable was of orthodox religion, exact as to
habits, neat, prim, all that Clemens was not.  In the beginning Cable
undertook to read the Bible aloud to Clemens each evening, but this part
of the day's program was presently omitted by request.  If they spent
Sunday in a town, Cable was up bright and early visiting the various
churches and Sunday-schools, while Mark Twain remained at the hotel, in
bed, reading or asleep.




XXV

THE GREAT YEAR OF 1885.  CLEMENS AND CABLE.  PUBLICATION OF "HUCK FINN."
THE GRANT MEMOIRS.  MARK TWAIN AT FIFTY

     The year 1885 was in some respects the most important, certainly the
     most pleasantly exciting, in Mark Twain's life.  It was the year in
     which he entered fully into the publishing business and launched one
     of the most spectacular of all publishing adventures, The Personal
     Memoirs of General U. S. Grant.  Clemens had not intended to do
     general publishing when he arranged with Webster to become sales-
     agent for the Mississippi book, and later general agent for Huck
     Finn's adventures; he had intended only to handle his own books,
     because he was pretty thoroughly dissatisfied with other publishing
     arrangements.  Even the Library of Humor, which Howells, with Clark,
     of the Courant, had put together for him, he left with Osgood until
     that publisher failed, during the spring of 1885.  Certainly he
     never dreamed of undertaking anything of the proportions of the
     Grant book.

     He had always believed that Grant could make a book.  More than
     once, when they had met, he had urged the General to prepare his
     memoirs for publication.  Howells, in his 'My Mark Twain', tells of
     going with Clemens to see Grant, then a member of the ill-fated firm
     of Grant and Ward, and how they lunched on beans, bacon and coffee
     brought in from a near-by restaurant.  It was while they were eating
     this soldier fare that Clemens--very likely abetted by Howells--
     especially urged the great commander to prepare his memoirs.  But
     Grant had become a financier, as he believed, and the prospect of
     literary earnings, however large, did not appeal to him.
     Furthermore, he was convinced that he was without literary ability
     and that a book by him would prove a failure.

     But then, by and by, came a failure more disastrous than anything he
     had foreseen--the downfall of his firm through the Napoleonic
     rascality of Ward.  General Grant was utterly ruined; he was left
     without income and apparently without the means of earning one.  It
     was the period when the great War Series was appeasing in the
     Century Magazine.  General Grant, hard-pressed, was induced by the
     editors to prepare one or more articles, and, finding that he could
     write them, became interested in the idea of a book.  It is
     unnecessary to repeat here the story of how the publication of this
     important work passed into the hands of Mark Twain; that is to say,
     the firm of Charles L. Webster & Co., the details having been fully
     given elsewhere.--[See Mark Twain: A Biography, chap.  cliv.]--

     We will now return for the moment to other matters, as reported in
     order by the letters.  Clemens and Cable had continued their
     reading-tour into Canada, and in February found themselves in
     Montreal.  Here they were invited by the Toque Bleue Snow-shoe Club
     to join in one of their weekly excursions across Mt. Royal.  They
     could not go, and the reasons given by Mark Twain are not without
     interest.  The letter is to Mr. George Iles, author of Flame,
     Electricity, and the Camera, and many other useful works.


            To George Iles, far the Toque Blew Snow-shoe Club,
                                Montreal:

                                   DETROIT, February 12, 1885.
                                   Midnight, P.S.
MY DEAR ILES,--I got your other telegram a while ago, and answered it,
explaining that I get only a couple of hours in the middle of the day for
social life.  I know it doesn't seem rational that a man should have to
lie abed all day in order to be rested and equipped for talking an hour
at night, and yet in my case and Cable's it is so.  Unless I get a great
deal of rest, a ghastly dulness settles down upon me on the platform, and
turns my performance into work, and hard work, whereas it ought always to
be pastime, recreation, solid enjoyment.  Usually it is just this latter,
but that is because I take my rest faithfully, and prepare myself to do
my duty by my audience.

I am the obliged and appreciative servant of my brethren of the Snow-shoe
Club, and nothing in the world would delight me more than to come to
their house without naming time or terms on my own part--but you see how
it is.  My cast iron duty is to my audience--it leaves me no liberty and
no option.

With kindest regards to the Club, and to you,
               I am Sincerely yours
                              S. L. CLEMENS.

     In the next letter we reach the end of the Clemens-Cable venture and
     get a characteristic summing up of Mark Twain's general attitude
     toward the companion of his travels.  It must be read only in the
     clear realization of Mark Twain's attitude toward orthodoxy, and his
     habit of humor.  Cable was as rigidly orthodox as Mark Twain was
     revolutionary.  The two were never anything but the best of friends.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        PHILADA.  Feb. 27, '85.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--To-night in Baltimore, to-morrow afternoon and night in
Washington, and my four-months platform campaign is ended at last.  It
has been a curious experience.  It has taught me that Cable's gifts of
mind are greater and higher than I had suspected.  But--

That "But" is pointing toward his religion.  You will never, never know,
never divine, guess, imagine, how loathsome a thing the Christian
religion can be made until you come to know and study Cable daily and
hourly.  Mind you, I like him; he is pleasant company; I rage and swear
at him sometimes, but we do not quarrel; we get along mighty happily
together; but in him and his person I have learned to hate all religions.
He has taught me to abhor and detest the Sabbath-day and hunt up new and
troublesome ways to dishonor it.

Nat Goodwin was on the train yesterday.  He plays in Washington all the
coming week.  He is very anxious to get our Sellers play and play it
under changed names.  I said the only thing I could do would be to write
to you.  Well, I've done it.
                              Ys Ever
                                        MARK.


     Clemens and Webster were often at the house of General Grant during
     these early days of 1885, and it must have been Webster who was
     present with Clemens on the great occasion described in the
     following telegram.  It was on the last day and hour of President
     Arthur's administration that the bill was passed which placed
     Ulysses S. Grant as full General with full pay on the retired list,
     and it is said that the congressional clock was set back in order
     that this enactment might become a law before the administration
     changed.  General Grant had by this time developed cancer and was
     already in feeble health.


                  Telegram to Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford:

                                             NEW YORK, Mar. 4, 1885.
To MRS. S. L. CLEMENS, We were at General Grant's at noon and a telegram
arrived that the last act of the expiring congress late this morning
retired him with full General's rank and accompanying emoluments.  The
effect upon him was like raising the dead.  We were present when the
telegram was put in his hand.

                              S. L. CLEMENS.


     Something has been mentioned before of Mark Twain's investments and
     the generally unprofitable habit of them.  He had a trusting nature,
     and was usually willing to invest money on any plausible
     recommendation.  He was one of thousands such, and being a person of
     distinction he now and then received letters of inquiry, complaint,
     or condolence.  A minister wrote him that he had bought some stocks
     recommended by a Hartford banker and advertised in a religious
     paper.  He added, "After I made that purchase they wrote me that you
     had just bought a hundred shares and that you were a 'shrewd' man."
     The writer closed by asking for further information.  He received
     it, as follows:


                     To the Rev. J----, in Baltimore:

                                             WASHINGTON, Mch.  2,'85.
MY DEAR SIR,--I take my earliest opportunity to answer your favor of Feb.

B---- was premature in calling me a "shrewd man."  I wasn't one at that
time, but am one now--that is, I am at least too shrewd to ever again
invest in anything put on the market by B----.  I know nothing whatever
about the Bank Note Co., and never did know anything about it.  B----
sold me about $4,000 or $5,000 worth of the stock at $110, and I own it
yet.  He sold me $10,000 worth of another rose-tinted stock about the
same time.  I have got that yet, also.  I judge that a peculiarity of
B----'s stocks is that they are of the staying kind.  I think you should
have asked somebody else whether I was a shrewd man or not for two
reasons: the stock was advertised in a religious paper, a circumstance
which was very suspicious; and the compliment came to you from a man who
was interested to make a purchaser of you.  I am afraid you deserve your
loss.  A financial scheme advertised in any religious paper is a thing
which any living person ought to know enough to avoid; and when the
factor is added that M. runs that religious paper, a dead person ought to
know enough to avoid it.
                              Very Truly Yours
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     The story of Huck Finn was having a wide success.  Webster handled
     it skillfully, and the sales were large.  In almost every quarter
     its welcome was enthusiastic.  Here and there, however, could be
     found an exception; Huck's morals were not always approved of by
     library reading-committees.  The first instance of this kind was
     reported from Concord; and would seem not to have depressed the
     author-publisher.


                   To Chas.  L.  Webster, in New York:

                                                       Mch 18, '85.
DEAR CHARLEY,--The Committee of the Public Library of Concord, Mass, have
given us a rattling tip-top puff which will go into every paper in the
country.  They have expelled Huck from their library as "trash and
suitable only for the slums."  That will sell 25,000 copies for us sure.

                                        S. L. C.


     Perhaps the Concord Free Trade Club had some idea of making amends
     to Mark Twain for the slight put upon his book by their librarians,
     for immediately after the Huck Finn incident they notified him of
     his election to honorary membership.

     Those were the days of "authors' readings," and Clemens and Howells
     not infrequently assisted at these functions, usually given as
     benefits of one kind or another.  From the next letter, written
     following an entertainment given for the Longfellow memorial, we
     gather that Mark Twain's opinion of Howells's reading was steadily
     improving.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, May 5, '85.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--.....Who taught you to read?  Observation and thought,
I guess.  And practice at the Tavern Club?--yes; and that was the best
teaching of all:

Well, you sent even your daintiest and most delicate and fleeting points
home to that audience--absolute proof of good reading.  But you couldn't
read worth a damn a few years ago.  I do not say this to flatter.  It is
true I looked around for you when I was leaving, but you had already
gone.

Alas, Osgood has failed at last.  It was easy to see that he was on the
very verge of it a year ago, and it was also easy to see that he was
still on the verge of it a month or two ago; but I continued to hope--but
not expect that he would pull through.  The Library of Humor is at his
dwelling house, and he will hand it to you whenever you want it.

To save it from any possibility of getting mixed up in the failure,
perhaps you had better send down and get it.  I told him, the other day,
that an order of any kind from you would be his sufficient warrant for
its delivery to you.

In two days General Grant has dictated 50 pages of foolscap, and thus the
Wilderness and Appomattox stand for all time in his own words.  This
makes the second volume of his book as valuable as the first.

He looks mighty well, these latter days.
                                        Yrs Ever
                                                  MARK.


     "I am exceedingly glad," wrote Howells, "that you approve of my
     reading, for it gives me some hope that I may do something on the
     platform next winter.....  but I would never read within a hundred
     miles of you, if I could help it.  You simply straddled down to the
     footlights and took that house up in the hollow of your hand and
     tickled it."


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        ELMIRA, July 21, 1885.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--You are really my only author; I am restricted to you,
I wouldn't give a damn for the rest.

I bored through Middlemarch during the past week, with its labored and
tedious analyses of feelings and motives, its paltry and tiresome people,
its unexciting and uninteresting story, and its frequent blinding flashes
of single-sentence poetry, philosophy, wit, and what not, and nearly died
from the overwork.  I wouldn't read another of those books for a farm.
I did try to read one other--Daniel Deronda.  I dragged through three
chapters, losing flesh all the time, and then was honest enough to quit,
and confess to myself that I haven't any romance literature appetite, as
far as I can see, except for your books.

But what I started to say, was, that I have just read Part II of Indian
Summer, and to my mind there isn't a waste line in it, or one that could
be improved.  I read it yesterday, ending with that opinion; and read it
again to-day, ending with the same opinion emphasized.  I haven't read
Part I yet, because that number must have reached Hartford after we left;
but we are going to send down town for a copy, and when it comes I am to
read both parts aloud to the family.  It is a beautiful story, and makes
a body laugh all the time, and cry inside, and feel so old and so
forlorn; and gives him gracious glimpses of his lost youth that fill him
with a measureless regret, and build up in him a cloudy sense of his
having been a prince, once, in some enchanted far-off land, and of being
an exile now, and desolate--and Lord, no chance ever to get back there
again!  That is the thing that hurts.  Well, you have done it with
marvelous facility and you make all the motives and feelings perfectly
clear without analyzing the guts out of them, the way George Eliot does.
I can't stand George Eliot and Hawthorne and those people; I see what
they are at a hundred years before they get to it and they just tire me
to death.  And as for "The Bostonians," I would rather be damned to John
Bunyan's heaven than read that.
                                   Yrs Ever
                                             MARK


     It is as easy to understand Mark Twain's enjoyment of Indian Summer
     as his revolt against Daniel Deronda and The Bostonians.  He cared
     little for writing that did not convey its purpose in the simplest
     and most direct terms.  It is interesting to note that in thanking
     Clemens for his compliment Howells wrote: "What people cannot see is
     that I analyze as little as possible; they go on talking about the
     analytical school, which I am supposed to belong to, and I want to
     thank you for using your eyes.....  Did you ever read De Foe's
     'Roxana'?  If not, then read it, not merely for some of the deepest
     insights into the lying, suffering, sinning, well-meaning human
     soul, but for the best and most natural English that a book was ever
     written in."

     General Grant worked steadily on his book, dictating when he could,
     making brief notes on slips of paper when he could no longer speak.
     Clemens visited him at Mt. McGregor and brought the dying soldier
     the comforting news that enough of his books were already sold to
     provide generously for his family, and that the sales would
     aggregate at least twice as much by the end of the year.

     This was some time in July.  On the 23d of that month General Grant
     died.  Immediately there was a newspaper discussion as to the most
     suitable place for the great chieftain to lie.  Mark Twain's
     contribution to this debate, though in the form of an open letter,
     seems worthy of preservation here.


       To the New York "Sun," on the proper place for Grant's Tomb:

To THE EDITOR OP' THE SUN:--SIR,--The newspaper atmosphere is charged
with objections to New York as a place of sepulchre for General Grant,
and the objectors are strenuous that Washington is the right place.  They
offer good reasons--good temporary reasons--for both of these positions.

But it seems to me that temporary reasons are not mete for the occasion.
We need to consider posterity rather than our own generation.  We should
select a grave which will not merely be in the right place now, but will
still be in the right place 500 years from now.

How does Washington promise as to that?  You have only to hit it in one
place to kill it.  Some day the west will be numerically strong enough to
move the seat of government; her past attempts are a fair warning that
when the day comes she will do it.  Then the city of Washington will lose
its consequence and pass out of the public view and public talk.  It is
quite within the possibilities that, a century hence, people would wonder
and say, "How did your predecessors come to bury their great dead in this
deserted place?"

But as long as American civilisation lasts New York will last.  I cannot
but think she has been well and wisely chosen as the guardian of a grave
which is destined to become almost the most conspicuous in the world's
history.  Twenty centuries from now New York will still be New York,
still a vast city, and the most notable object in it will still be the
tomb and monument of General Grant.

I observe that the common and strongest objection to New York is that she
is not "national ground."  Let us give ourselves no uneasiness about
that.  Wherever General Grant's body lies, that is national ground.

                                        S. L. CLEMENS.
ELMIRA, July 27.


     The letter that follows is very long, but it seems too important and
     too interesting to be omitted in any part.  General Grant's early
     indulgence in liquors had long been a matter of wide, though not
     very definite, knowledge.  Every one had heard how Lincoln, on being
     told that Grant drank, remarked something to the effect that he
     would like to know what kind of whisky Grant used so that he might
     get some of it for his other generals.  Henry Ward Beecher, selected
     to deliver a eulogy on the dead soldier, and doubtless wishing
     neither to ignore the matter nor to make too much of it, naturally
     turned for information to the publisher of Grant's own memoirs,
     hoping from an advance copy to obtain light.


                     To Henry Ward Beecher,.Brooklyn:

                                        ELMIRA, N. Y.  Sept. 11, '85.
MY DEAR MR. BEECHER,--My nephew Webster is in Europe making contracts for
the Memoirs.  Before he sailed he came to me with a writing, directed to
the printers and binders, to this effect:

"Honor no order for a sight or copy of the Memoirs while I am absent,
even though it be signed by Mr. Clemens himself."

I gave my permission.  There were weighty reasons why I should not only
give my permission, but hold it a matter of honor to not dissolve the
order or modify it at any time.  So I did all of that--said the order
should stand undisturbed to the end.  If a principal could dissolve his
promise as innocently as he can dissolve his written order unguarded by
his promise, I would send you a copy of the Memoirs instantly.  I did not
foresee you, or I would have made an exception.

                    ...........................

My idea gained from army men, is that the drunkenness (and sometimes
pretty reckless spreeing, nights,) ceased before he came East to be Lt.
General.  (Refer especially to Gen. Wm. B. Franklin--[If you could see
Franklin and talk with him--then he would unbosom,]) It was while Grant
was still in the West that Mr. Lincoln said he wished he could find out
what brand of whisky that fellow used, so he could furnish it to some of
the other generals.  Franklin saw Grant tumble from his horse drunk,
while reviewing troops in New Orleans.  The fall gave him a good deal of
a hurt.  He was then on the point of leaving for the Chattanooga region.
I naturally put "that and that together" when I read Gen. O. O. Howards's
article in the Christian Union, three or four weeks ago--where he
mentions that the new General arrived lame from a recent accident.
(See that article.) And why not write Howard?

Franklin spoke positively of the frequent spreeing.  In camp--in time of
war.

                    .........................

Captain Grant was frequently threatened by the Commandant of his Oregon
post with a report to the War Department of his conduct unless he
modified his intemperance.  The report would mean dismissal from the
service.  At last the report had to be made out; and then, so greatly was
the captain beloved, that he was privately informed, and was thus enabled
to rush his resignation to Washington ahead of the report.  Did the
report go, nevertheless?  I don't know.  If it did, it is in the War
Department now, possibly, and seeable.  I got all this from a regular
army man, but I can't name him to save me.

The only time General Grant ever mentioned liquor to me was about last
April or possibly May.  He said:

"If I could only build up my strength!  The doctors urge whisky and
champagne; but I can't take them; I can't abide the taste of any kind of
liquor."

Had he made a conquest so complete that even the taste of liquor was
become an offense?  Or was he so sore over what had been said about his
habit that he wanted to persuade others and likewise himself that he
hadn't even ever had any taste for it?  It sounded like the latter, but
that's no evidence.

He told me in the fall of '84 that there was something the matter with
his throat, and that at the suggestion of his physicians he had reduced
his smoking to one cigar a day.  Then he added, in a casual fashion, that
he didn't care for that one, and seldom smoked it.

I could understand that feeling.  He had set out to conquer not the habit
but the inclination--the desire.  He had gone at the root, not the trunk.
It's the perfect way and the only true way (I speak from experience.)
How I do hate those enemies of the human race who go around enslaving
God's free people with pledges--to quit drinking instead of to quit
wanting to drink.

But Sherman and Van Vliet know everything concerning Grant; and if you
tell them how you want to use the facts, both of them will testify.
Regular army men have no concealments about each other; and yet they make
their awful statements without shade or color or malice with a frankness
and a child-like naivety, indeed, which is enchanting-and stupefying.
West Point seems to teach them that, among other priceless things not to
be got in any other college in this world.  If we talked about our guild-
mates as I have heard Sherman, Grant, Van Vliet and others talk about
theirs--mates with whom they were on the best possible terms--we could
never expect them to speak to us again.

                    .......................

I am reminded, now, of another matter.  The day of the funeral I sat an
hour over a single drink and several cigars with Van Vliet and Sherman
and Senator Sherman.; and among other things Gen. Sherman said, with
impatient scorn:

"The idea of all this nonsense about Grant not being able to stand rude
language and indelicate stories!  Why Grant was full of humor, and full
of the appreciation of it.  I have sat with him by the hour listening to
Jim Nye's yarns, and I reckon you know the style of Jim Nye's histories,
Clemens.  It makes me sick--that newspaper nonsense.  Grant was no namby-
pamby fool, he was a man--all over--rounded and complete."

I wish I had thought of it!  I would have said to General Grant: "Put
the drunkenness in the Memoirs--and the repentance and reform.  Trust the
people."

But I will wager there is not a hint in the book.  He was sore, there.
As much of the book as I have read gives no hint, as far as I recollect.

The sick-room brought out the points of Gen. Grant's character--some of
them particularly, to wit:

His patience; his indestructible equability of temper; his exceeding
gentleness, kindness, forbearance, lovingness, charity; his loyalty: to
friends, to convictions, to promises, half-promises, infinitesimal
fractions and shadows of promises; (There was a requirement of him which
I considered an atrocity, an injustice, an outrage; I wanted to implore
him to repudiate it; Fred Grant said, "Save your labor, I know him; he is
in doubt as to whether he made that half-promise or not--and, he will
give the thing the benefit of the doubt; he will fulfill that half-
promise or kill himself trying;" Fred Grant was right--he did fulfill
it;) his aggravatingly trustful nature; his genuineness, simplicity,
modesty, diffidence, self-depreciation, poverty in the quality of vanity-
and, in no contradiction of this last, his simple pleasure in the flowers
and general ruck sent to him by Tom, Dick and Harry from everywhere--a
pleasure that suggested a perennial surprise that he should be the object
of so much fine attention--he was the most lovable great child in the
world; (I mentioned his loyalty: you remember Harrison, the colored body-
servant?  the whole family hated him, but that did not make any
difference, the General always stood at his back, wouldn't allow him to
be scolded; always excused his failures and deficiencies with the one
unvarying formula, "We are responsible for these things in his race--it
is not fair to visit our fault upon them--let him alone;" so they did let
him alone, under compulsion, until the great heart that was his shield
was taken away; then--well they simply couldn't stand him, and so they
were excusable for determining to discharge him--a thing which they
mortally hated to do, and by lucky accident were saved from the necessity
of doing;) his toughness as a bargainer when doing business for other
people or for his country (witness his "terms" at Donelson, Vicksburg,
etc.; Fred Grant told me his father wound up an estate for the widow and
orphans of a friend in St. Louis--it took several years; at the end every
complication had been straightened out, and the property put upon a
prosperous basis; great sums had passed through his hands, and when he
handed over the papers there were vouchers to show what had been done
with every penny) and his trusting, easy, unexacting fashion when doing
business for himself (at that same time he was paying out money in
driblets to a man who was running his farm for him--and in his first
Presidency he paid every one of those driblets again (total, $3,000 F.
said,) for he hadn't a scrap of paper to show that he had ever paid them
before; in his dealings with me he would not listen to terms which would
place my money at risk and leave him protected--the thought plainly gave
him pain, and he put it from him, waved it off with his hands, as one
does accounts of crushings and mutilations--wouldn't listen, changed the
subject;) and his fortitude!  He was under, sentence of death last
spring; he sat thinking, musing, several days--nobody knows what about;
then he pulled himself together and set to work to finish that book,
a colossal task for a dying man.  Presently his hand gave out; fate
seemed to have got him checkmated.  Dictation was suggested.  No, he
never could do that; had never tried it; too old to learn, now.  By and
by--if he could only do Appomattox-well.  So he sent for a stenographer,
and dictated 9,000 words at a single sitting!--never pausing, never
hesitating for a word, never repeating--and in the written-out copy he
made hardly a correction.  He dictated again, every two or three days--
the intervals were intervals of exhaustion and slow recuperation--and at
last he was able to tell me that he had written more matter than could be
got into the book.  I then enlarged the book--had to.  Then he lost his
voice.  He was not quite done yet, however:--there was no end of little
plums and spices to be stuck in, here and there; and this work he
patiently continued, a few lines a day, with pad and pencil, till far
into July, at Mt.  McGregor.  One day he put his pencil aside, and said
he was done--there was nothing more to do.  If I had been there I could
have foretold the shock that struck the world three days later.

Well, I've written all this, and it doesn't seem to amount to anything.
But I do want to help, if I only could.  I will enclose some scraps from
my Autobiography--scraps about General Grant--they may be of some trifle
of use, and they may not--they at least verify known traits of his
character.  My Autobiography is pretty freely dictated, but my idea is to
jack-plane it a little before I die, some day or other; I mean the rude
construction and rotten grammar.  It is the only dictating I ever did,
and it was most troublesome and awkward work.  You may return it to
Hartford.
                         Sincerely Yours
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     The old long-deferred Library of Humor came up again for discussion,
     when in the fall of 1885 Howells associated himself with Harper &
     Brothers.  Howells's contract provided that his name was not to
     appear on any book not published by the Harper firm.  He wrote,
     therefore, offering to sell out his interest in the enterprise for
     two thousand dollars, in addition to the five hundred which he had
     already received--an amount considered to be less than he was to
     have received as joint author and compiler.  Mark Twain's answer
     pretty fully covers the details of this undertaking.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Oct. 18, 1885.
Private.

MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I reckon it would ruin the book that is, make it
necessary to pigeon-hole it and leave it unpublished.  I couldn't publish
it without a very responsible name to support my own on the title page,
because it has so much of my own matter in it.  I bought Osgood's rights
for $3,000 cash, I have paid Clark $800 and owe him $700 more, which must
of course be paid whether I publish or not.  Yet I fully recognize that I
have no sort of moral right to let that ancient and procrastinated
contract hamper you in any way, and I most certainly won't.  So, it is my
decision,--after thinking over and rejecting the idea of trying to buy
permission of the Harpers for $2,500 to use your name, (a proposition
which they would hate to refuse to a man in a perplexed position, and yet
would naturally have to refuse it,) to pigeon-hole the "Library": not
destroy it, but merely pigeon-hole it and wait a few years and see what
new notion Providence will take concerning it.  He will not desert us
now, after putting in four licks to our one on this book all this time.
It really seems in a sense discourteous not to call it "Providence's
Library of Humor."

Now that deal is all settled, the next question is, do you need and must
you require that $2,000 now?  Since last March, you know, I am carrying a
mighty load, solitary and alone--General Grant's book--and must carry it
till the first volume is 30 days old (Jan. 1st) before the relief money
will begin to flow in.  From now till the first of January every dollar
is as valuable to me as it could be to a famishing tramp.  If you can
wait till then--I mean without discomfort, without inconvenience--it will
be a large accommodation to me; but I will not allow you to do this favor
if it will discommode you.  So, speak right out, frankly, and if you need
the money I will go out on the highway and get it, using violence, if
necessary.

Mind, I am not in financial difficulties, and am not going to be.  I am
merely a starving beggar standing outside the door of plenty--obstructed
by a Yale time-lock which is set for Jan. 1st.  I can stand it, and stand
it perfectly well; but the days do seem to fool along considerable slower
than they used to.

I am mighty glad you are with the Harpers.  I have noticed that good men
in their employ go there to stay.
                              Yours ever,
                                             MARK.


     In the next letter we begin to get some idea of the size of Mark
     Twain's first publishing venture, and a brief summary of results may
     not be out of place here.

     The Grant Life was issued in two volumes.  In the early months of
     the year when the agents' canvass was just beginning, Mark Twain,
     with what seems now almost clairvoyant vision, prophesied a sale of
     three hundred thousand sets.  The actual sales ran somewhat more
     than this number.  On February 27, 1886, Charles L. Webster & Co.
     paid to Mrs. Grant the largest single royalty check in the history
     of book-publishing.  The amount of it was two hundred thousand
     dollars.  Subsequent checks increased the aggregate return to
     considerably more than double this figure.  In a memorandum made by
     Clemens in the midst of the canvass he wrote."

     "During 100 consecutive days the sales (i. e., subscriptions) of
     General Grant's book averaged 3,000 sets (6,000 single volumes) per
     day: Roughly stated, Mrs. Grant's income during all that time was
     $5,000 a day."


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HOTEL NORMANDIE
                                             NEW YORK, Dec. 2, '85.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I told Webster, this afternoon, to send you that
$2,000; but he is in such a rush, these first days of publication, that
he may possibly forget it; so I write lest I forget it too.  Remind me,
if he should forget.  When I postponed you lately, I did it because I
thought I should be cramped for money until January, but that has turned
out to be an error, so I hasten to cut short the postponement.

I judge by the newspapers that you are in Auburndale, but I don't know it
officially.

I've got the first volume launched safely; consequently, half of the
suspense is over, and I am that much nearer the goal.  We've bound and
shipped 200,000 books; and by the 10th shall finish and ship the
remaining 125,000 of the first edition.  I got nervous and came down to
help hump-up the binderies; and I mean to stay here pretty much all the
time till the first days of March, when the second volume will issue.
Shan't have so much trouble, this time, though, if we get to press pretty
soon, because we can get more binderies then than are to be had in front
of the holidays.  One lives and learns.  I find it takes 7 binderies four
months to bind 325,000 books.

This is a good book to publish.  I heard a canvasser say, yesterday, that
while delivering eleven books he took 7 new subscriptions.  But we shall
be in a hell of a fix if that goes on--it will "ball up" the binderies
again.
               Yrs ever
                         MARK.


     November 30th that year was Mark Twain's fiftieth birthday, an event
     noticed by the newspapers generally, and especially observed by many
     of his friends.  Warner, Stockton and many others sent letters;
     Andrew Lang contributed a fine poem; also Oliver Wendell.  Holmes--
     the latter by special request of Miss Gilder--for the Critic.  These
     attentions came as a sort of crowning happiness at the end of a
     golden year.  At no time in his life were Mark Twain's fortunes and
     prospects brighter; he had a beautiful family and a perfect home.
     Also, he had great prosperity.  The reading-tour with Cable had been
     a fine success.  His latest book, The Adventures of Huckleberry
     Finn, had added largely to his fame and income.  The publication of
     the Grant Memoirs had been a dazzling triumph.  Mark Twain had
     become recognized, not only as America's most distinguished author,
     but as its most envied publisher.  And now, with his fiftieth
     birthday, had come this laurel from Holmes, last of the Brahmins, to
     add a touch of glory to all the rest.  We feel his exaltation in his
     note of acknowledgment.


                 To Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, in Boston:

DEAR MR. HOLMES,--I shall never be able to tell you the half of how proud
you have made me.  If I could you would say you were nearly paid for the
trouble you took.  And then the family: If I can convey the electrical
surprise and gratitude and exaltation of the wife and the children last
night, when they happened upon that Critic where I had, with artful
artlessness, spread it open and retired out of view to see what would
happen--well, it was great and fine and beautiful to see, and made me
feel as the victor feels when the shouting hosts march by; and if you
also could have seen it you would have said the account was squared.  For
I have brought them up in your company, as in the company of a warm and
friendly and beneficent but far-distant sun; and so, for you to do this
thing was for the sun to send down out of the skies the miracle of a
special ray and transfigure me before their faces.  I knew what that poem
would be to them; I knew it would raise me up to remote and shining
heights in their eyes, to very fellowship with the chambered Nautilus
itself, and that from that fellowship they could never more dissociate me
while they should live; and so I made sure to be by when the surprise
should come.

Charles Dudley Warner is charmed with the poem for its own felicitous
sake; and so indeed am I, but more because it has drawn the sting of my
fiftieth year; taken away the pain of it, the grief of it, the somehow
shame of it, and made me glad and proud it happened.

With reverence and affection,
                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     Holmes wrote with his own hand: "Did Miss Gilder tell you I had
     twenty-three letters spread out for answer when her suggestion came
     about your anniversary?  I stopped my correspondence and made my
     letters wait until the lines were done."




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Letters Vol. 3, by Mark Twain






MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS  1886-1900

ARRANGED WITH COMMENT BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE



VOLUME IV.


XXVI

LETTERS, 1886-87.  JANE CLEMENS'S ROMANCE.  UNMAILED LETTERS, ETC.

     When Clemens had been platforming with Cable and returned to
     Hartford for his Christmas vacation, the Warner and Clemens families
     had joined in preparing for him a surprise performance of The Prince
     and the Pauper.  The Clemens household was always given to
     theatricals, and it was about this time that scenery and a stage
     were prepared--mainly by the sculptor Gerhardt--for these home
     performances, after which productions of The Prince and the Pauper
     were given with considerable regularity to audiences consisting of
     parents and invited friends.  The subject is a fascinating one, but
     it has been dwelt upon elsewhere.--[In Mark Twain: A Biography,
     chaps.  cliff and clx.]--We get a glimpse of one of these occasions
     as well as of Mark Twain's financial progress in the next brief
     note.

                       To W. D. Howells; in Boston:

                                                  Jan.  3, '86.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--The date set for the Prince and Pauper play is ten
days hence--Jan. 13.  I hope you and Pilla can take a train that arrives
here during the day; the one that leaves Boston toward the end of the
afternoon would be a trifle late; the performance would have already
begun when you reached the house.

I'm out of the woods.  On the last day of the year I had paid out
$182,000 on the Grant book and it was totally free from debt.
                                        Yrs ever
                                                  MARK.


     Mark Twain's mother was a woman of sturdy character and with a keen
     sense of humor and tender sympathies.  Her husband, John Marshall
     Clemens, had been a man of high moral character, honored by all who
     knew him, respected and apparently loved by his wife.  No one would
     ever have supposed that during all her years of marriage, and almost
     to her death, she carried a secret romance that would only be told
     at last in the weary disappointment of old age.  It is a curious
     story, and it came to light in this curious way:


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, May 19, '86.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--..... Here's a secret.  A most curious and pathetic
romance, which has just come to light.  Read these things, but don't
mention them.  Last fall, my old mother--then 82--took a notion to attend
a convention of old settlers of the Mississippi Valley in an Iowa town.
My brother's wife was astonished; and represented to her the hardships
and fatigues of such a trip, and said my mother might possibly not even
survive them; and said there could be no possible interest for her in
such a meeting and such a crowd.  But my mother insisted, and persisted;
and finally gained her point.  They started; and all the way my mother
was young again with excitement, interest, eagerness, anticipation.  They
reached the town and the hotel.  My mother strode with the same eagerness
in her eye and her step, to the counter, and said:

"Is Dr. Barrett of St. Louis, here?"

"No.  He was here, but he returned to St. Louis this morning."

"Will he come again?"

"No."

My mother turned away, the fire all gone from her, and said, "Let us go
home."

They went straight back to Keokuk.  My mother sat silent and thinking for
many days--a thing which had never happened before.  Then one day she
said:

"I will tell you a secret.  When I was eighteen, a young medical student
named Barrett lived in Columbia (Ky.) eighteen miles away; and he used to
ride over to see me.  This continued for some time.  I loved him with my
whole heart, and I knew that he felt the same toward me, though no words
had been spoken.  He was too bashful to speak--he could not do it.
Everybody supposed we were engaged--took it for granted we were--but we
were not.  By and by there was to be a party in a neighboring town, and
he wrote my uncle telling him his feelings, and asking him to drive me
over in his buggy and let him (Barrett) drive me back, so that he might
have that opportunity to propose.  My uncle should have done as he was
asked, without explaining anything to me; but instead, he read me the
letter; and then, of course, I could not go--and did not.  He (Barrett)
left the country presently, and I, to stop the clacking tongues, and to
show him that I did not care, married, in a pet.  In all these sixty-four
years I have not seen him since.  I saw in a paper that he was going to
attend that Old Settlers' Convention.  Only three hours before we reached
that hotel, he had been standing there!"

Since then, her memory is wholly faded out and gone; and now she writes
letters to the school-mates who had been dead forty years, and wonders
why they neglect her and do not answer.

Think of her carrying that pathetic burden in her old heart sixty-four
years, and no human being ever suspecting it!
                              Yrs ever,
                                        MARK.

We do not get the idea from this letter that those two long ago
sweethearts quarreled, but Mark Twain once spoke of their having done so,
and there may have been a disagreement, assuming that there was a
subsequent meeting.  It does not matter, now.  In speaking of it, Mark
Twain once said: "It is as pathetic a romance as any that has crossed the
field of my personal experience in a long lifetime."--[When Mark Twain:
A Biography was written this letter had not come to light, and the matter
was stated there in accordance with Mark Twain's latest memory of it.]

Howells wrote: "After all, how poor and hackneyed all the inventions are
compared with the simple and stately facts.  Who could have imagined such
a heart-break as that?  Yet it went along with the fulfillment of
everyday duty and made no more noise than a grave under foot.  I doubt if
fiction will ever get the knack of such things."

Jane Clemens now lived with her son Orion and his wife, in Keokuk, where
she was more contented than elsewhere.  In these later days her memory
had become erratic, her realization of events about her uncertain, but
there were times when she was quite her former self, remembering clearly
and talking with her old-time gaiety of spirit.  Mark Twain frequently
sent her playful letters to amuse her, letters full of such boyish gaiety
as had amused her long years before.  The one that follows is a fair
example.  It was written after a visit which Clemens and his family had
paid to Keokuk.


                       To Jane Clemens, in Keokuk:

                                             ELMIRA, Aug. 7, '86.
DEAR MA,--I heard that Molly and Orion and Pamela had been sick, but I
see by your letter that they are much better now, or nearly well.  When
we visited you a month ago, it seemed to us that your Keokuk weather was
pretty hot; Jean and Clara sat up in bed at Mrs. McElroy's and cried
about it, and so did I; but I judge by your letter that it has cooled
down, now, so that a person is comparatively comfortable, with his skin
off.  Well it did need cooling; I remember that I burnt a hole in my
shirt, there, with some ice cream that fell on it; and Miss Jenkins told
me they never used a stove, but cooked their meals on a marble-topped
table in the drawing-room, just with the natural heat.  If anybody else
had told me, I would not have believed it.  I was told by the Bishop of
Keokuk that he did not allow crying at funerals, because it scalded the
furniture.  If Miss Jenkins had told me that, I would have believed it.
This reminds me that you speak of Dr. Jenkins and his family as if they
were strangers to me.  Indeed they are not.  Don't you suppose I remember
gratefully how tender the doctor was with Jean when she hurt her arm, and
how quickly he got the pain out of the hurt, whereas I supposed it was
going to last at least an hour?  No, I don't forget some things as easily
as I do others.

Yes, it was pretty hot weather.  Now here, when a person is going to die,
he is always in a sweat about where he is going to; but in Keokuk of
course they don't care, because they are fixed for everything.  It has
set me reflecting, it has taught me a lesson.  By and by, when my health
fails, I am going to put all my affairs in order, and bid good-bye to my
friends here, and kill all the people I don't like, and go out to Keokuk
and prepare for death.

They are all well in this family, and we all send love.
                                   Affly Your Son
                                                  SAM.


     The ways of city officials and corporations are often past
     understanding, and Mark Twain sometimes found it necessary to write
     picturesque letters of protest.  The following to a Hartford
     lighting company is a fair example of these documents.


           To a gas and electric-lighting company, in Hartford:

GENTLEMEN,--There are but two places in our whole street where lights
could be of any value, by any accident, and you have measured and
appointed your intervals so ingeniously as to leave each of those places
in the centre of a couple of hundred yards of solid darkness.  When I
noticed that you were setting one of your lights in such a way that I
could almost see how to get into my gate at night, I suspected that it
was a piece of carelessness on the part of the workmen, and would be
corrected as soon as you should go around inspecting and find it out.
My judgment was right; it is always right, when you axe concerned.  For
fifteen years, in spite of my prayers and tears, you persistently kept a
gas lamp exactly half way between my gates, so that I couldn't find
either of them after dark; and then furnished such execrable gas that I
had to hang a danger signal on the lamp post to keep teams from running
into it, nights.  Now I suppose your present idea is, to leave us a
little more in the dark.

Don't mind us--out our way; we possess but one vote apiece, and no rights
which you are in any way bound to respect.  Please take your electric
light and go to--but never mind, it is not for me to suggest; you will
probably find the way; and any way you can reasonably count on divine
assistance if you lose your bearings.

                                   S. L. CLEMENS.

     [Etext Editor's Note: Twain wrote another note to Hartford Gas and
     Electric, which he may not have mailed and which Paine does not
     include in these volumes:
     "Gentleman:--Someday you are going to move me almost to the point
     of irritation with your God-damned chuckle headed fashion of
     turning off your God-damned gas without giving notice to your
     God-damned parishioners--and you did it again last night--"
     D.W.]

     Frequently Clemens did not send letters of this sort after they were
     written.  Sometimes he realized the uselessness of such protest,
     sometimes the mere writing of them had furnished the necessary
     relief, and he put, the letter away, or into the wastebasket, and
     wrote something more temperate, or nothing at all.  A few such
     letters here follow.

     Clemens was all the time receiving application from people who
     wished him to recommend one article or another; books, plays,
     tobacco, and what not.  They were generally persistent people,
     unable to accept a polite or kindly denial.  Once he set down some
     remarks on this particular phase of correspondence.  He wrote:


I

No doubt Mr. Edison has been offered a large interest in many and many an
electrical project, for the use of his name to float it withal.  And no
doubt all men who have achieved for their names, in any line of activity
whatever, a sure market value, have been familiar with this sort of
solicitation.  Reputation is a hall-mark: it can remove doubt from pure
silver, and it can also make the plated article pass for pure.

And so, people without a hall-mark of their own are always trying to get
the loan of somebody else's.

As a rule, that kind of a person sees only one side of the case.  He sees
that his invention or his painting or his book is--apparently--a trifle
better than you yourself can do, therefore why shouldn't you be willing
to put your hall-mark on it?  You will be giving the purchaser his full
money's worth; so who is hurt, and where is the harm?  Besides, are you
not helping a struggling fellow-craftsman, and is it not your duty to do
that?

That side is plenty clear enough to him, but he can't and won't see the
other side, to-wit: that you are a rascal if you put your hall-mark upon
a thing which you did not produce yourself, howsoever good it may be.
How simple that is; and yet there are not two applicants in a hundred who
can, be made to see it.

When one receives an application of this sort, his first emotion is an
indignant sense of insult; his first deed is the penning of a sharp
answer.  He blames nobody but that other person.  That person is a very
base being; he must be; he would degrade himself for money, otherwise it
would not occur to him that you would do such a thing.  But all the same,
that application has done its work, and taken you down in your own
estimation.  You recognize that everybody hasn't as high an opinion of
you as you have of yourself; and in spite of you there ensues an interval
during which you are not, in your own estimation as fine a bird as you
were before.

However, being old and experienced, you do not mail your sharp letter,
but leave it lying a day.  That saves you.  For by that time you have
begun to reflect that you are a person who deals in exaggerations--and
exaggerations are lies.  You meant yours to be playful, and thought you
made them unmistakably so.  But you couldn't make them playfulnesses to a
man who has no sense of the playful and can see nothing but the serious
side of things.  You rattle on quite playfully, and with measureless
extravagance, about how you wept at the tomb of Adam; and all in good
time you find to your astonishment that no end of people took you at your
word and believed you.  And presently they find out that you were not in
earnest.  They have been deceived; therefore, (as they argue--and there
is a sort of argument in it,) you are a deceiver.  If you will deceive in
one way, why shouldn't you in another?  So they apply for the use of your
trade-mark.  You are amazed and affronted.  You retort that you are not
that kind of person.  Then they are amazed and affronted; and wonder
"since when?"

By this time you have got your bearings.  You realize that perhaps there
is a little blame on both sides.  You are in the right frame, now.  So
you write a letter void of offense, declining.  You mail this one; you
pigeon-hole the other.

That is, being old and experienced, you do, but early in your career, you
don't: you mail the first one.


II

An enthusiast who had a new system of musical notation, wrote to me and
suggested that a magazine article from me, contrasting the absurdities of
the old system with the simplicities of his new one, would be sure to
make a "rousing hit."  He shouted and shouted over the marvels wrought by
his system, and quoted the handsome compliments which had been paid it by
famous musical people; but he forgot to tell me what his notation was
like, or what its simplicities consisted in.  So I could not have written
the article if I had wanted to--which I didn't; because I hate strangers
with axes to grind.  I wrote him a courteous note explaining how busy I
was--I always explain how busy I am--and casually drooped this remark:

"I judge the X-X notation to be a rational mode of representing music, in
place of the prevailing fashion, which was the invention of an idiot."

Next mail he asked permission to print that meaningless remark.
I answered, no--courteously, but still, no; explaining that I could not
afford to be placed in the attitude of trying to influence people with a
mere worthless guess.  What a scorcher I got, next mail!  Such irony!
such sarcasm, such caustic praise of my superhonorable loyalty to the
public!  And withal, such compassion for my stupidity, too, in not being
able to understand my own language.  I cannot remember the words of this
letter broadside, but there was about a page used up in turning this idea
round and round and exposing it in different lights.

                             Unmailed Answer:

DEAR SIR,--What is the trouble with you?  If it is your viscera, you
cannot have them taken out and reorganized a moment too soon.  I mean,
if they are inside.  But if you are composed of them, that is another
matter.  Is it your brain?  But it could not be your brain.  Possibly it
is your skull: you want to look out for that.  Some people, when they get
an idea, it pries the structure apart.  Your system of notation has got
in there, and couldn't find room, without a doubt that is what the
trouble is.  Your skull was not made to put ideas in, it was made to
throw potatoes at.
                         Yours Truly.


                              Mailed Answer:

DEAR SIR,--Come, come--take a walk; you disturb the children.
                         Yours Truly.


There was a day, now happily nearly over, when certain newspapers made a
practice of inviting men distinguished in any walk of life to give their
time and effort without charge to express themselves on some subject of
the day, or perhaps they were asked to send their favorite passages in
prose or verse, with the reasons why.  Such symposiums were "features"
that cost the newspapers only the writing of a number of letters,
stationery, and postage.  To one such invitation Mark Twain wrote two
replies.  They follow herewith:

                             Unmailed Answer:

DEAR SIR,--I have received your proposition--which you have imitated from
a pauper London periodical which had previously imitated the idea of this
sort of mendicancy from seventh-rate American journalism, where it
originated as a variation of the inexpensive "interview."

Why do you buy Associated Press dispatches?  To make your paper the more
salable, you answer.  But why don't you try to beg them?  Why do you
discriminate?  I can sell my stuff; why should I give it to you?  Why
don't you ask me for a shirt?  What is the difference between asking me
for the worth of a shirt and asking me for the shirt itself?  Perhaps you
didn't know you were begging.  I would not use that argument--it makes
the user a fool.  The passage of poetry--or prose, if you will--which has
taken deepest root in my thought, and which I oftenest return to and
dwell upon with keenest no matter what, is this:  That the proper place
for journalists who solicit literary charity is on the street corner with
their hats in their hands.


                              Mailed Answer:

DEAR SIR,--Your favor of recent date is received, but I am obliged by
press of work to decline.


     The manager of a traveling theatrical company wrote that he had
     taken the liberty of dramatizing Tom Sawyer, and would like also the
     use of the author's name--the idea being to convey to the public
     that it was a Mark Twain play.  In return for this slight favor the
     manager sent an invitation for Mark Twain to come and see the play--
     to be present on the opening night, as it were, at his (the
     manager's) expense.  He added that if the play should be a go in the
     cities there might be some "arrangement" of profits.  Apparently
     these inducements did not appeal to Mark Twain.  The long unmailed
     reply is the more interesting, but probably the briefer one that
     follows it was quite as effective.

                             Unmailed Answer:

                                             HARTFORD, Sept. 8, '87.
DEAR SIR,--And so it has got around to you, at last; and you also have
"taken the liberty."  You are No. 1365.  When 1364 sweeter and better
people, including the author, have "tried" to dramatize Tom Sawyer and
did not arrive, what sort of show do you suppose you stand?  That is a
book, dear sir, which cannot be dramatized.  One might as well try to
dramatize any other hymn.  Tom Sawyer is simply a hymn, put into prose
form to give it a worldly air.

Why the pale doubt that flitteth dim and nebulous athwart the forecastle
of your third sentence?  Have no fears.  Your piece will be a Go.
It will go out the back door on the first night.  They've all done it
--the 1364.  So will 1365.  Not one of us ever thought of the simple
device of half-soling himself with a stove-lid.  Ah, what suffering a
little hindsight would have saved us.  Treasure this hint.

How kind of you to invite me to the funeral.  Go to; I have attended a
thousand of them.  I have seen Tom Sawyer's remains in all the different
kinds of dramatic shrouds there are.  You cannot start anything fresh.
Are you serious when you propose to pay my expence--if that is the
Susquehannian way of spelling it?  And can you be aware that I charge a
hundred dollars a mile when I travel for pleasure?  Do you realize that
it is 432 miles to Susquehanna?  Would it be handy for you to send me the
$43,200 first, so I could be counting it as I come along; because
railroading is pretty dreary to a sensitive nature when there's nothing
sordid to buck at for Zeitvertreib.

Now as I understand it, dear and magnanimous 1365, you are going to
recreate Tom Sawyer dramatically, and then do me the compliment to put me
in the bills as father of this shady offspring.  Sir, do you know that
this kind of a compliment has destroyed people before now?  Listen.

Twenty-four years ago, I was strangely handsome.  The remains of it are
still visible through the rifts of time.  I was so handsome that human
activities ceased as if spellbound when I came in view, and even
inanimate things stopped to look--like locomotives, and district
messenger boys and so-on.  In San Francisco, in the rainy season I was
often mistaken for fair weather.  Upon one occasion I was traveling in
the Sonora region, and stopped for an hour's nooning, to rest my horse
and myself.  All the town came out to look.  The tribes of Indians
gathered to look.  A Piute squaw named her baby for me,--a voluntary
compliment which pleased me greatly.  Other attentions were paid me.
Last of all arrived the president and faculty of Sonora University and
offered me the post of Professor of Moral Culture and the Dogmatic
Humanities; which I accepted gratefully, and entered at once upon my
duties.  But my name had pleased the Indians, and in the deadly kindness
of their hearts they went on naming their babies after me.  I tried to
stop it, but the Indians could not understand why I should object to so
manifest a compliment.  The thing grew and grew and spread and spread and
became exceedingly embarrassing.  The University stood it a couple of
years; but then for the sake of the college they felt obliged to call a
halt, although I had the sympathy of the whole faculty.  The president
himself said to me, "I am as sorry as I can be for you, and would still
hold out if there were any hope ahead; but you see how it is: there are a
hundred and thirty-two of them already, and fourteen precincts to hear
from.  The circumstance has brought your name into most wide and
unfortunate renown.  It causes much comment--I believe that that is not
an over-statement.  Some of this comment is palliative, but some of it
--by patrons at a distance, who only know the statistics without the
explanation,--is offensive, and in some cases even violent.  Nine
students have been called home.  The trustees of the college have been
growing more and more uneasy all these last months--steadily along with
the implacable increase in your census--and I will not conceal from you
that more than once they have touched upon the expediency of a change in
the Professorship of Moral Culture.  The coarsely sarcastic editorial in
yesterday's Alta, headed Give the Moral Acrobat a Rest--has brought
things to a crisis, and I am charged with the unpleasant duty of
receiving your resignation."

I know you only mean me a kindness, dear 1365, but it is a most deadly
mistake.  Please do not name your Injun for me.  Truly Yours.


                              Mailed Answer:

                                        NEW YORK, Sept. 8.  1887.
DEAR SIR,--Necessarily I cannot assent to so strange a proposition.  And
I think it but fair to warn you that if you put the piece on the stage,
you must take the legal consequences.
                         Yours respectfully,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     Before the days of international copyright no American author's
     books were pirated more freely by Canadian publishers than those of
     Mark Twain.  It was always a sore point with him that these books,
     cheaply printed, found their way into the United States, and were
     sold in competition with his better editions.  The law on the
     subject seemed to be rather hazy, and its various interpretations
     exasperating.  In the next unmailed letter Mark Twain relieves
     himself to a misguided official.  The letter is worth reading today,
     if for no other reason, to show the absurdity of copyright
     conditions which prevailed at that time.


          Unmailed Letter to H. C. Christiancy, on book Piracy:

                                             HARTFORD, Dec. 18, '87.
H. C. CHRISTIANCY, ESQ.

DEAR SIR,--As I understand it, the position of the U. S. Government is
this: If a person be captured on the border with counterfeit bonds in his
hands--bonds of the N. Y. Central Railway, for instance--the procedure in
his case shall be as follows:

1.  If the N. Y. C. have not previously filed in the several police
offices along the border, proof of ownership of the originals of the
bonds, the government officials must collect a duty on the counterfeits,
and then let them go ahead and circulate in this country.

2.  But if there is proof already on file, then the N. Y. C.  may pay the
duty and take the counterfeits.

But in no case will the United States consent to go without its share of
the swag.  It is delicious.  The biggest and proudest government on earth
turned sneak-thief; collecting pennies on stolen property, and pocketing
them with a greasy and libidinous leer; going into partnership with
foreign thieves to rob its own children; and when the child escapes the
foreigner, descending to the abysmal baseness of hanging on and robbing
the infant all alone by itself!  Dear sir, this is not any more
respectable than for a father to collect toll on the forced prostitution
of his own daughter; in fact it is the same thing.  Upon these terms,
what is a U. S. custom house but a "fence?"  That is all it is: a
legalized trader in stolen goods.

And this nasty law, this filthy law, this unspeakable law calls itself a
"regulation for the protection of owners of copyright!"  Can sarcasm go
further than that?  In what way does it protect them?  Inspiration itself
could not furnish a rational answer to that question.  Whom does it
protect, then?  Nobody, as far as I can see, but the foreign thief-
sometimes--and his fellow-footpad the U. S. government, all the time.
What could the Central Company do with the counterfeit bonds after it had
bought them of the star spangled banner Master-thief?  Sell them at a
dollar apiece and fetch down the market for the genuine hundred-dollar
bond?  What could I do with that 20-cent copy of "Roughing It" which the
United States has collared on the border and is waiting to release to me
for cash in case I am willing to come down to its moral level and help
rob myself?  Sell it at ten or fifteen cents--duty added--and destroy the
market for the original $3,50 book?  Who ever did invent that law?  I
would like to know the name of that immortal jackass.

Dear sir, I appreciate your courtesy in stretching your authority in the
desire to do me a kindness, and I sincerely thank you for it.  But I have
no use for that book; and if I were even starving for it I would not pay
duty on in either to get it or suppress it.  No doubt there are ways in
which I might consent to go into partnership with thieves and fences,
but this is not one of them.  This one revolts the remains of my self-
respect; turns my stomach.  I think I could companion with a highwayman
who carried a shot-gun and took many risks; yes, I think I should like
that if I were younger; but to go in with a big rich government that robs
paupers, and the widows and orphans of paupers and takes no risk--why the
thought just gags me.

Oh, no, I shall never pay any duties on pirated books of mine.  I am much
too respectable for that--yet awhile.  But here--one thing that grovels
me is this: as far as I can discover--while freely granting that the
U. S. copyright laws are far and away the most idiotic that exist
anywhere on the face of the earth--they don't authorize the government to
admit pirated books into this country, toll or no toll.  And so I think
that that regulation is the invention of one of those people--as a rule,
early stricken of God, intellectually--the departmental interpreters of
the laws, in Washington.  They can always be depended on to take any
reasonably good law and interpret the common sense all out of it.  They
can be depended on, every time, to defeat a good law, and make it
inoperative--yes, and utterly grotesque, too, mere matter for laughter
and derision.  Take some of the decisions of the Post-office Department,
for instance--though I do not mean to suggest that that asylum is any
worse than the others for the breeding and nourishing of incredible
lunatics--I merely instance it because it happens to be the first to come
into my mind.  Take that case of a few years ago where the P. M. General
suddenly issued an edict requiring you to add the name of the State after
Boston, New York, Chicago, &c, in your superscriptions, on pain of having
your letter stopped and forwarded to the dead-letter office; yes, and I
believe he required the county, too.  He made one little concession in
favor of New York: you could say "New York City," and stop there; but if
you left off the "city," you must add "N. Y."  to your "New York."  Why,
it threw the business of the whole country into chaos and brought
commerce almost to a stand-still.  Now think of that!  When that man goes
to--to--well, wherever he is going to--we shan't want the microscopic
details of his address.  I guess we can find him.

Well, as I was saying, I believe that this whole paltry and ridiculous
swindle is a pure creation of one of those cabbages that used to be at
the head of one of those Retreats down there--Departments, you know--and
that you will find it so, if you will look into it.  And moreover--but
land, I reckon we are both tired by this time.
                              Truly Yours,
                                             MARK TWAIN.





XXVII

MISCELLANEOUS LETTERS OF 1887.  LITERARY ARTICLES.  PEACEFUL DAYS AT THE
FARM.  FAVORITE READING.  APOLOGY TO MRS. CLEVELAND, ETC.

We have seen in the preceding chapter how unknown aspirants in one field
or another were always seeking to benefit by Mark Twain's reputation.
Once he remarked, "The symbol of the human race ought to be an ax; every
human being has one concealed about him somewhere."  He declared when a
stranger called on him, or wrote to him, in nine cases out of ten he
could distinguish the gleam of the ax almost immediately.  The following
letter is closely related to those of the foregoing chapter, only that
this one was mailed--not once, but many times, in some form adapted to
the specific applicant.  It does not matter to whom it was originally
written, the name would not be recognized.


            To Mrs. T.  Concerning unearned credentials, etc.

                                                  HARTFORD, 1887.
MY DEAR MADAM,--It is an idea which many people have had, but it is of no
value.  I have seen it tried out many and many a time.  I have seen a
lady lecturer urged and urged upon the public in a lavishly complimentary
document signed by Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes and some others of
supreme celebrity, but--there was nothing in her and she failed.  If
there had been any great merit in her she never would have needed those
men's help and (at her rather mature age,) would never have consented to
ask for it.

There is an unwritten law about human successes, and your sister must bow
to that law, she must submit to its requirements.  In brief this law is:

     1.  No occupation without an apprenticeship.

     2.  No pay to the apprentice.

This law stands right in the way of the subaltern who wants to be a
General before he has smelt powder; and it stands (and should stand) in
everybody's way who applies for pay or position before he has served his
apprenticeship and proved himself.  Your sister's course is perfectly
plain.  Let her enclose this letter to Maj. J. B. Pond, and offer to
lecture a year for $10 a week and her expenses, the contract to be
annullable by him at any time, after a month's notice, but not annullable
by her at all.  The second year, he to have her services, if he wants
them, at a trifle under the best price offered her by anybody else.

She can learn her trade in those two years, and then be entitled to
remuneration--but she can not learn it in any less time than that, unless
she is a human miracle.

Try it, and do not be afraid.  It is the fair and right thing.  If she
wins, she will win squarely and righteously, and never have to blush.
                                   Truly yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


     Howells wrote, in February, offering to get a publisher to take the
     Library of Humor off Mark Twain's hands.  Howells had been paid
     twenty-six hundred dollars for the work on it, and his conscience
     hurt him when he reflected that the book might never be used.  In
     this letter he also refers to one of the disastrous inventions in
     which Clemens had invested--a method of casting brass dies for
     stamping book-covers and wall-paper.  Howells's purpose was to
     introduce something of the matter into his next story.  Mark Twain's
     reply gives us a light on this particular invention.


                                             HARTFORD, Feb. 15, '87.
DEAR HOWELLS,--I was in New York five days ago, and Webster mentioned the
Library, and proposed to publish it a year or a year and half hence.
I have written him your proposition to-day.  (The Library is part of the
property of the C. L. W. & Co.  firm.)

I don't remember what that technical phrase was, but I think you will
find it in any Cyclopedia under the head of "Brass."  The thing I best
remember is, that the self-styled "inventor" had a very ingenious way of
keeping me from seeing him apply his invention: the first appointment was
spoiled by his burning down the man's shop in which it was to be done,
the night before; the second was spoiled by his burning down his own shop
the night before.  He unquestionably did both of these things.  He really
had no invention; the whole project was a blackmailing swindle, and cost
me several thousand dollars.

The slip you sent me from the May "Study" has delighted Mrs. Clemens and
me to the marrow.  To think that thing might be possible to many; but to
be brave enough to say it is possible to you only, I certainly believe.
The longer I live the clearer I perceive how unmatchable, how
unapproachable, a compliment one pays when he says of a man "he has the
courage (to utter) his convictions."  Haven't you had reviewers talk Alps
to you, and then print potato hills?

I haven't as good an opinion of my work as you hold of it, but I've
always done what I could to secure and enlarge my good opinion of it.
I've always said to myself, "Everybody reads it and that's something--it
surely isn't pernicious, or the most acceptable people would get pretty
tired of it."  And when a critic said by implication that it wasn't high
and fine, through the remark "High and fine literature is wine" I
retorted (confidentially, to myself,) "yes, high and fine literature is
wine, and mine is only water; but everybody likes water."

You didn't tell me to return that proof-slip, so I have pasted it into my
private scrap-book.  None will see it there.  With a thousand thanks.
                              Ys Ever
                                        MARK.


     Our next letter is an unmailed answer, but it does not belong with
     the others, having been withheld for reasons of quite a different
     sort.  Jeanette Gilder, then of the Critic, was one of Mark Twain's
     valued friends.  In the comment which he made, when it was shown to
     him twenty-two years later, he tells us why he thinks this letter
     was not sent.  The name, "Rest-and-be-Thankful," was the official
     title given to the summer place at Elmira, but it was more often
     known as "Quarry Farm."


                    To Jeannette Gilder (not mailed):

                                                  HARTFORD, May 14, '87.
MY DEAR MISS GILDER,--We shall spend the summer at the same old place-the
remote farm called "Rest-and-be-Thankful," on top of the hills three
miles from Elmira, N. Y.  Your other question is harder to answer.  It is
my habit to keep four or five books in process of erection all the time,
and every summer add a few courses of bricks to two or three of them; but
I cannot forecast which of the two or three it is going to be.  It takes
seven years to complete a book by this method, but still it is a good
method: gives the public a rest.  I have been accused of "rushing into
print" prematurely, moved thereto by greediness for money; but in truth
I have never done that.  Do you care for trifles of information?  (Well,
then, "Tom Sawyer" and "The Prince and the Pauper" were each on the
stocks two or three years, and "Old Times on the Mississippi" eight.)
One of my unfinished books has been on the stocks sixteen years; another
seventeen.  This latter book could have been finished in a day, at any
time during the past five years.  But as in the first of these two
narratives all the action takes place in Noah's ark, and as in the other
the action takes place in heaven, there seemed to be no hurry, and so I
have not hurried.  Tales of stirring adventure in those localities do not
need to be rushed to publication lest they get stale by waiting.  In
twenty-one years, with all my time at my free disposal I have written and
completed only eleven books, whereas with half the labor that a
journalist does I could have written sixty in that time.  I do not
greatly mind being accused of a proclivity for rushing into print, but
at the same time I don't believe that the charge is really well founded.
Suppose I did write eleven books, have you nothing to be grateful for?
Go to---remember the forty-nine which I didn't write.
                              Truly Yours
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


                  Notes (added twenty-two years later):

Stormfield, April 30, 1909.  It seems the letter was not sent.  I
probably feared she might print it, and I couldn't find a way to say so
without running a risk of hurting her.  No one would hurt Jeannette
Gilder purposely, and no one would want to run the risk of doing it
unintentionally.  She is my neighbor, six miles away, now, and I must
ask her about this ancient letter.

I note with pride and pleasure that I told no untruths in my unsent
answer.  I still have the habit of keeping unfinished books lying around
years and years, waiting.  I have four or five novels on hand at present
in a half-finished condition, and it is more than three years since I
have looked at any of them.  I have no intention of finishing them.
I could complete all of them in less than a year, if the impulse should
come powerfully upon me: Long, long ago money-necessity furnished that
impulse once, (" Following the Equator"), but mere desire for money has
never furnished it, so far as I remember.  Not even money-necessity was
able to overcome me on a couple of occasions when perhaps I ought to have
allowed it to succeed.  While I was a bankrupt and in debt two offers
were made me for weekly literary contributions to continue during a year,
and they would have made a debtless man of me, but I declined them, with
my wife's full approval, for I had known of no instance where a man had
pumped himself out once a week and failed to run "emptyings" before the
year was finished.

As to that "Noah's Ark" book, I began it in Edinburgh in 1873;--[This is
not quite correct.  The "Noah's Ark" book was begun in Buffalo in 1870.]
I don't know where the manuscript is now.  It was a Diary, which
professed to be the work of Shem, but wasn't.  I began it again several
months ago, but only for recreation; I hadn't any intention of carrying
it to a finish
--or even to the end of the first chapter, in fact.

As to the book whose action "takes place in Heaven."  That was a small
thing, ("Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven.") It lay in my pigeon-
holes 40 years, then I took it out and printed it in Harper's Monthly
last year.
                         S. L. C.


In the next letter we get a pretty and peaceful picture of "Rest-and-be-
Thankful."  These were Mark Twain's balmy days.  The financial drain of
the type-machine was heavy but not yet exhausting, and the prospect of
vast returns from it seemed to grow brighter each day.  His publishing
business, though less profitable, was still prosperous, his family life
was ideal.  How gratefully, then, he could enter into the peace of that
"perfect day."


                  To Mrs. Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Ia.:

                                   ON THE HILL NEAR ELMIRA, July 10, '87.
DEAR MOLLIE,--This is a superb Sunday for weather--very cloudy, and the
thermometer as low as 65.  The city in the valley is purple with shade,
as seen from up here at the study.  The Cranes are reading and loafing in
the canvas-curtained summer-house 50 yards away on a higher (the highest)
point; the cats are loafing over at "Ellerslie" which is the children's
estate and dwellinghouse in their own private grounds (by deed from Susie
Crane) a hundred yards from the study, amongst the clover and young oaks
and willows.  Livy is down at the house, but I shall now go and bring her
up to the Cranes to help us occupy the lounges and hammocks--whence a
great panorama of distant hill and valley and city is seeable.  The
children have gone on a lark through the neighboring hills and woods.
It is a perfect day indeed.
                         With love to you all.
                                                  SAM.


Two days after this letter was written we get a hint of what was the
beginning of business trouble--that is to say, of the failing health of
Charles L.  Webster.  Webster was ambitious, nervous, and not robust.
He had overworked and was paying the penalty.  His trouble was
neurasthenia, and he was presently obliged to retire altogether from the
business.  The "Sam and Mary" mentioned were Samuel Moffet and his wife.


               To Mrs. Pamela Moffett, in Fredonia, N.  Y.

                                                  ELMIRA, July 12, '87
MY DEAR SISTER,--I had no idea that Charley's case was so serious.
I knew it was bad, and persistent, but I was not aware of the full size
of the matter.

I have just been writing to a friend in Hartford' who treated what I
imagine was a similar case surgically last fall, and produced a permanent
cure.  If this is a like case, Charley must go to him.

If relief fails there, he must take the required rest, whether the
business can stand it or not.

It is most pleasant to hear such prosperous accounts of Sam and Mary,
I do not see how Sam could well be more advantageously fixed.  He can
grow up with that paper, and achieve a successful life.

It is not all holiday here with Susie and Clara this time.  They have to
put in some little time every day on their studies.  Jean thinks she is
studying too, but I don't know what it is unless it is the horses; she
spends the day under their heels in the stables--and that is but a
continuation of her Hartford system of culture.

With love from us all to you all.
                              Affectionately
                                             SAM.


Mark Twain had a few books that he read regularly every year or two.
Among these were 'Pepys's Diary', Suetonius's 'Lives of the Twelve
Caesars', and Thomas Carlyle's 'French Revolution'.  He had a passion for
history, biography, and personal memoirs of any sort.  In his early life
he had cared very little for poetry, but along in the middle eighties he
somehow acquired a taste for Browning and became absorbed in it.
A Browning club assembled as often as once a week at the Clemens home in
Hartford to listen to his readings of the master.  He was an impressive
reader, and he carefully prepared himself for these occasions, indicating
by graduated underscorings, the exact values he wished to give to words
and phrases.  Those were memorable gatherings, and they must have
continued through at least two winters.  It is one of the puzzling phases
of Mark Twain's character that, notwithstanding his passion for direct
and lucid expression, he should have found pleasure in the poems of
Robert Browning.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, Aug.  22, '87.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--How stunning are the changes which age makes in a man
while he sleeps.  When I finished Carlyle's French Revolution in 1871,
I was a Girondin; every time I have read it since, I have read it
differently being influenced and changed, little by little, by life and
environment (and Taine and St. Simon): and now I lay the book down once
more, and recognize that I am a Sansculotte!--And not a pale,
characterless Sansculotte, but a Marat.  Carlyle teaches no such gospel
so the change is in me--in my vision of the evidences.

People pretend that the Bible means the same to them at 50 that it did at
all former milestones in their journey.  I wonder how they can lie so.
It comes of practice, no doubt.  They would not say that of Dickens's or
Scott's books.  Nothing remains the same.  When a man goes back to look
at the house of his childhood, it has always shrunk: there is no instance
of such a house being as big as the picture in memory and imagination
call for.  Shrunk how?  Why, to its correct dimensions: the house hasn't
altered; this is the first time it has been in focus.

Well, that's loss.  To have house and Bible shrink so, under the
disillusioning corrected angle, is loss-for a moment.  But there are
compensations.  You tilt the tube skyward and bring planets and comets
and corona flames a hundred and fifty thousand miles high into the field.
Which I see you have done, and found Tolstoi.  I haven't got him in focus
yet, but I've got Browning .  .  .  .
                                   Ys Ever
                                             MARK.


     Mention has been made already of Mark Twain's tendency to
     absentmindedness.  He was always forgetting engagements, or getting
     them wrong.  Once he hurried to an afternoon party, and finding the
     mistress of the house alone, sat down and talked to her comfortably
     for an hour or two, not remembering his errand at all.  It was only
     when he reached home that he learned that the party had taken place
     the week before.  It was always dangerous for him to make
     engagements, and he never seemed to profit by sorrowful experience.
     We, however, may profit now by one of his amusing apologies.


                 To Mrs. Grover Cleveland, in Washington:

                                             HARTFORD, Nov.  6, 1887.
MY DEAR MADAM,--I do not know how it is in the White House, but in this
house of ours whenever the minor half of the administration tries to run
itself without the help of the major half it gets aground.  Last night
when I was offered the opportunity to assist you in the throwing open the
Warner brothers superb benefaction in Bridgeport to those fortunate
women, I naturally appreciated the honor done me, and promptly seized my
chance.  I had an engagement, but the circumstances washed it out of my
mind.  If I had only laid the matter before the major half of the
administration on the spot, there would have been no blunder; but I never
thought of that.  So when I did lay it before her, later, I realized once
more that it will not do for the literary fraction of a combination to
try to manage affairs which properly belong in the office of the business
bulk of it.  I suppose the President often acts just like that: goes and
makes an impossible promise, and you never find it out until it is next
to impossible to break it up and set things straight again.  Well, that
is just our way, exactly-one half of the administration always busy
getting the family into trouble, and the other half busy getting it out
again.  And so we do seem to be all pretty much alike, after all.  The
fact is, I had forgotten that we were to have a dinner party on that
Bridgeport date--I thought it was the next day: which is a good deal of
an improvement for me, because I am more used to being behind a day or
two than ahead.  But that is just the difference between one end of this
kind of an administration and the other end of it, as you have noticed,
yourself--the other end does not forget these things.  Just so with a
funeral; if it is the man's funeral, he is most always there, of course-
but that is no credit to him, he wouldn't be there if you depended on
hint to remember about it; whereas, if on the other hand--but I seem to
have got off from my line of argument somehow; never mind about the
funeral.  Of course I am not meaning to say anything against funerals--
that is, as occasions--mere occasions--for as diversions I don't think
they amount to much But as I was saying--if you are not busy I will look
back and see what it was I was saying.

I don't seem to find the place; but anyway she was as sorry as ever
anybody could be that I could not go to Bridgeport, but there was no help
for it.  And I, I have been not only sorry but very sincerely ashamed of
having made an engagement to go without first making sure that I could
keep it, and I do not know how to apologize enough for my heedless breach
of good manners.
                    With the sincerest respect,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     Samuel Clemens was one of the very few authors to copyright a book
     in England before the enactment of the international copyright law.
     As early as 1872 he copyrighted 'Roughing It' in England, and
     piratical publishers there respected his rights.  Finally, in 1887,
     the inland revenue office assessed him with income tax, which he
     very willingly paid, instructing his London publishers, Chatto &
     Windus, to pay on the full amount he had received from them.  But
     when the receipt for his taxes came it was nearly a yard square with
     due postage of considerable amount.  Then he wrote:


              To Mr. Chatto, of Chatto & Windus, in London:

                                             HARTFORD, Dec. 5, '87.
MY DEAR CHATTO,--Look here, I don't mind paying the tax, but don't you
let the Inland Revenue Office send me any more receipts for it, for the
postage is something perfectly demoralizing.  If they feel obliged to
print a receipt on a horse-blanket, why don't they hire a ship and send
it over at their own expense?

Wasn't it good that they caught me out with an old book instead of a new
one?  The tax on a new book would bankrupt a body.  It was my purpose to
go to England next May and stay the rest of the year, but I've found that
tax office out just in time.  My new book would issue in March, and they
would tax the sale in both countries.  Come, we must get up a compromise
somehow.  You go and work in on the good side of those revenue people and
get them to take the profits and give me the tax.  Then I will come over
and we will divide the swag and have a good time.

I wish you to thank Mr. Christmas for me; but we won't resist.  The
country that allows me copyright has a right to tax me.
                              Sincerely Yours
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     Another English tax assessment came that year, based on the report
     that it was understood that he was going to become an English
     resident, and had leased Buckenham Hall, Norwich, for a year.
     Clemens wrote his publishers: "I will explain that all that about
     Buckenham Hall was an English newspaper's mistake.  I was not in
     England, and if I had been I wouldn't have been at Buckenham Hall,
     anyway, but at Buckingham Palace, or I would have endeavored to find
     out the reason why."  Clemens made literature out of this tax
     experience.  He wrote an open letter to Her Majesty Queen Victoria.
     Such a letter has no place in this collection.  It was published in
     the "Drawer" of Harper's Magazine, December, 1887, and is now
     included in the uniform edition of his works under the title of,
     "A Petition to the Queen of England."

     From the following letter, written at the end of the year, we gather
     that the type-setter costs were beginning to make a difference in
     the Clemens economies.


                      To Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia:

                                             HARTFORD, Dec. 18, '87.
DEAR PAMELA,--will you take this $15 and buy some candy or some other
trifle for yourself and Sam and his wife to remember that we remember
you, by?

If we weren't a little crowded this year by the typesetter, I'd send a
check large enough to buy a family Bible or some other useful thing like
that.  However we go on and on, but the type-setter goes on forever--at
$3,000 a month; which is much more satisfactory than was the case the
first seventeen months, when the bill only averaged $2,000, and promised
to take a thousand years.  We'll be through, now, in 3 or 4 months, I
reckon, and then the strain will let up and we can breathe freely once
more, whether success ensues or failure.

Even with a type-setter on hand we ought not to be in the least scrimped-
but it would take a long letter to explain why and who is to blame.

All the family send love to all of you and best Christmas wishes for your
prosperity.
                    Affectionately,
                                        SAM.




XXVIII

LETTERS,1888.  A YALE DEGREE.  WORK ON "THE YANKEE." ON INTERVIEWING,
ETC.

     Mark Twain received his first college degree when he was made Master
     of Arts by Yale, in June, 1888.  Editor of the Courant, Charles H.
     Clarke, was selected to notify him of his new title.  Clarke was an
     old friend to whom Clemens could write familiarly.


                   To Charles H.  Clarke, in Hartford:

                                                  ELMIRA, July 2, '88.
MY DEAR CHARLES,--Thanks for your thanks, and for your initiation
intentions.  I shall be ready for you.  I feel mighty proud of that
degree; in fact, I could squeeze the truth a little closer and say vain
of it.  And why shouldn't I be?--I am the only literary animal of my
particular subspecies who has ever been given a degree by any College in
any age of the world, as far as I know.
                                   Sincerely Yours
                                             S. L. Clemens M. A.


                Reply: Charles H. Clarke to S. L Clemens:

MY DEAR FRIEND, You are "the only literary animal of your particular
subspecies" in existence and you've no cause for humility in the fact.
Yale has done herself at least as much credit as she has done you, and
"Don't you forget it."
                              C. H. C.


     With the exception of his brief return to the river in 1882.  Mark
     Twain had been twenty-seven years away from pilots and piloting.
     Nevertheless, he always kept a tender place in his heart for the old
     times and for old river comrades.  Major "Jack" Downing had been a
     Mississippi pilot of early days, but had long since retired from the
     river to a comfortable life ashore, in an Ohio town.  Clemens had
     not heard from him for years when a letter came which invited the
     following answer.


               To Major "Jack" Downing, in Middleport Ohio:

                                        ELMIRA, N. Y.[no month] 1888.
DEAR MAJOR,--And has it come to this that the dead rise up and speak?
For I supposed that you were dead, it has been so long since I heard your
name.

And how young you've grown!  I was a mere boy when I knew you on the
river, where you had been piloting for 35 years, and now you are only a
year and a half older than I am!  I mean to go to Hot Springs myself and
get 30 or 40 years knocked off my age.  It's manifestly the place that
Ponce de Leon was striking for, but the poor fellow lost the trail.

Possibly I may see you, for I shall be in St. Louis a day or two in
November.  I propose to go down the river and "note the changes" once
more before I make the long crossing, and perhaps you can come there.
Will you?  I want to see all the boys that are left alive.

And so Grant Marsh, too, is flourishing yet?  A mighty good fellow, and
smart too.  When we were taking that wood flat down to the Chambers,
which was aground, I soon saw that I was a perfect lubber at piloting
such a thing.  I saw that I could never hit the Chambers with it, so I
resigned in Marsh's favor, and he accomplished the task to my admiration.
We should all have gone to the mischief if I had remained in authority.
I always had good judgement, more judgement than talent, in fact.

No; the nom de plume did not originate in that way.  Capt. Sellers used
the signature, "Mark Twain," himself, when he used to write up the
antiquities in the way of river reminiscences for the New Orleans
Picayune.  He hated me for burlesquing them in an article in the True
Delta; so four years later when he died, I robbed the corpse--that is I
confiscated the nom de plume.  I have published this vital fact 3,000
times now.  But no matter, it is good practice; it is about the only fact
that I can tell the same way every time.  Very glad, indeed, to hear from
you Major, and shall be gladder still to see you in November.

                              Truly yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     He did not make the journey down the river planned for that year.
     He had always hoped to make another steamboat trip with Bixby, but
     one thing and another interfered and he did not go again.

     Authors were always sending their books to Mark Twain to read, and
     no busy man was ever more kindly disposed toward such offerings,
     more generously considerate of the senders.  Louis Pendleton was a
     young unknown writer in 1888, but Clemens took time to read his
     story carefully, and to write to him about it a letter that cost
     precious time, thought, and effort.  It must have rejoiced the young
     man's heart to receive a letter like that, from one whom all young
     authors held supreme.


                     To Louis Pendleton, in Georgia:

                                        ELMIRA, N. Y., Aug. 4, '88.
MY DEAR SIR,--I found your letter an hour ago among some others which had
lain forgotten a couple of weeks, and I at once stole time enough to read
Ariadne.  Stole is the right word, for the summer "Vacation" is the only
chance I get for work; so, no minute subtracted from work is borrowed, it
is stolen.  But this time I do not repent.  As a rule, people don't send
me books which I can thank them for, and so I say nothing--which looks
uncourteous.  But I thank you.  Ariadne is a beautiful and satisfying
story; and true, too--which is the best part of a story; or indeed of any
other thing.  Even liars have to admit that, if they are intelligent
liars; I mean in their private [the word conscientious written but
erased] intervals.  (I struck that word out because a man's private
thought can never be a lie; what he thinks, is to him the truth, always;
what he speaks--but these be platitudes.)

If you want me to pick some flaws--very well--but I do it unwillingly.
I notice one thing--which one may notice also in my books, and in all
books whether written by man or God: trifling carelessness of statement
or Expression.  If I think that you meant that she took the lizard from
the water which she had drawn from the well, it is evidence--it is almost
proof--that your words were not as clear as they should have been.  True,
it is only a trifling thing; but so is mist on a mirror.  I would have
hung the pail on Ariadne's arm.  You did not deceive me when you said
that she carried it under her arm, for I knew she didn't; still it was
not your right to mar my enjoyment of the graceful picture.  If the pail
had been a portfolio, I wouldn't be making these remarks.  The engraver
of a fine picture revises, and revises, and revises--and then revises,
and revises, and revises; and then repeats.  And always the charm of that
picture grows, under his hand.  It was good enough before--told its
story, and was beautiful.  True: and a lovely girl is lovely, with
freckles; but she isn't at her level best with them.

This is not hypercriticism; you have had training enough to know that.

So much concerning exactness of statement.  In that other not-small
matter--selection of the exact single word--you are hard to catch.
Still, I should hold that Mrs. Walker considered that there was no
occasion for concealment; that "motive" implied a deeper mental search
than she expended on the matter; that it doesn't reflect the attitude of
her mind with precision.  Is this hypercriticism?  I shan't dispute it.
I only say, that if Mrs. Walker didn't go so far as to have a motive, I
had to suggest that when a word is so near the right one that a body
can't quite tell whether it is or isn't, it's good politics to strike it
out and go for the Thesaurus.  That's all.  Motive may stand; but you
have allowed a snake to scream, and I will not concede that that was the
best word.

I do not apologize for saying these things, for they are not said in the
speck-hunting spirit, but in the spirit of want-to-help-if-I-can.  They
would be useful to me if said to me once a month, they may be useful to
you, said once.

I save the other stories for my real vacation--which is nine months long,
to my sorrow.  I thank you again.
                              Truly Yours
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


     In the next letter we get a sidelight on the type-setting machine,
     the Frankenstein monster that was draining their substance and
     holding out false hopes of relief and golden return.  The program
     here outlined was one that would continue for several years yet,
     with the end always in sight, but never quite attained.


                    To Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Ia.:

                                                       Oct. 3, '88.
Private

Saturday 29th, by a closely calculated estimate, there were 85 days' work
to do on the machine.

We can use 4 men, but not constantly.  If they could work constantly it
would complete the machine in 21 days, of course.  They will all be on
hand and under wages, and each will get in all the work there is
opportunity for, but by how much they can reduce the 85 days toward the
21 days, nobody can tell.

To-day I pay Pratt & Whitney $10,000.  This squares back indebtedness and
everything to date.  They began about May or April or March 1886--along
there somewhere, and have always kept from a dozen to two dozen master-
hands on the machine.

That outgo is done; 4 men for a month or two will close up that leak and
caulk it.  Work on the patents is also kind of drawing toward a
conclusion.

Love to you both.  All well here.

And give our love to Ma if she can get the idea.

                                        SAM.


     Mark Twain that year was working pretty steadily on 'The Yankee at
     King Arthur's Court', a book which he had begun two years before.
     He had published nothing since the Huck Finn story, and his company
     was badly in need of a new book by an author of distinction.  Also
     it was highly desirable to earn money for himself; wherefore he set
     to work to finish the Yankee story.  He had worked pretty steadily
     that summer in his Elmira study, but on his return to Hartford found
     a good deal of confusion in the house, so went over to Twichell's,
     where carpenter work was in progress.  He seems to have worked there
     successfully, though what improvement of conditions he found in that
     numerous, lively household, over those at home it would be difficult
     to say.


          To Theodore W.  Crane, at Quarry Farm, Elmira, N.  Y.

                                                  Friday, Oct.,5, '88.
DEAR THEO,--I am here in Twichell's house at work, with the noise of the
children and an army of carpenters to help.  Of course they don't help,
but neither do they hinder.  It's like a boiler-factory for racket, and
in nailing a wooden ceiling onto the room under me the hammering tickles
my feet amazingly sometimes, and jars my table a good deal; but I never
am conscious of the racket at all, and I move my feet into position of
relief without knowing when I do it.  I began here Monday morning, and
have done eighty pages since.  I was so tired last night that I thought I
would lie abed and rest, to-day; but I couldn't resist.  I mean to try to
knock off tomorrow, but it's doubtful if I do.  I want to finish the day
the machine finishes, and a week ago the closest calculations for that
indicated Oct. 22--but experience teaches me that their calculations will
miss fire, as usual.

The other day the children were projecting a purchase, Livy and I to
furnish the money--a dollar and a half.  Jean discouraged the idea.  She
said: "We haven't got any money.  Children, if you would think, you would
remember the machine isn't done."

It's billiards to-night.  I wish you were here.
                    With love to you both
                                             S. L. C.

P. S.  I got it all wrong.  It wasn't the children, it was Marie.  She
wanted a box of blacking, for the children's shoes.  Jean reproved her-
and said:

"Why, Marie, you mustn't ask for things now.  The machine isn't done."

                                             S. L. C.


     The letter that follows is to another of his old pilot friends, one
     who was also a schoolmate, Will Bowen, of Hannibal.  There is today
     no means of knowing the occasion upon which this letter was written,
     but it does not matter; it is the letter itself that is of chief
     value.


                     To Will Bowen, in Hannibal, Mo.:

                                             HARTFORD, Nov 4, '88.
DEAR WILL,--I received your letter yesterday evening, just as I was
starting out of town to attend a wedding, and so my mind was privately
busy, all the evening, in the midst of the maelstrom of chat and chaff
and laughter, with the sort of reflections which create themselves,
examine themselves, and continue themselves, unaffected by surroundings
--unaffected, that is understood, by the surroundings, but not
uninfluenced by them.  Here was the near presence of the two supreme
events of life: marriage, which is the beginning of life, and death which
is the end of it.  I found myself seeking chances to shirk into corners
where I might think, undisturbed; and the most I got out of my thought,
was this: both marriage and death ought to be welcome: the one promises
happiness, doubtless the other assures it.  A long procession of people
filed through my mind--people whom you and I knew so many years ago--so
many centuries ago, it seems like-and these ancient dead marched to the
soft marriage music of a band concealed in some remote room of the house;
and the contented music and the dreaming shades seemed in right accord
with each other, and fitting. Nobody else knew that a procession of the
dead was passing though this noisy swarm of the living, but there it was,
and to me there was nothing uncanny about it; Rio, they were welcome
faces to me.  I would have liked to bring up every creature we knew in
those days--even the dumb animals--it would be bathing in the fabled
Fountain of Youth.

We all feel your deep trouble with you; and we would hope, if we might,
but your words deny us that privilege.  To die one's self is a thing that
must be easy, and of light consequence, but to lose a part of one's self
--well, we know how deep that pang goes, we who have suffered that
disaster, received that wound which cannot heal.
                              Sincerely your friend
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


     His next is of quite a different nature.  Evidently the typesetting
     conditions had alarmed Orion, and he was undertaking some economies
     with a view of retrenchment.  Orion was always reducing economy to
     science.  Once, at an earlier date, he recorded that he had figured
     his personal living expenses down to sixty cents a week, but
     inasmuch as he was then, by his own confession, unable to earn the
     sixty cents, this particular economy was wasted.  Orion was a trial,
     certainly, and the explosion that follows was not without excuse.
     Furthermore, it was not as bad as it sounds.  Mark Twain's rages
     always had an element of humor in them, a fact which no one more
     than Orion himself would appreciate.  He preserved this letter,
     quietly noting on the envelope, "Letter from Sam, about ma's nurse."


                Letter to Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Iowa:

                                                       NOV. 29, '88.
Jesus Christ!--It is perilous to write such a man.  You can go crazy on
less material than anybody that ever lived.  What in hell has produced
all these maniacal imaginings?  You told me you had hired an attendant
for ma.  Now hire one instantly, and stop this nonsense of wearing Mollie
and yourself out trying to do that nursing yourselves.  Hire the
attendant, and tell me her cost so that I can instruct Webster & Co. to
add it every month to what they already send.  Don't fool away any more
time about this.  And don't write me any more damned rot about "storms,"
and inability to pay trivial sums of money and--and--hell and damnation!
You see I've read only the first page of your letter; I wouldn't read the
rest for a million dollars.
                                   Yr
                                         SAM.

P. S.  Don't imagine that I have lost my temper, because I swear.  I
swear all day, but I do not lose my temper.  And don't imagine that I am
on my way to the poorhouse, for I am not; or that I am uneasy, for I am
not; or that I am uncomfortable or unhappy--for I never am.  I don't know
what it is to be unhappy or uneasy; and I am not going to try to learn
how, at this late day.
                                   SAM.


     Few men were ever interviewed oftener than Mark Twain, yet he never
     welcomed interviewers and was seldom satisfied with them.  "What I
     say in an interview loses it character in print," he often remarked,
     "all its life and personality.  The reporter realizes this himself,
     and tries to improve upon me, but he doesn't help matters any."

     Edward W. Bok, before he became editor of the Ladies Home Journal,
     was conducting a weekly syndicate column under the title of "Bok's
     Literary Leaves."  It usually consisted of news and gossip of
     writers, comment, etc., literary odds and ends, and occasional
     interviews with distinguished authors.  He went up to Hartford one
     day to interview Mark Twain.  The result seemed satisfactory to Bok,
     but wishing to be certain that it would be satisfactory to Clemens,
     he sent him a copy for approval.  The interview was not returned;
     in the place of it came a letter-not altogether disappointing, as
     the reader may believe.


                     To Edward W.  Bok, in New York:

MY DEAR MR. BOK,--No, no.  It is like most interviews, pure twaddle and
valueless.

For several quite plain and simple reasons, an "interview" must, as a
rule, be an absurdity, and chiefly for this reason--It is an attempt to
use a boat on land or a wagon on water, to speak figuratively.  Spoken
speech is one thing, written speech is quite another.  Print is the
proper vehicle for the latter, but it isn't for the former.  The moment
"talk" is put into print you recognize that it is not what it was when
you heard it; you perceive that an immense something has disappeared from
it.  That is its soul.  You have nothing but a dead carcass left on your
hands.  Color, play of feature, the varying modulations of the voice, the
laugh, the smile, the informing inflections, everything that gave that
body warmth, grace, friendliness and charm and commended it to your
affections--or, at least, to your tolerance--is gone and nothing is left
but a pallid, stiff and repulsive cadaver.

Such is "talk" almost invariably, as you see it lying in state in an
"interview".  The interviewer seldom tries to tell one how a thing was
said; he merely puts in the naked remark and stops there.  When one
writes for print his methods are very different.  He follows forms which
have but little resemblance to conversation, but they make the reader
understand what the writer is trying to convey.  And when the writer is
making a story and finds it necessary to report some of the talk of his
characters observe how cautiously and anxiously he goes at that risky and
difficult thing.  "If he had dared to say that thing in my presence,"
said Alfred, "taking a mock heroic attitude, and casting an arch glance
upon the company, blood would have flowed."

"If he had dared to say that thing in my presence," said Hawkwood, with
that in his eye which caused more than one heart in that guilty
assemblage to quake, "blood would have flowed."

"If he had dared to say that thing in my presence," said the paltry
blusterer, with valor on his tongue and pallor on his lips, "blood would
have flowed."

So painfully aware is the novelist that naked talk in print conveys no
meaning that he loads, and often overloads, almost every utterance of his
characters with explanations and interpretations.  It is a loud
confession that print is a poor vehicle for "talk"; it is a recognition
that uninterpreted talk in print would result in confusion to the reader,
not instruction.

Now, in your interview, you have certainly been most accurate; you have
set down the sentences I uttered as I said them.  But you have not a word
of explanation; what my manner was at several points is not indicated.
Therefore, no reader can possibly know where I was in earnest and where I
was joking; or whether I was joking altogether or in earnest altogether.
Such a report of a conversation has no value.  It can convey many
meanings to the reader, but never the right one.  To add interpretations
which would convey the right meaning is a something which would require
--what?  An art so high and fine and difficult that no possessor of it
would ever be allowed to waste it on interviews.

No; spare the reader, and spare me; leave the whole interview out; it is
rubbish.  I wouldn't talk in my sleep if I couldn't talk better than
that.

If you wish to print anything print this letter; it may have some value,
for it may explain to a reader here and there why it is that in
interviews, as a rule, men seem to talk like anybody but themselves.
                         Very sincerely yours,
                                             MARK TWAIN.




XXIX

LETTERS, 1889.  THE MACHINE.  DEATH OF MR. CRANE.
CONCLUSION OF THE YANKEE

In January, 1889, Clemens believed, after his long seven years of
waiting, fruition had come in the matter of the type machine.  Paige, the
inventor, seemed at last to have given it its finishing touches.  The
mechanical marvel that had cost so much time, mental stress, and a
fortune in money, stood complete, responsive to the human will and touch
--the latest, and one of the greatest, wonders of the world.  To George
Standring, a London printer and publisher, Clemens wrote: "The machine is
finished!" and added, "This is by far the most marvelous invention ever
contrived by man.  And it is not a thing of rags and patches; it is made
of massive steel, and will last a century."

In his fever of enthusiasm on that day when he had actually seen it in
operation, he wrote a number of exuberant letters.  They were more or
less duplicates, but as the one to his brother is of fuller detail and
more intimate than the others, it has been selected for preservation
here.

                       To Orion Clemens, in Keokuk:

                                             HARTFORD, Jan. 5, '89.
DEAR ORION,--At 12.20 this afternoon a line of movable types was spaced
and justified by machinery, for the first time in the history of the
world!  And I was there to see.  It was done automatically--instantly--
perfectly.  This is indeed the first line of movable types that ever was
perfectly spaced and perfectly justified on this earth.

This was the last function that remained to be tested--and so by long
odds the most amazing and extraordinary invention ever born of the brain
of man stands completed and perfect.  Livy is down stairs celebrating.

But it's a cunning devil, is that machine!--and knows more than any man
that ever lived.  You shall see.  We made the test in this way.  We set
up a lot of random letters in a stick--three-fourths of a line; then
filled out the line with quads representing 14 spaces, each space to be
35/1000 of an inch thick.  Then we threw aside the quads and put the
letters into the machine and formed them into 15 two-letter words,
leaving the words separated by two-inch vacancies.  Then we started up
the machine slowly, by hand, and fastened our eyes on the space-selecting
pins.  The first pin-block projected its third pin as the first word came
traveling along the race-way; second block did the same; but the third
block projected its second pin!

"Oh, hell!  stop the machine--something wrong--it's going to set a
30/1000 space!"

General consternation.  "A foreign substance has got into the spacing
plates."  This from the head mathematician.

"Yes, that is the trouble," assented the foreman.

Paige examined.  "No--look in, and you can see that there's nothing of
the kind."  Further examination.  "Now I know what it is--what it must
be: one of those plates projects and binds.  It's too bad--the first
testis a failure."  A pause.  "Well, boys, no use to cry.  Get to work--
take the machine down.--No--Hold on!  don't touch a thing!  Go right
ahead!  We are fools, the machine isn't.  The machine knows what it's
about.  There is a speck of dirt on one of those types, and the machine
is putting in a thinner space to allow for it!"

That was just it.  The machine went right ahead, spaced the line,
justified it to a hair, and shoved it into the galley complete and
perfect!  We took it out and examined it with a glass.  You could not
tell by your eye that the third space was thinner than the others, but
the glass and the calipers showed the difference.  Paige had always said
that the machine would measure invisible particles of dirt and allow for
them, but even he had forgotten that vast fact for the moment.

All the witnesses made written record of the immense historical birth--
the first justification of a line of movable type by machinery--and also
set down the hour and the minute.  Nobody had drank anything, and yet
everybody seemed drunk.  Well-dizzy, stupefied, stunned.

All the other wonderful inventions of the human brain sink pretty nearly
into commonplace contrasted with this awful mechanical miracle.
Telephones, telegraphs, locomotives, cotton gins, sewing machines,
Babbage calculators, jacquard looms, perfecting presses, Arkwright's
frames--all mere toys, simplicities!  The Paige Compositor marches alone
and far in the lead of human inventions.

In two or three weeks we shall work the stiffness out of her joints and
have her performing as smoothly and softly as human muscles, and then we
shall speak out the big secret and let the world come and gaze.

Return me this letter when you have read it.

                                   SAM.


     Judge of the elation which such a letter would produce in Keokuk!
     Yet it was no greater than that which existed in Hartford--for a
     time.

     Then further delays.  Before the machine got "the stiffness out of
     her joints" that "cunning devil" manifested a tendency to break the
     types, and Paige, who was never happier than when he was pulling
     things to pieces and making improvements, had the type-setter apart
     again and the day of complete triumph was postponed.

     There was sadness at the Elmira farm that spring.  Theodore Crane,
     who had long been in poor health, seemed to grow daily worse.  In
     February he had paid a visit to Hartford and saw the machine in
     operation, but by the end of May his condition was very serious.
     Remembering his keen sense of humor, Clemens reported to him
     cheering and amusing incidents.


               To Mrs. Theodore Crane.  in Elmira, N. Y.:

                                             HARTFORD, May 28, '89.
Susie dear, I want you to tell this to Theodore.  You know how absent-
minded Twichell is, and how desolate his face is when he is in that
frame.  At such times, he passes the word with a friend on the street and
is not aware of the meeting at all.  Twice in a week, our Clara had this
latter experience with him within the past month.  But the second
instance was too much for her, and she woke him up, in his tracks, with a
reproach.  She said:

"Uncle Joe, why do you always look as if you were just going down into
the grave, when you meet a person on the street?"--and then went on to
reveal to him the funereal spectacle which he presented on such
occasions.  Well, she has met Twichell three times since then, and would
swim the Connecticut to avoid meeting him the fourth.  As soon as he
sights her, no matter how public the place nor how far off she is, he
makes a bound into the air, heaves arms and legs into all sorts of
frantic gestures of delight, and so comes prancing, skipping and
pirouetting for her like a drunken Indian entering heaven.

With a full invoice of love from us all to you and Theodore.

                                                  S. L. C.


     The reference in the next to the "closing sentence" in a letter
     written by Howells to Clemens about this time, refers to a heart-
     broken utterance of the former concerning his daughter Winnie, who
     had died some time before.  She had been a gentle talented girl, but
     never of robust health.  Her death had followed a long period of
     gradual decline.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Judy 13, '89.
DEAR HOWELLS,--I came on from Elmira a day or two ago, where I left a
house of mourning.  Mr. Crane died, after ten months of pain and two
whole days of dying, at the farm on the hill, the 3rd inst: A man who had
always hoped for a swift death.  Mrs. Crane and Mrs. Clemens and the
children were in a gloom which brought back to me the days of nineteen
years ago, when Mr. Langdon died.  It is heart-breaking to see Mrs.
Crane.  Many a time, in the past ten days, the sight of her has reminded
me, with a pang, of the desolation which uttered itself in the closing
sentence of your last letter to me.  I do see that there is an argument
against suicide: the grief of the worshipers left behind; the awful
famine in their hearts, these are too costly terms for the release.

I shall be here ten days yet, and all alone: nobody in the house but the
servants.  Can't Mrs. Howells spare you to me?  Can't you come and stay
with me?  The house is cool and pleasant; your work will not be
interrupted; we will keep to ourselves and let the rest of the world do
the same; you can have your choice of three bedrooms, and you will find
the Children's schoolroom (which was built for my study,) the perfection
of a retired and silent den for work.  There isn't a fly or a mosquito on
the estate.  Come--say you will.

With kindest regards to Mrs. Howells, and Pilla and John,
                                   Yours Ever
                                             MARK.


Howells was more hopeful.  He wrote: "I read something in a strange book,
The Physical Theory of Another Life, that consoles a little; namely, we
see and feel the power of Deity in such fullness that we ought to infer
the infinite justice and Goodness which we do not see or feel."  And a
few days later, he wrote: "I would rather see and talk with you than any
other man in the world outside my own blood."

A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur's Court was brought to an end that
year and given to the artist and printer.  Dan Beard was selected for the
drawings, and was given a free hand, as the next letter shows.


           To Fred J. Hall, Manager Charles L. Webster & Co.:

[Charles L.  Webster, owing to poor health, had by this time retired
from the firm.]

                                                  ELMIRA, July 20, '89.
DEAR MR. HALL,--Upon reflection--thus: tell Beard to obey his own
inspiration, and when he sees a picture in his mind put that picture on
paper, be it humorous or be it serious.  I want his genius to be wholly
unhampered, I shan't have fears as to the result.  They will be better
pictures than if I mixed in and tried to give him points on his own
trade.

Send this note and he'll understand.
                                        Yr
                                             S. L. C.


     Clemens had made a good choice in selecting Beard for the
     illustrations.  He was well qualified for the work, and being of a
     socialistic turn of mind put his whole soul into it.  When the
     drawings were completed, Clemens wrote: "Hold me under permanent
     obligations.  What luck it was to find you!  There are hundreds of
     artists that could illustrate any other book of mine, but there was
     only one who could illustrate this one.  Yes, it was a fortunate
     hour that I went netting for lightning bugs and caught a meteor.
     Live forever!"

     Clemens, of course, was anxious for Howells to read The Yankee, and
     Mrs. Clemens particularly so.  Her eyes were giving her trouble that
     summer, so that she could not read the MS. for herself, and she had
     grave doubts as to some of its chapters.  It may be said here that
     the book to-day might have been better if Mrs. Clemens had been able
     to read it.  Howells was a peerless critic, but the revolutionary
     subject-matter of the book so delighted him that he was perhaps
     somewhat blinded to its literary defects.  However, this is
     premature.  Howells did not at once see the story.  He had promised
     to come to Hartford, but wrote that trivial matters had made his
     visit impossible.  From the next letter we get the situation at this
     time.  The "Mr. Church" mentioned was Frederick S. Church, the well-
     known artist.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, July 24, '89.
DEAR HOWELLS,--I, too, was as sorry as I could be; yes, and desperately
disappointed.  I even did a heroic thing: shipped my book off to New York
lest I should forget hospitality and embitter your visit with it.  Not
that I think you wouldn't like to read it, for I think you would; but not
on a holiday that's not the time.  I see how you were situated--another
familiarity of Providence and wholly wanton intrusion--and of course we
could not help ourselves.  Well, just think of it: a while ago, while
Providence's attention was absorbed in disordering some time-tables so as
to break up a trip of mine to Mr. Church's on the Hudson, that Johnstown
dam got loose.  I swear I was afraid to pray, for fear I should laugh.
Well, I'm not going to despair; we'll manage a meet yet.

I expect to go to Hartford again in August and maybe remain till I have
to come back here and fetch the family.  And, along there in August, some
time, you let on that you are going to Mexico, and I will let on that I
am going to Spitzbergen, and then under cover of this clever stratagem we
will glide from the trains at Worcester and have a time.  I have noticed
that Providence is indifferent about Mexico and Spitzbergen.
                                   Ys Ever
                                             MARK.


     Possibly Mark Twain was not particularly anxious that Howells should
     see his MS., fearing that he might lay a ruthless hand on some of
     his more violent fulminations and wild fancies.  However this may
     be, further postponement was soon at an end.  Mrs. Clemens's eyes
     troubled her and would not permit her to read, so she requested that
     the Yankee be passed upon by soberminded critics, such as Howells
     and Edmund Clarence Stedman.  Howells wrote that even if he hadn't
     wanted to read the book for its own sake, or for the author's sake,
     he would still want to do it for Mrs. Clemens's.  Whereupon the
     proofs were started in his direction.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             ELMIRA, Aug.  24, '89.
DEAR HOWELLS,--If you should be moved to speak of my book in the Study,
I shall be glad and proud--and the sooner it gets in, the better for the
book; though I don't suppose you can get it in earlier than the November
number--why, no, you can't get it in till a month later than that.  Well,
anyway I don't think I'll send out any other press copy--except perhaps
to Stedman.  I'm not writing for those parties who miscall themselves
critics, and I don't care to have them paw the book at all.  It's my
swan-song, my retirement from literature permanently, and I wish to pass
to the cemetery unclodded.

I judge that the proofs have begun to reach you about this time, as I had
some (though not revises,) this morning.  I'm sure I'm going to be
charmed with Beard's pictures.  Observe his nice take-off of Middle-Age
art-dinner-table scene.
                              Ys sincerely
                                             MARK.


     Howells's approval of the Yankee came almost in the form of exultant
     shouts, one after reading each batch of proof.  First he wrote:
     "It's charming, original, wonderful!  good in fancy and sound to the
     core in morals."  And again, "It's a mighty great book, and it makes
     my heart burn with wrath.  It seems God did not forget to put a soul
     into you.  He shuts most literary men off with a brain, merely."
     Then, a few days later: "The book is glorious--simply noble; what
     masses of virgin truth never touched in print before!" and, finally,
     "Last night I read your last chapter.  As Stedman says of the whole
     book, it's titanic."


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Sept.  22, '89.
DEAR HOWELLS,--It is immensely good of you to grind through that stuff
for me; but it gives peace to Mrs. Clemens's soul; and I am as grateful
to you as a body can be.  I am glad you approve of what I say about the
French Revolution.  Few people will.  It is odd that even to this day
Americans still observe that immortal benefaction through English and
other monarchical eyes, and have no shred of an opinion about it that
they didn't get at second-hand.

Next to the 4th of July and its results, it was the noblest and the
holiest thing and the most precious that ever happened in this earth.
And its gracious work is not done yet--not anywhere in the remote
neighborhood of it.

Don't trouble to send me all the proofs; send me the pages with your
corrections on them, and waste-basket the rest.  We issue the book
Dec. 10; consequently a notice that appears Dec. 20 will be just in good
time.

I am waiting to see your Study set a fashion in criticism.  When that
happens--as please God it must--consider that if you lived three
centuries you couldn't do a more valuable work for this country, or a
humaner.

As a rule a critic's dissent merely enrages, and so does no good; but by
the new art which you use, your dissent must be as welcome as your
approval, and as valuable.  I do not know what the secret of it is,
unless it is your attitude--man courteously reasoning with man and
brother, in place of the worn and wearisome critical attitude of all this
long time--superior being lecturing a boy.

Well, my book is written--let it go.  But if it were only to write over
again there wouldn't be so many things left out.  They burn in me; and
they keep multiplying and multiplying; but now they can't ever be said.
And besides, they would require a library--and a pen warmed up in hell.
                                        Ys Ever
                                                  MARK.


     The type-setting machine began to loom large in the background.
     Clemens believed it perfected by this time.  Paige had got it
     together again and it was running steadily--or approximately so
     --setting type at a marvelous speed and with perfect accuracy.  In
     time an expert operator would be able to set as high as eight
     thousand ems per hour, or about ten times as much as a good
     compositor could set and distribute by hand.  Those who saw it were
     convinced--most of them--that the type-setting problem was solved by
     this great mechanical miracle.  If there were any who doubted, it
     was because of its marvelously minute accuracy which the others only
     admired.  Such accuracy, it was sometimes whispered, required
     absolutely perfect adjustment, and what would happen when the great
     inventor--"the poet in steel," as Clemens once called him--was no
     longer at hand to supervise and to correct the slightest variation.
     But no such breath of doubt came to Mark Twain; he believed the
     machine as reliable as a constellation.

     But now there was need of capital to manufacture and market the
     wonder.  Clemens, casting about in his mind, remembered Senator
     Jones, of Nevada, a man of great wealth, and his old friend, Joe
     Goodman, of Nevada, in whom Jones had unlimited confidence.  He
     wrote to Goodman, and in this letter we get a pretty full exposition
     of the whole matter as it stood in the fall of 1889.  We note in
     this communication that Clemens says that he has been at the machine
     three years and seven months, but this was only the period during
     which he had spent the regular monthly sum of three thousand
     dollars.  His interest in the invention had begun as far back as
     1880.


                    To Joseph T.  Goodman, in Nevada:

                                        Private.  HARTFORD, Oct. 7, '89.
DEAR JOE,-I had a letter from Aleck Badlam day before yesterday, and in
answering him I mentioned a matter which I asked him to consider a secret
except to you and John McComb,--[This is Col. McComb, of the Alta-
California, who had sent Mark Twain on the Quaker City excursion]--as I
am not ready yet to get into the newspapers.

I have come near writing you about this matter several times, but it
wasn't ripe, and I waited.  It is ripe, now.  It is a type-setting
machine which I undertook to build for the inventor(for a consideration).
I have been at it three years and seven months without losing a day, at a
cost of $3,000 a month, and in so private a way that Hartford has known
nothing about it.  Indeed only a dozen men have known of the matter.
I have reported progress from time to time to the proprietors of the
N. Y. Sun, Herald, Times, World, Harper Brothers and John F. Trow; also
to the proprietors of the Boston Herald and the Boston Globe.  Three
years ago I asked all these people to squelch their frantic desire to
load up their offices with the Mergenthaler (N. Y. Tribune) machine, and
wait for mine and then choose between the two.  They have waited--with no
very gaudy patience--but still they have waited; and I could prove to
them to-day that they have not lost anything by it.  But I reserve the
proof for the present--except in the case of the N. Y. Herald; I sent an
invitation there the other day--a courtesy due a paper which ordered
$240,000 worth of our machines long ago when it was still in a crude
condition.  The Herald has ordered its foreman to come up here next
Thursday; but that is the only invitation which will go out for some time
yet.

The machine was finished several weeks ago, and has been running ever
since in the machine shop.  It is a magnificent creature of steel, all of
Pratt & Whitney's super-best workmanship, and as nicely adjusted and as
accurate as a watch.  In construction it is as elaborate and complex as
that machine which it ranks next to, by every right--Man--and in
performance it is as simple and sure.

Anybody can set type on it who can read--and can do it after only 15
minutes' instruction.  The operator does not need to leave his seat at
the keyboard; for the reason that he is not required to do anything but
strike the keys and set type--merely one function; the spacing,
justifying, emptying into the galley, and distributing of dead matter is
all done by the machine without anybody's help--four functions.

The ease with which a cub can learn is surprising.  Day before yesterday
I saw our newest cub set, perfectly space and perfectly justify 2,150 ems
of solid nonpareil in an hour and distribute the like amount in the same
hour--and six hours previously he had never seen the machine or its
keyboard.  It was a good hour's work for 3-year veterans on the other
type-setting machines to do.  We have 3 cubs.  The dean of the trio is a
school youth of 18.  Yesterday morning he had been an apprentice on the
machine 16 working days (8-hour days); and we speeded him to see what he
could do in an hour.  In the hour he set 5,900 ems solid nonpareil, and
the machine perfectly spaced and justified it, and of course distributed
the like amount in the same hour.  Considering that a good fair
compositor sets 700 and distributes 700 in the one hour, this boy did the
work of about 8 x a compositors in that hour.  This fact sends all other
type-setting machines a thousand miles to the rear, and the best of them
will never be heard of again after we publicly exhibit in New York.

We shall put on 3 more cubs.  We have one school boy and two compositors,
now,--and we think of putting on a type writer, a stenographer, and
perhaps a shoemaker, to show that no special gifts or training are
required with this machine.  We shall train these beginners two or three
months--or until some one of them gets up to 7,000 an hour--then we will
show up in New York and run the machine 24 hours a day 7 days in the
week, for several months--to prove that this is a machine which will
never get out of order or cause delay, and can stand anything an anvil
can stand.  You know there is no other typesetting machine that can run
two hours on a stretch without causing trouble and delay with its
incurable caprices.

We own the whole field--every inch of it--and nothing can dislodge us.

Now then, above is my preachment, and here follows the reason and purpose
of it.  I want you to run over here, roost over the machine a week and
satisfy yourself, and then go to John P. Jones or to whom you please, and
sell me a hundred thousand dollars' worth of this property and take ten
per cent in cash or the "property" for your trouble--the latter, if you
are wise, because the price I ask is a long way short of the value.

What I call "property" is this.  A small part of my ownership consists of
a royalty of $500 on every machine marketed under the American patents.
My selling-terms are, a permanent royalty of one dollar on every
American-marketed machine for a thousand dollars cash to me in hand paid.
We shan't market any fewer than 5,000 machines in 15 years--a return of
fifteen thousand dollars for one thousand.  A royalty is better than
stock, in one way--it must be paid, every six months, rain or shine; it
is a debt, and must be paid before dividends are declared.  By and by,
when we become a stock company I shall buy these royalties back for stock
if I can get them for anything like reasonable terms.

I have never borrowed a penny to use on the machine, and never sold a
penny's worth of the property until the machine was entirely finished and
proven by the severest tests to be what she started out to be--perfect,
permanent, and occupying the position, as regards all kindred machines,
which the City of Paris occupies as regards the canvas-backs of the
mercantile marine.

It is my purpose to sell two hundred dollars of my royalties at the above
price during the next two months and keep the other $300.

Mrs. Clemens begs Mrs. Goodman to come with you, and asks pardon for not
writing the message herself--which would be a pathetically-welcome
spectacle to me; for I have been her amanuensis for 8 months, now, since
her eyes failed her.  Yours as always
                                        MARK.


     While this letter with its amazing contents is on its way to
     astonish Joe Goodman, we will consider one of quite a different,
     but equally characteristic sort.  We may assume that Mark Twain's
     sister Pamela had been visiting him in Hartford and was now making
     a visit in Keokuk.


                       To Mrs. Moffett, in Keokuk:

                                             HARTFORD, Oct 9, '89.
DEAR PAMELA,--An hour after you left I was suddenly struck with a
realizing sense of the utter chuckle-headedness of that notion of mine:
to send your trunk after you.  Land! it was idiotic.  None but a lunatic
would, separate himself from his baggage.

Well, I am soulfully glad the baggage fetcher saved me from consummating
my insane inspiration.  I met him on the street in the afternoon and paid
him again.  I shall pay him several times more, as opportunity offers.

I declined the invitation to banquet with the visiting South American
Congress, in a polite note explaining that I had to go to New York today.
I conveyed the note privately to Patrick; he got the envelope soiled,
and asked Livy to put on a clean one.  That is why I am going to the
banquet; also why I have disinvited the boys I thought I was going to
punch billiards with, upstairs to-night.

Patrick is one of the injudiciousest people I ever struck.  And I am the
other.
                         Your Brother
                                             SAM.


     The Yankee was now ready for publication, and advance sheets were
     already in the reviewers' hands.  Just at this moment the Brazilian
     monarchy crumbled, and Clemens was moved to write Sylvester Baxter,
     of the Boston Herald, a letter which is of special interest in its
     prophecy of the new day, the dawn of which was even nearer than he
     suspected.


DEAR MR.  BAXTER, Another throne has gone down, and I swim in oceans of
satisfaction.  I wish I might live fifty years longer; I believe I should
see the thrones of Europe selling at auction for old iron.  I believe I
should really see the end of what is surely the grotesquest of all the
swindles ever invented by man-monarchy.  It is enough to make a graven
image laugh, to see apparently rational people, away down here in this
wholesome and merciless slaughter-day for shams, still mouthing empty
reverence for those moss-backed frauds and scoundrelisms, hereditary
kingship and so-called "nobility."  It is enough to make the monarchs and
nobles themselves laugh--and in private they do; there can be no question
about that.  I think there is only one funnier thing, and that is the
spectacle of these bastard Americans--these Hamersleys and Huntingtons
and such--offering cash, encumbered by themselves, for rotten carcases
and stolen titles.  When our great brethren the disenslaved Brazilians
frame their Declaration of Independence, I hope they will insert this
missing link: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all monarchs
are usurpers, and descendants of usurpers; for the reason that no throne
was ever set up in this world by the will, freely exercised, of the only
body possessing the legitimate right to set it up--the numerical mass of
the nation."

You already have the advance sheets of my forthcoming book in your hands.
If you will turn to about the five hundredth page, you will find a state
paper of my Connecticut Yankee in which he announces the dissolution of
King Arthur's monarchy and proclaims the English Republic.  Compare it
with the state paper which announces the downfall of the Brazilian
monarchy and proclaims the Republic of the United States of Brazil, and
stand by to defend the Yankee from plagiarism.  There is merely a
resemblance of ideas, nothing more.  The Yankee's proclamation was
already in print a week ago.  This is merely one of those odd
coincidences which are always turning up.  Come, protect the Yank from
that cheapest and easiest of all charges--plagiarism.  Otherwise, you
see, he will have to protect himself by charging approximate and
indefinite plagiarism upon the official servants of our majestic twin
down yonder, and then there might be war, or some similar annoyance.

Have you noticed the rumor that the Portuguese throne is unsteady, and
that the Portuguese slaves are getting restive?  Also, that the head
slave-driver of Europe, Alexander III, has so reduced his usual monthly
order for chains that the Russian foundries are running on only half time
now?  Also that other rumor that English nobility acquired an added
stench the other day--and had to ship it to India and the continent
because there wasn't any more room for it at home?  Things are working.
By and by there is going to be an emigration, may be.  Of course we shall
make no preparation; we never do.  In a few years from now we shall have
nothing but played-out kings and dukes on the police, and driving the
horse-cars, and whitewashing fences, and in fact overcrowding all the
avenues of unskilled labor; and then we shall wish, when it is too late,
that we had taken common and reasonable precautions and drowned them at
Castle Garden.


     There followed at this time a number of letters to Goodman, but as
     there is much of a sameness in them, we need not print them all.
     Clemens, in fact, kept the mails warm with letters bulging with
     schemes for capitalization, and promising vast wealth to all
     concerned.  When the letters did not go fast enough he sent
     telegrams.  In one of the letters Goodman is promised "five hundred
     thousand dollars out of the profits before we get anything
     ourselves."  One thing we gather from these letters is that Paige
     has taken the machine apart again, never satisfied with its
     perfection, or perhaps getting a hint that certain of its
     perfections were not permanent.  A letter at the end of November
     seems worth preserving here.


                  To Joseph T.  Goodman, in California:

                                             HARTFORD, Nov. 29, '89.
DEAR JOE, Things are getting into better and more flexible shape every
day.  Papers are now being drawn which will greatly simplify the raising
of capital; I shall be in supreme command; it will not be necessary for
the capitalist to arrive at terms with anybody but me.  I don't want to
dicker with anybody but Jones.  I know him; that is to say, I want to
dicker with you, and through you with Jones.  Try to see if you can't be
here by the 15th of January.

The machine was as perfect as a watch when we took her apart the other
day; but when she goes together again the 15th of January we expect her
to be perfecter than a watch.

Joe, I want you to sell some royalties to the boys out there, if you can,
for I want to be financially strong when we go to New York.  You know the
machine, and you appreciate its future enormous career better than any
man I know.  At the lowest conceivable estimate (2,000 machines a year,)
we shall sell 34,000 in the life of the patent--17 years.

All the family send love to you--and they mean it, or they wouldn't say
it.
                              Yours ever
                                        MARK.


     The Yankee had come from the press, and Howells had praised it in
     the "Editor's Study" in Harper's Magazine.  He had given it his
     highest commendation, and it seems that his opinion of it did not
     change with time.  "Of all fanciful schemes of fiction it pleases me
     most," he in one place declared, and again referred to it as
     "a greatly imagined and symmetrically developed tale."

     In more than one letter to Goodman, Clemens had urged him to come
     East without delay.  "Take the train, Joe, and come along," he wrote
     early in December.  And we judge from the following that Joe had
     decided to come.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Dec. 23, '89.
DEAR HOWELLS,--The magazine came last night, and the Study notice is just
great.  The satisfaction it affords us could not be more prodigious if
the book deserved every word of it; and maybe it does; I hope it does,
though of course I can't realize it and believe it.  But I am your
grateful servant, anyway and always.

I am going to read to the Cadets at West Point Jan. 11.  I go from here
to New York the 9th, and up to the Point the 11th.  Can't you go with me?
It's great fun.  I'm going to read the passages in the "Yankee" in which
the Yankee's West Point cadets figure--and shall covertly work in a
lecture on aristocracy to those boys.  I am to be the guest of the
Superintendent, but if you will go I will shake him and we will go to the
hotel.  He is a splendid fellow, and I know him well enough to take that
liberty.

And won't you give me a day or two's visit toward the end of January?
For two reasons: the machine will be at work again by that time, and we
want to hear the rest of the dream-story; Mrs. Clemens keeps speaking
about it and hankering for it.  And we can have Joe Goodman on hand again
by that time, and I want you to get to know him thoroughly.  It's well
worth it.  I am going to run up and stay over night with you as soon as I
can get a chance.

We are in the full rush of the holidays now, and an awful rush it is,
too.  You ought to have been here the other day, to make that day perfect
and complete.  All alone I managed to inflict agonies on Mrs: Clemens,
whereas I was expecting nothing but praises.  I made a party call the day
after the party--and called the lady down from breakfast to receive it.
I then left there and called on a new bride, who received me in her
dressing-gown; and as things went pretty well, I stayed to luncheon.
The error here was, that the appointed reception-hour was 3 in the
afternoon, and not at the bride's house but at her aunt's in another part
of the town.  However, as I meant well, none of these disasters
distressed me.
                         Yrs ever
                                   MARK.


     The Yankee did not find a very hearty welcome in England.  English
     readers did not fancy any burlesque of their Arthurian tales, or
     American strictures on their institutions.  Mark Twain's publishers
     had feared this, and asked that the story be especially edited for
     the English edition.  Clemens, however, would not listen to any
     suggestions of the sort.


              To Messrs.  Chatto & Windus, in London, Eng.:

GENTLEMEN,--Concerning The Yankee, I have already revised the story
twice; and it has been read critically by W. D. Howells and Edmund
Clarence Stedman, and my wife has caused me to strike out several
passages that have been brought to her attention, and to soften others.
Furthermore, I have read chapters of the book in public where Englishmen
were present and have profited by their suggestions.

Now, mind you, I have taken all this pains because I wanted to say a
Yankee mechanic's say against monarchy and its several natural props,
and yet make a book which you would be willing to print exactly as it
comes to you, without altering a word.

We are spoken of (by Englishmen) as a thin-skinned people.  It is you who
are thin-skinned.  An Englishman may write with the most brutal frankness
about any man or institution among us and we republish him without
dreaming of altering a line or a word.  But England cannot stand that
kind of a book written about herself.  It is England that is thin-
skinned.  It causeth me to smile when I read the modifications of my
language which have been made in my English editions to fit them for the
sensitive English palate.

Now, as I say, I have taken laborious pains to so trim this book of
offense that you might not lack the nerve to print it just as it stands.
I am going to get the proofs to you just as early as I can.  I want you
to read it carefully.  If you can publish it without altering a single
word, go ahead.  Otherwise, please hand it to J. R. Osgood in time for
him to have it published at my expense.

This is important, for the reason that the book was not written for
America; it was written for England.  So many Englishmen have done their
sincerest best to teach us something for our betterment that it seems to
me high time that some of us should substantially recognize the good
intent by trying to pry up the English nation to a little higher level of
manhood in turn.
                    Very truly yours,
                              S. L. CLEMENS.


The English nation, at least a considerable portion of it, did not wish
to be "pried up to a higher level of manhood" by a Connecticut Yankee.
The papers pretty generally denounced the book as coarse; in fact, a
vulgar travesty.  Some of the critics concluded that England, after all,
had made a mistake in admiring Mark Twain.  Clemens stood this for a time
and then seems to have decided that something should be done.  One of the
foremost of English critics was his friend and admirer; he would state
the case to him fully and invite his assistance.


                        To Andrew Lang, in London:

[First page missing.]

                                                            1889
They vote but do not print.  The head tells you pretty promptly whether
the food is satisfactory or not; and everybody hears, and thinks the
whole man has spoken.  It is a delusion.  Only his taste and his smell
have been heard from--important, both, in a way, but these do not build
up the man; and preserve his life and fortify it.

The little child is permitted to label its drawings "This is a cow this
is a horse," and so on.  This protects the child.  It saves it from the
sorrow and wrong of hearing its cows and its horses criticized as
kangaroos and work benches.  A man who is white-washing a fence is doing
a useful thing, so also is the man who is adorning a rich man's house
with costly frescoes; and all of us are sane enough to judge these
performances by standards proper to each.  Now, then, to be fair, an
author ought to be allowed to put upon his book an explanatory line:
"This is written for the Head;"  "This is written for the Belly and the
Members."  And the critic ought to hold himself in honor bound to put
away from him his ancient habit of judging all books by one standard, and
thenceforth follow a fairer course.

The critic assumes, every time, that if a book doesn't meet the
cultivated-class standard, it isn't valuable.  Let us apply his law all
around: for if it is sound in the case of novels, narratives, pictures,
and such things, it is certainly sound and applicable to all the steps
which lead up to culture and make culture possible.  It condemns the
spelling book, for a spelling book is of no use to a person of culture;
it condemns all school books and all schools which lie between the
child's primer and Greek, and between the infant school and the
university; it condemns all the rounds of art which lie between the cheap
terra cotta groups and the Venus de Medici, and between the chromo and
the Transfiguration; it requires Whitcomb Riley to sing no more till he
can sing like Shakespeare, and it forbids all amateur music and will
grant its sanction to nothing below the "classic."

Is this an extravagant statement?  No, it is a mere statement of fact.
It is the fact itself that is extravagant and grotesque.  And what is the
result?  This--and it is sufficiently curious: the critic has actually
imposed upon the world the superstition that a painting by Raphael is
more valuable to the civilizations of the earth than is a chromo; and the
august opera than the hurdy-gurdy and the villagers' singing society; and
Homer than the little everybody's-poet whose rhymes are in all mouths
today and will be in nobody's mouth next generation; and the Latin
classics than Kipling's far-reaching bugle-note; and Jonathan Edwards
than the Salvation Army; and the Venus de Medici than the plaster-cast
peddler; the superstition, in a word, that the vast and awful comet that
trails its cold lustre through the remote abysses of space once a century
and interests and instructs a cultivated handful of astronomers is worth
more to the world than the sun which warms and cheers all the nations
every day and makes the crops to grow.

If a critic should start a religion it would not have any object but to
convert angels: and they wouldn't need it.  The thin top crust of
humanity--the cultivated--are worth pacifying, worth pleasing, worth
coddling, worth nourishing and preserving with dainties and delicacies,
it is true; but to be caterer to that little faction is no very dignified
or valuable occupation, it seems to me; it is merely feeding the over-
fed, and there must be small satisfaction in that.  It is not that little
minority who are already saved that are best worth trying to uplift,
I should think, but the mighty mass of the uncultivated who are
underneath.  That mass will never see the Old Masters--that sight is for
the few; but the chromo maker can lift them all one step upward toward
appreciation of art; they cannot have the opera, but the hurdy-gurdy and
the singing class lift them a little way toward that far light; they will
never know Homer, but the passing rhymester of their day leaves them
higher than he found them; they may never even hear of the Latin
classics, but they will strike step with Kipling's drum-beat, and they
will march; for all Jonathan Edwards's help they would die in their
slums, but the Salvation Army will beguile some of them up to pure air
and a cleaner life; they know no sculpture, the Venus is not even a name
to them, but they are a grade higher in the scale of civilization by the
ministrations of the plaster-cast than they were before it took its place
upon then mantel and made it beautiful to their unexacting eyes.

Indeed I have been misjudged, from the very first.  I have never tried in
even one single instance, to help cultivate the cultivated classes.
I was not equipped for it, either by native gifts or training.  And I
never had any ambition in that direction, but always hunted for bigger
game--the masses.  I have seldom deliberately tried to instruct them,
but have done my best to entertain them.  To simply amuse them would have
satisfied my dearest ambition at any time; for they could get instruction
elsewhere, and I had two chances to help to the teacher's one: for
amusement is a good preparation for study and a good healer of fatigue
after it.  My audience is dumb, it has no voice in print, and so I cannot
know whether I have won its approbation or only got its censure.

Yes, you see, I have always catered for the Belly and the Members, but
have been served like the others--criticized from the culture-standard
--to my sorrow and pain; because, honestly, I never cared what became of
the cultured classes; they could go to the theatre and the opera--they
had no use for me and the melodeon.

And now at last I arrive at my object and tender my petition, making
supplication to this effect: that the critics adopt a rule recognizing
the Belly and the Members, and formulate a standard whereby work done for
them shall be judged.  Help me, Mr. Lang; no voice can reach further than
yours in a case of this kind, or carry greater weight of authority.


     Lang's reply was an article in the Illustrated London News on "The
     Art of Mark Twain."  Lang had no admiration to express for the
     Yankee, which he confessed he had not cared to read, but he
     glorified Huck Finn to the highest.  "I can never forget, nor be
     ungrateful for the exquisite pleasure with which I read Huckleberry
     Finn for the first time, years ago," he wrote; "I read it again last
     night, deserting Kenilworth for Huck.  I never laid it down till I
     had finished it."

     Lang closed his article by referring to the story of Huck as the
     "great American novel which had escaped the eyes of those who
     watched to see this new planet swim into their ken."





LETTERS, 1890, CHIEFLY TO JOS. T. GOODMAN.  THE GREAT MACHINE ENTERPRISE

     Dr. John Brown's son, whom Mark Twain and his wife had known in 1873
     as "Jock," sent copies of Dr. John Brown and His Sister Isabella, by
     E.  T.  McLaren.  It was a gift appreciated in the Clemens home.


                To Mr. John Brown, in Edinburgh, Scotland:

                                             HARTFORD, Feby 11, 1890.
DEAR MR. BROWN,--Both copies came, and we are reading and re-reading the
one, and lending the other, to old time adorers of "Rab and his Friends."
It is an exquisite book; the perfection of literary workmanship.  It says
in every line, "Don't look at me, look at him"--and one tries to be good
and obey; but the charm of the painter is so strong that one can't keep
his entire attention on the developing portrait, but must steal side-
glimpses of the artist, and try to divine the trick of her felicitous
brush.  In this book the doctor lives and moves just as he was.  He was
the most extensive slave-holder of his time, and the kindest; and yet he
died without setting one of his bondmen free.  We all send our very, very
kindest regards.
                         Sincerely yours
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     If Mark Twain had been less interested in the type-setting machine
     he might possibly have found a profit that winter in the old Sellers
     play, which he had written with Howells seven years before.  The
     play had eventually been produced at the Lyceum Theatre in New York,
     with A. P. Burbank in the leading role, and Clemens and Howells as
     financial backers.  But it was a losing investment, nor did it pay
     any better when Clemens finally sent Burbank with it on the road.
     Now, however, James A.  Herne, a well-known actor and playwright,
     became interested in the idea, after a discussion of the matter with
     Howells, and there seemed a probability that with changes made under
     Herne's advisement the play might be made sensible and successful.

     But Mark Twain's greater interest was now all in the type-machine,
     and certainly he had no money to put into any other venture.  His
     next letter to Goodman is illuminating--the urgency of his need for
     funds opposed to that conscientiousness which was one of the most
     positive forces of Mark Twain's body spiritual.  The Mr. Arnot of
     this letter was an Elmira capitalist.


                    To Jos. T. Goodman, in California:

                                             HARTFORD, March 31, '90.
DEAR JOE,--If you were here, I should say, "Get you to Washington and beg
Senator Jones to take the chances and put up about ten or "--no, I
wouldn't.  The money would burn a hole in my pocket and get away from me
if the furnisher of it were proceeding upon merely your judgment and mine
and without other evidence.  It is too much of a responsibility.

But I am in as close a place to-day as ever I was; $3,000 due for the
last month's machine-expenses, and the purse empty.  I notified Mr. Arnot
a month ago that I should want $5,000 to-day, and his check arrived last
night; but I sent it back to him, because when he bought of me on the 9th
of December I said that I would not draw upon him for 3 months, and that
before that date Senator Jones would have examined the machine and
approved, or done the other thing.  If Jones should arrive here a week or
ten days from now (as he expects to do,) and should not approve, and
shouldn't buy any royalties, my deal with Arnot would not be
symmetrically square, and then how could I refund?  The surest way was to
return his check.

I have talked with the madam, and here is the result.  I will go down to
the factory and notify Paige that I will scrape together $6,000 to meet
the March and April expenses, and will retire on the 30th of April and
return the assignment to him if in the meantime I have not found
financial relief.

It is very rough; for the machine does at last seem perfect, and just a
bird to go!  I think she's going to be good for 8,000 ems an hour in the
hands of a good ordinary man after a solid year's practice.  I may be in
error, but I most solidly believe it.

There's an improved Mergenthaler in New York; Paige and Davis and I
watched it two whole afternoons.
                         With the love of us all,
                                                  MARK.


     Arnot wrote Clemens urging him to accept the check for five thousand
     dollars in this moment of need.  Clemens was probably as sorely
     tempted to compromise with his conscience as he had ever been in his
     life, but his resolution field firm.


                    To M. H. Arnot, in Elmira, N.  Y.:

MR. M. H. ARNOT

DEAR SIR,--No--no, I could not think of taking it, with you unsatisfied;
and you ought not to be satisfied until you have made personal
examination of the machine and had a consensus of testimony of
disinterested people, besides.  My own perfect knowledge of what is
required of such a machine, and my perfect knowledge of the fact that
this is the only machine that can meet that requirement, make it
difficult for me to realize that a doubt is possible to less well-posted
men; and so I would have taken your money without thinking, and thus
would have done a great wrong to you and a great one to myself.  And now
that I go back over the ground, I remember that where I said I could get
along 3 months without drawing on you, that delay contemplated a visit
from you to the machine in the interval, and your satisfaction with its
character and prospects.  I had forgotten all that.  But I remember it
now; and the fact that it was not "so nominated in the bond" does not
alter the case or justify me in making my call so prematurely.  I do not
know that you regarded all that as a part of the bargain--for you were
thoroughly and magnanimously unexacting--but I so regarded it,
notwithstanding I have so easily managed to forget all about it.

You so gratified me, and did me so much honor in bonding yourself to me
in a large sum, upon no evidence but my word and with no protection but
my honor, that my pride in that is much stronger than my desire to reap a
money advantage from it.

With the sincerest appreciation I am Truly yours
                                             S L. CLEMENS.

P. S.  I have written a good many words and yet I seem to have failed to
say the main thing in exact enough language--which is, that the
transaction between us is not complete and binding until you shall have
convinced yourself that the machine's character and prospects are
satisfactory.

I ought to explain that the grippe delayed us some weeks, and that we
have since been waiting for Mr. Jones.  When he was ready, we were not;
and now we have been ready more than a month, while he has been kept in
Washington by the Silver bill.  He said the other day that to venture out
of the Capitol for a day at this time could easily chance to hurt him if
the bill came up for action, meantime, although it couldn't hurt the
bill, which would pass anyway.  Mrs. Jones said she would send me two or
three days' notice, right after the passage of the bill, and that they
would follow as soon as I should return word that their coming would not
inconvenience us.  I suppose I ought to go to New York without waiting
for Mr. Jones, but it would not be wise to go there without money.

The bill is still pending.


     The Mergenthaler machine, like the Paige, was also at this time in
     the middle stages of experimental development.  It was a slower
     machine, but it was simpler, less expensive, occupied less room.
     There was not so much about it to get out of order; it was not so
     delicate, not so human.  These were immense advantages.

     But no one at this time could say with certainty which typesetter
     would reap the harvest of millions.  It was only sure that at least
     one of them would, and the Mergenthaler people were willing to trade
     stock for stock with the Paige company in order to insure financial
     success for both, whichever won.  Clemens, with a faith that never
     faltered, declined this offer, a decision that was to cost him
     millions.

     Winter and spring had gone and summer had come, but still there had
     been no financial conclusion with Jones, Mackay, and the other rich
     Californians who were to put up the necessary million for the
     machine's manufacture.  Goodman was spending a large part of his
     time traveling back and forth between California and Washington,
     trying to keep business going at both ends.  Paige spent most of his
     time working out improvements for the type-setter, delicate
     attachments which complicated its construction more and more.


                    To Joe T.  Goodman, in Washington:

                                             HARTFORD, June 22, '90.
DEAR JOE,--I have been sitting by the machine 2 hours, this afternoon,
and my admiration of it towers higher than ever.  There is no sort of
mistake about it, it is the Big Bonanza.  In the 2 hours, the time lost
by type-breakage was 3 minutes.

This machine is totally without a rival.  Rivalry with it is impossible.
Last Friday, Fred Whitmore (it was the 28th day of his apprenticeship on
the machine) stacked up 49,700 ems of solid nonpareil in 8 hours, and the
type-breaking delay was only 6 minutes for the day.

I claim yet, as I have always claimed, that the machine's market (abroad
and here together,) is today worth $150,000,000 without saying anything
about the doubling and trebling of this sum that will follow within the
life of the patents.  Now here is a queer fact: I am one of the
wealthiest grandees in America--one of the Vanderbilt gang, in fact--and
yet if you asked me to lend you a couple of dollars I should have to ask
you to take my note instead.

It makes me cheerful to sit by the machine: come up with Mrs. Goodman and
refresh yourself with a draught of the same.
                                        Ys ever
                                                  MARK.


     The machine was still breaking the types now and then, and no doubt
     Paige was itching to take it to pieces, and only restrained by force
     from doing so.  He was never thoroughly happy unless he was taking
     the machine apart or setting it up again.  Finally, he was allowed
     to go at it--a disasterous permission, for it was just then that
     Jones decided to steal a day or two from the Silver Bill and watch
     the type-setter in operation.  Paige already had it in parts when
     this word came from Goodman, and Jones's visit had to be called off.
     His enthusiasm would seem to have weakened from that day.  In July,
     Goodman wrote that both Mackay and Jones had become somewhat
     diffident in the matter of huge capitalization.  He thought it
     partly due, at least, to "the fatal delays that have sicklied over
     the bloom of original enthusiasm."  Clemens himself went down to
     Washington and perhaps warmed Jones with his eloquence; at least,
     Jones seemed to have agreed to make some effort in the matter a
     qualified promise, the careful word of a wary politician and
     capitalist.  How many Washington trips were made is not certain, but
     certainly more than one.  Jones would seem to have suggested forms
     of contracts, but if he came to the point of signing any there is no
     evidence of it to-day.

     Any one who has read Mark Twain's, "A Connecticut Yankee in King
     Arthur's Court," has a pretty good idea of his opinion of kings in
     general, and tyrants in particular.  Rule by "divine right," however
     liberal, was distasteful to him; where it meant oppression it
     stirred him to violence.  In his article, "The Czar's Soliloquy," he
     gave himself loose rein concerning atrocities charged to the master
     of Russia, and in a letter which he wrote during the summer of 1890,
     he offered a hint as to remedies.  The letter was written by
     editorial request, but was never mailed.  Perhaps it seemed too
     openly revolutionary at the moment.

     Yet scarcely more than a quarter of a century was needed to make it
     "timely."  Clemens and his family were spending some weeks in the
     Catskills when it was written.


                    An unpublished letter on the Czar.

                                                  ONTEORA, 1890.
TO THE EDITOR OF FREE RUSSIA,--I thank you for the compliment of your
invitation to say something, but when I ponder the bottom paragraph on
your first page, and then study your statement on your third page, of the
objects of the several Russian liberation-parties, I do not quite know
how to proceed.  Let me quote here the paragraph referred to:

"But men's hearts are so made that the sight of one voluntary victim for
a noble idea stirs them more deeply than the sight of a crowd submitting
to a dire fate they cannot escape.  Besides, foreigners could not see so
clearly as the Russians how much the Government was responsible for the
grinding poverty of the masses; nor could they very well realize the
moral wretchedness imposed by that Government upon the whole of educated
Russia.  But the atrocities committed upon the defenceless prisoners are
there in all their baseness, concrete and palpable, admitting of no
excuse, no doubt or hesitation, crying out to the heart of humanity
against Russian tyranny.  And the Tzar's Government, stupidly confident
in its apparently unassailable position, instead of taking warning from
the first rebukes, seems to mock this humanitarian age by the aggravation
of brutalities.  Not satisfied with slowly killing its prisoners, and
with burying the flower of our young generation in the Siberian desserts,
the Government of Alexander III. resolved to break their spirit by
deliberately submitting them to a regime of unheard-of brutality and
degradation."

When one reads that paragraph in the glare of George Kennan's
revelations, and considers how much it means; considers that all earthly
figures fail to typify the Czar's government, and that one must descend
into hell to find its counterpart, one turns hopefully to your statement
of the objects of the several liberation-parties--and is disappointed.
Apparently none of them can bear to think of losing the present hell
entirely, they merely want the temperature cooled down a little.

I now perceive why all men are the deadly and uncompromising enemies of
the rattlesnake: it is merely because the rattlesnake has not speech.
Monarchy has speech, and by it has been able to persuade men that it
differs somehow from the rattlesnake, has something valuable about it
somewhere, something worth preserving, something even good and high and
fine, when properly "modified," something entitling it to protection from
the club of the first comer who catches it out of its hole.  It seems a
most strange delusion and not reconcilable with our superstition that man
is a reasoning being.  If a house is afire, we reason confidently that it
is the first comer's plain duty to put the fire out in any way he can--
drown it with water, blow it up with dynamite, use any and all means to
stop the spread of the fire and save the rest of the city.  What is the
Czar of Russia but a house afire in the midst of a city of eighty
millions of inhabitants?  Yet instead of extinguishing him, together with
his nest and system, the liberation-parties are all anxious to merely
cool him down a little and keep him.

It seems to me that this is illogical--idiotic, in fact.  Suppose you had
this granite-hearted, bloody-jawed maniac of Russia loose in your house,
chasing the helpless women and little children--your own.  What would you
do with him, supposing you had a shotgun?  Well, he is loose in your
house-Russia.  And with your shotgun in your hand, you stand trying to
think up ways to "modify" him.

Do these liberation-parties think that they can succeed in a project
which has been attempted a million times in the history of the world and
has never in one single instance been successful--the "modification" of a
despotism by other means than bloodshed?  They seem to think they can.
My privilege to write these sanguinary sentences in soft security was
bought for me by rivers of blood poured upon many fields, in many lands,
but I possess not one single little paltry right or privilege that come
to me as a result of petition, persuasion, agitation for reform, or any
kindred method of procedure.  When we consider that not even the most
responsible English monarch ever yielded back a stolen public right until
it was wrenched from them by bloody violence, is it rational to suppose
that gentler methods can win privileges in Russia?

Of course I know that the properest way to demolish the Russian throne
would be by revolution.  But it is not possible to get up a revolution
there; so the only thing left to do, apparently, is to keep the throne
vacant by dynamite until a day when candidates shall decline with thanks.
Then organize the Republic.  And on the whole this method has some large
advantages; for whereas a revolution destroys some lives which cannot
well be spared, the dynamite way doesn't.  Consider this: the
conspirators against the Czar's life are caught in every rank of life,
from the low to the high.  And consider: if so many take an active part,
where the peril is so dire, is this not evidence that the sympathizers
who keep still and do not show their hands, are countless for multitudes?
Can you break the hearts of thousands of families with the awful Siberian
exodus every year for generations and not eventually cover all Russia
from limit to limit with bereaved fathers and mothers and brothers and
sisters who secretly hate the perpetrator of this prodigious crime and
hunger and thirst for his life?  Do you not believe that if your wife or
your child or your father was exiled to the mines of Siberia for some
trivial utterances wrung from a smarting spirit by the Czar's intolerable
tyranny, and you got a chance to kill him and did not do it, that you
would always be ashamed to be in your own society the rest of your life?
Suppose that that refined and lovely Russian lady who was lately stripped
bare before a brutal soldiery and whipped to death by the Czar's hand in
the person of the Czar's creature had been your wife, or your daughter or
your sister, and to-day the Czar should pass within reach of your hand,
how would you feel--and what would you do?  Consider, that all over vast
Russia, from boundary to boundary, a myriad of eyes filled with tears
when that piteous news came, and through those tears that myriad of eyes
saw, not that poor lady, but lost darlings of their own whose fate her
fate brought back with new access of grief out of a black and bitter past
never to be forgotten or forgiven.

If I am a Swinburnian--and clear to the marrow I am--I hold human nature
in sufficient honor to believe there are eighty million mute Russians
that are of the same stripe, and only one Russian family that isn't.

                                             MARK TWAIN.


     Type-setter matters were going badly.  Clemens still had faith in
     Jones, and he had lost no grain of faith in the machine.  The money
     situation, however, was troublesome.  With an expensive
     establishment, and work of one sort or another still to be done on
     the machine, his income would not reach.  Perhaps Goodman had
     already given up hope, for he does not seem to have returned from
     California after the next letter was written--a colorless letter--
     in which we feel a note of resignation.  The last few lines are
     sufficient.


                    To Joe T. Goodman, in California:

DEAR JOE,--...... I wish you could get a day off and make those two or
three Californians buy those privileges, for I'm going to need money
before long.

I don't know where the Senator is; but out on the Coast I reckon.

I guess we've got a perfect machine at last.  We never break a type, now,
and the new device for enabling the operator to touch the last letters
and justify the line simultaneously works, to a charm.
                         With love to you both,
                                                  MARK


     The year closed gloomily enough.  The type-setter seemed to be
     perfected, but capital for its manufacture was not forthcoming.
     The publishing business of Charles L. Webster & Co.  was returning
     little or no profit.  Clemens's mother had died in Keokuk at the end
     of October, and his wife's mother, in Elmira a month later.  Mark
     Twain, writing a short business letter to his publishing manager,
     Fred J. Ball, closed it: "Merry Xmas to you!--and I wish to God I
     could have one myself before I die."




XXXI

LETTERS, 1891, TO HOWELLS, MRS. CLEMENS AND OTHERS.
RETURN TO LITERATURE.  AMERICAN CLAIMANT.  LEAVING HARTFORD.
EUROPE.  DOWN THE RHINE

Clemens was still not without hope in the machine, at the beginning of
the new year (1891) but it was a hope no longer active, and it presently
became a moribund.  Jones, on about the middle of February, backed out
altogether, laying the blame chiefly on Mackay and the others, who, he
said, had decided not to invest.  Jones "let his victim down easy" with
friendly words, but it was the end, for the present, at least, of machine
financiering.

It was also the end of Mark Twain's capital.  His publishing business was
not good.  It was already in debt and needing more money.  There was just
one thing for him to do and he did it at once, not stopping to cry over
spilt milk, but with good courage and the old enthusiasm that never
failed him, he returned to the trade of authorship.  He dug out half-
finished articles and stories, finished them and sold them, and within a
week after the Jones collapse he was at work on a novel based an the old
Sellers idea, which eight years before he and Howells had worked into a
play.  The brief letter in which he reported this news to Howells bears
no marks of depression, though the writer of it was in his fifty-sixth
year; he was by no means well, and his financial prospects were anything
but golden.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                             HARTFORD, Feb. 24, '91
DEAR HOWELLS,--Mrs. Clemens has been sick abed for near two weeks, but is
up and around the room now, and gaining.  I don't know whether she has
written Mrs. Howells or not--I only know she was going to--and will yet,
if she hasn't.  We are promising ourselves a whole world of pleasure in
the visit, and you mustn't dream of disappointing us.

Does this item stir an interest in you?  Began a novel four days ago, and
this moment finished chapter four.  Title of the book

                       "Colonel Mulberry Sellers.
                           American Claimant
                                 Of the
                       Great Earldom of Rossmore'
                                 in the
                       Peerage of Great Britain."

                                        Ys Ever
                                                  MARK.


Probably Mark Twain did not return to literary work reluctantly.  He had
always enjoyed writing and felt now that he was equipped better than ever
for authorship, at least so far as material was concerned.  There exists
a fragmentary copy of a letter to some unknown correspondent, in which he
recites his qualifications.  It bears evidence of having been written
just at this time and is of unusual interest at this point.


                   Fragment of Letter to -------, 1891:

.  .  .  .  I confine myself to life with which I am familiar when
pretending to portray life.  But I confined myself to the boy-life out on
the Mississippi because that had a peculiar charm for me, and not because
I was not familiar with other phases of life.  I was a soldier two weeks
once in the beginning of the war, and was hunted like a rat the whole
time.  Familiar?  My splendid Kipling himself hasn't a more burnt-in,
hard-baked, and unforgetable familiarity with that death-on-the-pale-
horse-with-hell-following-after, which is a raw soldier's first fortnight
in the field--and which, without any doubt, is the most tremendous
fortnight and the vividest he is ever going to see.

Yes, and I have shoveled silver tailings in a quartz-mill a couple of
weeks, and acquired the last possibilities of culture in that direction.
And I've done "pocket-mining" during three months in the one little patch
of ground in the whole globe where Nature conceals gold in pockets--or
did before we robbed all of those pockets and exhausted, obliterated,
annihilated the most curious freak Nature ever indulged in.  There are
not thirty men left alive who, being told there was a pocket hidden on
the broad slope of a mountain, would know how to go and find it, or have
even the faintest idea of how to set about it; but I am one of the
possible 20 or 30 who possess the secret, and I could go and put my hand
on that hidden treasure with a most deadly precision.

And I've been a prospector, and know pay rock from poor when I find it--
just with a touch of the tongue.  And I've been a silver miner and know
how to dig and shovel and drill and put in a blast.  And so I know the
mines and the miners interiorly as well as Bret Harte knows them
exteriorly.

And I was a newspaper reporter four years in cities, and so saw the
inside of many things; and was reporter in a legislature two sessions
and the same in Congress one session, and thus learned to know personally
three sample bodies of the smallest minds and the selfishest souls and
the cowardliest hearts that God makes.

And I was some years a Mississippi pilot, and familiarly knew all the
different kinds of steam-boatmen--a race apart, and not like other folk.

And I was for some years a traveling "jour" printer, and wandered from
city to city--and so I know that sect familiarly.

And I was a lecturer on the public platform a number of seasons and was a
responder to toasts at all the different kinds of banquets--and so I know
a great many secrets about audiences--secrets not to be got out of books,
but only acquirable by experience.

And I watched over one dear project of mine for years, spent a fortune on
it, and failed to make it go--and the history of that would make a large
book in which a million men would see themselves as in a mirror; and they
would testify and say, Verily, this is not imagination; this fellow has
been there--and after would cast dust upon their heads, cursing and
blaspheming.

And I am a publisher, and did pay to one author's widow (General Grant's)
the largest copyright checks this world has seen--aggregating more than
L80,000 in the first year.

And I have been an author for 20 years and an ass for 55.

Now then; as the most valuable capital or culture or education usable in
the building of novels is personal experience I ought to be well equipped
for that trade.

I surely have the equipment, a wide culture, and all of it real, none of
it artificial, for I don't know anything about books.

                             [No signature.]


     Clemens for several years had been bothered by rheumatism in his
     shoulder.  The return now to the steady use of the pen aggravated
     his trouble, and at times he was nearly disabled.  The phonograph
     for commercial dictation had been tried experimentally, and Mark
     Twain was always ready for any innovation.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Feb.  28, '91.
DEAR HOWELLS,--Won't you drop-in at the Boylston Building (New England
Phonograph Co) and talk into a phonograph in an ordinary conversation-
voice and see if another person (who didn't hear you do it) can take the
words from the thing without difficulty and repeat them to you.  If the
experiment is satisfactory (also make somebody put in a message which you
don't hear, and see if afterward you can get it out without difficulty)
won't you then ask them on what terms they will rent me a phonograph for
3 months and furnish me cylinders enough to carry 75,000 words.  175
cylinders, ain't it?

I don't want to erase any of them.  My right arm is nearly disabled by
rheumatism, but I am bound to write this book (and sell 100,000 copies of
it--no, I mean a million--next fall) I feel sure I can dictate the book
into a phonograph if I don't have to yell.  I write 2,000 words a day; I
think I can dictate twice as many.

But mind, if this is going to be too much trouble to you--go ahead and do
it, all the same.
                                   Ys ever
                                             MARK.


     Howells, always willing to help, visited the phonograph place, and a
     few days later reported results.  He wrote: "I talked your letter
     into a fonograf in my usual tone at my usual gait of speech.  Then
     the fonograf man talked his answer in at his wonted swing and swell.
     Then we took the cylinder to a type-writer in the next room, and she
     put the hooks into her ears and wrote the whole out.  I send you the
     result.  There is a mistake of one word.  I think that if you have
     the cheek to dictate the story into the fonograf, all the rest is
     perfectly easy.  It wouldn't fatigue me to talk for an hour as I
     did."

     Clemens did not find the phonograph entirely satisfactory, at least
     not for a time, and he appears never to have used it steadily.  His
     early experience with it, however, seems interesting.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, Apl. 4, '91.
DEAR HOWELLS,--I'm ashamed.  It happened in this way.  I was proposing to
acknowledge the receipt of the play and the little book per phonograph,
so that you could see that the instrument is good enough for mere letter-
writing; then I meant to add the fact that you can't write literature
with it, because it hasn't any ideas and it hasn't any gift for
elaboration, or smartness of talk, or vigor of action, or felicity of
expression, but is just matter-of-fact, compressive, unornamental, and as
grave and unsmiling as the devil.

I filled four dozen cylinders in two sittings, then found I could have
said about as much with the pen and said it a deal better.  Then I
resigned.

I believe it could teach one to dictate literature to a phonographer--and
some time I will experiment in that line.

The little book is charmingly written, and it interested me.  But it
flies too high for me.  Its concretest things are filmy abstractions to
me, and when I lay my grip on one of them and open my hand, I feel as
embarrassed as I use to feel when I thought I had caught a fly.  I'm
going to try to mail it back to you to-day--I mean I am going to charge
my memory.  Charging my memory is one of my chief industries ....

With our loves and our kindest regards distributed among you according to
the proprieties.
                              Yrs ever
                                        MARK.

P. S.--I'm sending that ancient "Mental Telegraphy" article to Harper's
--with a modest postscript.  Probably read it to you years ago.
                                        S. L. C.


     The "little book" mentioned in this letter was by Swedenborg, an
     author in whom the Boston literary set was always deeply interested.
     "Mental Telegraphy" appeared in Harper's Magazine, and is now
     included in the Uniform Edition of Mark Twain's books.  It was
     written in 1878.

     Joe Goodman had long since returned to California, it being clear
     that nothing could be gained by remaining in Washington.  On receipt
     of the news of the type-setter's collapse he sent a consoling word.
     Perhaps he thought Clemens would rage over the unhappy circumstance,
     and possibly hold him in some measure to blame.  But it was
     generally the smaller annoyances of life that made Mark Twain rage;
     the larger catastrophes were likely to stir only his philosophy.

     The Library of American Literature, mentioned in the following
     letter, was a work in many volumes, edited by Edmund Clarence
     Stedman and Ellen Mackay Hutchinson.


                           To Joe T.  Goodman:

                                                  April [?] 1891.
DEAR JOE, Well, it's all right, anyway.  Diplomacy couldn't have saved
it--diplomacy of mine--at that late day.  I hadn't any diplomacy in
stock, anyway.  In order to meet Jones's requirements I had to surrender
the old contract (a contract which made me boss of the situation and gave
me the whip-hand of Paige) and allow the new one to be drafted and put in
its place.  I was running an immense risk, but it was justified by
Jones's promises--promises made to me not merely once but every time I
tallied with him.  When February arrived, I saw signs which were mighty
plain reading.  Signs which meant that Paige was hoping and praying that
Jones would go back on me--which would leave Paige boss, and me robbed
and out in the cold.  His prayers were answered, and I am out in the
cold.  If I ever get back my nine-twentieths interest, it will be by law-
suit--which will be instituted in the indefinite future, when the time
comes.

I am at work again--on a book.  Not with a great deal of spirit, but with
enough--yes, plenty.  And I am pushing my publishing house.  It has
turned the corner after cleaning $50,000 a year for three consecutive
years, and piling every cent of it into one book--Library of American
Literature--and from next January onward it will resume dividends.  But
I've got to earn $50,000 for it between now and then--which I will do if
I keep my health.  This additional capital is needed for that same book,
because its prosperity is growing so great and exacting.

It is dreadful to think of you in ill health--I can't realize it; you are
always to me the same that you were in those days when matchless health.
and glowing spirits and delight in life were commonplaces with us.  Lord
save us all from old age and broken health and a hope-tree that has lost
the faculty of putting out blossoms.

                    With love to you both from us all.
                                        MARK.


     Mark Twain's residence in Hartford was drawing rapidly to a close.
     Mrs. Clemens was poorly, and his own health was uncertain.  They
     believed that some of the European baths would help them.
     Furthermore, Mark Twain could no longer afford the luxury of his
     Hartford home.  In Europe life could be simpler and vastly cheaper.
     He was offered a thousand dollars apiece for six European letters,
     by the McClure syndicate and W. M. Laffan, of the Sun.  This would
     at least give him a start on the other side.  The family began
     immediately their sad arrangements for departure.


         To Fred J. Hall (manager Chas. L. Webster & Co.), N. Y.:

                                   HARTFORD, Apl. 14, '91.
DEAR MR. HALL,--Privately--keep it to yourself--as you, are already
aware, we are going to Europe in June, for an indefinite stay.  We shall
sell the horses and shut up the house.  We wish to provide a place for
our coachman, who has been with us a 21 years, and is sober, active,
diligent, and unusually bright and capable.  You spoke of hiring a
colored man as engineer and helper in the packing room.  Patrick would
soon learn that trade and be very valuable.  We will cease to need him by
the middle or end of June.  Have you made irrevocable arrangements with
the colored man, or would you prefer to have Patrick, if he thinks he
would like to try?

I have not said anything to him about it yet.

                                   Yours
                                             S. L. C.


     It was to be a complete breaking up of their beautiful
     establishment.  Patrick McAleer, George the butler, and others of
     their household help had been like members of the family.  We may
     guess at the heartbreak of it all, even though the letters remain
     cheerful.

     Howells, strangely enough, seems to have been about the last one to
     be told of their European plans; in fact, he first got wind of it
     from the papers, and wrote for information.  Likely enough Clemens
     had not until then had the courage to confess.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        HARTFORD, May 20, '91.
DEAR HOWELLS,--For her health's sake Mrs. Clemens must try baths
somewhere, and this it is that has determined us to go to Europe.
The water required seems to be provided at a little obscure and little-
visited nook up in the hills back of the Rhine somewhere and you get to
it by Rhine traffic-boat and country stage-coach.  Come, get "sick or
sorry enough" and join us.  We shall be a little while at that bath, and
the rest of the summer at Annecy (this confidential to you) in Haute
Savoie, 22 miles from Geneva.  Spend the winters in Berlin.  I don't know
how long we shall be in Europe--I have a vote, but I don't cast it.  I'm
going to do whatever the others desire, with leave to change their mind,
without prejudice, whenever they want to.  Travel has no longer, any
charm for me.  I have seen all the foreign countries I want to see except
heaven and hell, and I have only a vague curiosity as concerns one of
those.

I found I couldn't use the play--I had departed too far from its lines
when I came to look at it.  I thought I might get a great deal of
dialogue out of it, but I got only 15 loosely written pages--they saved
me half a days work.  It was the cursing phonograph.  There was abundance
of good dialogue, but it couldn't befitted into the new conditions of the
story.

Oh, look here--I did to-day what I have several times in past years
thought of doing: answered an interviewing proposition from a rich
newspaper with the reminder that they had not stated the terms; that my
time was all occupied with writing, at good pay, and that as talking was
harder work I should not care to venture it unless I knew the pay was
going to be proportionately higher.  I wish I had thought of this the
other day when Charley Stoddard turned a pleasant Englishman loose on me
and I couldn't think of any rational excuse.
                                        Ys Ever
                                                  MARK.


     Clemens had finished his Sellers book and had disposed of the serial
     rights to the McClure syndicate.  The house in Hartford was closed
     early in June, and on the 6th the family, with one maid, Katie
     Leary, sailed on the Gascogne.  Two weeks later they had begun a
     residence abroad which was to last for more than nine years.

     It was not easy to get to work in Europe.  Clemens's arm remained
     lame, and any effort at writing brought suffering.  The Century
     Magazine proposed another set of letters, but by the end of July he
     had barely begun on those promised to McClure and Laffan.  In
     August, however, he was able to send three: one from Aix about the
     baths there, another from Bayreuth concerning the Wagner festival,
     and a third from Marienbad, in Bohemia, where they rested for a
     time.  He decided that he would arrange for no more European letters
     when the six were finished, but would gather material for a book.
     He would take a courier and a kodak and go tramping again in some
     fashion that would be interesting to do and to write.

     The idea finally matured when he reached Switzerland and settled the
     family at the Hotel Beau Rivage, Ouchy, Lausanne, facing Lake Leman.
     He decided to make a floating trip down the Rhone, and he engaged
     Joseph Very, a courier that had served him on a former European
     trip, to accompany him.  The courier went over to Bourget and bought
     for five dollars a flat-bottomed boat and engaged its owner as their
     pilot.  It was the morning of September 20, when they began their
     floating-trip down the beautiful historic river that flows through
     the loveliest and most romantic region of France.  He wrote daily to
     Mrs. Clemens, and his letters tell the story of that drowsy, happy
     experience better than the notes made with a view to publication.
     Clemens had arrived at Lake Bourget on the evening before the
     morning of their start and slept on the Island of Chatillon, in an
     old castle of the same name.  Lake Bourget connects with the Rhone
     by a small canal.


      Letters and Memoranda to Mrs. Clemens, in Ouchy, Switzerland:

                                             Sept. 20, 1891.
                                             Sunday, 11 a.m.
On the lake Bourget--just started.  The castle of Chatillon high overhead
showing above the trees.  It was a wonderfully still place to sleep in.
Beside us there was nobody in it but a woman, a boy and a dog.  A Pope
was born in the room I slept in.  No, he became a Pope later.

The lake is smooth as glass--a brilliant sun is shining.

Our boat is comfortable and shady with its awning.

11.20  We have crossed the lake and are entering the canal.  Shall
presently be in the Rhone.

Noon.  Nearly down to the Rhone.  Passing the village of Chanaz.

3.15 p. m.  Sunday.  We have been in the Rhone 3 hours. It is
unimaginably still and reposeful and cool and soft and breezy.  No rowing
or work of any kind to do--we merely float with the current--we glide
noiseless and swift--as fast as a London cab-horse rips along--8 miles an
hour--the swiftest current I've ever boated in.  We have the entire river
to ourselves--nowhere a boat of any kind.
                         Good bye Sweetheart
                                        S. L. C.


                                        PORT DE GROLEE, Monday, 4.15 p.m.
                                             [Sept. 21, 1891]
Name of the village which we left five minutes ago.

We went ashore at 5 p. m.  yesterday, dear heart, and walked a short mile
to St. Geuix, a big village, and took quarters at the principal inn; had
a good dinner and afterwards along walk out of town on the banks of the
Guiers till 7.30.

Went to bed at 8.30 and continued to make notes and read books and
newspapers till midnight.  Slept until 8, breakfasted in bed, and lay
till noon, because there had been a very heavy rain in the night and the
day was still dark and lowering.  But at noon the sun broke through and
in 15 minutes we were tramping toward the river.  Got afloat at 1 p. m.
but at 2.40 we had to rush suddenly ashore and take refuge in the above
village.  Just as we got ourselves and traps safely housed in the inn,
the rain let go and came down in great style.  We lost an hour and a half
there, but we are off again, now, with bright sunshine.

I wrote you yesterday my darling, and shall expect to write you every
day.

Good-day, and love to all of you.
                                        SAML.


                                        ON THE RHONE BELOW VILLEBOIS,
                                                  Tuesday noon.
Good morning, sweetheart.  Night caught us yesterday where we had to take
quarters in a peasant's house which was occupied by the family and a lot
of cows and calves--also several rabbits.--[His word for fleas.]--The
latter had a ball, and I was the ball-room; but they were very friendly
and didn't bite.

The peasants were mighty kind and hearty, and flew around and did their
best to make us comfortable.  This morning I breakfasted on the shore in
the open air with two sociable dogs and a cat.  Clean cloth, napkin and
table furniture, white sugar, a vast hunk of excellent butter, good
bread, first class coffee with pure milk, fried fish just caught.
Wonderful that so much cleanliness should come out of such a phenomenally
dirty house.

An hour ago we saw the Falls of the Rhone, a prodigiously rough and
dangerous looking place; shipped a little water but came to no harm.
It was one of the most beautiful pieces of piloting and boat-management
I ever saw.  Our admiral knew his business.

We have had to run ashore for shelter every time it has rained
heretofore, but Joseph has been putting in his odd time making a water-
proof sun-bonnet for the boat, and now we sail along dry although we had
many heavy showers this morning.

With a word of love to you all and particularly you,
                                                       SAML.


                                             ON THE RHONE, BELOW VIENNA.
I salute you, my darling.  Your telegram reached me in Lyons last night
and was very pleasant news indeed.

I was up and shaved before 8 this morning, but we got delayed and didn't
sail from Lyons till 10.3O--an hour and a half lost.  And we've lost
another hour--two of them, I guess--since, by an error.  We came in sight
of Vienne at 2 o'clock, several miles ahead, on a hill, and I proposed to
walk down there and let the boat go ahead of us.  So Joseph and I got out
and struck through a willow swamp along a dim path, and by and by came
out on the steep bank of a slough or inlet or something, and we followed
that bank forever and ever trying to get around the head of that slough.
Finally I noticed a twig standing up in the water, and by George it had a
distinct and even vigorous quiver to it!  I don't know when I have felt
so much like a donkey.  On an island!  I wanted to drown somebody, but I
hadn't anybody I could spare.  However, after another long tramp we found
a lonely native, and he had a scow and soon we were on the mainland--yes,
and a blamed sight further from Vienne than we were when we started.

Notes--I make millions of them; and so I get no time to write to you.  If
you've got a pad there, please send it poste-restante to Avignon.  I may
not need it but I fear I shall.

I'm straining to reach St. Pierre de Boef, but it's going to be a close
fit, I reckon.


                                   AFLOAT, Friday, 3 p.m., '91.
Livy darling, we sailed from St. Pierre de Boef six hours ago, and are
now approaching Tournon, where we shall not stop, but go on and make
Valence, a City Of 25,000 people.  It's too delicious, floating with the
swift current under the awning these superb sunshiny days in deep peace
and quietness.  Some of these curious old historical towns strangely
persuade me, but it is so lovely afloat that I don't stop, but view them
from the outside and sail on.  We get abundance of grapes and peaches for
next to nothing.

Joseph is perfect.  He is at his very best--and never was better in his
life.  I guess he gets discouraged and feels disliked and in the way when
he is lying around--but here he is perfection, and brim full of useful
alacrities and helps and ingenuities.

When I woke up an hour ago and heard the clock strike 4, I said "I seem
to have been asleep an immensely long time; I must have gone to bed
mighty early; I wonder what time I did go to bed."  And I got up and lit
a candle and looked at my watch to see.


                                                       AFLOAT
                                        2 HOURS BELOW BOURG ST. ANDEOL.
                                        Monday, 11 a.m., Sept. 28.
Livy darling, I didn't write yesterday.  We left La Voulte in a driving
storm of cold rain--couldn't write in it--and at 1 p. m.  when we were
not thinking of stopping, we saw a picturesque and mighty ruin on a high
hill back of a village, and I was seized with a desire to explore it; so
we landed at once and set out with rubbers and umbrella, sending the boat
ahead to St. Andeol, and we spent 3 hours clambering about those cloudy
heights among those worn and vast and idiotic ruins of a castle built by
two crusaders 650 years ago.  The work of these asses was full of
interest, and we had a good time inspecting, examining and scrutinizing
it.  All the hills on both sides of the Rhone have peaks and precipices,
and each has its gray and wasted pile of mouldy walls and broken towers.
The Romans displaced the Gauls, the Visigoths displaced the Romans, the
Saracens displaced the Visigoths, the Christians displaced the Saracens,
and it was these pious animals who built these strange lairs and cut each
other's throats in the name and for the glory of God, and robbed and
burned and slew in peace and war; and the pauper and the slave built
churches, and the credit of it went to the Bishop who racked the money
out of them.  These are pathetic shores, and they make one despise the
human race.

We came down in an hour by rail, but I couldn't get your telegram till
this morning, for it was Sunday and they had shut up the post office to
go to the circus.  I went, too.  It was all one family--parents and 5
children--performing in the open air to 200 of these enchanted villagers,
who contributed coppers when called on.  It was a most gay and strange
and pathetic show.  I got up at 7 this morning to see the poor devils
cook their poor breakfast and pack up their sordid fineries.

This is a 9 k-m. current and the wind is with us; we shall make Avignon
before 4 o'clock.  I saw watermelons and pomegranates for sale at St.
Andeol.

               With a power of love, Sweetheart,
                                                  SAML.


                                             HOTEL D'EUROPE, AVIGNON,
                                             Monday, 6 p.m., Sept. 28.
Well, Livy darling, I have been having a perfect feast of letters for an
hour, and I thank you and dear Clam with all my heart.  It's like hearing
from home after a long absence.

It is early to be in bed, but I'm always abed before 9, on this voyage;
and up at 7 or a trifle later, every morning.  If I ever take such a trip
again, I will have myself called at the first tinge of dawn and get to
sea as soon after as possible.  The early dawn on the water-nothing can
be finer, as I know by old Mississippi experience.  I did so long for you
and Sue yesterday morning--the most superb sunrise!--the most marvelous
sunrise! and I saw it all from the very faintest suspicion of the coming
dawn all the way through to the final explosion of glory.  But it had
interest private to itself and not to be found elsewhere in the world;
for between me and it, in the far distant-eastward, was a silhouette
mountain-range in which I had discovered, the previous afternoon, a most
noble face upturned to the sky, and mighty form out stretched, which I
had named Napoleon Dreaming of Universal Empire--and now, this prodigious
face, soft, rich, blue, spirituelle, asleep, tranquil, reposeful, lay
against that giant conflagration of ruddy and golden splendors all rayed
like a wheel with the upstreaming and far-reaching lances of the sun.  It
made one want to cry for delight, it was so supreme in its unimaginable
majesty and beauty.

We had a curious experience today.  A little after I had sealed and
directed my letter to you, in which I said we should make Avignon before
4, we got lost.  We ceased to encounter any village or ruin mentioned in
our "particularizes" and detailed Guide of the Rhone--went drifting along
by the hour in a wholly unknown land and on an uncharted river!  Confound
it, we stopped talking and did nothing but stand up in the boat and
search the horizons with the glass and wonder what in the devil had
happened.  And at last, away yonder at 5 o'clock when some east towers
and fortresses hove in sight we couldn't recognize them for Avignon--yet
we knew by the broken bridge that it was Avignon.

Then we saw what the trouble was--at some time or other we had drifted
down the wrong side of an island and followed a sluggish branch of the
Rhone not frequented in modern times.  We lost an hour and a half by it
and missed one of the most picturesque and gigantic and history-sodden
masses of castellated medieval ruin that Europe can show.

It was dark by the time we had wandered through the town and got the
letters and found the hotel--so I went to bed.

We shall leave here at noon tomorrow and float down to Arles, arriving
about dark, and there bid good bye to the boat, the river-trip finished.
Between Arles and Nimes (and Avignon again,) we shall be till Saturday
morning--then rail it through on that day to Ouchy, reaching the hotel at
11 at night if the train isn't late.

Next day (Sunday) if you like, go to Basel, and Monday to Berlin.  But I
shall be at your disposal, to do exactly as you desire and prefer.

          With no end of love to all of you and twice as much to you,
               sweetheart,
                         SAML.

I believe my arm is a trifle better than it was when I started.


     The mention in the foregoing letter of the Napoleon effigy is the
     beginning of what proved to be a rather interesting episode.  Mark
     Twain thought a great deal of his discovery, as he called it--the
     giant figure of Napoleon outlined by the distant mountain range.
     In his note-book he entered memoranda telling just where it was to
     be seen, and added a pencil sketch of the huge profile.  But then he
     characteristically forgot all about it, and when he recalled the
     incident ten years later, he could not remember the name of the
     village, Beauchastel, from which the great figure could be seen;
     also, that he had made a record of the place.

     But he was by this time more certain than ever that his discovery
     was a remarkable one, which, if known, would become one of the great
     natural wonders, such as Niagara Falls.  Theodore Stanton was
     visiting him at the time, and Clemens urged him, on his return to
     France, to make an excursion to the Rhone and locate the Lost
     Napoleon, as he now called it.  But Clemens remembered the wonder as
     being somewhere between Arles and Avignon, instead of about a
     hundred miles above the last-named town.  Stanton naturally failed
     to find it, and it remained for the writer of these notes, motoring
     up the Rhone one September day, exactly twenty-two years after the
     first discovery, to re-locate the vast reclining figure of the first
     consul of France, "dreaming of Universal Empire."  The re-discovery
     was not difficult--with Mark Twain's memoranda as a guide--and it
     was worth while.  Perhaps the Lost Napoleon is not so important a
     natural wonder as Mark Twain believed, but it is a striking picture,
     and on a clear day the calm blue face outlined against the sky will
     long hold the traveler's attention.

                 To Clara Clemens, in Ouchy, Switzerland:

                              AFLOAT, 11.20 a.m., Sept. 29, Tuesday.
DEAR OLD BEN,--The vast stone masses and huge towers of the ancient papal
palace of Avignon are projected above an intervening wooded island a mile
up the river behind me--for we are already on our way to Arles.  It is a
perfectly still morning, with a brilliant sun, and very hot--outside; but
I am under cover of the linen hood, and it is cool and shady in here.

Please tell mamma I got her very last letter this morning, and I perceive
by it that I do not need to arrive at Ouchy before Saturday midnight.
I am glad, because I couldn't do the railroading I am proposing to do
during the next two or three days and get there earlier.  I could put in
the time till Sunday midnight, but shall not venture it without
telegraphic instructions from her to Nimes day after tomorrow, Oct. 1,
care Hotel Manivet.

The only adventures we have is in drifting into rough seas now and then.
They are not dangerous, but they go thro' all the motions of it.
Yesterday when we shot the Bridge of the Holy Spirit it was probably in
charge of some inexperienced deputy spirit for the day, for we were
allowed to go through the wrong arch, which brought us into a tourbillon
below which tried to make this old scow stand on its head.  Of course I
lost my temper and blew it off in a way to be heard above the roar of the
tossing waters.  I lost it because the admiral had taken that arch in
deference to my opinion that it was the best one, while his own judgment
told him to take the one nearest the other side of the river.  I could
have poisoned him I was so mad to think I had hired such a turnip.
A boatman in command should obey nobody's orders but his own, and yield
to nobody's suggestions.

It was very sweet of you to write me, dear, and I thank you ever so much.
With greatest love and kisses,
                                   PAPA.


                 To Mrs. Clemens, in Ouchy, Switzerland:

                                             ARLES, Sept. 30, noon.
Livy darling, I hain't got no time to write today, because I am sight
seeing industriously and imagining my chapter.

Bade good-bye to the river trip and gave away the boat yesterday evening.
We had ten great days in her.

We reached here after dark.  We were due about 4.30, counting by
distance, but we couldn't calculate on such a lifeless current as we
found.
               I love you, sweetheart.
                                        SAML.


     It had been a long time since Clemens had written to his old friend
     Twichell, but the Rhone trip must have reminded him of those days
     thirteen years earlier, when, comparatively young men, he and
     Twichell were tramping through the Black Forest and scaling Gemmi
     Pass.  He sent Twichell a reminder of that happy time.


              To Rev. Joseph H. Twichell, in Hartford, Conn:

                                                  NIMES, Oct. 1, '91.
DEAR JOE,--I have been ten days floating down the Rhone on a raft, from
Lake Bourget, and a most curious and darling kind of a trip it has been.
You ought to have been along--I could have made room for you easily--and
you would have found that a pedestrian tour in Europe doesn't begin with
a raft-voyage for hilarity and mild adventure, and intimate contact with
the unvisited native of the back settlements, and extinction from the
world and newspapers, and a conscience in a state of coma, and lazy
comfort, and solid happiness.  In fact there's nothing that's so lovely.

But it's all over.  I gave the raft away yesterday at Arles, and am
loafing along back by short stages on the rail to Ouchy-Lausanne where
the tribe are staying.
                         Love to you all
                                        MARK.


     The Clemenses settled in Berlin for the winter, at 7 Kornerstrasse,
     and later at the Hotel Royal.  There had been no permanent
     improvement in Mark Twain's arm and he found writing difficult.
     Some of the letters promised to Laffan and McClure were still
     unfinished.

     Young Hall, his publishing manager in America, was working hard to
     keep the business afloat, and being full of the optimism of his
     years did not fail to make as good a showing as he could.  We may
     believe his letters were very welcome to Clemens and his wife, who
     found little enough in the general prospect to comfort them.


                        To Mr. Hall, in New York:

                                                  BERLIN, Nov. 27, '91.
DEAR MR. HALL,--That kind of a statement is valuable.  It came this
morning.  This is the first time since the business began that I have had
a report that furnished the kind of information I wanted, and was really
enlightening and satisfactory.  Keep it up.  Don't let it fall into
desuetude.

Everything looks so fine and handsome with the business, now, that I feel
a great let-up from depression.  The rewards of your long and patient
industry are on their way, and their arrival safe in port, presently,
seems assured.

By George, I shall be glad when the ship comes in!

My arm is so much better that I was able to make a speech last night to
250 Americans.  But when they threw my portrait on the screen it was a
sorrowful reminder, for it was from a negative of 15 years ago, and
hadn't a gray hair in it.  And now that my arm is better, I have stolen a
couple of days and finished up a couple of McClure letters that have been
lying a long time.

I shall mail one of them to you next Tuesday--registered.  Lookout for
it.

I shall register and mail the other one (concerning the "Jungfrau") next
Friday look out for it also, and drop me a line to let me know they have
arrived.

I shall write the 6th and last letter by and by when I have studied
Berlin sufficiently.

Yours in a most cheerful frame of mind, and with my and all the family's
Thanksgiving greetings and best wishes,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


       Postscript by Mrs. Clemens written on Mr. Clemens's letter:

DEAR MR. HALL,--This is my birthday and your letter this morning was a
happy addition to the little gifts on the breakfast table.  I thought of
going out and spending money for something unnecessary after it came, but
concluded perhaps I better wait a little longer.
                                   Sincerely yours
                                             O. L. CLEMENS.


     "The German Chicago" was the last of the six McClure letters and was
     finished that winter in Berlin.  It is now included in the Uniform
     Edition of Mark Twain's works, and is one of the best descriptive
     articles of the German capital ever written.  He made no use of the
     Rhone notes further than to put them together in literary form.
     They did not seem to him to contain enough substance to warrant
     publication.  A letter to Hall, written toward the end of December,
     we find rather gloomy in tone, though he is still able to extract
     comfort and even cheerfulness from one of Mr. Hall's reports.


                 Memorandum to Fred J. Hall, in New York:

Among the MSS I left with you are a few that have a recent look and are
written on rather stiff pale green paper.  If you will have those type-
writered and keep the originals and send me the copies (one per mail, not
two.) I'll see if I can use them.

But tell Howells and other inquirers that my hopes of writing anything
are very slender--I seem to be disabled for life.

Drop McClure a line and tell him the same.  I can't dare to make an
engagement now for even a single letter.

I am glad Howells is on a magazine, but sorry he gave up the Study.
I shall have to go on a magazine myself if this L. A. L. continues to
hold my nose down to the grind-stone much longer.

I'm going to hold my breath, now, for 30 days--then the annual statement
will arrive and I shall know how we feel!  Merry Xmas to you from us all.

                         Sincerely,
                                   S. L. C.

P. S.  Just finished the above and finished raging at the eternal German
tax-gatherer, and so all the jubilant things which I was going to say
about the past year's business got knocked out of me.  After writing this
present letter I was feeling blue about Huck Finn, but I sat down and
overhauled your reports from now back to last April and compared them
with the splendid Oct.-Nov.  business, and went to bed feeling refreshed
and fine, for certainly it has been a handsome year.  Now rush me along
the Annual Report and let's see how we feel!
                                                  S. L. C.




XXXII

LETTERS, 1892, CHIEFLY TO MR. HALL AND MRS. CRANE.  IN BERLIN, MENTONE,
BAD-NAUHEIM, FLORENCE

Mark Twain was the notable literary figure in Berlin that winter, the
center of every great gathering.  He was entertained by the Kaiser, and
shown many special attentions by Germans of every rank.  His books were
as well known in Berlin as in New York, and at court assemblies and
embassies he was always a chief center of interest.

He was too popular for his own good; the gaiety of the capital told on
him.  Finally, one night, after delivering a lecture in a hot room, he
contracted a severe cold, driving to a ball at General von Versen's, and
a few days later was confined to his bed with pneumonia.  It was not a
severe attack, but it was long continued.  He could write some letters
and even work a little, but he was not allowed to leave his bed for many
weeks, a condition which he did not find a hardship, for no man ever
enjoyed the loose luxury of undress and the comfort of pillows more than
Mark Twain.  In a memorandum of that time he wrote: "I am having a
booming time all to myself."

Meantime, Hall, in America, was sending favorable reports of the
publishing business, and this naturally helped to keep up his spirits.
He wrote frequently to Hall, of course, but the letters for the most part
are purely of a business nature and of little interest to the general
reader.


                      To Fred J.  Hall, in New York:

                                        HOTEL ROYAL, BERLIN, Feb. 12.
DEAR MR. HALL,--Daly wants to get the stage rights of the "American
Claimant."  The foundation from which I wrote the story is a play of the
same name which has been in A. P. Burbank's hands 5 or 6 years.  That
play cost me some money (helping Burbank stage it) but has never brought
me any.  I have written Burbank (Lotos Club) and asked him to give me
back his rights in the old play so that I can treat with Daly and utilize
this chance to even myself up.  Burbank is a lovely fellow, and if he
objects I can't urge him.  But you run in at the Lotos and see him; and
if he relinquishes his claim, then I would like you to conduct the
business with Daly; or have Whitford or some other lawyer do it under
your supervision if you prefer.

This morning I seem to have rheumatism in my right foot.

I am ordered south by the doctor and shall expect to be well enough to
start by the end of this month.

                             [No signature.]



     It is curious, after Clemens and Howells had tried so hard and so
     long to place their "Sellers" Play, that now, when the story
     appeared in book form, Augustin Daly should have thought it worth
     dramatizing.  Daly and Clemens were old friends, and it would seem
     that Daly could hardly have escaped seeing the play when it was
     going the rounds.  But perhaps there is nothing more mysterious in
     the world than the ways and wants of theatrical managers.  The
     matter came to nothing, of course, but the fact that Daly should
     have thought a story built from an old discarded play had a play in
     it seems interesting.

     Clemens and his wife were advised to leave the cold of Berlin as
     soon as he was able to travel.  This was not until the first of
     March, when, taking their old courier, Joseph Very, they left the
     children in good hands and journeyed to the south of France.


                       To Susy Clemens, in Berlin:

                                             MENTONE, Mch 22, '92.
SUSY DEAR,--I have been delighted to note your easy facility with your
pen and proud to note also your literary superiorities of one kind and
another--clearness of statement, directness, felicity of expression,
photographic ability in setting forth an incident--style--good style--no
barnacles on it in the way of unnecessary, retarding words (the Shipman
scrapes off the barnacles when he wants his racer to go her best gait and
straight to the buoy.) You should write a letter every day, long or short
--and so ought I, but I don't.

Mamma says, tell Clara yes, she will have to write a note if the fan
comes back mended.

We couldn't go to Nice to-day--had to give it up, on various accounts--
and this was the last chance.  I am sorry for Mamma--I wish she could
have gone.  She got a heavy fall yesterday evening and was pretty stiff
and lame this morning, but is working it off trunk packing.

Joseph is gone to Nice to educate himself in Kodaking--and to get the
pictures mounted which Mamma thinks she took here; but I noticed she
didn't take the plug out, as a rule.  When she did, she took nine
pictures on top of each other--composites.
                              With lots of love.
                                                  PAPA.


     In the course of their Italian wanderings they reached Florence,
     where they were so comfortable and well that they decided to engage
     a villa for the next winter.  Through Prof. Willard Fiske, they
     discovered the Villa Viviani, near Settignano, an old palace
     beautifully located on the hilltops east of Florence, commanding a
     wonderful view of the ancient city.  Clemens felt that he could work
     there, and time proved that he was right.

     For the summer, however, they returned to Germany, and located at
     Bad-Nauheim.  Clemens presently decided to make a trip to America to
     give some personal attention to business matters.  For one thing,
     his publishing-house, in spite of prosperity, seemed constantly to
     be requiring more capital, and then a Chicago company had been
     persuaded by Paige to undertake the manufacture of the type-setter.
     It was the beginning of a series of feverish trips which he would
     make back and forth across the ocean during the next two years.


                      To Fred J.  Hall, in New York:

                                        BAD-NAUHEIM, June 11, '92.
                                                       Saturday.
DEAR MR. HALL,--If this arrives before I do, let it inform you that I am
leaving Bremen for New York next Tuesday in the "Havel."

If you can meet me when the ship arrives, you can help me to get away
from the reporters; and maybe you can take me to your own or some other
lodgings where they can't find me.

But if the hour is too early or too late for you, I shall obscure myself
somewhere till I can come to the office.

Yours sincerely
                         S. L. C.


     Nothing of importance happened in America.  The new Paige company
     had a factory started in Chicago and expected to manufacture fifty
     machines as a beginning.  They claimed to have capital, or to be
     able to command it, and as the main control had passed from
     Clemens's hands, he could do no more than look over the ground and
     hope for the best.  As for the business, about all that he could do
     was to sign certain notes necessary to provide such additional
     capital as was needed, and agree with Hall that hereafter they would
     concentrate their efforts and resist further temptation in the way
     of new enterprise.  Then he returned to Bad-Nauheim and settled down
     to literature.  This was the middle of July, and he must have worked
     pretty steadily, for he presently had a variety of MSS. ready to
     offer.


                      To Fred J.  Hall, in New York:

                                                       Aug. 10, '92.
DEAR MR. HALT,--I have dropped that novel I wrote you about, because I
saw a more effective way of using the main episode--to wit: by telling it
through the lips of Huck Finn.  So I have started Huck Finn and Tom
Sawyer (still 15 years old) and their friend the freed slave Jim around
the world in a stray balloon, with Huck as narrator, and somewhere after
the end of that great voyage he will work in the said episode and then
nobody will suspect that a whole book has been written and the globe
circumnavigated merely to get that episode in an effective (and at the
same time apparently unintentional) way.  I have written 12,000 words of
this narrative, and find that the humor flows as easily as the adventures
and surprises--so I shall go along and make a book of from 50,000 to
100,000 words.

It is a story for boys, of course, and I think will interest any boy
between 8 years and 80.

When I was in New York the other day Mrs. Dodge, editor of St. Nicholas,
wrote and, offered me $5,000 for (serial right) a story for boys 50,000
words long.  I wrote back and declined, for I had other matter in my
mind, then.

I conceive that the right way to write a story for boys is to write so
that it will not only interest boys but will also strongly interest any
man who has ever been a boy.  That immensely enlarges the audience.

Now this story doesn't need to be restricted to a Childs magazine--it is
proper enough for any magazine, I should think, or for a syndicate.  I
don't swear it, but I think so.

Proposed title of the story, "New Adventures of Huckleberry Finn."

                             [No signature.]


     The "novel" mentioned in the foregoing was The Extraordinary Twins,
     a story from which Pudd'nhead Wilson would be evolved later.  It was
     a wildly extravagant farce--just the sort of thing that now and then
     Mark Twain plunged into with an enthusiasm that had to work itself
     out and die a natural death, or mellow into something worth while.
     Tom Sawyer Abroad, as the new Huck story was finally called, was
     completed and disposed of to St. Nicholas for serial publication.

     The Twichells were in Europe that summer, and came to Bad-Nauheim.
     The next letter records a pleasant incident.  The Prince of Wales of
     that day later became King Edward VII.


             To Mr. and Mrs. Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Iowa.:

                                   Private.  BAD-NAUHEIM, Aug. 23, '92.
DEAR ORION AND MOLLIE,--("Private" because no newspaper-man or other
gossip must get hold of it)

Livy is getting along pretty well, and the doctor thinks another summer
here will cure her.

The Twichell's have been here four days and we have had good times with
them.  Joe and I ran over to Homburg, the great pleasure resort,
Saturday, to dine with some friends, and in the morning I went walking in
the promenade and met the British Ambassador to the Court of Berlin, and
he introduced me to the Prince of Wales, and I found him a most unusually
comfortable and unembarrassing Englishman to talk with--quick to see the
obscurest point, and equipped with a laugh which is spontaneous and
catching.  Am invited by a near friend of his to meet him at dinner day
after tomorrow, and there could be a good time, but the brass band will
smash the talk and spoil everything.

We are expecting to move to Florence ten or twelve days hence, but if
this hot weather continues we shall wait for cooler.  I take Clara to
Berlin for the winter-music, mainly, with German and French added.  Thus
far, Jean is our only glib French scholar.

We all send love to you all and to Pamela and Sam's family, and Annie.

                                   SAM


     Clemens and family left Bad-Nauheim for Italy by way of Switzerland.
     In September Mrs. Clemens's sister, Mrs. Crane, who had been with
     them in Europe during the first year, had now returned to America.
     Mrs. Clemens had improved at the baths, though she had by no means
     recovered her health.  We get a general report of conditions from
     the letter which Clemens wrote Mrs. Crane from Lucerne, Switzerland,
     where the party rested for several days.  The "Phelps" mentioned in
     this letter was William Walter Phelps, United States Minister to
     Germany.  The Phelps and Clemens families had been much associated
     in Berlin.  "Mason" was Frank Mason, Consul General at Frankfort,
     and in later years at Paris.  "Charlie and Ida" were Charles and
     Mrs. Langdon, of Elmira.


                    To Mrs. Crane, in Elmira, N.  Y.:

                                             LUCERNE, Sept. 18, '92.
DEAR AUNT SUE,--Imagine how I felt to find that you had actually gone off
without filling my traveling ink stand which you gave me!  I found it out
yesterday.  Livy advised me to write you about it.

I have been driving this pen hard.  I wrote 280 pages on a yarn called
"Tom Sawyer Abroad," then took up the "Twins" again, destroyed the last
half of the manuscript and re-wrote it in another form, and am going to
continue it and finish it in Florence.  "Tom Sawyer" seems rather pale to
the family after the extravagances of the Twins, but they came to like it
after they got used to it

We remained in Nauheim a little too long.  If we had left there four or
five days earlier we should have made Florence in 3 days; but by the time
we got started Livy had got smitten with what we feared might be
erysipelas--greatly swollen neck and face, and unceasing headaches.  We
lay idle in Frankfort 4 days, doctoring.  We started Thursday and made
Bale.  Hard trip, because it was one of those trains that gets tired
every seven minutes and stops to rest three quarters of an hour.  It took
us 3 1/2 hours to get here, instead of the regulation 2.20.  We reached
here Friday evening and will leave tomorrow (Tuesday) morning.  The rest
has made the headaches better.  We shall pull through to Milan tomorrow
if possible.  Next day we shall start at 10 a. m., and try to make
Bologna, 5 hours.  Next day (Thursday) Florence, D. V.  Next year we will
walk, for these excursions have got to be made over again.  I've got
seven trunks, and I undertook to be courier because I meant to express
them to Florence direct, but we were a couple of days too late.  All
continental roads had issued a peremptory order that no baggage should
travel a mile except in the company of the owner.  (All over Europe
people are howling; they are separated from their baggage and can't get
it forwarded to them) I have to re-ship my trunks every day.  It is very
amusing--uncommonly so.  There seemed grave doubts about our being able
to get these trunks over the Italian frontier, but I've got a very
handsome note from the Frankfort Italian Consul General addressed to all
Italian Customs Officers, and we shall get through if anybody does.

The Phelpses came to Frankfort and we had some great times--dinner at his
hotel, the Masons, supper at our inn--Livy not in it.  She was merely
allowed a glimpse, no more.  Of course, Phelps said she was merely
pretending to be ill; was never looking so well and fine.

The children are all right.  They paddle around a little, and drive-so do
we all.  Lucerne seems to be pretty full of tourists.  The Fleulen boat
went out crowded yesterday morning.

The Paris Herald has created a public interest by inoculating one of its
correspondents with cholera.  A man said yesterday he wished to God they
would inoculate all of them.  Yes, the interest is quite general and
strong, and much hope is felt.

Livy says, I have said enough bad things, and better send all our loves
to you and Charley and Ida and all the children and shut up.  Which I do
--and shut up.
                              S. L. C.


     They reached Florence on the 26th, and four days later we find
     Clemens writing again to Mrs. Crane, detailing everything at length.
     Little comment on this letter is required; it fully explains itself.
     Perhaps a word of description from one of his memoranda will not be
     out of place.  Of the villa he wrote: "It is a plain, square
     building, like a box, and is painted light green and has green
     window-shutters.  It stands in a commanding position on the
     artificial terrace of liberal dimensions, which is walled around
     with masonry.  From the walls the vineyards and olive groves of the
     estate slant away toward the valley....  Roses overflow the
     retaining walls and the battered and mossy stone urn on the gate-
     post, in pink and yellow cataracts, exactly as they do on the drop-
     curtains in the theaters.  The house is a very fortress for
     strength."

     The Mrs. Ross in this letter was Janet Ross, daughter of Lady Duff
     Gordon, remembered to-day for her Egyptian letters.  The Ross castle
     was but a little distance away.


                        To Mrs. Crane, in Elmira:

                                   VILLA VIVIANI, SETTIGNANO, FLORENCE.
                                                  Sept.  30, 1892
DEAR SUE,--We have been in the house several days, and certainly it is a
beautiful place,--particularly at this moment, when the skies are a deep
leaden color, the domes of Florence dim in the drizzling rain, and
occasional perpendicular coils of lightning quivering intensely in the
black sky about Galileo's Tower.  It is a charming panorama, and the most
conspicuous towers and domes down in the city look to-day just as they
looked when Boccaccio and Dante used to contemplate them from this
hillock five and six hundred years ago.

The Mademoiselle is a great help to Livy in the housekeeping, and is a
cheery and cheerful presence in the house.  The butler is equipped with a
little French, and it is this fact that enables the house to go--but it
won't go well until the family get some sort of facility with the Italian
tongue, for the cook, the woman-of-all-work and the coachman understand
only that.  It is a stubborn and devilish language to learn, but Jean and
the others will master it.  Livy's German Nauheim girl is the worst off
of anybody, as there is no market for her tongue at all among the help.

With the furniture in and the curtains up the house is very pretty, and
not unhomelike.  At mid-night last night we heard screams up stairs--Susy
had set the lofty window curtains afire with a candle.  This sounds kind
of frightful, whereas when you come to think of it, a burning curtain or
pile of furniture hasn't any element of danger about it in this fortress.
There isn't any conceivable way to burn this house down, or enable a
conflagration on one floor to climb to the next.

Mrs. Ross laid in our wood, wine and servants for us, and they are
excellent.  She had the house scoured from Cellar to rook the curtains
washed and put up, all beds pulled to pieces, beaten, washed and put
together again, and beguiled the Marchese into putting a big porcelain
stove in the vast central hall.  She is a wonderful woman, and we don't
quite see how or when we should have gotten under way without her.

Observe our address above--the post delivers letters daily at the house.

Even with the work and fuss of settling the house Livy has improved--and
the best is yet to come.  There is going to be absolute seclusion here--
a hermit life, in fact.  We (the rest of us) shall run over to the Ross's
frequently, and they will come here now and then and see Livy--that is
all.  Mr. Fiske is away--nobody knows where--and the work on his house
has been stopped and his servants discharged.  Therefore we shall merely
go Rossing--as far as society is concerned--shan't circulate in Florence
until Livy shall be well enough to take a share in it.

This present house is modern.  It is not much more than two centuries
old; but parts of it, and also its foundations are of high antiquity.
The fine beautiful family portraits--the great carved ones in the large
ovals over the doors of the big hall--carry one well back into the past.
One of them is dated 1305--he could have known Dante, you see.  Another
is dated 1343--he could have known Boccaccio and spent his afternoons in
Fiesole listening to the Decameron tales.  Another is dated 1463--
he could have met Columbus.....

Evening.  The storm thundered away until night, and the rain came down in
floods.  For awhile there was a partial break, which furnished about such
a sunset as will be exhibited when the Last Day comes and the universe
tumbles together in wreck and ruin.  I have never seen anything more
spectacular and impressive.

One person is satisfied with the villa, anyway.  Jean prefers it to all
Europe, save Venice.  Jean is eager to get at the Italian tongue again,
now, and I see that she has forgotten little or nothing of what she
learned of it in Rome and Venice last spring.

I am the head French duffer of the family.  Most of the talk goes over my
head at the table.  I catch only words, not phrases.  When Italian comes
to be substituted I shall be even worse off than I am now, I suppose.

This reminds me that this evening the German girl said to Livy, "Man hat
mir gesagt loss Sie una candella verlaught habe"--unconsciously dropping
in a couple of Italian words, you see.  So she is going to join the
polyglots, too, it appears.  They say it is good entertainment to hear
her and the butler talk together in their respective tongues, piecing out
and patching up with the universal sign-language as they go along.  Five
languages in use in the house (including the sign-language-hardest-worked
of them all) and yet with all this opulence of resource we do seem to
have an uncommonly tough time making ourselves understood.

What we lack is a cat.  If we only had Germania!  That was the most
satisfactory all-round cat I have seen yet.  Totally ungermanic in the
raciness of his character and in the sparkle of his mind and the
spontaneity of his movements.  We shall not look upon his like again....

                                        S. L. C.


     Clemens got well settled down to work presently.  He found the
     situation, the climate, the background, entirely suited to literary
     production, and in a little while he had accomplished more than at
     any other time since his arrival in Europe.  From letters to Mrs.
     Crane and to Mr. Hall we learn something of his employments and his
     satisfaction.


                        To Mrs. Crane, in Elmira:

                                                  VILLA VIVIANI
                              SETTIGNANO, FLORENCE.  Oct. 22, '92.
DEAR SUE,--We are getting wonted.  The open fires have driven away the
cold and the doubt, and now a cheery spirit pervades the place.  Livy and
the Kings and Mademoiselle having been taking their tea a number of
times, lately, on the open terrace with the city and the hills and the
sunset for company.  I stop work, a few minutes, as a rule, when the sun
gets down to the hilltops west of Florence, and join the tea-group to
wonder and exclaim.  There is always some new miracle in the view, a new
and exquisite variation in the show, a variation which occurs every 15
minutes between dawn and night.  Once early in the morning, a multitude
of white villas not before perceived, revealed themselves on the far
hills; then we recognized that all those great hills are snowed thick
with them, clear to the summit.

The variety of lovely effects, the infinitude of change, is something not
to be believed by any who has not seen it.  No view that I am acquainted
with in the world is at all comparable to this for delicacy, charm,
exquisiteness, dainty coloring, and bewildering rapidity of change.  It
keeps a person drunk with pleasure all the time.  Sometimes Florence
ceases to be substantial, and becomes just a faint soft dream, with domes
and towers of air, and one is persuaded that he might blow it away with a
puff of his breath.

Livy is progressing admirably.  This is just the place for her.

                           [Remainder missing.]


                      To Fred J.  Hall, in New York:

                                                  Dec.  12, '92.
DEAR MR. HALL,--November check received.

I have lent the Californian's Story to Arthur Stedman for his Author Club
Book, so your suggestion that my new spring-book bear that name arrives
too late, as he probably would not want us to use that story in a book of
ours until the Author book had had its run.  That is for him to decide--
and I don't want him hampered at all in his decision.  I, for my part,
prefer the "$1,000,000 Banknote and Other Stories" by Mark Twain as a
title, but above my judgment I prefer yours.  I mean this--it is not
taffy.

I told Arthur to leave out the former squib or paragraph and use only the
Californian's Story.  Tell him this is because I am going to use that in
the book I am now writing.

I finished "Those Extraordinary Twins" night before last makes 60 or
80,000 words--haven't counted.

The last third of it suits me to a dot.  I begin, to-day, to entirely
recast and re-write the first two-thirds--new plan, with two minor
characters, made very prominent, one major character cropped out, and the
Twins subordinated to a minor but not insignificant place.

The minor character will now become the chiefest, and I will name the
story after him--"Puddn'head Wilson."

Merry Xmas to you, and great prosperity and felicity!

                                                  S. L. CLEMENS.




XXXIII

LETTERS, 1893, TO MR. HALL, MRS.  CLEMENS, AND OTHERS. FLORENCE.
BUSINESS TROUBLES.  "PUDD'NHEAD WILSON."  "JOAN OF ARC."
AT THE PLAYERS, NEW YORK

The reader may have suspected that young Mr. Hall in New York was having
his troubles.  He was by this time one-third owner in the business of
Charles L. Webster & Co., as well as its general manager.  The business
had been drained of its capital one way and another-partly by the
publication of unprofitable books; partly by the earlier demands of the
typesetter, but more than all by the manufacturing cost and agents'
commissions demanded by L. A. L.; that is to say, the eleven large
volumes constituting the Library of American Literature, which Webster
had undertaken to place in a million American homes.  There was plenty of
sale for it--indeed, that was just the trouble; for it was sold on
payments--small monthly payments--while the cost of manufacture and the
liberal agents' commissions were cash items, and it would require a
considerable period before the dribble of collections would swell into a
tide large enough to satisfy the steady outflow of expense.  A sale of
twenty-five sets a day meant prosperity on paper, but unless capital
could be raised from some other source to make and market those books
through a period of months, perhaps even years, to come, it meant
bankruptcy in reality.  It was Hall's job, with Clemens to back him, to
keep their ship afloat on these steadily ebbing financial waters.  It was
also Hall's affair to keep Mark Twain cheerful, to look pleasant himself,
and to show how they were steadily getting rich because orders were
pouring in, though a cloud that resembled bankruptcy loomed always a
little higher upon the horizon.  If Hall had not been young and an
optimist, he would have been frightened out of his boots early in the
game.  As it was, he made a brave steady fight, kept as cheerful and
stiff an upper lip as possible, always hoping that something would
happen--some grand sale of his other books, some unexpected inflow from
the type-setter interests--anything that would sustain his ship until the
L. A. L.  tide should turn and float it into safety.

Clemens had faith in Hall and was fond of him.  He never found fault with
him; he tried to accept his encouraging reports at their face value.  He
lent the firm every dollar of his literary earnings not absolutely needed
for the family's support; he signed new notes; he allowed Mrs. Clemens to
put in such remnants of her patrimony as the type-setter had spared.

The situation in 1893 was about as here outlined.  The letters to Hall of
that year are frequent and carry along the story.  To any who had formed
the idea that Mark Twain was irascible, exacting, and faultfinding, they
will perhaps be a revelation.


                      To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

                                             FLORENCE, Jan. 1, '93.
DEAR MR. HALL,--Yours of Dec. 19 is to hand, and Mrs. Clemens is deeply
distressed, for she thinks I have been blaming you or finding fault with
you about something.  But most surely that cannot be.  I tell her that
although I am prone to write hasty and regrettable things to other
people, I am not a bit likely to write such things to you.  I can't
believe I have done anything so ungrateful.  If I have, pile coals of
fire on my head, for I deserve it!

I wonder if my letter of credit isn't an encumbrance?  Do you have to
deposit the whole amount it calls for?  If that is so, it is an
encumbrance, and we must withdraw it and take the money out of soak.
I have never made drafts upon it except when compelled, because I thought
you deposited nothing against it, and only had to put up money that I
drew upon it; that therefore the less I drew the easier it would be for
you.

I am dreadfully sorry I didn't know it would be a help to you to let my
monthly check pass over a couple of months.  I could have stood that by
drawing what is left of Mrs. Clemens's letter of credit, and we would
have done it cheerfully.

I will write Whitmore to send you the "Century" check for $1,000, and you
can collect Mrs. Dodge's $2,000 (Whitmore has power of attorney which I
think will enable him to endorse it over to you in my name.) If you need
that $3,000 put it in the business and use it, and send Whitmore the
Company's note for a year.  If you don't need it, turn it over to Mr.
Halsey and let him invest it for me.

I've a mighty poor financial head, and I may be all wrong--but tell me if
I am wrong in supposing that in lending my own firm money at 6 per cent I
pay 4 of it myself and so really get only a per cent?  Now don't laugh if
that is stupid.

Of course my friend declined to buy a quarter interest in the L. A. L.
for $200,000.  I judged he would.  I hoped he would offer $100,000, but
he didn't.  If the cholera breaks out in America, a few months hence, we
can't borrow or sell; but if it doesn't we must try hard to raise
$100,000.  I wish we could do it before there is a cholera scare.

I have been in bed two or three days with a cold, but I got up an hour
ago, and I believe I am all right again.

How I wish I had appreciated the need of $100,000 when I was in New York
last summer!  I would have tried my best to raise it.  It would make us
able to stand 1,000 sets of L. A. L.  per month, but not any more, I
guess.

You have done magnificently with the business, and we must raise the
money somehow, to enable you to reap the reward of all that labor.
                              Sincerely Yours
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


"Whitmore," in this letter, was F. G. Whitmore, of Hartford, Mark Twain's
financial agent.  The money due from Mrs. Dodge was a balance on Tom
Sawyer Abroad, which had been accepted by St. Nicholas.  Mr. Halsey was a
down-town broker.

Clemens, who was growing weary of the constant demands of L. A. L., had
conceived the idea that it would be well to dispose of a portion of it
for enough cash to finance its manufacture.

We don't know who the friend was to whom he offered a quarter interest
for the modest sum of two hundred thousand dollars.  But in the next
letter we discover designs on a certain very canny Scotchman of Skibo.


                      To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

                                             FLORENCE, Jan. 28, '92.
DEAR MR. HALL,--I want to throw out a suggestion and see what you think
of it.  We have a good start, and solid ground under us; we have a
valuable reputation; our business organization is practical, sound and
well-devised; our publications are of a respect-worthy character and of a
money-breeding species.  Now then I think that the association with us of
some one of great name and with capital would give our business a
prodigious impetus--that phrase is not too strong.

As I look at it, it is not money merely that is needed; if that were all,
the firm has friends enough who would take an interest in a paying
venture; we need some one who has made his life a success not only from a
business standpoint, but with that achievement back of him, has been
great enough to make his power felt as a thinker and a literary man.  It
is a pretty usual thing for publishers to have this sort of partners.
Now you see what a power Carnegie is, and how far his voice reaches in
the several lines I speak of.  Do you know him?  You do by correspondence
or purely business talks about his books--but personally, I mean? so that
it would not be an intrusion for you to speak to him about this desire of
mine--for I would like you to put it before him, and if you fail to
interest him in it, you will probably get at least some valuable
suggestions from him.  I'll enclose a note of introduction--you needn't
use it if you don't need to.
                                   Yours S. L. C.

P. S.  Yes, I think I have already acknowledged the Dec.  $1,000 and the
Jan. $500--and if another $500 was mailed 3 days ago there's no hiatus.

I think I also reminded you that the new letter of credit does not cover
the unexpended balance of the old one but falls considerably short of it.

Do your best with Carnegie, and don't wait to consider any of my
intermediate suggestions or talks about our raising half of the $200,000
ourselves.  I mean, wait for nothing.  To make my suggestion available I
should have to go over and see Arnot, and I don't want to until I can
mention Carnegie's name to him as going in with us.

My book is type-written and ready for print--"Pudd'nhead Wilson-a Tale."
(Or, "Those Extraordinary Twins," if preferable.)

It makes 82,500 words--12,000 more than Huck Finn.  But I don't know what
to do with it.  Mrs. Clemens thinks it wouldn't do to go to the Am. Pub.
Co. or anywhere outside of our own house; we have no subscription
machinery, and a book in the trade is a book thrown away, as far as
money-profit goes.  I am in a quandary.  Give me a lift out of it.

I will mail the book to you and get you to examine it and see if it is
good or if it is bad.  I think it is good, and I thought the Claimant
bad, when I saw it in print; but as for real judgment, I think I am
destitute of it.

I am writing a companion to the Prince and Pauper, which is half done and
will make 200,000 words; and I have had the idea that if it were gotten
up in handsome style, with many illustrations and put at a high enough
price maybe the L. A. L.  canvassers would take it and run it with that
book.  Would they?  It could be priced anywhere from $4 up to $10,
according to how it was gotten up, I suppose.

I don't want it to go into a magazine.
                                             S. L. C.

I am having several short things type-"writered."  I will send them to
you presently.  I like the Century and Harper's, but I don't know that I
have any business to object to the Cosmopolitan if they pay as good
rates.  I suppose a man ought to stick to one magazine, but that may be
only superstition.  What do you think?
                                             S. L. C.


     "The companion to The Prince and the Pauper," mentioned in this
     letter, was the story of Joan of Arc, perhaps the most finished of
     Mark Twain's literary productions.  His interest in Joan had been
     first awakened when, as a printer's apprentice in Hannibal, he had
     found blowing along the street a stray leaf from some printed story
     of her life.  That fragment of history had pictured Joan in prison,
     insulted and mistreated by ruffians.  It had aroused all the
     sympathy and indignation in the boy, Sam Clemens; also, it had
     awakened his interest in history, and, indeed, in all literature.

     His love for the character of Joan had grown with the years, until
     in time he had conceived the idea of writing her story.  As far back
     as the early eighties he had collected material for it, and had
     begun to make the notes.  One thing and another had interfered, and
     he had found no opportunity for such a story.  Now, however, in
     Florence, in the ancient villa, and in the quiet garden, looking
     across the vineyards and olive groves to the dream city along the
     Arno, he felt moved to take up the tale of the shepherd girl of
     France, the soldier maid, or, as he called her, "The noble child,
     the most innocent, the most lovely, the most adorable the ages have
     produced."  His surroundings and background would seem to have been
     perfect, and he must have written with considerable ease to have
     completed a hundred thousand words in a period of not more than six
     weeks.

     Perhaps Hall did not even go to see Carnegie; at all events nothing
     seems to have come of the idea.  Once, at a later time, Mask Twain
     himself mentioned the matter to Carnegie, and suggested to him that
     it was poor financiering to put all of one's eggs into one basket,
     meaning into iron.  But Carnegie answered, "That's a mistake; put
     all your eggs into one basket and watch that basket."

     It was March when Clemens felt that once more his presence was
     demanded in America.  He must see if anything could be realized from
     the type-setter or L. A. L.


                      To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

                                                       March 13, '93.
DEAR MR. HALL,--I am busy getting ready to sail the 22d, in the Kaiser
Wilhelm II.

I send herewith 2 magazine articles.

The Story contains 3,800 to 4,000 words.

The "Diary" contains 3,800 words.

Each would make about 4 pages of the Century.

The Diary is a gem, if I do say it myself that shouldn't.

If the Cosmopolitan wishes to pay $600 for either of them or $1,200 for
both, gather in the check, and I will use the money in America instead of
breaking into your treasury.

If they don't wish to trade for either, send the articles to the Century,
without naming a price, and if their check isn't large enough I will call
and abuse them when I come.

I signed and mailed the notes yesterday.
                                        Yours
                                             S. L. C.


     Clemens reached New York on the 3d of April and made a trip to
     Chicago, but accomplished nothing, except to visit the World's Fair
     and be laid up with a severe cold.  The machine situation had not
     progressed.  The financial stringency of 1893 had brought everything
     to a standstill.  The New York bank would advance Webster & Co. no
     more money.  So disturbed were his affairs, so disordered was
     everything, that sometimes he felt himself as one walking amid
     unrealities.  A fragment of a letter to Mrs. Crane conveys this:

     "I dreamed I was born and grew up and was a pilot on the Mississippi
     and a miner and a journalist in Nevada and a pilgrim in the Quaker
     City, and had a wife and children and went to live in a villa at
     Florence--and this dream goes on and on and sometimes seems so real
     that I almost believe it is real.  I wonder if it is?  But there is
     no way to tell, for if one applies tests they would be part of the
     dream, too, and so would simply aid the deceit.  I wish I knew
     whether it is a dream or real."

     He saw Warner, briefly, in America; also Howells, now living in New
     York, but he had little time for visiting.  On May 13th he sailed
     again for Europe on the Kaiser Wilhelm II.  On the night before
     sailing he sent Howells a good-by word.


                   To W. D. Howells, in New York City:

                              MURRAY HILL HOTEL, NEW YORE, May 12, 1893.
                                                            Midnight.
DEAR HOWELLS--I am so sorry I missed you.

I am very glad to have that book for sea entertainment, and I thank you
ever so much for it.

I've had a little visit with Warner at last; I was getting afraid I
wasn't going to have a chance to see him at all.  I forgot to tell you
how thoroughly I enjoyed your account of the country printing office, and
how true it all was and how intimately recognizable in all its details.
But Warner was full of delight over it, and that reminded me, and I am
glad, for I wanted to speak of it.

You have given me a book; Annie Trumbull has sent me her book; I bought a
couple of books; Mr. Hall gave me a choice German book; Laflan gave me
two bottles of whisky and a box of cigars--I go to sea nobly equipped.

Good-bye and all good fortune attend you and yours--and upon you all I
leave my benediction.
                              MARK.


     Mention has already been made of the Ross home being very near to
     Viviani, and the association of the Ross and Clemens families.
     There was a fine vegetable garden on the Ross estate, and it was in
     the interest of it that the next letter was written to the Secretary
     of Agriculture.


            To Hon. J. Sterling Morton, in Washington, D. C.:
           Editorial Department Century Magazine, Union Square,

                                             NEW YORK, April 6, 1893.
TO THE HON. J. STERLING MORTON,--Dear Sir: Your petitioner, Mark Twain,
a poor farmer of Connecticut--indeed, the poorest one there, in the
opinion of many-desires a few choice breeds of seed corn (maize), and in
return will zealously support the Administration in all ways honorable
and otherwise.

To speak by the card, I want these things to hurry to Italy to an English
lady.  She is a neighbor of mine outside of Florence, and has a great
garden and thinks she could raise corn for her table if she had the right
ammunition.  I myself feel a warm interest in this enterprise, both on
patriotic grounds and because I have a key to that garden, which I got
made from a wax impression.  It is not very good soil, still I think she
can grow enough for one table and I am in a position to select the table.
If you are willing to aid and abet a countryman (and Gilder thinks you
are,) please find the signature and address of your petitioner below.

Respectfully and truly yours.
                              MARK TWAIN,

67 Fifth Avenue, New York.

P. S.--A handful of choice (Southern) watermelon seeds would pleasantly
add to that lady's employments and give my table a corresponding lift.


     His idea of business values had moderated considerably by the time
     he had returned to Florence.  He was not hopeless yet, but he was
     clearly a good deal disheartened--anxious for freedom.


                      To Fred J.  Hall, in New York:

                                                  FLORENCE May 30, '93
DEAR MR. HALL,--You were to cable me if you sold any machine royalties--
so I judge you have not succeeded.

This has depressed me.  I have been looking over the past year's letters
and statements and am depressed still more.

I am terribly tired of business.  I am by nature and disposition unfitted
for it and I want to get out of it.  I am standing on the Mount Morris
volcano with help from the machine a long way off--doubtless a long way
further off than the Connecticut Co. imagines.

Now here is my idea for getting out.

The firm owes Mrs. Clemens and me--I do not know quite how much, but it
is about $170,000 or $175,000, 1 suppose (I make this guess from the
documents here, whose technicalities confuse me horribly.)

The firm owes other sums, but there is stock and cash assets to cover the
entire indebtedness and $116,679.20 over.  Is that it?  In addition we
have the L. A. L.  plates and copyright, worth more than $130,000--is
that correct?

That is to say, we have property worth about $250,000 above indebtedness,
I suppose--or, by one of your estimates, $300,000?  The greater part of
the first debts to me is in notes paying 6 percent.  The rest (the old
$70,000 or whatever it is) pays no interest.

Now then, will Harper or Appleton, or Putnam give me $200,000 for those
debts and my two-thirds interest in the firm?  (The firm of course taking
the Mount Morris and all such obligations off my hands and leaving me
clear of all responsibility.)

I don't want much money.  I only want first class notes--$200,000 worth
of them at 6 per cent, payable monthly;--yearly notes, renewable annually
for 3 years, with $5,000 of the principal payable at the beginning and
middle of each year.  After that, the notes renewable annually and
(perhaps) a larger part of the principal payable semi-annually.

Please advise me and suggest alterations and emendations of the above
scheme, for I need that sort of help, being ignorant of business and not
able to learn a single detail of it.

Such a deal would make it easy for a big firm to pour in a big cash
capital and jump L. A. L. up to enormous prosperity.  Then your one-third
would be a fortune--and I hope to see that day!

I enclose an authority to use with Whitmore in case you have sold any
royalties.  But if you can't make this deal don't make any.  Wait a
little and see if you can't make the deal.  Do make the deal if you
possibly can.  And if any presence shall be necessary in order to
complete it I will come over, though I hope it can be done without that.

Get me out of business!

And I will be yours forever gratefully,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.

My idea is, that I am offering my 2/3 of L. A. L. and the business for
thirty or forty thousand dollars.  Is that it?

P. S. S.  The new firm could retain my books and reduce them to a
10 percent royalty.                 S. L. C.


                  To Rev. Jos. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                              VILLA VIVIANI, SETTIGNANO (FLORENCE)
                                                       June 9, '93.
DEAR JOE,--The sea voyage set me up and I reached here May 27 in
tolerable condition--nothing left but weakness, cough all gone.

Old Sir Henry Layard was here the other day, visiting our neighbor Janet
Ross, daughter of Lady Duff Gordon, and since then I have been reading
his account of the adventures of his youth in the far East.  In a
footnote he has something to say about a sailor which I thought might
interest you--viz:

"This same quartermaster was celebrated among the English in Mesopotamia
for an entry which he made in his log-book-after a perilous storm; 'The
windy and watery elements raged.  Tears and prayers was had recourse to,
but was of no manner of use.  So we hauled up the anchor and got round
the point.'"

There--it isn't Ned Wakeman; it was before his day.

               With love,
                         MARK.


     They closed Villa Viviani in June and near the end of the month
     arrived in Munich in order that Mrs. Clemens might visit some of the
     German baths.  The next letter is written by her and shows her deep
     sympathy with Hall in his desperate struggle.  There have been few
     more unselfish and courageous women in history than Mark Twain's
     wife.


               From Mrs. Clemens to Mr. Hall, in New York:

                                                  June 27th 1893
                                                  MUNICH.
DEAR MR. HALL,--Your letter to Mr. Clemens of June 16th has just reached
here; as he has gone to Berlin for Clara I am going to send you just a
line in answer to it.

Mr. Clemens did not realize what trouble you would be in when his letter
should reach you or he would not have sent it just then.  I hope you will
not worry any more than you can help.  Do not let our interests weigh on
you too heavily.  We both know you will, as you always have, look in
every way to the best interests of all.

I think Mr. Clemens is right in feeling that he should get out of
business, that he is not fitted for it; it worries him too much.

But he need be in no haste about it, and of course, it would be the very
farthest from his desire to imperil, in the slightest degree, your
interests in order to save his own.

I am sure that I voice his wish as well as mine when I say that he would
simply like you to bear in mind the fact that he greatly desires to be
released from his present anxiety and worry, at a time when it shall not
endanger your interest or the safety of the business.

I am more sorry than I can express that this letter of Mr. Clemens'
should have reached you when you were struggling under such terrible
pressure.  I hope now that the weight is not quite so heavy.  He would
not have written you about the money if he had known that it was an
inconvenience for you to send it.  He thought the book-keeper whose duty
it is to forward it had forgotten.

We can draw on Mr. Langdon for money for a few weeks until things are a
little easier with you.  As Mr. Clemens wrote you we would say "do not
send us any more money at present" if we were not afraid to do so.  I
will say, however, do not trouble yourself if for a few weeks you are not
able to send the usual amount.

Mr. Clemens and I have the greatest possible desire, not to increase in
any way your burdens, and sincerely wish we might aid you.

I trust my brother may be able, in his talk with you, to throw some
helpful light on the situation.

Hoping you will see a change for the better and begin to reap the fruit
of your long and hard labor.
               Believe me
                    Very Cordially yours
                              OLIVIA L. CLEMENS.


Hall, naturally, did not wish to be left alone with the business.  He
realized that his credit would suffer, both at the bank and with the
public, if his distinguished partner should retire.  He wrote, therefore,
proposing as an alternate that they dispose of the big subscription set
that was swamping them.  It was a good plan--if it would work--and we
find Clemens entering into it heartily.


                      To Fred J.  Hall, in New York:

                                             MUNICH, July 3, '93.
DEAR MR. HALL,--You make a suggestion which has once or twice flitted
dimly through my mind heretofore to wit, sell L. A. L.

I like that better than the other scheme, for it is no doubt feasible,
whereas the other is perhaps not.

The firm is in debt, but L. A. L. is free--and not only free but has
large money owing to it.  A proposition to sell that by itself to a big
house could be made without embarrassment we merely confess that we
cannot spare capital from the rest of the business to run it on the huge
scale necessary to make it an opulent success.

It will be selling a good thing--for somebody; and it will be getting rid
of a load which we are clearly not able to carry.  Whoever buys will have
a noble good opening--a complete equipment, a well organized business,
a capable and experienced manager, and enterprise not experimental but
under full sail, and immediately able to pay 50 per cent a year on every
dollar the publisher shall actually invest in it--I mean in making and
selling the books.

I am miserably sorry to be adding bothers and torments to the over-supply
which you already have in these hideous times, but I feel so troubled,
myself, considering the dreary fact that we are getting deeper and deeper
in debt and the L. A. L.  getting to be a heavier and heavier burden all
the time, that I must bestir myself and seek a way of relief.

It did not occur to me that in selling out I would injure you--for that I
am not going to do.  But to sell L. A. L. will not injure you it will put
you in better shape.
               Sincerely Yours
                         S. L. CLEMENS.


                      To Fred J.  Hall, in New York:

                                                  July 8, '92.
DEAR MR. HALL,--I am sincerely glad you are going to sell L. A. L.  I am
glad you are shutting off the agents, and I hope the fatal book will be
out of our hands before it will be time to put them on again.  With
nothing but our non-existent capital to work with the book has no value
for us, rich a prize as it will be to any competent house that gets it.

I hope you are making an effort to sell before you discharge too many
agents, for I suppose the agents are a valuable part of the property.

We have been stopping in Munich for awhile, but we shall make a break for
some country resort in a few days now.
                         Sincerely Yours
                                   S. L. C.

                                                            July 8
P. S.  No, I suppose I am wrong in suggesting that you wait a moment
before discharging your L. A. L.  agents--in fact I didn't mean that.
I judge your only hope of salvation is in discharging them all at once,
since it is their commissions that threaten to swamp us.  It is they who
have eaten up the $14,000 I left with you in such a brief time, no doubt.

I feel panicky.

I think the sale might be made with better advantage, however, now, than
later when the agents have got out of the purchaser's reach.
                                   S. L. C.

P. S.  No monthly report for many months.


     Those who are old enough to remember the summer of 1893 may recall
     it as a black financial season.  Banks were denying credit,
     businesses were forced to the wall.  It was a poor time to float any
     costly enterprise.  The Chicago company who was trying to build the
     machines made little progress.  The book business everywhere was
     bad.  In a brief note following the foregoing letters Clemens wrote
     Hall:

     "It is now past the middle of July and no cablegram to say the
     machine is finished.  We are afraid you are having miserable days
     and worried nights, and we sincerely wish we could relieve you, but
     it is all black with us and we don't know any helpful thing to say
     or do."

     He inclosed some kind of manuscript proposition for John Brisben
     Walker, of the Cosmopolitan, with the comment: "It is my ingenious
     scheme to protect the family against the alms-house for one more
     year--and after that--well, goodness knows!  I have never felt so
     desperate in my life--and good reason, for I haven't got a penny to
     my name, and Mrs. Clemens hasn't enough laid up with Langdon to keep
     us two months."

     It was like Mark Twain, in the midst of all this turmoil, to project
     an entirely new enterprise; his busy mind was always visioning
     success in unusual undertakings, regardless of immediate conditions
     and the steps necessary to achievement.


                      To Fred J.  Hall, in New York:

                                                       July 26, '93.
DEAR MR. HALL,--..... I hope the machine will be finished this month;
but it took me four years and cost me $100,000 to finish the other
machine after it was apparently entirely complete and setting type like a
house-afire.

I wonder what they call "finished."  After it is absolutely perfect it
can't go into a printing-office until it has had a month's wear, running
night and day, to get the bearings smooth, I judge.

I may be able to run over about mid-October.  Then if I find you relieved
of L. A. L.  we will start a magazine inexpensive, and of an entirely
unique sort.  Arthur Stedman and his father editors of it.  Arthur could
do all the work, merely submitting it to his father for approval.

The first number should pay--and all subsequent ones--25 cents a number.
Cost of first number (20,000 copies) $2,000.  Give most of them away,
sell the rest.  Advertising and other expenses--cost unknown.  Send one
to all newspapers--it would get a notice--favorable, too.

But we cannot undertake it until L. A. L, is out of the way.  With our
hands free and some capital to spare, we could make it hum.

Where is the Shelley article?  If you have it on hand, keep it and I will
presently tell you what to do with it.

Don't forget to tell me.
                         Yours Sincerely
                                   S. L. C.


     The Shelley article mentioned in this letter was the "Defense of
     Harriet Sheller," one of the very best of his essays.  How he could
     have written this splendid paper at a time of such distraction
     passes comprehension.  Furthermore, it is clear that he had revised,
     indeed rewritten, the long story of Pudd'nhead Wilson.


                      To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

                                                  July 30, '93.
DEAR MR. HALL,--This time "Pudd'nhead Wilson" is a success!  Even Mrs.
Clemens, the most difficult of critics, confesses it, and without
reserves or qualifications.  Formerly she would not consent that it be
published either before or after my death.  I have pulled the twins apart
and made two individuals of them; I have sunk them out of sight, they are
mere flitting shadows, now, and of no importance; their story has
disappeared from the book.  Aunt Betsy Hale has vanished wholly, leaving
not a trace behind; aunt Patsy Cooper and her daughter Rowena have almost
disappeared--they scarcely walk across the stage.  The whole story is
centered on the murder and the trial; from the first chapter the movement
is straight ahead without divergence or side-play to the murder and the
trial; everything that is done or said or that happens is a preparation
for those events.  Therefore, 3 people stand up high, from beginning to
end, and only 3--Pudd'nhead, "Tom" Driscoll, and his nigger mother,
Roxana; none of the others are important, or get in the way of the story
or require the reader's attention.  Consequently, the scenes and episodes
which were the strength of the book formerly are stronger than ever, now.

When I began this final reconstruction the story contained 81,500 words,
now it contains only 58,000.  I have knocked out everything that delayed
the march of the story--even the description of a Mississippi steamboat.
There's no weather in, and no scenery--the story is stripped for flight!

Now, then what is she worth?  The amount of matter is but 3,000 words
short of the American Claimant, for which the syndicate paid $12,500.
There was nothing new in that story, but the finger-prints in this one
is virgin ground--absolutely fresh, and mighty curious and interesting
to everybody.

I don't want any more syndicating--nothing short of $20,000, anyway, and
that I can't get--but won't you see how much the Cosmopolitan will stand?

Do your best for me, for I do not sleep these nights, for visions of the
poor-house.

This in spite of the hopeful tone of yours of 11th to Langdon (just
received) for in me hope is very nearly expiring.  Everything does look
so blue, so dismally blue!

By and by I shall take up the Rhone open-boat voyage again, but not now-
we are going to be moving around too much.  I have torn up some of it,
but still have 15,000 words that Mrs. Clemens approves of, and that I
like.  I may go at it in Paris again next winter, but not unless I know I
can write it to suit me.

Otherwise I shall tackle Adam once more, and do him in a kind of a
friendly and respectful way that will commend him to the Sunday schools.
I've been thinking out his first life-days to-day and framing his
childish and ignorant impressions and opinions for him.

Will ship Pudd'nhead in a few days.  When you get it cable

                    Mark Twain
                         Care Brownship, London
                                        Received.

I mean to ship "Pudd'nhead Wilson" to you-say, tomorrow.  It'll furnish
me hash for awhile I reckon.  I am almost sorry it is finished; it was
good entertainment to work at it, and kept my mind away from things.

We leave here in about ten days, but the doctors have changed our plans
again.  I think we shall be in Bohemia or thereabouts till near the end
of September, then go to Paris and take a rest.
                         Yours Sincerely
                                        S. L. C.

P. S.  Mrs. Clemens has come in since, and read your letter and is deeply
distressed.  She thinks that in some letter of mine I must have
reproached you.  She says it is wonderful that you have kept the ship
afloat in this storm that has seen fleets and fleets go down; that from
what she learns of the American business-situation from her home letters
you have accomplished a marvel in the circumstances, and that she cannot
bear to have a word said to you that shall voice anything but praise and
the heartiest appreciation--and not the shadow of a reproach will she
allow.

I tell her I didn't reproach you and never thought of such a thing.  And
I said I would break open my letter and say so.

Mrs. Clemens says I must tell you not to send any money for a month or
two--so that you may be afforded what little relief is in our power.
All right--I'm willing; (this is honest) but I wish Brer Chatto would
send along his little yearly contribution.  I dropped him a line about
another matter a week ago--asked him to subscribe for the Daily News for
me--you see I wanted to remind him in a covert way that it was pay-up
time--but doubtless I directed the letter to you or some one else, for I
don't hear from him and don't get any Daily News either.


To Fred J.  Hall, in New York:

                                             Aug.  6, '93.
DEAR MR. HALL,--I am very sorry--it was thoughtless in me.  Let the
reports go.  Send me once a month two items, and two only:

Cash liabilities--(so much)
Cash assets--(so much)

I can perceive the condition of the business at a glance, then, and that
will be sufficient.

Here we never see a newspaper, but even if we did I could not come
anywhere near appreciating or correctly estimating the tempest you have
been buffeting your way through--only the man who is in it can do that--
but I have tried not to burden you thoughtlessly or wantonly.  I have
been wrought and unsettled in mind by apprehensions, and that is a thing
that is not helpable when one is in a strange land and sees his resources
melt down to a two months' supply and can't see any sure daylight beyond.
The bloody machine offered but a doubtful outlook--and will still offer
nothing much better for a long time to come; for when Davis's "three
weeks" is up there's three months' tinkering to follow I guess.  That is
unquestionably the boss machine of the world, but is the toughest one on
prophets, when it is in an incomplete state, that has ever seen the
light.  Neither Davis nor any other man can foretell with any
considerable approach to certainty when it will be ready to get down to
actual work in a printing office.

                             [No signature.]


     Three days after the foregoing letter was written he wrote, briefly:

     "Great Scott but it's a long year-for you and me!  I never knew the
     almanac to drag so.  At least since I was finishing that other
     machine.

     "I watch for your letters hungrily--just as I used to watch for the
     cablegram saying the machine's finished; but when 'next week
     certainly' swelled into 'three weeks sure' I recognized the old
     familiar tune I used to hear so much.  Ward don't know what sick-
     heartedness is--but he is in a way to find out."

     Always the quaint form of his humor, no matter how dark the way.
     We may picture him walking the floor, planning, scheming, and
     smoking--always smoking--trying to find a way out.  It was not the
     kind of scheming that many men have done under the circumstances;
     not scheming to avoid payment of debts, but to pay them.


                      To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

                                                       Aug. 14, '93
DEAR MR. HALL,--I am very glad indeed if you and Mr. Langdon are able to
see any daylight ahead.  To me none is visible.  I strongly advise that
every penny that comes in shall be applied to paying off debts.  I may be
in error about this, but it seems to me that we have no other course
open.  We can pay a part of the debts owing to outsiders--none to the
Clemenses.  In very prosperous times we might regard our stock and
copyrights as assets sufficient, with the money owing to us, to square up
and quit even, but I suppose we may not hope for such luck in the present
condition of things.

What I am mainly hoping for, is to save my royalties.  If they come into
danger I hope you will cable me, so that I can come over and try to save
them, for if they go I am a beggar.

I would sail to-day if I had anybody to take charge of my family and help
them through the difficult journeys commanded by the doctors.  I may be
able to sail ten days hence; I hope so, and expect so.

We can never resurrect the L. A. L.  I would not spend any more money on
that book.  You spoke, a while back, of trying to start it up again as a
preparation to disposing of it, but we are not in shape to venture that,
I think.  It would require more borrowing, and we must not do that.
                    Yours Sincerely
                              S. L. C.

Aug.  16.  I have thought, and thought, but I don't seem to arrive in any
very definite place.  Of course you will not have an instant's safety
until the bank debts are paid.  There is nothing to be thought of but to
hand over every penny as fast as it comes in--and that will be slow
enough!  Or could you secure them by pledging part of our cash assets
and--

I am coming over, just as soon as I can get the family moved and settled.
                                             S. L. C.


     Two weeks following this letter he could endure the suspense no
     longer, and on August 29th sailed once more for America.  In New
     York, Clemens settled down at the Players Club, where he could live
     cheaply, and undertook some literary work while he was casting about
     for ways and means to relieve the financial situation.  Nothing
     promising occurred, until one night at the Murray Hill Hotel he was
     introduced by Dr. Clarence C. Rice to Henry H. Rogers, of the
     Standard Oil group of financiers.  Rogers had a keen sense of humor
     and had always been a great admirer of Mark Twain's work.  It was a
     mirthful evening, and certainly an eventful one in Mark Twain's
     life.  A day or two later Doctor Rice asked the millionaire to
     interest himself a little in Clemens's business affairs, which he
     thought a good deal confused.  Just what happened is not remembered
     now, but from the date of the next letter we realize that a
     discussion of the matter by Clemens and Rogers must have followed
     pretty promptly.


                       To Mrs. Clemens, in Europe:

                                                  Oct. 18, '93.
DEAR, DEAR SWEETHEART,--I don't seem to get even half a chance to write
you, these last two days, and yet there's lots to say.

Apparently everything is at last settled as to the giveaway of L. A. L.,
and the papers will be signed and the transfer made to-morrow morning.

Meantime I have got the best and wisest man in the whole Standard Oil
group of mufti-millionaires a good deal interested in looking into the
type-setter (this is private, don't mention it.) He has been searching
into that thing for three weeks, and yesterday he said to me, "I find the
machine to be all you represented it--I have here exhaustive reports from
my own experts, and I know every detail of its capacity, its immense
value, its construction, cost, history, and all about its inventor's
character.  I know that the New York Co. and the Chicago Co. are both
stupid, and that they are unbusinesslike people, destitute of money and
in a hopeless boggle."

Then he told me the scheme he had planned, then said: "If I can arrange
with these people on this basis--it will take several weeks to find out--
I will see to it that they get the money they need.  Then the thing will
move right along and your royalties will cease to be waste paper.  I will
post you the minute my scheme fails or succeeds.  In the meantime, you
stop walking the floor.  Go off to the country and try to be gay.  You
may have to go to walking again, but don't begin till I tell you my
scheme has failed."  And he added: "Keep me posted always as to where you
are--for if I need you and can use you--I want to know where to put my
hand on you."

If I should even divulge the fact that the Standard Oil is merely talking
remotely about going into the type-setter, it would send my royalties up.

With worlds and worlds of love and kisses to you all,
                                                       SAML.


With so great a burden of care shifted to the broad financial shoulders
of H. H. Rogers, Mark Twain's spirits went ballooning, soaring toward the
stars.  He awoke, too, to some of the social gaieties about him, and
found pleasure in the things that in the hour of his gloom had seemed
mainly mockery.  We find him going to a Sunday evening at Howells's, to
John Mackay's, and elsewhere.


                        To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

                                                       Dec. 2, '93.
LIVY DARLING,--Last night at John Mackay's the dinner consisted of soup,
raw oysters, corned beef and cabbage, and something like a custard.
I ate without fear or stint, and yet have escaped all suggestion of
indigestion.  The men present were old gray Pacific-coasters whom I knew
when I and they were young and not gray.  The talk was of the days when
we went gypsying a long time ago--thirty years.  Indeed it was a talk of
the dead.  Mainly that.  And of how they looked, and the harum-scarum
things they did and said.  For there were no cares in that life, no aches
and pains, and not time enough in the day (and three-fourths of the
night) to work off one's surplus vigor and energy.  Of the mid-night
highway robbery joke played upon me with revolvers at my head on the
windswept and desolate Gold Hill Divide, no witness is left but me, the
victim.  All the friendly robbers are gone.  These old fools last night
laughed till they cried over the particulars of that old forgotten crime.

John Mackay has no family here but a pet monkey--a most affectionate and
winning little devil.  But he makes trouble for the servants, for he is
full of curiosity and likes to take everything out of the drawers and
examine it minutely; and he puts nothing back.  The examinations of
yesterday count for nothing to-day--he makes a new examination every day.
But he injures nothing.

I went with Laffan to the Racquet Club the other night and played,
billiards two hours without starting up any rheumatism.  I suppose it was
all really taken out of me in Berlin.

Richard Harding Davis spoke yesterday of Clara's impersonations at Mrs.
Van Rensselaer's here and said they were a wonderful piece of work.

Livy dear, I do hope you are comfortable, as to quarters and food at the
Hotel Brighton.  But if you're not don't stay there.  Make one more
effort--don't give it up.  Dear heart, this is from one who loves you--
which is Saml.


     It was decided that Rogers and Clemens should make a trip to Chicago
     to investigate personally the type-setter situation there.  Clemens
     reports the details of the excursion to Mrs. Clemens in a long
     subdivided letter, most of which has no general interest and is here
     omitted.  The trip, as a whole, would seem to have been
     satisfactory.  The personal portions of the long Christmas letter
     may properly be preserved.


                        To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

                                             THE PLAYERS, Xmas, 1893.
                                  No. 1.
Merry Xmas, my darling, and all my darlings!  I arrived from Chicago
close upon midnight last night, and wrote and sent down my Christmas
cablegram before undressing: "Merry Xmas!  Promising progress made in
Chicago."  It would get to the telegraph office toward 8 this morning and
reach you at luncheon.

I was vaguely hoping, all the past week, that my Xmas cablegram would be
definite, and make you all jump with jubilation; but the thought always
intruded itself, "You are not going out there to negotiate with a man,
but with a louse.  This makes results uncertain."

I was asleep as Christmas struck upon the clock at mid night, and didn't
wake again till two hours ago.  It is now half past 10 Xmas morning; I
have had my coffee and bread, and shan't get out of bed till it is time
to dress for Mrs. Laflan's Christmas dinner this evening--where I shall
meet Bram Stoker and must make sure about that photo with Irving's
autograph.  I will get the picture and he will attend to the rest.  In
order to remember and not forget--well, I will go there with my dress
coat wrong side out; it will cause remark and then I shall remember.


                               No. 2 and 3.
I tell you it was interesting!  The Chicago campaign, I mean.  On the way
out Mr. Rogers would plan out the campaign while I walked the floor and
smoked and assented.  Then he would close it up with a snap and drop it
and we would totally change the subject and take up the scenery, etc.

(Here follows the long detailed report of the Chicago conference, of
interest only to the parties directly concerned.)


                                  No. 4.
We had nice tripe, going and coming.  Mr. Rogers had telegraphed the
Pennsylvania Railroad for a couple of sections for us in the fast train
leaving at 2 p. m.  the 22nd.  The Vice President telegraphed back that
every berth was engaged (which was not true--it goes without saying) but
that he was sending his own car for us.  It was mighty nice and
comfortable.  In its parlor it had two sofas, which could become beds at
night.  It had four comfortably-cushioned cane arm-chairs.  It had a very
nice bedroom with a wide bed in it; which I said I would take because I
believed I was a little wider than Mr. Rogers--which turned out to be
true; so I took it.  It had a darling back-porch--railed, roofed and
roomy; and there we sat, most of the time, and viewed the scenery and
talked, for the weather was May weather, and the soft dream-pictures of
hill and river and mountain and sky were clear and away beyond anything I
have ever seen for exquisiteness and daintiness.

The colored waiter knew his business, and the colored cook was a finished
artist.  Breakfasts: coffee with real cream; beefsteaks, sausage, bacon,
chops, eggs in various ways, potatoes in various--yes, and quite
wonderful baked potatoes, and hot as fire.  Dinners--all manner of
things, including canvas-back duck, apollinaris, claret, champagne, etc.

We sat up chatting till midnight, going and coming; seldom read a line,
day or night, though we were well fixed with magazines, etc.; then I
finished off with a hot Scotch and we went to bed and slept till 9.30a.m.
I honestly tried to pay my share of hotel bills, fees, etc., but I was
not allowed--and I knew the reason why, and respected the motive.  I will
explain when I see you, and then you will understand.

We were 25 hours going to Chicago; we were there 24 hours; we were 30
hours returning.  Brisk work, but all of it enjoyable.  We insisted on
leaving the car at Philadelphia so that our waiter and cook (to whom Mr.
R. gave $10 apiece,) could have their Christmas-eve at home.

Mr. Rogers's carriage was waiting for us in Jersey City and deposited me
at the Players.  There--that's all.  This letter is to make up for the
three letterless days.  I love you, dear heart, I love you all.
                                                                 SAML.




XXXIV

LETTERS 1894.  A WINTER IN NEW YORK.  BUSINESS FAILURE.
END OF THE MACHINE

The beginning of the new year found Mark Twain sailing buoyantly on a
tide of optimism.  He believed that with H. H. Rogers as his financial
pilot he could weather safely any storm or stress.  He could divert
himself, or rest, or work, and consider his business affairs with
interest and amusement, instead of with haggard anxiety.  He ran over to
Hartford to see an amateur play; to Boston to give a charity reading; to
Fair Haven to open the library which Mr. Rogers had established there; he
attended gay dinners, receptions, and late studio parties, acquiring the
name of the "Belle of New York."  In the letters that follow we get the
echo of some of these things.  The Mrs. Rice mentioned in the next brief
letter was the wife of Dr. Clarence C. Rice, who had introduced
H. H.  Rogers to Mark Twain.


                        To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

                                             Jan. 12, '94
Livy darling, I came down from Hartford yesterday with Kipling, and he
and Hutton and I had the small smoking compartment to ourselves and found
him at last at his ease, and not shy.  He was very pleasant company
indeed.  He is to be in the city a week, and I wish I could invite him to
dinner, but it won't do.  I should be interrupted by business, of course.
The construction of a contract that will suit Paige's lawyer (not Paige)
turns out to be very difficult.  He is embarrassed by earlier advice to
Paige, and hates to retire from it and stultify himself.  The
negotiations are being conducted, by means of tedious long telegrams and
by talks over the long-distance telephone.  We keep the wires loaded.

Dear me, dinner is ready.  So Mrs. Rice says.

                         With worlds of love,
                                             SAML.


Clemens and Oliver Wendell Holmes had met and become friends soon after
the publication of Innocents Abroad, in 1869.  Now, twenty-five years
later, we find a record of what without doubt was their last meeting.
It occurred at the home of Mrs. James T. Field.


                        To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

                                             BOSTON, Jan. 25, '94.
Livy darling, I am caught out worse this time than ever before, in the
matter of letters.  Tuesday morning I was smart enough to finish and mail
my long letter to you before breakfast--for I was suspecting that I would
not have another spare moment during the day.  It turned out just so.

In a thoughtless moment I agreed to come up here and read for the poor.
I did not reflect that it would cost me three days.  I could not get
released.  Yesterday I had myself called at 8 and ran out to Mr. Rogers's
house at 9, and talked business until half past 10; then caught 11
o'clock train and arrived here at 6; was shaven and dressed by 7 and
ready for dinner here in Mrs. Field's charming house.

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes never goes out now (he is in his 84th year,)
but he came out this time-said he wanted to "have a time" once more with
me.

Mrs. Fields said Aldrich begged to come and went away crying because she
wouldn't let him.  She allowed only her family (Sarah Orne Jewett and
sister) to be present, because much company would overtax Dr. Holmes.

Well, he was just delightful!  He did as brilliant and beautiful talking
(and listening) as ever he did in his life, I guess.  Fields and Jewett
said he hadn't been in such splendid form in years.  He had ordered his
carriage for 9.

The coachman sent in for him at 9; but he said, "Oh, nonsense!--leave
glories and grandeurs like these?  Tell him to go away and come in an
hour!"

At 10 he was called for again, and Mrs. Fields, getting uneasy, rose, but
he wouldn't go--and so we rattled ahead the same as ever.  Twice more
Mrs. Fields rose, but he wouldn't go--and he didn't go till half past 10
--an unwarrantable dissipation for him in these days.  He was
prodigiously complimentary about some of my books, and is having
Pudd'nhead read to him.  I told him you and I used the Autocrat as a
courting book and marked it all through, and that you keep it in the
sacred green box with the love letters, and it pleased him.

Good-bye, my dear darling, it is 15 minutes to dinner and I'm not dressed
yet.  I have a reception to-night and will be out very late at that place
and at Irving's Theatre where I have a complimentary box.  I wish you
were all here.
                         SAML.


     In the next letter we meet James J. Corbett--"Gentleman Jim," as he
     was sometimes called--the champion pugilist of that day.

     The Howells incident so amusingly dramatized will perhaps be more
     appreciated if the reader remembers that Mark Twain himself had at
     intervals been a mind-healing enthusiast.  Indeed, in spite of his
     strictures on Mrs. Eddy, his interest in the subject of mind-cure
     continued to the end of his life.


                        To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

                                                  Sunday, 9.30 a. m.
Livy dear, when we got out to the house last night, Mrs. Rogers, who is
up and around, now, didn't want to go down stairs to dinner, but Mr. R.
persuaded her and we had a very good time indeed.  By 8 o'clock we were
down again and bought a fifteen-dollar box in the Madison Square Garden
(Rogers bought it, not I,) then he went and fetched Dr. Rice while I
(went) to the Players and picked up two artists--Reid and Simmons--and
thus we filled 5 of the 6 seats.  There was a vast multitude of people in
the brilliant place.  Stanford White came along presently and invited me
to go to the World-Champion's dressing room, which I was very glad to do.
Corbett has a fine face and is modest and diffident, besides being the
most perfectly and beautifully constructed human animal in the world.
I said:

"You have whipped Mitchell, and maybe you will whip Jackson in June--but
you are not done, then.  You will have to tackle me."

He answered, so gravely that one might easily have thought him in
earnest:

"No--I am not going to meet you in the ring.  It is not fair or right to
require it.  You might chance to knock me out, by no merit of your own,
but by a purely accidental blow; and then my reputation would be gone and
you would have a double one.  You have got fame enough and you ought not
to want to take mine away from me."

Corbett was for a long time a clerk in the Nevada Bank in San Francisco.

There were lots of little boxing matches, to entertain the crowd: then at
last Corbett appeared in the ring and the 8,000 people present went mad
with enthusiasm.  My two artists went mad about his form.  They said they
had never seen anything that came reasonably near equaling its perfection
except Greek statues, and they didn't surpass it.

Corbett boxed 3 rounds with the middle-weight Australian champion--oh,
beautiful to see!--then the show was over and we struggled out through a
perfect wash of humanity.  When we reached the street I found I had left
my arctics in the box.  I had to have them, so Simmons said he would go
back and get them, and I didn't dissuade him.  I couldn't see how he was
going to make his way a single yard into that solid oncoming wave of
people--yet he must plow through it full 50 yards.  He was back with the
shoes in 3 minutes!

How do you reckon he accomplished that miracle?  By saying:

"Way, gentlemen, please--coming to fetch Mr. Corbett's overshoes."

The word flew from mouth to mouth, the Red Sea divided, and Simmons
walked comfortably through and back, dry shod.  Simmons (this was
revealed to me under seal of secrecy by Reid) is the hero of "Gwen," and
he and Gwen's author were once engaged to marry.  This is "fire-escape"
Simmons, the inveterate talker, you know: "Exit--in case of Simmons."

I had an engagement at a beautiful dwelling close to the Players for
10.30; I was there by 10.45.  Thirty cultivated and very musical ladies
and gentlemen present--all of them acquaintances and many of them
personal friends of mine.  That wonderful Hungarian Band was there (they
charge $500 for an evening.) Conversation and Band until midnight; then a
bite of supper; then the company was compactly grouped before me and I
told about Dr. B. E. Martin and the etchings, and followed it with the
Scotch-Irish Christening.  My, but the Martin is a darling story!  Next,
the head tenor from the Opera sang half a dozen great songs that set the
company wild, yes, mad with delight, that nobly handsome young Damrosch
accompanying on the piano.

Just a little pause--then the Band burst out into an explosion of weird
and tremendous dance music, a Hungarian celebrity and his wife took the
floor--I followed; I couldn't help it; the others drifted in, one by one,
and it was Onteora over again.

By half past 4 I had danced all those people down--and yet was not tired;
merely breathless.  I was in bed at 5, and asleep in ten minutes.  Up at
9 and presently at work on this letter to you.  I think I wrote until 2
or half past.  Then I walked leisurely out to Mr. Rogers's (it is called
3 miles but it is short of it) arriving at 3.30, but he was out--
to return at 5.30--(and a person was in, whom I don't particularly like)
--so I didn't stay, but dropped over and chatted with the Howellses until
6.

First, Howells and I had a chat together.  I asked about Mrs. H.  He said
she was fine, still steadily improving, and nearly back to her old best
health.  I asked (as if I didn't know):

"What do you attribute this strange miracle to?"

"Mind-cure--simply mind-cure."

"Lord, what a conversion!  You were a scoffer three months ago."

"I?  I wasn't."

"You were.  You made elaborate fun of me in this very room."

"I did not, Clemens."

"It's a lie, Howells, you did."

I detailed to him the conversation of that time--with the stately
argument furnished by Boyesen in the fact that a patient had actually
been killed by a mind-curist; and Howells's own smart remark that when
the mind-curist is done with you, you have to call in a "regular" at last
because the former can't procure you a burial permit.

At last he gave in--he said he remembered that talk, but had now been a
mind-curist so long it was difficult for him to realize that he had ever
been anything else.

Mrs. H. came skipping in, presently, the very person, to a dot, that she
used to be, so many years ago.

Mrs. H. said: "People may call it what they like, but it is just
hypnotism, and that's all it is--hypnotism pure and simple.  Mind-cure!
--the idea!  Why, this woman that cured me hasn't got any mind.  She's a
good creature, but she's dull and dumb and illiterate and--"

"Now Eleanor!"

"I know what I'm talking about!--don't I go there twice a week?  And Mr.
Clemens, if you could only see her wooden and satisfied face when she
snubs me for forgetting myself and showing by a thoughtless remark that
to me weather is still weather, instead of being just an abstraction and
a superstition--oh, it's the funniest thing you ever saw!  A-n-d-when she
tilts up her nose-well, it's--it's--Well it's that kind of a nose that--"

"Now Eleanor!--the woman is not responsible for her nose--" and so-on and
so-on.  It didn't seem to me that I had any right to be having this feast
and you not there.

She convinced me before she got through, that she and William James are
right--hypnotism and mind-cure are the same thing; no difference between
them.  Very well; the very source, the very center of hypnotism is Paris.
Dr. Charcot's pupils and disciples are right there and ready to your hand
without fetching poor dear old Susy across the stormy sea.  Let Mrs.
Mackay (to whom I send my best respects), tell you whom to go to to learn
all you need to learn and how to proceed.  Do, do it, honey.  Don't lose
a minute.

.....At 11 o'clock last night Mr. Rogers said:

"I am able to feel physical fatigue--and I feel it now.  You never show
any, either in your eyes or your movements; do you ever feel any?"

I was able to say that I had forgotten what that feeling was like.  Don't
you remember how almost impossible it was for me to tire myself at the
Villa?  Well, it is just so in New York.  I go to bed unfatigued at 3,
I get up fresh and fine six hours later.  I believe I have taken only one
daylight nap since I have been here.

When the anchor is down, then I shall say:

"Farewell--a long farewell--to business!  I will never touch it again!"

I will live in literature, I will wallow in it, revel in it, I will swim
in ink!  Joan of Arc--but all this is premature; the anchor is not down
yet.

To-morrow (Tuesday) I will add a P. S. if I've any to add; but, whether
or no, I must mail this to morrow, for the mail steamer goes next day.

5.30 p. m.  Great Scott, this is Tuesday!  I must rush this letter into
the mail instantly.

Tell that sassy Ben I've got her welcome letter, and I'll write her as
soon as I get a daylight chance.  I've most time at night, but I'd
druther write daytimes.
                                             SAML.


     The Reid and Simmons mentioned in the foregoing were Robert Reid and
     Edward Simmons, distinguished painter--the latter a brilliant,
     fluent, and industrious talker.  The title; "Fire-escape Simmons,"
     which Clemens gives him, originated when Oliver Herford, whose
     quaint wit has so long delighted New-Yorkers, one day pinned up by
     the back door of the Players the notice: "Exit in case of Simmons."
     Gwen, a popular novel of that day, was written by Blanche Willis
     Howard.

     "Jamie" Dodge, in the next letter, was the son of Mrs. Mary Mapes
     Dodge, editor of St. Nicholas.


                       To Clara Clemens, in Paris:

                                   MR. ROGERS'S OFFICE, Feb.  5, '94.
Dear Benny--I was intending to answer your letter to-day, but I am away
down town, and will simply whirl together a sentence or two for good-
fellowship.  I have bought photographs of Coquelin and Jane Hading and
will ask them to sign them.  I shall meet Coquelin tomorrow night, and if
Hading is not present I will send her picture to her by somebody.

I am to breakfast with Madame Nordica in a few days, and meantime I hope
to get a good picture of her to sign.  She was of the breakfast company
yesterday, but the picture of herself which she signed and gave me does
not do her majestic beauty justice.

I am too busy to attend to the photo-collecting right, because I have to
live up to the name which Jamie Dodge has given me--the "Belle of New
York"--and it just keeps me rushing.  Yesterday I had engagements to
breakfast at noon, dine at 3, and dine again at 7.  I got away from the
long breakfast at 2 p. m., went and excused myself from the 3 o'clock
dinner, then lunched with Mrs. Dodge in 58th street, returned to the
Players and dressed, dined out at 9, and was back at Mrs. Dodge's at
10 p. m. where we had magic-lantern views of a superb sort, and a lot of
yarns until an hour after midnight, and got to bed at 2 this morning
--a good deal of a gain on my recent hours.  But I don't get tired; I
sleep as sound as a dead person, and always wake up fresh and strong--
usually at exactly 9.

I was at breakfast lately where people of seven separate nationalities
sat and the seven languages were going all the time.  At my side sat
a charming gentleman who was a delightful and active talker, and
interesting.  He talked glibly to those folks in all those seven
languages and still had a language to spare!  I wanted to kill him, for
very envy.

               I greet you with love and kisses.
                                                  PAPA.


                        To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

                                                       Feb.--.
Livy dear, last night I played billiards with Mr. Rogers until 11, then
went to Robert Reid's studio and had a most delightful time until 4 this
morning.  No ladies were invited this time.  Among the people present
were--

Coquelin;
Richard Harding Davis;
Harrison, the great out-door painter;
Wm. H. Chase, the artist;
Bettini, inventor of the new phonograph.
Nikola Tesla, the world-wide illustrious electrician; see article about
him in Jan. or Feb. Century.
John Drew, actor;
James Barnes, a marvelous mimic; my, you should see him!
Smedley the artist;
Zorn the artist;
Zogbaum the artist;
Reinhart the artist;
Metcalf the artist;
Ancona, head tenor at the Opera;

Oh, a great lot of others.  Everybody there had done something and was in
his way famous.

Somebody welcomed Coquelin in a nice little French speech; John Drew did
the like for me in English, and then the fun began.  Coquelin did some
excellent French monologues--one of them an ungrammatical Englishman
telling a colorless historiette in French.  It nearly killed the fifteen
or twenty people who understood it.

I told a yarn, Ancona sang half a dozen songs, Barnes did his darling
imitations, Harding Davis sang the hanging of Danny Deever, which was of
course good, but he followed it with that most fascinating (for what
reason I don't know) of all Kipling's poems, "On the Road to Mandalay,"
sang it tenderly, and it searched me deeper and charmed me more than the
Deever.

Young Gerrit Smith played some ravishing dance music and we all danced
about an hour.  There couldn't be a pleasanter night than that one was.
Some of those people complained of fatigue but I don't seem to know what
the sense of fatigue is.

Coquelin talks quite good English now.  He said:

"I have a brother who has the fine mind--ah, a charming and delicate
fancy, and he knows your writings so well, and loves them--and that is
the same with me.  It will stir him so when I write and tell him I have
seen you!"

Wasn't that nice?  We talked a good deal together.  He is as winning as
his own face.  But he wouldn't sign that photograph for Clara.  "That?
No!  She shall have a better one.  I will send it to you."

He is much driven, and will forget it, but Reid has promised to get the
picture for me, and I will try and keep him reminded.

Oh, dear, my time is all used up and your letters are not answered.

Mama, dear, I don't go everywhere--I decline most things.  But there are
plenty that I can't well get out of.

I will remember what you say and not make my yarning too common.

I am so glad Susy has gone on that trip and that you are trying the
electric.  May you both prosper.  For you are mighty dear to me and in my
thoughts always.
                                   SAML.


     The affairs of the Webster Publishing Company were by this time
     getting into a very serious condition indeed.  The effects of the
     panic of the year before could not be overcome.  Creditors were
     pressing their claims and profits were negligible.  In the following
     letter we get a Mark Twain estimate of the great financier who so
     cheerfully was willing to undertake the solving of Mark Twain's
     financial problems.


                        To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

                              THE PLAYERS, Feb. 15, '94.  11.30 p. m.
Livy darling, Yesterday I talked all my various matters over with Mr.
Rogers and we decided that it would be safe for me to leave here the 7th
of March, in the New York.  So his private secretary, Miss Harrison,
wrote and ordered a berth for me and then I lost no time in cabling you
that I should reach Southampton March 14, and Paris the 15th.  Land, but
it made my pulses leap, to think I was going to see you again!.....
One thing at a time.  I never fully laid Webster's disastrous condition
before Mr. Rogers until to-night after billiards.  I did hate to burden
his good heart and over-worked head with it, but he took hold with
avidity and said it was no burden to work for his friends, but a
pleasure.  We discussed it from various standpoints, and found it a
sufficiently difficult problem to solve; but he thinks that after he has
slept upon it and thought it over he will know what to suggest.

You must not think I am ever rude with Mr. Rogers, I am not.  He is not
common clay, but fine--fine and delicate--and that sort do not call out
the coarsenesses that are in my sort.  I am never afraid of wounding him;
I do not need to watch myself in that matter.  The sight of him is peace.

He wants to go to Japan--it is his dream; wants to go with me--which
means, the two families--and hear no more about business for awhile, and
have a rest.  And he needs it.  But it is like all the dreams of all busy
men--fated to remain dreams.

You perceive that he is a pleasant text for me.  It is easy to write
about him.  When I arrived in September, lord how black the prospect was
--how desperate, how incurably desperate!  Webster and Co had to have a
small sum of money or go under at once.  I flew to Hartford--to my
friends--but they were not moved, not strongly interested, and I was
ashamed that I went.  It was from Mr. Rogers, a stranger, that I got the
money and was by it saved.  And then--while still a stranger--he set
himself the task of saving my financial life without putting upon me (in
his native delicacy) any sense that I was the recipient of a charity,
a benevolence--and he has accomplished that task; accomplished it at a
cost of three months of wearing and difficult labor.  He gave that time
to me--time which could not be bought by any man at a hundred thousand
dollars a month--no, nor for three times the money.

Well, in the midst of that great fight, that long and admirable fight,
George Warner came to me and said:

"There is a splendid chance open to you.  I know a man--a prominent man--
who has written a book that will go like wildfire; a book that arraigns
the Standard Oil fiends, and gives them unmitigated hell, individual by
individual.  It is the very book for you to publish; there is a fortune
in it, and I can put you in communication with the author."

I wanted to say:

"The only man I care for in the world; the only man I would give a damn
for; the only man who is lavishing his sweat and blood to save me and
mine from starvation and shame, is a Standard Oil fiend.  If you know me,
you know whether I want the book or not."

But I didn't say that.  I said I didn't want any book; I wanted to get
out of the publishing business and out of all business, and was here for
that purpose and would accomplish it if I could.

But there's enough.  I shall be asleep by 3, and I don't need much sleep,
because I am never drowsy or tired these days.  Dear, dear Susy my
strength reproaches me when I think of her and you, my darling.

                                        SAML.


     But even so able a man as Henry Rogers could not accomplish the
     impossible.  The affairs of the Webster Company were hopeless, the
     business was not worth saving.  By Mr. Rogers's advice an assignment
     was made April, 18, 1894.  After its early spectacular success less
     than ten years had brought the business to failure.  The publication
     of the Grant memoirs had been its only great achievement.

     Clemens would seem to have believed that the business would resume,
     and for a time Rogers appears to have comforted him in his hope, but
     we cannot believe that it long survived.  Young Hall, who had made
     such a struggle for its salvation, was eager to go on, but he must
     presently have seen the futility of any effort in that direction.

     Of course the failure of Mark Twain's firm made a great stir in the
     country, and it is easy to understand that loyal friends would rally
     in his behalf.


                        To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

                                                       April 22, '94.
Dear old darling, we all think the creditors are going to allow us to
resume business; and if they do we shall pull through and pay the debts.
I am prodigiously glad we made an assignment.  And also glad that we did
not make it sooner.  Earlier we should have made a poor showing; but now
we shall make a good one.

I meet flocks of people, and they all shake me cordially by the hand and
say "I was so sorry to hear of the assignment, but so glad you did it.
It was around, this long time, that the concern was tottering, and all
your friends were afraid you would delay the assignment too long."

John Mackay called yesterday, and said, "Don't let it disturb you, Sam--
we all have to do it, at one time or another; it's nothing to be ashamed
of."

One stranger out in New York State sent me a dollar bill and thought he
would like to get up a dollar-subscription for me.  And Poultney
Bigelow's note came promptly, with his check for $1,000.  I had been
meeting him every day at the Club and liking him better and better all
the time.  I couldn't take his money, of course, but I thanked him
cordially for his good will.

Now and then a good and dear Joe Twichell or Susy Warner condoles with me
and says "Cheer up--don't be downhearted," and some other friend says,
"I am glad and surprised to see how cheerful you are and how bravely you
stand it"--and none of them suspect what a burden has been lifted from me
and how blithe I am inside.  Except when I think of you, dear heart--then
I am not blithe; for I seem to see you grieving and ashamed, and dreading
to look people in the face.  For in the thick of the fight there is
cheer, but you are far away and cannot hear the drums nor see the
wheeling squadrons.  You only seem to see rout, retreat, and dishonored
colors dragging in the dirt--whereas none of these things exist.  There
is temporary defeat, but no dishonor--and we will march again.  Charley
Warner said to-day, "Sho, Livy isn't worrying.  So long as she's got you
and the children she doesn't care what happens.  She knows it isn't her
affair."  Which didn't convince me.

Good bye my darling, I love you and all of the kids--and you can tell
Clara I am not a spitting gray kitten.
                                             SAML.


     Clemens sailed for Europe as soon as his affairs would permit him to
     go.  He must get settled where he could work comfortably.  Type-
     setter prospects seemed promising, but meantime there was need of
     funds.

     He began writing on the ship, as was his habit, and had completed
     his article on Fenimore Cooper by the time he reached London.  In
     August we find him writing to Mr. Rogers from Etretat, a little
     Norman watering-place.


                      To H. H. Rogers, in New York:

                                             ETRETAT, (NORMANDIE)
                                                  CHALET DES ABRIS
                                                       Aug.  25, '94.
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--I find the Madam ever so much better in health and
strength.  The air is superb and soothing and wholesome, and the Chalet
is remote from noise and people, and just the place to write in.  I shall
begin work this afternoon.

Mrs. Clemens is in great spirits on, account of the benefit which she has
received from the electrical treatment in Paris and is bound to take it
up again and continue it all the winter, and of course I am perfectly
willing.  She requires me to drop the lecture platform out of my mind and
go straight ahead with Joan until the book is finished.  If I should have
to go home for even a week she means to go with me--won't consent to be
separated again--but she hopes I won't need to go.

I tell her all right, "I won't go unless you send, and then I must."

She keeps the accounts; and as she ciphers it we can't get crowded for
money for eight months yet.  I didn't know that.  But I don't know much
anyway.
                    Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     The reader may remember that Clemens had written the first half of
     his Joan of Arc book at the Villa Viviani, in Florence, nearly two
     years before.  He had closed the manuscript then with the taking of
     Orleans, and was by no means sure that he would continue the story
     beyond that point.  Now, however, he was determined to reach the
     tale's tragic conclusion.


                      To H. H. Rogers, in New York:

                                                       ETRETAT,
                                                  Sunday, Sept. 9, '94.
DEAR MR. ROGERS, I drove the quill too hard, and I broke down--in my
head.  It has now been three days since I laid up.  When I wrote you a
week ago I had added 10,000 words or thereabout to Joan.  Next day I
added 1,500 which was a proper enough day's work though not a full one;
but during Tuesday and Wednesday I stacked up an aggregate of 6,000
words--and that was a very large mistake.  My head hasn't been worth a
cent since.

However, there's a compensation; for in those two days I reached and
passed--successfully--a point which I was solicitous about before I ever
began the book: viz., the battle of Patay.  Because that would naturally
be the next to the last chapter of a work consisting of either two books
or one.  In the one case one goes right along from that point (as I shall
do now); in the other he would add a wind-up chapter and make the book
consist of Joan's childhood and military career alone.

I shall resume work to-day; and hereafter I will not go at such an
intemperate' rate.  My head is pretty cobwebby yet.

I am hoping that along about this time I shall hear that the machine is
beginning its test in the Herald office.  I shall be very glad indeed to
know the result of it.  I wish I could be there.
                    Sincerely yours
                              S. L. CLEMENS.


     Rouen, where Joan met her martyrdom, was only a short distance away,
     and they halted there en route to Paris, where they had arranged to
     spend the winter.  The health of Susy Clemens was not good, and they
     lingered in Rouen while Clemens explored the old city and
     incidentally did some writing of another sort.  In a note to Mr.
     Rogers he said: "To put in my odd time I am writing some articles
     about Paul Bourget and his Outre-Mer chapters--laughing at them and
     at some of our oracular owls who find them important.  What the hell
     makes them important, I should like to know!"

     He was still at Rouen two weeks later and had received encouraging
     news from Rogers concerning the type-setter, which had been placed
     for trial in the office of the Chicago Herald.  Clemens wrote: "I
     can hardly keep from sending a hurrah by cable.  I would certainly
     do it if I wasn't superstitious."  His restraint, though wise, was
     wasted the end was near.


                      To H. H. Rogers, in New York:

                                        169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE,
                                             PARIS, Dec. 22; '94.
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--I seemed to be entirely expecting your letter, and also
prepared and resigned; but Lord, it shows how little we know ourselves
and how easily we can deceive ourselves.  It hit me like a thunder-clap.
It knocked every rag of sense out of my head, and I went flying here and
there and yonder, not knowing what I was doing, and only one clearly
defined thought standing up visible and substantial out of the crazy
storm-drift that my dream of ten years was in desperate peril, and out of
the 60,000 or 90,000 projects for its rescue that came floating through
my skull, not one would hold still long enough for me to examine it and
size it up.  Have you ever been like that?  Not so much so, I reckon.

There was another clearly defined idea--I must be there and see it die.
That is, if it must die; and maybe if I were there we might hatch up some
next-to-impossible way to make it take up its bed and take a walk.

So, at the end of four hours I started, still whirling and walked over to
the rue Scribe--4 P. M.--and asked a question or two and was told I
should be running a big risk if I took the 9 P. M.  train for London and
Southampton; "better come right along at 6.52 per Havre special and step
aboard the New York all easy and comfortable."  Very! and I about two
miles from home, with no packing done.

Then it occurred to me that none of these salvation-notions that were
whirl-winding through my head could be examined or made available unless
at least a month's time could be secured.  So I cabled you, and said to
myself that I would take the French steamer tomorrow (which will be
Sunday).

By bedtime Mrs. Clemens had reasoned me into a fairly rational and
contented state of mind; but of course it didn't last long.  So I went on
thinking--mixing it with a smoke in the dressing room once an hour--until
dawn this morning.  Result--a sane resolution; no matter what your answer
to my cable might be, I would hold still and not sail until I should get
an answer to this present letter which I am now writing, or a cable
answer from you saying "Come" or "Remain."

I have slept 6 hours, my pond has clarified, and I find the sediment of
my 70,000 projects to be of this character:

[Several pages of suggestions for reconstructing the machine follow.]

Don't say I'm wild.  For really I'm sane again this morning.

                          ......................

I am going right along with Joan, now, and wait untroubled till I hear
from you.  If you think I can be of the least use, cable me "Come."
I can write Joan on board ship and lose no time.  Also I could discuss my
plan with the publisher for a deluxe Joan, time being an object, for some
of the pictures could be made over here cheaply and quickly, but would
cost much time and money in America.

                          ......................

If the meeting should decide to quit business Jan. 4, I'd like to have
Stoker stopped from paying in any more money, if Miss Harrison doesn't
mind that disagreeable job.  And I'll have to write them, too, of course.
                    With love,
                         S. L. CLEMENS.


     The "Stoker" of this letter was Bram Stoker, long associated with
     Sir Henry Irving.  Irving himself had also taken stock in the
     machine.  The address, 169 Rue de l'Universite, whence these letters
     are written, was the beautiful studio home of the artist Pomroy
     which they had taken for the winter.


                     To H.  H.  Rogers, in New York:

                                        169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE,
                                        PARIS, Dec. 27, '94.
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--Notwithstanding your heart is "old and hard," you make
a body choke up.  I know you "mean every word you say" and I do take it
"in the same spirit in which you tender it."  I shall keep your regard
while we two live--that I know; for I shall always remember what you have
done for me, and that will insure me against ever doing anything that
could forfeit it or impair it.  I am 59 years old; yet I never had a
friend before who put out a hand and tried to pull me ashore when he
found me in deep waters.

It is six days or seven days ago that I lived through that despairing
day, and then through a night without sleep; then settled down next day
into my right mind (or thereabouts,) and wrote you.  I put in the rest of
that day till 7 P. M.  plenty comfortably enough writing a long chapter
of my book; then went to a masked ball blacked up as Uncle Remus, taking
Clara along; and we had a good time.  I have lost no day since and
suffered no discomfort to speak of, but drove my troubles out of my mind
and had good success in keeping them out--through watchfulness.  I have
done a good week's work and put the book a good way ahead in the Great
Trial, which is the difficult part which requires the most thought and
carefulness.  I cannot see the end of the Trial yet, but I am on the
road.  I am creeping surely toward it.

"Why not leave them all to me."  My business bothers?  I take you by the
hand!  I jump at the chance!

I ought to be ashamed and I am trying my best to be ashamed--and yet I do
jump at the chance in spite of it.  I don't want to write Irving and I
don't want to write Stoker.  It doesn't seem as if I could.  But I can
suggest something for you to write them; and then if you see that I am
unwise, you can write them something quite different.  Now this is my
idea:

     1.  To return Stoker's $100 to him and keep his stock.

     2.  And tell Irving that when luck turns with me I will make good to
     him what the salvage from the dead Co. fails to pay him of his $500.


P. S.  Madam says No, I must face the music.  So I enclose my effort to
be used if you approve, but not otherwise.

There!  Now if you will alter it to suit your judgment and bang away, I
shall be eternally obliged.

We shall try to find a tenant for our Hartford house; not an easy matter,
for it costs heavily to live in.  We can never live in it again; though
it would break the family's hearts if they could believe it.

Nothing daunts Mrs. Clemens or makes the world look black to her--which
is the reason I haven't drowned myself.

We all send our deepest and warmest greetings to you and all of yours and
a Happy New Year!
                              S. L. CLEMENS.


Enclosure:

MY DEAR STOKER,--I am not dating this because it is not to be mailed at
present.

When it reaches you it will mean that there is a hitch in my machine-
enterprise--a hitch so serious as to make it take to itself the aspect of
a dissolved dream.  This letter, then, will contain cheque for the $100
which you have paid.  And will you tell Irving for me--I can't get up
courage enough to talk about this misfortune myself, except to you, whom
by good luck I haven't damaged yet that when the wreckage presently
floats ashore he will get a good deal of his $500 back; and a dab at a
time I will make up to him the rest.

I'm not feeling as fine as I was when I saw you there in your home.
Please remember me kindly to Mrs. Stoker.  I gave up that London lecture-
project entirely.  Had to--there's never been a chance since to find the
time.
                    Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.




XXXV

LETTERS, 1895-96, TO H. H. ROGERS AND OTHERS.  FINISHING "JOAN OF ARC."
THE TRIP AROUND THE WORLD.  DEATH OF SUSY CLEMENS


                   To H.  H.  Rogers, in New York City:

                                                       [No date.]
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--Yours of Dec. 21 has arrived, containing the circular
to stockholders and I guess the Co. will really quit--there doesn't seem
to be any other wise course.

There's one thing which makes it difficult for me to soberly realize that
my ten year dream is actually dissolved; and that is, that it reveries my
horoscope.  The proverb says, "Born lucky, always lucky," and I am very
superstitious.  As a small boy I was notoriously lucky.  It was usual for
one or two of our lads (per annum) to get drowned in the Mississippi or
in Bear Creek, but I was pulled out in a 2/3 drowned condition 9 times
before I learned to swim, and was considered to be a cat in disguise.
When the "Pennsylvania" blew up and the telegraph reported my brother as
fatally injured (with 60 others) but made no mention of me, my uncle said
to my mother "It means that Sam was somewhere else, after being on that
boat a year and a half--he was born lucky."  Yes, I was somewhere else.
I am so superstitious that I have always been afraid to have business
dealings with certain relatives and friends of mine because they were
unlucky people.  All my life I have stumbled upon lucky chances of large
size, and whenever they were wasted it was because of my own stupidity
and carelessness.  And so I have felt entirely certain that that machine
would turn up trumps eventually.  It disappointed me lots of times, but I
couldn't shake off the confidence of a life-time in my luck.

Well, whatever I get out of the wreckage will be due to good luck--the
good luck of getting you into the scheme--for, but for that, there
wouldn't be any wreckage; it would be total loss.

I wish you had been in at the beginning.  Then we should have had the
good luck to step promptly ashore.

Miss Harrison has had a dream which promises me a large bank account,
and I want her to go ahead and dream it twice more, so as to make the
prediction sure to be fulfilled.

I've got a first rate subject for a book.  It kept me awake all night,
and I began it and completed it in my mind.  The minute I finish Joan
I will take it up.
               Love and Happy New Year to you all.
                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     This was about the end of the machine interests so far as Clemens
     was concerned.  Paige succeeded in getting some new people
     interested, but nothing important happened, or that in any way
     affected Mark Twain.  Characteristically he put the whole matter
     behind him and plunged into his work, facing comparative poverty and
     a burden of debts with a stout heart.  The beginning of the new year
     found him really poorer in purse than he had ever been in his life,
     but certainly not crushed, or even discouraged--at least, not
     permanently--and never more industrious or capable.


                   To H.  H.  Rogers, in New York City:

                                        169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE,
                                             PARIS, Jan. 23, '95.
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--After I wrote you, two or three days ago I thought I
would make a holiday of the rest of the day--the second deliberate
holiday since I had the gout.  On the first holiday I wrote a tale of
about 6,000 words, which was 3 days' work in one; and this time I did
8,000 before midnight.  I got nothing out of that first holiday but the
recreation of it, for I condemned the work after careful reading and some
revision; but this time I fared better--I finished the Huck Finn tale
that lies in your safe, and am satisfied with it.

The Bacheller syndicate (117 Tribune Building) want a story of 5,000
words (lowest limit of their London agent) for $1,000 and offer to plank
the check on delivery, and it was partly to meet that demand that I took
that other holiday.  So as I have no short story that suits me (and can't
and shan't make promises), the best I can do is to offer the longer one
which I finished on my second holiday--"Tom Sawyer, Detective."

It makes 27 or 28,000 words, and is really written for grown folks,
though I expect young folk to read it, too.  It transfers to the banks of
the Mississippi the incidents of a strange murder which was committed in
Sweden in old times.

I'll refer applicants for a sight of the story to you or Miss Harrison.--
[Secretary to Mr. Rogers.]
                         Yours sincerely,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


                   To H.  H.  Rogers, in New York City:

                                        169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE,
                                             Apr. 29, '95.
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--Your felicitous delightful letter of the 15th arrived
three days ago, and brought great pleasure into the house.

There is one thing that weighs heavily on Mrs. Clemens and me.  That is
Brusnahan's money.  If he is satisfied to have it invested in the Chicago
enterprise, well and good; if not, we would like to have the money paid
back to him.  I will give him as many months to decide in as he pleases--
let him name 6 or 10 or 12--and we will let the money stay where it is in
your hands till the time is up.  Will Miss Harrison tell him so?  I mean
if you approve.  I would like him to have a good investment, but would
meantime prefer to protect him against loss.

At 6 minutes past 7, yesterday evening, Joan of Arc was burned at the
stake.

With the long strain gone, I am in a sort of physical collapse today, but
it will be gone tomorrow.  I judged that this end of the book would be
hard work, and it turned out so.  I have never done any work before that
cost so much thinking and weighing and measuring and planning and
cramming, or so much cautious and painstaking execution.  For I wanted
the whole Rouen trial in, if it could be got in in such a way that the
reader's interest would not flag--in fact I wanted the reader's interest
to increase; and so I stuck to it with that determination in view--with
the result that I have left nothing out but unimportant repetitions.
Although it is mere history--history pure and simple--history stripped
naked of flowers, embroideries, colorings, exaggerations, invention--the
family agree that I have succeeded.  It was a perilous thing to try in a
tale, but I never believed it a doubtful one--provided I stuck strictly
to business and didn't weaken and give up: or didn't get lazy and skimp
the work.  The first two-thirds of the book were easy; for I only needed
to keep my historical road straight; therefore I used for reference only
one French history and one English one--and shoveled in as much fancy
work and invention on both sides of the historical road as I pleased.
But on this last third I have constantly used five French sources and
five English ones and I think no telling historical nugget in any of them
has escaped me.

Possibly the book may not sell, but that is nothing--it was written for
love.

There--I'm called to see company.  The family seldom require this of me,
but they know I am not working today.
                         Yours sincerely,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     "Brusnahan," of the foregoing letter, was an employee of the New
     York Herald, superintendent of the press-room--who had invested some
     of his savings in the type-setter.

     In February Clemens returned to New York to look after matters
     connected with his failure and to close arrangements for a reading-
     tour around the world.  He was nearly sixty years old, and time had
     not lessened his loathing for the platform.  More than once,
     however, in earlier years, he had turned to it as a debt-payer, and
     never yet had his burden been so great as now.  He concluded
     arrangements with Major Pond to take him as far as the Pacific
     Coast, and with R. S. Smythe, of Australia, for the rest of the
     tour.  In April we find him once more back in Paris preparing to
     bring the family to America, He had returned by way of London,
     where he had visited Stanley the explorer--an old friend.


                    To H. H. Rogers, in New York City:

                                             169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE,
                                                  Sunday, Apr.7,'95.
DEAR MR.  ROGERS,--..... Stanley is magnificently housed in London, in a
grand mansion in the midst of the official world, right off Downing
Street and Whitehall.  He had an extraordinary assemblage of brains and
fame there to meet me--thirty or forty (both sexes) at dinner, and more
than a hundred came in, after dinner.  Kept it up till after midnight.
There were cabinet ministers, ambassadors, admirals, generals, canons,
Oxford professors, novelists, playwrights, poets, and a number of people
equipped with rank and brains.  I told some yarns and made some speeches.
I promised to call on all those people next time I come to London, and
show them the wife and the daughters.  If I were younger and very strong
I would dearly love to spend a season in London--provided I had no work
on hand, or no work more exacting than lecturing.  I think I will lecture
there a month or two when I return from Australia.

There were many delightful ladies in that company.  One was the wife of
His Excellency Admiral Bridge, Commander-in Chief of the Australian
Station, and she said her husband was able to throw wide all doors to me
in that part of the world and would be glad to do it, and would yacht me
and my party around, and excursion us in his flag-ship and make us have a
great time; and she said she would write him we were coming, and we would
find him ready.  I have a letter from her this morning enclosing a letter
of introduction to the Admiral.  I already know the Admiral commanding in
the China Seas and have promised to look in on him out there.  He sleeps
with my books under his pillow.  P'raps it is the only way he can sleep.

According to Mrs. Clemens's present plans--subject to modification, of
course--we sail in May; stay one day, or two days in New York, spend
June, July and August in Elmira and prepare my lectures; then lecture in
San Francisco and thereabouts during September and sail for Australia
before the middle of October and open the show there about the middle of
November.  We don't take the girls along; it would be too expensive and
they are quite willing to remain behind anyway.

Mrs. C. is feeling so well that she is not going to try the New York
doctor till we have gone around the world and robbed it and made the
finances a little easier.
                    With a power of love to you all,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     There would come moments of depression, of course, and a week later
     he wrote: "I am tired to death all the time:"  To a man of less
     vitality, less vigor of mind and body, it is easy to believe that
     under such circumstances this condition would have remained
     permanent.  But perhaps, after all, it was his comic outlook on
     things in general that was his chief life-saver.


                    To H. H. Rogers, in New York City:

                              169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE, Apr. 29, '95.
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--I have been hidden an hour or two, reading proof of
Joan and now I think I am a lost child.  I can't find anybody on the
place.  The baggage has all disappeared, including the family.  I reckon
that in the hurry and bustle of moving to the hotel they forgot me.  But
it is no matter.  It is peacefuller now than I have known it for days and
days and days.

In these Joan proofs which I have been reading for the September Harper
I find a couple of tip-top platform readings--and I mean to read them on
our trip.  If the authorship is known by then; and if it isn't, I will
reveal it.  The fact is, there is more good platform-stuff in Joan than
in any previous book of mine, by a long sight.

Yes, every danged member of the tribe has gone to the hotel and left me
lost.  I wonder how they can be so careless with property.  I have got to
try to get there by myself now.

All the trunks are going over as luggage; then I've got to find somebody
on the dock who will agree to ship 6 of them to the Hartford Customhouse.
If it is difficult I will dump them into the river.  It is very careless
of Mrs. Clemens to trust trunks and things to me.
                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     By the latter part of May they were at Quarry Farm, and Clemens,
     laid up there with a carbuncle, was preparing for his long tour.
     The outlook was not a pleasant one.  To Mr. Rogers he wrote: "I
     sha'n't be able to stand on the platform before we start west.  I
     sha'n't get a single chance to practice my reading; but will have to
     appear in Cleveland without the essential preparation.  Nothing in
     this world can save it from being a shabby, poor disgusting
     performance.  I've got to stand; I can't do it and talk to a house,
     and how in the nation am I going to sit?  Land of Goshen, it's this
     night week!  Pray for me."

     The opening at Cleveland July 15th appears not to have been much of
     a success, though from another reason, one that doubtless seemed
     amusing to him later.


                    To H. H. Rogers, in New York City:

                                                       (Forenoon)
                                             CLEVELAND, July 16, '95.
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--Had a roaring success at the Elmira reformatory Sunday
night.  But here, last night, I suffered defeat--There were a couple of
hundred little boys behind me on the stage, on a lofty tier of benches
which made them the most conspicuous objects in the house.  And there was
nobody to watch them or keep them quiet.  Why, with their scufflings and
horse-play and noise, it was just a menagerie.  Besides, a concert of
amateurs had been smuggled into the program (to precede me,) and their
families and friends (say ten per cent of the audience) kept encoring
them and they always responded.  So it was 20 minutes to 9 before I got
the platform in front of those 2,600 people who had paid a dollar apiece
for a chance to go to hell in this fashion.

I got started magnificently, but inside of half an hour the scuffling
boys had the audience's maddened attention and I saw it was a gone case;
so I skipped a third of my program and quit.  The newspapers are kind,
but between you and me it was a defeat.  There ain't going to be any more
concerts at my lectures.  I care nothing for this defeat, because it was
not my fault.  My first half hour showed that I had the house, and I
could have kept it if I hadn't been so handicapped.
                         Yours sincerely,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.

P. S.  Had a satisfactory time at Petoskey.  Crammed the house and turned
away a crowd.  We had $548 in the house, which was $300 more than it had
ever had in it before.  I believe I don't care to have a talk go off
better than that one did.


     Mark Twain, on this long tour, was accompanied by his wife and his
     daughter Clara--Susy and Jean Clemens remaining with their aunt at
     Quarry Farm.  The tour was a financial success from the start.
     By the time they were ready to sail from Vancouver five thousand
     dollars had been remitted to Mr. Rogers against that day of
     settlement when the debts of Webster & Co. were to be paid.  Perhaps
     it should be stated here that a legal settlement had been arranged
     on a basis of fifty cents on the dollar, but neither Clemens nor his
     wife consented to this as final.  They would pay in full.

     They sailed from Vancouver August 23, 1895.  About the only letter
     of this time is an amusing note to Rudyard Kipling, written at the
     moment of departure.


                     To Rudyard Kipling, in England:

                                                       August, 1895.
DEAR KIPLING,--It is reported that you are about to visit India.  This
has moved me to journey to that far country in order that I may unload
from my conscience a debt long due to you.  Years ago you came from India
to Elmira to visit me, as you said at the time.  It has always been my
purpose to return that visit and that great compliment some day.  I shall
arrive next January and you must be ready.  I shall come riding my ayah
with his tusks adorned with silver bells and ribbons and escorted by a
troop of native howdahs richly clad and mounted upon a herd of wild
bungalows; and you must be on hand with a few bottles of ghee, for I
shall be thirsty.
                         Affectionately,
                              S. L. CLEMENS.


     Clemens, platforming in Australia, was too busy to write letters.
     Everywhere he was welcomed by great audiences, and everywhere
     lavishly entertained.  He was beset by other carbuncles, but would
     seem not to have been seriously delayed by them.  A letter to his
     old friend Twichell carries the story.


                  To Rev. Jos. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                   FRANK MOELLER'S MASONIC HOTEL,
                                             NAPIER, NEW ZEALAND,
                                                  November 29, '95.
DEAR JOE,--Your welcome letter of two months and five days ago has just
arrived, and finds me in bed with another carbuncle.  It is No. 3.  Not a
serious one this time.  I lectured last night without inconvenience, but
the doctors thought best to forbid to-night's lecture.  My second one
kept me in bed a week in Melbourne.

.....We are all glad it is you who is to write the article, it delights
us all through.

I think it was a good stroke of luck that knocked me on my back here at
Napier, instead of some hotel in the centre of a noisy city.  Here we
have the smooth and placidly-complaining sea at our door, with nothing
between us and it but 20 yards of shingle--and hardly a suggestion of
life in that space to mar it or make a noise.  Away down here fifty-five
degrees south of the Equator this sea seems to murmur in an unfamiliar
tongue--a foreign tongue--tongue bred among the ice-fields of the
Antarctic--a murmur with a note of melancholy in it proper to the vast
unvisited solitudes it has come from.  It was very delicious and solacing
to wake in the night and find it still pulsing there.  I wish you were
here--land, but it would be fine!

Livy and Clara enjoy this nomadic life pretty well; certainly better than
one could have expected they would.  They have tough experiences, in the
way of food and beds and frantic little ships, but they put up with the
worst that befalls with heroic endurance that resembles contentment.

No doubt I shall be on the platform next Monday.  A week later we shall
reach Wellington; talk there 3 nights, then sail back to Australia.  We
sailed for New Zealand October 30.

Day before yesterday was Livy's birthday (under world time), and tomorrow
will be mine.  I shall be 60--no thanks for it.

I and the others send worlds and worlds of love to all you dear ones.

                                   MARK.


     The article mentioned in the foregoing letter was one which Twichell
     had been engaged by Harper's Magazine to write concerning the home
     life and characteristics of Mark Twain.  By the time the Clemens
     party had completed their tour of India--a splendid, triumphant
     tour, too full of work and recreation for letter-writing--and had
     reached South Africa, the article had appeared, a satisfactory one,
     if we may judge by Mark Twain's next.

     This letter, however, has a special interest in the account it gives
     of Mark Twain's visit to the Jameson raiders, then imprisoned at
     Pretoria.


                  To Rev. Jos. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                   PRETORIA, SOUTH AFRICAN REPUBLIC,
                                        The Queen's Birthday, '96.
                                                       (May 24)
DEAR OLD JOE,--Harper for May was given to me yesterday in Johannesburg
by an American lady who lives there, and I read your article on me while
coming up in the train with her and an old friend and fellow-Missourian
of mine, Mrs. John Hays Hammond, the handsome and spirited wife of the
chief of the 4 Reformers, who lies in prison here under a 15-year
sentence, along with 50 minor Reformers who are in for 1 and 5-year
terms.  Thank you a thousand times Joe, you have praised me away above my
deserts, but I am not the man to quarrel with you for that; and as for
Livy, she will take your very hardiest statements at par, and be grateful
to you to the bottom of her heart.  Between you and Punch and Brander
Matthews, I am like to have my opinion of myself raised sufficiently
high; and I guess the children will be after you, for it is the study of
their lives to keep my self-appreciation down somewhere within bounds.

I had a note from Mrs. Rev. Gray (nee Tyler) yesterday, and called on her
to-day.  She is well.

Yesterday I was allowed to enter the prison with Mrs. Hammond.  A Boer
guard was at my elbow all the time, but was courteous and polite, only
he barred the way in the compound (quadrangle or big open court) and
wouldn't let me cross a white mark that was on the ground--the "death-
line" one of the prisoners called it.  Not in earnest, though, I think.
I found that I had met Hammond once when he was a Yale senior and a guest
of Gen. Franklin's.  I also found that I had known Capt. Mein intimately
32 years ago.  One of the English prisoners had heard me lecture in
London 23 years ago.  After being introduced in turn to all the
prisoners, I was allowed to see some of the cells and examine their food,
beds, etc.  I was told in Johannesburg that Hammond's salary of $150,000
a year is not stopped, and that the salaries of some of the others are
still continued.  Hammond was looking very well indeed, and I can say the
same of all the others.  When the trouble first fell upon them it hit
some of them very hard; several fell sick (Hammond among them), two or
three had to be removed to the hospital, and one of the favorites lost
his mind and killed himself, poor fellow, last week.  His funeral, with a
sorrowing following of 10,000, took the place of the public demonstration
the Americans were getting up for me.

These prisoners are strong men, prominent men, and I believe they are all
educated men.  They are well off; some of them are wealthy.  They have a
lot of books to read, they play games and smoke, and for awhile they will
be able to bear up in their captivity; but not for long, not for very
long, I take it.  I am told they have times of deadly brooding and
depression.  I made them a speech--sitting down.  It just happened so.
I don't prefer that attitude.  Still, it has one advantage--it is only a
talk, it doesn't take the form of a speech.  I have tried it once before
on this trip.  However, if a body wants to make sure of having "liberty,"
and feeling at home, he had better stand up, of course.  I advised them
at considerable length to stay where they were--they would get used to it
and like it presently; if they got out they would only get in again
somewhere else, by the look of their countenances; and I promised to go
and see the President and do what I could to get him to double their
jail-terms.

We had a very good sociable time till the permitted time was up and a
little over, and we outsiders had to go.  I went again to-day, but the
Rev. Mr. Gray had just arrived, and the warden, a genial, elderly Boer
named Du Plessis--explained that his orders wouldn't allow him to admit
saint and sinner at the same time, particularly on a Sunday.  Du Plessis
--descended from the Huguenot fugitives, you see, of 200 years ago--
but he hasn't any French left in him now--all Dutch.

It gravels me to think what a goose I was to make Livy and Clara remain
in Durban; but I wanted to save them the 30-hour railway trip to
Johannesburg.  And Durban and its climate and opulent foliage were so
lovely, and the friends there were so choice and so hearty that I
sacrificed myself in their interests, as I thought.  It is just the
beginning of winter, and although the days are hot, the nights are cool.
But it's lovely weather in these regions, too; and the friends are as
lovely as the weather, and Johannesburg and Pretoria are brimming with
interest.  I talk here twice more, then return to Johannesburg next
Wednesday for a fifth talk there; then to the Orange Free State capital,
then to some town on the way to Port Elizabeth, where the two will join
us by sea from Durban; then the gang will go to Kimberley and presently
to the Cape--and so, in the course of time, we shall get through and sail
for England; and then we will hunt up a quiet village and I will write
and Livy edit, for a few months, while Clara and Susy and Jean study
music and things in London.

We have had noble good times everywhere and every day, from Cleveland,
July 15, to Pretoria, May 24, and never a dull day either on sea or land,
notwithstanding the carbuncles and things.  Even when I was laid up 10
days at Jeypore in India we had the charmingest times with English
friends.  All over India the English well, you will never know how good
and fine they are till you see them.

Midnight and after! and I must do many things to-day, and lecture
tonight.

A world of thanks to you, Joe dear, and a world of love to all of you.

                                             MARK.


     Perhaps for readers of a later day a word as to what constituted the
     Jameson raid would not be out of place here.  Dr. Leander Starr
     Jameson was an English physician, located at Kimberley.  President
     Kruger (Oom Paul), head of the South African Republic, was one of
     his patients; also, Lobengula, the Matabele chief.  From Lobengula
     concessions were obtained which led to the formation of the South
     African Company.  Jameson gave up his profession and went in for
     conquest, associating himself with the projects of Cecil Rhodes.
     In time he became administrator of Rhodesia.  By the end of 1894.
     he was in high feather, and during a visit to England was feted as
     a sort of romantic conqueror of the olden time.  Perhaps this turned
     his head; at all events at the end of 1895 came the startling news
     that "Dr. Jim," as he was called, at the head of six hundred men,
     had ridden into the Transvaal in support of a Rhodes scheme for an
     uprising at Johannesburg.  The raid was a failure.  Jameson, and
     those other knights of adventure, were captured by the forces of
     "Oom Paul," and some of them barely escaped execution.  The Boer
     president handed them over to the English Government for punishment,
     and they received varying sentences, but all were eventually
     released.  Jameson, later, became again prominent in South-African
     politics, but there is no record of any further raids.

                        .........................

     The Clemens party sailed from South Africa the middle of July, 1896,
     and on the last day of the month reached England.  They had not
     planned to return to America, but to spend the winter in or near
     London in some quiet place where Clemens could write the book of his
     travels.

     The two daughters in America, Susy and Jean, were expected to arrive
     August 12th, but on that day there came, instead, a letter saying
     that Susy Clemens was not well enough to sail.  A cable inquiry was
     immediately sent, but the reply when it came was not satisfactory,
     and Mrs. Clemens and Clara sailed for America without further delay.
     This was on August 15th.  Three days later, in the old home at
     Hartford, Susy Clemens died of cerebral fever.  She had been
     visiting Mrs. Charles Dudley Warner, but by the physician's advice
     had been removed to the comfort and quiet of her own home, only a
     few steps away.

     Mark Twain, returning from his triumphant tour of the world in the
     hope that soon, now, he might be free from debt, with his family
     happily gathered about him, had to face alone this cruel blow.
     There was no purpose in his going to America; Susy would be buried
     long before his arrival.  He awaited in England the return of his
     broken family.  They lived that winter in a quiet corner of Chelsea,
     No. 23 Tedworth Square.


             To Rev. Joseph H.  Twichell, in Hartford, Conn.:

                                        Permanent address:
                                        % CHATTO & WINDUS
                                        111 T.  MARTIN'S LANE, LONDON,
                                                       Sept.  27, '96.
Through Livy and Katy I have learned, dear old Joe, how loyally you stood
poor Susy's friend, and mine, and Livy's: how you came all the way down,
twice, from your summer refuge on your merciful errands to bring the
peace and comfort of your beloved presence, first to that poor child, and
again to the broken heart of her poor desolate mother.  It was like you;
like your good great heart, like your matchless and unmatchable self.
It was no surprise to me to learn that you stayed by Susy long hours,
careless of fatigue and heat, it was no surprise to me to learn that you
could still the storms that swept her spirit when no other could; for she
loved you, revered you, trusted you, and "Uncle Joe" was no empty phrase
upon her lips!  I am grateful to you, Joe, grateful to the bottom of my
heart, which has always been filled with love for you, and respect and
admiration; and I would have chosen you out of all the world to take my
place at Susy's side and Livy's in those black hours.

Susy was a rare creature; the rarest that has been reared in Hartford in
this generation.  And Livy knew it, and you knew it, and Charley Warner
and George, and Harmony, and the Hillyers and the Dunhams and the
Cheneys, and Susy and Lilly, and the Bunces, and Henry Robinson and Dick
Burton, and perhaps others.  And I also was of the number, but not in the
same degree--for she was above my duller comprehension.  I merely knew
that she was my superior in fineness of mind, in the delicacy and
subtlety of her intellect, but to fully measure her I was not competent.
I know her better now; for I have read her private writings and sounded
the deeps of her mind; and I know better, now, the treasure that was mine
than I knew it when I had it.  But I have this consolation: that dull as
I was, I always knew enough to be proud when she commended me or my work
--as proud as if Livy had done it herself--and I took it as the accolade
from the hand of genius.  I see now--as Livy always saw--that she had
greatness in her; and that she herself was dimly conscious of it.

And now she is dead--and I can never tell her.

God bless you Joe--and all of your house.
                                             S. L. C.


               To Mr. Henry C.  Robinson, Hartford, Conn.:

                                             LONDON, Sept.  28, '96.
It is as you say, dear old friend, "the pathos of it" yes, it was a
piteous thing--as piteous a tragedy as any the year can furnish.  When we
started westward upon our long trip at half past ten at night, July 14,
1895, at Elmira, Susy stood on the platform in the blaze of the electric
light waving her good-byes to us as the train glided away, her mother
throwing back kisses and watching her through her tears.  One year, one
month, and one week later, Clara and her mother having exactly completed
the circuit of the globe, drew up at that platform at the same hour of
the night, in the same train and the same car--and again Susy had come a
journey and was near at hand to meet them.  She was waiting in the house
she was born in, in her coffin.

All the circumstances of this death were pathetic--my brain is worn to
rags rehearsing them.  The mere death would have been cruelty enough,
without overloading it and emphasizing it with that score of harsh and
wanton details.  The child was taken away when her mother was within
three days of her, and would have given three decades for sight of her.

In my despair and unassuageable misery I upbraid myself for ever parting
with her.  But there is no use in that.  Since it was to happen it would
have happened.
                         With love
                                        S. L. C.


     The life at Tedworth Square that winter was one of almost complete
     privacy.  Of the hundreds of friends which Mark Twain had in London
     scarcely half a dozen knew his address.  He worked steadily on his
     book of travels, 'Following the Equator', and wrote few letters
     beyond business communications to Mr. Rogers.  In one of these he
     said, "I am appalled!  Here I am trying to load you up with work
     again after you have been dray-horsing over the same tiresome ground
     for a year.  It's too bad, and I am ashamed of it."

     But late in November he sent a letter of a different sort--one that
     was to have an important bearing on the life of a girl today of
     unique and world-wide distinction.


                To Mrs. H.  H.  Rogers, in New York City:

For and in behalf of Helen Keller,
stone blind and deaf, and formerly dumb.

DEAR MRS. ROGERS,--Experience has convinced me that when one wishes to
set a hard-worked man at something which he mightn't prefer to be
bothered with, it is best to move upon him behind his wife.  If she can't
convince him it isn't worth while for other people to try.

Mr. Rogers will remember our visit with that astonishing girl at Lawrence
Hutton's house when she was fourteen years old.  Last July, in Boston,
when she was 16 she underwent the Harvard examination for admission to
Radcliffe College.  She passed without a single condition.  She was
allowed the same amount of time that is granted to other applicants, and
this was shortened in her case by the fact that the question papers had
to be read to her.  Yet she scored an average of 90 as against an average
of 78 on the part of the other applicants.

It won't do for America to allow this marvelous child to retire from her
studies because of poverty.  If she can go on with them she will make a
fame that will endure in history for centuries.  Along her special lines
she is the most extraordinary product of all the ages.

There is danger that she must retire from the struggle for a College
degree for lack of support for herself and for Miss Sullivan, (the
teacher who has been with her from the start--Mr. Rogers will remember
her.)  Mrs. Hutton writes to ask me to interest rich Englishmen in her
case, and I would gladly try, but my secluded life will not permit it.
I see nobody.  Nobody knows my address.  Nothing but the strictest hiding
can enable me to write my long book in time.

So I thought of this scheme: Beg you to lay siege to your husband and get
him to interest himself and Mess. John D. and William Rockefeller and the
other Standard Oil chiefs in Helen's case; get them to subscribe an
annual aggregate of six or seven hundred or a thousand dollars--and agree
to continue this for three or four years, until she has completed her
college course.  I'm not trying to limit their generosity--indeed no,
they may pile that Standard Oil, Helen Keller College Fund as high as
they please, they have my consent.

Mrs. Hutton's idea is to raise a permanent fund the interest upon which
shall support Helen and her teacher and put them out of the fear of want.
I shan't say a word against it, but she will find it a difficult and
disheartening job, and meanwhile what is to become of that miraculous
girl?

No, for immediate and sound effectiveness, the thing is for you to plead
with Mr. Rogers for this hampered wonder of your sex, and send him
clothed with plenary powers to plead with the other chiefs--they have
spent mountains of money upon the worthiest benevolences, and I think
that the same spirit which moved them to put their hands down through
their hearts into their pockets in those cases will answer "Here!" when
its name is called in this one.  638

There--I don't need to apologize to you or to H. H. for this appeal that
I am making; I know you too well for that.

Good-bye with love to all of you
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.

Laurence Hutton is on the staff of Harper's Monthly--close by, and handy
when wanted.


     The plea was not made in vain.  Mr. and Mrs. Rogers interested
     themselves most liberally in Helen Keller's fortune, and certainly
     no one can say that any of those who contributed to her success ever
     had reason for disappointment.

     In his letter of grateful acknowledgment, which follows, Clemens
     also takes occasion to thank Mr. Rogers for his further efforts in
     the matter of his own difficulties.  This particular reference
     concerns the publishing, complications which by this time had arisen
     between the American Publishing Company, of Hartford, and the house
     in Franklin Square.


                                             LONDON, Dec.  22, '96.
DEAR MRS. ROGERS,--It is superb!  And I am beyond measure grateful to you
both.  I knew you would be interested in that wonderful girl, and that
Mr. Rogers was already interested in her and touched by her; and I was
sure that if nobody else helped her you two would; but you have gone far
and away beyond the sum I expected--may your lines fall in pleasant
places here and Hereafter for it!

The Huttons are as glad and grateful as they can be, and I am glad for
their sakes as well as for Helen's.

I want to thank Mr. Rogers for crucifying himself again on the same old
cross between Bliss and Harper; and goodness knows I hope he will come to
enjoy it above all other dissipations yet, seeing that it has about it
the elements of stability and permanency.  However, at any time that he
says sign, we're going to do it.
                         Ever sincerely Yours
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.




XXXVI

LETTERS 1897.  LONDON, SWITZERLAND, VIENNA

Mark Twain worked steadily on his book that sad winter and managed to
keep the gloom out of his chapters, though it is noticeable that
'Following the Equator' is more serious than his other books of travel.
He wrote few letters, and these only to his three closest friends,
Howells, Twichell, and Rogers.  In the letter to Twichell, which follows,
there is mention of two unfinished manuscripts which he expects to
resume.  One of these was a dream story, enthusiastically begun, but
perhaps with insufficient plot to carry it through, for it never reached
conclusion.  He had already tried it in one or two forms and would begin
it again presently.  The identity of the other tale is uncertain.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             LONDON, Jan. 19, '97.
DEAR JOE,--Do I want you to write to me?  Indeed I do.  I do not want
most people to write, but I do want you to do it.  The others break my
heart, but you will not.  You have a something divine in you that is not
in other men.  You have the touch that heals, not lacerates.  And you
know the secret places of our hearts.  You know our life--the outside of
it--as the others do--and the inside of it--which they do not.  You have
seen our whole voyage.  You have seen us go to sea, a cloud of sail--and
the flag at the peak; and you see us now, chartless, adrift--derelicts;
battered, water-logged, our sails a ruck of rags, our pride gone.  For it
is gone.  And there is nothing in its place.  The vanity of life was all
we had, and there is no more vanity left in us.  We are even ashamed of
that we had; ashamed that we trusted the promises of life and builded
high--to come to this!

I did know that Susy was part of us; I did not know that she could go
away; I did not know that she could go away, and take our lives with her,
yet leave our dull bodies behind.  And I did not know what she was.  To
me she was but treasure in the bank; the amount known, the need to look
at it daily, handle it, weigh it, count it, realize it, not necessary;
and now that I would do it, it is too late; they tell me it is not there,
has vanished away in a night, the bank is broken, my fortune is gone, I
am a pauper.  How am I to comprehend this?  How am I to have it?  Why am
I robbed, and who is benefited?

Ah, well, Susy died at home.  She had that privilege.  Her dying eyes
rested upon nothing that was strange to them, but only upon things which
they had known and loved always and which had made her young years glad;
and she had you, and Sue, and Katy, and John, and Ellen.  This was happy
fortune--I am thankful that it was vouchsafed to her.  If she had died in
another house-well, I think I could not have borne that.  To us, our
house was not unsentient matter--it had a heart, and a soul, and eyes to
see us with; and approvals, and solicitudes, and deep sympathies; it was
of us, and we were in its confidence, and lived in its grace and in the
peace of its benediction.  We never came home from an absence that its
face did not light up and speak out its eloquent welcome--and we could
not enter it unmoved.  And could we now, oh, now, in spirit we should
enter it unshod.

I am trying to add to the "assets" which you estimate so generously.
No, I am not.  The thought is not in my mind.  My purpose is other.  I am
working, but it is for the sake of the work--the "surcease of sorrow"
that is found there.  I work all the days, and trouble vanishes away when
I use that magic.  This book will not long stand between it and me, now;
but that is no matter, I have many unwritten books to fly to for my
preservation; the interval between the finishing of this one and the
beginning of the next will not be more than an hour, at most.
Continuances, I mean; for two of them are already well along--in fact
have reached exactly the same stage in their journey: 19,000 words each.
The present one will contain 180,000 words--130,000 are done.  I am well
protected; but Livy!  She has nothing in the world to turn to; nothing
but housekeeping, and doing things for the children and me.  She does not
see people, and cannot; books have lost their interest for her.  She sits
solitary; and all the day, and all the days, wonders how it all happened,
and why.  We others were always busy with our affairs, but Susy was her
comrade--had to be driven from her loving persecutions--sometimes at 1 in
the morning.  To Livy the persecutions were welcome.  It was heaven to
her to be plagued like that.  But it is ended now.  Livy stands so in
need of help; and none among us all could help her like you.

Some day you and I will walk again, Joe, and talk.  I hope so.  We could
have such talks!  We are all grateful to you and Harmony--how grateful it
is not given to us to say in words.  We pay as we can, in love; and in
this coin practicing no economy.
                         Good bye, dear old Joe!
                                                  MARK.


     The letters to Mr. Rogers were, for the most part, on matters of
     business, but in one of them he said: "I am going to write with all
     my might on this book, and follow it up with others as fast as I can
     in the hope that within three years I can clear out the stuff that
     is in me waiting to be written, and that I shall then die in the
     promptest kind of a way and no fooling around."  And in one he
     wrote: "You are the best friend ever a man had, and the surest."


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York

                                                  LONDON, Feb. 23, '97.
DEAR HOWELLS,-I find your generous article in the Weekly, and I want to
thank you for its splendid praises, so daringly uttered and so warmly.
The words stir the dead heart of me, and throw a glow of color into a
life which sometimes seems to have grown wholly wan.  I don't mean that I
am miserable; no--worse than that--indifferent.  Indifferent to nearly
everything but work.  I like that; I enjoy it, and stick to it.  I do it
without purpose and without ambition; merely for the love of it.

This mood will pass, some day--there is history for it.  But it cannot
pass until my wife comes up out of the submergence.  She was always so
quick to recover herself before, but now there is no rebound, and we are
dead people who go through the motions of life.  Indeed I am a mud image,
and it will puzzle me to know what it is in me that writes, and has
comedy-fancies and finds pleasure in phrasing them.  It is a law of our
nature, of course, or it wouldn't happen; the thing in me forgets the
presence of the mud image and goes its own way, wholly unconscious of it
and apparently of no kinship with it.  I have finished my book, but I go
on as if the end were indefinitely away--as indeed it is.  There is no
hurry--at any rate there is no limit.

Jean's spirits are good; Clara's are rising.  They have youth--the only
thing that was worth giving to the race.

These are sardonic times.  Look at Greece, and that whole shabby muddle.
But I am not sorry to be alive and privileged to look on.  If I were not
a hermit I would go to the House every day and see those people scuffle
over it and blether about the brotherhood of the human race.  This has
been a bitter year for English pride, and I don't like to see England
humbled--that is, not too much.  We are sprung from her loins, and it
hurts me.  I am for republics, and she is the only comrade we've got, in
that.  We can't count France, and there is hardly enough of Switzerland
to count.  Beneath the governing crust England is sound-hearted--and
sincere, too, and nearly straight.  But I am appalled to notice that the
wide extension of the surface has damaged her manners, and made her
rather Americanly uncourteous on the lower levels.

Won't you give our love to the Howellses all and particular?
                         Sincerely yours
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     The travel-book did not finish easily, and more than once when he
     thought it completed he found it necessary to cut and add and
     change.  The final chapters were not sent to the printer until the
     middle of May, and in a letter to Mr. Rogers he commented: "A
     successful book is not made of what is in it, but what is left out
     of it."  Clemens was at the time contemplating a uniform edition of
     his books, and in one of his letters to Mr. Rogers on the matter he
     wrote, whimsically, "Now I was proposing to make a thousand sets at
     a hundred dollars a set, and do the whole canvassing myself.....  I
     would load up every important jail and saloon in America with de
     luxe editions of my books.  But Mrs. Clemens and the children object
     to this, I do not know why."  And, in a moment of depression: "You
     see the lightning refuses to strike me--there is where the defect
     is.  We have to do our own striking as Barney Barnato did.  But
     nobody ever gets the courage until he goes crazy."

     They went to Switzerland for the summer to the village of Weggis, on
     Lake Lucerne--"The charmingest place we ever lived in," he declared,
     "for repose, and restfulness, and superb scenery."  It was here that
     he began work on a new story of Tom and Huck, and at least upon one
     other manuscript.  From a brief note to Mr. Rogers we learn
     something of his employments and economies.


                    To Henry H.  Rogers, in New York:

                         LUCERNE, August the something or other, 1897.
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--I am writing a novel, and am getting along very well
with it.

I believe that this place (Weggis, half an hour from Lucerne,) is the
loveliest in the world, and the most satisfactory.  We have a small house
on the hillside all to ourselves, and our meals are served in it from the
inn below on the lake shore.  Six francs a day per head, house and food
included.  The scenery is beyond comparison beautiful.  We have a row
boat and some bicycles, and good roads, and no visitors.  Nobody knows we
are here.  And Sunday in heaven is noisy compared to this quietness.
                         Sincerely yours
                                        S. L. C.


                  To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                                  LUCERNE, Aug. 22, '97.
DEAR JOE,--Livy made a noble find on the Lucerne boat the other day on
one of her shopping trips--George Williamson Smith--did I tell you about
it?  We had a lovely time with him, and such intellectual refreshment as
we had not tasted in many a month.

And the other night we had a detachment of the jubilee Singers--6.  I had
known one of them in London 24 years ago.  Three of the 6 were born in
slavery, the others were children of slaves.  How charming they were--in
spirit, manner, language, pronunciation, enunciation, grammar, phrasing,
matter, carriage, clothes--in every detail that goes to make the real
lady and gentleman, and welcome guest.  We went down to the village hotel
and bought our tickets and entered the beer-hall, where a crowd of German
and Swiss men and women sat grouped at round tables with their beer mugs
in front of them--self-contained and unimpressionable looking people, an
indifferent and unposted and disheartened audience--and up at the far end
of the room sat the Jubilees in a row.  The Singers got up and stood--the
talking and glass jingling went on.  Then rose and swelled out above
those common earthly sounds one of those rich chords the secret of whose
make only the Jubilees possess, and a spell fell upon that house.  It was
fine to see the faces light up with the pleased wonder and surprise of
it.  No one was indifferent any more; and when the singers finished, the
camp was theirs.  It was a triumph.  It reminded me of Launcelot riding
in Sir Kay's armor and astonishing complacent Knights who thought they
had struck a soft thing.  The Jubilees sang a lot of pieces.  Arduous and
painstaking cultivation has not diminished or artificialized their music,
but on the contrary--to my surprise--has mightily reinforced its
eloquence and beauty.  Away back in the beginning--to my mind--their
music made all other vocal music cheap; and that early notion is
emphasized now.  It is utterly beautiful, to me; and it moves me
infinitely more than any other music can.  I think that in the Jubilees
and their songs America has produced the perfectest flower of the ages;
and I wish it were a foreign product, so that she would worship it and
lavish money on it and go properly crazy over it.

Now, these countries are different: they would do all that, if it were
native.  It is true they praise God, but that is merely a formality, and
nothing in it; they open out their whole hearts to no foreigner.

The musical critics of the German press praise the Jubilees with great
enthusiasm--acquired technique etc, included.

One of the jubilee men is a son of General Joe Johnson, and was educated
by him after the war.  The party came up to the house and we had a
pleasant time.

This is paradise, here--but of course we have got to leave it by and by.
The 18th of August--[Anniversary of Susy Clemens's death.]--has come and
gone, Joe--and we still seem to live.
                         With love from us all.
                                                  MARK.


     Clemens declared he would as soon spend his life in Weggis "as
     anywhere else in the geography," but October found them in Vienna
     for the winter, at the Hotel Metropole.  The Austrian capital was
     just then in a political turmoil, the character of which is hinted
     in the following:


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             HOTEL METROPOLE,
                                                  VIENNA, Oct. 23, '97.
DEAR JOE,--We are gradually getting settled down and wonted.  Vienna is
not a cheap place to live in, but I have made one small arrangement
which: has a distinctly economical aspect.  The Vice Consul made the
contract for me yesterday-to-wit: a barber is to come every morning 8.30
and shave me and keep my hair trimmed for $2.50 a month.  I used to pay
$1.50 per shave in our house in Hartford.

Does it suggest to you reflections when you reflect that this is the most
important event which has happened to me in ten days--unless I count--in
my handing a cabman over to the police day before yesterday, with the
proper formalities, and promised to appear in court when his case comes
up.

If I had time to run around and talk, I would do it; for there is much
politics agoing, and it would be interesting if a body could get the hang
of it.  It is Christian and Jew by the horns--the advantage with the
superior man, as usual--the superior man being the Jew every time and in
all countries.  Land, Joe, what chance would the Christian have in a
country where there were 3 Jews to 10 Christians!  Oh, not the shade of a
shadow of a chance.  The difference between the brain of the average
Christian and that of the average Jew--certainly in Europe--is about the
difference between a tadpole's and an Archbishop's.  It's a marvelous,
race--by long odds the most marvelous that the world has produced, I
suppose.

And there's more politics--the clash between Czech and Austrian.  I wish
I could understand these quarrels, but of course I can't.

With the abounding love of us all
                                        MARK.


     In Following the Equator there was used an amusing picture showing
     Mark Twain on his trip around the world.  It was a trick photograph
     made from a picture of Mark Twain taken in a steamer-chair, cut out
     and combined with a dilapidated negro-cart drawn by a horse and an
     ox.  In it Clemens appears to be sitting luxuriously in the end of
     the disreputable cart.  His companions are two negroes.  To the
     creator of this ingenious effect Mark Twain sent a characteristic
     acknowledgment.


                             To T. S. Frisbie

                                                  VIENNA, Oct. 25, '97.
MR. T. S. FRISBIE,--Dear Sir:  The picture has reached me, and has moved
me deeply.  That was a steady, sympathetic and honorable team, and
although it was not swift, and not showy, it pulled me around the globe
successfully, and always attracted its proper share of attention, even in
the midst of the most costly and fashionable turnouts.  Princes and dukes
and other experts were always enthused by the harness and could hardly
keep from trying to buy it.  The barouche does not look as fine, now, as
it did earlier-but that was before the earthquake.

The portraits of myself and uncle and nephew are very good indeed, and
your impressionist reproduction of the palace of the Governor General of
India is accurate and full of tender feeling.

I consider that this picture is much more than a work of art.  How much
more, one cannot say with exactness, but I should think two-thirds more.

                    Very truly yours
                                   MARK TWAIN.


     Following the Equator was issued by subscription through Mark
     Twain's old publishers, the Blisses, of Hartford.  The sale of it
     was large, not only on account of the value of the book itself, but
     also because of the sympathy of the American people with Mark
     Twain's brave struggle to pay his debts.  When the newspapers began
     to print exaggerated stories of the vast profits that were piling
     up, Bliss became worried, for he thought it would modify the
     sympathy.  He cabled Clemens for a denial, with the following
     result:


                     To Frank E.  Bliss, in Hartford:

                                             VIENNA, Nov. 4, 1897.
DEAR BLISS,--Your cablegram informing me that a report is in circulation
which purports to come from me and which says I have recently made
$82,000 and paid all my debts has just reached me, and I have cabled
back my regret to you that it is not true.  I wrote a letter--a private
letter--a short time ago, in which I expressed the belief that I should
be out of debt within the next twelvemonth.  If you make as much as usual
for me out of the book, that belief will crystallize into a fact, and I
shall be wholly out of debt.  I am encoring you now.

It is out of that moderate letter that the Eighty-Two Thousand-Dollar
mare's nest has developed.  But why do you worry about the various
reports?  They do not worry me.  They are not unfriendly, and I don't see
how they can do any harm.  Be patient; you have but a little while to
wait; the possible reports are nearly all in.  It has been reported that
I was seriously ill--it was another man; dying--it was another man; dead
--the other man again.  It has been reported that I have received a
legacy it was another man; that I am out of debt--it was another man; and
now comes this $82,000--still another man.  It has been reported that I
am writing books--for publication; I am not doing anything of the kind.
It would surprise (and gratify) me if I should be able to get another
book ready for the press within the next three years.  You can see,
yourself, that there isn't anything more to be reported--invention is
exhausted.  Therefore, don't worry, Bliss--the long night is breaking.
As far as I can see, nothing remains to be reported, except that I have
become a foreigner.  When you hear it, don't you believe it.  And don't
take the trouble to deny it.  Merely just raise the American flag on our
house in Hartford, and let it talk.
                                   Truly yours,
                                             MARK TWAIN.

P. S.  This is not a private letter.  I am getting tired of private
letters.


                  To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             VIENNA
                                        HOTEL METROPOLE, NOV. 19, '97.
DEAR JOE,--Above is our private (and permanent) address for the winter.
You needn't send letters by London.

I am very much obliged for Forrest's Austro-Hungarian articles.  I have
just finished reading the first one: and in it I find that his opinion
and Vienna's are the same, upon a point which was puzzling me--the
paucity (no, the absence) of Austrian Celebrities.  He and Vienna both
say the country cannot afford to allow great names to grow up; that the
whole safety and prosperity of the Empire depends upon keeping things
quiet; can't afford to have geniuses springing up and developing ideas
and stirring the public soul.  I am assured that every time a man finds
himself blooming into fame, they just softly snake him down and relegate
him to a wholesome obscurity.  It is curious and interesting.

Three days ago the New York World sent and asked a friend of mine
(correspondent of a London daily) to get some Christmas greetings from
the celebrities of the Empire.  She spoke of this.  Two or three bright
Austrians were present.  They said "There are none who are known all over
the world! none who have achieved fame; none who can point to their work
and say it is known far and wide in the earth: there are no names;
Kossuth (known because he had a father) and Lecher, who made the 12 hour
speech; two names-nothing more.  Every other country in the world,
perhaps, has a giant or two whose heads are away up and can be seen, but
ours.  We've got the material--have always had it--but we have to
suppress it; we can't afford to let it develop; our political salvation
depends upon tranquillity--always has."

Poor Livy!  She is laid up with rheumatism; but she is getting along now.
We have a good doctor, and he says she will be out of bed in a couple of
days, but must stay in the house a week or ten.

Clara is working faithfully at her music, Jean at her usual studies, and
we all send love.
                              MARK.


     Mention has already been made of the political excitement in Vienna.
     The trouble between the Hungarian and German legislative bodies
     presently became violent.  Clemens found himself intensely
     interested, and was present in one of the galleries when it was
     cleared by the police.  All sorts of stories were circulated as to
     what happened to him, one of which was cabled to America.  A letter
     to Twichell sets forth what really happened.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                                  HOTEL METROPOLE,
                                                  VIENNA, Dec. 10, '97.
DEAR JOE,--Pond sends me a Cleveland paper with a cablegram from here in
it which says that when the police invaded the parliament and expelled
the 11 members I waved my handkerchief and shouted 'Hoch die Deutschen!'
and got hustled out.  Oh dear, what a pity it is that one's adventures
never happen!  When the Ordner (sergeant-at-arms) came up to our gallery
and was hurrying the people out, a friend tried to get leave for me to
stay, by saying, "But this gentleman is a foreigner--you don't need to
turn him out--he won't do any harm."

"Oh, I know him very well--I recognize him by his pictures; and I should
be very glad to let him stay, but I haven't any choice, because of the
strictness of the orders."

And so we all went out, and no one was hustled.  Below, I ran across the
London Times correspondent, and he showed me the way into the first
gallery and I lost none of the show.  The first gallery had not
misbehaved, and was not disturbed.

.  .  .  We cannot persuade Livy to go out in society yet, but all the
lovely people come to see her; and Clara and I go to dinner parties, and
around here and there, and we all have a most hospitable good time.
Jean's woodcarving flourishes, and her other studies.

Good-bye Joe--and we all love all of you.
                                             MARK.


     Clemens made an article of the Austrian troubles, one of the best
     things he ever wrote, and certainly one of the clearest elucidations
     of the Austro-Hungarian confusions.  It was published in Harper's
     Magazine, and is now included in his complete works.

     Thus far none of the Webster Company debts had been paid--at least,
     none of importance.  The money had been accumulating in Mr. Rogers's
     hands, but Clemens was beginning to be depressed by the heavy
     burden.  He wrote asking for relief.


              Part of a letter to H. H. Rogers, in New York:

DEAR MR. ROGERS,--I throw up the sponge.  I pull down the flag.  Let us
begin on the debts.  I cannot bear the weight any longer.  It totally
unfits me for work.  I have lost three entire months now.  In that time I
have begun twenty magazine articles and books--and flung every one of
them aside in turn.  The debts interfered every time, and took the spirit
out of any work.  And yet I have worked like a bond slave and wasted no
time and spared no effort----

Rogers wrote, proposing a plan for beginning immediately upon the debts.
Clemens replied enthusiastically, and during the next few weeks wrote
every few days, expressing his delight in liquidation.


          Extracts from letters to H.  H.  Rogers, in New York:

.  .  .  We all delighted with your plan.  Only don't leave B--out.
Apparently that claim has been inherited by some women--daughters, no
doubt.  We don't want to see them lose any thing.  B----- is an ass, and
disgruntled, but I don't care for that.  I am responsible for the money
and must do the best I can to pay it.....  I am writing hard--writing for
the creditors.


                                                            Dec.  29.
Land we are glad to see those debts diminishing.  For the first time in
my life I am getting more pleasure out of paying money out than pulling
it in.


                                                            Jan.  2.
Since we have begun to pay off the debts I have abundant peace of mind
again--no sense of burden.  Work is become a pleasure again--it is not
labor any longer.


                                                            March 7.
Mrs. Clemens has been reading the creditors' letters over and over again
and thanks you deeply for sending them, and says it is the only really
happy day she has had since Susy died.




XXXVII

LETTERS, 1898, TO HOWELLS AND TWICHELL.  LIFE IN VIENNA.  PAYMENT OF THE
DEBTS.  ASSASSINATION OF THE EMPRESS

The end of January saw the payment of the last of Mark Twain's debts.
Once more he stood free before the world--a world that sounded his
praises.  The latter fact rather amused him.  "Honest men must be pretty
scarce," he said, "when they make so much fuss over even a defective
specimen."  When the end was in sight Clemens wrote the news to Howells
in a letter as full of sadness as of triumph.


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York:

                                        HOTEL METROPOLE,
                                             VIENNA, Jan. 22, '98.
DEAR HOWELLS,--Look at those ghastly figures.  I used to write it
"Hartford, 1871."  There was no Susy then--there is no Susy now.  And how
much lies between--one long lovely stretch of scented fields, and
meadows, and shady woodlands, and suddenly Sahara!  You speak of the
glorious days of that old time--and they were.  It is my quarrel--that
traps like that are set.  Susy and Winnie given us, in miserable sport,
and then taken away.

About the last time I saw you I described to you the culminating disaster
in a book I was going to write (and will yet, when the stroke is further
away)--a man's dead daughter brought to him when he had been through all
other possible misfortunes--and I said it couldn't be done as it ought to
be done except by a man who had lived it--it must be written with the
blood out of a man's heart.  I couldn't know, then, how soon I was to be
made competent.  I have thought of it many a time since.  If you were
here I think we could cry down each other's necks, as in your dream.
For we are a pair of old derelicts drifting around, now, with some of our
passengers gone and the sunniness of the others in eclipse.

I couldn't get along without work now.  I bury myself in it up to the
ears.  Long hours--8 and 9 on a stretch, sometimes.  And all the days,
Sundays included.  It isn't all for print, by any means, for much of it
fails to suit me; 50,000 words of it in the past year.  It was because of
the deadness which invaded me when Susy died.  But I have made a change
lately--into dramatic work--and I find it absorbingly entertaining.
I don't know that I can write a play that will play: but no matter, I'll
write half a dozen that won't, anyway.  Dear me, I didn't know there was
such fun in it.  I'll write twenty that won't play.  I get into immense
spirits as soon as my day is fairly started.  Of course a good deal of
this friskiness comes of my being in sight of land--on the Webster & Co.
debts, I mean.  (Private.) We've lived close to the bone and saved every
cent we could, and there's no undisputed claim, now, that we can't cash.
I have marked this "private" because it is for the friends who are
attending to the matter for us in New York to reveal it when they want to
and if they want to.  There are only two claims which I dispute and which
I mean to look into personally before I pay them.  But they are small.
Both together they amount to only $12,500.  I hope you will never get the
like of the load saddled onto you that was saddled onto me 3 years ago.
And yet there is such a solid pleasure in paying the things that I reckon
maybe it is worth while to get into that kind of a hobble, after all.
Mrs. Clemens gets millions of delight out of it; and the children have
never uttered one complaint about the scrimping, from the beginning.

We all send you and all of you our love.
                                             MARK.


     Howells wrote: "I wish you could understand how unshaken you are,
     you old tower, in every way; your foundations are struck so deep
     that you will catch the sunshine of immortal years, and bask in the
     same light as Cervantes and Shakespeare."

     The Clemens apartments at the Metropole became a sort of social
     clearing-house of the Viennese art and literary life, much more like
     an embassy than the home of a mere literary man.  Celebrities in
     every walk of life, persons of social and official rank, writers for
     the press, assembled there on terms hardly possible in any other
     home in Vienna.  Wherever Mark Twain appeared in public he was a
     central figure.  Now and then he read or spoke to aid some benefit,
     and these were great gatherings attended by members of the royal
     family.  It was following one such event that the next letter was
     written.


(Private)
                  To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             HOTEL METROPOLE,
                                                  VIENNA, Feb. 3, '98.
DEAR JOE, There's that letter that I began so long ago--you see how
it is: can't get time to finish anything.  I pile up lots of work,
nevertheless.  There may be idle people in the world, but I'm not one of
them.  I say "Private" up there because I've got an adventure to tell,
and you mustn't let a breath of it get out.  First I thought I would lay
it up along with a thousand others that I've laid up for the same
purpose--to talk to you about, but--those others have vanished out of my
memory; and that must not happen with this.

The other night I lectured for a Vienna charity; and at the end of it
Livy and I were introduced to a princess who is aunt to the heir apparent
of the imperial throne--a beautiful lady, with a beautiful spirit, and
very cordial in her praises of my books and thanks to me for writing
them; and glad to meet me face to face and shake me by the hand--just the
kind of princess that adorns a fairy tale and makes it the prettiest tale
there is.

Very well, we long ago found that when you are noticed by supremacies,
the correct etiquette is to go, within a couple of days, and pay your
respects in the quite simple form of writing your name in the Visitors'
Book kept in the office of the establishment.  That is the end of it, and
everything is squared up and ship-shape.

So at noon today Livy and I drove to the Archducal palace, and got by the
sentries all right, and asked the grandly-uniformed porter for the book
and said we wished to write our names in it.  And he called a servant in
livery and was sending us up stairs; and said her Royal Highness was out
but would soon be in.  Of course Livy said "No--no--we only want the
book;" but he was firm, and said, "You are Americans?"

"Yes."

"Then you are expected, please go up stairs."

"But indeed we are not expected--please let us have the book and--"

"Her Royal Highness will be back in a very little while--she commanded me
to tell you so--and you must wait."

Well, the soldiers were there close by--there was no use trying to
resist--so we followed the servant up; but when he tried to beguile us
into a drawing-room, Livy drew the line; she wouldn't go in.  And she
wouldn't stay up there, either.  She said the princess might come in at
any moment and catch us, and it would be too infernally ridiculous for
anything.  So we went down stairs again--to my unspeakable regret.  For
it was too darling a comedy to spoil.  I was hoping and praying the
princess would come, and catch us up there, and that those other
Americans who were expected would arrive, and be taken for impostors by
the portier, and shot by the sentinels--and then it would all go into the
papers, and be cabled all over the world, and make an immense stir and be
perfectly lovely.  And by that time the princess would discover that we
were not the right ones, and the Minister of War would be ordered out,
and the garrison, and they would come for us, and there would be another
prodigious time, and that would get cabled too, and--well, Joe, I was in
a state of perfect bliss.  But happily, oh, so happily, that big portier
wouldn't let us out--he was sorry, but he must obey orders--we must go
back up stairs and wait.  Poor Livy--I couldn't help but enjoy her
distress.  She said we were in a fix, and how were we going to explain,
if the princess should arrive before the rightful Americans came?  We
went up stairs again--laid off our wraps, and were conducted through one
drawing room and into another, and left alone there and the door closed
upon us.

Livy was in a state of mind!  She said it was too theatrically
ridiculous; and that I would never be able to keep my mouth shut; that I
would be sure to let it out and it would get into the papers--and she
tried to make me promise--"Promise what?" I said--"to be quiet about
this?  Indeed I won't--it's the best thing that ever happened; I'll tell
it, and add to it; and I wish Joe and Howells were here to make it
perfect; I can't make all the rightful blunders myself--it takes all
three of us to do justice to an opportunity like this.  I would just like
to see Howells get down to his work and explain, and lie, and work his
futile and inventionless subterfuges when that princess comes raging in
here and wanting to know."  But Livy could not hear fun--it was not a
time to be trying to be funny--we were in a most miserable and shameful
situation, and if--

Just then the door spread wide and our princess and 4 more, and 3 little
princes flowed in!  Our princess, and her sister the Archduchess Marie
Therese (mother to the imperial Heir and to the young girl Archduchesses
present, and aunt to the 3 little princes)--and we shook hands all around
and sat down and had a most sociable good time for half an hour--and by
and by it turned out that we were the right ones, and had been sent for
by a messenger who started too late to catch us at the hotel.  We were
invited for 2 o'clock, but we beat that arrangement by an hour and a
half.

Wasn't it a rattling good comedy situation?  Seems a kind of pity we were
the right ones.  It would have been such nuts to see the right ones come,
and get fired out, and we chatting along comfortably and nobody
suspecting us for impostors.

We send lots and lots of love.
                                   MARK.


     The reader who has followed these pages has seen how prone Mark
     Twain was to fall a victim to the lure of a patent-right--how he
     wasted several small fortunes on profitless contrivances, and one
     large one on that insatiable demon of intricacy and despair, the
     Paige type-setter.  It seems incredible that, after that experience
     and its attending disaster, he should have been tempted again.  But
     scarcely was the ink dry on the receipts from his creditors when he
     was once more borne into the clouds on the prospect of millions,
     perhaps even billions, to be made from a marvelous carpet-pattern
     machine, the invention of Sczezepanik, an Austrian genius.  That
     Clemens appreciated his own tendencies is shown by the parenthetic
     line with which he opens his letter on the subject to Mr. Rogers.
     Certainly no man was ever a more perfect prototype of Colonel
     Sellers than the creator of that lovely, irrepressible visionary.


                       To Mr. Rogers, in New York:

                                                       March 24, '98.
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--(I feel like Col. Sellers).

Mr. Kleinberg [agent for Sczezepanik] came according to appointment, at
8.30 last night, and brought his English-speaking Secretary.  I asked
questions about the auxiliary invention (which I call "No. 2 ") and got
as good an idea of it as I could.  It is a machine.  It automatically
punches the holes in the jacquard cards, and does it with mathematical
accuracy.  It will do for $1 what now costs $3.  So it has value, but
"No. 2" is the great thing(the designing invention.) It saves $9 out of
$10 and the jacquard looms must have it.

Then I arrived at my new project, and said to him in substance, this:

"You are on the point of selling the No. 2 patents to Belgium, Italy,
etc.  I suggest that you stop those negotiations and put those people off
two or three months.  They are anxious now, they will not be less anxious
then--just the reverse; people always want a thing that is denied them.

"So far as I know, no great world-patent has ever yet been placed in the
grip of a single corporation.  This is a good time to begin.

"We have to do a good deal of guess-work here, because we cannot get hold
of just the statistics we want.  Still, we have some good statistics--and
I will use those for a test.

"You say that of the 1500 Austrian textile factories, 800 use the
jacquard.  Then we will guess that of the 4,000 American factories 2,000
use the jacquard and must have our No. 2.

"You say that a middle-sized Austrian factory employs from 20 to 30
designers and pays them from 800 to 3,000 odd florins a year--(a florin
is 2 francs).  Let us call the average wage 1500 florins ($600).

"Let us apply these figures (the low wages too) to the 2,000 American
factories--with this difference, to guard against over-guessing; that
instead of allowing for 20 to 30 designers to a middle-sized factory, we
allow only an average of 10 to each of the 2,000 factories--a total of
20,000 designers.  Wages at $600, a total of $12,000,000.  Let us
consider that No. 2 will reduce this expense to $2,000,000 a year.  The
saving is $5,000,000 per each of the $200,000,000 of capital employed in
the jacquard business over there.

"Let us consider that in the countries covered by this patent, an
aggregate of $1,500,000,000 of capital is employed in factories requiring
No. 2.

"The saving (as above) is $75,000,000 a year.  The Company holding in its
grip all these patents would collar $50,000,000 of that, as its share.
Possibly more.

"Competition would be at an end in the Jacquard business, on this planet.
Price-cutting would end.  Fluctuations in values would cease.  The
business would be the safest and surest in the world; commercial panics
could not seriously affect it; its stock would be as choice an investment
as Government bonds.  When the patents died the Company would be so
powerful that it could still keep the whole business in its hands.  Would
you like to grant me the privilege of placing the whole jacquard business
of the world in the grip of a single Company?  And don't you think that
the business would grow-grow like a weed?"

"Ach, America--it is the country of the big!  Let me get my breath--then
we will talk."

So then we talked--talked till pretty late.  Would Germany and England
join the combination?  I said the Company would know how to persuade
them.

Then I asked for a Supplementary Option, to cover the world, and we
parted.

I am taking all precautions to keep my name out of print in connection
with this matter.  And we will now keep the invention itself out of print
as well as we can.  Descriptions of it have been granted to the "Dry
Goods Economist" (New York) and to a syndicate of American papers.  I
have asked Mr. Kleinberg to suppress these, and he feels pretty sure he
can do it.
               With love,
                              S. L. C.


     If this splendid enthusiasm had not cooled by the time a reply came
     from Mr. Rogers, it must have received a sudden chill from the
     letter which he inclosed--the brief and concise report from a
     carpet-machine expert, who said: "I do not feel that it would be of
     any value to us in our mills, and the number of jacquard looms in
     America is so limited that I am of the opinion that there is no
     field for a company to develop the invention here.  A cursory
     examination of the pamphlet leads me to place no very high value
     upon the invention, from a practical standpoint."

     With the receipt of this letter carpet-pattern projects would seem
     to have suddenly ceased to be a factor in Mark Twain's calculations.
     Such a letter in the early days of the type-machine would have saved
     him a great sum in money and years of disappointment.  But perhaps
     he would not have heeded it then.

     The year 1898 brought the Spanish-American War.  Clemens was
     constitutionally against all wars, but writing to Twichell, whose
     son had enlisted, we gather that this one was an exception.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                        KALTENLEUTGEBEN, NEAR VIENNA,
                                                       June 17, '98.
DEAR JOE,--You are living your war-days over again in Dave, and it must
be a strong pleasure, mixed with a sauce of apprehension--enough to make
it just schmeck, as the Germans say.  Dave will come out with two or
three stars on his shoulder-straps if the war holds, and then we shall
all be glad it happened.

We started with Bull Run, before.  Dewey and Hobson have introduced an
improvement on the game this time.

I have never enjoyed a war-even in written history--as I am enjoying this
one.  For this is the worthiest one that was ever fought, so far as my
knowledge goes.  It is a worthy thing to fight for one's freedom; it is
another sight finer to fight for another man's.  And I think this is the
first time it has been done.

Oh, never mind Charley Warner, he would interrupt the raising of Lazarus.
He would say, the will has been probated, the property distributed, it
will be a world of trouble to settle the rows--better leave well enough
alone; don't ever disturb anything, where it's going to break the soft
smooth flow of things and wobble our tranquillity.

Company!  (Sh! it happens every day--and we came out here to be quiet.)

Love to you all.
                         MARK.


     They were spending the summer at Kaltenleutgeben, a pleasant village
     near Vienna, but apparently not entirely quiet.  Many friends came
     out from Vienna, including a number of visiting Americans.  Clemens,
     however, appears to have had considerable time for writing, as we
     gather from the next to Howells.


                      To W. D. Howells, in America:

                                        KALTENLEUTGEBEN, BEI WIEN,
                                                       Aug. 16, '98.
DEAR HOWELLS,--Your letter came yesterday.  It then occurred to me that I
might have known (per mental telegraph) that it was due; for a couple of
weeks ago when the Weekly came containing that handsome reference to me I
was powerfully moved to write you; and my letter went on writing itself
while I was at work at my other literature during the day.  But next day
my other literature was still urgent--and so on and so on; so my letter
didn't get put into ink at all.  But I see now, that you were writing,
about that time, therefore a part of my stir could have come across the
Atlantic per mental telegraph.  In 1876 or '75 I wrote 40,000 words of a
story called "Simon Wheeler" wherein the nub was the preventing of an
execution through testimony furnished by mental telegraph from the other
side of the globe.  I had a lot of people scattered about the globe who
carried in their pockets something like the old mesmerizer-button, made
of different metals, and when they wanted to call up each other and have
a talk, they "pressed the button" or did something, I don't remember
what, and communication was at once opened.  I didn't finish the story,
though I re-began it in several new ways, and spent altogether 70,000
words on it, then gave it up and threw it aside.

This much as preliminary to this remark: some day people will be able to
call each other up from any part of the world and talk by mental
telegraph--and not merely by impression, the impression will be
articulated into words.  It could be a terrible thing, but it won't be,
because in the upper civilizations everything like sentimentality (I was
going to say sentiment) will presently get materialized out of people
along with the already fading spiritualities; and so when a man is called
who doesn't wish to talk he will be like those visitors you mention: "not
chosen"--and will be frankly damned and shut off.

Speaking of the ill luck of starting a piece of literary work wrong-and
again and again; always aware that there is a way, if you could only
think it out, which would make the thing slide effortless from the pen-
the one right way, the sole form for you, the other forms being for men
whose line those forms are, or who are capabler than yourself: I've had
no end of experience in that (and maybe I am the only one--let us hope
so.) Last summer I started 16 things wrong--3 books and 13 mag.
articles--and could only make 2 little wee things, 1500 words altogether,
succeed:--only that out of piles and stacks of diligently-wrought MS.,
the labor of 6 weeks' unremitting effort.  I could make all of those
things go if I would take the trouble to re-begin each one half a dozen
times on a new plan.  But none of them was important enough except one:
the story I (in the wrong form) mapped out in Paris three or four years
ago and told you about in New York under seal of confidence--no other
person knows of it but Mrs. Clemens--the story to be called "Which was
the Dream?"

A week ago I examined the MS--10,000 words--and saw that the plan was a
totally impossible one-for me; but a new plan suggested itself, and
straightway the tale began to slide from the pen with ease and
confidence.  I think I've struck the right one this time.  I have already
put 12,000 words of it on paper and Mrs. Clemens is pretty outspokenly
satisfied with it-a hard critic to content.  I feel sure that all of the
first half of the story--and I hope three-fourths--will be comedy; but by
the former plan the whole of it (except the first 3 chapters) would have
been tragedy and unendurable, almost.  I think I can carry the reader a
long way before he suspects that I am laying a tragedy-trap.  In the
present form I could spin 16 books out of it with comfort and joy; but I
shall deny myself and restrict it to one.  (If you should see a little
short story in a magazine in the autumn called "My Platonic Sweetheart"
written 3 weeks ago) that is not this one.  It may have been a
suggester, though.

I expect all these singular privacies to interest you, and you are not to
let on that they don't.

We are leaving, this afternoon, for Ischl, to use that as a base for the
baggage, and then gad around ten days among the lakes and mountains to
rest-up Mrs. Clemens, who is jaded with housekeeping.  I hope I can get a
chance to work a little in spots--I can't tell.  But you do it--therefore
why should you think I can't?

                           [Remainder missing.]


     The dream story was never completed.  It was the same that he had
     worked on in London, and perhaps again in Switzerland.  It would be
     tried at other times and in other forms, but it never seemed to
     accommodate itself to a central idea, so that the good writing in it
     eventually went to waste.  The short story mentioned, "My Platonic
     Sweetheart," a charming, idyllic tale, was not published during Mark
     Twain's lifetime.  Two years after his death it appeared in Harper's
     Magazine.

     The assassination of the Empress of Austria at Geneva was the
     startling event of that summer.  In a letter to Twichell Clemens
     presents the tragedy in a few vivid paragraphs.  Later he treated it
     at some length in a magazine article which, very likely because of
     personal relations with members of the Austrian court, he withheld
     from print.  It has since been included in a volume of essays, What
     Is Man, etc.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                        KALTENLEUTGEBEN, Sep.  13, '98.
DEAR JOE,--You are mistaken; people don't send us the magazines.  No--
Harper, Century and McClure do; an example I should like to recommend to
other publishers.  And so I thank you very much for sending me Brander's
article.  When you say "I like Brander Matthews; he impresses me as a man
of parts and power," I back you, right up to the hub--I feel the same
way--.  And when you say he has earned your gratitude for cuffing me for
my crimes against the Leather stockings and the Vicar, I ain't making any
objection.  Dern your gratitude!

His article is as sound as a nut.  Brander knows literature, and loves
it; he can talk about it and keep his temper; he can state his case so
lucidly and so fairly and so forcibly that you have to agree with him,
even when you don't agree with him; and he can discover and praise such
merits as a book has, even when they are half a dozen diamonds scattered
through an acre of mud.  And so he has a right to be a critic.

To detail just the opposite of the above invoice is to describe me.  I
haven't any right to criticise books, and I don't do it except when I
hate them.  I often want to criticise Jane Austen, but her books madden
me so that I can't conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I
have to stop every time I begin.

That good and unoffending lady the Empress is killed by a mad-man, and I
am living in the midst of world-history again.  The Queen's jubilee last
year, the invasion of the Reichsrath by the police, and now this murder,
which will still be talked of and described and painted a thousand years
from now.  To have a personal friend of the wearer of the crown burst in
at the gate in the deep dusk of the evening and say in a voice broken
with tears, "My God the Empress is murdered," and fly toward her home
before we can utter a question-why, it brings the giant event home to
you, makes you a part of it and personally interested; it is as if your
neighbor Antony should come flying and say "Caesar is butchered--the head
of the world is fallen!"

Of course there is no talk but of this.  The mourning is universal and
genuine, the consternation is stupefying.  The Austrian Empire is being
draped with black.  Vienna will be a spectacle to see, by next Saturday,
when the funeral cortege marches.  We are invited to occupy a room in the
sumptuous new hotel (the "Krantz" where we are to live during the Fall
and Winter) and view it, and we shall go.

Speaking of Mrs. Leiter, there is a noble dame in Vienna, about whom they
retail similar slanders.  She said in French--she is weak in French--that
she had been spending a Sunday afternoon in a gathering of the
"demimonde."  Meaning the unknown land, that mercantile land, that
mysterious half-world which underlies the aristocracy.  But these
Malaproperies are always inventions--they don't happen.

Yes, I wish we could have some talks; I'm full to the eye-lids.  Had a
noble good one with Parker and Dunham--land, but we were grateful for
that visit!
               Yours with all our loves.
                                        MARK.

                      [Inclosed with the foregoing.]

Among the inadequate attempts to account for the assassination we must
concede high rank to the German Emperor's.  He justly describes it as a
"deed unparalleled for ruthlessness," and then adds that it was "ordained
from above."

I think this verdict will not be popular "above."  A man is either a free
agent or he isn't.  If a man is a free agent, this prisoner is
responsible for what he has done; but if a man is not a free agent, if
the deed was ordained from above, there is no rational way of making this
prisoner even partially responsible for it, and the German court cannot
condemn him without manifestly committing a crime.  Logic is logic; and
by disregarding its laws even Emperors as capable and acute as William II
can be beguiled into making charges which should not be ventured upon
except in the shelter of plenty of lightning-rods.
                                                       MARK.


     The end of the year 1898 found Mark Twain once more in easy, even
     luxurious, circumstances.  The hard work and good fortune which had
     enabled him to pay his debts had, in the course of another year,
     provided what was comparative affluence: His report to Howells is
     characteristic and interesting.


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York:

                                   HOTEL KRANTZ, WIEN, L.  NEVER MARKT 6
                                                       Dec.  30, '98.
DEAR HOWELLS,--I begin with a date--including all the details--though I
shall be interrupted presently by a South-African acquaintance who is
passing through, and it may be many days before I catch another leisure
moment.  Note how suddenly a thing can become habit, and how
indestructible the habit is, afterward!  In your house in Cambridge a
hundred years ago, Mrs. Howells said to me, "Here is a bunch of your
letters, and the dates are of no value, because you don't put any in--
the years, anyway."  That remark diseased me with a habit which has cost
me worlds of time and torture and ink, and millions of vain efforts and
buckets of tears to break it, and here it is yet--I could easier get rid
of a virtue.....

I hope it will interest you (for I have no one else who would much care
to know it) that here lately the dread of leaving the children in
difficult circumstances has died down and disappeared and I am now having
peace from that long, long nightmare, and can sleep as well as anyone.
Every little while, for these three years, now, Mrs. Clemens has come
with pencil and paper and figured up the condition of things (she keeps
the accounts and the bank-book) and has proven to me that the clouds were
lifting, and so has hoisted my spirits temporarily and kept me going till
another figuring-up was necessary.  Last night she figured up for her own
satisfaction, not mine, and found that we own a house and furniture in
Hartford; that my English and American copyrights pay an income which
represents a value of $200,000; and that we have $107,000 cash in the
bank.  I have been out and bought a box of 6-cent cigars; I was smoking
4 1/2 centers before.

At the house of an English friend, on Christmas Eve, we saw the Mouse-
Trap played and well played.  I thought the house would kill itself with
laughter.  By George they played with life!  and it was most
devastatingly funny.  And it was well they did, for they put us Clemenses
in the front seat, and if they played it poorly I would have assaulted
them.  The head young man and girl were Americans, the other parts were
taken by English, Irish and Scotch girls.  Then there was a nigger-
minstrel show, of the genuine old sort, and I enjoyed that, too, for the
nigger-show was always a passion of mine.  This one was created and
managed by a Quaker doctor from Philada., (23 years old) and he was the
middle man.  There were 9 others--5 Americans from 5 States and a
Scotchman, 2 Englishmen and an Irishman--all post-graduate-medical young
fellows, of course--or, it could be music; but it would be bound to be
one or the other.

It's quite true--I don't read you "as much as I ought," nor anywhere near
half as much as I want to; still I read you all I get a chance to.
I saved up your last story to read when the numbers should be complete,
but before that time arrived some other admirer of yours carried off the
papers.  I will watch admirers of yours when the Silver Wedding journey
begins, and that will not happen again.  The last chance at a bound book
of yours was in London nearly two years ago--the last volume of your
short things, by the Harpers.  I read the whole book twice through and
some of the chapters several times, and the reason that that was as far
as I got with it was that I lent it to another admirer of yours and he is
admiring it yet.  Your admirers have ways of their own; I don't know
where they get them.

Yes, our project is to go home next autumn if we find we can afford to
live in New York.  We've asked a friend to inquire about flats and
expenses.  But perhaps nothing will come of it.  We do afford to live in
the finest hotel in Vienna, and have 4  bedrooms, a dining-room, a
drawing-room, 3 bath-rooms and 3 Vorzimmers, (and food) but we couldn't
get the half of it in New York for the same money ($600 a month).


Susy hovers about us this holiday week, and the shadows fall all about us
of

               "The days when we went gipsying
               A long time ago."

Death is so kind, so benignant, to whom he loves; but he goes by us
others and will not look our way.  We saw the "Master of Palmyra" last
night.  How Death, with the gentleness and majesty, made the human grand-
folk around him seem little and trivial and silly!

With love from all of us to all of you.
                                             MARK.




XXXVIII

LETTERS, 1899, TO HOWELLS AND OTHERS.  VIENNA.  LONDON.  A SUMMER IN
SWEDEN

The beginning of 1899 found the Clemens family still in Vienna, occupying
handsome apartments at the Hotel Krantz.  Their rooms, so often thronged
with gay and distinguished people, were sometimes called the "Second
Embassy."  Clemens himself was the central figure of these assemblies.
Of all the foreign visitors in the Austrian capital he was the most
notable.  Everywhere he was surrounded by a crowd of listeners--his
sayings and opinions were widely quoted.

A project for world disarmament promulgated by the Czar of Russia would
naturally interest Mark Twain, and when William T. Stead, of the Review
of Reviews, cabled him for an opinion on the matter, he sent at first a
brief word and on the same day followed it with more extended comment.
The great war which has since devastated the world gives to this incident
an added interest.


                       To Wm. T. Stead, in London:

No.  1.
                                                       VIENNA, Jan.  9.
DEAR MR.  STEAD,-The Czar is ready to disarm: I am ready to disarm.
Collect the others, it should not be much of a task now.
                                        MARK TWAIN.


To Wm.  T.  Stead, in London:

No.  2.
DEAR MR. STEAD,--Peace by compulsion.  That seems a better idea than the
other.  Peace by persuasion has a pleasant sound, but I think we should
not be able to work it.  We should have to tame the human race first, and
history seems to show that that cannot be done.  Can't we reduce the
armaments little by little--on a pro rata basis--by concert of the
powers?  Can't we get four great powers to agree to reduce their strength
10 per cent a year and thrash the others into doing likewise?  For, of
course, we cannot expect all of the powers to be in their right minds at
one time.  It has been tried.  We are not going to try to get all of them
to go into the scheme peaceably, are we?  In that case I must withdraw my
influence; because, for business reasons, I must preserve the outward
signs of sanity.  Four is enough if they can be securely harnessed
together.  They can compel peace, and peace without compulsion would be
against nature and not operative.  A sliding scale of reduction of 10 per
cent a year has a sort of plausible look, and I am willing to try that if
three other powers will join.  I feel sure that the armaments are now
many times greater than necessary for the requirements of either peace or
war.  Take wartime for instance.  Suppose circumstances made it necessary
for us to fight another Waterloo, and that it would do what it did
before--settle a large question and bring peace.  I will guess that
400,000 men were on hand at Waterloo (I have forgotten the figures).
In five hours they disabled 50,000 men.  It took them that tedious, long
time because the firearms delivered only two or three shots a minute.
But we would do the work now as it was done at Omdurman, with shower
guns, raining 600 balls a minute.  Four men to a gun--is that the number?
A hundred and fifty shots a minute per man.  Thus a modern soldier is 149
Waterloo soldiers in one.  Thus, also, we can now retain one man out of
each 150 in service, disband the others, and fight our Waterloos just as
effectively as we did eighty-five years ago.  We should do the same
beneficent job with 2,800 men now that we did with 400,000 then.  The
allies could take 1,400 of the men, and give Napoleon 1,400 and then whip
him.

But instead what do we see?  In war-time in Germany, Russia and France,
taken together we find about 8 million men equipped for the field.  Each
man represents 149 Waterloo men, in usefulness and killing capacity.
Altogether they constitute about 350 million Waterloo men, and there are
not quite that many grown males of the human race now on this planet.
Thus we have this insane fact--that whereas those three countries could
arm 18,000 men with modern weapons and make them the equals of 3 million
men of Napoleon's day, and accomplish with them all necessary war work,
they waste their money and their prosperity creating forces of their
populations in piling together 349,982,000 extra Waterloo equivalents
which they would have no sort of use for if they would only stop drinking
and sit down and cipher a little.

Perpetual peace we cannot have on any terms, I suppose; but I hope we can
gradually reduce the war strength of Europe till we get it down to where
it ought to be--20,000 men, properly armed.  Then we can have all the
peace that is worth while, and when we want a war anybody can afford it.


                                                  VIENNA, January 9.
P. S.--In the article I sent the figures are wrong--"350 million" ought
to be 450 million; "349,982,000" ought to be 449,982,000, and the remark
about the sum being a little more than the present number of males on the
planet--that is wrong, of course; it represents really one and a half the
existing males.


     Now and then one of Mark Twain's old comrades still reached out to
     him across the years.  He always welcomed such letters--they came as
     from a lost land of romance, recalled always with tenderness.  He
     sent light, chaffing replies, but they were never without an
     undercurrent of affection.


              To Major "Jack" Downing, in Middleport, Ohio:

                              HOTEL KRANTZ, WEIN, I, NEUER MART 6,
                                                  Feb.  26, 1899.
DEAR MAJOR,--No: it was to Bixby that I was apprenticed.  He was to teach
me the river for a certain specified sum.  I have forgotten what it was,
but I paid it.  I steered a trip for Bart Bowen, of Keokuk, on the A. T.
Lacy, and I was partner with Will Bowen on the A. B. Chambers (one trip),
and with Sam Bowen a whole summer on a small Memphis packet.

The newspaper report you sent me is incorrect.  Bixby is not 67: he is
97.  I am 63 myself, and I couldn't talk plain and had just begun to walk
when I apprenticed myself to Bixby who was then passing himself off for
57 and successfully too, for he always looked 60 or 70 years younger than
he really was.  At that time he was piloting the Mississippi on a Potomac
commission granted him by George Washington who was a personal friend of
his before the Revolution.  He has piloted every important river in
America, on that commission, he has also used it as a passport in Russia.
I have never revealed these facts before.  I notice, too, that you are
deceiving the people concerning your age.  The printed portrait which you
have enclosed is not a portrait of you, but a portrait of me when I was
19.  I remember very well when it was common for people to mistake Bixby
for your grandson.  Is it spreading, I wonder--this disposition of pilots
to renew their youth by doubtful methods?  Beck Jolly and Joe Bryan--they
probably go to Sunday school now--but it will not deceive.

Yes, it is as you say.  All of the procession but a fraction has passed.
It is time for us all to fall in.
                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York:

                                   HOTEL KRANTZ, WIEN I.  NEUER MARKT 6
                                                  April 2, '99.
DEAR HOWELLS,--I am waiting for the April Harper, which is about due now;
waiting, and strongly interested.  You are old enough to be a weary man,
with paling interests, but you do not show it.  You do your work in the
same old delicate and delicious and forceful and searching and perfect
way.  I don't know how you can--but I suspect.  I suspect that to you
there is still dignity in human life, and that Man is not a joke--a poor
joke--the poorest that was ever contrived.  Since I wrote my Bible, (last
year)--["What Is Man."]--which Mrs. Clemens loathes, and shudders over,
and will not listen to the last half nor allow me to print any part of
it, Man is not to me the respect-worthy person he was before; and so I
have lost my pride in him, and can't write gaily nor praisefully about
him any more.  And I don't intend to try.  I mean to go on writing, for
that is my best amusement, but I shan't print much.  (for I don't wish to
be scalped, any more than another.)

April 5.  The Harper has come.  I have been in Leipzig with your party,
and then went on to Karlsbad and saw Mrs. Marsh's encounter with the
swine with the toothpick and the other manners--["Their Silver Wedding
Journey."]--At this point Jean carried the magazine away.

Is it imagination, or--Anyway I seem to get furtive and fleeting glimpses
which I take to be the weariness and condolence of age; indifference to
sights and things once brisk with interest; tasteless stale stuff which
used to be champagne; the boredom of travel: the secret sigh behind the
public smile, the private What-in-hell-did-I-come-for!

But maybe that is your art.  Maybe that is what you intend the reader to
detect and think he has made a Columbus-discovery.  Then it is well done,
perfectly done.  I wrote my last travel book--[Following the Equator.]--
in hell; but I let on, the best I could, that it was an excursion through
heaven.  Some day I will read it, and if its lying cheerfulness fools me,
then I shall believe it fooled the reader.  How I did loathe that journey
around the world!--except the sea-part and India.

Evening.  My tail hangs low.  I thought I was a financier--and I bragged
to you.  I am not bragging, now.  The stock which I sold at such a fine
profit early in January, has never ceased to advance, and is now worth
$60,000 more than I sold it for.  I feel just as if I had been spending
$20,000 a month, and I feel reproached for this showy and unbecoming
extravagance.

Last week I was going down with the family to Budapest to lecture, and to
make a speech at a banquet.  Just as I was leaving here I got a telegram
from London asking for the speech for a New York paper.  I (this is
strictly private) sent it.  And then I didn't make that speech, but
another of a quite different character--a speech born of something
which the introducer said.  If that said speech got cabled and printed,
you needn't let on that it was never uttered.

That was a darling night, and those Hungarians were lively people.  We
were there a week and had a great time.  At the banquet I heard their
chief orator make a most graceful and easy and beautiful and delicious
speech--I never heard one that enchanted me more--although I did not
understand a word of it, since it was in Hungarian.  But the art of it!-
it was superlative.

They are wonderful English scholars, these people; my lecture audience--
all Hungarians--understood me perfectly--to judge by the effects.  The
English clergyman told me that in his congregation are 150 young English
women who earn their living teaching their language; and that there are.
others besides these.

For 60 cents a week the telephone reads the morning news to you at home;
gives you the stocks and markets at noon; gives you lessons in 3 foreign
languages during 3 hours; gives you the afternoon telegrams; and at night
the concerts and operas.  Of course even the clerks and seamstresses and
bootblacks and everybody else are subscribers.

(Correction.  Mrs. Clemens says it is 60 cents a month.)

I am renewing my youth.  I made 4 speeches at one banquet here last
Saturday night.  And I've been to a lot of football matches.

Jean has been in here examining the poll for the Immortals ("Literature,"
March 24,) in the hope, I think, that at last she should find me at the
top and you in second place; and if that is her ambition she has suffered
disappointment for the third time--and will never fare any better, I
hope, for you are where you belong, by every right.  She wanted to know
who it is that does the voting, but I was not able to tell her.  Nor when
the election will be completed and decided.

Next Morning.  I have been reading the morning paper.  I do it every
morning--well knowing that I shall find in it the usual depravities and
basenesses and hypocrisies and cruelties that make up civilization, and
cause me to put in the rest of the day pleading for the damnation of the
human race.  I cannot seem to get my prayers answered, yet I do not
despair.

(Escaped from) 5 o'clock tea.  ('sh!) Oh, the American girl in Europe!
Often she is creditable, but sometimes she is just shocking.  This one,
a minute ago--19, fat-face, raspy voice, pert ways, the self-complacency
of God; and with it all a silly laugh (embarrassed) which kept breaking
out through her chatter all along, whereas there was no call for it, for
she said nothing that was funny.  "Spose so many 've told y' how they
'njoyed y'r chapt'r on the Germ' tongue it's bringin' coals to Newcastle
Kehe!  say anything 'bout it Ke-hehe!  Spent m' vacation 'n Russia, 'n
saw Tolstoi; he said--" It made me shudder.

April 12.  Jean has been in here with a copy of Literature, complaining
that I am again behind you in the election of the 10 consecrated members;
and seems troubled about it and not quite able to understand it.  But I
have explained to her that you are right there on the ground, inside the
pool-booth, keeping game--and that that makes a large difference in these
things.

13th.  I have been to the Knustausstellung with Mrs. Clemens.  The office
of art seems to be to grovel in the dirt before Emperors and this and
that and the other damned breed of priests.
                                   Yrs ever
                                             MARK.


     Howells and Clemens were corresponding regularly again, though not
     with the frequency of former years.  Perhaps neither of them was
     bubbling over with things to say; perhaps it was becoming yearly
     less attractive to pick up a pen and write, and then, of course,
     there was always the discouragement of distance.  Once Howells
     wrote: "I know this will find you in Austria before I can well turn
     round, but I must make believe you are in Kennebunkport before I can
     begin it."  And in another letter: "It ought to be as pleasant to
     sit down and write to you as to sit down and talk to you, but it
     isn't.....  The only reason why I write is that I want another
     letter from you, and because I have a whole afternoon for the job.
     I have the whole of every afternoon, for I cannot work later than
     lunch.  I am fagged by that time, and Sunday is the only day that
     brings unbearable leisure.  I hope you will be in New York another
     winter; then I shall know what to do with these foretastes of
     eternity."

     Clemens usually wrote at considerable length, for he had a good deal
     to report of his life in the Austrian capital, now drawing to a
     close.


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York:

                                                       May 12, 1899.
DEAR HOWELLS,--7.15 p.  m.  Tea (for Mr. and Mrs. Tower, who are leaving
for Russia) just over; nice people and rather creditable to the human
race: Mr. and Mrs. Tower; the new Minister and his wife; the Secretary of
Legation; the Naval (and Military) Attach; several English ladies; an
Irish lady; a Scotch lady; a particularly nice young Austrian baron who
wasn't invited but came and went supposing it was the usual thing and
wondered at the unusually large gathering; two other Austrians and
several Americans who were also in his fix; the old Baronin Langeman,
the only Austrian invited; the rest were Americans.  It made just a
comfortable crowd in our parlor, with an overflow into Clara's through
the folding doors.  I don't enjoy teas, and am daily spared them by Mrs.
Clemens, but this was a pleasant one.  I had only one accident.  The old
Baronin Langeman is a person I have a strong fondness for, for we
violently disagree on some subjects and as violently agree on others--
for instance, she is temperance and I am not: she has religious beliefs
and feelings and I have none; (she's a Methodist!) she is a democrat and
so am I; she is woman's rights and so am I; she is laborers' rights and
approves trades unions and strikes, and that is me.  And so on.  After
she was gone an English lady whom I greatly like, began to talk sharply
against her for contributing money, time, labor, and public expression of
favor to a strike that is on (for an 11-hour day) in the silk factories
of Bohemia--and she caught me unprepared and betrayed me into over-warm
argument.  I am sorry: for she didn't know anything about the subject,
and I did; and one should be gentle with the ignorant, for they are the
chosen of God.

(The new Minister is a good man, but out of place.  The Sec. of Legation
is a good man, but out of place.  The Attache is a good man, but out of
place.  Our government for displacement beats the new White Star ship;
and her possible is 17,200 tons.)

May 13, 4 p. m.  A beautiful English girl and her handsome English
husband came up and spent the evening, and she certainly is a bird.
English parents--she was born and reared in Roumania and couldn't talk
English till she was 8 or 10.  She came up clothed like the sunset, and
was a delight to look at.  (Roumanian costume.).....

Twenty-four young people have gone out to the Semmering to-day (and to-
morrow) and Mrs. Clemens and an English lady and old Leschetitzky and his
wife have gone to chaperon them.  They gave me a chance to go, but there
are no snow mountains that I want to look at.  Three hours out, three
hours back, and sit up all night watching the young people dance; yelling
conversationally and being yelled at, conversationally, by new
acquaintances, through the deafening music, about how I like Vienna, and
if it's my first visit, and how long we expect to stay, and did I see the
foot-washing, and am I writing a book about Vienna, and so on.  The terms
seemed too severe.  Snow mountains are too dear at the price ....

For several years I have been intending to stop writing for print as soon
as I could afford it.  At last I can afford it, and have put the pot-
boiler pen away.  What I have been wanting is a chance to write a book
without reserves--a book which should take account of no one's feelings,
and no one's prejudices, opinions, beliefs, hopes, illusions, delusions;
a book which should say my say, right out of my heart, in the plainest
language and without a limitation of any sort.  I judged that that would
be an unimaginable luxury, heaven on earth.

It is under way, now, and it is a luxury! an intellectual drunk: Twice I
didn't start it right; and got pretty far in, both times, before I found
it out.  But I am sure it is started right this time.  It is in tale-
form.  I believe I can make it tell what I think of Man, and how he is
constructed, and what a shabby poor ridiculous thing he is, and how
mistaken he is in his estimate of his character and powers and qualities
and his place among the animals.

So far, I think I am succeeding.  I let the madam into the secret day
before yesterday, and locked the doors and read to her the opening
chapters.  She said--

"It is perfectly horrible--and perfectly beautiful!"

"Within the due limits of modesty, that is what I think."

I hope it will take me a year or two to write it, and that it will turn
out to be the right vessel to contain all the abuse I am planning to dump
into it.
                         Yours ever
                                        MARK.


     The story mentioned in the foregoing, in which Mark Twain was to
     give his opinion of man, was The Mysterious Stranger.  It was not
     finished at the time, and its closing chapter was not found until
     after his death.  Six years later (1916) it was published serially
     in Harper's Magazine, and in book form.

     The end of May found the Clemens party in London, where they were
     received and entertained with all the hospitality they had known in
     earlier years.  Clemens was too busy for letter-writing, but in the
     midst of things he took time to report to Howells an amusing
     incident of one of their entertainments.


                      To W. D. Howells, in America:

                                                  LONDON, July 3, '99
DEAR HOWELLS,--..... I've a lot of things to write you, but it's no use--
I can't get time for anything these days.  I must break off and write a
postscript to Canon Wilberforce before I go to bed.  This afternoon he
left a luncheon-party half an hour ahead of the rest, and carried off my
hat (which has Mark Twain in a big hand written in it.) When the rest of
us came out there was but one hat that would go on my head--it fitted
exactly, too.  So wore it away.  It had no name in it, but the Canon was
the only man who was absent.  I wrote him a note at 8 p.m.; saying that
for four hours I had not been able to take anything that did not belong
to me, nor stretch a fact beyond the frontiers of truth, and my family
were getting alarmed.  Could he explain my trouble?  And now at 8.30 p.m.
comes a note from him to say that all the afternoon he has been
exhibiting a wonder-compelling mental vivacity and grace of expression,
etc., etc., and have I missed a hat?  Our letters have crossed.
                              Yours ever
                                             MARK.


     News came of the death of Robert Ingersoll.  Clemens had been always
     one of his most ardent admirers, and a warm personal friend.  To
     Ingersoll's niece he sent a word of heartfelt sympathy.


                    To Miss Eva Farrell, in New York:

                                   30 WELLINGTON COURT, ALBERT GATE.
DEAR MISS FARRELL,--Except my daughter's, I have not grieved for any
death as I have grieved for his.  His was a great and beautiful spirit,
he was a man--all man from his crown to his foot soles.  My reverence for
him was deep and genuine; I prized his affection for me and returned it
with usury.
                    Sincerely Yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     Clemens and family decided to spend the summer in Sweden, at Sauna,
     in order to avail themselves of osteopathic treatment as practised
     by Heinrick Kellgren.  Kellgren's method, known as the "Swedish
     movements," seemed to Mark Twain a wonderful cure for all ailments,
     and he heralded the discovery far and wide.  He wrote to friends far
     and near advising them to try Kellgren for anything they might
     happen to have.  Whatever its beginning, any letter was likely to
     close with some mention of the new panacea.


               To Rev. J. H. Twichell, traveling in Europe:

                                             SANNA, Sept. 6, '99.
DEAR JOE,--I've no business in here--I ought to be outside.  I shall
never see another sunset to begin with it this side of heaven.  Venice?
land, what a poor interest that is!  This is the place to be.  I have
seen about 60 sunsets here; and a good 40 of them were clear and away
beyond anything I had ever imagined before for dainty and exquisite and
marvellous beauty and infinite change and variety.  America?  Italy?  The
tropics?  They have no notion of what a sunset ought to be.  And this
one--this unspeakable wonder!  It discounts all the rest.  It brings the
tears, it is so unutterably beautiful.

If I had time, I would say a word about this curative system here.  The
people actually do several of the great things the Christian Scientists
pretend to do.  You wish to advise with a physician about it?  Certainly.
There is no objection.  He knows next to something about his own trade,
but that will not embarrass him in framing a verdict about this one.
I respect your superstitions--we all have them.  It would be quite
natural for the cautious Chinaman to ask his native priest to instruct
him as to the value of the new religious specialty which the Western
missionary is trying to put on the market, before investing in it.  (He
would get a verdict.)
                         Love to you all!
                                   Always Yours
                                                  MARK.

     Howells wrote that he was going on a reading-tour-dreading it, of
     course-and asking for any advice that Clemens felt qualified to
     give.  Naturally, Clemens gave him the latest he had in stock,
     without realizing, perhaps, that he was recommending an individual
     practice which few would be likely to imitate.  Nevertheless, what
     he says is interesting.


                      To W. D. Howells, in America:

                                        SANNA, SWEDEN, Sept. 26, '99.
DEAR HOWELLS,--Get your lecture by heart--it will pay you.  I learned a
trick in Vienna--by accident--which I wish I had learned years ago.  I
meant to read from a Tauchnitz, because I knew I hadn't well memorized
the pieces; and I came on with the book and read a few sentences, then
remembered that the sketch needed a few words of explanatory
introduction; and so, lowering the book and now and then unconsciously
using it to gesture with, I talked the introduction, and it happened to
carry me into the sketch itself, and then I went on, pretending that I
was merely talking extraneous matter and would come to the sketch
presently.  It was a beautiful success.  I knew the substance of the
sketch and the telling phrases of it; and so, the throwing of the rest of
it into informal talk as I went along limbered it up and gave it the snap
and go and freshness of an impromptu.  I was to read several pieces, and
I played the same game with all of them, and always the audience thought
I was being reminded of outside things and throwing them in, and was
going to hold up the book and begin on the sketch presently--and so I
always got through the sketch before they were entirely sure that it had
begun.  I did the same thing in Budapest and had the same good time over
again.  It's a new dodge, and the best one that was ever invented.  Try
it.  You'll never lose your audience--not even for a moment.  Their
attention is fixed, and never wavers.  And that is not the case where one
reads from book or MS., or where he stands up without a note and frankly
exposes the fact, by his confident manner and smooth phrasing, that he is
not improvising, but reciting from memory.  And in the heat of telling a
thing that is memorised in substance only, one flashes out the happiest
suddenly-begotten phrases every now and then!  Try it.  Such a phrase has
a life and sparkle about it that twice as good a one could not exhibit if
prepared beforehand, and it "fetches" an audience in such an enthusing
and inspiring and uplifting way that that lucky phrase breeds another
one, sure.

Your September instalment--["Their Silver Wedding journey."]--was
delicious--every word of it.  You haven't lost any of your splendid art.
Callers have arrived.
                              With love
                                        MARK.


     "Yes," wrote Howells, "if I were a great histrionic artist like you
     I would get my poor essays by heart, and recite them, but being what
     I am I should do the thing so lifelessly that I had better recognise
     their deadness frankly and read them."

     From Vienna Clemens had contributed to the Cosmopolitan, then owned
     by John Brisben Walker, his first article on Christian Science.  It
     was a delicious bit of humor and found such enthusiastic
     appreciation that Walker was moved to send an additional $200 check
     in payment for it.  This brought prompt acknowledgment.


               To John Brisben Walker, in Irvington, N. Y.:

                                             LONDON, Oct. 19, '99
DEAR MR. WALKER,--By gracious but you have a talent for making a man feel
proud and good!  To say a compliment well is a high art--and few possess
it.  You know how to do it, and when you confirm its sincerity with a
handsome cheque the limit is reached and compliment can no higher go.
I like to work for you: when you don't approve an article you say so,
recognizing that I am not a child and can stand it; and when you approve
an article I don't have to dicker with you as if I raised peanuts and you
kept a stand; I know I shall get every penny the article is worth.

You have given me very great pleasure, and I thank you for it.
                         Sincerely Yours
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     On the same day he sent word to Howells of the good luck which now
     seemed to be coming his way.  The Joan of Arc introduction was the
     same that today appears in his collected works under the title of
     Saint Joan of Arc.


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York:

                                             LONDON, Oct.  19, '99.
DEAR HOWELLS,--My, it's a lucky day!--of the sort when it never rains but
it pours.  I was to write an introduction to a nobler book--the English
translation of the Official Record (unabridged) of the Trials and
Rehabilitation of Joan of Arc, and make a lot of footnotes.  I wrote the
introduction in Sweden, and here a few days ago I tore loose from a tale
I am writing, and took the MS book and went at the grind of note-making
--a fearful job for a man not used to it.  This morning brought a note
from my excellent friend Murray, a rich Englishman who edits the
translation, saying, "Never mind the notes--we'll make the translators do
them."  That was comfort and joy.

The same mail brought a note from Canon Wilberforce, asking me to talk
Joan of Arc in his drawing-room to the Dukes and Earls and M. P.'s--
(which would fetch me out of my seclusion and into print, and I couldn't
have that,) and so of course I must run down to the Abbey and explain--
and lose an hour.  Just then came Murray and said "Leave that to me
--I'll go and do the explaining and put the thing off 3 months; you write
a note and tell him I am coming."

(Which I did, later.)  Wilberforce carried off my hat from a lunch party
last summer, and in to-day's note he said he wouldn't steal my new hat
this time.  In my note I said I couldn't make the drawing-room talk, now
--Murray would explain; and added a P. S.: "You mustn't think it is
because I am afraid to trust my hat in your reach again, for I assure you
upon honor it isn't.  I should bring my old one."

I had suggested to Murray a fortnight ago, that he get some big guns to
write introductory monographs for the book.

Miss X, Joan's Voices and Prophecies.

The Lord Chief Justice of England, the legal prodigies which she
performed before her judges.

Lord Roberts, her military genius.

Kipling, her patriotism.

And so on.  When he came this morning he said he had captured Miss X;
that Lord Roberts and Kipling were going to take hold and see if they
could do monographs worthy of the book.  He hadn't run the others to
cover yet, but was on their track.  Very good news.  It is a grand book,
and is entitled to the best efforts of the best people.  As for me, I
took pains with my Introduction, and I admit that it is no slouch of a
performance.

Then I came down to Chatto's, and found your all too beautiful letter,
and was lifted higher than ever.  Next came letters from America properly
glorifying my Christian Science article in the Cosmopolitan (and one
roundly abusing it,) and a letter from John Brisben Walker enclosing $200
additional pay for the article (he had already paid enough, but I didn't
mention that--which wasn't right of me, for this is the second time he
has done such a thing, whereas Gilder has done it only once and no one
else ever.) I make no prices with Walker and Gilder--I can trust them.

And last of all came a letter from M-.  How I do wish that man was in
hell.  Even-the briefest line from that idiot puts me in a rage.

But on the whole it has been a delightful day, and with M----in hell it
would have been perfect.  But that will happen, and I can wait.

Ah, if I could look into the inside of people as you do, and put it on
paper, and invent things for them to do and say, and tell how they said
it, I could writs a fine and readable book now, for I've got a prime
subject.  I've written 30,000 words of it and satisfied myself that the
stuff is there; so I am going to discard that MS and begin all over again
and have a good time with it.

Oh, I know how you feel!  I've been in hell myself.  You are there
tonight.  By difference in time you are at luncheon, now--and not eating
it.  Nothing is so lonesome as gadding around platforming.  I have
declined 45 lectures to-day-England and Scotland.  I wanted the money,
but not the torture: Good luck to you!--and repentance.
                         With love to all of you
                                             MARK.





LETTERS OF 1900, MAINLY TO TWICHELL.  THE BOER WAR.  BOXER TROUBLES.
THE RETURN TO AMERICA

The New Year found Clemens still in London, chiefly interested in
osteopathy and characteristically glorifying the practice at the expense
of other healing methods.


                  To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             LONDON, Jan.  8, 1900.
DEAR JOE,--Mental Telepathy has scored another.  Mental Telegraphy will
be greatly respected a century hence.

By the accident of writing my sister and describing to her the remarkable
cures made by Kellgren with his hands and without drugs, I brought upon
myself a quite stunning surprise; for she wrote to me that she had been
taking this very treatment in Buffalo--and that it was an American
invention.

Well, it does really turn out that Dr. Still, in the middle of Kansas, in
a village, began to experiment in 1874, only five years after Kellgren
began the same work obscurely in the village of Gotha, in Germany.  Dr.
Still seems to be an honest man; therefore I am persuaded that Kellgren
moved him to his experiments by Mental Telegraphy across six hours of
longitude, without need of a wire.  By the time Still began to
experiment, Kellgren had completed his development of the principles of
his system and established himself in a good practice in London--1874
--and was in good shape to convey his discovery to Kansas, Mental
Telegraphically.

Yes, I was greatly surprised to find that my mare's nest was much in
arrears: that this new science was well known in America under the name
of Osteopathy.  Since then, I find that in the past 3 years it has got
itself legalized in 14 States in spite of the opposition of the
physicians; that it has established 20 Osteopathic schools and colleges;
that among its students are 75 allopathic physicians; that there is a
school in Boston and another in Philadelphia, that there are about 100
students in the parent college (Dr. Still's at Kirksville, Missouri,) and
that there are about 2,000 graduates practicing in America.  Dear me,
there are not 30 in Europe.  Europe is so sunk in superstitions and
prejudices that it is an almost impossible thing to get her to do
anything but scoff at a new thing--unless it come from abroad; as witness
the telegraph, dentistry, &c.

Presently the Osteopath will come over here from America and will soon
make himself a power that must be recognized and reckoned with; and then,
25 years from now, England will begin to claim the invention and tell all
about its origin, in the Cyclopedia B-----as in the case of the
telegraph, applied anaesthetics and the other benefactions which she
heaped her abuse upon when her inventors first offered them to her.

I cannot help feeling rather inordinately proud of America for the gay
and hearty way in which she takes hold of any new thing that comes along
and gives it a first rate trial.  Many an ass in America, is getting a
deal of benefit out of X-Science's new exploitation of an age-old healing
principle--faith, combined with the patient's imagination--let it boom
along!  I have no objection.  Let them call it by what name they choose,
so long as it does helpful work among the class which is numerically
vastly the largest bulk of the human race, i.e.  the fools, the idiots,
the pudd'nheads.

We do not guess, we know that 9 in 10 of the species are pudd'nheads.
We know it by various evidences; and one of them is, that for ages the
race has respected (and almost venerated) the physician's grotesque
system--the emptying of miscellaneous and harmful drugs into a person's
stomach to remove ailments which in many cases the drugs could not reach
at all; in many cases could reach and help, but only at cost of damage to
some other part of the man; and in the remainder of the cases the drug
either retarded the cure, or the disease was cured by nature in spite of
the nostrums.  The doctor's insane system has not only been permitted to
continue its follies for ages, but has been protected by the State and
made a close monopoly--an infamous thing, a crime against a free-man's
proper right to choose his own assassin or his own method of defending
his body against disease and death.

And yet at the same time, with curious and senile inconsistency, the
State has allowed the man to choose his own assassin--in one detail--the
patent-medicine detail--making itself the protector of that perilous
business, collecting money out of it, and appointing no committee of
experts to examine the medicines and forbid them when extra dangerous.
Really, when a man can prove that he is not a jackass, I think he is in
the way to prove that he is no legitimate member of the race.

I have by me a list of 52 human ailments--common ones--and in this list I
count 19 which the physician's art cannot cure.  But there isn't one
which Osteopathy or Kellgren cannot cure, if the patient comes early.

Fifteen years ago I had a deep reverence for the physician and the
surgeon.  But 6 months of closely watching the Kellgren business has
revolutionized all that, and now I have neither reverence nor respect for
the physician's trade, and scarcely any for the surgeon's,--I am
convinced that of all quackeries, the physician's is the grotesquest and
the silliest.  And they know they are shams and humbugs.  They have taken
the place of those augurs who couldn't look each other in the face
without laughing.

See what a powerful hold our ancient superstitions have upon us: two
weeks ago, when Livy committed an incredible imprudence and by
consequence was promptly stricken down with a heavy triple attack--
influenza, bronchitis, and a lung affected--she recognized the gravity of
the situation, and her old superstitions rose: she thought she ought to
send for a doctor--Think of it--the last man in the world I should want
around at such a time.  Of course I did not say no--not that I was
indisposed to take the responsibility, for I was not, my notion of a
dangerous responsibility being quite the other way--but because it is
unsafe to distress a sick person; I only said we knew no good doctor,
and it could not be good policy to choose at hazard; so she allowed me to
send for Kellgren.  To-day she is up and around-Lured.  It is safe to say
that persons hit in the same way at the same time are in bed yet, and
booked to stay there a good while, and to be in a shackly condition and
afraid of their shadows for a couple of years or more to come.

It will be seen by the foregoing that Mark Twain's interest in the
Kellgren system was still an ardent one.  Indeed, for a time he gave most
of his thought to it, and wrote several long appreciations, perhaps with
little idea of publication, but merely to get his enthusiasm physically
expressed.  War, however, presently supplanted medicine--the Boer
troubles in South Africa and the Boxer insurrection in China.  It was a
disturbing, exciting year.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

                                        WELLINGTON COURT, KNIGHTSBRIDGE,
                                                  Jan. 25, 1900.
DEAR HOWELLS,--If you got half as much as Pond prophesied, be content and
praise God--it has not happened to another.  But I am sorry he didn't go
with you; for it is marvelous to hear him yarn.  He is good company,
cheery and hearty, and his mill is never idle.  Your doing a lecture tour
was heroic.  It was the highest order of grit, and you have a right to be
proud of yourself.  No mount of applause or money or both could save it
from being a hell to a man constituted as you are.  It is that even to
me, who am made of coarser stuff.

I knew the audiences would come forward and shake hands with you--that
one infallible sign of sincere approval.  In all my life, wherever it
failed me I left the hall sick and ashamed, knowing what it meant.

Privately speaking, this is a sordid and criminal war, and in every way
shameful and excuseless.  Every day I write (in my head) bitter magazine
articles about it, but I have to stop with that.  For England must not
fall; it would mean an inundation of Russian and German political
degradations which would envelop the globe and steep it in a sort of
Middle-Age night and slavery which would last till Christ comes again.
Even wrong--and she is wrong--England must be upheld.  He is an enemy of
the human race who shall speak against her now.  Why was the human race
created?  Or at least why wasn't something creditable created in place of
it.  God had his opportunity.  He could have made a reputation.  But no,
He must commit this grotesque folly--a lark which must have cost him a
regret or two when He came to think it over and observe effects.  For a
giddy and unbecoming caprice there has been nothing like it till this
war.  I talk the war with both sides--always waiting until the other man
introduces the topic.  Then I say "My head is with the Briton, but my
heart and such rags of morals as I have are with the Boer--now we will
talk, unembarrassed and without prejudice."  And so we discuss, and have
no trouble.

                                                       Jan.  26.
It was my intention to make some disparaging remarks about the human
race; and so I kept this letter open for that purpose, and for the
purpose of telling my dream, wherein the Trinity were trying to guess a
conundrum, but I can do better--for I can snip out of the "Times" various
samples and side-lights which bring the race down to date, and expose it
as of yesterday.  If you will notice, there is seldom a telegram in a
paper which fails to show up one or more members and beneficiaries of our
Civilization as promenading in his shirt-tail, with the rest of his
regalia in the wash.

I love to see the holy ones air their smug pieties and admire them and
smirk over them, and at the same moment frankly and publicly show their
contempt for the pieties of the Boer--confidently expecting the approval
of the country and the pulpit, and getting it.

I notice that God is on both sides in this war; thus history repeats
itself.  But I am the only person who has noticed this; everybody here
thinks He is playing the game for this side, and for this side only.

               With great love to you all
                                             MARK.


     One cannot help wondering what Mark Twain would have thought of
     human nature had he lived to see the great World War, fought mainly
     by the Christian nations who for nearly two thousand years had been
     preaching peace on earth and goodwill toward men.  But his opinion
     of the race could hardly have been worse than it was.  And nothing
     that human beings could do would have surprised him.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             LONDON, Jan. 27, 1900.
DEAR JOE,--Apparently we are not proposing to set the Filipinos free and
give their islands to them; and apparently we are not proposing to hang
the priests and confiscate their property.  If these things are so, the
war out there has no interest for me.

I have just been examining chapter LXX of "Following the Equator," to see
if the Boer's old military effectiveness is holding out.  It reads
curiously as if it had been written about the present war.

I believe that in the next chapter my notion of the Boer was rightly
conceived.  He is popularly called uncivilized, I do not know why.
Happiness, food, shelter, clothing, wholesale labor, modest and rational
ambitions, honesty, kindliness, hospitality, love of freedom and
limitless courage to fight for it, composure and fortitude in time of
disaster, patience in time of hardship and privation, absence of noise
and brag in time of victory, contentment with a humble and peaceful life
void of insane excitements--if there is a higher and better form of
civilization than this, I am not aware of it and do not know where to
look for it.  I suppose we have the habit of imagining that a lot of
artistic, intellectual and other artificialities must be added, or it
isn't complete.  We and the English have these latter; but as we lack the
great bulk of these others, I think the Boer civilization is the best of
the two.  My idea of our civilization is that it is a shabby poor thing
and full of cruelties, vanities, arrogancies, meannesses, and
hypocrisies.  As for the word, I hate the sound of it, for it conveys a
lie; and as for the thing itself, I wish it was in hell, where it
belongs.

Provided we could get something better in the place of it.  But that is
not possible, perhaps.  Poor as it is, it is better than real savagery,
therefore we must stand by it, extend it, and (in public) praise it.
And so we must not utter any hateful word about England in these days,
nor fail to hope that she will win in this war, for her defeat and fall
would be an irremediable disaster for the mangy human race.... Naturally,
then, I am for England; but she is profoundly in the wrong, Joe, and no
(instructed) Englishman doubts it.  At least that is my belief.

Maybe I managed to make myself misunderstood, as to the Osteopathists.
I wanted to know how the men impress you.  As to their Art, I know fairly
well about that, and should not value Hartford's opinion of it; nor a
physician's; nor that of another who proposed to enlighten me out of his
ignorance.  Opinions based upon theory, superstition and ignorance are
not very precious.

Livy and the others are off for the country for a day or two.
               Love to you all
                                   MARK.


     The next letter affords a pleasant variation.  Without doubt it was
     written on realizing that good nature and enthusiasm had led him
     into indiscretion.  This was always happening to him, and letters
     like this are not infrequent, though generally less entertaining.


                          To Mr. Ann, in London:

                                        WELLINGTON COURT, Feb. 23, '00.
DEAR MR. ANN,--Upon sober second thought, it won't do!--I withdraw that
letter.  Not because I said anything in it which is not true, for I
didn't; but because when I allow my name to be used in forwarding a
stock-scheme I am assuming a certain degree of responsibility as toward
the investor, and I am not willing to do that.  I have another objection,
a purely selfish one: trading upon my name, whether the enterprise scored
a success or a failure would damage me.  I can't afford that; even the
Archbishop of Canterbury couldn't afford it, and he has more character to
spare than I have.  (Ah, a happy thought!  If he would sign the letter
with me that would change the whole complexion of the thing, of course.
I do not know him, yet I would sign any commercial scheme that he would
sign.  As he does not know me, it follows that he would sign anything
that I would sign.  This is unassailable logic--but really that is all
that can be said for it.)

No, I withdraw the letter.  This virgin is pure up to date, and is going
to remain so.
                         Ys sincerely,
                                        S. L. C.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                                  WELLINGTON COURT,
                                             KNIGHTSBRIDGE, Mch. 4, '00.
DEAR JOE,--Henry Robinson's death is a sharp wound to me, and it goes
very deep.  I had a strong affection for him, and I think he had for me.
Every Friday, three-fourths of the year for 16 years he was of the
billiard-party in our house.  When we come home, how shall we have
billiard-nights again--with no Ned Bunce and no Henry Robinson?
I believe I could not endure that.  We must find another use for that
room.  Susy is gone, George is gone, Libby Hamersley, Ned Bunce, Henry
Robinson.  The friends are passing, one by one; our house, where such
warm blood and such dear blood flowed so freely, is become a cemetery.
But not in any repellent sense.  Our dead are welcome there; their life
made it beautiful, their death has hallowed it, we shall have them with
us always, and there will be no parting.

It was a moving address you made over Ward Cheney--that fortunate, youth!
Like Susy, he got out of life all that was worth the living, and got his
great reward before he had crossed the tropic frontier of dreams and
entered the Sahara of fact.  The deep consciousness of Susy's good
fortune is a constant comfort to me.

London is happy-hearted at last.  The British victories have swept the
clouds away and there are no uncheerful faces.  For three months the
private dinner parties (we go to no public ones) have been Lodges of
Sorrow, and just a little depressing sometimes; but now they are smiley
and animated again.  Joe, do you know the Irish gentleman and the Irish
lady, the Scotch gentleman and the Scotch lady?  These are darlings,
every one.  Night before last it was all Irish--24.  One would have to
travel far to match their ease and sociability and animation and sparkle
and absence of shyness and self-consciousness.

It was American in these fine qualities.  This was at Mr. Lecky's.  He is
Irish, you know.  Last night it was Irish again, at Lady Gregory's.  Lord
Roberts is Irish; and Sir William Butler; and Kitchener, I think; and a
disproportion of the other prominent Generals are of Irish and Scotch
breed-keeping up the traditions of Wellington, and Sir Colin Campbell of
the Mutiny.  You will have noticed that in S. A. as in the Mutiny, it is
usually the Irish and the Scotch that are placed in the fore-front of the
battle.  An Irish friend of mine says this is because the Kelts are
idealists, and enthusiasts, with age-old heroisms to emulate and keep
bright before the world; but that the low-class Englishman is dull and
without ideals, fighting bull-doggishly while he has a leader, but losing
his head and going to pieces when his leader falls--not so with the Kelt.
Sir Wm. Butler said "the Kelt is the spear-head of the British lance."
                         Love to you all.
                                             MARK.


     The Henry Robinson mentioned in the foregoing letter was Henry C.
     Robinson, one-time Governor of Connecticut, long a dear and intimate
     friend of the Clemens household.  "Lecky" was W. E. H. Lecky, the
     Irish historian whose History of European Morals had been, for many
     years, one of Mark Twain's favorite books:

     In July the Clemenses left the small apartment at 30 Wellington
     Court and established a summer household a little way out of London,
     at Dollis Hill.  To-day the place has been given to the public under
     the name of Gladstone Park, so called for the reason that in an
     earlier time Gladstone had frequently visited there.  It was a
     beautiful spot, a place of green grass and spreading oaks.  In a
     letter in which Mrs. Clemens wrote to her sister she said: "It is
     simply divinely beautiful and peaceful; the great, old trees are
     beyond everything.  I believe nowhere in the world do you find such
     trees as in England."  Clemens wrote to Twichell:  "From the house
     you can see little but spacious stretches of hay-fields and green
     turf.....  Yet the massed, brick blocks of London are reachable in
     three minutes on a horse.  By rail we can be in the heart of London,
     in Baker Street, in seventeen minutes--by a smart train in five."

     Mail, however, would seem to have been less prompt.


                  To the Editor of the Times, in London:

SIR,--It has often been claimed that the London postal service was
swifter than that of New York, and I have always believed that the claim
was justified.  But a doubt has lately sprung up in my mind.  I live
eight miles from Printing House Square; the Times leaves that point at 4
o'clock in the morning, by mail, and reaches me at 5 in the afternoon,
thus making the trip in thirteen hours.

It is my conviction that in New York we should do it in eleven.

                              C.
DOLLIS HILL, N.  W.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                   DOLLIS HILL HOUSE, KILBURN, N. W.
                                             LONDON, Aug.  12, '00.
DEAR JOE,--The Sages Prof. Fiske and Brander Matthews were out here to
tea a week ago and it was a breath of American air to see them.  We
furnished them a bright day and comfortable weather--and they used it all
up, in their extravagant American way.  Since then we have sat by coal
fires, evenings.

We shall sail for home sometime in October, but shall winter in New York
where we can have an osteopath of good repute to continue the work of
putting this family in proper condition.

Livy and I dined with the Chief justice a month ago and he was as well-
conditioned as an athlete.

It is all China, now, and my sympathies are with the Chinese.  They have
been villainously dealt with by the sceptred thieves of Europe, and I
hope they will drive all the foreigners out and keep them out for good.
I only wish it; of course I don't really expect it.

Why, hang it, it occurs to me that by the time we reach New York you
Twichells will be invading Europe and once more we shall miss the
connection.  This is thoroughly exasperating.  Aren't we ever going to
meet again?
                    With no end of love from all of us,
                                        MARK.

P. S.  Aug. 18.
DEAR JOE,--It is 7.30 a. m.  I have been waking very early, lately.  If
it occurs once more, it will be habit; then I will submit and adopt it.

This is our day of mourning.  It is four years since Susy died; it is
five years and a month that I saw her alive for the last time-throwing
kisses at us from the railway platform when we started West around the
world.

Sometimes it is a century; sometimes it was yesterday.
                    With love
                                   MARK.


     We discover in the foregoing letter that the long European residence
     was drawing to an end.  More than nine years had passed since the
     closing of the Hartford house--eventful years that had seen failure,
     bereavement, battle with debt, and rehabilitated fortunes.  All the
     family were anxious to get home--Mark Twain most anxious of all.

     They closed Dollis Hill House near the end of September, and put up
     for a brief period at a family hotel, an amusing picture of which
     follows.


                   To J. Y. M.  MacAlister, in London:

                                                            Sep.  1900.
MY DEAR MACALISTER,--We do really start next Saturday.  I meant to sail
earlier, but waited to finish some studies of what are called Family
Hotels.  They are a London specialty, God has not permitted them to exist
elsewhere; they are ramshackle clubs which were dwellings at the time of
the Heptarchy.  Dover and Albemarle Streets are filled with them.  The
once spacious rooms are split up into coops which afford as much
discomfort as can be had anywhere out of jail for any money.  All the
modern inconveniences are furnished, and some that have been obsolete for
a century.  The prices are astonishingly high for what you get.  The
bedrooms are hospitals for incurable furniture.  I find it so in this
one.  They exist upon a tradition; they represent the vanishing home-like
inn of fifty years ago, and are mistaken by foreigners for it.  Some
quite respectable Englishmen still frequent them through inherited habit
and arrested development; many Americans also, through ignorance and
superstition.  The rooms are as interesting as the Tower of London, but
older I think.  Older and dearer.  The lift was a gift of William the
Conqueror, some of the beds are prehistoric.  They represent geological
periods.  Mine is the oldest.  It is formed in strata of Old Red
Sandstone, volcanic tufa, ignis fatuus, and bicarbonate of hornblende,
superimposed upon argillaceous shale, and contains the prints of
prehistoric man.  It is in No. 149.  Thousands of scientists come to see
it.  They consider it holy.  They want to blast out the prints but
cannot.  Dynamite rebounds from it.

Finished studies and sail Saturday in Minnehaha.
                    Yours ever affectionately,
                                             MARK TWAIN.


     They sailed for New York October 6th, and something more than a week
     later America gave them a royal welcome.  The press, far and wide,
     sounded Mark Twain's praises once more; dinners and receptions were
     offered on every hand; editors and lecture agents clamored for him.

     The family settled in the Earlington Hotel during a period of house-
     hunting.  They hoped eventually to return to Hartford, but after a
     brief visit paid by Clemens alone to the old place he wrote:


                     To Sylvester Baxter, in Boston:

                                             NEW YORK, Oct. 26, 1900.
DEAR MR. BAXTER,--It was a great pleasure to me to renew the other days
with you, and there was a pathetic pleasure in seeing Hartford and the
house again; but I realize that if we ever enter the house again to live,
our hearts will break.  I am not sure that we shall ever be strong enough
to endure that strain.
                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     Mr. and Mrs. Rogers wished to have them in their neighborhood, but
     the houses there were not suitable, or were too expensive.  Through
     Mr. Frank Doubleday they eventually found, at 14 West Tenth Street,
     a large residence handsomely furnished, and this they engaged for
     the winter.  "We were lucky to get this big house furnished," he
     wrote MacAlister in London.  "There was not another one in town
     procurable that would answer us, but this one is all right--space
     enough in it for several families, the rooms all old-fashioned,
     great size."

     The little note that follows shows that Mark Twain had not entirely
     forgotten the days of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.


              To a Neighbor on West Tenth Street, New York:

                                                       Nov. 30.
DEAR MADAM,--I know I ought to respect my duty and perform it, but I am
weak and faithless where boys are concerned, and I can't help secretly
approving pretty bad and noisy ones, though I do object to the kind that
ring door-bells.  My family try to get me to stop the boys from holding
conventions on the front steps, but I basely shirk out of it, because I
think the boys enjoy it.

My wife has been complaining to me this evening about the boys on the
front steps and under compulsion I have made some promises.  But I am
very forgetful, now that I am old, and my sense of duty is getting
spongy.
                    Very truly yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Letters Vol. 4, by Mark Twain






MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS 1901-1906

ARRANGED WITH COMMENT BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE



VOLUME V.


XL

LETTERS OF 1901, CHIEFLY TO TWICHELL.  MARK TWAIN AS A REFORMER.
SUMMER AT SARANAC.  ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT McKINLEY

     An editorial in the Louisville Courier-Journal, early in 1901, said:
     "A remarkable transformation, or rather a development, has taken
     place in Mark Twain.  The genial humorist of the earlier day is now
     a reformer of the vigorous kind, a sort of knight errant who does
     not hesitate to break a lance with either Church or State if he
     thinks them interposing on that broad highway over which he believes
     not a part but the whole of mankind has the privilege of passing in
     the onward march of the ages."

     Mark Twain had begun "breaking the lance" very soon after his return
     from Europe.  He did not believe that he could reform the world, but
     at least he need not withhold his protest against those things which
     stirred his wrath.  He began by causing the arrest of a cabman who
     had not only overcharged but insulted him; he continued by writing
     openly against the American policy in the Philippines, the
     missionary propaganda which had resulted in the Chinese uprising and
     massacre, and against Tammany politics.  Not all of his efforts were
     in the line of reform; he had become a sort of general spokesman
     which the public flocked to hear, whatever the subject.  On the
     occasion of a Lincoln Birthday service at Carnegie Hall he was
     chosen to preside, and he was obliged to attend more dinners than
     were good for his health.  His letters of this period were mainly
     written to his old friend Twichell, in Hartford.  Howells, who lived
     in New York, he saw with considerable frequency.

     In the letter which follows the medicine which Twichell was to take
     was Plasmon, an English proprietary remedy in which Mark Twain had
     invested--a panacea for all human ills which osteopathy could not
     reach.


                  To Rev. Joseph Twichell, in Hartford:

                                   14 W. 10TH ST.  Jan.  23, '01.
DEAR JOE,--Certainly.  I used to take it in my coffee, but it settled to
the bottom in the form of mud, and I had to eat it with a spoon; so I
dropped the custom and took my 2 teaspoonfuls in cold milk after
breakfast.  If we were out of milk I shoveled the dry powder into my
mouth and washed it down with water.  The only essential is to get it
down, the method is not important.

No, blame it, I can't go to the Alumni dinner, Joe.  It takes two days,
and I can't spare the time.  Moreover I preside at the Lincoln birthday
celebration in Carnegie Hall Feb. 11 and I must not make two speeches so
close together.  Think of it--two old rebels functioning there--I as
President, and Watterson as Orator of the Day!  Things have changed
somewhat in these 40 years, thank God.

Look here--when you come down you must be our guest--we've got a roomy
room for you, and Livy will make trouble if you go elsewhere.  Come
straight to 14 West 10th.

Jan. 24.  Livy says Amen to that; also, can you give us a day or two's
notice, so the room will be sure to be vacant?

I'm going to stick close to my desk for a month, now, hoping to write a
small book.
               Ys Ever
                         MARK


     The letter which follows is a fair sample of Mark Twain's private
     violence on a subject which, in public print, he could only treat
     effectively by preserving his good humor.  When he found it
     necessary to boil over, as he did, now and then, for relief, he
     always found a willing audience in Twichell.  The mention of his
     "Private Philosophy" refers to 'What Is Man?', privately published
     in 1906; reissued by his publishers in 1916.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             14  W. 10th Jan.  29, '01.
DEAR JOE,--I'm not expecting anything but kicks for scoffing, and am
expecting a diminution of my bread and butter by it, but if Livy will let
me I will have my say.  This nation is like all the others that have been
spewed upon the earth--ready to shout for any cause that will tickle its
vanity or fill its pocket.  What a hell of a heaven it will be, when they
get all these hypocrites assembled there!

I can't understand it!  You are a public guide and teacher, Joe, and are
under a heavy responsibility to men, young and old; if you teach your
people--as you teach me--to hide their opinions when they believe the
flag is being abused and dishonored, lest the utterance do them and a
publisher a damage, how do you answer for it to your conscience?  You are
sorry for me; in the fair way of give and take, I am willing to be a
little sorry for you.

However, I seem to be going counter to my own Private Philosophy--which
Livy won't allow me to publish--because it would destroy me.  But I hope
to see it in print before I die.  I planned it 15 years ago, and wrote it
in '98.  I've often tried to read it to Livy, but she won't have it; it
makes her melancholy.  The truth always has that effect on people.  Would
have, anyway, if they ever got hold of a rag of it--Which they don't.

You are supposing that I am supposing that I am moved by a Large
Patriotism, and that I am distressed because our President has blundered
up to his neck in the Philippine mess; and that I am grieved because this
great big ignorant nation, which doesn't know even the A B C facts of the
Philippine episode, is in disgrace before the sarcastic world--drop that
idea!  I care nothing for the rest--I am only distressed and troubled
because I am befouled by these things.  That is all.  When I search
myself away down deep, I find this out.  Whatever a man feels or thinks
or does, there is never any but one reason for it--and that is a selfish
one.

At great inconvenience, and expense of precious time I went to the chief
synagogue the other night and talked in the interest of a charity school
of poor Jew girls.  I know--to the finest, shades--the selfish ends that
moved me; but no one else suspects.  I could give you the details if I
had time.  You would perceive how true they are.

I've written another article; you better hurry down and help Livy squelch
it.

She's out pottering around somewhere, poor housekeeping slave; and Clara
is in the hands of the osteopath, getting the bronchitis pulled and
hauled out of her.  It was a bad attack, and a little disquieting.  It
came day before yesterday, and she hasn't sat up till this afternoon.
She is getting along satisfactorily, now.
                    Lots of love to you all.
                                             MARK


     Mark Twain's religion had to do chiefly with humanity in its present
     incarnation, and concerned itself very little with any possible
     measure of reward or punishment in some supposed court of the
     hereafter.  Nevertheless, psychic investigation always interested
     him, and he was good-naturedly willing to explore, even hoping,
     perhaps, to be convinced that individuality continues beyond death.
     The letter which follows indicates his customary attitude in
     relation to spiritualistic research.  The experiments here
     mentioned, however, were not satisfactory.


                        To Mrs. Charles McQuiston:

                                                  DOBBS FERRY, N. Y.
                                                       March 26, 1901.
DEAR MRS. McQUISTON,--I have never had an experience which moved me to
believe the living can communicate with the dead, but my wife and I have
experimented in the matter when opportunity offered and shall continue to
do so.

I enclose a letter which came this morning--the second from the same
source.  Mrs. K----is a Missourian, and lately she discovered, by
accident, that she was a remarkable hypnotiser.  Her best subject is a
Missouri girl, Miss White, who is to come here soon and sustain strictly
scientific tests before professors at Columbia University.  Mrs. Clemens
and I intend to be present.  And we shall ask the pair to come to our
house to do whatever things they can do.  Meantime, if you thought well
of it, you might write her and arrange a meeting, telling her it is by my
suggestion and that I gave you her address.

Someone has told me that Mrs. Piper is discredited.  I cannot be sure,
but I think it was Mr. Myers, President of the London Psychical Research
Society--we heard of his death yesterday.  He was a spiritualist.  I am
afraid he was a very easily convinced man.  We visited two mediums whom
he and Andrew Lang considered quite wonderful, but they were quite
transparent frauds.

Mrs. Clemens corrects me: One of those women was a fraud, the other not a
fraud, but only an innocent, well-meaning, driveling vacancy.
                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     In Mark Twain's Bermuda chapters entitled Idle Notes of an Idle
     Excursion he tells of an old sea captain, one Hurricane Jones, who
     explained biblical miracles in a practical, even if somewhat
     startling, fashion.  In his story of the prophets of Baal, for
     instance, the old captain declared that the burning water was
     nothing more nor less than petroleum.  Upon reading the "notes,"
     Professor Phelps of Yale wrote that the same method of explaining
     miracles had been offered by Sir Thomas Browne.

     Perhaps it may be added that Captain Hurricane Jones also appears in
     Roughing It, as Captain Ned Blakely.


                    To Professor William Lyon Phelps;

                                                  YALE UNIVERSITY,
                                             NEW YORK, April 24, 1901.
MY DEAR SIR,--I was not aware that old Sir Thomas had anticipated that
story, and I am much obliged to you for furnishing me the paragraph.
t is curious that the same idea should leave entered two heads so unlike
as the head of that wise old philosopher and that of Captain Ned Wakeman,
a splendidly uncultured old sailor, but in his own opinion a thinker by
divine right.  He was an old friend of mine of many years' standing;
I made two or three voyages with him, and found him a darling in many
ways.  The petroleum story was not told to me; he told it to Joe
Twichell, who ran across him by accident on a sea voyage where I think
the two were the only passengers.  A delicious pair, and admirably mated,
they took to each other at once and became as thick as thieves.  Joe was
passing under a fictitious name, and old Wakeman didn't suspect that he
was a parson; so he gave his profanity full swing, and he was a master of
that great art.  You probably know Twichell, and will know that that is a
kind of refreshment which he is very capable of enjoying.
                    Sincerely yours,
                              S. L. CLEMENS.


     For the summer Clemens and his family found a comfortable lodge in
     the Adirondacks--a log cabin called "The Lair"--on Saranac Lake.
     Soon after his arrival there he received an invitation to attend the
     celebration of Missouri's eightieth anniversary.  He sent the
     following letter:


                   To Edward L. Dimmitt, in St. Louis:

                              AMONG THE ADIRONDACK LAKES, July 19, 1901.
DEAR MR. DIMMITT,--By an error in the plans, things go wrong end first in
this world, and much precious time is lost and matters of urgent
importance are fatally retarded.  Invitations which a brisk young fellow
should get, and which would transport him with joy, are delayed and
impeded and obstructed until they are fifty years overdue when they reach
him.

It has happened again in this case.

When I was a boy in Missouri I was always on the lookout for invitations
but they always miscarried and went wandering through the aisles of time;
and now they are arriving when I am old and rheumatic and can't travel
and must lose my chance.

I have lost a world of delight through this matter of delaying
invitations.  Fifty years ago I would have gone eagerly across the world
to help celebrate anything that might turn up.  IT would have made no
difference to me what it was, so that I was there and allowed a chance to
make a noise.

The whole scheme of things is turned wrong end to.  Life should begin
with age and its privileges and accumulations, and end with youth and its
capacity to splendidly enjoy such advantages.  As things are now, when in
youth a dollar would bring a hundred pleasures, you can't have it.  When
you are old, you get it and there is nothing worth buying with it then.

It's an epitome of life.  The first half of it consists of the capacity
to enjoy without the chance; the last half consists of the chance without
the capacity.

I am admonished in many ways that time is pushing me inexorably along.
I am approaching the threshold of age; in 1977 I shall be 142.  This is
no time to be flitting about the earth.  I must cease from the activities
proper to youth and begin to take on the dignities and gravities and
inertia proper to that season of honorable senility which is on its way
and imminent as indicated above.

Yours is a great and memorable occasion, and as a son of Missouri I
should hold it a high privilege to be there and share your just pride in
the state's achievements; but I must deny myself the indulgence, while
thanking you earnestly for the prized honor you have done me in asking me
to be present.
                    Very truly yours,
                              S. L. CLEMENS.


     In the foregoing Mark Twain touches upon one of his favorite
     fancies: that life should begin with old age and approach strong
     manhood, golden youth, to end at last with pampered and beloved
     babyhood.  Possibly he contemplated writing a story with this idea
     as the theme, but He seems never to have done so.

     The reader who has followed these letters may remember Yung Wing,
     who had charge of the Chinese educational mission in Hartford, and
     how Mark Twain, with Twichell, called on General Grant in behalf of
     the mission.  Yung Wing, now returned to China, had conceived the
     idea of making an appeal to the Government of the United States for
     relief of his starving countrymen.


                     To J. H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                        AMPERSAND, N. Y., July 28, '01.
DEAR JOE,--As you say, it is impracticable--in my case, certainly.  For
me to assist in an appeal to that Congress of land-thieves and liars
would be to bring derision upon it; and for me to assist in an appeal for
cash to pass through the hands of those missionaries out there, of any
denomination, Catholic or Protestant, wouldn't do at all.  They wouldn't
handle money which I had soiled, and I wouldn't trust them with it,
anyway.  They would devote it to the relief of suffering--I know that--
but the sufferers selected would be converts.  The missionary-utterances
exhibit no humane feeling toward the others, but in place of it a spirit
of hate and hostility.  And it is natural; the Bible forbids their
presence there, their trade is unlawful, why shouldn't their characters
be of necessity in harmony with--but never mind, let it go, it irritates
me.

Later....  I have been reading Yung Wing's letter again.  It may be that
he is over-wrought by his sympathies, but it may not be so.  There may be
other reasons why the missionaries are silent about the Shensi-2-year
famine and cannibalism.  It may be that there are so few Protestant
converts there that the missionaries are able to take care of them.  That
they are not likely to largely concern themselves about Catholic converts
and the others, is quite natural, I think.

That crude way of appealing to this Government for help in a cause which
has no money in it, and no politics, rises before me again in all its
admirable innocence!  Doesn't Yung Wing know us yet?  However, he has
been absent since '96 or '97.  We have gone to hell since then.  Kossuth
couldn't raise 30 cents in Congress, now, if he were back with his moving
Magyar-Tale.

I am on the front porch (lower one--main deck) of our little bijou of a
dwelling-house.  The lake-edge (Lower Saranac) is so nearly under me that
I can't see the shore, but only the water, small-pored with rain-
splashes--for there is a heavy down-pour.  It is charmingly like sitting
snuggled up on a ship's deck with the stretching sea all around--but very
much more satisfactory, for at sea a rain-storm is depressing, while here
of course the effect engendered is just a deep sense of comfort and
contentment.  The heavy forest shuts us solidly in on three sides there
are no neighbors.  There are beautiful little tan-colored impudent
squirrels about.  They take tea, 5 p. m., (not invited) at the table in
the woods where Jean does my typewriting, and one of them has been brave
enough to sit upon Jean's knee with his tail curved over his back and
munch his food.  They come to dinner, 7 p. m., on the front porch (not
invited).  They all have the one name--Blennerhasset, from Burr's friend
--and none of them answers to it except when hungry.

We have been here since June 21st.  For a little while we had some warm
days--according to the family's estimate; I was hardly discommoded
myself.  Otherwise the weather has been of the sort you are familiar with
in these regions: cool days and cool nights.  We have heard of the hot
wave every Wednesday, per the weekly paper--we allow no dailies to
intrude.  Last week through visitors also--the only ones we have had--
Dr. Root and John Howells.

We have the daily lake-swim; and all the tribe, servants included (but
not I) do a good deal of boating; sometimes with the guide, sometimes
without him--Jean and Clara are competent with the oars.  If we live
another year, I hope we shall spend its summer in this house.

We have taken the Appleton country seat, overlooking the Hudson, at
Riverdale, 25 minutes from the Grand Central Station, for a year,
beginning Oct. 1, with option for another year.  We are obliged to be
close to New York for a year or two.

Aug. 3rd.  I go yachting a fortnight up north in a 20-knot boat 225 feet
long, with the owner, (Mr. Rogers), Tom Reid, Dr. Rice, Col. A. G. Paine
and one or two others.  Judge Howland would go, but can't get away from
engagements; Professor Sloane would go, but is in the grip of an illness.
Come--will you go?  If you can manage it, drop a post-card to me c/o H.H.
Rogers, 26 Broadway.  I shall be in New York a couple of days before we
sail--July 31 or Aug. 1, perhaps the latter,--and I think I shall stop at
the Hotel Grosvenor, cor. l0th St and 5th ave.

We all send you and the Harmonies lots and gobs of love.
                                                            MARK


                  To Rev. J. H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             AMPERSAND, N. Y., Aug. 28.
DEAR JOE,--Just a word, to scoff at you, with your extravagant suggestion
that I read the biography of Phillips Brooks--the very dullest book that
has been printed for a century.  Joe, ten pages of Mrs. Cheney's masterly
biography of her fathers--no, five pages of it--contain more meat, more
sense, more literature, more brilliancy, than that whole basketful of
drowsy rubbish put together.  Why, in that dead atmosphere even Brooks
himself is dull--he wearied me; oh how he wearied me!

We had a noble good time in the Yacht, and caught a Chinese missionary
and drowned him.
                    Love from us all to you all.
                                                  MARK.


     The assassination of President McKinley occurred September 6, 1901.
     Such an event would naturally stir Mark Twain to comment on human
     nature in general.  His letter to Twichell is as individual as it is
     sound in philosophy.  At what period of his own life, or under what
     circumstances, he made the long journey with tragic intent there is
     no means of knowing now.  There is no other mention of it elsewhere
     in the records that survive him.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                   AMPERSAND, Tuesday, (Sept. 10, 1901)
DEAR JOE,--It is another off day, but tomorrow I shall resume work to a
certainty, and bid a long farewell to letter-scribbling.

The news of the President looks decidedly hopeful, and we are all glad,
and the household faces are much improved, as to cheerfulness.  Oh, the
talk in the newspapers!  Evidently the Human Race is the same old Human
Race.  And how unjust, and unreflectingly discriminating, the talkers
are.  Under the unsettling effects of powerful emotion the talkers are
saying wild things, crazy things--they are out of themselves, and do not
know it; they are temporarily insane, yet with one voice they declare the
assassin sane--a man who has been entertaining fiery and reason--
debauching maggots in his head for weeks and months.  Why, no one is
sane, straight along, year in and year out, and we all know it.  Our
insanities are of varying sorts, and express themselves in varying forms
--fortunately harmless forms as a rule--but in whatever form they occur
an immense upheaval of feeling can at any time topple us distinctly over
the sanity-line for a little while; and then if our form happens to be of
the murderous kind we must look out--and so must the spectator.

This ass with the unpronounceable name was probably more insane than
usual this week or two back, and may get back upon his bearings by and
by, but he was over the sanity-border when he shot the President.  It is
possible that it has taken him the whole interval since the murder of the
King of Italy to get insane enough to attempt the President's life.
Without a doubt some thousands of men have been meditating the same act
in the same interval, but new and strong interests have intervened and
diverted their over-excited minds long enough to give them a chance to
settle, and tranquilize, and get back upon a healthy level again.  Every
extraordinary occurrence unsettles the heads of hundreds of thousands of
men for a few moments or hours or days.  If there had been ten kings
around when Humbert fell they would have been in great peril for a day or
more--and from men in whose presence they would have been quite safe
after the excess of their excitement had had an interval in which to cool
down.  I bought a revolver once and travelled twelve hundred miles to
kill a man.  He was away.  He was gone a day.  With nothing else to do,
I had to stop and think--and did.  Within an hour--within half of it--
I was ashamed of myself--and felt unspeakably ridiculous.  I do not know
what to call it if I was not insane.  During a whole week my head was in
a turmoil night and day fierce enough and exhausting enough to upset a
stronger reason than mine.

All over the world, every day, there are some millions of men in that
condition temporarily.  And in that time there is always a moment--
perhaps only a single one when they would do murder if their man was at
hand.  If the opportunity comes a shade too late, the chances are that it
has come permanently too late.  Opportunity seldom comes exactly at the
supreme moment.  This saves a million lives a day in the world--for sure.

No Ruler is ever slain but the tremendous details of it are ravenously
devoured by a hundred thousand men whose minds dwell, unaware, near the
temporary-insanity frontier--and over they go, now!  There is a day--two
days--three--during which no Ruler would be safe from perhaps the half of
them; and there is a single moment wherein he would not be safe from any
of them, no doubt.

It may take this present shooting-case six months to breed another ruler-
tragedy, but it will breed it.  There is at least one mind somewhere
which will brood, and wear, and decay itself to the killing-point and
produce that tragedy.

Every negro burned at the stake unsettles the excitable brain of another
one--I mean the inflaming details of his crime, and the lurid
theatricality of his exit do it--and the duplicate crime follows; and
that begets a repetition, and that one another one and so on.  Every
lynching-account unsettles the brains of another set of excitable white
men, and lights another pyre--115 lynchings last year, 102 inside of 8
months this year; in ten years this will be habit, on these terms.

Yes, the wild talk you see in the papers!  And from men who are sane when
not upset by overwhelming excitement.  A U. S. Senator-Cullom--wants this
Buffalo criminal lynched!  It would breed other lynchings--of men who are
not dreaming of committing murders, now, and will commit none if Cullom
will keep quiet and not provide the exciting cause.

And a District Attorney wants a law which shall punish with death
attempts upon a President's life--this, mind you, as a deterrent.
It would have no effect--or the opposite one.  The lunatic's mind-space
is all occupied--as mine was--with the matter in hand; there is no room
in it for reflections upon what may happen to him.  That comes after the
crime.

It is the noise the attempt would make in the world that would breed the
subsequent attempts, by unsettling the rickety minds of men who envy the
criminal his vast notoriety--his obscure name tongued by stupendous Kings
and Emperors--his picture printed everywhere, the trivialest details of
his movements, what he eats, what he drinks; how he sleeps, what he says,
cabled abroad over the whole globe at cost of fifty thousand dollars a
day--and he only a lowly shoemaker yesterday!--like the assassin of the
President of France--in debt three francs to his landlady, and insulted
by her--and to-day she is proud to be able to say she knew him
"as familiarly as you know your own brother," and glad to stand till she
drops and pour out columns and pages of her grandeur and her happiness
upon the eager interviewer.

Nothing will check the lynchings and ruler-murder but absolute silence--
the absence of pow-pow about them.  How are you going to manage that?
By gagging every witness and jamming him into a dungeon for life; by
abolishing all newspapers; by exterminating all newspaper men; and by
extinguishing God's most elegant invention, the Human Race.  It is quite
simple, quite easy, and I hope you will take a day off and attend to it,
Joe.  I blow a kiss to you, and am
                                   Lovingly Yours,
                                                  MARK.


     When the Adirondack summer ended Clemens settled for the winter in
     the beautiful Appleton home at Riverdale-on-the-Hudson.  It was a
     place of wide-spreading grass and shade-a house of ample room.  They
     were established in it in time for Mark Twain to take an active
     interest in the New York elections and assist a ticket for good
     government to defeat Tammany Hall.




XLI

LETTERS OF 1902.  RIVERDALE.  YORK HARBOR.  ILLNESS OF MRS.  CLEMENS

The year 1902 was an eventful one for Mark Twain.  In April he received a
degree of LL.D.  from the University of Missouri and returned to his
native State to accept it.  This was his last journey to the Mississippi
River.  During the summer Mrs. Clemens's health broke down and illnesses
of one sort or another visited other members of the family.  Amid so much
stress and anxiety Clemens had little time or inclination for work.  He
wrote not many letters and mainly somber ones.  Once, by way of
diversion, he worked out the idea of a curious club--which he formed--its
members to be young girls--girls for the most part whom he had never
seen.  They were elected without their consent from among those who wrote
to him without his consent, and it is not likely that any one so chosen
declined membership.  One selection from his letters to the French
member, Miss Helene Picard, of St.-Die, France, will explain the club and
present a side of Mask Twain somewhat different from that found in most
of his correspondence.


                   To Miss Picard, in St.-Die, France:

                              RIVERDALE-ON-THE-HUDSON, February 22, 1902.
DEAR MISS HELENE,--If you will let me call you so, considering that my
head is white and that I have grownup daughters.  Your beautiful letter
has given me such deep pleasure!  I will make bold to claim you for a
friend and lock you up with the rest of my riches; for I am a miser who
counts his spoil every day and hoards it secretly and adds to it when he
can, and is grateful to see it grow.

Some of that gold comes, like yourself, in a sealed package, and I can't
see it and may never have the happiness; but I know its value without
that, and by what sum it increases my wealth.

I have a Club, a private Club, which is all my own.  I appoint the
Members myself, and they can't help themselves, because I don't allow
them to vote on their own appointment and I don't allow them to resign!
They are all friends whom I have never seen (save one), but who have
written friendly letters to me.

By the laws of my Club there can be only one Member in each country, and
there can be no male Member but myself.  Some day I may admit males, but
I don't know--they are capricious and inharmonious, and their ways
provoke me a good deal.  It is a matter which the Club shall decide.

I have made four appointments in the past three or four months: You as
Member for France, a young Highland girl as Member for Scotland, a
Mohammedan girl as Member for Bengal, and a dear and bright young niece
of mine as Member for the United States--for I do not represent a country
myself, but am merely Member at Large for the Human Race.

You must not try to resign, for the laws of the Club do not allow that.
You must console yourself by remembering that you are in the best of
company; that nobody knows of your membership except myself--that no
Member knows another's name, but only her country; that no taxes are
levied and no meetings held (but how dearly I should like to attend
one!).

One of my Members is a Princess of a royal house, another is the daughter
of a village book-seller on the continent of Europe.  For the only
qualification for Membership is intellect and the spirit of good will;
other distinctions, hereditary or acquired, do not count.

May I send you the Constitution and Laws of the Club?  I shall be so
pleased if I may.  It is a document which one of my daughters typewrites
for me when I need one for a new Member, and she would give her eyebrows
to know what it is all about, but I strangle her curiosity by saying:
"There are much cheaper typewriters than you are, my dear, and if you try
to pry into the sacred mysteries of this Club one of your prosperities
will perish sure."

My favorite?  It is "Joan of Arc."  My next is "Huckleberry Finn," but
the family's next is "The Prince and the Pauper."  (Yes, you are right--
I am a moralist in disguise; it gets me into heaps of trouble when I go
thrashing around in political questions.)

I wish you every good fortune and happiness and I thank you so much for
your letter.
                    Sincerely yours,
                              S. L. CLEMENS.


     Early in the year Clemens paid a visit to Twichell in Hartford, and
     after one of their regular arguments on theology and the moral
     accountability of the human race, arguments that had been going on
     between them for more than thirty years--Twichell lent his visitor
     Freedom of the Will, by Jonathan Edwards, to read on the way home.
     The next letter was the result.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             RIVERDALE-ON-THE-HUDSON.
                                                       Feb. '02.
DEAR JOE,--"After compliments."--[Meaning "What a good time you gave me;
what a happiness it was to be under your roof again; etc., etc."  See
opening sentence of all translations of letters passing between Lord
Roberts and Indian princes and rulers.]--From Bridgeport to New York;
thence to home; and continuously until near midnight I wallowed and
reeked with Jonathan in his insane debauch; rose immediately refreshed
and fine at 10 this morning, but with a strange and haunting sense of
having been on a three days' tear with a drunken lunatic.  It is years
since I have known these sensations.  All through the book is the glaze
of a resplendent intellect gone mad--a marvelous spectacle.  No, not all
through the book--the drunk does not come on till the last third, where
what I take to be Calvinism and its God begins to show up and shine red
and hideous in the glow from the fires of hell, their only right and
proper adornment.  By God I was ashamed to be in such company.

Jonathan seems to hold (as against the Arminian position) that the Man
(or his Soul or his Will) never creates an impulse itself, but is moved
to action by an impulse back of it.  That's sound!

Also, that of two or more things offered it, it infallibly chooses the
one which for the moment is most pleasing to ITSELF.  Perfectly correct!
An immense admission for a man not otherwise sane.

Up to that point he could have written chapters III and IV of my
suppressed "Gospel."  But there we seem to separate.  He seems to concede
the indisputable and unshakable dominion of Motive and Necessity (call
them what he may, these are exterior forces and not under the man's
authority, guidance or even suggestion)--then he suddenly flies the logic
track and (to all seeming) makes the man and not these exterior forces
responsible to God for the man's thoughts, words and acts.  It is frank
insanity.

I think that when he concedes the autocratic dominion of Motive and
Necessity he grants, a third position of mine--that a man's mind is a
mere machine--an automatic machine--which is handled entirely from the
outside, the man himself furnishing it absolutely nothing: not an ounce
of its fuel, and not so much as a bare suggestion to that exterior
engineer as to what the machine shall do, nor how it shall do it nor
when.

After that concession, it was time for him to get alarmed and shirk--for
he was pointing straight for the only rational and possible next-station
on that piece of road the irresponsibility of man to God.

And so he shirked.  Shirked, and arrived at this handsome result:

Man is commanded to do so-and-so.  It has been ordained from the
beginning of time that some men shan't and others can't.

These are to be blamed: let them be damned.

I enjoy the Colonel very much, and shall enjoy the rest of him with an
obscene delight.
               Joe, the whole tribe shout love to you and yours!
                                                       MARK.


     We have not heard of Joe Goodman since the trying days of '90 and
     '91, when he was seeking to promote the fortunes of the type-setting
     machine.  Goodman, meantime, who had in turn been miner, printer,
     publisher, and farmer; had been devoting his energies and genius to
     something entirely new: he had been translating the prehistoric
     Mayan inscriptions of Yucatan, and with such success that his work
     was elaborately published by an association of British scientists.
     In due time a copy of this publication came to Clemens, who was full
     of admiration of the great achievement.


                     To J. T. Goodman, in California:

                                        RIVERDALE-ON-THE-HUDSON,
                                                  June 13, '02.
DEAR JOE,--I am lost in reverence and admiration!  It is now twenty-four
hours that I have been trying to cool down and contemplate with quiet
blood this extraordinary spectacle of energy, industry, perseverance,
pluck, analytical genius, penetration, this irruption of thunders and
fiery splendors from a fair and flowery mountain that nobody had supposed
was a sleeping volcano, but I seem to be as excited as ever.  Yesterday
I read as much as half of the book, not understanding a word but
enchanted nevertheless--partly by the wonder of it all, the study, the
erudition, the incredible labor, the modesty, the dignity, the majestic
exclusiveness of the field and its lofty remoteness from things and
contacts sordid and mean and earthy, and partly by the grace and beauty
and limpidity of the book's unsurpassable English.  Science, always great
and worshipful, goes often in hodden grey, but you have clothed her in
garments meet for her high degree.

You think you get "poor pay" for your twenty years?  No, oh no.  You have
lived in a paradise of the intellect whose lightest joys were beyond the
reach of the longest purse in Christendom, you have had daily and nightly
emancipation from the world's slaveries and gross interests, you have
received a bigger wage than any man in the land, you have dreamed a
splendid dream and had it come true, and to-day you could not afford to
trade fortunes with anybody--not even with another scientist, for he must
divide his spoil with his guild, whereas essentially the world you have
discovered is your own and must remain so.

It is all just magnificent, Joe!  And no one is prouder or gladder than
               Yours always
                              MARK.


     At York Harbor, Maine, where they had taken a cottage for the
     summer--a pretty place, with Howells not far distant, at Kittery
     Point--Mrs. Clemens's health gave way.  This was at a period when
     telegraphic communication was far from reliable.  The old-time
     Western Union had fallen from grace; its "system" no longer
     justified the best significance of that word.  The new day of
     reorganization was coming, and it was time for it.  Mark Twain's
     letter concerning the service at York Harbor would hardly be
     warranted today, but those who remember conditions of that earlier
     time will agree that it was justified then, and will appreciate its
     satire.


           To the President of The Western Union, in New York:

                                             "THE PINES"
                                        YORK HARBOR, MAINE.
DEAR SIR,--I desire to make a complaint, and I bring it to you, the head
of the company, because by experience I know better than to carry it to a
subordinate.

I have been here a month and a half, and by testimony of friends,
reinforced by personal experience I now feel qualified to claim as an
established fact that the telegraphic service here is the worst in the
world except that Boston.

These services are actually slower than was the New York and Hartford
service in the days when I last complained to you--which was fifteen or
eighteen years ago, when telegraphic time and train time between the
mentioned points was exactly the same, to-wit, three hours and a half.
Six days ago--it was that raw day which provoked so much comment--my
daughter was on her way up from New York, and at noon she telegraphed me
from New Haven asking that I meet her with a cloak at Portsmouth.  Her
telegram reached me four hours and a quarter later--just 15 minutes too
late for me to catch my train and meet her.

I judge that the telegram traveled about 200 miles.  It is the best
telegraphic work I have seen since I have been here, and I am mentioning
it in this place not as a complaint but as a compliment.  I think a
compliment ought always to precede a complaint, where one is possible,
because it softens resentment and insures for the complaint a courteous
and gentle reception.

Still, there is a detail or two connected with this matter which ought
perhaps to be mentioned.  And now, having smoothed the way with the
compliment, I will venture them.  The head corpse in the York Harbor
office sent me that telegram altho (1) he knew it would reach me too late
to be of any value; (2) also, that he was going to send it to me by his
boy; (3) that the boy would not take the trolley and come the 2 miles in
12 minutes, but would walk; (4) that he would be two hours and a quarter
on the road; (5) and that he would collect 25 cents for transportation,
for a telegram which the he knew to be worthless before he started it.
From these data I infer that the Western Union owes me 75 cents; that is
to say, the amount paid for combined wire and land transportation--
a recoup provided for in the printed paragraph which heads the telegraph-
blank.

By these humane and Christian stages we now arrive at the complaint
proper.  We have had a grave case of illness in the family, and a
relative was coming some six hundred miles to help in the sick-room
during the convalescing period.  It was an anxious time, of course,
and I wrote and asked to be notified as to the hour of the expected
arrival of this relative in Boston or in York Harbor.  Being afraid of
the telegraph--which I think ought not to be used in times of hurry and
emergency--I asked that the desired message be brought to me by some
swift method of transportation.  By the milkman, if he was coming this
way.  But there are always people who think they know more than you do,
especially young people; so of course the young fellow in charge of this
lady used the telegraph.  And at Boston, of all places!  Except York
Harbor.

The result was as usual; let me employ a statelier and exacter term, and
say, historical.

The dispatch was handed to the h. c. of the Boston office at 9 this
morning.  It said, "Shall bring A. S. to you eleven forty-five this
morning."  The distance traveled by the dispatch is forty or fifty miles,
I suppose, as the train-time is five minutes short of two hours, and the
trains are so slow that they can't give a W. U. telegram two hours and
twenty minutes start and overtake it.

As I have said, the dispatch was handed in at Boston at 9.  The expected
visitors left Boston at 9.40, and reached my house at 12 noon, beating
the telegram 2 solid hours, and 5 minutes over.

The boy brought the telegram.  It was bald-headed with age, but still
legible.  The boy was prostrate with travel and exposure, but still
alive, and I went out to condole with him and get his last wishes and
send for the ambulance.  He was waiting to collect transportation before
turning his passing spirit to less serious affairs.  I found him
strangely intelligent, considering his condition and where he is getting
his training.  I asked him at what hour the telegram was handed to the
h. c. in Boston.  He answered brightly, that he didn't know.

I examined the blank, and sure enough the wary Boston h. c.  had
thoughtfully concealed that statistic.  I asked him at what hour it had
started from Boston.  He answered up as brightly as ever, and said he
didn't know.

I examined the blank, and sure enough the Boston h. c. had left that
statistic out in the cold, too.  In fact it turned out to be an official
concealment--no blank was provided for its exposure.  And none required
by the law, I suppose.  "It is a good one-sided idea," I remarked;
"They can take your money and ship your telegram next year if they want
to--you've no redress.  The law ought to extend the privilege to all of
us."

The boy looked upon me coldly.

I asked him when the telegram reached York Harbor.  He pointed to some
figures following the signature at the bottom of the blank--"12.14.
"I said it was now 1.45 and asked--

"Do you mean that it reached your morgue an hour and a half ago?"

He nodded assent.

"It was at that time half an hour too late to be of any use to me, if I
wanted to go and meet my people--which was the case--for by the wording
of the message you can see that they were to arrive at the station at
11.45.  Why did, your h. c. send me this useless message?  Can't he read?
Is he dead?"

"It's the rules."

"No, that does not account for it.  Would he have sent it if it had been
three years old, I in the meantime deceased, and he aware of it?"

The boy didn't know.

"Because, you know, a rule which required him to forward to the cemetery
to-day a dispatch due three years ago, would be as good a rule as one
which should require him to forward a telegram to me to-day which he knew
had lost all its value an hour or two before he started it.  The
construction of such a rule would discredit an idiot; in fact an idiot--
I mean a common ordinary Christian idiot, you understand--would be
ashamed of it, and for the sake of his reputation wouldn't make it.  What
do you think?"

He replied with much natural brilliancy that he wasn't paid for thinking.

This gave me a better opinion of the commercial intelligence pervading
his morgue than I had had before; it also softened my feelings toward
him, and also my tone, which had hitherto been tinged with bitterness.

"Let bygones be bygones," I said, gently, "we are all erring creatures,
and mainly idiots, but God made us so and it is dangerous to criticise."
                         Sincerely
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     One day there arrived from Europe a caller with a letter of
     introduction from Elizabeth, Queen of Rumania, better known as
     Carmen Sylva.  The visitor was Madam Hartwig, formerly an American
     girl, returning now, because of reduced fortunes, to find profitable
     employment in her own land.  Her husband, a man of high principle,
     had declined to take part in an "affair of honor," as recognized by
     the Continental code; hence his ruin.  Elizabeth of Rumania was one
     of the most loved and respected of European queens and an author of
     distinction.  Mark Twain had known her in Vienna.  Her letter to him
     and his own letter to the public (perhaps a second one, for its date
     is two years later) follow herewith.


                     From Carmen Sylva to Mark Twain:

                                                  BUCAREST, May 9, 1902.
HONORED MASTER,--If I venture to address you on behalf of a poor lady,
who is stranded in Bucarest I hope not to be too disagreeable.

Mrs. Hartwig left America at the age of fourteen in order to learn to
sing which she has done thoroughly.  Her husband had quite a brilliant
situation here till he refused to partake 'dans une afaire onereuse',
so it seems.  They haven't a penny and each of them must try to find a
living.  She is very nice and pleasant and her school is so good that she
most certainly can give excellent singing lessons.

I beg your pardon for being a bore to one I so deeply love and admire,
to whom I owe days and days of forgetfulness of self and troubles and the
intensest of all joys: Hero-worship!  People don't always realize what a
happiness that is!  God bless you for every beautiful thought you poured
into my tired heart and for every smile on a weary way!

                                                  CARMEN SYLVA.


                      From Mark Twain to the Public:

                                                       Nov.  16, '04.
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN,--I desire to recommend Madame Hartwig to my
friends and the public as a teacher of singing and as a concert-vocalist.
She has lived for fifteen years at the court of Roumania, and she brought
with her to America an autograph letter in which her Majesty the Queen of
Roumania cordially certified her to me as being an accomplished and
gifted singer and teacher of singing, and expressed a warm hope that her
professional venture among us would meet with success; through absence in
Europe I have had no opportunity to test the validity of the Queen's
judgment in the matter, but that judgment is the utterance of an entirely
competent authority--the best that occupies a throne, and as good as any
that sits elsewhere, as the musical world well knows--and therefore back
it without hesitation, and endorse it with confidence.

I will explain that the reason her Majesty tried to do her friend a
friendly office through me instead of through someone else was, not that
I was particularly the right or best person for the office, but because I
was not a stranger.  It is true that I am a stranger to some of the
monarchs--mainly through their neglect of their opportunities--but such
is not the case in the present instance.  The latter fact is a high
compliment to me, and perhaps I ought to conceal it.  Some people would.

                                        MARK TWAIN.




     Mrs. Clemens's improvement was scarcely perceptible.  It was not
     until October that they were able to remove her to Riverdale, and
     then only in a specially arranged invalid-car.  At the end of the
     long journey she was carried to her room and did not leave it again
     for many months.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                        RIVERDALE, N. Y., Oct. 31, '02.
DEAR JOE,--It is ten days since Susy [Twichell] wrote that you were laid
up with a sprained shoulder, since which time we have had no news about
it.  I hope that no news is good news, according to the proverb; still,
authoritative confirmation of it will be gladly received in this family,
if some of you will furnish it.  Moreover, I should like to know how and
where it happened.  In the pulpit, as like as not, otherwise you would
not be taking so much pains to conceal it.  This is not a malicious
suggestion, and not a personally-invented one: you told me yourself,
once, that you threw artificial power and impressiveness into places in
your sermons where needed, by "banging the bible"--(your own words.)
You have reached a time of life when it is not wise to take these risks.
You would better jump around.  We all have to change our methods as the
infirmities of age creep upon us.  Jumping around will be impressive now,
whereas before you were gray it would have excited remark.

Poor Livy drags along drearily.  It must be hard times for that turbulent
spirit.  It will be a long time before she is on her feet again.  It is a
most pathetic case.  I wish I could transfer it to myself.  Between
ripping and raging and smoking and reading, I could get a good deal of a
holiday out of it.

Clara runs the house smoothly and capably.  She is discharging a trial-
cook today and hiring another.
                    A power of love to you all!
                                                  MARK.


Such was the state of Mrs. Clemens's health that visitors were excluded
from the sick room, and even Clemens himself was allowed to see her no
more than a few moments at a time.  These brief, precious visits were the
chief interests of his long days.  Occasionally he was allowed to send
her a few lines, reporting his occupations, and these she was sometimes
permitted to answer.  Only one of his notes has been preserved, written
after a day, now rare, of literary effort.  Its signature, the letter Y,
stands for "Youth," always her name for him.


                             To Mrs. Clemens:

DEAR HEART,--I've done another full day's work, and finished before 4.
I have been reading and dozing since and would have had a real sleep a
few minutes ago but for an incursion to bring me a couple of unimportant
letters.  I've stuck to the bed all day and am getting back my lost
ground.  Next time I will be strictly careful and make my visit very
short--just a kiss and a rush.  Thank you for your dear, dear note; you
who are my own and only sweetheart.
                                        Sleep well!
                                                       Y.




XLII

LETTERS OF 1903.  TO VARIOUS PERSONS.  HARD DAYS AT RIVERDALE.
LAST SUMMER AT ELMIRA.  THE RETURN TO ITALY

The reader may perhaps recall that H. H. Rogers, some five or six years
earlier, had taken charge of the fortunes of Helen Keller, making it
possible for her to complete her education.  Helen had now written her
first book--a wonderful book--'The Story of My Life', and it had been
successfully published.  For a later generation it may be proper to
explain that the Miss Sullivan, later Mrs. Macy, mentioned in the letter
which follows, was the noble woman who had devoted her life to the
enlightenment of this blind, dumb girl--had made it possible for her to
speak and understand, and, indeed, to see with the eyes of luminous
imagination.

The case of plagiarism mentioned in this letter is not now remembered,
and does not matter, but it furnished a text for Mark Twain, whose
remarks on the subject in general are eminently worth while.


                   To Helen Keller, in Wrentham, Mass.:

                                             RIVERDALE-ON-THE-HUDSON,
                                             ST.  PATRICK'S DAY, '03.
DEAR HELEN,--I must steal half a moment from my work to say how glad I am
to have your book, and how highly I value it, both for its own sake and
as a remembrances of an affectionate friendship which has subsisted
between us for nine years without a break, and without a single act of
violence that I can call to mind.  I suppose there is nothing like it in
heaven; and not likely to be, until we get there and show off.  I often
think of it with longing, and how they'll say, "There they come--sit
down in front!" I am practicing with a tin halo.  You do the same.  I was
at Henry Rogers's last night, and of course we talked of you.  He is not
at all well; you will not like to hear that; but like you and me, he is
just as lovely as ever.

I am charmed with your book-enchanted.  You are a wonderful creature,
the most wonderful in the world--you and your other half together--
Miss Sullivan, I mean, for it took the pair of you to make a complete
and perfect whole.  How she stands out in her letters! her brilliancy,
penetration, originality, wisdom, character, and the fine literary
competencies of her pen--they are all there.

Oh, dear me, how unspeakably funny and owlishly idiotic and grotesque was
that "plagiarism" farce!  As if there was much of anything in any human
utterance, oral or written, except plagiarism!  The kernal, the soul--let
us go further and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable
material of all human utterances--is plagiarism.  For substantially all
ideas are second-hand, consciously and unconsciously drawn from a million
outside sources, and daily used by the garnerer with a pride and
satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them; whereas
there is not a rag of originality about them anywhere except the little
discoloration they get from his mental and moral calibre and his
temperament, and which is revealed in characteristics of phrasing.  When
a great orator makes a great speech you are listening to ten centuries
and ten thousand men--but we call it his speech, and really some
exceedingly small portion of it is his.  But not enough to signify.  It
is merely a Waterloo.  It is Wellington's battle, in some degree, and we
call it his; but there are others that contributed.  It takes a thousand
men to invent a telegraph, or a steam engine, or a phonograph, or a
photograph, or a telephone or any other important thing--and the last man
gets the credit and we forget the others.  He added his little mite--that
is all he did.  These object lessons should teach us that ninety-nine
parts of all things that proceed from the intellect are plagiarisms, pure
and simple; and the lesson ought to make us modest.  But nothing can do
that.

Then why don't we unwittingly reproduce the phrasing of a story, as well
as the story itself?  It can hardly happen--to the extent of fifty words
except in the case of a child: its memory-tablet is not lumbered with
impressions, and the actual language can have graving-room there, and
preserve the language a year or two, but a grown person's memory-tablet
is a palimpsest, with hardly a bare space upon which to engrave a phrase.
It must be a very rare thing that a whole page gets so sharply printed
upon a man's mind, by a single reading, that it will stay long enough to
turn up some time or other and be mistaken by him for his own.  No doubt
we are constantly littering our literature with disconnected sentences
borrowed from books at some unremembered time and now imagined to be our
own, but that is about the most we can do.  In 1866 I read Dr. Holmes's
poems, in the Sandwich Islands.  A year and a half later I stole his
dictation, without knowing it, and used it to dedicate my "Innocents
Abroad" with.  Then years afterwards I was talking with Dr. Holmes about
it.  He was not an ignorant ass--no, not he: he was not a collection of
decayed human turnips, like your "Plagiarism Court;" and so when I said,
"I know now where I stole it, but whom did you steal it from," he said,
"I don't remember; I only know I stole it from somebody, because I have
never originated anything altogether myself, nor met anybody who had."

To think of those solemn donkeys breaking a little child's heart with
their ignorant rubbish about plagiarism!  I couldn't sleep for
blaspheming about it last night. Why, their whole lives, their whole
histories, all their learning, all their thoughts, all their opinions
were one solid ruck of plagiarism, and they didn't know it and never
suspected it.  A gang of dull and hoary pirates piously setting
themselves the task of disciplining and purifying a kitten that they
think they've caught filching a chop!  Oh, dam--

But you finish it, dear, I am running short of vocabulary
today.  Ever lovingly your friend,
                                        MARK.

(Edited and modified by Clara Clemens, deputy to her mother, who for more
than 7 months has been ill in bed and unable to exercise her official
function.)


     The burden of the Clemens household had fallen almost entirely upon
     Clara Clemens.  In addition to supervising its customary affairs,
     she also shouldered the responsibility of an unusual combination of
     misfortunes, for besides the critical condition of her mother, her
     sister, Jean Clemens, was down with pneumonia, no word of which must
     come to Mrs. Clemens.  Certainly it was a difficult position.  In
     some account of it, which he set down later, Clemens wrote: "It was
     fortunate for us all that Clara's reputation for truthfulness was so
     well established in her mother's mind.  It was our daily protection
     from disaster.  The mother never doubted Clara's word.  Clara could
     tell her large improbabilities without exciting any suspicion,
     whereas if I tried to market even a small and simple one the case
     would have been different.  I was never able to get a reputation
     like Clara's."

     The accumulation of physical ailments in the Clemens home had
     somewhat modified Mark Twain's notion of medical practice.  He was
     no longer radical; he had become eclectic.  It is a good deal of a
     concession that he makes to Twichell, after those earlier letters
     from Sweden, in which osteopathy had been heralded as the anodyne
     for all human ills.


                  To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

DEAR JOE,--Livy does really make a little progress these past 3 or 4
days, progress which is visible to even the untrained eye.  The
physicians are doing good work with her, but my notion is, that no art of
healing is the best for all ills.  I should distribute the ailments
around: surgery cases to the surgeons; lupus to the actinic-ray
specialist; nervous prostration to the Christian Scientist; most ills to
the allopath and the homeopath; (in my own particular case) rheumatism,
gout and bronchial attacks to the osteopathist.

Mr. Rogers was to sail southward this morning--and here is this weather!
I am sorry.  I think it's a question if he gets away tomorrow.
                              Ys Ever
                                        MARK.


     It was through J. Y. M. MacAlister, to whom the next letter is
     written, that Mark Twain had become associated with the Plasmon
     Company, which explains the reference to "shares."  He had seen much
     of MacAlister during the winter at Tedworth Square, and had grown
     fond of him.  It is a characteristic letter, and one of interesting
     fact.


                    To J. Y. M. MacAlister, in London:

                                                  RIVERDALE, NEW YORK.
                                                       April, 7, '03.
DEAR MACALISTER,--Yours arrived last night, and God knows I was glad to
get it, for I was afraid I had blundered into an offence in some way and
forfeited your friendship--a kind of blunder I have made so many times in
my life that I am always standing in a waiting and morbid dread of its
occurrence.

Three days ago I was in condition--during one horribly long night--to
sympathetically roast with you in your "hell of troubles."  During that
night I was back again where I was in the black days when I was buried
under a mountain of debt.  I called the daughters to me in private
council and paralysed them with the announcement, "Our outgo has
increased in the past 8 months until our expenses are now 125 per cent.
greater than our income."

It was a mistake.  When I came down in the morning a gray and aged wreck,
and went over the figures again, I found that in some unaccountable way
(unaccountable to a business man but not to me) I had multiplied the
totals by 2.  By God I dropped 75 years on the floor where I stood.

Do you know it affected me as one is affected when he wakes out of a
hideous dream and finds that it was only a dream.  It was a great comfort
and satisfaction to me to call the daughters to a private meeting of the
Board again and say, "You need not worry any more; our outgo is only a
third more than our income; in a few months your mother will be out of
her bed and on her feet again--then we shall drop back to normal and be
all right."

Certainly there is a blistering and awful reality about a well-arranged
unreality.  It is quite within the possibilities that two or three nights
like that night of mine could drive a man to suicide.  He would refuse to
examine the figures; they would revolt him so, and he could go to his
death unaware that there was nothing serious about them.  I cannot get
that night out of my head, it was so vivid, so real, so ghastly.  In any
other year of these 33 the relief would have been simple: go where you
can cut your cloth to fit your income.  You can't do that when your wife
can't be moved, even from one room to the next.

Clam spells the trained nurse afternoons; I am allowed to see Mrs.
Clemens 20 minutes twice a day and write her two letters a day provided I
put no news in them.  No other person ever sees her except the physician
and now and then a nerve-specialist from New York.  She saw there was
something the matter that morning, but she got no facts out of me.  But
that is nothing--she hasn't had anything but lies for 8 months.  A fact
would give her a relapse.

The doctor and a specialist met in conspiracy five days ago, and in their
belief she will by and by come out of this as good as new, substantially.
They ordered her to Italy for next winter--which seems to indicate that
by autumn she will be able to undertake the voyage.  So Clara is writing
a Florence friend to take a look round among the villas for us in the
regions near that city.  It seems early to do this, but Joan Bergheim
thought it would be wise.

He and his wife lunched with us here yesterday.  They have been abroad in
Havana 4 months, and they sailed for England this morning.

I am enclosing an order for half of my (your) Founders shares.  You are
not to refuse them this time, though you have done it twice before.  They
are yours, not mine, and for your family's sake if not your own you
cannot in these cloudy days renounce this property which is so clearly
yours and theirs.  You have been generous long enough; be just, now to
yourself.  Mr. Rogers is off yachting for 5 or 6 weeks--I'll get them
when he returns.  The head of the house joins me in warmest greetings and
remembrances to you and Mrs. MacAlister.
                         Ever yours,
                                        Mark.

May 8.  Great Scott!  I never mailed this letter!  I addressed it, put
"Registered" on it--then left it lying unsealed on the arm of my chair,
and rushed up to my bed quaking with a chill.  I've never been out of the
bed since--oh, bronchitis, rheumatism, two sets of teeth aching, land,
I've had a dandy time for 4 weeks.  And to-day--great guns, one of the
very worst!  .  .  .

I'm devilish sorry, and I do apologise--for although I am not as slow as
you are about answering letters, as a rule, I see where I'm standing this
time.

Two weeks ago Jean was taken down again--this time with measles, and I
haven't been able to go to her and she hasn't been able to come to me.

But Mrs. Clemens is making nice progress, and can stand alone a moment or
two at a time.

Now I'll post this.
                                   MARK


     The two letters that follow, though written only a few days apart,
     were separated in their arrival by a period of seven years.  The
     second letter was, in some way, mislaid and not mailed; and it was
     not until after the writer of it was dead that it was found and
     forwarded.

     Mark Twain could never get up much enthusiasm for the writings of
     Scott.  His praise of Quentin Durward is about the only approval he
     ever accorded to the works of the great romanticist.


                    To Brander Matthews, in New York:

                                             NEW YORK CITY, May 4, '03.
DEAR BRANDER,--I haven't been out of my bed for four weeks, but--well, I
have been reading, a good deal, and it occurs to me to ask you to sit
down, some time or other when you have 8 or 9 months to spare, and jot me
down a certain few literary particulars for my help and elevation.  Your
time need not be thrown away, for at your further leisure you can make
Colombian lectures out of the results and do your students a good turn.

1.  Are there in Sir Walter's novels passages done in good English--
English which is neither slovenly or involved?

2.  Are there passages whose English is not poor and thin and
commonplace, but is of a quality above that?

3.  Are there passages which burn with real fire--not punk, fox-fire,
make believe?

4.  Has he heroes and heroines who are not cads and cadesses?

5.  Has he personages whose acts and talk correspond with their
characters as described by him?

6.  Has he heroes and heroines whom the reader admires, admires, and
knows why?

7.  Has he funny characters that are funny, and humorous passages that
are humorous?

8.  Does he ever chain the reader's interest, and make him reluctant to
lay the book down?

9.  Are there pages where he ceases from posing, ceases from admiring the
placid flood and flow of his own dilutions, ceases from being artificial,
and is for a time, long or short, recognizably sincere and in earnest?

10.  Did he know how to write English, and didn't do it because he didn't
want to?

11.  Did he use the right word only when he couldn't think of another
one, or did he run so much to wrong because he didn't know the right one
when he saw it?

13.  Can you read him?  and keep your respect for him?  Of course a
person could in his day--an era of sentimentality and sloppy romantics--
but land!  can a body do it today?

Brander, I lie here dying, slowly dying, under the blight of Sir Walter.
I have read the first volume of Rob Roy, and as far as chapter XIX of Guy
Mannering, and I can no longer hold my head up nor take my nourishment.
Lord, it's all so juvenile! so artificial, so shoddy; and such wax
figures and skeletons and spectres.  Interest?  Why, it is impossible to
feel an interest in these bloodless shams, these milk-and-water humbugs.
And oh, the poverty of the invention!  Not poverty in inventing
situations, but poverty in furnishing reasons for them.  Sir Walter
usually gives himself away when he arranges for a situation--elaborates,
and elaborates, and elaborates, till if you live to get to it you don't
believe in it when it happens.

I can't find the rest of Rob Roy, I can't stand any more Mannering--I do
not know just what to do, but I will reflect, and not quit this great
study rashly.  He was great, in his day, and to his proper audience; and
so was God in Jewish times, for that matter, but why should either of
them rank high now?  And do they?--honest, now, do they?  Dam'd if I
believe it.

My, I wish I could see you and Leigh Hunt!
`                             Sincerely Yours
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


                    To Brander Matthews, in New York:

                              RIVERDALE, May 8,'03 (Mailed June, 1910).
DEAR BRANDER,--I'm still in bed, but the days have lost their dulness
since I broke into Sir Walter and lost my temper.  I finished Guy
Mannering--that curious, curious book, with its mob of squalid shadows
jabbering around a single flesh-and-blood being--Dinmont; a book crazily
put together out of the very refuse of the romance-artist's stage
properties--finished it and took up Quentin Durward, and finished that.

It was like leaving the dead to mingle with the living: it was like
withdrawing from the infant class in the College of journalism to sit
under the lectures in English literature in Columbia University.

I wonder who wrote Quentin Durward?
                                   Yrs ever
                                             MARK.


     In 1903, preparations were going on for a great world's fair, to be
     held in St. Louis, and among other features proposed was a World's
     Literary Convention, with a week to be set apart in honor of Mark
     Twain, and a special Mark Twain Day in it, on which the National
     Association would hold grand services in honor of the distinguished
     Missourian.  A letter asking his consent to the plan brought the
     following reply.


                      To T.  F.  Gatts, of Missouri:

                                                  NEW YORK, May 30, 1903.
DEAR MR. GATTS,--It is indeed a high compliment which you offer me in
naming an association after me and in proposing the setting apart of a
Mark Twain day at the great St. Louis fair, but such compliments are not
proper for the living; they are proper and safe for the dead only.  I
value the impulse which moves you to tender me these honors.  I value it
as highly as any one can, and am grateful for it, but I should stand in a
sort of terror of the honors themselves.  So long as we remain alive we
are not safe from doing things which, however righteously and honorably
intended, can wreck our repute and extinguish our friendships.

I hope that no society will be named for me while I am still alive, for I
might at some time or other do something which would cause its members to
regret having done me that honor.  After I shall have joined the dead I
shall follow the customs of those people and be guilty of no conduct that
can wound any friend; but until that time shall come I shall be a
doubtful quantity like the rest of our race.
                              Very truly yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     The National Mark Twain Association did not surrender easily.  Mr.
     Gatts wrote a second letter full of urgent appeal.  If Mark Twain
     was tempted, we get no hint of it in his answer.


                       To T. F. Gatts, of Missouri:

                                             NEW YORK, June 8, 1903.
DEAR MR. GATTS,--While I am deeply touched by the desire of my friends of
Hannibal to confer these great honors upon me, I must still forbear to
accept them.  Spontaneous and unpremeditated honors, like those which
came to me at Hannibal, Columbia, St. Louis and at the village stations
all down the line, are beyond all price and are a treasure for life in
the memory, for they are a free gift out of the heart and they come
without solicitations; but I am a Missourian and so I shrink from
distinctions which have to be arranged beforehand and with my privity,
for I then became a party to my own exalting.  I am humanly fond of
honors that happen but chary of those that come by canvass and intention.
With sincere thanks to you and your associates for this high compliment
which you have been minded to offer me, I am,
                                   Very truly yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


     We have seen in the letter to MacAlister that Mark Twain's wife had
     been ordered to Italy and plans were in progress for an
     establishment there.  By the end of June Mrs. Clemens was able to
     leave Riverdale, and she made the journey to Quarry Farm, Elmira,
     where they would remain until October, the month planned for their
     sailing.  The house in Hartford had been sold; and a house which,
     prior to Mrs. Clemens's breakdown they had bought near Tarrytown
     (expecting to settle permanently on the Hudson) had been let.  They
     were going to Europe for another indefinite period.

     At Quarry Farm Mrs. Clemens continued to improve, and Clemens, once
     more able to work, occupied the study which Mrs. Crane had built for
     him thirty years before, and where Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn and the
     Wandering Prince had been called into being.


               To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford, Conn.:

                                             QUARRY FARM, ELMIRA, N. Y.,
                                                       July 21, '03.
DEAR JOE,--That love-letter delighted Livy beyond any like utterance
received by her these thirty years and more.  I was going to answer it
for her right away, and said so; but she reserved the privilege to
herself.  I judge she is accumulating Hot Stuff--as George Ade would say
.  .  .  .

Livy is coming along: eats well, sleeps some, is mostly very gay, not
very often depressed; spends all day on the porch, sleeps there a part of
the night, makes excursions in carriage and in wheel-chair; and, in the
matter of superintending everything and everybody, has resumed business
at the old stand.

Did you ever go house-hunting 3,000 miles away?  It costs three months of
writing and telegraphing to pull off a success.  We finished 3 or 4 days
ago, and took the Villa Papiniano (dam the name, I have to look at it a
minutes after writing it, and then am always in doubt) for a year by
cable.  Three miles outside of Florence, under Fiesole--a darling
location, and apparently a choice house, near Fiske.

There's 7 in our gang.  All women but me.  It means trunks and things.
But thanks be!  To-day (this is private) comes a most handsome voluntary
document with seals and escutcheons on it from the Italian Ambassador
(who is a stranger to me) commanding the Customs people to keep their
hands off the Clemens's things.  Now wasn't it lovely of him?  And wasn't
it lovely of me to let Livy take a pencil and edit my answer and knock a
good third of it out?

And that's a nice ship--the Irene!  new--swift--13,000 tons--rooms up in
the sky, open to sun and air--and all that.  I was desperately troubled
for Livy--about the down-cellar cells in the ancient "Latin."

The cubs are in Riverdale, yet; they come to us the first week in August.
               With lots and lots of love to you all,
                                        MARK.


     The arrangement for the Villa Papiniano was not completed, after
     all, and through a good friend, George Gregory Smith, a resident of
     Florence, the Villa Quarto, an ancient home of royalty, on the hills
     west of Florence, was engaged.  Smith wrote that it was a very
     beautiful place with a south-eastern exposure, looking out toward
     Valombrosa and the Chianti Hills.  It had extensive grounds and
     stables, and the annual rental for it all was two thousand dollars a
     year.  It seemed an ideal place, in prospect, and there was great
     hope that Mrs. Clemens would find her health once more in the
     Italian climate which she loved.

     Perhaps at this point, when Mark Twain is once more leaving America,
     we may offer two letters from strangers to him--letters of
     appreciation--such as he was constantly receiving from those among
     the thousands to whom he had given happiness.  The first is from
     Samuel Merwin, one day to become a popular novelist, then in the
     hour of his beginnings.


                    To Mark Twain, from Samuel Merwin:

                                                       PLAINFIELD, N. J.
                                                       August 4, 1903.
DEAR MR. CLEMENS,--For a good many years I have been struggling with the
temptation to write you and thank you for the work you have done; and to-
day I seem to be yielding.

During the past two years I have been reading through a group of writers
who seem to me to represent about the best we have--Sir Thomas Malory,
Spenser, Shakespeare, Boswell, Carlyle, Le Sage.  In thinking over one
and then another, and then all of them together, it was plain to see why
they were great men and writers: each brought to his time some new blood,
new ideas,--turned a new current into the stream.  I suppose there have
always been the careful, painstaking writers, the men who are always
taken so seriously by their fellow craftsmen.  It seems to be the
unconventional man who is so rare--I mean the honestly unconventional
man, who has to express himself in his own big way because the
conventional way isn't big enough, because ne needs room and freedom.

We have a group of the more or less conventional men now--men of dignity
and literary position.  But in spite of their influence and of all the
work they have done, there isn't one of them to whom one can give one's
self up without reservation, not one whose ideas seem based on the deep
foundation of all true philosophy,--except Mark Twain.

I hope this letter is not an impertinence.  I have just been turning
about, with my head full of Spenser and Shakespeare and "Gil Blas,"
looking for something in our own present day literature to which I could
surrender myself as to those five gripping old writings.  And nothing
could I find until I took up "Life on the Mississippi," and "Huckleberry
Finn," and, just now, the "Connecticut Yankee."  It isn't the first time
I have read any of these three, and it's because I know it won't be the
last, because these books are the only ones written in my lifetime that
claim my unreserved interest and admiration and, above all, my feelings,
that I've felt I had to write this letter.

I like to think that "Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn" will be looked
upon, fifty or a hundred years from now, as the picture of buoyant,
dramatic, human American life.  I feel, deep in my own heart, pretty sure
that they will be.  They won't be looked on then as the work of a
"humorist" any more than we think of Shakespeare as a humorist now.
I don't mean by this to set up a comparison between Mark Twain and
Shakespeare: I don't feel competent to do it; and I'm not at all sure
that it could be done until Mark Twain's work shall have its fair share
of historical perspective.  But Shakespeare was a humorist and so, thank
Heaven! is Mark Twain.  And Shakespeare plunged deep into the deep, sad
things of life; and so, in a different way (but in a way that has more
than once brought tears to my eyes) has Mark Twain.  But after all, it
isn't because of any resemblance for anything that was ever before
written that Mark Twain's books strike in so deep: it's rather because
they've brought something really new into our literature--new, yet old as
Adam and Eve and the Apple.  And this achievement, the achievement of
putting something into literature that was not there before, is, I should
think, the most that any writer can ever hope to do.  It is the one mark
of distinction between the "lonesome" little group of big men and the
vast herd of medium and small ones.  Anyhow, this much I am sure of--to
the young man who hopes, however feebly, to accomplish a little
something, someday, as a writer, the one inspiring example of our time is
Mark Twain.
                         Very truly yours,
                                        SAMUEL MERWIN.


Mark Twain once said he could live a month on a good compliment, and from
his reply, we may believe this one to belong in, that class.


                 To Samuel Merwin, in Plainfield, N. J.:

                                                       Aug.  16, '03.
DEAR MR. MERWIN,--What you have said has given me deep pleasure--indeed I
think no words could be said that could give me more.
                              Very sincerely yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


     The next "compliment" is from one who remains unknown, for she
     failed to sign her name in full.  But it is a lovely letter, and
     loses nothing by the fact that the writer of it was willing to
     remain in obscurity.


                   To Mark Twain, from Margaret M----:

                                                  PORTLAND, OREGON
                                                  Aug. 18, 1903.
MY DEAR, DEAR MARK TWAIN,--May a little girl write and tell you how
dearly she loves and admires your writings?  Well, I do and I want to
tell you your ownself.  Don't think me too impertinent for indeed I don't
mean to be that!  I have read everything of yours that I could get and
parts that touch me I have read over and over again.  They seem such dear
friends to me, so like real live human beings talking and laughing,
working and suffering too!  One cannot but feel that it is your own life
and experience that you have painted.  So do not wonder that you seem a
dear friend to me who has never even seen you.  I often think of you as
such in my own thoughts.  I wonder if you will laugh when I tell you I
have made a hero of you?  For when people seem very sordid and mean and
stupid (and it seems as if everybody was) then the thought will come like
a little crumb of comfort "well, Mark Twain isn't anyway."  And it does
really brighten me up.

You see I have gotten an idea that you are a great, bright spirit of
kindness and tenderness.  One who can twist everybody's-even your own-
faults and absurdities into hearty laughs.  Even the person mocked must
laugh!  Oh, Dear!  How often you have made me laugh!  And yet as often
you have struck something infinite away down deep in my heart so that I
want to cry while half laughing!

So this all means that I want to thank you and to tell you.  "God always
love Mark Twain!" is often my wish. I dearly love to read books, and I
never tire of reading yours; they always have a charm for me.  Good-bye,
I am afraid I have not expressed what I feel.  But at least I have tried.
                         Sincerely yours.
                                   MARGARET M.----


     Clemens and family left Elmira October the 5th for New York City.
     They remained at the Hotel Grosvenor until their sailing date,
     October 24th.  A few days earlier, Mr. Frank Doubleday sent a volume
     of Kipling's poems and de Blowitz's Memoirs for entertainment on the
     ship.  Mark Twain's acknowledgment follows.


                     To F. N. Doubleday, in New York:

                                                       THE GROSVENOR,
                                                       October 12, '03.
DEAR DOUBLEDAY,--The books came--ever so many thanks.  I have been
reading "The Bell Buoy" and "The Old Men" over and over again--my custom
with Kipling's work-and saving up the rest for other leisurely and
luxurious meals.  A bell-buoy is a deeply impressive fellow-being.  In
these many recent trips up and down the Sound in the Kanawha--
[Mr. Rogers's yacht.]--he has talked to me nightly, sometimes in his
pathetic and melancholy way, sometimes with his strenuous and urgent
note, and I got his meaning--now I have his words!  No one but Kipling
could do this strong and vivid thing.  Some day I hope to hear the poem
chanted or sung--with the bell-buoy breaking in, out of the distance.

"The Old Men," delicious, isn't it?  And so comically true.  I haven't
arrived there yet, but I suppose I am on the way....
                                   Yours ever,
                                             MARK.

P. S.  Your letter has arrived.  It makes me proud and glad--what Kipling
says.  I hope Fate will fetch him to Florence while we are there.
I would rather see him than any other man.

We've let the Tarrytown house for a year.  Man, you would never have
believed a person could let a house in these times.  That one's for sale,
the Hartford one is sold.  When we buy again may we--may I--be damned....

I've dipped into Blowitz and find him quaintly and curiously interesting.
I think he tells the straight truth, too.  I knew him a little, 23 years
ago.

     The appreciative word which Kipling had sent Doubleday was: "I love
     to think of the great and God-like Clemens.  He is the biggest man
     you have on your side of the water by a damn sight, and don't you
     forget it.  Cervantes was a relation of his."




XLIII

LETTERS OF 1904.  TO VARIOUS PERSONS.  LIFE IN VILLA QUARTO.  DEATH OF
MRS. CLEMENS.  THE RETURN TO AMERICA

Mrs. Clemens stood the voyage to Italy very well and, in due time, the
family were installed in the Villa Reale di Quarto, the picturesque old
Palace of Cosimo, a spacious, luxurious place, even if not entirely
cheerful or always comfortable during the changeable Tuscan winter.
Congratulated in a letter from MacAlister in being in the midst of
Florentine sunshine, he answered: "Florentine sunshine?  Bless you, there
isn't any.  We have heavy fogs every morning, and rain all day.  This
house is not merely large, it is vast--therefore I think it must always
lack the home feeling."

Neither was their landlady, the American wife of an Italian count, all
that could be desired.  From a letter to Twichell, however, we learn that
Mark Twain's work was progressing well.


                   To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                                  VILLA DI QUARTO,
                                             FLORENCE, Jan. 7, '04.
DEAR JOE,--.  .  .  I have had a handsome success, in one way, here.
I left New York under a sort of half promise to furnish to the Harper
magazines 30,000 words this year.  Magazining is difficult work because
every third page represents 2 pages that you have put in the fire;
(because you are nearly sure to start wrong twice) and so when you have
finished an article and are willing to let it go to print it represents
only 10 cents a word instead of 30.

But this time I had the curious (and unprecedented) luck to start right
in each case.  I turned out 37,000 words in 25 working days; and the
reason I think I started right every time is, that not only have I
approved and accepted the several articles, but the court of last resort
(Livy) has done the same.

On many of the between-days I did some work, but only of an idle and not
necessarily necessary sort, since it will not see print until I am dead.
I shall continue this (an hour per day) but the rest of the year I expect
to put in on a couple of long books (half-completed ones.) No more
magazine-work hanging over my head.

This secluded and silent solitude this clean, soft air and this
enchanting view of Florence, the great valley and the snow-mountains that
frame it are the right conditions for work.  They are a persistent
inspiration.  To-day is very lovely; when the afternoon arrives there
will be a new picture every hour till dark, and each of them divine--or
progressing from divine to diviner and divinest.  On this (second) floor
Clara's room commands the finest; she keeps a window ten feet high wide
open all the time and frames it in.  I go in from time to time, every day
and trade sass for a look.  The central detail is a distant and stately
snow-hump that rises above and behind blackforested hills, and its
sloping vast buttresses, velvety and sun-polished with purple shadows
between, make the sort of picture we knew that time we walked in
Switzerland in the days of our youth.

I wish I could show your letter to Livy--but she must wait a week or so
for it.  I think I told you she had a prostrating week of tonsilitis a
month ago; she has remained very feeble ever since, and confined to the
bed of course, but we allow ourselves to believe she will regain the lost
ground in another month.  Her physician is Professor Grocco--she could
not have a better.  And she has a very good trained nurse.

Love to all of you from all of us.  And to all of our dear Hartford
friends.
                    MARK

P. S.  3 days later.

Livy is as remarkable as ever.  The day I wrote you--that night, I mean--
she had a bitter attack of gout or rheumatism occupying the whole left
arm from shoulder to fingers, accompanied by fever.  The pains racked her
50 or 6o hours; they have departed, now--and already she is planning a
trip to Egypt next fall, and a winter's sojourn there!  This is life in
her yet.

You will be surprised that I was willing to do so much magazine-writing--
a thing I have always been chary about--but I had good reasons.  Our
expenses have been so prodigious for a year and a half, and are still so
prodigious, that Livy was worrying altogether too much about them, and
doing a very dangerous amount of lying awake on their account.  It was
necessary to stop that, and it is now stopped.

Yes, she is remarkable, Joe.  Her rheumatic attack set me to cursing and
swearing, without limit as to time or energy, but it merely concentrated
her patience and her unconquerable fortitude.  It is the difference
between us.  I can't count the different kinds of ailments which have
assaulted her in this fiendish year and a half--and I forgive none of
them--but here she comes up again as bright and fresh and enterprising as
ever, and goes to planning about Egypt, with a hope and a confidence
which are to me amazing.

Clara is calling for me--we have to go into town and pay calls.

                                   MARK.


     In Florence, that winter, Clemens began dictating to his secretary
     some autobiographical chapters.  This was the work which was "not to
     see print until I am dead."  He found it a pleasant, lazy occupation
     and wrote his delight in it to Howells in a letter which seems not
     to have survived.  In his reply, Howells wrote: "You do stir me
     mightily with the hope of dictating and I will try it when I get the
     chance.  But there is the tempermental difference.  You are dramatic
     and unconscious; you count the thing more than yourself; I am cursed
     with consciousness to the core, and can't say myself out; I am
     always saying myself in, and setting myself above all that I say, as
     of more worth.  Lately I have felt as if I were rotting with
     egotism.  I don't admire myself; I am sick of myself; but I can't
     think of anything else.  Here I am at it now, when I ought to be
     rejoicing with you at the blessing you have found ....  I'd like,
     immensely, to read your autobiography.  You always rather bewildered
     me by your veracity, and I fancy you may tell the truth about
     yourself.  But all of it?  The black truth which we all know of
     ourselves in our hearts, or only the whity-brown truth of the
     pericardium, or the nice, whitened truth of the shirtfront?  Even
     you won't tell the black heart's--truth.  The man who could do it
     would be famed to the last day the sun shone upon."

     We gather from Mark Twain's answer that he was not deceiving himself
     in the matter of his confessions.


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York:

                                             VILLA DI QUARTO, FLORENCE,
                                                       March 14, '04.
DEAR HOWELLS,--Yes, I set up the safeguards, in the first day's
dictating; taking this position: that an autobiography is the truest of
all books; for while it inevitably consists mainly of extinctions of the
truth, shirkings of the truth, partial revealments of the truth, with
hardly an instance of plain straight truth, the remorseless truth is
there, between the lines, where the author is raking dust upon it, the
result being that the reader knows the author in spite of his wily
diligences.

The summer in England! you can't ask better luck than that.  Then you
will run over to Florence; we shall all be hungry to see you-all.  We are
hunting for another villa, (this one is plenty large enough but has no
room in it) but even if we find it I am afraid it will be months before
we can move Mrs. Clemens.  Of course it will.  But it comforts us to let
on that we think otherwise, and these pretensions help to keep hope alive
in her.
                    Good-bye, with love, Amen.
                              Yours ever
                                        MARK.


     News came of the death of Henry M.  Stanley, one of Mark Twain's
     oldest friends.  Clemens once said that he had met Stanley in St.
     Louis where he (Clemens) had delivered a lecture which Stanley had
     reported.  In the following letter he fixes the date of their
     meeting as early in 1867, which would be immediately after Mark
     Twain's return from California, and just prior to the Quaker City
     excursion--a fact which is interesting only because it places the
     two men together when each was at the very beginning of a great
     career.


                       To Lady Stanley, in England:

                                   VILLA DI QUARTO, FIRENZE, May 11, '04.
DEAR LADY STANLEY,--I have lost a dear and honored friend--how fast they
fall about me now, in my age!  The world has lost a tried and proved
hero.  And you--what have you lost?  It is beyond estimate--we who know
you, and what he was to you, know that.  How far he stretches across my
life!  I knew him when his work was all before him five years before the
great day that he wrote his name far-away up on the blue of the sky for
the world to see and applaud and remember; I have known him as friend and
intimate ever since.  It is 37 years.  I have known no other friend and
intimate so long, except John Hay--a friendship which dates from the same
year and the same half of it, the first half of 1867.  I grieve with you
and with your family, dear Lady Stanley, it is all I can do; but that I
do out of my heart.  It would be we, instead of I, if Mrs. Clemens knew,
but in all these 20 months that she has lain a prisoner in her bed we
have hidden from her all things that could sadden her.  Many a friend is
gone whom she still asks about and still thinks is living.

In deepest sympathy I beg the privilege of signing myself
                         Your friend,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


                  To  Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                        VILLA DI QUARTO, May 11, '04
DEAR JOE,--Yours has this moment arrived--just as I was finishing a note
to poor Lady Stanley.  I believe the last country-house visit we paid in
England was to Stanley's.  Lord, how my friends and acquaintances fall
about me now, in my gray-headed days!  Vereschagin, Mommsen, Dvorak,
Lenbach, Jokai--all so recently, and now Stanley.  I had known Stanley 37
years.  Goodness, who is it I haven't known!  As a rule the necrologies
find me personally interested--when they treat of old stagers.  Generally
when a man dies who is worth cabling, it happens that I have run across
him somewhere, some time or other.

Oh, say!  Down by the Laurentian Library there's a marble image that has
been sitting on its pedestal some 450 Years, if my dates are right--
Cosimo I.  I've seen the back of it many a time, but not the front; but
yesterday I twisted my head around after we had driven by, and the
profane exclamation burst from my mouth before I could think: "there's
Chauncey Depew!"

I mean to get a photo of it--and use it if it confirms yesterday's
conviction.  That's a very nice word from the Catholic Magazine and I am
glad you sent it.  I mean to show it to my priest--we are very fond of
him.  He is a stealing man, and is also learnedly scientific.  He
invented the thing which records the seismatic disturbances, for the
peoples of the earth.  And he's an astronomer and has an observatory of
his own.

Ah, many's the cry I have, over reflecting that maybe we could have had
Young Harmony for Livy, and didn't have wit enough to think of it.

Speaking of Livy reminds me that your inquiry arrives at a good time
(unberufen) It has been weeks (I don't know how many!) since we could
have said a hopeful word, but this morning Katy came the minute the day-
nurse came on watch and said words of a strange and long-forgotten sound:
"Mr. Clemens, Mrs. Clemens is really and truly better!--anybody can see
it; she sees it herself; and last night at 9 o'clock she said it."

There--it is heart-warming, it is splendid, it is sublime; let us enjoy
it, let us make the most of it today--and bet not a farthing on tomorrow.
The tomorrows have nothing for us.  Too many times they have breathed the
word of promise to our ear and broken it to our hope.  We take no
tomorrow's word any more.

You've done a wonder, Joe: you've written a letter that can be sent in to
Livy--that doesn't often happen, when either a friend or a stranger
writes.  You did whirl in a P. S. that wouldn't do, but you wrote it on a
margin of a page in such a way that I was able to clip off the margin
clear across both pages, and now Livy won't perceive that the sheet isn't
the same size it used to was.  It was about Aldrich's son, and I came
near forgetting to remove it.  It should have been written on a loose
strip and enclosed.  That son died on the 5th of March and Aldrich wrote
me on the night before that his minutes were numbered.  On the 18th Livy
asked after that patient, and I was prepared, and able to give her a
grateful surprise by telling her "the Aldriches are no longer uneasy
about him."

I do wish I could have been present and heard Charley Clark.  When he
can't light up a dark place nobody can.
                    With lots of love to you all.
                                                  MARK.


     Mrs. Clemens had her bad days and her good days-days when there
     seemed no ray of light, and others that seemed almost to promise
     recovery.  The foregoing letter to Twichell, and the one which
     follows, to Richard Watson Gilder, reflect the hope and fear that
     daily and hourly alternated at Villa Quarto


                  To Richard Watson Gilder, in New York:

                                        VILLA DI QUARTO, FLORENCE,
                                             May 12, '04.
DEAR GILDER,--A friend of ours (the Baroness de Nolda) was here this
afternoon and wanted a note of introduction to the Century, for she has
something to sell to you in case you'll want to make her an offer after
seeing a sample of the goods.  I said "With pleasure: get the goods
ready, send the same to me, I will have Jean type-write them, then I will
mail them to the Century and tonight I will write the note to Mr. Gilder
and start it along.  Also write me a letter embodying what you have been
saying to me about the goods and your proposed plan of arranging and
explaining them, and I will forward that to Gilder too."

As to the Baroness.  She is a German; 30 years old; was married at 17; is
very pretty-indeed I might say very pretty; has a lot of sons (5) running
up from seven to 12 years old.  Her husband is a Russian.  They live half
the time in Russia and the other half in Florence, and supply population
alternately to the one country and then to the other.  Of course it is a
family that speaks languages.  This occurs at their table--I know it by
experience: It is Babel come again.  The other day, when no guests were
present to keep order, the tribes were all talking at once, and 6
languages were being traded in; at last the littlest boy lost his temper
and screamed out at the top of his voice, with angry sobs: "Mais,
vraiment, io non capisco gar nichts."

The Baroness is a little afraid of her English, therefore she will write
her remarks in French--I said there's a plenty of translators in New
York.  Examine her samples and drop her a line.

For two entire days, now, we have not been anxious about Mrs. Clemens
(unberufen).  After 20 months of bed-ridden solitude and bodily misery
she all of a sudden ceases to be a pallid shrunken shadow, and looks
bright and young and pretty.  She remains what she always was, the most
wonderful creature of fortitude, patience, endurance and recuperative
power that ever was.  But ah, dear, it won't last; this fiendish malady
will play new treacheries upon her, and I shall go back to my prayers
again--unutterable from any pulpit!
                    With love to you and yours,
                                             S. L. C.

May 13 10 A.M.  I have just paid one of my pair of permitted 2 minutes
visits per day to the sick room.  And found what I have learned to
expect--retrogression, and that pathetic something in the eye which
betrays the secret of a waning hope.


     The year of the World's Fair had come, and an invitation from Gov.
     Francis, of Missouri, came to Mark Twain in Florence, personally
     inviting him to attend the great celebration and carry off first
     prize.  We may believe that Clemens felt little in the spirit of
     humor, but to such an invitation he must send a cheerful, even if
     disappointing, answer.


                      To Gov. Francis, of Missouri:

                                             VILLA DI QUARTO, FIRENZE,
                                                       May 26, 1904.
DEAR GOVERNOR FRANCIS,--It has been a dear wish of mine to exhibit myself
at the Great Fair and get a prize, but circumstances beyond my control
have interfered, and I must remain in Florence.  Although I have never
taken prizes anywhere else I used to take them at school in Missouri half
a century ago, and I ought to be able to repeat, now, if I could have a
chance.  I used to get the medal for good spelling, every week, and I
could have had the medal for good conduct if there hadn't been so much
curruption in Missouri in those days; still, I got it several times by
trading medals and giving boot.  I am willing to give boot now, if--
however, those days are forever gone by in Missouri, and perhaps it is
better so.  Nothing ever stops the way it was in this changeable world.
Although I cannot be at the Fair, I am going to be represented there
anyway, by a portrait, by Professor Gelli.  You will find it excellent.
Good judges here say it is better than the original.  They say it has all
the merits of the original and keeps still, besides.  It sounds like
flattery, but it is just true.

I suppose you will get a prize, because you have created the most
prodigious and in all ways most wonderful Fair the planet has ever seen.
Very well, you have indeed earned it: and with it the gratitude of the
State and the nation.
                                   Sincerely yours,
                                                  MARK TWAIN

     It was only a few days after the foregoing was written that death
     entered Villa Quarto--unexpectedly at last--for with the first June
     days Mrs. Clemens had seemed really to improve.  It was on Sunday,
     June 5th, that the end came.  Clemens, with his daughter Jean, had
     returned from a long drive, during which they had visited a Villa
     with the thought of purchase.  On their return they were told that
     their patient had been better that afternoon than for three months.
     Yet it was only a few hours later that she left them, so suddenly
     and quietly that even those near her did not at first realize that
     she was gone.


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York.

                                        VILLA DI QUARTO, FLORENCE,
                                             June 6, '94. [1904]
DEAR HOWELLS,--Last night at 9.20 I entered Mrs. Clemens's room to say
the usual goodnight--and she was dead--tho' no one knew it.  She had been
cheerfully talking, a moment before.  She was sitting up in bed--she had
not lain down for months--and Katie and the nurse were supporting her.
They supposed she had fainted, and they were holding the oxygen pipe to
her mouth, expecting to revive her.  I bent over her and looked in her
face, and I think I spoke--I was surprised and troubled that she did not
notice me.  Then we understood, and our hearts broke.  How poor we are
today!

But how thankful I am that her persecutions are ended.  I would not call
her back if I could.

Today, treasured in her worn old Testament, I found a dear and gentle
letter from you, dated Far Rockaway, Sept.  13, 1896, about our poor
Susy's death.  I am tired and old; I wish I were with Livy.

I send my love-and hers-to you all.
                                   S. L. C.


     In a letter to Twichell he wrote: "How sweet she was in death; how
     young, how beautiful, how like her dear, girlish self cf thirty
     years ago; not a gray hair showing."

     The family was now without plans for the future until they
     remembered the summer home of R. W. Gilder, at Tyringham,
     Massachusetts, and the possibility of finding lodgment for
     themselves in that secluded corner of New England.  Clemens wrote
     without delay, as follows:


                      To R. W. Gilder, in New York:

                                             VILLA DI QUARTO, FLORENCE,
                                                  June 7, '04.
DEAR GILDER FAMILY,--I have been worrying and worrying to know what to
do: at last I went to the girls with an idea: to ask the Gilders to get
us shelter near their summer home.  It was the first time they have not
shaken their heads.  So to-morrow I will cable to you and shall hope to
be in time.

An, hour ago the best heart that ever beat for me and mine went silent
out of this house, and I am as one who wanders and has lost his way.  She
who is gone was our head, she was our hands.  We are now trying to make
plans--we: we who have never made a plan before, nor ever needed to.  If
she could speak to us she would make it all simple and easy with a word,
and our perplexities would vanish away.  If she had known she was near to
death she would have told us where to go and what to do: but she was not
suspecting, neither were we.  (She had been chatting cheerfully a moment
before, and in an instant she was gone from us and we did not know it.
We were not alarmed, we did not know anything had happened.  It was a
blessed death--she passed away without knowing it.) She was all our
riches and she is gone: she was our breath, she was our life and now we
are nothing.

We send you our love--and with it the love of you that was in her heart
when she died.
                         S.  L.  CLEMENS.


     Howells wrote his words of sympathy, adding: "The character which
     now remains a memory was one of the most perfect ever formed on the
     earth," and again, after having received Clemens's letter: "I cannot
     speak of your wife's having kept that letter of mine where she did.
     You know how it must humiliate a man in his unworthiness to have
     anything of his so consecrated.  She hallowed what she touched, far
     beyond priests."


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York:

                                        VILLA DI QUARTO, '04.
                                             June 12, 6 p. m.
DEAR HOWELLS,--We have to sit and hold our hands and wait--in the silence
and solitude of this prodigious house; wait until June 25, then we go to
Naples and sail in the Prince Oscar the 26th.  There is a ship 12 days
earlier (but we came in that one.) I see Clara twice a day--morning and
evening--greeting--nothing more is allowed.  She keeps her bed, and says
nothing.  She has not cried yet.  I wish she could cry.  It would break
Livy's heart to see Clara.  We excuse ourselves from all the friends that
call--though of course only intimates come.  Intimates--but they are not
the old old friends, the friends of the old, old times when we laughed.

Shall we ever laugh again?  If I could only see a dog that I knew in the
old times! and could put my arms around his neck and tell him all,
everything, and ease my heart.

Think-in 3 hours it will be a week!--and soon a month; and by and by a
year.  How fast our dead fly from us.

She loved you so, and was always as pleased as a child with any notice
you took of her.

Soon your wife will be with you, oh fortunate man!  And John, whom mine
was so fond of.  The sight of him was such a delight to her.  Lord, the
old friends, how dear they are.
                                   S. L. C.


                   To Rev. J. R. Twichell, in Hartford:

                                        VILLA DI QUARTO, FLORENCE,
                                                  June 18, '04.
DEAR JOE,--It is 13 days.  I am bewildered and must remain so for a time
longer.  It was so sudden, so unexpected.  Imagine a man worth a hundred
millions who finds himself suddenly penniless and fifty million in debt
in his old age.

I was richer than any other person in the world, and now I am that pauper
without peer.  Some day I will tell you about it, not now.
                                                            MARK.


     A tide of condolence flowed in from all parts of the world.  It was
     impossible to answer all.  Only a few who had been their closest
     friends received a written line, but the little printed
     acknowledgment which was returned was no mere formality.  It was a
     heartfelt, personal word.

     They arrived in America in July, and were accompanied by Twichell to
     Elmira, and on the 14th Mrs. Clemens was laid to rest by the side of
     Susy and little Langdon.  R. W. Gilder had arranged for them to
     occupy, for the summer, a cottage on his place at Tyringham, in the
     Berkshire Hills.  By November they were at the Grosvenor, in New
     York, preparing to establish themselves in a house which they had
     taken on the corner of Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue--Number 21.


                     To F. N. Doubleday, in New York:

DEAR DOUBLEDAY,--I did not know you were going to England: I would have
freighted you with such messages of homage and affection to Kipling.
And I would have pressed his hand, through you, for his sympathy with
me in my crushing loss, as expressed by him in his letter to Gilder.
You know my feeling for Kipling and that it antedates that expression.

I was glad that the boys came here to invite me to the house-warming and
I think they understood why a man in the shadow of a calamity like mine
could not go.

It has taken three months to repair and renovate our house--corner of 9th
and 5th Avenue, but I shall be in it in io or 15 days hence.  Much of the
furniture went into it today (from Hartford).  We have not seen it for 13
years.  Katy Leary, our old housekeeper, who has been in our service more
than 24 years, cried when she told me about it to-day.  She said "I had
forgotten it was so beautiful, and it brought Mrs. Clemens right back to
me--in that old time when she was so young and lovely."

Jean and my secretary and the servants whom we brought from Italy because
Mrs. Clemens liked them so well, are still keeping house in the Berkshire
hills--and waiting.  Clara (nervously wrecked by her mother's death) is
in the hands of a specialist in 69th St., and I shall not be allowed to
have any communication with her--even telephone--for a year.  I am in
this comfortable little hotel, and still in bed--for I dasn't budge till
I'm safe from my pet devil, bronchitis.

Isn't it pathetic?  One hour and ten minutes before Mrs. Clemens died I
was saying to her "To-day, after five months search, I've found the villa
that will content you: to-morrow you will examine the plans and give it
your consent and I will buy it."  Her eyes danced with pleasure, for she
longed for a home of her own.  And there, on that morrow, she lay white
and cold.  And unresponsive to my reverent caresses--a new thing to me
and a new thing to her; that had not happened before in five and thirty
years.

I am coming to see you and Mrs. Doubleday by and bye.  She loved and
honored Mrs. Doubleday and her work.
                                   Always yours,
                                                  MARK.


     It was a presidential year and the air was thick with politics.
     Mark Twain was no longer actively interested in the political
     situation; he was only disheartened by the hollowness and pretense
     of office-seeking, and the methods of office-seekers in general.
     Grieved that Twichell should still pin his faith to any party when
     all parties were so obviously venal and time-serving, he wrote in
     outspoken and rather somber protest.


                  To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                             THE GROSVENOR, Nov. 4, '04.
Oh, dear!  get out of that sewer--party politics--dear Joe.  At least
with your mouth.  We hail only two men who could make speeches for their
parties and preserve their honor and their dignity.  One of them is dead.
Possibly there were four.  I am sorry for John Hay; sorry and ashamed.
And yet I know he couldn't help it.  He wears the collar, and he had to
pay the penalty.  Certainly he had no more desire to stand up before a
mob of confiding human incapables and debauch them than you had.
Certainly he took no more real pleasure in distorting history, concealing
facts, propagating immoralities, and appealing to the sordid side of
human nature than did you; but he was his party's property, and he had to
climb away down and do it.

It is interesting, wonderfully interesting--the miracles which party-
politics can do with a man's mental and moral make-up.  Look at McKinley,
Roosevelt, and yourself: in private life spotless in character;
honorable, honest, just, humane, generous; scorning trickeries,
treacheries, suppressions of the truth, mistranslations of the meanings
of facts, the filching of credit earned by another, the condoning of
crime, the glorifying of base acts: in public political life the reverse
of all this.

McKinley was a silverite--you concealed it.  Roosevelt was a silverite--
you concealed it.  Parker was a silverite--you publish it.  Along with a
shudder and a warning: "He was unsafe then.  Is he any safer now?"

Joe, even I could be guilty of such a thing as that--if I were in party-
politics; I really believe it.

Mr. Cleveland gave the country the gold standard; by implication you
credit the matter to the Republican party.

By implication you prove the whole annual pension-scoop, concealing the
fact that the bulk of the money goes to people who in no way deserve it.
You imply that all the batteners upon this bribery-fund are Republicans.
An indiscreet confession, since about half of them must have been
Democrats before they were bought.

You as good as praise Order 78.  It is true you do not shout, and you do
not linger, you only whisper and skip--still, what little you do in the
matter is complimentary to the crime.

It means, if it means anything, that our outlying properties will all be
given up by the Democrats, and our flag hauled down.  All of them?  Not
only the properties stolen by Mr. McKinley and Mr. Roosevelt, but the
properties honestly acquired?  Joe, did you believe that hardy statement
when you made it?  Yet you made it, and there it stands in permanent
print.  Now what moral law would suffer if we should give up the stolen
ones?  But--

"You know our standard-bearer.  He will maintain all that we have
gained"--by whatever process.  Land, I believe you!

By George, Joe, you are as handy at the game as if you had been in
training for it all your life.  Your campaign Address is built from the
ground up upon the oldest and best models.  There isn't a paragraph in it
whose facts or morals will wash--not even a sentence, I believe.

But you will soon be out of this.  You didn't want to do it--that is
sufficiently apparent, thanks be!--but you couldn't well get out of it.
In a few days you will be out of it, and then you can fumigate yourself
and take up your legitimate work again and resume your clean and
wholesome private character once more and be happy--and useful.

I know I ought to hand you some guff, now, as propitiation and apology
for these reproaches, but on the whole I believe I won't.

I have inquired, and find that Mitsikuri does not arrive here until to-
morrow night.  I shall watch out, and telephone again, for I greatly want
to see him.
                    Always Yours,
                                   MARK.

P. S.--Nov, 4.  I wish I could learn to remember that it is unjust and
dishonorable to put blame upon the human race for any of its acts.  For
it did not make itself, it did not make its nature, it is merely a
machine, it is moved wholly by outside influences, it has no hand in
creating the outside influences nor in choosing which of them it will
welcome or reject, its performance is wholly automatic, it has no more
mastership nor authority over its mind than it has over its stomach,
which receives material from the outside and does as it pleases with it,
indifferent to it's proprietor's suggestions, even, let alone his
commands; wherefore, whatever the machine does--so called crimes and
infamies included--is the personal act of its Maker, and He, solely, is
responsible.  I wish I could learn to pity the human race instead of
censuring it and laughing at it; and I could, if the outside influences
of old habit were not so strong upon my machine.  It vexes me to catch
myself praising the clean private citizen Roosevelt, and blaming the
soiled President Roosevelt, when I know that neither praise nor blame is
due to him for any thought or word or deed of his, he being merely a
helpless and irresponsible coffee-mill ground by the hand of God.

     Through a misunderstanding, Clemens, something more than a year
     earlier, had severed his connection with the Players' Club, of which
     he had been one of the charter members.  Now, upon his return to New
     York, a number of his friends joined in an invitation to him to
     return.  It was not exactly a letter they sent, but a bit of an old
     Scotch song--

                            "To Mark Twain
                                from
                             The Clansmen.
                         Will ye no come back again,
                         Will ye no come back again?
                         Better lo'ed ye canna be.
                         Will ye no come back again?"

     Those who signed it were David Monroe, of the North American Review;
     Robert Reid, the painter, and about thirty others of the Round Table
     Group, so called because its members were accustomed to lunching at
     a large round table in a bay window of the Player dining-room.  Mark
     Twain's reply was prompt and heartfelt.  He wrote:


                      To Robt.  Reid and the Others:

WELL-BELOVED,--Surely those lovely verses went to Prince Charley's heart,
if he had one, and certainly they have gone to mine.  I shall be glad and
proud to come back again after such a moving and beautiful compliment as
this from comrades whom I have loved so long.  I hope you can poll the
necessary vote; I know you will try, at any rate.  It will be many months
before I can foregather with you, for this black border is not
perfunctory, not a convention; it symbolizes the loss of one whose memory
is the only thing I worship.

It is not necessary for me to thank you--and words could not deliver what
I feel, anyway.  I will put the contents of your envelope in the small
casket where I keep the things which have become sacred to me.

                                                  S.  L.  C.


A year later, Mark Twain did "come back again," as an honorary life
member, and was given a dinner of welcome by those who had signed the
lines urging his return.




XLIV

LETTERS OF 1905.  TO TWICHELL, MR. DUNEKA AND OTHERS.
POLITICS AND HUMANITY.  A SUMMER AT DUBLIN.  MARK TWAIN AT 70

     In 1884 Mark Twain had abandoned the Republican Party to vote for
     Cleveland.  He believed the party had become corrupt, and to his
     last day it was hard for him to see anything good in Republican
     policies or performance.  He was a personal friend of Thedore
     Roosevelt's but, as we have seen in a former letter, Roosevelt the
     politician rarely found favor in his eyes.  With or without
     justification, most of the President's political acts invited his
     caustic sarcasm and unsparing condemnation.  Another letter to
     Twichell of this time affords a fair example.


                  To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                                       Feb. 16, '05.
DEAR JOE,--I knew I had in me somewhere a definite feeling about the
President if I could only find the words to define it with.  Here they
are, to a hair--from Leonard Jerome: "For twenty years I have loved
Roosevelt the man and hated Roosevelt the statesman and politician."

It's mighty good.  Every time, in 25 years, that I have met Roosevelt the
man, a wave of welcome has streaked through me with the hand-grip;
but whenever (as a rule) I meet Roosevelt the statesman and politician,
I find him destitute of morals and not respectworthy.  It is plain that
where his political self and his party self are concerned he has nothing
resembling a conscience; that under those inspirations he is naively
indifferent to the restraints of duty and even unaware of them; ready to
kick the Constitution into the back yard whenever it gets in the way; and
whenever he smells a vote, not only willing but eager to buy it, give
extravagant rates for it and pay the bill not out of his own pocket or
the party's, but out of the nation's, by cold pillage.  As per Order 78
and the appropriation of the Indian trust funds.

But Roosevelt is excusable--I recognize it and (ought to) concede it.
We are all insane, each in his own way, and with insanity goes
irresponsibility.  Theodore the man is sane; in fairness we ought to keep
in mind that Theodore, as statesman arid politician, is insane and
irresponsible.

Do not throw these enlightenments aside, but study them, let them raise
you to higher planes and make you better.  You taught me in my callow
days, let me pay back the debt now in my old age out of a thesaurus with
wisdom smelted from the golden ores of experience.
                         Ever yours for sweetness and light
                                                            MARK.


     The next letter to Twichell takes up politics and humanity in
     general, in a manner complimentary to neither.  Mark Twain was never
     really a pessimist, but he had pessimistic intervals, such as come
     to most of us in life's later years, and at such times he let
     himself go without stint concerning "the damned human race," as he
     called it, usually with a manifest sense of indignation that he
     should be a member of it.  In much of his later writing--
     A Mysterious Stranger for example--he said his say with but small
     restraint, and certainly in his purely intellectual moments he was
     likely to be a pessimist of the most extreme type, capably damning
     the race and the inventor of it.  Yet, at heart, no man loved his
     kind more genuinely, or with deeper compassion, than Mark Twain,
     perhaps for its very weaknesses.  It was only that he had intervals
     --frequent intervals, and rather long ones--when he did not admire
     it, and was still more doubtful as to the ways of providence.


                  To Rev. J.  H.  Twichell, in Hartford:

                                                       March 14, '05.
DEAR JOE,--I have a Puddn'head maxim:

"When a man is a pessimist before 48 he knows too much; if he is an
optimist after it, he knows too little."

It is with contentment, therefore, that I reflect that I am better and
wiser than you.  Joe, you seem to be dealing in "bulks," now; the "bulk"
of the farmers and U. S.  Senators are "honest."  As regards purchase and
sale with money?  Who doubts it?  Is that the only measure of honesty?
Aren't there a dozen kinds of honesty which can't be measured by the
money-standard?  Treason is treason--and there's more than one form of
it; the money-form is but one of them.  When a person is disloyal to any
confessed duty, he is plainly and simply dishonest, and knows it; knows
it, and is privately troubled about it and not proud of himself.  Judged
by this standard--and who will challenge the validity of it?--there isn't
an honest man in Connecticut, nor in the Senate, nor anywhere else.  I do
not even except myself, this time.

Am I finding fault with you and the rest of the populace?  No--I assure
you I am not.  For I know the human race's limitations, and this makes it
my duty--my pleasant duty--to be fair to it.  Each person in it is honest
in one or several ways, but no member of it is honest in all the ways
required by--by what?  By his own standard.  Outside of that, as I look
at it, there is no obligation upon him.

Am I honest?  I give you my word of honor (private) I am not.  For seven
years I have suppressed a book which my conscience tells me I ought to
publish.  I hold it a duty to publish it.  There are other difficult
duties which I am equal to, but I am not equal to that one.  Yes, even I
am dishonest.  Not in many ways, but in some.  Forty-one, I think it is.
We are certainly all honest in one or several ways--every man in the
world--though I have reason to think I am the only one whose black-list
runs so light.  Sometimes I feel lonely enough in this lofty solitude.

Yes, oh, yes, I am not overlooking the "steady progress from age to age
of the coming of the kingdom of God and righteousness."  "From age to
age"--yes, it describes that giddy gait.  I (and the rocks) will not live
to see it arrive, but that is all right--it will arrive, it surely will.
But you ought not to be always ironically apologizing for the Deity.  If
that thing is going to arrive, it is inferable that He wants it to
arrive; and so it is not quite kind of you, and it hurts me, to see you
flinging sarcasms at the gait of it.  And yet it would not be fair in me
not to admit that the sarcasms are deserved.  When the Deity wants a
thing, and after working at it for "ages and ages" can't show even a
shade of progress toward its accomplishment, we--well, we don't laugh,
but it is only because we dasn't.  The source of "righteousness"--is in
the heart?  Yes.  And engineered and directed by the brain?  Yes.  Well,
history and tradition testify that the heart is just about what it was in
the beginning; it has undergone no shade of change.  Its good and evil
impulses and their consequences are the same today that they were in Old
Bible times, in Egyptian times, in Greek times, in Middle Age times, in
Twentieth Century times.  There has been no change.

Meantime, the brain has undergone no change.  It is what it always was.
There are a few good brains and a multitude of poor ones.  It was so in
Old Bible times and in all other times--Greek, Roman, Middle Ages and
Twentieth Century.  Among the savages--all the savages--the average brain
is as competent as the average brain here or elsewhere.  I will prove it
to you, some time, if you like.  And there are great brains among them,
too.  I will prove that also, if you like.

Well, the 19th century made progress--the first progress after "ages and
ages"--colossal progress.  In what?  Materialities.  Prodigious
acquisitions were made in things which add to the comfort of many and
make life harder for as many more.  But the addition to righteousness?
Is that discoverable?  I think not.  The materialities were not invented
in the interest of righteousness; that there is more righteousness in the
world because of them than there, was before, is hardly demonstrable, I
think.  In Europe and America, there is a vast change (due to them) in
ideals--do you admire it?  All Europe and all America, are feverishly
scrambling for money.  Money is the supreme ideal--all others take tenth
place with the great bulk of the nations named.  Money-lust has always
existed, but not in the history of the world was it ever a craze, a
madness, until your time and mine.  This lust has rotted these nations;
it has made them hard, sordid, ungentle, dishonest, oppressive.

Did England rise against the infamy of the Boer war?  No--rose in favor
of it.  Did America rise against the infamy of the Phillipine war?  No--
rose in favor of it.  Did Russia rise against the infamy of the present
war?  No--sat still and said nothing.  Has the Kingdom of God advanced in
Russia since the beginning of time?

Or in Europe and America, considering the vast backward step of the
money-lust?  Or anywhere else?  If there has been any progress toward
righteousness since the early days of Creation--which, in my ineradicable
honesty, I am obliged to doubt--I think we must confine it to ten per
cent of the populations of Christendom, (but leaving, Russia, Spain and
South America entirely out.) This gives us 320,000,000 to draw the ten
per cent from.  That is to say, 32,000,000 have advanced toward
righteousness and the Kingdom of God since the "ages and ages" have been
flying along, the Deity sitting up there admiring.  Well, you see it
leaves 1,200,000,000 out of the race.  They stand just where they have
always stood; there has been no change.

N. B.  No charge for these informations.  Do come down soon, Joe.
                         With love,
                                        MARK.


     St. Clair McKelway, of The Brooklyn Eagle, narrowly escaped injuries
     in a railway accident, and received the following.  Clemens and
     McKelway were old friends.


                   To St. Clair McKelway, in Brooklyn:

                                        21 FIFTH AVE.  Sunday Morning.
                                                  April 30, 1905.
DEAR McKELWAY, Your innumerable friends are grateful, most grateful.

As I understand the telegrams, the engineer of your train had never seen
a locomotive before.  Very well, then, I am once more glad that there is
an Ever-watchful Providence to foresee possible results and send Ogdens
and McIntyres along to save our friends.

The Government's Official report, showing that our railways killed twelve
hundred persons last year and injured sixty thousand convinces me that
under present conditions one Providence is not enough to properly and
efficiently take care of our railroad business.  But it is
characteristically American--always trying to get along short-handed and
save wages.

I am helping your family congratulate themselves, and am your friend as
always.
                    S. L. CLEMENS.


     Clemens did not spend any more summers at Quarry Farm.  All its
     associations were beautiful and tender, but they could only sadden
     him.  The life there had been as of another world, sunlit, idyllic,
     now forever vanished.  For the summer of 1905 he leased the Copley
     Green house at Dublin, New Hampshire, where there was a Boston
     colony of writing and artistic folk, including many of his long-time
     friends.  Among them was Colonel Thomas Wentworth Higginson, who
     wrote a hearty letter of welcome when he heard the news.  Clemens
     replied in kind.


              To Col. Thomas Wentworth Higginson, in Boston:

                              21 FIFTH AVE.  Sunday, March 26, z9o.5.
DEAR COL. HIGGINSON,--I early learned that you would be my neighbor in
the Summer and I rejoiced, recognizing in you and your family a large
asset.  I hope for frequent intercourse between the two households.  I
shall have my youngest daughter with me.  The other one will go from the
rest-cure in this city to the rest-cure in Norfolk Conn and we shall not
see her before autumn.  We have not seen her since the middle of October.

Jean (the youngest daughter) went to Dublin and saw the house and came
back charmed with it.  I know the Thayers of old--manifestly there is no
lack of attractions up there.  Mrs. Thayer and I were shipmates in a wild
excursion perilously near 40 years ago.

You say you "send with this" the story.  Then it should be here but it
isn't, when I send a thing with another thing, the other thing goes but
the thing doesn't, I find it later--still on the premises.  Will you look
it up now and send it?

Aldrich was here half an hour ago, like a breeze from over the fields,
with the fragrance still upon his spirit.  I am tired of waiting for that
man to get old.
                         Sincerely yours,
                                             S. L. C.


     Mark Twain was in his seventieth year, old neither in mind nor body,
     but willing to take life more quietly, to refrain from travel and
     gay events.  A sort of pioneers' reunion was to be held on the
     Pacific Coast, and a letter from Robert Fulton, of Reno, Nevada,
     invited Clemens to attend.  He did not go, but he sent a letter that
     we may believe was the next best thing to those who heard it read.


                    To Robert Fulton, in Reno, Nevada:

                                                  IN THE MOUNTAINS,
                                                       May 24, 1905.
DEAR MR. FULTON,--I remember, as if it were yesterday, that when I
disembarked from the overland stage in front of the Ormsby in Carson City
in August, 1861, I was not expecting to be asked to come again.  I was
tired, discouraged, white with alkali dust, and did not know anybody; and
if you had said then, "Cheer up, desolate stranger, don't be down-
hearted--pass on, and come again in 1905," you cannot think how grateful
I would have been and how gladly I would have closed the contract.
Although I was not expecting to be invited, I was watching out for it,
and was hurt and disappointed when you started to ask me and changed it
to, "How soon are you going away?"

But you have made it all right, now, the wound is closed.  And so I thank
you sincerely for the invitation; and with you, all Reno, and if I were a
few years younger I would accept it, and promptly.  I would go.  I would
let somebody else do the oration, but, as for me, I would talk--
just talk.  I would renew my youth; and talk--and talk--and talk
--and have the time of my life!  I would march the unforgotten and
unforgettable antiques by, and name their names, and give them reverent
Hailand-farewell as they passed: Goodman, McCarthy, Gillis, Curry,
Baldwin, Winters, Howard, Nye, Stewart; Neely Johnson, Hal Clayton,
North, Root,--and my brother, upon whom be peace!--and then the
desperadoes, who made life a joy and the "Slaughter-house" a precious
possession: Sam Brown, Farmer Pete, Bill Mayfield, Six-fingered Jake,
Jack Williams and the rest of the crimson discipleship--and so on and so
on.  Believe me, I would start a resurrection it would do you more good
to look at than the next one will, if you go on the way you are doing
now.

Those were the days! those old ones.  They will come no more.  Youth will
come no more.  They were so full to the brim with the wine of life; there
have been no others like them.  It chokes me up to think of them.  Would
you like me to come out there and cry?  It would not beseem my white
head.

Good-bye.  I drink to you all.  Have a good time--and take an old man's
blessing.
                    MARK TWAIN.


     A few days later he was writing to H. H. Bancroft, of San Francisco,
     who had invited him for a visit in event of his coming to the Coast.
     Henry James had just been there for a week and it was hoped that
     Howells would soon follow.


                   To H. H. Bancroft, in San Francisco:

                                                  UP IN NEW HAMPSHIRE,
                                                       May 27, 1905.
DEAR MR. BANCROFT,--I thank you sincerely for the tempting hospitalities
which you offer me, but I have to deny myself, for my wandering days are
over, and it is my desire and purpose to sit by the fire the rest of my
remnant of life and indulge myself with the pleasure and repose of work
--work uninterrupted and unmarred by duties or excursions.

A man who like me, is going to strike 70 on the 30th of next November has
no business to be flitting around the way Howells does--that shameless
old fictitious butter fly.  (But if he comes, don't tell him I said it,
for it would hurt him and I wouldn't brush a flake of powder from his
wing for anything.  I only say it in envy of his indestructible youth,
anyway.  Howells will be 88 in October.) With thanks again,
                              Sincerely yours,
                                        S. L. C.


     Clemens found that the air of the New Hampshire hills agreed with
     him and stimulated him to work.  He began an entirely new version of
     The Mysterious Stranger, of which he already had a bulky and nearly
     finished manuscript, written in Vienna.  He wrote several hundred
     pages of an extravaganza entitled, Three Thousand Years Among the
     Microbes, and then, having got his superabundant vitality reduced
     (it was likely to expend itself in these weird mental exploits),
     he settled down one day and wrote that really tender and beautiful
     idyl, Eve's Diary, which he had begun, or at least planned, the
     previous summer at Tyringham.  In a letter to Mr. Frederick A.
     Duneka, general manager of Harper & Brothers, he tells something of
     the manner of the story; also his revised opinion of Adam's Diary,
     written in '93, and originally published as a souvenir of Niagara
     Falls.


                  To Frederick A.  Duneka, in New York:

                                                  DUBLIN, July 16, '05.
DEAR MR. DUNEKA,--I wrote Eve's Diary, she using Adam's Diary as her
(unwitting and unconscious) text, of course, since to use any other text
would have been an imbecility--then I took Adam's Diary and read it.  It
turned my stomach.  It was not literature; yet it had been literature
once--before I sold it to be degraded to an advertisement of the Buffalo
Fair.  I was going to write and ask you to melt the plates and put it out
of print.

But this morning I examined it without temper, and saw that if I
abolished the advertisement it would be literature again.

So I have done it.  I have struck out 700 words and inserted 5 MS pages
of new matter (650 words), and now Adam's Diary is dam good--sixty times
as good as it ever was before.

I believe it is as good as Eve's Diary now--no, it's not quite that good,
I guess, but it is good enough to go in the same cover with Eve's.  I'm
sure of that.

I hate to have the old Adam go out any more--don't put it on the presses
again, let's put the new one in place of it; and next Xmas, let us bind
Adam and Eve in one cover.  They score points against each other--so, if
not bound together, some of the points would not be perceived.....

P. S.  Please send another Adam's Diary, so that I can make 2 revised
copies.  Eve's Diary is Eve's love-Story, but we will not name it that.
                                   Yrs ever,
                                                  MARK.


     The peace-making at Portsmouth between Japan and Russia was not
     satisfactory to Mark Twain, who had fondly hoped there would be no
     peace until, as he said, "Russian liberty was safe.  One more battle
     would have abolished the waiting chains of millions upon millions of
     unborn Russians and I wish it could have been fought."  He set down
     an expression of his feelings for the Associated Press, and it
     invited many letters.  Charles Francis Adams wrote, "It attracted my
     attention because it so exactly expresses the views I have myself
     all along entertained."

     Clemens was invited by Colonel George Harvey to dine with the
     Russian emissaries, Baron Rosen and Sergius Witte.  He declined, but
     his telegram so pleased Witte that he asked permission to publish
     it, and announced that he would show it to the Czar.


              Telegram.  To Col. George Harvey, in New York:

TO COLONEL HARVEY,--I am still a cripple, otherwise I should be more than
glad of this opportunity to meet the illustrious magicians who came here
equipped with nothing but a pen, and with it have divided the honors of
the war with the sword.  It is fair to presume that in thirty centuries
history will not get done admiring these men who attempted what the world
regarded as impossible and achieved it.

     Witte would not have cared to show the Czar the telegram in its
     original form, which follows.


     Telegram (unsent).  To Col. George Harvey, in New York:

TO COLONEL HARVEY,--I am still a cripple, otherwise I should be more than
glad of this opportunity to meet those illustrious magicians who with the
pen have annulled, obliterated, and abolished every high achievement of
the Japanese sword and turned the tragedy of a tremendous war into a gay
and blithesome comedy.  If I may, let me in all respect and honor salute
them as my fellow-humorists, I taking third place, as becomes one who was
not born to modesty, but by diligence and hard work is acquiring it.
                                                  MARK.

     Nor still another unsent form, perhaps more characteristic than
     either of the foregoing.

         Telegram (unsent).  To Col. George Harvey, in New York:

DEAR COLONEL,--No, this is a love-feast; when you call a lodge of sorrow
send for me.
                                                  MARK.


                       To Mrs. Crane, Quarry Farm:

                                             DUBLIN, Sept. 24, '05.
Susy dear, I have had a lovely dream.  Livy, dressed in black, was
sitting up in my bed (here) at my right and looking as young and sweet as
she used to do when she was in health.  She said: "what is the name of
your sweet sister?"  I said, "Pamela."  "Oh, yes, that is it, I thought
it was--" (naming a name which has escaped me) "Won't you write it down for
me?" I reached eagerly for a pen and pad--laid my hands upon both--then
said to myself, "It is only a dream," and turned back sorrowfully and
there she was, still.  The conviction flamed through me that our lamented
disaster was a dream, and this a reality.  I said, "How blessed it is,
how blessed it is, it was all a dream, only a dream!"  She only smiled
and did not ask what dream I meant, which surprised me.  She leaned her
head against mine and I kept saying, "I was perfectly sure it was a
dream, I never would have believed it wasn't."

I think she said several things, but if so they are gone from my memory.
I woke and did not know I had been dreaming.  She was gone.  I wondered
how she could go without my knowing it, but I did not spend any thought
upon that, I was too busy thinking of how vivid and real was the dream
that we had lost her and how unspeakably blessed it was to find that it
was not true and that she was still ours and with us.
                                                       S. L. C.


     One day that summer Mark Twain received a letter from the actress,
     Minnie Maddern Fiske, asking him to write something that would aid
     her in her crusade against bull-fighting.  The idea appealed to him;
     he replied at once.


                              To Mrs. Fiske:

DEAR MRS. FISKE,--I shall certainly write the story.  But I may not get
it to suit me, in which case it will go in the fire.  Later I will try
again--and yet again--and again.  I am used to this.  It has taken me
twelve years to write a short story--the shortest one I ever wrote, I
think.--[Probably "The Death Disk."]--So do not be discouraged; I will
stick to this one in the same way.  Sincerely yours,
                         S. L. CLEMENS.


     He did not delay in his beginning, and a few weeks later was sending
     word to his publisher about it.


                   To Frederick A. Duneka, in New York:

                                                  Oct.  2, '05.
DEAR MR. DUNEKA,--I have just finished a short story which I "greatly
admire," and so will you--"A Horse's Tale"--about 15,000 words, at a
rough guess.  It has good fun in it, and several characters, and is
lively.  I shall finish revising it in a few days or more, then Jean will
type it.

Don't you think you can get it into the Jan. and Feb. numbers and issue
it as a dollar booklet just after the middle of Jan. when you issue the
Feb. number?

It ought to be ably illustrated.

Why not sell simultaneous rights, for this once, to the Ladies' Home
Journal or Collier's, or both, and recoup yourself?--for I would like to
get it to classes that can't afford Harper's.  Although it doesn't
preach, there's a sermon concealed in it.
                              Yr sincerely,
                                             MARK.


     Five days later he added some rather interesting facts concerning
     the new story.


                      To F. A. Duneka, in New York:

                                        Oct.  7, 1906. ['05]
DEAR MR.  DUNEKA,--.....  I've made a poor guess as to number of words.
I think there must be 20,000.  My usual page of MS. contains about 130
words; but when I am deeply interested in my work and dead to everything
else, my hand-writing shrinks and shrinks until there's a great deal more
than 130 on a page--oh, yes, a deal more.  Well, I discover, this
morning, that this tale is written in that small hand.

This strong interest is natural, for the heroine is my daughter, Susy,
whom we lost.  It was not intentional--it was a good while before I found
it out.

So I am sending you her picture to use--and to reproduce with
photographic exactness the unsurpassable expression and all.  May you
find an artist who has lost an idol!

Take as good care of the picture as you can and restore it to me when I
come.

I hope you will illustrate this tale considerably.  Not humorous
pictures.  No.  When they are good (or bad) one's humor gets no chance to
play surprises on the reader.  A humorous subject illustrated seriously
is all right, but a humorous artist is no fit person for such work.  You
see, the humorous writer pretends to absolute seriousness (when he knows
his trade) then for an artist--to step in and give his calculated gravity
all away with a funny picture--oh, my land!  It gives me the dry gripes
just to think of it.  It would be just about up to the average comic
artist's intellectual level to make a funny picture of the horse kicking
the lungs out of a trader.  Hang it, the remark is funny--because the
horse is not aware of it but the fact is not humorous, it is tragic and
it is no subject for a humorous picture.

Could I be allowed to sit in judgment upon the pictures before they are
accepted--at least those in which Cathy may figure?

This is not essential.  It is but a suggestion, and it is hereby
withdrawn, if it would be troublesome or cause delay.

I hope you will reproduce the cat-pile, full page.  And save the photo
for me in as good condition as possible.  When Susy and Clara were little
tots those cats had their profoundest worship, and there is no duplicate
of this picture.  These cats all had thundering names, or inappropriate
ones--furnished by the children with my help.  One was named Buffalo
Bill.

Are you interested in coincidences?

After discovering, about the middle of the book, that Cathy was Susy
Clemens, I put her picture with my MS., to be reproduced.  After the book
was finished it was discovered that Susy had a dim model of Soldier Boy
in her arms; I had forgotten all about that toy.

Then I examined the cat-picture and laid it with the MS. for
introduction; but it was not until yesterday that I remembered that one
of the cats was named Buffalo Bill.
                              Sincerely yours,
                                                  MARK.


     The reference in this letter to shrinkage of his hand-writing with
     the increasing intensity of his interest, and the consequent
     addition of the number of words to the page, recalls another fact,
     noted by Mr. Duneka, viz.: that because of his terse Anglo-Saxon
     diction, Mark Twain could put more words on a magazine page than any
     other writer.  It is hardly necessary to add that he got more force
     into what he put on the page for the same reason.

     There was always a run of reporters at Mark Twain's New York home.
     His opinion was sought for on every matter of public interest, and
     whatever happened to him in particular was considered good for at
     least half a column of copy, with his name as a catch-line at the
     top.  When it was learned that he was to spend the summer in New
     Hampshire, the reporters had all wanted to find out about it.  Now
     that the summer was ending, they began to want to know how he had
     liked it, what work he had done and what were his plans for another
     year.  As they frequently applied to his publishers for these
     details it was finally suggested to him that he write a letter
     furnishing the required information.  His reply, handed to Mr.
     Duneka, who was visiting him at the moment, is full of interest.


                          Mem.  for Mr. Duneka:

                                                  DUBLIN, Oct. 9, 1905.
.....As to the other matters, here are the details.

Yes, I have tried a number of summer homes, here and in Europe together.

Each of these homes had charms of its own; charms and delights of its
own, and some of them--even in Europe had comforts.  Several of them had
conveniences, too.  They all had a "view."

It is my conviction that there should always be some water in a view--
a lake or a river, but not the ocean, if you are down on its level.  I
think that when you are down on its level it seldom inflames you with an
ecstasy which you could not get out of a sand-flat.  It is like being on
board ship, over again; indeed it is worse than that, for there's three
months of it.  On board ship one tires of the aspects in a couple of
days, and quits looking.  The same vast circle of heaving humps is spread
around you all the time, with you in the centre of it and never gaining
an inch on the horizon, so far as you can see; for variety, a flight of
flying-fish, mornings; a flock of porpoises throwing summersaults
afternoons; a remote whale spouting, Sundays; occasional phosphorescent
effects, nights; every other day a streak of black smoke trailing along
under the horizon; on the one single red letter day, the illustrious
iceberg.  I have seen that iceberg thirty-four times in thirty-seven
voyages; it is always the same shape, it is always the same size, it
always throws up the same old flash when the sun strikes it; you may set
it on any New York door-step of a June morning and light it up with a
mirror-flash; and I will engage to recognize it.  It is artificial, and
it is provided and anchored out by the steamer companies.  I used to like
the sea, but I was young then, and could easily get excited over any kind
of monotony, and keep it up till the monotonies ran out, if it was a
fortnight.

Last January, when we were beginning to inquire about a home for this
summer, I remembered that Abbott Thayer had said, three years before,
that the New Hampshire highlands was a good place.  He was right--it was
a good place.  Any place that is good for an artist in paint is good for
an artist in morals and ink.  Brush is here, too; so is Col. T. W.
Higginson; so is Raphael Pumpelly; so is Mr. Secretary Hitchcock; so is
Henderson; so is Learned; so is Summer; so is Franklin MacVeigh; so is
Joseph L. Smith; so is Henry Copley Greene, when I am not occupying his
house, which I am doing this season.  Paint, literature, science,
statesmanship, history, professorship, law, morals,--these are all
represented here, yet crime is substantially unknown.

The summer homes of these refugees are sprinkled, a mile apart, among the
forest-clad hills, with access to each other by firm smooth country roads
which are so embowered in dense foliage that it is always twilight in
there, and comfortable.  The forests are spider-webbed with these good
roads, they go everywhere; but for the help of the guide-boards, the
stranger would not arrive anywhere.

The village--Dublin--is bunched together in its own place, but a good
telephone service makes its markets handy to all those outliars.  I have
spelt it that way to be witty.  The village executes orders on, the
Boston plan--promptness and courtesy.

The summer homes are high-perched, as a rule, and have contenting
outlooks.  The house we occupy has one.  Monadnock, a soaring double
hump, rises into the sky at its left elbow--that is to say, it is close
at hand.  From the base of the long slant of the mountain the valley
spreads away to the circling frame of the hills, and beyond the frame the
billowy sweep of remote great ranges rises to view and flows, fold upon
fold, wave upon wave, soft and blue and unwordly, to the horizon fifty
miles away.  In these October days Monadnock and the valley and its
framing hills make an inspiring picture to look at, for they are
sumptuously splashed and mottled and be-torched from sky-line to sky-line
with the richest dyes the autumn can furnish; and when they lie flaming
in the full drench of the mid-afternoon sun, the sight affects the
spectator physically, it stirs his blood like military music.

These summer homes are commodious, well built, and well furnished--facts
which sufficiently indicate that the owners built them to live in
themselves.  They have furnaces and wood fireplaces, and the rest of the
comforts and conveniences of a city home, and can be comfortably occupied
all the year round.

We cannot have this house next season, but I have secured Mrs. Upton's
house which is over in the law and science quarter, two or three miles
from here, and about the same distance from the art, literary, and
scholastic groups.  The science and law quarter has needed improving,
this good while.

The nearest railway-station is distant something like an hour's drive; it
is three hours from there to Boston, over a branch line.  You can go to
New York in six hours per branch lines if you change cars every time you
think of it, but it is better to go to Boston and stop over and take the
trunk line next day, then you do not get lost.

It is claimed that the atmosphere of the New Hampshire highlands is
exceptionally bracing and stimulating, and a fine aid to hard and
continuous work.  It is a just claim, I think.  I came in May, and
wrought 35 successive days without a break.  It is possible that I could
not have done it elsewhere.  I do not know; I have not had any
disposition to try it, before.  I think I got the disposition out of the
atmosphere, this time.  I feel quite sure, in fact, that that is where it
came from.

I am ashamed to confess what an intolerable pile of manuscript I ground
out in the 35 days, therefore I will keep the number of words to myself.
I wrote the first half of a long tale--"The Adventures of a Microbe" and
put it away for a finish next summer, and started another long tale--"The
Mysterious Stranger;" I wrote the first half of it and put it with the
other for a finish next summer.  I stopped, then.  I was not tired, but I
had no books on hand that needed finishing this year except one that was
seven years old.  After a little I took that one up and finished it.  Not
for publication, but to have it ready for revision next summer.

Since I stopped work I have had a two months' holiday.  The summer has
been my working time for 35 years; to have a holiday in it (in America)
is new for me.  I have not broken it, except to write "Eve's Diary" and
"A Horse's Tale"--short things occupying the mill 12 days.

This year our summer is 6 months long and ends with November and the
flight home to New York, but next year we hope and expect to stretch it
another month and end it the first of December.

                             [No signature.]


     The fact that he was a persistent smoker was widely known, and many
     friends and admirers of Mark Twain sent him cigars, most of which he
     could not use, because they were too good.  He did not care for
     Havana cigars, but smoked the fragrant, inexpensive domestic tobacco
     with plenty of "pep" in it, as we say today.  Now and then he had an
     opportunity to head off some liberal friend, who wrote asking
     permission to contribute to his cigar collection, as instance the
     following.


                To Rev. L. M. Powers, in Haverhill, Mass.:

                                                  Nov. 9, 1905.
DEAR MR. POWERS,--I should accept your hospitable offer at once but for
the fact I couldn't do it and remain honest.  That is to say if I allowed
you to send me what you believe to be good cigars it would distinctly
mean that I meant to smoke them, whereas I should do nothing of the kind.
I know a good cigar better than you do, for I have had 60 years
experience.

No, that is not what I mean; I mean I know a bad cigar better than
anybody else; I judge by the price only; if it costs above 5 cents I know
it to be either foreign or half-foreign, and unsmokeable.  By me.  I have
many boxes of Havana cigars, of all prices from 20 cts apiece up to 1.66
apiece; I bought none of them, they were all presents, they are an
accumulation of several years.  I have never smoked one of them and never
shall, I work them off on the visitor.  You shall have a chance when you
come.

Pessimists are born not made; optimists are born not made; but no man is
born either pessimist wholly or optimist wholly, perhaps; he is
pessimistic along certain lines and optimistic along certain others.
That is my case.
                    Sincerely yours,
                              S. L. CLEMENS.


     In spite of all the fine photographs that were made of him, there
     recurred constantly among those sent him to be autographed a print
     of one which, years before, Sarony had made and placed on public
     sale.  It was a good photograph, mechanically and even artistically,
     but it did not please Mark Twain.  Whenever he saw it he recalled
     Sarony with bitterness and severity.  Once he received an inquiry
     concerning it, and thus feelingly expressed himself.


                         To Mr. Row (no address):

                                             21 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK,
                                                  November 14, 1905.
DEAR MR. ROW,--That alleged portrait has a private history.  Sarony was
as much of an enthusiast about wild animals as he was about photography;
and when Du Chaillu brought the first Gorilla to this country in 1819 he
came to me in a fever of excitement and asked me if my father was of
record and authentic.  I said he was; then Sarony, without any abatement
of his excitement asked if my grandfather also was of record and
authentic.  I said he was.  Then Sarony, with still rising excitement and
with joy added to it, said he had found my great grandfather in the
person of the gorilla, and had recognized him at once by his resemblance
to me.  I was deeply hurt but did not reveal this, because I knew Saxony
meant no offense for the gorilla had not done him any harm, and he was
not a man who would say an unkind thing about a gorilla wantonly.  I went
with him to inspect the ancestor, and examined him from several points of
view, without being able to detect anything more than a passing
resemblance.  "Wait," said Sarony with confidence, "let me show you."
He borrowed my overcoat--and put it on the gorilla.  The result was
surprising.  I saw that the gorilla while not looking distinctly like me
was exactly what my great grand father would have looked like if I had
had one.  Sarong photographed the creature in that overcoat, and spread
the picture about the world.  It has remained spread about the world ever
since.  It turns up every week in some newspaper somewhere or other.  It
is not my favorite, but to my exasperation it is everybody else's.
Do you think you could get it suppressed for me?  I will pay the limit.
                              Sincerely yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     The year 1905 closed triumphantly for Mark Twain.  The great
     "Seventieth Birthday" dinner planned by Colonel George Harvey is
     remembered to-day as the most notable festival occasion in New York
     literary history.  Other dinners and ovations followed.  At seventy
     he had returned to the world, more beloved, more honored than ever
     before.




XLV

LETTERS, 1906, TO VARIOUS PERSONS.  THE FAREWELL LECTURE.  A SECOND
SUMMER IN DUBLIN.  BILLIARDS AND COPYRIGHT

     MARK TWAIN at "Pier Seventy," as he called it, paused to look
     backward and to record some memoirs of his long, eventful past.  The
     Autobiography dictations begun in Florence were resumed, and daily
     he traveled back, recalling long-ago scenes and all-but-forgotten
     places.  He was not without reminders.  Now and again there came
     some message that brought back the old days--the Tom Sawyer and Huck
     Finn days--or the romance of the river that he never recalled other
     than with tenderness and a tone of regret that it was gone.  An
     invitation to the golden wedding of two ancient friends moved and
     saddened him, and his answer to it conveys about all the story of
     life.


                         To Mr. and Mrs. Gordon:

                                                       21 FIFTH AVENUE,
                                                       Jan. 24, '06.
DEAR GORDONS,--I have just received your golden-wedding "At Home" and am
trying to adjust my focus to it and realize how much it means.  It is
inconceivable!  With a simple sweep it carries me back over a stretch of
time measurable only in astronomical terms and geological periods.
It brings before me Mrs. Gordon, young, round-limbed, handsome; and with
her the Youngbloods and their two babies, and Laura Wright, that
unspoiled little maid, that fresh flower of the woods and the prairies.
Forty-eight years ago!

Life was a fairy-tale, then, it is a tragedy now.  When I was 43 and John
Hay 41 he said life was a tragedy after 40, and I disputed it.  Three
years ago he asked me to testify again: I counted my graves, and there
was nothing for me to say.

I am old; I recognize it but I don't realize it.  I wonder if a person
ever really ceases to feel young--I mean, for a whole day at a time.  My
love to you both, and to all of us that are left.
                                                  MARK.


     Though he used very little liquor of any kind, it was Mark Twain's
     custom to keep a bottle of Scotch whiskey with his collection of
     pipes and cigars and tobacco on a little table by his bed-side.
     During restless nights he found a small quantity of it conducive to
     sleep.  Andrew Carnegie, learning of this custom, made it his
     business to supply Scotch of his own special importation.  The first
     case came, direct from Scotland.  When it arrived Clemens sent this
     characteristic acknowledgment.


                     To Andrew Carnegie, in Scotland:

                                        21 FIFTH AVE.  Feb. 10, '06.
DEAR ST. ANDREW,--The whisky arrived in due course from over the water;
last week one bottle of it was extracted from the wood and inserted into
me, on the instalment plan, with this result: that I believe it to be the
best, smoothest whisky now on the planet.  Thanks, oh, thanks: I have
discarded Peruna.

Hoping that you three are well and happy and will be coming back before
the winter sets in.
                         I am,
                              Sincerely yours,
                                        MARK.


     It must have been a small bottle to be consumed by him in a week, or
     perhaps he had able assistance.  The next brief line refers to the
     manuscript of his article, "Saint Joan of Arc," presented to the
     museum at Rouen.


                           To Edward E. Clarke:

                                             21 FIFTH AVE., Feb., 1906.
DEAR SIR,--I have found the original manuscript and with great pleasure I
transmit it herewith, also a printed copy.

It is a matter of great pride to me to have any word of mine concerning
the world's supremest heroine honored by a place in that Museum.
                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     The series of letters which follows was prepared by Mark Twain and
     General Fred Grant, mainly with a view of advertising the lecture
     that Clemens had agreed to deliver for the benefit of the Robert
     Fulton Monument Association.  It was, in fact, to be Mark Twain's
     "farewell lecture," and the association had really proposed to pay
     him a thousand dollars for it.  The exchange of these letters,
     however, was never made outside of Mark Twain's bed-room.  Propped
     against the pillows, pen in hand, with General Grant beside him,
     they arranged the series with the idea of publication.  Later the
     plan was discarded, so that this pleasant foolery appears here for
     the first, time.


                         PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

                             (Correspondence)

                                 Telegram

                                             Army Headquarters (date)
MARK TWAIN, New York,--Would you consider a proposal to talk at Carnegie
Hall for the benefit of the Robert Fulton Monument Association, of which
you are a Vice President, for a fee of a thousand dollars?
                                        F. D. GRANT,
                                             President,
                                   Fulton Monument Association.


                           Telegraphic Answer:

MAJOR-GENERAL F. D. GRANT, Army Headquarters,--I shall be glad to do it,
but I must stipulate that you keep the thousand dollars and add it to the
Monument fund as my contribution.
                                        CLEMENS.


Letters:

DEAR MR. CLEMENS,--You have the thanks of the Association, and the terms
shall be as you say.  But why give all of it?  Why not reserve a portion
--why should you do this work wholly without compensation?
                                   Truly yours
                                        FRED. D. GRANT.


MAJOR GENERAL GRANT, Army Headquarters.

DEAR GENERAL,--Because I stopped talking for pay a good many years ago,
and I could not resume the habit now without a great deal of personal
discomfort.  I love to hear myself talk, because I get so much
instruction and moral upheaval out of it, but I lose the bulk of this joy
when I charge for it.  Let the terms stand.

General, if I have your approval, I wish to use this good occasion to
retire permanently from the platform.
                                   Truly yours
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


DEAR MR. CLEMENS,--Certainly.  But as an old friend, permit me to say,
Don't do that.  Why should you?--you are not old yet.
                              Yours truly,
                                        FRED D. GRANT.


DEAR GENERAL,--I mean the pay-platform; I shan't retire from the gratis-
platform until after I am dead and courtesy requires me to keep still and
not disturb the others.

What shall I talk about?  My idea is this: to instruct the audience about
Robert Fulton, and.....  Tell me-was that his real name, or was it his
nom de plume?  However, never mind, it is not important--I can skip it,
and the house will think I knew all about it, but forgot.  Could you find
out for me if he was one of the Signers of the Declaration, and which
one?  But if it is any trouble, let it alone, I can skip it.  Was he out
with Paul Jones?  Will you ask Horace Porter?  And ask him if he brought
both of them home.  These will be very interesting facts, if they can be
established.  But never mind, don't trouble Porter, I can establish them
anyway.  The way I look at it, they are historical gems--gems of the very
first water.

Well, that is my idea, as I have said: first, excite the audience with a
spoonful of information about Fulton, then quiet down with a barrel of
illustration drawn by memory from my books--and if you don't say anything
the house will think they never heard of it before, because people don't
really read your books, they only say they do, to keep you from feeling
bad.  Next, excite the house with another spoonful of Fultonian fact,
then tranquilize them again with another barrel of illustration.  And so
on and so on, all through the evening; and if you are discreet and don't
tell them the illustrations don't illustrate anything, they won't notice
it and I will send them home as well-informed about Robert Fulton as I am
myself.  Don't be afraid; I know all about audiences, they believe
everything you say, except when you are telling the truth.
                    Truly yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.

P.S.  Mark all the advertisements "Private and Confidential," otherwise
the people will not read them.
                                   M. T.


DEAR MR. CLEMENS,--How long shall you talk?  I ask in order that we may
be able to say when carriages may be called.
                    Very Truly yours,
                              HUGH GORDON MILLER,
                                        Secretary.


DEAR MR.  MILLER,--I cannot say for sure.  It is my custom to keep on
talking till I get the audience cowed.  Sometimes it takes an hour and
fifteen minutes, sometimes I can do it in an hour.
                              Sincerely yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.

Mem.  My charge is 2 boxes free.  Not the choicest--sell the choicest,
and give me any 6-seat boxes you please.
                                        S. L. C.

I want Fred Grant (in uniform) on the stage; also the rest of the
officials of the Association; also other distinguished people--all the
attractions we can get.  Also, a seat for Mr. Albert Bigelow Paine, who
may be useful to me if he is near me and on the front.
                                        S. L. C.


     The seat chosen for the writer of these notes was to be at the front
     of the stage in order that the lecturer might lean over now and then
     and pretend to be asking information concerning Fulton.  I was not
     entirely happy in the thought of this showy honor, and breathed more
     freely when this plan was abandoned and the part assigned to General
     Grant.

     The lecture was given in Carnegie Hall, which had been gayly
     decorated for the occasion.  The house was more than filled, and a
     great sum of money was realized for the fund.

     It was that spring that Gorky and Tchaikowski, the Russian
     revolutionists, came to America hoping to arouse interest in their
     cause.  The idea of the overthrow of the Russian dynasty was
     pleasant to Mark Twain.  Few things would have given him greater
     comfort than to have known that a little more than ten years would
     see the downfall of Russian imperialism.  The letter which follows
     was a reply to an invitation from Tchaikowski, urging him to speak
     at one of the meetings.


DEAR MR. TCHAIKOWSKI,--I thank you for the honor of the invitation, but
I am not able to accept it, because on Thursday evening I shall be
presiding at a meeting whose object is to find remunerative work for
certain classes of our blind who would gladly support themselves if they
had the opportunity.

My sympathies are with the Russian revolution, of course.  It goes
without saying.  I hope it will succeed, and now that I have talked with
you I take heart to believe it will.  Government by falsified promises;
by lies, by treacheries, and by the butcher-knife for the aggrandizement
of a single family of drones and its idle and vicious kin has been borne
quite long enough in Russia, I should think, and it is to be hoped that
the roused nation, now rising in its strength, will presently put an end
to it and set up the republic in its place.  Some of us, even of the
white headed, may live to see the blessed day when Czars and Grand Dukes
will be as scarce there as I trust they are in heaven.
                         Most sincerely yours,
                                                  MARK TWAIN.


     There came another summer at Dublin, New Hampshire, this time in the
     fine Upton residence on the other slope of Monadnock, a place of
     equally beautiful surroundings, and an even more extended view.
     Clemens was at this time working steadily on his so-called
     Autobiography, which was not that, in fact, but a series of
     remarkable chapters, reminiscent, reflective, commentative, written
     without any particular sequence as to time or subject-matter.  He
     dictated these chapters to a stenographer, usually in the open air,
     sitting in a comfortable rocker or pacing up and down the long
     veranda that faced a vast expanse of wooded slope and lake and
     distant blue mountains.  It became one of the happiest occupations
     of his later years.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Maine:

                                   DUBLIN, Sunday, June 17, '06.
DEAR HOWELLS,--..... The dictating goes lazily and pleasantly on.  With
intervals.  I find that I have been at it, off and on, nearly two hours a
day for 155 days, since Jan. 9.  To be exact I've dictated 75 hours in 80
days and loafed 75 days.  I've added 60,000 words in the month that I've
been here; which indicates that I've dictated during 20 days of that
time--40 hours, at an average of 1,500 words an hour.  It's a plenty, and
I am satisfied.

There's a good deal of "fat" I've dictated, (from Jan. 9) 210,000 words,
and the "fat" adds about 50,000 more.

The "fat" is old pigeon-holed things, of the years gone by, which I or
editors didn't das't to print.  For instance, I am dumping in the little
old book which I read to you in Hartford about 30 years ago and which you
said "publish--and ask Dean Stanley to furnish an introduction; he'll do
it."  ("Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven.") It reads quite to suit
me, without altering a word, now that it isn't to see print until I am
dead.

To-morrow I mean to dictate a chapter which will get my heirs and assigns
burnt alive if they venture to print it this side of 2006 A.D.--which I
judge they won't.  There'll be lots of such chapters if I live 3 or 4
years longer.  The edition of A.D. 2006 will make a stir when it comes
out.  I shall be hovering around taking notice, along with other dead
pals.  You are invited.
                                   MARK.

     His tendency to estimate the measure of the work he was doing, and
     had completed, must have clung to him from his old printer days.

     The chapter which was to get his heirs and assigns burned alive was
     on the orthodox God, and there was more than one such chapter.  In
     the next letter he refers to two exquisite poems by Howells, and the
     writer of these notes recalls his wonderful reading of them aloud.
     'In Our Town' was a collection of short stories then recently issued
     by William Allen White.  Howells had recommended them.


                       To W. D. Howells, in Maine:

                                             21 FIFTH AVE., Tuesday Eve.
DEAR HOWELLS,--It is lovely of you to say those beautiful things--I don't
know how to thank you enough.  But I love you, that I know.

I read "After the Wedding" aloud and we felt all the pain of it and the
truth.  It was very moving and very beautiful--would have been over-
comingly moving, at times, but for the haltings and pauses compelled by
the difficulties of MS--these were a protection, in that they furnished
me time to brace up my voice, and get a new start.  Jean wanted to keep
the MS for another reading-aloud, and for "keeps," too, I suspected, but
I said it would be safest to write you about it.

I like "In Our Town," particularly that Colonel, of the Lookout Mountain
Oration, and very particularly pages 212-16.  I wrote and told White so.

After "After the Wedding" I read "The Mother" aloud and sounded its human
deeps with your deep-sea lead.  I had not read it before, since it was
first published.

I have been dictating some fearful things, for 4 successive mornings--for
no eye but yours to see until I have been dead a century--if then.  But
I got them out of my system, where they had been festering for years--and
that was the main thing.  I feel better, now.

I came down today on business--from house to house in 12 1/2 hours, and
expected to arrive dead, but am neither tired nor sleepy.
                         Yours as always
                                             MARK.


                To William Allen White, in Emporia, Kans.:

                                             DUBLIN, NEW HAMPSHIRE,
                                                  June 24, 1906.
DEAR MR. WHITE,--Howells told me that "In Our Town" was a charming book,
and indeed it is.  All of it is delightful when read one's self, parts of
it can score finely when subjected to the most exacting of tests--the
reading aloud.  Pages 197 and 216 are of that grade.  I have tried them a
couple of times on the family, and pages 212 and 216 are qualified to
fetch any house of any country, caste or color, endowed with those riches
which are denied to no nation on the planet--humor and feeling.

Talk again--the country is listening.
                              Sincerely yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     Witter Bynner, the poet, was one of the editors of McClure's
     Magazine at this time, but was trying to muster the courage to give
     up routine work for verse-making and the possibility of poverty.
     Clemens was fond of Bynner and believed in his work.  He did not
     advise him, however, to break away entirely from a salaried
     position--at least not immediately; but one day Bynner did so, and
     reported the step he had taken, with some doubt as to the answer he
     would receive.


                      To Witter Bynner, in New York:

                                                  DUBLIN, Oct. 5, 1906.
DEAR POET,--You have certainly done right for several good reasons; at
least, of them, I can name two:

1.  With your reputation you can have your freedom and yet earn your
living.   2. if you fall short of succeeding to your wish, your
reputation will provide you another job.  And so in high approval I
suppress the scolding and give you the saintly and fatherly pat instead.
                                                  MARK TWAIN.


     On another occasion, when Bynner had written a poem to Clara
     Clemens, her father pretended great indignation that the first poem
     written by Bynner to any one in his household should not be to him,
     and threatened revenge.  At dinner shortly after he produced from
     his pocket a slip of paper on which he had set down what he said was
     "his only poem."  He read the lines that follow:

               "Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
               The saddest are these: It might have been.
               Ah, say not so! as life grows longer, leaner, thinner,
               We recognize, O God, it might have Bynner!"

     He returned to New York in October and soon after was presented by
     Mrs. H. H. Rogers with a handsome billiard-table.

     He had a passion for the game, but had played comparatively little
     since the old Hartford days of fifteen years before, when a group of
     his friends used to assemble on Friday nights in the room at the top
     of the house for long, strenuous games and much hilarity.  Now the
     old fever all came back; the fascinations of the game superseded
     even his interest in the daily dictations.


                    To Mrs. H. H. Rogers, in New York:

                                   21 FIFTH AVENUE, Monday, Nov., 1906.
DEAR MRS. ROGERS,--The billiard table is better than the doctors.  It is
driving out the heartburn in a most promising way.  I have a billiardist
on the premises, and I walk not less than ten miles every day with the
cue in my hand.  And the walking is not the whole of the exercise, nor
the most health-giving part of it, I think.  Through the multitude of the
positions and attitudes it brings into play every muscle in the body and
exercises them all.

The games begin right after luncheon, daily, and continue until midnight,
with 2 hours' intermission for dinner and music.  And so it is 9 hours'
exercise per day, and 10 or 12 on Sunday.  Yesterday and last night it
was 12--and I slept until 8 this morning without waking.  The billiard
table, as a Sabbath breaker can beat any coal-breaker in Pennsylvania,
and give it 30 in, the game.  If Mr. Rogers will take to daily billiards
he can do without doctors and the massageur, I think.

We are really going to build a house on my farm, an hour and a half from
New York.  It is decided.  It is to be built by contract, and is to come
within $25,000.
                    With love and many thanks.
                                             S. L. C.

P.S.  Clara is in the sanitarium--till January 28 when her western
concert tour will begin.  She is getting to be a mighty competent singer.
You must know Clara better; she is one of the very finest and completest
and most satisfactory characters I have ever met.  Others knew it before,
but I have always been busy with other matters.


     The "billiardist on the premises" was the writer of these notes,
     who, earlier in the year, had become his biographer, and, in the
     course of time, his daily companion and friend.  The farm mentioned
     was one which he had bought at Redding, Connecticut, where, later,
     he built the house known as "Stormfield."

     Henry Mills Alden, for nearly forty years editor of Harper's
     Magazine, arrived at his seventieth birthday on November 11th that
     year, and Harper & Brothers had arranged to give him a great dinner
     in the offices of Franklin Square, where, for half a century, he had
     been an active force.  Mark Twain, threatened with a cold, and
     knowing the dinner would be strenuous, did not feel able to attend,
     so wrote a letter which, if found suitable, could be read at the
     gathering.


                           To Mr. Henry Alden:

ALDEN,--dear and ancient friend--it is a solemn moment.  You have now
reached the age of discretion.  You have been a long time arriving.  Many
years ago you docked me on an article because the subject was too old;
later, you docked me on an article because the subject was too new; later
still, you docked me on an article because the subject was betwixt and
between.  Once, when I wrote a Letter to Queen Victoria, you did not put
it in the respectable part of the Magazine, but interred it in that
potter's field, the Editor's Drawer.  As a result, she never answered it.
How often we recall, with regret, that Napoleon once shot at a magazine
editor and missed him and killed a publisher.  But we remember, with
charity, that his intentions were good.

You will reform, now, Alden.  You will cease from these economies, and
you will be discharged.  But in your retirement you will carry with you
the admiration and earnest good wishes of the oppressed and toiling
scribes.  This will be better than bread.  Let this console you when the
bread fails.

You will carry with you another thing, too--the affection of the scribes;
for they all love you in spite of your crimes.  For you bear a kind heart
in your breast, and the sweet and winning spirit that charms away all
hostilities and animosities, and makes of your enemy your friend and
keeps him so.  You have reigned over us thirty-six years, and, please
God, you shall reign another thirty-six--"and peace to Mahmoud on his
golden throne!"
                    Always yours
                                   MARK


     A copyright bill was coming up in Washington and a delegation of
     authors went down to work for it.  Clemens was not the head of the
     delegation, but he was the most prominent member of it, as well as
     the most useful.  He invited the writer to accompany him, and
     elsewhere I have told in detail the story of that excursion,--[See
     Mark Twain; A Biography, chap.  ccli,]--which need be but briefly
     touched upon here.

     His work was mainly done aside from that of the delegation.  They
     had him scheduled for a speech, however, which he made without notes
     and with scarcely any preparation.  Meantime he had applied to
     Speaker Cannon for permission to allow him on the floor of the
     House, where he could buttonhole the Congressmen.  He was not
     eligible to the floor without having received the thanks of
     Congress, hence the following letter:


             To Hon. Joseph Cannon, House of Representatives:

                                                       Dec. 7, 1906.
DEAR UNCLE JOSEPH,--Please get me the thanks of the Congress--not next
week but right away.  It is very necessary.  Do accomplish this for your
affectionate old friend right away; by persuasion, if you can, by
violence if you must, for it is imperatively necessary that I get on the
floor for two or three hours and talk to the members, man by man, in
behalf of the support, encouragement and protection of one of the
nation's most valuable assets and industries--its literature.  I have
arguments with me, also a barrel, with liquid in it.

Give me a chance.  Get me the thanks of Congress.  Don't wait for others;
there isn't time.  I have stayed away and let Congress alone for seventy-
one years and I am entitled to thanks.  Congress knows it perfectly well
and I have long felt hurt that this quite proper and earned expression of
gratitude has been merely felt by the House and never publicly uttered.
Send me an order on the Sergeant-at-Arms quick.  When shall I come?  With
love and a benediction.
                              MARK TWAIN.


     This was mainly a joke.  Mark Twain did not expect any "thanks," but
     he did hope for access to the floor, which once, in an earlier day,
     had been accorded him.  We drove to the Capitol and he delivered his
     letter to "Uncle Joe" by hand.  "Uncle Joe" could not give him the
     privilege of the floor; the rules had become more stringent.  He
     declared they would hang him if he did such a thing.  He added that
     he had a private room down-stairs, where Mark Twain might establish
     headquarters, and that he would assign his colored servant, Neal, of
     long acquaintanceship with many of the members, to pass the word
     that Mark Twain was receiving.

     The result was a great success.  All that afternoon members of
     Congress poured into the Speaker's room and, in an atmosphere blue
     with tobacco smoke, Mark Twain talked the gospel of copyright to his
     heart's content.

     The bill did not come up for passage that session, but Mark Twain
     lived to see his afternoon's lobbying bring a return.  In 1909,
     Champ Clark, and those others who had gathered around him that
     afternoon, passed a measure that added fourteen years to the
     copyright term.

     The next letter refers to a proposed lobby of quite a different
     sort.


                   To Helen Keller, in Wrentham, Mass.:

                                                       21 FIFTH AVENUE,
                                                       Dec.  23, '06.
DEAR HELEN KELLER,--.  .  .  You say, "As a reformer, you know that
ideas must be driven home again and again."

Yes, I know it; and by old experience I know that speeches and documents
and public meetings are a pretty poor and lame way of accomplishing it.
Last year I proposed a sane way--one which I had practiced with success
for a quarter of a century--but I wasn't expecting it to get any
attention, and it didn't.

Give me a battalion of 200 winsome young girls and matrons, and let me
tell them what to do and how to do it, and I will be responsible for
shining results.  If I could mass them on the stage in front of the
audience and instruct them there, I could make a public meeting take hold
of itself and do something really valuable for once.  Not that the real
instruction would be done there, for it wouldn't; it would be previously
done privately, and merely repeated there.

But it isn't going to happen--the good old way will be stuck to: there'll
be a public meeting: with music, and prayer, and a wearying report, and a
verbal description of the marvels the blind can do, and 17 speeches--then
the call upon all present who are still alive, to contribute.  This hoary
program was invented in the idiot asylum, and will never be changed.  Its
function is to breed hostility to good causes.

Some day somebody will recruit my 200--my dear beguilesome Knights of the
Golden Fleece--and you will see them make good their ominous name.

Mind, we must meet! not in the grim and ghastly air of the platform,
mayhap, but by the friendly fire--here at 21.
                         Affectionately your friend,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     They did meet somewhat later that winter in the friendly parlors of
     No. 21, and friends gathered in to meet the marvelous blind girl and
     to pay tribute to Miss Sullivan (Mrs. Macy) for her almost
     incredible achievement.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Letters Vol. 5, by Mark Twain






MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS  1907-1910

ARRANGED WITH COMMENT BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE



VOLUME VI.


XLVI

LETTERS 1907-08.  A DEGREE FROM OXFORD.  THE NEW HOME AT REDDING

     The author, J. Howard Moore, sent a copy of his book, The Universal
     Kinship, with a letter in which he said: "Most humorists have no
     anxiety except to glorify themselves and add substance to their
     pocket-books by making their readers laugh.  You have shown, on many
     occasions, that your mission is not simply to antidote the
     melancholy of a world, but includes a real and intelligent concern
     for the general welfare of your fellowman."

     The Universal Kinship was the kind of a book that Mark Twain
     appreciated, as his acknowledgment clearly shows.


                         To Mr. J. Howard Moore:

                                                       Feb. 2, '07.
DEAR MR. MOORE, The book has furnished me several days of deep pleasure
and satisfaction; it has compelled my gratitude at the same time, since
it saves me the labor of stating my own long-cherished opinions and
reflections and resentments by doing it lucidly and fervently and
irascibly for me.

There is one thing that always puzzles me: as inheritors of the mentality
of our reptile ancestors we have improved the inheritance by a thousand
grades; but in the matter of the morals which they left us we have gone
backward as many grades.  That evolution is strange, and to me
unaccountable and unnatural.  Necessarily we started equipped with their
perfect and blemishless morals; now we are wholly destitute; we have no
real, morals, but only artificial ones--morals created and preserved by
the forced suppression of natural and hellish instincts.  Yet we are dull
enough to be vain of them. Certainly we are a sufficiently comical
invention, we humans.
                         Sincerely Yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     Mark Twain's own books were always being excommunicated by some
     librarian, and the matter never failed to invite the attention and
     amusement of the press, and the indignation of many correspondents.
     Usually the books were Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, the morals of which
     were not regarded as wholly exemplary.  But in 1907 a small library,
     in a very small town, attained a day's national notoriety by putting
     the ban on Eve's Diary, not so much on account of its text as for
     the chaste and exquisite illustrations by Lester Ralph.  When the
     reporters came in a troop to learn about it, the author said: "I
     believe this time the trouble is mainly with the pictures.  I did
     not draw them.  I wish I had--they are so beautiful."

     Just at this time, Dr. William Lyon Phelps, of Yale, was giving a
     literary talk to the Teachers' Club, of Hartford, dwelling on the
     superlative value of Mark Twain's writings for readers old and
     young.  Mrs. F. G. Whitmore, an old Hartford friend, wrote Clemens
     of the things that Phelps had said, as consolation for Eve's latest
     banishment.  This gave him a chance to add something to what he had
     said to the reporters.


                      To Mrs. Whitmore, in Hartford:

                                                       Feb. 7, 1907.
DEAR MRS. WHITMORE,--But the truth is, that when a Library expels a book
of mine and leaves an unexpurgated Bible lying around where unprotected
youth and age can get hold of it, the deep unconscious irony of it
delights me and doesn't anger me.  But even if it angered me such words
as those of Professor Phelps would take the sting all out.  Nobody
attaches weight to the freaks of the Charlton Library, but when a man
like Phelps speaks, the world gives attention.  Some day I hope to meet
him and thank him for his courage for saying those things out in public.
Custom is, to think a handsome thing in private but tame it down in the
utterance.

I hope you are all well and happy; and thereto I add my love.
                              Sincerely yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     In May, 1907, Mark Twain was invited to England to receive from
     Oxford the degree of Literary Doctor.  It was an honor that came to
     him as a sort of laurel crown at the end of a great career, and
     gratified him exceedingly.  To Moberly Bell, of the London Times,
     he expressed his appreciation.  Bell had been over in April and
     Clemens believed him concerned in the matter.


                       To Moberly Bell, in London:

                                        21 FIFTH AVENUE, May 3, '07
DEAR MR. BELL,--Your hand is in it! and you have my best thanks.
Although I wouldn't cross an ocean again for the price of the ship that
carried me, I am glad to do it for an Oxford degree.  I shall plan to
sail for England a shade before the middle of June, so that I can have a
few days in London before the 26th.
                                   Sincerely,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     He had taken a house at Tuxedo for the summer, desiring to be near
     New York City, and in the next letter he writes Mr. Rogers
     concerning his London plans.  We discover, also, in this letter that
     he has begun work on the Redding home and the cost is to come
     entirely out of the autobiographical chapters then running in the
     North American Review.  It may be of passing interest to note here
     that he had the usual house-builder's fortune.  He received thirty
     thousand dollars for the chapters; the house cost him nearly double
     that amount.


                      To H. H. Rogers, in New York:

                                                            TUXEDO PARK,
                                                            May 29, '07.
DEAR ADMIRAL,--Why hang it, I am not going to see you and Mrs. Rogers at
all in England!  It is a great disappointment.  I leave there a month
from now--June 29.  No, I shall see you; for by your itinerary you are
most likely to come to London June 21st or along there.  So that is very
good and satisfactory.  I have declined all engagements but two--Whitelaw
Reid (dinner) June 21, and the Pilgrims (lunch), June 25.  The Oxford
ceremony is June 26.  I have paid my return passage in the Minne-
something, but it is just possible that I may want to stay in England a
week or two longer--I can't tell, yet.  I do very much want to meet up
with the boys for the last time.

I have signed the contract for the building of the house on my
Connecticut farm and specified the cost limit, and work has been begun.
The cost has to all come out of a year's instalments of Autobiography in
the N. A. Review.

Clara, is winning her way to success and distinction with sure and steady
strides.  By all accounts she is singing like a bird, and is not afraid
on the concert stage any more.

Tuxedo is a charming place; I think it hasn't its equal anywhere.

Very best wishes to you both.
                                   S. L. C.


     The story of Mark Twain's extraordinary reception and triumph in
     England has been told.--[Mark Twain; A Biography, chaps.  cclvi-
     cclix]--It was, in fact, the crowning glory of his career.  Perhaps
     one of the most satisfactory incidents of his sojourn was a dinner
     given to him by the staff of Punch, in the historic offices at 10
     Bouverie Street where no other foreign visitor had been thus
     honored--a notable distinction.  When the dinner ended, little joy
     Agnew, daughter of the chief editor, entered and presented to the
     chief guest the original drawing of a cartoon by Bernard Partridge,
     which had appeared on the front page of Punch.  In this picture the
     presiding genius of the paper is offering to Mark Twain health, long
     life, and happiness from "The Punch Bowl."

     A short time after his return to America he received a pretty
     childish letter from little Miss Agnew acknowledging a photograph he
     had sent her, and giving a list of her pets and occupations.  Such a
     letter always delighted Mark Twain, and his pleasure in this one is
     reflected in his reply.


                      To Miss Joy Agnew, in London:

                                                  TUXEDO PARK, NEW YORK.
Unto you greetings and salutation and worship, you dear, sweet little
rightly-named Joy!  I can see you now almost as vividly as I saw you that
night when you sat flashing and beaming upon those sombre swallow-tails.

     "Fair as a star when only one
     Is shining in the sky."

Oh, you were indeed the only one--there wasn't even the remotest chance
of competition with you, dear!  Ah, you are a decoration, you little
witch!

The idea of your house going to the wanton expense of a flower garden!--
aren't you enough?  And what do you want to go and discourage the other
flowers for?  Is that the right spirit? is it considerate? is it kind?
How do you suppose they feel when you come around--looking the way you
look?  And you so pink and sweet and dainty and lovely and supernatural?
Why, it makes them feel embarrassed and artificial, of course; and in my
opinion it is just as pathetic as it can be.  Now then you want to
reform--dear--and do right.

Well certainly you are well off, Joy:

3 bantams;
3 goldfish;
3 doves;
6 canaries;
2 dogs;
1 cat;

All you need, now, to be permanently beyond the reach of want, is one
more dog--just one more good, gentle, high principled, affectionate,
loyal dog who wouldn't want any nobler service than the golden privilege
of lying at your door, nights, and biting everything that came along--and
I am that very one, and ready to come at the dropping of a hat.

Do you think you could convey my love and thanks to your "daddy" and Owen
Seaman and those other oppressed and down-trodden subjects of yours, you
darling small tyrant?

On my knees!  These--with the kiss of fealty from your other subject--

                                                  MARK TWAIN


     Elinor Glyn, author of Three Weeks and other erotic tales, was in
     America that winter and asked permission to call on Mark Twain.  An
     appointment was made and Clemens discussed with her, for an hour or
     more, those crucial phases of life which have made living a complex
     problem since the days of Eve in Eden.  Mrs. Glyn had never before
     heard anything like Mark Twain's wonderful talk, and she was anxious
     to print their interview.  She wrote what she could remember of it
     and sent it to him for approval.  If his conversation had been
     frank, his refusal was hardly less so.


                    To Mrs. Elinor Glyn, in New York:

                                                       Jan. 22, '08.
DEAR MRS. GLYN, It reads pretty poorly--I get the sense of it, but it is
a poor literary job; however, it would have to be that because nobody can
be reported even approximately, except by a stenographer.
Approximations, synopsized speeches, translated poems, artificial flowers
and chromos all have a sort of value, but it is small.  If you had put
upon paper what I really said it would have wrecked your type-machine.
I said some fetid, over-vigorous things, but that was because it was a
confidential conversation.  I said nothing for print.  My own report of
the same conversation reads like Satan roasting a Sunday school.  It, and
certain other readable chapters of my autobiography will not be published
until all the Clemens family are dead--dead and correspondingly
indifferent.  They were written to entertain me, not the rest of the
world.  I am not here to do good--at least not to do it intentionally.
You must pardon me for dictating this letter; I am sick a-bed and not
feeling as well as I might.
                              Sincerely Yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


     Among the cultured men of England Mark Twain had no greater admirer,
     or warmer friend, than Andrew Lang.  They were at one on most
     literary subjects, and especially so in their admiration of the life
     and character of Joan of Arc.  Both had written of her, and both
     held her to be something almost more than mortal.  When, therefore,
     Anatole France published his exhaustive biography of the maid of
     Domremy, a book in which he followed, with exaggerated minuteness
     and innumerable footnotes, every step of Joan's physical career at
     the expense of her spiritual life, which he was inclined to cheapen,
     Lang wrote feelingly, and with some contempt, of the performance,
     inviting the author of the Personal Recollections to come to the
     rescue of their heroine.  "Compare every one of his statements with
     the passages he cites from authorities, and make him the laughter of
     the world" he wrote.  "If you are lazy about comparing I can make
     you a complete set of what the authorities say, and of what this
     amazing novelist says that they say.  When I tell you that he thinks
     the Epiphany (January 6, Twelfth Night) is December 25th--Christmas
     Day-you begin to see what an egregious ass he is.  Treat him like
     Dowden, and oblige"--a reference to Mark Twain's defense of Harriet
     Shelley, in which he had heaped ridicule on Dowden's Life of the
     Poet--a masterly performance; one of the best that ever came from
     Mark Twain's pen.

     Lang's suggestion would seem to have been a welcome one.


                        To Andrew Lang, in London:

                                        NEW YORK, April 25, 1908.
DEAR MR. LANG,--I haven't seen the book nor any review of it, but only
not very-understandable references to it--of a sort which discomforted
me, but of course set my interest on fire.  I don't want to have to read
it in French--I should lose the nice shades, and should do a lot of gross
misinterpreting, too.  But there'll be a translation soon, nicht wahr?
I will wait for it.  I note with joy that you say: "If you are lazy about
comparing, (which I most certainly am), I can make you a complete set of
what the authorities say, and of what this amazing novelist says that
they say."

Ah, do it for me!  Then I will attempt the article, and (if I succeed in
doing it to my satisfaction,) will publish it.  It is long since I
touched a pen (3 1/2 years), and I was intending to continue this happy
holiday to the gallows, but--there are things that could beguile me to
break this blessed Sabbath.
                    Yours very sincerely,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     Certainly it is an interesting fact that an Englishman--one of the
     race that burned Joan--should feel moved to defend her memory
     against the top-heavy perversions of a distinguished French author.

     But Lang seems never to have sent the notes.  The copying would have
     been a tremendous task, and perhaps he never found the time for it.
     We may regret to-day that he did not, for Mark Twain's article on
     the French author's Joan would have been at least unique.

     Samuel Clemens could never accustom himself to the loss of his wife.
     From the time of her death, marriage-which had brought him his
     greatest joy in life-presented itself to him always with the thought
     of bereavement, waiting somewhere just behind.  The news of an
     approaching wedding saddened him and there was nearly always a
     somber tinge in his congratulations, of which the following to a
     dear friend is an example:


                   To Father Fitz-Simon, in Washington:

                                                  June 5, '08.
DEAR FATHER FITZ-SIMON,--Marriage--yes, it is the supreme felicity of
life, I concede it.  And it is also the supreme tragedy of life.  The
deeper the love the surer the tragedy.  And the more disconsolating when
it comes.

And so I congratulate you.  Not perfunctorily, not lukewarmly, but with a
fervency and fire that no word in the dictionary is strong enough to
convey.  And in the same breath and with the same depth and sincerity,
I grieve for you.  Not for both of you and not for the one that shall go
first, but for the one that is fated to be left behind.  For that one
there is no recompense.--For that one no recompense is possible.

There are times--thousands of times--when I can expose the half of my
mind, and conceal the other half, but in the matter of the tragedy of
marriage I feel too deeply for that, and I have to bleed it all out or
shut it all in.  And so you must consider what I have been through, and
am passing through and be charitable with me.

Make the most of the sunshine! and I hope it will last long--ever so
long.

I do not really want to be present; yet for friendship's sake and because
I honor you so, I would be there if I could.
                         Most sincerely your friend,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


     The new home at Redding was completed in the spring of 1908, and on
     the 18th of June, when it was entirely fitted and furnished, Mark
     Twain entered it for the first time.  He had never even seen the
     place nor carefully examined plans which John Howells had made for
     his house.  He preferred the surprise of it, and the general
     avoidance of detail.  That he was satisfied with the result will be
     seen in his letters.  He named it at first "Innocence at Home";
     later changing this title to "Stormfield."

     The letter which follows is an acknowledgment of an interesting
     souvenir from the battle-field of Tewksbury (1471), and some relics
     of the Cavalier and Roundhead Regiments encamped at Tewksbury in
     1643.


                          To an English admirer:

                              INNOCENCE AT HOME, REDDING, CONNECTICUT,
                                                  Aug. 15, '08.
DEAR SIR,--I highly prize the pipes, and shall intimate to people that
"Raleigh" smoked them, and doubtless he did.  After a little practice I
shall be able to go further and say he did; they will then be the most
interesting features of my library's decorations.  The Horse-shoe is
attracting a good deal of attention, because I have intimated that the
conqueror's horse cast it; it will attract more when I get my hand in and
say he cast it, I thank you for the pipes and the shoe; and also for the
official guide, which I read through at a single sitting.  If a person
should say that about a book of mine I should regard it as good evidence
of the book's interest.
                              Very truly yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     In his philosophy, What Is Man?, and now and again in his other
     writings, we find Mark Twain giving small credit to the human mind
     as an originator of ideas.  The most original writer of his time, he
     took no credit for pure invention and allowed none to others.  The
     mind, he declared, adapted, consciously or unconsciously; it did not
     create.  In a letter which follows he elucidates this doctrine.  The
     reference in it to the "captain" and to the kerosene, as the reader
     may remember, have to do with Captain "Hurricane" Jones and his
     theory of the miracles of "Isaac and of the prophets of Baal," as
     expounded in Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion.

     By a trick of memory Clemens gives The Little Duke as his suggestion
     for The Prince and the Pauper; he should have written The Prince and
     the Page, by the same author.


                    To Rev. F. Y. Christ, in New York:

                                        REDDING, CONN., Aug., '08.
DEAR SIR,--You say "I often owe my best sermons to a suggestion received
in reading or from other exterior sources."  Your remark is not quite in
accordance with the facts.  We must change it to--"I owe all my thoughts,
sermons and ideas to suggestions received from sources outside of myself."
The simplified English of this proposition is--"No man's brains ever
originated an idea."  It is an astonishing thing that after all these
ages the world goes on thinking the human brain machinery can originate a
thought.

It can't.  It never has done it.  In all cases, little and big, the
thought is born of a suggestion; and in all cases the suggestions come to
the brain from the outside.  The brain never acts except from exterior
impulse.

A man can satisfy himself of the truth of this by a single process,--let
him examine every idea that occurs to him in an hour; a day; in a week
--in a lifetime if he please.  He will always find that an outside
something suggested the thought, something which he saw with his eyes or
heard with his ears or perceived by his touch--not necessarily to-day,
nor yesterday, nor last year, nor twenty years ago, but sometime or
other.  Usually the source of the suggestion is immediately traceable,
but sometimes it isn't.

However, if you will examine every thought that occurs to you for the
next two days, you will find that in at least nine cases out of ten you
can put your finger on the outside suggestion--And that ought to convince
you that No. 10 had that source too, although you cannot at present hunt
it down and find it.

The idea of writing to me would have had to wait a long time if it waited
until your brain originated it.  It was born of an outside suggestion--
Sir Thomas and my old Captain.

The hypnotist thinks he has invented a new thing--suggestion.  This is
very sad.  I don't know where my captain got his kerosene idea.  (It was
forty-one years ago, and he is long ago dead.) But I know that it didn't
originate in his head, but it was born from a suggestion from the
outside.

Yesterday a guest said, "How did you come to think of writing 'The Prince
and the Pauper?'"  I didn't.  The thought came to me from the outside--
suggested by that pleasant and picturesque little history-book, Charlotte
M. Yonge's "Little Duke," I doubt if Mrs. Burnett knows whence came to
her the suggestion to write "Little Lord Fauntleroy," but I know; it came
to her from reading "The Prince and the Pauper."  In all my life I have
never originated an idea, and neither has she, nor anybody else.

Man's mind is a clever machine, and can work up materials into ingenious
fancies and ideas, but it can't create the material; none but the gods
can do that.  In Sweden I saw a vast machine receive a block of wood, and
turn it into marketable matches in two minutes.  It could do everything
but make the wood.  That is the kind of machine the human mind is.  Maybe
this is not a large compliment, but it is all I can afford.....
                         Your friend and well-wisher
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


                To Mrs. H. H. Rogers, in Fair Hawn, Mass.:

                                        REDDING, CONN, Aug. 12, 1908.
DEAR MRS. ROGERS, I believe I am the wellest man on the planet to-day,
and good for a trip to Fair Haven (which I discussed with the Captain of
the New Bedford boat, who pleasantly accosted me in the Grand Central
August 5) but the doctor came up from New York day before yesterday, and
gave positive orders that I must not stir from here before frost.  It is
because I was threatened with a swoon, 10 or 12 days ago, and went to New
York a day or two later to attend my nephew's funeral and got horribly
exhausted by the heat and came back here and had a bilious collapse.  In
24 hours I was as sound as a nut again, but nobody believes it but me.

This is a prodigiously satisfactory place, and I am so glad I don't have
to go back to the turmoil and rush of New York.  The house stands high
and the horizons are wide, yet the seclusion is perfect.  The nearest
public road is half a mile away, so there is nobody to look in, and I
don't have to wear clothes if I don't want to.  I have been down stairs
in night-gown and slippers a couple of hours, and have been photographed
in that costume; but I will dress, now, and behave myself.

That doctor had half an idea that there is something the matter with my
brain.  .  .  Doctors do know so little and they do charge so much for
it.  I wish Henry Rogers would come here, and I wish you would come with
him.  You can't rest in that crowded place, but you could rest here, for
sure!  I would learn bridge, and entertain you, and rob you.
                         With love to you both,
                                        Ever yours,
                                                  S.  L.  C.


     In the foregoing letter we get the first intimation of Mark Twain's
     failing health.  The nephew who had died was Samuel E. Moffett, son
     of Pamela Clemens.  Moffett, who was a distinguished journalist--an
     editorial writer on Collier's Weekly, a man beloved by all who knew
     him--had been drowned in the surf off the Jersey beach.


                 To W. D. Howells, Kittery Point, Maine:

                                                       Aug. 12, '08.
DEAR HOWELLS,--Won't you and Mrs. Howells and Mildred come and give us as
many days as you can spare, and examine John's triumph?  It is the most
satisfactory house I am acquainted with, and the most satisfactorily
situated.

But it is no place to work in, because one is outside of it all the time,
while the sun and the moon are on duty.  Outside of it in the loggia,
where the breezes blow and the tall arches divide up the scenery and
frame it.

It's a ghastly long distance to come, and I wouldn't travel such a
distance to see anything short of a memorial museum, but if you can't
come now you can at least come later when you return to New York, for the
journey will be only an hour and a half per express-train.  Things are
gradually and steadily taking shape inside the house, and nature is
taking care of the outside in her ingenious and wonderful fashion--and
she is competent and asks no help and gets none.  I have retired from New
York for good, I have retired from labor for good, I have dismissed my
stenographer and have entered upon a holiday whose other end is in the
cemetery.
                    Yours ever,
                                   MARK.


     From a gentleman in Buffalo Clemens one day received a letter
     inclosing an incompleted list of the world's "One Hundred Greatest
     Men," men who had exerted "the largest visible influence on the life
     and activities of the race."  The writer asked that Mark Twain
     examine the list and suggest names, adding "would you include Jesus,
     as the founder of Christianity, in the list?"

     To the list of statesmen Clemens added the name of Thomas Paine; to
     the list of inventors, Edison and Alexander Graham Bell.  The
     question he answered in detail.


                      To-----------, Buffalo, N.  Y.

                              Private.  REDDING, CONN, Aug. 28, '08.
DEAR SIR,--By "private," I mean don't print any remarks of mine.

                            ..................
I like your list.

The "largest visible influence."

These terms require you to add Jesus.  And they doubly and trebly require
you to add Satan.  From A.D. 350 to A.D. 1850 these gentlemen exercised a
vaster influence over a fifth part of the human race than was exercised
over that fraction of the race by all other influences combined.  Ninety-
nine hundredths of this influence proceeded from Satan, the remaining
fraction of it from Jesus.  During those 1500 years the fear of Satan and
Hell made 99 Christians where love of God and Heaven landed one.  During
those 1500 years, Satan's influence was worth very nearly a hundred times
as much to the business as was the influence of all the rest of the Holy
Family put together.

You have asked me a question, and I have answered it seriously and
sincerely.  You have put in Buddha--a god, with a following, at one time,
greater than Jesus ever had: a god with perhaps a little better evidence
of his godship than that which is offered for Jesus's.  How then, in
fairness, can you leave Jesus out?  And if you put him in, how can you
logically leave Satan out?  Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but
it is the lightning that does the work.
                              Very truly yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     The "Children's Theatre" of the next letter was an institution of
     the New York East Side in which Mark Twain was deeply interested.
     The children were most, if not all, of Hebrew parentage, and the
     performances they gave, under the direction of Alice M. Herts, were
     really remarkable.  It seemed a pity that lack of funds should have
     brought this excellent educational venture to an untimely end.

     The following letter was in reply to one inclosing a newspaper
     clipping reporting a performance of The Prince and the Pauper, given
     by Chicago school children.


                       To Mrs. Hookway, in Chicago:
                                                  Sept., 1908.
DEAR MRS. HOOKWAY,--Although I am full of the spirit of work this
morning, a rarity with me lately--I must steal a moment or two for a word
in person: for I have been reading the eloquent account in the Record-
Herald and am pleasurably stirred, to my deepest deeps.  The reading
brings vividly back to me my pet and pride.  The Children's Theatre of
the East side, New York.  And it supports and re-affirms what I have so
often and strenuously said in public that a children's theatre is easily
the most valuable adjunct that any educational institution for the young
can have, and that no otherwise good school is complete without it.

It is much the most effective teacher of morals and promoter of good
conduct that the ingenuity of man has yet devised, for the reason that
its lessons are not taught wearily by book and by dreary homily, but by
visible and enthusing action; and they go straight to the heart, which is
the rightest of right places for them.  Book morals often get no further
than the intellect, if they even get that far on their spectral and
shadowy pilgrimage: but when they travel from a Children's Theatre they
do not stop permanently at that halfway house, but go on home.

The children's theatre is the only teacher of morals and conduct and high
ideals that never bores the pupil, but always leaves him sorry when the
lesson is over.  And as for history, no other teacher is for a moment
comparable to it: no other can make the dead heroes of the world rise up
and shake the dust of the ages from their bones and live and move and
breathe and speak and be real to the looker and listener: no other can
make the study of the lives and times of the illustrious dead a delight,
a splendid interest, a passion; and no other can paint a history-lesson
in colors that will stay, and stay, and never fade.

It is my conviction that the children's theatre is one of the very, very
great inventions of the twentieth century; and that its vast educational
value--now but dimly perceived and but vaguely understood--will presently
come to be recognized.  By the article which I have been reading I find
the same things happening in the Howland School that we have become
familiar with in our Children's Theatre (of which I am President, and
sufficiently vain of the distinction.) These things among others;

1.  The educating history-study does not stop with the little players,
but the whole school catches the infection and revels in it.

2.  And it doesn't even stop there; the children carry it home and infect
the family with it--even the parents and grandparents; and the whole
household fall to studying history, and bygone manners and customs and
costumes with eager interest.  And this interest is carried along to the
studying of costumes in old book-plates; and beyond that to the selecting
of fabrics and the making of clothes.  Hundreds of our children learn,
the plays by listening without book, and by making notes; then the
listener goes home and plays the piece--all the parts! to the family.
And the family are glad and proud; glad to listen to the explanations and
analyses, glad to learn, glad to be lifted to planes above their dreary
workaday lives.  Our children's theatre is educating 7,000 children--and
their families.  When we put on a play of Shakespeare they fall to
studying it diligently; so that they may be qualified to enjoy it to the
limit when the piece is staged.

3.  Your Howland School children do the construction-work, stage-
decorations, etc.  That is our way too.  Our young folks do everything
that is needed by the theatre, with their own hands; scene-designing,
scene-painting, gas-fitting, electric work, costume-designing--costume
making, everything and all things indeed--and their orchestra and its
leader are from their own ranks.

The article which I have been reading, says--speaking of the historical
play produced by the pupils of the Howland School--

"The question naturally arises, What has this drama done for those who so
enthusiastically took part?--The touching story has made a year out of
the Past live for the children as could no chronology or bald statement
of historical events; it has cultivated the fancy and given to the
imagination strength and purity; work in composition has ceased to be
drudgery, for when all other themes fall flat a subject dealing with some
aspect of the drama presented never fails to arouse interest and a rapid
pushing of pens over paper."

That is entirely true.  The interest is not confined to the drama's
story, it spreads out all around the period of the story, and gives to
all the outlying and unrelated happenings of that period a fascinating
interest--an interest which does not fade out with the years, but remains
always fresh, always inspiring, always welcome.  History-facts dug by the
job, with sweat and tears out of a dry and spiritless text-book--but
never mind, all who have suffered know what that is.  .  .
                                   I remain, dear madam,
                                             Sincerely yours,
                                                       S. L. CLEMENS.


     Mark Twain had a special fondness for cats.  As a boy he always
     owned one and it generally had a seat beside him at the table.
     There were cats at Quarry Farm and at Hartford, and in the house at
     Redding there was a gray mother-cat named Tammany, of which he was
     especially fond.  Kittens capering about were his chief delight.
     In a letter to a Chicago woman he tells how those of Tammany
     assisted at his favorite game.


               To Mrs. Mabel Larkin Patterson, in Chicago:

                                             REDDING, CONNECTICUT,
                                                       Oct. 2, '08.
DEAR MRS. PATTERSON,--The contents of your letter are very pleasant and
very welcome, and I thank you for them, sincerely.  If I can find a
photograph of my "Tammany" and her kittens, I will enclose it in this.

One of them likes to be crammed into a corner-pocket of the billiard
table--which he fits as snugly as does a finger in a glove and then he
watches the game (and obstructs it) by the hour, and spoils many a shot
by putting out his paw and changing the direction of a passing ball.
Whenever a ball is in his arms, or so close to him that it cannot be
played upon without risk of hurting him, the player is privileged to
remove it to anyone of the 3 spots that chances to be vacant.

Ah, no, my lecturing days are over for good and all.
                                        Sincerely yours,
                                                  S. L. CLEMENS.


     The letter to Howells which follows was written a short time before
     the passage of the copyright extension bill, which rendered Mark
     Twain's new plan, here mentioned, unneeded--at least for the time.


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York:

                                             Monday, Oct. 26, '08.
Oh, I say!  Where are you hiding, and why are you hiding?  You promised
to come here and you didn't keep your word.  (This sounds like
astonishment--but don't be misled by that.)

Come, fire up again on your fiction-mill and give us another good
promise.  And this time keep it--for it is your turn to be astonished.
Come and stay as long as you possibly can.  I invented a new copyright
extension scheme last Friday, and sat up all night arranging its details.
It will interest you.  Yesterday I got it down on paper in as compact a
form as I could.  Harvey and I have examined the scheme, and to-morrow or
next day he will send me a couple of copyright-experts to arrange about
getting certain statistics for me.

Authors, publishers and the public have always been damaged by the
copyright laws.  The proposed amendment will advantage all three--the
public most of all.  I think Congress will pass it and settle the vexed
question permanently.

I shall need your assent and the assent of about a dozen other authors.
Also the assent of all the large firms of the 300 publishers.  These
authors and publishers will furnish said assent I am sure.  Not even the
pirates will be able to furnish a serious objection, I think.

Come along.  This place seemed at its best when all around was summer-
green; later it seemed at its best when all around was burning with the
autumn splendors; and now once more it seems at its best, with the trees
naked and the ground a painter's palette.
                                   Yours ever,
                                             MARK.


     Clemens was a great admirer of the sea stories of W. W. Jacobs and
     generally kept one or more of this author's volumes in reach of his
     bed, where most of his reading was done.  The acknowledgment that
     follows was sent when he had finished Salthaven.


                       To W. W. Jacobs, in England:

                                                       REDDING, CONN,
                                                       Oct. 28, '08.
DEAR MR. JACOBS,--It has a delightful look.  I will not venture to say
how delightful, because the words would sound extravagant, and would
thereby lose some of their strength and to that degree misrepresent me.
It is my conviction that Dialstone Lane holds the supremacy over all
purely humorous books in our language, but I feel about Salthaven as the
Cape Cod poet feels about Simon Hanks:

               "The Lord knows all things, great and small,
               With doubt he's not perplexed:
               'Tis Him alone that knows it all
               But Simon Hanks comes next."

The poet was moved by envy and malice and jealousy, but I am not: I place
Salthaven close up next to Dialstone because I think it has a fair and
honest right to that high position.  I have kept the other book moving;
I shall begin to hand this one around now.

And many thanks to you for remembering me.

This house is out in the solitudes of the woods and the hills, an hour
and a half from New York, and I mean to stay in it winter and summer the
rest of my days.  I beg you to come and help occupy it a few days the
next time you visit the U.S.
                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     One of the attractions of Stormfield was a beautiful mantel in the
     billiard room, presented by the Hawaiian Promotion Committee.  It
     had not arrived when the rest of the house was completed, but came
     in time to be set in place early in the morning of the owner's
     seventy-third birthday.  It was made of a variety of Hawaiian woods,
     and was the work of a native carver, F. M. Otremba.  Clemens was
     deeply touched by the offering from those "western isles"--the
     memory of which was always so sweet to him.


                         To Mr. Wood, in Hawaii:

                                                       Nov. 30, '08.
DEAR MR. WOOD,--The beautiful mantel was put in its place an hour ago,
and its friendly "Aloha" was the first uttered greeting my 73rd birthday
received.  It is rich in color, rich in quality, and rich in decoration,
therefore it exactly harmonizes with the taste for such things which was
born in me and which I have seldom been able to indulge to my content.
It will be a great pleasure to me, daily renewed, to have under my eye
this lovely reminder of the loveliest fleet of islands that lies anchored
in any ocean, and I beg to thank the Committee for providing me that
pleasure.
                    Sincerely Yours,
                              S. L. CLEMENS.




XLVII

LETTERS, 1909.  TO HOWELLS AND OTHERS.  LIFE AT STORMFIELD.  COPYRIGHT
EXTENSION.  DEATH OF JEAN CLEMENS

     Clemens remained at Stormfield all that winter.  New York was sixty
     miles away and he did not often care to make the journey.  He was
     constantly invited to this or that public gathering, or private
     party, but such affairs had lost interest for him.  He preferred the
     quiet of his luxurious home with its beautiful outlook, while for
     entertainment he found the billiard afternoons sufficient.  Guests
     came from the city, now and again, for week-end visits, and if he
     ever was restless or lonely he did not show it.

     Among the invitations that came was one from General O. O. Howard
     asking him to preside at a meeting to raise an endowment fund for a
     Lincoln Memorial University at Cumberland Gap, Tennessee.  Closing
     his letter, General Howard said, "Never mind if you did fight on the
     other side."


                         To General O. O. Howard:

                                        STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONNECTICUT,
                                                            Jan, 12, '09.
DEAR GENERAL HOWARD,--You pay me a most gratifying compliment in asking
me to preside, and it causes me very real regret that I am obliged to
decline, for the object of the meeting appeals strongly to me, since that
object is to aid in raising the $500,000 Endowment Fund for Lincoln
Memorial University.  The Endowment Fund will be the most fitting of all
the memorials the country will dedicate to the memory of Lincoln,
serving, as it will, to uplift his very own people.

I hope you will meet with complete success, and I am sorry I cannot be
there to witness it and help you rejoice.  But I am older than people
think, and besides I live away out in the country and never stir from
home, except at geological intervals, to fill left-over engagements in
mesozoic times when I was younger and indiscreeter.

You ought not to say sarcastic things about my "fighting on the other
side."  General Grant did not act like that.  General Grant paid me
compliments.  He bracketed me with Zenophon--it is there in his Memoirs
for anybody to read.  He said if all the confederate soldiers had
followed my example and adopted my military arts he could never have
caught enough of them in a bunch to inconvenience the Rebellion.  General
Grant was a fair man, and recognized my worth; but you are prejudiced,
and you have hurt my feelings.
          But I have an affection for you, anyway.
                                   MARK TWAIN.


     One of Mark Twain's friends was Henniker-Heaton, the so-called
     "Father of Penny Postage" between England and America.  When, after
     long years of effort, he succeeded in getting the rate established,
     he at once bent his energies in the direction of cheap cable service
     and a letter from him came one day to Stormfield concerning his new
     plans.  This letter happened to be over-weight, which gave Mark
     Twain a chance for some amusing exaggerations at his expense.


                      To Henniker-Heaton, in London:

                                   STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONNECTICUT,
                                             Jan.  18, 1909.
DEAR HENNIKER-HEATON,--I do hope you will succeed to your heart's desire
in your cheap-cablegram campaign, and I feel sure you will.  Indeed your
cheap-postage victory, achieved in spite of a quarter-century of
determined opposition, is good and rational prophecy that you will.
Wireless, not being as yet imprisoned in a Chinese wall of private cash
and high-placed and formidable influence, will come to your aid and make
your new campaign briefer and easier than the other one was.

Now then, after uttering my serious word, am I privileged to be frivolous
for a moment?  When you shall have achieved cheap telegraphy, are you
going to employ it for just your own selfish profit and other people's
pecuniary damage, the way you are doing with your cheap postage?  You get
letter-postage reduced to 2 cents an ounce, then you mail me a 4-ounce
letter with a 2-cent stamp on it, and I have to pay the extra freight at
this end of the line.  I return your envelope for inspection.  Look at
it.  Stamped in one place is a vast "T," and under it the figures "40,"
and under those figures appears an "L," a sinister and suspicious and
mysterious L.  In another place, stamped within a circle, in offensively
large capitals, you find the words "DUE 8 CENTS."  Finally, in the midst
of a desert space up nor-noreastard from that circle you find a figure
"3" of quite unnecessarily aggressive and insolent magnitude--and done
with a blue pencil, so as to be as conspicuous as possible.  I inquired
about these strange signs and symbols of the postman.  He said they were
P. O. Department signals for his instruction.

"Instruction for what?"

"To get extra postage."

"Is it so?  Explain.  Tell me about the large T and the 40.

"It's short for Take 40--or as we postmen say, grab 40"

Go on, please, while I think up some words to swear with."

"Due 8 means, grab 8 more."

"Continue."

"The blue-pencil 3 was an afterthought.  There aren't any stamps for
afterthoughts; the sums vary, according to inspiration, and they whirl in
the one that suggests itself at the last moment.  Sometimes they go
several times higher than this one.  This one only means hog 3 cents
more.  And so if you've got 51 cents about you, or can borrow it--"

"Tell me: who gets this corruption?"

"Half of it goes to the man in England who ships the letter on short
postage, and the other half goes to the P.O.D.  to protect cheap postage
from inaugurating a deficit."

"-------------------"

"I can't blame you; I would say it myself in your place, if these ladies
were not present.  But you see I'm only obeying orders, I can't help
myself."

"Oh, I know it; I'm not blaming you.  Finally, what does that L stand
for?"

"Get the money, or give him L.  It's English, you know."

"Take it and go.  It's the last cent I've got in the world--."

After seeing the Oxford pageant file by the grand stand, picture after
picture, splendor after splendor, three thousand five hundred strong, the
most moving and beautiful and impressive and historically-instructive
show conceivable, you are not to think I would miss the London pageant of
next year, with its shining host of 15,000 historical English men and
women dug from the misty books of all the vanished ages and marching in
the light of the sun--all alive, and looking just as they were used to
look!  Mr. Lascelles spent yesterday here on the farm, and told me all
about it.  I shall be in the middle of my 75th year then, and interested
in pageants for personal and prospective reasons.

I beg you to give my best thanks to the Bath Club for the offer of its
hospitalities, but I shall not be able to take advantage of it, because I
am to be a guest in a private house during my stay in London.
                              Sincerely yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     It was in 1907 that Clemens had seen the Oxford Pageant--during the
     week when he had been awarded his doctor's degree.  It gave him the
     greatest delight, and he fully expected to see the next one, planned
     for 1910.

     In the letter to Howells which follows we get another glimpse of
     Mark Twain's philosophy of man, the irresponsible machine.


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York:

                                        STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONN.,
                                                  Jan.  18, '09.
DEAR HOWELLS,--I have to write a line, lazy as I am, to say how your Poe
article delighted me; and to say that I am in agreement with
substantially all you say about his literature.  To me his prose is
unreadable--like Jane Austin's.  No, there is a difference.  I could read
his prose on salary, but not Jane's.  Jane is entirely impossible.  It
seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death.

Another thing: you grant that God and circumstances sinned against Poe,
but you also grant that he sinned against himself--a thing which he
couldn't do and didn't do.

It is lively up here now.  I wish you could come.
                                   Yrs ever,
                                             MARK


                      To W. D. Howells, in New York:

                                        STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONNECTICUT,
                                        3 in the morning, Apl. 17, '09.
                                                  [Written with pencil].
My pen has gone dry and the ink is out of reach.  Howells, Did you write
me day-before-day before yesterday, or did I dream it?  In my mind's eye
I most vividly see your hand-write on a square blue envelop in the
mailpile.  I have hunted the house over, but there is no such letter.
Was it an illusion?

I am reading Lowell's letter, and smoking.  I woke an hour ago and am
reading to keep from wasting the time.  On page 305, vol.  I.  I have
just margined a note:

"Young friend!  I like that!  You ought to see him now."

It seemed startlingly strange to hear a person call you young.  It was a
brick out of a blue sky, and knocked me groggy for a moment.  Ah me, the
pathos of it is, that we were young then.  And he--why, so was he, but he
didn't know it.  He didn't even know it 9 years later, when we saw him
approaching and you warned me, saying, "Don't say anything about age--he
has just turned fifty, and thinks he is old and broods over it."

[Well, Clara did sing!  And you wrote her a dear letter.]

Time to go to sleep.
                         Yours ever,
                                        MARK.


                            To Daniel Kiefer:

                                                       [No date.]
DANL KIEFER ESQ.  DEAR SIR,--I should be far from willing to have a
political party named after me.

I would not be willing to belong to a party which allowed its members to
have political aspirations or to push friends forward for political
preferment.
                    Yours very truly,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     The copyright extension, for which the author had been working so
     long, was granted by Congress in 1909, largely as the result of that
     afternoon in Washington when Mark Twain had "received" in "Uncle
     Joe" Cannon's private room, and preached the gospel of copyright
     until the daylight faded and the rest of the Capitol grew still.
     Champ Clark was the last to linger that day and they had talked far
     into the dusk.  Clark was powerful, and had fathered the bill.  Now
     he wrote to know if it was satisfactory.


                      To Champ Clark, in Washington:

                              STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONN., June 5, '09.
DEAR CHAMP CLARK--Is the new copyright law acceptable to me?
Emphatically, yes!  Clark, it is the only sane, and clearly defined, and
just and righteous copyright law that has ever existed in the United
States.  Whosoever will compare it with its predecessors will have no
trouble in arriving at that decision.

The bill which was before the committee two years ago when I was down
there was the most stupefying jumble of conflicting and apparently
irreconcilable interests that was ever seen; and we all said "the case is
hopeless, absolutely hopeless--out of this chaos nothing can be built."
But we were in error; out of that chaotic mass this excellent bill has
been instructed; the warring interests have been reconciled, and the
result is as comely and substantial a legislative edifice as lifts its
domes and towers and protective lightning rods out of the statute book,
I think.  When I think of that other bill, which even the Deity couldn't
understand, and of this one which even I can understand, I take off my
hat to the man or men who devised this one.  Was it R. U. Johnson?  Was
it the Author's League?  Was it both together?  I don't know, but I take
off my hat, anyway.  Johnson has written a valuable article about the new
law--I enclose it.

At last--at last and for the first time in copyright history we are ahead
of England!  Ahead of her in two ways: by length of time and by fairness
to all interests concerned.  Does this sound like shouting?  Then I must
modify it: all we possessed of copyright-justice before the fourth of
last March we owed to England's initiative.
                                   Truly Yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     Because Mark Twain amused himself with certain aspects of Christian
     Science, and was critical of Mrs. Eddy, there grew up a wide
     impression that he jeered at the theory of mental healing; when, as
     a matter of fact, he was one of its earliest converts, and never
     lost faith in its power.  The letter which follows is an excellent
     exposition of his attitude toward the institution of Christian
     Science and the founder of the church in America.


                  To J. Wylie Smith, Glasgow, Scotland:

                                        "STORMFIELD," August 7, 1909
DEAR SIR,--My view of the matter has not changed.  To wit, that Christian
Science is valuable; that it has just the same value now that it had when
Mrs. Eddy stole it from Quimby; that its healing principle (its most
valuable asset) possesses the same force now that it possessed a million
years ago before Quimby was born; that Mrs. Eddy.  .  .  organized that
force, and is entitled to high credit for that.  Then, with a splendid
sagacity she hitched it to.  .  .  a religion, the surest of all ways to
secure friends for it, and support.  In a fine and lofty way--
figuratively speaking--it was a tramp stealing a ride on the lightning
express.  Ah, how did that ignorant village-born peasant woman know the
human being so well?  She has no more intellect than a tadpole--until it
comes to business then she is a marvel!  Am I sorry I wrote the book?
Most certainly not. You say you have 500 (converts) in Glasgow.  Fifty
years from now, your posterity will not count them by the hundred, but by
the thousand.  I feel absolutely sure of this.
                         Very truly yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     Clemens wrote very little for publication that year, but he enjoyed
     writing for his own amusement, setting down the things that boiled,
     or bubbled, within him: mainly chapters on the inconsistencies of
     human deportment, human superstition and human creeds.  The "Letters
     from the Earth" referred to in the following, were supposed to have
     been written by an immortal visitant from some far realm to a
     friend, describing the absurdities of mankind.  It is true, as he
     said, that they would not do for publication, though certainly the
     manuscript contains some of his mgt delicious writing.  Miss
     Wallace, to whom the next letter is written, had known Mark Twain in
     Bermuda, and, after his death, published a dainty volume entitled
     Mark Twain in the Happy Island.


                                   "STORMFIELD," REDDING, CONNECTICUT,
                                                       Nov.  13, '09.
DEAR BETSY,--I've been writing "Letters from the Earth," and if you will
come here and see us I will--what?  Put the MS in your hands, with the
places to skip marked?  No.  I won't trust you quite that far.  I'll read
messages to you.  This book will never be published--in fact it couldn't
be, because it would be felony to soil the mails with it, for it has much
Holy Scripture in it of the kind that .  .  .  can't properly be read
aloud, except from the pulpit and in family worship.  Paine enjoys it,
but Paine is going to be damned one of these days, I suppose.

The autumn splendors passed you by?  What a pity.  I wish you had been
here.  It was beyond words!  It was heaven and hell and sunset and
rainbows and the aurora all fused into one divine harmony, and you
couldn't look at it and keep the tears back.  All the hosannahing strong
gorgeousnesses have gone back to heaven and hell and the pole, now, but
no matter; if you could look out of my bedroom window at this moment, you
would choke up; and when you got your voice you would say: This is not
real, this is a dream.  Such a singing together, and such a whispering
together, and such a snuggling together of cosy soft colors, and such
kissing and caressing, and such pretty blushing when the sun breaks out
and catches those dainty weeds at it--you remember that weed-garden of
mine?--and then--then the far hills sleeping in a dim blue trance--oh,
hearing about it is nothing, you should be here to see it.

Good!  I wish I could go on the platform and read.  And I could, if it
could be kept out of the papers.  There's a charity-school of 400 young
girls in Boston that I would give my ears to talk to, if I had some more;
but--oh, well, I can't go, and it's no use to grieve about it.

This morning Jean went to town; also Paine; also the butler; also Katy;
also the laundress.  The cook and the maid, and the boy and the
roustabout and Jean's coachman are left--just enough to make it lonesome,
because they are around yet never visible.  However, the Harpers are
sending Leigh up to play billiards; therefore I shall survive.
                              Affectionately,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     Early in June that year, Clemens had developed unmistakable symptoms
     of heart trouble of a very serious nature.  It was angina pectoris,
     and while to all appearances he was as well as ever and usually felt
     so, he was periodically visited by severe attacks of acute "breast
     pains" which, as the months passed, increased in frequency and
     severity.  He was alarmed and distressed--not on his own account,
     but because of his daughter Jean--a handsome girl, who had long been
     subject to epileptic seizures.  In case of his death he feared that
     Jean would be without permanent anchorage, his other daughter,
     Clara--following her marriage to Ossip Gabrilowitsch in October--
     having taken up residence abroad.

     This anxiety was soon ended.  On the morning of December 24th, jean
     Clemens was found dead in her apartment.  She was not drowned in her
     bath, as was reported, but died from heart exhaustion, the result of
     her malady and the shock of cold water.
     [Questionable diagnosis!  D.W.]

     The blow to her father was terrible, but heavy as it was, one may
     perhaps understand that her passing in that swift, painless way must
     have afforded him a measure of relief.


                    To Mrs. Gabrilowitsch, in Europe:

                                                  REDDING, CONN.,
                                                  Dec.  29, '09.
O, Clara, Clara dear, I am so glad she is out of it and safe--safe!  I am
not melancholy; I shall never be melancholy again, I think.  You see, I
was in such distress when I came to realize that you were gone far away
and no one stood between her and danger but me--and I could die at any
moment, and then--oh then what would become of her!  For she was wilful,
you know, and would not have been governable.

You can't imagine what a darling she was, that last two or three days;
and how fine, and good, and sweet, and noble-and joyful, thank Heaven!--
and how intellectually brilliant.  I had never been acquainted with Jean
before.  I recognized that.

But I mustn't try to write about her--I can't.  I have already poured my
heart out with the pen, recording that last day or two.

I will send you that--and you must let no one but Ossip read it.

Good-bye.
               I love you so!
                         And Ossip.
                                   FATHER.


The writing mentioned in the last paragraph was his article 'The Death of
Jean,' his last serious writing, and one of the world's most beautiful
examples of elegiac prose.--[Harper's Magazine, Dec., 1910,] and later in
the volume, 'What Is Man and Other Essays.'




XLVIII

LETTERS OF 1910.  LAST TRIP TO BERMUDA.  LETTERS TO PAINE.
THE LAST LETTER

     Mark Twain had returned from a month's trip to Bermuda a few days
     before Jean died.  Now, by his physician's advice, he went back to
     those balmy islands.  He had always loved them, since his first trip
     there with Twichell thirty-three years earlier, and at "Bay House,"
     the residence of Vice-Consul Allen, where he was always a welcome
     guest, he could have the attentions and care and comforts of a home.
     Taking Claude, the butler, as his valet, he sailed January 5th, and
     presently sent back a letter in which he said, "Again I am leading
     the ideal life, and am immeasurably content."

     By his wish, the present writer and his family were keeping the
     Stormfield house open for him, in order that he might be able to
     return to its comforts at any time.  He sent frequent letters--one
     or two by each steamer--but as a rule they did not concern matters
     of general interest.  A little after his arrival, however, he wrote
     concerning an incident of his former visit--a trivial matter--but
     one which had annoyed him.  I had been with him in Bermuda on the
     earlier visit, and as I remember it, there had been some slight
     oversight on his part in the matter of official etiquette--something
     which doubtless no one had noticed but himself.


                       To A. B. Paine, in Redding:

                                             BAY HOUSE, Jan. 11, 1910.

DEAR PAINE,--.  .  .  There was a military lecture last night at the
Officer's Mess, prospect, and as the lecturer honored me with a special
and urgent invitation and said he wanted to lecture to me particularly,
I being "the greatest living master of the platform-art," I naturally
packed Helen and her mother into the provided carriage and went.

As soon as we landed at the door with the crowd the Governor came to me
at once and was very cordial, and apparently as glad to see me as he said
he was.  So that incident is closed.  And pleasantly and entirely
satisfactorily.  Everything is all right, now, and I am no longer in a
clumsy and awkward situation.

I "met up" with that charming Colonel Chapman, and other officers of the
regiment, and had a good time.

Commandant Peters of the "Carnegie" will dine here tonight and arrange a
private visit for us to his ship, the crowd to be denied access.
                    Sincerely Yours,
                                        S. L. C.


     "Helen" of this letter was Mr. and Mrs. Allen's young daughter,
     a favorite companion of his walks and drives.  "Loomis" and "Lark,"
     mentioned in the letters which follow, were Edward E. Loomis--his
     nephew by marriage--named by Mark Twain as one of the trustees of
     his estate, and Charles T. Lark, Mark Twain's attorney.


                      To A.  B.  Paine, in Redding:

                                             HAMILTON, Jan. 21, '10.
DEAR PAINE,--Thanks for your letter, and for its contenting news of the
situation in that foreign and far-off and vaguely-remembered country
where you and Loomis and Lark and other beloved friends are.

I have a letter from Clara this morning.  She is solicitous, and wants me
well and watchfully taken care of.  My, she ought to see Helen and her
parents and Claude administer that trust!

Also she says: "I hope to hear from you or Mr. Paine very soon."

I am writing her, and I know you will respond to your part of her prayer.
She is pretty desolate now, after Jean's emancipation--the only kindness
God ever did that poor unoffending child in all her hard life.
                              Ys ever
                                        S. L. C.


     Send Clara a copy of Howells's gorgeous letter.  I want a copy of my
     article that he is speaking of.


     The "gorgeous letter" was concerning Mark Twain's article, "The
     Turning-point in My Life" which had just appeared in one of the
     Harper publications.  Howells wrote of it, "While your wonderful
     words are warm in my mind yet, I want to tell you what you know
     already: that you never wrote anything greater, finer, than that
     turning-point paper of yours."

     From the early Bermuda letters we may gather that Mark Twain's days
     were enjoyable enough, and that his malady was not giving him
     serious trouble, thus far.  Near the end of January he wrote: "Life
     continues here the same as usual.  There isn't a flaw in it.  Good
     times, good home, tranquil contentment all day and every day,
     without a break.  I shouldn't know how to go about bettering my
     situation."  He did little in the way of literary work, probably
     finding neither time nor inclination for it.  When he wrote at all
     it was merely to set down some fanciful drolleries with no thought
     of publication.


               To Prof. William Lyon Phelps, Yale College:

                                             HAMILTON, March 12.
DEAR PROFESSOR PHELPS,--I thank you ever so much for the book--[Professor
Phelps's Essays on Modern Novelists.]--which I find charming--so charming
indeed, that I read it through in a single night, and did not regret the
lost night's sleep.  I am glad if I deserve what you have said about me:
and even if I don't I am proud and well contented, since you think I
deserve it.

Yes, I saw Prof. Lounsbury, and had a most pleasant time with him.  He
ought to have staid longer in this little paradise--partly for his own
sake, but mainly for mine.

I knew my poor Jean had written you.  I shall not have so dear and sweet
a secretary again.

Good health to you, and all good fortune attend you.
                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. CLEMENS.


     He would appear to have written not many letters besides those to
     Mrs. Gabrilowitsch and to Stormfield, but when a little girl sent
     him a report of a dream, inspired by reading The Prince and the
     Pauper, he took the time and trouble to acknowledge it, realizing,
     no doubt, that a line from him would give the child happiness.


                      To Miss Sulamith, in New York:

                              "BAY HOUSE," BERMUDA, March 21, 1910.
DEAR MISS SULAMITH,--I think it is a remarkable dream for a girl of 13 to
have dreamed, in fact for a person of any age to have dreamed, because it
moves by regular grade and sequence from the beginning to the end, which
is not the habit of dreams.  I think your report of it is a good piece of
work, a clear and effective statement of the vision.

I am glad to know you like the "Prince and the Pauper" so well and I
believe with you that the dream is good evidence of that liking.  I think
I may say, with your sister that I like myself best when I am serious.
                         Sincerely yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     Through February, and most of March, letters and reports from him
     were about the same.  He had begun to plan for his return, and
     concerning amusements at Stormfield for the entertainment of the
     neighbors, and for the benefit of the library which he had founded
     soon after his arrival in Redding.  In these letters he seldom
     mentioned the angina pains that had tortured him earlier.  But once,
     when he sent a small photograph of himself, it seemed to us that his
     face had become thin and that he had suffered.  Certainly his next
     letter was not reassuring.


                       To A. B. Paine, in Redding:

DEAR PAINE,--We must look into the magic-lantern business.  Maybe the
modern lantern is too elaborate and troublesome for back-settlement use,
but we can inquire.  We must have some kind of a show at "Stormfield" to
entertain the countryside with.

We are booked to sail in the "Bermudian" April 23rd, but don't tell
anybody, I don't want it known.  I may have to go sooner if the pain in
my breast doesn't mend its ways pretty considerably.  I don't want to die
here for this is an unkind place for a person in that condition.  I
should have to lie in the undertaker's cellar until the ship would remove
me and it is dark down there and unpleasant.

The Colliers will meet me on the pier and I may stay with them a week or
two before going home.  It all depends on the breast pain--I don't want
to die there.  I am growing more and more particular about the place.
                         With love,
                                   S.  L.  C.


     This letter had been written by the hand of his "secretary," Helen
     Allen: writing had become an effort to him.  Yet we did not suspect
     how rapidly the end was approaching and only grew vaguely alarmed.
     A week later, however, it became evident that his condition was
     critical.


DEAR PAINE,--.  .  .  .  I have been having a most uncomfortable time for
the past 4 days with that breast-pain, which turns out to be an affection
of the heart, just as I originally suspected.  The news from New York is
to the effect that non-bronchial weather has arrived there at last,
therefore if I can get my breast trouble in traveling condition I may
sail for home a week or two earlier than has heretofore been proposed:
                         Yours as ever
                                   S. L. CLEMENS,
                                   (per H. S. A.)


     In this letter he seems to have forgotten that his trouble had been
     pronounced an affection of the heart long before he left America,
     though at first it had been thought that it might be gastritis.
     The same mail brought a letter from Mr. Allen explaining fully the
     seriousness of his condition.  I sailed immediately for Bermuda,
     arriving there on the 4th of April.  He was not suffering at the
     moment, though the pains came now with alarming frequency and
     violence.  He was cheerful and brave.  He did not complain.  He gave
     no suggestion of a man whose days were nearly ended.

     A part of the Stormfield estate had been a farm, which he had given
     to Jean Clemens, where she had busied herself raising some live
     stock and poultry.  After her death he had wished the place to be
     sold and the returns devoted to some memorial purpose.  The sale had
     been made during the winter and the price received had been paid in
     cash.  I found him full of interest in all affairs, and anxious to
     discuss the memorial plan.  A day or two later he dictated the
     following letter-the last he would ever send.

     It seemed fitting that this final word from one who had so long
     given happiness to the whole world should record a special gift to
     his neighbors.


                     To Charles T. Lark, in New York:

                                                  HAMILTON, BERMUDA.
                                                  April 6, 1910.
DEAR MR. LARK,--I have told Paine that I want the money derived from the
sale of the farm, which I had given, but not conveyed, to my daughter
Jean, to be used to erect a building for the Mark Twain Library of
Redding, the building to be called the Jean L. Clemens Memorial Building.

I wish to place the money $6,000.00 in the hands of three trustees,--
Paine and two others: H. A. Lounsbury and William E. Hazen, all of
Redding, these trustees to form a building Committee to decide on the
size and plan of the building needed and to arrange for and supervise the
work in such a manner that the fund shall amply provide for the building
complete, with necessary furnishings, leaving, if possible, a balance
remaining, sufficient for such repairs and additional furnishings as may
be required for two years from the time of completion.

Will you please draw a document covering these requirements and have it
ready by the time I reach New York (April 14th).
                              Very sincerely,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


     We sailed on the 12th of April, reaching New York on the 14th,
     as he had planned.  A day or two later, Mr. and Mrs. Gabrilowitsch,
     summoned from Italy by cable, arrived.  He suffered very little
     after reaching Stormfield, and his mind was comparatively clear up
     to the last day.  On the afternoon of April 21st he sank into a
     state of coma, and just at sunset he died.  Three days later, at
     Elmira, New York, he was laid beside Mrs. Clemens and those others
     who had preceded him.




                    THE LAST DAY AT STORMFIELD

                         By BLISS CARMAN.

                    At Redding, Connecticut,
                    The April sunrise pours
                    Over the hardwood ridges
                    Softening and greening now
                    In the first magic of Spring.

                    The wild cherry-trees are in bloom,
                    The bloodroot is white underfoot,
                    The serene early light flows on,
                    Touching with glory the world,
                    And flooding the large upper room
                    Where a sick man sleeps.
                    Slowly he opens his eyes,
                    After long weariness, smiles,
                    And stretches arms overhead,
                    While those about him take heart.

                    With his awakening strength,
                    (Morning and spring in the air,
                    The strong clean scents of earth,
                    The call of the golden shaft,
                    Ringing across the hills)
                    He takes up his heartening book,
                    Opens the volume and reads,
                    A page of old rugged Carlyle,
                    The dour philosopher
                    Who looked askance upon life,
                    Lurid, ironical, grim,
                    Yet sound at the core.
                    But weariness returns;
                    He lays the book aside
                    With his glasses upon the bed,
                    And gladly sleeps. Sleep,
                    Blessed abundant sleep,
                    Is all that he needs.

                    And when the close of day
                    Reddens upon the hills
                    And washes the room with rose,
                    In the twilight hush
                    The Summoner comes to him
                    Ever so gently, unseen,
                    Touches him on the shoulder;
                    And with the departing sun
                    Our great funning friend is gone.

                    How he has made us laugh!
                    A whole generation of men
                    Smiled in the joy of his wit.
                    But who knows whether he was not
                    Like those deep jesters of old
                    Who dwelt at the courts of Kings,
                    Arthur's, Pendragon's, Lear's,
                    Plying the wise fool's trade,
                    Making men merry at will,
                    Hiding their deeper thoughts
                    Under a motley array,--
                    Keen-eyed, serious men,
                    Watching the sorry world,
                    The gaudy pageant of life,
                    With pity and wisdom and love?

                    Fearless, extravagant, wild,
                    His caustic merciless mirth
                    Was leveled at pompous shams.
                    Doubt not behind that mask
                    There dwelt the soul of a man,
                    Resolute, sorrowing, sage,
                    As sure a champion of good
                    As ever rode forth to fray.

                    Haply--who knows?--somewhere
                    In Avalon, Isle of Dreams,
                    In vast contentment at last,
                    With every grief done away,
                    While Chaucer and Shakespeare wait,
                    And Moliere hangs on his words,
                    And Cervantes not far off
                    Listens and smiles apart,
                    With that incomparable drawl
                    He is jesting with Dagonet now.

                [Copyright, 1910, by Collier's Weekly.]




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Letters Vol. 6 by Mark Twain






THE BOYS' LIFE OF MARK TWAIN

By Albert Bigelow Paine



CONTENTS

          PREFACE
I.        THE FAMILY OF JOHN CLEMENS
II.       THE NEW HOME, AND UNCLE JOHN QUARLES'S FARM
III.      SCHOOL
IV.       EDUCATION OUT OF SCHOOL
V.        TOM SAWYER AND HIS BAND
VI.       CLOSING SCHOOL-DAYS
VII.      THE APPRENTICE
VIII.     ORION'S PAPER
IX.       THE OPEN ROAD
X.        A WIND OF CHANCE
XI.       THE LONG WAY To THE AMAZON
XII.      RENEWING AN OLD AMBITION
XIII.     LEARNING THE RIVER
XIV.      RIVER DAYS
XV.       THE WRECK OF THE "PENNSYLVANIA"
XVI.      THE PILOT
XVII.     THE END OF PILOTING
XVIII.    THE SOLDIER
XIX.      THE PIONEER
XX.       THE MINER
XXI.      THE TERRITORIAL ENTERPRISE
XXII.     "MARK TWAIN"
XXIII.    ARTEMUS WARD AND LITERARY SAN FRANCISCO
XXIV.     THE DISCOVERY OF "THE JUMPING FROG"
XXV.      HAWAII AND ANSON BURLINGAME
XXVI.     MARK TWAIN, LECTURER
XXVII.    AN INNOCENT ABROAD, AND HOME AGAIN
XXVIII.   OLIVIA LANGDON.  WORK ON THE "INNOCENTS"
XXIX.     THE VISIT TO ELMIRA AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
XXX.      THE NEW BOOK AND A WEDDING
XXXI.     MARK TWAIN IN BUFFALO
XXXII.    AT WORK ON "ROUGHING IT"
XXXIII.   IN ENGLAND
XXXIV.    A NEW BOOK AND NEW ENGLISH TRIUMPHS
XXXV.     BEGINNING "TOM SAWYER"
XXXVI.    THE NEW HOME
XXXVII.   "OLD TIMES, "SKETCHES," AND "TOM SAWYER"
XXXVIII.  HOME PICTURES
XXXIX.    TRAMPING ABROAD
XL.       "THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER"
XLI.      GENERAL GRANT AT HARTFORD
XLII.     MANY INVESTMENTS
XLIII.    BACK TO THE RIVER, WITH BIXBY
XLIV.     A READING-TOUR WITH CABLE
XLV.      "THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN"
XLVI.     PUBLISHER TO GENERAL GRANT
XLVII.    THE HIGH-TIDE OF FORTUNE
XLVIII.   BUSINESS DIFFICULTIES.  PLEASANTER THINGS
XLIX.     KIPLING AT ELMIRA.  ELSIE LESLIE.  THE "YANKEE"
L.        THE MACHINE.  GOOD-BY TO HARTFORD.  "JOAN" IS BEGUN
LI.       THE FAILURE OF WEBSTER & CO.  AROUND THE WORLD.  SORROW
LII.      EUROPEAN ECONOMIES
LIII.     MARK TWAIN PAYS HIS DEBTS
LIV.      RETURN AFTER EXILE
LV.       A PROPHET AT HOME
LVI.      HONORED BY MISSOURI
LVII.     THE CLOSE OF A BEAUTIFUL LIFE
LVIII.    MARK TWAIN AT SEVENTY
LIX.      MARK TWAIN ARRANGES FOR HIS BIOGRAPHY
LX.       WORKING WITH MARK TWAIN
LXI.      DICTATIONS AT DUBLIN, N. H.
LXII.     A NEW ERA OF BILLIARDS
LXIII.    LIVING WITH MARK TWAIN
LXIV.     A DEGREE FROM OXFORD
LXV.      THE REMOVAL TO REDDING
LXVI.     LIFE AT STORMFIELD
LXVII.    THE DEATH OF JEAN
LXVIII.   DAYS IN BERMUDA
LXIX.     THE RETURN TO REDDING
LXX.      THE CLOSE OF A GREAT LIFE




PREFACE

This is the story of a boy, born in the humblest surroundings, reared
almost without schooling, and amid benighted conditions such as to-day
have no existence, yet who lived to achieve a world-wide fame; to attain
honorary degrees from the greatest universities of America and Europe; to
be sought by statesmen and kings; to be loved and honored by all men in
all lands, and mourned by them when he died.  It is the story of one of
the world's very great men--the story of Mark Twain.




I.

THE FAMILY OF JOHN CLEMENS

A long time ago, back in the early years of another century, a family
named Clemens moved from eastern Tennessee to eastern Missouri--from a
small, unheard-of place called Pall Mall, on Wolf River, to an equally
small and unknown place called Florida, on a tiny river named the Salt.

That was a far journey, in those days, for railway trains in 1835 had not
reached the South and West, and John Clemens and his family traveled in
an old two-horse barouche, with two extra riding-horses, on one of which
rode the eldest child, Orion Clemens, a boy of ten, and on the other
Jennie, a slave girl.

In the carriage with the parents were three other children--Pamela and
Margaret, aged eight and five, and little Benjamin, three years old.  The
time was spring, the period of the Old South, and, while these youngsters
did not realize that they were passing through a sort of Golden Age, they
must have enjoyed the weeks of leisurely journeying toward what was then
the Far West--the Promised Land.

The Clemens fortunes had been poor in Tennessee.  John Marshall Clemens,
the father, was a lawyer, a man of education; but he was a dreamer, too,
full of schemes that usually failed.  Born in Virginia, he had grown up
in Kentucky, and married there Jane Lampton, of Columbia, a descendant of
the English Lamptons and the belle of her region.  They had left Kentucky
for Tennessee, drifting from one small town to another that was always
smaller, and with dwindling law-practice John Clemens in time had been
obliged to open a poor little store, which in the end had failed to pay.
Jennie was the last of several slaves he had inherited from his Virginia
ancestors.  Besides Jennie, his fortune now consisted of the horses and
barouche, a very limited supply of money, and a large, unsalable tract of
east Tennessee land, which John Clemens dreamed would one day bring his
children fortune.

Readers of the "Gilded Age" will remember the journey of the Hawkins
family from the "Knobs" of Tennessee to Missouri and the important part
in that story played by the Tennessee land.  Mark Twain wrote those
chapters, and while they are not history, but fiction, they are based
upon fact, and the picture they present of family hardship and struggle
is not overdrawn.  The character of Colonel Sellers, who gave the
Hawkinses a grand welcome to the new home, was also real.  In life he was
James Lampton, cousin to Mrs. Clemens, a gentle and radiant merchant of
dreams, who believed himself heir to an English earldom and was always on
the verge of colossal fortune.  With others of the Lampton kin, he was
already settled in Missouri and had written back glowing accounts; though
perhaps not more glowing than those which had come from another relative,
John Quarles, brother-in-law to Mrs. Clemens, a jovial, whole-hearted
optimist, well-loved by all who knew him.

It was a June evening when the Clemens family, with the barouche and the
two outriders, finally arrived in Florida, and the place, no doubt,
seemed attractive enough then, however it may have appeared later.  It
was the end of a long journey; relatives gathered with fond welcome;
prospects seemed bright.  Already John Quarles had opened a general store
in the little town.  Florida, he said, was certain to become a city.
Salt River would be made navigable with a series of locks and dams.  He
offered John Clemens a partnership in his business.

Quarles, for that time and place, was a rich man.  Besides his store he
had a farm and thirty slaves.  His brother-in-law's funds, or lack of
them, did not matter.  The two had married sisters.  That was capital
enough for his hearty nature.  So, almost on the moment of arrival in the
new land, John Clemens once more found himself established in trade.

The next thing was to find a home.  There were twenty-one houses in
Florida, and none of them large.  The one selected by John and Jane
Clemens had two main rooms and a lean-to kitchen--a small place and
lowly--the kind of a place that so often has seen the beginning of
exalted lives.  Christianity began with a babe in a manger; Shakespeare
first saw the light in a cottage at Stratford; Lincoln entered the world
by way of a leaky cabin in Kentucky, and into the narrow limits of the
Clemens home in Florida, on a bleak autumn day--November 30, 1835--there
was born one who under the name of Mark Twain would live to cheer and
comfort a tired world.

The name Mark Twain had not been thought of then, and probably no one
prophesied favorably for the new-comer, who was small and feeble, and not
over-welcome in that crowded household.  They named him Samuel, after his
paternal grandfather, and added Langhorne for an old friend--a goodly
burden for so frail a wayfarer.  But more appropriately they called him
"Little Sam," or "Sammy," which clung to him through the years of his
delicate childhood.

It seems a curious childhood, as we think of it now.  Missouri was a
slave State--Little Sam's companions were as often black as white.  All
the children of that time and locality had negroes for playmates, and
were cared for by them.  They were fond of their black companions and
would have felt lost without them.  The negro children knew all the best
ways of doing things--how to work charms and spells, the best way to cure
warts and heal stone-bruises, and to make it rain, and to find lost
money.  They knew what signs meant, and dreams, and how to keep off
hoodoo; and all negroes, old and young, knew any number of weird tales.

John Clemens must have prospered during the early years of his Florida
residence, for he added another slave to his household--Uncle Ned, a man
of all work--and he built a somewhat larger house, in one room of which,
the kitchen, was a big fireplace.  There was a wide hearth and always
plenty of wood, and here after supper the children would gather, with
Jennie and Uncle Ned, and the latter would tell hair-lifting tales of
"ha'nts," and lonely roads, and witch-work that would make his hearers
shiver with terror and delight, and look furtively over their shoulders
toward the dark window-panes and the hovering shadows on the walls.
Perhaps it was not the healthiest entertainment, but it was the kind to
cultivate an imagination that would one day produce "Tom Sawyer" and
"Huck Finn."

True, Little Sam was very young at this period, but even a little chap of
two or three would understand most of that fireside talk, and get
impressions more vivid than if the understanding were complete.  He was
barely four when this earliest chapter of his life came to a close.

John Clemens had not remained satisfied with Florida and his undertakings
there.  The town had not kept its promises.  It failed to grow, and the
lock-and-dam scheme that would make Salt River navigable fell through.
Then one of the children, Margaret, a black-eyed, rosy little girl of
nine, suddenly died.  This was in August, 1839.  A month or two later the
saddened family abandoned their Florida home and moved in wagons, with
their household furnishings, to Hannibal, a Mississippi River town,
thirty miles away.  There was only one girl left now, Pamela, twelve
years old, but there was another boy, baby Henry, three years younger
than Little Sam--four boys in all.




II.

THE NEW HOME, AND UNCLE JOHN QUARLES'S FARM

Hannibal was a town with prospects and considerable trade.  It was
slumbrous, being a slave town, but it was not dead.  John Clemens
believed it a promising place for business, and opened a small general
store with Orion Clemens, now fifteen, a studious, dreamy lad, for clerk.

The little city was also an attractive place of residence.  Mark Twain
remembered it as "the white town drowsing in the sunshine of a summer
morning, .  .  .  the great Mississippi, the magnificent Mississippi,
rolling its mile-wide tide along, ....  the dense forest away on the
other side."

The "white town" was built against green hills, and abutting the river
were bluffs--Holliday's Hill and Lover's Leap.  A distance below the town
was a cave--a wonderful cave, as every reader of Tom Sawyer knows--while
out in the river, toward the Illinois shore, was the delectable island
that was one day to be the meeting-place of Tom's pirate band, and later
to become the hiding-place of Huck and Nigger Jim.

The river itself was full of interest.  It was the highway to the outside
world.  Rafts drifted by; smartly painted steamboats panted up and down,
touching to exchange traffic and travelers, a never-ceasing wonder to
those simple shut-in dwellers whom the telegraph and railway had not yet
reached.  That Hannibal was a pleasant place of residence we may believe,
and what an attractive place for a boy to grow up in!

Little Sam, however, was not yet ready to enjoy the island and the cave.
He was still delicate--the least promising of the family.  He was queer
and fanciful, and rather silent.  He walked in his sleep and was often
found in the middle of the night, fretting with the cold, in some dark
corner.  Once he heard that a neighbor's children had the measles, and,
being very anxious to catch the complaint, slipped over to the house and
crept into bed with an infected playmate.  Some days later, Little Sam's
relatives gathered about his bed to see him die.  He confessed, long
after, that the scene gratified him.  However, he survived, and fell into
the habit of running away, usually in the direction of the river.

"You gave me more uneasiness than any child I had," his mother once said
to him, in her old age.

"I suppose you were afraid I wouldn't live," he suggested.

She looked at him with the keen humor which had been her legacy to him.
"No, afraid you would," she said.  Which was only her joke, for she had
the tenderest of hearts, and, like all mothers, had a weakness for the
child that demanded most of her mother's care.  It was chiefly on his
account that she returned each year to Florida to spend the summer on
John Quarles's farm.

If Uncle John Quarles's farm was just an ordinary Missouri farm, and his
slaves just average negroes, they certainly never seemed so to Little
Sam.  There was a kind of glory about everything that belonged to Uncle
John, and it was not all imagination, for some of the spirit of that
jovial, kindly hearted man could hardly fail to radiate from his
belongings.

The farm was a large one for that locality, and the farm-house was a big
double log building--that is, two buildings with a roofed-over passage
between, where in summer the lavish Southern meals were served, brought
in on huge dishes by the negroes, and left for each one to help himself.
Fried chicken, roast pig, turkeys, ducks, geese, venison just killed,
squirrels, rabbits, partridges, pheasants, prairie-chickens, green corn,
watermelon--a little boy who did not die on that bill of fare would be
likely to get well on it, and to Little Sam the farm proved a life-saver.

It was, in fact, a heavenly place for a little boy.  In the corner of the
yard there were hickory and black-walnut trees, and just over the fence
the hill sloped past barns and cribs to a brook, a rare place to wade,
though there were forbidden pools.  Cousin Tabitha Quarles, called
"Puss," his own age, was Little Sam's playmate, and a slave girl, Mary,
who, being six years older, was supposed to keep them out of mischief.
There were swings in the big, shady pasture, where Mary swung her charges
and ran under them until their feet touched the branches.  All the woods
were full of squirrels and birds and blooming flowers; all the meadows
were gay with clover and butterflies, and musical with singing
grasshoppers and calling larks; the fence-rows were full of wild
blackberries; there were apples and peaches in the orchard, and plenty of
melons ripening in the corn.  Certainly it was a glorious place!

Little Sam got into trouble once with the watermelons.  One of them had
not ripened quite enough when he ate several slices of it.  Very soon
after he was seized with such terrible cramps that some of the household
did not think he could live.

But his mother said: "Sammy will pull through.  He was not born to die
that way."  Which was a true prophecy.  Sammy's slender constitution
withstood the strain.  It was similarly tested more than once during
those early years.  He was regarded as a curious child.  At times dreamy
and silent, again wild-headed and noisy, with sudden impulses that sent
him capering and swinging his arms into the wind until he would fall with
shrieks and spasms of laughter and madly roll over and over in the grass.
It is not remembered that any one prophesied very well for his future at
such times.

The negro quarters on Uncle John's farm were especially fascinating.  In
one cabin lived a bedridden old woman whom the children looked upon with
awe.  She was said to be a thousand years old, and to have talked with
Moses.  She had lost her health in the desert, coming out of Egypt.  She
had seen Pharaoh drown, and the fright had caused the bald spot on her
head.  She could ward off witches and dissolve spells.

Uncle Dan'l was another favorite, a kind-hearted, gentle soul, who long
after, as Nigger Jim in the Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn tales, would
win world-wide love and sympathy.

Through that far-off, warm, golden summer-time Little Sam romped and
dreamed and grew.  He would return each summer to the farm during those
early years.  It would become a beautiful memory.  His mother generally
kept him there until the late fall, when the chilly evenings made them
gather around the wide, blazing fireplace.  Sixty years later he wrote:

     "I can see the room yet with perfect clearness.  I can see all
     its belongings, all its details; the family-room of the house, with
     the trundle-bed in one corner and the spinning-wheel in another--a
     wheel whose rising and falling wail, heard from a distance, was the
     mournfulest of all sounds to me and made me homesick and low-
     spirited and filled my atmosphere with the wandering spirits of the
     dead; the vast fireplace, piled high with flaming logs from whose
     ends a sugary sap bubbled out but did not go to waste, for we
     scraped it off and ate it; .  .  .  the lazy cat spread out on the
     rough hearthstones, the drowsy dogs braced against the jambs,
     blinking; my aunt in one chimney-corner, and my uncle in the other,
     smoking his corn-cob pipe."

It is hard not to tell more of the farm, for the boy who was one day
going to write of Tom and Huck and the rest learned there so many things
that Tom and Huck would need to know.

But he must have "book-learning," too, Jane Clemens said.  On his return
to Hannibal that first summer, she decided that Little Sam was ready for
school.  He was five years old and regarded as a "stirring child."

"He drives me crazy with his didoes when he's in the house," his mother
declared, "and when he's out of it I'm expecting every minute that some
one will bring him home half dead."

Mark Twain used to say that he had had nine narrow escapes from drowning,
and it was at this early age that he was brought home one afternoon in a
limp state, having been pulled from a deep hole in Bear Creek by a slave
girl.

When he was restored, his mother said: "I guess there wasn't much danger.
People born to be hanged are safe in water."

Mark Twain's mother was the original of Aunt Polly in the story of Tom
Sawyer, an outspoken, keen-witted, charitable woman, whom it was good to
know.  She had a heart full of pity, especially for dumb creatures.  She
refused to kill even flies, and punished the cat for catching mice.  She
would drown young kittens when necessary, but warmed the water for the
purpose.  She could be strict, however, with her children, if occasion
required, and recognized their faults.

Little Sam was inclined to elaborate largely on fact.  A neighbor once
said to her: "You don't believe anything that child says, I hope."

"Oh yes, I know his average.  I discount him ninety per cent.  The rest
is pure gold."

She declared she was willing to pay somebody to take him off her hands
for a part of each day and try to teach him "manners."  A certain Mrs. E.
Horr was selected for the purpose.

Mrs. Horr's school on Main Street, Hannibal, was of the old-fashioned
kind.  There were pupils of all ages, and everything was taught up to the
third reader and long division.  Pupils who cared to go beyond those
studies went to a Mr. Cross, on the hill, facing what is now the public
square.  Mrs. Horr received twenty-five cents a week for each pupil, and
the rules of conduct were read daily.  After the rules came the A-B-C
class, whose recitation was a hand-to-hand struggle, requiring no study-
time.

The rules of conduct that first day interested Little Sam.  He wondered
how nearly he could come to breaking them and escape.  He experimented
during the forenoon, and received a warning.  Another experiment would
mean correction.  He did not expect to be caught again; but when he least
expected it he was startled by a command to go out and bring a stick for
his own punishment.

This was rather dazing.  It was sudden, and, then, he did not know much
about choosing sticks for such a purpose.  Jane Clemens had commonly used
her hand.  A second command was needed to start him in the right
direction, and he was still dazed when he got outside.  He had the
forests of Missouri to select from, but choice was not easy.  Everything
looked too big and competent.  Even the smallest switch had a wiry look.
Across the way was a cooper's shop.  There were shavings outside, and one
had blown across just in front of him.  He picked it up, and, gravely
entering the room, handed it to Mrs. Horr.  So far as known, it is the
first example of that humor which would one day make Little Sam famous
before all the world.

It was a failure in this instance.  Mrs. Horr's comic side may have
prompted forgiveness, but discipline must be maintained.

"Samuel Langhorne Clemens," she said (he had never heard it all strung
together in that ominous way), "I am ashamed of you!  Jimmy Dunlap, go
and bring a switch for Sammy."  And the switch that Jimmy Dunlap brought
was of a kind to give Little Sam a permanent distaste for school.  He
told his mother at noon that he did not care for education; that he did
not wish to be a great man; that his desire was to be an Indian and scalp
such persons as Mrs. Horr.  In her heart Jane Clemens was sorry for him,
but she openly said she was glad there was somebody who could take him in
hand.

Little Sam went back to school, but he never learned to like it.  A
school was ruled with a rod in those days, and of the smaller boys Little
Sam's back was sore as often as the next.  When the days of early summer
came again, when from his desk he could see the sunshine lighting the
soft green of Holliday's Hill, with the glint of the river and the purple
distance beyond, it seemed to him that to be shut up with a Webster
spelling-book and a cross teacher was more than human nature could bear.
There still exists a yellow slip of paper upon which, in neat, old-
fashioned penmanship is written:

     MISS PAMELA CLEMENS

     Has won the love of her teacher and schoolmates by her amiable
     deportment and faithful application to her various studies.

     E. HORR, Teacher.


Thus we learn that Little Sam's sister, eight years older than himself,
attended the same school, and that she was a good pupil.  If any such
reward of merit was ever conferred on Little Sam, it has failed to come
to light.  If he won the love of his teacher and playmates, it was
probably for other reasons.

Yet he must have learned somehow, for he could read, presently, and was a
good speller for his age.




IV.

EDUCATION OUT OF SCHOOL

On their arrival in Hannibal, the Clemens family had moved into a part of
what was then the Pavey Hotel.  They could not have remained there long,
for they moved twice within the next few years, and again in 1844 into a
new house which Judge Clemens, as he was generally called, had built
on Hill Street--a house still standing, and known to-day as the Mark
Twain home.

John Clemens had met varying fortunes in Hannibal.  Neither commerce nor
the practice of law had paid.  The office of justice of the peace, to
which he was elected, returned a fair income, but his business losses
finally obliged him to sell Jennie, the slave girl.  Somewhat later his
business failure was complete.  He surrendered everything to his
creditors, even to his cow and household furniture, and relied upon his
law practice and justice fees.  However, he seems to have kept the
Tennessee land, possibly because no one thought it worth taking.  There
had been offers for it earlier, but none that its owner would accept.  It
appears to have been not even considered by his creditors, though his own
faith in it never died.

The struggle for a time was very bitter.  Orion Clemens, now seventeen,
had learned the printer's trade and assisted the family with his wages.
Mrs. Clemens took a few boarders.  In the midst of this time of hardship
little Benjamin Clemens died.  He was ten years old.  It was the darkest
hour.

Then conditions slowly improved.  There was more law practice and better
justice fees.  By 1844 Judge Clemens was able to build the house
mentioned above--a plain, cheap house, but a shelter and a home.  Sam
Clemens--he was hardly "Little Sam" any more--was at this time nine years
old.  His boyhood had begun.

Heretofore he had been just a child--wild and mischievous, often
exasperating, but still a child--a delicate little lad to be worried
over, mothered, or spanked and put to bed.  Now at nine he had acquired
health, with a sturdy ability to look out for himself, as boys in such a
community will.  "Sam," as they now called him, was "grown up" at nine
and wise for his years.  Not that he was old in spirit or manner--he was
never that, even to his death--but he had learned a great number of
things, many of them of a kind not taught at school.

He had learned a good deal of natural history and botany--the habits of
plants, insects, and animals.  Mark Twain's books bear evidence of this
early study.  His plants, bugs, and animals never do the wrong things.
He was learning a good deal about men, and this was often less pleasant
knowledge.  Once Little Sam--he was still Little Sam then--saw an old man
shot down on Main Street at noon day.  He saw them carry him home, lay
him on the bed, and spread on his breast an open family Bible, which
looked as heavy as an anvil.  He thought if he could only drag that great
burden away the poor old dying man would not breathe so heavily.

He saw a young emigrant stabbed with a bowie-knife by a drunken comrade,
and two young men try to kill their uncle, one holding him while the
other snapped repeatedly an Allen revolver, which failed to go off.  Then
there was the drunken rowdy who proposed to raid the "Welshman's" house,
one sultry, threatening evening--he saw that, too.  With a boon
companion, John Briggs, he followed at a safe distance behind.  A widow
with her one daughter lived there.  They stood in the shadow of the dark
porch; the man had paused at the gate to revile them.  The boys heard the
mother's voice warning the intruder that she had a loaded gun and would
kill him if he stayed where he was.  He replied with a tirade, and she
warned him that she would count ten--that if he remained a second longer
she would fire.  She began slowly and counted up to five, the man
laughing and jeering.  At six he grew silent, but he did not go.  She
counted on: seven, eight, nine--

The boys, watching from the dark roadside, felt their hearts stop.  There
was a long pause, then the final count, followed a second later by a gush
of flame.  The man dropped, his breast riddled.  At the same instant the
thunder-storm that had been gathering broke loose.  The boys fled wildly,
believing that Satan himself had arrived to claim the lost soul.

That was a day and locality of violent impulse and sudden action.
Happenings such as these were not infrequent in a town like Hannibal.
And there were events connected with slavery.  Sam once saw a slave
struck down and killed with a piece of slag, for a trifling offense.  He
saw an Abolitionist attacked by a mob that would have lynched him had not
a Methodist minister defended him on a plea that he must be crazy.  He
did not remember in later years that he had ever seen a slave auction,
but he added:

     "I am suspicious that it was because the thing was a commonplace
     spectacle and not an uncommon or impressive one.  I do vividly
     remember seeing a dozen black men and women, chained together, lying
     in a group on the pavement, waiting shipment to a Southern slave-
     market.  They had the saddest faces I ever saw."

Readers of Mark Twain's books--especially the stories of Huck and Tom,
will hardly be surprised to hear of these early happenings that formed so
large a portion of the author's early education.  Sam, however, did not
regard them as education--not at the time.  They got into his dreams.  He
set them down as warnings, or punishments, intended to give him a taste
for a better life.  He felt that it was his conscience that made such
things torture him.  That was his mother's idea, and he had a high
respect for her opinion in such matters.  Among other things, he had seen
her one day defy a vicious and fierce Corsican--a common terror in the
town--who had chased his grown daughter with a heavy rope in his hand,
declaring he would wear it out on her.  Cautious citizens got out of the
way, but Jane Clemens opened her door to the fugitive; then, instead of
rushing in and closing it, spread her arms across it, barring the way.
The man raved, and threatened her with the rope, but she did not flinch
or show any sign of fear.  She stood there and shamed and defied him
until he slunk off, crestfallen and conquered.  Any one as brave as his
mother must have a perfect conscience, Sam thought, and would know how to
take care of it.  In the darkness he would say his prayers, especially
when a thunderstorm was coming, and vow to begin a better life.  He
detested Sunday-school as much as he did day-school, and once his brother
Orion, who was moral and religious, had threatened to drag him there by
the collar, but, as the thunder got louder, Sam decided that he loved
Sunday-school and would go the next Sunday without being invited.

Sam's days were not all disturbed by fierce events.  They were mostly
filled with pleasanter things.  There were picnics sometimes, and
ferryboat excursions, and any day one could roam the woods, or fish,
alone or in company.  The hills and woods around Hannibal were never
disappointing.  There was the cave with its marvels.  There was Bear
Creek, where he had learned to swim.  He had seen two playmates drown;
twice, himself, he had been dragged ashore, more dead than alive; once by
a slave girl, another time by a slave man--Neal Champ, of the Pavey
Hotel.  But he had persevered, and with success.  He could swim better
than any playmate of his age.

It was the river that he cared for most.  It was the pathway that led to
the great world outside.  He would sit by it for hours and dream.  He
would venture out on it in a quietly borrowed boat, when he was barely
strong enough to lift an oar.  He learned to know all its moods and
phases.

More than anything in the world he hungered to make a trip on one of the
big, smart steamers that were always passing.  "You can hardly imagine
what it meant," he reflected, once, "to a boy in those days, shut in as
we were, to see those steamboats pass up and down, and never take a trip
on them."

It was at the mature age of nine that he found he could endure this no
longer.  One day when the big packet came down and stopped at Hannibal,
he slipped aboard and crept under one of the boats on the upper deck.
Then the signal-bells rang, the steamer backed away and swung into
midstream; he was really going at last.  He crept from beneath the boat
and sat looking out over the water and enjoying the scenery.  Then it
began to rain--a regular downpour.  He crept back under the boat, but his
legs were outside, and one of the crew saw him.  He was dragged out and
at the next stop set ashore.  It was the town of Louisiana, where there
were Lampton relatives, who took him home.  Very likely the home-coming
was not entirely pleasant, though a "lesson," too, in his general
education.

And always, each summer, there was the farm, where his recreation was no
longer mere girl plays and swings, with a colored nurse following about,
but sports with his older boy cousins, who went hunting with the men, for
partridges by day and for 'coons and 'possums by night.  Sometimes the
little boy followed the hunters all night long, and returned with them
through the sparkling and fragrant morning, fresh, hungry, and
triumphant, just in time for breakfast.  So it is no wonder that Little
Sam, at nine, was no longer Little Sam, but plain Sam Clemens, and grown
up.  If there were doubtful spots in his education--matters related to
smoking and strong words--it is also no wonder, and experience even in
these lines was worth something in a book like Tom Sawyer.

The boy Sam Clemens was not a particularly attractive lad.  He was rather
undersized, and his head seemed too large for his body.  He had a mass of
light sandy hair, which he plastered down to keep from curling.  His eyes
were keen and blue and his features rather large.  Still, he had a fair,
delicate complexion when it was not blackened by grime and tan; a gentle,
winning manner; a smile and a slow way of speaking that made him a
favorite with his companions.  He did not talk much, and was thought to
be rather dull--was certainly so in most of his lessons--but, for some
reason, he never spoke that every playmate in hearing did not stop,
whatever he was doing, to listen.  Perhaps it would be a plan for a new
game or lark; perhaps it was something droll; perhaps it was just a
casual remark that his peculiar drawl made amusing.  His mother always
referred to his slow fashion of speech as "Sammy's long talk."  Her own
speech was even more deliberate, though she seemed not to notice it.  Sam
was more like his mother than the others.  His brother, Henry Clemens,
three years younger, was as unlike Sam as possible.  He did not have the
"long talk," and was a handsome, obedient little fellow whom the
mischievous Sam loved to tease.  Henry was to become the Sid of Tom
Sawyer, though he was in every way a finer character than Sid.  With the
death of little Benjamin, Sam and Henry had been drawn much closer
together, and, in spite of Sam's pranks, loved each other dearly.  For
the pranks were only occasional, and Sam's love for Henry was constant.
He fought for him oftener than with him.

Many of the home incidents in the Tom Sawyer book really happened.  Sam
did clod Henry for getting him into trouble about the colored thread
with which he sewed his shirt when he came home from swimming; he did
inveigle a lot of boys into whitewashing a fence for him; he did give
painkiller to Peter, the cat.  As for escaping punishment for his
misdeeds, as described in the book, this was a daily matter, and his
methods suited the occasions.  For, of course, Tom Sawyer was Sam Clemens
himself, almost entirely, as most readers of that book have imagined.
However, we must have another chapter for Tom Sawyer and his doings--the
real Tom and his real doings with those graceless, lovable associates,
Joe Harper and Huckleberry Finn.




V.

TOM SAWYER AND HIS BAND

In beginning "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" the author says, "Most of the
adventures recorded in this book really occurred," and he tells us that
Huck Finn is drawn from life; Tom Sawyer also, though not from a single
individual, being a composite of three boys whom Mark Twain had known.

The three boys were himself, almost entirely, with traces of two
schoolmates, John Briggs and Will Bowen.  John Briggs was also the
original of Joe Harper, the "Terror of the Seas."  As for Huck Finn, the
"Red-Handed," his original was a village waif named Tom Blankenship, who
needed no change for his part in the story.

The Blankenship family picked up an uncertain livelihood, fishing and
hunting, and lived at first under a tree in a bark shanty, but later
moved into a large, barn-like building, back of the Clemens home on Hill
Street.  There were three male members of the household: Old Ben, the
father, shiftless and dissolute; young Ben, the eldest son--a doubtful
character, with certain good traits; and Tom--that is to say, Huck, who
was just as he is described in the book--a ruin of rags, a river-rat,
kind of heart, and accountable for his conduct to nobody in the world.
He could come and go as he chose; he never had to work or go to school;
he could do all the things, good and bad, that other boys longed to do
and were forbidden.  To them he was the symbol of liberty; his knowledge
of fishing, trapping, signs, and of the woods and river gave value to his
society, while the fact that it was forbidden made it necessary to Sam
Clemens's happiness.

The Blankenships being handy to the back gate of the Hill Street house,
he adopted them at sight.  Their free mode of life suited him.  He was
likely to be there at any hour of the day, and Tom made cat-call signals
at night that would bring Sam out on the shed roof at the back and down a
little trellis and flight of steps to the group of boon companions,
which, besides Tom, usually included John Briggs, Will Pitts, and the two
younger Bowen boys.  They were not malicious boys, but just mischievous,
fun-loving boys--little boys of ten or twelve--rather thoughtless, being
mainly bent on having a good time.

They had a wide field of action: they ranged from Holliday's Hill on the
north to the cave on the south, and over the fields and through all the
woods between.  They explored both banks of the river, the islands, and
the deep wilderness of the Illinois shore.  They could run like turkeys
and swim like ducks; they could handle a boat as if born in one.  No
orchard or melon-patch was entirely safe from them.  No dog or slave
patrol was so watchful that they did not sooner or later elude it.  They
borrowed boats with or without the owner's consent--it did not matter.

Most of their expeditions were harmless enough.  They often cruised up to
Turtle Island, about two miles above Hannibal, and spent the day
feasting.  There were quantities of turtles and their eggs there, and
mussels, and plenty of fish.  Fishing and swimming were their chief
pastimes, with incidental raiding, for adventure.  Bear Creek was their
swimming-place by day, and the river-front at night-fall--a favorite spot
being where the railroad bridge now ends.  It was a good distance across
to the island where, in the book, Tom Sawyer musters his pirate band, and
where later Huck found Nigger Jim, but quite often in the evening they
swam across to it, and when they had frolicked for an hour or more on the
sandbar at the head of the island, they would swim back in the dusk,
breasting the strong, steady Mississippi current without exhaustion or
dread.  They could swim all day, those little scamps, and seemed to have
no fear.  Once, during his boyhood, Sam Clemens swam across to the
Illinois side, then turned and swam back again without landing, a
distance of at least two miles as he had to go.  He was seized with a
cramp on the return trip.  His legs became useless and he was obliged to
make the remaining distance with his arms.

The adventures of Sam Clemens and his comrades would fill several books
of the size of Tom Sawyer.  Many of them are, of course, forgotten now,
but those still remembered show that Mark Twain had plenty of real
material.

It was not easy to get money in those days, and the boys were often
without it.  Once "Huck" Blankenship had the skin of a 'coon he had
captured, and offered to sell it to raise capital.  At Selms's store, on
Wild Cat Corner, the 'coon-skin would bring ten cents.  But this was not
enough.  The boys thought of a plan to make it bring more.  Selms's back
window was open, and the place where he kept his pelts was pretty handy.
Huck went around to the front door and sold the skin for ten cents to
Selms, who tossed it back on the pile.  Then Huck came back and, after
waiting a reasonable time, crawled in the open window, got the 'coon-
skin, and sold it to Selms again.  He did this several times that
afternoon, and the capital of the band grew.  But at last John Pierce,
Selms's clerk, said:

"Look here, Mr. Selms, there's something wrong about this.  That boy has
been selling us 'coonskins all the afternoon."

Selms went back to his pile of pelts.  There were several sheep-skins and
some cow-hides, but only one 'coon-skin--the one he had that moment
bought.

Selms himself, in after years, used to tell this story as a great joke.

One of the boys' occasional pastimes was to climb Holliday's Hill and
roll down big stones, to frighten the people who were driving by.
Holliday's Hill above the road was steep; a stone once started would go
plunging downward and bound across the road with the deadly momentum of a
shell.  The boys would get a stone poised, then wait until they saw a
team approaching, and, calculating the distance, would give the boulder a
start.  Dropping behind the bushes, they would watch the sudden effect
upon the party below as the great missile shot across the road a few
yards before them.  This was huge sport, but they carried it too far.
For at last they planned a grand climax that would surpass anything
before attempted in the stone-rolling line.

A monstrous boulder was lying up there in the right position to go down-
hill, once started.  It would be a glorious thing to see that great stone
go smashing down a hundred yards or so in front of some peaceful-minded
countryman jogging along the road.  Quarrymen had been getting out rock
not far away and had left their picks and shovels handy.  The boys
borrowed the tools and went to work to undermine the big stone.  They
worked at it several hours.  If their parents had asked them to work like
that, they would have thought they were being killed.

Finally, while they were still digging, the big stone suddenly got loose
and started down.  They were not ready for it at all.  Nobody was coming
but an old colored man in a cart; their splendid stone was going to be
wasted.

One could hardly call it wasted, however; they had planned for a
thrilling result, and there was certainly thrill enough while it lasted.
In the first place the stone nearly caught Will Bowen when it started.
John Briggs had that moment quit digging and handed Will the pick.  Will
was about to take his turn when Sam Clemens leaped aside with a yell:

"Lookout, boys; she's coming!"

She came.  The huge boulder kept to the ground at first, then, gathering
momentum, it went bounding into the air.  About half-way down the hill it
struck a sapling and cut it clean off.  This turned its course a little,
and the negro in the cart, hearing the noise and seeing the great mass
come crashing in his direction, made a wild effort to whip up his mule.

The boys watched their bomb with growing interest.  It was headed
straight for the negro, also for a cooper-shop across the road.  It made
longer leaps with every bound, and, wherever it struck, fragments and
dust would fly.  The shop happened to be empty, but the rest of the
catastrophe would call for close investigation.  They wanted to fly, but
they could not move until they saw the rock land.  It was making mighty
leaps now, and the terrified negro had managed to get exactly in its
path.  The boys stood holding their breath, their mouths open.

Then, suddenly, they could hardly believe their eyes; a little way above
the road the boulder struck a projection, made one mighty leap into the
air, sailed clear over the negro and his mule, and landed in the soft
dirt beyond the road, only a fragment striking the shop, damaging, but
not wrecking it.  Half buried in the ground, the great stone lay there
for nearly forty years; then it was broken up.  It was the last rock the
boys ever rolled down.  Nearly sixty years later John Briggs and Mark
Twain walked across Holliday's Hill and looked down toward the river
road.

Mark Twain said: "It was a mighty good thing, John, that stone acted the
way it did.  We might have had to pay a fancy price for that old darky I
can see him yet."[1]

It can be no harm now, to confess that the boy Sam Clemens--a pretty
small boy, a good deal less than twelve at the time, and by no means
large for his years--was the leader of this unhallowed band.  In any
case, truth requires this admission.  If the band had a leader, it was
Sam, just as it was Tom Sawyer in the book.  They were always ready to
listen to him--they would even stop fishing to do that--and to follow his
plans.  They looked to him for ideas and directions, and he gloried in
being a leader and showing off, just as Tom did in the book.  It seems
almost a pity that in those far-off barefoot days he could not have
looked down the years and caught a glimpse of his splendid destiny.

But of literary fame he could never have dreamed.  The chief ambition--
the "permanent ambition"--of every Hannibal boy was to be a pilot.  The
pilot in his splendid glass perch with his supreme power and princely
salary was to them the noblest of all human creatures.  An elder Bowen
boy was already a pilot, and when he came home, as he did now and then,
his person seemed almost too sacred to touch.

Next to being a pilot, Sam thought he would like to be a pirate or a
bandit or a trapper-scout--something gorgeous and awe-inspiring, where
his word, his nod, would still be law.  The river kept his river ambition
always fresh, and with the cave and the forest round about helped him to
imagine those other things.

The cave was the joy of his heart.  It was a real cave, not merely a
hole, but a marvel of deep passages and vaulted chambers that led back
into the bluffs and far down into the earth, even below the river, some
said.  Sam Clemens never tired of the cave.  He was willing any time to
quit fishing or swimming or melon-hunting for the three-mile walk, or
pull, that brought them to its mystic door.  With its long corridors, its
royal chambers hung with stalactites, its remote hiding-places, it was
exactly suitable, Sam thought, to be the lair of an outlaw, and in it he
imagined and carried out adventures which his faithful followers may not
always have understood, though enjoying them none the less for that
reason.

In Tom Sawyer, Indian Joe dies in the cave.  He did not die there in real
life, but was lost there once and was very weak when they found him.  He
was not as bad as painted in the book, though he was dissolute and
accounted dangerous; and when one night he died in reality, there came a
thunder-storm so terrific that Sam Clemens at home, in bed, was certain
that Satan had come in person for the half-breed's soul.  He covered his
head and said his prayers with fearful anxiety lest the evil one might
decide to save another trip by taking him along then.

The treasure-digging adventure in the book had this foundation in fact:
It was said that two French trappers had once buried a chest of gold
about two miles above Hannibal, and that it was still there.  Tom
Blankenship (Huck) one morning said he had dreamed just where the
treasure was, and that if the boys--Sam Clemens and John Briggs--would go
with him and help dig, he would divide.  The boys had great faith in
dreams, especially in Huck's dreams.  They followed him to a place with
some shovels and picks, and he showed them just where to dig.  Then he
sat down under the shade of a pawpaw-bush and gave orders.

They dug nearly all day.  Huck didn't dig any himself, because he had
done the dreaming, which was his share.  They didn't find the treasure
that day, and next morning they took two long iron rods to push and drive
into the ground until they should strike something.  They struck a number
of things, but when they dug down it was never the money they found.
That night the boys said they wouldn't dig any more.

But Huck had another dream.  He dreamed the gold was exactly under the
little pawpaw-tree.  This sounded so circumstantial that they went back
and dug another day.  It was hot weather, too--August--and that night
they were nearly dead.  Even Huck gave it up then.  He said there was
something wrong about the way they dug.

This differs a good deal from the treasure incident in the book, but it
shows us what respect the boys had for the gifts of the ragamuffin
original of Huck Finn.  Tom Blankenship's brother Ben was also used, and
very importantly, in the creation of our beloved Huck.  Ben was
considerably older, but certainly no more reputable, than Tom.  He
tormented the smaller boys, and they had little love for him.  Yet
somewhere in Ben Blankenship's nature there was a fine, generous strain
of humanity that provided Mark Twain with that immortal episode--the
sheltering of Nigger Jim.  This is the real story:

     A slave ran off from Monroe County, Missouri, and got across the
     river into Illinois.  Ben used to fish and hunt over there in the
     swamps, and one day found him.  It was considered a most worthy act
     in those days to return a runaway slave; in fact, it was a crime not
     to do it.  Besides, there was for this one a reward of fifty
     dollars--a fortune to ragged, out-cast Ben Blankenship.  That money,
     and the honor he could acquire, must have been tempting to the waif,
     but it did not outweigh his human sympathy.  Instead of giving him
     up and claiming the reward, Ben kept the runaway over there in the
     marshes all summer.  The negro fished, and Ben carried him scraps of
     other food.  Then, by and by, the facts leaked out.  Some wood-
     choppers went on a hunt for the fugitive and chased him to what was
     called Bird Slough.  There, trying to cross a drift, he was drowned.

Huck's struggle in the book is between conscience and the law, on one
side, and deep human sympathy on the other.  Ben Blankenship's struggle,
supposing there was one, would be between sympathy and the offered
reward.  Neither conscience nor law would trouble him.  It was his native
humanity that made him shelter the runaway, and it must have been strong
and genuine to make him resist the lure of the fifty-dollar prize.

There was another chapter to this incident.  A few days after the
drowning of the runaway, Sam Clemens and his band made their way to the
place and were pushing the drift about, when, all at once, the negro shot
up out of the water, straight and terrible, a full half-length in the
air.  He had gone down foremost and had been caught in the drift.  The
boys did not stop to investigate, but flew in terror to report their
tale.

Those early days seem to have been full of gruesome things.  In "The
Innocents Abroad," the author tells how he once spent a night in his
father's office and discovered there a murdered man.  This was a true
incident.  The man had been stabbed that afternoon and carried into the
house to die.  Sam and John Briggs had been playing truant all day and
knew nothing of the matter.  Sam thought the office safer than his home,
where his mother was probably sitting up for him.  He climbed in by a
window and lay down on the lounge, but did not sleep.  Presently he
noticed what appeared to be an unusual shape on the floor.  He tried to
turn his face to the wall and forget it, but that would not do.  In agony
he watched the thing until at last a square of moonlight gradually
revealed a sight that he never forgot.  In the book he says:

     "I went away from there.  I do not say that I went in any sort of
     hurry, but I simply went--that is sufficient.  I went out of the
     window, and I carried the sash along with me.  I did not need the
     sash, but it was handier to take it than to leave it, and so I took
     it.  I was not scared, but I was considerable agitated."

Sam was not yet twelve, for his father was no longer living when the boy
had reached that age.  And how many things had crowded themselves into
his few brief years!  We must be content here with only a few of them.
Our chapter is already too long.

Ministers and deacons did not prophesy well for Sam Clemens and his mad
companions.  They spoke feelingly of state prison and the gallows.  But
the boys were a disappointing lot.  Will Bowen became a fine river-pilot.
Will Pitts was in due time a leading merchant and bank president.  John
Briggs grew into a well-to-do and highly respected farmer.  Huck Finn--
which is to say, Tom Blankenship--died an honored citizen and justice of
the peace in a Western town.  As for Sam Clemens, we shall see what he
became as the chapters pass.

[1] John Briggs died in 1907; earlier in the same year the writer of this
memoir spent an afternoon with him and obtained from him most of the
material for this chapter.




VI.

CLOSING SCHOOL-DAYS

Sam was at Mr. Cross's school on the Square in due time, and among the
pupils were companions that appealed to his gentler side.  There were the
RoBards boys--George, the best Latin scholar, and John, who always won
the good-conduct medal, and would one day make all the other boys envious
by riding away with his father to California, his curls of gold blowing
in the wind.

There was Buck Brown, a rival speller, and John Garth, who would marry
little Helen Kercheval, and Jimmy MacDaniel, whom it was well to know
because his father kept a pastry-shop and he used to bring cakes and
candy to school.

There were also a number of girls.  Bettie Ormsley, Artemisia Briggs, and
Jennie Brady were among the girls he remembered in later years, and Mary
Miller, who was nearly double his age and broke his heart by getting
married one day, a thing he had not expected at all.

Yet through it all he appears, like Tom Sawyer, to have had one faithful
sweetheart.  In the book it is Becky Thatcher--in real life she was Laura
Hawkins.  The Clemens and Hawkins families lived opposite, and the
children were early acquainted.  The "Black Avenger of the Spanish Main"
was very gentle when he was playing at house-building with little Laura,
and once, when he dropped a brick on her finger, he cried the louder and
longer of the two.

For he was a tender-hearted boy.  He would never abuse an animal, except
when his tendency to mischief ran away with him, as in the "pain-killer"
incident.  He had a real passion for cats.  Each summer he carried his
cat to the farm in a basket, and it always had a place by him at the
table.  He loved flowers--not as a boy botanist or gardener, but as a
companion who understood their thoughts.  He pitied dead leaves and dry
weeds because their lives were ended and they would never know summer
again or grow glad with another spring.  Even in that early time he had
that deeper sympathy which one day would offer comfort to humanity and
make every man his friend.

But we are drifting away from Sam Clemens's school-days.  They will not
trouble us much longer now.  More than anything in the world Sam detested
school, and he made any excuse to get out of going.  It is hard to say
just why, unless it was the restraint and the long hours of confinement.

The Square in Hannibal, where stood the school of Mr. Cross, was a grove
in those days, with plum-trees and hazel-bushes and grape-vines.  When
spring came, the children gathered flowers at recess, climbed trees, and
swung in the vines.  It was a happy place enough, only--it was school.
To Sam Clemens, the spelling-bee every Friday afternoon was the one thing
that made it worth while.  Sam was a leader at spelling--it was one of
his gifts--he could earn compliments even from Mr. Cross, whose name, it
would seem, was regarded as descriptive.  Once in a moment of inspiration
Sam wrote on his late:

            "Cross by name and Cross by nature,
             Cross jumped over an Irish potato."

John Briggs thought this a great effort, and urged the author to write it
on the blackboard at noon.  Sam hesitated.

"Oh, pshaw!" said John, "I wouldn't be afraid to do it."

"I dare you to do it," said Sam.

This was enough.  While Mr. Cross was at dinner John wrote in a large
hand the fine couplet.  The teacher returned and called the school to
order.  He looked at the blackboard, then, searchingly, at John Briggs.
The handwriting was familiar.

"Did you do that?" he asked, ominously.

It was a time for truth.

"Yes, sir," said John.

"Come here!"  And John came and paid handsomely for his publishing
venture.  Sam Clemens expected that the author would be called for next;
but perhaps Mr. Cross had exhausted himself on John.  Sam did not often
escape.  His back kept fairly warm from one "flailing" to the next.

Yet he usually wore one of the two medals offered in that school--the
medal for spelling.  Once he lost it by leaving the first "r" out of
February.  Laura Hawkins was on the floor against him, and he was a
gallant boy.  If it had only been Huck Brown he would have spelled that
and all the other months backward, to show off.  There were moments of
triumph that almost made school worth while; the rest of the time it was
prison and servitude.

But then one day came freedom.  Judge Clemens, who, in spite of
misfortune, had never lost faith in humanity, indorsed a large note for a
neighbor, and was obliged to pay it.  Once more all his property was
taken away.  Only a few scanty furnishings were rescued from the wreck.
A St. Louis cousin saved the home, but the Clemens family could not
afford to live in it.  They moved across the street and joined
housekeeping with another family.

Judge Clemens had one hope left.  He was a candidate for the clerkship of
the surrogate court, a good office, and believed his election sure.  His
business misfortunes had aroused wide sympathy.  He took no chances,
however, and made a house-to house canvas of the district, regardless of
the weather, probably undermining his health.  He was elected by a large
majority, and rejoiced that his worries were now at an end.  They were,
indeed, over.  At the end of February he rode to the county seat to take
the oath of office.  He returned through a drenching storm and reached
home nearly frozen. Pneumonia set in, and a few days later he was
dying.  His one comfort now was the Tennessee land.  He said it would
make them all rich and happy.  Once he whispered:

"Cling to the land; cling to the land and wait.  Let nothing beguile it
away from you."

He was a man who had rarely displayed affection for his children.  But
presently he beckoned to Pamela, now a lovely girl of nineteen, and,
putting his arm around her neck, kissed her for the first time in years.

"Let me die," he said.

He did not speak again.  A little more, and his worries had indeed ended.
The hard struggle of an upright, impractical man had come to a close.
This was in March, 1847.  John Clemens had lived less than forty-nine
years.

The children were dazed.  They had loved their father and honored his
nobility of purpose.  The boy Sam was overcome with remorse.  He recalled
his wildness and disobedience--a thousand things trifling enough at the
time, but heartbreaking now.  Boy and man, Samuel Clemens was never
spared by remorse.  Leading him into the room where his father lay, his
mother said some comforting words and asked him to make her a promise.

He flung himself into her arms, sobbing: "I will promise anything, if you
won't make me go to school!  Anything!"

After a moment his mother said: "No, Sammy, you need not go to school any
more.  Only promise me to be a better boy.  Promise not to break my
heart!"

He gave his promise to be faithful and industrious and upright, like his
father.  Such a promise was a serious matter, and Sam Clemens, underneath
all, was a serious lad.  He would not be twelve until November, but his
mother felt that he would keep his word.

Orion Clemens returned to St. Louis, where he was receiving a salary of
ten dollars a week--high wage for those days--out of which he could send
three dollars weekly to the family.  Pamela, who played the guitar and
piano very well, gave music lessons, and so helped the family fund.
Pamela Clemens, the original of Cousin Mary, in "Tom Sawyer," was a sweet
and noble girl.  Henry was too young to work, but Sam was apprenticed to
a printer named Ament, who had recently moved to Hannibal and bought a
weekly paper, "The Courier."  Sam agreed with his mother that the
printing trade offered a chance for further education without attending
school, and then, some day, there might be wages.




VII.

THE APPRENTICE

The terms of Samuel Clemens's apprenticeship were the usual thing for
that day: board and clothes--"more board than clothes, and not much of
either," Mark Twain used to say.

"I was supposed to get two suits of clothes a year, but I didn't get
them.  I got one suit and took the rest out in Ament's old garments,
which didn't fit me in any noticeable way.  I was only about half as big
as he was, and when I had on one of his shirts I felt as if I had on a
circus-tent.  I had to turn the trousers up to my ears to make them short
enough."

Another apprentice, a huge creature, named Wales McCormick, was so large
that Ament's clothes were much too small for him.  The two apprentices,
fitted out with their employer's cast-off garments, were amusing enough,
no doubt.  Sam and Wales ate in the kitchen at first, but later at the
family table with Mr. and Mrs. Ament and Pet McMurry, a journeyman
printer.  McMurry was a happy soul, as one could almost guess from his
name.  He had traveled far and learned much.  What the two apprentices
did not already know, Pet McMurry could teach them.  Sam Clemens had
promised to be a good boy, and he was so, by the standards of boyhood.
He was industrious, regular at his work, quick to learn, kind, and
truthful.  Angels could hardly be more than that in a printing-office.
But when food was scarce, even an angel--a young printer-angel--could
hardly resist slipping down the cellar stairs at night, for raw potatoes,
onions, and apples, which they cooked in the office, where the boys slept
on a pallet on the floor.  Wales had a wonderful way of cooking a potato
which his fellow apprentice never forgot.

How one wishes for a photograph of Sam Clemens at that period!  But in
those days there were only daguerreotypes, and they were expensive
things.  There is a letter, though, written long afterward, by Pet
McMurry to Mark Twain, which contains this paragraph:

     "If your memory extends so far back, you will recall a little sandy-
     haired boy of nearly a quarter of a century ago, in the printing-
     office at Hannibal, over the Brittingham drug-store, mounted upon a
     little box at the case, who used to love to sing so well the
     expression of the poor drunken man who was supposed to have fallen
     by the wayside, 'If ever I get up again, I'll stay up--if I kin.'"

And with this portrait we must be content--we cannot doubt its truth.

Sam was soon office favorite and in time became chief stand-by.  When he
had been at work a year, he could set type accurately, run the job press
to the tune of "Annie Laurie," and he had charge of the circulation.
That is to say, he carried the papers--a mission of real importance, for
a long, sagging span of telegraph-wire had reached across the river to
Hannibal, and Mexican-war news delivered hot from the front gave the
messenger a fine prestige.

He even did editing, of a kind.  That is to say, when Ament was not in
the office and copy was needed, Sam hunted him up, explained the
situation, and saw that the necessary matter was produced.  He was not
ambitious to write--not then.  He wanted to be a journeyman printer, like
Pet, and travel and see the world.  Sometimes he thought he would like to
be a clown, or "end man" in a minstrel troupe.  Once for a week he served
as subject for a traveling hypnotist-and was dazzled by his success.

But he stuck to printing, and rapidly became a neat, capable workman.
Ament gave him a daily task, after which he was free.  By three in the
afternoon he was likely to finish his stint.  Then he was off for the
river or the cave, joining his old comrades.  Or perhaps he would go with
Laura Hawkins to gather wild columbine on the high cliff above the river,
known as Lover's Leap.  When winter came these two sometimes went to Bear
Creek, skating; or together they attended parties, where the old-
fashioned games "Ring-around-Rosy" and "Dusty Miller" were the chief
amusements.

In "The Gilded Age," Laura Hawkins at twelve is pictured "with her dainty
hands propped into the ribbon-bordered pockets of her apron .  .  . a
vision to warm the coldest heart and bless and cheer the saddest."  That
was the real Laura, though her story in that book in no way resembles the
reality.

It was just at this time that an incident occurred which may be looked
back upon now as a turning-point in Samuel Clemens's life.  Coming home
from the office one afternoon, he noticed a square of paper being swept
along by the wind.  He saw that it was printed--was interested
professionally in seeing what it was like.  He chased the flying scrap
and overtook it.  It was a leaf from some old history of Joan of Arc, and
pictured the hard lot of the "maid" in the tower at Rouen, reviled and
mistreated by her ruffian captors.  There were some paragraphs of
description, but the rest was pitiful dialogue.

Sam had never heard of Joan before--he knew nothing of history.  He was
no reader.  Orion was fond of books, and Pamela; even little Henry had
read more than Sam.  But now, as he read, there awoke in him a deep
feeling of pity and indignation, and with it a longing to know more of
the tragic story.  It was an interest that would last his life through,
and in the course of time find expression in one of the rarest books ever
written.

The first result was that Sam began to read.  He hunted up everything he
could find on the subject of Joan, and from that went into French history
in general--indeed, into history of every kind.  Samuel Clemens had
suddenly become a reader--almost a student.  He even began the study of
languages, German and Latin, but was not able to go on for lack of time
and teachers.

He became a hater of tyranny, a champion of the weak.  Watching a game of
marbles or tops, he would remark to some offender, in his slow drawling
way, "You mustn't cheat that boy."

And the cheating stopped, or trouble followed.




VIII.

ORION'S PAPER

A Hannibal paper, the "Journal," was for sale under a mortgage of five
hundred dollars, and Orion Clemens, returning from St. Louis, borrowed
the money and bought it.  Sam's two years' apprenticeship with Ament had
been completed, and Orion felt that together they could carry on the
paper and win success.  Henry Clemens, now eleven, was also taken out of
school to learn type-setting.

Orion was a better printer than proprietor.  Like so many of his family,
he was a visionary, gentle and credulous, ready to follow any new idea.
Much advice was offered him, and he tried to follow it all.

He began with great hopes and energy.  He worked like a slave and did not
spare the others.  The paper was their hope of success.  Sam, especially,
was driven.  There were no more free afternoons.  In some chapters
written by Orion Clemens in later life, he said:

     "I was tyrannical and unjust to Sam.  He was swift and clean as a
     good journeyman.  I gave him 'takes,' and, if he got through well, I
     begrudged him the time and made him work more."

Orion did not mean to be unjust.  The struggle against opposition and
debt was bitter.  He could not be considerate.

The paper for a time seemed on the road to success, but Orion worked too
hard and tried too many schemes.  His enthusiasm waned and most of his
schemes turned out poorly.  By the end of the year the "Journal" was on
the down grade.

In time when the need of money became great, Orion made a trip to
Tennessee to try to raise something on the land which they still held
there.  He left Sam in charge of the paper, and, though its proprietor
returned empty-handed, his journey was worth while, for it was during his
absence that Samuel Clemens began the career that would one day make him
Mark Twain.

Sam had concluded to edit the paper in a way that would liven up the
circulation.  He had never written anything for print, but he believed he
knew what the subscribers wanted.  The editor of a rival paper had been
crossed in love, and was said to have tried to drown himself.  Sam wrote
an article telling all the history of the affair, giving names and
details.  Then on the back of two big wooden letters, used for bill-
printing, he engraved illustrations of the victim wading out into the
river, testing the depth of the water with a stick.

The paper came out, and the demand for it kept the Washington hand-press
busy.  The injured editor sent word that he was coming over to thrash the
whole Journal staff, but he left town, instead, for the laugh was too
general.

Sam also wrote a poem which startled orthodox readers.  Then Orion
returned and reduced him to the ranks.  In later years Orion saw his
mistake.

     "I could have distanced all competitors, even then," he wrote,
     "if I had recognized Sam's ability and let him go ahead, merely
     keeping him from offending worthy persons."

Sam was not discouraged.  He liked the taste of print.  He sent two
anecdotes to the Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post.  Both were accepted
--without payment, of course, in those days--and when they appeared he
walked on air.  This was in 1851.  Nearly sixty years later he said:

      "Seeing them in print was a joy which rather exceeded anything in
      that line I have ever experienced since."

However, he wrote nothing further for the "Post."  Orion printed two of
his sketches in the "Journal," which was the extent of his efforts at
this time.  None of this early work has been preserved.  Files of the
"Post" exist, but the sketches were unsigned and could hardly be
identified.

The Hannibal paper dragged along from year to year.  Orion could pay
nothing on the mortgage--financial matters becoming always worse.  He
could barely supply the plainest food and clothing for the family.  Sam
and Henry got no wages, of course.  Then real disaster came.  A cow got
into the office one night, upset a type-case, and ate up two composition
rollers.  Somewhat later a fire broke out and did considerable damage.
There was partial insurance, with which Orion replaced a few necessary
articles; then, to save rent, he moved the office into the front room of
the home on Hill Street, where they were living again at this time.

Samuel Clemens, however, now in his eighteenth year, felt that he was no
longer needed in Hannibal.  He was a capable workman, with little to do
and no reward.  Orion, made irritable by his misfortunes, was not always
kind.  Pamela, who, meantime, had married well, was settled in St. Louis.
Sam told his mother that he would visit Pamela and look about the city.
There would be work in St. Louis at good wages.

He was going farther than St. Louis, but he dared not tell her.  Jane
Clemens, consenting, sighed as she put together his scanty belongings.
Sam was going away.  He had been a good boy of late years, but her faith
in his resisting powers was not strong.  Presently she held up a little
Testament.

"I want you to take hold of the other end of this, Sam," she said, "and
make me a promise."

The slim, wiry woman of forty-nine, gray-eyed, tender, and resolute,
faced the fair-cheeked youth of seventeen, his eyes as piercing and
unwavering as her own.  How much alike they were!

"I want you," Jane Clemens said, "to repeat after me, Sam, these words: I
do solemnly swear that I will not throw a card or drink a drop of liquor
while I am gone."

He repeated the vow after her, and she kissed him.

"Remember that, Sam, and write to us," she said.

"And so," writes Orion, "he went wandering in search of that comfort and
advancement, and those rewards of industry, which he had failed to find
where I was--gloomy, taciturn, and selfish.  I not only missed his labor;
we all missed his abounding activity and merriment."




IX.

THE OPEN ROAD

Samuel Clemens went to visit his sister Pamela in St. Louis and was
presently at work, setting type on the "Evening News."  He had no
intention, however, of staying there.  His purpose was to earn money
enough to take him to New York City.  The railroad had by this time
reached St. Louis, and he meant to have the grand experience of a long
journey "on the cars."  Also, there was a Crystal Palace in New York,
where a world's exposition was going on.

Trains were slow in 1853, and it required several days and nights to go
from St. Louis to New York City, but to Sam Clemens it was a wonderful
journey.  All day he sat looking out of the window, eating when he chose
from the food he carried, curling up in his seat at night to sleep.  He
arrived at last with a few dollars in his pocket and a ten-dollar bill
sewed into the lining of his coat.

New York was rather larger than he expected.  All of the lower end of
Manhattan Island was covered by it.  The Crystal Palace--some distance
out--stood at Forty-second Street and Sixth Avenue--the present site of
Bryant Park.  All the world's newest wonders were to be seen there--a
dazzling exhibition.  A fragment of the letter which Sam Clemens wrote to
his sister Pamela--the earliest piece of Mark Twain's writing that has
been preserved--expresses his appreciation of the big fair:

     "From the gallery (second floor) you have a glorious sight--the
     flags of the different countries represented, the lofty dome,
     glittering jewelry, gaudy tapestry, etc., with the busy crowd
     passing to and fro--'tis a perfect fairy palace--beautiful beyond
     description.

     "The machinery department is on the main floor, but I cannot
     enumerate any of it on account of the lateness of the hour (past one
     o'clock).  It would take more than a week to examine everything on
     exhibition, and I was only in a little over two hours to-night.  I
     only glanced at about one-third of the articles; and, having a poor
     memory, I have enumerated scarcely any of even the principal
     objects.  The visitors to the Palace average 6,000 daily--double the
     population of Hannibal.  The price of admission being fifty cents,
     they take in about $3,000.

     "The Latting Observatory (height about 280 feet) is near the Palace.
     From it you can obtain a grand view of the city and the country
     around.  The Croton Aqueduct, to supply the city with water, is the
     greatest wonder yet.  Immense pipes are laid across the bed of the
     Harlem River, and pass through the country to Westchester County,
     where a whole river is turned from its course and brought to New
     York.  From the reservoir in the city to Westchester County
     reservoir the distance is thirty-eight miles, and, if necessary,
     they could easily supply every family in New York with one hundred
     barrels of water a day!

     "I am very sorry to learn that Henry has been sick.  He ought to go
     to the country and take exercise, for he is not half so healthy as
     Ma thinks he is.  If he had my walking to do, he would be another
     boy entirely.  Four times every day I walk a little over a mile; and
     working hard all day and walking four miles is exercise.  I am used
     to it now, though, and it is no trouble.  Where is it Orion's going
     to?  Tell Ma my promises are faithfully kept; and if I have my
     health I will take her to Ky. in the spring.  I shall save money for
     this.

     "(It has just struck 2 A.M., and I always get up at six and am at
     work at 7.) You ask where I spend my evenings.  Where would you
     suppose, with a free printers' library containing more than 4,000
     volumes within a quarter of a mile of me, and nobody at home to talk
     to?"

     "I shall write to Ella soon.  Write soon.
     "Truly your Brother,

     "SAMY.

     "P.S.--I have written this by a light so dim that you nor Ma could
     not read by it."

We get a fair idea of Samuel Clemens at seventeen from this letter.  For
one thing, he could write good, clear English, full of interesting facts.
He is enthusiastic, but not lavish of words.  He impresses us with his
statement that the visitors to the Palace each day are in number double
the population of Hannibal; a whole river is turned from its course to
supply New York City with water; the water comes thirty-eight miles, and
each family could use a hundred barrels a day!  The letter reveals his
personal side--his kindly interest in those left behind, his anxiety for
Henry, his assurance that the promise to his mother was being kept, his
memory of her longing to visit her old home.  And the boy who hated
school has become a reader--he is reveling in a printers' library of
thousands of volumes.  We feel, somehow, that Samuel Clemens has suddenly
become quite a serious-minded person, that he has left Tom Sawyer and Joe
Harper and Huck Finn somewhere in a beautiful country a long way behind.

He found work with the firm of John A. Gray & Green, general printers, in
Cliff Street.  His pay was four dollars a week, in wild-cat money--that
is, money issued by private banks--rather poor money, being generally at
a discount and sometimes worth less.  But if wages were low, living was
cheap in those days, and Sam Clemens, lodging in a mechanics' boarding-
house in Duane Street, sometimes had fifty cents left on Saturday night
when his board and washing were paid.

Luckily, he had not set out to seek his fortune, but only to see
something of the world.  He lingered in New York through the summer of
1853, never expecting to remain long.  His letters of that period were
few.  In October he said, in a letter to Pamela, that he did not write to
the family because he did not know their whereabouts, Orion having sold
the paper and left Hannibal.

     "I have been fooling myself with the idea that I was going to leave
     New York every day for the last two weeks," he adds, which sounds
     like the Mark Twain of fifty years later.  Farther along, he tells
     of going to see Edwin Forrest, then playing at the Broadway Theater:

     "The play was the 'Gladiator.'  I did not like part of it much, but
     other portions were really splendid.  In the latter part of the last
     act. . . the man's whole soul seems absorbed in the part he is
     playing; and it is real startling to see him.  I am sorry I did not
     see him play "Damon and Pythias," the former character being the
     greatest.  He appears in Philadelphia on Monday night."

A little farther along he says:

     "If my letters do not come often, you need not bother yourself about
     me; for if you have a brother nearly eighteen years old who is not
     able to take care of himself a few miles from home, such a brother
     is not worth one's thoughts."

Sam Clemens may have followed Forrest to Philadelphia.  At any rate, he
was there presently, "subbing" in the composing-rooms of the "Inquirer,"
setting ten thousand ems a day, and receiving pay accordingly.  When
there was no vacancy for him to fill, he put in the time visiting the
Philadelphia libraries, art galleries, and historic landmarks.  After
all, his chief business was sight-seeing.  Work was only a means to this
end.  Chilly evenings, when he returned to his boarding-house, his room-
mate, an Englishman named Sumner, grilled a herring over their small open
fire, and this was a great feast.  He tried writing--obituary poetry, for
the "Philadelphia Ledger"--but it was not accepted.

"My efforts were not received with approval" was his comment long after.

In the "Inquirer" office there was a printer named Frog, and sometimes,
when he went out, the office "devils" would hang over his case a line
with a hook on it baited with a piece of red flannel.  They never got
tired of this joke, and Frog never failed to get fighting mad when he saw
that dangling string with the bit of red flannel at the end.  No doubt
Sam Clemens had his share in this mischief.

Sam found that he liked Philadelphia.  He could save a little money and
send something to his mother--small amounts, but welcome.  Once he
inclosed a gold dollar, "to serve as a specimen of the kind of stuff we
are paid with in Philadelphia."  Better than doubtful "wild-cat,"
certainly.  Of his work he writes:

     "One man has engaged me to work for him every Sunday till the first
     of next April, when I shall return home to take Ma to Ky .  .  .  .
     If I want to, I can get subbing every night of the week.  I go to
     work at seven in the evening and work till three the next morning.
     .  .  . The type is mostly agate and minion, with some bourgeois,
     and when one gets a good agate "take," he is sure to make money.  I
     made $2.50 last Sunday."

There is a long description of a trip on the Fairmount stage in this
letter, well-written and interesting, but too long to have place here.
In the same letter he speaks of the graves of Benjamin Franklin and his
wife, which he had looked at through the iron railing of the locked
inclosure.  Probably it did not occur to him that there might be points
of similarity between Franklin's career and his own.  Yet in time these
would be rather striking: each learned the printer's trade; each worked
in his brother's office and wrote for the paper; each left quietly and
went to New York, and from New York to Philadelphia, as a journeyman
printer; each in due season became a world figure, many-sided, human, and
of incredible popularity.

Orion Clemens, meantime, had bought a paper in Muscatine, Iowa, and
located the family there.  Evidently by this time he had realized the
value of his brother as a contributor, for Sam, in a letter to Orion,
says, "I will try to write for the paper occasionally, but I fear my
letters will be very uninteresting, for this incessant night work dulls
one's ideas amazingly."

Meantime, he had passed his eighteenth birthday, winter was coming on, he
had been away from home half a year, and the first attack of homesickness
was due.  "One only has to leave home to learn how to write interesting
letters to an absent friend," he wrote; and again.  "I don't like our
present prospect for cold weather at all."

He declared he only wanted to get back to avoid night work, which was
injuring his eyes, but we may guess there was a stronger reason, which
perhaps he did not entirely realize.  The novelty of wandering had worn
off, and he yearned for familiar faces, the comfort of those he loved.

But he did not go.  He made a trip to Washington in January--a sight-
seeing trip--returning to Philadelphia, where he worked for the "Ledger"
and "North American."  Eventually he went back to New York, and from
there took ticket to St. Louis.  This was in the late summer of 1854; he
had been fifteen months away from his people when he stepped aboard the
train to return.

Sam was worn out when he reached St. Louis; but the Keokuk packet was
leaving, and he stopped only long enough to see Pamela, then went aboard
and, flinging himself into his berth, did not waken until the boat
reached Muscatine, Iowa, thirty-six hours later.

It was very early when he arrived, too early to rouse the family.  He sat
down in the office of a little hotel to wait for morning, and picked up a
small book that lay on the writing-table.  It contained pictures of the
English rulers with the brief facts of their reigns.  Sam Clemens
entertained himself learning these data by heart.  He had a fine memory
for such things, and in an hour or two had those details so perfectly
committed that he never forgot one of them as long as he lived.  The
knowledge acquired in this stray fashion he found invaluable in later
life.  It was his groundwork for all English history.




X.

A WIND OF CHANCE

Orion could not persuade his brother to remain in Muscatine.  Sam
returned to his old place on the "Evening News," in St. Louis, where he
remained until the following year, rooming with a youth named Burrough, a
journeyman chair-maker with literary taste, a reader of the English
classics, a companionable lad, and for Samuel Clemens a good influence.

By spring, Orion Clemens had married and had sold out in Muscatine.  He
was now located in Keokuk, Iowa.  When presently Brother Sam came
visiting to Keokuk, Orion offered him five dollars a week and his board
to remain.  He accepted.  Henry Clemens, now seventeen, was also in
Orion's employ, and a lad named Dick Hingham.  Henry and Sam slept in the
office; Dick and a young fellow named Brownell, who roomed above, came in
for social evenings.

They were pretty lively evenings.  A music-teacher on the floor below did
not care for them--they disturbed his class.  He was furious, in fact,
and assailed the boys roughly at first, with no result but to make
matters worse.  Then he tried gentleness, and succeeded.  The boys
stopped their capers and joined his class.  Sam, especially, became a
distinguished member of that body.  He was never a great musician, but
with his good nature, his humor, his slow, quaint speech and originality,
he had no rival in popularity.  He was twenty now, and much with young
ladies, yet he was always a beau rather than a suitor, a good comrade to
all, full of pranks and pleasantries, ready to stop and be merry with any
that came along.  If they prophesied concerning his future, it is not
likely that they spoke of literary fame.  They thought him just easy-
going and light-minded.  True, they noticed that he often carried a book
under his arm--a history, a volume of Dickens, or the tales of Poe.

He read more than any one guessed.  At night, propped up in bed--a habit
continued until his death--he was likely to read until a late hour.  He
enjoyed smoking at such times, and had made himself a pipe with a large
bowl which stood on the floor and had a long rubber stem, something like
the Turkish hubble-bubble.  He liked to fill the big bowl and smoke at
ease through the entire evening.  But sometimes the pipe went out, which
meant that he must strike a match and lean far over to apply it, just
when he was most comfortable.  Sam Clemens never liked unnecessary
exertion.  One night, when the pipe had gone out for the second time, he
happened to hear the young book-clerk, Brownell, passing up to his room
on the top floor.  Sam called to him:

"Ed, come here!"

Brownell poked his head in the door.  The two were great chums.

"What will you have, Sam?" he asked.

"Come in, Ed; Henry's asleep, and I'm in trouble.  I want somebody to
light my pipe."

"Why don't you light it yourself?" Brownell asked.

"I would, only I knew you'd be along in a few minutes and would do it for
me."

Brownell scratched a match, stooped down, and applied it.

"What are you reading, Sam?"

"Oh, nothing much--a so-called funny book.  One of these days I'll write
a funnier book myself."

Brownell laughed.  "No, you won't, Sam," he said.  "You're too lazy ever
to write a book."

Years later, in the course of a lecture which he delivered in Keokuk,
Mark Twain said that he supposed the most untruthful man in the world
lived right there in Keokuk, and that his name was Ed Brownell.

Orion Clemens did not have the gift of prosperity, and his printing-
office did not flourish.  When he could no longer pay Sam's wages he took
him into partnership, which meant that Sam got no wages at all, though
this was of less consequence, since his mother, now living with Pamela,
was well provided for.  The disorder of the office, however, distressed
him.  He wrote home that he could not work without system, and, a little
later, that he was going to leave Keokuk, that, in fact, he was planning
a great adventure--a trip to the upper Amazon!

His interest in the Amazon had been awakened by a book.  Lynch and
Herndon had surveyed the upper river, and Lieutenant Herndon's book was
widely read.  Sam Clemens, propped up in bed, pored over it through long
evenings, and nightly made fabulous fortunes collecting cocoa and other
rare things--resolving, meantime, to start in person for the upper Amazon
with no unnecessary delay.  Boy and man, Samuel Clemens was the same.
His vision of grand possibilities ahead blinded him to the ways and means
of arrival.  It was an inheritance from both sides of his parentage.
Once, in old age, he wrote:

     "I have been punished many and many a time, and bitterly, for doing
     things and reflecting afterward .  .  .  .  When I am reflecting on
     these occasions, even deaf persons can hear me think."

He believed, however, that he had reflected carefully concerning the
Amazon, and that in a brief time he should be there at the head of an
expedition, piling up untold wealth.  He even stirred the imaginations of
two other adventurers, a Dr. Martin and a young man named Ward.  To
Henry, then in St. Louis, he wrote, August 5, 1856:

     "Ward and I held a long consultation Sunday morning, and the result
     was that we two have determined to start to Brazil, if possible, in
     six weeks from now, in order to look carefully into matters there
     and report to Dr. Martin in time for him to follow on the first of
     March."

The matter of finance troubled him.  Orion could not be depended on for
any specified sum, and the fare to the upper Amazon would probably be
considerable.  Sam planned different methods of raising it.  One of them
was to go to New York or Cincinnati and work at his trade until he saved
the amount.  He would then sail from New York direct, or take boat for
New Orleans and sail from there.  Of course there would always be vessels
clearing for the upper Amazon.  After Lieutenant Herndon's book the ocean
would probably be full of them.

He did not make the start with Ward, as planned, and Ward and Martin seem
to have given up the Amazon idea.  Not so with Samuel Clemens.  He went
on reading Herndon, trying meantime to raise money enough to get him out
of Keokuk.  Was it fate or Providence that suddenly placed it in his
hands?  Whatever it was, the circumstance is so curious that it must be
classed as one of those strange facts that have no place in fiction.

The reader will remember how, one day in Hannibal, the wind had brought
to Sam Clemens, then printer's apprentice, a stray leaf from a book about
"Joan of Arc," and how that incident marked a turning-point in his mental
life.  Now, seven years later, it was the wind again that directed his
fortune.  It was a day in early November--bleak, bitter, and
gusty, with whirling snow; most persons were indoors.  Samuel Clemens,
going down Main Street, Keokuk, saw a flying bit of paper pass him and
lodge against a building.  Something about it attracted him and he
captured it.  It was a fifty-dollar bill!  He had never seen one before,
but he recognized it.  He thought he must be having a pleasant dream.

He was tempted to pocket his good fortune and keep still.  But he had
always a troublesome conscience.  He went to a newspaper office and
advertised that he had found a sum of money, a large bill.

Once, long after, he said: "I didn't describe it very particularly, and I
waited in daily fear that the owner would turn up and take away my
fortune.  By and by I couldn't stand it any longer.  My conscience had
gotten all that was coming to it.  I felt that I must take that money out
of danger."

Another time he said, "I advertised the find and left for the Amazon the
same day."  All of which we may take with his usual literary discount--
the one assigned to him by his mother in childhood.  As a matter of fact,
he remained for an ample time, and nobody came for the money.  What was
its origin?  Was it swept out of a bank, or caught up by the wind from
some counting-room table?  Perhaps it materialized out of the unseen.
Who knows?




XI.

THE LONG WAY TO THE AMAZON

Sam decided on Cincinnati as his base.  From there he could go either to
New York or New Orleans to catch the Amazon boat.  He paid a visit to St.
Louis, where his mother made him renew his promise as to drink and cards.
Then he was seized with a literary idea, and returned to Keokuk, where he
proposed to a thriving weekly paper, the "Saturday Post," to send letters
of travel, which might even be made into a book later on.  George Reese,
owner of the "Post," agreed to pay five dollars each for the letters,
which speaks well for his faith in Samuel Clemens's talent, five dollars
being good pay for that time and place--more than the letters were worth,
judged by present standards.  The first was dated Cincinnati, November
14, 1856, and was certainly not promising literature.  It was written in
the ridiculous dialect which was once thought to be the dress of humor;
and while here and there is a comic flash, there is in it little promise
of the future Mark Twain.  One extract is enough:

     "When we got to the depo', I went around to git a look at the iron
     hoss.  Thunderation!  It wasn't no more like a hoss than a meetin'-
     house.  If I was goin' to describe the animule, I'd say it looked
     like--well, it looked like--blamed if I know what it looked like,
     snorting fire and brimstone out of his nostrils, and puffin' out
     black smoke all 'round, and pantin', and heavin', and swellin', and
     chawin' up red-hot coals like they was good.  A feller stood in a
     little house like, feedin' him all the time; but the more he got,
     the more he wanted and the more he blowed and snorted.  After a
     spell the feller ketched him by the tail, and great Jericho! he set
     up a yell that split the ground for more'n a mile and a half, and
     the next minit I felt my legs a-waggin', and found myself at t'other
     end of the string o' vehickles.  I wasn't skeered, but I had three
     chills and a stroke of palsy in less than five minits, and my face
     had a cur'us brownish-yaller-greenbluish color in it, which was
     perfectly unaccountable.  'Well,' say I, 'comment is super-flu-ous.'"

How Samuel Clemens could have written that, and worse, at twenty-one, and
a little more than ten years later have written "The Innocents Abroad,"
is one of the mysteries of literature.  The letters were signed
"Snodgrass," and there are but two of them.  Snodgrass seems to have
found them hard work, for it is said he raised on the price, which,
fortunately, brought the series to a close.  Their value to-day lies in
the fact that they are the earliest of Mark Twain's newspaper
contributions that have been preserved--the first for which he received a
cash return.

Sam remained in Cincinnati until April of the following year, 1857,
working for Wrightson & Co., general printers, lodging in a cheap
boarding-house, saving every possible penny for his great adventure.

He had one associate at the boarding-house, a lank, unsmiling Scotchman
named Macfarlane, twice young Clemens's age, and a good deal of a
mystery.  Sam never could find out what Macfarlane did.  His hands were
hardened by some sort of heavy labor; he left at six in the morning and
returned in the evening at the same hour.  He never mentioned his work,
and young Clemens had the delicacy not to inquire.

For Macfarlane was no ordinary person.  He was a man of deep knowledge, a
reader of many books, a thinker; he was versed in history and philosophy,
he knew the dictionary by heart.  He made but two statements concerning
himself: one, that he had acquired his knowledge from reading, and not at
school; the other, that he knew every word in the English dictionary.  He
was willing to give proof of the last, and Sam Clemens tested him more
than once, but found no word that Macfarlane could not define.

Macfarlane was not silent--he would discuss readily enough the deeper
problems of life and had many startling theories of his own.  Darwin had
not yet published his "Descent of Man," yet Macfarlane was already
advancing ideas similar to those in that book.  He went further than
Darwin.  He had startling ideas of the moral evolution of man, and these
he would pour into the ears of his young listener until ten o'clock,
after which, like the English Sumner in Philadelphia, he would grill a
herring, and the evening would end.  Those were fermenting discourses
that young Samuel Clemens listened to that winter in Macfarlane's room,
and they did not fail to influence his later thought.

It was the high-tide of spring, late in April, when the prospective
cocoa-hunter decided that it was time to set out for the upper Amazon.
He had saved money enough to carry him at least as far as New Orleans,
where he would take ship, it being farther south and therefore nearer his
destination.  Furthermore, he could begin with a lazy trip down the
Mississippi, which, next to being a pilot, had been one of his most
cherished dreams.  The Ohio River steamers were less grand than those of
the Mississippi, but they had a homelike atmosphere and did not hurry.
Samuel Clemens had the spring fever and was willing to take his time.

In "Life on the Mississippi" we read that the author ran away, vowing
never to return until he could come home a pilot, shedding glory.  But
this is the fiction touch.  He had always loved the river, and his
boyhood dream of piloting had time and again returned, but it was not
uppermost when he bade good-by to Macfarlane and stepped aboard the "Paul
Jones," bound for New Orleans, and thus conferred immortality on that
ancient little craft.

Now he had really started on his voyage.  But it was a voyage that would
continue not for a week or a fortnight, but for four years--four
marvelous, sunlit years, the glory of which would color all that followed
them.




XII.

RENEWING AN OLD AMBITION

A reader of Mark Twain's Mississippi book gets the impression that the
author was a boy of about seventeen when he started to learn the river,
and that he was painfully ignorant of the great task ahead.  But this
also is the fiction side of the story.  Samuel Clemens was more than
twenty-one when he set out on the "Paul Jones," and in a way was familiar
with the trade of piloting.  Hannibal had turned out many pilots.  An
older brother of the Bowen boys was already on the river when Sam Clemens
was rolling rocks down Holliday's Hill.  Often he came home to air his
grandeur and hold forth on the wonder of his work.  That learning the
river was no light task Sam Clemens would know as well as any one who had
not tried it.

Nevertheless, as the drowsy little steamer went puffing down into softer,
sunnier lands, the old dream, the "permanent ambition" of boyhood,
returned, while the call of the far-off Amazon and cocoa drew faint.

Horace Bixby,[2] pilot of the "Paul Jones," a man of thirty-two, was
looking out over the bow at the head of Island No. 35 when he heard a
slow, pleasant voice say, "Good morning."

Bixby was a small, clean-cut man.  "Good morning, sir," he said, rather
briskly, without looking around.

He did not much care for visitors in the pilothouse.  This one entered
and stood a little behind him.

"How would you like a young man to learn the river?" came to him in that
serene, deliberate speech.

The pilot glanced over his shoulder and saw a rather slender, loose-
limbed youth with a fair, girlish complexion and a great mass of curly
auburn hair.

"I wouldn't like it.  Cub pilots are more trouble than they're worth.  A
great deal more trouble than profit."

"I am a printer by trade," the easy voice went on.  "It doesn't agree
with me.  I thought I'd go to South America."

Bixby kept his eye on the river, but there was interest in his voice when
he spoke.  "What makes you pull your words that way?" he asked--"pulling"
being the river term for drawling.

The young man, now seated comfortably on the visitors' bench, said more
slowly than ever: "You'll have to ask my mother--she pulls hers, too."

Pilot Bixby laughed.  The manner of the reply amused him.  His guest was
encouraged.

"Do you know the Bowen boys?" he asked, "pilots in the St. Louis and New
Orleans trade?"

"I know them well--all three of them.  William Bowen did his first
steering for me; a mighty good boy.  I know Sam, too, and Bart."

"Old schoolmates of mine in Hannibal.  Sam and Will, especially, were my
chums."

Bixby's tone became friendly.  "Come over and stand by me," he said.
"What is your name?"

The applicant told him, and the two stood looking out on the sunlit
water.

"Do you drink?"

"No."

"Do you gamble?"

"No, sir."

"Do you swear?"

"N-not for amusement; only under pressure."

"Do you chew?"

"No, sir, never; but I must--smoke."

"Did you ever do any steering?"

"I have steered everything on the river but a steamboat, I guess."

"Very well.  Take the wheel and see what you can do with a steamboat.
Keep her as she is--toward that lower cottonwood snag."

Bixby had a sore foot and was glad of a little relief.  He sat on the
bench where he could keep a careful eye on the course.  By and by he said
"There is just one way I would take a young man to learn the river--that
is, for money."

"What--do you--charge?"

"Five hundred dollars, and I to be at no expense whatever."

In those days pilots were allowed to carry a learner, or "cub," board
free.  Mr. Bixby meant that he was to be at no expense in port or for
incidentals.  His terms seemed discouraging.

"I haven't got five hundred dollars in money," Sam said.  "I've got a lot
of Tennessee land worth two bits an acre.  I'll give you two thousand
acres of that."

Bixby shook his head.  "No," he said, "I don't want any unimproved real
estate.  I have too much already."

Sam reflected.  He thought he might be able to borrow one hundred dollars
from William Moffett, Pamela's husband, without straining his credit.

"Well, then," he proposed, "I'll give you one hundred dollars cash, and
the rest when I earn it."

Something about this young man had won Horace Bixby's heart.  His slow,
pleasant speech, his unhurried, quiet manner at the wheel, his evident
simplicity and sincerity--the inner qualities of mind and heart which
would make the world love Mark Twain.  The terms proposed were accepted.
The first payment was to be in cash; the others were to begin when the
pupil had learned the river and was earning wages.  During the rest of
the trip to New Orleans the new pupil was often at the wheel, while Mr.
Bixby nursed his sore foot and gave directions.  Any literary ambitions
that Samuel Clemens still nourished waned rapidly.  By the time he had
reached New Orleans he had almost forgotten he had ever been a printer.
As for the Amazon and cocoa, why, there had been no ship sailing in that
direction for years, and it was unlikely that any would ever sail again,
a fact that rather amused the would-be adventurer now, since Providence
had regulated his affairs in accordance with his oldest and longest
cherished dream.

At New Orleans Bixby left the "Paul Jones" for a fine St. Louis boat,
taking his cub with him.  This was a sudden and happy change, and Sam was
a good deal impressed with his own importance in belonging to so imposing
a structure, especially when, after a few days' stay in New Orleans, he
stood by Bixby's side in the big glass turret while they backed out of
the line of wedged-in boats and headed up the great river.

This was glory, but there was sorrow ahead.  He had not really begun
learning the river as yet he had only steered under directions.  He had
known that to learn the river would be hard, but he had never realized
quite how hard.  Serenely he had undertaken the task of mastering twelve
hundred miles of the great, changing, shifting river as exactly and as
surely by daylight or darkness as one knows the way to his own features.
Nobody could realize the full size of that task--not till afterward.

[2] Horace Bixby lived until 1912 and remained at the wheel until within
a short time of his death, in his eighty-seventh year.  The writer of
this memoir visited him in 1910 and took down from his dictation the
dialogue that follows.



XIII.

LEARNING THE RIVER

In that early day, to be a pilot was to be "greater than a king."  The
Mississippi River pilot was a law unto himself--there was none above him.
His direction of the boat was absolute; he could start or lay up when he
chose; he could pass a landing regardless of business there, consulting
nobody, not even the captain; he could take the boat into what seemed
certain destruction, if he had that mind, and the captain was obliged to
stand by, helpless and silent, for the law was with the pilot in
everything.

Furthermore, the pilot was a gentleman.  His work was clean and
physically light.  It ended the instant the boat was tied to the landing,
and did not begin again until it was ready to back into the stream.
Also, for those days his salary was princely--the Vice-President of the
United States did not receive more.  As for prestige, the Mississippi
pilot, perched high in his glass inclosure, fashionably dressed, and
commanding all below him, was the most conspicuous and showy, the most
observed and envied creature in the world.  No wonder Sam Clemens, with
his love of the river and his boyish fondness for honors, should aspire
to that stately rank.  Even at twenty-one he was still just a boy--as,
indeed, he was till his death--and we may imagine how elated he was,
starting up the great river as a real apprentice pilot, who in a year or
two would stand at the wheel, as his chief was now standing, a monarch
with a splendid income and all the great river packed away in his head.

In that last item lay the trouble.  In the Mississippi book he tells of
it in a way that no one may hope to equal, and if the details are not
exact, the truth is there--at least in substance.

For a distance above New Orleans Mr. Bixby had volunteered information
about the river, naming the points and crossings, in what seemed a casual
way, all through his watch of four hours.  Their next watch began in the
middle of the night, and Mark Twain tells how surprised and disgusted he
was to learn that pilots must get up in the night to run their boats, and
his amazement to find Mr. Bixby plunging into the blackness ahead as if
it had been daylight.  Very likely this is mainly fiction, but hardly the
following:

     Presently he turned to me and said: "What's the name of the first
     point above New Orleans?"

     I was gratified to be able to answer promptly, and I did.  I said I
     didn't know.

     "Don't know!"

     His manner jolted me.  I was down at the foot again, in a moment.
     But I had to say just what I had said before.

     "Well, you're a smart one," said Mr. Bixby.  "What's the name of the
     next point?"

     Once more I didn't know.

     "Well, this beats anything!  Tell me the name of any point or place
     I told you."

     I studied awhile and decided that I couldn't.

     "Look here!  What do you start from, above Twelve Mile Point, to
     cross over?"

     "I--I--don't know."

     "'You--you don't know,"' mimicking my drawling manner of speech.
     "What do you know?"

     "I--I--Nothing, for certain."

     Bixby was a small, nervous man, hot and quick-firing.  He went off
     now, and said a number of severe things.  Then:

     "Look here, what do you suppose I told you the names of those points
     for?"

     I tremblingly considered a moment--then the devil of temptation
     provoked me to say: "Well--to--to--be entertaining, I thought."

     This was a red flag to the bull.  He raged and stormed so (he was
     crossing the river at the time) that I judged it made him blind,
     because he ran over the steering-oar of a trading-scow.  Of course
     the traders sent up a volley of red-hot profanity.  Never was a man
     so grateful as Mr. Bixby was, because he was brimful, and here were
     subjects who would talk back.  He threw open a window, thrust his
     head out, and such an irruption followed as I had never heard before
     .  .  .  . When he closed the window he was empty.  Presently he
     said to me, in the gentlest way:

     "My boy, you must get a little memorandum-book, and every time I
     tell you a thing, put it down right away.  There's only one way to
     be a pilot, and that is to get this entire river by heart.  You have
     to know it just like A-B-C."

The little memorandum-book which Sam Clemens bought, probably at the next
daylight landing, still exists--the same that he says "fairly bristled
with the names of towns, points, bars, islands, bends, reaches, etc.";
but it made his heart ache to think he had only half the river set down,
for, as the watches were four hours off and four hours on, there were the
long gaps where he had slept.

It is not easy to make out the penciled notes today.  The small, neat
writing is faded, and many of them are in an abbreviation made only for
himself.  It is hard even to find these examples to quote:

MERIWETHER'S BEND

One-fourth less 3[3]--run shape of upper bar and go into the low place in
the willows about 200 (ft.) lower down than last year.

OUTSIDE OF MONTEZUMA

Six or eight feet more water.  Shape bar till high timber on towhead gets
nearly even with low willows.  Then hold a little open on right of low
willows--run 'em close if you want to, but come out 200 yards when you
get nearly to head of towhead.

The average mind would not hold a single one of these notes ten seconds,
yet by the time he reached St. Louis he had set down pages that to-day
make one's head weary even to contemplate.  And those long four-hour gaps
where he had been asleep--they are still there; and now, after nearly
sixty years, the old heartache is still in them.  He must have bought a
new book for the next trip and laid this one away.

To the new "cub" it seemed a long way to St. Louis that first trip, but
in the end it was rather grand to come steaming up to the big, busy city,
with its thronging waterfront flanked with a solid mile of steamboats,
and to nose one's way to a place in that stately line.

At St. Louis, Sam borrowed from his brother-in-law the one hundred
dollars he had agreed to pay, and so closed his contract with Bixby.  A
few days later his chief was engaged to go on a very grand boat indeed--a
"sumptuous temple," he tells us, all brass and inlay, with a pilot-house
so far above the water that he seemed perched on a mountain.  This part
of learning the river was worth while; and when he found that the
regiment of natty servants respectfully "sir'd" him, his happiness was
complete.

But he was in the depths again, presently, for when they started down the
river and he began to take account of his knowledge, he found that he had
none.  Everything had changed--that is, he was seeing it all from the
other direction.  What with the four-hour gaps and this transformation,
he was lost completely.

How could the easy-going, dreamy, unpractical man whom the world knew as
Mark Twain ever have persisted against discouragement like that to
acquire the vast, the absolute, limitless store of information necessary
to Mississippi piloting?  The answer is that he loved the river, the
picturesqueness and poetry of a steamboat, the ease and glory of a
pilot's life; and then, in spite of his own later claims to the contrary,
Samuel Clemens, boy and man, in the work suited to his tastes and gifts,
was the most industrious of persons.  Work of the other sort he avoided,
overlooked, refused to recognize, but never any labor for which he was
qualified by his talents or training.  Piloting suited him exactly, and
he proved an apt pupil.

Horace Bixby said to the writer of this memoir: "Sam was always good-
natured, and he had a natural taste for the river.  He had a fine memory
and never forgot what I told him."

Yet there must have been hard places all along, for to learn every crook
and turn and stump and snag and bluff and bar and sounding of that twelve
hundred miles of mighty, shifting water was a gigantic task.  Mark Twain
tells us how, when he was getting along pretty well, his chief one day
turned on him suddenly with this "settler":

     "What is the shape of Walnut Bend?"

     He might as well have asked me my grandmother's opinion of
     protoplasm.  I replied respectfully and said I didn't know it had
     any particular shape.  My gun-powdery chief went off with a bang, of
     course, and then went on loading and firing until he was out of
     adjectives ....I waited.  By and by he said:

     "My boy, you've got to know the shape of the river perfectly.  It is
     all that is left to steer by on a very dark night.  Everything else
     is blotted out and gone.  But mind you, it hasn't got the same shape
     in the night that it has in the daytime."

     "How on earth am I going to learn it, then?"

     "How do you follow a hall at home in the dark?  Because you know the
     shape of it.  You can't see it."

     "Do you mean to say that I've got to know all the million trifling
     variations of shape in the banks of this interminable river as well
     as I know the shape of the front hall at home?"

     "On my honor, you've got to know them better than any man ever did
     know the shapes of the halls in his own house."

     "I wish I was dead!"

But the reader must turn to Chapter VIII of "Life on the Mississippi" and
read, or reread, the pages which follow this extract--nothing can better
convey the difficulties of piloting.  That Samuel Clemens had the courage
to continue is the best proof, not only of his great love of the river,
but of that splendid gift of resolution that one rarely fails to find in
men of the foremost rank.

[3] Depth of water.  One-quarter less than three fathoms.




XIV.

RIVER DAYS

Piloting was only a part of Sam Clemens's education on the Mississippi.
He learned as much of the reefs and shallows of human nature as of the
river-bed.  In one place he writes:

     In that brief, sharp schooling I got personally and familiarly
     acquainted with all the different types of human nature that are to
     be found in fiction, biography, or history.

All the different types, but most of them in the rough.  That Samuel
Clemens kept the promise made to his mother as to drink and cards during
those apprentice days is well worth remembering.

Horace Bixby, answering a call for pilots from the Missouri River,
consigned his pupil, as was customary, tonne of the pilots of the "John
J. Roe," a freight-boat, owned and conducted by some retired farmers, and
in its hospitality reminding Sam of his Uncle John Quarles's farm.  The
"Roe" was a very deliberate boat.  It was said that she could beat an
island to St. Louis, but never quite overtake the current going down-
stream.  Sam loved the "Roe."  She was not licensed to carry passengers,
but she always had a family party of the owners' relations aboard, and
there was a big deck for dancing and a piano in the cabin.  The young
pilot could play the chords, and sing, in his own fashion, about a
grasshopper that; sat on a sweet-potato vine, and about--

An old, old horse whose name was Methusalem,
Took him down and sold him in Jerusalem,
A long time ago.

The "Roe" was a heavenly place, but Sam's stay there did not last.  Bixby
came down from the Missouri, and perhaps thought he was doing a fine
thing for his pupil by transferring him to a pilot named Brown, then on a
large passenger-steamer, the "Pennsylvania."  The "Pennsylvania" was new
and one of the finest boats on the river.  Sam Clemens, by this time, was
accounted a good steersman, so it seemed fortunate and a good arrangement
for all parties.

But Brown was a tyrant.  He was illiterate and coarse, and took a dislike
to Sam from the start.  His first greeting was a question, harmless
enough in form but offensive in manner.

"Are you Horace Bigsby's cub?"--Bixby being usually pronounced "Bigsby"
in river parlance.

Sam answered politely enough that he was, and Brown proceeded to comment
on the "style" of his clothes and other personal matters.

He had made an effort to please Brown, but it was no use.  Brown was
never satisfied.  At a moment when Sam was steering, Brown, sitting on
the bench, would shout: "Here!  Where are you going now?  Pull her down!
Pull her down!  Do you hear me?  Blamed mud-cat!"

The young pilot soon learned to detest his chief, and presently was
putting in a good deal of his time inventing punishments for him.

I could imagine myself killing Brown; there was no law against that, and
that was the thing I always used to do the moment I was abed.  Instead of
going over the river in my mind, as was my duty, I threw business aside
for pleasure, and killed Brown.

He gave up trying to please Brown, and was even willing to stir him up
upon occasion.  One day when the cub was at the wheel his chief noticed
that the course seemed peculiar.

"Here!  Where you headin' for now?" he yelled.  "What in the nation you
steerin' at, anyway?  Blamed numskull!"

"Why," said Sam in his calm, slow way, "I didn't see much else I could
steer for, so I was heading for that white heifer on the bank."

"Get away from that wheel!  And get outen this pilot-house!" yelled
Brown.  "You ain't fitten to become no pilot!"  An order that Sam found
welcome enough.  The other pilot, George Ealer, was a lovable soul who
played the flute and chess during his off watch, and read aloud to Sam
from "Goldsmith" and "Shakespeare."  To be with George Ealer was to
forget the persecutions of Brown.

Young Clemens had been on the river nearly a year at this time, and,
though he had learned a good deal and was really a fine steersman, he
received no wages.  He had no board to pay, but there were things he must
buy, and his money supply had become limited.  Each trip of the
"Pennsylvania" she remained about two days and nights in New Orleans,
during which time the young man was free.  He found he could earn two and
a half to three dollars a night watching freight on the levee, and, as
this opportunity came around about once a month, the amount was useful.
Nor was this the only return; many years afterward he said:

     "It was a desolate experience, watching there in the dark, among
     those piles of freight; not a sound, not a living creature astir.
     But it was not a profitless one.  I used to have inspirations as I
     sat there alone those nights.  I used to imagine all sots of
     situations and possibilities.  These things got into my books by and
     by, and furnished me with many a chapter.  I can trace the effects
     of those nights through most of my books, in one way and another."

Piloting, even with Brown, had its pleasant side.  In St. Louis, young
Clemens stopped with his sister, and often friends were there from
Hannibal.  At both ends of the line he visited friendly boats, especially
the "Roe," where a grand welcome was always waiting.  Once among the
guests of that boat a young girl named Laura so attracted him that he
forgot time and space until one of the "Roe" pilots, Zeb Leavenworth,
came flying aft, shouting:

"The "Pennsylvania" is backing out!"

A hasty good-by, a wild flight across the decks of several boats, and a
leap across several feet of open water closed the episode.  He wrote to
Laura, but there was no reply.  He never saw her again, never heard from
her for nearly fifty years, when both were widowed and old.  She had not
received his letter.

Occasionally there were stirring adventures aboard the "Pennsylvania."
In a letter written in March, 1858, the young pilot tells of an exciting
night search in the running ice for Hat Island soundings:

Brown, the pilot, stood in the bow with an oar, to keep her head out, and
I took the tiller.  We would start the men, and all would go well until
the yawl would bring us on a heavy cake of ice, and then the men would
drop like so many tenpins, while Brown assumed the horizontal in the
bottom of the boat.  After an hour's hard work we got back, with ice half
an inch thick on the oars .  .  .  .  The next day was colder still.  I
was out in the yawl twice, and then we got through, but the infernal
steamboat came near running over us .  .  .  .  The "Maria Denning" was
aground at the head of the island; they hailed us; we ran alongside, and
they hoisted us in and thawed us out.  We had been out in the yawl from
four in the morning until half-past nine without being near a fire.
There was a thick coating of ice over men and yawl, ropes, and
everything, and we looked like rock-candy statuary.

He was at the right age to enjoy such adventures, and to feel a pride in
them.  In the same letter he tells how he found on the "Pennsylvania" a
small clerkship for his brother Henry, who was now nearly twenty, a
handsome, gentle boy of whom Sam was lavishly fond and proud.  The young
pilot was eager to have Henry with him--to see him started in life. How
little he dreamed what sorrow would come of his well-meant efforts in the
lad's behalf!  Yet he always believed, later, that he had a warning, for
one night at the end of May, in St. Louis, he had a vivid dream, which
time would presently fulfil.

An incident now occurred on the "Pennsylvania" that closed Samuel
Clemens's career on that boat.  It was the down trip, and the boat was in
Eagle Bend when Henry Clemens appeared on the hurricane deck with an
announcement from the captain of a landing a little lower down.  Brown,
who would never own that he was rather deaf, probably misunderstood the
order.  They were passing the landing when the captain appeared on the
deck.

"Didn't Henry tell you to land here?" he called to Brown.

"No, sir."

Captain Klinefelter turned to Sam.  "Didn't you hear him?"

"Yes, sir!"

Brown said: "Shut your mouth!  You never heard anything of the kind!"

Henry appeared, not suspecting any trouble.

Brown said, fiercely, "Here, why didn't you tell me we had got to land at
that plantation?"

"I did tell you, Mr. Brown," Henry said, politely.

"It's a lie!"

Sam Clemens could stand Brown's abuse of himself, but not of Henry.  He
said: "You lie yourself.  He did tell you!"

For a cub pilot to defy his chief was unheard of.  Brown was dazed, then
he shouted:

"I'll attend to your case in half a minute!"  And to Henry, "Get out of
here!"

Henry had started when Brown seized him by the collar and struck him in
the face.  An instant later Sam was upon Brown with a heavy stool and
stretched him on the floor.  Then all the repressed fury of months broke
loose; and, leaping upon Brown and holding him down with his knees,
Samuel Clemens pounded the tyrant with his fists till his strength gave
out.  He let Brown go then, and the latter, with pilot instinct, sprang
to the wheel, for the boat was drifting.  Seeing she was safe, he seized
a spy-glass as a weapon and ordered his chastiser out of the pilot-house.
But Sam lingered.  He had become very calm, and he openly corrected
Brown's English.

"Don't give me none of your airs!" yelled Brown.  "I ain't goin' to stand
nothin' more from you!"

"You should say, `Don't give me any of your airs,'" Sam said, sweetly,
"and the last half of your sentence almost defies correction."

A group of passengers and white-aproned servants, assembled on the deck
forward, applauded the victor.  Sam went down to find Captain
Klinefelter.  He expected to be put in irons, for it was thought to be
mutiny to strike a pilot.

The captain took Sam into his private room and made some inquiries.  Mark
Twain, in the "Mississippi" boot remembers them as follows:

"Did you strike him first?" Captain Klinefelter asked.

"Yes, sir."

"What with?"

"A stool, sir."

"Hard?"

"Middling, sir."

"Did it knock him down?"

"He--he fell, sir."

"Did you follow it up?  Did you do anything further?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you do?"

"Pounded him, sir."

"Pounded him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you pound him much--that is, severely?"

"One might call it that, sir, maybe."

"I am mighty glad of it!  Hark ye--never mention that I said that!  You
have been guilty of a great crime; and don't ever be guilty of it again
on this boat, but--lay for him ashore!  Give him a good, sound thrashing,
do you hear?  I'll pay the expenses."

In a letter which Samuel Clemens wrote to Orion's wife, immediately after
this incident, he gives the details of the encounter with Brown and
speaks of Captain Klinefelter's approval.[4]  Brown declared he would
leave the boat at New Orleans if Sam Clemens remained on it, and the
captain told him to go, offering to let Sam himself run the daylight
watches back to St. Louis, thus showing his faith in the young steersman.
The "cub," however, had less confidence, and advised that Brown be kept
for the up trip, saying he would follow by the next boat.  It was a
decision that probably saved his life.

That night, watching on the levee, Henry joined him, when his own duties
were finished, and the brothers made the round together.  It may have
been some memory of his dream that made Samuel Clemens say:

"Henry, in case of accident, whatever you do, don't lose your head--the
passengers will do that.  Rush for the hurricane-deck and to the life-
boat, and obey the mate's orders.  When the boat is launched, help the
women and children into it.  Don't get in yourself.  The river is only a
mile wide.  You can swim ashore easily enough."

It was good, manly advice, but a long grief lay behind it.

[4] In the Mississippi book the author says that Brown was about to
strike Henry with a lump of coal, but in the letter above mentioned the
details are as here given.




XV.


THE WRECK OF THE "PENNSYLVANIA"

The "A. T. Lacy," that brought Samuel Clemens up the river, was two days
behind the "Pennsylvania."  At Greenville, Mississippi, a voice from
the landing shouted "The "Pennsylvania" is blown up just below Memphis,
at Ship Island.  One hundred and fifty lives lost!"

It proved a true report.  At six o'clock that warm mid-June morning,
while loading wood, sixty miles below Memphis, four out of eight of the
Pennsylvania's boilers had suddenly exploded, with fearful results.
Henry Clemens had been one of the victims.  He had started to swim for
the shore, only a few hundred yards away, but had turned back to assist
in the rescue of others.  What followed could not be clearly learned.  He
was terribly injured, and died on the fourth night after the catastrophe.
His brother was with him by that time, and believed he recognized the
exact fulfilment of his dream.

The young pilot's grief was very great.  In a letter home he spoke of the
dying boy as "My darling, my pride, my glory, my all."  His heavy sorrow,
and the fact that with unsparing self-blame he held himself in a measure
responsible for his brother's tragic death, saddened his early life.  His
early gaiety came back, but his face had taken on the serious, pathetic
look which from that time it always wore in repose.  Less than twenty-
three, he had suddenly the look of thirty, and while Samuel Clemens in
spirit, temperament, and features never would become really old, neither
would he ever look really young again.

He returned to the river as steersman for George Ealer, whom he loved,
and in September of that year obtained a full license as Mississippi
River pilot from St. Louis to New Orleans.  In eighteen months he had
packed away in his head all those wearisome details and acquired that
confidence that made him one of the elect.  He knew every snag and bank
and dead tree and depth in all those endless miles of shifting current,
every cut-off and crossing.  He could read the surface of the water by
day, he could smell danger in the dark.  To the writer of these chapters,
Horace Bixby said:

"In a year and a half from the time he came to the river, Sam was not
only a pilot, but a good one.  Sam was a fine pilot, and in a day when
piloting on the Mississippi required a great deal more brains and skill
and application than it does now.  There were no signal-lights along the
shore in those days, and no search-lights on the vessels; everything was
blind; and on a dark, misty night, in a river full of snags and shifting
sandbars and changing shores, a pilot's judgment had to be founded on
absolute certainty."

Bixby had returned from the Missouri by the time his pupil's license was
issued, and promptly took him as full partner on the "Crescent City," and
later on a fine new boat, the "New Falls City."  Still later, they appear
to have been together on a very large boat, the "City of Memphis," and
again on the "Alonzo Child."




XVI.

THE PILOT

For Samuel Clemens these were happy days--the happiest, in some respects,
he would ever know.  He had plenty of money now.  He could help his
mother with a liberal hand, and could put away fully a hundred dollars a
month for himself.  He had few cares, and he loved the ease and romance
and independence of his work as he would never quite love anything again.

His popularity on the river was very great.  His humorous stories and
quaint speech made a crowd collect wherever he appeared.  There were
pilot-association rooms in St. Louis and New Orleans, and his appearance
at one of these places was a signal for the members to gather.

A friend of those days writes: "He was much given to spinning yarns so
funny that his hearers were convulsed, and yet all the time his own face
was perfectly sober.  Occasionally some of his droll yarns got into the
papers.  He may have written them himself."

Another old river-man remembers how, one day, at the association, they
were talking of presence of mind in an accident, when Pilot Clemens said:

"Boys, I had great presence of mind once.  It was at a fire.  An old man
leaned out of a four-story building, calling for help.  Everybody in the
crowd below looked up, but nobody did anything.  The ladders weren't long
enough.  Nobody had any presence of mind--nobody but me.  I came to the
rescue.  I yelled for a rope.  When it came I threw the old man the end
of it.  He caught it, and I told him to tie it around his waist.  He did
so, and I pulled him down."

This was a story that found its way into print, probably his own
contribution.

"Sam was always scribbling when not at the wheel," said Bixby, "but the
best thing he ever did was the burlesque of old Isaiah Sellers.  He
didn't write it for print, but only for his own amusement and to show to
a few of the boys.  Bart Bowen, who was with him on the "Edward J. Gay"
at the time, got hold of it, and gave it to one of the New Orleans
papers."

The burlesque on Captain Sellers would be of little importance if it were
not for its association with the origin, or, at least, with the
originator, of what is probably the best known of literary names--the
name Mark Twain.

This strong, happy title--a river term indicating a depth of two fathoms
on the sounding-line--was first used by the old pilot, Isaiah Sellers,
who was a sort of "oldest inhabitant" of the river, with a passion for
airing his ancient knowledge before the younger men.  Sellers used to
send paragraphs to the papers, quaint and rather egotistical in tone,
usually beginning, "My opinion for the citizens of New Orleans," etc.,
prophesying river conditions and recalling memories as far back as 1811.
These he generally signed "Mark Twain."

Naturally, the younger pilots amused themselves by imitating Sellers, and
when Sam Clemens wrote abroad burlesque of the old man's contributions,
relating a perfectly impossible trip, supposed to have been made in 1763
with a Chinese captain and a Choctaw crew, it was regarded as a
masterpiece of wit.

It appeared in the "True Delta" in May, 1859, and broke Captain Sellers's
literary heart.  He never wrote another paragraph.  Clemens always
regretted the whole matter deeply, and his own revival of the name
afterward was a sort of tribute to the old man he had thoughtlessly and
unintentionally wounded.

Old pilots of that day remembered Samuel Clemens as a slender, fine-
looking man, well dressed, even dandified, generally wearing blue serge,
with fancy shirts, white duck trousers, and patent-leather shoes.  A
pilot could do that, for his surroundings were speckless.

The pilots regarded him as a great reader--a student of history, travels,
and the sciences.  In the association rooms they often saw him poring
over serious books.  He began the study of French one day in New Orleans,
when he had passed a school of languages where French, German, and
Italian were taught, one in each of three rooms.  The price vas twenty-
five dollars for one language, or three for fifty.  The student was
provided with a set of conversation cards for each, and was supposed to
walk from one apartment to another, changing his nationality at each
threshold.  The young pilot, with his usual enthusiasm, invested in all
three languages, but after a few round trips decided that French would
do.  He did not return to the school, but kept the cards and added text-
books.  He studied faithfully when off watch and in port, and his old
river note-book, still preserved, contains a number of advanced
exercises, neatly written out.

Still more interesting are the river notes themselves.  They are not the
timid, hesitating memoranda of the "little book" which, by Bixby's
advice, he bought for his first trip.  They are quick, vigorous records
that show confidence and knowledge.  Under the head of "Second high-water
trip--Jan., 1861 'Alonzo Child,'" the notes tell the story of a rising
river, with overflowing banks, blind passages, and cut-offs--a new river,
in fact, that must be judged by a perfect knowledge of the old--guessed,
but guessed right.

Good deal of water all over Cole's Creek Chute, 12 or 15 ft. bank--could
have gone up above General Taylor's--too much drift .  .  .  .

Night--didn't run either 77 or 76 towheads--8-ft. bank on main shore
Ozark chute.

To the reader to-day it means little enough, but one may imagine,
perhaps, a mile-wide sweep of boiling water, full of drift, shifting
currents with newly forming bars, and a lone figure in the dark pilot-
house, peering into the night for blind and disappearing landmarks.

But such nights were not all there was of piloting.  There were glorious
nights when the stars were blazing out, and the moon was on the water,
and the young pilot could follow a clear channel and dream long dreams.
He was very serious at such times--he reviewed the world's history he had
read, he speculated on the future, he considered philosophies, he lost
himself in a study of the stars.  Mark Twain's love of astronomy, which
never waned until his last day, began with those lonely river watches.
Once a great comet blazed in the sky, a "wonderful sheaf of light," and
glorified his long hours at the wheel.

Samuel Clemens was now twenty-five, full of health and strong in his
courage.  In the old notebook there remains a well-worn clipping, the
words of some unknown writer, which he may have kept as a sort of creed:

HOW TO TAKE LIFE.--Take it just as though it was--as it is--an earnest,
vital, and important affair.  Take it as though you were born to the task
of performing a merry part in it--as though the world had awaited for
your coming.  Take it as though it was a grand opportunity to do and
achieve, to carry forward great and good schemes to help and cheer a
suffering, weary, it may be heartbroken, brother.  Now and then a man
stands aside from the crowd, labors earnestly, steadfastly, confidently,
and straightway becomes famous for wisdom, intellect, skill, greatness of
some sort.  The world wonders, admires, idolizes, and it only illustrates
what others may do if they take hold of life with a purpose.  The
miracle, or the power that elevates the few, is to be found in their
industry, application, and perseverance under the promptings of a brave,
determined spirit.

Bixby and Clemens were together that winter on the "Child," and were the
closest friends.  Once the young pilot invited his mother to make the
trip to New Orleans, and the river journey and a long drive about the
beautiful Southern city filled Jane Clemens with wonder and delight.  She
no longer shad any doubts of Sam.  He had long since become the head of
the family.  She felt called upon to lecture him, now and then, but down
in her heart she believed that he could really do no wrong.  They joked
each other unmercifully, and her wit, never at a loss, was quite as keen
as his.




XVII.

THE END OF PILOTING

When one remembers how much Samuel Clemens loved the river, and how
perfectly he seemed suited to the ease and romance of the pilot-life, one
is almost tempted to regret that it should so soon have come to an end.

Those trips of early '61, which the old note-book records, were the last
he would ever make.  The golden days of Mississippi steam-boating were
growing few.

Nobody, however, seemed to suspect it.  Even a celebrated fortune-teller
in New Orleans, whom the young pilot one day consulted as to his future,
did not mention the great upheaval then close at hand.  She told him
quite remarkable things, and gave him some excellent advice, but though
this was February, 1861, she failed to make any mention of the Civil War!
Yet, a month later, Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated and trouble was in
the air.  Then in April Fort Sumter was fired upon and the war had come.

It was a feverish time among the pilots.  Some were for the Union--others
would go with the Confederacy.  Horace Bixby stood for the North, and in
time was chief of the Union river-service.  A pilot named Montgomery
(Clemens had once steered for him) went with the South and by and by
commanded the Confederate Mississippi fleet.  In the beginning a good
many were not clear as to their opinions.  Living both North and South,
as they did, they divided their sympathies.  Samuel Clemens was
thoughtful, and far from bloodthirsty.  A pilothouse, so fine and showy
in times of peace, seemed a poor place to be in when fighting was going
on.  He would consider the matter.

"I am not anxious to get up into a glass perch and be shot at by either
side," he said.  "I'll go home and reflect."

He went up the river as a passenger on a steamer named the "Uncle Sam."
Zeb Leavenworth, formerly of the "John J. Roe," was one of the pilots,
and Clemens usually stood the watch with him.  At Memphis they barely
escaped the blockade.  At Cairo they saw soldiers drilling--troops later
commanded by Grant.

The "Uncle Sam" came steaming up to St. Louis, glad to have slipped
through safely.  They were not quite through, however.  Abreast of
Jefferson Barracks they heard the boom of a cannon, and a great ring of
smoke drifted in their direction.  They did not recognize it as a
thunderous "Halt!" and kept on.  Less than a minute later, a shell
exploded directly in front of the pilot-house, breaking a lot of glass
and damaging the decoration.  Zeb Leavenworth tumbled into a corner.

"Gee-mighty, Sam!" he said.  "What do they mean by that?"

Clemens stepped from the visitors' bench to the wheel and brought the
boat around.

"I guess--they want us--to wait a minute--Zeb," he said.

They were examined and passed.  It was the last steamboat to make the
trip through from New Orleans to St. Louis.  Mark Twain's pilot days were
over.  He would have grieved had he known this fact.

"I loved the profession far better than any I have followed since," he
long afterward declared, "and I took a measureless pride in it."

At the time, like many others, he expected the war to be brief, and his
life to be only temporarily interrupted.  Within a year, certainly, he
would be back in the pilot-house.  Meantime the war must be settled; he
would go up to Hannibal to see about it.




XVIII.

THE SOLDIER

When he reached Hannibal, Samuel Clemens found a very mixed condition of
affairs.  The country was in an uproar of war preparation; in a border
State there was a confusion of sympathies, with much ignorance as to what
it was all about.  Any number of young men were eager to enlist for a
brief camping-out expedition, and small private companies were formed,
composed about half-and-half of Union and Confederate men, as it turned
out later.

Missouri, meantime, had allied herself with the South, and Samuel
Clemens, on his arrival in Hannibal, decided that, like Lee, he would go
with his State.  Old friends, who were getting up a company "to help
Governor `Claib' Jackson repel the invader," offered him a lieutenancy if
he would join.  It was not a big company; it had only about a dozen
members, most of whom had been schoolmates, some of them fellow-pilots,
and Sam Clemens was needed to make it complete.  It was just another Tom
Sawyer band, and they met in a secret place above Bear Creek Hill and
planned how they would sell their lives on the field of glory, just as
years before fierce raids had been arranged on peach-orchards and melon-
patches.  Secrecy was necessary, for the Union militia had a habit of
coming over from Illinois and arresting suspicious armies on sight.  It
would humiliate the finest army in the world to spend a night or two in
the calaboose.

So they met secretly at night, and one mysterious evening they called on
girls who either were their sweethearts or were pretending to be for the
occasion, and when the time came for good-by the girls were invited to
"walk through the pickets" with them, though the girls didn't notice any
pickets, because the pickets were calling on their girls, too, and were a
little late getting to their posts.

That night they marched, through brush and vines, because the highroad
was thought to be dangerous, and next morning arrived at the home of
Colonel Ralls, of Ralls County, who had the army form in dress parade and
made it a speech and gave it a hot breakfast in good Southern style.
Then he sent out to Col. Bill Splawn and Farmer Nuck Matson a requisition
for supplies that would convert this body of infantry into cavalry--
rough-riders of that early day.  The community did not wish to keep an
army on its hands, and were willing to send it along by such means as
they could spare handily.  When the outfitting was complete, Lieutenant
Samuel Clemens, mounted on a small yellow mule whose tail had been
trimmed in the paint-brush pattern then much worn by mules, and
surrounded by variously attached articles--such as an extra pair of
cowhide boots, a pair of gray blankets, a home-made quilt, a frying-pan,
a carpet-sack, a small valise, an overcoat, an old-fashioned Kentucky
rifle, twenty yards of rope, and an umbrella--was a fair sample of the
brigade.

An army like that, to enjoy itself, ought to go into camp; so it went
over to Salt River, near the town of Florida, and took up headquarters in
a big log stable.  Somebody suggested that an army ought to have its hair
cut, so that in a hand-to-hand conflict the enemy could not get hold of
it.  There was a pair of sheep-shears in the stable, and Private Tom
Lyons acted as barber.  They were not sharp shears, and a group of little
darkies gathered from the farm to enjoy the torture.

Regular elections were now held--all officers, down to sergeants and
orderlies, being officially chosen.  There were only three privates, and
you couldn't tell them from officers.  The discipline in that army was
very bad.

It became worse soon.  Pouring rain set in.  Salt River rose and
overflowed the bottoms.  Men ordered on picket duty climbed up into the
stable-loft and went to bed.  Twice, on black, drenching nights, word
came from the farmhouse that the enemy, commanded by a certain Col.
Ulysses Grant, was in the neighborhood, and the Hannibal division went
hastily slopping through mud and brush in the other direction, dragging
wearily back when the alarm was over.  Military ardor was bound to cool
under such treatment.  Then Lieutenant Clemens developed a very severe
boil, and was obliged to lie most of the day on some hay in a horse-
trough, where he spent his time denouncing the war and the mistaken souls
who had invented it.  When word that "General" Tom Harris, commander of
the district--formerly telegraph-operator in Hannibal--was at a near-by
farm-house, living on the fat of the land, the army broke camp without
further ceremony.  Halfway there they met General Harris, who ordered
them back to quarters.  They called him familiarly "Tom," and told him
they were through with that camp forever.  He begged them, but it was no
use.  A little farther on they stopped at a farm-house for supplies.  A
tall, bony woman came to the door.

"You're Secesh, ain't you?"

Lieutenant Clemens said: "We are, madam, defenders of the noble cause,
and we should like to buy a few provisions."

The request seemed to inflame her.

"Provisions!"  she screamed.  "Provisions for Secesh, and my husband a
colonel in the Union Army.  You get out of here!"

She reached for a hickory hoop-pole [5] that stood by the door, and the
army moved on.  When they reached the home of Col. Bill Splawn it was
night and the family had gone to bed.  So the hungry army camped in the
barn-yard and crept into the hay-loft to sleep.  Presently somebody
yelled "Fire!"  One of the boys had been smoking and had ignited the hay.

Lieutenant Clemens, suddenly wakened, made a quick rotary movement away
from the blaze, and rolled out of a big hay-window into the barn-yard
below.  The rest of the brigade seized the burning hay and pitched it out
of the same window.  The lieutenant had sprained his ankle when he
struck, and his boil was still painful, but the burning hay cured him--
for the moment.  He made a spring from under it; then, noticing that the
rest of the army, now that the fire was out, seemed to think his
performance amusing, he rose up and expressed himself concerning the war,
and military life, and the human race in general.  They helped him in,
then, for his ankle was swelling badly.

In the morning, Colonel Splawn gave the army a good breakfast, and it
moved on.  Lieutenant Clemens, however, did not get farther than Farmer
Nuck Matson's.  He was in a high fever by that time from his injured
ankle, and Mrs. Matson put him to bed.  So the army left him, and
presently disbanded.  Some enlisted in the regular service, North or
South, according to preference.  Properly officered and disciplined, that
"Tom Sawyer" band would have made as good soldiers as any.

Lieutenant Clemens did not enlist again.  When he was able to walk, he
went to visit Orion in Keokuk.  Orion was a Union Abolitionist, but there
would be no unpleasantness on that account.  Samuel Clemens was beginning
to have leanings in that direction himself.

[5] In an earlier day, barrel hoops were made of small hickory trees,
split and shaved.  The hoop-pole was a very familiar article of commerce,
and of household defense.




XIX.

THE PIONEER

He arrived in Keokuk at what seemed a lucky moment.  Through Edward
Bates, a member of Lincoln's Cabinet, Orion Clemens had received an
appointment as territorial secretary of Nevada, and only needed the money
to carry him to the seat of his office at Carson City.  Out of his
pilot's salary his brother had saved more than enough for the journey,
and was willing to pay both their fares and go along as private secretary
to Orion, whose position promised something in the way of adventure and a
possible opportunity for making a fortune.

The brothers went at once to St. Louis for final leave-taking, and there
took boat for "St. Jo," Missouri, terminus of the great Overland Stage
Route.  They paid one hundred and fifty dollars each for their passage,
and about the end of July, 1861, set out on that long, delightful trip,
behind sixteen galloping horses, never stopping except for meals or to
change teams, heading steadily into the sunset over the billowy plains
and snow-clad Rockies, covering the seventeen hundred miles between St.
Jo and Carson City in nineteen glorious days.

But one must read Mark Twain's "Roughing It" for the story of that long-
ago trip--the joy and wonder of it, and the inspiration.  "Even at this
day," he writes, "it thrills me through and through to think of the life,
the gladness, and the wild sense of freedom that used to make the blood
dance in my face on those fine overland mornings."

It was a hot dusty, August day when they arrived, dusty, unshaven, and
weather-beaten, and Samuel Clemens's life as a frontiersman began.
Carson City, the capital of Nevada, was a wooden town with an assorted
population of two thousand souls.  The mining excitement was at its
height and had brought together the drift of every race.

The Clemens brothers took up lodgings with a genial Irishwoman, the Mrs.
O'Flannigan of "Roughing It," and Orion established himself in a modest
office, for there was no capitol building as yet, no government
headquarters.  Orion could do all the work, and Samuel Clemens, finding
neither duties nor salary attached to his position, gave himself up to
the study of the life about him, and to the enjoyment of the freedom of
the frontier.  Presently he had a following of friends who loved his
quaint manner of speech and his yarns.  On cool nights they would collect
about Orion's office-stove, and he would tell stories in the wonderful
way that one day would delight the world.  Within a brief time Sam
Clemens (he was always "Sam" to the pioneers) was the most notable figure
on the Carson streets.  His great, bushy head of auburn hair, has
piercing, twinkling eyes, his loose, lounging walk, his careless disorder
of dress invited a second look, even from strangers.  From a river dandy
he had become the roughest-clad of pioneers--rusty slouch hat, flannel
shirt, coarse trousers slopping half in and half out of heavy cowhide
boots, this was his make-up.  Energetic citizens did not prophesy success
for him.  Often they saw him leaning against an awning support, staring
drowsily at the motley human procession, for as much as an hour at a
time.  Certainly that could not be profitable.

But they did like to hear him talk.

He did not catch the mining fever at once.  He was interested first in
the riches that he could see.  Among these was the timber-land around
Lake Bigler (now Tahoe)--splendid acres, to be had for the asking.  The
lake itself was beautifully situated.

With an Ohio boy, John Kinney, he made an excursion afoot to Tahoe, a
trip described in one of the best chapters of "Roughing It."  They staked
out a timber claim and pretended to fence it and to build a house, but
their chief employment was loafing in the quiet luxury of the great woods
or drifting in a boat on the transparent water.  They did not sleep in
the house.  In "Roughing It" he says:

     "It never occurred to us, for one thing; and, besides, it was built
     to hold the ground, and that was enough.  We did not wish to strain
     it."

They made their camp-fires on the borders of the lake, and one evening it
got away from them, fired the forest, and destroyed their fences and
habitation.  In a letter home he describes this fire in a fine, vivid
way.  At one place he says:

     "The level ranks of flame were relieved at intervals by the standard-
     bearers, as we called the tall dead trees, wrapped in fire, and
     waving their blazing banners a hundred feet in the air.  Then we
     could turn from the scene to the lake, and see every branch and leaf
     and cataract of flame upon its banks perfectly reflected, as in a
     gleaming, fiery mirror."

He was acquiring the literary vision and touch.  The description of this
same fire in "Roughing It," written ten years later, is scarcely more
vivid.

Most of his letters home at this time tell of glowing prospects--the
certainty of fortune ahead.  The fever of the frontier is in them.  Once,
to Pamela Moffett, he wrote:

     "Orion and I have enough confidence in this country to think that, if
     the war lets us alone, we can make Mr. Moffett rich without its ever
     costing him a cent or a particle of trouble."

From the same letter we gather that the brothers are now somewhat
interested in mining claims:

     "We have about 1,650 feet of mining-ground, and, if it proves good,
     Mr. Moffett's name will go in; and if not, I can get 'feet' for him
     in the spring."

This was written about the end of October.  Two months later, in
midwinter, the mining fever came upon him with full force.




XX.

THE MINER

The wonder is that Samuel Clemens, always speculative and visionary, had
not fallen an earlier victim.  Everywhere one heard stories of sudden
fortune--of men who had gone to bed paupers and awakened millionaires.
New and fabulous finds were reported daily.  Cart-loads of bricks--silver
and gold bricks--drove through the Carson streets.

Then suddenly from the newly opened Humboldt region came the wildest
reports.  The mountains there were said to be stuffed with gold.  A
correspondent of the "Territorial Enterprise" was unable to find words to
picture the riches of the Humboldt mines.

The air for Samuel Clemens began to shimmer.  Fortune was waiting to be
gathered in a basket.  He joined the first expedition for Humboldt--in
fact, helped to organize it.  In "Roughing It" he says:

     "Hurry was the word!  We wasted no time.  Our party consisted of four
     persons--a blacksmith sixty years of age, two young lawyers, and
     myself.  We bought a wagon and two miserable old horses.  We put
     eighteen hundred pounds of provisions and mining-tools in the wagon
     and drove out of Carson on a chilly December afternoon.."

The two young lawyers were W. H. Clagget, whom Clemens had known in
Keokuk, and A. W. Oliver, called Oliphant in "Roughing It."   The
blacksmith was named Tillou (Ballou in "Roughing It"), a sturdy, honest
man with a knowledge of mining and the repair of tools.  There were also
two dogs in the party--a curly-tailed mongrel and a young hound.

The horses were the weak feature of the expedition.  It was two hundred
miles to Humboldt, mostly across sand.  The miners rode only a little
way, then got out to lighten the load.  Later they pushed.  Then it began
to snow, also to blow, and the air became filled with whirling clouds of
snow and sand.  On and on they pushed and groaned, sustained by the
knowledge that they must arrive some time, when right away they would be
millionaires and all their troubles would be over.

The nights were better.  The wind went down and they made a camp-fire in
the shelter of the wagon, cooked their bacon, crept under blankets with
the dogs to warm them, and Sam Clemens spun yarns till they fell asleep.

There had been an Indian war, and occasionally they passed the charred
ruin of a cabin and new graves.  By and by they came to that deadly waste
known as the Alkali Desert, strewn with the carcasses of dead beasts and
with the heavy articles discarded by emigrants in their eagerness to
reach water.  All day and night they pushed through that choking,
waterless plain to reach camp on the other side.  When they arrived at
three in the morning, they dropped down exhausted.  Judge Oliver, the
last survivor of the party, in a letter to the writer of these chapters,
said:

     "The sun was high in the heavens when we were aroused from our sleep
     by a yelling band of Piute warriors.  We were upon our feet in an
     instant.  The picture of burning cabins and the lonely graves we had
     passed was in our minds.  Our scalps were still our own, and not
     dangling from the belts of our visitors.  Sam pulled himself
     together, put his hand on his head, as if to make sure he had not
     been scalped, and, with his inimitable drawl, said 'Boys, they have
     left us our scalps.  Let us give them all the flour and sugar they
     ask for.'  And we did give them a good supply, for we were grateful."

The Indians left them unharmed, and the prospective millionaires moved
on.  Across that two hundred miles to the Humboldt country they pushed,
arriving at the little camp of Unionville at the end of eleven weary
days.

In "Roughing It" Mark Twain has told us of Unionville and the mining
experience there.  Their cabin was a three-sided affair with a cotton
roof.  Stones rolled down the mountainside on them; also, the author
says, a mule and a cow.

The author could not gather fortune in a basket, as he had dreamed.
Masses of gold and silver were not lying about.  He gathered a back-load
of yellow, glittering specimens, but they proved worthless.  Gold in the
rough did not glitter, and was not yellow.  Tillou instructed the others
in prospecting, and they went to work with pick and shovel--then with
drill and blasting-powder.  The prospect of immediately becoming
millionaires vanished.

"One week of this satisfied me.  I resigned," is Mark Twain's brief
comment.

The Humboldt reports had been exaggerated.  The Clemens-Clagget-Oliver-
Tillou millionaire combination soon surrendered its claims.  Clemens and
Tillou set out for Carson City with a Prussian named Pfersdorff, who
nearly got them drowned and got them completely lost in the snow before
they arrived there.  Oliver and Clagget remained in Unionville, began law
practice, and were elected to office.  It is not known what became of the
wagon and horses and the two dogs.

It was the end of January when our miner returned to Carson.  He was not
discouraged--far from it.  He believed he had learned something that
would be useful to him in a camp where mines were a reality.  Within a
few weeks from his return we find him at Aurora, in the Esmeralda region,
on the edge of California.  It was here that the Clemens brothers owned
the 1,650 feet formerly mentioned.  He had came down to work it.

It was the dead of winter, but he was full of enthusiasm, confident of a
fortune by early summer.  To Pamela he wrote:

     "I expect to return to St. Louis in July--per steamer.  I don't say
     that I will return then, or that I shall be able to do it--but I
     expect to--you bet .  .  .  . If nothing goes wrong, we'll strike
     the ledge in June."

He was trying to be conservative, and further along he cautions his
sister not to get excited.

     "Don't you know I have only talked as yet, but proved nothing?  Don't
     you know I have never held in my hands a gold or silver bar that
     belonged to me?  Don't you know that people who always feel jolly,
     no matter where they are or what happens to them--who have the organ
     of hope preposterously developed--who are endowed with an
     uncongealable, sanguine temperament--who never feel concerned about
     the price of corn--and who cannot, by any possibility, discover any
     but the bright side of a picture--are very apt to go to extremes and
     exaggerate with a 40-horse microscopic power?

     "But-but--
     In the bright lexicon of youth,
     There is no such word as fail,
     and I'll prove it."

Whereupon he soars again, adding page after page full of glowing
expectations and plans such as belong only with speculation in treasures
buried in the ground--a very difficult place, indeed, to find them.

His money was about exhausted by this time, and funds to work the mining
claims must come out of Orion's rather modest salary.  The brothers owned
all claims in partnership, and it was now the part of "Brother Sam" to do
the active work.  He hated the hard picking and prying and blasting into
the flinty ledges, but the fever drove him on.  He camped with a young
man named Phillips at first, and, later on, with an experienced miner,
Calvin H. Higbie, to whom "Roughing It" would one day be dedicated.  They
lived in a tiny cabin with a cotton roof, and around their rusty stove
they would paw over their specimens and figure the fortune that their
mines would be worth in the spring.

Food ran low, money gave out almost entirely, but they did not give up.
When it was stormy and they could not dig, and the ex-pilot was in a
talkative vein, he would sit astride the bunk and distribute to his
hearers riches more valuable than any they would dig from the Esmeralda
hills.  At other times he did not talk at all, but sat in a corner and
wrote.  They thought he was writing home; they did not know that he was
"literary."  Some of his home letters had found their way into a Keokuk
paper and had come back to Orion, who had shown them to an assistant on
the "Territorial Enterprise," of Virginia City.  The "Enterprise" man had
caused one of them to be reprinted, and this had encouraged its author to
send something to the paper direct.  He signed these contributions
"Josh," and one told of:

          "An old, old horse whose name was Methusalem,
          Took him down and sold him in Jerusalem,
          A long time ago."

He received no pay for these offerings and expected none.  He considered
them of no value.  If any one had told him that he was knocking at the
door of the house of fame, however feebly, he would have doubted that
person's judgment or sincerity.

His letters to Orion, in Carson City, were hasty compositions, reporting
progress and progress, or calling for remittances to keep the work going.
On April 13, he wrote:

     "Work not begun on the Horatio and Derby--haven't seen it yet.  It is
     still in the snow.  Shall begin on it within three or four weeks--
     strike the ledge in July."

Again, later in the month:

     "I have been at work all day, blasting and digging in one of our new
     claims, 'Dashaway,' which I don't think a great deal of, but which I
     am willing to try.  We are down now ten or twelve feet."

It must have been disheartening work, picking away at the flinty ledges.
There is no further mention of the "Dashaway," but we hear of the
"Flyaway," the "Annipolitan," the "Live Yankee," and of many another,
each of which holds out a beacon of hope for a brief moment, then passes
from notice forever.  Still, he was not discouraged.  Once he wrote:

     "I am a citizen here and I am satisfied, though 'Ratio and I are
     'strapped' and we haven't three days' rations in the house.  I shall
     work the "Monitor" and the other claims with my own hands.

     "The pick and shovel are the only claims I have confidence in now,"
     he wrote, later; "my back is sore and my hands are blistered with
     handling them to-day."

His letters began to take on a weary tone.  Once in midsummer he wrote
that it was still snowing up there in the hills, and added, "It always
snows here I expect.  If we strike it rich, I've lost my guess, that's
all."  And the final heartsick line, "Don't you suppose they have pretty
much quit writing at home?"

In time he went to work in a quartz-mill at ten dollars a week, though it
was not entirely for the money, as in "Roughing It" he would have us
believe.  Samuel Clemens learned thoroughly what he undertook, and he
proposed to master the science of mining.  From Phillips and Higbie he
had learned what there was to know about prospecting.  He went to the
mill to learn refining, so that, when his claims developed, he could
establish a mill and personally superintend the work.  His stay was
brief.  He contracted a severe cold and came near getting poisoned by the
chemicals.  Recovering, he went with Higbie for an outing to Mono Lake, a
ghastly, lifeless alkali sea among the hills, vividly described in
"Roughing It."

At another time he went with Higbie on a walking trip to the Yosemite,
where they camped and fished undisturbed, for in those days few human
beings came to that far isolation.  Discouragement did not reach them
there--amid that vast grandeur and quiet the quest for gold hardly seemed
worth while.  Now and again that summer he went alone into the wilderness
to find his balance and to get entirely away from humankind.

In "Roughing It" Mark Twain tells the story of how he and Higbie finally
located a "blind lead," which made them really millionaires, until they
forfeited their claim through the sharp practice of some rival miners and
their own neglect.  It is true that the "Wide West" claim was forfeited
in some such manner, but the size of the loss was magnified in "Roughing
It," to make a good story.  There was never a fortune in "Wide West,"
except the one sunk in it by its final owners.  The story as told in
"Roughing It" is a tale of what might have happened, and ends the
author's days in the mines with a good story-book touch.

The mining career of Samuel Clemens really came to a close gradually, and
with no showy climax.  He fought hard and surrendered little by little,
without owning, even to the end, that he was surrendering at all.  It was
the gift of resolution that all his life would make his defeats long and
costly--his victories supreme.

By the end of July the money situation in the Aurora camp was getting
desperate.  Orion's depleted salary would no longer pay for food, tools,
and blasting-powder, and the miner began to cast about far means to earn
an additional sum, however small.  The "Josh" letters to the "Enterprise"
had awakened interest as to their author, and Orion had not failed to let
"Josh's" identity be known.  The result had been that here and there a
coast paper had invited contributions and even suggested payment.  A
letter written by the Aurora miner at the end of July tells this part of
the story:

     "My debts are greater than I thought for .  .  .  . The fact is, I
     must have something to do, and that shortly, too .  .  .  .  Now
     write to the "Sacramento Union" folks, or to Marsh, and tell them
     that I will write as many letters a week as they want, for $10 a
     week.  My board must be paid.

     "Tell them I have corresponded with the "New Orleans Crescent" and
     other papers--and the "Enterprise."

     "If they want letters from here--who'll run from morning till night
     collecting material cheaper?  I'll write a short letter twice a week,
     for the present, for the "Age," for $5 per week.  Now it has been a
     long time since I couldn't make my own living, and it shall be a long
     time before I loaf another year."

This all led to nothing, but about the same time the "Enterprise"
assistant already mentioned spoke to Joseph T. Goodman, owner and editor
of the paper, about adding "Josh" to their regular staff.  "Joe" Goodman,
a man of keen humor and literary perception, agreed that the author of
the "Josh" letters might be useful to them.  One of the sketches
particularly appealed to him--a burlesque report of a Fourth of July
oration.

"That is the kind of thing we want," he said.  "Write to him, Barstow,
and ask him if he wants to come up here."

Barstow wrote, offering twenty-five dollars a week--a tempting sum.  This
was at the end of July, 1862.

Yet the hard-pressed miner made no haste to accept the offer.  To leave
Aurora meant the surrender of all hope in the mines, the confession of
another failure.  He wrote Barstow, asking when he thought he might be
needed.  And at the same time, in a letter to Orion, he said:

     "I shall leave at midnight to-night, alone and on foot, for a walk of
     sixty or seventy miles through a totally uninhabited country.  But
     do you write Barstow that I have left here for a week or so, and, in
     case he should want me, he must write me here, or let me know
     through you."

He had gone into the wilderness to fight out his battle alone, postponing
the final moment of surrender--surrender that, had he known, only meant
the beginning of victory.  He was still undecided when he returned eight
days later and wrote to his sister Pamela a letter in which there is no-
mention of newspaper prospects.

Just how and when the end came at last cannot be known; but one hot,
dusty August afternoon, in Virginia City, a worn, travel-stained pilgrim
dragged himself into the office of the "Territorial Enterprise," then in
its new building on C Street, and, loosening a heavy roll of blankets
from his shoulder, dropped wearily into a chair.  He wore a rusty slouch
hat, no coat, a faded blue-flannel shirt, a navy revolver; his trousers
were tucked into his boot-tops; a tangle of reddish-brown hair fell on
his shoulders; a mass of tawny beard, dingy with alkali dust, dropped
half-way to his waist.

Aurora lay one hundred and thirty miles from Virginia City.  He had
walked that distance, carrying his heavy load.  Editor Goodman was absent
at the moment, but the other proprietor, Dennis E. McCarthy, asked the
caller to state his errand.  The wanderer regarded him with a far-away
look and said, absently, and with deliberation:

     "My starboard leg seems to be unshipped.  I'd like about one hundred
     yards of line; I think I'm falling to pieces."  Then he added: "I
     want to see Mr. Barstow or Mr. Goodman.  My name is Clemens, and
     I've come to write for the paper."

It was the master of the world's widest estate come to claim his kingdom!




XXI.

THE TERRITORIAL ENTERPRISE

In 1852 Virginia City, Nevada, was the most flourishing of mining towns.
A half-crazy miner, named Comstock, had discovered there a vein of such
richness that the "Comstock Lode" was presently glutting the mineral
markets of the world.  Comstock himself got very little out of it, but
those who followed him made millions.  Miners, speculators, adventurers
swarmed in.  Every one seemed to have money.  The streets seethed with an
eager, affluent, boisterous throng whose chief business seemed to be to
spend the wealth that the earth was yielding in such a mighty stream.

Business of every kind boomed.  Less than two years earlier, J. T.
Goodman, a miner who was also a printer and a man of literary taste, had
joined with another printer, Dennis McCarthy, and the two had managed to
buy a struggling Virginia City paper, the "Territorial Enterprise."   But
then came the hightide of fortune.  A year later the "Enterprise," from a
starving sheet in a leaky shanty, had become a large, handsome paper in a
new building, and of such brilliant editorial management that it was the
most widely considered journal on the Pacific coast.

Goodman was a fine, forceful writer, and he surrounded himself with able
men.  He was a young man, full of health and vigor, overflowing with the
fresh spirit and humor of the West.  Comstockers would always laugh at a
joke, and Goodman was always willing to give it to them.  The
"Enterprise" was a newspaper, but it was willing to furnish entertainment
even at the cost of news.  William Wright, editorially next to Goodman,
was a humorist of ability.  His articles, signed Dan de Quille, were
widely copied.  R. M. Daggett (afterward United States Minister to
Hawaii) was also an "Enterprise" man, and there were others of their
sort.

Samuel Clemens fitted precisely into this group.  He brought with him a
new turn of thought and expression; he saw things with open eyes, and
wrote of them in a fresh, wild way that Comstockers loved.  He was
allowed full freedom.  Goodman suppressed nothing; his men could write as
they chose.  They were all young together--if they pleased themselves,
they were pretty sure to please their readers.  Often they wrote of one
another--squibs and burlesques, which gratified the Comstock far more
than mere news.  It was just the school to produce Mark Twain.

The new arrival found acquaintance easy.  The whole "Enterprise" force
was like one family; proprietors, editor, and printers were social
equals.  Samuel Clemens immediately became "Sam" to his associates, just
as De Quille was "Dan," and Goodman "Joe."  Clemens was supposed to
report city items, and did, in fact, do such work, which he found easy,
for his pilot-memory made notes unnecessary.

He could gather items all day, and at night put down the day's budget
well enough, at least, to delight his readers.  When he was tired of
facts, he would write amusing paragraphs, as often as not something about
Dan, or a reporter on a rival paper.  Dan and the others would reply, and
the Comstock would laugh.  Those were good old days.

Sometimes he wrote hoaxes.  Once he told with great circumstance and
detail of a petrified prehistoric man that had been found embedded in a
rock in the desert, and how the coroner from Humboldt had traveled more
than a hundred miles to hold an inquest over a man dead for centuries,
and had refused to allow miners to blast the discovery from its position.

The sketch was really intended as a joke on the Humboldt coroner, but it
was so convincingly written that most of the Coast papers took it
seriously and reprinted it as the story of a genuine discovery.  In time
they awoke, and began to inquire as to who was the smart writer on the
"Enterprise."

Mark Twain did a number of such things, some of which are famous on the
Coast to this day.

Clemens himself did not escape.  Lamps were used in the "Enterprise"
office, but he hated the care of a lamp, and worked evenings by the light
of a candle.  It was considered a great joke in the office to "hide Sam's
candle" and hear him fume and rage, walking in a circle meantime--a habit
acquired in the pilothouse--and scathingly denouncing the culprits.
Eventually the office-boy, supposedly innocent, would bring another
candle, and quiet would follow.  Once the office force, including De
Quille, McCarthy, and a printer named Stephen Gillis, of whom Clemens was
very fond, bought a large imitation meerschaum pipe, had a German-silver
plate set on it, properly engraved, and presented it to Samuel Clemens as
genuine, in testimony of their great esteem.  His reply to the
presentation speech was so fine and full of feeling that the jokers felt
ashamed of their trick.  A few days later, when he discovered the
deception, he was ready to destroy the lot of them.  Then, in atonement,
they gave him a real meerschaum.  Such things kept the Comstock
entertained.

There was a side to Samuel Clemens that, in those days, few of his
associates saw.  This was the poetic, the reflective side.  Joseph
Goodman, like Macfarlane in Cincinnati several years earlier, recognized
this phase of his character and developed it.  Often these two, dining or
walking together, discussed the books and history they had read, quoted
from poems that gave them pleasure.  Clemens sometimes recited with great
power the "Burial of Moses," whose noble phrasing and majestic imagery
seemed to move him deeply.  With eyes half closed and chin lifted, a
lighted cigar between his fingers, he would lose himself in the music of
the stately lines:

               By Nebo's lonely mountain,
                 On this side Jordan's wave,
               In a vale in the land of Moab
                 There lies a lonely grave.
               And no man knows that sepulcher,
                 And no man saw it e'er,
               For the angels of God upturned the sod,
                 And laid the dead man there.

That his own writing would be influenced by the simple grandeur of this
poem we can hardly doubt.  Indeed, it may have been to him a sort of
literary touchstone, that in time would lead him to produce, as has been
said, some of the purest English written by any modern author.




XXII.

"MARK TWAIN"

It was once when Goodman and Clemens were dining together that the latter
asked to be allowed to report the proceedings of the coming legislature
at Carson City.  He knew nothing of such work, and Goodman hesitated.
Then, remembering that Clemens would, at least, make his reports
readable, whether they were parliamentary or not, he consented.

So, at the beginning of the year (1863), Samuel Clemens undertook a new
and interesting course in the study of human nature--the political human
nature of the frontier.  There could have been no better school for him.
His wit, his satire, his phrasing had full swing--his letters, almost
from the beginning, were copied as choice reading up and down the Coast.
He made curious blunders, at first, as to the proceedings, but his open
confession of ignorance in the early letters made these blunders their
chief charm.  A young man named Gillespie, clerk of the House, coached
him, and in return was christened "Young Jefferson's Manual," a title
which he bore for many years.

A reporter named Rice, on a rival Virginia City paper, the "Union," also
earned for himself a title through those early letters.

Rice concluded to poke fun at the "Enterprise" reports, pointing out
their mistakes.  But this was not wise.  Clemens, in his next
contribution, admitted that Rice's reports might be parliamentary enough,
but declared his glittering technicalities were only to cover
misstatements of fact.  He vowed they were wholly untrustworthy, dubbed
the author of them "The Unreliable," and never thereafter referred to him
by any other term.  Carson and the Comstock papers delighted in this
foolery, and Rice became "The Unreliable" for life.  There was no real
feeling between Rice and Clemens.  They were always the best of friends.

But now we arrive at the story of still another name, one of vastly
greater importance than either of those mentioned, for it is the name
chosen by Samuel Clemens for himself.  In those days it was the fashion
for a writer to have a pen-name, especially for his journalistic and
humorous work.  Clemens felt that his "Enterprise" letters, copied up and
down the Coast, needed a mark of identity.

He gave the matter a good deal of thought.  He wanted something brief and
strong--something that would stick in the mind.  It was just at this time
that news came of the death of Capt. Isaiah Sellers, the old pilot who
had signed himself "Mark Twain."   Mark Twain!  That was the name he
wanted.  It was not trivial.  It had all the desired qualities.  Captain
Sellers would never need it again.  It would do no harm to keep it alive-
-to give it a new meaning in a new land.  Clemens took a trip from Carson
up to Virginia City.

"Joe," he said to Goodman, "I want to sign my articles.  I want to be
identified to a wider audience."

"All right, Sam.  What name do you want to use Josh?"

"No, I want to sign them Mark Twain.  It is an old river term, a
leadsman's call, signifying two fathoms--twelve feet.  It has a richness
about it; it was always a pleasant sound for a pilot to hear on a dark
night; it meant safe waters."

He did not mention that Captain Sellers had used and dropped the name.
He was not proud of his part in that episode, and it was too recent for
confession.

Goodman considered a moment.  "Very well, Sam," he said, "that sounds
like a good name."

A good name, indeed!  Probably, if he had considered every combination of
words in the language, he could not have found a better one.  To-day we
recognize it as the greatest nom de plume ever chosen, and, somehow, we
cannot believe that the writer of "Tom Sawyer" and "Huck Finn" and
"Roughing It" could have selected any other had he tried.

The name Mark Twain was first signed to a Carson letter, February 2,
1863, and after that to all of Samuel Clemens's work.  The letters that
had amused so many readers had taken on a new interest--the interest that
goes with a name.  It became immediately more than a pen-name.  Clemens
found he had attached a name to himself as well as to his letters.
Everybody began to address him as Mark.  Within a few weeks he was no
longer "Sam" or "Clemens," but Mark--Mark Twain.  The Coast papers liked
the sound of it.  It began to mean something to their readers.  By the
end of that legislative session Samuel Clemens, as Mark Twain, had
acquired out there on that breezy Western slope something resembling
fame.

Curiously, he fails to mention any of this success in his letters home of
that period.  Indeed, he seldom refers to his work, but more often speaks
of mining shares which he has accumulated, and their possible values.
His letters are airy, full of the joy of life and of the wild doings of
the frontier.  Closing one of them, he says: "I have just heard five
pistolshots down the street.  As such things are in my line, I will go
and see about it."

And in a postscript, later, he adds:

     "5 A.M.--The pistol-shots did their work well.  One man, a Jackson
     County Missourian, shot two of my friends (police officers) through
     the heart--both died within three minutes.  The murderer's name is
     John Campbell."

The Comstock was a great school for Mark Twain, and in "Roughing It" he
has left us a faithful picture of its long-vanished glory.

More than one national character came out of the Comstock school.
Senator James G. Fair was one of them, and John Mackay, both miners with
pick and shovel at first, though Mackay presently became a
superintendent.  Mark Twain one day laughingly offered to trade jobs with
Mackay.

"No," Mackay said, "I can't trade.  My business is not worth as much as
yours.  I have never swindled anybody, and I don't intend to begin now."

For both these men the future held splendid gifts: for Mackay vast
wealth, for Mark Twain the world's applause, and neither would have long
to wait.




XXIII.

ARTEMUS WARD AND LITERARY SAN FRANCISCO

It was about the end of 1863 that a new literary impulse came into Mark
Twain's life.  The gentle and lovable humorist Artemus Ward (Charles F.
Browne) was that year lecturing in the West, and came to Virginia City.
Ward had intended to stay only a few days, but the whirl of the Comstock
fascinated him.  He made the "Enterprise" office his headquarters and
remained three weeks.  He and Mark Twain became boon companions.  Their
humor was not unlike; they were kindred spirits, together almost
constantly.  Ward was then at the summit of his fame, and gave the
younger man the highest encouragement, prophesying great things for ha
work.  Clemens, on his side, was stirred, perhaps for the first time,
with a real literary ambition, and the thought that he, too, might win a
place of honor.  He promised Ward that he would send work to the Eastern
papers.

On Christmas Eve, Ward gave a dinner to the "Enterprise" staff, at
Chaumond's, a fine French restaurant of that day.  When refreshments
came, Artemus lifted his glass, and said:

"I give you Upper Canada."

The company rose and drank the toast in serious silence.  Then Mr.
Goodman said:

"Of course, Artemus, it's all right, but why did you give us Upper
Canada?"

"Because I don't want it myself," said Ward, gravely.

What would one not give to have listened to the talk of that evening!
Mark Twain's power had awakened; Artemus Ward was in his prime.  They
were giants of a race that became extinct when Mark Twain died.

Goodman remained rather quiet during the evening.  Ward had appointed him
to order the dinner, and he had attended to this duty without mingling
much in the conversation.  When Ward asked him why he did not join the
banter, he said:

"I am preparing a joke, Artemus, but I am keeping it for the present."

At a late hour Ward finally called for the bill.  It was two hundred and
thirty-seven dollars.

"What!" exclaimed Artemus.

"That's my joke," said Goodman.

"But I was only exclaiming because it was not twice as much," laughed
Ward, laying the money on the table.

Ward remained through the holidays, and later wrote back an affectionate
letter to Mark Twain.

"I shall always remember Virginia as a bright spot in my existence," he
said, "as all others must, or rather, cannot be, as it were."

With Artemus Ward's encouragement, Mark Twain now began sending work
eastward.  The "New York Sunday Mercury" published one, possibly more, of
his sketches, but they were not in his best vein, and made little
impression.  He may have been too busy for outside work, for the
legislative session of 1864 was just beginning.  Furthermore, he had been
chosen governor of the "Third House," a mock legislature, organized for
one session, to be held as a church benefit.  The "governor" was to
deliver a message, which meant that he was to burlesque from the platform
all public officials and personages, from the real governor down.

With the exception of a short talk he had once given at a printer's
dinner in Keokuk, it was Mark Twain's first appearance as a speaker, and
the beginning of a lifelong series of triumphs on the platform.  The
building was packed--the aisles full.  The audience was ready for fun,
and he gave it to them.  Nobody escaped ridicule; from beginning to end
the house was a storm of laughter and applause.

Not a word of this first address of Mark Twain's has been preserved, but
those who heard it always spoke of it as the greatest effort of his life,
as to them it seemed, no doubt.

For his Third House address, Clemens was presented with a gold watch,
inscribed "To Governor Mark Twain."  Everywhere, now, he was pointed out
as a distinguished figure, and his quaint remarks were quoted.  Few of
these sayings are remembered to-day, though occasionally one is still
unforgotten.  At a party one night, being urged to make a conundrum, he
said:

"Well, why am I like the Pacific Ocean?"

Several guesses were made, but he shook his head.  Some one said:

"We give it up.  Tell us, Mark, why are you like the Pacific Ocean?"

"I--don't--know," he drawled.  "I was just--asking for information."

The governor of Nevada was generally absent, and Orion Clemens was
executive head of the territory.  His wife, who had joined him in Carson
City, was social head of the little capital, and Brother Sam, with his
new distinction and now once more something of a dandy in dress, was
society's chief ornament--a great change, certainly, from the early
months of his arrival less than three years before.

It was near the end of May, 1864, when Mark Twain left Nevada for San
Francisco.  The immediate cause of his going was a duel--a duel
elaborately arranged between Mark Twain and the editor of a rival paper,
but never fought.  In fact, it was mainly a burlesque affair throughout,
chiefly concocted by that inveterate joker, Steve Gillis, already
mentioned in connection with the pipe incident.  The new dueling law,
however, did not distinguish between real and mock affrays, and the
prospect of being served with a summons made a good excuse for Clemens
and Gillis to go to San Francisco, which had long attracted them.  They
were great friends, these two, and presently were living together and
working on the same paper, the "Morning Call," Clemens as a reporter and
Gillis as a compositor.

Gillis, with his tendency to mischief, was a constant exasperation to his
room-mate, who, goaded by some new torture, would sometimes denounce him
in feverish terms.  Yet they were never anything but the closest friends.

Mark Twain did not find happiness in his new position on the "Call."
There was less freedom and more drudgery than he had known on the
"Enterprise."  His day was spent around the police court, attending
fires, weddings, and funerals, with brief glimpses of the theaters at
night.

Once he wrote: "It was fearful drudgery--soulless drudgery--and almost
destitute of interest.  It was an awful slavery for a lazy man."

It must have been so.  There was little chance for original work.  He had
become just a part of a news machine.  He saw many public abuses that he
wished to expose, but the policy of the paper opposed him.  Once,
however, he found a policeman asleep on his beat.  Going to a near-by
vegetable stall, he borrowed a large cabbage-leaf, came back, and stood
over the sleeper, gently fanning him.  He knew the paper would not
publish the policeman's negligence, but he could advertise it in his own
way.  A large crowd soon collected, much amused.  When he thought the
audience large enough, he went away.  Next day the joke was all over the
city.

He grew indifferent to the "Call" work, and, when an assistant was
allowed him to do part of the running for items, it was clear to
everybody that presently the assistant would be able to do it all.

But there was a pleasant and profitable side to the San Francisco life.
There were real literary people there--among them a young man, with rooms
upstairs in the "Call" office, Francis Bret Harte, editor of the
"Californian," a new literary weekly which Charles Henry Webb had
recently founded.  Bret Harte was not yet famous, but his gifts were
recognized on the Pacific slope, especially by the "Era" group of
writers, the "Golden Era" being a literary monthly of considerable
distinction.  Joaquin Miller recalls, from his diary of that period,
having seen Prentice Mulford, Bret Harte, Charles Warren Stoddard, Mark
Twain, Artemus Ward, and others, all assembled there at one time--a
remarkable group, certainly, to be dropped down behind the Sierras so
long ago.  They were a hopeful, happy lot, and sometimes received five
dollars for an article, which, of course, seemed a good deal more
precious than a much larger sum earned in another way.

Mark Twain had contributed to the "Era" while still in Virginia City, and
now, with Bret Harte, was ranked as a leader of the group.  The two were
much together, and when Harte became editor of the "Californian" he
engaged Clemens as a regular contributor at the very fancy rate of twelve
dollars an article.  Some of the brief chapters included to-day in
"Sketches New and Old" were done at this time.  They have humor, but are
not equal to his later work, and beyond the Pacific slope they seem to
have attracted little attention.

In "Roughing It" the author tells us how he finally was dismissed from
the "Call" for general incompetency, and presently found himself in the
depths of hard luck, debt, and poverty.  But this is only his old habit
of making a story on himself sound as uncomplimentary as possible.  The
true version is that the "Call" publisher and Mark Twain had a friendly
talk and decided that it was better for both to break off the connection.
Almost immediately he arranged to write a daily San Francisco letter for
the "Enterprise," for which he received thirty dollars a week.  This,
with his earnings from the "Californian," made his total return larger
than before.  Very likely he was hard up from time to time--literary men
are often that--but that he was ever in abject poverty, as he would have
us believe, is just a good story and not history.




XXIV.

THE DISCOVERY OF "THE JUMPING FROG"

Mark Twain's daily letters to the "Enterprise" stirred up trouble for him
in San Francisco.  He was free, now, to write what he chose, and he
attacked the corrupt police management with such fierceness that, when
copies of the "Enterprise" got back to San Francisco, they started a
commotion at the city hall.  Then Mark Twain let himself go more
vigorously than ever.  He sent letters to the "Enterprise" that made even
the printers afraid.  Goodman, however, was fearless, and let them go in,
word for word.  The libel suit which the San Francisco chief of police
brought against the Enterprise advertised the paper amazingly.

But now came what at the time seemed an unfortunate circumstance.  Steve
Gillis, always a fearless defender of the weak, one night rushed to the
assistance of two young fellows who had been set upon by three roughs.
Gillis, though small of stature, was a terrific combatant, and he
presently put two of the assailants to flight and had the other ready for
the hospital.  Next day it turned out that the roughs were henchmen of
the police, and Gillis was arrested.

Clemens went his bail, and advised Steve to go down to Virginia City
until the storm blew over.

But it did not blow over for Mark Twain.  The police department was only
too glad to have a chance at the author of the fierce "Enterprise"
letters, and promptly issued a summons for him, with an execution against
his personal effects.  If James N. Gillis, brother of Steve, had not
happened along just then and spirited Mark Twain away to his mining-camp
in the Tuolumne Hills, the beautiful gold watch given to the governor of
the Third House might have been sacrificed in the cause of friendship.

As it was, he found himself presently in the far and peaceful seclusion
of that land which Bret Harte would one day make famous with his tales of
"Roaring Camp" and "Sandy Bar."  Jim Gillis was, in fact, the Truthful
James of Bret Harte, and his cabin on jackass Hill had been the retreat
of Harte and many another literary wayfarer who had wandered there for
rest and refreshment and peace.  It was said the sick were made well, and
the well made better, in Jim Gillis's cabin.  There were plenty of books
and a variety of out-of-door recreation.  One could mine there if he
chose.  Jim would furnish the visiting author with a promising claim, and
teach him to follow the little fan-like drift of gold specks to the
pocket of treasure somewhere up the hillside.

Gillis himself had literary ability, though he never wrote.  He told his
stories, and with his back to the open fire would weave the most amazing
tales, invented as he went along.  His stories were generally wonderful
adventures that had happened to his faithful companion, Stoker; and
Stoker never denied them, but would smoke and look into the fire, smiling
a little sometimes, but never saying a word.  A number of the tales later
used by Mark Twain were first told by Jim Gillis in the cabin on Jackass
Hill.  "Dick Baker's Cat" was one of these, the jay-bird and acorn story
in "A Tramp Abroad" was another.  Mark Twain had little to add to these
stories.

"They are not mine, they are Jim's," he said, once; "but I never could
get them to sound like Jim--they were never as good as his."

It was early in December, 1864, when Mark Twain arrived at the humble
retreat, built of logs under a great live-oak tree, and surrounded by a
stretch of blue-grass.  A younger Gillis boy was there at the time, and
also, of course, Dick Stoker and his cat, Tom Quartz, which every reader
of "Roughing It" knows.

It was the rainy season, but on pleasant days they all went pocket-
mining, and, in January, Mark Twain, Gillis, and Stoker crossed over into
Calaveras County and began work near Angel's Camp, a place well known to
readers of Bret Harte.  They put up at a poor hotel in Angel's, and on
good days worked pretty faithfully.  But it was generally raining, and
the food was poor.

In his note-book, still preserved, Mark Twain wrote: "January 27 (1865).
--Same old diet--same old weather--went out to the pocket-claim--had to
rush back."

So they spent a good deal of their time around the rusty stove in the
dilapidated tavern at Angel's Camp.  It seemed a profitless thing to do,
but few experiences were profitless to Mark Twain, and certainly this one
was not.

At this barren mining hotel there happened to be a former Illinois River
pilot named Ben Coon, a solemn, sleepy person, who dozed by the stove or
told slow, pointless stories to any one who would listen.  Not many would
stay to hear him, but Jim Gillis and Mark Twain found him a delight.
They would let him wander on in his dull way for hours, and saw a vast
humor in a man to whom all tales, however trivial or absurd, were serious
history.

At last, one dreary afternoon, he told them about a frog--a frog that had
belonged to a man named Coleman, who had trained it to jump, and how the
trained frog had failed to win a wager because the owner of the rival
frog had slyly loaded the trained jumper with shot.  It was not a new
story in the camps, but Ben Coon made a long tale of it, and it happened
that neither Clemens nor Gillis had heard it before.  They thought it
amusing, and his solemn way of telling it still more so.

"I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's better than any other
frog," became a catch phrase among the mining partners; and, "I 'ain't
got no frog, but if I had a frog, I'd bet you."

Out on the claim, Clemens, watching Gillis and Stoker anxiously washing,
would say, "I don't see no pints about that pan o' dirt that's any better
than any other pan o' dirt."  And so they kept the tale going.  In his
note-book Mark Twain made a brief memorandum of the story for possible
use.

The mining was rather hopeless work.  The constant and heavy rains were
disheartening.  Clemens hated it, and even when, one afternoon, traces of
a pocket began to appear, he rebelled as the usual chill downpour set in.

"Jim," he said, "let's go home; we'll freeze here."

Gillis, as usual, was washing, and Clemens carrying the water.  Gillis,
seeing the gold "color" improving with every pan, wanted to go on washing
and climbing toward the precious pocket, regardless of wet and cold.
Clemens, shivering and disgusted, vowed that each pail of water would be
his last.  His teeth were chattering, and he was wet through.  Finally he
said:

"Jim, I won't carry any more water.  This work too disagreeable."

Gillis had just taken out a panful of dirt.

"Bring one more pail, Sam," he begged.

"Jim I won't do it.  I'm-freezing."

"Just one more pail, Sam!" Jim pleaded.

"No, sir; not a drop--not if I knew there was a million dollars in that
pan."

Gillis tore out a page of his note-book and hastily posted a thirty-day-
claim notice by the pan of dirt.  Then they set out for Angel's Camp,
never to return.  It kept on raining, and a letter came from Steve
Gillis, saying he had settled all the trouble in San Francisco.  Clemens
decided to return, and the miners left Angel's without visiting their
claim again.

Meantime the rain had washed away the top of the pan of dirt they had
left standing on the hillside, exposing a handful of nuggets, pure gold.
Two strangers, Austrians, happening along, gathered it up and, seeing the
claim notice posted by Jim Gillis, sat down to wait until it expired.
They did not mind the rain--not under the circumstances--and the moment
the thirty days were up they followed the lead a few pans farther and
took out, some say ten, some say twenty, thousand dollars.  In either
case it was a good pocket that Mark Twain missed by one pail of water.
Still, without knowing it, he had carried away in his note-book a single
nugget of far greater value the story of "The Jumping Frog."

He did not write it, however, immediately upon his return to San
Francisco.  He went back to his "Enterprise" letters and contributed some
sketches to the Californian.  Perhaps he thought the frog story too mild
in humor for the slope.  By and by he wrote it, and by request sent it to
Artemus Ward to be used in a book that Ward was about to issue.  It
arrived too late, and the publisher handed it to the editor of the
"Saturday Press," Henry Clapp, saying:

"Here, Clapp, is something you can use in your paper."

The "Press" was struggling, and was glad to get a story so easily.  "Jim
Smiley and his jumping Frog" appeared in the issue of November 18, 1865,
and was at once copied and quoted far and near.  It carried the name of
Mark Twain across the mountains and the prairies of the Middle West; it
bore it up and down the Atlantic slope.  Some one said, then or later,
that Mark Twain leaped into fame on the back of a jumping frog.

Curiously, this did not at first please the author.  He thought the tale
poor.  To his mother he wrote:

I do not know what to write; my life is so uneventful.  I wish I was back
there piloting up and down the river again.  Verily, all is vanity and
little worth--save piloting.

To think that, after writing many an article a man might be excused for
thinking tolerably good, those New York people should single out a
villainous backwoods sketch to compliment me on!--" Jim Smiley and his
Jumping Frog"--a squib which would never have been written but to please
Artemus Ward.

However, somewhat later he changed his mind considerably, especially when
he heard that James Russell Lowell had pronounced the story the finest
piece of humorous writing yet produced in America.




XXV.

HAWAII AND ANSON BURLINGAME

Mark Twain remained about a year in San Francisco after his return from
the Gillis cabin and Angel's Camp, adding to his prestige along the Coast
rather than to his national reputation.  Then, in the spring of 1866 he
was commissioned by the "Sacramento Union" to write a series of letters
that would report the life, trade, agriculture, and general aspects of
the Hawaiian group.  He sailed in March, and his four months in those
delectable islands remained always to him a golden memory--an experience
which he hoped some day to repeat.  He was young and eager for adventure
then, and he went everywhere--horseback and afoot--saw everything, did
everything, and wrote of it all for his paper.  His letters to the
"Union" were widely read and quoted, and, though not especially literary,
added much to his journalistic standing.  He was a great sight-seer in
those days, and a persevering one.  No discomfort or risk discouraged
him.  Once, with a single daring companion, he crossed the burning floor
of the mighty crater of Kilauea, racing across the burning lava, leaping
wide and bottomless crevices where a misstep would have meant death.  His
open-air life on the river and in the mining-camps had nerved and
hardened him for adventure.  He was thirty years old and in his physical
prime.  His mental growth had been slower, but it was sure, and it would
seem always to have had the right guidance at the right time.

Clemens had been in the islands three months when one day Anson
Burlingame arrived there, en route to his post as minister to China.
With him was his son Edward, a boy of eighteen, and General Van
Valkenburg, minister to Japan.  Young Burlingame had read about Jim
Smiley's jumping frog and, learning that the author was in Honolulu, but
ill after a long trip inland, sent word that the party would call on him
next morning.  But Mark Twain felt that he could not accept this honor,
and, crawling out of bed, shaved himself and drove to the home of the
American minister, where the party was staying.  He made a great
impression with the diplomats.  It was an occasion of good stories and
much laughter.  On leaving, General Van Valkenburg said to him:

     "California is proud of Mark Twain, and some day the American people
     will be, too, no doubt."  Which was certainly a good prophecy.

It was only a few days later that the diplomats rendered him a great
service.  Report had come of the arrival at Sanpahoe of an open boat
containing fifteen starving men, who had been buffeting a stormy sea for
forty-three days--sailors from the missing ship Hornet of New York,
which, it appeared, had been burned at sea.  Presently eleven of the
rescued men were brought to Honolulu and placed in the hospital.

Mark Twain recognized the great importance as news of this event.  It
would be a splendid beat if he could interview the castaways and be the
first to get their story in his paper.  There was no cable, but a vessel
was sailing for San Francisco next morning.  It seemed the opportunity of
a lifetime, but he was now bedridden and could scarcely move.

Then suddenly appeared in his room Anson Burlingame and his party, and,
almost before Mark Twain realized what was happening, he was on a cot
and, escorted by the heads of two legations, was on his way to the
hospital to get the precious interview.  Once there, Anson Burlingame,
with his gentle manner and courtly presence, drew from those enfeebled
castaways all the story of the burning of the vessel, followed by the
long privation and struggle that had lasted through forty-three fearful
days and across four thousand miles of stormy sea.  All that Mark Twain
had to do was to listen and make notes.  That night he wrote against
time, and next morning, just as the vessel was drifting from the dock, a
strong hand flung his bulky manuscript aboard and his great beat was
sure.  The three-column story, published in the "Sacramento Union" of
July 9, gave the public the first detailed history of the great disaster.
The telegraph carried it everywhere, and it was featured as a sensation.

Mark Twain and the Burlingame party were much together during the rest of
their stay in Hawaii, and Samuel Clemens never ceased to love and honor
the memory of Anson Burlingame.  It was proper that he should do so, for
he owed him much--far more than has already been told.

Anson Burlingame one day said to him: "You have great ability; I believe
you have genius.  What you need now is the refinement of association.
Seek companionship among men of superior intellect and character.  Refine
yourself and your work.  Never affiliate with inferiors; always climb."

This, coming to him from a man of Burlingame's character and position,
was like a gospel from some divine source.  Clemens never forgot the
advice.  It gave him courage, new hope, new resolve, new ideals.

Burlingame came often to the hotel, and they discussed plans for Mark
Twain's future.  The diplomat invited the journalist to visit him in
China:

"Come to Pekin," he said, "and make my house your home."

Young Burlingame also came, when the patient became convalescent, and
suggested walks.  Once, when Clemens hesitated, the young man said:

"But there is a scriptural command for you to go."

"If you can quote one, I'll obey," said Clemens.

"Very well; the Bible says: `If any man require thee to walk a mile, go
with him Twain.'"

The walk was taken.

Mark Twain returned to California at the end of July, and went down to
Sacramento.  It was agreed that a special bill should be made for the
"Hornet" report.

"How much do you think it ought to be, Mark?" asked one of the
proprietors.

Clemens said: "Oh, I'm a modest man; I don't want the whole "Union"
office; call it a hundred dollars a column."

There was a general laugh.  The bill was made out at that figure, and he
took it to the office for payment.

"The cashier didn't faint," he wrote many years later, "but he came
rather near it.  He sent for the proprietors, and they only laughed in
their jolly fashion, and said it was robbery, but `no matter, pay it.
It's all right.'  The best men that ever owned a paper." [6]

[6] "My Debut as a Literary Person."




XXVI.

MARK TWAIN, LECTURER

In spite of the success of his Sandwich Island letters, Samuel Clemens
felt, on his return to San Francisco, that his future was not bright.  He
was not a good, all-round newspaper man--he was special correspondent and
sketch-writer, out of a job.

He had a number of plans, but they did not promise much.  One idea was to
make a book from his Hawaiian material.  Another was to write magazine
articles, beginning with one on the Hornet disaster.  He did, in fact,
write the Hornet article, and its prompt acceptance by "Harper's
Magazine" delighted him, for it seemed a start in the right direction.  A
third plan was to lecture on the islands.

This prospect frightened him.  He had succeeded in his "Third House"
address of two years before, but then he had lectured without charge and
for a church benefit.  This would be a different matter.

One of the proprietors of a San Francisco paper, Col. John McComb, of the
"Alta California," was strong in his approval of the lecture idea.

"Do it, by all means," he said.  "Take the largest house in the city, and
charge a dollar a ticket."

Without waiting until his fright came back, Mark Twain hurried to the
manager of the Academy of Music, and engaged it for a lecture to be given
October 2d (1866), and sat down and wrote his announcement.  He began by
stating what he would speak upon, and ended with a few absurdities, such
as:

                         A SPLENDID ORCHESTRA
                    is in town, but has not been engaged.

                              Also
                    A DEN OF FEROCIOUS WILD BEASTS
               will be on exhibition in the next block.
                    A GRAND TORCHLIGHT PROCESSION
          may be expected; in fact, the public are privileged to
                    expect whatever they please.
     Doors open at 7 o'clock.  The trouble to begin at 8 o'clock.

Mark Twain was well known in San Francisco, and was pretty sure to have a
good house.  But he did not realize this, and, as the evening approached,
his dread of failure increased.  Arriving at the theater, he entered by
the stage door, half expecting to find the place empty.  Then, suddenly,
he became more frightened than ever; peering from the wings, he saw that
the house was jammed--packed from the footlights to the walls!
Terrified, his knees shaking, his tongue dry, he managed to emerge, and
was greeted with a roar, a crash of applause that nearly finished him.
Only for an instant--reaction followed; these people were his friends,
and he was talking to them.  He forgot to be afraid, and, as the applause
came in great billows that rose ever higher, he felt himself borne with
it as on a tide of happiness and success.  His evening, from beginning to
end, was a complete triumph.  Friends declared that for descriptive
eloquence, humor, and real entertainment nothing like his address had
ever been delivered.  The morning papers were enthusiastic.

Mark Twain no longer hesitated as to what he should do now.  He would
lecture.  The book idea no longer attracted him; the appearance of the
"Hornet" article, signed, through a printer's error, "Mark Swain," cooled
his desire to be a magazine contributor.  No matter--lecturing was the
thing.  Dennis McCarthy, who had sold his interest in the "Enterprise,"
was in San Francisco.  Clemens engaged this honest, happy-hearted
Irishman as manager, and the two toured California and Nevada with
continuous success.

Those who remember Mark Twain as a lecturer in that early day say that on
entering he would lounge loosely across the platform, his manuscript--
written on wrapping-paper and carried under his arm--looking like a
ruffled hen.  His delivery they recall as being even more quaint and
drawling than in later life.  Once, when his lecture was over, an old man
came up to him and said:

"Be them your natural tones of eloquence?"

In those days it was thought proper that a lecturer should be introduced,
and Clemens himself used to tell of being presented by an old miner, who
said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I know only two things about this man: the first
is that he's never been in jail, and the second is, I don't know why."

When he reached Virginia, his old friend Goodman said, "Sam, you don't
need anybody to introduce you," and he suggested a novel plan.  That
night, when the curtain rose, it showed Mark Twain seated at a piano,
playing and singing, as if still cub pilot on the "John J. Roe:"

          "Had an old horse whose name was Methusalem,
            Took him down and sold him in Jerusalem,
                    A long time ago."

Pretending to be surprised and startled at the burst of applause, he
sprang up and began to talk.  How the audience enjoyed it!

Mark Twain continued his lecture tour into December, and then, on the
15th of that month, sailed by way of the Isthmus of Panama for New York.
He had made some money, and was going home to see his people.  He had
planned to make a trip around the world later, contributing a series of
letters to the "Alta California," lecturing where opportunity afforded.
He had been on the Coast five and a half years, and to his professions of
printing and piloting had added three others--mining, journalism, and
lecturing.  Also, he had acquired a measure of fame.  He could come back
to his people with a good account of his absence and a good heart for the
future.

But it seems now only a chance that he arrived at all.  Crossing the
Isthmus, he embarked for New York on what proved to be a cholera ship.
For a time there were one or more funerals daily.  An entry in his diary
says:

     "Since the last two hours all laughter, all levity, has ceased on the
     ship--a settled gloom is upon the faces of the passengers.

     "But the winter air of the North checked the contagion, and there
     were no new cases when New York City was reached."

Clemens remained but a short time in New York, and was presently in St.
Louis with his mother and sister.  They thought he looked old, but he had
not changed in manner, and the gay banter between mother and son was soon
as lively as ever.  He was thirty-one now, and she sixty-four, but the
years had made little difference.  She petted him, joked with him, and
scolded him.  In turn, he petted and comforted and teased her.  She
decided he was the same Sam and always would be--a true prophecy.

He visited Hannibal and lectured there, receiving an ovation that would
have satisfied even Tom Sawyer.  In Keokuk he lectured again, then
returned to St. Louis to plan his trip around the world.

He was not to make a trip around the world, however--not then.  In St.
Louis he saw the notice of the great "Quaker City" Holy Land excursion--
the first excursion of the kind ever planned--and was greatly taken with
the idea.  Impulsive as always, he wrote at once to the "Alta
California," proposing that they send him as their correspondent on this
grand ocean picnic.  The cost of passage was $1.200, and the "Alta"
hesitated, but Colonel McComb, already mentioned, assured his associates
that the investment would be sound.  The "Alta" wrote, accepting Mark
Twain's proposal, and agreed to pay twenty dollars each for letters.
Clemens hurried to New York to secure a berth, fearing the passenger-list
might be full.  Furthermore, with no one of distinction to vouch for him,
according to advertised requirements, he was not sure of being accepted.
Arriving in New York, he learned from an "Alta" representative that
passage had already been reserved for him, but he still doubted his
acceptance as one of the distinguished advertised company.  His mind was
presently relieved on this point.  Waiting his turn at the booking-desk,
he heard a newspaper man inquire:

"What notables are going?"

A clerk, with evident pride, rattled off the names:

"Lieutenant-General Sherman, Henry Ward Beecher, and Mark Twain; also,
probably, General Banks."

It was very pleasant to hear the clerk say that.  Not only was he
accepted, but billed as an attraction.

The "Quaker City" would not sail for two months yet, and during the
period of waiting Mark Twain was far from idle.  He wrote New York
letters to the "Alta," and he embarked in two rather important ventures--
he published his first book and he delivered a lecture in New York City.

Both these undertakings were planned and carried out by friends from the
Coast.  Charles Henry Webb, who had given up his magazine to come East,
had collected "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and Other
Sketches," and, after trying in vain to find a publisher for them,
brought them out himself, on the 1st of May, 1867.[7]  It seems curious
now that any publisher should have declined the little volume, for the
sketches, especially the frog story, had been successful, and there was
little enough good American humor in print.  However, publishing was a
matter not lightly undertaken in those days.

Mark Twain seems to have been rather pleased with the appearance of his
first book.  To Bret Harte he wrote:

The book is out and is handsome.  It is full of .  . . errors....but be a
friend and say nothing about those things.  When my hurry is over, I will
send you a copy to pizen the children with.

The little cloth-and-gold volume, so valued by book-collectors to-day,
contained the frog story and twenty-six other sketches, some of which are
still preserved in Mark Twain's collected works.  Most of them were not
Mark Twain's best literature, but they were fresh and readable and suited
the taste of that period.  The book sold very well, and, while it did not
bring either great fame or fortune to its author, it was by no means a
failure.

The "hurry" mentioned in Mark Twain's letter to Bret Harte related to his
second venture--that is to say, his New York lecture, an enterprise
managed by an old Comstock friend, Frank Fuller, ex-Governor of Utah.
Fuller, always a sanguine and energetic person, had proposed the lecture
idea as soon as Mark Twain arrived in New York.  Clemens shook his head.

"I have no reputation with the general public here," he said.  "We
couldn't get a baker's dozen to hear me."

But Fuller insisted, and eventually engaged the largest hall in New York,
the Cooper Union.  Full of enthusiasm and excitement, he plunged into the
business of announcing and advertising his attraction, and inventing
schemes for the sale of seats.  Clemens caught Fuller's enthusiasm by
spells, but between times he was deeply depressed.  Fuller had got up a
lot of tiny hand-bills, and had arranged to hang bunches of these in the
horse-cars.  The little dangling clusters fascinated Clemens, and he rode
about to see if anybody else noticed them.  Finally, after a long time, a
passenger pulled off one of the bills and glanced at it.  A man with him
asked:

"Who's Mark Twain?"

"Goodness knows!  I don't."

The lecturer could not ride any farther.  He hunted up his patron.

"Fuller," he groaned, "there isn't a sign--a ripple of interest."

Fuller assured him that things were "working underneath," and would be
all right.  But Clemens wrote home: "Everything looks shady, at least, if
not dark."  And he added that, after hiring the largest house in New
York, he must play against Schuyler Colfax, Ristori, and a double troupe
of Japanese jugglers, at other places of amusement.

When the evening of the lecture approached and only a few tickets had
been sold, the lecturer was desperate.

"Fuller," he said, "there'll be nobody in Cooper Union that night but you
and me.  I am on the verge of suicide.  I would commit suicide if I had
the pluck and the outfit.  You must paper the house, Fuller.  You must
send out a flood of complimentaries!"

"Very well," said Fuller.  "What we want this time is reputation, anyway--
money is secondary.  I'll put you before the choicest and most
intelligent audience that was ever gathered in New York City."

Fuller immediately sent out complimentary tickets to the school-teachers
of New York and Brooklyn---a general invitation to come and hear Mark
Twain's great lecture on the Sandwich Islands.  There was nothing to do
after that but wait results.

Mark Twain had lost faith--he did not believe anybody in New York would
come to hear him even on a free ticket.  When the night arrived, he drove
with Fuller to the Cooper Union half an hour before the lecture was to
begin.  Forty years later he said:

     "I couldn't keep away.  I wanted to see that vast Mammoth Cave, and
     die.  But when we got near the building, I saw all the streets were
     blocked with people and that traffic had stopped.  I couldn't
     believe that these people were trying to get to the Cooper
     Institute--but they were; and when I got to the stage, at last, the
     house was jammed full--packed; there wasn't room enough left for a
     child.

     "I was happy and I was excited beyond expression.  I poured the
     Sandwich Islands out on those people, and they laughed and shouted
     to my entire content.  For an hour and fifteen minutes I was in
     paradise."

So in its way this venture was a success.  It brought Mark Twain a good
deal of a reputation in New York, even if no financial profit, though, in
spite of the flood of complimentaries, there was a cash return of
something like three hundred dollars.  This went a good way toward paying
the expenses, while Fuller, in his royal way, insisted on making up the
deficit, declaring he had been paid for everything in the fun and joy of
the game.

"Mark," he said, "it's all right.  The fortune didn't come, but it will.
The fame has arrived; with this lecture and your book just out, you are
going to be the most-talked-of man in the country.  Your letters to the
"Alta" and the "Tribune" will get the widest reception of any letters of
travel ever written."




XXVII.

AN INNOCENT ABROAD, AND HOME AGAIN

It was early in May--the 6th--that Mark Twain had delivered his Cooper
Union lecture, and a month later, June 8, 1867, he sailed on the "Quaker
City," with some sixty-six other "pilgrims," on the great Holy Land
excursion, the story of which has been so fully and faithfully told in
"The Innocent Abroad."

What a wonderful thing it must have seemed in that time for a party of
excursionists to have a ship all to themselves to go a-gipsying in from
port to port of antiquity and romance!  The advertised celebrities did
not go, none of them but Mark Twain, but no one minded, presently, for
Mark Twain's sayings and stories kept the company sufficiently
entertained, and sometimes he would read aloud to his fellow-passengers
from the newspaper letters he was writing, and invite comment and
criticism.  That was entertainment for them, and it was good for him, for
it gave him an immediate audience, always inspiring to an author.
Furthermore, the comments offered were often of the greatest value,
especially suggestions from one Mrs. Fairbanks, of Cleveland, a middle-
aged, cultured woman, herself a correspondent for her husband's paper,
the "Herald".  It requires not many days for acquaintances to form on
shipboard, and in due time a little group gathered regularly each
afternoon to hear Mark Twain read what he had written of their day's
doings, though some of it he destroyed later because Mrs. Fairbanks
thought it not his best.

All of the "pilgrims" mentioned in "The Innocents Abroad" were real
persons.  "Dan" was Dan Slote, Mark Twain's room-mate; the Doctor who
confused the guides was Dr. A. Reeves Jackson, of Chicago; the poet
Lariat was Bloodgood H. Cutter, an eccentric from Long Island; "Jack" was
Jack Van Nostrand, of New Jersey; and "Moult" and "Blucher" and "Charlie"
were likewise real, the last named being Charles J. Langdon, of Elmira,
N. Y., a boy of eighteen, whose sister would one day become Mark Twain's
wife.

It has been said that Mark Twain first met Olivia Langdon on the "Quaker
City," but this is not quite true; he met only her picture--the original
was not on that ship.  Charlie Langdon, boy fashion, made a sort of hero
of the brilliant man called Mark Twain, and one day in the Bay of Smyrna
invited him to his cabin and exhibited his treasures, among them a dainty
miniature of a sister at home, Olivia, a sweet, delicate creature whom
the boy worshiped.

Samuel Clemens gazed long at the exquisite portrait and spoke of it
reverently, for in the sweet face he seemed to find something spiritual.
Often after that he came to young Langdon's cabin to look at the pictured
countenance, in his heart dreaming of a day when he might learn to know
its owner.

We need not follow in detail here the travels of the "pilgrims" and their
adventures.  Most of them have been fully set down in "The Innocents
Abroad," and with not much elaboration, for plenty of amusing things were
happening on a trip of that kind, and Mark Twain's old note-books are
full of the real incidents that we find changed but little in the book.
If the adventures of Jack, Dan, and the Doctor are embroidered here and
there, the truth is always there, too.

Yet the old note-books have a very intimate interest of their own.  It is
curious to be looking through them to-day, trying to realize that those
penciled memoranda were the fresh first impressions that would presently
grow into the world's most delightful book of travel; that they were set
down in the very midst of that historic little company that frolicked
through Italy and climbed wearily the arid Syrian hills.

It required five months for the "Quaker City" to make the circuit of the
Mediterranean and return to New York.  Mark Twain in that time
contributed fifty two or three letters to the "Alta California" and six
to the "New York Tribune," or an average of nearly three a week--a vast
amount of labor to be done in the midst of sight-seeing.  And what
letters of travel they were!  The most remarkable that had been written
up to that time.  Vivid, fearless, full of fresh color, humor, poetry,
they came as a revelation to a public weary of the tiresome descriptive
drivel of that day.  They preached a new gospel in travel literature--the
gospel of seeing honestly and speaking frankly--a gospel that Mark Twain
would continue to preach during the rest of his career.

Furthermore, the letters showed a great literary growth in their author.
No doubt the cultivated associations of the ship, the afternoon reading
aloud of his work, and Mrs. Fairbanks's advice had much to do with this.
But we may believe, also, that the author's close study of the King James
version of the Old Testament during the weeks of travel through Palestine
exerted a powerful influence upon his style.  The man who had recited
"The Burial of Moses" to Joe Goodman, with so much feeling, could not
fail to be mastered by the simple yet stately Bible phrase and imagery.
Many of the fine descriptive passages in "The Innocents Abroad" have
something almost Biblical in their phrasing.  The writer of this memoir
heard in childhood "The Innocents Abroad" read aloud, and has never
forgotten the poetic spell that fell upon him as he listened to a
paragraph written of Tangier:

     "Here is a crumbled wall that was old when Columbus discovered
     America; old when Peter the Hermit roused the knightly men of the
     Middle Ages to arm for the first Crusade; old when Charlemagne and
     his paladins beleaguered enchanted castles and battled with giants
     and genii in the fabled days of the olden time; old when Christ and
     His disciples walked the earth; stood where it stands to-day when
     the lips of Memnon were vocal and men bought and sold in the streets
     of ancient Thebes."

Mark Twain returned to America to find himself, if not famous, at least
in very high repute.  The "Alta" and "Tribune" letters had carried his
name to every corner of his native land.  He was in demand now.  To his
mother he wrote:

     "I have eighteen offers to lecture, at $100 each, in various parts of
     the Union--have declined them all .  .  .  .  Belong on the
     "Tribune" staff and shall write occasionally.  Am offered the same
     berth to-day on the 'Herald,' by letter."

He was in Washington at this time, having remained in New York but one
day.  He had accepted a secretaryship from Senator Stewart of Nevada, but
this arrangement was a brief one.  He required fuller freedom for his
Washington correspondence and general literary undertakings.

He had been in Washington but a few days when he received a letter that
meant more to him than he could possibly have dreamed at the moment.  It
was from Elisha Bliss, Jr., manager of the American Publishing Company,
of Hartford, Connecticut, and it suggested gathering the Mediterranean
travel-letters into a book.  Bliss was a capable, energetic man, with a
taste for humor, and believed there was money for author and publisher in
the travel-book.

The proposition pleased Mark Twain, who replied at once, asking for
further details as to Bliss's plan.  Somewhat later he made a trip to
Hartford, and the terms for the publication of "The Innocents Abroad"
were agreed upon.  It was to be a large illustrated book for subscription
sale, and the author was to receive five per cent of the selling price.
Bliss had offered him the choice between this royalty and ten thousand
dollars cash.  Though much tempted by the large sum to be paid in hand,
Mark Twain decided in favor of the royalty plan--"the best business
judgment I ever displayed," he used to say afterward.  He agreed to
arrange the letters for book publication, revising and rewriting where
necessary, and went back to Washington well pleased.  He did not realize
that his agreement with Bliss marked the beginning of one of the most
notable publishing connections in American literary history.




XXVIII.

OLIVIA LANGDON.  WORK ON THE "INNOCENTS"

Certainly this was a momentous period in Mark Twain's life.  It was a
time of great events, and among them was one which presently would come
to mean more to him than all the rest--the beginning of his acquaintance
with Olivia Langdon.

One evening in late December when Samuel Clemens had come to New York to
visit his old "Quaker City" room-mate, Dan Slote, he found there other
ship comrades, including Jack Van Nostrand and Charlie Langdon.  It was a
joyful occasion, but one still happier followed it.  Young Langdon's
father and sister Olivia were in New York, and an evening or two later
the boy invited his distinguished "Quaker City" shipmate to dine with
them at the old St. Nicholas Hotel.  We may believe that Samuel Clemens
went willingly enough.  He had never forgotten the September day in the
Bay of Smyrna when he had first seen the sweet-faced miniature--now, at
last he looked upon the reality.

Long afterward he said: "It was forty years ago.  From that day to this
she has never been out of my mind."

Charles Dickens gave a reading that night at Steinway Hall.  The Langdons
attended, and Samuel Clemens with them.  He recalled long after that
Dickens wore a black velvet coat with a fiery-red flower in his
buttonhole, and that he read the storm scene from "David Copperfield"--
the death of James Steerforth; but he remembered still more clearly the
face and dress and the slender, girlish figure of Olivia Langdon at his
side.

Olivia Langdon was twenty-two years old at this time, delicate as the
miniature he had seen, though no longer in the fragile health of her
girlhood.  Gentle, winning, lovable, she was the family idol, and Samuel
Clemens was no less her worshiper from the first moment of their meeting.

Miss Langdon, on her part, was at first rather dazed by the strange,
brilliant, handsome man, so unlike anything she had known before.  When
he had gone, she had the feeling that something like a great meteor had
crossed her sky.  To her brother, who was eager for her good opinion of
his celebrity, she admitted her admiration, if not her entire approval.
Her father had no doubts.  With a keen sense of humor and a deep
knowledge of men, Jervis Langdon was from that first evening the devoted
champion of Mark Twain.  Clemens saw Miss Langdon again during the
holidays, and by the week's end he had planned to visit Elmira--soon.
But fate managed differently.  He was not to see Elmira for the better
part of a year.

He returned to his work in Washington--the preparation of the book and
his newspaper correspondence.  It was in connection with the latter that
he first met General Grant, then not yet President.  The incident,
characteristic of both men, is worth remembering.  Mark Twain had called
by permission, elated with the prospect of an interview.  But when he
looked into the square, smileless face of the soldier he found himself,
for the first time in his life, without anything particular to say.
Grant nodded slightly and waited.  His caller wished something would
happen.  It did.  His inspiration returned.

"General," he said, "I seem to be slightly embarrassed.  Are you?"

Grant's severity broke up in laughter.  There were no further
difficulties.

Work on the book did not go so well.  There were many distractions in
Washington, and Clemens did not like the climate there.  Then he found
the "Alta" had copyrighted his letters and were reluctant to allow him to
use them.  He decided to sail at once for San Francisco.  If he could
arrange the "Alta" matter, he would finish his work there.  He did, in
fact, carry out this plan, and all difficulties vanished on his arrival.
His old friend Colonel McComb obtained for him free use of the "Alta"
letters.  The way was now clear for his book.  His immediate need of
funds, however, induced him to lecture.  In May he wrote Bliss:

     "I lectured here on the trip (the Quaker City excursion) the other
     night; $1,600 in gold in the house; every seat taken and paid for
     before night."

He settled down to work now with his usual energy, editing and rewriting,
and in two months had the big manuscript ready for delivery.

Mark Twain's friends urged him to delay his return to "the States" long
enough to make a lecture tour through California and Nevada.  He must
give his new lecture, they told him, to his old friends.  He agreed, and
was received at Virginia City, Carson, and elsewhere like a returning
conqueror.  He lectured again in San Francisco just before sailing.

The announcement of his lecture was highly original.  It was a hand-bill
supposed to have been issued by the foremost citizens of San Francisco, a
mock protest against his lecture, urging him to return to New York
without inflicting himself on them again.  On the same bill was printed
his reply.  In it he said:

     "I will torment the people if I want to.  It only costs them $1
     apiece, and, if they can't stand it, what do they stay here for?"

He promised positively to sail on July 6th if they would let him talk
just this once.

There was a good deal more of this drollery on the bill, which ended with
the announcement that he would appear at the Mercantile Library on July
2d.  It is unnecessary to say that the place was jammed on that evening.
It was probably the greatest lecture event San Francisco has ever known.
Four days later, July 6, 1868, Mark Twain sailed, via Aspinwall, for New
York, and on the 28th delivered the manuscript of "The Innocents Abroad,
or the New Pilgrim's Progress," to his Hartford publisher.




XXIX

THE VISIT TO ELMIRA AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

Samuel Clemens now decided to pay his long-deferred visit to the Langdon
home in Elmira.  Through Charlie Langdon he got the invitation renewed,
and for a glorious week enjoyed the generous hospitality of the beautiful
Langdon home and the society of fair Olivia Langdon--Livy, as they called
her--realizing more and more that for him there could never be any other
woman in the world.  He spoke no word of this to her, but on the morning
of the day when his visit would end he relieved himself to Charlie
Langdon, much to the young man's alarm.  Greatly as he admired Mark Twain
himself, he did not think him, or, indeed, any man, good enough for
"Livy," whom he considered little short of a saint.  Clemens was to take
a train that evening, but young Langdon said, when he recovered:

"Look here, Clemens, there's a train in half an hour.  I'll help you
catch it.  Don't wait until tonight; go now!"

Mark Twain shook his head.

"No, Charlie," he said, in his gentle drawl.  "I want to enjoy your
hospitality a little longer.  I promise to be circumspect, and I'll go
to-night."

That night after dinner, when it was time to take the train, a light two-
seated wagon was at the gate.  Young Langdon and his guest took the back
seat, which, for some reason, had not been locked in its place.  The
horse started with a quick forward spring, and the seat with its two
occupants described a circle and landed with force on the cobbled street.

Neither passenger was seriously hurt--only dazed a little for the moment.
But to Mark Twain there came a sudden inspiration.  Here was a chance to
prolong his visit.  When the Langdon household gathered with
restoratives, he did not recover at once, and allowed himself to be
supported to an arm-chair for further remedies.  Livy Langdon showed
especial anxiety.

He was not allowed to go, now, of course; he must stay until it was
certain that his recovery was complete.  Perhaps he had been internally
injured.  His visit was prolonged two weeks, two weeks of pure happiness,
and when he went away he had fully resolved to win Livy Langdon for his
wife.

Mark Twain now went to Hartford to look after his book proofs, and there
for the first time met the Rev. Joseph H. Twichell, who would become his
closest friend.  The two men, so different in many ways, always had the
fondest admiration for each other; each recognized in the other great
courage, humanity, and sympathy.  Clemens would gladly have remained in
Hartford that winter.  Twichell presented him to many congenial people,
including Charles Dudley Warner, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and other writing
folk.  But flattering lecture offers were made him, and he could no
longer refuse.

He called his new lecture "The Vandal Abroad," it being chapters from the
forthcoming book, and it was a great success everywhere.  His houses were
crowded; the newspapers were enthusiastic.  His delivery was described as
a "long, monotonous drawl, with fun invariably coming in at the end of a
sentence--after a pause."  He began to be recognized everywhere--to have
great popularity.  People came out on the street to see him pass.

Many of his lecture engagements were in central New York, no great
distance from Elmira.  He had a standing invitation to visit the Langdon
home, and went when he could.  His courtship, however, was not entirely
smooth.  Much as Mr. Langdon honored his gifts and admired him
personally, he feared that his daughter, who had known so little of life
and the outside world, and the brilliant traveler, lecturer, author,
might not find happiness in marriage.  Many absurd stories have been told
of Mark Twain's first interview with Jervis Langdon on this subject, but
these are without foundation.  It was an earnest discussion on both
sides, and left Samuel Clemens rather crestfallen, though not without
hope.  More than once the subject was discussed between the two men that
winter as the lecturer came and went, his fame always growing.  In time
the Langdon household had grown to feel that he belonged to them.  It
would be only a step further to make him really one of the family.

There was no positive engagement at first, for it was agreed between
Clemens and Jervis Langdon that letters should be sent by Mr. Langdon to
those who had known his would-be son-in-law earlier, with inquiries as to
his past conduct and general character.  It was a good while till answers
to these came, and when they arrived Samuel Clemens was on hand to learn
the result.  Mr. Langdon had a rather solemn look when they were alone
together.

Clemens asked, "You've heard from those gentlemen out there?"

"Yes, and from another gentlemen I wrote to concerning you."

"They don't appear to have been very enthusiastic, from your manner."

"Well, yes, some of them were."

"I suppose I may ask what particular form their emotion took."

"Oh, yes, yes; they agree unanimously that you are a brilliant, able man-
-a man with a future, and that you would make about the worst husband on
record."

The applicant had a forlorn look.  "There is nothing very evasive about
that," he said.

Langdon reflected.

"Haven't you any other friend that you could suggest?"

"Apparently none whose testimony would be valuable."

Jervis Langdon held out his hand.

"You have at least one," he said. "I believe in you.  I know you better
then they do."

The engagement of Samuel Langhorne Clemens and Olivia Lewis Langdon was
ratified next day, February 4, 1869.  To Jane Clemens her son wrote:
"She is a little body, but she hasn't her peer in Christendom."




XXX.

THE NEW BOOK AND A WEDDING

Clemens closed his lecture tour in March with a profit of something more
than eight thousand dollars.  He had intended to make a spring tour of
California, but went to Elmira instead.  The revised proofs of his book
were coming now, and he and gentle Livy Langdon read them together.
Samuel Clemens realized presently that the girl he had chosen had a
delicate literary judgment.  She became all at once his editor, a
position she held until her death.  Her refining influence had much to do
with Mark Twain's success, then and later, and the world owes her a debt
of gratitude.  Through that first pleasant summer these two worked at the
proofs and planned for their future, and were very happy indeed.

It was about the end of July when the big book appeared at last, and its
success was startling.  Nothing like it had ever been known before.  Mark
Twain's name seemed suddenly to be on every tongue--his book in
everybody's hands.  From one end of the country to the other, readers
were hailing him as the greatest humorist and descriptive writer of
modern times.  By the first of the year more than thirty thousand volumes
had been sold.  It was a book of travel; its lowest price was three and a
half dollars; the record has not been equaled since.  In England also
large editions had been issued, and translations into foreign languages
were under way.  It was and is a great book, because it is a human book--
a book written straight from the heart.

If Mark Twain had not been famous before, he was so now.  Indeed, it is
doubtful if any other American author was so widely known and read as the
author of "The Innocents Abroad" during that first half-year after its
publication.

Yet for some reason he still did not regard himself as a literary man.
He was a journalist, and began to look about for a paper which he could
buy-his idea being to establish a business and a home.  Through Mr.
Langdon's assistance, he finally obtained an interest in the "Buffalo
Express," and the end of the year 1869 found him established as its
associate editor, though still lecturing here and there, because his
wedding-day was near at hand and there must be no lack of funds.

It was the 2d of February, 1870, that Samuel Clemens and Olivia Langdon
were married.  A few days before, he sat down one night and wrote to
Jim Gillis, away out in the Tuolumne Hills, and told him of all his good
fortune, recalling their days at Angel's Camp, and the absurd frog story,
which he said had been the beginning of his happiness.  In the five years
since then he had traveled a long way, but he had not forgotten.

On the morning of his wedding-day Mark Twain received from his publisher
a check for four thousand dollars, his profit from three months' sales of
the book, a handsome sum.

The wedding was mainly a family affair.  Twichell and his wife came over
from Hartford--Twichell to assist Thomas K. Beecher in performing the
ceremony.  Jane Clemens could not come, nor Orion and his wife; but
Pamela, a widow now, and her daughter Annie, grown to a young lady,
arrived from St. Louis.  Not more than one hundred guests gathered in the
stately Langdon parlors that in future would hold so much history for
Samuel Clemens and Olivia Langdon--so much of the story of life and death
that thus made its beginning there.  Then, at seven in the evening, they
were married, and the bride danced with her father, and the Rev. Thomas
Beecher declared she wore the longest gloves he had ever seen.

It was the next afternoon that the wedding-party set out for Buffalo.
Through a Mr. Slee, an agent of Mr. Langdon's, Clemens had engaged, as he
supposed, a boarding-house, quiet and unpretentious, for he meant to
start his married life modestly.  Jervis Langdon had a plan of his own
for his daughter, but Clemens had received no inkling of it, and had full
faith in the letter which Slee had written, saying that a choice and
inexpensive boarding-house had been secured.  When, about nine o'clock
that night, the party reached Buffalo, they found Mr. Slee waiting at the
station.  There was snow, and sleighs had been ordered.  Soon after
starting, the sleigh of the bride and groom fell behind and drove about
rather aimlessly, apparently going nowhere in particular.  This disturbed
the groom, who thought they should arrive first and receive their guests.
He criticized Slee for selecting a house that was so hard to find, and
when they turned at last into Delaware Avenue, Buffalo's finest street,
and stopped before a handsome house, he was troubled concerning the
richness of the locality.

They were on the steps when the door opened and a perfect fairyland of
lights and decoration was revealed within.  The friends who had gone
ahead came out with greetings to lead in the bride and groom.  Servants
hurried forward to take bags and wraps.  They were ushered inside; they
were led through beautiful rooms, all newly appointed and garnished.  The
bridegroom was dazed, unable to understand the meaning of it all--the
completeness of their possession.  At last his young wife put her hand
upon his arm.

"Don't you understand, Youth?" she said--that was always her name for
him.  "Don't you understand?  It is ours, all ours--everything--a gift
from father."

But still he could not quite grasp it, and Mr. Langdon brought a little
box and, opening it, handed them the deeds.

Nobody quite remembers what was the first remark that Samuel Clemens
made, but either then or a little later he said:

"Mr. Langdon, whenever you are in Buffalo, if it's twice a year, come
right here.  Bring your bag and stay overnight if you want to.  It
sha'n't cost you a cent."




XXXI.

MARK TWAIN IN BUFFALO

Mark Twain remained less than two years in Buffalo--a period of much
affliction.

In the beginning, prospects could hardly have been brighter.  His
beautiful home seemed perfect.  At the office he found work to his hand,
and enjoyed it.  His co-editor, J. W. Larned, who sat across the table
from him, used to tell later how Mark enjoyed his work as he went along--
the humor of it--frequently laughing as some new absurdity came into his
mind.  He was not very regular in his arrivals, but he worked long hours
and turned in a vast amount of "copy"--skits, sketches, editorials, and
comments of a varied sort.  Not all of it was humorous; he would stop
work any time on an amusing sketch to attack some abuse or denounce an
injustice, and he did it in scorching words that made offenders pause.
Once, when two practical jokers had sent in a marriage notice of persons
not even contemplating matrimony, he wrote:

     "This deceit has been practised maliciously by a couple of men whose
     small souls will escape through their pores some day if they do not
     varnish their hides."

In May he considerably increased his income by undertaking a department
called "Memoranda" for the new "Galaxy" magazine.  The outlook was now so
promising that to his lecture agent, James Redpath, he wrote:

     "DEAR RED: I'm not going to lecture any more forever.  I've got
     things ciphered down to a fraction now.  I know just about what it
     will cost to live, and I can make the money without lecturing.
     Therefore, old man, count me out."

And in a second letter:

     "I guess I'm out of the field permanently.  Have got a lovely wife, a
     lovely house bewitchingly furnished, a lovely carriage, and a
     coachman whose style and dignity are simply awe-inspiring, nothing
     less; and I'm making more money than necessary, by considerable, and
     therefore why crucify myself nightly on the platform!  The
     subscriber will have to be excused, for the present season, at
     least."

The little household on Delaware Avenue was indeed a happy place during
those early months.  Neither Clemens nor his wife in those days cared
much for society, preferring the comfort of their own home.  Once when a
new family moved into a house across the way they postponed calling until
they felt ashamed.  Clemens himself called first.  One Sunday morning he
noticed smoke pouring from an upper window of their neighbor's house.
The occupants, seated on the veranda, evidently did not suspect their
danger.  Clemens stepped across to the gate and, bowing politely, said:

     "My name is Clemens; we ought to have called on you before, and I
     beg your pardon for intruding now in this informal way, but your
     house is on fire."

It was at the moment when life seemed at its best that shadows gathered.
Jervis Langdon had never accepted his son-in-law's playful invitation to
"bring his bag and stay overnight," and now the time for it was past.  In
the spring his health gave way.  Mrs. Clemens, who adored him, went to
Elmira to be at his bedside.  Three months of lingering illness brought
the end.  His death was a great blow to Mrs. Clemens, and the strain of
watching had been very hard.  Her own health, never robust, became poor.
A girlhood friend, who came to cheer her with a visit, was taken down
with typhoid fever.  Another long period of anxiety and nursing ended
with the young woman's death in the Clemens home.

To Mark Twain and his wife it seemed that their bright days were over.
The arrival of little Langdon Clemens, in November, brought happiness,
but his delicate hold on life was so uncertain that the burden of anxiety
grew.

Amid so many distractions Clemens found his work hard.  His "Memoranda"
department in the "Galaxy" must be filled and be bright and readable.
His work at the office could not be neglected.  Then, too, he had made a
contract with Bliss for another book "Roughing It"--and he was trying to
get started on that.

He began to chafe under the relentless demands of the magazine and
newspaper.  Finally he could stand it no longer.  He sold his interest in
the "Express," at a loss, and gave up the "Memoranda."  In the closing
number (April, 1871) he said:

     "For the last eight months, with hardly an interval, I have had for
     my fellows and comrades, night and day, doctors and watchers of the
     sick!  During these eight months death has taken two members of my
     home circle and malignantly threatened two others.  All this I have
     experienced, yet all the time have been under contract to furnish
     humorous matter, once a month, for this magazine ....  To be a
     pirate on a low salary and with no share of the profits in the
     business used to be my idea of an uncomfortable occupation, but I
     have other views now.  To be a monthly humorist in a cheerless time
     is drearier."




XXXII.

AT WORK ON "ROUGHING IT"

The Clemens family now went to Elmira, to Quarry Farm--a beautiful
hilltop place, overlooking the river and the town--the home of Mrs.
Clemens's sister, Mrs. Theodore Crane.  They did not expect to return to
Buffalo, and the house there was offered for sale.  For them the sunlight
had gone out of it.

Matters went better at Quarry Farm.  The invalids gained strength; work
on the book progressed.  The Clemenses that year fell in love with the
place that was to mean so much to them in the many summers to come.

Mark Twain was not altogether satisfied, however, with his writing.  He
was afraid it was not up to his literary standard.  His spirits were at
low ebb when his old first editor, Joe Goodman, came East and stopped off
at Elmira.  Clemens hurried him out to the farm, and, eagerly putting the
chapters of "Roughing It" into his hands, asked him to read them.
Goodman seated himself comfortably by a window, while the author went
over to a table and pretended to write, but was really watching Goodman,
who read page after page solemnly and with great deliberation.  Presently
Mark Twain could stand it no longer.  He threw down his pen, exclaiming:

"I knew it!  I knew it!  I've been writing nothing but rot.  You have sat
there all this time reading without a smile--but I am not wholly to
blame.  I have been trying to write a funny book with dead people and
sickness everywhere.  Oh, Joe, I wish I could die myself!"

"Mark," said Goodman, "I was reading critically, not for amusement, and
so far as I have read, and can judge, this is one of the best things you
have ever written.  I have found it perfectly absorbing.  You are doing a
great book!"

That was enough.  Clemens knew that Goodman never spoke idly of such
matters.  The author of "Roughing It" was a changed man--full of
enthusiasm, eager to go on.  He offered to pay Goodman a salary to stay
and furnish inspiration.  Goodman declined the salary, but remained for
several weeks, and during long walks which the two friends took over the
hills gave advice, recalled good material, and was a great help and
comfort.  In May, Clemens wrote to Bliss that he had twelve hundred
manuscript pages of the new book written and was turning out from thirty
to sixty-five per day.  He was in high spirits.  The family health had
improved--once more prospects were bright.  He even allowed Redpath to
persuade him to lecture again during the coming season.  Selling his
share of the "Express" at a loss had left Mark Twain considerably in debt
and lecture profits would furnish the quickest means of payment.

When the summer ended the Clemens family took up residence in Hartford,
Connecticut, in the fine old Hooker house, on Forest Street.  Hartford
held many attractions for Mark Twain.  His publishers were located there,
also it was the home of a distinguished group of writers, and of the Rev.
"Joe" Twichell.  Neither Clemens nor his wife had felt that they could
return to Buffalo.  The home there was sold--its contents packed and
shipped.  They did not see it again.

His book finished, Mark Twain lectured pretty steadily that winter, often
in the neighborhood of Boston, which was lecture headquarters.  Mark
Twain enjoyed Boston.  In Redpath's office one could often meet and "swap
stories" with Josh Billings (Henry W. Shaw) and Petroleum V. Nasby (David
R. Locke)--well-known humorists of that day--while in the strictly
literary circle there were William Dean Howells, Thomas Bailey Aldrich,
Bret Harte (who by this time had become famous and journeyed eastward),
and others of their sort.  They were all young and eager and merry, then,
and they gathered at luncheons in snug corners and talked gaily far into
the dimness of winter afternoons.  Harte had been immediately accorded a
high place in the Boston group.  Mark Twain as a strictly literary man
was still regarded rather doubtfully by members of the older set--the
Brahmins, as they were called--but the young men already hailed him
joyfully, reveling in the fine, fearless humor of his writing, his
wonderful talk, his boundless humanity.




XXXIII.

IN ENGLAND

Mark Twain closed his lecture season in February (1872), and during the
same month his new book, "Roughing It," came from the press.  He disliked
the lecture platform, and he felt that he could now abandon it.  He had
made up his loss in Buffalo and something besides.  Furthermore, the
advance sales on his book had been large.

"Roughing It," in fact, proved a very successful book.  Like "The
Innocents Abroad," it was the first of its kind, fresh in its humor and
description, true in its picture of the frontier life he had known.  In
three months forty thousand copies had been sold, and now, after more
than forty years, it is still a popular book.  The life it describes is
all gone-the scenes are changed.  It is a record of a vanished time--a
delightful history--as delightful to-day as ever.

Eighteen hundred and seventy-two was an eventful year for Mark Twain.  In
March his second child, a little girl whom they named Susy, was born, and
three months later the boy, Langdon, died.  He had never been really
strong, and a heavy cold and diphtheria brought the end.

Clemens did little work that summer.  He took his family to Saybrook,
Connecticut, for the sea air, and near the end of August, when Mrs.
Clemens had regained strength and courage, he sailed for England to
gather material for a book on English life and customs.  He felt very
friendly toward the English, who had been highly appreciative of his
writings, and he wished their better acquaintance.  He gave out no word
of the book idea, and it seems unlikely that any one in England ever
suspected it.  He was there three months, and beyond some notebook
memoranda made during the early weeks of his stay he wrote not a line.
He was too delighted with everything to write a book--a book of his kind.
In letters home he declared the country to be as beautiful as fairyland.
By all classes attentions were showered upon him--honors such as he had
never received even in America.  W. D. Howells writes:[8]

     "In England rank, fashion, and culture rejoiced in him.  Lord mayors,
     lord chief justices, and magnates of many kinds were his hosts; he
     was desired in country houses, and his bold genius captivated the
     favor of periodicals, that spurned the rest of our nation."

He could not make a book--a humorous book--out of these people and their
country; he was too fond of them.

England fairly reveled in Mark Twain.  At one of the great banquets, a
roll of the distinguished guests was called, and the names properly
applauded.  Mark Twain, busily engaged in low conversation with his
neighbor, applauded without listening, vigorously or mildly, as the
others led.  Finally a name was followed by a great burst of long and
vehement clapping.  This must be some very great person indeed, and Mark
Twain, not to be outdone in his approval, stoutly kept his hands going
when all others had finished.

"Whose name was that we were just applauding?" he asked of his neighbor.

"Mark Twain's."

But it was no matter; they took it all as one of his jokes.  He was a
wonder and a delight to them.  Whatever he did or said was to them
supremely amusing.  When, on one occasion, a speaker humorously referred
to his American habit of carrying a cotton umbrella, his reply that he
did so "because it was the only kind of an umbrella that an Englishman
wouldn't steal," was repeated all over England next day as one of the
finest examples of wit since the days of Swift.

He returned to America at the end of November; promising to come back and
lecture to them the following year.

[7] From "My Mark Twain," by W. D. Howells.




XXXIV.

A NEW BOOK AND NEW ENGLISH TRIUMPHS

But if Mark Twain could find nothing to write of in England, he found no
lack of material in America.  That winter in Hartford, with Charles
Dudley Warner, he wrote "The Gilded Age."  The Warners were neighbors,
and the families visited back and forth.  One night at dinner, when the
two husbands were criticizing the novels their wives were reading, the
wives suggested that their author husbands write a better one.  The
challenge was accepted.  On the spur of the moment Warner and Clemens
agreed that they would write a book together, and began it immediately.

Clemens had an idea already in mind.  It was to build a romance around
that lovable dreamer, his mother's cousin, James Lampton, whom the reader
will recall from an earlier chapter.  Without delay he set to work and
soon completed the first three hundred and ninety-nine pages of the new
story.  Warner came over and, after listening to its reading, went home
and took up the story.  In two months the novel was complete, Warner
doing most of the romance, Mark Twain the character parts.  Warner's
portion was probably pure fiction, but Mark Twain's chapters were full of
history.

Judge Hawkins and wife were Mark Twain's father and mother; Washington
Hawkins, his brother Orion.  Their doings, with those of James Lampton as
Colonel Sellers, were, of course, elaborated, but the story of the
Tennessee land, as told in that book, is very good history indeed.  Laura
Hawkins, however, was only real in the fact that she bore the name of
Samuel Clemens's old playmate.  "The Gilded Age," published later in the
year, was well received and sold largely.  The character of Colonel
Sellers at once took a place among the great fiction characters of the
world, and is probably the best known of any American creation.  His
watchword, "There's millions in it!" became a byword.

The Clemenses decided to build in Hartford.  They bought a plot of land
on Farmington Avenue, in the literary neighborhood, and engaged an
architect and builder.  By spring, the new house was well under way, and,
matters progressing so favorably, the owners decided to take a holiday
while the work was going on.  Clemens had been eager to show England to
his wife; so, taking little Sissy, now a year old, they sailed in May, to
be gone half a year.

They remained for a time in London--a period of honors and entertainment.
If Mark Twain had been a lion on his first visit, he was hardly less than
royalty now.  His rooms at the Langham Hotel were like a court.  The
nation's most distinguished men--among them Robert Browning, Sir John
Millais, Lord Houghton, and Sir Charles Dilke--came to pay their
respects.  Authors were calling constantly.  Charles Reade and Wilkie
Collins could not get enough of Mark Twain.  Reade proposed to join with
him in writing a novel, as Warner had done.  Lewis Carroll did not call,
being too timid, but they met the author of "Alice in Wonderland" one
night at a dinner, "the shyest full-grown man, except Uncle Remiss, I
ever saw," Mark Twain once declared.

Little Sissy and her father thrived on London life, but it wore on Mrs.
Clemens.  At the end of July they went quietly to Edinburgh, and settled
at Veitch's Hotel, on George Street.  The strain of London life had been
too much for Mrs. Clemens, and her health became poor.  Unacquainted in
Edinburgh, Clemens only remembered that Dr. John Brown, author of "Rab
and His Friends," lived there.  Learning the address, he walked around to
23 Rutland Street, and made himself known.  Doctor Brown came forthwith,
and Mrs. Clemens seemed better from the moment of his arrival.

The acquaintance did not end there.  For a month the author of "Rab" and
the little Clemens family were together daily.  Often they went with him
to make his round of visits.  He was always leaning out of the carriage
to look at dogs.  It was told of him that once when he suddenly put his
head from a carriage window he dropped back with a disappointed look.

"Who was it?" asked his companion.  "Some one you know?"

"No, a dog I don't know."

Dr. John was beloved by everybody in Scotland, and his story of "Rab" had
won him a world-wide following.  Children adored him.  Little Susy and he
were playmates, and he named her "Megalopis," a Greek term, suggested by
her great, dark eyes.

Mark Twain kept his promise to lecture to a London audience.  On the 13th
of October, in the Queen's Concert Rooms, Hanover Square, he gave "Our
Fellow Savages of the Sandwich Islands."  The house was packed.  Clemens
was not introduced.  He appeared on the platform in evening dress,
assuming the character of a manager, announcing a disappointment.  Mr.
Clemens, he said, had fully expected to be present.  He paused, and loud
murmurs arose from the audience.  He lifted his hand and the noise
subsided.  Then he added, "I am happy to say that Mark Twain is present
and will now give his lecture."  The audience roared its approval.

He continued his lectures at Hanover Square through the week, and at no
time in his own country had he won such a complete triumph.  He was the
talk of the streets.  The papers were full of him.  The "London Times"
declared his lectures had only whetted the public appetite for more.  His
manager, George Dolby (formerly manager for Charles Dickens), urged him
to remain and continue the course through the winter.  Clemens finally
agreed that he would take his family back to America and come back
himself within the month.  This plan he carried out.  Returning to
London, he lectured steadily for two months in the big Hanover Square
rooms, giving his "Roughing It" address, and it was only toward the end
that his audience showed any sign of diminishing.  There is probably no
other such a lecture triumph on record.

Mark Twain was at the pinnacle of his first glory: thirty-six, in full
health, prosperous, sought by the world's greatest, hailed in the highest
places almost as a king.  Tom Sawyer's dreams of greatness had been all
too modest.  In its most dazzling moments his imagination had never led
him so far.




XXXV.

BEGINNING "TOM SAWYER"

It was at the end of January, 1874, when Mark Twain returned to America.
His reception abroad had increased his prestige at home.  Howells and
Aldrich came over from Boston to tell him what a great man he had become-
-to renew those Boston days of three years before--to talk and talk of
all the things between the earth and sky.  And Twichell came in, of
course, and Warner, and no one took account of time, or hurried, or
worried about anything at all.

"We had two such days as the aging sun no longer shines on in his round,"
wrote Howells, long after, and he tells how he and Aldrich were so
carried away with Clemens's success in subscription publication that on
the way back to Boston they planned a book to sell in that way.  It was
to be called "Twelve Memorable Murders," and they had made two or three
fortunes from it by the time they reached Boston.

"But the project ended there.  We never killed a single soul," Howells
once confessed to the writer of this memoir.

At Quarry Farm that summer Mark Twain began the writing of "The
Adventures of Tom Sawyer."  He had been planning for some time to set
down the story of those far-off days along the river-front at Hannibal,
with John Briggs, Tom Blankenship, and the rest of that graceless band,
and now in the cool luxury of a little study which Mrs. Crane had built
for him on the hillside he set himself to spin the fabric of his youth.
The study was a delightful place to work.  It was octagonal in shape,
with windows on all sides, something like a pilot-house.  From any
direction the breeze could come, and there were fine views.  To Twichell
he wrote:

     "It is a cozy nest, and just room in it for a sofa, table, and three
     or four chairs, and when the storm sweeps down the remote valley and
     the lightning flashes behind the hills beyond, and the rain beats on
     the roof over my head, imagine the luxury of it!"

He worked steadily there that summer.  He would begin mornings, soon
after breakfast, keeping at it until nearly dinner-time, say until five
or after, for it was not his habit to eat the midday meal.  Other members
of the family did not venture near the place; if he was wanted urgently,
a horn was blown.  His work finished, he would light a cigar and,
stepping lightly down the stone flight that led to the house-level, he
would find where the family had assembled and read to them his day's
work.  Certainly those were golden days, and the tale of Tom and Huck and
Joe Harper progressed.  To Dr. John Brown, in Scotland, he wrote:

     "I have been writing fifty pages of manuscript a day, on an average,
     for some time now, ..  .  .  and consequently have been so wrapped
     up in it and dead to everything else that I have fallen mighty short
     in letter-writing."

But the inspiration of Tom and Huck gave out when the tale was half
finished, or perhaps it gave way to a new interest.  News came one day
that a writer in San Francisco, without permission, had dramatized "The
Gilded Age," and that it was being played by John T. Raymond, an actor of
much power.  Mark Twain had himself planned to dramatize the character of
Colonel Sellers and had taken out dramatic copyright.  He promptly
stopped the California production, then wrote the dramatist a friendly
letter, and presently bought the play of him, and set in to rewrite it.
It proved a great success.  Raymond played it for several years.  Colonel
Sellers on the stage became fully as popular as in the book, and very
profitable indeed.




XXXVI.

THE NEW HOME

The new home in Hartford was ready that autumn--the beautiful house
finished, or nearly finished, the handsome furnishings in place.  It was
a lovely spot.  There were trees and grass--a green, shady slope that
fell away to a quiet stream.  The house itself, quite different from the
most of the houses of that day, had many wings and balconies, and toward
the back a great veranda that looked down the shaded slope.  The kitchen
was not at the back.  As Mark Twain was unlike any other man that ever
lived, so his house was not like other houses.  When asked why he built
the kitchen toward the street, he said:

     "So the servants can see the circus go by without running into the
     front yard."

But this was probably his afterthought.  The kitchen wing extended toward
Farmington Avenue, but it was a harmonious detail of the general plan.

Many frequenters have tried to express the charm of Mark Twain's
household.  Few have succeeded, for it lay not in the house itself, nor
in its furnishings, beautiful as these things were, but in the
personality of its occupants--the daily round of their lives--the
atmosphere which they unconsciously created.  From its wide entrance-hall
and tiny, jewel like conservatory below to the billiard-room at the top
of the house, it seemed perfectly appointed, serenely ordered, and full
of welcome.  The home of one of the most unusual and unaccountable
personalities in the world was filled with gentleness and peace.  It was
Mrs. Clemens who was chiefly responsible.  She was no longer the half-
timid, inexperienced girl he had married.  Association, study, and travel
had brought her knowledge and confidence.  When the great ones of the
world came to visit America's most picturesque literary figure, she gave
welcome to them, and filled her place at his side with such sweet grace
that those who came to pay their dues to him often returned to pay still
greater devotion to his companion.  William Dean Howells, so often a
visitor there, once said to the writer:

     "Words cannot express Mrs. Clemens--her fineness, her delicate,
     wonderful tact."  And again, "She was not only a beautiful soul, but
     a woman of singular intellectual power."

There were always visitors in the Clemens home.  Above the mantel in the
library was written: "The ornament of a house is the friends that
frequent it," and the Clemens home never lacked of those ornaments, and
they were of the world's best.  No distinguished person came to America
that did not pay a visit to Hartford and Mark Twain.  Generally it was
not merely a call, but a stay of days.  The welcome was always genuine,
the entertainment unstinted.  George Warner, a close neighbor, once said:

     "The Clemens house was the only one I have ever known where there
     was never any preoccupation in the evenings and where visitors were
     always welcome.  Clemens was the best kind of a host; his evenings
     after dinner were an unending flow of stories."

As for friends living near, they usually came and went at will, often
without the ceremony of knocking or formal leave-taking.  The two Warner
famines were among these, the home of Charles Dudley Warner being only a
step away.  Dr. and Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe were also close neighbors,
while the Twichell parsonage was not far.  They were all like one great
family, of which Mark Twain's home was the central gathering-place.




XXXVII.

"OLD TIMES," "SKETCHES," AND "TOM SAWYER"

The Rev. Joseph H. Twichell and Mark Twain used to take many long walks
together, and once they decided to walk from Hartford to Boston--about
one hundred miles.  They decided to allow three days for the trip, and
really started one morning, with some luncheon in a basket, and a little
bag of useful articles.  It was a bright, brisk November day, and they
succeeded in getting to Westford, a distance of twenty-eight miles, that
evening.  But they were lame and foot-sore, and next morning, when they
had limped six miles or so farther, Clemens telegraphed to Redpath:

     "We have made thirty-five miles in less than five days.  This shows
     the thing can be done.  Shall finish now by rail.  Did you have any
     bets on us?"

He also telegraphed Howells that they were about to arrive in Boston, and
they did, in fact, reach the Howells home about nine o'clock, and found
excellent company--the Cambridge set--and a most welcome supper waiting.
Clemens and Twichell were ravenous.  Clemens demanded food immediately.
Howells writes:

     "I can see him now as he stood up in the midst of our friends, with
     his head thrown back, and in his hands a dish of those scalloped
     oysters without which no party in Cambridge was really a party,
     exulting in the tale of his adventure, which had abounded in the
     most original characters and amusing incidents at every mile of
     their progress."

The pedestrians returned to Hartford a day or two later--by train.  It
was during another, though less extended, tour which Twichell and Clemens
made that fall, that the latter got his idea for a Mississippi book.
Howells had been pleading for something for the January "Atlantic," of
which he was now chief editor, but thus far Mark Twain's inspiration had
failed.  He wrote at last, "My head won't go," but later, the same day,
he sent another hasty line.

     "I take back the remark that I can't write for the January number,
     for Twichell and I have had a long walk in the woods, and I got to
     telling him about old Mississippi days of steam-boating glory and
     grandeur as I saw them (during four years) from the pilot-house.  He
     said, 'What a virgin subject to hurl into a magazine!'  I hadn't
     thought of that before.  Would you like a series of papers to run
     through three months, or six, or nine--or about four months, say?"

Howells wrote at once, welcoming the idea.  Clemens forthwith sent the
first instalment of that marvelous series of river chapters which rank
to-day among the very best of his work.  As pictures of the vanished
Mississippi life they are so real, so convincing, so full of charm that
they can never grow old.  As long as any one reads of the Mississippi
they will look up those chapters of Mark Twain's piloting days.  When the
first number appeared, John Hay wrote:

     "It is perfect; no more, no less.  I don't see how you do it."

The "Old Times" chapter ran through seven numbers of the "Atlantic," and
show Mark Twain at his very best.  They form now most of the early
chapters of "Life on the Mississippi."  The remainder of that book was
added about seven years later.

Those were busy literary days for Mark Twain.  Writing the river chapters
carried him back, and hardly had he finished them when he took up the
neglected story of "Tom and Huck," and finished that under full steam.
He at first thought of publishing it in the "Atlantic", but decided
against this plan.  He sent Howells the manuscript to read, and received
the fullest praise.  Howells wrote:

     "It is altogether the best boy's story I ever read.  It will be an
     immense success."

Clemens, however, delayed publication.  He had another volume in press--a
collection of his sketches--among them the "Jumping Frog," and others of
his California days.  The "Jumping Frog" had been translated into French,
and in this book Mark Twain published the French version and then a
literal retranslation of his own, which is one of the most amusing
features in the volume.  As an example, the stranger's remark, "I don't
see no p'ints about that frog that's any better than any other frog," in
the literal retranslation becomes, "I no saw not that that frog had
nothing of better than each frog," and Mark Twain parenthetically adds,
"If that isn't grammar gone to seed, then I count myself no judge."

"Sketches New and Old" went very well, but the book had no such sale as
"The Adventures of Tom Sawyer," which appeared a year later, December,
1876.  From the date of its issue it took its place as foremost of
American stories of boy life, a place that to this day it shares only
with "Huck Finn."  Mark Twain's own boy life in the little drowsy town of
Hannibal, with John Briggs and Tom Blankenship--their adventures in and
about the cave and river--made perfect material.  The story is full of
pure delight.  The camp on the island is a picture of boy heaven.  No boy
that reads it but longs for the woods and a camp-fire and some bacon
strips in the frying-pan.  It is all so thrillingly told and so vivid.
We know certainly that it must all have happened.  "The Adventures of Tom
Sawyer" has taken a place side by side with "Treasure Island."




XXXVIII.

HOME PICTURES

Mark Twain was now regarded by many as the foremost American author.
Certainly he was the most widely known.  As a national feature he rivaled
Niagara Falls.  No civilized spot on earth that his name had not reached.
Letters merely addressed "Mark Twain" found their way to him.  "Mark
Twain, United States," was a common superscription.  "Mark Twain, The
World," also reached him without delay, while "Mark Twain, Somewhere,"
and "Mark Twain, Anywhere," in due time came to Hartford.  "Mark Twain,
God Knows Where," likewise arrived promptly, and in his reply he said,
"He did."  Then a letter addressed "The Devil Knows Where" also reached
him, and he answered, "He did, too."  Surely these were the farthermost
limits of fame.

Countless anecdotes went the rounds of the press.  Among them was one
which happened to be true:

Their near neighbor, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, was leaving for Florida
one morning, and Clemens ran over early to say good-by.  On his return
Mrs. Clemens looked at him severely.

"Why, Youth," she said, "you haven't on any collar and tie."

He said nothing, but went to his room, wrapped up those items in a neat
package, which he sent over by a servant to Mrs. Stowe, with the line:

     "Herewith receive a call from the rest of me."

Mrs. Stowe returned a witty note, in which she said he had discovered a
new principle--that of making calls by instalments, and asked whether in
extreme cases a man might not send his clothes and be himself excused.

Most of his work Mark Twain did at Quarry Farm.  Each summer the family--
there were two little girls now, Susy and Clara--went to that lovely
place on the hilltop above Elmira, where there were plenty of green
fields and cows and horses and apple-trees, a spot as wonderful to them
as John Quarles's farm had been to their father, so long ago.  All the
family loved Quarry Farm, and Mark Twain's work went more easily there.
His winters were not suited to literary creation--there were too many
social events, though once--it was the winter of '76--he wrote a play
with Bret Harte, who came to Hartford and stayed at the Clemens home
while the work was in progress.  It was a Chinese play, "Ah Sin," and the
two had a hilarious time writing it, though the result did not prove much
of a success with the public.  Mark Twain often tried plays--one with
Howells, among others--but the Colonel Sellers play was his only success.

Grand dinners, trips to Boston and New York, guests in his own home,
occupied much of Mark Twain's winter season.  His leisure he gave to his
children and to billiards.  He had a passion for the game, and at any
hour of the day or night was likely to be found in the room at the top of
the house, knocking the balls about alone or with any visitor that he had
enticed to that den.  He mostly received his callers there, and impressed
them into the game.  If they could play, well and good.  If not, so much
the better; he could beat them extravagantly, and he took huge delight in
such contests.  Every Friday evening a party of billiard lovers--Hartford
men--gathered and played, and told stories, and smoked, until the room
was blue.  Clemens never tired of the game.  He could play all night.  He
would stay until the last man dropped from sheer weariness, and then go
on knocking the balls about alone.

But many evenings at home--early evenings--he gave to Susy and Clara.
They had learned his gift as a romancer and demanded the most startling
inventions.  They would bring him a picture requiring him to fit a story
to it without a moment's delay.  Once he was suddenly ordered by Clara to
make a story out of a plumber and a "bawgunstictor," which, on the whole,
was easier than some of their requirements.  Along the book-shelves were
ornaments and pictures.  A picture of a girl whom they called "Emeline"
was at one end, and at the other a cat.  Every little while they
compelled him to make a story beginning with the cat and ending with
Emeline.  Always a new story, and never the other way about.  The
literary path from the cat to Emeline was a perilous one, but in time he
could have traveled it in his dreams.




XXXIX.

TRAMPING ABROAD

It was now going on ten years since the publication of "The Innocents
Abroad," and there was a demand for another Mark Twain book of travel.
Clemens considered the matter, and decided that a walking-tour in Europe
might furnish the material he wanted.  He spoke to his good friend, the
Rev. "Joe" Twichell, and invited him to become his guest on such an
excursion, because, as he explained, he thought he could "dig material
enough out of Joe to make it a sound investment."  As a matter of fact,
he loved Twichell's companionship, and was always inviting him to share
his journeys--to Boston, to Bermuda, to Washington--wherever interest or
fancy led him.  His plan now was to take the family to Germany in the
spring, and let Twichell join them later for a summer tramp down through
the Black Forest and Switzerland.  Meantime the Clemens household took up
the study of German.  The children had a German nurse--others a German
teacher.  The household atmosphere became Teutonic.  Of course it all
amused Mark Twain, as everything amused him, but he was a good student.
In a brief time he had a fair knowledge of every-day German and a
really surprising vocabulary.  The little family sailed in April (1878),
and a few weeks later were settled in the Schloss Hotel, on a hill above
Heidelberg, overlooking the beautiful old castle, the ancient town, with
the Neckar winding down the hazy valley--as fair a view as there is in
all Germany.

Clemens found a room for his work in a small house not far from the
hotel.  On the day of his arrival he had pointed out this house and said
he had decided to work there--that his room would be the middle one on
the third floor.  Mrs. Clemens laughed, and thought the occupants of the
house might be surprised when he came over to take possession.  They
amused themselves by watching "his people" and trying to make out what
they were like.  One day he went over that way, and, sure enough, there
was a sign, "Furnished Rooms," and the one he had pointed out from the
hotel was vacant.  It became his study forthwith.

The travelers were delighted with their location.  To Howells, Clemens
wrote:

     "Our bedroom has two great glass bird-cages (inclosed balconies), one
     looking toward the Rhine Valley and sunset, the other looking up the
     Neckar cul de sac, and, naturally, we spent nearly all our time in
     these.  We have tables and chairs in them .  .  .  .  It must have
     been a noble genius who devised this hotel.  Lord! how blessed is
     the repose, the tranquillity of this place!  Only two sounds: the
     happy clamor of the birds in the groves and the muffled music of the
     Neckar tumbling over the opposing dikes.  It is no hardship to lie
     awake awhile nights, for thin subdued roar has exactly the sound of
     a steady rain beating upon a roof.  It is so healing to the spirit;
     and it bears up the thread of one's imaginings as the accompaniment
     bears up a song."

Twichell was summoned for August, and wrote back eagerly at the prospect:

     "Oh, my!  Do you realize, Mark, what a symposium it is to be?  I do.
     To begin with, I am thoroughly tired, and the rest will be worth
     everything.  To walk with you and talk with you for weeks together--
     why, it's my dream of luxury!"

Meantime the struggle with the "awful German language" went on.  Rosa,
the maid, was required to speak to the children only in German, though
little Clara at first would have none of it.  Susy, two years older,
tried, and really made progress, but one day she said, pathetically:

     "Mama, I wish Rosa was made in English."

But presently she was writing to "Aunt Sue" (Mrs. Crane) at Quarry Farm:

     "I know a lot of German; everybody says I know a lot.  I give you a
     million dollars to see you, and you would give two hundred dollars
     to see the lovely woods we see."

Twichell arrived August 1st.  Clemens met him at Baden-Baden, and they
immediately set forth on a tramp through the Black Forest, excursioning
as they pleased and having a blissful time.  They did not always walk.
They were likely to take a carnage or a donkey-cart, or even a train,
when one conveniently happened along.  They did not hurry, but idled and
talked and gathered flowers, or gossiped with wayside natives--
picturesque peasants in the Black Forest costume.  In due time they
crossed into Switzerland and prepared to conquer the Alps.

The name Mark Twain had become about as well known in Europe as it was in
America.  His face, however, was less familiar.  He was not often
recognized in these wanderings, and his pen-name was carefully concealed.
It was a relief to him not to be an object of curiosity and lavish
attention.  Twichell's conscience now and then prompted him to reveal the
truth.  In one of his letters home he wrote how a young man at a hotel
had especially delighted in Mark's table conversation, and how he
(Twichell) had later taken the young man aside and divulged the speaker's
identity.

     "I could not forbear telling him who Mark was, and the mingled
     surprise and pleasure his face exhibited made me glad I had done so."

They did not climb many of the Alps on foot.  They did scale the Rigi,
after which Mark Twain was not in the best walking trim; though later
they conquered Gemmi Pass--no small undertaking--that trail that winds up
and up until the traveler has only the glaciers and white peaks and the
little high-blooming flowers for company.

All day long the friends would tramp and walk together, and when they did
not walk they would hire a diligence or any vehicle that came handy, but,
whatever their means of travel the joy of comradeship amid those superb
surroundings was the same.

In Twichell's letters home we get pleasant pictures of the Mark Twain of
that day:

     "Mark, to-day, was immensely absorbed in flowers.  He scrambled
     around and gathered a great variety, and manifested the intensest
     pleasure in them .  .  .  .  Mark is splendid to walk with amid such
     grand scenery, for he talks so well about it, has such a power of
     strong, picturesque expression.  I wish you might have heard him
     today.  His vigorous speech nearly did justice to the things we saw."

And in another place:

     "He can't bear to see the whip used, or to see a horse pull hard.
     To-day when the driver clucked up his horse and quickened his pace a
     little, Mark said, 'The fellow's got the notion that we were in a
     hurry.'"

Another extract refers to an incident which Mark Twain also mentions in
"A Tramp Abroad:" [8]

     "Mark is a queer fellow.  There is nothing so delights him as a
     swift, strong stream.  You can hardly get him to leave one when once
     he is in the influence of its fascinations.  To throw in stones and
     sticks seems to afford him rapture."

Twichell goes on to tell how he threw some driftwood into a racing
torrent and how Mark went running down-stream after it, waving and
shouting in a sort of mad ecstasy.

When a piece went over a fall and emerged to view in the foam below, he
would jump up and down and yell.  He acted just like a boy.

Boy he was, then and always.  Like Peter Pan, he never really grew up--
that is, if growing up means to grow solemn and uninterested in play.

Climbing the Gorner Grat with Twichell, they sat down to rest, and a lamb
from a near-by flock ventured toward them.  Clemens held out his hand and
called softly.  The lamb ventured nearer, curious but timid.

It was a scene for a painter: the great American humorist on one side of
the game, and the silly little creature on the other, with the Matterhorn
for a background.  Mark was reminded that the time he was consuming was
valuable, but to no purpose.  The Gorner Grat could wait.  He held on
with undiscouraged perseverance till he carried his point; the lamb
finally put its nose in Mark's hand, and he was happy all the rest of the
day.

"In A Tramp Abroad" Mark Twain burlesques most of the walking-tour with
Harris (Twichell), feeling, perhaps, that he must make humor at whatever
cost.  But to-day the other side of the picture seems more worth while.
That it seemed so to him, also, even at the time, we may gather from a
letter he sent after Twichell when it was all over and Twichell was on
his way home:

     "DEAR OLD JOE,--It is actually all over!  I was so low-spirited at
     the station yesterday, and this morning, when I woke, I couldn't
     seem to accept the dismal truth that you were really gone and the
     pleasant tramping and talking at an end.  Ah, my boy!  It has been
     such a rich holiday for me, and I feel under such deep and honest
     obligations to you for coming.  I am putting out of my mind all
     memory of the time when I misbehaved toward you and hurt you; I am
     resolved to consider it forgiven, and to store up and remember only
     the charming hours of the journey and the times when I was not
     unworthy to be with you and share a companionship which to me stands
     first after Livy's."

Clemens had joined his family at Lausanne, and presently they journeyed
down into Italy, returning later to Germany--to Munich, where they lived
quietly with Fraulein Dahlweiner at No. 1a Karlstrasse, while he worked
on his new book of travel.  When spring came they went to Paris, and
later to London, where the usual round of entertainment briefly claimed
them.  It was the 3d of September, 1879, when they finally reached New
York.  The papers said that Mark Twain had changed in his year and a half
of absence.  He had, somehow, taken on a traveled look.  One paper
remarked that he looked older than when he went to Germany, and that his
hair had turned quite gray.

[8] Chapter XXXIII.




XL.

"THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER"

They went directly to Quarry Farm, where Clemens again took up work on
his book, which he hoped to have ready for early publication.  But his
writing did not go as well as he had hoped, and it was long after they
had returned to Hartford that the book was finally in the printer's
hands.

Meantime he had renewed work on a story begun two years before at Quarry
Farm.  Browsing among the books there one summer day, he happened to pick
up "The Prince and the Page," by Charlotte M. Yonge.  It was a story of a
prince disguised as a blind beggar, and, as Mark Twain read, an idea came
to him for an altogether different story, or play, of his own.  He would
have a prince and a pauper change places, and through a series of
adventures learn each the trials and burdens of the other life.  He
presently gave up the play idea, and began it as a story.  His first
intention had been to make the story quite modern, using the late King
Edward VII. (then Prince of Wales) as his prince, but it seemed to him
that it would not do to lose a prince among the slums of modern London--
he could not make it seem real; so he followed back through history until
he came to the little son of Henry VIII., Edward Tudor, and decided that
he would do.

It was the kind of a story that Mark Twain loved to read and to write.
By the end of that first summer he had finished a good portion of the
exciting adventures of "The Prince and the Pauper," and then, as was
likely to happen, the inspiration waned and the manuscript was laid
aside.

But with the completion of "A Tramp Abroad"--a task which had grown
wearisome--he turned to the luxury of romance with a glad heart.  To
Howells he wrote that he was taking so much pleasure in the writing that
he wanted to make it last.

     "Did I ever tell you the plot of it?  It begins at 9 A.M., January
     27, 1547 .  .  .  .  My idea is to afford a realizing sense of the
     exceeding severity of the laws of that day by inflicting some of
     their penalties upon the king himself, and allowing him a chance to
     see the rest of them applied to others."

Susy and Clara Clemens were old enough now to understand the story, and
as he finished the chapters he read them aloud to his small home
audience--a most valuable audience, indeed, for he could judge from its
eager interest, or lack of attention, just the measure of his success.

These little creatures knew all about the writing of books.  Susy's
earliest recollection was "Tom Sawyer" read aloud from the manuscript.
Also they knew about plays.  They could not remember a time when they did
not take part in evening charades--a favorite amusement in the Clemens
home.

Mark Twain, who always loved his home and played with his children,
invented the charades and their parts for them, at first, but as they
grew older they did not need much help.  With the Twichell and Warner
children they organized a little company for their productions, and
entertained the assembled households.  They did not make any preparation
for their parts.  A word was selected and the syllables of it whispered
to the little actors.  Then they withdrew to the hall, where all sorts of
costumes had been laid out for the evening, dressed their parts, and each
group marched into the library, performed its syllable, and retired,
leaving the audience of parents to guess the answer.  Now and then, even
at this early day, they gave little plays, and of course Mark Twain could
not resist joining them.  In time the plays took the place of the
charades and became quite elaborate, with a stage and scenery, but we
shall hear of this later on.

"The Prince and the Pauper" came to an end in due season, in spite of the
wish of both author and audience for it to go on forever.  It was not
published at once, for several reasons, the main one being that "A Tramp
Abroad" had just been issued from the press, and a second book might
interfere with its sale.

As it was, the "Tramp" proved a successful book--never as successful as
the "Innocents," for neither its humor nor its description had quite the
fresh quality of the earlier work.  In the beginning, however, the sales
were large, the advance orders amounting to twenty-five thousand copies,
and the return to the author forty thousand dollars for the first year.




XLI.

GENERAL GRANT AT HARTFORD

A third little girl came to the Clemens household during the summer of
1880.  They were then at Quarry Farm, and Clemens wrote to his friend
Twichell:

     "DEAR OLD JOE,--Concerning Jean Clemens, if anybody said he "didn't
     see no p'ints about that frog that's any better than any other
     frog," I should think he was convicting himself of being a pretty
     poor sort of an observer. . .  It is curious to note the change in
     the stock-quotations of the Affection Board.  Four weeks ago the
     children put Mama at the head of the list right along, where she has
     always been, but now:

                                   Jean
                                   Mama
                                   Motley    }cat
                                   Fraulein  }cat
                                   Papa

     "That is the way it stands now.  Mama is become No. 2; I have dropped
     from 4 and become No. 5.  Some time ago it used to be nip and tuck
     between me and the cats, but after the cats "developed" I didn't
     stand any more show."

Those were happy days at Quarry Farm.  The little new baby thrived on
that summer hilltop.

Also, it may be said, the cats.  Mark Twain's children had inherited
his love for cats, and at the farm were always cats of all ages and
varieties.  Many of the bed-time stories were about these pets--stories
invented by Mark Twain as he went along--stories that began anywhere and
ended nowhere, and continued indefinitely from evening to evening,
trailing off into dreamland.

The great humorist cared less for dogs, though he was never unkind to
them, and once at the farm a gentle hound named Bones won his affection.
When the end of the summer came and Clemens, as was his habit, started
down the drive ahead of the carriage, Bones, half-way to the entrance,
was waiting for him.  Clemens stooped down, put his arms about him, and
bade him an affectionate good-by.

Eighteen hundred and eighty was a Presidential year.  Mark Twain was for
General Garfield, and made a number of remarkable speeches in his favor.
General Grant came to Hartford during the campaign, and Mark Twain was
chosen to make the address of welcome.  Perhaps no such address of
welcome was ever made before.  He began:

     "I am among those deputed to welcome you to the sincere and cordial
     hospitalities of Hartford, the city of the historic and revered
     Charter Oak, of which most of the town is built."

He seemed to be at a loss what to say next, and, leaning over, pretended
to whisper to Grant.  Then, as if he had been prompted by the great
soldier, he straightened up and poured out a fervid eulogy on Grant's
victories, adding, in an aside, as he finished, "I nearly forgot that
part of my speech," to the roaring delight of his hearers, while Grant
himself grimly smiled.

He then spoke of the General being now out of public employment, and how
grateful his country was to him, and how it stood ready to reward him in
every conceivable--inexpensive--way.

Grant had smiled more than once during the speech, and when this sentence
came out at the end his composure broke up altogether, while the throng
shouted approval.  Clemens made another speech that night at the opera-
house--a speech long remembered in Hartford as one of the great efforts
of his life.

A very warm friendship had grown up between Mark Twain and General Grant.
A year earlier, on the famous soldier's return from his trip around the
world, a great birthday banquet had been given him in Chicago, at which
Mark Twain's speech had been the event of the evening.  The colonel who
long before had chased the young pilot-soldier through the Mississippi
bottoms had become his conquering hero, and Grant's admiration for
America's foremost humorist was most hearty.  Now and again Clemens urged
General Grant to write his memoirs for publication, but the hero of many
battles was afraid to venture into the field of letters.  He had no
confidence in his ability to write.  He did not realize that the man who
had written "I will fight it out on this line if it takes all summer,"
and, later, "Let us have peace," was capable of English as terse and
forceful as the Latin of Caesar's Commentaries.




XLII

MANY INVESTMENTS

The "Prince and the Pauper," delayed for one reason and another, did not
make its public appearance until the end of 1881.  It was issued by
Osgood, of Boston, and was a different book in every way from any that
Mark Twain had published before.  Mrs. Clemens, who loved the story, had
insisted that no expense should be spared in its making, and it was,
indeed, a handsome volume.  It was filled with beautiful pen-and-ink
drawings, and the binding was rich.  The dedication to its two earliest
critics read:

               "To those good-mannered and agreeable
               children, Susy and Clara Clemens."

The story itself was unlike anything in Mark Twain's former work.  It was
pure romance, a beautiful, idyllic tale, though not without his touch of
humor and humanity on every page.  And how breathlessly interesting it
is!  We may imagine that first little audience--the "two good-mannered
and agreeable children," drawing up in their little chairs by the
fireside, hanging on every paragraph of the adventures of the wandering
prince and Tom Canty, the pauper king, eager always for more.

The story, at first, was not entirely understood by the reviewers.  They
did not believe it could be serious.  They expected a joke in it
somewhere.  Some even thought they had found it.  But it was not a joke,
it was just a simple tale--a beautiful picture of a long-vanished time.
One critic, wiser than the rest, said:

     "The characters of those two boys, twin in spirit, will rank with the
     purest and loveliest creations of child-life in the realm of
     fiction."

Mark Twain was now approaching the fullness of his fame and prosperity.
The income from his writing was large; Mrs. Clemens possessed a
considerable fortune of her own; they had no debts.  Their home was as
perfectly appointed as a home could well be, their family life was ideal.
They lived in the large, hospitable way which Mrs. Clemens had known in
her youth, and which her husband, with his Southern temperament, loved.
Their friends were of the world's chosen, and they were legion in number.
There were always guests in the Clemens home--so many, indeed, were
constantly coming and going that Mark Twain said he was going to set up a
private 'bus to save carnage hire.  Yet he loved it all dearly, and for
the most part realized his happiness.

Unfortunately, there were moments when he forgot that his lot was
satisfactory, and tried to improve it.  His Colonel Sellers imagination,
inherited from both sides of his family, led him into financial
adventures which were generally unprofitable.  There were no silver-mines
in the East into which to empty money and effort, as in the old Nevada
days, but there were plenty of other things--inventions, stock companies,
and the like.

When a man came along with a patent steam-generator which would save
ninety per cent. of the usual coal-supply, Mark Twain invested whatever
bank surplus he had at the moment, and saw that money no more forever.

After the steam-generator came a steam-pulley, a small affair, but
powerful enough to relieve him of thirty-two thousand dollars in a brief
time.

A new method of marine telegraphy was offered him by the time his balance
had grown again, a promising contrivance, but it failed to return the
twenty-five thousand dollars invested in it by Mark Twain.  The list of
such adventures is too long to set down here.  They differ somewhat, but
there is one feature common to all--none of them paid.  At last came a
chance in which there was really a fortune.  A certain Alexander Graham
Bell, an inventor, one day appeared, offering stock in an invention for
carrying the human voice on an electric wire.  But Mark Twain had grown
wise, he thought.  Long after he wrote:

     "I declined.  I said I did not want any more to do with wildcat
     speculation ....  I said I didn't want it at any price.  He (Bell)
     became eager; and insisted I take five hundred dollars' worth.  He
     said he would sell me as much as I wanted for five hundred dollars;
     offered to let me gather it up in my hands and measure it in a plug-
     hat; said I could have a whole hatful for five hundred dollars.  But
     I was a burnt child, and resisted all these temptations--resisted
     them easily; went off with my money, and next day lent five thousand
     of it to a friend who was going to go bankrupt three days later."

It was the chance of fortune thus thrown away which, perhaps, led him to
take up later with an engraving process--an adventure which lasted
through several years and ate up a heavy sum.  Altogether, these
experiences in finance cost Mark Twain a fair-sized fortune, though,
after all, they were as nothing compared with the great type-machine
calamity which we shall hear of in a later chapter.




XLIII

BACK TO THE RIVER, WITH BIXBY

Fortunately, Mark Twain was not greatly upset by his losses.  They
exasperated him for the moment, perhaps, but his violence waned
presently, and the whole matter was put aside forever.  His work went on
with slight interference.  Looking over his Mississippi chapters one day,
he was taken with a new interest in the river, and decided to make the
steamboat trip between St. Louis and New Orleans, to report the changes
that had taken place in his twenty-one years of absence.  His Boston
publisher, Osgood, agreed to accompany him, and a stenographer was
engaged to take down conversations and comments.

At St. Louis they took passage on the steamer "Gold Dust"--Clemens under
an assumed name, though he was promptly identified.  In his book he tells
how the pilot recognized him and how they became friends.  Once, in later
years, he said:

     "I spent most of my time up there with him.  When we got down below
     Cairo, where there was a big, full river--for it was high-water
     season and there was no danger of the boat hitting anything so long
     as she kept in the river--I had her most of the time on his watch.
     He would lie down and sleep and leave me there to dream that the
     years had not slipped away; that there had been no war, no mining
     days, no literary adventures; that I was still a pilot, happy and
     care-free as I had been twenty years before."

To heighten the illusion he had himself called regularly with the four-
o'clock watch, in order not to miss the mornings.  The points along the
river were nearly all new to him, everything had changed, but during
high-water this mattered little.  He was a pilot again--a young fellow in
his twenties, speculating on the problems of existence and reading his
fortunes in the stars.  The river had lost none of its charm for him.  To
Bixby he wrote:

     "I'd rather be a pilot than anything else I've ever been in my life.
     How do you run Plum Point?"

He met Bixby at New Orleans.  Bixby was a captain now, on the splendid
new Anchor Line steamer "City of Baton Rouge," one of the last of the
fine river boats.  Clemens made the return trip to St. Louis with Bixby
on the "Baton Rouge"--almost exactly twenty-five years from their first
trip together.  To Bixby it seemed wonderfully like those old days back
in the fifties.

"Sam was making notes in his memorandum-book, just as he always did,"
said Bixby, long after, to the writer of this history.

Mark Twain decided to see the river above St. Louis.  He went to Hannibal
to spend a few days with old friends.  "Delightful days," he wrote home,
"loitering around all day long, and talking with grayheads who were boys
and girls with me thirty or forty years ago."  He took boat for St. Paul
and saw the upper river, which he had never seen before.  He thought the
scenery beautiful, but he found a sadness everywhere because of the decay
of the river trade.  In a note-book entry he said: "The romance of
boating is gone now.  In Hannibal the steamboatman is no longer a god."

He worked at the Mississippi book that summer at the farm, but did not
get on very well, and it was not until the following year (1883) that it
came from the press.  Osgood published it, and Charles L. Webster, who
had married Mark Twain's niece, Annie (daughter of his sister Pamela),
looked after the agency sales.  Mark Twain, in fact, was preparing to
become his own publisher, and this was the beginning.  Webster was a man
of ability, and the book sold well.

"Life on the Mississippi" is one of Mark Twain's best books--one of those
which will live longest.  The first twenty chapters are not excelled in
quality anywhere in his writings.  The remainder of the book has an
interest of its own, but it lacks the charm of those memories of his
youth--the mellow light of other days which enhances all of his better
work.




XLIV.

A READING-TOUR WITH CABLE

Every little while Mark Twain had a fever of play-writing, and it was
about this time that he collaborated with W. D. Howells on a second
Colonel Sellers play.  It was a lively combination.

Once to the writer Howells said: "Clemens took one scene and I another.
We had loads of fun about it.  We cracked our sides laughing over it
as we went along.  We thought it mighty good, and I think to this day it
was mighty good."

But actors and managers did not agree with them.  Raymond, who had played
the original Sellers, declared that in this play the Colonel had not
become merely a visionary, but a lunatic.  The play was offered
elsewhere, and finally Mark Twain produced it at his own expense.  But
perhaps the public agreed with Raymond, for the venture did not pay.

It was about a year after this (the winter of 1884-5) that Mark Twain
went back to the lecture platform--or rather, he joined with George W.
Cable in a reading-tour.  Cable had been giving readings on his own
account from his wonderful Creole stories, and had visited Mark Twain in
Hartford.  While there he had been taken down with the mumps, and it was
during his convalescence that the plan for a combined reading-tour had
been made.  This was early in the year, and the tour was to begin in the
autumn.

Cable, meantime, having quite recovered, conceived a plan to repay Mark
Twain's hospitality.  It was to be an April-fool--a great complimentary
joke.  A few days before the first of the month he had a "private and
confidential" circular letter printed, and mailed it to one hundred and
fifty of Mark Twain's friends and admirers in Boston, New York, and
elsewhere, asking that they send the humorist a letter to arrive April 1,
requesting his autograph.  It would seem that each one receiving this
letter must have responded to it, for on the morning of April 1st an
immense pile of letters was unloaded on Mark Twain's table.  He did not
know what to make of it, and Mrs. Clemens, who was party to the joke,
slyly watched results.  They were the most absurd requests for autographs
ever written.  He was fooled and mystified at first, then realizing the
nature and magnitude of the joke, he entered into it fully-delighted, of
course, for it was really a fine compliment.  Some of the letters asked
for autographs by the yard, some by the pound.  Some commanded him to sit
down and copy a few chapters from "The Innocents Abroad."  Others asked
that his autograph be attached to a check.  John Hay requested that he
copy a hymn, a few hundred lines of Young's "Night Thoughts," etc., and
added:

     "I want my boy to form a taste for serious and elevated poetry, and
     it will add considerable commercial value to have it in your
     handwriting."

Altogether, the reading of the letters gave Mark Twain a delightful day.

The platform tour of Clemens and Cable that fall was a success.  They had
good houses, and the work of these two favorites read by the authors of
it made a fascinating program.

They continued their tour westward as far as Chicago and gave readings in
Hannibal and Keokuk.  Orion Clemens and his wife once more lived in
Keokuk, and with them Jane Clemens, brisk and active for her eighty-one
years.  She had visited Hartford more than once and enjoyed "Sam's fine
house," but she chose the West for home.  Orion Clemens, honest, earnest,
and industrious, had somehow missed success in life.  The more prosperous
brother, however, made an allowance ample for all.  Mark Twain's mother
attended the Keokuk reading.  Later, at home, when her children asked her
if she could still dance (she had been a great dancer in her youth), she
rose, and in spite of her fourscore, tripped as lightly as a girl.  It
was the last time that Mark Twain would see her in full health.

At Christmas-time Cable and Clemens took a fortnight's holiday, and
Clemens went home to Hartford.  There a grand surprise awaited him.  Mrs.
Clemens had made an adaptation of "The Prince and the Pauper" for the
stage, and his children, with those of the neighborhood, had learned the
parts.  A good stage had been set up in George Warner's home, with a
pretty drop-curtain and very good scenery indeed.  Clemens arrived in the
late afternoon, and felt an air of mystery in the house, but did not
guess what it meant.  By and by he was led across the grounds to George
Warner's home, into a large room, and placed in a seat directly fronting
the stage.  Then presently the curtain went up, the play began, and he
knew.  As he watched the little performers playing so eagerly the parts
of his story, he was deeply moved and gratified.

It was only the beginning of "The Prince and the Pauper" production.  The
play was soon repeated, Clemens himself taking the part of Miles Hendon.
In a "biography" of her father which Susy began a little later, she
wrote:

     "Papa had only three days to learn the part in, but still we were all
     sure he could do it .  .  .  .  I was the prince, and Papa and I
     rehearsed two or three times a day for the three days before the
     appointed evening.  Papa acted his part beautifully, and he added to
     the scene, making it a good deal longer.  He was inexpressibly
     funny, with his great slouch hat and gait--oh, such a gait!"

Susy's sister, Clara, took the part of Lady Jane Gray, while little Jean,
aged four, in the part of a court official, sat at a small table and
constantly signed state papers and death-warrants.




XLV.

"THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN"

Meantime, Mark Twain had really become a publisher.  His nephew by
marriage, Charles L. Webster, who, with Osgood, had handled the
"Mississippi" book, was now established under the firm name of Charles L.
Webster & Co., Samuel L. Clemens being the company.  Clemens had another
book ready, and the new firm were to handle it throughout.

The new book was a story which Mark Twain had begun one day at Quarry
Farm, nearly eight years before.  It was to be a continuation of the
adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, especially of the latter as told
by himself.  But the author had no great opinion of the tale and
presently laid it aside.  Then some seven years later, after his trip
down the river, he felt again the inspiration of the old days, and the
story of Huck's adventures had been continued and brought to a close.
The author believed in it by this time, and the firm of Webster & Co.
was really formed for the purpose of publishing it.

Mark Twain took an active interest in the process.  From the pages of
"Life" he selected an artist--a young man named E. W. Kemble, who would
later become one of our foremost illustrators of Southern character.  He
also gave attention to the selection of the paper and the binding--even
to the method of canvassing for the sales.  In a note to Webster, he
wrote:

     "Get at your canvassing early and drive it with all your might .  .
     .  .  If we haven't 40,000 subscriptions we simply postpone
     publication till we've got them."

Mark Twain was making himself believe that he was a business man, and in
this instance, at least, he seems to have made no mistake.  Some advanced
chapters of "Huck" appeared serially in the "Century Magazine," and the
public was eager for more.  By the time the "Century" chapters were
finished the forty thousand advance subscriptions for the book had been
taken, and Huck Finn's own story, so long pushed aside and delayed, came
grandly into its own.  Many grown-up readers and most critics declared
that it was greater than the "Tom Sawyer" book, though the younger
readers generally like the first book the best, it being rather more in
the juvenile vein.  Huck's story, in fact, was soon causing quite grown-
up discussions--discussions as to its psychology and moral phases,
matters which do not interest small people, who are always on Huck's side
in everything, and quite willing that he should take any risk of body or
soul for the sake of Nigger Jim.  Poor, vagrant Ben Blankenship, hiding
his runaway negro in an Illinois swamp, could not dream that his
humanity would one day supply the moral episode for an immortal book!

As literature, the story of "Huck Finn" holds a higher place than that of
"Tom Sawyer."  As stories, they stand side by side, neither complete
without the other, and both certain to live as long as there are real
boys and girls to read them.




XLVI.

PUBLISHER TO GENERAL GRANT

Mark Twain was now a successful publisher, but his success thus far was
nothing to what lay just ahead.  One evening he learned that General
Grant, after heavy financial disaster, had begun writing the memoirs
which he (Clemens) had urged him to undertake some years before.  Next
morning he called on the General to learn the particulars.  Grant had
contributed some articles to the "Century" war series, and felt in a mood
to continue the work.  He had discussed with the "Century" publishers the
matter of a book.  Clemens suggested that such a book should be sold only
by subscription and prophesied its enormous success.  General Grant was
less sure.  His need of money was very great and he was anxious to get as
much return as possible, but his faith was not large.  He was inclined to
make no special efforts in the matter of publication.  But Mark Twain
prevailed.  Like his own Colonel Sellers, he talked glowingly and
eloquently of millions.  He first offered to direct the general to his
own former subscription publisher, at Hartford, then finally proposed to
publish it himself, offering Grant seventy per cent. of the net returns,
and to pay all office expenses out of his own share.

Of course there could be nothing for any publisher in such an arrangement
unless the sales were enormous.  General Grant realized this, and at
first refused to consent.  Here was a friend offering to bankrupt himself
out of pure philanthropy, a thing he could not permit.  But Mark Twain
came again and again, and finally persuaded him that purely as business
proposition the offer was warranted by the certainty of great sales.

So the firm of Charles L. Webster & Co. undertook the Grant book, and the
old soldier, broken in health and fortune, was liberally provided with
means that would enable him to finish his task with his mind at peace.
He devoted himself steadily to the work--at first writing by hand, then
dictating to a stenographer that Webster & Co. provided.  His disease,
cancer, made fierce ravages, but he "fought it out on that line," and
wrote the last pages of his memoirs by hand when he could no longer speak
aloud.  Mark Twain was much with him, and cheered him with anecdotes and
news of the advance sale of his book.  In one of his memoranda of that
time Clemens wrote:

     "To-day (May 26) talked with General Grant about his and my first
     great Missouri campaign, in 1861.  He surprised an empty camp near
     Florida, Missouri, on Salt River, which I had been occupying a day
     or two before.  How near he came to playing the d-- with his future
     publisher."

At Mount McGregor, a few weeks before the end, General Grant asked if any
estimate could now be made of the sum which his family would obtain from
his work, and was deeply comforted by Clemens's prompt reply that more
than one hundred thousand sets had already been sold, the author's share
of which would exceed one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.  Clemens
added that the gross return would probably be twice as much more.

The last notes came from Grant's hands soon after that, and a few days
later, July 23, 1885, his task completed, he died.  To Henry Ward Beecher
Clemens wrote:

     "One day he put his pencil aside and said there was nothing more to
     do.  If I had been there I could have foretold the shock that struck
     the world three days later."

In a memorandum estimate made by Mark Twain soon after the canvass for
the Grant memoirs had begun, he had prophesied that three hundred
thousand sets of the book would be sold, and that he would pay General
Grant in royalties $420,000.  This prophecy was more than fulfilled.  The
first check paid to Mrs. Grant--the largest single royalty check in
history--was for $200,000.  Later payments brought her royalty return up
to nearly $450.000.  For once, at least, Mark Twain's business vision had
been clear.  A fortune had been realized for the Grant family.  Even his
own share was considerable, for out of that great sale more than a
hundred thousand dollars' profit was realized by Webster & Co.




XLVII

THE HIGH-TIDE OF FORTUNE

That summer at Quarry Farm was one of the happiest they had ever known.
Mark Twain, nearing fifty, was in the fullness of his manhood and in the
brightest hour of his fortune.  Susy, in her childish "biography," begun
at this time, gives us a picture of him.  She begins:

     "We are a happy family!  We consist of Papa, Mama, Jean, Clara, and
     me.  It is Papa I am writing about, and I shall have no trouble in
     not knowing what to say about him, as he is a very striking
     character.  Papa's appearance has been described many times, but
     very incorrectly; he has beautiful, curly, gray hair, not any too
     thick or any too long, just right; a Roman nose, which greatly
     improves the beauty of his features, kind blue eyes, and a small
     mustache; he has a wonderfully shaped head and profile; he has a
     very good figure--in short, is an extraordinarily fine-looking man."

     "He is a very good man, and a very funny one; he has got a temper,
     but we all have in this family.  He is the loveliest man I ever saw,
     or ever hope to see, and oh, so absent-minded!"

We may believe this is a true picture of Mark Twain at fifty.  He did not
look young for his years, but he was still young in spirit and body.
Susy tells how he blew bubbles for the children, filling them with
tobacco smoke.  Also, how he would play with the cats and come clear down
from his study to see how a certain kitten was getting along.

Susy adds that "there are eleven cats at the farm now," and tells of the
day's occupations, but the description is too long to quote.  It reveals
a beautiful, busy life.

Susy herself was a gentle, thoughtful, romantic child.  One afternoon she
discovered a wonderful tangle of vines and bushes, a still, shut-in
corner not far from the study.  She ran breathlessly to her aunt.

"Can I have it--can Clara and I have it all for our own?"

The petition was granted and the place was called Helen's Bower, for they
were reading "Thaddeus of Warsaw", and the name appealed to Susy's poetic
fancy.  Something happened to the "bower"--an unromantic workman mowed it
down--but by this time there was a little house there which Mrs. Clemens
had built, just for the children.  It was a complete little cottage, when
furnished.  There was a porch in front, with comfortable chairs.  Inside
were also chairs, a table, dishes, shelves, a broom, even a stove--small,
but practical.  They called the little house "Ellerslie," out of Grace
Aguilar's "Days of Robert Bruce."  There alone, or with their Langdon
cousins, how many happy summers they played and dreamed away.  Secluded
by a hillside and happy trees, overlooking the hazy, distant town, it was
a world apart--a corner of story-book land.  When the end of the summer
came its little owners went about bidding their treasures good-by,
closing and kissing the gates of Ellerslie.

Looking back now, Mark Twain at fifty would seem to have been in his
golden prime.  His family was ideal--his surroundings idyllic.  Favored
by fortune, beloved by millions, honored now even in the highest places,
what more had life to give?  When November 30th brought his birthday, one
of the great Brahmins, Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, wrote him a beautiful
poem.  Andrew Lang, England's foremost critic, also sent verses, while
letters poured in from all sides.

And Mark Twain realized his fortune and was disturbed by it.  To a friend
he said: "I am frightened at the proportions of my prosperity.  It seems
to me that whatever I touch turns to gold."




XLVIII.

BUSINESS DIFFICULTIES.  PLEASANTER THINGS

For the time it would seem that Mark Twain had given up authorship for
business.  The success of the Grant book had filled his head with plans
for others of a like nature.  The memoirs of General McClellan and
General Sheridan were arranged for.  Almost any war-book was considered a
good venture.  And there was another plan afoot.  Pope Leo XIII., in his
old age, had given sanction to the preparation of his memoirs, and it was
to be published, with his blessing, by Webster & Co., of Hartford.  It
was generally believed that such a book would have a tremendous sale, and
Colonel Sellers himself could not have piled the figures higher than did
his creator in counting his prospective returns.  Every Catholic in the
world must have a copy of the Pope's book, and in America alone there
were millions.  Webster went to Rome to consult with the Pope in person,
and was received in private audience.  Mark Twain's publishing firm
seemed on the top wave of success.

The McClellan and Sheridan books were issued, and, in due time, the Life
of Pope Leo XIII.--published simultaneously in six languages--issued from
the press.  A large advance sale had been guaranteed by the general
canvassing agents--a fortunate thing, as it proved.  For, strange as it
may seem, the book did not prove a great success.  It is hard to explain
just why.  Perhaps Catholics felt that there had been so many popes that
the life of any particular one was no great matter.  The book paid, but
not largely.  The McClellan and Sheridan books, likewise, were only
partially successful.  Perhaps the public was getting tired of war
memoirs.  Webster & Co. undertook books of a general sort--travel,
fiction, poetry.  Many of them did not pay.  Their business from a march
of triumph had become a battle.  They undertook a "Library of American
Literature," a work of many volumes, costly to make and even more so to
sell.  To float this venture they were obliged to borrow large sums.

It seems unfortunate that Mark Twain should have been disturbed by these
distracting things during what should have been his literary high-tide.
As it was, his business interests and cares absorbed the energy that
might otherwise have gone into books.  He was not entirely idle.  He did
an occasional magazine article or story, and he began a book which he
worked at from time to time the story of a Connecticut Yankee who
suddenly finds himself back in the days of King Arthur's reign.  Webster
was eager to publish another book by his great literary partner, but the
work on it went slowly.  Then Webster broke down from two years of
overwork, and the business management fell into other hands.  Though
still recognized as a great publishing-house, those within the firm of
Charles L. Webster & Co. knew that its prospects were not bright.

Furthermore, Mark Twain had finally invested in another patent, the type-
setting machine mentioned in a former chapter, and the demands for cash
to promote this venture were heavy.  To his sister Pamela, about the end
of 1887, he wrote: "The type-setter goes on forever at $3,000 a month....
We'll be through with it in three or four months, I reckon"--a false
hope, for the three or four months would lengthen into as many years.

But if there were clouds gathering in the business sky, they were not
often allowed to cast a shadow in Mark Twain's home.  The beautiful house
in Hartford was a place of welcome and merriment, of many guests and of
happy children.  Especially of happy children: during these years--the
latter half of the 'eighties--when Mark Twain's fortunes were on the
decline, his children were at the age to have a good time, and certainly
they had it.  The dramatic stage which had been first set up at George
Warner's for the Christmas "Prince and Pauper" performance was brought
over and set up in the Clemens schoolroom, and every Saturday there were
plays or rehearsals, and every little while there would be a grand
general performance in the great library downstairs, which would
accommodate just eighty-four chairs, filled by parents of the performers
and invited guests.  In notes dictated many years later, Mark Twain said:

     "We dined as we could, probably with a neighbor, and by quarter to
     eight in the evening the hickory fire in the hall was pouring a
     sheet of flame up the chimney, the house was in a drench of gas-
     light from the ground floor up, the guests were arriving, and there
     was a babble of hearty greetings, with not a voice in it that was
     not old and familiar and affectionate; and when the curtain went up,
     we looked out from the stage upon none but faces dear to us, none
     but faces that were lit up with welcome for us."

He was one of the children himself, you see, and therefore on the stage
with the others.  Katy Leary, for thirty years in the family service,
once said to the author: "The children were crazy about acting, and we
all enjoyed it as much as they did, especially Mr. Clemens, who was the
best actor of all.  I have never known a happier household than theirs
was during those years."

The plays were not all given by the children.  Mark Twain had kept up his
German study, and a class met regularly in his home to struggle with the
problems of der, die, and das.  By and by he wrote a play for the class,
"Meisterschaft," a picturesque mixture of German and English, which they
gave twice, with great success.  It was unlike anything attempted before
or since.  No one but Mark Twain could have written it.  Later (January,
1888), in modified form, it was published in the "Century Magazine."  It
is his best work of this period.

Many pleasant and amusing things could be recalled from these days if one
only had room.  A visit with Robert Louis Stevenson was one of them.
Stevenson was stopping at a small hotel near Washington Square, and he
and Clemens sat on a bench in the sunshine and talked through at least
one golden afternoon.  What marvelous talk that must have been!  "Huck
Finn" was one of Stevenson's favorites, and once he told how he had
insisted on reading the book aloud to an artist who was painting his
portrait.  The painter had protested at first, but presently had fallen a
complete victim to Huck's story.  Once, in a letter, Stevenson wrote:

     "My father, an old man, has been prevailed upon to read 'Roughing It'
     (his usual amusement being found in theology), and after one evening
     spent with the book he declared: 'I am frightened.  It cannot be
     safe for a man at my time of life to laugh so much.'"

Mark Twain had been a "mugwump" during the Blame-Cleveland campaign in
1880, which means that he had supported the independent Democratic
candidate, Grover Cleveland.  He was, therefore, in high favor at the
White House during both Cleveland administrations, and called there
informally whenever business took him to Washington.  But on one occasion
(it was his first visit after the President's marriage) there was to be a
party, and Mrs. Clemens, who could not attend, slipped a little note into
the pocket of his evening waistcoat, where he would be sure to find it
when dressing, warning him as to his deportment.  Being presented to
young Mrs. Cleveland, he handed her a card on which he had written, "He
didn't," and asked her to sign her name below those words.  Mrs.
Cleveland protested that she must know first what it was that he hadn't
done, finally agreeing to sign if he would tell her immediately all about
it, which he promised to do.  She signed, and he handed her Mrs.
Clemens's note.  It was very brief.  It said, "Don't wear your arctics in
the White House."

Mrs. Cleveland summoned a messenger and had the card mailed immediately
to Mrs. Clemens.

Absent-mindedness was characteristic of Mark Twain.  He lived so much in
the world within that to him the material outer world was often vague and
shadowy.  Once when he was knocking the balls about in the billiard-room,
George, the colored butler, a favorite and privileged household
character, brought up a card.  So many canvassers came to sell him one
thing and another that Clemens promptly assumed this to be one of them.
George insisted mildly, but firmly, that, though a stranger, the caller
was certainly a gentleman, and Clemens grumblingly descended the stairs.
As he entered the parlor the caller arose and extended his hand.  Clemens
took it rather limply, for he had noticed some water-colors and
engravings leaning against the furniture as if for exhibition, and he was
instantly convinced that the caller was a picture-canvasser.  Inquiries
by the stranger as to Mrs. Clemens and the children did not change Mark
Twain's conclusion.  He was polite, but unresponsive, and gradually
worked the visitor toward the front door.  His inquiry as to the home of
Charles Dudley Warner caused him to be shown eagerly in that direction.

Clemens, on his way back to the billiard-room, heard Mrs. Clemens call
him--she was ill that day: "Youth!"

"Yes, Livy."  He went in for a word.

"George brought me Mr. B.'s card.  I hope you were nice to him; the B's
were so nice to us, once, in Europe, while you were gone."

"The B's!  Why, Livy!"

"Yes, of course; and I asked him to be sure to call when he came to
Hartford."

"Well, he's been here."

"Oh Youth, have you done anything?"

"Yes, of course I have.  He seemed to have some pictures to sell, so I
sent him over to Warner's.  I noticed he didn't take them with him.  Land
sakes!  Livy, what can I do?"

"Go right after him--go quick!  Tell him what you have done."

He went without further delay, bareheaded and in his slippers, as usual.
Warner and B. were in cheerful conversation.  They had met before.
Clemens entered gaily.

"Oh, yes, I see!  You found him all right.  Charlie, we met Mr. B. and
his wife in Europe, and they made things pleasant for us.  I wanted to
come over here with him, but I was a good deal occupied just then.  Livy
isn't very well, but she seems now a good deal better; so I just followed
along to have a good talk, all together."

He stayed an hour, and whatever bad impression had formed in B.'s mind
faded long before the hour ended.  Returning home, Clemens noticed the
pictures still on the parlor floor.

"George," he said, "what pictures are these that gentleman left?"

"Why, Mr. Clemens, those are our own pictures!  Mrs. Clemens had me set
them around to see how they would look in new places.  The gentleman was
only looking at them while he waited for you to come down."

It was in June, 1888, that Yale College conferred upon Mark Twain the
degree of Master of Arts.  He was proud of the honor, for it was
recognition of a kind that had not come to him before--remarkable
recognition, when we remember how as a child he had hated all schools and
study, having ended his class-room days before he was twelve years old.
He could not go to New Haven at the time, but later in the year made the
students a delightful address.  In his capacity of Master of Arts, he
said, he had come down to New Haven to institute certain college reforms.

By advice, I turned my earliest attention to the Greek department.  I
told the Greek Professor I had concluded to drop the use of the Greek-
written character, because it is so hard to spell with and so impossible
to read after you get it spelt.  Let us draw the curtain there.  I saw by
what followed that nothing but early neglect saved him from being a very
profane man.

He said he had given advice to the mathematical department with about the
same result.  The astronomy department he had found in a bad way.  He had
decided to transfer the professor to the law department and to put a law-
student in his place.

A boy will be more biddable, more tractable--also cheaper.  It is true he
cannot be entrusted with important work at first, but he can comb the
skies for nebula till he gets his hand in.

It was hardly the sort of an address that the holder of a college degree
is expected to make, but doctors and students alike welcomed it
hilariously from Mark Twain.

Not many great things happened to Mark Twain during this long period of
semi-literary inaction, but many interesting ones.  When Bill Nye, the
humorist, and James Whitcomb Riley joined themselves in an entertainment
combination, Mark Twain introduced them to their first Boston audience--a
great event to them, and to Boston.  Clemens himself gave a reading now
and then, but not for money.  Once, when Col. Richard Malcolm Johnston
and Thomas Nelson Page were to give a reading in Baltimore, Page's wife
fell ill, and Colonel Johnston wired to Charles Dudley Warner, asking him
to come in Page's stead.  Warner, unable to go, handed the telegram to
Clemens, who promptly answered that he would come.  They read to a packed
house, and when the audience had gone and the returns were counted, an
equal amount was handed to each of the authors.  Clemens pushed his share
over to Johnston, saying:

"That's yours, Colonel.  I'm not reading for money these days."

Colonel Johnston, to whom the sum was important, tried to thank him, but
Clemens only said:

"Never mind, Colonel; it only gives me pleasure to do you that little
favor.  You can pass it along some day."


As a matter of fact, Mark Twain himself was beginning to be hard pressed
for funds at this time, but was strong in the faith that he would
presently be a multi-millionaire.  The typesetting machine was still
costing a vast sum, but each week its inventor promised that a few more
weeks or months would see it finished, and then a tide of wealth would
come rolling in.  Mark Twain felt that a man with ship-loads of money
almost in port could not properly entertain the public for pay.  He read
for institutions, schools, benefits, and the like, without charge.




XLIX.

KIPLING AT ELMIRA.  ELSIE LESLIE.  THE "YANKEE"

One day during the summer of 1889 a notable meeting took place in Elmira.
On a blazing forenoon a rather small and very hot young man, in a slow,
sizzling hack made his way up East Hill to Quarry Faun.  He inquired for
Mark Twain, only to be told that he was at the Langdon home, down in the
town which the young man had just left.  So he sat for a little time on
the pleasant veranda, and Mrs. Crane and Susy Clemens, who were there,
brought him some cool milk and listened to him talk in a way which seemed
to them very entertaining and wonderful.  When he went away he left his
card with a name on it strange to them--strange to the world at that
time.  The name was Rudyard Kipling.  Also on the card was the address
Allahabad, and Sissy kept it, because, to her, India was fairyland.

Kipling went down into Elmira and found Mark Twain.  In his book
"American Notes" he has left an account of that visit.  He claimed that
he had traveled around the world to see Mark Twain, and his article
begins:

     "You are a contemptible lot over yonder.  Some of you are
     commissioners, and some are lieutenant-governors, and some have the
     V. C., and a few are privileged to walk about the Mall arm in arm
     with the viceroy; but I have seen Mark Twain this golden morning,
     have shaken his hand, and smoked a cigar--no, two cigars--with him,
     and talked with him for more than two hours!"

But one should read the article entire--it is so worth while.  Clemens
also, long after, dictated an account of the meeting.

Kipling came down and spent a couple of hours with me, and at the end of
that time I had surprised him as much as he had surprised me--and the
honors were easy.  I believed that he knew more than any person I had met
before, and I knew that he knew that I knew less than any person he had
met before.  .  .  When he had gone, Mrs. Langdon wanted to know about my
visitor.  I said:

"He is a stranger to me, but he is a most remarkable man--and I am the
other one.  Between us we cover all knowledge.  He knows all that can be
known, and I know the rest."

He was a stranger to me and all the world, and remained so for twelve
months, but then he became suddenly known and universally known.  .  .
George Warner came into our library one morning, in Hartford, with a
small book in his hand, and asked me if I had ever heard of Rudyard
Kipling.  I said "No."

He said I would hear of him very soon, and that the noise he made would
be loud and continuous.  .  .  A day or two later he brought a copy of
the London "World" which had a sketch of Kipling in it and a mention of
the fact that he had traveled in the United States.  According to the
sketch he had passed through Elmira.  This remark, with the additional
fact that he hailed from India, attracted my attention--also Susy's.  She
went to her room and brought his card from its place in the frame of her
mirror, and the Quarry Farm visitor stood identified.

A theatrical production of "The Prince and the Pauper," dramatized by
Mrs. A. S. Richardson, was one of the events of this period.  It was a
charming performance, even if not a great financial success, and little
Elsie Leslie, who played the double part of the Prince and Tom Canty,
became a great favorite in the Clemens home.  She was also a favorite of
the actor and playwright, William Gillette, [9] and once when Clemens and
Gillette were together they decided to give the little girl a surprise--a
pair of slippers, in fact, embroidered by themselves.  In his
presentation letter to her, Mark Twain wrote:

"Either of us could have thought of a single slipper, but it took both of
us to think of two slippers.  In fact, one of us did think of one
slipper, and then, quick as a flash, the other thought of the other one."

He apologized for his delay:

"You see, it was my first attempt at art, and I couldn't rightly get the
hang of it, along at first.  And then I was so busy I couldn't get a
chance to work at home, and they wouldn't let me embroider on the cars;
they said it made the other passengers afraid.  .  .  Take the slippers
and wear them next your heart, Elsie dear, for every stitch in them is a
testimony of the affection which two of your loyalest friends bear you.
Every single stitch cost us blood.  I've got twice as many pores in me
now as I used to have .  .  .  .  Do not wear these slippers in public,
dear; it would only excite envy; and, as like as not, somebody would try
to shoot you."

For five years Mark Twain had not published a book.  Since the appearance
of "Huck Finn" at the end of 1884 he had given the public only an
occasional magazine story or article.  His business struggle and the
type-setter had consumed not only his fortune, but his time and energy.
Now, at last, however, a book was ready.  "A Connecticut Yankee in King
Arthur's Court" came from the press of Webster & Co. at the end of 1889,
a handsome book, elaborately and strikingly illustrated by Dan Beard--a
pretentious volume which Mark Twain really considered his last.  "It's my
swan-song, my retirement from literature permanently," he wrote Howells,
though certainly he was young, fifty-four, to have reached this
conclusion.

The story of the "Yankee"--a fanciful narrative of a skilled Yankee
mechanic swept backward through the centuries to the dim day of Arthur
and his Round Table--is often grotesque enough in its humor, but under it
all is Mark Twain's great humanity in fierce and noble protest against
unjust laws, the tyranny of an individual or of a ruling class--
oppression of any sort.  As in "The Prince and the Pauper," the wandering
heir to the throne is brought in contact with cruel injustice and misery,
so in the "Yankee" the king himself becomes one of a band of fettered
slaves, and through degradation and horror of soul acquires mercy and
humility.

The "Yankee in King Arthur's Court" is a splendidly imagined tale.
Edmund Clarence Stedman and William Dean Howells have ranked it very
high.  Howells once wrote: "Of all the fanciful schemes in fiction, it
pleases me most."  The "Yankee" has not held its place in public favor
with Mark Twain's earlier books, but it is a wonderful tale, and we
cannot afford to leave it unread.

When the summer came again, Mark Twain and his family decided for once to
forego Quarry Farm for a season in the Catskills, and presently found
themselves located in a cottage at Onteora in the midst of a most
delightful colony.  Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, then editor of St. Nicholas,
was there, and Mrs. Custer and Brander Matthews and Lawrence Hutton and a
score of other congenial spirits.  There was constant visiting from one
cottage to another, with frequent gatherings at the Inn, which was
general headquarters.  Susy Clemens, now eighteen, was a central figure,
brilliant, eager, intense, ambitious for achievement--lacking only in
physical strength.  She was so flower-like, it seemed always that her
fragile body must be consumed by the flame of her spirit.  It was a happy
summer, but it closed sadly.  Clemens was called to Keokuk in August, to
his mother's bedside.  A few weeks later came the end, and Jane Clemens
had closed her long and useful life.  She was in her eighty-eighth year.
A little later, at Elmira, followed the death of Mrs. Clemens's mother, a
sweet and gentle woman.

[9] Gillette was originally a Hartford boy.  Mark Twain had recognized
his ability, advanced him funds with which to complete his dramatic
education, and Gillette's first engagement seems to have been with the
Colonel Sellers company.  Mark Twain often advanced money in the interest
of education.  A young sculptor he sent to Paris for two years' study.
Among others, he paid the way of two colored students through college.




L.

THE MACHINE.  GOOD-BY TO HARTFORD.  "JOAN" IS BEGUN

It was hoped that the profits from the Yankee would provide for all needs
until the great sums which were to come from the type-setter should come
rolling in.  The book did yield a large return, but, alas! the hope of
the type-setter, deferred year after year and month after month, never
reached fulfilment.  Its inventor, James W. Paige, whom Mark Twain once
called "a poet, a most great and genuine poet, whose sublime creations
are written in steel," during ten years of persistent experiment had
created one of the most marvelous machines ever constructed.  It would
set and distribute type, adjust the spaces, detect flaws--would perform,
in fact, anything that a human being could do, with more exactness and
far more swiftness.  Mark Twain, himself a practical printer, seeing it
in its earlier stages of development, and realizing what a fortune must
come from a perfect type-setting machine, was willing to furnish his last
dollar to complete the invention.  But there the trouble lay.  It could
never be complete.  It was too intricate, too much like a human being,
too easy to get out of order, too hard to set right.  Paige, fully
confident, always believed he was just on the verge of perfecting some
appliance that would overcome all difficulties, and the machine finally
consisted of twenty thousand minutely exact parts, each of which required
expert workmanship and had to be fitted by hand.  Mark Twain once wrote:

     "All other wonderful inventions of the human brain sink pretty nearly
     into commonplaces contrasted with this awful, mechanical miracle."

This was true, and it conveys the secret of its failure.  It was too much
of a miracle to be reliable.  Sometimes it would run steadily for hours,
but then some part of its delicate mechanism would fail, and days, even
weeks, were required to repair it.  It is all too long a story to be
given here.  It has been fully told elsewhere.[10]  By the end of 1890
Mark Twain had put in all his available capital, and was heavily in debt.
He had spent one hundred and ninety thousand dollars on the machine, no
penny of which would ever be returned.  Outside capital to carry on the
enterprise was promised, but it failed him.  Still believing that there
were "millions in it," he realized that for the present, at least, he
could do no more.

Two things were clear: he must fall back on authorship for revenue, and
he must retrench.  In the present low stage of his fortunes he could no
longer afford to live in the Hartford house.  He decided to take the
family abroad, where living was cheaper, and where he might be able to
work with fewer distractions.

He began writing at a great rate articles and stories for the magazines.
He hunted out the old play he had written with Howells long before, and
made a book of it, "The American Claimant."  Then, in June, 1891, they
closed the beautiful Hartford house, where for seventeen years they had
found an ideal home; where the children had grown through their sweet,
early life; where the world's wisest had come and gone, pausing a little
to laugh with the world's greatest merrymaker.  The furniture was
shrouded, the curtains drawn, the light shut away.

While the carriage was waiting, Mrs. Clemens went back and took a last
look into each of the rooms, as if bidding a kind of good-by to the past.
Then she entered the carriage, and Patrick McAleer, who had been with
Mark Twain and his wife since their wedding-day, drove them to the
station for the last time.

Mark Twain had a contract for six newspaper letters at one thousand
dollars each.  He was troubled with rheumatism in his arm, and wrote his
first letter from Aix-les-Bains, a watering-place--a "health-factory," as
he called it--and another from Marienbad.  They were in Germany in
August, and one day came to Heidelberg, where they occupied their old
apartment of thirteen years before, room forty, in the Schloss Hotel,
with its far prospect of wood and hill, the winding Neckar, and the blue,
distant valley of the Rhine.  Then, presently, they came to Switzerland,
to Ouchy-Lausanne, by lovely Lake Geneva, and here Clemens left the
family and, with a guide and a boatman, went drifting down the Rhone in a
curious, flat-bottomed craft, thinking to find material for one or more
articles, possibly for a book.  But drifting down that fair river through
still September days, past ancient, drowsy villages, among sloping
vineyards, where grapes were ripening in the tranquil sunlight, was too
restful and soothing for work.  In a letter home, he wrote:

     "It's too delicious, floating with the swift current under the awning
     these superb, sunshiny days, in peace and quietness.  Some of the
     curious old historical towns strangely persuade me, but it's so
     lovely afloat that I don't stop, but view them from the outside and
     sail on. . . I want to do all the rivers of Europe in an open boat
     in summer weather."

One afternoon, about fifteen miles below the city of Valence, he made a
discovery.  Dreamily observing the eastward horizon, he noticed that a
distant blue mountain presented a striking profile outline of Napoleon
Bonaparte.  It seemed really a great natural wonder, and he stopped that
night at the village just below, Beauchastel, a hoary huddle of houses
with the roofs all run together, and took a room at the little hotel,
with a window looking to the eastward, from which, next morning, he saw
the profile of the great stone face, wonderfully outlined against the
sunrise.  He was excited over his discovery, and made a descriptive note
of it and an outline sketch.  Then, drifting farther down the river, he
characteristically forgot all about it and did not remember it again for
ten years, by which time he had forgotten the point on the river where
the Napoleon could be seen, forgotten even that he had made a note and
sketch giving full details.  He wished the Napoleon to be found again,
believing, as he declared, that it would become one of the natural
wonders of the world.  To travelers going to France he attempted to
describe it, and some of these tried to find it; but, as he located it
too far down the Rhone, no one reported success, and in time he spoke of
his discovery as the "Lost Napoleon."  It was not until after Mark
Twain's death that it was rediscovered, and then by the writer of this
memoir, who, having Mark Twain's note-book,[11] with its exact memoranda,
on another September day, motoring up the Rhone, located the blue profile
of the reclining Napoleon opposite the gray village of Beauchastel.  It
is a really remarkable effigy, and deserves to be visited.

Clemens finished his trip at Arles--a beautiful trip from beginning to
end, but without literary result.  When he undertook to write of it, he
found that it lacked incident, and, what was worse, it lacked humor.  To
undertake to create both was too much.  After a few chapters he put the
manuscript aside, unfinished, and so it remains to this day.

The Clemens family spent the winter in Berlin, a gay winter, with Mark
Twain as one of the distinguished figures of the German capital.  He was
received everywhere and made much of.  Once a small, choice dinner was
given him by Kaiser William II., and, later, a breakfast by the Empress.
His books were great favorites in the German royal family.  The Kaiser
particularly enjoyed the "Mississippi" book, while the essay on "The
Awful German Language," in the "Tramp Abroad," he pronounced one of the
finest pieces of humor ever written.  Mark Twain's books were favorites,
in fact, throughout Germany.  The door-man in his hotel had them all in
his little room, and, discovering one day that their guest, Samuel L.
Clemens, and Mark Twain were one, he nearly exploded with excitement.
Dragging the author to his small room, he pointed to the shelf:

"There," he said, "you wrote them!  I've found it out.  Ach!  I did not
know it before, and I ask a million pardons."

Affairs were not going well in America, and in June Clemens made a trip
over to see what could be done.  Probably he did very little, and he was
back presently at Nauheim, a watering-place, where he was able to work
rather quietly.  He began two stories--one of them, "The Extraordinary
Twins," which was the first form of "Pudd'nhead Wilson;" the other, "Tom
Sawyer Abroad," for "St. Nicholas."  Twichell came to Nauheim during the
summer, and one day he and Clemens ran over to Homburg, not far away.
The Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII.) was there, and Clemens and
Twichell, walking in the park, met the Prince with the British
ambassador, and were presented.  Twichell, in an account of the meeting,
said:

     "The meeting between the Prince and Mark was a most cordial one on
     both sides, and presently the Prince took Mark Twain's arm and the
     two marched up and down, talking earnestly together, the Prince
     solid, erect, and soldier-like; Clemens weaving along in his
     curious, swinging gait, in full tide of talk, and brandishing a sun
     umbrella of the most scandalous description."

At Villa Viviani, an old, old mansion outside of Florence, on the hill
toward Settignano, Mark Twain finished "Tom Sawyer Abroad," also
"Pudd'nhead Wilson", and wrote the first half of a book that really had
its beginning on the day when, an apprentice-boy in Hannibal, he had
found a stray leaf from the pathetic story of "Joan of Arc."  All his
life she had been his idol, and he had meant some day to write of her.
Now, in this weather-stained old palace, looking down on Florence,
medieval and hazy, and across to the villa-dotted hills, he began one of
the most beautiful stories ever written, "The Personal Recollections of
Joan of Arc."  He wrote in the first person, assuming the character of
Joan's secretary, Sieur Louis de Conte, who in his old age is telling the
great tale of the Maid of Orleans.  It was Mark Twain's purpose, this
time, to publish anonymously.  Walking the floor one day at Viviani, and
smoking vigorously, he said to Mrs. Clemens and Susy:

     "I shall never be accepted seriously over my own signature.  People
     always want to laugh over what I write, and are disappointed if they
     don't find a joke in it.  This is to be a serious book.  It means
     more to me than anything else I have ever undertaken.  I shall write
     it anonymously."

So it was that the gentle Sieur de Conte took up the pen, and the tale of
Joan was begun in the ancient garden of Viviani, a setting appropriate to
its lovely form.

He wrote rapidly when once his plan was perfected and his material
arranged.  The reading of his youth and manhood was now recalled, not
merely as reading, but as remembered reality.  It was as if he were truly
the old Sieur de Conte, saturated with memories, pouring out the tender,
tragic tale.  In six weeks he had written one hundred thousand words--
remarkable progress at any time, the more so when we consider that some
of the authorities he consulted were in a foreign tongue.  He had always
more or less kept up his study of French, begun so long ago on the river,
and it stood him now in good stead.  Still, it was never easy for him,
and the multitude of notes that still exist along the margin of his
French authorities show the magnitude of his work.  Others of the family
went down into the city almost daily, but he stayed in the still garden
with Joan.  Florence and its suburbs were full of delightful people, some
of them old friends.  There were luncheons, dinners, teas, dances, and
the like always in progress, but he resisted most of these things,
preferring to remain the quaint old Sieur de Conte, following again the
banner of the Maid of Orleans marshaling her twilight armies across his
illumined page.

But the next spring, March, 1893, he was obliged to put aside the
manuscript and hurry to America again, fruitlessly, of course, for a
financial stress was on the land; the business of Webster & Co. was on
the down-grade--nothing could save it.  There was new hope in the old
type-setting machine, but his faith in the resurrection was not strong.
The strain of his affairs was telling on him.  The business owed a great
sum, with no prospect of relief.  Back in Europe again, Mark Twain wrote
F. D. Hall, his business manager in New York:

     "I am terribly tired of business.  I am by nature and disposition
     unfit for it, and I want to get out of it.  I am standing on a
     volcano.  Get me out of business."

Tantalizing letters continued to come, holding out hope in the business--
the machine--in any straw that promised a little support through the
financial storm.  Again he wrote Hall:

     "Great Scott, but it's a long year for you and me!  I never knew the
     almanac to drag so.  .  .  I watch for your letters hungrily--just
     as I used to watch for the telegram saying the machine was finished
     --but when "next week certainly" suddenly swelled into "three weeks
     sure," I recognized the old familiar tune I used to hear so much.
     W. don't know what sick-heartedness is, but he is in a fair way to
     find out."

They closed Viviani in June and returned to Germany.  By the end of
August Clemens could stand no longer the strain of his American affairs,
and, leaving the family at some German baths, he once more sailed for New
York.

[11] At Mark Twain's death his various literary effects passed into the
hands of his biographer and literary executor, the present writer.




LI.

THE FAILURE OF WEBSTER & CO.  AROUND THE WORLD.  SORROW

In a room at the Players Club--"a cheap room," he wrote home, "at $1.5o
per day"--Mark Twain spent the winter, hoping against hope to weather the
financial storm.  His fortunes were at a lower ebb than ever before;
lower even than during those bleak mining days among the Esmeralda hills.
Then there had been no one but himself, and he was young.  Now, at fifty-
eight, he had precious lives dependent upon him, and he was weighed down
by debt.  The liabilities of his firm were fully two hundred thousand
dollars--sixty thousand of which were owing to Mrs. Clemens for money
advanced--but the large remaining sum was due to banks, printers,
binders, and the manufacturers of paper.  A panic was on the land and
there was no business.  What he was to do Clemens did not know.  He spent
most of his days in his room, trying to write, and succeeded in finishing
several magazine articles.  Outwardly cheerful, he hid the bitterness of
his situation.

A few, however, knew the true state of his affairs.  One of these one
night introduced him to Henry H. Rogers, the Standard Oil millionaire.

"Mr. Clemens," said Mr. Rogers, "I was one of your early admirers.  I
heard you lecture a long time ago, on the Sandwich Islands."

They sat down at a table, and Mark Twain told amusing stories.  Rogers
was in a perpetual gale of laughter.  They became friends from that
evening, and in due time the author had confessed to the financier all
his business worries.

"You had better let me look into things a little," Rogers said, and he
advised Clemens to "stop walking the floor."

It was characteristic of Mark Twain to be willing to unload his affairs
upon any one that he thought able to bear the burden.  He became a new
man overnight.  With Henry Rogers in charge, life was once more worth
while.  He accepted invitations from the Rogers family and from many
others, and was presently so gay, so widely sought, and seen in so many
places that one of his acquaintances, "Jamie" Dodge, dubbed him the
"Belle of New York."

Henry Rogers, meanwhile, was "looking into things."  He had reasonable
faith in the type-machine, and advanced a large sum on the chance of its
proving a success.  This, of course, lifted Mark Twain quite into the
clouds.  Daily he wrote and cabled all sorts of glowing hopes to his
family, then in Paris.  Once he wrote:

     "The ship is in sight now ....  When the anchor is down, then I shall
     say: Farewell--a long farewell--to business!  I will never touch it
     again!  I will live in literature, I will wallow in it, revel in it;
     I will swim in ink!"

Once he cabled, "Expect good news in ten days"; and a little later, "Look
out for good news"; and in a few days, "Nearing success."

Those Sellers-like messages could not but appeal, Mrs. Clemens's sense of
humor, even in those dark days.  To her sister she wrote, "They make me
laugh, for they are so like my beloved Colonel."

The affairs of Webster & Co. Mr. Rogers found a bad way.  When, at last,
in April, 1894, the crisis came--a demand by the chief creditors for
payment--he advised immediate assignment as the only course.

So the firm of Webster & Co. closed its doors.  The business which less
than ten years before had begun so prosperously had ended in failure.
Mark Twain, nearing fifty-nine, was bankrupt.  When all the firm's
effects had been sold and applied on the counts, he was still more than
seventy thousand dollars in debt.  Friends stepped in and offered to lend
him money, but he declined these offers.  Through Mr. Rogers a basis of
settlement at fifty cents on the dollar was arranged, and Mark Twain
said, "Give me time, and I will pay the other fifty."

No one but his wife and Mr. Rogers, however, believed that at his age he
would be able to make good the promise.  Many advised him not to attempt
it, but to settle once and for all on the legal basis as arranged.
Sometimes, in moments of despondency, he almost surrendered.  Once he
said:

"I need not dream of paying it.  I never could manage it."

But these were only the hard moments.  For the most part he kept up good
heart and confidence.  It is true that he now believed again in the
future of the type-setter, and that returns from it would pay him out of
bankruptcy.  But later in the year this final hope was taken away.  Mr.
Rogers wrote to him that in the final test the machine had failed to
prove itself practical and that the whole project had been finally and
permanently abandoned.  The shock of disappointment was heavy for the
moment, but then it was over--completely over--for that old mechanical
demon, that vampire of invention that had sapped his fortune so long, was
laid at last.  The worst had happened; there was nothing more to dread.
Within a week Mark Twain (he was now back in Paris with the family) had
settled down to work once more on the "Recollections of Joan," and all
mention and memory of the type-setter was forever put away.  The machine
stands to-day in the Sibley College of Engineering, where it is exhibited
as the costliest piece of mechanism for its size ever constructed.  Mark
Twain once received a letter from an author who had written a book to
assist inventors and patentees, asking for his indorsement.  He replied:

     "DEAR SIR,--I have, as you say, been interested in patents and
     patentees.  If your book tells how to exterminate inventors, send me
     nine editions.  Send them by express.

     "Very truly yours,

     "S. L. CLEMENS."

Those were economical days.  There was no income except from the old
books, and at the time this was not large.  The Clemens family, however,
was cheerful, and Mark Twain was once more in splendid working form.  The
story of Joan hurried to its tragic conclusion.  Each night he read to
the family what he had written that day, and Susy, who was easily moved,
would say, "Wait--wait till I get my handkerchief," and one night when
the last pages had been written and read, and the fearful scene at Rouen
had been depicted, Susy wrote in her diary, "To-night Joan of Arc was
burned at the stake!"  Meaning that the book was finished.

Susy herself had fine literary taste, and might have written had not her
greater purpose been to sing.  There are fragments of her writing that
show the true literary touch.  Both Susy and her father cared more for
Joan than for any of the former books.  To Mr. Rogers Clemens wrote,
"Possibly the book may not sell, but that is nothing--it was mitten for
love."  It was placed serially with "Harper's Magazine" and appeared
anonymously, but the public soon identified the inimitable touch of Mark
Twain.

It was now the spring of 1895, and Mark Twain had decided upon a new plan
to restore his fortunes.  Platform work had always paid him well, and
though he disliked it now more than ever, he had resolved upon something
unheard of in that line--nothing less, in fact, than a platform tour
around the world.  In May, with the family, he sailed for America, and
after a month or two of rest at Quarry Farm he set out with Mrs. Clemens
and Clara and with his American agent, J. B. Pond, for the Pacific coast.
Susy and Jean remained behind with their aunt at the farm.  The travelers
left Elmira at night, and they always remembered the picture of Susy,
standing under the electric light of the railway platform, waving them
good-by.

Mark Twain's tour of the world was a success from the beginning.
Everywhere he was received with splendid honors--in America, in
Australia, in New Zealand, in India, in Ceylon, in South Africa--wherever
he went his welcome was a grand ovation, his theaters and halls were
never large enough to hold his audiences.  With the possible exception of
General Grant's long tour in 1878-9 there had hardly been a more gorgeous
progress than Mark Twain's trip around the world.  Everywhere they were
overwhelmed with attention and gifts.  We cannot begin to tell the story
of that journey here.  In "Following the Equator" the author himself
tells it in his own delightful fashion.

From time to time along the way Mark Twain forwarded his accumulated
profits to Mr. Rogers to apply against his debts, and by the time they
sailed from South Africa the sum was large enough to encourage him to
believe that, with the royalties to be derived from the book he would
write of his travels, he might be able to pay in full and so face the
world once more a free man.  Their long trip--it had lasted a full year--
was nearing its end.  They would spend the winter in London--Susy and
Jean were notified to join them there.  They would all be reunited again.
The outlook seemed bright once more.

They reached England the last of July.  Susy and Jean, with Katy Leary,
were to arrive on the 12th of August.  But the 12th did not bring them--
it brought, instead, a letter.  Susy was not well, the letter said; the
sailing had been postponed.  The letter added that it was nothing
serious, but her parents cabled at once for later news.  Receiving no
satisfactory answer, Mrs. Clemens, full of forebodings, prepared to sail
with Clara for America.  Clemens would remain in London to arrange for
the winter residence.  A cable came, saying Susy's recovery would be slow
but certain.  Mrs. Clemens and Clara sailed immediately.  In some notes
he once dictated, Mark Twain said:

     "That was the 15th of August, 1896.  Three days later, when my wife
     and Clara were about half-way across the ocean, I was standing in
     our dining-room, thinking of nothing in particular, when a cablegram
     was put into my hand.  It said, 'Susy was peacefully released to-
     day.'"

Mark Twain's life had contained other tragedies, but no other that
equaled this one.  The dead girl had been his heart's pride; it was a
year since they parted, and now he knew he would never see her again.
The blow had found him alone and among strangers.  In that day he could
not even reach out to those upon the ocean, drawing daily nearer to the
heartbreak.

Susy Clemens had died in the old Hartford home.  She had been well far a
time at the farm, but then her health had declined.  She worked
continuously at her singing lessons and over-tried her strength.  Then
she went on a visit to Mrs. Charles Dudley Warner, in Hartford; but she
did not rest, working harder than ever at her singing.  Finally she was
told that she must consult a physician.  The doctor came and prescribed
soothing remedies, and advised that she have the rest and quiet of her
own home.  Mrs. Crane came from Elmira, also her uncle Charles Langdon.
But Susy became worse, and a few days later her malady was pronounced
meningitis.  This was the 15th of August, the day that her mother and
Clara sailed from England.  She was delirious and burning with fever, but
at last sank into unconsciousness.  She died three days later, and on the
night that Mrs. Clemens and Clara arrived was taken to Elmira for burial.

They laid her beside the little brother that had died so long before, and
ordered a headstone with some lines which they had found in Australia,
written by Robert Richardson:

               Warm summer sun, shine kindly here;
               Warm southern wind, blow softly here;
               Green sod above, lie light, lie light!--
               Good night, dear heart, good night, good night.




LII.

EUROPEAN ECONOMIES

With Clara and Jean, Mrs. Clemens returned to England, and in a modest
house on Tedworth Square, a secluded corner of London, the stricken
family hid themselves away for the winter. Few, even of their closest
friends, knew of their whereabouts.  In time the report was circulated
that Mask Twain, old, sick, and deserted by his family, was living in
poverty, toiling to pay his debts.  Through the London publishers a
distant cousin, Dr. James Clemens, of St. Louis, located the house on
Tedworth Square, and wrote, offering assistance.  He was invited to call,
and found a quiet place--the life there simple--but not poverty.  By and
by there was another report--this time that Mark Twain was dead.  A
reporter found his way to Tedworth Square, and, being received by Mark
Twain himself, asked what he should say.

Clemens regarded him gravely, then, in his slow, nasal drawl, "Say--that
the report of my death--has been grossly--exaggerated, "a remark that a
day later was amusing both hemispheres.  He could not help his humor; it
was his natural form of utterance--the medium for conveying fact,
fiction, satire, philosophy.  Whatever his depth of despair, the quaint
surprise of speech would come, and it would be so until his last day.

By November he was at work on his book of travel, which he first thought
of calling "Around the World."  He went out not at all that winter, and
the work progressed steadily, and was complete by the following May
(1897).

Meantime, during his trip around the world, Mark Twain's publishers had
issued two volumes of his work--the "Joan of Arc" book, and another "Tom
Sawyer" book, the latter volume combining two rather short stories, "Tom
Sawyer Abroad," published serially in St. Nicholas, and "Tom Sawyer,
Detective."  The "Joan of Arc" book, the tenderest and most exquisite of
all Mark Twain's work--a tale told with the deepest sympathy and the
rarest delicacy--was dedicated by the author to his wife, as being the
only piece of his writing which he considered worthy of this honor.  He
regarded it as his best book, and this was an opinion that did not
change.  Twelve years later--it was on his seventy-third birthday--he
wrote as his final verdict, November 30, 1908:

     "I like the Joan of Arc best of all my books; and it is the best; I
     know it perfectly well, and, besides, it furnished me seven times
     the pleasure afforded me by any of the others; twelve years of
     preparation and two years of writing.  The others needed no
     preparation and got none.
                                                  MARK TWAIN."

The public at first did not agree with the author's estimate, and the
demand for the book was not large.  But the public amended its opinion.
The demand for "Joan" increased with each year until its sales ranked
with the most popular of Mark Twain's books.

The new stories of Tom and Huck have never been as popular as the earlier
adventures of this pair of heroes.  The shorter stories are less
important and perhaps less alive, but they are certainly very readable
tales, and nobody but Mark Twain could have written them.

Clemens began some new stories when his travel book was out of the way,
but presently with the family was on the way to Switzerland for the
summer.  They lived at Weggis, on Lake Lucerne, in the Villa Buhlegg--a
very modest five-franc-a-day pension, for they were economizing and
putting away money for the debts.  Mark Twain was not in a mood for work,
and, besides, proofs of the new book "Following the Equator," as it is
now called--were coming steadily.  But on the anniversary of Susy's death
(August 18th) he wrote a poem, "In Memoriam," in which he touched a
literary height never before attained.  It was published in "Harper's
Magazine," and now appears in his collected works.

Across from Villa Buhlegg on the lake-front there was a small shaded
inclosure where he loved to sit and look out on the blue water and lofty
mountains, one of which, Rigi, he and Twichell had climbed nineteen years
before.  The little retreat is still there, and to-day one of the trees
bears a tablet (in German), "Mark Twain's Rest."

Autumn found the family in Vienna, located for the winter at the Hotel
Metropole.  Mrs. Clemens realized that her daughters must no longer be
deprived of social and artistic advantages.  For herself, she longed only
for retirement.

Vienna is always a gay city, a center of art and culture and splendid
social functions.  From the moment of his arrival, Mark Twain and his
family were in the midst of affairs.  Their room at the Metropole became
an assembling-place for distinguished members of the several circles that
go to make up the dazzling Viennese life.  Mrs. Clemens, to her sister in
America, once wrote:

     "Such funny combinations are here sometimes: one duke, several
     counts, several writers, several barons, two princes, newspaper
     women, etc."

Mark Twain found himself the literary lion of the Austrian capital.
Every club entertained him and roared with delight at his German
speeches.  Wherever he appeared on the streets he was recognized.

"Let him pass!  Don't you see it is Herr Mark Twain!" commanded an
officer to a guard who, in the midst of a great assemblage, had presumed
to bar the way.




LIII.

MARK TWAIN PAYS HIS DEBTS

Mark Twain wrote much and well during this period, in spite of his social
life.  His article "Concerning the Jews" was written that first winter in
Vienna--a fine piece of special pleading; also the greatest of his short
stories--one of the greatest of all short stories--"The Man that
Corrupted Hadleyburg."

But there were good reasons why he should write better now; his mind was
free of a mighty load--he had paid his debts!

Soon after his arrival in Vienna he had written to Mr. Rogers:

     "Let us begin on those debts.  I cannot bear the weight any longer.
     It totally unfits me for work."

He had accumulated a large sum for the purpose, and the royalties from
the new book were beginning to roll in.  Payment of the debts was begun.
At the end of December he wrote again:

     "Land, we are glad to see those debts diminishing.  For the first
     time in my life I am getting more pleasure from paying money out
     than from pulling it in."

A few days later he wrote to Howells that he had "turned the corner"; and
again:

     "We've lived close to the bone and saved every cent we could, and
     there's no undisputed claim now that we can't cash .  .  .  .  I
     hope you will never get the like of the load saddled on to you that
     was saddled on to me, three years ago.  And yet there is such a
     solid pleasure in paying the things that I reckon it is worth while
     to get into that kind of a hobble, after all.  Mrs. Clemens gets
     millions of delight out of it, and the children have never uttered
     one complaint about the scrimping from the beginning."

By the end of January, 1898, Clemens had accumulated enough money to make
the final payments to his creditors.  At the time of his failure he had
given himself five years to achieve this result.  But he had needed less
than four.  A report from Mr. Rogers showed that a balance of thirteen
thousand dollars would remain to his credit after the last accounts were
wiped away.

Clemens had tried to keep his money affairs out of the newspapers, but
the payment of the final claims could not be concealed, and the press
made the most of it.  Head-lines shouted it.  Editorials heralded Mark
Twain as a second Walter Scott, because Scott, too, had labored to lift a
great burden of debt.  Never had Mark Twain been so beloved by his
fellow-men.

One might suppose now that he had had enough of invention and commercial
enterprises of every sort--that is, one who did not know Mark Twain might
suppose this--but it would not be true.  Within a month after his debts
were paid he was negotiating with the Austrian inventor Szczepanik for
the American rights in a wonderful carpet-pattern machine, and, Sellers-
like, was planning to organize a company with a capital of fifteen
hundred million dollars to control the carpet-weaving industries of the
world.  He wrote to Mr. Rogers about the great scheme, inviting the
Standard Oil to "come in"; but the plan failed to bear the test of Mr.
Rogers's investigation and was heard of no more.

Samuel Clemens's obligation to Henry Rogers was very great, but it was
not quite the obligation that many supposed it to be.  It was often
asserted that the financier lent, even gave, the humorist large sums, and
pointed out opportunities for speculation.  No part of this statement is
true.  Mr. Rogers neither lent nor gave Mark Twain money, and never
allowed him to speculate when he could prevent it.  He sometimes invested
Mark Twain's own funds for him, but he never bought for him a share of
stock without money in hand to pay for it in full--money belonging to,
and earned by, Clemens himself.

What Henry Rogers did give to Mark Twain was his priceless counsel and
time--gifts more precious than any mere sum of money--favors that Mark
Twain could accept without humiliation.  He did accept them, and never
ceased to be grateful.  He rarely wrote without expressing his gratitude,
and we get the size of Mark Twain's obligation when in one letter we
read:

     "I have abundant peace of mind again--no sense of burden.  Work is
     become a pleasure--it is not labor any longer."

He wrote much and well, mainly magazine articles, including some of those
chapters later gathered it his book on "Christian Science."  He reveled
like a boy in his new freedom and fortunes, in the lavish honors paid
him, in the rich circumstance of Viennese life.  But always just beneath
the surface were unforgetable sorrows.  His face in repose was always
sad.  Once, after writing to Howells of his successes, he added:

     "All those things might move and interest one.  But how desperately
     more I have been moved to-night by the thought of a little old copy
     in the nursery of "At the Back of the North Wind."  Oh, what happy
     days they were when that book was read, and how Susy loved it!"




LIV.

RETURN AFTER EXILE

News came to Vienna of the death of Orion Clemens, at the age of seventy-
two.  Orion had died as he had lived--a gentle dreamer, always with a new
plan.  He had not been sick at all.  One morning early he had seated
himself at a table, with pencil and paper, and was putting down the
details of his latest project, when death came--kindly, in the moment of
new hope.  He was a generous, upright man, beloved by all who understood
him.

The Clemenses remained two winters in Vienna, spending the second at the
Hotel Krantz, where their rooms were larger and finer than at the
Metropole, and even more crowded with notabilities.  Their salon acquired
the name of the "Second Embassy," and Mark Twain was, in fact, the most
representative American in the Austrian capital.  It became the fashion
to consult him on every question of public interest, his comments,
whether serious or otherwise, being always worth printing.  When European
disarmament was proposed, Editor William T. Stead, of the "Review of
Reviews," wrote for his opinion.  He replied:

          "DEAR Mr. STEAD,--The Tsar is ready to disarm.  I am
          ready to disarm.  Collect the others; it should not be
          much of a task now.                     MARK TWAIN."

He refused offers of many sorts.  He declined ten thousand dollars for a
tobacco endorsement, though he liked the tobacco well enough.  He
declined ten thousand dollars a year for five years to lend his name as
editor of a humorous periodical.  He declined another ten thousand for
ten lectures, and another offer for fifty lectures at the same rates--
that is, one thousand dollars per night.  He could get along without
these sums, he said, and still preserve some remnants of his self-
respect.

It was May, 1899, when Clemens and his family left Vienna.  They spent a
summer in Sweden on account of the health of Jean Clemens, and located
in London apartments--30 Wellington Court--for the winter.  Then followed
a summer at beautiful Dollis Hill, an old house where Gladstone had often
visited, on a shady hilltop just outside of London.  The city had not
quite enclosed the place then, and there were spreading oaks, a pond with
lily-pads, and wide spaces of grassy lawn.  The place to-day is converted
into a public garden called Gladstone Park.  Writing to Twichell in mid-
summer, Clemens said:

     "I am the only person who is ever in the house in the daytime, but I
     am working, and deep in the luxury of it.  But there is one
     tremendous defect.  Levy is all so enchanted with the place and so
     in love with it that she doesn't know how she is going to tear
     herself away from it."

However, there was one still greater attraction than Dollis Hill, and
that was America--home.  Mark Twain at sixty-five and a free man once
more had decided to return to his native land.  They closed Dollis Hill
at the end of September, and October 6, 1900, sailed on the Minnehaha for
New York, bidding good-by, as Mark Twain believed, and hoped, to foreign
travel.  Nine days later, to a reporter who greeted him on the ship, he
said:

     "If I ever get ashore I am going to break both of my legs so I can't
     get away again."




LV.

A PROPHET AT HOME

New York tried to outdo Vienna and London in honoring Mark Twain.  Every
newspaper was filled with the story of his great fight against debt, and
his triumph.  "He had behaved like Walter Scott," writes Howells, "as
millions rejoiced to know who had not known how Walter Scott behaved till
they knew it was like Clemens."  Clubs and societies vied with one
another in offering him grand entertainments.  Literary and lecture
proposals poured in.  He was offered at the rate of a dollar a word for
his writing--he could name his own terms for lectures.

These sensational offers did not tempt him.  He was sick of the platform.
He made a dinner speech here and there--always an event--but he gave no
lectures or readings for profit.  His literary work he confined to a few
magazines, and presently concluded an arrangement with "Harper &
Brothers" for whatever he might write, the payment to be twenty (later
thirty) cents per word.  He arranged with the same firm for the
publication of all his books, by this time collected in uniform edition.
He wished his affairs to be settled as nearly as might be.  His desire
was freedom from care.  Also he would have liked a period of quiet and
rest, but that was impossible.  He realized that the multitude of honors
tendered him was in a sense a vast compliment which he could not entirely
refuse.  Howells writes that Mark Twain's countrymen "kept it up past all
precedent," and in return Mark Twain tried to do his part.  "His friends
saw that he was wearing himself out," adds Howells, and certain it is
that he grew thin and pale and had a hacking cough.  Once to Richard
Watson Gilder he wrote:

          "In bed with a chest cold and other company.

          "DEAR GILDER,--I can't.  If I were a well man I could explain
          with this pencil, but in the cir--ces I will leave it all to
          your imagination.

          "Was it Grady that killed himself trying to do all the dining
          and speeching?  No, old man, no, no!

                                        "Ever yours, MARK."

In the various dinner speeches and other utterances made by Mark Twain at
this time, his hearers recognized a new and great seriousness of purpose.
It was not really new, only, perhaps, more emphasized.  He still made
them laugh, but he insisted on making them think, too.  He preached a new
gospel of patriotism--not the patriotism that means a boisterous cheering
of the Stars and Stripes wherever unfurled, but the patriotism that
proposes to keep the Stars and Stripes clean and worth shouting for.  In
one place he said:

     "We teach the boys to atrophy their independence.  We teach them to
     take their patriotism at second hand; to shout with the largest
     crowd without examining into the right or wrong of the matter--
     exactly as boys under monarchies are taught, and have always been
     taught."

He protested against the blind allegiance of monarchies.  He was seldom
"with the largest crowd" himself.  Writing much of our foreign affairs,
then in a good deal of a muddle, he assailed so fearlessly and fiercely
measures which he held to be unjust that he was caricatured as an armed
knight on a charger and as Huck Finn with a gun.

But he was not always warlike.  One of the speeches he made that winter
was with Col. Henry Watterson, a former Confederate soldier, at a Lincoln
birthday memorial at Carnegie Hall.  "Think of it!" he wrote Twichell,
"two old rebels functioning there; I as president and Watterson as orator
of the day.  Things have changed somewhat in these forty years, thank
God!"

The Clemens household did not go back to Hartford.  During their early
years abroad it had been Mrs. Clemens's dream to return and open the
beautiful home, with everything the same as before.  The death of Susy
had changed all this.  The mother had grown more and more to feel that
she could not bear the sorrow of Susy's absence in the familiar rooms.
After a trip which Clemens himself made to Hartford, he wrote, "I realize
that if we ever enter the house again to live, our hearts will break."

So they did not go back.  Mrs. Clemens had seen it for the last time on
that day when the carnage waited while she went back to take a last look
into the vacant rooms.  They had taken a house at 14 West Tenth Street
for the winter, and when summer came they went to a log cabin on Saranac
Lake, which they called "The Lair."  Here Mark Twain wrote "A Double-
barreled Detective Story," a not very successful burlesque of Sherlock
Holmes.  But most of the time that summer he loafed and rested, as was
his right.  Once during the summer he went on a cruise with H. H. Rogers,
Speaker "Tom" Reed, and others on Mr. Rogers's yacht.




LVI.

HONORED BY MISSOURI

The family did not return to New York.  They took a beautiful house at
Riverdale on the Hudson--the old Appleton homestead.  Here they
established themselves and settled down for American residence.  They
would have bought the Appleton place, but the price was beyond their
reach.

It was in the autumn of 1901 that Mark Twain settled in Riverdale.  In
June of the following year he was summoned West to receive the degree of
LL.D.  from the university of his native state.  He made the journey a
sort of last general visit to old associations and friends.  In St. Louis
he saw Horace Bixby, fresh, wiry, and capable as he had been forty-five
years before.  Clemens said:

     "I have become an old man.  You are still thirty-five."

They went over to the rooms of the pilots' association, where the river-
men gathered in force to celebrate his return.  Then he took train for
Hannibal.

He spent several days in Hannibal and saw Laura Hawkins--Mrs. Frazer, and
a widow now--and John Briggs, an old man, and John RoBards, who had worn
the golden curls and the medal for good conduct.  They drove him to the
old house on Hill Street, where once he had lived and set type;
photographers were there and photographed him standing at the front door.

"It all seems so small to me," he said, as he looked through the house.
"A boy's home is a big place to him.  I suppose if I should come back
again ten years from now it would be the size of a bird-house."  He did
not see "Huck"--Torn Blankenship had not lived in Hannibal for many
years.  But he was driven to all the familiar haunts--to Lover's Leap,
the cave, and the rest; and Sunday afternoon, with John Briggs, he walked
over Holliday's Hill--the "Cardiff Hill" of "Tom Sawyer."  It was just
such a day, as the one when they had damaged a cooper shop and so nearly
finished the old negro driver.  A good deal more than fifty years had
passed since then, and now here they were once more--Tom Sawyer and Joe
Harper--two old men, the hills still fresh and green, the river rippling
in the sun.  Looking across to the Illinois shore and the green islands
where they had played, and to Lover's Leap on the south, the man who had
been Sam Clemens said:

"John, that is one of the loveliest sights I ever saw.  Down there is the
place we used to swim, and yonder is where a man was drowned, and there's
where the steamboat sank.  Down there on Lover's Leap is where the
Millerites put on their robes one night to go to heaven.  None of them
went that night, but I suppose most of them have gone now."

John Briggs said, "Sam, do you remember the day we stole peaches from old
man Price, and one of his bow-legged niggers came after us with dogs, and
how we made up our minds we'd catch that nigger and drown him?"

And so they talked on of this thing and that, and by and by drove along
the river, and Sam Clemens pointed out the place where he swam it and was
taken with a cramp on the return.

"Once near the shore I thought I would let down," he said, "but was
afraid to, knowing that if the water was deep I was a goner, but finally
my knee struck the sand and I crawled out.  That was the closest call I
ever had."

They drove by a place where a haunted house had stood.  They drank from a
well they had always known--from the bucket, as they had always drunk--
talking, always talking, touching with lingering fondness that most
beautiful and safest of all our possessions--the past.

"Sam," said John, when they parted, "this is probably the last time we
shall meet on earth.  God bless you.  Perhaps somewhere we shall renew
our friendship."

"John," was the answer, "this day has been worth a thousand dollars to
me.  We were like brothers once, and I feel that we are the same now.
Good-by, John.  I'll try to meet you somewhere."

Clemens left next day for Columbia, where the university is located.  At
each station a crowd had gathered to cheer and wave as the train pulled
in and to offer him flowers.  Sometimes he tried to say a few words, but
his voice would not come.  This was more than even Tom Sawyer had
dreamed.

Certainly there is something deeply touching in the recognition of one's
native State; the return of the boy who has set out unknown to battle
with life and who is called back to be crowned is unlike any other home-
coming--more dramatic, more moving.  Next day at the university Mark
Twain, summoned before the crowded assembly-hall to receive his degree,
stepped out to the center of the stage and paused.  He seemed in doubt as
to whether he should make a speech or only express his thanks for the
honor received.  Suddenly and without signal the great audience rose and
stood in silence at his feet.  He bowed but he could not speak.  Then the
vast assembly began a peculiar chant, spelling out slowly the word M-i-s-
s-o-u-r-i, with a pause between each letter.  It was tremendously
impressive.

Mark Twain was not left in doubt as to what was required of him when the
chant ended.  The audience demanded a speech--a speech, and he made them
one--such a speech as no one there would forget to his dying day.

Back in St. Louis, he attended the rechristening of the St. Louis harbor
boat; it had been previously called the "St. Louis," but it was now to be
called the "Mark Twain."




LVII.

THE CLOSE OF A BEAUTIFUL LIFE

Life which had begun very cheerfully at Riverdale ended sadly enough.  In
August, at York Harbor, Maine, Mrs. Clemens's health failed and she was
brought home an invalid, confined almost entirely to her room.  She had
been always the life, the center, the mainspring of the household.  Now
she must not even be consulted--hardly visited.  On her bad days--and
they were many--Clemens, sad and anxious, spent most of his time
lingering about her door, waiting for news, or until he was permitted to
see her for a brief moment.  In his memorandum-book of that period he
wrote:

     "Our dear prisoner is where she is through overwork--day and night
     devotion to the children and me.  We did not know how to value it.
     We know now."

And on the margin of a letter praising him for what he had done for the
world's enjoyment, and for his triumph over debt, he wrote:

     "Livy never gets her share of those applauses, but it is because the
     people do not know.  Yet she is entitled to the lion's share."

She improved during the winter, but very slowly.  Her husband wrote in
his diary:

     "Feb. 2, 1903--Thirty-third wedding anniversary.  I was allowed to
     see Livy five minutes this morning, in honor of the day."

Mrs. Clemens had always remembered affectionately their winter in
Florence of ten years before, and she now expressed the feeling that if
she were in Florence again she would be better.  The doctors approved,
and it was decided that she should be taken there as soon as she was
strong enough to travel.  She had so far improved by June that they
journeyed to Elmira, where in the quiet rest of Quarry Farm her strength
returned somewhat and the hope of her recovery was strong.

Mark Twain wrote a story that summer in Elmira, in the little octagonal
study, shut in now by trees and overgrown with vines.  "A Dog's Tale," a
pathetic plea against vivisection, was the last story written in the
little retreat that had seen the beginning of "Tom Sawyer" twenty-nine
years before.

There was a feeling that the stay in Europe was this time to be
permanent.  On one of the first days of October Clemens wrote in his
note-book:

     "To-day I place flowers on Susy's grave--for the last time, probably
     --and read the words, 'Good night, dear heart, good night,
     good night.'"

They sailed on the 24th, by way of Naples and Genoa, and were presently
installed in the Villa Reale di Quarto, a fine old Italian palace, in an
ancient garden looking out over Florence toward Vallombrosa and the
Chianti hills.  It was a beautiful spot, though its aging walls and
cypresses and matted vines gave it a rather mournful look.  Mrs.
Clemens's health improved there for a time, in spite of dull, rainy,
depressing weather; so much so that in May, when the warmth and sun came
back, Clemens was driving about the country, seeking a villa that he
might buy for a home.

On one of these days--it was a Sunday in early June, the 5th--when he had
been out with Jean, and had found a villa which he believed would fill
all their requirements, he came home full of enthusiasm and hope, eager
to tell the patient about the discovery.  Certainly she seemed better.  A
day or two before she had been wheeled out on the terrace to enjoy the
wonder of early Italian summer.

He found her bright and cheerful, anxious to hear all their plans for the
new home.  He stayed with her alone through the dinner hour, and their
talk was as in the old days.  Summoned to go at last, he chided himself
for staying so long; but she said there was no harm and kissed him,
saying, "you will come back?" and he answered "Yes, to say good night,"
meaning at half-past nine, as was the permitted custom.  He stood a
moment at the door, throwing kisses to her, and she returned them, her
face bright with smiles.

He was so full of hope--they were going to be happy again.  Long ago he
had been in the habit of singing jubilee songs to the children.  He went
upstairs now to the piano and played the chorus and sang "Swing Low,
Sweet Chariot," and "My Lord He Calls Me."  He stopped then, but Jean,
who had come in, asked him to go on.  Mrs. Clemens, from her room, heard
the music and said to Katy Leary:

"He is singing a good-night carol to me."

The music ceased presently.  A moment later she asked to be lifted up.
Almost in that instant life slipped away without a sound.

Clemens, just then coming to say good-night, saw a little group gathered
about her bed, and heard Clara ask:

"Katy, is it true?  Oh, Katy, is it true?"

In his note-book that night he wrote:

     "At a quarter-past nine this evening she that was the life of my life
     passed to the relief and the peace of death, after twenty-two months
     of unjust and unearned suffering.  I first saw her thirty-seven
     years ago, and now I have looked upon her face for the last time....
     I was full of remorse for things done and said in these thirty-
     four years of married life that have hurt Livy's heart."

And to Howells a few days later:

     "To-day, treasured in her worn, old testament, I found a dear and
     gentle letter from you dated Far Rockaway, September 12, 1896, about
     our poor Susy's death.  I am tired and old; I wish I were with Livy."

They brought her to America; and from the house, and the rooms, where she
had been made a bride bore her to a grave beside Susy and little Langdon.




LVIII.

MARK TWAIN AT SEVENTY

In a small cottage belonging to Richard Watson Gilder, at Tyringham,
Massachusetts, Samuel Clemens and his daughters tried to plan for the
future.  Mrs. Clemens had always been the directing force--they were lost
without her.  They finally took a house in New York City, No. 21 Fifth
Avenue, at the corner of Ninth Street, installed the familiar
furnishings, and tried once more to establish a home.  The house was
handsome within and without--a proper residence for a venerable author
and sage--a suitable setting for Mark Twain.  But it was lonely for him.

It lacked soul--comfort that would reach the heart.  He added presently a
great Aeolian orchestrelle, with a variety of music for his different
moods.  Sometimes he played it himself, though oftener his secretary
played to him.  He went out little that winter--seeing only a few old and
intimate friends.  His writing, such as it was, was of a serious nature,
protests against oppression and injustice in a variety of forms.  Once he
wrote a "War Prayer," supposed to have been made by a mysterious, white-
robed stranger who enters a church during those ceremonies that precede
the marching of the nation's armies to battle.  The minister had prayed
for victory, a prayer which the stranger interprets as a petition that
the enemy's country be laid waste, its soldiers be torn by shells, its
people turned out roofless, to wander through their desolated land in
rags and hunger.  It was a scathing arraignment of war, a prophecy,
indeed, which to-day has been literally fulfilled.  He did not print it,
because then it would have been regarded as sacrilege.

When summer came again, in a beautiful house at Dublin, New Hampshire, on
the Monadnock slope, he seemed to get back into the old swing of work,
and wrote that pathetic story, "A Horse's Tale."  Also "Eve's Diary,"
which, under its humor, is filled with tenderness, and he began a wildly
fantastic tale entitled "Three Thousand Years Among the Microbes," a
satire in which Gulliver is outdone.  He never finished it.  He never
could finish it, for it ran off into amazing by-paths that led nowhere,
and the tale was lost.  Yet he always meant to get at it again some day
and make order out of chaos.

Old friends were dying, and Mark Twain grew more and more lonely.  "My
section of the procession has but a little way to go," he wrote when the
great English actor Henry Irving died.  Charles Henry Webb, his first
publisher, John Hay, Bret Harte, Thomas B. Reed, and, indeed, most of his
earlier associates were gone.  When an invitation came from San Francisco
to attend a California reunion he replied that his wandering days were
over and that it was his purpose to sit by the fire for the rest of his
life.  And in another letter:

     "I have done more for San Francisco than any other of its old
     residents.  Since I left there, it has increased in population fully
     300,000.  I could have done more--I could have gone earlier--it was
     suggested."

A choice example, by the way, of Mark Twain's best humor, with its
perfectly timed pause, and the afterthought.  Most humorists would have
been content to end with the statement, "I could have gone earlier."
Only Mark Twain could have added that final exquisite touch--"it was
suggested."

Mark Twain was nearing seventy.  With the 30th of November (1905) he
would complete the scriptural limitation, and the president of his
publishing-house, Col. George Harvey, of Harper's, proposed a great
dinner for him in celebration of his grand maturity.  Clemens would have
preferred a small assembly in some snug place, with only his oldest and
closest friends.  Colonel Harvey had a different view.  He had given a
small, choice dinner to Mark Twain on his sixty-seventh birthday; now it
must be something really worth while--something to outrank any former
literary gathering.  In order not to conflict with Thanksgiving holidays,
the 5th of December was selected as the date.  On that evening, two
hundred American and English men and women of letters assembled in
Delmonico's great banquet-hall to do honor to their chief.  What an
occasion it was!  The tables of gay diners and among them Mark Twain, his
snow-white hair a gleaming beacon for every eye.  Then, by and by,
presented by William Dean Howells, he rose to speak.  Instantly the
brilliant throng was on its feet, a shouting billow of life, the white
handkerchiefs flying foam-like on its crest.  It was a supreme moment!
The greatest one of them all hailed by their applause as he scaled the
mountaintop.

Never did Mark Twain deliver a more perfect address than he gave that
night.  He began with the beginning, the meagerness of that little hamlet
that had seen his birth, and sketched it all so quaintly and delightfully
that his hearers laughed and shouted, though there was tenderness under
it, and often the tears were just beneath the surface.  He told of his
habits of life, how he had reached seventy by following a plan of living
that would probably kill anybody else; how, in fact, he believed he had
no valuable habits at all.  Then, at last, came that unforgetable close:

     "Threescore years and ten!

     "It is the scriptural statute of limitations.  After that you owe no
     active duties; for you the strenuous life is over.  You are a time-
     expired man, to use Kipling's military phrase: you have served your
     term, well or less well, and you are mustered out.  You are become
     an honorary member of the republic, you are emancipated, compulsions
     are not for you, nor any bugle-call but "lights out."  You pay the
     time-worn duty bills if you choose, or decline, if you prefer--and
     without prejudice--for they are not legally collectable.

     "The previous-engagement plea, which in forty years has cost you so
     many twinges, you can lay aside forever; on this side of the grave
     you will never need it again.  If you shrink at thought of night,
     and winter, and the late homecomings from the banquet and the lights
     and laughter, through the deserted streets--a desolation which would
     not remind you now, as for a generation it did, that your friends
     are sleeping and you must creep in a-tiptoe and not disturb them,
     but would only remind you that you need not tiptoe, you can never
     disturb them more--if you shrink at the thought of these things you
     need only reply, 'Your invitation honors me and pleases me because
     you still keep me in your remembrance, but I am seventy; seventy,
     and would nestle in the chimney-corner, and smoke my pipe, and read
     my book, and take my rest, wishing you well in all affection, and
     that when you, in your turn, shall arrive at Pier 70 you may step
     aboard your waiting ship with a reconciled spirit, and lay your
     course toward the sinking sun with a contented heart.'"

The tears that had been lying in wait were no longer kept back.  If there
were any present who did not let them flow without shame, who did not
shout their applause from throats choked with sobs, they failed to
mention the fact later.

Many of his old friends, one after another, rose to tell their love for
him--Cable, Carnegie, Gilder, and the rest.  Mr. Rogers did not speak,
nor the Reverend Twichell, but they sat at his special table.  Aldrich
could not be there, but wrote a letter.  A group of English authors,
including Alfred Austin, Barrie, Chesterton, Dobson, Doyle, Hardy,
Kipling, Lang, and others, joined in a cable.  Helen Keller wrote:

     "And you are seventy years old?  Or is the report exaggerated, like
     that of your death?  I remember, when I saw you last, at the house
     of dear Mr. Hutton, in Princeton, you said:

     "'If a man is a pessimist before he is forty-eight, he knows too
     much.  If he is an optimist after he is forty-eight, he knows too
     little.'

     "Now we know you are an optimist, and nobody would dare to accuse one
     on the "seven-terraced summit" of knowing little.  So probably you
     are not seventy, after all, but only forty-seven!"

Helen Keller was right.  Mark Twain was never a pessimist in his heart.




LIX.

MARK TWAIN ARRANGES FOR HIS BIOGRAPHY

It was at the beginning of 1906--a little more than a month after the
seventieth-birthday dinner--that the writer of these chapters became
personally associated with Mark Twain.  I had met him before, and from
time to time he had returned a kindly word about some book I had written
and inconsiderately sent him, for he had been my literary hero from
childhood.  Once, indeed, he had allowed me to use some of his letters in
a biography I was writing of Thomas Nast; he had been always an admirer
of the great cartoonist, and the permission was kindness itself.  Before
the seating at the birthday dinner I happened to find myself for a moment
alone with Mark Twain and remembered to thank him in person for the use
of the letters; a day or two later I sent him a copy of the book.  I did
not expect to hear from it again.

It was a little while after this that I was asked to join in a small
private dinner to be given to Mark Twain at the Players, in celebration
of his being made an honorary member of that club--there being at the
time only one other member of this class, Sir Henry Irving.  I was in the
Players a day or two before the event, and David Munro, of "The North
American Review," a man whose gentle and kindly nature made him "David"
to all who knew him, greeted me joyfully, his face full of something he
knew I would wish to hear.

He had been chosen, he said, to propose the Players' dinner to Mark
Twain, and had found him propped up in bed, and beside him a copy of the
Nast book.  I suspect now that David's generous heart prompted Mark Twain
to speak of the book, and that his comment had lost nothing in David's
eager retelling.  But I was too proud and happy to question any feature
of the precious compliment, and Munro--always most happy in making others
happy--found opportunity to repeat it, and even to improve upon it--
usually in the presence of others--several times during the evening.

The Players' dinner to Mark Twain was given on the evening of January 3,
19066, and the picture of it still remains clear to me.  The guests,
assembled around a single table in the private dining-room, did not
exceed twenty-five in number.  Brander Matthews presided, and the
knightly Frank Millet, who would one day go down on the "Titanic," was
there, and Gilder and Munro and David Bispham and Robert Reid, and others
of their kind.  It so happened that my seat was nearly facing the guest
of the evening, who by a custom of the Players is placed at the side and
not at the distant end of the long table.  Regarding him at leisure, I
saw that he seemed to be in full health.  He had an alert, rested look;
his complexion had the tints of a miniature painting.  Lit by the soft
glow of the shaded candles, outlined against the richness of the shadowed
walls, he made a figure of striking beauty.  I could not take my eyes
from it, for it stirred in me the farthest memories.  I saw the interior
of a farm-house sitting-room in the Middle West where I had first heard
the name of Mark Twain, and where night after night a group had gathered
around the evening lamp to hear read aloud the story of the Innocents on
their Holy Land pilgrimage, which to a boy of eight had seemed only a
wonderful poem and fairy-tale.  To Charles Harvey Genung, who sat next to
me, I whispered something of this, and how during the thirty-six years
since then no one had meant to me quite what Mark Twain had meant--in
literature and, indeed, in life.  Now here he was just across the table.
It was a fairy-tale come true.

Genung said: "You should write his life."

It seemed to me no more than a pleasant remark, but he came back to it
again and again, trying to encourage me with the word that Munro had
brought back concerning the biography of Nast.  However, nothing of what
he said had kindled any spark of hope.  I put him off by saying that
certainly some one of longer and closer friendship and larger experience
had been selected for the work.  Then the speaking began, and the matter
went out of my mind.  Later in the evening, when we had left our seats
and were drifting about the table, I found a chance to say a word to our
guest concerning his "Joan of Arc," which I had recently re-read.  To my
happiness, he told me that long-ago incident--the stray leaf from Joan's
life, blown to him by the wind--which had led to his interest in all
literature.  Then presently I was with Genung again and he was still
insisting that I write the life of Mark Twain.  It may have been his
faithful urging, it may have been the quick sympathy kindled by the name
of "Joan of Arc"; whatever it was, in the instant of bidding good-by to
our guest I was prompted to add:

"May I call to see you, Mr. Clemens, some day?"  And something--to this
day I do not know what--prompted him to answer:

"Yes, come soon."

Two days later, by appointment with his secretary, I arrived at 21 Fifth
Avenue, and waited in the library to be summoned to his room.  A few
moments later I was ascending the long stairs, wondering why I had come
on so useless an errand, trying to think up an excuse for having come at
all.

He was propped up in bed--a regal bed, from a dismantled Italian palace--
delving through a copy of "Huckleberry Finn," in search of a paragraph
concerning which some unknown correspondent had inquired.  He pushed the
cigars toward me, commenting amusingly on this correspondent and on
letter-writing in general.  By and by, when there came a lull, I told him
what so many thousands had told him before--what his work had meant to
me, so long ago, and recalled my childish impressions of that large
black-and-gilt book with its wonderful pictures and adventures "The
Innocents Abroad."  Very likely he was willing enough to let me change
the subject presently and thank him for the kindly word which David Munro
had brought.  I do not remember what was his comment, but I suddenly
found myself saying that out of his encouragement had grown a hope
(though certainly it was less), that I might some day undertake a book
about himself.  I expected my errand to end at this point, and his
silence seemed long and ominous.

He said at last that from time to time he had himself written chapters of
his life, but that he had always tired of the work and put it aside.  He
added that he hoped his daughters would one day collect his letters, but
that a biography--a detailed story of a man's life and effort--was
another matter.  I think he added one or two other remarks, then all at
once, turning upon me those piercing agate-blue eyes, he said:

"When would you like to begin?"

There was a dresser, with a large mirror, at the end of the room.  I
happened to catch my reflection in it, and I vividly recollect saying to
it, mentally "This is not true; it is only one of many similar dreams."
But even in a dream one must answer, and I said:

"Whenever you like.  I can begin now."

He was always eager in any new undertaking.

"Very good," he said, "the sooner, then, the better.  Let's begin while
we are in the humor.  The longer you postpone a thing of this kind, the
less likely you are ever to get at it."

This was on Saturday; I asked if Tuesday, January 9, would be too soon to
start.  He agreed that Tuesday would do, and inquired as to my plan of
work.  I suggested bringing a stenographer to make notes of his life-
story as he could recall it, this record to be supplemented by other
material--letters, journals, and what not.  He said:

"I think I should enjoy dictating to a stenographer with some one to
prompt me and act as audience.  The room adjoining this was fitted up for
my study.  My manuscript and notes and private books and many of my
letters are there, and there are a trunkful or two of such things in the
attic.  I seldom use the room myself.  I do my writing and reading in
bed.  I will turn that room over to you for this work.  Whatever you need
will be brought to you.  We can have the dictations here in the morning,
and you can put in the rest of the day to suit yourself.  You can have a
key and come and go as you please."

That was always his way.  He did nothing by halves.  He got up and showed
me the warm luxury of the study, with its mass of material--disordered,
but priceless.

I have no distinct recollections of how I came away, but presently, back
at the Players, I was confiding the matter to Charles Harvey Genung, who
said he was not surprised; but I think he was.




LX.

WORKING WITH MARK TWAIN

It was true, after all; and on Tuesday morning, January 9, 1906, I was on
hand with a capable stenographer, ready to begin.  Clemens, meantime, had
developed a new idea: he would like to add, he said, the new dictations
to his former beginnings, completing an autobiography which was to be
laid away and remain unpublished for a hundred years.  He would pay the
stenographer himself, and own the notes, allowing me, of course, free use
of them as material for my book.  He did not believe that he could follow
the story of his life in its order of dates, but would find it necessary
to wander around, picking up the thread as memory or fancy prompted.  I
could suggest subjects and ask questions.  I assented to everything, and
we set to work immediately.

As on my former visit, he was in bed when we arrived, though clad now in
a rich Persian dressing gown, and propped against great, snowy pillows.
A small table beside him held his pipes, cigars, papers, also a reading-
lamp, the soft light of which brought out his brilliant coloring and the
gleam of his snowy hair.  There was daylight, too, but it was dull winter
daylight, from the north, while the walls of the room were a deep,
unreflecting red.

He began that morning with some memories of the Comstock mine; then he
dropped back to his childhood, closing at last with some comment on
matters quite recent.  How delightful it was--his quaint, unhurried
fashion of speech, the unconscious habits of his delicate hands, the play
of his features as his fancies and phrases passed through his mind and
were accepted or put aside.  We were watching one of the great literary
creators of his time in the very process of his architecture.  Time did
not count.  When he finished, at last, we were all amazed to find that
more than two hours had slipped away.

"And how much I have enjoyed it," he said.  "It is the ideal plan for
this kind of work.  Narrative writing is always disappointing.  The
moment you pick up a pen you begin to lose the spontaneity of the
personal relation, which contains the very essence of interest.  With
short-hand dictation one can talk as if he were at his own dinner-table
always an inspiring place.  I expect to dictate all the rest of my life,
if you good people are willing to come and listen to it."

The dictations thus begun continued steadily from week to week, with
increasing charm.  We never knew what he was going to talk about, and it
was seldom that he knew until the moment of beginning.  But it was always
fascinating, and I felt myself the most fortunate biographer in the
world, as indeed I was.

It was not all smooth sailing, however.  In the course of time I began to
realize that these marvelous dictated chapters were not altogether
history, but were often partly, or even entirely, imaginary.  The creator
of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn had been embroidering old incidents or
inventing new ones too long to stick to history now, to be able to
separate the romance in his mind from the reality of the past.  Also, his
memory of personal events had become inaccurate.  He realized this, and
once said, in his whimsical, gentle way:

     "When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened
     or not; but I am getting old, and soon I shall remember only the
     latter."

Yet it was his constant purpose to stick to fact, and especially did he
make no effort to put himself in a good light.  Indeed, if you wanted to
know the worst of Mark Twain you had only to ask him for it.  He would
give it to the last syllable, and he would improve upon it and pile up
his sins, and sometimes the sins of others, without stint.  Certainly the
dictations were precious, for they revealed character as nothing else
could; but as material for history they often failed to stand the test of
the documents in the next room--the letters, notebooks, agreements, and
the like--from which I was gradually rebuilding the structure of the
years.

In the talks that we usually had when the dictations were ended and the
stenographer had gone I got much that was of great value.  It was then
that I usually made those inquiries which we had planned in the
beginning, and his answers, coming quickly and without reflection, gave
imagination less play.  Sometimes he would touch some point of special
interest and walk up and down, philosophizing, or commenting upon things
in general, in a manner not always complimentary to humanity and its
progress.

I seldom asked him a question during the dictation--or interrupted in any
way, though he had asked me to stop him when I found him repeating or
contradicting himself, or misstating some fact known to me.  At first I
lacked the courage to point out a mistake at the moment, and cautiously
mentioned the matter when he had finished.  Then he would be likely to
say:

     "Why didn't you stop me?  Why did you let me go on making a donkey
     of myself when you could have saved me?"

So then I used to take the risk of getting struck by lightning, and
nearly always stopped him in time.  But if it happened that I upset his
thought, the thunderbolt was apt to fly.  He would say:

     "Now you've knocked everything out of my head."

Then, of course, I was sorry and apologized, and in a moment the sky was
clear again.  There was generally a humorous complexion to the
dictations, whatever the subject.  Humor was his natural breath of life,
and rarely absent.

Perhaps I should have said sooner that he smoked continuously during the
dictations.  His cigars were of that delicious fragrance which belongs to
domestic tobacco.  They were strong and inexpensive, and it was only his
early training that made him prefer them.  Admiring friends used to send
him costly, imported cigars, but he rarely touched them, and they were
smoked by visitors.  He often smoked a pipe, and preferred it to be old
and violent.  Once when he had bought a new, expensive briar-root, he
handed it to me, saying:

"I'd like to have you smoke that a year or two, and when it gets so you
can't stand it, maybe it will suit me."




LXI.

DICTATIONS AT DUBLIN, N. H.

Following his birthday dinner, Mark Twain had become once more the "Belle
of New York," and in a larger way than ever before.  An editorial in the
"Evening Mail" referred to him as a kind of joint Aristides, Solon, and
Themistocles of the American metropolis, and added:

     "Things have reached a point where, if Mark Twain is not at a public
     meeting or banquet, he is expected to console it with one of his
     inimitable letters of advice and encouragement."

He loved the excitement of it, and it no longer seemed to wear upon him.
Scarcely an evening passed that he did not go out to some dinner or
gathering where he had promised to speak.  In April, for the benefit of
the Robert Fulton Society, he delivered his farewell lecture--the last
lecture, he said, where any one would have to pay to hear him.  It was at
Carnegie Hall, and the great place was jammed.  As he stood before that
vast, shouting audience, I wondered if he was remembering that night,
forty years before in San Francisco, when his lecture career had begun.
We hoped he might speak of it, but he did not do so.

In May the dictations were transferred to Dublin, New Hampshire, to the
long veranda of the Upton House, on the Monadnock slope.  He wished to
continue our work, he said; so the stenographer and myself were presently
located in the village, and drove out each morning, to sit facing one of
the rarest views in all New England, while he talked of everything and
anything that memory or fancy suggested.  We had begun in his bedroom,
but the glorious outside was too compelling.

The long veranda was ideal.  He was generally ready when we arrived, a
luminous figure in white flannels, pacing up and down before a background
of sky and forest, blue lake, and distant hills.  When it stormed we
would go inside to a bright fire.  The dictation ended, he would ask his
secretary to play the orchestrelle, which at great expense had been
freighted up from New York.  In that high situation, the fire and the
music and the stormbeat seemed to lift us very far indeed from reality.
Certain symphonies by Beethoven, an impromptu by Schubert, and a nocturne
by Chopin were the selections he cared for most,[12] though in certain
moods he asked, for the Scotch melodies.

There was a good deal of social life in Dublin, but, the dictations were
seldom interrupted.  He became lonely, now and then, and paid a brief
visit to New York, or to Mr. Rogers in Fairhaven, but he always returned
gladly, for he liked the rest and quiet, and the dictations gave him
employment.  A part of his entertainment was a trio of kittens which he
had rented for the summer--rented because then they would not lose
ownership and would find home and protection in the fall.  He named the
kittens Sackcloth and Ashes--Sackcloth being a black-and-white kit, and
Ashes a joint name owned by the two others, who were gray and exactly
alike.  All summer long these merry little creatures played up and down
the wide veranda, or chased butterflies and grasshoppers down the clover
slope, offering Mark Twain never-ending amusement.  He loved to see them
spring into the air after some insect, miss it, tumble back, and quickly
jump up again with a surprised and disappointed expression.

In spite of his resolve not to print any of his autobiography until he
had been dead a hundred years, he was persuaded during the summer to
allow certain chapters of it to be published in "The North American
Review."  With the price received, thirty thousand dollars, he announced
he was going to build himself a country home at Redding, Connecticut, on
land already purchased there, near a small country place of my own.  He
wished to have a fixed place to go each summer, he said, and his thought
was to call it "Autobiography House."

[12] His special favorites were Schubert's Op. 142, part 2, and Chopin's
Op. 37, part 2.




LXII

A NEW ERA OF BILLIARDS

With the return to New York I began a period of closer association with
Mark Twain.  Up to that time our relations had been chiefly of a literary
nature.  They now became personal as well.

It happened in this way: Mark Twain had never outgrown his love for the
game of billiards, though he had not owned a table since the closing of
the Hartford house, fifteen years before.  Mrs. Henry Rogers had proposed
to present him with a table for Christmas, but when he heard of the plan,
boylike, he could not wait, and hinted that if he had the table "right
now" he could begin to use it sooner.  So the table came--a handsome
combination affair, suitable to all games--and was set in place.  That
morning when the dictation ended he said:

"Have you any special place to lunch, to-day?"

I replied that I had not.

"Lunch here," he said, "and we'll try the new billiard-table."

I acknowledged that I had never played more than a few games of pool, and
those very long ago.

"No matter," he said "the poorer you play the better I shall like it."

So I remained for luncheon, and when it was over we began the first game
ever played on the "Christmas" table.  He taught me a game in which
caroms and pockets both counted, and he gave me heavy odds.  He beat me,
but it was a riotous, rollicking game, the beginning of a closer relation
between us.  We played most of the afternoon, and he suggested that I
"come back in the evening and play some more."  I did so, and the game
lasted till after midnight.  I had beginner's luck--"nigger luck," as he
called it--and it kept him working feverishly to win.  Once when I had
made a great fluke--a carom followed by most of the balls falling into
the pockets, he said:

     "When you pick up that cue this table drips at every pore."

The morning dictations became a secondary interest.  Like a boy, he was
looking forward to the afternoon of play, and it seemed never to come
quickly enough to suit him.  I remained regularly for luncheon, and he
was inclined to cut the courses short that we might the sooner get up-
stairs for billiards.  He did not eat the midday meal himself, but he
would come down and walk about the dining-room, talking steadily that
marvelous, marvelous talk which little by little I trained myself to
remember, though never with complete success.  He was only killing time,
and I remember once, when he had been earnestly discussing some deep
question, he suddenly noticed that the luncheon was ending.

"Now," he said, "we will proceed to more serious matters--it's your--
shot."

My game improved with practice, and he reduced my odds.  He was willing
to be beaten, but not too often.  We kept a record of the games, and he
went to bed happier if the tally-sheet showed a balance in his favor.

He was not an even-tempered player.  When the game went steadily against
him he was likely to become critical, even fault-finding, in his remarks.
Then presently he would be seized with remorse and become over-gentle and
attentive, placing the balls as I knocked them into the pockets, hurrying
to render this service.  I wished he would not do it.  It distressed me
that he should humble himself.  I was willing that he should lose his
temper, that he should be even harsh if he felt so inclined--his age, his
position, his genius gave him special privileges.  Yet I am glad, as I
remember it now, that the other side revealed itself, for it completes
the sum of his humanity.  Once in a burst of exasperation he made such an
onslaught on the balls that he landed a couple of them on the floor.  I
gathered them up and we went on playing as if nothing had happened, only
he was very gentle and sweet, like a summer meadow when the storm has
passed by.  Presently he said:

     "This is a most amusing game.  When you play badly it amuses me, and
     when I play badly and lose my temper it certainly must amuse you."

It was but natural that friendship should grow under such conditions.
The disparity of our ages and gifts no longer mattered.  The pleasant
land of play is a democracy where such things do not count.

We celebrated his seventy-first birthday by playing billiards all day.
He invented a new game for the occasion, and added a new rule for it with
almost every shot.  It happened that no other member of the family was at
home--ill-health had banished every one, even the secretary.  Flowers,
telegrams, and congratulations came, and a string of callers.  He saw no
one but a few intimate friends.

We were entirely alone for dinner, and I felt the great honor of being
his only guest on such an occasion.  On that night, a year before, the
flower of his profession had assembled to do him honor.  Once between the
courses, when he rose, as was his habit, to walk about, he wandered into
the drawing-room, and, seating himself at the orchestrelle, began to play
the beautiful "Flower Song" from Faust.  It was a thing I had not seen
him do before, and I never saw him do it again.
He was in his loveliest humor all that day and evening, and at night when
we stopped playing he said:

"I have never had a pleasanter day at this game."

I answered: "I hope ten years from to-night we shall be playing it."

"Yes," he said, "still playing the best game on earth."




LXIII.

LIVING WITH MARK TWAIN

I accompanied him on a trip he made to Washington in the interest of
copyright.  Speaker "Uncle Joe" Cannon lent us his private room in the
Capitol, and there all one afternoon Mark Twain received Congressmen, and
in an atmosphere blue with cigar-smoke preached the gospel of copyright.
It was a historic trip, and for me an eventful one, for it was on the way
back to New York that Mark Twain suggested that I take up residence in
his home.  There was a room going to waste, he said, and I would be
handier for the early and late billiard sessions.  I accepted, of course.

Looking back, now, I see pretty vividly three quite distinct pictures.
One of them, the rich, red interior of the billiard-room, with the
brilliant green square in the center on which the gay balls are rolling,
and bent over it his luminous white figure in the instant of play.  Then
there is the long lighted drawing-room, with the same figure stretched on
a couch in the corner, drowsily smoking while the rich organ tones summon
for him scenes and faces which the others do not see.  Sometimes he rose,
pacing the length of the parlors, but oftener he lay among the cushions,
the light flooding his white hair and dress, heightening his brilliant
coloring.  He had taken up the fashion of wearing white altogether at
this time.  Black, he said, reminded him of his funerals.

The third picture is that of the dinner-table--always beautifully laid,
and always a shrine of wisdom when he was there.  He did not always talk,
but he often did, and I see him clearest, his face alive with interest,
presenting some new angle of thought in his vivid, inimitable speech.
These are pictures that will not fade from my memory.  How I wish the
marvelous things he said were like them!  I preserved as much of them as
I could, and in time trained myself to recall portions of his exact
phrasing.  But even so they seemed never quite as he had said them.  They
lacked the breath of his personality.  His dinner-table talk was likely
to be political, scientific, philosophic.  He often discussed aspects of
astronomy, which was a passion with him.  I could succeed better with the
billiard-room talk--that was likely to be reminiscent, full of anecdotes.
I kept a pad on the window-sill, and made notes while he was playing.  At
one time he told me of his dreams.

"There is never a month passes," he said, "that I do not dream of being
in reduced circumstances and obliged to go back to the river to earn a
living.  Usually in my dream I am just about to start into a black shadow
without being able to tell whether it is Selma Bluff, or Hat Island, or
only a black wall of night.  Another dream I have is being compelled to
go back to the lecture platform.  In it I am always getting up before an
audience, with nothing to say, trying to be funny, trying to make the
audience laugh, realizing I am only making silly jokes.  Then the
audience realizes it, and pretty soon they commence to get up and leave.
That dream always ends by my standing there in the semi-darkness talking
to an empty house."

He did not return to Dublin the next summer, but took a house at Tuxedo,
nearer New York.  I did not go there with him, for in the spring it was
agreed that I should make a pilgrimage to the Mississippi and the Pacific
coast to see those few still remaining who had known Mark Twain in his
youth.  John Briggs was alive, also Horace Bixby, "Joe" Goodman, Steve
and Jim Gillis, and there were a few others.

It was a trip taken none too soon.  John Briggs, a gentle-hearted old man
who sat by his fire and through one afternoon told me of the happy days
along the river-front from the cave to Holliday's Hill, did not reach the
end of the year.  Horace Bixby, at eighty-one, was still young, and
piloting a government snag-boat.  Neither was Joseph Goodman old, by any
means, but Jim Gillis was near his end, and Steve Gillis was an invalid,
who said:

"Tell Sam I'm going to die pretty soon, but that I love him; that I've
loved him all my life, and I'll love him till I die."




LXIV.

A DEGREE FROM OXFORD

On my return I found Mark Twain elated: he had been invited to England to
receive the degree of Literary Doctor from the Oxford University.  It is
the highest scholastic honorary degree; and to come back, as I had, from
following the early wanderings of the barefoot truant of Hannibal, only
to find him about to be officially knighted by the world's most venerable
institution of learning, seemed rather the most surprising chapter even
of his marvelous fairy-tale.  If Tom Sawyer had owned the magic wand, he
hardly could have produced anything as startling as that.

He sailed on the 8th of June, 1907, exactly forty years from the day he
had sailed on the "Quaker City" to win his greater fame.  I did not
accompany him.  He took with him a secretary to make notes, and my
affairs held me in America.  He was absent six weeks, and no attentions
that England had ever paid him before could compare with her lavish
welcome during this visit.  His reception was really national.  He was
banqueted by the greatest clubs of London, he was received with special
favor at the King's garden party, he traveled by a royal train, crowds
gathering everywhere to see him pass.  At Oxford when he appeared on the
street the name Mark Twain ran up and down like a cry of fire, and the
people came running.  When he appeared on the stage at the Sheldonian
Theater to receive his degree, clad in his doctor's robe of scarlet and
gray, there arose a great tumult--the shouting of the undergraduates for
the boy who had been Tom Sawyer and had played with Huckleberry Finn.
The papers next day spoke of his reception as a "cyclone," surpassing any
other welcome, though Rudyard Kipling was one of those who received
degrees on that occasion, and General Booth and Whitelaw Reid, and other
famous men.

Perhaps the most distinguished social honor paid to Mark Twain at this
time was the dinner given him by the staff of London "Punch," in the
historic "Punch" editorial rooms on Bouverie Street.  No other foreigner
had ever been invited to that sacred board, where Thackeray had sat, and
Douglas Jerrold and others of the great departed.  "Punch" had already
saluted him with a front-page cartoon, and at this dinner the original
drawing was presented to him by the editor's little daughter, Joy Agnew.

The Oxford degree, and the splendid homage paid him by England at large,
became, as it were, the crowning episode of Mark Twain's career.  I think
he realized this, although he did not speak of it--indeed, he had very
little to say of the whole matter.  I telephoned a greeting when I knew
that he had arrived in New York, and was summoned to "come down and play
billiards."  I confess I went with a good deal of awe, prepared to sit in
silence and listen to the tale of the returning hero.  But when I arrived
he was already in the billiard-room, knocking the balls about--his coat
off, for it was a hot night.  As I entered, he said:

     "Get your cue--I've been inventing a new game."

That was all.  The pageant was over, the curtain was rung down.  Business
was resumed at the old stand.




LXV.

THE REMOVAL TO REDDING

There followed another winter during which I was much with Mark Twain,
though a part of it he spent with Mr. Rogers in Bermuda, that pretty
island resort which both men loved.  Then came spring again, and June,
and with it Mark Twain's removal to his newly built home, "Stormfield,"
at Redding, Connecticut.

The house had been under construction for a year.  He had never seen it--
never even seen the land I had bought for him.  He even preferred not to
look at any plans or ideas for decoration.

"When the house is finished and furnished, and the cat is purring on the
hearth, it will be time enough for me to see it," he had said more than
once.

He had only specified that the rooms should be large and that the
billiard-room should be red.  His billiard-rooms thus far had been of
that color, and their memory was associated in his mind with enjoyment
and comfort.  He detested details of preparation, and then, too, he
looked forward to the dramatic surprise of walking into a home that had
been conjured into existence as with a word.

It was the 18th of June, 1908, that he finally took possession.  The
Fifth Avenue house was not dismantled, for it was the plan then to use
Stormfield only as a summer place.  The servants, however, with one
exception, had been transferred to Redding, and Mark Twain and I remained
alone, though not lonely, in the city house; playing billiards most of
the time, and being as hilarious as we pleased, for there was nobody to
disturb.  I think he hardly mentioned the new home during that time.  He
had never seen even a photograph of the place, and I confess I had
moments of anxiety, for I had selected the site and had been more or less
concerned otherwise, though John Howells was wholly responsible for the
building.  I did not really worry, for I knew how beautiful and peaceful
it all was.

The morning of the 18th was bright and sunny and cool.  Mark Twain was up
and shaved by six o'clock in order to be in time.  The train did not
leave until four in the afternoon, but our last billiards in town must
begin early and suffer no interruption.  We were still playing when,
about three, word was brought up that the cab was waiting.  Arrived at
the station, a group collected, reporters and others, to speed him to his
new home.  Some of the reporters came along.

The scenery was at its best that day, and he spoke of it approvingly.
The hour and a half required to cover the sixty miles' distance seemed
short.  The train porters came to carry out the bags.  He drew from his
pocket a great handful of silver.

"Give them something," he said; "give everybody liberally that does any
service."

There was a sort of open-air reception in waiting--a varied assemblage of
vehicles festooned with flowers had gathered to offer gallant country
welcome.  It was a perfect June evening, still and dream-like; there
seemed a spell of silence on everything.  The people did not cheer--they
smiled and waved to the white figure, and he smiled and waved reply, but
there was no noise.  It was like a scene in a cinema.

His carriage led the way on the three-mile drive to the house on the
hilltop, and the floral procession fell in behind.  Hillsides were green,
fields were white with daisies, dogwood and laurel shone among the trees.
He was very quiet as we drove along.  Once, with gentle humor, looking
out over a white daisy-field, he said:

     "That is buckwheat.  I always recognize buckwheat when I see it.  I
     wish I knew as much about other things as I know about buckwheat."

The clear-running brooks, a swift-flowing river, a tumbling cascade where
we climbed a hill, all came in for his approval--then we were at the lane
that led to his new home, and the procession behind dropped away.  The
carriage ascended still higher, and a view opened across the Saugatuck
Valley, with its nestling village and church-spire and farmhouses, and
beyond them the distant hills.  Then came the house--simple in design,
but beautiful--an Italian villa, such as he had known in Florence,
adapted here to American climate and needs.

At the entrance his domestic staff waited to greet him, and presently he
stepped across the threshold and stood in his own home for the first time
in seventeen years.  Nothing was lacking--it was as finished, as
completely furnished, as if he had occupied it a lifetime.  No one spoke
immediately, but when his eyes had taken in the harmony of the place,
with its restful, home-like comfort, and followed through the open French
windows to the distant vista of treetops and farmsides and blue hills,
he said, very gently:

     "How beautiful it all is!  I did not think it could be as beautiful
     as this."  And later, when he had seen all of the apartments: "It is
     a perfect house--perfect, so far as I can see, in every detail.  It
     might have been here always."

There were guests that first evening--a small home dinner-party--and a
little later at the foot of the garden some fireworks were set off by
neighbors inspired by Dan Beard, who had recently located in Redding.
Mark Twain, watching the rockets that announced his arrival, said,
gently:

     "I wonder why they go to so much trouble for me.  I never go to any
     trouble for anybody."

The evening closed with billiards, hilarious games, and when at midnight
the cues were set in the rack no one could say that Mark Twain's first
day in his new home had not been a happy one.




LXVI

LIFE AT STORMFIELD

Mark Twain loved Stormfield.  Almost immediately he gave up the idea of
going back to New York for the winter, and I think he never entered the
Fifth Avenue house again.  The quiet and undisturbed comfort of
Stormfield came to him at the right time of life.  His day of being the
"Belle of New York" was over.  Now and then he attended some great
dinner, but always under protest.  Finally he refused to go at all.  He
had much company during that first summer--old friends, and now and again
young people, of whom he was always fond.  The billiard-room he called
"the aquarium," and a frieze of Bermuda fishes, in gay prints, ran around
the walls.  Each young lady visitor was allowed to select one of these as
her patron fish and attach her name to it.  Thus, as a member of the
"aquarium club," she was represented in absence.  Of course there were
several cats at Stormfield, and these really owned the premises.  The
kittens scampered about the billiard-table after the balls, even when the
game was in progress, giving all sorts of new angles to the shots.  This
delighted him, and he would not for anything have discommoded or removed
one of those furry hazards.

My own house was a little more than half a mile away, our lands joining,
and daily I went up to visit him--to play billiards or to take a walk
across the fields.  There was a stenographer in the neighborhood, and he
continued his dictations, but not regularly.  He wrote, too, now and
then, and finished the little book called "Is Shakespeare Dead?"

Winter came.  The walks were fewer, and there was even more company; the
house was gay and the billiard games protracted.  In February I made a
trip to Europe and the Mediterranean, to go over some of his ground
there.  Returning in April, I found him somewhat changed.  It was not
that he had grown older, or less full of life, but only less active, less
eager for gay company, and he no longer dictated, or very rarely.  His
daughter Jean, who had been in a health resort, was coming home to act as
his secretary, and this made him very happy.  We resumed our games, our
talks, and our long walks across the fields.  There were few guests, and
we were together most of the day and evening.  How beautiful the memory
of it all is now!  To me, of course, nothing can ever be like it again in
this world.

Mark Twain walked slowly these days.  Early in the summer there appeared
indications of the heart trouble that less than a year later would bring
the end.  His doctor advised diminished smoking, and forbade the old
habit of lightly skipping up and down stairs.  The trouble was with the
heart muscles, and at times there came severe deadly pains in his breast,
but for the most part he did not suffer.  He was allowed the walk,
however, and once I showed him a part of his estate he had not seen
before--a remote cedar hillside.  On the way I pointed out a little
corner of land which earlier he had given me to straighten our division
line.  I told him I was going to build a study on it and call it
"Markland."  I think the name pleased him.  Later he said:

"If you had a place for that extra billiard-table of mine" (the Rogers
table, which had been left in storage in New York), "I would turn it over
to you."

I replied that I could adapt the size of my proposed study to fit the
table, and he said:

"Now that will be very good.  Then when I want exercise I can walk down
and play billiards with you, and when you want exercise you can walk up
and play billiards with me.  You must build that study."

So it was planned, and the work was presently under way.

How many things we talked of!  Life, death, the future--all the things of
which we know so little and love so much to talk about.  Astronomy, as I
have said, was one of his favorite subjects.  Neither of us had any real
knowledge of the matter, which made its great facts all the more awesome.
The thought that the nearest fixed star was twenty-five trillions of
miles away--two hundred and fifty thousand times the distance to our own
remote sun--gave him a sort of splendid thrill.  He would figure out
those appalling measurements of space, covering sheets of paper with his
sums, but he was not a good mathematician, and the answers were generally
wrong.  Comets in particular interested him, and one day he said:

     "I came in with Halley's comet in 1835.  It is coming again next
     year, and I expect to go out with it.  It will be the greatest
     disappointment of my life if I don't go out with Halley's comet."

He looked so strong, and full of color and vitality.  One could not
believe that his words held a prophecy.  Yet the pains recurred with
increasing frequency and severity; his malady, angina pectoris, was
making progress.  And how bravely he bore it all!  He never complained,
never bewailed.  I have seen the fierce attack crumple him when we were
at billiards, but he would insist on playing in his turn, bowed, his face
white, his hand digging at his breast.




LXVII

THE DEATH OF JEAN

Clara Clemens was married that autumn to Ossip Gabrilowitsch, the Russian
pianist, and presently sailed for Europe, where they would make their
home.  Jean Clemens was now head of the house, and what with her various
duties and poor health, her burden was too heavy.  She had a passion for
animal life of every kind, and in some farm-buildings at one corner of
the estate had set up quite an establishment of chickens and domestic
animals.  She was fond of giving these her personal attention, and this,
with her house direction and secretarial work, gave her little time for
rest.  I tried to relieve her of a share of the secretarial work, but she
was ambitious and faithful.  Still, her condition did not seem critical.

I stayed at Stormfield, now, most of the time--nights as well as days--
for the dull weather had come and Mark Twain found the house rather
lonely.  In November he had an impulse to go to Bermuda, and we spent a
month in the warm light of that summer island, returning a week before
the Christmas holidays.  And just then came Mark Twain's last great
tragedy--the death of his daughter Jean.

The holidays had added heavily to Jean's labors.  Out of her generous
heart she had planned gifts for everybody--had hurried to and from the
city for her purchases, and in the loggia set up a beautiful Christmas
tree.  Meantime she had contracted a heavy cold.  Her trouble was
epilepsy, and all this was bad for her.  On the morning of December 24,
she died, suddenly, from the shock of a cold bath.

Below, in the loggia, drenched with tinsel, stood the tree, and heaped
about it the packages of gifts which that day she had meant to open and
put in place.  Nobody had been overlooked.

Jean was taken to Elmira for burial.  Her father, unable to make the
winter journey, remained behind.  Her cousin, Jervis Langdon, came for
her.

It was six in the evening when she went away.  A soft, heavy snow was
falling, and the gloom of the short day was closing in.  There was not
the least noise, the whole world was muffled.  The lanterns shone out the
open door, and at an upper window, the light gleaming on his white hair,
her father watched her going away from him for the last time.  Later he
wrote:

     "From my window I saw the hearse and the carriages wind along the
     road and gradually grow vague and spectral in the falling snow, and
     presently disappear.  Jean was gone out of my life, and would not
     come back any more.  The cousin she had played with when they were
     babies together--he and her beloved old Katy--were conducting her to
     her distant childhood home, where she will lie by her mother's side
     once more, in the company of Susy and Langdon."




LXVIII

DAYS IN BERMUDA

Ten days later Mark Twain returned to Bermuda, accompanied only by a
valet.  He had asked me if we would be willing to close our home for the
winter and come to Stormfield, so that the place might be ready any time
for his return.  We came, of course, for there was no thought other than
for his comfort.  He did not go to a hotel in Bermuda, but to the home of
Vice-Consul Allen, where he had visited before.  The Allens were devoted
to him and gave him such care as no hotel could offer.

Bermuda agreed with Mark Twain, and for a time there he gained in
strength and spirits and recovered much of his old manner.  He wrote me
almost daily, generally with good reports of his health and doings, and
with playful counsel and suggestions.  Then, by and by, he did not write
with his own hand, but through his newly appointed "secretary," Mr.
Allen's young daughter, Helen, of whom he was very fond.  The letters,
however, were still gay.  Once he said:

     "While the matter is in my mind I will remark that if you ever send
     me another letter which is not paged at the top I will write you
     with my own hand, so that I may use in utter freedom and without
     embarrassment the kind of words which alone can describe such a
     criminal."

He had made no mention so far of the pains in his breast, but near the
end of March he wrote that he was coming home, if the breast pains did
not "mend their ways pretty considerable.  I do not want to die here," he
said.  "I am growing more and more particular about the place."  A week
later brought another alarming letter, also one from Mr. Allen, who
frankly stated that matters had become very serious indeed.  I went to
New York and sailed the next morning, cabling the Gabrilowitsches to come
without delay.

I sent no word to Bermuda that I was coming, and when I arrived he was
not expecting me.

"Why," he said, holding out his hand, "you did not tell us you were
coming?"

"No," I said, "it is rather sudden.  I didn't quite like the sound of
your last letters."

"But those were not serious.  You shouldn't have come on my account."

I said then that I had come on my own account, that I had felt the need
of recreation, and had decided to run down and come home with him.

"That's--very--good," he said, in his slow, gentle fashion.  "Wow I'm
glad to see you."

His breakfast came in and he ate with appetite.  I had thought him thin
and pale, at first sight, but his color had come back now, and his eyes
were bright.  He told me of the fierce attacks of the pain, and how he
had been given hypodermic injections which he amusingly termed "hypnotic
injunctions" and "the sub-cutaneous."  From Mr. and Mrs. Allen I learned
how slender had been his chances, and how uncertain were the days ahead.
Mr. Allen had already engaged passage home for April 12th.

He seemed so little like a man whose days were numbered.  On the
afternoon of my arrival we drove out, as we had done on our former visit,
and he discussed some of the old subjects in quite the old way.  I had
sold for him, for six thousand dollars, the farm where Jean had kept her
animals, and he wished to use the money in erecting for her some sort of
memorial.  He agreed that a building to hold the library which he had
already donated to the town of Redding would be appropriate and useful.
He asked me to write at once to his lawyer and have the matter arranged.

We did not drive out again.  The pains held off for several days, and he
was gay and went out on the lawn, but most of the time he sat propped up
in bed, reading and smoking.  When I looked at him there, so full of
vigor and the joy of life, I could not persuade myself that he would not
outlive us all.

He had written very little in Bermuda--his last work being a chapter of
amusing "Advice"--for me, as he confessed--what I was to do upon reaching
the gate of which St. Peter is said to keep the key.  As it is the last
writing he ever did, and because it is characteristic, one or two
paragraphs may be admitted here:

     "Upon arrival do not speak to St. Peter until spoken to.  It is not
     your place to begin.

     "Do not begin any remark with "Say."

     "When applying for a ticket avoid trying to make conversation.  If
     you must talk, let the weather alone. . .

     "You can ask him for his autograph--there is no harm in that--but be
     careful and don't remark that it is one of the penalties of
     greatness.  He has heard that before."

There were several pages of this counsel.




LXIX.

THE RETURN TO REDDING

I spent most of each day with him, merely sitting by the bed and reading.
I noticed when he slept that his breathing was difficult, and I could see
that he did not improve, but often he was gay and liked the entire family
to gather about and be merry.  It was only a few days before we sailed
that the severe attacks returned.  Then followed bad nights; but respite
came, and we sailed on the 12th, as arranged.  The Allen home stands on
the water, and Mr. Allen had chartered a tug to take us to the ship.  We
were obliged to start early, and the fresh morning breeze was
stimulating.  Mark Twain seemed in good spirits when we reached the
"Oceana," which was to take him home.

As long as I remember anything I shall remember the forty-eight hours of
that homeward voyage.  He was comfortable at first, and then we ran into
the humid, oppressive air of the Gulf Stream, and he could not breathe.
It seemed to me that the end might come at any moment, and this thought
was in his own mind, but he had no dread, and his sense of humor did not
fail.  Once when the ship rolled and his hat fell from the hook and made
the circuit of the cabin floor, he said:

     "The ship is passing the hat."

I had been instructed in the use of the hypodermic needle, and from time
to time gave him the "hypnotic injunction," as he still called it.  But
it did not afford him entire relief.  He could remain in no position for
any length of time.  Yet he never complained and thought only of the
trouble he might be making.  Once he said:

     "I am sorry for you, Paine, but I can't help it--I can't hurry this
     dying business."

And a little later:

     "Oh, it is such a mystery, and it takes so long!"

Relatives, physicians, and news-gatherers were at the dock to welcome
him.  Revived by the cool, fresh air of the North, he had slept for
several hours and was seemingly much better.  A special compartment on
the same train that had taken us first to Redding took us there now, his
physicians in attendance.  He did not seem to mind the trip or the drive
home.

As we turned into the lane that led to Stormfield he said:

"Can we see where you have built your billiard-room?"

The gable of the new study showed among the trees, and I pointed it out
to him.

"It looks quite imposing," he said.

Arriving at Stormfield, he stepped, unassisted, from the carriage to
greet the members of the household, and with all his old courtliness
offered each his hand.  Then in a canvas chair we had brought we carried
him up-stairs to his room--the big, beautiful room that looked out to the
sunset hills.  This was Thursday evening, April 14, 1910.




LXX.

THE CLOSE OF A GREAT LIFE

Mark Twain lived just a week from that day and hour.  For a time he
seemed full of life, talking freely, and suffering little.  Clara and
Ossip Gabrilowitsch arrived on Saturday and found him cheerful, quite
like himself.  At intervals he read.  "Suetonius" and "Carlyle" lay on
the bed beside him, and he would pick them up and read a page or a
paragraph.  Sometimes when I saw him thus--the high color still in his
face, the clear light in his eyes'--I said: "It is not reality.  He is
not going to die."

But by Wednesday of the following week it was evident that the end was
near.  We did not know it then, but the mysterious messenger of his birth
year, Halley's comet, became visible that night in the sky.[13]

On Thursday morning, the 21st, his mind was still fairly clear, and he
read a little from one of the volumes on his bed.  By Clara he sent word
that he wished to see me, and when I came in he spoke of two unfinished
manuscripts which he wished me to "throw away," as he briefly expressed
it, for his words were few, now, and uncertain.  I assured him that I
would attend to the matter and he pressed my hand.  It was his last word
to me.  During the afternoon, while Clara stood by him, he sank into a
doze, and from it passed into a deeper slumber and did not heed us any
more.

Through that peaceful spring afternoon the life-wave ebbed lower and
lower.  It was about half-past six, and the sun lay just on the horizon,
when Dr. Quintard noticed that the breathing, which had gradually become
more subdued, broke a little.  There was no suggestion of any struggle.
The noble head turned a little to one side, there was a fluttering sigh,
and the breath that had been unceasing for seventy-four tumultuous years
had stopped forever.

In the Brick Church, New York, Mark Twain--dressed in the white he loved
so well--lay, with the nobility of death upon him, while a multitude of
those who loved him passed by and looked at his face for the last time.
Flowers in profusion were banked about him, but on the casket lay a
single wreath which Dan Beard and his wife had woven from the laurel
which grows on Stormfield hill.  He was never more beautiful than as he
lay there, and it was an impressive scene to see those thousands file by,
regard him for a moment, gravely, thoughtfully, and pass on.  All sorts
were there, rich and poor; some crossed themselves, some saluted, some
paused a little to take a closer look.

That night we went with him to Elmira, and next day he lay in those
stately parlors that had seen his wedding-day, and where little Langdon
and Susy had lain, and Mrs. Clemens, and then Jean, only a little while
before.

The worn-out body had reached its journey's end; but his spirit had never
grown old, and to-day, still young, it continues to cheer and comfort a
tired world.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Boys' Life of Mark Twain,
by Albert Bigelow Paine






MARK TWAIN, A BIOGRAPHY

By Albert Bigelow Paine




[NOTE: Six individual volumes of this work have been previously published
by The Gutenberg Project in the following list; this 3mb text file
includes all six.  D.W.]

Mark Twain, A Biography 1907-1910, by Albert Paine[mt6bg10.txt]2987
Mark Twain, A Biography 1900-1907, by Albert Paine[mt5bg10.txt]2986
Mark Twain, A Biography 1886-1900, by Albert Paine[mt4bg10.txt]2985
Mark Twain, A Biography 1875-1886, by Albert Paine[mt3bg10.txt]2984
Mark Twain, A Biography 1866-1875, by Albert Paine[mt2bg10.txt]2983
Mark Twain, A Biography 1835-1866, by Albert Paine[mt1bg10.txt]2982



VOLUME I, Part 1: 1835-1866



                               MARK TWAIN
                              A BIOGRAPHY
                   THE PERSONAL AND LITERARY LIFE OF
                        SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS
                                   BY
                          ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE



                                   TO
                      CLARA CLEMENS GABRILOWITSCH
                        WHO STEADILY UPHELD THE
                       AUTHOR'S PURPOSE TO WRITE
                     HISTORY RATHER THAN EULOGY AS
                     THE STORY OF HER FATHER'S LIFE



                           AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Dear William Dean Howells, Joseph Hopkins Twichell, Joseph T.  Goodman,
and other old friends of Mark Twain:

I cannot let these volumes go to press without some grateful word to you
who have helped me during the six years and more that have gone to their
making.

First, I want to confess how I have envied you your association with Mark
Twain in those days when you and he "went gipsying, a long time ago."
Next, I want to express my wonder at your willingness to give me so
unstintedly from your precious letters and memories, when it is in the
nature of man to hoard such treasures, for himself and for those who
follow him.  And, lastly, I want to tell you that I do not envy you so
much, any more, for in these chapters, one after another, through your
grace, I have gone gipsying with you all.  Neither do I wonder now, for I
have come to know that out of your love for him grew that greater
unselfishness (or divine selfishness, as he himself might have termed
it), and that nothing short of the fullest you could do for his memory
would have contented your hearts.

My gratitude is measureless; and it is world-wide, for there is no land
so distant that it does not contain some one who has eagerly contributed
to the story.  Only, I seem so poorly able to put my thanks into words.

Albert Bigelow Paine.






                             PREFATORY NOTE

Certain happenings as recorded in this work will be found to differ
materially from the same incidents and episodes as set down in the
writings of Mr. Clemens himself.  Mark Twain's spirit was built of the
very fabric of truth, so far as moral intent was concerned, but in his
earlier autobiographical writings--and most of his earlier writings were
autobiographical--he made no real pretense to accuracy of time, place, or
circumstance--seeking, as he said, "only to tell a good story"--while in
later years an ever-vivid imagination and a capricious memory made
history difficult, even when, as in his so-called "Autobiography," his
effort was in the direction of fact.

"When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened or
not," he once said, quaintly, "but I am getting old, and soon I shall
remember only the latter."

The reader may be assured, where discrepancies occur, that the writer of
this memoir has obtained his data from direct and positive sources:
letters, diaries, accountbooks, or other immediate memoranda; also from
the concurring testimony of eye-witnesses, supported by a unity of
circumstance and conditions, and not from hearsay or vagrant printed
items.





                               MARK TWAIN

                              A BIOGRAPHY


I

ANCESTORS

On page 492 of the old volume of Suetonius, which Mark Twain read until
his very last day, there is a reference to one Flavius Clemens, a man of
wide repute "for his want of energy," and in a marginal note he has
written:

"I guess this is where our line starts."

It was like him to write that.  It spoke in his whimsical fashion the
attitude of humility, the ready acknowledgment of shortcoming, which was
his chief characteristic and made him lovable--in his personality and in
his work.

Historically, we need not accept this identity of the Clemens ancestry.
The name itself has a kindly meaning, and was not an uncommon one in
Rome.  There was an early pope by that name, and it appears now and again
in the annals of the Middle Ages.  More lately there was a Gregory
Clemens, an English landowner who became a member of Parliament under
Cromwell and signed the death-warrant of Charles I.  Afterward he was
tried as a regicide, his estates were confiscated, and his head was
exposed on a pole on the top of Westminster Hall.

Tradition says that the family of Gregory Clemens did not remain in
England, but emigrated to Virginia (or New Jersey), and from them, in
direct line, descended the Virginia Clemenses, including John Marshall
Clemens, the father of Mark Twain.  Perhaps the line could be traced, and
its various steps identified, but, after all, an ancestor more or less
need not matter when it is the story of a descendant that is to be
written.

Of Mark Twain's immediate forebears, however, there is something to be
said.  His paternal grandfather, whose name also was Samuel, was a man of
culture and literary taste.  In 1797 he married a Virginia girl, Pamela
Goggin; and of their five children John Marshall Clemens, born August 11,
1798, was the eldest--becoming male head of the family at the age of
seven, when his father was accidentally killed at a house-raising.  The
family was not a poor one, but the boy grew up with a taste for work.  As
a youth he became a clerk in an iron manufactory, at Lynchburg, and
doubtless studied at night.  At all events, he acquired an education, but
injured his health in the mean time, and somewhat later, with his mother
and the younger children, removed to Adair County, Kentucky, where the
widow presently married a sweetheart of her girlhood, one Simon Hancock,
a good man.  In due course, John Clemens was sent to Columbia, the
countyseat, to study law.  When the living heirs became of age he
administered his father's estate, receiving as his own share three negro
slaves; also a mahogany sideboard, which remains among the Clemens
effects to this day.

This was in 1821.  John Clemens was now a young man of twenty-three,
never very robust, but with a good profession, plenty of resolution, and
a heart full of hope and dreams.  Sober, industrious, and unswervingly
upright, it seemed certain that he must make his mark.  That he was
likely to be somewhat too optimistic, even visionary, was not then
regarded as a misfortune.

It was two years later that he met Jane Lampton; whose mother was a Casey
--a Montgomery-Casey whose father was of the Lamptons (Lambtons) of
Durham, England, and who on her own account was reputed to be the
handsomest girl and the wittiest, as well as the best dancer, in all
Kentucky.  The Montgomeries and the Caseys of Kentucky had been Indian
fighters in the Daniel Boone period, and grandmother Casey, who had been
Jane Montgomery, had worn moccasins in her girlhood, and once saved her
life by jumping a fence and out-running a redskin pursuer.  The
Montgomery and Casey annals were full of blood-curdling adventures, and
there is to-day a Casey County next to Adair, with a Montgomery County
somewhat farther east.  As for the Lamptons, there is an earldom in the
English family, and there were claimants even then in the American
branch.  All these things were worth while in Kentucky, but it was rare
Jane Lampton herself--gay, buoyant, celebrated for her beauty and her
grace; able to dance all night, and all day too, for that matter--that
won the heart of John Marshall Clemens, swept him off his feet almost at
the moment of their meeting.  Many of the characteristics that made Mark
Twain famous were inherited from his mother.  His sense of humor, his
prompt, quaintly spoken philosophy, these were distinctly her
contribution to his fame.  Speaking of her in a later day, he once said:

"She had a sort of ability which is rare in man and hardly existent in
woman--the ability to say a humorous thing with the perfect air of not
knowing it to be humorous."

She bequeathed him this, without doubt; also her delicate complexion; her
wonderful wealth of hair; her small, shapely hands and feet, and the
pleasant drawling speech which gave her wit, and his, a serene and
perfect setting.

It was a one-sided love affair, the brief courtship of Jane Lampton and
John Marshall Clemens.  All her life, Jane Clemens honored her husband,
and while he lived served him loyally; but the choice of her heart had
been a young physician of Lexington with whom she had quarreled, and her
prompt engagement with John Clemens was a matter of temper rather than
tenderness.  She stipulated that the wedding take place at once, and on
May 6, 1823, they were married.  She was then twenty; her husband twenty-
five.  More than sixty years later, when John Clemens had long been dead,
she took a railway journey to a city where there was an Old Settlers'
Convention, because among the names of those attending she had noticed
the name of the lover of her youth.  She meant to humble herself to him
and ask forgiveness after all the years.  She arrived too late; the
convention was over, and he was gone.  Mark Twain once spoke of this, and
added:

"It is as pathetic a romance as any that has crossed the field of my
personal experience in a long lifetime."




II

THE FORTUNES OF JOHN AND JANE CLEMENS

With all his ability and industry, and with the-best of intentions, John
Clemens would seem to have had an unerring faculty for making business
mistakes.  It was his optimistic outlook, no doubt--his absolute
confidence in the prosperity that lay just ahead--which led him from one
unfortunate locality or enterprise to another, as long as he lived.
About a year after his marriage he settled with his young wife in
Gainsborough, Tennessee, a mountain town on the Cumberland River, and
here, in 1825, their first child, a boy, was born.  They named him
Orion--after the constellation, perhaps--though they changed the accent
to the first syllable, calling it Orion.  Gainsborough was a small place
with few enough law cases; but it could hardly have been as small, or
furnished as few cases; as the next one selected, which was Jamestown,
Fentress County, still farther toward the Eastward Mountains.  Yet
Jamestown had the advantage of being brand new, and in the eye of his
fancy John Clemens doubtless saw it the future metropolis of east
Tennessee, with himself its foremost jurist and citizen.  He took an
immediate and active interest in the development of the place,
established the county-seat there, built the first Court House, and was
promptly elected as circuit clerk of the court.

It was then that he decided to lay the foundation of a fortune for
himself and his children by acquiring Fentress County land.  Grants could
be obtained in those days at the expense of less than a cent an acre, and
John Clemens believed that the years lay not far distant when the land
would increase in value ten thousand, twenty, perhaps even a hundred
thousandfold.  There was no wrong estimate in that.  Land covered with
the finest primeval timber, and filled with precious minerals, could
hardly fail to become worth millions, even though his entire purchase of
75,000 acres probably did not cost him more than $500.  The great tract
lay about twenty nines to the southward of Jamestown.  Standing in the
door of the Court House he had built, looking out over the "Knob" of the
Cumberland Mountains toward his vast possessions, he said:

"Whatever befalls me now, my heirs are secure.  I may not live to see
these acres turn into silver and gold, but my children will."

Such was the creation of that mirage of wealth, the "Tennessee land,"
which all his days and for long afterward would lie just ahead--a golden
vision, its name the single watchword of the family fortunes--the dream
fading with years, only materializing at last as a theme in a story of
phantom riches, The Gilded Age.

Yet for once John Clemens saw clearly, and if his dream did not come true
he was in no wise to blame.  The land is priceless now, and a corporation
of the Clemens heirs is to-day contesting the title of a thin fragment of
it--about one thousand acres--overlooked in some survey.

Believing the future provided for, Clemens turned his attention to
present needs.  He built himself a house, unusual in its style and
elegance.  It had two windows in each room, and its walls were covered
with plastering, something which no one in Jamestown had ever seen
before.  He was regarded as an aristocrat.  He wore a swallow-tail coat
of fine blue jeans, instead of the coarse brown native-made cloth.  The
blue-jeans coat was ornamented with brass buttons and cost one dollar and
twenty-five cents a yard, a high price for that locality and time.  His
wife wore a calico dress for company, while the neighbor wives wore
homespun linsey-woolsey.  The new house was referred to as the Crystal
Palace.  When John and Jane Clemens attended balls--there were continuous
balls during the holidays--they were considered the most graceful
dancers.

Jamestown did not become the metropolis he had dreamed.  It attained
almost immediately to a growth of twenty-five houses--mainly log houses--
and stopped there.  The country, too, was sparsely settled; law practice
was slender and unprofitable, the circuit-riding from court to court was
very bad for one of his physique.  John Clemens saw his reserve of health
and funds dwindling, and decided to embark in merchandise.  He built
himself a store and put in a small country stock of goods.  These he
exchanged for ginseng, chestnuts, lampblack, turpentine, rosin, and other
produce of the country, which he took to Louisville every spring and fall
in six-horse wagons.  In the mean time he would seem to have sold one or
more of his slaves, doubtless to provide capital.  There was a second
baby now--a little girl, Pamela,--born in September, 1827.  Three years
later, May 1830, another little girl, Margaret, came.  By this time the
store and home were in one building, the store occupying one room, the
household requiring two--clearly the family fortunes were declining.

About a year after little Margaret was born, John Clemens gave up
Jamestown and moved his family and stock of goods to a point nine miles
distant, known as the Three Forks of Wolf.  The Tennessee land was safe,
of course, and would be worth millions some day, but in the mean time the
struggle for daily substance was becoming hard.

He could not have remained at the Three Forks long, for in 1832 we find
him at still another place, on the right bank of Wolf River, where a
post-office called Pall Mall was established, with John Clemens as
postmaster, usually addressed as "Squire" or "Judge." A store was run in
connection with the postoffice.  At Pall Mall, in June, 1832, another
boy, Benjamin, was born.

The family at this time occupied a log house built by John Clemens
himself, the store being kept in another log house on the opposite bank
of the river.  He no longer practised law.  In The Gilded Age we have
Mark Twain's picture of Squire Hawkins and Obedstown, written from
descriptions supplied in later years by his mother and his brother Orion;
and, while not exact in detail, it is not regarded as an exaggerated
presentation of east Tennessee conditions at that time.  The chapter is
too long and too depressing to be set down here.  The reader may look it
up for himself, if he chooses.  If he does he will not wonder that Jane
Clemens's handsome features had become somewhat sharper, and her manner a
shade graver, with the years and burdens of marriage, or that John
Clemens at thirty-six-out of health, out of tune with his environment--
was rapidly getting out of heart.  After all the bright promise of the
beginning, things had somehow gone wrong, and hope seemed dwindling away.

A tall man, he had become thin and unusually pale; he looked older than
his years.  Every spring he was prostrated with what was called
"sunpain," an acute form of headache, nerve-racking and destroying to all
persistent effort.  Yet he did not retreat from his moral and
intellectual standards, or lose the respect of that shiftless community.
He was never intimidated by the rougher element, and his eyes were of a
kind that would disconcert nine men out of ten.  Gray and deep-set under
bushy brows, they literally looked you through.  Absolutely fearless, he
permitted none to trample on his rights.  It is told of John Clemens, at
Jamestown, that once when he had lost a cow he handed the minister on
Sunday morning a notice of the loss to be read from the pulpit, according
to the custom of that community.  For some reason, the minister put the
document aside and neglected it.  At the close of the service Clemens
rose and, going to the pulpit, read his announcement himself to the
congregation.  Those who knew Mark Twain best will not fail to recall in
him certain of his father's legacies.

The arrival of a letter from "Colonel Sellers" inviting the Hawkins
family to come to Missouri is told in The Gilded Age.  In reality the
letter was from John Quarles, who had married Jane Clemens's sister,
Patsey Lampton, and settled in Florida, Monroe County, Missouri.  It was
a momentous letter in The Gilded Age, and no less so in reality, for it
shifted the entire scene of the Clemens family fortunes, and it had to do
with the birthplace and the shaping of the career of one whose memory is
likely to last as long as American history.




III

A HUMBLE BIRTHPLACE

Florida, Missouri, was a small village in the early thirties--smaller
than it is now, perhaps, though in that day it had more promise, even if
less celebrity.  The West was unassembled then, undigested, comparatively
unknown.  Two States, Louisiana and Missouri, with less than half a
million white persons, were all that lay beyond the great river.
St. Louis, with its boasted ten thousand inhabitants and its river trade
with the South, was the single metropolis in all that vast uncharted
region.  There was no telegraph; there were no railroads, no stage lines
of any consequence--scarcely any maps.  For all that one could see or
guess, one place was as promising as another, especially a settlement
like Florida, located at the forks of a pretty stream, Salt River, which
those early settlers believed might one day become navigable and carry
the merchandise of that region down to the mighty Mississippi, thence to
the world outside.

In those days came John A. Quarles, of Kentucky, with his wife, who had
been Patsey Ann Lampton; also, later, Benjamin Lampton, her father, and
others of the Lampton race.  It was natural that they should want Jane
Clemens and her husband to give up that disheartening east Tennessee
venture and join them in this new and promising land.  It was natural,
too, for John Quarles--happy-hearted, generous, and optimistic--to write
the letter.  There were only twenty-one houses in Florida, but Quarles
counted stables, out-buildings--everything with a roof on it--and set
down the number at fifty-four.

Florida, with its iridescent promise and negligible future, was just the
kind of a place that John Clemens with unerring instinct would be certain
to select, and the Quarles letter could have but one answer.  Yet there
would be the longing for companionship, too, and Jane Clemens must have
hungered for her people.  In The Gilded Age, the Sellers letter ends:

"Come!--rush!--hurry!--don't wait for anything!"

The Clemens family began immediately its preparation for getting away.
The store was sold, and the farm; the last two wagon-loads of produce
were sent to Louisville; and with the aid of the money realized, a few
hundred dollars, John Clemens and his family "flitted out into the great
mysterious blank that lay beyond the Knobs of Tennessee."  They had a
two-horse barouche, which would seem to have been preserved out of their
earlier fortunes.  The barouche held the parents and the three younger
children, Pamela, Margaret, anal the little boy, Benjamin.  There were
also two extra horses, which Orion, now ten, and Jennie, the house-girl,
a slave, rode.  This was early in the spring of 1835.

They traveled by the way of their old home at Columbia, and paid a visit
to relatives.  At Louisville they embarked on a steamer bound for St.
Louis; thence overland once more through wilderness and solitude into
what was then the Far West, the promised land.

They arrived one evening, and if Florida was not quite all in appearance
that John Clemens had dreamed, it was at least a haven--with John
Quarles, jovial, hospitable, and full of plans.  The great Mississippi
was less than fifty miles away.  Salt River, with a system of locks and
dams, would certainly become navigable to the Forks, with Florida as its
head of navigation.  It was a Sellers fancy, though perhaps it should be
said here that John Quarles was not the chief original of that lovely
character in The Gilded Age.  That was another relative--James Lampton, a
cousin--quite as lovable, and a builder of even more insubstantial
dreams.

John Quarles was already established in merchandise in Florida, and was
prospering in a small way.  He had also acquired a good farm, which he
worked with thirty slaves, and was probably the rich man and leading
citizen of the community.  He offered John Clemens a partnership in his
store, and agreed to aid him in the selection of some land.  Furthermore,
he encouraged him to renew his practice of the law.  Thus far, at least,
the Florida venture was not a mistake, for, whatever came, matters could
not be worse than they had been in Tennessee.

In a small frame building near the center of the village, John and Jane
Clemens established their household.  It was a humble one-story affair,
with two main rooms and a lean-to kitchen, though comfortable enough for
its size, and comparatively new.  It is still standing and occupied when
these lines are written, and it should be preserved and guarded as a
shrine for the American people; for it was here that the foremost
American-born author--the man most characteristically American in every
thought and word and action of his life--drew his first fluttering
breath, caught blinkingly the light of a world that in the years to come
would rise up and in its wide realm of letters hail him as a king.

It was on a bleak day, November 30, 1835, that he entered feebly the
domain he was to conquer.  Long, afterward, one of those who knew him
best said:

"He always seemed to me like some great being from another planet--never
quite of this race or kind."

He may have been, for a great comet was in the sky that year, and it
would return no more until the day when he should be borne back into the
far spaces of silence and undiscovered suns.  But nobody thought of this,
then.

He was a seven-months child, and there was no fanfare of welcome at his
coming.  Perhaps it was even suggested that, in a house so small and so
sufficiently filled, there was no real need of his coming at all.  One
Polly Ann Buchanan, who is said to have put the first garment of any sort
on him, lived to boast of the fact,--[This honor has been claimed also
for Mrs.  Millie Upton and a Mrs. Damrell.  Probably all were present and
assisted.]--but she had no particular pride in that matter then.  It was
only a puny baby with a wavering promise of life.  Still, John Clemens
must have regarded with favor this first gift of fortune in a new land,
for he named the little boy Samuel, after his father, and added the name
of an old and dear Virginia friend, Langhorne.  The family fortunes would
seem to have been improving at this time, and he may have regarded the
arrival of another son as a good omen.

With a family of eight, now, including Jennie, the slavegirl, more room
was badly needed, and he began building without delay.  The result was
not a mansion, by any means, being still of the one-story pattern, but it
was more commodious than the tiny two-room affair.  The rooms were
larger, and there was at least one ell, or extension, for kitchen and
dining-room uses.  This house, completed in 1836, occupied by the Clemens
family during the remainder of the years spent in Florida, was often in
later days pointed out as Mark Twain's birthplace.  It missed that
distinction by a few months, though its honor was sufficient in having
sheltered his early childhood.--[This house is no longer standing.
When it was torn down several years ago, portions of it were carried off
and manufactured into souvenirs.  Mark Twain himself disclaimed it as his
birthplace, and once wrote on a photograph of it: "No, it is too stylish,
it is not my birthplace."]




IV

BEGINNING A LONG JOURNEY

It was not a robust childhood.  The new baby managed to go through the
winter--a matter of comment among the family and neighbors.  Added
strength came, but slowly; "Little Sam," as they called him, was always
delicate during those early years.

It was a curious childhood, full of weird, fantastic impressions and
contradictory influences, stimulating alike to the imagination and that
embryo philosophy of life which begins almost with infancy.  John Clemens
seldom devoted any time to the company of his children.  He looked after
their comfort and mental development as well as he could, and gave advice
on occasion.  He bought a book now and then--sometimes a picture-book--
and subscribed for Peter Parley's Magazine, a marvel of delight to the
older children, but he did not join in their amusements, and he rarely,
or never, laughed.  Mark Twain did not remember ever having seen or heard
his father laugh.  The problem of supplying food was a somber one to John
Clemens; also, he was working on a perpetual-motion machine at this
period, which absorbed his spare time, and, to the inventor at least, was
not a mirthful occupation.  Jane Clemens was busy, too.  Her sense of
humor did not die, but with added cares and years her temper as well as
her features became sharper, and it was just as well to be fairly out of
range when she was busy with her employments.

Little Sam's companions were his brothers and sisters, all older than
himself: Orion, ten years his senior, followed by Pamela and Margaret at
intervals of two and three years, then by Benjamin, a kindly little lad
whose gentle life was chiefly devoted to looking after the baby brother,
three years his junior.  But in addition to these associations, there
were the still more potent influences Of that day and section, the
intimate, enveloping institution of slavery, the daily companionship of
the slaves.  All the children of that time were fond of the negroes and
confided in them.  They would, in fact, have been lost without such
protection and company.

It was Jennie, the house-girl, and Uncle Ned, a man of all work--
apparently acquired with the improved prospects--who were in real charge
of the children and supplied them with entertainment.  Wonderful
entertainment it was.  That was a time of visions and dreams, small.
gossip and superstitions.  Old tales were repeated over and over, with
adornments and improvements suggested by immediate events.  At evening
the Clemens children, big and little, gathered about the great open
fireplace while Jennie and Uncle Ned told tales and hair-lifting legends.
Even a baby of two or three years could follow the drift of this
primitive telling and would shiver and cling close with the horror and
delight of its curdling thrill.  The tales always began with "Once 'pon a
time," and one of them was the story of the "Golden Arm" which the
smallest listener would one day repeat more elaborately to wider
audiences in many lands.  Briefly it ran as follows:

"Once 'Pon a time there was a man, and he had a wife, and she had a' arm
of pure gold; and she died, and they buried her in the graveyard; and one
night her husband went and dug her up and cut off her golden arm and tuck
it home; and one night a ghost all in white come to him; and she was his
wife; and she says:

"W-h-a-r-r's my golden arm?  W-h-a-r-r's my golden arm?  W-h-a-r-r's my
g-o-l-den arm?"

As Uncle Ned repeated these blood-curdling questions he would look first
one and then another of his listeners in the eyes, with his bands drawn
up in front of his breast, his fingers turned out and crooked like claws,
while he bent with each question closer to the shrinking forms before
him.  The tone was sepulchral, with awful pause as if waiting each time
for a reply.  The culmination came with a pounce on one of the group, a
shake of the shoulders, and a shout of:

"YOU'VE got it!' and she tore him all to pieces!"

And the children would shout "Lordy!" and look furtively over their
shoulders, fearing to see a woman in white against the black wall; but,
instead, only gloomy, shapeless shadows darted across it as the
flickering flames in the fireplace went out on one brand and flared up on
another.  Then there was a story of a great ball of fire that used to
follow lonely travelers along dark roads through the woods.

"Once 'pon a time there was a man, and he was riding along de road and he
come to a ha'nted house, and he heard de chains'a-rattlin' and a-rattlin'
and a-rattlin', and a ball of fire come rollin' up and got under his
stirrup, and it didn't make no difference if his horse galloped or went
slow or stood still, de ball of fire staid under his stirrup till he got
plum to de front do', and his wife come out and say: 'My Gord, dat's
devil fire!' and she had to work a witch spell to drive it away."

"How big was it, Uncle Ned?"

"Oh, 'bout as big as your head, and I 'spect it's likely to come down dis
yere chimney 'most any time."

Certainly an atmosphere like this meant a tropic development for the
imagination of a delicate child.  All the games and daily talk concerned
fanciful semi-African conditions and strange primal possibilities.  The
children of that day believed in spells and charms and bad-luck signs,
all learned of their negro guardians.

But if the negroes were the chief companions and protectors of the
children, they were likewise one of their discomforts.  The greatest real
dread children knew was the fear of meeting runaway slaves.  A runaway
slave was regarded as worse than a wild beast, and treated worse when
caught.  Once the children saw one brought into Florida by six men who
took him to an empty cabin, where they threw him on the floor and bound
him with ropes.  His groans were loud and frequent.  Such things made an
impression that would last a lifetime.

Slave punishment, too, was not unknown, even in the household.  Jennie
especially was often saucy and obstreperous.  Jane Clemens, with more
strength of character than of body, once undertook to punish her for
insolence, whereupon Jennie snatched the whip from her hand.  John
Clemens was sent for in haste.  He came at once, tied Jennie's wrists
together with a bridle rein, and administered chastisement across the
shoulders with a cowhide.  These were things all calculated to impress a
sensitive child.

In pleasant weather the children roamed over the country, hunting berries
and nuts, drinking sugar-water, tying knots in love-vine, picking the
petals from daisies to the formula "Love me-love me not," always
accompanied by one or more, sometimes by half a dozen, of their small
darky followers.  Shoes were taken off the first of April.  For a time a
pair of old woolen stockings were worn, but these soon disappeared,
leaving the feet bare for the summer.  One of their dreads was the
possibility of sticking a rusty nail into the foot, as this was liable to
cause lockjaw, a malady regarded with awe and terror.  They knew what
lockjaw was--Uncle John Quarles's black man, Dan, was subject to it.
Sometimes when he opened his mouth to its utmost capacity he felt the
joints slip and was compelled to put down the cornbread, or jole and
greens, or the piece of 'possum he was eating, while his mouth remained a
fixed abyss until the doctor came and restored it to a natural position
by an exertion of muscular power that would have well-nigh lifted an ox.

Uncle John Quarles, his home, his farm, his slaves, all were sources of
never-ending delight.  Perhaps the farm was just an ordinary Missouri
farm and the slaves just average negroes, but to those children these
things were never apparent.  There was a halo about anything that
belonged to Uncle John Quarles, and that halo was the jovial, hilarious
kindness of that gentle-hearted, humane man.  To visit at his house was
for a child to be in a heaven of mirth and pranks continually.  When the
children came for eggs he would say:

"Your hens won't lay, eh?  Tell your maw to feed 'em parched corn and
drive 'em uphill," and this was always a splendid stroke of humor to his
small hearers.

Also, he knew how to mimic with his empty hands the peculiar patting and
tossing of a pone of corn-bread before placing it in the oven.  He would
make the most fearful threats to his own children, for disobedience, but
never executed any of them.  When they were out fishing and returned late
he would say:

"You--if I have to hunt you again after dark, I will make you smell like
a burnt horn!"

Nothing could exceed the ferocity of this threat, and all the children,
with delightful terror and curiosity, wondered what would happen--if it
ever did happen--that would result in giving a child that peculiar savor.
Altogether it was a curious early childhood that Little Sam had--at least
it seems so to us now.  Doubtless it was commonplace enough for that time
and locality.




V

THE WAY OF FORTUNE

Perhaps John Quarles's jocular, happy-go-lucky nature and general conduct
did not altogether harmonize with John Clemens's more taciturn business
methods.  Notwithstanding the fact that he was a builder of dreams,
Clemens was neat and methodical, with his papers always in order.  He had
a hearty dislike for anything resembling frivolity and confusion, which
very likely were the chief features of John Quarles's storekeeping.  At
all events, they dissolved partnership at the end of two or three years,
and Clemens opened business for himself across the street.  He also
practised law whenever there were cases, and was elected justice of the
peace, acquiring the permanent title of "Judge."  He needed some one to
assist in the store, and took in Orion, who was by this time twelve or
thirteen years old; but, besides his youth, Orion--all his days a
visionary--was a studious, pensive lad with no taste for commerce.  Then
a partnership was formed with a man who developed neither capital nor
business ability, and proved a disaster in the end.  The modest tide of
success which had come with John Clemens's establishment at Florida had
begun to wane.  Another boy, Henry, born in July, 1838, added one more
responsibility to his burdens.

There still remained a promise of better things.  There seemed at least a
good prospect that the scheme for making Salt River navigable was likely
to become operative.  With even small boats (bateaux) running as high as
the lower branch of the South Fork, Florida would become an emporium of
trade, and merchants and property-owners of that village would reap a
harvest.  An act of the Legislature was passed incorporating the
navigation company, with Judge Clemens as its president.  Congress was
petitioned to aid this work of internal improvement.  So confident was
the company of success that the hamlet was thrown into a fever of
excitement by the establishment of a boatyard and, the actual
construction of a bateau; but a Democratic Congress turned its back on
the proposed improvement.  No boat bigger than a skiff ever ascended Salt
River, though there was a wild report, evidently a hoax, that a party of
picnickers had seen one night a ghostly steamer, loaded and manned,
puffing up the stream.  An old Scotchman, Hugh Robinson, when he heard of
it, said:

"I don't doubt a word they say.  In Scotland, it often happens that when
people have been killed, or are troubled, they send their spirits abroad
and they are seen as much like themselves as a reflection in a looking-
glass.  That was a ghost of some wrecked steamboat."

But John Quarles, who was present, laughed:

"If ever anybody was in trouble, the men on that steamboat were," he
said.  "They were the Democratic candidates at the last election.  They
killed Salt River improvements, and Salt River has killed them.  Their
ghosts went up the river on a ghostly steamboat."

It is possible that this comment, which was widely repeated and traveled
far, was the origin of the term "Going up Salt River," as applied to
defeated political candidates.--[The dictionaries give this phrase as
probably traceable to a small, difficult stream in Kentucky; but it seems
more reasonable to believe that it originated in Quarles's witty
comment.]

No other attempt was ever made to establish navigation on Salt River.
Rumors of railroads already running in the East put an end to any such
thought.  Railroads could run anywhere and were probably cheaper and
easier to maintain than the difficult navigation requiring locks and
dams.  Salt River lost its prestige as a possible water highway and
became mere scenery.  Railroads have ruined greater rivers than the
Little Salt, and greater villages than Florida, though neither Florida
nor Salt River has been touched by a railroad to this day.  Perhaps such
close detail of early history may be thought unnecessary in a work of
this kind, but all these things were definite influences in the career of
the little lad whom the world would one day know as Mark Twain.




VI

A NEW HOME

The death of little Margaret was the final misfortune that came to the
Clemens family in Florida.  Doubtless it hastened their departure.
There was a superstition in those days that to refer to health as good
luck, rather than to ascribe it to the kindness of Providence, was to
bring about a judgment.  Jane Clemens one day spoke to a neighbor of
their good luck in thus far having lost no member of their family.  That
same day, when the sisters, Pamela and Margaret, returned from school,
Margaret laid her books on the table, looked in the glass at her flushed
cheeks, pulled out the trundle-bed, and lay down.

She was never in her right mind again.  The doctor was sent for and
diagnosed the case "bilious fever."  One evening, about nine o'clock,
Orion was sitting on the edge of the trundle-bed by the patient, when the
door opened and Little Sam, then about four years old, walked in from his
bedroom, fast asleep.  He came to the side of the trundle-bed and pulled
at the bedding near Margaret's shoulder for some time before he woke.
Next day the little girl was "picking at the coverlet," and it was known
that she could not live.  About a week later she died.  She was nine
years old, a beautiful child, plump in form, with rosy cheeks, black
hair, and bright eyes.  This was in August, 1839.  It was Little Sam's
first sight of death--the first break in the Clemens family: it left a
sad household.  The shoemaker who lived next door claimed to have seen
several weeks previous, in a vision, the coffin and the funeral-
procession pass the gate by the winding road, to the cemetery, exactly as
it happened.

Matters were now going badly enough with John Clemens.  Yet he never was
without one great comforting thought--the future of the Tennessee land.
It underlaid every plan; it was an anodyne for every ill.

"When we sell the Tennessee land everything will be all right," was the
refrain that brought solace in the darkest hours.  A blessing for him
that this was so, for he had little else to brighten his days.
Negotiations looking to the sale of the land were usually in progress.
When the pressure became very hard and finances were at their lowest ebb,
it was offered at any price--at five cents an acre, sometimes.  When
conditions improved, however little, the price suddenly advanced even to
its maximum of one thousand dollars an acre.  Now and then a genuine
offer came along, but, though eagerly welcomed at the moment, it was
always refused after a little consideration.

"We will struggle along somehow, Jane," he would say.  "We will not throw
away the children's fortune."

There was one other who believed in the Tennessee land--Jane Clemens's
favorite cousin, James Lampton, the courtliest, gentlest, most prodigal
optimist of all that guileless race.  To James Lampton the land always
had "millions in it"--everything had.  He made stupendous fortunes daily,
in new ways.  The bare mention of the Tennessee land sent him off into
figures that ended with the purchase of estates in England adjoining
those of the Durham Lamptons, whom he always referred to as "our
kindred," casually mentioning the whereabouts and health of the "present
earl."  Mark Twain merely put James Lampton on paper when he created
Colonel Sellers, and the story of the Hawkins family as told in The
Gilded Age reflects clearly the struggle of those days.  The words
"Tennessee land," with their golden promise, became his earliest
remembered syllables.  He grew to detest them in time, for they came to
mean mockery.

One of the offers received was the trifling sum of two hundred and fifty
dollars, and such was the moment's need that even this was considered.
Then, of course, it was scornfully refused.  In some autobiographical
chapters which Orion Clemens left behind he said:

"If we had received that two hundred and fifty dollars, it would have
been more than we ever made, clear of expenses, out of the whole of the
Tennessee land, after forty years of worry to three generations."

What a less speculative and more logical reasoner would have done in the
beginning, John Clemens did now; he selected a place which, though little
more than a village, was on a river already navigable--a steamboat town
with at least the beginnings of manufacturing and trade already
established--that is to say, Hannibal, Missouri--a point well chosen, as
shown by its prosperity to-day.

He did not delay matters.  When he came to a decision, he acted quickly.
He disposed of a portion of his goods and shipped the remainder overland;
then, with his family and chattels loaded in a wagon, he was ready to set
out for the new home.  Orion records that, for some reason, his father
did not invite him to get into the wagon, and how, being always sensitive
to slight, he had regarded this in the light of deliberate desertion.

"The sense of abandonment caused my heart to ache.  The wagon had gone a
few feet when I was discovered and invited to enter.  How I wished they
had not missed me until they had arrived at Hannibal.  Then the world
would have seen how I was treated and would have cried 'Shame!'"

This incident, noted and remembered, long after became curiously confused
with another, in Mark Twain's mind.  In an autobiographical chapter
published in The North American Review he tells of the move to Hannibal
and relates that he himself was left behind by his absentminded family.
The incident of his own abandonment did not happen then, but later, and
somewhat differently.  It would indeed be an absent-minded family if the
parents, and the sister and brothers ranging up to fourteen years of age,
should drive off leaving Little Sam, age four, behind.

--[As mentioned in the Prefatory Note, Mark Twain's memory played him
many tricks in later life.  Incidents were filtered through his vivid
imagination until many of them bore little relation to the actual
occurrence.  Some of these lapses were only amusing, but occasionally
they worked an unintentional injustice.  It is the author's purpose in
every instance, so far as is possible, to keep the record straight.]




VII

THE LITTLE TOWN OF HANNIBAL

Hannibal in 1839 was already a corporate community and had an atmosphere
of its own.  It was a town with a distinct Southern flavor, though rather
more astir than the true Southern community of that period; more Western
in that it planned, though without excitement, certain new enterprises
and made a show, at least, of manufacturing.  It was somnolent (a slave
town could not be less than that), but it was not wholly asleep--that is
to say, dead--and it was tranquilly content.  Mark Twain remembered it as
"the white town drowsing in the sunshine of a summer morning,.  .  .  the
great Mississippi, the magnificent Mississippi, rolling its mile-wide
tide along; .  .  .  the dense forest away on the other side."

The little city was proud of its scenery, and justly so: circled with
bluffs, with Holliday's Hill on the north, Lover's Leap on the south, the
shining river in the foreground, there was little to be desired in the
way of setting.

The river, of course, was the great highway.  Rafts drifted by;
steamboats passed up and down and gave communication to the outside
world; St. Louis, the metropolis, was only one hundred miles away.
Hannibal was inclined to rank itself as of next importance, and took on
airs accordingly.  It had society, too--all kinds--from the negroes and
the town drunkards ("General" Gaines and Jimmy Finn; later, Old Ben
Blankenship) up through several nondescript grades of mechanics and
tradesmen to the professional men of the community, who wore tall hats,
ruffled shirt-fronts, and swallow-tail coats, usually of some positive
color-blue, snuff-brown, and green.  These and their families constituted
the true aristocracy of the Southern town.  Most of them had pleasant
homes--brick or large frame mansions, with colonnaded entrances, after
the manner of all Southern architecture of that period, which had an
undoubted Greek root, because of certain drawing-books, it is said,
accessible to the builders of those days.  Most of them, also, had means
--slaves and land which yielded an income in addition to their
professional earnings.  They lived in such style as was considered
fitting to their rank, and had such comforts as were then obtainable.

It was to this grade of society that judge Clemens and his family
belonged, but his means no longer enabled him to provide either the
comforts or the ostentation of his class.  He settled his family and
belongings in a portion of a house on Hill Street--the Pavey Hotel; his
merchandise he established modestly on Main Street, with Orion, in a new
suit of clothes, as clerk.  Possibly the clothes gave Orion a renewed
ambition for mercantile life, but this waned.  Business did not begin
actively, and he was presently dreaming and reading away the time.  A
little later he became a printer's apprentice, in the office of the
Hannibal Journal, at his father's suggestion.

Orion Clemens perhaps deserves a special word here.  He was to be much
associated with his more famous brother for many years, and his
personality as boy and man is worth at least a casual consideration.
He was fifteen now, and had developed characteristics which in a greater
or less degree were to go with him through life.  Of a kindly, loving
disposition, like all of the Clemens children, quick of temper, but
always contrite, or forgiving, he was never without the fond regard of
those who knew him best.  His weaknesses were manifold, but, on the
whole, of a negative kind.  Honorable and truthful, he had no tendency to
bad habits or unworthy pursuits; indeed, he had no positive traits of any
sort.  That was his chief misfortune.  Full of whims and fancies,
unstable, indeterminate, he was swayed by every passing emotion and
influence.  Daily he laid out a new course of study and achievement, only
to fling it aside because of some chance remark or printed paragraph or
bit of advice that ran contrary to his purpose.  Such a life is bound to
be a succession of extremes--alternate periods of supreme exaltation and
despair.  In his autobiographical chapters, already mentioned, Orion sets
down every impulse and emotion and failure with that faithful humility
which won him always the respect, if not always the approval, of men.

Printing was a step downward, for it was a trade, and Orion felt it
keenly.  A gentleman's son and a prospective heir of the Tennessee land,
he was entitled to a profession.  To him it was punishment, and the
disgrace weighed upon him.  Then he remembered that Benjamin Franklin had
been a printer and had eaten only an apple and a bunch of grapes for his
dinner.  Orion decided to emulate Franklin, and for a time he took only a
biscuit and a glass of water at a meal, foreseeing the day when he should
electrify the world with his eloquence.  He was surprised to find how
clear his mind was on this low diet and how rapidly he learned his trade.

Of the other children Pamela, now twelve, and Benjamin, seven, were put
to school.  They were pretty, attractive children, and Henry, the baby,
was a sturdy toddler, the pride of the household.  Little Sam was the
least promising of the flock.  He remained delicate, and developed little
beyond a tendency to pranks.  He was a queer, fanciful, uncommunicative
child that detested indoors and would run away if not watched--always in
the direction of the river.  He walked in his sleep, too, and often the
rest of the household got up in the middle of the night to find him
fretting with cold in some dark corner.  The doctor was summoned for him
oftener than was good for the family purse--or for him, perhaps, if we
may credit the story of heavy dosings of those stern allopathic days.

Yet he would appear not to have been satisfied with his heritage of
ailments, and was ambitious for more.  An epidemic of measles--the black,
deadly kind--was ravaging Hannibal, and he yearned for the complaint.
He yearned so much that when he heard of a playmate, one of the Bowen
boys, who had it, he ran away and, slipping into the house, crept into
bed with the infection.  The success of this venture was complete.  Some
days later, the Clemens family gathered tearfully around Little Sam's bed
to see him die.  According to his own after-confession, this gratified
him, and he was willing to die for the glory of that touching scene.
However, he disappointed them, and was presently up and about in search
of fresh laurels.--[In later life Mr. Clemens did not recollect the
precise period of this illness.  With habitual indifference he assigned
it to various years, as his mood or the exigencies of his theme required.
Without doubt the "measles" incident occurred when he was very young.]--

He must have been a wearing child, and we may believe that Jane Clemens,
with her varied cares and labors, did not always find him a comfort.

"You gave me more uneasiness than any child I had," she said to him once,
in her old age.

"I suppose you were afraid I wouldn't live," he suggested, in his
tranquil fashion.

She looked at him with that keen humor that had not dulled in eighty
years.  "No; afraid you would," she said.  But that was only her joke,
for she was the most tenderhearted creature in the world, and, like
mothers in general, had a weakness for the child that demanded most of
her mother's care.

It was mainly on his account that she spent her summers on John Quarles's
farm near Florida, and it was during the first summer that an incident
already mentioned occurred.  It was decided that the whole family should
go for a brief visit, and one Saturday morning in June Mrs. Clemens, with
the three elder children and the baby, accompanied by Jennie, the slave-
girl, set out in a light wagon for the day's drive, leaving Judge Clemens
to bring Little Sam on horseback Sunday morning.  The hour was early when
Judge Clemens got up to saddle his horse, and Little Sam was still
asleep.  The horse being ready, Clemens, his mind far away, mounted and
rode off without once remembering the little boy, and in the course of
the afternoon arrived at his brother-in-law's farm.  Then he was
confronted by Jane Clemens, who demanded Little Sam.

"Why," said the judge, aghast, "I never once thought of him after I left
him asleep."

Wharton Lampton, a brother of Jane Clemens and Patsey Quarles, hastily
saddled a horse and set out, helter-skelter, for Hannibal.  He arrived in
the early dusk.  The child was safe enough, but he was crying with
loneliness and hunger.  He had spent most of the day in the locked,
deserted house playing with a hole in the meal-sack where the meal ran
out, when properly encouraged, in a tiny stream.  He was fed and
comforted, and next day was safe on the farm, which during that summer
and those that followed it, became so large a part of his boyhood and
lent a coloring to his later years.




VIII

THE FARM

We have already mentioned the delight of the Clemens children in Uncle
John Quarles's farm.  To Little Sam it was probably a life-saver.  With
his small cousin, Tabitha,--[Tabitha Quarles, now Mrs.  Greening, of
Palmyra, Missouri, has supplied most of the material for this chapter.]--
just his own age (they called her Puss), he wandered over that magic
domain, fording new marvels at every step, new delights everywhere.  A
slave-girl, Mary, usually attended them, but she was only six years
older, and not older at all in reality, so she was just a playmate, and
not a guardian to be feared or evaded.  Sometimes, indeed, it was
necessary for her to threaten to tell "Miss Patsey" or "Miss Jane," when
her little charges insisted on going farther or staying later than she
thought wise from the viewpoint of her own personal safety; but this was
seldom, and on the whole a stay at the farm was just one long idyllic
dream of summer-time and freedom.

The farm-house stood in the middle of a large yard entered by a stile
made of sawed-off logs of graduated heights.  In the corner of the yard
were hickory trees, and black walnut, and beyond the fence the hill fell
away past the barns, the corn-cribs, and the tobacco-house to a brook--
a divine place to wade, with deep, dark, forbidden pools.  Down in the
pasture there were swings under the big trees, and Mary swung the
children and ran under them until their feet touched the branches, and
then took her turn and "balanced" herself so high that their one wish was
to be as old as Mary and swing in that splendid way.  All the woods were
full of squirrels--gray squirrels and the red-fox species--and many birds
and flowers; all the meadows were gay with clover and butterflies, and
musical with singing grasshoppers and calling larks; there were
blackberries in the fence rows, apples and peaches in the orchard, and
watermelons in the corn.  They were not always ripe, those watermelons,
and once, when Little Sam had eaten several pieces of a green one, he was
seized with cramps so severe that most of the household expected him to
die forthwith.

Jane Clemens was not heavily concerned.

"Sammy will pull through," she said; "he wasn't born to die that way."

It is the slender constitution that bears the strain.  "Sammy" did pull
through, and in a brief time was ready for fresh adventure.

There were plenty of these: there were the horses to ride to and from the
fields; the ox-wagons to ride in when they had dumped their heavy loads;
the circular horsepower to ride on when they threshed the wheat.  This
last was a dangerous and forbidden pleasure, but the children would dart
between the teams and climb on, and the slave who was driving would
pretend not to see.  Then in the evening when the black woman came along,
going after the cows, the children would race ahead and set the cows
running and jingling their bells--especially Little Sam, for he was a
wild-headed, impetuous child of sudden ecstasies that sent him capering
and swinging his arms, venting his emotions in a series of leaps and
shrieks and somersaults, and spasms of laughter as he lay rolling in the
grass.

His tendency to mischief grew with this wide liberty, improved health,
and the encouragement of John Quarles's good-natured, fun-loving slaves.

The negro quarters beyond the orchard were especially attractive.  In one
cabin lived a bed-ridden, white-headed old woman whom the children
visited daily and looked upon with awe; for she was said to be a thousand
years old and to have talked with Moses.  The negroes believed this; the
children, too, of course, and that she had lost her health in the desert,
coming out of Egypt.  The bald spot on her head was caused by fright at
seeing Pharaoh drowned.  She also knew how to avert spells and ward off
witches, which added greatly to her prestige.  Uncle Dan'l was a
favorite, too-kind-hearted and dependable, while his occasional lockjaw
gave him an unusual distinction.  Long afterward he would become Nigger
Jim in the Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn tales, and so in his gentle
guilelessness win immortality and the love of many men.

Certainly this was a heavenly place for a little boy, the farm of Uncle
John Quarles, and the house was as wonderful as its surroundings.  It was
a two-story double log building, with a spacious floor (roofed in)
connecting the two divisions.  In the summer the table was set in the
middle of that shady, breezy pavilion, and sumptuous meals were served in
the lavish Southern style, brought to the table in vast dishes that left
only room for rows of plates around the edge.  Fried chicken, roast pig,
turkeys, ducks, geese, venison just killed, squirrels, rabbits,
partridges, pheasants, prairie-chickens--the list is too long to be
served here.  If a little boy could not improve on that bill of fare and
in that atmosphere, his case was hopeless indeed.  His mother kept him
there until the late fall, when the chilly evenings made them gather
around the wide, blazing fireplace.  Sixty years later he wrote of that
scene:

     I can see the room yet with perfect clearness.  I can see all its
     buildings, all its details: the family-room of the house, with the
     trundle-bed in one corner and the spinning-wheel in another a wheel
     whose rising and falling wail, heard from a distance, was the
     mournfulest of all sounds to me, and made me homesick and low-
     spirited, and filled my atmosphere with the wandering spirits of the
     dead; the vast fireplace, piled high with flaming logs, from whose
     ends a sugary sap bubbled out, but did not go to waste, for we
     scraped it off and ate it; .  .  .  the lazy cat spread out on the
     rough hearthstones, the drowsy dogs braced against the jambs,
     blinking; my aunt in one chimney-corner and my uncle in the other
     smoking his corn-cob pipe; the slick and carpetless oak floor
     faintly mirroring the flame tongues, and freckled with black
     indentations where fire-coals had popped out and died a leisurely
     death; half a dozen children romping in the background twilight;
     splint-bottom chairs here and there--some with rockers; a cradle--
     out of service, but waiting with confidence.

One is tempted to dwell on this period, to quote prodigally from these
vivid memories--the thousand minute impressions which the child's
sensitive mind acquired in that long-ago time and would reveal everywhere
in his work in the years to come.  For him it was education of a more
valuable and lasting sort than any he would ever acquire from books.




IX

SCHOOL-DAYS

Nevertheless, on his return to Hannibal, it was decided that Little Sam
was now ready to go to school.  He was about five years old, and the
months on the farm had left him wiry and lively, even if not very robust.
His mother declared that he gave her more trouble than all the other
children put together.

"He drives me crazy with his didoes, when he is in the house," she used
to say; "and when he is out of it I am expecting every minute that some
one will bring him home half dead."

He did, in fact, achieve the first of his "nine narrow escapes from
drowning" about this time, and was pulled out of the river one afternoon
and brought home in a limp and unpromising condition.  When with mullein
tea and castor-oil she had restored him to activity, she said: "I guess
there wasn't much danger.  People born to be hanged are safe in water."

She declared she was willing to pay somebody to take him off her hands
for a part of each day and try to teach him manners.  Perhaps this is a
good place to say that Jane Clemens was the original of Tom Sawyer's
"Aunt Polly," and her portrait as presented in that book is considered
perfect.  Kind-hearted, fearless, looking and acting ten years older than
her age, as women did in that time, always outspoken and sometimes
severe, she was regarded as a "character" by her friends, and beloved by
them as, a charitable, sympathetic woman whom it was good to know.  Her
sense of pity was abnormal.  She refused to kill even flies, and punished
the cat for catching mice.  She, would drown the young kittens, when
necessary, but warmed the water for the purpose.  On coming to Hannibal,
she joined the Presbyterian Church, and her religion was of that clean-
cut, strenuous kind which regards as necessary institutions hell and
Satan, though she had been known to express pity for the latter for being
obliged to surround himself with such poor society.  Her children she
directed with considerable firmness, and all were tractable and growing
in grace except Little Sam.  Even baby Henry at two was lisping the
prayers that Sam would let go by default unless carefully guarded.  His
sister Pamela, who was eight years older and always loved him dearly,
usually supervised these spiritual exercises, and in her gentle care
earned immortality as the Cousin Mary of Tom Sawyer.  He would say his
prayers willingly enough when encouraged by sister Pamela, but he much
preferred to sit up in bed and tell astonishing tales of the day's
adventure--tales which made prayer seem a futile corrective and caused
his listeners to wonder why the lightning was restrained so long.  They
did not know they were glimpsing the first outcroppings of a genius that
would one day amaze and entertain the nations.  Neighbors hearing of
these things (also certain of his narrations) remonstrated with Mrs.
Clemens.

"You don't believe anything that child says, I hope."

"Oh yes, I know his average.  I discount him ninety per cent.  The rest
is pure gold."  At another time she said: "Sammy is a well of truth, but
you can't bring it all up in one bucket."

This, however, is digression; the incidents may have happened somewhat
later.

A certain Miss E. Horr was selected to receive the payment for taking
charge of Little Sam during several hours each day, directing him
mentally and morally in the mean time.  Her school was then in a log
house on Main Street (later it was removed to Third Street), and was of
the primitive old-fashioned kind, with pupils of all ages, ranging in
advancement from the primer to the third reader, from the tables to long
division, with a little geography and grammar and a good deal of
spelling.  Long division and the third reader completed the curriculum in
that school.  Pupils who decided to take a post-graduate course went to a
Mr. Cross, who taught in a frame house on the hill facing what is now the
Public Square.

Miss Horr received twenty-five cents a week for each pupil, and opened
her school with prayer; after which came a chapter of the Bible, with
explanations, and the rules of conduct.  Then the A B C class was called,
because their recital was a hand-to-hand struggle, requiring no
preparation.

The rules of conduct that first day interested Little Sam.  He calculated
how much he would need to trim in, to sail close to the danger-line and
still avoid disaster.  He made a miscalculation during the forenoon and
received warning; a second offense would mean punishment.  He did not
mean to be caught the second time, but he had not learned Miss Horr yet,
and was presently startled by being commanded to go out and bring a stick
for his own correction.

This was certainly disturbing.  It was sudden, and then he did not know
much about the selection of sticks.  Jane Clemens had usually used her
hand.  It required a second command to get him headed in the right
direction, and he was a trifle dazed when he got outside.  He had the
forests of Missouri to select from, but choice was difficult.  Everything
looked too big and competent.  Even the smallest switch had a wiry,
discouraging look.  Across the way was a cooper-shop with a good many
shavings outside.

One had blown across and lay just in front of him.  It was an
inspiration.  He picked it up and, solemnly entering the school-room,
meekly handed it to Miss Herr.

Perhaps Miss Horr's sense of humor prompted forgiveness, but discipline
must be maintained.

"Samuel Langhorne Clemens," she said (he had never heard it all strung
together in that ominous way), "I am ashamed of you!  Jimmy Dunlap, go
and bring a switch for Sammy."  And Jimmy Dunlap went, and the switch was
of a sort to give the little boy an immediate and permanent distaste for
school.  He informed his mother when he went home at noon that he did not
care for school; that he had no desire to be a great man; that he
preferred to be a pirate or an Indian and scalp or drown such people as
Miss Horr.  Down in her heart his mother was sorry for him, but what she
said was that she was glad there was somebody at last who could take him
in hand.

He returned to school, but he never learned to like it.  Each morning he
went with reluctance and remained with loathing--the loathing which he
always had for anything resembling bondage and tyranny or even the
smallest curtailment of liberty.  A School was ruled with a rod in those
days, a busy and efficient rod, as the Scripture recommended.  Of the
smaller boys Little Sam's back was sore as often as the next, and he
dreamed mainly of a day when, grown big and fierce, he would descend with
his band and capture Miss Horr and probably drag her by the hair, as he
had seen Indians and pirates do in the pictures.  When the days of early
summer came again; when from his desk he could see the sunshine lighting
the soft green of Holliday's Hill, with the purple distance beyond, and
the glint of the river, it seemed to him that to be shut up with a
Webster's spelling-book and a cross old maid was more than human nature
could bear.  Among the records preserved from that far-off day there
remains a yellow slip, whereon in neat old-fashioned penmanship is
inscribed:

                          MISS PAMELA CLEMENS

     Has won the love of her teacher and schoolmates by her amiable
     deportment and faithful application to her various studies.
                                                  E. Horr, Teacher.

If any such testimonial was ever awarded to Little Sam, diligent search
has failed to reveal it.  If he won the love of his teacher and playmates
it was probably for other reasons.

Yet he must have learned, somehow, for he could read presently and was
soon regarded as a good speller for his years.  His spelling came as a
natural gift, as did most of his attainments, then and later.

It has already been mentioned that Miss Horr opened her school with
prayer and Scriptural readings.  Little Sam did not especially delight in
these things, but he respected them.  Not to do so was dangerous.  Flames
were being kept brisk for little boys who were heedless of sacred
matters; his home teaching convinced him of that.  He also respected Miss
Horr as an example of orthodox faith, and when she read the text "Ask and
ye shall receive" and assured them that whoever prayed for a thing
earnestly, his prayer would be answered, he believed it.  A small
schoolmate, the balker's daughter, brought gingerbread to school every
morning, and Little Sam was just "honing" for some of it.  He wanted a
piece of that baker's gingerbread more than anything else in the world,
and he decided to pray for it.

The little girl sat in front of him, but always until that morning had
kept the gingerbread out of sight.  Now, however, when he finished his
prayer and looked up, a small morsel of the precious food lay in front of
him.  Perhaps the little girl could no longer stand that hungry look in
his eyes.  Possibly she had heard his petition; at all events his prayer
bore fruit and his faith at that moment would have moved Holliday's Hill.
He decided to pray for everything he wanted, but when he tried the
gingerbread supplication next morning it had no result.  Grieved, but
still unshaken, he tried next morning again; still no gingerbread; and
when a third and fourth effort left him hungry he grew despairing and
silent, and wore the haggard face of doubt.  His mother said:

"What's the matter, Sammy; are you sick?"

"No," he said, "but I don't believe in saying prayers any more, and I'm
never going to do it again."

"Why, Sammy, what in the world has happened?" she asked, anxiously.  Then
he broke down and cried on her lap and told her, for it was a serious
thing in that day openly to repudiate faith.  Jane Clemens gathered him
to her heart and comforted him.

"I'll make you a whole pan of gingerbread, better than that," she said,
"and school will soon be out, too, and you can go back to Uncle John's
farm."

And so passed and ended Little Sam's first school-days.




X

EARLY VICISSITUDE AND SORROW

Prosperity came laggingly enough to the Clemens household.  The year 1840
brought hard times: the business venture paid little or no return; law
practice was not much more remunerative.  Judge Clemens ran for the
office of justice of the peace and was elected, but fees were neither
large nor frequent.  By the end of the year it became necessary to part
with Jennie, the slave-girl--a grief to all of them, for they were fond
of her in spite of her wilfulness, and she regarded them as "her family."
She was tall, well formed, nearly black, and brought a good price.  A
Methodist minister in Hannibal sold a negro child at the same time to
another minister who took it to his home farther South.  As the steamboat
moved away from the landing the child's mother stood at the water's edge,
shrieking her anguish.  We are prone to consider these things harshly
now, when slavery has been dead for nearly half a century, but it was a
sacred institution then, and to sell a child from its mother was little
more than to sell to-day a calf from its lowing dam.  One could be sorry,
of course, in both instances, but necessity or convenience are matters
usually considered before sentiment.  Mark Twain once said of his mother:

"Kind-hearted and compassionate as she was, I think she was not conscious
that slavery was a bald, grotesque, and unwarranted ursurpation.  She had
never heard it assailed in any pulpit, but had heard it defended and
sanctified in a thousand.  As far as her experience went, the wise, the
good, and the holy were unanimous in the belief that slavery was right,
righteous, sacred, the peculiar pet of the Deity, and a condition which
the slave himself ought to be daily and nightly thankful for."

Yet Jane Clemens must have had qualms at times--vague, unassembled doubts
that troubled her spirit.  After Jennie was gone a little black chore-boy
was hired from his owner, who had bought him on the east shore of
Maryland and brought him to that remote Western village, far from family
and friends.

He was a cheery spirit in spite of that, and gentle, but very noisy.  All
day he went about singing, whistling, and whooping until his noise became
monotonous, maddening.  One day Little Sam said:

"Ma--[that was the Southern term]--,make Sandy stop singing all the
time.  It's awful."

Tears suddenly came into his mother's eyes.

"Poor thing!  He is sold away from his home.  When he sings it shows
maybe he is not remembering.  When he's still I am afraid he is thinking,
and I can't bear it."

Yet any one in that day who advanced the idea of freeing the slaves was
held in abhorrence.  An abolitionist was something to despise, to stone
out of the community.  The children held the name in horror, as belonging
to something less than human; something with claws, perhaps, and a tail.

The money received for the sale of Jennie made judge Clemens easier for a
time.  Business appears to have improved, too, and he was tided through
another year during which he seems to have made payments on an expensive
piece of real estate on Hill and Main streets.  This property, acquired
in November, 1839, meant the payment of some seven thousand dollars, and
was a credit purchase, beyond doubt.  It was well rented, but the tenants
did not always pay; and presently a crisis came--a descent of creditors--
and John: Clemens at forty-four found himself without business and
without means.  He offered everything--his cow, his household furniture,
even his forks and spoons--to his creditors, who protested that he must
not strip himself.  They assured him that they admired his integrity so
much they would aid him to resume business; but when he went to St.
Louis to lay in a stock of goods he was coldly met, and the venture came
to nothing.

He now made a trip to Tennessee in the hope of collecting some old debts
and to raise money on the Tennessee land.  He took along a negro man
named Charlie, whom he probably picked up for a small sum, hoping to make
something through his disposal in a better market.  The trip was another
failure.  The man who owed him a considerable sum of money was solvent,
but pleaded hard times:

     It seems so very hard upon him--[John Clemens wrote home]--to pay
     such a sum that I could not have the conscience to hold him to it.
     .  .  I still have Charlie.  The highest price I had offered for him
     in New Orleans was $50, in Vicksburg $40.  After performing the
     journey to Tennessee, I expect to sell him for whatever he will
     bring.

     I do not know what I can commence for a business in the spring.  My
     brain is constantly on the rack with the study, and I can't relieve
     myself of it.  The future, taking its completion from the state of
     my health or mind, is alternately beaming in sunshine or over-
     shadowed with clouds; but mostly cloudy, as you may suppose.  I want
     bodily exercise--some constant and active employment, in the first
     place; and, in the next place, I want to be paid for it, if
     possible.

This letter is dated January 7, 1842.  He returned without any financial
success, and obtained employment for a time in a commission-house on the
levee.  The proprietor found some fault one day, and Judge Clemens walked
out of the premises.  On his way home he stopped in a general store, kept
by a man named Sehns, to make some purchases.  When he asked that these
be placed on account, Selms hesitated.  Judge Clemens laid down a five-
dollar gold piece, the last money he possessed in the world, took the
goods, and never entered the place again.

When Jane Clemens reproached him for having made the trip to Tennessee,
at a cost of two hundred dollars, so badly needed at this time, he only
replied gently that he had gone for what he believed to be the best.

"I am not able to dig in the streets," he added, and Orion, who records
this, adds:

"I can see yet the hopeless expression of his face."

During a former period of depression, such as this, death had come into
the Clemens home.  It came again now.  Little Benjamin, a sensitive,
amiable boy of ten, one day sickened, and died within a week, May 12,
1842.  He was a favorite child and his death was a terrible blow.  Little
Sam long remembered the picture of his parents' grief; and Orion recalls
that they kissed each other, something hitherto unknown.

Judge Clemens went back to his law and judicial practice.  Mrs. Clemens
decided to take a few boarders.  Orion, by this time seventeen and a very
good journeyman printer, obtained a place in St. Louis to aid in the
family support.

The tide of fortune having touched low-water mark, the usual gentle stage
of improvement set in.  Times grew better in Hannibal after those first
two or three years; legal fees became larger and more frequent.  Within
another two years judge Clemens appears to have been in fairly hopeful
circumstances again--able at least to invest some money in silkworm
culture and lose it, also to buy a piano for Pamela, and to build a
modest house on the Hill Street property, which a rich St. Louis cousin,
James Clemens, had preserved for him.  It was the house which is known
today as the "Mark Twain Home."--['This house, in 1911, was bought by
Mr. and Mrs.  George A.  Mahan, and presented to Hannibal for a memorial
museum.]--Near it, toward the corner of Main Street, was his office,
and here he dispensed law and justice in a manner which, if it did not
bring him affluence, at least won for him the respect of the entire
community.  One example will serve:

Next to his office was a stone-cutter's shop.  One day the proprietor,
Dave Atkinson, got into a muss with one "Fighting" MacDonald, and there
was a tremendous racket.  Judge Clemens ran out and found the men down,
punishing each other on the pavement.

"I command the peace!" he shouted, as he came up to them.

No one paid the least attention.

"I command the peace!" he shouted again, still louder, but with no
result.

A stone-cutter's mallet lay there, handy.  Judge Clemens seized it and,
leaning over the combatants, gave the upper one, MacDonald, a smart blow
on the head.

"I command the peace!" he said, for the third time, and struck a
considerably smarter blow.

That settled it.  The second blow was of the sort that made MacDonald
roll over, and peace ensued.  Judge Clemens haled both men into his
court, fined them, and collected his fee.  Such enterprise in the cause
of justice deserved prompt reward.




XI

DAYS OF EDUCATION

The Clemens family had made one or two moves since its arrival in
Hannibal, but the identity of these temporary residences and the period
of occupation of each can no longer be established.  Mark Twain once
said:

"In 1843 my father caught me in a lie.  It is not this fact that gives me
the date, but the house we lived in.  We were there only a year."

We may believe it was the active result of that lie that fixed his memory
of the place, for his father seldom punished him.  When he did, it was a
thorough and satisfactory performance.

It was about the period of moving into the new house (1844) that the Tom
Sawyer days--that is to say, the boyhood of Samuel Clemens--may be said
to have begun.  Up to that time he was just Little Sam, a child--wild,
and mischievous, often exasperating, but still a child--a delicate little
lad to be worried over, mothered, or spanked and put to bed.  Now, at
nine, he had acquired health, with a sturdy ability to look out for
himself, as boys will, in a community like that, especially where the
family is rather larger than the income and there is still a younger
child to claim a mother's protecting care.  So "Sam," as they now called
him, "grew up" at nine, and was full of knowledge for his years.  Not
that he was old in spirit or manner--he was never that, even to his
death--but he had learned a great number of things, mostly of a kind not
acquired at school.

They were not always of a pleasant kind; they were likely to be of a kind
startling to a boy, even terrifying.  Once Little Sam--he was still
Little Sam, then--saw an old man shot down on the main street, at
noonday.  He saw them carry him home, lay him on the bed, and spread on
his breast an open family Bible which looked as heavy as an anvil.  He
though, if he could only drag that great burden away, the poor, old dying
man would not breathe so heavily.  He saw a young emigrant stabbed with a
bowie-knife by a drunken comrade, and noted the spurt of life-blood that
followed; he saw two young men try to kill their uncle, one holding him
while the other snapped repeatedly an Allen revolver which failed to go
off.  Then there was the drunken rowdy who proposed to raid the
"Welshman's" house one dark threatening night--he saw that, too.  A widow
and her one daughter lived there, and the ruffian woke the whole village
with his coarse challenges and obscenities.  Sam Clemens and a boon
companion, John Briggs, went up there to look and listen.  The man was at
the gate, and the warren were invisible in the shadow of the dark porch.
The boys heard the elder woman's voice warning the man that she had a
loaded gun, and that she would kill him if he stayed where he was.  He
replied with a ribald tirade, and she warned that she would count ten-
that if he remained a second longer she would fire.  She began slowly and
counted up to five, with him laughing and jeering.  At six he grew
silent, but he did not go.  She counted on: seven--eight--nine--The boys
watching from the dark roadside felt their hearts stop.  There was a long
pause, then the final count, followed a second later by a gush of flame.
The man dropped, his breast riddled.  At the same instant the
thunderstorm that had been gathering broke loose.  The boys fled wildly,
believing that Satan himself had arrived to claim the lost soul.

Many such instances happened in a town like that in those days.  And
there were events incident to slavery.  He saw a slave struck down and
killed with a piece of slag for a trifling offense.  He saw an
abolitionist attacked by a mob, and they would have lynched him had not a
Methodist minister defended him on a plea that he must be crazy.  He did
not remember, in later years, that he had ever seen a slave auction, but
he added:

"I am suspicious that it is because the thing was a commonplace
spectacle, and not an uncommon or impressive one.  I do vividly remember
seeing a dozen black men and women chained together lying in a group on
the pavement, waiting shipment to a Southern slave-market.  They had the
saddest faces I ever saw."

It is not surprising that a boy would gather a store of human knowledge
amid such happenings as these.  They were wild, disturbing things.  They
got into his dreams and made him fearful when he woke in the middle of
the night.  He did not then regard them as an education.  In some vague
way he set them down as warnings, or punishments, designed to give him a
taste for a better life.  He felt that it was his own conscience that
made these things torture him.  That was his mother's idea, and he had a
high respect for her moral opinions, also for her courage.  Among other
things, he had seen her one day defy a vicious devil of a Corsican--a
common terror in the town-who was chasing his grown daughter with a heavy
rope in his hand, declaring he would wear it out on her.  Cautious
citizens got out of her way, but Jane Clemens opened her door wide to the
refugee, and then, instead of rushing in and closing it, spread her arms
across it, barring the way.  The man swore and threatened her with the
rope, but she did not flinch or show any sign of fear.  She stood there
and shamed him and derided him and defied him until he gave up the rope
and slunk off, crestfallen and conquered.  Any one who could do that must
have a perfect conscience, Sam thought.  In the fearsome darkness he
would say his prayers, especially when a thunderstorm was coming, and vow
to begin a better life in the morning.  He detested Sunday-school as much
as day-school, and once Orion, who was moral and religious, had
threatened to drag him there by the collar; but as the thunder got louder
Sam decided that he loved Sunday-school and would go the next Sunday
without being invited.

Fortunately there were pleasanter things than these.  There were picnics
sometimes, and ferry-boat excursions.  Once there was a great Fourth-of-
July celebration at which it was said a real Revolutionary soldier was to
be present.  Some one had discovered him living alone seven or eight
miles in the country.  But this feature proved a disappointment; for when
the day came and he was triumphantly brought in he turned out to be a
Hessian, and was allowed to walk home.

The hills and woods around Hannibal where, with his playmates, he roamed
almost at will were never disappointing.  There was the cave with its
marvels; there was Bear Creek, where, after repeated accidents, he had
learned to swim.  It had cost him heavily to learn to swim.  He had seen
two playmates drown; also, time and again he had, himself, been dragged
ashore more dead than alive, once by a slave-girl, another time by a
slaveman--Neal Champ, of the Pavey Hotel.  In the end he had conquered;
he could swim better than any boy in town of his age.

It was the river that meant more to him than all the rest.  Its charm was
permanent.  It was the path of adventure, the gateway to the world.  The
river with its islands, its great slow-moving rafts, its marvelous
steamboats that were like fairyland, its stately current swinging to the
sea!  He would sit by it for hours and dream.  He would venture out on it
in a surreptitiously borrowed boat when he was barely strong enough to
lift an oar out of the water.  He learned to know all its moods and
phases.  He felt its kinship.  In some occult way he may have known it as
his prototype--that resistless tide of life with its ever-changing sweep,
its shifting shores, its depths, its shadows, its gorgeous sunset hues,
its solemn and tranquil entrance to the sea.

His hunger for the life aboard the steamers became a passion.  To be even
the humblest employee of one of those floating enchantments would be
enough; to be an officer would be to enter heaven; to be a pilot was to
be a god.

"You can hardly imagine what it meant," he reflected once, "to a boy in
those days, shut in as we were, to see those steamboats pass up and down,
and never to take a trip on them."

He had reached the mature age of nine when he could endure this no
longer.  One day, when the big packet came down and stopped at Hannibal,
he slipped aboard and crept under one of the boats on the upper deck.
Presently the signal-bells rang, the steamboat backed away and swung into
midstream; he was really going at last.  He crept from beneath the boat
and sat looking out over the water and enjoying the scenery.  Then it
began to rain--a terrific downpour.  He crept back under the boat, but
his legs were outside, and one of the crew saw him.  So he was taken down
into the cabin and at the next stop set ashore.  It was the town of
Louisiana, and there were Lampton relatives there who took him home.
Jane Clemens declared that his father had got to take him in hand; which
he did, doubtless impressing the adventure on him in the usual way.
These were all educational things; then there was always the farm, where
entertainment was no longer a matter of girl-plays and swings, with a
colored nurse following about, but of manlier sports with his older boy
cousins, who had a gun and went hunting with the men for squirrels and
partridges by day, for coons and possums by night.  Sometimes the little
boy had followed the hunters all night long and returned with them
through the sparkling and fragrant morning fresh, hungry, and triumphant
just in time for breakfast.

So it is no wonder that at nine he was no longer "Little Sam," but Sam
Clemens, quite mature and self-dependent, with a wide knowledge of men
and things and a variety of accomplishments.  He had even learned to
smoke--a little--out there on the farm, and had tried tobacco-chewing,
though that was a failure.  He had been stung to this effort by a big
girl at a school which, with his cousin Puss, he sometimes briefly
attended.

"Do you use terbacker?" the big girl had asked, meaning did he chew it.

"No," he said, abashed at the confession.

"Haw!" she cried to the other scholars; "here's a boy that can't chaw
terbacker."

Degraded and ashamed, he tried to correct his fault, but it only made him
very ill; and he did not try again.

He had also acquired the use of certain strong, expressive words, and
used them, sometimes, when his mother was safely distant.  He had an
impression that she would "skin him alive" if she heard him swear.  His
education had doubtful spots in it, but it had provided wisdom.

He was not a particularly attractive lad.  He was not tall for his years,
and his head was somewhat too large for his body.  He had a "great ruck"
of light, sandy hair which he plastered down to keep it from curling;
keen blue-gray eyes, and rather large features.  Still, he had a fair,
delicate complexion, when it was not blackened by grime or tan; a gentle,
winning manner; a smile that, with his slow, measured way of speaking,
made him a favorite with his companions.  He did not speak much, and his
mental attainments were not highly regarded; but, for some reason,
whenever he did speak every playmate in hearing stopped whatever he was
doing and listened.  Perhaps it would be a plan for a new game or lark;
perhaps it was something droll; perhaps it was just a commonplace remark
that his peculiar drawl made amusing.  Whatever it was, they considered
it worth while.  His mother always referred to his slow fashion of
speaking as "Sammy's long talk."  Her own speech was still more
deliberate, but she seemed not to notice it.  Henry--a much handsomer lad
and regarded as far more promising--did not have it.  He was a lovable,
obedient little fellow whom the mischievous Sam took delight in teasing.
For this and other reasons the latter's punishments were frequent enough,
perhaps not always deserved.  Sometimes he charged his mother with
partiality.  He would say:

"Yes, no matter what it is, I am always the one to get punished"; and his
mother would answer:

"Well, Sam, if you didn't deserve it for that, you did for something
else."

Henry Clemens became the Sid of Tom Sawyer, though Henry was in every way
a finer character than Sid.  His brother Sam always loved him, and fought
for him oftener than with him.

With the death of Benjamin Clemens, Henry and Sam were naturally drawn
much closer together, though Sam could seldom resist the temptation of
tormenting Henry.  A schoolmate, George Butler (he was a nephew of
General Butler and afterward fought bravely in the Civil War), had a
little blue suit with a leather belt to match, and was the envy of all.
Mrs. Clemens finally made Sam and Henry suits of blue cotton velvet, and
the next Sunday, after various services were over, the two sauntered
about, shedding glory for a time, finally going for a stroll in the
woods.  They walked along properly enough, at first, then just ahead Sam
spied the stump of a newly cut tree, and with a wild whooping impulse
took a running leap over it.  There were splinters on the stump where the
tree had broken away, but he cleared them neatly.  Henry wanted to match
the performance, but was afraid to try, so Sam dared him.  He kept daring
him until Henry was goaded to the attempt.  He cleared the stump, but the
highest splinters caught the slack of his little blue trousers, and the
cloth gave way.  He escaped injury, but the precious trousers were
damaged almost beyond repair.  Sam, with a boy's heartlessness, was
fairly rolling on the ground with laughter at Henry's appearance.

"Cotton-tail rabbit!" he shouted.  "Cotton-tail rabbit!" while Henry,
weeping, set out for home by a circuitous and unfrequented road.  Let us
hope, if there was punishment for this mishap, that it fell in the proper
locality.

These two brothers were of widely different temperament.  Henry, even as
a little boy, was sturdy, industrious, and dependable.  Sam was volatile
and elusive; his industry of an erratic kind.  Once his father set him to
work with a hatchet to remove some plaster.  He hacked at it for a time
well enough, then lay down on the floor of the room and threw his hatchet
at such areas of the plaster as were not in easy reach.  Henry would have
worked steadily at a task like that until the last bit was removed and
the room swept clean.

The home incidents in 'Tom Sawyer', most of them, really happened.  Sam
Clemens did clod Henry for getting him into trouble about the colored
thread with which he sewed his shirt when he came home from swimming; he
did inveigle a lot of boys into whitewashing, a fence for him; he did
give Pain-killer to Peter, the cat.  There was a cholera scare that year,
and Pain-killer was regarded as a preventive.  Sam had been ordered to
take it liberally, and perhaps thought Peter too should be safeguarded.
As for escaping punishment for his misdeeds in the manner described in
that book, this was a daily matter, and the methods adapted themselves to
the conditions.  In the introduction to Tom Sawyer Mark Twain confesses
to the general truth of the history, and to the reality of its
characters.  "Huck Finn was drawn from life," he tells us.  "Tom Sawyer
also, but not from an individual--he is a combination of the
characteristics of three boys whom I knew."

The three boys were--himself, chiefly, and in a lesser degree John Briggs
and Will Bowen.  John Briggs was also the original of Joe Harper in that
book.  As for Huck Finn, his original was Tom Blankenship, neither
elaborated nor qualified.

There were several of the Blankenships: there was old Ben, the father,
who had succeeded "General" Gains as the town drunkard; young Ben, the
eldest son--a hard case with certain good traits; and Tom--that is to
say, Huck--who was just as he is described in Tom Sawyer: a ruin of rags,
a river-rat, an irresponsible bit of human drift, kind of heart and
possessing that priceless boon, absolute unaccountability of conduct to
any living soul.  He could came and go as he chose; he never had to work
or go to school; he could do all things, good or bad, that the other boys
longed to do and were forbidden.  He represented to them the very
embodiment of liberty, and his general knowledge of important matters,
such as fishing, hunting, trapping, and all manner of signs and spells
and hoodoos and incantations, made him immensely valuable as a companion.
The fact that his society was prohibited gave it a vastly added charm.

The Blankenships picked up a precarious living fishing and hunting, and
lived at first in a miserable house of bark, under a tree, but later
moved into quite a pretentious building back of the new Clemens home on
Hill Street.  It was really an old barn of a place--poor and ramshackle
even then; but now, more than sixty years later, a part of it is still
standing.  The siding of the part that stands is of black walnut, which
must have been very plentiful in that long-ago time.  Old drunken Ben
Blankenship never dreamed that pieces of his house would be carried off
as relics because of the literary fame of his son Tom--a fame founded on
irresponsibility and inconsequence.  Orion Clemens, who was concerned
with missionary work about this time, undertook to improve the
Blankenships spiritually.  Sam adopted them, outright, and took them to
his heart.  He was likely to be there at any hour of the day, and he and
Tom had cat-call signals at night which would bring him out on the back
single-story roof, and down a little arbor and flight of steps, to the
group of boon companions which, besides Tom, included John Briggs, the
Bowen boys, Will Pitts, and one or two other congenial spirits.  They
were not vicious boys; they were not really bad boys; they were only
mischievous, fun-loving boys-thoughtless, and rather disregardful of the
comforts and the rights of others.




XII

TOM SAWYER'S BAND

They ranged from Holliday's Hill on the north to the Cave on the south,
and over the fields and through all the woods about.  They navigated.
the river from Turtle Island to Glasscock's Island (now Pearl, or Tom
Sawyer's Island), and far below; they penetrated the wilderness of the
Illinois shore.  They could run like wild turkeys and swim like ducks;
they could handle a boat as if born in one.  No orchard or melon patch
was entirely safe from them; no dog or slave patrol so vigilant that they
did not sooner or later elude it.  They borrowed boats when their owners
were not present.  Once when they found this too much trouble, they
decided to own a boat, and one Sunday gave a certain borrowed craft a
coat of red paint (formerly it had been green), and secluded it for a
season up Bear Creek.  They borrowed the paint also, and the brush,
though they carefully returned these the same evening about nightfall, so
the painter could have them Monday morning.  Tom Blankenship rigged up a
sail for the new craft, and Sam Clemens named it Cecilia, after which
they didn't need to borrow boats any more, though the owner of it did;
and he sometimes used to observe as he saw it pass that, if it had been
any other color but red, he would have sworn it was his.

Some of their expeditions were innocent enough.  They often cruised up to
Turtle Island, about two miles above Hannibal, and spent the day
feasting.  You could have loaded a car with turtles and their eggs up
there, and there were quantities of mussels and plenty of fish.  Fishing
and swimming were their chief pastimes, with general marauding for
adventure.  Where the railroad-bridge now ends on the Missouri side was
their favorite swimming-hole--that and along Bear Creek, a secluded
limpid water with special interests of its own.  Sometimes at evening
they swam across to Glasscock's Island--the rendezvous of Tom Sawyer's
"Black Avengers" and the hiding-place of Huck and Nigger Jim; then, when
they had frolicked on the sand-bar at the head of the island for an hour
or more, they would swim back in the dusk, a distance of half a mile,
breasting the strong, steady Mississippi current without exhaustion or
fear.  They could swim all day, likely enough, those graceless young
scamps.  Once--though this was considerably later, when he was sixteen--
Sam Clemens swam across to the Illinois side, and then turned and swam
back again without landing, a distance of at least two miles, as he had
to go.  He was seized with a cramp on the return trip.  His legs became
useless, and he was obliged to make the remaining distance with his arms.
It was a hardy life they led, and it is not recorded that they ever did
any serious damage, though they narrowly missed it sometimes.

One of their Sunday pastimes was to climb Holliday's Hill and roll down
big stones, to frighten the people who were driving to church.
Holliday's Hill above the road was steep; a stone once started would go
plunging and leaping down and bound across the road with the deadly
swiftness of a twelve-inch shell.  The boys would get a stone poised,
then wait until they saw a team approaching, and, calculating the
distance, would give it a start.  Dropping down behind the bushes, they
would watch the dramatic effect upon the church-goers as the great
missile shot across the road a few yards before them.  This was Homeric
sport, but they carried it too far.  Stones that had a habit of getting
loose so numerously on Sundays and so rarely on other days invited
suspicion, and the "Patterollers" (river patrol--a kind of police of
those days) were put on the watch.  So the boys found other diversions
until the Patterollers did not watch any more; then they planned a grand
coup that would eclipse anything before attempted in the stone-rolling
line.

A rock about the size of an omnibus was lying up there, in a good
position to go down hill, once, started.  They decided it would be a
glorious thing to see that great boulder go smashing down, a hundred
yards or so in front of some unsuspecting and peaceful-minded church-
goer.  Quarrymen were getting out rock not far away, and left their picks
and shovels over Sundays.  The boys borrowed these, and went to work to
undermine the big stone.  It was a heavier job than they had counted on,
but they worked faithfully, Sunday after Sunday.  If their parents had
wanted them to work like that, they would have thought they were being
killed.

Finally one Sunday, while they were digging, it suddenly got loose and
started down.  They were not quite ready for it.  Nobody was coming but
an old colored man in a cart, so it was going to be wasted.  It was not
quite wasted, however.  They had planned for a thrilling result; and
there was thrill enough while it lasted.  In the first place, the stone
nearly caught Will Bowen when it started.  John Briggs had just that
moment quit digging and handed Will the pick.  Will was about to step
into the excavation when Sam Clemens, who was already there, leaped out
with a yell:

"Look out, boys, she's coming!"

She came.  The huge stone kept to the ground at first, then, gathering a
wild momentum, it went bounding into the air.  About half-way down the
hill it struck a tree several inches through and cut it clean off.  This
turned its course a little, and the negro in the cart, who heard the
noise, saw it come crashing in his direction and made a wild effort to
whip up his horse.  It was also headed toward a cooper-shop across the
road.  The boys watched it with growing interest.  It made longer leaps
with every bound, and whenever it struck the fragments the dust would
fly.  They were certain it would demolish the negro and destroy the
cooper-shop.  The shop was empty, it being Sunday, but the rest of the
catastrophe would invite close investigation, with results.  They wanted
to fly, but they could not move until they saw the rock land.  It was
making mighty leaps now, and the terrified negro had managed to get
directly in its path.  They stood holding their breath, their mouths
open.  Then suddenly they could hardly believe their eyes; the boulder
struck a projection a distance above the road, and with a mighty bound
sailed clear over the negro and his mule and landed in the soft dirt
beyond-only a fragment striking the shop, damaging but not wrecking it.
Half buried in the ground, that boulder lay there for nearly forty years;
then it was blasted up for milling purposes.  It was the last rock the
boys ever rolled down.  They began to suspect that the sport was not
altogether safe.

Sometimes the boys needed money, which was not easy to get in those days.
On one occasion of this sort, Tom Blankenship had the skin of a coon he
had captured, which represented the only capital in the crowd.  At
Selms's store on Wild Cat corner the coonskin would bring ten cents, but
that was not enough.  They arranged a plan which would make it pay a good
deal more than that.  Selins's window was open, it being summer-time, and
his pile of pelts was pretty handy.  Huck--that is to say, Tom--went in
the front door and sold the skin for ten cents to Selms, who tossed it
back on the pile.  Tom came back with the money and after a reasonable
period went around to the open window, crawled in, got the coonskin, and
sold it to Selms again.  He did this several times that afternoon; then
John Pierce, Selins's clerk, said:

"Look here, Selms, there is something wrong about this.  That boy has
been selling us coonskins all the afternoon."

Selms went to his pile of pelts.  There were several sheepskins and some
cowhides, but only one coonskin--the one he had that moment bought.
Selms himself used to tell this story as a great joke.

Perhaps it is not adding to Mark Twain's reputation to say that the boy
Sam Clemens--a pretty small boy, a good deal less than twelve at this
time--was the leader of this unhallowed band; yet any other record would
be less than historic.  If the band had a leader, it was he.  They were
always ready to listen to him--they would even stop fishing to do that--
and to follow his projects.  They looked to him for ideas and
organization, whether the undertaking was to be real or make-believe.
When they played "Bandit" or "Pirate" or "Indian," Sam Clemens was always
chief; when they became real raiders it is recorded that he was no less
distinguished.  Like Tom Sawyer, he loved the glare and trappings of
leadership.  When the Christian Sons of Temperance came along with a
regalia, and a red sash that carried with it rank and the privilege of
inventing pass-words, the gaud of these things got into his eyes, and he
gave up smoking (which he did rather gingerly) and swearing (which he did
only under heavy excitement), also liquor (though he had never tasted it
yet), and marched with the newly washed and pure in heart for a full
month--a month of splendid leadership and servitude.  Then even the red
sash could not hold him in bondage.  He looked up Tom Blankenship and
said:

"Say, Tom, I'm blamed tired of this!  Let's go somewhere and smoke!"
Which must have been a good deal of a sacrifice, for the uniform was a
precious thing.

Limelight and the center of the stage was a passion of Sam Clemens's
boyhood, a love of the spectacular that never wholly died.  It seems
almost a pity that in those far-off barefoot old days he could not have
looked down the years to a time when, with the world at his feet,
venerable Oxford should clothe him in a scarlet gown.

He could not by any chance have dreamed of that stately honor.  His
ambitions did not lie in the direction of mental achievement.  It is true
that now and then, on Friday at school, he read a composition, one of
which--a personal burlesque on certain older boys--came near resulting in
bodily damage.  But any literary ambition he may have had in those days
was a fleeting thing.  His permanent dream was to be a pirate, or a
pilot, or a bandit, or a trapper-scout; something gorgeous and active,
where his word--his nod, even--constituted sufficient law.  The river
kept the pilot ambition always fresh, and the cave supplied a background
for those other things.

The cave was an enduring and substantial joy.  It was a real cave, not
merely a hole, but a subterranean marvel of deep passages and vaulted
chambers that led away into bluffs and far down into the earth's black
silences, even below the river, some said.  For Sam Clemens the cave had
a fascination that never faded.  Other localities and diversions might
pall, but any mention of the cave found him always eager and ready for
the three-mile walk or pull that brought them to its mystic door.  With
its long corridors, its royal chambers hung with stalactites, its remote
hiding-places, its possibilities as the home of a gallant outlaw band, it
contained everything that a romantic boy could love or long for.  In Tom
Sawyer Indian Joe dies in the cave.  He did not die there in real life,
but was lost there once, and was living on bats when they found him.  He
was a dissolute reprobate, and when, one night, he did die there came up
a thunder-storm so terrific that Sam Clemens at home and in bed was
certain that Satan had come in person for the half-breed's wicked soul.
He covered his head and said his prayers industriously, in the fear that
the evil one might conclude to save another trip by taking him along,
too.

The treasure-digging adventure in the book had a foundation in fact.
There was a tradition concerning some French trappers who long before had
established a trading-post two miles above Hannibal, on what is called
the "bay."  It is said that, while one of these trappers was out hunting,
Indians made a raid on the post and massacred the others.  The hunter on
returning found his comrades killed and scalped, but the Indians had
failed to find the treasure which was buried in a chest.  He left it
there, swam across to Illinois, and made his way to St. Louis, where he
told of the massacre and the burial of the, chest of gold.  Then he
started to raise a party to go back for it, but was taken sick and died.
Later some men came up from St. Louis looking for the chest.  They did
not find it, but they told the circumstances, and afterward a good many
people tried to find the gold.

Tom Blankenship one morning came to Sam Clemens and John Briggs and said
he was going to dig up the treasure.  He said he had dreamed just where
it was, and said if they would go with him and dig he would divide up.
The boys had great faith in dreams, especially Tom's dreams.  Tom's
unlimited freedom gave him a large importance in their eyes.  The dreams
of a boy like that were pretty sure to mean something.  They followed Tom
to the place with some shovels and a pick, and he showed them where to
dig.  Then he sat down under the shade of a papaw-tree and gave orders.

They dug nearly all day.  Now and then they stopped to rest, and maybe to
wonder a little why Tom didn't dig some himself; but, of course, he had
done the dreaming, which entitled him to an equal share.

They did not find it that day, and when they went back next morning they
took two long iron rods; these they would push and drive into the ground
until they struck something hard.  Then they would dig down to see what
it was, but it never turned out to be money.  That night the boys
declared they would not dig any more.  But Tom had another dream.  He
dreamed the gold was exactly under the, little papaw-tree.  This sounded
so circumstantial that they went back and dug another day.  It was hot
weather too, August, and that night they were nearly dead.  Even Tom gave
it up, then.  He said there was something about the way they dug, but he
never offered to do any digging himself.

This differs considerably from the digging incident in the book, but it
gives us an idea of the respect the boys had for the ragamuffin original
of Huckleberry Finn.--[Much of the detail in this chapter was furnished
to the writer by John Briggs shortly before his death in 1907.]--Tom
Blankenship's brother, Ben, was also drawn upon for that creation, at
least so far as one important phase of Huck's character is concerned.  He
was considerably older, as well as more disreputable, than Tom.  He was
inclined to torment the boys by tying knots in their clothes when they
went swimming, or by throwing mud at them when they wanted to come out,
and they had no deep love for him.  But somewhere in Ben Blankenship
there was a fine generous strain of humanity that provided Mark Twain
with that immortal episode in the story of Huck Finn--in sheltering the
Nigger Jim.

This is the real story:

A slave ran off from Monroe County, Missouri, and got across the river
into Illinois.  Ben used to fish and hunt over there in the swamps, and
one day found him.  It was considered a most worthy act in those days to
return a runaway slave; in fact, it was a crime not to do it.  Besides,
there was for this one a reward of fifty dollars, a fortune to ragged
outcast Ben Blankenship.  That money and the honor he could acquire must
have been tempting to the waif, but it did not outweigh his human
sympathy.  Instead of giving him up and claiming the reward, Ben kept the
runaway over there in the marshes all summer.  The negro would fish and
Ben would carry him scraps of other food.  Then, by and by, it leaked
out.  Some wood-choppers went on a hunt for the fugitive, and chased him
to what was called "Bird Slough."  There trying to cross a drift he was
drowned.

In the book, the author makes Huck's struggle a psychological one between
conscience and the law, on one side, and sympathy on the other.  With Ben
Blankenship the struggle--if there was a struggle--was probably between
sympathy and cupidity.  He would care very little for conscience and
still less for law.  His sympathy with the runaway, however, would be
large and elemental, and it must have been very large to offset the lure
of that reward.

There was a gruesome sequel to this incident.  Some days following the
drowning of the runaway, Sam Clemens, John Briggs, and the Bowen boys
went to the spot and were pushing the drift about, when suddenly the
negro rose before them, straight and terrible, about half his length out
of the water.  He had gone down feet foremost, and the loosened drift had
released him.  The boys did not stop to investigate.  They thought he was
after them and flew in wild terror, never stopping until they reached
human habitation.

How many gruesome experiences there appear to have been in those early
days!  In 'The Innocents Abroad' Mark Twain tells of the murdered man he
saw one night in his father's office.  The man's name was McFarlane.  He
had been stabbed that day in the old Hudson-McFarlane feud and carried in
there to die.  Sam Clemens and John Briggs had run away from school and
had been sky larking all that day, and knew nothing of the affair. Sam
decided that his father's office was safer for him than to face his
mother, who was probably sitting up, waiting.  He tells us how he lay on
the lounge, and how a shape on the floor gradually resolved itself into
the outlines of a man; how a square of moonlight from the window
approached it and gradually revealed the dead face and the ghastly
stabbed breast.

"I went out of there," he says.  "I do not say that I went away in any
sort of a hurry, but I simply went; that is sufficient.  I went out of
the window, and I carried the sash along with me.  I did not need the
sash, but it was handier to take it than to, leave it, and so I took it.
I was not scared, but I was considerably agitated."

He was not yet twelve, for his father was no longer alive when the boy
reached that age.  Certainly these were disturbing, haunting things.
Then there was the case of the drunken tramp in the calaboose to whom the
boys kind-heartedly enough carried food and tobacco.  Sam Clemens spent
some of his precious money to buy the tramp a box of Lucifer matches--a
brand new invention then, scarce and high.  The tramp started a fire with
the matches and burned down the calaboose, himself in it.  For weeks the
boy was tortured, awake and in his dreams, by the thought that if he had
not carried the man the matches the tragedy could not have happened.
Remorse was always Samuel Clemens's surest punishment.  To his last days
on earth he never outgrew its pangs.

What a number of things crowded themselves into a few brief years!  It is
not easy to curtail these boyhood adventures of Sam Clemens and his
scapegrace friends, but one might go on indefinitely with their mad
doings.  They were an unpromising lot.  Ministers and other sober-minded
citizens freely prophesied sudden and violent ends for them, and
considered them hardly worth praying for.  They must have proven a
disappointing lot to those prophets.  The Bowen boys became fine river-
pilots; Will Pitts was in due time a leading merchant and bank director;
John Briggs grew into a well-to-do and highly respected farmer; even Huck
Finn--that is to say, Tom Blankenship--is reputed to have ranked as an
honored citizen and justice of the peace in a Western town.  But in those
days they were a riotous, fun-loving band with little respect for order
and even less for ordinance.




XIII

THE GENTLER SIDE

His associations were not all of that lawless breed.  At his school (he
had sampled several places of learning, and was now at Mr. Cross's on the
Square) were a number of less adventurous, even if not intrinsically
better playmates.  There was George Robards, the Latin scholar, and John,
his brother, a handsome boy, who rode away at last with his father into
the sunset, to California, his golden curls flying in the wind.  And
there was Jimmy McDaniel, a kind-hearted boy whose company was worth
while, because his father was a confectioner, and he used to bring candy
and cake to school.  Also there was Buck Brown, a rival speller, and John
Meredith, the doctor's son, and John Garth, who was one day to marry
little Helen Kercheval, and in the end would be remembered and honored
with a beautiful memorial building not far from the site of the old
school.

Furthermore, there were a good many girls.  Tom Sawyer had an
impressionable heart, and Sam Clemens no less so.  There was Bettie
Ormsley, and Artemisia Briggs, and Jennie Brady; also Mary Miller, who
was nearly twice his age and gave him his first broken heart.

"I believe I was as miserable as a grown man could be," he said once,
remembering.

Tom Sawyer had heart sorrows too, and we may imagine that his emotions at
such times were the emotions of Sam Clemens, say at the age of ten.

But, as Tom Sawyer had one faithful sweetheart, so did he.  They were one
and the same.  Becky Thatcher in the book was Laura Hawkins in reality.
The acquaintance of these two had begun when the Hawkins family moved
into the Virginia house on the corner of Hill and Main streets.--[The
Hawkins family in real life bore no resemblance to the family of that
name in The Gilded Age.  Judge Hawkins of The Gilded Age, as already
noted, was John Clemens.  Mark Twain used the name Hawkins, also the name
of his boyhood sweetheart, Laura, merely for old times' sake, and because
in portraying the childhood of Laura Hawkins he had a picture of the real
Laura in his mind.]--The Clemens family was then in the new home across
the way, and the children were soon acquainted.  The boy could be tender
and kind, and was always gentle in his treatment of the other sex.  They
visited back and forth, especially around the new house, where there were
nice pieces of boards and bricks for play-houses.  So they played
"keeping house," and if they did not always agree well, since the
beginning of the world sweethearts have not always agreed, even in
Arcady.  Once when they were building a house--and there may have been
some difference of opinion as to its architecture--the boy happened to
let a brick fall on the little girl's finger.  If there had been any
disagreement it vanished instantly with that misfortune.  He tried to
comfort her and soothe the pain; then he wept with her and suffered most
of the two, no doubt.  So, you see, he was just a little boy, after all,
even though he was already chief of a red-handed band, the "Black
Avengers of the Spanish Main."

He was always a tender-hearted lad.  He would never abuse an animal,
unless, as in the Pain-killer incident, his tendency to pranking ran away
with him.  He had indeed a genuine passion for cats; summers when he went
to the farm he never failed to take his cat in a basket.  When he ate, it
sat in a chair beside him at the table.  His sympathy included inanimate
things as well.  He loved flowers--not as the embryo botanist or
gardener, but as a personal friend.  He pitied the dead leaf and the
murmuring dried weed of November because their brief lives were ended,
and they would never know the summer again, or grow glad with another
spring.  His heart went out to them; to the river and the sky, the sunlit
meadow and the drifted hill.  That his observation of all nature was
minute and accurate is shown everywhere in his writing; but it was never
the observation of a young naturalist it was the subconscious observation
of sympathetic love.

We are wandering away from his school-days.  They were brief enough and
came rapidly to an end.  They will not hold us long.  Undoubtedly Tom
Sawyer's distaste for school and his excuses for staying at home--usually
some pretended illness--have ample foundation in the boyhood of Sam
Clemens.  His mother punished him and pleaded with him, alternately.  He
detested school as he detested nothing else on earth, even going to
church.  "Church ain't worth shucks," said Tom Sawyer, but it was better
than school.

As already noted, the school of Mr. Cross stood in or near what is now
the Square in Hannibal.  The Square was only a grove then, grown up with
plum, hazel, and vine--a rare place for children.  At recess and the noon
hour the children climbed trees, gathered flowers, and swung in grape-
vine swings.  There was a spelling-bee every Friday afternoon, for Sam
the only endurable event of the school exercises.  He could hold the
floor at spelling longer than Buck Brown.  This was spectacular and
showy; it invited compliments even from Mr. Cross, whose name must have
been handed down by angels, it fitted him so well.  One day Sam Clemens
wrote on his slate:

          Cross by name and cross by nature
          Cross jumped over an Irish potato.

He showed this to John Briggs, who considered it a stroke of genius.  He
urged the author to write it on the board at noon, but the poet's
ambition did not go so far.

"Oh, pshaw!" said John.  "I wouldn't be afraid to do it.

"I dare you to do it," said Sam.

John Briggs never took a dare, and at noon, when Mr. Cross was at home at
dinner, he wrote flamingly the descriptive couplet.  When the teacher
returned and "books" were called he looked steadily at John Briggs.  He
had recognized the penmanship.

"Did you do that?" he asked, ominously.

It was a time for truth.

"Yes, sir," said John.

"Come here!"  And John came, and paid for his exploitation of genius
heavily.  Sam Clemens expected that the next call would be for "author,"
but for some reason the investigation ended there.  It was unusual for
him to escape.  His back generally kept fairly warm from one "frailing"
to the next.

His rewards were not all of a punitive nature.  There were two medals in
the school, one for spelling, the other for amiability.  They were
awarded once a week, and the holders wore them about the neck
conspicuously, and were envied accordingly.  John Robards--he of the
golden curls--wore almost continuously the medal for amiability, while
Sam Clemens had a mortgage on the medal for spelling.  Sometimes they
traded, to see how it would seem, but the master discouraged this
practice by taking the medals away from them for the remainder of the
week.  Once Sam Clemens lost the medal by leaving the first "r" out of
February.  He could have spelled it backward, if necessary; but Laura
Hawkins was the only one on the floor against him, and he was a gallant
boy.

The picture of that school as presented in the book written thirty years
later is faithful, we may believe, and the central figure is a tender-
hearted, romantic, devil-may-care lad, loathing application and longing
only for freedom.  It was a boon which would come to him sooner even than
he had dreamed.




XIV

THE PASSING OF JOHN CLEMENS

Judge Clemens, who time and again had wrecked or crippled his fortune by
devices more or less unusual, now adopted the one unfailing method of
achieving disaster.  He endorsed a large note, for a man of good repute,
and the payment of it swept him clean: home, property, everything
vanished again.  The St. Louis cousin took over the home and agreed to
let the family occupy it on payment of a small interest; but after an
attempt at housekeeping with a few scanty furnishings and Pamela's piano
--all that had been saved from the wreck--they moved across the street
into a portion of the Virginia house, then occupied by a Dr.  Grant.  The
Grants proposed that the Clemens family move over and board them, a
welcome arrangement enough at this time.

Judge Clemens had still a hope left.  The clerkship of the Surrogate
Court was soon to be filled by election.  It was an important
remunerative office, and he was regarded as the favorite candidate for
the position.  His disaster had aroused general sympathy, and his
nomination and election were considered sure.  He took no chances; he
made a canvass on horseback from house to house, often riding through
rain and the chill of fall, acquiring a cough which was hard to overcome.
He was elected by a heavy majority, and it was believed he could hold the
office as long as he chose.  There seemed no further need of worry.  As
soon as he was installed in office they would live in style becoming
their social position.  About the end of February he rode to Palmyra to
be sworn in.  Returning he was drenched by a storm of rain and sleet,
arriving at last half frozen.  His system was in no condition to resist
such a shock.  Pneumonia followed; physicians came with torments of
plasters and allopathic dosings that brought no relief.  Orion returned
from St. Louis to assist in caring for him, and sat by his bed,
encouraging him and reading to him, but it was evident that he grew daily
weaker.  Now and then he became cheerful and spoke of the Tennessee land
as the seed of a vast fortune that must surely flower at last.  He
uttered no regrets, no complaints.  Once only he said:

"I believe if I had stayed in Tennessee I might have been worth twenty
thousand dollars to-day."

On the morning of the 24th of March, 1847, it was evident that he could
not live many hours.  He was very weak.  When he spoke, now and then, it
was of the land.  He said it would soon make them all rich and happy.

"Cling to the land," he whispered.  "Cling to the land, and wait.  Let
nothing beguile it away from you."

A little later he beckoned to Pamela, now a lovely girl of nineteen, and,
putting his arm about her neck, kissed her for the first time in years.

"Let me die," he said.

He never spoke after that.  A little more, and the sad, weary life that
had lasted less than forty-nine years was ended: A dreamer and a
moralist, an upright man honored by all, he had never been a financier.
He ended life with less than he had begun.




XV

A YOUNG BEN FRANKLIN

For a third time death had entered the Clemens home: not only had it
brought grief now, but it had banished the light of new fortune from the
very threshold.  The disaster seemed complete.

The children were dazed.  Judge Clemens had been a distant, reserved man,
but they had loved him, each in his own way, and they had honored his
uprightness and nobility of purpose.  Mrs. Clemens confided to a neighbor
that, in spite of his manner, her husband had been always warm-hearted,
with a deep affection for his family.  They remembered that he had never
returned from a journey without bringing each one some present, however
trifling.  Orion, looking out of his window next morning, saw old Abram
Kurtz, and heard him laugh.  He wondered how anybody could still laugh.

The boy Sam was fairly broken down.  Remorse, which always dealt with him
unsparingly, laid a heavy hand on him now.  Wildness, disobedience,
indifference to his father's wishes, all were remembered; a hundred
things, in themselves trifling, became ghastly and heart-wringing in the
knowledge that they could never be undone.  Seeing his grief, his mother
took him by the hand and led him into the room where his father lay.

"It is all right, Sammy," she said.  "What's done is done, and it does
not matter to him any more; but here by the side of him now I want you to
promise me----"

He turned, his eyes streaming with tears, and flung himself into her
arms.

"I will promise anything," he sobbed, "if you won't make me go to school!
Anything!"

His mother held him for a moment, thinking, then she said:

"No, Sammy; you need not go to school any more.  Only promise me to be a
better boy.  Promise not to break my heart."

So he promised her to be a faithful and industrious man, and upright,
like his father.  His mother was satisfied with that.  The sense of honor
and justice was already strong within him.  To him a promise was a
serious matter at any time; made under conditions like these it would be
held sacred.

That night--it was after the funeral--his tendency to somnambulism
manifested itself.  His mother and sister, who were sleeping together,
saw the door open and a form in white enter.  Naturally nervous at such a
time, and living in a day of almost universal superstition, they were
terrified and covered their heads.  Presently a hand was laid on the
coverlet, first at the foot, then at the head of the bed.  A thought
struck Mrs. Clemens:

"Sam!" she said.

He answered, but he was sound asleep and fell to the floor.  He had risen
and thrown a sheet around him in his dreams.  He walked in his sleep
several nights in succession after that.  Then he slept more soundly.

Orion returned to St. Louis.  He was a very good book and job printer by
this time and received a salary of ten dollars a week (high wages in
those frugal days), of which he sent three dollars weekly to the family.
Pamela, who had acquired a considerable knowledge of the piano and
guitar, went to the town of Paris, in Monroe County, about fifty miles
away, and taught a class of music pupils, contributing whatever remained
after paying for her board and clothing to the family fund.  It was a
hard task for the girl, for she was timid and not over-strong; but she
was resolute and patient, and won success.  Pamela Clemens was a noble
character and deserves a fuller history than can be afforded in this
work.

Mrs. Clemens and her son Samuel now had a sober talk, and, realizing that
the printing trade offered opportunity for acquiring further education as
well as a livelihood, they agreed that he should be apprenticed to Joseph
P. Ament, who had lately moved from Palmyra to Hannibal and bought a
weekly Democrat paper, the Missouri Courier.  The apprentice terms were
not over-liberal.  They were the usual thing for that time: board and
clothes--"more board than clothes, and not much of either," Mark Twain
used to say.

"I was supposed to get two suits of clothes a year, like a nigger, but I
didn't get them.  I got one suit and took the rest out in Ament's old
garments, which didn't fit me in any noticeable way.  I was only about
half as big as he was, and when I had on one of his shirts I felt as if I
had on a circus tent.  I had to turn the trousers up to my ears to make
them short enough."

There was another apprentice, a young fellow of about eighteen, named
Wales McCormick, a devilish fellow and a giant.  Ament's clothes were too
small for Wales, but he had to wear them, and Sam Clemens and Wales
McCormick together, fitted out with Ament's clothes, must have been a
picturesque pair.  There was also, for a time, a boy named Ralph; but he
appears to have presented no features of a striking sort, and the memory
of him has become dim.

The apprentices ate in the kitchen at first, served by the old slave-cook
and her handsome mulatto daughter; but those printer's "devils" made it
so lively there that in due time they were promoted to the family table,
where they sat with Mr. and Mrs. Ament and the one journeyman, Pet
McMurry--a name that in itself was an inspiration.  What those young
scamps did not already know Pet McMurry could teach them.  Sam Clemens
had promised to be a good boy, and he was, by the standards of boyhood.
He was industrious, regular at his work, quick to learn, kind, and
truthful.  Angels could hardly be more than that in a printing-office;
but when food was scarce even an angel--a young printer angel--could
hardly resist slipping down the cellar stairs at night for raw potatoes,
onions, and apples which they carried into the office, where the boys
slept on a pallet on the floor, and this forage they cooked on the office
stove.  Wales especially had a way of cooking a potato that his associate
never forgot.

It is unfortunate that no photographic portrait has been preserved of Sam
Clemens at this period.  But we may imagine him from a letter which, long
years after, Pet McMurry wrote to Mark Twain.  He said:

     If your memory extends so far back, you will recall a little sandy-
     haired boy--[The color of Mark Twain's hair in early life has been
     variously referred to as red, black, and brown.  It was, in fact, as
     stated by McMurry, "sandy" in boyhood, deepening later to that rich,
     mahogany tone known as auburn.]--of nearly a quarter of a century
     ago, in the printing-office at Hannibal, over the Brittingham
     drugstore, mounted upon a little box at the case, pulling away at a
     huge cigar or a diminutive pipe, who used to love to sing so well
     the expression of the poor drunken man who was supposed to have
     fallen by the wayside: "If ever I get up again, I'll stay up--if I
     kin."  .  .  .  Do you recollect any of the serious conflicts that
     mirth-loving brain of yours used to get you into with that
     diminutive creature Wales McCormick--how you used to call upon me to
     hold your cigar or pipe, whilst you went entirely through him?

This is good testimony, without doubt.  When he had been with Ament
little more than a year Sam had become office favorite and chief standby.
Whatever required intelligence and care and imagination was given to Sam
Clemens.  He could set type as accurately and almost as rapidly as Pet
McMurry; he could wash up the forms a good deal better than Pet; and he
could run the job-press to the tune of "Annie Laurie" or "Along the Beach
at Rockaway," without missing a stroke or losing a finger.  Sometimes, at
odd moments, he would "set up" one of the popular songs or some favorite
poem like "The Blackberry Girl," and of these he sent copies printed on
cotton, even on scraps of silk, to favorite girl friends; also to Puss
Quarles, on his uncle's farm, where he seldom went now, because he was
really grown up, associating with men and doing a man's work.  He had
charge of the circulation--which is to say, he carried the papers.
During the last year of the Mexican War, when a telegraph-wire found its
way across the Mississippi to Hannibal--a long sagging span, that for
some reason did not break of its own weight--he was given charge of the
extras with news from the front; and the burning importance of his
mission, the bringing of news hot from the field of battle, spurred him
to endeavors that won plaudits and success.

He became a sort of subeditor.  When the forms of the paper were ready to
close and Ament was needed to supply more matter, it was Sam who was
delegated to find that rather uncertain and elusive person and labor with
him until the required copy was produced.  Thus it was he saw literature
in the making.

It is not believed that Sam had any writing ambitions of his own.  His
chief desire was to be an all-round journeyman printer like Pet McMurry;
to drift up and down the world in Pet's untrammeled fashion; to see all
that Pet had seen and a number of things which Pet appeared to have
overlooked.  He varied on occasion from this ambition.  When the first
negro minstrel show visited Hannibal and had gone, he yearned for a brief
period to be a magnificent "middle man" or even the "end-man" of that
combination; when the circus came and went, he dreamed of the day when, a
capering frescoed clown, he would set crowded tiers of spectators
guffawing at his humor; when the traveling hypnotist arrived, he
volunteered as a subject, and amazed the audience by the marvel of his
performance.

In later life he claimed that he had not been hypnotized in any degree,
but had been pretending throughout--a statement always denied by his
mother and his brother Orion.  This dispute was never settled, and never
could be.  Sam Clemens's tendency to somnambulism would seem to suggest
that he really might have taken on a hypnotic condition, while his
consummate skill as an actor, then and always, and his early fondness of
exhibition and a joke, would make it not unlikely that he was merely
"showing off" and having his fun.  He could follow the dictates of a
vivid imagination and could be as outrageous as he chose without
incurring responsibility of any sort.  But there was a penalty: he must
allow pins and needles to be thrust into his flesh and suffer these
tortures without showing discomfort to the spectators.  It is difficult
to believe that any boy, however great his exhibitory passion, could
permit, in the full possession of his sensibilities, a needle to be
thrust deeply into his flesh without manifestations of a most unmesmeric
sort.  The conclusion seems warranted that he began by pretending, but
that at times he was at least under semi-mesmeric control.  At all
events, he enjoyed a week of dazzling triumph, though in the end he
concluded to stick to printing as a trade.

We have said that he was a rapid learner and a neat workman.  At Ament's
he generally had a daily task, either of composition or press-work, after
which he was free.  When he had got the hang of his work he was usually
done by three in the afternoon; then away to the river or the cave, as in
the old days, sometimes with his boy friends, sometimes with Laura
Hawkins gathering wild columbine on that high cliff overlooking the
river, Lover's Leap.

He was becoming quite a beau, attending parties on occasion, where old-
fashioned games--Forfeits, Ring-around-a-Rosy, Dusty Miller, and the
like--were regarded as rare amusements.  He was a favorite with girls of
his own age.  He was always good-natured, though he played jokes on them,
too, and was often a severe trial.  He was with Laura Hawkins more than
the others, usually her escort.  On Saturday afternoons in winter he
carried her skates to Bear Creek and helped her to put them on.  After
which they skated "partners," holding hands tightly, and were a likely
pair of children, no doubt.  In The Gilded Age Laura Hawkins at twelve is
pictured "with her dainty hands propped into the ribbon-bordered pockets
of her apron .  .  .  a vision to warm the coldest heart and bless and
cheer the saddest."  The author had the real Laura of his childhood in
his mind when he wrote that, though the story itself bears no resemblance
to her life.

They were never really sweethearts, those two.  They were good friends
and comrades.  Sometimes he brought her magazines--exchanges from the
printing--office--Godey's and others.  These were a treat, for such
things were scarce enough.  He cared little for reading, himself, beyond
a few exciting tales, though the putting into type of a good deal of
miscellaneous matter had beyond doubt developed in him a taste for
general knowledge.  It needed only to be awakened.




XVI

THE TURNING-POINT

There came into his life just at this period one of those seemingly
trifling incidents which, viewed in retrospect, assume pivotal
proportions.  He was on his way from the office to his home one afternoon
when he saw flying along the pavement a square of paper, a leaf from a
book.  At an earlier time he would not have bothered with it at all, but
any printed page had acquired a professional interest for him now.  He
caught the flying scrap and examined it.  It was a leaf from some history
of Joan of Arc.  The "maid" was described in the cage at Rouen, in the
fortress, and the two ruffian English soldiers had stolen her clothes.
There was a brief description and a good deal of dialogue--her reproaches
and their ribald replies.

He had never heard of the subject before.  He had never read any history.
When he wanted to know any fact he asked Henry, who read everything
obtainable.  Now, however, there arose within him a deep compassion for
the gentle Maid of Orleans, a burning resentment toward her captors, a
powerful and indestructible interest in her sad history.  It was an
interest that would grow steadily for more than half a lifetime and
culminate at last in that crowning work, the Recollections, the loveliest
story ever told of the martyred girl.

The incident meant even more than that: it meant the awakening of his
interest in all history--the world's story in its many phases--a passion
which became the largest feature of his intellectual life and remained
with him until his very last day on earth.  From the moment when that
fluttering leaf was blown into his hands his career as one of the world's
mentally elect was assured.  It gave him his cue--the first word of a
part in the human drama.  It crystallized suddenly within him sympathy
with the oppressed, rebellion against tyranny and treachery, scorn for
the divine rights of kings.  A few months before he died he wrote a paper
on "The Turning-point of My Life."  For some reason he did not mention
this incident.  Yet if there was a turning-point in his life, he reached
it that bleak afternoon on the streets of Hannibal when a stray leaf from
another life was blown into his hands.

He read hungrily now everything he could find relating to the French
wars, and to Joan in particular.  He acquired an appetite for history in
general, the record of any nation or period; he seemed likely to become a
student.  Presently he began to feel the need of languages, French and
German.  There was no opportunity to acquire French, that he could
discover, but there was a German shoemaker in Hannibal who agreed to
teach his native tongue.  Sam Clemens got a friend--very likely it was
John Briggs--to form a class with him, and together they arranged for
lessons.  The shoemaker had little or no English.  They had no German.
It would seem, however, that their teacher had some sort of a "word-
book," and when they assembled in his little cubby-hole of a retreat he
began reading aloud from it this puzzling sentence:

"De hain eet flee whoop in de hayer."

"Dere!" he said, triumphantly; "you know dose vord?"

The students looked at each other helplessly.

The teacher repeated the sentence, and again they were helpless when he
asked if they recognized it.

Then in despair he showed them the book.  It was an English primer, and
the sentence was:

"The hen, it flies up in the air."

They explained to him gently that it was German they wished to learn, not
English--not under the circumstances.  Later, Sam made an attempt at
Latin, and got a book for that purpose, but gave it up, saying:

"No, that language is not for me.  I'll do well enough to learn English."
A boy who took it up with him became a Latin scholar.

His prejudice against oppression he put into practice.  Boys who were
being imposed upon found in him a ready protector.  Sometimes, watching a
game of marbles or tops, he would remark in his slow, impressive way:

"You mustn't cheat that boy."  And the cheating stopped.  When it didn't,
there was a combat, with consequences.




XVII

THE HANNIBAL "JOURNAL"


Orion returned from St. Louis.  He felt that he was needed in Hannibal
and, while wages there were lower, his expenses at home were slight;
there was more real return for the family fund.  His sister Pamela was
teaching a class in Hannibal at this time.  Orion was surprised when his
mother and sister greeted him with kisses and tears.  Any outward display
of affection was new to him.

The family had moved back across the street by this time.  With Sam
supporting himself, the earnings of Orion and Pamela provided at least a
semblance of comfort.  But Orion was not satisfied.  Then, as always, he
had a variety of vague ambitions.  Oratory appealed to him, and he
delivered a temperance lecture with an accompaniment of music, supplied
chiefly by Pamela.  He aspired to the study of law, a recurring
inclination throughout his career.  He also thought of the ministry, an
ambition which Sam shared with him for a time.  Every mischievous boy has
it, sooner or later, though not all for the same reasons.

"It was the most earnest ambition I ever had," Mark Twain once remarked,
thoughtfully.  "Not that I ever really wanted to be a preacher, but
because it never occurred to me that a preacher could be damned.  It
looked like a safe job."

A periodical ambition of Orion's was to own and conduct a paper in
Hannibal.  He felt that in such a position he might become a power in
Western journalism.  Once his father had considered buying the Hannibal
Journal to give Orion a chance, and possibly to further his own political
ambitions.  Now Orion considered it for himself.  The paper was for sale
under a mortgage, and he was enabled to borrow the $500 which would
secure ownership.  Sam's two years at Ament's were now complete, and
Orion induced him to take employment on the Journal.  Henry at eleven was
taken out of school to learn typesetting.

Orion was a gentle, accommodating soul, but he lacked force and
independence.

"I followed all the advice I received," he says in his record.  "If two
or more persons conflicted with each other, I adopted the views of the
last."

He started full of enthusiasm.  He worked like a slave to save help:
wrote his own editorials, and made his literary selections at night.  The
others worked too.  Orion gave them hard tasks and long hours.  He had
the feeling that the paper meant fortune or failure to them all; that all
must labor without stint.  In his usual self-accusing way he wrote
afterward:

I was tyrannical and unjust to Sam.  He was as swift and as clean as a
good journeyman.  I gave him tasks, and if he got through well I
begrudged him the time and made him work more.  He set a clean proof, and
Henry a very dirty one.  The correcting was left to be done in the form
the day before publication.  Once we were kept late, and Sam complained
with tears of bitterness that he was held till midnight on Henry's dirty
proofs.

Orion did not realize any injustice at the time.  The game was too
desperate to be played tenderly.  His first editorials were so brilliant
that it was not believed he could have written them.  The paper
throughout was excellent, and seemed on the high road to success.  But
the pace was too hard to maintain.  Overwork brought weariness, and
Orion's enthusiasm, never a very stable quantity, grew feeble.  He became
still more exacting.

It is not to be supposed that Sam Clemens had given up all amusements to
become merely a toiling drudge or had conquered in any large degree his
natural taste for amusement.  He had become more studious; but after the
long, hard days in the office it was not to be expected that a boy of
fifteen would employ the evening--at least not every evening--in reading
beneficial books.  The river was always near at hand--for swimming in the
summer and skating in the winter--and once even at this late period it
came near claiming a heavy tribute.  That was one winter's night when
with another boy he had skated until nearly midnight.  They were about in
the middle of the river when they heard a terrific and grinding noise
near the shore.  They knew what it was.  The ice was breaking up, and
they set out for home forthwith.  It was moonlight, and they could tell
the ice from the water, which was a good thing, for there were wide
cracks toward the shore, and they had to wait for these to close.  They
were an hour making the trip, and just before they reached the bank they
came to a broad space of water.  The ice was lifting and falling and
crunching all around them.  They waited as long as they dared and decided
to leap from cake to cake.  Sam made the crossing without accident, but
his companion slipped in when a few feet from shore.  He was a good
swimmer and landed safely, but the bath probably cost him his hearing.
He was taken very ill.  One disease followed another, ending with scarlet
fever and deafness.

There was also entertainment in the office itself.  A country boy named
Jim Wolfe had come to learn the trade--a green, good-natured, bashful
boy.  In every trade tricks are played on the new apprentice, and Sam
felt that it was his turn to play them.  With John Briggs to help him,
tortures for Jim Wolfe were invented and applied.

They taught him to paddle a canoe, and upset him.  They took him sniping
at night and left him "holding the bag" in the old traditional fashion
while they slipped off home and went to bed.

But Jim Wolfe's masterpiece of entertainment was one which he undertook
on his own account.  Pamela was having a candy-pull down-stairs one
night--a grown-up candy-pull to which the boys were not expected.  Jim
would not have gone, anyway, for he was bashful beyond belief, and always
dumb, and even pale with fear, in the presence of pretty Pamela Clemens.
Up in their room the boys could hear the merriment from below and could
look out in the moonlight on the snowy sloping roof that began just
beneath their window.  Down at the eaves was the small arbor, green in
summer, but covered now with dead vines and snow.  They could hear the
candymakers come out, now and then, doubtless setting out pans of candy
to cool.  By and by the whole party seemed to come out into the little
arbor, to try the candy, perhaps the joking and laughter came plainly to
the boys up-stairs.  About this time there appeared on the roof from
somewhere two disreputable cats, who set up a most disturbing duel of
charge and recrimination.  Jim detested the noise, and perhaps was
gallant enough to think it would disturb the party.  He had nothing to
throw at them, but he said:

"For two cents I'd get out there and knock their heads off."

"You wouldn't dare to do it," Sam said, purringly.

This was wormwood to Jim.  He was really a brave spirit.

"I would too," he said, "and I will if you say that again."

"Why, Jim, of course you wouldn't dare to go out there.  You might catch
cold."

"You wait and see," said Jim Wolfe.

He grabbed a pair of yarn stockings for his feet, raised the window, and
crept out on the snowy roof.  There was a crust of ice on the snow, but
Jim jabbed his heels through it and stood up in the moonlight, his legs
bare, his single garment flapping gently in the light winter breeze.
Then he started slowly toward the cats, sinking his heels in the snow
each time for a footing, a piece of lath in his hand.  The cats were on
the corner of the roof above the arbor, and Jim cautiously worked his way
in that direction.  The roof was not very steep.  He was doing well
enough until he came to a place where the snow had melted until it was
nearly solid ice.  He was so intent on the cats that he did not notice
this, and when he struck his heel down to break the crust nothing
yielded.  A second later Jim's feet had shot out from under him, and he
vaulted like an avalanche down the icy roof out on the little vine-clad
arbor, and went crashing through among those candypullers, gathered there
with their pans of cooling taffy.  There were wild shrieks and a general
flight.  Neither Jim nor Sam ever knew how he got back to their room, but
Jim was overcome with the enormity of his offense, while Sam was in an
agony of laughter.

"You did it splendidly, Jim," he drawled, when he could speak.  "Nobody
could have done it better; and did you see how those cats got out of
there?  I never had any idea when you started that you meant to do it
that way.  And it was such a surprise to the folks down-stairs.  How did
you ever think of it?"

It was a fearful ordeal for a boy like Jim Wolfe, but he stuck to his
place in spite of what he must have suffered.  The boys made him one of
them soon after that.  His initiation was thought to be complete.

An account of Jim Wolfe and the cats was the first original story Mark
Twain ever told.  He told it next day, which was Sunday, to Jimmy
McDaniel, the baker's son, as they sat looking out over the river, eating
gingerbread.  His hearer laughed immoderately, and the story-teller was
proud and happy in his success.




XVIII

THE BEGINNING OF A LITERARY LIFE

Orion's paper continued to go downhill.  Following some random counsel,
he changed the name of it and advanced the price--two blunders.  Then he
was compelled to reduce the subscription, also the advertising rates.  He
was obliged to adopt a descending scale of charges and expenditures to
keep pace with his declining circulation--a fatal sign.  A publisher must
lead his subscription list, not follow it.

"I was walking backward," he said, "not seeing where I stepped."

In desperation he broke away and made a trip to Tennessee to see if
something could not be realized on the land, leaving his brother Sam in
charge of the office.  It was a journey without financial results; yet it
bore fruit, for it marked the beginning of Mark Twain's literary career.

Sam, in his brother's absence, concluded to edit the paper in a way that
would liven up the circulation.  He had never done any writing--not for
print--but he had the courage of his inclinations.  His local items were
of a kind known as "spicy"; his personals brought prompt demand for
satisfaction.  The editor of a rival paper had been in love, and was said
to have gone to the river one night to drown himself.  Sam gave a
picturesque account of this, with all the names connected with the
affair.  Then he took a couple of big wooden block letters, turned them
upside down, and engraved illustrations for it, showing the victim wading
out into the river with a stick to test the depth of the water.  When
this issue of the paper came out the demand for it was very large.  The
press had to be kept running steadily to supply copies.  The satirized
editor at first swore that he would thrash the whole journal office, then
he left town and did not come back any more.  The embryo Mark Twain also
wrote a poem.  It was addressed "To Mary in Hannibal," but the title was
too long to be set in one column, so he left out all the letters in
Hannibal, except the first and the last, and supplied their place with a
dash, with a startling result.  Such were the early flickerings of a
smoldering genius.  Orion returned, remonstrated, and apologized.  He
reduced Sam to the ranks.  In later years he saw his mistake.

"I could have distanced all competitors even then," he said, "if I had
recognized Sam's ability and let him go ahead, merely keeping him from
offending worthy persons."

Sam was subdued, but not done for.  He never would be, now.  He had got
his first taste of print, and he liked it.  He promptly wrote two
anecdotes which he thought humorous and sent them to the Philadelphia
Saturday Evening Post.  They were accepted--without payment, of course,
in those days; and when the papers containing them appeared he felt
suddenly lifted to a lofty plane of literature.  This was in 1851.

"Seeing them in print was a joy which rather exceeded anything in that
line I have ever experienced since," he said, nearly sixty years later.

Yet he did not feel inspired to write anything further for the Post.
Twice during the next two years he contributed to the Journal; once
something about Jim Wolfe, though it was not the story of the cats, and
another burlesque on a rival editor whom he pictured as hunting snipe
with a cannon, the explosion of which was said to have blown the snipe
out of the country.  No contributions of this time have been preserved.
High prices have been offered for copies of the Hannibal journal
containing them, but without success.  The Post sketches were unsigned
and have not been identified.  It is likely they were trivial enough.
His earliest work showed no special individuality or merit, being mainly
crude and imitative, as the work of a boy--even a precocious boy--is
likely to be.  He was not especially precocious--not in literature.  His
literary career would halt and hesitate and trifle along for many years
yet, gathering impetus and equipment for the fuller, statelier swing
which would bring a greater joy to the world at large, even if not to
himself, than that first, far-off triumph.--[In Mark Twain's sketch "My
First Literary Venture" he has set down with characteristic embroideries
some account of this early authorship.]

Those were hard financial days.  Orion could pay nothing on his mortgage
--barely the interest.  He had promised Sam three dollars and a half a
week, but he could do no more than supply him with board and clothes--
"poor, shabby clothes," he says in his record.

"My mother and sister did the housekeeping.  My mother was cook.  She
used the provisions I supplied her.  We therefore had a regular diet of
bacon, butter, bread, and coffee."

Mrs. Clemens again took a few boarders; Pamela, who had given up teaching
for a time, organized another music class.  Orion became despondent.  One
night a cow got into the office, upset a typecase, and ate up two
composition rollers.  Orion felt that fate was dealing with a heavy hand.
Another disaster quickly followed.  Fire broke out in the office, and the
loss was considerable.  An insurance company paid one hundred and fifty
dollars.  With it Orion replaced such articles as were absolutely needed
for work, and removed his plant into the front room of the Clemens
dwelling.  He raised the one-story part of the building to give them an
added room up-stairs; and there for another two years, by hard work and
pinching economies, the dying paper managed to drag along.  It was the
fire that furnished Sam Clemens with his Jim Wolfe sketch.  In it he
stated that Jim in his excitement had carried the office broom half a
mile and had then come back after the wash-pan.

In the meantime Pamela Clemens married.  Her husband was a well-to-do
merchant, William A. Moffett, formerly of Hannibal, but then of St.
Louis, where he had provided her with the comforts of a substantial home.

Orion tried the experiment of a serial story.  He wrote to a number of
well-known authors in the East, but was unable to find one who would
supply a serial for the price he was willing to pay.  Finally he obtained
a translation of a French novel for the sum offered, which was five
dollars.  It did not save the sinking ship, however.  He made the
experiment of a tri-weekly, without success.  He noticed that even his
mother no longer read his editorials, but turned to the general news.
This was a final blow.

"I sat down in the dark," he says, "the moon glinting in at the open
door.  I sat with one leg over the chair and let my mind float."

He had received an offer of five hundred dollars for his office--the
amount of the mortgage--and in his moonlight reverie he decided to
dispose of it on those terms.  This was in 1853.

His brother Samuel was no longer with him.  Several months before, in
June, Sam decided he would go out into the world.  He was in his
eighteenth year now, a good workman, faithful and industrious, but he had
grown restless in unrewarded service.  Beyond his mastery of the trade he
had little to show for six years of hard labor.  Once when he had asked
Orion for a few dollars to buy a second-hand gun, Orion, exasperated by
desperate circumstances, fell into a passion and rated him for thinking
of such extravagance.  Soon afterward Sam confided to his mother that he
was going away; that he believed Orion hated him; that there was no
longer a place for him at home.  He said he would go to St. Louis, where
Pamela was.  There would be work for him in St. Louis, and he could send
money home.  His intention was to go farther than St. Louis, but he dared
not tell her.  His mother put together sadly enough the few belongings of
what she regarded as her one wayward boy; then she held up a little
Testament:

"I want you to take hold of the other end of this, Sam," she said, "and
make me a promise."

If one might have a true picture of that scene: the shin, wiry woman of
forty-nine, her figure as straight as her deportment, gray-eyed, tender,
and resolute, facing the fair-cheeked, auburn-haired youth of seventeen,
his eyes as piercing and unwavering as her own.  Mother and son, they
were of the same metal and the same mold.

"I want you to repeat after me, Sam, these words," Jane Clemens said.
"I do solemnly swear that I will not throw a card or drink a drop of
liquor while I am gone."

He repeated the oath after her, and she kissed him.

"Remember that, Sam, and write to us," she said.

"And so," Orion records, "he went wandering in search of that comfort and
that advancement and those rewards of industry which he had failed to
find where I was--gloomy, taciturn, and selfish.  I not only missed his
labor; we all missed his bounding activity and merriment."





XIX

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF FRANKLIN

He went to St. Louis by the night boat, visited his sister Pamela, and
found a job in the composing-room of the Evening News.  He remained on
the paper only long enough to earn money with which to see the world.
The "world" was New York City, where the Crystal Palace Fair was then
going on.  The railway had been completed by this time, but he had not
traveled on it.  It had not many comforts; several days and nights were
required for the New York trip; yet it was a wonderful and beautiful
experience.  He felt that even Pet McMurry could hardly have done
anything to surpass it.  He arrived in New York with two or three dollars
in his pocket and a ten-dollar bill concealed in the lining of his coat.

New York was a great and amazing city.  It almost frightened him.  It
covered the entire lower end of Manhattan Island; visionary citizens
boasted that one day it would cover it all.  The World's Fair building,
the Crystal Palace, stood a good way out.  It was where Bryant Park is
now, on Forty-second Street and Sixth Avenue.  Young Clemens classed it
as one of the wonders of the world and wrote lavishly of its marvels.
A portion of a letter to his sister Pamela has been preserved and is
given here not only for what it contains, but as the earliest existing
specimen of his composition.  The fragment concludes what was doubtless
an exhaustive description.

     From the gallery (second floor) you have a glorious sight--the flags
     of the different countries represented, the lofty dome, glittering
     jewelry, gaudy tapestry, etc., with the busy crowd passing to and
     fro 'tis a perfect fairy palace--beautiful beyond description.

     The machinery department is on the main floor, but I cannot
     enumerate any of it on account of the lateness of the hour (past 1
     o'clock).  It would take more than a week to examine everything on
     exhibition; and I was only in a little over two hours to-night.
     I only glanced at about one-third of the articles; and, having a
     poor memory, I have enumerated scarcely any of even the principal
     objects.  The visitors to the Palace average 6,000 daily--double the
     population of Hannibal.  The price of admission being 50 cents, they
     take in about $3,000.

     The Latting Observatory (height about 280 feet) is near the Palace-
     from it you can obtain a grand view of the city and the country
     around.  The Croton Aqueduct, to supply the city with water, is the
     greatest wonder yet.  Immense sewers are laid across the bed of the
     Hudson River, and pass through the country to Westchester County,
     where a whole river is turned from its course and brought to New
     York.  From the reservoir in the city to the Westchester County
     reservoir the distance is thirty-eight miles and, if necessary, they
     could easily supply every family in New York with one hundred
     barrels of water per day!

     I am very sorry to learn that Henry has been sick.  He ought to go
     to the country and take exercise, for he is not half so healthy as
     Ma thinks he is.  If he had my walking to do, he would be another
     boy entirely.  Four times every day I walk a little over a mile; and
     working hard all day and walking four miles is exercise.  I am used
     to it now, though, and it is no trouble.  Where is it Orion's going
     to?  Tell Ma my promises are faithfully kept; and if I have my
     health I will take her to Ky. in the spring--I shall save money for
     this.  Tell Jim (Wolfe) and all the rest of them to write, and give
     me all the news ....

     (It has just struck 2 A.M., and I always get up at 6, and am at work
     at 7.) You ask where I spend my evenings.  Where would you suppose,
     with a free printer's library containing more than 4,000 volumes
     within a quarter of a mile of me, and nobody at home to talk to?
     Write soon.

                         Truly your brother,        SAM

     P.S.-I have written this by a light so dim that you nor Ma could not
     read by it.  Write, and let me know how Henry is.


It is a good letter; it is direct and clear in its descriptive quality,
and it gives us a scale of things.  Double the population of Hannibal
visited the Crystal Palace in one day! and the water to supply the city
came a distance of thirty-eight miles!  Doubtless these were amazing
statistics.

Then there was the interest in family affairs--always strong--his concern
for Henry, whom he loved tenderly; his memory of the promise to his
mother; his understanding of her craving to visit her old home.  He did
not write to her direct, for the reason that Orion's plans were then
uncertain, and it was not unlikely that he had already found a new
location.  From this letter, too, we learn that the boy who detested
school was reveling in a library of four thousand books--more than he had
ever seen together before.  We have somehow the feeling that he had all
at once stepped from boyhood to manhood, and that the separation was
marked by a very definite line.

The work he had secured was in Cliff Street in the printing establishment
of John A. Gray & Green, who agreed to pay him four dollars a week, and
did pay that amount in wildcat money, which saved them about twenty-five
per cent. of the sum.  He lodged at a mechanics' boarding-house in Duane
Street, and when he had paid his board and washing he sometimes had as
much as fifty cents to lay away.

He did not like the board.  He had been accustomed to the Southern mode
of cooking, and wrote home complaining that New-Yorkers did not have
"hot-bread" or biscuits, but ate "light-bread," which they allowed to get
stale, seeming to prefer it in that way.  On the whole, there was not
much inducement to remain in New York after he had satisfied himself with
its wonders.  He lingered, however, through the hot months of 1853, and
found it not easy to go.  In October he wrote to Pamela, suggesting plans
for Orion; also for Henry and Jim Wolfe, whom he seems never to have
overlooked.  Among other things he says:

     I have not written to any of the family for some time, from the
     fact, firstly, that I didn't know where they were, and, secondly,
     because I have been fooling myself with the idea that I was going to
     leave New York every day for the last two weeks.  I have taken a
     liking to the abominable place, and every time I get ready to leave
     I put it off a day or so, from some unaccountable cause.  I think I
     shall get off Tuesday, though.

     Edwin Forrest has been playing for the last sixteen days at the
     Broadway Theater, but I never went to see him till last night.  The
     play was the "Gladiator."  I did not like parts of it much, but
     other portions were really splendid.  In the latter part of the last
     act, where the "Gladiator" (Forrest) dies at his brother's feet (in
     all the fierce pleasure of gratified revenge), the man's whole soul
     seems absorbed in the part he is playing; and it is really startling
     to see him.  I am sorry I did not see him play "Damon and Pythias"--
     the former character being the greatest.  He appears in Philadelphia
     on Monday night.

     I have not received a letter from home lately, but got a "Journal"
     the other day, in which I see the office has been sold .  .  .  .

     If my letters do not come often, you need not bother yourself about
     me; for if you have a brother nearly eighteen years of age who is
     not able to take care of himself a few miles from home, such a
     brother is not worth one's thoughts; and if I don't manage to take
     care of No. 1, be assured you will never know it.  I am not afraid,
     however; I shall ask favors of no one and endeavor to be (and shall
     be) as "independent as a wood-sawyer's clerk.". . .

     Passage to Albany (160 miles) on the finest steamers that ply the
     Hudson is now 25 cents--cheap enough, but is generally cheaper than
     that in the summer.

"I have been fooling myself with the idea that I was going to leave New
York" is distinctly a Mark Twain phrase.  He might have said that fifty
years later.

He did go to Philadelphia presently and found work "subbing" on a daily
paper,'The Inquirer.'  He was a fairly swift compositor.  He could set
ten thousand ems a day, and he received pay according to the amount of
work done.  Days or evenings when there was no vacant place for him to
fill he visited historic sites, the art-galleries, and the libraries.
He was still acquiring education, you see.  Sometimes at night when he
returned to his boardinghouse his room-mate, an Englishman named Sumner,
grilled a herring, and this was regarded as a feast.  He tried his hand
at writing in Philadelphia, though this time without success.  For some
reason he did not again attempt to get into the Post, but offered his
contributions to the Philadelphia 'Ledger'--mainly poetry of an obituary
kind.  Perhaps it was burlesque; he never confessed that, but it seems
unlikely that any other obituary poetry would have failed of print.

"My efforts were not received with approval," was all he ever said of it
afterward.

There were two or three characters in the 'Inquirer' office whom he did
not forget.  One of these was an old compositor who had "held a case" in
that office for many years.  His name was Frog, and sometimes when he
went away the "office devils" would hang a line over his case, with a
hook on it baited with a piece of red flannel.  They never got tired of
this joke, and Frog was always able to get as mad over it as he had been
in the beginning.  Another old fellow there furnished amusement.  He
owned a house in the distant part of the city and had an abnormal fear of
fire.  Now and then, when everything was quiet except the clicking of the
types, some one would step to the window and say with a concerned air:

"Doesn't that smoke--[or that light, if it was evening]--seem to be in
the northwestern part of the city?" or "There go the fire-bells again!"
and away the old man would tramp up to the roof to investigate.  It was
not the most considerate sport, and it is to be feared that Sam Clemens
had his share in it.

He found that he liked Philadelphia.  He could save a little money there,
for one thing, and now and then sent something to his mother--small
amounts, but welcome and gratifying, no doubt.  In a letter to Orion--
whom he seems to have forgiven with absence--written October 26th, he
incloses a gold dollar to buy her a handkerchief, and "to serve as a
specimen of the kind of stuff we are paid with in Philadelphia."  Further
along he adds:

     Unlike New York, I like this Philadelphia amazingly, and the people
     in it.  There is only one thing that gets my "dander" up--and that
     is the hands are always encouraging me: telling me "it's no use to
     get discouraged--no use to be downhearted, for there is more work
     here than you can do!"  "Downhearted," the devil!  I have not had a
     particle of such a feeling since I left Hannibal, more than four
     months ago.  I fancy they'll have to wait some time till they see me
     downhearted or afraid of starving while I have strength to work and
     am in a city of 400,000 inhabitants.  When I was in Hannibal, before
     I had scarcely stepped out of the town limits, nothing could have
     convinced me that I would starve as soon as I got a little way from
     home.

He mentions the grave of Franklin in Christ Churchyard with its
inscription "Benjamin and Deborah Franklin," and one is sharply reminded
of the similarity between the early careers of Benjamin Franklin and
Samuel Clemens.  Each learned the printer's trade; each worked in his
brother's printing-office and wrote for the paper; each left quietly and
went to New York, and from New York to Philadelphia, as a journeyman
printer; each in due season became a world figure, many-sided, human, and
of incredible popularity.

The foregoing letter ends with a long description of a trip made on the
Fairmount stage.  It is a good, vivid description--impressions of a
fresh, sensitive mind, set down with little effort at fine writing; a
letter to convey literal rather than literary enjoyment.  The Wire
Bridge, Fairmount Park and Reservoir, new buildings--all these passed in
review.  A fine residence about completed impressed him:

     It was built entirely of great blocks of red granite.  The pillars
     in front were all finished but one.  These pillars were beautiful,
     ornamental fluted columns, considerably larger than a hogshead at
     the base, and about as high as Clapinger's second-story front
     windows .  .  .  .  To see some of them finished and standing, and
     then the huge blocks lying about, looks so massy, and carries one,
     in imagination, to the ruined piles of ancient Babylon.  I despise
     the infernal bogus brick columns plastered over with mortar.  Marble
     is the cheapest building-stone about Philadelphia.

There is a flavor of the 'Innocents' about it; then a little further
along:

     I saw small steamboats, with their signs up--"For Wissahickon and
     Manayunk 25 cents."  Geo. Lippard, in his Legends of Washington and
     his Generals, has rendered the Wissahickon sacred in my eyes, and I
     shall make that trip, as well as one to Germantown, soon .  .  .  .

     There is one fine custom observed in Phila.  A gentleman is always
     expected to hand up a lady's money for her.  Yesterday I sat in the
     front end of the bus, directly under the driver's box--a lady sat
     opposite me.  She handed me her money, which was right.  But, Lord!
     a St. Louis lady would think herself ruined if she should be so
     familiar with a stranger.  In St. Louis a man will sit in the front
     end of the stage, and see a lady stagger from the far end to pay her
     fare.

There are two more letters from Philadelphia: one of November, 28th, to
Orion, who by this time had bought a paper in Muscatine, Iowa, and
located the family there; and one to Pamela dated December 5th.
Evidently Orion had realized that his brother might be of value as a
contributor, for the latter says:

     I will try to write for the paper occasionally, but I fear my
     letters will be very uninteresting, for this incessant night work
     dulls one's ideas amazingly....  I believe I am the only person in
     the Inquirer office that does not drink.  One young fellow makes $18
     for a few weeks, and gets on a grand "bender" and spends every cent
     of it.

     How do you like "free soil"?--I would like amazingly to see a good
     old-fashioned negro.  My love to all.

                         Truly your brother,        SAM

In the letter to Pamela he is clearly homesick.

"I only want to return to avoid night work, which is injuring my eyes,"
is the excuse, but in the next sentence he complains of the scarcity of
letters from home and those "not written as they should be."  "One only
has to leave home to learn how to write interesting letters to an absent
friend," he says, and in conclusion, "I don't like our present prospect
for cold weather at all."

He had been gone half a year, and the first attack of home-longing, for a
boy of his age, was due.  The novelty of things had worn off; it was
coming on winter; changes had taken place among his home people and
friends; the life he had known best and longest was going on and he had
no part in it.  Leaning over his case, he sometimes hummed:

     "An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain."

He weathered the attack and stuck it out for more than half a year
longer.  In January, when the days were dark and he grew depressed, he
made a trip to Washington to see the sights of the capital.  His stay was
comparatively brief, and he did not work there.  He returned to
Philadelphia, working for a time on the Ledger and North American.
Finally he went back to New York.  There are no letters of this period.
His second experience in New York appears not to have been recorded, and
in later years was only vaguely remembered.  It was late in the summer of
1854 when he finally set out on his return to the West.  His 'Wanderjahr'
had lasted nearly fifteen months.

He went directly to St. Louis, sitting up three days and nights in a
smoking-car to make the journey.  He was worn out when he arrived, but
stopped there only a few hours to see Pamela.  It was his mother he was
anxious for.  He took the Keokuk Packet that night, and, flinging himself
on his berth, slept the clock three times around, scarcely rousing or
turning over, only waking at last at Muscatine.  For a long time that
missing day confused his calculations.

When he reached Orion's house the family sat at breakfast.  He came in
carrying a gun.  They had not been expecting him, and there was a general
outcry, and a rush in his direction.  He warded them off, holding the
butt of the gun in front of him.

"You wouldn't let me buy a gun," he said, "so I bought one myself, and I
am going to use it, now, in self-defense."

"You, Sam!  You, Sam!" cried Jane Clemens.  "Behave yourself," for she
was wary of a gun.

Then he had had his joke and gave himself into his mother's arms.




XX

KEOKUK DAYS

Orion wished his brother to remain with him in the Muscatine office, but
the young man declared he must go to St. Louis and earn some money before
he would be able to afford that luxury: He returned to his place on the
St. Louis Evening News, where he remained until late winter or early
spring of the following year.

He lived at this time with a Pavey family, probably one of the Hannibal
Paveys, rooming with a youth named Frank E. Burrough, a journeyman chair-
maker with a taste for Dickens, Thackeray, Scott, and Disraeli.  Burrough
had really a fine literary appreciation for his years, and the boys were
comrades and close friends.  Twenty-two years later Mark Twain exchanged
with Burrough some impressions of himself at that earlier time.  Clemens
wrote:

     MY DEAR BURROUGH,--As you describe me I can picture myself as I was
     22 years ago.  The portrait is correct.  You think I have grown
     some; upon my word there was room for it.  You have described a
     callow fool, a self-sufficient ass, a mere human tumble-bug, stern
     in air, heaving at his bit of dung, imagining that he is remodeling
     the world and is entirely capable of doing it right....  That is
     what I was at 19-20.

Orion Clemens in the mean time had married and removed to Keokuk.  He had
married during a visit to that city, in the casual, impulsive way so
characteristic of him, and the fact that he had acquired a wife in the
operation seemed at first to have escaped his inner consciousness.  He
tells it himself; he says:

     At sunrise on the next morning after the wedding we left in a stage
     for Muscatine.  We halted for dinner at Burlington.  After
     despatching that meal we stood on the pavement when the stage drove
     up, ready for departure.  I climbed in, gathered the buffalo robe
     around me, and leaned back unconscious that I had anything further
     to do.  A gentleman standing on the pavement said to my wife, "Miss,
     do you go by this stage?"  I said, "Oh, I forgot!" and sprang out
     and helped her in.  A wife was a new kind of possession to which I
     had not yet become accustomed; I had forgotten her.

Orion's wife had been Mary Stotts; her mother a friend of Jane Clemens's
girlhood.  She proved a faithful helpmate to Orion; but in those early
days of marriage she may have found life with him rather trying, and it
was her homesickness that brought them to Keokuk.  Brother Sam came up
from St. Louis, by and by, to visit them, and Orion offered him five
dollars a week and board to remain.  He accepted.  The office at this
time, or soon after, was located on the third floor of 52 Main Street, in
the building at present occupied by the Paterson Shoe Company.  Henry
Clemens, now seventeen, was also in Orion's employ, and a lad by the name
of Dick Hingham.  Henry and Sam slept in the office, and Dick came in for
social evenings.  Also a young man named Edward Brownell, who clerked in
the book-store on the ground floor.

These were likely to be lively evenings.  A music dealer and teacher,
Professor Isbell, occupied the floor just below, and did not care for
their diversions.  He objected, but hardly in the right way.  Had he gone
to Samuel Clemens gently, he undoubtedly would have found him willing to
make any concessions.  Instead, he assailed him roughly, and the next
evening the boys set up a lot of empty wine-bottles, which they had found
in a barrel in a closet, and, with stones for balls, played tenpins on
the office floor.  This was Dick and Sam; Henry declined to join the
game.  Isbell rushed up-stairs and battered on the door, but they paid no
attention.  Next morning he waited for the young men and denounced them
wildly.  They merely ignored him, and that night organized a military
company, made up of themselves and a new German apprentice-boy, and
drilled up and down over the singing-class.  Dick Hingham led these
military manoeuvers.  He was a girlish sort of a fellow, but he had a
natural taste for soldiering.  The others used to laugh at him.  They
called him a disguised girl, and declared he would run if a gun were
really pointed in his direction.  They were mistaken; seven years later
Dick died at Fort Donelson with a bullet in his forehead: this, by the
way.

Isbell now adopted new tactics.  He came up very pleasantly and said:

"I like your military practice better than your tenpin exercise, but on
the whole it seems to disturb the young ladies.  You see how it is
yourself.  You couldn't possibly teach music with a company of raw
recruits drilling overhead--now, could you?  Won't you please stop it?
It bothers my pupils."

Sam Clemens regarded him with mild surprise.

"Does it?" he said, very deliberately.  "Why didn't you mention it
before?  To be sure we don't want to disturb the young ladies."

They gave up the horse-play, and not only stopped the disturbance, but
joined one of the singing--classes.  Samuel Clemens had a pretty good
voice in those days and could drum fairly well on a piano and guitar.
He did not become a brilliant musician, but he was easily the most
popular member of the singing-class.

They liked his frank nature, his jokes, and his humor; his slow, quaint
fashion of speech.  The young ladies called him openly and fondly a
"fool"--a term of endearment, as they applied it meaning only that he
kept them in a more or less constant state of wonder and merriment; and
indeed it would have been hard for them to say whether he was really
light-minded and frivolous or the wisest of them all.  He was twenty now
and at the age for love-making; yet he remained, as in Hannibal, a beau
rather than a suitor, good friend and comrade to all, wooer of none.
Ella Creel, a cousin on the Lampton side, a great belle; also Ella
Patterson (related through Orion's wife and generally known as "Ick"),
and Belle Stotts were perhaps his favorite companions, but there were
many more.  He was always ready to stop and be merry with them, full of
his pranks and pleasantries; though they noticed that he quite often
carried a book under his arm--a history or a volume of Dickens or the
tales of Edgar Allan Poe.

He read at odd moments; at night voluminously--until very late,
sometimes.  Already in that early day it was his habit to smoke in bed,
and he had made him an Oriental pipe of the hubble-bubble variety,
because it would hold more and was more comfortable than the regular
short pipe of daytime use.

But it had its disadvantages.  Sometimes it would go out, and that would
mean sitting up and reaching for a match and leaning over to light the
bowl which stood on the floor.  Young Brownell from below was passing
upstairs to his room on the fourth floor one night when he heard Sam
Clemens call.  The two were great chums by this time, and Brownell poked
his head in at the door.

"What will you have, Sam?" he asked.

"Come in, Ed; Henry's asleep, and I am in trouble.  I want somebody to
light my pipe."

"Why don't you get up and light it yourself?" Brownell asked.

"I would, only I knew you'd be along in a few minutes and would do it for
me."

Brownell scratched the necessary match, stooped down, and applied it.

"What are you reading, Sam?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing much--a so-called funny book--one of these days I'll write a
funnier book than that, myself."

Brownell laughed.

"No, you won't, Sam," he said.  "You are too lazy ever to write a book."

A good many years later when the name "Mark Twain" had begun to stand for
American humor the owner of it gave his "Sandwich Island" lecture in
Keokuk.  Speaking of the unreliability of the islanders, he said: "The
king is, I believe, one of the greatest liars on the face of the earth,
except one; and I am very sorry to locate that one right here in the city
of Keokuk, in the person of Ed Brownell."

The Keokuk episode in Mark Twain's life was neither very long nor very
actively important.  It extended over a period of less than two years--
two vital years, no doubt, if all the bearings could be known--but they
were not years of startling occurrence.

Yet he made at least one beginning there: at a printers' banquet he
delivered his first after-dinner speech; a hilarious speech--its humor of
a primitive kind.  Whatever its shortcomings, it delighted his audience,
and raised him many points in the public regard.  He had entered a field
of entertainment in which he would one day have no rival.  They impressed
him into a debating society after that, and there was generally a stir of
attention when Sam Clemens was about to take the floor.

Orion Clemens records how his brother undertook to teach the German
apprentice music.

"There was an old guitar in the office and Sam taught Fritz a song
beginning:

     "Grasshopper sitting on a sweet-potato vine,
     Turkey came along and yanked him from behind."

The main point in the lesson was in giving to the word "yanked" the
proper expression and emphasis, accompanied by a sweep of the fingers
across the strings.  With serious face and deep earnestness Fritz in his
broken English would attempt these lines, while his teacher would bend
over and hold his sides with laughter at each ridiculous effort.  Without
intending it, Fritz had his revenge.  One day his tormentor's hand was
caught in the press when the German boy was turning the wheel.  Sam
called to him to stop, but the boy's mind was slow to grasp the
situation.  The hand was badly wounded, though no bones were broken.  In
due time it recovered, its power and dexterity, but the trace of the
scars remained.

Orion's printing-office was not a prosperous one; he had not the gift of
prosperity in any form.  When he found it difficult to pay his brother's
wages, he took him into partnership, which meant that Sam got no wages at
all, barely a living, for the office could not keep its head above water.

The junior partner was not disturbed, however.  He cared little for money
in those days, beyond his actual needs, and these were modest enough.
His mother, now with Pamela, was amply provided for.  Orion himself tells
how his business dwindled away.  He printed a Keokuk directory, but it
did not pay largely.  He was always too eager for the work; too low in
his bid for it.  Samuel Clemens in this directory is set down as "an
antiquarian" a joke, of course, though the point of it is now lost.

Only two of his Keokuk letters have been preserved.  The first indicates
the general disorder of the office and a growing dissatisfaction.  It is
addressed to his mother and sister and bears date of June 10, 1856.

     I don't like to work at too many things at once.  They take Henry
     and Dick away from me, too.  Before we commenced the Directory,--
     [Orion printed two editions of the directory.  This was probably the
     second one.]--I could tell before breakfast just how much work
     could be done during the day, and manage accordingly--but now, they
     throw all my plans into disorder by taking my hands away from their
     work....  I am not getting along well with the job-work.  I can't
     work blindly--without system.  I gave Dick a job yesterday, which I
     calculated he could set in two hours and I could work off on the
     press in three, and therefore just finish it by supper-time, but he
     was transferred to the Directory, and the job, promised this
     morning, remains untouched.  Through all the great pressure of job-
     work lately, I never before failed in a promise of the kind .  .  .

The other letter is dated two months later, August 5th.  It was written
to Henry, who was visiting in St. Louis or Hannibal at the time, and
introduces the first mention of the South American fever, which now
possessed the writer.  Lynch and Herndon had completed their survey of
the upper Amazon, and Lieutenant Herndon's account of the exploration was
being widely read.  Poring over the book nights, young Clemens had been
seized with a desire to go to the headwaters of the South American river,
there to collect coca and make a fortune.  All his life he was subject to
such impulses as that, and ways and means were not always considered.  It
did not occur to him that it would be difficult to get to the Amazon and
still more difficult to ascend the river.  It was his nature to see
results with a dazzling largeness that blinded him to the detail of their
achievement.  In the "Turning-point" article already mentioned he refers
to this.  He says:

     That was more than fifty years ago.  In all that time my temperament
     has not changed by even a shade.  I have been punished many and many
     a time, and bitterly, for doing things and reflecting afterward, but
     these tortures have been of no value to me; I still do the thing
     commanded by Circumstance and Temperament, and reflect afterward.
     Always violently.  When I am reflecting on these occasions, even
     deaf persons can hear me think.

In the letter to Henry we see that his resolve was already made, his
plans matured; also that Orion had not as yet been taken into full
confidence.

     Ma knows my determination, but even she counsels me to keep it from
     Orion.  She says I can treat him as I did her when I started to St.
     Louis and went to New York--I can start for New York and go to South
     America.

He adds that Orion had promised him fifty or one hundred dollars, but
that he does not depend upon it, and will make other arrangements.  He
fears obstacles may be put in his way, and he will bring various
influences to bear.

     I shall take care that Ma and Orion are plentifully supplied with
     South American books: They have Herndon's report now.  Ward and the
     Dr. and myself will hold a grand consultation to-night at the
     office.  We have agreed that no more shall be admitted into our
     company.

He had enlisted those two adventurers in his enterprise: a Doctor Martin
and the young man, Ward.  They were very much in earnest, but the start
was not made as planned, most likely for want of means.

Young Clemens, however, did not give up the idea.  He made up his mind to
work in the direction of his desire, following his trade and laying by
money for the venture.  But Fate or Providence or Accident--whatever we
may choose to call the unaccountable--stepped in just then, and laid
before him the means of turning another sharp corner in his career.  One
of those things happened which we refuse to accept in fiction as
possible; but fact has a smaller regard for the credibilities.

As in the case of the Joan of Arc episode (and this adds to its marvel),
it was the wind that brought the talismanic gift.  It was a day in early
November--bleak, bitter, and gusty, with curling snow; most persons were
indoors.  Samuel Clemens, going down Main Street, saw a flying bit of
paper pass him and lodge against the side of a building.  Something about
it attracted him and he captured it.  It was a fifty-dollar bill.  He had
never seen one before, but he recognized it.  He thought he must be
having a pleasant dream.

The temptation came to pocket his good-fortune and say nothing.  His need
of money was urgent, but he had also an urgent and troublesome
conscience; in the end he advertised his find.

"I didn't describe it very particularly, and I waited in daily fear that
the owner would turn up and take away my fortune.  By and by I couldn't
stand it any longer.  My conscience had gotten all that was coming to it.
I felt that I must take that money out of danger."

In the "Turning-point" article he says: "I advertised the find and left
for the Amazon the same day," a statement which we may accept with a
literary discount.

As a matter of fact, he remained ample time and nobody ever came for the
money.  It may have been swept out of a bank or caught up by the wind
from some counting-room table.  It may have materialized out of the
unseen--who knows?  At all events it carried him the first stage of a
journey, the end of which he little dreamed.




XXI

SCOTCHMAN NAMED MACFARLANE

He concluded to go to Cincinnati, which would be on the way either to New
York or New Orleans (he expected to sail from one of these points), but
first paid a brief visit to his mother in St. Louis, for he had a far
journey and along absence in view.  Jane Clemens made him renew his
promise as to cards and liquor, and gave him her blessing.  He had
expected to go from St. Louis to Cincinnati, but a new idea--a literary
idea--came to him, and he returned to Keokuk.  The Saturday Post, a
Keokuk weekly, was a prosperous sheet giving itself certain literary
airs.  He was in favor with the management, of which George Rees was the
head, and it had occurred to him that he could send letters of his
travels to the Post--for, a consideration.  He may have had a still
larger ambition; at least, the possibility of a book seems to have been
in his consciousness.  Rees agreed to take letters from him at five
dollars each--good payment for that time and place.  The young traveler,
jubilant in the prospect of receiving money for literature, now made
another start, this time by way of Quincy, Chicago, and Indianapolis
according to his first letter in the Post.--[Supplied by Thomas Rees, of
the Springfield (Illinois) Register, son of George Rees named.]

This letter is dated Cincinnati, November 14, 1856, and it is not a
promising literary production.  It was written in the exaggerated dialect
then regarded as humorous, and while here and there are flashes of the
undoubted Mark Twain type, they are few and far between.  The genius that
a little more than ten years later would delight the world flickered
feebly enough at twenty-one.  The letter is a burlesque account of the
trip to Cincinnati.  A brief extract from it, as characteristic as any,
will serve.

     I went down one night to the railroad office there, purty close onto
     the Laclede House, and bought about a quire o' yaller paper, cut up
     into tickets--one for each railroad in the United States, I thought,
     but I found out afterwards that the Alexandria and Boston Air-Line
     was left out--and then got a baggage feller to take my trunk down to
     the boat, where he spilled it out on the levee, bustin' it open and
     shakin' out the contents, consisting of "guides" to Chicago, and
     "guides" to Cincinnati, and travelers' guides, and all kinds of sich
     books, not excepting a "guide to heaven," which last aint much use
     to a Teller in Chicago, I kin tell you.  Finally, that fast packet
     quit ringing her bell, and started down the river--but she hadn't
     gone morn a mile, till she ran clean up on top of a sand-bar, whar
     she stuck till plum one o'clock, spite of the Captain's swearin'--
     and they had to set the whole crew to cussin' at last afore they got
     her off.

This is humor, we may concede, of that early American type which a little
later would have its flower in Nasby and Artemus Ward.  Only careful
examination reveals in it a hint of the later Mark Twain.  The letters
were signed "Snodgrass," and there are but two of them.  The second,
dated exactly four months after the first, is in the same assassinating
dialect, and recounts among other things the scarcity of coal in
Cincinnati and an absurd adventure in which Snodgrass has a baby left on
his hands.

From the fewness of the letters we may assume that Snodgrass found them
hard work, and it is said he raised on the price.  At all events, the
second concluded the series.  They are mainly important in that they are
the first of his contributions that have been preserved; also the first
for which he received a cash return.

He secured work at his trade in Cincinnati at the printing-office of
Wrightson & Co., and remained there until April, 1857.  That winter in
Cincinnati was eventless enough, but it was marked by one notable
association--one that beyond doubt forwarded Samuel Clemens's general
interest in books, influenced his taste, and inspired in him certain
views and philosophies which he never forgot.

He lodged at a cheap boarding-house filled with the usual commonplace
people, with one exception.  This exception was a long, lank, unsmiling
Scotchman named Macfarlane, who was twice as old as Clemens and wholly
unlike him--without humor or any comprehension of it.  Yet meeting on the
common plane of intellect, the two became friends.  Clemens spent his
evenings in Macfarlane's room until the clock struck ten; then Macfarlane
grilled a herring, just as the Englishman Sumner in Philadelphia had done
two years before, and the evening ended.

Macfarlane had books, serious books: histories, philosophies, and
scientific works; also a Bible and a dictionary.  He had studied these
and knew them by heart; he was a direct and diligent talker.  He never
talked of himself, and beyond the statement that he had acquired his
knowledge from reading, and not at school, his personality was a mystery.
He left the house at six in the morning and returned at the same hour in
the evening.  His hands were hardened from some sort of toil-mechanical
labor, his companion thought, but he never knew.  He would have liked to
know, and he watched for some reference to slip out that would betray
Macfarlane's trade; but this never happened.

What he did learn was that Macfarlane was a veritable storehouse of
abstruse knowledge; a living dictionary, and a thinker and philosopher
besides.  He had at least one vanity: the claim that he knew every word
in the English dictionary, and he made it good.  The younger man tried
repeatedly to discover a word that Macfarlane could not define.

Perhaps Macfarlane was vain of his other mental attainments, for he never
tired of discoursing upon deep and grave matters, and his companion never
tired of listening.  This Scotch philosopher did not always reflect the
conclusions of others; he had speculated deeply and strikingly on his own
account.  That was a good while before Darwin and Wallace gave out--their
conclusions on the Descent of Man; yet Macfarlane was already advancing a
similar philosophy.  He went even further: Life, he said, had been
developed in the course of ages from a few microscopic seed-germs--from
one, perhaps, planted by the Creator in the dawn of time, and that from
this beginning development on an ascending scale had finally produced
man.  Macfarlane said that the scheme had stopped there, and failed; that
man had retrograded; that man's heart was the only bad one in the animal
kingdom: that man was the only animal capable of malice, vindictiveness,
drunkenness--almost the only animal that could endure personal
uncleanliness.  He said that man's intellect was a depraving addition to
him which, in the end, placed him in a rank far below the other beasts,
though it enabled him to keep them in servitude and captivity, along with
many members of his own race.

They were long, fermenting discourses that young Samuel Clemens listened
to that winter in Macfarlane's room, and those who knew the real Mark
Twain and his philosophies will recognize that those evenings left their
impress upon him for life.





XXII

THE OLD CALL OF THE RIVER

When spring came, with budding life and quickening impulses; when the
trees in the parks began to show a hint of green, the Amazonian idea
developed afresh, and the would-be coca-hunter prepared for his
expedition.  He had saved a little money--enough to take him to New
Orleans--and he decided to begin his long trip with a peaceful journey
down the Mississippi, for once, at least, to give himself up to that
indolent luxury of the majestic stream that had been so large a part of
his early dreams.

The Ohio River steamers were not the most sumptuous craft afloat, but
they were slow and hospitable.  The winter had been bleak and hard.
"Spring fever" and a large love of indolence had combined in that drowsy
condition which makes one willing to take his time.

Mark Twain tells us in Life on the Mississippi that he "ran away," vowing
never to return until he could come home a pilot, shedding glory.  This
is a literary statement.  The pilot ambition had never entirely died; but
it was coca and the Amazon that were uppermost in his head when he
engaged passage on the Paul Jones for New Orleans, and so conferred
immortality on that ancient little craft.  He bade good-by to Macfarlane,
put his traps aboard, the bell rang, the whistle blew, the gang-plank was
hauled in, and he had set out on a voyage that was to continue not for a
week or a fortnight, but for four years--four marvelous, sunlit years,
the glory of which would color all that followed them.

In the Mississippi book the author conveys the impression of being then a
boy of perhaps seventeen.  Writing from that standpoint he records
incidents that were more or less inventions or that happened to others.
He was, in reality, considerably more than twenty-one years old, for it
was in April, 1857, that he went aboard the Paul Jones; and he was fairly
familiar with steamboats and the general requirements of piloting.  He
had been brought up in a town that turned out pilots; he had heard the
talk of their trade.  One at least of the Bowen boys was already on the
river while Sam Clemens was still a boy in Hannibal, and had often been
home to air his grandeur and dilate on the marvel of his work.  That
learning the river was no light task Sam Clemens very well knew.
Nevertheless, as the little boat made its drowsy way down the river into
lands that grew ever pleasanter with advancing spring, the old "permanent
ambition" of boyhood stirred again, and the call of the far-away Amazon,
with its coca and its variegated zoology, grew faint.

Horace Bixby, pilot of the Paul Jones, then a man of thirty-two, still
living (1910) and at the wheel,--[The writer of this memoir interviewed
Mr. Bixby personally, and has followed his phrasing throughout.]--was
looking out over the bow at the head of Island No. 35 when he heard a
slow, pleasant voice say:

"Good morning."

Bixby was a clean-cut, direct, courteous man.

"Good morning, sir," he said, briskly, without looking around.

As a rule Mr. Bixby did not care for visitors in the pilot-house.  This
one presently came up and stood a little behind him.

"How would you like a young man to learn the river?" he said.

The pilot glanced over his shoulder and saw a rather slender, loose-
limbed young fellow with a fair, girlish complexion and a great tangle of
auburn hair.

"I wouldn't like it.  Cub pilots are more trouble than they're worth.
A great deal more trouble than profit."

The applicant was not discouraged.

"I am a printer by trade," he went on, in his easy, deliberate way.
"It doesn't agree with me.  I thought I'd go to South America."

Bixby kept his eye on the river; but a note of interest crept into his
voice.

"What makes you pull your words that way?" ("pulling" being the river
term for drawling), he asked.

The young man had taken a seat on the visitors' bench.

"You'll have to ask my mother," he said, more slowly than ever.  "She
pulls hers, too."

Pilot Bixby woke up and laughed; he had a keen sense of humor, and the
manner of the reply amused him.  His guest made another advance.

"Do you know the Bowen boys?" he asked--"pilots in the St. Louis and New
Orleans trade?"

"I know them well--all three of them.  William Bowen did his first
steering for me; a mighty good boy, too.  Had a Testament in his pocket
when he came aboard; in a week's time he had swapped it for a pack of
cards.  I know Sam, too, and Bart."

"Old schoolmates of mine in Hannibal.  Sam and Will especially were my
chums."

"Come over and stand by the side of me," he said.  "What is your name?"

The applicant told him, and the two stood looking at the sunlit water.

"Do you drink?"

"No."

"Do you gamble?"

"No, Sir."

"Do you swear?"

"Not for amusement; only under pressure."

"Do you chew?"

"No, sir, never; but I must smoke."

"Did you ever do any steering?" was Bixby's next question.

"I have steered everything on the river but a steamboat, I guess."

"Very well; take the wheel and see what you can do with a steamboat.
Keep her as she is--toward that lower cottonwood, snag."

Bixby had a sore foot and was glad of a little relief.  He sat down on
the bench and kept a careful eye on the course.  By and by he said:

"There is just one way that I would take a young man to learn the river:
that is, for money."

"What do you charge?"

"Five hundred dollars, and I to be at no expense whatever."

In those days pilots were allowed to carry a learner, or "cub," board
free.  Mr. Bixby meant that he was to be at no expense in port, or for
incidentals.  His terms looked rather discouraging.

"I haven't got five hundred dollars in money," Sam said; "I've got a lot
of Tennessee land worth twenty-five cents an acre; I'll give you two
thousand acres of that."

Bixby dissented.

"No; I don't want any unimproved real estate.  I have too much already."

Sam reflected upon the amount he could probably borrow from Pamela's
husband without straining his credit.

"Well, then, I'll give you one hundred dollars cash and the rest when I
earn it."

Something about this young man had won Horace Bixby's heart.  His slow,
pleasant speech; his unhurried, quiet manner with the wheel, his evident
sincerity of purpose--these were externals, but beneath them the pilot
felt something of that quality of mind or heart which later made the
world love Mark Twain.  The terms proposed were agreed upon.  The
deferred payments were to begin when the pupil had learned the river and
was receiving pilot's wages.  During Mr. Bixby's daylight watches his
pupil was often at the wheel, that trip, while the pilot sat directing
him and nursing his sore foot.  Any literary ambitions Samuel Clemens may
have had grew dim; by the time they had reached New Orleans he had almost
forgotten he had been a printer, and when he learned that no ship would
be sailing to the Amazon for an indefinite period the feeling grew that a
directing hand had taken charge of his affairs.

From New Orleans his chief did not return to Cincinnati, but went to St.
Louis, taking with him his new cub, who thought it fine, indeed, to come
steaming up to that great city with its thronging water-front; its levee
fairly packed with trucks, drays, and piles of freight, the whole flanked
with a solid mile of steamboats lying side by side, bow a little up-
stream, their belching stacks reared high against the blue--a towering
front of trade.  It was glorious to nose one's way to a place in that
stately line, to become a unit, however small, of that imposing fleet.
At St. Louis Sam borrowed from Mr. Moffett the funds necessary to make up
his first payment, and so concluded his contract.  Then, when he suddenly
found himself on a fine big boat, in a pilot-house so far above the water
that he seemed perched on a mountain--a "sumptuous temple"--his happiness
seemed complete.




XXIII

THE SUPREME SCIENCE

In his Mississippi book Mark Twain has given us a marvelous exposition of
the science of river-piloting, and of the colossal task of acquiring and
keeping a knowledge requisite for that work.  He has not exaggerated this
part of the story of developments in any detail; he has set down a simple
confession.

Serenely enough he undertook the task of learning twelve hundred miles of
the great changing, shifting river as exactly and as surely by daylight
or darkness as one knows the way to his own features.  As already
suggested, he had at least an inkling of what that undertaking meant.
His statement that he "supposed all that a pilot had to do was to keep
his boat in the river" is not to be accepted literally.  Still he could
hardly have realized the full majesty of his task; nobody could do that--
not until afterward.

Horace Bixby was a "lightning" pilot with a method of instruction as
direct and forcible as it was effective.  He was a small man, hot and
quick-firing, though kindly, too, and gentle when he had blown off.
After one rather pyrotechnic misunderstanding as to the manner of
imparting and acquiring information he said:

"My boy, you must get a little memorandum-book, and every time I tell you
a thing put it down right away.  There's only one way to be a pilot, and
that is to get this entire river by heart.  You have to know it just like
A B C."

So Sam Clemens got the little book, and presently it "fairly bristled"
with the names of towns, points, bars, islands, bends, and reaches, but
it made his heart ache to think that he had only half of the river set
down; for, as the "watches" were four hours off and four hours on, there
were long gaps during which he had slept.

The little note-book still exists--thin and faded, with black water-proof
covers--its neat, tiny, penciled notes still, telling, the story of that
first trip.  Most of them are cryptographic abbreviations, not readily
deciphered now.  Here and there is an easier line:

                            MERIWEATHER'S BEND

     1/4 less 3--[Depth of water.  One-quarter less than three
     fathoms.]----run shape of upper bar and go into the low place in
     willows about 200(ft.) lower down than last year.

One simple little note out of hundreds far more complicated.  It would
take days for the average mind to remember even a single page of such
statistics.  And those long four-hour gaps where he had been asleep, they
are still there, and somehow, after more than fifty years, the old heart-
ache is still in them.  He got a new book, maybe, for the next trip, and
laid this one away.

There is but one way to account for the fact that the man whom the world
knew as Mark Twain--dreamy, unpractical, and indifferent to details--ever
persisted in acquiring knowledge like that--in the vast, the absolutely
limitless quantity necessary to Mississippi piloting.  It lies in the
fact that he loved the river in its every mood and aspect and detail, and
not only the river, but a steam boat; and still more, perhaps, the
freedom of the pilot's life and its prestige.  Wherever he has written of
the river--and in one way or another he was always writing of it we feel
the claim of the old captivity and that it still holds him.  In the
Huckleberry Finn book, during those nights and days with Huck and Nigger
Jim on the raft--whether in stormlit blackness, still noontide, or the
lifting mists of morning--we can fairly "smell" the river, as Huck
himself would say, and we know that it is because the writer loved it
with his heart of hearts and literally drank in its environment and
atmosphere during those halcyon pilot days.

So, in his love lay the secret of his marvelous learning, and it is
recorded (not by himself, but by his teacher) that he was an apt pupil.
Horace Bixby has more than once declared:

"Sam was always good-natured, and he had a natural taste for the river.
He had a fine memory and never forgot anything I told him."

Mark Twain himself records a different opinion of his memory, with the
size of its appalling task.  It can only be presented in his own words.
In the pages quoted he had mastered somewhat of the problem, and had
begun to take on airs.  His chief was a constant menace at such moments:

     One day he turned on me suddenly with this settler:

     "What is the shape of Walnut Bend?"

     He might as well have asked me my grandmother's opinion of
     protoplasm.  I reflected respectfully, and then said I didn't know
     it had any particular shape.  My gun-powdery chief went off with a
     bang, of course, and then went on loading and firing until he was
     out of adjectives....  I waited.  By and by he said:

     "My boy, you've got to know the shape of the river perfectly.  It is
     all there is left to steer by on a very dark night.  Everything is
     blotted out and gone.  But mind you, it hasn't the same shape in the
     night that it has in the daytime."

     "How on earth am I ever going to learn it, then?"

     "How do you follow a hall at home in the dark?  Because you know the
     shape of it.  You can't see it."

     "Do you mean to say that I've got to know all the million trifling
     variations of shape in the banks of this interminable river as well
     as I know the shape of the front hall at home?"

     "On my honor, you've got to know them better than any man ever did
     know the shapes of the halls in his own house."

     "I wish I was dead!"

     "Now, I don't want to discourage you, but----"

     "Well, pile it on me; I might as well have it now as another time."

     "You see, this has got to be learned; there isn't any getting around
     it.  A clear starlight night throws such heavy shadows that, if you
     didn't know the shape of a shore perfectly, you would claw away from
     every bunch of timber, because you would take the black shadow of it
     for a solid cape; and, you see, you would be getting scared to death
     every fifteen minutes by the watch.  You would be fifty yards from
     shore all the time when you ought to be within fifty feet of it.
     You can't see a snag in one of those shadows, but you know exactly
     where it is, and the shape of the river tells you when you are
     coming to it.  Then there's your pitch-dark night; the river is a
     very different shape on a pitch-dark night from what it is on a
     starlight night.  All shores seem to be straight lines, then, and
     mighty dim ones, too; and you'd run them for straight lines, only
     you know better.  You boldly drive your boat right into what seems
     to be a solid, straight wall (you know very well that in reality
     there is a curve there), and that wall falls back and makes way for
     you.  Then there's your gray mist.  You take a night when there's
     one of these grisly, drizzly, gray mists, and then there isn't any
     particular shape to a shore.  A gray mist would tangle the head of
     the oldest man that ever lived.  Well, then, different kinds of
     moonlight change the shape of the river in different ways.
     You see----"

     "Oh, don't say any more, please!  Have I got to learn the shape of
     the river according to all these five hundred thousand different
     ways?  If I tried to carry all that cargo in my head it would make
     me stoop-shouldered."

     "No!  you only learn the shape of the river; and you learn it with
     such absolute certainty that you can always steer by the shape
     that's in your head, and never mind the one that's before your
     eyes."

     "Very well, I'll try it; but, after I have learned it, can I depend
     on it?  Will it keep the same form, and not go fooling around?"

     Before Mr. Bixby could answer, Mr. W. came in to take the watch, and
     he said:

     "Bixby, you'll have to look out for President's island, and all that
     country clear away up above the Old Hen and Chickens.  The banks are
     caving and the shape of the shores changing like everything.  Why,
     you wouldn't know the point about 40.  You can go up inside the old
     sycamore snag now."

     So that question was answered.  Here were leagues of shore changing
     shape.  My spirits were down in the mud again.  Two things seemed
     pretty apparent to me.  One was that in order to be a pilot a man
     had got to learn more than any one man ought to be allowed to know;
     and the other was that he must learn it all over again in a
     different way every twenty-four hours.

     I went to work now to learn the shape of the river; and of all the
     eluding and ungraspable objects that ever I tried to get mind or
     hands on, that was the chief.  I would fasten my eyes upon a sharp,
     wooded point that projected far into the river some miles ahead of
     me and go to laboriously photographing its shape upon my brain; and
     just as I was beginning to succeed to my satisfaction we would draw
     up to it, and the exasperating thing would begin to melt away and
     fold back into the bank!

     It was plain that I had got to learn the shape of the river in all
     the different ways that could be thought of--upside down, wrong end
     first, inside out, fore-and-aft, and "thort-ships,"--and then know
     what to do on gray nights when it hadn't any shape at all.  So I set
     about it.  In the course of time I began to get the best of this
     knotty lesson, and my self-complacency moved to the front once more.
     Mr. Bixby was all fixed and ready to start it to the rear again.  He
     opened on me after this fashion:

     "How much water did we have in the middle crossing at Hole-in-The-
     Wall, trip before last?"

     I considered this an outrage.  I said:

     "Every trip down and up the leadsmen are singing through that
     tangled place for three-quarters of an hour on a stretch.  How do
     you reckon I can remember such a mess as that?"

     "My boy, you've got to remember it.  You've got to remember the
     exact spot and the exact marks the boat lay in when we had the
     shoalest water, in every one of the five hundred shoal places
     between St. Louis and New Orleans; and you mustn't get the shoal
     soundings and marks of one trip mixed up with the shoal soundings
     and marks of another, either, for they're not often twice alike.
     You must keep them separate."

     When I came to myself again, I said:

     "When I get so that I can do that, I'll be able to raise the dead,
     and then I won't have to pilot a steamboat to make a living.  I want
     to retire from this business.  I want a slush-bucket and a brush;
     I'm only fit for a roustabout.  I haven't got brains enough to be a
     pilot; and if I had I wouldn't have strength enough to carry them
     around, unless I went on crutches."

     "Now drop that!  When I say I'll learn a man the river I mean it.
     And you can depend on it, I'll learn him or kill him."

We have quoted at length from this chapter because it seems of very
positive importance here.  It is one of the most luminous in the book so
far as the mastery of the science of piloting is concerned, and shows
better than could any other combination of words something of what is
required of the learner.  It does not cover the whole problem, by any
means--Mark Twain himself could not present that; and even considering
his old-time love of the river and the pilot's trade, it is still
incredible that a man of his temperament could have persisted, as he did,
against such obstacles.




XXIV

THE RIVER CURRICULUM

He acquired other kinds of knowledge.  As the streets of Hannibal in
those early days, and the printing-offices of several cities, had taught
him human nature in various unvarnished aspects, so the river furnished
an added course to that vigorous education.  Morally, its atmosphere
could not be said to be an improvement on the others.  Navigation in the
West had begun with crafts of the flat-boat type--their navigators rude,
hardy men, heavy drinkers, reckless fighters, barbaric in their sports,
coarse in their wit, profane in everything.  Steam-boatmen were the
natural successors of these pioneers--a shade less coarse, a thought less
profane, a veneer less barbaric.  But these things were mainly "above
stairs."  You had but to scratch lightly a mate or a deck-hand to find
the old keel-boatman savagery.  Captains were overlords, and pilots kings
in this estate; but they were not angels.  In Life on the Mississippi
Clemens refers to his chief's explosive vocabulary and tells us how he
envied the mate's manner of giving an order.  It was easier to acquire
those things than piloting, and, on the whole, quicker.  One could
improve upon them, too, with imagination and wit and a natural gift for
terms.  That Samuel Clemens maintained his promise as to drink and cards
during those apprentice days is something worth remembering; and if he
did not always restrict his profanity to moments of severe pressure or
sift the quality of his wit, we may also remember that he was an extreme
example of a human being, in that formative stage which gathers all as
grist, later to refine it for the uses and delights of men.

He acquired a vast knowledge of human character.  He says:

     In that brief, sharp schooling I got personally and familiarly
     acquainted with all the different types of human nature that are to
     be found in fiction, biography, or history.  When I find a well-
     drawn character in fiction or biography, I generally take a warm
     personal interest in him, for the reason that I have, known him
     before--met him on the river.

Undoubtedly the river was a great school for the study of life's broader
philosophies and humors: philosophies that avoid vague circumlocution and
aim at direct and sure results; humors of the rugged and vigorous sort
that in Europe are known as "American" and in America are known as
"Western."  Let us be thankful that Mark Twain's school was no less than
it was--and no more.

The demands of the Missouri River trade took Horace Bixby away from the
Mississippi, somewhat later, and he consigned his pupil, according to
custom, to another pilot--it is not certain, now, to just which pilot,
but probably to Zeb Leavenworth or Beck Jolly, of the John J.  Roe.  The
Roe was a freight-boat, "as slow as an island and as comfortable as a
farm."  In fact, the Roe was owned and conducted by farmers, and Sam
Clemens thought if John Quarles's farm could be set afloat it would
greatly resemble that craft in the matter of good-fellowship,
hospitality, and speed.  It was said of her that up-stream she could even
beat an island, though down-stream she could never quite overtake the
current, but was a "love of a steamboat" nevertheless.  The Roe was not
licensed to carry passengers, but she always had a dozen "family guests"
aboard, and there was a big boiler-deck for dancing and moonlight
frolics, also a piano in the cabin.  The young pilot sometimes played on
the piano and sang to his music songs relating to the "grasshopper on the
sweet-potato vine," or to an old horse by the name of Methusalem:

          Took him down and sold him in Jerusalem,
                    A long time ago.

There were forty-eight stanzas about this ancient horse, all pretty much
alike; but the assembled company was not likely to be critical, and his
efforts won him laurels.  He had a heavenly time on the John J. Roe, and
then came what seemed inferno by contrast.  Bixby returned, made a trip
or two, then left and transferred him again, this time to a man named
Brown.  Brown had a berth on the fine new steamer Pennsylvania, one of
the handsomest boats on the river, and young Clemens had become a fine
steersman, so it is not unlikely that both men at first were gratified by
the arrangement.

But Brown was a fault-finding, tyrannical chief, ignorant, vulgar, and
malicious.  In the Mississippi book the author gives his first interview
with Brown, also his last one.  For good reasons these occasions were
burned into his memory, and they may be accepted as substantially
correct.  Brown had an offensive manner.  His first greeting was a surly
question.

"Are you Horace Bigsby's cub?"

"Bixby" was usually pronounced "Bigsby" on the river, but Brown made it
especially obnoxious and followed it up with questions and comments and
orders still more odious.  His subordinate soon learned to detest him
thoroughly.  It was necessary, however, to maintain a respectable
deportment--custom, discipline, even the law, required that--but it must
have been a hard winter and spring the young steersman put in during
those early months of 1858, restraining himself from the gratification of
slaying Brown.  Time would bring revenge--a tragic revenge and at a
fearful cost; but he could not guess that, and he put in his spare time
planning punishments of his own.

     I could imagine myself killing Brown; there was no law against that,
     and that was the thing I always used to do the moment I was abed.
     Instead of going over my river in my mind, as was my duty, I threw
     business aside for pleasure and killed Brown.  I killed Brown every
     night for a month; not in old, stale, commonplace ways, but in new
     and picturesque ones--ways that were sometimes surprising for
     freshness of design and ghastly for situation and environment.

Once when Brown had been more insulting than usual his subordinate went
to bed and killed him in "seventeen different ways--all of them new."

He had made an effort at first to please Brown, but it was no use.  Brown
was the sort of a man that refused to be pleased; no matter how carefully
his subordinate steered, he as always at him.

"Here," he would shout, "where are you going now?  Pull her down!  Pull
her down!  Don't you hear me?  Dod-derned mud-cat!"

His assistant lost all desire to be obliging to such a person and even
took occasion now and then to stir him up.  One day they were steaming up
the river when Brown noticed that the boat seemed to be heading toward
some unusual point.

"Here, where are you heading for now?" he yelled.  "What in nation are
you steerin' at, anyway?  Deyned numskull!"

"Why," said Sam, in unruffled deliberation, "I didn't see much else I
could steer for, and I was heading for that white heifer on the bank."

"Get away from that wheel! and get outen this pilothouse!" yelled Brown.
"You ain't fit to become no pilot!"

Which was what Sam wanted.  Any temporary relief from the carping tyranny
of Brown was welcome.

He had been on the river nearly a year now, and, though universally liked
and accounted a fine steersman, he was receiving no wages.  There had
been small need of money for a while, for he had no board to pay; but
clothes wear out at last, and there were certain incidentals.  The
Pennsylvania made a round trip in about thirty-five days, with a day or
two of idle time at either end.  The young pilot found that he could get
night employment, watching freight on the New Orleans levee, and thus
earn from two and a half to three dollars for each night's watch.
Sometimes there would be two nights, and with a capital of five or six
dollars he accounted himself rich.

"It was a desolate experience," he said, long afterward, "watching there
in the dark among those piles of freight; not a sound, not a living
creature astir.  But it was not a profitless one: I used to have
inspirations as I sat there alone those nights.  I used to imagine all
sorts of situations and possibilities.  Those things got into my books by
and by and furnished me with many a chapter.  I can trace the effect of
those nights through most of my books in one way and another."

Many of the curious tales in the latter half of the Mississippi book came
out of those long night-watches.  It was a good time to think of such
things.




XXV

LOVE-MAKING AND ADVENTURE

Of course, life with Brown was not all sorrow.  At either end of the trip
there was respite and recreation.  In St. Louis, at Pamela's there was
likely to be company: Hannibal friends mostly, schoolmates--girls, of
course.  At New Orleans he visited friendly boats, especially the John J.
Roe, where he was generously welcomed.  One such visit on the Roe he
never forgot.  A young girl was among the boat's guests that trip--
another Laura, fifteen, winning, delightful.  They met, and were mutually
attracted; in the life of each it was one of those bright spots which are
likely to come in youth: one of those sudden, brief periods of romance,
love--call it what you will the thing that leads to marriage, if pursued.

"I was not four inches from that girl's elbow during our waking hours for
the next three days."

Then came a sudden interruption: Zeb Leavenworth came flying aft
shouting:

"The Pennsylvania is backing out."

A flutter of emotion, a fleeting good-by, a flight across the decks, a
flying leap from romance back to reality, and it was all over.  He wrote
her, but received no reply.  He never saw her again, never heard from her
for forty-eight years, when both were married, widowed, and old.  She had
not received his letter.

Even on the Pennsylvania life had its interests.  A letter dated March 9,
1858, recounts a delightfully dangerous night-adventure in the steamer's
yawl, hunting for soundings in the running ice.

     Then the fun commenced.  We made fast a line 20 fathoms long, to the
     bow of the yawl, and put the men (both crews) to it like horses on
     the shore.  Brown, the pilot, stood in the bow, with an oar, to keep
     her head out, and I took the tiller.  We would start the men, and
     all would go well till the yawl would bring up on a heavy cake of
     ice, and then the men would drop like so many tenpins, while Brown
     assumed the horizontal in the bottom of the boat.  After an hour's
     hard work we got back, with ice half an inch thick on the oars.
     Sent back and warped up the other yawl, and then George (George
     Ealer, the other pilot) and myself took a double crew of fresh men
     and tried it again.  This time we found the channel in less than
     half an hour, and landed on an island till the Pennsylvania came
     along and took us off.  The next day was colder still.  I was out in
     the yawl twice, and then we got through, but the infernal steamboat
     came near running over us....  We sounded Hat Island, warped up
     around a bar, and sounded again--but in order to understand our
     situation you will have to read Dr. Kane.  It would have been
     impossible to get back to the boat.  But the Maria Denning was
     aground at the head of the island--they hailed us--we ran alongside,
     and they hoisted us in and thawed us out.  We had then been out in
     the yawl from four o'clock in the morning till half past nine
     without being near a fire.  There was a thick coating of ice over
     men, and yawl, ropes and everything else, and we looked like rock-
     candy statuary.

This was the sort of thing he loved in those days.  We feel the writer's
evident joy and pride in it.  In the same letter he says: "I can't
correspond with the paper, because when one is learning the river he is
not allowed to do or think about anything else."  Then he mentions his
brother Henry, and we get the beginning of that tragic episode for which,
though blameless, Samuel Clemens always held himself responsible.

     Henry was doing little or nothing here (St. Louis), and I sent him
     to our clerk to work his way for a trip, measuring wood-piles,
     counting coal-boxes, and doing other clerkly duties, which he
     performed satisfactorily.  He may go down with us again.

Henry Clemens was about twenty at this time, a handsome, attractive boy
of whom his brother was lavishly fond and proud.  He did go on the next
trip and continued to go regularly after that, as third clerk in line of
promotion.  It was a bright spot in those hard days with Brown to have
Henry along.  The boys spent a good deal of their leisure with the other
pilot, George Ealer, who "was as kindhearted as Brown wasn't," and quoted
Shakespeare and Goldsmith, and played the flute to his fascinated and
inspiring audience.  These were things worth while.  The young steersman
could not guess that the shadow of a long sorrow was even then stretching
across the path ahead.

Yet in due time he received a warning, a remarkable and impressive
warning, though of a kind seldom heeded.  One night, when the
Pennsylvania lay in St. Louis, he slept at his sister's house and had
this vivid dream:

He saw Henry, a corpse, lying in a metallic burial case in the sitting-
room, supported on two chairs.  On his breast lay a bouquet of flowers,
white, with a single crimson bloom in the center.

When he awoke, it was morning, but the dream was so vivid that he
believed it real.  Perhaps something of the old hypnotic condition was
upon him, for he rose and dressed, thinking he would go in and look at
his dead brother.  Instead, he went out on the street in the early
morning and had walked to the middle of the block before it suddenly
flashed upon him that it was only a dream.  He bounded back, rushed to
the sitting-room, and felt a great trembling revulsion of joy when he
found it really empty.  He told Pamela the dream, then put it out of his
mind as quickly as he could.  The Pennsylvania sailed from St. Louis as
usual, and made a safe trip to New Orleans.

A safe trip, but an eventful one; on it occurred that last interview with
Brown, already mentioned.  It is recorded in the Mississippi book, but
cannot be omitted here.  Somewhere down the river (it was in Eagle Bend)
Henry appeared on the hurricane deck to bring an order from the captain
for a landing to be made a little lower down.  Brown was somewhat deaf,
but would never confess it.  He may not have understood the order; at all
events he gave no sign of having heard it, and went straight ahead.  He
disliked Henry as he disliked everybody of finer grain than himself, and
in any case was too arrogant to ask for a repetition.  They were passing
the landing when Captain Klinefelter appeared on deck and called to him
to let the boat come around, adding:

"Didn't Henry tell you to land here?"

"No, sir."

Captain.  Klinefelter turned to Sam:

"Didn't you hear him?"

"Yes, sir."

Brown said: "Shut your mouth!  You never heard anything of the kind."

By and by Henry came into the pilot-house, unaware of any trouble.  Brown
set upon him in his ugliest manner.

"Here, why didn't you tell me we had got to land at that plantation?" he
demanded.

Henry was always polite, always gentle.

"I did tell you, Mr. Brown."

"It's a lie."

Sam Clemens could stand Brown's abuse of himself, but not of Henry.  He
said: "You lie yourself.  He did tell you."

Brown was dazed for a moment and then he shouted:

"I'll attend to your case in half a minute!" and ordered Henry out of
the pilot-house.

The boy had started, when Brown suddenly seized him by the collar and
struck him in the face.--[In the Mississippi book the writer states
that Brown started to strike Henry with a large piece of coal; but, in a
letter written soon after the occurrence to Mrs. Orion Clemens, he says:
"Henry started out of the pilot-house-Brown jumped up and collared him--
turned him half-way around and struck him in the face!-and him nearly six
feet high-struck my little brother.  I was wild from that moment.  I left
the boat to steer herself, and avenged the insult--and the captain said I
was right."]--Instantly Sam was upon Brown, with a heavy stool, and
stretched him on the floor.  Then all the bitterness and indignation that
had been smoldering for months flamed up, and, leaping upon Brown and
holding him with his knees, he pounded him with his fists until strength
and fury gave out.  Brown struggled free, then, and with pilot instinct
sprang to the wheel, for the vessel had been drifting and might have got
into trouble.  Seeing there was no further danger, he seized a spy-glass
as a weapon.

"Get out of this here pilot-house," he raged.

But his subordinate was not afraid of him now.

"You should leave out the 'here,'" he drawled, critically.  "It is
understood, and not considered good English form."

"Don't you give me none of your airs," yelled Brown.  "I ain't going to
stand nothing more from you."

"You should say, 'Don't give me any of your airs,'" Sam said, sweetly,
"and the last half of your sentence almost defies correction."

A group of passengers and white-aproned servants, assembled on the deck
forward, applauded the victor.

Brown turned to the wheel, raging and growling.  Clemens went below,
where he expected Captain Klinefelter to put him in irons, perhaps, for
it was thought to be felony to strike a pilot.  The officer took him into
his private room and closed the door.  At first he looked at the culprit
thoughtfully, then he made some inquiries:

     "Did you strike him first?" Captain Klinefelter asked.

     "Yes, sir."

     "What with?"

     "A stool, sir."

     "Hard?"

     "Middling, sir."

     "Did it knock him down?"

     "He--he fell, sir."

     "Did you follow it up?  Did you do anything further?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "What did you do?"

     "Pounded him, sir."

     "Pounded him?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Did you pound him much--that is, severely?"

     "One might call it that, sir, maybe."

     "I am deuced glad of it!  Hark ye, never mention that I said that.
     You have been guilty of a great crime; and don't ever be guilty of
     it again on this boat, but--lay for him ashore!  Give him a good
     sound thrashing; do you hear?  I'll pay the expenses."--["Life on
     the Mississippi."]

Captain Klinefelter told him to clear out, then, and the culprit heard
him enjoying himself as the door closed behind him.  Brown, of course,
forbade him the pilothouse after that, and he spent the rest of the trip
"an emancipated slave" listening to George Ealer's flute and his readings
from Goldsmith and Shakespeare; playing chess with him sometimes, and
learning a trick which he would use himself in the long after-years--that
of taking back the last move and running out the game differently when he
saw defeat.

Brown swore that he would leave the boat at New Orleans if Sam Clemens
remained on it, and Captain Klinefelter told Brown to go.  Then when
another pilot could not be obtained to fill his place, the captain
offered to let Clemens himself run the daylight watches, thus showing his
confidence in the knowledge of the young steersman, who had been only a
little more than a year at the wheel.  But Clemens himself had less
confidence and advised the captain to keep Brown back to St. Louis.  He
would follow up the river by another boat and resume his place as
steersman when Brown was gone.  Without knowing it, he may have saved his
life by that decision.

It is doubtful if he remembered his recent disturbing dream, though some
foreboding would seem to have hung over him the night before the
Pennsylvania sailed.  Henry liked to join in the night-watches on the
levee when he had finished his duties, and the brothers often walked the
round chatting together.  On this particular night the elder spoke of
disaster on the river.  Finally he said:

"In case of accident, whatever you do, don't lose your head--the
passengers will do that.  Rush for the hurricane deck and to the life-
boat, and obey the mate's orders.  When the boat is launched, help the
women and children into it.  Don't get in yourself.  The river is only a
mile wide.  You can swim ashore easily enough."

It was good manly advice, but it yielded a long harvest of sorrow.




XXVI

THE TRAGEDY OF THE "PENNSYLVANIA"

Captain Klinefelter obtained his steersman a pass on the A. T. Lacey,
which left two days behind the Pennsylvania.  This was pleasant, for Bart
Bowen had become captain of that fine boat.  The Lacey touched at
Greenville, Mississippi, and a voice from the landing shouted:

"The Pennsylvania is blown up just below Memphis, at Ship Island!  One
hundred and fifty lives lost!"

Nothing further could be learned there, but that evening at Napoleon a
Memphis extra reported some of the particulars.  Henry Clemens's name was
mentioned as one of those, who had escaped injury.  Still farther up the
river they got a later extra.  Henry was again mentioned; this time as
being scalded beyond recovery.  By the time they reached Memphis they
knew most of the details:  At six o'clock that warm mid-June morning,
while loading wood from a large flat-boat sixty miles below Memphis, four
out of eight of the Pennsylvania's boilers had suddenly exploded with
fearful results.  All the forward end of the boat had been blown out.
Many persons had been killed outright; many more had been scalded and
crippled and would die.  It was one of those hopeless, wholesale
steamboat slaughters which for more than a generation had made the
Mississippi a river of death and tears.

Samuel Clemens found his brother stretched upon a mattress on the floor
of an improvised hospital--a public hall--surrounded by more than thirty
others more or less desperately injured.  He was told that Henry had
inhaled steam and that his body was badly scalded.  His case was
considered hopeless.

Henry was one of those who had been blown into the river by the
explosion.  He had started to swim for the shore, only a few hundred
yards away, but presently, feeling no pain and believing himself unhurt,
he had turned back to assist in the rescue of the others.  What he did
after that could not be clearly learned.  The vessel had taken fire; the
rescued were being carried aboard the big wood-boat still attached to the
wreck.  The fire soon raged so that the rescuers and all who could be
saved were driven into the wood-flat, which was then cut adrift and
landed.  There the sufferers had to lie in the burning sun many hours
until help could come.  Henry was among those who were insensible by that
time.  Perhaps he had really been uninjured at first and had been scalded
in his work of rescue; it will never be known.

His brother, hearing these things, was thrown into the deepest agony and
remorse.  He held himself to blame for everything; for Henry's presence
on the boat; for his advice concerning safety of others; for his own
absence when he might have been there to help and protect the boy.  He
wanted to telegraph at once to his mother and sister to come, but the
doctors persuaded him to wait--just why, he never knew.  He sent word of
the disaster to Orion, who by this time had sold out in Keokuk and was in
East Tennessee studying law; then he set himself to the all but hopeless
task of trying to bring Henry back to life.  Many Memphis ladies were
acting as nurses, and one, a Miss Wood, attracted by the boy's youth and
striking features, joined in the desperate effort.  Some medical students
had come to assist the doctors, and one of these also took special
interest in Henry's case.  Dr. Peyton, an old Memphis practitioner,
declared that with such care the boy might pull through.

But on the fourth night he was considered to be dying.  Half delirious
with grief and the strain of watching, Samuel Clemens wrote to his mother
and to his sister-in-law in Tennessee.  The letter to Orion Clemens's
wife has been preserved.

     MEMPHIS, TENN., Friday, June 18, 1858.

     DEAR SISTER MOLLIE,--Long before this reaches you my poor Henry--my
     darling, my pride, my glory, my all will have finished his blameless
     career, and the light of my life will have gone out in utter
     darkness.  The horrors of three days have swept over me--they have
     blasted my youth and left me an old man before my time.  Mollie,
     there are gray hairs in my head to-night.  For forty-eight hours I
     labored at the bedside of my poor burned and bruised but
     uncomplaining brother, and then the star of my hope went out and
     left me in the gloom of despair.  Men take me by the hand and
     congratulate me, and call me "lucky" because I was not on the
     Pennsylvania when she blew up!  May God forgive them, for they know
     not what they say.

     I was on the Pennsylvania five minutes before she left N. Orleans,
     and I must tell you the truth, Mollie--three hundred human beings
     perished by that fearful disaster.  But may God bless Memphis, the
     noblest city on the face of the earth.  She has done her duty by
     these poor afflicted creatures--especially Henry, for he has had
     five--aye, ten, fifteen, twenty times the care and attention that
     any one else has had.  Dr. Peyton, the best physician in Memphis (he
     is exactly like the portraits of Webster), sat by him for 36 hours.
     There are 32 scalded men in that room, and you would know Dr.
     Peyton better than I can describe him if you could follow him around
     and hear each man murmur as he passes, "May the God of Heaven bless
     you, Doctor!"  The ladies have done well, too.  Our second mate, a
     handsome, noble-hearted young fellow, will die.  Yesterday a
     beautiful girl of 15 stooped timidly down by his side and handed him
     a pretty bouquet.  The poor suffering boy's eyes kindled, his lips
     quivered out a gentle "God bless you, Miss," and he burst into
     tears.  He made them write her name on a card for him, that he might
     not forget it.

     Pray for me, Mollie, and pray for my poor sinless brother.
     Your unfortunate brother,

     SAML.  L.  CLEMENS.

     P. S.--I got here two days after Henry.


But, alas, this was not all, nor the worst.  It would seem that Samuel
Clemens's cup of remorse must be always overfull.  The final draft that
would embitter his years was added the sixth night after the accident--
the night that Henry died.  He could never bring himself to write it.  He
was never known to speak of it but twice.

Henry had rallied soon after the foregoing letter had been mailed, and
improved slowly that day and the next: Dr. Peyton came around about
eleven o'clock on the sixth night and made careful examination.  He said:

"I believe he is out of danger and will get well.  He is likely to be
restless during the night; the groans and fretting of the others will
disturb him.  If he cannot rest without it, tell the physician in charge
to give him one-eighth of a grain of morphine."

The boy did wake during the night, and was disturbed by the complaining
of the other sufferers.  His brother told the young medical student in
charge what the doctor had said about the morphine.  But morphine was a
new drug then; the student hesitated, saying:

"I have no way of measuring.  I don't know how much an eighth of a grain
would be."

Henry grew rapidly worse--more and more restless.  His brother was half
beside himself with the torture of it.  He went to the medical student.

"If you have studied drugs," he said, "you ought to be able to judge an
eighth of a grain of morphine."

The young man's courage was over-swayed.  He yielded and ladled out in
the old-fashioned way, on the point of a knife-blade, what he believed to
be the right amount.  Henry immediately sank into a heavy sleep.  He died
before morning.  His chance of life had been infinitesimal, and his death
was not necessarily due to the drug, but Samuel Clemens, unsparing in his
self-blame, all his days carried the burden of it.

He saw the boy taken to the dead room, then the long strain of grief, the
days and nights without sleep, the ghastly realization of the end
overcame him.  A citizen of Memphis took him away in a kind of daze and
gave him a bed in his house, where he fell into a stupor of fatigue and
surrender.  It was many hours before he woke; when he did, at last, he
dressed and went to where Henry lay.  The coffin provided for the dead
were of unpainted wood, but the youth and striking face of Henry Clemens
had aroused a special interest.  The ladies of Memphis had made up a fund
of sixty dollars and bought for him a metallic case.  Samuel Clemens
entering, saw his brother lying exactly as he had seen him in his dream,
lacking only the bouquet of white flowers with its crimson center--a
detail made complete while he stood there, for at that moment an elderly
lady came in with a large white bouquet, and in the center of it was a
single red rose.

Orion arrived from Tennessee, and the brothers took their sorrowful
burden to St. Louis, subsequently to Hannibal, his old home.  The death
of this lovely boy was a heavy sorrow to the community where he was
known, for he had been a favorite with all.--[For a fine
characterization of Henry Clemens the reader is referred to a letter
written by Orion Clemens to Miss Wood.  See Appendix A, at the end of the
last volume.]

From Hannibal the family returned to Pamela's home in St. Louis.  There
one night Orion heard his brother moaning and grieving and walking the
floor of his room.  By and by Sam came in to where Orion was.  He could
endure it no longer, he said; he must, "tell somebody."

Then he poured all the story of that last tragic night.  It has been set
down here because it accounts for much in his after-life.  It magnified
his natural compassion for the weakness and blunders of humanity, while
it increased the poor opinion implanted by the Scotchman Macfarlane of
the human being as a divine invention.  Two of Mark Twain's chief
characteristics were--consideration for the human species, and contempt
for it.

In many ways he never overcame the tragedy of Henry's death.  He never
really looked young again.  Gray hairs had come, as he said, and they did
not disappear.  His face took on the serious, pathetic look which from
that time it always had in repose.  At twenty-three he looked thirty.  At
thirty he looked nearer forty.  After that the discrepancy in age and
looks became less notable.  In vigor, complexion, and temperament he was
regarded in later life as young for his years, but never in looks.




XXVII

THE PILOT

The young pilot returned to the river as steersman for George Ealer, whom
he loved, and in September of that year obtained a full license as
Mississippi River pilot.--[In Life on the Mississippi he gives his
period of learning at from two to two and a half years; but documentary
evidence as well as Mr. Bixby's testimony places the apprenticeship at
eighteen months]--Bixby had returned by this time, and they were again
together, first on the Crescent City, later on a fine new boat called the
New Falls City.  Clemens was still a steersman when Bixby returned; but
as soon as his license was granted (September 9, 1858) his old chief took
him as full partner.

He was a pilot at last.  In eighteen months he had packed away in his
head all the multitude of volatile statistics and acquired that
confidence and courage which made him one of the elect, a river
sovereign.  He knew every snag and bank and dead tree and reef in all
those endless miles between St. Louis and New Orleans, every cut-off and
current, every depth of water--the whole story--by night and by day.  He
could smell danger in the dark; he could read the surface of the water as
an open page.  At twenty-three he had acquired a profession which
surpassed all others for absolute sovereignty and yielded an income equal
to that then earned by the Vice-President of the United States.  Boys
generally finish college at about that age, but it is not likely that any
boy ever finished college with the mass of practical information and
training that was stored away in Samuel Clemens's head, or with his
knowledge of human nature, his preparation for battle with the world.

"Not only was he a pilot, but a good one."  These are Horace Bixby's
words, and he added:

"It is the fashion to-day to disparage Sam's piloting.  Men who were born
since he was on the river and never saw him will tell you that Sam was
never much of a pilot.  Most of them will tell you that he was never a
pilot at all.  As a matter of fact, Sam was a fine pilot, and in a day
when piloting on the Mississippi required a great deal more brains and
skill and application than it does now.  There were no signal-lights
along the shore in those days, and no search-lights on the vessels;
everything was blind, and on a dark, misty night in a river full of snags
and shifting sand--bars and changing shores, a pilot's judgment had to be
founded on absolute certainty."

He had plenty of money now.  He could help his mother with a liberal
hand, and he did it.  He helped Orion, too, with money and with advice.
From a letter written toward the end of the year, we gather the new
conditions.  Orion would seem to have been lamenting over prospects, and
the young pilot, strong and exalted in his new estate, urges him to
renewed consistent effort:

     What is a government without energy?--[he says]--.  And what is a
     man without energy?  Nothing--nothing at all.  What is the grandest
     thing in "Paradise Lost"--the Arch-Fiend's terrible energy!  What
     was the greatest feature in Napoleon's character?  His unconquerable
     energy!  Sum all the gifts that man is endowed with, and we give our
     greatest share of admiration to his energy.  And to-day, if I were a
     heathen, I would rear a statue to Energy, and fall down and worship
     it!

     I want a man to--I want you to--take up a line of action, and follow
     it out, in spite of the very devil.

Orion and his wife had returned to Keokuk by this time, waiting for
something in the way of a business opportunity.

His pilot brother, wrote him more than once letters of encouragement and
council.  Here and there he refers to the tragedy of Henry's death, and
the shadow it has cast upon his life; but he was young, he was
successful, his spirits were naturally exuberant.  In the exhilaration of
youth and health and success he finds vent at times in that natural human
outlet, self-approval.  He not only exhibits this weakness, but confesses
it with characteristic freedom.

     Putting all things together, I begin to think I am rather lucky than
     otherwise--a notion which I was slow to take up.  The other night I
     was about to "round to" for a storm, but concluded that I could find
     a smoother bank somewhere.  I landed five miles below.  The storm
     came, passed away and did not injure us.  Coming up, day before
     yesterday, I looked at the spot I first chose, and half the trees on
     the bank were torn to shreds.  We couldn't have lived 5 minutes in
     such a tornado.  And I am also lucky in having a berth, while all
     the other young pilots are idle.  This is the luckiest circumstance
     that ever befell me.  Not on account of the wages--for that is a
     secondary consideration-but from the fact that the City of Memphis
     is the largest boat in the trade, and the hardest to pilot, and
     consequently I can get a reputation on her, which is a thing I never
     could accomplish on a transient boat.  I can "bank" in the
     neighborhood of $100 a month on her, and that will satisfy me for
     the present (principally because the other youngsters are sucking
     their fingers).  Bless me! what a pleasure there is in revenge!--and
     what vast respect Prosperity commands!  Why, six months ago, I could
     enter the "Rooms," and receive only the customary fraternal greeting
     now they say, "Why, how are you, old fellow--when did you get in?"

     And the young pilots who use to tell me, patronizingly, that I could
     never learn the river cannot keep from showing a little of their
     chagrin at seeing me so far ahead of them.  Permit me to "blow my
     horn," for I derive a living pleasure from these things, and I must
     confess that when I go to pay my dues, I rather like to let the
     d---d rascals get a glimpse of a hundred-dollar bill peeping out
     from amongst notes of smaller dimensions whose face I do not
     exhibit!  You will despise this egotism, but I tell you there is a
     "stern joy" in it.

We are dwelling on this period of Mark Twain's life, for it was a period
that perhaps more than any other influenced his future years.  He became
completely saturated with the river its terms, its memories, its
influence remained a definite factor in his personality to the end of his
days.  Moreover, it was his first period of great triumph.  Where before
he had been a subaltern not always even a wage-earner--now all in a
moment he had been transformed into a high chief.  The fullest ambition
of his childhood had been realized--more than realized, for in that day
he had never dreamed of a boat or of an income of such stately
proportions.  Of great personal popularity, and regarded as a safe pilot,
he had been given one of the largest, most difficult of boats.  Single-
handed and alone he had fought his way into the company of kings.

And we may pardon his vanity.  He could hardly fail to feel his glory and
revel in it and wear it as a halo, perhaps, a little now and then in the
Association Rooms.  To this day he is remembered as a figure there,
though we may believe, regardless of his own statement, that it was not
entirely because of his success.  As the boys of Hannibal had gathered
around to listen when Sam Clemens began to speak, so we may be certain
that the pilots at St. Louis and New Orleans laid aside other things when
he had an observation to make or a tale to tell.

     He was much given to spinning yarns--[writes one associate of those
     days]--so funny that his hearers were convulsed, and yet all the
     time his own face was perfectly sober.  If he laughed at all, it
     must have been inside.  It would have killed his hearers to do that.
     Occasionally some of his droll yarns would get into the papers.  He
     may have written them himself.

Another riverman of those days has recalled a story he heard Sam Clemens
tell:

     We were speaking of presence of mind in accidents--we were always
     talking of such things; then he said:

     "Boys, I had great presence of mind once.  It was at a fire.  An old
     man leaned out of a four-story building calling for help.  Everybody
     in the crowd below looked up, but nobody did anything.  The ladders
     weren't long enough.  Nobody had any presence of mind--nobody but
     me.  I came to the rescue.  I yelled for a rope.  When it came I
     threw the old man the end of it.  He caught it and I told him to tie
     it around his waist.  He did so, and I pulled him down."

This was one of the stories that got into print and traveled far.
Perhaps, as the old pilot suggests, he wrote some of them himself, for
Horace Bixby remembers that "Sam was always scribbling when not at the
wheel."

But if he published any work in those river-days he did not acknowledge
it later--with one exception.  The exception was not intended for
publication, either.  It was a burlesque written for the amusement of his
immediate friends.  He has told the story himself, more than once, but it
belongs here for the reason that some where out of the general
circumstance of it there originated a pseudonym, one day to become the
best-known in the hemispheres the name Mark Twain.

That terse, positive, peremptory, dynamic pen-name was first used by an
old pilot named Isaiah Sellers--a sort of "oldest inhabitant" of the
river, who made the other pilots weary with the scope and antiquity of
his reminiscent knowledge.  He contributed paragraphs of general
information and Nestorian opinions to the New Orleans Picayune, and
signed them "Mark Twain."  They were quaintly egotistical in tone,
usually beginning: "My opinion for the benefit of the citizens of New
Orleans," and reciting incidents and comparisons dating as far back as
1811.

Captain Sellers naturally was regarded as fair game by the young pilots,
who amused themselves by imitating his manner and general attitude of
speech.  But Clemens went further; he wrote at considerable length a
broadly burlesque imitation signed "Sergeant Fathom," with an
introduction which referred to the said Fathom as "one of the oldest cub
pilots on the river."  The letter that followed related a perfectly
impossible trip, supposed to have been made in 1763 by the steamer "the
old first Jubilee" with a "Chinese captain and a Choctaw crew."  It is a
gem of its kind, and will bear reprint in full today.--[See Appendix B,
at the end of the last volume.]

The burlesque delighted Bart Bowen, who was Clemens's pilot partner on
the Edward J. Gay at the time.  He insisted on showing it to others and
finally upon printing it.  Clemens was reluctant, but consented.  It
appeared in the True Delta (May 8 or 9, 1859), and was widely and
boisterously enjoyed.

It broke Captain Sellers's literary heart.  He never contributed another
paragraph.  Mark Twain always regretted the whole matter deeply, and his
own revival of the name was a sort of tribute to the old man he had
thoughtlessly wounded.  If Captain Sellers has knowledge of material
matters now, he is probably satisfied; for these things brought to him,
and to the name he had chosen, what he could never himself have achieved
--immortality.





XXVIII

PILOTING AND PROPHECY

Those who knew Samuel Clemens best in those days say that he was a
slender, fine-looking man, well dressed--even dandified--given to patent
leathers, blue serge, white duck, and fancy striped shirts.  Old for his
years, he heightened his appearance at times by wearing his beard in the
atrocious mutton-chop fashion, then popular, but becoming to no one,
least of all to him.  The pilots regarded him as a great reader--
a student of history, travels, literature, and the sciences--a young man
whom it was an education as well as an entertainment to know.  When not
at the wheel, he was likely to be reading or telling yarns in the
Association Rooms.

He began the study of French one day when he passed a school of
languages, where three tongues, French, German, and Italian, were taught,
one in each of three rooms.  The price was twenty-five dollars for one
language, or three for fifty dollars.  The student was provided with a
set of cards for each room and supposed to walk from one apartment to
another, changing tongues at each threshold.  With his unusual enthusiasm
and prodigality, the young pilot decided to take all three languages, but
after the first two or three round trips concluded that for the present
French would do.  He did not return to the school, but kept his cards and
bought text-books.  He must have studied pretty faithfully when he was
off watch and in port, for his river note-book contains a French
exercise, all neatly written, and it is from the Dialogues of Voltaire.

This old note-book is interesting for other things.  The notes are no
longer timid, hesitating memoranda, but vigorous records made with the
dash of assurance that comes from confidence and knowledge, and with the
authority of one in supreme command.  Under the head of "2d high-water
trip--Jan., 1861--Alonzo Child," we have the story of a rising river with
its overflowing banks, its blind passages and cut-offs--all the
circumstance and uncertainty of change.

     Good deal of water all over Coles Creek Chute, 12 or 15 ft.  bank--
     could have gone up shore above General Taylor's--too much drift....

     Night--didn't run either 77 or 76 towheads--8 ft. bank on main shore
     Ozark Chute....

And so on page after page of cryptographic memoranda.  It means little
enough to the lay reader, yet one gets an impression somehow of the
swirling, turbulent water and a lonely figure in that high glassed-in
place peering into the dark for blind land-marks and possible dangers,
picking his way up the dim, hungry river of which he must know every foot
as well as a man knows the hall of his own home.  All the qualifications
must come into play, then memory, judgment, courage, and the high art of
steering.  "Steering is a very high, art," he says; "one must not keep a
rudder dragging across a boat's stern if he wants to get up the river
fast."

He had an example of the perfection of this art one misty night on the
Alonzo Child.  Nearly fifty years later, sitting on his veranda in the
dark, he recalled it.  He said:

"There was a pilot in those days by the name of Jack Leonard who was a
perfectly wonderful creature.  I do not know that Jack knew anymore about
the river than most of us and perhaps could not read the water any
better, but he had a knack of steering away ahead of our ability, and I
think he must have had an eye that could see farther into the darkness.

"I had never seen Leonard steer, but I had heard a good deal about it.  I
had heard it said that the crankiest old tub afloat--one that would kill
any other man to handle--would obey and be as docile as a child when Jack
Leonard took the wheel.  I had a chance one night to verify that for
myself.  We were going up the river, and it was one of the nastiest
nights I ever saw.  Besides that, the boat was loaded in such a way that
she steered very hard, and I was half blind and crazy trying to locate
the safe channel, and was pulling my arms out to keep her in it.  It was
one of those nights when everything looks the same whichever way you
look: just two long lines where the sky comes down to the trees and where
the trees meet the water with all the trees precisely the same height--
all planted on the same day, as one of the boys used to put it--and not a
thing to steer by except the knowledge in your head of the real shape of
the river.  Some of the boats had what they call a 'night hawk' on the
jackstaff, a thing which you could see when it was in the right position
against the sky or the water, though it seldom was in the right position
and was generally pretty useless.

"I was in a bad way that night and wondering how I could ever get through
it, when the pilot-house door opened, and Jack Leonard walked in.  He was
a passenger that trip, and I had forgotten he was aboard.  I was just
about in the worst place and was pulling the boat first one way, then
another, running the wheel backward and forward, and climbing it like a
squirrel.

"'Sam,' he said, "let me take the wheel.  Maybe I have been over this
place since you have.'

"I didn't argue the question.  Jack took the wheel, gave it a little turn
one way, then a little turn the other; that old boat settled down as
quietly as a lamb--went right along as if it had been broad daylight in a
river without snags, bars, bottom, or banks, or anything that one could
possibly hit.  I never saw anything so beautiful.  He stayed my watch out
for me, and I hope I was decently grateful.  I have never forgotten it."

The old note-book contained the record of many such nights as that; but
there were other nights, too, when the stars were blazing out, or when
the moon on the water made the river a wide mysterious way of speculative
dreams.  He was always speculating; the planets and the remote suns were
always a marvel to him.  A love of astronomy--the romance of it, its vast
distances, and its possibilities--began with those lonely river-watches
and never waned to his last day.  For a time a great comet blazed in the
heavens, a "wonderful sheaf of light" that glorified his lonely watch.
Night after night he watched it as it developed and then grew dim, and he
read eagerly all the comet literature that came to his hand, then or
afterward.  He speculated of many things: of life, death, the reason of
existence, of creation, the ways of Providence and Destiny.  It was a
fruitful time for such meditation; out of such vigils grew those larger
philosophies that would find expression later, when the years had
conferred the magic gift of phrase.

Life lay all ahead of him then, and during those still watches he must
have revolved many theories of how the future should be met and mastered.
In the old notebook there still remains a well-worn clipping, the words
of some unknown writer, which he had preserved and may have consulted as
a sort of creed.  It is an interesting little document--a prophetic one,
the reader may concede:

     HOW TO TAKE LIFE.--Take it just as though it was--as it is--an
     earnest, vital, and important affair.  Take it as though you were
     born to the task of performing a merry part in it--as though the
     world had awaited for your coming.  Take it as though it was a grand
     opportunity to do and achieve, to carry forward great and good
     schemes; to help and cheer a suffering, weary, it may be
     heartbroken, brother.  Now and then a man stands aside from the
     crowd, labors earnestly, steadfastly, confidently, and straightway
     becomes famous for wisdom, intellect, skill, greatness of some sort.
     The world wonders, admires, idolizes, and it only illustrates what
     others may do if they take hold of life with a purpose.  The
     miracle, or the power that elevates the few, is to be found in their
     industry, application, and perseverance under the promptings of a
     brave, determined spirit.

The old note-book contains no record of disasters.  Horace Bixby, who
should know, has declared:

"Sam Clemens never had an accident either as a steersman or as a pilot,
except once when he got aground for a few hours in the bagasse (cane)
smoke, with no damage to anybody though of course there was some good
luck in that too, for the best pilots do not escape trouble, now and
then."

Bixby and Clemens were together that winter on the Alonzo Child, and a
letter to Orion contains an account of great feasting which the two
enjoyed at a "French restaurant" in New Orleans--"dissipating on a ten-
dollar dinner--tell it not to Ma!"--where they had sheepshead fish,
oysters, birds, mushrooms, and what not, "after which the day was too far
gone to do anything."  So it appears that he was not always reading
Macaulay or studying French and astronomy, but sometimes went frivoling
with his old chief, now his chum, always his dear friend.

Another letter records a visit with Pamela to a picture-gallery in St.
Louis where was being exhibited Church's "Heart of the Andes."  He
describes the picture in detail and with vast enthusiasm.

"I have seen it several times," he concludes, "but it is always a new
picture--totally new--you seem to see nothing the second time that you
saw the first."

Further along he tells of having taken his mother and the girls--his
cousin Ella Creel and another--for a trip down the river to New Orleans.

     Ma was delighted with her trip, but she was disgusted with the girls
     for allowing me to embrace and kiss them--and she was horrified at
     the 'schottische' as performed by Miss Castle and myself.  She was
     perfectly willing for me to dance until 12 o'clock at the imminent
     peril of my going to sleep on the after-watch--but then she would
     top off with a very inconsistent sermon on dancing in general;
     ending with a terrific broadside aimed at that heresy of heresies,
     the 'schottische'.

     I took Ma and the girls in a carriage round that portion of New
     Orleans where the finest gardens and residences are to be seen, and,
     although it was a blazing hot, dusty day, they seemed hugely
     delighted.  To use an expression which is commonly ignored in polite
     society, they were "hell-bent" on stealing some of the luscious-
     looking oranges from branches which overhung the fence, but I
     restrained them.

In another letter of this period we get a hint of the future Mark Twain.
It was written to John T. Moore, a young clerk on the John J. Roe.

     What a fool old Adam was.  Had everything his own way; had succeeded
     in gaining the love of the best-looking girl in the neighborhood,
     but yet, unsatisfied with his conquest, he had to eat a miserable
     little apple.  Ah, John, if you had been in his place you would not
     have eaten a mouthful of the apple--that is, if it had required any
     exertion.  I have noticed that you shun exertion.  There comes in
     the difference between us.  I court exertion.  I love work.  Why,
     sir, when I have a piece of work to perform, I go away to myself,
     sit down in the shade, and muse over the coming enjoyment.
     Sometimes I am so industrious that I muse too long.

There remains another letter of this period--a sufficiently curious
document.  There was in those days a famous New Orleans clairvoyant known
as Madame Caprell.  Some of the' young pilot's friends.  had visited her
and obtained what seemed to be satisfying results.  From time to time
they had urged him to visit the fortune-teller, and one idle day he
concluded to make the experiment.  As soon as he came away he wrote to
Orion in detail.

     She's a very pleasant little lady--rather pretty--about 28--say
     5 feet 2 1/4--would weigh 116--has black eyes and hair--is polite
     and intelligent--used good language, and talks much faster than I
     do.

     She invited me into the little back parlor, closed the door; and we
     were alone.  We sat down facing each other.  Then she asked my age.
     Then she put her hands before her eyes a moment, and commenced
     talking as if she had a good deal to say and not much time to say it
     in.  Something after this style:

     'Madame.'  Yours is a watery planet; you gain your livelihood on the
     water; but you should have been a lawyer--there is where your
     talents lie; you might have distinguished yourself as an orator, or
     as an editor--, you have written a great deal; you write well--but
     you are rather out of practice; no matter--you will be in practice
     some day; you have a superb constitution, and as excellent health as
     any man in the world; you have great powers of endurance; in your
     profession your strength holds out against the longest sieges
     without flagging; still, the upper part of your lungs, the top of
     them, is slightly affected--you must take care of yourself; you do
     not drink, but you use entirely too much tobacco; and you must stop
     it; mind, not moderate, but stop the use of it, totally; then I can
     almost promise you 86, when you will surely die; otherwise, look out
     for 28, 31, 34, 47, and 65; be careful--for you are not of a long-
     lived race, that is, on your father's side; you are the only healthy
     member of your family, and the only one in it who has anything like
     the certainty of attaining to a great age--so, stop using tobacco,
     and be careful of yourself....  In some respects you take after your
     father, but you are much more like your mother, who belongs to the
     long-lived, energetic side of the house....  You never brought all
     your energies to bear upon any subject but what you accomplished it
     --for instance, you are self-made, self-educated.

     'S. L. C.'  Which proves nothing.

     'Madame.'  Don't interrupt.  When you sought your present
     occupation, you found a thousand obstacles in your way--obstacles
     unknown--not even suspected by any save you and me, since you keep
     such matter to yourself--but you fought your way, and hid the long
     struggle under a mask of cheerfulness, which saved your friends
     anxiety on your account.  To do all this requires the qualities
     which I have named.

     'S. L. C.'  You flatter well, Madame.

     'Madame.'  Don't interrupt.  Up to within a short time you had
     always lived from hand to mouth--now you are in easy circumstances--
     for which you need give credit to no one but yourself.  The turning-
     point in your life occurred in 1840-7-8.

     'S. L. C.'  Which was?

     'Madame.'  A death, perhaps, and this threw you upon the world and
     made you what you are; it was always intended that you should make
     yourself; therefore, it was well that this calamity occurred as
     early as it did.  You will never die of water, although your career
     upon it in the future seems well sprinkled with misfortune.  You
     will continue upon the water for some time yet; you will not retire
     finally until ten years from now....  What is your brother's age?
     23--and a lawyer?  and in pursuit of an office?  Well, he stands a
     better chance than the other two, and he may get it; he is too
     visionary--is always flying off on a new hobby; this will never do--
     tell him I said so.  He is a good lawyer--a very good lawyer--and a
     fine speaker--is very popular and much respected, and makes many
     friends; but although he retains their friendship, he loses their
     confidence by displaying his instability of character....  The land
     he has now will be very valuable after a while----

     'S. L. C.'  Say 250 years hence, or thereabouts, Madame----

     'Madame.'  No--less time--but never mind the land, that is a
     secondary consideration--let him drop that for the present, and
     devote himself to his business and politics with all his might, for
     he must hold offices under Government....

     After a while you will possess a good deal of property--retire at
     the end of ten years--after which your pursuits will be literary--
     try the law--you will certainly succeed.  I am done now.  If you
     have any questions to ask--ask them freely--and if it be in my
     power, I will answer without reserve--without reserve.

     I asked a few questions of minor importance-paid her and left-under
     the decided impression that going to the fortune-teller's was just
     as good as going to the opera, and cost scarcely a trifle more--
     ergo, I will disguise myself and go again, one of these days, when
     other amusements fail.  Now isn't she the devil?  That is to say,
     isn't she a right smart little woman?

     When you want money, let Ma know, and she will send it.  She and
     Pamela are always fussing about change, so I sent them a hundred and
     twenty quarters yesterday--fiddler's change enough to last till I
     get back, I reckon.
                                             SAM.

In the light of preceding and subsequent events, we must confess that
Madame Caprell was "indeed a right smart little woman."  She made
mistakes enough (the letter is not quoted in full), but when we remember
that she not only gave his profession at the moment, but at least
suggested his career for the future; that she approximated the year of
his father's death as the time when he was thrown upon the world; that
she admonished him against his besetting habit, tobacco; that she read.
minutely not only his characteristics, but his brother Orion's; that she
outlined the struggle in his conquest of the river; that she seemingly
had knowledge of Orion's legal bent and his connection with the Tennessee
land, all seems remarkable enough, supposing, of course, she had no
material means of acquiring knowledge--one can never know certainly about
such things.





XXIX

THE END OF PILOTING

It is curious, however, that Madame Caprell, with clairvoyant vision,
should not have seen an important event then scarcely more than two
months distant: the breaking-out of the Civil War, with the closing of
the river and the end of Mark Twain's career as a pilot.  Perhaps these
things were so near as to be "this side" the range of second sight.

There had been plenty of war-talk, but few of the pilots believed that
war was really coming.  Traveling that great commercial highway, the
river, with intercourse both of North and South, they did not believe
that any political differences would be allowed to interfere with the
nation's trade, or would be settled otherwise than on the street corners,
in the halls of legislation, and at the polls.  True, several States,
including Louisiana, had declared the Union a failure and seceded; but
the majority of opinions were not clear as to how far a State had rights
in such a matter, or as to what the real meaning of secession might be.
Comparatively few believed it meant war.  Samuel Clemens had no such
belief.  His Madame Caprell letter bears date of February 6, 1861, yet
contains no mention of war or of any special excitement in New Orleans--
no forebodings as to national conditions.

Such things came soon enough: President Lincoln was inaugurated on the
4th of March, and six weeks later Fort Sumter was fired upon.  Men began
to speak out then and to take sides.

It was a momentous time in the Association Rooms.  There were pilots who
would go with the Union; there were others who would go with the
Confederacy.  Horace Bixby was one of the former, and in due time became
chief of the Union River Service.  Another pilot named Montgomery (Samuel
Clemens had once steered for him) declared for the South, and later
commanded the Confederate Mississippi fleet.  They were all good friends,
and their discussions, though warm, were not always acrimonious; but they
took sides.

A good many were not very clear as to their opinions.  Living both North
and South as they did, they saw various phases of the question and
divided their sympathies.  Some were of one conviction one day and of
another the next.  Samuel Clemens was of the less radical element.  He
knew there was a good deal to be said for either cause; furthermore, he
was not then bloodthirsty.  A pilot-house with its elevated position and
transparency seemed a poor place to be in when fighting was going on.

"I'll think about it," he said.  "I'm not very anxious to get up into a
glass perch and be shot at by either side.  I'll go home and reflect on
the matter."

He did not realize it, but he had made his last trip as a pilot.  It is
rather curious that his final brief note-book entry should begin with his
future nom de plume--a memorandum of soundings--"mark twain," and should
end with the words "no lead."

He went up the river as a passenger on a steamer named the Uncle Sam.
Zeb Leavenworth was one of the pilots, and Sam Clemens usually stood
watch with him.  They heard war-talk all the way and saw preparations,
but they were not molested, though at Memphis they basely escaped the
blockade.  At Cairo, Illinois, they saw soldiers drilling--troops later
commanded by Grant.  The Uncle Sam came steaming up toward St. Louis,
those on board congratulating themselves on having come through
unscathed.  They were not quite through, however.  Abreast of Jefferson
Barracks they suddenly heard the boom of a cannon and saw a great whorl
of smoke drifting in their direction.  They did not realize that it was a
signal--a thunderous halt--and kept straight on.  Less than a minute
later there was another boom, and a shell exploded directly in front of
the pilot-house, breaking a lot of glass and destroying a good deal of
the upper decoration.  Zeb Leavenworth fell back into a corner with a
yell.

"Good Lord Almighty!  Sam;" he said, "what do they mean by that?"

Clemens stepped to the wheel and brought the boat around.  "I guess they
want us to wait a minute, Zeb," he said.

They were examined and passed.  It was the last steamboat to make the
trip from New Orleans to St. Louis.  Mark Twain's pilot-days were over.
He would have grieved had he known this fact.

"I loved the profession far better than any I have followed since," he
long afterward declared, "and I took a measureless pride in it."

The dreamy, easy, romantic existence suited him exactly.  A sovereign and
an autocrat, the pilot's word was law; he wore his responsibilities as a
crown.  As long as he lived Samuel Clemens would return to those old days
with fondness and affection, and with regret that they were no more.




XXX

THE SOLDIER

Clemens spent a few days in St. Louis (in retirement, for there was a
pressing war demand for Mississippi pilots), then went up to Hannibal to
visit old friends.  They were glad enough to see him, and invited him to
join a company of gay military enthusiasts who were organizing to "help
Gov. 'Claib' Jackson repel the invader."  A good many companies were
forming in and about Hannibal, and sometimes purposes were conflicting
and badly mixed.  Some of the volunteers did not know for a time which
invader they intended to drive from Missouri soil, and more than one
company in the beginning was made up of young fellows whose chief
ambition was to have a lark regardless as to which cause they might
eventually espouse.

--[The military organizations of Hannibal and Palmyra, in 1861, were as
follows: The Marion Artillery; the Silver Grays; Palmyra Guards; the W.
E. Dennis company, and one or two others.  Most of them were small
private affairs, usually composed of about half-and-half Union and
Confederate men, who knew almost nothing of the questions or conditions,
and disbanded in a brief time, to attach themselves to the regular
service according as they developed convictions.  The general idea of
these companies was a little camping-out expedition and a good time.  One
such company one morning received unexpected reinforcements.  They saw
the approach of the recruits, and, remarking how well drilled the new
arrivals seemed to be, mistook them for the enemy and fled.]


Samuel Clemens had by this time decided, like Lee, that he would go with
his State and lead battalions to victory.  The "battalion" in this
instance consisted of a little squad of young fellows of his own age,
mostly pilots and schoolmates, including Sam Bowen, Ed Stevens, and Ab
Grimes, about a dozen, all told.  They organized secretly, for the Union
militia was likely to come over from Illinois any time and look up any
suspicious armies that made an open demonstration.  An army might lose
enthusiasm and prestige if it spent a night or two in the calaboose.

So they met in a secret place above Bear Creek Hill, just as Tom Sawyer's
red-handed bandits had gathered so long before (a good many of them were
of the same lawless lot), and they planned how they would sell their
lives on the field of glory, just as Tom Sawyer's band might have done if
it had thought about playing "War," instead of "Indian" and "Pirate" and
"Bandit" with fierce raids on peach orchards and melon patches.  Then, on
the evening before marching away, they stealthily called on their
sweethearts--those who had them did, and the others pretended sweethearts
for the occasion--and when it was dark and mysterious they said good-by
and suggested that maybe those girls would never see them again.  And as
always happens in such a case, some of them were in earnest, and two or
three of the little group that slipped away that night never did come
back, and somewhere sleep in unmarked graves.

The "two Sams"--Sam Bowen and Sam Clemens--called on Patty Gore and Julia
Willis for their good-by visit, and, when they left, invited the girls to
"walk through the pickets" with them, which they did as far as Bear Creek
Hill.  The girls didn't notice any pickets, because the pickets were away
calling on girls, too, and probably wouldn't be back to begin picketing
for some time.  So the girls stood there and watched the soldiers march
up Bear Creek Hill and disappear among the trees.

The army had a good enough time that night, marching through the brush
and vines toward New London, though this sort of thing grew rather
monotonous by morning.  When they took a look at themselves by daylight,
with their nondescript dress and accoutrements, there was some thing
about it all which appealed to one's sense of humor rather than to his
patriotism.  Colonel Ralls, of Ralls County, however, received them
cordially and made life happier for them with a good breakfast and some
encouraging words.  He was authorized to administer the oath of office,
he said, and he proceeded to do it, and made them a speech besides; also
he sent out notice to some of the neighbors--to Col. Bill Splawn, Farmer
Nuck Matson, and others--that the community had an army on its hands and
perhaps ought to do something for it.  This brought in a number of
contributions, provisions, paraphernalia, and certain superfluous horses
and mules, which converted the battalion into a cavalry, and made it
possible for it to move on to the front without further delay.  Samuel
Clemens, mounted on a small yellow mule whose tail had been trimmed down
to a tassel at the end in a style that suggested his name, Paint Brush,
upholstered and supplemented with an extra pair of cowskin boots, a pair
of gray blankets, a home-made quilt, frying-pan, a carpet sack, a small
valise, an overcoat, an old-fashioned Kentucky rifle, twenty yards of
rope, and an umbrella, was a representative unit of the brigade.  The
proper thing for an army loaded like that was to go into camp, and they
did it.  They went over on Salt River, near Florida, and camped not far
from a farm-house with a big log stable; the latter they used as
headquarters.  Somebody suggested that when they went into battle they
ought to have short hair, so that in a hand-to-hand conflict the enemy
could not get hold of it.  Tom Lyon found a pair of sheep-shears in the
stable and acted as barber.  They were not very sharp shears, but the
army stood the torture for glory in the field, and a group of little
darkies collected from the farm-house to enjoy the performance.  The army
then elected its officers.  William Ely was chosen captain, with Asa
Glasscock as first lieutenant.  Samuel Clemens was then voted second
lieutenant, and there were sergeants and orderlies.  There were only
three privates when the election was over, and these could not be
distinguished by their deportment.  There was scarcely any discipline in
this army.

Then it set in to rain.  It rained by day and it rained by night.  Salt
River rose until it was bank full and overflowed the bottoms.  Twice
there was a false night alarm of the enemy approaching, and the battalion
went slopping through the mud and brush into the dark, picking out the
best way to retreat, plodding miserably back to camp when the alarm was
over.  Once they fired a volley at a row of mullen stalks, waving on the
brow of a hill, and once a picket shot at his own horse that had got
loose and had wandered toward him in the dusk.

The rank and file did not care for picket duty.  Sam Bowen--ordered by
Lieutenant Clemens to go on guard one afternoon--denounced his superior
and had to be threatened with court-martial and death.  Sam went finally,
but he sat in a hot open place and swore at the battalion and the war in
general, and finally went to sleep in the broiling sun.  These things
began to tell on patriotism.  Presently Lieutenant Clemens developed a
boil, and was obliged to make himself comfortable with some hay in a
horse-trough, where he lay most of the day, violently denouncing the war
and the fools that invented it.  Then word came that "General" Tom
Harris, who was in command of the district, was stopping at a farmhouse
two miles away, living on the fat of the land.

That settled it.  Most of them knew Tom Harris, and they regarded his
neglect of them as perfidy.  They broke camp without further ceremony.

Lieutenant Clemens needed assistance to mount Paint Brush, and the little
mule refused to cross the river; so Ab Grimes took the coil of rope,
hitched one end of it to his own saddle and the other end to Paint
Brush's neck.  Grimes was mounted on a big horse, and when he started it
was necessary for Paint Brush to follow.  Arriving at the farther bank,
Grimes looked around, and was horrified to see that the end of the rope
led down in the water with no horse and rider in view.  He spurred up the
bank, and the hat of Lieutenant Clemens and the ears of Paint Brush
appeared.

"Ah," said Clemens, as he mopped his face, "do you know that little devil
waded all the way across?"

A little beyond the river they met General Harris, who ordered them back
to camp.  They admonished him to "go there himself."  They said they had
been in that camp and knew all about it.  They were going now where there
was food--real food and plenty of it.  Then he begged them, but it was no
use.  By and by they stopped at a farm-house for supplies.  A tall, bony
woman came to the door:

"You're secesh, ain't you?"

They acknowledged that they were defenders of the cause and that they
wanted to buy provisions.  The request seemed to inflame her.

"Provisions!" she screamed.  "Provisions for secesh, and my husband a
colonel in the Union Army.  You get out of here!"

She reached for a hickory hoop-pole that stood by the door, and the army
moved on.  When they arrived at Col. Bill Splawn's that night Colonel
Splawn and his family had gone to bed, and it seemed unwise to disturb
them.  The hungry army camped in the barnyard and crept into the hay-loft
to sleep.  Presently somebody yelled "Fire!" One of the boys had been
smoking and started the hay.  Lieutenant Clemens suddenly wakened, made a
quick rolling movement from the blaze, and rolled out of a big hay-window
into the barnyard below.  The rest of the army, startled into action,
seized the burning hay and pitched it out of the same window.  The
lieutenant had sprained his ankle when he struck the ground, and his boil
was far from well, but when the burning hay descended he forgot his
disabilities.  Literally and figuratively this was the final straw.  With
a voice and vigor suited to the urgencies of the case, he made a spring
from under the burning stuff, flung off the remnants, and with them his
last vestige of interest in the war.  The others, now that the fire was,
out, seemed to think the incident boisterously amusing.  Whereupon the
lieutenant rose up and told them, collectively and individually, what he
thought of them; also he spoke of the war and the Confederacy, and of the
human race at large.  They helped him in, then, for his ankle was
swelling badly.  Next morning, when Colonel Splawn had given them a good
breakfast, the army set out for New London.

But Lieutenant Clemens never got any farther than Nuck Matson's farm-
house.  His ankle was so painful by that time that Mrs. Matson had him
put to bed, where he stayed for several weeks, recovering from the injury
and stress of war.  A little negro boy was kept on watch for Union
detachments--they were passing pretty frequently now--and when one came
in sight the lieutenant was secluded until the danger passed.  When he
was able to travel, he had had enough of war and the Confederacy.  He
decided to visit Orion in Keokuk.  Orion was a Union abolitionist and
might lead him to mend his doctrines.

As for the rest of the army, it was no longer a unit in the field.  Its
members had drifted this way and that, some to return to their
occupations, some to continue in the trade of war.  Sam Bowen is said to
have been caught by the Federal troops and put to sawing wood in the
stockade at Hannibal.  Ab (A. C.) Grimes became a noted Confederate spy
and is still among those who have lived to furnish the details here set
down.  Properly officered and disciplined, that detachment would have
made as brave soldiers as any.  Military effectiveness is a matter of
leaders and tactics.

Mark Twain's own Private History of a 'Campaign that Failed' is, of
course, built on this episode.  He gives us a delicious account, even if
it does not strikingly resemble the occurrence.  The story might have
been still better if he had not introduced the shooting of the soldier in
the dark.  The incident was invented, of course, to present the real
horror of war, but it seems incongruous in this burlesque campaign, and,
to some extent at least, it missed fire in its intention.

--[In a book recently published, Mark Twain's "nephew" is quoted as
authority for the statement that Mark Twain was detailed for river duty,
captured, and paroled, captured again, and confined in a tobacco-
warehouse in St. Louis, etc.  Mark Twain had but one nephew: Samuel E.
Moffett, whose Biographical Sketch (vol. xxii, Mark Twain's Works)
contains no such statement; and nothing of the sort occurred.]




XXXI

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY

When Madame Caprell prophesied that Orion Clemens would hold office under
government, she must have seen with true clairvoyant vision.  The
inauguration of Abraham Lincoln brought Edward Bates into his Cabinet,
and Bates was Orion's friend.  Orion applied for something, and got it.
James W. Nye had been appointed Territorial governor of Nevada, and Orion
was made Territorial secretary.  You could strain a point and refer to
the office as "secretary of state," which was an imposing title.
Furthermore, the secretary would be acting governor in the governor's
absence, and there would be various subsidiary honors.  When Lieutenant
Clemens arrived in Keokuk, Orion was in the first flush of his triumph
and needed only money to carry him to the scene of new endeavor.  The
late lieutenant C. S. A.  had accumulated money out of his pilot salary,
and there was no comfortable place just then in the active Middle West
for an officer of either army who had voluntarily retired from the
service.  He agreed that if Orion would overlook his recent brief
defection from the Union and appoint him now as his (Orion's) secretary,
he would supply the funds for both overland passages, and they would
start with no unnecessary delay for a country so new that all human
beings, regardless of previous affiliations and convictions, were flung
into the common fusing-pot and recast in the general mold of pioneer.

The offer was a boon to Orion.  He was always eager to forgive, and the
money was vitally necessary.  In the briefest possible time he had packed
his belongings, which included a large unabridged dictionary, and the
brothers were on their way to St. Louis for final leave-taking before
setting out for the great mysterious land of promise--the Pacific West.
From St. Louis they took the boat for St. Jo, whence the Overland stage
started, and for six days "plodded" up the shallow, muddy, snaggy
Missouri, a new experience for the pilot of the Father of Waters.

     In fact, the boat might almost as well have gone to St. Jo by land,
     for she was walking most of the time, anyhow--climbing over reefs
     and clambering over snags patiently and laboriously all day long.
     The captain said she was a "bully" boat, and all she wanted was some
     "shear" and a bigger wheel.  I thought she wanted a pair of stilts,
     but I had the deep sagacity not to say so.'--['Roughing It'.]--

At St. Jo they paid one hundred and fifty dollars apiece for their stage
fare (with something extra for the dictionary), and on the twenty-sixth
of July, 1861, set out on that long, delightful trip behind sixteen
galloping horses--or mules--never stopping except for meals or to change
teams, heading steadily into the sunset, following it from horizon to
horizon over the billowy plains, across the snow-clad Rockies, covering
the seventeen hundred miles between St. Jo and Carson City (including a
two-day halt in Salt Lake City) in nineteen glorious days.  What an
inspiration in such a trip!  In 'Roughing It' he tells it all, and says:
"Even at this day it thrills me through and through to think of the life,
the gladness, and the wild sense of freedom that used to make the blood
dance in my face on those fine Overland mornings."

The nights, with the uneven mail-bags for a bed and the bounding
dictionary for company, were less exhilarating; but then youth does not
mind.

     All things being now ready, stowed the uneasy dictionary where it
     would lie as quiet as possible, and placed the water-canteen and
     pistols where we could find them in the dark.  Then we smoked a
     final pipe and swapped a final yarn; after which we put the pipes,
     tobacco, and bag of coin in snug holes and caves among the mail-
     bags, and made the place as dark as the inside of a cow, as the
     conductor phrased it in his picturesque way.  It was certainly as
     dark as any place could be--nothing was even dimly visible in it.
     And finally we rolled ourselves up like silkworms, each person in
     his own blanket, and sank peacefully to sleep.

Youth loves that sort of thing, despite its inconvenience.  And sometimes
the clatter of the pony-rider swept by in the night, carrying letters at
five dollars apiece and making the Overland trip in eight days; just a
quick beat of hoofs in the distance, a dash, and a hail from the
darkness, the beat of hoofs again, then only the rumble of the stage and
the even, swinging gallop of the mules.  Sometimes they got a glimpse of
the ponyrider by day--a flash, as it were, as he sped by.  And every
morning brought new scenery, new phases of frontier life, including, at
last, what was to them the strangest phase of all, Mormonism.

They spent two wonderful days at Salt Lake City, that mysterious and
remote capital of the great American monarchy, who still flaunts her
lawless, orthodox creed the religion of David and Solomon--and thrives.
An obliging official made it his business to show them the city and the
life there, the result of which would be those amusing chapters in
'Roughing It' by and by.  The Overland travelers set out refreshed from
Salt Lake City, and with a new supply of delicacies--ham, eggs, and
tobacco--things that make such a trip worth while.  The author of
'Roughing It' assures us of this:

     Nothing helps scenery like ham and eggs.  Ham and eggs, and after
     these a pipe--an old, rank, delicious pipe--ham and eggs and
     scenery, a "down-grade," a flying coach, a fragrant pipe, and a
     contented heart--these make happiness.  It is what all the ages have
     struggled for.

But one must read all the story of that long-ago trip.  It was a trip so
well worth taking, so well worth recording, so well worth reading and
rereading to-day.  We can only read of it now.  The Overland stage long
ago made its last trip, and will not start any more.  Even if it did, the
life and conditions, the very scenery itself, would not be the same.




XXXII

THE PIONEER

It was a hot, dusty August 14th that the stage reached Carson City and
drew up before the Ormsby Hotel.  It was known that the Territorial
secretary was due to arrive; and something in the nature of a reception,
with refreshments and frontier hospitality, had been planned.  Governor
Nye, formerly police commissioner in New York City, had arrived a short
time before, and with his party of retainers ("heelers" we would call
them now), had made an imposing entrance.  Perhaps something of the sort
was expected with the advent of the secretary of state.  Instead, the
committee saw two way-worn individuals climb down from the stage,
unkempt, unshorn--clothed in the roughest of frontier costume, the same
they had put on at St. Jo--dusty, grimy, slouchy, and weather-beaten with
long days of sun and storm and alkali desert dust.  It is not likely
there were two more unprepossessing officials on the Pacific coast at
that moment than the newly arrived Territorial secretary and his brother:
Somebody identified them, and the committee melted away; the half-formed
plan of a banquet faded out and was not heard of again.  Soap and water
and fresh garments worked a transformation; but that first impression had
been fatal to festivities of welcome.

Carson City, the capital of Nevada, was a "wooden town," with a
population of two thousand souls.  Its main street consisted of a few
blocks of small frame stores, some of which are still standing.  In
'Roughing It' the author writes:

     In the middle of the town, opposite the stores, was a "Plaza," which
     is native to all towns beyond the Rocky Mountains, a large,
     unfenced, level vacancy with a Liberty Pole in it, and very useful
     as a place for public auctions, horse trades, and mass-meetings, and
     likewise for teamsters to camp in.  Two other sides of the Plaza
     were faced by stores, offices, and stables.  The rest of Carson City
     was pretty scattering.

One sees the place pretty clearly from this brief picture of his, but it
requires an extract from a letter written to his mother somewhat later to
populate it.  The mineral excitement was at its height in those days of
the early sixties, and had brought together such a congress of nations as
only the greed for precious metal can assemble.  The sidewalks and
streets of Carson, and the Plaza, thronged all day with a motley
aggregation--a museum of races, which it was an education merely to gaze
upon.  Jane Clemens had required him to write everything just as it was--
"no better and no worse."

     Well--[he says]--,"Gold Hill" sells at $5,000 per foot, cash down;
     "Wild Cat" isn't worth ten cents.  The country is fabulously rich in
     gold, silver, copper, lead, coal, iron, quicksilver, marble,
     granite, chalk, plaster of Paris (gypsum), thieves, murderers,
     desperadoes, ladies, children, lawyers, Christians, Indians,
     Chinamen, Spaniards, gamblers, sharpens; coyotes (pronounced ki-yo-
     ties), poets, preachers, and jackass rabbits.  I overheard a
     gentleman say, the other day, that it was "the d---dest country
     under the sun," and that comprehensive conception I fully subscribe
     to.  It never rains here, and the dew never falls.  No flowers grow
     here, and no green thing gladdens the eye.  The birds that fly over
     the land carry their provisions with them.  Only the crow and the
     raven tarry with us.  Our city lies in the midst of a desert of the
     purest, most unadulterated and uncompromising sand, in which
     infernal soil nothing but that fag-end of vegetable creation, "sage-
     brush," ventures to grow. .  .  .  I said we are situated in a flat,
     sandy desert--true.  And surrounded on all sides by such prodigious
     mountains that when you look disdainfully down (from them) upon the
     insignificant village of Carson, in that instant you are seized with
     a burning desire to stretch forth your hand, put the city in your
     pocket, and walk off with it.

     As to churches, I believe they have got a Catholic one here, but,
     like that one the New York fireman spoke of, I believe "they don't
     run her now."

Carson has been through several phases of change since this was written--
for better and for worse.  It is a thriving place in these later days,
and new farming conditions have improved the country roundabout.  But it
was a desert outpost then, a catch-all for the human drift which every
whirlwind of discovery sweeps along.  Gold and silver hunting and mine
speculations were the industries--gambling, drinking, and murder were the
diversions--of the Nevada capital.  Politics developed in due course,
though whether as a business or a diversion is not clear at this time.

The Clemens brothers took lodging with a genial Irishwoman, Mrs. Murphy,
a New York retainer of Governor Nye, who boarded the camp-followers.--
[The Mrs, O'Flannigan of 'Roughing It'.]--This retinue had come in the
hope of Territorial pickings and mine adventure--soldiers of fortune they
were, and a good-natured lot all together.  One of them, Bob Howland, a
nephew of the governor, attracted Samuel Clemens by his clean-cut manner
and commanding eye.

"The man who has that eye doesn't need to go armed," he wrote later.  "He
can move upon an armed desperado and quell him and take him a prisoner
without saying a single word."  It was the same Bob Howland who would be
known by and by as the most fearless man in the Territory; who, as city
marshal of Aurora, kept that lawless camp in subjection, and, when the
friends of a lot of condemned outlaws were threatening an attack with
general massacre, sent the famous message to Governor Nye:  "All quiet in
Aurora.  Five men will be hung in an hour."  And it was quiet, and the
programme was carried out.  But this is a digression and somewhat
premature.

Orion Clemens, anxious for laurels, established himself in the meager
fashion which he thought the government would approve; and his brother,
finding neither duties nor salary attached to his secondary position,
devoted himself mainly to the study of human nature as exhibited under
frontier conditions.  Sometimes, when the nights were cool, he would
build a fire in the office stove, and, with Bob Howland and a few other
choice members of the "Brigade" gathered around, would tell river yarns
in that inimitable fashion which would win him devoted audiences all his
days.  His river life had increased his natural languor of habit, and his
slow speech heightened the lazy impression which he was never unwilling
to convey.  His hearers generally regarded him as an easygoing, indolent
good fellow with a love of humor--with talent, perhaps--but as one not
likely ever to set the world afire.  They did not happen to think that
the same inclination which made them crowd about to listen and applaud
would one day win for him the attention of all mankind.

Within a brief time Sam Clemens (he was never known as otherwise than
"Sam" among those pioneers) was about the most conspicuous figure on the
Carson streets.  His great bushy head of auburn hair, his piercing,
twinkling eyes, his loose, lounging walk, his careless disorder of dress,
drew the immediate attention even of strangers; made them turn to look a
second time and then inquire as to his identity.

He had quickly adapted himself to the frontier mode.  Lately a river
sovereign and dandy, in fancy percales and patent leathers, he had become
the roughest of rough-clad pioneers, in rusty slouch hat, flannel shirt,
coarse trousers slopping half in and half out of the heavy cowskin boots
Always something of a barbarian in love with the loose habit of
unconvention, he went even further than others and became a sort of
paragon of disarray.  The more energetic citizens of Carson did not
prophesy much for his future among them.  Orion Clemens, with the stir
and bustle of the official new broom, earned their quick respect; but his
brother--well, they often saw him leaning for an hour or more at a time
against an awning support at the corner of King and Carson streets,
smoking a short clay pipe and staring drowsily at the human kaleidoscope
of the Plaza, scarcely changing his position, just watching, studying,
lost in contemplation--all of which was harmless enough, of course, but
how could any one ever get a return out of employment like that?

Samuel Clemens did not catch the mining fever immediately; there was too
much to see at first to consider any special undertaking.  The mere
coming to the frontier was for the present enough; he had no plans.  His
chief purpose was to see the world beyond the Rockies, to derive from it
such amusement and profit as might fall in his way.  The war would end,
by and by, and he would go back to the river, no doubt.  He was already
not far from homesick for the "States" and his associations there.  He
closed one letter:

     I heard a military band play "What Are the Wild Waves Saying" the
     other night, and it brought Ella Creel and Belle (Stotts) across the
     desert in an instant, for they sang the song in Orion's yard the
     first time I ever heard it.  It was like meeting an old friend.  I
     tell you I could have swallowed that whole band, trombone and all,
     if such a compliment would have been any gratification to them.

His friends contracted the mining mania; Bob Howland and Raish Phillips
went down to Aurora and acquired "feet" in mini-claims and wrote him
enthusiastic letters.  With Captain Nye, the governor's brother, he
visited them and was presented with an interest which permitted him to
contribute an assessment every now and then toward the development of the
mine; but his enthusiasm still languished.

He was interested more in the native riches above ground than in those
concealed under it.  He had heard that the timber around Lake Bigler
(Tahoe) promised vast wealth which could be had for the asking.  The lake
itself and the adjacent mountains were said to be beautiful beyond the
dream of art.  He decided to locate a timber claim on its shores.

He made the trip afoot with a young Ohio lad, John Kinney, and the
account of this trip as set down in 'Roughing It' is one of the best
things in the book.  The lake proved all they had expected--more than
they expected; it was a veritable habitation of the gods, with its
delicious, winy atmosphere, its vast colonnades of pines, its measureless
depths of water, so clear that to drift on it was like floating high
aloft in mid-nothingness.  They staked out a timber claim and made a
semblance of fencing it and of building a habitation, to comply with the
law; but their chief employment was a complete abandonment to the quiet
luxury of that dim solitude: wandering among the trees, lounging along
the shore, or drifting on that transparent, insubstantial sea.  They did
not sleep in their house, he says:

"It never occurred to us, for one thing; and, besides, it was built to
hold the ground, and that was enough.  We did not wish to strain it."

They lived by their camp-fire on the borders of the lake, and one day--it
was just at nightfall--it got away from them, fired the forest, and
destroyed their fence and habitation.  His picture in 'Roughing It' of
the superb night spectacle, the mighty mountain conflagration reflected
in the waters of the lake, is splendidly vivid.  The reader may wish to
compare it with this extract from a letter written to Pamela at the time.

     The level ranks of flame were relieved at intervals by the standard-
     bearers, as we called the tall, dead trees, wrapped in fire, and
     waving their blazing banners a hundred feet in the air.  Then we
     could turn from the scene to the lake, and see every branch and leaf
     and cataract of flame upon its banks perfectly reflected, as in a
     gleaming, fiery mirror.  The mighty roaring of the conflagration,
     together with our solitary and somewhat unsafe position (for there
     was no one within six miles of us), rendered the scene very
     impressive.  Occasionally one of us would remove his pipe from his
     mouth and say, "Superb, magnificent!--beautifull--but--by the Lord
     God Almighty, if we attempt to sleep in this little patch to-night,
     we'll never live till morning!"

This is good writing too, but it lacks the fancy and the choice of
phrasing which would develop later.  The fire ended their first excursion
to Tahoe, but they made others and located other claims--claims in which
the "folks at home, "Mr. Moffett, James Lampton, and others, were
included.  It was the same James Lampton who would one day serve as a
model for Colonel Sellers.  Evidently Samuel Clemens had a good opinion
of his business capacity in that earlier day, for he writes:

     This is just the country for cousin Jim to live in.  I don't believe
     it would take him six months to make $100,000 here if he had $3,000
     to commence with.  I suppose he can't leave his family, though.

Further along in the same letter his own overflowing Seller's optimism
develops.

     Orion and I have confidence enough in this country to think that if
     the war lets us alone we can make Mr. Moffett rich without its ever
     costing him a cent or a particle of trouble.

This letter bears date of October 25th, and from it we gather that a
certain interest in mining claims had by this time developed.

     We have got about 1,650 feet of mining ground, and, if it proves
     good, Mr. Moffett's name will go in, and if not I can get "feet" for
     him in the spring.

     You see, Pamela, the trouble does not consist in getting mining
     ground--for there is plenty enough--but the money to work it with
     after you get it.

He refers to Pamela's two little children, his niece Annie and Baby Sam,
--[Samuel E. Moffett, in later life a well-known journalist and editor.]
--and promises to enter claims for them--timber claims probably--for he
was by no means sanguine as yet concerning the mines.  That was a long
time ago.  Tahoe land is sold by the lot, now, to summer residents.
Those claims would have been riches to-day, but they were all abandoned
presently, forgotten in the delirium which goes only with the pursuit of
precious ores.





XXXIII

THE PROSPECTOR

It was not until early winter that Samuel Clemens got the real mining
infection.  Everybody had it by that time; the miracle is that he had not
fallen an earlier victim.  The wildest stories of sudden fortune were in
the air, some of them undoubtedly true.  Men had gone to bed paupers, on
the verge of starvation, and awakened to find themselves millionaires.
Others had sold for a song claims that had been suddenly found to be
fairly stuffed with precious ores.  Cart-loads of bricks--silver and
gold--daily drove through the streets.

In the midst of these things reports came from the newly opened Humboldt
region--flamed up with a radiance that was fairly blinding.  The papers
declared that Humboldt County "was the richest mineral region on God's
footstool."  The mountains were said to be literally bursting with gold
and silver.  A correspondent of the daily Territorial Enterprise fairly
wallowed in rhetoric, yet found words inadequate to paint the measureless
wealth of the Humboldt mines.  No wonder those not already mad speedily
became so.  No wonder Samuel Clemens, with his natural tendency to
speculative optimism, yielded to the epidemic and became as "frenzied as
the craziest."  The air to him suddenly began to shimmer; all his
thoughts were of "leads" and "ledges" and "veins"; all his clouds had
silver linings; all his dreams were of gold.  He joined an expedition at
once; he reproached himself bitterly for not having started earlier.

     Hurry was the word!  We wasted no time.  Our party consisted of four
     persons--a blacksmith sixty years of age, two young lawyers, and
     myself.  We bought a wagon and two miserable old horses.  We put
     1,800 pounds of provisions and mining tools in the wagon and drove
     out of Carson on a chilly December afternoon.

In a letter to his mother he states that besides provisions and mining
tools, their load consisted of certain luxuries viz., ten pounds of
killikinick, Watts's Hymns, fourteen decks of cards, Dombey and Son, a
cribbage-board, one small keg of lager-beer, and the "Carmina Sacra."

The two young lawyers were A. W.(Gus) Oliver (Oliphant in 'Roughing It'),
and W. H. Clagget.  Sam Clemens had known Billy Clagget as a law student
in Keokuk, and they were brought together now by this association.  Both
Clagget and Oliver were promising young men, and would be heard from in
time.  The blacksmith's name was Tillou (Ballou), a sturdy, honest soul
with a useful knowledge of mining and the repair of tools.  There were
also two dogs in the party--a small curly-tailed mongrel, Curney, the
property of Mr. Tillou, and a young hound.  The combination seemed a
strong one.

It proved a weak one in the matter of horses.  Oliver and Clemens had
furnished the team, and their selection had not been of the best.  It was
two hundred miles to Humboldt, mostly across sand.  The horses could not
drag their load and the miners too, so the miners got out.  Then they
found it necessary to push.

     Not because we were fond of it, Ma--oh, no! but on Bunker's account.
     Bunker was the "near" horse on the larboard side, named after the
     attorney-general of this Territory.  My horse--and I am sorry you do
     not know him personally, Ma, for I feel toward him, sometimes, as if
     he were a blood relation of our family--he is so lazy, you know--my
     horse--I was going to say, was the "off" horse on the starboard
     side.  But it was on Bunker's account, principally, that we pushed
     behind the wagon.  In fact, Ma, that horse had something on his mind
     all the way to Humboldt.--[S. L. C.  to his mother.  Published in
     the Keokuk (Iowa) Gate city.]--

So they had to push, and most of that two hundred miles through snow and
sand storm they continued to push and swear and groan, sustained only by
the thought that they must arrive at last, when their troubles would all
be at an end, for they would be millionaires in a brief time and never
know want or fatigue any more.

There were compensations: the camp-fire at night was cheerful, the food
satisfying.  They bundled close under the blankets and, when it was too
cold to sleep, looked up at the stars, while the future entertainer of
kings would spin yarn after yarn that made his hearers forget their
discomforts.  Judge Oliver, the last one of the party alive, in a recent
letter to the writer of this history, says:

     He was the life of the camp; but sometimes there would come a
     reaction and he could hardly speak for a day or two.  One day a pack
     of wolves chased us, and the hound Sam speaks of never stopped to
     look back till he reached the next station, many miles ahead.

Judge Oliver adds that an Indian war had just ended, and that they
occasionally passed the charred ruin of a shack, and new graves: This was
disturbing enough.  Then they came to that desolation of desolations, the
Alkali Desert, where the sand is of unknown depth, where the road is
strewn thickly with the carcasses of dead beasts of burden, the charred
remains of wagons, chains, bolts, and screws, which thirsty emigrants,
grown desperate, have thrown away in the grand hope of being able, when
less encumbered, to reach water.

They traveled all day and night, pushing through that fierce, waterless
waste to reach camp on the other side.  It was three o'clock in the
morning when they got across and dropped down utterly exhausted.  Judge
Oliver in his letter tells what happened then:

     The sun was high in the heavens when we were aroused from our sleep
     by a yelling band of Piute warriors.  We were upon our feet in an
     instant.  The pictures of burning cabins and the lonely graves we
     had passed were in our minds.  Our scalps were still our own, and
     not dangling from the belts of our visitors.  Sam pulled himself
     together, put his hand on his head as if to make sure he had not
     been scalped, and then with his inimitable drawl said: "Boys, they
     have left us our scalps.  Let's give them all the flour and sugar
     they ask for."  And we did give them a good supply, for we were
     grateful.

They were eleven weary days pushing their wagon and team the two hundred
miles to Unionville, Humboldt County, arriving at last in a driving snow-
storm.  Unionville consisted of eleven poor cabins built in the bottom of
a canon, five on one side and six facing them on the other.  They were
poor, three-sided, one-room huts, the fourth side formed by the hill; the
roof, a spread of white cotton.  Stones used to roll down on them
sometimes, and Mark Twain tells of live stock--specifically of a mule and
cow--that interrupted the patient, long-suffering Oliver, who was trying
to write poetry, and only complained when at last "an entire cow came
rolling down the hill, crashed through on the table, and made a shapeless
wreck of everything."--['The Innocents Abroad.']

Judge Oliver still does not complain; but he denies the cow.  He says
there were no cows in Humboldt in those days, so perhaps it was only a
literary cow, though in any case it will long survive.  Judge Oliver's
name will go down with it to posterity.

In the letter which Samuel Clemens wrote home he tells of what they found
in Unionville.

     "National" there was selling at $50 per foot and assayed $2,496 per
     ton at the mint in San Francisco.  And the "Alda Nueva," "Peru,"
     "Delirio," "Congress," "Independent," and others were immensely rich
     leads.  And moreover, having winning ways with us, we could get
     "feet" enough to make us all rich one of these days.

"I confess with shame," says the author of 'Roughing It', "that I
expected to find masses of silver lying all about the ground."  And he
adds that he slipped away from the cabin to find a claim on his own
account, and tells how he came staggering back under a load of golden
specimens; also how his specimens proved to be only worthless mica; and
how he learned that in mining nothing that glitters is gold.  His account
in 'Roughing It' of the Humboldt mining experience is sufficiently good
history to make detail here unnecessary.  Tillou instructed them in
prospecting, and in time they located a fairly promising claim.  They
went to work on it with pick and shovel, then with drill and blasting-
powder.  Then they gave it up

"One week of this satisfied me.  I resigned."

They tried to tunnel, but soon resigned again.  It was pleasanter to
prospect and locate and trade claims and acquire feet in every new ledge
than it was to dig-and about as profitable.  The golden reports of
Humboldt had been based on assays of selected rich specimens, and were
mainly delirium and insanity.  The Clemens-Clagget-Oliver-Tillou
combination never touched their claims again with pick and shovel, though
their faith, or at least their hope, in them did not immediately die.
Billy Clagget put out his shingle as notary public, and Gus Oliver put
out his as probate judge.  Sam Clemens and Tillou, with a fat-witted,
arrogant Prussian named Pfersdoff (Ollendorf) set out for Carson City.
It is not certain what became of the wagon and team, or of the two dogs.

The Carson travelers were water-bound at a tavern on the Carson River
(the scene of the "Arkansas" sketch), with a fighting, drinking lot.
Pfersdoff got them nearly drowned getting away, and finally succeeded in
getting them absolutely lost in the snow.  The author of 'Roughing It'
tells us how they gave themselves up to die, and how each swore off
whatever he had in the way of an evil habit, how they cast their
tempters-tobacco, cards, and whisky-into the snow.  He further tells us
how next morning, when they woke to find themselves alive, within a few
rods of a hostelry, they surreptitiously dug up those things again and,
deep in shame and luxury, resumed their fallen ways: It was the 29th of
January when they reached Carson City.  They had been gone not quite two
months, one of which had been spent in travel.  It was a brief period,
but it contained an episode, and it seemed like years.




XXXIV

TERRITORIAL CHARACTERISTICS

Meantime, the Territorial secretary had found difficulties in launching
the ship of state.  There was no legislative hall in Carson City; and if
Abram Curry, one of the original owners of the celebrated Gould and Curry
mine--"Curry--old Curry--old Abe Curry," as he called himself--had not
tendered the use of a hall rent free, the first legislature would have
been obliged to "sit in the desert."  Furthermore, Orion had met with
certain acute troubles of his own.  The government at Washington had not
appreciated his economies in the matter of cheap office rental, and it
had stipulated the price which he was to pay for public printing and
various other services-prices fixed according to Eastern standards.
These prices did not obtain in Nevada, and when Orion, confident that
because of his other economies the comptroller would stretch a point and
allow the increased frontier tariff, he was met with the usual thick-
headed official lack of imagination, with the result that the excess paid
was deducted from his slender salary.  With a man of less conscience this
condition would easily have been offset by another wherein other rates,
less arbitrary, would have been adjusted to negotiate the official
deficit.  With Orion Clemens such a remedy was not even considered;
yielding, unstable, blown by every wind of influence though he was,
Orion's integrity was a rock.

Governor Nye was among those who presently made this discovery.  Old
politician that he was--former police commissioner of New York City--Nye
took care of his own problems in the customary manner.  To him, politics
was simply a game--to be played to win.  He was a popular, jovial man,
well liked and thought of, but he did not lie awake, as Orion did,
planning economies for the government, or how to make up excess charges
out of his salary.  To him Nevada was simply a doorway to the United
States Senate, and in the mean time his brigade required official
recognition and perquisites.  The governor found Orion Clemens an
impediment to this policy.  Orion could not be brought to a proper
political understanding of "special bills and accounts," and relations
between the secretary of state and the governor were becoming strained.

It was about this time that the man who had been potentate of the pilot-
house of a Mississippi River steamer returned from Humboldt.  He was fond
of the governor, but he had still higher regard for the family integrity.
When he had heard Orion's troubled story, he called on Governor Nye and
delivered himself in his own fashion.  In his former employments he had
acquired a vocabulary and moral backbone sufficient to his needs.  We may
regret that no stenographic report was made of the interview.  It would
be priceless now.  But it is lost; we only know that Orion's rectitude
was not again assailed, and that curiously enough Governor Nye apparently
conceived a strong admiration and respect for his brother.

Samuel Clemens, miner, remained but a brief time in Carson City--only
long enough to arrange for a new and more persistent venture.  He did not
confess his Humboldt failure to his people; in fact, he had not as yet
confessed it to himself; his avowed purpose was to return to Humboldt
after a brief investigation of the Esmeralda mines.  He had been paying
heavy assessments on his holdings there; and, with a knowledge of mining
gained at Unionville, he felt that his personal attention at Aurora might
be important.  As a matter of fact, he was by this time fairly daft on
the subject of mines and mining, with the rest of the community for
company.

His earlier praises of the wonders and climate of Tahoe had inspired his
sister Pamela, always frail, with a desire to visit that health-giving
land.  Perhaps he felt that he recommended the country somewhat too
highly.

"By George, Pamela," he said, "I begin to fear that I have invoked a
spirit of some kind or other, which I will find more than difficult to
allay."  He proceeds to recommend California as a residence for any or
all of them, but he is clearly doubtful concerning Nevada.

     Some people are malicious enough to think that if the devil were set
     at liberty and told to confine himself to Nevada Territory, he would
     come here and look sadly around awhile, and then get homesick and go
     back to hell again ....  Why, I have had my whiskers and mustaches
     so full of alkali dust that you'd have thought I worked in a starch
     factory and boarded in a flour barrel.

But then he can no longer restrain his youth and optimism.  How could he,
with a fortune so plainly in view?  It was already in his grasp in
imagination; he was on the way home with it.

     I expect to return to St. Louis in July--per steamer.  I don't say
     that I will return then, or that I shall be able to do it--but I
     expect to--you bet.  I came down here from Humboldt, in order to
     look after our Esmeralda interests.  Yesterday, Bob Howland arrived
     here, and I have had a talk with him.  He owns with me in the
     "Horatio and Derby" ledge.  He says our tunnel is in 52 feet, and a
     small stream of water has been struck, which bids fair to become a
     "big thing" by the time the ledge is reached--sufficient to supply a
     mill.  Now, if you knew anything of the value of water here, you
     would perceive at a glance that if the water should amount to 50 or
     100 inches, we wouldn't care whether school kept or not.  If the
     ledge should prove to be worthless, we'd sell the water for money
     enough to give us quite a lift.  But, you see, the ledge will not
     prove to be worthless.  We have located, near by, a fine site for a
     mill, and when we strike the ledge, you know, we'll have a mill-
     site, water-power, and payrock, all handy.  Then we sha'n't care
     whether we have capital or not.  Mill folks will build us a mill,
     and wait for their pay.  If nothing goes wrong, we'll strike the
     ledge in June--and if we do, I'll be home in July, you know.

He pauses at this point for a paragraph of self-analysis--characteristic
and crystal-clear.

     So, just keep your clothes on, Pamela, until I come.  Don't you know
     that undemonstrated human calculations won't do to bet on?  Don't
     you know that I have only talked, as yet, but proved nothing?  Don't
     you know that I have expended money in this country but have made
     none myself?  Don't you know that I have never held in my hands a
     gold or silver bar that belonged to me?  Don't you know that it's
     all talk and no cider so far?  Don't you know that people who always
     feel jolly, no matter where they are or what happens to them--who
     have the organ of Hope preposterously developed--who are endowed
     with an unconcealable sanguine temperament--who never feel concerned
     about the price of corn--and who cannot, by any possibility,
     discover any but the bright side of a picture--are very apt to go to
     extremes and exaggerate with 40-horse microscopic power?

                              But-but
                    In the bright lexicon of youth,
                    There is no such word as Fail--
                         and I'll prove it!

Whereupon, he lets himself go again, full-tilt:

     By George, if I just had a thousand dollars I'd be all right!  Now
     there's the "Horatio," for instance.  There are five or six
     shareholders in it, and I know I could buy half of their interests
     at, say $20 per foot, now that flour is worth $50 per barrel and
     they are pressed for money, but I am hard up myself, and can't buy--
     and in June they'll strike the ledge, and then "good-by canary."  I
     can't get it for love or money.  Twenty dollars a foot!  Think of
     it!  For ground that is proven to be rich.  Twenty dollars, Madam-
     and we wouldn't part with a foot of our 75 for five times the sum.
     So it will be in Humboldt next summer.  The boys will get pushed and
     sell ground for a song that is worth a fortune.  But I am at the
     helm now.  I have convinced Orion that he hasn't business talent
     enough to carry on a peanut-stand, and he has solemnly promised me
     that he will meddle no more with mining or other matters not
     connected with the secretary's office.  So, you see, if mines are to
     be bought or sold, or tunnels run or shafts sunk, parties have to
     come to me--and me only.  I'm the "firm," you know.

There are pages of this, all glowing with golden expectations and plans.
Ah, well!  we have all written such letters home at one time and another-
of gold-mines of one form or another.

He closes at last with a bit of pleasantry for his mother.

     Ma says: "It looks like a man can't hold public office and be
     honest."  Why, certainly not, Madam.  A man can't hold public office
     and be honest.  Lord bless you, it is a common practice with Orion
     to go about town stealing little things that happen to be lying
     around loose.  And I don't remember having heard him speak the truth
     since we have been in Nevada.  He even tries to prevail upon me to
     do these things, Ma, but I wasn't brought up in that way, you know.
     You showed the public what you could do in that line when you raised
     me, Madam.  But then you ought to have raised me first, so that
     Orion could have had the benefit of my example.  Do you know that he
     stole all the stamps out of an 8-stamp quartz-mill one night, and
     brought them home under his overcoat and hid them in the back room?




XXXV

THE MINER

He had about exhausted his own funds by this time, and it was necessary
that Orion should become the financier.  The brothers owned their
Esmeralda claims in partnership, and it was agreed that Orion, out of his
modest depleted pay, should furnish the means, while the other would go
actively into the field and develop their riches.  Neither had the
slightest doubt but that they would be millionaires presently, and both
were willing to struggle and starve for the few intervening weeks.

It was February when the printer-pilot-miner arrived in Aurora, that
rough, turbulent camp of the Esmeralda district lying about one hundred
miles south of Carson City, on the edge of California, in the Sierra
slopes.  Everything was frozen and covered with snow; but there was no
lack of excitement and prospecting and grabbing for "feet" in this ledge
and that, buried deep under the ice and drift.  The new arrival camped
with Horatio Phillips (Raish), in a tiny cabin with a domestic roof (the
ruin of it still stands), and they cooked and bunked together and
combined their resources in a common fund.  Bob Howland joined them
presently, and later an experienced miner, Calvin H. Higbie (Cal), one
day to be immortalized in the story of 'Roughing It' and in the
dedication of that book.  Around the cabin stove they would gather, and
paw over their specimens, or test them with blow-pipe and "horn" spoon,
after which they would plan tunnels and figure estimates of prospective
wealth.  Never mind if the food was poor and scanty, and the chill wind
came in everywhere, and the roof leaked like a filter; they were living
in a land where all the mountains were banked with nuggets, where all the
rivers ran gold.  Bob Howland declared later that they used to go out at
night and gather up empty champagne-bottles and fruit-tins and pile them
in the rear of their cabin to convey to others the appearance of
affluence and high living.  When they lacked for other employment and
were likely to be discouraged, the ex-pilot would "ride the bunk" and
smoke and, without money and without price, distribute riches more
valuable than any they would ever dig out of those Esmeralda Hills.  At
other times he talked little or not at all, but sat in one corner and
wrote, wholly oblivious of his surroundings.  They thought he was writing
letters, though letters were not many and only to Orion during this
period.  It was the old literary impulse stirring again, the desire to
set things down for their own sake, the natural hunger for print.  One or
two of his earlier letters home had found their way into a Keokuk paper--
the 'Gate City'.  Copies containing them had gone back to Orion, who had
shown them to a representative of the Territorial Enterprise, a young man
named Barstow, who thought them amusing.  The Enterprise reprinted at
least one of these letters, or portions of it, and with this
encouragement the author of it sent an occasional contribution direct to
that paper over the pen-name "Josh."  He did not care to sign his own
name.  He was a miner who was soon to be a magnate; he had no desire to
be known as a camp scribbler.

He received no pay for these offerings, and expected none.  They were
sketches of a broadly burlesque sort, the robust horse-play kind of humor
that belongs to the frontier.  They were not especially promising
efforts.  One of them was about an old rackabones of a horse, a sort of
preliminary study for "Oahu," of the Sandwich Islands, or "Baalbec" and
"Jericho," of Syria.  If any one had told him, or had told any reader of
this sketch, that the author of it was knocking at the door of the house
of fame such a person's judgment or sincerity would have been open to
doubt.  Nevertheless, it was true, though the knock was timid and halting
and the summons to cross the threshold long delayed.

A winter mining-camp is the most bleak and comfortless of places.  The
saloon and gambling-house furnished the only real warmth and cheer.  Our
Aurora miners would have been less than human, or more, if they had not
found diversion now and then in the happy harbors of sin.  Once there was
a great ball given at a newly opened pavilion, and Sam Clemens is said to
have distinguished himself by his unrestrained and spontaneous enjoyment
of the tripping harmony.  Cal Higbie, who was present, writes:

     In changing partners, whenever he saw a hand raised he would grasp
     it with great pleasure and sail off into another set, oblivious to
     his surroundings.  Sometimes he would act as though there was no use
     in trying to go right or to dance like other people, and with his
     eyes closed he would do a hoe-down or a double-shuffle all alone,
     talking to himself and saying that he never dreamed there was so
     much pleasure to be obtained at a ball.  It was all as natural as a
     child's play.  By the second set, all the ladies were falling over
     themselves to get him for a partner, and most of the crowd, too full
     of mirth to dance, were standing or sitting around, dying with
     laughter.

What a child he always was--always, to the very end?  With the first
break of winter the excitement that had been fermenting and stewing
around camp stoves overflowed into the streets, washed up the gullies,
and assailed the hills.  There came then a period of madness, beside
which the Humboldt excitement had been mere intoxication.  Higbie says:

     It was amazing how wild the people became all over the Pacific
     coast.  In San Francisco and other large cities barbers, hack-
     drivers, servant-girls, merchants, and nearly every class of people
     would club together and send agents representing all the way from
     $5,000 to $500,000 or more to buy mines.  They would buy anything.
     in the shape of quartz, whether it contained any mineral value or
     not.

The letters which went from the Aurora miner to Orion are humanly
documentary.  They are likely to be staccato in their movement; they show
nervous haste in their composition, eagerness, and suppressed excitement;
they are not always coherent; they are seldom humorous, except in a
savage way; they are often profane; they are likely to be violent.  Even
the handwriting has a terse look; the flourish of youth has gone out of
it.  Altogether they reveal the tense anxiety of the gambling mania of
which mining is the ultimate form.  An extract from a letter of April is
a fair exhibit:

     Work not yet begun on the "Horatio and Derby"--haven't seen it yet.
     It is still in the snow.  Shall begin on it within 3 or 4 weeks--
     strike the ledge in July: Guess it is good--worth from $30 to $50 a
     foot in California....

     Man named Gebhart shot here yesterday while trying to defend a claim
     on Last Chance Hill.  Expect he will die.

     These mills here are not worth a d--n--except Clayton's--and it is
     not in full working trim yet.

     Send me $40 or $50--by mail-immediately.  I go to work to-morrow
     with pick and shovel.  Something's got to come, by G--, before I let
     go here.

By the end of April work had become active in the mines, though the snow
in places was still deep and the ground stony with frost.  On the 28th he
writes:

     I have been at work all day blasting and digging, and d--ning one of
     our new claims--"Dashaway"--which I don't think a great deal of, but
     which I am willing to try.  We are down, now, 10 or 12 a feet.  We
     are following down under the ledge, but not taking it out.  If we
     get up a windlass to-morrow we shall take out the ledge, and see
     whether it is worth anything or not.

It must have been hard work picking away at the flinty ledges in the
cold; and the "Dashaway" would seem to have proven a disappointment, for
there is no promising mention of it again.  Instead, we hear of the
"Flyaway;" and "Annipolitan" and the "Live Yankee" and of a dozen
others, each of which holds out the beacon of hope for a little while and
then passes from notice forever.  In May it is the "Monitor" that is sure
to bring affluence, though realization is no longer regarded as
immediate.

     To use a French expression, I have "got my d---d satisfy" at last.
     Two years' time will make us capitalists, in spite of anything.

     Therefore we need fret and fume and worry and doubt no more, but
     just lie still and put up with privation for six months.  Perhaps 3
     months will "let us out."  Then, if government refuses to pay the
     rent on your new office we can do it ourselves.  We have got to wait
     six weeks, anyhow, for a dividend--maybe longer--but that it will
     come there is no shadow of a doubt.  I have got the thing sifted
     down to a dead moral certainty.  I own one-eighth of the new
     "Monitor Ledge, Clemens Company," and money can't buy a foot of it;
     because I know it to contain our fortune.  The ledge is six feet
     wide, and one needs no glass to see gold and silver in it....

     When you and I came out here we did not expect '63 or '64 to find us
     rich men--and if that proposition had been made we would have
     accepted it gladly.  Now, it is made.  I am willing, now, that
     "Neary's tunnel" or anybody else's tunnel shall succeed.  Some of
     them may beat us a few months, but we shall be on hand in the
     fullness of time, as sure as fate.  I would hate to swap chances
     with any member of the tribe .  .  .  .

It is the same man who twenty-five years later would fasten his faith and
capital to a type-setting machine and refuse to exchange stock in it,
share for share, with the Mergenthaler linotype.  He adds:

     But I have struck my tent in Esmeralda, and I care for no mines but
     those which I can superintend myself.  I am a citizen here now, and
     I am satisfied, although Ratio and I are "strapped" and we haven't
     three days' rations in the house....  I shall work the "Monitor" and
     the other claims with my own hands.  I prospected 3/4 of a pound of
     "Monitor" yesterday, and Raish reduced it with the blow-pipe, and
     got about 10 or 12 cents in gold and silver, besides the other half
     of it which we spilt on the floor and didn't get....

     I tried to break a handsome chunk from a huge piece of my darling
     "Monitor" which we brought from the croppings yesterday, but it all
     splintered up, and I send you the scraps.  I call that "choice"--any
     d---d fool would.

     Don't ask if it has been assayed, for it hasn't.  It don't need it.
     It is simply able to speak for itself.  It is six feet wide on top,
     and traversed through with veins whose color proclaims their worth.

     What the devil does a man want with any more feet when he owns in
     the invincible bomb-proof "Monitor"?

There is much more of this, and other such letters, most of them ending
with demands for money.  The living, the tools, the blasting-powder, and
the help eat it up faster than Orion's salary can grow.

"Send me $50 or $100, all you can spare; put away $150 subject to my
call--we shall need it soon for the tunnel."  The letters are full of
such admonition, and Orion, more insane, if anything, than his brother,
is scraping his dollars and pennies together to keep the mines going.  He
is constantly warned to buy no claims on his own account and promises
faithfully, but cannot resist now and then when luring baits are laid
before him, though such ventures invariably result in violent and profane
protests from Aurora.

"The pick and shovel are the only claims I have any confidence in now,"
the miner concludes, after one fierce outburst.  "My back is sore, and my
hands are blistered with handling them to-day."

But even the pick and shovel did not inspire confidence a little later.
He writes that the work goes slowly, very slowly, but that they still
hope to strike it some day.  "But--if we strike it rich--I've lost my
guess, that's all."  Then he adds: "Couldn't go on the hill to-day.  It
snowed.  It always snows here, I expect"; and the final heart-sick line,
"Don't you suppose they have pretty much quit writing at home?"

This is midsummer, and snow still interferes with the work.  One feels
the dreary uselessness of the quest.

Yet resolution did not wholly die, or even enthusiasm.  These things were
as recurrent as new prospects, which were plentiful enough.  In a still
subsequent letter he declares that he will never look upon his mother's
face again, or his sister's, or get married, or revisit the "Banner
State," until he is a rich man, though there is less assurance than
desperation in the words.

In 'Roughing It' the author tells us that, when flour had reached one
dollar a pound and he could no longer get the dollar, he abandoned mining
and went to milling "as a common laborer in a quartz-mill at ten dollars
a week."  This statement requires modification.  It was not entirely for
the money that he undertook the laborious task of washing "riffles" and
"screening tailings."  The money was welcome enough, no doubt, but the
greater purpose was to learn refining, so that when his mines developed
he could establish his own mill and personally superintend the work.  It
is like him to wish us to believe that he was obliged to give up being a
mining magnate to become a laborer in a quartz-mill, for there is a grim
humor in the confession.  That he abandoned the milling experiment at the
end of a week is a true statement.  He got a violent cold in the damp
place, and came near getting salivated, he says in a letter, "working in
the quicksilver and chemicals.  I hardly think I shall try the experiment
again.  It is a confining business, and I will not be confined for love
or money."

As recreation after this trying experience, Higbie took him on a tour,
prospecting for the traditional "Cement Mine," a lost claim where, in a
deposit of cement rock, gold nuggets were said to be as thick as raisins
in a fruitcake.  They did not find the mine, but they visited Mono Lake--
that ghastly, lifeless alkali sea among the hills, which in 'Roughing It'
he has so vividly pictured.  It was good to get away from the stress of
things; and they repeated the experiment.  They made a walking trip to
Yosemite, carrying their packs, camping and fishing in that far,
tremendous isolation, which in those days few human beings had ever
visited at all.  Such trips furnished a delicious respite from the
fevered struggle around tunnel and shaft.  Amid mountain-peaks and giant
forests and by tumbling falls the quest for gold hardly seemed worth
while.  More than once that summer he went alone into the wilderness to
find his balance and to get away entirely from humankind.




XXXVI

LAST MINING DAYS

It was late in July when he wrote:

     If I do not forget it, I will send you, per next mail, a pinch of
     decom. (decomposed rock) which I pinched with thumb and finger from
     Wide West ledge a while ago.  Raish and I have secured 200 out of a
     company with 400 ft. in it, which perhaps (the ledge, I mean) is a
     spur from the W. W.--our shaft is about 100 ft.  from the W. W.
     shaft.  In order to get in, we agreed to sink 30 ft.  We have sublet
     to another man for 50 ft., and we pay for powder and sharpening
     tools.

This was the "Blind Lead" claim of Roughing It, but the episode as set
down in that book is somewhat dramatized.  It is quite true that he
visited and nursed Captain Nye while Higbie was off following the
"Cement" 'ignus fatuus' and that the "Wide West" holdings were forfeited
through neglect.  But if the loss was regarded as a heavy one, the
letters fail to show it.  It is a matter of dispute to-day whether or not
the claim was ever of any value.  A well-known California author--[Ella
Sterling Cummins, author of The Story of the Files, etc]--declares:

     No one need to fear that he ran any chance of being a millionaire
     through the "Wide West" mine, for the writer, as a child, played
     over that historic spot and saw only a shut-down mill and desolate
     hole in the ground to mark the spot where over-hopeful men had sunk
     thousands and thousands, that they never recovered.

The "Blind Lead" episode, as related, is presumably a tale of what might
have happened--a possibility rather than an actuality.  It is vividly
true in atmosphere, however, and forms a strong and natural climax for
closing the mining episode, while the literary privilege warrants any
liberties he may have taken for art's sake.

In reality the close of his mining career was not sudden and spectacular;
it was a lingering close, a reluctant and gradual surrender.  The "Josh"
letters to the Enterprise had awakened at least a measure of interest,
and Orion had not failed to identify their author when any promising
occasion offered; as a result certain tentative overtures had been made
for similar material.  Orion eagerly communicated such chances, for the
money situation was becoming a desperate one.  A letter from the Aurora
miner written near the end of July presents the situation very fully.  An
extract or two will be sufficient:

     My debts are greater than I thought for--I bought $25 worth of
     clothing and sent $25 to Higbie, in the cement diggings.  I owe
     about $45 or $50, and have got about $45 in my pocket.  But how in
     the h--l I am going to live on something over $100 until October or
     November is singular.  The fact is, I must have something to do, and
     that shortly, too....  Now write to the Sacramento Union folks, or
     to Marsh, and tell them I'll write as many letters a week as they
     want for $10 a week.  My board must be paid.  Tell them I have
     corresponded with the N. Orleans Crescent and other papers--and the
     Enterprise.

     If they want letters from here--who'll run from morning till night
     collecting material cheaper?  I'll write a short letter twice a
     week, for the present for the 'Age', for $5 per week.  Now it has
     been a long time since I couldn't make my own living, and it shall
     be a long time before I loaf another year.

Nothing came of these possibilities, but about this time Barstow, of the
Enterprise, conferred with Joseph T. Goodman, editor and owner of the
paper, as to the advisability of adding the author of the "Josh" letters
to their local staff.  Joe Goodman, who had as keen a literary perception
as any man that ever pitched a journalistic tent on the Pacific coast
(and there could be no higher praise than that), looked over the letters
and agreed with Barstow that the man who wrote them had "something in
him."  Two of the sketches in particular he thought promising.  One of
them was a burlesque report of an egotistical lecturer who was referred
to as "Professor Personal Pronoun."  It closed by stating that it was
"impossible to print his lecture in full, as the type-cases had run out
of capital I's."  But it was the other sketch which settled Goodman's
decision.  It was also a burlesque report, this time of a Fourth-of-July
oration.  It opened, "I was sired by the Great American Eagle and foaled
by a continental dam."  This was followed by a string of stock patriotic
phrases absurdly arranged.  But it was the opening itself that won
Goodman's heart.

"That is the sort of thing we want," he said.  "Write to him, Barstow,
and ask him if he wants to come up here."

Barstow wrote, offering twenty-five dollars a week, a tempting sum.  This
was at the end of July, 1862.

In 'Roughing It' we are led to believe that the author regarded this as a
gift from heaven and accepted it straightaway.  As a matter of fact, he
fasted and prayed a good while over the "call."  To Orion he wrote
Barstow has offered me the post as local reporter for the Enterprise at
$25 a week, and I have written him that I will let him know next mail, if
possible.

There was no desperate eagerness, you see, to break into literature, even
under those urgent conditions.  It meant the surrender of all hope in the
mines, the confession of another failure.  On August 7th he wrote again
to Orion.  He had written to Barstow, he said, asking when they thought
he might be needed.  He was playing for time to consider.

Now, I shall leave at midnight to-night, alone and on foot, for a walk of
60 or 70 miles through a totally uninhabited country, and it is barely
possible that mail facilities may prove infernally "slow."  But do you
write Barstow that I have left here for a week or so, and in case he
should want me, he must write me here, or let me know through you.

So he had gone into the wilderness to fight out his battle alone.  But
eight days later, when he had returned, there was still no decision.  In
a letter to Pamela of this date he refers playfully to the discomforts of
his cabin and mentions a hope that he will spend the winter in San
Francisco; but there is no reference in it to any newspaper prospects--
nor to the mines, for that matter.  Phillips, Howland, and Higbie would
seem to have given up by this time, and he was camping with Dan Twing and
a dog, a combination amusingly described.  It is a pleasant enough
letter, but the note of discouragement creeps in:

     I did think for a while of going home this fall--but when I found
     that that was, and had been, the cherished intention and the darling
     aspiration every year of these old care-worn Californians for twelve
     weary years, I felt a little uncomfortable, so I stole a march on
     Disappointment and said I would not go home this fall.  This country
     suits me, and it shall suit me whether or no.

He was dying hard, desperately hard; how could he know, to paraphrase the
old form of Christian comfort, that his end as a miner would mean, in
another sphere, "a brighter resurrection" than even his rainbow
imagination could paint?




XXXVII

THE NEW ESTATE

It was the afternoon of a hot, dusty August day when a worn, travel-
stained pilgrim drifted laggingly into the office of the Virginia City
Enterprise, then in its new building on C Street, and, loosening a heavy
roll of blankets from his shoulders, dropped wearily into a chair.  He
wore a rusty slouch hat, no coat, a faded blue flannel shirt, a Navy
revolver; his trousers were hanging on his boot tops.  A tangle of
reddish-brown hair fell on his shoulders, and a mass of tawny beard,
dingy with alkali dust, dropped half-way to his waist.

Aurora lay one hundred and thirty miles from Virginia.  He had walked
that distance, carrying his heavy load.  Editor Goodman was absent at the
moment, but the other proprietor, Denis E. McCarthy, signified that the
caller might state his errand.  The wanderer regarded him with a far-away
look and said, absently and with deliberation:

"My starboard leg seems to be unshipped.  I'd like about one hundred
yards of line; I think I am falling to pieces."  Then he added: "I want
to see Mr. Barstow, or Mr. Goodman.  My name is Clemens, and I've come to
write for the paper."

It was the master of the world's widest estate come to claim his kingdom:

William Wright, who had won a wide celebrity on the Coast as Dan de
Quille, was in the editorial chair and took charge of the new arrival.
He was going on a trip to the States soon; it was mainly on this account
that the new man had been engaged.  The "Josh" letters were very good, in
Dan's opinion; he gave their author a cordial welcome, and took him
around to his boarding-place.  It was the beginning of an association
that continued during Samuel Clemens's stay in Virginia City and of a
friendship that lasted many years.

The Territorial Enterprise was one of the most remarkable frontier papers
ever published.  Its editor-in-chief, Joseph Goodman, was a man with rare
appreciation, wide human understanding, and a comprehensive newspaper
policy.  Being a young man, he had no policy, in fact, beyond the general
purpose that his paper should be a forum for absolutely free speech,
provided any serious statement it contained was based upon knowledge.
His instructions to the new reporter were about as follows:

"Never say we learn so and so, or it is rumored, or we understand so and
so; but go to headquarters and get the absolute facts; then speak out and
say it is so and so.  In the one case you are likely to be shot, and in
the other you are pretty certain to be; but you will preserve the public
confidence."

Goodman was not new to the West.  He had come to California as a boy and
had been a miner, explorer, printer, and contributor by turns.  Early in
'61, when the Comstock Lode--[Named for its discoverer, Henry T. P.
Comstock, a half-crazy miner, who realized very little from his
stupendous find.]--was new and Virginia in the first flush of its
monster boom, he and Denis McCarthy had scraped together a few dollars
and bought the paper.  It had been a hand-to-hand struggle for a while,
but in a brief two years, from a starving sheet in a shanty the
Enterprise, with new building, new presses, and a corps of swift
compositors brought up from San Francisco, had become altogether
metropolitan, as well as the most widely considered paper on the Coast.
It had been borne upward by the Comstock tide, though its fearless,
picturesque utterance would have given it distinction anywhere.  Goodman
himself was a fine, forceful writer, and Dan de Quille and R. M. Daggett
(afterward United States minister to Hawaii) were representative of
Enterprise men.--[The Comstock of that day became famous for its
journalism.  Associated with the Virginia papers then or soon afterward
were such men as Tom Fitch (the silver-tongued orator), Alf Doten, W. J.
Forbes, C. C. Goodwin, H. R.  Mighels, Clement T. Rice, Arthur McEwen,
and Sam Davis--a great array indeed for a new Territory.]--

Samuel Clemens fitted precisely into this group.  He added the fresh,
rugged vigor of thought and expression that was the very essence of the
Comstock, which was like every other frontier mining-camp, only on a more
lavish, more overwhelming scale.

There was no uncertainty about the Comstock; the silver and gold were
there.  Flanking the foot of Mount Davidson, the towns of Gold Hill and
Virginia and the long street between were fairly underburrowed and
underpinned by the gigantic mining construction of that opulent lode
whose treasures were actually glutting the mineral markets of the world.
The streets overhead seethed and swarmed with miners, mine owners, and
adventurers--riotous, rollicking children of fortune, always ready to
drink and make merry, as eager in their pursuit of pleasure as of gold.
Comstockers would always laugh at a joke; the rougher the better.  The
town of Virginia itself was just a huge joke to most of them.  Everybody
had, money; everybody wanted to laugh and have a good time.  The
Enterprise, "Comstock to the backbone," did what it could to help things
along.

It was a sort of free ring, with every one for himself.  Goodman let the
boys write and print in accordance with their own ideas and upon any
subject.  Often they wrote of each other--squibs and burlesques, which
gratified the Comstock far more than mere news.--[The indifference to
'news' was noble--none the less so because it was so blissfully
unconscious.  Editors Mark or Dan would dismiss a murder with a couple of
inches and sit down and fill up a column with a fancy sketch: "Arthur
McEwen"]--It was the proper class-room for Mark Twain, an encouraging
audience and free utterance: fortune could have devised nothing better
for him than that.

He was peculiarly fitted for the position.  Unspoiled humanity appealed
to him, and the Comstock presented human nature in its earliest landscape
forms.  Furthermore, the Comstock was essentially optimistic--so was he;
any hole in the ground to him held a possible, even a probable, fortune.

His pilot memory became a valuable asset in news-gathering.  Remembering
marks, banks, sounding, and other river detail belonged apparently in the
same category of attainments as remembering items and localities of news.
He could travel all day without a note-book and at night reproduce the
day's budget or at least the picturesqueness of it, without error.  He
was presently accounted a good reporter, except where statistics--
measurements and figures--were concerned.  These he gave "a lick and a
promise," according to De Quille, who wrote afterward of their
associations.  De Quille says further:

     Mark and I agreed well in our work, which we divided when there was
     a rush of events; but we often cruised in company, he taking the
     items of news he could handle best, and I such as I felt competent
     to work up.  However, we wrote at the same table and frequently
     helped each other with such suggestions as occurred to us during the
     brief consultations we held in regard to the handling of any matters
     of importance.  Never was there an angry word between us in all the
     time we worked together.

De Quille tells how Clemens clipped items with a knife when there were no
scissors handy, and slashed through on the top of his desk, which in time
took on the semblance "of a huge polar star, spiritedly dashing forth a
thousand rays."

The author of 'Roughing It' has given us a better picture of the Virginia
City of those days and his work there than any one else will ever write.
He has made us feel the general spirit of affluence that prevailed; how
the problem was not to get money, but to spend it; how "feet" in any one
of a hundred mines could be had for the asking; how such shares were
offered like apples or cigars or bonbons, as a natural matter of courtesy
when one happened to have his supply in view; how any one connected with
a newspaper would have stocks thrust upon him, and how in a brief time he
had acquired a trunk ful of such riches and usually had something to sell
when any of the claims made a stir on the market.  He has told us of the
desperadoes and their trifling regard for human life, and preserved other
elemental characters of these prodigal days.  The funeral of Buck Fanshaw
that amazing masterpiece--is a complete epitome of the social frontier.

It would not be the part of wisdom to attempt another inclusive
presentation of Comstock conditions.  We may only hope to add a few
details of history, justified now by time and circumstances, to
supplement the picture with certain data of personality preserved from
the drift of years.




XXXVIII

ONE OF THE "STAFF"

The new reporter found acquaintance easy.  The office force was like one
family among which there was no line of caste.  Proprietors, editors, and
printers were social equals; there was little ceremony among them--none
at all outside of the office.--["The paper went to press at two in the
morning, then all the staff and all the compositors gathered themselves
together in the composing-room and drank beer and sang the popular war-
songs of the day until dawn."--S. L. C., in 1908.]--Samuel Clemens
immediately became "Sam," or "Josh," to his associates, just as De Quille
was "Dan" and Goodman "Joe."  He found that he disliked the name of Josh,
and, as he did not sign it again, it was presently dropped.  The office,
and Virginia City generally, quickly grew fond of him, delighting in his
originality and measured speech.  Enterprise readers began to identify
his work, then unsigned, and to enjoy its fresh phrasing, even when it
was only the usual local item or mining notice.  True to its name and
reputation, the paper had added a new attraction.

It was only a brief time after his arrival in Virginia City that Clemens
began the series of hoaxes which would carry his reputation, not always
in an enviable fashion, across the Sierras and down the Pacific coast.
With one exception these are lost to-day, for so far as known there is
not a single file of the Enterprise in existence.  Only a few stray
copies and clippings are preserved, but we know the story of some of
these literary pranks and of their results.  They were usually intended
as a special punishment of some particular individual or paper or
locality; but victims were gathered by the wholesale in their seductive
web.  Mark Twain himself, in his book of Sketches, has set down something
concerning the first of these, "The Petrified Man," and of another, "My
Bloody Massacre," but in neither case has he told it all.  "The Petrified
Man" hoax was directed at an official named Sewall, a coroner and justice
of the peace at Humboldt, who had been pompously indifferent in the
matter of supplying news.  The story, told with great circumstance and
apparent care as to detail, related the finding of a petrified
prehistoric man, partially imbedded in a rock, in a cave in the desert
more than one hundred miles from Humboldt, and how Sewall had made the
perilous five-day journey in the alkali waste to hold an inquest over a
man that had been dead three hundred years; also how, "with that delicacy
so characteristic of him," Sewall had forbidden the miners from blasting
him from his position.  The account further stated that the hands of the
deceased were arranged in a peculiar fashion; and the description of the
arrangement was so skilfully woven in with other matters that at first,
or even second, reading one might not see that the position indicated was
the ancient one which begins with the thumb at the nose and in many ages
has been used impolitely to express ridicule and the word "sold."  But
the description was a shade too ingenious.  The author expected that the
exchanges would see the jolt and perhaps assist in the fun he would have
with Sewall.  He did not contemplate a joke on the papers themselves.  As
a matter of fact, no one saw the "sell" and most of the papers printed
his story of the petrified man as a genuine discovery.  This was a
surprise, and a momentary disappointment; then he realized that he had
builded better than he knew.  He gathered up a bundle of the exchanges
and sent them to Sewall; also he sent marked copies to scientific men in
various parts of the United States.  The papers had taken it seriously;
perhaps the scientists would.  Some of them did, and Sewall's days became
unhappy because of letters received asking further information.  As
literature, the effort did not rank high, and as a trick on an obscure
official it was hardly worth while; but, as a joke on the Coast exchanges
and press generally, it was greatly regarded and its author, though as
yet unnamed, acquired prestige.

Inquiries began to be made as to who was the smart chap in Virginia that
did these things.  The papers became wary and read Enterprise items twice
before clipping them.  Clemens turned his attention to other matters to
lull suspicion.  The great "Dutch Nick Massacre" did not follow until a
year later.

Reference has already been made to the Comstock's delight in humor of a
positive sort.  The practical joke was legal tender in Virginia.  One
might protest and swear, but he must take it.  An example of Comstock
humor, regarded as the finest assay, is an incident still told of Leslie
Blackburn and Pat Holland, two gay men about town.  They were coming down
C Street one morning when they saw some fine watermelons on a fruit-stand
at the International Hotel corner.  Watermelons were rare and costly in
that day and locality, and these were worth three dollars apiece.
Blackburn said:

"Pat, let's get one of those watermelons.  You engage that fellow in
conversation while I stand at the corner, where I can step around out of
sight easily.  When you have got him interested, point to something on
the back shelf and pitch me a melon."

This appealed to Holland, and he carried out his part of the plan
perfectly; but when he pitched the watermelon Blackburn simply put his
hands in his pockets, and stepped around the comer, leaving the melon a
fearful disaster on the pavement.  It was almost impossible for Pat to
explain to the fruit-man why he pitched away a three-dollar melon like
that even after paying for it, and it was still more trying, also more
expensive, to explain to the boys facing the various bars along C Street.

Sam Clemens, himself a practical joker in his youth, found a healthy
delight in this knock-down humor of the Comstock.  It appealed to his
vigorous, elemental nature.  He seldom indulged physically in such
things; but his printed squibs and hoaxes and his keen love of the
ridiculous placed him in the joker class, while his prompt temper, droll
manner, and rare gift of invective made him an enticing victim.

Among the Enterprise compositors was one by the name of Stephen E.
Gillis (Steve, of course--one of the "fighting Gillises"), a small,
fearless young fellow, handsome, quick of wit, with eyes like needle-
points.

"Steve weighed only ninety-five pounds," Mark Twain once wrote of him,
"but it was well known throughout the Territory that with his fists he
could whip anybody that walked on two legs, let his weight and science be
what they might."

Clemens was fond of Steve Gillis from the first.  The two became closely
associated in time, and were always bosom friends; but Steve was a
merciless joker, and never as long as they were together could he "resist
the temptation of making Sam swear," claiming that his profanity was
grander than any music.

A word hereabout Mark Twain's profanity.  Born with a matchless gift of
phrase, the printing-office, the river, and the mines had developed it in
a rare perfection.  To hear him denounce a thing was to give one the
fierce, searching delight of galvanic waves.  Every characterization
seemed the most perfect fit possible until he applied the next.  And
somehow his profanity was seldom an offense.  It was not mere idle
swearing; it seemed always genuine and serious.  His selection of epithet
was always dignified and stately, from whatever source--and it might be
from the Bible or the gutter.  Some one has defined dirt as misplaced
matter.  It is perhaps the greatest definition ever uttered.  It is
absolutely universal in its application, and it recurs now, remembering
Mark Twain's profanity.  For it was rarely misplaced; hence it did not
often offend.  It seemed, in fact, the safety-valve of his high-pressure
intellectual engine.  When he had blown off he was always calm, gentle;
forgiving, and even tender.  Once following an outburst he said,
placidly:

"In certain trying circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate
circumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied even to prayer."

It seems proper to add that it is not the purpose of this work to magnify
or modify or excuse that extreme example of humankind which forms its
chief subject; but to set him down as he was inadequately, of course, but
with good conscience and clear intent.

Led by Steve Gillis, the Enterprise force used to devise tricks to set
him going.  One of these was to hide articles from his desk.  He detested
the work necessary to the care of a lamp, and wrote by the light of a
candle.  To hide "Sam's candle" was a sure way to get prompt and vigorous
return.  He would look for it a little; then he would begin a slow,
circular walk--a habit acquired in the limitations of the pilot-house--
and his denunciation of the thieves was like a great orchestration of
wrong.  By and by the office boy, supposedly innocent, would find another
for him, and all would be forgotten.  He made a placard, labeled with
fearful threats and anathemas, warning any one against touching his
candle; but one night both the placard and the candle were gone.

Now, amoung his Virginia acquaintances was a young minister, a Mr.
Rising, "the fragile, gentle new fledgling" of the Buck Fanshaw episode.
Clemens greatly admired Mr. Rising's evident sincerity, and the young
minister had quickly recognized the new reporter's superiority of mind.
Now and then he came to the office to call on him.  Unfortunately, he
happened to step in just at that moment when, infuriated by the latest
theft of his property, Samuel Clemens was engaged in his rotary
denunciation of the criminals, oblivious of every other circumstance.
Mr. Rising stood spellbound by this, to him, new phase of genius, and at
last his friend became dimly aware of him.  He did not halt in his
scathing treadmill and continued in the slow monotone of speech:

"I know, Mr. Rising, I know it's wicked to talk like this; I know it is
wrong.  I know I shall certainly go to hell for it.  But if you had a
candle, Mr. Rising, and those thieves should carry it off every night, I
know that you would say, just as I say, Mr. Rising, G-d d--n their
impenitent souls, may they roast in hell for a million years."

The little clergyman caught his breath.

"Maybe I should, Mr. Clemens," he replied, "but I should try to say,
'Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do.'"

"Oh, well! if you put it on the ground that they are just fools, that
alters the case, as I am one of that class myself.  Come in and we'll try
to forgive them and forget about it."

Mark Twain had a good many experiences with young ministers.  He was
always fond of them, and they often sought him out.  Once, long
afterward, at a hotel, he wanted a boy to polish his shoes, and had rung
a number of times without getting any response.  Presently, he thought he
heard somebody approaching in the hall outside.  He flung open the door,
and a small, youngish-looking person, who seemed to have been hesitating
at the door, made a movement as though to depart hastily.  Clemens
grabbed him by the collar.

"Look here," he said, "I've been waiting and ringing here for half an
hour.  Now I want you to take those shoes, and polish them, quick.  Do
you hear?"

The slim, youthful person trembled a good deal, and said: "I would, Mr.
Clemens, I would indeed, sir, if I could.  But I'm a minister of the
Gospel, and I'm not prepared for such work."




XXXIX

PHILOSOPHY AND POETRY

There was a side to Samuel Clemens that in those days few of his
associates saw.  This was the poetic, the philosophic, the contemplative
side.  Joseph Goodman recognized this phase of his character, and, while
he perhaps did not regard it as a future literary asset, he delighted in
it, and in their hours of quiet association together encouraged its
exhibition.  It is rather curious that with all his literary penetration
Goodman did not dream of a future celebrity for Clemens.  He afterward
said:

"If I had been asked to prophesy which of the two men, Dan de Quille or
Sam, would become distinguished, I should have said De Quille.  Dan was
talented, industrious, and, for that time and place, brilliant.  Of
course, I recognized the unusualness of Sam's gifts, but he was eccentric
and seemed to lack industry; it is not likely that I should have
prophesied fame for him then."

Goodman, like MacFarlane in Cincinnati, half a dozen years before, though
by a different method, discovered and developed the deeper vein.  Often
the two, dining together in a French restaurant, discussed life, subtler
philosophies, recalled various phases of human history, remembered and
recited the poems that gave them especial enjoyment.  "The Burial of
Moses," with its noble phrasing and majestic imagery, appealed strongly
to Clemens, and he recited it with great power.  The first stanza in
particular always stirred him, and it stirred his hearer as well.  With
eyes half closed and chin lifted, a lighted cigar between his fingers, he
would lose himself in the music of the stately lines.

          By Nebo's lonely mountain,
          On this side Jordan's wave,
          In a vale in the land of Moab,
          There lies a lonely grave.

          And no man knows that sepulchre,
          And no man saw it e'er,
          For the angels of God, upturned the sod,
          And laid the dead man there.

Another stanza that he cared for almost as much was the one beginning:

          And had he not high honor--
          The hill-side for a pall,
          To lie in state while angels wait
          With stars for tapers tall,
          And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,
          Over his bier to wave,
          And God's own hand in that lonely land,
          To lay him in the grave?

Without doubt he was moved to emulate the simple grandeur of that poem,
for he often repeated it in those days, and somewhat later we find it
copied into his notebook in full.  It would seem to have become to him a
sort of literary touchstone; and in some measure it may be regarded as
accountable for the fact that in the fullness of time "he made use of the
purest English of any modern writer."  These are Goodman's words, though
William Dean Howells has said them, also, in substance, and Brander
Matthews, and many others who know about such things.  Goodman adds, "The
simplicity and beauty of his style are almost without a parallel, except
in the common version of the Bible," which is also true.  One is reminded
of what Macaulay said of Milton:

"There would seem at first sight to be no more in his words than in other
words.  But they are words of enchantment.  No sooner are they pronounced
than the past is present and the distance near.  New forms of beauty
start at once into existence, and all the burial-places of the memory
give up their dead."

One drifts ahead, remembering these things.  The triumph of words, the
mastery of phrases, lay all before him at the time of which we are
writing now.  He was twenty-seven.  At that age Rudyard Kipling had
reached his meridian.  Samuel Clemens was still in the classroom.
Everything came as a lesson-phrase, form, aspect, and combination;
nothing escaped unvalued.  The poetic phase of things particularly
impressed him.  Once at a dinner with Goodman, when the lamp-light from
the chandelier struck down through the claret on the tablecloth in a
great red stain, he pointed to it dramatically "Look, Joe," he said, "the
angry tint of wine."

It was at one of these private sessions, late in '62, that Clemens
proposed to report the coming meeting of the Carson legislature.  He knew
nothing of such work and had small knowledge of parliamentary
proceedings.  Formerly it had been done by a man named Gillespie, but
Gillespie was now clerk of the house.  Goodman hesitated; then,
remembering that whether Clemens got the reports right or not, he would
at least make them readable, agreed to let him undertake the work.





XL

"MARK TWAIN"

The early Nevada legislature was an interesting assembly.  All State
legislatures are that, and this was a mining frontier.  No attempt can be
made to describe it.  It was chiefly distinguished for a large ignorance
of procedure, a wide latitude of speech, a noble appreciation of humor,
and plenty of brains.  How fortunate Mask Twain was in his schooling, to
be kept away from institutional training, to be placed in one after
another of those universities of life where the sole curriculum is the
study of the native inclinations and activities of mankind!  Sometimes,
in after-years, he used to regret the lack of systematic training.  Well
for him--and for us--that he escaped that blight.

For the study of human nature the Nevada assembly was a veritable
lecture-room.  In it his understanding, his wit, his phrasing, his self-
assuredness grew like Jack's bean-stalk, which in time was ready to break
through into a land above the sky.  He made some curious blunders in his
reports, in the beginning; but he was so frank in his ignorance and in
his confession of it that the very unsophistication of his early letters
became their chief charm.  Gillespie coached him on parliamentary
matters, and in time the reports became technically as well as
artistically good.  Clemens in return christened Gillespie "Young,
Jefferson's Manual," a title which he bore, rather proudly indeed, for
many years.

Another "entitlement" growing out of those early reports, and possibly
less satisfactory to its owner, was the one accorded to Clement T. Rice,
of the Virginia City Union.  Rice knew the legislative work perfectly and
concluded to poke fun at the Enterprise letters.

But this was a mistake.  Clemens in his next letter declared that Rice's
reports might be parliamentary enough, but that they covered with
glittering technicalities the most festering mass of misstatement, and
even crime.  He avowed that they were wholly untrustworthy; dubbed the
author of them "The Unreliable," and in future letters never referred to
him by any other term.  Carson and the Comstock and the papers of the
Coast delighted in this burlesque journalistic warfare, and Rice was "The
Unreliable" for life.

Rice and Clemens, it should be said, though rivals, were the best of
friends, and there was never any real animosity between them.

Clemens quickly became a favorite with the members; his sharp letters,
with their amusing turn of phrase and their sincerity, won general
friendship.  Jack Simmons, speaker of the house, and Billy Clagget, the
Humboldt delegation, were his special cronies and kept him on the inside
of the political machine.  Clagget had remained in Unionville after the
mining venture, warned his Keokuk sweetheart, and settled down into
politics and law.  In due time he would become a leading light and go to
Congress.  He was already a notable figure of forceful eloquence and
tousled, unkempt hair.  Simmons, Clagget, and Clemens were easily the
three conspicuous figures of the session.

It must have been gratifying to the former prospector and miner to come
back to Carson City a person of consequence, where less than a year
before he had been regarded as no more than an amusing indolent fellow, a
figure to smile at, but unimportant.  There is a photograph extant of
Clemens and his friends Clagget and Simmons in a group, and we gather
from it that he now arrayed himself in a long broadcloth cloak, a
starched shirt, and polished boots.  Once more he had become the glass of
fashion that he had been on the river.  He made his residence with Orion,
whose wife and little daughter Jennie had by this time come out from the
States.  "Sister Mollie," as wife of the acting governor, was presently
social leader of the little capital; her brilliant brother-in-law its
chief ornament.  His merriment and songs and good nature made him a
favorite guest.  His lines had fallen in pleasant places; he could afford
to smile at the hard Esmeralda days.

He was not altogether satisfied.  His letters, copied and quoted all
along the Coast, were unsigned.  They were easily identified with one
another, but not with a personality.  He realized that to build a
reputation it was necessary to fasten it to an individuality, a name.

He gave the matter a good deal of thought.  He did not consider the use
of his own name; the 'nom de plume' was the fashion of the time.  He
wanted something brief, crisp, definite, unforgettable.  He tried over a
good many combinations in his mind, but none seemed convincing.  Just
then--this was early in 1863--news came to him that the old pilot he had
wounded by his satire, Isaiah Sellers, was dead.  At once the pen-name of
Captain Sellers recurred to him.  That was it; that was the sort of name
he wanted.  It was not trivial; it had all the qualities--Sellers would
never need it again.  Clemens decided he would give it a new meaning and
new association in this far-away land.  He went up to Virginia City.

"Joe," he said, to Goodman, "I want to sign my articles.  I want to be
identified to a wider audience."

"All right, Sam.  What name do you want to use 'Josh'?"

"No, I want to sign them 'Mark Twain.' It is an old river term, a leads-
man's call, signifying two fathoms--twelve feet.  It has a richness about
it; it was always a pleasant sound for a pilot to hear on a dark night;
it meant safe water."

He did not then mention that Captain Isaiah Sellers had used and dropped
the name.  He was ashamed of his part in that episode, and the offense
was still too recent for confession.  Goodman considered a moment:

"Very well, Sam," he said, "that sounds like a good name."

It was indeed a good name.  In all the nomenclature of the world no more
forceful combination of words could have been selected to express the man
for whom they stood.  The name Mark Twain is as infinite, as fundamental
as that of John Smith, without the latter's wasting distribution of
strength.  If all the prestige in the name of John Smith were combined in
a single individual, its dynamic energy might give it the carrying power
of Mark Twain.  Let this be as it may, it has proven the greatest 'nom de
plume' ever chosen--a name exactly in accord with the man, his work, and
his career.

It is not surprising that Goodman did not recognize this at the moment.
We should not guess the force that lies in a twelve-inch shell if we had
never seen one before or heard of its seismic destruction.  We should
have to wait and see it fired, and take account of the result.

It was first signed to a Carson letter bearing date of February 2, 1863,
and from that time was attached to all Samuel Clemens's work.  The work
was neither better nor worse than before, but it had suddenly acquired
identification and special interest.  Members of the legislature and
friends in Virginia and Carson immediately began to address him as
"Mark."  The papers of the Coast took it up, and within a period to be
measured by weeks he was no longer "Sam" or "Clemens" or "that bright
chap on the Enterprise," but "Mark"--"Mark Twain."  No 'nom de plume' was
ever so quickly and generally accepted as that.  De Quille, returning
from the East after an absence of several months, found his room and
deskmate with the distinction of a new name and fame.

It is curious that in the letters to the home folks preserved from that
period there is no mention of his new title and its success.  In fact,
the writer rarely speaks of his work at all, and is more inclined to tell
of the mining shares he has accumulated, their present and prospective
values.  However, many of the letters are undoubtedly missing.  Such as
have been preserved are rather airy epistles full of his abounding joy of
life and good nature.  Also they bear evidence of the renewal of his old
river habit of sending money home--twenty dollars in each letter, with
intervals of a week or so between.




XLI

THE CREAM OF COMSTOCK HUMOR

With the adjournment of the legislature, Samuel Clemens returned to
Virginia City distinctly a notability--Mark Twain.  He was regarded as
leading man on the Enterprise--which in itself was high distinction on
the Comstock--while his improved dress and increased prosperity commanded
additional respect.  When visitors of note came along--well-known actors,
lecturers, politicians--he was introduced as one of the Comstock features
which it was proper to see, along with the Ophir and Gould and Curry
mines, and the new hundred-stamp quartz-mill.

He was rather grieved and hurt, therefore, when, after several
collections had been taken up in the Enterprise office to present various
members of the staff with meerschaum pipes, none had come to him.  He
mentioned this apparent slight to Steve Gillis:

"Nobody ever gives me a meerschaum pipe," he said, plaintively.  "Don't I
deserve one yet?"

Unhappy day!  To that remorseless creature, Steve Gillis, this was a
golden opportunity for deviltry of a kind that delighted his soul.  This
is the story, precisely as Gillis himself told it to the writer of these
annals more than a generation later:

"There was a German kept a cigar store in Virginia City and always had a
fine assortment of meerschaum pipes.  These pipes usually cost anywhere
from forty to seventy-five dollars.

"One day Denis McCarthy and I were walking by the old German's place, and
stopped to look in at the display in the window.  Among other things
there was one large imitation meerschaum with a high bowl and a long
stem, marked a dollar and a half.

"I decided that that would be just the pipe for Sam.  We went in and
bought it, also a very much longer stem.  I think the stem alone cost
three dollars.  Then we had a little German-silver plate engraved with
Mark's name on it and by whom presented, and made preparations for the
presentation.  Charlie Pope--[afterward proprietor of Pope's Theater,
St. Louis]--was playing at the Opera House at the time, and we engaged
him to make the presentation speech.

"Then we let in Dan de Quille, Mark's closest friend, to act the part of
Judas--to tell Mark privately that he, was going to be presented with a
fine pipe, so that he could have a speech prepared in reply to Pope's.
It was awful low-down in Dan.  We arranged to have the affair come off in
the saloon beneath the Opera House after the play was over.

"Everything went off handsomely; but it was a pretty remorseful occasion,
and some of us had a hang-dog look; for Sam took it in such sincerity,
and had prepared one of the most beautiful speeches I ever heard him
make.  Pope's presentation, too, was beautifully done.  He told Sam how
his friends all loved him, and that this pipe, purchased at so great an
expense, was but a small token of their affection.  But Sam's reply,
which was supposed to be impromptu, actually brought the tears to the
eyes of some of us, and he was interrupted every other minute with
applause.  I never felt so sorry for anybody.

"Still, we were bent on seeing the thing through.  After Sam's speech was
finished, he ordered expensive wines--champagne and sparkling Moselle.
Then we went out to do the town, and kept things going until morning to
drown our sorrow.

"Well, next day, of course, he started in to color the pipe.  It wouldn't
color any more than a piece of chalk, which was about all it was.  Sam
would smoke and smoke, and complain that it didn't seem to taste right,
and that it wouldn't color.  Finally Denis said to him one day:

"'Oh, Sam, don't you know that's just a damned old egg-shell, and that
the boys bought it for a dollar and a half and presented you with it for
a joke?'

"Then Sam was furious, and we laid the whole thing on Dan de Quille.  He
had a thunder-cloud on his face when he started up for the Local Room,
where Dan was.  He went in and closed the door behind him, and locked it,
and put the key in his pocket--an awful sign.  Dan was there alone,
writing at his table.

"Sam said, 'Dan, did you know, when you invited me to make that speech,
that those fellows were going to give me a bogus pipe?'

"There was no way for Dan to escape, and he confessed.  Sam walked up and
down the floor, as if trying to decide which way to slay Dan.  Finally he
said:

"'Oh, Dan, to think that you, my dearest friend, who knew how little
money I had, and how hard I would work to prepare a speech that would
show my gratitude to my friends, should be the traitor, the Judas, to
betray me with a kiss!  Dan, I never want to look on your face again.
You knew I would spend every dollar I had on those pirates when I
couldn't afford to spend anything; and yet you let me do it; you aided
and abetted their diabolical plan, and you even got me to get up that
damned speech to make the thing still more ridiculous.'

"Of course Dan felt terribly, and tried to defend himself by saying that
they were really going to present him with a fine pipe--a genuine one,
this time.  But Sam at first refused to be comforted; and when, a few
days later, I went in with the pipe and said, 'Sam, here's the pipe the
boys meant to give you all the time,' and tried to apologize, he looked
around a little coldly, and said:

"'Is that another of those bogus old pipes?'

"He accepted it, though, and general peace was restored.  One day, soon
after, he said to me:

"'Steve, do you know that I think that that bogus pipe smokes about as
well as the good one?'"

Many years later (this was in his home at Hartford, and Joe Goodman was
present) Mark Twain one day came upon the old imitation pipe.

"Joe," he said, "that was a cruel, cruel trick the boys played on me;
but, for the feeling I had during the moment when they presented me with
that pipe and when Charlie Pope was making his speech and I was making my
reply to it--for the memory of that feeling, now, that pipe is more
precious to me than any pipe in the world!"

Eighteen hundred and sixty-three was flood-tide on the Comstock.  Every
mine was working full blast.  Every mill was roaring and crunching,
turning out streams of silver and gold.  A little while ago an old
resident wrote:

     When I close my eyes I hear again the respirations of hoisting-
     engines and the roar of stamps; I can see the "camels" after
     midnight packing in salt; I can see again the jam of teams on C
     Street and hear the anathemas of the drivers--all the mighty work
     that went on in order to lure the treasures from the deep chambers
     of the great lode and to bring enlightenment to the desert.

Those were lively times.  In the midst of one of his letters home Mark
Twain interrupts himself to say: "I have just heard five pistol-shots
down the street--as such things are in my line, I will go and see about
it," and in a postscript added a few hours later:

     5 A.M.  The pistol-shot did its work well.  One man, a Jackson
     County Missourian, shot two of my friends (police officers) through
     the heart--both died within three minutes.  The murderer's name is
     John Campbell.

"Mark and I had our hands full," says De Quille, "and no grass grew under
our feet."  In answer to some stray criticism of their policy, they
printed a sort of editorial manifesto:

     Our duty is to keep the universe thoroughly posted concerning
     murders and street fights, and balls, and theaters, and pack-trains,
     and churches, and lectures, and school-houses, and city military
     affairs, and highway robberies, and Bible societies, and hay-wagons,
     and the thousand other things which it is in the province of local
     reporters to keep track of and magnify into undue importance for the
     instruction of the readers of a great daily newspaper.

It is easy to recognize Mark Twain's hand in that compendium of labor,
which, in spite of its amusing apposition, was literally true, and so
intended, probably with no special thought of humor in its construction.
It may be said, as well here as anywhere, that it was not Mark Twain's
habit to strive for humor.  He saw facts at curious angles and phrased
them accordingly.  In Virginia City he mingled with the turmoil of the
Comstock and set down what he saw and thought, in his native speech.  The
Comstock, ready to laugh, found delight in his expression and discovered
a vast humor in his most earnest statements.

On the other hand, there were times when the humor was intended and
missed its purpose.  We have already recalled the instance of the
"Petrified Man" hoax, which was taken seriously; but the "Empire City
Massacre" burlesque found an acceptance that even its author considered
serious for a time.  It is remembered to-day in Virginia City as the
chief incident of Mark Twain's Comstock career.

This literary bomb really had two objects, one of which was to punish the
San Francisco Bulletin for its persistent attacks on Washoe interests;
the other, though this was merely incidental, to direct an unpleasant
attention to a certain Carson saloon, the Magnolia, which was supposed to
dispense whisky of the "forty rod" brand--that is, a liquor warranted to
kill at that range.  It was the Bulletin that was to be made especially.
ridiculous.  This paper had been particularly disagreeable concerning the
"dividend-cooking" system of certain of the Comstock mines, at the same
time calling invidious attention to safer investments in California
stocks.  Samuel Clemens, with "half a trunkful" of Comstock shares, had
cultivated a distaste for California things in general: In a letter of
that time he says:

"How I hate everything that looks or tastes or smells like California!"
With his customary fickleness of soul, he was glorifying California less
than a year later, but for the moment he could see no good in that
Nazareth.  To his great satisfaction, one of the leading California
corporations, the Spring Valley Water Company, "cooked" a dividend of its
own about this time, resulting in disaster to a number of guileless
investors who were on the wrong side of the subsequent crash.  This
afforded an inviting opportunity for reprisal.  With Goodman's consent he
planned for the California papers, and the Bulletin in particular, a
punishment which he determined to make sufficiently severe.  He believed
the papers of that State had forgotten his earlier offenses, and the
result would show he was not mistaken.

There was a point on the Carson River, four miles from Carson City, known
as "Dutch Nick's," and also as Empire City, the two being identical.
There was no forest there of any sort nothing but sage-brush.  In the one
cabin there lived a bachelor with no household.  Everybody in Virginia
and Carson, of course, knew these things.

Mark Twain now prepared a most lurid and graphic account of how one
Phillip Hopkins, living "just at the edge of the great pine forest which
lies between Empire City and 'Dutch Nick's'," had suddenly gone insane and
murderously assaulted his entire family consisting of his wife and their
nine children, ranging in ages from one to nineteen years.  The wife had
been slain outright, also seven of the children; the other two might
recover.  The murder had been committed in the most brutal and ghastly
fashion, after which Hopkins had scalped his wife, leaped on a horse, cut
his own throat from ear to ear, and ridden four miles into Carson City,
dropping dead at last in front of the Magnolia saloon, the red-haired
scalp of his wife still clutched in his gory hand.  The article further
stated that the cause of Mr. Hopkins's insanity was pecuniary loss, he
having withdrawn his savings from safe Comstock investments and, through
the advice of a relative, one of the editors of the San Francisco
Bulletin, invested them in the Spring Valley Water Company.  This absurd
tale with startling head-lines appeared in the Enterprise, in its issue
of October 28, 1863.

It was not expected that any one in Virginia City or Carson City would
for a moment take any stock in the wild invention, yet so graphic was it
that nine out of ten on first reading never stopped to consider the
entire impossibility of the locality and circumstance.  Even when these
things were pointed out many readers at first refused to confess
themselves sold.  As for the Bulletin and other California papers, they
were taken-in completely, and were furious.  Many of them wrote and
demanded the immediate discharge of its author, announcing that they
would never copy another line from the Enterprise, or exchange with it,
or have further relations with a paper that had Mark Twain on its staff.
Citizens were mad, too, and cut off their subscriptions.  The joker was
in despair.

"Oh, Joe," he said, "I have ruined your business, and the only reparation
I can make is to resign.  You can never recover from this blow while I am
on the paper."

"Nonsense," replied Goodman.  "We can furnish the people with news, but
we can't supply them with sense.  Only time can do that.  The flurry will
pass.  You just go ahead.  We'll win out in the long run."

But the offender was in torture; he could not sleep.  "Dan, Dan," he
said, "I am being burned alive on both sides of the mountains."

"Mark," said Dan.  "It will all blow over.  This item of yours will be
remembered and talked about when the rest of your Enterprise work is
forgotten."

Both Goodman and De Quille were right.  In a month papers and people had
forgotten their humiliation and laughed.  "The Dutch Nick Massacre" gave
to its perpetrator and to the Enterprise an added vogue.

--[For full text of the "Dutch Nick" hoax see Appendix C, at the end of
last volume: also, for an anecdote concerning a reporting excursion made
by Alf. Doten and Mark Twain.]--




XLII

REPORTORIAL DAYS

Reference has already been made to the fashion among Virginia City papers
of permitting reporters to use the editorial columns for ridicule of one
another.  This custom was especially in vogue during the period when Dan
de Quille and Mark Twain and The Unreliable were the shining journalistic
lights of the Comstock.  Scarcely a week went by that some apparently
venomous squib or fling or long burlesque assault did not appear either
in the Union or the Enterprise, with one of those jokers as its author
and another as its target.  In one of his "home" letters of that year
Mark Twain says:

     I have just finished writing up my report for the morning paper and
     giving The Unreliable a column of advice about how to conduct
     himself in church.

The advice was such as to call for a reprisal, but it apparently made no
difference in personal relations, for a few weeks later he is with The
Unreliable in San Francisco, seeing life in the metropolis, fairly
swimming in its delights, unable to resist reporting them to his mother.

     We fag ourselves completely out every day and go to sleep without
     rocking every night.  When I go down Montgomery Street shaking hands
     with Tom, Dick, and Harry, it is just like being on Main Street in
     Hannibal and meeting the old familiar faces.  I do hate to go back
     to Washoe.  We take trips across the bay to Oakland, and down to San
     Leandro and Alameda, and we go out to the Willows and Hayes Park and
     Fort Point, and up to Benicia; and yesterday we were invited out on
     a yachting excursion, and had a sail in the fastest yacht on the
     Pacific coast.  Rice says: "Oh no--we are not having any fun, Mark--
     oh no--I reckon it's somebody else--it's probably the gentleman in
     the wagon" (popular slang phrase), and when I invite Rice to the
     Lick House to dinner the proprietor sends us champagne and claret,
     and then we do put on the most disgusting airs.  The Unreliable says
     our caliber is too light--we can't stand it to be noticed.

Three days later he adds that he is going sorrowfully "to the snows and
the deserts of Washoe," but that he has "lived like a lord to make up for
two years of privation."

Twenty dollars is inclosed in each of these letters, probably as a bribe
to Jane Clemens to be lenient with his prodigalities, which in his
youthful love of display he could not bring himself to conceal.  But
apparently the salve was futile, for in another letter, a month later, he
complains that his mother is "slinging insinuations" at him again, such
as "where did you get that money" and "the company I kept in San
Francisco."  He explains:

     Why, I sold Wild Cat mining ground that was given me, and my credit
     was always good at the bank for $2,000 or $3,000, and I never gamble
     in any shape or manner, and never drink anything stronger than
     claret and lager beer, which conduct is regarded as miraculously
     temperate in this place.  As for company, I went in the very best
     company to be found in San Francisco.  I always move in the best
     society in Virginia and have a reputation to preserve.

He closes by assuring her that he will be more careful in future and that
she need never fear but that he will keep her expenses paid.  Then he
cannot refrain from adding one more item of his lavish life:

"Put in my washing, and it costs me one hundred dollars a month to live."

De Quille had not missed the opportunity of his comrade's absence to
payoff some old scores.  At the end of the editorial column of the
Enterprise on the day following his departure he denounced the absent one
and his "protege," The Unreliable, after the intemperate fashion of the
day.

     It is to be regretted that such scrubs are ever permitted to visit
     the bay, as the inevitable effect will be to destroy that exalted
     opinion of the manners and morality of our people which was inspired
     by the conduct of our senior editor--[which is to say, Dan
     himself]--.

The diatribe closed with a really graceful poem, and the whole was no
doubt highly regarded by the Enterprise readers.

What revenge Mark Twain took on his return has not been recorded, but it
was probably prompt and adequate; or he may have left it to The
Unreliable.  It was clearly a mistake, however, to leave his own local
work in the hands of that properly named person a little later.  Clemens
was laid up with a cold, and Rice assured him on his sacred honor that he
would attend faithfully to the Enterprise locals, along with his own
Union items.  He did this, but he had been nursing old injuries too long.
What was Mark Twain's amazement on looking over the Enterprise next
morning to find under the heading "Apologetic" a statement over his own
nom de plume, purporting to be an apology for all the sins of ridicule to
the various injured ones.

     To Mayor Arick, Hon. Wm. Stewart, Marshal Perry, Hon. J. B. Winters,
     Mr. Olin, and Samuel Wetherill, besides a host of others whom we
     have ridiculed from behind the shelter of our reportorial position,
     we say to these gentlemen we acknowedge our faults, and, in all
     weakness and humility upon our bended marrow bones, we ask their
     forgiveness, promising that in future we will give them no cause for
     anything but the best of feeling toward us.  To "Young Wilson" and
     The Unreliable (as we have wickedly termed them), we feel that no
     apology we can make begins to atone for the many insults we have
     given them.  Toward these gentlemen we have been as mean as a man
     could be--and we have always prided ourselves on this base quality.
     We feel that we are the least of all humanity, as it were.  We will
     now go in sack-cloth and ashes for the next forty days.

This in his own paper over his own signature was a body blow; but it had
the effect of curing his cold.  He was back in the office forthwith, and
in the next morning's issue denounced his betrayer.

     We are to blame for giving The Unreliable an opportunity to
     misrepresent us, and therefore refrain from repining to any great
     extent at the result.  We simply claim the right to deny the truth
     of every statement made by him in yesterday's paper, to annul all
     apologies he coined as coming from us, and to hold him up to public
     commiseration as a reptile endowed with no more intellect, no more
     cultivation, no more Christian principle than animates and adorns
     the sportive jackass-rabbit of the Sierras.  We have done.

These were the things that enlivened Comstock journalism.  Once in a
boxing bout Mark Twain got a blow on the nose which caused it to swell to
an unusual size and shape.  He went out of town for a few days, during
which De Quille published an extravagant account of his misfortune,
describing the nose and dwelling on the absurdity of Mark Twain's ever
supposing himself to be a boxer.

De Quille scored heavily with this item but his own doom was written.
Soon afterward he was out riding and was thrown from his horse and
bruised considerably.

This was Mark's opportunity.  He gave an account of Dan's disaster; then,
commenting, he said:

     The idea of a plebeian like Dan supposing he could ever ride a
     horse!  He! why, even the cats and the chickens laughed when they
     saw him go by.  Of course, he would be thrown off.  Of course, any
     well-bred horse wouldn't let a common, underbred person like Dan
     stay on his back!  When they gathered him up he was just a bag of
     scraps, but they put him together, and you'll find him at his old
     place in the Enterprise office next week, still laboring under the
     delusion that he's a newspaper man.

The author of 'Roughing It' tells of a literary periodical called the
Occidental, started in Virginia City by a Mr. F.  This was the silver-
tongued Tom Fitch, of the Union, an able speaker and writer, vastly
popular on the Coast.  Fitch came to Clemens one day and said he was
thinking of starting such a periodical and asked him what he thought of
the venture.  Clemens said:

"You would succeed if any one could, but start a flower-garden on the
desert of Sahara; set up hoisting-works on Mount Vesuvius for mining
sulphur; start a literary paper in Virginia City; h--l!"

Which was a correct estimate of the situation, and the paper perished
with the third issue.  It was of no consequence except that it contained
what was probably the first attempt at that modern literary abortion, the
composite novel.  Also, it died too soon to publish Mark Twain's first
verses of any pretension, though still of modest merit--"The Aged Pilot
Man"--which were thereby saved for 'Roughing It.'

Visiting Virginia now, it seems curious that any of these things could
have happened there.  The Comstock has become little more than a memory;
Virginia and Gold Hill are so quiet, so voiceless, as to constitute
scarcely an echo of the past.  The International Hotel, that once so
splendid edifice, through whose portals the tide of opulent life then
ebbed and flowed, is all but deserted now.  One may wander at will
through its dingy corridors and among its faded fripperies, seeking in
vain for attendance or hospitality, the lavish welcome of a vanished day.
Those things were not lacking once, and the stream of wealth tossed up
and down the stair and billowed up C Street, an ebullient tide of metals
and men from which millionaires would be struck out, and individuals
known in national affairs.  William M. Stewart who would one day become a
United States Senator, was there, an unnoticed unit; and John Mackay and
James G. Fair, one a senator by and by, and both millionaires, but poor
enough then--Fair with a pick on his shoulder and Mackay, too, at first,
though he presently became a mine superintendent.  Once in those days
Mark Twain banteringly offered to trade businesses with Mackay.

"No," Mackay said, "I can't trade.  My business is not worth as much as
yours.  I have never swindled anybody, and I don't intend to begin now."

Neither of those men could dream that within ten years their names would
be international property; that in due course Nevada would propose
statues to their memory.

Such things came out of the Comstock; such things spring out of every
turbulent frontier.




XLIII

ARTEMUS WARD

Madame Caprell's warning concerning Mark Twain's health at twenty-eight
would seem to have been justified.  High-strung and neurotic, the strain
of newspaper work and the tumult of the Comstock had told on him.  As in
later life, he was subject to bronchial colds, and more than once that
year he found it necessary to drop all work and rest for a time at
Steamboat Springs, a place near Virginia City, where there were boiling
springs and steaming fissures in the mountain-side, and a comfortable
hotel.  He contributed from there sketches somewhat more literary in form
than any of his previous work.  "Curing a Cold" is a more or less
exaggerated account of his ills.

     [Included in Sketches New and Old.  "Information for the Million,"
     and "Advice to Good Little Girls," included in the "Jumping Frog"
     Collection, 1867, but omitted from the Sketches, are also believed
     to belong to this period.]

A portion of a playful letter to his mother, written from the springs,
still exists.

     You have given my vanity a deadly thrust.  Behold, I am prone to
     boast of having the widest reputation as a local editor of any man
     on the Pacific coast, and you gravely come forward and tell me "if I
     work hard and attend closely to my business, I may aspire to a place
     on a big San Francisco daily some day."  There's a comment on human
     vanity for you!  Why, blast it, I was under the impression that I
     could get such a situation as that any time I asked for it.  But I
     don't want it.  No paper in the United States can afford to pay me
     what my place on the Enterprise is worth.  If I were not naturally a
     lazy, idle, good-for-nothing vagabond, I could make it pay me
     $20,000 a year.  But I don't suppose I shall ever be any account.  I
     lead an easy life, though, and I don't care a cent whether school
     keeps or not.  Everybody knows me, and I fare like a prince wherever
     I go, be it on this side of the mountain or the other.  And I am
     proud to say I am the most conceited ass in the Territory.

     You think that picture looks old?  Well, I can't help it--in reality
     I'm not as old as I was when I was eighteen.

Which was a true statement, so far as his general attitude was concerned.
At eighteen, in New York and Philadelphia, his letters had been grave,
reflective, advisory.  Now they were mostly banter and froth, lightly
indifferent to the serious side of things, though perhaps only
pretendedly so, for the picture did look old.  From the shock and
circumstance of his brother's death he--had never recovered.  He was
barely twenty-eight.  From the picture he might have been a man of forty.

It was that year that Artemus Ward (Charles F. Browne) came to Virginia
City.  There was a fine opera-house in Virginia, and any attraction that
billed San Francisco did not fail to play to the Comstock.  Ward intended
staying only a few days to deliver his lectures, but the whirl of the
Comstock caught him like a maelstrom, and he remained three weeks.

He made the Enterprise office his headquarters, and fairly reveled in the
company he found there.  He and Mark Twain became boon companions.  Each
recognized in the other a kindred spirit.  With Goodman, De Quille, and
McCarthy, also E. E. Hingston--Ward's agent, a companionable fellow--they
usually dined at Chaumond's, Virginia's high-toned French restaurant.

Those were three memorable weeks in Mark Twain's life.  Artemus Ward was
in the height of his fame, and he encouraged his new-found brother-
humorist and prophesied great things of him.  Clemens, on his side,
measured himself by this man who had achieved fame, and perhaps with good
reason concluded that Ward's estimate was correct, that he too could win
fame and honor, once he got a start.  If he had lacked ambition before
Ward's visit, the latter's unqualified approval inspired him with that
priceless article of equipment.  He put his soul into entertaining the
visitor during those three weeks; and it was apparent to their associates
that he was at least Ward's equal in mental stature and originality.
Goodman and the others began to realize that for Mark Twain the rewards
of the future were to be measured only by his resolution and ability to
hold out.  On Christmas eve Artemus lectured in Silver City and afterward
came to the Enterprise office to give the boys a farewell dinner.  The
Enterprise always published a Christmas carol, and Goodman sat at his
desk writing it.  He was just finishing as Ward came in:

"Slave, slave," said Artemus.  "Come out and let me banish care from
you."

They got the boys and all went over to Chaumond's, where Ward commanded
Goodman to order the dinner.  When the cocktails came on, Artemus lifted
his glass and said:

"I give you Upper Canada."

The company rose, drank the toast in serious silence; then Goodman said:

"Of course, Artemus, it's all right, but why did you give us Upper
Canada?"

"Because I don't want it myself," said Ward, gravely.

Then began a rising tide of humor that could hardly be matched in the
world to-day.  Mark Twain had awakened to a fuller power; Artemus Ward
was in his prime.  They were giants of a race that became extinct when
Mark Twain died.  The youth, the wine, the whirl of lights and life, the
tumult of the shouting street-it was as if an electric stream of
inspiration poured into those two human dynamos and sent them into a
dazzling, scintillating whirl.  All gone--as evanescent, as forgotten, as
the lightnings of that vanished time; out of that vast feasting and
entertainment only a trifling morsel remains.  Ward now and then asked
Goodman why he did not join in the banter.  Goodman said:

"I'm preparing a joke, Artemus, but I'm keeping it for the present."

It was near daybreak when Ward at last called for the bill.  It was two
hundred and thirty-seven dollars.

"What"' exclaimed Artemus.

"That's my joke."  said Goodman.

"But I was only exclaiming because it was not twice as much," returned
Ward.

He paid it amid laughter, and they went out into the early morning air.
It was fresh and fine outside, not yet light enough to see clearly.
Artemus threw his face up to the sky and said:

"I feel glorious.  I feel like walking on the roofs."

Virginia was built on the steep hillside, and the eaves of some of the
houses almost touched the ground behind them.

"There is your chance, Artemus," Goodman said, pointing to a row of these
houses all about of a height.

Artemus grabbed Mark Twain, and they stepped out upon the long string of
roofs and walked their full length, arm in arm.  Presently the others
noticed a lonely policeman cocking his revolver and getting ready to aim
in their direction.  Goodman called to him:

"Wait a minute.  What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to shoot those burglars," he said.

"Don't for your life.  Those are not burglars.  That's Mark Twain and
Artemus Ward."

The roof-walkers returned, and the party went down the street to a corner
across from the International Hotel.  A saloon was there with a barrel
lying in front, used, perhaps for a sort of sign.  Artemus climbed
astride the barrel, and somebody brought a beer-glass and put it in his
hand.  Virginia City looks out over the Eastward Desert.  Morning was
just breaking upon the distant range-the scene as beautiful as when the
sunrise beams across the plain of Memnon.  The city was not yet awake.
The only living creatures in sight were the group of belated diners, with
Artemus Ward, as King Gambrinus, pouring a libation to the sunrise.

That was the beginning of a week of glory.  The farewell dinner became a
series.  At the close of one convivial session Artemus went to a concert-
hall, the "Melodeon," blacked his face, and delivered a speech.  He got
away from Virginia about the close of the year.

A day or two later he wrote from Austin, Nevada, to his new-found comrade
as "My dearest Love," recalling the happiness of his stay:

"I shall always remember Virginia as a bright spot in my existence, as
all others must or rather cannot be, as it were."

Then reflectively he adds:

"Some of the finest intellects in the world have been blunted by liquor."

Rare Artemus Ward and rare Mark Twain!  If there lies somewhere a place
of meeting and remembrance, they have not failed to recall there those
closing days of '63.




XLIV

GOVERNOR OF THE "THIRD HOUSE"

With Artemus Ward's encouragement, Clemens began to think of extending
his audience eastward.  The New York Sunday Mercury published literary
matter.  Ward had urged him to try this market, and promised to write a
special letter to the editors, introducing Mark Twain and his work.
Clemens prepared a sketch of the Comstock variety, scarcely refined in
character and full of personal allusion, a humor not suited to the
present-day reader.  Its general subject was children; it contained some
absurd remedies, supposedly sent to his old pilot friend Zeb Leavenworth,
and was written as much for a joke on that good-natured soul as for
profit or reputation.

"I wrote it especially for Beck Jolly's use," the author declares, in a
letter to his mother, "so he could pester Zeb with it."

We cannot know to-day whether Zeb was pestered or not.  A faded clipping
is all that remains of the incident.  As literature the article, properly
enough, is lost to the world at large.  It is only worth remembering as
his metropolitan beginning.  Yet he must have thought rather highly of it
(his estimation of his own work was always unsafe), for in the letter
above quoted he adds:

     I cannot write regularly for the Mercury, of course, I sha'n't have
     time.  But sometimes I throw off a pearl (there is no self-conceit
     about that, I beg you to observe) which ought for the eternal
     welfare of my race to have a more extensive circulation than is
     afforded by a local daily paper.

     And if Fitzhugh Ludlow (author of the 'Hasheesh Eater') comes your
     way, treat him well.  He published a high encomium upon Mark Twain
     (the same being eminently just and truthful, I beseech you to
     believe) in a San Francisco paper.  Artemus Ward said that when my
     gorgeous talents were publicly acknowledged by such high authority I
     ought to appreciate them myself, leave sage-brush obscurity, and
     journey to New York with him, as he wanted me to do.  But I
     preferred not to burst upon the New York public too suddenly and
     brilliantly, so I concluded to remain here.

He was in Carson City when this was written, preparing for the opening of
the next legislature.  He was beyond question now the most conspicuous
figure of the capital; also the most wholesomely respected, for his
influence had become very large.  It was said that he could control more
votes than any legislative member, and with his friends, Simmons and
Clagget, could pass or defeat any bill offered.  The Enterprise was a
powerful organ--to be courted and dreaded--and Mark Twain had become its
chief tribune.  That he was fearless, merciless, and incorruptible,
without doubt had a salutary influence on that legislative session.  He
reveled in his power; but it is not recorded that he ever abused it.  He
got a bill passed, largely increasing Orion's official fees, but this was
a crying need and was so recognized.  He made no secret promises, none at
all that he did not intend to fulfill.  "Sam's word was as fixed as
fate," Orion records, and it may be added that he was morally as
fearless.

The two Houses of the last territorial legislature of Nevada assembled
January 12, 1864.--[Nevada became a State October 31, 1864.]--

A few days later a "Third House" was organized--an institution quite in
keeping with the happy atmosphere of that day and locality, for it was a
burlesque organization, and Mark Twain was selected as its "Governor."

The new House prepared to make a public occasion of this first session,
and its Governor was required to furnish a message.  Then it was decided
to make it a church benefit.  The letters exchanged concerning this
proposition still exist; they explain themselves:

                              CARSON CITY, January 23, 1864.

     GOV. MARK TWAIN, Understanding from certain members of the Third
     House of the territorial Legislature that that body will have
     effected a permanent organization within a day or two, and be ready
     for the reception of your Third Annual Message,--[ There had been
     no former message.  This was regarded as a great joke.]--we desire
     to ask your permission, and that of the Third House, to turn the
     affair to the benefit of the Church by charging toll-roads,
     franchises, and other persons a dollar apiece for the privilege of
     listening to your communication.
                              S. PIXLEY,
                              G. A. SEARS,
                                        Trustees.


                              CARSON CITY, January 23, 1864.

     GENTLEMEN,--Certainly.  If the public can find anything in a grave
     state paper worth paying a dollar for, I am willing they should pay
     that amount, or any other; and although I am not a very dusty
     Christian myself, I take an absorbing interest in religious affairs,
     and would willingly inflict my annual message upon the Church itself
     if it might derive benefit thereby.  You can charge what you please;
     I promise the public no amusement, but I do promise a reasonable
     amount of instruction.  I am responsible to the Third House only,
     and I hope to be permitted to make it exceedingly warm for that
     body, without caring whether the sympathies of the public and the
     Church be enlisted in their favor, and against myself, or not.
                              Respectfully,
                              MARK TWAIN.


Mark Twain's reply is closely related to his later style in phrase and
thought.  It might have been written by him at almost any subsequent
period.  Perhaps his association with Artemus Ward had awakened a new
perception of the humorous idea--a humor of repression, of
understatement.  He forgot this often enough, then and afterward, and
gave his riotous fancy free rein; but on the whole the simpler, less
florid form seemingly began to attract him more and more.

His address as Governor of the Third House has not been preserved, but
those who attended always afterward referred to it as the "greatest
effort of his life."  Perhaps for that audience and that time this
verdict was justified.

It was his first great public opportunity.  On the stage about him sat
the membership of the Third House; the building itself was packed, the
aisles full.  He knew he could let himself go in burlesque and satire,
and he did.  He was unsparing in his ridicule of the Governor, the
officials in general, the legislative members, and of individual
citizens.  From the beginning to the end of his address the audience was
in a storm of laughter and applause.  With the exception of the dinner
speech made to the printers in Keokuk, it was his first public utterance
--the beginning of a lifelong series of triumphs.

Only one thing marred his success.  Little Carrie Pixley, daughter of one
of the "trustees," had promised to be present and sit in a box next the
stage.  It was like him to be fond of the child, and he had promised to
send a carriage for her.  Often during his address he glanced toward the
box; but it remained empty.  When the affair was ended, he drove home
with her father to inquire the reason.  They found the little girl, in
all her finery, weeping on the bed.  Then he remembered he had forgotten
to send the carriage; and that was like him, too.

For his Third House address Judge A. W. (Sandy) Baldwin and Theodore
Winters presented him with a gold watch inscribed to "Governor Mark
Twain."  He was more in demand now than ever; no social occasion was
regarded as complete without him.  His doings were related daily and his
sayings repeated on the streets.  Most of these things have passed away
now, but a few are still recalled with smiles.  Once, when conundrums
were being asked at a party, he was urged to make one.

"Well," he sand, "why am I like the Pacific Ocean?"

Several guesses were made, but none satisfied him.  Finally all gave it
up.

"Tell us, Mark, why are you like the Pacific Ocean?"

"I don't know," he drawled.  "I was just asking for information."

At another time, when a young man insisted on singing a song of eternal
length, the chorus of which was, "I'm going home, I'm going home, I'm
going home tomorrow," Mark Twain put his head in the window and said,
pleadingly:

"For God's sake go to-night."

But he was also fond of quieter society.  Sometimes, after the turmoil of
a legislative morning, he would drop in to Miss Keziah Clapp's school and
listen to the exercises, or would call on Colonel Curry--"old Curry, old
Abe Curry"--and if the colonel happened to be away, he would talk with
Mrs. Curry, a motherly soul (still alive at ninety-three, in 1910), and
tell her of his Hannibal boyhood or his river and his mining adventures,
and keep her laughing until the tears ran.

He was a great pedestrian in those days.  Sometimes he walked from
Virginia to Carson, stopping at Colonel Curry's as he came in for rest
and refreshment.

"Mrs. Curry," he said once, "I have seen tireder men than I am, and
lazier men, but they were dead men."  He liked the home feeling there--
the peace and motherly interest.  Deep down, he was lonely and homesick;
he was always so away from his own kindred.

Clemens returned now to Virginia City, and, like all other men who ever
met her, became briefly fascinated by the charms of Adah Isaacs Menken,
who was playing Mazeppa at the Virginia Opera House.  All men--kings,
poets, priests, prize-fighters--fell under Menken's spell.  Dan de Quille
and Mark Twain entered into a daily contest as to who could lavish the
most fervid praise on her in the Enterprise.  The latter carried her his
literary work to criticize.  He confesses this in one of his home
letters, perhaps with a sort of pride.

I took it over to show to Miss Menken the actress, Orpheus C. Ken's wife.
She is a literary cuss herself.

She has a beautiful white hand, but her handwriting is infamous; she
writes fast and her chirography is of the door-plate order--her letters
are immense.  I gave her a conundrum, thus:

"My dear madam, why ought your hand to retain its present grace and
beauty always?  Because you fool away devilish little of it on your
manuscript."

But Menken was gone presently, and when he saw her again, somewhat later,
in San Francisco, his "madness" would have seemed to have been allayed.




XLV

A COMSTOCK DUEL

The success--such as it was--of his occasional contributions to the New
York Sunday Mercury stirred Mark Twain's ambition for a wider field of
labor.  Circumstance, always ready to meet his wishes, offered
assistance, though in an unexpected form.

Goodman, temporarily absent, had left Clemens in editorial charge.  As in
that earlier day, when Orion had visited Tennessee and returned to find
his paper in a hot personal warfare with certain injured citizens, so the
Enterprise, under the same management, had stirred up trouble.  It was
just at the time of the "Flour Sack Sanitary Fund," the story of which is
related at length in 'Roughing It'.  In the general hilarity of this
occasion, certain Enterprise paragraphs of criticism or ridicule had
incurred the displeasure of various individuals whose cause naturally
enough had been espoused by a rival paper, the Chronicle.  Very soon the
original grievance, whatever it was, was lost sight of in the fireworks
and vitriol-throwing of personal recrimination between Mark Twain and the
Chronicle editor, then a Mr. Laird.

A point had been reached at length when only a call for bloodshed--a
challenge--could satisfy either the staff or the readers of the two
papers.  Men were killed every week for milder things than the editors
had spoken each of the other.  Joe Goodman himself, not so long before,
had fought a duel with a Union editor--Tom Fitch--and shot him in the
leg, so making of him a friend, and a lame man, for life.  In Joe's
absence the prestige of the paper must be maintained.

Mark Twain himself has told in burlesque the story of his duel, keeping
somewhat nearer to the fact than was his custom in such writing, as may
be seen by comparing it with the account of his abettor and second--of
course, Steve Gillis.  The account is from Mr. Gillis's own hand:

     When Joe went away, he left Sam in editorial charge of the paper.
     That was a dangerous thing to do.  Nobody could ever tell what Sam
     was going to write.  Something he said stirred up Mr. Laird, of the
     Chronicle, who wrote a reply of a very severe kind.  He said some
     things that we told Mark could only be wiped out with blood.  Those
     were the days when almost every man in Virginia City had fought with
     pistols either impromptu or premeditated duels.  I had been in
     several, but then mine didn't count.  Most of them were of the
     impromptu kind.  Mark hadn't had any yet, and we thought it about
     time that his baptism took place.

     He was not eager for it; he was averse to violence, but we finally
     prevailed upon him to send Laird a challenge, and when Laird did not
     send a reply at once we insisted on Mark sending him another
     challenge, by which time he had made himself believe that he really
     wanted to fight, as much as we wanted him to do.  Laird concluded to
     fight, at last.  I helped Mark get up some of the letters, and a man
     who would not fight after such letters did not belong in Virginia
     City--in those days.

     Laird's acceptance of Mark's challenge came along about midnight, I
     think, after the papers had gone to press.  The meeting was to take
     place next morning at sunrise.

     Of course I was selected as Mark's second, and at daybreak I had him
     up and out for some lessons in pistol practice before meeting Laird.
     I didn't have to wake him.  He had not been asleep.  We had been
     talking since midnight over the duel that was coming.  I had been
     telling him of the different duels in which I had taken part, either
     as principal or second, and how many men I had helped to kill and
     bury, and how it was a good plan to make a will, even if one had not
     much to leave.  It always looked well, I told him, and seemed to be
     a proper thing to do before going into a duel.  So Mark made a will
     with a sort of gloomy satisfaction, and as soon as it was light
     enough to see, we went out to a little ravine near the meeting-
     place, and I set up a board for him to shoot at.  He would step out,
     raise that big pistol, and when I would count three he would shut
     his eyes and pull the trigger.  Of course he didn't hit anything; he
     did not come anywhere near hitting anything.  Just then we heard
     somebody shooting over in the next ravine.  Sam said:

     "What's that, Steve?"

     "Why," I said, "that's Laud.  His seconds are practising him over
     there."

     It didn't make my principal any more cheerful to hear that pistol go
     off every few seconds over there.  Just then I saw a little mud-hen
     light on some sage-brush about thirty yards away.

     "Mark," I said, "let me have that pistol.  I'll show you how to
     shoot."

     He handed it to me, and I let go at the bird and shot its head off,
     clean.  About that time Laird and his second came over the ridge to
     meet us.  I saw them coming and handed Mark back the pistol.  We
     were looking at the bird when they came up.

     "Who did that?" asked Laird's second.

     "Sam," I said.

     "How far off was it?"

     "Oh, about thirty yards."

     "Can he do it again?"

     "Of course," I said; "every time.  He could do it twice that far."

     Laud's second turned to his principal.

     "Laird," he said, "you don't want to fight that man.  It's just like
     suicide.  You'd better settle this thing, now."

     So there was a settlement.  Laird took back all he had said; Mark
     said he really had nothing against Laird--the discussion had been
     purely journalistic and did not need to be settled in blood.  He
     said that both he and Laird were probably the victims of their
     friends.  I remember one of the things Laird said when his second
     told him he had better not fight.

     "Fight!  H--l, no!  I am not going to be murdered by that d--d
     desperado."

     Sam had sent another challenge to a man named Cutler, who had been
     somehow mixed up with the muss and had written Sam an insulting
     letter; but Cutler was out of town at the time, and before he got
     back we had received word from Jerry Driscoll, foreman of the Grand
     jury, that the law just passed, making a duel a penitentiary offense
     for both principal and second, was to be strictly enforced, and
     unless we got out of town in a limited number of hours we would be
     the first examples to test the new law.

We concluded to go, and when the stage left next morning for San
Francisco we were on the outside seat.  Joe Goodman had returned by this
time and agreed to accompany us as far as Henness Pass.  We were all in
good spirits and glad we were alive, so Joe did not stop when he got to
Henness Pass, but kept on.  Now and then he would say, "Well, I had
better be going back pretty soon," but he didn't go, and in the end he
did not go back at all, but went with us clear to San Francisco, and we
had a royal good time all the way.  I never knew any series of duels to
close so happily.

So ended Mark Twain's career on the Comstock.  He had come to it a weary
pilgrim, discouraged and unknown; he was leaving it with a new name and
fame--elate, triumphant, even if a fugitive.




XLVI

GETTING SETTLED IN SAN FRANCISCO

This was near the end of May, 1864.  The intention of both Gillis and
Clemens was to return to the States; but once in San Francisco both
presently accepted places, Clemens as reporter and Gillis as compositor,
on the 'Morning Call'.

From 'Roughing It' the reader gathers that Mark Twain now entered into a
life of butterfly idleness on the strength of prospective riches to be
derived from the "half a trunkful of mining stocks," and that presently,
when the mining bubble exploded, he was a pauper.  But a good many
liberties have been taken with the history of this period.  Undoubtedly
he expected opulent returns from his mining stocks, and was disappointed,
particularly in an investment in Hale and Norcross shares, held too long
for the large profit which could have been made by selling at the proper
time.

The fact is, he spent not more than a few days--a fortnight at most--in
"butterfly idleness," at the Lick House before he was hard at work on the
'Call', living modestly with Steve Gillis in the quietest place they
could find, never quiet enough, but as far as possible from dogs and cats
and chickens and pianos, which seemed determined to make the mornings
hideous, when a weary night reporter and compositor wanted to rest.  They
went out socially, on occasion, arrayed in considerable elegance; but
their recreations were more likely to consist of private midnight orgies,
after the paper had gone to press--mild dissipations in whatever they
could find to eat at that hour, with a few glasses of beer, and perhaps a
game of billiards or pool in some all-night resort.  A printer by the
name of Ward--"Little Ward,"--[L. P. Ward; well known as an athlete in
San Francisco.  He lost his mind and fatally shot himself in 1903.]--
they called him--often went with them for these refreshments.  Ward and
Gillis were both bantam game-cocks, and sometimes would stir up trouble
for the very joy of combat.  Clemens never cared for that sort of thing
and discouraged it, but Ward and Gillis were for war.  "They never
assisted each other.  If one had offered to assist the other against some
overgrown person, it would have been an affront, and a battle would have
followed between that pair of little friends."--[S. L. C., 1906.]--
Steve Gillis in particular, was fond of incidental encounters, a
characteristic which would prove an important factor somewhat later in
shaping Mark Twain's career.  Of course, the more strenuous nights were
not frequent.  Their home-going was usually tame enough and they were
glad enough to get there.

Clemens, however, was never quite ready for sleep.  Then, as ever, he
would prop himself up in bed, light his pipe, and lose himself in English
or French history until sleep conquered.  His room-mate did not approve
of this habit; it interfered with his own rest, and with his fiendish
tendency to mischief he found reprisal in his own fashion.  Knowing his
companion's highly organized nervous system he devised means of torture
which would induce him to put out the light.  Once he tied a nail to a
string; an arrangement which he kept on the floor behind the bed.
Pretending to be asleep, he would hold the end of the string, and lift it
gently up and down, making a slight ticking sound on the floor, maddening
to a nervous man.  Clemens would listen a moment and say:

"What in the nation is that noise"

Gillis's pretended sleep and the ticking would continue.

Clemens would sit up in bed, fling aside his book, and swear violently.

"Steve, what is that d--d noise?" he would say.

Steve would pretend to rouse sleepily.

"What's the matter, Sam?  What noise?  Oh, I guess that is one of those
death-ticks; they don't like the light.  Maybe it will stop in a minute."

It usually did stop about that time, and the reading would be apt to
continue.  But no sooner was there stillness than it began again--tick,
tick, tick.  With a wild explosion of blasphemy, the book would go across
the floor and the light would disappear.  Sometimes, when he couldn't
sleep, he would dress and walk out in the street for an hour, while the
cruel Steve slept like the criminal that he was.

At last, one night, he overdid the thing and was caught.  His tortured
room-mate at first reviled him, then threatened to kill him, finally put
him to shame.  It was curious, but they always loved each other, those
two; there was never anything resembling an estrangement, and to his last
days Mark Twain never could speak of Steve Gillis without tenderness.

They moved a great many times in San Francisco.  Their most satisfactory
residence was on a bluff on California Street.  Their windows looked down
on a lot of Chinese houses--"tin-can houses," they were called--small
wooden shanties covered with beaten-out cans.  Steve and Mark would look
down on these houses, waiting until all the Chinamen were inside; then
one of them would grab an empty beer-bottle, throw it down on those tin
can roofs, and dodge behind the blinds.  The Chinamen would swarm out and
look up at the row of houses on the edge of the bluff, shake their fists,
and pour out Chinese vituperation.  By and by, when they had retired and
everything was quiet again, their tormentors would throw another bottle.
This was their Sunday amusement.

At a place on Minna Street they lived with a private family.  At first
Clemens was delighted.

"Just look at it, Steve," he said.  "What a nice, quiet place.  Not a
thing to disturb us."

But next morning a dog began to howl.  Gillis woke this time, to find his
room-mate standing in the door that opened out into a back garden,
holding a big revolver, his hand shaking with cold and excitement.

"Came here, Steve," he said.  "Come here and kill him.  I'm so chilled
through I can't get a bead on him."

"Sam," said Steve, "don't shoot him.  Just swear at him.  You can easily
kill him at that range with your profanity."

Steve Gillis declares that Mark Twain then let go such a scorching,
singeing blast that the brute's owner sold him next day for a Mexican
hairless dog.

We gather that they moved, on an average, about once a month.  A home
letter of September 25, 1864, says:

     We have been here only four months, yet we have changed our lodging
     five times.  We are very comfortably fixed where we are now and have
     no fault to find with the rooms or the people.  We are the only
     lodgers-in a well-to-do private family .  .  .  .  But I need change
     and must move again.

This was the Minna Street place--the place of the dog.  In the same
letter he mentions having made a new arrangement with the Call, by which
he is to receive twenty-five dollars a week, with no more night-work; he
says further that he has closed with the Californian for weekly articles
at twelve dollars each.




XLVII

BOHEMIAN DAYS

Mark Twain's position on the 'Call' was uncongenial from the start.  San
Francisco was a larger city than Virginia; the work there was necessarily
more impersonal, more a routine of news-gathering and drudgery.  He once
set down his own memories of it:

     At nine in the morning I had to be at the police court for an hour
     and make a brief history of the squabbles of the night before.  They
     were usually between Irishmen and Irishmen, and Chinamen and
     Chinamen, with now and then a squabble between the two races, for a
     change.

     During the rest of the day we raked the town from end to end,
     gathering such material as we might, wherewith to fill our required
     columns; and if there were no fires to report, we started some.  At
     night we visited the six theaters, one after the other, seven nights
     in the week.  We remained in each of those places five minutes, got
     the merest passing glimpse of play and opera, and with that for a
     text we "wrote up" those plays and operas, as the phrase goes,
     torturing our souls every night in the effort to find something to
     say about those performances which we had not said a couple of
     hundred times before.

     It was fearful drudgery-soulless drudgery--and almost destitute of
     interest.  It was an awful slavery for a lazy man.

On the Enterprise he had been free, with a liberty that amounted to
license.  He could write what he wished, and was personally responsible
to the readers.  On the Call he was simply a part of a news-machine;
restricted by a policy, the whole a part of a still greater machine--
politics.  Once he saw some butchers set their dogs on an unoffending
Chinaman, a policeman looking on with amused interest.  He wrote an
indignant article criticizing the city government and raking the police.
In Virginia City this would have been a welcome delight; in San Francisco
it did not appear.

At another time he found a policeman asleep on his beat.  Going to a
near-by vegetable stall he borrowed a large cabbage-leaf, came back and
stood over the sleeper, gently fanning him.  It would be wasted effort to
make an item of this incident; but he could publish it in his own
fashion.  He stood there fanning the sleeping official until a large
crowd collected.  When he thought it was large enough he went away.  Next
day the joke was all over the city.

Only one of the several severe articles he wrote criticizing officials
and institutions seems to have appeared--an attack on an undertaker whose
establishment formed a branch of the coroner's office.  The management of
this place one day refused information to a Call reporter, and the next
morning its proprietor was terrified by a scathing denunciation of his
firm.  It began, "Those body-snatchers" and continued through half a
column of such scorching strictures as only Mark Twain could devise.  The
Call's policy of suppression evidently did not include criticisms of
deputy coroners.

Such liberty, however, was too rare for Mark Twain, and he lost interest.
He confessed afterward that he became indifferent and lazy, and that
George E. Barnes, one of the publishers of the Call, at last allowed him
an assistant.  He selected from the counting-room a big, hulking youth by
the name of McGlooral, with the acquired prefix of "Smiggy."  Clemens had
taken a fancy to Smiggy McGlooral--on account of his name and size
perhaps--and Smiggy, devoted to his patron, worked like a slave gathering
news nights--daytimes, too, if necessary--all of which was demoralizing
to a man who had small appetite for his place anyway.  It was only a
question of time when Smiggy alone would be sufficient for the job.

There were other and pleasanter things in San Francisco.  The personal
and literary associations were worth while.  At his right hand in the
Call office sat Frank Soule--a gentle spirit--a graceful versifier who
believed himself a poet.  Mark Twain deferred to Frank Soule in those
days.  He thought his verses exquisite in their workmanship; a word of
praise from Soule gave him happiness.  In a luxurious office up-stairs
was another congenial spirit--a gifted, handsome fellow of twenty-four,
who was secretary of the Mint, and who presently became editor of a new
literary weekly, the Californian, which Charles Henry Webb had founded.
This young man's name was Francis Bret Harte, originally from Albany,
later a miner and school-teacher on the Stanislaus, still later a
compositor, finally a contributor, on the Golden Era.  His fame scarcely
reached beyond San Francisco as yet; but among the little coterie of
writing folk that clustered about the Era office his rank was high.  Mark
Twain fraternized with Bret Harte and the Era group generally.  He felt
that he had reached the land--or at least the borderland--of Bohemia,
that Ultima Thule of every young literary dream.

San Francisco did, in fact, have a very definite literary atmosphere and
a literature of its own.  Its coterie of writers had drifted from here
and there, but they had merged themselves into a California body-poetic,
quite as individual as that of Cambridge, even if less famous, less
fortunate in emoluments than the Boston group.  Joseph E. Lawrence,
familiarly known as "Joe" Lawrence, was editor of the Golden Era,--[The
Golden Era, California's first literary publication, was founded by
Rollin M.  Daggett and J. McDonough Foard in 1852.]--and his kindness
and hospitality were accounted sufficient rewards even when his pecuniary
acknowledgments were modest enough.  He had a handsome office, and the
literati, local and visiting, used to gather there.  Names that would be
well known later were included in that little band.  Joaquin Miller
recalls from an old diary, kept by him then, having seen Adah Isaacs
Menken, Prentice Mulford, Bret Harte, Charles Warren Stoddard, Fitzhugh
Ludlow, Mark Twain, Orpheus C. Kerr, Artemus Ward, Gilbert Densmore,
W. S. Kendall, and Mrs. Hitchcock assembled there at one time.  The Era
office would seem to have been a sort of Mount Olympus, or Parnassus,
perhaps; for these were mainly poets, who had scarcely yet attained to
the dignity of gods.  Miller was hardly more than a youth then, and this
grand assemblage impressed him, as did the imposing appointments of the
place.

     The Era rooms were elegant--[he says]--,the most grandly carpeted
     and most gorgeously furnished that I have ever seen.  Even now in my
     memory they seem to have been simply palatial.  I have seen the
     world well since then--all of its splendors worth seeing--yet those
     carpeted parlors, with Joe Lawrence and his brilliant satellites,
     outshine all things else, as I turn to look back.

More than any other city west of the Alleghanies, San Francisco has
always been a literary center; and certainly that was a remarkable group
to be out there under the sunset, dropped down there behind the Sierras,
which the transcontinental railway would not climb yet, for several
years.  They were a happy-hearted, aspiring lot, and they got as much as
five dollars sometimes for an Era article, and were as proud of it as if
it had been a great deal more.  They felt that they were creating
literature, as they were, in fact; a new school of American letters
mustered there.

Mark Twain and Bret Harte were distinctive features of this group.  They
were already recognized by their associates as belonging in a class by
themselves, though as yet neither had done any of the work for which he
would be remembered later.  They were a good deal together, and it was
when Harte was made editor of the Californian that Mark Twain was put on
the weekly staff at the then unexampled twelve-dollar rate.  The
Californian made larger pretensions than the Era, and perhaps had a
heavier financial backing.  With Mark Twain on the staff and Bret Harte
in the chair, himself a frequent contributor, it easily ranked as first
of San Francisco periodicals.  A number of the sketches collected by Webb
later, in Mark Twain's first little volume, the Celebrated Jumping Frog,
Etc., appeared in the Era or Californian in 1864 and 1865.  They were
smart, bright, direct, not always refined, but probably the best humor of
the day.  Some of them are still preserved in this volume of sketches.
They are interesting in what they promise, rather than in what they
present, though some of them are still delightful enough.  "The Killing
of Julius Caesar Localized" is an excellent forerunner of his burlesque
report of a gladiatorial combat in The Innocents Abroad.  The Answers to
Correspondents, with his vigorous admonition of the statistical moralist,
could hardly have been better done at any later period.  The Jumping Frog
itself was not originally of this harvest.  It has a history of its own,
as we shall see a little further along.

The reportorial arrangement was of brief duration.  Even the great San
Francisco earthquake of that day did not awaken in Mark Twain any
permanent enthusiasm for the drudgery of the 'Call'.  He had lost
interest, and when Mark Twain lost interest in a subject or an
undertaking that subject or that undertaking were better dead, so far as
he was concerned.  His conclusion of service with the Call was certain,
and he wondered daily why it was delayed so long.  The connection had
become equally unsatisfactory to proprietor and employee.  They had a
heart-to-heart talk presently, with the result that Mark Twain was free.
He used to claim, in after-years, with his usual tendency to confess the
worst of himself, that he was discharged, and the incident has been
variously told.  George Barnes himself has declared that Clemens resigned
with great willingness.  It is very likely that the paragraph at the end
of Chapter LVIII in 'Roughing It' presents the situation with fair
accuracy, though, as always, the author makes it as unpleasant for
himself as possible:

"At last one of the proprietors took me aside, with a charity I still
remember with considerable respect, and gave me an opportunity to resign
my berth, and so save myself the disgrace of a dismissal."

As an extreme contrast with the supposititious "butterfly idleness" of
his beginning in San Francisco, and for no other discoverable reason, he
doubtless thought it necessary, in the next chapter of that book, to
depict himself as having reached the depths of hard luck, debt, and
poverty.

"I became an adept at slinking," he says.  "I slunk from back street to
back street....  I slunk to my bed.  I had pawned everything but the
clothes I had on."

This is pure fiction.  That he occasionally found himself short of funds
is likely enough--a literary life invites that sort of thing--but that he
ever clung to a single "silver ten-cent piece," as he tells us, and
became the familiar of mendicancy, was a condition supplied altogether by
his later imagination to satisfy what he must have regarded as an
artistic need.  Almost immediately following his separation from the
'Call' he arranged with Goodman to write a daily letter for the
Enterprise, reporting San Francisco matters after his own notion with a
free hand.  His payment for this work was thirty dollars a week, and he
had an additional return from his literary sketches.  The arrangement was
an improvement both as to labor and income.

Real affluence appeared on the horizon just then, in the form of a
liberal offer for the Tennessee land.  But alas! it was from a wine-
grower who wished to turn the tract into great vineyards, and Orion had a
prohibition seizure at the moment, so the trade was not made.  Orion
further argued that the prospective purchaser would necessarily be
obliged to import horticultural labor from Europe, and that those people
might be homesick, badly treated, and consequently unhappy in those far
eastern Tennessee mountains.  Such was Orion's way.




XLVIII

THE REFUGE OF THE HILLS

Those who remember Mark Twain's Enterprise letters (they are no longer
obtainable)--[Many of these are indeed now obtainable by a simple Web
search.  D.W.]--declare them to have been the greatest series of daily
philippics ever written.  However this may be, it is certain that they
made a stir.  Goodman permitted him to say absolutely what he pleased
upon any subject.  San Francisco was fairly weltering in corruption,
official and private.  He assailed whatever came first to hand with all
the fierceness of a flaming indignation long restrained.

Quite naturally he attacked the police, and with such ferocity and
penetration that as soon as copies of the Enterprise came from Virginia
the City Hall began to boil and smoke and threaten trouble.  Martin G.
Burke, then chief of police, entered libel suit against the Enterprise,
prodigiously advertising that paper, copies of which were snatched as
soon as the stage brought them.

Mark Twain really let himself go then.  He wrote a letter that on the
outside was marked, "Be sure and let Joe see this before it goes in."
He even doubted himself whether Goodman would dare to print it, after
reading.  It was a letter describing the city's corrupt morals under the
existing police government.  It began, "The air is full of lechery, and
rumors of lechery," and continued in a strain which made even the
Enterprise printers aghast.

"You can never afford to publish that," the foreman said to, Goodman.

"Let it all go in, every word," Goodman answered.  "If Mark can stand it,
I can!"

It seemed unfortunate (at the time) that Steve Gillis should select this
particular moment to stir up trouble that would involve both himself and
Clemens with the very officials which the latter had undertaken to
punish.  Passing a saloon one night alone, Gillis heard an altercation
going on inside, and very naturally stepped in to enjoy it.  Including
the barkeeper, there were three against two.  Steve ranged himself on the
weaker side, and selected the barkeeper, a big bruiser, who, when the
fight was over, was ready for the hospital.  It turned out that he was
one of Chief Burke's minions, and Gillis was presently indicted on a
charge of assault with intent to kill.  He knew some of the officials in
a friendly way, and was advised to give a straw bond and go into
temporary retirement.  Clemens, of course, went his bail, and Steve set
out for Virginia City, until the storm blew over.

This was Burke's opportunity.  When the case was called and Gillis did
not appear, Burke promptly instituted an action against his bondsman,
with an execution against his loose property.  The watch that had been
given him as Governor of the Third House came near being thus sacrificed
in the cause of friendship, and was only saved by skilful manipulation.

Now, it was down in the chain of circumstances that Steve Gillis's
brother, James N. Gillis, a gentle-hearted hermit, a pocket-miner of the
halcyon Tuolumne district--the Truthful James of Bret Harte--happened to
be in San Francisco at this time, and invited Clemens to return with him
to the far seclusion of his cabin on Jackass Hill.  In that peaceful
retreat were always rest and refreshment for the wayfarer, and more than
one weary writer besides Bret Harte had found shelter there.  James
Gillis himself had fine literary instincts, but he remained a pocket-
miner because he loved that quiet pursuit of gold, the Arcadian life, the
companionship of his books, the occasional Bohemian pilgrim who found
refuge in his retreat.  It is said that the sick were made well, and the
well made better, in Jim Gillis's cabin on the hilltop, where the air was
nectar and the stillness like enchantment.  One could mine there if he
wished to do so; Jim would always furnish him a promising claim, and
teach him the art of following the little fan-like drift of gold specks
to the nested deposit of nuggets somewhere up the hillside.  He regularly
shared his cabin with one Dick Stoker (Dick Baker, of 'Roughing It'),
another genial soul who long ago had retired from the world to this
forgotten land, also with Dick's cat, Tom Quartz; but there was always
room for guests.

In 'Roughing It', and in a later story, "The Californian's Tale," Mark
Twain has made us acquainted with the verdant solitude of the Tuolumne
hills, that dreamy, delicious paradise where once a vast population had
gathered when placer-mining had been in its bloom, a dozen years before.
The human swarm had scattered when the washings failed to pay, leaving
only a quiet emptiness and the few pocket-miners along the Stanislaus and
among the hills.  Vast areas of that section present a strange appearance
to-day.  Long stretches there are, crowded and jammed and drifted with
ghostly white stones that stand up like fossils of a prehistoric life--
the earth deposit which once covered them entirely washed away, every
particle of it removed by the greedy hordes, leaving only this vast
bleaching drift, literally the "picked bones of the land."  At one place
stands Columbia, regarded once as a rival to Sacramento, a possible State
capital--a few tumbling shanties now--and a ruined church.

It was the 4th of December, 1864, when Mark Twain arrived at Jim Gillis's
cabin.  He found it a humble habitation made of logs and slabs, partly
sheltered by a great live-oak tree, surrounded by a stretch of grass.
It had not much in the way of pretentious furniture, but there was a
large fireplace, and a library which included the standard authors.
A younger Gillis boy, William, was there at this time, so that the family
numbered five in all, including Tom Quartz, the cat.  On rainy days they
would gather about the big, open fire and Jim Gillis, with his back to
the warmth, would relate diverting yarns, creations of his own, turned
out hot from the anvil, forged as he went along.  He had a startling
imagination, and he had fostered it in that secluded place.  His stories
usually consisted of wonderful adventures of his companion, Dick Stoker,
portrayed with humor and that serene and vagrant fancy which builds as it
goes, careless as to whither it is proceeding and whether the story shall
end well or ill, soon or late, if ever.  He always pretended that these
extravagant tales of Stoker were strictly true; and Stoker--"forty-six
and gray as a rat"--earnest, thoughtful, and tranquilly serene, would
smoke and look into the fire and listen to those astonishing things of
himself, smiling a little now and then but saying never a word.  What did
it matter to him?  He had no world outside of the cabin and the hills, no
affairs; he would live and die there; his affairs all had ended long ago.
A number of the stories used in Mark Twain's books were first told by Jim
Gillis, standing with his hands crossed behind him, back to the fire, in
the cabin on jackass Hill.  The story of Dick Baker's cat was one of
these; the jaybird and Acorn story of 'A Tramp Abroad' was another; also
the story of the "Burning Shame," and there are others.  Mark Twain had
little to add to these stories; in fact, he never could get them to sound
as well, he said, as when Jim Gillis had told them.

James Gillis's imagination sometimes led him into difficulties.  Once a
feeble old squaw came along selling some fruit that looked like green
plums.  Stoker, who knew the fruit well enough, carelessly ventured the
remark that it might be all right, but he had never heard of anybody
eating it, which set Gillis off into eloquent praises of its delights,
all of which he knew to be purely imaginary; whereupon Stoker told him if
he liked the fruit so well, to buy some of it.  There was no escape after
that; Jim had to buy some of those plums, whose acid was of the hair-
lifting aqua-fortis variety, and all the rest of the day he stewed them,
adding sugar, trying to make them palatable, tasting them now and then,
boasting meanwhile of their nectar-like deliciousness.  He gave the
others a taste by and by--a withering, corroding sup--and they derided
him and rode him down.  But Jim never weakened.  He ate that fearful
brew, and though for days his mouth was like fire he still referred to
the luscious health-giving joys of the "Californian plums."

Jackass Hill was not altogether a solitude; here and there were
neighbors.  Another pocket-miner; named Carrington, had a cabin not far
away, and a mile or two distant lived an old couple with a pair of pretty
daughters, so plump and trim and innocent, that they were called the
"Chapparal Quails."  Young men from far and near paid court to them, and
on Sunday afternoons so many horses would be tied to their front fence as
to suggest an afternoon service there.  Young "Billy" Gillis knew them,
and one Sunday morning took his brother's friend, Sam Clemens, over for a
call.  They went early, with forethought, and promptly took the girls for
a walk.  They took a long walk, and went wandering over the hills, toward
Sandy Bar and the Stanislaus--through that reposeful land which Bret
Harte would one day light with idyllic romance--and toward evening found
themselves a long way from home.  They must return by the nearest way to
arrive before dark.  One of the young ladies suggested a short cut
through the Chemisal, and they started.  But they were lost, presently,
and it was late, very late, when at last they reached the ranch.  The
mother of the "Quails" was sitting up for them, and she had something to
say.  She let go a perfect storm of general denunciation, then narrowed
the attack to Samuel Clemens as the oldest of the party.  He remained
mildly serene.

"It wasn't my fault," he ventured at last; "it was Billy Gillis's fault."

"No such thing.  You know better.  Mr. Gillis has been here often.  It
was you."

"But do you realize, ma'am, how tired and hungry we are?  Haven't you got
a bite for us to eat?"

"No, sir, not a bite--for such as you."

The offender's eyes, wandering about the room, spied something in a
corner.

"Isn't that a guitar over there?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, it is; what of it?"

The culprit walked over, and taking it up, tuned the strings a little and
struck the chords.  Then he began to sing.  He began very softly and sang
"Fly Away, Pretty Moth," then "Araby's Daughter."  He could sing very
well in those days, following with the simpler chords.  Perhaps the
mother "Quail" had known those songs herself back in the States, for her
manner grew kindlier, almost with the first notes.  When he had finished
she was the first to ask him to go on.

"I suppose you are just like all young folks," she said.  "I was young
myself once.  While you sing I'll get some supper."

She left the door to the kitchen open so that she could hear, and cooked
whatever she could find for the belated party.




XLIX

THE JUMPING FROG

It was the rainy season, the winter of 1864 and 1865, but there were many
pleasant days, when they could go pocket-hunting, and Samuel Clemens soon
added a knowledge of this fascinating science to his other acquirements.
Sometimes he worked with Dick Stoker, sometimes with one of the Gillis
boys.  He did not make his fortune at pocket-mining; he only laid its
corner-stone.  In the old note-book he kept of that sojourn we find that,
with Jim Gillis, he made a trip over into Calaveras County soon after
Christmas and remained there until after New Year's, probably
prospecting; and he records that on New Year's night, at Vallecito, he
saw a magnificent lunar rainbow in a very light, drizzling rain.  A lunax
rainbow is one of the things people seldom see.  He thought it an omen of
good-fortune.

They returned to the cabin on the hill; but later in the month, on the
they crossed over into Calaveras again, and began pocket-hunting not far
from Angel's Camp.  The note-book records that the bill of fare at the
Camp hotel consisted wholly of beans and something which bore the name of
coffee; also that the rains were frequent and heavy.

     January 27.  Same old diet--same old weather--went out to the
     pocket-claim--had to rush back.

They had what they believed to be a good claim.  Jim Gillis declared the
indications promising, and if they could only have good weather to work
it, they were sure of rich returns.  For himself, he would have been
willing to work, rain or shine.  Clemens, however, had different views on
the subject.  His part was carrying water for washing out the pans of
dirt, and carrying pails of water through the cold rain and mud was not
very fascinating work.  Dick Stoker came over before long to help.
Things went a little better then; but most of their days were spent in
the bar-room of the dilapidated tavern at Angel's Camp, enjoying the
company of a former Illinois River pilot, Ben Coon,--[This name has been
variously given as "Ros Coon," "Coon Drayton," etc.  It is given here as
set down in Mark Twain's notes, made on the spot.  Coon was not (as has
been stated) the proprietor of the hotel (which was kept by a Frenchman),
but a frequenter of it.]--a solemn, fat-witted person, who dozed by the
stove, or old slow, endless stories, without point or application.
Listeners were a boon to him, for few came and not many would stay.  To
Mark Twain and Jim Gillis, however, Ben Coon was a delight.  It was
soothing and comfortable to listen to his endless narratives, told in
that solemn way, with no suspicion of humor.  Even when his yarns had
point, he did not recognize it.  One dreary afternoon, in his slow,
monotonous fashion, he told them about a frog--a frog that had belonged
to a man named Coleman, who trained it to jump, but that failed to win a
wager because the owner of a rival frog had surreptitiously loaded the
trained jumper with shot.  The story had circulated among the camps, and
a well-known journalist, named Samuel Seabough, had already made a squib
of it, but neither Clemens nor Gillis had ever happened to hear it
before.  They thought the tale in itself amusing, and the "spectacle of a
man drifting serenely along through such a queer yarn without ever
smiling was exquisitely absurd."  When Coon had talked himself out, his
hearers played billiards on the frowsy table, and now and then one would
remark to the other:

"I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other
frog," and perhaps the other would answer:

"I ain't got no frog, but if I had a frog I'd bet you."

Out on the claim, between pails of water, Clemens, as he watched Jim
Gillis or Dick Stoker "washing," would be apt to say, "I don't see no
p'ints about that pan o' dirt that's any better'n any other pan o' dirt,"
and so they kept it up.

Then the rain would come again and interfere with their work.  One
afternoon, when Clemens and Gillis were following certain tiny-sprayed
specks of gold that were leading them to pocket--somewhere up the long
slope, the chill downpour set in.  Gillis, as usual, was washing, and
Clemens carrying water.  The "color" was getting better with every pan,
and Jim Gillis believed that now, after their long waiting, they were to
be rewarded.  Possessed with the miner's passion, he would have gone on
washing and climbing toward the precious pocket, regardless of
everything.  Clemens, however, shivering and disgusted, swore that each
pail of water was his last.  His teeth were chattering and he was wet
through.  Finally he said, in his deliberate way:

"Jim, I won't carry any more water.  This work is too disagreeable."

Gillis had just taken out a panful of dirt.

"Bring one more pail, Sam," he pleaded.

"Oh, hell, Jim, I won't do it; I'm freezing!"

"Just one more pail, Sam," he pleaded.

"No, sir, not a drop, not if I knew there were a million dollars in that
pan."

Gillis tore a page out of his note-book, and hastily posted a thirty-day
claim notice by the pan of dirt, and they set out for Angel's Camp.  It
kept on raining and storming, and they did not go back.  A few days later
a letter from Steve Gillis made Clemens decide to return to San
Francisco.  With Jim Gillis and Dick Stoker he left Angel's and walked
across the mountains to Jackass Hill in the snow-storm--"the first I ever
saw in California," he says in his notes.

In the mean time the rain had washed away the top of the pan of earth
they had left standing on the hillside, and exposed a handful of nuggets-
pure gold.  Two strangers, Austrians, had come along and, observing it,
had sat down to wait until the thirty-day claim notice posted by Jim
Gillis should expire.  They did not mind the rain--not with all that gold
in sight--and the minute the thirty days were up they followed the lead a
few pans farther and took out--some say ten, some say twenty, thousand
dollars.  In either case it was a good pocket.  Mark Twain missed it by
one pail of water.  Still, it is just as well, perhaps, when one
remembers that vaster nugget of Angel's Camp--the Jumping Frog.  Jim
Gillis always declared, "If Sam had got that pocket he would have
remained a pocket-miner to the end of his days, like me."

In Mark Twain's old note-book occurs a memorandum of the frog story--a
mere casual entry of its main features:

     Coleman with his jumping frog--bet stranger $50--stranger had no
     frog, and C. got him one:--in the mean time stranger filled C.'s
     frog full of shot and he couldn't jump.  The stranger's frog won.

It seemed unimportant enough, no doubt, at the time; but it was the
nucleus around which was built a surpassing fame.  The hills along the
Stanislaus have turned out some wonderful nuggets in their time, but no
other of such size as that.




L

BACK TO THE TUMULT

FROM the note-book:

     February 25.  Arrived in Stockton 5 P.m.  Home again home again at
     the Occidental Hotel, San Francisco--find letters from Artemus Ward
     asking me to write a sketch for his new book of Nevada Territory
     Travels which is soon to come out.  Too late--ought to have got the
     letters three months ago.  They are dated early in November.

He was sorry not to oblige Ward, sorry also not to have representation in
his book.  He wrote explaining the circumstance, and telling the story of
his absence.  Steve Gillis, meantime, had returned to San Francisco, and
settled his difficulties there.  The friends again took up residence
together.

Mark Twain resumed his daily letters to the Enterprise, without further
annoyance from official sources.  Perhaps there was a temporary truce in
that direction, though he continued to attack various abuses--civic,
private, and artistic--becoming a sort of general censor, establishing
for himself the title of the "Moralist of the Main."  The letters were
reprinted in San Francisco and widely read.  Now and then some one had
the temerity to answer them, but most of his victims maintained a
discreet silence.  In one of these letters he told of the Mexican oyster,
a rather tough, unsatisfactory article of diet, which could not stand
criticism, and presently disappeared from the market.  It was a mistake,
however, for him to attack an Alta journalist by the name of Evans.
Evans was a poet, and once composed an elegy with a refrain which ended:

          Gone, gone, gone--
          Gone to his endeavor;
          Gone, gone, gone,
          Forever and forever.

In the Enterprise letter following its publication Mark Twain referred to
this poem.  He parodied the refrain and added, "If there is any criticism
to make on it I should say there is a little too much 'gone' and not
enough 'forever.'"

It was a more or less pointless witticism, but it had a humorous quotable
flavor, and it made Evans mad.  In a squib in the Alta he retaliated:

     Mark Twain has killed the Mexican oyster.  We only regret that the
     act was not inspired by a worthier motive.  Mark Twain's sole reason
     for attacking the Mexican oyster was because the restaurant that
     sold them refused him credit.

A deadly thrust like that could not be parried in print.  To deny or
recriminate would be to appear ridiculous.  One could only sweat and
breathe vengeance.

"Joe," he said to Goodman, who had come over for a visit, "my one object
in life now is to make enough money to stand trial and then go and murder
Evans."

He wrote verses himself sometimes, and lightened his Enterprise letters
with jingles.  One of these concerned Tom Maguire, the autocrat manager
of San Francisco theaters.  It details Maguire's assault on one of his
actors.

          Tom Maguire,
          Roused to ire,
          Lighted on McDougal;
          Tore his coat,
          Clutched his throat,
          And split him in the bugle.

          For shame!  oh, fie!
          Maguire, why
          Will you thus skyugle?
          Why curse and swear,
          And rip and tear
          The innocent McDougal?

          Of bones bereft,
          Almost, you've left
          Vestvali, gentle Jew gal;
          And now you've smashed
          And almost hashed
          The form of poor McDougall

Goodman remembers that Clemens and Gillis were together again on
California Street at this time, and of hearing them sing, "The Doleful
Ballad of the Rejected Lover," another of Mark Twain's compositions.  It
was a wild, blasphemous outburst, and the furious fervor with which Mark
and Steve delivered it, standing side by side and waving their fists, did
not render it less objectionable.  Such memories as these are set down
here, for they exhibit a phase of that robust personality, built of the
same primeval material from which the world was created--built of every
variety of material, in fact, ever incorporated in a human being--equally
capable of writing unprintable coarseness and that rarest and most tender
of all characterizations, the 'Recollections of JOAN of ARC'.




LI

THE CORNER-STONE

Along with his Enterprise work, Clemens continued to write occasionally
for the Californian, but for some reason he did not offer the story of
the jumping frog.  For one thing, he did not regard it highly as literary
material.  He knew that he had enjoyed it himself, but the humor and
fashion of its telling seemed to him of too simple and mild a variety in
that day of boisterous incident and exaggerated form.  By and by Artemus
Ward turned up in San Francisco, and one night Mark Twain told him his
experiences with Jim Gillis, and in Angel's Camp; also of Ben Coon and
his tale of the Calaveras frog.  Ward was delighted.

"Write it," he said.  "There is still time to get it into my volume of
sketches.  Send it to Carleton, my publisher in New York."--[This is in
accordance with Mr. Clemens's recollection of the matter.  The author can
find no positive evidence that Ward was on the Pacific coast again in
1865.  It seems likely, therefore, that the telling of the frog story and
his approval of it were accomplished by exchange of letters.]--

Clemens promised to do this, but delayed fulfilment somewhat, and by the
time the sketch reached Carleton, Ward's book was about ready for the
press.  It did not seem worth while to Carleton to make any change of
plans that would include the frog story.  The publisher handed it over to
Henry Clapp, editor of the Saturday Press, a perishing sheet, saying:
"Here, Clapp, here's something you can use in your paper."  Clapp took it
thankfully enough, we may believe.

"Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog"--[This was the original title.]--
appeared in the Saturday Press of November 18, 1865, and was immediately
copied and quoted far and near.  It brought the name of Mark Twain across
the mountains, bore it up and down the Atlantic coast, and out over the
prairies of the Middle West.  Away from the Pacific slope only a reader
here and there had known the name before.  Now every one who took a
newspaper was treated to the tale of the wonderful Calaveras frog, and
received a mental impress of the author's signature.  The name Mark Twain
became hardly an institution, as yet, but it made a strong bid for
national acceptance.

As for its owner, he had no suspicion of these momentous happenings for a
considerable time.  The telegraph did not carry such news in those days,
and it took a good while for the echo of his victory to travel to the
Coast.  When at last a lagging word of it did arrive, it would seem to
have brought disappointment, rather than exaltation, to the author.  Even
Artemus Ward's opinion of the story had not increased Mark Twain's regard
for it as literature.  That it had struck the popular note meant, as he
believed, failure for his more highly regarded work.  In a letter written
January 20, 1866, he says these things for himself:

     I do not know what to write; my life is so uneventful.  I wish I was
     back there piloting up and down the river again.  Verily, all is
     vanity and little worth--save piloting.

     To think that, after writing many an article a man might be excused
     for thinking tolerably good, those New York people should single out
     a villainous backwoods sketch to compliment me on!  "Jim Smiley and
     His Jumping Frog"--a squib which would never have been written but
     to please Artemus Ward, and then it reached New York too late to
     appear in his book.

     But no matter.  His book was a wretchedly poor one, generally
     speaking, and it could be no credit to either of us to appear
     between its covers.

This paragraph is from the New York correspondence of the San Francisco
Alta:

     "Mark Twain's story in the Saturday Press of November 18th, called
     "Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog," has set all New York in a roar,
     and he may be said to have made his mark.  I have been asked fifty
     times about it and its author, and the papers are copying it far and
     near.  It is voted the best thing of the day.  Cannot the
     'Californian' afford to keep Mark all to itself?  It should not let
     him scintillate so widely without first being filtered through the
     California press."

     The New York publishing house of Carleton & Co.  gave the sketch to
     the Saturday Press when they found it was too late for the book.

It is difficult to judge the jumping Frog story to-day.  It has the
intrinsic fundamental value of one of AEsop's Fables.--[The resemblance
of the frog story to the early Greek tales must have been noted by Prof.
Henry Sidgwick, who synopsized it in Greek form and phrase for his book,
Greek Prose Composition.  Through this originated the impression that the
story was of Athenian root.  Mark Twain himself was deceived, until in
1899, when he met Professor Sidgwick, who explained that the Greek
version was the translation and Mark Twain's the original; that he had
thought it unnecessary to give credit for a story so well known.  See The
Jumping Frog, Harper & Bros., 1903, p. 64.]--It contains a basic idea
which is essentially ludicrous, and the quaint simplicity of its telling
is convincing and full of charm.  It appeared in print at a time when
American humor was chaotic, the public taste unformed.  We had a vast
appreciation for what was comic, with no great number of opportunities
for showing it.  We were so ready to laugh that when a real opportunity
came along we improved it and kept on laughing and repeating the cause of
our merriment, directing the attention of our friends to it.  Whether the
story of "Jim Smiley's Frog," offered for the first time today, would
capture the public, and become the initial block of a towering fame, is
another matter.  That the author himself underrated it is certain.  That
the public, receiving it at what we now term the psychological moment,
may have overrated it is by no means impossible.  In any case, it does
not matter now.  The stone rejected by the builder was made the corner-
stone of his literary edifice.  As such it is immortal.

In the letter already quoted, Clemens speaks of both Bret Harte and
himself as having quit the 'Californian' in future expecting to write for
Eastern papers.  He adds:

     Though I am generally placed at the head of my breed of scribblers
     in this part of the country, the place properly belongs to Bret
     Harte, I think, though he denies it, along with the rest.  He wants
     me to club a lot of old sketches together with a lot of his, and
     publish a book.  I wouldn't do it, only he agrees to take all the
     trouble.  But I want to know whether we are going to make anything
     out of it, first.  However, he has written to a New York publisher,
     and if we are offered a bargain that will pay for a month's labor we
     will go to work and prepare the volume for the press.

Nothing came of the proposed volume, or of other joint literary schemes
these two had then in mind.  Neither of them would seem to have been
optimistic as to their future place in American literature; certainly in
their most exalted moments they could hardly have dreamed that within
half a dozen years they would be the head and front of a new school of
letters--the two most talked-of men in America.




LII

A COMMISSION TO THE SANDWICH ISLANDS

Whatever his first emotions concerning the success of "Jim Smiley's Frog"
may have been, the sudden astonishing leap of that batrachian into
American literature gave the author an added prestige at home as well as
in distant parts.  Those about him were inclined to regard him, in some
degree at least, as a national literary figure and to pay tribute
accordingly.  Special honors began to be shown to him.  A fine new
steamer, the Ajax, built for the Sandwich Island trade, carried on its
initial trip a select party of guests of which he was invited to make
one.  He did not go, and reproached himself sorrowfully afterward.

If the Ajax were back I would go quick, and throw up my correspondence.
She had fifty-two invited guests aboard--the cream of the town--gentlemen
and ladies, and a splendid brass band.  I could not accept because there
would be no one to write my correspondence while I was gone.

In fact, the daily letter had grown monotonous.  He was restless, and the
Ajax excursion, which he had been obliged to forego, made him still more
dissatisfied.  An idea occurred to him: the sugar industry of the islands
was a matter of great commercial interest to California, while the life
and scenery there, picturesquely treated, would appeal to the general
reader.  He was on excellent terms with James Anthony and Paul Morrill,
of the Sacramento Union; he proposed to them that they send him as their
special correspondent to report to their readers, in a series of letters,
life, trade, agriculture, and general aspect of the islands.  To his vast
delight, they gave him the commission.  He wrote home joyously now:

I am to remain there a month and ransack the islands, the cataracts and
volcanoes completely, and write twenty or thirty letters, for which they
pay as much money as I would get if I stayed at home.

He adds that on his return he expects to start straight across the
continent by way of the Columbia River, the Pend Oreille Lakes, through
Montana and down the Missouri River.  "Only two hundred miles of land
travel from San Francisco to New Orleans."

So it is: man proposes, while fate, undisturbed, spins serenely on.

He sailed by the Ajax on her next trip, March 7 (1866), beginning his
first sea voyage--a brand-new experience, during which he acquired the
names of the sails and parts of the ship, with considerable knowledge of
navigation, and of the islands he was to visit--whatever information
passengers and sailors could furnish.  It was a happy, stormy voyage
altogether.  In 'Roughing It' he has given us some account of it.

It was the 18th of March when he arrived at Honolulu, and his first
impression of that tranquil harbor remained with him always.  In fact,
his whole visit there became one of those memory-pictures, full of golden
sunlight and peace, to be found somewhere in every human past.

The letters of introduction he had brought, and the reputation which had
preceded him, guaranteed him welcome and hospitality.  Officials and
private citizens were alike ready to show him their pleasant land, and he
fairly reveled in its delicious air, its summer warmth, its soft repose.

     Oh, islands there are on the face of the deep
     Where the leaves never fade and the skies never weep,

he quotes in his note-book, and adds:

     Went with Mr. Damon to his cool, vine-shaded home; no careworn or
     eager, anxious faces in this land of happy contentment.  God, what a
     contrast with California and the Washoe!

And in another place:

     They live in the S. I.--no rush, no worry--merchant goes down to his
     store like a gentleman at nine--goes home at four and thinks no more
     of business till next day.  D--n San F. style of wearing out life.

He fitted in with the languorous island existence, but he had come for
business, and he lost not much time.  He found there a number of friends
from Washoe, including the Rev. Mr. Rising, whose health had failed from
overwork.  By their direction, and under official guidance, he set out on
Oahu, one of the several curious horses he has immortalized in print,
and, accompanied by a pleasant party of ladies and gentlemen, encircled
the island of that name, crossed it and recrossed it, visited its various
battle-fields, returning to Honolulu, lame, sore, sunburnt, but
triumphant.  His letters home, better even than his Union correspondence,
reveal his personal interest and enthusiasms.

     I have got a lot of human bones which I took from one of these
     battle-fields.  I guess I will bring you some of them.  I went with
     the American Minister and took dinner this evening with the King's
     Grand Chamberlain, who is related to the royal family, and though
     darker than a mulatto he has an excellent English education, and in
     manners is an accomplished gentleman.  He is to call for me in the
     morning; we will visit the King in the palace, After dinner they
     called in the "singing girls," and we had some beautiful music, sung
     in the native tongue.

It was his first association with royalty, and it was human that he
should air it a little.  In the same letter he states: "I will sail in a
day or two on a tour of the other islands, to be gone two months."

'In Roughing It' he has given us a picture of his visits to the islands,
their plantations, their volcanoes, their natural and historic wonders.
He was an insatiable sight-seer then, and a persevering one.  The very
name of a new point of interest filled him with an eager enthusiasm to be
off.  No discomfort or risk or distance discouraged him.  With a single
daring companion--a man who said he could find the way--he crossed the
burning floor of the mighty crater of Kilauea (then in almost constant
eruption), racing across the burning lava floor, jumping wide and
bottomless crevices, when a misstep would have meant death.

By and by Marlette shouted "Stop!" I never stopped quicker in my life.
I asked what the matter was.  He said we were out of the path.  He said
we must not try to go on until we found it again, for we were surrounded
with beds of rotten lava, through which we could easily break and plunge
down 1,000 feet.  I thought Boo would answer for me, and was about to say
so, when Marlette partly proved his statement, crushing through and
disappearing to his arm-pits.

They made their way across at last, and stood the rest of the night
gazing down upon a spectacle of a crater in quivering action, a veritable
lake of fire.  They had risked their lives for that scene, but it seemed
worth while.

His open-air life on the river, and the mining camps, had prepared Samuel
Clemens for adventurous hardships.  He was thirty years old, with his
full account of mental and physical capital.  His growth had been slow,
but he was entering now upon his golden age; he was fitted for conquest
of whatever sort, and he was beginning to realize his power.




LIII

ANSON BURLINGAME AND THE "HORNET" DISASTER

It was near the end of June when he returned to Honolulu from a tour of
all the islands, fairly worn out and prostrated with saddle boils.  He
expected only to rest and be quiet for a season, but all unknown to him
startling and historic things were taking place in which he was to have a
part--events that would mark another forward stride in his career.

The Ajax had just come in, bringing his Excellency Anson Burlingame, then
returning to his post as minister to China; also General Van Valkenburg,
minister to Japan; Colonel Rumsey and Minister Burlingame's son, Edward,
--[Edward L. Burlingame, now for many years editor of Scribner's
Magazine.]--then a lively boy of eighteen.  Young Burlingame had read
"The Jumping Frog," and was enthusiastic about Mark Twain and his work.
Learning that he was in Honolulu, laid up at his hotel, the party sent
word that they would call on him next morning.

Clemens felt that he must not accept this honor, sick or well.  He
crawled out of bed, dressed and shaved himself as quickly as possible,
and drove to the American minister's, where the party was staying.  They
had a hilariously good time.  When he returned to his hotel he sent them,
by request, whatever he had on hand of his work.  General Van Valkenburg
had said to him:

"California is proud of Mark Twain, and some day the American people will
be, too, no doubt."

There has seldom been a more accurate prophecy.

But a still greater event was imminent.  On that very day (June 21, 1866)
there came word of the arrival at Sanpahoe, on the island of Hawaii, of
an open boat containing fifteen starving wretches, who on short, ten-day
rations had been buffeting a stormy sea for forty-three days!  A vessel,
the Hornet, from New York, had taken fire and burned "on the line," and
since early in May, on that meager sustenance, they had been battling
with hundreds of leagues of adverse billows, seeking for land.

A few days following the first report, eleven of the rescued men were
brought to Honolulu and placed in the hospital.  Mark Twain recognized
the great news importance of the event.  It would be a splendid beat if
he could interview the castaways and be the first to get their story to
his paper.  There was no cable in those days; a vessel for San Francisco
would sail next morning.  It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and he
must not miss it.  Bedridden as he was, the undertaking seemed beyond his
strength.

But just at this time the Burlingame party descended on him, and almost
before he knew it he was on the way to the hospital on a cot, escorted by
the heads of the joint legations of China and Japan.  Once there, Anson
Burlingame, with his splendid human sympathy and handsome, courtly
presence, drew from those enfeebled castaways all the story of their long
privation and struggle, that had stretched across forty-three distempered
days and four thousand miles of sea.  All that Mark Twain had to do was
to listen and make the notes.

He put in the night-writing against time.  Next morning, just as the
vessel for the States was drifting away from her dock, a strong hand
flung his bulky envelope of manuscript aboard, and if the vessel arrived
his great beat was sure.  It did arrive, and the three-column story on
the front page of the Sacramento Union, in its issue of July 19th, gave
the public the first detailed history of the terrible Hornet disaster and
the rescue of those starving men.  Such a story occupied a wider place in
the public interest than it would in these crowded days.  The telegraph
carried it everywhere, and it was featured as a sensation.

Mark Twain always adored the name and memory of Anson Burlingame.  In his
letter home he tells of Burlingame's magnanimity in "throwing away an
invitation to dine with princes and foreign dignitaries" to help him.
"You know I appreciate that kind of thing," he says; which was a true
statement, and in future years he never missed an opportunity of paying
an instalment on his debt of gratitude.  It was proper that he should do
so, for the obligation was a far greater one than that contracted in
obtaining the tale of the Hornet disaster.  It was the debt which one
owes to a man who, from the deep measure of his understanding, gives
encouragement and exactly needed and convincing advice.  Anson Burlingame
said to Samuel Clemens:

"You have great ability; I believe you have genius.  What you need now is
the refinement of association.  Seek companionship among men of superior
intellect and character.  Refine yourself and your work.  Never affiliate
with inferiors; always climb."

Clemens never forgot that advice.  He did not always observe it, but he
rarely failed to realize its gospel.  Burlingame urged him to travel.

"Come to Pekin next winter," he said, "and visit me.  Make my house your
home.  I will give you letters and introduce you.  You will have
facilities for acquiring information about China."

It is not surprising then that Mark Twain never felt his debt to Anson
Burlingame entirely paid.  Burlingame came more than once to the hotel,
for Clemens was really ill now, and they discussed plans for his future
betterment.

He promised, of course, to visit China, and when he was alone put in a
good deal of time planning a trip around the world which would include
the great capitals.  When not otherwise employed he read; though there
was only one book in the hotel, a "blue and gold" edition of Dr.
Holmes's Songs in Many Keys, and this he soon knew almost by heart, from
title-page to finis.

He was soon up and about.  No one could remain ill long in those happy
islands.  Young Burlingame came, and suggested walks.  Once, when Clemens
hesitated, the young man said:

"But there is a Scriptural command for you to go."

"If you can quote one I'll obey it," said Clemens.

"Very well.  The Bible says, 'If any man require thee to walk a mile, go
with him, Twain.'"

The command was regarded as sufficient.  Clemens quoted the witticism
later (in his first lecture), and it was often repeated in after-years,
ascribed to Warner, Ward, and a dozen others.  Its origin was as here set
down.

Under date of July 4 (1866), Mark Twain's Sandwich Island note-book says:

     Went to a ball 8.30 P.M.--danced till 12.30; stopped at General Van
     Valkenburg's room and talked with him and Mr. Burlingame and Ed
     Burlingame until 3 A.M.

From which we may conclude that he had altogether recovered.  A few days
later.  the legation party had sailed for China and Japan, and on the
19th Clemens himself set out by a slow sailing-vessel to San Francisco.
They were becalmed and were twenty-five days making the voyage.  Captain
Mitchell and others of the wrecked Hornet were aboard, and he put in a
good deal of time copying their diaries and preparing a magazine article
which, he believed, would prove his real entrance to the literary world.

The vessel lay almost perfectly still, day after day, and became a
regular playground at sea.  Sundays they had services and Mark Twain led
the choir.

"I hope they will have a better opinion of our music in heaven than I
have down here," he says in his notes.  "If they don't, a thunderbolt
will knock this vessel endways."  It is perhaps worthy of mention that on
the night of the 27th of July he records having seen another "splendidly
colored, lunar rainbow."  That he regarded this as an indication of
future good-fortune is not surprising, considering the events of the
previous year.

It was August 13th when he reached San Francisco, and the note-book entry
of that day says:

     Home again.  No--not home again--in prison again, end all the wild
     sense of freedom gone.  The city seems so cramped and so dreary with
     toil and care and business anxiety.  God help me, I wish I were at
     sea again!

There were compensations, however.  He went over to Sacramento, and was
abundantly welcomed.  It was agreed that, in addition to the twenty
dollars allowed for each letter, a special bill should be made for the
Hornet report.

"How much do you think it ought to be, Mark?" James Anthony asked.

"Oh, I'm a modest man; I don't want the whole Union office.  Call it $100
a column."

There was a general laugh.  The bill was made out at that figure, and he
took it to the business office for payment.

"The cashier didn't faint," he wrote, many years later, "but he came
rather near it.  He sent for the proprietors, and they only laughed in
their jolly fashion, and said it was a robbery, but 'no matter, pay it.
It's all right.' The best men that ever owned a newspaper."--["My Debut
as a Literary Person."--Collected works.]--

Though inferior to the descriptive writing which a year later would give
him a world-wide fame, the Sandwich Island letters added greatly to his
prestige on the Pacific coast.  They were convincing, informing; tersely
--even eloquently--descriptive, with a vein of humor adapted to their
audience.  Yet to read them now, in the fine nonpareil type in which they
were set, is such a wearying task that one can only marvel at their
popularity.  They were not brilliant literature, by our standards to-day.
Their humor is usually of a muscular kind, varied with grotesque
exaggerations; the literary quality is pretty attenuated.  Here and there
are attempts at verse.  He had a fashion in those days of combining two
or more poems with distracting, sometimes amusing, effect.  Examples of
these dislocations occur in the Union letters; a single stanza will
present the general idea:

     The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,

     The turf with their bayonets turning,
     And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold,
     And our lanterns dimly burning.

Only a trifling portion of the letters found their way into his Sandwich
Island chapters of 'Roughing It', five years later.  They do, however,
reveal a sort of transition stage between the riotous florescence of the
Comstock and the mellowness of his later style.  He was learning to see
things with better eyes, from a better point of view.  It is not
difficult to believe that this literary change of heart was in no small
measure due to the influence of Anson Burlingame.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext Volume I, Part 1 of MARK TWAIN,
A BIOGRAPHY, 1835-1866 by Albert Bigelow Paine






MARK TWAIN, A BIOGRAPHY

By Albert Bigelow Paine



VOLUME I, Part 2: 1866-1875



LIV

THE LECTURER

It was not easy to take up the daily struggle again, but it was
necessary.--[Clemens once declared he had been so blue at this period
that one morning he put a loaded pistol to his head, but found he lacked
courage to pull the trigger.]--Out of the ruck of possibilities (his
brain always thronged with plans) he constructed three or four resolves.
The chief of these was the trip around the world; but that lay months
ahead, and in the mean time ways and means must be provided.  Another
intention was to finish the Hornet article, and forward it to Harper's
Magazine--a purpose carried immediately into effect.  To his delight the
article found acceptance, and he looked forward to the day of its
publication as the beginning of a real career.  He intended to follow it
up with a series on the islands, which in due time might result in a book
and an income.  He had gone so far as to experiment with a dedication for
the book--an inscription to his mother, modified later for use in 'The
Innocents Abroad'.  A third plan of action was to take advantage of the
popularity of the Hawaiian letters, and deliver a lecture on the same
subject.  But this was a fearsome prospect--he trembled when he thought
of it.  As Governor of the Third House he had been extravagantly received
and applauded, but in that case the position of public entertainer had
been thrust upon him.  To come forward now, offering himself in the same
capacity, was a different matter.  He believed he could entertain, but he
lacked the courage to declare himself; besides, it meant a risk of his
slender capital.  He confided his situation to Col. John McComb, of the
Alta California, and was startled by McComb's vigorous endorsement.

"Do it, by all means!" urged McComb.  "It will be a grand success--I know
it!  Take the largest house in town, and charge a dollar a ticket."

Frightened but resolute, he went to the leading theater manager the same
Tom Maguire of his verses--and was offered the new opera-house at half
rates.  The next day this advertisement appeared:

                       MAGUIRE'S ACADEMY OF MUSIC
                      PINE STREET, NEAR MONTGOMERY

                          THE SANDWICH ISLANDS

                               MARK TWAIN

            (HONOLULU CORRESPONDENT OF THE SACRAMENTO UNION)
                             WILL DELIVER A
                    LECTURE ON THE SANDWICH ISLANDS

                        AT THE ACADEMY OF MUSIC
                      ON TUESDAY EVENING, OCT. 2d
                                 (1866)

  In which passing mention will be made of Harris, Bishop Staley, the
American missionaries, etc., and the absurd customs and characteristics
   of the natives duly discussed and described.  The great volcano of
              Kilauea will also receive proper attention.

                          A SPLENDID ORCHESTRA
                  is in town, but has not been engaged
                                  ALSO
                     A DEN OF FEROCIOUS WILD BEASTS
                will be on exhibition in the next block
                         MAGNIFICENT FIREWORKS
were in contemplation for this occasion, but the idea has been abandoned
                     A GRAND TORCHLIGHT PROCESSION
 may be expected; in fact, the public are privileged to expect whatever
                              they please.

                Dress Circle, $1.00   Family Circle, 50c
      Doors open at 7 o'clock   The Trouble to begin at 8 o'clock


The story of that first lecture, as told in Roughing It, is a faithful
one, and need only be summarized here.

Expecting to find the house empty, he found it packed from the footlights
to the walls.  Sidling out from the wings--wobbly-kneed and dry of
tongue--he was greeted by a murmur, a roar, a very crash of applause that
frightened away his remaining vestiges of courage.  Then, came reaction--
these were his friends, and he began to talk to them.  Fear melted away,
and as tide after tide of applause rose and billowed and came breaking at
his feet, he knew something of the exaltation of Monte Cristo when he
declared "The world is mine!"

It was a vast satisfaction to have succeeded.  It was particularly
gratifying at this time, for he dreaded going back into newspaper
harness.  Also; it softened later the disappointment resulting from
another venture; for when the December Harper appeared, with his article,
the printer and proof-reader had somehow converted Mark Twain into "Mark
Swain," and his literary dream perished.

As to the literary value of his lecture, it was much higher than had,
been any portion of his letters, if we may judge from its few remaining
fragments.  One of these--a part of the description of the great volcano
Haleakala, on the island of Maui--is a fair example of his eloquence.

It is somewhat more florid than his later description of the same scene
in Roughing It, which it otherwise resembles; and we may imagine that its
poetry, with the added charm of its delivery, held breathless his
hearers, many of whom believed that no purer eloquence had ever been
uttered or written.

It is worth remembering, too, that in this lecture, delivered so long
ago, he advocated the idea of American ownership of these islands,
dwelling at considerable length on his reasons for this ideal.

--[For fragmentary extracts from this first lecture of Mark Twain and
news comment, see Appendix D, end of last volume.]--

There was a gross return from his venture of more than $1,200, but with
his usual business insight, which was never foresight, he had made an
arrangement by which, after paying bills and dividing with his manager,
he had only about one-third of, this sum left.  Still, even this was
prosperity and triumph.  He had acquired a new and lucrative profession
at a bound.  The papers lauded him as the "most piquant and humorous
writer and lecturer on the Coast since the days of the lamented John
Phoenix."  He felt that he was on the highroad at last.

Denis McCarthy, late of the Enterprise, was in San Francisco, and was
willing to become his manager.  Denis was capable and honest, and Clemens
was fond of him.  They planned a tour of the near-by towns, beginning
with Sacramento, extending it later even to the mining camps, such as Red
Dog and Grass Valley; also across into Nevada, with engagements at Carson
City, Virginia, and Gold Hill.  It was an exultant and hilarious
excursion--that first lecture tour made by Denis McCarthy and Mark Twain.
Success traveled with them everywhere, whether the lecturer looked across
the footlights of some pretentious "opera-house" or between the two
tallow candles of some camp "academy."  Whatever the building, it was
packed, and the returns were maximum.

Those who remember him as a lecturer in that long-ago time say that his
delivery was more quaint, his drawl more exaggerated, even than in later
life; that his appearance and movements on the stage were natural, rather
than graceful; that his manuscript, which he carried under his arm,
looked like a ruffled hen.  It was, in fact, originally written on sheets
of manila paper, in large characters, so that it could be read easily by
dim light, and it was doubtless often disordered.

There was plenty of amusing experience on this tour.  At one place, when
the lecture was over, an old man came to him and said:

"Be them your natural tones of eloquence?"

At Grass Valley there was a rival show, consisting of a lady tight-rope
walker and her husband.  It was a small place, and the tight-rope
attraction seemed likely to fail.  The lady's husband had formerly been a
compositor on the Enterprise, so that he felt there was a bond of
brotherhood between him and Mark Twain.

"Look here," he said.  "Let's combine our shows.  I'll let my wife do the
tight-rope act outside and draw a crowd, and you go inside and lecture."

The arrangement was not made.

Following custom, the lecturer at first thought it necessary to be
introduced, and at each place McCarthy had to skirmish around and find
the proper person.  At Red Dog, on the Stanislaus, the man selected
failed to appear, and Denis had to provide another on short notice.
He went down into the audience and captured an old fellow, who ducked and
dodged but could not escape.  Denis led him to the stage, a good deal
frightened.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "this is the celebrated Mark Twain from
the celebrated city of San Francisco, with his celebrated lecture about
the celebrated Sandwich Islands."

That was as far as he could go; but it was far enough.  Mark Twain never
had a better introduction.  The audience was in a shouting humor from the
start.

Clemens himself used to tell of an introduction at another camp, where
his sponsor said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I know only two things about this man: the first
is that he's never been in jail, and the second is I don't know why."

But this is probably apocryphal; there is too much "Mark Twain" in it.

When he reached Virginia, Goodman said to him:

"Sam, you do not need anybody to introduce you.  There's a piano on the
stage in the theater.  Have it brought out in sight, and when the curtain
rises you be seated at the piano, playing and singing that song of yours,
'I Had an Old Horse Whose Name Was Methusalem,' and don't seem to notice
that the curtain is up at first; then be surprised when you suddenly find
out that it is up, and begin talking, without any further preliminaries."

This proved good advice, and the lecture, thus opened, started off with
general hilarity and applause.




LV

HIGHWAY ROBBERY

His Nevada, lectures were bound to be immensely successful.  The people
regarded him as their property over there, and at Carson and Virginia the
houses overflowed.  At Virginia especially his friends urged and begged
him to repeat the entertainment, but he resolutely declined.

"I have only one lecture yet," he said.  "I cannot bring myself to give
it twice in the same town."

But that irresponsible imp, Steve Gillis, who was again in Virginia,
conceived a plan which would make it not only necessary for him to
lecture again, but would supply him with a subject.  Steve's plan was
very simple: it was to relieve the lecturer of his funds by a friendly
highway robbery, and let an account of the adventure furnish the new
lecture.

In 'Roughing It' Mark Twain has given a version of this mock robbery
which is correct enough as far as it goes; but important details are
lacking.  Only a few years ago (it was April, 1907), in his cabin on
jackass Hill, with Joseph Goodman and the writer of this history present,
Steve Gillis made his "death-bed" confession as is here set down:

"Mark's lecture was given in Piper's Opera House, October 30, 1866.  The
Virginia City people had heard many famous lectures before, but they were
mere sideshows compared with Mark's.  It could have been run to crowded
houses for a week.  We begged him to give the common people a chance; but
he refused to repeat himself.  He was going down to Carson, and was
coming back to talk in Gold Hill about a week later, and his agent, Denis
McCarthy, and I laid a plan to have him robbed on the Divide between Gold
Hill and Virginia, after the Gold Hill lecture was over and he and Denis
would be coming home with the money.  The Divide was a good lonely place,
and was famous for its hold-ups.  We got City Marshal George Birdsall
into it with us, and took in Leslie Blackburn, Pat Holland, Jimmy
Eddington, and one or two more of Sam's old friends.  We all loved him,
and would have fought for him in a moment.  That's the kind of friends
Mark had in Nevada.  If he had any enemies I never heard of them.

"We didn't take in Dan de Quille, or Joe here, because Sam was Joe's
guest, and we were afraid he would tell him.  We didn't take in Dan
because we wanted him to write it up as a genuine robbery and make a big
sensation.  That would pack the opera-house at two dollars a seat to hear
Mark tell the story.

"Well, everything went off pretty well.  About the time Mark was
finishing his lecture in Gold Hill the robbers all went up on the Divide
to wait, but Mark's audience gave him a kind of reception after his
lecture, and we nearly froze to death up there before he came along.
By and by I went back to see what was the matter.  Sam and Denis were
coming, and carrying a carpet-sack about half full of silver between
them.  I shadowed them and blew a policeman's whistle as a signal to the
boys when the lecturers were within about a hundred yards of the place.
I heard Sam say to Denis:

"'I'm glad they've got a policeman on the Divide.  They never had one in
my day.'

"Just about that time the boys, all with black masks on and silver
dollars at the sides of their tongues to disguise their voices, stepped
out and stuck six-shooters at Sam and Denis and told them to put up their
hands.  The robbers called each other 'Beauregard' and 'Stonewall
Jackson.'  Of course Denis's hands went up, and Mark's, too, though Mark
wasn't a bit scared or excited.  He talked to the robbers in his regular
fashion.  He said:

"'Don't flourish those pistols so promiscuously.  They might go off by
accident.'

"They told him to hand over his watch and money; but when he started to
take his hands down they made him put them up again.  Then he asked how
they expected him to give them his valuables with his hands up in the
sky.  He said his treasures didn't lie in heaven.  He told them not to
take his watch, which was the one Sandy Baldwin and Theodore Winters had
given him as Governor of the Third House, but we took it all the same.

"Whenever he started to put his hands down we made him put them up again.
Once he said:

"'Don't you fellows be so rough.  I was tenderly reared.'

"Then we told him and Denis to keep their hands up for fifteen minutes
after we were gone--this was to give us time to get back to Virginia and
be settled when they came along.  As we were going away Mark called:

"'Say, you forgot something.'

"'What is it?'

"Why, the carpet-bag.'

"He was cool all the time.  Senator Bill Stewart, in his Autobiography,
tells a great story of how scared Mark was, and how he ran; but Stewart
was three thousand miles from Virginia by that time, and later got mad at
Mark because he made a joke about him in 'Roughing It'.

"Denis wanted to take his hands down pretty soon after we were gone, but
Mark said:

"'No, Denis, I'm used to obeying orders when they are given in that
convincing way; we'll just keep our hands up another fifteen minutes or
so for good measure.'

"We were waiting in a big saloon on C Street when Mark and Denis came
along.  We knew they would come in, and we expected Mark would be
excited; but he was as unruffled as a mountain lake.  He told us they had
been robbed, and asked me if I had any money.  I gave him a hundred
dollars of his own money, and he ordered refreshments for everybody.
Then we adjourned to the Enterprise office, where he offered a reward,
and Dan de Quille wrote up the story and telegraphed it to the other
newspapers.  Then somebody suggested that Mark would have to give another
lecture now, and that the robbery would make a great subject.  He entered
right into the thing, and next day we engaged Piper's Opera House, and
people were offering five dollars apiece for front seats.  It would have
been the biggest thing that ever came to Virginia if it had come off.
"But we made a mistake, then, by taking Sandy Baldwin into the joke.  We
took in Joe here, too, and gave him the watch and money to keep, which
made it hard for Joe afterward.  But it was Sandy Baldwin that ruined us.
He had Mark out to dinner the night before the show was to come off, and
after he got well warmed up with champagne he thought it would be a smart
thing to let Mark into what was really going on.

"Mark didn't see it our way.  He was mad clear through."

At this point Joseph Goodman took up the story.  He said:

"Those devils put Sam's money, watch, keys, pencils, and all his things
into my hands.  I felt particularly mean at being made accessory to the
crime, especially as Sam was my guest, and I had grave doubts as to how
he would take it when he found out the robbery was not genuine.

"I felt terribly guilty when he said:

"'Joe, those d--n thieves took my keys, and I can't get into my trunk.
Do you suppose you could get me a key that would fit my trunk?'

"I said I thought I could during the day, and after Sam had gone I took
his own key, put it in the fire and burnt it to make it look black.  Then
I took a file and scratched it here and there, to make it look as if I
had been fitting it to the lock, feeling guilty all the time, like a man
who is trying to hide a murder.  Sam did not ask for his key that day,
and that evening he was invited to judge Baldwin's to dinner.  I thought
he looked pretty silent and solemn when he came home; but he only said:

"'Joe, let's play cards; I don't feel sleepy.'

"Steve here, and two or three of the other boys who had been active in
the robbery, were present, and they did not like Sam's manner, so they
excused themselves and left him alone with me.  We played a good while;
then he said:

"'Joe, these cards are greasy.  I have got some new ones in my trunk.
Did you get that key to-day?'

"I fished out that burnt, scratched-up key with fear and trembling.  But
he didn't seem to notice it at all, and presently returned with the
cards.  Then we played, and played, and played--till one o'clock--two
o'clock--Sam hardly saying a word, and I wondering what was going to
happen.  By and by he laid down his cards and looked at me, and said:

"'Joe, Sandy Baldwin told me all about that robbery to-night.  Now, Joe,
I have found out that the law doesn't recognize a joke, and I am going to
send every one of those fellows to the penitentiary.'

"He said it with such solemn gravity, and such vindictiveness, that I
believed he was in dead earnest.

"I know that I put in two hours of the hardest work I ever did, trying to
talk him out of that resolution.  I used all the arguments about the boys
being his oldest friends; how they all loved him, and how the joke had
been entirely for his own good; I pleaded with him, begged him to
reconsider; I went and got his money and his watch and laid them on the
table; but for a time it seemed hopeless.  And I could imagine those
fellows going behind the bars, and the sensation it would make in
California; and just as I was about to give it up he said:

"'Well, Joe, I'll let it pass--this time; I'll forgive them again; I've
had to do it so many times; but if I should see Denis McCarthy and Steve
Gillis mounting the scaffold to-morrow, and I could save them by turning
over my hand, I wouldn't do it!'

"He canceled the lecture engagement, however, next morning, and the day
after left on the Pioneer Stage, by the way of Donner Lake, for
California.  The boys came rather sheepishly to see him off; but he would
make no show of relenting.  When they introduced themselves as
Beauregard, Stonewall Jackson, etc., he merely said:

"'Yes, and you'll all be behind the bars some day.  There's been a good
deal of robbery around here lately, and it's pretty clear now who did
it.'  They handed him a package containing the masks which the robbers
had worn.  He received it in gloomy silence; but as the stage drove away
he put his head out of the window, and after some pretty vigorous
admonition resumed his old smile, and called out: 'Good-by, friends;
good-by, thieves; I bear you no malice.'  So the heaviest joke was on his
tormentors after all."

This is the story of the famous Mark Twain robbery direct from
headquarters.  It has been garbled in so many ways that it seems worth
setting down in full.  Denis McCarthy, who joined him presently in San
Francisco, received a little more punishment there.

"What kind of a trip did you boys have?" a friend asked of them.

Clemens, just recovering from a cold which the exposure on the Divide had
given him, smiled grimly:

"Oh, pretty good, only Denis here mistook it for a spree."

He lectured again in San Francisco, this time telling the story of his
Overland trip in 1861, and he did the daring thing of repeating three
times the worn-out story of Horace Greeley's ride with Hank Monk, as
given later in 'Roughing It'.  People were deadly tired of that story out
there, and when he told it the first time, with great seriousness, they
thought he must be failing mentally.  They did not laugh--they only felt
sorry.  He waited a little, as if expecting a laugh, and presently led
around to it and told it again.  The audience was astonished still more,
and pitied him thoroughly.  He seemed to be waiting pathetically in the
dead silence for their applause, then went on with his lecture; but
presently, with labored effort, struggled around to the old story again,
and told it for the third time.  The audience suddenly saw the joke then,
and became vociferous and hysterical in their applause; but it was a
narrow escape.  He would have been hysterical himself if the relief had
not came when it did.

--[A side-light on the Horace Greeley story and on Mr. Greeley's
eccentricities is furnished by Mr. Goodman:

When I was going East in 1869 I happened to see Hank Monk just before I
started.  "Mr. Goodman," he said, "you tell Horace Greeley that I want to
come East, and ask him to send me a pass."  "All right, Hank," I said,
"I will."  It happened that when I got to New York City one of the first
men I met was Greeley.  "Mr. Greeley," said, "I have a message for you
from Hank Monk."  Greeley bristled and glared at me.  "That--rascal?" he
said, "He has done me more injury than any other man in America."]




LVI

BACK TO THE STATES

In the mean time Clemens had completed his plan for sailing, and had
arranged with General McComb, of the Alta California, for letters during
his proposed trip around the world.  However, he meant to visit his
people first, and his old home.  He could go back with means now, and
with the prestige of success.

"I sail to-morrow per Opposition--telegraphed you to-day," he wrote on
December 14th, and a day later his note-book entry says:

     Sailed from San Francisco in Opposition (line) steamer America,
     Capt.  Wakeman, at noon, 15th Dec., 1866.  Pleasant sunny day, hills
     brightly clad with green grass and shrubbery.

So he was really going home at last!  He had been gone five and a half
years--eventful, adventurous years that had made him over completely, at
least so far as ambitions and equipment were concerned.  He had came
away, in his early manhood, a printer and a pilot, unknown outside of his
class.  He was returning a man of thirty-one, with a fund of hard
experience, three added professions--mining, journalism, and lecturing--
also with a new name, already famous on the sunset slopes of its
adoption, and beginning to be heard over the hills and far away.  In some
degree, at least, he resembled the prince of a fairy tale who, starting
out humble and unnoticed, wins his way through a hundred adventures and
returns with gifts and honors.

The homeward voyage was a notable one.  It began with a tempest a little
way out of San Francisco--a storm terrible but brief, that brought the
passengers from their berths to the deck, and for a time set them
praying.  Then there was Captain Ned Wakeman, a big, burly, fearless
sailor, who had visited the edges of all continents and archipelagos; who
had been born at sea, and never had a day's schooling in his life, but
knew the Bible by heart; who was full of human nature and profanity, and
believed he was the only man on the globe who knew the secret of the
Bible miracles.  He became a distinct personality in Mark Twain's work--
the memory of him was an unfailing delight.  Captain "Ned Blakely," in
'Roughing It', who with his own hands hanged Bill Noakes, after reading
him promiscuous chapters from the Bible, was Captain Wakeman.  Captain
"Stormfield," who had the marvelous visit to heaven, was likewise Captain
Wakeman; and he appears in the "Idle Excursion" and elsewhere.

Another event of the voyage was crossing the Nicaragua Isthmus--the trip
across the lake and down the San Juan River--a, brand-new experience,
between shores of splendid tropic tangle, gleaming with vivid life.  The
luxuriance got into his note-book.

Dark grottos, fairy festoons, tunnels, temples, columns, pillars, towers,
pilasters, terraces, pyramids, mounds, domes, walls, in endless confusion
of vine-work--no shape known to architecture unimitated--and all so
webbed together that short distances within are only gained by glimpses.
Monkeys here and there; birds warbling; gorgeous plumaged birds on the
wing; Paradise itself, the imperial realm of beauty-nothing to wish for
to make it perfect.

But it was beyond the isthmus that the voyage loomed into proportions
somber and terrible.  The vessel they took there, the San Francisco,
sailed from Greytown January 1, 1867, the beginning of a memorable year
in Mark Twain's life.  Next day two cases of Asiatic cholera were
reported in the steerage.  There had been a rumor of it in Nicaragua, but
no one expected it on the ship.

The nature of the disease was not hinted at until evening, when one of
the men died.  Soon after midnight, the other followed.  A minister
making the voyage home, Rev. J. G. Fackler, read the burial service.  The
gaiety of the passengers, who had become well acquainted during the
Pacific voyage, was subdued.  When the word "cholera" went among them,
faces grew grave and frightened.  On the morning of January 4th Reverend
Fackler's services were again required.  The dead man was put overboard
within half an hour after he had ceased to breathe.

Gloom settled upon the ship.  All steam was made to put into Key West.
Then some of the machinery gave way and the ship lay rolling, helplessly
becalmed in the fierce heat of the Gulf, while repairs were being made.
The work was done at a disadvantage, and the parts did not hold.  Time
and again they were obliged to lie to, in the deadly tropic heat,
listening to the hopeless hammering, wondering who would be the next to
be sewed up hastily in a blanket and slipped over the ship's side.  On
the 5th seven new cases of illness were reported.  One of the crew, a man
called "Shape," was said to be dying.  A few hours later he was dead.  By
this time the Reverend Fackler himself had been taken.

"So they are burying poor 'Shape' without benefit of clergy," says the
note-book.

General consternation now began to prevail.  Then it was learned that the
ship's doctor had run out of medicines.  The passengers became
demoralized.  They believed their vessel was to become a charnel ship.
Strict sanitary orders were issued, and a hospital was improvised.

     Verily the ship is becoming a floating hospital herself--not an hour
     passes but brings its fresh sensation, its new disaster, its
     melancholy tidings.  When I think of poor "Shape" and the preacher,
     both so well when I saw them yesterday evening, I realize that I
     myself may be dead to-morrow.

     Since the last two hours all laughter, all levity, has ceased on the
     ship--a settled gloom is upon the faces of the passengers.

By noon it was evident that the minister could not survive.  He died at
two o'clock next morning; the fifth victim in less than five days.  The
machinery continued to break and the vessel to drag.  The ship's doctor
confessed to Clemens that he was helpless.  There were eight patients in
the hospital.

But on January 6th they managed to make Key West, and for some reason
were not quarantined.  Twenty-one passengers immediately deserted the
ship and were heard of no more.

"I am glad they are gone.  D--n them," says the notebook.  Apparently he
had never considered leaving, and a number of others remained.  The
doctor restocked his medicine-locker, and the next day they put to sea
again.  Certainly they were a daring lot of voyagers.  On the 8th another
of the patients died.  Then the cooler weather seemed to check the
contagion, and it was not until the night of the 11th, when the New York
harbor lights were in view, that the final death occurred.  There were no
new cases by this time, and the other patients were convalescent.  A
certificate was made out that the last man had died of "dropsy."  There
would seem to have been no serious difficulty in docking the vessel and
landing the passengers.  The matter would probably be handled differently
to-day.




LVII

OLD FRIENDS AND NEW PLANS

It had been more than thirteen years since his first arrival in New York.
Then he had been a youth, green, untraveled, eager to get away from home.
Now a veteran, he was as eager to return.

He stopped only long enough in New York to see Charles Henry Webb, late
of California, who had put together a number of the Mark Twain sketches,
including "The Jumping Frog," for book publication.  Clemens himself
decided to take the book to Carleton, thinking that, having missed the
fame of the "Frog" once, he might welcome a chance to stand sponsor for
it now.  But Carleton was wary; the "Frog" had won favor, and even fame,
in its fugitive, vagrant way, but a book was another matter.  Books were
undertaken very seriously and with plenty of consideration in those days.
Twenty-one years later, in Switzerland, Carleton said to Mark Twain:

"My chief claim to immortality is the distinction of having declined your
first book."

Clemens was ready enough to give up the book when Carleton declined it,
but Webb said he would publish it himself, and he set about it forthwith.
The author waited no longer now, but started for St. Louis, and was soon
with his mother and sister, whom he had not seen since that eventful
first year of the war.  They thought he looked old, which was true
enough, but they found him unchanged in his manner: buoyant, full of
banter and gravely quaint remarks--he was always the same.  Jane Clemens
had grown older, too.  She was nearly sixty-four, but as keen and
vigorous as ever-proud (even if somewhat critical) of this handsome,
brilliant man of new name and fame who had been her mischievous, wayward
boy.  She petted him, joked with him, scolded him, and inquired
searchingly into his morals and habits.  In turn he petted, comforted,
and teased her.  She decided that he was the same Sam, and always would
be--a true prophecy.

He went up to Hannibal to see old friends.  Many were married; some had
moved away; some were dead--the old story.  He delivered his lecture
there, and was the center of interest and admiration--his welcome might
have satisfied even Tom Sawyer.  From Hannibal he journeyed to Keokuk,
where he lectured again to a crowd of old friends and new, then returned
to St. Louis for a more extended visit.

It was while he was in St. Louis that he first saw the announcement of
the Quaker City Holy Land Excursion, and was promptly fascinated by what
was then a brand-new idea in ocean travel--a splendid picnic--a choice
and refined party that would sail away for a long summer's journeying to
the most romantic of all lands and seas, the shores of the Mediterranean.
No such argosy had ever set out before in pursuit of the golden fleece of
happiness.

His projected trip around the world lost its charm in the light of this
idyllic dream.  Henry Ward Beecher was advertised as one of the party;
General Sherman as another; also ministers, high-class journalists--the
best minds of the nation.  Anson Burlingame had told him to associate
with persons of refinement and intellect.  He lost no time in writing to
the Alta, proposing that they send him in this select company.

Noah Brooks, who was then on the Alta, states--[In an article published
in the Century Magazine.]--that the management was staggered by the
proposition, but that Col. John McComb insisted that the investment in
Mark Twain would be sound.  A letter was accordingly sent, stating that a
check for his passage would be forwarded in due season, and that meantime
he could contribute letters from New York City.  The rate for all letters
was to be twenty dollars each.  The arrangement was a godsend, in the
fullest sense of the word, to Mark Twain.

It was now April, and he was eager to get back to New York to arrange his
passage.  The Quaker City would not sail for two months yet (two eventful
months), but the advertisement said that passages must be secured by the
5th, and he was there on that day.  Almost the first man he met was the
chief of the New York Alta bureau with a check for twelve hundred and
fifty dollars (the amount of his ticket) and a telegram saying, "Ship
Mark Twain in the Holy Land Excursion and pay his passage."

     --[The following letter, which bears no date, was probably handed to
     him later in the New York Alta office as a sort of credential:

     ALTA CALIFORNIA OFFICE, 42 JOHN STREET, NEW YORK.

     Sam'l Clemens, Esq., New York.

     DEAR SIR,--I have the honor to inform you that Fred'k. MacCrellish
     & Co., Proprietors of Alta California, San Francisco, Cal., desire
     to engage your services as Special Correspondent on the pleasure
     excursion now about to proceed from this City to the Holy Land.  In
     obedience to their instructions I have secured a passage for you on
     the vessel about to convey the excursion party referred to, and made
     such arrangements as I hope will secure your comfort and
     convenience.  Your only instructions are that you will continue to
     write at such times and from such places as you deem proper, and in
     the same style that heretofore secured you the favor of the readers
     of the Alta California.  I have the honor to remain, with high
     respect and esteem,

     Your ob'dt.  Servant,

     JOHN J. MURPHY.]


The Alta, it appears, had already applied for his berth; but, not having
been vouched for by Mr. Beecher or some other eminent divine, Clemens was
fearful he might not be accepted.  Quite casually he was enlightened on
this point.  While waiting for attention in the shipping-office, with the
Alta agent, he heard a newspaper man inquire what notables were going.
A clerk, with evident pride, rattled off the names:

"Lieutenant-General Sherman, Henry Ward Beecher, and Mask Twain; also
probably General Banks."

So he was billed as an attraction.  It was his first surreptitious taste
of fame on the Atlantic coast, and not without its delight.  The story
often told of his being introduced by Ned House, of the Tribune, as a
minister, though often repeated by Mark Twain himself, was in the nature
of a joke, and mainly apocryphal.  Clemens was a good deal in House's
company at the time, for he had made an arrangement to contribute
occasional letters to the Tribune, and House no doubt introduced him
jokingly as one of the Quaker City ministers.




LVIII

A NEW BOOK AND A LECTURE

Webb, meantime, had pushed the Frog book along.  The proofs had been read
and the volume was about ready for issue.  Clemens wrote to his mother
April 15th:

     My book will probably be in the bookseller's hands in about two
     weeks.  After that I shall lecture.  Since I have been gone, the
     boys have gotten up a "call" on me signed by two hundred
     Californians.

The lecture plan was the idea of Frank Fuller, who as acting Governor of
Utah had known Mark Twain on the Comstock, and prophesied favorably of
his future career.  Clemens had hunted up Fuller on landing in New York
in January, and Fuller had encouraged the lecture then; but Clemens was
doubtful.

"I have no reputation with the general public here," he said.  "We
couldn't get a baker's dozen to hear me."

But Fuller was a sanguine person, with an energy and enthusiasm that were
infectious.  He insisted that the idea was sound.  It would solidify Mark
Twain's reputation on the Atlantic coast, he declared, insisting that the
largest house in New York, Cooper Union, should be taken.  Clemens had
partially consented, and Fuller had arranged with all the Pacific slope
people who had come East, headed by ex-Governor James W. Nye (by this
time Senator at Washington), to sign a call for the "Inimitable Mark
Twain" to appear before a New York audience.  Fuller made Nye agree to be
there and introduce the lecturer, and he was burningly busy and happy in
the prospect.

But Mark Twain was not happy.  He looked at that spacious hall and
imagined the little crowd of faithful Californian stragglers that might
gather in to hear him, and the ridicule of the papers next day.  He
begged Fuller to take a smaller hall, the smallest he could get.  But
only the biggest hall in New York would satisfy Fuller.  He would have
taken a larger one if he could have found it.  The lecture was announced
for May 6th.  Its subject was "Kanakadom, or the Sandwich Islands"--
tickets fifty cents.  Fuller timed it to follow a few days after Webb's
book should appear, so that one event might help the other.

Mark Twain's first book, 'The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveyas
County, and Other Sketches', was scheduled for May 1st, and did, in fact,
appear on that date; but to the author it was no longer an important
event.  Jim Smiley's frog as standard-bearer of his literary procession
was not an interesting object, so far as he was concerned--not with that
vast, empty hall in the background and the insane undertaking of trying
to fill it.  The San Francisco venture had been as nothing compared with
this.  Fuller was working night and day with abounding joy, while the
subject of his labor felt as if he were on the brink of a fearful
precipice, preparing to try a pair of wings without first learning to
fly.  At one instant he was cold with fright, the next glowing with an
infection of Fuller's faith.  He devised a hundred schemes for the sale
of seats.  Once he came rushing to Fuller, saying:

"Send a lot of tickets down to the Chickering Piano Company.  I have
promised to put on my programme, 'The piano used at this entertainment is
manufactured by Chickering."'

"But you don't want a piano, Mark," said Fuller, "do you?"

"No, of course not; but they will distribute the tickets for the sake of
the advertisement, whether we have the piano or not."

Fuller got out a lot of handbills and hung bunches of them in the stages,
omnibuses, and horse-cars.  Clemens at first haunted these vehicles to
see if anybody noticed the bills.  The little dangling bunches seemed
untouched.  Finally two men came in; one of them pulled off a bill and
glanced at it.  His friend asked:

"Who's Mark Twain?"

"God knows; I don't!"

The lecturer could not ride any more.  He was desperate.

"Fuller," he groaned, "there isn't a sign--a ripple of interest."

Fuller assured him that everything was working all right "working
underneath," Fuller said--but the lecturer was hopeless.  He reported his
impressions to the folks at home:

     Everything looks shady, at least, if not dark; I have a good agent;
     but now, after we have hired the Cooper Institute, and gone to an
     expense in one way or another of $500, it comes out that I have got
     to play against Speaker Colfax at Irving Hall, Ristori, and also the
     double troop of Japanese jugglers, the latter opening at the great
     Academy of Music--and with all this against me I have taken the
     largest house in New York and cannot back water.

He might have added that there were other rival entertainments: "The
Flying Scud" was at Wallack's, the "Black Crook" was at Niblo's, John
Brougham at the Olympic; and there were at least a dozen lesser
attractions.  New York was not the inexhaustible city in those days;
these things could gather in the public to the last man.  When the day
drew near, and only a few tickets had been sold, Clemens was desperate.

"Fuller," he said, "there'll be nobody in the Cooper Union that night but
you and me.  I am on the verge of suicide.  I would commit suicide if I
had the pluck and the outfit.  You must paper the house, Fuller.  You
must send out a flood of complementaries."

"Very well," said Fuller; "what we want this time is reputation anyway--
money is secondary.  I'll put you before the choicest, most intelligent
audience that ever was gathered in New York City.  I will bring in the
school-instructors--the finest body of men and women in the world."

Fuller immediately sent out a deluge of complimentary tickets, inviting
the school-teachers of New York and Brooklyn, and all the adjacent
country, to come free and hear Mark Twain's great lecture on Kanakadom.
This was within forty-eight hours of the time he was to appear.

Senator Nye was to have joined Clemens and Fuller at the Westminster,
where Clemens was stopping, and they waited for him there with a
carriage, fuming and swearing, until it was evident that he was not
coming.  At last Clemens said:

"Fuller, you've got to introduce me."

"No," suggested Fuller; "I've got a better scheme than that.  You get up
and begin by bemeaning Nye for not being there.  That will be better
anyway."

Clemens said:

"Well, Fuller, I can do that.  I feel that way.  I'll try to think up
something fresh and happy to say about that horse-thief."

They drove to Cooper Union with trepidation.  Suppose, after all, the
school-teachers had declined to come?  They went half an hour before the
lecture was to begin.  Forty years later Mark Twain said:

"I couldn't keep away.  I wanted to see that vast Mammoth cave and die.
But when we got near the building I saw that all the streets were blocked
with people, and that traffic had stopped.  I couldn't believe that these
people were trying to get into Cooper Institute; but they were, and when
I got to the stage at last the house was jammed full-packed; there wasn't
room enough left for a child.

"I was happy and I was excited beyond expression.  I poured the Sandwich
Islands out on those people, and they laughed and shouted to my entire
content.  For an hour and fifteen minutes I was in paradise."

And Fuller to-day, alive and young, when so many others of that ancient
time and event have vanished, has added:

"When Mark appeared the Californians gave a regular yell of welcome.
When that was over he walked to the edge of the platform, looked
carefully down in the pit, round the edges as if he were hunting for
something.  Then he said:  'There was to have been a piano here, and a
senator to introduce me.  I don't seem to discover them anywhere.  The
piano was a good one, but we will have to get along with such music as I
can make with your help.  As for the senator--Then Mark let himself go
and did as he promised about Senator Nye.  He said things that made men
from the Pacific coast, who had known Nye, scream with delight.  After
that came his lecture.  The first sentence captured the audience.  From
that moment to the end it was either in a roar of laughter or half
breathless by his beautiful descriptive passages.  People were positively
ill for days, laughing at that lecture."

So it was a success: everybody was glad to have been there; the papers
were kind, congratulations numerous.

--[Kind but not extravagant; those were burning political times, and the
doings of mere literary people did not excite the press to the extent of
headlines.  A jam around Cooper Union to-day, followed by such an
artistic triumph, would be a news event.  On the other hand, Schuyler
Colfax, then Speaker of the House, was reported to the extent of a
column, nonpareil.  His lecture was of no literary importance, and no
echo of it now remains.  But those were political, not artistic, days.

Of Mark Twain's lecture the Times notice said:

"Nearly every one present came prepared for considerable provocation for
enjoyable laughter, and from the appearance of their mirthful faces
leaving the hall at the conclusion of the lecture but few were
disappointed, and it is not too much to say that seldom has so large an
audience been so uniformly pleased as the one that listened to Mark
Twain's quaint remarks last evening.  The large hall of the Union was
filled to its utmost capacity by fully two thousand persons, which fact
spoke well for the reputation of the lecturer and his future success.
Mark Twain's style is a quaint one both in manner and method, and through
his discourse he managed to keep on the right side of the audience, and
frequently convulsed it with hearty laughter....  During a description of
the topography of the Sandwich Islands the lecturer surprised his hearers
by a graphic and eloquent description of the eruption of the great
volcano, which occurred in 1840, and his language was loudly applauded.

"Judging from the success achieved by the lecturer last evening, he
should repeat his experiment at an early date."]


                            COOPER INSTITUTE
     By Invitation of s large number of prominent Californians and
                         Citizens of New York,

                               MARK TWAIN

                             WILL DELIVER A
                         SERIO-HUMEROUS LECTURE
                               CONERNING

                                KANAKDOM
                                   OR
                         THE SANDWICH ISLANDS,

                           COOPER INSTITUTE,
                     On Monday Evening, May 6,1867.

                          TICKETS FIFTY GENTS.
  For Sale at Chickering and Sons, 852 Broadway, and at the Principal
                                 Hotel

     Doors open at 7 o'clock.   The Wisdom will begin to flow at 8.


Mark Twain always felt grateful to the school-teachers for that night.
Many years later, when they wanted him to read to them in Steinway Hall,
he gladly gave his services without charge.

Nor was the lecture a complete financial failure.  In spite of the flood
of complementaries, there was a cash return of some three hundred dollars
from the sale of tickets--a substantial aid in defraying the expenses
which Fuller assumed and insisted on making good on his own account.
That was Fuller's regal way; his return lay in the joy of the game, and
in the winning of the larger stake for a friend.

"Mark," he said, "it is all right.  The fortune didn't come, but it will.
The fame has arrived; with this lecture and your book just out you are
going to be the most talked-of man in the country.  Your letters for the
Alta and the Tribune will get the widest reception of any letters of
travel ever written."





LIX

THE FIRST BOOK

With the shadow of the Cooper Institute so happily dispelled, The
Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and his following of Other
Sketches, became a matter of more interest.  The book was a neat blue-
and-gold volume printed by John A.  Gray & Green, the old firm for which
the boy, Sam Clemens, had set type thirteen years before.  The title-page
bore Webb's name as publisher, with the American News Company as selling
agents.  It further stated that the book was edited by "John Paul," that
is to say by Webb himself.  The dedication was in keeping with the
general irresponsible character of the venture.  It was as follows:

                                   TO
                               JOHN SMITH
                 WHOM I HAVE KNOWN IN DIVERS AND SUNDRY
                   PLACES ABOUT THE WORLD, AND WHOSE
                     MANY AND MANIFOLD VIRTUES DID
                       ALWAYS COMMAND MY ESTEEM,
                          I DEDICATE THIS BOOK

It is said that the man to whom a volume is dedicated always buys a copy.
If this prove true in the present instance, a princely affluence is about
to burst upon
                                                  THE AUTHOR.


The "advertisement" stated that the author had "scaled the heights of
popularity at a single jump, and won for himself the sobriquet of the
'Wild Humorist of the Pacific Slope'; furthermore, that he was known to
fame as the 'Moralist of the Main,'" and that as such he would be likely
to go down to posterity, adding that it was in his secondary character,
as humorist, rather than in his primal one of moralist, that the volume
aimed to present him.--[The advertisement complete, with extracts from
the book, may be found under Appendix E, at the end of last volume.]

Every little while, during the forty years or more that have elapsed
since then, some one has come forward announcing Mark Twain to be as much
a philosopher as a humorist, as if this were a new discovery.  But it was
a discovery chiefly to the person making the announcement.  Every one who
ever knew Mark Twain at any period of his life made the same discovery.
Every one who ever took the trouble to familiarize himself with his work
made it.  Those who did not make it have known his work only by hearsay
and quotation, or they have read it very casually, or have been very
dull.  It would be much more of a discovery to find a book in which he
has not been serious--a philosopher, a moralist, and a poet.  Even in the
Jumping Frog sketches, selected particularly for their inconsequence, the
under-vein of reflection and purpose is not lacking.  The answer to Moral
Statistician--[In "Answers to Correspondents," included now in Sketches
New and Old.  An extract from it, and from "A Strange Dream," will be
found in Appendix E.]--is fairly alive with human wisdom and righteous
wrath.  The "Strange Dream," though ending in a joke, is aglow with
poetry.  Webb's "advertisement" was playfully written, but it was
earnestly intended, and he writes Mark Twain down a moralist--not as a
discovery, but as a matter of course.  The discoveries came along later,
when the author's fame as a humorist had dazzled the nations.

It is as well to say it here as anywhere, perhaps, that one reason why
Mark Twain found it difficult to be accepted seriously was the fact that
his personality was in itself so essentially humorous.  His physiognomy,
his manner of speech, this movement, his mental attitude toward events--
all these were distinctly diverting.  When we add to this that his medium
of expression was nearly always full of the quaint phrasing and those
surprising appositions which we recognize as amusing, it is not so
astonishing that his deeper, wiser, more serious purpose should be
overlooked.  On the whole these unabated discoverers serve a purpose, if
only to make the rest of their species look somewhat deeper than the
comic phrase.

The little blue-and-gold volume which presented the Frog story and
twenty-six other sketches in covers is chiefly important to-day as being
Mark Twain's first book.  The selections in it were made for a public
that had been too busy with a great war to learn discrimination, and most
of them have properly found oblivion.  Fewer than a dozen of them were
included in his collected Sketches issued eight years later, and some
even of those might have been spared; also some that were added, for that
matter; but detailed literary criticism is not the province of this work.
The reader may investigate and judge for himself.

Clemens was pleased with the appearance of his book.  To Bret Harte he
wrote:

The book is out and it is handsome.  It is full of damnable errors of
grammar and deadly inconsistencies of spelling in the Frog sketch,
because I was away and did not read proofs; but be a friend and say
nothing about these things.  When my hurry is over, I will send you a
copy to pisen the children with.

That he had no exaggerated opinion of the book's contents or prospects we
may gather from his letter home:

As for the Frog book, I don't believe it will ever pay anything worth a
cent.  I published it simply to advertise myself, and not with the hope
of making anything out of it.

He had grown more lenient in his opinion of the merits of the Frog story
itself since it had made friends in high places, especially since James
Russell Lowell had pronounced it "the finest piece of humorous writing
yet produced in America"; but compared with his lecture triumph, and his
prospective journey to foreign seas, his book venture, at best, claimed
no more than a casual regard.  A Sandwich Island book (he had collected
his Union letters with the idea of a volume) he gave up altogether after
one unsuccessful offer of it to Dick & Fitzgerald.

Frank Fuller's statement, that the fame had arrived, had in it some
measure of truth.  Lecture propositions came from various directions.
Thomas Nast, then in the early day of his great popularity, proposed a
joint tour, in which Clemens would lecture, while he, Nast, illustrated
the remarks with lightning caricatures.  But the time was too short; the
Quaker City would sail on the 8th of June, and in the mean time the Alta
correspondent was far behind with his New York letters.  On May 29th he
wrote:

I am 18 Alta letters behind, and I must catch up or bust.  I have refused
all invitations to lecture.  Don't know how my book is coming on.

He worked like a slave for a week or so, almost night and day, to clean
up matters before his departure.  Then came days of idleness and
reaction-days of waiting, during which his natural restlessness and the
old-time regret for things done and undone, beset him.

     My passage is paid, and if the ship sails I sail on her; but I make
     no calculations, have bought no cigars, no sea-going clothing--have
     made no preparations whatever--shall not pack my trunk till the
     morning we sail.

     All I do know or feel is that I am wild with impatience to move--
     move--move!  Curse the endless delays!  They always kill me--they
     make me neglect every duty, and then I have a conscience that tears
     me like a wild beast.  I wish I never had to stop anywhere a month.
     I do more mean things the moment I get a chance to fold my hands and
     sit down than ever I get forgiveness for.

     Yes, we are to meet at Mr. Beach's next Thursday night, and I
     suppose we shall have to be gotten up regardless of expense, in
     swallow-tails, white kids and everything 'en regle'.

     I am resigned to Rev.  Mr. Hutchinson's or anybody else's
     supervision.  I don't mind it.  I am fixed.  I have got a splendid,
     immoral, tobacco-smoking, wine-drinking, godless roommate who is as
     good and true and right-minded a man as ever lived--a man whose
     blameless conduct and example will always be an eloquent sermon to
     all who shall come within their influence.  But send on the
     professional preachers--there are none I like better to converse
     with; if they're not narrowminded and bigoted they make good
     companions.

The "splendid immoral room-mate" was Dan Slote--"Dan," of The Innocents,
a lovable character--all as set down.  Samuel Clemens wrote one more
letter to his mother and sister--a conscience-stricken, pessimistic
letter of good-by written the night before sailing.  Referring to the
Alta letters he says:

     I think they are the stupidest letters ever written from New York.
     Corresponding has been a perfect drag ever since I got to the
     States.  If it continues abroad, I don't know what the Tribune and
     Alta folk will think.

He remembers Orion, who had been officially eliminated when Nevada had
received statehood.

     I often wonder if his law business is going satisfactorily.  I wish
     I had gone to Washington in the winter instead of going West.  I
     could have gouged an office out of Bill Stewart for him, and that
     would have atoned for the loss of my home visit.  But I am so
     worthless that it seems to me I never do anything or accomplish
     anything that lingers in my mind as a pleasant memory.  My mind is
     stored full of unworthy conduct toward Orion and toward you all, and
     an accusing conscience gives me peace only in excitement and
     restless moving from place to place.  If I could only say I had done
     one thing for any of you that entitled me to your good opinions (I
     say nothing of your love, for I am sure of that, no matter how
     unworthy of it I may make myself--from Orion down, you have always
     given me that; all the days of my life, when God Almighty knows I
     have seldom deserved it), I believe I could go home and stay there--
     and I know I would care little for the world's praise or blame.
     There is no satisfaction in the world's praise anyhow, and it has no
     worth to me save in the way of business.  I tried to gather up its
     compliments to send you, but the work was distasteful and I dropped
     it.

     You observe that under a cheerful exterior I have got a spirit that
     is angry with me and gives me freely its contempt.  I can get away
     from that at sea, and be tranquil and satisfied; and so, with my
     parting love and benediction for Orion and all of you, I say good-by
     and God bless you all-and welcome the wind that wafts a weary soul
     to the sunny lands of the Mediterranean!

                              Yrs.  forever,
                                             SAM





LX

THE INNOCENTS AT SEA

          HOLY LAND PLEASURE EXCURSION

          Steamer: Quaker City.

          Captain C. C. Duncan.

          Left New York at 2 P.m., June 8, 1867.

          Rough weather--anchored within the harbor to lay all night.

That first note recorded an event momentous in Mark Twain's career--an
event of supreme importance; if we concede that any link in a chain
regardless of size is of more importance than any other link.
Undoubtedly it remains the most conspicuous event, as the world views it
now, in retrospect.

The note further heads a new chapter of history in sea-voyaging.  No such
thing as the sailing of an ocean steamship with a pleasure-party on a
long transatlantic cruise had ever occurred before.  A similar project
had been undertaken the previous year, but owing to a cholera scare in
the East it had been abandoned.  Now the dream had become a fact--a
stupendous fact when we consider it.  Such an important beginning as that
now would in all likelihood furnish the chief news story of the day.

But they had different ideas of news in those days.  There were no
headlines announcing the departure of the Quaker City--only the barest
mention of the ship's sailing, though a prominent position was given to
an account of a senatorial excursion-party which set out that same
morning over the Union Pacific Railway, then under construction.  Every
name in that political party was set dawn, and not one of them except
General Hancock will ever be heard of again.  The New York Times,
however, had some one on its editorial staff who thought it worth while
to comment a little on the history-making Quaker City excursion.  The
writer was pleasantly complimentary to officers and passengers.  He
referred to Moses S. Beach, of the Sun, who was taking with him type and
press, whereby he would "skilfully utilize the brains of the company for
their mutual edification."  Mr. Beecher and General Sherman would find
talent enough aboard to make the hours go pleasantly (evidently the
writer had not interested himself sufficiently to know that these
gentlemen were not along), and the paragraph closed by prophesying other
such excursions, and wishing the travelers "good speed, a happy voyage,
and a safe return."

That was handsome, especially for those days; only now, some fine day,
when an airship shall start with a band of happy argonauts to land beyond
the sunrise for the first time in history, we shall feature it and
emblazon it with pictures in the Sunday papers, and weeklies, and in the
magazines.--[The Quaker City idea was so unheard-of that in some of the
foreign ports visited, the officials could not believe that the vessel
was simply a pleasure-craft, and were suspicious of some dark, ulterior
purpose.]

That Henry Ward Beecher and General Sherman had concluded not to go was a
heavy disappointment at first; but it proved only a temporary disaster.
The inevitable amalgamation of all ship companies took place.  The sixty-
seven travelers fell into congenial groups, or they mingled and devised
amusements, and gossiped and became a big family, as happy and as free
from contention as families of that size are likely to be.

The Quaker City was a good enough ship and sizable for her time.  She was
registered eighteen hundred tons--about one-tenth the size of
Mediterranean excursion-steamers today--and when conditions were
favorable she could make ten knots an hour under steam--or, at least, she
could do it with the help of her auxiliary sails.  Altogether she was a
cozy, satisfactory ship, and they were a fortunate company who had her
all to themselves and went out on her on that long-ago ocean gipsying.
She has grown since then, even to the proportions of the Mayflower.  It
was necessary for her to grow to hold all of those who in later times
claimed to have sailed in her on that voyage with Mark Twain.--[The
Quaker City passenger list will be found under Appendix F, at the end of
last volume.]

They were not all ministers and deacons aboard the Quaker City.  Clemens
found other congenial spirits be sides his room-mate Dan Slote--among
them the ship's surgeon, Dr. A. Reeve Jackson (the guide-destroying
"Doctor" of The Innocents); Jack Van Nostrand, of New Jersey ("Jack");
Julius Moulton, of St. Louis ("Moult"), and other care-free fellows, the
smoking-room crowd which is likely to make comradeship its chief
watchword.  There were companionable people in the cabin crowd also--
fine, intelligent men and women, especially one of the latter, a middle-
aged, intellectual, motherly soul--Mrs. A. W. Fairbanks, of Cleveland,
Ohio.  Mrs. Fairbanks--herself a newspaper correspondent for her
husband's paper, the Cleveland Herald had a large influence on the
character and general tone of those Quaker City letters which established
Mark Twain's larger fame.  She was an able writer herself; her judgment
was thoughtful, refined, unbiased--altogether of a superior sort.  She
understood Samuel Clemens, counseled him, encouraged him to read his
letters aloud to her, became in reality "Mother Fairbanks," as they
termed her, to him and to others of that ship who needed her kindly
offices.

In one of his home letters, later, he said of her:

     She was the most refined, intelligent, cultivated lady in the ship,
     and altogether the kindest and best.  She sewed my buttons on, kept
     my clothing in presentable trim, fed me on Egyptian jam (when I
     behaved), lectured me awfully on the quarter-deck on moonlit
     promenading evenings, and cured me of several bad habits.  I am
     under lasting obligations to her.  She looks young because she is so
     good, but she has a grown son and daughter at home.

In one of the early letters which Mrs. Fairbanks wrote to her paper she
is scarcely less complimentary to him, even if in a different way.

     We have D.D.'s and M.D.'s--we have men of wisdom and men of wit.
     There is one table from which is sure to come a peal of laughter,
     and all eyes are turned toward Mark Twain, whose face is, perfectly
     mirth-provoking.  Sitting lazily at the table, scarcely genteel in
     his appearance, there is something, I know not what, that interests
     and attracts.  I saw to-day at dinner venerable divines and sage-
     looking men convulsed with laughter at his drolleries and quaint,
     odd manners.

It requires only a few days on shipboard for acquaintances to form, and
presently a little afternoon group was gathering to hear Mark Twain read
his letters.  Mrs. Fairbanks was there, of course, also Mr. and Mrs. S.
L. Severance, likewise of Cleveland, and Moses S. Beach, of the Sun, with
his daughter Emma, a girl of seventeen.  Dan Slote was likely to be
there, too, and Jack, and the Doctor, and Charles J. Langdon, of Elmira,
New York, a boy of eighteen, who had conceived a deep admiration for the
brilliant writer.  They were fortunate ones who first gathered to hear
those daring, wonderful letters.

But the benefit was a mutual one. He furnished a priceless entertainment,
and he derived something equally priceless in return--the test of
immediate audience and the boon of criticism.  Mrs. Fairbanks especially
was frankly sincere.  Mr. Severance wrote afterward:

     One afternoon I saw him tearing up a bunch of the soft, white paper-
     copy paper, I guess the newspapers call it-on which he had written
     something, and throwing the fragments into the Mediterranean.  I
     inquired of him why he cast away the fruits of his labors in that
     manner.

"Well," he drawled, "Mrs. Fairbanks thinks it oughtn't to be printed,
and, like as not, she is right."

And Emma Beach (Mrs. Abbott Thayer) remembers hearing him say:

"Well, Mrs. Fairbanks has just destroyed another four hours' work for
me."

Sometimes he played chess with Emma Beach, who thought him a great hero
because, once when a crowd of men were tormenting a young lad, a
passenger, Mark Twain took the boy's part and made them desist.

"I am sure I was right, too," she declares; "heroism came natural to
him."

Mr. Severance recalls another incident which, as he says, was trivial
enough, but not easy to forget:

We were having a little celebration over the birthday anniversary of Mrs.
Duncan, wife of our captain.  Mark Twain got up and made a little speech,
in which he said Mrs. Duncan was really older than Methuselah because she
knew a lot of things that Methuselah never heard of.  Then he mentioned a
number of more or less modern inventions, and wound up by saying, "What
did Methuselah know about a barbed-wire fence?"

Except Following the Equator, The Innocents Abroad comes nearer to being
history than any other of Mark Twain's travel-books.  The notes for it
were made on the spot, and there was plenty of fact, plenty of fresh, new
experience, plenty of incident to set down.  His idea of descriptive
travel in those days was to tell the story as it happened; also, perhaps,
he had not then acquired the courage of his inventions.  We may believe
that the adventures with Jack, Dan, and the Doctor are elaborated here
and there; but even those happened substantially as recorded.  There is
little to add, then, to the story of that halcyon trip, and not much to
elucidate.

The old note-books give a light here and there that is interesting.  It
is curious to be looking through them now, trying to realize that these
penciled memoranda were the fresh, first impressions that would presently
grow into the world's most delightful book of travel; that they were set
down in the very midst of that care-free little company that frolicked
through Italy, climbed wearily the arid Syrian hills.  They are all dead
now; but to us they are as alive and young to-day as when they followed
the footprints of the Son of Man through Palestine, and stood at last
before the Sphinx, impressed and awed by its "five thousand slow-
revolving years."

Some of the items consist of no more than a few terse, suggestive words--
serious, humorous, sometimes profane.  Others are statistical,
descriptive, elaborated.  Also there are drawings--"not copied," he marks
them, with a pride not always justified by the result.  The earlier notes
are mainly comments on the "pilgrims," the freak pilgrims: "the Frenchy-
looking woman who owns a dog and keeps up an interminable biography of
him to the passengers"; the "long-legged, simple, wide-mouthed, horse-
laughing young fellow who once made a sea voyage to Fortress Monroe, and
quotes eternally from his experiences"; also, there is reference to
another young man, "good, accommodating, pleasant but fearfully green."
This young person would become the "Interrogation Point," in due time,
and have his picture on page 71 (old edition), while opposite him, on
page 70, would appear the "oracle," identified as one Doctor Andrews, who
(the note-book says) had the habit of "smelling in guide-books for
knowledge and then trying to play it for old information that has been
festering in his brain."  Sometimes there are abstract notes such as:

How lucky Adam was.  He knew when he said a good thing that no one had
ever said it before.

Of the "character" notes, the most important and elaborated is that which
presents the "Poet Lariat."  This is the entry, somewhat epitomized:

                         BLOODGOOD H.  CUTTER

     He is fifty years old, and small of his age.  He dresses in
     homespun, and is a simple-minded, honest, old-fashioned farmer, with
     a strange proclivity for writing rhymes.  He writes them on all
     possible subjects, and gets them printed on slips of paper, with his
     portrait at the head.  These he will give to any man who comes
     along, whether he has anything against him or not .  .  .  .

     Dan said:

     "It must be a great happiness to you to sit down at the close of day
     and put its events all down in rhymes and poetry, like Byron and
     Shakespeare and those fellows."

     "Oh yes, it is--it is--Why, many's the time I've had to get up in
     the night when it comes on me:

          Whether we're on the sea or the land
          We've all got to go at the word of command--

     "Hey!  how's that?"

A curious character was Cutter--a Long Island farmer with the obsession
of rhyme.  In his old age, in an interview, he said:

"Mark was generally writing and he was glum.  He would write what we were
doing, and I would write poetry, and Mark would say:

"'For Heaven's sake, Cutter, keep your poems to yourself.'

"Yes, Mark was pretty glum, and he was generally writing."

Poor old Poet Lariat--dead now with so many others of that happy crew.
We may believe that Mark learned to be "glum" when he saw the Lariat
approaching with his sheaf of rhymes.  We may believe, too, that he was
"generally writing."  He contributed fifty-three letters to the Alta
during that five months and six to the Tribune.  They would average about
two columns nonpareil each, which is to say four thousand words, or
something like two hundred and fifty thousand words in all.  To turn out
an average of fifteen hundred words a day, with continuous sight-seeing
besides, one must be generally writing during any odd intervals; those
who are wont to regard Mark Twain as lazy may consider these statistics.
That he detested manual labor is true enough, but at the work for which
he was fitted and intended it may be set down here upon authority (and
despite his own frequent assertions to the contrary) that to his last
year he was the most industrious of men.




LXI

THE INNOCENTS ABROAD

It was Dan, Jack, and the Doctor who with Mark Twain wandered down
through Italy and left moral footprints that remain to this day.  The
Italian guides are wary about showing pieces of the True Cross, fragments
of the Crown of Thorns, and the bones of saints since then.  They show
them, it is true, but with a smile; the name of Mark Twain is a touch-
stone to test their statements.  Not a guide in Italy but has heard the
tale of that iconoclastic crew, and of the book which turned their
marvels into myths, their relics into bywords.

It was Doctor Jackson, Colonel Denny, Doctor Birch, and Samuel Clemens
who evaded the quarantine and made the perilous night trip to Athens and
looked upon the Parthenon and the sleeping city by moonlight.  It is all
set down in the notes, and the account varies little from that given in
the book; only he does not tell us that Captain Duncan and the
quartermaster, Pratt, connived at the escapade, or how the latter watched
the shore in anxious suspense until he heard the whistle which was their
signal to be taken aboard.  It would have meant six months' imprisonment
if they had been captured, for there was no discretion in the Greek law.

It was T. D. Crocker, A. N. Sanford, Col. Peter Kinney, and William
Gibson who were delegated to draft the address to the Emperor of Russia
at Yalta, with Samuel L.  Clemens as chairman of that committee.  The
chairman wrote the address, the opening sentence of which he grew so
weary of hearing:

     We are a handful of private citizens of America, traveling simply
     for recreation, and unostentatiously, as becomes our unofficial
     state.

The address is all set down in the notes, and there also exists the first
rough draft, with the emendations in his own hand.  He deplores the time
it required:

     That job is over.  Writing addresses to emperors is not my strong
     suit.  However, if it is not as good as it might be it doesn't
     signify--the other committeemen ought to have helped me write it;
     they had nothing to do, and I had my hands full.  But for bothering
     with this I would have caught up entirely with my New York Tribune
     correspondence and nearly up with the San Francisco.

They wanted him also to read the address to the Emperor, but he pointed
out that the American consul was the proper person for that office.  He
tells how the address was presented:

August 26th.  The Imperial carriages were in waiting at eleven, and at
twelve we were at the palace....

The Consul for Odessa read the address and the Czar said frequently,
"Good--very good; indeed"--and at the close, "I am very, very grateful."

It was not improper for him to set down all this, and much more, in his
own note-book--not then for publication.  It was in fact a very proper
record--for today.

One incident of the imperial audience Mark Twain omitted from his book,
perhaps because the humor of it had not yet become sufficiently evident.
"The humorous perception of a thing is a pretty slow growth sometimes,"
he once remarked.  It was about seventeen years before he could laugh
enjoyably at a slight mistake he made at the Emperor's reception.  He set
down a memorandum of it, then, for fear it might be lost:

     There were a number of great dignitaries of the Empire there, and
     although, as a general thing, they were dressed in citizen's
     clothing, I observed that the most of them wore a very small piece
     of ribbon in the lapels of their coats.  That little touch of color
     struck my fancy, and it seemed to me a good idea to add it to my own
     attractions; not imagining that it had any special significance.  So
     I stepped aside, hunted up a bit of red ribbon, and ornamented my
     lapel with it.  Presently, Count Festetics, the Grand Master of
     ceremonies, and the only man there who was gorgeously arrayed, in
     full official costume, began to show me a great many attentions.  He
     was particularly polite, and pleasant, and anxious to be of service
     to me.  Presently, he asked me what order of nobility I belonged to?
     I said, "I didn't belong to any."  Then he asked me what order of
     knighthood I belonged to?  I said, "None."  Then he asked me what
     the red ribbon in my buttonhole stood for?  I saw, at once, what an
     ass I had been making of myself, and was accordingly confused and
     embarrassed.  I said the first thing that came into my mind, and
     that was that the ribbon was merely the symbol of a club of
     journalists to which I belonged, and I was not pursued with any more
     of Count Festetic's attentions.

     Later, I got on very familiar terms with an old gentleman, whom I
     took to be the head gardener, and walked him all about the gardens,
     slipping my arm into his without invitation, yet without demur on
     his part, and by and by was confused again when I found that he was
     not a gardener at all, but the Lord High Admiral of Russia!  I
     almost made up my mind that I would never call on an Emperor again.

Like all Mediterranean excursionists, those first pilgrims were
insatiable collectors of curios, costumes, and all manner of outlandish
things.  Dan Slote had the stateroom hung and piled with such gleanings.
At Constantinople his room-mate writes:

     I thought Dan had got the state-room pretty full of rubbish at last,
     but awhile ago his dragoman arrived with a brand-new ghastly
     tombstone of the Oriental pattern, with his name handsomely carved
     and gilted on it in Turkish characters.  That fellow will buy a
     Circassian slave next.

It was Church, Denny, Jack, Davis, Dan, Moult, and Mark Twain who made
the "long trip" through Syria from Beirut to Jerusalem with their
elaborate camping outfit and decrepit nags "Jericho," "Baalbec," and the
rest.  It was better camping than that Humboldt journey of six years
before, though the horses were not so dissimilar, and altogether it was a
hard, nerve-racking experience, climbing the arid hills of Palestine in
that torrid summer heat.  Nobody makes that trip in summer-time now.
Tourists hurry out of Syria before the first of April, and they do not go
back before November.  One brief quotation from Mark Twain's book gives
us an idea of what that early party of pilgrims had to undergo:

     We left Damascus at noon and rode across the plain a couple of
     hours, and then the party stopped a while in the shade of some fig-
     trees to give me a chance to rest.  It was the hottest day we had
     seen yet--the sun-flames shot down like the shafts of fire that
     stream out before a blow-pipe; the rays seemed to fall in a deluge
     on the head and pass downward like rain from a roof.  I imagined I
     could distinguish between the floods of rays.  I thought I could
     tell when each flood struck my head, when it reached my shoulders,
     and when the next one came.  It was terrible.

He had been ill with cholera at Damascus, a light attack; but any attack
of that dread disease is serious enough.  He tells of this in the book,
but he does not mention, either in the book or in his notes, the attack
which Dan Slote had some days later.  It remained for William F. Church,
of the party, to relate that incident, for it was the kind of thing that
Mark Twain was not likely to record, or even to remember.  Doctor Church
was a deacon with orthodox views and did not approve of Mark Twain; he
thought him sinful, irreverent, profane.

"He was the worst man I ever knew," Church said; then he added, "And the
best."

What happened was this: At the end of a terrible day of heat, when the
party had camped on the edge of a squalid Syrian village, Dan was taken
suddenly ill.  It was cholera, beyond doubt.  Dan could not go on--he
might never go on.  The chances were that way.  It was a serious matter
all around.  To wait with Dan meant to upset their travel schedule--it
might mean to miss the ship.  Consultation was held and a resolution
passed (the pilgrims were always passing resolutions) to provide for Dan
as well as possible, and leave him behind.  Clemens, who had remained
with Dan, suddenly appeared and said:

"Gentlemen, I understand that you are going to leave Dan Slote here
alone.  I'll be d---d if I do!"

And he didn't.  He stayed there and brought Dan into Jerusalem, a few
days late, but convalescent.

Perhaps most of them were not always reverent during that Holy Land trip.
It was a trying journey, and after fierce days of desert hills the
reaction might not always spare even the holiest memories.  Jack was
particularly sinful.  When they learned the price for a boat on Galilee,
and the deacons who had traveled nearly half around the world to sail on
that sacred water were confounded by the charge, Jack said:

"Well, Denny, do you wonder now that Christ walked?"

It was the irreverent Jack who one morning (they had camped the night
before by the ruins of Jericho) refused to get up to see the sun rise
across the Jordan.  Deacon Church went to his tent.

"Jack, my boy, get up.  Here is the place where the Israelites crossed
over into the Promised Land, and beyond are the mountains of Moab, where
Moses lies buried."

"Moses who!" said Jack.

"Oh, Jack, my boy, Moses, the great lawgiver--who led the Israelites out
of Egypt-forty years through the wilderness--to the Promised Land."

"Forty years!" said Jack.  "How far was it?"

"It was three hundred miles, Jack; a great wilderness, and he brought
them through in safety."

Jack regarded him with scorn.  "Huh, Moses--three hundred miles forty
years--why, Ben Holiday would have brought them through in thirty-six
hours!"--[Ben Holiday, owner of the Overland stages, and a man of great
executive ability.  This incident, a true one, is more elaborately told
in Roughing It, but it seems pertinent here.]

Jack probably learned more about the Bible during that trip-its history
and its heroes-than during all his former years.  Nor was Jack the only
one of that group thus benefited.  The sacred landmarks of Palestine
inspire a burning interest in the Scriptures, and Mark Twain probably did
not now regret those early Sunday-school lessons; certainly he did not
fail to review them exhaustively on that journey.  His note-books fairly
overflow with Bible references; the Syrian chapters in The Innocents
Abroad are permeated with the poetry and legendary beauty of the Bible
story.  The little Bible he carried on that trip, bought in
Constantinople, was well worn by the time they reached the ship again at
Jaffa.  He must have read it with a large and persistent interest; also
with a double benefit.  For, besides the knowledge acquired, he was
harvesting a profit--probably unsuspected at the time---viz., the
influence of the most direct and beautiful English--the English of the
King James version--which could not fail to affect his own literary
method at that impressionable age.  We have already noted his earlier
admiration for that noble and simple poem, "The Burial of Moses," which
in the Palestine note-book is copied in full.  All the tendency of his
expression lay that way, and the intense consideration of stately Bible
phrase and imagery could hardly fail to influence his mental processes.
The very distinct difference of style, as shown in The Innocents Abroad
and in his earlier writings, we may believe was in no small measure due
to his study of the King James version during those weeks in Palestine.

He bought another Bible at Jerusalem; but it was not for himself.  It was
a little souvenir volume bound in olive and balsam wood, and on the fly-
leaf is inscribed:

     Mrs. Jane Clemens from her son.  Jerusalem, Sept.  24, 1867.

There is one more circumstance of that long cruise-recorded neither in
the book nor the notes--an incident brief, but of more importance in the
life of Samuel Clemens than any heretofore set down.  It occurred in the
beautiful Bay of Smyrna, on the fifth or sixth of September, while the
vessel lay there for the Ephesus trip.

Reference has been made to young Charles Langdon, of Elmira (the
"Charley" once mentioned in the Innocents), as an admirer of Mark Twain.
There was a good deal of difference in their ages, and they were seldom
of the same party; but sometimes the boy invited the journalist to his
cabin and, boy-like, exhibited his treasures.  He had two sisters at
home; and of Olivia, the youngest, he had brought a dainty miniature done
on ivory in delicate tints--a sweet-pictured countenance, fine and
spiritual.  On that fateful day in the day of Smyrna, Samuel Clemens,
visiting in young Langdon's cabin, was shown this portrait.  He looked at
it with long admiration, and spoke of it reverently, for the delicate
face seemed to him to be something more than a mere human likeness.  Each
time he came, after that, he asked to see the picture, and once even
begged to be allowed to take it away with him.  The boy would not agree
to this, and the elder man looked long and steadily at the miniature,
resolving in his mind that some day he would meet the owner of that
lovely face--a purpose for once in accord with that which the fates had
arranged for him, in the day when all things were arranged, the day of
the first beginning.




LXII

THE RETURN OF THE PILGRIMS

The last note-book entry bears date of October 11th:

     At sea, somewhere in the neighborhood of Malta.  Very stormy.

     Terrible death to be talked to death.  The storm has blown two small
     land birds and a hawk to sea and they came on board.  Sea full of
     flying-fish.

That is all.  There is no record of the week's travel in Spain, which a
little group of four made under the picturesque Gibraltar guide, Benunes,
still living and quite as picturesque at last accounts.  This side-trip
is covered in a single brief paragraph in the Innocents, and the only
account we have of it is in a home letter, from Cadiz, of October 24th:

     We left Gibraltar at noon and rode to Algeciras (4 hours), thus
     dodging the quarantine--took dinner, and then rode horseback all
     night in a swinging trot, and at daylight took a caleche (a-wheeled
     vehicle), and rode 5 hours--then took cars and traveled till twelve
     at night.  That landed us at Seville, and we were over the hard part
     of our trip and somewhat tired.  Since then we have taken things
     comparatively easy, drifting around from one town to another and
     attracting a good deal of attention--for I guess strangers do not
     wander through Andalusia and the other southern provinces of Spain
     often.  The country is precisely what it was when Don Quixote and
     Sancho Panza were possible characters.

     But I see now what the glory of Spain must have been when it was
     under Moorish domination.  No, I will not say that--but then when
     one is carried away, infatuated, entranced, with the wonders of the
     Alhambra and the supernatural beauty of the Alcazar, he is apt to
     overflow with admiration for the splendid intellects that created
     them.

We may wish that he had left us a chapter of that idyllic journey, but it
will never be written now.  A night or two before the vessel reached New
York there was the usual good-by assembly, and for this occasion, at Mrs.
Severance's request, Mark Twain wrote some verses.  They were not
especially notable, for meter and rhyme did not come easy to him, but one
prophetic stanza is worth remembering.  In the opening lines the
passengers are referred to as a fleet of vessels, then follows:

          Lo! other ships of that parted fleet
          Shall suffer this fate or that:
          One shall be wrecked, another shall sink,
          Or ground on treacherous flat.
          Some shall be famed in many lands
          As good ships, fast and fair,
          And some shall strangely disappear,
          Men know not when or where.

The Quaker City returned to America on November 19, 1867, and Mark Twain
found himself, if not famous, at least in very wide repute.  The fifty-
three letters to the Alta and the half-dozen to the New York Tribune had
carried his celebrity into every corner of the States and Territories.
Vivid, fearless, full of fresh color, humor, poetry, they came as a
revelation to a public weary of the driveling, tiresome travel-letters of
that period.  They preached a new gospel in travel-literature: the gospel
of seeing with an overflowing honesty; a gospel of sincerity in according
praises to whatever seemed genuine, and ridicule to the things considered
sham.  It was the gospel that Mark Twain would continue to preach during
his whole career.  It became his chief literary message to the world-a
world waiting for that message.

Moreover, the letters were literature.  He had received, from whatever
source, a large and very positive literary impulse, a loftier conception
and expression.  It was at Tangier that he first struck the grander
chord, the throbbing cadence of human story.

Here is a crumbling wall that was old when Columbus discovered America;
old when Peter the Hermit roused the knightly men of the Middle Ages to
arm for the first Crusade; old when Charlemagne and his paladins
beleaguered enchanted castles and battled with giants and genii in the
fabled days of the olden time; old when Christ and his disciples walked
the earth; stood where it stands to-day when the lips of Memnon were
vocal and men bought and sold in the streets of ancient Thebes.

This is pure poetry.  He had never touched so high a strain before, but
he reached it often after that, and always with an ever-increasing
mastery and confidence.  In Venice, in Rome, in Athens, through the Holy
Land, his retrospection becomes a stately epic symphony, a processional
crescendo that swings ever higher until it reaches that sublime strain,
the ageless contemplation of the Sphinx.  We cannot forego a paragraph or
two of that word-picture:

     After years of waiting it was before me at last.  The great face was
     so sad, so earnest, so longing, so patient.  There was a dignity not
     of earth in its mien, and in its countenance a benignity such as
     never anything human wore.  It was stone, but it seemed sentient.
     If ever image of stone thought, it was thinking.  It was looking
     toward the verge of the landscape, yet looking at nothing--nothing
     but distance and vacancy.  It was looking over and beyond everything
     of the present, and far into the past....  It was thinking of the
     wars of the departed ages; of the empires it had seen created and
     destroyed; of the nations whose birth it had witnessed, whose
     progress it had watched, whose annihilation it had noted; of the joy
     and sorrow, the life and death, the grandeur and decay, of five
     thousand slow-revolving years .  .  .  .

     The Sphinx is grand in its loneliness; it is imposing in its
     magnitude; it is impressive in the mystery that hangs over its
     story.  And there is that in the overshadowing majesty of this
     eternal figure of stone, with its accusing memory of the deeds of
     all ages, which reveals to one something of what we shall feel when
     we shall stand at last in the awful presence of God.

Then that closing word of Egypt.  He elaborated it for the book, and did
not improve it.  Let us preserve here its original form.

     We are glad to have seen Egypt.  We are glad to have seen that old
     land which taught Greece her letters--and through Greece, Rome--and
     through Rome, the world--that venerable cradle of culture and
     refinement which could have humanized and civilized the Children of
     Israel, but allowed them to depart out of her borders savages--those
     Children whom we still revere, still love, and whose sad
     shortcomings we still excuse--not because they were savages, but
     because they were the chosen savages of God.

The Holy Land letters alone would have brought him fame.  They presented
the most graphic and sympathetic picture of Syrian travel ever written--
one that will never become antiquated or obsolete so long as human nature
remains unchanged.  From beginning to end the tale is rarely, reverently
told.  Its closing paragraph has not been surpassed in the voluminous
literature of that solemn land:

     Palestine sits in sackcloth and ashes.  Over it broods the spell of
     a curse that has withered its fields and fettered its energies.
     Where Sodom and Gomorrah reared their domes and towers that solemn
     sea now floods the plain, in whose bitter waters no living thing
     exists--over whose waveless surface the blistering air hangs
     motionless and dead--about whose borders nothing grows but weeds and
     scattering tufts of cane, and that treacherous fruit that promises
     refreshment to parching lips, but turns to ashes at the touch.
     Nazareth is forlorn; about that ford of Jordan where the hosts of
     Israel entered the Promised Land with songs of rejoicing one finds
     only a squalid camp of fantastic Bedouins of the desert; Jericho the
     accursed lies a moldering ruin today, even as Joshua's miracle left
     it more than three thousand years ago; Bethlehem and Bethany, in
     their poverty and their humiliation, have nothing about them now to
     remind one that they once knew the high honor of the Saviour's
     presence; the hallowed spot where the shepherds watched their flocks
     by night, and where the angels sang Peace on earth, goodwill to men,
     is untenanted by any living creature, and unblessed by any feature
     that is pleasant to the eye.  Renowned Jerusalem itself, the
     stateliest name in history, has lost all its ancient grandeur, and
     is become a pauper village; the riches of Solomon are no longer
     there to compel the admiration of visiting Oriental queens; the
     wonderful temple which was the pride and the glory of Israel is
     gone, and the Ottoman crescent is lifted above the spot where, on
     that most memorable day in the annals of the world, they reared the
     Holy Cross.  The noted Sea of Galilee, where Roman fleets once rode
     at anchor and the disciples of the Saviour sailed in their ships,
     was long ago deserted by the devotees of war and commerce, and its
     borders are a silent wilderness; Capernaum is a shapeless ruin;
     Magdala is the home of beggared Arabs; Bethsaida and Chorazin have
     vanished from the earth, and the "desert places" round about them
     where thousands of men once listened to the Saviour's voice and ate
     the miraculous bread sleep in the hush of a solitude that is
     inhabited only by birds of prey and skulking foxes.

     Palestine is desolate and unlovely.  And why should it be otherwise?
     Can the curse of the Deity beautify a land?

It would be easy to quote pages here--a pictorial sequence from Gibraltar
to Athens, from Athens to Egypt, a radiant panoramic march.  In time he
would write technically better.  He would avoid solecism, he would become
a greater master of vocabulary and phrase, but in all the years ahead he
would never match the lambent bloom and spontaneity of those fresh, first
impressions of Mediterranean lands and seas.  No need to mention the
humor, the burlesque, the fearless, unrestrained ridicule of old masters
and of sacred relics, so called.  These we have kept familiar with much
repetition.  Only, the humor had grown more subtle, more restrained; the
burlesque had become impersonal and harmless, the ridicule so frank and
good-natured, that even the old masters themselves might have enjoyed it,
while the most devoted churchman, unless blinded by bigotry, would find
in it satisfaction, rather than sacrilege.

The final letter was written for the New York Herald after the arrival,
and was altogether unlike those that preceded it.  Gaily satirical and
personal--inclusively so--it might better have been left unwritten, for
it would seem to have given needless offense to a number of goodly
people, whose chief sin was the sedateness of years. However, it is all
past now, and those who were old then, and perhaps queer and pious and
stingy, do not mind any more, and those who were young and frivolous have
all grown old too, and most of them have set out on the still farther
voyage.  Somewhere, it may be, they gather, now; and then, and lightly,
tenderly recall their old-time journeying.




LXIII

IN WASHINGTON--A PUBLISHING PROPOSITION

Clemens remained but one day in New York.  Senator Stewart had written,
about the time of the departure of the Quaker City, offering him the
position of private secretary--a position which was to give him leisure
for literary work, with a supporting salary as well.  Stewart no doubt
thought it would be considerably to his advantage to have the brilliant
writer and lecturer attached to his political establishment, and Clemens
likewise saw possibilities in the arrangement.  From Naples, in August,
he had written accepting Stewart's offer; he lost no time now in
discussing the matter in person.--[In a letter home, August 9th, he
referred to the arrangement: "I wrote to Bill Stewart to-day accepting
his private secretaryship in Washington, next winter."]

There seems to have been little difficulty in concluding the arrangement.
When Clemens had been in Washington a week we find him writing:

     DEAR FOLKS, Tired and sleepy--been in Congress all day and making
     newspaper acquaintances.  Stewart is to look up a clerkship in the
     Patent Office for Orion.  Things necessarily move slowly where there
     is so much business and such armies of office-seekers to be attended
     to.  I guess it will be all right. I intend it shall be all right.

     I have 18 invitations to lecture, at $100 each, in various parts
     of the Union--have declined them all.  I am for business now.

     Belong on the Tribune Staff, and shall write occasionally.  Am
     offered the same berth to-day on the Herald by letter.  Shall write
     Mr. Bennett and accept, as soon as I hear from Tribune that it will
     not interfere.  Am pretty well known now--intend to be better known.
     Am hobnobbing with these old Generals and Senators and other humbugs
     for no good purpose.  Don't have any more trouble making friends
     than I did in California.  All serene.  Good-by.  Shall continue on
     the Alta.
                              Yours affectionately,
                                                  SAM.

     P.S.--I room with Bill Stewart and board at Willard's Hotel.

But the secretary arrangement was a brief matter.  It is impossible to
conceive of Mark Twain as anybody's secretary, especially as the
secretary of Senator Stewart.

--[In Senator Stewart's memoirs he refers unpleasantly to Mark Twain, and
after relating several incidents that bear only strained relations to the
truth, states that when the writer returned from the Holy Land he
(Stewart) offered him a secretaryship as a sort of charity.  He adds that
Mark Twain's behavior on his premises was such that a threat of a
thrashing was necessary.  The reason for such statements becomes
apparent, however, when he adds that in 'Roughing It' the author accuses
him of cheating, prints a picture of him with a hatch over his eye, and
claims to have given him a sound thrashing, none of which statements,
save only the one concerning the picture (an apparently unforgivable
offense to his dignity), is true, as the reader may easily ascertain for
himself.]

Within a few weeks he was writing humorous accounts of "My Late
Senatorial Secretaryship,"  "Facts Concerning the Recent Resignation,"
etc., all good-natured burlesque, but inspired, we.  may believe, by the
change: These articles appeared in the New York Tribune, the New York
Citizen, and the Galaxy Magazine.

There appears to have been no ill-feeling at this time between Clemens
and Stewart.  If so, it is not discoverable in any of the former's
personal or newspaper correspondence.  In fact, in his article relating
to his "late senatorial secretaryship" he puts the joke, so far as it is
a joke, on Senator James W. Nye, probably as an additional punishment for
Nye's failure to appear on the night of his lecture.  He established
headquarters with a brilliant newspaper correspondent named Riley.  "One
of the best men in Washington--or elsewhere," he tells us in a brief
sketch of that person.--[See Riley, newspaper correspondent.  Sketches
New and Old.]--He had known Riley in San Francisco; the two were
congenial, and settled down to their several undertakings.

Clemens was chiefly concerned over two things: he wished to make money
and he wished to secure a government appointment for Orion.  He had used
up the most of his lecture accumulations, and was moderately in debt.
His work was in demand at good rates, for those days, and with working
opportunity he could presently dispose of his financial problem.  The
Tribune was anxious for letters; the Enterprise and Alta were waiting for
them; the Herald, the Chicago Tribune, the magazines--all had solicited
contributions; the lecture bureaus pursued him.  Personally his outlook
was bright.

The appointment for Orion was a different matter.  The powers were not
especially interested in a brother; there were too many brothers and
assorted relatives on the official waiting-list already.  Clemens was
offered appointments for himself--a consulship, a post-mastership; even
that of San Francisco.  From the Cabinet down, the Washington political
contingent had read his travel-letters, and was ready to recognize
officially the author of them in his own person and personality.

Also, socially: Mark Twain found himself all at once in the midst of
receptions, dinners, and speech-making; all very exciting for a time at
least, but not profitable, not conducive to work.  At a dinner of the
Washington Correspondents Club his response to the toast, "Women," was
pronounced by Schuyler Colfax to be "the best after dinner speech ever
made."  Certainly it was a refreshing departure from the prosy or clumsy-
witted efforts common to that period.  He was coming altogether into his
own.--[This is the first of Mark Twain's after-dinner speeches to be
preserved.  The reader will find it complete, as reported next day, in
Appendix G, at the end of last volume.]

He was not immediately interested in the matter of book publication.
The Jumping Frog book was popular, and in England had been issued by
Routledge; but the royalty returns were modest enough and slow in
arrival.  His desire was for prompter results.  His interest in book
publication had never been an eager one, and related mainly to the
advertising it would furnish, which he did not now need; or to the money
return, in which he had no great faith.  Yet at this very moment a letter
for him was lying in the Tribune office in New York which would bring the
book idea into first prominence and spell the beginning of his fortune.

Among those who had read and found delight in the Tribune letters was
Elisha Bliss, Jr., of the American Publishing Company, of Hartford.
Bliss was a shrewd and energetic man, with a keen appreciation for humor
and the American fondness for that literary quality.  He had recently
undertaken the management of a Hartford concern, and had somewhat alarmed
its conservative directorate by publishing books that furnished
entertainment to the reader as well as moral instruction.  Only his
success in paying dividends justified this heresy and averted his
downfall.  Two days after the arrival of the Quaker City Bliss wrote the
letter above mentioned.  It ran as follows:

                         OFFICE OF THE AMERICAN PUBLISHING CO.
                         HARTFORD, CONN., November 21, 1867.

SAMUEL L. CLEMENS, ESQ.,
Tribune Office, New York.

DEAR SIR,--We take the liberty to address you this, in place of a letter
which we had recently written and were about to forward to you, not
knowing your arrival home was expected so soon.  We are desirous of
obtaining from you a work of some kind, perhaps compiled from your
letters from the past, etc., with such interesting additions as may be
proper.  We are the publishers of A. D. Richardson's works, and flatter
ourselves that we can give an author a favorable term and do as full
justice to his productions as any other house in the country.  We are
perhaps the oldest subscription house in the country, and have never
failed to give a book an immense circulation.  We sold about 100,000
copies of Richardson's F. D. and E.  ('Field, Dungeon and Escape'), and
are now printing 41,000 of 'Beyond the Mississippi', and large orders
ahead.  If you have any thought of writing a book, or could be induced to
do so, we should be pleased to see you, and will do so.  Will you do us
the favor of reply at once, at your earliest convenience.

                                   Very truly etc.,

                                        E. BLISS, JR.,
                                        Secretary.

After ten days' delay this letter was forwarded to the Tribune bureau in
Washington, where Clemens received it.  He replied promptly.


                              WASHINGTON, December 2, 1867.

E. BLISS, JR., ESQ.,
Secretary American Publishing Co.

DEAR SIR,--I only received your favor of November 21st last night, at the
rooms of the Tribune Bureau here.  It was forwarded from the Tribune
office, New York where it had lain eight or ten days.  This will be a
sufficient apology for the seeming discourtesy of my silence.

I wrote fifty-two letters for the San Francisco Alta California during
the Quakes City excusion, about half of which number have been printed
thus far.  The Alta has few exchanges in the East, and I suppose scarcely
any of these letters have been copied on this side of the Rocky
Mountains.  I could weed them of their chief faults of construction and
inelegancies of expression, and make a volume that would be more
acceptable in many respects than any I could now write.  When those
letters were written my impressions were fresh, but now they have lost
that freshness; they were warm then, they are cold now.  I could strike
out certain letters, and write new ones wherewith to supply their places.
If you think such a book would suit your purpose, please drop me a line,
specifying the size and general style of the volume--when the matter
ought to be ready; whether it should have pictures in it or not; and
particularly what your terms with me would be, and what amount of money
I might possibly make out of it.  The latter clause has a degree of
importance for me which is almost beyond my own comprehension.  But you
understand that, of course.

I have other propositions for a book, but have doubted the propriety of
interfering with good newspaper engagements, except my way as an author
could be demonstrated to be plain before me.  But I know Richardson, and
learned from him some months ago something of an idea of the subscription
plan of publishing.  If that is your plan invariably it looks safe.

I am on the New York Tribune staff here as an "occasional," among other
things, and a note from you addressed to
                    Very truly, etc.,
                                   SAM. L. CLEMENS,
                                   New York Tribune Bureau, Washington
will find me, without fail.


The exchange of those two letters marked the beginning of one of the most
notable publishing connections in American literary history.

Consummation, however, was somewhat delayed.  Bliss was ill when the
reply came, and could not write again in detail until nearly a month
later.  In this letter he recited the profits made by Richardson and
others through subscription publication, and named the royalties paid.
Richardson had received four per cent. of the sale price, a small enough
rate for these later days; but the cost of manufacture was larger then,
and the sale and delivery of books through agents has ever been an
expensive process.  Even Horace Greeley had received but a fraction more
on his Great American Conflict.  Bliss especially suggested and
emphasized a "humorous work--that is to say, a work humorously inclined."
He added that they had two arrangements for paying authors: outright
purchase, and royalty.  He invited a meeting in New York to arrange
terms.




LXIV

OLIVIA LANGDON

Clemens did in fact go to New York that same evening, to spend Christmas
with Dan Slote, and missed Bliss's second letter.  It was no matter.
Fate had his affairs properly in hand, and had prepared an event of still
larger moment than the publication even of Innocents Abroad.  There was a
pleasant reunion at Dan Slote's.  He wrote home about it:

     Charley Langdon, Jack Van Nostrand, Dan and I (all Quaker City
     night-hawks) had a blow-out at Dan's house and a lively talk over
     old times.  I just laughed till my sides ached at some of our
     reminiscences.  It was the unholiest gang that ever cavorted through
     Palestine, but those are the best boys in the world.

This, however, was not the event; it was only preliminary to it.  We are
coming to that now.  At the old St. Nicholas Hotel, which stood on the
west of Broadway between Spring and Broome streets, there were stopping
at this time Jervis Langdon, a wealty coal-dealer and mine-owner of
Elmira, his son Charles and his daughter Olivia, whose pictured face
Samuel Clemens had first seen in the Bay of Smyrna one September day.
Young Langdon had been especially anxious to bring his distinguished
Quaker City friend and his own people together, and two days before
Christmas Samuel Clemens was invited to dine at the hotel.  He went very
willingly. The lovely face of that miniature had been often a part of
his waking dreams.  For the first time now he looked upon its reality.
Long afterward he said:

"It is forty years ago.  From that day to this she has never been out of
my mind."

Charles Dickens was in New York then, and gave a reading that night in
Steinway Hall.  The Langdons went, and Samuel Clemens accompanied them.
He remembered afterward that Dickens wore a black velvet coat with a
fiery red flower in his buttonhole, and that he read the storm scene from
Copperfield--the death of James Steerforth.  But he remembered still more
clearly the face and dress of that slender girlish figure at his side.

Olivia Langdon was twenty-two years old at this time, delicate as the
miniature he had seen, fragile to look upon, though no longer with the
shattered health of her girlhood.  At sixteen, through a fall upon the
ice, she had become a complete invalid, confined to her bed for two
years, unable to sit, even when supported, unable to lie in any position
except upon her back.  Great physicians and surgeons, one after another,
had done their best for her but she had failed steadily until every hope
had died.  Then, when nothing else was left to try, a certain Doctor
Newton, of spectacular celebrity, who cured by "laying on of hands," was
brought to Elmira to see her.  Doctor Newton came into the darkened room
and said:

"Open the windows--we must have light!"

They protested that she could not bear the light, but the windows were
opened.  Doctor Newton came to the bedside of the helpless girl,
delivered a short, fervent prayer, put his arm under her shoulders, and
bade her sit up.  She had not moved for two years, and the family were
alarmed, but she obeyed, and he assisted her into a chair.  Sensation
came back to her limbs.  With his assistance she even made a feeble
attempt to walk.  He left then, saying that she would gradually improve,
and in time be well, though probably never very strong.  On the same day
he healed a boy, crippled and drawn with fever.

It turned out as he had said.  Olivia Langdon improved steadily, and now
at twenty-two, though not robust--she was never that--she was
comparatively well.  Gentle, winning, lovable, she was the family idol,
and Samuel Clemens joined in their worship from the moment of that first
meeting.

Olivia Langdon, on her part, was at first dazed and fascinated, rather
than attracted, by this astonishing creature, so unlike any one she had
ever known.  Her life had been circumscribed, her experiences of a simple
sort.  She had never seen anything resembling him before.  Indeed, nobody
had.  Somewhat carelessly, even if correctly, attired; eagerly, rather
than observantly, attentive; brilliant and startling, rather than
cultured, of speech--a blazing human solitaire, unfashioned, unset,
tossed by the drift of fortune at her feet.  He disturbed rather than
gratified her.  She sensed his heresy toward the conventions and forms
which had been her gospel; his bantering, indifferent attitude toward
life--to her always so serious and sacred; she suspected that he even
might have unorthodox views on matters of religion.  When he had gone she
somehow had the feeling that a great fiery meteor of unknown portent had
swept across her sky.

To her brother, who was eager for her approval of his celebrity, Miss
Langdon conceded admiration.  As for her father, he did not qualify his
opinion.  With hearty sense of humor, and a keen perception of verity and
capability in men, Jervis Langdon accepted Samuel Clemens from the start,
and remained his stanch admirer and friend.  Clemens left that night with
an invitation to visit Elmira by and by, and with the full intention of
going--soon.  Fate, however, had another plan.  He did not see Elmira for
the better part of a year.

He saw Miss Langdon again within the week.  On New-Year's Day he set
forth to pay calls, after the fashion of the time--more lavish then than
now.  Miss Langdon was receiving with Miss Alice Hooker, a niece of Henry
Ward Beecher, at the home of a Mrs. Berry; he decided to go there first.
With young Langdon he arrived at eleven o'clock in the morning, and they
did not leave until midnight.  If his first impression upon Olivia
Langdon had been meteoric, it would seem that he must now have become to
her as a streaming comet that swept from zenith to horizon.  One thing is
certain: she had become to him the single, unvarying beacon of his future
years.  He visited Henry Ward Beecher on that trip and dined with him by
invitation.  Harriet Beecher Stowe was present, and others of that
eminent family.  Likewise his old Quaker City comrades, Moses S.  and
Emma Beach.  It was a brilliant gathering, a conclave of intellectual
gods--a triumph to be there for one who had been a printer-boy on the
banks of the Mississippi, and only a little while before a miner with
pick and shovel.  It was gratifying to be so honored; it would be
pleasant to write home; but the occasion lacked something too--
everything, in fact--for when he ran his eye around the board the face of
the minature was not there.

Still there were compensations; inadequate, of course, but pleasant
enough to remember.  It was Sunday evening and the party adjourned to
Plymouth Church.  After services Mr. Beecher invited him to return home
with him for a quiet talk.  Evidently they had a good time, for in the
letter telling of these things Samuel Clemens said: "Henry Ward Beecher
is a brick."




LXV

A CONTRACT WITH ELISHA BLISS, JR.

He returned to Washington without seeing Miss Langdon again, though he
would seem to have had permission to write--friendly letters.  A little
later (it was on the evening of January 9th) he lectured in Washington--
on very brief notice indeed.  The arrangement for his appearance had been
made by a friend during his absence--"a friend," Clemens declared
afterward, "not entirely sober at the time."  To his mother he wrote:

I scared up a doorkeeper and was ready at the proper time, and by pure
good luck a tolerably good house assembled and I was saved.  I hardly
knew what I was going to talk about, but it went off in splendid style.

The title of the lecture delivered was "The Frozen Truth"--"more truth in
the title than in the lecture," according to his own statement.  What it
dealt with is not remembered now.  It had to do with the Quaker City
trip, perhaps, and it seems to have brought a financial return which was
welcome enough.  Subsequently he delivered it elsewhere; though just how
far the tour extended cannot be learned from the letters, and he had but
little memory of it in later years.

There was some further correspondence with Bliss, then about the 21st of
January (1868) Clemens made a trip to Hartford to settle the matter.
Bliss had been particularly anxious to meet him, personally and was a
trifle disappointed with his appearance.  Mark Twain's traveling costume
was neither new nor neat, and he was smoking steadily a pipe of power.
His general make-up was hardly impressive.

Bliss's disturbance was momentary.  Once he began to talk the rest did
not matter.  He was the author of those letters, and Bliss decided that
personally he was even greater than they.  The publisher, confined to his
home with illness, offered him the hospitality of his household.  Also,
he made him two propositions: he would pay him ten thousand dollars cash
for his copyright, or he would pay five per cent. royalty, which was a
fourth more than Richardson had received.  He advised the latter
arrangement.

Clemens had already taken advice and had discussed the project a good
deal with Richardson.  The ten thousand dollars was a heavy temptation,
but he withstood it and closed on the royalty basis--"the best business
judgment I ever displayed," he was wont to declare.  A letter written to
his mother and sister near the end of this Hartford stay is worth quoting
pretty fully here, for the information and "character" it contains.  It
bears date of January 24th.

     This is a good week for me.  I stopped in the Herald office, as I
     came through New York, to see the boys on the staff, and young James
     Gordon Bennett asked me to write twice a week, impersonally, for the
     Herald, and said if I would I might have full swing, and about
     anybody and everything I wanted to.  I said I must have the very
     fullest possible swing, and he said, "All right."  I said, "It's a
     contract--" and that settled that matter.

     I'll make it a point to write one letter a week anyhow.  But the
     best thing that has happened is here.  This great American
     Publishing Company kept on trying to bargain with me for a book till
     I thought I would cut the matter short by coming up for a talk.  I
     met Henry Ward Beecher in Brooklyn, and with his usual whole-souled
     way of dropping his own work to give other people a lift when he
     gets a chance, he said: "Now, here, you are one of the talented men
     of the age--nobody is going to deny that--but in matters of business
     I don't suppose you know more than enough to come in when it rains.
     I'll tell you what to do and how to do it."  And he did.

     And I listened well, and then came up here and made a splendid
     contract for a Quaker City book of 5 or 600 large pages, with
     illustrations, the manuscript to be placed in the publisher's hands
     by the middle of July.--[The contract was not a formal one.  There
     was an exchange of letters agreeing to the terms, but no joint
     document was drawn until October 16 (1868).]--My percentage is to
     be a fourth more than they have ever paid any author except Greeley.
     Beecher will be surprised, I guess, when he hears this.

     These publishers get off the most tremendous editions of their books
     you can imagine.  I shall write to the Enterprise and Alta every
     week, as usual, I guess, and to the Herald twice a week,
     occasionally to the Tribune and the magazines (I have a stupid
     article in the Galaxy, just issued), but I am not going to write to
     this and that and the other paper any more.

     I have had a tiptop time here for a few days (guest of Mr. Jno.
     Hooker's family--Beecher's relatives--in a general way of Mr. Bliss
     also, who is head of the publishing firm).  Puritans are mighty
     straight-laced, and they won't let me smoke in the parlor, but the
     Almighty don't make any better people.

     I have to make a speech at the annual Herald dinner on the 6th of
     May.

So the book, which would establish his claim to a peerage in the literary
land, was arranged for, and it remained only to prepare the manuscript, a
task which he regarded as not difficult.  He had only to collate the Alta
and Tribune letters, edit them, and write such new matter as would be
required for completeness.

Returning to Washington, he plunged into work with his usual terrific
energy, preparing the copy--in the mean time writing newspaper
correspondence and sketches that would bring immediate return.  In
addition to his regular contributions, he entered into a syndicate
arrangement with John Swinton (brother of William Swinton, the historian)
to supply letters to a list of newspapers.

"I have written seven long newspaper letters and a short magazine article
in less than two days," he wrote home, and by the end of January he had
also prepared several chapters of his book.

The San Francisco post-mastership was suggested to him again, but he put
the temptation behind him.  He refers to this more than once in his home
letters, and it is clear that he wavered.

     Judge Field said if I wanted the place he could pledge me the
     President's appointment, and Senator Corners said he would guarantee
     me the Senate's confirmation.  It was a great temptation, but it
     would render it impossible to fill my book contract, and I had to
     drop the idea....

     And besides I did not want the office.

He made this final decision when he heard that the chief editor of the
Alta wanted the place, and he now threw his influence in that quarter.
"I would not take ten thousand dollars out of a friend's pocket," he
said.

But then suddenly came the news from Goodman that the Alta publishers had
copyrighted his Quaker City letters and proposed getting them out in a
book, to reimburse themselves still further on their investment.  This
was sharper than a serpent's tooth.  Clemens got confirmation of the
report by telegraph.  By the same medium he protested, but to no purpose.
Then he wrote a letter and sat down to wait.  He reported his troubles to
Orion:

     I have made a superb contract for a book, and have prepared the
     first ten chapters of the sixty or eighty, but I will bet it never
     sees the light.  Don't you let the folks at home hear that.  That
     thieving Alta copyrighted the letters, and now shows no disposition
     to let me use them.  I have done all I can by telegraph, and now
     await the final result by mail.  I only charged them for 50 letters
     what (even in) greenbacks would amount to less than two thousand
     dollars, intending to write a good deal for high-priced Eastern
     papers, and now they want to publish my letters in book form
     themselves to get back that pitiful sum.

Orion was by this time back from Nevada, setting type in St. Louis.  He
was full of schemes, as usual, and his brother counsels him freely.  Then
he says:

     We chase phantoms half the days of our lives.  It is well if we
     learn wisdom even then, and save the other half.

     I am in for it.  I must go on chasing them, until I marry, then I am
     done with literature and all other bosh--that is, literature
     wherewith to please the general public.

     I shall write to please myself then.

He closes by saying that he rather expects to go with Anson Burlingame on
the Chinese embassy.  Clearly he was pretty hopeless as to his book
prospects.

His first meeting with General Grant occurred just at this time.  In one
of his home letters he mentions, rather airily, that he will drop in
someday on the General for an interview; and at last, through Mrs. Grant,
an appointment was made for a Sunday evening when the General would be at
home.  He was elated with the prospect of an interview; but when he
looked into the imperturbable, square, smileless face of the soldier he
found himself, for the first time in his life, without anything
particular to say.  Grant nodded slightly and waited.  His caller wished
something would happen.  It did.  His inspiration returned.

"General," he said, "I seem to be a little embarrassed.  Are you?"

That broke the ice.  There were no further difficulties.--[Mark Twain
has variously related this incident.  It is given here in accordance with
the letters of the period.]




LXVI

BACK TO SAN FRANCISCO

Reply came from the Alta, but it was not promising.  It spoke rather
vaguely of prior arrangements and future possibilities.  Clemens gathered
that under certain conditions he might share in the profits of the
venture.  There was but one thing to do; he knew those people--some of
them--Colonel McComb and a Mr. McCrellish intimately.  He must confer
with them in person.

He was weary of Washington, anyway.  The whole pitiful machinery of
politics disgusted him.  In his notebook he wrote:

     Whiskey is taken into the committee rooms in demijohns and carried
     out in demagogues.

And in a letter:

     This is a place to get a poor opinion of everybody in.  There are
     some pitiful intellects in this Congress!  There isn't one man in
     Washington in civil office who has the brains of Anson Burlingame,
     and I suppose if China had not seized and saved his great talents to
     the world this government would have discarded him when his time was
     up.--[Anson Burlingame had by this time become China's special
     ambassador to the nations.]

Furthermore, he was down on the climate of Washington.  He decided to go
to San Francisco and see "those Alta thieves face to face."  Then, if a
book resulted, he could prepare it there among friends.  Also, he could
lecture.

He had been anxious to visit his people before sailing, but matters were
too urgent to permit delay.  He obtained from Bliss an advance of royalty
and took passage, by way of Aspinwall, on the sidewheel steamer Henry
Chauncey, a fine vessel for those days.  The name of Mark Twain was
already known on the isthmus, and when it was learned he had arrived on
the Chauncey a delegation welcomed him on the wharf, and provided him
with refreshments and entertainment.  Mr. Tracy Robinson, a poet, long a
resident of that southern land, was one of the group.  Beyond the isthmus
Clemens fell in again with his old captain, Ned Wakeman, who during the
trip told him the amazing dream that in due time would become Captain
Stormfield's Visit to Heaven.  He made the first draft of this story soon
after his arrival in San Francisco, as a sort of travesty of Elizabeth
Stuart Phelps's Gates Ajar, then very popular.  Clemens, then and later,
had a high opinion of Capt. Ned Wakeman's dream, but his story of it
would pass through several stages before finally reaching the light of
publication.--[Mr. John P.  Vollmer, now of Lewiston, Idaho, a
companion of that voyage, writes of a card game which took place beyond
the isthmus.  The notorious crippled gambler, "Smithy," figured in it,
and it would seem to have furnished the inspiration for the exciting
story in Chapter XXXVI of the Mississippi book.]

In San Francisco matters turned out as he had hoped.  Colonel McComb was
his stanch friend; McCrellish and Woodward, the proprietors, presently
conceded that they had already received good value for the money paid.
The author agreed to make proper acknowledgments to the Alta in his
preface, and the matter was settled with friendliness all around.

The way was now clear, the book assured.  First, however, he must provide
himself with funds.  He delivered a lecture, with the Quaker City
excursion as his subject.  On the 5th of May he wrote to Bliss:

I lectured here on the trip the other night; over $1,600 in gold in the
house; every seat taken and paid for before night.

He reports that he is steadily at work, and expects to start East with
the completed manuscript about the middle of June.

But this was a miscalculation.  Clemens found that the letters needed
more preparation than he had thought.  His literary vision and equipment
had vastly altered since the beginning of that correspondence.  Some of
the chapters he rewrote; others he eliminated entirely.  It required two
months of fairly steady work to put the big manuscript together.

Some of the new chapters he gave to Bret Harte for the Overland Monthly,
then recently established.  Harte himself was becoming a celebrity about
this time.  His "Luck of Roaring Camp" and "The Outcasts of Poker Flat,"
published in early numbers of the Overland, were making a great stir in
the East, arousing there a good deal more enthusiasm than in the magazine
office or the city of their publication.  That these two friends, each
supreme in his own field, should have entered into their heritage so
nearly at the same moment, is one of the many seemingly curious
coincidences of literary history.

Clemens now concluded to cover his lecture circuit of two years before.
He was assured that it would be throwing away a precious opportunity not
to give his new lecture to his old friends.  The result justified that
opinion.  At Virginia, at Carson, and elsewhere he was received like a
returned conqueror.  He might have been accorded a Roman triumph had
there been time and paraphernalia.  Even the robbers had reformed, and
entire safety was guaranteed him on the Divide between Virginia and Gold
Hill.  At Carson he called on Mrs. Curry, as in the old days, and among
other things told her how snow from the Lebanon Mountains is brought to
Damascus on the backs of camels.

"Sam," she said, "that's just one of your yarns, and if you tell it in
your lecture to-night I'll get right up and say so."

But he did tell it, for it was a fact; and though Mrs. Curry did not rise
to deny it she shook her finger at him in a way he knew.

He returned to San Francisco and gave one more lecture, the last he would
ever give in California.  His preparatory advertising for that occasion
was wholly unique, characteristic of him to the last degree.  It assumed
the form of a handbill of protest, supposed to have been issued by the
foremost citizens of San Francisco, urging him to return to the States
without inflicting himself further upon them.  As signatures he made free
with the names of prominent individuals, followed by those of
organizations, institutions, "Various Benevolent Societies, Citizens on
Foot and Horseback, and fifteen hundred in the Steerage."

Following this (on the same bill) was his reply, "To the fifteen hundred
and others," in which he insisted on another hearing:

     I will torment the people if I want to....  It only costs the people
     $1 apiece, and if they can't stand it what do they stay here for?...
     My last lecture was not as fine as I thought it was, but I have
     submitted this discourse to several able critics, and they have
     pronounced it good.  Now, therefore, why should I withhold it?

He promised positively to sail on the 6th of July if they would let him
talk just this once.  Continuing, the handbill presented a second
protest, signed by the various clubs and business firms; also others
bearing variously the signatures of the newspapers, and the clergy,
ending with the brief word:

     You had better go.    Yours,    CHIEF OF POLICE.

All of which drollery concluded with his announcement of place and date
of his lecture, with still further gaiety at the end.  Nothing short of a
seismic cataclysm--an earthquake, in fact--could deter a San Francisco
audience after that.  Mark Twain's farewell address, given at the
Mercantile Library July 2 (1868), doubtless remains today the leading
literary event in San Francisco's history.--[Copy of the lecture
announcement, complete, will be found in Appendix H, at the end of last
volume.]

He sailed July 6th by the Pacific mail steamer Montana to Acapulco,
caught the Henry Chauncey at Aspinwall, reached New York on the 28th, and
a day or two later had delivered his manuscript at Hartford.

But a further difficulty had arisen.  Bliss was having troubles himself,
this time, with his directors.  Many reports of Mark Twain's new book had
been traveling the rounds of the press, some of which declared it was to
be irreverent, even blasphemous, in tone.  The title selected, The New
Pilgrim's Progress, was in itself a sacrilege.  Hartford was a
conservative place; the American Publishing Company directors were of
orthodox persuasion.  They urged Bliss to relieve the company of this
impending disaster of heresy.  When the author arrived one or more of
them labored with him in person, without avail.  As for Bliss, he was
stanch; he believed in the book thoroughly, from every standpoint.  He
declared if the company refused to print it he would resign the
management and publish the book himself.  This was an alarming suggestion
to the stockholders.  Bliss had returned dividends--a boon altogether too
rare in the company's former history.  The objectors retired and were
heard of no more.  The manuscript was placed in the hands of Fay and Cox,
illustrators, with an order for about two hundred and fifty pictures.

Fay and Cox turned it over to True Williams, one of the well-known
illustrators of that day.  Williams was a man of great talent--of fine
imagination and sweetness of spirit--but it was necessary to lock him in
a room when industry was required, with nothing more exciting than cold
water as a beverage.  Clemens himself aided in the illustrating by
obtaining of Moses S. Beach photographs from the large collection he had
brought home.




LXVII

A VISIT TO ELMIRA

Meantime he had skilfully obtained a renewal of the invitation to spend a
week in the Langdon home.

He meant to go by a fast train, but, with his natural gift for
misunderstanding time-tables, of course took a slow one, telegraphing his
approach from different stations along the road.  Young Langdon concluded
to go down the line as far as Waverly to meet him.  When the New York
train reached there the young man found his guest in the smoking-car,
travel-stained and distressingly clad.  Mark Twain was always
scrupulously neat and correct of dress in later years, but in that
earlier day neatness and style had not become habitual and did not give
him comfort.  Langdon greeted him warmly but with doubt.  Finally he
summoned courage to say, hesitatingly--

"You've got some other clothes, haven't you?"

The arriving guest was not in the least disturbed.

"Oh yes," he said with enthusiasm, "I've got a fine brand-new outfit in
this bag, all but a hat.  It will be late when we get in, and I won't see
any one to-night.  You won't know me in the morning.  We'll go out early
and get a hat."

This was a large relief to the younger man, and the rest of the journey
was happy enough.  True to promise, the guest appeared at daylight
correctly, even elegantly clad, and an early trip to the shops secured
the hat.  A gay and happy week followed--a week during which Samuel
Clemens realized more fully than ever that in his heart there was room
for only one woman in all the world: Olivia Langdon--"Livy," as they all
called her--and as the day of departure drew near it may be that the
gentle girl had made some discoveries, too.

No word had passed between them.  Samuel Clemens had the old-fashioned
Southern respect for courtship conventions, and for what, in that day at
least, was regarded as honor.  On the morning of the final day he said to
young Langdon:

"Charley, my week is up, and I must go home."

The young man expressed a regret which was genuine enough, though not
wholly unqualified.  His older sister, Mrs. Crane, leaving just then for
a trip to the White Mountains, had said:

"Charley, I am sure Mr. Clemens is after our Livy.  You mustn't let him
carry her off before our return."

The idea was a disturbing one.  The young man did not urge his guest to
prolong his-visit.  He said:

"We'll have to stand it, I guess, but you mustn't leave before to-night."

"I ought to go by the first train," Clemens said, gloomily.  "I am in
love."

"In what!"

"In love-with your sister, and I ought to get away from here."

The young man was now very genuinely alarmed.  To him Mark Twain was a
highly gifted, fearless, robust man--a man's man--and as such altogether
admirable--lovable.  But Olivia--Livy--she was to him little short of a
saint.  No man was good enough for her, certainly not this adventurous
soldier of letters from the West.  Delightful he was beyond doubt,
adorable as a companion, but not a companion for Livy.

"Look here, Clemens," he said, when he could get his voice.  "There's a
train in half an hour.  I'll help you catch it.  Don't wait till to-
night.  Go now."

Clemens shook his head.

"No, Charley," he said, in his gentle drawl, "I want to enjoy your
hospitality a little longer.  I promise to be circumspect, and I'll go
to-night."

That night, after dinner, when it was time to take the New York train, a
light two-seated wagon was at the gate.  The coachman was in front, and
young Langdon and his guest took the back seat.  For some reason the seat
had not been locked in its place, and when, after the good-bys, the
coachman touched the horse it made a quick spring forward, and the back
seat, with both passengers, described a half-circle and came down with
force on the cobbled street.  Neither passenger was seriously hurt;
Clemens not at all--only dazed a little for a moment.  Then came an
inspiration; here was a chance to prolong his visit.  Evidently it was
not intended that he should take that train.  When the Langdon household
gathered around with restoratives he did not recover too quickly.  He
allowed them to support or carry him into the house and place him in an
arm-chair and apply remedies.  The young daughter of the house especially
showed anxiety and attention.  This was pure happiness.  He was perjuring
himself, of course, but they say Jove laughs at such things.

He recovered in a day or two, but the wide hospitality of the handsome
Langdon home was not only offered now; it was enforced.  He was still
there two weeks later, after which he made a trip to Cleveland to confide
in Mrs. Fairbanks how he intended to win Livy Langdon for his wife.




LXVIII

THE REV. "JOE" TWICHELL

He returned to Hartford to look after the progress of his book.  Some of
it was being put into type, and with his mechanical knowledge of such
things he was naturally interested in the process.

He made his headquarters with the Blisses, then living at 821 Asylum
Avenue, and read proof in a little upper room, where the lamp was likely
to be burning most of the time, where the atmosphere was nearly always
blue with smoke, and the window-sill full of cigar butts.  Mrs. Bliss
took him into the quiet social life of the neighborhood--to small church
receptions, society gatherings and the like--all of which he seemed to
enjoy.  Most of the dwellers in that neighborhood were members of the
Asylum Hill Congregational Church, then recently completed; all but the
spire.  It was a cultured circle, well-off in the world's goods, its male
members, for the most part, concerned in various commercial ventures.

The church stood almost across the way from the Bliss home, and Mark
Twain, with his picturesque phrasing, referred to it as the "stub-tailed
church," on account of its abbreviated spire; also, later, with a
knowledge of its prosperous membership, as the "Church of the Holy
Speculators."  He was at an evening reception in the home of one of its
members when he noticed a photograph of the unfinished building framed
and hanging on the wall.

"Why, yes," he commented, in his slow fashion, "this is the 'Church of
the Holy Speculators.'"

"Sh," cautioned Mrs. Bliss.  "Its pastor is just behind you.  He knows
your work and wants to meet you."  Turning, she said: "Mr. Twichell, this
is Mr. Clemens.  Most people know him as Mark Twain."

And so, in this casual fashion, he met the man who was presently to
become his closest personal friend and counselor, and would remain so for
more than forty years.

Joseph Hopkins Twichell was a man about his own age, athletic and
handsome, a student and a devout Christian, yet a man familiar with the
world, fond of sports, with an exuberant sense of humor and a wide
understanding of the frailties of humankind.  He had been "port waist
oar" at Yale, and had left college to serve with General "Dan" Sickles as
a chaplain who had followed his duties not only in the camp, but on the
field.

Mention has already been made of Mark Twain's natural leaning toward
ministers of the gospel, and the explanation of it is easier to realize
than to convey.  He was hopelessly unorthodox--rankly rebellious as to
creeds.  Anything resembling cant or the curtailment of mental liberty
roused only his resentment and irony.  Yet something in his heart always
warmed toward any laborer in the vineyard, and if we could put the
explanation into a single sentence, perhaps we might say it was because
he could meet them on that wide, common ground sympathy with mankind.
Mark Twain's creed, then and always, may be put into three words,
"liberty, justice, humanity."  It may be put into one word, "humanity."

Ministers always loved Mark Twain.  They did not always approve of him,
but they adored him: The Rev. Mr. Rising, of the Comstock, was an early
example of his ministerial friendships, and we have seen that Henry Ward
Beecher cultivated his company.  In a San Francisco letter of two years
before, Mark Twain wrote his mother, thinking it would please her:

I am as thick as thieves with the Reverend Stebbins.  I am laying for the
Reverend Scudder and the Reverend Doctor Stone.  I am running on
preachers now altogether, and I find them gay.

So it may be that his first impulse toward Joseph Twichell was due to the
fact that he was a young member of that army whose mission is to comfort
and uplift mankind.  But it was only a little time till the impulse had
grown into a friendship that went beyond any profession or doctrine, a
friendship that ripened into a permanent admiration and love for "Joe"
Twichell himself, as one of the noblest specimens of his race.

He was invited to the Twichell home, where he met the young wife and got
a glimpse of the happiness of that sweet and peaceful household.  He had
a neglected, lonely look, and he loved to gather with them at their
fireside.  He expressed his envy of their happiness, and Mrs. Twichell
asked him why, since his affairs were growing prosperous, he did not
establish a household of his own.  Long afterward Mr. Twichell wrote:

     Mark made no answer for a little, but, with his eyes bent on the
     floor, appeared to be deeply pondering.  Then he looked up, and said
     slowly, in a voice tremulous with earnestness (with what sympathy he
     was heard may be imagined): "I am taking thought of it.  I am in
     love beyond all telling with the dearest and best girl in the whole
     world.  I don't suppose she will marry me.  I can't think it
     possible.  She ought not to.  But if she doesn't I shall be sure
     that the best thing I ever did was to fall in love with her, and
     proud to have it known that I tried to win her!"

It was only a brief time until the Twichell fireside was home to him.  He
came and went, and presently it was "Mark" and "Joe," as by and by it
would be "Livy" and "Harmony," and in a few years "Uncle Joe" and "Uncle
Mark,"  "Aunt Livy" and "Aunt Harmony," and so would remain until the
end.




LXIX

A LECTURE TOUR

James Redpath, proprietor of the Boston Lyceum Bureau, was the leading
lecture agent of those days, and controlled all, or nearly all, of the
platform celebrities.  Mark Twain's success at the Cooper Union the year
before had interested Redpath.  He had offered engagements then and
later, but Clemens had not been free for the regular circuit.  Now there
was no longer a reason for postponement of a contract.  Redpath was eager
for the new celebrity, and Clemens closed with him for the season of
1868-9.  With his new lecture, "The Vandal Abroad," he was presently
earning a hundred dollars and more a night, and making most of the nights
count.

This was affluence indeed.  He had become suddenly a person of substance-
an associate of men of consequence, with a commensurate income.  He could
help his mother lavishly now, and he did.

His new lecture was immensely popular.  It was a resume of the 'Quaker
City' letters--a foretaste of the book which would presently follow.
Wherever he went, he was hailed with eager greetings.  He caught such
drifting exclamations as, "There he is!  There goes Mark Twain!"  People
came out on the street to see him pass.  That marvelous miracle which we
variously call "notoriety," "popularity," "fame," had come to him.  In
his notebook he wrote, "Fame is a vapor, popularity an accident; the
only, earthly certainty oblivion."

The newspapers were filled with enthusiasm both as to his matter and
method.  His delivery was described as a "long, monotonous drawl, with
the fun invariably coming in at the end of a sentence--after a pause."
His appearance at this time is thus set down:

     Mark Twain is a man of medium height, about five feet ten, sparsely
     built, with dark reddish-brown hair and mustache.  His features are
     fair, his eyes keen and twinkling.  He dresses in scrupulous evening
     attire.  In lecturing he hangs about the desk, leaning on it or
     flirting around the corners of it, then marching and countermarching
     in the rear of it.  He seldom casts a glance at his manuscript.

No doubt this fairly presents Mark Twain, the lecturer of that day.  It
was a new figure on the platform, a man with a new method.  As to his
manuscript, the item might have said that he never consulted it at all.
He learned his lecture; what he consulted was merely a series of
hieroglyphics, a set of crude pictures drawn by himself, suggestive of
the subject-matter underneath new head.  Certain columns represented the
Parthenon; the Sphinx meant Egypt, and so on.  His manuscript lay there
in case of accident, but the accident did not happen.

A number of his engagements were in the central part of New York, at
points not far distant from Elmira.  He had a standing invitation to
visit the Langdon home, and he made it convenient to avail himself of
that happiness.

His was not an unruffled courtship.  When at last he reached the point of
proposing for the daughter of the house, neither the daughter nor the
household offered any noticeable encouragement to his suit.  Many absurd
anecdotes have been told of his first interview with Mr. Langdon on the
subject, but they are altogether without foundation.  It was a proper and
dignified discussion of a very serious matter.  Mr. Langdon expressed
deep regard for him and friendship but he was not inclined to add him to
the family; the young lady herself, in a general way, accorded with these
views.  The applicant for favor left sadly enough, but he could not
remain discouraged or sad.  He lectured at Cleveland with vast success,
and the news of it traveled quickly to Elmira.  He was referred to by
Cleveland papers as a "lion" and "the coming man of the age."  Two days
later, in Pittsburgh (November 19th), he "played" against Fanny Kemble,
the favorite actress of that time, with the result that Miss Kemble had
an audience of two hundred against nearly ten times the number who
gathered to hear Mark Twain.  The news of this went to Elmira, too.  It
was in the papers there next morning; surely this was a conquering hero--
a gay Lochinvar from out of the West--and the daughter of the house must
be guarded closely, that he did not bear her away.  It was on the second
morning following the Pittsburgh triumph, when the Langdon family were
gathered at breakfast, that a bushy auburn head poked fearfully in at the
door, and a low, humble voice said:

"The calf has returned; may the prodigal have some breakfast?"

No one could be reserved or reprovingly distant, or any of those
unfriendly things with a person like that; certainly not Jervis Langdon,
who delighted in the humor and the tricks and turns and oddities of this
eccentric visitor.  Giving his daughter to him was another matter, but
even that thought was less disturbing than it had been at the start.  In
truth, the Langdon household had somehow grown to feel that he belonged
to them.  The elder sister's husband, Theodore Crane, endorsed him fully.
He had long before read some of the Mark Twain sketches that had traveled
eastward in advance of their author, and had recognized, even in the
crudest of them, a classic charm.  As for Olivia Langdon's mother and
sister, their happiness lay in hers.  Where her heart went theirs went
also, and it would appear that her heart, in spite of herself, had found
its rightful keeper.  Only young Langdon was irreconciled, and eventually
set out for a voyage around the world to escape the situation.

There was only a provisional engagement at first.  Jervis Langdon
suggested, and Samuel Clemens agreed with him, that it was proper to know
something of his past, as well as of his present, before the official
parental sanction should be given.  When Mr. Langdon inquired as to the
names of persons of standing to whom he might write for credentials,
Clemens pretty confidently gave him the name of the Reverend Stebbins and
others of San Francisco, adding that he might write also to Joe Goodman
if he wanted to, but that he had lied for Goodman a hundred times and
Goodman would lie for him if necessary, so his testimony would be of no
value.  The letters to the clergy were written, and Mr. Langdon also
wrote one on his own account.

It was a long mail-trip to the Coast and back in those days.  It might be
two months before replies would come from those ministers.  The lecturer
set out again on his travels, and was radiantly and happily busy.  He
went as far west as Illinois, had crowded houses in Chicago, visited
friends and kindred in Hannibal, St. Louis, and Keokuk, carrying the
great news, and lecturing in old familiar haunts.




LXX

INNOCENTS AT HOME--AND "THE INNOCENTS ABROAD"

He was in Jacksonville, Illinois, at the end of January (1869), and in a
letter to Bliss states that he will be in Elmira two days later, and asks
that proofs of the book be sent there.  He arrived at the Langdon home,
anxious to hear the reports that would make him, as the novels might say,
"the happiest or the most miserable of men."  Jervis Langdon had a rather
solemn look when they were alone together.  Clemens asked:

"You've heard from those gentlemen out there?"

"Yes, and from another gentleman I wrote concerning you."

"They don't appear to have been very enthusiastic, from your manner."

"Well, yes, some of them were."

"I suppose I may ask what particular form their emotion took?"

"Oh yes, yes; they agree unanimously that you are a brilliant, able man,
a man with a future, and that you would make about the worst husband on
record."

The applicant for favor had a forlorn look.

"There's nothing very evasive about that," he said:

There was a period of reflective silence.  It was probably no more than a
few seconds, but it seemed longer.

"Haven't you any other friend that you could suggest?" Langdon said.

"Apparently none whose testimony would be valuable."

Jervis Langdon held out his hand.  "You have at least one," he said.
"I believe in you.  I know you better than they do."

And so came the crown of happiness.  The engagement of Samuel Langhorne
Clemens and Olivia Lewis Langdon was ratified next day, February 4, 1869.

But if the friends of Mark Twain viewed the idea of the carnage with
scant favor, the friends of Miss Langdon regarded it with genuine alarm.
Elmira was a conservative place--a place of pedigree and family
tradition; that a stranger, a former printer, pilot, miner, wandering
journalist and lecturer, was to carry off the daughter of one of the
oldest and wealthiest families, was a thing not to be lightly permitted.
The fact that he had achieved a national fame did not count against other
considerations.  The social protest amounted almost to insurrection, but
it was not availing.  The Langdon family had their doubts too, though of
a different sort.  Their doubts lay in the fear that one, reared as their
daughter had been, might be unable to hold a place as the wife of this
intellectual giant, whom they felt that the world was preparing to honor.
That this delicate, sheltered girl could have the strength of mind and
body for her position seemed hard to believe.  Their faith overbore such
questionings, and the future years proved how fully it was justified.

To his mother Samuel Clemens wrote:

     She is only a little body, but she hasn't her peer in Christendom.
     I gave her only a plain gold engagement ring, when fashion
     imperatively demands a two-hundred-dollar diamond one, and told her
     it was typical of her future life-namely, that she would have to
     flourish on substance, rather than luxuries (but you see I know the
     girl--she don't care anything about luxuries)....  She spends no
     money but her astral year's allowance, and spends nearly every cent
     of that on other people.  She will be a good, sensible little wife,
     without any airs about her.  I don't make intercession for her
     beforehand, and ask you to love her, for there isn't any use in
     that--you couldn't help it if you were to try.  I warn you that
     whoever comes within the fatal influence of her beautiful nature is
     her willing slave forevermore.

To Mrs. Crane, absent in March, her father wrote:

     DEAR SUE,--I received your letter yesterday with a great deal of
     pleasure, but the letter has gone in pursuit of one S. L. Clemens,
     who has been giving us a great deal of trouble lately.  We cannot
     have a joy in our family without a feeling, on the part of the
     little incorrigible in our family, that this wanderer must share it,
     so, as soon as read, into her pocket and off upstairs goes your
     letter, and in the next two minutes into the mail, so it is
     impossible for me now to refer to it, or by reading it over gain an
     inspiration in writing you.  .  .

Clemens closed his lecture tour in March, acid went immediately to
Elmira.  He had lectured between fifty and sixty times, with a return of
something more than $8,000, not a bad aggregate for a first season on the
circuit.  He had planned to make a spring tour to California, but the
attraction at Elmira was of a sort that discouraged distant travel.
Furthermore, he disliked the platform, then and always.  It was always a
temptation to him because of its quick and abundant return, but it was
none the less distasteful.  In a letter of that spring he wrote:

     I most cordially hate the lecture field.  And after all, I shudder
     to think I may never get out of it.  In all conversation with Gough,
     and Anna Dickinson, Nasby, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Wendell Phillips,
     and the other old stagers, I could not observe that they ever
     expected or hoped to get out of the business.  I don't want to get
     wedded to it as they are.

He declined further engagements on the excuse that he must attend to
getting out his book.  The revised proofs were coming now, and he and
gentle Livy Langdon read them together.  He realized presently that with
her sensitive nature she had also a keen literary perception.  What
he lacked in delicacy--and his lack was likely to be large enough in that
direction--she detected, and together they pruned it away.  She became
his editor during those happy courtship days--a position which she held
to her death.  The world owed a large debt of gratitude to Mark Twain's
wife, who from the very beginning--and always, so far as in her strength
she was able--inspired him to give only his worthiest to the world,
whether in written or spoken word, in counsel or in deed.  Those early
days of their close companionship, spiritual and mental, were full of
revelation to Samuel Clemens, a revelation that continued from day to
day, and from year to year, even to the very end.

The letter to Bliss and the proofs were full of suggested changes that
would refine and beautify the text.  In one of them he settles the
question of title, which he says is to be:

                          THE INNOCENTS ABROAD
                                   or
                       THE NEW PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

and we may be sure that it was Olivia Langdon's voice that gave the
deciding vote for the newly adopted chief title, which would take any
suggestion of irreverence out of the remaining words.

The book was to have been issued in the spring, but during his wanderings
proofs had been delayed, and there was now considerable anxiety about it,
as the agencies had become impatient for the canvass.  At the end of
April Clemens wrote: "Your printers are doing well.  I will hurry the
proofs"; but it was not until the early part of June that the last
chapters were revised and returned.  Then the big book, at last
completed, went to press on an edition of twenty thousand, a large number
for any new book, even to-day.

In later years, through some confusion of circumstance, Mark Twain was
led to believe that the publication of The Innocents Abroad was long and
unnecessarily delayed.  But this was manifestly a mistake.  The book went
to press in June.  It was a big book and a large edition.  The first copy
was delivered July 20 (1869), and four hundred and seventeen bound
volumes were shipped that month.  Even with the quicker mechanical
processes of to-day a month or more is allowed for a large book between
the final return of proofs and the date of publication.  So it is only
another instance of his remembering, as he once quaintly put it, "the
thing that didn't happen."--[In an article in the North American Review
(September 21, 1906) Mr. Clemens stated that he found it necessary to
telegraph notice that he would bring suit if the book was not immediately
issued.  In none of the letters covering this period is there any
suggestion of delay on the part of the publishers, and the date of the
final return of proofs, together with the date of publication, preclude
the possibility of such a circumstance.  At some period of his life he
doubtless sent, or contemplated sending, such a message, and this fact,
through some curious psychology, became confused in his mind with the
first edition of The Innocents Abroad.]




LXXI

THE GREAT BOOK OF TRAVEL

'The Innocents Abroad' was a success from the start.  The machinery for
its sale and delivery was in full swing by August 1, and five thousand
one hundred and seventy copies were disposed of that month--a number that
had increased to more than thirty-one thousand by the first of the year.
It was a book of travel; its lowest price was three and a half dollars.
No such record had been made by a book of that description; none has
equaled it since.--[One must recall that this was the record only up to
1910. D.W.]

If Mark Twain was not already famous, he was unquestionably famous now.
As the author of The New Pilgrim's Progress he was swept into the domain
of letters as one riding at the head of a cavalcade--doors and windows
wide with welcome and jubilant with applause.  Newspapers chorused their
enthusiasm; the public voiced universal approval; only a few of the more
cultured critics seemed hesitant and doubtful.

They applauded--most of them--but with reservation.  Doctor Holland
regarded Mark Twain as a mere fun maker of ephemeral popularity, and was
not altogether pleasant in his dictum.  Doctor Holmes, in a letter to the
author, speaks of the "frequently quaint and amusing conceits," but does
not find it in his heart to refer to the book as literature.  It was
naturally difficult for the East to concede a serious value to one who
approached his subject with such militant aboriginality, and occasionally
wrote "those kind."  William Dean Howells reviewed the book in the
Atlantic, which was of itself a distinction, whether the review was
favorable or otherwise.  It was favorable on the whole, favorable to the
humor of the book, its "delicious impudence," the charm of its good-
natured irony.  The review closed:

     It is no business of ours to fix his rank among the humorists
     California has given us, but we think he is, in an entirely
     different way from all the others, quite worthy of the company of
     the best.

This is praise, but not of an intemperate sort, nor very inclusive.  The
descriptive, the poetic, the more pretentious phases of the book did not
receive attention.  Mr. Howells was perhaps the first critic of eminence
to recognize in Mark Twain not only the humorist, but the supreme genius-
the "Lincoln of our literature."  This was later.  The public--the silent
public--with what Howells calls "the inspired knowledge of the simple-
hearted multitude," reached a similar verdict forthwith.  And on
sufficient evidence: let the average unprejudiced person of to-day take
up the old volume and read a few chapters anywhere and decide whether it
is the work of a mere humorist, or also of a philosopher, a poet, and a
seer.  The writer well remembers a little group of "the simple-hearted
multitude" who during the winter of '69 and '70 gathered each evening to
hear the Innocents read aloud, and their unanimous verdict that it was
the "best book of modern times."

It was the most daring book of its day.  Passages of it were calculated
to take the breath of the orthodox reader; only, somehow, it made him
smile, too.  It was all so good-natured, so openly sincere.  Without
doubt it preached heresy--the heresy of viewing revered landmarks and
relics joyously, rather than lugubriously; reverentially, when they
inspired reverence; satirically, when they invited ridicule, and with
kindliness always.

The Innocents Abroad is Mark Twain's greatest book of travel.  The
critical and the pure in speech may object to this verdict.  Brander
Matthews regards it second to A Tramp Abroad, the natural viewpoint of
the literary technician.  The 'Tramp' contains better usage without
doubt, but it lacks the "color" which gives the Innocents its perennial
charm.  In the Innocents there is a glow, a fragrance, a romance of
touch, a subtle something which is idyllic, something which is not quite
of reality, in the tale of that little company that so long ago sailed
away to the harbors of their illusions beyond the sea, and, wandered
together through old palaces and galleries, and among the tombs of the
saints, and down through ancient lands.  There is an atmosphere about it
all, a dream-like quality that lies somewhere in the telling, maybe, or
in the tale; at all events it is there, and the world has felt it ever
since.  Perhaps it could be defined in a single word, perhaps that word
would be "youth."  That the artist, poor True Williams, felt its
inspiration is certain.  We may believe that Williams was not a great
draftsman, but no artist ever caught more perfectly the light and spirit
of the author's text.  Crude some of the pictures are, no doubt, but they
convey the very essence of the story; they belong to it, they are a part
of it, and they ought never to perish.  'A Tramp Abroad' is a rare book,
but it cannot rank with its great predecessor in human charm.  The
public, which in the long run makes mistakes, has rendered that verdict.
The Innocents by far outsells the Tramp, and, for that matter, any other
book of travel.


THE PURCHASE OF A PAPER

It is curious to reflect that Mark Twain still did not regard himself as
a literary man.  He had no literary plans for the future; he scarcely
looked forward to the publication of another book.  He considered himself
a journalist; his ambition lay in the direction of retirement in some
prosperous newspaper enterprise, with the comforts and companionship of a
home.  During his travels he had already been casting about for a
congenial and substantial association in newspaperdom, and had at one
time considered the purchase of an interest in the Cleveland Herald.  But
Buffalo was nearer Elmira, and when an opportunity offered, by which he
could acquire a third interest in the Buffalo Express for $25,000, the
purchase was decided upon.  His lack of funds prompted a new plan for a
lecture tour to the Pacific coast, this time with D. R. Locke (Nasby),
then immensely popular, in his lecture "Cussed Be Canaan."

Clemens had met Nasby on the circuit, and was very fond of him.  The two
had visited Boston together, and while there had called on Doctor Holmes;
this by the way.  Nasby was fond of Clemens too, but doubtful about the
trip-doubtful about his lecture:

     Your proposition takes my breath away.  If I had my new lecture
     completed I wouldn't hesitate a moment, but really isn't "Cussed Be
     Canaan" too old?  You know that lemon, our African brother, juicy as
     he was in his day, has been squeezed dry.  Why howl about his wrongs
     after said wrongs have been redressed?  Why screech about the
     "damnable spirit of Cahst" when the victim thereof sits at the first
     table, and his oppressor mildly takes, in hash, what he leaves?  You
     see, friend Twain, the Fifteenth Amendment busted "Cussed Be
     Canaan."  I howled feelingly on the subject while it was a living
     issue, for I felt all that I said and a great deal more; but now
     that we have won our fight why dance frantically on the dead corpse
     of our enemy?  The Reliable Contraband is contraband no more, but a
     citizen of the United States, and I speak of him no more.

     Give me a week to think of your proposition.  If I can jerk a
     lecture in time I will go with you.  The Lord knows I would like to.
     --[Nasby's lecture, "Cussed Be Canaan," opened, "We are all
     descended from grandfathers!"  He had a powerful voice, and always
     just on the stroke of eight he rose and vigorously delivered this
     sentence.  Once, after lecturing an entire season--two hundred and
     twenty-five nights--he went home to rest.  That evening he sat,
     musingly drowsing by the fire, when the clock struck eight.  Without
     a moment's thought Nasby sprang to his feet and thundered out, "We
     are all descended from grandfathers!"]

Nasby did not go, and Clemens's enthusiasm cooled at the prospect of
setting out alone on that long tour.  Furthermore, Jervis Langdon
promptly insisted on advancing the money required to complete the
purchase of the Express, and the trade was closed.--[Mr. Langdon is just
as good for $25,000 for me, and has already advanced half of it in cash.
I wrote and asked whether I had better send him my note, or a due bill,
or how he would prefer to have the indebtedness made of record, and he
answered every other topic in the letter pleasantly, but never replied to
that at all.  Still, I shall give my note into a hands of his business
agent here, and pay him the interest as it falls due.--S. L. C. to his
mother.]

The Buffalo Express was at this time in the hands of three men--Col.
George F. Selkirk, J. L. Lamed, and Thomas A. Kennett.  Colonel Selkirk
was business manager, Lamed was political editor.  With the purchase of
Kennett's share Clemens became a sort of general and contributing editor,
with a more or less "roving commission"--his hours and duties not very
clearly defined.  It was believed by his associates, and by Clemens
himself, that his known connection with the paper would give it prestige
and circulation, as Nasby's connection had popularized the Toledo Blade.
The new editor entered upon his duties August 14 (1869).  The members of
the Buffalo press gave him a dinner that evening, and after the manner of
newspaper men the world over, were handsomely cordial to the "new enemy
in their midst."

There is an anecdote which relates that next morning, when Mark Twain
arrived in the Express office (it was then at 14 Swan Street), there
happened to be no one present who knew him.  A young man rose very
bruskly and asked if there was any one he would like to see.  It is
reported that he replied, with gentle deliberation:

"Well, yes, I should like to see some young man offer the new editor a
chair."

It is so like Mark Twain that we are inclined to accept it, though it
seems of doubtful circumstance.  In any case it deserves to be true.  His
"Salutatory" (August 18th) is sufficiently genuine:

     Being a stranger, it would be immodest for me to suddenly and
     violently assume the associate editorship of the Buffalo Express
     without a single word of comfort or encouragement to the unoffending
     patrons of the paper, who are about to be exposed to constant
     attacks of my wisdom and learning.  But the word shall be as brief
     as possible.  I only want to assure parties having a friendly
     interest in the prosperity of the journal that I am not going to
     hurt the paper deliberately and intentionally at any time.  I am not
     going to introduce any startling reforms, nor in any way attempt to
     make trouble....  I shall not make use of slang and vulgarity upon
     any occasion or under any circumstances, and shall never use
     profanity except when discussing house rent and taxes.  Indeed, upon
     a second thought, I shall not use it even then, for it is
     unchristian, inelegant, and degrading; though, to speak truly, I do
     not see how house rent and taxes are going to be discussed worth a
     cent without it.  I shall not often meddle with politics, because we
     have a political Editor who is already excellent and only needs to
     serve a term or two in the penitentiary to be perfect.  I shall not
     write any poetry unless I conceive a spite against the subscribers.

     Such is my platform.  I do not see any use in it, but custom is law
     and must be obeyed.

John Harrison Mills, who was connected with the Express in those days,
has written:

     I cannot remember that there was any delay in getting down to his
     work.  I think within five minutes the new editor had assumed the
     easy look of one entirely at home, pencil in hand and a clutch of
     paper before him, with an air of preoccupation, as of one intent on
     a task delayed.  It was impossible to be conscious of the man
     sitting there, and not feel his identity with all that he had
     enjoyed, and the reminiscence of it he that seemed to radiate; for
     the personality was so absolutely in accord with all the record of
     himself and his work.  I cannot say he seemed to be that vague thing
     they call a type in race or blood, though the word, if used in his
     case for temperament, would decidedly mean what they used to call
     the "sanguine."

     I thought that, pictorially, the noble costume of the Albanian would
     have well become him.  Or he might have been a Goth, and worn the
     horned bull-pate helmet of Alaric's warriors; or stood at the prow
     of one of the swift craft of the Vikings.  His eyes, which have been
     variously described, were, it seemed to me, of an indescribable
     depth of the bluish moss-agate, with a capacity of pupil dilation
     that in certain lights had the effect of a deep black....

Mr. Mills adds that in dress he was now "well groomed," and that
consequently they were obliged to revise their notions as to the careless
negligee which gossip had reported.--[From unpublished Reminiscences
kindly lent to the author by Mr. Mills]




LXXIII

THE FIRST MEETING WITH HOWELLS

Clemens' first period of editorial work was a brief one, though he made
frequent contributions to the paper: sketches, squibs, travel-notes, and
experiences, usually humorous in character.  His wedding-day had been set
for early in the year, and it was necessary to accumulate a bank account
for that occasion.  Before October he was out on the lecture circuit,
billed now for the first time for New England, nervous and apprehensive
in consequence, though with good hope.  To Pamela he wrote
(November 9th):

To-morrow night I appear for the first time before a Boston audience--
4,000 critics--and on the success of this matter depends my future
success in New England.  But I am not distressed.  Nasby is in the same
boat.  Tonight decides the fate of his brand-new lecture.  He has just
left my room--been reading his lecture to me--was greatly depressed.  I
have convinced him that he has little to fear.

Whatever alarm Mark Twain may have felt was not warranted.  His success
with the New England public was immediate and complete.  He made his
headquarters in Boston, at Redpath's office, where there was pretty sure
to be a congenial company, of which he was presently the center.

It was during one of these Boston sojourns that he first met William Dean
Howells, his future friend and literary counselor.  Howells was assistant
editor of the Atlantic at this time; James T. Fields, its editor.
Clemens had been gratified by the Atlantic review, and had called to
express his thanks for it.  He sat talking to Fields, when Howells
entered the editorial rooms, and on being presented to the author of the
review, delivered his appreciation in the form of a story, sufficiently
appropriate, but not qualified for the larger types.--[He said: "When I
read that review of yours, I felt like the woman who was so glad her baby
had come white."]

His manner, his humor, his quaint colloquial forms all delighted Howells
--more, in fact, than the opulent sealskin overcoat which he affected at
this period--a garment astonishing rather than esthetic, as Mark Twain's
clothes in those days of his first regeneration were likely to be
startling enough, we may believe; in the conservative atmosphere of the
Atlantic rooms.  And Howells--gentle, genial, sincere--filled with the
early happiness of his calling, won the heart of Mark Twain and never
lost it, and, what is still more notable, won his absolute and unvarying
confidence in all literary affairs.  It was always Mark Twain's habit to
rely on somebody, and in matters pertaining to literature and to literary
people in general he laid his burden on William Dean Howells from that
day.  Only a few weeks after that first visit we find him telegraphing to
Howells, asking him to look after a Californian poet, then ill and
friendless in Brooklyn.  Clemens states that he does not know the poet,
but will contribute fifty dollars if Howells will petition the steamboat
company for a pass; and no doubt Howells complied, and spent a good deal
more than fifty dollars' worth of time to get the poet relieved and
started; it would be like him.




LXXIV

THE WEDDING-DAY

The wedding was planned, at first, either for Christmas or New-Year's
Day; but as the lecture engagements continued into January it was decided
to wait until these were filled.  February 2d, a date near the
anniversary of the engagement, was agreed upon, also a quiet wedding with
no "tour."  The young people would go immediately to Buffalo, and take up
a modest residence, in a boardinghouse as comfortable, even as luxurious,
as the husband's financial situation justified.  At least that was Samuel
Clemens's understanding of the matter.  He felt that he was heavily in
debt--that his first duty was to relieve himself of that obligation.

There were other plans in Elmira, but in the daily and happy letters he
received there was no inkling of any new purpose.

He wrote to J. D. F. Slee, of Buffalo, who was associated in business
with Mr. Langdon, and asked him to find a suitable boarding-place, one
that would be sufficiently refined for the woman who was to be his wife,
and sufficiently reasonable to insure prosperity.  In due time Slee
replied that, while boarding was a "miserable business anyhow," he had
been particularly fortunate in securing a place on one of the most
pleasant streets--"the family a small one and choice spirits, with no
predilection for taking boarders, and consenting to the present
arrangement only because of the anticipated pleasure of your company."
The price, Slee added, would be reasonable.  As a matter of fact a house
on Delaware Avenue--still the fine residence street of Buffalo--had been
bought and furnished throughout as a present to the bride and groom.  It
stands to-day practically unchanged--brick and mansard without, Eastlake
within, a type then much in vogue--spacious and handsome for that period.
It was completely appointed.  Diagrams of the rooms had been sent to
Elmira and Miss Langdon herself had selected the furnishings.  Everything
was put in readiness, including linen, cutlery, and utensils.  Even the
servants had been engaged and the pantry and cellar had been stocked.

It must have been hard for Olivia Langdon to keep this wonderful surprise
out of those daily letters.  A surprise like that is always watching a
chance to slip out unawares, especially when one is eagerly impatient to
reveal it.

However, the traveler remained completely in the dark.  He may have
wondered vaguely at the lack of enthusiasm in the boarding idea, and
could he have been certain that the sales of the book would continue, or
that his newspaper venture would yield an abundant harvest, he might have
planned his domestic beginning on a more elaborate scale.  If only the
Tennessee land would yield the long-expected fortune now!  But these were
all incalculable things.  All that he could be sure of was the coming of
his great happiness, in whatever environment, and of the dragging weeks
between.

At last the night of the final lecture came, and he was off for Elmira
with the smallest possible delay.  Once there, the intervening days did
not matter.  He could join in the busy preparations; he could write
exuberantly to his friends.  To Laura Hawkins, long since Laura Frazer he
sent a playful line; to Jim Gillis, still digging and washing on the
slopes of the old Tuolumne hills, he wrote a letter which eminently
belongs here:


                              Elmira, N. Y., January 26, 1870.

     DEAR Jim,--I remember that old night just as well!  And somewhere
     among my relics I have your remembrance stored away.  It makes my
     heart ache yet to call to mind some of those days.  Still it
     shouldn't, for right in the depths of their poverty and their
     pocket-hunting vagabondage lay the germ of my coming good fortune.
     You remember the one gleam of jollity that shot across our dismal
     sojourn in the rain and mud of Angel's Camp--I mean that day we sat
     around the tavern stove and heard that chap tell about the frog and
     how they filled him with shot.  And you remember how we quoted from
     the yarn and laughed over it out there on the hillside while you and
     dear old Stoker panned and washed.  I jotted the story down in my
     note-book that day, and would have been glad to get ten or fifteen
     dollars for it--I was just that blind.  But then we were so hard up.
     I published that story, and it became widely known in America,
     India, China, England, and the reputation it made for me has paid me
     thousands and thousands of dollars since.  Four or five months ago I
     bought into the Express (I have ordered it sent to you as long as
     you live, and if the bookkeeper sends you any bills you let me hear
     of it).  I went heavily in debt--never could have dared to do that,
     Jim, if we hadn't heard the jumping Frog story that day.

     And wouldn't I love to take old Stoker by the hand, and wouldn't I
     love to see him in his great specialty, his wonderful rendition of
     Rinalds in the "Burning Shame!"  Where is Dick and what is he doing?
     Give him my fervent love and warm old remembrances.

     A week from to-day I shall be married-to a girl even better and
     lovelier than the peerless "Chapparal Quails."  You can't come so
     far, Jim, but still I cordially invite you to come anyhow, and I
     invite Dick too.  And if you two boys were to land here on that
     pleasant occasion we would make you right royally welcome.
                              Truly your friend,
                                             SAML. L. CLEMENS.

     P.S.---California plums are good.  Jim, particularly when they are
     stewed.

It had been only five years before--that day in Angel's Camp--but how
long ago and how far away it seemed to him now!  So much had happened
since then, so much of which that was the beginning--so little compared
with the marvel of the years ahead, whose threshold he was now about to
cross, and not alone.

A day or two before the wedding he was asked to lecture on the night of
February 2d.  He replied that he was sorry to disappoint the applicant,
but that he could not lecture on the night of February 2d, for the reason
that he was going to marry a young lady on that evening, and that he
would rather marry that young lady than deliver all the lectures in the
world.

And so came the wedding-day.  It began pleasantly; the postman brought a
royalty check that morning of $4,000, the accumulation of three months'
sales, and the Rev. Joseph Twichell and Harmony, his wife, came from
Hartford--Twichell to join with the Rev. Thomas K.  Beecher in
solemnizing the marriage.  Pamela Moffett, a widow now, with her daughter
Annie, grown to a young lady, had come all the way from St. Louis, and
Mrs. Fairbanks from Cleveland.

Yet the guests were not numerous, not more than a hundred at most, so it
was a quiet wedding there in the Langdon parlors, those dim, stately
rooms that in the future would hold so much of his history--so much of
the story of life and death that made its beginning there.

The wedding-service was about seven o'clock, for Mr. Beecher had a
meeting at the church soon after that hour.  Afterward followed the
wedding-supper and dancing, and the bride's father danced with the bride.
To the interested crowd awaiting him at the church Mr. Beecher reported
that the bride was very beautiful, and had on the longest white gloves he
had ever seen; he declared they reached to her shoulders.--[Perhaps for
a younger generation it should be said that Thomas K. Beecher was a
brother of Henry Ward Beecher.  He lived and died in Elmira, the almost
worshiped pastor of the Park Congregational Church.  He was a noble,
unorthodox teacher.  Samuel Clemens at the time of his marriage already
strongly admired him, and had espoused his cause in an article signed
"S'cat!" in the Elmira Advertiser, when he (Beecher) had been assailed by
the more orthodox Elmira clergy.  For the "S'cat" article see Appendix I,
at the end of last volume.]

It was the next afternoon when they set out for Buffalo, accompanied by
the bride's parents, the groom's relatives, the Beechers, and perhaps one
or two others of that happy company.  It was nine o'clock at night when
they arrived, and found Mr. Slee waiting at the station with sleighs to
convey the party to the "boarding-house" he had selected.  They drove and
drove, and the sleigh containing the bride and groom got behind and
apparently was bound nowhere in particular, which disturbed the groom a
good deal, for he thought it proper that they should arrive first, to
receive their guests.  He commented on Slee's poor judgment in selecting
a house that was so hard to find, and when at length they turned into
fashionable Delaware Avenue, and stopped before one of the most
attractive places in the neighborhood, he was beset with fear concerning
the richness of the locality.

They were on the steps when the doors opened, and a perfect fairyland of
lights and decoration was revealed within.  The friends who had gone
ahead came out with greetings, to lead in the bride and groom.  Servants
hurried forward to take bags and wraps.  They were ushered inside; they
were led through beautiful rooms, all newly appointed and garnished.  The
bridegroom was dazed, unable to understand the meaning of things, the
apparent ownership and completeness of possession.

At last the young wife put her hand upon his arm:

"Don't you understand, Youth," she said; that was always her name for
him.  "Don't you understand?  It is ours, all ours--everything--a gift
from father!"

But even then he could not grasp it; not at first, not until Mr. Langdon
brought a little box and, opening it, handed them the deeds.

Nobody quite remembers what was the first remark that Samuel Clemens made
then; but either then or a little later he said:

"Mr. Langdon, whenever you are in Buffalo, if it's twice a year, come
right here.  Bring your bag and stay overnight if you want to.  It
sha'n't cost you a cent!"

They went in to supper then, and by and by the guests were gone and the
young wedded pair were alone.

Patrick McAleer, the young coachman, who would grow old in their employ,
and Ellen, the cook, came in for their morning orders, and were full of
Irish delight at the inexperience and novelty of it all.  Then they were
gone, and only the lovers in their new house and their new happiness
remained.

And so it was they entered the enchanted land.




LXXV

AS TO DESTINY

If any reader has followed these chapters thus far, he may have wondered,
even if vaguely, at the seeming fatality of events.  Mark Twain had but
to review his own life for justification of his doctrine of inevitability
--an unbroken and immutable sequence of cause and effect from the
beginning.  Once he said:

"When the first living atom found itself afloat on the great Laurentian
sea the first act of that first atom led to the second act of that first
atom, and so on down through the succeeding ages of all life, until, if
the steps could be traced, it would be shown that the first act of that
first atom has led inevitably to the act of my standing here in my
dressing-gown at this instant talking to you."

It seemed the clearest presentment ever offered in the matter of
predestined circumstance--predestined from the instant when that primal
atom felt the vital thrill.  Mark Twain's early life, however imperfectly
recorded, exemplifies this postulate.  If through the years still ahead
of us the course of destiny seems less clearly defined, it is only
because thronging events make the threads less easy to trace.  The web
becomes richer, the pattern more intricate and confusing, but the line of
fate neither breaks nor falters, to the end.




LXXVI

ON THE BUFFALO "EXPRESS"

With the beginning of life in Buffalo, Mark Twain had become already a
world character--a man of large consequence and events.  He had no proper
realization of this, no real sense of the size of his conquest; he still
regarded himself merely as a lecturer and journalist, temporarily
popular, but with no warrant to a permanent seat in the world's literary
congress.  He thought his success something of an accident.  The fact
that he was prepared to settle down as an editorial contributor to a
newspaper in what was then only a big village is the best evidence of a
modest estimate of his talents.

He "worked like a horse," is the verdict of those who were closely
associated with him on the Express.  His hours were not regular, but they
were long.  Often he was at his desk at eight in the morning, and
remained there until ten or eleven at night.

His working costume was suited to comfort rather than show.  With coat,
vest, collar, and tie usually removed (sometimes even his shoes), he
lounged in his chair, in any attitude that afforded the larger ease,
pulling over the exchanges; scribbling paragraphs, editorials, humorous
skits, and what not, as the notion came upon him.  J. L. Lamed, his co-
worker (he sat on the opposite side of the same table), remembers that
Mark Twain enjoyed his work as he went along--the humor of it--and that
he frequently laughed as some whimsicality or new absurdity came into his
mind.

"I doubt," writes Lamed, "if he ever enjoyed anything more than the
jackknife engraving that he did on a piece of board of a military map of
the siege of Paris, which was printed in the Express from his original
plate, with accompanying explanations and comments.  His half-day of
whittling and laughter that went with it are something that I find
pleasant to remember.  Indeed, my whole experience of association with
him is a happy memory, which I am fortunate in having....  What one saw
of him was always the actual Mark Twain, acting out of his own nature
simply, frankly, without pretense, and almost without reserve.  It was
that simplicity and naturalness in the man which carried his greatest
charm."

Lamed, like many others, likens Mark Twain to Lincoln in various of his
characteristics.  The two worked harmoniously together: Lamed attending
to the political direction of the journal, Clemens to the literary, and
what might be termed the sentimental side.  There was no friction in the
division of labor, never anything but good feeling between them.  Clemens
had a poor opinion of his own comprehension of politics, and perhaps as
little regard for Lamed's conception of humor.  Once when the latter
attempted something in the way of pleasantry his associate said:

"Better leave the humor on this paper to me, Lamed"; and once when Lamed
was away attending the Republican State Convention at Saratoga, and some
editorial comment seemed necessary, Clemens thought it best to sign the
utterance, and to make humor of his shortcomings.

     I do not know much about politics, and am not sitting up nights to
     learn .  .  .  .

     I am satisfied that these nominations are all right and sound, and
     that they are the only ones that can bring peace to our distracted
     country (the only political phrase I am perfectly familiar with and
     competent to hurl at the public with fearless confidence--the other
     editor is full of them), but being merely satisfied is not enough.
     I always like to know before I shout.  But I go for Mr. Curtis with
     all my strength!  Being certain of him, I hereby shout all I know
     how.  But the others may be a split ticket, or a scratched ticket,
     or whatever you call it.

     I will let it alone for the present.  It will keep.  The other young
     man will be back to-morrow, and he will shout for it, split or no
     split, rest assured of that.  He will prance into this political
     ring with his tomahawk and his war-whoop, and then you will hear a
     crash and see the scalps fly.  He has none of my diffidence.  He
     knows all about these nominees, and if he don't he will let on to in
     such a natural way as to deceive the most critical.  He knows
     everything--he knows more than Webster's Unabridged and the American
     Encyclopedia--but whether he knows anything about a subject or not
     he is perfectly willing to discuss it.  When he gets back he will
     tell you all about these candidates as serenely as if he had been
     acquainted with them a hundred years, though, speaking
     confidentially, I doubt if he ever heard of any of them till to-day.
     I am right well satisfied it is a good, sound, sensible ticket, and
     a ticket to win; but wait till he comes.

     In the mean time I go for George William Curtis and take the
     chances.
                                             MARK TWAIN.

He had become what Mr. Howells calls entirely "desouthernized" by this
time.  From having been of slaveholding stock, and a Confederate soldier,
he had become a most positive Republican, a rampant abolitionist--had
there been anything left to abolish.  His sympathy had been always with
the oppressed, and he had now become their defender.  His work on the
paper revealed this more and more.  He wrote fewer sketches and more
editorials, and the editorials were likely to be either savage assaults
upon some human abuse, or fierce espousals of the weak.  They were
fearless, scathing, terrific.  Of some farmers of Cohocton, who had taken
the law into their own hands to punish a couple whom they believed to be
a detriment to the community, he wrote:

"The men who did that deed are capable of doing any low, sneaking,
cowardly villainy that could be invented in perdition.  They are the very
bastards of the devil."

He appended a full list of their names, and added:

"If the farmers of Cohocton are of this complexion, what on earth must a
Cohocton rough be like?"

But all this happened a long time ago, and we need not detail those
various old interests and labors here.  It is enough to say that Mark
Twain on the Express was what he had been from the beginning, and would
be to the end--the zealous champion of justice and liberty; violent and
sometimes wrong in his viewpoint, but never less than fearless and
sincere.  Invariably he was for the oppressed.  He had a natural instinct
for the right, but, right or wrong, he was for the under dog.

Among the best of his editorial contributions is a tribute to Anson
Burlingame, who died February 23, 1870, at St. Petersburg, on his trip
around the world as special ambassador for the Chinese Empire.  In this
editorial Clemens endeavored to pay something of his debt to the noble
statesman.  He reviewed Burlingame's astonishing career--the career which
had closed at forty-seven, and read like a fairy-tale-and he dwelt
lovingly on his hero's nobility of character.  At the close he said:

"He was a good man, and a very, very great man.  America, lost a son, and
all the world a servant, when he died."

Among those early contributions to the Express is a series called "Around
the World," an attempt at collaboration with Prof. D. R. Ford, who did
the actual traveling, while Mark Twain, writing in the first person, gave
the letters his literary stamp.  At least some of the contributions were
written in this way, such as "Adventures in Hayti,"  "The Pacific," and
"Japan."  These letters exist to-day only in the old files of the
Express, and indeed this is the case with most of Clemens's work for that
paper.  It was mainly ephemeral or timely work, and its larger value has
disappeared.  Here and there is a sentence worth remembering.  Of two
practical jokers who sent in a marriage notice of persons not even
contemplating matrimony, he said: "This deceit has been practised
maliciously by a couple of men whose small souls will escape through
their pores some day if they do not varnish their hides."

Some of the sketches have been preserved.  "Journalism in Tennessee," one
of the best of his wilder burlesques, is as enjoyable to-day as when
written.  "A Curious Dream" made a lasting impression on his Buffalo
readers, and you are pretty certain to hear of it when you mention Mark
Twain in that city to-day.  It vividly called attention to the neglect of
the old North Street graveyard.  The gruesome vision of the ancestors
deserting with their coffins on their backs was even more humiliating
than amusing, and inspired a movement for reform.  It has been effective
elsewhere since then, and may still be read with profit--or satisfaction
--for in a note at the end the reader is assured that if the cemeteries
of his town are kept in good order the dream is not leveled at his town
at all, but "particularly and venomously at the next town."




LXXVII

THE "GALAXY"

Mark Twain's work on the Express represented only a portion of his
literary activities during his Buffalo residence.  The Galaxy, an
ambitious New York magazine of that day--[published by Sheldon & Co.  at
498 and 500 Broadway]--, proposed to him that he conduct for them a
humorous department.  They would pay $2,400 a year for the work, and
allow him a free hand.  There was some discussion as to book rights, but
the arrangement was concluded, and his first instalment, under the
general title of "Memoranda," appeared in the May number, 1870.  In his
Introductory he outlined what the reader might expect, such as
"exhaustive statistical tables,"  "Patent Office reports," and "complete
instructions about farming, even from the grafting of the seed to the
harrowing of the matured crops."  He declared that he would throw a
pathos into the subject of agriculture that would surprise and delight
the world.  He added that the "Memoranda" was not necessarily a humorous
department.

     I would not conduct an exclusively and professedly humorous
     department for any one.  I would always prefer to have the privilege
     of printing a serious and sensible remark, in case one occurred to
     me, without the reader's feeling obliged to consider himself
     outraged....  Puns cannot be allowed a place in this department....
     No circumstance, however dismal, will ever be considered a
     sufficient excuse for the admission of that last and saddest
     evidence of intellectual poverty, the pun.

The Galaxy was really a fine magazine, with the best contributors
obtainable; among them Justin McCarthy, S. M. B. Piatt, Richard Grant
White, and many others well known in that day, with names that still
flicker here and there in its literary twilight.  The new department
appealed to Clemens, and very soon he was writing most of his sketches
for it.  They were better literature, as a rule, than those published in
his own paper.

The first number of the "Memoranda" was fairly representative of those
that followed it.  "The Facts in the Case of the Great Beef Contract,"
a manuscript which he had undertaken three years before and mislaid, was
its initial contribution.  Besides the "Beef Contract," there was a
tribute to George Wakeman, a well-known journalist of those days; a
stricture on the Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage, who had delivered from the
pulpit an argument against workingmen occupying pews in fashionable
churches; a presentment of the Chinese situation in San Francisco,
depicting the cruel treatment of the Celestial immigrant; a burlesque of
the Sunday-school "good little boy" story,--["The Story of the Good
Little Boy Who Did Not Prosper" and the "Beef Contract" are included in
Sketches New and Old; also the Chinese sketch, under the title,
"Disgraceful Persecution of a Boy."]--and several shorter skits--and
anecdotes, ten pages in all; a rather generous contract.

Mark Twain's comment on Talmage was prompted by an article in which
Talmage had assumed the premise that if workingmen attended the churches
it would drive the better class of worshipers away.  Among other things
he said:

     I have a good Christian friend who, if he sat in the front pew in
     church, and a workingman should enter the door at the other end,
     would smell him instantly.  My friend is not to blame for the
     sensitiveness of his nose, any more than you would flog a pointer
     for being keener on the scent than a stupid watch-dog. The fact is,
     if you had all the churches free, by reason of the mixing of the
     common people with the uncommon, you would keep one-half of
     Christendom sick at their stomach.  If you are going to kill the
     church thus with bad smells I will have nothing to do with this work
     of evangelization.

Commenting on this Mark Twain said--well, he said a good deal more than
we have room for here, but a portion of his closing paragraphs is worth
preserving.  He compares the Reverend Mr. Talmage with the early
disciples of Christ--Paul and Peter and the others; or, rather, he
contrasts him with them.

     They healed the very beggars, and held intercourse with people of a
     villainous odor every day.  If the subject of these remarks had been
     chosen among the original Twelve Apostles he would not have
     associated with the rest, because he could not have stood the fishy
     smell of some of his comrades who came from around the Sea of
     Galilee.  He would have resigned his commission with some such
     remark as he makes in the extract quoted above: "Master, if thou art
     going to kill the church thus with bad smells I will have nothing to
     do with this work of evangelization."  He is a disciple, and makes
     that remark to the Master; the only difference is that he makes it
     in the nineteenth instead of the first century.

Talmage was immensely popular at this time, and Mark Twain's open attack
on him must have shocked a good many Galaxy readers, as perhaps his
article on the Chinese cruelties offended the citizens of San Francisco.
It did not matter.  He was not likely to worry over the friends he would
lose because of any stand taken for human justice.  Lamed said of him:
"He was very far from being one who tried in any way to make himself
popular."  Certainly he never made any such attempt at the expense of his
convictions.

The first Galaxy instalment was a sort of platform of principles for the
campaign that was to follow.  Not that each month's contribution
contained personal criticism, or a defense of the Chinese (of whom he was
always the champion as long as he lived), but a good many of them did.
In the October number he began a series of letters under the general
title of "Goldsmith's Friend Abroad Again," supposed to have been written
by a Chinese immigrant in San Francisco, detailing his experience there.
In a note the author says: "No experience is set down in the following
letters which had to be invented.  Fancy is not needed to give variety to
the history of the Chinaman's sojourn in America.  Plain fact is amply
sufficient."  The letters show how the supposed Chinese writer of them
had set out for America, believing it to be a land whose government was
based on the principle that all men are created equal, and treated
accordingly; how, upon arriving in San Francisco, he was kicked and
bruised and beaten, and set upon by dogs, flung into jail, tried and
condemned without witnesses, his own race not being allowed to testify
against Americans--Irish-Americans--in the San Francisco court.  They are
scathing, powerful letters, and one cannot read them, even in this day of
improved conditions, without feeling the hot waves of resentment and
indignation which Mark Twain must have felt when he penned them.

Reverend Mr. Talmage was not the only divine to receive attention in the
"Memoranda."  The Reverend Mr. Sabine, of New York, who had declined to
hold a church burial service for the old actor, George Holland, came in
for the most caustic as well as the most artistic stricture of the entire
series.  It deserves preservation to-day, not only for its literary
value, but because no finer defense of the drama, no more searching
sermon on self-righteousness, has ever been put into concrete form.
--["The Indignity Put Upon the Remains of Gorge Holland by the Rev. Mr.
Sabine"; Galaxy for February, 1871.  The reader will find it complete
under Appendix J, at the end of last volume.]

The "Little Church Around the Corner" on Twenty-ninth Street received
that happy title from this incident.

"There is a little church around the corner that will, perhaps, permit
the service," Mr. Sabine had said to Holland's friends.

The little church did permit the service, and there was conferred upon it
the new name, which it still bears.  It has sheltered a long line of
actor folk and their friends since then, earning thereby reverence,
gratitude, and immortal memory.--[Church of the Transfiguration.
Memorial services were held there for Joseph Jefferson; and a memorial
window, by John La Farge, has been placed there in memory of Edwin
Booth.]

Of the Galaxy contributions a number are preserved in Sketches New and
Old.  "How I Edited an Agricultural Paper" is one of the best of these--
an excellent example of Mark Twain's more extravagant style of humor.  It
is perennially delightful; in France it has been dramatized, and is still
played.

A successful Galaxy feature, also preserved in the Sketches, was the
"Burlesque Map of Paris," reprinted from the Express.  The Franco-
Prussian War was in progress, and this travesty was particularly timely.
It creates only a smile of amusement to-day, but it was all fresh and
delightful then.  Schuyler Colfax, by this time Vice-President, wrote to
him: "I have had the heartiest possible laugh over it, and so have all my
family.  You are a wicked, conscienceless wag, who ought to be punished
severely."

The "Official Commendations," which accompany the map, are its chief
charm.  They are from Grant, Bismarck, Brigham Young, and others, the
best one coming from one J. Smith, who says:

     My wife was for years afflicted with freckles, and though everything
     was done for her relief that could be done, all was in vain.  But,
     sir, since her first glance at your map they have entirely left her.
     She has nothing but convulsions now.

It is said that the "Map of Paris" found its way to Berlin, where the
American students in the beer-halls used to pretend to quarrel over it
until they attracted the attention of the German soldiers that might be
present.  Then they would wander away and leave it on the table and watch
results.  The soldiers would pounce upon it and lose their tempers over
it; then finally abuse it and revile its author, to the satisfaction of
everybody.

The larger number of "Memoranda" sketches have properly found oblivion
to-day.  They were all, or nearly all, collected by a Canadian pirate,
C. A. Backas, in a volume bearing the title of Memoranda,--[Also by a
harpy named John Camden Hotten (of London), of whom we shall hear again.
Hotten had already pirated The Innocents, and had it on the market before
Routledge could bring out the authorized edition.  Routledge later
published the "Memoranda" under the title of Sketches, including the
contents of the Jumping Frog book.]--a book long ago suppressed.  Only
about twenty of the Galaxy contributions found place in Sketches New and
Old, five years later, and some of these might have been spared as
literature.  "To Raise Poultry,"  "John Chinaman in New York," and
"History Repeats Itself" are valuable only as examples of his work at
that period.  The reader may consult them for himself.





LXXVIII

THE PRIMROSE PATH

But we are losing sight of more important things.  From the very
beginning Mark Twain's home meant always more to him than his work.  The
life at 472 Delaware Avenue had begun with as fair a promise as any
matrimonial journey ever undertaken: There seemed nothing lacking: a
beautiful home, sufficient income, bright prospects--these things, with
health and love; constitute married happiness.  Mrs. Clemens wrote to her
sister, Mrs. Crane, at the end of February: "Sue, we are two as happy
people as you ever saw.  Our days seem to be made up of only bright
sunlight, with no shadow in them."  In the same letter the husband added:
"Livy pines and pines every day for you, and I pine and pine every day
for you, and when we both of us are pining at once you would think it was
a whole pine forest let loose."

To Redpath, who was urging lecture engagements for the coming season, he
wrote:

     DEAR RED,--I am not going to lecture any more forever.  I have got
     things ciphered down to a fraction now.  I know just about what it
     will cost to live, and I can make the money without lecturing.
     Therefore, old man, count me out.

And still later, in May:

     I guess I am out of the field permanently.  Have got a lovely wife,
     a lovely house, bewitchingly furnished, a lovely carriage, and a
     coachman whose style and dignity are simply awe-in-spiring, nothing
     less; and I am making more money than necessary, by considerable,
     and therefore why crucify myself nightly on the platform?  The
     subscriber will have to be excused for the present season at least.

So they were very happy during those early months, acquiring pleasantly
the education which any matrimonial experience is sure to furnish,
accustoming themselves to the uses of housekeeping, to life in
partnership, with all the discoveries and mental and spiritual
adaptations that belong to the close association of marriage.  They were
far, very far, apart on many subjects.  He was unpolished, untrained,
impulsive, sometimes violent.  Twichell remembers that in the earlier
days of their acquaintance he wore a slouch hat pulled down in front, and
smoked a cigar that sometimes tilted up and touched the brim of it.  The
atmosphere and customs of frontier life, the Westernisms of that day,
still clung to him.  Mrs. Clemens, on the other hand, was conservative,
dainty, cultured, spiritual.  He adored her as little less than a saint,
and she became, indeed, his saving grace.  She had all the personal
refinement which he lacked, and she undertook the work of polishing and
purifying her life companion.  She had no wish to destroy his
personality, to make him over, but only to preserve his best, and she set
about it in the right way--gently, and with a tender gratitude in each
achievement.

She did not entirely approve of certain lines of his reading; or, rather,
she did not understand them in those days.  That he should be fond of
history and the sciences was natural enough, but when the Life of P. T.
Barnum, Written by Himself, appeared, and he sat up nights to absorb it,
and woke early and lighted the lamp to follow the career of the great
showman, she was at a loss to comprehend this particular literary
passion, and indeed was rather jealous of it.  She did not realize then
his vast interest in the study of human nature, or that such a book
contained what Mr. Howells calls "the root of the human matter," the
inner revelation of the human being at first hand.

Concerning his religious observances her task in the beginning was easy
enough.  Clemens had not at that time formulated any particular doctrines
of his own.  His natural kindness of heart, and especially his love for
his wife, inclined him toward the teachings and customs of her Christian
faith--unorthodox but sincere, as Christianity in the Langdon family was
likely to be.  It took very little persuasion on his wife's part to
establish family prayers in their home, grace before meals, and the
morning reading of a Bible chapter.  Joe Goodman, who made a trip East,
and visited them during the early days of their married life, was
dumfounded to see Mark Twain ask a blessing and join in family worship.
Just how long these forms continued cannot be known to-day; the time of
their abandonment has perished from the recollection of any one now
living.

It would seem to have been the Bible-reading that wrought the change.
The prayer and the blessing were to him sincere and gracious; but as the
readings continued he realized that he had never before considered the
Bible from a doctrinal point of view, as a guide to spiritual salvation.
To his logical reasoning mind, a large portion of it seemed absurd: a
mass of fables and traditions, mere mythology.  From such material
humanity had built its mightiest edifice of hope, the doctrines of its
faith.  After a little while he could stand it no longer.

"Livy," he said one day, "you may keep this up if you want to, but I must
ask you to excuse me from it.  It is making me a hypocrite.  I don't
believe in this Bible.  It contradicts my reason.  I can't sit here and
listen to it, letting you believe that I regard it, as you do, in the
light of gospel, the word of God."

He was moved to write an article on the human idea of God, ancient and
modern.  It contained these paragraphs:

     The difference in importance, between the God of the Bible and the
     God of the present day, cannot be described, it can only be vaguely
     and inadequately figured to the mind .  .  .  .  If you make figures
     to represent the earth and moon, and allow a space of one inch
     between them, to represent the four hundred thousand miles of
     distance which lies between the two bodies, the map will have to be
     eleven miles long in order to bring in the nearest fixed star.--
     [His figures were far too small.  A map drawn on the scale of
     400,000 miles to the inch would need to be 1,100 miles long to take
     in both the earth and the nearest fixed star.  On such a map the
     earth would be one-fiftieth of an inch in diameter--the size of a
     small grain of sand.]--So one cannot put the modern heavens on a
     map, nor the modern God; but the Bible God and the Bible heavens can
     be set down on a slate and yet not be discommoded .  .  .  .

     The difference between that universe and the modern one revealed by
     science is as the difference between a dust-flecked ray in a barn
     and the sublime arch of the Milky Way in the skies.  Its God was
     strictly proportioned to its dimensions.  His sole solicitude was
     about a handful of truculent nomads.  He worried and fretted over
     them in a peculiarly and distractingly human way.  One day he coaxed
     and petted them beyond their due, the next he harried and lashed
     them beyond their deserts.  He sulked, he cursed, he raged, he
     grieved, according to his mood and the circumstances, but all to no
     purpose; his efforts were all vain, he could not govern them.  When
     the fury was on him he was blind to all reason--he not only
     slaughtered the offender, but even his harmless little children and
     dumb cattle....

     To trust the God of the Bible is to trust an irascible, vindictive,
     fierce and ever fickle and changeful master; to trust the true God
     is to trust a Being who has uttered no promises, but whose
     beneficent, exact, and changeless ordering of the machinery of his
     colossal universe is proof that he is at least steadfast to his
     purposes; whose unwritten laws, so far as they affect man, being
     equal and impartial, show that he is just and fair; these things,
     taken together, suggest that if he shall ordain us to live
     hereafter, he will still be steadfast, just, and fair toward us.  We
     shall not need to require anything more.

It seems mild enough, obvious, even orthodox, now--so far have we
traveled in forty years.  But such a declaration then would have shocked
a great number of sincerely devout persons.  His wife prevailed upon him
not to print it.  She respected his honesty--even his reasoning, but his
doubts were a long grief to her, nevertheless.  In time she saw more
clearly with his vision, but this was long after, when she had lived more
with the world, had become more familiar with its larger needs, and the
proportions of created things.

They did not mingle much or long with the social life of Buffalo.  They
received and returned calls, attended an occasional reception; but
neither of them found such things especially attractive in those days, so
they remained more and more in their own environment.  There is an
anecdote which seems to belong here.

One Sunday morning Clemens noticed smoke pouring from the upper window of
the house across the street.  The owner and his wife, comparatively
newcomers, were seated upon the veranda, evidently not aware of impending
danger.  The Clemens household thus far had delayed calling on them, but
Clemens himself now stepped briskly across the street.  Bowing with
leisurely politeness, he said:

"My name is Clemens; we ought to have called on you before, and I beg
your pardon for intruding now in this informal way, but your house is on
fire."

Almost the only intimate friends they had in Buffalo were in the family
of David Gray, the poet-editor of the Courier.  Gray was a gentle,
lovable man.  "The gentlest spirit and the loveliest that ever went
clothed in clay, since Sir Galahad laid him to rest," Mark Twain once
said of him.  Both Gray and Clemens were friends of John Hay, and their
families soon became intimate.  Perhaps, in time, the Clemens household
would have found other as good friends in the Buffalo circles; but heavy
clouds that had lain unseen just beyond the horizon during those earlier
months of marriage rose suddenly into view, and the social life, whatever
it might have become, was no longer a consideration.




LXXIX

THE OLD HUMAN STORY

Jervis Langdon was never able to accept his son-in-law's invitation to
the new home.  His health began to fail that spring, and at the end of
March, with his physician and Mrs. Langdon, he made a trip to the South.
In a letter written at Richmond he said, "I have thrown off all care,"
and named a list of the four great interests in which he was involved.
Under "number 5," he included "everything," adding, "so you see how good
I am to follow the counsel of my children."  He closed: "Samuel, I love
your wife and she loves me.  I think it is only fair that you should know
it, but you need not flare up.  I loved her before you did, and she loved
me before she did you, and has not ceased since.  I see no way but for
you to make the most of it."  He was already a very ill man, and this
cheerful letter was among the last he ever wrote.

He was absent six weeks and seemed to improve, but suffered an attack
early in May; in June his condition became critical.  Clemens and his
wife were summoned to Elmira, and joined in the nursing, day and night.
Clemens surprised every one by his ability as a nurse.  His delicacy and
thoughtfulness were unfailing; his original ways of doing things always
amused and interested the patient.  In later years Mark Twain once said:

     "How much of the nursing did I do?  My main watch was from midnight
     to four in the morning, nearly four hours.  My other watch was a
     midday watch, and I think it was nearly three hours.  The two
     sisters divided the remaining seventeen hours of the twenty-four
     hours between them, and each of them tried generously and
     persistently to swindle the other out of a part of her watch.  I
     went to bed early every night, and tried to get sleep enough by
     midnight to fit me for my work, but it was always a failure.  I went
     on watch sleepy and remained miserable, sleepy, and wretched,
     straight along through the four hours.  I can still see myself
     sitting by that bed in the melancholy stillness of the sweltering
     night, mechanically waving a palm-leaf fan over the drawn, white
     face of the patient.  I can still recall my noddings, my fleeting
     unconsciousness, when the fan would come to a standstill in my hand,
     and I woke up with a start and a hideous shock.  During all that
     dreary time I began to watch for the dawn long before it came.  When
     the first faint gray showed through the window-blinds I felt as no
     doubt a castaway feels when the dim threads of the looked-for ship
     appear against the sky.  I was well and strong, but I was a man,
     afflicted with a man's infirmity--lack of endurance."

He always dealt with himself in this unsparing way; but those who were
about him then have left a different story.

It was all without avail.  Mr. Langdon rallied, and early in July there
was hope for his recovery.  He failed again, and on the afternoon of the
6th of August he died.  To Mrs. Clemens, delicate and greatly worn with
the anxiety and strain of watching, the blow was a crushing one.  It was
the beginning of a series of disasters which would mark the entire
remaining period of their Buffalo residence.

There had been a partial plan for spending the summer in England, and a
more definite one for joining the Twichells in the Adirondacks.  Both of
these projects were now abandoned.  Mrs. Clemens concluded that she would
be better at home than anywhere else, and invited an old school friend, a
Miss Emma Nye, to visit her.

But the shadow of death had not been lifted from the Clemens household.
Miss Nye presently fell ill with typhoid fever.  There followed another
long period of anxiety and nursing, ending with the death of the visitor
in the new home, September 29th.  The young wife was now in very delicate
health; genuinely ill, in fact.  The happy home had become a place of
sorrow-of troubled nights and days.  Another friend came to cheer them,
and on this friend's departure Mrs. Clemens drove to the railway station.
It was a hurried trip over rough streets to catch the train.  She was
prostrated on her return, and a little later, November 7, 1870, her first
child, Langdon, was prematurely born.  A dangerous illness followed, and
complete recovery was long delayed.  But on the 12th the crisis seemed
passed, and the new father wrote a playful letter to the Twichells, as
coming from the late arrival:

     DEAR UNCLE AND AUNT,--I came into the world on the 7th inst., and
     consequently am about five days old now.  I have had wretched health
     ever since I made my appearance .  .  .  I am not corpulent, nor am
     I robust in any way.  At birth I only weighed four and one-half
     pounds with my clothes on--and the clothes were the chief feature of
     the weight, too, I am obliged to confess, but I am doing finely, all
     things considered .  .  .  .  My little mother is very bright and
     cheery, and I guess she is pretty happy, but I don't know what
     about.  She laughs a great deal, notwithstanding she is sick abed.

     P. S.--Father says I had better write because you will be more
     interested in me, just now, than in the rest of the family.

A week later Clemens, as himself, wrote:

     Livy is up and the prince keeps her busy and anxious these latter
     days and nights, but I am a bachelor up-stairs and don't have to
     jump up and get the soothing sirup, though I would as soon do it as
     not, I assure you.  (Livy will be certain to read this letter.)

     Tell Harmony that I do hold the baby, and do it pretty handily too,
     though with occasional apprehensions that his loose head will fall
     off.  I don't have to quiet him; he hardly ever utters a cry.  He is
     always thinking about something.  He is a patient, good little baby.

Further along he refers to one of his reforms:

     Smoke?  I always smoke from three till five on Sunday afternoons,
     and in New York, the other day, I smoked a week, day and night.  But
     when Livy is well I smoke only those two hours on Sunday.  I'm boss
     of the habit now, and shall never let it boss me any more.
     Originally I quit solely on Livy's account (not that I believed
     there was the faintest reason in the matter, but just as I would
     deprive myself of sugar in my coffee if she wished it, or quit
     wearing socks if she thought them immoral), and I stick to it yet on
     Livy's account, and shall always continue to do so without a pang.
     But somehow it seems a pity that you quit, for Mrs. T. didn't mind
     it, if I remember rightly.  Ah, it is turning one's back upon a
     kindly Providence to spurn away from us the good creature he sent to
     make the breath of life a luxury as well as a necessity, enjoyable
     as well as useful.  To go quit smoking, when there ain't any
     sufficient excuse for it!--why, my old boy, when they used to tell
     me I would shorten my life ten years by smoking, they little knew
     the devotee they were wasting their puerile words upon; they little
     knew how trivial and valueless I would regard a decade that had no
     smoking in it!  But I won't persuade you, Twichell--I won't until I
     see you again--but then we'll smoke for a week together, and then
     shut off again.




LXXX

LITERARY PROJECTS

The success of the Innocents naturally made a thrifty publisher like
Bliss anxious for a second experiment.  He had begun early in the year to
talk about another book, but nothing had come of it beyond a project or
two, more or less hazy and unpursued.  Clemens at one time developed a
plan for a Noah's Ark book, which was to detail the cruise of the Ark in
diaries kept by various members of it-Shem, Ham, and the others.  He
really wrote some of it at the time, and it was an idea he never entirely
lost track of.  All along among his manuscripts appear fragments from
those ancient voyagers.  One of the earlier entries will show the style
and purpose of the undertaking.  It is from Shem's record:

     Friday: Papa's birthday.  He is 600 years old.  We celebrated it in
     a big, black tent.  Principal men of the tribe present.  Afterward
     they were shown over the ark, which was looking desolate and empty
     and dreary on account of a misunderstanding with the workmen about
     wages.  Methuselah was as free with his criticisms as usual, and as
     voluble and familiar, which I and my brothers do not like; for we
     are past our one hundredth year and married.  He still calls me
     Shemmy, just as he did when I was a child of sixty.  I am still but
     a youth, it is true, but youth has its feelings, and I do not like
     this .  .  .  .

     Saturday: Keeping the Sabbath.

     Sunday: Papa has yielded the advance and everybody is hard at work.
     The shipyard is so crowded that the men hinder each other; everybody
     hurrying or being hurried; the rush and confusion and shouting and
     wrangling are astonishing to our family, who have always been used
     to a quiet, country life.

It was from this germ that in a later day grew the diaries of Adam and
Eve, though nothing very satisfactory ever came of this preliminary
attempt.  The author had faith in it, however.  To Bliss he wrote:

     I mean to take plenty of time and pains with the Noah's Ark book;
     maybe it will be several years before it is all written, but it will
     be a perfect lightning striker when it is done.

     You can have the first say (that is plain enough) on that or any
     other book I may prepare for the press, as long as you deal in a
     fair, open, and honorable way with me.  I do not think you will ever
     find me doing otherwise with you.  I can get a book ready for you
     any time you want it; but you can't want one before this time next
     year, so I have plenty of time.

Bliss was only temporarily appeased.  He realized that to get a book
ready by the time he wanted it-a book of sufficient size and importance
to maintain the pace set by the Innocents meant rather more immediate
action than his author seemed to contemplate.  Futhermore, he knew that
other publishers were besieging the author of the Innocents; a
disquieting thought.  In early July, when Mr. Langdon's condition had
temporarily improved, Bliss had come to Elmira and proposed a book which
should relate the author's travels and experiences in the Far West.  It
was an inviting subject, and Clemens, by this time more attracted by the
idea of authorship and its rewards, readily enough agreed to undertake
the volume.  He had been offered half profits, and suggested that the new
contract be arranged upon these terms. Bliss, figuring on a sale of
100,000 copies, proposed seven and one-half per cent. royalty as an
equivalent, and the contract was so arranged.  In after-years, when the
cost of manufacture and paper had become greatly reduced, Clemens, with
but a confused notion of business details, believed he had been misled by
Bliss in this contract, and was bitter and resentful accordingly.  The
figures remain, however, to show that Bliss dealt fairly.  Seven and one-
half per cent.  of a subscription book did represent half profits up to
100,000 copies when the contract was drawn; but it required ten years to
sell that quantity, and in that time conditions had changed.  Bliss could
hardly foresee that these things would be so, and as he was dead when the
book touched the 100,000 mark he could not explain or readjust matters,
whatever might have been his inclination.

Clemens was pleased enough with the contract when it was made.  To Orion
he wrote July 15 (1870):

     Per contract I must have another six-hundred-page book ready for my
     publisher January 1st, and I only began it to-day.  The subject of
     it is a secret, because I may possibly change it.  But as it stands
     I propose to do up Nevada and California, beginning with the trip
     across the country in the stage.  Have you a memorandum of the route
     we took, or the names of any of the stations we stopped at?  Do you
     remember any of the scenes, names, incidents, or adventures of the
     coach trip?--for I remember next to nothing about the matter.  Jot
     down a foolscap page of items for me.  I wish I could have two days'
     talk with you.

     I suppose I am to get the biggest copyright this time ever paid on a
     subscription book in this country.

The work so promptly begun made little progress.  Hard days of illness
and sorrow followed, and it was not until September that it was really
under way.  His natural enthusiasm over any new undertaking possessed
him.  On the 4th he wrote Bliss:

During the past week I have written the first four chapters of the book,
and I tell you 'The Innocents Abroad' will have to get up early to beat
it.  It will be a book that will jump straight into continental celebrity
the first month it is issued.

He prophesied a sale of 90,000 copies during the first twelve months and
declared, "I see the capabilities of the subject."

But further disasters, even then impending, made continued effort
impossible; the prospect of the new book for a time became gloomy, the
idea of it less inspiring.  Other plans presented themselves, and at one
time he thought of letting the Galaxy publishers get out a volume of his
sketches.  In October he wrote Bliss that he was "driveling along
tolerably fair on the book, getting off from twelve to twenty pages of
manuscript a day."  Bliss naturally discouraged the Galaxy idea, and
realizing that the new book might be long delayed, agreed to get out a
volume of miscellany sufficiently large and important for subscription
sales.  He was doubtful of the wisdom of this plan, and when Clemens
suddenly proposed a brand-new scheme his publisher very readily agreed to
hold back the publication of Sketches indefinitely.

The new book was to be adventures in the diamond mines of South Africa,
then newly opened and of wide public interest.  Clemens did not propose
to visit the mines himself, but to let another man do the traveling, make
the notes, and write or tell him the story, after which Clemens would
enlarge and elaborate it in his own fashion.  His adaptation of the
letters of Professor Ford, a year earlier, had convinced him that his
plan would work out successfully on a larger scale; he fixed upon his old
friend, J. H. Riley, of Washington--["Riley-Newspaper Correspondent."
See Sketches.]--(earlier of San Francisco), as the proper person to do
the traveling.  At the end of November he wrote Bliss:

     I have put my greedy hands upon the best man in America for my
     purpose, and shall start him to the diamond field in South Africa
     within a fortnight at my expense .  .  .  that the book will have a
     perfectly beautiful sale.

He suggested that Bliss advance Riley's expense money, the amount to be
deducted from the first royalty returns; also he proposed an increased
royalty, probably in view of the startling splendor of the new idea.
Bliss was duly impressed, and the agreement was finally made on a basis
of eight and one-half per cent., with an advance of royalty sufficient to
see Riley to South Africa and return.

Clemens had not yet heard from Riley definitely when he wrote his glowing
letter to Bliss.  He took it for granted that Riley, always an
adventurous sort, would go.  When Riley wrote him that he felt morally
bound to the Alta, of which he was then Washington correspondent, also in
certain other directions till the end of the session, Clemens wrote him
at great length, detailing his scheme in full and urging him to write
instantly to the Alta and others, asking a release on the ground of being
offered a rare opportunity to improve his fortunes.

You know right well that I would not have you depart a hair from any
obligation for any money.  The, boundless confidence that I have in you
is born of a conviction of your integrity in small as well as in great
things.  I know plenty of men whose integrity I would trust to here, but
not off yonder in Africa.

His proposal, in brief, to Riley was that the latter should make the trip
to Africa without expense to himself, collect memoranda, and such diamond
mines as might be found lying about handy.  Upon his return he was to
take up temporary residence in the Clemens household until the book was
finished, after which large benefits were to accrue to everybody
concerned.  In the end Riley obtained a release from his obligations and
was off for the diamond mines and fortune.

Poor fellow!  He was faithful in his mission, and it is said that he
really located a mining claim that would have made him and his
independent for all time to come; but returning home with his precious
memoranda and the news of good fortune, he accidentally wounded himself
with a fork while eating; blood-poisoning set in (they called it cancer
then), and he was only able to get home to die.  His memoranda were never
used, his mining claim was never identified.  Certainly, death was
closely associated with Mark Twain's fortunes during those earlier days
of his married life.

On the whole the Buffalo residence was mainly a gloomy one; its ventures
were attended by ill-fortune.  For some reason Mark Twain's connection
with the Express, while it had given the paper a wide reputation, had not
largely increased its subscription.  Perhaps his work on it was too
varied and erratic.  Nasby, who had popularized the Toledo Blade, kept
steadily to one line.  His farmer public knew always just what to expect
when their weekly edition arrived.

Clemens and his wife dreamed of a new habitation, and new faces and
surroundings.  They agreed to offer their home and his interests in the
Express for sale.  They began to talk of Hartford, where Twichell lived,
and where Orion Clemens and his wife had recently located.

Mark Twain's new fortunes had wrought changes in the affairs of his
relatives.  Already, before his marriage, he had prospected towns here
and there with a view to finding an Eastern residence for his mother and
sister, and he had kept Orion's welfare always in mind.  When Pamela and
her daughter came to his wedding he told them of a little city by the
name of Fredonia (New York), not far from Buffalo, where he thought they
might find a pleasant home.

"I went in there by night and out by night," he said, "so I saw none of
it, but I had an intelligent, attractive audience.  Prospect Fredonia and
let me know what it is like.  Try to select a place where a good many
funerals pass.  Ma likes funerals.  If you can pick a good funeral corner
she will be happy."

It was in her later life that Jane Clemens had developed this particular
passion.  She would consult the morning paper for any notice of obsequies
and attend those that were easy of access.  Watching the processions go
by gave her a peculiar joy.  Mrs. Moffett and her daughter did go to
Fredonia immediately following the wedding.  They found it residentially
attractive, and rented a house before returning to St. Louis, a
promptness that somewhat alarmed the old lady, who did not altogether
fancy the idea of being suddenly set down in a strange house, in a
strange land, even though it would be within hailing distance of Sam and
his new wife.  Perhaps the Fredonia funerals were sufficiently numerous
and attractive, for she soon became attached to the place, and entered
into the spirit of the life there, joining its temperance crusades, and
the like, with zest and enjoyment.

Onion remained in St. Louis, but when Bliss established a paper called
The Publisher, and wanted an editor, he was chosen for the place,
originally offered to his brother; the latter, writing to Onion, said:

If you take the place with an air of perfect confidence in yourself,
never once letting anything show in your bearing but a quiet, modest,
entire, and perfect confidence in your ability to do pretty much anything
in the world, Bliss will think you are the very man he needs; but don't
show any shadow of timidity or unsoldierly diffidence, for that sort of
thing is fatal to advancement.

I warn you thus because you are naturally given to knocking your pot over
in this way, when a little judicious conduct would make it boil.




LXXXI

SOME FURTHER LITERARY MATTERS

Meantime The Innocents Abroad had continued to prosper.  Its author
ranked mainly as a humorist, but of such colossal proportions that his
contemporaries had seemed to dwindle; the mighty note of the "Frog of
Calaveras" had dwarfed a score of smaller peepers.  At the end of a year
from its date of publication the book had sold up to 67,000 and was
continuing at the rate of several thousand monthly.

"You are running it in staving, tiptop, first-class style," Clemens wrote
to Bliss.  "On the average ten people a day come and hunt me up to tell
me I am a benefactor!  I guess that is a part of the program we didn't
expect, in the first place."

Apparently the book appealed to readers of every grade.  One hundred and
fifteen copies were in constant circulation at the Mercantile Library, in
New York, while in the most remote cabins of America it was read and
quoted.  Jack Van Nostrand, making a long horseback tour of Colorado,
wrote:

I stopped a week ago in a ranch but a hundred miles from nowhere.  The
occupant had just two books: the Bible and The Innocents Abroad--the
former in good repair.

Across the ocean the book had found no less favor, and was being
translated into many and strange tongues.  By what seems now some
veritable magic its author's fame had become literally universal.  The
consul at Hongkong, discussing English literature with a Chinese
acquaintance, a mandarin, mentioned The Pilgrim's Progress.

"Yes, indeed, I have read it!" the mandarin said, eagerly.  "We are
enjoying it in China, and shall have it soon in our own language.  It is
by Mark Twain."

In England the book had an amazing vogue from the beginning, and English
readers were endeavoring to outdo the Americans in appreciation.  Indeed,
as a rule, English readers of culture, critical readers, rose to an
understanding of Mark Twain's literary value with greater promptness than
did the same class of readers at home.  There were exceptions, of course.
There were English critics who did not take Mark Twain seriously, there
were American critics who did.  Among the latter was a certain William
Ward, an editor of a paper down in Macon, Georgia--The Beacon.  Ward did
not hold a place with the great magazine arbiters of literary rank.  He
was only an obscure country editor, but he wrote like a prophet.  His
article--too long to quote in full--concerned American humorists in
general, from Washington Irving, through John Phoenix, Philander
Doesticks, Sut Lovingwood, Artemus Ward, Josh Billings and Petroleum V.
Nasby, down to Mark Twain.  With the exception of the first and last
named he says of them:

     They have all had, or will have, their day.  Some of them are
     resting beneath the sod, and others still live whose work will
     scarcely survive them.  Since Irving no humorist in prose has held
     the foundation of a permanent fame except it be Mark Twain, and
     this, as in the case of Irving, is because he is a pure writer.
     Aside from any subtle mirth that lurks through his composition, the
     grace and finish of his more didactic and descriptive sentences
     indicate more than mediocrity.

The writer then refers to Mark Twain's description of the Sphinx,
comparing it with Bulwer's, which he thinks may have influenced it.  He
was mistaken in this, for Clemens had not read Bulwer--never could read
him at any length.

Of the English opinions, that of The Saturday Review was perhaps most
doubtful.  It came along late in 1870, and would hardly be worth
recalling if it were not for a resulting, or collateral, interest.
Clemens saw notice of this review before he saw the review itself.  A
paragraph in the Boston Advertiser spoke of The Saturday Review as
treating the absurdities of the Innocents from a serious standpoint.  The
paragraph closed:

     We can imagine the delight of the humorist in reading this tribute
     to his power; and indeed it is so amusing in itself that he can
     hardly do better than reproduce the article in full in his next
     monthly "Memoranda."

The old temptation to hoax his readers prompted Mark Twain to "reproduce"
in the Galaxy, not the Review article, which he had not yet seen, but an
imaginary Review article, an article in which the imaginary reviewer
would be utterly devoid of any sense of humor and treat the most absurd
incidents of The New Pilgrim's Progress as if set down by the author in
solemn and serious earnest.  The pretended review began:

     Lord Macaulay died too soon.  We never felt this so deeply as when
     we finished the last chapter of the above-named extravagant work.
     Macaulay died too soon; for none but he could mete out complete and
     comprehensive justice to the insolence, the impudence, the
     presumption, the mendacity, and, above all, the majestic ignorance
     of this author.

The review goes on to cite cases of the author's gross deception.  It
says:

     Let the cultivated English student of human nature picture to
     himself this Mark Twain as a person capable of doing the following
     described things; and not only doing them, but, with incredible
     innocence, printing them tranquilly and calmly in a book.  For
     instance:

     He states that he entered a hair-dresser's in Paris to get a shave,
     and the first "rake" the barber gave him with his razor it loosened
     his "hide," and lifted him out of the chair.

     This is unquestionably extravagant.  In Florence he was so annoyed
     by beggars that he pretends to have seized and eaten one in a
     frantic spirit of revenge.  There is, of course, no truth in this.
     He gives at full length the theatrical program, seventeen or
     eighteen hundred years old, which he professes to have found in the
     ruins of the Colosseum, among the dirt-and mold and rubbish.  It is
     a sufficient comment upon this subject to remark that even a cast-
     iron program would not have lasted so long under the circumstances.

There were two and one-half pages of this really delightful burlesque
which the author had written with huge-enjoyment, partly as a joke on the
Review, partly to trick American editors, who he believed would accept it
as a fresh and startling proof of the traditional English lack of humor.

But, as in the early sage-brush hoaxes, he rather overdid the thing.
Readers and editors readily enough accepted it as genuine, so far as
having come from The Saturday Review; but most of them, regarded it as a
delicious bit of humor which Mark Twain himself had taken seriously, and
was therefore the one sold.  This was certainly startling, and by no
means gratifying.  In the next issue he undertook that saddest of all
performances with tongue or pen: he explained his joke, and insisted on
the truth of the explanation.  Then he said:

     If any man doubts my word now I will kill him.  No, I will not kill
     him; I will win his money.  I will bet him twenty to one, and let
     any New York publisher hold the stakes, that the statements I have
     above made as to the authorship of the article in question are
     entirely true.


But the Cincinnati Enquirer persisted in continuing the joke--in "rubbing
it in," as we say now.  The Enquirer declared that Mark Twain had been
intensely mortified at having been so badly taken in; that his
explanation in the Galaxy was "ingenious, but unfortunately not true."
The Enquirer maintained that The Saturday Review of October 8, 1870, did
contain the article exactly as printed in the "Memoranda," and advised
Mark Twain to admit that he was sold, and say no more about it.

This was enraging.  Mark Twain had his own ideas as to how far a joke
might be carried without violence, and this was a good way beyond the
limits.  He denounced the Enquirer's statement as a "pitiful, deliberate
falsehood," in his anger falling into the old-time phrasing of newspaper
editorial abuse.  He offered to bet them a thousand dollars in cash
that they could not prove their assertions, and asked pointedly, in
conclusion: "Will they swallow that falsehood ignominiously, or will they
send an agent to the Galaxy office?  I think the Cincinnati Enquirer must
be edited by children."  He promised that if they did not accept his
financial proposition he would expose them in the next issue.

The incident closed there.  He was prevented, by illness in his
household, from contributing to the next issue, and the second issue
following was his final "Memoranda" installment.  So the matter perished
and was forgotten.  It was his last editorial hoax.  Perhaps he concluded
that hoaxes in any form were dangerous playthings; they were too likely
to go off at the wrong end.

It was with the April number (1871) that he concluded his relations with
the Galaxy.  In a brief valedictory he gave his reasons:

     I have now written for the Galaxy a year.  For the last eight
     months, with hardly an interval, I have had for my fellows and
     comrades, night and day, doctors and watchers of the sick!  During
     these eight months death has taken two members of my home circle and
     malignantly threatened two others.  All this I have experienced, yet
     all the time have been under contract to furnish "humorous" matter,
     once a month, for this magazine.  I am speaking the exact truth in
     the above details.  Please to put yourself in my place and
     contemplate the grisly grotesqueness of the situation.  I think that
     some of the "humor" I have written during this period could have
     been injected into a funeral sermon without disturbing the solemnity
     of the occasion.

     The "Memoranda" will cease permanently with this issue of the
     magazine.  To be a pirate on a low salary, and with no share in the
     profits of the business, used to be my idea of an uncomfortable
     occupation, but I have other views now.  To be a monthly humorist in
     a cheerless time is drearier.

Without doubt he felt a glad relief in being rid of this recurrent,
imperative demand.  He wrote to Orion that he had told the Galaxy people
he would not write another article, long or short, for less than $500,
and preferred not to do it at all.

The Galaxy department and the work on the Express were Mark Twain's
farewell to journalism; for the "Memoranda" was essentially journalistic,
almost as much so, and as liberally, as his old-time Enterprise position.
Apparently he wrote with absolute freedom, unhampered by editorial policy
or restriction.  The result was not always pleasant, and it was not
always refined.  We may be certain that it was because of Mrs. Clemens's
heavy burdens that year, and her consequent inability to exert a
beneficent censorship, that more than one--more than a dozen--of the
"Memoranda" contributions were permitted to see the light of print.

As a whole, the literary result of Mark Twain's Buffalo period does not
reach the high standard of The Innocents Abroad.  It was a retrogression
--in some measure a return to his earlier form.  It had been done under
pressure, under heavy stress of mind, as he said.  Also there was another
reason; neither the subject treated nor the environment of labor had
afforded that lofty inspiration which glorified every step of the Quaker
City journey.  Buffalo was a progressive city--a beautiful city, as
American cities go--but it was hardly an inspiring city for literature,
and a dull, dingy newspaper office was far, very far, from the pleasant
decks of the Quaker City, the camp-fires of Syria, the blue sky and sea
of the Medit&ranean.




LXXXII

THE WRITING OF "ROUGHING IT"

The third book published by Mark Twain was not the Western book he was
preparing for Bliss. It was a small volume, issued by Sheldon & Co.,
entitled Mark Twain's Autobiography (Burlesque) and First Romance.  The
Romance was the "Awful, Terrible Medieval Romance" which had appeared in
the Express at the beginning of 1870.  The burlesque autobiography had
not previously appeared.  The two made a thin little book, which, in
addition to its literary features, had running through it a series of
full-page, irrelevant pictures---cartoons of the Erie Railroad Ring,
presented as illustrations of a slightly modified version of "The House
That Jack Built."  The "House" was the Erie headquarters, the purpose
being to illustrate the swindling methods of the Ring.  The faces of Jay
Gould, James Fisk, Jr., John T. Hoffman, and others of the combination,
are chiefly conspicuous.  The publication was not important, from any
standpoint.  Literary burlesque is rarely important, and it was far from
Mark Twain's best form of expression.  A year or two later he realized
the mistake of this book, bought in the plates and destroyed them.

Meantime the new Western book was at a standstill.  To Orion, in March,
he wrote:

     I am still nursing Livy night and day.  I am nearly worn out.  We
     shall go to Elmira ten days hence (if Livy can travel on a mattress
     then), and stay there until I finish the California book, say three
     months.  But I can't begin work right away when I get there; must
     have a week's rest, for I have been through thirty days' terrific
     siege.

He promised to forward some of the manuscript soon.

     Hold on four or five days and I will see if I can get a few chapters
     fixed to send to Bliss .  .  .  .

     I have offered this house and the Express for sale, and when we go
     to Elmira we leave here for good.  I shall not select a new home
     till the book is finished, but we have little doubt that Hartford
     will be the place.

He disposed of his interest in the Express in April, at a sacrifice of
$10,000 on the purchase price.  Mrs. Clemens and the baby were able to
travel, and without further delay he took them to Elmira, to Quarry Farm.

Quarry Farm, the home of Mrs. Clemens's sister, Mrs. Theodore Crane, is a
beautiful hilltop, with a wide green slope, overlooking the hazy city and
the Chemung River, beyond which are the distant hills.  It was bought
quite incidentally by Mr. and Mrs. Langdon, who, driving by one evening,
stopped to water the horses and decided that it would make a happy summer
retreat, where the families could combine their housekeeping arrangements
during vacation days.  When the place had first been purchased, they had
debated on a name for it.  They had tried several, among them "Go-as-you-
please Hall,"  "Crane's Nest," and had finally agreed upon "Rest and Be
Thankful."  But this was only its official name.  There was an abandoned
quarry up the hill, a little way from the house, and the title suggested
by Thomas K. Beecher came more naturally to the tongue.  The place became
Quarry Farm, and so remains.

Clemens and his wife had fully made up their minds to live in Hartford.
They had both conceived an affection for the place, Clemens mainly
because of Twichell, while both of them yearned for the congenial
literary and social atmosphere, and the welcome which they felt awaited
them.  Hartford was precisely what Buffalo in that day was not--a home
for the literary man.  It held a distinguished group of writers, most of
whom the Clemenses already knew.  Furthermore, with Bliss as publisher of
the Mark Twain books, it held their chief business interests.

Their plans for going were not very definite as to time.  Clemens found
that his work went better at the farm, and that Mrs. Clemens and the
delicate baby daily improved.  They decided to remain at Quarry Farm for
the summer, their first summer in that beautiful place which would mean
so much to them in the years to come.

It was really Joe Goodman, as much as anything, that stirred a fresh
enthusiasm in the new book.  Goodman arrived just when the author's
spirits were at low ebb.

"Joe," he said, "I guess I'm done for.  I don't appear to be able to get
along at all with my work, and what I do write does not seem valuable.
I'm afraid I'll never be able to reach the standard of 'The Innocents
Abroad' again.  Here is what I have written, Joe.  Read it, and see if
that is your opinion."

Goodman took the manuscript and seated himself in a chair, while Clemens
went over to a table and pretended to work.  Goodman read page after
page, critically, and was presently absorbed in it.  Clemens watched him
furtively, till he could stand it no longer.  Then he threw down his pen,
exclaiming:

"I knew it!  I knew it!  I am writing nothing but rot.  You have sat
there all this time reading without a smile, and pitying the ass I am
making of myself.  But I am not wholly to blame.  I am not strong enough
to fight against fate.  I have been trying to write a funny book, with
dead people and sickness a verywhere.  Mr. Langdon died first, then a
young lady in our house, and now Mrs. Clemens and the baby have been at
the point of death all winter!  Oh, Joe, I wish to God I could die
myself!"

"Mark," said Joe, "I was reading critically, not for amusement, and so
far as I have read, and can judge, this is one of the best things you
have ever written.  I have found it perfectly absorbing.  You are doing a
great book!"

Clemens knew that Goodman never spoke except from conviction, and the
verdict was to him like a message of life handed down by an archangel.
He was a changed man instantly.  He was all enthusiasm, full of his
subject, eager to go on.  He proposed to pay Goodman a salary to stay
there and keep him company and furnish him with inspiration--the Pacific
coast atmosphere and vernacular, which he feared had slipped away from
him.  Goodman declined the salary, but extended his visit as long as his
plans would permit, and the two had a happy time together, recalling old
Comstock days.  Every morning, for a month or more, they used to tramp
over the farm.  They fell into the habit of visiting the old quarry and
pawing over the fragments in search of fossil specimens.  Both of them
had a poetic interest in geology, its infinite remotenesses and its
testimonies.  Without scientific knowledge, they took a deep pleasure in
accumulating a collection, which they arranged on boards torn from an old
fence, until they had enough specimens to fill a small museum.  They
imagined they could distinguish certain geological relations and
families, and would talk about trilobites, the Old Red Sandstone period,
and the azoic age, or follow random speculation to far-lying conclusions,
developing vague humors of phrase and fancy, having altogether a joyful
good time.

Another interest that developed during Goodman's stay was in one Ruloff,
who was under death sentence for a particularly atrocious murder.  The
papers were full of Ruloff's prodigious learning.  It was said that he
had in preparation a work showing the unity of all languages.  Goodman
and Clemens agreed that Ruloff's death would be a great loss to mankind,
even though he was clearly a villain and deserved his sentence.  They
decided that justice would be served just as well if some stupid person
were hung in his place, and following out this fancy Clemens one morning
put aside his regular work and wrote an article to the Tribune, offering
to supply a substitute for Ruloff.  He signed it simply "Samuel
Langhorne," and it was published as a serious communication, without
comment, so far as the Tribune was concerned.  Other papers, however,
took it up and it was widely copied and commented upon.  Apparently no
one ever identified, Mark Twain with the authorship of the letter, which,
by the way, does not appear to have prolonged Ruloff's earthly
usefulness.--[The reader will find the Ruloff letter in full under
Appendix K, at the end of last volume.]

Life at the farm may have furnished agricultural inspiration, for Clemens
wrote something about Horace Greeley's farming, also a skit concerning
Henry Ward Beecher's efforts in that direction.  Of Mr. Beecher's farming
he said:

"His strawberries would be a comfortable success if robins would eat
turnips."

The article amused Beecher, and perhaps Greeley was amused too, for he
wrote:

     MARK,--You are mistaken as to my criticisms on your farming.  I
     never publicly made any, while you have undertaken to tell the exact
     cost per pint of my potatoes and cabbages, truly enough the
     inspiration of genius.  If you will really betake yourself to
     farming, or even to telling what you know about it, rather than what
     you don't know about mine, I will not only refrain from disparaging
     criticism, but will give you my blessing.

                              Yours,   HORACE GREELEY.


The letter is in Mr. Greeley's characteristic scrawl, and no doubt
furnished inspiration for the turnip story in 'Roughing It', also the
model for the pretended facsimile of Greeley's writing.

Altogether that was a busy, enterprising summer at Quarry Farm.  By the
middle of May, Clemens wrote to Bliss that he had twelve hundred
manuscript pages of the new book already written, and that he was turning
out the remainder at the rate of from thirty to sixty-five per day.  He
was in high spirits by this time.  The family health had improved, and
prospects were bright.

I have enough manuscript on hand now to make (allowing for engravings)
about four hundred pages of the book, consequently am two-thirds done.
I intended to run up to Hartford about the middle of the week and take it
along, but I find myself so thoroughly interested in my work now (a thing
I have not experienced for months) that I can't bear to lose a single
moment of the inspiration.  So I will stay here and peg away as long as
it lasts.  My present idea is to write as much more as I have already
written, and then collect from the mass the very best chapters and
discard the rest.  When I get it done I want to see the man who will
begin to read it and not finish it.  Nothing grieves me now; nothing
troubles me, nothing bothers me or gets my attention.  I don't think of
anything but the book, and don't have an hour's unhappiness about
anything, and don't care two cents whether school keeps or not.  The book
will be done soon now.  It will be a starchy book; the dedication will be
worth the price of the volume.  Thus:

                            TO THE LATE CAIN
                         THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

     not on account of respect for his memory, for it merits little
     respect; not on account of sympathy for him, for his bloody deed
     places him without the pale of sympathy, strictly speaking, but
     out of a mere humane commiseration for him, in that it was his
     misfortune to live in a dark age that knew not the beneficent
     insanity plea.


Probably Mrs. Clemens diverted this picturesque dedication in favor of
the Higbie inscription, or perhaps the author never really intended the
literary tribute to Cain.  The impulse that inspired it, however, was
characteristic.

In a postscript to this letter he adds:

     My stock is looking up.  I am getting the bulliest offers for books
     and almanacs; am flooded with lecture invitations, and one
     periodical offers me $6,000 cash for twelve articles of any length,
     and on any subject, treated humorously or otherwise.

He set in to make hay while the sun was shining.  In addition to the
California book, which was now fast nearing completion, he discussed a
scheme with Goodman for a six-hundred-page work which they were to do
jointly; he planned and wrote one or two scenes from a Western play, to
be built from episodes in the new book (one of them was the "Arkansas"
incident, related in Chapter XXXI); he perfected one of his several
inventions--an automatically adjusting vest-strap; he wrote a number of
sketches, made an occasional business trip to New York and Hartford;
prospected the latter place for a new home.  The shadow which had hung
over the sojourn in Buffalo seemed to have lifted.

He had promised Bliss some contributions for his new paper, and in June
he sent three sketches.  In an accompanying letter he says:

     Here are three articles which you may have if you will pay $125 for
     the lot.  If you don't want them I'll sell them to the Galaxy, but
     not for a cent less than three times the money.... If you take them
     pay one-tenth of the $125 in weekly instalments to Orion till he has
     received it all.

He reconsidered his resolution not to lecture again, and closed with
Redpath for the coming season.  He found himself in a lecture-writing
fever.  He wrote three of them in succession: one on Artemus Ward,
another on "Reminiscences of Some Pleasant Characters I Have Met," and a
third one based on chapters from the new book.  Of the "Reminiscence"
lecture he wrote Redpath:

"It covers my whole acquaintance; kings, lunatics, idiots, and all."
Immediately afterward he wrote that he had prepared still another
lecture, "title to be announced later."

"During July I'll decide which one I like best," he said.  He instructed
Redpath not to make engagements for him to lecture in churches.  "I never
made a success of a lecture in a church yet.  People are afraid to laugh
in a church."

Redpath was having difficulties in arranging a circuit to suit him.
Clemens had prejudices against certain towns and localities, prejudices
that were likely to change overnight.  In August he wrote:

     DEAR RED,--I am different from other women; my mind changes oftener.
     People who have no mind can easily be stead fast and firm, but when
     a man is loaded down to the guards with it, as I am, every heavy sea
     of foreboding or inclination, maybe of indolence, shifts the cargo.
     See?  Therefore, if you will notice, one week I am likely to give
     rigid instructions to confine me to New England; the next week send
     me to Arizona; the next week withdraw my name; the next week give
     you full, untrammeled swing; and the week following modify it.  You
     must try to keep the run of my mind, Redpath that is your business,
     being the agent, and it always was too many for me....  Now about
     the West this week, I am willing that you shall retain all the
     Western engagements.  But what I shall want next week is still with
     God.
                                   Yours,    MARK.

He was in Hartford when this letter was written, arranging for residence
there and the removal of his belongings.  He finally leased the fine
Hooker house on Ford Street, in that pleasant seclusion known as Nook
Farm--the literary part of Hartford, which included the residence of
Charles Dudley Warner and Harriet Beecher Stowe.  He arranged for
possession of the premises October 1st.  So the new home was settled
upon; then learning that Nasby was to be in Boston, he ran over to that
city for a few days of recreation after his season's labors.

Preparations for removal to Hartford were not delayed.  The Buffalo
property was disposed of, the furnishings were packed and shipped away.
The house which as bride and groom they had entered so happily was left
empty and deserted, never to be entered by them again.  In the year and a
half of their occupancy it had seen well-nigh all the human round, all
that goes to make up the happiness and the sorrow of life.




LXXXIII

LECTURING DAYS

Life in Hartford, in the autumn of 1871, began in the letter, rather than
in the spirit.  The newcomers were received with a wide, neighborly
welcome, but the disorder of establishment and the almost immediate
departure of the head of the household on a protracted lecturing tour
were disquieting things; the atmosphere of the Clemens home during those
early Hartford days gave only a faint promise of its future loveliness.

As in a far later period, Mark Twain had resorted to lecturing to pay off
debt.  He still owed a portion of his share in the Express; also he had
been obliged to obtain an advance from the lecture bureau.  He dreaded,
as always, the tedium of travel, the clatter of hotel life, the monotony
of entertainment, while, more than most men, he loved the tender luxury
of home.  It was only that he could not afford to lose the profit offered
on the platform.

His season opened at Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, October 16th, and his
schedule carried him hither and thither, to and fro, over distances that
lie between Boston and Chicago.  There were opportunities to run into
Hartford now and then, when he was not too far away, and in November he
lectured there on Artemus Ward.

He changed his entertainment at least twice that season. He began with
the "Reminiscences," the lecture which he said would treat of all those
whom he had met, "idiots, lunatics, and kings," but he did not like it,
or it did not go well.  He wrote Redpath of the Artemus Ward address:

"It suits me, and I'll never deliver the nasty, nauseous 'Reminiscences'
any more."

But the Ward lecture was good for little more than a month, for on
December 8th he wrote again:

     Notify all hands that from this time I shall talk nothing but
     selections from my forthcoming book, 'Roughing It'.  Tried it twice
     last night; suits me tiptop.

And somewhat later:

     Had a splendid time with a splendid audience in Indianapolis last
     night; a perfectly jammed house, just as I have all the time out
     here....  I don't care now to have any appointments canceled.  I'll
     even "fetch" those Dutch Pennsylvanians with this lecture.

     Have paid up $4,000 indebtedness.  You are the last on my list.
     Shall begin to pay you in a few days, and then I shall be a free man
     again.

Undoubtedly he reveled in the triumphs of a platform tour, though at no
time did he regard it as a pleasure excursion.  During those early weeks
the proofs of his new book, chasing him from place to place, did not add
to his comfort.  Still, with large, substantial rewards in hand and in
prospect, one could endure much.

In the neighborhood of Boston there were other compensations.  He could
spend a good part of his days at the Lyceum headquarters, in School
Street, where there was always congenial fellowship--Nasby, Josh
Billings, and the rest of the peripatetic group that about the end of the
year collected there.  Their lectures were never tried immediately in
Boston, but in the outlying towns; tried and perfected--or discarded.
When the provincial audiences were finally satisfied, then the final.
test in the Boston Music Hall was made, and if this proved successful the
rest of the season was safe.  Redpath's lecturers put up at Young's
Hotel, and spent their days at the bureau, smoking and spinning yarns, or
talking shop.  Early in the evening they scattered to the outlying towns,
Lowell, Lexington, Concord, New Bedford.  There is no such a condition
to-day: lecturers are few, lecture bureaus obscure; there are no great
reputations made on the platform.

Neither is there any such distinct group of humorists as the one just
mentioned.  Humor has become universal since then.  Few writers of this
age would confess to taking their work so seriously as to be at all times
unsmiling in it; only about as many, in fact, as in that day would
confess to taking their work so lightly that they could regard life's
sterner phases and philosophies with a smile.

Josh Billings was one of the gentlest and loveliest of our pioneers of
laughter.  The present generation is not overfamiliar even with his name,
but both the name and sayings of that quaint soul were on everybody's
lips at the time of which we are writing.  His true name was Henry W.
Shaw, and he was a genuine, smiling philosopher, who might have built up
a more permanent and serious reputation had he not been induced to
disfigure his maxims with ridiculous spelling in order to popularize them
and make them bring a living price.  It did not matter much with Nasby's
work.  An assumed illiteracy belonged with the side of life which he
presented; but it is pathetic now to consider some of the really masterly
sayings of Josh Billings presented in that uncouth form which was
regarded as a part of humor a generation ago.  Even the aphorisms that
were essentially humorous lose value in that degraded spelling.

"When a man starts down hill everything is greased for the occasion,"
could hardly be improved upon by distorted orthography, and here are a
few more gems which have survived that deadly blight.

"Some folks mistake vivacity for wit; whereas the difference between
vivacity and wit is the same as the difference between the lightning-bug
and the lightning."

"Don't take the bull by the horns-take him by the tail; then you can let
go when you want to."

"The difficulty is not that we know so much, but that we know so much
that isn't so."

Josh Billings, Nasby, and Mark Twain were close friends.  They had
themselves photographed in a group, and there was always some pleasantry
going on among them.  Josh Billings once wrote on "Lekturing," and under
the head of "Rule Seven," which treated of unwisdom of inviting a
lecturer to a private house, he said:

     Think of asking Mark Twain home with yu, for instance.  Yure good
     wife has put her house in apple-pie order for the ockashun;
     everything is just in the right place.  Yu don't smoke in yure
     house, never.  Yu don't put yure feet on the center-table, yu don't
     skatter the nuzepapers all over the room, in utter confushion: order
     and ekonemy governs yure premises.  But if yu expeckt Mark Twain to
     be happy, or even kumfortable yu hav got to buy a box of cigars
     worth at least seventeen dollars and yu hav got to move all the
     tender things out ov yure parlor.  Yu hav got to skatter all the
     latest papers around the room careless, you hav got to hav a pitcher
     ov icewater handy, for Mark is a dry humorist.  Yu hav got to ketch
     and tie all yure yung ones, hed and foot, for Mark luvs babys only
     in theory; yu hav got to send yure favorite kat over to the nabors
     and hide yure poodle.  These are things that hav to be done, or Mark
     will pak hiz valise with hiz extry shirt collar and hiz lektur on
     the Sandwich Islands, and travel around yure streets, smoking and
     reading the sighns over the store doorways untill lektur time
     begins.

As we-are not likely to touch upon Mark Twain's lecturing, save only
lightly, hereafter, it may be as well to say something of his method at
this period.  At all places visited by lecturers there was a committee,
and it was the place of the chairman to introduce the lecturer, a
privilege which he valued, because it gave him a momentary association
with distinction and fame.  Clemens was a great disappointment to these
officials.  He had learned long ago that he could introduce himself more
effectively than any one else.  His usual formula was to present himself
as the chairman of the committee, introducing the lecturer of the
evening; then, with what was in effect a complete change of personality,
to begin his lecture.  It was always startling and amusing, always a
success; but the papers finally printed this formula, which took the
freshness out of it, so that he had to invent others.  Sometimes he got
up with the frank statement that he was introducing himself because he
had never met any one who could pay a proper tribute to his talents; but
the newspapers printed that too, and he often rose and began with no
introduction at all.

Whatever his method of beginning, Mark Twain's procedure probably was the
purest exemplification of the platform entertainer's art which this
country has ever seen.  It was the art that makes you forget the
artisanship, the art that made each hearer forget that he was not being
personally entertained by a new and marvelous friend, who had traveled a
long way for his particular benefit.  One listener has written that he
sat "simmering with laughter" through what he supposed was the
continuation of the introduction, waiting for the traditional lecture to
begin, when presently the lecturer, with a bow, disappeared, and it was
over.  The listener looked at his watch; he had been there more than an
hour.  He thought it could be no more than ten minutes, at most.  Many
have tried to set down something of the effect his art produced on them,
but one may not clearly convey the story of a vanished presence and a
silent voice.

There were other pleasant associations in Boston.  Howells was there, and
Aldrich; also Bret Harte, who had finished his triumphal progress across
the continent to join the Atlantic group.  Clemens appears not to have
met Aldrich before, though their acquaintance had begun a year earlier,
when Aldrich, as editor of Every Saturday, had commented on a poem
entitled, "The Three Aces," which had appeared in the Buffalo Express.
Aldrich had assumed the poem to be the work of Mark Twain, and had
characterized it as "a feeble imitation of Bret Harte's 'Heathen
Chinee.'"  Clemens, in a letter, had mildly protested as to the charge of
authorship, and Aldrich had promptly printed the letter with apologetic
explanation.  A playful exchange of personal letters followed, and the
beginning of a lifelong friendship.

One of the letters has a special interest here.  Clemens had followed his
protest with an apology for it, asking that no further notice be taken of
the matter.  Aldrich replied that it was too late to prevent "doing him
justice," as his explanation was already on the press, but that if
Clemens insisted he would withdraw it in the next issue.  Clemens then
wrote that he did not want it withdrawn, and explained that he hated to
be accused of plagiarizing Bret Harte, to whom he was deeply indebted for
literary schooling in the California days.  Continuing he said:

     Do you know the prettiest fancy and the neatest that ever shot
     through Harte's brain?  It was this.  When they were trying to
     decide upon a vignette cover for the Overland a grizzly bear (of the
     arms of the State of California) was chosen.  Nahl Bros. carved him
     and the page was printed with him in it.

     As a bear he was a success.  He was a good bear, but then, it was
     objected, he was an objectless bear--a bear that meant nothing,
     signified nothing, simply stood there, snarling over his shoulder at
     nothing, and was painfully and manifestly a boorish and ill-natured
     intruder upon the fair page.  All hands said that none were
     satisfied; they hated badly to give him up, and yet they hated as
     much to have him there when there was no point to him.  But
     presently Harte took a pencil and drew two simple lines under his
     feet, and behold he was a magnificent success!--the ancient symbol
     of California savagery, snarling at the approaching type of high and
     progressive civilization, the first Overland locomotive!  I just
     think that was nothing less than an inspiration.--[The "bear" was
     that which has always appeared on the Overland cover; the "two
     lines" formed a railway track under his feet.  Clemens's original
     letter contained crude sketches illustrating these things.]

Among the Boston group was another Californian, Ralph Keeler, an
eccentric, gifted, and altogether charming fellow, whom Clemens had known
on the Pacific slope.  Keeler had been adopted by the Boston writers, and
was grateful and happy accordingly.  He was poor of purse, but
inexhaustibly rich in the happier gifts of fortune.  He was unfailingly
buoyant, light-hearted, and hopeful.  On an infinitesimal capital he had
made a tour of many lands, and had written of it for the Atlantic.  In
that charmed circle he was as overflowingly happy as if he had been
admitted to the company of the gods.  Keeler was affectionately regarded
by all who knew him, and he offered a sort of worship in return.  He
often accompanied Mark Twain on his lecture engagements to the various
outlying towns, and Clemens brought him back to his hotel for breakfast,
where they had good, enjoyable talks together.  Once Keeler came eagerly
to the hotel and made his way up to Clemens's room.

"Come with me," he said.  "Quick!"

"What is it?  What's happened?"

"Don't wait to talk.  Come with me."

They tramped briskly through the streets till they reached the public
library, entered, Keeler leading the way, not stopping till he faced a
row of shelves filled with books.  He pointed at one of them, his face
radiant with joy.

"Look," he said.  "Do you see it?"

Clemens looked carefully now and identified one of the books as a still-
born novel which Keeler had published.

"This is a library," said Keeler, eagerly, "and they've got it!"

His whole being was aglow with the wonder of it.  He had been
investigating; the library records showed that in the two years the book
had been there it had been taken out and read three times!  It never
occurred to Clemens even to smile.  Knowing Mark Twain, one would guess
that his eyes were likely to be filled with tears.

In his book about Mark Twain, Howells tells of a luncheon which Keeler
gave to his more famous associates--Aldrich, Fields, Harte, Clemens, and
Howells himself--a merry informal occasion.  Says Howells:

     Nothing remains to me of the happy time but a sense of idle and
     aimless and joyful talk--play, beginning and ending nowhere, of
     eager laughter, of countless good stories from Fields, of a heat-
     lightning shimmer of wit from Aldrich, of an occasional
     concentration of our joint mockeries upon our host, who took it
     gladly; and amid the discourse, so little improving, but so full of
     good-fellowship, Bret Harte's leering dramatization of Clemens's
     mental attitude toward a symposium of Boston illuminates.  "Why,
     fellows," he spluttered, "this is the dream of Mark's life," and I
     remember the glance from under Clemens's feathery eyebrows which
     betrayed his enjoyment of the fun.

Very likely Keeler gave that luncheon in celebration of his book's
triumph; it would be like him.

Keeler's end was a mystery.  The New York Tribune commissioned him to go
to Cuba to report the facts of some Spanish outrages.  He sailed from New
York in the steamer, and was last seen alive the night before the vessel
reached Havana.  He had made no secret of his mission, but had discussed
it in his frank, innocent way.  There were some Spanish military men on
the ship.

Clemens, commenting on the matter, once said:

"It may be that he was not flung into the sea, still the belief was
general that that was what had happened."

In his book Howells refers to the doubt with which Mark Twain was then
received by the polite culture of Boston; which, on the other hand,
accepted Bret Harte as one of its own, forgiving even social
shortcomings.

The reason is not difficult to understand.  Harte had made his appeal
with legitimate fiction of the kind which, however fresh in flavor and
environment, was of a sort to be measured and classified.  Harte spoke a
language they could understand; his humor, his pathos, his point of view
were all recognizable.  It was an art already standardized by a master.
It is no reflection on the genius of Bret Harte to liken his splendid
achievements to those of Charles Dickens.  Much of Harte's work is in no
way inferior to that of his great English prototype.  Dickens never wrote
a better short story than "The Outcasts of Poker Flats."  He never wrote
as good a short story as "The Luck of Roaring Camp."  Boston critics
promptly realized these things and gave Harte his correct rating.  That
they failed to do this with Mark Twain, lay chiefly in the fact that he
spoke to them in new and startling tongues.  His gospels were likely to
be heresies; his literary eccentricities were all unclassified.  Of the
ultrafastidious set Howells tells us that Charles Eliot Norton and Prof.
Francis J. Child were about the only ones who accorded him unqualified
approval.  The others smiled and enjoyed him, but with that condescension
which the courtier is likely to accord to motley and the cap and bells.
Only the great, simple-hearted, unbiased multitude, the public, which had
no standards but the direct appeal from one human heart to another, could
recognize immediately his mightier heritage, could exalt and place him on
the throne.



LXXXIV

"ROUGHING IT"

Telegram to Redpath:

     How in the name of God does a man find his way from here to Amherst,
     and when must he start?  Give me full particulars, and send a man
     with me.  If I had another engagement I would rot before I would
     fill it.                       S.  L.  CLEMENS.

This was at the end of February, and he believed that he was standing on
the platform for the last time.  He loathed the drudgery of the work, and
he considered there was no further need.  He was no longer in debt, and
his income he accounted ample.  His new book, 'Roughing It',--[It was
Bliss who had given the new book the title of Roughing It.  Innocents at
Home had been its provision title, certainly a misleading one, though it
has been retained in England for the second volume; for what reason it
would be difficult to explain.]--had had a large advance sale, and its
earnings promised to rival those of the 'Innocents'.  He resolved in the
future to confine himself to the trade and profits of authorship.

The new book had advantages in its favor.  Issued early in the year, it
was offered at the best canvassing season; particularly so, as the
author's lectures had prepared the public for its reception.
Furthermore, it dealt with the most picturesque phases of American life,
scenes and episodes vastly interesting at that time, and peculiarly
adapted to Mark Twain's literary expression.  In a different way
'Roughing It' is quite as remarkable as 'The Innocents Abroad.'  If it
has less charm, it has greater interest, and it is by no means without
charm.  There is something delicious, for instance, in this bit of pure
enjoyment of the first day's overland travel:

     It was now just dawn, and as we stretched our cramped legs full
     length on the mail-sacks, and gazed out through the windows across
     the wide wastes of greensward clad in cool, powdery mist to where
     there was an expectant look in the Eastern horizon, our perfect
     enjoyment took the form of a tranquil and contented ecstasy.  The
     stage whirled along at a spanking gait, the breeze flapping the
     curtains and suspended coats in a most exhilarating way; the cradle
     swayed and swung luxuriously, the pattering of the horses' hoofs,
     the cracking of the driver's whip, and his "Hi-yi! g'lang!" were
     music; the spinning ground and the waltzing trees appeared to give
     us a mute hurrah as we went by, and then slack up and look after us
     with interest and envy, or something; and as we lay and smoked the
     pipe of peace, and compared all this luxury with the years of
     tiresome city life that had gone before it, we felt that there was
     only one complete and satisfying happiness in the world, and we had
     found it.

Also, there is that lofty presentation of South Pass, and a picture of
the alkali desert, so parching, so withering in its choking realism, that
it makes the throat ache and the tongue dry to read it.  Just a bit of
the desert in passing:

     The sun beats down with a dead, blistering, relentless malignity;
     the perspiration is welling from every pore in man and beast, but
     scarcely a sign of it finds its way to the surface--it is absorbed
     before it gets there; there is not the faintest breath of air
     stirring; there is not a merciful shred of cloud in all the
     brilliant firmament; there is not a living creature visible in any
     direction whither one searches the blank level that stretches its
     monotonous miles on every hand; there is not a sound, not a sigh,
     not a whisper, not a buzz, or a whir of wings, or distant pipe of
     bird; not even a sob from the lost souls that doubtless people that
     dead air.

As for the humor of the book, it has been chiefly famous for that.  "Buck
Fanshaw's Funeral" has become a classic, and the purchase of the "Mexican
Plug."  But it is to no purpose to review the book here in detail.  We
have already reviewed the life and environment out of which it grew.

Without doubt the story would have contained more of the poetic and
contemplative, in which he was always at his best, if the subject itself,
as in the Innocents, had lent itself oftener to this form of writing.  It
was the lack of that halo perhaps which caused the new book never quite
to rank with its great forerunner in public favor.  There could hardly be
any other reason.  It presented a fresher theme; it abounded in humor;
technically, it was better written; seemingly it had all the elements of
popularity and of permanence.  It did, in fact, possess these qualities,
but its sales, except during the earlier months of its canvass, never
quite equaled those of The Innocents Abroad.

'Roughing It' was accepted by the public for just what it was and is, a
great picture of the Overland Pioneer days--a marvelous picture of
frontier aspects at a time when the frontier itself, even with its
hardships and its tragedies, was little more than a vast primal joke;
when all frontiersmen were obliged to be laughing philosophers in order
to survive the stress of its warfares.

A word here about this Western humor: It is a distinct product.  It grew
out of a distinct condition--the battle with the frontier.  The fight was
so desperate, to take it seriously was to surrender.  Women laughed that
they might not weep; men, when they could no longer swear.  "Western
humor" was the result.  It is the freshest, wildest humor in the world,
but there is tragedy behind it.

'Roughing It' presented the picture of those early conditions with the
startling vividness and truth of a great novel, which, in effect, it was.
It was not accurate history, even of the author's own adventures.  It was
true in its aspects, rather than in its details.  The greater artist
disregards the truth of detail to render more strikingly a phase or a
condition, to produce an atmosphere, to reconstruct a vanished time.
This was what Mark Twain did in 'Roughing It'.  He told the story of
overland travel and the frontier, for his own and future generations, in
what is essentially a picaresque novel, a work of unperishing fiction,
founded on fact.

The sales of 'Roughing It' during the first three months aggregated
nearly forty thousand copies, and the author was lavishly elate
accordingly.  To Orion (who had already closed his career with Bliss, by
exercise of those hereditary eccentricities through which he so often
came to grief) he gave $1,000 out of the first royalty check, in
acknowledgment of the memorandum book and other data which Orion had
supplied.  Clemens believed the new book would sell one hundred thousand
copies within the year; but the sale diminished presently, and at the end
of the first year it was considerably behind the Innocents for the same
period.  As already stated, it required ten years for Roughing It to
reach the one-hundred-thousand mark, which the Innocents reached in
three.




LXXXV

A BIRTH, A DEATH, AND A VOYAGE

The year 1872 was an eventful one in Mark Twain's life.  At Elmira, on
March 19th, his second child, a little girl, whom they named Susan
Olivia, was born.  On June 2d, in the new home in Hartford, to which they
had recently moved, his first child, a little boy, Langdon, died.  He had
never been strong, his wavering life had often been uncertain, always
more of the spirit than the body, and in Elmira he contracted a heavy
cold, or perhaps it was diphtheria from the beginning.  In later years,
whenever Clemens spoke of the little fellow, he never failed to accuse
himself of having been the cause of the child's death.  It was Mrs.
Clemens's custom to drive out each morning with Langdon, and once when
she was unable to go Clemens himself went instead.

"I should not have been permitted to do it," he said, remembering.
"I was not qualified for any such responsibility as that.  Some one
should have gone who had at least the rudiments of a mind.  Necessarily
I would lose myself dreaming.  After a while the coachman looked around
and noticed that the carriage-robes had dropped away from the little
fellow, and that he was exposed to the chilly air.  He called my
attention to it, but it was too late.  Tonsilitis or something of the
sort set in, and he did not get any better, so we took him to Hartford.
There it was pronounced diphtheria, and of course he died."

So, with or without reason, he added the blame of another tragedy to the
heavy burden of remorse which he would go on piling up while he lived.

The blow was a terrible one to Mrs. Clemens; even the comfort of the
little new baby on her arm could not ease the ache in her breast.  It
seemed to her that death was pursuing her.  In one of her letters she
says:

"I feel so often as if my path is to be lined with graves," and she
expresses the wish that she may drop out of life herself before her
sister and her husband--a wish which the years would grant.

They did not return to Elmira, for it was thought that the air of the
shore would be better for the little girl; so they spent the summer at
Saybrook, Connecticut, at Fenwick Hall, leaving Orion and his wife in
charge of the house at Hartford.

Beyond a few sketches, Clemens did very little literary work that summer,
but he planned a trip to Europe, and he invented what is still known and
sold as the "Mark Twain Scrap-Book."

He wrote to Orion of his proposed trip to England, and dilated upon his
scrap-book with considerable enthusiasm.  The idea had grown out of the
inconvenience of finding a paste-jar, and the general mussiness of scrap-
book keeping.  His new plan was a self-pasting scrap-book with the gum
laid on in narrow strips, requiring only to be dampened with a sponge or
other moist substance to be ready for the clipping.  He states that he
intends to put the invention into the hands of Slote, Woodman & Co., of
whom Dan Slote, his old Quaker City room-mate, was the senior partner,
and have it manufactured for the trade.

About this time began Mark Twain's long and active interest in copyright.
Previously he had not much considered the subject; he had taken it for
granted there was no step that he could take, while international piracy
was a recognized institution.  On both sides of the water books were
appropriated, often without profit, sometimes even without credit, to the
author.  To tell the truth, Clemens had at first regarded it rather in
the nature of a compliment that his books should be thought worth
pirating in England, but as time passed he realized that he was paying
heavily for this recognition.  Furthermore, he decided that he was
forfeiting a right; rather that he was being deprived of it: something
which it was in his nature to resent.

When 'Roughing It' had been ready for issue he agreed with Bliss that
they should try the experiment of copyrighting it in England, and see how
far the law would protect them against the voracious little publisher,
who thus far had not only snapped up everything bearing Mark Twain's
signature, but had included in a volume of Mark Twain sketches certain
examples of very weak humor with which Mark Twain had been previously
unfamiliar.

Whatever the English pirate's opinion of the copyright protection of
'Roughing It' may have been, he did not attempt to violate it.  This was
gratifying.  Clemens came to regard England as a friendly power.  He
decided to visit it and spy out the land.  He would make the acquaintance
of its people and institutions and write a book, which would do these
things justice.

He gave out no word of his real purpose.  He merely said that he was
going over to see his English publishers, and perhaps to arrange for a
few lectures.  He provided himself with some stylographic note-books, by
which he could produce two copies of his daily memoranda--one for himself
and one to mail to Mrs. Clemens--and sailed on the Scotia August 21,
1872.

Arriving in Liverpool he took train for London, and presently the
wonderful charm of that old, finished country broke upon him.  His "first
hour in England was an hour of delight," he records; "of rapture and
ecstasy.  These are the best words I can find, but they are not adequate;
they are not strong enough to convey the feeling which this first vision
of rural England brought me."  Then he noticed that the gentleman
opposite in his compartment paid no attention to the scenery, but was
absorbed in a green-covered volume.  He was so absorbed in it that, by
and by, Clemens's curiosity was aroused.  He shifted his position a
little and his eye caught the title.  It was the first volume of the
English edition of The Innocents Abroad.  This was gratifying for a
moment; then he remembered that the man had never laughed, never even
smiled during the hour of his steady reading.  Clemens recalled what he
had heard of the English lack of humor.  He wondered if this was a fair
example of it, and if the man could be really taking seriously every word
he was reading.  Clemens could not look at the scenery any more for
watching his fellow-passenger, waiting with a fascinated interest for the
paragraph that would break up that iron-clad solemnity.  It did not come.
During all the rest of the trip to London the atmosphere of the
compartment remained heavy with gloom.

He drove to the Langham Hotel, always popular with Americans, established
himself, and went to look up his publishers.  He found the Routledges
about to sit down to luncheon in a private room, up-stairs, in their
publishing house.  He joined them, and not a soul stirred from that table
again until evening.  The Routledges had never heard Mark Twain talk
before, never heard any one talk who in the least resembled him.  Various
refreshments were served during the afternoon, came and went, while this
marvelous creature talked on and they listened, reveling, and wondering
if America had any more of that sort at home.  By and by dinner was
served; then after a long time, when there was no further excuse for
keeping him there, they took him to the Savage Club, where there were yet
other refreshments and a gathering of the clans to welcome this new
arrival as a being from some remote and unfamiliar star.

Tom Hood, the younger, was there, and Harry Lee, and Stanley the
explorer, who had but just returned from finding Livingstone, and Henry
Irving, and many another whose name remains, though the owners of those
names are all dead now, and their laughter and their good-fellowship are
only a part of that intangible fabric which we call the past.'--[Clemens
had first known Stanley as a newspaper man.  "I first met him when he
reported a lecture of mine in St. Louis," he said once in a conversation
where the name of Stanley was mentioned.]




LXXXVI

ENGLAND

From that night Mark Twain's stay in England could not properly be called
a gloomy one.

Routledge, Hood, Lee, and, in fact, all literary London, set themselves
the task of giving him a good time.  Whatever place of interest they
could think of he was taken there; whatever there was to see he saw it.
Dinners, receptions, and assemblies were not complete without him.  The
White Friars' Club and others gave banquets in his honor.  He was the
sensation of the day.  When he rose to speak on these occasions he was
greeted with wild cheers.  Whatever he said they eagerly applauded--too
eagerly sometimes, in the fear that they might be regarded as insensible
to American humor.  Other speakers delighted in chaffing him in order to
provoke his retorts.  When a speaker humorously referred to his American
habit of carrying a cotton umbrella, his reply that he followed this
custom because a cotton umbrella was the only kind of an umbrella that an
Englishman wouldn't steal, was all over England next day, and regarded as
one of the finest examples of wit since the days of Swift.

The suddenness and completeness of his acceptance by the great ones of
London rather overwhelmed and frightened him made him timid.  Joaquin
Miller writes:

     He was shy as a girl, although time was already coyly flirting white
     flowers at his temples, and could hardly be coaxed to meet the
     learned and great who wanted to take him by the hand.

Many came to call on him at his hotel, among them Charles Reade and Canon
Kingsley.  Kingsley came twice without finding him; then wrote, asking
for an appointment.  Reade invited his assistance on a novel.  Indeed, it
was in England that Mark Twain was first made to feel that he had come
into his rightful heritage.  Whatever may have been the doubts concerning
him in America, there was no question in England.  Howells says:

     In England rank, fashion, and culture rejoiced in him.  Lord mayors,
     lord chief justices, and magnates of many kinds were his hosts; he
     was desired in country houses, and his bold genius captivated the
     favor of periodicals which spurned the rest of our nation.

After that first visit of Mark Twain's, when Americans in England,
referring to their great statesmen, authors, and the like, naturally
mentioned the names of Seward, Webster, Lowell, or Holmes, the English
comment was likely to be: "Never mind those.  We can turn out academic
Sewards by the dozen, and cultured humorists like Lowell and Holmes by
the score.  Tell us of Lincoln, Artemus Ward, and Mark Twain.  We cannot
match these; they interest us."  And it was true.  History could not
match them, for they were unique.

Clemens would have been more than human if in time he had not realized
the fuller meaning of this triumph, and exulted in it a little to the
folks at home.  There never lived a more modest, less pretentious, less
aggressive man than Mark Twain, but there never lived a man who took a
more childlike delight in genuine appreciation; and, being childlike, it
was only human that he should wish those nearest to him to share his
happiness.  After one memorable affair he wrote:

     I have been received in a sort of tremendous way to-night by the
     brains of London, assembled at the annual dinner of the sheriffs of
     London; mine being (between you and me) a name which was received
     with a thundering outburst of spontaneous applause when the long
     list of guests was called.

I might have perished on the spot but for the friendly support and
assistance of my excellent friend, Sir John Bennett.

This letter does not tell all of the incident or the real reason why he
might have perished on the spot.  During the long roll-call of guests he
had lost interest a little, and was conversing in whispers with his
"excellent friend," Sir John Bennett, stopping to applaud now and then
when the applause of the others indicated that some distinguished name
had been pronounced.  All at once the applause broke out with great
vehemence.  This must be some very distinguished person indeed.  He
joined in it with great enthusiasm.  When it was over he whispered to Sir
John:

"Whose name was that we were just applauding?"

"Mark Twain's."

Whereupon the support was needed.

Poor little pirate Hotten did not have a happy time during this visit.
He had reveled in the prospect at first, for he anticipated a large
increase to be derived from his purloined property; but suddenly, one
morning, he was aghast to find in the Spectator a signed letter from Mark
Twain, in which he was repudiated, referred to as "John Camden
Hottentot," an unsavory person generally.  Hotten also sent a letter to
the Spectator, in which he attempted to justify himself, but it was a
feeble performance.  Clemens prepared two other communications, each
worse than the other and both more destructive than the first one.  But
these were only to relieve his mind.  He did not print them.  In one of
them he pursued the fancy of John Camden Hottentot, whom he offers as a
specimen to the Zoological Gardens.

It is not a bird.  It is not a man.  It is not a fish.  It does not seem
to be in all respects a reptile.  It has the body and features of a man,
but scarcely any of the instincts that belong to such a structure....  I
am sure that this singular little creature is the missing link between
the man and the hyena.

Hotten had preyed upon explorer Stanley and libeled him in a so-called.
biography to a degree that had really aroused some feeling against
Stanley in England.  Only for the moment--the Queen invited Stanley to
luncheon, and newspaper criticism ceased.  Hotten was in general
disrepute, therefore, so it was not worth while throwing a second brick
at him.

In fact, now that Clemens had expended his venom, on paper, Hotten seemed
to him rather an amusing figure than otherwise.  An incident grew out of
it all, however, that was not amusing.  E. P. Hingston, whom the reader
may remember as having been with Artemus Ward in Virginia City, and one
of that happy group that wined and dined the year away, had been engaged
by Hotten to write the introductory to his edition of The Innocents
Abroad.  It was a well-written, highly complimentary appreciation.
Hingston did not dream that he was committing an offense, nor did Clemens
himself regard it as such in the beginning.

But Mark Twain's views had undergone a radical change, and with
characteristic dismissal of previous conditions he had forgotten that he
had ever had any other views than those he now held.  Hingston was in
London, and one evening, at a gathering, approached Clemens with
outstretched hand.  But Clemens failed to see Hingston's hand or to
recognize him.  In after-years his conscience hurt him terribly for this.
He remembered it only with remorse and shame.  Once, in his old age, he
spoke of it with deep sorrow.




LXXXVII

THE BOOK THAT WAS NEVER WRITTEN

The book on England, which he had prepared for so carefully, was never
written.  Hundreds of the stylographic pages were filled, and the
duplicates sent home for the entertainment of Olivia Clemens, but the
notes were not completed, and the actual writing was never begun.  There
was too much sociability in London for one thing, and then he found that
he could not write entertainingly of England without introducing too many
personalities, and running the risk of offending those who had taken him
into their hearts and homes.  In a word, he would have to write too
seriously or not at all.

He began his memoranda industriously enough, and the volume might have
been as charming and as valuable as any he has left behind.  The reader
will hardly fail to find a few of the entries interesting.  They are
offered here as examples of his daily observation during those early
weeks of his stay, and to show somewhat of his purpose:

                             AN EXPATRIATE

     There was once an American thief who fled his country and took
     refuge in England.  He dressed himself after the fashion of the
     Londoners, and taught his tongue the peculiarities of the London
     pronunciation and did his best in all ways to pass himself for a
     native.  But he did two fatal things: he stopped at the Langham
     Hotel, and the first trip he took was to visit Stratford-on-Avon and
     the grave of Shakespeare.  These things betrayed his nationality.


                         STANLEY AND THE QUEEN

     See the power a monarch wields!  When I arrived here, two weeks ago,
     the papers and geographers were in a fair way to eat poor Stanley up
     without salt or sauce.  The Queen says, "Come four hundred miles up
     into Scotland and sit at my luncheon-table fifteen minutes"; which,
     being translated, means, "Gentlemen, I believe in this man and take
     him under my protection"; and not another yelp is heard.


                         AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM

     What a place it is!

     Mention some very rare curiosity of a peculiar nature--a something
     which you have read about somewhere but never seen--they show you a
     dozen!  They show you all the possible varieties of that thing!
     They show you curiously wrought jeweled necklaces of beaten gold,
     worn by the ancient Egyptians, Assyrians, Etruscans, Greeks,
     Britons--every people of the forgotten ages, indeed.  They show you
     the ornaments of all the tribes and peoples that live or ever did
     live.  Then they show you a cast taken from Cromwell's face in
     death; then the venerable vase that once contained the ashes of
     Xerxes.

     I am wonderfully thankful for the British Museum.  Nobody comes
     bothering around me--nobody elbows me--all the room and all the
     light I want, under this huge dome--no disturbing noises--and people
     standing ready to bring me a copy of pretty much any book that ever
     was printed under the sun--and if I choose to go wandering about the
     long corridors and galleries of the great building the secrets of
     all the earth and all the ages axe laid open to me.  I am not
     capable of expressing my gratitude for the British Museum--it seems
     as if I do not know any but little words and weak ones.


                       WESTMINSTER ABBEY BY NIGHT

     It was past eleven o'clock and I was just going to bed.  But this
     friend of mine was as reliable as he was eccentric, and so there was
     not a doubt in my mind that his "expedition" had merit in it.  I put
     on my coat and boots again, and we drove away.

     "Where is it?  Where are we going?"

     "Don't worry.  You'll see."

     He was not inclined to talk.  So I thought this must be a weighty
     matter.  My curiosity grew with the minutes, but I kept it manfully
     under the surface.  I watched the lamps, the signs, the numbers as
     we thundered down the long street.  I am always lost in London, day
     or night.  It was very chilly, almost bleak.  People leaned against
     the gusty blasts as if it were the dead of winter.  The crowds grew
     thinner and thinner, and the noises waxed faint and seemed far away.
     The sky was overcast and threatening.  We drove on, and still on,
     till I wondered if we were ever going to stop.  At last we passed by
     a spacious bridge and a vast building, and presently entered a
     gateway, passed through a sort of tunnel, and stopped in a court
     surrounded by the black outlines of a great edifice.  Then we
     alighted, walked a dozen steps or so, and waited.  In a little while
     footsteps were heard, a man emerged from the darkness, and we
     dropped into his wake without saying anything.  He led us under an
     archway of masonry, and from that into a roomy tunnel, through a
     tall iron gate, which he locked behind us.  We followed him down
     this tunnel, guided more by his footsteps on the stone flagging than
     by anything we could very distinctly see.  At the end of it we came
     to another iron gate, and our conductor stopped there and lit a
     bull's-eye lantern.  Then he unlocked the gate; and I wished he had
     oiled it first, it grated so dismally.  The gate swung open and we
     stood on the threshold of what seemed a limitless domed and pillared
     cavern, carved out of the solid darkness.  The conductor and my
     friend took off their hats reverently, and I did likewise.  For the
     moment that we stood thus there was not a sound, and the stillness
     seemed to add to the solemnity of the gloom.  I looked my inquiry!

     "It is the tomb of the great dead of England-Westminster Abbey."...

     We were among the tombs; on every hand dull shapes of men, sitting,
     standing, or stooping, inspected us curiously out of the darkness--
     reached out their hands toward us--some appealing, some beckoning,
     some warning us away.  Effigies they were--statues over the graves;
     but they looked human and natural in the murky shadows.  Now a
     little half-grown black and white cat squeezed herself through the
     bars of the iron gate and came purring lovingly about us, unawed by
     the time or the place, unimpressed by the marble pomp that
     sepulchers a line of mighty dead that ends with a great author of
     yesterday and began with a sceptered monarch away back in the dawn
     of history, more than twelve hundred years ago .  .  .  .

     Mr. Wright flashed his lantern first upon this object and then upon
     that, and kept up a running commentary that showed there was nothing
     about the venerable Abbey that was trivial in his eyes or void of
     interest.  He is a man in authority, being superintendent, and his
     daily business keeps him familiar with every nook and corner of the
     great pile.  Casting a luminous ray now here, now yonder, he would
     say:

     "Observe the height of the Abbey--one hundred and three feet to the
     base of the roof; I measured it myself the other day.  Notice the
     base of this column--old, very old--hundreds and hundreds of years--
     and how well they knew how to build in those old days!  Notice it--
     every stone is laid horizontally; that is to say, just as nature
     laid it originally in the quarry not set up edgewise; in our day
     some people set them on edge, and then wonder why they split and
     flake.  Architects cannot teach nature anything.  Let me remove this
     matting--it is put here to preserve the pavement; now there is a bit
     of pavement that is seven hundred years old; you can see by these
     scattering clusters of colored mosaics how beautiful it was before
     time and sacrilegious idlers marred it.  Now there, in the border,
     was an inscription, once see, follow the circle-you can trace it by
     the ornaments that have been pulled out--here is an A and there is
     an O, and yonder another A--all beautiful Old English capitals;
     there is no telling what the inscription was--no record left now.
     Now move along in this direction, if you please.  Yonder is where
     old King Sebert the Saxon lies his monument is the oldest one in the
     Abbey; Sebert died in 616,--[Clemens probably misunderstood the
     name.  It was Ethelbert who died in 616.  The name Sebert does not
     appear in any Saxon annals accessible to the author.]--and that's
     as much, as twelve hundred and fifty years ago think of it!  Twelve
     hundred and fifty years!  Now yonder is the last one--Charles
     Dickens--there on the floor, with the brass letters on the slab--and
     to this day the people come and put flowers on it....  There is
     Garrick's monument; and Addison's, and Thackeray's bust--and
     Macaulay lies there.  And close to Dickens and Garrick lie Sheridan
     and Dr. Johnson--and here is old Parr....

     "That stone there covers Campbell the poet.  Here are names you know
     pretty well--Milton, and Gray who wrote the Elegy, and Butler who
     wrote Hudibras; and Edmund Spenser, and Ben Jonson--there are three
     tablets to him scattered about the Abbey, and all got 'O, Rare Ben
     Jonson' cut on them.  You were standing on one of them just now he
     is buried standing up.  There used to be a tradition here that
     explains it.  The story goes that he did not dare ask to be buried
     in the Abbey, so he asked King James if he would make him a present
     of eighteen inches of English ground, and the King said 'yes,' and
     asked him where he would have it, and he said in Westminster Abbey.
     Well, the King wouldn't go back on his word, and so there he is,
     sure enough-stood up on end."

The reader may regret that there are not more of these entries, and that
the book itself was never written.  Just when he gave up the project is
not recorded.  He was urged to lecture in London, but declined.  To Mrs.
Clemens, in September, he wrote:

Everybody says lecture, lecture, lecture, but I have not the least idea
of doing it; certainly not at present.  Mr. Dolby, who took Dickens to
America, is coming to talk business tomorrow, though I have sent him word
once before that I can't be hired to talk here; because I have no time to
spare.  There is too much sociability; I do not get along fast enough
with work.

In October he declared that he was very homesick, and proposed that Mrs.
Clemens and Susie join him at once in London, unless she would prefer to
have him come home for the winter and all of them return to London in the
spring.  So it is likely that the book was not then abandoned.  He felt
that his visit was by no means ended; that it was, in fact, only just
begun, but he wanted the ones he loved most to share it with him.  To his
mother and sister, in November, he wrote:

I came here to take notes for a book, but I haven't done much but attend
dinners and make speeches.  I have had a jolly good time, and I do hate
to go away from these English folks; they make a stranger feel entirely
at home, and they laugh so easily that it is a comfort to make after-
dinner speeches here.  I have made hundreds of friends; and last night,
in the crush at the opening of the new Guild Hall Library and Museum, I
was surprised to meet a familiar face every other step.

All his impressions of England had been happy ones.  He could deliver a
gentle satire now and then at certain British institutions--certain
London localities and features--as in his speech at the Savage Club,
--[September 28, 1872.  This is probably the most characteristic speech
made by Mark Twain during his first London visit; the reader will find it
in full in Appendix L, at the end of last volume.]--but taking the snug
island as a whole, its people, its institutions, its fair, rural aspects,
he had found in it only delight.  To Mrs. Crane he wrote:

     If you and Theodore will come over in the spring with Livy and me,
     and spend the summer, you shall see a country that is so beautiful
     that you will be obliged to believe in fairy-land.  There is nothing
     like it elsewhere on the globe.  You should have a season ticket and
     travel up and down every day between London and Oxford and worship
     nature.

     And Theodore can browse with me among dusty old dens that look now
     as they looked five hundred years ago; and puzzle over books in the
     British Museum that were made before Christ was born; and in the
     customs of their public dinners, and the ceremonies of every
     official act, and the dresses of a thousand dignitaries, trace the
     speech and manners of all the centuries that have dragged their
     lagging decades over England since the Heptarchy fell asunder.  I
     would a good deal rather live here if I could get the rest of you
     over.

He sailed November 12th, on the Batavia, loaded with Christmas presents
for everybody; jewelry, furs, laces; also a practical steam-engine for
his namesake, Sam Moffett.  Half-way across the Atlantic the Batavia ran
into a hurricane and was badly damaged by heavy seas, and driven far out
of her course.  It was a lucky event on the whole, for she fell in with a
water-logged lumber bark, a complete wreck, with nine surviving sailors
clinging to her rigging.  In the midst of the wild gale a lifeboat was
launched and the perishing men were rescued.  Clemens prepared a graphic
report of the matter for the Royal Humane Society, asking that medals be
conferred upon the brave rescuers, a document that was signed by his
fellow-passengers and obtained for the men complete recognition and wide
celebrity.  Closing, the writer said:

     As might have been anticipated, if I have been of any service toward
     rescuing these nine shipwrecked human beings by standing around the
     deck in a furious storm, without an umbrella, keeping an eye on
     things and seeing that they were done right, and yelling whenever a
     cheer seemed to be the important thing, I am glad and I am
     satisfied.  I ask no reward.  I would do it again under the same
     circumstances.  But what I do plead for, earnestly and sincerely, is
     that the Royal Humane Society will remember our captain and our
     life-boat crew, and in so remembering them increase the high honor
     and esteem in which the society is held all over the civilized
     world.

The Batavia reached New York November 26, 1872.  Mark Twain had been
absent three months, during which he had been brought to at least a
partial realization of what his work meant to him and to mankind.

An election had taken place during his absence--an election which
gratified him deeply, for it had resulted in the second presidency of
General Grant and in the defeat of Horace Greeley, whom he admired
perhaps, but not as presidential material.  To Thomas Nast, who had aided
very effectually in Mr. Greeley's overwhelming defeat, Clemens wrote:

Nast, you more than any other man have won a prodigious victory for
Grant--I mean, rather, for civilization and progress.  Those pictures
were simply marvelous, and if any man in the land has a right to hold his
head up and be honestly proud of his share in this year's vast events
that man is unquestionably yourself.  We all do sincerely honor you, and
are proud of you.

Horace Greeley's peculiar abilities and eccentricities won celebrity for
him, rather than voters.  Mark Twain once said of him:

"He was a great man, an honest man, and served his, country well and was
an honor to it.  Also, he was a good-natured man, but abrupt with
strangers if they annoyed him when he was busy.  He was profane, but that
is nothing; the best of us is that.  I did not know him well, but only
just casually, and by accident.  I never met him but once.  I called on
him in the Tribune office, but I was not intending to.  I was looking for
Whitelaw Reid, and got into the wrong den.  He was alone at his desk,
writing, and we conversed--not long, but just a little.  I asked him if
he was well, and he said, 'What the hell do you want?'  Well, I couldn't
remember what I wanted, so I said I would call again.  But I didn't."

Clemens did not always tell the incident just in this way.  Sometimes it
was John Hay he was looking for instead of Reid, and the conversation
with Greeley varied; but perhaps there was a germ of history under it
somewhere, and at any rate it could have happened well enough, and not
have been out of character with either of the men.




LXXXVIII

"THE GILDED AGE"

Mark Twain did not go on the lecture circuit that winter.  Redpath had
besought him as usual, and even in midsummer had written:

"Will you?  Won't you?  We have seven thousand to eight thousand dollars
in engagements recorded for you," and he named a list of towns ranging
geographically from Boston to St. Paul.

But Clemens had no intention then of ever lecturing any more, and again
in November, from London, he announced (to Redpath):

"When I yell again for less than $500 I'll be pretty hungry, but I
haven't any intention of yelling at any price."

Redpath pursued him, and in January proposed $400 for a single night in
Philadelphia, but without result.  He did lecture two nights in Steinway
Hall for the Mercantile Library Association, on the basis of half
profits, netting $1,300 for the two nights as his share; and he lectured
one night in Hartford, at a profit Of $1,500, for charity.  Father
Hawley, of Hartford, had announced that his missionary work was suffering
for lack of funds.  Some of his people were actually without food, he
said, their children crying with hunger.  No one ever responded to an
appeal like that quicker than Samuel Clemens.  He offered to deliver a
lecture free, and to bear an equal proportion of whatever expenses were
incurred by the committee of eight who agreed to join in forwarding the
project.  He gave the Sandwich Island lecture, and at the close of it a
large card was handed him with the figures of the receipts printed upon
it.  It was held up to view, and the house broke into a storm of cheers.

He did very little writing during the early weeks following his return.
Early in the year (January 3 and 6, 1873) he contributed two Sandwich
Island letters to the Tribune, in which, in his own peculiar fashion, he
urged annexation.

"We must annex those people," he declared, and proceeded to specify the
blessings we could give them, such as "leather-headed juries, the
insanity law, and the Tweed Ring."

     We can confer Woodhull and Clafin on them, and George Francis Train.
     We can give them lecturers!  I will go myself.

     We can make that little bunch of sleepy islands the hottest corner
     on earth, and array it in the moral splendor of our high and holy
     civilization.  Annexation is what the poor islanders need!

     "Shall we, to men benighted, the lamp of life deny?"

His success in England became an incentive to certain American
institutions to recognize his gifts at home.  Early in the year he was
dined as the guest of the Lotos Club of New York, and a week or two later
elected to its membership.  This was but a beginning.  Some new
membership or honor was offered every little while, and so many banquets
that he finally invented a set form for declining them.  He was not yet
recognized as the foremost American man of letters, but undoubtedly he
had become the most popular; and Edwin Whipple, writing at this time, or
but little later, said:

"Mark Twain is regarded chiefly as a humorist, but the exercise of his
real talents would rank him with the ablest of our authors in the past
fifty years."  So he was beginning to be "discovered" in high places.

It was during this winter that the Clemens household enjoyed its first
real home life in Hartford, its first real home life anywhere since those
earliest days of marriage.  The Hooker mansion was a comfortable place.
The little family had comparatively good health.  Their old friends were
stanch and lavishly warm-hearted, and they had added many new ones.
Their fireside was a delightful nucleus around which gathered those they
cared for most, the Twichells, the Warner families, the Trumbulls--all
certain of a welcome there.  George Warner, only a little while ago,
remembering, said:

"The Clemens house was the only one I have ever known where there was
never any preoccupation in the evenings, and where visitors were always
welcome.  Clemens was the best kind of a host; his evenings after dinner
were an unending flow of stories."

Friends living near by usually came and went at will, often without the
ceremony of knocking or formal leave-taking.  They were more like one
great family in that neighborhood, with a community of interests, a unity
of ideals.  The Warner families and the Clemenses were particularly
intimate, and out of their association grew Mark Twain's next important
literary undertaking, his collaboration with Charles Dudley Warner in
'The Gilded Age'.

A number of more or less absurd stories have been printed about the
origin of this book.  It was a very simple matter, a perfectly natural
development.

At the dinner-table one night, with the Warners present, criticisms of
recent novels were offered, with the usual freedom and severity of
dinner-table talk.  The husbands were inclined to treat rather lightly
the novels in which their wives were finding entertainment.  The wives
naturally retorted that the proper thing for the husbands to do was to
furnish the American people with better ones.  This was regarded in the
nature of a challenge, and as such was accepted--mutually accepted: that
is to say, in partnership.  On the spur of the moment Clemens and Warner
agreed that they would do a novel together, that they would begin it
immediately.  This is the whole story of the book's origin; so far, at
least, as the collaboration is concerned.  Clemens, in fact, had the
beginning of a story in his mind, but had been unwilling to undertake an
extended work of fiction alone.  He welcomed only too eagerly, therefore,
the proposition of joint authorship.  His purpose was to write a tale
around that lovable character of his youth, his mother's cousin, James
Lampton--to let that gentle visionary stand as the central figure against
a proper background.  The idea appealed to Warner, and there was no delay
in the beginning.  Clemens immediately set to work and completed 399
pages of the manuscript, the first eleven chapters of the book, before
the early flush of enthusiasm waned.

Warner came over then, and Clemens read it aloud to him.  Warner had some
plans for the story, and took it up at this point, and continued it
through the next twelve chapters; and so they worked alternately, "in the
superstition," as Mark Twain long afterward declared, "that we were
writing one coherent yarn, when I suppose, as a matter of fact, we were
writing two incoherent ones."--[The reader may be interested in the
division of labor.  Clemens wrote chapters I to XI; also chapters XXIV,
XXV, XXVII, XXVIII, XXX, XXXII, XXXIII, XXXIV, XXXVI, XXXVII, XLII,
XLIII, XLV, LI, LII, LIII, LVII, LIX, LX, LXI, LXII, and portions of
chapters XXXV, XLIX, LVI.  Warner wrote chapters XII to XXIII; also
chapters XXVI, XXIX, XXXI, XXXVIII, XXXIX, XL, XLI, XLIV, XLVI, XLVII,
XLVITT, L, LIV, LV, LVIII, LXIII, and portions of chapters XXXV, XLIX,
and LVI.  The work was therefore very evenly divided.

There was another co-worker on The Gilded Age before the book was finally
completed.  This was J. Hammond Trumbull, who prepared the variegated,
marvelous cryptographic chapter headings: Trumbull was the most learned
man that ever lived in Hartford.  He was familiar with all literary and
scientific data, and according to Clemens could swear in twenty-seven
languages.  It was thought to be a choice idea to get Trumbull to supply
a lingual medley of quotations to precede the chapters in the new book,
the purpose being to excite interest and possibly to amuse the reader--a
purpose which to some extent appears to have miscarried.]

The book was begun in February and finished in April, so the work did not
lag.  The result, if not highly artistic, made astonishingly good
reading.  Warner had the touch of romance, Clemens, the gift of creating,
or at least of portraying, human realities.  Most of his characters
reflected intimate personalities of his early life.  Besides the
apotheosis of James Lampton into the immortal Sellers, Orion became
Washington Hawkins, Squire Clemens the judge, while Mark Twain's own
personality, in a greater or lesser degree, is reflected in most of his
creations.  As for the Tennessee land, so long a will-o'the-wisp and a
bugbear, it became tangible property at last.  Only a year or two before
Clemens had written to Orion:

     Oh, here!  I don't want to be consulted at all about Tennessee.  I
     don't want it even mentioned to me.  When I make a suggestion it is
     for you to act upon it or throw it aside, but I beseech you never to
     ask my advice, opinion, or consent about that hated property.

But it came in good play now.  It is the important theme of the story.

Mark Twain was well qualified to construct his share of the tale.  He
knew his characters, their lives, and their atmospheres perfectly.
Senator Dilworthy (otherwise Senator Pomeroy, of Kansas, then notorious
for attempted vote-buying) was familiar enough.  That winter in
Washington had acquainted Clemens with the life there, its political
intrigues, and the disrepute of Congress.  Warner was equally well
qualified for his share of the undertaking, and the chief criticism that
one may offer is the one stated by Clemens himself--that the divisions of
the tale remain divisions rather than unity.

As for the story itself--the romance and tragedy of it--the character of
Laura in the hands of either author is one not easy to forget.  Whether
this means that the work is well done, or only strikingly done, the
reader himself must judge.  Morally, the character is not justified.
Laura was a victim of circumstance from the beginning.  There could be no
poetic justice in her doom.  To drag her out of a steamer wreck, only to
make her the victim of a scoundrel, later an adventuress, and finally a
murderess, all may be good art, but of a very bad kind.  Laura is a sort
of American Becky Sharp; but there is retributive justice in Becky's
fate, whereas Laura's doom is warranted only by the author's whim.  As
for her end, whatever the virtuous public of that day might have done, a
present-day audience would not have pelted her from the stage, destroyed
her future, taken away her life.

The authors regarded their work highly when it was finished, but that is
nothing.  Any author regards his work highly at the moment of its
completion.  In later years neither of them thought very well of their
production; but that also is nothing.  The author seldom cares very
deeply for his offspring once it is turned over to the public charge.
The fact that the story is still popular, still delights thousands of
readers, when a myriad of novels that have been written since it was
completed have lived their little day and died so utterly that even their
names have passed out of memory, is the best verdict as to its worth.




LXXXIX

PLANNING A NEW HOME

Clemens and his wife bought a lot for the new home that winter, a fine,
sightly piece of land on Farmington Avenue--table-land, slopingdown to a
pretty stream that wound through the willows and among the trees.  They
were as delighted as children with their new purchase and the prospect of
building.  To her sister Mrs. Clemens wrote:

     Mr. Clemens seems to glory in his sense of possession; he goes daily
     into the lot, has had several falls trying to lay off the land by
     sliding around on his feet....

     For three days the ice has covered the trees, and they have been
     glorious.  We could do nothing but watch the beauty outside; if you
     looked at the trees as the sun struck them, with your back toward
     the sun, they were covered with jewels.  If you looked toward the
     sun it was all crystal whiteness, a perfect fairy-land.  Then the
     nights were moonlight, and that was a great beauty, the moon giving
     us the same prismatic effect.

This was the storm of which Mark Twain wrote his matchless description,
given first in his speech on New England weather, and later preserved in
'Following the Equator', in more extended form.  In that book he likens
an ice-storm to his impressions derived from reading descriptions of the
Taj Mahal, that wonderful tomb of a fair East Indian queen.  It is a
marvelous bit of word-painting--his description of that majestic vision:
"When every bough and twig is strung with ice-beads, frozen dewdrops, and
the whole tree sparkles cold and white, like the Shah of Persia's diamond
plume."  It will pay any one to look up that description and read it all,
though it has been said, by the fortunate one or two who heard him first
give it utterance as an impromptu outburst, that in the subsequent
process of writing the bloom of its original magnificence was lost.

The plans for the new house were drawn forthwith by that gentle architect
Edward Potter, whose art to-day may be considered open to criticism, but
not because of any lack of originality.  Hartford houses of that period
were mainly of the goods-box form of architecture, perfectly square,
typifying the commercial pursuits of many of their owners.  Potter agreed
to get away from this idea, and a radical and even frenzied departure was
the result.  Certainly his plans presented beautiful pictures, and all
who saw them were filled with wonder and delight.  Architecture has
lavished itself in many florescent forms since then, but we may imagine
that Potter's "English violet" order of design, as he himself designated
it, startled, dazzled, and captivated in a day, when most houses were
mere habitations, built with a view to economy and the largest possible
amount of room.

Workmen were put on the ground without delay, to prepare for the
builders, and work was rapidly pushed along.  Then in May the whole
matter was left in the hands of the architect and the carpenters (with
Lawyer Charles E. Perkins to stand between Potter and the violent
builder, who roared at Potter and frightened him when he wanted changes),
while the Clemens household, with Clara Spaulding, a girlhood friend of
Mrs. Clemens, sailed away to England for a half-year holiday.




XC

A LONG ENGLISH HOLIDAY

They sailed on the Batavia, and with them went a young man named
Thompson, a theological student whom Clemens had consented to take as an
amanuensis.  There is a pathetic incident connected with this young man,
and it may as well be set down here.  Clemens found, a few weeks after
his arrival in England, that so great was the tax upon his time that he
could make no use of Thompson's services.  He gave Thompson fifty
dollars, and upon the possibility of the young man's desiring to return
to America, advanced him another fifty dollars, saying that he could
return it some day, and never thought of it again.  But the young man
remembered it, and one day, thirty-six years later, after a life of
hardship and struggle, such as the life of a country minister is apt to
be, he wrote and inclosed a money-order, a payment on his debt.  That
letter and its inclosure brought only sorrow to Mark Twain.  He felt that
it laid upon him the accumulated burden of the weary thirty-six years'
struggle with ill-fortune.  He returned the money, of course, and in a
biographical note commented:

     How pale painted heroisms of romance look beside it!  Thompson's
     heroism, which is real, which is colossal, which is sublime, and
     which is costly beyond all estimate, is achieved in profound
     obscurity, and its hero walks in rags to the end of his days.  I had
     forgotten Thompson completely, but he flashes before me as vividly
     as lightning.  I can see him now.  It was on the deck of the
     Batavia, in the dock.  The ship was casting off, with that hubbub
     and confusion and rushing of sailors, and shouting of orders and
     shrieking of boatswain whistles, which marked the departure
     preparations in those days--an impressive contrast with the solemn
     silence which marks the departure preparations of the giant ships of
     the present day.  Mrs. Clemens, Clara Spaulding, little Susy, and
     the nurse-maid were all properly garbed for the occasion.  We all
     had on our storm-rig, heavy clothes of somber hue, but new and
     designed and constructed for the purpose, strictly in accordance
     with sea-going etiquette; anything wearable on land being distinctly
     and odiously out of the question.

     Very well.  On that deck, and gliding placidly among those honorable
     and properly upholstered groups, appeared Thompson, young, grave,
     long, slim, with an aged fuzzy plug hat towering high on the upper
     end of him and followed by a gray duster, which flowed down, without
     break or wrinkle, to his ankles.  He came straight to us, and shook
     hands and compromised us.  Everybody could see that we knew him.  A
     nigger in heaven could not have created a profounder astonishment.

     However, Thompson didn't know that anything was happening.  He had
     no prejudices about clothes.  I can still see him as he looked when
     we passed Sandy Hook and the winds of the big ocean smote us.
     Erect, lofty, and grand he stood facing the blast, holding his plug
     on with both hands and his generous duster blowing out behind, level
     with his neck.  There were scoffers observing, but he didn't know
     it; he wasn't disturbed.

     In my mind, I see him once afterward, clothed as before, taking me
     down in shorthand.  The Shah of Persia had come to England and Dr.
     Hosmer, of the Herald, had sent me to Ostend, to view his Majesty's
     progress across the Channel and write an account of it.  I can't
     recall Thompson after that, and I wish his memory had been as poor
     as mine.

They had been a month in London, when the final incident referred to took
place--the arrival of the Shah of Persia--and were comfortably quartered
at the Langham Hotel.  To Twichell Clemens wrote:

     We have a luxuriously ample suite of apartments on the third floor,
     our bedroom looking straight up Portland Place, our parlor having a
     noble array of great windows looking out upon both streets (Portland
     Place and the crook that joins it onto Regent Street).

     Nine p.m.  full twilight, rich sunset tints lingering in the west.

     I am not going to write anything; rather tell it when I get back.
     I love you and Harmony, and that is all the fresh news I've got
     anyway.  And I mean to keep that fresh all the time.

Mrs. Clemens, in a letter to her sister, declared: "It is perfectly
discouraging to try to write you.  There is so much to write about that
it makes me feel as if it was no use to begin."

It was a period of continuous honor and entertainment.  If Mark Twain had
been a lion on his first visit, he was little less than royalty now.  His
rooms at the Langham were like a court.  Miss Spaulding (now Mrs. John B.
Stanchfield) remembers that Robert Browning, Turgenieff, Sir John
Millais, Lord Houghton, and Sir Charles Dilke (then at the height of his
fame) were among those that called to pay their respects.  In a recent
letter she says:

     I remember a delightful luncheon that Charles Kingsley gave for Mr.
     Clemens; also an evening when Lord Dunraven brought Mr. Home, the
     medium, Lord Dunraven telling many of the remarkable things he had
     seen Mr. Home do.  I remember I wanted so much to see him float out
     of a seven or eight story window, and enter another, which Lord
     Dunraven said he had seen him do many times.  But Mr. Home had been
     very ill, and said his power had left him.  My great regret was that
     we did not see Carlyle, who was too sad and ill for visits.

Among others they met Lewis Carroll, the author of Alice in Wonderland,
and found him so shy that it was almost impossible to get him to say a
word on any subject.

"The shyest full-grown man, except Uncle Remus, I ever met," Clemens once
wrote.  "Dr. MacDonald and several other lively talkers were present, and
the talk went briskly on for a couple of hours, but Carroll sat still all
the while, except now and then when he answered a question."

At a dinner given by George Smalley they met Herbert Spencer, and at a
luncheon-party at Lord Houghton's, Sir Arthur Helps, then a world-wide
celebrity.

     Lord Elcho, a large, vigorous man, sat at some distance down the
     table.  He was talking earnestly about the town of Godalming.  It
     was a deep, flowing, and inarticulate rumble, but I caught the
     Godalming pretty nearly every time it broke free of the rumbling,
     and as all the strength was on the first end of the word, it
     startled me every time, because it sounded so like swearing.  In the
     middle of the luncheon Lady Houghton rose, remarked to the guests on
     her right and on her left, in a matter-of-fact way, "Excuse me, I
     have an engagement," and without further ceremony, she went off to
     meet it.  This would have been doubtful etiquette in America.  Lord
     Houghton told a number of delightful stories.  He told them in
     French, and I lost nothing of them but the nubs.

Little Susy and her father thrived on London life, but after a time it
wore on Mrs. Clemens.  She delighted in the English cordiality and
culture, but the demands were heavy, the social forms sometimes trying.
Life in London was interesting, and in its way charming, but she did not
enter into it with quite her husband's enthusiasm and heartiness.  In the
end they canceled all London engagements and quietly set out for
Scotland.  On the way they rested a few days in York, a venerable place
such as Mark Twain always loved to describe.  In a letter to Mrs. Langdon
he wrote:

     For the present we shall remain in this queer old walled town, with
     its crooked, narrow lanes, that tell us of their old day that knew
     no wheeled vehicles; its plaster-and-timber dwellings, with upper
     stories far overhanging the street, and thus marking their date,
     say three hundred years ago; the stately city walls, the castellated
     gates, the ivy-grown, foliage-sheltered, most noble and picturesque
     ruin of St. Mary's Abbey, suggesting their date, say five hundred
     years ago, in the heart of Crusading times and the glory of English
     chivalry and romance; the vast Cathedral of York, with its worn
     carvings and quaintly pictured windows, preaching of still remoter
     days; the outlandish names of streets and courts and byways that
     stand as a record and a memorial, all these centuries, of Danish
     dominion here in still earlier times; the hint here and there of
     King Arthur and his knights and their bloody fights with Saxon
     oppressors round about this old city more than thirteen hundred
     years gone by; and, last of all, the melancholy old stone coffins
     and sculptured inscriptions, a venerable arch and a hoary tower of
     stone that still remain and are kissed by the sun and caressed by
     the shadows every day, just as the sun and the shadows have kissed
     and, caressed them every lagging day since the Roman Emperor's
     soldiers placed them here in the times when Jesus the Son of Mary
     walked the streets of Nazareth a youth, with no more name or fame
     than the Yorkshire boy who is loitering down this street this
     moment.

They reached Edinburgh at the end of July and secluded themselves in
Veitch's family hotel in George Street, intending to see no one.  But
this plan was not a success; the social stress of London had been too
much for Mrs. Clemens, and she collapsed immediately after their arrival.
Clemens was unacquainted in Edinburgh, but remembered that Dr. John
Brown, who had written Rab and His Friend, lived there.  He learned his
address, and that he was still a practising physician.  He walked around
to 23 Rutland Street, and made himself known.  Dr. Brown came forthwith,
and Mrs. Clemens speedily recovered under his able and inspiring
treatment.

The association did not end there.  For nearly a month Dr. Brown was
their daily companion, either at the hotel, or in his own home, or on
protracted drives when he made his round of visits, taking these new
friends along.  Dr. John was beloved by everybody in Edinburgh, everybody
in Scotland, for that matter, and his story of Rab had won him a
following throughout Christendom.  He was an unpretentious sovereign.
Clemens once wrote of him:

     His was a sweet and winning face, as beautiful a face as I have ever
     known.  Reposeful, gentle, benignant; the face of a saint at peace
     with all the world and placidly beaming upon it the sunshine of love
     that filled his heart.

He was the friend of all dogs, and of all people.  It has been told of
him that once, when driving, he thrust his head suddenly out of the
carriage window, then resumed his place with a disappointed look.

"Who was it?" asked his companion.  "Some one you know?"

"No," he said.  "A dog I don't know."

He became the boon companion and playmate of little Susy, then not quite
a year and a half old.  He called her Megalopis, a Greek term, suggested
by her eyes; those deep, burning eyes that seemed always so full of
life's sadder philosophies, and impending tragedy.  In a collection of
Dr. Brown's letters he refers to this period.  In one place he says:

     Had the author of The Innocents Abroad not come to Edinburgh at that
     time we in all human probability might never have met, and what a
     deprivation that would have been to me during the last quarter of a
     century!

And in another place:

     I am attending the wife of Mark Twain.  His real name is Clemens.
     She is a quite lovely little woman, modest and clever, and she has a
     girlie eighteen months old, her ludicrous miniature--and such eyes!

Those playmates, the good doctor and Megalopis, romped together through
the hotel rooms with that complete abandon which few grown persons can
assume in their play with children, and not all children can assume in
their play with grown-ups.  They played "bear," and the "bear" (which was
a very little one, so little that when it stood up behind the sofa you
could just get a glimpse of yellow hair) would lie in wait for her
victim, and spring out and surprise him and throw him into frenzies of
fear.

Almost every day they made his professional rounds with him.  He always
carried a basket of grapes for his patients.  His guests brought along
books to read while they waited.  When he stopped for a call he would
say:

"Entertain yourselves while I go in and reduce the population."

There was much sight-seeing to do in Edinburgh, and they could not quite
escape social affairs.  There were teas and luncheons and dinners with
the Dunfermlines and the Abercrombies, and the MacDonalds, and with
others of those brave clans that no longer slew one another among the
grim northern crags and glens, but were as sociable and entertaining
lords and ladies as ever the southland could produce.  They were very
gentle folk indeed, and Mrs. Clemens, in future years, found her heart
going back oftener to Edinburgh than to any other haven of those first
wanderings.  August 24th she wrote to her sister:

     We leave Edinburgh to-morrow with sincere regret; we have had such a
     delightful stay here--we do so regret leaving Dr. Brown and his
     sister, thinking that we shall probably never see them again [as
     indeed they never did].

They spent a day or two at Glasgow and sailed for Ireland, where they put
in a fortnight, and early in September were back in England again, at
Chester, that queer old city where; from a tower on the wall, Charles I.
read the story of his doom.  Reginald Cholmondeley had invited them to
visit his country seat, beautiful Condover Hall, near Shrewsbury, and in
that lovely retreat they spent some happy, restful days.  Then they were
in the whirl of London once more, but escaped for a fortnight to Paris,
sight-seeing and making purchases for the new home.

Mrs. Clemens was quite ready to return to America, by this time.

     I am blue and cross and homesick [she wrote].  I suppose what makes
     me feel the latter is because we are contemplating to stay in London
     another month.  There has not one sheet of Mr. Clemens's proof come
     yet, and if he goes home before the book is published here he will
     lose his copyright.  And then his friends feel that it will be
     better for him to lecture in London before his book is published,
     not only that it will give him a larger but a more enviable
     reputation.  I would not hesitate one moment if it were simply for
     the money that his copyright will bring him, but if his reputation
     will be better for his staying and lecturing, of course he ought to
     stay....  The truth is, I can't bear the thought of postponing going
     home.

It is rather gratifying to find Olivia Clemens human, like that, now and
then.  Otherwise, on general testimony, one might well be tempted to
regard her as altogether of another race and kind.




XCI

A LONDON LECTURE

Clemens concluded to hasten the homeward journey, but to lecture a few
nights in London before starting.  He would then accompany his little
family home, and return at once to continue the lecture series and
protect his copyright.  This plan was carried out.  In a communication to
the Standard, October 7th, he said:

     SIR,--In view of the prevailing frenzy concerning the Sandwich
     Islands, and the inflamed desire of the public to acquire
     information concerning them, I have thought it well to tarry yet
     another week in England and deliver a lecture upon this absorbing
     subject.  And lest it should be thought unbecoming in me, a
     stranger, to come to the public rescue at such a time, instead of
     leaving to abler hands a matter of so much moment, I desire to
     explain that I do it with the best motives and the most honorable
     intentions.  I do it because I am convinced that no one can allay
     this unwholesome excitement as effectually as I can, and to allay
     it, and allay it as quickly as possible, is surely one thing that is
     absolutely necessary at this juncture.  I feel and know that I am
     equal to this task, for I can allay any kind of an excitement by
     lecturing upon it.  I have saved many communities in this way.  I
     have always been able to paralyze the public interest in any topic
     that I chose to take hold of and elucidate with all my strength.

     Hoping that this explanation will show that if I am seeming to
     intrude I am at least doing it from a high impulse, I am, sir, your
     obedient servant,
                                   MARK TWAIN.


A day later the following announcement appeared:

                         QUEEN'S CONCERT ROOMS,
                            HANOVER SQUARE.

                 MR. GEORGE DOLBY begs to announce that

                             MR. MARK TWAIN

                             WILL DELIVER A
                                LECTURE
                                  OF A
                          HUMOROUS CHARACTER,

                              AS ABOVE, ON
                MONDAY EVENING NEXT, OCTOBER 13th, 1873,
                  AND REPEAT IT IN THE SAME PLACE, ON
                     TUESDAY EVENING, OCTOBER 14th,
                     WEDNESDAY "         "    15th,
                     THURSDAY  "         "    16th,
                     FRIDAY    "         "    17th,

                           At Eight o'Clock,
                                  AND
                   SATURDAY AFTERNOON, OCTOBER 18th,
                           At Three o'Clock.

                                SUBJECT:
              "Our Fellow Savages of the Sandwich Islands."

     As Mr. TWAIN has spent several months in these Islands, and is well
     acquainted with his subject, the Lecture may be expected to furnish
     matter of interest.

               STALLS, 5s.       UNRESERVED SEATS, 3s.


The prospect of a lecture from Mark Twain interested the London public.
Those who had not seen him were willing to pay even for that privilege.
The papers were encouraging; Punch sounded a characteristic note:

                    WELCOME TO A LECTURER

    "'Tis time we Twain did show ourselves."  'Twas said
     By Caesar, when one Mark had lost his head:
     By Mark, whose head's quite bright, 'tis said again:
     Therefore, "go with me, friends, to bless this Twain."

                                             --Punch.


Dolby had managed the Dickens lectures, and he proved his sound business
judgment and experience by taking the largest available hall in London
for Mark Twain.

On the evening of October 13th, in the spacious Queen's Concert Rooms,
Hanover Square, Mark Twain delivered his first public address in England.
The subject was "Our Fellow Savages of the Sandwich Islands," the old
lecture with which he had made his first great successes.  He was not
introduced.  He appeared on the platform in evening dress, assuming the
character of a manager announcing a disappointment.

Mr. Clemens, he said, had fully expected to be present.  He paused and
loud murmurs arose from the audience.  He lifted his hand and they
subsided.  Then he added, "I am happy to say that Mark Twain is present,
and will now give his lecture."  Whereupon the audience roared its
approval.

It would be hardly an exaggeration to say that his triumph that week was
a regal one.  For five successive nights and a Saturday matinee the
culture and fashion of London thronged to hear him discourse of their
"fellow savages."  It was a lecture event wholly without precedent.  The
lectures of Artemus Ward,--["Artemus the delicious," as Charles Reade
called him, came to London in June, 1866, and gave his "piece" in
Egyptian Hall.  The refined, delicate, intellectual countenance, the
sweet, gave, mouth, from which one might have expected philosophical
lectures retained their seriousness while listeners were convulsed with
laughter.  There was something magical about it.  Every sentence was a
surprise.  He played on his audience as Liszt did on a piano most easily
when most effectively.  Who can ever forget his attempt to stop his
Italian pianist-" a count in his own country, but not much account in
this "-who went on playing loudly while he was trying to tell us an
"affecting incident" that occurred near a small clump of trees shown on
his panorama of the Far West.  The music stormed on-we could see only
lips and arms pathetically moving till the piano suddenly ceased, and we
heard-it was all we heard "and, she fainted in Reginald's arms."  His
tricks have been at tempted in many theaters, but Artemus Ward was
inimitable.  And all the time the man was dying. (Moneure D. Conway,
Autobiography.)]--who had quickly become a favorite in London, had
prepared the public for American platform humor, while the daily doings
of this new American product, as reported by the press, had aroused
interest, or curiosity, to a high pitch.  On no occasion in his own
country had he won such a complete triumph.  The papers for a week
devoted columns of space to appreciation and editorial comment.  The
Daily News of October 17th published a column-and-a-half editorial on
American humor, with Mark Twain's public appearance as the general text.
The Times referred to the continued popularity of the lectures:

     They can't be said to have more than whetted the public appetite, if
     we are to take the fact which has been imparted to us, that the
     holding capacity of the Hanover Square Rooms has been inadequate to
     the demand made upon it every night by Twain's lecturing, as a
     criterion.  The last lecture of this too brief course was delivered
     yesterday before an audience which crammed to discomfort every part
     of the principal apartment of the Hanover Square Rooms....

At the close of yesterday's lecture Mark Twain was so loudly applauded
that he returned to the stage, and, as soon as the audience gave him a
chance of being heard, he said, with much apparent emotion:

     "Ladies and Gentlemen,--I won't keep you one single moment in this
     suffocating atmosphere.  I simply wish to say that this is the last
     lecture I shall have the honor to deliver in London until I return
     from America, four weeks from now.  I only wish to say (here Mr.
     Clemens faltered as if too much affected to proceed) I am very
     grateful.  I do not wish to appear pathetic, but it is something
     magnificent for a stranger to come to the metropolis of the world
     and be received so handsomely as I have been.  I simply thank you."

The Saturday Review devoted a page, and Once a Week, under the head of
"Cracking jokes," gave three pages, to praise of the literary and lecture
methods of the new American humorist.  With the promise of speedy return,
he left London, gave the lecture once in Liverpool, and with his party
(October 21st) set sail for home.

In mid-Atlantic he remembered Dr. Brown, and wrote him:

     We have plowed a long way over the sea, and there's twenty-two
     hundred miles of restless water between us now, besides the railway
     stretch.  And yet you are so present with us, so close to us, that a
     span and a whisper would bridge the distance.

So it would seem that of all the many memories of that eventful half-
year, that of Dr.  Brown was the most present, the most tender.




XCII

FURTHER LONDON LECTURE TRIUMPHS

Orion Clemens records that he met "Sam and Livy" on their arrival from
England, November 2d, and that the president of the Mercantile Library
Association sent up his card "four times," in the hope of getting a
chance to propose a lecture engagement--an incident which impressed Orion
deeply in its evidence of his brother's towering importance.  Orion
himself was by this time engaged in various projects.  He was inventing a
flying-machine, for one thing, writing a Jules Verne story, reading proof
on a New York daily, and contemplating the lecture field.  This great
blaze of international appreciation which had come to the little boy who
used to set type for him in Hannibal, and wash up the forms and cry over
the dirty proof, made him gasp.

They went to see Booth in Hamlet [he says], and Booth sent for Sam to
come behind the scenes, and when Sam proposed to add a part to Hamlet,
the part of a bystander who makes humorous modern comment on the
situations in the play, Booth laughed immoderately.

Proposing a sacrilege like that to Booth!  To what heights had this
printer-pilot, miner-brother not attained!--[This idea of introducing a
new character in Hamlet was really attempted later by Mark Twain, with
the connivance of Joe Goodman [of all men], sad to relate.  So far as is
known it is the one stain on Goodman's literary record.]

Clemens returned immediately to England--the following Saturday, in fact
--and was back in London lecturing again after barely a month's absence.
He gave the "Roughing It" address, this time under the title of "Roughing
It on the Silver Frontier," and if his audiences were any less
enthusiastic, or his houses less crowded than before, the newspapers of
that day have left no record of it.  It was the height of the season now,
and being free to do so, he threw himself into the whirl of it, and for
two months, beyond doubt, was the most talked-of figure in London.  The
Athenaeum Club made him a visiting member (an honor considered next to
knighthood); Punch quoted him; societies banqueted him; his apartments,
as before; were besieged by callers.  Afternoons one was likely to find
him in "Poets' Corner" of the Langham smoking-room, with a group of
London and American authors--Reade, Collins, Miller, and the others--
frankly rioting in his bold fancies.  Charles Warren Stoddard was in
London at the time, and acted as his secretary.  Stoddard was a gentle
poet, a delightful fellow, and Clemens was very fond of him.  His only
complaint of Stoddard was that he did not laugh enough at his humorous
yarns.  Clemens once said:

"Dolby and I used to come in after the lecture, or perhaps after being
out to some dinner, and we liked to sit down and talk it over and tell
yarns, and we expected Stoddard to laugh at them, but Stoddard would lie
there on the couch and snore.  Otherwise, as a secretary, he was
perfect."

The great Tichborne trial was in progress then, and the spectacle of an
illiterate impostor trying to establish his claim as the rightful heir to
a great estate was highly diverting to Mark Twain.--[In a letter of this
period he speaks of having attended one of the Claimant's "Evenings."]--
He wanted to preserve the evidence as future literary material, and
Stoddard day after day patiently collected the news reports and neatly
pasted them into scrap-books, where they still rest, a complete record of
that now forgotten farce.  The Tichborne trial recalled to Mark Twain the
claimant in the Lampton family, who from time to time wrote him long
letters, urging him to join in the effort to establish his rights to the
earldom of Durham.  This American claimant was a distant cousin, who had
"somehow gotten hold of, or had fabricated a full set of documents."

Colonel Henry Watterson, just quoted (also a Lampton connection), adds:

     During the Tichborne trial Mark and I were in London, and one day he
     said to me: "I have investigated this Durham business down at the
     Herald's office.  There is nothing to it.  The Lamptons passed out
     of the earldom of Durham a hundred years ago.  There were never any
     estates; the title lapsed; the present earldom is a new creation,
     not in the same family at all.  But I'll tell you what: if you'll
     put up $500, I'll put up $500 more; we'll bring our chap over here
     and set him in as claimant, and, my word for it, Kenealy's fat boy
     won't be a marker to him."

It was a characteristic Mark Twain project, one of the sort he never
earned out in reality, but loved to follow in fancy, and with the pen
sometimes.  The "Rightful Earl of Durham" continued to send letters for a
long time after that (some of them still exist), but he did not establish
his claim.  No one but Mark Twain ever really got anything out of it.
Like the Tennessee land, it furnished material by and by for a book.
Colonel Watterson goes on to say that Clemens was only joking about
having looked up the matter in the peerage; that he hadn't really looked
it up at all, and that the earldom lies still in the Lampton family.

Another of Clemens's friends in London at this time was Prentice Mulford,
of California.  In later years Mulford acquired a wide reputation for his
optimistic and practical psychologies.  Through them he lifted himself
out of the slough of despond, and he sought to extend a helping hand to
others.  His "White Cross Library" had a wide reading and a wide
influence; perhaps has to this day.  But in 1873 Mulford had not found
the tangibility of thought, the secret of strength; he was only finding
it, maybe, in his frank acknowledgment of shortcoming:

     Now, Mark, I am down-very much down at present; you are up-where you
     deserve to be.  I can't ask this on the score of any past favors,
     for there have been none.  I have not always spoken of you in terms
     of extravagant praise; have sometimes criticized you, which was due,
     I suppose, in part to an envious spirit.  I am simply human.  Some
     people in the same profession say they entertain no jealousy of
     those more successful.  I can't.  They are divine; I am not.

It was only that he wished Clemens to speak a word for him to Routledge,
to get him a hearing for his work.  He adds:

     I shall be up myself some day, although my line is far apart from
     yours.  Whether you can do anything that I ask of you or not, I
     shall be happy then, as I would be now, to do you any just and right
     service....  Perhaps I have mistaken my vocation.  Certainly, if I
     was back with my rocker on the Tuolumne, I'd make it rattle livelier
     than ever I did before.  I have occasionally thought of London
     Bridge, but the Thames is now so d---d cold and dirty, and besides I
     can swim, and any attempt at drowning would, through the mere
     instinct of self-preservation, only result in my swimming ashore and
     ruining my best clothes; wherefore I should be worse off than ever.

Of course Mark Twain granted the favor Mulford asked, and a great deal
more, no doubt, for that was his way.  Mulford came up, as he had
prophesied, but the sea in due time claimed him, though not in the way he
had contemplated.  Years after he was one day found drifting off the
shores of Long Island in an open boat, dead.

Clemens made a number of notable dinner speeches during this second
London lecture period.  His response to the toast of the "Ladies,"
delivered at the annual dinner of the Scottish Corporation of London, was
the sensational event of the evening.

He was obliged to decline an invitation to the Lord Mayor's dinner,
whereupon his Lordship wrote to urge him to be present at least at the
finale, when the welcome would be "none the less hearty," and bespoke his
attendance for any future dinners.

Clemens lectured steadily at the Hanover Square Rooms during the two
months of his stay in London, and it was only toward the end of this
astonishing engagement that the audience began to show any sign of
diminishing.  Early in January he wrote to Twichell:

I am not going to the provinces because I cannot get halls that are large
enough.  I always felt cramped in the Hanover Square Rooms, but I find
that everybody here speaks with awe and respect of that prodigious hall
and wonders that I could fill it so long.

I am hoping to be back in twenty days, but I have so much to go home to
and enjoy with a jubilant joy that it hardly seems possible that it can
come to pass in so uncertain a world as this.

In the same letter he speaks of attending an exhibition of Landseer's
paintings at the Royal Academy:

     Ah, they are wonderfully beautiful!  There are such rich moonlights
     and dusks in the "Challenge" and the "Combat," and in that long
     flight of birds across a lake in the subdued flush of sunset (or
     sunrise, for no man can ever tell t'other from which in a picture,
     except it has the filmy morning mist breathing itself up from the
     water), and there is such a grave analytical profundity in the face
     of the connoisseurs; and such pathos in the picture of a fawn
     suckling its dead mother on a snowy waste, with only the blood in
     the footprints to hint that she is not asleep.  And the way that he
     makes animals' flesh and blood, insomuch that if the room were
     darkened ever so little, and a motionless living animal placed
     beside the painted one, no man could tell which was which.

I interrupted myself here, to drop a line to Shirley Brooks and suggest a
cartoon for Punch.  It was this: in one of the Academy saloons (in a
suite where these pictures are) a fine bust of Landseer stands on a
pedestal in the center of the room.  I suggested that some of Landseer's
best known animals be represented as having come down out of their frames
in the moonlight and grouped themselves about the bust in mourning
attitudes.

He sailed January 13 (1874.), on the Paythia, and two weeks later was at
home, where all was going well.  The Gilded Age had been issued a day or
two before Christmas, and was already in its third edition.  By the end
of January 26,000 copies had been sold, a sale that had increased to
40,000 a month later.  The new house was progressing, though it was by no
means finished.  Mrs. Clemens was in good health.  Little Susy was full
of such American activities as to earn the name of "The Modoc."  The
promise of the year was bright.




XCIII

THE REAL COLONEL SELLERS-GOLDEN DAYS

There are bound to be vexations, flies in the ointment, as we say.  It
was Warner who conferred the name of Eschol Sellers on the chief figure
of the collaborated novel.  Warner had known it as the name of an obscure
person, or perhaps he had only heard of it.  At all events, it seemed a
good one for the character and had been adopted.  But behold, the book
had been issued but a little while when there rose "out of the vasty
deeps" a genuine Eschol Sellers, who was a very respectable person.  He
was a stout, prosperous-looking man, gray and about fifty-five years old.
He came into the American Publishing Company offices and asked permission
to look at the book.  Mr. Bliss was out at the moment, but presently
arrived.  The visitor rose and introduced himself.

"My name is Eschol Sellers," he said.  "You have used it in one of your
publications.  It has brought upon me a lot of ridicule.  My people wish
me to sue you for $10,000 damages."

He had documents to prove his identity, and there was only one thing to
be done; he must be satisfied.  Bliss agreed to recall as many of the
offending volumes as possible and change the name on the plates.  He
contacted the authors, and the name Beriah was substituted for the
offending Eschol.  It turned out that the real Sellers family was a large
one, and that the given name Eschol was not uncommon in its several
branches.  This particular Eschol Sellers, curiously enough, was an
inventor and a promoter, though of a much more substantial sort than his
fiction namesake.  He was also a painter of considerable merit, a writer
and an antiquarian.  He was said to have been a grandson of the famous
painter, Rembrandt Peale.

Clemens vowed that he would not lecture in America that winter.  The
irrepressible Redpath besieged him as usual, and at the end of January
Clemens telegraphed him, as he thought, finally.  Following it with a
letter of explanation, he added:

"I said to her, 'There isn't money enough in America to hire me to leave
you for one day.'"

But Redpath was a persistent devil.  He used arguments and held out
inducements which even Mrs. Clemens thought should not be resisted, and
Clemens yielded from time to time, and gave a lecture here and there
during February.  Finally, on the 3d of March (1879.) he telegraphed his
tormentor:

"Why don't you congratulate me?  I never expect to stand on a lecture
platform again after Thursday night."

Howells tells delightfully of a visit which he and Aldrich paid to
Hartford just at this period.  Aldrich went to visit Clemens and Howells
to visit Charles Dudley Warner, Clemens coming as far as Springfield to
welcome them.

     In the good-fellowship of that cordial neighborhood we had two such
     days as the aging sun no longer shines on in his round.  There was
     constant running in and out of friendly houses where the lively
     hosts and guests called one another by their Christian names or
     nicknames, and no such vain ceremony as knocking or ringing at
     doors.  Clemens was then building the stately mansion in which he
     satisfied his love of magnificence as if it had been another
     sealskin coat, and he was at the crest of the prosperity which
     enabled him to humor every whim or extravagance.

Howells tells how Clemens dilated on the advantages of subscription sale
over the usual methods of publication, and urged the two Boston authors
to prepare something which canvassers could handle.

"Why, any other means of bringing out a book is privately printing it,"
he declared, and added that his subscription books in Bliss's hands sold
right along, "just like the Bible."

On the way back to Boston Howells and Aldrich planned a subscription book
which would sell straight along, like the Bible.  It was to be called
"Twelve Memorable Murders."  They had dreamed two or three fortunes by
the time they had reached Boston, but the project ended there.

"We never killed a single soul," Howells said once to the writer of this
memoir.

Clemens was always urging Howells to visit him after that.  He offered
all sorts of inducements.

     You will find us the most reasonable people in the world.  We had
     thought of precipitating upon you, George Warner and his wife one
     day, Twichell and his jewel of a wife another day, and Charles
     Perkins and wife another.  Only those--simply members of our family
     they are.  But I'll close the door against them all, which will
     "fix" all of the lot except Twichell, who will no more hesitate to
     climb in the back window than nothing.

     And you shall go to bed when you please, get up when you please,
     talk when you please, read when you please.

A little later he was urging Howells or Aldrich, or both of them; to come
to Hartford to live.

     Mr. Hall, who lives in the house next to Mrs. Stowe's (just where we
     drive in to go to our new house), will sell for $16,000 or $17,000.
     You can do your work just as well here as in Cambridge, can't you?
     Come!  Will one of you boys buy that house?  Now, say yes.

Certainly those were golden, blessed days, and perhaps, as Howells says,
the sun does not shine on their like any more--not in Hartford, at least,
for the old group that made them no longer assembles there.  Hartford
about this time became a sort of shrine for all literary visitors, and
for other notables as well, whether of America or from overseas.  It was
the half-way place between Boston and New York, and pilgrims going in
either direction rested there.  It is said that travelers arriving in
America, were apt to remember two things they wished to see: Niagara
Falls and Mark Twain.  But the Falls had no such recent advertising
advantage as that spectacular success in London.  Visitors were apt to
begin in Hartford.

Howells went with considerable frequency after that, or rather with
regularity, twice a year, or oftener, and his coming was always hailed
with great rejoicing.  They visited and ate around at one place and
another among that pleasant circle of friends.  But they were happiest
afterward together, Clemens smoking continually, "soothing his tense
nerves with a mild hot Scotch," says Howells, "while we both talked, and
talked, and tasked of everything in the heavens and on the earth, and the
waters under the earth.  After two days of this talk I would come away
hollow, realizing myself best in the image of one of those locust-shells
which you find sticking to the bark of trees at the end of summer."
Sometimes Clemens told the story of his early life, "the inexhaustible,
the fairy, the Arabian Nights story, which I could never tire of even
when it began to be told over again."




XCIV

BEGINNING "TOM SAWYER"

The Clemens household went to Quarry Farm in April, leaving the new house
once more in the hands of the architect and builders.  It was costing a
vast sum of money, and there was a financial stress upon land.  Mrs.
Clemens, always prudent, became a little uneasy at times, though without
warrant in those days, for her business statement showed that her
holdings were only a little less than a quarter of a million in her own
right, while her husband's books and lectures had been highly
remunerative, and would be more so.  They were justified in living in
ample, even luxurious comfort, and how free from financial worries they
could have lived for the rest of their days!

Clemens, realizing his happiness, wrote Dr. Brown:

Indeed I am thankful for the wifey and the child, and if there is one
individual creature on all this footstool who is more thoroughly and
uniformly and, unceasingly happy than I am I defy the world to produce
him and prove him.  In my opinion he don't exist.  I was a mighty rough,
coarse, unpromising subject when Livy took charge of me, four years ago,
and I may still be to the rest of the world, but not to her.  She has
made a very creditable job of me.

Truly fortune not only smiled, but laughed.  Every mail brought great
bundles of letters that sang his praises.  Robert Watt, who had
translated his books into Danish, wrote of their wide popularity among
his people.  Madame Blanc (Th. Bentzon), who as early as 1872 had
translated The Jumping Frog into French, and published it, with extended
comment on the author and his work, in the 'Revue des deux mondes', was
said to be preparing a review of 'The Gilded Age'.  All the world seemed
ready to do him honor.

Of course, one must always pay the price, usually a vexatious one.  Bores
stopped him on the street to repeat ancient and witless stories.
Invented anecdotes, some of them exasperating ones, went the rounds of
the press.  Impostors in distant localities personated him, or claimed to
be near relatives, and obtained favors, sometimes money, in his name.
Trivial letters, seeking benefactions of every kind, took the savor from
his daily mail.  Letters from literary aspirants were so numerous that he
prepared a "form" letter of reply:

DEAR SIR OR MADAM,--Experience has not taught me very much, still it has
taught me that it is not wise to criticize a piece of literature, except
to an enemy of the person who wrote it; then if you praise it that enemy
admires--you for your honest manliness, and if you dispraise it he
admires you for your sound judgment.

                              Yours truly,    S.  L.  C.

Even Orion, now in Keokuk on a chicken farm, pursued him with manuscripts
and proposals of schemes.  Clemens had bought this farm for Orion, who
had counted on large and quick returns, but was planning new enterprises
before the first eggs were hatched.  Orion Clemens was as delightful a
character as was ever created in fiction, but he must have been a trial
now and then to Mark Twain.  We may gather something of this from a
letter written by the latter to his mother and sister at this period:

     I can't "encourage" Orion.  Nobody can do that conscientiously, for
     the reason that before one's letter has time to reach him he is off
     on some new wild-goose chase.  Would you encourage in literature a
     man who the older he grows the worse he writes?

     I cannot encourage him to try the ministry, because he would change
     his religion so fast that he would have to keep a traveling agent
     under wages to go ahead of him to engage pulpits and board for him.

     I cannot conscientiously encourage him to do anything but potter
     around his little farm and put in his odd hours contriving new and
     impossible projects at the rate of 365 a year which is his customary
     average.  He says he did well in Hannibal!  Now there is a man who
     ought to be entirely satisfied with the grandeurs, emoluments, and
     activities of a hen farm.

     If you ask me to pity Orion I can do that.  I can do it every day
     and all day long.  But one can't "encourage" quicksilver; because
     the instant you put your finger on it, it isn't there.  No, I am
     saying too much.  He does stick to his literary and legal
     aspirations, and he naturally would elect the very two things which
     he is wholly and preposterously unfitted for.  If I ever become
     able, I mean to put Orion on a regular pension without revealing the
     fact that it is a pension.

     He did presently allow the pension, a liberal one, which continued
     until neither Orion Clemens nor his wife had further earthly need of
     it.

Mark Twain for some time had contemplated one of the books that will
longest preserve his memory, 'The Adventures of Tom Sawyer'.  The success
of 'Roughing It' naturally made him cast about for other autobiographical
material, and he remembered those days along the river-front in Hannibal
--his skylarking with Tom Blankenship, the Bowen boys, John Briggs, and
the rest.  He had recognized these things as material--inviting material
it was--and now in the cool luxury of Quarry Farm he set himself to spin
the fabric of youth.

He found summer-time always his best period for literary effort, and on a
hillside just by the old quarry, Mrs. Crane had built for him that spring
a study--a little room of windows, somewhat suggestive of a pilot-house--
overlooking the long sweep of grass and the dreamlike city below.  Vines
were planted that in the course of time would cover and embower it; there
was a tiny fireplace for chilly days.  To Twichell, of his new retreat,
Clemens wrote:

It is the loveliest study you ever saw.  It is octagonal, with a peaked
roof, each face filled with a spacious window, and it sits perched in
complete isolation on the top of an elevation that commands leagues of
valley and city and retreating ranges of distant blue hills.  It is a
cozy nest and just room in it for a sofa, table, and three or four
chairs, and when the storms sweep down the remote valley and the
lightning flashes behind the hills beyond, and the rain beats upon the
roof over my head, imagine the luxury of it.

He worked steadily there that summer.  He would go up mornings, after
breakfast, remaining until nearly dinner-time, say until five o'clock or
after, for it was not his habit to eat luncheon.  Other members of the
family did not venture near the place, and if he was urgently wanted they
blew a horn.  Each evening he brought down his day's performance to read
to the assembled family.  He felt the need of audience and approval.
Usually he earned the latter, but not always.  Once, when for a day he
put aside other matters to record a young undertaker's love-affair, and
brought down the result in the evening, fairly bubbling with the joy of
it, he met with a surprise.  The tale was a ghastly burlesque, its humor
of the most disheartening, unsavory sort.  No one spoke during the
reading, nobody laughed: The air was thick with disapproval.  His voice
lagged and faltered toward the end.  When he finished there was heavy
silence.  Mrs. Clemens was the only one who could speak:

"Youth, let's walk a little," she said.

The "Undertaker's Love Story" is still among the manuscripts of that
period, but it is unlikely that it will ever see the light of print.
--[This tale bears no relation to "The Undertaker's Story" in Sketches
New and Old.]

The Tom Sawyer tale progressed steadily and satisfactorily.  Clemens
wrote Dr. Brown:

     I have been writing fifty pages of manuscript a day, on an average,
     for some time now, on a book (a story), and consequently  have been
     so wrapped up in it, and dead to everything else, that I have fallen
     mighty short in letter-writing....

     On hot days I spread the study wide open, anchor my papers down with
     brickbats, and write in the midst of the hurricane, clothed in the
     same thin linen we make shirts of.

He incloses some photographs in this letter.

     The group [he says] represents the vine-clad carriageway in front of
     the farm-house.  On the left is Megalopis sitting in the lap of her
     German nurse-maid.  I am sitting behind them.  Mrs. Crane is in the
     center.  Mr. Crane next to her.  Then Mrs. Clemens and the new baby.
     Her Irish nurse stands at her back.  Then comes the table waitress,
     a young negro girl, born free.  Next to her is Auntie Cord (a
     fragment of whose history I have just sent to a magazine).  She is
     the cook; was in slavery more than forty years; and the self-
     satisfied wench, the last of the group, is the little baby's
     American nurse-maid.  In the middle distance my mother-in-law's
     coachman (up on errand) has taken a position unsolicited to help out
     the picture.  No, that is not true.  He was waiting there a minute
     or two before the photographer came.  In the extreme background,
     under the archway, you glimpse my study.

The "new baby," "Bay," as they came to call her, was another little
daughter, born in June, a happy, healthy addition to the household.
In a letter written to Twichell we get a sweet summer picture of this
period, particularly of little sunny-haired, two-year-old Susy.

     There is nothing selfish about the Modoc.  She is fascinated with
     the new baby.  The Modoc rips and tears around outdoors most of the
     time, and consequently is as hard as a pineknot and as brown as an
     Indian.  She is bosom friend to all the chickens, ducks, turkeys,
     and guinea-hens on the place.  Yesterday, as she marched along the
     winding path that leads up the hill through the red-clover beds to
     the summer-house, there was a long procession of these fowls
     stringing contentedly after her, led by a stately rooster, who can
     look over the Modoc's head.  The devotion of these vassals has been
     purchased with daily largess of Indian meal, and so the Modoc,
     attended by her body-guard, moves in state wherever she goes.

There were days, mainly Sundays, when he did not work at all; peaceful
days of lying fallow, dreaming in shady places, drowsily watching little
Susy, or reading with Mrs. Clemens.  Howells's "Foregone Conclusion" was
running in the Atlantic that year, and they delighted in it.  Clemens
wrote the author:

     I should think that this must be the daintiest, truest, most
     admirable workmanship that was ever put on a story.  The creatures
     of God do not act out their natures more unerringly than yours do.
     If your genuine stories can die I wonder by what right old Walter
     Scott's artificialities shall continue to live.

At other times he found comfort in the society of Theodore Crane.  These
two were always fond of each other, and often read together the books in
which they were mutually interested.  They had portable-hammock
arrangements, which they placed side by side on the lawn, and read and
discussed through summer afternoons.  The 'Mutineers of the Bounty' was
one of the books they liked best, and there was a story of an Iceland
farmer, a human document, that had an unfading interest.  Also there were
certain articles in old numbers of the Atlantic that they read and
reread.  'Pepys' Diary', 'Two Years Before the Mast', and a book on the
Andes were reliable favorites.  Mark Twain read not so many books, but
read a few books often.  Those named were among the literature he asked
for each year of his return to Quarry Farm.  Without them, the farm and
the summer would not be the same.

Then there was 'Lecky's History of European Morals'; there were periods
when they read Lecky avidly and discussed it in original and unorthodox
ways.  Mark Twain found an echo of his own philosophies in Lecky.  He
made frequent marginal notes along the pages of the world's moral
history--notes not always quotable in the family circle.  Mainly,
however, they were short, crisp interjections of assent or disapproval.
In one place Lecky refers to those who have undertaken to prove that all
our morality is a product of experience, holding that a desire to obtain
happiness and to avoid pain is the only possible motive to action; the
reason, and the only reason, why we should perform virtuous actions being
"that on the whole such a course will bring us the greatest amount of
happiness."  Clemens has indorsed these philosophies by writing on the
margin, "Sound and true."  It was the philosophy which he himself would
always hold (though, apparently, never live by), and in the end would
embody a volume of his own.--[What Is Man?  Privately printed in 1906.]--
In another place Lecky, himself speaking, says:

     Fortunately we are all dependent for many of our pleasures on
     others.  Co-operation and organization are essential to our
     happiness, and these are impossible without some restraint being
     placed upon our appetites.  Laws are made to secure this restraint,
     and being sustained by rewards, and punishments they make it the
     interest of the individual to regard that of the community.

"Correct!" comments Clemens.  "He has proceeded from unreasoned
selfishness to reasoned selfishness.  All our acts, reasoned and
unreasoned, are selfish."  It was a conclusion he logically never
departed from; not the happiest one, it would seem, at first glance, but
one easier to deny than to disprove.

On the back of an old envelope Mark Twain set down his literary
declaration of this period.

"I like history, biography, travels, curious facts and strange
happenings, and science.  And I detest novels, poetry, and theology."

But of course the novels of Howells would be excepted; Lecky was not
theology, but the history of it; his taste for poetry would develop
later, though it would never become a fixed quantity, as was his devotion
to history and science.  His interest in these amounted to a passion.




XCV

AN "ATLANTIC" STORY AND A PLAY

The reference to "Auntie Cord" in the letter to Dr. Brown brings us to
Mark Twain's first contribution to the Atlantic Monthly.  Howells in his
Recollections of his Atlantic editorship, after referring to certain
Western contributors, says:

     Later came Mark Twain, originally of Missouri, but then
     provisionally of Hartford, and now ultimately of the solar system,
     not to say the universe.  He came first with "A True Story," one of
     those noble pieces of humanity with which the South has atoned
     chiefly, if not solely, through him for all its despite to the
     negro.

Clemens had long aspired to appear in the Atlantic, but such was his own
rating of his literature that he hardly hoped to qualify for its pages.
Twichell remembers his "mingled astonishment and triumph" when he was
invited to send something to the magazine.

He was obliged to "send something" once or twice before the acceptance of
"A True Story," the narrative of Auntie Cord, and even this acceptance
brought with it the return of a fable which had accompanied it, with the
explanation that a fable like that would disqualify the magazine for
every denominational reader, though Howells hastened to express his own
joy in it, having been particularly touched by the author's reference to
Sisyphus and Atlas as ancestors of the tumble-bug.  The "True Story," he
said, with its "realest king of black talk," won him, and a few days
later he wrote again: "This little story delights me more and more.  I
wish you had about forty of 'em."

And so, modestly enough, as became him, for the story was of the
simplest, most unpretentious sort, Mark Twain entered into the school of
the elect.

In his letter to Howells, accompanying the MS., the author said:

     I inclose also "A True Story," which has no humor in it.  You can
     pay as lightly as you choose for that if you want it, for it is
     rather out of my line.  I have not altered the old colored woman's
     story, except to begin it at the beginning, instead of the middle,
     as she did--and traveled both ways.

Howells in his Recollections tells of the business anxiety in the
Atlantic office in the effort to estimate the story's pecuniary value.
Clemens and Harte had raised literary rates enormously; the latter was
reputed to have received as much as five cents a word from affluent
newspapers!  But the Atlantic was poor, and when sixty dollars was
finally decided upon for the three pages (about two and a half cents a
word) the rate was regarded as handsome--without precedent in Atlantic
history.  Howells adds that as much as forty times this amount was
sometimes offered to Mark Twain in later years.  Even in '74 he had
received a much higher rate than that offered by the Atlantic,--but no
acceptance, then, or later, ever made him happier, or seemed more richly
rewarded.

"A True Story, Repeated Word for Word as I Heard It" was precisely what
it claimed to be.--[Atlantic Monthly for November, 1874; also included
in Sketches New and Old.]--Auntie Cord, the Auntie Rachel of that tale,
cook at Quarry Farm, was a Virginia negress who had been twice sold as a
slave, and was proud of the fact; particularly proud that she had brought
$1,000 on the block.  All her children had been sold away from her, but
it was a long time ago, and now at sixty she was fat and seemingly
without care.  She had told her story to Mrs. Crane, who had more than
once tried to persuade her to tell it to Clemens; but Auntie Cord was
reluctant.  One evening, however, when the family sat on the front
veranda in the moonlight, looking down on the picture city, as was their
habit, Auntie Cord came around to say good night, and Clemens engaged her
in conversation.  He led up to her story, and almost before she knew it
she was seated at his feet telling the strange tale in almost the exact
words in which it was set down by him next morning.  It gave Mark Twain a
chance to exercise two of his chief gifts--transcription and portrayal.
He was always greater at these things than at invention.  Auntie Cord's
story is a little masterpiece.

He wished to do more with Auntie Cord and her associates of the farm, for
they were extraordinarily interesting.  Two other negroes on the place,
John Lewis and his wife (we shall hear notably of Lewis later), were not
always on terms of amity with Auntie Cord.  They disagreed on religion,
and there were frequent battles in the kitchen.  These depressed the
mistress of the house, but they gave only joy to Mark Twain.  His
Southern raising had given him an understanding of their humors, their
native emotions which made these riots a spiritual gratification.  He
would slip around among the shrubbery and listen to the noise and strife
of battle, and hug himself with delight.  Sometimes they resorted to
missiles--stones, tinware--even dressed poultry which Auntie Cord was
preparing for the oven.  Lewis was very black, Auntie Cord was a bright
mulatto, Lewis's' wife several shades lighter.  Wherever the discussion
began it promptly shaded off toward the color-line and insult.  Auntie
Cord was a Methodist; Lewis was a Dunkard.  Auntie Cord was ignorant and
dogmatic; Lewis could read and was intelligent.  Theology invariably led
to personality, and eventually to epithets, crockery, geology, and
victuals.  How the greatest joker of the age did enjoy that summer
warfare!

The fun was not all one-sided.  An incident of that summer probably
furnished more enjoyment for the colored members of the household than it
did for Mark Twain.  Lewis had some fowls, and among them was a
particularly pestiferous guinea-hen that used to get up at three in the
morning and go around making the kind of a noise that a guinea-hen must
like and is willing to get up early to hear.  Mark Twain did not care for
it.  He stood it as long as he could one morning, then crept softly from
the house to stop it.

It was a clear, bright night; locating the guinea-hen, he slipped up
stealthily with a stout stick.  The bird was pouring out its heart,
tearing the moonlight to tatters.  Stealing up close, Clemens made a
vicious swing with his bludgeon, but just then the guinea stepped forward
a little, and he missed.  The stroke and his explosion frightened the
fowl, and it started to run.  Clemens, with his mind now on the single
purpose of revenge, started after it.  Around the trees, along the paths,
up and down the lawn, through gates and across the garden, out over the
fields, they raced, "pursuer and pursued."  The guinea nor longer sang,
and Clemens was presently too exhausted to swear.  Hour after hour the
silent, deadly hunt continued, both stopping to rest at intervals; then
up again and away.  It was like something in a dream.  It was nearly
breakfast-time when he dragged himself into the house at last, and the
guinea was resting and panting under a currant-bush.  Later in the day
Clemens gave orders to Lewis to "kill and eat that guinea-hen," which
Lewis did.  Clemens himself had then never eaten a guinea, but some years
later, in Paris, when the delicious breast of one of those fowls was
served him, he remembered and said:

"And to think, after chasing that creature all night, John Lewis got to
eat him instead of me."

The interest in Tom and Huck, or the inspiration for their adventures,
gave out at last, or was superseded by a more immediate demand.  As early
as May, Goodman, in San Francisco, had seen a play announced there,
presenting the character of Colonel Sellers, dramatized by Gilbert S.
Densmore and played by John T.  Raymond.  Goodman immediately wrote
Clemens; also a letter came from Warner, in Hartford, who had noticed in
San Francisco papers announcements of the play.  Of course Clemens would
take action immediately; he telegraphed, enjoining the performance.  Then
began a correspondence with the dramatist and actor.  This in time
resulted in an amicable arrangement, by which the dramatist agreed to
dispose of his version to Clemens.  Clemens did not wait for it to
arrive, but began immediately a version of his own.  Just how much or how
little of Densmore's work found its way into the completed play, as
presented by Raymond later, cannot be known now.  Howells conveys the
impression that Clemens had no hand in its authorship beyond the
character of Sellers as taken from the book.  But in a letter still
extant, which Clemens wrote to Howells at the time, he says:

     I worked a month on my play, and launched it in New York last
     Wednesday.  I believe it will go.  The newspapers have been
     complimentary.  It is simply a setting for one character, Colonel
     Sellers.  As a play I guess it will not bear critical assault in
     force.

The Warners are as charming as ever.  They go shortly to the devil for a
year--that is, to Egypt.

Raymond, in a letter which he wrote to the Sun, November 3, 1874,
declared that "not one line" of Densmore's dramatization was used,
"except that which was taken bodily from The Gilded Age."  During the
newspaper discussion of the matter, Clemens himself prepared a letter for
the Hartford Post.  This letter was suppressed, but it still exists.  In
it he says:

     I entirely rewrote the play three separate and distinct times.  I
     had expected to use little of his [Densmore's] language and but
     little of his plot.  I do not think there are now twenty sentences
     of Mr. Densmore's in the play, but I used so much of his plot that I
     wrote and told him that I should pay him about as much more as I had
     already paid him in case the play proved a success.  I shall keep my
     word.

This letter, written while the matter was fresh in his mind, is
undoubtedly in accordance with the facts.  That Densmore was fully
satisfied may be gathered from an acknowledgment, in which he says:
"Your letter reached me on the ad, with check.  In this place permit me
to thank you for the very handsome manner in which you have acted in this
matter."

Warner, meantime, realizing that the play was constructed almost entirely
of the Mark Twain chapters of the book, agreed that his collaborator
should undertake the work and financial responsibilities of the dramatic
venture and reap such rewards as might result.  Various stories have been
told of this matter, most of them untrue.  There was no bitterness
between the friends, no semblance of an estrangement of any sort.  Warner
very generously and promptly admitted that he was not concerned with the
play, its authorship, or its profits, whatever the latter might amount
to.  Moreover, Warner was going to Egypt very soon, and his labors and
responsibilities were doubly sufficient as they stood.

Clemens's estimate of the play as a dramatic composition was correct
enough, but the public liked it, and it was a financial success from the
start.  He employed a representative to travel with Raymond, to assist in
the management and in the division of spoil.  The agent had instructions
to mail a card every day, stating the amount of his share in the profits.
Howells once arrived in Hartford just when this postal tide of fortune
was at its flood:

One hundred and fifty dollars--two hundred dollars--three hundred dollars
were the gay figures which they bore, and which he flaunted in the air,
before he sat down at the table, or rose from it to brandish, and then,
flinging his napkin in the chair, walked up and down to exult in.

Once, in later years, referring to the matter, Howells said
"He was never a man who cared anything about money except as a dream, and
he wanted more and more of it to fill out the spaces of this dream."
Which was a true word.  Mark Twain with money was like a child with a
heap of bright pebbles, ready to pile up more and still more, then
presently to throw them all away and begin gathering anew.




XCVI

THE NEW HOME

The Clemenses returned to Hartford to find their new house "ready,"
though still full of workmen, decorators, plumbers, and such other
minions of labor as make life miserable to those with ambitions for new
or improved habitations.  The carpenters were still on the lower floor,
but the family moved in and camped about in rooms up-stairs that were
more or less free from the invader.  They had stopped in New York ten
days to buy carpets and furnishings, and these began to arrive, with no
particular place to put them; but the owners were excited and happy with
it all, for it was the pleasant season of the year, and all the new
features of the house were fascinating, while the daily progress of the
decorators furnished a fresh surprise when they roamed through the rooms
at evening.  Mrs. Clemens wrote home:

     We are perfectly delighted with everything here and do so want you
     all to see it.

Her husband, as he was likely to do, picked up the letter and finished
it:

     Livy appoints me to finish this; but how can a headless man perform
     an intelligent function?  I have been bully-ragged all day by the
     builder, by his foreman, by the architect, by the tapestry devil who
     is to upholster the furniture, by the idiot who is putting down the
     carpets, by the scoundrel who is setting up the billiard-table (and
     has left the balls in New York), by the wildcat who is sodding the
     ground and finishing the driveway (after the sun went down), by a
     book agent, whose body is in the back yard and the coroner notified.
     Just think of this thing going on the whole day long, and I a man
     who loathes details with all his heart!  But I haven't lost my
     temper, and I've made Livy lie down most of the time; could anybody
     make her lie down all the time?

Warner wrote from Egypt expressing sympathy for their unfurnished state
of affairs, but added, "I would rather fit out three houses and fill them
with furniture than to fit out one 'dahabiyeh'."  Warner was at that
moment undertaking his charmingly remembered trip up the Nile.

The new home was not entirely done for a long time.  One never knows when
a big house like that--or a little house, for that matters done.  But
they were settled at last, with all their beautiful things in place; and
perhaps there have been richer homes, possibly more artistic ones, but
there has never been a more charming home, within or without, than that
one.

So many frequenters have tried to express the charm of that household.
None of them has quite succeeded, for it lay not so much in its
arrangement of rooms or their decorations or their outlook, though these
were all beautiful enough, but rather in the personality, the atmosphere;
and these are elusive things to convey in words.  We can only see and
feel and recognize; we cannot translate them.  Even Howells, with his
subtle touch, can present only an aspect here and there; an essence, as
it were, from a happy garden, rather than the fullness of its bloom.

As Mark Twain was unlike any other man that ever lived, so his house was
unlike any other house ever built.  People asked him why he built the
kitchen toward the street, and he said:

"So the servants can see the circus go by without running out into the
front yard."

But this was probably an after-thought.  The kitchen end of the house
extended toward Farmington Avenue, but it was by no means unbeautiful.
It was a pleasing detail of the general scheme.  The main entrance faced
at right angles with the street and opened to a spacious hall.  In turn,
the hall opened to a parlor, where there was a grand piano, and to the
dining-room and library, and the library opened to a little conservatory,
semicircular in form, of a design invented by Harriet Beecher Stowe.
Says Howells:

     The plants were set in the ground, and the flowering vines climbed
     up the sides and overhung the roof above the silent spray of the
     fountain companied by Callas and other waterloving lilies.  There,
     while we breakfasted, Patrick came in from the barn and sprinkled
     the pretty bower, which poured out its responsive perfume in the
     delicate accents of its varied blossoms.

In the library was an old carved mantel which Clemens and his wife had
bought in Scotland, salvage from a dismantled castle, and across the top
of the fireplace a plate of brass with the motto, "The ornament of a
house is the friends that frequent it," surely never more appropriately
inscribed.

There was the mahogany room, a large bedroom on the ground floor, and
upstairs were other spacious bedrooms and many baths, while everywhere
were Oriental rugs and draperies, and statuary and paintings.  There was
a fireplace under a window, after the English pattern, so that in winter-
time one could at the same moment watch the blaze and the falling snow.
The library windows looked out over the valley with the little stream in
it, and through and across the tree-tops.  At the top of the house was
what became Clemens's favorite retreat, the billiard-room, and here and
there were unexpected little balconies, which one could step out upon for
the view.

Below was a wide, covered veranda, the "ombra," as they called it,
secluded from the public eye--a favorite family gathering-place on
pleasant days.

But a house might easily have all these things without being more than
usually attractive, and a house with a great deal less might have been as
full of charm; only it seemed just the proper setting for that particular
household, and undoubtedly it acquired the personality of its occupants.

Howells assures us that there never was another home like it, and we may
accept his statement.  It was unique.  It was the home of one of the most
unusual and unaccountable personalities in the world, yet was perfectly
and serenely ordered.  Mark Twain was not responsible for this blissful
condition.  He was its beacon-light; it was around Mrs. Clemens that its
affairs steadily revolved.

If in the four years and more of marriage Clemens had made advancement in
culture and capabilities, Olivia Clemens also had become something more
than the half-timid, inexperienced girl he had first known.  In a way her
education had been no less notable than his.  She had worked and studied,
and her half-year of travel and entertainment abroad had given her
opportunity for acquiring knowledge and confidence.  Her vision of life
had vastly enlarged; her intellect had flowered; her grasp of
practicalities had become firm and sure.

In spite of her delicate physical structure, her continued uncertainty of
health, she capably undertook the management of their large new house,
and supervised its economies.  Any one of her undertakings was sufficient
for one woman, but she compassed them all.  No children had more careful
direction than hers.  No husband had more devoted attendance and
companionship.  No household was ever directed with a sweeter and gentler
grace, or with greater perfection of detail.  When the great ones of the
world came to visit America's most picturesque literary figure she gave
welcome to them all, and filled her place at his side with such sweet and
capable dignity that those who came to pay their duties to him often
returned to pay even greater devotion to his companion.  Says Howells:

     She was, in a way, the loveliest person I have ever seen--the
     gentlest, the kindest, without a touch of weakness; she united
     wonderful tact with wonderful truth; and Clemens not only accepted
     her rule implicitly, but he rejoiced, he gloried in it.

And once, in an interview with the writer of these chapters, Howells
declared: "She was not only a beautiful soul, but a woman of singular
intellectual power.  I never knew any one quite like her."  Then he
added: "Words cannot express Mrs. Clemens--her fineness, her delicate,
her wonderful tact with a man who was in some respects, and wished to be,
the most outrageous creature that ever breathed."

Howells meant a good many things by that, no doubt: Clemens's violent
methods, for one thing, his sudden, savage impulses, which sometimes
worked injustice and hardship for others, though he was first to discover
the wrong and to repair it only too fully.  Then, too, Howells may have
meant his boyish teasing tendency to disturb Mrs. Clemens's exquisite
sense of decorum.

Once I remember seeing him come into his drawing-room at Hartford in a
pair of white cowskin slippers with the hair out, and do a crippled
colored uncle, to the joy of all beholders.  I must not say all, for I
remember also the dismay of Mrs. Clemens, and her low, despairing cry of
"Oh, Youth!"

He was continually doing such things as the "crippled colored uncle,";
partly for the very joy of the performance, but partly, too, to disturb
her serenity, to incur her reproof, to shiver her a little--"shock" would
be too strong a word.  And he liked to fancy her in a spirit and attitude
of belligerence, to present that fancy to those who knew the measure of
her gentle nature.  Writing to Mrs. Howells of a picture of herself in a
group, he said:

     You look exactly as Mrs. Clemens does after she has said: "Indeed, I
     do not wonder that you can frame no reply; for you know only too
     well that your conduct admits of no excuse, palliation, or argument-
     none!"

Clemens would pretend to a visitor that she had been violently indignant
over some offense of his; perhaps he would say:

"Well I contradicted her just now, and the crockery will begin to fly
pretty soon."

She could never quite get used to this pleasantry, and a faint glow would
steal over her face.  He liked to produce that glow.  Yet always his
manner toward her was tenderness itself.  He regarded her as some dainty
bit of porcelain, and it was said that he was always following her about
with a chair.  Their union has been regarded as ideal.  That is
Twichell's opinion and Howells's.  The latter sums up:

     Marriages are what the parties to them alone really know them to be,
     but from the outside I should say that this marriage was one of the
     most perfect.




XCVII

THE WALK TO BOSTON

The new home became more beautiful to them as things found their places,
as the year deepened; and the wonder of autumn foliage lit up their
landscape.  Sitting on one of the little upper balconies Mrs. Clemens
wrote:

     The atmosphere is very hazy, and it makes the autumn tints even more
     soft and beautiful than usual.  Mr. Twichell came for Mr. Clemens to
     go walking with him; they returned at dinner-time, heavily laden
     with autumn leaves.

And as usual Clemens, finding the letter unfinished, took up the story.

     Twichell came up here with me to luncheon after services, and I went
     back home with him and took Susy along in her little carriage.  We
     have just got home again, middle of afternoon, and Livy has gone to
     rest and left the west balcony to me.  There is a shining and most
     marvelous miracle of cloud-effects mirrored in the brook; a picture
     which began with perfection, and has momently surpassed it ever
     since, until at last it is almost unendurably beautiful....

     There is a cloud-picture in the stream now whose hues are as
     manifold as those in an opal and as delicate as the tintings of a
     sea-shell.  But now a muskrat is swimming through it and
     obliterating it with the turmoil of wavelets he casts abroad from
     his shoulders.

     The customary Sunday assemblage of strangers is gathered together in
     the grounds discussing the house.

Twichell and Clemens took a good many walks these days; long walks, for
Twichell was an athlete and Clemens had not then outgrown the Nevada
habit of pedestrian wandering.  Talcott's Tower, a wooden structure about
five miles from Hartford, was one of their favorite objective points; and
often they walked out and back, talking so continuously, and so absorbed
in the themes of their discussions, that time and distance slipped away
almost unnoticed.  How many things they talked of in those long walks!
They discussed philosophies and religions and creeds, and all the range
of human possibility and shortcoming, and all the phases of literature
and history and politics.  Unorthodox discussions they were,
illuminating, marvelously enchanting, and vanished now forever.
Sometimes they took the train as far as Bloomfield, a little station on
the way, and walked the rest of the distance, or they took the train from
Bloomfield home.  It seems a strange association, perhaps, the fellowship
of that violent dissenter with that fervent soul dedicated to church and
creed, but the root of their friendship lay in the frankness with which
each man delivered his dogmas and respected those of his companion.

It was during one of their walks to the tower that they planned a far
more extraordinary undertaking--nothing less, in fact, than a walk from
Hartford to Boston.  This was early in November.  They did not delay the
matter, for the weather was getting too uncertain.

Clemens wrote Redpath:

DEAR REDPATH,--Rev. J. H. Twichell and I expect to start at 8 o'clock
Thursday morning to walk to Boston in twenty four hours--or more.  We
shall telegraph Young's Hotel for rooms Saturday night, in order to allow
for a low average of pedestrianism.

It was half past eight on Thursday morning, November 12, 1874, that they
left Twichell's house in a carriage, drove to the East Hartford bridge,
and there took to the road, Twichell carrying a little bag and Clemens a
basket of lunch.

The papers had got hold of it by this time, and were watching the result.
They did well enough that first day, following the old Boston stage road,
arriving at Westford about seven o'clock in the evening, twenty-eight
miles from the starting-point.  There was no real hotel at Westford, only
a sort of tavern, but it afforded the luxury of rest.  "Also," says
Twichell, in a memoranda of the trip, "a sublimely profane hostler whom
you couldn't jostle with any sort of mild remark without bringing down
upon yourself a perfect avalanche of oaths."

This was a joy to Clemens, who sat behind the stove, rubbing his lame
knees and fairly reveling in Twichell's discomfiture in his efforts to
divert the hostler's blasphemy.  There was also a mellow inebriate there
who recommended kerosene for Clemens's lameness, and offered as testimony
the fact that he himself had frequently used it for stiffness in his
joints after lying out all night in cold weather, drunk: altogether it
was a notable evening.

Westford was about as far as they continued the journey afoot.  Clemens
was exceedingly lame next morning, and had had a rather bad night; but he
swore and limped along six miles farther, to North Ashford, then gave it
up.  They drove from North Ashford to the railway, where Clemens
telegraphed Redpath and Howells of their approach.  To Redpath:

     We have made thirty-five miles in less than five days.  This
     demonstrates that the thing can be done.  Shall now finish by rail.
     Did you have any bets on us?

To Howells:

     Arrive by rail at seven o'clock, the first of a series of grand
     annual pedestrian tours from Hartford to Boston to be performed by
     us.  The next will take place next year.

Redpath read his despatch to a lecture audience, with effect.  Howells
made immediate preparation for receiving two way-worn, hungry men.  He
telegraphed to Young's Hotel: "You and Twichell come right up to 37
Concord Avenue, Cambridge, near observatory.  Party waiting for you."

They got to Howells's about nine o'clock, and the refreshments were
waiting.  Miss Longfellow was there, Rose Hawthorne, John Fiske, Larkin
G. Mead, the sculptor, and others of their kind.  Howells tells in his
book how Clemens, with Twichell, "suddenly stormed in," and immediately
began to eat and drink:

     I can see him now as he stood up in the midst of our friends, with
     his head thrown back, and in his hand a dish of those escalloped
     oysters without which no party in Cambridge was really a party,
     exulting in the tale of his adventure, which had abounded in the
     most original characters and amusing incidents at every mile of
     their progress.

Clemens gave a dinner, next night, to Howells, Aldrich, Osgood, and the
rest.  The papers were full of jokes concerning the Boston expedition;
some even had illustrations, and it was all amusing enough at the time.

Next morning, sitting in the writing-room of Young's Hotel, he wrote a
curious letter to Mrs. Clemens, though intended as much for Howells and
Aldrich as for her.  It was dated sixty-one years ahead, and was a sort
of Looking Backwards, though that notable book had not yet been written.
It presupposed a monarchy in which the name of Boston has been changed to
"Limerick," and Hartford to "Dublin."  In it, Twichell has become the
"Archbishop of Dublin," Howells "Duke of Cambridge," Aldrich "Marquis of
Ponkapog," Clemens the "Earl of Hartford."  It was too whimsical and
delightful a fancy to be forgotten.--[This remarkable and amusing
document will be found under Appendix M, at the end of last volume.]

A long time afterward, thirty-four year, he came across this letter.  He
said:

"It seems curious now that I should have been dreaming dreams of a future
monarchy and never suspect that the monarchy was already present and the
Republic a thing of the past."

What he meant, was the political succession that had fostered those
commercial trusts which, in turn, had established party dominion.

To Howells, on his return, Clemens wrote his acknowledgments, and added:

     Mrs. Clemens gets upon the verge of swearing, and goes tearing
     around in an unseemly fury when I enlarge upon the delightful time
     we had in Boston, and she not there to have her share.  I have tried
     hard to reproduce Mrs. Howells to her, and have probably not made a
     shining success of it.




XCVIII

"OLD TIMES ON THE MISSISSIPPI"

Howells had been urging Clemens to do something more for the Atlantic,
specifically something for the January number.  Clemens cudgeled his
brains, but finally declared he must give it up:

     Mrs. Clemens has diligently persecuted me day by day with urgings to
     go to work and do that something, but it's no use.  I find I can't.
     We are in such a state of worry and endless confusion that my head
     won't go.

Two hours later he sent another hasty line:

     I take back the remark that I can't write for the January number,
     for Twichell and I have had a long walk in the woods, and I got to
     telling him about old Mississippi days of steam-boating glory and
     grandeur as I saw them (during four years) from the pilot-house.  He
     said, "What a virgin subject to hurl into a magazine!" I hadn't
     thought of that before.  Would you like a series of papers to run
     through three months or six or nine--or about four months, say?

Howells welcomed this offer as an echo of his own thought.  He had come
from a piloting family himself, and knew the interest that Mark Twain
could put into such a series.

Acting promptly under the new inspiration, Clemens forthwith sent the
first chapter of that monumental, that absolutely unique, series of
papers on Mississippi River life, which to-day constitutes one of his
chief claims to immortality.

His first number was in the nature of an experiment.  Perhaps, after all,
the idea would not suit the Atlantic readers.

"Cut it, scarify it, reject it, handle it with entire freedom," he wrote,
and awaited the result.

The "result" was that Howells expressed his delight:

     The piece about the Mississippi is capital.  It almost made the
     water in our ice-pitcher muddy as I read it.  I don't think I shall
     meddle much with it, even in the way of suggestion.  The sketch of
     the low-lived little town was so good that I could have wished there
     was more of it.  I want the sketches, if you can make them, every
     month.

Mark Twain was now really interested in this new literary venture.  He
was fairly saturated with memories.  He was writing on the theme that lay
nearest to his heart.  Within ten days he reported that he had finished
three of the papers, and had begun the fourth.

And yet I have spoken of nothing but piloting as a science so far, and I
doubt if I ever get beyond that portion of my subject.  And I don't care
to.  Any Muggins can write about old days on the Mississippi of five
hundred different kinds, but I am the only man alive that can scribble
about the piloting of that day, and no man has ever tried to scribble
about it yet.  Its newness pleases me all the time, and it is about the
only new subject I know of.

He became so enthusiastic presently that he wanted to take Howells with
him on a trip down the Mississippi, with their wives for company, to go
over the old ground again and obtain added material enough for a book.
Howells was willing enough--agreed to go, in fact--but found it hard to
get away.  He began to temporize and finally backed out.  Clemens tried
to inveigle Osgood into the trip, but without success; also John Hay, but
Hay had a new baby at his house just then--"three days old, and with a
voice beyond price," he said, offering it as an excuse for non-
acceptance.  So the plan for revisiting the river and the conclusion of
the book were held in abeyance for nearly seven years.

Those early piloting chapters, as they appeared in the Atlantic,
constituted Mark Twain's best literary exhibit up to that time.  In some
respects they are his best literature of any time.  As pictures of an
intensely interesting phase of life, they are so convincing, so real, and
at the same time of such extraordinary charm and interest, that if the
English language should survive a thousand years, or ten times as long,
they would be as fresh and vivid at the end of that period as the day
they were penned.  In them the atmosphere of, the river and its
environment--its pictures, its thousand aspects of life--are reproduced
with what is no less than literary necromancy.  Not only does he make you
smell the river you can fairly hear it breathe.  On the appearance of the
first number John Hay wrote:

"It is perfect; no more nor less.  I don't see how you do it," and added,
"you know what my opinion is of time not spent with you."

Howells wrote:

     You are doing the science of piloting splendidly.  Every word
     interesting, and don't you drop the series till you've got every bit
     of anecdote and reminiscence into it.

He let Clemens write the articles to suit himself.  Once he said:

     If I might put in my jaw at this point I should say, stick to actual
     fact and character in the thing and give things in detail.  All that
     belongs to the old river life is novel, and is now mostly
     historical.  Don't write at any supposed Atlantic audience, but yarn
     it off as if into my sympathetic ear.

Clemens replied that he had no dread of the Atlantic audience; he
declared it was the only audience that did not require a humorist to
"paint himself striped and stand on his head to amuse it."

The "Old Times" papers ran through seven numbers of the Atlantic.  They
were reprinted everywhere by the newspapers, who in that day had little
respect for magazine copyrights, and were promptly pirated in book form
in Canada.  They added vastly to Mark Twain's literary capital, though
Howells informs us that the Atlantic circulation did not thrive
proportionately, for the reason that the newspapers gave the articles to
their readers from advanced sheets of the magazine, even before the
latter could be placed on sale.  It so happened that in the January
Atlantic, which contained the first of the Mississippi papers, there
appeared Robert Dale Owen's article on "Spiritualism," which brought such
humility both to author and publisher because of the exposure of the
medium Katie King, which came along while the magazine was in press.
Clemens has written this marginal note on the opening page of the copy at
Quarry Farm:

While this number of the Atlantic was being printed the Katie King
manifestations were discovered to be the cheapest, wretchedest shams and
frauds, and were exposed in the newspapers.  The awful humiliation of it
unseated Robert Dale Owen's reason, and he died in the madhouse.




XCIX

A TYPEWRITER, AND A JOKE ON ALDRICH

It was during the trip to Boston with Twichell that Mark Twain saw for
the first time what was then--a brand-new invention, a typewriter; or it
may have been during a subsequent visit, a week or two later.  At all
events, he had the machine and was practising on it December 9, 1874, for
he wrote two letters on it that day, one to Howells and the other to
Orion Clemens.  In the latter he says:

     I am trying to get the hang of this new-fangled writing-machine, but
     am not making a shining success of it.  However, this is the first
     attempt I ever have made, and yet I perceive that I shall soon
     easily acquire a fine facility in its use.  I saw the thing in
     Boston the other day and was greatly taken with it.

He goes on to explain the new wonder, and on the whole his first attempt
is a very creditable performance.  With his usual enthusiasm over an
innovation, he believes it is going to be a great help to him, and
proclaims its advantages.

This is the letter to Howells, with the errors preserved:

     You needn't answer this; I am only practicing to get three; anothe
     slip-up there; only practici?ng ti get the hang of the thing.  I
     notice I miss fire & get in a good many unnecessary letters &
     punctuation marks.  I am simply using you for a target to bang at.
     Blame my cats, but this thing requires genius in order to work it
     just right.

In an article written long after he tells how he was with Nasby when he
first saw the machine in Boston through a window, and how they went in to
see it perform.  In the same article he states that he was the first
person in the world to apply the type-machine to literature, and that he
thinks the story of Tom Sawyer was the first type-copied manuscript.
--[Tom Sawyer was not then complete, and had been laid aside.  The first
type-copied manuscript was probably early chapters of the Mississippi
story, two discarded typewritten pages of which still exist.]

The new enthusiasm ran its course and died.  Three months later, when the
Remington makers wrote him for a recommendation of the machine, he
replied that he had entirely stopped using it.  The typewriter was not
perfect in those days, and the keys did not always respond readily.
He declared it was ruining his morals--that it made him "want to swear."
He offered it to Howells because, he said, Howells had no morals anyway.
Howells hesitated, so Clemens traded the machine to Bliss for a side-
saddle.  But perhaps Bliss also became afraid of its influence, for in
due time he brought it back.  Howells, again tempted, hesitated, and this
time was lost.  What eventually became of the machine is not history.

One of those, happy Atlantic dinners which Howells tells of came about
the end of that year.  It was at the Parker House, and Emerson was there;
and Aldrich, and the rest of that group.

"Don't you dare to refuse the invitation," said Howells, and naturally
Clemens didn't, and wrote back:

     I want you to ask Mrs. Howells to let you stay all night at the
     Parker House and tell lies and have an improving time, and take
     breakfast with me in the morning.  I will have a good room for you
     and a fire.  Can't you tell her it always makes you sick to go home
     late at night or something like that?  That sort of thing arouses
     Mrs. Clemens's sympathies easily.

Two memories of that old dinner remain to-day.  Aldrich and Howells were
not satisfied with the kind of neckties that Mark Twain wore (the old-
fashioned black "string" tie, a Western survival), so they made him a
present of two cravats when he set out on his return for Hartford.  Next
day he wrote:

     You and Aldrich have made one woman deeply and sincerely grateful--
     Mrs. Clemens.  For months--I may even say years--she has shown an
     unaccountable animosity toward my necktie, even getting up in the
     night to take it with the tongs and blackguard it, sometimes also
     getting so far as to threaten it.

     When I said you and Aldrich had given me two new neckties, and that
     they were in a paper in my overcoat pocket, she was in a fever of
     happiness until she found I was going to frame them; then all the
     venom in her nature gathered itself together; insomuch that I, being
     near to a door, went without, perceiving danger.

It is recorded that eventually he wore the neckties, and returned no more
to the earlier mode.

Another memory of that dinner is linked to a demand that Aldrich made of
Clemens that night, for his photograph.  Clemens, returning to Hartford,
put up fifty-two different specimens in as many envelopes, with the idea
of sending one a week for a year.  Then he concluded that this was too
slow a process, and for a week sent one every morning to "His Grace of
Ponkapog."

Aldrich stood it for a few days, then protested.  "The police," he said,
"are in the habit of swooping down upon a publication of that sort."

On New-Year's no less than twenty pictures came at once--photographs and
prints of Mark Twain, his house, his family, his various belongings.
Aldrich sent a warning then that the perpetrator of this outrage was
known to the police as Mark Twain, alias "The Jumping Frog," a well-known
California desperado, who would be speedily arrested and brought to
Ponkapog to face his victim.  This letter was signed "T. Bayleigh, Chief
of Police," and on the outside of the envelope there was a statement that
it would be useless for that person to send any more mail-matter, as the
post-office had been blown up.  The jolly farce closed there.  It was the
sort of thing that both men enjoyed.

Aldrich was writing a story at this time which contained some Western
mining incident and environment.  He sent the manuscript to Clemens for
"expert" consideration and advice.  Clemens wrote him at great length and
in careful detail.  He was fond of Aldrich, regarding him as one of the
most brilliant of men.  Once, to Robert Louis Stevenson, he said:

     "Aldrich has never had his peer for prompt and pithy and witty and
     humorous sayings.  None has equaled him, certainly none has
     surpassed him, in the felicity of phrasing with which he clothed
     these children of his fancy.  Aldrich is always brilliant; he can't
     help it; he is a fire-opal set round with rose diamonds; when he is
     not speaking you know that his dainty fancies are twinkling and
     glimmering around in him; when he speaks the diamonds flash.  Yes,
     he is always brilliant, he will always be brilliant; he will be
     brilliant in hell-you will see."

Stevenson, smiling a chuckly smile, said, "I hope not."

"Well, you will, and he will dim even those ruddy fires and look like a
transfigured Adonis backed against a pink sunset."--[North American
Review, September, 1906.]




C

RAYMOND, MENTAL TELEGRAPHY, ETC.

The Sellers play was given in Hartford, in January (1875), to as many
people as could crowd into the Opera House.  Raymond had reached the
perfection of his art by that time, and the townsmen of Mark Twain saw
the play and the actor at their best.  Kate Field played the part of
Laura Hawkins, and there was a Hartford girl in the company; also a
Hartford young man, who would one day be about as well known to playgoers
as any playwright or actor that America has produced.  His name was
William Gillette, and it was largely due to Mark Twain that the author of
Secret Service and of the dramatic "Sherlock Holmes" got a fair public
start.  Clemens and his wife loaned Gillette the three thousand dollars
which tided him through his period of dramatic education.  Their faith in
his ability was justified.

Hartford would naturally be enthusiastic on a first "Sellers-Raymond"
night.  At the end of the fourth act there was an urgent demand for the
author of the play, who was supposed to be present.  He was not there in
person, but had sent a letter, which Raymond read:

MY DEAR RAYMOND,--I am aware that you are going to be welcomed to our
town by great audiences on both nights of your stay there, and I beg to
add my hearty welcome also, through this note.  I cannot come to the
theater on either evening, Raymond, because there is something so
touching about your acting that I can't stand it.

(I do not mention a couple of colds in my head, because I hardly mind
them as much as I would the erysipelas, but between you and me I would
prefer it if they were rights and lefts.)

And then there is another thing.  I have always taken a pride in earning
my living in outside places and spending it in Hartford; I have said that
no good citizen would live on his own people, but go forth and make it
sultry for other communities and fetch home the result; and now at this
late day I find myself in the crushed and bleeding position of fattening
myself upon the spoils of my brethren!  Can I support such grief as this?
(This is literary emotion, you understand.  Take the money at the door
just the same.)

Once more I welcome you to Hartford, Raymond,  but as for me let me stay
at home and blush.

                                   Yours truly,    MARK.

The play was equally successful wherever it went.  It made what in that
day was regarded as a fortune.  One hundred thousand dollars is hardly
too large an estimate of the amount divided between author and actor.
Raymond was a great actor in that part, as he interpreted it, though he
did not interpret it fully, or always in its best way.  The finer side,
the subtle, tender side of Colonel Sellers, he was likely to overlook.
Yet, with a natural human self-estimate, Raymond believed he had created
a much greater part than Mark Twain had written.  Doubtless from the
point of view of a number of people this was so, though the idea, was
naturally obnoxious to Clemens.  In course of time their personal
relations ceased.

Clemens that winter gave another benefit for Father Hawley.  In reply to
an invitation to appear in behalf of the poor, he wrote that he had quit
the lecture field, and would not return to the platform unless driven
there by lack of bread.  But he added:

By the spirit of that remark I am debarred from delivering this proposed
lecture, and so I fall back upon the letter of it, and emerge upon the
platform for this last and final time because I am confronted by a lack
of bread-among Father Hawley's flock.

He made an introductory speech at an old-fashioned spelling-bee, given at
the Asylum Hill Church; a breezy, charming talk of which the following is
a sample:

     I don't see any use in spelling a word right--and never did.  I mean
     I don't see any use in having a uniform and arbitrary way of
     spelling words.  We might as well make all clothes alike and cook
     all dishes alike.  Sameness is tiresome; variety is pleasing.  I
     have a correspondent whose letters are always a refreshment to me;
     there is such a breezy, unfettered originality about his
     orthography.  He always spells "kow" with a large "K."  Now that is
     just as good as to spell it with a small one.  It is better.  It
     gives the imagination a broader field, a wider scope.  It suggests
     to the mind a grand, vague, impressive new kind of a cow.

     He took part in the contest, and in spite of his early reputation,
     was spelled down on the word "chaldron," which he spelled
     "cauldron," as he had been taught, while the dictionary used as
     authority gave that form as second choice.

Another time that winter, Clemens read before the Monday Evening Club a
paper on "Universal Suffrage," which is still remembered by the surviving
members of that time.  A paragraph or two will convey its purport:

     Our marvelous latter-day statesmanship has invented universal
     suffrage.  That is the finest feather in our cap.  All that we
     require of a voter is that he shall be forked, wear pantaloons
     instead of petticoats, and bear a more or less humorous resemblance
     to the reported image of God.  He need not know anything whatever;
     he may be wholly useless and a cumberer of the earth; he may even be
     known to be a consummate scoundrel.  No matter.  While he can steer
     clear of the penitentiary his vote is as weighty as the vote of a
     president, a bishop, a college professor, a merchant prince.  We
     brag of our universal, unrestricted suffrage; but we are shams after
     all, for we restrict when we come to the women.

The Monday Evening Club was an organization which included the best minds
of Hartford.  Dr. Horace Bushnell, Prof. Calvin E. Stowe, and J. Hammond
Trumbull founded it back in the sixties, and it included such men as Rev.
Dr. Parker, Rev. Dr. Burton, Charles H. Clark, of the Courant, Warner,
and Twichell, with others of their kind.  Clemens had been elected after
his first sojourn in England (February, 1873), and had then read a paper
on the "License of the Press."  The club met alternate Mondays, from
October to May.  There was one paper for each evening, and, after the
usual fashion of such clubs, the reading was followed by discussion.
Members of that time agree that Mark Twain's association with the club
had a tendency to give it a life, or at least an exhilaration, which it
had not previously known.  His papers were serious in their purpose he
always preferred to be serious--but they evidenced the magic gift which
made whatever he touched turn to literary jewelry.

Psychic theories and phenomena always attracted Mark Twain.  In thought-
transference, especially, he had a frank interest--an interest awakened
and kept alive by certain phenomena--psychic manifestations we call them
now.  In his association with Mrs. Clemens it not infrequently happened
that one spoke the other's thought, or perhaps a long-procrastinated
letter to a friend would bring an answer as quickly as mailed; but these
are things familiar to us all.  A more startling example of thought-
communication developed at the time of which we are writing, an example
which raised to a fever-point whatever interest he may have had in the
subject before.  (He was always having these vehement interests--rages we
may call them, for it would be inadequate to speak of them as fads,
inasmuch as they tended in the direction of human enlightenment, or
progress, or reform.)

Clemens one morning was lying in bed when, as he says, suddenly a red-hot
new idea came whistling down into my camp."  The idea was that the time
was ripe for a book that would tell the story of the Comstock-of the
Nevada silver mines.  It seemed to him that the person best qualified for
the work was his old friend William Wright--Dan de Quille.  He had not
heard from Dan, or of him, for a long time, but decided to write and urge
him to take up the idea.  He prepared the letter, going fully into the
details of his plan, as was natural for him to do, then laid it aside
until he could see Bliss and secure his approval of the scheme from a
publishing standpoint.  Just a week later, it was the 9th of March, a
letter came--a thick letter bearing a Nevada postmark, and addressed in a
handwriting which he presently recognized as De Quille's.  To a visitor
who was present he said:

"Now I will do a miracle.  I will tell you everything this letter
contains--date, signature, and all without breaking the seal."

He stated what he believed was in the letter.  Then he opened it and
showed that he had correctly given its contents, which were the same in
all essential details as those of his own letter, not yet mailed.

In an article on "Mental Telegraphy" (he invented the name) he relates
this instance, with others, and in 'Following the Equator' and elsewhere
he records other such happenings.  It was one of the "mysteries" in which
he never lost interest, though his concern in it in time became a passive
one.

The result of the De Quille manifestation, however, he has not recorded.
Clemens immediately wrote, urging Dan to come to Hartford for an extended
visit.  De Quille came, and put in a happy spring in his old comrade's
luxurious home, writing 'The Big Bonanza', which Bliss successfully
published a year later.

Mark Twain was continually inviting old friends to share his success with
him.  Any comrade of former days found welcome in his home as often as he
would come, and for as long as he would stay.  Clemens dropped his own
affairs to advise in their undertakings; and if their undertakings were
literary he found them a publisher.  He did this for Joaquin Miller and
for Bret Harte, and he was always urging Goodman to make his house a
home.

The Beecher-Tilton trial was the sensation of the spring of 1875, and
Clemens, in common with many others, was greatly worked up over it.  The
printed testimony had left him decidedly in doubt as to Beecher's
innocence, though his blame would seem to have been less for the possible
offense than because of the great leader's attitude in the matter.  To
Twichell he said:

"His quibbling was fatal.  Innocent or guilty, he should have made an
unqualified statement in the beginning."

Together they attended one of the sessions, on a day when Beecher himself
was on the witness-stand.  The tension was very great; the excitement was
painful.  Twichell thought that Beecher appeared well under the stress of
examination and was deeply sorry for him; Clemens was far from convinced.

The feeling was especially strong in Hartford, where Henry Ward Beecher's
relatives were prominent, and animosities grew out of it.  They are all
forgotten now; most of those who cherished bitterness are dead.  Any
feeling that Clemens had in the matter lasted but a little while.
Howells tells us that when he met him some months after the trial ended,
and was tempted to mention it, Clemens discouraged any discussion of the
event.  Says Howells:

     He would only say the man had suffered enough; as if the man had
     expiated his wrong, and he was not going to do anything to renew his
     penalty.  I found that very curious, very delicate.  His continued
     blame could not come to the sufferer's knowledge, but he felt it his
     duty to forbear it.

It was one hundred years, that 19th of April, since the battles of
Lexington and Concord, and there was to be a great celebration.  The
Howellses had visited Hartford in March, and the Clemenses were invited
to Cambridge for the celebration.  Only Clemens could go, which in the
event proved a good thing perhaps; for when Clemens and Howells set out
for Concord they did not go over to Boston to take the train, but decided
to wait for it at Cambridge.  Apparently it did not occur to them that
the train would be jammed the moment the doors were opened at the Boston
station; but when it came along they saw how hopeless was their chance.
They had special invitations and passage from Boston, but these were only
mockeries now.  It yeas cold and chilly, and they forlornly set out in
search of some sort of a conveyance.  They tramped around in the mud and
raw wind, but vehicles were either filled or engaged, and drivers and
occupants were inclined to jeer at them.  Clemens was taken with an acute
attack of indigestion, which made him rather dismal and savage.  Their
effort finally ended with his trying to run down a tally-ho which was
empty inside and had a party of Harvard students riding atop.  The
students, who did not recognize their would-be fare, enjoyed the race.
They encouraged their pursuer, and perhaps their driver, with merriment
and cheers.  Clemens was handicapped by having to run in the slippery
mud, and soon "dropped by the wayside."

"I am glad," says Howells, "I cannot recall what he said when he came
back to me."

They hung about a little longer, then dragged themselves home, slipped
into the house, and built up a fine, cheerful fire on the hearth.  They
proposed to practise a deception on Mrs. Howells by pretending they had
been to Concord and returned.  But it was no use.  Their statements were
flimsy, and guilt was plainly written on their faces.  Howells recalls
this incident delightfully, and expresses the belief that the humor of
the situation was finally a greater pleasure to Clemens than the actual
visit to Concord would have been.

Twichell did not have any such trouble in attending the celebration.  He
had adventures (he was always having adventures), but they were of a more
successful kind.  Clemens heard the tale of them when he returned to
Hartford.  He wrote it to Howells:

     Joe Twichell preached morning and evening here last Sunday; took
     midnight train for Boston; got an early breakfast and started by
     rail at 7.30 A.M.  for Concord; swelled around there until 1 P.M.,
     seeing everything; then traveled on top of a train to Lexington; saw
     everything there; traveled on top of a train to Boston (with
     hundreds in company), deluged with dust, smoke, and cinders; yelled
     and hurrahed all the way like a school-boy; lay flat down, to dodge
     numerous bridges, and sailed into the depot howling with excitement
     and as black as a chimneysweep; got to Young's Hotel at 7 P.M.; sat
     down in the reading-room and immediately fell asleep; was promptly
     awakened by a porter, who supposed he was drunk; wandered around an
     hour and a half; then took 9 P.M.  train, sat down in a smoking-car,
     and remembered nothing more until awakened by conductor as the train
     came into Hartford at 1.30 A.M.  Thinks he had simply a glorious
     time, and wouldn't have missed the Centennial for the world.  He
     would have run out to see us a moment at Cambridge but he was too
     dirty.  I wouldn't have wanted him there; his appalling energy would
     have been an insufferable reproach to mild adventurers like you and
     me.




CI

CONCLUDING "TOM SAWYER"--MARK TWAIN's "EDITORS"

Meantime the "inspiration tank," as Clemens sometimes called it, had
filled up again.  He had received from somewhere new afflatus for the
story of Tom and Huck, and was working on it steadily.  The family
remained in Hartford, and early in July, under full head of steam, he
brought the story to a close.  On the 5th he wrote Howells:

     I have finished the story and didn't take the chap beyond boyhood.
     I believe it would be fatal to do it in any shape but
     autobiographically, like Gil Blas.  I perhaps made a mistake in not
     writing it in the first person.  If I went on now, and took him into
     manhood, he would just lie, like all the one-horse men in
     literature, and the reader would conceive a hearty contempt for him.
     It is not a boy's book at all.  It will only be read by adults.  It
     is only written for adults.

He would like to see the story in the Atlantic, he said, but doubted the
wisdom of serialization.

"By and by I shall take a boy of twelve and run him through life (in the
first person), but not Tam Sawyer, he would not make a good character for
it."  From which we get the first glimpse of Huck's later adventures.

Of course he wanted Howells to look at the story.  It was a tremendous
favor to ask, he said, and added, "But I know of no other person whose
judgment I could venture to take, fully and entirely.  Don't hesitate to
say no, for I know how your time is taxed, and I would have honest need
to blush if you said yes."

"Send on your MS.," wrote Howells.  "You've no idea what I may ask you to
do for me some day."

But Clemens, conscience-stricken, "blushed and weakened," as he said.
When Howells insisted, he wrote:

     But I will gladly send it to you if you will do as follows:
     dramatize it, if you perceive that you can, and take, for your
     remuneration, half of the first $6,000 which I receive for its
     representation on the stage.  You could alter the plot entirely if
     you chose.  I could help in the work most cheerfully after you had
     arranged the plot.  I have my eye upon two young girls who can play
     Tom and Huck.

Howells in his reply urged.  Clemens to do the playwriting himself.  He
could never find time, he said, and he doubted whether he could enter
into the spirit of another man's story.  Clemens did begin a
dramatization then or a little later, but it was not completed.  Mrs.
Clemens, to whom he had read the story as it proceeded, was as anxious as
her husband for Howells's opinion, for it was the first extended piece of
fiction Mark Twain had undertaken alone.  He carried the manuscript over
to Boston himself, and whatever their doubts may have been, Howells's
subsequent letter set them at rest.  He wrote that he had sat up till one
in the morning to get to the end of it, simply because it was impossible
to leave off.

It is altogether the best boy story I ever read.  It will be an immense
success, but I think you ought to treat it explicitly as a boy's story;
grown-ups will enjoy it just as much if you do, and if you should put it
forth as a story of boys' character from the grown-up point of view you
give the wrong key to it.

Viewed in the light of later events, there has never been any better
literary opinion than that--none that has been more fully justified.

Clemens was delighted.  He wrote concerning a point here and there, one
inquiry referring to the use of a certain strong word.  Howells's reply
left no doubt:

     I'd have that swearing out in an instant.  I suppose I didn't notice
     it because the location was so familiar to my Western sense, and so
     exactly the thing Huck would say, but it won't do for children.

It was in the last chapter, where Huck relates to Tom the sorrows of
reform and tells how they comb him "all to thunder."  In the original,
"They comb me all to hell," says Huck; which statement, one must agree,
is more effective, more the thing Huck would be likely to say.

Clemens's acknowledgment of the correction was characteristic:

     Mrs. Clemens received the mail this morning, and the next minute she
     lit into the study with danger in her eye and this demand on her
     tongue, "Where is the profanity Mr. Howells speaks of?"  Then I had
     to miserably confess that I had left it out when reading the MS. to
     her.  Nothing but almost inspired lying got me out of this scrape
     with my scalp.  Does your wife give you rats, like that, when you go
     a little one-sided?

The Clemens family did not, go to Elmira that year.  The children's
health seemed to require the sea-shore, and in August they went to
Bateman's Point, Rhode Island, where Clemens most of the time played
tenpins in an alley that had gone to ruin.  The balls would not stay on
the track; the pins stood at inebriate angles.  It reminded him of the
old billiard-tables of Western mining-camps, and furnished the same
uncertainty of play.  It was his delight, after he had become accustomed
to the eccentricities of the alley, to invite in a stranger and watch his
suffering and his frantic effort to score.




CII

"SKETCHES NEW AND OLD"

The long-delayed book of Sketches, contracted for five years before, was
issued that autumn.  "The Jumping Frog," which he had bought from Webb,
was included in the volume, also the French translation which Madame
Blanc (Th. Bentzon) had made for the Revue des deux mondes, with Mark
Twain's retranslation back into English, a most astonishing performance
in its literal rendition of the French idiom.  One example will suffice
here.  It is where the stranger says to Smiley, "I don't see no p'ints
about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."

Says the French, retranslated:

"Eh bien! I no saw not that that frog had nothing of better than each
frog" (Je ne vois pas que cette grenouille ait mieux qu'aucune
grenouille).  (If that isn't grammar gone to seed then I count myself no
judge.--M. T.)

"Possible that you not it saw not," said Smiley; "possible that you you
comprehend frogs; possible that you not you there comprehend nothing;
possible that you had of the experience, and possible that you not be but
an amateur.  Of all manner (de toute maniere) I bet forty dollars that
she batter in jumping, no matter which frog of the county of Calaveras."

He included a number of sketches originally published with the Frog, also
a selection from the "Memoranda" and Buffalo Express contributions, and
he put in the story of Auntie Cord, with some matter which had never
hitherto appeared.  True Williams illustrated the book, but either it
furnished him no inspiration or he was allowed too much of another sort,
for the pictures do not compare with his earlier work.

Among the new matter in the book were-"Some Fables for Good Old Boys and
Girls," in which certain wood creatures are supposed to make a scientific
excursion into a place at some time occupied by men.  It is the most
pretentious feature of the book, and in its way about as good as any.
Like Gulliver's Travels, its object was satire, but its result is also
interest.

Clemens was very anxious that Howells should be first to review this
volume.  He had a superstition that Howells's verdicts were echoed by the
lesser reviewers, and that a book was made or damned accordingly; a
belief hardly warranted, for the review has seldom been written that
meant to any book the difference between success and failure.  Howells's
review of Sketches may be offered as a case in point.  It was highly
commendatory, much more so than the notice of the 'Innocents' had been,
or even that of 'Roughing It', also more extensive than the latter.  Yet
after the initial sale of some twenty thousand copies, mainly on the
strength of the author's reputation, the book made a comparatively poor
showing, and soon lagged far behind its predecessors.

We cannot judge, of course, the taste of that day, but it appears now an
unattractive, incoherent volume.  The pictures were absurdly bad, the
sketches were of unequal merit.  Many of them are amusing, some of them
delightful, but most of them seem ephemeral.  If we except "The Jumping
Frog," and possibly "A True Story" (and the latter was altogether out of
place in the collection), there is no reason to suppose that any of its
contents will escape oblivion.  The greater number of the sketches, as
Mark Twain himself presently realized and declared, would better have
been allowed to die.

Howells did, however, take occasion to point out in his review, or at
least to suggest, the more serious side of Mark Twain.  He particularly
called attention to "A True Story," which the reviewers, at the time of
its publication in the Atlantic, had treated lightly, fearing a lurking
joke in it; or it may be they had not read it, for reviewers are busy
people.  Howells spoke of it as the choicest piece of work in the volume,
and of its "perfect fidelity to the tragic fact."  He urged the reader to
turn to it again, and to read it as a "simple dramatic report of
reality," such as had been equaled by no other American writer.

It was in this volume of sketches that Mark Twain first spoke in print
concerning copyright, showing the absurd injustice of discriminating
against literary ownership by statute of limitation.  He did this in the
form of an open petition to Congress, asking that all property, real and
personal, should be put on the copyright basis, its period of ownership
limited to a "beneficent term of forty-two years."  Generally this was
regarded as a joke, as in a sense it was; but like most of Mark Twain's
jokes it was founded on reason and justice.

The approval with which it was received by his literary associates led
him to still further flights.  He began a determined crusade for
international copyright laws.  It was a transcendental beginning, but it
contained the germ of what, in the course of time, he would be largely
instrumental in bringing to a ripe and magnificent conclusion.  In this
first effort he framed a petition to enact laws by which the United
States would declare itself to be for right and justice, regardless of
other nations, and become a good example to the world by refusing to
pirate the books of any foreign author.  He wrote to Howells, urging him
to get Lowell, Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, and others to sign this
petition.

I will then put a gentlemanly chap under wages, and send him personally
to every author of distinction in the country and corral the rest of the
signatures.  Then I'll have the whole thing lithographed (about one
thousand copies), and move upon the President and Congress in person, but
in the subordinate capacity of the party who is merely the agent of
better and wiser men, or men whom the country cannot venture to laugh at.
I will ask the President to recommend the thing in his message (and if he
should ask me to sit down and frame the paragraph for him I should blush,
but still I would frame it).  And then if Europe chooses to go on
stealing from us we would say, with noble enthusiasm, "American lawmakers
do steal, but not from foreign authors--not from foreign authors,"....
If we only had some God in the country's laws, instead of being in such a
sweat to get Him into the Constitution, it would be better all around.

The petition never reached Congress.  Holmes agreed to sign it with a
smile, and the comment that governments were not in the habit of setting
themselves up as high moral examples, except for revenue.  Longfellow
also pledged himself, as did a few others; but if there was any general
concurrence in the effort there is no memory of it now.  Clemens
abandoned the original idea, but remained one of the most persistent and
influential advocates of copyright betterment, and lived to see most of
his dream fulfilled.--[For the petition concerning copyright term in the
United States, see Sketches New and Old.  For the petition concerning
international copyright and related matters, see Appendix N, at the end
of last volume.]




CIII

"ATLANTIC" DAYS

It was about this period that Mark Twain began to exhibit openly his more
serious side; that is to say his advocacy of public reforms.  His paper
on "Universal Suffrage" had sounded a first note, and his copyright
petitions were of the same spirit.  In later years he used to say that he
had always felt it was his mission to teach, to carry the banner of moral
reconstruction, and here at forty we find him furnishing evidences of
this inclination.  In the Atlantic for October, 1875, there was published
an unsigned three-page article entitled, "The Curious Republic of
Gondour."  In this article was developed the idea that the voting
privilege should be estimated not by the individuals, but by their
intellectual qualifications.  The republic of Gondour was a Utopia, where
this plan had been established:

     It was an odd idea and ingenious.  You must understand the
     constitution gave every man a vote; therefore that vote was a vested
     right, and could not be taken away.  But the constitution did not
     say that certain individuals might not be given two votes or ten.
     So an amendatory clause was inserted in a quiet way, a clause which
     authorized the enlargement of the suffrage in certain cases to be
     specified by statute....

     The victory was complete.  The new law was framed and passed.  Under
     it every citizen, howsoever poor or ignorant, possessed one vote, so
     universal suffrage still reigned; but if a man possessed a good
     common-school education and no money he had two votes, a high-school
     education gave him four; if he had property, likewise, to the value
     of three thousand sacos he wielded one more vote; for every fifty
     thousand sacos a man added to his property, he was entitled to
     another vote; a University education entitled a man to nine votes,
     even though he owned no property.

The author goes on to show the beneficent results of this enaction; how
the country was benefited and glorified by this stimulus toward
enlightenment and industry.  No one ever suspected that Mark Twain was
the author of this fable.  It contained almost no trace of his usual
literary manner.  Nevertheless he wrote it, and only withheld his name,
as he did in a few other instances, in the fear that the world might
refuse to take him seriously over his own signature or nom de plume.

Howells urged him to follow up the "Gondour" paper; to send some more
reports from that model land.  But Clemens was engaged in other things by
that time, and was not pledged altogether to national reforms.

He was writing a skit about a bit of doggerel which was then making
nights and days unhappy for many undeserving persons who in an evil
moment had fallen upon it in some stray newspaper corner.  A certain car
line had recently adopted the "punch system," and posted in its cars, for
the information of passengers and conductor, this placard:

A Blue Trip Slip for an 8 Cents Fare,
A Buff Trip Slip for a 6 Cents Fare,
A Pink Trip Slip for a 3 Cents Fare,
For Coupon And Transfer, Punch The Tickets.

Noah Brooks and Isaac Bromley were riding down-town one evening on the
Fourth Avenue line, when Bromley said:

"Brooks, it's poetry.  By George, it's poetry!"

Brooks followed the direction of Bromley's finger and read the card of
instructions.  They began perfecting the poetic character of the notice,
giving it still more of a rhythmic twist and jingle; arrived at the
Tribune office, W. C. Wyckoff, scientific editor, and Moses P. Handy lent
intellectual and poetic assistance, with this result:

          Conductor, when you receive a fare,

          Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
          A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
          A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,
          A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare.
          Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

     CHORUS
          Punch, brothers!  Punch with care!
          Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

It was printed, and street-car poetry became popular.  Different papers
had a turn at it, and each usually preceded its own effort with all other
examples, as far as perpetrated.  Clemens discovered the lines, and on
one of their walks recited them to Twichell.  "A Literary Nightmare" was
written a few days later.  In it the author tells how the jingle took
instant and entire possession of him and went waltzing through his brain;
how, when he had finished his breakfast, he couldn't tell whether he had
eaten anything or not; and how, when he went to finish the novel he was
writing, and took up his pen, he could only get it to say:

Punch in the presence of the passenjare.

He found relief at last in telling it to his reverend friend, that is,
Twichell, upon whom he unloaded it with sad results.

It was an amusing and timely skit, and is worth reading to-day.  Its
publication in the Atlantic had the effect of waking up horse-car poetry
all over the world.  Howells, going to dine at Ernest Longfellow's the
day following its appearance, heard his host and Tom Appleton urging each
other to "Punch with care."  The Longfellow ladies had it by heart.
Boston was devastated by it.  At home, Howells's children recited it to
him in chorus.  The streets were full of it; in Harvard it became an
epidemic.

It was transformed into other tongues.  Even Swinburne, the musical, is
said to have done a French version for the 'Revue des deux mondes'*.  A
St. Louis magazine, The Western, found relief in a Latin anthem with this
chorus:

Pungite, fratres, pungite,
Pungite cum amore,
Pungite pro vectore,
Diligentissime pungite.


                    * LE CHANT DU CONDUCTEUR

               Ayant ete paye, le conducteur
               Percera en pleine vue du voyageur,
               Quand il regoit trois sous un coupon vert,
               Un coupon jaune pour six sous c'est l'affaire,
               Et pour huit sous c'est un coupon couleur
               De rose, en pleine vue du voyageur.

          CHOEUR
               Donc, percez soigneusement, mes freres
               Tout en pleine vue des voyageurs, etc.





CIV

MARK TWAIN AND HIS WIFE

Clemens and his wife traveled to Boston for one of those happy fore-
gatherings with the Howellses, which continued, at one end of the journey
or another, for so many years.  There was a luncheon with Longfellow at
Craigie House, and, on the return to Hartford, Clemens reported to
Howells how Mrs. Clemens had thrived on the happiness of the visit.  Also
he confesses his punishment for the usual crimes:

     I "caught it" for letting Mrs. Howells bother and bother about her
     coffee, when it was a "good deal better than we get at home."  I
     "caught it" for interrupting Mrs. C. at the last moment and losing
     her the opportunity to urge you not to forget to send her that MS.
     when the printers are done with it.  I "caught it" once more for
     personating that drunken Colonel James.  I "caught it" for
     mentioning that Mr. Longfellow's picture was slightly damaged; and
     when, after a lull in the storm, I confessed, shamefacedly, that I
     had privately suggested to you that we hadn't any frames, and that
     if you wouldn't mind hinting to Mr. Houghton, etc., etc., etc., the
     madam was simply speechless for the space of a minute.  Then she
     said:

     "How could you, Youth!  The idea of sending Mr. Howells, with his
     sensitive nature, upon such a repulsive er--"

     "Oh, Howells won't mind it!  You don't know Howells.  Howells is a
     man who--"

     She was gone.  But George was the first person she stumbled on in
     the hall, so she took it out of George.  I am glad of that, because
     it saved the babies.

Clemens used to admit, at a later day, that his education did not advance
by leaps and bounds, but gradually, very gradually; and it used to give
him a pathetic relief in those after-years, when that sweet presence had
gone out of his life, to tell the way of it, to confess over-fully,
perhaps, what a responsibility he had been to her.

He used to tell how, for a long time, he concealed his profanity from
her; how one morning, when he thought the door was shut between their
bedroom and the bathroom, he was in there dressing and shaving,
accompanying these trying things with language intended only for the
strictest privacy; how presently, when he discovered a button off the
shirt he intended to put on, he hurled it through the window into the
yard with appropriate remarks, followed it with another shirt that was in
the same condition, and added certain collars and neckties and bath-room
requisites, decorating the shrubbery outside, where the people were going
by to church; how in this extreme moment he heard a slight cough and
turned to find that the door was open!  There was only one door to the
bath-room, and he knew he had to pass her.  He felt pale and sick, and
sat down for a few moments to consider.  He decided to assume that she
was asleep, and to walk out and through the room, head up, as if he had
nothing on his conscience.  He attempted it, but without success.  Half-
way across the room he heard a voice suddenly repeat his last terrific
remark.  He turned to see her sitting up in bed, regarding him with a
look as withering as she could find in her gentle soul.  The humor of it
struck him.

"Livy," he said, "did it sound like that?"

"Of course it did," she said, "only worse.  I wanted you to hear just how
it sounded."

"Livy," he said, "it would pain me to think that when I swear it sounds
like that.  You got the words right, Livy, but you don't know the tune."

Yet he never willingly gave her pain, and he adored her and gloried in
her dominion, his life long.  Howells speaks of his beautiful and tender
loyalty to her as the "most moving quality of his most faithful soul."

It was a greater part of him than the love of most men for their wives,
and she merited all the worship he could give her, all the devotion, all
the implicit obedience, by her surpassing force and beauty of character.

She guarded his work sacredly; and reviewing the manuscripts which he was
induced to discard, and certain edited manuscripts, one gets a partial
idea of what the reading world owes to Olivia Clemens.  Of the discarded.
manuscripts (he seems seldom to have destroyed them) there are a
multitude, and among them all scarcely one that is not a proof of her
sanity and high regard for his literary honor.  They are amusing--some of
them; they are interesting--some of them; they are strong and virile--
some of them; but they are unworthy--most of them, though a number remain
unfinished because theme or interest failed.

Mark Twain was likely to write not wisely but too much, piling up
hundreds of manuscript pages only because his brain was thronging as with
a myriad of fireflies, a swarm of darting, flashing ideas demanding
release.  As often as not he began writing with only a nebulous idea of
what he proposed to do.  He would start with a few characters and
situations, trusting in Providence to supply material as needed.  So he
was likely to run ashore any time.  As for those other attempts--stories
"unavailable" for one reason or another--he was just as apt to begin
those as the better sort, for somehow he could never tell the difference.
That is one of the hall-marks of genius--the thing which sharply
differentiates genius from talent.  Genius is likely to rate a literary
disaster as its best work.  Talent rarely makes that mistake.

Among the abandoned literary undertakings of these early years of
authorship there is the beginning of what was doubtless intended to
become a book, "The Second Advent," a story which opens with a very
doubtful miraculous conception in Arkansas, and leads only to grotesquery
and literary disorder.  There is another, "The Autobiography of a Damn
Fool," a burlesque on family history, hopelessly impossible; yet he began
it with vast enthusiasm and, until he allowed her to see the manuscript,
thought it especially good.  "Livy wouldn't have it," he said, "so I gave
it up."  There is another, "The Mysterious Chamber," strong and fine in
conception, vividly and intensely interesting; the story of a young lover
who is accidentally locked behind a secret door in an old castle and
cannot announce himself.  He wanders at last down into subterranean
passages beneath the castle, and he lives in this isolation for twenty
years.  The question of sustenance was the weak point in the story.
Clemens could invent no way of providing it, except by means of a waste
or conduit from the kitchen into which scraps of meat, bread, and other
items of garbage were thrown.  This he thought sufficient, but Mrs.
Clemens did not highly regard such a literary device.  Clemens could
think of no good way to improve upon it, so this effort too was consigned
to the penal colony, a set of pigeonholes kept in his study.  To Howells
and others, when they came along, he would read the discarded yarns, and
they were delightful enough for such a purpose, as delightful as the
sketches which every artist has, turned face to the wall.

"Captain Stormfield" lay under the ban for many a year, though never
entirely abandoned.  This manuscript was even recommended for publication
by Howells, who has since admitted that it would not have done then; and
indeed, in its original, primitive nakedness it would hardly have done
even in this day of wider toleration.

It should be said here that there is not the least evidence (and the
manuscripts are full of evidence) that Mrs. Clemens was ever super-
sensitive, or narrow, or unliterary in her restraints.  She became his
public, as it were, and no man ever had a more open-minded, clear-headed
public than that.  For Mark Twain's reputation it would have been better
had she exercised her editorial prerogative even more actively--if, in
her love for him and her jealousy of his reputation, she had been even
more severe.  She did all that lay in her strength, from the beginning to
the end, and if we dwell upon this phase of their life together it is
because it is so large a part of Mark Twain's literary story.  On her
birthday in the year we are now closing (1875) he wrote her a letter
which conveys an acknowledgment of his debt.

LIVY DARLING,--Six years have gone by since I made my first great success
in life and won you, and thirty years have passed since Providence made
preparation for that happy success by sending you into the world.  Every
day we live together adds to the security of my confidence that we can
never any more wish to be separated than we can imagine a regret that we
were ever joined.  You are dearer to me to-day, my child, than you were
upon the last anniversary of this birthday; you were dearer then than you
were a year before; you have grown more and more dear from the first of
those anniversaries, and I do not doubt that this precious progression
will continue on to the end.

Let us look forward to the coming anniversaries, with their age and their
gray hairs, without fear and without depression, trusting and believing
that the love we bear each other will be sufficient to make them blessed.

So, with abounding affection for you and our babies I hail this day that
brings you the matronly grace and dignity of three decades!




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext Volume I, Part 2 of MARK TWAIN,
A BIOGRAPHY, 1866-1875 by Albert Bigelow Paine






MARK TWAIN, A BIOGRAPHY

By Albert Bigelow Paine



VOLUME II, Part 1: 1875-1886



CV

MARK TWAIN AT FORTY

In conversation with John Hay, Hay said to Clemens:

"A man reaches the zenith at forty, the top of the hill.  From that time
forward he begins to descend.  If you have any great undertaking ahead,
begin it now.  You will never be so capable again."

Of course this was only a theory of Hay's, a rule where rules do not
apply, where in the end the problem resolves itself into a question of
individualities.  John Hay did as great work after forty as ever before,
so did Mark Twain, and both of them gained in intellectual strength and
public honor to the very end.

Yet it must have seemed to many who knew him, and to himself, like
enough, that Mark Twain at forty had reached the pinnacle of his fame and
achievement.  His name was on every lip; in whatever environment
observation and argument were likely to be pointed with some saying or
anecdote attributed, rightly or otherwise, to Mark Twain.  "As Mark Twain
says," or, "You know that story of Mark Twain's," were universal and
daily commonplaces.  It was dazzling, towering fame, not of the best or
most enduring kind as yet, but holding somewhere within it the structure
of immortality.

He was in a constant state of siege, besought by all varieties and
conditions of humanity for favors such as only human need and abnormal
ingenuity can invent.  His ever-increasing mail presented a marvelous
exhibition of the human species on undress parade.  True, there were
hundreds of appreciative tributes from readers who spoke only out of a
heart's gratitude; but there were nearly as great a number who came with
a compliment, and added a petition, or a demand, or a suggestion, usually
unwarranted, often impertinent.  Politicians, public speakers, aspiring
writers, actors, elocutionists, singers, inventors (most of them he had
never seen or heard of) cheerfully asked him for a recommendation as to
their abilities and projects.

Young men wrote requesting verses or sentiments to be inscribed in young
ladies' autograph albums; young girls wrote asking him to write the story
of his life, to be used as a school composition; men starting obscure
papers coolly invited him to lend them his name as editor, assuring him
that he would be put to no trouble, and that it would help advertise his
books; a fruitful humorist wrote that he had invented some five thousand
puns, and invited Mark Twain to father this terrific progeny in book form
for a share of the returns.  But the list is endless.  He said once:

"The symbol of the race ought to be a human being carrying an ax, for
every human being has one concealed about him somewhere, and is always
seeking the opportunity to grind it."

Even P. T. Barnum had an ax, the large ax of advertising, and he was
perpetually trying to grind it on Mark Twain's reputation; in other
words, trying to get him to write something that would help to popularize
"The Greatest Show on Earth."

There were a good many curious letters-letters from humorists, would-be
and genuine.  A bright man in Duluth sent him an old Allen "pepper-box"
revolver with the statement that it had been found among a pile of bones
under a tree, from the limb of which was suspended a lasso and a buffalo
skull; this as evidence that the weapon was the genuine Allen which Bemis
had lost on that memorable Overland buffalo-hunt.  Mark Twain enjoyed
that, and kept the old pepper-box as long as he lived.  There were
letters from people with fads; letters from cranks of every description;
curious letters even from friends.  Reginald Cholmondeley, that lovely
eccentric of Condover Hall, where Mr. and Mrs. Clemens had spent some
halcyon days in 1873, wrote him invitations to be at his castle on a
certain day, naming the hour, and adding that he had asked friends to
meet him.  Cholmondeley had a fancy for birds, and spared nothing to
improve his collection.  Once he wrote Clemens asking him to collect for
him two hundred and five American specimens, naming the varieties and the
amount which he was to pay for each.  Clemens was to catch these birds
and bring them over to England, arriving at Condover on a certain day,
when there would be friends to meet him, of course.

Then there was a report which came now and then from another English
castle--the minutes of a certain "Mark Twain Club," all neatly and
elaborately written out, with the speech of each member and the
discussions which had followed--the work, he found out later, of another
eccentric; for there was no Mark Twain Club, the reports being just the
mental diversion of a rich young man, with nothing else to do.--[In
Following the Equator Clemens combined these two pleasant characters in
one story, with elaborations.]

Letters came queerly addressed.  There is one envelope still in existence
which bears Clemens's name in elaborate design and a very good silhouette
likeness, the work of some talented artist.  "Mark Twain, United States,"
was a common address; "Mark Twain, The World," was also used; "Mark
Twain, Somewhere," mailed in a foreign country, reached him promptly, and
"Mark Twain, Anywhere," found its way to Hartford in due season.  Then
there was a letter (though this was later; he was abroad at the time),
mailed by Brander Matthews and Francis Wilson, addressed, "Mark Twain,
God Knows Where."  It found him after traveling half around the world on
its errand, and in his answer he said, "He did."  Then some one sent a
letter addressed, "The Devil Knows Where."  Which also reached him, and
he answered, "He did, too."

Surely this was the farthest horizon of fame.

Countless Mark Twain anecdotes are told of this period, of every period,
and will be told and personally vouched for so long as the last soul of
his generation remains alive.  For seventy years longer, perhaps, there
will be those who will relate "personal recollections" of Mark Twain.
Many of them will be interesting; some of them will be true; most of them
will become history at last.  It is too soon to make history of much of
this drift now.  It is only safe to admit a few authenticated examples.

It happens that one of the oftenest-told anecdotes has been the least
elaborated.  It is the one about his call on Mrs. Stowe.  Twichell's
journal entry, set down at the time, verifies it:

Mrs. Stowe was leaving for Florida one morning, and Clemens ran over
early to say good-by.  On his return Mrs. Clemens regarded him
disapprovingly:

"Why, Youth," she said, "you haven't on any collar and tie."

He said nothing, but went up to his room, did up these items in a neat
package, and sent it over by a servant, with a line:

"Herewith receive a call from the rest of me."

Mrs. Stowe returned a witty note, in which she said that he had
discovered a new principle, the principle of making calls by instalments,
and asked whether, in extreme cases, a man might not send his hat, coat,
and boots and be otherwise excused.

Col. Henry Watterson tells the story of an after-theater supper at the
Brevoort House, where Murat Halstead, Mark Twain, and himself were
present.  A reporter sent in a card for Colonel Watterson, who was about
to deny himself when Clemens said:

"Give it to me; I'll fix it."  And left the table.  He came back in a
moment and beckoned to Watterson.

"He is young and as innocent as a lamb," he said.  "I represented myself
as your secretary.  I said that you were not here, but if Mr. Halstead
would do as well I would fetch him out.  I'll introduce you as Halstead,
and we'll have some fun."

Now, while Watterson and Halstead were always good friends, they were
political enemies.  It was a political season and the reporter wanted
that kind of an interview.  Watterson gave it to him, repudiating every
principle that Halstead stood for, reversing him in every expressed
opinion.  Halstead was for hard money and given to flying the "bloody
shirt" of sectional prejudice; Watterson lowered the bloody shirt and
declared for greenbacks in Halstead's name.  Then he and Clemens returned
to the table and told frankly what they had done.  Of course, nobody
believed it.  The report passed the World night-editor, and appeared,
next morning.  Halstead woke up, then, and wrote a note to the World,
denying the interview throughout.  The World printed his note with the
added line:

"When Mr. Halstead saw our reporter he had dined."

It required John Hay (then on the Tribune) to place the joke where it
belonged.

There is a Lotos Club anecdote of Mark Twain that carries the internal
evidence of truth.  Saturday evening at the Lotos always brought a
gathering of the "wits," and on certain evenings--"Hens and chickens"
nights--each man had to tell a story, make a speech, or sing a song.  On
one evening a young man, an invited guest, was called upon and recited a
very long poem.

One by one those who sat within easy reach of the various exits melted
away, until no one remained but Mark Twain.  Perhaps he saw the
earnestness of the young man, and sympathized with it.  He may have
remembered a time when he would have been grateful for one such attentive
auditor.  At all events, he sat perfectly still, never taking his eyes
from the reader, never showing the least inclination toward discomfort or
impatience, but listening, as with rapt attention, to the very last line.
Douglas Taylor, one of the faithful Saturday-night members, said to him
later:

"Mark, how did you manage to sit through that dreary, interminable poem?"

"Well," he said, "that young man thought he had a divine message to
deliver, and I thought he was entitled to at least one auditor, so I
stayed with him."

We may believe that for that one auditor the young author was willing to
sacrifice all the others.

One might continue these anecdotes for as long as the young man's poem
lasted, and perhaps hold as large an audience.  But anecdotes are not all
of history.  These are set down because they reflect a phase of the man
and an aspect of his life at this period.  For at the most we can only
present an angle here and there, and tell a little of the story, letting
each reader from his fancy construct the rest.




CVI

HIS FIRST STAGE APPEARANCE

Once that winter the Monday Evening Club met at Mark Twain's home, and
instead of the usual essay he read them a story: "The Facts Concerning
the Recent Carnival of Crime in Connecticut."  It was the story of a
man's warfare with a personified conscience--a, sort of "William Wilson"
idea, though less weird, less somber, and with more actuality, more
verisimilitude.  It was, in fact, autobiographical, a setting-down of the
author's daily self-chidings.  The climax, where conscience is slain, is
a startling picture which appeals to most of humanity.  So vivid is it
all, that it is difficult in places not to believe in the reality of the
tale, though the allegory is always present.

The club was deeply impressed by the little fictional sermon.  One of its
ministerial members offered his pulpit for the next Sunday if Mark Twain
would deliver it to his congregation.  Howells welcomed it for the
Atlantic, and published it in June.  It was immensely successful at the
time, though for some reason it seems to be little known or remembered
to-day.  Now and then a reader mentions it, always with enthusiasm.
Howells referred to it repeatedly in his letters, and finally persuaded
Clemens to let Osgood bring it out, with "A True Story," in dainty,
booklet form.  If the reader does not already know the tale, it will pay
him to look it up and read it, and then to read it again.

Meantime Tom Sawyer remained unpublished.

"Get Bliss to hurry it up!" wrote Howells.  "That boy is going to make a
prodigious hit."

But Clemens delayed the book, to find some means to outwit the Canadian
pirates, who thus far had laid hands on everything, and now were
clamoring at the Atlantic because there was no more to steal.

Moncure D. Conway was in America, and agreed to take the manuscript of
Sawyer to London and arrange for its publication and copyright.  In
Conway's Memoirs he speaks of Mark Twain's beautiful home, comparing it
and its surroundings with the homes of Surrey, England.  He tells of an
entertainment given to Harriet Beecher Stowe, a sort of animated jarley
wax-works.  Clemens and Conway went over as if to pay a call, when
presently the old lady was rather startled by an invasion of costumed.
figures.  Clemens rose and began introducing them in his gay, fanciful
fashion.  He began with a knight in full armor, saying, as if in an
aside, "Bring along that tinshop," and went on to tell the romance of the
knight's achievements.

Conway read Tom Sawyer on the ship and was greatly excited over it.
Later, in London, he lectured on it, arranging meantime for its
publication with Chatto & Windus, thus establishing a friendly business
relation with that firm which Mark Twain continued during his lifetime.

Clemens lent himself to a number of institutional amusements that year,
and on the 26th of April, 1876, made his first public appearance on the
dramatic stage.

It was an amateur performance, but not of the usual kind.  There was
genuine dramatic talent in Hartford, and the old play of the "Loan of the
Lover," with Mark Twain as Peter Spuyk and Miss Helen Smith--[Now Mrs.
William W.  Ellsworth.]--as Gertrude, with a support sufficient for their
needs, gave a performance that probably furnished as much entertainment
as that pleasant old play is capable of providing.  Mark Twain had in him
the making of a great actor.  Henry Irving once said to him:


"You made a mistake by not adopting the stage as a profession.  You would
have made even a greater actor than a writer."

Yet it is unlikely that he would ever have been satisfied with the stage.
He had too many original literary ideas.  He would never have been
satisfied to repeat the same part over and over again, night after night
from week to month, and from month to year.  He could not stick to the
author's lines even for one night.  In his performance of the easy-going,
thick-headed Peter Spuyk his impromptu additions to the lines made it
hard on the company, who found their cues all at sixes and sevens, but it
delighted the audience beyond measure.  No such impersonation of that.
character was ever given before, or ever will be given again.  It was
repeated with new and astonishing variations on the part of Peter, and it
could have been put on for a long run.  Augustin Daly wrote immediately,
offering the Fifth Avenue Theater for a "benefit" performance, and again,
a few days later, urging acceptance.  "Not for one night, but for many."

Clemens was tempted, no doubt.  Perhaps, if he had yielded, he would
today have had one more claim on immortality.




CVII

HOWELLS, CLEMENS, AND "GEORGE"

Howells and Clemens were visiting back and forth rather oftener just
then.  Clemens was particularly fond of the Boston crowd--Aldrich,
Fields, Osgood, and the rest--delighting in those luncheons or dinners
which Osgood, that hospitable publisher, was always giving on one pretext
or another.  No man ever loved company more than Osgood, or to play the
part of host and pay for the enjoyment of others.  His dinners were
elaborate affairs, where the sages and poets and wits of that day (and
sometimes their wives) gathered.  They were happy reunions, those fore-
gatherings, though perhaps a more intimate enjoyment was found at the
luncheons, where only two or three were invited, usually Aldrich,
Howells, and Clemens, and the talk continued through the afternoon and
into the deepening twilight, such company and such twilight as somehow
one seems never to find any more.

On one of the visits which Howells made to Hartford that year he took his
son John, then a small boy, with him.  John was about six years old at
the time, with his head full of stories of Aladdin, and of other Arabian
fancies.  On the way over his father said to him:

"Now, John, you will see a perfect palace."

They arrived, and John was awed into silence by the magnificence and
splendors of his surroundings until they went to the bath-room to wash
off the dust of travel.  There he happened to notice a cake of pink soap.

"Why," he said, "they've even got their soap painted!" Next morning he
woke early--they were occupying the mahogany room on the ground floor--
and slipping out through the library, and to the door of the dining-room,
he saw the colored butler, George--the immortal George--setting the
breakfast-table.  He hurriedly tiptoed back and whispered to his father:

"Come quick!  The slave is setting the table!"

This being the second mention of George, it seems proper here that he
should be formally presented.  Clemens used to say that George came one
day to wash windows and remained eighteen years.  He was precisely the
sort of character that Mark Twain loved.  He had formerly been the body-
servant of an army general and was typically racially Southern, with
those delightful attributes of wit and policy and gentleness which go
with the best type of negro character.  The children loved him no less
than did their father.  Mrs. Clemens likewise had a weakness for George,
though she did not approve of him.  George's morals were defective.  He
was an inveterate gambler.  He would bet on anything, though prudently
and with knowledge.  He would investigate before he invested.  If he
placed his money on a horse, he knew the horse's pedigree and the
pedigree of the horses against it, also of their riders.  If he invested
in an election, he knew all about the candidates.  He had agents among
his own race, and among the whites as well, to supply him with
information.  He kept them faithful to him by lending them money--at
ruinous interest.  He buttonholed Mark Twain's callers while he was
removing their coats concerning the political situation, much to the
chagrin of Mrs. Clemens, who protested, though vainly, for the men liked
George and his ways, and upheld him in his iniquities.

Mrs. Clemens's disapproval of George reached the point, now and then,
where she declared he could not remain.

She even discharged him once, but next morning George was at the
breakfast-table, in attendance, as usual.  Mrs. Clemens looked at him
gravely:

"George," she said, "didn't I discharge you yesterday?"

"Yes, Mis' Clemens, but I knew you couldn't get along without me, so I
thought I'd better stay a while."

In one of the letters to Howells, Clemens wrote:

When George first came he was one of the most religious of men.  He had
but one fault--young George Washington's.  But I have trained him; and
now it fairly breaks Mrs. Clemens's heart to hear him stand at that front
door and lie to an unwelcome visitor.

George was a fine diplomat.  He would come up to the billiard-room with a
card or message from some one waiting below, and Clemens would fling his
soul into a sultry denial which became a soothing and balmy subterfuge
before it reached the front door.

The "slave" must have been setting the table in good season, for the
Clemens breakfasts were likely to be late.  They usually came along about
nine o'clock, by which time Howells and John were fairly clawing with
hunger.

Clemens did not have an early appetite, but when it came it was a good
one.  Breakfast and dinner were his important meals.  He seldom ate at
all during the middle of the day, though if guests were present he would
join them at luncheon-time and walk up and down while they were eating,
talking and gesticulating in his fervent, fascinating way.  Sometimes
Mrs. Clemens would say:

"Oh, Youth, do come and sit down with us.  We can listen so much better."

But he seldom did.  At dinner, too, it was his habit, between the
courses, to rise from the table and walk up and down the room, waving his
napkin and talking!--talking in a strain and with a charm that he could
never quite equal with his pen.  It's the opinion of most people who knew
Mark Twain personally that his impromptu utterances, delivered with that
ineffable quality of speech, manifested the culmination of his genius.

When Clemens came to Boston the Howells household was regulated, or
rather unregulated, without regard to former routine.  Mark Twain's
personality was of a sort that unconsciously compelled the general
attendance of any household.  The reader may recall Josh Billings's
remark on the subject.  Howells tells how they kept their guest to
themselves when he visited their home in Cambridge, permitting him to
indulge in as many unconventions as he chose; how Clemens would take a
room at the Parker House, leaving the gas burning day and night, and
perhaps arrive at Cambridge, after a dinner or a reading, in evening
dress and slippers, and joyously remain with them for a day or more in
that guise, slipping on an overcoat and a pair of rubbers when they went
for a walk.  Also, how he smoked continuously in every room of the house,
smoked during every waking moment, and how Howells, mindful of his
insurance, sometimes slipped in and removed the still-burning cigar after
he was asleep.

Clemens had difficulty in getting to sleep in that earlier day, and for a
time found it soothing to drink a little champagne on retiring.  Once,
when he arrived in Boston, Howells said:

"Clemens, we've laid in a bottle of champagne for you."

But he answered:

"Oh, that's no good any more.  Beer's the thing."

So Howells provided the beer, and always afterward had a vision of his
guest going up-stairs that night with a pint bottle under each arm.

He invented other methods of inducing slumber as the years went by, and
at one time found that this precious boon came more easily when he
stretched himself on the bath-room floor.

He was a perpetual joy to the Howells family when he was there, even
though the household required a general reorganization when he was gone.

Mildred Howells remembers how, as a very little girl, her mother
cautioned her not to ask for anything she wanted at the table when
company was present, but to speak privately of it to her.  Miss Howells
declares that while Mark Twain was their guest she nearly starved because
it was impossible to get her mother's attention; and Mrs. Howells, after
one of those visits of hilarity and disorder, said:

"Well, it 'most kills me, but it pays," a remark which Clemens vastly
enjoyed.  Howells himself once wrote:

Your visit was a perfect ovation for us; we never enjoy anything so much
as those visits of yours.  The smoke and the Scotch and the late hours
almost kill us; but we look each other in the eyes when you are gone, and
say what a glorious time it was, and air the library, and begin sleeping
and longing to have you back again....




CVIII

SUMMER LABORS AT QUARRY FARM

They went to Elmira, that summer of '76, to be "hermits and eschew caves
and live in the sun," as Clemens wrote in a letter to Dr. Brown.  They
returned to the place as to Paradise: Clemens to his study and the books
which he always called for, Mrs. Clemens to a blessed relief from social
obligations, the children to the shady play-places, the green, sloping
hill, where they could race and tumble, and to all their animal friends.

Susy was really growing up.  She had had several birthdays, quite grand
affairs, when she had been brought down in the morning, decked, and with
proper ceremonies, with subsequent celebration.  She was a strange,
thoughtful child, much given to reflecting on the power and presence of
infinity, for she was religiously taught.  Down in the city, one night,
there was a grand display of fireworks, and the hilltop was a good place
from which to enjoy it; but it grew late after a little, and Susy was
ordered to bed.  She said, thoughtfully:

"I wish I could sit up all night, as God does."

The baby, whom they still called "Bay," was a tiny, brown creature who
liked to romp in the sun and be rocked to sleep at night with a song.
Clemens often took them for extended' walks, pushing Bay in her carriage.
Once, in a preoccupied moment, he let go of the little vehicle and it
started downhill, gaining speed rapidly.

He awoke then, and set off in wild pursuit.  Before he could overtake the
runaway carriage it had turned to the roadside and upset.  Bay was lying
among the stones and her head was bleeding.  Hastily binding the wound
with a handkerchief he started full speed with her up the hill toward the
house, calling for restoratives as he came.  It was no serious matter.
The little girl was strong and did not readily give way to affliction.

The children were unlike: Susy was all contemplation and nerves; Bay
serene and practical.  It was said, when a pet cat died--this was some
years later--that Susy deeply reflected as to its life here and
hereafter, while Bay was concerned only as to the style of its funeral.
Susy showed early her father's quaintness of remark.  Once they bought
her a heavier pair of shoes than she approved of.  She was not in the
best of humors during the day, and that night, when at prayer-time her
mother said, "Now, Susy, put your thoughts on God," she answered, "Mama,
I can't with those shoes."

Clemens worked steadily that summer and did a variety of things.  He had
given up a novel, begun with much enthusiasm, but he had undertaken
another long manuscript.  By the middle of August he had written several
hundred pages of a story which was to be a continuation of Tam Sawyer--
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  Now, here is a curious phase of
genius.  The novel which for a time had filled him with enthusiasm and
faith had no important literary value, whereas, concerning this new tale,
he says:

"I like it only tolerably well, as far as I have gone, and may possibly
pigeonhole or burn the manuscript when it is done"--this of the story
which, of his books of pure fiction, will perhaps longest survive.  He
did, in fact, give the story up, and without much regret, when it was
about half completed, and let it lie unfinished for years.

He wrote one short tale, "The Canvasser's Story," a burlesque of no
special distinction, and he projected for the Atlantic a scheme of
"blindfold novelettes," a series of stories to be written by well-known
authors and others, each to be constructed on the same plot.  One can
easily imagine Clemens's enthusiasm over a banal project like that; his
impulses were always rainbow-hued, whether valuable or not; but it is
curious that Howells should welcome and even encourage an enterprise so
far removed from all the traditions of art.  It fell to pieces, at last,
of inherent misconstruction.  The title was to be, "A Murder and a
Marriage."  Clemens could not arrive at a logical climax that did not
bring the marriage and the hanging on the same day.

The Atlantic started its "Contributors' Club," and Howells wrote to
Clemens for a paragraph or more of personal opinion on any subject,
assuring him that he could "spit his spite" out at somebody or something
as if it were a passage from a letter.  That was a fairly large
permission to give Mark Twain.  The paragraph he sent was the sort of
thing he would write with glee, and hug himself over in the thought of
Howells's necessity of rejecting it.  In the accompanying note he said:

Say, Boss, do you want this to lighten up your old freight-train with?
I suppose you won't, but then it won't take long to say, so.

He was always sending impossible offerings to the magazines; innocently
enough sometimes, but often out of pure mischievousness.  Yet they were
constantly after him, for they knew they were likely to get a first-water
gem.  Mary Mopes Dodge, of St. Nicholas, wrote time and again, and
finally said:

"I know a man who was persecuted by an editor till he went distracted."

In his reading that year at the farm he gave more than customary
attention to one of his favorite books, Pepys' Diary, that captivating
old record which no one can follow continuously without catching the
infection of its manner and the desire of imitation.  He had been reading
diligently one day, when he determined to try his hand on an imaginary
record of conversation and court manners of a bygone day, written in the
phrase of the period.  The result was Fireside Conversation in the Time
of Queen Elizabeth, or, as he later called it, 1601.  The "conversation,"
recorded by a supposed Pepys of that period, was written with all the
outspoken coarseness and nakedness of that rank day, when fireside
sociabilities were limited only by the range of loosened fancy,
vocabulary, and physical performance, and not by any bounds of
convention.  Howells has spoken of Mark Twain's "Elizabethan breadth of
parlance," and how he, Howells, was always hiding away in discreet holes
and corners the letters in which Clemens had "loosed his bold fancy to
stoop on rank suggestion."  "I could not bear to burn them," he
declares, "and I could not, after the first reading, quite bear to look
at them."

In the 1601 Mark Twain outdid himself in the Elizabethan field.  It was
written as a letter to that robust divine, Rev. Joseph Twichell, who had
no special scruples concerning Shakespearian parlance and customs.
Before it was mailed it was shown to David Gray, who was spending a
Sunday at Elmira.  Gray said:

"Print it and put your name to it, Mark.  You have never done a greater
piece of work than that."

John Hay, whom it also reached in due time, pronounce it a classic--a
"most exquisite bit of old English morality."  Hay surreptitiously
permitted some proofs to be made of it, and it has been circulated
privately, though sparingly, ever since.  At one time a special font of
antique type was made for it and one hundred copies were taken on hand-
made paper.  They would easily bring a hundred dollars each to-day.

1601 is a genuine classic, as classics of that sort go.  It is better
than the gross obscenities of Rabelais, and perhaps, in some day to come,
the taste that justified Gargantua and the Decameron will give this
literary refugee shelter and setting among the more conventional writings
of Mark Twain.  Human taste is a curious thing; delicacy is purely a
matter of environment and point of view.--[In a note-book of a later
period Clemens himself wrote:  "It depends on who writes a thing whether
it is coarse or not.  I once wrote a conversation between Elizabeth,
Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont, Sir W. Raleigh, Lord Bacon, Sir
Nicholas Throckmorton, and a stupid old nobleman--this latter being cup-
bearer to the queen and ostensible reporter of the talk.

"There were four maids of honor present and a sweet young girl two years
younger than the boy Beaumont.  I built a conversation which could have
happened--I used words such as were used at that time--1601.  I sent it
anonymously to a magazine, and how the editor abused it and the sender!
But that man was a praiser of Rabelais, and had been saying, 'O that we
had a Rabelais!'  I judged that I could furnish him one."]


Eighteen hundred and seventy-six was a Presidential year--the year of the
Hayes-Tilden campaign.  Clemens and Howells were both warm Republicans
and actively interested in the outcome, Clemens, as he confessed, for the
first time in his life.  Before his return to Hartford he announced
himself publicly as a Hayes man, made so by Governor Hayes's letter of
acceptance, which, he said, "expresses my own political convictions."
His politics had not been generally known up to that time, and a Tilden
and Hendricks club in Jersey City had invited him to be present and give
them some political counsel, at a flag-raising.  He wrote, declining
pleasantly enough, then added:

"You have asked me for some political counsel or advice: In view of Mr.
Tilden's Civil War record my advice is not to raise the flag."

He wrote Howells: "If Tilden is elected I think the entire country will
go pretty straight to--Mrs. Howells's bad place."

Howells was writing a campaign biography of Hayes, which he hoped would
have a large sale, and Clemens urged him to get it out quickly and save
the country.  Howells, working like a beaver, in turn urged Clemens to
take the field in the cause.  Returning to Hartford, Clemens presided at
a political rally and made a speech, the most widely quoted of the
campaign.  All papers, without distinction as to party, quoted it, and
all readers, regardless of politics, read it with joy.

Yet conditions did not improve.  When Howells's book had been out a
reasonable length of time he wrote that it had sold only two thousand
copies.

"There's success for you," he said.  "It makes me despair of the
Republic, I can tell you."

Clemens, however, did not lose faith, and went on shouting for Hayes and
damning Tilden till the final vote was cast.  In later life he changed
his mind about Tilden (as did many others) through sympathy.  Sympathy
could make--Mark Twain change his mind any time.  He stood for the right,
but, above all, for justice.  He stood for the wronged, regardless of all
other things.




CIX

THE PUBLIC APPEARANCE OF "TOM SAWYER"

Clemens gave a few readings in Boston and Philadelphia, but when urged to
go elsewhere made the excuse that he was having his portrait painted and
could not leave home.

As a matter of fact, he was enjoying himself with Frank Millet, who had
been invited to the house to do the portrait and had captured the fervent
admiration of the whole family.  Millet was young, handsome, and lively;
Clemens couldn't see enough of him, the children adored him and added his
name to the prayer which included each member of the household--the "Holy
Family," Clemens called it.

Millet had brought with him but one piece of canvas for the portrait, and
when the first sketch was finished Mrs. Clemens was so delighted with it
that she did not wish him to touch it again.  She was afraid of losing
some particular feeling in it which she valued.  Millet went to the city.
for another canvas and Clemens accompanied him.  While Millet was doing
his shopping it happened to occur to Clemens that it would be well to
fill in the time by having his hair cut.  He left word with a clerk to
tell Millet that he had gone across the street.  By and by the artist
came over, and nearly wept with despair when he saw his subject sheared
of the auburn, gray-sprinkled aureola that had made his first sketch a
success.  He tried it again, and the result was an excellent likeness,
but it never satisfied Millet.

The 'Adventures of Tom Sawyer' appeared late in December (1876), and
immediately took its place as foremost of American stories of boy life,
a place which it unquestionably holds to this day.  We have already
considered the personal details of this story, for they were essentially
nothing more than the various aspects of Mark Twain's own boyhood.  It is
only necessary to add a word concerning the elaboration of this period in
literary form.

From every point it is a masterpiece, this picture of boy life in a
little lazy, drowsy town, with all the irresponsibility and general
disreputability of boy character coupled with that indefinable, formless,
elusive something we call boy conscience, which is more likely to be boy
terror and a latent instinct of manliness.  These things are so truly
portrayed that every boy and man reader finds the tale fitting into his
own remembered years, as if it had grown there.  Every boy has played off
sick to escape school; every boy has reflected in his heart Tom's picture
of himself being brought home dead, and gloated over the stricken
consciences of those who had blighted his young life; every boy--of that
day, at least--every normal, respectable boy, grew up to "fear God and
dread the Sunday-school," as Howells puts it in his review.

As for the story itself, the narrative of it, it is pure delight.  The
pirate camp on the island is simply boy heaven.  What boy, for instance,
would not change any other glory or boon that the world holds for this:

     They built a fire against the side of a great log twenty or thirty
     steps within the somber depths of the forest, and then cooked some
     bacon in the frying-pan for supper, and used up half of the corn
     "pone" stock they had brought.  It seemed glorious sport to be
     feasting in that wild, free way in the virgin forest of an
     unexplored and uninhabited island, far from the haunts of men, and
     they said they never would return to civilization.  The climbing
     fire lit up their faces and threw its ruddy glare upon the pillared
     tree-trunks of their forest-temple, and upon the varnished foliage
     and the festooning vines.

There is a magic in it.  Mark Twain, when he wrote it, felt renewed in
him all the old fascination of those days and nights with Tom
Blankenship, John Briggs, and the Bowen boys on Glasscock's Island.
Everywhere in Tom Sawyer there is a quality, entirely apart from the
humor and the narrative, which the younger reader is likely to overlook.
No one forgets the whitewashing scene, but not many of us, from our early
reading, recall this delicious bit of description which introduces it:

     The locust-trees were in bloom, and the fragrance of the blossoms
     filled the air.  Cardiff Hill, beyond the village and above it, was
     green with vegetation, and it lay just far enough away to seem a
     delectable land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.

Tom's night visit home; the graveyard scene, with the murder of Dr.
Robinson; the adventures of Tom and Becky in the cave--these are all
marvelously invented.  Literary thrill touches the ultimate in one
incident of the cave episode.  Brander Matthews has written:

     Nor is there any situation quite as thrilling as that awful moment
     in the cave when the boy and girl are lost in the darkness, and when
     Tom suddenly sees a human hand bearing a light, and then finds that
     the hand is the hand of Indian Joe, his one mortal enemy.  I have
     always thought that the vision of the hand in the cave in Tom Sawyer
     was one of the very finest things in the literature of adventure
     since Robinson Crusoe first saw a single footprint in the sand of
     the sea-shore.

Mark Twain's invention was not always a reliable quantity, but with that
eccentricity which goes with any attribute of genius, it was likely at
any moment to rise supreme.  If to the critical, hardened reader the tale
seems a shade overdone here and there, a trifle extravagant in its
delineations, let him go back to his first long-ago reading of it and see
if he recalls anything but his pure delight in it then.  As a boy's story
it has not been equaled.

Tom Sawyer has ranked in popularity with Roughing It.

Its sales go steadily on from year to year, and are likely to continue so
long as boys and girls do not change, and men and women remember.

--[Col.  Henry Watterson, when he finished Tom Sawyer, wrote:  "I have
just laid down Tom Sawyer, and cannot resist the pressure.  It is
immense!  I read every word of it, didn't skip a line, and nearly
disgraced myself several times in the presence of a sleeping-car full of
honorable and pious people.  Once I had to get to one side and have a
cry, and as for an internal compound of laughter and tears there was no
end to it....  The 'funeral' of the boys, the cave business, and the hunt
for the hidden treasure are as dramatic as anything I know of in fiction,
while the pathos--particularly everything relating to Huck and Aunt
Polly--makes a cross between Dickens's skill and Thackeray's nature,
which, resembling neither, is thoroughly impressive and original."]




CX

MARK TWAIN AND BRET HARTE WRITE A PLAY

It was the fall and winter of '76 that Bret Harte came to Hartford and
collaborated with Mark Twain on the play "Ah Sin," a comedy-drama, or
melodrama, written for Charles T. Parsloe, the great impersonator of
Chinese character.  Harte had written a successful play which
unfortunately he had sold outright for no great sum, and was eager for
another venture.  Harte had the dramatic sense and constructive
invention.  He also had humor, but he felt the need of the sort of humor
that Mark Twain could furnish.  Furthermore, he believed that a play
backed by both their reputations must start with great advantages.
Clemens also realized these things, and the arrangement was made.
Speaking of their method of working, Clemens once said:

"Well, Bret came down to Hartford and we talked it over, and then Bret
wrote it while I played billiards, but of course I had to go over it to
get the dialect right.  Bret never did know anything about dialect."
Which is hardly a fair statement of the case.  They both worked on the
play, and worked hard.

During the, period of its construction Harte had an order for a story
which he said he must finish at once, as he needed the money.  It must be
delivered by the following night, and he insisted that he must be getting
at it without a moment's delay.  Still he seemed in no haste to begin.
The evening passed; bedtime came.  Then he asked that an open fire might
be made in his room and a bottle of whisky sent up, in case he needed.
something to keep him awake.  George attended to these matters, and
nothing more was heard of Harte until very early next morning, when he
rang for George and asked for a fresh fire and an additional supply of
whisky.  At breakfast-time he appeared, fresh, rosy, and elate, with the
announcement that his story was complete.

That forenoon the Saturday Morning Club met at the Clemens home.  It was
a young women's club, of which Mark Twain was a sort of honorary member--
a club for the purpose of intellectual advancement, somewhat on the order
of the Monday Evening Club of men, except that the papers read before it
were not prepared by members, but by men and women prominent in some
field of intellectual progress.  Bret Harte had agreed to read to them on
this particular occasion, and he gaily appeared and gave them the story
just finished, "Thankful Blossom," a tale which Mark Twain always
regarded as one of Harte's very best.

The new play, "Ah Sin," by Mark Twain and Bret Harte, was put on at
Washington, at the National Theater, on the evening of May 7, 1877.  It
had been widely exploited in the newspapers, and the fame of the authors
insured a crowded opening.  Clemens was unable to go over on account of a
sudden attack of bronchitis.  Parsloe was nervous accordingly, and the
presence of Harte does not seem to have added to his happiness.

"I am not very well myself," he wrote to Clemens.  "The excitement of the
first night is bad enough, but to have the annoyance with Harte that I
have is too much for a new beginner."

Nevertheless, the play seems to have gone well, with Parsloe as Ah Sin--
a Chinese laundryman who was also a great number of other diverting
things--with a fair support and a happy-go-lucky presentation of frontier
life, which included a supposed murder, a false accusation, and a general
clearing-up of mystery by the pleasant and wily and useful and
entertaining Ah Sin.  It was not a great play.  It was neither very
coherent nor convincing, but it had a lot of good fun in it, with
character parts which, if not faithful to life, were faithful enough to
the public conception of it to be amusing and exciting.  At the end of
each act not only Parsloe, but also the principal members of the company,
were called before the curtain for special acknowledgments.  When it was
over there was a general call for Ah Sin, who came before the curtain and
read a telegram.

CHARLES T. PARSLOE,--I am on the sick-list, and therefore cannot come to
Washington; but I have prepared two speeches--one to deliver in event of
failure of the play, and the other if successful.  Please tell me which I
shall send.  May be better to put it to vote.

                                        MARK TWAIN.


The house cheered the letter, and when it was put to vote decided
unanimously that the play had been a success--a verdict more kindly than
true.

J. I. Ford, of the theater management, wrote to Clemens, next morning
after the first performance, urging him to come to Washington in person
and "wet nurse" the play until "it could do for itself."

Ford expressed satisfaction with the play and its prospects, and
concludes:

I inclose notices.  Come if you can.  "Your presence will be worth ten
thousand men.  The king's name is a tower of strength."  I have urged the
President to come to-night.

The play made no money in Washington, but Augustin Daly decided to put it
on in New York at the Fifth Avenue Theater, with a company which
included, besides Parsloe, Edmund Collier, P. A. Anderson, Dora
Goldthwaite, Henry Crisp, and Mrs. Wells, a very worthy group of players
indeed.  Clemens was present at the opening, dressed in white, which he
affected only for warm-weather use in those days, and made a speech at
the end of the third act.

"Ah Sin" did not excite much enthusiasm among New York dramatic critics.
The houses were promising for a time, but for some reason the performance
as a whole did not contain the elements of prosperity.  It set out on its
provincial travels with no particular prestige beyond the reputation of
its authors; and it would seem that this was not enough, for it failed to
pay, and all parties concerned presently abandoned it to its fate and it
was heard of no more.  Just why "Ah Sin" did not prosper it would not
become us to decide at this far remove of time and taste.  Poorer plays
have succeeded and better plays have failed since then, and no one has
ever been able to demonstrate the mystery.  A touch somewhere, a pulling-
about and a readjustment, might have saved "Ali Sin," but the pullings
and haulings which they gave it did not.  Perhaps it still lies in some
managerial vault, and some day may be dragged to light and reconstructed
and recast, and come into its reward.  Who knows?  Or it may have drifted
to that harbor of forgotten plays, whence there is no returning.

As between Harte and Clemens, the whole matter was unfortunate.  In the
course of their association there arose a friction and the long-time
friendship disappeared.




CXI

A BERMUDA HOLIDAY

On the 16th of May, 1877, Mark Twain set out on what, in his note-book,
he declared to be "the first actual pleasure-trip" he had ever taken,
meaning that on every previous trip he had started with a purpose other
than that of mere enjoyment.  He took with him his, friend and pastor,
the Rev. Joseph H. Twichell, and they sailed for Bermuda, an island
resort not so well known or so fashionable as to-day.

They did not go to a hotel.  Under assumed names they took up quarters in
a boarding-house, with a Mrs. Kirkham, and were unmolested and altogether
happy in their wanderings through four golden days.  Mark Twain could not
resist keeping a note-book, setting down bits of scenery and character
and incident, just as he had always done.  He was impressed with the
cheapness of property and living in the Bermuda of that period.  He makes
special mention of some cottages constructed of coral blocks: "All as
beautiful and as neat as a pin, at the cost of four hundred and eighty
dollars each."  To Twichell he remarked:

"Joe, this place is like Heaven, and I'm going to make the most of it."

"Mark," said Twichell, "that's right; make the most of a place that is
like Heaven while you have a chance."

In one of the entries--the final one--Clemens says:

"Bermuda is free (at present) from the triple curse of railways,
telegraphs, and newspapers, but this will not last the year.  I propose
to spend next year here and no more."

When they were ready to leave, and started for the steamer, Twichell made
an excuse to go back, his purpose being to tell their landlady and her
daughter that, without knowing it, they had been entertaining Mark Twain.

"Did you ever hear of Mark Twain?" asked Twichell.

The daughter answered.

"Yes," she said, "until I'm tired of the name.  I know a young man who
never talks of anything else."

"Well," said Twichell, "that gentleman with me is Mark Twain."

The Kirkhams declined to believe it at first, and then were in deep
sorrow that they had not known it earlier.  Twichell promised that he and
Clemens would come back the next year; and they meant to go back--we
always mean to go back to places--but it was thirty years before they
returned at last, and then their pleasant landlady was dead.

On the home trip they sighted a wandering vessel, manned by blacks,
trying to get to New York.  She had no cargo and was pretty helpless.
Later, when she was reported again, Clemens wrote about it in a Hartford
paper, telling the story as he knew it.  The vessel had shipped the crew,
on a basis of passage to New York, in exchange for labor.  So it was a
"pleasure-excursion!" Clemens dwelt on this fancy:

     I have heard of a good many pleasure-excursions, but this heads the
     list.  It is monumental, and if ever the tired old tramp is found I
     should like to be there and see him in his sorrowful rags and his
     venerable head of grass and seaweed, and hear the ancient mariners
     tell the story of their mysterious wanderings through the solemn
     solitudes of the ocean.

Long afterward this vagrant craft was reported again, still drifting with
the relentless Gulf Stream.  Perhaps she reached New York in time; one
would like to know, but there seems no good way to find out.

That first Bermuda voyage was always a happy memory to Mark Twain.  To
Twichell he wrote that it was the "joyousest trip" he had ever made:

     Not a heartache anywhere, not a twinge of conscience.  I often come
     to myself out of a reverie and detect an undertone of thought that
     had been thinking itself without volition of mind--viz., that if we
     had only had ten days of those walks and talks instead of four.

There was but one regret: Howells had not been with them.  Clemens
denounced him for his absence:

     If you had gone with us and let me pay the fifty dollars, which the
     trip and the board and the various knick-knacks and mementos would
     cost, I would have picked up enough droppings from your conversation
     to pay me five hundred per cent. profit in the way of the several
     magazine articles which I could have written; whereas I can now
     write only one or two, and am therefore largely out of pocket by
     your proud ways.

Clemens would not fail to write about his trip.  He could not help doing
that, and he began "Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion" as soon as
he landed in Hartford.  They were quite what the name would signify--
leisurely, pleasant commentaries on a loafing, peaceful vacation.  They
are not startling in their humor or description, but are gently amusing
and summery, reflecting, bubble-like, evanescent fancies of Bermuda.
Howells, shut up in a Boston editorial office, found them delightful
enough, and very likely his Atlantic readers agreed with him.  The story
of "Isaac and the Prophets of Baal" was one that Capt. Ned Wakeman had
told to Twichell during a voyage which the latter had made to Aspinwall
with that vigorous old seafarer; so in the "Rambling Notes" Wakeman
appears as Captain Hurricane Jones, probably a step in the evolution of
the later name of Stormfield.  The best feature of the series (there were
four papers in all) is a story of a rescue in mid-ocean; but surely the
brightest ripple of humor is the reference to Bermuda's mahogany-tree:

     There was exactly one mahogany-tree on the island.  I know this to
     be reliable because I saw a man who said he had counted it many a
     time and could not be mistaken.  He was a man with a haze lip and a
     pure heart, and everybody said he was as true as steel.  Such men
     are all too few.

Clemens cared less for these papers than did Howells.  He had serious
doubts about the first two and suggested their destruction, but with
Howells's appreciation his own confidence in them returned and he let
them all go in.  They did not especially advance his reputation, but
perhaps they did it no harm.




CXII

A NEW PLAY AND A NEW TALE

He wrote a short story that year which is notable mainly for the fact
that in it the telephone becomes a literary property, probably for the
first time.  "The Loves of Alonzo Fitz-Clarence and Rosannah Ethelton"
employed in the consummation what was then a prospect, rather than a
reality--long-distance communication.

His work that summer consisted mainly of two extensive undertakings, one
of which he completed without delay.  He still had the dramatic ambition,
and he believed that he was capable now of constructing a play entirely
from his own resources.

To Howells, in June, he wrote:

To-day I am deep in a comedy which I began this morning--principal
character an old detective.  I skeletoned the first act and wrote the
second to-day, and am dog-tired now.  Fifty-four pages of MS. in seven
hours.

Seven days later, the Fourth of July, he said:

I have piled up one hundred and fifty-one pages on my comedy.  The first,
second and fourth acts are done, and done to my satisfaction, too.  To-
morrow and next day will finish the third act, and the play.  Never had
so much fun over anything in my life never such consuming interest and
delight.  And just think!  I had Sol Smith Russell in my mind's eye for
the old detective's part, and bang it! he has gone off pottering with
Oliver Optic, or else the papers lie.

He was working with enthusiasm, you see, believing in it with a faith
which, alas, was no warrant for its quality.  Even Howells caught his
enthusiasm and became eager to see the play, and to have the story it
contained told for the Atlantic.

But in the end it proved a mistake.  Dion Boucicault, when he read the
manuscript, pronounced it better than "Ah Sin," but that was only
qualified praise.  Actors who considered the play, anxious enough to have
Mark Twain's name on their posters and small bills, were obliged to admit
that, while it contained marvelous lines, it wouldn't "go."  John
Brougham wrote:

     There is an absolute "embarrassment of riches" in your "Detective"
     most assuredly, but the difficulty is to put it into profitable
     form.  The quartz is there in abundance, only requiring the
     necessary manipulation to extract the gold.

     In narrative structure the story would be full of life, character,
     and the most exuberant fun, but it is altogether too diffuse in its
     present condition for dramatic representation, and I confess I do
     not feel sufficient confidence in my own experience (even if I had
     the time, which on reflection I find I have not) to undertake what,
     under different circumstances, would be a "labor of love."

                              Yours sincerely,    JOHN BROUGHAM.


That was frank, manly, and to the point; it covered the ground exactly.
"Simon Wheeler, the Amateur Detective," had plenty of good material in
it--plenty of dialogue and situations; but the dialogue wouldn't play,
and the situations wouldn't act.  Clemens realized that perhaps the drama
was not, after all, his forte; he dropped "Simon Wheeler," lost his
interest in "Ah Sin," even leased "Colonel Sellers" for the coming
season, and so, in a sort of fury, put theatrical matters out of his
mind.

He had entered upon what, for him, was a truer domain.  One day he picked
up from among the books at the farm a little juvenile volume, an English
story of the thirteenth century by Charlotte M. Yonge, entitled, The
Prince and the Page.  It was a story of Edward I. and his cousins,
Richard and Henry de Montfort; in part it told of the submerged
personality of the latter, picturing him as having dwelt in disguise as
a blind beggar for a period of years.  It was a story of a sort and with
a setting that Mark Twain loved, and as he read there came a correlative
idea.  Not only would he disguise a prince as a beggar, but a beggar as
a prince.  He would have them change places in the world, and each learn
the burdens of the other's life.--[There is no point of resemblance
between the Prince and the Pauper and the tale that inspired it.  No one
would ever guess that the one had grown out of the readings of the other,
and no comparison of any sort is possible between them.]

The plot presented physical difficulties.  He still had some lurking
thought of stage performance, and saw in his mind a spectacular
presentation, with all the costumery of an early period as background for
a young and beautiful creature who would play the part of prince.  The
old device of changelings in the cradle (later used in Pudd'nhead Wilson)
presented itself to him, but it could not provide the situations he had
in mind.  Finally came the thought of a playful interchange of raiment
and state (with startling and unlooked-for consequence)--the guise and
personality of Tom Canty, of Offal Court, for those of the son of Henry
VIII., little Edward Tudor, more lately sixth English king of that name.
This little prince was not his first selection for the part.  His
original idea had been to use the late King Edward VII. (then Prince of
Wales) at about fifteen, but he found that it would never answer to lose
a prince among the slums of modern London, and have his proud estate
denied and jeered at by a modern mob.  He felt that he could not make it
seem real; so he followed back through history, looking along for the
proper time and prince, till he came to little Edward, who was too young
--but no matter, he would do.

He decided to begin his new venture in story form.  He could dramatize it
later.  The situation appealed to him immensely.  The idea seemed a
brand-new one; it was delightful, it was fascinating, and he was
saturated with the atmosphere and literature and history--the data and
detail of that delightful old time.  He put away all thought of cheap,
modern play-acting and writing, to begin one of the loveliest and most
entertaining and instructive tales of old English life.  He decided to be
quite accurate in his picture of the period, and he posted himself on old
London very carefully.  He bought a pocket-map which he studied in the
minutest detail.

He wrote about four hundred manuscript pages of the tale that summer;
then, as the inspiration seemed to lag a little, put it aside, as was his
habit, to wait until the ambition for it should be renewed.  It was a
long wait, as usual.  He did not touch it again for more than three
years.




CXIII

TWO DOMESTIC DRAMAS

Some unusual happenings took place that summer of 1877.  John T. Lewis
(colored), already referred to as the religious antagonist of Auntie
Cord, by great presence of mind and bravery saved the lives of Mrs.
Clemens's sister-in-law, Mrs. Charles ("Charley") Langdon, her little
daughter Julia, and her nurse-maid.  They were in a buggy, and their
runaway horse was flying down East Hill toward Elmira to certain
destruction, when Lewis, laboring slowly homeward with a loaded wagon,
saw them coming and turned his team across the road, after which he
leaped out and with extraordinary strength and quickness grabbed the
horse's bridle and brought him to a standstill.  The Clemens and Crane
families, who had seen the runaway start at the farm gate, arrived half
wild with fear, only to find the supposed victims entirely safe.

Everybody contributed in rewarding Lewis.  He received money ($1,500) and
various other presents, including inscribed books and trinkets, also,
what he perhaps valued more than anything, a marvelous stem-winding gold
watch.  Clemens, writing a full account to Dr. Brown of the watch, says:

     And if any scoffer shall say, "behold this thing is out of
     character," there is an inscription within which will silence him;
     for it will teach him that this wearer aggrandizes the watch, not
     the watch the wearer.

In another paragraph he says:

     When Lewis arrived the other evening, after having saved those lives
     by a feat which I think is the most marvelous I can call to mind,
     when he arrived hunched up on his manure-wagon and as grotesquely
     picturesque as usual, everybody wanted to go and see how he looked.
     They came back and said he was beautiful.  It was so, too, and yet
     he would have photographed exactly as he would have done any day
     these past seven years that he has occupied this farm.

Lewis acknowledged his gifts in a letter which closed with a paragraph of
rare native loftiness:

     But I beg to say, humbly, that inasmuch as divine Providence saw fit
     to use me as an instrument for the saving of those preshious lives,
     the honner conferd upon me was greater than the feat performed.

Lewis lived to enjoy his prosperity, and the honor of the Clemens and
Langdon households, for twenty-nine years.  When he was too old to work
there was a pension, to which Clemens contributed; also Henry H. Rogers.
So the simple-hearted, noble old negro closed his days in peace.

Mrs. Crane, in a letter, late in July, 1906, told of his death:

     He was always cheerful, and seemed not to suffer much pain, told
     stories, and was able to eat almost everything.

     Three days ago a new difficulty appeared, on account of which his
     doctor said he must go to the hospital for care such as it was quite
     impossible to give in his home.

     He died on his way there.

     Thus it happened that he died on the road where he had performed his
     great deed.

A second unusual incident of that summer occurred in Hartford.  There had
been a report of a strange man seen about the Clemens place, thought to
be a prospecting burglar, and Clemens went over to investigate.  A little
searching inquiry revealed that the man was not a burglar, but a mechanic
out of employment, a lover of one of the house-maids, who had given him
food and shelter on the premises, intending no real harm.  When the girl
found that her secret was discovered, she protested that he was her
fiance, though she said he appeared lately to have changed his mind and
no longer wished to marry her.

The girl seemed heartbroken, and sympathy for her was naturally the first
and about the only feeling which Clemens developed, for the time being.
He reasoned with the young man, but without making much headway.  Finally
his dramatic instinct prompted him to a plan of a sort which would have
satisfied even Tom Sawyer.  He asked Twichell to procure a license for
the couple, and to conceal himself in a ground floor bath-room.  He
arranged with the chief of police to be on hand in another room; with the
rest of the servants quietly to prepare a wedding-feast, and finally with
Lizzie herself to be dressed for the ceremony.  He had already made an
appointment with the young man to come to, see him at a certain hour on a
"matter of business," and the young man arrived in the belief, no doubt,
that it was something which would lead to profitable employment.  When he
came in Clemens gently and quietly reviewed the situation, told him of
the young girl's love for him; how he had been sheltered and fed by her;
how through her kindness to him she had compromised her reputation for
honesty and brought upon her all the suspicion of having sheltered a
burglar; how she was ready and willing to marry him, and how he (Clemens)
was ready to assist them to obtain work and a start in life.

But the young man was not enthusiastic.  He was a Swede and slow of
action.  He resolutely declared that he was not ready to marry yet, and
in the end refused to do so.  Then came the dramatic moment.  Clemens
quietly but firmly informed him that the wedding ceremony must take
place; that by infesting his premises he had broken the law, not only
against trespass, but most likely against house-breaking.  There was a
brief discussion of this point.  Finally Clemens gave him five minutes to
make up his mind, with the statement that he had an officer in waiting,
and unless he would consent to the wedding he would be taken in charge.
The young man began to temporize, saying that it would be necessary for
him to get a license and a preacher.  But Clemens stepped to the door of
the bath-room, opened it, and let out Twichell, who had been sweltering
there in that fearful place for more than an hour, it being August.  The
delinquent lover found himself confronted with all the requisites of
matrimony except the bride, and just then this detail appeared on the
scene, dressed for the occasion.  Behind her ranged the rest of the
servants and a few invited guests.  Before the young man knew it he had a
wife, and on the whole did not seem displeased.  It ended with a gay
supper and festivities.  Then Clemens started them handsomely by giving
each of them a check for one hundred dollars; and in truth (which in this
case, at least, is stranger than fiction) they lived happily and
prosperously ever after.

Some years later Mark Twain based a story on this episode, but it was
never entirely satisfactory and remains unpublished.




CXIV

THE WHITTIER BIRTHDAY SPEECH

It was the night of December 17, 1877, that Mark Twain made his
unfortunate speech at the dinner given by the Atlantic staff to John G.
Whittier on his seventieth birthday.  Clemens had attended a number of
the dinners which the Atlantic gave on one occasion or another, and had
provided a part of the entertainment.  It is only fair to say that his
after-dinner speeches at such times had been regarded as very special
events, genuine triumphs of humor and delivery.  But on this particular
occasion he determined to outdo himself, to prepare something unusual,
startling, something altogether unheard of.

When Mark Twain had an impulse like that it was possible for it to result
in something dangerous, especially in those earlier days.  This time it
produced a bombshell; not just an ordinary bombshell, or even a twelve-
inch projectile, but a shell of planetary size.  It was a sort of hoax-
always a doubtful plaything--and in this case it brought even quicker and
more terrible retribution than usual.  It was an imaginary presentation
of three disreputable frontier tramps who at some time had imposed
themselves on a lonely miner as Longfellow, Emerson, and Holmes, quoting
apposite selections from their verses to the accompaniment of cards and
drink, and altogether conducting themselves in a most unsavory fashion.
At the end came the enlightenment that these were not what they pretended
to be, but only impostors--disgusting frauds.  A feature like that would
be a doubtful thing to try in any cultured atmosphere.  The thought of
associating, ever so remotely, those three old bummers which he had
conjured up with the venerable and venerated Emerson, Longfellow, and
Holmes, the Olympian trinity, seems ghastly enough to-day, and must have
seemed even more so then.  But Clemens, dazzled by the rainbow splendor
of his conception, saw in it only a rare colossal humor, which would
fairly lift and bear his hearers along on a tide of mirth.  He did not
show his effort to any one beforehand.  He wanted its full beauty to
burst upon the entire company as a surprise.

It did that.  Howells was toastmaster, and when he came to present
Clemens he took particular pains to introduce him as one of his foremost
contributors and dearest friends.  Here, he said, was "a humorist who
never left you hanging you head for having enjoyed his joke."

Thirty years later Clemens himself wrote of his impressions as he rose to
deliver his speech.

     I vaguely remember some of the details of that gathering: dimly I
     can see a hundred people--no, perhaps fifty--shadowy figures,
     sitting at tables feeding, ghosts now to me, and nameless
     forevermore.  I don't know who they were, but I can very distinctly
     see, seated at the grand table and facing the rest of us, Mr.
     Emerson, supernaturally grave, unsmiling; Mr. Whittier, grave,
     lovely, his beautiful spirit shining out of his face; Mr.
     Longfellow, with his silken-white hair and his benignant face; Dr.
     Oliver Wendell Holmes, flashing smiles and affection and all good-
     fellowship everywhere, like a rose-diamond whose facets are being
     turned toward the light, first one way and then another--a charming
     man, and always fascinating, whether he was talking or whether he
     was sitting still (what he would call still, but what would be more
     or less motion to other people).  I can see those figures with
     entire distinctiness across this abyss of time.

William Winter, the poet, had just preceded him, and it seemed a moment
aptly chosen for his so-different theme.  "And then," to quote Howells,
"the amazing mistake, the bewildering blunder, the cruel catastrophe was
upon us."

After the first two or three hundred words, when the general plan and
purpose of the burlesque had developed, when the names of Longfellow,
Emerson, and Holmes began to be flung about by those bleary outcasts, and
their verses given that sorry association, those Atlantic diners became
petrified with amazement and horror.  Too late, then, the speaker
realized his mistake.  He could not stop, he must go on to the ghastly
end.  And somehow he did it, while "there fell a silence weighing many
tons to the square inch, which deepened from moment to moment, and was
broken only by the hysterical and blood-curdling laughter of a single
guest, whose name shall not be handed down to infamy."

Howells can remember little more than that, but Clemens recalls that one
speaker made an effort to follow him--Bishop, the novelist, and that
Bishop didn't last long.

     It was not many sentences after his first before he began to
     hesitate and break, and lose his grip, and totter and wobble, and at
     last he slumped down in a limp and mushy pile.

The next man had not strength to rise, and somehow the company broke up.

Howells's next recollection is of being in a room of the hotel, and of
hearing Charles Dudley Warner saying in the gloom:

"Well, Mark, you're a funny fellow."

He remembers how, after a sleepless night, Clemens went out to buy some
bric-a-brac, with a soul far from bric-a-brac, and returned to Hartford
in a writhing agony of spirit.  He believed that he was ruined forever,
so far as his Boston associations were concerned; and when he confessed
all the tragedy to Mrs. Clemens it seemed to her also that the mistake
could never be wholly repaired.  The fact that certain papers quoted the
speech and spoke well of it, and certain readers who had not listened to
it thought it enormously funny, gave very little comfort.  But perhaps
his chief concern was the ruin which he believed he had brought upon
Howells.  He put his heart into a brief letter:

     MY DEAR HOWELLS,--My sense of disgrace does not abate.  It grows.
     I see that it is going to add itself to my list of permanencies, a
     list of humiliations that extends back to when I was seven years
     old, and which keep on persecuting me regardless of my repentances.

     I feel that my misfortune has injured me all over the country;
     therefore it will be best that I retire from before the public at
     present.  It will hurt the Atlantic for me to appear in its pages
     now.  So it is my opinion, and my wife's, that the telephone story
     had better be suppressed.  Will you return those proofs or revises
     to me, so that I can use the same on some future occasion?

     It seems as if I must have been insane when I wrote that speech and
     saw no harm in it, no disrespect toward those men whom I reverenced
     so much.  And what shame I brought upon you, after what you said in
     introducing me!  It burns me like fire to think of it.

     The whole matter is a dreadful subject.  Let me drop it here--at
     least on paper.

                                   Penitently yours,    MARK


So, all in a moment, his world had come to an end--as it seemed.  But
Howells's letter, which came rushing back by first mail, brought hope.

"It was a fatality," Howells said.  "One of those sorrows into which a
man walks with his eyes wide open, no one knows why."

Howells assured him that Longfellow, Emerson, and Holmes would so
consider it, beyond doubt; that Charles Eliot Norton had already
expressed himself exactly in the right spirit concerning it.  Howells
declared that there was no intention of dropping Mark Twain's work from
the Atlantic.

     You are not going to be floored by it; there is more justice than
     that even in this world.  Especially as regards me, just call the
     sore spot well.  I can say more, and with better heart, in praise of
     your good feeling (which was what I always liked in you), since this
     thing happened than I could before.

It was agreed that he should at once write a letter to Longfellow,
Emerson, and Holmes, and he did write, laying his heart bare to them.
Longfellow and Holmes answered in a fine spirit of kindliness, and Miss
Emerson wrote for her father in the same tone.  Emerson had not been
offended, for he had not heard the speech, having arrived even then at
that stage of semi-oblivion as to immediate things which eventually so
completely shut him away.  Longfellow's letter made light of the whole
matter.  The newspapers, he said, had caused all the mischief.

     A bit of humor at a dinner-table talk is one thing; a report of it
     in the morning papers is another.  One needs the lamplight and the
     scenery.  These failing, what was meant in jest assumes a serious
     aspect.

     I do not believe that anybody was much hurt.  Certainly I was not,
     and Holmes tells me that he was not.  So I think you may dismiss the
     matter from your mind, without further remorse.

     It was a very pleasant dinner, and I think Whittier enjoyed it very
     much.

Holmes likewise referred to it as a trifle.

     It never occurred to me for a moment to take offense, or to feel
     wounded by your playful use of my name.  I have heard some mild
     questioning as to whether, even in fun, it was good taste to
     associate the names of the authors with the absurdly unlike
     personalities attributed to them, but it seems to be an open
     question.  Two of my friends, gentlemen of education and the highest
     social standing, were infinitely amused by your speech, and stoutly
     defended it against the charge of impropriety.  More than this, one
     of the cleverest and best-known ladies we have among us was highly
     delighted with it.

Miss Emerson's letter was to Mrs. Clemens and its homelike New England
fashion did much to lift the gloom.

     DEAR MRS. CLEMENS,--At New Year's our family always meets, to spend
     two days together.  To-day my father came last, and brought with him
     Mr. Clemens's letter, so that I read it to the assembled family, and
     I have come right up-stairs to write to you about it.  My sister
     said, "Oh, let father write!" but my mother said, "No, don't wait
     for him.  Go now; don't stop to pick that up.  Go this minute and
     write.  I think that is a noble letter.  Tell them so."  First let
     me say that no shadow of indignation has ever been in any of our
     minds.  The night of the dinner, my father says, he did not hear Mr.
     Clemens's speech.  He was too far off, and my mother says that when
     she read it to him the next day it amused him.  But what you will
     want is to know, without any softening, how we did feel.  We were
     disappointed.  We have liked almost everything we have ever seen
     over Mark Twain's signature.  It has made us like the man, and we
     have delighted in the fun.  Father has often asked us to repeat
     certain passages of The Innocents Abroad, and of a speech at a
     London dinner in 1872, and we all expect both to approve and to
     enjoy when we see his name.  Therefore, when we read this speech it
     was a real disappointment.  I said to my brother that it didn't seem
     good or funny, and he said, "No, it was unfortunate.  Still some of
     those quotations were very good"; and he gave them with relish and
     my father laughed, though never having seen a card in his life, he
     couldn't understand them like his children.  My mother read it
     lightly and had hardly any second thoughts about it.  To my father
     it is as if it had not been; he never quite heard, never quite
     understood it, and he forgets easily and entirely.  I think it
     doubtful whether he writes to Mr. Clemens, for he is old and long
     ago gave up answering letters, I think you can see just how bad, and
     how little bad, it was as far as we are concerned, and this lovely
     heartbreaking letter makes up for our disappointment in our much-
     liked author, and restores our former feeling about him.

                                   ELLEN T.  EMERSON.


The sorrow dulled a little as the days passed.  Just after Christmas
Clemens wrote to Howells:

     I haven't done a stroke of work since the Atlantic dinner.  But I'm
     going to try to-morrow.  How could I ever----

     Ah, well, I am a great and sublime fool.  But then I am God's fool,
     and all his work must be contemplated with respect.

So long as that unfortunate speech is remembered there will be
differences of opinion as to its merits and propriety.  Clemens himself,
reading it for the first time in nearly thirty years, said:

"I find it gross, coarse--well, I needn't go on with particulars.  I
don't like any part of it, from the beginning to the end.  I find it
always offensive and detestable.  How do I account for this change of
view?  I don't know."

But almost immediately afterward he gave it another consideration and
reversed his opinion completely.  All the spirit and delight of his old
first conception returned, and preparing it for publication, he wrote:

--[North American Review, December, 1907, now with comment included in
the volume of "Speeches."  (Also see Appendix O, at the end of last
volume.)--I have read it twice, and unless I am an idiot it hasn't a
single defect in it, from the first word to the last.  It is just as good
as good can be.  It is smart; it is saturated with humor.  There isn't a
suggestion of coarseness or vulgarity in it anywhere.]

It was altogether like Mark Twain to have those two absolutely opposing
opinions in that brief time; for, after all, it was only a question of
the human point of view, and Mark Twain's points of view were likely to
be as extremely human as they were varied.

Of course the first of these impressions, the verdict of the fresh mind
uninfluenced by the old conception, was the more correct one.  The speech
was decidedly out of place in that company.  The skit was harmless
enough, but it was of the Comstock grain.  It lacked refinement, and,
what was still worse, it lacked humor, at least the humor of a kind
suited to that long-ago company of listeners.  It was another of those
grievous mistakes which genius (and not talent) can make, for genius is a
sort of possession.  The individual is pervaded, dominated for a time by
an angel or an imp, and he seldom, of himself, is able to discriminate
between his controls.  A literary imp was always lying in wait for Mark
Twain; the imp of the burlesque, tempting him to do the 'outre', the
outlandish, the shocking thing.  It was this that Olivia Clemens had to
labor hardest against: the cheapening of his own high purpose with an
extravagant false note, at which sincerity, conviction, and artistic
harmony took wings and fled away.  Notably he did a good burlesque now
and then, but his fame would not have suffered if he had been delivered
altogether from his besetting temptation.




CXV

HARTFORD AND BILLIARDS

Clemens was never much inclined to work, away from his Elmira study.
"Magnanimous Incident Literature" (for the Atlantic) was about his only
completed work of the winter of 1877-78.  He was always tinkering with
the "Visit to Heaven," and after one reconstruction Howells suggested
that he bring it out as a book, in England, with Dean Stanley's
indorsement, though this may have been only semi-serious counsel.  The
story continued to lie in seclusion.

Clemens had one new book in the field--a small book, but profitable.  Dan
Slote's firm issued for him the Mark Twain Scrap-book, and at the end of
the first royalty period rendered a statement of twenty-five thousand
copies sold, which was well enough for a book that did not contain a
single word that critics could praise or condemn.  Slote issued another
little book for him soon after Punch, Brothers, Punch!--which, besides
that lively sketch, contained the "Random Notes" and seven other
selections.

Mark Twain was tempted to go into the lecture field that winter, not by
any of the offers, though these were numerous enough, but by the idea of
a combination which he thought night be not only profitable but pleasant.
Thomas Nast had made a great success of his caricature lectures, and
Clemens, recalling Nast's long-ago proposal, found it newly attractive.
He wrote characteristically:

     MY DEAR NAST,--I did not think I should ever stand on a platform
     again until the time was come for me to say, "I die innocent."  But
     the same old offers keep arriving.  I have declined them all, just
     as usual, though sorely tempted, as usual.

     Now, I do not decline because I mind talking to an audience, but
     because (1) traveling alone is so heartbreakingly dreary, and (2)
     shouldering the whole show is such a cheer-killing responsibility.

     Therefore, I now propose to you what you proposed to me in 1867, ten
     years ago (when I was unknown)--viz., that you stand on the platform
     and make pictures, and I stand by you and blackguard the audience.
     I should enormously enjoy meandering around (to big towns--don't
     want to go to the little ones), with you for company.

     My idea is not to fatten the lecture agents and lyceums on the
     spoils, but to put all the ducats religiously into two equal piles,
     and say to the artist and lecturer, "absorb these."

     For instance, [here follows a plan and a possible list of the cities
     to be visited].  The letter continues:

     Call the gross receipts $100,00 for four months and a half, and the
     profit from $60,000 to $75,000 (I try to make the figures large
     enough, and leave it to the public to reduce them).

     I did not put in Philadelphia because Pugh owns that town, and last
     winter, when I made a little reading-trip, he only paid me $300, and
     pretended his concert (I read fifteen minutes in the midst of a
     concert) cost him a vast sum, and so he couldn't afford any more.
     I could get up a better concert with a barrel of cats.

     I have imagined two or three pictures and concocted the accompanying
     remarks, to see how the thing would go.  I was charmed.

     Well, you think it over, Nast, and drop me a line.  We should have
     some fun.


Undoubtedly this would have been a profitable combination, but Nast had a
distaste for platforming--had given it up, as he thought, for life.  So
Clemens settled down to the fireside days, that afforded him always the
larger comfort.  The children were at an age "to be entertaining, and to
be entertained."  In either case they furnished him plenty of diversion
when he did not care to write.  They had learned his gift as a romancer,
and with this audience he might be as extravagant as he liked.  They
sometimes assisted by furnishing subjects.  They would bring him a
picture, requiring him to invent a story for it without a moment's delay.
Sometimes they suggested the names of certain animals or objects, and
demanded that these be made into a fairy tale.  If they heard the name of
any new creature or occupation they were likely to offer them as
impromptu inspiration.  Once he was suddenly required to make a story out
of a plumber and a "bawgunstrictor," but he was equal to it.  On one side
of the library, along the book-shelves that joined the mantelpiece, were
numerous ornaments and pictures.  At one end was the head of a girl, that
they called "Emeline," and at the other was an oil-painting of a cat.
When other subjects failed, the romancer was obliged to build a story
impromptu, and without preparation, beginning with the cat, working along
through the bric-a-brac, and ending with "Emeline."  This was the
unvarying program.  He was not allowed to begin with "Emeline" and end
with the cat, and he was not permitted to introduce an ornament from any
other portion of the room.  He could vary the story as much as he liked.
In fact, he was required to do that.  The trend of its chapters, from the
cat to "Emeline," was a well-trodden and ever-entertaining way.

He gave up his luxurious study to the children as a sort of nursery and
playroom, and took up his writing-quarters, first in a room over the
stables, then in the billiard-room, which, on the whole, he preferred to
any other place, for it was a third-story remoteness, and he could knock
the balls about for inspiration.

The billiard-room became his headquarters.  He received his callers there
and impressed them into the game.  If they could play, well and good; if
they could not play, so much the better--he could beat them
extravagantly, and he took a huge delight in such conquests.  Every
Friday evening, or oftener, a small party of billiard-lovers gathered,
and played until a late hour, told stories, and smoked till the room was
blue, comforting themselves with hot Scotch and general good-fellowship.
Mark Twain always had a genuine passion for billiards.  He was never
tired of the game.  He could play all night.  He would stay till the last
man gave out from sheer weariness; then he would go on knocking the balls
about alone.  He liked to invent new games and new rules for old games,
often inventing a rule on the spur of the moment to fit some particular
shot or position on the table.  It amused him highly to do this, to make
the rule advantage his own play, and to pretend a deep indignation when
his opponents disqualified his rulings and rode him down.  S. C. Dunham
was among those who belonged to the "Friday Evening Club," as they called
it, and Henry C. Robinson, long dead, and rare Ned Bunce, and F. G.
Whitmore; and the old room there at the top of the house, with its little
outside balcony, rang with their voices and their laughter in that day
when life and the world for them was young.  Clemens quoted to them
sometimes:

     Come, fill the cup, and in the fire of spring
     Your winter garment of repentance fling;
     The bird of time has but a little way
     To flutter, and the bird is on the wing.

Omar was new then on this side of the Atlantic, and to his serene "eat,
drink, and be merry" philosophy, in Fitzgerald's rhyme, these were early
converts.  Mark Twain had an impressive, musical delivery of verse; the
players were willing at any moment to listen as he recited:

     For some we loved, the loveliest and best
     That from his vintage rolling time has prest,
     Have drunk their cup a round or two before,
     And one by one crept silently to rest.
     Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
     Before we too into the dust descend;
     Dust unto dust, and under dust to lie,
     Sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and--sans End.'

--[The 'Rubaiyat' had made its first appearance, in Hartford, a little
before in a column of extracts published in the Courant.]  Twichell
immediately wrote Clemens a card:

"Read (if you haven't) the extracts from Oman Khayyam, on the first page
of this morning's Courant.  I think we'll have to get the book.  I never
yet came across anything that uttered certain thoughts of mine so.
adequately.  And it's only a translation.  Read it, and we'll talk it
over.  There is something in it very like the passage of Emerson you read
me last night, in fact identical with it in thought.

"Surely this Omar was a great poet.  Anyhow, he has given me an immense
revelation this morning.

"Hoping that you are better,

                              J. H. T."

Twichell's "only a translation" has acquired a certain humor with time.




CXVI

OFF FOR GERMANY

The German language became one of the interests of the Clemens home
during the early months of 1878.  The Clemenses had long looked forward
to a sojourn in Europe, and the demand for another Mark Twain book of
travel furnished an added reason for their going.  They planned for the
spring sailing, and to spend a year or more on the Continent, making
their headquarters in Germany.  So they entered into the study of the
language with an enthusiasm and perseverance that insured progress.
There was a German nurse for the children, and the whole atmosphere of
the household presently became lingually Teutonic.  It amused Mark Twain,
as everything amused him, but he was a good student; he acquired a
working knowledge of the language in an extraordinarily brief time, just
as in an earlier day he had picked up piloting.  He would never become a
German scholar, but his vocabulary and use of picturesque phrases,
particularly those that combined English and German words, were often
really startling, not only for their humor, but for their expressiveness.

Necessarily the new study would infect his literature.  He conceived a
plan for making Captain Wakeman (Stormfield) come across a copy of
Ollendorf in Heaven, and proceed to learn the language of a near-lying
district.

They arranged to sail early in April, and, as on their former trip,
persuaded Miss Clara Spaulding, of Elmira, to accompany them.  They wrote
to the Howellses, breaking the news of the journey, urging them to come
to Hartford for a good-by visit.  Howells and his wife came.  The
Twichells, Warners, and other Hartford friends paid repeated farewell
calls.  The furniture was packed, the rooms desolated, the beautiful home
made ready for closing.

They were to have pleasant company on the ship.  Bayard Taylor, then
recently appointed Minister to Germany, wrote that he had planned to sail
on the same vessel; Murat Halstead's wife and daughter were listed among
the passengers.  Clemens made a brief speech at Taylor's "farewell
dinner."

The "Mark Twain" party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Clemens, Miss
Spaulding, little Susy and Clara ("Bay"), and a nurse-maid, Rosa, sailed
on the Holsatia, April 11, 1878.  Bayard Taylor and the Halstead ladies
also sailed, as per program; likewise Murat Halstead himself, for whom no
program had been made.  There was a storm outside, and the Holsatia
anchored down the bay to wait until the worst was over.  As the weather
began to moderate Halstead and others came down in a tug for a final word
of good-by.  When the tug left, Halstead somehow managed to get
overlooked, and was presently on his way across the ocean with only such
wardrobe as he had on, and what Bayard Taylor, a large man like himself,
was willing to lend him.  Halstead was accused of having intentionally
allowed himself to be left behind, and his case did have a suspicious
look; but in any event they were glad to have him along.

In a written word of good-by to Howells, Clemens remembered a debt of
gratitude, and paid it in the full measure that was his habit.

     And that reminds me, ungrateful dog that I am, that I owe as much to
     your training as the rude country job-printer owes to the city boss
     who takes him in hand and teaches him the right way to handle his
     art.  I was talking to Mrs. Clemens about this the other day, and
     grieving because I never mentioned it to you, thereby seeming to
     ignore it or to be unaware of it.  Nothing that has passed under
     your eye needs any revision before going into a volume, while all my
     other stuff does need so much.

In that ancient day, before the wireless telegraph, the voyager, when the
land fell away behind him, felt a mighty sense of relief and rest, which
to some extent has gone now forever.  He cannot entirely escape the world
in this new day; but then he had a complete sense of dismissal from all
encumbering cares of life.  Among the first note-book entries Mark Twain
wrote:

To go abroad has something of the same sense that death brings--"I am no
longer of ye; what ye say of me is now of no consequence--but of how much
consequence when I am with ye and of ye.  I know you will refrain from
saying harsh things because they cannot hurt me, since I am out of reach
and cannot hear them.  This is why we say no harsh things of the dead."

It was a rough voyage outside, but the company made it pleasant within.
Halstead and Taylor were good smoking-room companions.  Taylor had a
large capacity for languages and a memory that was always a marvel.  He
would repeat for them Arabian, Hungarian, and Russian poetry, and show
them the music and construction of it.  He sang German folk-lore songs
for them, and the "Lorelei," then comparatively unknown in America.  Such
was his knowledge of the language that even educated Germans on board
submitted questions of construction to him and accepted his decisions.
He was wisely chosen for the mission he had to fill, but unfortunately he
did not fill it long.  Both Halstead and Taylor were said to have heart
trouble.  Halstead, however, survived many years.  Taylor died
December 19, 1878.




CXVII

GERMANY AND GERMAN

From the note-book:

     It is a marvel that never loses its surprise by repetition, this
     aiming a ship at a mark three thousand miles away and hitting the
     bull's-eye in a fog--as we did.  When the fog fell on us the captain
     said we ought to be at such and such a spot (it had been eighteen
     hours since an observation was had), with the Scilly islands bearing
     so and so, and about so many miles away.  Hove the lead and got
     forty-eight fathoms; looked on the chart, and sure enough this depth
     of water showed that we were right where the captain said we were.

     Another idea.  For ages man probably did not know why God carpeted
     the ocean bottom with sand in one place, shells in another, and so
     on.  But we see now; the kind of bottom the lead brings up shows
     where a ship is when the soundings don't, and also it confirms the
     soundings.

They reached Hamburg after two weeks' stormy sailing.  They rested a few
days there, then went to Hanover and Frankfort, arriving at Heidelberg
early in May.

They had no lodgings selected in Heidelberg, and leaving the others at an
inn, Clemens set out immediately to find apartments.  Chance or
direction, or both, led him to the beautiful Schloss Hotel, on a hill
overlooking the city, and as fair a view as one may find in all Germany.
He did not go back after his party.  He sent a message telling them to
take carriage and drive at once to the Schloss, then he sat down to enjoy
the view.

Coming up the hill they saw him standing on the veranda, waving his hat
in welcome.  He led them to their rooms--spacious apartments--and pointed
to the view.  They were looking down on beautiful Heidelberg Castle,
densely wooded hills, the far-flowing Neckar, and the haze-empurpled
valley of the Rhine.  By and by, pointing to a small cottage on the
hilltop, he said:

"I have been picking out my little house to work in; there it is over
there; the one with the gable in the roof.  Mine is the middle room on
the third floor."

Mrs. Clemens thought the occupants of the house might be surprised if he
should suddenly knock and tell them he had come to take possession of his
room.  Nevertheless, they often looked over in that direction and
referred to it as his office.  They amused themselves by watching his
"people" and trying to make out what they were like.  One day he went
over there, and sure enough there was a sign out, "Moblirte Wohnung zu
Vermiethen."  A day or two later he was established in the very room he
had selected, it being the only room but one vacant.

In A Tramp Abroad Mark Twain tells of the beauty of their Heidelberg
environment.  To Howells he wrote:

     Our bedroom has two great glass bird-cages (inclosed balconies), one
     looking toward the Rhine Valley and sunset, the other looking up the
     Neckar cul-de-sac, and naturally we spend pearly all our time in
     these.  We have tables and chairs in them; we do our reading,
     writing, studying, smoking, and suppering in them .  .  .  .  It
     must have been a noble genius who devised this hotel.  Lord, how
     blessed is the repose, the tranquillity of this place!  Only two
     sounds: the happy clamor of the birds in the groves and the muffled
     music of the Neckar tumbling over the opposing dikes.  It is no
     hardship to lie awake awhile nights, for this subdued roar has
     exactly the sound of a steady rain beating upon a roof.  It is so
     healing to the spirit; and it bears up the thread of one's
     imaginings as the accompaniment bears up a song....

     I have waited for a "call" to go to work--I knew it would come.
     Well, it began to come a week ago; my note-book comes out more and
     more frequently every day since; three days ago I concluded to move
     my manuscripts over to my den.  Now the call is loud and decided at
     last.  So to-morrow I shall begin regular, steady work, and stick to
     it till the middle of July or August 1st, when I look for Twichell;
     we will then walk about Germany two or three weeks, and then I'll go
     to work again (perhaps in Munich).

The walking tour with Twichell had been contemplated in the scheme for
gathering book material, but the plan for it had not been completed when
he left Hartford.  Now he was anxious that they should start as soon as
possible.  Twichell, receiving the news in Hartford, wrote that it was a
great day for him: that his third son had been happily born early that
morning, and now the arrival of this glorious gift of a tramp through
Germany and Switzerland completed his blessings.

     I am almost too joyful for pleasure [he wrote].  I labor with my
     felicities.  How I shall get to sleep to-night I don't know, though
     I have had a good start, in not having slept much last night.  Oh,
     my! do you realize, Mark, what a symposium it is to be?  I do.  To
     begin with, I am thoroughly tired and the rest will be worth
     everything.  To walk with you and talk with you for weeks together--
     why, it's my dream of luxury.  Harmony, who at sunrise this morning
     deemed herself the happiest woman on the Continent when I read your
     letter to her, widened her smile perceptibly, and revived another
     degree of strength in a minute.  She refused to consider her being
     left alone; but: only the great chance opened to me.

     SHOES--Mark, remember that ever so much of our pleasure depends upon
     your shoes.  Don't fail to have adequate preparation made in that
     department.

Meantime, the struggle with the "awful German language" went on.  It was
a general hand-to-hand contest.  From the head of the household down to
little Clara not one was exempt.  To Clemens it became a sort of
nightmare.  Once in his note-book he says:

"Dreamed all bad foreigners went to German heaven; couldn't talk, and
wished they had gone to the other place"; and a little farther along,
"I wish I could hear myself talk German."

To Mrs. Crane, in Elmira, he reported their troubles:

     Clara Spaulding is working herself to death with her German; never
     loses an instant while she is awake--or asleep, either, for that
     matter; dreams of enormous serpents, who poke their heads up under
     her arms and glare upon her with red-hot eyes, and inquire about the
     genitive case and the declensions of the definite article.  Livy is
     bully-ragging herself about as hard; pesters over her grammar and
     her reader and her dictionary all day; then in the evening these two
     students stretch themselves out on sofas and sigh and say, "Oh,
     there's no use!  We never can learn it in the world!"  Then Livy
     takes a sentence to go to bed on: goes gaping and stretching to her
     pillow murmuring, "Ich bin Ihnen sehr verbunden--Ich bin Ihnen sehr
     verbunden--Ich bin Ihnen sehr verbunden--I wonder if I can get that
     packed away so it will stay till morning"--and about an hour after
     midnight she wakes me up and says, "I do so hate to disturb you, but
     is it 'Ich Ben Jonson sehr befinden'?"

And Mrs. Clemens wrote:

     Oh, Sue dear, strive to enter in at the straight gate, for many
     shall seek to enter it and shall not be able.  I am not striving
     these days.  I am just interested in German.

Rosa, the maid, was required to speak to the children only in German,
though Bay at first would have none of it.  The nurse and governess tried
to blandish her, in vain.  She maintained a calm and persistent attitude
of scorn.  Little Susy tried, and really made progress; but one, day she
said, pathetically:

"Mama, I wish Rosa was made in English."

Yet a little later Susy herself wrote her Aunt Sue:

     I know a lot of German; everybody says I know a lot.  I give you a
     million dollars to see you, and you would give two hundred dollars
     to see the lovely woods that we see.

Even Howells, in far-off America, caught the infection and began a letter
in German, though he hastened to add, "Or do you prefer English by this
time?  Really I could imagine the German going hard with you, for you
always seemed to me a man who liked to be understood with the least
possible personal inconvenience."

Clemens declared more than once that he scorned the "outrageous and
impossible German grammar," and abandoned it altogether.  In his note-
book he records how two Germans, strangers in Heidelberg, asked him a
direction, and that when he gave it, in the most elaborate and correct
German he could muster, one of them only lifted his eyes and murmured:

"Gott im Himmel!"

He was daily impressed with the lingual attainments of foreigners and his
own lack of them.  In the notes he comments:

     Am addressed in German, and when I can't speak it immediately the
     person tackles me in French, and plainly shows astonishment when I
     stop him.  They naturally despise such an ignoramus.  Our doctor
     here speaks as pure English, as I.

On the Fourth of July he addressed the American students in Heidelberg in
one of those mixtures of tongues for which he had a peculiar gift.

The room he had rented for a study was let by a typical German family,
and he was a great delight to them.  He practised his German on them, and
interested himself in their daily affairs.

Howells wrote insistently for some assurance of contributions to the
Atlantic.

"I must begin printing your private letters to satisfy the popular
demand," he said.  "People are constantly asking when you are going to
begin."

Clemens replied that he would be only too glad to write for the Atlantic
if his contributions could be copyrighted in Canada, where pirates were
persistently enterprising.

I do not know that I have any printable stuff just now--separatable
stuff, that is--but I shall have by and by.  It is very gratifying to
hear that it is wanted by anybody.  I stand always prepared to hear the
reverse, and am constantly surprised that it is delayed so long.
Consequently it is not going to astonish me when it comes.

The Clemens party enjoyed Heidelberg, though in different ways.  The
children romped and picnicked in the castle grounds, which adjoined the
hotel; Mrs. Clemens and Miss Spaulding were devoted to bric-a-brac
hunting, picture-galleries, and music.  Clemens took long walks, or made
excursions by rail and diligence to farther points.  Art and opera did
not appeal to him.  The note-book says:

     I have attended operas, whenever I could not help it, for fourteen
     years now; I am sure I know of no agony comparable to the listening
     to an unfamiliar opera.  I am enchanted with the airs of "Trovatore"
     and other old operas which the hand-organ and the music-box have
     made entirely familiar to my ear.  I am carried away with delighted
     enthusiasm when they are sung at the opera.  But oh, how far between
     they are!  And what long, arid, heartbreaking and headaching
     "between-times" of that sort of intense but incoherent noise which
     always so reminds me of the time the orphan asylum burned down.

     Sunday night, 11th.  Huge crowd out to-night to hear the band play
     the "Fremersberg."  I suppose it is very low-grade music--I know it
     must be low-grade music--because it so delighted me, it so warmed
     me, moved me, stirred me, uplifted me, enraptured me, that at times
     I could have cried, and at others split my throat with shouting.
     The great crowd was another evidence that it was low-grade music,
     for only the few are educated up to a point where high-class music
     gives pleasure.  I have never heard enough classic music to be able
     to enjoy it, and the simple truth is I detest it.  Not mildly, but
     with all my heart.

     What a poor lot we human beings are anyway!  If base music gives me
     wings, why should I want any other?  But I do.  I want to like the
     higher music because the higher and better like it.  But you see I
     want to like it without taking the necessary trouble, and giving the
     thing the necessary amount of time and attention.  The natural
     suggestion is, to get into that upper tier, that dress-circle, by a
     lie--we will pretend we like it.  This lie, this pretense, gives to
     opera what support it has in America.

     And then there is painting.  What a red rag is to a bull Turner's
     "Slave Ship" is to me.  Mr. Ruskin is educated in art up to a point
     where that picture throws him into as mad an ecstasy of pleasure as
     it throws me into one of rage.  His cultivation enables him to see
     water in that yellow mud; his cultivation reconciles the floating of
     unfloatable things to him--chains etc.; it reconciles him to fishes
     swimming on top of the water.  The most of the picture is a manifest
     impossibility, that is to say, a lie; and only rigid cultivation can
     enable a man to find truth in a lie.  A Boston critic said the
     "Slave Ship" reminded him of a cat having a fit in a platter of
     tomatoes.  That went home to my non-cultivation, and I thought, here
     is a man with an unobstructed eye.

Mark Twain has dwelt somewhat upon these matters in 'A Tramp Abroad'.  He
confesses in that book that later he became a great admirer of Turner,
though perhaps never of the "Slave Ship" picture.  In fact, Mark Twain
was never artistic, in the common acceptance of that term; neither his
art nor his tastes were of an "artistic" kind.





CXVIII

TRAMPING WITH TWICHELL

Twichell arrived on time, August 1st.  Clemens met him at Baden-Baden,
and they immediately set out on a tramp through the Black Forest,
excursioning as pleased them, and having an idyllic good time.  They did
not always walk, but they often did.  At least they did sometimes, when
the weather was just right and Clemens's rheumatism did not trouble him.
But they were likely to take a carriage, or a donkey-cart, or a train, or
any convenient thing that happened along.  They did not hurry, but idled
and talked and gathered flowers, or gossiped with wayside natives and
tourists, though always preferring to wander along together, beguiling
the way with discussion and speculation and entertaining tales.  They
crossed on into Switzerland in due time and considered the conquest of
the Alps.  The family followed by rail or diligence, and greeted them
here and there when they rested from their wanderings.  Mark Twain found
an immunity from attention in Switzerland, which for years he had not
known elsewhere.  His face was not so well known and his pen-name was
carefully concealed.

It was a large relief to be no longer an object of public curiosity; but
Twichell, as in the Bermuda trip, did not feel quite honest, perhaps, in
altogether preserving the mask of unrecognition.  In one of his letters
home he tells how; when a young man at their table was especially
delighted with Mark Twain's conversation, he could not resist taking the
young man aside and divulging to him the speaker's identity.

"I could not forbear telling him who Mark was," he says, "and the mingled
surprise and pleasure his face exhibited made me glad I had done so."

They climbed the Rigi, after which Clemens was not in good walking trim
for some time; so Twichell went on a trip on his own account, to give his
comrade a chance to rest.  Then away again to Interlaken, where the
Jungfrau rises, cold and white; on over the loneliness of Gemini Pass,
with glaciers for neighbors and the unfading white peaks against the
blue; to Visp and to Zermatt, where the Matterhorn points like a finger
that directs mankind to God.  This was true Alpine wandering--sweet
vagabondage.

The association of the wanderers was a very intimate one.  Their minds
were closely attuned, and there were numerous instances of thought--echo-
mind answering to mind--without the employment of words.  Clemens records
in his notes:

     Sunday A.M., August 11th.  Been reading Romola yesterday afternoon,
     last night, and this morning; at last I came upon the only passage
     which has thus far hit me with force--Tito compromising with his
     conscience, and resolving to do; not a bad thing, but not the best
     thing.  Joe entered the room five minutes--no, three minutes later--
     and without prelude said, "I read that book you've got there six
     years ago, and got a mighty good text for a sermon out of it the
     passage where the young fellow compromises with his conscience, and
     resolves to do, not a bad thing, but not the best thing."  This is
     Joe's first reference to this book since he saw me buy it twenty-
     four hours ago.  So my mind operated on his in this instance.  He
     said he was sitting yonder in the reading-room, three minutes ago (I
     have not got up yet), thinking of nothing in particular, and didn't
     know what brought Romola into his head; but into his head it came
     and that particular passage.  Now I, forty feet away, in another
     room, was reading that particular passage at that particular moment.

     Couldn't suggest Romola to him earlier, because nothing in the book
     had taken hold of me till I came to that one passage on page 112,
     Tauchnitz edition.

And again:

     The instances of mind-telegraphing are simply innumerable.  This
     evening Joe and I sat long at the edge of the village looking at the
     Matterhorn.  Then Joe said, "We ought to go to the Cervin Hotel and
     inquire for Livy's telegram."  If he had been but one instant later
     I should have said those words instead of him.

Such entries are frequent, and one day there came along a kind of object-
lesson.  They were toiling up a mountainside, when Twichell began telling
a very interesting story which had happened in connection with a friend
still living, though Twichell had no knowledge of his whereabouts at this
time.  The story finished just as they rounded a turn in, the cliff, and
Twichell, looking up, ended his last sentence, "And there's the man!"
Which was true, for they were face to face with the very man of whom he
had been telling.

Another subject that entered into their discussion was the law of
accidents.  Clemens held that there was no such thing an accident: that
it was all forewritten in the day of the beginning; that every event,
however slight, was embryonic in that first instant of created life, and
immutably timed to its appearance in the web of destiny.  Once on their
travels, when they were on a high bank above a brawling stream, a little
girl, who started to run toward them, slipped and rolled under the bottom
rail of the protecting fence, her feet momentarily hanging out over the
precipice and the tearing torrent below. It seemed a miraculous escape
from death, and furnished an illustration for their discussion.  The
condition of the ground, the force of her fall, the nearness of the fatal
edge, all these had grown inevitably out of the first great projection of
thought, and the child's fall and its escape had been invested in life's
primal atom.

The author of A Tramp Abroad tells us of the rushing stream that flows
out of the Arcadian sky valley, the Gasternthal, and goes plunging down
to Kandersteg, and how he took exercise by making "Harris" (Twichell) set
stranded logs adrift while he lounged comfortably on a boulder, and
watched them go tearing by; also how he made Harris run a race with one
of those logs.  But that is literature.  Twichell, in a letter home, has
preserved a likelier and lovelier story:

     Mark is a queer fellow.  There is nothing that he so delights in as
     a swift, strong stream.  You can hardly get him to leave one when
     once he is within the influence of its fascinations.  To throw in
     stones and sticks seems to afford him rapture.  Tonight, as we were
     on our way back to the hotel, seeing a lot of driftwood caught by
     the torrent side below the path, I climbed down and threw it in.
     When I got back to the path Mark was running down-stream after it as
     hard as he could go, throwing up his hands and shouting in the
     wildest ecstasy, and when a piece went over a fall and emerged to
     view in the foam below he would jump up and down and yell.  He said
     afterward that he hadn't been so excited in three months.  He acted
     just like a boy; another feature of his extreme sensitiveness in
     certain directions.

Then generalizing, Twichell adds:

     He has coarse spots in him.  But I never knew a person so finely
     regardful of the feelings of others in some ways.  He hates to pass
     another person walking, and will practise some subterfuge to take
     off what he feels is the discourtesy of it.  And he is exceedingly
     timid, tremblingly timid, about approaching strangers; hates to ask
     a question.  His sensitive regard for others extends to animals.
     When we are driving his concern is all about the horse.  He can't
     bear to see the whip used, or to see a horse pull hard.  To-day,
     when the driver clucked up his horse and quickened his pace a
     little, Mark said, "The fellow's got the notion that we are in a
     hurry."  He is exceedingly considerate toward me in regard of
     everything--or most things.

The days were not all sunshine.  Sometimes it rained and they took
shelter by the wayside, or, if there was no shelter, they plodded along
under their umbrellas, still talking away, and if something occurred that
Clemens wanted to put down they would stand stock still in the rain, and
Twichell would hold the umbrella while Clemens wrote--a good while
sometimes--oblivious to storm and discomfort and the long way yet ahead.

After the day on Gemmi Pass Twichell wrote home:

     Mark, to-day, was immensely absorbed in the flowers.  He scrambled
     around and gathered a great variety, and manifested the intensest
     pleasure in them.  He crowded a pocket of his note-book with his
     specimens and wanted more room.  So I stopped the guide and got out
     my needle and thread, and out of a stiff paper, a hotel
     advertisement, I had about me made a paper bag, a cornucopia like,
     and tied it to his vest in front, and it answered the purpose
     admirably.  He filled it full with a beautiful collection, and as
     soon as we got here to-night he transferred it to a cardboard box
     and sent it by mail to Livy.  A strange Mark he is, full of
     contradictions.  I spoke last night of his sensitive to others'
     feelings.  To-day the guide got behind, and came up as if he would
     like to go by, yet hesitated to do so.  Mark paused, went aside and
     busied himself a minute picking a flower.  In the halt the guide got
     by and resumed his place in front.  Mark threw the flower away,
     saying, "I didn't want that.  I only wanted to give the old man a
     chance to go on without seeming to pass us."  Mark is splendid to
     walk with amid such grand scenery, for he talks so well about it,
     has such a power of strong, picturesque expression.  I wish you
     might have heard him to-day.  His vigorous speech nearly did justice
     to the things we saw.

In an address which Twichell gave many years later he recalls another
pretty incident of their travels.  They had been toiling up the Gorner
Grat.

As we paused for a rest, a lamb from a flock of sheep near by ventured
inquisitively toward us, whereupon Mark seated himself on a rock, and
with beckoning hand and soft words tried to get it to come to him.

On the lamb's part it was a struggle between curiosity and timidity, but
in a succession of advances and retreats it gained confidence, though at
a very gradual rate.  It was a scene for a painter: the great American
humorist on one side of the game and that silly little creature on the
other, with the Matterhorn for a background.  Mark was reminded that the
time he was consuming was valuable--but to no purpose.  The Gorner Grat
could wait.  He held on with undiscouraged perseverance till he carried
his point: the lamb finally put its nose in his hand, and he was happy
over it all the rest of the day.

The matter of religion came up now and again in the drift of their
discussions.  It was Twichell's habit to have prayers in their room every
night at the hotels, and Clemens was willing to join in the observances.
Once Twichell, finding him in a responsive mood--a remorseful mood--gave
his sympathy, and spoke of the larger sympathy of divinity.  Clemens
listened and seemed soothed and impressed, but his philosophies were too
wide and too deep for creeds and doctrines.  A day or two later, as they
were tramping along in the hot sun, his honesty had to speak out.

"Joe," he said, "I'm going to make a confession.  I don't believe in your
religion at all.  I've been living a lie right straight along whenever I
pretended to.  For a moment, sometimes, I have been almost a believer,
but it immediately drifts away from me again.  I don't believe one word
of your Bible was inspired by God any more than any other book.  I
believe it is entirely the work of man from beginning to end--atonement
and all.  The problem of life and death and eternity and the true
conception of God is a bigger thing than is contained in that book."

So the personal side of religious discussion closed between them, and was
never afterward reopened.

They joined Mrs. Clemens and the others at Lausanne at last, and their
Swiss holiday was over.  Twichell set out for home by way of England, and
Clemens gave himself up to reflection and rest after his wanderings.
Then, as the days of their companionship passed in review, quickly and
characteristically he sent a letter after his comrade:

     DEAR OLD JOE, It is actually all over! I was so low-spirited at the
     station yesterday, and this morning, when I woke, I couldn't seem to
     accept the dismal truth that you were really gone, and the pleasant
     tramping and talking at an end.  Ah, my boy! it has been such a
     rich holiday to me, and I feel under such deep and honest
     obligations to you for coming.  I am putting out of my mind all
     memory of the times when I misbehaved toward you and hurt you; I am
     resolved to consider it forgiven, and to store up and remember only
     the charming hours of the journeys and the times when I was not
     unworthy to be with you and share a companionship which to me stands
     first after Livy's.  It is justifiable to do this; for why should I
     let my small infirmities of disposition live and grovel among my
     mental pictures of the eternal sublimities of the Alps?

     Livy can't accept or endure the fact that you are gone.  But you
     are, and we cannot get around it.  So take our love with you, and
     bear it also over the sea to Harmony, and God bless you both.

                                             MARK.




CXIX

ITALIAN DAYS

The Clemens party wandered down into Italy--to the lakes, Venice,
Florence, Rome--loitering through the galleries, gathering here and there
beautiful furnishings--pictures, marbles, and the like--for the Hartford
home.

In Venice they bought an old careen bed, a massive regal affair with
serpentine columns surmounted by singularly graceful cupids, and with
other cupids sporting on the headboard: the work of some artist who had
been dust three centuries maybe, for this bed had come out of an old
Venetian palace, dismantled and abandoned.  It was a furniture with a
long story, and the years would add mightily to its memories.  It would
become a stately institution in the Clemens household.  The cupids on the
posts were removable, and one of the highest privileges of childhood
would be to occupy that bed and have down one of the cupids to play with.
It was necessary to be ill to acquire that privilege--not violently and
dangerously ill, but interestingly so--ill enough to be propped up with
pillows and have one's meals served on a tray, with dolls and picture-
books handy, and among them a beautiful rosewood cupid who had kept
dimpled and dainty for so many, many years.

They spent three weeks in Venice: a dreamlike experience, especially for
the children, who were on the water most of the time, and became fast
friends with their gondolier, who taught them some Italian words; then a
week in Florence and a fortnight in Rome.--[From the note-book:
"BAY--When the waiter brought my breakfast this morning I spoke to him in
Italian.
"MAMA--What did you say?
"B.--I said, 'Polly-vo fransay.'
"M.--What does it mean?
"B.--I don't know.  What does it mean, Susy?
"S.-It means, 'Polly wants a cracker."]

Clemens discovered that in twelve years his attitude had changed somewhat
concerning the old masters.  He no longer found the bright, new copies an
improvement on the originals, though the originals still failed to wake
his enthusiasm.  Mrs. Clemens and Miss Spaulding spent long hours
wandering down avenues of art, accompanied by him on occasion, though not
always willingly.  He wrote his sorrow to Twichell:

I do wish you were in Rome to do my sight-seeing for me.  Rome interests
me as much as East Hartford could, and no more; that is, the Rome which
the average tourist feels an interest in.  There are other things here
which stir me enough to make life worth living.  Livy and Clara are
having a royal time worshiping the old masters, and I as good a time
gritting my ineffectual teeth over them.

Once when Sarah Orne Jewett was with the party he remarked that if the
old masters had labeled their fruit one wouldn't be so likely to mistake
pears for turnips.

"Youth," said Mrs. Clemens, gravely, "if you do not care for these
masterpieces yourself, you might at least consider the feelings of
others"; and Miss Jewett, regarding him severely, added, in her quaint
Yankee fashion:

"Now, you've been spoke to!"

He felt duly reprimanded, but his taste did not materially reform.  He
realized that he was no longer in a proper frame of mind to write of
general sight-seeing.  One must be eager, verdant, to write happily the
story of travel.  Replying to a letter from Howells on the subject he
said:

     I wish I could give those sharp satires on European life which you
     mention, but of course a man can't write successful satire except he
     be in a calm, judicial good-humor; whereas I hate travel, and I hate
     hotels, and I hate the opera, and I hate the old masters.  In truth
     I don't ever seem to be in a good enough humor with anything to
     satirize it.  No, I want to stand up before it and curse it and foam
     at the mouth, or take a club and pound it to rags and pulp.  I have
     got in two or three chapters about Wagner's operas, and managed to
     do it without showing temper, but the strain of another such effort
     would burst me.

Clemens became his own courier for a time in Italy, and would seem to
have made more of a success of it than he did a good many years
afterward, if we may believe the story he has left us of his later
attempt:

"Am a shining success as a courier," he records, "by the use of francs.
Have learned how to handle the railway guide intelligently and with
confidence."

He declares that he will have no more couriers; but possibly he could
have employed one to advantage on the trip out of Italy, for it was a
desperately hard one, with bad connections and delayed telegrams.  When,
after thirty-six hours weary, continuous traveling, they arrived at last
in Munich in a drizzle and fog, and were domiciled in their winter
quarters, at No. 1a, Karlstrasse, they felt that they had reached the
home of desolation itself, the very throne of human misery.

     And the rooms were so small, the conveniences so meager, and the
     porcelain stove was grim, ghastly, dismal, intolerable!  So Livy and
     Clara Spaulding sat down forlorn and cried, and I retired to a
     private place to pray.  By and by we all retired to our narrow
     German beds, and when Livy and I had finished talking across the
     room it was all decided that we should rest twenty-four hours, then
     pay whatever damages were required and straightway fly to the south
     of France.

The rooms had been engaged by letter, months before, of their
proprietress, Fraulein Dahlweiner, who had met them at the door with a
lantern in her hand, full of joy in their arrival and faith in her
ability to make them happy.  It was a faith that was justified.  Next
morning, when they all woke, rested, the weather had cleared, there were
bright fires in the rooms, the world had taken on a new aspect.  Fraulein
Dahlweiner, the pathetic, hard-working little figure, became almost
beautiful in their eyes in her efforts for their comfort.  She arranged
larger rooms and better conveniences for them.  Their location was
central and there was a near-by park.  They had no wish to change.
Clemens, in his letter to Howells, boasts that he brought the party
through from Rome himself, and that they never had so little trouble
before; but in looking over this letter, thirty years later, he
commented, "Probably a lie."

He secured a room some distance away for his work, but then could not
find his Swiss note-book.  He wrote Twichell that he had lost it, and
that after all he might not be obliged to write a volume of travels.  But
the notebook turned up and the work on the new book proceeded.  For a
time it went badly.  He wrote many chapters, only to throw them aside.
He had the feeling that he had somehow lost the knack of descriptive
narrative.  He had become, as it seemed, too didactic.  He thought his
description was inclined to be too literal, his humor manufactured.
These impressions passed, by and by; interest developed, and with it
enthusiasm and confidence.  In a letter to Twichell he reported his
progress:

I was about to write to my publisher and propose some other book, when
the confounded thing [the note-book] turned up, and down went my heart
into my boots.  But there was now no excuse, so I went solidly to work,
tore up a great part of the MS. written in Heidelberg--wrote and tore up,
continued to write and tear up--and at last, reward of patient and noble
persistence, my pen got the old swing again!  Since then I'm glad that
Providence knew better what to do with the Swiss notebook than I did.

Further along in the same letter there breaks forth a true heart-answer
to that voice of the Alps which, once heard, is never wholly silent:

     O Switzerland!  The further it recedes into the enriching haze of
     time, the more intolerably delicious the charm of it and the cheer
     of it and the glory and majesty, and solemnity and pathos of it
     grow.  Those mountains had a soul: they thought, they spoke.  And
     what a voice it was!  And how real!  Deep down in my memory it is
     sounding yet.  Alp calleth unto Alp!  That stately old Scriptural
     wording is the right one for God's Alps and God's ocean.  How puny
     we were in that awful Presence, and how painless it was to be so!
     How fitting and right it seemed, and how stingless was the sense of
     our unspeakable insignificance!  And Lord, how pervading were the
     repose and peace and blessedness that poured out of the heart of the
     invisible Great Spirit of the mountains!

     Now what is it?  There are mountains and mountains and mountains in
     this world, but only these take you by the heartstrings.  I wonder
     what the secret of it is.  Well, time and time and again it has
     seemed to me that I must drop everything and flee to Switzerland
     once more.  It is a longings deep, strong, tugging longing.  That is
     the word.  We must go again, Joe.




CXX

IN MUNICH

That winter in Munich was not recalled as an unpleasant one in after-
years.  His work went well enough--always a chief source of
gratification.  Mrs. Clemens and Miss Spaulding found interest in the
galleries, in quaint shops, in the music and picturesque life of that
beautiful old Bavarian town.  The children also liked Munich.  It was
easy for them to adopt any new environment or custom.  The German
Christmas, with its lavish tree and toys and cakes, was an especial
delight.  The German language they seemed fairly to absorb.  Writing to
his mother Clemens said:

I cannot see but that the children speak German as well as they do
English.  Susy often translates Livy's orders to the servants.  I cannot
work and study German at the same time; so I have dropped the latter and
do not even read the language, except in the morning paper to get the
news.

In Munich--as was the case wherever they were known--there were many
callers.  Most Americans and many foreigners felt it proper to call on
Mark Twain.  It was complimentary, but it was wearying sometimes.  Mrs.
Clemens, in a letter written from Venice, where they had received even
more than usual attention, declared there were moments when she almost
wished she might never see a visitor again.

Originally there was a good deal about Munich in the new book, and some
of the discarded chapters might have been retained with advantage.  They
were ruled out in the final weeding as being too serious, along with the
French chapters.  Only a few Italian memories were left to follow the
Switzerland wanderings.

The book does record one Munich event, though transferring it to
Heilsbronn.  It is the incident of the finding of the lost sock in the
vast bedroom.  It may interest the reader to compare what really
happened, as set down in a letter to Twichell, with the story as written
for publication:

     Last night I awoke at three this morning, and after raging to myself
     for two interminable hours I gave it up.  I rose, assumed a catlike
     stealthiness, to keep from waking Livy, and proceeded to dress in
     the pitch-dark.  Slowly but surely I got on garment after garment--
     all down to one sock; I had one slipper on and the other in my hand.
     Well, on my hands and knees I crept softly around, pawing and
     feeling and scooping along the carpet, and among chair-legs, for
     that missing sock, I kept that up, and still kept it up, and kept it
     up.  At first I only said to myself, "Blame that sock," but that
     soon ceased to answer.  My expletives grew steadily stronger and
     stronger, and at last, when I found I was lost, I had to sit flat
     down on the floor and take hold of something to keep from lifting
     the roof off with the profane explosion that was trying to get out
     of me.  I could see the dim blur of the window, but of course it was
     in the wrong place and could give me no information as to where I
     was.  But I had one comfort--I had not waked Livy; I believed I
     could find that sock in silence if the night lasted long enough.
     So I started again and softly pawed all over the place, and sure
     enough, at the end of half an hour I laid my hand on the missing
     article.  I rose joyfully up and butted the washbowl and pitcher off
     the stand, and simply raised ---- so to speak.  Livy screamed, then
     said, "Who is it?  What is the matter?"  I said, "There ain't
     anything the matter.  I'm hunting for my sock."  She said, "Are you
     hunting for it with a club?"

     I went in the parlor and lit the lamp, and gradually the fury
     subsided and the ridiculous features of the thing began to suggest
     themselves.  So I lay on the sofa with note-book and pencil, and
     transferred the adventure to our big room in the hotel at
     Heilsbronn, and got it on paper a good deal to my satisfaction.

He wrote with frequency to Howells, and sent him something for the
magazine now and then: the "Gambetta Duel" burlesque, which would make a
chapter in the book later, and the story of "The Great Revolution in
Pitcairn."--[Included in The Stolen White Elephant volume.  The
"Pitcairn" and "Elephant" tales were originally chapters in 'A Tramp
Abroad'; also the unpleasant "Coffin-box" yarn, which Howells rejected
for the Atlantic and generally condemned, though for a time it remained a
favorite with its author.]


Howells's novel, 'The Lady of the Aroostook', was then running through
the 'Atlantic', and in one of his letters Clemens expresses the general
deep satisfaction of his household in that tale:

If your literature has not struck perfection now we are not able to see
what is lacking.  It is all such truth--truth to the life; everywhere
your pen falls it leaves a photograph .  .  .  .  Possibly you will not
be a fully accepted classic until you have been dead one hundred years--
it is the fate of the Shakespeares of all genuine professions--but then
your books will be as common as Bibles, I believe.  In that day I shall
be in the encyclopedias too, thus: "Mark Twain, history and occupation
unknown; but he was personally acquainted with Howells."

Though in humorous form, this was a sincere tribute.  Clemens always
regarded with awe William Dean Howells's ability to dissect and
photograph with such delicacy the minutiae of human nature; just as
Howells always stood in awe of Mark Twain's ability to light, with a
single flashing sentence, the whole human horizon.




CXXI

PARIS, ENGLAND, AND HOMEWARD BOUND

They decided to spend the spring months in Paris, so they gave up their
pleasant quarters with Fraulein Dahlweiner, and journeyed across Europe,
arriving at the French capital February 28, 1879.  Here they met another
discouraging prospect, for the weather was cold and damp, the cabmen
seemed brutally ill-mannered, their first hotel was chilly, dingy,
uninviting.  Clemens, in his note-book, set down his impressions of their
rooms.  A paragraph will serve:

     Ten squatty, ugly arm-chairs, upholstered in the ugliest and
     coarsest conceivable scarlet plush; two hideous sofas of the same--
     uncounted armless chairs ditto.  Five ornamental chairs, seats
     covered with a coarse rag, embroidered in flat expanse with a
     confusion of leaves such as no tree ever bore, six or seven a dirty
     white and the rest a faded red.  How those hideous chairs do swear
     at the hideous sofa near them! This is the very hatefulest room I
     have seen in Europe.

     Oh, how cold and raw and unwarmable it is!

It was better than that when the sun came out, and they found happier
quarters presently at the Hotel Normandy, rue de l'Echelle.

But, alas, the sun did not come out often enough.  It was one of those
French springs and summers when it rains nearly every day, and is
distressingly foggy and chill between times.  Clemens received a bad
impression of France and the French during that Parisian-sojourn, from
which he never entirely recovered.  In his note-book he wrote: "France
has neither winter, nor summer, nor morals.  Apart from these drawbacks
it is a fine country."

The weather may not have been entirely accountable for his prejudice, but
from whatever cause Mark Twain, to the day of his death, had no great
love for the French as a nation.  Conversely, the French as a nation did
not care greatly for Mark Twain.  There were many individual Frenchmen
that Mark Twain admired, as there were many Frenchmen who admired the
work and personality of Mark Twain; but on neither side was there the
warm, fond, general affection which elsewhere throughout Europe he
invited and returned.

His book was not yet finished.  In Paris he worked on it daily, but
without enthusiasm.  The city was too noisy, the weather too dismal.
His note-book says:

May 7th.  I wish this terrible winter would come to an end.  Have had
rain almost without intermission for two months and one week.

May 28th.  This is one of the coldest days of this most damnable and
interminable winter.

It was not all gloom and discomfort.  There was congenial company in
Paris, and dinner-parties, and a world of callers.  Aldrich the
scintillating--[ Of Aldrich Clemens used to say: "When Aldrich speaks it
seems to me he is the bright face of the moon, and I feel like the other
side."  Aldrich, unlike Clemens, was not given to swearing.  The Parisian
note-book has this memorandum:  "Aldrich gives his seat in the horse-car
to a crutched cripple, and discovers that what he took for a crutch is
only a length of walnut beading and the man not lame; whereupon Aldrich
uses the only profanity that ever escaped his lips: 'Damn a dam'd man who
would carry a dam'd piece of beading under his dam'd arm!'"]--was there,
also Gedney Bunce, of Hartford, Frank Millet and his wife, Hjalinar
Hjorth Boyesen and his wife, and a Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain, artist
people whom the Clemenses had met pleasantly in Italy.  Turgenieff, as in
London, came to call; also Baron Tauchnitz, that nobly born
philanthropist of German publishers, who devoted his life, often at his
personal cost, to making the literature of other nations familiar to his
own.  Tauchnitz had early published the 'Innocents', following it with
other Mark Twain volumes as they appeared, paying always, of his own will
and accord, all that he could afford to pay for this privilege; which was
not really a privilege, for the law did not require him to pay at all.
He traveled down to Paris now to see the author, and to pay his respects
to him.  "A mighty nice old gentleman," Clemens found him.  Richard
Whiteing was in Paris that winter, and there were always plenty of young
American painters whom it was good to know.

They had what they called the Stomach Club, a jolly organization, whose
purpose was indicated by its name.  Mark Twain occasionally attended its
sessions, and on one memorable evening, when Edwin A. Abbey was there,
speeches were made which never appeared in any printed proceedings.  Mark
Twain's address that night has obtained a wide celebrity among the clubs
of the world, though no line of it, or even its title has ever found its
way into published literature.

Clemens had a better time in Paris than the rest of his party.  He could
go and come, and mingle with the sociabilities when the abnormal weather
kept the others housed in.  He did a good deal of sight-seeing of his own
kind, and once went up in a captive balloon.  They were all studying
French, more or less, and they read histories and other books relating to
France.  Clemens renewed his old interest in Joan of Arc, and for the
first time appears to have conceived the notion of writing the story of
that lovely character.

The Reign of Terror interested him.  He reread Carlyle's Revolution, a
book which he was never long without reading, and they all read 'A Tale
of Two Cities'.  When the weather permitted they visited the scenes of
that grim period.

In his note-book he comments:

     "The Reign of Terror shows that, without distinction or rank, the
     people were savages.  Marquises, dukes, lawyers, blacksmiths, they
     each figure in due proportion to their crafts."

And again:

     "For 1,000 years this savage nation indulged itself in massacre;
     every now and then a big massacre or a little one.  The spirit is
     peculiar to France--I mean in Christendom--no other state has had
     it.  In this France has always walked abreast, kept her end up with
     her brethren, the Turks and the Burmese.  Their chief traits--love
     of glory and massacre."

Yet it was his sense of fairness that made him write, as a sort of
quittance:

     "You perceive I generalize with intrepidity from single instances.
     It is the tourists' custom.  When I see a man jump from the Vendome
     Column I say, 'They like to do that in Paris.'"

Following this implied atonement, he records a few conclusions, drawn
doubtless from Parisian reading and observation:

     "Childish race and great."

     "I'm for cremation."

     "I disfavor capital punishment."

     "Samson was a Jew, therefore not a fool.  The Jews have the best
     average brain of any people in the world.  The Jews are the only
     race in the world who work wholly with their brains, and never with
     their hands.  There are no Jew beggars, no Jew tramps, no Jew
     ditchers, hod-carriers, day-laborers, or followers of toilsome
     mechanical trade.

     "They are peculiarly and conspicuously the world's intellectual
     aristocracy."

     "Communism is idiocy.  They want to divide up the property.  Suppose
     they did it.  It requires brains to keep money as well as to make
     it.  In a precious little while the money would be back in the
     former owner's hands and the communist would be poor again.  The
     division would have to be remade every three years or it would do
     the communist no good."

A curious thing happened one day in Paris.  Boyesen; in great excitement,
came to the Normandy and was shown to the Clemens apartments.  He was
pale and could hardly speak, for his emotion.  He asked immediately if.
his wife had come to their rooms.  On learning that she had not, he
declared that she was lost or had met with an accident.  She had been
gone several hours, he said, and had sent no word, a thing which she had
never done before.  He besought Clemens to aid him in his search for her,
to do something to help him find her.  Clemens, without showing the least
emotion or special concentration of interest, said quietly:

"I will."

"Where will you go first," Boyesen demanded.

Still in the same even voice Clemens said:

"To the elevator."

He passed out of the room, with Boyesen behind him, into the hall.  The
elevator was just coming up, and as they reached it, it stopped at their
landing, and Mrs. Boyesen stepped out.  She had been delayed by a
breakdown and a blockade.  Clemens said afterward that he had a positive
conviction that she would be on the elevator when they reached it.  It
was one of those curious psychic evidences which we find all along during
his life; or, if the skeptics prefer to call them coincidences, they are
privileged to do so.

     Paris, June 1, 1879.  Still this vindictive winter continues.  Had a
     raw, cold rain to-day.  To-night we sit around a rousing wood fire.

They stood it for another month, and then on the 10th of July, when it
was still chilly and disagreeable, they gave it up and left for Brussels,
which he calls "a dirty, beautiful (architecturally), interesting town."

Two days in Brussels, then to Antwerp, where they dined on the Trenton
with Admiral Roan, then to Rotterdam, Dresden, Amsterdam, and London,
arriving there the 29th of July, which was rainy and cold, in keeping
with all Europe that year.

     Had to keep a rousing big cannel-coal fire blazing in the grate all
     day.  A remarkable summer, truly!

London meant a throng of dinners, as always: brilliant, notable affairs,
too far away to recall.  A letter written by Mrs. Clemens at the time
preserves one charming, fresh bit of that departed bloom.

     Clara [Spaulding] went in to dinner with Mr. Henry James; she
     enjoyed him very much.  I had a little chat with him before dinner,
     and he was exceedingly pleasant and easy to talk with.  I had
     expected just the reverse, thinking one would feel looked over by
     him and criticized.

     Mr. Whistler, the artist, was at the dinner, but he did not attract
     me.  Then there was a lady, over eighty years old, a Mrs. Stuart,
     who was Washington Irving's love, and she is said to have been his
     only love, and because of her he went unmarried to his grave.--
     [Mrs. Clemens was misinformed.  Irving's only "love" was a Miss
     Hoffman.]--She was also an intimate friend of Madame Bonaparte.
     You would judge Mrs. Stuart to be about fifty, and she was the life
     of the drawing-room after dinner, while the ladies were alone,
     before the gentlemen came up.  It was lovely to see such a sweet old
     age; every one was so fond of her, every one deferred to her, yet
     every one was joking her, making fun of her, but she was always
     equal to the occasion, giving back as bright replies as possible;
     you had not the least sense that she was aged.  She quoted French in
     her stories with perfect ease and fluency, and had all the time such
     a kindly, lovely way.  When she entered the room, before dinner, Mr.
     James, who was then talking with me, shook hands with her and said,
     "Good evening, you wonderful lady."  After she had passed .  .  .
     he said, "She is the youngest person in London.  She has the
     youngest feelings and the youngest interests .  .  .  .  She is
     always interested."

     It was a perfect delight to hear her and see her.

For more than two years they had had an invitation from Reginald
Cholmondeley to pay him another visit.

So they went for a week to Condover, where many friends were gathered,
including Millais, the painter, and his wife (who had been the wife of
Ruskin), numerous relatives, and other delightful company.  It was one of
the happiest chapters of their foreign sojourn.--[Moncure D. Conway, who
was in London at the time, recalls, in his Autobiography, a visit which
he made with Mr. and Mrs. Clemens to Stratford-on-Avon.  "Mrs. Clemens
was an ardent Shakespearian, and Mark Twain determined to give her a
surprise.  He told her that we were going on a journey to Epworth, and
persuaded me to connive with the joke by writing to Charles Flower not to
meet us himself, but send his carriage.  On arrival at the station we
directed the driver to take us straight to the church.  When we entered,
and Mrs. Clemens read on Shakespeare's grave, 'Good friend, for Jesus'
sake, forbear,' she started back, exclaiming, 'where am I?'  Mark
received her reproaches with an affluence of guilt, but never did lady
enjoy a visit more than that to Avonbank.  Mrs. Charles Flower (nee
Martineau) took Mrs. Clemens to her heart, and contrived that every
social or other attraction of that region should surround her."]

From the note-book:

     Sunday, August 17,'79.  Raw and cold, and a drenching rain.  Went to
     hear Mr. Spurgeon.  House three-quarters full-say three thousand
     people.  First hour, lacking one minute, taken up with two prayers,
     two ugly hymns, and Scripture-reading.  Sermon three-quarters of an
     hour long.  A fluent talker, good, sonorous voice.  Topic treated in
     the unpleasant, old fashion: Man a mighty bad child, God working at
     him in forty ways and having a world of trouble with him.

     A wooden-faced congregation; just the sort to see no incongruity in
     the majesty of Heaven stooping to plead and sentimentalize over
     such, and see in their salvation an important matter.

     Tuesday, August 19th.  Went up Windermere Lake in the steamer.
     Talked with the great Darwin.

They had planned to visit Dr. Brown in Scotland.  Mrs. Clemens, in
particular, longed to go, for his health had not been of the best, and
she felt that they would never have a chance to see him again.  Clemens
in after years blamed himself harshly for not making the trip, declaring
that their whole reason for not going was an irritable reluctance on his
part to take the troublesome journey and a perversity of spirit for which
there was no real excuse.  There is documentary evidence against this
harsh conclusion.  They were, in fact, delayed here and there by
misconnections and the continued terrific weather, barely reaching
Liverpool in time for their sailing date, August 23d.  Unquestionably he
was weary of railway travel, far he always detested it.  Time would
magnify his remembered reluctance, until, in the end, he would load his
conscience with the entire burden of blame.

Their ship was the Gallia, and one night, when they were nearing the
opposite side of the Atlantic, Mark Twain, standing on deck, saw for the
third time in his experience a magnificent lunar rainbow: a complete
arch, the colors part of the time very brilliant, but little different
from a day rainbow.  It is not given to many persons in this world to see
even one of these phenomena.  After each previous vision there had come
to him a period of good-fortune.  Perhaps this also boded well for him.




CXXII

AN INTERLUDE

The Gallia reached New York September 3, 1879.  A report of his arrival,
in the New York Sun, stated that Mark Twain had changed in his absence;
that only his drawl seemed natural.

     His hat, as he stood on the deck of the incoming Cunarder, Gallia,
     was of the pattern that English officers wear in India, and his suit
     of clothes was such as a merchant might wear in his store.  He
     looked older than when he went to Germany, and his hair has turned
     quite gray.

It was a late hour when they were finally up to the dock, and Clemens,
anxious to get through the Custom House, urged the inspector to accept
his carefully prepared list of dutiable articles, without opening the
baggage.  But the official was dubious.  Clemens argued eloquently, and a
higher authority was consulted.  Again Clemens stated his case and
presented his arguments.  A still higher chief of inspection was
summoned, evidently from his bed.  He listened sleepily to the preamble,
then suddenly said: "Oh, chalk his baggage, of course!  Don't you know
it's Mark Twain and that he'll talk all night?"

They went directly to the farm, for whose high sunlit loveliness they had
been longing through all their days of absence.  Mrs. Clemens, in her
letters, had never failed to dwell on her hunger for that fair hilltop.
From his accustomed study-table Clemens wrote to Twichell:

"You have run about a good deal, Joe, but you have never seen any place
that was so divine as the farm.  Why don't you come here and take a
foretaste of Heaven?"  Clemens declared he would roam no more forever,
and settled down to the happy farm routine.  He took up his work, which
had not gone well in Paris, and found his interest in it renewed.  In the
letter to Twichell he said:

     I am revising my MS.  I did not expect to like it, but I do.  I have
     been knocking out early chapters for more than a year now, not
     because they had not merit, but merely because they hindered the
     flow of the narrative; it was a dredging process.  Day before
     yesterday my shovel fetched up three more chapters and laid them,
     reeking, on the festering shore-pile of their predecessors, and now
     I think the yarn swims right along, without hitch or halt.  I
     believe it will be a readable book of travels.  I cannot see that it
     lacks anything but information.

Mrs. Clemens was no less weary of travel than her husband.  Yet she had
enjoyed their roaming, and her gain from it had been greater than his.
Her knowledge of art and literature, and of the personal geography of
nations, had vastly increased; her philosophy of life had grown beyond
all counting.

She had lost something, too; she had outstripped her traditions.  One
day, when she and her sister had walked across the fields, and had
stopped to rest in a little grove by a pretty pond, she confessed,
timidly enough and not without sorrow, how she had drifted away from her
orthodox views.  She had ceased to believe, she said, in the orthodox
Bible God, who exercised a personal supervision over every human soul.
The hordes of people she had seen in many lands, the philosophies she had
listened to from her husband and those wise ones about him, the life away
from the restricted round of home, all had contributed to this change.
Her God had become a larger God; the greater mind which exerts its care
of the individual through immutable laws of time and change and
environment--the Supreme Good which comprehends the individual flower,
dumb creature, or human being only as a unit in the larger scheme of life
and love.  Her sister was not shocked or grieved; she too had grown with
the years, and though perhaps less positively directed, had by a path of
her own reached a wider prospect of conclusions.  It was a sweet day
there in the little grove by the water, and would linger in the memory of
both so long as life lasted.  Certainly it was the larger faith; though
the moment must always come when the narrower, nearer, more humanly
protecting arm of orthodoxy lends closer comfort.  Long afterward, in the
years that followed the sorrow of heavy bereavement, Clemens once said to
his wife, "Livy, if it comforts you to lean on the Christian faith do
so," and she answered," I can't, Youth.  I haven't any."

And the thought that he had destroyed her illusion, without affording a
compensating solace, was one that would come back to him, now and then,
all his days.




CXXIII

THE GRANT SPEECH OF 1879

If the lunar rainbow had any fortuitous significance, perhaps we may find
it in the two speeches which Mark Twain made in November and December of
that year.  The first of these was delivered at Chicago, on the occasion
of the reception of General Grant by the Army of the Tennessee, on the
evening of November 73, 1879.  Grant had just returned from his splendid
tour of the world.  His progress from San Francisco eastward had been
such an ovation as is only accorded to sovereignty.  Clemens received an
invitation to the reunion, but, dreading the long railway journey, was at
first moved to decline.  He prepared a letter in which he made "business"
his excuse, and expressed his regret that he would not be present to see
and hear the veterans of the Army of the Tennessee at the moment when
their old commander entered the room and rose in his place to speak.

"Besides," he said, "I wanted to see the General again anyway and renew
the acquaintance.  He would remember me, because I was the person who did
not ask him for an office."

He did not send the letter.  Reconsidering, it seemed to him that there
was something strikingly picturesque in the idea of a Confederate soldier
who had been chased for a fortnight in the rain through Ralls and Monroe
counties, Missouri, now being invited to come and give welcome home to
his old imaginary pursuer.  It was in the nature of an imperative
command, which he could not refuse to obey.

He accepted and agreed to speak.  They had asked him to respond to the
toast of "The Ladies," but for him the subject was worn out.  He had
already responded to that toast at least twice.  He telegraphed that
there was one class of the community that had always been overlooked upon
such occasions, and that if they would allow him to do so he would take
that class for a toast: the babies.  Necessarily they agreed, and he
prepared himself accordingly.

He arrived in Chicago in time for the prodigious procession of welcome.
Grant was to witness the march from a grand reviewing stand, which had
been built out from the second story of the Palmer House.  Clemens had
not seen the General since the "embarrassing" introduction in Washington,
twelve years before.  Their meeting was characteristic enough.  Carter
Harrison, Mayor of Chicago, arriving with Grant, stepped over to Clemens,
and asked him if he wouldn't like to be presented.  Grant also came
forward, and a moment later Harrison was saying:

"General, let me present Mr. Clemens, a man almost as great as yourself."
They shook hands; there was a pause of a moment, then Grant said, looking
at him gravely:

"Mr. Clemens, I am not embarrassed, are you?"

So he remembered that first, long-ago meeting.  It was a conspicuous
performance.  The crowd could not hear the words, but they saw the
greeting and the laugh, and cheered both men.

Following the procession, there were certain imposing ceremonies of
welcome at Haverly's Theater where long, laudatory eloquence was poured
out upon the returning hero, who sat unmoved while the storm of music and
cheers and oratory swept about him.  Clemens, writing of it that evening
to Mrs. Clemens, said:

     I never sat elbow to elbow with so many historic names before.
     Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Schofield, Pope, Logan, and so on.

     What an iron man Grant is!  He sat facing the house, with his right
     leg crossed over his left, his right boot sole tilted up at an
     angle, and his left hand and arm reposing on the arm of his chair.
     You note that position?  Well, when glowing references were made to
     other grandees on the stage, those grandees always showed a trifle
     of nervous consciousness, and as these references came frequently
     the nervous changes of position and attitude were also frequent.
     But Grant!  He was under a tremendous and ceaseless bombardment of
     praise and congratulation; but as true as I'm sitting here he never
     moved a muscle of his body for a single instant during thirty
     minutes!  You could have played him on a stranger for an effigy.
     Perhaps he never would have moved, but at last a speaker made such a
     particularly ripping and blood-stirring remark about him that the
     audience rose and roared and yelled and stamped and clapped an
     entire minute--Grant sitting as serene as ever-when General Sherman
     stepped up to him, laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder,
     bent respectfully down, and whispered in his ear.  Then Grant got up
     and bowed, and the storm of applause swelled into a hurricane.

But it was the next evening that the celebration rose to a climax.  This
was at the grand banquet at the Palmer House, where six hundred guests
sat down to dinner and Grant himself spoke, and Logan and Hurlbut, and
Vilas and Woodford and Pope, fifteen in all, including Robert G.
Ingersoll and Mark Twain.  Chicago has never known a greater event than
that dinner, for there has never been a time since when those great
soldiers and citizens could have been gathered there.

To Howells Clemens wrote:

     Imagine what it was like to see a bullet-shredded old battle-flag
     reverently unfolded to the gaze of a thousand middle-aged soldiers,
     most of whom hadn't seen it since they saw it advancing over
     victorious fields when they were in their prime.  And imagine what
     it was like when Grant, their first commander, stepped into view
     while they were still going mad over the flag, and then right in the
     midst of it all somebody struck up "When we were marching through
     Georgia."  Well, you should have heard the thousand voices lift that
     chorus and seen the tears stream down.  If I live a hundred years I
     sha'n't ever forget these things, nor be able to talk about them.  I
     sha'n't ever forget that I saw Phil Sheridan, with martial cloak and
     plumed chapeau, riding his big black horse in the midst of his own
     cannon; by all odds the superbest figure of a soldier.  I ever
     looked upon!
     Grand times, my boy, grand times!

Mark Twain declared afterward that he listened to four speeches that
night which he would remember as long as he lived.  One of them was by
Emory Storrs, another by General Vilas, another by Logan, and the last
and greatest by Robert Ingersoll, whose eloquence swept the house like a
flame.  The Howells letter continues:

     I doubt if America has ever seen anything quite equal to it; I am
     well satisfied I shall not live to see its equal again.  How pale
     those speeches are in print, but how radiant, how full of color, how
     blinding they were in the delivery!  Bob Ingersoll's music will sing
     through my memory always as the divinest that ever enchanted my
     ears.  And I shall always see him, as he stood that night on a
     dinner-table, under the flash of lights and banners, in the midst of
     seven hundred frantic shouters, the most beautiful human creature
     that ever lived.  "They fought, that a mother might own her child."
     The words look like any other print, but, Lord bless me!  he
     borrowed the very accent of the angel of mercy to say them in, and
     you should have seen that vast house rise to its feet; and you
     should have heard the hurricane that followed.  That's the only
     test!  People may shout, clap their hands, stamp, wave their
     napkins, but none but the master can make them get up on their feet.

Clemens's own speech came last.  He had been placed at the end to hold
the house.  He was preceded by a dull speaker, and his heart sank, for it
was two o'clock and the diners were weary and sleepy, and the dreary
speech had made them unresponsive.

They gave him a round of applause when he stepped up upon the table in
front of him--a tribute to his name.  Then he began the opening words of
that memorable, delightful fancy.

"We haven't all had the good-fortune to be ladies; we haven't all been
generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works down to the
babies--we stand on common ground--"

The tired audience had listened in respectful silence through the first
half of the sentence.  He made one of his effective pauses on the word
"babies," and when he added, in that slow, rich measure of his, "we stand
on common ground," they let go a storm of applause.  There was no
weariness and inattention after that.  At the end of each sentence, he
had to stop to let the tornado roar itself out and sweep by.  When he
reached the beginning of the final paragraph, "Among the three or four
million cradles now rocking in the land are some which this nation would
preserve for ages as sacred things if we could know which ones they are,"
the vast audience waited breathless for his conclusion.  Step by step he
led toward some unseen climax--some surprise, of course, for that would
be his way.  Then steadily, and almost without emphasis, he delivered the
opening of his final sentence:

"And now in his cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious
commander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened with his
approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole
strategic mind, at this moment, to trying to find out some way to get his
own big toe into his mouth, an achievement which (meaning no disrespect)
the illustrious guest of this evening also turned his attention to some
fifty-six years ago."

He paused, and the vast crowd had a chill of fear.  After all, he seemed
likely to overdo it to spoil everything with a cheap joke at the end.
No one ever knew better than Mark Twain the value of a pause.  He waited
now long enough to let the silence become absolute, until the tension was
painful, then wheeling to Grant himself he said, with all the dramatic
power of which he was master:

"And if the child is but the father of the man, there are mighty few who
will doubt that he succeeded!"

The house came down with a crash.  The linking of their hero's great
military triumphs with that earliest of all conquests seemed to them so
grand a figure that they went mad with the joy of it.  Even Grant's iron
serenity broke; he rocked and laughed while the tears streamed down his
cheeks.

They swept around the speaker with their congratulations, in their
efforts to seize his hand.  He was borne up and down the great dining-
hall.  Grant himself pressed up to make acknowledgments.

"It tore me all to pieces," he said; and Sherman exclaimed, "Lord bless
you, my boy!  I don't know how you do it!"

The little speech has been in "cold type" so many years since then that
the reader of it to-day may find it hard to understand the flame of
response it kindled so long ago.  But that was another day--and another
nation--and Mark Twain, like Robert Ingersoll, knew always his period and
his people.




CXXIV

ANOTHER "ATLANTIC" SPEECH

The December good-fortune was an opportunity Clemens had to redeem
himself with the Atlantic contingent, at a breakfast given to Dr. Holmes.

Howells had written concerning it as early as October, and the first
impulse had been to decline.  It would be something of an ordeal; for
though two years had passed since the fatal Whittier dinner, Clemens had
not been in that company since, and the lapse of time did not signify.
Both Howells and Warner urged him to accept, and he agreed to do so on
condition that he be allowed to speak.

If anybody talks there I shall claim the right to say a word myself, and
be heard among the very earliest, else it would be confoundedly awkward
for me--and for the rest, too.  But you may read what I say beforehand,
and strike out whatever you choose.

Howells advised against any sort of explanation.  Clemens accepted this
as wise counsel, and prepared an address relevant only to the guest of
honor.

It was a noble gathering.  Most of the guests of the Whittier dinner were
present, and this time there were ladies.  Emerson, Longfellow, and
Whittier were there, Harriet Beecher Stowe and Julia Ward Howe; also the
knightly Colonel Waring, and Stedman, and Parkman, and grand old John
Bigelow, old even then.--[He died in 1911 in his 94th year.]

Howells was conservative in his introduction this time.  It was better
taste to be so.  He said simply:

"We will now listen to a few words of truth and soberness from Mark
Twain."

Clemens is said to have risen diffidently, but that was his natural
manner.  It probably did not indicate anything of the inner tumult he
really felt.

Outwardly he was calm enough, and what he said was delicate and
beautiful, the kind of thing that he could say so well.  It seems fitting
that it should be included here, the more so that it tells a story not
elsewhere recorded.  This is the speech in full:

     MR. CHAIRMAN, LADIES, AND GENTLEMEN,--I would have traveled a much
     greater distance than I have come to witness the paying of honors to
     Dr. Holmes, for my feeling toward him has always been one of
     peculiar warmth.  When one receives a letter from a great man for
     the first time in his life it is a large event to him, as all of you
     know by your own experience.  You never can receive letters enough
     from famous men afterward to obliterate that one or dim the memory
     of the pleasant surprise it was and the gratification it gave you.
     Lapse of time cannot make it commonplace or cheap.  Well, the first
     great man who ever wrote me a letter was our guest, Oliver Wendell
     Holmes.  He was also the first great literary man I ever stole
     anything from, and that is how I came to write to him and he to me.
     When my first book was new a friend of mine said, "The dedication is
     very neat."  Yes, I said, I thought it was.  My friend said,
     "I always admired it, even before I saw it in The Innocents Abroad."
     I naturally said, "What do you mean?  Where did you ever see it
     before?" "Well, I saw it first, some years ago, as Dr. Holmes's
     dedication to his Songs in Many Keys."  Of course my first impulse
     was to prepare this man's remains for burial, but upon reflection I
     said I would reprieve him for a moment or two, and give him a chance
     to prove his assertion if he could.  We stepped into a book-store.
     and he did prove it.  I had stolen that dedication almost word for
     word.  I could not imagine how this curious thing happened; for I
     knew one thing, for a dead certainty--that a certain amount of pride
     always goes along with a teaspoonful of brains, and that this pride
     protects a man from deliberately stealing other people's ideas.
     That is what a teaspoonful of brains will do for a man, and admirers
     had often told me I had nearly a basketful, though they were rather
     reserved as to the size of the basket.  However, I thought the thing
     out and solved the mystery.  Some years before I had been laid up a
     couple of weeks in the Sandwich Islands, and had read and reread Dr.
     Holmes's poems till my mental reservoir was filled with them to the
     brim.  The dedication lay on top and handy, so by and by I
     unconsciously took it.  Well, of course, I wrote to Dr. Holmes and
     told him I hadn't meant to steal, and he wrote back and said, in the
     kindest way, that it was all right, and no harm done, and added that
     he believed we all unconsciously worked over ideas gathered in
     reading and hearing, imagining they were original with ourselves.
     He stated a truth and did it in such a pleasant way, and salved over
     my sore spot so gently and so healingly, that I was rather glad I
     had committed the crime, for the sake of the letter.  I afterward
     called on him and told him to make perfectly free with any ideas of
     mine that struck him as good protoplasm for poetry.  He could see by
     that time that there wasn't anything mean about me; so we got along,
     right from the start.--[Holmes in his letter had said: "I rather
     think The Innocents Abroad will have many more readers than Songs in
     Many Keys.  .  .  You will be stolen from a great deal oftener than
     you will borrow from other people."]

     I have met Dr. Holmes many times since; and lately he said--However,
     I am wandering wildly away from the one thing which I got on my feet
     to do; that is, to make my compliments to you, my fellow-teachers of
     the great public, and likewise to say I am right glad to see that
     Dr. Holmes is still in his prime and full of generous life, and as
     age is not determined by years but by trouble, and by infirmities of
     mind and body, I hope it may be a very long time yet before any can
     truthfully say, "He is growing old."

Whatever Mark Twain may have lost on that former occasion, came back to
him multiplied when he had finished this happy tribute.  So the year for
him closed prosperously.  The rainbow of promise was justified.




CXXV

THE QUIETER THINGS OF HOME

Upset and disturbed as Mark Twain often was, he seldom permitted his
distractions to interfere with the program of his fireside.  His days and
his nights might be fevered, but the evenings belonged to another world.
The long European wandering left him more than ever enamoured of his
home; to him it had never been so sweet before, so beautiful, so full of
peace.  Company came: distinguished guests and the old neighborhood
circles.  Dinner-parties were more frequent than ever, and they were
likely to be brilliant affairs.  The best minds, the brightest wits,
gathered around Mark Twain's table.  Booth, Barrett, Irving, Sheridan,
Sherman, Howells, Aldrich: they all assembled, and many more.  There was
always some one on the way to Boston or New York who addressed himself
for the day or the night, or for a brief call, to the Mark Twain
fireside.

Certain visitors from foreign lands were surprised at his environment,
possibly expecting to find him among less substantial, more bohemian
surroundings.  Henry Drummond, the author of Natural Law in the Spiritual
World, in a letter of this time, said:

     I had a delightful day at Hartford last Wednesday .  .  .  .  Called
     on Mark Twain, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, and the widow of Horace
     Bushnell.  I was wishing A---- had been at the Mark Twain interview.
     He is funnier than any of his books, and to my surprise a most
     respected citizen, devoted to things esthetic, and the friend of the
     poor and struggling.--[Life of Henry Drummond, by George Adam
     Smith.]

The quieter evenings were no less delightful.  Clemens did not often go
out.  He loved his own home best.  The children were old enough now to
take part in a form of entertainment that gave him and them especial
pleasure-acting charades.  These he invented for them, and costumed the
little performers, and joined in the acting as enthusiastically and as
unrestrainedly as if he were back in that frolicsome boyhood on John
Quarles's farm.  The Warner and Twichell children were often there and
took part in the gay amusements.  The children of that neighborhood
played their impromptu parts well and naturally.  They were in a dramatic
atmosphere, and had been from infancy.  There was never any preparation
for the charades.  A word was selected and the parts of it were whispered
to the little actors.  Then they withdrew to the hall, where all sorts of
costumes had been laid out for the evening, dressed their parts, and each
detachment marched into the library, performed its syllable and retired,
leaving the audience, mainly composed of parents, to guess the answer.
Often they invented their own words, did their own costuming, and
conducted the entire performance independent of grown-up assistance or
interference.  Now and then, even at this early period, they conceived
and produced little plays, and of course their father could not resist
joining in these.  At other times, evenings, after dinner, he would sit
at the piano and recall the old darky songs-spirituals and jubilee
choruses-singing them with fine spirit, if not with perfect technic, the
children joining in these moving melodies.

He loved to read aloud to them.  It was his habit to read his manuscript
to Mrs. Clemens, and, now that the children were older, he was likely to
include them in his critical audience.

It would seem to have been the winter after their return from Europe that
this custom was inaugurated, for 'The Prince and the Pauper' manuscript
was the first one so read, and it was just then he was resuming work on
this tale.  Each afternoon or evening, when he had finished his chapter,
he assembled his little audience and read them the result.  The children
were old enough to delight in that half real, half fairy tale of the
wandering prince and the royal pauper: and the charm and simplicity of
the story are measurably due to those two small listeners, to whom it was
adapted in that early day of its creation.

Clemens found the Prince a blessed relief from 'A Tramp Abroad', which
had become a veritable nightmare.  He had thought it finished when he
left the farm, but discovered that he must add several hundred pages to
complete its bulk.  It seemed to him that he had been given a life-
sentence.  He wrote six hundred pages and tore up all but two hundred and
eighty-eight.  He was about to destroy these and begin again, when Mrs.
Clemens's health became poor and he was advised to take her to Elmira,
though it was then midwinter.  To Howells he wrote:

     I said, "if there is one death that is painfuler than another, may I
     get it if I don't do that thing."

     So I took the 288 pages to Bliss and told him that was the very last
     line I should ever write on this book (a book which required 600
     pages of MS., and I have written nearly four thousand, first and
     last).

     I am as soary (and flighty) as a rocket to-day, with the unutterable
     joy of getting that Old Man of the Sea off my back, where he has
     been roosting more than a year and a half.

They remained a month at Elmira, and on their return Clemens renewed work
on 'The Prince and the Pauper'.  He reported to Howells that if he never
sold a copy his jubilant delight in writing it would suffer no
diminution.  A week later his enthusiasm had still further increased:

     I take so much pleasure in my story that I am loath to hurry, not
     wanting to get it done.  Did I ever tell you the plot of it?  It
     begins at 9 A.M., January 27, 1547.

He follows with a detailed synopsis of his plot, which in this instance
he had worked out with unusual completeness--a fact which largely
accounts for the unity of the tale.  Then he adds:

     My idea is to afford a realizing sense of the exceeding severity of
     the laws of that day by inflicting some of their penalties upon the
     king himself, and allowing him a chance to see the rest of them
     applied to others; all of which is to account for certain mildnesses
     which distinguished Edward VI.'s reign from those that precede it
     and follow it.

     Imagine this fact: I have even fascinated Mrs. Clemens with this
     yarn for youth.  My stuff generally gets considerable damning with
     faint praise out of her, but this time it is all the other way.  She
     is become the horse-leech's daughter, and my mill doesn't grind fast
     enough to suit her.  This is no mean triumph, my dear sir.

He forgot, perhaps, to mention his smaller auditors, but we may believe
they were no less eager in their demands for the tale's continuance.




CXXVI

"A TRAMP ABROAD"

'A Tramp Abroad' came from the presses on the 13th of March, 1880.  It
had been widely heralded, and there was an advance sale of twenty-five
thousand copies.  It was of the same general size and outward character
as the Innocents, numerously illustrated, and was regarded by its
publishers as a satisfactory book.

It bore no very striking resemblance to the Innocents on close
examination.  Its pictures-drawn, for the most part, by a young art
student named Brown, whom Clemens had met in Paris--were extraordinarily
bad, while the crude engraving process by which they had been reproduced;
tended to bring them still further into disrepute.  A few drawings by
True Williams were better, and those drawn by Clemens himself had a value
of their own.  The book would have profited had there been more of what
the author calls his "works of art."

Mark Twain himself had dubious anticipations as to the book's reception.

But Howells wrote:

     Well, you are a blessing.  You ought to believe in God's goodness,
     since he has bestowed upon the world such a delightful genius as
     yours to lighten its troubles.

Clemens replied:

     Your praises have been the greatest uplift I ever had.  When a body
     is not even remotely expecting such things, how the surprise takes
     the breath away!  We had been interpreting your stillness to
     melancholy and depression, caused by that book.  This is honest.
     Why, everything looks brighter now.  A check for untold cash could
     not have made our hearts sing as your letter has done.

A letter from Tauchnitz, proposing to issue an illustrated edition in
Germany, besides putting it into his regular series, was an added
satisfaction.  To be in a Tauchnitz series was of itself a recognition of
the book's merit.

To Twichell, Clemens presented a special copy of the Tramp with a
personal inscription, which must not be omitted here:

     MY DEAR "HARRIS"--NO, I MEAN MY DEAR JOE,--Just imagine it for a
     moment: I was collecting material in Europe during fourteen months
     for a book, and now that the thing is printed I find that you, who
     were with me only a month and a half of the fourteen, are in actual
     presence (not imaginary) in 440 of the 531 pages the book contains!
     Hang it, if you had stayed at home it would have taken me fourteen
     years to get the material.  You have saved me an intolerable whole
     world of hated labor, and I'll not forget it, my boy.

     You'll find reminders of things, all along, that happened to us, and
     of others that didn't happen; but you'll remember the spot where
     they were invented.  You will see how the imaginary perilous trip up
     the Riffelberg is preposterously expanded.  That horse-student is on
     page 192.  The "Fremersberg" is neighboring.  The Black Forest novel
     is on page 211.  I remember when and where we projected that: in the
     leafy glades with the mountain sublimities dozing in the blue haze
     beyond the gorge of Allerheiligen.  There's the "new member," page
     213; the dentist yarn, 223; the true Chamois, 242; at page 248 is a
     pretty long yarn, spun from a mighty brief text meeting, for a
     moment, that pretty girl who knew me and whom I had forgotten; at
     281 is "Harris," and should have been so entitled, but Bliss has
     made a mistake and turned you into some other character; 305 brings
     back the whole Rigi tramp to me at a glance; at 185 and 186 are
     specimens of my art; and the frontispiece is the combination which I
     made by pasting one familiar picture over the lower half of an
     equally familiar one.  This fine work being worthy of Titian, I have
     shed the credit of it upon him.  Well, you'll find more reminders of
     things scattered through here than are printed, or could have been
     printed, in many books.

     All the "legends of the Neckar," which I invented for that unstoried
     region, are here; one is in the Appendix.  The steel portrait of me
     is just about perfect.

     We had a mighty good.  time, Joe, and the six weeks I would dearly
     like to repeat any time; but the rest of the fourteen months-never.
     With love,
                                        Yours, MARK.

     Hartford, March 16, 1880.


Possibly Twichell had vague doubts concerning a book of which he was so
large a part, and its favorable reception by the critics and the public
generally was a great comfort.  When the Howells letter was read to him
he is reported as having sat with his hands on his knees, his head bent
forward--a favorite attitude--repeating at intervals:

"Howells said that, did he?  Old Howells said that!"

There have been many and varying opinions since then as to the literary
merits of 'A Tramp Abroad'.  Human tastes differ, and a "mixed" book of
this kind invites as many opinions as it has chapters.  The word "uneven"
pretty safely describes any book of size, but it has a special
application to this one.  Written under great stress and uncertainty of
mind, it could hardly be uniform.  It presents Mark Twain at his best,
and at his worst.  Almost any American writer was better than Mark Twain
at his worst: Mark Twain at his best was unapproachable.

It is inevitable that 'A Tramp Abroad' and 'The Innocents Abroad' should
be compared, though with hardly the warrant of similarity.  The books are
as different as was their author at the periods when they were written.
'A Tramp Abroad' is the work of a man who was traveling and observing for
the purpose of writing a book, and for no other reason.  The Innocents
Abroad was written by a man who was reveling in every scene and
experience, every new phase and prospect; whose soul was alive to every
historic association, and to every humor that a gay party of young sight-
seers could find along the way.  The note-books of that trip fairly glow
with the inspiration of it; those of the later wanderings are mainly
filled with brief, terse records, interspersed with satire and
denunciation.  In the 'Innocents' the writer is the enthusiast with a
sense of humor.  In the 'Tramp' he has still the sense of humor, but he
has become a cynic; restrained, but a cynic none the less.  In the
'Innocents' he laughs at delusions and fallacies--and enjoys them.  In
the 'Tramp' he laughs at human foibles and affectations--and wants to
smash them.  Very often he does not laugh heartily and sincerely at all,
but finds his humor in extravagant burlesque.  In later life his gentler
laughter, his old, untroubled enjoyment of human weakness, would return,
but just now he was in that middle period, when the "damned human race"
amused him indeed, though less tenderly.  (It seems proper to explain
that in applying this term to mankind he did not mean that the race was
foredoomed, but rather that it ought to be.)

Reading the 'Innocents', the conviction grows that, with all its faults,
it is literature from beginning to end.  Reading the 'Tramp', the
suspicion arises that, regardless of technical improvement, its
percentage of literature is not large.  Yet, as noted in an earlier
volume, so eminent a critic as Brander Matthews has pronounced in its
favor, and he undoubtedly had a numerous following; Howells expressed.
his delight in the book at the time of its issue, though one wonders how
far the personal element entered into his enjoyment, and what would be
his final decision if he read the two books side by side to-day.  He
reviewed 'A Tramp Abroad' adequately and finely in the Atlantic, and
justly; for on the whole it is a vastly entertaining book, and he did not
overpraise it.

'A Tramp Abroad' had an "Introduction" in the manuscript, a pleasant word
to the reader but not a necessary one, and eventually it was omitted.
Fortunately the appendix remained.  Beyond question it contains some of
the very best things in the book.  The descriptions of the German Portier
and the German newspaper are happy enough, and the essay on the awful
German language is one of Mark Twain's supreme bits of humor.  It is Mark
Twain at his best; Mark Twain in a field where he had no rival, the field
of good-natured, sincere fun-making-ridicule of the manifest absurdities
of some national custom or institution which the nation itself could
enjoy, while the individual suffered no wound.  The present Emperor of
Germany is said to find comfort in this essay on his national speech when
all other amusements fail.  It is delicious beyond words to express; it
is unique.

In the body of the book there are also many delights.  The description of
the ant might rank next to the German language almost in its humor, and
the meeting with the unrecognized girl at Lucerne has a lively charm.

Of the serious matter, some of the word-pictures are flawless in their
beauty; this, for instance, suggested by the view of the Jungfrau from
Interlaken:

     There was something subduing in the influence of that silent and
     solemn and awful presence; one seemed to meet the immutable, the
     indestructible, the eternal, face to face, and to feel the trivial
     and fleeting nature of his own existence the more sharply by the
     contrast.  One had the sense of being under the brooding
     contemplation of a spirit, not an inert mass of rocks and ice--a
     spirit which had looked down, through the slow drift of ages, upon a
     million vanished races of men and judged them; and would judge a
     million more--and still be there, watching unchanged and
     unchangeable, after all life should be gone and the earth have
     become a vacant desolation

     While I was feeling these things, I was groping, without knowing it,
     toward an understanding of what the spell is which people find in
     the Alps, and in no other mountains; that strange, deep, nameless
     influence which, once felt, cannot be forgotten; once felt, leaves
     always behind it a restless longing to feel it again--a longing
     which is like homesickness; a grieving, haunting yearning, which
     will plead, implore, and persecute till it has its will.  I met
     dozens of people, imaginative and unimaginative, cultivated and
     uncultivated, who had come from far countries and roamed through the
     Swiss Alps year after year--they could not explain why.  They had
     come first, they said, out of idle curiosity, because everybody
     talked about it; they had come since because they could not help it,
     and they should keep on coming, while they lived, for the same
     reason; they had tried to break their chains and stay away, but it
     was futile; now they had no desire to break them.  Others came
     nearer formulating what they felt; they said they could find perfect
     rest and peace nowhere else when they were troubled: all frets and
     worries and chafings sank to sleep in the presence of the benignant
     serenity of the Alps; the Great Spirit of the mountain breathed his
     own peace upon their hurt minds and sore hearts, and healed them;
     they could not think base thoughts or do mean and sordid things
     here, before the visible throne of God.

Indeed, all the serious matter in the book is good.  The reader's chief
regret is likely to be that there is not more of it.  The main difficulty
with the humor is that it seems overdone.  It is likely to be carried too
far, and continued too long.  The ascent of Riffelberg is an example.
Though spotted with delights it seems, to one reader at least, less
admirable than other of the book's important features, striking, as it
does, more emphatically the chief note of the book's humor--that is to
say, exaggeration.

Without doubt there must be many--very many--who agree in finding a
fuller enjoyment in 'A Tramp Abroad' than in the 'Innocents'; only, the
burden of the world's opinion lies the other way.  The world has a
weakness for its illusions: the splendor that falls on castle walls, the
glory of the hills at evening, the pathos of the days that are no more.
It answers to tenderness, even on the page of humor, and to genuine
enthusiasm, sharply sensing the lack of these things; instinctively
resenting, even when most amused by it, extravagance and burlesque.  The
Innocents Abroad is more soul-satisfying than its successor, more poetic;
more sentimental, if you will.  The Tramp contains better English usage,
without doubt, but it is less full of happiness and bloom and the halo of
romance.  The heart of the world has felt this, and has demanded the book
in fewer numbers.--[The sales of the Innocents during the earlier years
more than doubled those of the Tramp during a similar period.  The later
ratio of popularity is more nearly three to one.  It has been repeatedly
stated that in England the Tramp has the greater popularity, an assertion
not sustained by the publisher's accountings.]




CXXVII

LETTERS, TALES, AND PLANS

The reader has not failed to remark the great number of letters which
Samuel Clemens wrote to his friend William Dean Howells; yet
comparatively few can even be mentioned.  He was always writing to
Howells, on every subject under the sun; whatever came into his mind--
business, literature, personal affairs--he must write about it to
Howells.  Once, when nothing better occurred, he sent him a series of
telegrams, each a stanza from an old hymn, possibly thinking they might
carry comfort.--["Clemens had then and for many years the habit of
writing to me about what he was doing, and still more of what he was
experiencing.  Nothing struck his imagination, in or out of the daily
routine, but he wished to write me of it, and he wrote with the greatest
fullness and a lavish dramatization, sometimes to the length of twenty or
forty pages:" (My Mark Twain, by W.  D.  Howells.)]  Whatever of
picturesque happened in the household he immediately set it down for
Howells's entertainment.  Some of these domestic incidents carry the
flavor of his best humor.  Once he wrote:

     Last night, when I went to bed, Mrs. Clemens said, "George didn't
     take the cat down to the cellar; Rosa says he has left it shut up in
     the conservatory."  So I went down to attend to Abner (the cat).
     About three in the morning Mrs. C.  woke me and said, "I do believe
     I hear that cat in the drawing-room.  What did you do with him?"  I
     answered with the confidence of a man who has managed to do the
     right thing for once, and said, "I opened the conservatory doors,
     took the library off the alarm, and spread everything open, so that
     there wasn't any obstruction between him and the cellar."  Language
     wasn't capable of conveying this woman's disgust.  But the sense of
     what she said was, "He couldn't have done any harm in the
     conservatory; so you must go and make the entire house free to him
     and the burglars, imagining that he will prefer the coal-bins to the
     drawing-room.  If you had had Mr. Howells to help you I should have
     admired, but not have been astonished, because I should know that
     together you would be equal to it; but how you managed to contrive
     such a stately blunder all by yourself is what I cannot understand."

     So, you see, even she knows how to apprecaite our gifts....

     I knocked off during these stirring hours, and don't intend to go to
     work again till we go away for the summer, four or six weeks hence.
     So I am writing to you, not because I have anything to say, but
     because you don't have to answer and I need something to do this
     afternoon.

     The rightful earl has----

                    Friday, 7th.

     Well, never mind about the rightful earl; he merely wanted to-borrow
     money.  I never knew an American earl that didn't.

After a trip to Boston, during which Mrs. Clemens did some bric-a-brac
shopping, he wrote:

     Mrs. Clemens has two imperishable topics now: the museum of andirons
     which she collected and your dinner.  It is hard to tell which she
     admires the most.  Sometimes she leans one way and sometimes the
     other; but I lean pretty steadily toward the dinner because I can
     appreciate that, whereas I am no prophet in andirons.  There has
     been a procession of Adams Express wagons filing before the door all
     day delivering andirons.

In a more serious vein he refers to the aged violinist Ole Bull and his
wife, whom they had met during their visit, and their enjoyment of that
gentle-hearted pair.

Clemens did some shorter work that spring, most of which found its way
into the Atlantic.  "Edward Mills and George Benton," one of the
contributions of this time, is a moral sermon in its presentation of a
pitiful human spectacle and misdirected human zeal.

It brought a pack of letters of approval, not only from laity, but the
church, and in some measure may have helped to destroy the silly
sentimentalism which manifested itself in making heroes of spectacular
criminals.  That fashion has gone out, largely.  Mark Twain wrote
frequently on the subject, though never more effectively than in this
particular instance.  "Mrs. McWilliams and the Lightning" was another
Atlantic story, a companion piece to "Mrs. McWilliams's Experience with
the Membranous Croup," and in the same delightful vein--a vein in which
Mark Twain was likely to be at his best--the transcription of a scene not
so far removed in character from that in the "cat" letter just quoted:
something which may or may not have happened, but might have happened,
approximately as set down.  Rose Terry Cooke wrote:

     Horrid man, how did you know the way I behave in a thunderstorm?
     Have you been secreted in the closet or lurking on the shed roof?
     I hope you got thoroughly rained on; and worst of all is that you
     made me laugh at myself; my real terrors turned round and grimaced
     at me: they were sublime, and you have made them ridiculous just
     come out here another year and have four houses within a few rods of
     you struck and then see if you write an article of such exasperating
     levity.  I really hate you, but you are funny.

In addition to his own work, he conceived a plan for Orion.  Clemens
himself had been attempting, from time to time, an absolutely faithful
autobiography; a document in which his deeds and misdeeds, even his moods
and inmost thoughts, should be truly set down.  He had found it an
impossible task.  He confessed freely that he lacked the courage, even
the actual ability, to pen the words that would lay his soul bare, but he
believed Orion equal to the task.  He knew how rigidly honest he was, how
ready to confess his shortcomings, how eager to be employed at some
literary occupation.  It was Mark Twain's belief that if Orion would
record in detail his long, weary struggle, his succession of attempts and
failures, his past dreams and disappointments, along with his sins of
omission and commission, it would make one of those priceless human
documents such as have been left by Benvenuto Cellini, Cazenova, and
Rousseau.

"Simply tell your story to yourself," he wrote, "laying all hideousness
utterly bare, reserving nothing.  Banish the idea of the audience and all
hampering things."

Orion, out in Keokuk, had long since abandoned the chicken farm and a
variety of other enterprises.  He had prospected insurance, mining,
journalism, his old trade of printing, and had taken down and hung up his
law shingle between each of these seizures.  Aside from business, too, he
had been having a rather spectacular experience.  He had changed his
politics three times (twice in one day), and his religion as many more.
Once when he was delivering a political harangue in the street, at night,
a parade of the opposition (he had but just abandoned them) marched by
carrying certain flaming transparencies, which he himself had made for
them the day before.  Finally, after delivering a series of infidel
lectures; he had been excommunicated and condemned to eternal flames by
the Presbyterian Church.  He was therefore ripe for any new diversion,
and the Autobiography appealed to him.  He set about it with splendid
enthusiasm, wrote a hundred pages or so of his childhood with a startling
minutia of detail and frankness, and mailed them to his brother for
inspection.

They were all that Mark Twain had expected; more than he had expected.
He forwarded them to Howells with great satisfaction, suggesting, with
certain excisions, they be offered anonymously to the Atlantic readers.

But Howells's taste for realism had its limitations.  He found the story
interesting--indeed, torturingly, heart-wringingly so--and, advising
strongly against its publication, returned it.

Onion was steaming along at the rate of ten to twenty pages a day now,
forwarding them as fast as written, while his courage was good and the
fires warm.  Clemens, receiving a package by every morning mail, soon
lost interest, then developed a hunted feeling, becoming finally
desperate.  He wrote wildly to shut Orion off, urging him to let his
manuscript accumulate, and to send it in one large consignment at the
end.  This Orion did, and it is fair to say that in this instance at
least he stuck to his work faithfully to the bitter, disheartening end.
And it would have been all that Mark Twain had dreamed it would be, had
Orion maintained the simple narrative spirit of its early pages.  But he
drifted off into theological byways; into discussions of his
excommunication and infidelities, which were frank enough, but lacked
human interest.

In old age Mark Twain once referred to Orion's autobiography in print and
his own disappointment in it, which he attributed to Orion's having
departed from the idea of frank and unrestricted confession to exalt
himself as a hero-a statement altogether unwarranted, and due to one of
those curious confusions of memory and imagination that more than once
resulted in a complete reversal of the facts.  A quantity of Orion's
manuscript has been lost and destroyed, but enough fragments of it remain
to show its fidelity to the original plan.  It is just one long record of
fleeting hope, futile effort, and humiliation.  It is the story of a life
of disappointment; of a man who has been defeated and beaten down and
crushed by the world until he has nothing but confession left to
surrender.--[Howells, in his letter concerning the opening chapters,
said that they would some day make good material.  Fortunately the
earliest of these chapters were preserved, and, as the reader may
remember, furnished much of the childhood details for this biography.]

Whatever may have been Mark Twain's later impression of his brother's
manuscript, its story of failure and disappointment moved him to definite
action at the time.

Several years before, in Hartford, Orion had urged him to make his
publishing contracts on a basis of half profits, instead of on the
royalty plan.  Clemens, remembering this, had insisted on such an
arrangement for the publication of 'A Tramp Abroad', and when his first
statement came in he realized that the new contract was very largely to
his advantage.  He remembered Orion's anxiety in the matter, and made it
now a valid excuse for placing his brother on a firm financial footing.

Out of the suspicions which you bred in me years ago has grown this
result, to wit: that I shall within the twelve months get $40,000 out of
this Tramp, instead of $20,000.  $20,000, after taxes and other expenses
are stripped away, is worth to the investor about $75 a month, so I shall
tell Mr. Perkins [his lawyer and financial agent] to make your check that
amount per month hereafter....  This ends the loan business, and
hereafter you can reflect that you are living not on borrowed money, but
on money which you have squarely earned, and which has no taint or savor
of charity about it, and you can also reflect that the money which you
have been receiving of me is charged against the heavy bill which the
next publisher will have to stand who gets a book of mine.

From that time forward Orion Clemens was worth substantially twenty
thousand dollars--till the day of his death, and, after him, his widow.
Far better was it for him that the endowment be conferred in the form of
an income, than had the capital amount been placed in his hands.



CXXVIII

MARK TWAIN's ABSENT-MINDEDNESS

A number of amusing incidents have been more or less accurately reported
concerning Mark Twain's dim perception of certain physical surroundings,
and his vague resulting memories--his absent-mindedness, as we say.

It was not that he was inattentive--no man was ever less so if the
subject interested him--but only that the casual, incidental thing seemed
not to find a fixed place in his deeper consciousness.

By no means was Mark Twain's absent-mindedness a development of old age.
On the two occasions following he was in the very heyday of his mental
strength.  Especially was it, when he was engaged upon some absorbing or
difficult piece of literature, that his mind seemed to fold up and shut
most of the world away.  Soon after his return from Europe, when he was
still struggling with 'A Tramp Abroad', he wearily put the manuscript
aside, one day, and set out to invite F. G. Whitmore over for a game of
billiards.  Whitmore lived only a little way down the street, and Clemens
had been there time and again.  It was such a brief distance that he
started out in his slippers and with no hat.  But when he reached the
corner where the house, a stone's-throw away, was in plain view he
stopped.  He did not recognize it.  It was unchanged, but its outlines
had left no impress upon his mind.  He stood there uncertainly a little
while, then returned and got the coachman, Patrick McAleer, to show him
the way.

The second, and still more picturesque instance, belongs also to this
period.  One day, when he was playing billiards with Whitmore, George,
the butler, came up with a card.

"Who is he, George?" Clemens asked, without looking at the card.

"I don't know, suh, but he's a gentleman, Mr. Clemens."

"Now, George, how many times have I told you I don't want to see
strangers when I'm playing billiards!  This is just some book agent, or
insurance man, or somebody with something to sell.  I don't want to see
him, and I'm not going to."

"Oh, but this is a gentleman, I'm sure, Mr. Clemens.  Just look at his
card, suh."

"Yes, of course, I see--nice engraved card--but I don't know him, and if
it was St. Peter himself I wouldn't buy the key of salvation!  You tell
him so--tell him--oh, well, I suppose I've got to go and get rid of him
myself.  I'll be back in a minute, Whitmore."

He ran down the stairs, and as he got near the parlor door, which stood
open, he saw a man sitting on a couch with what seemed to be some framed
water-color pictures on the floor near his feet.

"Ah, ha!" he thought, "I see.  A picture agent.  I'll soon get rid of
him."

He went in with his best, "Well, what can I do for you?" air, which he,
as well as any man living, knew how to assume; a friendly air enough, but
not encouraging.  The gentleman rose and extended his hand.

"How are you, Mr. Clemens?" he said.

Of course this was the usual thing with men who had axes to grind or
goods to sell.  Clemens did not extend a very cordial hand.  He merely
raised a loose, indifferent hand--a discouraging hand.

"And how is Mrs. Clemens?" asked the uninvited guest.

So this was his game.  He would show an interest in the family and
ingratiate himself in that way; he would be asking after the children
next.

"Well--Mrs. Clemens is about as usual--I believe."

"And the children--Miss Susie and little Clara?"

This was a bit startling.  He knew their names!  Still, that was easy to
find out.  He was a smart agent, wonderfully smart.  He must be got rid
of.

"The children are well, quite well," and (pointing down at the pictures)-
-"We've got plenty like these.  We don't want any more.  No, we don't
care for any more," skilfully working his visitor toward the door as he
talked.

The man, looking non-plussed--a good deal puzzled--allowed himself to be
talked into the hall and toward the front door.  Here he paused a moment:

"Mr. Clemens, will you tell me where Mr. Charles Dudley Warner lives?"

This was the chance!  He would work him off on Charlie Warner.  Perhaps
Warner needed pictures.

"Oh, certainly, certainly!  Right across the yard.  I'll show you.
There's a walk right through.  You don't need to go around the front way
at all.  You'll find him at home, too, I'm pretty sure"; all the time
working his caller out and down the step and in the right direction.

The visitor again extended his hand.

"Please remember me to Mrs. Clemens and the children."

"Oh, certainly, certainly, with pleasure.  Good day.  Yes, that's the
house Good-by."

On the way back to the billiard-room Mrs. Clemens called to him.  She was
ill that day.

"Youth!"

"Yes, Livy."  He went in for a word.

"George brought me Mr. B----'s card.  I hope you were very nice to him;
the B----s were so nice to us, once last year, when you were gone.",

"The B----s--Why, Livy ----"

"Yes, of course, and I asked him to be sure to call when he came to
Hartford."

He gazed at her helplessly.

"Well, he's been here."

"Oh, Youth, have you done anything?"

"Yes, of course I have.  He seemed to have some pictures to sell, so I
sent him over to Warner's.  I noticed he didn't take them with him.  Land
sakes, Livy, what can I do?"

"Which way did he go, Youth?"

"Why, I sent him to Charlie Warner's.  I thought----"

"Go right after him.  Go quick!  Tell him what you have done."

He went without further delay, bareheaded and in his slippers, as usual.
Warner and B---- were in cheerful and friendly converse.  They had met
before.  Clemens entered gaily:

"Oh Yes, I see!  You found him all right.  Charlie, we met Mr. B---- and
his wife in Europe last summer and they made things pleasant for us.  I
wanted to come over here with him, but was a good deal occupied just
then.  Livy isn't very well, but she seems a good deal better, so I just
followed along to have a good talk, all together."

He stayed an hour, and whatever bad impression had formed in B----'s mind
faded long before the hour ended.  Returning home Clemens noticed the
pictures still on the parlor floor.

"George," he said, "what pictures are those that gentleman left?"

"Why, Mr. Clemens, those are our own pictures.  I've been straightening
up the room a little, and Mrs. Clemens had me set them around to see how
they would look in new places.  The gentleman was looking at them while
he was waiting for you to come down."




CXXIX

FURTHER AFFAIRS AT THE FARM

It was at Elmira, in July (1880), that the third little girl came--Jane
Lampton, for her grandmother, but always called Jean.  She was a large,
lovely baby, robust and happy.  When she had been with them a little more
than a month Clemens, writing to Twichell, said:

     DEAR OLD JOE,--Concerning Jean Clemens, if anybody said he "didn't
     see no pints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog," I
     should think he was convicting himself of being a pretty poor sort
     of observer.  She is the comeliest and daintiest and perfectest
     little creature the continents and archipelagos have seen since the
     Bay and Susy were her size.  I will not go into details; it is not
     necessary; you will soon be in Hartford, where I have already hired
     a hall; the admission fee will be but a trifle.

     It is curious to note the change in the stock-quotations of the
     Affection Board brought about by throwing this new security on the
     market.  Four weeks ago the children still put Mama at the head of
     the list right along, where she had always been.  But now:

                    Jean
                    Mama
                    Motley    |cats
                    Fraulein  |
                    Papa

     That is the way it stands now.  Mama is become No. 2; I have dropped
     from No. 4, and am become No. 5.  Some time ago it used to be nip
     and tuck between me and the cats, but after the cats "developed" I
     didn't stand any more show.

     Been reading Daniel Webster's Private Correspondence.  Have read a
     hundred of his diffuse, conceited, "eloquent," bathotic (or
     bathostic) letters, written in that dim (no, vanished) past, when he
     was a student.  And Lord!  to think that this boy, who is so real to
     me now, and so booming with fresh young blood and bountiful life,
     and sappy cynicisms about girls, has since climbed the Alps of fame
     and stood against the sun one brief, tremendous moment with the
     world's eyes on him, and then----fzt!  where is he?  Why, the only
     long thing, the only real thing about the whole shadowy business, is
     the sense of the lagging dull and hoary lapse of time that has
     drifted by since then; a vast, empty level, it seems, with a
     formless specter glimpsed fitfully through the smoke and mist that
     lie along its remote verge.

     Well, we are all getting along here first-rate.  Livy gains strength
     daily and sits up a deal; the baby is five weeks old and----But no
     more of this.  Somebody may be reading this letter eighty years
     hence.  And so, my friend (you pitying snob, I mean, who are holding
     this yellow paper in your hand in 1960), save yourself the trouble
     of looking further.  I know how pathetically trivial our small
     concerns would seem to you, and I will not let your eye profane
     them.  No, I keep my news; you keep your compassion.  Suffice it you
     to know, scoffer and ribald, that the little child is old and blind
     now, and once more tooth less; and the rest of us are shadows these
     many, many years. Yes, and your time cometh!
                                                            MARK.

It is the ageless story.  He too had written his youthful letters, and
later had climbed the Alps of fame and was still outlined against the
sun.  Happily, the little child was to evade that harsher penalty--the
unwarranted bitterness and affront of a lingering, palsied age.

Mrs. Clemens, in a letter somewhat later, set down a thought similar to
his:

"We are all going so fast.  Pretty soon we shall have been dead a hundred
years."

Clemens varied his work that summer, writing alternately on 'The Prince
and the Pauper' and on the story about 'Huck Finn', which he had begun
four years earlier.

He read the latter over and found in it a new interest.  It did not
fascinate him, as did the story of the wandering prince.  He persevered
only as the spirit moved him, piling up pages on both the tales.

He always took a boy's pride in the number of pages he could complete at
a sitting, and if the day had gone well he would count them triumphantly,
and, lighting a fresh cigar, would come tripping down the long stair that
led to the level of the farm-house, and, gathering his audience, would
read to them the result of his industry; that is to say, he proceeded
with the story of the Prince.  Apparently he had not yet acquired
confidence or pride enough in poor Huck to exhibit him, even to friends.

The reference (in the letter to Twichell) to the cats at the farm
introduces one of the most important features of that idyllic resort.
There were always cats at the farm.  Mark Twain himself dearly loved
cats, and the children inherited this passion.  Susy once said:

"The difference between papa and mama is, that mama loves morals and papa
loves cats."

The cats did not always remain the same, but some of the same ones
remained a good while, and were there from season to season, always
welcomed and adored.  They were commendable cats, with such names as
Fraulein, Blatherskite, Sour Mash, Stray Kit, Sin, and Satan, and when,
as happened now and then, a vacancy occurred in the cat census there
followed deep sorrow and elaborate ceremonies.

Naturally, there would be stories about cats: impromptu bedtime stories,
which began anywhere and ended nowhere, and continued indefinitely
through a land inhabited only by cats and dreams.  One of these stories,
as remembered and set down later, began:

     Once upon a time there was a noble, big cat whose christian name was
     Catasaqua, because she lived in that region; but she didn't have any
     surname, because she was a short-tailed cat, being a manx, and
     didn't need one.  It is very just and becoming in a long-tailed cat
     to have a surname, but it would be very ostentatious, and even
     dishonorable, in a manx.  Well, Catasaqua had a beautiful family of
     cattings; and they were of different colors, to harmonize with their
     characters.  Cattaraugus, the eldest, was white, and he had high
     impulses and a pure heart; Catiline, the youngest, was black, and he
     had a self-seeking nature, his motives were nearly always base, he
     was truculent and insincere.  He was vain and foolish, and often
     said that he would rather be what he was, and live like a bandit,
     yet have none above him, than be a cat-o'-nine-tails and eat with
     the king.

And so on without end, for the audience was asleep presently and the end
could wait.

There was less enthusiasm over dogs at Quarry Farm.

Mark Twain himself had no great love for the canine breed.  To a woman
who wrote, asking for his opinion on dogs, he said, in part:

     By what right has the dog come to be regarded as a "noble" animal?
     The more brutal and cruel and unjust you are to him the more your
     fawning and adoring slave he becomes; whereas, if you shamefully
     misuse a cat once she will always maintain a dignified reserve
     toward you afterward you can never get her full confidence again.

He was not harsh to dogs; occasionally he made friends with them.  There
was once at the farm a gentle hound, named Bones, that for some reason
even won his way into his affections.  Bones was always a welcome
companion, and when the end of summer came, and Clemens, as was his
habit, started down the drive ahead of the carriage, Bones, half-way to
the entrance, was waiting for him.  Clemens stooped down, put his arms
around him, and bade him an affectionate good-by.  He always recalled
Bones tenderly, and mentioned him in letters to the farm.




CXXX

COPYRIGHT AND OTHER FANCIES

The continued assault of Canadian pirates on his books kept Mark Twain's
interest sharply alive on the subject of copyright reform.  He invented
one scheme after another, but the public-mind was hazy on the subject,
and legislators were concerned with purposes that interested a larger
number of voters.  There were too few authors to be of much value at the
polls, and even of those few only a small percentage were vitally
concerned.  For the others, foreign publishers rarely paid them the
compliment of piracy, while at home the copyright limit of forty-two
years was about forty-two times as long as they needed protection.  Bliss
suggested a law making the selling of pirated books a penal offense, a
plan with a promising look, but which came to nothing.

Clemens wrote to his old friend Rollin M. Daggett, who by this time was a
Congressman.  Daggett replied that he would be glad to introduce any bill
that the authors might agree upon, and Clemens made at least one trip to
Washington to discuss the matter, but it came to nothing in the end.  It
was a Presidential year, and it would do just as well to keep the authors
quiet by promising to do something next year.  Any legislative stir is
never a good thing for a campaign.

Clemens's idea for copyright betterment was not a fixed one.  Somewhat
later, when an international treaty which would include protection for
authors was being discussed, his views had undergone a change.  He wrote,
asking Howells:

     Will the proposed treaty protect us (and effectually) against
     Canadian piracy?  Because, if it doesn't, there is not a single
     argument in favor of international copyright which a rational
     American Senate could entertain for a moment.  My notions have
     mightily changed lately.  I can buy Macaulay's History, three vols.;
     bound, for $1.25; Chambers's Cyclopaedia, ten vols., cloth, for
     $7.25 (we paid $60), and other English copyrights in proportion; I
     can buy a lot of the great copyright classics, in paper, at from
     three cents to thirty cents apiece.  These things must find their
     way into the very kitchens and hovels of the country.  A generation
     of this sort of thing ought to make this the most intelligent and
     the best-read nation in the world.  International copyright must
     becloud this sun and bring on the former darkness and dime novel
     reading.

     Morally this is all wrong; governmentally it is all right.  For it
     is the duty of governments and families to be selfish, and look out
     simply for their own.  International copyright would benefit a few
     English authors and a lot of American publishers, and be a profound
     detriment to twenty million Americans; it would benefit a dozen
     American authors a few dollars a year, and there an end.  The real
     advantages all go to English authors and American publishers.

     And even if the treaty will kill Canadian piracy, and thus save me
     an average of $5,000 a year, I'm down on it anyway, and I'd like
     cussed well to write an article opposing the treaty.

It is a characteristic expression.  Mark Twain might be first to grab for
the life-preserver, but he would also be first to hand it to a humanity
in greater need.  He could damn the human race competently, but in the
final reckoning it was the interest of that race that lay closest to his
heart.

Mention has been made in an earlier chapter of Clemens's enthusiasms or
"rages" for this thing and that which should benefit humankind.  He was
seldom entirely without them.  Whether it was copyright legislation, the
latest invention, or a new empiric practice, he rarely failed to have a
burning interest in some anodyne that would provide physical or mental
easement for his species.  Howells tells how once he was going to save
the human race with accordion letter-files--the system of order which
would grow out of this useful device being of such nerve and labor saving
proportions as to insure long life and happiness to all.  The fountain-
pen, in its first imperfect form, must have come along about the same
time, and Clemens was one of the very earliest authors to own one.  For a
while it seemed that the world had known no greater boon since the
invention of printing; but when it clogged and balked, or suddenly
deluged his paper and spilled in his pocket, he flung it to the outer
darkness.  After which, the stylo-graphic pen.  He tried one, and wrote
severally to Dr. Brown, to Howells, and to Twichell, urging its adoption.
Even in a letter to Mrs. Howells he could not forget his new possession:

     And speaking of Howells, he ought to use the stylographic pen, the
     best fountain-pen yet invented; he ought to, but of course he won't
     --a blamed old sodden-headed conservative--but you see yourself what
     a nice, clean, uniform MS. it makes.

And at the same time to Twichell:

     I am writing with a stylographic pen.  It takes a royal amount of
     cussing to make the thing go the first few days or a week, but by
     that time the dullest ass gets the hang of the thing, and after that
     no enrichments of expression are required, and said ass finds the
     stylographic a genuine God's blessing.  I carry one in each breeches
     pocket, and both loaded.  I'd give you one of them if I had you
     where I could teach you how to use it--not otherwise.  For the
     average ass flings the thing out of the window in disgust the second
     day, believing it hath no virtue, no merit of any sort; whereas the
     lack lieth in himself, God of his mercy damn him.

It was not easy to withstand Mark Twain's enthusiasm.  Howells, Twichell,
and Dr. Brown were all presently struggling and swearing (figuratively)
over their stylographic pens, trying to believe that salvation lay in
their conquest.  But in the midst of one letter, at last, Howells broke
down, seized his old steel weapon, and wrote savagely: "No white man
ought to use a stylographic pen, anyhow!"  Then, with the more ancient
implement, continued in a calmer spirit.

It was only a little later that Clemens himself wrote:

     You see I am trying a new pen.  I stood the stylograph as long as I
     could, and then retired to the pencil.  The thing I am trying now is
     that fountain-pen which is advertised to employ and accommodate
     itself to any kind of pen.  So I selected an ordinary gold pen--a
     limber one--and sent it to New York and had it cut and fitted to
     this thing.  It goes very well indeed--thus far; but doubtless the
     devil will be in it by tomorrow.

Mark Twain's schemes were not all in the line of human advancement; some
of them were projected, primarily at least, for diversion.  He was likely
at any moment to organize a club, a sort of private club, and at the time
of which we are writing he proposed what was called the "Modest" Club.
He wrote to Howells, about it:

     At present I am the only member, and as the modesty required must be
     of a quite aggravated type the enterprise did seem for a time doomed
     to stop dead still with myself, for lack of further material; but on
     reflection I have come to the conclusion that you are eligible.
     Therefore, I have held a meeting and voted to offer you the
     distinction of membership.  I do not know that we can find any
     others, though I have had some thought of Hay, Warner, Twichell,
     Aldrich, Osgood, Fields, Higginson, and a few more, together with
     Mrs. Howells, Mrs. Clemens, and certain others of the sex.  I have
     long felt there ought to be an organized gang of our kind.

He appends the by-laws, the main ones being:

     The object of the club shall be to eat and talk.

     Qualification for membership shall be aggravated modesty,
     unobtrusiveness, native humility, learning, talent, intelligence,
     unassailable character.

     There shall be no officers except a president, and any member who
     has anything to eat and talk about may constitute himself president
     for the time being.

     Any brother or sister of the order finding a brother or a sister in
     imminently deadly peril shall forsake his own concerns, no matter at
     what cost, and call the police.

     Any member knowing anything scandalous about himself shall
     immediately inform the club, so that they shall call a meeting and
     have the first chance to talk about it.

It was one of his whimsical fancies, and Howells replied that he would
like to join it, only that he was too modest--that is, too modest to
confess that he was modest enough for membership.

He added that he had sent a letter, with the rules, to Hay, but doubted
his modesty.  He said:

"He will think he has a right to belong as much as you or I."

Howells agreed that his own name might be put down, but the idea seems
never to have gone any further.  Perhaps the requirements of membership
were too severe.




CXXXI

WORKING FOR GARFIELD

Eighteen hundred and eighty was a Presidential year.  General Garfield
was nominated on the Republican ticket (against General Hancock), and
Clemens found him satisfactory.

Garfield suits me thoroughly and exactly [he wrote Howells].  I prefer
him to Grant's friends.  The Presidency can't add anything to Grant; he
will shine on without it.  It is ephemeral; he is eternal.

That was the year when the Republican party became panicky over the
disaffection in its ranks, due to the defeat of Grant in the convention,
and at last, by pleadings and promises, conciliated Platt and Conkling
and brought them into the field.  General Grant also was induced to save
the party from defeat, and made a personal tour of oratory for that
purpose.  He arrived in Hartford with his family on the 16th of October,
and while his reception was more or less partizan, it was a momentous
event.  A vast procession passed in review before him, and everywhere
houses and grounds were decorated.  To Mrs. Clemens, still in Elmira,
Clemens wrote:

     I found Mr. Beals hard at work in the rain with his decorations.
     With a ladder he had strung flags around our bedroom balcony, and
     thence around to the porte-cochere, which was elaborately flagged;
     thence the flags of all nations were suspended from a line which
     stretched past the greenhouse to the limit of our grounds.  Against
     each of the two trees on the mound, half-way down to our gate,
     stands a knight in complete armor.  Piles of still-bundled flags
     clutter up the ombra (to be put up), also gaudy shields of various
     shapes (arms of this and other countries), also some huge glittering
     arches and things done in gold and silver paper, containing mottoes
     in big letters.  I broke Mr. Beals's heart by persistently and
     inflexibly annulling and forbidding the biggest and gorgeousest of
     the arches--it had on it, in all the fires of the rainbow, "The Home
     of Mark Twain," in letters as big as your head.  Oh, we're going to
     be decorated sufficient, don't you worry about that, madam.

Clemens was one of those delegated to receive Grant and to make a speech
of welcome.  It was a short speech but an effective one, for it made
Grant laugh.  He began:

     "I am among those deputed to welcome you to the sincere and cordial
     hospitalities of Hartford, the city of the historic and revered
     Charter Oak, of which most of the town is built."  He seemed to be
     at loss what to say next, and, leaning over, pretended to whisper to
     Grant; then, as if he had obtained the information he wanted, he
     suddenly straightened up and poured out the old-fashioned eulogy on
     Grant's achievements, adding, in an aside, as he finished:

     "I nearly forgot that part of my speech," which evoked roars of
     laughter from the assembly and a grim smile from Grant.  He spoke of
     Grant as being out of public employment, with private opportunities
     closed against him, and added, "But your country will reward you,
     never fear."

Then he closed:

     When Wellington won Waterloo, a battle about on a level with any one
     of a dozen of your victories, sordid England tried to pay him for
     that service with wealth and grandeurs.  She made him a duke and
     gave him $4,000,000.  If you had done and suffered for any other
     country what you have done and suffered for your own you would have
     been affronted in the same sordid way.  But, thank God!  this vast
     and rich and mighty republic is imbued to the core with a delicacy
     which will forever preserve her from so degrading you.

     Your country loves you--your country's proud of you--your country is
     grateful to you.  Her applauses, which have been many, thundering in
     your ears all these weeks and months, will never cease while the
     flag you saved continues to wave.

     Your country stands ready from this day forth to testify her
     measureless love and pride and gratitude toward you in every
     conceivable--inexpensive way.  Welcome to Hartford, great soldier,
     honored statesman, unselfish citizen.

Grant's grim smile showed itself more than once during the speech, and
when Clemens reached the sentence that spoke of his country rewarding him
in "every conceivable--inexpensive way" his composure broke up completely
and he "nearly laughed his entire head off," according to later
testimony, while the spectators shouted their approval.

Grant's son, Col. Fred Grant,--[Maj.-Gen'l, U. S. Army, 1906.  Died
April, 1912.]--dined at the Clemens home that night, and Rev. Joseph
Twichell and Henry C.  Robinson.  Twichell's invitation was in the form
of a telegram.  It said:

     I want you to dine with us Saturday half past five and meet Col.
     Fred Grant.  No ceremony.  Wear the same shirt you always wear.

The campaign was at its height now, and on the evening of October 26th
there was a grand Republican rally at the opera-house with addresses by
Charles Dudley Warner, Henry C. Robinson, and Mark Twain.  It was an
unpleasant, drizzly evening, but the weather had no effect on their
audience.  The place was jammed and packed, the aisles, the windows, and
the gallery railings full.  Hundreds who came as late as the hour
announced for the opening were obliged to turn back, for the building had
been thronged long before.  Mark Twain's speech that night is still
remembered in Hartford as the greatest effort of his life.  It was hardly
that, except to those who were caught in the psychology of the moment,
the tumult and the shouting of patriotism, the surge and sweep of the
political tide.  The roaring delight of the audience showed that to them
at least it was convincing.  Howells wrote that he had read it twice, and
that he could not put it out of his mind.  Whatever its general effect
was need not now be considered.  Garfield was elected, and perhaps
Grant's visit to Hartford and the great mass-meeting that followed
contributed their mite to that result.

Clemens saw General Grant again that year, but not on political business.
The Educational Mission, which China had established in Hartford--a
thriving institution for eight years or more--was threatened now by
certain Chinese authorities with abolishment.  Yung Wing (a Yale
graduate), the official by whom it had been projected and under whose
management it had prospered, was deeply concerned, as was the Rev. Joseph
Twichell, whose interest in the mission was a large and personal one.
Yung Wing declared that if influence could be brought upon Li Hung Chang,
then the most influential of Chinese counselors, the mission might be
saved.  Twichell, remembering the great honors which Li Hung Chang had
paid to General Grant in China, also Grant's admiration of Mark Twain,
went to the latter without delay.  Necessarily Clemens would be
enthusiastic, and act promptly.  He wrote to Grant, and Grant replied by
telegraph, naming a day when he would see them in New York.

They met at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.  Grant was in fine spirits, and by no
means the "silent man" of his repute.

He launched at once into as free and flowing talk as I have ever heard
[says Twichell], marked by broad and intelligent views on the subject of
China, her wants, disadvantages, etc.  Now and then he asked a question,
but kept the lead of the conversation.  At last he proposed, of his own
accord, to write a letter to Li Hung Chang, advising the continuance of
the Mission, asking only that I would prepare him some notes, giving him
points to go by.  Thus we succeeded easily beyond our expectations,
thanks, very largely, to Clemens's assistance.

Clemens wrote Howells of the interview, detailing at some length
Twichell's comical mixture of delight and chagrin at not being given time
to air the fund of prepared statistics with which he had come loaded.
It was as if he had come to borrow a dollar and had been offered a
thousand before he could unfold his case.





CXXXII

A NEW PUBLISHER

It was near the end of the year that Clemens wrote to his mother:

     I have two stories, and by the verbal agreement they are both going
     into the same book; but Livy says they're not, and by George! she
     ought to know.  She says they're going into separate books, and that
     one of them is going to be elegantly gotten up, even if the elegance
     of it eats up the publisher's profits and mine too.

     I anticipate that publisher's melancholy surprise when he calls here
     Tuesday.  However, let him suffer; it is his own fault.  People who
     fix up agreements with me without first finding out what Livy's
     plans are take their fate into their own hands.

     I said two stories, but one of them is only half done; two or three
     months' work on it yet.  I shall tackle it Wednesday or Thursday;
     that is, if Livy yields and allows both stories to go in one book,
     which I hope she won't.

The reader may surmise that the finished story--the highly regarded
story--was 'The Prince and the Pauper'.  The other tale--the unfinished
and less considered one was 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn'.  Nobody
appears to have been especially concerned about Huck, except, possibly,
the publisher.

The publisher was not the American Company.  Elisha Bliss, after long ill
health, had died that fall, and this fact, in connection with a growing
dissatisfaction over the earlier contracts, had induced Clemens to listen
to offers from other makers of books.  The revelation made by the "half-
profit" returns from A Tramp Abroad meant to him, simply that the profits
had not been fairly apportioned, and he was accordingly hostile.  To
Orion he wrote that, had Bliss lived, he would have remained with the
company and made it reimburse him for his losses, but that as matters
stood he would sever the long connection.  It seemed a pity, later, that
he did this, but the break was bound to come.  Clemens was not a business
man, and Bliss was not a philanthropist.  He was, in fact, a shrewd,
capable publisher, who made as good a contract as he could; yet he was
square in his dealings, and the contract which Clemens held most bitterly
against him--that of 'Roughing It'--had been made in good faith and in
accordance with the conditions, of that period.  In most of the later
contracts Clemens himself had named his royalties, and it was not in
human nature--business human nature--for Bliss to encourage the size of
these percentages.  If one wished to draw a strictly moral conclusion
from the situation, one might say that it would have been better for the
American Publishing Company, knowing Mark Twain, voluntarily to have
allowed him half profits, which was the spirit of his old understanding
even if not the letter of it, rather than to have waited till he demanded
it and then to lose him by the result.  Perhaps that would be also a
proper business deduction; only, as a rule, business morals are regulated
by the contract, and the contract is regulated by the necessities and the
urgency of demand.

Never mind.  Mark Twain revised 'The Prince and the Pauper', sent it to
Howells, who approved of it mightily (though with reservations as to
certain chapters), and gave it to James R. Osgood, who was grateful and
agreed to make it into a book upon which no expense for illustration or
manufacture should be spared.  It was to be a sort of partnership
arrangement as between author and publisher, and large returns were
anticipated.

Among the many letters which Clemens was just then writing to Howells one
was dated "Xmas Eve."  It closes with the customary pleasantries and the
final line:

"But it is growing dark.  Merry Christmas to all of you!"

That last was a line of large significance.  It meant that the air was
filled with the whisper of hovering events and that he must mingle with
the mystery of preparation.  Christmas was an important season in the
Clemens home.  Almost the entire day before, Patrick was out with the
sleigh, delivering food and other gifts in baskets to the poor, and the
home preparations were no less busy.  There was always a tree--a large
one--and when all the gifts had been gathered in--when Elmira and
Fredonia had delivered their contributions, and Orion and his wife in
Keokuk had sent the annual sack of hickory-nuts (the big river-bottom
nuts, big as a silver dollar almost, such nuts as few children of this
later generation ever see) when all this happy revenue had been gathered,
and the dusk of Christmas Eve had hurried the children off to bed, it was
Mrs. Clemens who superintended the dressing of the tree, her husband
assisting, with a willingness that was greater than his skill, and with a
boy's anticipation in the surprise of it next morning.

Then followed the holidays, with parties and dances and charades, and
little plays, with the Warner and Twichell children.  To the Clemens home
the Christmas season brought all the old round of juvenile happiness--the
spirit of kindly giving, the brightness and the merrymaking, the gladness
and tenderness and mystery that belong to no other season, and have been
handed down through all the ages since shepherds watched on the plains of
Bethlehem.




CXXXIII

THE THREE FIRES--SOME BENEFACTIONS

The tradition that fires occur in groups of three was justified in the
Clemens household that winter. On each of three successive days flames
started that might have led to ghastly results.

The children were croupy, and one morning an alcohol lamp near little
Clara's bed, blown by the draught, set fire to the canopy.  Rosa, the
nurse, entered just as the blaze was well started.  She did not lose her
presence of mind,--[Rosa was not the kind to lose her head.  Once, in
Europe, when Bay had crept between the uprights of a high balustrade, and
was hanging out over destruction, Rosa, discovering her, did not scream
but spoke to her playfully and lifted her over into safety.]--but
snatched the little girl out of danger, then opened the window and threw
the burning bedding on the lawn.  The child was only slightly scorched,
but the escape was narrow enough.

Next day little Jean was lying asleep in her crib, in front of an open
wood fire, carefully protected by a firescreen, when a spark, by some
ingenuity, managed to get through the mesh of the screen and land on the
crib's lace covering.  Jean's nurse, Julia, arrived to find the lace a
gust of flame and the fire spreading.  She grabbed the sleeping Jean and
screamed.  Rosa, again at hand, heard the scream, and rushing in once
more opened a window and flung out the blazing bedclothes.  Clemens
himself also arrived, and together they stamped out the fire.

On the third morning, just before breakfast-time, Susy was practising at
the piano in the school-room, which adjoined the nursery.  At one end of
the room a fire of large logs was burning.  Susy was at the other end of
the room, her back to the fire.  A log burned in two and fell, scattering
coals around the woodwork which supported the mantel.  Just as the blaze
was getting fairly started a barber, waiting to trim Mr. Clemens's hair,
chanced to look in and saw what was going on.  He stepped into the
nursery bath-room, brought a pitcher of water and extinguished the
flames.  This period was always referred to in the Clemens household as
the "three days of fire."

Clemens would naturally make philosophical deductions from these
coincidental dangers and the manner in which they had been averted.  He
said that all these things were comprehended in the first act of the
first atom; that, but for some particular impulse given in that remote
time, the alcohol flame would not have blown against the canopy, the
spark would not have found its way through the screen, the log would not
have broken apart in that dangerous way, and that Rosa and Julia and the
barber would not have been at hand to save precious life and property.
He did not go further and draw moral conclusions as to the purpose of
these things: he never drew conclusions as to purpose.  He was willing to
rest with the event.  Logically he did not believe in reasons for things,
but only that things were.

Nevertheless, he was always trying to change them; to have a hand in
their improvement.  Had you asked him, he would have said that this, too,
was all in the primal atom; that his nature, such as it was, had been
minutely embodied there.

In that charming volume, 'My Mark Twain', Howells tells us of Clemens's
consideration, and even tenderness, for the negro race and his effort to
repair the wrong done by his nation.  Mark Twain's writings are full of
similar evidence, and in his daily life he never missed an opportunity to
pay tribute to the humbler race.  He would go across the street to speak
to an old negro, and to take his hand.  He would read for a negro church
when he would have refused a cathedral.  Howells mentions the colored
student whose way through college Clemens paid as a partial reparation
"due from every white man to every black man."--[Mark Twain paid two
colored students through college.  One of them, educated in a Southern
institution, became a minister of the gospel.  The other graduated from
the Yale Law School.]--This incident belongs just to the period of which
we are now writing, and there is another which, though different enough,
indicates the same tendency.

Garfield was about to be inaugurated, and it was rumored that Frederick
Douglass might lose his position as Marshal of the District of Columbia.
Clemens was continually besought by one and another to use his influence
with the Administration, and in every case had refused.  Douglass had
made no such, application.  Clemens, learning that the old negro's place
was in danger, interceded for him of his own accord.  He closed his
letter to General Garfield:

     A simple citizen may express a desire, with all propriety, in the
     matter of recommendation to office, and so I beg permission to hope
     that you will retain Mr. Douglass in his present office of Marshal
     of the District of Columbia, if such a course will not clash with
     your own preferences or with the expediencies and interests of your
     Administration.  I offer this petition with peculiar pleasure and
     strong desire, because I so honor this man's high and blemishless
     character, and so admire his brave, long crusade for the liberties
     and elevation of his race.

     He is a personal friend of mine, but that is nothing to the point;
     his history would move me to say these things without that, and I
     feel them, too.

Douglass wrote to Clemens, thanking him for his interest; at the end he
said:

     I think if a man is mean enough to want an office he ought to be
     noble enough to ask for it, and use all honorable means of getting
     it.  I mean to ask, and I will use your letter as a part of my
     petition.  It will put the President-elect in a good humor, in any
     case, and that is very important.

               With great respect,
                         Gratefully yours,
                                   FREDERICK DOUGLASS.


Mark Twain's benefactions were not all for the colored race.  One morning
in February of this same year, while the family were at late breakfast,
George came in to announce "a lady waiting to see Mr. Clemens in the
drawing-room."  Clemens growled.

"George," he said, "it's a book agent.  I won't see her.  I'll die, in my
tracks first."

He went, fuming and raging inwardly, and began at once to ask the nature
of the intruder's business.  Then he saw that she was very young and
modest, with none of the assurance of a canvasser, so he gave her a
chance to speak.  She told him that a young man employed in Pratt &
Whitney's machine-shops had made a statue in clay, and would like to have
Mark Twain come and look at it and see if it showed any promise of future
achievement.  His name, she said, was Karl Gerhardt, and he was her
husband.  Clemens protested that he knew nothing about art, but the young
woman's manner and appearance (she seemed scarcely more than a child) won
him.  He wavered, and finally promised that he would come the first
chance he had; that in fact he would come some time during the next week.
On her suggestion he agreed to come early in the week; he specified
Monday, "without fail."

When she was gone, and the door shut behind her, his usual remorse came
upon him.  He said to himself:

"Why didn't I go now?  Why didn't I go with her now?"

She went from Clemens's over to Warner's.  Warner also resisted, but,
tempted beyond his strength by her charm, laid down his work and went at
once.  When he returned he urged Clemens to go without fail, and, true to
promise, Clemens took Patrick, the coachman, and hunted up the place.
Clemens saw the statue, a seminude, for which the young wife had posed,
and was struck by its evident merit.  Mrs. Gerhardt told him the story of
her husband's struggles between his daily work and the effort to develop
his talent.  He had never had a lesson, she said; if he could only have
lessons what might he not accomplish?

Mrs. Clemens and Miss Spaulding called next day, and were equally carried
away with Karl Gerhardt, his young wife, and his effort to win his way in
art.  Clemens and Warner made up their minds to interest themselves
personally in the matter, and finally persuaded the painter J. Wells
Champney to come over from New York and go with them to the Gerhardts'
humble habitation, to see his work.  Champney approved of it.  He thought
it well worth while, he said, for the people of Hartford to go to the
expense of Gerhardt's art education.  He added that it would be better to
get the judgment of a sculptor.  So they brought over John Quincy Adams
Ward, who, like all the others, came away bewitched with these young
people and their struggles for the sake of art.  Ward said:

"If any stranger had told me that this 'prentice did not model that thing
from plaster-casts I should not have believed it.  It's full of
crudities, but it's full of genius, too.  Hartford must send him to Paris
for two years; then, if the promise holds good, keep him there three
more."

When he was gone Mrs. Clemens said:

"Youth, we won't wait for Hartford to do it.  It would take too long.
Let us send the Gerhardts to Paris ourselves, and say nothing about it to
any one else."

So the Gerhardts, provided with funds and an arrangement that would
enable them to live for five years in Paris if necessary, were started
across the sea without further delay.

Clemens and his wife were often doing something of this sort.  There was
seldom a time that they were not paying the way of some young man or
woman through college, or providing means and opportunity for development
in some special field of industry.




CXXXIV

LITERARY PROJECTS AND A MONUMENT TO ADAM

Mark Twain's literary work languished during this period.  He had a world
of plans, as usual, and wrote plentifully, but without direction or
conclusion.  "A Curious Experience," which relates a circumstance told to
him by an army officer, is about the most notable of the few completed
manuscripts of this period.

Of the books projected (there were several), a burlesque manual of
etiquette would seem to have been the most promising.  Howells had faith
in it, and of the still remaining fragments a few seem worth quoting:

                              AT BILLIARDS

     If your ball glides along in the intense and immediate vicinity of
     the object-ball, and a count seems exquisitely imminent, lift one
     leg; then one shoulder; then squirm your body around in sympathy
     with the direction of the moving ball; and at the instant when the
     ball seems on the point of colliding throw up both of your arms
     violently.  Your cue will probably break a chandelier, but no
     matter; you have done what you could to help the count.

                              AT THE DOG-FIGHT

     If it occur in your block, courteously give way to strangers
     desiring a view, particularly ladies.

     Avoid showing partiality toward the one dog, lest you hurt the
     feelings of the other one.

     Let your secret sympathies and your compassion be always with the
     under dog in the fight--this is magnanimity; but bet on the other
     one--this is business.

                              AT POKER

     If you draw to a flush and fail to fill, do not continue the
     conflict.

     If you hold a pair of trays, and your opponent is blind, and it
     costs you fifty to see him, let him remain unperceived.

     If you hold nothing but ace high, and by some means you know that
     the other man holds the rest of the aces, and he calls, excuse
     yourself; let him call again another time.

                              WALL STREET

     If you live in the country, buy at 80, sell at 40.  Avoid all forms
     of eccentricity.

                              IN THE RESTAURANT

     When you wish to get the waiter's attention, do not sing out "Say!"
     Simply say "Szt!"


His old abandoned notion of "Hamlet" with an added burlesque character
came back to him and stirred his enthusiasm anew, until even Howells
manifested deep interest in the matter.  One reflects how young Howells
must have been in those days; how full of the joy of existence; also how
mournfully he would consider such a sacrilege now.

Clemens proposed almost as many things to Howells as his brother Orion
proposed to him.  There was scarcely a letter that didn't contain some
new idea, with a request for advice or co-operation.  Now it was some
book that he meant to write some day, and again it would be a something
that he wanted Howells to write.

Once he urged Howells to make a play, or at least a novel, out of Orion.
At another time he suggested as material the "Rightful Earl of Durham."

He is a perfectly stunning literary bonanza, and must be dug up and put
on the market.  You must get his entire biography out of him and have it
ready for Osgood's magazine.  Even if it isn't worth printing, you must
have it anyway, and use it one of these days in one of your stories or in
a play.

It was this notion about 'The American Claimant' which somewhat later
would lead to a collaboration with Howells on a drama, and eventually to
a story of that title.

But Clemens's chief interest at this time lay in publishing, rather than
in writing.  His association with Osgood inspired him to devise new
ventures of profit.  He planned a 'Library of American Humor', which
Howells (soon to leave the Atlantic) and "Charley" Clark--[Charles
Hopkins Clark, managing editor of the Hartford Courant.]--were to edit,
and which Osgood would publish, for subscription sale.  Without realizing
it, Clemens was taking his first step toward becoming his own publisher.
His contract with Osgood for 'The Prince and the Pauper' made him
essentially that, for by the terms of it he agreed to supply all the
money for the making of the book, and to pay Osgood a royalty of seven
and one-half per cent. for selling it, reversing the usual conditions.
The contract for the Library of Humor was to be a similar one, though in
this case Osgood was to have a larger royalty return, and to share
proportionately in the expense and risk.  Mark Twain was entering into a
field where he did not belong; where in the end he would harvest only
disaster and regret.

One curious project came to an end in 1881--the plan for a monument to
Adam.  In a sketch written a great many years later Mark Twain tells of
the memorial which the Rev. Thomas K. Beecher and himself once proposed
to erect to our great common ancestor.  The story is based on a real
incident.  Clemens, in Elmira one day (it was October, 1879), heard of a
jesting proposal made by F. G. Hall to erect a monument in Elmira to
Adam.  The idea promptly caught Mark Twain's fancy.  He observed to
Beecher that the human race really showed a pretty poor regard for its
great progenitor, who was about to be deposed by Darwin's simian, not to
pay him the tribute of a single monument.  Mankind, he said, would
probably accept the monkey ancestor, and in time the very name of Adam
would be forgotten.  He declared Mr. Hall's suggestion to be a sound
idea.

Beecher agreed that there were many reasons why a monument should be
erected to Adam, and suggested that a subscription be started for the
purpose.  Certain business men, seeing an opportunity for advertising the
city, took the matter semi-seriously, and offered to contribute large
sums in the interest of the enterprise.  Then it was agreed that Congress
should be petitioned to sanction the idea exclusively to Elmira,
prohibiting the erection of any such memorial elsewhere.  A document to
this effect was prepared, headed by F. G. Hall, and signed by other
leading citizens of Elmira, including Beecher himself.  General Joe
Hawley came along just then on a political speech-making tour.  Clemens
introduced him, and Hawley, in turn, agreed to father the petition in
Congress.  What had begun merely as pleasantry began to have a formidable
look.

But alas! in the end Hawley's courage had failed him.  He began to hate
his undertaking.  He was afraid of the national laugh it would arouse,
the jeers of the newspapers.  It was certain to leak out that Mark Twain
was behind it, in spite of the fact that his name nowhere appeared; that
it was one of his colossal jokes.  Now and then, in the privacy of his
own room at night, Hawley would hunt up the Adam petition and read it and
feel the cold sweat breaking out.  He postponed the matter from one
session to another till the summer of 1881, when he was about to sail for
Europe.  Then he gave the document to his wife, to turn over to Clemens,
and ignominiously fled.

[For text of the petition in full, etc., see Appendix P, at the end of
last volume.]

Mark Twain's introduction of Hawley at Elmira contained this pleasantry:
"General Hawley was president of the Centennial Commission.  Was a
gallant soldier in the war.  He has been Governor of Connecticut, member
of Congress, and was president of the convention that nominated Abraham
Lincoln."

General Hawley: "That nominated Grant."

Twain: "He says it was Grant, but I know better.  He is a member of my
church at Hartford, and the author of 'Beautiful Snow.' Maybe he will
deny that.  But I am only here to give him a character from his last
place.  As a pure citizen, I respect him; as a personal friend of years,
I have the warmest regard for him; as a neighbor whose vegetable garden
joins mine, why--why, I watch him.  That's nothing; we all do that with
any neighbor.  General Hawley keeps his promises, not only in private,
but in public.  He is an editor who believes what he writes in his own
paper.  As the author of 'Beautiful Snow' he added a new pang to winter.
He is broad-souled, generous, noble, liberal, alive to his moral and
religious responsibilities.  Whenever the contribution-box was passed I
never knew him to take out a cent."




CXXXV

A TRIP WITH SHERMAN AND AN INTERVIEW WITH GRANT.

The Army of the Potomac gave a dinner in Hartford on the 8th of June,
1881.  But little memory remains of it now beyond Mark Twain's speech and
a bill of fare containing original comments, ascribed to various revered
authors, such as Johnson, Milton, and Carlyle.  A pleasant incident
followed, however, which Clemens himself used to relate.  General Sherman
attended the banquet, and Secretary of War, Robert Lincoln.  Next morning
Clemens and Twichell were leaving for West Point, where they were to
address the military students, guests on the same special train on which
Lincoln and Sherman had their private car.  This car was at the end of
the train, and when the two passengers reached the station, Sherman and
Lincoln were out on the rear platform addressing the multitude.  Clemens
and Twichell went in and, taking seats, waited for them.

As the speakers finished the train started, but they still remained
outside, bowing and waving to the assembled citizens, so that it was
under good headway before they came in.  Sherman came up to Clemens, who
sat smoking unconcernedly.

"Well," he said, "who told you you could go in this car?"

"Nobody," said Clemens.

"Do you expect to pay extra fare?" asked Sherman.

"No," said Clemens.  "I don't expect to pay any fare."

"Oh, you don't.  Then you'll work your way."

Sherman took off his coat and military hat and made Clemens put them on.

"Now," said he, "whenever the train stops you go out on the platform and
represent me and make a speech."

It was not long before the train stopped, and Clemens, according to
orders, stepped out on the rear platform and bowed to the crowd.  There
was a cheer at the sight of his military uniform.  Then the cheer waned,
became a murmur of uncertainty, followed by an undertone of discussion.
Presently somebody said:

"Say, that ain't Sherman, that's Mark Twain," which brought another
cheer.

Then Sherman had to come out too, and the result was that both spoke.
They kept this up at the different stations, and sometimes Lincoln came
out with them.  When there was time all three spoke, much to the
satisfaction of their audiences.

President Garfield was shot that summer--July 2, 1881.--[On the day that
President Garfield was shot Mrs. Clemens received from their friend
Reginald Cholmondeley a letter of condolence on the death of her husband
in Australia; startling enough, though in reality rather comforting than
otherwise, for the reason that the "Mark Twain" who had died in Australia
was a very persistent impostor.  Clemens wrote Cholmondeley: "Being dead
I might be excused from writing letters, but I am not that kind of a
corpse.  May I never be so dead as to neglect the hail of a friend from a
far land."  Out of this incident grew a feature of an anecdote related in
Following the Equator the joke played by the man from Bendigo.]--He died
September 19th, and Arthur came into power.  There was a great feeling of
uncertainty as to what he would do.  He was regarded as "an excellent
gentleman with a weakness for his friends."  Incumbents holding
appointive offices were in a state of dread.

Howells's father was consul at Toronto, and, believing his place to be in
danger, he appealed to his son.  In his book Howells tells how, in turn,
he appealed to Clemens, remembering his friendship with Grant and Grant's
friendship with Arthur.  He asked Clemens to write to Grant, but Clemens
would hear of nothing less than a call on the General, during which the
matter would be presented to him in person.  Howells relates how the
three of them lunched together, in a little room just out of the office,
on baked beans and coffee, brought in from some near-by restaurant:

     The baked beans and coffee were of about the railroad-refreshment
     quality; but eating them with Grant was like sitting down to baked
     beans and coffee with Julius Caesar, or Alexander, or some other
     great Plutarchan captain.

Clemens, also recalling the interview, once added some interesting
details:

"I asked Grant if he wouldn't write a word on a card which Howells could
carry to Washington and hand to the President.  But, as usual, General
Grant was his natural self--that is to say, ready and determined to do a
great deal more for you than you could possibly ask him to do.  He said
he was going to Washington in a couple of days to dine with the
President, and he would speak to him himself on the subject and make it a
personal matter.  Grant was in the humor to talk--he was always in a
humor to talk when no strangers were present--he forced us to stay and
take luncheon in a private room, and continued to talk all the time.  It
was baked beans, but how 'he sits and towers,' Howells said, quoting
Dame.  Grant remembered 'Squibob' Derby (John Phoenix) at West Point very
well.  He said that Derby was always drawing caricatures of the
professors and playing jokes on every body.  He told a thing which I had
heard before but had never seen in print.  A professor questioning a
class concerning certain particulars of a possible siege said, 'Suppose a
thousand men are besieging a fortress whose equipment of provisions is
so-and-so; it is a military axiom that at the end of forty-five days the
fort will surrender.  Now, young men, if any of you were in command of
such a fortress, how would you proceed?'

"Derby held up his hand in token that he had an answer for that question.
He said, 'I would march out, let the enemy in, and at the end of forty-
five days I would change places with him.'

"I tried hard, during that interview, to get General Grant to agree to
write his personal memoirs for publication, but he wouldn't listen to the
suggestion.  His inborn diffidence made him shrink from voluntarily
coming before the public and placing himself under criticism as an
author.  He had no confidence in his ability to write well; whereas we
all know now that he possessed an admirable literary gift and style.  He
was also sure that the book would have no sale, and of course that would
be a humility too.  I argued that the book would have an enormous sale,
and that out of my experience I could save him from making unwise
contracts with publishers, and would have the contract arranged in such a
way that they could not swindle him, but he said he had no necessity for
any addition to his income.  Of course he could not foresee that he was
camping on a volcano; that as Ward's partner he was a ruined man even
then, and of course I had no suspicion that in four years from that time
I would become his publisher.  He would not agree to write his memoirs.
He only said that some day he would make very full notes and leave them
behind him, and then if his children chose to make them into a book they
could do so.  We came away then.  He fulfilled his promise entirely
concerning Howells's father, who held his office until he resigned of his
own accord."




CXXXVI

"THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER"

During the summer absence alterations were made in the Hartford home,
with extensive decorations by Tiffany.  The work was not completed when
the family returned.  Clemens wrote to Charles Warren Stoddard, then in
the Sandwich Islands, that the place was full of carpenters and
decorators, whereas what they really needed was "an incendiary."

If the house would only burn down we would pack up the cubs and fly to
the isles of the blest, and shut ourselves up in the healing solitudes of
the crater of Haleakala and get a good rest, for the mails do not intrude
there, nor yet the telephone and the telegraph; and after resting we
would come down the mountain a piece and board with a godly, breech-
clouted native, and eat poi and dirt, and give thanks to whom all thanks
belong for these privileges, and never housekeep any more.

They had acquired more ground.  One morning in the spring Mark Twain had
looked out of his window just in time to see a man lift an ax to cut down
a tree on the lot which lay between his own and that of his neighbor.  He
had heard that a house was to be built there; altogether too close to him
for comfort and privacy.  Leaning out of the window he called sonorously,
"Woodman, spare that tree!"  Then he hurried down, obtained a stay of
proceedings, and without delay purchased the lot from the next-door
neighbor who owned it, acquiring thereby one hundred feet of extra ground
and a greenhouse which occupied it.  It was a costly purchase; the owner
knew he could demand his own price; he asked and received twelve thousand
dollars for the strip.

In November, Clemens found that he must make another trip to Canada.
'The Prince and the Pauper' was ready for issue, and to insure Canadian
copyright the author must cross the line in person.  He did not enjoy the
prospect of a cold-weather trip to the north, and tried to tempt Howells
to go with him, but only succeeded in persuading Osgood, who would do
anything or go anywhere that offered the opportunity for pleasant company
and junket.

It was by no means an unhappy fortnight.  Clemens took a note-book, and
there are plenty of items that give reality to that long-ago excursion.
He found the Canadian girls so pretty that he records it as a relief now
and then to see a plain one.  On another page he tells how one night in
the hotel a mouse gnawed and kept him awake, and how he got up and hunted
for it, hoping to destroy it.  He made a rebus picture for the children
of this incident in a letter home.

We get a glimpse just here of how he was constantly viewing himself as
literary material--human material--an example from which some literary
aspect or lesson may be drawn.  Following the mouse adventure we find it
thus dramatized:
     Trace Father Brebeuf all through this trip, and when I am in a rage
     and can't endure the mouse be reading of Brebeuf's marvelous
     endurances and be shamed.

     And finally, after chasing the bright-eyed rascal several days, and
     throwing things and trying to jump on him when in my overshoes, he
     darts away with those same bright eyes, then straightway I read
     Brebeuf's magnificent martyrdom, and turn in, subdued and wondering.
     By and by the thought occurs to me, Brebeuf, with his good, great
     heart would spare even that poor humble mousie--and for his sake so
     will I--I will throw the trap in the fire--jump out of bed, reach
     under, fetch out the trap, and find him throttled there and not two
     minutes dead.

They gave him a dinner in Montreal.  Louis Frechette, the Canadian poet,
was there and Clemens addressed him handsomely in the response he made to
the speech of welcome.  From that moment Frechette never ceased to adore
Mark Twain, and visited him soon after the return to Hartford.

'The Prince and the Pauper' was published in England, Canada, Germany,
and America early in December, 1881.  There had been no stint of money,
and it was an extremely handsome book.  The pen-and-ink drawings were
really charming, and they were lavish as to number.  It was an attractive
volume from every standpoint, and it was properly dedicated "To those
good-mannered and agreeable children, Susy and Clara Clemens."

The story itself was totally unlike anything that Mark Twain had done
before.  Enough of its plan and purpose has been given in former chapters
to make a synopsis of it unnecessary here.  The story of the wandering
prince and the pauper king--an impressive picture of ancient legal and
regal cruelty--is as fine and consistent a tale as exists in the realm of
pure romance.  Unlike its great successor, the 'Yankee at King Arthur's
Court', it never sacrifices the illusion to the burlesque, while through
it all there runs a delicate vein of humor.  Only here and there is there
the slightest disillusion, and this mainly in the use of some ultra-
modern phrase or word.

Mark Twain never did any better writing than some of the splendid scenes
in 'The Prince and the Pauper'.  The picture of Old London Bridge; the
scene in the vagabond's retreat, with its presentation to the little king
of the wrongs inflicted by the laws of his realm; the episode of the jail
where his revelation reaches a climax--these are but a few of the
splendid pictures which the chapters portray, while the spectacle of
England acquiring mercy at the hands of two children, a king and a
beggar, is one which only genius could create.  One might quote here, but
to do so without the context would be to sacrifice atmosphere, half the
story's charm.  How breathlessly interesting is the tale of it!  We may
imagine that first little audience at Mark Twain's fireside hanging
expectant on every paragraph, hungry always for more.  Of all Mark
Twain's longer works of fiction it is perhaps the most coherent as to
plot, the most carefully thought out, the most perfect as to workmanship.
This is not to say that it is his greatest story.  Probably time will not
give it that rank, but it comes near to being a perfectly constructed
story, and it has an imperishable charm.

It was well received, though not always understood by the public.  The
reviewer was so accustomed to looking for the joke in Mark Twain's work,
that he found it hard to estimate this new product.  Some even went so
far as to refer to it as one of Mark Twain's big jokes, meaning probably
that he had created a chapter in English history with no foundation
beyond his fancy.  Of course these things pained the author of the book.
At one time, he had been inclined to publish it anonymously, to avert
this sort of misunderstanding, and sometimes now he regretted not having
done so.

Yet there were many gratifying notices.  The New York Herald reviewer
gave the new book two columns of finely intelligent appreciation.  In
part he said:

     To those who have followed the career of Mark Twain, his appearance
     as the author of a charming and noble romance is really no more of a
     surprise than to see a stately structure risen upon sightly ground
     owned by an architect of genius, with the resources of abundant
     building material and ample training at command.  Of his capacity
     they have had no doubt, and they rejoice in his taking a step which
     they felt he was able to take.  Through all his publications may be
     traced the marks of the path which half led up to this happy height.
     His humor has often been the cloak, but not the mask, of a sturdy
     purpose.  His work has been characterized by a manly love of truth,
     a hatred of humbug, and a scorn for cant.  A genial warmth and
     whole-souledness, a beautiful fancy, a fertile imagination, and a
     native feeling for the picturesque and a fine eye for color have
     afforded the basis of a style which has become more and more plastic
     and finished.

And in closing:

     The characters of these two boys, twins in spirit, will rank with
     the purest and loveliest creations of child-life in the realm of
     fiction.




CXXXVII

CERTAIN ATTACKS AND REPRISALS

Beyond the publication of The Prince and the Pauper Clemens was sparingly
represented in print in '81.  A chapter originally intended for the book,
the "Whipping Boy's Story," he gave to the Bazaar Budget, a little
special-edition sheet printed in Hartford.  It was the story of the 'Bull
and the Bees' which he later adapted for use in Joan of Arc, the episode
in which Joan's father rides a bull to a funeral.  Howells found that it
interfered with the action in the story of the Prince, and we might have
spared it from the story of Joan, though hardly without regret.

The military story "A Curious Episode" was published in the Century
Magazine for November.  The fact that Clemens had heard, and not
invented, the story was set forth quite definitely and fully in his
opening paragraphs.  Nevertheless, a "Captious Reader" thought it
necessary to write to a New York publication concerning its origin:

     I am an admirer of the writings of Mr. Mark Twain, and consequently,
     when I saw the table of contents of the November number of the
     Century, I bought it and turned at once to the article bearing his
     name, and entitled, "A Curious Episode."  When I began to read it,
     it struck me as strangely familiar, and I soon recognized the story
     as a true one, told me in the summer of 1878 by an officer of the
     United States artillery.  Query: Did Mr. Twain expect the public to
     credit this narrative to his clever brain?

The editor, seeing a chance for Mark Twain "copy," forwarded a clipping
to Clemens and asked him if he had anything to say in the matter.
Clemens happened to know the editor very well, and he did have something
to say, not for print, but for the editor's private ear.

     The newspaper custom of shooting a man in the back and then calling
     upon him to come out in a card and prove that he was not engaged in
     any infamy at the time is a good enough custom for those who think
     it justifiable.  Your correspondent is not stupid, I judge, but
     purely and simply malicious.  He knew there was not the shadow of a
     suggestion, from the beginning to the end of "A Curious Episode,"
     that the story was an invention; he knew he had no warrant for
     trying to persuade the public that I had stolen the narrative and
     was endeavoring to palm it off as a piece of literary invention; he
     also knew that he was asking his closing question with a base
     motive, else he would have asked it of me by letter, not spread it
     before the public.

     I have never wronged you in any way, and I think you had no right to
     print that communication; no right, neither any excuse.  As to
     publicly answering that correspondent, I would as soon think of
     bandying words in public with any other prostitute.

The editor replied in a manly, frank acknowledgment of error.  He had not
looked up the article itself in the Century before printing the
communication.

     "Your letter has taught me a lesson," he said.  "The blame belongs
     to me for not hunting up the proofs.  Please accept my apology."

Mark Twain was likely to be peculiarly sensitive to printed innuendos.
Not always.  Sometimes he would only laugh at them or be wholly
indifferent.  Indeed, in his later years, he seldom cared to read
anything about himself, one way or the other, but at the time of which we
are now writing--the period of the early eighties--he was alive to any
comment of the press.  His strong sense of humor, and still stronger
sense of human weakness, caused him to overlook many things which another
might regard as an affront; but if the thing printed were merely an
uncalled-for slur, an inexcusable imputation, he was inclined to rage and
plan violence.  Sometimes he conceived retribution in the form of libel
suits with heavy damages.  Sometimes he wrote blasting answers, which
Mrs. Clemens would not let him print.

At one time he planned a biography of a certain editor who seemed to be
making a deliberate personal campaign against his happiness.  Clemens had
heard that offending items were being printed in this man's paper;
friends, reporting with customary exaggeration, declared that these
sneers and brutalities appeared almost daily, so often as to cause
general remark.

This was enough.  He promptly began to collect data--damaging data--
relating to that editor's past history.  He even set a man to work in
England collecting information concerning his victim.  One of his
notebooks contains the memoranda; a few items will show how terrific was
to be the onslaught.

     When the naturalist finds a new kind of animal, he writes him up in
     the interest of science.  No matter if it is an unpleasant animal.
     This is a new kind of animal, and in the cause of society must be
     written up.  He is the polecat of our species .  .  .  .  He is
     purely and simply a Guiteau with the courage left out .  .  .  .

     Steel portraits of him as a sort of idiot, from infancy up--to a
     dozen scattered through the book--all should resemble him.

But never mind the rest.  When he had got thoroughly interested in his
project Mrs. Clemens, who had allowed the cyclone to wear itself out a
little with its own vehemence, suggested that perhaps it would be well to
have some one make an examination of the files of the paper and see just
what had been said of him.  So he subscribed for the paper himself and
set a man to work on the back numbers.  We will let him tell the
conclusion of the matter himself, in his report of it to Howells:

     The result arrived from my New York man this morning.  Oh, what a
     pitiable wreck of high hopes!  The "almost daily" assaults for two
     months consist of (1) adverse criticism of P. & P.  from an enraged
     idiot in the London Athenaeum, (2) paragraphs from some indignant
     Englishman in the Pall Mall Gazette, who pays me the vast compliment
     of gravely rebuking some imaginary ass who has set me up in the
     neighborhood of Rabelais, (3) a remark about the Montreal dinner,
     touched with an almost invisible satire, and, (4) a remark about
     refusal of Canadian copyright, not complimentary, but not
     necessarily malicious; and of course adverse criticism which is not
     malicious is a thing which none but fools irritate themselves about.

     There, that is the prodigious bugaboo in its entirety!  Can you
     conceive of a man's getting himself into a sweat over so diminutive
     a provocation?  I am sure I can't.  What the devil can those friends
     of mine have been thinking about to spread those three or four
     harmless things out into two months of daily sneers and affronts?

     Boiled down, this vast outpouring of malice amounts to simply this:
     one jest (one can make nothing more serious than that out of it).
     One jest, and that is all; for foreign criticisms do not count, they
     being matters of news, and proper for publication in anybody's
     newspaper .  .  .  .

     Well, my mountain has brought forth its mouse, and a sufficiently
     small mouse it is, God knows.  And my three weeks' hard work has got
     to go into the ignominious pigeonhole.  Confound it, I could have
     earned ten thousand dollars with infinitely less trouble.

Howells refers to this episode, and concludes:

     So the paper was acquitted and the editor's life was spared.  The
     wretch never, never knew how near he was to losing it, with
     incredible preliminaries of obloquy, and a subsequent devotion to
     lasting infamy.




CXXXVIII

MANY UNDERTAKINGS

To write a detailed biography of Mark Twain at this period would be to
defy perusal.  Even to set down all the interesting matters, interesting
to the public of his time, would mean not only to exhaust the subject,
but the reader.  He lived at the top of his bent, and almost anything
relating to him was regarded as news.  Daily and hourly he mingled with
important matters or spoke concerning them.  A bare list of the
interesting events of Mark Twain's life would fill a large volume.

He was so busy, so deeply interested himself, so vitally alive to every
human aspect.  He read the papers through, and there was always enough to
arouse his indignation--the doings of the human race at large could be
relied upon to do that--and he would write, and write, to relieve
himself.  His mental Niagara was always pouring away, turning out
articles, essays, communications on every conceivable subject, mainly
with the idea of reform.  There were many public and private abuses, and
he wanted to correct them all.  He covered reams of paper with lurid
heresies--political, religious, civic--for most of which there was no
hope of publication.

Now and then he was allowed to speak out: An order from the Past-office
Department at Washington concerning the superscription of envelopes
seemed to him unwarranted.  He assailed it, and directly the nation was
being entertained by a controversy between Mark Twain and the Postmaster-
General's private secretary, who subsequently receded from the field.
At another time, on the matter of postage rates he wrote a paper which
began: "Reader, suppose you were an idiot.  And suppose you were a member
of Congress.  But I repeat myself."

It is hardly necessary to add that the paper did not appear.

On the whole, Clemens wrote his strictures more for relief than to print,
and such of these papers as are preserved to-day form a curious
collection of human documents.  Many of them could be printed to-day,
without distress to any one.  The conditions that invited them are
changed; the heresies are not heresies any more.  He may have had some
thought of their publication in later years, for once he wrote:

     Sometimes my feelings are so hot that I have to take the pen and put
     them out on paper to keep them from setting me afire inside; then
     all that ink and labor are wasted because I can't print the result.
     I have just finished an article of this kind, and it satisfies me
     entirely.  It does my weather-beaten soul good to read it, and
     admire the trouble it would make for me and the family.  I will
     leave it behind and utter it from the grave.  There is a free speech
     there, and no harm to the family.

It is too late and too soon to print most of these things; too late to
print them for their salutary influence, too soon to print them as
literature.

He was interested in everything: in music, as little as he knew of it.
He had an ear for melody, a dramatic vision, and the poetic conception of
sound.  Reading some lilting lyric, he could fancy the words marching to
melody, and would cast about among his friends for some one who could
supply a tuneful setting.  Once he wrote to his friend the Rev. Dr.
Parker, who was a skilled musician, urging him to write a score for
Tennyson's "Bugle Song," outlining an attractive scheme for it which the
order of his fancy had formulated.  Dr. Parker replied that the "Bugle
Song," often attempted, had been the despair of many musicians.

He was interested in business affairs.  Already, before the European
trip, he had embarked in, and disembarked from, a number of pecuniary
ventures.  He had not been satisfied with a strictly literary income.
The old tendency to speculative investment, acquired during those
restless mining days, always possessed him.  There were no silver mines
in the East, no holes in the ground into which to empty money and effort;
but there were plenty of equivalents--inventions, stock companies, and
the like.  He had begun by putting five thousand dollars into the
American Publishing Company; but that was a sound and profitable venture,
and deserves to be remembered for that reason.

Then a man came along with a patent steam generator which would save
ninety per cent. of the fuel energy, or some such amount, and Mark Twain
was early persuaded that it would revolutionize the steam manufactures of
the world; so he put in whatever bank surplus he had and bade it a
permanent good-by.

Following the steam generator came a steam pulley, a rather small
contrivance, but it succeeded in extracting thirty-two thousand dollars
from his bank account in a period of sixteen months.

By the time he had accumulated a fresh balance, a new method of marine
telegraphy was shown him, so he used it up on that, twenty-five thousand
dollars being the price of this adventure.

A watch company in western New York was ready to sell him a block of
shares by the time he was prepared to experiment again, but it did not
quite live to declare the first dividend on his investment.

Senator John P.  Jones invited him to join in the organization of an
accident insurance company, and such was Jones's confidence in the
venture that he guaranteed Clemens against loss.  Mark Twain's only
profit from this source was in the delivery of a delicious speech, which
he made at a dinner given to Cornelius Walford, of London, an insurance
author of repute.  Jones was paying back the money presently, and about
that time came a young inventor named Graham Bell, offering stock in a
contrivance for carrying the human voice on an electric wire.  At almost
any other time Clemens would eagerly have welcomed this opportunity; but
he was so gratified at having got his money out of the insurance venture
that he refused to respond to the happy "hello" call of fortune.  In some
memoranda made thirty years later he said:

I declined.  I said I didn't want anything more to do with wildcat
speculation.  Then he [Bell] offered the stock to me at twenty-five.  I
said I didn't want it at any price.  He became eager; insisted that I
take five hundred dollars' worth.  He said he would sell me as much as I
wanted for five hundred dollars; offered to let me gather it up in my
hands and measure it in a plug hat; said I could have a whole hatful for
five hundred dollars.  But I was the burnt child, and I resisted all
these temptations-resisted them easily; went off with my check intact,
and next day lent five thousand of it, on an unendorsed note, to a friend
who was going to go bankrupt three days later.

About the end of the year I put up a telephone wire from my house down to
the Courant office, the only telephone wire in town, and the first one
that was ever used in a private house in the world.

That had been only a little while before he sailed for Europe.  When he
returned he would have been willing to accept a very trifling interest in
the telephone industry for the amount of his insurance salvage.

He had a fresh interest in patents now, and when his old friend Dan Slote
got hold of a new process for engraving--the kaolatype or "chalk-plate"
process--which was going to revolutionize the world of illustration, he
promptly acquired a third interest, and eventually was satisfied with
nothing short of control.  It was an ingenious process: a sheet of
perfectly smooth steel was coated with a preparation of kaolin (or china
clay), and a picture was engraved through the coating down to the steel
surface.  This formed the matrix into which the molten metal was poured
to make the stereotype plate, or die, for printing.  It was Clemens's
notion that he could utilize this process for the casting of brass dies
for stamping book covers--that, so applied, the fortunes to be made out
of it would be larger and more numerous.  Howells tells how, at one time,
Clemens thought the "damned human race" was almost to be redeemed by a
process of founding brass without air-bubbles in it.  This was the time
referred to and the race had to go unredeemed; for, after long, worried,
costly experimenting, the brass refused to accommodate its nature to the
new idea, while the chalk plate itself, with all its subsidiary and
auxiliary possibilities, was infringed upon right and left, and the
protecting patent failed to hold.  The process was doomed, in any case.
It was barely established before the photographic etching processes,
superior in all ways, were developed and came quickly into use.  The
kaolatype enterprise struggled nobly for a considerable period.  Clemens
brought his niece's husband, young Charles L. Webster, from Fredonia to
manage it for him, and backed it liberally.  Webster was vigorous, hard-
working, and capable; but the end of each month showed a deficit, until
Clemens was from forty to fifty thousand dollars out of pocket in his
effort to save the race with chalk and brass.  The history of these
several ventures (and there were others), dismissed here in a few
paragraphs, would alone make a volume not without interest, certainly not
without humor.  Following came the type-setting machine, but we are not
ready for that.  Of necessity it is a longer, costlier story.

Mrs. Clemens did not share his enthusiasm in these various enterprises.
She did not oppose them, at least not strenuously, but she did not
encourage them.  She did not see their need.  Their home was beautiful;
they were happy; he could do his work in deliberation and comfort.  She
knew the value of money better than he, cared more for it in her own way;
but she had not his desire to heap up vast and sudden sums, to revel in
torrential golden showers.  She was willing to let well enough alone.
Clemens could not do this, and suffered accordingly.  In the midst of
fair home surroundings and honors we find him writing to his mother:

     Life has come to be a very serious matter with me.  I have a
     badgered, harassed feeling a good part of my time.  It comes mainly
     from business responsibilities and annoyances.

He had no moral right to be connected with business at all.  He had a
large perception of business opportunity, but no vision of its
requirements--its difficulties and details.  He was the soul of honor,
but in anything resembling practical direction he was but a child.
During any period of business venture he was likely to be in hot water:
eagerly excited, worried, impatient; alternately suspicious and over-
trusting, rash, frenzied, and altogether upset.

Yet never, even to the end of his days, would he permanently lose faith
in speculative ventures.  Human traits are sometimes modified, but never
eliminated.  The man who is born to be a victim of misplaced confidence
will continue to be one so long as he lives and there are men willing to
victimize him.  The man who believes in himself as an investor will
uphold that faith against all disaster so long as he draws breath and has
money to back his judgments.




CXXXIX

FINANCIAL AND LITERARY

By a statement made on the 1st of January, 1882, of Mark Twain's
disbursements for the preceding year, it is shown that considerably more
than one hundred thousand dollars had been expended during that twelve
months.  It is a large sum for an author to pay out in one year.  It
would cramp most authors to do it, and it was not the best financing,
even for Mark Twain.  It required all that the books could earn, all the
income from the various securities, and a fair sum from their principal.
There is a good deal of biography in the statement.  Of the amount
expended forty-six thousand dollars represented investments; but of this
comfortable sum less than five thousand dollars would cover the
legitimate purchases; the rest had gone in the "ventures" from whose
bourne no dollar would ever return.  Also, a large sum had been spent for
the additional land and for improvements on the home--somewhat more than
thirty thousand dollars altogether--while the home life had become more
lavish, the establishment had grown each year to a larger scale, the
guests and entertainments had become more and, more numerous, until the
actual household expenditure required about as much as the books and
securities could earn.

It was with the increased scale of living that Clemens had become
especially eager for some source of commercial profit; something that
would yield a return, not in paltry thousands, but hundreds of thousands.
Like Colonel Sellers, he must have something with "millions in it."
Almost any proposition that seemed to offer these possible millions
appealed to him, and in his imagination he saw the golden freshet pouring
in.

His natural taste was for a simple, inexpensive life; yet in his large
hospitality, and in a certain boyish love of grandeur, he gloried in the
splendor of his entertainment, the admiration and delight of his guests.
There were always guests; they were coming and going constantly.  Clemens
used to say that he proposed to establish a bus line between their house
and the station for the accommodation of his company.  He had the
Southern hospitality.  Much company appealed to a very large element in
his strangely compounded nature.  For the better portion of the year he
was willing to pay the price of it, whether in money or in endurance, and
Mrs. Clemens heroically did her part.  She loved these things also, in
her own way.  She took pride in them, and realized that they were a part
of his vast success.  Yet in her heart she often longed for the simpler
life--above all, for the farm life at Elmira.  Her spirit cried out for
the rest and comfort there.  In one of her letters she says:
     The house has been full of company, and I have been "whirled
     around."  How can a body help it?  Oh, I cannot help sighing for the
     peace and quiet of the farm.  This is my work, and I know that I do
     very wrong when I feel chafed by it, but how can I be right about
     it?  Sometimes it seems as if the simple sight of people would drive
     me mad.  I am all wrong; if I would simply accept the fact that this
     is my work and let other things go, I know I should not be so
     fretted; but I want so much to do other things, to study and do
     things with the children, and I cannot.

     I have the best French teacher that I ever had, and if I could give
     any time to it I could not help learning French.

When we reflect on the conditions, we are inclined to say how much better
it would have been to have remained there among the hills in that quiet,
inexpensive environment, to have let the world go.  But that was not
possible.  The game was of far larger proportions than any that could be
restricted to the limits of retirement and the simpler round of life.
Mark Twain's realm had become too large for his court to be established
in a cottage.

It is hard to understand that in spite of a towering fame Mark Twain was
still not regarded by certain American arbiters of reputations as a
literary fixture; his work was not yet recognized by them as being of
important meaning and serious purport.

In Boston, at that time still the Athens of America, he was enjoyed,
delighted in; but he was not honored as being quite one of the elect.
Howells tells us that:

     In proportion as people thought themselves refined they questioned
     that quality which all recognize in him now, but which was then the
     inspired knowledge of the simple-hearted multitude.

Even at the Atlantic dinners his place was "below the salt"--a place of
honor, but not of the greatest honor.  He did not sit on the dais with
Emerson, Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Howells, and Aldrich.  We of a
later period, who remember him always as the center of every board--the
one supreme figure, his splendid head and crown of silver hair the target
of every eye-find it hard to realize the Cambridge conservatism that clad
him figuratively always in motley, and seated him lower than the throne
itself.

Howells clearly resented this condition, and from random review corners
had ventured heresy.  Now in 1882 he seems to have determined to declare
himself, in a large, free way, concerning his own personal estimate of
Mark Twain.  He prepared for the Century Magazine a biographical
appreciation, in which he served notice to the world that Mark Twain's
work, considered even as literature, was of very considerable importance
indeed.  Whether or not Howells then realized the "inspired knowledge of
the multitude," and that most of the nation outside of the counties of
Suffolk and Essex already recognized his claim, is not material.  Very
likely he did; but he also realized the mental dusk of the cultured
uninspired and his prerogative to enlighten them.  His Century article
was a kind of manifesto, a declaration of independence, no longer
confined to the obscurities of certain book notices, where of course one
might be expected to stretch friendly favor a little for a popular
Atlantic contributor.  In the open field of the Century Magazine Howells
ventured to declare:

     Mark Twain's humor is as simple in form and as direct as the
     statesmanship of Lincoln or the generalship of Grant.

     When I think how purely and wholly American it is I am a little
     puzzled at its universal acceptance .  .  .  .  Why, in fine, should
     an English chief-justice keep Mark Twain's books always at hand?
     Why should Darwin have gone to them for rest and refreshment at
     midnight, when spent with scientific research?

     I suppose that Mark Twain transcends all other American humorists in
     the universal qualities.  He deals very little with the pathetic,
     which he nevertheless knows very well how to manage, as he has
     shown, notably in the true story of the old slave-mother; but there
     is a poetic lift in his work, even when he permits you to recognize
     it only as something satirized.  There is always the touch of
     nature, the presence of a sincere and frank manliness in what he
     says, the companionship of a spirit which is at once delightfully
     open and deliciously shrewd.  Elsewhere I have tried to persuade the
     reader that his humor is, at its best, the foamy break of the strong
     tide of earnestness in him.  But it would be limiting him unjustly
     to describe him as a satirist, and it is hardly practicable to
     establish him in people's minds as a moralist; he has made them
     laugh too long; they will not believe him serious; they think some
     joke is always intended.  This is the penalty, as Dr. Holmes has
     pointed out, of making one's first success as a humorist.  There was
     a paper of Mark Twain's printed in the Atlantic Monthly some years
     ago and called, "The Facts Concerning the Late Carnival of Crime in
     Connecticut," which ought to have won popular recognition of the
     ethical intelligence underlying his humor.  It was, of course,
     funny; but under the fun it was an impassioned study of the human
     conscience.  Hawthorne or Bunyan might have been proud to imagine
     that powerful allegory, which had a grotesque force far beyond
     either of them....  Yet it quite failed of the response I had hoped
     for it, and I shall not insist here upon Mark Twain as a moralist;
     though I warn the reader that if he leaves out of the account an
     indignant sense of right and wrong, a scorn of all affectations and
     pretense, an ardent hate of meanness and injustice, he will come
     infinitely short of knowing Mark Twain.

Howells realized the unwisdom and weakness of dogmatic insistence, and
the strength of understatement.  To him Mark Twain was already the
moralist, the philosopher, and the statesman; he was willing that the
reader should take his time to realize these things.  The article, with
his subject's portrait as a frontispiece, appeared in the Century for
September, 1882.  If it carried no new message to many of its readers, it
at least set the stamp of official approval upon what they had already
established in their hearts.




CXL

DOWN THE RIVER

Osgood was doing no great things with The Prince and the Pauper, but
Clemens gave him another book presently, a collection of sketches--The
Stolen White Elephant.  It was not an especially important volume, though
some of the features, such as "Mrs. McWilliams and the Lightning" and the
"Carnival of Crime," are among the best of their sort, while the
"Elephant" story is an amazingly good take-off on what might be called
the spectacular detective.  The interview between Inspector Blunt and the
owner of the elephant is typical.  The inspector asks:

     "Now what does this elephant eat, and how much?"

     "Well, as to what he eats--he will eat anything.  He will eat a man,
     he will eat a Bible; he will eat anything between a man and a
     Bible."

     "Good-very good, indeed, but too general.  Details are necessary;
     details are the only valuable thing in our trade.  Very well, as to
     men.  At one meal--or, if you prefer, during one day--how many men
     will he eat if fresh?"

     "He would not care whether they were fresh or not; at a single meal
     he would eat five ordinary men."

     "Very good; five men.  We will put that down.  What nationalities
     would he prefer?"

     "He is indifferent about nationalities.  He prefers acquaintances,
     but is not prejudiced against strangers."

     "Very good.  Now, as to Bibles.  How many Bibles would he eat at a
     meal?"

     "He would eat an entire edition."

Clemens and Osgood had a more important publishing enterprise on hand.
The long-deferred completion of the Mississippi book was to be
accomplished; the long-deferred trip down the river was to be taken.
Howells was going abroad, but the charming Osgood was willing to make the
excursion, and a young man named Roswell Phelps, of Hartford, was engaged
as a stenographer to take the notes.

Clemens made a farewell trip to Boston to see Howells before his
departure, and together they went to Concord to call on Emerson; a
fortunate thing, for he lived but a few weeks longer.  They went again in
the evening, not to see him, but to stand reverently outside and look at
his house.  This was in April.  Longfellow had died in March.  The fact
that Howells was going away indefinitely, made them reminiscent and sad.

Just what breach Clemens committed during this visit is not remembered
now, and it does not matter; but his letter to Howells, after his return
to Hartford, makes it pretty clear that it was memorable enough at the
time.  Half-way in it he breaks out:

     But oh, hell, there is no hope for a person that is built like me,
     because there is no cure, no cure.

     If I could only know when I have committed a crime: then I could
     conceal it, and not go stupidly dribbling it out, circumstance by
     circumstance, into the ears of a person who will give no sign till
     the confession is complete; and then the sudden damnation drops on a
     body like the released pile-driver, and he finds himself in the
     earth down to his chin.  When he merely supposed he was being
     entertaining.

Next day he was off with Osgood and the stenographer for St. Louis, where
they took the steamer Gold Dust down the river.  He intended to travel
under an assumed name, but was promptly recognized, both at the Southern
Hotel and on the boat.  In 'Life on the Mississippi' he has given us the
atmosphere of his trip, with his new impressions of old scenes; also his
first interview with the pilot, whom he did not remember, but who easily
remembered him.

"I did not write that story in the book quite as it happened," he
reflected once, many years later.  "We went on board at night.  Next
morning I was up bright and early and out on deck to see if I could
recognize any of the old landmarks.  I could not remember any.  I did not
know where we were at all.  It was a new river to me entirely.  I climbed
up in the pilot-house and there was a fellow of about forty at the wheel.
I said 'Good morning.' He answered pleasantly enough.  His face was
entirely strange to me.  Then I sat down on the high seat back of the
wheel and looked out at the river and began to ask a few questions, such
as a landsman would ask.  He began, in the old way, to fill me up with
the old lies, and I enjoyed letting him do it.  Then suddenly he turned
round to me and said:

"'I want to get a cup of coffee.  You hold her, will you, till I come
back?'  And before I could say a word he was out of the pilot-house door
and down the steps.  It all came so suddenly that I sprang to the wheel,
of course, as I would have done twenty years before.  Then in a moment I
realized my position.  Here I was with a great big steamboat in the
middle of the Mississippi River, without any further knowledge than that
fact, and the pilot out of sight.  I settled my mind on three
conclusions: first, that the pilot might be a lunatic; second, that he
had recognized me and thought I knew the river; third, that we were in a
perfectly safe place, where I could not possibly kill the steamboat.  But
that last conclusion, though the most comforting, was an extremely
doubtful one.  I knew perfectly well that no sane pilot would trust his
steamboat for a single moment in the hands of a greenhorn unless he were
standing by the greenhorn's side.  Of course, by force of habit, when I
grabbed the wheel, I had taken the steering marks ahead and astern, and I
made up my mind to hold her on those marks to the hair; but I could feel
myself getting old and gray.  Then all at once I recognized where we
were; we were in what is called the Grand Chain--a succession of hidden
rocks, one of the most dangerous places on the river.  There were two
rocks there only about seventy feet apart, and you've got to go exactly
between them or wreck the boat.  There was a time when I could have done
it without a tremor, but that time wasn't now.  I would have given any
reasonable sum to have been on the shore just at that moment.  I think I
was about ready to drop dead when I heard a step on the pilothouse stair;
then the door opened and the pilot came in, quietly picking his teeth,
and took the wheel, and I crawled weakly back to the seat.  He said:

"'You thought you were playing a nice joke on me, didn't you?  You
thought I didn't know who you were.  Why, I recognized that drawl of
yours as soon as you opened your mouth.'

"I said, 'Who the h--l are you?  I don't remember you.'

"'Well,'  he said, 'perhaps you don't, but I was a cub pilot on the
river before the war, when you were a licensed pilot, and I couldn't get
a license when I was qualified for one, because the Pilots' Association
was so strong at that time that they could keep new pilots out if they
wanted to, and the law was that I had to be examined by two licensed
pilots, and for a good while I could not get any one to make that
examination.  But one day you and another pilot offered to do it, and you
put me through a good, healthy examination and indorsed my application
for a license.  I had never seen you before, and I have never seen you
since until now, but I recognized you.'

"'All right,' I said.  'But if I had gone half a mile farther with that
steamboat we might have all been at the bottom of the river.'

"We got to be good friends, of course, and I spent most of my time up
there with him.  When we got down below Cairo, and there was a big, full
river--for it was highwater season and there was no danger of the boat
hitting anything so long as she kept in the river--I had her most of the
time on his watch.  He would lie down and sleep, and leave me there to
dream that the years had not slipped away; that there had been no war, no
mining days, no literary adventures; that I was still a pilot, happy and
care-free as I had been twenty years before."

From the book we gather that he could not keep out of the pilot-house.
He was likely to get up at any hour of the night to stand his watch, and
truly enough the years had slipped away.  He was the young fellow in his
twenties again, speculating on the problems of existence and reading his
fortune in the stars.  To heighten the illusion, he had himself called
regularly with the four-o'clock watch, in order not to miss the mornings.
--[It will repay the reader to turn to chap.  xxx of Life on the
Mississippi, and consider Mark Twain's word-picture of the river
sunrise.]

The majesty and solitude of the river impressed him more than ever
before, especially its solitude.  It had been so full of life in his
time; now it had returned once more to its primal loneliness--the
loneliness of God.

At one place two steamboats were in sight at once an unusual spectacle.
Once, in the mouth of a river, he noticed a small boat, which he made out
to be the Mark Twain.  There had been varied changes in twenty-one years;
only the old fascination of piloting remained unchanged.  To Bixby
afterward he wrote:

"I'd rather be a pilot than anything else I've ever done in my life.  How
do you run Plum Point?"

He met Bixby at New Orleans.  Bixby was captain now on a splendid new
Anchor Line steamboat, the City of Baton Rouge.  The Anchor Line steamers
were the acme of Mississippi River steamboat-building, and they were
about the end of it.  They were imposingly magnificent, but they were
only as gorgeous clouds that marked the sunset of Mississippi steamboat
travel.  Mark Twain made his trip down the river just in time.

In New Orleans he met George W. Cable and Joel Chandler Harris, and they
had a fraternizing good time together, mousing about the old French
Quarter or mingling with the social life of the modern city.  He made a
trip with Bixby in a tug to the Warmouth plantation, and they reviewed
old days together, as friends parted for twenty-one years will.
Altogether the New Orleans sojourn was a pleasant one, saddened only by a
newspaper notice of the death, in Edinburgh, of the kindly and gentle and
beloved Dr. Brown.

Clemens arranged to make the trip up the river on the Baton Rouge.  Bixby
had one pretty inefficient pilot, and stood most of the watches himself,
so that with "Sam Clemens" in the pilot-house with him, it was
wonderfully like those old first days of learning the river, back in the
fifties.

"Sam was ever making notes in his memorandum-book, just as he always
did," said Bixby to the writer, recalling the time.  "I was sorry I had
to stay at the wheel so much.  I wanted to have more time with Sam
without thinking of the river at all.  Sam was sorry, too, from what he
wrote after he got home."

Bixby produced a letter in the familiar handwriting.  It was a tender,
heart-spoken letter:

     I didn't see half enough of you.  It was a sore disappointment.
     Osgood could have told you, if he would--discreet old dog--I
     expected to have you with me all the time.  Altogether, the most
     pleasant part of my visit with you was after we arrived in St.
     Louis, and you were your old natural self again.  Twenty years have
     not added a month to your age or taken a fraction from your
     loveliness.

Said Bixby: "When we arrived in St. Louis we came to the Planters' Hotel;
to this very table where you and I are sitting now, and we had a couple
of hot Scotches between us, just as we have now, and we had a good last
talk over old times and old acquaintances.  After he returned to New York
he sent for my picture.  He wanted to use it in his book."

At St. Louis the travelers changed boats, and proceeded up the
Mississippi toward St. Paul.  Clemens laid off three days at Hannibal.

Delightful days [he wrote home].  Loitering around all day long,
examining the old localities, and talking with the gray heads who were
boys and girls with me thirty or forty years ago.  I spent my nights with
John and Helen Garth, three miles from town, in their spacious and
beautiful house.  They were children with me, and afterward schoolmates.
That world which I knew in its blooming youth is old and bowed and
melancholy now; its soft cheeks are leathery and withered, the fire has
gone out of its eyes, the spring from its step.  It will be dust and
ashes when I come again.

He had never seen the far upper river, and he found it very satisfying.
His note-book says:

     The bluffs all along up above St. Paul are exquisitely beautiful
     where the rough and broken turreted rocks stand up against the sky
     above the steep, verdant slopes.  They are inexpressibly rich and
     mellow in color; soft dark browns mingled with dull greens--the very
     tints to make an artist worship.

In a final entry he wrote:

The romance of boating is gone now.  In Hannibal the steamboat man is no
longer the god.




CXLI

LITERATURE AND PHILOSOPHY

Clemens took a further step toward becoming a publisher on his own
account.  Not only did he contract to supply funds for the Mississippi
book, but, as kaolatype, the chalk-engraving process, which had been
lingeringly and expensively dying, was now become merely something to
swear at, he had his niece's husband, Webster, installed as Osgood's New
York subscription manager, with charge of the general agencies.  There
was no delay in this move.  Webster must get well familiarized with the
work before the Mississippi book's publication.

He had expected to have the manuscript finished pretty promptly, but the
fact that he had promised it for a certain time paralyzed his effort.
Even at the farm he worked without making much headway.  At the end of
October he wrote Howells:

     The weather turned cold, and we had to rush home, while I still
     lacked thirty thousand words.  I had been sick and got delayed.  I
     am going to write all day and two-thirds of the night until the
     thing is done or break down at it.  The spur and burden of the
     contract are intolerable to me.  I can endure the irritation of it
     no longer.  I went to work at nine o'clock yesterday morning and
     went to bed an hour after midnight.  Result of the day (mainly
     stolen from books though credit given), 9,500 words, so I reduced my
     burden by one-third in one day.  It was five days' work in one.  I
     have nothing more to borrow or steal; the rest must all be written.
     It is ten days' work and unless something breaks it will be finished
     in five.

He had sworn once, when he had finally finished 'A Tramp Abroad', that he
would never limit himself as to time again.  But he had forgotten that
vow, and was suffering accordingly.

Howells wrote from London urging him to drop everything and come over to
Europe for refreshment.

     We have seen lots of nice people, and have been most pleasantly made
     of; but I would rather have you smoke in my face and talk for half a
     day, just for pleasure, than to go to the best house or club in
     London.

Clemens answered:

     Yes, it would be more profitable to me to do that because, with your
     society to help me, I should swiftly finish this now apparently
     interminable book.  But I cannot come, because I am not boss here,
     and nothing but dynamite can move Mrs. Clemens away from home in the
     winter season.

This was in November, and he had broken all restrictions as to time.  He
declared that he had never had such a fight over any book before, and
that he had told Osgood and everybody concerned that they must wait.

     I have said with sufficient positiveness that I will finish the book
     at no particular date; that I will not hurry it; that I will not
     hurry myself; that I will take things easy and comfortably--write
     when I choose to write, leave it alone when I do so prefer .  .  .
     I have got everything at a dead standstill, and that is where it
     ought to be, and that is where it must remain; to follow any other
     policy would be to make the book worse than it already is.  I ought
     to have finished it before showing it to anybody, and then sent it
     across the ocean to you to be edited, as usual; for you seem to be a
     great many shades happier than you deserve to be, and if I had
     thought of this thing earlier I would have acted upon it and taken
     the tuck somewhat out of your joyousness.

It was a long, heartfelt letter.  Near the end of it he said:

     Cable has been here, creating worshipers on all hands.  He is a
     marvelous talker on a deep subject.  I do not see how even Spencer
     could unwind a thought more smoothly or orderly, and do it in
     cleaner, clearer, crisper English.  He astounded Twichell with his
     faculty.  You know that when it comes down to moral honesty, limpid
     innocence, and utterly blemishless piety, the apostles were mere
     policemen to Cable; so with this in mind you must imagine him at a
     midnight dinner in Boston the other night, where we gathered around
     the board of the Summerset Club: Osgood full, Boyle O'Reilly full,
     Fairchild responsively loaded, and Aldrich and myself possessing the
     floor and properly fortified.  Cable told Mrs. Clemens, when he
     returned here, that he seemed to have been entertaining himself with
     horses, and had a dreamy idea that he must have gone to Boston in a
     cattle-car.  It was a very large time.  He called it an orgy.  And
     no doubt it was, viewed from his standpoint.

Osgood wanted Mark Twain to lecture that fall, as preliminary advertising
for the book, with "Life on the Mississippi" as his subject.  Osgood was
careful to make this proposition by mail, and probably it was just as
well; for if there was any single straw that could have broken the back
of Clemens's endurance and made him violent at this particular time, it
was a proposition to go back on the platform.  His answer to Osgood has
not been preserved.

Clemens spoke little that winter.  In February he addressed the Monday
Evening Club on "What is Happiness?" presenting a theory which in later
years he developed as a part of his "gospel," and promulgated in a
privately printed volume, 'What is Man'?  It is the postulate already
mentioned in connection with his reading of Lecky, that every human
action, bad or good, is the result of a selfish impulse; that is to say,
the result of a desire for the greater content of spirit.  It is not a
new idea; philosophers in all ages have considered it, and accepted or
rejected it, according to their temperament and teachings, but it was
startling and apparently new to the Monday Evening Club.  They scoffed
and jeered at it; denounced it as a manifest falsity.  They did not quite
see then that there may be two sorts of selfishness--brutal and divine;
that he who sacrifices others to himself exemplifies the first, whereas
he who sacrifices himself for others personifies the second--the divine
contenting of his soul by serving the happiness of his fellow-men.  Mark
Twain left this admonition in furtherance of that better sort:

"Diligently train your ideals upward, and still upward, toward a summit
where you will find your chiefest pleasure, in conduct which, while
contenting you, will be sure to confer benefits upon your neighbor and
the community."

It is a divine admonition, even if, in its suggested moral freedom, it
does seem to conflict with that other theorythe inevitable sequence of
cause and effect, descending from the primal atom.  There is seeming
irrelevance in introducing this matter here; but it has a chronological
relation, and it presents a mental aspect of the time.  Clemens was
forty-eight, and becoming more and more the philosopher; also, in logic
at least, a good deal of a pessimist.  He made a birthday aphorism on the
subject:

"The man who is a pessimist before he is forty-eight knows too much; the
man who is an optimist after he is forty-eight knows too little."

He was never more than a pessimist in theory at any time.  In practice he
would be a visionary; a builder of dreams and fortunes, a veritable
Colonel Sellers to the end of his days.




CXLII

"LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI"

The Mississippi book was completed at last and placed in Osgood's hands
for publication.  Clemens was immensely fond of Osgood.  Osgood would
come down to Hartford and spend days discussing plans and playing
billiards, which to Mark Twain's mind was the proper way to conduct
business.  Besides, there was Webster, who by this time, or a very little
later, had the word "publisher" printed in his letter-heads, and was
truly that, so far as the new book was concerned.  Osgood had become
little more than its manufacturer, shipping-agent, and accountant.  It
should be added that he made the book well, though somewhat expensively.
He was unaccustomed to getting out big subscription volumes.  His taste
ran to the artistic, expensive product.

"That book cost me fifty thousand dollars to make," Clemens once
declared.  "Bliss could have built a whole library, for that sum.  But
Osgood was a lovely fellow."

Life on the Mississippi was issued about the middle of May.  It was a
handsome book of its kind and a successful book, but not immediately a
profitable one, because of the manner of its issue.  It was experimental,
and experiments are likely to be costly, even when successful in the
final result.

Among other things, it pronounced the final doom of kaolatype.  The
artists who drew the pictures for it declined to draw them if they were
to be reproduced by that process, or indeed unless some one of the lately
discovered photographic processes was used.  Furthermore, the latter were
much cheaper, and it was to the advantage of Clemens himself to repudiate
kaolatype, even for his own work.

Webster was ordered to wind up the last ends of the engraving business
with as little sacrifice as possible, and attend entirely to more
profitable affairs--viz., the distribution of books.

As literature, the Mississippi book will rank with Mark Twain's best--so
far, at least, as the first twenty chapters of it are concerned.  Earlier
in this history these have been sufficiently commented upon.  They
constitute a literary memorial seemingly as enduring as the river itself.

Concerning the remaining chapters of the book, they are also literature,
but of a different class.  The difference is about the same as that
between 'A Tramp Abroad' and the 'Innocents'.  It is the difference
between the labors of love and duty; between art and industry, literature
and journalism.

But the last is hardly fair.  It is journalism, but it is literary
journalism, and there are unquestionably areas that are purely literary,
and not journalistic at all.  There would always be those in any book of
travel he might write.  The story of the river revisited is an
interesting theme; and if the revisiting had been done, let us say eight
or ten years earlier, before he had become a theoretical pessimist, and
before the river itself had become a background for pessimism, the tale
might have had more of the literary glamour and illusion, even if less
that is otherwise valuable.

'Life on the Mississippi' has been always popular in Germany.  The
Emperor William of Germany once assured Mark Twain that it was his
favorite American book, and on the same evening the portier of the
author's lodging in Berlin echoed the Emperor's opinion.

Paul Lindau, a distinguished German author and critic, in an interview at
the time the Mississippi book appeared, spoke of the general delight of
his countrymen in its author.  When he was asked, "But have not the
Germans been offended by Mark Twain's strictures on their customs and
language in his Tramp Abroadf" he replied, "We know what we are and how
we look, and the fanciful picture presented to our eyes gives us only
food for laughter, not cause for resentment.  The jokes he made on our
long words, our inverted sentences, and the position of the verb have
really led to a reform in style which will end in making our language as
compact and crisp as the French or English.  I regard Mark Twain as the
foremost humorist of the age."

Howells, traveling through Europe, found Lindau's final sentiment echoed
elsewhere, and he found something more: in Europe Mark Twain was already
highly regarded as a serious writer.  Thomas Hardy said to Howells one
night at dinner:

"Why don't people understand that Mark Twain is not merely a great
humorist?  He is a very remarkable fellow in a very different way."

The Rev. Dr. Parker, returning from England just then, declared that,
wherever he went among literary people, the talk was about Mark Twain;
also that on two occasions, when he had ventured diffidently to say that
he knew that author personally, he was at once so evidently regarded as
lying for effect that he felt guilty, and looked it, and did not venture
to say it any more; thus, in a manner, practising untruth to save his
reputation for veracity.

That the Mississippi book throughout did much to solidify this foreign
opinion of Mark Twain's literary importance cannot be doubted, and it is
one of his books that will live longest in the memory of men.




CXLIII

A GUEST OF ROYALTY

For purposes of copyright another trip to Canada was necessary, and when
the newspapers announced (May, 1883) that Mark Twain was about to cross
the border there came one morning the following telegram:

     Meeting of Literary and Scientific Society at Ottawa from 22d to
     26th.  It would give me much pleasure if you could come and be my
     guest during that time.

                                                  LORNE.


The Marquis of Lorne, then Governor-General of Canada, was the husband of
Queen Victoria's daughter, the Princess Louise.  The invitation was
therefore in the nature of a command.  Clemens obeyed it graciously
enough, and with a feeling of exaltation no doubt.  He had been honored
by the noble and the great in many lands, but this was royalty--English
royalty--paying a tribute to an American writer whom neither the Marquis
nor the Princess, his wife, had ever seen.  They had invited him because
they had cared enough for his books to make them wish to see him, to have
him as a guest in Rideau Hall, their home.  Mark Twain was democratic.
A king to him was no more than any other man; rather less if he were not
a good king.  But there was something national in this tribute; and,
besides, Lord Lorne and the Princess Louise were the kind of sovereigns
that honored their rank, instead of being honored by it.

It is a good deal like a fairy tale when you think of it; the barefooted
boy of Hannibal, who had become a printer, a pilot, a rough-handed miner,
being summoned, not so many years later, by royalty as one of America's
foremost men of letters.  The honor was no greater than many others he
had received, certainly not greater than the calls of Canon Kingsley and
Robert Browning and Turgenieff at his London hotel lodgings, but it was
of a less usual kind.

Clemens enjoyed his visit.  Princess Louise and the Marquis of Lorne kept
him with them almost continually, and were loath to let him go.  Once
they took him tobogganing--an exciting experience.

It happened that during his stay with them the opening of the Canadian
Parliament took place.  Lord Lorne and the principal dignitaries of state
entered one carriage, and in a carriage behind them followed Princess
Louise with Mark Twain.  As they approached the Parliament House the
customary salute was fired.  Clemens pretended to the Princess
considerable gratification.  The temptation was too strong to resist:

     "Your Highness," he said, "I have had other compliments paid to me,
     but none equal to this one.  I have never before had a salute fired
     in my honor."

Returning to Hartford, he sent copies of his books to Lord Lorne, and to
the Princess a special copy of that absurd manual, The New Guide of the
Conversation in Portuguese and English, for which he had written an
introduction.--[A serious work, in Portugal, though issued by Osgood
('83) as a joke.  Clemens in the introduction says: "Its delicious,
unconscious ridiculousness and its enchanting naivety are as supreme and
unapproachable in their way as Shakespeare's sublimities."  An extract,
the closing paragraph from the book's preface, will illustrate his
meaning:

"We expect then, who the little book (for the care that we wrote him, and
for her typographical correction), that maybe worth the acceptation of
the studious persons, and especially of the Youth, at which we dedicate
him particularly."]




CXLIV

A SUMMER LITERARY HARVEST

Arriving at the farm in June, Clemens had a fresh crop of ideas for
stories of many lengths and varieties.  His note-book of that time is
full of motifs and plots, most of them of that improbable and extravagant
kind which tended to defeat any literary purpose, whether humorous or
otherwise.  It seems worth while setting down one or more of these here,
for they are characteristic of the myriad conceptions that came and went,
and beyond these written memoranda left no trace behind.  Here is a fair
example of many:

     Two men starving on a raft.  The pauper has a Boston cracker,
     resolves to keep it till the multimillionaire is beginning to
     starve, then make him pay $50,000 for it.  Millionaire agrees.
     Pauper's cupidity rises, resolves to wait and get more; twenty-four
     hours later asks him a million for the cracker.  Millionaire agrees.
     Pauper has a wild dream of becoming enormously rich off his cracker;
     backs down; lies all night building castles in the air; next day
     raises his price higher and higher, till millionaire has offered
     $100,000,000, every cent he has in the world.  Pauper accepts.
     Millionaire: "Now give it to me."

     Pauper: "No; it isn't a trade until you sign documental history of
     the transaction and make an oath to pay."

     While pauper is finishing the document millionaire sees a ship.
     When pauper says, "Sign and take the cracker," millionaire smiles a
     smile, declines, and points to the ship.

Yet this is hardly more extravagant than another idea that is mentioned
repeatedly among the notes--that of an otherwise penniless man wandering
about London with a single million-pound bank-note in his possession, a
motif which developed into a very good story indeed.


                 IDEA FOR "STORMFIELD'S VISIT TO HEAVEN"

     In modern times the halls of heaven are warmed by registers
     connected with hell; and this is greatly applauded by Jonathan
     Edwards, Calvin, Baxter and Company, because it adds a new pang to
     the sinner's sufferings to know that the very fire which tortures
     him is the means of making the righteous comfortable.

Then there was to be another story, in which the various characters were
to have a weird, pestilential nomenclature; such as "Lockjaw Harris,"
"Influenza Smith," "Sinapism Davis," and a dozen or two more, a perfect
outbreak of disorders.

Another--probably the inspiration of some very hot afternoon--was to
present life in the interior of an iceberg, where a colony would live for
a generation or two, drifting about in a vast circular current year after
year, subsisting on polar bears and other Arctic game.

An idea which he followed out and completed was the 1002d Arabian Night,
in which Scheherazade continues her stories, until she finally talks the
Sultan to death.  That was a humorous idea, certainly; but when Howells
came home and read it in the usual way he declared that, while the
opening was killingly funny, when he got into the story itself it seemed
to him that he was "made a fellow-sufferer with the Sultan from
Scheherazade's prolixity."

"On the whole," he said, "it is not your best, nor your second best; but
all the way it skirts a certain kind of fun which you can't afford to
indulge in."

And that was the truth.  So the tale, neatly typewritten, retired to
seclusion, and there remains to this day.

Clemens had one inspiration that summer which was not directly literary,
but historical, due to his familiarity with English dates.  He wrote
Twichell:

     Day before yesterday, feeling not in condition for writing, I left
     the study, but I couldn't hold in--had to do something; so I spent
     eight hours in the sun with a yardstick, measuring off the reigns of
     the English kings on the roads in these grounds, from William the
     Conqueror to 1883, calculating to invent an open-air game which
     shall fill the children's heads with dates without study.  I give
     each king's reign one foot of space to the year and drive one stake
     in the ground to mark the beginning of each reign, and I make the
     children call the stake by the king's name.  You can stand in the
     door and take a bird's-eye view of English monarchy, from the
     Conqueror to Edward IV.; then you can turn and follow the road up
     the hill to the study and beyond with an opera-glass, and bird's-eye
     view the rest of it to 1883.

     You can mark the sharp difference in the length of reigns by the
     varying distances of the stakes apart.  You can see Richard II., two
     feet; Oliver Cromwell, two feet; James II., three feet, and so on--
     and then big skips; pegs standing forty-five, forty-six, fifty,
     fifty-six, and sixty feet apart (Elizabeth, Victoria, Edward III.,
     Henry III., and George III.).  By the way, third's a lucky number
     for length of days, isn't it?  Yes, sir; by my scheme you get a
     realizing notion of the time occupied by reigns.

     The reason it took me eight hours was because, with little Jean's
     interrupting assistance, I had to measure from the Conquest to the
     end of Henry VI. three times over, and besides I had to whittle out
     all those pegs.

     I did a full day's work and a third over, yesterday, but was full of
     my game after I went to bed trying to fit it for indoors.  So I
     didn't get to sleep till pretty late; but when I did go off I had
     contrived a new way to play my history game with cards and a board.

We may be sure the idea of the game would possess him, once it got a fair
start like that.  He decided to save the human race that year with a
history game.  When he had got the children fairly going and interested
in playing it, he adapted it to a cribbage-board, and spent his days and
nights working it out and perfecting it to a degree where the world at
large might learn all the facts of all the histories, not only without
effort, but with an actual hunger for chronology.  He would have a game
not only of the English kings, but of the kings of every other nation;
likewise of great statesmen, vice-chancellors, churchmen, of celebrities
in every line.  He would prepare a book to accompany these games.  Each
game would contain one thousand facts, while the book would contain eight
thousand; it would be a veritable encyclopedia.  He would organize clubs
throughout the United States for playing the game; prizes were to be
given.  Experts would take it up.  He foresaw a department in every
newspaper devoted to the game and its problems, instead of to chess and
whist and other useless diversions.  He wrote to Orion, and set him to
work gathering facts and dates by the bushel.  He wrote to Webster, sent
him a plan, and ordered him to apply for the patent without delay.
Patents must also be applied for abroad.  With all nations playing this
great game, very likely it would produce millions in royalties; and so,
in the true Sellers fashion, the iridescent bubble was blown larger and
larger, until finally it blew up.  The game on paper had become so large,
so elaborate, so intricate, that no one could play it.  Yet the first
idea was a good one: the king stakes driven along the driveway and up the
hillside of Quarry Farm.  The children enjoyed it, and played it through
many sweet summer afternoons.  Once, in the days when he had grown old,
he wrote, remembering:

     Among the principal merits of the games which we played by help of
     the pegs were these: that they had to be played in the open air, and
     that they compelled brisk exercise.  The peg of William the
     Conqueror stood in front of the house; one could stand near the
     Conqueror and have all English history skeletonized and landmarked
     and mile-posted under his eye .  .  .  .  The eye has a good memory.
     Many years have gone by and the pegs have disappeared, but I still
     see them and each in its place; and no king's name falls upon my ear
     without my seeing his pegs at once, and noticing just how many feet
     of space he takes up along the road.

It turned out an important literary year after all.  In the Mississippi
book he had used a chapter from the story he had been working at from
time to time for a number of years, 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn'.
Reading over the manuscript now he found his interest in it sharp and
fresh, his inspiration renewed.  The trip down the river had revived it.
The interest in the game became quiescent, and he set to work to finish
the story at a dead heat.

To Howells, August 22 (1883), he wrote:

     I have written eight or nine hundred manuscript pages in such a
     brief space of time that I mustn't name the number of days; I
     shouldn't believe it myself, and of course couldn't expect you to.
     I used to restrict myself to four and five hours a day and five days
     in the week, but this time I have wrought from breakfast till 5.15
     P.M.  six days in the week, and once or twice I smouched a Sunday
     when the boss wasn't looking.  Nothing is half so good as literature
     hooked on Sunday, on the sly.

He refers to the game, though rather indifferently.

     When I wrote you I thought I had it; whereas I was merely entering
     upon the initiatory difficulties of it.  I might have known it
     wouldn't be an easy job or somebody would have invented a decent
     historical game long ago--a thing which nobody has done.

Notwithstanding the fact that he was working at Huck with enthusiasm, he
seems to have been in no hurry to revise it for publication, either as a
serial or as a book.  But the fact that he persevered until Huck Finn at
last found complete utterance was of itself a sufficient matter for
congratulation.




CXLV

HOWELLS AND CLEMENS WRITE A PLAY

Before Howells went abroad Clemens had written:

     Now I think that the play for you to write would be one entitled,
     "Colonel Mulberry Sellers in Age" (75), with Lafayette Hawkins (at
     50) still sticking to him and believing in him and calling him "My
     lord."  He [Sellers] is a specialist and a scientist in various
     ways.  Your refined people and purity of speech would make the best
     possible background, and when you are done, I could take your
     manuscript and rewrite the Colonel's speeches, and make him properly
     extravagant, and I would let the play go to Raymond, and bind him up
     with a contract that would give him the bellyache every time he read
     it.  Shall we think this over, or drop it as being nonsense?

Howells, returned and settled in Boston once more, had revived an
interest in the play idea.  He corresponded with Clemens concerning it
and agreed that the American Claimant, Leathers, should furnish the
initial impulse of the drama.

They decided to revive Colonel Sellers and make him the heir; Colonel
Sellers in old age, more wildly extravagant than ever, with new schemes,
new patents, new methods of ameliorating the ills of mankind.

Howells came down to Hartford from Boston full of enthusiasm.  He found
Clemens with some ideas of the plan jotted down: certain effects and
situations which seemed to him amusing, but there was no general scheme
of action.  Howells, telling of it, says:

     I felt authorized to make him observe that his scheme was as nearly
     nothing as chaos could be.  He agreed hilariously with me, and was
     willing to let it stand in proof of his entire dramatic inability.

Howells, in turn, proposed a plan which Clemens approved, and they set to
work.  Howells could imitate Clemens's literary manner, and they had a
riotously jubilant fortnight working out their humors.  Howells has told
about it in his book, and he once related it to the writer of this
memoir.  He said:

"Clemens took one scene and I another.  We had loads and loads of fun
about it.  We cracked our sides laughing over it as it went along.  We
thought it mighty good, and I think to this day that it was mighty good.
We called the play 'Colonel Sellers.'  We revived him.  Clemens had a
notion of Sellers as a spiritual medium-there was a good deal of
excitement about spiritualism then; he also had a notion of Sellers
leading a women's temperance crusade.  We conceived the idea of Sellers
wanting to try, in the presence of the audience, how a man felt who had
fallen, through drink.  Sellers was to end with a sort of corkscrew
performance on the stage.  He always wore a marvelous fire extinguisher,
one of his inventions, strapped on his back, so in any sudden emergency,
he could give proof of its effectiveness."

In connection with the extinguisher, Howells provided Sellers with a pair
of wings, which Sellers declared would enable him to float around in any
altitude where the flames might break out.  The extinguisher, was not to
be charged with water or any sort of liquid, but with Greek fire, on the
principle that like cures like; in other words, the building was to be
inoculated with Greek fire against the ordinary conflagration.  Of course
the whole thing was as absurd as possible, and, reading the old
manuscript to-day, one is impressed with the roaring humor of some of the
scenes, and with the wild extravagance of the farce motive, not wholly
warranted by the previous character of Sellers, unless, indeed, he had
gone stark mad.  It is, in fact, Sellers caricatured.  The gentle, tender
side of Sellers--the best side--the side which Clemens and Howells
themselves cared for most, is not there.  Chapter III of Mark Twain's
novel, The American Claimant, contains a scene between Colonel Sellers
and Washington Hawkins which presents the extravagance of the Colonel's
materialization scheme.  It is a modified version of one of the scenes in
the play, and is as amusing and unoffending as any.

The authors' rollicking joy in their work convinced them that they had
produced a masterpiece for which the public in general, and the actors in
particular, were waiting.  Howells went back to Boston tired out, but
elate in the prospect of imminent fortune.




CXLVI

DISTINGUISHED VISITORS

Meantime, while Howells had been in Hartford working at the play with
Clemens, Matthew Arnold had arrived in Boston.  On inquiring for Howells,
at his home, the visitor was told that he had gone to see Mark Twain.
Arnold was perhaps the only literary Englishman left who had not accepted
Mark Twain at his larger value.  He seemed surprised and said:

"Oh, but he doesn't like that sort of thing, does he?"

To which Mrs. Howells replied:

"He likes Mr. Clemens very much, and he thinks him one of the greatest
men he ever knew."

Arnold proceeded to Hartford to lecture, and one night Howells and
Clemens went to meet him at a reception.  Says Howells:

     While his hand laxly held mine in greeting I saw his eyes fixed
     intensely on the other side of the room.  "Who--who in the world is
     that?"  I looked and said, "Oh, that is Mark Twain."  I do not
     remember just how their instant encounter was contrived by Arnold's
     wish; but I have the impression that they were not parted for long
     during the evening, and the next night Arnold, as if still under the
     glamour of that potent presence, was at Clemens's house.

He came there to dine with the Twichells and the Rev. Dr. Edwin P.
Parker.  Dr. Parker and Arnold left together, and, walking quietly
homeward, discussed the remarkable creature whose presence they had just
left.  Clemens had been at his best that night--at his humorous best.  He
had kept a perpetual gale of laughter going, with a string of comment and
anecdote of a kind which Twichell once declared the world had never
before seen and would never see again.  Arnold seemed dazed by it, unable
to come out from under its influence.  He repeated some of the things
Mark Twain had said; thoughtfully, as if trying to analyze their magic.
Then he asked solemnly:

"And is he never serious?"

And Dr. Parker as solemnly answered:

"Mr. Arnold, he is the most serious man in the world."  Dr. Parker,
recalling this incident, remembered also that Protap Chunder Mazoomdar, a
Hindoo Christian prelate of high rank, visited Hartford in 1883, and that
his one desire was to meet Mark Twain.  In some memoranda of this visit
Dr. Parker has written:

     I said that Mark Twain was a friend of mine, and we would
     immediately go to his house.  He was all eagerness, and I perceived
     that I had risen greatly in this most refined and cultivated
     gentleman's estimation.  Arriving at Mr. Clemens's residence, I
     promptly sought a brief private interview with my friend for his
     enlightenment concerning the distinguished visitor, after which they
     were introduced and spent a long while together.  In due time
     Mazoomdar came forth with Mark's likeness and autograph, and as we
     walked away his whole air and manner seemed to say, with Simeon of
     old, "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!"




CXLVII

THE FORTUNES OF A PLAY

Howells is of the impression that the "Claimant" play had been offered to
other actors before Raymond was made aware of it; but there are letters
(to Webster) which indicate that Raymond was to see the play first,
though Clemens declares, in a letter of instruction, that he hopes
Raymond will not take it.  Then he says:

     Why do I offer him the play at all?  For these reasons: he plays
     that character well; there are not thirty actors in the country who
     can do it better; and, too, he has a sort of sentimental right to be
     offered the piece, though no moral, or legal, or other kind of
     right.

     Therefore we do offer it to him; but only once, not twice.  Let us
     have no hemming and hawing; make short, sharp work of the business.
     I decline to have any correspondence with R. myself in any way.

This was at the end of November, 1883, while the play was still being
revised.  Negotiations with Raymond had already begun, though he does not
appear to have actually seen the play during that theatrical season, and
many and various were the attempts made to place it elsewhere; always
with one result--that each actor or manager, in the end, declared it to
be strictly a Raymond play.  The thing was hanging fire for nearly a
year, altogether, while they were waiting on Raymond, who had a
profitable play, and was in no hurry for the recrudescence of Sellers.
Howells tells how he eventually took the manuscript to Raymond, whom he
found "in a mood of sweet reasonableness" at one of Osgood's luncheons.
Raymond said he could not do the play then, but was sure he would like it
for the coming season, and in any case would be glad to read it.

In due time Raymond reported favorably on the play, at least so far as
the first act was concerned, but he objected to the materialization
feature and to Sellers as claimant for the English earldom.  He asked
that these features be eliminated, or at least much ameliorated; but as
these constituted the backbone and purpose of the whole play, Clemens and
Howells decided that what was left would be hardly worth while.  Raymond
finally agreed to try the play as it was in one of the larger towns--
Howells thinks in Buffalo.  A week later the manuscript came back to
Webster, who had general charge of the business negotiations, as indeed
he had of all Mark Twain's affairs at this time, and with it a brief
line:

     DEAR SIR,--I have just finished rereading the play, and am convinced
     that in its present form it would not prove successful.  I return
     the manuscript by express to your address.

     Thanking you for your courtesy, I am,

     Yours truly, JOHN T.  RAYMOND.

     P.S.--If the play is altered and made longer I will be pleased to
     read it again.


In his former letter Raymond had declared that "Sellers, while a very
sanguine man, was not a lunatic, and no one but a lunatic could for a
moment imagine that he had done such a work" (meaning the
materialization).  Clearly Raymond wanted a more serious presentation,
something akin to his earlier success, and on the whole we can hardly
blame him.  But the authors had faith in their performance as it stood,
and agreed they would make no change.

Finally a well-known elocutionist, named Burbank, conceived the notion of
impersonating Raymond as well as Sellers, making of it a sort of double
burlesque, and agreed to take the play on those terms.  Burbank came to
Hartford and showed what he could do.  Howells and Clemens agreed to give
him the play, and they hired the old Lyceum Theater for a week, at seven
hundred dollars, for its trial presentation.  Daniel Frohman promoted it.
Clemens and Howells went over the play and made some changes, but they
were not as hilarious over it or as full of enthusiasm as they had been
in the beginning.  Howells put in a night of suffering--long, dark hours
of hot and cold waves of fear--and rising next morning from a tossing
bed, wrote: "Here's a play which every manager has put out-of-doors and
which every actor known to us has refused, and now we go and give it to
an elocutioner.  We are fools."

Clemens hurried over to Boston to consult with Howells, and in the end
they agreed to pay the seven hundred dollars for the theater, take the
play off and give Burbank his freedom.  But Clemens's faith in it did not
immediately die.  Howells relinquished all right and title in it, and
Clemens started it out with Burbank and a traveling company, doing one-
night stands, and kept it going for a week or more at his own expense.
It never reached New York.

"And yet," says Howells, "I think now that if it had come it would have
been successful.  So hard does the faith of the unsuccessful dramatist
die."--[This was as late as the spring of 1886, at which time Howells's
faith in the play was exceedingly shaky.  In one letter he wrote: "It is
a lunatic that we have created, and while a lunatic in one act might
amuse, I'm afraid that in three he would simply bore."

And again:

"As it stands, I believe the thing will fail, and it would be a disgrace
to have it succeed."]




CXLVIII

CABLE AND HIS GREAT JOKE

Meanwhile, with the completion of the Sellers play Clemens had flung
himself into dramatic writing once more with a new and more violent
impetuosity than ever.  Howells had hardly returned to Boston when he
wrote:

Now let's write a tragedy.

The inclosed is not fancy, it is history; except that the little girl was
a passing stranger, and not kin to any of the parties.  I read the
incident in Carlyle's Cromwell a year ago, and made a note in my note-
book; stumbled on the note to-day, and wrote up the closing scene of a
possible tragedy, to see how it might work.

If we made this colonel a grand fellow, and gave him a wife to suit--hey?
It's right in the big historical times--war; Cromwell in big, picturesque
power, and all that.

Come, let's do this tragedy, and do it well.  Curious, but didn't
Florence want a Cromwell?  But Cromwell would not be the chief figure
here.

It was the closing scene of that pathetic passage in history from which
he would later make his story, "The Death Disc."  Howells was too tired
and too occupied to undertake immediately a new dramatic labor, so
Clemens went steaming ahead alone.

     My billiard-table is stacked up with books relating to the Sandwich
     Islands; the walls are upholstered with scraps of paper penciled
     with notes drawn from them.  I have saturated myself with knowledge
     of that unimaginably beautiful land and that most strange and
     fascinating people.  And I have begun a story.  Its hidden motive
     will illustrate a but-little considered fact in human nature: that
     the religious folly you are born in you will die in, no matter what
     apparently reasonabler religious folly may seem to have taken its
     place; meanwhile abolished and obliterated it.  I start Bill
     Ragsdale at eleven years of age, and the heroine at four, in the
     midst of the ancient idolatrous system, with its picturesque and
     amazing customs and superstitions, three months before the arrival
     of the missionaries and--the erection of a shallow Christianity upon
     the ruins of the old paganism.

     Then these two will become educated Christians and highly civilized.

     And then I will jump fifteen years and do Ragsdale's leper business.
     When we come to dramatize, we can draw a deal of matter from the
     story, all ready to our hand.

He made elaborate preparations for the Sandwich Islands story, which he
and Howells would dramatize later, and within the space of a few weeks he
actually did dramatize 'The Prince and the Pauper' and 'Tom Sawyer', and
was prodding Webster to find proper actors or managers; stipulating at
first severe and arbitrary terms, which were gradually modified, as one
after another of the prospective customers found these dramatic wares
unsuited to their needs.  Mark Twain was one of the most dramatic
creatures that ever lived, but he lacked the faculty of stage arrangement
of the dramatic idea.  It is one of the commonest defects in the literary
make-up; also one of the hardest to realize and to explain.

The winter of 1883-84 was a gay one in the Clemens home.  Henry Irving
was among those entertained, Augustus Saint-Gaudens, Aldrich and his
wife, Howells of course, and George W. Cable.  Cable had now permanently
left the South for the promised land which all authors of the South and
West seek eventually, and had in due course made his way to Hartford.
Clemens took Cable's fortunes in hand, as he had done with many another,
invited him to his home, and undertook to open negotiations with the
American Publishing Company, of which Frank Bliss was now the manager,
for the improvement of his fortunes.

Cable had been giving readings from his stories and had somewhere picked
up the measles.  He suddenly came down with the complaint during his
visit to Clemens, and his case was a violent one.  It required the
constant attendance of a trained nurse and one or two members of the
household to pull him through.

In the course of time he was convalescent, and when contagion was no
longer to be feared guests were invited in for his entertainment.  At one
of these gatherings, Cable produced a curious book, which he said had
been lent to him by Prof. Francis Bacon, of New Haven, as a great rarity.
It was a little privately printed pamphlet written by a Southern youth,
named S. Watson Wolston, a Yale student of 1845, and was an absurd
romance of the hyperflorid, grandiloquent sort, entitled, "Love
Triumphant, or the Enemy Conquered."  Its heroine's name was Ambulinia,
and its flowery, half-meaningless periods and impossible situations
delighted Clemens beyond measure.  He begged Cable to lend it to him, to
read at the Saturday Morning Club, declaring that he certainly must own
the book, at whatever cost.  Henry C. Robinson, who was present,
remembered having seen a copy in his youth, and Twichell thought he
recalled such a book on sale in New Haven during his college days.
Twichell said nothing as to any purpose in the matter; but somewhat
later, being in New Haven, he stepped into the old book-store and found
the same proprietor, who remembered very well the book and its author.
Twichell rather fearfully asked if by any chance a copy of it might still
be obtained.

"Well," was the answer, "I undertook to put my cellar in order the other
day, and found about a cord of them down there.  I think I can supply
you."

Twichell took home six of the books at ten cents each, and on their first
spring walk to Talcott's Tower casually mentioned to Clemens the quest
for the rare Ambulinia.  But Clemens had given up the pursuit.  New York
dealers had reported no success in the matter.  The book was no longer in
existence.

"What would you give for a copy?" asked.  Twichell.

Clemens became excited.

"It isn't a question of price," he said; "that would be for the owner to
set if I could find him."

Twichell drew a little package from his pocket.

"Well, Mark," he said, "here are six copies of that book, to begin with.
If that isn't enough, I can get you a wagon-load."

It was enough.  But it did not deter Clemens in his purpose, which was to
immortalize the little book by pointing out its peculiar charms.  He did
this later, and eventually included the entire story, with comments, in
one of his own volumes.

Clemens and Twichell did not always walk that spring.  The early form of
bicycle, the prehistoric high-wheel, had come into vogue, and they each
got one and attempted its conquest.  They practised in the early morning
hours on Farmington Avenue, which was wide and smooth, and they had an
instructor, a young German, who, after a morning or two, regarded Mark
Twain helplessly and said:

"Mr. Clemens, it's remarkable--you can fall off of a bicycle more
different ways than the man that invented it."

They were curious things, those old high-wheel machines.  You were
perched away up in the air, with the feeling that you were likely at any
moment to strike a pebble or something that would fling you forward with
damaging results.  Frequently that is what happened.  The word "header"
seems to have grown out of that early bicycling period.  Perhaps Mark
Twain invented it.  He had enough experience to do it.  He always
declared afterward that he invented all the new bicycle profanity that
has since come into general use.  Once he wrote:

     There was a row of low stepping-stones across one end of the street,
     a measured yard apart.  Even after I got so I could steer pretty
     fairly I was so afraid of those stones that I always hit them.  They
     gave me the worst falls I ever got in that street, except those
     which I got from dogs.  I have seen it stated that no expert is
     quick enough to run over a dog; that a dog is always able to skip
     out of his way.  I think that that may be true; but I think that the
     reason he couldn't run over the dog was because he was trying to.  I
     did not try to run over any dog.  But I ran over every dog that came
     along.  I think it makes a great deal of difference.  If you try to
     run over the dog he knows how to calculate, but if you are trying to
     miss him he does not know how to calculate, and is liable to jump
     the wrong way every time.  It was always so in my experience.  Even
     when I could not hit a wagon I could hit a dog that came to see me
     practise.  They all liked to see me practise, and they all came, for
     there was very little going on in our neighborhood to entertain a
     dog.

He conquered, measurably, that old, discouraging thing, and he and
Twichell would go on excursions, sometimes as far as Wethersfield or to
the tower.  It was a pleasant change, at least it was an interesting one;
but bicycling on the high wheel was never a popular diversion with Mark
Twain, and his enthusiasm in the sport had died before the "safety" came
along.

He had his machine sent out to Elmira, but there were too many hills in
Chemung County, and after one brief excursion he came in, limping and
pushing his wheel, and did not try it again.

To return to Cable.  When the 1st of April (1884) approached he concluded
it would be a good time to pay off his debt of gratitude for his recent
entertainment in the Clemens's home.  He went to work at it
systematically.  He had a "private and confidential" circular letter
printed, and he mailed it to one hundred and fifty of Mark Twain's
literary friends in Boston, Hartford, Springfield, New York, Brooklyn,
Washington, and elsewhere, suggesting that they write to him, so that
their letters would reach him simultaneously April 1st, asking for his
autograph.  No stamps or cards were to be inclosed for reply, and it was
requested that "no stranger to Mr. Clemens and no minor" should take
part.  Mrs. Clemens was let into the secret, so that she would see to it
that her husband did not reject his mail or commit it to the flames
unopened.

It would seem that every one receiving the invitation must have responded
to it, for on the morning of April 1st a stupefying mass of letters was
unloaded on Mark Twain's table.  He did not know what to make of it, and
Mrs. Clemens stood off to watch the results.  The first one he opened was
from Dean Sage, a friend whom he valued highly.  Sage wrote from
Brooklyn:

     DEAR CLEMENS,--I have recently been asked by a young lady who
     unfortunately has a mania for autograph-collecting, but otherwise is
     a charming character, and comely enough to suit your fastidious
     taste, to secure for her the sign manual of the few distinguished
     persons fortunate enough to have my acquaintance.  In enumerating
     them to her, after mentioning the names of Geo. Shepard Page, Joe
     Michell, Capt. Isaiah Ryndus, Mr. Willard, Dan Mace, and J. L.
     Sullivan, I came to yours.  "Oh!" said she, "I have read all his
     works--Little Breeches, The Heathen Chinee, and the rest--and think
     them delightful.  Do oblige me by asking him for his autograph,
     preceded by any little sentiment that may occur to him, provided it
     is not too short."

     Of course I promised, and hope you will oblige me by sending some
     little thing addressed to Miss Oakes.

     We are all pretty well at home just now, though indisposition has
     been among us for the past fortnight.  With regards to Mrs. Clemens
     and the children, in which my wife joins,

                                   Yours truly,   DEAN SAGE.


It amused and rather surprised him, and it fooled him completely; but
when he picked up a letter from Brander Matthews, asking, in some absurd
fashion, for his signature, and another from Ellen Terry, and from
Irving, and from Stedman, and from Warner, and Waring, and H. C. Bunner,
and Sarony, and Laurence Hutton, and John Hay, and R. U.  Johnson, and
Modjeska, the size and quality of the joke began to overawe him.  He was
delighted, of course; for really it was a fine compliment, in its way,
and most of the letters were distinctly amusing.  Some of them asked for
autographs by the yard, some by the pound.  Henry Irving said:

     I have just got back from a very late rehearsal-five o'clock--very
     tired--but there will be no rest till I get your autograph.

Some requested him to sit down and copy a few chapters from The Innocents
Abroad for them or to send an original manuscript.  Others requested that
his autograph be attached to a check of interesting size.  John Hay
suggested that he copy a hymn, a few hundred lines of Young's "Night
Thoughts," and an equal amount of Pollak's "Course of Time."

     I want my boy to form a taste for serious and elevated poetry, and
     it will add considerable commercial value to have them in your
     handwriting.

Altogether the reading of the letters gave him a delightful day, and his
admiration for Cable grew accordingly.  Cable, too, was pleased with the
success of his joke, though he declared he would never risk such a thing
again.  A newspaper of the time reports him as saying:

     I never suffered so much agony as for a few days previous to the 1st
     of April.  I was afraid the letters would reach Mark when he was in
     affliction, in which case all of us would never have ceased flying
     to make it up to him.
     When I visited Mark we used to open our budgets of letters together
     at breakfast.  We used to sing out whenever we struck an autograph-
     hunter.  I think the idea came from that.  The first person I spoke
     to about it was Robert Underwood Johnson, of the Century.  My most
     enthusiastic ally was the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher.  We never thought
     it would get into the papers.  I never played a practical joke
     before.  I never will again, certainly.

Mark Twain in those days did not encourage the regular autograph-
collectors, and seldom paid any attention to their requests for his
signature.  He changed all this in later years, and kept a supply always
on hand to satisfy every request; but in those earlier days he had no
patience with collecting fads, and it required a particularly pleasing
application to obtain his signature.




CXLIX

MARK TWAIN IN BUSINESS

Samuel Clemens by this time was definitely engaged in the publishing
business.  Webster had a complete office with assistants at 658 Broadway,
and had acquired a pretty thorough and practical knowledge of
subscription publishing.  He was a busy, industrious young man,
tirelessly energetic, and with a good deal of confidence, by no means
unnecessary to commercial success.  He placed this mental and physical
capital against Mark Twain's inspiration and financial backing, and the
combination of Charles L. Webster & Co.  seemed likely to be a strong
one.

Already, in the spring of 1884., Webster had the new Mark Twain book,
'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn', well in hand, and was on the watch
for promising subscription books by other authors.  Clemens, with his
usual business vision and eye for results, with a generous disregard of
detail, was supervising the larger preliminaries, and fulminating at the
petty distractions and difficulties as they came along.  Certain plays he
was trying to place were enough to keep him pretty thoroughly upset
during this period, and proof-reading never added to his happiness.  To
Howells he wrote:

     My days are given up to cursings, both loud and deep, for I am
     reading the 'Huck Finn' proofs.  They don't make a very great many
     mistakes, but those that do occur are of a nature that make a man
     swear his teeth loose.

Whereupon Howells promptly wrote him that he would help him out with the
Huck Finn proofs for the pleasure of reading the story.  Clemens, among
other things, was trying to place a patent grape-scissors, invented by
Howells's father, so that there was, in some degree, an equivalent for
the heavy obligation.  That it was a heavy one we gather from his fervent
acknowledgment:

     It took my breath away, and I haven't recovered it yet, entirely--I
     mean the generosity of your proposal to read the proofs of Huck
     Finn.

     Now, if you mean it, old man--if you are in earnest-proceed, in
     God's name, and be by me forever blessed.  I can't conceive of a
     rational man deliberately piling such an atrocious job upon himself.
     But if there be such a man, and you be that man, pile it on.  The
     proof-reading of 'The Prince and the Pauper' cost me the last rags
     of my religion.

Clemens decided to have the Huckleberry Finn book illustrated after his
own ideas.  He looked through the various comic papers to see if he could
find the work of some new man that appealed to his fancy.  In the pages
of Life he discovered some comic pictures illustrating the possibility of
applying electrical burners to messenger boys, waiters, etc.  The style
and the spirit of these things amused him.  He instructed Webster to look
up the artist, who proved to be a young man, E. W. Kemble by name, later
one of our foremost cartoonists.  Webster engaged Kemble and put the
manuscript in his hands.  Through the publication of certain chapters of
Huck Finn in the Century Magazine, Kemble was brought to the notice of
its editors, who wrote Clemens that they were profoundly indebted to him
for unearthing "such a gem of an illustrator."

Clemens, encouraged and full of enthusiasm, now endeavored to interest
himself in the practical details of manufacture, but his stock of
patience was light and the details were many.  His early business period
resembles, in some of its features, his mining experience in Esmeralda,
his letters to Webster being not unlike those to Orion in that former
day.  They are much oftener gentle, considerate, even apologetic, but
they are occasionally terse, arbitrary, and profane.  It required effort
for him to be entirely calm in his business correspondence.  A criticism
of one of Webster's assistants will serve as an example of his less quiet
method:

     Charley, your proof-reader, is an idiot; and not only an idiot, but
     blind; and not only blind, but partly dead.

Of course, one must regard many of Mark Twain's business aspects
humorously.  To consider them otherwise is to place him in a false light
altogether.  He wore himself out with his anxieties and irritations; but
that even he, in the midst of his furies, saw the humor of it all is
sufficiently evidenced by the form of his savage phrasing.  There were
few things that did not amuse him, and certainly nothing amused more, or
oftener, than himself.

It is proper to add a detail in evidence of a business soundness which he
sometimes manifested.  He had observed the methods of Bliss and Osgood,
and had drawn his conclusions.  In the beginning of the Huck Finn canvass
he wrote Webster:

     Keep it diligently in mind that we don't issue till we have made a
     big sale.

     Get at your canvassing early and drive it with all your might, with
     an intent and purpose of issuing on the 1oth or 15th of next
     December (the best time in the year to tumble a big pile into the
     trade); but if we haven't 40,000 subscriptions we simply postpone
     publication till we've got them.  It is a plain, simple policy, and
     would have saved both of my last books if it had been followed.
     [That is to say, 'The Prince and the Pauper' and the Mississippi
     book, neither of which had sold up to his expectations on the,
     initial canvass.]




CL

FARM PICTURES

Gerhardt returned from Paris that summer, after three years of study, a
qualified sculptor.  He was prepared to take commissions, and came to
Elmira to model a bust of his benefactor.  The work was finished after
four or five weeks of hard effort and pronounced admirable; but Gerhardt,
attempting to make a cast one morning, ruined it completely.  The family
gathered round the disaster, which to them seemed final, but the sculptor
went immediately to work, and in an amazingly brief time executed a new
bust even better than the first, an excellent piece of modeling and a
fine likeness.  It was decided that a cut of it should be used as a
frontispiece for the new book, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

Clemens was at this time giving the final readings to the Huck Finn
pages, a labor in which Mrs. Clemens and the children materially
assisted.  In the childish biography which Susy began of her father, a
year later, she says:

     Ever since papa and mama were married papa has written his books and
     then taken them to mama in manuscript, and she has expurgated--
     [Susy's spelling is preserved]--them.  Papa read Huckleberry Finn to
     us in manuscript,--[Probably meaning proof.]--just before it came
     out, and then he would leave parts of it with mama to expurgate,
     while he went off to the study to work, and sometimes Clara and I
     would be sitting with mama while she was looking the manuscript
     over, and I remember so well, with what pangs of regret we used to
     see her turn down the leaves of the pages, which meant that some
     delightfully terrible part must be scratched out.  And I remember
     one part pertickularly which was perfectly fascinating it was so
     terrible, that Clara and I used to delight in and oh, with what
     despair we saw mama turn down the leaf on which it was written, we
     thought the book would almost be ruined without it.  But we
     gradually came to think as mama did.

Commenting on this phase of Huck's evolution Mark Twain has since
written:

     I remember the special case mentioned by Susy, and can see the group
     yet--two-thirds of it pleading for the life of the culprit sentence
     that was so fascinatingly dreadful, and the other third of it
     patiently explaining why the court could not grant the prayer of the
     pleaders; but I do not remember what the condemned phrase was.  It
     had much company, and they all went to the gallows; but it is
     possible that that especially dreadful one which gave those little
     people so much delight was cunningly devised and put into the book
     for just that function, and not with any hope or expectation that it
     would get by the "expergator" alive.  It is possible, for I had that
     custom.

Little Jean was probably too youthful yet to take part in that literary
arbitration.  She was four, and had more interest in cows.  In some
memoranda which her father kept of that period--the "Children's Book"--he
says:

     She goes out to the barn with one of us every evening toward six
     o'clock, to look at the cows--which she adores--no weaker word can
     express her feeling for them.  She sits rapt and contented while
     David milks the three, making a remark now and then--always about
     the cows.  The time passes slowly and drearily for her attendant,
     but not for her.  She could stand a week of it.  When the milking is
     finished, and "Blanche," "Jean," and "the cross cow" are turned into
     the adjoining little cow-lot, we have to set Jean on a shed in that
     lot, and stay by her half an hour, till Eliza, the German nurse,
     comes to take her to bed.  The cows merely stand there, and do
     nothing; yet the mere sight of them is all-sufficient for Jean.  She
     requires nothing more.  The other evening, after contemplating them
     a long time, as they stood in the muddy muck chewing the cud, she
     said, with deep and reverent appreciation, "Ain't this a sweet
     little garden?"

     Yesterday evening our cows (after being inspected and worshiped by
     Jean from the shed for an hour) wandered off down into the pasture
     and left her bereft.  I thought I was going to get back home, now,
     but that was an error.  Jean knew of some more cows in a field
     somewhere, and took my hand and led me thitherward.  When we turned
     the corner and took the right-hand road, I saw that we should
     presently be out of range of call and sight; so I began to argue
     against continuing the expedition, and Jean began to argue in favor
     of it, she using English for light skirmishing and German for
     "business."  I kept up my end with vigor, and demolished her
     arguments in detail, one after the other, till I judged I had her
     about cornered.  She hesitated a moment, then answered up, sharply:

     "Wir werden nichts mehr daruber sprechen!" (We won't talk any more
     about it.)

     It nearly took my breath away, though I thought I might possibly
     have misunderstood.  I said:

     "Why, you little rascal!  Was hast du gesagt?"

     But she said the same words over again, and in the same decided way.
     I suppose I ought to have been outraged, but I wasn't; I was
     charmed.

His own note-books of that summer are as full as usual, but there are
fewer literary ideas and more philosophies.  There was an excitement,
just then, about the trichina germ in pork, and one of his memoranda
says:

     I think we are only the microscopic trichina concealed in the blood
     of some vast creature's veins, and that it is that vast creature
     whom God concerns himself about and not us.

And there is another which says:

     People, in trying to justify eternity, say we can put it in by
     learning all the knowledge acquired by the inhabitants of the
     myriads of  stars.  We sha'n't need that.  We could use up two
     eternities in learning all that is to be learned about our own
     world, and the thousands of nations that have risen, and flourished,
     and vanished from it.  Mathematics alone would occupy me eight
     million years.

He records an incident which he related more fully in a letter to
Howells:

     Before I forget it I must tell you that Mrs. Clemens has said a
     bright thing.  A drop-letter came to me asking me to lecture here
     for a church debt.  I began to rage over the exceedingly cool
     wording of the request, when Mrs. Clemens said: "I think I know that
     church, and, if so, this preacher is a colored man; he doesn't know
     how to write a polished letter.  How should he?"

     My manner changed so suddenly and so radically that Mrs. C. said: "I
     will give you a motto, and it will be useful to you if you will
     adopt it: 'Consider every man colored till he is proved white.'"

It is dern good, I think.

One of the note-books contains these entries:

     Talking last night about home matters, I said, "I wish I had said to
     George when we were leaving home, 'Now, George, I wish you would
     take advantage of these three or four months' idle time while I am
     away----'"

     "To learn to let my matches alone," interrupted Livy.  The very
     words I was going to use.  Yet George had not been mentioned before,
     nor his peculiarities.

Several years ago I said:

     "Suppose I should live to be ninety-two, and just as I was dying a
     messenger should enter and say----"

     "You are become Earl of Durham," interrupted Livy.  The very words I
     was going to utter.  Yet there had not been a word said about the
     earl, or any other person, nor had there been any conversation
     calculated to suggest any such subject.




CLI

MARK TWAIN MUGWUMPS

The Republican Presidential nomination of James G. Blaine resulted in a
political revolt such as the nation had not known.  Blaine was immensely
popular, but he had many enemies in his own party.  There were strong
suspicions of his being connected with doubtful financiering-enterprises,
more or less sensitive to official influence, and while these scandals
had become quieted a very large portion of the Republican constituency
refused to believe them unjustified.  What might be termed the
intellectual element of Republicanism was against Blame: George William
Curtis, Charles Dudley Warner, James Russell Lowell, Henry Ward Beecher,
Thomas Nast, the firm of Harper & Brothers, Joseph W.  Hawley, Joseph
Twichell, Mark Twain--in fact the majority of thinking men who held
principle above party in their choice.

On the day of the Chicago nomination, Henry C. Robinson, Charles E.
Perkins, Edward M.  Bunce, F. G. Whitmore, and Samuel C. Dunham were
collected with Mark Twain in his billiard-room, taking turns at the game
and discussing the political situation, with George, the colored butler,
at the telephone down-stairs to report the returns as they came in.  As
fast as the ballot was received at the political headquarters down-town,
it was telephoned up to the house and George reported it through the
speaking-tube.

The opposition to Blaine in the convention was so strong that no one of
the assembled players seriously expected his nomination.  What was their
amazement, then, when about mid-afternoon George suddenly announced
through the speaking-tube that Blaine was the nominee.  The butts of the
billiard cues came down on the floor with a bump, and for a moment the
players were speechless.  Then Henry Robinson said:

"It's hard luck to have to vote for that man."

Clemens looked at him under his heavy brows.

"But--we don't--have to vote for him," he said.

"Do you mean to say that you're not going to vote for him?"

"Yes, that is what I mean to say.  I am not going to vote for him."

There was a general protest.  Most of those assembled declared that when
a party's representatives chose a man one must stand by him.  They might
choose unwisely, but the party support must be maintained.  Clemens said:

"No party holds the privilege of dictating to me how I shall vote.  If
loyalty to party is a form of patriotism, I am no patriot.  If there is
any valuable difference between a monarchist and an American, it lies in
the theory that the American can decide for himself what is patriotic and
what isn't.  I claim that difference.  I am the only person in the sixty
millions that is privileged to dictate my patriotism."

There was a good deal of talk back and forth, and, in the end, most of
those there present remained loyal to Blaine.  General Hawley and his
paper stood by Blaine.  Warner withdrew from his editorship of the
Courant and remained neutral.  Twichell stood with Clemens and came near
losing his pulpit by it.  Open letters were published in the newspapers
about him.  It was a campaign when politics divided neighbors, families,
and congregations.  If we except the Civil War period, there never had
been a more rancorous political warfare than that waged between the
parties of James G. Blaine and Grover Cleveland in 1884.

That Howells remained true to Blaine was a grief to Clemens.  He had gone
to the farm with Howells on his political conscience and had written
fervent and imploring letters on the subject.  As late as September 17th,
he said:

     Somehow I can't seem to rest quiet under the idea of your voting for
     Blaine.  I believe you said something about the country and the
     party.  Certainly allegiance to these is well, but certainly a man's
     first duty is to his own conscience and honor; the party and country
     come second to that, and never first.  I don't ask you to vote at
     all.  I only urge you not to soil yourself by voting for Blaine....
     Don't be offended; I mean no offense.  I am not concerned about the
     rest of the nation, but well, good-by.
                                                  Yours ever, MARK.

Beyond his prayerful letters to Howells, Clemens did not greatly concern
himself with politics on the farm, but, returning to Hartford, he went
vigorously into the campaign, presided, as usual, at mass-meetings, and
made political speeches which invited the laughter of both parties, and
were universally quoted and printed without regard to the paper's
convictions.

It was during one such speech as this that, in the course of his remarks,
a band outside came marching by playing patriotic music so loudly as to
drown his voice.  He waited till the band got by, but by the time he was
well under way again another band passed, and once more he was obliged to
wait till the music died away in the distance.  Then he said, quite
serenely:

"You will find my speech, without the music, in the morning paper."

In introducing Carl Schurz at a great mugwump mass-meeting at Hartford,
October 20, 1884., he remarked that he [Clemens] was the only
legitimately elected officer, and was expected to read a long list of
vice-presidents; but he had forgotten all about it, and he would ask all
the gentlemen there, of whatever political complexion, to do him a great
favor by acting as vice-presidents.  Then he said:

     As far as my own political change of heart is concerned, I have not
     been convinced by any Democratic means.  The opinion I hold of Mr.
     Blaine is due to the comments of the Republican press before the
     nomination.  Not that they have said bitter or scandalous things,
     because Republican papers are above that, but the things they said
     did not seem to be complimentary, and seemed to me to imply
     editorial disapproval of Mr. Blame and the belief that he was not
     qualified to be President of the United States.

     It is just a little indelicate for me to be here on this occasion
     before an assemblage of voters, for the reason that the ablest
     newspaper in Colorado--the ablest newspaper in the world--has
     recently nominated me for President.  It is hardly fit for me to
     preside at a discussion of the brother candidate, but the best among
     us will do the most repulsive things the moment we are smitten with
     a Presidential madness.  If I had realized that this canvass was to
     turn on the candidate's private character I would have started that
     Colorado paper sooner.  I know the crimes that can be imputed and
     proved against me can be told on the fingers of your hands.  This
     cannot be said of any other Presidential candidate in the field.

Inasmuch as the Blaine-Cleveland campaign was essentially a campaign of
scurrility, this touch was loudly applauded.

Mark Twain voted for Grover Cleveland, though up to the very eve of
election he was ready to support a Republican nominee in whom he had
faith, preferably Edmunds, and he tried to inaugurate a movement by which
Edmunds might be nominated as a surprise candidate and sweep the country.

It was probably Dr. Burchard's ill-advised utterance concerning the three
alleged R's of Democracy, "Rum, Romanism, and Rebellion," that defeated
Blaine, and by some strange, occult means Mark Twain's butler George got
wind of this damning speech before it became news on the streets of
Hartford.  George had gone with his party, and had a considerable sum of
money wagered on Blaine's election; but he knew it was likely to be very
close, and he had an instant and deep conviction that these three fatal
words and Blaine's failure to repudiate them meant the candidate's
downfall.  He immediately abandoned everything in the shape of household
duties, and within the briefest possible time had changed enough money to
make him safe, and leave him a good margin of winnings besides, in the
event of Blame's defeat.  This was evening.  A very little later the news
of Blaine's blunder, announced from the opera-house stage, was like the
explosion of a bomb.  But it was no news to George, who went home
rejoicing with his enemies.




CLII

PLATFORMING WITH CABLE

The drain of many investments and the establishment of a publishing house
had told heavily on Clemens's finances.  It became desirable to earn a
large sum of money with as much expedition as possible.  Authors'
readings had become popular, and Clemens had read in Philadelphia and
Boston with satisfactory results.  He now conceived the idea of a grand
tour of authors as a commercial enterprise.  He proposed to Aldrich,
Howells, and Cable that he charter a private car for the purpose, and
that with their own housekeeping arrangements, cooking, etc., they could
go swinging around the circuit, reaping, a golden harvest.  He offered to
be general manager of the expedition, the impresario as it were, and
agreed to guarantee the others not less than seventy-five dollars a day
apiece as their net return from the "circus," as he called it.

Howells and Aldrich liked well enough to consider it as an amusing
prospect, but only Cable was willing to realize it.  He had been scouring
the country on his own account, and he was willing enough to join forces
with Mark Twain.

Clemens detested platforming, but the idea of reading from his books or
manuscript for some reason seemed less objectionable, and, as already
stated, the need of much money had become important.

He arranged with J. B. Pond for the business side of the expedition,
though in reality he was its proprietor.  The private-car idea was given
up, but he employed Cable at a salary of four hundred and fifty dollars a
week and expenses, and he paid Pond a commission.  Perhaps, without going
any further, we may say that the tour was a financial success, and
yielded a large return of the needed funds.

Clemens and Cable had a pleasant enough time, and had it not been for the
absence from home and the disagreeableness of railway travel, there would
have been little to regret.  They were a curiously associated pair.
Cable was orthodox in his religion, devoted to Sunday-school, Bible
reading, and church affairs in general.  Clemens--well, Clemens was
different.  On the first evening of their tour, when the latter was
comfortably settled in bed with an entertaining book, Cable appeared with
his Bible, and proceeded to read a chapter aloud.  Clemens made no
comment, and this went on for an evening or two more.  Then he said:

"See here, Cable, we'll have to cut this part of the program out.  You
can read the Bible as much as you please so long as you don't read it to
me."

Cable retired courteously.  He had a keen sense of humor, and most things
that Mark Twain did, whether he approved or not, amused him.  Cable did
not smoke, but he seemed always to prefer the smoking compartment when
they traveled, to the more respectable portions of the car.  One day
Clemens sand to him:

"Cable, why do you sit in here?  You don't smoke, and you know I always
smoke, and sometimes swear."

Cable said, "I know, Mark, I don't do these things, but I can't help
admiring the way you do them."

When Sunday came it was Mark Twain's great happiness to stay in bed all
day, resting after his week of labor; but Cable would rise, bright and
chipper, dress himself in neat and suitable attire, and visit the various
churches and Sunday-schools in town, usually making a brief address at
each, being always invited to do so.

It seems worth while to include one of the Clemens-Cable programs here--
a most satisfactory one.  They varied it on occasion, and when they were
two nights in a place changed it completely, but the program here given
was the one they were likely to use after they had proved its worth:

                                 PROGRAM

                    Richling's visit to Kate Riley
                                             GEO. W. CABLE

                    King Sollermun
                                             MARK TWAIN

                    (a) Kate Riley and Ristofolo
                    (b) Narcisse in mourning for "Lady Byron"
                    (c) Mary's Night Ride
                                             GEO.  W.  CABLE
                    (a) Tragic Tale of the Fishwife
                    (b) A Trying Situation
                    (c) A Ghost Story
                                             MARK TWAIN


At a Mark Twain memorial meeting (November 30, 1910), where the few who
were left of his old companions told over quaint and tender memories,
George Cable recalled their reading days together and told of Mark
Twain's conscientious effort to do his best, to be worthy of himself,
regardless of all other concerns.  He told how when they had been
traveling for a while Clemens seemed to realize that he was only giving
the audience nonsense; making them laugh at trivialities which they would
forget before they had left the entertainment hall.  Cable said that up
to that time he had supposed Clemens's chief thought was the
entertainment of the moment, and that if the audience laughed he was
satisfied.  He told how he had sat in the wings, waiting his turn, and
heard the tides of laughter gather and roll forward and break against the
footlights, time and time again, and how he had believed his colleague to
be glorying in that triumph.  What was his surprise, then, on the way to
the hotel in the carriage, when Clemens groaned and seemed writhing in
spirit and said:

"Oh, Cable, I am demeaning myself.  I am allowing myself to be a mere
buffoon.  It's ghastly.  I can't endure it any longer."

Cable added that all that night and the next day Mark Twain devoted
himself to the study and rehearsal of selections which were justified not
only as humor, but as literature and art.

A good many interesting and amusing things would happen on such a tour.
Many of these are entirely forgotten, of course, but of others certain
memoranda have been preserved.  Grover Cleveland had been elected when
they set out on their travels, but was still holding his position in
Albany as Governor of New York.  When they reached Albany Cable and
Clemens decided to call on him.  They drove to the Capitol and were shown
into the Governor's private office.  Cleveland made them welcome, and,
after greetings, said to Clemens:

"Mr. Clemens, I was a fellow-citizen of yours in Buffalo a good many
months some years ago, but you never called on me then.  How do you
explain this?"

Clemens said: "Oh, that is very simple to answer, your Excellency.  In
Buffalo you were a sheriff.  I kept away from the sheriff as much as
possible, but you're Governor now, and on the way to the Presidency.
It's worth while coming to see you."

Clemens meantime had been resting, half sitting, on the corner of the
Executive desk.  He leaned back a little, and suddenly about a dozen
young men opened various doors, filed in and stood at attention, as if
waiting for orders.

No one spoke for a moment; then the Governor said to this collection of
attendants:

"You are dismissed, young gentlemen.  Your services are not required.
Mr. Clemens is sitting on the bells."

In Buffalo, when Clemens appeared on the stage, he leisurely considered
the audience for a moment; then he said:

"I miss a good many faces.  They have gone--gone to the tomb, to the
gallows, or to the White House.  All of us are entitled to at least one
of these distinctions, and it behooves us to be wise and prepare for
all."

On Thanksgiving Eve the readers were in Morristown, New Jersey, where
they were entertained by Thomas Nast.  The cartoonist prepared a quiet
supper for them and they remained overnight in the Nast home.  They were
to leave next morning by an early train, and Mrs. Nast had agreed to see
that they were up in due season.  When she woke next morning there seemed
a strange silence in the house and she grew suspicious.  Going to the
servants' room, she found them sleeping soundly.  The alarm-clock in the
back hall had stopped at about the hour the guests retired.  The studio
clock was also found stopped; in fact, every timepiece on the premises
had retired from business.  Clemens had found that the clocks interfered
with his getting to sleep, and he had quieted them regardless of early
trains and reading engagements.  On being accused of duplicity he said:

"Well, those clocks were all overworked, anyway.  They will feel much
better for a night's rest."

A few days later Nast sent him a caricature drawing--a picture which
showed Mark Twain getting rid of the offending clocks.

At Christmas-time they took a fortnight's holiday and Clemens went home
to Hartford.  A surprise was awaiting him there.  Mrs. Clemens had made
an adaptation of 'The Prince and the Pauper' play, and the children of
the neighborhood had prepared a presentation of it for his special
delectation.  He knew, on his arrival home, that something mysterious was
in progress, for certain rooms were forbidden him; but he had no inkling
of their plan until just before the performance--when he was led across
the grounds to George Warner's home, into the large room there where it
was to be given, and placed in a seat directly in front of the stage.

Gerhardt had painted the drop-curtain, and assisted in the general
construction of scenery and effects.  The result was really imposing; but
presently, when the curtain rose and the guest of honor realized what it
was all about, and what they had undertaken for his pleasure, he was
deeply moved and supremely gratified.

There was but one hitch in the performance.  There is a place where the
Prince says, "Fathers be alike, mayhap; mine hath not a doll's temper."

This was Susy's part, and as she said it the audience did not fail to
remember its literal appropriateness.  There was a moment's silence, then
a titter, followed by a roar of laughter, in which everybody but the
little actors joined.  They did not see the humor and were disturbed and
grieved.  Curiously enough, Mrs Clemens herself, in arranging and casting
the play, had not considered the possibility of this effect.  The parts
were all daintily played.  The children wore their assumed personalities
as if native to them.  Daisy Warner played the part of Tom Canty, Clara
Clemens was Lady Jane Grey.

It was only the beginning of The Prince and the Pauper productions.  The
play was repeated, Clemens assisting, adding to the parts, and himself
playing the role of Miles Hendon.  In her childish biography Susy says:

     Papa had only three days to learn the part in, but still we were all
     sure that he could do it.  The scene that he acted in was the scene
     between Miles Hendon and the Prince, the "Prithee, pour the water"
     scene.  I was the Prince and papa and I rehearsed together two or
     three times a day for the three days before the appointed evening.
     Papa acted his part beautifully, and he added to the scene, making
     it a good deal longer.  He was inexpressibly funny, with his great
     slouch hat and gait----oh such a gait!  Papa made the Miles Hendon
     scene a splendid success and every one was delighted with the scene,
     and papa too.  We had great fun with our "Prince and Pauper," and I
     think we none of us shall forget how immensely funny papa was in it.
     He certainly could have been an actor as well as an author.

The holidays over, Cable and Clemens were off on the circuit again.  At
Rochester an incident happened which led to the writing of one of Mark
Twain's important books, 'A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur's Court'.
Clemens and Cable had wandered into a book-store for the purpose of
finding something to read.  Pulling over some volumes on one of the
tables, Clemens happened to pick up a little green, cloth-bound book, and
after looking at the title turned the pages rather curiously and with
increasing interest.

"Cable," he said, "do you know anything about this book, the Arthurian
legends of Sir Thomas Malory, Morte Arthure?"

Cable answered: "Mark, that is one of the most beautiful books in the
world.  Let me buy it for you.  You will love it more than any book you
ever read."

So Clemens came to know the old chronicler's version of the rare Round
Table legends, and from that first acquaintance with them to the last
days of his life seldom let the book go far from him.  He read and reread
those quaint, stately tales and reverenced their beauty, while fairly
reveling in the absurdities of that ancient day.  Sir Ector's lament he
regarded as one of the most simply beautiful pieces of writing in the
English tongue, and some of the combats and quests as the most ridiculous
absurdities in romance.  Presently he conceived the idea of linking that
day, with its customs, costumes, and abuses, with the progress of the
present, or carrying back into that age of magicians and armor and
superstition and cruelties a brisk American of progressive ideas who
would institute reforms.  His note-book began to be filled with memoranda
of situations and possibilities for the tale he had in mind.  These were
vague, unformed fancies as yet, and it would be a long time before the
story would become a fact.  This was the first entry:

     Dream of being a knight-errant in armor in the Middle Ages.  Have
     the notions and habits, though, of the present day mixed with the
     necessities of that.  No pockets in the armor.  No way to manage
     certain requirements of nature.  Can't scratch.  Cold in the head
     and can't blow.  Can't get a handkerchief; can't use iron sleeve;
     iron gets red-hot in the sun; leaks in the rain; gets white with
     frost and freezes me solid in winter; makes disagreeable clatter
     when I enter church.  Can't dress or undress myself.  Always getting
     struck by lightning.  Fall down and can't get up.

Twenty-one years later, discussing the genesis of the story, he said:

"As I read those quaint and curious old legends I suppose I naturally
contrasted those days with ours, and it made me curious to fancy what
might be the picturesque result if we could dump the nineteenth century
down into the sixth century and observe the consequences."

The reading tour continued during the first two months of the new year
and carried them as far west as Chicago.  They read in Hannibal and
Keokuk, and Clemens spent a day in the latter place with his mother, now
living with Orion, brisk and active for her years and with her old-time
force of character.  Mark Twain, arranging for her Keokuk residence, had
written:

     Ma wants to board with you, and pay her board.  She will pay you $20
     a month (she wouldn't pay a cent more in heaven; she is obstinate on
     this point), and as long as she remains with you and is content I
     will add $25 a month to the sum Perkins already sends you.

Jane Clemens attended the Keokuk reading, and later, at home, when her
children asked her if she could still dance, she rose, and at eighty-one
tripped as lightly as a girl.  It was the last time that Mark Twain ever
saw his mother in the health and vigor which had been always so much a
part of her personality.

Clemens saw another relative on that trip; in St. Louis, James Lampton,
the original of Colonel Sellers, called.

He was become old and white-headed, but he entered to me in the same old
breezy way of his earlier life, and he was all there, yet--not a detail
wanting: the happy light in his eye, the abounding hope in his heart, the
persuasive tongue, the miracle-breeding imagination--they were all there;
and before I could turn around he was polishing up his Aladdin's lamp and
flashing the secret riches of the world before me.  I said to myself:
"I did not overdraw him by a shade, I set him down as he was; and he is
the same man to-day.  Cable will recognize him."

Clemens opened the door into Cable's room and allowed the golden dream-
talk to float in.  It was of a "small venture" which the caller had
undertaken through his son.

"Only a little thing--a, mere trifle--a bagatelle.  I suppose there's a
couple of millions in it, possibly three, but not more, I think; still,
for a boy, you know----"

It was the same old Cousin Jim.  Later, when he had royally accepted some
tickets for the reading and bowed his exit, Cable put his head in at the
door.

"That was Colonel Sellers," he said.




CLIII

HUCK FINN COMES INTO HIS OWN

In the December Century (1884) appeared a chapter from 'The Adventures of
Huckleberry Finn', "The Grangerford-Shepherdson Feud," a piece of writing
which Edmund Clarence Stederian, Brander Matthews, and others promptly
ranked as among Mark Twain's very best; when this was followed, in the
January number, by "King Sollermun," a chapter which in its way delighted
quite as many readers, the success of the new book was accounted certain.
--[Stedman, writing to Clemens of this instalment, said: "To my mind it
is not only the most finished and condensed thing you have done.  but as
dramatic and powerful an episode as I know in modern literature."]

'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn' was officially published in England
and America in December, 1884, but the book was not in the canvassers'
hands for delivery until February.  By this time the orders were
approximately for forty thousand copies, a number which had increased to
fifty thousand a few weeks later.  Webster's first publication venture
was in the nature of a triumph.  Clemens wrote to him March 16th:

"Your news is splendid.  Huck certainly is a success."

He felt that he had demonstrated his capacity as a general director and
Webster had proved his efficiency as an executive.  He had no further
need of an outside publisher.

The story of Huck Finn will probably stand as the best of Mark Twain's
purely fictional writings.  A sequel to Tom Sawyer, it is greater than
its predecessor; greater artistically, though perhaps with less immediate
interest for the juvenile reader.  In fact, the books are so different
that they are not to be compared--wherein lies the success of the later
one.  Sequels are dangerous things when the story is continuous, but in
Huckleberry Finn the story is a new one, wholly different in environment,
atmosphere, purpose, character, everything.  The tale of Huck and Nigger
Jim drifting down the mighty river on a raft, cross-secting the various
primitive aspects of human existence, constitutes one of the most
impressive examples of picaresque fiction in any language.  It has been
ranked greater than Gil Blas, greater even than Don Quixote; certainly it
is more convincing, more human, than either of these tales.  Robert Louis
Stevenson once wrote, "It is a book I have read four times, and am quite
ready to begin again to-morrow."

It is by no means a flawless book, though its defects are trivial enough.
The illusion of Huck as narrator fails the least bit here and there; the
"four dialects" are not always maintained; the occasional touch of broad
burlesque detracts from the tale's reality.  We are inclined to resent
this.  We never wish to feel that Huck is anything but a real character.
We want him always the Huck who was willing to go to hell if necessary,
rather than sacrifice Nigger Jim; the Huck who watched the river through
long nights, and, without caring to explain why, felt his soul go out to
the sunrise.

     Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum
     by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely.  Here is the way
     we put in the time.  It was a monstrous big river down there--
     sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights and laid up and hid
     daytimes; soon as the night was most gone we stopped navigating and
     tied up--nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and then
     cut young cottonwoods and willows and hid the raft with them.  Then
     we set out the lines.  Next we slid into the river and had a swim,
     so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy
     bottom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight
     come.  Not a sound anywheres--perfectly still--just like the whole
     world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe.
     The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of
     dull line--that was the woods on t'other side, you couldn't make
     nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness,
     spreading around; then the river softened up, away off, and warn't
     black anymore, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting
     along, ever so far away--trading scows, and such things; and long
     black streaks--rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or
     jumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by-
     and-by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the
     look of the streak that there's a snag there in a swift current
     which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see
     the mist curl up off the water, and the east reddens up, and the
     river, and you make out a log-cabin in the edge of the woods, away
     on the bank on t'other side of the river, being a wood-yard, likely,
     and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it
     anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you
     over there, so cool and fresh, and sweet to smell, on account of the
     woods and the flowers....  And next you've got the full day, and
     everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!

This is the Huck we want, and this is the Huck we usually have, and that
the world has long been thankful for.

Take the story as a whole, it is a succession of startling and unique
pictures.  The cabin in the swamp which Huck and his father used together
in their weird, ghastly relationship; the night adventure with Jim on the
wrecked steamboat; Huck's night among the towheads; the Grangerford-
Shepherdson battle; the killing of Boggs--to name a few of the many vivid
presentations--these are of no time or literary fashion and will never
lose their flavor nor their freshness so long as humanity itself does not
change.  The terse, unadorned Grangerford-Shepherdson episode--built out
of the Darnell--Watson feuds--[See Life on the Mississippi, chap.  xxvi.
Mark Twain himself, as a cub pilot, came near witnessing the battle he
describes.]--is simply classic in its vivid casualness, and the same may
be said of almost every incident on that long river-drift; but this is
the strength, the very essence of picaresque narrative.  It is the way
things happen in reality; and the quiet, unexcited frame of mind in which
Huck is prompted to set them down would seem to be the last word in
literary art.  To Huck, apparently, the killing of Boggs and Colonel
Sherburn's defiance of the mob are of about the same historical
importance as any other incidents of the day's travel.  When Colonel
Sherburn threw his shotgun across his arm and bade the crowd disperse
Huck says:

     The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart and went
     tearing off every which way, and Buck Harkness he heeled it after
     them, looking tolerable cheap.  I could a staid if I'd a wanted to,
     but I didn't want to.

     I went to the circus, and loafed around the back side till the
     watchman went by, and then dived in under the tent.

That is all.  No reflections, no hysterics; a murder and a mob dispersed,
all without a single moral comment.  And when the Shepherdsons had got
done killing the Grangerfords, and Huck had tugged the two bodies ashore
and covered Buck Grangerford's face with a handkerchief, crying a little
because Buck had been good to him, he spent no time in sentimental
reflection or sermonizing, but promptly hunted up Jim and the raft and
sat down to a meal of corn-dodgers, buttermilk, pork and cabbage, and
greens:

     There ain't nothing in the world so good, when it is cooked right;
     and while I eat my supper we talked, and had a good time.  I was
     powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get away
     from the swamp.  We said there warn't no home like a raft, after
     all.  Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft
     don't; you feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.

It was Huck Finn's morality that caused the book to be excluded from the
Concord Library, and from other libraries here and there at a later day.
The orthodox mental attitude of certain directors of juvenile literature
could not condone Huck's looseness in the matter of statement and
property rights, and in spite of New England traditions, Massachusetts
librarians did not take any too kindly to his uttered principle that,
after thinking it over and taking due thought on the deadly sin of
abolition, he had decided that he'd go to hell rather than give Jim over
to slavery.  Poor vagrant Ben Blankenship, hiding his runaway negro in an
Illinois swamp, could not dream that his humanity would one day supply
the moral episode of an immortal book.

Able critics have declared that the psychology of Huck Finn is the book's
large feature: Huck's moral point of view--the struggle between his heart
and his conscience concerning the sin of Jim's concealment, and his final
decision of self-sacrifice.  Time may show that as an epic of the river,
the picture of a vanished day, it will rank even greater.  The problems
of conscience we have always with us, but periods once passed are gone
forever.  Certainly Huck's loyalty to that lovely soul Nigger Jim was
beautiful, though after all it may not have been so hard for Huck, who
could be loyal to anything.  Huck was loyal to his father, loyal to Tom
Sawyer of course, loyal even to those two river tramps and frauds, the
King and the Duke, for whom he lied prodigiously, only weakening when a
new and livelier loyalty came into view--loyalty to Mary Wilks.

The King and the Duke, by the way, are not elsewhere matched in fiction.
The Duke was patterned after a journeyman-printer Clemens had known in
Virginia City, but the King was created out of refuse from the whole
human family--"all tears and flapdoodle," the very ultimate of disrepute
and hypocrisy--so perfect a specimen that one must admire, almost love,
him.  "Hain't we all the fools in town on our side? and ain't that a big
enough majority in any town?" he asks in a critical moment--a remark
which stamps him as a philosopher of classic rank.  We are full of pity
at last when this pair of rapscallions ride out of the history on a rail,
and feel some of Huck's inclusive loyalty and all the sorrowful truth of
his comment: "Human beings can be awful cruel to one another."

The "poor old king" Huck calls him, and confesses how he felt "ornery and
humble and to blame, somehow," for the old scamp's misfortunes.  "A
person's conscience ain't got no sense," he says, and Huck is never more
real to us, or more lovable, than in that moment.  Huck is what he is
because, being made so, he cannot well be otherwise.  He is a boy
throughout--such a boy as Mark Twain had known and in some degree had
been.  One may pettily pick a flaw here and there in the tale's
construction if so minded, but the moral character of Huck himself is not
open to criticism.  And indeed any criticism of this the greatest of Mark
Twain's tales of modern life would be as the mere scratching of the
granite of an imperishable structure.  Huck Finn is a monument that no
puny pecking will destroy.  It is built of indestructible blocks of human
nature; and if the blocks do not always fit, and the ornaments do not
always agree, we need not fear.  Time will blur the incongruities and
moss over the mistakes.  The edifice will grow more beautiful with the
years.




CLIV

THE MEMOIRS OF GENERAL GRANT

The success of Huck Finn, though sufficiently important in itself,
prepared the way for a publishing venture by the side of which it
dwindled to small proportions.  One night (it was early in November,
1884), when Cable and Clemens had finished a reading at Chickering Hall,
Clemens, coming out into the wet blackness, happened to hear Richard
Watson Gilder's voice say to some unseen companion:

"Do you know General Grant has actually determined to write his memoirs
and publish them.  He has said so to-day, in so many words."

Of course Clemens was immediately interested.  It was the thing he had
proposed to Grant some three years previously, during his call that day
with Howells concerning the Toronto consulship.

With Mrs. Clemens, he promptly overtook Gilder and accompanied him to his
house, where they discussed the matter in its various particulars.
Gilder said that the Century Editors had endeavored to get Grant to
contribute to their war series, but that not until his financial
disaster, as a member of the firm of Grant & Ward, had he been willing to
consider the matter.  He said that Grant now welcomed the idea of
contributing three papers to the series, and that the promised payment of
five hundred dollars each for these articles had gladdened his heart and
relieved him of immediate anxiety.--[Somewhat later the Century Company,
voluntarily, added liberally to this sum.]

Gilder added that General Grant seemed now determined to continue his
work until he had completed a book, though this at present was only a
prospect.

Clemens was in the habit of calling on Grant, now and then, to smoke a
cigar with him, and he dropped in next morning to find out just how far
the book idea had developed, and what were the plans of publication.  He
found the General and his son, Colonel Fred Grant, discussing some
memoranda, which turned out to be a proposition from the Century Company
for the book publication of his memoirs.  Clemens asked to be allowed to
look over the proposed terms, and when he had done so he said:

"General, it is clear that the Century people do not realize the
importance--the commercial magnitude of your book.  It is not strange
that this is true, for they are comparatively new publishers and have had
little or no experience with books of this class.  The terms they propose
indicate that they expect to sell five, possibly ten thousand copies.  A
book from your hand, telling the story of your life and battles, should
sell not less than a quarter of a million, perhaps twice that sum.  It
should be sold only by subscription, and you are entitled to double the
royalty here proposed.  I do not believe it is to your interest to
conclude this contract without careful thought and investigation.  Write
to the American Publishing Company at Hartford and see what they will do
for you."

But Grant demurred.  He said that, while no arrangements had been made
with the Century Company, he thought it only fair and right that they
should have the book on reasonable terms; certainly on terms no greater
than he could obtain elsewhere.  He said that, all things being equal,
the book ought to go to the man who had first suggested it to him.

Clemens spoke up: "General, if that is so, it belongs to me."

Grant did not understand until Clemens recalled to him how he had urged
him, in that former time, to write his memoirs; had pleaded with him,
agreeing to superintend the book's publication.  Then he said:

"General, I am publishing my own book, and by the time yours is ready it
is quite possible that I shall have the best equipped subscription
establishment in the country.  If you will place your book with my firm--
and I feel that I have at least an equal right in the consideration--I
will pay you twenty per cent. of the list price, or, if you prefer, I
will give you seventy per cent. of the net returns and I will pay all
office expenses out of my thirty per cent."

General Grant was really grieved at this proposal.  It seemed to him
that here was a man who was offering to bankrupt himself out of pure
philanthropy--a thing not to be permitted.  He intimated that he had
asked the Century Company president, Roswell Smith, a careful-headed
business man, if he thought his book would pay as well as Sherman's,
which the Scribners had published at a profit to Sherman of twenty-five
thousand dollars, and that Smith had been unwilling to guarantee that
amount to the author.--[Mark Twain's note-book, under date of March,
1885, contains this memorandum:  "Roswell Smith said to me: 'I'm glad you
got the book, Mr. Clemens; glad there was somebody with courage enough to
take it, under the circumstances.  What do you think the General wanted
to require of me?'

"'He wanted me to insure a sale of twenty-five thousand sets of his book.
I wouldn't risk such a guarantee on any book that was ever published.'"

Yet Roswell Smith, not so many years later, had so far enlarged his views
of subscription publishing that he fearlessly and successfully invested a
million dollars or more in a dictionary, regardless of the fact that the
market was already thought to be supplied.]

Clemens said:

"General, I have my check-book with me.  I will draw you a check now for
twenty-five thousand dollars for the first volume of your memoirs, and
will add a like amount for each volume you may write as an advance
royalty payment, and your royalties will continue right along when this
amount has been reached."

Colonel Fred Grant now joined in urging that matters be delayed, at least
until more careful inquiry concerning the possibilities of publishing
could be made.

Clemens left then, and set out on his trip with Cable, turning the whole
matter over to Webster and Colonel Fred for settlement.  Meantime, the
word that General Grant was writing his memoirs got into the newspapers
and various publishing propositions came to him.  In the end the General
sent over to Philadelphia for his old friend, George W. Childs, and laid
the whole matter before him.  Childs said later it was plain that General
Grant, on the score of friendship, if for no other reason, distinctly
wished to give the book to Mark Twain.  It seemed not to be a question of
how much money he would make, but of personal feeling entirely.
Webster's complete success with Huck Finn being now demonstrated, Colonel
Fred Grant agreed that he believed Clemens and Webster could handle the
book as profitably as anybody; and after investigation Childs was of the
same opinion.  The decision was that the firm of Charles L. Webster & Co.
should have the book, and arrangements for drawing the contract were
made.

General Grant, however, was still somewhat uneasy as to the terms.
He thought he was taking an unfair advantage in receiving so large a
proportion of the profits.  He wrote to Clemens, asking him which of his
two propositions--the twenty per cent. gross-royalty or the seventy per
cent. of the net profit--would be the best all around.  Clemens sent
Webster to tell him that he believed the simplest, as well as the most
profitable for the author, would be the twenty per cent. arrangement.
Whereupon Grant replied that he would take the alternative; as in that
case, if the book were a failure, and there were no profits, Clemens
would not be obliged to pay him anything.  He could not consent to the
thought of receiving twenty per cent. on a book published at a loss.

Meantime, Grant had developed a serious illness.  The humiliation of his
business failure had undermined his health.  The papers announced his
malady as cancer of the tongue.  In a memorandum which Clemens made,
February 26, 1885, he states that on the 21st he called at the Grant
home, 3 East 66th Street, and was astonished to see how thin and weak the
General looked.  He was astonished because the newspaper, in a second
report, had said the threatening symptoms had disappeared, that the
cancer alarm was a false one.

     I took for granted the report, and said I had been glad to see that
     news.  He smiled and said, "Yes--if it had only been true."

     One of the physicians was present, and he startled me by saying the
     General's condition was the opposite of encouraging.

     Then the talk drifted to business, and the General presently said:
     "I mean you shall have the book--I have about made up my mind to
     that--but I wish to write to Mr. Roswell Smith first, and tell him I
     have so decided.  I think this is due him."

     From the beginning the General has shown a fine delicacy toward
     those people--a delicacy which was native to the character of the
     man who put into the Appomattox terms of surrender the words,
     "Officers may retain their side-arms," to save General Lee the
     humiliation of giving up his sword.  [Note-book.]

The physician present was Dr. Douglas, and upon Clemens assuming that the
General's trouble was probably due to smoking, also that it was a warning
to those who smoked to excess, himself included, Dr. Douglas said that
General Grant's affliction could not be attributed altogether to smoking,
but far more to his distress of mind, his year-long depression of spirit,
the grief of his financial disaster.  Dr. Douglas's remark started
General Grant upon the subject of his connection with Ward, which he
discussed with great freedom and apparent relief of mind.  Never at any
time did he betray any resentment toward Ward, but characterized him as
one might an offending child.  He spoke as a man who has been deeply
wronged and humiliated and betrayed, but without a venomous expression or
one with revengeful nature.  Clemens confessed in his notes that all the
time he himself was "inwardly boiling--scalping Ward--flaying him alive--
breaking him on the wheel--pounding him to a jelly."

While he was talking Colonel Grant said:

"Father is letting you see that the Grant family are a pack of fools, Mr.
Clemens."

The General objected to this statement.  He said that the facts could be
produced which would show that when Ward laid siege to a man he was
pretty certain to turn out to be a fool; as much of a fool as any of the
Grant family.  He said that nobody could call the president of the Erie
Railroad a fool, yet Ward had beguiled him of eight hundred thousand
dollars, robbed him of every cent of it.

He cited another man that no one could call a fool who had invested in
Ward to the extent of half a million.  He went on to recall many such
cases.  He told of one man who had come to the office on the eve of
departure for Europe and handed Ward a check for fifty thousand dollars,
saying:

"I have no use for it at present.  See what you can do with it for me."
By and by this investor, returning from Europe, dropped in and said:

"Well, did anything happen?"

Ward indifferently turned to his private ledger, consulted it, then drew
a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and handed it over,
with the casual remark:

"Well, yes, something happened; not much yet--a little too soon."

The man stared at the check, then thrust it back into Ward's hand.
"That's all right.  It's plenty good enough for me.  Set that hen again,"
and left the place.

Of course Ward made no investments.  His was the first playing on a
colossal scale of the now worn-out "get rich quick" confidence game.
Such dividends as were made came out of the principal.  Ward was the
Napoleon of that game, whether he invented it or not.  Clemens agreed
that, as far as himself or any of his relatives were concerned, they
would undoubtedly have trusted Ward.

Colonel Grant followed him to the door when he left, and told him that
the physicians feared his father might not live more than a few weeks
longer, but that meantime he had been writing steadily, and that the
first volume was complete and fully half the second.  Three days later
the formal contract was closed, and Webster & Co.  promptly advanced.
General Grant ten thousand dollars for imminent demands, a welcome
arrangement, for Grant's debts and expenses were many, and his available
resources restricted to the Century payments for his articles.

Immediately the office of Webster & Co.  was warm with affairs.
Reporters were running hot-foot for news of the great contract by which
Mark Twain was to publish the life of General Grant.  No publishing
enterprise of such vast moment had ever been undertaken, and no
publishing event, before or since, ever received the amount of newspaper
comment.  The names of General Grant and Mark Twain associated would
command columns, whatever the event, and that Mark Twain was to become
the publisher of Grant's own story of his battles was of unprecedented
importance.

The partners were sufficiently occupied.  Estimates and prices for vast
quantities of paper were considered, all available presses were
contracted for, binderies were pledged exclusively for the Grant book.
Clemens was boiling over with plans and suggestions for distribution.
Webster was half wild with the tumult of the great campaign.
Applications for agencies poured in.

In those days there were general subscription agencies which divided the
country into districts, and the heads of these agencies Webster summoned
to New York and laid down the law to them concerning the, new book.  It
was not a time for small dealings, and Webster rose to the occasion.  By
the time these men returned to their homes they had practically pledged
themselves to a quarter of a million sets of the Grant Memoirs, and this
estimate they believed to be conservative.

Webster now moved into larger and more pretentious quarters.  He took a
store-room at 42 East 14th Street, Union Square, and surrounded himself
with a capable force of assistants.  He had become, all at once, the most
conspicuous publisher in the world.





CLV

DAYS WITH A DYING HERO

The contract for the publication of the Grant Life was officially closed
February 27, 1885.  Five days later, on the last day and at the last hour
of President Arthur's administration, and of the Congress then sitting, a
bill was passed placing Grant as full General, with full pay, on the
retired army list.  The bill providing for this somewhat tardy
acknowledgment was rushed through at the last moment, and it is said that
the Congressional clock was set back so that this enactment might become
a law before the administration changed.

Clemens was with General Grant when the news of this action was read to
him.  Grant had greatly desired such recognition, and it meant more to
him than to any one present, yet Clemens in his notes records:

     Every face there betrayed strong excitement and emotion except one-
     General Grant's.  He read the telegram, but not a shade or
     suggestion of a change exhibited itself in his iron countenance.
     The volume of his emotion was greater than all the other emotions
     there present combined, but he was able to suppress all expression
     of it and make no sign.

Grant's calmness, endurance, and consideration during these final days
astonished even those most familiar with his noble character.  One night
Gerhardt came into the library at Hartford with the announcement that he
wished to show his patron a small bust he had been making in clay of
General Grant.  Clemens did not show much interest in the prospect, but
when the work was uncovered he became enthusiastic.  He declared it was
the first likeness he had ever seen of General Grant that approached
reality.  He agreed that the Grant family ought to see it, and that he
would take Gerhardt with him next day in order that he might be within
reach in case they had any suggestions.  They went to New York next
morning, and called at the Grant home during the afternoon.

From the note-book:

     Friday, March 20, 1885.  Gerhardt and I arrived at General Grant's
     about 2.30 P.m.  and I asked if the family would look at a small
     clay bust of the General which Gerhardt had made from a photograph.
     Colonel Fred and Jesse were absent to receive their sister, Mrs.
     Sartoris, who would arrive from Europe about 4.30; but the three
     Mrs. Grants examined the work and expressed strong approval of it,
     and also great gratification that Mr. Gerhardt had undertaken it.
     Mrs. Jesse Grant had lately dreamed that she was inquiring where the
     maker of my bust could be found (she had seen a picture of it in
     Huck Finn, which was published four weeks ago), for she wanted the
     same artist to make one of General Grant.  The ladies examined the
     bust critically and pointed out defects, while Gerhardt made the
     necessary corrections.  Presently Mrs. General Grant suggested that
     Gerhardt step in and look at the General.  I had been in there
     talking with the General, but had never thought of asking him to let
     a stranger come in.  So Gerhardt went in with the ladies and me, and
     the inspection and cross-fire began: "There, I was sure his nose was
     so and so," and, "I was sure his forehead was so and so," and,
     "Don't you think his head is so and so?" And so everybody walked
     around and about the old hero, who lay half reclining in his easy
     chair, but well muffled up, and submitting to all this as serenely
     as if he were used to being served so.  One marked feature of
     General Grant's character is his exceeding gentleness, goodness,
     sweetness.  Every time I have been in his presence--lately and
     formerly--my mind was drawn to that feature.  I wonder it has not
     been more spoken of.

     Presently he said, let Gerhardt bring in his clay and work there, if
     Gerhardt would not mind his reclining attitude.  Of course we were
     glad.  A table for the bust was moved up in front of him; the ladies
     left the room; I got a book; Gerhardt went to work; and for an hour
     there was perfect stillness, and for the first time during the day
     the General got a good, sound, peaceful nap.  General Badeau came
     in, and probably interrupted that nap.  He spoke out as strongly as
     the others concerning the great excellence of the likeness.  He had
     some sheets of MS. in his hand, and said, "I've been reading what
     you wrote this morning, General, and it is of the utmost value; it
     solves a riddle that has puzzled men's brains all these years and
     makes the thing clear and rational."  I asked what the puzzle was,
     and he said, "It was why Grant did not immediately lay siege to
     Vicksburg after capturing Port Hudson" (at least that is my
     recollection, now toward midnight, of General Badeau's answer).

The little bust of Grant which Gerhardt worked on that day was widely
reproduced in terra-cotta, and is still regarded by many as the most
nearly correct likeness of Grant.  The original is in possession of the
family.

General Grant worked industriously on his book.  He had a superb memory
and worked rapidly.  Webster & Co. offered to supply him with a
stenographer, and this proved a great relief.  Sometimes he dictated ten
thousand words at a sitting.  It was reported at the time, and it has
been stated since, that Grant did not write the Memoirs himself, but only
made notes, which were expanded by others.  But this is not true.
General Grant wrote or dictated every word of the story himself, then had
the manuscript read aloud to him and made his own revisions.  He wrote
against time, for he knew that his disease was fatal.  Fortunately the
lease of life granted him was longer than he had hoped for, though the
last chapters were written when he could no longer speak, and when
weakness and suffering made the labor a heavy one indeed; but he never
flinched or faltered, never at any time suggested that the work be
finished by another hand.

Early in April General Grant's condition became very alarming, and on the
night of the 3d it was believed he could not live until morning.  But he
was not yet ready to surrender.  He rallied and renewed his task; feebly
at first, but more perseveringly as each day seemed to bring a little
added strength, or perhaps it was only resolution.  Now and then he
appeared depressed as to the quality of his product.  Once Colonel Fred
Grant suggested to Clemens that if he could encourage the General a
little it might be worth while.  Clemens had felt always such a reverence
and awe for the great soldier that he had never dreamed of complimenting
his literature.

"I was as much surprised as Columbus's cook could have been to learn that
Columbus wanted his opinion as to how Columbus was doing his navigating."

He did not hesitate to give it, however, and with a clear conscience.
Grant wrote as he had fought; with a simple, straightforward dignity,
with a style that is not a style at all but the very absence of it, and
therefore the best of all literary methods.  It happened that Clemens had
been comparing some of Grant's chapters with Caesar's Commentaries, and
was able to say, in all sincerity, that the same high merits
distinguished both books: clarity of statement, directness, simplicity,
manifest truthfulness, fairness and justice toward friend and foe alike,
soldierly candor and frankness, and soldierly avoidance of flowery
speech.

"I placed the two books side by side upon the same level," he said, "and
I still think that they belong there.  I learned afterward that General
Grant was pleased with this verdict.  It shows that he was just a man,
just a human being, just an author."

Within two months after the agents had gone to work canvassing for the
Grant Memoirs--which is to say by the 1st of May, 1885--orders for sixty
thousand sets had been received, and on that day Mark Twain, in his note-
book, made a memorandum estimate of the number of books that the country
would require, figuring the grand total at three hundred thousand sets of
two volumes each.  Then he says:

     If these chickens should really hatch according to my account,
     General Grant's royalties will' amount to $420,000, and will make
     the largest single check ever paid an author in the world's history.
     Up to the present time the largest one ever paid was to Macaulay on
     his History of England, L20,000.  If I pay the General in silver
     coin at $12 per pound it will weigh seventeen tons.

Certainly this has a flavor in it of Colonel Sellers, but we shall see by
and by in how far this calculation was justified.

Grant found the society of Mark Twain cheering and comforting, and
Clemens held himself in readiness to go to the dying man at call.  On the
26th of May he makes this memorandum:

     It is curious and dreadful to sit up in this way and talk cheerful
     nonsense to General Grant, and he under sentence of death with that
     cancer.  He says he has made the book too large by 200 pages--not a
     bad fault.  A short time ago we were afraid we would lack 400 of
     being enough.

     To-day talked with General Grant about his and my first great
     Missouri campaign in 1861.  He surprised an empty camp near Florida,
     Missouri, on Salt River, which I had been occupying a day or two
     before.  How near he came to playing the devil with his future
     publisher.

Of course Clemens would amuse the old commander with the tale of his
soldiering, how his company had been chased through the brush and mud by
the very announcement that Grant was coming.  Some word of this got to
the Century editors, who immediately proposed that Mark Twain contribute
to the magazine War Series the story of his share in the Rebellion, and
particularly of his war relations with General Grant.  So the "Private
History of a Campaign that Failed" was prepared as Mark Twain's side-
light on the history of the Rebellion; and if it was not important
history it was at least amusing, and the telling of that tale in Mark
Twain's inimitable fashion must have gone far toward making cheerful
those last sad days of his ancient enemy.

During one of their talks General Grant spoke of the question as to
whether he or Sherman had originated the idea of the march to the sea.
Grant said:

"Neither of us originated the idea of that march.  The enemy did it."

Reports were circulated of estrangements between General Grant and the
Century Company, and between Mark Twain and the Century Company, as a
result of the book decision.  Certain newspapers exploited and magnified
these rumors--some went so far as to accuse Mark Twain of duplicity, and
to charge him with seeking to obtain a vast fortune for himself at the
expense of General Grant and his family.  All of which was the merest
nonsense.  The Century Company, Webster & Co., General Grant, and Mark
Twain individually, were all working harmoniously, and nothing but the
most cordial relations and understanding prevailed.  As to the charge of
unfair dealing on the part of Mark Twain, this was too absurd, even then,
to attract more than momentary attention.  Webster & Co., somewhat later
in the year, gave to the press a clear statement of their publishing
arrangement, though more particularly denying the report that General
Grant had been unable to complete his work.




CLVI

THE CLOSE OF A GREAT CAREER

The Clemens household did not go to Elmira that year until the 27th of
June.  Meantime General Grant had been taken to Mount McGregor, near the
Adirondacks.  The day after Clemens reached Elmira there came a summons
saying that the General had asked to see him.  He went immediately, and
remained several days.  The resolute old commander was very feeble by
this time.  It was three months since he had been believed to be dying,
yet he was still alive, still at work, though he could no longer speak.
He was adding, here and there, a finishing touch to his manuscript,
writing with effort on small slips of paper containing but a few words
each.  His conversation was carried on in the same way.  Mark Twain
brought back a little package of those precious slips, and some of them
are still preserved.  The writing is perfectly legible, and shows no
indication of a trembling hand.

On one of these slips is written:

     There is much more that I could do if I was a well man.  I do not
     write quite as clearly as I could if well.  If I could read it over
     myself many little matters of anecdote and incident would suggest
     themselves to me.

On another:

     Have you seen any portion of the second volume?  It is up to the
     end, or nearly so.  As much more work as I have done to-day will
     finish it.  I have worked faster than if I had been well.  I have
     used my three boys and a stenographer.

And on still another:

     If I could have two weeks of strength I could improve it very much.
     As I am, however, it will have to go about as it is, with
     verifications by the boys and by suggestions which will enable me to
     make a point clear here and there.

Certainly no campaign was ever conducted with a braver heart.  As long as
his fingers could hold a pencil he continued at his task.  Once he asked
if any estimate could now be made of what portion would accrue to his
family from the publication.  Clemens's prompt reply, that more than one
hundred thousand sets had been sold, and that already the amount of his
share, secured by safe bonds, exceeded one hundred and fifty thousand
dollars, seemed to give him deep comfort.  Clemens told him that the
country was as yet not one-third canvassed, and that without doubt there
turns would be twice as much more by the end of the year.  Grant made no
further inquiry, and probably never again mentioned the subject to any
one.

When Clemens left, General Grant was sitting, fully dressed, with a shawl
about his shoulders, pencil and paper beside him.  It was a picture that
would never fade from the memory.  In a later memorandum he says:

     I then believed he would live several months.  He was still adding
     little perfecting details to his book, and preface, among other
     things.  He was entirely through a few days later.  Since then the
     lack of any strong interest to employ his mind has enabled the
     tedious weariness to kill him.  I think his book kept him alive
     several months.  He was a very great man and superlatively good.

This note was made July 23, 1885, at 10 A.M., on receipt of the news that
General Grant was dead.  To Henry Ward Beecher, Clemens wrote:

     One day he put his pencil aside and said there was nothing more to
     do.  If I had been there I could have foretold the shock that struck
     the world three days later.

It can be truly said that all the nation mourned.  General Grant had no
enemies, political or sectional, in those last days.  The old soldier
battling with a deadly disease, yet bravely completing his task, was a
figure at once so pathetic and so noble that no breath of animosity
remained to utter a single word that was not kind.

Memorial services were held from one end of the country to the other.
Those who had followed him in peace or war, those who had fought beside
him or against him, alike paid tribute to his memory.  Twichell, from the
mountains of Vermont, wrote:

     I suppose I have said to Harmony forty times since I got up here,
     "How I wish I could see Mark!" My notion is that between us we could
     get ourselves expressed.  I have never known any one who could help
     me read my own thoughts in such a case as you can and have done many
     a time, dear old fellow.

     I'd give more to sit on a log with you in the woods this afternoon,
     while we twined a wreath together for Launcelot's grave, than
     to hear any conceivable eulogy of him pronounced by mortal lips.

The death of Grant so largely and so suddenly augmented the orders for
his Memoirs that it seemed impossible to get the first volume printed in
time for the delivery, which had been promised for December 1st.  J. J.
Little had the contract of manufacture, and every available press and
bindery was running double time to complete the vast contract.

In the end more than three hundred thousand sets of two volumes each were
sold, and between four hundred and twenty and four hundred and fifty
thousand dollars was paid to Mrs. Grant.  The first check of two hundred
thousand dollars, drawn February 27, 1886, remains the largest single
royalty check in history.  Mark Twain's prophecy had been almost exactly
verified.




CLVII

MINOR MATTERS OF A GREAT YEAR

The Grant episode, so important in all its phases, naturally overshadowed
other events of 1885.  Mark Twain was so deeply absorbed in this great
publishing enterprise that he wasted little thought or energy in other
directions.

Yet there are a few minor things that it seems worth while to remember.
Howells has told something of the Authors' Reading given for the
Longfellow Memorial, an entertainment managed by George Parsons Lathrop,
though Howells justly claims the glory of having fixed the price of
admission at five dollars.  Then he recalls a pleasing anecdote of
Charles Eliot Norton, who introduced the attractions.

Norton presided, and when it came Clemens's turn to read he introduced
him with such exquisite praises as he best knew how to give, but before
he closed he fell a prey to one of those lapses of tact which are the
peculiar peril of people of the greatest tact.  He was reminded of
Darwin's delight in Mark Twain, and how when he came from his long day's
exhausting study, and sank into bed at midnight, he took up a volume of
Mark Twain, whose books he always kept on a table beside him, and
whatever had been his tormenting problem, or excess of toil, he felt
secure of a good night's rest from it.  A sort of blank ensued which
Clemens filled in the only possible way.  He said he should always be
glad he had contributed to the repose of that great man, to whom science
owed so much, and then without waiting for the joy in every breast to
burst forth, he began to read.

Howells tells of Mark Twain's triumph on this occasion, and in a letter
at the time he wrote: "You simply straddled down to the footlights and
took that house up in the hollow of your hand and tickled it."

Howells adds that the show netted seventeen hundred dollars.  This was
early in May.

Of literary work, beyond the war paper, the "Private History of a
Campaign that Failed" (published December, 1885), Clemens appears to have
done very little.  His thoughts were far too busy with plans for
furthering the sale of the great military Memoir to follow literary
ventures of his own.  At one time he was impelled to dictate an
autobiography--Grant's difficulties in his dying hour suggesting this--
and he arranged with Redpath, who was no longer a lecture agent and
understood stenography, to co-operate with him in the work.  He dictated
a few chapters, but he was otherwise too much occupied to continue.
Also, he was unused to dictation, and found it hard and the result
unsatisfactory.

Two open communications from Mark Twain that year deserve to be
remembered.  One of these; unsigned, was published in the Century
Magazine, and expressed the need for a "universal tinker," the man who
can accept a job in a large household or in a community as master of all
trades, with sufficient knowledge of each to be ready to undertake
whatever repairs are likely to be required in the ordinary household,
such as--"to put in windowpanes, mend gas leaks, jack-plane the edges of
doors that won't shut, keep the waste-pipe and other water-pipe joints,
glue and otherwise repair havoc done in furniture, etc."  The letter was
signed X. Y. Z., and it brought replies from various parts of the world.
None of the applicants seemed universally qualified, but in Kansas City a
business was founded on the idea, adopting "The Universal Tinker" as its
firm name.

The other letter mentioned was written to the 'Christian Union', inspired
by a tale entitled, "What Ought We to Have Done?"  It was a tale
concerning the government of children; especially concerning the
government of one child--John Junior--a child who, as it would appear
from the tale, had a habit of running things pretty much to his own
notion.  The performance of John junior, and of his parents in trying to
manage him, stirred Mark Twain considerably--it being "enough to make a
body's blood boil," as he confesses--and it impelled him to set down
surreptitiously his impressions of what would have happened to John
Junior as a member of the Clemens household.  He did not dare to show the
communication to Mrs. Clemens before he sent it, for he knew pretty well
what its fate would be in that case.  So he took chances and printed it
without her knowledge.  The letter was published July 16, 1885.  It is
too long to be included entire, but it is too illuminating to be
altogether omitted.  After relating, in considerable detail, Mrs.
Clemens's method of dealing with an unruly child--the gentleness yet
firmness of her discipline--he concludes:

     The mother of my children adores them--there is no milder term for
     it--and they worship her; they even worship anything which the touch
     of her hand has made sacred.  They know her for the best and truest
     friend they have ever had, or ever shall have; they know her for one
     who never did them a wrong, and cannot do them a wrong; who never
     told them a lie, nor the shadow of one; who never deceived them by
     even an ambiguous gesture; who never gave them an unreasonable
     command, nor ever contented herself with anything short of a perfect
     obedience; who has always treated them as politely and considerately
     as she would the best and oldest in the land, and has always
     required of them gentle speech and courteous conduct toward all, of
     whatsoever degree with whom they chanced to come in contact; they
     know her for one whose promise, whether of reward or punishment, is
     gold, and always worth its face, to the uttermost farthing.  In a
     word, they know her, and I know her, for the best and dearest mother
     that lives--and by a long, long way the wisest....

     In all my life I have never made a single reference to my wife in
     print before, as far as I can remember, except once in the
     dedication of a book; and so, after these fifteen years of silence,
     perhaps I may unseal my lips this one time without impropriety or
     indelicacy.  I will institute one other novelty: I will send this
     manuscript to the press without her knowledge and without asking her
     to edit it.  This will save it from getting edited into the stove.

Susy's biography refers to this incident at considerable length.  She
states that her father had misgivings after he had sent it to the
Christian Union, and that he tried to recall the manuscript, but found it
too late.  She sets down some comments of her own on her mother's
government, then tells us of the appearance of the article:

When the Christian Union reached the farm and papa's article in it, all
ready and waiting to be read to mama, papa hadn't the courage to show it
to her (for he knew she wouldn't like it at all) at first, and he didn't,
but he might have let it go and never let her see it; but finally he gave
his consent to her seeing it, and told Clara and I we could take it to
her, which we did with tardiness, and we all stood around mama while she
read it, all wondering what she would say and think about it.

She was too much surprised (and pleased privately too) to say much at
first; but, as we all expected, publicly (or rather when she remembered
that this article was to be read by every one that took the Christian
Union) she was rather shocked and a little displeased.

Susy goes on to tell that the article provoked a number of letters, most
of them pleasant ones, but some of them of quite another sort.  One of
the latter fell into her mother's hands, after which there was general
regret that the article had been printed, and the subject was no longer
discussed at Quarry Farm.

Susy's biography is a unique record.  It was a sort of combined memoir
and journal, charming in its innocent frankness and childish insight.
She used to keep it under her pillow, and after she was asleep the
parents would steal it out and find a tender amusement and pathos in its
quaint entries.  It is a faithful record so far as it goes, and the
period it covers is an important one; for it presents a picture of Mark
Twain in the fullness of his manhood, in the golden hour of his fortune.
Susy's beginning has a special value here:--[Susy's' spelling and
punctuation are preserved.]

     We are a very happy family!  We consist of papa, mama, Jean, Clara
     and me.  It is papa I am writing about, and I shall have no trouble
     in not knowing what to say about him, as he is a very striking
     character.  Papa's appearance has been described many times, but
     very incorrectly; he has beautiful curly grey hair, not any too
     thick, or any too long, just right; a Roman nose, which greatly
     improves the beauty of his features, kind blue eyes, and a small
     mustache, he has a wonderfully shaped head, and profile, he has a
     very good figure in short he is an extraordinarily fine looking man.
     All his features are perfect, except that he hasn't extraordinary
     teeth.  His complexion is very fair, and he doesn't ware a beard:

     He is a very good man, and a very funny one; he has got a temper but
     we all of us have in this family.  He is the loveliest man I ever
     saw, or ever hope to see, and oh so absent-minded!

That this is a fair statement of the Clemens home, and the truest picture
of Mark Twain at fifty that has been preserved, cannot be doubted.  His
hair was iron-gray, not entirely white at this time, the auburn tints
everywhere mingled with the shining white that later would mantle it like
a silver crown.  He did not look young for his years, but he was still
young, always young--indestructibly young in spirit and bodily vigor.
Susy tells how that summer he blew soap-bubbles for the children, filling
the bubbles with tobacco smoke; how he would play with the cats, and come
clear down from his study on the hill to see how "Sour Mash," then a
kitten, was getting along; also how he wrote a poem for Jean's donkey,
Cadichon (which they made Kiditchin): She quotes the poem:

                         KIDITCHIN

                    O du lieb' Kiditchin
                    Du bist ganz bewitchin,
                    Waw- - - -he!

                    In summer days Kiditchin
                    Thou'rt dear from nose to britchin
                    Waw----he!

                    No dought thoult get a switchin
                    When for mischief thou'rt itchin'
                    Waw- - - -he!

                    But when you're good Kiditchin
                    You shall feast in James's kitchin
                    Waw- - - -he!

                    O now lift up thy song
                    Thy noble note prolong
                    Thou living Chinese gong!
                    Waw---he!  waw---he waw
                    Sweetest donkey man ever saw.


Clemens undertook to ride Kiditchin one day, to show the children how it
should be done, but Kiditchin resented this interference and promptly
flung him over her head.  He thought she might have been listening to the
poem he had written of her.

Susy's discovery that the secret of her biography was known is shown by
the next entry, and the touch of severity in it was probably not entirely
unconscious:

     Papa said the other day, "I am a mugwump and a mugwump is pure from
     the marrow out."  (Papa knows that I am writing this biography of
     him, and he said this for it.) He doesn't like to go to church at
     all, why I never understood, until just now.  He told us the other
     day that he couldn't bear to hear anyone talk but himself, but that
     he could listen to himself talk for hours without getting tired, of
     course he said this in joke, but I've no doubt it was founded on
     truth.

Susy's picture of life at Quarry Farm at this period is realistic and
valuable--too valuable to be spared from this biography:

     There are eleven cats at the farm here now.  Papa's favorite is a
     little tortoise-shell kitten he has named "Sour Mash," and a little
     spotted one "Fannie."  It is very pretty to see what papa calls the
     cat procession; it was formed in this way.  Old Minniecat headed,
     (the mother of all the cats) next to her came aunt Susie, then Clara
     on the donkey, accompanied by a pile of cats, then papa and Jean
     hand in hand and a pile of cats brought up in the rear, mama and I
     made up the audience.

     Our varius occupations are as follows.  Papa rises about 1/2  past 7
     in the morning, breakfasts at eight, writes, plays tennis with Clara
     and me and tries to make the donkey go, in the morning; does varius
     things in P.M., and in the evening plays tennis with Clara and me
     and amuses Jean and the donkey.

     Mama rises about 1/4 to eight, breakfasts at eight, teaches Jean
     German reading from 9-10; reads German with me from 10-11.  Then she
     reads studdies or visits with aunt Susie for a while, and then she
     reads to Clara and I till lunch time things connected with English
     history (for we hope to go to England next summer) while we sew.
     Then we have lunch.  She studdies for about half an hour or visits
     with aunt Susie, then reads to us an hour or more, then studdies
     writes reads and rests till supper time.  After supper she sits out
     on the porch and works till eight o'clock, from eight o'clock to
     bedtime she plays whist with papa and after she has retired she
     reads and studdies German for a while.

     Clara and I do most everything from practicing to donkey riding and
     playing tag.  While Jean's time is spent in asking mama what she can
     have to eat.

It is impossible, at this distance, to convey all that the farm meant to
the children during the summers of their infancy and childhood and
girlhood which they spent there.  It was the paradise, the dreamland they
looked forward to during all the rest of the year.  Through the long,
happy months there they grew strong and brown, and drank deeply of the
joy of life.  Their cousins Julia, Jervis, and Ida Langdon ranged about
their own ages and were almost their daily companions.  Their games were
mainly of the out-of-doors; the woods and meadows and hillside pastures
were their playground.  Susy was thirteen when she began her diary; a
gentle, thoughtful, romantic child.  One afternoon she discovered a
wonderful tangle of vines and bushes between the study and the sunset--a
rare hiding-place.  She ran breathlessly to her aunt:

"Can I have it?  Can Clara and I have it all for our own?"

The petition was granted, of course, and the place was named Helen's
Bower, for they were reading Thaddeus of Warsaw and the name appealed to
Susy's poetic fancy.  Then Mrs. Clemens conceived the idea of building a
house for the children just beyond the bower.  It was a complete little
cottage when finished, with a porch and with furnishings contributed by
friends and members of the family.  There was a stove--a tiny affair, but
practical--dishes, table, chairs, shelves, and a broom.  The little house
was named Ellerslie, out of Grace Aguilar's Days of Robert Bruce, and
became one of the children's most beloved possessions.  But alas for
Helen's Bower!  A workman was sent to clear away the debris after the
builders, and being a practical man, he cut away Helen's Bower--destroyed
it utterly.  Susy first discovered the vandalism, and came rushing to the
house in a torrent of sorrow.  For her the joy of life seemed ended, and
it was long before she could be comforted.  But Ellerslie in time
satisfied her hunger for retreat, became, in fact, the nucleus around
which the children's summer happiness centered.

To their elders the farm remained always the quiet haven.  Once to
Orion's wife Clemens wrote:

     This is a superb Sunday .  .  .  .

     The city in the valley is purple with shade, as seen from up here at
     the study.  The Cranes are reading and loafing in the canvas-
     curtained summer-house, fifty yards away, on a higher (the highest)
     point; the cats are loafing over at Ellerslie, which is the
     children's estate and dwelling house in their own private grounds
     (by deed from Susie Crane), a hundred yards from the study, among
     the clover and young oaks and willows.  Livy is down at the house,
     but I shall now go and bring her up to the Cranes to help us occupy
     the lounges and hammocks, whence a great panorama of distant hills
     and valley and city is seeable.  The children have gone on a lark
     through the neighboring hills and woods, Susie and Clara horseback
     and Jean, driving a buggy, with the coachman for comrade and
     assistant at need.  It is a perfect day indeed.

The ending of each year's summer brought only regret.  Clemens would
never take away all his things.  He had an old superstition that to leave
some article insured return.  Mrs. Clemens also left something--her
heart's content.  The children went around bidding various objects good-
by and kissed the gates of Ellerslie too.




CLVIII

MARK TWAIN AT FIFTY

Mark Twain's fiftieth birthday was one of the pleasantly observed events
of that year.  There was no special celebration, but friends sent kindly
messages, and The Critic, then conducted by Jeannette and Joseph Gilder,
made a feature of it.  Miss Gilder wrote to Oliver Wendell Holmes and
invited some verses, which with his never-failing kindliness he sent,
though in his accompanying note he said:

"I had twenty-three letters spread out on my table for answering, all
marked immediate, when your note came."

Dr. Holmes's stanzas are full of his gentle spirit:


                    TO MARK TWAIN

                    (On his fiftieth birthday)

                    Ah, Clemens, when I saw thee last,
                    We both of us were younger;
                    How fondly mumbling o'er the past
                    Is Memory's toothless hunger!

                    So fifty years have fled, they say,
                    Since first you took to drinking;
                    I mean in Nature's milky way
                    Of course no ill I'm thinking.

                    But while on life's uneven road
                    Your track you've been pursuing,
                    What fountains from your wit have flowed
                    What drinks you have been brewing!

                    I know whence all your magic came,
                    Your secret I've discovered,
                    The source that fed your inward flame,
                    The dreams that round you hovered.

                    Before you learned to bite or munch,
                    Still kicking in your cradle,
                    The Muses mixed a bowl of punch
                    And Hebe seized the ladle.

                    Dear babe, whose fiftieth year to-day
                    Your ripe half-century rounded,
                    Your books the precious draught betray
                    The laughing Nine compounded.

                    So mixed the sweet, the sharp, the strong,
                    Each finds its faults amended,
                    The virtues that to each belong
                    In happiest union blended.

                    And what the flavor can surpass
                    Of sugar, spirit, lemons?
                    So while one health fills every glass
                    Mark Twain for Baby Clemens!

                    OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.


Frank R. Stockton, Charles Dudley Warner, and Joel Chandler Harris sent
pleasing letters.  Warner said:

     You may think it an easy thing to be fifty years old, but you will
     find it's not so easy to stay there, and your next fifty years will
     slip away much faster than those just accomplished.

Many wrote letters privately, of course, and Andrew Lang, like Holmes,
sent a poem that has a special charm.


                         FOR MARK TWAIN

                    To brave Mark Twain, across the sea,
                    The years have brought his jubilee.
                    One hears it, half in pain,
                    That fifty years have passed and gone
                    Since danced the merry star that shone
                    Above the babe Mark Twain.

                    We turn his pages and we see
                    The Mississippi flowing free;
                    We turn again and grin
                    O'er all Tom Sawyer did and planned
                    With him of the ensanguined hand,
                    With Huckleberry Finn!

                    Spirit of Mirth, whose chime of bells
                    Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells
                    Across the Atlantic main,
                    Grant that Mark's laughter never die,
                    That men through many a century
                    May chuckle o'er Mark Twain!


Assuredly Mark Twain was made happy by these attentions; to Dr. Holmes he
wrote:

DEAR DR. HOLMES,--I shall never be able to tell you the half of how
proud you have made me.  If I could you would say you were nearly paid
for the trouble you took.  And then the family: If I could convey the
electrical surprise and gratitude and exaltation of the wife and the
children last night, when they happened upon that Critic where I had,
with artful artlessness, spread it open and retired out of view to see
what would happen--well, it was great and fine and beautiful to see, and
made me feel as the victor feels when the shouting hosts march by: and if
you also could have seen it you would have said the account was squared.
For I have brought them up in your company, as in the company of a warm
and friendly and beneficent but far-distant sun; and so, for you to do
this thing was for the sun to send down out of the skies the miracle of a
special ray and transfigure me before their faces.  I knew what that poem
would be to them; I knew it would raise me up to remote and shining
heights in their eyes, to very fellowship with the chambered Nautilus
itself, and that from that fellowship they could never more dissociate me
while they should live; and so I made sure to be by when the surprise
should come.

Charles Dudley Warner is charmed with the poem for its own felicitous
sake; and so indeed am I, but more because it has drawn the sting of my
fiftieth year; taken away the pain of it, the grief of it, the somehow
shame of it, and made me glad and proud it happened.

               With reverence and affection,
                         Sincerely yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


So Samuel Clemens had reached the half-century mark; reached it in what
seemed the fullness of success from every viewpoint.  If he was not yet
the foremost American man of letters, he was at least the most widely
known he sat upon the highest mountain-top.  Furthermore, it seemed to
him that fortune was showering her gifts into his lap.  His unfortunate
investments were now only as the necessary experiments that had led him
to larger successes.  As a publisher, he was already the most conspicuous
in the world, and he contemplated still larger ventures: a type-setting
machine patent, in which he had invested, and now largely controlled, he
regarded as the chief invention of the age, absolutely certain to yield
incalculable wealth.  His connection with the Grant family had associated
him with an enterprise looking to the building of a railway from
Constantinople to the Persian Gulf.  Charles A.  Dana, of the Sun, had
put him in the way of obtaining for publication the life of the Pope, Leo
XIII, officially authorized by the Pope himself, and this he regarded as
a certain fortune.

Now that the tide had turned he felt no hesitancy in reckoning a fortune
from almost any venture.  The Grant book, even on the liberal terms
allowed to the author, would yield a net profit of one hundred and fifty
thousand dollars to its publishers.  Huck Finn would yield fifty thousand
dollars more.  The sales of his other books had considerably increased.
Certainly, at fifty, Mark Twain's fortunes were at flood-tide; buoyant
and jubilant, he was floating on the topmost wave.  If there were
undercurrents and undertow they were down somewhere out of sight.  If
there were breakers ahead, they were too far distant to be heard.  So
sure was he of the triumphant consummation of every venture that to a
friend at his home one night he said:

"I am frightened at the proportions of my prosperity.  It seems to me
that whatever I touch turns to gold."




CLIX

THE LIFE OF THE POPE

As Mark Twain in the earlier days of his marriage had temporarily put
aside authorship to join in a newspaper venture, so now again literature
had dropped into the background, had become an avocation, while financial
interests prevailed.  There were two chief ventures--the business of
Charles L. Webster & Co.  and the promotion of the Paige type-setting
machine.  They were closely identified in fortunes, so closely that in
time the very existence of each depended upon the success of the other;
yet they were quite distinct, and must be so treated in this story.

The success of the Grant Life had given the Webster business an immense
prestige.  It was no longer necessary to seek desirable features for
publication.  They came uninvited.  Other war generals preparing their
memoirs naturally hoped to appear with their great commander.
McClellan's Own Story was arranged for without difficulty.  A Genesis of
the Civil War, by Gen. Samuel Wylie Crawford, was offered and accepted.
General Sheridan's Memoirs were in preparation, and negotiations with
Webster & Co.  for their appearance were not delayed.  Probably neither
Webster nor Clemens believed that the sale of any of these books would
approach those of the Grant Life, but they expected them to be large, for
the Grant book had stimulated the public taste for war literature, and
anything bearing the stamp of personal battle experience was considered
literary legal-tender.

Moreover, these features, and even the Grant book itself, seemed likely
to dwindle in importance by the side of The Life of Pope Leo XIII., who
in his old and enfeebled age had consented to the preparation of a
memoir, to be published with his sanction and blessing.--[By Bernard
O'Reilly, D.D., LL.D.  "Written with the Encouragement, Approbation, and
Blessings of His Holiness the Pope."]--Clemens and Webster--every one,
in fact, who heard of the project--united in the belief that no book,
with the exception of the Holy Scripture itself or the Koran, would have
a wider acceptance than the biography of the Pope.  It was agreed by good
judges--and they included Howells and Twichell and even the shrewd
general agents throughout the country--that every good Catholic would
regard such a book not only as desirable, but as absolutely necessary to
his salvation.  Howells, recalling Clemens's emotions of this time,
writes:

     He had no words in which to paint the magnificence of the project or
     to forecast its colossal success.  It would have a currency bounded
     only by the number of Catholics in Christendom.  It would be
     translated into every language which was anywhere written or
     printed; it would be circulated literally in every country of the
     globe.

The formal contract for this great undertaking was signed in Rome in
April, 1886, and Webster immediately prepared to go over to consult with
his Holiness in person as to certain details, also, no doubt, for the
newspaper advertising which must result from such an interview.

It was decided to carry a handsome present to the Pope in the form of a
specially made edition of the Grant Memoirs in a rich-casket, and it was
Clemens's idea that the binding of the book should be solid gold--this to
be done by Tiffany at an estimated cost of about three thousand dollars.
In the end, however, the binding was not gold, but the handsomest that
could be designed of less precious and more appropriate materials.

Webster sailed toward the end of June, and was warmly received and highly
honored in Rome.  The great figures of the Grant success had astonished
Europe even more than America, where spectacular achievements were more
common.  That any single publication should pay a profit to author and
publisher of six hundred thousand dollars was a thing which belonged with
the wonders of Aladdin's garden.  It was natural, therefore, that
Webster, who had rubbed the magic lamp with this result, who was Mark
Twain's partner, and who had now traveled across the seas to confer with
the Pope himself, should be received with royal honors.  In letters
written at the time, Webster relates how he found it necessary to have an
imposing carriage and a footman to maintain the dignity of his mission,
and how, after various impressive formalities, he was granted a private
audience, a very special honor indeed.  Webster's letter gives us a
picture of his Holiness which is worth preserving.

     We--[Mrs. Webster, who, the reader will remember, was Annie Moffett,
     a daughter of Pamela Clemens, was included in the invitation to the
     Presence Chamber.]--found ourselves in a room perhaps twenty-five by
     thirty-five feet; the furniture was gilt, upholstered in light-red
     silk, and the side-walls were hung with the same material.  Against
     the wall by which we entered and in the middle space was a large
     gilt throne chair, upholstered in red plush, and upon it sat a man
     bowed with age; his hair was silvery white and as pure as the driven
     snow.  His head was partly covered with a white skullcap; he was
     dressed in a long white cassock which reached to his feet, which
     rested upon a red-plush cushion and were inclosed in red embroidered
     slippers with a design of a cross.  A golden chain was about his
     neck and suspended by it in his lap was a gold cross set in precious
     stones.  Upon a finger of his right hand was a gold ring with an
     emerald setting nearly an inch in diameter.  His countenance was
     smiling, and beamed with benevolence.  His face at once impressed us
     as that of a noble, pure man who could not do otherwise than good.

     This was the Pope of Rome, and as we advanced, making the three
     genuflexions prescribed by etiquette, he smiled benignly upon us.
     We advanced and, kneeling at his feet, kissed the seal upon his
     ring.  He took us each by the hand repeatedly during the audience
     and made us perfectly at our ease.

They remained as much as half an hour in the Presence; and the Pope
conversed on a variety of subjects, including the business failure of
General Grant, his last hours, and the great success of his book.  The
figures seemed to him hardly credible, and when Webster assured him that
already a guaranteed sale of one hundred thousand copies of his own
biography had been pledged by the agents he seemed even more astonished.
"We in Italy cannot comprehend such things," he said.  "I know you do
great work in America; I know you have done a great and noble work in
regard to General Grant's book, but that my Life should have such a sale
seems impossible."

He asked about their home, their children, and was in every way the
kindly, gentle-hearted man that his pictured face has shown him.  Then he
gave them his final blessing and the audience closed.

     We each again kissed the seal on his ring.  As Annie was about to
     kiss it he suddenly withdrew his hand and said, "And will you, a
     little Protestant, kiss the Pope's ring?"  As he said this, his face
     was all smiles, and mischief was clearly delineated upon it.  He
     immediately put back his hand and she kissed the ring.  We now
     withdrew, backing out and making three genuflexions as before.  Just
     as we reached the door he called to Dr. O'Reilly, "Now don't praise
     me too much; tell the truth, tell the truth."




CLX

A GREAT PUBLISHER AT HOME

Men are likely to be spoiled by prosperity, to be made arrogant, even
harsh.  Success made Samuel Clemens merely elate, more kindly, more
humanly generous.  Every day almost he wrote to Webster, suggesting some
new book or venture, but always considerately, always deferring to
suggestions from other points of view.  Once, when it seemed to him that
matters were not going as well as usual, a visit from Webster showed him
that it was because of his own continued absence from the business that
he did not understand.  Whereupon he wrote:

     DEAR CHARLEY,--Good--it's all good news.  Everything is on the
     pleasantest possible basis now, and is going to stay so.  I blame
     myself in not looking in on you oftener in the past--that would have
     prevented all trouble.  I mean to stand to my duty better now.

At another time, realizing the press of responsibility, and that Webster
was not entirely well, he sent a warning from Mrs. Clemens against
overwork.  He added:

     Your letter shows that you need such a warning.  So I warn you
     myself to look after that.  Overwork killed Mr. Langdon and it can
     kill you.

Clemens found his own cares greatly multiplied.  His connection with the
firm was widely known, and many authors sent him their manuscripts or
wrote him personal letters concerning them.  Furthermore, he was beset by
all the cranks and beggars in Christendom.  His affairs became so
numerous at length that he employed a business agent, F. G. Whitmore, to
relieve him of a part of his burden.  Whitmore lived close by, and was a
good billiard-player.  Almost anything from the morning mail served as an
excuse to send for Whitmore.

Clemens was fond of affairs when they were going well; he liked the game
of business, especially when it was pretentious and showily prosperous.
It is probable that he was never more satisfied with his share of fortune
than just at this time.  Certainly his home life was never happier.
Katie Leary, for thirty years in the family service, has set down some
impressions of that pleasant period.

     Mr. Clemens was a very affectionate father.  He seldom left the
     house at night, but would read to the family, first to the children
     until bedtime, afterward to Mrs. Clemens.  He usually read Browning
     to her.  They were very fond of it.  The children played charades a
     great deal, and he was wonderful at that game and always helped
     them.  They were very fond of private theatricals.  Every Saturday
     of their lives they had a temporary stage put up in the school-room
     and we all had to help.  Gerhardt painted the scenery.  They
     frequently played the balcony scene from "Romeo and Juliet" and
     several plays they wrote themselves.  Now and then we had a big
     general performance of "The Prince and the Pauper."  That would be
     in the library and the dining-room with the folding-doors open.  The
     place just held eighty-four chairs, and the stage was placed back
     against the conservatory.  The children were crazy about acting and
     we all enjoyed it as much as they did, especially Mr. Clemens, who
     was the best actor of all.  I had a part, too, and George.  I have
     never known a happier household than theirs was during those years.

     Mr. Clemens spent most of his time up in the billiard-room, writing
     or playing billiards.  One day when I went in, and he was shooting
     the balls around the tables, I noticed smoke coming up from the
     hearth.  I called Patrick, and John O'Neill, the gardener, and we
     began taking up the hearth to see what was the matter.  Mr. Clemens
     kept on playing billiards right along and paid no attention to what
     we were doing.  Finally, when we got the hearth up, a lot of flame
     and smoke came out into the room.  The house was on fire.  Mr.
     Clemens noticed then what we were about, and went over to the corner
     where there were some bottle fire-extinguishers.  He took one down
     and threw it into the flames.  This put them out a good deal, and he
     took up his cue, went back to the table, and began to shoot the
     balls around again as if nothing had happened.  Mrs. Clemens came in
     just then and said, "Why, the house is afire!"

     "Yes, I know it," he said, but went on playing.

     We had a telephone and it didn't work very well.  It annoyed him a
     good deal and sometimes he'd say:

     "I'll tear it out."

     One day he tried to call up Mrs. Dr. Tafft.  He could not hear
     plainly and thought he was talking to central.  "Send down and take
     this d---thing out of here," he said; "I'm tired of it."  He was
     mad, and using a good deal of bad language.  All at once he heard
     Mrs. Dr. Tafft say, "Oh, Mr. Clemens, good morning."  He said, "Why,
     Mrs. Tafft, I have just come to the telephone.  George, our butler,
     was here before me and I heard him swearing as I came up.  I shall
     have to talk to him about it."

     Mrs. Tafft often told it on him.--[ Mark Twain once wrote to the
     telephone management: "The time is coming very soon when the
     telephone will be a perfect instrument, when proximity will no
     longer be a hindrance to its performance, when, in fact, one will
     hear a man who is in the next block just as easily and comfortably
     as he would if that man were in San Francisco."]
     Mrs. Clemens, before I went there, took care of his desk, but little
     by little I began to look after it when she was busy at other
     things.  Finally I took care of it altogether, but he didn't know it
     for a long time.  One morning he caught me at it.  "What are you
     doing here?" he asked.

     "Dusting, Mr. Clemens," I said.

     "You have no business here," he said, very mad.

     "I've been doing it for a year, Mr. Clemens," I said.  "Mrs. Clemens
     told me to do it."

     After that, when he missed anything--and he missed things often--he
     would ring for me.  "Katie," he would say, "you have lost that
     manuscript."

     "Oh, Mr. Clemens,", I would say, "I am sure I didn't touch it."

     "Yes, you did touch it, Katie.  You put it in the fire.  It is
     gone."

     He would scold then, and fume a great deal.  Then he would go over
     and mark out with his toe on the carpet a line which I was never to
     cross.  "Katie," he would say, "you are never to go nearer to my
     desk than that line.  That is the dead-line."  Often after he had
     scolded me in the morning he would come in in the evening where I
     was dressing Mrs. Clemens to go out and say, "Katie, I found that
     manuscript."  And I would say, "Mr. Clemens, I felt so bad this
     morning that I wanted to go away."

     He had a pipe-cleaner which he kept on a high shelf.  It was an
     awful old dirty one, and I didn't know that he ever used it.  I took
     it to the balcony which was built out into the woods and threw it
     away as far as I could throw it.  Next day he asked, "Katie, did you
     see my pipe-cleaner?  You did see it; I can tell by your looks."

     I said, "Yes, Mr. Clemens, I threw it away."

     "Well," he said, "it was worth a thousand dollars," and it seemed so
     to me, too, before he got done scolding about it.

It is hard not to dwell too long on the home life of this period.  One
would like to make a long chapter out of those play-acting evenings
alone.  They remained always fresh in Mark Twain's memory.  Once he wrote
of them:

     We dined as we could, probably with a neighbor, and by quarter to
     eight in the evening the hickory fire in the hall was pouring a
     sheet of flame up the chimney, the house was in a drench of gas-
     light from the ground floor up, the guests were arriving, and there
     was a babble of hearty greetings, with not a voice in it that was
     not old and familiar and affectionate; and when the curtain went up
     we looked out from the stage upon none but faces that were dear to
     us, none but faces that were lit up with welcome for us.




CLXI

HISTORY: MAINLY BY SUSY

Suzy, in her biography, which she continued through this period, writes:

     Mama and I have both been very much troubled of late because papa,
     since he had been publishing General Grant's books, has seemed to
     forget his own books and works entirely; and the other evening, as
     papa and I were promonading up and down the library, he told me that
     he didn't expect to write but one more book, and then he was ready
     to give up work altogether, die, or, do anything; he said that he
     had written more than he had ever expected to, and the only book
     that he had been pertickularly anxious to write was one locked up in
     the safe downstairs, not yet published.

The book locked in the safe was Captain Stormfield, and the one he
expected to write was A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.  He
had already worked at it in a desultory way during the early months of
1886, and once wrote of it to Webster:

     I have begun a book whose scene is laid far back in the twilight of
     tradition; I have saturated myself with the atmosphere of the day
     and the subject and got myself into the swing of the work.  If I peg
     away for some weeks without a break I am safe.

But he could not peg away.  He had too many irons in the fire for that.
Matthew Arnold had criticized General Grant's English, and Clemens
immediately put down other things to rush to his hero's defense.  He
pointed out that in Arnold's criticism there were no less than "two
grammatical crimes and more than several examples of very crude and
slovenly English," and said:

     There is that about the sun which makes us forget his spots, and
     when we think of General Grant our pulses quicken and his grammar
     vanishes; we only remember that this is the simple soldier, who, all
     untaught of the silken phrase-makers, linked words together with an
     art surpassing the art of the schools, and put into them a something
     which will still bring to American ears, as long as America shall
     last, the roll of his vanished drums and the tread of his marching
     hosts.--[Address to Army and Navy Club.  For full text see
     Appendix]

Clemens worked at the Yankee now and then, and Howells, when some of the
chapters were read to him, gave it warm approval and urged its
continuance.

Howells was often in Hartford at this time.  Webster & Co.  were planning
to publish The Library of Humor, which Howells and "Charley" Clark had
edited several years before, and occasional conferences were desirable.
Howells tells us that, after he and Clark had been at great trouble to
get the matter logically and chronologically arranged, Clemens pulled it
all to pieces and threw it together helter-skelter, declaring that there
ought to be no sequence in a book of that sort, any more than in the
average reader's mind; and Howells admits that this was probably the
truer method in a book made for the diversion rather than the instruction
of the reader.

One of the literary diversions of this time was a commentary on a
delicious little book by Caroline B. Le Row--English as She Is Taught--
being a compilation of genuine answers given to examination questions by
pupils in our public schools.  Mark Twain was amused by such definitions
as: "Aborigines, system of mountains"; "Alias--a good man in the Bible";
"Ammonia--the food of the gods," and so on down the alphabet.

Susy, in her biography, mentions that her father at this is time read to
them a little article which he had just written, entitled "Luck," and
that they thought it very good.  It was a story which Twichell had heard
and told to Clemens, who set it down about as it came to him.  It was
supposed to be true, yet Clemens seemed to think it too improbable for
literature and laid it away for a number of years.  We shall hear of it
again by and by.

From Susy's memoranda we gather that humanity at this time was to be
healed of all evils and sorrows through "mind cure."

     Papa has been very much interested of late in the "mind-cure"
     theory.  And, in fact, so have we all.  A young lady in town has
     worked wonders by using the "mind cure" upon people; she is
     constantly busy now curing peoples' diseases in this way--and curing
     her own, even, which to me seems the most remarkable of all.

     A little while past papa was delighted with the knowledge of what he
     thought the best way of curing a cold, which was by starving it.
     This starving did work beautifully, and freed him from a great many
     severe colds.  Now he says it wasn't the starving that helped his
     colds, but the trust in the starving, the "mind cure" connected with
     the starving.

     I shouldn't wonder if we finally became firm believers in "mind
     cure."  The next time papa has a cold I haven't a doubt he will send
     for Miss Holden, the young lady who is doctoring in the "mind-cure"
     theory, to cure him of it.

Again, a month later, she writes:

     April 19, 1886.  Yes, the "mind cure" does seem to be working
     wonderfully.  Papa, who has been using glasses now for more than a
     year, has laid them off entirely.  And my near-sightedness is really
     getting better.  It seems marvelous.  When Jean has stomack-ache
     Clara and I have tried to divert her by telling her to lie on her
     side and try "mind cure."  The novelty of it has made her willing to
     try it, and then Clara and I would exclaim about how wonderful it
     was she was getting better.  And she would think it realy was
     finally, and stop crying, to our delight.

     The other day mama went into the library and found her lying on the
     sofa with her back toward the door.  She said, "Why, Jean, what's
     the matter?  Don't you feel well?"  Jean said that she had a little
     stomack-ache, and so thought she would lie down.  Mama said, "Why
     don't you try 'mind cure'?"  "I am," Jean answered.

Howells and Twichell were invited to try the "mind cure," as were all
other friends who happened along.  To the end of his days Clemens would
always have some panacea to offer to allay human distress.  It was a good
trait, when all is said, for it had its root in his humanity.  The "mind
cure" did not provide all the substance of things hoped for, though he
always allowed for it a wide efficacy.  Once, in later years, commenting
on Susy's record, he said:

     The mind cannot heal broken bones, and doubtless there are many
     other physical ills which it cannot heal, but it can greatly help to
     modify the severities of all of them without exception, and there
     are mental and nervous ailments which it can wholly heal without the
     help of physician or surgeon.

Susy records another burning interest of this time:

     Clara sprained her ankle a little while ago by running into a tree
     when coasting, and while she was unable to walk with it she played
     solotaire with cards a great deal.  While Clara was sick and papa
     saw her play solotaire so much he got very much interested in the
     game, and finally began to play it himself a little; then Jean took
     it up, and at last mama even played it occasionally; Jean's and
     papa's love for it rapidly increased, and now Jean brings the cards
     every night to the table and papa and mama help her play, and before
     dinner is at an end papa has gotten a separate pack of cards and is
     playing alone, with great interest.  Mama and Clara next are made
     subject to the contagious solotaire, and there are four
     solotarireans at the table, while you hear nothing but "Fill up the
     place," etc.  It is dreadful!

But a little further along Susy presents her chief subject more
seriously.  He is not altogether absorbed with "mind cure" and solitaire,
or even with making humorous tales.

     Papa has done a great deal in his life I think that is good and very
     remarkable, but I think if he had had the advantages with which he
     could have developed the gifts which he has made no use of in
     writing his books, or in any other way, for peoples' pleasure and
     benefit outside of his own family and intimate friends, he could
     have done more than he has, and a great deal more, even.  He is
     known to the public as a humorist, but he has much more in him that
     is earnest than that is humorous.  He has a keen sense of the
     ludicrous, notices funny stories and incidents, knows how to tell
     them, to improve upon them, and does not forget them.

And again:

     When we are all alone at home nine times out of ten he talks about
     some very earnest subject (with an occasional joke thrown in), and
     he a good deal more often talks upon such subjects than upon the
     other kind.

     He is as much of a philosopher as anything, I think.  I think he
     could have done a great deal in this direction if he had studied
     while young, for he seems to enjoy reasoning out things, no matter
     what; in a great many such directions he has greater ability than in
     the gifts which have made him famous.

It was with the keen eyes and just mind of childhood that Susy estimated,
and there is little to add to her valuation.

Susy's biography came to an end that summer after starting to record a
visit which they all made to Keokuk to see Grandma Clemens.  They went by
way of the Lakes and down the Mississippi from St.  Paul.  A pleasant
incident happened that first evening on the river.  Soon after nightfall
they entered a shoal crossing.  Clemens, standing alone on the hurricane-
deck, heard the big bell forward boom out the call for leads.  Then came
the leadsman's long-drawn chant, once so familiar, the monotonous
repeating in river parlance of the depths of water.  Presently the lead
had found that depth of water signified by his nom de plume and the call
of "Mark Twain, Mark Twain" floated up to him like a summons from the
past.  All at once a little figure came running down the deck, and Clara
confronted him, reprovingly:

"Papa," she said, "I have hunted all over the boat for you.  Don't you
know they are calling for you?"

They remained in Keokuk a week, and Susy starts to tell something of
their visit there.  She begins:

"We have arrived in Keokuk after a very pleasant----"

The sentence remains unfinished.  We cannot know what was the
interruption or what new interest kept her from her task.  We can only
regret that the loving little hand did not continue its pleasant history.
Years later, when Susy had passed from among the things we know, her
father, commenting, said:

     When I look at the arrested sentence that ends the little book it
     seems as if the hand that traced it cannot be far--it is gone for a
     moment only, and will come again and finish it.  But that is a
     dream; a creature of the heart, not of the mind--a feeling, a
     longing, not a mental product; the same that lured Aaron Burr, old,
     gray, forlorn, forsaken, to the pier day after day, week after week,
     there to stand in the gloom and the chill of the dawn, gazing
     seaward through veiling mists and sleet and snow for the ship which
     he knew was gone down, the ship that bore all his treasure--his
     daughter.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext Volume 2, Part 1 of MARK TWAIN,
A BIOGRAPHY 1875-1886 by Albert Bigelow Paine






MARK TWAIN, A BIOGRAPHY

By Albert Bigelow Paine



VOLUME II, Part 2: 1886-1900


CLXII

BROWNING, MEREDITH, AND MEISTERSCHAFT

The Browning readings must have begun about this time.  Just what kindled
Mark Twain's interest in the poetry of Robert Browning is not remembered,
but very likely his earlier associations with the poet had something to
do with it.  Whatever the beginning, we find him, during the winter of
1886 and 1887, studiously, even violently, interested in Browning's
verses, entertaining a sort of club or class who gathered to hear his
rich, sympathetic, and luminous reading of the Payleyings--"With Bernard
de Mandeville," "Daniel Bartoli," or "Christopher Smart."  Members of the
Saturday Morning Club were among his listeners and others-friends of the
family.  They were rather remarkable gatherings, and no one of that group
but always vividly remembered the marvelously clear insight which Mark
Twain's vocal personality gave to those somewhat obscure measures.  They
did not all of them realize that before reading a poem he studied it line
by line, even word by word; dug out its last syllable of meaning, so far
as lay within human possibility, and indicated with pencil every shade of
emphasis which would help to reveal the poet's purpose.  No student of
Browning ever more devoutly persisted in trying to compass a master's
intent--in such poems as "Sordello," for instance--than Mark Twain.
Just what permanent benefit he received from this particular passion it
is difficult to know.  Once, at a class-meeting, after finishing "Easter
Day," he made a remark which the class requested him to "write down."
It is recorded on the fly-leaf of Dramatis Personae as follows:

     One's glimpses & confusions, as one reads Browning, remind me of
     looking through a telescope (the small sort which you must move with
     your hand, not clock-work).  You toil across dark spaces which are
     (to your lens) empty; but every now & then a splendor of stars &
     suns bursts upon you and fills the whole field with flame.  Feb.
     23, 1887.

In another note he speaks of the "vague dim flash of splendid hamming-
birds through a fog."  Whatever mental treasures he may or may not have
laid up from Browning there was assuredly a deep gratification in the
discovery of those splendors of "stars and suns" and the flashing
"humming-birds," as there must also have been in pointing out those
wonders to the little circle of devout listeners.  It all seemed so worth
while.

It was at a time when George Meredith was a reigning literary favorite.
There was a Meredith cult as distinct as that of Browning.  Possibly it
exists to-day, but, if so, it is less militant.  Mrs. Clemens and her
associates were caught in the Meredith movement and read Diana of the
Crossways and the Egoist with reverential appreciation.

The Meredith epidemic did not touch Mark Twain.  He read but few novels
at most, and, skilful as was the artistry of the English favorite, he
found his characters artificialities--ingeniously contrived puppets
rather than human beings, and, on the whole, overrated by their creator.
Diana of the Crossways was read aloud, and, listening now and then, he
was likely to say:

"It doesn't seem to me that Diana lives up to her reputation.  The author
keeps telling us how smart she is, how brilliant, but I never seem to
hear her say anything smart or brilliant.  Read me some of Diana's smart
utterances."

He was relentless enough in his criticism of a literature he did not care
for, and he never learned to care for Meredith.

He read his favorite books over and over with an everchanging point of
view.  He re-read Carlyle's French Revolution during the summer at the
farm, and to Howells he wrote:

     How stunning are the changes which age makes in man while he sleeps!
     When I finished Carlyle's French Revolution in 1871 I was a
     Girondin; every time I have read it since I have read it
     differently--being influenced & changed, little by little, by life &
     environment (& Taine & St. Simon); & now I lay the book down once
     more, & recognize that I am a Sansculotte!--And not a pale,
     characterless Sansculotte, but a Marat.  Carlyle teaches no such
     gospel, so the change is in me--in my vision of the evidences.

     People pretend that the Bible means the same to them at 50 that it
     did at all former milestones in their journey.  I wonder how they
     can lie so.  It comes of practice, no doubt.  They would not say
     that of Dickens's or Scott's books.  Nothing remains the same.  When
     a man goes back to look at the house of his childhood it has always
     shrunk; there is no instance of such house being as big as the
     picture in memory & imagination call for.  Shrunk how?  Why, to its
     correct dimensions; the house hasn't altered; this is the first time
     it has been in focus.

     Well, that's loss.  To have house & Bible shrink so, under the
     disillusioning corrected angle, is loss--for a moment.  But there
     are compensations.  You tilt the tube skyward & bring planets &
     comets & corona flames a hundred & fifty thousand miles high into
     the field.  Which I see you have done, & found Tolstoi.  I haven't
     got him in focus yet, but I've got Browning.

In time the Browning passion would wane and pass, and the club was
succeeded by, or perhaps it blended with, a German class which met at
regular intervals at the Clemens home to study "der, die, and das" and
the "gehabt habens" out of Meisterschaft and such other text-books as
Professor Schleutter could provide.  They had monthly conversation days,
when they discussed in German all sorts of things, real and imaginary.
Once Dr. Root, a prominent member, and Clemens had a long wrangle over
painting a house, in which they impersonated two German neighbors.

Clemens finally wrote for the class a three-act play" Meisterschaft"--a
literary achievement for which he was especially qualified, with its
picturesque mixture of German and English and its unfailing humor.  It
seems unlike anything ever attempted before or since.  No one but Mark
Twain could have written it.  It was given twice by the class with
enormous success, and in modified form it was published in the Century
Magazine (January, 1888).  It is included to-day in his "Complete Works,"
but one must have a fair knowledge of German to capture the full delight
of it.--[On the original manuscript Mark Twain wrote: "There is some
tolerably rancid German here and there in this piece.  It is attributable
to the proof-reader."  Perhaps the proof-reader resented this and cut it
out, for it does not appear as published.]

Mark Twain probably exaggerated his sentiments a good deal when in the
Carlyle letter he claimed to be the most rabid of Sansculottes.  It is
unlikely that he was ever very bare-kneed and crimson in his anarchy.  He
believed always that cruelty should be swiftly punished, whether in king
or commoner, and that tyrants should be destroyed.  He was for the people
as against kings, and for the union of labor as opposed to the union of
capital, though he wrote of such matters judicially--not radically.  The
Knights of Labor organization, then very powerful, seemed to Clemens the
salvation of oppressed humanity.  He wrote a vehement and convincing
paper on the subject, which he sent to Howells, to whom it appealed very
strongly, for Howells was socialistic, in a sense, and Clemens made his
appeal in the best and largest sense, dramatizing his conception in a
picture that was to include, in one grand league, labor of whatever form,
and, in the end, all mankind in a final millennium.  Howells wrote that
he had read the essay "with thrills amounting to yells of satisfaction,"
and declared it to be the best thing yet said on the subject.  The essay
closed:

     He [the unionized workman] is here and he will remain.  He is the
     greatest birth of the greatest age the nations of the world have
     known.  You cannot sneer at him--that time has gone by.  He has
     before him the most righteous work that was ever given into the hand
     of man to do; and he will do it.  Yes, he is here; and the question
     is not--as it has been heretofore during a thousand ages--What shall
     we do with him?  For the first time in history we are relieved of
     the necessity of managing his affairs for him.  He is not a broken
     dam this time--he is the Flood!

It must have been about this time that Clemens developed an intense, even
if a less permanent, interest in another matter which was to benefit the
species.  He was one day walking up Fifth Avenue when he noticed the sign

                           PROFESSOR LOISETTE
                            SCHOOL OF MEMORY
               The Instantaneous Art of Never Forgetting

Clemens went inside.  When he came out he had all of Professor Loisette's
literature on "predicating correlation," and for the next several days
was steeping himself in an infusion of meaningless words and figures and
sentences and forms, which he must learn backward and forward and
diagonally, so that he could repeat them awake and asleep in order to
predicate his correlation to a point where remembering the ordinary facts
of life, such as names, addresses, and telephone numbers, would be a mere
diversion.

It was another case of learning the multitudinous details of the
Mississippi River in order to do the apparently simple thing of steering
a boat from New Orleans to St. Louis, and it is fair to say that, for the
time he gave it, he achieved a like success.  He was so enthusiastic over
this new remedy for human distress that within a very brief time he was
sending out a printed letter recommending Loisette to the public at
large.  Here is an extract:

     .  .  .  I had no SYSTEM--and some sort of rational order of
     procedure is, of course, necessary to success in any study.  Well,
     Loisette furnished me a system.  I cannot undertake to say it is the
     best, or the worst, because I don't know what the other systems are.
     Loisette, among other cruelties, requires you to memorize a great
     long string of words that, haven't any apparent connection or
     meaning--there are perhaps 500 of these words, arranged in maniacal
     lines of 6 to 8 or 9 words in each line--71 lines in all.  Of course
     your first impulse is to resign, but at the end of three or four
     hours you find to your surprise that you've GOT them and can deliver
     them backward or forward without mistake or hesitation.  Now, don't
     you see what a world of confidence that must necessarily breed?--
     confidence in a memory which before you wouldn't even venture to
     trust with the Latin motto of the U. S. lest it mislay it and the
     country suffer.

     Loisette doesn't make memories, he furnishes confidence in memories
     that already exist.  Isn't that valuable?  Indeed it is to me.
     Whenever hereafter I shall choose to pack away a thing properly in
     that refrigerator I sha'n't be bothered with the aforetime doubts; I
     shall know I'm going to find it sound and sweet when I go for it
     again.

Loisette naturally made the most of this advertising and flooded the
public with Mark Twain testimonials.  But presently Clemens decided that
after all the system was not sufficiently simple to benefit the race at
large.  He recalled his printed letters and prevailed upon Loisette to
suppress his circulars.  Later he decided that the whole system was a
humbug.




CLXIII

LETTER TO THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND

It was one day in 1887 that Clemens received evidence that his reputation
as a successful author and publisher--a man of wealth and revenues--had
penetrated even the dimness of the British Tax Offices.  A formidable
envelope came, inclosing a letter from his London publishers and a very
large printed document all about the income tax which the Queen's
officers had levied upon his English royalties as the result of a report
that he had taken Buckenham Hall, Norwich, for a year, and was to become
an English resident.  The matter amused and interested him.  To Chatto &
Windus he wrote:

     I will explain that all that about Buckenham Hall was an English
     newspaper's mistake.  I was not in England, and if I had been I
     wouldn't have been at Buckenham Hall anyway, but Buckingham Palace,
     or I would have endeavored to have found out the reason why .  .  .

     But we won't resist.  We'll pay as if I were really a resident.  The
     country that allows me copyright has a right to tax me.

Reflecting on the matter, Clemens decided to make literature of it.  He
conceived the notion of writing an open letter to the Queen in the
character of a rambling, garrulous, but well-disposed countryman whose
idea was that her Majesty conducted all the business of the empire
herself.  He began:

                              HARTFORD, November 6, 2887.

     MADAM, You will remember that last May Mr. Edward Bright, the clerk
     of the Inland Revenue Office, wrote me about a tax which he said was
     due from me to the Government on books of mine published in London--
     that is to say, an income tax on the royalties.  I do not know Mr.
     Bright, and it is embarrassing to me to correspond with strangers,
     for I was raised in the country and have always lived there, the
     early part in Marion County, Missouri, before the war, and this part
     in Hartford County, Connecticut, near Bloomfield and about 8 miles
     this side of Farmington, though some call it 9, which it is
     impossible to be, for I have walked it many and many a time in
     considerably under three hours, and General Hawley says he has done
     it in two and a quarter, which is not likely; so it has seemed best
     that I write your Majesty.

The letter proceeded to explain that he had never met her Majesty
personally, but that he once met her son, the Prince of Wales, in Oxford
Street, at the head of a procession, while he himself was on the top of
an omnibus.  He thought the Prince would probably remember him on account
of a gray coat with flap pockets which he wore, he being the only person
on the omnibus who had on that kind of a coat.

"I remember him," he said, "as easily as I would a comet."

He explained the difficulty he had in understanding under what heading he
was taxed.  There was a foot-note on the list which stated that he was
taxed under "Schedule D, section 14."  He had turned to that place and
found these three things: "Trades, Offices, Gas Works."  He did not
regard authorship as a trade, and he had no office, so he did not
consider that he was taxable under "Schedule D, section 14."  The letter
concludes:

     Having thus shown your Majesty that I am not taxable, but am the
     victim of the error of a clerk who mistakes the nature of my
     commerce, it only remains for me to beg that you will, of your
     justice, annul my letter that I spoke of, so that my publisher can
     keep back that tax money which, in the confusion and aberration
     caused by the Document, I ordered him to pay.  You will not miss the
     sum, but this is a hard year for authors, and as for lectures I do
     not suppose your Majesty ever saw such a dull season.

     With always great and ever-increasing respect, I beg to sign myself
     your Majesty's servant to command,
                                             MARK TWAIN.
     Her Majesty the Queen, London.


The letter, or "petition," as it was called, was published in the
Harper's Magazine "Drawer" (December, 1889), and is now included in the
"Complete Works."  Taken as a whole it is one of the most exquisite of
Mark Twain's minor humors.  What other humorist could have refrained from
hinting, at least, the inference suggested by the obvious "Gas Works"?
Yet it was a subtler art to let his old, simple-minded countryman ignore
that detail.  The little skit was widely copied and reached the Queen
herself in due time, and her son, Prince Edward, who never forgot its
humor.

Clemens read a notable paper that year before the Monday Evening Club.
Its subject was "Consistency"--political consistency--and in it he took
occasion to express himself pretty vigorously regarding the virtue of
loyalty to party before principle, as exemplified in the Blaine-Cleveland
campaign.  It was in effect a scathing reply to those who, three years,
before, had denounced Twichell and himself for standing by their
convictions.--[ Characteristic paragraphs from this paper will be found
under Appendix R, at the end of last volume.]




CLXIV

SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF CHARLES L. WEBSTER & CO.

Flood-tide is a temporary condition, and the ebb in the business of
Charles L. Webster & Co., though very deliberate, was not delayed in its
beginning.  Most of the books published--the early ones at least-were
profitable.  McClellan's memoirs paid, as did others of the war series.

Even The Life of Pope Leo XIII. paid.  What a statement to make, after
all their magnificent dreams and preparations!  It was published
simultaneously in six languages.  It was exploited in every conceivable
fashion, and its aggregate sales fell far short of the number which the
general agents had promised for their first orders.  It was amazing, it
was incredible, but, alas! it was true.  The prospective Catholic
purchaser had decided that the Pope's Life was not necessary to his
salvation or even to his entertainment.  Howells explains it, to his own
satisfaction at least, when he says:

     We did not consider how often Catholics could not read, how often,
     when they could, they might not wish to read.  The event proved
     that, whether they could read or not, the immeasurable majority did
     not wish to read The Life of the Pope, though it was written by a
     dignitary of the Church and issued to the world with sanction from
     the Vatican.

Howells, of course, is referring to the laboring Catholic of that day.
There are no Catholics of this day--no American Catholics, at least--who
do not read, and money among them has become plentiful.  Perhaps had the
Pope's Life been issued in this new hour of enlightenment the tale of its
success might have been less sadly told.

A variety of books followed.  Henry Ward Beecher agreed to write an
autobiography, but he died just when he was beginning the work, and the
biography, which his family put together, brought only a moderate return.
A book of Sandwich Islands tales and legends, by his Hawaiian Majesty
King Kalakaua, edited by Clemens's old friend, Rollin M. Daggett, who had
become United States minister to the islands, barely paid for the cost of
manufacture, while a volume of reminiscences by General Hancock was still
less fortunate.  The running expenses of the business were heavy.  On the
strength of the Grant success Webster had moved into still larger
quarters at No. 3 East Fifteenth Street, and had a ground floor for a
salesroom.  The force had become numerous and costly.  It was necessary
that a book should pay largely to maintain this pretentious
establishment.  A number of books were published at a heavy loss.  Never
mind their titles; we may forget them, with the name of the bookkeeper
who presently embezzled thirty thousand dollars of the firm's money and
returned but a trifling sum.

By the end of 1887 there were three works in prospect on which great
hopes were founded--'The Library of Humor', which Howells and Clark had
edited; a personal memoir of General Sheridan's, and a Library of
American Literature in ten volumes, compiled by Edmund Clarence Stedman
and Ellen Mackay Hutchinson.  It was believed these would restore the
fortunes and the prestige of the firm.  They were all excellent,
attractive features.  The Library of Humor was ably selected and
contained two hundred choice drawings by Kemble.  The Sheridan Memoir was
finely written, and the public interest in it was bound to be general.
The Library of American Literature was a collection of the best American
writing, and seemed bound to appeal to every American reading-home.  It
was necessary to borrow most of the money required to build these books,
for the profit made from the Grant Life and less fortunate ventures was
pretty well exhausted.  Clemens presently found a little drift of his
notes accumulating at this bank and that--a disturbing condition, when he
remembered it, for he was financing the typesetting machine by this time,
and it was costing a pretty sum.

Meantime, Webster was no longer active in the management.  In two years
he had broken down from overwork, and was now desperately ill with an
acute neuralgia that kept him away from the business most of the time.
Its burdens had fallen upon his assistant, Fred J. Hall, a willing,
capable young man, persevering and hopeful, lacking only years and
experience.  Hall worked like a beaver, and continually looked forward to
success.  He explained, with each month's report of affairs, just why the
business had not prospered more during that particular month, and just
why its profits would be greater during the next.  Webster finally
retired from the business altogether, and Hall was given a small
partnership in the firm.  He reduced expenses, worked desperately,
pumping out the debts, and managed to keep the craft afloat.

The Library of Humor, the Life of Sheridan, and The Library of American
Literature all sold very well; not so well as had been hoped, but the
sales yielded a fair profit.  It was thought that if Clemens himself
would furnish a new book now and then the business might regain something
of its original standing.

We may believe that Clemens had not been always patient, not always
gentle, during this process of decline.  He had differed with Webster,
and occasionally had gone down and reconstructed things after his own
notions.  Once he wrote to Orion that he had suddenly awakened to find
that there was no more system in the office than in a nursery without a
nurse.

"But," he added, "I have spent a good deal of time there since, and
reduced everything to exact order and system."

Just what were the new features of order instituted it would be
interesting to know.  That the financial pressure was beginning to be
felt even in the Clemens home is shown by a Christmas letter to Mrs.
Moffett.

                              HARTFORD, December 18, 1887.

DEAR PAMELA,--Will you take this $15 & buy some candy or other trifle for
yourself & Sam & his wife to remind you that we remember you?

If we weren't a little crowded this year by the type-setter I'd send a
check large enough to buy a family Bible or some other useful thing like
that.  However, we go on & on, but the type-setter goes on forever--at
$3,000 a month; which is much more satisfactory than was the case the
first 17 months, when the bill only averaged $2,000, & promised to take a
thousand years.  We'll be through now in 3 or 4  months, I reckon, & then
the strain will let up and we can breathe freely once more, whether
success ensues or failure.

Even with a type-setter on hand we ought not to be in the least scrimped-
but it would take a long letter to explain why & who is to blame.

All the family send love to all of you, & best Christmas wishes for your
prosperity.

Affectionately,

SAM.




CLXV

LETTERS, VISITS, AND VISITORS

There were many pleasanter things, to be sure.  The farm life never
failed with each returning summer; the winters brought gay company and
fair occasions.  Sir Henry and Lady Stanley, visiting.  America, were
entertained in the Clemens home, and Clemens went on to Boston to
introduce Stanley to his lecture audience.  Charles Dickens's son, with
his wife and daughter, followed a little later.  An incident of their
visit seems rather amusing now.  There is a custom in England which
requires the host to give the guest notice of bedtime by handing him a
lighted candle.  Mrs. Clemens knew of this custom, but did not have the
courage to follow it in her own home, and the guests knew of no other way
to relieve the situation; as a result, all sat up much later than usual.
Eventually Clemens himself suggested that possibly the guests would like
to retire.

Robert Louis Stevenson came down from Saranac, and Clemens went in to
visit him at his New York hotel, the St. Stevens, on East Eleventh
Street.  Stevenson had orders to sit in the sunshine as much as possible,
and during the few days of their association he and Clemens would walk
down to Washington Square and sit on one of the benches and talk.  They
discussed many things--philosophies, people, books; it seems a pity their
talk could not have been preserved.

Stevenson was a great admirer of Mark Twain's work.  He said that during
a recent painting of his portrait he had insisted on reading Huck Finn
aloud to the artist, a Frenchman, who had at first protested, and finally
had fallen a complete victim to Huck's yarn.  In one of Stevenson's
letters to Clemens he wrote:

     My father, an old man, has been prevailed upon to read Roughing It
     (his usual amusement being found in theology), and after one evening
     spent with the book he declared: "I am frightened.  It cannot be
     safe for a man at my time of life to laugh so much."

What heaps of letters, by the way, remain from this time, and how curious
some of them are!  Many of them are requests of one sort or another,
chiefly for money--one woman asking for a single day's income,
conservatively estimated at five thousand dollars.  Clemens seldom
answered an unwarranted letter; but at one time he began a series of
unmailed answers--that is to say, answers in which he had let himself go
merely to relieve his feelings and to restore his spiritual balance.  He
prepared an introduction for this series.  In it he said:

     .  .  .  You receive a letter.  You read it.  It will be tolerably
     sure to produce one of three results: 1, pleasure;  2, displeasure;
     3, indifference.  I do not need to say anything about Nos.  1 & 3;
     everybody knows what to do with those breeds of letters; it is breed
     No. 2 that I am after.  It is the one that is loaded up with
     trouble.

     When you get an exasperating letter what happens?  If you are young
     you answer it promptly, instantly--and mail the thing you have
     written.  At forty what do you do?  By that time you have found out
     that a letter written in a passion is a mistake in ninety-nine cases
     out of a hundred; that it usually wrongs two persons, and always
     wrongs one--yourself.  You have grown weary of wronging yourself and
     repenting; so you manacle, you fetter, you log-chain the frantic
     impulse to write a pulverizing answer.  You will wait a day or die.
     But in the mean time what do you do?  Why, if it is about dinner-
     time, you sit at table in a deep abstraction all through the meal;
     you try to throw it off and help do the talking; you get a start
     three or four times, but conversation dies on your lips every time-
     your mind isn't on it; your heart isn't in it.  You give up, and
     subside into a bottomless deep of silence, permanently; people must
     speak to you two or three times to get your attention, and then say
     it over again to make you understand.  This kind of thing goes on
     all the rest of the evening; nobody can interest you in anything;
     you are useless, a depressing influence, a burden.  You go to bed at
     last; but at three in the morning you are as wide awake as you were
     in the beginning.  Thus we see what you have been doing for nine
     hours--on the outside.  But what were you doing on the inside?  You
     were writing letters--in your mind.  And enjoying it, that is quite
     true; that is not to be denied.  You have been flaying your
     correspondent alive with your incorporeal pen; you have been
     braining him, disemboweling him, carving him into little bits, and
     then--doing it all over again.  For nine hours.

     It was wasted time, for you had no intention of putting any of this
     insanity on paper and mailing it.  Yes, you know that, and confess
     it--but what were you to do?  Where was your remedy?  Will anybody
     contend that a man can say to such masterful anger as that, Go, and
     be obeyed?

     No, he cannot; that is certainly true.  Well, then, what is he to
     do?  I will explain by the suggestion contained in my opening
     paragraph.  During the nine hours he has written as many as forty-
     seven furious letters--in his mind.  If he had put just one of them
     on paper it would have brought him relief, saved him eight hours of
     trouble, and given him an hour's red-hot pleasure besides.

     He is not to mail this letter; he understands that, and so he can
     turn on the whole volume of his wrath; there is no harm.  He is only
     writing it to get the bile out.  So to speak, he is a volcano:
     imaging himself erupting does no good; he must open up his crater
     and pour out in reality his intolerable charge of lava if he would
     get relief.

     Before he has filled his first sheet sometimes the relief is there.
     He degenerates into good-nature from that point.

     Sometimes the load is so hot and so great that one writes as many as
     three letters before he gets down to a mailable one; a very angry
     one, a less angry one, and an argumentative one with hot embers in
     it here and there.  He pigeonholes these and then does one of two
     things--dismisses the whole matter from his mind or writes the
     proper sort of letter and mails it.

     To this day I lose my balance and send an overwarm letter--or more
     frequently telegram--two or three times a year.  But that is better
     than doing it a hundred times a year, as I used to do years ago.
     Perhaps I write about as many as ever, but I pigeonhole them.  They
     ought not to be thrown away.  Such a letter a year or so old is as
     good as a sermon to the maw who wrote it.  It makes him feel small
     and shabby, but--well, that wears off.  Any sermon does; but the
     sermon does some little good, anyway.  An old cold letter like that
     makes you wonder how you could ever have got into such a rage about
     nothing.

The unmailed answers that were to accompany this introduction were
plentiful enough and generally of a fervent sort.  One specimen will
suffice.  It was written to the chairman of a hospital committee.

     DEAR SIR,--If I were Smithfield I would certainly go out and get
     behind something and blush.  According to your report, "the
     politicians are afraid to tax the people for the support" of so
     humane and necessary a thing as a hospital.  And do your "people"
     propose to stand that?--at the hands of vermin officials whom the
     breath of their votes could blow out of official existence in a
     moment if they had the pluck to band themselves together and blow.
     Oh, come, these are not "people"--they are cowed school-boys with
     backbones made of boiled macaroni.  If you are not misreporting
     those "people" you are just in the right business passing the
     mendicant hat for them.  Dear sir, communities where anything like
     citizenship exists are accustomed to hide their shames, but here we
     have one proposing to get up a great "exposition" of its dishonor
     and advertise it all it can.

     It has been eleven years since I wrote anything for one of those
     graveyards called a "Fair paper," and so I have doubtless lost the
     knack of it somewhat; still I have done the best I could for you.

     This was from a burning heart and well deserved.  One may almost
     regret that he did not send it.

Once he received a letter intended for one Samuel Clements, of Elma, New
York, announcing that the said Clements's pension had been allowed.  But
this was amusing.  When Clemens had forwarded the notice to its proper
destination he could not resist sending this comment to the commissioner
at Washington:

     DEAR SIR,--I have not applied for a pension.  I have often wanted a
     pension--often--ever so often--I may say, but in as much as the only
     military service I performed during the war was in the Confederate
     army, I have always felt a delicacy about asking you for it.
     However, since you have suggested the thing yourself, I feel
     strengthened.  I haven't any very pensionable diseases myself, but I
     can furnish a substitute--a man who is just simply a chaos, a museum
     of all the different kinds of aches and pains, fractures,
     dislocations and malformations there are; a man who would regard
     "rheumatism and sore eyes" as mere recreation and refreshment after
     the serious occupations of his day.  If you grant me the pension,
     dear sir, please hand it to General Jos. Hawley, United States
     Senator--I mean hand him the certificate, not the money, and he will
     forward it to me. You will observe by this postal-card which I
     inclose that he takes a friendly interest in the matter.  He thinks
     I've already got the pension, whereas I've only got the rheumatism;
     but didn't want that--I had that before.  I wish it were catching. I
     know a man that I would load up with it pretty early.  Lord, but we
     all feel that way sometimes.  I've seen the day when but never mind
     that; you may be busy; just hand it to Hawley--the certificate, you
     understand, is not transferable.

Clemens was in good standing at Washington during the Cleveland
administration, and many letters came, asking him to use his influence
with the President to obtain this or that favor.  He always declined,
though once--a few years later, in Europe--when he learned that Frank
Mason, consul-general at Frankfort, was about to be displaced, Clemens,
of his own accord, wrote to Baby Ruth Cleveland about it.


     MY DEAR RUTH, I belong to the Mugwumps, and one of the most sacred
     rules of our order prevents us from asking favors of officials or
     recommending men to office, but there is no harm in writing a
     friendly letter to you and telling you that an infernal outrage is
     about to be committed by your father in turning out of office the
     best Consul I know (and I know a great many) just because he is a
     Republican and a Democrat wants his place.

     He went on to recall Mason's high and honorable record, suggesting
     that Miss Ruth take the matter into her own hands.  Then he said:

     I can't send any message to the President, but the next time you
     have a talk with him concerning such matters I wish you would tell
     him about Captain Mason and what I think of a Government that so
     treats its efficient officials.

Just what form of appeal the small agent made is not recorded, but by and
by Mark Twain received a tiny envelope, postmarked Washington, inclosing
this note in President Cleveland's handwriting:

     Miss Ruth Cleveland begs to acknowledge the receipt of Mr. Twain's
     letter and say that she took the liberty of reading it to the
     President, who desires her to thank Mr. Twain for her information,
     and to say to him that Captain Mason will not be disturbed in the
     Frankfort Consulate.  The President also desires Miss Cleveland to
     say that if Mr. Twain knows of any other cases of this kind he will
     be greatly obliged if he will write him concerning them at his
     earliest convenience.

Clemens immensely admired Grover Cleveland, also his young wife, and his
visits to Washington were not infrequent.  Mrs. Clemens was not always
able to accompany him, and he has told us how once (it was his first
visit after the President's marriage) she put a little note in the pocket
of his evening waistcoat, which he would be sure to find when dressing,
warning him about his deportment.  Being presented to Mrs. Cleveland, he
handed her a card on which he had written "He didn't," and asked her to
sign her name below those words.  Mrs. Cleveland protested that she
couldn't sign it unless she knew what it was he hadn't done; but he
insisted, and she promised to sign if he would tell her immediately
afterward all about it.  She signed, and he handed her Mrs. Clemens's
note, which was very brief.  It said:

"Don't wear your arctics in the White House."

Mrs. Cleveland summoned a messenger and had the card she had signed
mailed at once to Mrs. Clemens at Hartford.

He was not always so well provided against disaster.  Once, without
consulting his engagements, he agreed to assist Mrs. Cleveland at a
dedication, only to find that he must write an apology later.  In his
letter he said:

     I do not know how it is in the White House, but in this house of
     ours whenever the minor half of the administration tries to run
     itself without the help of the major half it gets aground.

He explained his position, and added:

     I suppose the President often acts just like that; goes and makes an
     impossible promise, and you never find it out until it is next to
     impossible to break it up and set things straight again.  Well, that
     is just our way exactly--one-half the administration always busy
     getting the family into trouble and the other half busy getting it
     out.




CLVXI

A "PLAYER" AND A MASTER OF ARTS

One morning early in January Clemens received the following note:


                    DALY'S THEATER, NEW YORK, January 2, 1888.

     Mr. Augustin Daly will be very much pleased to have Mr. S.  L.
     Clemens meet Mr. Booth, Mr. Barrett, and Mr. Palmer and a few
     friends at lunch on Friday next, January 6th (at one o'clock in
     Delmonico's), to discuss the formation of a new club which it is
     thought will claim your (sic) interest.

     R. S. V. P.


There were already in New York a variety of literary and artistic
societies, such as The Kinsmen and Tile clubs, with which Clemens was
more or less associated.  It was proposed now to form a more
comprehensive and pretentious organization--one that would include the
various associated arts.  The conception of this new club, which was to
be called The Players, had grown out of a desire on the part of Edwin
Booth to confer some enduring benefit upon the members of his profession.
It had been discussed during a summer cruise on Mr. E. C. Benedict's
steam-yacht by a little party which, besides the owner, consisted of
Booth himself, Aldrich, Lawrence Barrett, William Bispham, and Laurence
Hutton.  Booth's original idea had been to endow some sort of an actors'
home, but after due consideration this did not appear to be the best
plan.  Some one proposed a club, and Aldrich, with never-failing
inspiration, suggested its name, The Players, which immediately impressed
Booth and the others.  It was then decided that members of all the
kindred arts should be admitted, and this was the plan discussed and
perfected at the Daly luncheon.  The guests became charter members, and
The Players became an incorporated fact early in January, 1888.
--[Besides Mr. Booth himself, the charter members were: Lawrence Barrett,
William Bispham, Samuel L. Clemens, Augustin Daly, Joseph F. Daly, John
Drew, Henry Edwards, Laurence Hutton, Joseph Jefferson, John A. Lane,
James Lewis, Brander Matthews, Stephen H. Olin, A. M. Palmer, and William
T. Sherman.]--Booth purchased the fine old brownstone residence at 16
Gramercy Park, and had expensive alterations made under the directions of
Stanford White to adapt it for club purposes.  He bore the entire cost,
furnished it from garret to cellar, gave it his books and pictures, his
rare collections of every sort.  Laurence Hutton, writing of it
afterward, said:

And on the first Founder's Night, the 31st of December, 1888, he
transferred it all to the association, a munificent gift; absolutely
without parallel in its way.  The pleasure it gave to Booth during the
few remaining years of his life was very great.  He made it his home.
Next to his own immediate family it was his chief interest, care, and
consolation.  He nursed and petted it, as it nursed and petted and
honored him.  He died in it.  And it is certainly his greatest monument.

There is no other club quite like The Players.  The personality of Edwin
Booth pervades it, and there is a spirit in its atmosphere not found in
other large clubs--a spirit of unity, and ancient friendship, and
mellowness which usually come only of small membership and long
establishment.  Mark Twain was always fond of The Players, and more than
once made it his home.  It is a true home, and its members are a genuine
brotherhood.

It was in June, 1888, that Yale College conferred upon Samuel Clemens the
degree of Master of Arts.  It was his first honor of this kind, and he
was proud of it.  To Charles Hopkins ("Charley") Clark, who had been
appointed to apprise him of the honor, he wrote:

     I felt mighty proud of that degree; in fact I could squeeze the
     truth a little closer and say vain of it.  And why shouldn't I be?
     I am the only literary animal of my particular subspecies who has
     ever been given a degree by any college in any age of the world as
     far as I know.

To which Clark answered:

     MY DEAR FRIEND, You are "the only literary animal of your particular
     subspecies" in existence, and you've no cause for humility in the
     fact.  Yale has done herself at least as much credit as she has done
     you, and "don't you forget it."
                                             C. H. C.

Clemens could not attend the alumni dinner, being at Elmira and unable to
get away, but in an address he made at Yale College later in the year he
thus freely expressed himself:

     I was sincerely proud and grateful to be made a Master of Arts by
     this great and venerable University, and I would have come last June
     to testify this feeling, as I do now testify it, but that the sudden
     and unexpected notice of the honor done me found me at a distance
     from home and unable to discharge that duty and enjoy that
     privilege.

     Along at first, say for the first month or so, I, did not quite know
     hove to proceed because of my not knowing just what authorities and
     privileges belonged to the title which had been granted me, but
     after that I consulted some students of Trinity--in Hartford--and
     they made everything clear to me.  It was through them that I found
     out that my title made me head of the Governing Body of the
     University, and lodged in me very broad and severely responsible
     powers.

     I was told that it would be necessary to report to you at this time,
     and of course I comply, though I would have preferred to put it off
     till I could make a better showing; for indeed I have been so
     pertinaciously hindered and obstructed at every turn by the faculty
     that it would be difficult to prove that the University is really in
     any better shape now than it was when I first took charge.  By
     advice, I turned my earliest attention to the Greek department.  I
     told the Greek professor I had concluded to drop the use of Greek-
     written character because it is so hard to spell with, and so
     impossible to read after you get it spelt.  Let us draw the curtain
     there.  I saw by what followed that nothing but early neglect saved
     him from being a very profane man.  I ordered the professor of
     mathematics to simplify the whole system, because the way it was I
     couldn't understand it, and I didn't want things going on in the
     college in what was practically a clandestine fashion.  I told him
     to drop the conundrum system; it was not suited to the dignity of a
     college, which should deal in facts, not guesses and suppositions;
     we didn't want any more cases of if A and B stand at opposite poles
     of the earth's surface and C at the equator of Jupiter, at what
     variations of angle will the left limb of the moon appear to these
     different parties?--I said you just let that thing alone; it's
     plenty time to get in a sweat about it when it happens; as like as
     not it ain't going to do any harm, anyway.  His reception of these
     instructions bordered on insubordination, insomuch that I felt
     obliged to take his number and report him.  I found the astronomer
     of the University gadding around after comets and other such odds
     and ends--tramps and derelicts of the skies.  I told him pretty
     plainly that we couldn't have that. I told him it was no economy to
     go on piling up and piling up raw material in the way of new stars
     and comets and asteroids that we couldn't ever have any use for till
     we had worked off the old stock.  At bottom I don't really mind
     comets so much, but somehow I have always been down on asteroids.
     There is nothing mature about them; I wouldn't sit up nights the way
     that man does if I could get a basketful of them.  He said it was
     the bast line of goods he had; he said he could trade them to
     Rochester for comets, and trade the comets to Harvard for nebulae,
     and trade the nebula to the Smithsonian for flint hatchets.  I felt
     obliged to stop this thing on the spot; I said we couldn't have the
     University turned into an astronomical junk shop.  And while I was
     at it I thought I might as well make the reform complete; the
     astronomer is extraordinarily mutinous, and so, with your approval,
     I will transfer him to the law department and put one of the law
     students in his place.  A boy will be more biddable, more tractable,
     also cheaper.  It is true he cannot be intrusted with important work
     at first, but he can comb the skies for nebulae till he gets his
     hand in.  I have other changes in mind, but as they are in the
     nature of surprises I judge it politic to leave them unspecified at
     this time.

Very likely it was in this new capacity, as the head of the governing
body, that he wrote one morning to Clark advising him as to the misuse of
a word in the Courant, though he thought it best to sign the
communication with the names of certain learned friends, to give it
weight with the public, as he afterward explained.

     SIR,--The word "patricide" in your issue of this morning (telegrams)
     was an error.  You meant it to describe the slayer of a father; you
     should have used "parricide" instead.  Patricide merely means the
     killing of an Irishman--any Irishman, male or female.

               Respectfully,
                         J. HAMMOND TRUMBULL.
                         N. J. BURTON.
                         J. H. TWICHELL.




CLXVII

NOTES AND LITERARY MATTERS

Clemens' note-books of this time are full of the vexations of his
business ventures, figures, suggestions, and a hundred imagined
combinations for betterment--these things intermingled with the usual
bits of philosophy and reflections, and amusing reminders.

     Aldrich's man who painted the fat toads red, and naturalist chasing
     and trying to catch them.

     Man who lost his false teeth over Brooklyn Bridge when he was on his
     way to propose to a widow.

     One believes St. Simon and Benvenuto and partly believes the
     Margravine of Bayreuth.  There are things in the confession of
     Rousseau which one must believe.

     What is biography?  Unadorned romance.  What is romance?  Adorned
     biography.  Adorn it less and it will be better than it is.

     If God is what people say there can be none in the universe so
     unhappy as he; for he sees unceasingly myriads of his creatures
     suffering unspeakable miseries, and, besides this, foresees all they
     are going to suffer during the remainder of their lives.  One might
     well say "as unhappy as God."

In spite of the financial complexities and the drain of the enterprises
already in hand he did not fail to conceive others.  He was deeply
interested in Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress at the moment, and from
photography and scenic effect he presaged a possibility to-day realized
in the moving picture.

Dress up some good actors as Apollyon, Greatheart, etc., & the other
Bunyan characters, take them to a wild gorge and photograph them--Valley
of the Shadow of Death; to other effective places & photo them along with
the scenery; to Paris, in their curious costumes, place them near the Arc
de l'Etoile & photo them with the crowd-Vanity Fair; to Cairo, Venice,
Jerusalem, & other places (twenty interesting cities) & always make them
conspicuous in the curious foreign crowds by their costume.  Take them to
Zululand.  It would take two or three years to do the photographing &
cost $10,000; but this stereopticon panorama of Bunyan's Pilgrim's
Progress could be exhibited in all countries at the same time & would
clear a fortune in a year.  By & by I will do this.

     If in 1891 I find myself not rich enough to carry out my scheme of
     buying Christopher Columbus's bones & burying them under the Statue
     of Liberty Enlightening the World I will give the idea to somebody
     who is rich enough.

Incidentally he did an occasional piece of literary work.  Early in the
year, with Brander Matthews, he instructed and entertained the public
with a copyright controversy in the Princeton Review.  Matthews would
appear to have criticized the English copyright protection, or rather the
lack of it, comparing it unfavorably with American conditions.  Clemens,
who had been amply protected in Great Britain, replied that America was
in no position to criticize England; that if American authors suffered in
England they had themselves to blame for not taking the proper trouble
and precautions required by the English law, that is to say, "previous
publication" on English soil.  He declared that his own books had been as
safe in England as at home since he had undertaken to comply with English
requirements, and that Professor Matthews was altogether mistaken, both
as to premise and conclusion.

"You are the very wrong-headedest person in America," he said; "and you
are injudicious."  And of the article: "I read it to the cat--well, I
never saw a cat carry on so before .  .  .  .  The American author can go
to Canada, spend three days there and come home with an English and
American copyright as strong as if it had been built out of railroad
iron."

Matthews replied that not every one could go to Canada, any more than to
Corinth.  He said:

"It is not easy for a poor author who may chance to live in Florida or
Texas, those noted homes of literature, to go to Canada."

Clemens did not reply again; that is to say, he did not publish his
reply.  It was a capable bomb which he prepared, well furnished with
amusing instance, sarcasm, and ridicule, but he did not use it.  Perhaps
he was afraid it would destroy his opponent, which would not do.  In his
heart he loved Matthews.  He laid the deadly thing away and maintained a
dignified reserve.

Clemens often felt called upon to criticize American institutions, but he
was first to come to their defense, especially when the critic was an
alien.  When Matthew Arnold offered some strictures on America.  Clemens
covered a good many quires of paper with caustic replies.  He even
defended American newspapers, which he had himself more than once
violently assailed for misreporting him and for other journalistic
shortcomings, and he bitterly denounced every shaky British institution,
touched upon every weak spot in hereditary rule.  He did not print--not
then--[An article on the American press, probably the best of those
prepared at this time, was used, in part, in The American Claimant, as
the paper read before the Mechanics' Club, by "Parker," assistant editor
of the 'Democrat'.]--he was writing mainly for relief--without success,
however, for he only kindled the fires of his indignation.  He was at
Quarry Farm and he plunged into his neglected story--A Yankee in King
Arthur's Court--and made his astonishing hero the mouthpiece of his
doctrines.  He worked with an inspiration and energy born of his
ferocity.  To Whitmore, near the end of the summer, he wrote:

I've got 16 working-days left yet, and in that time I will add another
120,000 words to my book if I have luck.

In his memoranda of this time he says:

     There was never a throne which did not represent a crime.  There is
     no throne to-day which does not represent a crime ....

Show me a lord and I will show you a man whom you couldn't tell from a
journeyman shoemaker if he were stripped, and who, in all that is worth
being, is the shoemaker's inferior; and in the shoemaker I will show you
a dull animal, a poor-spirited insect; for there are enough of him to
rise and chuck the lords and royalties into the sea where they belong,
and he doesn't do it.

But his violence waned, maybe, for he did not finish the Yankee in the
sixteen days as planned.  He brought the manuscript back to Hartford, but
found it hard work there, owing to many interruptions.  He went over to
Twichell's and asked for a room where he might work in seclusion.  They
gave him a big upper chamber, but some repairs were going on below.  From
a letter written to Theodore Crane we gather that it was not altogether
quiet.

                              Friday, October 5, 1888.

     DEAR THEO, I am here in Twichell's house at work, with the noise of
     the children and an army of carpenters to help: Of course they don't
     help, but neither do they hinder.  It's like a boiler factory for
     racket, and in nailing a wooden ceiling on to the room under me the
     hammering tickles my feet amazingly sometimes and jars my table a
     good deal, but I never am conscious of the racket at all, and I move
     my feet into positions of relief without knowing when I do it.  I
     began here Monday morning, and have done eighty pages since.  I was
     so tired last night that I thought I would lie abed and rest to-day;
     but I couldn't resist.  I mean to try to knock off tomorrow, but
     it's doubtful if I do.  I want to finish the day the machine
     finishes, and a week ago the closest calculations for that indicated
     Oct. 22--but experience teaches me that the calculations will miss
     fire as usual.

     The other day the children were projecting a purchase, Livy and I to
     furnish the money--a dollar and a half.  Jean discouraged the idea.
     She said, "We haven't got any money.  Children, if you would think,
     you would remember the machine isn't done."

     It's billiards to-night.  I wish you were here.

     With love to you both,                        S.  L.  C.

     P. S.  I got it all wrong.  It wasn't the children, it was Marie.
     She wanted a box of blacking for the children's shoes.  Jean
     reproved her and said, "Why, Marie, you mustn't ask for things now.
     The machine isn't done."

Neither the Yankee nor the machine was completed that fall, though
returns from both were beginning to be badly needed.  The financial pinch
was not yet severe, but it was noticeable, and it did not relax.

A memorandum of this time tells of an anniversary given to Charles and
Susan Warner in their own home.  The guests assembled at the Clemens
home, the Twichells among them, and slipped across to Warner's, entering
through a window.  Dinner was then announced to the Warners, who were
sitting by their library fire.  They came across the hall and opened the
dining-room door, to be confronted by a table fully spread and lighted
and an array of guests already seated.




CLXVIII

INTRODUCING NYE AND RILEY AND OTHERS

It was the winter (1888-89) that the Bill Nye and James Whitcomb Riley
entertainment combination set out on its travels.  Mark Twain introduced
them to their first Boston audience.  Major J. B. Pond was exploiting Nye
and Riley, and Clemens went on to Boston especially to hear them.  Pond
happened upon him in the lobby of the Parker House and insisted that
nothing would do but he must introduce them.  In his book of memories
which he published later Pond wrote:

He replied that he believed I was his mortal enemy, and determined that
he should never have an evening's enjoyment in my presence.  He
consented, however, and conducted his brother-humorist and the Hoosier
poet to the platform.  Mark's presence was a surprise to the audience,
and when they recognized him the demonstration was tremendous.  The
audience rose in a body, and men and women shouted at the very top of
their voices.  Handkerchiefs waved, the organist even opened every forte
key and pedal in the great organ, and the noise went on unabated for
minutes.  It took some time for the crowd to get down to listening, but
when they did subside, as Mark stepped to the front, the silence was as
impressive as the noise had been.

He presented the Nye-Riley pair as the Siamese Twins.  "I saw them
first," he sand, "a great many years ago, when Mr. Barnum had them, and
they were just fresh from Siam.  The ligature was their best hold then,
but literature became their best hold later, when one of them committed
an indiscretion, and they had to cut the old bond to accommodate the
sheriff."

He continued this comic fancy, and the audience was in a proper frame of
mind, when he had finished, to welcome the "Twins of Genius" who were to
entertain them:

Pond says:

It was a carnival of fun in every sense of the word.  Bostonians will not
have another such treat in this generation.

Pond proposed to Clemens a regular tour with Nye and Riley.  He wrote:

     I will go partners with you, and I will buy Nye and Riley's time and
     give an entertainment something like the one we gave in Boston.  Let
     it be announced that you will introduce the "Twins of Genius."
     Ostensibly a pleasure trip for you.  I will take one-third of the
     profits and you two-thirds.  I can tell you it will be the biggest
     thing that can be brought before the American public.

But Clemens, badly as he was beginning to need the money, put this
temptation behind him.  His chief diversion these days was in gratuitous
appearances.  He had made up his mind not to read or lecture again for
pay, but he seemed to take a peculiar enjoyment in doing these things as
a benefaction.  That he was beginning to need the money may have added a
zest to the joy of his giving.  He did not respond to all invitations; he
could have been traveling constantly had he done so.  He consulted with
Mrs. Clemens and gave himself to the cause that seemed most worthy.  In
January Col. Richard Malcolm Johnston was billed to give a reading with
Thomas Nelson Page in Baltimore.  Page's wife fell ill and died, and
Colonel Johnston, in extremity, wired Charles Dudley Warner to come in
Page's place.  Warner, unable to go, handed the invitation to Clemens,
who promptly wired that he would come.  They read to a packed house, and
when the audience was gone and the returns had been counted an equal
division of the profits was handed to each of the authors.  Clemens
pushed his share over to Johnston, saying:

"That's yours, Colonel.  I'm not reading for money these days."

Colonel Johnston, to whom the sum was important, tried to thank him, but
he only said:

"Never mind, Colonel, it only gave me pleasure to do you that little
favor.  You can pass it on some day."

As a matter of fact, hard put to it as he was for funds, Clemens at this
time regarded himself as a potential multi-millionaire.  The type-setting
machine which for years had been sapping his financial strength was
believed to be perfected, and ship-loads of money were waiting in the
offing.  However, we shall come to this later.

Clemens read for the cadets at West Point and for a variety of
institutions and on many special occasions.  He usually gave chapters
from his Yankee, now soon to be finished, chapters generally beginning
with the Yankee's impression of the curious country and its people,
ending with the battle of the Sun-belt, when the Yankee and his fifty-
four adherents were masters of England, with twenty-five thousand dead
men lying about them.  He gave this at West Point, including the chapter
where the Yankee has organized a West Point of his own in King Arthur's
reign.

In April, '89, he made an address at a dinner given to a victorious
baseball team returning from a tour of the world by way of the Sandwich
Islands.  He was on familiar ground there.  His heart was in his words.
He began:

     I have been in the Sandwich Islands-twenty-three years ago--that
     peaceful land, that beautiful land, that far-off home of solitude,
     and soft idleness, and repose, and dreams, where life is one long
     slumberous Sabbath, the climate one long summer day, and the good
     that die experience no change, for they but fall asleep in one
     heaven and wake up in another.  And these boys have played baseball
     there!--baseball, which is the very symbol, the outward and visible
     expression, of the drive and push and rush and struggle of the
     living, tearing, booming nineteenth, the mightiest of all the
     centuries!

He told of the curious island habits for his hearers' amusement, but at
the close the poetry of his memories once more possessed him:

     Ah, well, it is refreshment to the jaded, it is water to the
     thirsty, to look upon men who have so lately breathed the soft air
     of those Isles of the Blest and had before their eyes the
     inextinguishable vision of their beauty.  No alien land in all the
     earth has any deep, strong charm for me but that one; no other land
     could so longingly and so beseechingly haunt me, sleeping and
     waking, through half a lifetime, as that one has done.  Other things
     leave me, but it abides; other things change, but it remains the
     same.  For me its balmy airs are always blowing, its summer seas
     flashing in the sun; the pulsing of its surf is in my ear; I can see
     its garlanded crags, its leaping cascades, its plumy palms drowsing
     by the shore, its remote summits floating like islands above the
     cloud-rack; I can feel the spirit of its woody solitudes, I hear the
     plashing of the brooks; in my nostrils still lives the breath of
     flowers that perished twenty years ago.




CLXIX

THE COMING OF KIPLING

It was the summer of 1889 that Mark Twain first met Rudyard Kipling.
Kipling was making his tour around the world, a young man wholly unheard
of outside of India.  He was writing letters home to an Indian journal,
The Pioneer, and he came to Elmira especially to see Mark Twain.  It was
night when he arrived, and next morning some one at the hotel directed
him to Quarry Farm.  In a hired hack he made his way out through the
suburbs, among the buzzing planing-mills and sash factories, and toiled
up the long, dusty, roasting east hill, only to find that Mark Twain was
at General Langdon's, in the city he had just left behind.  Mrs. Crane
and Susy Clemens were the only ones left at the farm, and they gave him a
seat on the veranda and brought him glasses of water or cool milk while
he refreshed them with his talk-talk which Mark Twain once said might be
likened to footprints, so strong and definite was the impression which it
left behind.  He gave them his card, on which the address was Allahabad,
and Susy preserved it on that account, because to her India was a
fairyland, made up of magic, airy architecture, and dark mysteries.
Clemens once dictated a memory of Kipling's visit.

     Kipling had written upon the card a compliment to me.  This gave it
     an additional value in Susy's eyes, since, as a distinction, it was
     the next thing to being recognized by a denizen of the moon.

     Kipling came down that afternoon and spent a couple of hours with
     me, and at the end of that time I had surprised him as much as he
     had surprised me--and the honors were easy.  I believed that he knew
     more than any person I had met before, and I knew that he knew that
     I knew less than any person he had met before--though he did not say
     it, and I was not expecting that he would.  When he was gone Mrs.
     Langdon wanted to know about my visitor.  I said:

     "He is a stranger to me, but he is a most remarkable man--and I am
     the other one.  Between us we cover all knowledge; he knows all that
     can be known, and I know the rest."

     He was a stranger to me and to all the world, and remained so for
     twelve months, then he became suddenly known, and universally known.
     From that day to this he has held this unique distinction--that of
     being the only living person, not head of a nation, whose voice is
     heard around the world the moment it drops a remark; the only such
     voice in existence that does not go by slow ship and rail, but
     always travels first-class--by cable.

     About a year after Kipling's visit in Elmira George Warner came into
     our library one morning in Hartford with a small book in his hand
     and asked me if I had ever heard of Rudyard Kipling.  I said, "No."

     He said I would hear of him very soon, and that the noise he was
     going to make would be loud and continuous.  The little book was the
     Plain Tales, and he left it for me to read, saying it was charged
     with a new and inspiriting fragrance, and would blow a refreshing
     breath around the world that would revive the nations.  A day or two
     later he brought a copy of the London World which had a sketch of
     Kipling in it, and a mention of the fact that he had traveled in the
     United States.  According to this sketch he had passed through
     Elmira.  This remark, with the additional fact that he hailed from
     India, attracted my attention--also Susy's.  She went to her room
     and brought his card from its place in the frame of her mirror, and
     the Quarry Farm visitor stood identified.

Kipling also has left an account of that visit.  In his letter recording
it he says:

     You are a contemptible lot over yonder.  Some of you are
     Commissioners and some are Lieutenant-Governors, and some have the
     V. C., and a few are privileged to walk about the Mall arm in arm
     with the Viceroy; but I have seen Mark Twain this golden morning,
     have shaken his hand and smoked a cigar--no, two cigars--with him,
     and talked with him for more than two hours!  Understand clearly
     that I do not despise you; indeed, I don't.  I am only very sorry
     for you, from the Viceroy downward.

     A big, darkened drawing-room; a huge chair; a man with eyes, a mane
     of grizzled hair, a brown mustache covering a mouth as delicate as a
     woman's, a strong, square hand shaking mine, and the slowest,
     calmest, levelest voice in all the world saying:

     "Well, you think you owe me something, and you've come to tell me
     so.  That's what I call squaring a debt handsomely."

     "Piff!" from a cob-pipe (I always said that a Missouri meerschaum
     was the best smoking in the world), and behold!  Mark Twain had
     curled himself up in the big arm-chair, and I was smoking
     reverently, as befits one in the presence of his superior.

     The thing that struck me first was that he was an elderly man; yet,
     after a minute's thought, I perceived that it was otherwise, and in
     five minutes, the eyes looking at me, I saw that the gray hair was
     an accident of the most trivial.  He was quite young.  I was shaking
     his hand.  I was smoking his cigar, and I was hearing him talk--this
     man I had learned to love and admire fourteen thousand miles away.

     Reading his books, I had striven to get an idea of his personality,
     and all my preconceived notions were wrong and beneath the reality.
     Blessed is the man who finds no disillusion when he is brought face
     to face with a revered writer.

The meeting of those two men made the summer of '89 memorable in later
years.  But it was recalled sadly, too.  Theodore Crane, who had been
taken suddenly and dangerously ill the previous autumn, had a recurring
attack and died July 3d.  It was the first death in the immediate
families for more than seventeen years, Mrs. Clemens, remembering that
earlier period of sorrow, was depressed with forebodings.





CLXX

"THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER" ON THE STAGE

There was an unusual dramatic interest in the Clemens home that autumn.
Abby Sage Richardson had dramatized 'The Prince and the Pauper', and
Daniel Frohman had secured Elsie Leslie (Lyde) to take the double role of
the Prince and Tom Canty.  The rehearsals were going on, and the Clemens
children were naturally a good deal excited over the outcome.  Susy
Clemens was inspired to write a play of her own--a pretty Greek fancy,
called "The Triumph of Music," and when it was given on Thanksgiving
night, by herself, with Clara and Jean and Margaret Warner, it was really
a lovely performance, and carried one back to the days when emotions were
personified, and nymphs haunted the seclusions of Arcady.  Clemens was
proud of Susy's achievement, and deeply moved by it.  He insisted on
having the play repeated, and it was given again later in the year.

Pretty Elsie Leslie became a favorite of the Clemens household.  She was
very young, and when she visited Hartford Jean and she were companions
and romped together in the hay-loft.  She was also a favorite of William
Gillette.  One day when Clemens and Gillette were together they decided
to give the little girl a surprise--a unique one.  They agreed to
embroider a pair of slippers for her--to do the work themselves.  Writing
to her of it, Mark Twain said:

     Either one of us could have thought of a single slipper, but it took
     both of us to think of two slippers.  In fact, one of us did think
     of one slipper, and then, quick as a flash, the other of the other
     one.  It shows how wonderful the human mind is....

     Gillette embroidered his slipper with astonishing facility and
     splendor, but I have been a long time pulling through with mine.
     You see, it was my very first attempt at art, and I couldn't rightly
     get the hang of it along at first.  And then I was so busy that I
     couldn't get a chance to work at it at home, and they wouldn't let
     me embroider on the cars; they said it made the other passengers
     afraid.  They didn't like the light that flared into my eye when I
     had an inspiration.  And even the most fair-minded people doubted me
     when I explained what it was I was making--especially brakemen.
     Brakemen always swore at it and carried on, the way ignorant people
     do about art.  They wouldn't take my word that it was a slipper;
     they said they believed it was a snow-shoe that had some kind of
     disease.

He went on to explain and elucidate the pattern of the slipper, and how
Dr. Root had come in and insisted on taking a hand in it, and how
beautiful it was to see him sit there and tell Mrs. Clemens what had been
happening while they were away during the summer, holding the slipper up
toward the end of his nose, imagining the canvas was a "subject" with a
scalp-wound, working with a "lovely surgical stitch," never hesitating a
moment in his talk except to say "Ouch!" when he stuck himself with the
needle.

     Take the slippers and wear them next your heart, Elsie dear; for
     every stitch in them is a testimony of the affection which two of
     your loyalest friends bear you.  Every single stitch cost us blood.
     I've got twice as many pores in me now as I used to have; and you
     would never believe how many places you can stick a needle in
     yourself until you go into the embroidery line and devote yourself
     to art.

     Do not wear these slippers in public, dear; it would only excite
     envy; and, as like as not, somebody would try to shoot you.

     Merely use them to assist you in remembering that among the many,
     many people who think all the world of you is your friend,

                                        MARK TWAIN.


The play of "The Prince and the Pauper," dramatized by Mrs. Richardson
and arranged for the stage by David Belasco, was produced at the Park
Theater, Philadelphia, on Christmas Eve.  It was a success, but not a
lavish one.  The play was well written and staged, and Elsie Leslie was
charming enough in her parts, but in the duality lay the difficulty.  The
strongest scenes in the story had to be omitted when one performer played
both Tom Canty and the little Prince.  The play came to New York--to the
Broadway Theater--and was well received.  On the opening night there Mark
Twain made a speech, in which he said that the presentation of "The
Prince and the Pauper" realized a dream which fifteen years before had
possessed him all through a long down-town tramp, amid the crowds and
confusion of Broadway.  In Elsie Leslie, he said, he had found the
embodiment of his dream, and to her he offered homage as the only prince
clothed in a divine right which was not rags and sham--the divine right
of an inborn supremacy in art.

It seems incredible to-day that, realizing the play's possibilities as
Mark Twain did, and as Belasco and Daniel Frohman must have done, they
did not complete their partial triumph by finding another child actress
to take the part of Tom Canty.  Clemens urged and pleaded with them, but
perhaps the undertaking seemed too difficult--at all events they did not
find the little beggar king.  Then legal complications developed.  Edward
House, to whom Clemens had once given a permission to attempt a
dramatization of the play, suddenly appeared with a demand for
recognition, backed by a lawsuit against all those who had a proprietary
interest in the production.  House, with his adopted Japanese daughter
Koto, during a period of rheumatism and financial depression, had made a
prolonged visit in the Clemens home and originally undertook the
dramatization as a sort of return for hospitality.  He appears not to
have completed it and to have made no arrangement for its production or
to have taken any definite step until Mrs. Richardson's play was
profitably put on; whereupon his suit and injunction.

By the time a settlement of this claim had been reached the play had run
its course, and it was not revived in that form.  It was brought out in
England, where it was fairly prosperous, though it seems not to have been
long continued.  Variously reconstructed, it has occasionally been played
since, and always, when the parts of Tom Canty and the Prince were
separate, with great success.  Why this beautiful drama should ever be
absent from the boards is one of the unexplainable things.  It is a play
for all times and seasons, the difficulty of obtaining suitable "twin"
interpreters for the characters of the Prince and the Pauper being its
only drawback.




CLXXI

"A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT"

From every point of view it seemed necessary to make the 'Yankee in King
Arthur's Court' an important and pretentious publication.  It was Mark
Twain's first book after a silence of five years; it was a book badly
needed by his publishing business with which to maintain its prestige and
profit; it was a book which was to come out of his maturity and present
his deductions, as to humanity at large and kings in particular, to a
waiting public.  It was determined to spare no expense on the
manufacture, also that its illustrations must be of a sort to illuminate
and, indeed, to elaborate the text.  Clemens had admired some pictures
made by Daniel Carter ("Dan") Beard for a Chinese story in the
Cosmopolitan, and made up his mind that Beard was the man for the Yankee.
The manuscript was sent to Beard, who met Clemens a little later in the
office of Webster & Co.  to discuss the matter.  Clemens said:

"Mr. Beard, I do not want to subject you to any undue suffering, but I
wish you would read the book before you make the pictures."

Beard replied that he had already read it twice.

"Very good," Clemens said; "but I wasn't led to suppose that that was the
usual custom among illustrators, judging from some results I have seen.
You know," he went on, "this Yankee of mine has neither the refinement
nor the weakness of a college education; he is a perfect ignoramus; he is
boss of a machine shop; he can build a locomotive or a Colt's revolver,
he can put up and run a telegraph line, but he's an ignoramus,
nevertheless.  I am not going to tell you what to draw.  If a man comes
to me and says, 'Mr. Clemens, I want you to write me a story,' I'll write
it for him; but if he undertakes to tell me what to write I'll say, 'Go
hire a typewriter.'"

To Hall a few days later he wrote:

     Tell Beard to obey his own inspirations, and when he sees a picture
     in his mind put that picture on paper, be it humorous or be it
     serious.  I want his genius to be wholly unhampered.  I sha'n't have
     any fear as to results.

Without going further it is proper to say here that the pictures in the
first edition of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court justified
the author's faith in the artist of his selection.  They are far and away
Dan Beard's best work.  The socialism of the text strongly appealed to
him.  Beard himself had socialistic tendencies, and the work inspired him
to his highest flights of fancy and to the acme of his technic.  Clemens
examined the pictures from time to time, and once was moved to write:

     My pleasure in them is as strong and as fresh as ever.  I do not
     know of any quality they lack.  Grace, dignity, poetry, spirit,
     imagination, these enrich them and make them charming and beautiful;
     and wherever humor appears it is high and fine--easy, unforced, kept
     under, masterly, and delicious.

He went on to describe his appreciation in detail, and when the drawings
were complete he wrote again:

     Hold me under permanent obligations.  What luck it was to find you!
     There are hundreds of artists who could illustrate any other book of
     mine, but there was only one who could illustrate this one.  Yes, it
     was a fortunate hour that I went netting for lightning-bugs and
     caught a meteor.  Live forever!

This was not too much praise.  Beard realized the last shade of the
author's allegorical intent and portrayed it with a hundred accents which
the average reader would otherwise be likely to miss.

Clemens submitted his manuscript to Howells and to Stedman, and he read
portions of it, at least, to Mrs. Clemens, whose eyes were troubling her
so that she could not read for herself.  Stedman suggested certain
eliminations, but, on the whole, would seem to have approved of the book.
Howells was enthusiastic.  It appealed to him as it had appealed to
Beard.  Its sociology and its socialism seemed to him the final word that
could be said on those subjects.  When he had partly finished it he
wrote:

     It's a mighty great book and it makes my heart, burn with wrath.  It
     seems that God didn't forget to put a soul in you.  He shuts most
     literary men off with a brain, merely.

A few days later he wrote again:

     The book is glorious-simply noble.  What masses of virgin truth
     never touched in print before!

And when he had finished it:

     Last night I read your last chapter.  As Stedman says of the whole
     book, it's titanic.

Clemens declared, in one of his replies to Howells:

     I'm not writing for those parties who miscall themselves critics,
     and I don't care to have them paw the book at all.  It's my swan
     song, my retirement from literature permanently, and I wish to pass
     to the cemetery unclodded .  .  .  .  Well, my book is written--let
     it go, but if it were only to write over again there wouldn't be so
     many things left out.  They burn in me; they keep multiplying and
     multiplying, but now they can't ever be said; and besides they would
     require a library--and a pen warmed up in hell.

In another letter of this time to Sylvester Baxter, apropos of the
tumbling Brazilian throne, he wrote:

     When our great brethren, the disenslaved Brazilians, frame their
     declaration of independence I hope they will insert this missing
     link: "We hold these truths to be self-evident--that all monarchs
     are usurpers and descendants of usurpers, for the reason that no
     throne was ever set up in this world by the will, freely exercised,
     of the only body possessing the legitimate right to set it up--the
     numerical mass of the nation."

He was full of it, as he had been all along, and 'A Connecticut Yankee in
King Arthur's Court' is nothing less than a brief for human rights and
human privileges.  That is what it is, and it is a pity that it should be
more than that.  It is a pity that he should have been beset by his old
demon of the burlesque, and that no one should have had the wisdom or the
strength to bring it under control.

There is nothing more charming in any of Mark Twain's work than his
introductory chapter, nothing more delightful than the armoring of the
Yankee and the outset and the wandering with Alisande.  There is nothing
more powerful or inspiring than his splendid panoramic picture--of the
King learning mercy through his own degradation, his daily intercourse
with a band of manacled slaves; nothing more fiercely moving than that
fearful incident of the woman burned to warm those freezing chattels, or
than the great gallows scene, where the priest speaks for the young
mother about to pay the death penalty for having stolen a halfpenny's
worth, that her baby might have bread.  Such things as these must save
the book from oblivion; but alas! its greater appeal is marred almost to
ruin by coarse and extravagant burlesque, which destroys illusion and
antagonizes the reader often at the very moment when the tale should fill
him with a holy fire of a righteous wrath against wrong.  As an example
of Mark Twain at his literary worst and best the Yankee ranks supreme.
It is unnecessary to quote examples; one cannot pick up the volume and
read ten pages of it, or five pages, without finding them.  In the midst
of some exalted passage, some towering sublimity, you are brought
suddenly to earth with a phrase which wholly destroys the illusion and
the diviner purpose.  Howells must have observed these things, or was he
so dazzled by the splendor of its intent, its righteous charge upon the
ranks of oppression, that he regarded its offenses against art as
unimportant.  This is hard to explain, for the very thing that would
sustain such a great message and make it permanent would be the care, the
restraint, the artistic worthiness of its construction.  One must believe
in a story like that to be convinced of its logic.  To lose faith in it--
in its narrative--is absolutely fatal to its purpose.  The Yankee in King
Arthur's Court not only offended the English nation, but much of it
offended the better taste of Mark Twain's own countrymen, and in time it
must have offended even Mark Twain himself.  Reading it, one can
visualize the author as a careering charger, with a bit in his teeth,
trampling the poetry and the tradition of the romantic days, the very
things which he himself in his happier moods cared for most.  Howells
likened him to Cervantes, laughing Spain's chivalry away.  The comparison
was hardly justified.  It was proper enough to laugh chivalry out of
court when it was a reality; but Mark Twain, who loved Sir Thomas Malory
to the end of his days, the beauty and poetry of his chronicles; who had
written 'The Prince and the Pauper', and would one day write that divine
tale of the 'Maid of Orleans'; who was himself no more nor less than a
knight always ready to redress wrong, would seem to have been the last
person to wish to laugh it out of romance.

And yet, when all is said, one may still agree with Howells in ranking
the Yankee among Mark Twain's highest achievements in the way of "a
greatly imagined and symmetrically developed tale."  It is of that class,
beyond doubt.  Howells goes further:

     Of all the fanciful schemes in fiction it pleases me most, and I
     give myself with absolute delight to its notion of a keen East
     Hartford Yankee finding himself, by a retroactionary spell, at the
     court of King Arthur of Britain, and becoming part of the sixth
     century with all the customs and ideas of the nineteenth in him and
     about him.  The field for humanizing satire which this scheme opens
     is illimitable.

Colossal it certainly is, as Howells and Stedman agreed: colossal in its
grotesqueness as in its sublimity.  Howells, summarizing Mark Twain's
gifts (1901), has written:

     He is apt to burlesque the lighter colloquiality, and it is only in
     the more serious and most tragical junctures that his people utter
     themselves with veracious simplicity and dignity.  That great, burly
     fancy of his is always tempting him to the exaggeration which is the
     condition of so much of his personal humor, but which when it
     invades the drama spoils the illusion.  The illusion renews itself
     in the great moments, but I wish it could be kept intact in the
     small, and I blame him that he does not rule his fancy better.

All of which applies precisely to the writing of the Yankee in King
Arthur's Court.  Intended as a fierce heart-cry against human injustice--
man's inhumanity to man--as such it will live and find readers; but, more
than any other of Mark Twain's pretentious works, it needs editing--
trimming by a fond but relentless hard.




CLXXII

THE "YANKEE" IN ENGLAND

The London publishers of the Yankee were keenly anxious to revise the
text for their English readers.  Clemens wrote that he had already
revised the Yankee twice, that Stedman had critically read it, and that
Mrs. Clemens had made him strike out many passages and soften others.  He
added that he had read chapters of it in public several times where
Englishmen were present and had profited by their suggestions.  Then he
said:

     Now, mind you, I have taken all this pains because I wanted to say a
     Yankee mechanic's say against monarchy and its several natural
     props, and yet make a book which you would be willing to print
     exactly as it comes to you, without altering a word.

     We are spoken of (by Englishmen) as a thin-skinned people.  It is
     you who are thin-skinned.  An Englishman may write with the most
     brutal frankness about any man or institution among us and we
     republish him without dreaming of altering a line or a word.  But
     England cannot stand that kind of a book written about herself.  It
     is England that is thin-skinned.  It causeth me to smile when I read
     the modifications of my language which have been made in my English
     editions to fit them for the sensitive English palate.

     Now, as I say, I have taken laborious pains to so trim this book of
     offense that you'll not lack the nerve to print it just as it
     stands.  I am going to get the proofs to you just as early as I can.
     I want you to read it carefully.  If you can publish it without
     altering a single word, go ahead.  Otherwise, please hand it to
     J. R. Osgood in time for him to have it published at my expense.

     This is important, for the reason that the book was not written for
     America; it was written for England.  So many Englishmen have done
     their sincerest best to teach us something for our betterment that
     it seems to me high time that some of us should substantially
     recognize the good intent by trying to pry up the English nation to
     a little higher level of manhood in turn.

So the Yankee was published in England just as he had written it,--[The
preface was shortened and modified for both the American and English
editions.  The reader will find it as originally written under Appendix
S, at the end of last volume.]--and the criticisms were as plentiful as
they were frank.  It was referred to as a "lamentable failure" and as an
"audacious sacrilege" and in terms still less polite.  Not all of the
English critics were violent.  The Daily Telegraph gave it something more
than a column of careful review, which did not fail to point out the
book's sins with a good deal of justice and dignity; but the majority of
English papers joined in a sort of objurgatory chorus which, for a time
at least, spared neither the author nor his work.  Strictures on the
Yankee extended to his earlier books.  After all, Mark Twain's work was
not for the cultivated class.

These things must have begun to gravel Clemens a good deal at last, for
he wrote to Andrew Lang at considerable length, setting forth his case in
general terms--that is to say, his position as an author--inviting Lang
to stand as his advocate before the English public.  In part he said:

     The critic assumes every time that if a book doesn't meet the
     cultivated-class standard it isn't valuable .  .  .  The critic has
     actually imposed upon the world the superstition that a painting by
     Raphael is more valuable to the civilizations of the earth than is a
     chromo; and the august opera more than the hurdy-gurdy and the
     villagers' singing society; and the Latin classics than Kipling's
     far-reaching bugle-note; and Jonathan Edwards than the Salvation
     Army .  .  .  .  If a critic should start a religion it would not
     have any object but to convert angels, and they wouldn't need it.
     It is not that little minority who are already saved that are best
     worth lifting up, I should think, but the mighty mass of the
     uncultivated who are underneath!  That mass will never see the old
     masters--that sight is for the few; but the chromo-maker can lift
     them all one step upward toward appreciation of art; they cannot
     have the opera, but the hurdy-gurdy and the singing-class lift them
     a little way toward that far height; they will never know Homer, but
     the passing rhymester of their day leaves them higher than he found
     them; they may never even hear of the Latin classics, but they will
     strike step with Kipling's drum-beat and they will march; for all
     Jonathan Edwards's help they would die in their slums, but the
     Salvation Army will beguile some of them to a purer air and a
     cleaner life .

     .  .  .  I have never tried, in even one single little instance, to
     help cultivate the cultivated classes.  I was not equipped for it
     either by native gifts or training.  And I never had any ambition in
     that direction, but always hunted for bigger game--the masses.  I
     have seldom deliberately tried to instruct them, but I have done my
     best to entertain them, for they can get instruction elsewhere .  .
     .  .  My audience is dumb; it has no voice in print, and so I cannot
     know whether I have won its approval or only got its censure.

He closed by asking that Lang urge the critics to adopt a rule
recognizing the masses, and to formulate a standard whereby work done for
them might be judged.  "No voice can reach further than yours in a case
of this kind," he said, "or carry greater weight of authority."  There
was no humor in this letter, and the writer of it was clearly in earnest.

Lang's response was an article published in the Illustrated London News
on the art of Mark Twain.  He began by gently ridiculing hyperculture--
the new culture--and ended with a eulogy on Huck Finn.  It seems worth
while, however, to let Andrew Lang speak for himself.

     I have been educated till I nearly dropped; I have lived with the
     earliest apostles of culture, in the days when Chippendale was first
     a name to conjure with, and Japanese art came in like a raging lion,
     and Ronsard was the favorite poet, and Mr. William Morris was a
     poet, too, and blue and green were the only wear, and the name of
     Paradise was Camelot.  To be sure, I cannot say that I took all this
     quite seriously, but "we, too, have played" at it, and know all
     about it.  Generally speaking, I have kept up with culture.  I can
     talk (if desired) about Sainte-Beuve, and Merimee, and Felicien
     Rops; I could rhyme "Ballades" when they were "in," and knew what a
     "pantoom" was .  .  .  .  And yet I have not culture.  My works are
     but tinkling brass because I have not culture.  For culture has got
     into new regions where I cannot enter, and, what is perhaps worse,
     I find myself delighting in a great many things which are under the
     ban of culture.

He confesses that this is a dreadful position; one that makes a man feel
like one of those Liberal politicians who are always "sitting on the
fence," and who follow their party, if follow it they do, with the
reluctant acquiescence of the prophet's donkey.  He further confesses
that he has tried Hartmann and prefers Plato, that he is shaky about
Blake, though stalwart concerning Rudyard Kipling.

     This is not the worst of it.  Culture has hardly a new idol but I
     long to hurl things at it.  Culture can scarcely burn anything, but
     I am impelled to sacrifice to that same.  I am coming to suspect
     that the majority of culture's modern disciples are a mere crowd of
     very slimly educated people who have no natural taste or impulses;
     who do not really know the best things in literature; who have a
     feverish desire to admire the newest thing, to follow the latest
     artistic fashion; who prate about "style," without the faintest
     acquaintance with the ancient examples of style in Greek, French, or
     English; who talk about the classics and--criticize the classical
     critics and poets, without being able to read a line of them in the
     original.  Nothing of the natural man is left in these people; their
     intellectual equipment is made up of ignorant vanity and eager
     desire for novelty, and a yearning to be in the fashion.  Take, for
     example--and we have been a long time in coming to him--Mark Twain.
     [Here follow some observations concerning the Yankee, which Lang
     confesses that he has not read, and has abstained from reading
     because----].  Here Mark Twain is not, and cannot be, at the proper
     point of view.  He has not the knowledge which would enable him to
     be a sound critic of the ideals of the Middle Ages.  An Arthurian
     Knight in New York or in Washington would find as much to blame, and
     justly, as a Yankee at Camelot.

Of Mark Twain's work in general he speaks with another conclusion:

     Mark Twain is a benefactor beyond most modern writers, and the
     cultured who do not laugh are merely to be pitied.  But his art is
     not only that of the maker of the scarce article--mirth.  I have no
     hesitation in saying that Mark Twain is one among the greatest
     contemporary makers of fiction .  .  .  .  I can never forget or be
     ungrateful for the exquisite pleasure with which I read Huckleberry
     Finn for the first time years ago.  I read it again last night,
     deserting Kenilworth for Huck.  I never laid it down till I had
     finished it.  I perused several passages more than once, and rose
     from it with a higher opinion of its merits than ever.

     What is it that we want in a novel?  We want a vivid and original
     picture of life; we want character naturally displayed in action;
     and if we get the excitement of adventure into the bargain, and that
     adventure possible and plausible, I so far differ from the newest
     school of criticism as to think that we have additional cause for
     gratitude.  If, moreover, there is an unstrained sense of humor in
     the narrator we have a masterpiece, and Huckleberry Finn is, nothing
     less.

He reviews Huck sympathetically in detail, and closes:

     There are defects of taste, or passages that to us seem deficient in
     taste, but the book remains a nearly flawless gem of romance and of
     humor.  The world appreciates it, no doubt, but "cultured critics"
     are probably unaware of its singular value.  The great American
     novel has escaped the eyes of those who watch to see this new planet
     swim into their ken.  And will Mark Twain never write such another?
     One is enough for him to live by, and for our gratitude, but not
     enough for our desire.

In the brief column and a half which it occupies, this comment of Andrew
Lang's constitutes as thoughtful and fair an estimate of Mark Twain's
work as was ever written.

W. T. Stead, of the Review of Reviews, was about the only prominent
English editor to approve of the Yankee and to exploit its merits.  Stead
brought down obloquy upon himself by so doing, and his separation from
his business partner would seem to have been at least remotely connected
with this heresy.

The Yankee in King Arthur's Court was dramatized in America by Howard
Taylor, one of the Enterprise compositors, whom Clemens had known in the
old Comstock days.  Taylor had become a playwright of considerable
success, with a number of well-known actors and actresses starring in his
plays.  The Yankee, however, did not find a manager, or at least it seems
not to have reached the point of production.




CLXXIII

A SUMMER AT ONTEORA

With the exception of one article--" A Majestic Literary Fossil"--
[Harper's Magazine, February, 1890.  Included in the "Complete Works."]--
Clemens was writing nothing of importance at this time.  This article
grew out of a curious old medical work containing absurd prescriptions
which, with Theodore Crane, he had often laughed over at the farm.  A
sequel to Huckleberry Finn--Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer Among the Indians--
was begun, and a number of its chapters were set in type on the new Paige
compositor, which had cost such a gallant sum, and was then thought to be
complete.  There seems to have been a plan to syndicate the story, but at
the end of Chapter IX Huck and Tom had got themselves into a predicament
from which it seemed impossible to extricate them, and the plot was
suspended for further inspiration, which apparently never came.

Clemens, in fact, was troubled with rheumatism in his arm and shoulder,
which made writing difficult.  Mrs. Clemens, too, had twinges of the
malady.  They planned to go abroad for the summer of 1890, to take the
waters of some of the German baths, but they were obliged to give up the
idea.  There were too many business complications; also the health of
Clemens's mother had become very feeble.  They went to Tannersville in
the Catskills, instead--to the Onteora Club, where Mrs. Candace Wheeler
had gathered a congenial colony in a number of picturesque cottages, with
a comfortable hotel for the more transient visitor.  The Clemenses
secured a cottage for the season.  Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, Laurence
Hutton, Carroll Beckwith, the painter; Brander Matthews, Dr. Heber
Newton, Mrs. Custer, and Dora Wheeler were among those who welcomed Mark
Twain and his family at a generous home-made banquet.

It was the beginning of a happy summer.  There was a constant visiting
from one cottage to another, with frequent assemblings at the Bear and
Fox Inn, their general headquarters.  There were pantomimes and charades,
in which Mark Twain and his daughters always had star parts.  Susy
Clemens, who was now eighteen, brilliant and charming, was beginning to
rival her father as a leader of entertainment.  Her sister Clara gave
impersonations of Modjeska and Ada Rehan.  When Fourth of July came there
were burlesque races, of which Mark Twain was starter, and many of that
lighthearted company took part.  Sometimes, in the evening, they gathered
in one of the cottages and told stories by the firelight, and once he
told the story of the Golden Arm, so long remembered, and brought them up
with the same old jump at the sudden climax.  Brander Matthews remembers
that Clemens was obliged frequently to go to New York on business
connected with the machine and the publishing, and that during one of
these absences a professional entertainer came along, and in the course
of his program told a Mark Twain story, at which Mrs. Clemens and the
girls laughed without recognizing its authorship.  Matthews also
remembers Jean, as a little girl of ten, allowed to ride a pony and to go
barefoot, to her great delight, full of health and happiness, a favorite
of the colony.

Clemens would seem to have forgiven Brander Matthews for his copyright
articles, for he walked over to the Matthews cottage one morning and
asked to be taught piquet, the card game most in vogue there that season.
At odd times he sat to Carroll Beckwith for his portrait, and smoked a
cob pipe meantime, so Beckwith painted him in that way.

It was a season that closed sadly.  Clemens was called to Keokuk in
August, to his mother's bedside, for it was believed that her end was
near.  She rallied, and he returned to Onteora.  But on the 27th of
October came the close of that long, active life, and the woman who two
generations before had followed John Clemens into the wilderness, and
along the path of vicissitude, was borne by her children to Hannibal and
laid to rest at his side.  She was in her eighty-eighth year.

The Clemens family were back in Hartford by this time, and it was only a
little later that Mrs. Clemens was summoned to the death-bed of her own
mother, in Elmira.  Clemens accompanied her, but Jean being taken
suddenly ill he returned to Hartford.  Watching by the little girl's
bedside on the night of the 27th of November, he wrote Mrs. Clemens a
birthday letter, telling of Jean's improved condition and sending other
good news and as many loving messages as he could devise.  But it proved
a sad birthday for Mrs. Clemens, for on that day her mother's gentle and
beautiful soul went out from among them.  The foreboding she had felt at
the passing of Theodore Crane had been justified.  She had a dread that
the harvest of death was not yet ended.  Matters in general were going
badly with them, and an anxiety began to grow to get away from America,
and so perhaps leave sorrow and ill-luck behind.  Clemens, near the end
of December, writing to his publishing manager, Hall, said:

     Merry Christmas to you, and I wish to God I could have one myself
     before I die.

The house was emptier that winter than before, for Susy was at Bryn Mawr.
Clemens planned some literary work, but the beginning, after his long
idleness, was hard.  A diversion was another portrait of himself, this
time undertaken by Charles Noel Flagg.  Clemens rather enjoyed portrait-
sittings.  He could talk and smoke, and he could incidentally acquire
information.  He liked to discuss any man's profession with him, and in
his talks with Flagg he made a sincere effort to get that insight which
would enable him to appreciate the old masters.  Flagg found him a
tractable sitter, and a most interesting one.  Once he paid him a
compliment, then apologized for having said the obvious thing.

"Never mind the apology," said Clemens.  "The compliment that helps us on
our way is not the one that is shut up in the mind, but the one that is
spoken out."

When Flagg's portrait was about completed, Mrs. Clemens and Mrs. Crane
came to the studio to look at it.  Mrs. Clemens complained only that the
necktie was crooked.

"But it's always crooked," said Flagg, "and I have a great fancy for the
line it makes."

She straightened it on Clemens himself, but it immediately became crooked
again.  Clemens said:

"If you were to make that necktie straight people would say; ' Good
portrait, but there is something the matter with it.  I don't know where
it is.'"

The tie was left unchanged.




CLXXIV

THE MACHINE

The reader may have realized that by the beginning of 1891 Mark Twain's
finances were in a critical condition.  The publishing business had
managed to weather along.  It was still profitable, and could have been
made much more so if the capital necessary to its growth had not been
continuously and relentlessly absorbed by that gigantic vampire of
inventions--that remorseless Frankenstein monster--the machine.

The beginning of this vast tragedy (for it was no less than that) dated
as far back as 1880, when Clemens one day had taken a minor and purely
speculative interest in patent rights, which was to do away with setting
type by hand.  In some memoranda which he made more than ten years later,
when the catastrophe was still a little longer postponed, he gave some
account of the matter.

     This episode has now spread itself over more than one-fifth of my
     life, a considerable stretch of time, as I am now 55 years old.

     Ten or eleven years ago Dwight Buell, a jeweler, called at our house
     and was shown up to the billiard-room-which was my study; and the
     game got more study than the other sciences.  He wanted me to take
     some stock in a type-setting machine.  He said it was at the Colt's
     Arms factory, and was about finished.  I took $2,000 of the stock.
     I was always taking little chances like that, and almost always
     losing by it, too.  Some time afterward I was invited to go down to
     the factory and see the machine.  I went, promising myself nothing,
     for I knew all about type-setting by practical experience, and held
     the settled and solidified opinion that a successful type-setting
     machine was an impossibility, for the reason that a machine cannot
     be made to think, and the thing that sets movable type must think or
     retire defeated.  So, the performance I witnessed did most
     thoroughly amaze me.  Here was a machine that was really setting
     type, and doing it with swiftness and accuracy, too.  Moreover, it
     was distributing its case at the same time.  The distribution was
     automatic; the machine fed itself from a galley of dead matter and
     without human help or suggestion, for it began its work of its own
     accord when the type channels needed filling, and stopped of its own
     accord when they were full enough.  The machine was almost a
     complete compositor; it lacked but one feature--it did not "justify"
     the lines.  This was done by the operator's assistant.

     I saw the operator set at the rate of 3,000 ems an hour, which,
     counting distribution, was but little short of four casemen's work.
     William Hamersley was there.  He said he was already a considerable
     owner, and was going to take as much more of the stock as he could
     afford.  Wherefore, I set down my name for an additional $3,000.  It
     is here that the music begins.

It was the so-called Farnham machine that he saw, invented by James W.
Paige, and if they had placed it on the market then, without waiting for
the inventor to devise improvements, the story might have been a
different one.  But Paige was never content short of absolute perfection
--a machine that was not only partly human, but entirely so.  Clemens'
used to say later that the Paige type-setter would do everything that a
human being could do except drink and swear and go on a strike.  He might
properly have omitted the last item, but of that later.  Paige was a
small, bright-eyed, alert, smartly dressed man, with a crystal-clear
mind, but a dreamer and a visionary.  Clemens says of him: "He is a poet;
a most great and genuine poet, whose sublime creations are written in
steel."

It is easy to see now that Mark Twain and Paige did not make a good
business combination.  When Paige declared that, wonderful as the machine
was, he could do vastly greater things with it, make it worth many more
and much larger fortunes by adding this attachment and that, Clemens was
just the man to enter into his dreams and to furnish the money to realize
them.  Paige did not require much money at first, and on the capital
already invested he tinkered along with his improvements for something
like four or five years; Hamersley and Clemens meantime capitalizing the
company and getting ready to place the perfected invention on the market.
By the time the Grant episode had ended Clemens had no reason to believe
but that incalculable wealth lay just ahead, when the newspapers should
be apprised of the fact that their types were no longer to be set by
hand.  Several contracts had been made with Paige, and several new
attachments had been added to the machine.  It seemed to require only one
thing more, the justifier, which would save the labor of the extra man.
Paige could be satisfied with nothing short of that, even though the
extra man's wage was unimportant.  He must have his machine do it all,
and meantime five precious years had slipped away.  Clemens, in his
memoranda, says:

     End of 1885.  Paige arrives at my house unheralded.  I had seen
     little or nothing of him for a year or two.  He said:

     "What will you complete the machine for?"

     "What will it cost?"

     "Twenty thousand dollars; certainly not over $30,000."

     "What will you give?"

     "I'll give you half."

Clemens was "flush" at this time.  His reading tour with Cable, the great
sale of Huck Finn, the prospect of the Grant book, were rosy realities.
He said:

     "I'll do it, but the limit must be $30,000."

They agreed to allow Hamersley a tenth interest for the money he had
already invested and for legal advice.

Hamersley consented readily enough, and when in February, 1886, the new
contract was drawn they believed themselves heir to the millions of the
Fourth Estate.

By this time F. G. Whitmore had come into Clemens's business affairs, and
he did not altogether approve of the new contract.  Among other things,
it required that Clemens should not only complete the machine, but
promote it, capitalize it commercially.  Whitmore said:

"Mr. Clemens, that clause can bankrupt you."

Clemens answered: "Never mind that, Whitmore; I've considered that.  I
can get a thousand men worth a million apiece to go in with me if I can
get a perfect machine."

He immediately began to calculate the number of millions he would be
worth presently when the machine was completed and announced to the
waiting world.  He covered pages with figures that never ran short of
millions, and frequently approached the billion mark.  Colonel Sellers in
his happiest moments never dreamed more lavishly.  He obtained a list of
all the newspapers in the United States and in Europe, and he counted up
the machines that would be required by each.  To his nephew, Sam Moffett,
visiting him one day, he declared that it would take ten men to count the
profits from the typesetter.  He realized clearly enough that a machine
which would set and distribute type and do the work of half a dozen men
or more would revolutionize type composition.  The fact that other
inventors besides Paige were working quite as diligently and perhaps
toward more simple conclusions did not disturb him.  Rumors came of the
Rogers machine and the Thorne machine and the Mergenthaler linotype, but
Mark Twain only smiled.  When the promoters of the Mergenthaler offered
to exchange half their interests for a half interest in the Paige patent,
to obtain thereby a wider insurance of success, it only confirmed his
trust, and he let the golden opportunity go by.

Clemens thinks the thirty thousand dollars lasted about a year.  Then
Paige confessed that the machine was still incomplete, but he said that
four thousand dollars more would finish it, and that with ten thousand
dollars he could finish it and give a big exhibition in New York.  He had
discarded the old machine altogether, it seems, and at Pratt & Whitney's
shops was building a new one from the ground up--a machine of twenty
thousand minutely exact parts, each of which must be made by expert hand
workmanship after elaborate drawings and patterns even more expensive.
It was an undertaking for a millionaire.

Paige offered to borrow from Clemens the amount needed, offering the
machine as security.  Clemens supplied the four thousand dollars, and
continued to advance money from time to time at the rate of three to four
thousand dollars a month, until he had something like eighty thousand
dollars invested, with the machine still unfinished.  This would be early
in 1888, by which time other machines had reached a state of completion
and were being placed on the market.  The Mergenthaler, in particular,
was attracting wide attention.  Paige laughed at it, and Clemens, too,
regarded it as a joke.  The moment their machine was complete all other
machines would disappear.  Even the fact that the Tribune had ordered
twenty-three of the linotypes, and other journals were only waiting to
see the paper in its new dress before ordering, did not disturb them.
Those linotypes would all go into the scrap-heap presently.  It was too
bad people would waste their money so.  In January, 1888, Paige promised
that the machine would be done by the 1st of April.  On the 1st of April
he promised it for September, but in October he acknowledged there were
still eighty-five days' work to be done on it.  In November Clemens wrote
to Orion:

The machine is apparently almost done--but I take no privileges on that
account; it must be done before I spend a cent that can be avoided.  I
have kept this family on very short commons for two years and they must
go on scrimping until the machine is finished, no matter how long that
may be.

By the end of '88 the income from the books and the business and Mrs.
Clemens's Elmira investments no longer satisfied the demands of the type-
setter, in addition to the household expense, reduced though the latter
was; and Clemens began by selling and hypothecating his marketable
securities.  The whole household interest by this time centered in the
machine.  What the Tennessee land had been to John and Jane Clemens and
their children, the machine had now become to Samuel Clemens and his
family.  "When the machine is finished everything will be all right
again" afforded the comfort of that long-ago sentence, "When the
Tennessee land is sold."

They would have everything they wanted then.  Mrs. Clemens planned
benefactions, as was her wont.  Once she said to her sister:

"How strange it will seem to have unlimited means, to be able to do
whatever you want to do, to give whatever you want to give without
counting the cost."

Straight along through another year the three thousand dollars and more a
month continued, and then on the 5th of January, 1889, there came what
seemed the end--the machine and justifier were complete!  In his notebook
on that day Mark Twain set down this memorandum:

                                 EUREKA!

     Saturday, January 5, 1889-12.20 P.M.  At this moment I have seen a
     line of movable type spaced and justified by machinery!  This is the
     first time in the history of the world that this amazing thing has
     ever been done.  Present:
     J. W. Paige, the inventor;
     Charles Davis, | Mathematical assistants
     Earll          | & mechanical
     Graham         | experts
     Bates, foreman, and S.  L.  Clemens.
     This record is made immediately after the prodigious event.


Two days later he made another note:

     Monday, January 7--4.45 P.m.  The first proper name ever set by this
     new keyboard was William Shakspeare.  I set it at the above hour; &
     I perceive, now that I see the name written, that I either mis-
     spelled it then or I've misspelled it now.

     The space-bar did its duty by the electric connections & steam &
     separated the two words preparatory to the reception of the space.

It seemed to him that his troubles were at an end.  He wrote overflowing
letters, such as long ago he had written about his first mining claims,
to Orion and to other members of the family and to friends in America and
Europe.  One of these letters, written to George Standring, a London
printer and publisher, also an author, will serve as an example.

     The machine is finished!  An hour and forty minutes ago a line of
     movable type was spaced and justified by machinery for the first
     time in the history of the world.  And I was there to see.

     That was the final function.  I had before seen the machine set
     type, automatically, and distribute type, and automatically
     distribute its eleven different thicknesses of spaces.  So now I
     have seen the machine, operated by one individual, do the whole
     thing, and do it a deal better than any man at the case can do it.

     This is by far and away the most marvelous invention ever contrived
     by man.  And it is not a thing of rags and patches; it is made of
     massive steel, and will last a century.

     She will do the work of six men, and do it better than any six men
     that ever stood at a case.

     The death-warrant of all other type-setting machines in this world
     was signed at 12.20 this afternoon, when that first line was shot
     through this machine and came out perfectly spaced and justified.
     And automatically, mind you.

     There was a speck of invisible dirt on one of those nonpareil types.
     Well, the machine allowed for that by inserting of its own accord a
     space which was the 5-1,000 of an inch thinner than it would have
     used if the dirt had been absent.  But when I send you the details
     you will see that that's nothing for this machine to do; you'll see
     that it knows more and has got more brains than all the printers in
     the world put together.

His letter to Orion was more technical, also more jubilant.  At the end
he said:

     All the witnesses made written record of the immense historical
     birth--the first justification of a line of movable type by
     machinery--& also set down the hour and the minute.  Nobody had
     drank anything, & yet everybody seemed drunk.  Well-dizzy,
     stupefied, stunned.

     All the other wonderful inventions of the human brain sink pretty
     nearly into commonplaces contrasted with this awful mechanical
     miracle.  Telephones, telegraphs, locomotives, cotton-gins, sewing-
     machines, Babbage calculators, jacquard looms, perfecting presses,
     all mere toys, simplicities!  The Paige Compositor marches alone and
     far in the land of human inventions.

In one paragraph of Orion's letter he refers to the machine as a "cunning
devil, knowing more than any man that ever lived."  That was a profound
truth, though not as he intended it.  That creation of James Paige's
brain reflected all the ingenuity and elusiveness of its creator, and
added something on its own account.  It was discovered presently that it
had a habit of breaking the types.  Paige said it was a trifling thing:
he could fix it, but it meant taking down the machine, and that deadly
expense of three thousand or four thousand dollars a month for the band
of workmen and experts in Pratt & Whitney's machine shops did not cease.
In February the machine was again setting and justifying type "to a
hair," and Whitmore's son, Fred, was running it at a rate of six thousand
ems an hour, a rate of composition hitherto unknown in the history of the
world.  His speed was increased to eight thousand ems an hour by the end
of the year, and the machine was believed to have a capacity of eleven
thousand.  No type-setter invented to this day could match it for
accuracy and precision when it was in perfect order, but its point of
perfection was apparently a vanishing point.  It would be just reached,
when it would suddenly disappear, and Paige would discover other needed
corrections.  Once, when it was apparently complete as to every detail;
and running like a human thing, with such important customers as the New
York Herald and other great papers ready to place their orders, Paige
suddenly discovered that it required some kind of an air-blast, and it
was all taken down again and the air-blast, which required months to
invent and perfect, was added.

But what is the use of remembering all these bitter details?  The steady
expense went on through another year, apparently increasing instead of
diminishing, until, by the beginning of 1890, Clemens was finding it
almost impossible to raise funds to continue the work.  Still he
struggled on.  It was the old mining fascination--"a foot farther into
the ledge and we shall strike the vein of gold."

He sent for Joe Goodman to come and help him organize a capital-stock
company, in which Senator Jones and John Mackay, old Comstock friends,
were to be represented.  He never for a moment lost faith in the final
outcome, and he believed that if they could build their own factory the
delays and imperfections of construction would be avoided.  Pratt &
Whitney had been obliged to make all the parts by hand.  With their own
factory the new company would have vast and perfect machinery dedicated
entirely to the production of type-setters.

Nothing short of two million dollars capitalization was considered, and
Goodman made at least three trips from California to the East and labored
with Jones and Mackay all that winter and at intervals during the
following year, through which that "cunning devil," the machine, consumed
its monthly four thousand dollars--money that was the final gleanings and
sweepings of every nook and corner of the strong-box and bank-account and
savings of the Clemens family resources.  With all of Mark Twain's fame
and honors his life at this period was far from an enviable one.  It was,
in fact, a fevered delirium, often a veritable nightmare.

Reporters who approached him for interviews, little guessing what he was
passing through, reported that Mark Twain's success in life had made him
crusty and sour.

Goodman remembers that when they were in Washington, conferring with
Jones, and had rooms at the Arlington, opening together, often in the
night he would awaken to see a light burning in the next room and to hear
Mark Twain's voice calling:

"Joe, are you awake?"

"Yes, Mark, what is it?"

"Oh, nothing, only I can't sleep.  Won't you talk awhile?  I know it's
wrong to disturb you, but I am so d--d miserable that I can't help it."

Whereupon he would get up and talk and talk, and pace the floor and curse
the delays until he had refreshed himself, and then perhaps wallow in
millions until breakfast-time.

Jones and Mackay, deeply interested, were willing to put up a reasonable
amount of money, but they were unable to see a profit in investing so
large a capital in a plant for constructing the machines.

Clemens prepared estimates showing that the American business alone would
earn thirty-five million dollars a year, and the European business twenty
million dollars more.  These dazzled, but they did not convince the
capitalists.  Jones was sincerely anxious to see the machine succeed, and
made an engagement to come out to see it work, but a day or two before he
was to come Paige was seized with an inspiration.  The type-setter was
all in parts when the day came, and Jones's visit had to be postponed.
Goodman wrote that the fatal delay had "sicklied over the bloom" of
Jones's original enthusiasm.

Yet Clemens seems never to have been openly violent with Paige.  In the
memorandum which he completed about this time he wrote:

     Paige and I always meet on effusively affectionate terms, and yet he
     knows perfectly well that if I had him in a steel trap I would shut
     out all human succor and watch that trap until he died.

He was grabbing at straws now.  He offered a twentieth or a hundredth or
a thousandth part of the enterprise for varying sums, ranging from one
thousand to one hundred thousand dollars.  He tried to capitalize his
advance (machine) royalties, and did dispose of a few of these; but when
the money came in for them he was beset by doubts as to the final
outcome, and though at his wit's ends for further funds, he returned the
checks to the friends who had sent them.  One five-thousand-dollar check
from a friend named Arnot, in Elmira, went back by the next mail.  He was
willing to sacrifice his own last penny, but he could not take money from
those who were blindly backing his judgment only and not their own.  He
still had faith in Jones, faith which lasted up to the 13th of February,
1891.  Then came a final letter, in which Jones said that he had
canvassed the situation thoroughly with such men as Mackay, Don Cameron,
Whitney, and others, with the result that they would have nothing to do
with the machine.  Whitney and Cameron, he said, were large stockholders
in the Mergenthaler.  Jones put it more kindly and more politely than
that, and closed by saying that there could be no doubt as to the
machine's future an ambiguous statement.  A letter from young Hall came
about the same time, urging a heavy increase of capital in the business.
The Library of American Literature, its leading feature, was handled on
the instalment plan.  The collections from this source were deferred
driblets, while the bills for manufacture and promotion must be paid down
in cash.  Clemens realized that for the present at least the dream was
ended.  The family securities were exhausted.  The book trade was dull;
his book royalties were insufficient even to the demands of the
household.  He signed further notes to keep business going, left the
matter of the machine in abeyance, and turned once more to the trade of
authorship.  He had spent in the neighborhood of one hundred and ninety
thousand dollars on the typesetter--money that would better have been
thrown into the Connecticut River, for then the agony had been more
quickly over.  As it was, it had shadowed many precious years.





CLXXV

"THE CLAIMANT"--LEAVING HARTFORD

For the first time in twenty years Mark Twain was altogether dependent on
literature.  He did not feel mentally unequal to the new problem; in
fact, with his added store of experience, he may have felt himself more
fully equipped for authorship than ever before.  It had been his habit to
write within his knowledge and observation.  To a correspondent of this
time he reviewed his stock in trade

     .  .  .  I confine myself to life with which I am familiar when
     pretending to portray life.  But I confined myself to the boy-life
     out on the Mississippi because that had a peculiar charm for me, and
     not because I was not familiar with other phases of life.  I was a
     soldier two weeks once in the beginning of the war, and was hunted
     like a rat the whole time.  Familiar?  My splendid Kipling himself
     hasn't a more burnt-in, hard-baked, and unforgetable familiarity
     with that death-on-the-pale-horse-with-hell-following-after, which
     is a raw soldier's first fortnight in the field--and which, without
     any doubt, is the most tremendous fortnight and the vividest he is
     ever going to see.

     Yes, and I have shoveled silver tailings in a quartz-mill a couple
     of weeks, and acquired the last possibilities of culture in that
     direction.  And I've done "pocket-mining" during three months in the
     one little patch of ground in the whole globe where Nature conceals
     gold in pockets--or did before we robbed all of those pockets and
     exhausted, obliterated, annihilated the most curious freak Nature
     ever indulged in.  There are not thirty men left alive who, being
     told there was a pocket hidden on the broad slope of a mountain,
     would know how to go and find it, or have even the faintest idea of
     how to set about it; but I am one of the possible 20 or 30 who
     possess the secret, and I could go and put my hand on that hidden
     treasure with a most deadly precision.

     And I've been a prospector, and know pay rock from poor when I find
     it--just with a touch of the tongue.  And I've been a silver miner
     and know how to dig and shovel and drill and put in a blast.  And so
     I know the mines and the miners interiorly as well as Bret Harte
     knows them exteriorly.

     And I was a newspaper reporter four years in cities, and so saw the
     inside of many things; and was reporter in a legislature two
     sessions and the same in Congress one session, and thus learned to
     know personally three sample bodies of the smallest minds and the
     selfishest souls and the cowardliest hearts that God makes.

     And I was some years a Mississippi pilot, and familiarly knew all
     the different kinds of steamboatmen--a race apart, and not like
     other folk.

     And I was for some years a traveling "jour" printer, and wandered
     from city to city--and so I know that sect familiarly.

     And I was a lecturer on the public platform a number of seasons and
     was a responder to toasts at all the different kinds of banquets--
     and so I know a great many secrets about audiences--secrets not to
     be got out of books, but only acquirable by experience.

     And I watched over one dear project of mine for years, spent a
     fortune on it, and failed to make it go--and the history of that
     would make a large book in which a million men would see themselves
     as in a mirror; and they would testify and say, Verily, this is not
     imagination; this fellow has been there--and after would they cast
     dust upon their heads, cursing and blaspheming.

     And I am a publisher, and did pay to one author's widow (General
     Grant's) the largest copyright checks this world has seen-
     aggregating more than L80,000 in the first year.

     And I have been an author for 20 years and an ass for 55.

     Now then: as the most valuable capital or culture or education
     usable in the building of novels is personal experience I ought to
     be well equipped for that trade.

     I surely have the equipment, a wide culture, and all of it real,
     none of it artificial, for I don't know anything about books.

This generous bill of literary particulars was fully warranted.  Mark
Twain's equipment was equal to his occasions.  It is true that he was no
longer young, and that his health was not perfect, but his resolution and
his energy had not waned.

His need was imminent and he lost no time.  He dug out from his
pigeonholes such materials as he had in stock, selecting a few completed
manuscripts for immediate disposal--among them his old article entitled,
"Mental Telegraphy," written in 1878, when he had hesitated to offer it,
in the fear that it would not be accepted by the public otherwise than as
a joke.  He added to it now a supplement and sent it to Mr. Alden, of
Harper's Magazine.

Psychic interest had progressed in twelve years; also Mark Twain had come
to be rather more seriously regarded.  The article was accepted promptly!
--[The publication of this article created a good deal of a stir and
resulted in the first general recognition of what later became known as
Telepathy.  A good many readers insisted on regarding the whole matter as
one of Mark Twain's jokes, but its serious acceptance was much wider.]--
The old sketch, "Luck," also found its way to Harper's Magazine, and
other manuscripts were looked over and furbished up with a view to their
disposal.  Even the history game was dragged from the dust of its
retirement, and Hall was instructed to investigate its chance of profit.

Then Mark Twain went to work in earnest.  Within a week after the
collapse of the Jones bubble he was hard at work on a new book--the
transmigration of the old "Claimant" play into a novel.

Ever since the appearance of the Yankee there had been what was evidently
a concerted movement to induce him to write a novel with the theories of
Henry George as the central idea.  Letters from every direction had urged
him to undertake such a story, and these had suggested a more serious
purpose for the Claimant book.  A motif in which there is a young lord
who renounces his heritage and class to come to America and labor with
his hands; who attends socialistic meetings at which men inspired by
readings of 'Progress and Poverty' and 'Looking Backward' address their
brothers of toil, could have in it something worth while.  Clemens
inserted portions of some of his discarded essays in these addresses, and
had he developed this element further, and abandoned Colonel Sellers's
materialization lunacies to the oblivion they had earned, the result
might have been more fortunate.

But his faith in the new Sellers had never died, and the temptation to
use scenes from the abandoned play proved to be too strong to be
resisted.  The result was incongruous enough.  The author, however,
admired it amazingly at the time.  He sent Howells stirring reports of
his progress.  He wrote Hall that the book would be ready soon and that
there must be seventy-five thousand orders by the date of issue, "not a
single one short of that."  Then suddenly, at the end of February, the
rheumatism came back into his shoulder and right arm and he could hardly
hold the pen.  He conceived the idea of dictating into a phonograph, and
wrote Howells to test this invention and find out as to terms for three
months, with cylinders enough to carry one hundred and seventy-five
thousand words.

     I don't want to erase any of them.  My right arm is nearly disabled
     by rheumatism, but I am bound to write this book (and sell 100,000
     copies of it-no, I mean 1,000,000--next fall).  I feel sure I can
     dictate the book into a phonograph if I don't have to yell.  I write
     2,000 words a day.  I think I can dictate twice as many.

     But mind, if this is going to be too much trouble to you--go ahead
     and do it all the same.

Howells replied encouragingly.  He had talked a letter into a phonograph
and the phonograph man had talked his answer into it, after which the
cylinder had been taken to a typewriter in the-next room and correctly
written out.  If a man had the "cheek" to dictate his story into a
phonograph, Howells said, all the rest seemed perfectly easy.

Clemens ordered a phonograph and gave it a pretty fair trial.  It was
only a partial success.  He said he couldn't write literature with it
because it hadn't any ideas or gift for elaboration, but was just as
matter-of-fact, compressive and unresponsive, grave and unsmiling as the
devil--a poor audience.

I filled four dozen cylinders in two sittings, then I found I could have
said it about as easy with the pen, and said it a deal better.  Then I
resigned.

He did not immediately give it up.  To relieve his aching arm he
alternated the phonograph with the pen, and the work progressed rapidly.
Early in May he was arranging for its serial disposition, and it was
eventually sold for twelve thousand dollars to the McClure Syndicate, who
placed it with a number of papers in America and with the Idler Magazine
in England.  W. M. Laffan, of the Sun, an old and tried friend, combined
with McClure in the arrangement.  Laffan also proposed to join with
McClure in paying Mark Twain a thousand dollars each for a series of six
European letters.  This was toward the end of May, 1891, when Clemens had
already decided upon a long European sojourn.

There were several reasons why this was desirable.  Neither Clemens nor
his wife was in good health.  Both of them were troubled with rheumatism,
and a council of physicians had agreed that Mrs. Clemens had some
disturbance of the heart.  The death of Charles L. Webster in April--the
fourth death among relatives in two years--had renewed her forebodings.
Susy, who had been at Bryn Mawr, had returned far from well.  The
European baths and the change of travel it was believed would be
beneficial to the family health.  Furthermore, the maintenance of the
Hartford home was far too costly for their present and prospective
income.  The house with its associations of seventeen incomparable years
must be closed.  A great period had ended.

They arranged to sail on the 6th of June by the French line.--[On the
Gascogne.]--Mrs. Crane was to accompany them, and came over in April to
help in breaking the news to the servants.  John and Ellen O'Neill (the
gardener and his wife) were to remain in charge; places were found for
George and Patrick.  Katie Leary was retained to accompany the family.
It was a sad dissolution.

The day came for departure and the carriage was at the door.  Mrs.
Clemens did not come immediately.  She was looking into the rooms,
bidding a kind of silent good-by to the home she had made and to all its
memories.  Following the others she entered the carriage, and Patrick
McAleer drove them together for the last time.  They were going on a long
journey.  They did not guess how long, or that the place would never be
home to them again.




CLXXVI

A EUROPEAN SUMMER

They landed at Havre and went directly to Paris, where they remained
about a week.  From Paris Clemens wrote to Hall that a deal by which he
had hoped to sell out his interest in the type-setter to the Mallorys, of
the Churchman, had fallen through.

"Therefore," he said, "you will have to modify your instalment system to
meet the emergency of a constipated purse; for if you should need to
borrow any more money I would not know how or where to raise it."

The Clemens party went to Geneva, then rested for a time at the baths of
Aix; from Aix to Bayreuth to attend the Wagner festival, and from
Bayreuth to Marienbad for further additions of health.  Clemens began
writing his newspaper letters at Aix, the first of which consists of
observations at that "paradise of rheumatics."  This letter is really a
careful and faithful description of Aix-les-Bains, with no particular
drift of humor in it.  He tells how in his own case the baths at first
developed plenty of pain, but that the subsequent ones removed almost all
of it.

"I've got back the use of my arm the last few days, and I am going away
now," he says, and concludes by describing the beautiful drives and
scenery about Aix--the pleasures to be found paddling on little Lake
Bourget and the happy excursions to Annecy.

     At the end of an hour you come to Annecy and rattle through its old
     crooked lanes, built solidly up with curious old houses that are a
     dream of the Middle Ages, and presently you come to the main object
     of your trip--Lake Annecy.  It is a revelation.  It is a miracle.
     It brings the tears to a body's eyes.  It is so enchanting.  That is
     to say, it affects you just as all other things that you instantly
     recognize as perfect affect you--perfect music, perfect eloquence,
     perfect art, perfect joy, perfect grief.

He was getting back into his old descriptive swing, but his dislike for
travel was against him, and he found writing the letters hard.  From
Bayreuth he wrote "At the Shrine of St. Wagner," one of the best
descriptions of that great musical festival that has been put into words.
He paid full tribute to the performance, also to the Wagner devotion,
confessing its genuineness.

     This opera of "Tristan and Isolde" last night broke the hearts of
     all witnesses who were of the faith, and I know of some, and have
     heard of many, who could not sleep after it, but cried the night
     away.  I feel strongly out of place here.  Sometimes I feel like the
     one sane person in the community of the mad; sometimes I feel like
     the one blind man where all others see; the one groping savage in
     the college of the learned, and always during service I feel like a
     heretic in heaven.

He tells how he really enjoyed two of the operas, and rejoiced in
supposing that his musical regeneration was accomplished and perfected;
but alas! he was informed by experts that those particular events were
not real music at all.  Then he says:

     Well, I ought to have recognized the sign the old, sure sign that
     has never failed me in matters of art.  Whenever I enjoy anything in
     art it means that it is mighty poor.  The private knowledge of this
     fact has saved me from going to pieces with enthusiasm in front of
     many and many a chromo.  However, my base instinct does bring me
     profit sometimes; I was the only man out of 3,200 who got his money
     back on those two operas.

His third letter was from Marienbad, in Bohemia, another "health-
factory," as he calls it, and is of the same general character as those
preceding.  In his fourth letter he told how he himself took charge of
the family fortunes and became courier from Aix to Bayreuth.  It is a
very delightful letter, most of it, and probably not greatly burlesqued
or exaggerated in its details.  It is included now in the "Complete
Works," as fresh and delightful as ever.  They returned to Germany at the
end of August, to Nuremberg, which he notes as the "city of exquisite
glimpses," and to Heidelberg, where they had their old apartment of
thirteen years before, Room 40 at the Schloss Hotel, with its wonderful
prospect of wood and hill, and the haze-haunted valley of the Rhine.
They remained less than a week in that beautiful place, and then were off
for Switzerland, Lucerne, Brienz, Interlaken, finally resting at the
Hotel Beau Rivage, Ouchy, Lausanne, on beautiful Lake Leman.

Clemens had agreed to write six of the newspaper letters, and he had by
this time finished five of them, the fifth being dated from Interlaken,
its subject, "Switzerland, the Cradle of Liberty."  He wrote to Hall that
it was his intention to write another book of travel and to take a year
or two to collect the material.  The Century editors were after him for a
series after the style of Innocents Abroad.  He considered this
suggestion, but declined by cable, explaining to Hall that he intended to
write for serial publication no more than the six newspaper letters.  He
said:

     To write a book of travel would be less trouble than to write six
     detached chapters.  Each of these letters requires the same variety
     of treatment and subject that one puts into a book; but in the book
     each chapter doesn't have to be rounded and complete in itself.

He suggested that the six letters be gathered into a small volume which
would contain about thirty-five or forty thousand words, to be sold as
low as twenty-five cents, but this idea appears to have been dropped.

At Ouchy Clemens conceived the idea of taking a little trip on his own
account, an excursion that would be a rest after the strenuous three
months' travel and sightseeing--one that he could turn into literature.
He engaged Joseph Very, a courier used during their earlier European
travels, and highly recommended in the Tramp Abroad.  He sent Joseph over
to Lake Bourget to engage a boat and a boatman for a ten days' trip down
the river Rhone.  For five dollars Joseph bought a safe, flat-bottom
craft; also he engaged the owner as pilot.  A few days later--September
19--Clemens followed.  They stopped overnight on an island in Lake
Bourget, and in his notes Clemens tells how he slept in the old castle of
Chatillon, in the room where a pope was born.  They started on their
drift next morning.  To Mrs. Clemens, in some good-by memoranda, he said:

     The lake is as smooth as glass; a brilliant sun is shining.

     Our boat is so comfortable and shady with its awning.

     11.20.  We have crossed the lake and are entering the canal.  Shall
     presently be in the Rhone.

     Noon.  Nearly down to the Rhone, passing the village of Chanaz.

     Sunday, 3.15 P.M.  We have been in the Rhone three hours.  It
     is unimaginably still & reposeful & cool & soft & breezy.  No rowing
     or work of any kind to do--we merely float with the current we glide
     noiseless and swift--as fast as a London cab-horse rips along--8
     miles an hour--the swiftest current I've ever boated in. We have the
     entire river to ourselves nowhere a boat of any kind.

Pleasant it must have been in the warm September days to go swinging down
that swift, gray stream which comes racing out of Switzerland into
France, fed from a thousand glaciers.  He sent almost daily memoranda of
his progress.  Half-way to Arles he wrote:

     It's too delicious, floating with the swift current under the
     awning these superb, sunshiny days in deep peace and quietness.

     Some of these curious old historical towns strangely persuade me,
     but it is so lovely afloat that I don't stop, but view them from the
     outside and sail on.  We get abundance of grapes and peaches for
     next to nothing.  My, but that inn was suffocating with garlic where
     we stayed last night!  I had to hold my nose as we went up-stairs or
     I believe I should have fainted.

     Little bit of a room, rude board floor unswept, 2 chairs, unpainted
     white pine table--void the furniture!  Had a good firm bed, solid as
     a rock, & you could have brained an ox with the bolster.

     These six hours have been entirely delightful.  I want to do all the
     rivers of Europe in an open boat in summer weather.

     Still further along he described one of their shore accommodations.

     Night caught us yesterday where we had to take quarters in a
     peasant's house which was occupied by the family and a lot of cows &
     calves, also several rabbits.--[His word for fleas.  Neither fleas
     nor mosquitoes ever bit him--probably because of his steady use of
     tobacco.]--The latter had a ball & I was the ballroom; but they
     were very friendly and didn't bite.

     The peasants were mighty kind and hearty & flew around & did their
     best to make us comfortable.  This morning I breakfasted on the
     shore in the open air with two sociable dogs & a cat.  Clean cloth,
     napkins & table furniture, white sugar, a vast hunk of excellent
     butter, good bread, first-class coffee with pure milk, fried fish
     just caught.  Wonderful that so much cleanliness should come out of
     such a phenomenally dirty house.

     An hour ago we saw the Falls of the Rhone, a prodigiously rough and
     dangerous-looking place; shipped a little water, but came to no
     harm.  It was one of the most beautiful pieces of piloting & boat
     management I ever saw.  Our admiral knew his business.

     We have had to run ashore for shelter every time it has rained
     heretofore, but Joseph has been putting in his odd time making a
     waterproof sun-bonnet for the boat, & now we sail along dry,
     although we have had many heavy showers this morning.

Here follows a pencil-drawing of the boat and its new awning, and he
adds: "I'm on the stern, under the shelter, and out of sight."

The trip down the Rhone proved more valuable as an outing than as
literary material.  Clemens covered one hundred and seventy-four pages
with his notes of it, then gave it up.  Traveling alone with no one but
Joseph and the Admiral (former owner of the craft) was reposeful and
satisfactory, but it did not inspire literary flights.  He tried to
rectify the lack of companionship by introducing fictitious characters,
such as Uncle Abner, Fargo, and Stavely, a young artist; also Harris,
from the Tramp Abroad; but Harris was not really there this time, and
Mark Twain's genius, given rather to elaboration than to construction,
found it too severe a task to imagine a string of adventures without at
least the customary ten per cent. of fact to build upon.

It was a day above Avignon that he had an experience worth while.  They
were abreast of an old castle, nearing a village, one of the huddled
jumble of houses of that locality, when, glancing over his left shoulder
toward the distant mountain range, he received what he referred to later
as a soul-stirring shock.  Pointing to the outline of the distant range
he said to the courier:

"Name it.  Who is it?"

The courier said, "Napoleon."

Clemens assented.  The Admiral, when questioned, also promptly agreed
that the mountain outlined was none other than the reclining figure of
the great commander himself.  They watched and discussed the phenomenon
until they reached the village.  Next morning Clemens was up for a first
daybreak glimpse of his discovery.  Later he reported it to Mrs. Clemens:

     I did so long for you and Sue yesterday morning--the most superb
     sunrise--the most marvelous sunrise--& I saw it all, from the very
     faintest suspicion of the coming dawn, all the way through to the
     final explosion of glory.  But it had an interest private to itself
     & not to be found elsewhere in the world; for between me & it, in
     the far-distant eastward, was a silhouetted mountain range, in which
     I had discovered, the previous afternoon, a most noble face upturned
     to the sky, & mighty form outstretched, which I had named Napoleon
     Dreaming of Universal Empire--& now this prodigious face, soft,
     rich, blue, spirituelle, asleep, tranquil, reposeful, lay against
     that giant conflagration of ruddy and golden splendors, all rayed
     like a wheel with the up-streaming & far-reaching lances of the sun.
     It made one want to cry for delight, it was so supreme in its
     unimaginable majesty & beauty.

He made a pencil-sketch of the Napoleon head in his note-book, and stated
that the apparition could be seen opposite the castle of Beauchastel; but
in later years his treacherous memory betrayed him, and, forgetting these
identifying marks, he told of it as lying a few hours above Arles, and
named it the "Lost Napoleon," because those who set out to find it did
not succeed.  He even wrote an article upon the subject, in which he
urged tourists to take steamer from Arles and make a short trip upstream,
keeping watch on the right-hand bank, with the purpose of rediscovering
the natural wonder.  Fortunately this sketch was not published.  It would
have been set down as a practical joke by disappointed travelers.  One of
Mark Twain's friends, Mr. Theodore Stanton, made a persistent effort to
find the Napoleon, but with the wrong directions naturally failed.

It required ten days to float to Arles.  Then the current gave out and
Clemens ended the excursion and returned to Lausanne by rail.  He said:

"It was twenty-eight miles to Marseilles, and somebody would have to row.
That would not have been pleasure; it would have meant work for the
sailor, and I do not like work even when another person does it."

To Twichell in America he wrote:

     You ought to have been along--I could have made room for you easily,
     & you would have found that a pedestrian tour in Europe doesn't
     begin with a raft voyage for hilarity & mild adventure & intimate
     contact with the unvisited native of the back settlements &
     extinction from the world and newspapers & a conscience in a state
     of coma & lazy comfort & solid happiness.  In fact, there's nothing
     that's so lovely.

But it's all over.  I gave the raft away yesterday at Arles & am loafing
along back by short stages on the rail to Ouchy, Lausanne, where the
tribe are staying at the Beau Rivage and are well and prosperous.




CLXXVII

KORNERSTRASSE,7

They had decided to spend the winter in Berlin, and in October Mrs.
Clemens and Mrs. Crane, after some previous correspondence with an agent,
went up to that city to engage an apartment.  The elevator had not
reached the European apartment in those days, and it was necessary, on
Mrs. Clemens's account, to have a ground floor.  The sisters searched a
good while without success, and at last reached Kornerstrasse, a short,
secluded street, highly recommended by the agent.  The apartment they
examined in Kornerstrasse was Number 7, and they were so much pleased
with the conveniences and comfort of it and so tired that they did not
notice closely its, general social environment.  The agent supplied an
assortment of furniture for a consideration, and they were soon settled
in the attractive, roomy place.  Clemens and the children, arriving
somewhat later, expressed themselves as satisfied.

Their contentment was somewhat premature.  When they began to go out
socially, which was very soon, and friends inquired as to their location,
they noticed that the address produced a curious effect.  Semi-
acquaintances said, "Ah, yes, Kornerstrasse"; acquaintances said, "Dear
me, do you like it?"  An old friend exclaimed, "Good gracious!  How in
the world did you ever come to locate there?"  Then they began to notice
what they had not at first seen.  Kornerstrasse was not disreputable, but
it certainly was not elegant.  There were rag warehouses across the
street and women who leaned out the windows to gossip.  The street itself
was thronged with children.  They played on a sand pile and were often
noisy and seldom clean.  It was eminently not the place for a
distinguished man of letters.  The family began to be sensitive on the
subject of their address.

Clemens, of course, made humor out of it.  He wrote a newspaper letter on
the subject, a burlesque, naturally, which the family prevailed upon him
not to print.  But the humiliation is out of it now, and a bit of its
humor may be preserved.  He takes upon himself the renting of the place,
and pictures the tour of inspection with the agent's assistant.

He was greatly moved when they came to the street and said, softly and
lovingly:

     "Ah, Korner Street, Korner Street, why did I not think of you
     before!  A place fit for the gods, dear sir.  Quiet?--notice how
     still it is; and remember this is noonday--noonday.  It is but one
     block long, you see, just a sweet, dear little nest hid away here in
     the heart of the great metropolis, its presence and its sacred quiet
     unsuspected by the restless crowds that swarm along the stately
     thoroughfares yonder at its two extremities.  And----"

     "This building is handsome, but I don't think much of the others.
     They look pretty commonplace, compared with the rest of Berlin."

     "Dear! dear! have you noticed that?  It is just an affectation of
     the nobility.  What they want----"

     "The nobility?  Do they live in----"

     "In this street?  That is good!  very good, indeed!  I wish the Duke
     of Sassafras-Hagenstein could hear you say that.  When the Duke
     first moved in here he----"

     "Does he live in this street?"

     "Him!  Well, I should say so!  Do you see the big, plain house over
     there with the placard in the third floor window?  That's his
     house."

     "The placard that says 'Furnished rooms to let'?  Does he keep
     boarders?"

     "What an idea!  Him!  With a rent-roll of twelve hundred thousand
     marks a year?  Oh, positively this is too good."

     "Well, what does he have that sign up for?"

     The assistant took me by the buttonhole & said, with a merry light
     beaming in his eye:

     "Why, my dear sir, a person would know you are new to Berlin just by
     your innocent questions.  Our aristocracy, our old, real, genuine
     aristocracy, are full of the quaintest eccentricities,
     eccentricities inherited for centuries, eccentricities which they
     are prouder of than they are of their titles, and that sign-board
     there is one of them.  They all hang them out.  And it's regulated
     by an unwritten law.  A baron is entitled to hang out two, a count
     five, a duke fifteen----"

     "Then they are all dukes over on that side, I sup----"

     "Every one of them.  Now the old Duke of Backofenhofenschwartz not
     the present Duke, but the last but one, he----"

     "Does he live over the sausage-shop in the cellar?"

     "No, the one farther along, where the eighteenth yellow cat is
     chewing the door-mat----"

     "But all the yellow cats are chewing the door-mats."

     "Yes, but I mean the eighteenth one.  Count.  No, never mind;
     there's a lot more come.  I'll get you another mark.  Let me see---"

They could not remain permanently in Komerstrasse, but they stuck it out
till the end of December--about two months.  Then they made such
settlement with the agent as they could--that is to say, they paid the
rest of their year's rent--and established themselves in a handsome
apartment at the Hotel Royal, Unter den Linden.  There was no need to be
ashamed of this address, for it was one of the best in Berlin.

As for Komerstrasse, it is cleaner now.  It is still not aristocratic,
but it is eminently respectable.  There is a new post-office that takes
in Number 7, where one may post mail and send telegrams and use the
Fernsprecher--which is to say the telephone--and be politely treated by
uniformed officials, who have all heard of Mark Twain, but have no
knowledge of his former occupation of their premises.




CLXXVIII

A WINTER IN BERLIN

Clemens, meantime, had been trying to establish himself in his work, but
his rheumatism racked him occasionally and was always a menace.  Closing
a letter to Hall, he said:

     "I must stop-my arm is howling."

He put in a good deal of time devising publishing schemes, principal
among them being a plan for various cheap editions of his books,
pamphlets, and such like, to sell for a few cents.  These projects appear
never to have been really undertaken, Hall very likely fearing that a
flood of cheap issues would interfere with the more important trade.  It
seemed dangerous to trifle with an apparently increasing prosperity, and
Clemens was willing enough to agree with this view.

Clemens had still another letter to write for Laffan and McClure, and he
made a pretty careful study of Berlin with that end in view.  But his arm
kept him from any regular work.  He made notes, however.  Once he wrote:

     The first gospel of all monarchies should be Rebellion; the second
     should be Rebellion; and the third and all gospels, and the only
     gospel of any monarchy, should be Rebellion--against Church and
     State.

And again:

     I wrote a chapter on this language 13 years ago and tried my level
     best to improve it and simplify it for these people, and this is the
     result--a, word of thirty-nine letters.  It merely concentrates the
     alphabet with a shovel.  It hurts me to know that that chapter is
     not in any of their text-books and they don't use it in the
     university.

Socially, that winter in Berlin was eventful enough.  William Walter
Phelps, of New Jersey (Clemens had known him in America), was United
States minister at the German capital, while at the Emperor's court there
was a cousin, Frau von Versen, nee Clemens, one of the St. Louis family.
She had married a young German officer who had risen to the rank of a
full general.  Mark Twain and his family were welcome guests at all the
diplomatic events--often brilliant levees, gatherings of distinguished
men and women from every circle of achievement.  Labouchere of 'Truth'
was there, De Blowitz of the 'Times', and authors, ambassadors, and
scientists of rank.  Clemens became immediately a distinguished figure at
these assemblies.  His popularity in Germany was openly manifested.  At
any gathering he was surrounded by a brilliant company, eager to do him
honor.  He was recognized whenever he appeared on the street, and
saluted, though in his notes he says he was sometimes mistaken for the
historian Mommsen, whom he resembled in hair and features.  His books
were displayed for sale everywhere, and a special cheap edition of them
was issued at a few cents per copy.

Captain Bingham (later General Bingham, Commissioner of Police in New
York City) and John Jackson were attaches of the legation, both of them
popular with the public in general, and especially so with the Clemens
family.  Susy Clemens, writing to her father during a temporary absence,
tells of a party at Mrs. Jackson's, and especially refers to Captain
Bingham in the most complimentary terms.

"He never left me sitting alone, nor in an awkward situation of any kind,
but always came cordially to the rescue.  My gratitude toward him was
absolutely limitless."

She adds that Mrs. Bingham was very handsome and decidedly the most
attractive lady present.  Berlin was Susy's first real taste of society,
and she was reveling in it.  In her letter she refers to Minister Phelps
by the rather disrespectful nickname of "Yaas," a term conferred because
of his pronounciation of that affirmative.  The Clemens children were not
entirely happy in the company of the minister.  They were fond of him,
but he was a great tease.  They were quite young enough, but it seemed
always to give him delight to make them appear much younger.  In the
letter above quoted Susy says:

     When I saw Mr. Phelps I put out my hand enthusiastically and said,
     "Oh, Mr. Phelps, good evening," whereat he drew back and said, so
     all could hear, "What, you here! why, you're too young.  Do you
     think you know how to behave?"  As there were two or three young
     gentlemen near by to whom I hadn't been introduced I wasn't exactly
     overjoyed at this greeting.

We may imagine that the nickname "Yaas" had been invented by Susy in
secret retaliation, though she was ready enough to forgive him, for he
was kindness itself at heart.

In one of his later dictations Clemens related an anecdote concerning a
dinner with Phelps, when he (Clemens) had been invited to meet Count
S----, a cabinet minister of long and illustrious descent.  Clemens, and
Phelps too, it seems, felt overshadowed by this ancestry.

     Of course I wanted to let out the fact that I had some ancestors,
     too; but I did not want to pull them out of their graves by the
     ears, and I never could seem to get the chance to work them in, in a
     way that would look sufficiently casual.  I suppose Phelps was in
     the same difficulty.  In fact he looked distraught now and then just
     as a person looks who wants to uncover an ancestor purely by
     accident and cannot think of a way that will seem accidental enough.
     But at last, after dinner, he made a try.  He took us about his
     drawing-room, showing us the pictures, and finally stopped before a
     rude and ancient engraving.  It was a picture of the court that
     tried Charles I.  There was a pyramid of judges in Puritan slouch
     hats, and below them three bareheaded secretaries seated at a table.
     Mr. Phelps put his finger upon one of the three and said, with
     exulting indifference:

     "An ancestor of mine."

     I put a finger on a judge and retorted with scathing languidness:
     "Ancestor of mine.  But it is a small matter.  I have others."

Clemens was sincerely fond of Phelps and spent a good deal of time at the
legation headquarters.  Sometimes he wrote there.  An American
journalist, Henry W.  Fischer, remembers seeing him there several times
scribbling on such scraps of paper as came handy, and recalls that on one
occasion he delivered an address to a German and English audience on the
"Awful German Tongue."  This was probably the lecture that brought
Clemens to bed with pneumonia.  With Mrs. Clemens he had been down to
Ilsenburg, in the Hartz Mountains, for a week of change.  It was pleasant
there, and they would have remained longer but for the Berlin lecture
engagement.  As it was, they found Berlin very cold and the lecture-room
crowded and hot.  When the lecture was over they stopped at General von
Versen's for a ball, arriving at home about two in the morning.  Clemens
awoke with a heavy cold and lung congestion.  He remained in bed, a very
sick man indeed, for the better part of a month.  It was unpleasant
enough at first, though he rather enjoyed the convalescent period.  He
could sit up in bed and read and receive occasional callers.  Fischer
brought him Memoirs of the Margravine of Bayreuth, always a favorite.
--[Clemens was deeply interested in the Margravine, and at one time began
a novel with her absorbing history as its theme.  He gave it up, probably
feeling that the romantic form could add nothing to the Margravine's own
story.]--The Emperor sent Frau von Versen with an invitation for him to
attend the consecration of some flags in the palace.  When she returned,
conveying thanks and excuses, his Majesty commanded her to prepare a
dinner at her home for Mark Twain and himself and a few special guests,
the date to be arranged when Clemens's physician should pronounce him
well enough to attend.

Members of the Clemens household were impressed by this royal attention.
Little Jean was especially awed.  She said:

"I wish I could be in papa's clothes"; then, after reflection, "but that
wouldn't be any use.  I reckon the Emperor wouldn't recognize me."  And a
little later, when she had been considering all the notables and
nobilities of her father's recent association, she added:

"Why, papa, if it keeps on like this, pretty soon there won't be anybody
for you to get acquainted with but God," which Mark Twain decided was not
quite as much of a compliment as it had at first seemed.

It was during the period of his convalescence that Clemens prepared his
sixth letter for the New York Sun and McClure's syndicate, "The German
Chicago," a finely descriptive article on Berlin, and German customs and
institutions generally.  Perhaps the best part of it is where he
describes the grand and prolonged celebration which had been given in
honor of Professor Virchow's seventieth birthday.--[Rudolph Virchow, an
eminent German pathologist and anthropologist and scholar; then one of
the most prominent figures of the German Reichstag.  He died in 1902.]--
He tells how the demonstrations had continued in one form or another day
after day, and merged at last into the seventieth birthday of Professor
Helmholtz--[Herman von Helmholtz, an eminent German physicist, one of
the most distinguished scientists of the nineteenth century.  He died in
1894.]--also how these great affairs finally culminated in a mighty
'commers', or beer-fest, given in their honor by a thousand German
students.  This letter has been published in Mark Twain's "Complete
Works," and is well worth reading to-day.  His place had been at the
table of the two heroes of the occasion, Virchow and Helmholtz, a place
where he could see and hear all that went on; and he was immensely
impressed at the honor which Germany paid to her men of science.  The
climax came when Mommsen unexpectedly entered the room.--[Theodor
Mommsen (1817-1903), an eminent German historian and archeologist, a
powerful factor in all liberal movements.  From 1874-1895 permanent
secretary of the Berlin Royal Academy of Sciences.]

     There seemed to be some signal whereby the students on the platform
     were made aware that a professor had arrived at the remote door of
     entrance, for you would see them suddenly rise to their feet, strike
     an erect military attitude, then draw their swords; the swords of
     all their brethren standing guard at the innumerable tables would
     flash from the scabbard and be held aloft--a handsome spectacle.
     Three clear bugle-notes would ring out, then all these swords would
     come down with a crash, twice repeated, on the tables and be
     uplifted and held aloft again; then in the distance you would see
     the gay uniforms and uplifted swords of a guard of honor clearing
     the way and conducting the guest down to his place.  The songs were
     stirring, and the immense outpour from young life and young lungs,
     the crash of swords, and the thunder of the beer-mugs gradually
     worked a body up to what seemed the last possible summit of
     excitement.  It surely seemed to me that I had reached that summit,
     that I had reached my limit, and that there was no higher lift
     devisable for me.  When apparently the last eminent guest had long
     ago taken his place, again those three bugle-blasts rang out, and
     once more the swords leaped from their scabbards.  Who might this
     late comer be?  Nobody was interested to inquire.  Still, indolent
     eyes were turned toward the distant entrance, and we saw the silken
     gleam and the lifted sword of a guard of honor plowing through the
     remote crowds.  Then we saw that end of the house rising to its
     feet; saw it rise abreast the advancing guard all along like a wave.
     This supreme honor had been offered to no one before.  There was an
     excited whisper at our table--"Mommsen!"--and the whole house rose--
     rose and shouted and stamped and clapped and banged the beer-mugs.
     Just simply a storm!  Then the little man with his long hair and
     Emersonian face edged his way past us and took his seat.  I could
     have touched him with my hand--Mommsen!--think of it!

     This was one of those immense surprises that can happen only a few
     times in one's life.  I was not dreaming of him; he was to me only a
     giant myth, a world-shadowing specter, not a reality.  The surprise
     of it all can be only comparable to a man's suddenly coming upon
     Mont Blanc, with its awful form towering into the sky, when he
     didn't suspect he was in its neighborhood.  I would have walked a
     great many miles to get a sight of him, and here he was, without
     trouble, or tramp, or cost of any kind.  Here he was, clothed in a
     titanic deceptive modesty which made him look like other men.  Here
     he was, carrying the Roman world and all the Caesars in his
     hospitable skull, and doing it as easily as that other luminous
     vault, the skull of the universe, carries the Milky Way and the
     constellations.

During his convalescent days, Clemens had plenty of time to reflect and
to look out of the window.  His notebook preserves some of his
reflections.  In one place he says:

     The Emperor passes in a modest open carnage.  Next that happy 12-
     year-old butcher-boy, all in white apron and turban, standing up
     & so proud!

     How fast they drive-nothing like it but in London.  And the horses
     seem to be of very fine breed, though I am not an expert in horses
     & do not speak with assurance.  I can always tell which is the front
     end of a horse, but beyond that my art is not above the ordinary.

     The "Court Gazette" of a German paper can be covered with a playing-
     card.  In an English paper the movements of titled people take up
     about three times that room.  In the papers of Republican France
     from six to sixteen times as much.  There, if a Duke's dog should
     catch cold in the head they would stop the press to announce it and
     cry about it.  In Germany they respect titles, in England they
     revere them, in France they adore them.  That is, the French
     newspapers do.

     Been taken for Mommsen twice.  We have the same hair, but on
     examination it was found the brains were different.

On February 14th he records that Professor Helmholtz called, but
unfortunately leaves no further memorandum of that visit.  He was quite
recovered by this time, but was still cautioned about going out in the
severe weather.  In the final entry he says:

     Thirty days sick abed--full of interest--read the debates and get
     excited over them, though don't 'versteh'.  By reading keep in a
     state of excited ignorance, like a blind man in a house afire;
     flounder around, immensely but unintelligently interested; don't
     know how I got in and can't find the way out, but I'm having a
     booming time all to myself.

Don't know what a 'Schelgesetzentwurf' is, but I keep as excited over it
and as worried about it as if it was my own child.  I simply live on the
Sch.; it is my daily bread.  I wouldn't have the question settled for
anything in the world.  Especially now that I've lost the 'offentliche
Militargericht circus'.  I read all the debates on that question with a
never-failing interest, but all at once they sprung a vote on me a couple
of days ago & did something by a vote of 100 to 143, but I couldn't find
out what it was.




CLXXIX

A DINNER WITH WILLIAM II.

The dinner with Emperor William II. at General von Versen's was set for
the 20th of February.  A few days before, Mark Twain entered in his note-
book:

     In that day the Imperial lion and the Democratic lamb shall sit down
     together, and a little General shall feed them.

Mark Twain was the guest of honor on this occasion, and was seated at the
Emperor's right hand.  The Emperor's brother, Prince Heinrich, sat
opposite; Prince Radolin farther along.  Rudolf Lindau, of the Foreign
Office, was also present.  There were fourteen at the table, all told.
In his memorandum made at the time, Clemens gave no account of the dinner
beyond the above details, only adding:

     After dinner 6 or 8 officers came in, & all hands adjourned to the
     big room out of the smoking-room and held a "smoking parliament"
     after the style of the ancient Potsdam one, till midnight, when the
     Emperor shook hands and left.

It was not until fourteen years later that Mark Twain related some
special matters pertaining to that evening.  He may have expanded then
somewhat to fill out spaces of his memory, and embroidered them, as was
his wont; but that something happened, either in reality or in his
imagination, which justified his version of it we may believe.  He told
it as here given, premising: "This may appear in print after I am dead,
but not before.

     "From 1891 until day before yesterday I had never mentioned the
     matter, nor set it down with a pen, nor ever referred to it in any
     way--not even to my wife, to whom I was accustomed to tell
     everything that happened to me.

     "At the dinner his Majesty chatted briskly and entertainingly along
     in easy and flowing English, and now and then he interrupted himself
     to address a remark to me or to some other individual of the guests.
     When the reply had been delivered he resumed his talk.  I noticed
     that the table etiquette tallied with that which was the law of my
     house at home when we had guests; that is to say, the guests
     answered when the host favored them with a remark, and then quieted
     down and behaved themselves until they got another chance.  If I had
     been in the Emperor's chair and he in mine I should have felt
     infinitely comfortable and at home, but I was guest now, and
     consequently felt less at home.  From old experience I was familiar
     with the rules of the game and familiar with their exercise from the
     high place of host; but I was not familiar with the trammeled and
     less satisfactory position of guest, therefore I felt a little
     strange and out of place.  But there was no animosity--no, the
     Emperor was host, therefore, according to my own rule, he had a
     right to do the talking, and it was my honorable duty to intrude no
     interruptions or other improvements except upon invitation; and of
     course it could be my turn some day--some day, on some friendly
     visit of inspection to America, it might be my pleasure and
     distinction to have him as guest at my table; then I would give him
     a rest and a quiet time.

     "In one way there was a difference between his table and mine-for
     instance, atmosphere; the guests stood in awe of him, and naturally
     they conferred that feeling upon me, for, after all, I am only
     human, although I regret it.  When a guest answered a question he
     did it with a deferential voice and manner; he did not put any
     emotion into it, and he did not spin it out, but got it out of his
     system as quickly as he could, and then looked relieved.  The
     Emperor was used to this atmosphere, and it did not chill his blood;
     maybe it was an inspiration to him, for he was alert, brilliant, and
     full of animation; also he was most gracefully and felicitously
     complimentary to my books--and I will remark here that the happy
     phrasing of a compliment is one of the rarest of human gifts and the
     happy delivery of it another.  I once mentioned the high compliment
     which he paid to the book 'Old Times on the Mississippi'; but there
     were others, among them some high praise of my description in 'A
     Tramp Abroad' of certain striking phases of German student life.

     "Fifteen or twenty minutes before the dinner ended the Emperor made
     a remark to me in praise of our generous soldier pensions; then,
     without pausing, he continued the remark, not speaking to me, but
     across the table to his brother, Prince Heinrich.  The Prince
     replied, endorsing the Emperor's view of the matter.  Then I
     followed with my own view of it.  I said that in the beginning our
     government's generosity to the soldier was clear in its intent and
     praiseworthy, since the pensions were conferred upon soldiers who
     had earned them, soldiers who had been disabled in the war and could
     no longer earn a livelihood for themselves and their families, but
     that the pensions decreed and added later lacked the virtue of a
     clean motive, and had, little by little, degenerated into a wider
     and wider and more and more offensive system of vote-purchasing, and
     was now become a source of corruption, which was an unpleasant thing
     to contemplate and was a danger besides.  I think that that was
     about the substance of my remark; but in any case the remark had a
     quite definite result, and that is the memorable thing about it--
     manifestly it made everybody uncomfortable.  I seemed to perceive
     this quite plainly.  I had committed an indiscretion.  Possibly it
     was in violating etiquette by intruding a remark when I had not been
     invited to make one; possibly it was in taking issue with an opinion
     promulgated by his Majesty.  I do not know which it was, but I quite
     clearly remember the effect which my act produced--to wit, the
     Emperor refrained from addressing any remarks to me afterward, and
     not merely during the brief remainder of the dinner, but afterward
     in the kneip-room, where beer and cigars and hilarious anecdoting
     prevailed until about midnight.  I am sure that the Emperor's good
     night was the only thing he said to me in all that time.

     "Was this rebuke studied and intentional?  I don't know, but I
     regarded it in that way.  I can't be absolutely sure of it because
     of modifying doubts created afterward by one or two circumstances.
     For example: the Empress Dowager invited me to her palace, and the
     reigning Empress invited me to breakfast, and also sent for General
     von Versen to come to her palace and read to her and her ladies from
     my books."

It was a personal message from the Emperor that fourteen years later
recalled to him this curious circumstance.  A gentleman whom Clemens knew
went on a diplomatic mission to Germany.  Upon being presented to Emperor
William, the latter had immediately begun to talk of Mark Twain and his
work.  He spoke of the description of German student life as the greatest
thing of its kind ever written, and of the sketch on the German language
as wonderful; then he said:

"Convey to Mr. Clemens my kindest regards, ask him if he remembers that
dinner at Von Versen's, and ask him why he didn't do any more talking at
that dinner."

It seemed a mysterious message.  Clemens thought it might have been meant
to convey some sort of an imperial apology; but again it might have meant
that Mark Twain's breach and the Emperor's coolness on that occasion were
purely imaginary, and that the Emperor had really expected him to talk
far more than he did.

Returning to the Royal Hotel after the Von Versen dinner, Mark Twain
received his second high compliment that day on the Mississippi book.
The portier, a tow-headed young German, must have been comparatively new
at the hotel; for apparently he had just that day learned that his
favorite author, whose books he had long been collecting, was actually
present in the flesh.  Clemens, all ready to apologize for asking so late
an admission, was greeted by the portier's round face all sunshine and
smiles.  The young German then poured out a stream of welcome and
compliments and dragged the author to a small bedroom near the front
door, where he excitedly pointed out a row of books, German translations
of Mark Twain.

"There," he said; "you wrote them.  I've found it out.  Lieber Gott!
I did not know it before, and I ask a million pardons.  That one there,
Old Times on the Mississippi, is the best you ever wrote."

The note-book records only one social event following the Emperor's
dinner--a dinner with the secretary of the legation.  The note says:

At the Emperor's dinner black cravats were ordered.  Tonight I went in a
black cravat and everybody else wore white ones.  Just my luck.

The Berlin activities came to an end then.  He was still physically far
from robust, and his doctors peremptorily ordered him to stay indoors or
to go to a warmer climate.  This was March 1st.  Clemens and his wife
took Joseph Very, and, leaving the others for the time in Berlin, set out
for Mentone, in the south of France.




CLXXX

MANY WANDERINGS

Mentone was warm and quiet, and Clemens worked when his arm permitted.
He was alone there with Mrs. Clemens, and they wandered about a good
deal, idling and picture-making, enjoying a sort of belated honeymoon.
Clemens wrote to Susy:

Joseph is gone to Nice to educate himself in kodaking--and to get the
pictures mounted which mama thinks she took here; but I noticed she
didn't take the plug out, as a rule.  When she did she took nine pictures
on top of each other--composites.

They remained a month in Mentone, then went over to Pisa, and sent Joseph
to bring the rest of the party to Rome.  In Rome they spent another
month--a period of sight-seeing, enjoyable, but to Clemens pretty
profitless.

"I do not expect to be able to write any literature this year," he said
in a letter to Hall near the end of April.  "The moment I take up my pen
my rheumatism returns."

Still he struggled along and managed to pile up a good deal of copy in
the course of weeks.  From Rome to Florence, at the end of April, and so
pleasing was the prospect, and so salubrious the air of that ancient
city, that they resolved to engage residence there for the next winter.
They inspected accommodations of various kinds, and finally, through
Prof. Willard Fiske, were directed to the Villa Viviani, near Settignano,
on a hill to the eastward of Florence, with vineyard and olive-grove
sloping away to the city lying in a haze-a vision of beauty and peace.
They closed the arrangement for Viviani, and about the middle of May went
up to Venice for a fortnight of sight-seeing--a break in the travel back
to Germany.  William Gedney Bunce, the Hartford artist, was in Venice,
and Sarah Orne Jewett and other home friends.

From Venice, by way of Lake Como and "a tangled route" (his note-book
says) to Lucerne, and so northward to Berlin and on to Bad Nauheim, where
they had planned to spend the summer.  Clemens for some weeks had
contemplated a trip to America, for matters there seemed to demand his
personal attention.  Summer arrangements for the family being now
concluded, he left within the week and set sail on the Havel for New
York.  To Jean he wrote a cheerful good-by letter, more cheerful, we may
believe, than he felt.

                                   BREMEN, 7.45 A.M., June 14, 1892.

DEAR JEAN CLEMENS,--I am up & shaved & got my clean shirt on & feel
mighty fine, & am going down to show off before I put on the rest of my
clothes.

Perhaps mama & Mrs. Hague can persuade the Hauswirth to do right; but if
he don't you go down & kill his dog.

I wish you would invite the Consul-General and his ladies down to take
one of those slim dinners with mama, then he would complain to the
Government.


Clemens felt that his presence in America, was demanded by two things.
Hall's reports continued, as ever, optimistic; but the semi-annual
statements were less encouraging.  The Library of Literature and some of
the other books were selling well enough; but the continuous increase of
capital required by a business conducted on the instalment plan had
steadily added to the firm's liabilities, while the prospect of a general
tightening in the money-market made the outlook not a particularly happy
one.  Clemens thought he might be able to dispose of the Library or an
interest in it, or even of his share of the business itself, to some one
with means sufficient to put it on an easier financial footing.  The
uncertainties of trade and the burden of increased debt had become a
nightmare which interfered with his sleep.  It seemed hard enough to earn
a living with a crippled arm, without this heavy business care.

The second interest requiring attention was that other old one--the
machine.  Clemens had left the matter in Paige's hands, and Paige, with
persuasive eloquence, had interested Chicago capital to a point where a
company had been formed to manufacture the type-setter in that city.
Paige reported that he had got several million dollars subscribed for the
construction of a factory, and that he had been placed on a salary as a
sort of general "consulting omniscient" at five thousand dollars a month.
Clemens, who had been negotiating again with the Mallorys for the
disposal of his machine royalties, thought it proper to find out just
what was going on.  He remained in America less than two weeks, during
which he made a flying trip to Chicago and found that Paige's company
really had a factory started, and proposed to manufacture fifty machines.
It was not easy to find out the exact status of this new company, but
Clemens at least was hopeful enough of its prospects to call off the
negotiations with the Mallorys which had promised considerable cash in
hand.  He had been able to accomplish nothing material in the publishing
situation, but his heart-to-heart talk with Hall for some reason had
seemed comforting.  The business had been expanding; they would now
"concentrate."  He returned on the Lahn, and he must have been in better
health and spirits, for it is said he kept the ship very merry during the
passage.  He told many extravagantly amusing yarns; so many that a court
was convened to try him on the charge of "inordinate and unscientific
lying."  Many witnesses testified, and his own testimony was so
unconvincing that the jury convicted him without leaving the bench.  He
was sentenced to read aloud from his own works for a considerable period
every day until the steamer should reach port.  It is said that he
faithfully carried out this part of the program, and that the proceeds
from the trial and the various readings amounted to something more than
six hundred dollars, which was turned over to the Seamen's Fund.

Clemens's arm was really much better, and he put in a good deal of spare
time during the trip writing an article on "All Sorts and Conditions of
Ships," from Noah's Ark down to the fine new Havel, then the latest word
in ship-construction.  It was an article written in a happy vein and is
profitable reading to-day.  The description of Columbus as he appeared on
the deck of his flag-ship is particularly rich and flowing:

     If the weather was chilly he came up clad from plumed helmet to
     spurred heel in magnificent plate-armor inlaid with arabesques of
     gold, having previously warmed it at the galley fire.  If the
     weather was warm he came up in the ordinary sailor toggery of the
     time-great slouch hat of blue velvet, with a flowing brush of snowy
     ostrich-plumes, fastened on with a flashing cluster of diamonds and
     emeralds; gold-embroidered doublet of green velvet, with slashed
     sleeves exposing undersleeves of crimson satin; deep collar and cuff
     ruffles of rich, limp lace; trunk hose of pink velvet, with big
     knee-knots of brocaded yellow ribbon; pearl-tinted silk stockings,
     clocked and daintily embroidered; lemon-colored buskins of unborn
     kid, funnel-topped, and drooping low to expose the pretty stockings;
     deep gauntlets of finest white heretic skin, from the factory of the
     Holy Inquisition, formerly part of the person of a lady of rank;
     rapier with sheath crusted with jewels and hanging from a broad
     baldric upholstered with rubies and sapphires.




CLXXXI

NAUHEIM AND THE PRINCE OF WALES

Clemens was able to write pretty steadily that summer in Nauheim and
turned off a quantity of copy.  He completed several short articles and
stories, and began, or at least continued work on, two books--'Tom Sawyer
Abroad' and 'Those Extraordinary Twins'--the latter being the original
form of 'Pudd'nhead Wilson'.  As early as August 4th he wrote to Hall
that he had finished forty thousand words of the "Tom Sawyer" story, and
that it was to be offered to some young people's magazine, Harper's Young
People or St. Nicholas; but then he suddenly decided that his narrative
method was altogether wrong.  To Hall on the 10th he wrote:

     I have dropped that novel I wrote you about because I saw a more
     effective way of using the main episode--to wit, by telling it
     through the lips of Huck Finn.  So I have started Huck Finn & Tom
     Sawyer (still 15 years old) & their friend the freed slave Jim
     around the world in a stray balloon, with Huck as narrator, &
     somewhere after the end of that great voyage he will work in that
     original episode & then nobody will suspect that a whole book has
     been written & the globe circumnavigated merely to get that episode
     in in an effective (& at the same time apparently unintentional)
     way.  I have written 12,000 words of this new narrative, & find that
     the humor flows as easily as the adventures & surprises--so I shall
     go along and make a book of from 50,000 to 100,000 words.

     It is a story for boys, of course, & I think it will interest any
     boy between 8 years & 80.

     When I was in New York the other day Mrs. Dodge, editor of St.
     Nicholas, wrote and offered me $5,000 for (serial right) a story for
     boys 50,000 words long.  I wrote back and declined, for I had other
     matter in my mind then.

     I conceive that the right way to write a story for boys is to write
     so that it will not only interest boys, but will also strongly
     interest any man who has ever been a boy.  That immensely enlarges
     the audience.

     Now, this story doesn't need to be restricted to a child's magazine
     --it is proper enough for any magazine, I should think, or for a
     syndicate.  I don't swear it, but I think so.

     Proposed title--New Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

He was full of his usual enthusiasm in any new undertaking, and writes of
the Extraordinary Twins:

     By and by I shall have to offer (for grown folks' magazine) a novel
     entitled, 'Those Extraordinary Twins'.  It's the howling farce I
     told you I had begun awhile back.  I laid it aside to ferment while
     I wrote Tom Sawyer Abroad, but I took it up again on a little
     different plan lately, and it is swimming along satisfactorily now.
     I think all sorts of folks will read it.  It is clear out of the
     common order--it is a fresh idea--I don't think it resembles
     anything in literature.

He was quite right; it did not resemble anything in literature, nor did
it greatly resemble literature, though something at least related to
literature would eventually grow out of it.

In a letter written many years afterward by Frank Mason, then consul-
general at Frankfort, he refers to "that happy summer at Nauheim."  Mason
was often a visitor there, and we may believe that his memory of the
summer was justified.  For one thing, Clemens himself was in better
health and spirits and able to continue his work.  But an even greater
happiness lay in the fact that two eminent physicians had pronounced Mrs.
Clemens free from any organic ills.  To Orion, Clemens wrote:

     We are in the clouds because the bath physicians say positively that
     Livy has no heart disease but has only weakness of the heart muscles
     and will soon be well again.  That was worth going to Europe to find
     out.

It was enough to change the whole atmosphere of the household, and
financial worries were less considered.  Another letter to Orion relates
history:

     The Twichells have been here four days & we have had good times with
     them.  Joe & I ran over to Homburg, the great pleasure-resort,
     Saturday, to dine with friends, & in the morning I went walking in
     the promenade & met the British ambassador to the Court of Berlin
     and he introduced me to the Prince of Wales.  I found him a most
     unusually comfortable and unembarrassing Englishman.

Twichell has reported Mark Twain's meeting with the Prince (later Edward
VII) as having come about by special request of the latter, made through
the British ambassador.  "The meeting," he says, "was a most cordial one
on both sides, and presently the Prince took Mark Twain's arm and the two
marched up and down, talking earnestly together, the Prince, solid,
erect, and soldierlike, Clemens weaving along in his curious, swinging
gait in a full tide of talk, and brandishing a sun-umbrella of the most
scandalous description."

When they parted Clemens said:

"It has been, indeed, a great pleasure to meet your Royal Highness."

The Prince answered:

"And it is a pleasure, Mr. Clemens, to have met you--again."

Clemens was puzzled to reply.

"Why," he said, "have we met before?"

The Prince smiled happily.

"Oh yes," he said; "don't you remember that day on the Strand when you
were on the top of a bus and I was heading a procession and you had on
your new overcoat with flap-pockets?"--[See chap.  clxiii, "A Letter to
the Queen of England."]

It was the highest compliment he could have paid, for it showed that he
had read, and had remembered all those years.  Clemens expressed to
Twichell regret that he had forgotten to mention his visit to the
Prince's sister, Louise, in Ottawa, but he had his opportunity at a
dinner next day.  Later the Prince had him to supper and they passed an
entire evening together.

There was a certain uneasiness in the Nauheim atmosphere that year, for
the cholera had broken out at Hamburg, and its victims were dying at a
terrific rate.  It was almost impossible to get authentic news as to the
spread of the epidemic, for the German papers were curiously conservative
in their reports.  Clemens wrote an article on the subject but concluded
not to print it.  A paragraph will convey its tenor.

     What I am trying to make the reader understand is the strangeness of
     the situation here--a mighty tragedy being played upon a stage that
     is close to us, & yet we are as ignorant of its details as we should
     be if the stage were in China.  We sit "in front," & the audience is
     in fact the world; but the curtain is down, & from behind it we hear
     only an inarticulate murmur.  The Hamburg disaster must go into
     history as the disaster without a history.

He closes with an item from a physician's letter--an item which he says
"gives you a sudden and terrific sense of the situation there."
     For in a line it flashes before you--this ghastly picture--a thing
     seen by the physician: a wagon going along the street with five sick
     people in it, and with them four dead ones.




CLXXXII

THE VILLA VIVIANI

'The American Claimant', published in May l (1892), did not bring a very
satisfactory return.  For one thing, the book-trade was light, and then
the Claimant was not up to his usual standard.  It had been written under
hard circumstances and by a pen long out of practice; it had not paid,
and its author must work all the harder on the new undertakings.  The
conditions at Nauheim seemed favorable, and they lingered there until
well into September.  To Mrs. Crane, who had returned to America, Clemens
wrote on the 18th, from Lucerne, in the midst of their travel to Italy:

     We remained in Nauheim a little too long.  If we had left four or
     five days earlier we should have made Florence in three days.  Hard
     trip because it was one of those trains that gets tired every 7
     minutes and stops to rest three-quarters of an hour.  It took us
     3 1/2 hours to get there instead of the regulation 2 hours.  We
     shall pull through to Milan to-morrow if possible.  Next day we
     shall start at 10 AM and try to make Bologna, 5 hours.  Next day,
     Florence, D. V.  Next year we will walk.  Phelps came to Frankfort
     and we had some great times--dinner at his hotel; & the Masons,
     supper at our inn--Livy not in it.  She was merely allowed a
     glimpse, no more.  Of course Phelps said she was merely pretending
     to be ill; was never looking so well & fine.

     A Paris journal has created a happy interest by inoculating one of
     its correspondents with cholera.  A man said yesterday he wished to
     God they would inoculate all of them.  Yes, the interest is quite
     general and strong & much hope is felt.

     Livy says I have said enough bad things, and better send all our
     loves & shut up.  Which I do--and shut up.

They lingered at Lucerne until Mrs. Clemens was rested and better able to
continue the journey, arriving at last in Florence, September 26th.  They
drove out to the Villa Viviani in the afternoon and found everything in
readiness for their reception, even to the dinner, which was prepared and
on the table.  Clemens, in his notes, speaks of this and adds:

It takes but a sentence to state that, but it makes an indolent person
tired to think of the planning & work and trouble that lie concealed in
it.

Some further memoranda made at this time have that intimate interest
which gives reality and charm.  The 'contadino' brought up their trunks
from the station, and Clemens wrote:

     The 'contadino' is middle-aged & like the rest of the peasants--that
     is to say, brown, handsome, good-natured, courteous, & entirely
     independent without making any offensive show of it.  He charged too
     much for the trunks, I was told.  My informer explained that this
     was customary.

     September 27.  The rest of the trunks brought up this morning.  He
     charged too much again, but I was told that this was also customary.
     It's all right, then.  I do not wish to violate the customs.  Hired
     landau, horses, & coachman.  Terms, 480 francs a month & a pourboire
     to the coachman, I to furnish lodging for the man & the horses, but
     nothing else.  The landau has seen better days & weighs 30 tons.
     The horses are feeble & object to the landau; they stop & turn
     around every now & then & examine it with surprise & suspicion.
     This causes delay.  But it entertains the people along the road.
     They came out & stood around with their hands in their pockets &
     discussed the matter with each other.  I was told that they said
     that a 30-ton landau was not the thing for horses like those--what
     they needed was a wheelbarrow.

His description of the house pictures it as exactly today as it did then,
for it has not changed in these twenty years, nor greatly, perhaps, in
the centuries since it was built.
     It is a plain, square building, like a box, & is painted light
     yellow & has green window-shutters.  It stands in a commanding
     position on the artificial terrace of liberal dimensions, which is
     walled around with masonry.  From the walls the vineyards & olive
     orchards of the estate slant away toward the valley.  There are
     several tall trees, stately stone-pines, also fig-trees & trees of
     breeds not familiar to me.  Roses overflow the retaining-walls, &
     the battered & mossy stone urn on the gate-posts, in pink & yellow
     cataracts exactly as they do on the drop-curtains in the theaters.
     The house is a very fortress for strength.  The main walls--all
     brick covered with plaster--are about 3 feet thick.  I have several
     times tried to count the rooms of the house, but the irregularities
     baffle me.  There seem to be 28.  There are plenty of windows &
     worlds of sunlight.  The floors are sleek & shiny & full of
     reflections, for each is a mirror in its way, softly imaging all
     objects after the subdued fashion of forest lakes.  The curious
     feature of the house is the salon.  This is a spacious & lofty
     vacuum which occupies the center of the house.  All the rest of the
     house is built around it; it extends up through both stories & its
     roof projects some feet above the rest of the building.  The sense
     of its vastness strikes you the moment you step into it & cast your
     eyes around it & aloft.  There are divans distributed along its
     walls.  They make little or no show, though their aggregate length
     is 57 feet.  A piano in it is a lost object.  We have tried to
     reduce the sense of desert space & emptiness with tables & things,
     but they have a defeated look, & do not do any good.  Whatever
     stands or moves under that soaring painted vault is belittled.

He describes the interior of this vast room (they grew to love it),
dwelling upon the plaster-relief portraits above its six doors,
Florentine senators and judges, ancient dwellers there and former owners
of the estate.

     The date of one of them is 1305--middle-aged, then, & a judge--he
     could have known, as a youth, the very greatest Italian artists, &
     he could have walked & talked with Dante, & probably did.  The date
     of another is 1343--he could have known Boccaccio & spent his
     afternoons wandering in Fiesole, gazing down on plague-reeking
     Florence & listening to that man's improper tales, & he probably
     did.  The date of another is 1463--he could have met Columbus & he
     knew the magnificent Lorenzo, of course.  These are all Cerretanis--
     or Cerretani-Twains, as I may say, for I have adopted myself into
     their family on account of its antiquity--my origin having been
     heretofore too recent to suit me.

We are considering the details of Viviani at some length, for it was in
this setting that he began and largely completed what was to be his most
important work of this later time--in some respects his most important of
any time--the 'Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc'.  If the reader
loves this book, and he must love it if he has read it, he will not
begrudge the space here given to the scene of its inspiration.  The
outdoor picture of Viviani is of even more importance, for he wrote
oftener out-of-doors than elsewhere.  Clemens added it to his notes
several months later, but it belongs here.

     The situation of this villa is perfect.  It is three miles from
     Florence, on the side of a hill.  Beyond some hill-spurs is Fiesole
     perched upon its steep terraces; in the immediate foreground is the
     imposing mass of the Ross castle, its walls and turrets rich with
     the mellow weather-stains of forgotten centuries; in the distant
     plain lies Florence, pink & gray & brown, with the ruddy, huge dome
     of the cathedral dominating its center like a captive balloon, &
     flanked on the right by the smaller bulb of the Medici chapel & on
     the left by the airy tower of the Palazzo Vecchio; all around the
     horizon is a billowy rim of lofty blue hills, snowed white with
     innumerable villas.  After nine months of familiarity with this
     panorama I still think, as I thought in the beginning, that this is
     the fairest picture on our planet, the most enchanting to look upon,
     the most satisfying to the eye & the spirit.  To see the sun sink
     down, drowned in his pink & purple & golden floods, & overwhelm
     Florence with tides of color that make all the sharp lines dim &
     faint & turn the solid city into a city of dreams, is a sight to
     stir the coldest nature & make a sympathetic one drunk with ecstasy.

The Clemens household at Florence consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Clemens,
Susy, and Jean.  Clara had soon returned to Berlin to attend Mrs.
Willard's school and for piano instruction.  Mrs. Clemens improved in the
balmy autumn air of Florence and in the peaceful life of their well-
ordered villa.  In a memorandum of October 27th Clemens wrote:

     The first month is finished.  We are wonted now.  This carefree life
     at a Florentine villa is an ideal existence.  The weather is divine,
     the outside aspects lovely, the days and nights tranquil and
     reposeful, the seclusion from the world and its worries as
     satisfactory as a dream.  Late in the afternoons friends come out
     from the city & drink tea in the open air & tell what is happening
     in the world; & when the great sun sinks down upon Florence & the
     daily miracle begins they hold their breath & look.  It is not a
     time for talk.

No wonder he could work in that environment.  He finished 'Tom Sawyer
Abroad', also a short story, 'The L 1,000,000 Bank-Note' (planned many
years before), discovered the literary mistake of the 'Extraordinary
Twins' and began converting it into the worthier tale, 'Pudd'nhead
Wilson', soon completed and on its way to America.

With this work out of his hands, Clemens was ready for his great new
undertaking.  A seed sown by the wind more than forty years before was
ready to bloom.  He would write the story of Joan of Arc.




CLXXXIII

THE SIEUR DE CONTE AND JOAN

In a note which he made many years later Mark Twain declared that he was
fourteen years at work on Joan of Arc; that he had been twelve years
preparing for it, and that he was two years in writing it.

There is nothing in any of his earlier notes or letters to indicate that
he contemplated the story of Joan as early as the eighties; but there is
a bibliographical list of various works on the subject, probably compiled
for him not much later than 1880, for the latest published work of the
list bears that date.  He was then too busy with his inventions and
publishing schemes to really undertake a work requiring such vast
preparation; but without doubt he procured a number of books and renewed
that old interest begun so long ago when a stray wind had blown a leaf
from that tragic life into his own.  Joan of Arc, by Janet Tuckey, was
apparently the first book he read with the definite idea of study, for
this little volume had been recently issued, and his copy, which still
exists, is filled with his marginal notes.  He did not speak of this
volume in discussing the matter in after-years.  He may have forgotten
it.  He dwelt mainly on the old records of the trial which had been dug
out and put into modern French by Quicherat; the 'Jeanne d'Arc' of J.
Michelet, and the splendid 'Life of the Maid' of Lord Ronald Gower, these
being remembered as his chief sources of information.--[The book of
Janet Tuckey, however, and ten others, including those mentioned, are
credited as "authorities examined in verification" on a front page of his
published book.  In a letter written at the conclusion of "Joan" in 1895,
the author states that in the first two-thirds of the story he used one
French and one English authority, while in the last third he had
constantly drawn from five French and five English sources.]

"I could not get the Quicherat and some of the other books in English,"
he said, "and I had to dig them out of the French.  I began the story
five times."

None of these discarded beginnings exists to-day, but we may believe they
were wisely put aside, for no story of the Maid could begin more
charmingly, more rarely, than the one supposedly told in his old age by
Sieur Louis de Conte, secretary of Joan of Arc, and translated by Jean
Francois Alden for the world to read.  The impulse which had once
prompted Mark Twain to offer The Prince and the Pauper anonymously now
prevailed.  He felt that the Prince had missed a certain appreciation by
being connected with his signature, and he resolved that its companion
piece (he so regarded Joan) should be accepted on its merits and without
prejudice.  Walking the floor one day at Viviani, smoking vigorously, he
said to Mrs. Clemens and Susy:

"I shall never be accepted seriously over my own signature.  People
always want to laugh over what I write and are disappointed if they don't
find a joke in it.  This is to be a serious book.  It means more to me
than anything I have ever undertaken.  I shall write it anonymously."

So it was that that gentle, quaint Sieur de Conte took up the pen, and
the tale of Joan was begun in that beautiful spot which of all others
seems now the proper environment for its lovely telling.

He wrote rapidly once he got his plan perfected and his material
arranged.  The reading of his youth and manhood, with the vivid
impressions of that earlier time, became now something remembered, not
merely as reading, but as fact.

Others of the family went down into the city almost daily, but he
remained in that still garden with Joan as his companion--the old Sieur
de Conte, saturated with memories, pouring out that marvelous and tragic
tale.  At the end of each day he would read to the others what he had
written, to their enjoyment and wonder.

How rapidly he worked may be judged from a letter which he wrote to Hall
in February, in which he said:

I am writing a companion piece to 'The Prince and the Pauper', which is
half done & will make 200,000 words.

That is to say, he had written one hundred thousand words in a period of
perhaps six weeks, marvelous work when one remembers that after all he
was writing history, some of which he must dig laboriously from a foreign
source.  He had always, more or less, kept up his study of the French,
begun so long ago on the river and it stood him in good stead now.
Still, it was never easy for him, and the multitude of notes along the
margin of his French authorities bears evidence of his faithfulness and
the magnitude of his toil.  No previous work had ever required so much of
him, such thorough knowledge; none had ever so completely commanded his
interest.  He would have been willing to remain shut away from visitors,
to have been released altogether from social obligations; and he did
avoid most of them.  Not all, for he could not always escape, and perhaps
did not always really wish to.  Florence and its suburbs were full of
delightful people--some of them his old friends.  There were luncheons,
dinners, teas, dances, concerts, operas always in progress somewhere, and
not all of these were to be resisted even by an absorbed author who was
no longer himself, but sad old Sieur de Conte, following again the banner
of the Maid of Orleans, marshaling her twilight armies across his
illumined page.




CLXXXIV

NEW HOPE IN THE MACHINE

If all human events had not been ordered in the first act of the primal
atom, and so become inevitable, it would seem a pity now that he must
abandon his work half-way, and make another hard, distracting trip to
America.

But it was necessary for him to go.  Even Hall was no longer optimistic.
His letters provided only the barest shreds of hope.  Times were hard and
there was every reason to believe they would be worse.  The World's Fair
year promised to be what it speedily became--one of the hardest financial
periods this country has ever seen.  Chicago could hardly have selected a
more profitless time for her great exposition.  Clemens wrote urging Hall
to sell out all, or a portion, of the business--to do anything, indeed,
that would avoid the necessity of further liability and increased dread.
Every payment that could be spared from the sales of his manuscript was
left in Hall's hands, and such moneys as still came to Mrs. Clemens from
her Elmira interests were flung into the general fund.  The latter were
no longer large, for Langdon & Co. were suffering heavily in the general
depression, barely hoping to weather the financial storm.

It is interesting to note that age and misfortune and illness had a
tempering influence on Mark Twain's nature.  Instead of becoming harsh
and severe and bitter, he had become more gentle, more kindly.  He wrote
often to Hall, always considerately, even tenderly.  Once, when something
in Hall's letter suggested that he had perhaps been severe, he wrote:

     Mrs. Clemens is deeply distressed, for she thinks I have been
     blaming you or finding fault with you about something.  But most
     assuredly that cannot be.  I tell her that although I am prone to
     write hasty and regrettable things to other people I am not a bit
     likely to write such things to you.  I can't believe I have done
     anything so ungrateful.  If I have, pile coals of fire upon my head
     for I deserve it.  You have done magnificently with the business, &
     we must raise the money somehow to enable you to reap a reward for
     all that labor.

He was fond of Hall.  He realized how honest and resolute and industrious
he had been.  In another letter he wrote him that it was wonderful he had
been able to "keep the ship afloat in the storm that has seen fleets and
fleets go down"; and he added: "Mrs. Clemens says I must tell you not to
send us any money for a month or two, so that you may be afforded what
little relief is in our power."

The type-setter situation seemed to promise something.  In fact, the
machine once more had become the principal hope of financial salvation.
The new company seemed really to begetting ahead in spite of the money
stringency, and was said to have fifty machines well under way: About the
middle of March Clemens packed up two of his shorter manuscripts which he
had written at odd times and forwarded them to Hall, in the hope that
they would be disposed of and the money waiting him on his arrival; and a
week later, March 22, 1893, he sailed from Genoa on the Kaiser Wilhelm
II, a fine, new boat.  One of the manuscripts was 'The Californian's
Tale' and the other was 'Adam's Diary'.--[It seems curious that neither
of these tales should have found welcome with the magazines.  "The
Californian's Tale" was published in the Liber Scriptorum, an Authors'
Club book, edited by Arthur Stedman.  The 'Diary' was disposed of to the
Niagara Book, a souvenir of Niagara Falls, which contained sketches by
Howells, Clemens, and others.  Harper's Magazine republished both these
stories in later years--the Diary especially with great success.]

Some joke was likely to be played on Mark Twain during these ocean
journeys, and for this particular voyage an original one was planned.
They knew how he would fume and swear if he should be discovered with
dutiable goods and held up in the Custom House, and they planned for this
effect.  A few days before arriving in New York one passenger after
another came to him, each with a box of expensive cigars, and some
pleasant speech expressing friendship and appreciation and a hope that
they would be remembered in absence, etc., until he had perhaps ten or a
dozen very choice boxes of smoking material.  He took them all with
gratitude and innocence.  He had never declared any dutiable baggage,
entering New York alone, and it never occurred to him that he would need
to do so now.  His trunk and bags were full; he had the cigars made into
a nice package, to be carried handily, and on his arrival at the North
German Lloyd docks stood waiting among his things for the formality of
Customs examination, his friends assembled for the explosion.

They had not calculated well; the Custom-House official came along
presently with the usual "Open your baggage, please," then suddenly
recognizing the owner of it he said:

"Oh, Mr. Clemens, excuse me.  We have orders to extend to you the
courtesies of the port.  No examination of your effects is necessary."

It was the evening of Monday, April 3d, when he landed in New York and
went to the Hotel Glenham.  In his notes he tells of having a two-hour
talk with Howells on the following night.  They had not seen each other
for two years, and their correspondence had been broken off.  It was a
happy, even if somewhat sad, reunion, for they were no longer young, and
when they called the roll of friends there were many vacancies.  They had
reached an age where some one they loved died every year.  Writing to
Mrs. Crane, Clemens speaks of the ghosts of memory; then he says:

     I dreamed I was born & grew up & was a pilot on the Mississippi & a
     miner & a journalist in Nevada & a pilgrim in the Quaker City & had
     a wife & children & went to live in a villa at Florence--& this
     dream goes on & on & sometimes seems so real that I almost believe
     it is real.  I wonder if it is?  But there is no way to tell, for if
     one applies tests they would be part of the dream, too, & so would
     simply aid the deceit.  I wish I knew whether it is a dream or real.

He was made handsomely welcome in New York.  His note-book says:

     Wednesday.  Dined with Mary Mapes Dodge, Howells, Rudyard Kipling &
     wife, Clarke,--[ William Fayal Clarke, now editor of St. Nicholas
     Magazine.]--Jamie Dodge & wife.

     Thursday, 6th.  Dined with Andrew Carnegie, Prof.  Goldwin Smith,
     John Cameron, Mr. Glenn.  Creation of league for absorbing Canada
     into our Union.  Carnegie also wants to add Great Britain & Ireland.

It was on this occasion that Carnegie made his celebrated maxim about the
basket and the eggs.  Clemens was suggesting that Carnegie take an
interest in the typesetter, and quoted the old adage that one should not
put all of his eggs into one basket.  Carnegie regarded him through half-
closed lids, as was his custom, and answered:

     "That's a mistake; put all your eggs into one basket--and watch that
     basket."

He had not come to America merely for entertainment.  He was at the New
York office of the type-setter company, acquiring there what seemed to be
good news, for he was assured that his interests were being taken care
of, and that within a year at most his royalty returns would place him
far beyond the fear of want.  He forwarded this good news to Italy, where
it was sorely needed, for Mrs. Clemens found her courage not easy to
sustain in his absence.  That he had made his letter glowing enough, we
may gather from her answer.

     It does not seem credible that we are really again to have money to
     spend.  I think I will jump around and spend money just for fun, and
     give a little away, if we really get some.  What should we do and
     how should we feel if we had no bright prospects before us, and yet
     how many people are situated in that way?

He decided to make another trip to Chicago to verify, with his own eyes,
the manufacturing reports, and to see Paige, who would appear to have
become more elusive than ever as to contracts, written and implied.  He
took Hall with him, and wrote Orion to meet him at the Great Northern
Hotel.  This would give him a chance to see Orion and would give Orion a
chance to see the great Fair.  He was in Chicago eleven days, and in bed
with a heavy cold almost the whole of that time.  Paige came to see him
at his rooms, and, as always, was rich in prospects and promises; full of
protestations that, whatever came, when the tide of millions rolled in,
they would share and share alike.  The note-book says:

     Paige shed even more tears than usual.  What a talker he is!  He
     could persuade a fish to come out and take a walk with him.  When he
     is present I always believe him; I can't help it.

Clemens returned to New York as soon as he was able to travel.  Going
down in the elevator a man stepped in from one of the floors swearing
violently.  Clemens, leaning over to Hall, with his hand to his mouth,
and in a whisper audible to every one, said:

"Bishop of Chicago."

The man, with a quick glance, recognized his fellow-passenger and
subsided.

On May 13th Clemens took the Kaiser Wilhelm II. for Genoa.  He had
accomplished little, but he was in better spirits as to the machine.
If only the strain of his publishing business had slackened even for a
moment!  Night and day it was always with him.  Hall presently wrote that
the condition of the money-market was "something beyond description.  You
cannot get money on anything short of government bonds."  The Mount
Morris Bank would no longer handle their paper.  The Clemens household
resorted to economies hitherto undreamed of.  Mrs. Clemens wrote to her
sister that she really did not see sometimes where their next money would
come from.  She reported that her husband got up in the night and walked
the floor in his distress.

He wrote again to Hall, urging him to sell and get rid of the debts and
responsibilities at whatever sacrifice:

     I am terribly tired of business.  I am by nature and disposition
     unfit for it, & I want to get out of it.  I am standing on the Mount
     Morris volcano with help from the machine a long, long way off--&
     doubtless a long way further off than the Connecticut company
     imagine.

     Get me out of business!

He knew something of the delays of completing a typesetting machine, and
he had little faith in any near relief from that source.  He wrote again
go Hall, urging him to sell some of his type-setter royalties.  They
should be worth something now since the manufacturing company was
actually in operation; but with the terrible state of the money-market
there was no sale for anything.  Clemens attempted to work, but put in
most of his time footing up on the margin of his manuscript the amount of
his indebtedness, the expenses of his household, and the possibilities of
his income.  It was weary, hard, nerve-racking employment.  About the
muddle of June they closed Viviani.  Susy Clemens went to Paris to
cultivate her voice, a rare soprano, with a view to preparing for the
operatic stage.  Clemens took Mrs. Clemens, with little Jean, to Germany
for the baths.  Clara, who had graduated from Mrs. Willard's school in
Berlin, joined them in Munich, and somewhat later Susy also joined them,
for Madame Marchesi, the great master of voice-culture, had told her that
she must acquire physique to carry that voice of hers before she would
undertake to teach her.

In spite of his disturbed state of mind Clemens must have completed some
literary work during this period, for we find first mention, in a letter
to Hall, of his immortal defense of Harriet Shelley, a piece of writing
all the more marvelous when we consider the conditions of its
performance.  Characteristically, in the same letter, he suddenly
develops a plan for a new enterprise--this time for a magazine which
Arthur Stedman or his father will edit, and the Webster company will
publish as soon as their present burdens are unloaded.  But we hear no
more of this project.

But by August he was half beside himself with anxiety.  On the 6th he
wrote Hall:

     Here we never see a newspaper, but even if we did I could not come
     anywhere near appreciating or correctly estimating the tempest you
     have been buffeting your way through--only the man who is in it can
     do that--but I have tried not to burden you thoughtlessly or
     wantonly.  I have been overwrought & unsettled in mind by
     apprehensions, & that is a thing that is not helpable when one is in
     a strange land & sees his resources melt down to a two months'
     supply & can't see any sure daylight beyond.  The bloody machine
     offers but a doubtful outlook--& will still offer nothing much
     better for a long time to come; for when the "three weeks" are up,
     there will be three months' tinkering to follow, I guess.  That is
     unquestionably the boss machine of the world, but is the toughest
     one on prophets when it is in an incomplete state that has ever seen
     the light.

And three days later:

     Great Scott, but it's a long year--for you & me!  I never knew the
     almanac to drag so.  At least not since I was finishing that other
     machine.

     I watch for your letters hungrily--just as I used to watch for the
     telegram saying the machine's finished--but when "next week
     certainly" suddenly swelled into "three weeks sure" I recognized the
     old familiar tune I used to hear so much.  W---- don't know what
     sick-heartedness is--but he is in a way to find out.

And finally, on the 4th:

     I am very glad indeed if you and Mr. Langdon are able to see any
     daylight ahead.  To me none is visible.  I strongly advise that
     every penny that comes in shall be applied to paying off debts.  I
     may be in error about this, but it seems to me that we have no other
     course open.  We can pay a part of the debts owing to outsiders--
     none to Clemenses.  In very prosperous times we might regard our
     stock & copyrights as assets sufficient, with the money owing to us,
     to square up & quit even, but I suppose we may not hope for such
     luck in the present condition of things.

     What I am mainly hoping for is to save my book royalties.  If they
     come into danger I hope you will cable me so that I can come over &
     try to save them, for if they go I am a beggar.

     I would sail to-day if I had anybody to take charge of my family &
     help them through the difficult journeys commanded by the doctors.

A few days later he could stand it no longer, and on August 29 (1893)
sailed, the second time that year, for New York.




CLXXXV

AN INTRODUCTION TO H. H. ROGERS

Clemens took a room at The Players--"a cheap room," he wrote, "at $1.50
per day."  It was now the end of September, the beginning of a long half-
year, during which Mark Twain's fortunes were at a lower ebb than ever
before; lower, even, than during those mining days among the bleak
Esmeralda hills.  Then he had no one but him self and was young.  Now, at
fifty-eight, he had precious lives dependent upon him, and he was weighed
down with a vast burden of debt.  The liabilities of Charles L. Webster
& Co. were fully two hundred thousand dollars. Something like sixty
thousand dollars of this was money supplied by Mrs. Clemens, but the vast
remaining sum was due to banks, to printers, to binders, and to dealers
in various publishing materials.  Somehow it must be paid. As for their
assets, they looked ample enough on paper, but in reality, at a time like
this, they were problematical. In fact, their value was very doubtful
indeed.  What he was to do Clemens did not know.  He could not even send
cheerful reports to Europe.  There was no longer anything to promise
concerning the type-setter.  The fifty machines which the company had
started to build had dwindled to ten machines; there was a prospect that
the ten would dwindle to one, and that one a reconstruction of the
original Hartford product, which had cost so much money and so many weary
years.  Clemens spent a good part of his days at The Players, reading or
trying to write or seeking to divert his mind in the company of the
congenial souls there, waiting for-he knew not what.

Yet at this very moment a factor was coming into his life, a human
element, a man to whom in his old age Mark Twain owed more than to any
other of his myriad of friends.  One night, when he was with Dr. Clarence
C. Rice at the Murray Hill Hotel, Rice said:

"Clemens, I want you to know my friend, Mr. H. H. Rogers.  He is an
admirer of your books."

Clemens turned and was looking into the handsome, clean-cut features of
the great financier, whose name was hardly so familiar then as it became
at a later period, but whose power was already widely known and felt
among his kind.

"Mr. Clemens," said Mr. Rogers, "I was one of your early admirers.
I heard you lecture a long time ago on the Sandwich Islands.  I was
interested in the subject in those days, and I heard that Mark Twain was
a man who had been there.  I didn't suppose I'd have any difficulty
getting a seat, but I did; the house was jammed.  When I came away I
realized that Mark Twain was a great man, and I have read everything of
yours since that I could get hold of."

They sat down at a table, and Clemens told some of his amusing stories.
Rogers was in a perpetual gale of laughter.  When at last he rose to go
the author and the financier were as old friends.  Mr. Rogers urged him
to visit him at his home.  He must introduce him to Mrs. Rogers, he said,
who was also his warm admirer.  It was only a little while after this
that Dr. Rice said to the millionaire:

"Mr. Rogers, I wish you would look into Clemens's finances a little: I am
afraid they are a good deal confused."

This would be near the end of September, 1893.  On October 18 Clemens
wrote home concerning a possible combination of Webster & Co. with John
Brisben Walker, of the 'Cosmopolitan', and added:

     I have got the best and wisest man of the whole Standard Oil group-a
     multi-millionaire--a good deal interested in looking into the type-
     setter.  He has been searching into that thing for three weeks and
     yesterday he said to me:

     "I find the machine to be all you represent it.  I have here
     exhaustive reports from my own experts, and I know every detail of
     its capacity, its immense construction, its cost, its history, and
     all about its inventor's character.  I know that the New York
     company and the Chicago company are both stupid, and that they are
     unbusinesslike people, destitute of money and in a hopeless boggle."

Then he told me the scheme he had planned and said:

     "If I can arrange with these people on this basis--it will take
     several weeks to find out--I will see to it that they get the money
     they need.  In the mean time you 'stop walking the floor'."

Of course, with this encouragement, Clemens was in the clouds again.
Furthermore, Rogers had suggested to his son-in-law, William Evarts
Benjamin, also a subscription publisher, that he buy from the Webster
company The Library of American Literature for fifty thousand dollars, a
sum which provided for the more insistent creditors.  There was hope that
the worst was over.  Clemens did in reality give up walking the floor,
and for the time, at least, found happier diversions.  He must not return
to Europe as yet, for the type-setter matter was still far from
conclusion.  On the 11th of November he was gorgeously entertained by the
Lotos Club in its new building.  Introducing him, President Frank
Lawrence said:

"What name is there in literature that can be likened to his?  Perhaps
some of the distinguished gentlemen about this table can tell us, but I
know of none.  Himself his only parallel, it seems to me.  He is all our
own--a ripe and perfect product of the American soil."




CLXXXVI

"THE BELLE OF NEW YORK"

Those were feverish weeks of waiting, with days of alternate depression
and exaltation as the pendulum swung to and fro between hope and despair.
By daylight Clemens tried to keep himself strenuously busy; evenings and
nights he plunged into social activities--dinners, amusements, suppers,
balls, and the like.  He was be sieged with invitations, sought for by
the gayest and the greatest; "Jamie" Dodge conferred upon him the
appropriate title: of "The Belle of New York."  In his letters home he
describes in detail many of the festivities and the wildness with which
he has flung himself into them, dilating on his splendid renewal of
health, his absolute immunity from fatigue.  He attributes this to his
indifference to diet and regularities of meals and sleep; but we may
guess that it was due to a reaction from having shifted his burden to
stronger financial shoulders.  Henry Rogers had taken his load upon him.

"It rests me," Rogers said, "to experiment with the affairs of a friend
when I am tired of my own.  You enjoy yourself.  Let me work at the
puzzle a little."

And Clemens, though his conscience pricked him, obeyed, as was his habit
at such times.  To Mrs. Clemens (in Paris now, at the Hotel Brighton) he
wrote:

     He is not common clay, but fine-fine & delicate.  I did hate to
     burden his good heart & overworked head, but he took hold with
     avidity & said it was no burden to work for his friends, but a
     pleasure.  When I arrived in September, Lord! how black the prospect
     was & how desperate, how incurably desperate!  Webster & Co. had to
     have a small sum of money or go under at once.  I flew to Hartford--
     to my friends--but they were not moved, not strongly interested, & I
     was ashamed that I went.  It was from Mr. Rogers, a stranger, that I
     got the money and was by it saved.  And then--while still a
     stranger--he set himself the task of saving my financial life
     without putting upon me (in his native delicacy) any sense that I
     was the recipient of a charity, a benevolence.  He gave time to me--
     time, which could not be bought by any man at $100,000 a month--no,
     nor for three times the money.

He adds that a friend has just offered to Webster & Co. a book that
arraigns the Standard Oil magnates individual by individual.

     I wanted to say the only man I care for in the world, the only man I
     would give a d---n for, the only man who is lavishing his sweat &
     blood to save me & mine from starvation is a Standard Oil magnate.
     If you know me, you know whether I want the book or not.

     But I didn't say that.  I said I didn't want any book; I wanted to
     get out of this publishing business & out of all business & was here
     for that purpose & would accomplish it if I could.

He tells how he played billiards with Rogers, tirelessly as always, until
the millionaire had looked at him helplessly and asked:

"Don't you ever get tired?"

And he answered:

"I don't know what it is to get tired.  I wish I did."

He wrote of going with Mr. Rogers to the Madison Square Garden to see an
exhibition of boxing given by the then splendid star of pugilism, James
J. Corbett.  Dr. Rice accompanied him, and painters Robert Reid and
Edward Simmons, from The Players.  They had five seats in a box, and
Stanford White came along presently and took Clemens into the champion's
dressing-room.

     Corbett has a fine face and is modest and diffident, besides being
     the most perfectly & beautifully constructed human animal in the
     world.  I said:

     "You have whipped Mitchell & maybe you will whip Jackson in June--
     but you are not done then.  You will have to tackle me."

     He answered, so gravely that one might easily have thought him in
     earnest:

     "No, I am not going to meet you in the ring.  It is not fair or
     right to require it.  You might chance to knock me out, by no merit
     of your own, but by a purely accidental blow, & then my reputation
     would be gone & you would have a double one.  You have got fame
     enough & you ought not to want to take mine away from me."

     Corbett was for a long time a clerk in the Nevada Bank, in San
     Francisco.

     There were lots of little boxing-matches to entertain the crowd;
     then at last Corbett appeared in the ring & the 8,000 people present
     went mad with enthusiasm.  My two artists went mad about his form.
     They said they had never seen anything that came reasonably near
     equaling its perfection except Greek statues, & they didn't surpass
     it.

     Corbett boxed 3 rounds with the middle-weight Australian champion--
     oh, beautiful to see!--then the show was over and we struggled out
     through a perfect mash of humanity.  When we reached the street I
     found I had left my arctics in the box.  I had to have them, so
     Simmons said he would go back & get them, & I didn't dissuade him.
     I wouldn't see how he was going to make his way a single yard into
     that solid incoming wave of people--yet he must plow through it full
     50 yards.  He was back with the shoes in 3 minutes!

     How do you reckon he accomplished that miracle?  By saying:

     "Way, gentlemen, please--coming to fetch Mr. Corbett's overshoes."

     The word flew from mouth to mouth, the Red Sea divided, & Simmons
     walked comfortably through & back, dry-shod.  This is Fire-escape
     Simmons, the inveterate talker, you know: Exit--in case of Simmons.

     I had an engagement at a beautiful dwelling close to The Players for
     10.30; I was there by 10.45.  Thirty cultivated & very musical
     ladies & gentlemen present--all of them acquaintances & many of them
     personal friends of mine.  That wonderful Hungarian band was there
     (they charge $500 for an evening).  Conversation and band until
     midnight; then a bite of supper; then the company was compactly
     grouped before me & I told them about Dr. B. E. Martin & the
     etchings, & followed it with the Scotch-Irish christening.  My, but
     the Martin is a darling story!  Next, the head tenor from the Opera
     sang half a dozen great songs that set the company wild, yes, mad
     with delight, that nobly handsome young Damrosch accompanying on the
     piano.

     Just a little pause, then the band burst out into an explosion of
     weird and tremendous dance-music, a Hungarian celebrity & his wife
     took the floor; I followed--I couldn't help it; the others drifted
     in, one by one, & it was Onteora over again.

     By half past 4.  I had danced all those people down--& yet was not
     tired; merely breathless.  I was in bed at 5 & asleep in ten
     minutes.  Up at 9 & presently at work on this letter to you.  I
     think I wrote until 2 or half past.  Then I walked leisurely out to
     Mr. Rogers's (it is called 3 miles, but is short of it), arriving at
     3.30, but he was out--to return at 5.30--so I didn't stay, but
     dropped over and chatted with Howells until five.

--[Two Mark Twain anecdotes are remembered of that winter at The Players:

Just before Christmas a member named Scott said one day:

"Mr. Clemens, you have an extra overcoat hanging in the coatroom.  I've
got to attend my uncle's funeral and it's raining very hard.  I'd like to
wear it."

The coat was an old one, in the pockets of which Clemens kept a
melancholy assortment of pipes, soiled handkerchiefs, neckties, letters,
and what not.

"Scott," he said, "if you won't lose anything out of the pockets of that
coat you may wear it."

An hour or two later Clemens found a notice in his mail-box that a
package for him was in the office.  He called for it and found a neat
bundle, which somehow had a Christmas look.  He carried it up to the
reading-room with a showy, air.

"Now, boys," he said, "you may make all the fun of Christmas you like,
but it's pretty nice, after all, to be remembered."

They gathered around and he undid the package.  It was filled with the
pipes, soiled handkerchiefs, and other articles from the old overcoat.
Scott had taken special precautions against losing them.

Mark Twain regarded them a moment in silence, then he drawled:

"Well--, d---n Scott.  I hope his uncle's funeral will be a failure!"

The second anecdote concerns The Player egg-cups.  They easily hold two
eggs, but not three.  One morning a new waiter came to take the breakfast
order.  Clemens said:

"Boy, put three soft eggs in that cup for me."

By and by the waiter returned, bringing the breakfast.  Clemens looked at
the egg portion and asked:

"Boy, what was my order?"

"Three soft eggs broken in the cup, Mr. Clemens."

"And you've filled that order, have you?"

"Yes, Mr. Clemens."

"Boy, you are trifling with the truth; I've been trying all winter to get
three eggs into that cup."]

In one letter he tells of a dinner with his old Comstock friend, John
Mackay--a dinner without any frills, just soup and raw oysters and corned
beef and cabbage, such as they had reveled in sometimes, in prosperous
moments, thirty years before.

"The guests were old gray Pacific coasters," he said, "whom I knew when
they were young and not gray.  The talk was of the days when we went
gipsying-along time ago--thirty years."

Indeed, it was a talk of the dead.  Mainly that.  And of how they looked
& the harum-scarum things they did & said.  For there were no cares in
that life, no aches & pains, & not time enough in the day (& three-
fourths of the night) to work off one's surplus vigor & energy.  Of the
midnight highway-robbery joke played upon me with revolvers at my head on
the windswept & desolate Gold Hill Divide no witness was left but me, the
victim.  Those old fools last night laughed till they cried over the
particulars of that old forgotten crime.

In still another letter he told of a very wonderful entertainment at
Robert Reid's studio.  There were present, he says:

     Coquelin;
     Richard Harding Davis;
     Harrison, the great outdoor painter;
     Wm. H. Chase, the artist;
     Bettini, inventor of the new phonograph;
     Nikola Tesla, the world-wide illustrious electrician; see article
     about him in Jan. or Feb. Century.
     John Drew, actor;
     James Barnes, a marvelous mimic; my, you should see him!
     Smedley, the artist;
     Zorn,      " "
     Zogbaum,   " "
     Reinhart,  " "
     Metcalf,   " "
     Ancona, head tenor at the Opera;

     Oh, & a great lot of others.  Everybody there had done something &
     was in his way famous.

     Somebody welcomed Coquelin in a nice little French speech, John Drew
     did the like for me in English, & then the fun began.  Coquelin did
     some excellent French monologues--one of them an ungrammatical
     Englishman telling a colorless historiette in French.  It nearly
     killed the fifteen or twenty people who understood it.

     I told a yarn, Ancona sang half a dozen songs, Barnes did his
     darling imitations, Handing Davis sang the hanging of Danny Deever,
     which was of course good, but he followed it with that mast
     fascinating (for what reason I don't know) of all Kipling's poems,
     "On the Road to Mandalay," sang it tenderly, & it searched me deeper
     & charmed me more than the Deever.

     Young Gerrit Smith played some ravishing dance-music, & we all
     danced about an hour.  There couldn't be a pleasanter night than
     that one was.  Some of those people complained of fatigue, but I
     don't seem to know what the sense of fatigue is.

In his reprieve he was like some wild thing that had regained liberty.

He refers to Susy's recent illness and to Mrs. Clemens's own poor state
of health.

     Dear, dear Susy!  My strength reproaches me when I think of her and
     you.

     It is an unspeakable pity that you should be without any one to go
     about with the girls, & it troubles me, & grieves me, & makes me
     curse & swear; but you see, dear heart, I've got to stick right
     where I am till I find out whether we are rich or whether the
     poorest person we are acquainted with in anybody's kitchen is better
     off than we are.  .  I stand on the land-end of a springboard, with
     the family clustered on the other end; if I take my foot----

He realized his hopes to her as a vessel trying to make port; once he
wrote:

     The ship is in sight now ....

     When the anchor is down then I shall say:

     "Farewell--a long farewell--to business! I will never touch it
     again!"

     I will live in literature, I will wallow in it, revel in it; I will
     swim in ink!  'Joan of Arc'--but all this is premature; the anchor
     is not down yet.

Sometimes he sent her impulsive cables calculating to sustain hope.  Mrs.
Clemens, writing to her sister in January, said:

     Mr. Clemens now for ten days has been hourly expecting to send me
     word that Paige had signed the (new) contract, but as yet no
     despatch comes .  .  .  .  On the 5th of this month I received a
     cable, "Expect good news in ten days."  On the 15th I receive a
     cable, "Look out for good news."  On the 19th a cable, "Nearing
     success."

It appealed to her sense of humor even in these dark days.  She added:

     They make me laugh, for they are so like my beloved "Colonel."

Mr. Rogers had agreed that he would bring Paige to rational terms, and
with Clemens made a trip to Chicago.  All agreed now that the machine
promised a certain fortune as soon as a contract acceptable to everybody
could be concluded--Paige and his lawyer being the last to dally and
dicker as to terms.  Finally a telegram came from Chicago saying that
Paige had agreed to terms.  On that day Clemens wrote in his note-book:

This is a great date in my history.  Yesterday we were paupers with but
3 months' rations of cash left and $160,000 in debt, my wife & I, but
this telegram makes us wealthy.

But it was not until a fortnight later that Paige did actually sign.
This was on the 1st of February, '94, and Clemens that night cabled to
Paris, so that Mrs. Clemens would have it on her breakfast-plate the
morning of their anniversary:

"Wedding news.  Our ship is safe in port.  I sail the moment Rogers can
spare me."

So this painted bubble, this thing of emptiness, had become as substance
again--the grand hope.  He was as concerned with it as if it had been an
actual gold-mine with ore and bullion piled in heaps--that shadow, that
farce, that nightmare.  One longs to go back through the years and face
him to the light and arouse him to the vast sham of it all.




CLXXXVII

SOME LITERARY MATTERS

Clemens might have lectured that winter with profit, and Major Pond did
his best to persuade him; but Rogers agreed that his presence in New York
was likely to be too important to warrant any schedule of absence.  He
went once to Boston to lecture for charity, though his pleasure in the
experience was a sufficient reward.  On the evening before the lecture
Mrs. James T. Fields had him to her house to dine with Dr. Holmes, then
not far from the end of his long, beautiful life.--[He died that same
year, October, 1894.]

Clemens wrote to Paris of their evening together:

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes never goes out (he is in his 84th year), but he
came out this time--said he wanted to "have a time" once more with me.

Mrs. Fields said Aldrich begged to come, & went away crying because she
wouldn't let him.  She allowed only her family (Sarah Orne Jewett &
sister) to be present, because much company would overtax Dr. Holmes.

Well, he was just delightful!  He did as brilliant and beautiful talking
(& listening) as he ever did in his life, I guess.  Fields and Jewett
said he hadn't been in such splendid form for years.  He had ordered his
carriage for 9.  The coachman sent in for him at 9, but he said, "Oh,
nonsense!--leave glories & grandeurs like these?  Tell him to go away &
come in an hour!"

At 10 he was called for again, & Mrs. Fields, getting uneasy, rose, but
he wouldn't go--& so we rattled ahead the same as ever.  Twice more Mrs.
Fields rose, but he wouldn't go--& he didn't go till half past 10--an
unwarrantable dissipation for him in these days.  He was prodigiously
complimentary about some of my books, & is having Pudd'nhead read to him.
I told him you & I used the Autocrat as a courting book & marked it all
through, & that you keep it in the sacred green box with the loveletters,
& it pleased him.

One other address Clemens delivered that winter, at Fair Haven, on the
opening of the Millicent Library, a present to the town from Mrs. Rogers.
Mrs. Rogers had suggested to her husband that perhaps Mr. Clemens would
be willing to say a few words there.  Mr. Rogers had replied, "Oh,
Clemens is in trouble.  I don't like to ask him," but a day or two later
told him of Mrs. Rogers's wish, adding:

"Don't feel at all that you need to do it.  I know just how you are
feeling, how worried you are."

Clemens answered, "Mr. Rogers, do you think there is anything I could do
for you that I wouldn't do?"

It was on this occasion that he told for the first time the "stolen
watermelon" story, so often reprinted since; how once he had stolen a
watermelon, and when he found it to be a green one, had returned it to
the farmer, with a lecture on honesty, and received a ripe one in its
place.

In spite of his cares and diversions Clemens's literary activities of
this time were considerable.  He wrote an article for the Youth's
Companion--"How to Tell a Story"--and another for the North American
Review on Fenimore Cooper's "Literary Offenses."  Mark Twain had not much
respect for Cooper as a literary artist.  Cooper's stilted
artificialities and slipshod English exasperated him and made it hard for
him to see that in spite of these things the author of the Deerslayer was
a mighty story-teller.  Clemens had also promised some stories to Walker,
of the Cosmopolitan, and gave him one for his Christmas number,
"Traveling with a Reformer," which had grown out of some incidents of
that long-ago journey with Osgood to Chicago, supplemented by others that
had happened on the more recent visit to that city with Hall.  This story
had already appeared when Clemens and Rogers had made their Chicago trip.
Rogers had written for passes over the Pennsylvania road, and the
president, replying, said:

"No, I won't give Mark Twain a pass over our road.  I've been reading his
'Traveling with a Reformer,' in which he abuses our road.  I wouldn't let
him ride over it again if I could help it.  The only way I'll agree to
let him go over it at all is in my private car.  I have stocked it with
everything he can possibly want, and have given orders that if there is
anything else he wants the train is to be stopped until they can get it."

"Pudd'nhead Wilson" was appearing in the Century during this period, and
"Tom Sawyer Abroad" in the St. Nicholas.  The Century had issued a tiny
calendar of the Pudd'nhead maxims, and these quaint bits of philosophy,
the very gems of Mark Twain mental riches, were in everybody's mouth.
With all this going on, and with his appearance at various social events,
he was rather a more spectacular figure that winter than ever before.

From the note-book:

     The Haunted Looking-glass.  The guest (at midnight a dim light
     burning) wakes up & sees appear & disappear the faces that have
     looked into the glass during 3 centuries.

     Love seems the swiftest but is the slowest of all growths.  No man
     and woman really know what perfect love is until they have been
     married a quarter of a century.

     It is more trouble to make a maxim than it is to do right.

     Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made the
     slave of the lash--that one is the cat.

     Truth is stranger than fiction--to some people, but I am measurably
     familiar with it.




CLXXXVIII

FAILURE

It was the first week in March before it was thought to be safe for
Clemens to return to France, even for a brief visit to his family.  He
hurried across and remained with them what seemed an infinitesimal time,
a bare three weeks, and was back again in New York by the middle of
April.  The Webster company difficulties had now reached an acute stage.
Mr. Rogers had kept a close watch on its financial affairs, hoping to be
able to pull it through or to close it without failure, paying all the
creditors in full; but on the afternoon of the 16th of April, 1894, Hall
arrived at Clemens's room at The Players in a panic.  The Mount Morris
Bank had elected a new president and board of directors, and had
straightway served notice on him that he must pay his notes--two notes of
five thousand dollars each in a few days when due.  Mr. Rogers was
immediately notified, of course, and said he would sleep on it and advise
them next day.  He did not believe that the bank would really push them
to the wall.  The next day was spent in seeing what could be done, and by
evening it was clear that unless a considerable sum of money was raised a
voluntary assignment was the proper course.  The end of the long struggle
had come.  Clemens hesitated less on his own than on his wife's account.
He knew that to her the word failure would be associated with disgrace.
She had pinched herself with a hundred economies to keep the business
afloat, and was willing to go on economizing to avert this final
disaster.  Mr. Rogers said:

"Mr. Clemens, assure her from me that there is not even a tinge of
disgrace in making this assignment.  By doing it you will relieve
yourself of a fearful load of dread, and in time will be able to pay
everything and stand clear before the world.  If you don't do it you will
probably never be free from debt, and it will kill you and Mrs. Clemens
both.  If there is any disgrace it would be in not taking the course that
will give you and her your freedom and your creditors a better chance for
their claims.  Most of them will be glad enough to help you."

It was on the afternoon of the next day, April 18, 1894, that the firm of
Charles L. Webster & Co.  executed assignment papers and closed its
doors.  A meeting of the creditors was called, at which H. H. Rogers was
present, representing Clemens.  For the most part the creditors were
liberal and willing to agree to any equitable arrangement.  But there
were a few who were grumpy and fussy.  They declared that Mark Twain
should turn over his copyrights, his Hartford home, and whatever other
odds and ends could be discovered.  Mr. Rogers, discussing the matter in
1908, said:

"They were bent on devouring every pound of flesh in sight and picking
the bones afterward, as Clemens and his wife were perfectly willing they
should do.  I was getting a little warm all the time at the highhanded
way in which these few men were conducting the thing, and presently I got
on my feet and said, 'Gentlemen, you are not going to have this thing all
your way.  I have something to say about Mr. Clemens's affairs.  Mrs.
Clemens is the chief creditor of this firm.  Out of her own personal
fortune she has lent it more than sixty thousand dollars.  She will be a
preferred creditor, and those copyrights will be assigned to her until
her claim is paid in full.  As for the home in Hartford, it is hers
already.'

"There was a good deal of complaint, but I refused to budge.  I insisted
that Mrs. Clemens had the first claims on the copyrights, though, to tell
the truth, these did not promise much then, for in that hard year the
sale of books was small enough.  Besides Mrs. Clemens's claim the debts
amounted to one hundred thousand dollars, and of course there must be a
definite basis of settlement, so it was agreed that Clemens should pay
fifty cents on the dollar, when the assets were finally realized upon,
and receive a quittance.  Clemens himself declared that sooner or later
he would pay the other fifty cents, dollar for dollar, though I believe
there was no one besides himself and his wife and me who believed he
would ever be able to do it.  Clemens himself got discouraged sometimes,
and was about ready to give it up, for he was getting on in years--nearly
sixty--and he was in poor health.  Once when we found the debt, after the
Webster salvage, was going to be at least seventy thousand dollars, he
said, 'I need not dream of paying it.  I never could manage it.'  But he
stuck to it.  He was at my house a good deal at first.  We gave him a
room there and he came and went as he chose.  The worry told upon him.
He became frail during those weeks, almost ethereal, yet it was strange
how brilliant he was, how cheerful."

The business that had begun so promisingly and prosperously a decade
before had dwindled to its end.  The last book it had in hand was 'Tom
Sawyer Abroad', just ready for issue.  It curiously happened that on the
day of the failure copies of it were filed in Washington for copyright.
Frank Bliss came over from Hartford, and Clemens arranged with him for
the publication of 'Pudd'nhead Wilson', thereby renewing the old
relationship with the American Publishing Company after a break of a
dozen years.

Naturally, the failure of Mark Twain's publishing firm made a public
stir, and it showed how many and sincere were his friends, how ready they
were with sympathy and help of a more material kind.  Those who
understood best, congratulated him on being out of the entanglement.

Poultney Bigelow, Douglas Taylor, Andrew Carnegie, Charles Dudley Warner,
and others extended financial help, Bigelow and Taylor each inclosing him
a check of one thousand dollars for immediate necessities.  He was
touched by these things, but the checks were returned.  Many of his
creditors sent him personal letters assuring him that he was to forget
his obligation to them completely until such time as the remembering
would cost him no uneasiness.

Clemens, in fact, felt relieved, now that the worst had come, and wrote
bright letters home.  In one he said:

Mr. Rogers is perfectly satisfied that our course was right, absolutely
right and wise--cheer up, the best is yet to come.

And again:

     Now & then a good and dear Joe Twichell or Susy Warner condoles with
     me & says, "Cheer up-don't be downhearted," and some other friend
     says, "I'm glad and surprised to see how cheerful you are & how
     bravely you stand it," & none of them suspect what a burden has been
     lifted from me & how blithe I am inside.  Except when I think of
     you, dear heart--then I am not blithe; for I seem to see you
     grieving and ashamed, & dreading to look people in the face.  For in
     the thick of the fight there is cheer, but you are far away & cannot
     hear the drum nor see the wheeling squadrons.  You only seem to see
     rout, retreat, & dishonored colors dragging in the dirt--whereas
     none of these things exist.  There is temporary defeat, but no
     dishonor--& we will march again.  Charley Warner said to-day, "Sho,
     Livy isn't worrying.  So long as she's got you and the children she
     doesn't care what happens.  She knows it isn't her affair."  Which
     didn't convince me.

Olivia Clemens wrote bravely and encouragingly to him, and more
cheerfully than she felt, for in a letter to her sister she said:

     The hideous news of Webster & Co.'s failure reached me by cable on
     Thursday, and Friday morning Galignani's Messenger had a squib about
     it.  Of course I knew it was likely to come, but I had great hope
     that it would be in some way averted.  Mr. Rogers was so sure there
     was no way out but failure that I suppose it was true.  But I have a
     perfect horror and heart-sickness over it.  I cannot get away from
     the feeling that business failure means disgrace.  I suppose it
     always will mean that to me.  We have put a great deal of money into
     the concern, and perhaps there would have been nothing but to keep
     putting it in and losing it.  We certainly now have not much to
     lose.  We might have mortgaged the house; that was the only thing I
     could think of to do.  Mr. Clemens felt that there would never be
     any end, and perhaps he was right.  At any rate, I know that he was
     convinced that it was the only thing, because when he went back he
     promised me that if it was possible to save the thing he would do so
     if only on account of my sentiment in the matter.

     Sue, if you were to see me you would see that I have grown old very
     fast during this last year.  I have wrinkled.

     Most of the time I want to lie down and cry.  Everything seems to me
     so impossible.  I do not make things go very well, and I feel that
     my life is an absolute and irretrievable failure.  Perhaps I am
     thankless, but I so often feel that I should like to give it up and
     die.  However, I presume that if I could have the opportunity I
     should at once desire to live.

     Clemens now hurried back to Paris, arriving about the middle of May,
     his second trip in two months.  Scarcely had he got the family
     settled at La Bourboule-les-Bains, a quiet watering-place in the
     southern part of France, when a cable from Mr. Rogers, stating that
     the typesetter was perfected, made him decide to hurry back to
     America to assist in securing the new fortune.  He did not go,
     however.  Rogers wrote that the machine had been installed in the
     Times-Herald office, Chicago, for a long and thorough trial.  There
     would be plenty of time, and Clemens concluded to rest with his
     family at La Bourboule-les-Bains.  Later in the summer they went to
     Etretat, where he settled down to work.




CLXXXIX

AN EVENTFUL YEAR ENDS

That summer (July, '94.) the 'North American Review' published "In
Defense of Harriet Shelley," a rare piece of literary criticism and
probably the most human and convincing plea ever made for that injured,
ill-fated woman.  An admirer of Shelley's works, Clemens could not resist
taking up the defense of Shelley's abandoned wife.  It had become the
fashion to refer to her slightingly, and to suggest that she had not been
without blame for Shelley's behavior.  A Shelley biography by Professor
Dowden, Clemens had found particularly irritating.  In the midst of his
tangle of the previous year he had paused to give it attention.  There
were times when Mark Twain wrote without much sequence, digressing this
way and that, as his fancy led him, charmingly and entertainingly enough,
with no large, logical idea.  He pursued no such method in this instance.
The paper on Harriet Shelley is a brief as direct and compact and
cumulative as could have been prepared by a trained legal mind of the
highest order, and it has the added advantage of being the utterance of a
human soul voicing an indignation inspired by human suffering and human
wrong.  By no means does it lack humor, searching and biting sarcasm.
The characterization of Professor Dowden's Life of Shelley as a "literary
cake-walk" is a touch which only Mark Twain could have laid on.  Indeed,
the "Defense of Harriet Shelly," with those early chapters of Joan at
Florence, maybe counted as the beginning for Mark Twain of a genuine
literary renaissance.  It was to prove a remarkable period less
voluminous than the first, but even more choice, containing, as it would,
besides Joan and the Shelley article, the rest of that remarkable series
collected now as Literary Essays; the Hadleyburg story; "Was it Heaven or
Hell?"; those masterly articles on our national policies; closing at last
with those exquisite memories, in his final days.

The summer of 1894 found Mark Twain in the proper frame of mind for
literary work.  He was no longer in a state of dread.  At Etretat, a
watering-place on the French coast, he returned eagerly to the long-
neglected tale of Joan--"a book which writes itself," he wrote Mr.
Rogers"--a tale which tells itself; I merely have to hold the pen."
Etretat, originally a fishing-village, was less pretentious than to-day,
and the family had taken a small furnished cottage a little way back from
the coast--a charming place, and a cheap one--as became their means.
Clemens worked steadily at Etretat for more than a month, finishing the
second part of his story, then went over to Rouen to visit the hallowed
precincts where Joan dragged out those weary months that brought her to
the stake.  Susy Clemens was taken ill at Rouen, and they lingered in
that ancient city, wandering about its venerable steets, which have been
changed but slowly by the centuries, and are still full of memories.

They returned to Paris at length--to the Brighton; their quarters of the
previous winter--but presently engaged for the winter the studio home of
the artist Pomroy at 169 rue de l'Universite, beyond the Seine.  Mark
Twain wrote of it once:

     It was a lovely house; large, rambling, quaint, charmingly furnished
     and decorated, built upon no particular plan, delightfully uncertain
     and full of surprises.  You were always getting lost in it, and
     finding nooks and corners which you did not know were there and
     whose presence you had not suspected before.  It was built by a rich
     French artist, and he had also furnished it and decorated it
     himself.  The studio was coziness itself.  With us it served as a
     drawing-room, sitting-room, living-room, dancing-room--we used it
     for everything.  We couldn't get enough of it.  It is odd that it
     should have been so cozy, for it was 40 feet long, 40 feet high, and
     30 feet wide, with a vast fireplace on, each side, in the middle,
     and a musicians' gallery at one end.

Mrs. Clemens had hoped to return to America, to their Hartford home.
That was her heart's desire--to go back once more to their old life and
fireside, to forget all this period of exile and wandering.  Her letters
were full of her home-longing; her three years of absence seemed like an
eternity.

In its way, the Pomroy house was the best substitute for home they had
found.  Its belongings were of the kind she loved.  Susy had better
health, and her husband was happy in his work.  They had much delightful
and distinguished company.  Her letters tell of these attractive things,
and of their economies to make their income reach.

It was near the end of the year that the other great interest--the
machine--came finally to a conclusion.  Reports from the test had been
hopeful during the summer.  Early in October Clemens, receiving a copy of
the Times-Herald, partly set by the machine, wrote: "The Herald has just
arrived, and that column is healing for sore eyes.  It affects me like
Columbus sighting land."  And again on the 28th:

     It seems to me that things couldn't well be going better at Chicago
     than they are.  There's no other machine that can set type eight
     hours with only seventeen minutes' stoppage through cussedness.  The
     others do rather more stopping than working.  By and by our machines
     will be perfect; then they won't stop at all.

But that was about the end of the good news.  The stoppages became worse
and worse.  The type began to break--the machine had its old trouble: it
was too delicately adjusted--too complicated.

"Great guns, what is the matter with it?" wrote Clemens in November when
he received a detailed account of its misconduct.

Mr. Rogers and his son-in-law, Mr. Broughton, went out to Chicago to
investigate.  They went to the Times-Herald office to watch the type-
setter in action.  Mr. Rogers once told of this visit to the writer of
these chapters.  He said:

"Certainly it was a marvelous invention.  It was the nearest approach to
a human being in the wonderful things it could do of any machine I have
ever known.  But that was just the trouble; it was too much of a human
being and not enough of a machine.  It had all the complications of the
human mechanism, all the liability of getting out of repair, and it could
not be replaced with the ease and immediateness of the human being.  It
was too costly; too difficult of construction; too hard to set up.  I
took out my watch and timed its work and counted its mistakes.  We
watched it a long time, for it was most interesting, most fascinating,
but it was not practical--that to me was clear."

It had failed to stand the test.  The Times-Herald would have no more of
it.  Mr. Rogers himself could see the uselessness of the endeavor.  He
instructed Mr. Broughton to close up the matter as best he could and
himself undertook the harder task of breaking the news to Mark Twain.
His letters seem not to have been preserved, but the replies to them tell
the story.

                                   169 rue de l'Universite,

     PARIS, December 22, 1894.

     DEAR MR. ROGERS,--I seemed to be entirely expecting your letter, and
     also prepared and resigned; but Lord, it shows how little we know
     ourselves and how easily we can deceive ourselves.  It hit me like a
     thunder-clap.  It knocked every rag of sense out of my head, and I
     went flying here and there and yonder, not knowing what I was doing,
     and only one clearly defined thought standing up visible and
     substantial out of the crazy storm-drift--that my dream of ten years
     was in desperate peril and out of the 60,000 or 70,000 projects for
     its rescue that came flocking through my skull not one would hold
     still long enough for me to examine it and size it up.  Have you
     ever been like that?  Not so much, I reckon.

     There was another clearly defined idea--I must be there and see it
     die.  That is, if it must die; and maybe if I were there we might
     hatch up some next-to-impossible way to make it take up its bed and
     take a walk.

     So, at the end of four hours I started, still whirling, and walked
     over to the rue Scribe--4 p.m.--and asked a question or two and was
     told I should be running a big risk if I took the 9 p.m.  train for
     London and Southampton; "better come right along at 6.52 per Havre
     special and step aboard the New York all easy and comfortable."
     Very! and I about two miles from home and no packing done.

     Then it occurred to me that none of these salvation notions that
     were whirlwinding through my head could be examined or made
     available unless at least a month's time could be secured.  So I
     cabled you, and said to myself that I would take the French steamer
     to-morrow (which will be Sunday).

     By bedtime Mrs. Clemens had reasoned me into a fairly rational and
     contented state of mind; but of course it didn't last long.  So I
     went on thinking--mixing it with a smoke in the dressing-room once
     an hour--until dawn this morning.  Result--a sane resolution; no
     matter what your answer to my cable might be I would hold still and
     not sail until I should get an answer to this present letter which I
     am now writing or a cable answer from you saying "Come" or "Remain."

     I have slept 6 hours, my pond has clarified, and I find the sediment
     of my 70,000 projects to be of this character:

He follows with a detailed plan for reconstructing the machine, using
brass type, etc., and concludes:

     Don't say I'm wild.  For really I'm sane again this morning.

     I am going right along with Joan now, and wait untroubled till I
     hear from you.  If you think I can be of the least use cable me
     "Come."  I can write Joan on board ship and lose no time.  Also I
     could discuss my plan with the publisher for a de luxe Joan, time
     being an object, for some of the pictures could be made over here,
     cheaply and quickly, that would cost much more time and money in
     America.

The second letter followed five days later:

                              169 rue de l'Universite,
                              PARIS, December 27, 1894.

     DEAR MR. ROGERS,--Notwithstanding your heart is "old and hard" you
     make a body choke up.  I know you "mean every word you say" and I do
     take it "in the same spirit in which you tender it."  I shall keep
     your regard while we two live--that I know; for I shall always
     remember what you have done for me, and that will insure me against
     ever doing anything that could forfeit it or impair it.

     It is six days or seven days ago that I lived through that
     despairing day, and then through a night without sleep; then settled
     down next day into my right mind (or thereabouts) and wrote you.  I
     put in the rest of that day till 7 P.m.  plenty comfortably enough
     writing a long chapter of my book; then went to a masked ball
     blacked up as Uncle Remus, taking Clara along, and we had a good
     time.  I have lost no day since, and suffered no discomfort to speak
     of, but drove my troubles out of my mind and had good success in
     keeping them out--through watchfulness.  I have done a good week's
     work and put the book a good way ahead in the Great Trial [of Joan],
     which is the difficult part: the part which requires the most
     thought and carefulness.  I cannot see the end of the Trial yet, but
     I am on the road.  I am creeping surely toward it.

     "Why not leave them all to me?" My business brothers?  I take you by
     the hand!  I jump at the chance!

     I ought to be ashamed and I am trying my best to be ashamed--and yet
     I do jump at the chance in spite of it.  I don't want to write
     Irving and I don't want to write Stoker.  It doesn't seem as if I
     could.  But I can suggest something for you to write them; and then
     if you see that I am unwise you can write them something quite
     different.  Now this is my idea:

          1.  To return Stoker's $100 to him and keep his stock.

          2.  And tell Irving that when luck turns with me I will make
          good to him what the salvage from the dead Co. fails to pay him
          of his $500.

     [P. S.  Madam says No, I must face the music.  So I inclose my
     effort--to be used if you approve, but not otherwise.]

     We shall try to find a tenant for our Hartford house; not an easy
     matter, for it costs heavily to live in.  We can never live in it
     again; though it would break the family's hearts if they could
     believe it.

     Nothing daunts Mrs. Clemens or makes the world look black to her--
     which is the reason I haven't drowned myself.

     I got the Xmas journals which you sent and I thank you for that Xmas
     remembrance.

     We all send our deepest and warmest greetings to you and all of
     yours and a Happy New Year!

                              S. L. CLEMENS.

--[Brain Stoker and Sir Henry Irving had each taken a small interest in
the machine.  The inclosure for Stoker ran as follows:]

     MY DEAR STOKER,--I am not dating this, because it is not to be
     mailed at present.

     When it reaches you it will mean that there is a hitch in my machine
     enterprise--a, hitch so serious as to make it take to itself the
     aspect of a dissolved dream.  This letter, then, will contain cheque
     for the $100 which you have paid.  And will you tell Irving for me--
     I can't get up courage enough to talk about this misfortune myself,
     except to you, whom by good luck I haven't damaged yet--that when
     the wreckage presently floats ashore he will get a good deal of his
     $500 back; and a dab at a time I will make up to him the rest.

     I'm not feeling as fine as I was when I saw you there in your home.
     Please remember me kindly to Mrs. Stoker.  I gave up that London
     lecture-project entirely.  Had to--there's never been a chance since
     to find the time.

     Sincerely yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.

A week later he added what was about his final word on the subject:

     Yours of December 21 has arrived, containing the circular to
     stockholders, and I guess the Co. will really quit--there doesn't
     seem to be any other wise course.

     There's one thing which makes it difficult for me to soberly realize
     that my ten-year dream is actually dissolved; and that is that it
     reverses my horoscope.  The proverb says, "Born lucky, always lucky."
     It was usual for one or two of our lads (per annum) to get drowned
     in the Mississippi or in Bear Creek, but I was pulled out in a
     drowned condition 9 times before I learned to swim, and was
     considered to be a cat in disguise.  When the Pennsylvania blew up
     and the telegraph reported my brother as fatally injured (with 60
     others) but made no mention of me, my uncle said to my mother "it
     means that Sam was somewhere else, after being on that boat a year
     and a half--he was born lucky."  Yes, I was somewhere else.  I am so
     superstitious that I have always been afraid to have business
     dealings with certain relatives and friends of mine because they
     were unlucky people.  All my life I have stumbled upon lucky chances
     of large size, and whenever they were wasted it was because of my
     own stupidity and carelessness.  And so I have felt entirely certain
     that the machine would turn up trumps eventually.  It disappointed
     me lots of times, but I couldn't shake off the confidence of a
     lifetime in my luck.

     Well, whatever I get out of the wreckage will be due to good luck-
     the good luck of getting you into the scheme--for, but for that
     there wouldn't be any wreckage; it would be total loss.

     I wish you had been in at the beginning.  Then we should have had
     the good luck to step promptly ashore.

So it was that the other great interest died and was put away forever.
Clemens scarcely ever mentioned it again, even to members of his family.
It was a dead issue; it was only a pity that it had ever seemed a live
one.  A combination known as the Regius Company took over Paige's
interest, but accomplished nothing.  Eventually--irony of fate--the
Mergenthaler Company, so long scorned and derided, for twenty thousand
dollars bought out the rights and assets and presented that marvelous
work of genius, the mechanical wonder of the age, to the Sibley College
of Engineering, where it is shown as the costliest piece of machinery,
for its size, ever constructed.  Mark Twain once received a letter from
an author who had written a book calculated to assist inventors and
patentees, asking for his indorsement.  He replied:

     DEAR SIR,--I have, as you say, been interested in patents and
     patentees.  If your books tell how to exterminate inventors send me
     nine editions.  Send them by express.

                              Very truly yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.

The collapse of the "great hope" meant to the Clemens household that
their struggle with debt was to continue, that their economies were to
become more rigid.  In a letter on her wedding anniversary, February a
(1895), Mrs. Clemens wrote to her sister:

As I was starting down the stairs for my breakfast this morning Mr.
Clemens called me back and took out a five-franc piece and gave it to me,
saying: "It is our silver-wedding day, and so I give you a present."

It was a symbol of their reduced circumstances--of the change that
twenty-five years had brought.

Literary matters, however, prospered.  The new book progressed amazingly.
The worst had happened; other and distracting interests were dead.  He
was deep in the third part-the story of Joan's trial and condemnation,
and he forgot most other things in his determination to make that one a
reality.

As at Viviani, Clemens read his chapters to the family circle.  The story
was drawing near the end now; tragedy was closing in on the frail martyr;
the farce of her trial was wringing their hearts.  Susy would say, "Wait,
wait till I get a handkerchief," and one night when the last pages had
been written and read, and Joan had made the supreme expiation for
devotion to a paltry king, Susy wrote in her diary, "To-night Joan of Arc
was burned at the stake," meaning that the book was finished.

Susy herself had literary taste and might have written had it not been
that she desired to sing.  There are fragments of her writing that show
the true literary touch.  Her father, in an unpublished article which he
once wrote of her, quoted a paragraph, doubtless intended some day to
take its place at the end of a story:

     And now at last when they lie at rest they must go hence.  It is
     always so.  Completion; perfection, satisfaction attained--a human
     life has fulfilled its earthly destiny.  Poor human life!  It may
     not pause and rest, for it must hasten on to other realms and
     greater consummations.

She was a deep reader, and she had that wonderful gift of brilliant,
flowing, scintillating speech.  From her father she had inherited a rare
faculty of oral expression, born of a superior depth of mind, swiftness
and clearness of comprehension, combined with rapid, brilliant, and
forceful phrasing.  Her father wrote of her gift:

     Sometimes in those days of swift development her speech was rocket-
     like for vividness and for the sense it carried of visibility.  I
     seem to see it stream into the sky and burst full in a shower of
     colored fire.

We are dwelling here a moment on Susy, for she was at her best that
winter.

She was more at home than the others.  Her health did not permit her to
go out so freely and her father had more of her companionship.  They
discussed many things--the problems of life and of those beyond life,
philosophies of many kinds, and the subtleties of literary art.  He
recalled long after how once they lost themselves in trying to solve the
mystery of the emotional effect of certain word-combinations--certain
phrases and lines of verse--as, for instance, the wild, free breath of
the open that one feels in "the days when we went gipsying a long time
ago" and the tender, sunlit, grassy slope and mossy headstones suggested
by the simple words, "departed this life."  Both Susy and her father
cared more for Joan than any of the former books.  To Mr. Rogers, Clemens
wrote:

"Possibly the book may not sell, but that is nothing--it was written for
love."  A memorandum which he made at the time, apparently for no one but
himself, brings us very close to the personality behind it.

     Do you know that shock?  I mean when you come at your regular hour
     into the sick-room where you have watched for months and find the
     medicine-bottles all gone, the night-table removed, the bed
     stripped, the furniture set stiffly to rights, the windows up, the
     room cold, stark, vacant--& you catch your breath & realize what has
     happened.

     Do you know that shock?

     The man who has written a long book has that experience the morning
     after he has revised it for the last time & sent it away to the
     printer.  He steps into his study at the hour established by the
     habit of months--& he gets that little shock.  All the litter &
     confusion are gone.  The piles of dusty reference-books are gone
     from the chairs, the maps from the floor; the chaos of letters,
     manuscripts, note-books, paper-knives, pipes, matches, photographs,
     tobacco-jars, & cigar-boxes is gone from the writing-table, the
     furniture is back where it used to be in the long-ago.  The
     housemaid, forbidden the place for five months, has been there &
     tidied it up & scoured it clean & made it repellent & awful.

     I stand here this morning contemplating this desolation, & I realize
     that if I would bring back the spirit that made this hospital home-
     like & pleasant to me I must restore the aids to lingering
     dissolution to their wonted places & nurse another patient through
     & send it forth for the last rites, With many or few to assist
     there, as may happen; & that I will do.




CXC

STARTING ON THE LONG TRAIL

The tragedy of 'Pudd'nhead Wilson', with its splendid illustrations by
Louis Loeb, having finished its course in the Century Magazine, had been
issued by the American Publishing Company.  It proved not one of Mark
Twain's great books, but only one of his good books.  From first to last
it is interesting, and there are strong situations and chapters finely
written.  The character of Roxy is thoroughly alive, and her weird
relationship with her half-breed son is startling enough.  There are not
many situations in fiction stronger than that where half-breed Tom sells
his mother down the river into slavery.  The negro character is well
drawn, of course-Mark Twain could not write it less than well, but its
realism is hardly to be compared with similar matter in his other books--
in Tom Sawyer, for instance, or Huck Finn.  With the exceptions of Tom,
Roxy, and Pudd'nhead the characters are slight.  The Twins are mere
bodiless names that might have been eliminated altogether.  The character
of Pudd'nhead Wilson is lovable and fine, and his final triumph at the
murder trial is thrilling in the extreme.  Identification by thumb-marks
was a new feature in fiction then--in law, too, for that matter.  But it
is chiefly Pudd'nhead Wilson's maxims, run at the head of each chapter,
that will stick in the memory of men.  Perhaps the book would live
without these, but with them it is certainly immortal.

Such aphorisms as: "Nothing so needs reforming as other people's habits";
"Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good
example"; "When angry count four, and when very angry swear," cannot
perish; these, with the forty or so others in this volume and the added
collection of rare philosophies that head the chapters of Following the
Equator, have insured to Philosopher Pudd'nhead a respectful hearing for
all time.--[The story of Pudd'nhead Wilson was dramatized by Frank Mayo,
who played it successfully as long as he lived.  It is by no means dead,
and still pays a royalty to the Mayo and Clemens estates.]

Clemens had meant to begin another book, but he decided first to make a
trip to America, to give some personal attention to publishing matters
there.  They were a good deal confused.  The Harpers had arranged for the
serial and book publication of Joan, and were negotiating for the Webster
contracts.  Mr. Rogers was devoting priceless time in an effort to
establish amicable relations between the Harpers and the American Company
at Hartford so that they could work on some general basis that would be
satisfactory and profitable to all concerned.  It was time that Clemens
was on the scene of action.  He sailed on the New York on the end of
February, and a little more than a month later returned by the Paris--
that is, at the end of March.  By this time he had altogether a new
thought. It was necessary to earn a large sum of money as promptly as
possible, and he adopted the plan which twice before in his life in 1872
and in 1884:--had supplied him with needed funds.  Loathing the platform
as he did, he was going back to it.  Major Pond had proposed.  a lecture
tour soon after his failure.

"The loss of a fortune is tough," wrote Pond, "but there are other
resources for another fortune.  You and I will make the tour together."

Now he had resolved to make a tour-one that even Pond himself had not
contemplated.  He would go platforming around the world!  He would take
Pond with him as far as the Pacific coast, arranging with some one
equally familiar with the lecture circuit on the other side of the
Pacific.  He had heard of R. S. Smythe, who had personally conducted
Henry M. Stanley and other great lecturers through Australia and the
East, and he wrote immediately, asking information and advice concerning
such a tour.  Clemens himself has told us in one of his chapters how his
mental message found its way to Smythe long before his written one, and
how Smythe's letter, proposing just such a trip, crossed his own.

He sailed for America, with the family on the 11th of May, and a little
more than a week later, after four years of exile, they found themselves
once more at beautiful Quarry Farm.  We may imagine how happy they were
to reach that peaceful haven.  Mrs. Clemens had written:

"It is, in a way, hard to go home and feel that we are not able to open
our house.  But it is an immense delight to me to think of seeing our
friends."

Little at the farm was changed.  There were more vines on the home--the
study was overgrown--that was all.  Even Ellerslie remained as the
children had left it, with all the small comforts and utensils in place.
Most of the old friends were there; only Mrs. Langdon and Theodore Crane
were missing.  The Beechers drove up to see them, as formerly, and the
old discussions on life and immortality were taken up in the old places.

Mrs. Beecher once came with some curious thin layers of leaves of stone
which she had found, knowing Mark Twain's interest in geology.  Later,
when they had been discussing the usual problems, he said he would write
an agreement on those imperishable leaves, to be laid away until the ages
should solve their problems.  He wrote it in verse:

               If you prove right and I prove wrong,
               A million years from now,
               In language plain and frank and strong
               My error I'll avow
               To your dear waking face.

               If I prove right, by God His grace,
               Full sorry I shall be,
               For in that solitude no trace
               There'll be of you and me.

               A million years, O patient stone,
               You've waited for this message.
               Deliver it a million hence;
               (Survivor pays expressage.)
                                             MARK TWAIN

     Contract with Mrs. T. K. Beecher, July 2, 1895.


Pond came to Elmira and the route westward was arranged.  Clemens decided
to give selections from his books, as he had done with Cable, and to
start without much delay.  He dreaded the prospect of setting out on that
long journey alone, nor could Mrs. Clemens find it in her heart to
consent to such a plan.  It was bitterly hard to know what to do, but it
was decided at last that she and one of the elder daughters should
accompany him, the others remaining with their aunt at Quarry Farm.
Susy, who had the choice, dreaded ocean travel, and felt that she would
be happier and healthier to rest in the quiet of that peaceful hilltop.
She elected to remain with her aunt and jean; and it fell to Clara to go.
Major Pond and his wife would accompany them as far as Vancouver.  They
left Elmira on the night of the 14th of July.  When the train pulled away
their last glimpse was of Susy, standing with the others under the
electric light of the railway platform, waving them good-by.




CXCI

Clemens had been ill in Elmira with a distressing carbuncle, and was
still in no condition to undertake steady travel and entertainment in
that fierce summer heat.  He was fearful of failure.  "I sha'n't be able
to stand on a platform," he wrote Mr. Rogers; but they pushed along
steadily with few delays.  They began in Cleveland, thence by the Great
Lakes, traveling by steamer from one point to another, going constantly,
with readings at every important point--Duluth, Minneapolis, St. Paul,
Winnipeg, Butte, and through the great Northwest, arriving at Vancouver
at last on August 16th, but one day behind schedule time.

It had been a hot, blistering journey, but of immense interest, for none
of them had traveled through the Northwest, and the wonder and grandeur
of it all, its scenery, its bigness, its mighty agriculture, impressed
them.  Clemens in his notes refers more than once to the "seas" and
"ocean" of wheat.

     There is the peace of the ocean about it and a deep contentment, a
     heaven-wide sense of ampleness, spaciousness, where pettiness and
     all small thoughts and tempers must be out of place, not suited to
     it, and so not intruding.  The scattering, far-off homesteads, with
     trees about them, were so homelike and remote from the warring
     world, so reposeful and enticing.  The most distant and faintest
     under the horizon suggested fading ships at sea.

The Lake travel impressed him; the beauties and cleanliness of the Lake
steamers, which he compares with those of Europe, to the disadvantage of
the latter.  Entering Port Huron he wrote:

     The long approach through narrow ways with flat grass and wooded
     land on both sides, and on the left a continuous row of summer
     cottages, with small-boat accommodations for visiting across the
     little canals from family to family, the groups of summer-dressed
     young people all along waving flags and handkerchiefs and firing
     cannon, our boat replying with toots of the hoarse whistle and now
     and then a cannon, and meeting steamers in the narrow way, and once
     the stately sister-ship of the line crowded with summer-dressed
     people waving-the rich browns and greens of the rush-grown, far-
     reaching flat-lands, with little glimpses of water away on their
     farther edges, the sinking sun throwing a crinkled broad carpet of
     gold on the water-well, it is the perfection of voyaging.

It had seemed a doubtful experiment to start with Mrs. Clemens on that
journey in the summer heat; but, strange to say, her health improved, and
she reached Vancouver by no means unfit for the long voyage ahead.  No
doubt the change and continuous interest and their splendid welcome
everywhere and their prosperity were accountable.  Everywhere they were
entertained; flowers filled their rooms; carriages and committees were
always waiting.  It was known that Mark Twain had set out for the purpose
of paying his debts, and no cause would make a deeper appeal to his
countrymen than that, or, for that matter, to the world at large.

From Winnipeg he wrote to Mr. Rogers:

     At the end of an hour and a half I offered to let the audience go,
     but they said "go on," and I did.

He had five thousand dollars to forward to Rogers to place against his
debt account by the time he reached the Coast, a fine return for a
month's travel in that deadly season.  At no more than two places were
the houses less than crowded.  One of these was Anaconda, then a small
place, which they visited only because the manager of the entertainment
hall there had known Clemens somewhere back in the sixties and was eager
to have him.  He failed to secure the amount of the guarantee required by
Pond, and when Pond reported to Clemens that he had taken "all he had"
Clemens said:

"And you took the last cent that poor fellow had.  Send him one hundred
dollars, and if you can't afford to stand your share charge it all to me.
I'm not going around robbing my friends who are disappointed in my
commercial value.  I don't want to get money that way."

"I sent the money," said Pond afterward, "and was glad of the privilege
of standing my share."

Clemens himself had not been in the best of health during the trip.  He
had contracted a heavy cold and did not seem to gain strength.  But in a
presentation copy of 'Roughing It', given to Pond as a souvenir, he
wrote:

"Here ends one of the smoothest and pleasantest trips across the
continent that any group of five has ever made."

There were heavy forest fires in the Northwest that year, and smoke
everywhere.  The steamer Waryimoo, which was to have sailed on the 16th,
went aground in the smoke, and was delayed a week.  While they were
waiting, Clemens lectured in Victoria, with the Governor-General and Lady
Aberdeen and their little son in the audience.  His note-book says:

     They came in at 8.45, 15 minutes late; wish they would always be
     present, for it isn't permissible to begin until they come; by that
     time the late-comers are all in.

Clemens wrote a number of final letters from Vancouver.  In one of them
to Mr. J. Henry Harper, of Harper & Brothers, he expressed the wish that
his name might now be printed as the author of "Joan," which had begun
serially in the April Magazine.  He thought it might, help his lecturing
tour and keep his name alive.  But a few days later, with Mrs. Clemens's
help, he had reconsidered, and wrote:

     My wife is a little troubled by my wanting my nom de plume put to
     the "Joan of Arc" so soon.  She thinks it might go counter to your
     plans, and that you ought to be left free and unhampered in the
     matter.

     All right-so be it.  I wasn't strenuous about it, and wasn't meaning
     to insist; I only thought my reasons were good, and I really think
     so yet, though I do confess the weight and fairness of hers.

As a matter of fact the authorship of "Joan" had been pretty generally
guessed by the second or third issue.  Certain of its phrasing and humor
could hardly have come from another pen than Mark Twain's.  The
authorship was not openly acknowledged, however, until the publication of
the book, the following May.

Among the letters from Vancouver was this one to Rudyard Kipling

     DEAR KIPLING,--It is reported that you are about to visit India.
     This has moved me to journey to that far country in order that I may
     unload from my conscience a debt long due to you.  Years ago you
     came from India to Elmira to visit me, as you said at the time.  It
     has always been my purpose to return that visit & that great
     compliment some day.  I shall arrive next January & you must be
     ready.  I shall come riding my ayah with his tusks adorned with
     silver bells & ribbons & escorted by a troop of native howdahs
     richly clad & mounted upon a herd of wild bungalows; & you must be
     on hand with a few bottles of ghee, for I shall be thirsty.

To the press he gave this parting statement:

     It has been reported that I sacrificed for the benefit of the
     creditors the property of the publishing firm whose financial backer
     I was and that I am now lecturing for my own benefit.  This is an
     error.  I intend the lectures as well as the property for the
     creditors.  The law recognizes no mortgage on a man's brain, and a
     merchant who has given up all he has may take advantage of the laws
     of insolvency and start free again for himself.  But I am not a
     business man, and honor is a harder master than the law.  It cannot
     compromise for less than 100 cents on the dollar and its debts never
     outlaw.  From my reception thus far on my lecturing tour I am
     confident that if I live I can pay off the last debt within four
     years, after which, at the age of sixty-four, I can make a fresh and
     unincumbered start in life.  I am going to Australia, India, and
     South Africa, and next year I hope to make a tour of the great
     cities of the United States.  I meant, when I began, to give my
     creditors all the benefit of this, but I am beginning to feel that I
     am gaining something from it, too, and that my dividends, if not
     available for banking purposes, may be even more satisfactory than
     theirs.

There was one creditor, whose name need, not be "handed down to infamy,"
who had refused to consent to any settlement except immediate payment in
full, and had pursued with threatened attachment of earnings and
belongings, until Clemens, exasperated, had been disposed to turn over to
his creditors all remaining properties and let that suffice, once and for
all.  But this was momentary.  He had presently instructed Mr. Rogers to
"pay Shylock in full," and to assure any others that he would pay them,
too, in the end.  But none of the others annoyed him.

It was on the afternoon of August 23, 1895, that they were off at last.
Major Pond and his wife lunched with them on board and waved them good-by
as long as they could see the vessel.  The far voyage which was to carry
them for the better part of the year to the under side of the world had
begun.




CXCII

"FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR"

Mark Twain himself has written with great fulness the story of that
traveling--setting down what happened, and mainly as it happened, with
all the wonderful description, charm, and color of which he was so great
a master.  We need do little more than summarize then--adding a touch
here and there, perhaps, from another point of view.

They had expected to stop at the Sandwich Islands, but when they arrived
in the roadstead of Honolulu, word came that cholera had broken out and
many were dying daily.  They could not land.  It was a double
disappointment; not only were the lectures lost, but Clemens had long
looked forward to revisiting the islands he had so loved in the days of
his youth.  There was nothing for them to do but to sit on the decks in
the shade of the awnings and look at the distant shore.  In his book he
says:

     We lay in luminous blue water; shoreward the water was green-green
     and brilliant; at the shore itself it broke in a long, white ruffle,
     and with no crash, no sound that we could hear.  The town was buried
     under a mat of foliage that looked like a cushion of moss.  The
     silky mountains were clothed in soft, rich splendors of melting
     color, and some of the cliffs were veiled in slanting mists.  I
     recognized it all.  It was just as I had seen it long before, with
     nothing of its beauty lost, nothing of its charm wanting.

In his note-book he wrote: "If I might, I would go ashore and never
leave."

This was the 31 st of August.  Two days later they were off again,
sailing over the serene Pacific, bearing to the southwest for Australia.
They crossed the equator, which he says was wisely put where it is,
because if it had been run through Europe all the kings would have tried
to grab it.  They crossed it September 6th, and he notes that Clara
kodaked it.  A day or two later the north star disappeared behind them
and the constellation of the Cross came into view above the southern
horizon.  Then presently they were among the islands of the southern
Pacific, and landed for a little time on one of the Fiji group.  They had
twenty-four days of halcyon voyaging between Vancouver and Sydney with
only one rough day.  A ship's passengers get closely acquainted on a trip
of that length and character.  They mingle in all sorts of diversions to
while away the time; and at the end have become like friends of many
years.

On the night of September 15th-a night so dark that from the ship's deck
one could not see the water--schools of porpoises surrounded the ship,
setting the water alive with phosphorescent splendors: "Like glorified
serpents thirty to fifty feet long.  Every curve of the tapering long
body perfect.  The whole snake dazzlingly illumined.  It was a weird
sight to see this sparkling ghost come suddenly flashing along out of the
solid gloom and stream past like a meteor."

They were in Sydney next morning, September 16, 1895, and landed in a
pouring rain, the breaking up of a fierce drought.  Clemens announced
that he had brought Australia good-fortune, and should expect something
in return.

Mr. Smythe was ready for them and there was no time lost in getting to
work.  All Australia was ready for them, in fact, and nowhere in their
own country were they more lavishly and royally received than in that
faraway Pacific continent.  Crowded houses, ovations, and gorgeous
entertainment--public and private--were the fashion, and a little more
than two weeks after arrival Clemens was able to send back another two
thousand dollars to apply on his debts.  But he had hard luck, too, for
another carbuncle developed at Melbourne and kept him laid up for nearly
a week.  When he was able to go before an audience again he said:

"The doctor says I am on the verge of being a sick man.  Well, that may
be true enough while I am lying abed all day trying to persuade his
cantankerous, rebellious medicines to agree with each other; but when I
come out at night and get a welcome like this I feel as young and healthy
as anybody, and as to being on the verge of being a sick man I don't take
any stock in that.  I have been on the verge of being an angel all my
life, but it's never happened yet."

In his book Clemens has told us his joy in Australia, his interest in the
perishing native tribes, in the wonderfully governed cities, in the gold-
mines, and in the advanced industries.  The climate he thought superb;
"a darling climate," he says in a note-book entry.

Perhaps one ought to give a little idea of the character of his
entertainment.  His readings were mainly from his earlier books,
'Roughing It' and 'Innocents Abroad'.  The story of the dead man which,
as a boy, he had discovered in his father's office was one that he often
told, and the "Mexican Plug" and his "Meeting with Artemus Ward" and the
story of Jim Blaine's old ram; now and again he gave chapters from 'Huck
Finn' and 'Tom Sawyer'.  He was likely to finish with that old fireside
tale of his early childhood, the "Golden Arm."  But he sometimes told the
watermelon story, written for Mrs. Rogers, or gave extracts from Adam's
Diary, varying his program a good deal as he went along, and changing it
entirely where he appeared twice in one city.

Mrs. Clemens and Clara, as often as they had heard him, generally went
when the hour of entertainment came: They enjoyed seeing his triumph with
the different audiences, watching the effect of his subtle art.

One story, the "Golden Arm," had in it a pause, an effective, delicate
pause which must be timed to the fraction of a second in order to realize
its full value.  Somewhere before we have stated that no one better than
Mark Twain knew the value of a pause.  Mrs. Clemens and Clara were
willing to go night after night and hear that tale time and again, for
its effect on each new, audience.

From Australia to New Zealand--where Clemens had his third persistent
carbuncle,--[In Following the Equator the author says: "The dictionary
says a carbuncle is a kind of jewel.  Humor is out of place in a
dictionary."]--and again lost time in consequence.  It was while he was
in bed with this distressing ailment that he wrote Twichell:

     I think it was a good stroke of luck that knocked me on my back here
     at Napier instead of in some hotel in the center of a noisy city.
     Here we have the smooth & placidly complaining sea at our door, with
     nothing between us & it but 20 yards of shingle--& hardly a
     suggestion of life in that space to mar it or to make a noise.  Away
     down here fifty-five degrees south of the equator this sea seems to
     murmur in an unfamiliar tongue--a foreign tongue--a tongue bred
     among the ice-fields of the antarctic--a murmur with a note of
     melancholy in it proper to the vast unvisited solitudes it has come
     from.  It was very delicious and solacing to wake in the night &
     find it still pulsing there.  I wish you were here--land, but it
     would be fine!

Mrs. Clemens and himself both had birthdays in New Zealand; Clemens
turned sixty, and his wife passed the half-century mark.

"I do not like it one single bit," she wrote to her sister.  "Fifty years
old-think of it; that seems very far on."

And Clemens wrote:

     Day before yesterday was Livy's birthday (underworld time) &
     tomorrow will be mine.  I shall be 60--no thanks for it!

From New Zealand back to Australia, and then with the new year away to
Ceylon.  Here they were in the Orient at last, the land of color,
enchantment, and gentle races.  Clemens was ill with a heavy cold when
they arrived; and in fact, at no time during this long journeying was his
health as good as that of his companions.  The papers usually spoke of
him as looking frail, and he was continually warned that he must not
remain in India until the time of the great heat.  He was so determined
to work, however, and working was so profitable, that he seldom spared
himself.

He traveled up and down and back and forth the length and breadth of
India--from Bombay to Allahabad, to Benares, to Calcutta and Darjeeling,
to Lahore, to Lucknow, to Delhi--old cities of romance--and to Jeypore--
through the heat and dust on poor, comfortless railways, fighting his
battle and enjoying it too, for he reveled in that amazing land--its
gorgeous, swarming life, the patience and gentleness of its servitude,
its splendid pageantry, the magic of its architecture, the maze and
mystery of its religions, the wonder of its ageless story.

One railway trip he enjoyed--a thirty-five-mile flight down the steep
mountain of Darjeeling in a little canopied hand-car.  In his book he
says:

     That was the most enjoyable time I have spent in the earth.  For
     rousing, tingling, rapturous pleasure there is no holiday trip that
     approaches the bird-flight down the Himalayas in a handcar.  It has
     no fault, no blemish, no lack, except that there are only thirty-
     five miles of it, instead of five hundred.

Mark Twain found India all that Rudyard Kipling had painted it and more.
"INDIA THE MARVELOUS" he printed in his note-book in large capitals, as
an effort to picture his thought, and in his book he wrote:

     So far as I am able to judge nothing has been left undone, either by
     man or Nature, to make India the most extraordinary country that the
     sun visits on his rounds.  "Where every prospect pleases, and only
     man is vile."

Marvelous India is, certainly; and he saw it all to the best advantage,
for government official and native grandee spared no effort to do honor
to his party--to make their visit something to be remembered for a
lifetime.  It was all very gratifying, and most of it of extraordinary
interest.  There are not many visitors who get to see the inner household
of a native prince of India, and the letter which Mark Twain wrote to
Kumar Shri Samatsinhji, a prince of the Palitana state, at Bombay, gives
us a notion of how his unostentatious, even if lavish, hospitality was
appreciated.

     DEAR KUMAR SAHIB,--It would be hard for me to put into words how
     much my family & I enjoyed our visit to your hospitable house.  It
     was our first glimpse of the home of an Eastern Prince, & the charm
     of it, the grace & beauty & dignity of it realized to us the
     pictures which we had long ago gathered from books of travel &
     Oriental tales.  We shall not forget that happy experience, nor your
     kind courtesies to us, nor those of her Highness to my wife &
     daughter.  We shall keep always the portrait & the beautiful things
     you gave us; & as long as we live a glance at them will bring your
     house and its life & its sumptuous belongings & rich harmonies of
     color instantly across the years & the oceans, & we shall see them
     again, & how welcome they will be!

     We make our salutation to your Highness & to all members of your
     family--including, with affectionate regard, that littlest little
     sprite of a Princess--& I beg to sign myself

                         Sincerely yours,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.

     BENARES, February 5, 1896.


They had been entertained in truly royal fashion by Prince Kumar, who,
after refreshments, had ordered in "bales of rich stuffs" in the true
Arabian Nights fashion, and commanded his servants to open them and allow
his guests to select for themselves.

With the possible exception of General Grant's long trip in '78 and '79
there has hardly been a more royal progress than Mark Twain's trip around
the world.  Everywhere they were overwhelmed with honors and invitations,
and their gifts became so many that Mrs. Clemens wrote she did not see
how they were going to carry them all.  In a sense, it was like the Grant
trip, for it was a tribute which the nations paid not only to a beloved
personality, but to the American character and people.

The story of that East Indian sojourn alone would fill a large book, and
Mark Twain, in his own way, has written that book, in the second volume
of Following the Equator, an informing, absorbing, and enchanting story
of Indian travel.

Clemens lectured everywhere to jammed houses, which were rather less
profitable than in Australia, because in India the houses were not built
for such audiences as he could command.  He had to lecture three times in
Calcutta, and then many people were turned away.  At one place, however,
his hall was large enough.  This was in the great Hall of the Palace,
where durbars are held, at Bombay.

Altogether they were two months in India, and then about the middle of
March an English physician at Jeypore warned them to fly for Calcutta and
get out of the country immediately before the real heat set in.

They sailed toward the end of March, touched at Madras and again at
Ceylon, remaining a day or two at Colombo, and then away to sea again,
across the Indian Ocean on one of those long, peaceful, eventless, tropic
voyages, where at night one steeps on deck and in daytime wears the
whitest and lightest garments and cares to do little more than sit
drowsily in a steamer-chair and read and doze and dream.

From the note-book:

     Here in the wastes of the Indian Ocean just under the equator the
     sea is blue, the motion gentle, the sunshine brilliant, the broad
     decks with their grouped companies of talking, reading, or game-
     playing folk suggestive of a big summer hotel--but outside of the
     ship is no life visible but the occasional flash of a flying-fish.
     I would like the voyage, under these conditions, to continue
     forever.

               The Injian Ocean sits and smiles
               So sof', so bright, so bloomin' blue,
               There aren't a wave for miles an' miles
               Excep' the jiggle of the screw.

                                            --KIP.

     How curiously unanecdotical the colonials and the ship-going English
     are--I believe I haven't told an anecdote or heard one since I left
     America, but Americans when grouped drop into anecdotes as soon as
     they get a little acquainted.

     Preserve your illusions.  When they are gone you may still exist,
     but not live.

     Swore off from profanity early this morning--I was on deck in the
     peaceful dawn, the calm of holy dawn.  Went down, dressed, bathed,
     put on white linen, shaved--a long, hot, troublesome job and no
     profanity.  Then started to breakfast.  Remembered my tonic--first
     time in 3 months without being told--poured it into measuring-glass,
     held bottle in one hand, it in the other, the cork in my teeth--
     reached up & got a tumbler--measuring-glass slipped out of my
     fingers--caught it, poured out another dose, first setting the
     tumbler on wash-stand--just got it poured, ship lurched, heard a
     crash behind me--it was the tumbler, broken into millions of
     fragments, but the bottom hunk whole.  Picked it up to throw out of
     the open port, threw out the measuring-glass instead--then I
     released my voice.  Mrs. Clemens behind me in the door.

     "Don't reform any more.  It is not an improvement."

     This is a good time to read up on scientific matters and improve the
     mind, for about us is the peace of the great deep.  It invites to
     dreams, to study, to reflection.  Seventeen days ago this ship
     sailed out of Calcutta, and ever since, barring a day or two in
     Ceylon, there has been nothing in sight but the tranquil blue sea &
     a cloudless blue sky.  All down the Bay of Bengal it was so.  It is
     still so in the vast solitudes of the Indian Ocean--17 days of
     heaven.  In 11 more it will end.  There will be one passenger who
     will be sorry.  One reads all day long in this delicious air.  Today
     I have been storing up knowledge from Sir John Lubbock about the
     ant.  The thing which has struck me most and most astonished me is
     the ant's extraordinary powers of identification--memory of his
     friend's person.  I will quote something which he says about Formica
     fusca.  Formica fusca is not something to eat; it's the name of a
     breed of ants.

He does quote at great length and he transferred most of it later to his
book.  In another note he says:

     In the past year have read Vicar of Wakefield and some of Jane
     Austen--thoroughly artificial.  Have begun Children of the Abbey.
     It begins with this "Impromptu" from the sentimental heroine:

     "Hail, sweet asylum of my infancy!  Content and innocence reside
     beneath your humble roof and charity unboastful of the good it
     renders .  .  .  .  Here unmolested may I wait till the rude storm
     of sorrow is overblown and my father's arms are again extended to
     receive me."

     Has the ear-marks of preparation.

They were at the island of Mauritius by the middle of April, that curious
bit of land mainly known to the world in the romance of Paul and
Virginia, a story supposed by some in Mauritius to be "a part of the
Bible."  They rested there for a fortnight and then set sail for South
Africa on the ship Arundel Castle, which he tells us is the finest boat
he has seen in those waters.

It was the end of the first week in May when they reached Durban and felt
that they were nearing home.

One more voyage and they would be in England, where they had planned for
Susy and Jean to join them.

Mrs. Clemens, eager for letters, writes of her disappointment in not
finding one from Susy.  The reports from Quarry Farm had been cheerful,
and there had been small snap-shot photographs which were comforting, but
her mother heart could not be entirely satisfied that Susy did not send
letters.  She had a vague fear that some trouble, some illness, had come
to Susy which made her loath to write.  Susy was, in fact, far from well,
though no one, not even Susy herself, suspected how serious was her
condition.

Mrs. Clemens writes of her own hopefulness, but adds that her husband is
often depressed.

     Mr. Clemens has not as much courage as I wish he had, but, poor old
     darling, he has been pursued with colds and inabilities of various
     sorts.  Then he is so impressed with the fact that he is sixty years
     old.  Naturally I combat that thought all I can, trying to make him
     rejoice that he is not seventy .  .  .  .

     He does not believe that any good thing will come, but that we must
     all our lives live in poverty.  He says he never wants to go back to
     America.  I cannot think that things are as black as he paints them,
     and I trust that if I get him settled down for work in some quiet
     English village he will get back much of his cheerfulness; in fact,
     I believe he will because that is what he wants to do, and that is
     the work that he loves: The platform he likes for the two hours that
     he is on it, but all the rest of the time it grinds him, and he says
     he is ashamed of what he is doing.  Still, in spite of this sad
     undercurrent, we are having a delightful trip.  People are so nice,
     and with people Mr. Clemens seems cheerful.  Then the ocean trips
     are a great rest to him.

Mrs. Clemens and Clara remained at the hotel in Durban while Clemens made
his platform trip to the South African cities.  It was just at the time
when the Transvaal invasion had been put down--when the Jameson raid had
come to grief and John Hares Hammond, chief of the reformers, and fifty
or more supporters were lying in the jail at Pretoria under various
sentences, ranging from one to fifteen years, Hammond himself having
received the latter award.  Mrs. Hammond was a fellow-Missourian; Clemens
had known her in America.  He went with her now to see the prisoners, who
seemed to be having a pretty good time, expecting to be pardoned
presently; pretending to regard their confinement mainly as a joke.
Clemens, writing of it to Twichell, said:

     A Boer guard was at my elbow all the time, but was courteous &
     polite, only he barred the way in the compound (quadrangle or big
     open court) & wouldn't let me cross a white mark that was on the
     ground--the "deathline," one of the prisoners called it.  Not in
     earnest, though, I think.  I found that I had met Hammond once when
     he was a Yale senior & a guest of General Franklin's.  I also found
     that I had known Captain Mein intimately 32 years ago.  One of the
     English prisoners had heard me lecture in London 23 years ago....

     These prisoners are strong men, prominent men, & I believe they are
     all educated men.  They are well off; some of them are wealthy.
     They have a lot of books to read, they play games & smoke, & for a
     while they will be able to bear up in their captivity; but not for
     long, not for very long, I take it.  I am told they have times of
     deadly brooding and depression.  I made them a speech--sitting down.
     It just happened so.  I don't prefer that attitude.  Still, it has
     one advantage--it is only a talk, it doesn't take the form of a
     speech .  .  .  .  I advised them at considerable length to stay
     where they were--they would get used to it & like it presently; if
     they got out they would only get in again somewhere else, by the
     look of their countenances; & I promised to go and see the President
     & do what I could to get him to double their jail terms....
     We had a very good sociable time till the permitted time was up &.
     a little over & we outsiders had to go.  I went again to-day, but
     the Rev. Mr. Gray had just arrived, & the warden, a genial, elderly
     Boer named Du Plessis, explained that his orders wouldn't allow him
     to admit saint & sinner at the same time, particularly on a Sunday.
     Du Plessis descended from the Huguenot fugitives, you see, of 200
     years ago--but he hasn't any French left in him now--all Dutch.

Clemens did visit President Kruger a few days later, but not for the
purpose explained.  John Hayes Hammond, in a speech not long ago (1911),
told how Mark Twain was interviewed by a reporter after he left the jail,
and when the reporter asked if the prisoners were badly treated Clemens
had replied that he didn't think so, adding:

"As a matter of fact, a great many of these gentlemen have fared far
worse in the hotels and mining-camps of the West."

Said Hammond in his speech: "The result of this was that the interview
was reported literally and a leader appeared in the next morning's issue
protesting against such lenience.  The privations, already severe enough,
were considerably augmented by that remark, and it required some three or
four days' search on the part of some of our friends who were already
outside of jail to get hold of Mark Twain and have him go and explain to
Kruger that it was all a joke."

Clemens made as good a plea to "Oom Paul" as he could, and in some degree
may have been responsible for the improved treatment and the shortened
terms of the unlucky reformers.

They did not hurry away from South Africa.  Clemens gave many readings
and paid a visit to the Kimberley mines.  His note-book recalls how poor
Riley twenty-five years before had made his fatal journey.

It was the 14th of July, 1896, a year to a day since they left Elmira,
that they sailed by the steamer Norman for England, arriving at
Southampton the 31st.  It was from Southampton that they had sailed for
America fourteen months before.  They had completed the circuit of the
globe.




CXCII

THE PASSING OF SUSY

It had been arranged that Katie Leary should bring Jean and Susy to
England.  It was expected that they would arrive soon, not later than the
12th, by which time the others would be established.  The travelers
proceeded immediately to London and engaged for the summer a house in
Guildford, modest quarters, for they were still economizing, though Mark
Twain had reason to hope that with the money already earned and the
profits of the book he would write of his travels he could pay himself
free.  Altogether, the trip had been prosperous.  Now that it was behind
him, his health and spirits had improved.  The outlook was brighter.

August 12th came, but it did not bring Katie and the children.  A letter
came instead.  Clemens long afterward wrote:

     It explained that Susy was slightly ill-nothing of consequence.  But
     we were disquieted and began to cable for later news.  This was
     Friday.  All day no answer--and the ship to leave Southampton next
     day at noon.  Clara and her mother began packing, to be ready in
     case the news should be bad.  Finally came a cablegram saying, "Wait
     for cablegram in the morning."  This was not satisfactory--not
     reassuring.  I cabled again, asking that the answer be sent to
     Southampton, for the day was now closing.  I waited in the post-
     office that night till the doors were closed, toward midnight, in
     the hope that good news might still come, but there was no message.
     We sat silent at home till one in the morning waiting--waiting for
     we knew not what.  Then we took the earlier morning train, and when
     we reached Southampton the message was there.  It said the recovery
     would be long but certain.  This was a great relief to me, but not
     to my wife.  She was frightened.  She and Clara went aboard the
     steamer at once and sailed for America, to nurse Susy.  I remained
     behind to search for another and larger house in Guildford.

     That was the 15th of August, 1896.  Three days later, when my wife
     and Clara were about half-way across the ocean, I was standing in
     our dining-room, thinking of nothing in particular, when a cablegram
     was put into my hand.  It said, "Susy was peacefully released to-
     day."

Some of those who in later years wondered at Mark Twain's occasional
attitude of pessimism and bitterness toward all creation, when his
natural instinct lay all the other way, may find here some reasons in his
logic of gloom.  For years he and his had been fighting various impending
disasters.  In the end he had torn his family apart and set out on a
weary pilgrimage to pay, for long financial unwisdom, a heavy price--a
penance in which all, without complaint, had joined.  Now, just when it
seemed about ended, when they were ready to unite and be happy once more,
when he could hold up his head among his fellows--in this moment of
supreme triumph had come the message that Susy's lovely and blameless
life was ended.  There are not many greater dramas in fiction or in
history than this.  The wonder is not that Mark Twain so often preached
the doctrine of despair during his later life, but that he did not
exemplify it--that he did not become a misanthrope in fact.

Mark Twain's life had contained other tragedies, but no other that
equaled this one.  This time none of the elements were lacking--not the
smallest detail.  The dead girl had been his heart's pride; it was a year
since he had seen her face, and now by this word he knew that he would
never see it again.  The blow had found him alone absolutely alone among
strangers--those others--half-way across the ocean, drawing nearer and
nearer to it, and he with no way to warn them, to prepare them, to
comfort them.

Clemens sought no comfort for himself.  Just as nearly forty years before
he had writhed in self-accusation for the death of his younger brother,
and as later he held himself to blame for the death of his infant son, so
now he crucified himself as the slayer of Susy.  To Mrs. Clemens he
poured himself out in a letter in which he charged himself categorically
as being wholly and solely responsible for the tragedy, detailing step by
step with fearful reality his mistakes and weaknesses which had led to
their downfall, the separation from Susy, and this final incredible
disaster.  Only a human being, he said, could have done these things.

Susy Clemens had died in the old Hartford home.  She had been well for a
time at Quarry Farm, well and happy, but during the summer of '96 she had
become restless, nervous, and unlike herself in many ways.  Her health
seemed to be gradually failing, and she renewed the old interest in
mental science, always with the approval of her parents.  Clemens had
great faith in mind over matter, and Mrs. Clemens also believed that
Susy's high-strung nature was especially calculated to receive benefit
from a serene and confident mental attitude.  From Bombay, in January,
she wrote Mrs. Crane:

I am very glad indeed that Susy has taken up Mental Science, and I do
hope it may do her as much good as she hopes.  Last winter we were so
very anxious to have her get hold of it, and even felt at one time that
we must go to America on purpose to have her have the treatment, so it
all seems very fortunate that it should have come about as it has this
winter.

Just how much or how little Susy was helped by this treatment cannot be
known.  Like Stevenson, she had "a soul of flame in a body of gauze," a
body to be guarded through the spirit.  She worked continuously at her
singing and undoubtedly overdid herself.  Early in the year she went over
to Hartford to pay some good-by visit, remaining most of the time in the
home of Charles Dudley Warner, working hard at her singing.  Her health
did not improve, and when Katie Leary went to Hartford to arrange for
their departure she was startled at the change in her.

"Miss Susy; you are sick," she said.  "You must have the doctor come."

Susy refused at first, but she grew worse and the doctor was sent for.
He thought her case not very serious--the result, he said, of overwork.
He prescribed some soothing remedies, and advised that she be kept very
quiet, away from company, and that she be taken to her own home, which
was but a step away.  It was then that the letter was written and the
first cable sent to England.  Mrs. Crane was summoned from Elmira, also
Charles Langdon.  Mr. Twichell was notified and came down from his summer
place in the Adirondacks.

Susy did not improve.  She became rapidly worse, and a few days later the
doctor pronounced her ailment meningitis.  This was on the 15th of
August--that hot, terrible August of 1896.  Susy's fever increased and
she wandered through the burning rooms in delirium and pain; then her
sight left her, an effect of the disease.  She lay down at last, and
once, when Katie Leary was near her, she put her hands on Katie's face
and said, "mama."  She did not speak after that, but sank into
unconsciousness, and on the evening of Tuesday, August 18th, the flame
went out forever.

To Twichell Clemens wrote of it:

     Ah, well, Susy died at home.  She had that privilege.  Her dying
     eyes rested upon no thing that was strange to them, but only upon
     things which they had known & loved always & which had made her
     young years glad; & she had you & Sue & Katie & & John & Ellen.
     This was happy fortune--I am thankful that it was vouchsafed to her.
     If she had died in another house--well, I think I could not have
     borne that.  To us our house was not unsentient matter--it had a
     heart & a soul & eyes to see us with, & approvals & solicitudes &
     deep sympathies; it was of us, & we were in its confidence, & lived
     in its grace & in the peace of its benediction.  We never came home
     from an absence that its face did not light up & speak out its
     eloquent welcome--& we could not enter it unmoved.  And could we
     now?  oh, now, in spirit we should enter it unshod.

A tugboat with Dr. Rice, Mr. Twichell, and other friends of the family
went down the bay to meet the arriving vessel with Mrs. Clemens and Clara
on board.  It was night when the ship arrived, and they did not show
themselves until morning; then at first to Clara.  There had been little
need to formulate a message--their presence there was enough--and when a
moment later Clara returned to the stateroom her mother looked into her
face and she also knew.  Susy already had been taken to Elmira, and at
half past ten that night Mrs. Clemens and Clara arrived there by the
through train--the same train and in the same coach which they had taken
one year and one month before on their journey westward around the world.

And again Susy was there, not waving her welcome in the glare of the
lights as she had waved her farewell to us thirteen months before, but
lying white and fair in her coffin in the house where she was born.

They buried her with the Langdon relatives and the little brother, and
ordered a headstone with some lines which they had found in Australia:

               Warm summer sun shine kindly here;
               Warm southern wind blow softly here;
               Green sod above lie light, lie light
               Good night, dear heart, good night, good night.

--[These lines at first were generally attributed to Clemens himself.
When this was reported to him he ordered the name of the Australian poet,
Robert Richardson, cut beneath them.  The word "southern" in the original
read "northern," as in Australia.  the warm wind is from the north.
Richardson died in England in 1901.]




CXCIV

WINTER IN TEDWORTH SQUARE

Mrs. Clemens, Clara, and Jean, with Katie Leary, sailed for England
without delay.  Arriving there, they gave up the house in Guildford, and
in a secluded corner of Chelsea, on the tiny and then almost unknown
Tedworth Square (No. 23), they hid themselves away for the winter.  They
did not wish to be visited; they did not wish their whereabouts known
except to a few of their closest friends.  They wanted to be alone with
their sorrow, and not a target for curious attention.  Perhaps not a
dozen people in London knew their address and the outside world was
ignorant of it altogether.  It was through this that a wild report
started that Mark Twain's family had deserted him--that ill and in
poverty he was laboring alone to pay his debts.  This report--exploited
in five-column head-lines by a hyper-hysterical paper of that period
received wide attention.

James Ross Clemens, of the St. Louis branch, a nephew of Frau von Versen,
was in London just then, and wrote at once, through Chatto & Windus,
begging Mark Twain to command his relative's purse.  The reply to this
kind offer was an invitation to tea, and "Young Doctor Jim," as he was
called, found his famous relative by no means abandoned or in want, but
in pleasant quarters, with his family still loyal.  The general
impression survived, however, that Mark Twain was sorely pressed, and the
New York Herald headed a public benefit fund for the payment of his
debts.  The Herald subscribed one thousand dollars on its own account,
and Andrew Carnegie followed with another thousand, but the enterprise
was barely under way when Clemens wrote a characteristic letter, in which
he declared that while he would have welcomed the help offered, being
weary of debt, his family did not wish him to accept and so long as he
was able to take care of them through his own efforts.

Meantime he was back into literary harness; a notebook entry for
October 24, 1896, says:

"Wrote the fist chapter of the book to-day-'Around the World'."

He worked at it uninterruptedly, for in work; there was respite, though
his note-books show something of his mental torture, also his spiritual
heresies.  His series of mistakes and misfortunes, ending with the death
of Susy, had tended to solidify his attitude of criticism toward things
in general and the human race in particular.

"Man is the only animal that blushes, or that needs to," was one of his
maxims of this period, and in another place he sets down the myriad
diseases which human flesh is heir to and his contempt for a creature
subject to such afflictions and for a Providence that could invent them.
Even Mrs. Clemens felt the general sorrow of the race.  "Poor, poor human
nature," she wrote once during that long, gloomy winter.

Many of Mark Twain's notes refer to Susy.  In one he says:

"I did not hear her glorious voice at its supremest--that was in Hartford
a month or two before the end."

Notes of heavy regret most of them are, and self-reproach and the
hopelessness of it all.  In one place he records her accomplishment of
speech, adding:

"And I felt like saying 'you marvelous child,' but never said it; to my
sorrow I remember it now.  But I come of an undemonstrative race."

He wrote to Twichell:

     But I have this consolation: that dull as I was I always knew enough
     to be proud when she commended me or my work--as proud as if Livy
     had done it herself--& I took it as the accolade from the hand of
     genius.  I see now--as Livy always saw--that she had greatness in
     her, & that she herself was dimly conscious of it.

     And now she is dead--& I can never tell her.

And closing a letter to Howells:

     Good-by.  Will healing ever come, or life have value again?

     And shall we see Susy?  Without doubt!  without a shadow of doubt if
     it can furnish opportunity to break our hearts again.

On November 26th, Thanksgiving, occurs this note:

     "We did not celebrate it.  Seven years ago Susy gave her play for
     the first time."

And on Christmas:

     London, 11.30 Xmas morning.  The Square & adjacent streets are not
     merely quiet, they are dead.  There is not a sound.  At intervals a
     Sunday-looking person passes along.  The family have been to
     breakfast.  We three sat & talked as usual, but the name of the day
     was not mentioned.  It was in our minds, but we said nothing.

And a little later:

     Since bad luck struck us it is risky for people to have to do with
     us.  Our cook's sweetheart was healthy.  He is rushing for the grave
     now.  Emily, one of the maids, has lost the sight of one eye and the
     other is in danger.  Wallace carried up coal & blacked the boots two
     months--has suddenly gone to the hospital--pleurisy and a bad case.
     We began to allow ourselves to see a good deal of our friends, the
     Bigelows--straightway their baby sickened & died.  Next Wilson got
     his skull fractured.

     January 23, 1897.  I wish the Lord would disguise Himself in
     citizen's clothing & make a personal examination of the sufferings
     of the poor in London.  He would be moved & would do something for
     them Himself.




CXCV

"PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC"

Meantime certain publishing events had occurred.  During his long voyage
a number of Mark Twain's articles had appeared in the magazines, among
them "Mental Telegraphy Again," in Harpers, and in the North American
Review that scorching reply to Paul Bourget's reflections upon America.
Clemens could criticize his own nation freely enough, but he would hardly
be patient under the strictures of a Frenchman, especially upon American
women.

There had been book publication also during this period.  The Harpers had
issued an edition of 'Tom Sawyer Abroad', which included another Tom and
Huck story 'Tom Sawyer, Detective', written in Paris, and the contents of
the old White Elephant book.

But there had been a much more important book event.  The chapters of his
story of Joan having run their course in Harper's Magazine had been
issued as a volume.

As already mentioned, Joan had been early recognized as Mark Twain's
work, and it was now formally acknowledged as such on the title-page.  It
is not certain now that the anonymous beginning had been a good thing.
Those who began reading it for its lofty charm, with the first hint of
Mark Twain as the author became fearful of some joke or burlesque.  Some
who now promptly hastened to read it as Mark Twain's, were inclined to be
disappointed at the very lack of these features.  When the book itself
appeared the general public, still doubtful as to its merits, gave it a
somewhat dubious reception.  The early sales were disappointing.

Nor were the reviewers enthusiastic, as a rule.  Perhaps they did not
read it over-carefully, or perhaps they were swayed a good deal by a sort
of general verdict that, in attempting 'Joan of Arc', Mark Twain had gone
out of his proper field.  Furthermore, there were a number of Joan books
published just then, mainly sober, somber books, in which Joan was
pictured properly enough as a saint, and never as anything else--never
being permitted to smile or enjoy the lighter side of life, to be a human
being, in fact, at all.

But this is just the very wonder of Mark Twain's Joan.  She is a saint;
she is rare, she is exquisite, she is all that is lovely, and she is a
human being besides.  Considered from every point of view, Joan of Arc is
Mark Twain's supreme literary expression, the loftiest, the most
delicate, the most luminous example of his work.  It is so from the first
word of its beginning, that wonderful "Translator's Preface," to the last
word of the last chapter, where he declares that the figure of Joan with
the martyr's crown upon her head shall stand for patriotism through all
time.

The idyllic picture of Joan's childhood with her playmates around the
fairy tree is so rare in its delicacy and reality that any attempt to
recall it here would disturb its bloom.  The little poem, "L'Arbre fee de
Bourlemont," Mark Twain's own composition, is a perfect note, and that
curiously enough, for in versification he was not likely to be strong.
Joan's girlhood, the picture of her father's humble cottage, the singing
there by the wandering soldier of the great song of Roland which stirred
her deepest soul with the love of France, Joan's heroism among her
playmates, her wisdom, her spiritual ideals-are not these all reverently
and nobly told, and with that touch of tenderness which only Mark Twain
could give?  And the story of her voices, and her march, and of her first
appearance before the wavering king.  And then the great coronation scene
at Rheims, and the dramatic moment when Joan commands the march on Paris
--the dragging of the hopeless trial, and that last, fearful day of
execution, what can surpass these?  Nor must we forget those charming,
brighter moments where Joan is shown just as a human being, laughing
until the tears run at the absurdities of the paladin or the simple home
prattle of her aged father and uncle.  Only here and there does one find
a touch--and it is never more than that--of the forbidden thing, the
burlesque note which was so likely to be Mark Twain's undoing.

It seems incredible to-day that any reader, whatever his preconceived
notions of the writer might have been, could have followed these chapters
without realizing their majesty, and that this tale of Joan was a book
such as had not before been written.  Let any one who read it then and
doubted, go back and consider it now.  A surprise will await him, and it
will be worth while.  He will know the true personality of Joan of Arc
more truly than ever before, and he will love her as the author loved
her, for "the most innocent, the most lovely, the most adorable child the
ages have produced."

The tale is matchless in its workmanship.  The quaint phrasing of the old
Sieur de Conte is perfectly adapted to the subject-matter, and the lovely
character of the old narrator himself is so perfectly maintained that we
find ourselves all the time as in an atmosphere of consecration, and feel
that somehow we are helping him to weave a garland to lay on Joan's tomb.
Whatever the tale he tells, he is never more than a step away.  We are
within sound of his voice, we can touch his presence; we ride with him
into battle; we laugh with him in the by-play and humors of warfare; we
sit hushed at his side through the long, fearful days of the deadly
trial, and when it is all ended it is to him that we turn to weep for
Joan--with him only would we mingle our tears.  It is all bathed in the
atmosphere of romance, but it is the ultimate of realism, too; not hard,
sordid, ugly realism, but noble, spiritual, divine realism, belonging to
no particular class or school--a creation apart.  Not all of Mark Twain's
tales have been convincing, but there is no chapter of his Joan that we
doubt.  We believe it all happened--we know that it must have happened,
for our faith in the Sieur de Conte never for an instant wavers.

Aside from the personality of the book--though, in truth, one never is
aside from it--the tale is a marvel in its pageantry, its splendid
panorama and succession of stirring and stately scenes.  The fight before
Orleans, the taking of the Tourelles and of Jargeau, all the movement of
that splendid march to Rheims, there are few better battle-pictures than
these.  Howells, always interested mainly in the realism of to-day, in
his review hints at staginess in the action and setting and even in Joan
herself.  But Howells himself did not accept his earlier judgment as
final.  Five years later he wrote:

"She is indeed realized to the modern sense as few figures of the past
have been realized in fiction."

As for the action, suppose we consider a brief bit of Joan's warfare.  It
is from the attack on the Tourelles:

     Joan mounted her horse now with her staff about her, and when our
     people saw us coming they raised a great shout, and were at once
     eager for another assault on the boulevard.  Joan rode straight to
     the foss where she had received her wound, and, standing there in
     the rain of bolts and arrows, she ordered the paladin to let her
     long standard blow free, and to note when its fringes should touch
     the fortress.  Presently he said:

     "It touches."

     "Now, then," said Joan to the waiting battalions, "the place is
     yours--enter in!  Bugles, sound the assault!  Now, then--all
     together--go!"

     And go it was.  You never saw anything like it.  We swarmed up the
     ladders and over the battlements like a wave--and the place was our
     property.  Why, one might live a thousand years and never see so
     gorgeous a thing as that again....

     We were busy and never heard the five cannon-shots fired, but they
     were fired a moment after Joan had ordered the assault; and so,
     while we were hammering and being hammered in the smaller fortress,
     the reserve on the Orleans side poured across the bridge and
     attacked the Tourelles from that side.  A fireboat was brought down
     and moored under the drawbridge which connected the Tourelles with
     our boulevard; wherefore, when at last we drove our English ahead of
     us, and they tried to cross that drawbridge and join their friends
     in the Tourelles, the burning timbers gave way under them and
     emptied them in a mass into the river in their heavy armor--and a
     pitiful sight it was to see brave men die such a death as that.

     "God pity them!" said Joan, and wept to see that sorrowful
     spectacle.  She said those gentle words and wept those compassionate
     tears, although one of those perishing men had grossly insulted her
     with a coarse name three days before when she had sent him a message
     asking him to surrender.  That was their leader, Sir William
     Glasdale, a most valorous knight.  He was clothed all in steel; so
     he plunged under the water like a lance, and of course came up no
     more.

     We soon patched a sort of bridge together and threw ourselves
     against the last stronghold of the English power that barred Orleans
     from friends and supplies.  Before the sun was quite down Joan's
     forever memorable day's work was finished, her banner floated from
     the fortress of the Tourelles, her promise was fulfilled, she had
     raised the siege of Orleans!

England had resented the Yankee, but it welcomed Joan.  Andrew Lang
adored it, and some years later contemplated dedicating his own book,
'The Maid of France', to Mark Twain.'--[His letter proposing this
dedication, received in 1909, appears to have been put aside and
forgotten by Mr. Clemens, whose memory had not improved with failing
health.]

Brander Matthews ranks Huck Finn before Joan of Arc, but that is
understandable.  His literary culture and research enable him, in some
measure, to comprehend the production of Joan; whereas to him Huck is
pure magic.  Huck is not altogether magic to those who know the West--the
character of that section and the Mississippi River, especially of an
older time--it is rather inspiration resulting from these existing
things.  Joan is a truer literary magic--the reconstruction of a far-
vanished life and time.  To reincarnate, as in a living body of the
present, that marvelous child whose life was all that was pure and
exalted and holy, is veritable necromancy and something more.  It is the
apotheosis of history.

Throughout his life Joan of Arc had been Mark Twain's favorite character
in the world's history.  His love for her was a beautiful and a sacred
thing.  He adored young maidenhood always and nobility of character, and
he was always the champion of the weak and the oppressed.  The
combination of these characteristics made him the ideal historian of an
individuality and of a career like hers.  It is fitting that in his old
age (he was nearing sixty when it was finished) he should have written
this marvelously beautiful thing.  He could not have written it at an
earlier time.  It had taken him all these years to prepare for it; to
become softened, to acquire the delicacy of expression, the refinement of
feeling, necessary to the achievement.

It was the only book of all he had written that Mark Twain considered
worthy of this dedication:

                  1870       To MY WIFE           1895
                         OLIVIA LANGDON CLEMENS
                               THIS BOOK

          is tendered on our wedding anniversary in grateful recognition
          of her twenty-five years of valued service as my literary
          adviser and editor.

                                             THE AUTHOR

The Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc was a book not understood in
the beginning, but to-day the public, that always renders justice in the
end, has reversed its earlier verdict.  The demand for Joan has
multiplied many fold and it continues to multiply with every year.  Its
author lived long enough to see this change and to be comforted by it,
for though the creative enthusiasm in his other books soon passed, his
glory in the tale of Joan never died.  On his seventy-third birthday,
when all of his important books were far behind him, and he could judge
them without prejudice, he wrote as his final verdict:

                                        Nov. 30, 1908

I like the Joan of Arc best of all my books; & it is the best; I know it
perfectly well.  And besides, it furnished me seven times the pleasure
afforded me by any of the others: 12 years of preparation & a years of
writing.  The others needed no preparation, & got none.

                                        MARK TWAIN.




CXCVI

MR. ROGERS AND HELEN KELLER

It was during the winter of '96, in London, that Clemens took an active
interest in the education of Helen Keller and enlisted the most valuable
adherent in that cause, that is to say, Henry H. Rogers.  It was to Mrs.
Rogers that he wrote, heading his letter:

               For & in behalf
                    of Helen Keller,
                         Stone blind & deaf,
                              & formerly dumb.

     DEAR MRS.  ROGERS,--Experience has convinced me that when one
     wished to set a hard-worked man at something which he mightn't
     prefer to be bothered with it is best to move upon him behind his
     wife.  If she can't convince him it isn't worth while for other
     people to try.

     Mr. Rogers will remember our visit with that astonishing girl at
     Lawrence Hutton's house when she was fourteen years old.  Last July,
     in Boston, when she was 16 she underwent the Harvard examination for
     admission to Radcliffe College.  She passed without a single
     condition.  She was allowed only the same amount of time that is
     granted to other applicants, & this was shortened in her case by the
     fact that the question-papers had to be read to her.  Yet she scored
     an average of 90, as against an average of 78 on the part of the
     other applicants.

     It won't do for America to allow this marvelous child to retire from
     her studies because of poverty.  If she can go on with them she will
     make a fame that will endure in history for centuries.  Along her
     special lines she is the most extraordinary product of all the ages.

     There is danger that she must retire from the struggle for a college
     degree for lack of support for herself & for Miss Sullivan (the
     teacher who has been with her from the start--Mr. Rogers will
     remember her).  Mrs. Hutton writes to ask me to interest rich
     Englishmen in her case, & I would gladly try, but my secluded life
     will not permit it.  I see nobody.  Nobody knows my address.
     Nothing but the strictest hiding can enable me to write my book in
     time.

     So I thought of this scheme: Beg you to lay siege to your husband &
     get him to interest himself and Messrs. John D. & William
     Rockefeller & the other Standard Oil chiefs in Helen's case; get
     them to subscribe an annual aggregate of six or seven hundred or a
     thousand dollars--& agree to continue this for three or four years,
     until she has completed her college course.  I'm not trying to limit
     their generosity--indeed no; they may pile that Standard Oil Helen
     Keller College Fund as high as they please; they have my consent.

     Mrs. Hutton's idea is to raise a permanent fund, the interest upon
     which shall support Helen & her teacher & put them out of the fear
     of want.  I sha'n't say a word against it, but she will find it a
     difficult & disheartening job, & meanwhile what is to become of that
     miraculous girl?

     No, for immediate and sound effectiveness, the thing is for you to
     plead with Mr. Rogers for this hampered wonder of your sex, & send
     him clothed with plenary powers to plead with the other chiefs--they
     have spent mountains of money upon the worthiest benevolences, & I
     think that the same spirit which moved them to put their hands down
     through their hearts into their pockets in those cases will answer.
     "Here!" when its name is called in this one.

     There--I don't need to apologize to you or to H. H. for this appeal
     that I am making; I know you too well for that:

     Good-by, with love to all of you,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


The result of this letter was that Mr. Rogers personally took charge of
Helen Keller's fortunes, and out of his own means made it possible for
her to continue her education and to achieve for herself the enduring
fame which Mark Twain had foreseen.

Mr. Rogers wrote that, by a curious coincidence, a letter had come to him
from Mrs. Hutton on the same morning that Mrs. Rogers had received hers
from Tedworth Square.  Clemens sent grateful acknowledgments to Mrs.
Rogers.

     DEAR MRS. ROGERS,--It is superb!  And I am beyond measure grateful
     to you both.  I knew you would be interested in that wonderful girl,
     & that Mr. Rogers was already interested in her & touched by her; &
     I was sure that if nobody else helped her you two would; but you
     have gone far & away beyond the sum I expected--may your lines fall
     in pleasant places here, & Hereafter for it!

     The Huttons are as glad & grateful as they can be, & I am glad for
     their sakes as well as for Helen's.

     I want to thank Mr. Rogers for crucifying himself on the same old
     cross between Bliss & Harper; & goodness knows I hope he will come
     to enjoy it above all other dissipations yet, seeing that it has
     about it the elements of stability & permanency.  However, at any
     time that he says sign we're going to do it.

                              Ever sincerely yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.




CXCVII

FINISHING THE BOOK OF TRAVEL

One reading the Equator book to-day, and knowing the circumstances under
which it was written, might be puzzled to reconcile the secluded
household and its atmosphere of sorrow with certain gaieties of the
subject matter.  The author himself wondered at it, and to Howells wrote:
     I don't mean that I am miserable; no-worse than that--indifferent.
     Indifferent to nearly everything but work.  I like that; I enjoy it,
     & stick to it.  I do it without purpose & without ambition; merely
     for the love of it.  Indeed, I am a mud-image; & it puzzles me to
     know what it is in me that writes & has comedy fancies & finds
     pleasure in phrasing them.  It is the law of our nature, of course,
     or it wouldn't happen; the thing in me forgets the presence of the
     mud-image, goes its own way wholly unconscious of it & apparently of
     no kinship with it.

He saw little company.  Now and, then a good friend, J.Y.W.  MacAlister,
came in for a smoke with him.  Once Clemens sent this line:

     You speak a language which I understand.  I would like to see you.
     Could you come and smoke some manilas; I would, of course, say dine,
     but my family are hermits & cannot see any one, but I would have a
     fire in my study, & if you came at any time after your dinner that
     might be most convenient for you you would find me & a welcome.

Clemens occasionally went out to dinner, but very privately.  He dined
with Bram Stoker, who invited Anthony Hope and one or two others, and
with the Chattos and Mr. Percy Spalding; also with Andrew Lang, who
wrote, "Your old friend, Lord Lome, wants to see you again"; with the
Henry M. Stanleys and Poultney Bigelow, and with Francis H. Skrine, a
government official he had met in India.  But in all such affairs he was
protected from strangers and his address was kept a secret from the
public.  Finally, the new-found cousin, Dr. Jim Clemens, fell ill, and
the newspapers had it presently that Mark Twain was lying at the point of
death.  A reporter ferreted him out and appeared at Tedworth Square with
cabled instructions from his paper.  He was a young man, and innocently
enough exhibited his credentials.  His orders read:

"If Mark Twain very ill, five hundred words.  If dead, send one
thousand."

Clemens smiled grimly as he handed back the cable.

"You don't need as much as that," he said.  "Just say the report of my
death has been grossly exaggerated."

The young man went away quite seriously, and it was not until he was
nearly to his office that he saw the joke.  Then, of course, it was
flashed all over the world.

Clemens kept grinding steadily at the book, for it was to be a very large
volume--larger than he had ever written before.  To MacAlister, April 6,
1897, he wrote, replying to some invitation:

     Ah, but I mustn't stir from my desk before night now when the
     publisher is hurrying me & I am almost through.  I am up at work
     now--4 o'clock in the morning-and a few more spurts will pull me
     through.  You come down here & smoke; that is better than tempting a
     working-man to strike & go to tea.

     And it would move me too deeply to see Miss Corelli.  When I saw her
     last it was on the street in Homburg, & Susy was walking with me.

On April 13th he makes a note-book entry: "I finished my book to-day,"
and on the 15th he wrote MacAlister, inclosing some bits of manuscript:

     I finished my book yesterday, and the madam edited this stuff out of
     it--on the ground that the first part is not delicate & the last
     part is indelicate.  Now, there's a nice distinction for you--&
     correctly stated, too, & perfectly true.

It may interest the reader to consider briefly the manner in which Mark
Twain's "editor" dealt with his manuscript, and a few pages of this
particular book remain as examples.  That he was not always entirely
tractable, or at least submissive, but that he did yield, and graciously,
is clearly shown.

In one of her comments Mrs. Clemens wrote:

     Page 597.  I hate to say it, but it seems to me that you go too
     minutely into particulars in describing the feats of the
     aboriginals.  I felt it in the boomerang-throwing.

And Clemens just below has written:

     Boomerang has been furnished with a special train--that is, I've
     turned it into "Appendix."  Will that answer?

     Page 1002.  I don't like the "shady-principled cat that has a family
     in every port."

     Then I'll modify him just a little.

     Page 1020.  9th line from the top.  I think some other word would be
     better than "stench."  You have used that pretty often.

     But can't I get it in anywhere?  You've knocked it out every time.
     Out it goes again.  And yet "stench" is a noble, good word.

     Page 1038.  I hate to have your father pictured as lashing a slave
     boy.

     It's out, and my father is whitewashed.

     Page 1050.  2d line from the bottom.  Change breech-clout.  It's a
     word that you love and I abominate.  I would take that and "offal"
     out of the language.

     You are steadily weakening the English tongue, Livy.

     Page 1095.  Perhaps you don't care, but whoever told you that the
     Prince's green stones were rubies told an untruth.  They were superb
     emeralds.  Those strings of pearls and emeralds were famous all over
     Bombay.

     All right, I'll make them emeralds, but it loses force.  Green
     rubies is a fresh thing.  And besides it was one of the Prince's own
     staff liars that told me.

That the book was not quite done, even after the triumphant entry of
April 13th, is shown by another note which followed something more than a
month later:

     May 18, 1897.  Finished the book again--addition of 30,000 words.

And to MacAlister he wrote:

     I have finished the book at last--and finished it for good this
     time.  Now I am ready for dissipation with a good conscience.  What
     night will you come down & smoke?

His book finished, Clemens went out rather more freely, and one evening
allowed MacAlister to take him around to the Savage Club.  There happened
to be a majority of the club committee present, and on motion Mark Twain
was elected an honorary life member.  There were but three others on whom
this distinction had been conferred--Stanley, Nansen, and the Prince of
Wales.  When they told Mark Twain this he said:

"Well, it must make the Prince feel mighty fine."--[In a volume of Savage
Club anecdotes the date of Mark Twain's election to honorary membership
is given as 1899.  Clemens's notebook gives it in 1897.]

He did not intend to rest; in another entry we find:

     May 23, 1897.  Wrote first chapter of above story to-day.

The "above story" is a synopsis of a tale which he tried then and later
in various forms--a tale based on a scientific idea that one may dream an
episode covering a period of years in minute detail in what, by our
reckoning, may be no more than a few brief seconds.  In this particular
form of the story a man sits down to write some memories and falls into a
doze.  The smell of his cigarette smoke causes him to dream of the
burning of his home, the destruction of his family, and of a long period
of years following.  Awakening a few seconds later, and confronted by his
wife and children, he refuses to believe in their reality, maintaining
that this condition, and not the other, is the dream.  Clemens tried the
psychological literary experiment in as many as three different ways
during the next two or three years, and each at considerable length; but
he developed none of them to his satisfaction, or at least he brought
none of them to conclusion.  Perhaps the most weird of these attempts,
and the most intensely interesting, so long as the verisimilitude is
maintained, is a dream adventure in a drop of water which, through an
incredible human reduction to microbic, even atomic, proportions, has
become a vast tempestuous sea.  Mark Twain had the imagination for these
undertakings and the literary workmanship, lacking only a definite plan
for development of his tale--a lack which had brought so many of his
literary ventures to the rocks.





CXCVIII

A SUMMER IN SWITZERLAND

The Queen's Jubilee came along--June 22, 1897, being the day chosen to
celebrate the sixty-year reign.  Clemens had been asked to write about it
for the American papers, and he did so after his own ideas, illustrating
some of his material with pictures of his own selection.  The selections
were made from various fashion-plates, which gave him a chance to pick
the kind of a prince or princess or other royal figure that he thought
fitted his description without any handicap upon his imagination.  Under
his portrait of Henry V.  (a very correctly dressed person in top hat and
overcoat) he wrote:

     In the original the King has a crown on.  That is no kind of a thing
     for the King to wear when he has come home on business.  He ought to
     wear something he can collect taxes in.  You will find this
     represenation of Henry V.  active, full of feeling, full of
     sublimity.  I have pictured him looking out over the battle of
     Agincourt and studying up where to begin.

Mark Twain's account of the Jubilee probably satisfied most readers; but
James Tufts, then managing editor of the San Francisco Examiner, had a
rather matter-of-fact Englishman on the staff, who, after reading the
report, said:

"Well, Jim Tufts, I hope you are satisfied with that Mark Twain cable."

"Why, yes," said Tufts; "aren't you?"

"I should say not.  Just look what he says about the number of soldiers.
He says, 'I never saw so many soldiers anywhere except on the stage of a
theater.'  Why, Tufts, don't you know that the soldiers in the theater are
the same old soldiers marching around and around?  There aren't more than
a hundred soldiers in the biggest army ever put on the stage."

It was decided to vacate the house in Tedworth Square and go to
Switzerland for the summer.  Mrs. Crane and Charles Langdon's daughter,
Julia, joined them early in July, and they set out for Switzerland a few
days later.  Just before leaving, Clemens received an offer from Pond of
fifty thousand dollars for one hundred and twenty-five nights on the
platform in America.  It was too great a temptation to resist at once,
and they took it under advisement.  Clemens was willing to accept, but
Mrs. Clemens opposed the plan.  She thought his health no longer equal to
steady travel.  She believed that with continued economy they would be
able to manage their problem without this sum.  In the end the offer was
declined.

They journeyed to Switzerland by way of Holland and Germany, the general
destination being Lucerne.  They did not remain there, however.  They
found a pretty little village farther up the lake--Weggis, at the foot of
the Rigi--where, in the Villa Buhlegg, they arranged for the summer at
very moderate rates indeed.  Weggis is a beautiful spot, looking across
the blue water to Mount Pilatus, the lake shore dotted with white
villages.  Down by the water, but a few yards from the cottage--for it
was scarcely a villa except by courtesy--there was a little inclosure,
and a bench under a large tree, a quiet spot where Clemens often sat to
rest and smoke.  The fact is remembered there to-day, and recorded.  A
small tablet has engraved upon it "Mark Twain Ruhe."  Farther along the
shore he discovered a neat, white cottage were some kindly working-people
agreed to rent him an upper room for a study.  It was a sunny room with
windows looking out upon the lake, and he worked there steadily.  To
Twichell he wrote:

This is the charmingest place we have ever lived in for repose and
restfulness, superb scenery whose beauty undergoes a perpetual change
from one miracle to another, yet never runs short of fresh surprises and
new inventions.  We shall always come here for the summers if we can.

The others have climbed the Rigi, he says, and he expects to some day if
Twichell will come and climb it with him.  They had climbed it together
during that summer vagabondage, nineteen years before.

He was full of enthusiasm over his work.  To F. H. Skrine, in London, he
wrote that he had four or five books all going at once, and his note-book
contains two or three pages merely of titles of the stories he proposed
to write.

But of the books begun that summer at Weggis none appears to have been
completed.  There still exists a bulky, half-finished manuscript about
Tom and Huck, most of which was doubtless written at this time, and there
is the tale already mentioned, the "dream" story; and another tale with a
plot of intricate psychology and crime; still another with the burning
title of "Hell-Fire Hotchkiss"--a, story of Hannibal life--and some short
stories.  Clemens appeared to be at this time out of tune with fiction.
Perhaps his long book of travel had disqualified his invention.  He
realized that these various literary projects were leading nowhere, and
one after another he dropped them.  The fact that proofs of the big book
were coming steadily may also have interfered with his creative faculty.

As was his habit, Clemens formed the acquaintance of a number of the
native residents, and enjoyed talking to them about their business and
daily affairs.  They were usually proud and glad of these attentions,
quick to see the humor of his remarks.

But there was an old watchmaker-an 'Uhrmacher' who remained indifferent.
He would answer only in somber monosyllables, and he never smiled.
Clemens at last brought the cheapest kind of a watch for repairs.

"Be very careful of this watch," he said.  "It is a fine one."

The old man merely glared at him.

"It is not a valuable watch.  It is a worthless watch."

"But I gave six francs for it in Paris."

"Still, it is a cheap watch," was the unsmiling answer.  Defeat waits
somewhere for every conqueror.

Which recalls another instance, though of a different sort.  On one of
his many voyages to America, he was sitting on deck in a steamer-chair
when two little girls stopped before him.  One of them said,
hesitatingly:

"Are you Mr. Mark Twain?"

"Why, yes, dear, they call me that."

"Won't you please say something funny?"

And for the life of him he couldn't make the required remark.

In one of his letters to Twichell of that summer, Clemens wrote of the
arrival there of the colored jubilee singers, always favorites of his,
and of his great delight in them.

     We went down to the village hotel & bought our tickets & entered the
     beer-hall, where a crowd of German & Swiss men & women sat grouped
     around tables with their beer-mugs in front of them--self-contained
     & unimpressionable-looking people--an indifferent & unposted &
     disheartening audience--& up at the far end of the room sat the
     jubilees in a row.  The singers got up & stood--the talking & glass-
     jingling went on.  Then rose & swelled out above those common
     earthly sounds one of those rich chords, the secret of whose make
     only the jubilees possess, & a spell fell upon that house.  It was
     fine to see the faces light up with the pleased wonder & surprise of
     it.  No one was indifferent any more; & when the singers finished
     the camp was theirs.  It was a triumph.  It reminded me of Lancelot
     riding in Sir Kay's armor, astonishing complacent knights who
     thought they had struck a soft thing.  The jubilees sang a lot of
     pieces.  Arduous & painstaking cultivation has not diminished or
     artificialized their music, but on the contrary--to my surprise--has
     mightily reinforced its eloquence and beauty.  Away back in the
     beginning--to my mind--their music made all other vocal music cheap;
     & that early notion is emphasized now.  It is entirely beautiful to
     me; & it moves me infinitely more than any other music can.  I think
     that in the jubilees & their songs America has produced the
     perfectest flower of the ages; & I wish it were a foreign product,
     so that she would worship it & lavish money on it & go properly
     crazy over it.

     Now, these countries are different: they would do all that if it
     were native.  It is true they praise God, but that is merely a
     formality, & nothing in it; they open out their whole hearts to no
     foreigner.

As the first anniversary of Susy's death drew near the tension became
very great.  A gloom settled on the household, a shadow of restraint.  On
the morning of the 18th Clemens went early to his study.  Somewhat later
Mrs. Clemens put on her hat and wrap, and taking a small bag left the
house.  The others saw her go toward the steamer-landing, but made no
inquiries as to her destination.  They guessed that she would take the
little boat that touched at the various points along the lake shore.
This she did, in fact, with no particular plan as to where she would
leave it.  One of the landing-places seemed quiet and inviting, and there
she went ashore, and taking a quiet room at a small inn spent the day in
reading Susy's letters.  It was evening when she returned, and her
husband, lonely and anxious, was waiting for her at the landing.  He had
put in the day writing the beautiful poem, "In Memoriam," a strain lofty,
tender, and dirge-like-liquidly musical, though irregular in form.--[Now
included in the Uniform Edition.]




CXCIX

WINTER IN VIENNA

They remained two months in Weggis--until toward the end of September;
thence to Vienna, by way of Innsbruck, in the Tyrol, "where the mountains
seem more approachable than in Switzerland."  Clara Clemens wished to
study the piano under Leschetizky, and this would take them to Austria
for the winter.  Arriving at Vienna, they settled in the Hotel Metropole,
on the banks of the Danube.  Their rooms, a corner suite, looked out on a
pretty green square, the Merzimplatz, and down on the Franz Josef quay.
A little bridge crosses the river there, over which all kinds of life are
continually passing.  On pleasant days Clemens liked to stand on this
bridge and watch the interesting phases of the Austrian capital.  The
Vienna humorist, Poetzl, quickly formed his acquaintance, and they
sometimes stood there together.  Once while Clemens was making some
notes, Poetzl interested the various passers by asking each one--the
errand-boy, the boot-black, the chestnut-vender, cabmen, and others--to
guess who the stranger was and what he wanted.  Most of them recognized
him when their attention was called, for the newspapers had proudly
heralded his arrival and his picture was widely circulated.

Clemens had scarcely arrived in Vienna, in fact, before he was pursued by
photographers, journalists, and autograph-hunters.  The Viennese were his
fond admirers, and knowing how the world elsewhere had honored him they
were determined not to be outdone.  The 'Neues Viener Tageblatt', a
fortnight after his arrival, said:

     It is seldom that a foreign author has found such a hearty reception
     in Vienna as that accorded to Mark Twain, who not only has the
     reputation of being the foremost humorist in the whole civilized.
     world, but one whose personality arouses everywhere a peculiar
     interest on account of the genuine American character which sways
     it.

He was the guest of honor at the Concordia Club soon after his arrival,
and the great ones of Vienna assembled to do him honor.  Charlemagne
Tower, then American minister, was also one of the guests.  Writers,
diplomats, financiers, municipal officials, everybody in Vienna that was
worth while, was there.  Clemens gave them a surprise, for when Ferdinand
Gross, Concordia president, introduced him first in English, then in
German, Mark Twain made his reply wholly in the latter language.

The paper just quoted gives us a hint of the frolic and wassail of that
old 'Festkneipe' when it says:

     At 9 o'clock Mark Twain appeared in the salon, and amid a storm of
     applause took his seat at the head of the table.  His characteristic
     shaggy and flowing mane of hair adorning a youthful countenance
     attracted the attention at once of all present.  After a few formal
     convivial commonplaces the president of the Concordia, Mr. Ferdinand
     Gross, delivered an excellent address in English, which he wound up
     with a few German sentences.  Then Mr. Tower was heard in praise of
     his august countryman.  In the course of his remarks he said he
     could hardly find words enough to express his delight at the
     presence of the popular American.  Then followed the greatest
     attraction of the evening, an impromptu speech by Mark Twain in the
     German language, which it is true he has not fully mastered, but
     which he nevertheless controls sufficiently well to make it
     difficult to detect any harsh foreign accent.  He had entitled his
     speech, "Die Schrecken der Deutschen Sprache" (the terrors of the
     German language).  At times he would interrupt himself in English
     and ask, with a stuttering smile, "How do you call this word in
     German" or "I only know that in mother-tongue."  The Festkneipe
     lasted far into the morning hours.

It was not long after their arrival in Vienna that the friction among the
unamalgamated Austrian states flamed into a general outbreak in the
Austrian Reichsrath, or Imperial Parliament.  We need not consider just
what the trouble was.  Any one wishing to know can learn from Mark
Twain's article on the subject, for it is more clearly pictured there
than elsewhere.  It is enough to say here that the difficulty lay mainly
between the Hungarian and German wings of the house; and in the midst of
it Dr. Otto Lecher made his famous speech, which lasted twelve hours
without a break, in order to hold the floor against the opposing forces.
Clemens was in the gallery most of the time while that speech, with its
riotous accompaniment, was in progress.--["When that house is
legislating you can't tell it from artillery practice."  From Mark
Twain's report, "Stirring Times in Austria," in Literary Essays,]--He
was intensely interested.  Nothing would appeal to him more than that,
unless it should be some great astronomic or geologic change.  He was
also present somewhat later when a resolution was railroaded through
which gave the chair the right to invoke the aid of the military, and he
was there when the military arrived and took the insurgents in charge.
It was a very great occasion, a "tremendous episode," he says.

     The memory of it will outlast all the others that exist to-day.  In
     the whole history of free parliament the like of it had been seen
     but three times before.  It takes imposing place among the world's
     unforgetable things.  I think that in my lifetime I have not twice
     seen abiding history made before my eyes, but I know that I have
     seen it once.

Wild reports were sent to the American press; among them one that Mark
Twain had been hustled out with the others, and that, having waved his
handkerchief and shouted "Hoch die Deutschen!" he had been struck by an
officer of the law.  Of course nothing of the kind happened.  The
sergeant-at-arms, who came to the gallery where he sat, said to a friend
who suggested that Clemens be allowed to remain:

"Oh, I know him very well.  I recognize him by his pictures, and I should
be very glad to let him stay, but I haven't any choice because of the
strictness of the order."

Clemens, however, immediately ran across a London Times correspondent,
who showed him the way into the first gallery, which it seems was not
emptied, so he lost none of the exhibit.

Mark Twain's report of the Austrian troubles, published in Harper's
Magazine the following March and now included with the Literary Essays,
will keep that episode alive and important as literature when otherwise
it would have been merely embalmed, and dimly remembered, as history.

It was during these exciting political times in Vienna that a
representative of a New York paper wrote, asking for a Mark Twain
interview.  Clemens replied, giving him permission to call.  When the
reporter arrived Clemens was at work writing in bed, as was so much his
habit.  At the doorway the reporter paused, waiting for a summons to
enter.  The door was ajar and he heard Mrs. Clemens say:

"Youth, don't you think it will be a little embarrassing for him, your
being in bed?"

And he heard Mark Twain's easy, gentle, deliberate voice reply:

"Why, Livy, if you think so, we might have the other bed made up for
him."

Clemens became a privileged character in Vienna.  Official rules were
modified for his benefit.  Everything was made easy for him.  Once, on a
certain grand occasion, when nobody was permitted to pass beyond a
prescribed line, he was stopped by a guard, when the officer in charge
suddenly rode up:

"Let him pass," he commanded.  "Lieber Gott!  Don't you see it's Herr
Mark Twain?"

The Clemens apartments at the Metropole were like a court, where with
those of social rank assembled the foremost authors, journalists,
diplomats, painters, philosophers, scientists, of Europe, and therefore
of the world.  A sister of the Emperor of Germany lived at the Metropole
that winter and was especially cordial.  Mark Twain's daily movements
were chronicled as if he had been some visiting potentate, and, as usual,
invitations and various special permissions poured in.  A Vienna paper
announced:

     He has been feted and dined from morn till eve.  The homes of the
     aristocracy are thrown open to him, counts and princes delight to do
     him honor, and foreign audiences hang upon the words that fall from
     his lips, ready to burst out any instant into roars of laughter.

Deaths never came singly in the Clemens family.  It was on the 11th of
December, 1897, something more than a year after the death of Susy, that
Orion Clemens died, at the age of seventy-two.  Orion had remained the
same to the end, sensitively concerned as to all his brother's doings,
his fortunes and misfortunes: soaring into the clouds when any good news
came; indignant, eager to lend help and advice in the hour of defeat;
loyal, upright, and generally beloved by those who knew and understood
his gentle nature.  He had not been ill, and, in fact, only a few days
before he died had written a fine congratulatory letter on his brother's
success in accumulating means for the payment of his debts, entering
enthusiastically into some literary plans which Mark Twain then had in
prospect, offering himself for caricature if needed.

I would fit in as a fool character, believing, what the Tennessee
mountaineers predicted, that I would grow up to be a great man and go to
Congress.  I did not think it worth the trouble to be a common great man
like Andy Johnson.  I wouldn't give a pinch of snuff, little as I needed
it, to be anybody, less than Napoleon.  So when a farmer took my father's
offer for some chickens under advisement till the next day I said to
myself, "Would Napoleon Bonaparte have taken under advisement till the
next day an offer to sell him some chickens?"

To his last day and hour Orion was the dreamer, always with a new plan.
It was one morning early that he died.  He had seated himself at a table
with pencil and paper and was setting down the details of his latest
project when death came to him, kindly enough, in the moment of new hope.

There came also, just then, news of the death of their old Hartford
butler, George.  It saddened them as if it had been a member of the
household.  Jean, especially, wept bitterly.




CC

MARK TWAIN PAYS HIS DEBTS

'Following the Equator'--[In England, More Tramps Abroad.]--had come from
the press in November and had been well received.  It was a large,
elaborate subscription volume, more elaborate than artistic in
appearance.  Clemens, wishing to make some acknowledgment to his
benefactor, tactfully dedicated it to young Harry Rogers:

"With recognition of what he is, and an apprehension of what he may
become unless he form himself a little more closely upon the model of the
author."

Following the Equator was Mark Twain's last book of travel, and it did
not greatly resemble its predecessors.  It was graver than the Innocents
Abroad; it was less inclined to cynicism and burlesque than the Tramp.
It was the thoughtful, contemplative observation and philosophizing of
the soul-weary, world-weary pilgrim who has by no means lost interest,
but only his eager, first enthusiasm.  It is a gentler book than the
Tramp Abroad, and for the most part a pleasanter one.  It is better
history and more informing.  Its humor, too, is of a worthier sort, less
likely to be forced and overdone.  The holy Hindoo pilgrim's "itinerary
of salvation" is one of the richest of all Mark Twain's fancies, and is
about the best thing in the book.  The revised philosophies of Pudd'nhead
Wilson, that begin each chapter, have many of them passed into our daily
speech.  That some of Mark Twain's admirers were disappointed with the
new book is very likely, but there were others who could not praise it
enough.  James Whitcomb Riley wrote:

DEAR MR. CLEMENS,--For a solid week-night sessions--I have been glorying
in your last book-and if you've ever done anything better, stronger, or
of wholesomer uplift I can't recall it.  So here's my heart and here's my
hand with all the augmented faith and applause of your proudest
countryman!  It's just a hail I'm sending you across the spaces--not to
call you from your blessed work an instant, but simply to join my voice
in the universal cheer that is steadfastly going up for you.

As gratefully as delightedly,
                         Your abiding friend,
                                        JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.


Notwithstanding the belief that the sale of single subscription volumes
had about ended, Bliss did well with the new book.  Thirty or forty
thousand copies were placed without much delay, and the accumulated
royalties paid into Mr. Rogers's hands.  The burden of debt had become a
nightmare.  Clemens wrote:

Let us begin on those debts.  I cannot bear the weight any longer.  It
totally unfits me for work.

This was November 10, 1897.  December 29th he wrote:

Land, we are glad to see those debts diminishing.  For the first time in
my life I am getting more pleasure from paying money out than pulling it
in.

To Howells, January 3d, Clemens wrote that they had "turned the corner,"
and a month later:

We've lived close to the bone and saved every cent we could, & there's no
undisputed claim now that we can't cash.  There are only two claims which
I dispute & which I mean to look into personally before I pay them.  But
they are small.  Both together they amount to only $12,500.  I hope you
will never get the like of the load saddled onto you that was saddled
onto me 3 years ago.  And yet there is such a solid pleasure in paying
the things that I reckon maybe it is worth while to get into that kind of
a hobble after all.  Mrs. Clemens gets millions of delight out of it; &
the children have never uttered one complaint about the scrimping from
the beginning.

By the end of January, 1898, Mark Twain had accumulated enough money to
make the final payment to his creditors and stand clear of debt.  At the
time of his failure he said he had given himself five years in which to
clear himself of the heavy obligation.  He had achieved that result in
less than three.  The world heralded it as a splendid triumph.

Miss Katharine I. Harrison, Henry Rogers's secretary, who had been in
charge of the details, wrote in her letter announcing his freedom:

"I wish I could shout it across the water to you so that you would get it
ten days ahead of this letter."

Miss Harrison's letter shows that something like thirteen thousand
dollars would remain to his credit after the last accounts were wiped
away.

Clemens had kept his financial progress from the press, but the payment
of the final claims was distinctly a matter of news and the papers made
the most of it.  Head-lines shouted it, there were long editorials in
which Mark Twain was heralded as a second Walter Scott, though it was
hardly necessary that he should be compared with anybody; he had been in
that--as in those peculiarities which had invited his disaster--just
himself.

One might suppose now that he had had enough of inventions and commercial
enterprises of every sort that is, one who did not know Mark Twain might
suppose this; but it would not be true.  Within a month after the debts
were paid he had negotiated with the great Austrian inventor, Szczepanik,
and his business manager for the American rights of a wonderful carpet-
pattern machine, obtained an option for these rights at fifteen hundred
thousand dollars, and, Sellers-like, was planning to organize a company
with a capital of fifteen hundred million dollars to control carpet-
weaving industries of the world.  He records in his note-book that a
certain Mr. Wood, representing the American carpet interests, called upon
him and, in the course of their conversation, asked him at what price he
would sell his option.

     I declined, and got away from the subject.  I was afraid he would
     offer me $500,000 for it.  I should have been obliged to take it,
     but I was born with a speculative instinct & I did not want that
     temptation put in my way.

He wrote to Mr. Rogers about the great scheme, inviting the Standard Oil
to furnish the capital for it--but it appears not to have borne the test
of Mr. Rogers's scrutiny, and is heard of no more.

Szczepanik had invented the 'Fernseher', or Telelectroscope, the machine
by which one sees at a distance.  Clemens would have invested heavily in
this, too, for he had implicit faith in its future, but the 'Fernseher'
was already controlled for the Paris Exposition; so he could only employ
Szczepanik as literary material, which he did in two instances: "The
Austrian Edison Keeping School Again" and "From the London Times of
1904"--magazine articles published in the Century later in the year.  He
was fond of Szczepanik and Szczepanik's backer, Mr. Kleinburg.  In one of
his note-book entries he says:

Szczepanik is not a Paige.  He is a gentleman; his backer, Mr. Kleinburg,
is a gentleman, too, yet is not a Clemens--that is to say, he is not an
ass.

Clemens did not always consult his financial adviser, Rogers, any more
than he always consulted his spiritual adviser, Twichell, or his literary
adviser, Howells, when he intended to commit heresies in their respective
provinces.  Somewhat later an opportunity came along to buy an interest
in a preparation of skimmed milk, an invalid food by which the human race
was going to be healed of most of its ills.  When Clemens heard that
Virchow had recommended this new restorative, the name of which was
plasmon, he promptly provided MacAlister with five thousand pounds to
invest in a company then organizing in London.  It should be added that
this particular investment was not an entire loss, for it paid very good
dividends for several years.  We shall hear of it again.

For the most part Clemens was content to let Henry Rogers do his
financiering, and as the market was low with an upward incline, Rogers
put the various accumulations into this thing and that, and presently had
some fifty thousand dollars to Mark Twain's credit, a very comfortable
balance for a man who had been twice that amount in debt only a few years
before.  It has been asserted most strenuously, by those in a position to
know least about the matter, that Henry Rogers lent, and even gave, Mark
Twain large sums, and pointed out opportunities whereby he could make
heavily by speculation.  No one of these statements is true.  Mr. Rogers
neither lent nor gave Mark Twain money for investment, and he never
allowed him to speculate when he could prevent it.  He invested for him
wisely, but he never bought for him a share of stock that he did not have
the money in hand to pay for in full-money belonging to and earned by
Clemens himself.  What he did give to Mark Twain was his priceless
counsel and time--gifts more precious than any mere sum of money--boons
that Mark Twain could accept without humiliation.  He did accept them and
was unceasingly grateful.--[Mark Twain never lost an opportunity for
showing his gratitude to Henry Rogers.  The reader is referred to
Appendix T, at the end of the last volume, for a brief tribute which
Clemens prepared in 1902.  Mr. Rogers would not consent to its
publication.]




CCI

SOCIAL LIFE IN VIENNA

Clemens, no longer worried about finances and full of ideas and
prospects, was writing now at a great rate, mingling with all sorts of
social events, lecturing for charities, and always in the lime-light.

I have abundant peace of mind again--no sense of burden.  Work is become
a pleasure--it is not labor any longer.

He was the lion of the Austrian capital, and it was natural that he
should revel in his new freedom and in the universal tribute.  Mrs.
Clemens wrote that they were besieged with callers of every description:

     Such funny combinations are here sometimes: one duke, several
     counts, several writers, several barons, two princes, newspaper
     women, etc.  I find so far, without exception, that the high-up
     aristocracy are simple and cordial and agreeable.

When Clemens appeared as a public entertainer all society turned out to
hear him and introductions were sought by persons of the most exclusive
rank.  Once a royal introduction led to an adventure.  He had been giving
a charity reading in Vienna, and at the end of it was introduced, with
Mrs. Clemens, to her Highness, Countess Bardi, a princess of the
Portuguese royal house by marriage and sister to the Austrian Archduchess
Maria Theresa.  They realized that something was required after such an
introduction; that, in fact, they must go within a day or two and pay
their respects by writing their names in the visitors' book, kept in a
sort of anteroom of the royal establishment.  A few days later, about
noon, they drove to the archducal palace, inquired their way to the royal
anteroom, and informed the grandly uniformed portier that they wished to
write their names in the visitors' book.  The portier did not produce the
book, but summoned a man in livery and gold lace and directed him to take
them up-stairs, remarking that her Royal Highness was out, but would be
in presently.  They protested that her Royal Highness was not looking for
them, that they were not calling, but had merely come to sign the
visitors' book, but he said:

"You are Americans, are you not?"

"Yes, we are Americans."

"Then you are expected.  Please go up-stairs."

Mrs. Clemens said:

"Oh no, we are not expected; there is some mistake.  Please let us sign
the book and we will go away."

But it was no use.  He insisted that her Royal Highness would be back in
a very little while; that she had commanded him to say so and that they
must wait.  They were shown up-stairs, Clemens going willingly enough,
for he scented an adventure; but Mrs. Clemens was far from happy.  They
were taken to a splendid drawing-room, and at the doorway she made her
last stand, refusing to enter.  She declared that there was certainly
some mistake, and begged them to let her sign her name in the book and
go, without parleying.  It was no use.  Their conductor insisted that
they remove their wraps and sit down, which they finally did--Mrs.
Clemens miserable, her husband in a delightful state of anticipation.
Writing of it to Twichell that night he said:

     I was hoping and praying that the Princess would come and catch us
     up there, & that those other Americans who were expected would
     arrive and be taken as impostors by the portier & be shot by the
     sentinels & then it would all go into the papers & be cabled all
     over the world & make an immense stir and be perfectly lovely.

     Livy was in a state of mind; she said it was too theatrically
     ridiculous & that I would never be able to keep my mouth shut; that
     I would be sure to let it out & it would get into the papers, & she
     tried to make me promise.

     "Promise what?"  I said.

     "To be quiet about this."

     "Indeed I won't; it's the best thing ever happened.  I'll tell it
     and add to it & I wish Joe & Howells were here to make it perfect; I
     can't make all the rightful blunders by myself--it takes all three
     of us to do justice to an opportunity like this.  I would just like
     to see Howells get down to his work & explain & lie & work his
     futile & inventionless subterfuges when that Princess comes raging
     in here & wanting to know."

     But Livy could not hear fun--it was not a time to be trying to be
     funny.  We were in a most miserable & shameful situation, & it----
     Just then the door spread wide & our Princess & 4  more & 3 little
     Princes flowed in!  Our Princess & her sister, the Archduchess Maria
     Theresa (mother to the imperial heir & to the a young girl
     Archduchesses present, & aunt to the 3 little Princes), & we shook
     hands all around & sat down & had a most sociable time for half an
     hour, & by & by it turned out that we were the right ones & had been
     sent for by a messenger who started too late to catch us at the
     hotel.  We were invited for a o'clock, but we beat that arrangement
     by an hour & a half.

     Wasn't it a rattling good comedy situation?  Seems a kind of pity we
     were the right ones.  It would have been such nuts to see the right
     ones come and get fired out, & we chatting along comfortably &
     nobody suspecting us for impostors.

Mrs. Clemens to Mrs. Crane:

     Of course I know that I should have courtesied to her Imperial
     Majesty & not quite so deep to her Royal Highness, and that Mr.
     Clemens should have kissed their hands; but it was all so unexpected
     that I had no time to prepare, and if I had had I should not have
     been there; I only went in to help Mr. C. with my bad German.  When
     our minister's wife is going to be presented to the Archduchess she
     practises her courtesying beforehand.

They had met royalty in simple American fashion and no disaster had
followed.

We have already made mention of the distinguished visitors who gathered
in the Clemens apartments at the Hotel Metropole.  They were of many
nations and ranks.  It was the winter in London of twenty-five years
before over again.  Only Mark Twain was not the same.  Then he had been
unsophisticated, new, not always at his ease; now he was the polished
familiar of courts and embassies--at home equally with poets and princes,
authors and ambassadors and kings.  Such famous ones were there as
Vereshchagin, Leschetizky, Mark Hambourg, Dvorak, Lenbach, and Jokai,
with diplomats of many nations.  A list of foreign names may mean little
to the American reader, but among them were Neigra, of Italy; Paraty, of
Portugal; Lowenhaupt, of Sweden; and Ghiki, of Rumania.  The Queen of
Rumania, Carmen Sylva, a poetess in her own right, was a friend and warm
admirer of Mark Twain.  The Princess Metternich, and Madame de
Laschowska, of Poland, were among those who came, and there were Nansen
and his wife, and Campbell-Bannerman, who was afterward British Premier.
Also there was Spiridon, the painter, who made portraits of Clara Clemens
and her father, and other artists and potentates--the list is too long.

Those were brilliant, notable gatherings and are remembered in Vienna
today.  They were not always entirely harmonious, for politics was in the
air and differences of opinion were likely to be pretty freely expressed.

Clemens and his family, as Americans, did not always have a happy time of
it.  It was the eve of the Spanish American War and most of continental
Europe sided with Spain.  Austria, in particular, was friendly to its
related nation; and from every side the Clemenses heard how America was
about to take a brutal and unfair advantage of a weaker nation for the
sole purpose of annexing Cuba.

Charles Langdon and his son Jervis happened to arrive in Vienna about
this time, bringing straight from America the comforting assurance that
the war was not one of conquest or annexation, but a righteous defense of
the weak.  Mrs. Clemens gave a dinner for them, at which, besides some
American students, were Mark Hambourg, Gabrilowitsch, and the great
Leschetizky himself.  Leschetizky, an impetuous and eloquent talker, took
this occasion to inform the American visitors that their country was only
shamming, that Cuba would soon be an American dependency.  No one not
born to the language could argue with Leschetizky.  Clemens once wrote of
him:

He is a most capable and felicitous talker-was born for an orator, I
think.  What life, energy, fire in a man past 70! & how he does play!  He
is easily the greatest pianist in the world.  He is just as great & just
as capable today as ever he was.

Last Sunday night, at dinner with us, he did all the talking for 3 hours,
and everybody was glad to let him.  He told his experiences as a
revolutionist 50 years ago in '48, & his battle-pictures were
magnificently worded.  Poetzl had never met him before.  He is a talker
himself & a good one--but he merely sat silent & gazed across the table
at this inspired man, & drank in his words, & let his eyes fill & the
blood come & go in his face & never said a word.

Whatever may have been his doubts in the beginning concerning the Cuban
War, Mark Twain, by the end of May, had made up his mind as to its
justice.  When Theodore Stanton invited him to the Decoration Day banquet
to be held in Paris, he replied:

I thank you very much for your invitation and I would accept if I were
foot-free.  For I should value the privilege of helping you do honor to
the men who rewelded our broken Union and consecrated their great work
with their lives; and also I should like to be there to do, homage to our
soldiers and sailors of today who are enlisted for another most righteous
war, and utter the hope that they may make short and decisive work of it
and leave Cuba free and fed when they face for home again.  And finally I
should like to be present and see you interweave those two flags which,
more than any others, stand for freedom and progress in the earth-flags
which represent two kindred nations, each great and strong by itself,
competent sureties for the peace of the world when they stand together.

That is to say, the flags of England and America.  To an Austrian friend
he emphasized this thought:

The war has brought England and America close together--and to my mind
that is the biggest dividend that any war in this world has ever paid.
If this feeling is ever to grow cold again I do not wish to live to see
it.

And to Twichell, whose son David had enlisted:

You are living your war-days over again in Dave & it must be strong
pleasure mixed with a sauce of apprehension .  .  .  .

I have never enjoyed a war, even in history, as I am enjoying this one,
for this is the worthiest one that was ever fought, so far as my
knowledge goes.  It is a worthy thing to fight for one's own country.  It
is another sight finer to fight for another man's.  And I think this is
the first time it has been done.

But it was a sad day for him when he found that the United States really
meant to annex the Philippines, and his indignation flamed up.  He said:

"When the United States sent word to Spain that the Cuban atrocities must
end she occupied the highest moral position ever taken by a nation since
the Almighty made the earth.  But when she snatched the Philippines she
stained the flag."




CCII

LITERARY WORK IN VIENNA

One must wonder, with all the social demands upon him, how Clemens could
find time to write as much as he did during those Vienna days.  He piled
up a great heap of manuscript of every sort.  He wrote Twichell:

     There may be idle people in the world, but I am not one of them.

And to Howells:

     I couldn't get along without work now.  I bury myself in it up to
     the ears.  Long hours--8 & 9 on a stretch sometimes.  It isn't all
     for print, by any means, for much of it fails to suit me; 50,000
     words of it in the past year.  It was because of the deadness which
     invaded me when Susy died.

He projected articles, stories, critiques, essays, novels, autobiography,
even plays; he covered the whole literary round.  Among these activities
are some that represent Mark Twain's choicest work.  "Concerning the
Jews," which followed the publication of his "Stirring Times in Austria"
(grew out of it, in fact), still remains the best presentation of the
Jewish character and racial situation.  Mark Twain was always an ardent
admirer of the Jewish race, and its oppression naturally invited his
sympathy.  Once he wrote to Twichell:

The difference between the brain of the average Christian and that of the
average Jew--certainly in Europe--is about the difference between a
tadpole's brain & an archbishop's.  It is a marvelous race; by long odds
the most marvelous race the world has produced, I suppose.

Yet he did not fail to see its faults and to set them down in his summary
of Hebrew character.  It was a reply to a letter written to him by a
lawyer, and he replied as a lawyer might, compactly, logically,
categorically, conclusively.  The result pleased him.  To Mr. Rogers he
wrote:

The Jew article is my "gem of the ocean."  I have taken a world of
pleasure in writing it & doctoring it & fussing at it.  Neither Jew nor
Christian will approve of it, but people who are neither Jews nor
Christian will, for they are in a condition to know the truth when they
see it.

Clemens was not given to race distinctions.  In his article he says:

I am quite sure that (bar one) I have no race prejudices, and I think I
have no color prejudices nor caste prejudices nor creed prejudices.
Indeed I know it.  I can stand any society.  All that I care to know is
that a man is a human being, that is enough for me; he can't be any
worse.

We gather from something that follows that the one race which he bars is
the French, and this, just then, mainly because of the Dreyfus
agitations.

He also states in this article:

I have no special regard for Satan, but I can at least claim that I have
no prejudice against him.  It may even be that I lean a little his way on
account of his not having a fair show.

Clemens indeed always had a friendly feeling toward Satan (at least, as
he conceived him), and just at this time addressed a number of letters to
him concerning affairs in general--cordial, sympathetic, informing
letters enough, though apparently not suited for publication.  A good
deal of the work done at this period did not find its way into print.  An
interview with Satan; a dream-story concerning a platonic sweetheart, and
some further comment on Austrian politics, are among the condemned
manuscripts.

Mark Twain's interest in Satan would seem later to have extended to his
relatives, for there are at least three bulky manuscripts in which he has
attempted to set down some episodes in the life of one "Young Satan," a
nephew, who appears to have visited among the planets and promoted some
astonishing adventures in Austria several centuries ago.  The idea of a
mysterious, young, and beautiful stranger who would visit the earth and
perform mighty wonders, was always one which Mark Twain loved to play
with, and a nephew of Satan's seemed to him properly qualified to carry
out his intention.  His idea was that this celestial visitant was not
wicked, but only indifferent to good and evil and suffering, having no
personal knowledge of any of these things.  Clemens tried the experiment
in various ways, and portions of the manuscript are absorbingly
interesting, lofty in conception, and rarely worked out--other portions
being merely grotesque, in which the illusion of reality vanishes.

Among the published work of the Vienna period is an article about a
morality play, the "Master of Palmyra,"--[About play-acting, Forum,
October, 1898.]--by Adolf Wilbrandt, an impressive play presenting
Death, the all-powerful, as the principal part.

The Cosmopolitan Magazine for August published "At the Appetite-Cure," in
which Mark Twain, in the guise of humor, set forth a very sound and
sensible idea concerning dietetics, and in October the same magazine
published his first article on "Christian Science and the Book of Mrs.
Eddy."  As we have seen, Clemens had been always deeply interested in
mental healing, and in closing this humorous skit he made due
acknowledgments to the unseen forces which, properly employed, through
the imagination work physical benefits:

"Within the last quarter of a century," he says, "in America, several
sects of curers have appeared under various names and have done notable
things in the way of healing ailments without the use of medicines."

Clemens was willing to admit that Mrs. Eddy and her book had benefited
humanity, but he could not resist the fun-making which certain of her
formulas and her phrasing invited.  The delightful humor of the
Cosmopolitan article awoke a general laugh, in which even devout
Christian Scientists were inclined to join.--[It was so popular that
John Brisben Walker voluntarily added a check for two hundred dollars to
the eight hundred dollars already paid.]--Nothing that he ever did
exhibits more happily that peculiar literary gift upon which his fame
rests.

But there is another story of this period that will live when most of
those others mentioned are but little remembered.  It is the story of
"The Man that Corrupted Hadleyburg."  This is a tale that in its own way
takes its place with the half-dozen great English short stories of the
world-with such stories as "The Fall of the House of Usher," by Poe;
"The Luck of Roaring Camp," by Harte; "The Man Who Would be King," by
Kipling; and "The Man Without a Country," by Hale.  As a study of the
human soul, its flimsy pretensions and its pitiful frailties, it outranks
all the rest.  In it Mark Twain's pessimistic philosophy concerning the
"human animal" found a free and moral vent.  Whatever his contempt for a
thing, he was always amused at it; and in this tale we can imagine him a
gigantic Pantagruel dangling a ridiculous manikin, throwing himself back
and roaring out his great bursting guffaws at its pitiful antics.  The
temptation and the downfall of a whole town was a colossal idea, a
sardonic idea, and it is colossally and sardonically worked out.

Human weakness and rotten moral force were never stripped so bare or so
mercilessly jeered at in the marketplace.  For once Mark Twain could hug
himself with glee in derision of self-righteousness, knowing that the
world would laugh with him, and that none would be so bold as to gainsay
his mockery.  Probably no one but Mark Twain ever conceived the idea of
demoralizing a whole community--of making its "nineteen leading citizens"
ridiculous by leading them into a cheap, glittering temptation, and
having them yield and openly perjure themselves at the very moment when
their boasted incorruptibility was to amaze the world.  And it is all
wonderfully done.  The mechanism of the story is perfect, the drama of it
is complete.  The exposure of the nineteen citizens in the very sanctity
of the church itself, and by the man they have discredited, completing
the carefully prepared revenge of the injured stranger, is supreme in its
artistic triumph.  "The Man that Corrupted Hadleyburg" is one of the
mightiest sermons against self-righteousness ever preached.  Its
philosophy, that every man is strong until his price is named; the
futility of the prayer not to be led into temptation, when it is only by
resisting temptation that men grow strong--these things blaze out in a
way that makes us fairly blink with the truth of them.

It is Mark Twain's greatest short story.  It is fine that it should be
that, as well as much more than that; for he was no longer essentially a
story-teller.  He had become more than ever a moralist and a sage.
Having seen all of the world, and richly enjoyed and deeply suffered at
its hands, he sat now as in a seat of judgment, regarding the passing
show and recording his philosophies.




CCIII

AN IMPERIAL TRAGEDY

For the summer they went to Kaltenleutgeben, just out of Vienna, where
they had the Villa Paulhof, and it was while they were there, September
10, 1898, that the Empress Elizabeth of Austria was assassinated at
Geneva by an Italian vagabond, whose motive seemed to have been to gain
notoriety.  The news was brought to them one evening, just at supper-
time, by Countess Wydenbouck-Esterhazy.

Clemens wrote to Twichell:

     That good & unoffending lady, the Empress, is killed by a madman, &
     I am living in the midst of world-history again.  The Queen's
     Jubilee last year, the invasion of the Reichsrath by the police, &
     now this murder, which will still be talked of & described & painted
     a thousand years from now.  To have a personal friend of the wearer
     of two crowns burst in at the gate in the deep dusk of the evening &
     say, in a voice broken with tears, "My God!  the Empress is
     murdered," & fly toward her home before we can utter a question--
     why, it brings the giant event home to you, makes you a part of it &
     personally interested; it is as if your neighbor Antony should come
     flying & say, "Caesar is butchered--the head of the world is
     fallen!"

Of course there is no talk but of this.  The mourning is universal and
genuine, the consternation is stupefying.  The Austrian Empire is being
draped with black.  Vienna will be a spectacle to see by next Saturday,
when the funeral cortege marches.

Clemens and the others went into Vienna for the funeral ceremonies and
witnessed them from the windows of the new Krantz Hotel, which faces the
Capuchin church where the royal dead lie buried.  It was a grandly
impressive occasion, a pageant of uniforms of the allied nations that
made up the Empire of Austria.  Clemens wrote of it at considerable
length, and sent the article to Mr. Rogers to offer to the magazines.
Later, however, he recalled it just why is not clear.  In one place he
wrote:

Twice the Empress entered Vienna in state; the first time was in
1854, when she was a bride of seventeen, & when she rode in measureless
pomp through a world of gay flags & decorations down the streets, walled
on both hands with the press of shouting & welcoming subjects; & the
second time was last Wednesday, when she entered the city in her coffin,
& moved down the same streets in the dead of night under waving black
flags, between human walls again, but everywhere was a deep stillness now
& a stillness emphasized rather than broken by the muffled hoofbeats of
the long cavalcade over pavements cushioned with sand, & the low sobbing
of gray-headed women who had witnessed the first entrance, forty-four
years before, when she & they were young & unaware....  She was so
blameless--the Empress; & so beautiful in mind & heart, in person &
spirit; & whether with the crown upon her head, or without it & nameless,
a grace to the human race, almost a justification of its creation; would
be, indeed, but that the animal that struck her down re-establishes the
doubt.

They passed a quiet summer at Kaltenleutgeben.  Clemens wrote some
articles, did some translating of German plays, and worked on his
"Gospel," an elaboration of his old essay on contenting one's soul
through selfishness, later to be published as 'What is Man?'  A. C.
Dunham and Rev. Dr. Parker, of Hartford, came to Vienna, and Clemens
found them and brought them out to Kaltenleutgeben and read them chapters
of his doctrines, which, he said, Mrs. Clemens would not let him print.
Dr. Parker and Dunham returned to Hartford and reported Mark Twain more
than ever a philosopher; also that he was the "center of notability and
his house a court."




CCIV

THE SECOND WINTER IN VIENNA

The Clemens family did not return to the Metropole for the winter, but
went to the new Krantz, already mentioned, where they had a handsome and
commodious suite looking down on the Neuer Markt and on the beautiful
facade of the Capuchin church, with the great cathedral only a step away.
There they passed another brilliant and busy winter.  Never in Europe had
they been more comfortably situated; attention had been never more
lavishly paid to them.  Their drawing-room was a salon which acquired the
name of the "Second Embassy."  Clemens in his note-book wrote:

During 8 years now I have filled the position--with some credit, I trust,
of self-appointed ambassador-at-large of the United States of America--
without salary.

Which was a joke; but there was a large grain of truth in it, for Mark
Twain, more than any other American in Europe, was regarded as typically
representing his nation and received more lavish honors.

It had become the fashion to consult him on every question of public
interest, for he was certain to say something worth printing, whether
seriously or otherwise.  When the Tsar of Russia proposed the disarmament
of the nations William T.  Stead, editor of the Review of Reviews, wrote
for Mark Twain's opinion.  He replied:

DEAR MR. STEADY,--The Tsar is ready to disarm.  I am ready to disarm.
Collect the others; it should not be much of a task now.

                                                  MARK TWAIN.


He was on a tide of prosperity once more, one that was to continue now
until the end.  He no longer had any serious financial qualms.  He could
afford to be independent.  He refused ten thousand dollars for a tobacco
indorsement, though he liked the tobacco well enough; and he was aware
that even royalty was willing to put a value on its opinions.  He
declined ten thousand dollars a year for five years to lend his name as
editor of a humorous periodical, though there was no reason to suppose
that the paper would be otherwise than creditably conducted.  He declined
lecture propositions from Pond at the rate of about one a month.  He
could get along without these things, he said, and still preserve some
remnants of self-respect.  In a letter to Rogers he said:

Pond offers me $10,000 for 10 nights, but I do not feel strongly tempted.
Mrs. Clemens ditto.

Early in 1899 he wrote to Howells that Mrs. Clemens had proved to him
that they owned a house and furniture in Hartford, that his English and
American copyrights paid an income on the equivalent of two hundred
thousand dollars, and that they had one hundred and seven thousand
dollars' accumulation in the bank.

"I have been out and bought a box of 6c. cigars," he says; "I was smoking
4 1/2c. before."

The things that men are most likely to desire had come to Mark Twain, and
no man was better qualified to rejoice in them.  That supreme, elusive
thing which we call happiness might have been his now but for the tragedy
of human bereavement and the torture of human ills.  That he did rejoice
--reveled indeed like a boy in his new fortunes, the honors paid him, and
in all that gay Viennese life-there is no doubt.  He could wave aside
care and grief and remorse, forget their very existence, it seemed; but
in the end he had only driven them ahead a little way and they waited by
his path.  Once, after reciting his occupations and successes, he wrote:

     All these things might move and interest one.  But how, desperately
     more I have been moved to-night by the thought of a little old copy
     in the nursery of 'At the Back of the North Wind'.  Oh, what happy
     days they were when that book was read, and how Susy loved it!...
     Death is so kind, benignant, to whom he loves, but he goes by us
     others & will not look our way.

And to Twichell a few days later:

     A Hartford with no Susy in it--& no Ned Bunce!--It is not the city
     of Hartford, it is the city of Heartbreak....  It seems only a few
     weeks since I saw Susy last--yet that was 1895 & this is 1899....

     My work does not go well to-day.  It failed yesterday--& the day
     before & the day before that.  And so I have concluded to put the
     MS. in the waste-basket & meddle with some other subject.  I was
     trying to write an article advocating the quadrupling of the
     salaries of our ministers & ambassadors, & the devising of an
     official dress for them to wear.  It seems an easy theme, yet I
     couldn't do the thing to my satisfaction.  All I got out of it was
     an article on Monaco & Monte Carlo--matters not connected with the
     subject at all.  Still, that was something--it's better than a total
     loss.

He finished the article--"Diplomatic Pay and Clothes"--in which he shows
how absurd it is for America to expect proper representation on the
trifling salaries paid to her foreign ministers, as compared with those
allowed by other nations.

He prepared also a reminiscent article--the old tale of the shipwrecked
Hornet and the magazine article intended as his literary debut a
generation ago.  Now and again he worked on some one of the several
unfinished longer tales, but brought none of them to completion.  The
German drama interested him.  Once he wrote to Mr. Rogers that he had
translated "In Purgatory" and sent it to Charles Frohman, who pronounced
it "all jabber and no play."

Curious, too, for it tears these Austrians to pieces with laughter.  When
I read it, now, it seems entirely silly; but when I see it on the stage
it is exceedingly funny.

He undertook a play for the Burg Theater, a collaboration with a Vienna
journalist, Siegmund Schlesinger.  Schlesinger had been successful with
several dramas, and agreed with Clemens to do some plays dealing with
American themes.  One of them was to be called "Die Goldgraeberin," that
is, "The Woman Gold-Miner."  Another, "The Rival Candidates," was to
present the humors of female suffrage.  Schlesinger spoke very little
English, and Clemens always had difficulty in comprehending rapid-fire
German.  So the work did not progress very well.  By the time they had
completed a few scenes of mining-drama the interest died, and they good-
naturedly agreed that it would be necessary to wait until they understood
each other's language more perfectly before they could go on with the
project.  Frau Kati Schratt, later morganatic wife of Emperor Franz
Josef, but then leading comedienne of the Burg Theater, is said to have
been cast for the leading part in the mining-play; and Director-General
Herr Schlenther, head of the Burg Theater management, was deeply
disappointed.  He had never doubted that a play built by Schlesinger and
Mark Twain, with Frau Schratt in the leading role, would have been a
great success.

Clemens continued the subject of Christian Science that winter.  He wrote
a number of articles, mainly criticizing Mrs. Eddy and her financial
methods, and for the first time conceived the notion of a book on the
subject.  The new hierarchy not only amused but impressed him.  He
realized that it was no ephemeral propaganda, that its appeal to human
need was strong, and that its system of organization was masterful and
complete.  To Twichell he wrote:

Somehow I continue to feel sure of that cult's colossal future....  I am
selling my Lourdes stock already & buying Christian Science trust.  I
regard it as the Standard Oil of the future.

He laid the article away for the time and, as was his custom, put the
play quite out of his mind and invented a postal-check which would be far
more simple than post-office orders, because one could buy them in any
quantity and denomination and keep them on hand for immediate use, making
them individually payable merely by writing in the name of the payee.  It
seems a fine, simple scheme, one that might have been adopted by the
government long ago; but the idea has been advanced in one form or
another several times since then, and still remains at this writing
unadopted.  He wrote John Hay about it, remarking at the close that the
government officials would probably not care to buy it as soon as they
found they couldn't kill Christians with it.

He prepared a lengthy article on the subject, in dialogue form, making it
all very clear and convincing, but for some reason none of the magazines
would take it.  Perhaps it seemed too easy, too simple, too obvious.
Great ideas, once developed, are often like that.




CCV

SPEECHES THAT WERE NOT MADE

In a volume of Mark Twain's collected speeches there is one entitled
"German for the Hungarians--Address at the jubilee Celebration of the
Emancipation of the Hungarian Press, March 26, 1899."  An introductory
paragraph states that the ministers and members of Parliament were
present, and that the subject was the "Ausgleich"--i.e., the arrangement
for the apportionment of the taxes between Hungary and Austria.  The
speech as there set down begins:

     Now that we are all here together I think that it will be a good
     idea to arrange the Ausgleich.  If you will act for Hungary I shall
     be quite willing to act for Austria, and this is the very time for
     it.

It is an excellent speech, full of good-feeling and good-humor, but it
was never delivered.  It is only a speech that Mark Twain intended to
deliver, and permitted to be copied by a representative of the press
before he started for Budapest.

It was a grand dinner, brilliant and inspiring, and when, Mark Twain was
presented to that distinguished company he took a text from something the
introducer had said and became so interested in it that his prepared
speech wholly disappeared from his memory.

I think I will never embarrass myself with a set speech again [he wrote
Twichell].  My memory is old and rickety and cannot stand the strain.
But I had this luck.  What I did was to furnish a text for a part of the
splendid speech which was made by the greatest living orator of the
European world--a speech which it was a great delight to listen to,
although I did not understand any word of it, it being in Hungarian.
I was glad I came, it was a great night, & I heard all the great men in
the German tongue.

The family accompanied Clemens to Budapest, and while there met Franz,
son of Louis Kossuth, and dined with him.

I assure you [wrote Mrs. Clemens] that I felt stirred, and I kept saying
to myself "This is Louis Kossuth's son."  He came to our room one day,
and we had quite a long and a very pleasant talk together.  He is a man
one likes immensely.  He has a quiet dignity about him that is very
winning.  He seems to be a man highly esteemed in Hungary.  If I am not
mistaken, the last time I saw the old picture of his father it was
hanging in a room that we turned into a music-room for Susy at the farm.

They were most handsomely treated in Budapest.  A large delegation
greeted them on arrival, and a carriage and attendants were placed
continually at their disposal.  They remained several days, and Clemens
showed his appreciation by giving a reading for charity.

It was hinted to Mark Twain that spring, that before leaving Vienna, it
would be proper for him to pay his respects to Emperor Franz Josef, who
had expressed a wish to meet him.  Clemens promptly complied with the
formalities and the meeting was arranged.  He had a warm admiration for
the Austrian Emperor, and naturally prepared himself a little for what he
wanted to say to him.  He claimed afterward that he had compacted a sort
of speech into a single German sentence of eighteen words.  He did not
make use of it, however.  When he arrived at the royal palace and was
presented, the Emperor himself began in such an entirely informal way
that it did no occur to his visitor to deliver his prepared German
sentence.  When he returned from the audience he said:

"We got along very well.  I proposed to him a plan to exterminate the
human race by withdrawing the oxygen from the air for a period of two
minutes.  I said Szczepanik would invent it for him.  I think it
impressed him.  After a while, in the course of our talk I remembered and
told the Emperor I had prepared and memorized a very good speech but had
forgotten it.  He was very agreeable about it.  He said a speech wasn't
necessary.  He seemed to be a most kind-hearted emperor, with a great
deal of plain, good, attractive human nature about him.  Necessarily he
must have or he couldn't have unbent to me as he did.  I couldn't unbend
if I were an emperor.  I should feel the stiffness of the position.
Franz Josef doesn't feel it.  He is just a natural man, although an
emperor.  I was greatly impressed by him, and I liked him exceedingly.
His face is always the face of a pleasant man and he has a fine sense of
humor.  It is the Emperor's personality and the confidence all ranks have
in him that preserve the real political serenity in what has an outside
appearance of being the opposite.  He is a man as well as an emperor--an
emperor and a man."

Clemens and Howells were corresponding with something of the old-time
frequency.  The work that Mark Twain was doing--thoughtful work with
serious intent--appealed strongly to Howells.  He wrote:

     You are the greatest man of your sort that ever lived, and there is
     no use saying anything else .  .  .  .  You have pervaded your
     century almost more than any other man of letters, if not more; and
     it is astonishing how you keep spreading .  .  .  .  You are my
     "shadow of a great rock in a weary land" more than any other writer.

Clemens, who was reading Howells's serial, "Their Silver-Wedding
journey," then running in Harper's Magazine, responded:

     You are old enough to be a weary man with paling interests, but you
     do not show it; you do your work in the same old, delicate &
     delicious & forceful & searching & perfect way.  I don't know how
     you can--but I suspect.  I suspect that to you there is still
     dignity in human life, & that man is not a joke--a poor joke--the
     poorest that was ever contrived.  Since I wrote my Bible--[The
     "Gospel," What is Man?]--(last year), which Mrs. Clemens loathes &
     shudders over & will not listen to the last half nor allow me to
     print any part of it, man is not to me the respect-worthy person he
     was before, & so I have lost my pride in him & can't write gaily nor
     praisefully about him any more .  .  .  .

     Next morning.  I have been reading the morning paper.  I do it every
     morning--well knowing that I shall find in it the usual depravities
     & basenesses & hypocrisies and cruelties that make up civilization &
     cause me to put in the rest of the day pleading for the damnation of
     the human race.  I cannot seem to get my prayers answered, yet I do
     not despair.

He was not greatly changed.  Perhaps he had fewer illusions and less
iridescent ones, and certainly he had more sorrow; but the letters to
Howells do not vary greatly from those written twenty-five years before.
There is even in them a touch of the old pretense as to Mrs. Clemens's
violence.

I mustn't stop to play now or I shall never get those helfiard letters
answered.  (That is not my spelling.  It is Mrs. Clemens's, I have told
her the right way a thousand times, but it does no good, she never
remembers.)

All through this Vienna period (as during several years before and after)
Henry Rogers was in full charge of Mark Twain's American affairs.
Clemens wrote him almost daily, and upon every matter, small or large,
that developed, or seemed likely to develop, in his undertakings.  The
complications growing out of the type machine and Webster failures were
endless.--["I hope to goodness I sha'n't get you into any more jobs such
as the type-setter and Webster business and the Bliss-Harper campaigns
have been.  Oh, they were sickeners."  (Clemens to Rogers,
November 15, 1898.)]--The disposal of the manuscripts alone was work for
a literary agent.  The consideration of proposed literary, dramatic, and
financial schemes must have required not only thought, but time.  Yet Mr.
Rogers comfortably and genially took care of all these things and his own
tremendous affairs besides, and apologized sometimes when he felt,
perhaps, that he had wavered a little in his attention.  Clemens once
wrote him:

     Oh, dear me, you don't have to excuse yourself for neglecting me;
     you are entitled to the highest praise for being so limitlessly
     patient and good in bothering with my confused affairs, and pulling
     me out of a hole every little while.

     It makes me lazy, the way that Steel stock is rising.  If I were
     lazier--like Rice--nothing could keep me from retiring.  But I work
     right along, like a poor person.  I shall figure up the rise, as the
     figures come in, and push up my literary prices accordingly, till I
     get my literature up to where nobody can afford it but the family.
     (N. B.--Look here, are you charging storage?  I am not going to
     stand that, you know.) Meantime, I note those encouraging illogical
     words of yours about my not worrying because I am to be rich when I
     am 68; why didn't you have Cheiro make it 90, so that I could have
     plenty of room?

     It would be jolly good if some one should succeed in making a play
     out of "Is He Dead?"--[Clemens himself had attempted to make a play
     out of his story "Is He Dead?" and had forwarded the MS. to Rogers.
     Later he wrote: "Put 'Is He Dead?' in the fire.  God will bless you.
     I too.  I started to convince myself that I could write a play, or
     couldn't.  I'm convinced.  Nothing can disturb that conviction."]--
     From what I gather from dramatists, he will have his hands something
     more than full--but let him struggle, let him struggle.

     Is there some way, honest or otherwise, by which you can get a copy
     of Mayo's play, "Pudd'nhead Wilson," for me?  There is a capable
     young Austrian here who saw it in New York and wants to translate it
     and see if he can stage it here.  I don't think these people here
     would understand it or take to it, but he thinks it will pay us to
     try.

     A couple of London dramatists want to bargain with me for the right
     to make a high comedy out of the "Million-Pound Note."  Barkis is
     willing.

This is but one of the briefer letters.  Most of them were much longer
and of more elaborate requirements.  Also they overflowed with the gaiety
of good-fortune and with gratitude.  From Vienna in 1899 Clemens wrote:

     Why, it is just splendid!  I have nothing to do but sit around and
     watch you set the hen and hatch out those big broods and make my
     living for me.  Don't you wish you had somebody to do the same for
     you?--a magician who can turn steel add copper and Brooklyn gas into
     gold.  I mean to raise your wages again--I begin to feel that I can
     afford it.

     I think the hen ought to have a name; she must be called Unberufen.
     That is a German word which is equivalent to it "sh! hush' don't let
     the spirits hear you!"  The superstition is that if you happen to
     let fall any grateful jubilation over good luck that you've had or
     are hoping to have you must shut square off and say "Unberufen!" and
     knock wood.  The word drives the evil spirits away; otherwise they
     would divine your joy or your hopes and go to work and spoil your
     game.  Set her again--do!

     Oh, look here!  You are just like everybody; merely because I am
     literary you think I'm a commercial somnambulist, and am not
     watching you with all that money in your hands.  Bless you, I've got
     a description of you and a photograph in every police-office in
     Christendom, with the remark appended: "Look out for a handsome,
     tall, slender young man with a gray mustache and courtly manners and
     an address well calculated to deceive, calling himself by the name
     of Smith."  Don't you try to get away--it won't work.

From the note-book:

     Midnight.  At Miss Bailie's home for English governesses. Two
     comedies & some songs and ballads.  Was asked to speak & did it.
     (And rung in the "Mexican Plug.")

     A Voice.  "The Princess Hohenlohe wishes you to write on her fan."

     "With pleasure--where is she?"

     "At your elbow."

     I turned & took the fan & said, "Your Highness's place is in a fairy
     tale; & by & by I mean to write that tale," whereat she laughed a
     happy girlish laugh, & we moved through the crowd to get to a
     writing-table--& to get in a strong light so that I could see her
     better.  Beautiful little creature, with the dearest friendly ways &
     sincerities & simplicities & sweetnesses--the ideal princess of the
     fairy tales.  She is 16 or 17, I judge.

     Mental Telegraphy.  Mrs. Clemens was pouring out the coffee this
     morning; I unfolded the Neue Freie Presse, began to read a paragraph
     & said:

     "They've found a new way to tell genuine gems from false----"

     "By the Roentgen ray!" she exclaimed.

     That is what I was going to say.  She had not seen the paper, &
     there had been no talk about the ray or gems by herself or by me.
     It was a plain case of telegraphy.

     No man that ever lived has ever done a thing to please God--
     primarily.  It was done to please himself, then God next.

     The Being who to me is the real God is the one who created this
     majestic universe & rules it.  He is the only originator, the only
     originator of thoughts; thoughts suggested from within, not from
     without; the originator of colors & of all their possible
     combinations; of forces & the laws that govern them; of forms &
     shapes of all forms-man has never invented a new one.  He is the
     only originator.  He made the materials of all things; He made the
     laws by which, & by which only, man may combine them into the
     machines & other things which outside influences suggest to him.  He
     made character--man can portray it but not "create" it, for He is
     the only creator.

     He, is the perfect artisan, the perfect artist.




CCVI

A SUMMER IN SWEDEN

A part of the tragedy of their trip around the world had been the
development in Jean Clemens of a malady which time had identified as
epilepsy.  The loss of one daughter and the invalidism of another was the
burden which this household had now to bear.  Of course they did not for
a moment despair of a cure for the beautiful girl who had been so cruelly
stricken, and they employed any agent that promised relief.

They decided now to go to London, in the hope of obtaining beneficial
treatment.  They left Vienna at the end of May, followed to the station
by a great crowd, who loaded their compartment with flowers and lingered
on the platform waving and cheering, some of them in tears, while the
train pulled away.  Leschetizky himself was among them, and Wilbrandt,
the author of the Master of Palmyra, and many artists and other notables,
"most of whom," writes Mrs. Clemens, "we shall probably never see again
in this world."

Their Vienna sojourn had been one of the most brilliant periods of their
life, as well as one of the saddest.  The memory of Susy had been never
absent, and the failing health of Jean was a gathering cloud.

They stopped a day or two at Prague, where they were invited by the
Prince of Thurn and Taxis to visit his castle.  It gave them a glimpse of
the country life of the Bohemian nobility which was most interesting.
The Prince's children were entirely familiar with Tom Sawyer and
Huckleberry Finn, which they had read both in English and in the
translation.

They journeyed to London by way of Cologne, arriving by the end of May.
Poultney Bigelow was there, and had recently been treated with great
benefit by osteopathy (then known as the Swedish movements), as practised
by Heinrick Kellgren at Sanna, Sweden.  Clemens was all interest
concerning Kellgren's method and eager to try it for his daughter's
malady.  He believed she could be benefited, and they made preparation to
spend some months at least in Sanna.  They remained several weeks in
London, where they were welcomed with hospitality extraordinary.  They
had hardly arrived when they were invited by Lord Salisbury to Hatfield
House, and by James Bryce to Portland Place, and by Canon Wilberforce to
Dean's Yard.  A rather amusing incident happened at one of the luncheon-
parties.  Canon Wilberforce was there and left rather early.  When
Clemens was ready to go there was just one hat remaining.  It was not
his, and he suspected, by the initials on the inside, that it belonged to
Canon Wilberforce.  However, it fitted him exactly and he wore it away.
That evening he wrote:

                         PRINCE OF WALES HOTEL, DE VERE GARDENS,
                                             July,3, 1899.

DEAR CANON WILBERFORCE,--It is 8 P.M.  During the past four hours I have
not been able to take anything that did not belong to me; during all that
time I have not been able to stretch a fact beyond the frontiers of truth
try as I might, & meantime, not only my morals have moved the
astonishment of all who have come in contact with me, but my manners have
gained more compliments than they have been accustomed to.  This mystery
is causing my family much alarm.  It is difficult to account for it.
I find I haven't my own hat.  Have you developed any novelties of conduct
since you left Mr. Murray's, & have they been of a character to move the
concern of your friends?  I think it must be this that has put me under
this happy charm; but, oh dear!  I tremble for the other man!

                                   Sincerely yours,
                                                  S. L. CLEMENS.


Scarcely was this note on its way to Wilberforce when the following one
arrived, having crossed it in transit:

July 3, 1899.

DEAR MR. CLEMENS,--I have been conscious of a vivacity and facility of
expression this afternoon beyond the normal and I have just discovered
the reason!!  I have seen the historic signature "Mark Twain" in my hat!!
Doubtless you have been suffering from a corresponding dullness & have
wondered why.  I departed precipitately, the hat stood on my umbrella and
was a new Lincoln & Bennett--it fitted me exactly and I did not discover
the mistake till I got in this afternoon.  Please forgive me.  If you
should be passing this way to-morrow will you look in and change hats?
or shall I send it to the hotel?

                              I am, very sincerely yrs.,
20 Dean's Yard.                              BASIL WILBERFORCE.


Clemens was demanded by all the bohemian clubs, the White Friars, the
Vagabonds, the Savage, the Beefsteak, and the Authors.  He spoke to them,
and those "Mark Twain Evenings" have become historic occasions in each of
the several institutions that gave him welcome.  At the Vagabonds he told
them the watermelon story, and at the White Friars he reviewed the old
days when he had been elected to that society; "days," he said, "when all
Londoners were talking about nothing else than that they had discovered
Livingstone, and that the lost Sir Roger Tichborne had been found and
they were trying him for it."

At the Savage Club, too, he recalled old times and old friends, and
particularly that first London visit, his days in the club twenty-seven
years before.

"I was 6 feet 4 in those days," he said.  "Now I am 5 feet 8 1/2 and
daily diminishing in altitude, and the shrinkage of my principles goes on
.  .  .  .  Irving was here then, is here now.  Stanley is here, and Joe
Hatton, but Charles Reade is gone and Tom Hood and Harry Lee and Canon
Kingsley.  In those days you could have carried Kipling around in a
lunch-basket; now he fills the world.  I was young and foolish then; now
I am old and foolisher."

At the Authors Club he paid a special tribute to Rudyard Kipling, whose
dangerous illness in New York City and whose daughter's death had aroused
the anxiety and sympathy of the entire American nation.  It had done much
to bring England and America closer together, Clemens said.  Then he
added that he had been engaged the past eight days compiling a pun and
had brought it there to lay at their feet, not to ask for their
indulgence, but for their applause.  It was this:

"Since England and America have been joined in Kipling, may they not be
severed in Twain."

Hundreds of puns had been made on his pen-name, but this was probably his
first and only attempt, and it still remains the best.

They arrived in Sweden early in July and remained until October.  Jean
was certainly benefited by the Kellgren treatment, and they had for a
time the greatest hopes of her complete recovery.  Clemens became
enthusiastic over osteopathy, and wrote eloquently to every one, urging
each to try the great new curative which was certain to restore universal
health.  He wrote long articles on Kellgren and his science, largely
justified, no doubt, for certainly miraculous benefits were recorded;
though Clemens was not likely to underestimate a thing which appealed to
both his imagination and his reason.  Writing to Twichell he concluded,
with his customary optimism over any new benefit:

     Ten years hence no sane man will call a doctor except when the knife
     must be used--& such cases will be rare.  The educated physician
     will himself be an osteopath.  Dave will become one after he has
     finished his medical training.  Young Harmony ought to become one
     now.  I do not believe there is any difference between Kellgren's
     science and osteopathy; but I am sending to America to find out.  I
     want osteopathy to prosper; it is common sense & scientific, & cures
     a wider range of ailments than the doctor's methods can reach.

Twichell was traveling in Europe that summer, and wrote from Switzerland:

     I seemed ever and anon to see you and me swinging along those
     glorious Alpine woods, staring at the new unfoldings of splendor
     that every turn brought into view-talking, talking, endlessly
     talking the days through-days forever memorable to me.  That was
     twenty-one years ago; think of it!  We were youngsters then, Mark,
     and how keen our relish of everything was!  Well, I can enjoy myself
     now; but not with that zest and rapture.  Oh, a lot of items of our
     tramp travel in 1878 that I had long forgotten came back to me as we
     sped through that enchanted region, and if I wasn't on duty with
     Venice I'd stop and set down some of them, but Venice must be
     attended to.  For one thing, there is Howells's book to be read at
     such intervals as can be snatched from the quick-time march on which
     our rustling leader keeps us.  However, in Venice so far we want to
     be gazing pretty steadily from morning till night, and by the grace
     of the gondola we can do it without exhaustion.  Really I am drunk
     with Venice.

But Clemens was full of Sweden.  The skies there and the sunsets be
thought surpassed any he had ever known.  On an evening in September he
wrote:

     DEAR JOE,--I've no business in here-I ought to be outside.  I shall
     never see another sunset to begin with it this side of heaven.
     Venice? land, what a poor interest that is!  This is the place to
     be.  I have seen about 60 sunsets here; & a good 40 of them were
     away & beyond anything I had ever imagined before for dainty &
     exquisite & marvelous beauty & infinite change & variety.  America?
     Italy?  the tropics?  They have no notion of what a sunset ought to
     be.  And this one--this unspeakable wonder!  It discounts all the
     rest.  It brings the tears, it is so unutterably beautiful.

Clemens read a book during his stay in Sweden which interested him
deeply.  It was the Open Question, by Elizabeth Robbins--a fine study of
life's sterner aspects.  When he had finished he was moved to write the
author this encouraging word:

     DEAR MISS ROBBINS,--A relative of Matthew Arnold lent us your 'Open
     Question' the other day, and Mrs. Clemens and I are in your debt.  I
     am not able to put in words my feeling about the book--my admiration
     of its depth and truth and wisdom and courage, and the fine and
     great literary art and grace of the setting.  At your age you cannot
     have lived the half of the things that are in the book, nor
     personally penetrated to the deeps it deals in, nor covered its wide
     horizons with your very own vision--and so, what is your secret?
     how have you written this miracle?  Perhaps one must concede that
     genius has no youth, but starts with the ripeness of age and old
     experience.

     Well, in any case, I am grateful to you.  I have not been so
     enriched by a book for many years, nor so enchanted by one.  I seem
     to be using strong language; still, I have weighed it.

                                   Sincerely yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.




CCVII

30, WELLINGTON COURT

Clemens himself took the Kellgren treatment and received a good deal of
benefit.

"I have come back in sound condition and braced for work," he wrote
MacAlister, upon his return to London.  "A long, steady, faithful siege
of it, and I begin now in five minutes."

They had settled in a small apartment at 30, Wellington Court, Albert
Gate, where they could be near the London branch of the Kellgren
institution, and he had a workroom with Chatto & Windus, his publishers.
His work, however, was mainly writing speeches, for he was entertained
constantly, and it seemed impossible for him to escape.  His note-book
became a mere jumble of engagements.  He did write an article or a story
now and then, one of which, "My First Lie, and How I Got Out of It," was
made the important Christmas feature of the 'New York Sunday World.'
--[Now included in the Hadleyburg volume; "Complete Works."]

Another article of this time was the "St. Joan of Arc," which several
years later appeared in Harper's Magazine.  This article was originally
written as the Introduction of the English translation of the official
record of the trials and rehabilitation of Joan, then about to be
elaborately issued.  Clemens was greatly pleased at being invited to
prepare the Introduction of this important volume, but a smug person with
pedagogic proclivities was in charge of the copy and proceeded to edit
Mark Twain's manuscript; to alter its phrasing to conform to his own
ideas of the Queen's English.  Then he had it all nicely typewritten, and
returned it to show how much he had improved it, and to receive thanks
and compliments.  He did not receive any thanks.  Clemens recorded a few
of the remarks that he made when he saw his edited manuscript:

     I will not deny that my feelings rose to 104 in the shade.  "The
     idea!  That this long-eared animal this literary kangaroo this
     illiterate hostler with his skull full of axle-grease--this....."
     But I stopped there, for this was not the Christian spirit.

His would-be editor received a prompt order to return the manuscript,
after which Clemens wrote a letter, some of which will go very well here.

     DEAR MR. X.,--I have examined the first page of my amended
     Introduction,--& will begin now & jot down some notes upon your
     corrections.  If I find any changes which shall not seem to me to be
     improvements I will point out my reasons for thinking so.  In this
     way I may chance to be helpful to you, & thus profit you perhaps as
     much as you have desired to profit me.

     First Paragraph.  "Jeanne d'Arc."  This is rather cheaply pedantic,
     & is not in very good taste.  Joan is not known by that name among
     plain people of our race & tongue.  I notice that the name of the
     Deity occurs several times in the brief instalment of the Trials
     which you have favored me with.  To be consistent, it will be
     necessary that you strike out "God" & put in "Dieu."  Do not neglect
     this.

     Second Paragraph.  Now you have begun on my punctuation.  Don't you
     realize that you ought not to intrude your help in a delicate art
     like that with your limitations?  And do you think that you have
     added just the right smear of polish to the closing clause of the
     sentence?

     Third Paragraph.  Ditto.

     Fourth Paragraph.  Your word "directly" is misleading; it could be
     construed to mean "at once."  Plain clarity is better than ornate
     obscurity.  I note your sensitive marginal remark: "Rather unkind to
     French feelings--referring to Moscow."  Indeed I have not been
     concerning myself about French feelings, but only about stating the
     facts.  I have said several uncourteous things about the French--
     calling them a "nation of ingrates" in one place--but you have been
     so busy editing commas & semicolons that you overlooked them &
     failed to get scared at them.  The next paragraph ends with a slur
     at the French, but I have reasons for thinking you mistook it for a
     compliment.  It is discouraging to try to penetrate a mind like
     yours.  You ought to get it out & dance on it.

     That would take some of the rigidity out of it.  And you ought to
     use it sometimes; that would help.  If you had done this every now &
     then along through life it would not have petrified.

     Fifth Paragraph.  Thus far I regard this as your masterpiece!  You
     are really perfect in the great art of reducing simple & dignified
     speech to clumsy & vapid commonplace.

     Sixth Paragraph.  You have a singularly fine & aristocratic
     disrespect for homely & unpretending English.  Every time I use "go
     back" you get out your polisher & slick it up to "return."  "Return"
     is suited only to the drawing-room--it is ducal, & says itself with
     a simper & a smirk.

     Seventh Paragraph.  "Permission" is ducal.  Ducal and affected.
     "Her" great days were not "over," they were only half over.  Didn't
     you know that?  Haven't you read anything at all about Joan of Arc?
     The truth is you do not pay any attention; I told you on my very
     first page that the public part of her career lasted two years, &
     you have forgotten it already.  You really must get your mind out
     and have it repaired; you see yourself that it is all caked
     together.

     Eighth Paragraph.  She "rode away to assault & capture a
     stronghold."  Very well; but you do not tell us whether she
     succeeded or not.  You should not worry the reader with
     uncertainties like that.  I will remind you once more that clarity
     is a good thing in literature.  An apprentice cannot do better than
     keep this useful rule in mind.

     Ninth Paragraph.  "Known" history.  That word has a polish which is
     too indelicate for me; there doesn't seem to be any sense in it.
     This would have surprised me last week.

     .  .  .  "Breaking a lance" is a knightly & sumptuous phrase, & I
     honor it for its hoary age & for the faithful service it has done in
     the prize-composition of the school-girl, but I have ceased from
     employing it since I got my puberty, & must solemnly object to
     fathering it here.  And, besides, it makes me hint that I have
     broken one of those things before in honor of the Maid, an
     intimation not justified by the facts.  I did not break any lances
     or other furniture; I only wrote a book about her.

                                   Truly yours,
                                             MARK TWAIN.


     It cost me something to restrain myself and say these smooth & half-
     flattering things of this immeasurable idiot, but I did it, & have
     never regretted it.  For it is higher & nobler to be kind to even a
     shad like him than just .  .  .  .  I could have said hundreds of
     unpleasant things about this tadpole, but I did not even feel them.

Yet, in the end, he seems not to have sent the letter.  Writing it had
served every purpose.

An important publishing event of 1899 was the issue by the American
Publishing Company of Mark Twain's "Complete Works in Uniform Edition."
Clemens had looked forward to the day when this should be done, perhaps
feeling that an assembling of his literary family in symmetrical dress
constituted a sort of official recognition of his authorship.  Brander
Matthews was selected to write the Introduction and prepared a fine
"Biographical Criticism," which pleased Clemens, though perhaps he did
not entirely agree with its views.  Himself of a different cast of mind,
he nevertheless admired Matthews.

Writing to Twichell he said:

     When you say, "I like Brander Matthews, he impresses me as a man of
     parts & power," I back you, right up to the hub--I feel the same
     way.  And when you say he has earned your gratitude for cuffing me
     for my crimes against the Leather-stockings & the Vicar I ain't
     making any objection.  Dern your gratitude!

     His article is as sound as a nut.  Brander knows literature & loves
     it; he can talk about it & keep his temper; he can state his case so
     lucidly & so fairly & so forcibly that you have to agree with him
     even when you don't agree with him; & he can discover & praise such
     merits as a book has even when they are merely half a dozen diamonds
     scattered through an acre of mud.  And so he has a right to be a
     critic.

     To detail just the opposite of the above invoice is to describe me.
     I haven't any right to criticize books, & I don't do it except when
     I hate them.  I often want to criticize Jane Austen, but her books
     madden me so that I can't conceal my frenzy from the reader; &
     therefore I have to stop every time I begin.'--[Once at a dinner
     given to Matthews, Mark Twain made a speech which consisted almost
     entirely of intonations of the name "Brander Matthews" to express
     various shades of human emotion.  It would be hopeless, of course,
     to attempt to convey in print any idea of this effort, which, by
     those who heard it, is said to have been a masterpiece of
     vocalization.]

Clemens also introduced the "Uniform Edition" with an Author's Preface,
the jurisdiction of which, he said, was "restricted to furnishing reasons
for the publication of the collection as a whole."

     This is not easy to do.  Aside from the ordinary commercial reasons
     I find none that I can offer with dignity: I cannot say without
     immodesty that the books have merit; I cannot say without immodesty
     that the public want a "Uniform Edition"; I cannot say without
     immodesty that a "Uniform Edition" will turn the nation toward high
     ideals & elevated thought; I cannot say without immodesty that a
     "Uniform Edition" will eradicate crime, though I think it will.  I
     find no reason that I can offer without immodesty except the rather
     poor one that I should like to see a "Uniform Edition" myself.  It
     is nothing; a cat could say it about her kittens.  Still, I believe
     I will stand upon that.  I have to have a Preface & a reason, by law
     of custom, & the reason which I am putting forward is at least
     without offense.




CCVIII

MARK TWAIN AND THE WARS

English troubles in South Africa came to a head that autumn.  On the day
when England's ultimatum to the Boers expired Clemens wrote:

     LONDON, 3.07 P.m., Wednesday, October 11, 1899.  The time is up!
     Without a doubt the first shot in the war is being fired to-day in
     South Africa at this moment.  Some man had to be the first to fall;
     he has fallen.  Whose heart is broken by this murder?  For, be he
     Boer or be he Briton, it is murder, & England committed it by the
     hand of Chamberlain & the Cabinet, the lackeys of Cecil Rhodes & his
     Forty Thieves, the South Africa Company.

Mark Twain would naturally sympathize with the Boer--the weaker side, the
man defending his home.  He knew that for the sake of human progress
England must conquer and must be upheld, but his heart was all the other
way.  In January, 1900, he wrote a characteristic letter to Twichell,
which conveys pretty conclusively his sentiments concerning the two wars
then in progress.

     DEAR JOE,--Apparently we are not proposing to set the Filipinos free
     & give their islands to them; & apparently we are not proposing to
     hang the priests & confiscate their property.  If these things are
     so the war out there has no interest for me.

     I have just been examining Chapter LXX of Following the Equator to
     see if the Boer's old military effectiveness is holding out.  It
     reads curiously as if it had been written about the present war.

     I believe that in the next chapter my notion of the Boer was rightly
     conceived.  He is popularly called uncivilized; I do not know why.
     Happiness, food, shelter, clothing, wholesome labor, modest &
     rational ambitions, honesty, kindliness, hospitality, love of
     freedom & limitless courage to fight for it, composure & fortitude
     in time of disaster, patience in time of hardship & privation,
     absence of noise & brag in time of victory, contentment with humble
     & peaceful life void of insane excitements--if there is a higher &
     better form of civilization than this I am not aware of it & do not
     know where to look for it.  I suppose that we have the habit of
     imagining that a lot of artistic & intellectual & other
     artificialities must be added or it isn't complete.  We & the
     English have these latter; but as we lack the great bulk of those
     others I think the Boer civilization is the best of the two.  My
     idea of our civilization is that it is a shoddy, poor thing & full
     of cruelties, vanities, arrogancies, meannesses, & hypocrisies.

     Provided we could get something better in the place of it.  But that
     is not possible perhaps.  Poor as it is, it is better than real
     savagery, therefore we must stand by it, extend it, & (in public)
     praise it.  And so we must not utter any hurtful word about England
     in these days, nor fail to hope that she will win in this war, for
     her defeat & fall would be an irremediable disaster for the mangy
     human race.  Naturally, then, I am for England; but she is
     profoundly in the wrong, Joe, & no (instructed) Englishman doubts
     it.  At least that is my belief.

Writing to Howells somewhat later, he calls the conflict in South Africa,
a "sordid and criminal war," and says that every day he is writing (in
his head) bitter magazine articles against it.

     But I have to stop with that.  Even if wrong--& she is wrong England
     must be upheld.  He is an enemy of the human race who shall speak
     against her now.  Why was the human race created?  Or at least why
     wasn't something creditable created in place of it?  .  .  .  I talk
     the war with both sides--always waiting until the other man
     introduces the topic.  Then I say, "My head is with the Briton, but
     my heart & such rags of morals as I have are with the Boer--now we
     will talk, unembarrassed and without prejudice."  And so we discuss
     & have no trouble.

     I notice that God is on both sides in this war; thus history repeats
     itself.  But I am the only person who has noticed this; everybody
     here thinks He is playing the game for this side, & for this side
     only.

Clemens wrote one article for anonymous publication in the Times.  But
when the manuscript was ready to mail in an envelope stamped and
addressed to Moberly Bell--he reconsidered and withheld it.  It still
lies in the envelope with the accompanying letter, which says:

Don't give me away, whether you print it or not.  But I think you ought
to print it and get up a squabble, for the weather is just suitable.





CCIX

PLASMON, AND A NEW MAGAZINE

Clemens was not wholly wedded to osteopathy.  The financial interest
which he had taken in the new milk albumen, "a food for invalids," tended
to divide his faith and make him uncertain as to which was to be the
chief panacea for all ills--osteopathy or plasmon.

MacAlister, who was deeply interested in the plasmon fortunes, was
anxious to get the product adopted by the army.  He believed, if he could
get an interview with the Medical Director-General, he could convince him
of its merits.  Discussing the matter with Clemens, the latter said:

"MacAlister, you are going at it from the wrong end.  You can't go direct
to that man, a perfect stranger, and convince him of anything.  Who is
his nearest friend?"

MacAlister knew a man on terms of social intimacy with the official.

Clemens said, "That is the man to speak to the Director-General."

"But I don't know him, either," said MacAlister.

"Very good.  Do you know any one who does know him?"

"Yes, I know his most intimate friend."

"Then he is the man for you to approach.  Convince him that plasmon is
what the army needs, that the military hospitals are suffering for it.
Let him understand that what you want is to get this to the Director-
General, and in due time it will get to him in the proper way.  You'll
see."

This proved to be a true prophecy.  It was only a little while until the
British army had experimented with plasmon and adopted it.  MacAlister
reported the success of the scheme to Clemens, and out of it grew the
story entitled, "Two Little Tales," published in November of the
following year (1901) in the Century Magazine.  Perhaps the reader will
remember that in the "Two Little Tales" the Emperor is very ill and the
lowest of all his subjects knows a certain remedy, but he cannot seek the
Emperor direct, so he wisely approaches him through a series of
progressive stages--finally reaching and curing his stricken Majesty.

Clemens had the courage of his investments.  He adopted plasmon as his
own daily food, and induced various members of the family to take it in
its more palatable forms, one of these being a preparation of chocolate.
He kept the reading-table by his bed well stocked with a variety of the
products and invited various callers to try a complimentary sample lot.
It was really an excellent and harmless diet, and both the company and
its patients would seem to have prospered--perhaps are prospering still.

There was another business opportunity came along just at this time.
S. S. McClure was in England with a proposition for starting a new
magazine whose complexion was to be peculiarly American, with Mark Twain
as its editor.  The magazine was to be called 'The Universal', and by the
proposition Clemens was to receive a tenth interest in it for his first
year's work, and an added twentieth interest for each of the two
succeeding years, with a guarantee that his shares should not earn him
less than five thousand dollars the first year, with a proportionate
increase as his holdings grew.

The scheme appealed to Clemens, it being understood in the beginning that
he was to give very little time to the work, with the privilege of doing
it at his home, wherever that might happen to be.  He wrote of the matter
to Mr. Rogers, explaining in detail, and Rogers replied, approving the
plan.  Mr. Rogers said he knew that he [Rogers] would have to do most of
the work in editing the magazine, and further added:

     One thing I shall insist upon, however, if I have anything to do
     with the matter, and it is this: that when you have made up your
     mind on the subject you will stick to it.  I have not found in your
     composition that element of stubbornness which is a constant source
     of embarrassment to me in all friendly and social ways, but which,
     when applied to certain lines of business, brings in the dollar and
     fifty-cent pieces.  If you accept the position, of course that means
     that you have to come to this country.  If you do, the yachting will
     be a success.

There was considerable correspondence with McClure over the new
periodical.  In one letter Clemens set forth his general views of the
matter quite clearly:

     Let us not deceive any one, nor allow any one to deceive himself, if
     it can be prevented.  This is not to be comic magazine.  It is to be
     simply a good, clean, wholesome collection of well-written &
     enticing literary products, like the other magazines of its class;
     not setting itself to please but one of man's moods, but all of
     them.  It will not play but one kind of music, but all kinds.  I
     should not be able to edit a comic periodical satisfactorily, for
     lack of interest in the work.  I value humor highly, & am
     constitutionally fond of it, but I should not like it as a steady
     diet.  For its own best interests, humor should take its outings in
     grave company; its cheerful dress gets heightened color from the
     proximity of sober hues.  For me to edit a comic magazine would be
     an incongruity & out of character, for of the twenty-three books
     which I have written eighteen do not deal in humor as their chiefs
     feature, but are half & half admixtures of fun & seriousness.  I
     think I have seldom deliberately set out to be humorous, but have
     nearly always allowed the humor to drop in or stay out, according to
     its fancy.  Although I have many times been asked to write something
     humorous for an editor or a publisher I have had wisdom enough to
     decline; a person could hardly be humorous with the other man
     watching him like that.  I have never tried to write a humorous
     lecture; I have only tried to write serious ones--it is the only way
     not to succeed.

     I shall write for this magazine every time the spirit moves me; but
     I look for my largest entertainment in editing.  I have been edited
     by all kinds of people for more than thirty-eight years; there has
     always been somebody in authority over my manuscript & privileged to
     improve it; this has fatigued me a good deal, & I have often longed
     to move up from the dock to the bench & rest myself and fatigue
     others.  My opportunity is come, but I hope I shall not abuse it
     overmuch.  I mean to do my best to make a good magazine; I mean to
     do my whole duty, & not shirk any part of it.  There are plenty of
     distinguished artists, novelists, poets, story-tellers,
     philosophers, scientists, explorers, fighters, hunters, followers of
     the sea, & seekers of adventure; & with these to do the hard & the
     valuable part of the work with the pen & the pencil it will be
     comfort & joy to me to walk the quarter-deck & superintend.

Meanwhile McClure's enthusiasm had had time to adjust itself to certain
existing facts.  Something more than a month later he wrote from America
at considerable length, setting forth the various editorial duties and
laying stress upon the feature of intimate physical contact with the
magazine.  He went into the matter of the printing schedule, the various
kinds of paper used, the advertising pages, illustrations--into all the
detail, indeed, which a practical managing editor must compass in his
daily rounds.  It was pretty evident that Clemens would not be able to go
sailing about on Mr. Rogers's yacht or live at will in London or New York
or Vienna or Elmira, but that he would be more or less harnessed to a
revolving chair at an editorial desk, the thing which of all fates he
would be most likely to dread The scheme appears to have died there--the
correspondence to have closed.

Somewhat of the inducement in the McClure scheme had been the thought in
Clemens's mind that it would bring him back to America.  In a letter to
Mr. Rogers (January 8, 1900) he said, "I am tired to death of this
everlasting exile."  Mrs. Clemens often wrote that he was restlessly
impatient to return.  They were, in fact, constantly discussing the
practicability of returning to their own country now and opening the
Hartford home.  Clemens was ready to do that or to fall in with any plan
that would bring him across the water and settle him somewhere
permanently.  He was tired of the wandering life they had been leading.
Besides the long trip of '95 and '96 they had moved two or three times a
year regularly since leaving Hartford, nine years before.  It seemed to
him that they were always packing and unpacking.

"The poor man is willing to live anywhere if we will only let him 'stay
put,"  wrote Mrs. Clemens, but he did want to settle in his own land.
Mrs. Clemens, too, was weary with wandering, but the Hartford home no
longer held any attraction for her.  There had been a time when her every
letter dwelt on their hope of returning to it.  Now the thought filled
her with dread.  To her sister she wrote:

Do you think we can live through the first going into the house in
Hartford?  I feel if we had gotten through the first three months all
might be well, but consider the first night.

The thought of the responsibility of that great house--the taking up
again of the old life-disheartened her, too.  She had added years and she
had not gained in health or strength.

     When I was comparatively young I found the burden of that house very
     great.  I don't think I was ever fitted for housekeeping.  I dislike
     the practical part of it so much.  I hate it when the servants don't
     do well, and I hate the correcting them.

     Yet no one ever had better discipline in her domestic affairs or
     ever commanded more devoted service.  Her strength of character and
     the proportions of her achievement show large when we consider this
     confession.

They planned to return in the spring, but postponed the date for sailing.
Jean was still under Kellgren's treatment, and, though a cure had been
promised her, progress was discouragingly slow.  They began to look about
for summer quarters in or near London.




CCX

LONDON SOCIAL AFFAIRS

All this time Clemens had been tossing on the London social tide.  There
was a call for him everywhere.  No distinguished visitor of whatever
profession or rank but must meet Mark Twain.  The King of Sweden was
among his royal conquests of that season.

He was more happy with men of his own kind.  He was often with Moberly
Bell, editor of the Times; E. A. Abbey, the painter; Sir Henry Lucy, of
Punch (Toby, M.P.); James Bryce, and Herbert Gladstone; and there were a
number of brilliant Irishmen who were his special delight.  Once with
Mrs. Clemens he dined with the author of his old favorite, 'European
Morals', William E. H. Lecky.  Lady Gregory was there and Sir Dennis
Fitz-Patrick; who had been Governor-General at Lahore when they were in
India, and a number of other Irish ladies and gentlemen.  It was a
memorable evening.  To Twichell Clemens wrote:

     Joe, do you know the Irish gentleman & the Irish lady, the Scotch
     gentleman & the Scotch lady?  These are darlings, every one.  Night
     before last it was all Irish--24.  One would have to travel far to
     match their ease & sociability & animation & sparkle & absence of
     shyness & self-consciousness.  It was American in these fine
     qualities.  This was at Mr. Lecky's.  He is Irish, you know.  Last
     night it was Irish again, at Lady Gregory's.  Lord Roberts is Irish,
     & Sir William Butler, & Kitchener, I think, & a disproportion of the
     other prominent generals are of Irish & Scotch breed keeping up the
     traditions of Wellington & Sir Colin Campbell, of the Mutiny.  You
     will have noticed that in S. A., as in the Mutiny, it is usually the
     Irish & Scotch that are placed in the forefront of the battle....
     Sir William Butler said, "the Celt is the spearhead of the British
     lance."

He mentions the news from the African war, which had been favorable to
England, and what a change had come over everything in consequence.  The
dinner-parties had been lodges of sorrow and depressing.  Now everybody
was smiling again.  In a note-book entry of this time he wrote:

     Relief of Mafeking (May 18, 1900).  The news came at 9.17 P.M.
     Before 10 all London was in the streets, gone mad with joy.  By then
     the news was all over the American continent.

Clemens had been talking copyright a good deal in London, and introducing
it into his speeches.  Finally, one day he was summoned before a
committee of the House of Lords to explain his views.  His old idea that
the product of a man's brain is his property in perpetuity and not for
any term of years had not changed, and they permitted him to dilate on
this (to them) curious doctrine.  The committee consisted of Lords
Monkswell, Knutsford, Avebury, Farrar, and Thwing.  When they asked for
his views he said:

"In my opinion the copyright laws of England and America need only the
removal of the forty-two-year limit and the return to perpetual copyright
to be perfect.  I consider that at least one of the reasons advanced in
justification of limited copyright is fallacious--namely, the one which
makes a distinction between an author's property and real estate, and
pretends that the two are not created, produced, or acquired in the same
way, thus warranting a different treatment of the two by law."

Continuing, he dwelt on the ancient doctrine that there was no property
in an idea, showing how the far greater proportion of all property
consisted of nothing more than elaborated ideas--the steamship,
locomotive, telephone, the vast buildings in the world, how all of these
had been constructed upon a basic idea precisely as a book is
constructed, and were property only as a book is property, and therefore
rightly subject to the same laws.  He was carefully and searchingly
examined by that shrewd committee.  He kept them entertained and
interested and left them in good-nature, even if not entirely converted.
The papers printed his remarks, and London found them amusing.

A few days after the copyright session, Clemens, responding to the toast,
"Literature," at the Royal Literary Fund Banquet, made London laugh
again, and early in June he was at the Savoy Hotel welcoming Sir Henry
Irving back to England after one of his successful American tours.

On the Fourth of July (1900) Clemens dined with the Lord Chief-Justice,
and later attended an American banquet at the Hotel Cecil.  He arrived
late, when a number of the guests were already going.  They insisted,
however, that he make a speech, which he did, and considered the evening
ended.  It was not quite over.  A sequel to his "Luck" story, published
nine years before, suddenly developed.

To go back a little, the reader may recall that "Luck" was a story which
Twichell had told him as being supposedly true.  The hero of it was a
military officer who had risen to the highest rank through what at least
seemed to be sheer luck, including a number of fortunate blunders.
Clemens thought the story improbable, but wrote it and laid it away for
several years, offering it at last in the general house-cleaning which
took place after the first collapse of the machine.  It was published in
Harper's Magazine for August, 1891, and something less than a year later,
in Rome, an English gentleman--a new acquaintance--said to him:

"Mr. Clemens, shall you go to England?"

"Very likely."

"Shall you take your tomahawk with you?"

"Why--yes, if it shall seem best."

"Well, it will.  Be advised.  Take it with you."

"Why?"

"Because of that sketch of yours entitled 'Luck.' That sketch is current
in England, and you will surely need your tomahawk."

"What makes you think so?"

"I think so because the hero of the sketch will naturally want your
scalp, and will probably apply for it.  Be advised.  Take your tomahawk
along."

"Why, even with it I sha'n't stand any chance, because I sha'n't know him
when he applies, and he will have my scalp before I know what his errand
is."

"Come, do you mean to say that you don't know who the hero of that sketch
is?"

"Indeed I haven't any idea who the hero of the sketch is.  Who is it?"

His informant hesitated a moment, then named a name of world-wide
military significance.

As Mask Twain finished his Fourth of July speech at the Cecil and started
to sit down a splendidly uniformed and decorated personage at his side
said:

"Mr. Clemens, I have been wanting to know you a long time," and he was
looking down into the face of the hero of "Luck."

"I was caught unprepared," he said in his notes of it.  "I didn't sit
down--I fell down.  I didn't have my tomahawk, and I didn't know what
would happen.  But he was, composed, and pretty soon I got composed and
we had a good, friendly time.  If he had ever heard of that sketch of
mine he did not manifest it in any way, and at twelve, midnight, I took
my scalp home intact."




CCXI

DOLLIS HILL AND HOME

It was early in July, 1900, that they removed to Dollis Hill House, a
beautiful old residence surrounded by trees on a peaceful hilltop, just
outside of London.  It was literally within a stone's-throw of the city
limits, yet it was quite rural, for the city had not overgrown it then,
and it retained all its pastoral features--a pond with lily-pads, the
spreading oaks, the wide spaces of grassy lawn.  Gladstone, an intimate
friend of the owner, had made it a favorite retreat at one period of his
life, and the place to-day is converted into a public garden called
Gladstone Park.  The old English diplomat used to drive out and sit in
the shade of the trees and read and talk and translate Homer, and pace
the lawn as he planned diplomacy, and, in effect, govern the English
empire from that retired spot.

Clemens, in some memoranda made at the moment, doubts if Gladstone was
always at peace in his mind in this retirement.

"Was he always really tranquil within," he says, "or was he only
externally so--for effect?  We cannot know; we only know that his rustic
bench under his favorite oak has no bark on its arms.  Facts like this
speak louder than words."

The red-brick residential wave of London was still some distance away in
1900.  Clemens says:

     The rolling sea of green grass still stretches away on every hand,
     splotches with shadows of spreading oaks in whose black coolness
     flocks of sheep lie peacefully dreaming.  Dreaming of what?  That
     they are in London, the metropolis of the world, Post-office
     District, N. W.?  Indeed no.  They are not aware of it.  I am aware
     of it, but that is all.  It is not possible to realize it.  For
     there is no suggestion of city here; it is country, pure & simple,
     & as still & reposeful as is the bottom of the sea.

They all loved Dollis Hill.  Mrs. Clemens wrote as if she would like to
remain forever in that secluded spot.

     It is simply divinely beautiful & peaceful; .  .  .  the great old
     trees are beyond everything.  I believe nowhere in the world do you
     find such trees as in England .  .  .  .  Jean has a hammock swung
     between two such great trees, & on the other side of a little pond,
     which is full of white & yellow pond-lilies, there is tall grass &
     trees & Clara & Jean go there in the afternoons, spread down a rug
     on the grass in the shade & read & sleep.

They all spent most of their time outdoors at Dollis Hill under those
spreading trees.

Clemens to Twichell in midsummer wrote:

     I am the only person who is ever in the house in the daytime, but I
     am working & deep in the luxury of it.  But there is one tremendous
     defect.  Livy is all so enchanted with the place & so in love with
     it that she doesn't know how she is going to tear herself away from
     it.

Much company came to them at Dollis Hill.  Friends drove out from London,
and friends from America came often, among them--the Sages, Prof.
Willard Fiske, and Brander Matthews with his family.  Such callers were
served with tea and refreshment on the lawn, and lingered, talking and
talking, while the sun got lower and the shadows lengthened, reluctant to
leave that idyllic spot.

"Dollis Hill comes nearer to being a paradise than any other home I ever
occupied," he wrote when the summer was about over.

But there was still a greater attraction than Dollis Hill.  Toward the
end of summer they willingly left that paradise, for they had decided at
last to make that home-returning voyage which had invited them so long.
They were all eager enough to go--Clemens more eager than the rest,
though he felt a certain sadness, too, in leaving the tranquil spot which
in a brief summer they had so learned to love.

Writing to W. H. Helm, a London newspaper man who had spent pleasant
hours with him chatting in the shade, he said:

     .  .  .  The packing & fussing & arranging have begun, for the
     removal to America &, by consequence, the peace of life is marred &
     its contents & satisfactions are departing.  There is not much
     choice between a removal & a funeral; in fact, a removal is a
     funeral, substantially, & I am tired of attending them.

They closed Dollis Hill, spent a few days at Brown's Hotel, and sailed
for America, on the Minnehaha, October 6, 1900, bidding, as Clemens
believed, and hoped, a permanent good-by to foreign travel.  They reached
New York on the 15th, triumphantly welcomed after their long nine years
of wandering.  How glad Mark Twain was to get home may be judged from his
remark to one of the many reporters who greeted him.

     "If I ever get ashore I am going to break both of my legs so I
     can't, get away again."




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext Volume 2, Part 2 of MARK TWAIN,
A BIOGRAPHY by Albert Bigelow Paine






MARK TWAIN, A BIOGRAPHY

By Albert Bigelow Paine



VOLUME III, Part 1: 1900-1907



CCXII

THE RETURN OF THE CONQUEROR

It would be hard to exaggerate the stir which the newspapers and the
public generally made over the homecoming of Mark Twain.  He had left
America, staggering under heavy obligation and set out on a pilgrimage of
redemption.  At the moment when this Mecca, was in view a great sorrow
had befallen him and, stirred a world-wide and soul-deep tide of human
sympathy.  Then there had followed such ovation as has seldom been
conferred upon a private citizen, and now approaching old age, still in
the fullness of his mental vigor, he had returned to his native soil with
the prestige of these honors upon him and the vast added glory of having
made his financial fight single-handed-and won.

He was heralded literally as a conquering hero.  Every paper in the land
had an editorial telling the story of his debts, his sorrow, and his
triumphs.

"He had behaved like Walter Scott," says Howells, "as millions rejoiced
to know who had not known how Walter Scott had behaved till they knew it
was like Clemens."

Howells acknowledges that he had some doubts as to the permanency of the
vast acclaim of the American public, remembering, or perhaps assuming, a
national fickleness.  Says Howells:

     He had hitherto been more intelligently accepted or more largely
     imagined in Europe, and I suppose it was my sense of this that
     inspired the stupidity of my saying to him when we came to consider
     "the state of polite learning" among us, "You mustn't expect people
     to keep it up here as they do in England."  But it appeared that his
     countrymen were only wanting the chance, and they kept it up in
     honor of him past all precedent.

Clemens went to the Earlington Hotel and began search for a furnished
house in New York.  They would not return to Hartford--at least not yet.
The associations there were still too sad, and they immediately became
more so.  Five days after Mark Twain's return to America, his old friend
and co-worker, Charles Dudley Warner, died.  Clemens went to Hartford to
act as a pall-bearer and while there looked into the old home.  To
Sylvester Baxter, of Boston, who had been present, he wrote a few days
later:

     It was a great pleasure to me to renew the other days with you, &
     there was a pathetic pleasure in seeing Hartford & the house again;
     but I realized that if we ever enter the house again to live our
     hearts will break.  I am not sure that we shall ever be strong
     enough to endure that strain.

Even if the surroundings had been less sorrowful it is not likely that
Clemens would have returned to Hartford at this time.  He had become a
world-character, a dweller in capitals.  Everywhere he moved a world
revolved about him.  Such a figure in Germany would live naturally in
Berlin; in England London; in France, Paris; in Austria, Vienna; in
America his headquarters could only be New York.

Clemens empowered certain of his friends to find a home for him, and Mr.
Frank N. Doubleday discovered an attractive and handsomely furnished
residence at 14 West Tenth Street, which was promptly approved.
Doubleday, who was going to Boston, left orders with the agent to draw
the lease and take it up to the new tenant for signature.  To Clemens he
said:

"The house is as good as yours.  All you've got to do is to sign the
lease.  You can consider it all settled."

When Doubleday returned from Boston a few days later the agent called on
him and complained that he couldn't find Mark Twain anywhere.  It was
reported at his hotel that he had gone and left no address.  Doubleday
was mystified; then, reflecting, he had an inspiration.  He walked over
to 14 West Tenth Street and found what he had suspected--Mark Twain had
moved in.  He had convinced the caretaker that everything was all right
and he was quite at home.  Doubleday said:

"Why, you haven't executed the lease yet."

"No," said Clemens, "but you said the house was as good as mine," to
which Doubleday agreed, but suggested that they go up to the real-estate
office and give the agent notice that he was in possession of the
premises.

Doubleday's troubles were not quite over, however.  Clemens began to find
defects in his new home and assumed to hold Doubleday responsible for
them.  He sent a daily postal card complaining of the windows, furnace,
the range, the water-whatever he thought might lend interest to
Doubleday's life.  As a matter of fact, he was pleased with the place.
To MacAlister he wrote:

     We were very lucky to get this big house furnished.  There was not
     another one in town procurable that would answer us, but this one is
     all right-space enough in it for several families, the rooms all
     old-fashioned, great size.

The house at 14 West Tenth Street became suddenly one of the most
conspicuous residences in New York.  The papers immediately made its
appearance familiar.  Many people passed down that usually quiet street,
stopping to observe or point out where Mark Twain lived.  There was a
constant procession of callers of every kind.  Many were friends, old and
new, but there was a multitude of strangers.  Hundreds came merely to
express their appreciation of his work, hoping for a personal word or a
hand-shake or an autograph; but there were other hundreds who came with
this thing and that thing--axes to grind--and there were newspaper
reporters to ask his opinion on politics, or polygamy, or woman's
suffrage; on heaven and hell and happiness; on the latest novel; on the
war in Africa, the troubles in China; on anything under the sun,
important or unimportant, interesting or inane, concerning which one
might possibly hold an opinion.  He was unfailing "copy" if they could
but get a word with him.  Anything that he might choose to say upon any
subject whatever was seized upon and magnified and printed with
head-lines.  Sometimes opinions were invented for him.  If he let fall a
few words they were multiplied into a column interview.

"That reporter worked a miracle equal to the loaves and fishes," he said
of one such performance.

Many men would have become annoyed and irritable as these things
continued; but Mark Twain was greater than that.  Eventually he employed
a secretary to stand between him and the wash of the tide, as a sort of
breakwater; but he seldom lost his temper no matter what was the request
which was laid before him, for he recognized underneath it the great
tribute of a great nation.

Of course his literary valuation would be affected by the noise of the
general applause.  Magazines and syndicates besought him for manuscripts.
He was offered fifty cents and even a dollar a word for whatever he might
give them.  He felt a child-like gratification in these evidences of his
market advancement, but he was not demoralized by them.  He confined his
work to a few magazines, and in November concluded an arrangement with
the new management of Harper & Brothers, by which that firm was to have
the exclusive serial privilege of whatever he might write at a fixed rate
of twenty cents per word--a rate increased to thirty cents by a later
contract, which also provided an increased royalty for the publication of
his books.

The United States, as a nation, does not confer any special honors upon
private citizens.  We do not have decorations and titles, even though
there are times when it seems that such things might be not
inappropriately conferred.  Certain of the newspapers, more lavish in
their enthusiasm than others, were inclined to propose, as one paper
phrased it, "Some peculiar recognition--something that should appeal to
Samuel L.  Clemens, the man, rather than to Mark Twain, the literate.
Just what form this recognition should take is doubtful, for the case has
no exact precedent."

Perhaps the paper thought that Mark Twain was entitled--as he himself
once humorously suggested-to the "thanks of Congress" for having come
home alive and out of debt, but it is just as well that nothing of the
sort was ever seriously considered.  The thanks of the public at large
contained more substance, and was a tribute much more to his mind.  The
paper above quoted ended by suggesting a very large dinner and memorial
of welcome as being more in keeping with the republican idea and the
American expression of good-will.

But this was an unneeded suggestion.  If he had eaten all the dinners
proposed he would not have lived to enjoy his public honors a month.  As
it was, he accepted many more dinners than he could eat, and presently
fell into the habit of arriving when the banqueting was about over and
the after-dinner speaking about to begin.  Even so the strain told on
him.

"His friends saw that he was wearing himself out," says Howells, and
perhaps this was true, for he grew thin and pale and contracted a hacking
cough.  He did not spare himself as often as he should have done.  Once
to Richard Watson Gilder he sent this line of regrets:

     In bed with a chest cold and other company--Wednesday.
     DEAR GILDER,--I can't.  If I were a well man I could explain with
     this pencil, but in the cir---ces I will leave it all to your
     imagination.

     Was it Grady who killed himself trying to do all the dining and
     speeching?

     No, old man, no, no!     Ever yours,    MARK.


He became again the guest of honor at the Lotos Club, which had dined him
so lavishly seven years before, just previous to his financial collapse.
That former dinner had been a distinguished occasion, but never before
had the Lotos Club been so brimming with eager hospitality as on the
second great occasion.  In closing his introductory speech President
Frank Lawrence said, "We hail him as one who has borne great burdens with
manliness and courage, who has emerged from great struggles victorious,"
and the assembled diners roared out their applause.  Clemens in his reply
said:

     Your president has referred to certain burdens which I was weighted
     with.  I am glad he did, as it gives me an opportunity which I
     wanted--to speak of those debts.  You all knew what he meant when he
     referred to it, & of the poor bankrupt firm of C. L. Webster & Co.
     No one has said a word about those creditors.  There were ninety-six
     creditors in all, & not by a finger's weight did ninety-five out of
     the ninety-six add to the burden of that time.  They treated me
     well; they treated me handsomely.  I never knew I owed them
     anything; not a sign came from them.

It was like him to make that public acknowledgment.  He could not let an
unfair impression remain that any man or any set of men had laid an
unnecessary burden upon him-his sense of justice would not consent to it.
He also spoke on that occasion of certain national changes.

     How many things have happened in the seven years I have been away
     from home!  We have fought a righteous war, and a righteous war is a
     rare thing in history.  We have turned aside from our own comfort
     and seen to it that freedom should exist, not only within our own
     gates, but in our own neighborhood.  We have set Cuba free and
     placed her among the galaxy of free nations of the world.  We
     started out to set those poor Filipinos free, but why that righteous
     plan miscarried perhaps I shall never know.  We have also been
     making a creditable showing in China, and that is more than all the
     other powers can say.  The "Yellow Terror" is threatening the world,
     but no matter what happens the United States says that it has had no
     part in it.

     Since I have been away we have been nursing free silver.  We have
     watched by its cradle, we have done our best to raise that child,
     but every time it seemed to be getting along nicely along came some
     pestiferous Republican and gave it the measles or something.  I fear
     we will never raise that child.

     We've done more than that.  We elected a President four years ago.
     We've found fault and criticized him, and here a day or two ago we
     go and elect him for another four years, with votes enough to spare
     to do it over again.

One club followed another in honoring Mark Twain--the Aldine, the St.
Nicholas, the Press clubs, and other associations and societies.  His old
friends were at these dinners--Howells, Aldrich, Depew, Rogers,
ex-Speaker Reed--and they praised him and gibed him to his and their
hearts' content.

It was a political year, and he generally had something to say on matters
municipal, national, or international; and he spoke out more and more
freely, as with each opportunity he warmed more righteously to his
subject.

At the dinner given to him by the St. Nicholas Club he said, with deep
irony:

     Gentlemen, you have here the best municipal government in the world,
     and the most fragrant and the purest.  The very angels of heaven
     envy you and wish they had a government like it up there.  You got
     it by your noble fidelity to civic duty; by the stern and ever
     watchful exercise of the great powers lodged in you as lovers and
     guardians of your city; by your manly refusal to sit inert when base
     men would have invaded her high places and possessed them; by your
     instant retaliation when any insult was offered you in her person,
     or any assault was made upon her fair fame.  It is you who have made
     this government what it is, it is you who have made it the envy and
     despair of the other capitals of the world--and God bless you for
     it, gentlemen, God bless you!  And when you get to heaven at last
     they'll say with joy, "Oh, there they come, the representatives of
     the perfectest citizenship in the universe show them the archangel's
     box and turn on the limelight!"

Those hearers who in former years had been indifferent to Mark Twain's
more serious purpose began to realize that, whatever he may have been
formerly, he was by no means now a mere fun-maker, but a man of deep and
grave convictions, able to give them the fullest and most forcible
expression.  He still might make them laugh, but he also made them think,
and he stirred them to a truer gospel of patriotism.  He did not preach a
patriotism that meant a boisterous cheering of the Stars and Stripes
right or wrong, but a patriotism that proposed to keep the Stars and
Stripes clean and worth shouting for.  In an article, perhaps it was a
speech, begun at this time he wrote:

     We teach the boys to atrophy their independence.  We teach them to
     take their patriotism at second-hand; to shout with the largest
     crowd without examining into the right or wrong of the matter--
     exactly as boys under monarchies are taught and have always been
     taught.  We teach them to regard as traitors, and hold in aversion
     and contempt, such as do not shout with the crowd, & so here in our
     democracy we are cheering a thing which of all things is most
     foreign to it & out of place--the delivery of our political
     conscience into somebody else's keeping.  This is patriotism on the
     Russian plan.

Howells tells of discussing these vital matters with him in "an upper
room, looking south over a quiet, open space of back yards where," he
says, "we fought our battles in behalf of the Filipinos and Boers, and he
carried on his campaign against the missionaries in China."

Howells at the time expressed an amused fear that Mark Twain's
countrymen, who in former years had expected him to be merely a humorist,
should now, in the light of his wider acceptance abroad, demand that he
be mainly serious.

But the American people were quite ready to accept him in any of his
phases, fully realizing that whatever his philosophy or doctrine it would
have somewhat of the humorous form, and whatever his humor, there would
somewhere be wisdom in it.  He had in reality changed little; for a
generation he had thought the sort of things which he now, with advanced
years and a different audience, felt warranted in uttering openly.  The
man who in '64 had written against corruption in San Francisco, who a few
years later had defended the emigrant Chinese against persecution, who at
the meetings of the Monday Evening Club had denounced hypocrisy in
politics, morals, and national issues, did not need to change to be able
to speak out against similar abuses now.  And a newer generation as
willing to herald Mark Twain as a sage as well as a humorist, and on
occasion to quite overlook the absence of the cap and bells.




CCXIII

MARK TWAIN--GENERAL SPOKESMAN

Clemens did not confine his speeches altogether to matters of reform.  At
a dinner given by the Nineteenth Century Club in November, 1900, he spoke
on the "Disappearance of Literature," and at the close of the discussion
of that subject, referring to Milton and Scott, he said:

     Professor Winchester also said something about there being no modern
     epics like "Paradise Lost."  I guess he's right.  He talked as if he
     was pretty familiar with that piece of literary work, and nobody
     would suppose that he never had read it.  I don't believe any of you
     have ever read "Paradise Lost," and you don't want to.  That's
     something that you just want to take on trust.  It's a classic, just
     as Professor Winchester says, and it meets his definition of a
     classic--something that everybody wants to have read and nobody
     wants to read.

     Professor Trent also had a good deal to say about the disappearance
     of literature.  He said that Scott would outlive all his critics.
     I guess that's true.  That fact of the business is you've got to be
     one of two ages to appreciate Scott.  When you're eighteen you can
     read Ivanhoe, and you want to wait until you're ninety to read some
     of the rest.  It takes a pretty well-regulated abstemious critic to
     live ninety years.

But a few days later he was back again in the forefront of reform,
preaching at the Berkeley Lyceum against foreign occupation in China.
It was there that he declared himself a Boxer.

     Why should not China be free from the foreigners, who are only
     making trouble on her soil?  If they would only all go home what a
     pleasant place China would be for the Chinese!  We do not allow
     Chinamen to come here, and I say, in all seriousness, that it would
     be a graceful thing to let China decide who shall go there.

     China never wanted foreigners any more than foreigners wanted
     Chinamen, and on this question I am with the Boxers every time.  The
     Boxer is a patriot.  He loves his country better than he does the
     countries of other people.  I wish him success.  We drive the
     Chinaman out of our country; the Boxer believes in driving us out of
     his country.  I am a Boxer, too, on those terms.

Introducing Winston Churchill, of England, at a dinner some weeks later,
he explained how generous England and America had been in not requiring
fancy rates for "extinguished missionaries" in China as Germany had done.
Germany had required territory and cash, he said, in payment for her
missionaries, while the United States and England had been willing to
settle for produce--firecrackers and tea.

The Churchill introduction would seem to have been his last speech for
the year 1900, and he expected it, with one exception, to be the last for
a long time.  He realized that he was tired and that the strain upon him
made any other sort of work out of the question.  Writing to MacAlister
at the end of the year, he said, "I seem to have made many speeches, but
it is not so.  It is not more than ten, I think."  Still, a respectable
number in the space of two months, considering that each was carefully
written and committed to memory, and all amid crushing social pressure.
Again to MacAlister:

     I declined 7 banquets yesterday (which is double the daily average)
     & answered 29 letters.  I have slaved at my mail every day since we
     arrived in mid-October, but Jean is learning to typewrite &
     presently I'll dictate & thereby save some scraps of time.

He added that after January 4th he did not intend to speak again for a
year--that he would not speak then only that the matter concerned the
reform of city government.

The occasion of January 4, 1901, was a rather important one.  It was a
meeting of the City Club, then engaged in the crusade for municipal
reform.  Wheeler H. Peckham presided, and Bishop Potter made the opening
address.  It all seems like ancient history now, and perhaps is not very
vital any more; but the movement was making a great stir then, and Mark
Twain's declaration that he believed forty-nine men out of fifty were
honest, and that the forty-nine only needed to organize to disqualify the
fiftieth man (always organized for crime), was quoted as a sort of slogan
for reform.

Clemens was not permitted to keep his resolution that he wouldn't speak
again that year.  He had become a sort of general spokesman on public
matters, and demands were made upon him which could not be denied.  He
declined a Yale alumni dinner, but he could not refuse to preside at the
Lincoln Birthday celebration at Carnegie Hall, February 11th, where he
must introduce Watterson as the speaker of the evening.

"Think of it!" he wrote Twichell.  "Two old rebels functioning there: I
as president and Watterson as orator of the day!  Things have changed
somewhat in these forty years, thank God!"

The Watterson introduction is one of the choicest of Mark Twain's
speeches--a pure and perfect example of simple eloquence, worthy of the
occasion which gave it utterance, worthy in spite of its playful
paragraphs (or even because of them, for Lincoln would have loved them),
to become the matrix of that imperishable Gettysburg phrase with which he
makes his climax.  He opened by dwelling for a moment on Colonel
Watterson as a soldier, journalist, orator, statesman, and patriot; then
he said:

     It is a curious circumstance that without collusion of any kind, but
     merely in obedience to a strange and pleasant and dramatic freak of
     destiny, he and I, kinsmen by blood--[Colonel Watterson's forebears
     had intermarried with the Lamptons.]--for we are that--and one-time
     rebels--for we were that--should be chosen out of a million
     surviving quondam rebels to come here and bare our heads in
     reverence and love of that noble soul whom 40 years ago we tried
     with all our hearts and all our strength to defeat and dispossess--
     Abraham Lincoln!  Is the Rebellion ended and forgotten?  Are the
     Blue and the Gray one to-day?  By authority of this sign we may
     answer yes; there was a Rebellion--that incident is closed.

     I was born and reared in a slave State, my father was a slaveowner;
     and in the Civil War I was a second lieutenant in the Confederate
     service.  For a while.  This second cousin of mine, Colonel
     Watterson, the orator of this present occasion, was born and reared
     in a slave State, was a colonel in the Confederate service, and
     rendered me such assistance as he could in my self-appointed great
     task of annihilating the Federal armies and breaking up the Union.
     I laid my plans with wisdom and foresight, and if Colonel Watterson
     had obeyed my orders I should have succeeded in my giant
     undertaking.  It was my intention to drive General Grant into the
     Pacific--if I could get transportation--and I told Colonel Watterson
     to surround the Eastern armies and wait till I came.  But he was
     insubordinate, and stood upon a punctilio of military etiquette; he
     refused to take orders from a second lieutenant--and the Union was
     saved.  This is the first time that this secret has been revealed.
     Until now no one outside the family has known the facts.  But there
     they stand: Watterson saved the Union.  Yet to this day that man
     gets no pension.  Those were great days, splendid days.  What an
     uprising it was!  For the hearts of the whole nation, North and
     South, were in the war.  We of the South were not ashamed; for, like
     the men of the North, we were fighting for 'flags we loved; and when
     men fight for these things, and under these convictions, with
     nothing sordid to tarnish their cause, that cause is holy, the blood
     spilt for it is sacred, the life that is laid down for it is
     consecrated.  To-day we no longer regret the result, to-day we are
     glad it came out as it did, but we are not ashamed that we did our
     endeavor; we did our bravest best, against despairing odds, for the
     cause which was precious to us and which our consciences approved;
     and we are proud--and you are proud--the kindred blood in your veins
     answers when I say it--you are proud of the record we made in those
     mighty collisions in the fields.

     What an uprising it was!  We did not have to supplicate for soldiers
     on either side.  "We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred
     thousand strong!"  That was the music North and South.  The very
     choicest young blood and brawn and brain rose up from Maine to the
     Gulf and flocked to the standards--just as men always do when in
     their eyes their cause is great and fine and their hearts are in it;
     just as men flocked to the Crusades, sacrificing all they possessed
     to the cause, and entering cheerfully upon hardships which we cannot
     even imagine in this age, and upon toilsome and wasting journeys
     which in our time would be the equivalent of circumnavigating the
     globe five times over.

     North and South we put our hearts into that colossal struggle, and
     out of it came the blessed fulfilment of the prophecy of the
     immortal Gettysburg speech which said: "We here highly resolve that
     these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God,
     shall have a new birth of freedom; and that a government of the
     people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the
     earth."

     We are here to honor the birthday of the greatest citizen, and the
     noblest and the best, after Washington, that this land or any other
     has yet produced.  The old wounds are healed, you and we are
     brothers again; you testify it by honoring two of us, once soldiers
     of the Lost Cause, and foes of your great and good leader--with the
     privilege of assisting here; and we testify it by laying our honest
     homage at the feet of Abraham Lincoln, and in forgetting that you of
     the North and we of the South were ever enemies, and remembering
     only that we are now indistinguishably fused together and nameable
     by one common great name--Americans!




CCXIV

MARK TWAIN AND THE MISSIONARIES

Mark Twain had really begun his crusade for reform soon after his arrival
in America in a practical hand-to-hand manner.  His housekeeper, Katie
Leary, one night employed a cabman to drive her from the Grand Central
Station to the house at 14 West Tenth Street.  No contract had been made
as to price, and when she arrived there the cabman's extortionate charge
was refused.  He persisted in it, and she sent into the house for her
employer.  Of all men, Mark Twain was the last one to countenance an
extortion.  He reasoned with the man kindly enough at first; when the
driver at last became abusive Clemens demanded his number, which was at
first refused.  In the end he paid the legal fare, and in the morning
entered a formal complaint, something altogether unexpected, for the
American public is accustomed to suffering almost any sort of imposition
to avoid trouble and publicity.

In some notes which Clemens had made in London four years earlier he
wrote:

     If you call a policeman to settle the dispute you can depend on one
     thing--he will decide it against you every time.  And so will the
     New York policeman.  In London if you carry your case into court the
     man that is entitled to win it will win it.  In New York--but no one
     carries a cab case into court there.  It is my impression that it is
     now more than thirty years since any one has carried a cab case into
     court there.

Nevertheless, he was promptly on hand when the case was called to sustain
the charge and to read the cabdrivers' union and the public in general a
lesson in good-citizenship.  At the end of the hearing, to a
representative of the union he said:

"This is not a matter of sentiment, my dear sir.  It is simply practical
business.  You cannot imagine that I am making money wasting an hour or
two of my time prosecuting a case in which I can have no personal
interest whatever.  I am doing this just as any citizen should do.  He
has no choice.  He has a distinct duty.  He is a non-classified
policeman.  Every citizen is, a policeman, and it is his duty to assist
the police and the magistracy in every way he can, and give his time, if
necessary, to do so.  Here is a man who is a perfectly natural product of
an infamous system in this city--a charge upon the lax patriotism in this
city of New York that this thing can exist.  You have encouraged him, in
every way you know how to overcharge.  He is not the criminal here at
all.  The criminal is the citizen of New York and the absence of
patriotism.  I am not here to avenge myself on him.  I have no quarrel
with him.  My quarrel is with the citizens of New York, who have
encouraged him, and who created him by encouraging him to overcharge in
this way."

The driver's license was suspended.  The case made a stir in the
newspapers, and it is not likely that any one incident ever contributed
more to cab-driving morals in New York City.

But Clemens had larger matters than this in prospect.  His many speeches
on municipal and national abuses he felt were more or less ephemeral.  He
proposed now to write himself down more substantially and for a wider
hearing.  The human race was behaving very badly: unspeakable corruption
was rampant in the city; the Boers were being oppressed in South Africa;
the natives were being murdered in the Philippines; Leopold of Belgium
was massacring and mutilating the blacks in the Congo, and the allied
powers, in the cause of Christ, were slaughtering the Chinese.  In his
letters he had more than once boiled over touching these matters, and for
New-Year's Eve, 1900, had written:


         A GREETING FROM THE NINETEENTH TO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

     I bring you the stately nation named Christendom, returning,
     bedraggled, besmirched, and dishonored, from pirate raids in Kiao-
     Chou, Manchuria, South Africa, and the Philippines, with her soul
     full of meanness, her pocket full of boodle, and her mouth full of
     pious hypocrisies.  Give her soap and towel, but hide the looking-
     glass.--[Prepared for Red Cross Society watch-meeting, which was
     postponed until March.  Clemens recalled his "Greeting" for that
     reason and for one other, which he expressed thus:  "The list of
     greeters thus far issued by you contains only vague generalities and
     one definite name--mine: 'Some kings and queens and Mark Twain.' Now
     I am not enjoying this sparkling solitude and distinction.  It makes
     me feel like a circus-poster in a graveyard."]

This was a sort of preliminary.  Then, restraining himself no longer, he
embodied his sentiments in an article for the North American Review
entitled, "To the Person Sitting in Darkness."  There was crying need for
some one to speak the right word.  He was about the only one who could do
it and be certain of a universal audience.  He took as his text some
Christmas Eve clippings from the New York Tribune and Sun which he had
been saving for this purpose.  The Tribune clipping said:

     Christmas will dawn in the United States over a people full of hope
     and aspiration and good cheer.  Such a condition means contentment
     and happiness.  The carping grumbler who may here and there go forth
     will find few to listen to him.  The majority will wonder what is
     the matter with him, and pass on.

A Sun clipping depicted the "terrible offenses against humanity committed
in the name of politics in some of the most notorious East Side districts
"--the unmissionaried, unpoliced darker New York.  The Sun declared that
they could not be pictured even verbally.  But it suggested enough to
make the reader shudder at the hideous depths of vice in the sections
named.  Another clipping from the same paper reported the "Rev. Mr.
Ament, of the American Board of Foreign Missions," as having collected
indemnities for Boxer damages in China at the rate of three hundred taels
for each murder, "full payment for all destroyed property belonging to
Christians, and national fines amounting to thirteen times the
indemnity."  It quoted Mr. Ament as saying that the money so obtained was
used for the propagation of the Gospel, and that the amount so collected
was moderate when compared with the amount secured by the Catholics, who
had demanded, in addition to money, life for life, that is to say, "head
for head"--in one district six hundred and eighty heads having been so
collected.

The despatch made Mr. Ament say a great deal more than this, but the gist
here is enough.  Mark Twain, of course, was fiercely stirred.  The
missionary idea had seldom appealed to him, and coupled with this
business of bloodshed, it was less attractive than usual.  He printed the
clippings in full, one following the other; then he said:

     By happy luck we get all these glad tidings on Christmas Eve--just
     the time to enable us to celebrate the day with proper gaiety and
     enthusiasm.  Our spirits soar and we find we can even make jokes;
     taels I win, heads you lose.

He went on to score Ament, to compare the missionary policy in China to
that of the Pawnee Indians, and to propose for him a monument--
subscriptions to be sent to the American Board.  He denounced the
national policies in Africa, China, and the Philippines, and showed by
the reports and by the private letters of soldiers home, how cruel and
barbarous and fiendish had been the warfare made by those whose avowed
purpose was to carry the blessed light of civilization and Gospel "to the
benighted native"--how in very truth these priceless blessings had been
handed on the point of a bayonet to the "Person Sitting in Darkness."

Mark Twain never wrote anything more scorching, more penetrating in its
sarcasm, more fearful in its revelation of injustice and hypocrisy, than
his article "To the Person Sitting in Darkness."  He put aquafortis on
all the raw places, and when it was finished he himself doubted the
wisdom of printing it.  Howells, however, agreed that it should be
published, and "it ought to be illustrated by Dan Beard," he added, "with
such pictures as he made for the Yankee in King Arthur's Court, but you'd
better hang yourself afterward."

Meeting Beard a few days later, Clemens mentioned the matter and said:

"So if you make the pictures, you hang with me."

But pictures were not required.  It was published in the North American
Review for February, 1901, as the opening article; after which the
cyclone.  Two storms moving in opposite directions produce a cyclone, and
the storms immediately developed; one all for Mark Twain and his
principles, the other all against him.  Every paper in England and
America commented on it editorially, with bitter denunciations or with
eager praise, according to their lights and convictions.

At 14 West Tenth Street letters, newspaper clippings, documents poured in
by the bushel--laudations, vituperations, denunciations, vindications; no
such tumult ever occurred in a peaceful literary home.  It was really as
if he had thrown a great missile into the human hive, one-half of which
regarded it as a ball of honey and the remainder as a cobblestone.
Whatever other effect it may have had, it left no thinking person
unawakened.

Clemens reveled in it.  W. A. Rogers, in Harper's Weekly, caricatured him
as Tom Sawyer in a snow fort, assailed by the shower of snowballs,
"having the time of his life."  Another artist, Fred Lewis, pictured him
as Huck Finn with a gun.

The American Board was naturally disturbed.  The Ament clipping which
Clemens had used had been public property for more than a month--its
authenticity never denied; but it was immediately denied now, and the
cable kept hot with inquiries.

The Rev. Judson Smith, one of the board, took up the defense of Dr.
Ament, declaring him to be one who had suffered for the cause, and asked
Mark Twain, whose "brilliant article," he said, "would produce an effect
quite beyond the reach of plain argument," not to do an innocent man an
injustice.  Clemens in the same paper replied that such was not his
intent, that Mr. Ament in his report had simply arraigned himself.

Then it suddenly developed that the cable report had "grossly
exaggerated" the amount of Mr. Ament's collections.  Instead of thirteen
times the indemnity it should have read "one and a third times" the
indemnity; whereupon, in another open letter, the board demanded
retraction and apology.  Clemens would not fail to make the apology--at
least he would explain.  It was precisely the kind of thing that would
appeal to him--the delicate moral difference between a demand thirteen
times as great as it should be and a demand that was only one and a third
times the correct amount.  "To My Missionary Critics," in the North
American Review for April (1901), was his formal and somewhat lengthy
reply.

"I have no prejudice against apologies," he wrote.  "I trust I shall
never withhold one when it is due."

He then proceeded to make out his case categorically.  Touching the
exaggerated indemnity, he said:

To Dr. Smith the "thirteen-fold-extra" clearly stood for "theft and
extortion," and he was right, distinctly right, indisputably right.  He
manifestly thinks that when it got scaled away down to a mere "one-third"
a little thing like that was some other than "theft and extortion."  Why,
only the board knows!

I will try to explain this difficult problem so that the board can get an
idea of it.  If a pauper owes me a dollar and I catch him unprotected and
make him pay me fourteen dollars thirteen of it is "theft and extortion."
If I make him pay only one dollar thirty-three and a third cents the
thirty-three and a third cents are "theft and extortion," just the same.

I will put it in another way still simpler.  If a man owes me one dog--
any kind of a dog, the breed is of no consequence--and I--but let it go;
the board would never understand it.  It can't understand these involved
and difficult things.

He offered some further illustrations, including the "Tale of a King and
His Treasure" and another tale entitled "The Watermelons."

     I have it now.  Many years ago, when I was studying for the gallows,
     I had a dear comrade, a youth who was not in my line, but still a
     scrupulously good fellow though devious.  He was preparing to
     qualify for a place on the board, for there was going to be a
     vacancy by superannuation in about five years.  This was down South,
     in the slavery days.  It was the nature of the negro then, as now,
     to steal watermelons.  They stole three of the melons of an adoptive
     brother of mine, the only good ones he had.  I suspected three of a
     neighbor's negroes, but there was no proof, and, besides, the
     watermelons in those negroes' private patches were all green and
     small and not up to indemnity standard.  But in the private patches
     of three other negroes there was a number of competent melons.  I
     consulted with my comrade, the understudy of the board.  He said
     that if I would approve his arrangements he would arrange.  I said,
     "Consider me the board; I approve; arrange."  So he took a gun and
     went and collected three large melons for my brother-on-the-
     halfshell, and one over.  I was greatly pleased and asked:

     "Who gets the extra one?"
     "Widows and orphans."

     "A good idea, too.  Why didn't you take thirteen?"

     "It would have been wrong; a crime, in fact-theft and extortion."

     "What is the one-third extra--the odd melon--the same?"

     It caused him to reflect.  But there was no result.

     The justice of the peace was a stern man.  On the trial he found
     fault with the scheme and required us to explain upon what we based
     our strange conduct--as he called it.  The understudy said:

     "On the custom of the niggers.  They all do it."--[The point had
     been made by the board that it was the Chinese custom to make the
     inhabitants of a village responsible for individual crimes; and
     custom, likewise, to collect a third in excess of the damage, such
     surplus having been applied to the support of widows and orphans of
     the slain converts.]

     The justice forgot his dignity and descended to sarcasm.

     "Custom of the niggers!  Are our morals so inadequate that we have
     to borrow of niggers?"

     Then he said to the jury: "Three melons were owing; they were
     collected from persons not proven to owe them: this is theft; they
     were collected by compulsion: this is extortion.  A melon was added
     for the widows and orphans.  It was owed by no one.  It is another
     theft, another extortion.  Return it whence it came, with the
     others.  It is not permissible here to apply to any purpose goods
     dishonestly obtained; not even to the feeding of widows and orphans,
     for this would be to put a shame upon charity and dishonor it."

     He said it in open court, before everybody, and to me it did not
     seem very kind.

It was in the midst of the tumult that Clemens, perhaps feeling the need
of sacred melody, wrote to Andrew Carnegie:

DEAR SIR & FRIEND,--You seem to be in prosperity.  Could you lend an
admirer $1.50 to buy a hymn-book with?  God will bless you.  I feel it;
I know it.

N. B.--If there should be other applications, this one not to count.
                                             Yours, MARK.

P. S.-Don't send the hymn-book; send the money; I want to make the
selection myself.


Carnegie answered:

     Nothing less than a two-dollar & a half hymn-book gilt will do for
     you.  Your place in the choir (celestial) demands that & you shall
     have it.

     There's a new Gospel of Saint Mark in the North American which I
     like better than anything I've read for many a day.

     I am willing to borrow a thousand dollars to distribute that sacred
     message in proper form, & if the author don't object may I send that
     sum, when I can raise it, to the Anti-Imperialist League, Boston, to
     which I am a contributor, the only missionary work I am responsible
     for.

     Just tell me you are willing & many thousands of the holy little
     missals will go forth.  This inimitable satire is to become a
     classic.  I count among my privileges in life that I know you, the
     author.

Perhaps a few more of the letters invited by Mark Twain's criticism of
missionary work in China may still be of interest to the reader:
Frederick T. Cook, of the Hospital Saturday and Sunday Association,
wrote: "I hail you as the Voltaire of America.  It is a noble
distinction.  God bless you and see that you weary not in well-doing
in this noblest, sublimest of crusades."

Ministers were by no means all against him.  The associate pastor of the
Every-day Church, in Boston, sent this line: "I want to thank you for
your matchless article in the current North American.  It must make
converts of well-nigh all who read it."

But a Boston school-teacher was angry.  "I have been reading the North
American," she wrote, "and I am filled with shame and remorse that I have
dreamed of asking you to come to Boston to talk to the teachers."

On the outside of the envelope Clemens made this pencil note:

"Now, I suppose I offended that young lady by having an opinion of my
own, instead of waiting and copying hers.  I never thought.  I suppose
she must be as much as twenty-five, and probably the only patriot in the
country."

A critic with a sense of humor asked: "Please excuse seeming
impertinence, but were you ever adjudged insane?  Be honest.  How much
money does the devil give you for arraigning Christianity and missionary
causes?"

But there were more of the better sort.  Edward S. Martin, in a grateful
letter, said: "How gratifying it is to feel that we have a man among us
who understands the rarity of the plain truth, and who delights to utter
it, and has the gift of doing so without cant and with not too much
seriousness."

Sir Hiram Maxim wrote: "I give you my candid opinion that what you have
done is of very great value to the civilization of the world.  There is
no man living whose words carry greater weight than your own, as no one's
writings are so eagerly sought after by all classes."

Clemens himself in his note-book set down this aphorism:

"Do right and you will be conspicuous."




CCXV

SUMMER AT "THE LAIR"

In June Clemens took the family to Saranac Lake, to Ampersand.  They
occupied a log cabin which he called "The Lair," on the south shore, near
the water's edge, a remote and beautiful place where, as had happened
before, they were so comfortable and satisfied that they hoped to return
another summer.  There were swimming and boating and long walks in the
woods; the worry and noise of the world were far away.  They gave little
enough attention to the mails.  They took only a weekly paper, and were
likely to allow it to lie in the postoffice uncalled for.  Clemens,
especially, loved the place, and wrote to Twichell:

     I am on the front porch (lower one-main deck) of our little bijou of
     a dwelling-house.  The lake edge (Lower Saranac) is so nearly under
     me that I can't see the shore, but only the water, small-poxed with
     rain splashes--for there is a heavy down pour.  It is charmingly
     like sitting snuggled up on a ship's deck with the stretching sea
     all around but very much more satisfactory, for at sea a rainstorm
     is depressing, while here of course the effect engendered is just a
     deep sense of comfort & contentment.  The heavy forest shuts us
     solidly in on three sides--there are no neighbors.  There are
     beautiful little tan-colored impudent squirrels about.  They take
     tea 5 P.M. (not invited) at the table in the woods where Jean does
     my typewriting, & one of them has been brave enough to sit upon
     Jean's knee with his tail curved over his back & munch his food.
     They come to dinner 7 P.M.  on the front porch (not invited), but
     Clara drives them away.  It is an occupation which requires some
     industry & attention to business.  They all have the one name-
     Blennerhasset, from Burr's friend--& none of them answers to it
     except when hungry.

Clemens could work at "The Lair," often writing in shady seclusions along
the shore, and he finished there the two-part serial,--[ Published in
Harper's Magazine for January and February, 1902.]--"The Double-
Barrelled Detective Story," intended originally as a burlesque on
Sherlock Holmes.  It did not altogether fulfil its purpose, and is hardly
to be ranked as one of Mark Twain's successes.  It contains, however, one
paragraph at least by which it is likely to be remembered, a hoax--his
last one--on the reader.  It runs as follows:

     It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.  The lilacs and
     laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and
     flashing in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature
     for the wingless wild things that have their home in the tree-tops
     and would visit together; the larch and the pomegranate flung their
     purple and yellow flames in brilliant broad splashes along the
     slanting sweep of woodland, the sensuous fragrance of innumerable
     deciduous flowers rose upon the swooning atmosphere, far in the
     empty sky a solitary oesophagus slept upon motionless wing;
     everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of God.

The warm light and luxury of this paragraph are factitious.  The careful
reader will, note that its various accessories are ridiculously
associated, and only the most careless reader will accept the oesophagus
as a bird.  But it disturbed a great many admirers, and numerous letters
of inquiry came wanting to know what it was all about.  Some suspected
the joke and taunted him with it; one such correspondent wrote:

     MY DEAR MARK TWAIN,--Reading your "Double-Barrelled Detective Story"
     in the January Harper's late one night I came to the paragraph where
     you so beautifully describe "a crisp and spicy morning in early
     October."  I read along down the paragraph, conscious only of its
     woozy sound, until I brought up with a start against your oesophagus
     in the empty sky.  Then I read the paragraph again.  Oh, Mark Twain!
     Mark Twain!  How could you do it?  Put a trap like that into the
     midst of a tragical story?  Do serenity and peace brood over you
     after you have done such a thing?

     Who lit the lilacs, and which end up do they hang?  When did larches
     begin to flame, and who set out the pomegranates in that canyon?
     What are deciduous flowers, and do they always "bloom in the fall,
     tra la"?

     I have been making myself obnoxious to various people by demanding
     their opinion of that paragraph without telling them the name of the
     author.  They say, "Very well done."  "The alliteration is so
     pretty."  "What's an oesophagus, a bird?"  "What's it all mean,
     anyway?"  I tell them it means Mark Twain, and that an oesophagus is
     a kind of swallow.  Am I right?  Or is it a gull?  Or a gullet?

     Hereafter if you must write such things won't you please be so kind
     as to label them?
                              Very sincerely yours,
                                             ALLETTA F. DEAN.

Mark Twain to Miss Dean:

     Don't you give that oesophagus away again or I'll never trust you
     with another privacy!

So many wrote, that Clemens finally felt called upon to make public
confession, and as one searching letter had been mailed from Springfield,
Massachusetts, he made his reply through the Republican of that city.
After some opening comment he said:

     I published a short story lately & it was in that that I put the
     oesophagus.  I will say privately that I expected it to bother some
     people--in fact, that was the intention--but the harvest has been
     larger than I was calculating upon.  The oesophagus has gathered in
     the guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for
     the innocent--the innocent and confiding.

He quoted a letter from a schoolmaster in the Philippines who thought the
passage beautiful with the exception of the curious creature which "slept
upon motionless wings."  Said Clemens:

     Do you notice?  Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that one
     word.  It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
     the deception it was intended to put upon the reader.  It was my
     intention that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it
     does; it was my intention that it should be emotional and touching,
     and you see yourself that it fetched this public instructor.  Alas!
     if I had but left that one treacherous word out I should have
     scored, scored everywhere, and the paragraph would have slidden
     through every reader's sensibilities like oil and left not a
     suspicion behind.

     The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England
     university.  It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to
     suppress), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no
     harm:

     "DEAR MR. CLEMENS,--'Far in the empty sky a solitary oesophagus
     slept upon motionless wing.'

     "It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature,
     but I have just gone through at this belated period, with much
     gratification and edification, your 'Double-Barrelled Detective
     Story.'

     "But what in hell is an oesophagus?  I keep one myself, but it never
     sleeps in the air or anywhere else.  My profession is to deal with
     words, and oesophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it.
     But, as a companion of my youth used to say, 'I'll be eternally, co-
     eternally cussed' if I can make it out.  Is it a joke or am I an
     ignoramus?"

     Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that man,
     but for pride's sake I was not going to say so.  I wrote and told
     him it was a joke--and that is what I am now saying to my
     Springfield inquirer.  And I told him to carefully read the whole
     paragraph and he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of
     it.  This also I recommend to my Springfield inquirer.

     I have confessed.  I am sorry--partially.  I will not do so any
     more--for the present.  Don't ask me any more questions; let the
     oesophagus have a rest--on his same old motionless wing.

He wrote Twichell that the story had been a six-day 'tour de force',
twenty-five thousand words, and he adds:

     How long it takes a literary seed to sprout sometimes! This seed was
     planted in your house many years ago when you sent me to bed with a
     book not heard of by me until then--Sherlock Holmes .  .  .  .
     I've done a grist of writing here this summer, but not for
     publication soon, if ever.  I did write two satisfactory articles
     for early print, but I've burned one of them & have buried the other
     in my large box of posthumous stuff.  I've got stacks of literary
     remains piled up there.

Early in August Clemens went with H. H. Rogers in his yacht Kanawha on a
cruise to New Brunswick and Nova Scotia.  Rogers had made up a party,
including ex-Speaker Reed, Dr. Rice, and Col. A. G. Paine.  Young Harry
Rogers also made one of the party.  Clemens kept a log of the cruise,
certain entries of which convey something of its spirit.  On the 11th, at
Yarmouth, he wrote:

     Fog-bound.  The garrison went ashore.  Officers visited the yacht in
     the evening & said an anvil had been missed.  Mr. Rogers paid for
     the anvil.

     August 13th.  There is a fine picture-gallery here; the sheriff
     photographed the garrison, with the exception of Harry (Rogers) and
     Mr. Clemens.

     August 14th.  Upon complaint of Mr. Reed another dog was procured.
     He said he had been a sailor all his life, and considered it
     dangerous to trust a ship to a dog-watch with only one dog in it.

     Poker, for a change.

     August 15th.  To Rockland, Maine, in the afternoon, arriving about 6
     P.M.  In the night Dr. Rice baited the anchor with his winnings &
     caught a whale 90 feet long.  He said so himself.  It is thought
     that if there had been another witness like Dr. Rice the whale would
     have been longer.

     August 16th.  We could have had a happy time in Bath but for the
     interruptions caused by people who wanted Mr. Reed to explain votes
     of the olden time or give back the money.  Mr. Rogers recouped them.

     Another anvil missed.  The descendant of Captain Kidd is the only
     person who does not blush for these incidents.  Harry and Mr.
     Clemens blush continually.  It is believed that if the rest of the
     garrison were like these two the yacht would be welcome everywhere
     instead of being quarantined by the police in all the ports.  Mr.
     Clemens & Harry have attracted a great deal of attention, & men have
     expressed a resolve to turn over a new leaf & copy after them from
     this out.

     Evening.  Judge Cohen came over from another yacht to pay his
     respects to Harry and Mr. Clemens, he having heard of their
     reputation from the clergy of these coasts.  He was invited by the
     gang to play poker apparently as a courtesy & in a spirit of seeming
     hospitality, he not knowing them & taking it all at par.  Mr. Rogers
     lent him clothes to go home in.

     August 17th. The Reformed Statesman growling and complaining again--
     not in a frank, straightforward way, but talking at the Commodore,
     while letting on to be talking to himself.  This time he was
     dissatisfied about the anchor watch; said it was out of date,
     untrustworthy, & for real efficiency didn't begin with the
     Waterbury, & was going on to reiterate, as usual, that he had been a
     pilot all his life & blamed if he ever saw, etc., etc., etc.

     But he was not allowed to finish.  We put him ashore at Portland.

That is to say, Reed landed at Portland, the rest of the party returning
with the yacht.

"We had a noble good time in the yacht," Clemens wrote Twichell on their
return.  "We caught a Chinee missionary and drowned him."

Twichell had been invited to make one of the party, and this letter was
to make him feel sorry he had not accepted.




CCXVI

RIVERDALE--A YALE DEGREE

The Clemens household did not return to 14 West Tenth Street.  They spent
a week in Elmira at the end of September, and after a brief stop in New
York took up their residence on the northern metropolitan boundary, at
Riverdale-on-the-Hudson, in the old Appleton home.  They had permanently
concluded not to return to Hartford.  They had put the property there
into an agent's hands for sale.  Mrs. Clemens never felt that she had the
strength to enter the house again.

They had selected the Riverdale place with due consideration.  They
decided that they must have easy access to the New York center, but they
wished also to have the advantage of space and spreading lawn and trees,
large rooms, and light.  The Appleton homestead provided these things.
It was a house built in the first third of the last century by one of the
Morris family, so long prominent in New York history.  On passing into
the Appleton ownership it had been enlarged and beautified and named
"Holbrook Hall."  It overlooked the Hudson and the Palisades.  It had
associations: the Roosevelt family had once lived there, Huxley, Darwin,
Tyndall, and others of their intellectual rank had been entertained there
during its occupation by the first Appleton, the founder of the
publishing firm.  The great hall of the added wing was its chief feature.
Clemens once remembered:

"We drifted from room to room on our tour of inspection, always with a
growing doubt as to whether we wanted that house or not; but at last,
when we arrived in a dining-room that was 60 feet long, 30 feet wide, and
had two great fireplaces in it, that settled it."

There were pleasant neighbors at Riverdale, and had it not been for the
illnesses that seemed always ready to seize upon that household the home
there might have been ideal.  They loved the place presently, so much so
that they contemplated buying it, but decided that it was too costly.
They began to prospect for other places along the Hudson shore.  They
were anxious to have a home again--one that they could call their own.

Among the many pleasant neighbors at Riverdale were the Dodges, the
Quincy Adamses, and the Rev. Mr. Carstensen, a liberal-minded minister
with whom Clemens easily affiliated.  Clemens and Carstensen visited back
and forth and exchanged views.  Once Mr. Carstensen told him that he was
going to town to dine with a party which included the Reverend Gottheil,
a Catholic bishop, an Indian Buddhist, and a Chinese scholar of the
Confucian faith, after which they were all going to a Yiddish theater.
Clemens said:

"Well, there's only one more thing you need to make the party complete--
that is, either Satan or me."

Howells often came to Riverdale.  He was living in a New York apartment,
and it was handy and made an easy and pleasant outing for him.  He says:

"I began to see them again on something like the sweet old terms.  They
lived far more unpretentiously than they used, and I think with a notion
of economy, which they had never very successfully practised.  I recall
that at the end of a certain year in Hartford, when they had been saving
and paying cash for everything, Clemens wrote, reminding me of their
avowed experiment, and asking me to guess how many bills they had at New-
Year's; he hastened to say that a horse-car would not have held them.  At
Riverdale they kept no carriage, and there was a snowy night when I drove
up to their handsome old mansion in the station carryall, which was
crusted with mud, as from the going down of the Deluge after transporting
Noah and his family from the Ark to whatever point they decided to settle
provisionally.  But the good talk, the rich talk, the talk that could
never suffer poverty of mind or soul was there, and we jubilantly found
ourselves again in our middle youth."

Both Howells and Clemens were made doctors of letters by Yale that year
and went over in October to receive their degrees.  It was Mark Twain's
second Yale degree, and it was the highest rank that an American
institution of learning could confer.

Twichell wrote:

I want you to understand, old fellow, that it will be in its intention
the highest public compliment, and emphatically so in your case, for it
will be tendered you by a corporation of gentlemen, the majority of whom
do not at all agree with the views on important questions which you have
lately promulgated in speech and in writing, and with which you are
identified to the public mind.  They grant, of course, your right to hold
and express those views, though for themselves they don't like 'em; but
in awarding you the proposed laurel they will make no count of that
whatever.  Their action will appropriately signify simply and solely
their estimate of your merit and rank as a man of letters, and so, as I
say, the compliment of it will be of the pure, unadulterated quality.

Howells was not especially eager to go, and tried to conspire with
Clemens to arrange some excuse which would keep them at home.

I remember with satisfaction [he wrote] our joint success in keeping away
from the Concord Centennial in 1875, and I have been thinking we might
help each other in this matter of the Yale Anniversary.  What are your
plans for getting left, or shall you trust to inspiration?

Their plans did not avail.  Both Howells and Clemens went to New Haven to
receive their honors.

When they had returned, Howells wrote formally, as became the new rank:

     DEAR SIR,--I have long been an admirer of your complete works,
     several of which I have read, and I am with you shoulder to shoulder
     in the cause of foreign missions.  I would respectfully request a
     personal interview, and if you will appoint some day and hour most
     inconvenient to you I will call at your baronial hall.  I cannot
     doubt, from the account of your courtesy given me by the Twelve
     Apostles, who once visited you in your Hartford home and were
     mistaken for a syndicate of lightning-rod men, that our meeting will
     be mutually agreeable.

                              Yours truly,
                                        W. D. HOWELLS.
     DR. CLEMENS.




CCXVII

MARK TWAIN IN POLITICS

There was a campaign for the mayoralty of New York City that fall, with
Seth Low on the Fusion ticket against Edward M. Shepard as the Tammany
candidate.  Mark Twain entered the arena to try to defeat Tammany Hall.
He wrote and he spoke in favor of clean city government and police
reform.  He was savagely in earnest and openly denounced the clan of
Croker, individually and collectively.  He joined a society called 'The
Acorns'; and on the 17th of October, at a dinner given by the order at
the Waldorf-Astoria, delivered a fierce arraignment, in which he
characterized Croker as the Warren Hastings of New York.  His speech was
really a set of extracts from Edmund Burke's great impeachment of
Hastings, substituting always the name of Croker, and paralleling his
career with that of the ancient boss of the East India Company.

It was not a humorous speech.  It was too denunciatory for that.  It
probably contained less comic phrasing than any former effort.  There is
hardly even a suggestion of humor from beginning to end.  It concluded
with this paraphrase of Burke's impeachment:

     I impeach Richard Croker of high crimes and misdemeanors.  I impeach
     him in the name of the people, whose trust he has betrayed.

     I impeach him in the name of all the people of America, whose
     national character he has dishonored.

     I impeach him in the name and by virtue of those eternal laws of
     justice which he has violated.

     I impeach him in the name of human nature itself, which he has
     cruelly outraged, injured, and oppressed, in both sexes, in every
     age, rank, situation, and condition of life.

The Acorn speech was greatly relied upon for damage to the Tammany ranks,
and hundreds of thousands of copies of it were printed and circulated.--
[The "Edmund Burke on Croker and Tammany" speech had originally been
written as an article for the North American Review.]

Clemens was really heart and soul in the campaign.  He even joined a
procession that marched up Broadway, and he made a speech to a great
assemblage at Broadway and Leonard Street, when, as he said, he had been
sick abed two days and, according to the doctor, should be in bed then.

     But I would not stay at home for a nursery disease, and that's what
     I've got.  Now, don't let this leak out all over town, but I've been
     doing some indiscreet eating--that's all.  It wasn't drinking.  If
     it had been I shouldn't have said anything about it.

     I ate a banana.  I bought it just to clinch the Italian vote for
     fusion, but I got hold of a Tammany banana by mistake.  Just one
     little nub of it on the end was nice and white.  That was the
     Shepard end.  The other nine-tenths were rotten.  Now that little
     white end won't make the rest of the banana good.  The nine-tenths
     will make that little nub rotten, too.

     We must get rid of the whole banana, and our Acorn Society is going
     to do its share, for it is pledged to nothing but the support of
     good government all over the United States.  We will elect the
     President next time.

     It won't be I, for I have ruined my chances by joining the Acorns,
     and there can be no office-holders among us.

There was a movement which Clemens early nipped in the bud--to name a
political party after him.

"I should be far from willing to have a political party named after me,"
he wrote, "and I would not be willing to belong to a party which allowed
its members to have political aspirations or push friends forward for
political preferment."

In other words, he was a knight-errant; his sole purpose for being in
politics at all--something he always detested--was to do what he could
for the betterment of his people.

He had his reward, for when Election Day came, and the returns were in,
the Fusion ticket had triumphed and Tammany had fallen.  Clemens received
his share of the credit.  One paper celebrated him in verse:

                    Who killed Croker?
                    I, said Mark Twain,
                    I killed Croker,
                    I, the jolly joker!

Among Samuel Clemens's literary remains there is an outline plan for a
"Casting-Vote party," whose main object was "to compel the two great
parties to nominate their best man always."  It was to be an organization
of an infinite number of clubs throughout the nation, no member of which
should seek or accept a nomination for office in any political
appointment, but in each case should cast its vote as a unit for the
candidate of one of the two great political parties, requiring that the
man be of clean record and honest purpose.

     From constable up to President [runs his final clause] there is no
     office for which the two great parties cannot furnish able, clean,
     and acceptable men.  Whenever the balance of power shall be lodged
     in a permanent third party, with no candidate of its own and no
     function but to cast its whole vote for the best man put forward by
     the Republicans and Democrats, these two parties will select the
     best man they have in their ranks.  Good and clean government will
     follow, let its party complexion be what it may, and the country
     will be quite content.

It was a Utopian idea, very likely, as human nature is made; full of that
native optimism which was always overflowing and drowning his gloomier
logic.  Clearly he forgot his despair of humanity when he formulated that
document, and there is a world of unselfish hope in these closing lines:

     If in the hands of men who regard their citizenship as a high trust
     this scheme shall fail upon trial a better must be sought, a better
     must be invented; for it cannot be well or safe to let the present
     political conditions continue indefinitely.  They can be improved,
     and American citizenship should arouse up from its disheartenment
     and see that it is done.

Had this document been put into type and circulated it might have founded
a true Mark Twain party.

Clemens made not many more speeches that autumn, closing the year at last
with the "Founder's Night" speech at The Players, the short address
which, ending on the stroke of midnight, dedicates each passing year to
the memory of Edwin Booth, and pledges each new year in a loving-cup
passed in his honor.




CCXVIII

NEW INTERESTS AND INVESTMENTS

The spirit which a year earlier had prompted Mark Twain to prepare his
"Salutation from the Nineteenth to the Twentieth Century" inspired him
now to conceive the "Stupendous International Procession," a gruesome
pageant described in a document (unpublished) of twenty-two typewritten
pages which begin:

                        THE STUPENDOUS PROCESSION

     At the appointed hour it moved across the world in following order:


                          The Twentieth Century

     A fair young creature, drunk and disorderly, borne in the arms of
     Satan.  Banner with motto, "Get What You Can, Keep What You Get."

     Guard of Honor--Monarchs, Presidents, Tammany Bosses, Burglars, Land
     Thieves, Convicts, etc., appropriately clothed and bearing the
     symbols of their several trades.


                               Christendom

     A majestic matron in flowing robes drenched with blood.  On her head
     a golden crown of thorns; impaled on its spines the bleeding heads
     of patriots who died for their countries Boers, Boxers, Filipinos;
     in one hand a slung-shot, in the other a Bible, open at the text "Do
     unto others," etc.  Protruding from pocket bottle labeled "We bring
     you the blessings of civilization."  Necklace-handcuffs and a
     burglar's jimmy.
     Supporters--At one elbow Slaughter, at the other Hypocrisy.
     Banner with motto--"Love Your Neighbor's Goods as Yourself."
     Ensign--The Black Flag.
     Guard of Honor--Missionaries and German, French, Russian, and
     British soldiers laden with loot.

And so on, with a section for each nation of the earth, headed each by
the black flag, each bearing horrid emblems, instruments of torture,
mutilated prisoners, broken hearts, floats piled with bloody corpses.  At
the end of all, banners inscribed:

          "All White Men are Born Free and Equal."

               "Christ died to make men holy,
               Christ died to make men free."

with the American flag furled and draped in crepe, and the shade of
Lincoln towering vast and dim toward the sky, brooding with sorrowful
aspect over the far-reaching pageant.  With much more of the same sort.
It is a fearful document, too fearful, we may believe, for Mrs. Clemens
ever to consent to its publication.

Advancing years did little toward destroying Mark Twain's interest in
human affairs.  At no time in his life was he more variously concerned
and employed than in his sixty-seventh year--matters social, literary,
political, religious, financial, scientific.  He was always alive, young,
actively cultivating or devising interests--valuable and otherwise,
though never less than important to him.

He had plenty of money again, for one thing, and he liked to find
dazzlingly new ways for investing it.  As in the old days, he was always
putting "twenty-five or forty thousand dollars," as he said, into
something that promised multiplied returns.  Howells tells how he found
him looking wonderfully well, and when he asked the name of his elixir he
learned that it was plasmon.

     I did not immediately understand that plasmon was one of the
     investments which he had made from "the substance of things hoped
     for," and in the destiny of a disastrous disappointment.  But after
     paying off the creditors of his late publishing firm he had to do
     something with his money, and it was not his fault if he did not
     make a fortune out of plasmon.

It was just at this period (the beginning of 1902) that he was promoting
with his capital and enthusiasm the plasmon interests in America,
investing in it one of the "usual amounts," promising to make Howells
over again body and soul with the life-giving albuminate.  Once he wrote
him explicit instructions:

     Yes--take it as a medicine--there is nothing better, nothing surer
     of desired results.  If you wish to be elaborate--which isn't
     necessary--put a couple of heaping teaspoonfuls of the powder in an
     inch of milk & stir until it is a paste; put in some more milk and
     stir the paste to a thin gruel; then fill up the glass and drink.

     Or, stir it into your soup.

     Or, into your oatmeal.

     Or, use any method you like, so's you get it down--that is the only
     essential.

He put another "usual sum" about this time in a patent cash register
which was acknowledged to be "a promise rather than a performance," and
remains so until this day.

He capitalized a patent spiral hat-pin, warranted to hold the hat on in
any weather, and he had a number of the pins handsomely made to present
to visitors of the sex naturally requiring that sort of adornment and
protection.  It was a pretty and ingenious device and apparently
effective enough, though it failed to secure his invested thousands.

He invested a lesser sum in shares of the Booklover's Library, which was
going to revolutionize the reading world, and which at least paid a few
dividends.  Even the old Tennessee land will-o'-the-wisp-long since
repudiated and forgotten--when it appeared again in the form of a
possible equity in some overlooked fragment, kindled a gentle interest,
and was added to his list of ventures.

He made one substantial investment at this period.  They became more and
more in love with the Hudson environment, its beauty and its easy access
to New York.  Their house was what they liked it to be--a gathering--
place for friends and the world's notables, who could reach it easily and
quickly from New York.  They had a steady procession of company when Mrs.
Clemens's health would permit, and during a single week in the early part
of this year entertained guests at no less than seventeen out of their
twenty-one meals, and for three out of the seven nights--not an unusual
week.  Their plan for buying a home on the Hudson ended with the purchase
of what was known as Hillcrest, or the Casey place, at Tarrytown,
overlooking that beautiful stretch of river, the Tappan Zee, close to the
Washington Irving home.  The beauty of its outlook and surroundings
appealed to them all.  The house was handsome and finely placed, and they
planned to make certain changes that would adapt it to their needs.  The
price, which was less than fifty thousand dollars, made it an attractive
purchase; and without doubt it would have made them a suitable and happy
home had it been written in the future that they should so inherit it.

Clemens was writing pretty steadily these days.  The human race was
furnishing him with ever so many inspiring subjects, and he found time to
touch more or less on most of them.  He wreaked his indignation upon the
things which exasperated him often--even usually--without the expectation
of print; and he delivered himself even more inclusively at such times as
he walked the floor between the luncheon or dinner courses, amplifying on
the poverty of an invention that had produced mankind as a supreme
handiwork.  In a letter to Howells he wrote:

Your comments on that idiot's "Ideals" letter reminds me that I preached
a good sermon to my family yesterday on his particular layer of the human
race, that grotesquest of all the inventions of the Creator.  It was a
good sermon, but coldly received, & it seemed best not to try to take up
a collection.

He once told Howells, with the wild joy of his boyish heart, how Mrs.
Clemens found some compensation, when kept to her room by illness, in the
reflection that now she would not hear so much about the "damned human
race."

Yet he was always the first man to champion that race, and the more
unpromising the specimen the surer it was of his protection, and he never
invited, never expected gratitude.

One wonders how he found time to do all the things that he did.  Besides
his legitimate literary labors and his preachments, he was always writing
letters to this one and that, long letters on a variety of subjects,
carefully and picturesquely phrased, and to people of every sort.  He
even formed a curious society, whose members were young girls--one in
each country of the earth.  They were supposed to write to him at
intervals on some subject likely to be of mutual interest, to which
letters he agreed to reply.  He furnished each member with a typewritten
copy of the constitution and by-laws of the juggernaut Club, as he called
it, and he apprised each of her election, usually after this fashion:

     I have a club--a private club, which is all my own.  I appoint the
     members myself, & they can't help themselves, because I don't allow
     them to vote on their own appointment & I don't allow them to
     resign!  They are all friends whom I have never seen (save one), but
     who have written friendly letters to me.  By the laws of my club
     there can be only one member in each country, & there can be no male
     member but myself.  Some day I may admit males, but I don't know-
     they are capricious & inharmonious, & their ways provoke me a good
     deal.  It is a matter, which the club shall decide.  I have made
     four appointments in the past three or four months: You as a member
     for Scotland--oh, this good while!; a young citizeness of Joan of
     Arc's home region as a member for France; a Mohammedan girl as
     member for Bengal; & a dear & bright young niece of mine as member
     for the United States--for I do not represent a country myself, but
     am merely member-at-large for the human race.  You must not try to
     resign, for the laws of the club do not allow that.  You must
     console yourself by remembering that you are in the best company;
     that nobody knows of your membership except yourself; that no member
     knows another's name, but only her country; that no taxes are levied
     and no meetings held (but how dearly I should like to attend one!).
     One of my members is a princess of a royal house, another is the
     daughter of a village bookseller on the continent of Europe, for the
     only qualification for membership is intellect & the spirit of good-
     will; other distinctions, hereditary or acquired, do not count.  May
     I send you the constitution & laws of the club?  I shall be so glad
     if I may.

It was just one of his many fancies, and most of the active memberships
would not long be maintained; though some continued faithful in their
reports, as he did in his replies, to the end.

One of the more fantastic of his conceptions was a plan to advertise for
ante-mortem obituaries of himself--in order, as he said, that he might
look them over and enjoy them and make certain corrections in the matter
of detail.  Some of them he thought might be appropriate to read from the
platform.

     I will correct them--not the facts, but the verdicts--striking out
     such clauses as could have a deleterious influence on the other
     side, and replacing them with clauses of a more judicious character.

He was much taken with the new idea, and his request for such obituaries,
with an offer of a prize for the best--a portrait of himself drawn by his
own hand--really appeared in Harper's Weekly later in the year.
Naturally he got a shower of responses--serious, playful, burlesque.
Some of them were quite worth while.

The obvious "Death loves a shining Mark" was of course numerously
duplicated, and some varied it "Death loves an Easy Mark," and there was
"Mark, the perfect man."

The two that follow gave him especial pleasure.

                        OBITUARY FOR "MARK TWAIN"

     Worthy of his portrait, a place on his monument, as well as a place
     among his "perennial-consolation heirlooms":

                    "Got up; washed; went to bed."

     The subject's own words (see Innocents Abroad).  Can't go back on
     your own words, Mark Twain.  There's nothing "to strike out";
     nothing "to replace."  What more could be said of any one?

     "Got up!"--Think of the fullness of meaning!  The possibilities of
     life, its achievements--physical, intellectual, spiritual.  Got up
     to the top!--the climax of human aspiration on earth!

     "Washed"--Every whit clean; purified--body, soul, thoughts,
     purposes.

     "Went to bed"--Work all done--to rest, to sleep.  The culmination of
     the day well spent!

     God looks after the awakening.

                                   Mrs. S. A. OREN-HAYNES.


     Mark Twain was the only man who ever lived, so far as we know, whose
     lies were so innocent, and withal so helpful, as to make them worth
     more than a whole lot of fossilized priests' eternal truths.

                                   D. H. KENNER.




CCXIX

YACHTING AND THEOLOGY

Clemens made fewer speeches during the Riverdale period.  He was as
frequently demanded, but he had a better excuse for refusing, especially
the evening functions.  He attended a good many luncheons with friendly
spirits like Howells, Matthews, James L. Ford, and Hamlin Garland.  At
the end of February he came down to the Mayor's dinner given to Prince
Henry of Prussia, but he did not speak.  Clemens used to say afterward
that he had not been asked to speak, and that it was probably because of
his supposed breach of etiquette at the Kaiser's dinner in Berlin; but
the fact that Prince Henry sought him out, and was most cordially and
humanly attentive during a considerable portion of the evening, is
against the supposition.

Clemens attended a Yale alumni dinner that winter and incidentally
visited Twichell in Hartford.  The old question of moral responsibility
came up and Twichell lent his visitor a copy of Jonathan Edwards's
'Freedom of the Will' for train perusal.  Clemens found it absorbing.
Later he wrote Twichell his views.

     DEAR JOE,--(After compliments.)--[Meaning "What a good time you gave
     me; what a happiness it was to be under your roof again," etc.  See
     opening sentence of all translations of letters passing between Lord
     Roberts and Indian princes and rulers.]--From Bridgeport to New
     York, thence to home, & continuously until near midnight I wallowed
     & reeked with Jonathan in his insane debauch; rose immensely
     refreshed & fine at ten this morning, but with a strange & haunting
     sense of having been on a three days' tear with a drunken lunatic.
     It is years since I have known these sensations.  All through the
     book is the glare of a resplendent intellect gone mad--a marvelous
     spectacle.  No, not all through the book
    --the drunk does not come on till the last third, where what I take
     to be Calvinism & its God begins to show up & shine red & hideous in
     the glow from the fires of hell, their only right and proper
     adornment.

     Jonathan seems to hold (as against the Armenian position) that the
     man (or his soul or his will) never creates an impulse itself, but
     is moved to action by an impulse back of it.  That's sound!

     Also, that of two or more things offered it, it infallibly chooses
     the one which for the moment is most pleasing to ITSELF.  Perfectly
     correct!  An immense admission for a man not otherwise sane.

     Up to that point he could have written Chapters III & IV of my
     suppressed Gospel.  But there we seem to separate.  He seems to
     concede the indisputable & unshaken dominion of Motive & Necessity
     (call them what he may, these are exterior forces & not under the
     man's authority, guidance, or even suggestion); then he suddenly
     flies the logical track & (to all seeming) makes the man & not those
     exterior forces responsible to God for the man's thoughts, words, &
     acts.  It is frank insanity.

     I think that when he concedes the autocratic dominion of Motive and
     Necessity he grants a third position of mine--that a man's mind is a
     mere machine--an automatic machine--which is handled entirely from
     the outside, the man himself furnishing it absolutely nothing; not
     an ounce of its fuel, & not so much as a bare suggestion to that
     exterior engineer as to what the machine shall do nor how it shall
     do it nor when.

     After that concession it was time for him to get alarmed & shirk--
     for he was pointed straight for the only rational & possible next
     station on that piece of road--the irresponsibility of man to God.

     And so he shirked.  Shirked, and arrived at this handsome result:

     Man is commanded to do so & so.

     It has been ordained from the beginning of time that some men
     sha'n't & others can't.

     These are to blame: let them be damned.

     I enjoy the Colonel very much, & shall enjoy the rest of him with an
     obscene delight.

     Joe, the whole tribe shout love to you & yours!
                                                       MARK.

Clemens was moved to set down some theology of his own, and did so in a
manuscript which he entitled, "If I Could Be There."  It is in the
dialogue form he often adopted for polemic writing.  It is a colloquy
between the Master of the Universe and a Stranger.  It begins:


I

If I could be there, hidden under the steps of the throne, I should hear
conversations like this:

A STRANGER.  Lord, there is one who needs to be punished, and has been
overlooked.  It is in the record.  I have found it.

LORD.  By searching?

S.  Yes, Lord.

L.  Who is it?  What is it?

S.  A man.

L.  Proceed.

S.  He died in sin.  Sin committed by his great-grandfather.

L.  When was this?

S.  Eleven million years ago.

L.  Do you know what a microbe is?

S.  Yes, Lord.  It is a creature too small to be detected by my eye.

L.  He commits depredations upon your blood?

S.  Yes, Lord.

L.  I give you leave to subject him to a billion years of misery for this
offense.  Go!  Work your will upon him.

S.  But, Lord, I have nothing against him; I am indifferent to him.

L.  Why?

S.  He is so infinitely small and contemptible.  I am to him as is a
mountain-range to a grain of sand.

L.  What am I to man?

S.  (Silent.)

L.  Am I not, to a man, as is a billion solar systems to a grain of sand?

S.  It is true, Lord.

L.  Some microbes are larger than others.  Does man regard the
difference?

S.  No, Lord.  To him there is no difference of consequence.  To him they
are all microbes, all infinitely little and equally inconsequential.

L.  To me there is no difference of consequence between a man & a
microbe.  Man looks down upon the speck at his feet called a microbe from
an altitude of a thousand miles, so to speak, and regards him with
indifference; I look down upon the specks called a man and a microbe from
an altitude of a billion leagues, so to speak, and to me they are of a
size.  To me both are inconsequential.  Man kills the microbes when he
can?

S.  Yes, Lord.

L.  Then what?  Does he keep him in mind years and years and go on
contriving miseries for him?

S.  No, Lord.

L.  Does he forget him?

S.  Yes, Lord.

L.  Why?

S.  He cares nothing more about him.

L.  Employs himself with more important matters?

S.  Yes, Lord.

L.  Apparently man is quite a rational and dignified person, and can
divorce his mind from uninteresting trivialities.  Why does he affront me
with the fancy that I interest Myself in trivialities--like men and
microbes?


II

L.  Is it true the human race thinks the universe was created for its
convenience?

S.  Yes, Lord.

L.  The human race is modest.  Speaking as a member of it, what do you
think the other animals are for?

S.  To furnish food and labor for man.

L.  What is the sea for?

S.  To furnish food for man.  Fishes.

L.  And the air?

S.  To furnish sustenance for man.  Birds and breath.

L.  How many men are there?

S.  Fifteen hundred millions.

L.  (Referring to notes.) Take your pencil and set down some statistics.
In a healthy man's lower intestine 28,000,000 microbes are born daily and
die daily.  In the rest of a man's body 122,000,000 microbes are born
daily and die daily.  The two sums aggregate-what?

S.  About 150,000,000.

L.  In ten days the aggregate reaches what?

S.  Fifteen hundred millions.

L.  It is for one person.  What would it be for the whole human
population?

S.  Alas, Lord, it is beyond the power of figures to set down that
multitude.  It is billions of billions multiplied by billions of
billions, and these multiplied again and again by billions of billions.
The figures would stretch across the universe and hang over into space on
both sides.

L.  To what intent are these uncountable microbes introduced into the
human race?

S.  That they may eat.

L.  Now then, according to man's own reasoning, what is man for?

S.  Alas-alas!

L.  What is he for?

S.  To-to-furnish food for microbes.

L.  Manifestly.  A child could see it.  Now then, with this common-sense
light to aid your perceptions, what are the air, the land, and the ocean
for?

S.  To furnish food for man so that he may nourish, support, and multiply
and replenish the microbes.

L.  Manifestly.  Does one build a boarding-house for the sake of the
boarding-house itself or for the sake of the boarders?

S.  Certainly for the sake of the boarders.

L.  Man's a boarding-house.

S.  I perceive it, Lord.

L.  He is a boarding-house.  He was never intended for anything else.  If
he had had less vanity and a clearer insight into the great truths that
lie embedded in statistics he would have found it out early.  As concerns
the man who has gone unpunished eleven million years, is it your belief
that in life he did his duty by his microbes?

S.  Undoubtedly, Lord.  He could not help it.

L.  Then why punish him?  He had no other duty to perform.


Whatever else may be said of this kind of doctrine, it is at least
original and has a conclusive sound.  Mark Twain had very little use for
orthodoxy and conservatism.  When it was announced that Dr. Jacques Loeb,
of the University of California, had demonstrated the creation of life by
chemical agencies he was deeply interested.  When a newspaper writer
commented that a "consensus of opinion among biologists" would probably
rate Dr. Loeb as a man of lively imagination rather than an inerrant
investigator of natural phenomena, he felt called to chaff the consensus
idea.

     I wish I could be as young as that again.  Although I seem so old
     now I was once as young as that.  I remember, as if it were but
     thirty or forty years ago, how a paralyzing consensus of opinion
     accumulated from experts a-setting around about brother experts who
     had patiently and laboriously cold-chiseled their way into one or
     another of nature's safe-deposit vaults and were reporting that they
     had found something valuable was plenty for me.  It settled it.

     But it isn't so now-no.  Because in the drift of the years I by and
     by found out that a Consensus examines a new thing with its feelings
     rather oftener than with its mind.

     There was that primitive steam-engine-ages back, in Greek times: a
     Consensus made fun of it.  There was the Marquis of Worcester's
     steam-engine 250 years ago: a Consensus made fun of it.  There was
     Fulton's steamboat of a century ago: a French Consensus, including
     the great Napoleon, made fun of it.  There was Priestley, with his
     oxygen: a Consensus scoffed at him, mobbed him, burned him out,
     banished him.  While a Consensus was proving, by statistics and
     things, that a steamship could not cross the Atlantic, a steamship
     did it.

And so on through a dozen pages or more of lively satire, ending with an
extract from Adam's Diary.

     Then there was a Consensus about it.  It was the very first one.  It
     sat six days and nights.  It was then delivered of the verdict that
     a world could not be made out of nothing; that such small things as
     sun and moon and stars might, maybe, but it would take years and
     years if there was considerable many of them.  Then the Consensus
     got up and looked out of the window, and there was the whole outfit,
     spinning and sparkling in space!  You never saw such a disappointed
     lot.
                                                         ADAM.

He was writing much at this time, mainly for his own amusement, though
now and then he offered one of his reflections for print.  That beautiful
fairy tale, "The Five Boons of Life," of which the most precious is
"Death," was written at this period.  Maeterlinck's lovely story of the
bee interested him; he wrote about that.  Somebody proposed a Martyrs'
Day; he wrote a paper ridiculing the suggestion.  In his note-book, too,
there is a memorandum for a love-story of the Quarternary Epoch which
would begin, "On a soft October afternoon 2,000,000 years ago."  John
Fiske's Discovery of America, Volume I, he said, was to furnish the
animals and scenery, civilization and conversation to be the same as to-
day; but apparently this idea was carried no further.  He ranged through
every subject from protoplasm to infinity, exalting, condemning,
ridiculing, explaining; his brain was always busy--a dynamo that rested
neither night nor day.

In April Clemens received notice of another yachting trip on the Kanawha,
which this time would sail for the Bahama and West India islands.  The
guests were to be about the same.--[The invited ones of the party were
Hon. T. B. Reed, A. G. Paine, Laurence Hutton, Dr. C. C. Rice, W. T.
Foote, and S. L. Clemens.  "Owners of the yacht," Mr. Rogers called them,
signing himself as "Their Guest."]

He sent this telegram:

H. H. ROGERS,
Fairhaven, Mass.

Can't get away this week.  I have company here from tonight till middle
of next week.  Will Kanawha be sailing after that & can I go as Sunday-
school superintendent at half rate?  Answer and prepay.
                                                       DR.  CLEMENS.

The sailing date was conveniently arranged and there followed a happy
cruise among those balmy islands.  Mark Twain was particularly fond of
"Tom" Reed, who had been known as "Czar" Reed in Congress, but was
delightfully human in his personal life.  They argued politics a good
deal, and Reed, with all his training and intimate practical knowledge of
the subject, confessed that he "couldn't argue with a man like that."

"Do you believe the things you say?" he asked once, in his thin, falsetto
voice.

"Yes," said Clemens.  "Some of them."

"Well, you want to look out.  If you go on this way, by and by you'll get
to believing nearly everything you say."

Draw poker appears to have been their favorite diversion.  Clemens in his
notes reports that off the coast of Florida Reed won twenty-three pots in
succession.  It was said afterward that they made no stops at any harbor;
that when the chief officer approached the poker-table and told them they
were about to enter some important port he received peremptory orders to
"sail on and not interrupt the game."  This, however, may be regarded as
more or less founded on fiction.




CCXX

MARK TWAIN AND THE PHILIPPINES

Among the completed manuscripts of the early part of 1902 was a North
American Review article (published in April)--"Does the Race of Man Love
a Lord?"--a most interesting treatise on snobbery as a universal
weakness.  There were also some papers on the Philippine situation.  In
one of these Clemens wrote:

     We have bought some islands from a party who did not own them; with
     real smartness and a good counterfeit of disinterested friendliness
     we coaxed a confiding weak nation into a trap and closed it upon
     them; we went back on an honored guest of the Stars and Stripes when
     we had no further use for him and chased him to the mountains; we
     are as indisputably in possession of a wide-spreading archipelago as
     if it were our property; we have pacified some thousands of the
     islanders and buried them; destroyed their fields; burned their
     villages, and turned their widows and orphans out-of-doors;
     furnished heartbreak by exile to some dozens of disagreeable
     patriots; subjugated the remaining ten millions by Benevolent
     Assimilation, which is the pious new name of the musket; we have
     acquired property in the three hundred concubines and other slaves
     of our business partner, the Sultan of Sulu, and hoisted our
     protecting flag over that swag.

     And so, by these Providences of God--the phrase is the government's,
     not mine--we are a World Power; and are glad and proud, and have a
     back seat in the family.  With tacks in it.  At least we are letting
     on to be glad and proud; it is the best way.  Indeed, it is the only
     way.  We must maintain our dignity, for people are looking.  We are
     a World Power; we cannot get out of it now, and we must make the
     best of it.

And again he wrote:

     I am not finding fault with this use of our flag, for in order not
     to seem eccentric I have swung around now and joined the nation in
     the conviction that nothing can sully a flag.  I was not properly
     reared, and had the illusion that a flag was a thing which must be
     sacredly guarded against shameful uses and unclean contacts lest it
     suffer pollution; and so when it was sent out to the Philippines to
     float over a wanton war and a robbing expedition I supposed it was
     polluted, and in an ignorant moment I said so.  But I stand
     corrected.  I concede and acknowledge that it was only the
     government that sent it on such an errand that was polluted.  Let us
     compromise on that.  I am glad to have it that way.  For our flag
     could not well stand pollution, never having been used to it, but it
     is different with the administration.

But a much more conspicuous comment on the Philippine policy was the so-
called "Defense of General Funston" for what Funston himself referred to
as a "dirty Irish trick"; that is to say, deception in the capture of
Aguinaldo.  Clemens, who found it hard enough to reconcile himself to-
any form of warfare, was especially bitter concerning this particular
campaign.  The article appeared in the North American Review for May,
1902, and stirred up a good deal of a storm.  He wrote much more on the
subject--very much more--but it is still unpublished.




CCXXI

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE

One day in April, 1902, Samuel Clemens received the following letter from
the president of the University of Missouri:

MY DEAR MR. CLEMENS, Although you received the degree of doctor of
literature last fall from Yale, and have had other honors conferred upon
you by other great universities, we want to adopt you here as a son of
the University of Missouri.  In asking your permission to confer upon you
the degree of LL.D.  the University of Missouri does not aim to confer an
honor upon you so much as to show her appreciation of you.  The rules of
the University forbid us to confer the degree upon any one in absentia.
I hope very much that you can so arrange your plans as to be with us on
the fourth day of next June, when we shall hold our Annual Commencement.

                              Very truly yours,
                                        R. H. JESSE.


Clemens had not expected to make another trip to the West, but a
proffered honor such as this from one's native State was not a thing to
be declined.

It was at the end of May when he arrived in St. Louis, and he was met at
the train there by his old river instructor and friend, Horace Bixby--as
fresh, wiry, and capable as he had been forty-five years before.

"I have become an old man.  You are still thirty-five," Clemens said.

They went to the Planters Hotel, and the news presently got around that
Mark Twain was there.  There followed a sort of reception in the hotel
lobby, after which Bixby took him across to the rooms of the Pilots
Association, where the rivermen gathered in force to celebrate his
return.  A few of his old comrades were still alive, among them Beck
Jolly.  The same afternoon he took the train for Hannibal.

It was a busy five days that he had in Hannibal.  High-school
commencement day came first.  He attended, and willingly, or at least
patiently, sat through the various recitals and orations and
orchestrations, dreaming and remembering, no doubt, other high-school
commencements of more than half a century before, seeing in some of those
young people the boys and girls he had known in that vanished time.  A
few friends of his youth were still there, but they were among the
audience now, and no longer fresh and looking into the future.  Their
heads were white, and, like him, they were looking down the recorded
years.  Laura Hawkins was there and Helen Kercheval (Mrs. Frazer and Mrs.
Garth now), and there were others, but they were few and scattering.

He was added to the program, and he made himself as one of the graduates,
and told them some things of the young people of that earlier time that
brought their laughter and their tears.

He was asked to distribute the diplomas, and he undertook the work in his
own way.  He took an armful of them and said to the graduates:

"Take one.  Pick out a good one.  Don't take two, but be sure you get a
good one."

So each took one "unsight and unseen" aid made the more exact
distributions among themselves later.

Next morning it was Saturday--he visited the old home on Hill Street, and
stood in the doorway all dressed in white while a battalion of
photographers made pictures of "this return of the native" to the
threshold of his youth.

"It all seems so small to me," he said, as he looked through the house;
"a boy's home is a big place to him.  I suppose if I should come back
again ten years from now it would be the size of a birdhouse."

He went through the rooms and up-stairs where he had slept and looked out
the window down in the back yard where, nearly sixty years before, Tom
Sawyer, Huck Finn, Joe Harper, and the rest--that is to say, Tom
Blankenship, John Briggs, Will Pitts, and the Bowen boys--set out on
their nightly escapades.  Of that lightsome band Will Pitts and John
Briggs still remained, with half a dozen others--schoolmates of the less
adventurous sort.  Buck Brown, who had been his rival in the spelling
contests, was still there, and John Robards, who had worn golden curls
and the medal for good conduct, and Ed Pierce.  And while these were
assembled in a little group on the pavement outside the home a small old
man came up and put out his hand, and it was Jimmy MacDaniel, to whom so
long before, sitting on the river-bank and eating gingerbread, he had
first told the story of Jim Wolfe and the cats.

They put him into a carriage, drove him far and wide, and showed the
hills and resorts and rendezvous of Tom Sawyer and his marauding band.

He was entertained that evening by the Labinnah Club (whose name was
achieved by a backward spelling of Hannibal), where he found most of the
survivors of his youth.  The news report of that occasion states that he
was introduced by Father McLoughlin, and that he "responded in a very
humorous and touchingly pathetic way, breaking down in tears at the
conclusion.  Commenting on his boyhood days and referring to his mother
was too much for the great humorist.  Before him as he spoke were sitting
seven of his boyhood friends."

On Sunday morning Col. John Robards escorted him to the various churches
and Sunday-schools.  They were all new churches to Samuel Clemens, but he
pretended not to recognize this fact.  In each one he was asked to speak
a few words, and he began by saying how good it was to be back in the old
home Sunday-school again, which as a boy he had always so loved, and he
would go on and point out the very place he had sat, and his escort
hardly knew whether or not to enjoy the proceedings.  At one place he
told a moral story.  He said:

Little boys and girls, I want to tell you a story which illustrates the
value of perseverance--of sticking to your work, as it were.  It is a
story very proper for a Sunday-school.  When I was a little boy in
Hannibal I used to play a good deal up here on Holliday's Hill, which of
course you all know.  John Briggs and I played up there.  I don't suppose
there are any little boys as good as we were then, but of course that is
not to be expected.  Little boys in those days were 'most always good
little boys, because those were the good old times when everything was
better than it is now, but never mind that.  Well, once upon a time, on
Holliday's Hill, they were blasting out rock, and a man was drilling for
a blast.  He sat there and drilled and drilled and drilled perseveringly
until he had a hole down deep enough for the blast.  Then he put in the
powder and tamped and tamped it down, but maybe he tamped it a little too
hard, for the blast went off and he went up into the air, and we watched
him.  He went up higher and higher and got smaller and smaller.  First he
looked as big as a child, then as big as a dog, then as big as a kitten,
then as big as a bird, and finally he went out of sight. John Briggs was
with me, and we watched the place where he went out of sight, and by and
by we saw him coming down first as big as a bird, then as big as a
kitten, then as big as a dog, then as big as a child, and then he was a
man again, and landed right in his seat and went to drilling just
persevering, you see, and sticking to his work.  Little boys and girls,
that's the secret of success, just like that poor but honest workman on
Holliday's Hill.  Of course you won't always be appreciated.  He wasn't.
His employer was a hard man, and on Saturday night when he paid him he
docked him fifteen minutes for the time he was up in the air--but never
mind, he had his reward.

He told all this in his solemn, grave way, though the Sunday-school was
in a storm of enjoyment when he finished.  There still remains a doubt in
Hannibal as to its perfect suitability, but there is no doubt as to its
acceptability.

That Sunday afternoon, with John Briggs, he walked over Holliday's Hill--
the Cardiff Hill of Tom Sawyer.  It was jest such a Sunday as that one
when they had so nearly demolished the negro driver and had damaged a
cooper-shop.  They calculated that nearly three thousand Sundays had
passed since then, and now here they were once more, two old men with the
hills still fresh and green, the river still sweeping by and rippling in
the sun.  Standing there together and looking across to the low-lying
Illinois shore, and to the green islands where they had played, and to
Lover's Leap on the south, the man who had been Sam Clemens said:

"John, that is one of the loveliest sights I ever saw.  Down there by the
island is the place we used to swim, and yonder is where a man was
drowned, and there's where the steamboat sank.  Down there on Lover's
Leap is where the Millerites put on their robes one night to go to
heaven.  None of them went that night, but I suppose most of them have
gone now."

John Briggs said:

"Sam, do you remember the day we stole the peaches from old man Price and
one of his bow-legged niggers came after us with the dogs, and how we
made up our minds that we'd catch that nigger and drown him?"

They came to the place where they had pried out the great rock that had
so nearly brought them to grief.  Sam Clemens said:

"John, if we had killed that man we'd have had a dead nigger on our hands
without a cent to pay for him."

And so they talked on of this thing and that, and by and by they drove
along the river, and Sam Clemens pointed out the place where he swam it
and was taken with a cramp on the return swim, and believed for a while
that his career was about to close.

"Once, near the shore, I thought I would let down," he said, "but was
afraid to, knowing that if the water was deep I was a goner, but finally
my knees struck the sand and I crawled out.  That was the closest call I
ever had."

They drove by the place where the haunted house had stood.  They drank
from a well they had always known, and from the bucket as they had always
drunk, talking and always talking, fondling lovingly and lingeringly that
most beautiful of all our possessions, the past.

"Sam," said John, when they parted, "this is probably the last time we
shall meet on this earth.  God bless you.  Perhaps somewhere we shall
renew our friendship."

"John," was the answer, "this day has been worth thousands of dollars to
me.  We were like brothers once, and I feel that we are the same now.
Good-by, John.  I'll try to meet you--somewhere."




CCXXII

A PROPHET HONORED IN HIS COUNTRY

Clemens left next day for Columbia.  Committees met him at Rensselaer,
Monroe City, Clapper, Stoutsville, Paris, Madison, Moberly--at every
station along the line of his travel.  At each place crowds were gathered
when the train pulled in, to cheer and wave and to present him with
flowers.  Sometimes he spoke a few words; but oftener his eyes were full
of tears--his voice would not come.

There is something essentially dramatic in official recognition by one's
native State--the return of the lad who has set out unknown to battle
with life, and who, having conquered, is invited back to be crowned.  No
other honor, however great and spectacular, is quite like that, for there
is in it a pathos and a completeness that are elemental and stir emotions
as old as life itself.

It was on the 4th of June, 1902, that Mark Twain received his doctor of
laws degree from the State University at Columbia, Missouri.  James
Wilson, Secretary of Agriculture, and Ethan Allen Hitchcock, Secretary of
the Interior, were among those similarly honored.  Mark Twain was
naturally the chief attraction.  Dressed in his Yale scholastic gown he
led the procession of graduating students, and, as in Hannibal, awarded
them their diplomas.  The regular exercises were made purposely brief in
order that some time might be allowed for the conferring of the degrees.
This ceremony was a peculiarly impressive one.  Gardner Lathrop read a
brief statement introducing "America's foremost author and best-loved
citizen, Samuel Langhorne Clemens--Mark Twain."

Clemens rose, stepped out to the center of the stage, and paused.  He
seemed to be in doubt as to whether he should make a speech or simply
express his thanks and retire.  Suddenly, and without a signal, the great
audience rose as one man and stood in silence at his feet.  He bowed, but
he could not speak.  Then that vast assembly began a peculiar chant,
spelling out slowly the word Missouri, with a pause between each letter.
It was dramatic; it was tremendous in its impressiveness.  He had
recovered himself when they finished.  He said he didn't know whether he
was expected to make a speech or not.  They did not leave'him in doubt.
They cheered and demanded a speech, a speech, and he made them one--one
of the speeches he could make best, full of quaint phrasing, happy humor,
gentle and dramatic pathos.  He closed by telling the watermelon story
for its "moral effect."

He was the guest of E. W. Stevens in Columbia, and a dinner was given in
his honor.  They would have liked to keep him longer, but he was due in
St. Louis again to join in the dedication of the grounds, where was to be
held a World's Fair, to celebrate the Louisiana Purchase.  Another
ceremony he attended was the christening of the St. Louis harbor-boat, or
rather the rechristening, for it had been decided to change its name from
the St. Louis--[Originally the Elon G.  Smith, built in 1873.]--to the
Mark Twain.  A short trip was made on it for the ceremony.  Governor
Francis and Mayor Wells were of the party, and Count and Countess
Rochambeau and Marquis de Lafayette, with the rest of the French group
that had come over for the dedication of the World's Fair grounds.

Mark Twain himself was invited to pilot the harbor boat, and so returned
for the last time to his old place at the wheel.  They all collected in
the pilot-house behind him, feeling that it was a memorable occasion.
They were going along well enough when he saw a little ripple running out
from the shore across the bow.  In the old days he could have told
whether it indicated a bar there or was only caused by the wind, but he
could not be sure any more.  Turning to the pilot languidly, he said:
"I feel a little tired.  I guess you had better take the wheel."

Luncheon was served aboard, and Mayor Wells made the christening speech;
then the Countess Rochambeau took a bottle of champagne from the hand of
Governor Francis and smashed it on the deck, saying, "I christen thee,
good boat, Mark Twain."  So it was, the Mississippi joined in according
him honors.  In his speech of reply he paid tribute to those illustrious
visitors from France and recounted something of the story of French
exploration along that great river.

"The name of La Salle will last as long as the river itself," he said;
"will last until commerce is dead.  We have allowed the commerce of the
river to die, but it was to accommodate the railroads, and we must be
grateful."

Carriages were waiting for them when the boat landed in the afternoon,
and the party got in and were driven to a house which had been identified
as Eugene Field's birthplace.  A bronze tablet recording this fact had
been installed, and this was to be the unveiling.  The place was not in
an inviting quarter of the town.  It stood in what is known as Walsh's
Row--was fashionable enough once, perhaps, but long since fallen into
disrepute.  Ragged children played in the doorways, and thirsty lodgers
were making trips with tin pails to convenient bar-rooms.  A curious
nondescript audience assembled around the little group of dedicators,
wondering what it was all about.  The tablet was concealed by the
American flag, which could be easily pulled away by an attached cord.
Governor Francis spoke a few words, to the effect that they had gathered
here to unveil a tablet to an American poet, and that it was fitting that
Mark Twain should do this.  They removed their hats, and Clemens, his
white hair blowing in the wind, said:

"My friends; we are here with reverence and respect to commemorate and
enshrine in memory the house where was born a man who, by his life, made
bright the lives of all who knew him, and by his literary efforts cheered
the thoughts of thousands who never knew him.  I take pleasure in
unveiling the tablet of Eugene Field."

The flag fell and the bronze inscription was revealed.  By this time the
crowd, generally, had recognized who it was that was speaking.  A
working-man proposed three cheers for Mark Twain, and they were heartily
given.  Then the little party drove away, while the neighborhood
collected to regard the old house with a new interest.

It was reported to Clemens later that there was some dispute as to the
identity of the Field birthplace.  He said:

"Never mind.  It is of no real consequence whether it is his birthplace
or not.  A rose in any other garden will bloom as sweet."




CCXXIII

AT YORK HARBOR

They decided to spend the summer at York Harbor, Maine.  They engaged a
cottage, there, and about the end of June Mr. Rogers brought his yacht
Kanawha to their water-front at Riverdale, and in perfect weather took
them to Maine by sea.  They landed at York Harbor and took possession of
their cottage, The Pines, one of their many attractive summer lodges.
Howells, at Kittery Point, was not far away, and everything promised a
happy summer.

Mrs. Clemens wrote to Mrs. Crane:

     We are in the midst of pines.  They come up right about us, and the
     house is so high and the roots of the trees are so far below the
     veranda that we are right in the branches.  We drove over to call on
     Mr. and Mrs. Howells.  The drive was most beautiful, and never in my
     life have I seen such a variety of wild flowers in so short a space.

Howells tells us of the wide, low cottage in a pine grove overlooking
York River, and how he used to sit with Clemens that summer at a corner
of the veranda farthest away from Mrs. Clemens's window, where they could
read their manuscripts to each other, and tell their stories and laugh
their hearts out without disturbing her.

Clemens, as was his habit, had taken a work-room in a separate cottage
"in the house of a friend and neighbor, a fisherman and a boatman":

     There was a table where he could write, and a bed where he could lie
     down and read; and there, unless my memory has played me one of
     those constructive tricks that people's memories indulge in, he read
     me the first chapters of an admirable story.  The scene was laid in
     a Missouri town, and the characters such as he had known in boyhood;
     but often as I tried to make him own it, he denied having written
     any such story; it is possible that I dreamed it, but I hope the MS.
     will yet be found.

Howells did not dream it; but in one way his memory misled him.  The
story was one which Clemens had heard in Hannibal, and he doubtless
related it in his vivid way.  Howells, writing at a later time, quite
naturally included it among the several manuscripts which Clemens read
aloud to him.  Clemens may have intended to write the tale, may even have
begun it, though this is unlikely.  The incidents were too well known and
too notorious in his old home for fiction.

Among the stories that Clemens did show, or read, to Howells that summer
was "The Belated Passport," a strong, intensely interesting story with
what Howells in a letter calls a "goat's tail ending," perhaps meaning
that it stopped with a brief and sudden shake--with a joke, in fact,
altogether unimportant, and on the whole disappointing to the reader.  A
far more notable literary work of that summer grew out of a true incident
which Howells related to Clemens as they sat chatting together on the
veranda overlooking the river one summer afternoon.  It was a pathetic
episode in the life of some former occupants of The Pines--the tale of a
double illness in the household, where a righteous deception was carried
on during several weeks for the benefit of a life that was about to slip
away.  Out of this grew the story, "Was it Heaven? or Hell?" a
heartbreaking history which probes the very depths of the human soul.
Next to "Hadleyburg," it is Mark Twain's greatest fictional sermon.

Clemens that summer wrote, or rather finished, his most pretentious poem.
One day at Riverdale, when Mrs. Clemens had been with him on the lawn,
they had remembered together the time when their family of little folks
had filled their lives so full, conjuring up dream-like glimpses of them
in the years of play and short frocks and hair-plaits down their backs.
It was pathetic, heart-wringing fancying; and later in the day Clemens
conceived and began the poem which now he brought to conclusion.  It was
built on the idea of a mother who imagines her dead child still living,
and describes to any listener the pictures of her fancy.  It is an
impressive piece of work; but the author, for some reason, did not offer
it for publication.--[This poem was completed on the anniversary of
Susy's death and is of considerable length.  Some selections from it will
be found under Appendix U, at the end of this work.]

Mrs. Clemens, whose health earlier in the year had been delicate, became
very seriously ill at York Harbor.  Howells writes:

At first she had been about the house, and there was one gentle afternoon
when she made tea for us in the parlor, but that was the last time I
spoke with her.  After that it was really a question of how soonest and
easiest she could be got back to Riverdale.

She had seemed to be in fairly good health and spirits for several weeks
after the arrival at York.  Then, early in August, there came a great
celebration of some municipal anniversary, and for two or three days
there were processions, mass-meetings, and so on by day, with fireworks
at night.  Mrs. Clemens, always young in spirit, was greatly interested.
She went about more than her strength warranted, seeing and hearing and
enjoying all that was going on.  She was finally persuaded to forego the
remaining ceremonies and rest quietly on the pleasant veranda at home;
but she had overtaxed herself and a collapse was inevitable.  Howells and
two friends called one afternoon, and a friend of the Queen of Rumania, a
Madame Hartwig, who had brought from that gracious sovereign a letter
which closed in this simple and modest fashion:

     I beg your pardon for being a bore to one I so deeply love and
     admire, to whom I owe days and days of forgetfulness of self and
     troubles, and the intensest of all joys-hero-worship!  People don't
     always realize what a happiness that is!  God bless you for every
     beautiful thought you poured into my tired heart, and for every
     smile on a weary way.                        CARMEN SYLVA.

This was the occasion mentioned by Howells when Mrs. Clemens made tea for
them in the parlor for the last time.  Her social life may be said to
have ended that afternoon.  Next morning the break came.  Clemens, in his
notebook for that day, writes:

Tuesday, August 12, 1902.  At 7 A.M.  Livy taken violently ill.
Telephoned and Dr. Lambert was here in 1/2 hour.  She could not breathe-
was likely to stifle.  Also she had severe palpitation.  She believed she
was dying.  I also believed it.

Nurses were summoned, and Mrs. Crane and others came from Elmira.  Clara
Clemens took charge of the household and matters generally, and the
patient was secluded and guarded from every disturbing influence.
Clemens slipped about with warnings of silence.  A visitor found notices
in Mark Twain's writing pinned to the trees near Mrs. Clemens's window
warning the birds not to sing too loudly.

The patient rallied, but she remained very much debilitated.  On
September 3d the note-book says:

     Always Mr. Rogers keeps his yacht Kanawha in commission & ready to
     fly here and take us to Riverdale on telegraphic notice.

But Mrs. Clemens was unable to return by sea.  When it was decided at
last, in October, that she could be removed to Riverdale, Clemens and
Howells went to Boston and engaged an invalid car to make the journey
from York Harbor to Riverdale without change.  Howells tells us that
Clemens gave his strictest personal attention to the arrangement of these
details, and that they absorbed him.

     There was no particular of the business which he did not scrutinize
     and master .  .  .  .  With the inertness that grows upon an aging
     man he had been used to delegate more and more things, but of that
     thing I perceived that he would not delegate the least detail.

They made the journey on the 16th, in nine and a half hours.  With the
exception of the natural weariness due to such a trip, the invalid was
apparently no worse on their arrival.  The stout English butler carried
her to her room.  It would be many months before she would leave it
again.  In one of his memoranda Clemens wrote:

     Our dear prisoner is where she is through overwork-day & night
     devotion to the children & me.  We did not know how to value it.  We
     know now.

And in a notation, on a letter praising him for what he had done for the
world's enjoyment, and for his splendid triumph over debt, he said:

     Livy never gets her share of these applauses, but it is because the
     people do not know.  Yet she is entitled to the lion's share.

He wrote Twichell at the end of October:

     Livy drags along drearily.  It must be hard times for that turbulent
     spirit.  It will be a long time before she is on her feet again.  It
     is a most pathetic case.  I wish I could transfer it to myself.
     Between ripping & raging & smoking & reading I could get a good deal
     of holiday out of it.  Clara runs the house smoothly & capitally.

Heavy as was the cloud of illness, he could not help pestering Twichell a
little about a recent mishap--a sprained shoulder:

     I should like to know how & where it happened.  In the pulpit, as
     like as not, otherwise you would not be taking so much pains to
     conceal it.  This is not a malicious suggestion, & not a personally
     invented one: you told me yourself once that you threw artificial
     power & impressiveness in your sermons where needed by "banging the
     Bible"--(your own words).  You have reached a time of life when it
     is not wise to take these risks.  You would better jump around.  We
     all have to change our methods as the infirmities of age creep upon
     us.  Jumping around will be impressive now, whereas before you were
     gray it would have excited remark.

Mrs. Clemens seemed to improve as the weeks passed, and they had great
hopes of her complete recovery.  Clemens took up some work--a new Huck
Finn story, inspired by his trip to Hannibal.  It was to have two parts--
Huck and Tom in youth, and then their return in old age.  He did some
chapters quite in the old vein, and wrote to Howells of his plan.
Howells answered:

     It is a great lay-out: what I shall enjoy most will be the return of
     the old fellows to the scene and their tall lying.  There is a
     matchless chance there.  I suppose you will put in plenty of pegs in
     this prefatory part.

But the new story did not reach completion.  Huck and Tom would not come
back, even to go over the old scenes.




CCXXIV

THE SIXTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY DINNER

It was on the evening of the 27th of November, 1902, I at the
Metropolitan Club, New York City, that Col.  George Harvey, president of
the Harper Company, gave Mark Twain a dinner in celebration of his sixty-
seventh birthday.  The actual date fell three days later; but that would
bring it on Sunday, and to give it on Saturday night would be more than
likely to carry it into Sabbath morning, and so the 27th was chosen.
Colonel Harvey himself presided, and Howells led the speakers with a
poem, "A Double-Barreled Sonnet to Mark Twain," which closed:

          Still, to have everything beyond cavil right,
          We will dine with you here till Sunday night.

Thomas Brackett Reed followed with what proved to be the last speech he
would ever make, as it was also one of his best.  All the speakers did
well that night, and they included some of the country's foremost in
oratory: Chauncey Depew, St. Clair McKelway, Hamilton Mabie, and Wayne
MacVeagh.  Dr. Henry van Dyke and John Kendrick Bangs read poems.  The
chairman constantly kept the occasion from becoming too serious by
maintaining an attitude of "thinking ambassador" for the guest of the
evening, gently pushing Clemens back in his seat when he attempted to
rise and expressing for him an opinion of each of the various tributes.

"The limit has been reached," he announced at the close of Dr. van Dyke's
poem.  "More that is better could not be said.  Gentlemen, Mr. Clemens."

It is seldom that Mark Twain has made a better after-dinner speech than
he delivered then.  He was surrounded by some of the best minds of the
nation, men assembled to do him honor.  They expected much of him--to
Mark Twain always an inspiring circumstance.  He was greeted with cheers
and hand-clapping that came volley after volley, and seemed never ready
to end.  When it had died away at last he stood waiting a little in the
stillness for his voice; then he said, "I think I ought to be allowed to
talk as long as I want to," and again the storm broke.

It is a speech not easy to abridge--a finished and perfect piece of
after-dinner eloquence,--[The "Sixty-seventh Birthday Speech" entire is
included in the volume Mark Twain's Speeches.]--full of humorous stories
and moving references to old friends--to Hay; and Reed, and Twichell, and
Howells, and Rogers, the friends he had known so long and loved so well.
He told of his recent trip to his boyhood home, and how he had stood with
John Briggs on Holliday's Hill and they had pointed out the haunts of
their youth.  Then at the end he paid a tribute to the companion of his
home, who could not be there to share his evening's triumph.  This
peroration--a beautiful heart-offering to her and to those that had
shared in long friendship--demands admission:

     Now, there is one invisible guest here.  A part of me is not
     present; the larger part, the better part, is yonder at her home;
     that is my wife, and she has a good many personal friends here, and
     I think it won't distress any one of them to know that, although she
     is going to be confined to her bed for many months to come from that
     nervous prostration, there is not any danger and she is coming along
     very well--and I think it quite appropriate that I should speak of
     her.  I knew her for the first time just in the same year that I
     first knew John Hay and Tom Reed and Mr. Twichell--thirty-six years
     ago--and she has been the best friend I have ever had, and that is
     saying a good deal--she has reared me--she and Twichell together--
     and what I am I owe to them.  Twichell--why, it is such a pleasure
     to look upon Twichell's face!  For five and twenty years I was under
     the Rev. Mr. Twichell's tuition, I was in his pastorate occupying a
     pew in his church and held him in due reverence.  That man is full
     of all the graces that go to make a person companionable and
     beloved; and wherever Twichell goes to start a church the people
     flock there to buy the land; they find real estate goes up all
     around the spot, and the envious and the thoughtful always try to
     get Twichell to move to their neighborhood and start a church; and
     wherever you see him go you can go and buy land there with
     confidence, feeling sure that there will be a double price for you
     before very long.

     I have tried to do good in this world, and it is marvelous in how
     many different ways I have done good, and it is comfortable to
     reflect--now, there's Mr. Rogers--just out of the affection I bear
     that man many a time I have given him points in finance that he had
     never thought of--and if he could lay aside envy, prejudice, and
     superstition, and utilize those ideas in his business, it would make
     a difference in his bank-account.

     Well, I liked the poetry.  I liked all the speeches and the poetry,
     too.  I liked Dr. van Dyke's poem.  I wish I could return thanks in
     proper measure to you, gentlemen, who have spoken and violated your
     feelings to pay me compliments; some were merited and some you
     overlooked, it is true; and Colonel Harvey did slander every one of
     you, and put things into my mouth that I never said, never thought
     of at all.

     And now my wife and I, out of our single heart, return you our
     deepest and most grateful thanks, and--yesterday was her birthday.

The sixty-seventh birthday dinner was widely celebrated by the press, and
newspaper men generally took occasion to pay brilliant compliments to
Mark Twain.  Arthur Brisbane wrote editorially:

     For more than a generation he has been the Messiah of a genuine
     gladness and joy to the millions of three continents.

It was little more than a week later that one of the old friends he had
mentioned, Thomas Brackett Reed, apparently well and strong that birthday
evening, passed from the things of this world.  Clemens felt his death
keenly, and in a "good-by" which he wrote for Harper's Weekly he said:

     His was a nature which invited affection--compelled it, in fact--and
     met it half-way.  Hence, he was "Tom" to the most of his friends and
     to half of the nation .  .  .  .

     I cannot remember back to a time when he was not "Tom" Reed to me,
     nor to a time when he could have been offended at being so addressed
     by me.  I cannot remember back to a time when I could let him alone
     in an after-dinner speech if he was present, nor to a time when he
     did not take my extravagance concerning him and misstatements about
     him in good part, nor yet to a time when he did not pay them back
     with usury when his turn came.  The last speech he made was at my
     birthday dinner at the end of November, when naturally I was his
     text; my last word to him was in a letter the next day; a day later
     I was illustrating a fantastic article on art with his portrait
     among others--a portrait now to be laid reverently away among the
     jests that begin in humor and end in pathos.  These things happened
     only eight days ago, and now he is gone from us, and the nation is
     speaking of him as one who was.  It seems incredible, impossible.
     Such a man, such a friend, seems to us a permanent possession; his
     vanishing from our midst is unthinkable, as was the vanishing of the
     Campanile, that had stood for a thousand years and was turned to
     dust in a moment.

The appreciation closes:

     I have only wished to say how fine and beautiful was his life and
     character, and to take him by the hand and say good-by, as to a
     fortunate friend who has done well his work and gees a pleasant
     journey.




CCXXV

CHRISTIAN SCIENCE CONTROVERSIES

The North American Review for December (1902) contained an instalment of
the Christian Science series which Mark Twain had written in Vienna
several years before.  He had renewed his interest in the doctrine, and
his admiration for Mrs. Eddy's peculiar abilities and his antagonism
toward her had augmented in the mean time.  Howells refers to the "mighty
moment when Clemens was building his engines of war for the destruction
of Christian Science, which superstition nobody, and he least of all,
expected to destroy":

     He believed that as a religious machine the Christian Science Church
     was as perfect as the Roman Church, and destined to be more
     formidable in its control of the minds of men .  .  .  .

     An interesting phase of his psychology in this business was not.
     only his admiration for the masterly policy of the Christian Science
     hierarchy, but his willingness to allow the miracles of its healers
     to be tried on his friends and family if they wished it.  He had a
     tender heart for the whole generation of empirics, as well as the
     newer sorts of scienticians, but he seemed to base his faith in them
     largely upon the failure of the regulars, rather than upon their own
     successes, which also he believed in.  He was recurrently, but not
     insistently, desirous that you should try their strange magics when
     you were going to try the familiar medicines.

Clemens never had any quarrel with the theory of Christian Science or
mental healing, or with any of the empiric practices.  He acknowledged
good in all of them, and he welcomed most of them in preference to
materia medica.  It is true that his animosity for the founder of the
Christian Science cult sometimes seems to lap over and fringe the
religion itself; but this is apparent rather than real.  Furthermore, he
frequently expressed a deep obligation which humanity owed to the founder
of the faith, in that she had organized a healing element ignorantly and
indifferently employed hitherto.  His quarrel with Mrs. Eddy lay in the
belief that she herself, as he expressed it, was "a very unsound
Christian Scientist."

     I believe she has a serious malady--self-edification--and that it
     will be well to have one of the experts demonstrate over her.  [But
     he added]: Closely examined, painstakingly studied, she is easily
     the most interesting person on the planet, and in several ways as
     easily the most extraordinary woman that was ever born upon it.

Necessarily, the forces of Christian Science were aroused by these
articles, and there were various replies, among them, one by the founder
herself, a moderate rejoinder in her usual literary form.

     "Mrs. Eddy in Error," in the North American Review for April, 1903,
     completed what Clemens had to say on the matter for this time.

He was putting together a book on the subject, comprised of his various
published papers and some added chapters.  It would not be a large
volume, and he offered to let his Christian Science opponents share it
with him, stating their side of the case.  Mr. William D.  McCrackan, one
of the church's chief advocates, was among those invited to participate.
McCrackan and Clemens, from having begun as enemies, had become quite
friendly, and had discussed their differences face to face at
considerable length.  Early in the controversy Clemens one night wrote
McCrackan a pretty savage letter.  He threw it on the hall table for
mailing, but later got out of bed and slipped down-stairs to get it.  It
was too late--the letters had been gathered up and mailed.  Next evening
a truly Christian note came from McCrackan, returning the hasty letter,
which he said he was sure the writer would wish to recall.  Their
friendship began there.  For some reason, however, the collaborated
volume did not materialize.  In the end, publication was delayed a number
of years, by which time Clemens's active interest was a good deal
modified, though the practice itself never failed to invite his
attention.

Howells refers to his anti-Christian Science rages, which began with the
postponement of the book, and these Clemens vented at the time in another
manuscript entitled, "Eddypus," an imaginary history of a thousand years
hence, when Eddyism should rule the world.  By that day its founder would
have become a deity, and the calendar would be changed to accord with her
birth.  It was not publishable matter, and really never intended as such.
It was just one of the things which Mark Twain wrote to relieve mental
pressure.




CCXXVI

"WAS IT HEAVEN? OR HELL?"

The Christmas number of Harper's Magazine for 1902 contained the story,
"Was it Heaven? or Hell?" and it immediately brought a flood of letters
to its author from grateful readers on both sides of the ocean.  An
Englishman wrote: "I want to thank you for writing so pathetic and so
profoundly true a story"; and an American declared it to be the best
short story ever written.  Another letter said:

     I have learned to love those maiden liars--love and weep over them--
     then put them beside Dante's Beatrice in Paradise.

There were plenty of such letters; but there was one of a different sort.
It was a letter from a man who had but recently gone through almost
precisely the experience narrated in the tale.  His dead daughter had
even borne the same name--Helen.  She had died of typhus while her mother
was prostrated with the same malady, and the deception had been
maintained in precisely the same way, even to the fictitiously written
letters.  Clemens replied to this letter, acknowledging the striking
nature of the coincidence it related, and added that, had he invented the
story, he would have believed it a case of mental telegraphy.

     I was merely telling a true story just as it had been told to me by
     one who well knew the mother and the daughter & all the beautiful &
     pathetic details.  I was living in the house where it had happened,
     three years before, & I put it on paper at once while it was fresh
     in my mind, & its pathos still straining at my heartstrings.

Clemens did not guess that the coincidences were not yet complete, that
within a month the drama of the tale would be enacted in his own home.
In his note-book, under the date of December 24(1902), he wrote:

     Jean was hit with a chill: Clara was completing her watch in her
     mother's room and there was no one able to force Jean to go to bed.
     As a result she is pretty ill to-day-fever & high temperature.

Three days later he added:

     It was pneumonia.  For 5 days jean's temperature ranged between 103
     & 104 2/5, till this morning, when it got down to 101.  She looks
     like an escaped survivor of a forest fire.  For 6 days now my story
     in the Christmas Harper's "Was it Heaven? or Hell?"--has been
     enacted in this household.  Every day Clara & the nurses have lied
     about Jean to her mother, describing the fine times she is having
     outdoors in the winter sports.

That proved a hard, trying winter in the Clemens home, and the burden of
it fell chiefly, indeed almost entirely, upon Clara Clemens.  Mrs.
Clemens became still more frail, and no other member of the family, not
even her husband, was allowed to see her for longer than the briefest
interval.  Yet the patient was all the more anxious to know the news, and
daily it had to be prepared--chiefly invented--for her comfort.  In an
account which Clemens once set down of the "Siege and Season of
Unveracity," as he called it, he said:

     Clara stood a daily watch of three or four hours, and hers was a
     hard office indeed.  Daily she sealed up in her heart a dozen
     dangerous truths, and thus saved her mother's life and hope and
     happiness with holy lies.  She had never told her mother a lie in
     her life before, and I may almost say that she never told her a
     truth afterward.  It was fortunate for us all that Clara's
     reputation for truthfulness was so well established in her mother's
     mind.  It was our daily protection from disaster.  The mother never
     doubted Clara's word.  Clara could tell her large improbabilities
     without exciting any suspicion, whereas if I tried to market even a
     small and simple one the case would have been different.  I was
     never able to get a reputation like Clara's.  Mrs. Clemens
     questioned Clara every day concerning Jean's health, spirits,
     clothes, employments, and amusements, and how she was enjoying
     herself; and Clara furnished the information right along in minute
     detail--every word of it false, of course.  Every day she had to
     tell how Jean dressed, and in time she got so tired of using Jean's
     existing clothes over and over again, and trying to get new effects
     out of them, that finally, as a relief to her hard-worked invention,
     she got to adding imaginary clothes to Jean's wardrobe, and probably
     would have doubled it and trebled it if a warning note in her
     mother's comments had not admonished her that she was spending more
     money on these spectral gowns and things than the family income
     justified.

Some portions of detailed accounts of Clara's busy days of this period,
as written at the time by Clemens to Twichell and to Mrs. Crane, are
eminently worth preserving.  To Mrs. Crane:

     Clara does not go to her Monday lesson in New York today [her mother
     having seemed not so well through the night], but forgets that fact
     and enters her mother's room (where she has no business to be)
     toward train-time dressed in a wrapper.

     LIVY.  Why, Clara, aren't you going to your lesson?
     CLARA (almost caught).  Yes.
     L.  In that costume?
     CL.  Oh no.
     L.  Well, you can't make your train; it's impossible.
     CL.  I know, but I'm going to take the other one.
     L.  Indeed that won't do--you'll be ever so much too late for
     your lesson.
     CL.  No, the lesson-time has been put an hour later.
     L.  (satisfied, then suddenly).  But, Clara, that train and the late
     lesson together will make you late to Mrs. Hapgood's luncheon.
     CL.  No, the train leaves fifteen minutes earlier than it used to.
     L.  (satisfied).  Tell Mrs. Hapgood, etc., etc., etc.  (which Clara
     promises to do).  Clara, dear, after the luncheon--I hate to put
     this on you--but could you do two or three little shopping-errands
     for me?
     CL.  Oh, it won't trouble me a bit-I can do it.  (Takes a list of
     the things she is to buy-a list which she will presently hand to
     another.)

     At 3 or 4 P.M.  Clara takes the things brought from New York,
     studies over her part a little, then goes to her mother's room.

     LIVY.  It's very good of you, dear.  Of course, if I had known it
     was going to be so snowy and drizzly and sloppy I wouldn't have
     asked you to buy them.  Did you get wet?
     CL.  Oh, nothing to hurt.
     L.  You took a cab both ways?
     CL.  Not from the station to the lesson-the weather was good enough
     till that was over.
     L.  Well, now, tell me everything Mrs. Hapgood said.

     Clara tells her a long yarn-avoiding novelties and surprises and
     anything likely to inspire questions difficult to answer; and of
     course detailing the menu, for if it had been the feeding of the
     5,000 Livy would have insisted on knowing what kind of bread it was
     and how the fishes were served.  By and by, while talking of
     something else:

     LIVY.  Clams!--in the end of December.  Are you sure it was clams?
     CL.  I didn't say cl---I meant Blue Points.
     L.  (tranquilized).  It seemed odd.  What is Jean doing?
     CL.  She said she was going to do a little typewriting.
     L.  Has she been out to-day?
     CL.  Only a moment, right after luncheon.  She was determined to go
     out again, but----

     L.  How did you know she was out?
     CL.  (saving herself in time).  Katie told me.  She was determined
     to go out again in the rain and snow, but I persuaded her to stay
     in.
     L.  (with moving and grateful admiration).  Clara, you are
     wonderful!  the wise watch you keep over Jean, and the influence you
     have over her; it's so lovely of you, and I tied here and can't take
     care of her myself.  (And she goes on with these undeserved praises
     till Clara is expiring with shame.)

To Twichell:

     I am to see Livy a moment every afternoon until she has another bad
     night; and I stand in dread, for with all my practice I realize that
     in a sudden emergency I am but a poor, clumsy liar, whereas a fine
     alert and capable emergency liar is the only sort that is worth
     anything in a sick-chamber.

     Now, Joe, just see what reputation can do.  All Clara's life she has
     told Livy the truth and now the reward comes; Clara lies to her
     three and a half hours every day, and Livy takes it all at par,
     whereas even when I tell her a truth it isn't worth much without
     corroboration .  .  .  .

     Soon my brief visit is due.  I've just been up listening at Livy's
     door.

     5 P.M.  A great disappointment.  I was sitting outside Livy's door
     waiting.  Clara came out a minute ago and said L ivy is not so well,
     and the nurse can't let me see her to-day.

That pathetic drama was to continue in some degree for many a long month.
All that winter and spring Mrs. Clemens kept but a frail hold on life.
Clemens wrote little, and refused invitations everywhere he could.  He
spent his time largely in waiting for the two-minute period each day when
he could stand at the bed-foot and say a few words to the invalid, and he
confined his writing mainly to the comforting, affectionate messages
which he was allowed to push under her door.  He was always waiting there
long before the moment he was permitted to enter.  Her illness and her
helplessness made manifest what Howells has fittingly characterized as
his "beautiful and tender loyalty to her, which was the most moving
quality of his most faithful soul."




CCXXVII

THE SECOND RIVERDALE WINTER

Most of Mark Twain's stories have been dramatized at one time or another,
and with more or less success.  He had two plays going that winter, one
of them the little "Death Disk," which--in story form had appeared a year
before in Harper's Magazine.  It was put on at the Carnegie Lyceum with
considerable effect, but it was not of sufficient importance to warrant a
long continuance.

Another play of that year was a dramatization of Huckleberry Finn, by Lee
Arthur.  This was played with a good deal of success in Baltimore,
Philadelphia, and elsewhere, the receipts ranging from three hundred to
twenty-one hundred dollars per night, according to the weather and
locality.  Why the play was discontinued is not altogether apparent;
certainly many a dramatic enterprise has gone further, faring worse.

Huck in book form also had been having adventures a little earlier, in
being tabooed on account of his morals by certain librarians of Denver
and Omaha.  It was years since Huck had been in trouble of that sort, and
he acquired a good deal of newspaper notoriety in consequence.

Certain entries in Mark Twain's note-book reveal somewhat of his life and
thought at this period.  We find such entries as this:

     Saturday, January 3, 1903.  The offspring of riches: Pride, vanity,
     ostentation, arrogance, tyranny.

     Sunday, January 4, 1903.  The offspring of poverty: Greed,
     sordidness, envy, hate, malice, cruelty, meanness, lying, shirking,
     cheating, stealing, murder.


     Monday, February 2, 1903.  33d wedding anniversary.  I was allowed
     to see Livy 5 minutes this morning in honor of the day.  She makes
     but little progress toward recovery, still there is certainly some,
     we are sure.

     Sunday, March 1, 1903.  We may not doubt that society in heaven
     consists mainly of undesirable persons.

     Thursday, March 19, 1903.  Susy's birthday.  She would be 31 now.

The family illnesses, which presently included an allotment for himself,
his old bronchitis, made him rage more than ever at the imperfections of
the species which could be subject to such a variety of ills.  Once he
wrote:

     Man was made at the end of the week's work when God was tired.

And again:

     Adam, man's benefactor--he gave him all that he has ever received
     that was worth having--death.

The Riverdale home was in reality little more than a hospital that
spring.  Jean had scarcely recovered her physical strength when she was
attacked by measles, and Clara also fell a victim to the infection.
Fortunately Mrs. Clemens's health had somewhat improved.

It was during this period that Clemens formulated his eclectic
therapeutic doctrine.  Writing to Twichell April 4, 1903, he said:

     Livy does make a little progress these past 3 or 4 days, progress
     which is visible to even the untrained eye.  The physicians are
     doing good work for her, but my notion is, that no art of healing is
     the best for all ills.  I should distribute the ailments around:
     surgery cases to the surgeon; lupus to the actinic-ray specialist;
     nervous prostration to the Christian Scientist; most ills to the
     allopath & the homeopath; & (in my own particular case) rheumatism,
     gout, & bronchial attack to the osteopathist.


He had plenty of time to think and to read during those weeks of
confinement, and to rage, and to write when he felt the need of that
expression, though he appears to have completed not much for print beyond
his reply to Mrs. Eddy, already mentioned, and his burlesque,
"Instructions in Art," with pictures by himself, published in the
Metropolitan for April and May.

Howells called his attention to some military outrages in the
Philippines, citing a case where a certain lieutenant had tortured one of
his men, a mild offender, to death out of pure deviltry, and had been
tried but not punished for his fiendish crime.--[The torture to death of
Private Edward C.  Richter, an American soldier, by orders of a
commissioned officer of the United States army on the night of February
7, 1902.  Private Richter was bound and gagged and the gag held in his
mouth by means of a club while ice-water was slowly poured into his face,
a dipper full at a time, for two hours and a half, until life became
extinct.]

Clemens undertook to give expression to his feelings on this subject, but
he boiled so when he touched pen to paper to write of it that it was
simply impossible for him to say anything within the bounds of print.
Then his only relief was to rise and walk the floor, and curse out his
fury at the race that had produced such a specimen.

Mrs. Clemens, who perhaps got some drift or the echo of these tempests,
now and then sent him a little admonitory, affectionate note.

Among the books that Clemens read, or tried to read, during his
confinement were certain of the novels of Sir Walter Scott.  He had never
been able to admire Scott, and determined now to try to understand this
author's popularity and his standing with the critics; but after wading
through the first volume of one novel, and beginning another one, he
concluded to apply to one who could speak as having authority.  He wrote
to Brander Matthews:

     DEAR BRANDER,--I haven't been out of my bed for 4 weeks, but-well, I
     have been reading a good deal, & it occurs to me to ask you to sit
     down, some time or other when you have 8 or 9 months to spare, & jot
     me down a certain few literary particulars for my help & elevation.
     Your time need not be thrown away, for at your further leisure you
     can make Columbian lectures out of the results & do your students a
     good turn.

     1.  Are there in Sir Walter's novels passages done in good English--
     English which is neither slovenly nor involved?

     2.  Are there passages whose English is not poor & thin &
     commonplace, but is of a quality above that?

     3.  Are there passages which burn with real fire--not punk, fox-
     fire, make-believe?
     4.  Has he heroes & heroines who are not cads and cadesses?

     5.  Has he personages whose acts & talk correspond with their
     characters as described by him?

     6.  Has he heroes & heroines whom the reader admires--admires and
     knows why?

     7.  Has he funny characters that are funny, and humorous passages
     that are humorous?

     8.  Does he ever chain the reader's interest & make him reluctant to
     lay the book down?

     9.  Are there pages where he ceases from posing, ceases from
     admiring the placid flood & flow of his own dilution, ceases from
     being artificial, & is for a time, long or short, recognizably
     sincere & in earnest?

     10.  Did he know how to write English, & didn't do it because he
     didn't want to?

     11.  Did he use the right word only when he couldn't think of
     another one, or did he run so much to wrong words because he didn't
     know the right one when he saw it?

     12.  Can you read him and keep your respect for him?  Of course a
     person could in his day--an era of sentimentality & sloppy
     romantics--but land! can a body do it to-day?

     Brander, I lie here dying; slowly dying, under the blight of Sir
     Walter.  I have read the first volume of Rob Roy, & as far as
     Chapter XIX of Guy Mannering, & I can no longer hold my head up or
     take my nourishment.  Lord, it's all so juvenile! so artificial, so
     shoddy; & such wax figures & skeletons & specters.  Interest?  Why,
     it is impossible to feel an interest in these bloodless shams, these
     milk-&-water humbugs.  And oh, the poverty of invention!  Not
     poverty in inventing situations, but poverty in furnishing reasons
     for them.  Sir Walter usually gives himself away when he arranges
     for a situation--elaborates & elaborates & elaborates till, if you
     live to get to it, you don't believe in it when it happens.

     I can't find the rest of Rob Roy, I, can't stand any more Mannering-
     I do not know just what to do, but I will reflect, & not quit this
     great study rashly ....

     My, I wish I could see you & Leigh Hunt!

     Sincerely yours,

                                                  S. L. CLEMENS.


But a few days later he experienced a revelation.  It came when he
perseveringly attacked still a third work of Scott--Quentin Durward.
Hastily he wrote to Matthews again:

I'm still in bed, but the days have lost their dullness since I broke
into Sir Walter & lost my temper.  I finished Guy Mannering that curious,
curious book, with its mob of squalid shadows gibbering around a single
flesh-&-blood being--Dinmont; a book crazily put together out of the very
refuse of the romance artist's stage properties--finished it & took up
Quentin Durward & finished that.

It was like leaving the dead to mingle with the living; it was like
withdrawing from the infant class in the college of journalism to sit
under the lectures in English literature in Columbia University.

I wonder who wrote Quentin Durward?--[This letter, enveloped, addressed,
and stamped, was evidently mislaid.  It was found and mailed seven years
later, June, 1910 message from the dead.]

Among other books which he read that winter and spring was Helen Keller's
'The Story of My Life', then recently published.  That he finished it in
a mood of sweet gentleness we gather from a long, lovely letter which he
wrote her--a letter in which he said:

I am charmed with your book--enchanted.  You are a wonderful creature,
the most wonderful in the world--you and your other half together--Miss
Sullivan, I mean--for it took the pair of you to make a complete &
perfect whole.  How she stands out in her letters!  her brilliancy,
penetration, originality, wisdom, character, & the fine literary
competencies of her pen--they are all there.

When reading and writing failed as diversion, Mark Twain often turned to
mathematics.  With no special talent for accuracy in the matter of
figures, he had a curious fondness for calculations, scientific and
financial, and he used to cover pages, ciphering at one thing and
another, arriving pretty inevitably at the wrong results.  When the
problem was financial, and had to do with his own fortunes, his figures
were as likely as not to leave him in a state of panic.  The expenditures
were naturally heavy that spring; and one night, when he had nothing
better to do, he figured the relative proportion to his income.  The
result showed that they were headed straight for financial ruin.  He put
in the rest of the night fearfully rolling and tossing, and
reconstructing his figures that grew always worse, and next morning
summoned Jean and Clara and petrified them with the announcement that the
cost of living was one hundred and twenty-five per cent. more than the
money-supply.

Writing to MacAlister three days later he said:

     It was a mistake.  When I came down in the morning, a gray and aged
     wreck, I found that in some unaccountable way (unaccountable to a
     business man, but not to me) I had multiplied the totals by two.  By
     God, I dropped seventy-five years on the floor where I stood!

     Do you know it affected me as one is affected when one wakes out of
     a hideous dream & finds it was only a dream.  It was a great comfort
     & satisfaction to me to call the daughters to a private meeting of
     the board again.  Certainly there is a blistering & awful reality
     about a well-arranged unreality.  It is quite within the
     possibilities that two or three nights like that of mine would drive
     a man to suicide.  He would refuse to examine the figures, they
     would revolt him so, & he would go to his death unaware that there
     was nothing serious about them.  I cannot get that night out of my
     head, it was so vivid, so real, so ghastly: In any other year of
     these thirty-three the relief would have been simple: go where you
     can, cut your cloth to fit your income.  You can't do that when your
     wife can't be moved, even from one room to the next.

     The doctor & a specialist met in conspiracy five days ago, & in
     their belief she will by and by come out of this as good as new,
     substantially.  They ordered her to Italy for next winter--which
     seems to indicate that by autumn she will be able to undertake the
     voyage.  So Clara is writing to a Florence friend to take a look
     around among the villas for us in the regions near that city.




CCXXVIII

PROFFERED HONORS

Mark Twain had been at home well on toward three years; but his
popularity showed no signs of diminishing.  So far from having waned, it
had surged to a higher point than ever before.  His crusade against
public and private abuses had stirred readers, and had set them to
thinking; the news of illness in his household; a report that he was
contemplating another residence abroad--these things moved deeply the
public heart, and a tide of letters flowed in, letters of every sort--of
sympathy, of love, or hearty endorsement, whatever his attitude of
reform.

When a writer in a New York newspaper said, "Let us go outside the realm
of practical politics next time in choosing our candidates for the
Presidency," and asked, "Who is our ablest and most conspicuous private
citizen?" another editorial writer, Joseph Hollister, replied that Mark
Twain was "the greatest man of his day in private life, and entitled to
the fullest measure of recognition."

But Clemens was without political ambitions.  He knew the way of such
things too well.  When Hollister sent him the editorial he replied only
with a word of thanks, and did not, even in jest, encourage that tiny
seed of a Presidential boom.  One would like to publish many of the
beautiful letters received during this period, for they are beautiful,
most of them, however illiterate in form, however discouraging in length
--beautiful in that they overflow with the writers' sincerity and
gratitude.

So many of them came from children, usually without the hope of a reply,
some signed only with initials, that the writers might not be open to the
suspicion of being seekers for his autograph.  Almost more than any other
reward, Mark Twain valued this love of the children.

A department in the St. Nicholas Magazine offered a prize for a
caricature drawing of some well-known man.  There were one or two of
certain prominent politicians and capitalists, and there was literally a
wheelbarrow load of Mark Twain.  When he was informed of this he wrote:
"No tribute could have pleased me more than that--the friendship of the
children."

Tributes came to him in many forms.  In his native State it was proposed
to form a Mark Twain Association, with headquarters at Hannibal, with the
immediate purpose of having a week set apart at the St. Louis World's
Fair, to be called the Mark Twain week, with a special Mark Twain day, on
which a national literary convention would be held.  But when his consent
was asked, and his co-operation invited, he wrote characteristically:

It is indeed a high compliment which you offer me, in naming an
association after me and in proposing the setting apart of a Mark Twain
day at the great St. Louis Fair, but such compliments are not proper for
the living; they are proper and safe for the dead only.  I value the
impulse which moves you to tender me these honors.  I value it as highly
as any one can, and am grateful for it, but I should stand in a sort of
terror of the honors themselves.  So long as we remain alive we are not
safe from doing things which, however righteously and honorably intended,
can wreck our repute and extinguish our friendships.

I hope that no society will be named for me while I am still alive, for I
might at some time or other do something which would cause its members to
regret having done me that honor.  After I shall have joined the dead I
shall follow the custom of those people, and be guilty of no conduct that
can wound any friend; but until that time shall come I shall be a
doubtful quantity, like the rest of our race.

The committee, still hoping for his consent, again appealed to him.  But
again he wrote:

While I am deeply touched by the desire of my friends of Hannibal to
confer these great honors upon me I must still forbear to accept them.
Spontaneous and unpremeditated honors, like those which came to me at
Hannibal, Columbia, St. Louis, and at the village stations all down the
line, are beyond all price and are a treasure for life in the memory, for
they are a free gift out of the heart and they come without solicitation;
but I am a Missourian, and so I shrink from distinctions which have to be
arranged beforehand and with my privity, for I then become a party to my
own exalting.  I am humanly fond of honors that happen, but chary of
those that come by canvass and intention.

Somewhat later he suggested a different feature for the fair; one that
was not practical, perhaps, but which certainly would have aroused
interest--that is to say, an old-fashioned six-day steamboat-race from
New Orleans to St. Louis, with the old-fashioned accessories, such as
torch-baskets, forecastle crowds of negro singers, with a negro on the
safety-valve.  In his letter to President Francis he said:

As to particulars, I think that the race should be a genuine reproduction
of the old-time race, not just an imitation of it, and that it should
cover the whole course.  I think the boats should begin the trip at New
Orleans, and side by side (not an interval between), and end it at North
St. Louis, a mile or two above the Big Mound.

In a subsequent letter to Governor Francis he wrote:

It has been a dear wish of mine to exhibit myself at the great Fair & get
a prize, but circumstances beyond my control have interfered .  .  .  .

I suppose you will get a prize, because you have created the most
prodigious Fair the planet has ever seen.  Very well, you have indeed
earned it, and with it the gratitude of the State and the nation.

Newspaper men used every inducement to get interviews from him.  They
invited him to name a price for any time he could give them, long or
short.  One reporter offered him five hundred dollars for a two-hour
talk.  Another proposed to pay him one hundred dollars a week for a
quarter of a day each week, allowing him to discuss any subject he
pleased.  One wrote asking him two questions: the first, "Your favorite
method of escaping from Indians"; the second, "Your favorite method of
escaping capture by the Indians when they were in pursuit of you."  They
inquired as to his favorite copy-book maxim; as to what he considered
most important to a young man's success; his definition of a gentleman.
They wished to know his plan for the settlement of labor troubles.  But
they did not awaken his interest, or his cupidity.  To one applicant he
wrote:

No, there are temptations against which we are fire-proof.  Your
proposition is one which comes to me with considerable frequency, but it
never tempts me.  The price isn't the objection; you offer plenty.  It is
the nature of the work that is the objection--a kind of work which I
could not do well enough to satisfy me.  To multiply the price by twenty
would not enable me to do the work to my satisfaction, & by consequence
would make no impression upon me.

Once he allowed himself to be interviewed for the Herald, when from Mr.
Rogers's yacht he had watched Sir Thomas Lipton's Shamrock go down to
defeat; but this was a subject which appealed to him--a kind of
hotweather subject--and he could be as light-minded about it as he chose.





CCXXXIX

THE LAST SUMMER AT ELMIRA

The Clemenses were preparing to take up residence in Florence, Italy.
The Hartford house had been sold in May, ending forever the association
with the city that had so long been a part of their lives.  The Tarrytown
place, which they had never occupied, they also agreed to sell, for it
was the belief now that Mrs. Clemens's health would never greatly prosper
there.  Howells says, or at least implies, that they expected their
removal to Florence to be final.  He tells us, too, of one sunny
afternoon when he and Clemens sat on the grass before the mansion at
Riverdale, after Mrs. Clemens had somewhat improved, and how they "looked
up toward a balcony where by and by that lovely presence made itself
visible, as if it had stooped there from a cloud.  A hand frailly waved a
handkerchief; Clemens ran over the lawn toward it, calling tenderly."  It
was a greeting to Howells the last he would ever receive from her.

Mrs. Clemens was able to make a trip to Elmira by the end of June, and on
the 1st of July Mr. Rogers brought Clemens and his wife down the river on
his yacht to the Lackawanna pier, and they reached Quarry Farm that
evening.  She improved in the quietude and restfulness of that beloved
place.  Three weeks later Clemens wrote to Twichell:

Livy is coming along: eats well, sleeps some, is mostly very gay, not
very often depressed; spends all day on the porch, sleeps there a part of
the night; makes excursions in carriage & in wheel-chair; &, in the
matter of superintending everything & everybody, has resumed business at
the old stand.

During three peaceful months she spent most of her days reclining on the
wide veranda, surrounded by those dearest to her, and looking out on the
dreamlike landscape--the long, grassy slope, the drowsy city, and the
distant hills--getting strength for the far journey by sea.  Clemens did
some writing, occupying the old octagonal study--shut in now and
overgrown with vines--where during the thirty years since it was built so
many of his stories had been written.  'A Dog's Tale'--that pathetic
anti-vivisection story--appears to have been the last manuscript ever
completed in the spot consecrated by Huck and Tom, and by Tom Canty the
Pauper and the little wandering Prince.

It was October 5th when they left Elmira.  Two days earlier Clemens had
written in his note-book:

     Today I placed flowers on Susy's grave--for the last time probably--
     & read words:

          "Good-night, dear heart, good-night."

They did not return to Riverdale, but went to the Hotel Grosvenor for the
intervening weeks.  They had engaged passage for Italy on the Princess
Irene, which would sail on the 24th.  It was during the period of their
waiting that Clemens concluded his final Harper contract.  On that day,
in his note-book, he wrote:

                               THE PROPHECY

In 1895 Cheiro the palmist examined my hand & said that in my 68th year
(1903) I would become suddenly rich.  I was a bankrupt & $94,000 in debt
at the time through the failure of Charles L. Webster & Co.  Two years
later--in London--Cheiro repeated this long-distance prediction, & added
that the riches would come from a quite unexpected source.  I am
superstitious.  I kept the prediction in mind & often thought of it.
When at last it came true, October 22, 1903, there was but a month & 9
days to spare.

The contract signed that day concentrates all my books in Harper's hands
& now at last they are valuable; in fact they are a fortune.  They
guarantee me $25,000 a year for 5 years, and they will yield twice as
much as that.--[In earlier note-books and letters Clemens more than once
refers to this prophecy and wonders if it is to be realized.  The Harper
contract, which brought all of his books into the hands of one publisher
(negotiated for him by Mr. Rogers), proved, in fact, a fortune.  The
books yielded always more than the guarantee; sometimes twice that
amount, as he had foreseen.]

During the conclusion of this contract Clemens made frequent visits to
Fairhaven on the Kanawha.  Joe Goodman came from the Pacific to pay him a
good-by visit during this period.  Goodman had translated the Mayan
inscriptions, and his work had received official recognition and
publication by the British Museum.  It was a fine achievement for a man
in later life and Clemens admired it immensely.  Goodman and Clemens
enjoyed each other in the old way at quiet resorts where they could talk
over the old tales.  Another visitor of that summer was the son of an old
friend, a Hannibal printer named Daulton.  Young Daulton came with
manuscripts seeking a hearing of the magazine editors, so Clemens wrote a
letter which would insure that favor:

INTRODUCING MR. GEO. DAULTON:

TO GILDER, ALDEN, HARVEY, McCLURE, WALKER, PAGE, BOK, COLLIER, and such
other members of the sacred guild as privilege me to call them friends-
these:

Although I have no personal knowledge of the bearer of this, I have what
is better: He comes recommended to me by his own father--a thing not
likely to happen in any of your families, I reckon.  I ask you, as a
favor to me, to waive prejudice & superstition for this once & examine
his work with an eye to its literary merit, instead of to the chastity of
its spelling.  I wish to God you cared less for that particular.

I set (or sat) type alongside of his father, in Hannibal, more than 50
years ago, when none but the pure in heart were in that business.  A true
man he was; and if I can be of any service to his son--and to you at the
same time, let me hope--I am here heartily to try.

Yours by the sanctions of time & deserving,

                    Sincerely,
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


Among the kindly words which came to Mark Twain before leaving America
was this one which Rudyard Kipling had written to his publisher, Frank
Doubleday:

     I love to think of the great and godlike Clemens.  He is the biggest
     man you have on your side of the water by a damn sight, and don't
     you forget it.  Cervantes was a relation of his.

It curiously happened that Clemens at the same moment was writing to
Doubleday about Kipling:

     I have been reading "The Bell Buoy" and "The Old Man" over and over
     again-my custom with Kipling's work--and saving up the rest for
     other leisurely and luxurious meals.  A bell-buoy is a deeply
     impressive fellow-being.  In these many recent trips up and down the
     Sound in the Kanawha he has talked to me nightly sometimes in his
     pathetic and melancholy way, sometimes with his strenuous and urgent
     note, and I got his meaning--now I have his words!  No one but
     Kipling could do this strong and vivid thing.  Some day I hope to
     hear the poem chanted or sung-with the bell-buoy breaking in out of
     the distance.

     P. S.--Your letter has arrived.  It makes me proud and glad--what
     Kipling says.  I hope Fate will fetch him to Florence while we are
     there.  I would rather see him than any other man.




CCXXX

THE RETURN TO FLORENCE

From the note-book:

     Saturday, October 24, 1903.  Sailed in the Princess Irene for Genoa
     at 11.  Flowers & fruit from Mrs. Rogers & Mrs. Coe.  We have with
     us Katie Leary (in our domestic service 23 years) & Miss Margaret
     Sherry (trained nurse).

Two days later he wrote:

     Heavy storm all night.  Only 3 stewardesses.  Ours served 60 meals
     in rooms this morning.

On the 27th:

     Livy is enduring the voyage marvelously well.  As well as Clara &
     Jean, I think, & far better than the trained nurse.

     She has been out on deck an hour.

     November 2.  Due at Gibraltar 10 days from New York.  3 days to
     Naples, then 2 day to Genoa.
     At supper the band played "Cavalleria Rusticana," which is forever
     associated in my mind with Susy.  I love it better than any other,
     but it breaks my heart.

It was the "Intermezzo" he referred to, which had been Susy's favorite
music, and whenever he heard it he remembered always one particular
opera-night long ago, and Susy's face rose before him.

They were in Naples on the 5th; thence to Genoa, and to Florence, where
presently they were installed in the Villa Reale di Quarto, a fine old
Italian palace built by Cosimo more than four centuries ago.  In later
times it has been occupied and altered by royal families of Wurtemberg
and Russia.  Now it was the property of the Countess Massiglia, from whom
Clemens had leased it.

They had hoped to secure the Villa Papiniano, under Fiesole, near
Professor Fiske, but negotiations for it had fallen through.  The Villa
Quarto, as it is usually called, was a more pretentious place and as
beautifully located, standing as it does in an ancient garden looking out
over Florence toward Vallombrosa and the Chianti hills.  Yet now in the
retrospect, it seems hardly to have been the retreat for an invalid.  Its
garden was supernaturally beautiful, all that one expects that a garden
of Italy should be--such a garden as Maxfield Parrish might dream; but
its beauty was that which comes of antiquity--the accumulation of dead
years.  Its funereal cypresses, its crumbling walls and arches, its
clinging ivy and moldering marbles, and a clock that long ago forgot the
hours, gave it a mortuary look.  In a way it suggested Arnold Bocklin's
"Todteninsel," and it might well have served as the allegorical setting
for a gateway to the bourne of silence.

The house itself, one of the most picturesque of the old Florentine
suburban palaces, was historically interesting, rather than cheerful.
The rooms, in number more than sixty, though richly furnished, were vast
and barnlike, and there were numbers of them wholly unused and never
entered.  There was a dearth of the modern improvements which Americans
have learned to regard as a necessity, and the plumbing, such as it was,
was not always in order.  The place was approached by narrow streets,
along which the more uninviting aspects of Italy were not infrequent.
Youth and health and romance might easily have reveled in the place; but
it seems now not to have been the best choice for that frail invalid, to
whom cheer and brightness and freshness and the lovelier things of hope
meant always so much.--[Villa Quarto has recently been purchased by
Signor P.  de Ritter Lahony, and thoroughly restored and refreshed and
beautified without the sacrifice of any of its romantic features.]
--Neither was the climate of Florence all that they had hoped for.
Their former sunny winter had misled them.  Tradition to the contrary,
Italy--or at least Tuscany--is not one perpetual dream of sunlight.  It
is apt to be damp and cloudy; it is likely to be cold.  Writing to
MacAlister, Clemens said:

Florentine sunshine?  Bless you, there isn't any.  We have heavy fogs
every morning & rain all day.  This house is not merely large, it is
vast--therefore I think it must always lack the home feeling.

His dissatisfaction in it began thus early, and it grew as one thing
after another went wrong.  With it all, however, Mrs. Clemens seemed to
gain a little, and was glad to see company--a reasonable amount of
company--to brighten her surroundings.

Clemens began to work and wrote a story or two, and those lively articles
about the Italian language.

To Twichell he reported progress:

     I have a handsome success in one way here.  I left New York under a
     sort of half-promise to furnish to the Harper magazines 30,000 words
     this year.  Magazining is difficult work because every third page
     represents two pages that you have put in the fire (you are nearly
     sure to start wrong twice), & so when you have finished an article &
     are willing to let it go to print it represents only 10 cents a word
     instead of 30.

     But this time I had the curious (& unprecedented) luck to start
     right in each case.  I turned out 37,000 words in 25 working days; &
     the reason I think I started right every time is, that not only have
     I approved and accepted the several articles, but the court of last
     resort (Livy) has done the same.

     On many of the between-days I did some work, but only of an idle &
     not necessarily necessary sort, since it will not see print until I
     am dead.  I shall continue this (an hour per day), but the rest of
     the year I expect to put in on a couple of long books (half-
     completed ones).  No more magazine work hanging over my head.

     This secluded & silent solitude, this clean, soft air, & this
     enchanting view of Florence, the great valley & snow-mountains that
     frame it, are the right conditions for work.  They are a persistent
     inspiration.  To-day is very lovely; when the afternoon arrives
     there will be a new picture every hour till dark, & each of them
     divine--or progressing from divine to diviner & divinest.  On this
     (second) floor Clara's room commands the finest; she keeps a window
     ten feet high wide open all the time & frames it in that.  I go in
     from time to time every day & trade sass for a look.  The central
     detail is a distant & stately snow-hump that rises above & behind
     black-forested hills, & its sloping vast buttresses, velvety & sun-
     polished, with purple shadows between, make the sort of picture we
     knew that time we walked in Switzerland in the days of our youth.

From this letter, which is of January 7, 1904, we gather that the weather
had greatly improved, and with it Mrs. Clemens's health, notwithstanding
she had an alarming attack in December.  One of the stories he had
finished was "The $30,000 Bequest."  The work mentioned, which would not
see print until after his death, was a continuation of those
autobiographical chapters which for years he had been setting down as the
mood seized him.

He experimented with dictation, which he had tried long before with
Redpath, and for a time now found it quite to his liking.  He dictated
some of his copyright memories, and some anecdotes and episodes; but his
amanuensis wrote only longhand, which perhaps hampered him, for he tired
of it by and by and the dictations were discontinued.

Among these notes there is one elaborate description of the Villa di
Quarto, dictated at the end of the winter, by which time we are not
surprised to find he had become much attached to the place.  The Italian
spring was in the air, and it was his habit to grow fond of his
surroundings.  Some atmospheric paragraphs of these impressions invite us
here:

     We are in the extreme south end of the house, if there is any such
     thing as a south end to a house, whose orientation cannot be
     determined by me, because I am incompetent in all cases where an
     object does not point directly north & south.  This one slants
     across between, & is therefore a confusion.  This little private
     parlor is in one of the two corners of what I call the south end of
     the house.  The sun rises in such a way that all the morning it is
     pouring its light through the 33 glass doors or windows which pierce
     the side of the house which looks upon the terrace & garden; the
     rest of the day the light floods this south end of the house, as I
     call it; at noon the sun is directly above Florence yonder in the
     distance in the plain, directly across those architectural features
     which have been so familiar to the world in pictures for some
     centuries, the Duomo, the Campanile, the Tomb of the Medici, & the
     beautiful tower of the Palazzo Vecchio; in this position it begins
     to reveal the secrets of the delicious blue mountains that circle
     around into the west, for its light discovers, uncovers, & exposes a
     white snowstorm of villas & cities that you cannot train yourself to
     have confidence in, they appear & disappear so mysteriously, as if
     they might not be villas & cities at all, but the ghosts of perished
     ones of the remote & dim Etruscan times; & late in the afternoon the
     sun sets down behind those mountains somewhere, at no particular
     time & at no particular place, so far as I can see.

Again at the end of March he wrote:

     Now that we have lived in this house four and a half months my
     prejudices have fallen away one by one & the place has become very
     homelike to me.  Under certain conditions I should like to go on
     living in it indefinitely.  I should wish the Countess to move out
     of Italy, out of Europe, out of the planet.  I should want her
     bonded to retire to her place in the next world & inform me which of
     the two it was, so that I could arrange for my own hereafter.

Complications with their landlady had begun early, and in time, next to
Mrs. Clemens's health, to which it bore such an intimate and vital
relation, the indifference of the Countess Massiglia to their needs
became the supreme and absorbing concern of life at the villa, and led to
continued and almost continuous house-hunting.

Days when the weather permitted, Clemens drove over the hills looking for
a villa which he could lease or buy--one with conveniences and just the
right elevation and surroundings.  There were plenty of villas; but some
of them were badly situated as to altitude or view; some were falling to
decay, and the search was rather a discouraging one.  Still it was not
abandoned, and the reports of these excursions furnished new interest and
new hope always to the invalid at home.

"Even if we find it," he wrote Howells, "I am afraid it will be months
before we can move Mrs. Clemens.  Of course it will.  But it comforts us
to let on that we think otherwise, and these pretensions help to keep
hope alive in her."

She had her bad days and her good days, days when it was believed she had
passed the turning-point and was traveling the way to recovery; but the
good days were always a little less hopeful, the bad days a little more
discouraging.  On February 22d Clemens wrote in his note-book:

At midnight Livy's pulse went to 192 & there was a collapse.  Great
alarm.  Subcutaneous injection of brandy saved her.

And to MacAlister toward the end of March:

We are having quite perfect weather now & are hoping that it will bring
effects for Mrs. Clemens.

But a few days later he added that he was watching the driving rain
through the windows, and that it was bad weather for the invalid.  "But
it will not last," he said.

The invalid improved then, and there was a concert in Florence at which
Clara Clemens sang.  Clemens in his note-book says:

     April 8.  Clara's concert was a triumph.  Livy woke up & sent for
     her to tell her all about it, near midnight.

But a day or two later she was worse again--then better.  The hearts in
that household were as pendulums, swinging always between hope and
despair.

One familiar with the Clemens history might well have been filled with
forebodings.  Already in January a member of the family, Mollie Clemens,
Orion's wife, died, news which was kept from Mrs. Clemens, as was the
death of Aldrich's son, and that of Sir Henry M. Stanley, both of which
occurred that spring.

Indeed, death harvested freely that year among the Clemens friendships.
Clemens wrote Twichell:

     Yours has just this moment arrived-just as I was finishing a note to
     poor Lady Stanley.  I believe the last country-house visit we paid
     in England was to Stanley's.  Lord!  how my friends & acquaintances
     fall about me now in my gray-headed days!  Vereshchagin, Mommsen,
     Dvorak, Lenbach, & Jokai, all so recently, & now Stanley.  I have
     known Stanley 37 years.  Goodness, who is there I haven't known?




CCXXXI

THE CLOSE OF A BEAUTIFUL LIFE

In one of his notes near the end of April Clemens writes that once more,
as at Riverdale, he has been excluded from Mrs. Clemens's room except for
the briefest moment at a time.  But on May 12th, to R. W. Gilder, he
reported:

     For two days now we have not been anxious about Mrs. Clemens
     (unberufen).  After 20 months of bedridden solitude & bodily misery
     she all of a sudden ceases to be a pallid, shrunken shadow, & looks
     bright & young & pretty.  She remains what she always was, the most
     wonderful creature of fortitude, patience, endurance, and
     recuperative power that ever was.  But ah, dear!  it won't last;
     this fiendish malady will play new treacheries upon her, and I shall
     go back to my prayers again--unutterable from any pulpit!

     May 13, A.M.  I have just paid one of my pair of permitted 2-minute
     visits per day to the sick-room.  And found what I have learned to
     expect--retrogression.

There was a day when she was brought out on the terrace in a wheel-chair
to see the wonder of the early Italian summer.  She had been a prisoner
so long that she was almost overcome with the delight of it all--the more
so, perhaps, in the feeling that she might so soon be leaving it.

It was on Sunday, the 5th of June, that the end came.  Clemens and Jean
had driven out to make some calls, and had stopped at a villa, which
promised to fulfil most of the requirements.  They came home full of
enthusiasm concerning it, and Clemens, in his mind, had decided on the
purchase.  In the corridor Clara said:

"She is better to-day than she has been for three months."

Then quickly, under her breath, "Unberufen," which the others, too, added
hastily--superstitiously.

Mrs. Clemens was, in fact, bright and cheerful, and anxious to hear all
about the new property which was to become their home.  She urged him to
sit by her during the dinner-hour and tell her the details; but once,
when the sense of her frailties came upon her, she said they must not
mind if she could not go very soon, but be content where they were.  He
remained from half past seven until eight--a forbidden privilege, but
permitted because she was so animated, feeling so well.  Their talk was
as it had been in the old days, and once during it he reproached himself,
as he had so often done, and asked forgiveness for the tears he had
brought into her life.  When he was summoned to go at last he chided
himself for remaining so long; but she said there was no harm, and kissed
him, saying: "You will come back," and he answered, "Yes, to say good
night," meaning at half past nine, as was the permitted custom.  He stood
a moment at the door throwing kisses to her, and she returning them, her
face bright with smiles.

He was so hopeful and happy that it amounted to exaltation.  He went to
his room at first, then he was moved to do a thing which he had seldom
done since Susy died.  He went to the piano up-stairs and sang the old
jubilee songs that Susy had liked to hear him sing.  Jean came in
presently, listening.  She had not done this before, that he could
remember.  He sang "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," and "My Lord He Calls Me."
He noticed Jean then and stopped, but she asked him to go on.

Mrs. Clemens, in her room, heard the distant music, and said to her
attendant:

"He is singing a good-night carol to me."

The music ceased presently, and then a moment later she asked to be
lifted up.  Almost in that instant life slipped away without a sound.

Clemens, coming to say good night, saw a little group about her bed,
Clara and Jean standing as if dazed.  He went and bent over and looked
into her face, surprised that she did not greet him.  He did not suspect
what had happened until he heard one of the daughters ask:

"Katie, is it true?  Oh, Katie, is it true?"

He realized then that she was gone.

In his note-book that night he wrote:

     At a quarter past 9 this evening she that was the life of my life
     passed to the relief & the peace of death after as months of unjust
     & unearned suffering.  I first saw her near 37 years ago, & now I
     have looked upon her face for the last time.  Oh, so unexpected!...
     I was full of remorse for things done & said in these 34 years of
     married life that hurt Livy's heart.

He envied her lying there, so free from it all, with the great peace upon
her face.  He wrote to Howells and to Twichell, and to Mrs. Crane, those
nearest and dearest ones.  To Twichell he said:

     How sweet she was in death, how young, how beautiful, how like her
     dear girlish self of thirty years ago, not a gray hair showing!
     This rejuvenescence was noticeable within two hours after her death;
     & when I went down again (2.3o) it was complete.  In all that night
     & all that day she never noticed my caressing hand--it seemed
     strange.

To Howells he recalled the closing scene:

     I bent over her & looked in her face & I think I spoke--I was
     surprised & troubled that she did not notice me.  Then we understood
     & our hearts broke.  How poor we are to-day!

     But how thankful I am that her persecutions are ended!  I would not
     call her back if I could.

     To-day, treasured in her worn, old Testament, I found a dear &
     gentle letter from you dated Far Rockaway, September 13, 1896, about
     our poor Susy's death.  I am tired & old; I wish I were with Livy.

And in a few days:

It would break Livy's heart to see Clara.  We excuse ourself from all the
friends that call--though, of course, only intimates come.  Intimates--
but they are not the old, old friends, the friends of the old, old times
when we laughed.  Shall we ever laugh again?  If I could only see a dog
that I knew in the old times & could put my arms around his neck and tell
him all, everything, & ease my heart!




CCXXXII

THE SAD JOURNEY HOME

A tidal wave of sympathy poured in.  Noble and commoner, friend and
stranger--humanity of every station--sent their messages of condolence to
the friend of mankind.  The cablegrams came first--bundles of them from
every corner of the world--then the letters, a steady inflow.  Howells,
Twichell, Aldrich--those oldest friends who had themselves learned the
meaning of grief--spoke such few and futile words as the language can
supply to allay a heart's mourning, each recalling the rarity and beauty
of the life that had slipped away.  Twichell and his wife wrote:

DEAR, DEAR MARK,--There is nothing we can say.  What is there to say?
But here we are--with you all every hour and every minute--filled with
unutterable thoughts; unutterable affection for the dead and for the
living.
                                        HARMONY AND JOE.


Howells in his letter said:

She hallowed what she touched far beyond priests .  .  .  .  What are you
going to do, you poor soul?


A hundred letters crowd in for expression here, but must be denied--not,
however, the beam of hope out of Helen Keller's illumined night:

     Do try to reach through grief and feel the pressure of her hand, as
     I reach through darkness and feel the smile on my friends' lips and
     the light in their eyes though mine are closed.

They were adrift again without plans for the future.  They would return
to America to lay Mrs. Clemens to rest by Susy and little Langdon, but
beyond that they could not see.  Then they remembered a quiet spot in
Massachusetts, Tyringham, near Lee, where the Gilders lived, and so, on
June 7th, he wrote:

     DEAR GILDER FAMILY,--I have been worrying and worrying to know what
     to do; at last I went to the girls with an idea--to ask the Gilders
     to get us shelter near their summer home.  It was the first time
     they have not shaken their heads.  So to-morrow I will cable to you
     and shall hope to be in time.

     An hour ago the best heart that ever beat for me and mine was
     carried silent out of this house, and I am as one who wanders and
     has lost his way.  She who is gone was our head, she was our hands.
     We are now trying to make plans--we: we who have never made a plan
     before, nor ever needed to.  If she could speak to us she would make
     it all simple and easy with a word, & our perplexities would vanish
     away.  If she had known she was near to death she would have told us
     where to go and what to do, but she was not suspecting, neither were
     we.  She was all our riches and she is gone; she was our breath, she
     was our life, and now we are nothing.

     We send you our love-and with it the love of you that was in her
     heart when she died.
                                        S. L. CLEMENS.


They arranged to sail on the Prince Oscar on the 29th of June.  There was
an earlier steamer, but it was the Princess Irene, which had brought
them, and they felt they would not make the return voyage on that vessel.
During the period of waiting a curious thing happened.  Clemens one day
got up in a chair in his room on the second floor to pull down the high
window-sash.  It did not move easily and his hand slipped.  It was only
by the merest chance that he saved himself from falling to the ground far
below.  He mentions this in his note-book, and once, speaking of it to
Frederick Duneka, he said:

"Had I fallen it would probably have killed me, and in my bereaved
circumstances the world would have been convinced that it was suicide.
It was one of those curious coincidences which are always happening and
being misunderstood."

The homeward voyage and its sorrowful conclusion are pathetically
conveyed in his notes:

     June 29, 1904.  Sailed last night at 10.  The bugle-call to
     breakfast.  I recognized the notes and was distressed.  When I heard
     them last Livy heard them with me; now they fall upon her ear
     unheeded.

     In my life there have been 68 Junes--but how vague & colorless 67 of
     them are contrasted with the deep blackness of this one!

     July 1, 1904.  I cannot reproduce Livy's face in my mind's eye--I
     was never in my life able to reproduce a face.  It is a curious
     infirmity--& now at last I realize it is a calamity.

     July 2, 1904.  In these 34 years we have made many voyages together,
     Livy dear--& now we are making our last; you down below & lonely; I
     above with the crowd & lonely.

     July 3, 1904.  Ship-time, 8 A.M.  In 13 hours & a quarter it will be
     4 weeks since Livy died.

     Thirty-one years ago we made our first voyage together--& this is
     our last one in company.  Susy was a year old then.  She died at 24
     & had been in her grave 8 years.

     July 10, 1904.  To-night it will be 5 weeks.  But to me it remains
     yesterday--as it has from the first.  But this funeral march--how
     sad & long it is!

     Two days more will end the second stage of it.

     July 14, 1904 (ELMIRA).  Funeral private in the house of Livy's
     young maidenhood.  Where she stood as a bride 34 years ago there her
     coffin rested; & over it the same voice that had made her a wife
     then committed her departed spirit to God now.

It was Joseph Twichell who rendered that last service.  Mr. Beecher was
long since dead.  It was a simple, touching utterance, closing with this
tender word of farewell:

     Robert Browning, when he was nearing the end of his earthly days,
     said that death was the thing that we did not believe in.  Nor do we
     believe in it.  We who journeyed through the bygone years in
     companionship with the bright spirit now withdrawn are growing old.
     The way behind is long; the way before is short.  The end cannot be
     far off.  But what of that?  Can we not say, each one:

          "So long that power hath blessed me, sure it still
                            Will lead me on;
            O'er moor and fen; o'er crag and torrent, till
                           The night is gone;
              And with the morn, their angel faces smile,
            Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!"

     And so good-by.  Good-by, dear heart!  Strong, tender, and true.
     Good-by until for us the morning break and these shadows fly away.

Dr. Eastman, who had succeeded Mr. Beecher, closed the service with a
prayer, and so the last office we can render in this life for those we
love was finished.

Clemens ordered that a simple marker should be placed at the grave,
bearing, besides the name, the record of birth and death, followed by the
German line:

                  'Gott sei dir gnadig, O meine Wonne'!





CCXXXIII

BEGINNING ANOTHER HOME

There was an extra cottage on the Gilder place at Tyringham, and this
they occupied for the rest of that sad summer.  Clemens, in his note-
book, has preserved some of its aspects and incidents.

July 24, 1904.  Rain--rain--rain.  Cold.  We built a fire in my room.
Then clawed the logs out & threw water, remembering there was a brood of
swallows in the chimney.  The tragedy was averted.

July 31.  LEE, MASSACHUSETTS (BERKSHIRE HILLS).  Last night the young
people out on a moonlight ride.  Trolley frightened Jean's horse--
collision--horse killed.  Rodman Gilder picked Jean up, unconscious; she
was taken to the doctor, per the car.  Face, nose, side, back contused;
tendon of left ankle broken.

August 10.  NEW YORK.  Clam here sick--never well since June 5.  Jean is
at the summer home in the Berkshire Hills crippled.

The next entry records the third death in the Clemens family within a
period of eight months--that of Mrs. Moffett, who had been Pamela
Clemens.  Clemens writes:

     September 1.  Died at Greenwich, Connecticut, my sister, Pamela
     Moffett, aged about 73.

     Death dates this year January 14, June 5, September 1.

That fall they took a house in New York City, on the corner of Ninth
Street and Fifth Avenue, No. 21, remaining for a time at the Grosvenor
while the new home was being set in order.  The home furniture was
brought from Hartford, unwrapped, and established in the light of strange
environment.  Clemens wrote:

We have not seen it for thirteen years.  Katie Leary, our old
housekeeper, who has been in our service more than twenty-four years,
cried when she told me about it to-day.  She said, "I had forgotten it
was so beautiful, and it brought Mrs. Clemens right back to me--in that
old time when she was so young and lovely."

Clara Clemens had not recovered from the strain of her mother's long
illness and the shock of her death, and she was ordered into retirement
with the care of a trained nurse.  The life at 21 Fifth Avenue,
therefore, began with only two remaining members of the broken family--
Clemens and Jean.

Clemens had undertaken to divert himself with work at Tyringham, though
without much success.  He was not well; he was restless and disturbed;
his heart bleak with a great loneliness.  He prepared an article on
Copyright for the 'North American Review',--[Published Jan., 7905.  A
dialogue presentation of copyright conditions, addressed to Thorwald
Stolberg, Register of Copyrights, Washington, D.  C.  One of the best of
Mark Twain's papers on the subject.]--and he began, or at least
contemplated, that beautiful fancy, 'Eve's Diary', which in the widest
and most reverential sense, from the first word to the last, conveys his
love, his worship, and his tenderness for the one he had laid away.
Adam's single comment at the end, "Wheresoever she was, there was Eden,"
was his own comment, and is perhaps the most tenderly beautiful line he
ever wrote.  These two books, Adam's Diary and Eve's--amusing and
sometimes absurd as they are, and so far removed from the literal--are as
autobiographic as anything he has done, and one of them as lovely in its
truth.  Like the first Maker of men, Mark Twain created Adam in his own
image; and his rare Eve is no less the companion with whom, half a
lifetime before, he had begun the marriage journey.  Only here the
likeness ceases.  No Serpent ever entered their Eden.  And they never
left it; it traveled with them so long as they remained together.

In the Christmas Harper for 1904 was published "Saint Joan of Arc"--the
same being the Joan introduction prepared in London five years before.
Joan's proposed beatification had stirred a new interest in the martyred
girl, and this most beautiful article became a sort of key-note of the
public heart.  Those who read it were likely to go back and read the
Recollections, and a new appreciation grew for that masterpiece.  In his
later and wider acceptance by his own land, and by the world at large,
the book came to be regarded with a fresh understanding.  Letters came
from scores of readers, as if it were a newly issued volume.  A
distinguished educator wrote:

     I would rather have written your history of Joan of Arc than any
     other piece of literature in any language.

And this sentiment grew.  The demand for the book increased, and has
continued to increase, steadily and rapidly.  In the long and last
analysis the good must prevail.  A day will come when there will be as
many readers of Joan as of any other of Mark Twain's works.

[The growing appreciation of Joan is shown by the report of sales for the
three years following 1904.  The sales for that year in America were
1,726; for 1905, 2,445 for 1906, 5,381; for 1907, 6,574.  At this point
it passed Pudd'nhead Wilson, the Yankee, The Gilded Age, Life on the
Mississippi, overtook the Tramp Abroad, and more than doubled The
American Claimant.  Only The Innocents Abroad, Huckleberry Finn, Tom
Sawyer, and Roughing It still ranged ahead of it, in the order named.]




CCXXXIV

LIFE AT 21 FIFTH AVENUE

The house at 21 Fifth Avenue, built by the architect who had designed
Grace Church, had a distinctly ecclesiastical suggestion about its
windows, and was of fine and stately proportions within.  It was a proper
residence for a venerable author and a sage, and with the handsome
Hartford furnishings distributed through it, made a distinctly suitable
setting for Mark Twain.  But it was lonely for him.  It lacked soul.  He
added, presently, a great AEolian Orchestrelle, with a variety of music
for his different moods.  He believed that he would play it himself when
he needed the comfort of harmony, and that Jean, who had not received
musical training, or his secretary could also play to him.  He had a
passion for music, or at least for melody and stately rhythmic measures,
though his ear was not attuned to what are termed the more classical
compositions.  For Wagner, for instance, he cared little, though in a
letter to Mrs. Crane he said:

Certainly nothing in the world is so solemn and impressive and so
divinely beautiful as "Tannhauser."  It ought to be used as a religious
service.

Beethoven's sonatas and symphonies also moved him deeply.  Once, writing
to Jean, he asked:

What is your favorite piece of music, dear?  Mine is Beethoven's Fifth
Symphony.  I have found that out within a day or two.

It was the majestic movement and melodies of the second part that he
found most satisfying; but he oftener inclined to the still tenderer
themes of Chopin's nocturnes and one of Schubert's impromptus, while the
"Lorelei" and the "Erlking" and the Scottish airs never wearied him.
Music thus became a chief consolation during these lonely days--rich
organ harmonies that filled the emptiness of his heart and beguiled from
dull, material surroundings back into worlds and dreams that he had known
and laid away.

He went out very little that winter--usually to the homes of old and
intimate friends.  Once he attended a small dinner given him by George
Smalley at the Metropolitan Club; but it was a private affair, with only
good friends present.  Still, it formed the beginning of his return to
social life, and it was not in his nature to retire from the brightness
of human society, or to submerge himself in mourning.  As the months wore
on he appeared here and there, and took on something of his old-time
habit.  Then his annual bronchitis appeared, and he was confined a good
deal to his home, where he wrote or planned new reforms and enterprises.

The improvement of railway service, through which fewer persons should be
maimed and destroyed each year, interested him.  He estimated that the
railroads and electric lines killed and wounded more than all of the wars
combined, and he accumulated statistics and prepared articles on the
subject, though he appears to have offered little of such matter for
publication.  Once, however, when his sympathy was awakened by the victim
of a frightful trolley and train collision in Newark, New Jersey, he
wrote a letter which promptly found its way into print.

     DEAR MISS MADELINE, Your good & admiring & affectionate brother has
     told me of your sorrowful share in the trolley disaster which
     brought unaccustomed tears to millions of eyes & fierce resentment
     against those whose criminal indifference to their responsibilities
     caused it, & the reminder has brought back to me a pang out of that
     bygone time.  I wish I could take you sound & whole out of your bed
     & break the legs of those officials & put them in it--to stay there.
     For in my spirit I am merciful, and would not break their necks &
     backs also, as some would who have no feeling.

     It is your brother who permits me to write this line--& so it is not
     an intrusion, you see.

     May you get well-& soon!
                              Sincerely yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


A very little later he was writing another letter on a similar subject to
St. Clair McKelway, who had narrowly escaped injury in a railway
accident.

     DEAR McKELWAY, Your innumerable friends are grateful, most grateful.

     As I understand the telegrams, the engineers of your train had never
     seen a locomotive before .  .  .  .  The government's official
     report, showing that our railways killed twelve hundred persons last
     year & injured sixty thousand, convinces me that under present
     conditions one Providence is not enough properly & efficiently to
     take care of our railroad business.  But it is characteristically
     American--always trying to get along short-handed & save wages.

A massacre of Jews in Moscow renewed his animosity for semi-barbaric
Russia.  Asked for a Christmas sentiment, he wrote:

     It is my warm & world-embracing Christmas hope that all of us that
     deserve it may finally be gathered together in a heaven of rest &
     peace, & the others permitted to retire into the clutches of Satan,
     or the Emperor of Russia, according to preference--if they have a
     preference.

An article, "The Tsar's Soliloquy," written at this time, was published
in the North American Review for March (1905).  He wrote much more, but
most of the other matter he put aside.  On a subject like that he always
discarded three times as much as he published, and it was usually about
three times as terrific as that which found its way into type.  "The
Soliloquy," however, is severe enough.  It represents the Tsar as
contemplating himself without his clothes, and reflecting on what a poor
human specimen he presents:

     Is it this that 140,000,000 Russians kiss the dust before and
     worship?--manifestly not!  No one could worship this spectacle which
     is Me.  Then who is it, what is it, that they worship?  Privately,
     none knows better than I: it is my clothes!  Without my clothes I
     should be as destitute of authority as any other naked person.  No
     one could tell me from a parson and barber tutor.  Then who is the
     real Emperor of Russia!  My clothes!  There is no other.

The emperor continues this fancy, and reflects on the fierce cruelties
that are done in his name.  It was a withering satire on Russian
imperialism, and it stirred a wide response.  This encouraged Clemens to
something even more pretentious and effective in the same line.  He wrote
"King Leopold's Soliloquy," the reflections of the fiendish sovereign who
had maimed and slaughtered fifteen millions of African subjects in his
greed--gentle, harmless blacks-men, women, and little children whom he
had butchered and mutilated in his Congo rubber-fields.  Seldom in the
history of the world have there been such atrocious practices as those of
King Leopold in the Congo, and Clemens spared nothing in his picture of
them.  The article was regarded as not quite suitable for magazine
publication, and it was given to the Congo Reform Association and issued
as a booklet for distribution, with no return to the author, who would
gladly have written a hundred times as much if he could have saved that
unhappy race and have sent Leopold to the electric chair.--[The book was
price-marked twenty-five cents, but the returns from such as were sold
went to the cause.  Thousands of them were distributed free.  The Congo,
a domain four times as large as the German empire, had been made the ward
of Belgium at a convention in Berlin by the agreement of fourteen
nations, America and thirteen European states.  Leopold promptly seized
the country for his personal advantage and the nations apparently found
themselves powerless to depose him.  No more terrible blunder was ever
committed by an assemblage of civilized people.]

Various plans and movements were undertaken for Congo reform, and Clemens
worked and wrote letters and gave his voice and his influence and
exhausted his rage, at last, as one after another of the half-organized
and altogether futile undertakings showed no results.  His interest did
not die, but it became inactive.  Eventually he declared: "I have said
all I can say on that terrible subject.  I am heart and soul in any
movement that will rescue the Congo and hang Leopold, but I cannot write
any more."

His fires were likely to burn themselves out, they raged so fiercely.
His final paragraph on the subject was a proposed epitaph for Leopold
when time should have claimed him.  It ran:

     Here under this gilded tomb lies rotting the body of one the smell
     of whose name will still offend the nostrils of men ages upon ages
     after all the Caesars and Washingtons & Napoleons shall have ceased
     to be praised or blamed & been forgotten--Leopold of Belgium.

Clemens had not yet lost interest in the American policy in the
Philippines, and in his letters to Twichell he did not hesitate to
criticize tile President's attitude in this and related matters.  Once,
in a moment of irritation, he wrote:

     DEAR JOE,--I knew I had in me somewhere a definite feeling about the
     President.  If I could only find the words to define it with!  Here
     they are, to a hair--from Leonard Jerome:

     "For twenty years I have loved Roosevelt the man, and hated
     Roosevelt the statesman and politician."

     It's mighty good.  Every time in twenty-five years that I have met
     Roosevelt the man a wave of welcome has streaked through me with the
     hand-grip; but whenever (as a rule) I meet Roosevelt the statesman &
     politician I find him destitute of morals & not respect-worthy.  It
     is plain that where his political self & party self are concerned he
     has nothing resembling a conscience; that under those inspirations
     he is naively indifferent to the restraints of duty & even unaware
     of them; ready to kick the Constitution into the back yard whenever
     it gets in his way....

     But Roosevelt is excusable--I recognize it & (ought to) concede it.
     We are all insane, each in his own way, & with insanity goes
     irresponsibility.  Theodore the man is sane; in fairness we ought to
     keep in mind that Theodore, as statesman & politician, is insane &
     irresponsible.

He wrote a great deal more from time to time on this subject; but that is
the gist of his conclusions, and whether justified by time, or otherwise,
it expresses today the deduction of a very large number of people.  It is
set down here, because it is a part of Mark Twain's history, and also
because a little while after his death there happened to creep into print
an incomplete and misleading note (since often reprinted), which he once
made in a moment of anger, when he was in a less judicial frame of mind.
It seems proper that a man's honest sentiments should be recorded
concerning the nation's servants.

Clemens wrote an article at this period which he called the "War Prayer."
It pictured the young recruits about to march away for war--the
excitement and the celebration--the drum-beat and the heart-beat of
patriotism--the final assembly in the church where the minister utters
that tremendous invocation:

               God the all-terrible!  Thou who ordainest,
               Thunder, Thy clarion, and lightning, Thy sword!

and the "long prayer" for victory to the nation's armies.  As the prayer
closes a white-robed stranger enters, moves up the aisle, and takes the
preacher's place; then, after some moments of impressive silence, he
begins:

     "I come from the Throne-bearing a message from Almighty God!.....
     He has heard the prayer of His servant, your shepherd, & will grant
     it if such shall be your desire after I His messenger shall have
     explained to you its import--that is to say its full import.  For it
     is like unto many of the prayers of men in that it asks for more
     than he who utters it is aware of--except he pause & think.

     "God's servant & yours has prayed his prayer.  Has he paused & taken
     thought?  Is it one prayer?  No, it is two--one uttered, the other
     not.  Both have reached the ear of Him who heareth all
     supplications, the spoken & the unspoken .  .  .  .

     "You have heard your servant's prayer--the uttered part of it.  I am
     commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it--that
     part which the pastor--and also you in your hearts--fervently
     prayed, silently.  And ignorantly & unthinkingly?  God grant that it
     was so!  You heard these words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our
     God!' That is sufficient.  The whole of the uttered prayer is
     completed into those pregnant words.

     "Upon the listening spirit of God the Father fell also the unspoken
     part of the prayer.  He commandeth me to put it into words.  Listen!

          "O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go
          forth to battle--be Thou near them!  With them--in spirit--we
          also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to
          smite the foe.

          "O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody
          shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields
          with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the
          thunder of the guns with the wounded, writhing in pain; help us
          to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help
          us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with
          unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their
          little children to wander unfriended through wastes of their
          desolated land in rags & hunger & thirst, sport of the sun-
          flames of summer & the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit,
          worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave &
          denied it--for our sakes, who adore Thee, Lord, blast their
          hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage,
          make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain
          the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!  We ask of
          one who is the Spirit of love & who is the ever-faithful refuge
          & friend of all that are sore beset, & seek His aid with humble
          & contrite hearts.  Grant our prayer, O Lord; & Thine shall be
          the praise & honor & glory now & ever, Amen."

          (After a pause.) "Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it,
          speak!--the messenger of the Most High waits."

                    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

          It was believed, afterward, that the man was a lunatic, because
          there was no sense in what he said.

To Dan Beard, who dropped in to see him, Clemens read the "War Prayer,"
stating that he had read it to his daughter Jean, and others, who had
told him he must not print it, for it would be regarded as sacrilege.

"Still you--are going to publish it, are you not?"

Clemens, pacing up and down the room in his dressing-gown and slippers,
shook his head.

"No," he said, "I have told the whole truth in that, and only dead men
can tell the truth in this world.  It can be published after I am dead."

He did not care to invite the public verdict that he was a lunatic, or
even a fanatic with a mission to destroy the illusions and traditions and
conclusions of mankind.  To Twichell he wrote, playfully but sincerely:

Am I honest?  I give you my word of honor (privately) I am not.  For
seven years I have suppressed a book which my conscience tells me I ought
to publish.  I hold it a duty to publish it.  There are other difficult
duties which I am equal to, but I am not equal to that one.  Yes, even I
am dishonest.  Not in many ways, but in some.  Forty-one, I think it is.
We are certainly all honest in one or several ways--every man in the
world--though I have a reason to think I am the only one whose blacklist
runs so light.  Sometimes I feel lonely enough in this lofty solitude.

It was his Gospel he referred to as his unpublished book, his doctrine of
Selfishness, and of Man the irresponsible Machine.  To Twichell he
pretended to favor war, which he declared, to his mind, was one of the
very best methods known of diminishing the human race.

What a life it is!--this one!  Everything we try to do, somebody intrudes
& obstructs it.  After years of thought & labor I have arrived within one
little bit of a step of perfecting my invention for exhausting the oxygen
in the globe's air during a stretch of two minutes, & of course along
comes an obstructor who is inventing something to protect human life.
Damn such a world anyway.

He generally wrote Twichell when he had things to say that were outside
of the pale of print.  He was sure of an attentive audience of one, and
the audience, whether it agreed with him or not, would at least
understand him and be honored by his confidence.  In one letter of that
year he said:

I have written you to-day, not to do you a service, but to do myself one.
There was bile in me.  I had to empty it or lose my day to-morrow.  If I
tried to empty it into the North American Review--oh, well, I couldn't
afford the risk.  No, the certainty!  The certainty that I wouldn't be
satisfied with the result; so I would burn it, & try again to-morrow;
burn that and try again the next day.  It happens so nearly every time.
I have a family to support, & I can't afford this kind of dissipation.
Last winter when I was sick I wrote a magazine article three times before
I got it to suit me.  I Put $500 worth of work on it every day for ten
days, & at last when I got it to suit me it contained but 3,000 words-
$900.  I burned it & said I would reform.

And I have reformed.  I have to work my bile off whenever it gets to
where I can't stand it, but I can work it off on you economically,
because I don't have to make it suit me.  It may not suit you, but that
isn't any matter; I'm not writing it for that.  I have used you as an
equilibrium--restorer more than once in my time, & shall continue, I
guess.  I would like to use Mr. Rogers, & he is plenty good-natured
enough, but it wouldn't be fair to keep him rescuing me from my leather-
headed business snarls & make him read interminable bile-irruptions
besides; I can't use Howells, he is busy & old & lazy, & won't stand it;
I dasn't use Clara, there's things I have to say which she wouldn't put
up with--a very dear little ashcat, but has claws.  And so--you're It.

     [See the preface to the "Autobiography of Mark Twain": 'I am writing
     from the grave.  On these terms only can a man be approximately
     frank.  He cannot be straitly and unqualifiedly frank either in the
     grave or out of it.'  D.W.]




CCXXXV

A SUMMER IN NEW HAMPSHIRE

He took for the summer a house at Dublin, New Hampshire, the home of
Henry Copley Greene, Lone Tree Hill, on the Monadnock slope.  It was in a
lovely locality, and for neighbors there were artists, literary people,
and those of kindred pursuits, among them a number of old friends.
Colonel Higginson had a place near by, and Abbott H. Thayer, the painter,
and George de Forest Brush, and the Raphael Pumpelly family, and many
more.

Colonel Higginson wrote Clemens a letter of welcome as soon as the news
got out that he was going to Dublin; and Clemens, answering, said:

     I early learned that you would be my neighbor in the summer & I
     rejoiced, recognizing in you & your family a large asset.  I hope
     for frequent intercourse between the two households.  I shall have
     my youngest daughter with me.  The other one will go from the rest-
     cure in this city to the rest-cure in Norfolk, Connecticut; & we
     shall not see her before autumn.  We have not seen her since the
     middle of October.

     Jean, the younger daughter, went to Dublin & saw the house & came
     back charmed with it.  I know the Thayers of old--manifestly there
     is no lack of attractions up there.  Mrs. Thayer and I were
     shipmates in a wild excursion perilously near 40 years ago.

     Aldrich was here half an hour ago, like a breeze from over the
     fields, with the fragrance still upon his spirit.  I am tired
     wanting for that man to get old.

They went to Dublin in May, and became at once a part of the summer
colony which congregated there.  There was much going to and fro among
the different houses, pleasant afternoons in the woods, mountain-climbing
for Jean, and everywhere a spirit of fine, unpretentious comradeship.

The Copley Greene house was romantically situated, with a charming
outlook.  Clemens wrote to Twichell:

     We like it here in the mountains, in the shadows of Monadnock.  It
     is a woody solitude.  We have no near neighbors.  We have neighbors
     and I can see their houses scattered in the forest distances, for we
     live on a hill.  I am astonished to find that I have known 8 of
     these 14 neighbors a long time; 10 years is the shortest; then seven
     beginning with 25 years & running up to 37 years' friendship.  It is
     the most remarkable thing I ever heard of.

This letter was written in July, and he states in it that he has turned
out one hundred thousand words of a large manuscript.  .  It was a
fantastic tale entitled "3,000 Years among the Microbes," a sort of
scientific revel--or revelry--the autobiography of a microbe that had
been once a man, and through a failure in a biological experiment
transformed into a cholera germ when the experimenter was trying to turn
him into a bird.  His habitat was the person of a disreputable tramp
named Blitzowski, a human continent of vast areas, with seething microbic
nations and fantastic life problems.  It was a satire, of course--
Gulliver's Lilliput outdone--a sort of scientific, socialistic,
mathematical jamboree.

He tired of it before it reached completion, though not before it had
attained the proportions of a book of size.  As a whole it would hardly
have added to his reputation, though it is not without fine and humorous
passages, and certainly not without interest.  Its chief mission was to
divert him mentally that summer during, those days and nights when he
would otherwise have been alone and brooding upon his loneliness.--[For
extracts from "3,000 Years among the Microbes" see Appendix V, at the end
of this work.]

MARK TWAIN'S SUGGESTED TITLE-PAGE FOR HIS MICROBE BOOK:


                               3000 YEARS
                           AMONG THE MICROBES

                              By a Microbe

                               WITH NOTES
                         added by the same Hand
                            7000 years later

                      Translated from the Original
                                Microbic
                                   by

                               Mark Twain


His inability to reproduce faces in his mind's eye he mourned as an
increasing calamity.  Photographs were lifeless things, and when he tried
to conjure up the faces of his dead they seemed to drift farther out of
reach; but now and then kindly sleep brought to him something out of that
treasure-house where all our realities are kept for us fresh and fair,
perhaps for a day when we may claim them again.  Once he wrote to Mrs.
Crane:

     SUSY DEAR,--I have had a lovely dream.  Livy, dressed in black, was
     sitting up in my bed (here) at my right & looking as young & sweet
     as she used to when she was in health.  She said, "What is the name
     of your sweet sister?"  I said," Pamela."  "Oh yes, that is it, I
     thought it was--(naming a name which has escaped me) won't you write
     it down for me?"  I reached eagerly for a pen & pad, laid my hands
     upon both, then said to myself, "It is only a dream," and turned
     back sorrowfully & there she was still.  The conviction flamed
     through me that our lamented disaster was a dream, & this a reality.
     I said, "How blessed it is, how blessed it is, it was all a dream,
     only a dream!"  She only smiled and did not ask what dream I meant,
     which surprised me.  She leaned her head against mine & kept saying,
     "I was perfectly sure it was a dream; I never would have believed it
     wasn't."  I think she said several things, but if so they are gone
     from my memory.  I woke & did not know I had been dreaming.  She was
     gone.  I wondered how she could go without my knowing it, but I did
     not spend any thought upon that.  I was too busy thinking of how
     vivid & real was the dream that we had lost her, & how unspeakably
     blessed it was to find that it was not true & that she was still
     ours & with us.

He had the orchestrelle moved to Dublin, although it was no small
undertaking, for he needed the solace of its harmonies; and so the days
passed along, and he grew stronger in body and courage as his grief
drifted farther behind him.  Sometimes, in the afternoon or in the
evening; when the neighbors had come in for a little while, he would walk
up and down and talk in his old, marvelous way of all the things on land
and sea, of the past and of the future, "Of Providence, foreknowledge,
will, and fate," of the friends he had known and of the things he had
done, of the sorrow and absurdities of the world.

It was the same old scintillating, incomparable talk of which Howells
once said:

"We shall never know its like again.  When he dies it will die with him."

It was during the summer at Dublin that Clemens and Rogers together made
up a philanthropic ruse on Twichell.  Twichell, through his own prodigal
charities, had fallen into debt, a fact which Rogers knew.  Rogers was a
man who concealed his philanthropies when he could, and he performed many
of them of which the world will never know: In this case he said:

"Clemens, I want to help Twichell out of his financial difficulty.  I
will supply the money and you will do the giving.  Twichell must think it
comes from you."

Clemens agreed to this on the condition that he be permitted to leave a
record of the matter for his children, so that he would not appear in a
false light to them, and that Twichell should learn the truth of the
gift, sooner or later.  So the deed was done, and Twichell and his wife
lavished their thanks upon Clemens, who, with his wife, had more than
once been their benefactors, making the deception easy enough now.
Clemens writhed under these letters of gratitude, and forwarded them to
Clara in Norfolk, and later to Rogers himself.  He pretended to take
great pleasure in this part of the conspiracy, but it was not an unmixed
delight.  To Rogers he wrote:

     I wanted her [Clara] to see what a generous father she's got.  I
     didn't tell her it was you, but by and by I want to tell her, when I
     have your consent; then I shall want her to remember the letters.  I
     want a record there, for my Life when I am dead, & must be able to
     furnish the facts about the Relief-of-Lucknow-Twichell in case I
     fall suddenly, before I get those facts with your consent, before
     the Twichells themselves.

     I read those letters with immense pride!  I recognized that I had
     scored one good deed for sure on my halo account.  I haven't had
     anything that tasted so good since the stolen watermelon.

     P. S.-I am hurrying them off to you because I dasn't read them
     again!  I should blush to my heels to fill up with this unearned
     gratitude again, pouring out of the thankful hearts of those poor
     swindled people who do not suspect you, but honestly believe I gave
     that money.

Mr. Rogers hastily replied:

     MY DEAR CLEMENS,--The letters are lovely.  Don't breathe.  They are
     so happy!  It would be a crime to let them think that you have in
     any way deceived them.  I can keep still.  You must.  I am sending
     you all traces of the crime, so that you may look innocent and tell
     the truth, as you usually do when you think you can escape
     detection.  Don't get rattled.

     Seriously.  You have done a kindness.  You are proud of it, I know.
     You have made your friends happy, and you ought to be so glad as to
     cheerfully accept reproof from your conscience.  Joe Wadsworth and I
     once stole a goose and gave it to a poor widow as a Christmas
     present.  No crime in that.  I always put my counterfeit money on
     the plate.  "The passer of the sasser" always smiles at me and I get
     credit for doing generous things.  But seriously again, if you do
     feel a little uncomfortable wait until I see you before you tell
     anybody.  Avoid cultivating misery.  I am trying to loaf ten solid
     days.  We do hope to see you soon.

The secret was kept, and the matter presently (and characteristically)
passed out of Clemens's mind altogether.  He never remembered to tell
Twichell, and it is revealed here, according to his wish.

The Russian-Japanese war was in progress that summer, and its settlement
occurred in August.  The terms of it did not please Mark Twain.  When a
newspaper correspondent asked him for an expression of opinion on the
subject he wrote:

     Russia was on the highroad to emancipation from an insane and
     intolerable slavery.  I was hoping there would be no peace until
     Russian liberty was safe.  I think that this was a holy war, in the
     best and noblest sense of that abused term, and that no war was ever
     charged with a higher mission.

     I think there can be no doubt that that mission is now defeated and
     Russia's chain riveted; this time to stay.  I think the Tsar will
     now withdraw the small humanities that have been forced from him,
     and resume his medieval barbarisms with a relieved spirit and an
     immeasurable joy.  I think Russian liberty has had its last chance
     and has lost it.

     I think nothing has been gained by the peace that is remotely
     comparable to what has been sacrificed by it.  One more battle would
     have abolished the waiting chains of billions upon billions of
     unborn Russians, and I wish it could have been fought.  I hope I am
     mistaken, yet in all sincerity I believe that this peace is entitled
     to rank as the most conspicuous disaster in political history.

It was the wisest public utterance on the subject--the deep, resonant
note of truth sounding amid a clamor of foolish joy-bells.  It was the
message of a seer--the prophecy of a sage who sees with the clairvoyance
of knowledge and human understanding.  Clemens, a few days later, was
invited by Colonel Harvey to dine with Baron Rosen and M. Sergius Witte;
but an attack of his old malady--rheumatism--prevented his acceptance.
His telegram of declination apparently pleased the Russian officials, for
Witte asked permission to publish it, and declared that he was going to
take it home to show to the Tsar.  It was as follows:

To COLONEL HARVEY,--I am still a cripple, otherwise I should be more than
glad of this opportunity to meet the illustrious magicians who came here
equipped with nothing but a pen, & with it have divided the honors of the
war with the sword.  It is fair to presume that in thirty centuries
history will not get done in admiring these men who attempted what the
world regarded as the impossible & achieved it.
                                                  MARK TWAIN.


But this was a modified form.  His original draft would perhaps have been
less gratifying to that Russian embassy.  It read:

     To COLONEL HARVEY,--I am still a cripple, otherwise I should be more
     than glad of this opportunity to meet those illustrious magicians
     who with the pen have annulled, obliterated, & abolished every high
     achievement of the Japanese sword and turned the tragedy of a
     tremendous war into a gay & blithesome comedy.  If I may, let me in
     all respect and honor salute them as my fellow-humorists, I taking
     third place, as becomes one who was not born to modesty, but by
     diligence & hard work is acquiring it.
                                                       MARK.



There was still another form, brief and expressive:

DEAR COLONEL,--No, this is a love-feast; when you call a lodge of sorrow
send for me.                                 MARK.


Clemens's war sentiment was given the widest newspaper circulation, and
brought him many letters, most of them applauding his words.  Charles
Francis Adams wrote him:

     It attracted my attention because it so exactly expresses the views
     I have myself all along entertained.

And this was the gist of most of the expressed sentiments which came to
him.

Clemens wrote a number of things that summer, among them a little essay
entitled, "The Privilege of the Grave"--that is to say, free speech.
He was looking forward, he said, to the time when he should inherit that
privilege, when some of the things he had said, written and laid away,
could be published without damage to his friends or family.  An article
entitled, "Interpreting the Deity," he counted as among the things to be
uttered when he had entered into that last great privilege.  It is an
article on the reading of signs and auguries in all ages to discover the
intentions of the Almighty, with historical examples of God's judgments
and vindications.  Here is a fair specimen.  It refers to the chronicle
of Henry Huntington:

     All through this book Henry exhibits his familiarity with the
     intentions of God and with the reasons for the intentions.
     Sometimes very often, in fact--the act follows the intention after
     such a wide interval of time that one wonders how Henry could fit
     one act out of a hundred to one intention, and get the thing right
     every time, when there was such abundant choice among acts and
     intentions.  Sometimes a man offends the Deity with a crime, and is
     punished for it thirty years later; meantime he has committed a
     million other crimes: no matter, Henry can pick out the one that
     brought the worms.  Worms were generally used in those days for the
     slaying of particularly wicked people.  This has gone out now, but
     in the old times it was a favorite.  It always indicated a case of
     "wrath."  For instance:

     "The just God avenging Robert Fitzhildebrand's perfidity, a worm
     grew in his vitals which, gradually gnawing its way through his
     intestines, fattened on the abandoned man till, tortured with
     excruciating sufferings and venting himself in bitter moans, he was
     by a fitting punishment brought to his end" (p. 400).

     It was probably an alligator, but we cannot tell; we only know it
     was a particular breed, and only used to convey wrath.  Some
     authorities think it was an ichthyosaurus, but there is much doubt.

The entire article is in this amusing, satirical strain, and might well
enough be printed to-day.  It is not altogether clear why it was
withheld, even then.

He finished his Eve's Diary that summer, and wrote a story which was
originally planned to oblige Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske, to aid her in a
crusade against bullfighting in Spain.  Mrs. Fiske wrote him that she had
read his dog story, written against the cruelties of vivisection, and
urged him to do something to save the horses that, after faithful
service, were sacrificed in the bull-ring.  Her letter closed:

     I have lain awake nights very often wondering if I dare ask you to
     write a story of an old horse that is finally given over to the
     bull-ring.  The story you would write would do more good than all
     the laws we are trying to have made and enforced for the prevention
     of cruelty to animals in Spain.  We would translate and circulate
     the story in that country.  I have wondered if you would ever write
     it.

     With most devoted homage,
                                   Sincerely yours,
                                             MINNIE MADDERN FISKE.

Clemens promptly replied:

DEAR MRS. FISKE, I shall certainly write the story.  But I may not get it
to suit me, in which case it will go in the fire.  Later I will try it
again--& yet again--& again.  I am used to this.  It has taken me twelve
years to write a short story--the shortest one I ever wrote, I think.--
[Probably "The Death Disk:"]--So do not be discouraged; I will stick to
this one in the same way.

                         Sincerely yours,
                                                  S. L. CLEMENS.


It was an inspiring subject, and he began work on it immediately.  Within
a month from the time he received Mrs. Fiske's letter he had written that
pathetic, heartbreaking little story, "A Horse's Tale," and sent it to
Harper's Magazine for illustration.  In a letter written to Mr. Duneka at
the time, he tells of his interest in the narrative, and adds:

     This strong interest is natural, for the heroine is my small
     daughter Susy, whom we lost.  It was not intentional--it was a good
     while before I found it out, so I am sending you her picture to use
     --& to reproduce with photographic exactness the unsurpassable
     expression & all.  May you find an artist who has lost an idol.

He explains how he had put in a good deal of work, with his secretary, on
the orchestrelle to get the bugle-calls.

     We are to do these theatricals this evening with a couple of
     neighbors for audience, and then pass the hat.

It is not one of Mark Twain's greatest stories, but its pathos brings the
tears, and no one can read it without indignation toward the custom which
it was intended to oppose.  When it was published, a year later, Mrs.
Fiske sent him her grateful acknowledgments, and asked permission to have
it printed for pamphlet circulation m Spain.

A number of more or less notable things happened in this, Mark Twain's
seventieth year.  There was some kind of a reunion going on in
California, and he was variously invited to attend.  Robert Fulton, of
Nevada, was appointed a committee of one to invite him to Reno for a
great celebration which was to be held there.  Clemens replied that he
remembered, as if it were but yesterday, when he had disembarked from the
Overland stage in front of the Ormsby Hotel, in Carson City, and told how
he would like to accept the invitation.

If I were a few years younger I would accept it, and promptly, and I
would go.  I would let somebody else do the oration, but as for me I
would talk--just talk.  I would renew my youth; and talk--and talk--and
talk--and have the time of my life!  I would march the unforgotten and
unforgetable antiques by, and name their names, and give them reverent
hail and farewell as they passed--Goodman, McCarthy, Gillis, Curry,
Baldwin, Winters, Howard, Nye, Stewart, Neely Johnson, Hal Clayton,
North, Root--and my brother, upon whom be peace!--and then the
desperadoes, who made life a joy, and the "slaughter-house," a precious
possession: Sam Brown, Farmer Pete, Bill Mayfield, Six-fingered Jake,
Jack Williams, and the rest of the crimson discipleship, and so on, and
so on.  Believe me, I would start a resurrection it would do you more
good to look at than the next one will, if you go on the way you are
going now.

Those were the days!--those old ones.  They will come no more; youth will
come no more.  They were so full to the brim with the wine of life; there
have been no others like them.  It chokes me up to think of them.  Would
you like me to come out there and cry?  It would not beseem my white
head.

Good-by.  I drink to you all.  Have a good time-and take an old man's
blessing.

In reply to another invitation from H. H. Bancroft, of San Francisco, he
wrote that his wandering days were over, and that it was his purpose to
sit by the fire for the rest of his "remnant of life."

     A man who, like me, is going to strike 70 on the 30th of next
     November has no business to be flitting around the way Howells does
     --that shameless old fictitious butterfly.  (But if he comes don't
     tell him I said it, for it would hurt him & I wouldn't brush a flake
     of powder from his wing for anything.  I only say it in envy of his
     indestructible youth anyway.  Howells will be 88 in October.)

And it was either then or on a similar occasion that he replied after
this fashion:

     I have done more for San Francisco than any other of its old
     residents.  Since I left there it has increased in population fully
     300,000.  I could have done more--I could have gone earlier--it was
     suggested.

Which, by the way, is a perfect example of Mark Twain's humorous manner,
the delicately timed pause, and the afterthought.  Most humorists would
have been contented to end with the statement, "I could have gone
earlier."  Only Mark Twain could have added that final exquisite touch--
"it was suggested."




CCXXXVI

AT PIER 70

Mark Twain was nearing seventy, the scriptural limitation of life, and
the returns were coming in.  Some one of the old group was dying all the
time.  The roll-call returned only a scattering answer.  Of his oldest
friends, Charles Henry Webb, John Hay, and Sir Henry Irving, all died
that year.  When Hay died Clemens gave this message to the press:

     I am deeply grieved, & I mourn with the nation this loss which is
     irreparable.  My friendship with Mr. Hay & my admiration of him
     endured 38 years without impairment.

It was only a little earlier that he had written Hay an anonymous letter,
a copy of which he preserved.  It here follows:

     DEAR & HONORED SIR,--I never hear any one speak of you & of your
     long roll of illustrious services in other than terms of pride &
     praise--& out of the heart.  I think I am right in believing you to
     be the only man in the civil service of the country the cleanness of
     whose motives is never questioned by any citizen, & whose acts
     proceed always upon a broad & high plane, never by accident or
     pressure of circumstance upon a narrow or low one.  There are
     majorities that are proud of more than one of the nation's great
     servants, but I believe, & I think I know, that you are the only one
     of whom the entire nation is proud.  Proud & thankful.

     Name & address are lacking here, & for a purpose: to leave you no
     chance to make my words a burden to you and a reproach to me, who
     would lighten your burdens if I could, not add to them.

Irving died in October, and Clemens ordered a wreath for his funeral.  To
MacAlister he wrote:

     I profoundly grieve over Irving's death.  It is another reminder.
     My section of the procession has but a little way to go.  I could
     not be very sorry if I tried.

Mark Twain, nearing seventy, felt that there was not much left for him to
celebrate; and when Colonel Harvey proposed a birthday gathering in his
honor, Clemens suggested a bohemian assembly over beer and sandwiches in
some snug place, with Howells, Henry Rogers, Twichell, Dr. Rice, Dr.
Edward Quintard, Augustus Thomas, and such other kindred souls as were
still left to answer the call.  But Harvey had something different in
view: something more splendid even than the sixty-seventh birthday feast,
more pretentious, indeed, than any former literary gathering.  He felt
that the attainment of seventy years by America's most distinguished man
of letters and private citizen was a circumstance which could not be
moderately or even modestly observed.  The date was set five days later
than the actual birthday--that is to say, on December 5th, in order that
it might not conflict with the various Thanksgiving holidays and
occasions.  Delmonico's great room was chosen for the celebration of it,
and invitations were sent out to practically every writer of any
distinction in America, and to many abroad.  Of these nearly two hundred
accepted, while such as could not come sent pathetic regrets.

What an occasion it was!  The flower of American literature gathered to
do honor to its chief.  The whole atmosphere of the place seemed
permeated with his presence, and when Colonel Harvey presented William
Dean Howells, and when Howells had read another double-barreled sonnet,
and introduced the guest of the evening with the words, "I will not say,
'O King, live forever,' but, 'O King, live as long as you like!'" and
Mark Twain rose, his snow-white hair gleaming above that brilliant
assembly, it seemed that a world was speaking out in a voice of applause
and welcome.  With a great tumult the throng rose, a billow of life, the
white handkerchiefs flying foam-like on its crest.  Those who had
gathered there realized that it was a mighty moment, not only in his life
but in theirs.  They were there to see this supreme embodiment of the
American spirit as he scaled the mountain-top.  He, too, realized the
drama of that moment--the marvel of it--and he must have flashed a swift
panoramic view backward over the long way he had come, to stand, as he
had himself once expressed it, "for a single, splendid moment on the Alps
of fame outlined against the sun."  He must have remembered; for when he
came to speak he went back to the very beginning, to his very first
banquet, as he called it, when, as he said, "I hadn't any hair; I hadn't
any teeth; I hadn't any clothes."  He sketched the meagerness of that
little hamlet which had seen his birth, sketched it playfully,
delightfully, so that his hearers laughed and shouted; but there was
always a tenderness under it all, and often the tears were not far
beneath the surface.  He told of his habits of life, how he had attained
seventy years by simply sticking to a scheme of living which would kill
anybody else; how he smoked constantly, loathed exercise, and had no
other regularity of habits.  Then, at last, he reached that wonderful,
unforgetable close:

     Threescore years and ten!

     It is the scriptural statute of limitations.  After that you owe no
     active duties; for you the strenuous life is over.  You are a time-
     expired man, to use Kipling's military phrase: You have served your
     term, well or less well, and you are mustered out.  You are become
     an honorary member of the republic, you are emancipated, compulsions
     are not for you, nor any bugle-call but "lights out."  You pay the
     time-worn duty bills if you choose, or decline if you prefer--and
     without prejudice--for they are not legally collectable.

     The previous-engagement plea, which in forty years has cost you so
     many twinges, you can lay aside forever; on this side of the grave
     you will never need it again.  If you shrink at thought of night,
     and winter, and the late homecomings from the banquet and the lights
     and laughter through the deserted streets--a desolation which would
     not remind you now, as for a generation it did, that your friends
     are sleeping and you must creep in a-tiptoe and not disturb them,
     but would only remind you that you need not tiptoe, you can never
     disturb them more--if you shrink at the thought of these things you
     need only reply, "Your invitation honors me and pleases me because
     you still keep me in your remembrance, but I am seventy; seventy,
     and would nestle in the chinmey-corner, and smoke my pipe, and read
     my book, and take my rest, wishing you well in all affection, and
     that when you in your turn shall arrive at Pier 70 you may step
     aboard your waiting ship with a reconciled spirit, and lay your
     course toward the sinking sun with a contented heart."

The tears that had been lying in wait were not restrained now.  If there
were any present who did not let them flow without shame, who did not
shout their applause from throats choked with sobs, the writer of these
lines failed to see them or to hear of them.  There was not one who was
ashamed to pay the great tribute of tears.

Many of his old friends, one after another, rose to tell their love for
him--Brander Matthews, Cable, Kate Douglas Riggs, Gilder, Carnegie,
Bangs, Bacheller--they kept it up far into the next morning.  No other
arrival at Pier 70 ever awoke a grander welcome.




CCXXXVII

AFTERMATH

The announcement of the seventieth birthday dinner had precipitated a
perfect avalanche of letters, which continued to flow in until the news
accounts of it precipitated another avalanche.  The carriers' bags were
stuffed with greetings that came from every part of the world, from every
class of humanity.  They were all full of love and tender wishes.  A card
signed only with initials said: "God bless your old sweet soul for having
lived."

Aldrich, who could not attend the dinner, declared that all through the
evening he had been listening in his mind to a murmur of voices in the
hall at Delmonico's.  A group of English authors in London combined in a
cable of congratulations.  Anstey, Alfred Austin, Balfour, Barrie, Bryce,
Chesterton, Dobson, Doyle, Gosse, Hardy, Hope, Jacobs, Kipling, Lang,
Parker, Tenniel, Watson, and Zangwill were among the signatures.

Helen Keller wrote:

     And you are seventy years old?  Or is the report exaggerated, like
     that of your death?  I remember, when I saw you last, at the house
     of dear Mr. Hutton, in Princeton, you said:

     "If a man is a pessimist before he is forty-eight he knows too much.
     If he is an optimist after he is forty-eight he knows too little."

     Now we know you are an optimist, and nobody would dare to accuse one
     on the "seven-terraced summit" of knowing little.  So probably you
     are not seventy after all, but only forty-seven!

Helen Keller was right.  Mark Twain was not a pessimist in his heart, but
only by premeditation.  It was his observation and his logic that led him
to write those things that, even in their bitterness, somehow conveyed
that spirit of human sympathy which is so closely linked to hope.  To
Miss Keller he wrote:

"Oh, thank you for your lovely words!"

He was given another birthday celebration that month--this time by the
Society of Illustrators.  Dan Beard, president, was also toast-master;
and as he presented Mark Twain there was a trumpet-note, and a lovely
girl, costumed as Joan of Arc, entered and, approaching him, presented
him with a laurel wreath.  It was planned and carried out as a surprise
to him, and he hardly knew for the moment whether it was a vision or a
reality.  He was deeply affected, so much so that for several moments he
could not find his voice to make any acknowledgments.

Clemens was more than ever sought now, and he responded when the cause
was a worthy one.  He spoke for the benefit of the Russian sufferers at
the Casino on December 18th.  Madame Sarah Bernhardt was also there, and
spoke in French.  He followed her, declaring that it seemed a sort of
cruelty to inflict upon an audience our rude English after hearing that
divine speech flowing in that lucid Gallic tongue.

     It has always been a marvel to me--that French language; it has
     always been a puzzle to me.  How beautiful that language is!  How
     expressive it seems to be!  How full of grace it is!

     And when it comes from lips like those, how eloquent and how limpid
     it is!  And, oh, I am always deceived--I always think I am going to
     understand it.

     It is such a delight to me, such a delight to me, to meet Madame
     Bernhardt, and laugh hand to hand and heart to heart with her.  I
     have seen her play, as we all have, and, oh, that is divine; but I
     have always wanted to know Madame Bernhardt herself--her fiery self.
     I have wanted to know that beautiful character.

     Why, she is the youngest person I ever saw, except myself--for I
     always feel young when I come in the presence of young people.

And truly, at seventy, Mark Twain was young, his manner, his movement,
his point of view-these were all, and always, young.

A number of palmists about that time examined impressions of his hand
without knowledge as to the owner, and they all agreed that it was the
hand of a man with the characteristics of youth, with inspiration, and
enthusiasm, and sympathy--a lover of justice and of the sublime.  They
all agreed, too, that he was a deep philosopher, though, alas!  they
likewise agreed that he lacked the sense of humor, which is not as
surprising as it sounds, for with Mark Twain humor was never mere fun-
making nor the love of it; rather it was the flower of his philosophy--
its bloom arid fragrance.

When the fanfare and drum-beat of his birthday honors had passed by, and
a moment of calm had followed, Mark Twain set down some reflections on
the new estate he had achieved.  The little paper, which forms a perfect
pendant to the "Seventieth Birthday Speech," here follows:

                             OLD AGE

     I think it likely that people who have not been here will be
     interested to know what it is like.  I arrived on the thirtieth of
     November, fresh from carefree & frivolous 69, & was disappointed.

     There is nothing novel about it, nothing striking, nothing to thrill
     you & make your eye glitter & your tongue cry out, "Oh, it is
     wonderful, perfectly wonderful!"  Yes, it is disappointing.  You
     say, "Is this it?--this?  after all this talk and fuss of a thousand
     generations of travelers who have crossed this frontier & looked
     about them & told what they saw & felt?  Why, it looks just like
     69."

     And that is true.  Also it is natural, for you have not come by the
     fast express; you have been lagging & dragging across the world's
     continents behind oxen; when that is your pace one country melts
     into the next one so gradually that you are not able to notice the
     change; 70 looks like 69; 69 looked like 68; 68 looked like 67--& so
     on back & back to the beginning.  If you climb to a summit & look
     back--ah, then you see!

     Down that far-reaching perspective you can make out each country &
     climate that you crossed, all the way up from the hot equator to the
     ice-summit where you are perched.  You can make out where Infancy
     verged into Boyhood; Boyhood into down-lipped Youth; Youth into
     bearded, indefinite Young-Manhood; indefinite Young-Manhood into
     definite Manhood; definite Manhood, with large, aggressive
     ambitions, into sobered & heedful Husbandhood & Fatherhood; these
     into troubled & foreboding Age, with graying hair; this into Old
     Age, white-headed, the temple empty, the idols broken, the
     worshipers in their graves, nothing left but You, a remnant, a
     tradition, belated fag-end of a foolish dream, a dream that was so
     ingeniously dreamed that it seemed real all the time; nothing left
     but You, center of a snowy desolation, perched on the ice-summit,
     gazing out over the stages of that long trek & asking Yourself,
     "Would you do it again if you had the chance?"




CCXXXVIII

THE WRITER MEETS MARK TWAIN

We have reached a point in this history where the narrative becomes
mainly personal, and where, at the risk of inviting the charge of
egotism, the form of the telling must change.

It was at the end of 1901 that I first met Mark Twain--at The Players
Club on the night when he made the Founder's Address mentioned in an
earlier chapter.

I was not able to arrive in time for the address, but as I reached the
head of the stairs I saw him sitting on the couch at the dining-room
entrance, talking earnestly to some one, who, as I remember it, did not
enter into my consciousness at all.  I saw only that crown of white hair,
that familiar profile, and heard the slow modulations of his measured
speech.  I was surprised to see how frail and old he looked.  From his
pictures I had conceived him different.  I did not realize that it was a
temporary condition due to a period of poor health and a succession of
social demands.  I have no idea how long I stood there watching him.  He
had been my literary idol from childhood, as he had been of so many
others; more than that, for the personality in his work had made him
nothing less than a hero to his readers.

He rose presently to go, and came directly toward me.  A year before I
had done what new writers were always doing--I had sent him a book I had
written, and he had done what he was always doing--acknowledged it with a
kindly letter.  I made my thanks now an excuse for addressing him.  It
warmed me to hear him say that he remembered the book, though at the time
I confess I thought it doubtful.  Then he was gone; but the mind and ear
had photographed those vivid first impressions that remain always clear.

It was the following spring that I saw him again--at an afternoon
gathering, and the memory of that occasion is chiefly important because I
met Mrs. Clemens there for the only time, and like all who met her,
however briefly, felt the gentleness and beauty of her spirit.  I think I
spoke with her at two or three different moments during the afternoon,
and on each occasion was impressed with that feeling of acquaintanceship
which we immediately experience with those rare beings whose souls are
wells of human sympathy and free from guile.  Bret Harte had just died,
and during the afternoon Mr. Clemens asked me to obtain for him some item
concerning the obsequies.

It was more than three years before I saw him again.  Meantime, a sort of
acquaintance had progressed.  I had been engaged in writing the life of
Thomas Nast, the cartoonist, and I had found among the material a number
of letters to Nast from Mark Twain.  I was naturally anxious to use those
fine characteristic letters, and I wrote him for his consent.  He wished
to see the letters, and the permission that followed was kindness itself.
His admiration of Nast was very great.

It was proper, under the circumstances, to send him a copy of the book
when it appeared; but that was 1904, his year of sorrow and absence, and
the matter was postponed.  Then came the great night of his seventieth
birthday dinner, with an opportunity to thank him in person for the use
of the letters.  There was only a brief exchange of words, and it was the
next day, I think, that I sent him a copy of the book.  It did not occur
to me that I should hear of it again.

We step back a moment here.  Something more than a year earlier, through
a misunderstanding, Mark Twain's long association with The Players had
been severed.  It was a sorrow to him, and a still greater sorrow to the
club.  There was a movement among what is generally known' as the "Round
Table Group"--because its members have long had a habit of lunching at a
large, round table in a certain window--to bring him back again.  David
Munro, associate editor of the North American Review-" David," a man well
loved of men--and Robert Reid, the painter, prepared this simple
document:

                                   TO
                               MARK TWAIN
                                  from
                              THE CLANSMEN

                         Will ye no come back again?
                         Will ye no come back again?
                         Better lo'ed ye canna be,
                         Will ye no come back again?

It was signed by Munro and by Reid and about thirty others, and it
touched Mark Twain deeply.  The lines had always moved him.  He wrote:

     TO ROBT. REID & THE OTHERS--

     WELL-BELOVED,--Surely those lovely verses went to Prince Charlie's
     heart, if he had one, & certainly they have gone to mine.  I shall
     be glad & proud to come back again after such a moving & beautiful
     compliment as this from comrades whom I have loved so long.  I hope
     you can poll the necessary vote; I know you will try, at any rate.
     It will be many months before I can foregather with you, for this
     black border is not perfunctory, not a convention; it symbolizes the
     loss of one whose memory is the only thing I worship.

     It is not necessary for me to thank you--& words could not deliver
     what I feel, anyway.  I will put the contents of your envelope in
     the small casket where I keep the things which have become sacred to
     me.
                                   S. L. C.


So the matter was temporarily held in abeyance until he should return.
to social life.  At the completion of his seventieth year the club had
taken action, and Mark Twain had been brought back, not in the regular
order of things, but as an honorary life member without dues or duties.
There was only one other member of this class, Sir Henry Irving.

The Players, as a club, does not give dinners.  Whatever is done in that
way is done by one or more of the members in the private dining-room,
where there is a single large table that holds twenty-five, even thirty
when expanded to its limit.  That room and that table have mingled with
much distinguished entertainment, also with history.  Henry James made
his first after-dinner speech there, for one thing--at least he claimed
it was his first, though this is by the way.

A letter came to me which said that those who had signed the plea for the
Prince's return were going to welcome him in the private dining-room on
the 5th of January.  It was not an invitation, but a gracious privilege.
I was in New York a day or two in advance of the date, and I think David
Munro was the first person I met at The Players.  As he greeted me his
eyes were eager with something he knew I would wish to hear.  He had been
delegated to propose the dinner to Mark Twain, and had found him propped
up in bed, and noticed on the table near him a copy of the Nast book.  I
suspect that Munro had led him to speak of it, and that the result had
lost nothing filtered through that radiant benevolence of his.

The night of January 5, 1906, remains a memory apart from other dinners.
Brander Matthews presided, and Gilder was there, and Frank Millet and
Willard Metcalf and Robert Reid, and a score of others; some of them are
dead now, David Munro among them.  It so happened that my seat was nearly
facing the guest of the evening, who, by custom of The Players, is placed
at the side and not at the end of the long table.  He was no longer frail
and thin, as when I had first met him.  He had a robust, rested look; his
complexion had the tints of a miniature painting.  Lit by the glow of the
shaded candles, relieved against the dusk richness of the walls, he made
a picture of striking beauty.  One could not take his eyes from it, and
to one guest at least it stirred the farthest memories.  I suddenly saw
the interior of a farm-house sitting-room in the Middle West, where I had
first heard uttered the name of Mark Twain, and where night after night a
group gathered around the evening lamp to hear the tale of the first
pilgrimage, which, to a boy of eight, had seemed only a wonderful poem
and fairy tale.  To Charles Harvey Genung, who sat next to me, I
whispered something of this, and how, during the thirty-six years since
then, no other human being to me had meant quite what Mark Twain had
meant--in literature, in life, in the ineffable thing which means more
than either, and which we call "inspiration," for lack of a truer word.
Now here he was, just across the table.  It was the fairy tale come true.

Genung said:

"You should write his life."

His remark seemed a pleasant courtesy, and was put aside as such.  When
he persisted I attributed it to the general bloom of the occasion, and a
little to the wine, maybe, for the dinner was in its sweetest stage just
then--that happy, early stage when the first glass of champagne, or the
second, has proved its quality.  He urged, in support of his idea, the
word that Munro had brought concerning the Nast book, but nothing of what
he said kindled any spark of hope.  I could not but believe that some one
with a larger equipment of experience, personal friendship, and abilities
had already been selected for the task.  By and by the speaking began--
delightful, intimate speaking in that restricted circle--and the matter
went out of my mind.

When the dinner had ended, and we were drifting about the table in
general talk, I found an opportunity to say a word to the guest of the
evening about his Joan of Arc, which I had recently re-read.  To my
happiness, he detained me while he told me the long-ago incident which
had led to his interest, not only in the martyred girl, but in all
literature.  I think we broke up soon after, and descended to the lower
rooms.  At any rate, I presently found the faithful Charles Genung
privately reasserting to me the proposition that I should undertake the
biography of Mark Twain.  Perhaps it was the brief sympathy established
by the name of Joan of Arc, perhaps it was only Genung's insistent
purpose--his faith, if I may be permitted the word.  Whatever it was,
there came an impulse, in the instant of bidding good-by to our guest of
honor, which prompted me to say:

"May I call to see you, Mr. Clemens, some day?"

And something--dating from the primal atom, I suppose--prompted him to
answer:

"Yes, come soon."

This was on Wednesday night, or rather on Thursday morning, for it was
past midnight, and a day later I made an appointment with his secretary
to call on Saturday.

I can say truly that I set out with no more than the barest hope of
success, and wondering if I should have the courage, when I saw him, even
to suggest the thought in my mind.  I know I did not have the courage to
confide in Genung that I had made the appointment--I was so sure it would
fail.  I arrived at 21 Fifth Avenue and was shown into that long library
and drawing-room combined, and found a curious and deep interest in the
books and ornaments along the shelves as I waited.  Then I was summoned,
and I remember ascending the stairs, wondering why I had come on so
futile an errand, and trying to think of an excuse to offer for having
come at all.

He was propped up in bed--in that stately bed-sitting, as was his habit,
with his pillows placed at the foot, so that he might have always before
him the rich, carved beauty of its headboard.  He was delving through a
copy of Huckleberry Finn, in search of a paragraph concerning which some
random correspondent had asked explanation.  He was commenting
unfavorably on this correspondent and on miscellaneous letter-writing in
general.  He pushed the cigars toward me, and the talk of these matters
ran along and blended into others more or less personal.  By and by I
told him what so many thousands had told him before: what he had meant to
me, recalling the childhood impressions of that large, black-and-gilt-
covered book with its wonderful pictures and adventures--the
Mediterranean pilgrimage.  Very likely it bored him--he had heard it so
often--and he was willing enough, I dare say, to let me change the
subject and thank him for the kindly word which David Munro had brought.
I do not remember what he said then, but I suddenly found myself
suggesting that out of his encouragement had grown a hope--though
certainly it was something less--that I might some day undertake a book
about himself.  I expected the chapter to end at this point, and his
silence which followed seemed long and ominous.

He said, at last, that at various times through his life he had been
preparing some autobiographical matter, but that he had tired of the
undertaking, and had put it aside.  He added that he had hoped his
daughters would one day collect his letters; but that a biography--
a detailed story of personality and performance, of success and failure--
was of course another matter, and that for such a work no arrangement had
been made.  He may have added one or two other general remarks; then,
turning those piercing agate-blue eyes directly upon me, he said:

"When would you like to begin?"

There was a dresser with a large mirror behind him.  I happened to catch
my reflection in it, and I vividly recollect saying to it mentally: "This
is not true; it is only one of many similar dreams."  But even in a dream
one must answer, and I said:

"Whenever you like.  I can begin now."

He was always eager in any new undertaking.

"Very good," he said.  "The sooner, then, the better.  Let's begin while
we are in the humor.  The longer you postpone a thing of this kind the
less likely you are ever to get at it."

This was on Saturday, as I have stated.  I mentioned that my family was
still in the country, and that it would require a day or two to get
established in the city.  I asked if Tuesday, January 9th, would be too
soon to begin.  He agreed that Tuesday would do, and inquired something
about my plan of work.  Of course I had formed nothing definite, but I
said that in similar undertakings a part of the work had been done with a
stenographer, who had made the notes while I prompted the subject to
recall a procession of incidents and episodes, to be supplemented with
every variety of material obtainable--letters and other documentary
accumulations.  Then he said:

"I think I should enjoy dictating to a stenographer, with some one to
prompt me and to act as audience.  The room adjoining this was fitted up
for my study.  My manuscripts and notes and private books and many of my
letters are there, and there are a trunkful or two of such things in the
attic.  I seldom use the room myself.  I do my writing and reading in
bed.  I will turn that room over to you for this work.  Whatever you need
will be brought to you.  We can have the dictation here in the morning,
and you can put in the rest of the day to suit yourself.  You can have a
key and come and go as you please."

That was always his way.  He did nothing by halves; nothing without
unquestioning confidence and prodigality.  He got up and showed me the
lovely luxury of the study, with its treasures of material.  I did not
believe it true yet.  It had all the atmosphere of a dream, and I have no
distinct recollection of how I came away.  When I returned to The Players
and found Charles Harvey Genung there, and told him about it, it is quite
certain that he perjured himself when he professed to believe it true and
pretended that he was not surprised.




CCXXXIX

WORKING WITH MARK TWAIN

On Tuesday, January 9, 1906, I was on hand with a capable stenographer--
Miss Josephine Hobby, who had successively, and successfully, held
secretarial positions with Charles Dudley Warner and Mrs. Mary Mapes
Dodge, and was therefore peculiarly qualified for the work in hand.

Clemens, meantime, had been revolving our plans and adding some features
of his own.  He proposed to double the value and interest of our
employment by letting his dictations continue the form of those earlier
autobiographical chapters, begun with Redpath in 1885, and continued
later in Vienna and at the Villa Quarto.  He said he did not think he
could follow a definite chronological program; that he would like to
wander about, picking up this point and that, as memory or fancy
prompted, without any particular biographical order.  It was his purpose,
he declared, that his dictations should not be published until he had
been dead a hundred years or more--a prospect which seemed to give him an
especial gratification.--[As early as October, 1900, he had proposed to
Harper & Brothers a contract for publishing his personal memoirs at the
expiration of one hundred years from date; and letters covering the
details were exchanged with Mr. Rogers.  The document, however, was not
completed.]

He wished to pay the stenographer, and to own these memoranda, he said,
allowing me free access to them for any material I might find valuable.
I could also suggest subjects for dictation, and ask particulars of any
special episode or period.  I believe this covered the whole arrangement,
which did not require more than five minutes, and we set to work without
further prologue.

I ought to state that he was in bed when we arrived, and that he remained
there during almost all of these earlier dictations, clad in a handsome
silk dressing-gown of rich Persian pattern, propped against great snowy
pillows.  He loved this loose luxury and ease, and found it conducive to
thought.  On the little table beside him, where lay his cigars, papers,
pipes, and various knickknacks, shone a reading-lamp, making more
brilliant the rich coloring of his complexion and the gleam of his
shining hair.  There was daylight, too, but it was north light, and the
winter days were dull.  Also the walls of the room were a deep,
unreflecting red, and his eyes were getting old.  The outlines of that
vast bed blending into the luxuriant background, the whole focusing to
the striking central figure, remain in my mind to-day--a picture of
classic value.

He dictated that morning some matters connected with the history of the
Comstock mine; then he drifted back to his childhood, returning again to
the more modern period, and closed, I think, with some comments on
current affairs.  It was absorbingly interesting; his quaint, unhurried
fashion of speech, the unconscious movement of his hands, the play of his
features as his fancies and phrases passed in mental review and were
accepted or waved aside.  We were watching one of the great literary
creators of his time in the very process of his architecture.  We
constituted about the most select audience in the world enjoying what
was, likely enough, its most remarkable entertainment.  When he turned at
last and inquired the time we were all amazed that two hours and more had
slipped away.

"And how much I have enjoyed it!" he said.  "It is the ideal plan for
this kind of work.  Narrative writing is always disappointing.  The
moment you pick up a pen you begin to lose the spontaneity of the
personal relation, which contains the very essence of interest.  With
shorthand dictation one can talk as if he were at his own dinner-table--
always a most inspiring place.  I expect to dictate all the rest of my
life, if you good people are willing to come and listen to it."

The dictations thus begun continued steadily from week to week, and
always with increasing charm.  We never knew what he was going to talk
about, and it was seldom that he knew until the moment of beginning; then
he went drifting among episodes, incidents, and periods in his
irresponsible fashion; the fashion of table-conversation, as he said, the
methodless method of the human mind.  It was always delightful, and
always amusing, tragic, or instructive, and it was likely to be one of
these at one instant, and another the next.  I felt myself the most
fortunate biographer in the world, as undoubtedly I was, though not just
in the way that I first imagined.

It was not for several weeks that I began to realize that these marvelous
reminiscences bore only an atmospheric relation to history; that they
were aspects of biography rather than its veritable narrative, and built
largely--sometimes wholly--from an imagination that, with age, had
dominated memory, creating details, even reversing them, yet with a
perfect sincerity of purpose on the part of the narrator to set down the
literal and unvarnished truth.  It was his constant effort to be frank
and faithful to fact, to record, to confess, and to condemn without
stint.  If you wanted to know the worst of Mark Twain you had only to ask
him for it.  He would give it, to the last syllable--worse than the
worst, for his imagination would magnify it and adorn it with new
iniquities, and if he gave it again, or a dozen times, he would improve
upon it each time, until the thread of history was almost impossible to
trace through the marvel of that fabric; and he would do the same for
another person just as willingly.  Those vividly real personalities that
he marched and countermarched before us were the most convincing
creatures in the world; the most entertaining, the most excruciatingly
humorous, or wicked, or tragic; but, alas, they were not always safe to
include in a record that must bear a certain semblance to history.  They
often disagreed in their performance, and even in their characters, with
the documents in the next room, as I learned by and by when those
records, disentangled, began to rebuild the structure of the years.

His gift of dramatization had been exercised too long to be discarded
now.  The things he told of Mrs. Clemens and of Susy were true--
marvelously and beautifully true, in spirit and in aspect--and the actual
detail of these mattered little in such a record.  The rest was history
only as 'Roughing It' is history, or the 'Tramp Abroad'; that is to say,
it was fictional history, with fact as a starting-point.  In a prefatory
note to these volumes we have quoted Mark Twain's own lovely and
whimsical admission, made once when he realized his deviations:

"When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened or
not; but I am getting old, and soon I shall remember only the latter."

At another time he paraphrased one of Josh Billings's sayings in the
remark: "It isn't so astonishing, the number of things that I can
remember, as the number of things I can remember that aren't so."

I do not wish to say, by any means, that his so-called autobiography is a
mere fairy tale.  It is far from that.  It is amazingly truthful in the
character-picture it represents of the man himself.  It is only not
reliable--and it is sometimes even unjust--as detailed history.  Yet,
curiously enough, there were occasional chapters that were
photographically exact, and fitted precisely with the more positive, if
less picturesque, materials.  It is also true that such chapters were
likely to be episodes intrinsically so perfect as to not require the
touch of art.

In the talks which we usually had, when the dictations were ended and
Miss Hobby had gone, I gathered much that was of still greater value.
Imagination was temporarily dispossessed, as it were, and, whether
expounding some theory or summarizing some event, he cared little for
literary effect, and only for the idea and the moment immediately
present.

It was at such times that he allowed me to make those inquiries we had
planned in the beginning, and which apparently had little place in the
dictations themselves.  Sometimes I led him to speak of the genesis of
his various books, how he had come to write them, and I think there was
not a single case where later I did not find his memory of these matters
almost exactly in accord with the letters of the moment, written to
Howells or Twichell, or to some member of his family.  Such reminiscence
was usually followed by some vigorous burst of human philosophy, often
too vigorous for print, too human, but as dazzling as a search-light in
its revelation.

It was during this earlier association that he propounded, one day, his
theory of circumstance, already set down, that inevitable sequence of
cause and effect, beginning with the first act of the primal atom.  He
had been dictating that morning his story of the clairvoyant dream which
preceded his brother's death, and the talk of foreknowledge had
continued.  I said one might logically conclude from such a circumstance
that the future was a fixed quantity.

"As absolutely fixed as the past," he said; and added the remark already
quoted.--[Chap. lxxv] A little later he continued:

"Even the Almighty Himself cannot check or change that sequence of events
once it is started.  It is a fixed quantity, and a part of the scheme is
a mental condition during certain moments usually of sleep--when the mind
may reach out and grasp some of the acts which are still to come."

It was a new angle to me--a line of logic so simple and so utterly
convincing that I have remained unshaken in it to this day.  I have never
been able to find any answer to it, nor any one who could even attempt to
show that the first act of the first created atom did not strike the key-
note of eternity.

At another time, speaking of the idea that God works through man, he
burst out:

"Yes, of course, just about as much as a man works through his microbes!"

He had a startling way of putting things like that, and it left not much
to say.

I was at this period interested a good deal in mental healing, and had
been treated for neurasthenia with gratifying results.  Like most of the
world, I had assumed, from his published articles, that he condemned
Christian Science and its related practices out of hand.  When I
confessed, rather reluctantly, one day, the benefit I had received, he
surprised me by answering:

"Of course you have been benefited.  Christian Science is humanity's
boon.  Mother Eddy deserves a place in the Trinity as much as any member
of it.  She has organized and made available a healing principle that for
two thousand years has never been employed, except as the merest kind of
guesswork.  She is the benefactor of the age."

It seemed strange, at the time, to hear him speak in this way concerning
a practice of which he was generally regarded as the chief public
antagonist.  It was another angle of his many-sided character.




CCXL

THE DEFINITION OF A GENTLEMAN

That was a busy winter for him socially.  He was constantly demanded for
this thing and that--for public gatherings, dinners--everywhere he was a
central figure.  Once he presided at a Valentine dinner given by some
Players to David Munro.  He had never presided at a dinner before, he
said, and he did it in his own way, which certainly was a taking one,
suitable to that carefree company and occasion--a real Scotch occasion,
with the Munro tartan everywhere, the table banked with heather, and a
wild piper marching up and down in the anteroom, blowing savage airs in
honor of Scotland's gentlest son.

An important meeting of that winter was at Carnegie Hall--a great
gathering which had assembled for the purpose of aiding Booker T.
Washington in his work for the welfare of his race.  The stage and the
auditorium were thronged with notables.  Joseph H. Choate and Mark Twain
presided, and both spoke; also Robert C. Ogden and Booker T. Washington
himself.  It was all fine and interesting.  Choate's address was ably
given, and Mark Twain was at his best.  He talked of politics and of
morals--public and private--how the average American citizen was true to
his Christian principles three hundred and sixty-three days in the year,
and how on the other two days of the year he left those principles at
home and went to the tax-office and the voting-booths, and did his best
to damage and undo his whole year's faithful and righteous work.

     I used to be an honest man, but I am crumbling--no, I have crumbled.
     When they assessed me at $75,000 a fortnight ago I went out and
     tried to borrow the money and couldn't.  Then when I found they were
     letting a whole crowd of millionaires live in New York at a third of
     the price they were charging me I was hurt, I was indignant, and
     said, this is the last feather.  I am not going to run this town all
     by myself.  In that moment--in that memorable moment, I began to
     crumble.  In fifteen minutes the disintegration was complete.  In
     fifteen minutes I was become just a mere moral sand-pile, and I
     lifted up my hand, along with those seasoned and experienced
     deacons, and swore off every rag of personal property I've got in
     the world.

I had never heard him address a miscellaneous audience.  It was marvelous
to see how he convulsed it, and silenced it, and controlled it at will.
He did not undertake any special pleading for the negro cause; he only
prepared the way with cheerfulness.

Clemens and Choate joined forces again, a few weeks later, at a great
public meeting assembled in aid of the adult blind.  Helen Keller was to
be present, but she had fallen ill through overwork.  She sent to Clemens
one of her beautiful letters, in which she said:

     I should be happy if I could have spelled into my hand the words as
     they fall from your lips, and receive, even as it is uttered, the
     eloquence of our newest ambassador to the blind.

Clemens, dictating the following morning, told of his first meeting with
Helen Keller at a little gathering in Lawrence Hutton's home, when she
was about the age of fourteen.  It was an incident that invited no
elaboration, and probably received none.

     Henry Rogers and I went together.  The company had all assembled and
     had been waiting a while.  The wonderful child arrived now with her
     about equally wonderful teacher, Miss Sullivan, and seemed quite
     well to recognize the character of her surroundings.  She said, "Oh,
     the books, the books, so many, many books.  How lovely!"

     The guests were brought one after another.  As she shook hands with
     each she took her hand away and laid her fingers lightly against
     Miss Sullivan's lips, who spoke against them the person's name.

     Mr. Howells seated himself by Helen on the sofa, and she put her
     fingers against his lips and he told her a story of considerable
     length, and you could see each detail of it pass into her mind and
     strike fire there and throw the flash of it into her face.

     After a couple of hours spent very pleasantly some one asked if
     Helen would remember the feel of the hands of the company after this
     considerable interval of time and be able to discriminate the hands
     and name the possessors of them.  Miss Sullivan said, "Oh, she will
     have no difficulty about that."  So the company filed past, shook
     hands in turn, and with each hand-shake Helen greeted the owner of
     the hand pleasantly and spoke the name that belonged to it without
     hesitation.

     By and by the assemblage proceeded to the dining-room and sat down
     to the luncheon.  I had to go away before it was over, and as I
     passed by Helen I patted her lightly on the head and passed on.
     Miss Sullivan called to me and said, "Stop, Mr. Clemens, Helen is
     distressed because she did not recognize your hand.  Won't you come
     back and do that again?"  I went back and patted her lightly on the
     head, and she said at once, "Oh, it's Mr. Clemens."

     Perhaps some one can explain this miracle, but I have never been
     able to do it.  Could she feel the wrinkles in my hand through her
     hair?  Some one else must answer this.

It was three years following this dictation that the mystery received a
very simple and rather amusing solution.  Helen had come to pay a visit
to Mark Twain's Connecticut home, Stormfield, then but just completed.
He had met her, meantime, but it had not occurred to him before to ask
her how she had recognized him that morning at Hutton's, in what had
seemed such a marvelous way.  She remembered, and with a smile said:

"I smelled you."  Which, after all, did not make the incident seem much
less marvelous.

On one of the mornings after Miss Hobby had gone Clemens said:

"A very curious thing has happened--a very large-sized-joke."  He was
shaving at the time, and this information came in brief and broken
relays, suited to a performance of that sort.  The reader may perhaps
imagine the effect without further indication of it.

"I was going on a yachting trip once, with Henry Rogers, when a reporter
stopped me with the statement that Mrs. Astor had said that there had
never been a gentleman in the White House, and he wanted me to give him
my definition of a gentleman.  I didn't give him my definition; but he
printed it, just the same, in the afternoon paper.  I was angry at first,
and wanted to bring a damage suit.  When I came to read the definition it
was a satisfactory one, and I let it go.  Now to-day comes a letter and a
telegram from a man who has made a will in Missouri, leaving ten thousand
dollars to provide tablets for various libraries in the State, on which
shall be inscribed Mark Twain's definition of a gentleman.  He hasn't got
the definition--he has only heard of it, and he wants me to tell him in
which one of my books or speeches he can find it.  I couldn't think, when
I read that letter, what in the nation the man meant, but shaving somehow
has a tendency to release thought, and just now it all came to me."

It was a situation full of amusing possibilities; but he reached no
conclusion in the matter.  Another telegram was brought in just then,
which gave a sadder aspect to his thought, for it said that his old
coachman, Patrick McAleer, who had begun in the Clemens service with the
bride and groom of thirty-six years before, was very low, and could not
survive more than a few days.  This led him to speak of Patrick, his
noble and faithful nature, and how he always claimed to be in their
service, even during their long intervals of absence abroad.  Clemens
gave orders that everything possible should be done for Patrick's
comfort.  When the end came, a few days later, he traveled to Hartford to
lay flowers on Patrick's bier, and to serve, with Patrick's friends--
neighbor coachmen and John O'Neill, the gardener--as pall-bearer, taking
his allotted place without distinction or favor.

It was the following Sunday, at the Majestic Theater, in New York, that
Mark Twain spoke to the Young Men's Christian Association.  For several
reasons it proved an unusual meeting.  A large number of free tickets had
been given out, far more than the place would hold; and, further, it had
been announced that when the ticket-holders had been seated the admission
would be free to the public.  The subject chosen for the talk was
"Reminiscences."

When we arrived the streets were packed from side to side for a
considerable distance and a riot was in progress.  A great crowd had
swarmed about the place, and the officials, instead of throwing the doors
wide and letting the theater fill up, regardless of tickets, had locked
them.  As a result there was a shouting, surging human mass that
presently dashed itself against the entrance.  Windows and doors gave
way, and there followed a wild struggle for entrance.  A moment later the
house was packed solid.  A detachment of police had now arrived, and in
time cleared the street.  It was said that amid the tumult some had lost
their footing and had been trampled and injured, but of this we did not
learn until later.  We had been taken somehow to a side entrance and
smuggled into boxes.--[The paper next morning bore the head-lines:
"10,000 Stampeded at the Mark Twain Meeting.  Well-dressed Men and Women
Clubbed by Police at Majestic Theater."  In this account the paper stated
that the crowd had collected an hour before the time for opening; that
nothing of the kind had been anticipated and no police preparation had
been made.]

It was peaceful enough in the theater until Mark Twain appeared on the
stage.  He was wildly greeted, and when he said, slowly and seriously,
"I thank you for this signal recognition of merit," there was a still
noisier outburst.  In the quiet that followed he began his memories, and
went wandering along from one anecdote to another in the manner of his
daily dictations.

At last it seemed to occur to him, in view of the character of his
audience, that he ought to close with something in the nature of counsel
suited to young men.

     It is from experiences such as mine [he said] that we get our
     education of life.  We string them into jewels or into tinware, as
     we may choose.  I have received recently several letters asking for
     counsel or advice, the principal request being for some incident
     that may prove helpful to the young.  It is my mission to teach, and
     I am always glad to furnish something.  There have been a lot of
     incidents in my career to help me along--sometimes they helped me
     along faster than I wanted to go.

He took some papers from his pocket and started to unfold one of them;
then, as if remembering, he asked how long he had been talking.  The
answer came, "Thirty-five minutes."  He made as if to leave the stage,
but the audience commanded him to go on.

"All right," he said, "I can stand more of my own talk than any one I
ever knew."  Opening one of the papers, a telegram, he read:

"In which one of your works can we find the definition of a gentleman?"
Then he added:

     I have not answered that telegram.  I couldn't.  I never wrote any
     such definition, though it seems to me that if a man has just,
     merciful, and kindly instincts he would be a gentleman, for he would
     need nothing else in this world.

He opened a letter.  "From Howells," he said.

     My old friend, William Dean Howells--Howells, the head of American
     literature.  No one is able to stand with him.  He is an old, old
     friend of mine, and he writes me, "To-morrow I shall be sixty-nine
     years old."  Why, I am surprised at Howells writing so.  I have
     known him myself longer than that.  I am sorry to see a man trying
     to appear so young.  Let's see.  Howells says now, "I see you have
     been burying Patrick.  I suppose he was old, too."

The house became very still.  Most of them had read an account of Mark
Twain's journey to Hartford and his last service to his faithful
servitor.  The speaker's next words were not much above a whisper, but
every syllable was distinct.

     No, he was never old-Patrick.  He came to us thirty-six years ago.
     He was our coachman from the day that I drove my young bride to our
     new home.  He was a young Irishman, slender, tall, lithe, honest,
     truthful, and he never changed in all his life.  He really was with
     us but twenty-five years, for he did not go with us to Europe; but
     he never regarded that a separation.  As the children grew up he was
     their guide.  He was all honor, honesty, and affection.  He was with
     us in New Hampshire last summer, and his hair was just as black, his
     eyes were just as blue, his form just as straight, and his heart
     just as good as on the day we first met.  In all the long years
     Patrick never made a mistake.  He never needed an order; he never
     received a command.  He knew.  I have been asked for my idea of an
     ideal gentleman, and I give it to you--Patrick McAleer.

It was the sort of thing that no one but Mark Twain has quite been able
to do, and it was just that recognized quality behind it that had made
crowds jam the street and stampede the entrance to be in his presence-to
see him and to hear his voice.




CCXLI

GORKY, HOWELLS, AND MARK TWAIN

Clemens was now fairly back again in the wash of banquets and speech-
making that had claimed him on his return from England, five years
before.  He made no less than a dozen speeches altogether that winter,
and he was continually at some feasting or other, where he was sure to be
called upon for remarks.  He fell out of the habit of preparing his
addresses, relying upon the inspiration of the moment, merely following
the procedure of his daily dictations, which had doubtless given him
confidence for this departure from his earlier method.  There was seldom
an afternoon or an evening that he was not required, and seldom a morning
that the papers did not have some report of his doings.  Once more, and
in a larger fashion than ever, he had become "the belle of New York."
But he was something further.  An editorial in the Evening Mail said:

     Mark Twain, in his "last and best of life for which the first was
     made," seems to be advancing rapidly to a position which makes him a
     kind of joint Aristides, Solon, and Themistocles of the American
     metropolis--an Aristides for justness and boldness as well as
     incessancy of opinion, a Solon for wisdom and cogency, and a
     Themistocles for the democracy of his views and the popularity of
     his person.

     Things have reached the point where, if Mark Twain is not at a
     public meeting or banquet, he is expected to console it with one of
     his inimitable letters of advice and encouragement.  If he deigns to
     make a public appearance there is a throng at the doors which
     overtaxes the energy and ability of the police.  We must be glad
     that we have a public commentator like Mark Twain always at hand and
     his wit and wisdom continually on tap.  His sound, breezy
     Mississippi Valley Americanism is a corrective to all sorts of
     snobbery.  He cultivates respect for human rights by always making
     sure that he has his own.

He talked one afternoon to the Barnard girls, and another afternoon to
the Women's University Club, illustrating his talk with what purported to
be moral tales.  He spoke at a dinner given to City Tax Commissioner Mr.
Charles Putzel; and when he was introduced there as the man who had said,
"When in doubt tell the truth," he replied that he had invented that
maxim for others, but that when in doubt himself, he used more sagacity.

The speeches he made kept his hearers always in good humor; but he made
them think, too, for there was always substance and sound reason and
searching satire in the body of what he said.

It was natural that there should be reporters calling frequently at Mark
Twain's home, and now and then the place became a veritable storm-center
of news.  Such a moment arrived when it became known that a public
library in Brooklyn had banished Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer from the
children's room, presided over by a young woman of rather severe morals.
The incident had begun in November of the previous year.  One of the
librarians, Asa Don Dickinson, who had vigorously voted against the
decree, wrote privately of the matter.  Clemens had replied:

     DEAR SIR,--I am greatly troubled by what you say.  I wrote Tom
     Sawyer & Huck Finn for adults exclusively, & it always distresses me
     when I find that boys & girls have been allowed access to them.  The
     mind that becomes soiled in youth can never again be washed clean.
     I know this by my own experience, & to this day I cherish an
     unappeasable bitterness against the unfaithful guardians of my young
     life, who not only permitted but compelled me to read an
     unexpurgated Bible through before I was 15 years old.  None can do
     that and ever draw a clean, sweet breath again this side of the
     grave.  Ask that young lady--she will tell you so.

     Most honestly do I wish that I could say a softening word or two in
     defense of Huck's character since you wish it, but really, in my
     opinion, it is no better than those of Solomon, David, & the rest of
     the sacred brotherhood.

     If there is an unexpurgated in the Children's Department, won't you
     please help that young woman remove Tom & Huck from that
     questionable companionship?

                         Sincerely yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.

     I shall not show your letter to any one-it is safe with me.


Mr. Dickinson naturally kept this letter from the public, though he read
it aloud to the assembled librarians, and the fact of its existence and
its character eventually leaked out.--[It has been supplied to the
writer by Mr. Dickinson, and is published here with his consent.]--One
of the librarians who had heard it mentioned it at a theater-party in
hearing of an unrealized newspaper man.  This was near the end of the
following March.

The "tip" was sufficient.  Telephone-bells began to jingle, and groups of
newspaper men gathered simultaneously on Mr. Dickinson's and on Mark
Twain's door-steps.  At a 21 Fifth Avenue you could hardly get in or out,
for stepping on them.  The evening papers surmised details, and Huck and
Tom had a perfectly fresh crop of advertising, not only in America, but
in distant lands.  Dickinson wrote Clemens that he would not give out the
letter without his authority, and Clemens replied:

     Be wise as a serpent and wary as a dove!  The newspaper boys want
     that letter--don't you let them get hold of it.  They say you refuse
     to allow them to see it without my consent.  Keep on refusing, and
     I'll take care of this end of the line.

In a recent letter to the writer Mr. Dickinson states that Mark Twain's
solicitude was for the librarian, whom he was unwilling to involve in
difficulties with his official superiors, and he adds:

     There may be some doubt as to whether Mark Twain was or was not a
     religious man, for there are many definitions of the word religion.
     He was certainly a hater of conventions, had no patience with
     sanctimony and bibliolatry, and was perhaps irreverent.  But any one
     who reads carefully the description of the conflict in Huck's soul,
     in regard to the betrayal of Jim, will credit the creator of the
     scene with deep and true moral feeling.

The reporters thinned out in the course of a few days when no result was
forthcoming; but they were all back again presently when the Maxim Gorky
fiasco came along.  The distinguished revolutionist, Tchaykoffsky, as a
sort of advance agent for Gorky, had already called upon Clemens to
enlist his sympathy in their mission, which was to secure funds in the
cause of Russian emancipation.  Clemens gave his sympathy, and now
promised his aid, though he did not hesitate to discourage the mission.
He said that American enthusiasm in such matters stopped well above their
pockets, and that this revolutionary errand would fail.  Howells, too,
was of this opinion.  In his account of the episode he says:

     I told a valued friend of his and mine that I did not believe he
     could get twenty-five hundred dollars, and I think now I set the
     figure too high.

Clemens's interest, however, grew.  He attended a dinner given to Gorky
at the "A Club," No. 3 Fifth Avenue, and introduced Gorky to the diners.
Also he wrote a letter to be read by Tchaykoffsky at a meeting held at
the Grand Central Palace, where three thousand people gathered to hear
this great revolutionist recite the story of Russia's wrongs.  The letter
ran:

     DEAR MR. TCHAYKOFFSKY,--My sympathies are with the Russian
     revolution, of course.  It goes without saying.  I hope it will
     succeed, and now that I have talked with you I take heart to believe
     it will.  Government by falsified promises, by lies, by treachery,
     and by the butcher-knife, for the aggrandizement of a single family
     of drones and its idle and vicious kin has been borne quite long
     enough in Russia, I should think.  And it is to be hoped that the
     roused nation, now rising in its strength, will presently put an end
     to it and set up the republic in its place.  Some of us, even the
     white-headed, may live to see the blessed day when tsars and grand
     dukes will be as scarce there as I trust they are in heaven.
               Most sincerely yours,
                                        MARK TWAIN.

Clemens and Howells called on Gorky and agreed to figure prominently in a
literary dinner to be given in his honor.  The movement was really
assuming considerable proportions, when suddenly something happened which
caused it to flatten permanently, and rather ridiculously.

Arriving at 21 Fifth Avenue, one afternoon, I met Howells coming out.
I thought he had an unhappy, hunted look.  I went up to the study, and on
opening the door I found the atmosphere semi-opaque with cigar smoke, and
Clemens among the drifting blue wreaths and layers, pacing up and down
rather fiercely.  He turned, inquiringly, as I entered.  I had clipped a
cartoon from a morning paper, which pictured him as upsetting the Tsar's
throne--the kind of thing he was likely to enjoy.  I said:

"Here is something perhaps you may wish to see, Mr. Clemens."

He shook his head violently.

"No, I can't see anything now," and in another moment had disappeared
into his own room.  Something extraordinary had happened.  I wondered if,
after all their lifelong friendship, he and Howells had quarreled.  I was
naturally curious, but it was not a good time to investigate.  By and by
I went down on the street, where the newsboys were calling extras.  When
I had bought one, and glanced at the first page, I knew.  Gorky had been
expelled from his hotel for having brought to America, as his wife, a
woman not so recognized by the American laws.  Madame Andreieva, a
Russian actress, was a leader in the cause of freedom, and by Russian
custom her relation with Gorky was recognized and respected; but it was
not sufficiently orthodox for American conventions, and it was certainly
unfortunate that an apostle of high purpose should come handicapped in
that way.  Apparently the news had already reached Howells and Clemens,
and they had been feverishly discussing what was best to do about the
dinner.

Within a day or two Gorky and Madame Andreieva were evicted from a
procession of hotels, and of course the papers rang with the head-lines.
An army of reporters was chasing Clemens and Howells.  The Russian
revolution was entirely forgotten in this more lively, more intimate
domestic interest.  Howells came again, the reporters following and
standing guard at the door below.  In 'My Mark Twain' he says:

     That was the moment of the great Vesuvian eruption, and we figured
     ourselves in easy reach of a volcano which was every now and then
     "blowing a cone off," as the telegraphic phrase was.  The roof of
     the great market in Naples had just broken in under its load of
     ashes and cinders, and crushed hundreds of people; and we asked each
     other if we were not sorry we had not been there, where the pressure
     would have been far less terrific than it was with us in Fifth
     Avenue.  The forbidden butler came up with a message that there were
     some gentlemen below who wanted to see Clemens.

     "How many?" he demanded.

     "Five," the butler faltered.

     "Reporters?"

     The butler feigned uncertainty.

     "What would you do?" he asked me.

     "I wouldn't see them," I said, and then Clemens went directly down
     to them.  How or by what means he appeased their voracity I cannot
     say, but I fancy it was by the confession of the exact truth, which
     was harmless enough.  They went away joyfully, and he came back in
     radiant satisfaction with having seen them.

It is not quite clear at this time just what word was sent to Gorky but
the matter must have been settled that night, for Clemens was in a fine
humor next morning.  It was before dictation time, and he came drifting
into the study and began at once to speak of the dinner and the
impossibility of its being given now.  Then he said:

"American public opinion is a delicate fabric.  It shrivels like the webs
of morning at the lightest touch."

Later in the day he made this memorandum:

     Laws can be evaded and punishment escaped, but an openly
     transgressed custom brings sure punishment.  The penalty may be
     unfair, unrighteous, illogical, and a cruelty; no matter, it will be
     inflicted just the same.  Certainly, then, there can be but one wise
     thing for a visiting stranger to do--find out what the country's
     customs are and refrain from offending against them.

     The efforts which have been made in Gorky's justification are
     entitled to all respect because of the magnanimity of the motive
     back of them, but I think that the ink was wasted.  Custom is
     custom: it is built of brass, boiler-iron, granite; facts,
     seasonings, arguments have no more effect upon it than the idle
     winds have upon Gibraltar.--[To Dan Beard he said, "Gorky made an
     awful mistake, Dan.  He might as well have come over here in his
     shirt-tail."]

The Gorky disturbance had hardly begun to subside when there came another
upheaval that snuffed it out completely.  On the afternoon of the 18th of
April I heard, at The Players, a wandering telephonic rumor that a great
earthquake was going on in San Francisco.  Half an hour later, perhaps, I
met Clemens coming out of No. 21.  He asked:

"Have you heard the news about San Francisco?"

I said I had heard a rumor of an earthquake; and had seen an extra with
big scare-heads; but I supposed the matter was exaggerated.

"No," he said, "I am afraid it isn't.  We have just had a telephone
message that it is even worse than at first reported.  A great fire is
consuming the city.  Come along to the news-stand and we'll see if there
is a later edition."

We walked to Sixth Avenue and Eighth Street and got some fresh extras.
The news was indeed worse, than at first reported.  San Francisco was
going to destruction.  Clemens was moved deeply, and began to recall this
old friend and that whose lives and property might be in danger.  He
spoke of Joe Goodman and the Gillis families, and pictured conditions in
the perishing city.




CCXLII

MARK TWAIN'S GOOD-BY TO THE PLATFORM

It was on April 19, 1906, the day following the great earthquake, that
Mark Twain gave a "Farewell Lecture" at Carnegie Hall for the benefit of
the Robert Fulton Memorial Association.  Some weeks earlier Gen.
Frederick D. Grant, its president, had proposed to pay one thousand
dollars for a Mark Twain lecture; but Clemens' had replied that he was
permanently out of the field, and would never again address any audience
that had to pay to hear him.

"I always expect to talk as long as I can get people to listen to me," he
sand, "but I never again expect to charge for it."  Later came one of his
inspirations, and he wrote: "I will lecture for one thousand dollars, on
one condition: that it will be understood to be my farewell lecture, and
that I may contribute the thousand dollars to the Fulton Association."

It was a suggestion not to be discouraged, and the bills and notices,
"Mark Twain's Farewell Lecture," were published without delay.

I first heard of the matter one afternoon when General Grant had called.
Clemens came into the study where I was working; he often wandered in and
out-sometimes without a word, sometimes to relieve himself concerning
things in general.  But this time he suddenly chilled me by saying:

"I'm going to deliver my farewell lecture, and I want you to appear on
the stage and help me."

I feebly expressed my pleasure at the prospect.  Then he said:

"I am going to lecture on Fulton--on the story of his achievements.  It
will be a burlesque, of course, and I am going to pretend to forget my
facts, and I want you to sit there in a chair.  Now and then, when I seem
to get stuck, I'll lean over and pretend to ask you some thing, and I
want you to pretend to prompt me.  You don't need to laugh, or to pretend
to be assisting in the performance any more than just that."


HANDBILL OF MARK TWAIN'S "FAREWELL LECTURE":

                               MARK TWAIN

                   Will Deliver His Farewell Lecture
                  ---------------------------------

                             CARNEGIE HALL

                            APRIL 19TH, 1906

                           FOR THE BENEFIT OF

                   Robert Fulton Memorial Association

                   MILITARY ORGANIZATION OLD GUARD IN
                   FULL DRESS UNIFORM WILL BE PRESENT

                        MUSIC BY OLD GUARD BAND

               TICKETS AND BOXES ON SALE AT CARNEGIE HALL
                          AND WALDORF-ASTORIA

                      SEATS $1.50, $1.00, 50 CENTS


It was not likely that I should laugh.  I had a sinking feeling in the
cardiac region which does not go with mirth.  It did not for the moment
occur to me that the stage would be filled with eminent citizens and
vice-presidents, and I had a vision of myself sitting there alone in the
chair in that wide emptiness, with the chief performer directing
attention to me every other moment or so, for perhaps an hour.  Let me
hurry on to say that it did not happen.  I dare say he realized my
unfitness for the work, and the far greater appropriateness of conferring
the honor on General Grant, for in the end he gave him the assignment, to
my immeasurable relief.

It was a magnificent occasion.  That spacious hall was hung with bunting,
the stage was banked and festooned with decoration of every sort.
General Grant, surrounded by his splendidly uniformed staff, sat in the
foreground, and behind was ranged a levee of foremost citizens of the
republic.  The band played "America" as Mark Twain entered, and the great
audience rose and roared out its welcome.  Some of those who knew him
best had hoped that on this occasion of his last lecture he would tell of
that first appearance in San Francisco, forty years before, when his
fortunes had hung in the balance.  Perhaps he did not think of it, and no
one had had the courage to suggest it.  At all events, he did a different
thing.  He began by making a strong plea for the smitten city where the
flames were still raging, urging prompt help for those who had lost not
only their homes, but the last shred of their belongings and their means
of livelihood.  Then followed his farcical history of Fulton, with
General Grant to make the responses, and presently he drifted into the
kind of lecture he had given so often in his long trip around the world-
retelling the tales which had won him fortune and friends in many lands.

I do not know whether the entertainment was long or short.  I think few
took account of time.  To a letter of inquiry as to how long the
entertainment would last, he had replied:

     I cannot say for sure.  It is my custom to keep on talking till I
     get the audience cowed.  Sometimes it takes an hour and fifteen
     minutes, sometimes I can do it in an hour.

There was no indication at any time that the audience was cowed.  The
house was packed, and the applause was so recurrent and continuous that
often his voice was lost to those in its remoter corners.  It did not
matter.  The tales were familiar to his hearers; merely to see Mark
Twain, in his old age and in that splendid setting, relating them was
enough.  The audience realized that it was witnessing the close of a
heroic chapter in a unique career.




CCXLIII

AN INVESTMENT IN REDDING

Many of the less important happenings seem worth remembering now.  Among
them was the sale, at the Nast auction, of the Mark Twain letters,
already mentioned.  The fact that these letters brought higher prices
than any others offered in this sale was gratifying.  Roosevelt, Grant,
and even Lincoln items were sold; but the Mark Twain letters led the
list.  One of them sold for forty-three dollars, which was said to be the
highest price ever paid for the letter of a living man.  It was the
letter written in 1877, quoted earlier in this work, in which Clemens
proposed the lecture tour to Nast.  None of the Clemens-Nast letters
brought less than twenty-seven dollars, and some of them were very brief.
It was a new measurement of public sentiment.  Clemens, when he heard of
it, said:

"I can't rise to General Grant's lofty place in the estimation of this
country; but it is a deep satisfaction to me to know that when it comes
to letter-writing he can't sit in the front seat along with me.  That
forty-three-dollar letter ought to be worth as much as eighty-six dollars
after I'm dead."

A perpetual string of callers came to 21 Fifth Avenue, and it kept the
secretary busy explaining to most of them why Mark Twain could not
entertain their propositions, or listen to their complaints, or allow
them to express in person their views on public questions.  He did see a
great many of what might be called the milder type persons who were
evidently sincere and not too heavily freighted with eloquence.  Of these
there came one day a very gentle-spoken woman who had promised that she
would stay but a moment, and say no more than a few words, if only she
might sit face to face with the great man.  It was in the morning hour
before the dictations, and he received her, quite correctly clad in his
beautiful dressing-robe and propped against his pillows.  She kept her
contract to the letter; but when she rose to go she said, in a voice of
deepest reverence:

"May I kiss your hand?"

It was a delicate situation, and might easily have been made ludicrous.
Denial would have hurt her.  As it was, he lifted his hand, a small,
exquisite hand it was, with the gentle dignity and poise of a king, and
she touched her lips to it with what was certainly adoration.  Then, as
she went, she said:

"How God must love you!"

"I hope so," he said, softly, and he did not even smile; but after she
had gone he could not help saying, in a quaint, half-pathetic voice
"I guess she hasn't heard of our strained relations."

Sitting in that royal bed, clad in that rich fashion, he easily conveyed
the impression of royalty, and watching him through those marvelous
mornings he seemed never less than a king, as indeed he was--the king of
a realm without national boundaries.  Some of those nearest to him fell
naturally into the habit of referring to him as "the King," and in time
the title crept out of the immediate household and was taken up by others
who loved him.

He had been more than once photographed in his bed; but it was by those
who had come and gone in a brief time, with little chance to study his
natural attitudes.  I had acquired some knowledge of the camera, and I
obtained his permission to let me photograph him--a permission he seldom
denied to any one.  We had no dictations on Saturdays, and I took the
pictures on one of these holiday mornings.  He was so patient and
tractable, and so natural in every attitude, that it was a delight to
make the negatives.  I was afraid he would become impatient, and made
fewer exposures than I might otherwise have done.  I think he expected
very little from this amateur performance; but, by that happy element of
accident which plays so large a part in photographic success, the results
were better than I had hoped for.  When I brought him the prints, a few
days later, he expressed pleasure and asked, "Why didn't you make more?"

Among them was one in an attitude which had grown so familiar to us, that
of leaning over to get his pipe from the smoking-table, and this seemed
to give him particular satisfaction.  It being a holiday, he had not
donned his dressing-gown, which on the whole was well for the
photographic result.  He spoke of other pictures that had been made of
him, especially denouncing one photograph, taken some twenty years before
by Sarony, a picture, as he said, of a gorilla in an overcoat, which the
papers and magazines had insisted on using ever since.

"Sarony was as enthusiastic about wild animals as he was about
photography, and when Du Chaillu brought over the first gorilla he sent
for me to look at it and see if our genealogy was straight.  I said it
was, and Sarony was so excited that I had recognized the resemblance
between us, that he wanted to make it more complete, so he borrowed my
overcoat and put it on the gorilla and photographed it, and spread that
picture out over the world as mine.  It turns up every week in some
newspaper or magazine; but it's not my favorite; I have tried to get it
suppressed."

Mark Twain made his first investment in Redding that spring.  I had
located there the autumn before, and bought a vacant old house, with a
few acres of land, at what seemed a modest price.  I was naturally
enthusiastic over the bargain, and the beauty and salubrity of the
situation.  His interest was aroused, and when he learned that there was
a place adjoining, equally reasonable and perhaps even more attractive,
he suggested immediately that I buy it for him; and he wanted to write a
check then for the purchase price, for fear the opportunity might be
lost.  I think there was then no purpose in his mind of building a
country home; but he foresaw that such a site, at no great distance from
New York, would become more valuable, and he had plenty of idle means.
The purchase was made without difficulty--a tract of seventy-five acres,
to which presently was added another tract of one hundred and ten acres,
and subsequently still other parcels of land, to complete the ownership
of the hilltop, for it was not long until he had conceived the idea of a
home.  He was getting weary of the heavy pressure of city life.  He
craved the retirement of solitude--one not too far from the maelstrom, so
that he might mingle with it now and then when he chose.  The country
home would not be begun for another year yet, but the purpose of it was
already in the air.  No one of the family had at this time seen the
location.




CCXLIV

TRAITS AND PHILOSOPHIES

I brought to the dictation one morning the Omar Khayyam card which
Twichell had written him so long ago; I had found it among the letters.
It furnished him a subject for that morning.  He said:

     How strange there was a time when I had never heard of Omar Khayyam!
     When that card arrived I had already read the dozen quatrains or so
     in the morning paper, and was still steeped in the ecstasy of
     delight which they occasioned.  No poem had ever given me so much
     pleasure before, and none has given me so much pleasure since.  It
     is the only poem I have ever carried about with me.  It has not been
     from under my hand all these years.

He had no general fondness for poetry; but many poems appealed to him,
and on occasion he liked to read them aloud.  Once, during the dictation,
some verses were sent up by a young authoress who was waiting below for
his verdict.  The lines pictured a phase of negro life, and she wished to
know if he thought them worthy of being read at some Tuskegee ceremony.
He did not fancy the idea of attending to the matter just then and said:

"Tell her she can read it.  She has my permission.  She may commit any
crime she wishes in my name."

It was urged that the verses were of high merit and the author a very
charming young lady.

"I'm very glad," he said, "and I am glad the Lord made her; I hope He
will make some more just like her.  I don't always approve of His
handiwork, but in this case I do."

Then suddenly he added:

"Well, let me see it--no time like the present to get rid of these
things."

He took the manuscript and gave such a rendition of those really fine
verses as I believe could not be improved upon.  We were held breathless
by his dramatic fervor and power.  He returned a message to that young
aspirant that must have made her heart sing.  When the dictation had
ended that day, I mentioned his dramatic gift.

"Yes," he said, "it is a gift, I suppose, like spelling and punctuation
and smoking.  I seem to have inherited all those."  Continuing, he spoke
of inherited traits in general.

"There was Paige," he said; "an ignorant man who could not make a machine
himself that would stand up, nor draw the working plans for one; but he
invented the eighteen thousand details of the most wonderful machine the
world has ever known.  He watched over the expert draftsmen, and
superintended the building of that marvel.  Pratt & Whitney built it; but
it was Paige's machine, nevertheless--the child of his marvelous gift.
We don't create any of our traits; we inherit all of them.  They have
come down to us from what we impudently call the lower animals.  Man is
the last expression, and combines every attribute of the animal tribes
that preceded him.  One or two conspicuous traits distinguish each family
of animals from the others, and those one or two traits are found in
every member of each family, and are so prominent as to eternally and
unchangeably establish the character of that branch of the animal world.
In these cases we concede that the several temperaments constitute a law
of God, a command of God, and that whatsoever is done in obedience to
that law is blameless.  Man, in his evolution, inherited the whole sum of
these numerous traits, and with each trait its share of the law of God.
He widely differs from them in this: that he possesses not a single
characteristic that is equally prominent in each member of his race.  You
can say the housefly is limitlessly brave, and in saying it you describe
the whole house-fly tribe; you can say the rabbit is limitlessly timid,
and by the phrase you describe the whole rabbit tribe; you can say the
spider and the tiger are limitlessly murderous, and by that phrase you
describe the whole spider and tiger tribes; you can say the lamb is
limitlessly innocent and sweet and gentle, and by that phrase you
describe all the lambs.  There is hardly a creature that you cannot
definitely and satisfactorily describe by one single trait--except man.
Men are not all cowards like the rabbit, nor all brave like the house-
fly, nor all sweet and innocent and gentle like the lamb, nor all
murderous like the spider and the tiger and the wasp, nor all thieves
like the fox and the bluejay, nor all vain like the peacock, nor all
frisky like the monkey.  These things are all in him somewhere, and they
develop according to the proportion of each he received in his allotment:
We describe a man by his vicious traits and condemn him; or by his fine
traits and gifts, and praise him and accord him high merit for their
possession.  It is comical.  He did not invent these things; he did not
stock himself with them.  God conferred them upon him in the first
instant of creation.  They constitute the law, and he could not escape
obedience to the decree any more than Paige could have built the type-
setter he invented, or the Pratt & Whitney machinists could have invented
the machine which they built."

He liked to stride up and down, smoking as he talked, and generally his
words were slowly measured, with varying pauses between them.  He halted
in the midst of his march, and without a suggestion of a smile added:

"What an amusing creature the human being is!"

It is absolutely impossible, of course, to preserve the atmosphere and
personality of such talks as this--the delicacies of his speech and
manner which carried an ineffable charm.  It was difficult, indeed, to
record the substance.  I did not know shorthand, and I should not have
taken notes at such times in any case; but I had trained myself in
similar work to preserve, with a fair degree of accuracy, the form of
phrase, and to some extent its wording, if I could get hold of pencil and
paper soon enough afterward.  In time I acquired a sort of phonographic
faculty; though it always seemed to me that the bouquet, the subtleness
of speech, was lacking in the result.  Sometimes, indeed, he would
dictate next morning the substance of these experimental reflections; or
I would find among his papers memoranda and fragmentary manuscripts where
he had set them down himself, either before or after he had tried them
verbally.  In these cases I have not hesitated to amend my notes where it
seemed to lend reality to his utterance, though, even so, there is always
lacking--and must be--the wonder of his personality.




CCXLV

IN THE DAY'S ROUND

A number of dictations of this period were about Susy, her childhood, and
the biography she had written of him, most of which he included in his
chapters.  More than once after such dictations he reproached himself
bitterly for the misfortunes of his house.  He consoled himself a little
by saying that Susy had died at the right time, in the flower of youth
and happiness; but he blamed himself for the lack of those things which
might have made her childhood still more bright.  Once he spoke of the
biography she had begun, and added:

"Oh, I wish I had paid more attention to that little girl's work!  If I
had only encouraged her now and then, what it would have meant to her,
and what a beautiful thing it would have been to have had her story of me
told in her own way, year after year!  If I had shown her that I cared,
she might have gone on with it.  We are always too busy for our children;
we never give them the time nor the interest they deserve.  We lavish
gifts upon them; but the most precious gift-our personal association,
which means so much to them-we give grudgingly and throw it away on those
who care for it so little."  Then, after a moment of silence: "But we are
repaid for it at last.  There comes a time when we want their company and
their interest.  We want it more than anything in the world, and we are
likely to be starved for it, just as they were starved so long ago.
There is no appreciation of my books that is so precious to me as
appreciation from my children.  Theirs is the praise we want, and the
praise we are least likely to get."

His moods of remorse seemed to overwhelm him at times.  He spoke of
Henry's death and little Langdon's, and charged himself with both.
He declared that for years he had filled Mrs. Clemens's life with
privations, that the sorrow of Susy's death had hastened her own end.
How darkly he painted it!  One saw the jester, who for forty years had
been making the world laugh, performing always before a background of
tragedy.

But such moods were evanescent.  He was oftener gay than somber.  One
morning before we settled down to work he related with apparent joy how
he had made a failure of story-telling at a party the night before.  An
artist had told him a yarn, he said, which he had considered the most
amusing thing in the world.  But he had not been satisfied with it, and
had attempted to improve on it at the party.  He had told it with what he
considered the nicest elaboration of detail and artistic effect, and when
he had concluded and expected applause, only a sickening silence had
followed.

"A crowd like that can make a good deal of silence when they combine," he
said, "and it probably lasted as long as ten seconds, because it seemed
an hour and a half.  Then a lady said, with evident feeling, 'Lord, how
pathetic!' For a moment I was stupefied.  Then the fountains of my great
deeps were broken up, and I rained laughter for forty days and forty
nights during as much as three minutes.  By that time I realized it was
my fault.  I had overdone the thing.  I started in to deceive them with
elaborate burlesque pathos, in order to magnify the humorous explosion at
the end; but I had constructed such a fog of pathos that when I got to
the humor you couldn't find it."

He was likely to begin the morning with some such incident which perhaps
he did not think worth while to include in his dictations, and sometimes
he interrupted his dictations to relate something aside, or to outline
some plan or scheme which his thought had suggested.

Once, when he was telling of a magazine he had proposed to start, the
Back Number, which was, to contain reprints of exciting events from
history--newspaper gleanings--eye-witness narrations, which he said never
lost their freshness of interest--he suddenly interrupted himself to
propose that we start such a magazine in the near future--he to be its
publisher and I its editor.  I think I assented, and the dictation
proceeded, but the scheme disappeared permanently.

He usually had a number of clippings or slips among the many books on the
bed beside him from which he proposed to dictate each day, but he seldom
could find the one most needed.  Once, after a feverishly impatient
search for a few moments, he invited Miss Hobby to leave the room
temporarily, so, as he said, that he might swear.  He got up and we began
to explore the bed, his profanity increasing amazingly with each moment.
It was an enormously large bed, and he began to disparage the size of it.

"One could lose a dog in this bed," he declared.

Finally I suggested that he turn over the clipping which he had in his
hand.  He did so, and it proved to be the one he wanted.  Its discovery
was followed by a period of explosions, only half suppressed as to
volume.  Then he said:

"There ought to be a room in this house to swear in.  It's dangerous to
have to repress an emotion like that."

A moment later, when Miss Hobby returned, he was serene and happy again.
He was usually gentle during the dictations, and patient with those
around him--remarkably so, I thought, as a rule.  But there were moments
that involved risk.  He had requested me to interrupt his dictation at
any time that I found him repeating or contradicting himself, or
misstating some fact known to me.  At first I hesitated to do this, and
cautiously mentioned the matter when he had finished.  Then he was likely
to say:

"Why didn't you stop me?  Why did you let me go on making a jackass of
myself when you could have saved me?"

So then I used to take the risk of getting struck by lightning, and
nearly always stopped him at the time.  But if it happened that I upset
his thought the thunderbolt was apt to fly.  He would say:

"Now you've knocked everything out of my head."

Then, of course, I would apologize and say I was sorry, which would
rectify matters, though half an hour later it might happen again.  I
became lightning-proof at last; also I learned better to select the
psychological moment for the correction.

There was a humorous complexion to the dictations which perhaps I have
not conveyed to the reader at all; humor was his natural breath and life,
and was not wholly absent in his most somber intervals.

But poetry was there as well.  His presence was full of it: the grandeur
of his figure; the grace of his movement; the music of his measured
speech.  Sometimes there were long pauses when he was wandering in
distant valleys of thought and did not speak at all.  At such times he
had a habit of folding and refolding the sleeve of his dressing-gown
around his wrist, regarding it intently, as it seemed.  His hands were so
fair and shapely; the palms and finger-tips as pink as those of a child.
Then when he spoke he was likely to fling back his great, white mane, his
eyes half closed yet showing a gleam of fire between the lids, his
clenched fist lifted, or his index-finger pointing, to give force and
meaning to his words.  I cannot recall the picture too often, or remind
myself too frequently how precious it was to be there, and to see him and
to hear him.  I do not know why I have not said before that he smoked
continually during these dictations--probably as an aid to thought--
though he smoked at most other times, for that matter.  His cigars were
of that delicious fragrance which characterizes domestic tobacco; but I
had learned early to take refuge in another brand when he offered me one.
They were black and strong and inexpensive, and it was only his early
training in the printing-office and on the river that had seasoned him to
tobacco of that temper.  Rich, admiring friends used to send him
quantities of expensive imported cigars; but he seldom touched them, and
they crumbled away or were smoked by visitors.  Once, to a minister who
proposed to send him something very special, he wrote:

     I should accept your hospitable offer at once but for the fact that
     I couldn't do it and remain honest.  That is to say, if I allowed
     you to send me what you believed to be good cigars it would
     distinctly mean that I meant to smoke them, whereas I should do
     nothing of the kind.  I know a good cigar better than you do, for I
     have had 60 years' experience.

     No, that is not what I mean; I mean I know a bad cigar better than
     anybody else.  I judge by the price only; if it costs above 5 cents
     I know it to be either foreign or half foreign & unsmokable--by me.
     I have many boxes of Havana cigars, of all prices from 20 cents
     apiece up to $1.66 apiece; I bought none of them, they were all
     presents; they are an accumulation of several years.  I have never
     smoked one of them & never shall; I work them off on the visitor.
     You shall have a chance when you come.

He smoked a pipe a good deal, and he preferred it to be old and violent;
and once, when he had bought a new, expensive English brier-root he
regarded it doubtfully for a time, and then handed it over to me, saying:

"I'd like to have you smoke that a year or two, and when it gets so you
can't stand it, maybe it will suit me."

I am happy to add that subsequently he presented me with the pipe
altogether, for it apparently never seemed to get qualified for his
taste, perhaps because the tobacco used was too mild.

One day, after the dictation, word was brought up that a newspaper man
was down-stairs who wished to see him concerning a report that Chauncey
Depew was to resign his Senatorial seat and Mark Twain was to be
nominated in his place.  The fancy of this appealed to him, and the
reporter was allowed to come up.  He was a young man, and seemed rather
nervous, and did not wish to state where the report had originated.  His
chief anxiety was apparently to have Mark Twain's comment on the matter.
Clemens said very little at the time.  He did not wish to be a Senator;
he was too busy just now dictating biography, and added that he didn't
think he would care for the job, anyway.  When the reporter was gone,
however, certain humorous possibilities developed.  The Senatorship would
be a stepping-stone to the Presidency, and with the combination of
humorist, socialist, and peace-patriot in the Presidential chair the
nation could expect an interesting time.  Nothing further came of the
matter.  There was no such report.  The young newspaper man had invented
the whole idea to get a "story" out of Mark Twain.  The item as printed
next day invited a good deal of comment, and Collier's Weekly made it a
text for an editorial on his mental vigor and general fitness for the
place.

If it happened that he had no particular engagement for the afternoon, he
liked to walk out, especially when the pleasant weather came.  Sometimes
we walked up Fifth Avenue, and I must admit that for a good while I could
not get rid of a feeling of self-consciousness, for most people turned to
look, though I was fully aware that I did not in the least come into
their scope of vision.  They saw only Mark Twain.  The feeling was a more
comfortably one at The Players, where we sometimes went for luncheon, for
the acquaintance there and the democracy of that institution had a
tendency to eliminate contrasts and incongruities.  We sat at the Round
Table among those good fellows who were always so glad to welcome him.

Once we went to the "Music Master," that tender play of Charles Klein's,
given by that matchless interpreter, David Warfield.  Clemens was
fascinated, and said more than once:

"It is as permanent as 'Rip Van Winkle.' Warfield, like Jefferson, can go
on playing it all his life."

We went behind when it was over, and I could see that Warfield glowed
with Mark Twain's unstinted approval.  Later, when I saw him at The
Players, he declared that no former compliment had ever made him so
happy.

There were some billiard games going on between the champions Hoppe and
Sutton, at the Madison Square Garden, and Clemens, with his eager
fondness for the sport, was anxious to attend them.  He did not like to
go anywhere alone, and one evening he invited me to accompany him.  Just
as he stepped into the auditorium there was a vigorous round of applause.
The players stopped, somewhat puzzled, for no especially brilliant shot
had been made.  Then they caught the figure of Mark Twain and realized
that the game, for the moment, was not the chief attraction.  The
audience applauded again, and waved their handkerchiefs.  Such a tribute
is not often paid to a private citizen.

Clemens had a great admiration for the young champion Hoppe, which the
billiardist's extreme youth and brilliancy invited, and he watched his
game with intense eagerness.  When it was over the referee said a few
words and invited Mark Twain to speak.  He rose and told them a story-
probably invented on the instant.  He said:

     "Once in Nevada I dropped into a billiard-room casually, and picked
     up a cue and began to knock the balls around.  The proprietor, who
     was a red-haired man, with such hair as I have never seen anywhere
     except on a torch, asked me if I would like to play.  I said, 'Yes.'
     He said, 'Knock the balls around a little and let me see how you can
     shoot.'  So I knocked them around, and thought I was doing pretty
     well, when he said, 'That's all right; I'll play you left-handed.'
     It hurt my pride, but I played him.  We banked for the shot and he
     won it.  Then he commenced to play, and I commenced to chalk my cue
     to get ready to play, and he went on playing, and I went on chalking
     my cue; and he played and I chalked all through that game.  When he
     had run his string out I said:

     "That's wonderful! perfectly wonderful!  If you can play that way
     left-handed what could you do right-handed?'

     "'Couldn't do anything,' he said.  'I'm a left-handed man.'"

How it delighted them!  I think it was the last speech of any sort he
made that season.  A week or two later he went to Dublin, New Hampshire,
for the summer--this time to the Upton House, which had been engaged a
year before, the Copley Greene place being now occupied by its owner.




CCXLVI

THE SECOND SUMMER AT DUBLIN

The Upton House stands on the edge of a beautiful beech forest some two
or three miles from Dublin, just under Monadnock--a good way up the
slope.  It is a handsome, roomy frame-house, and had a long colonnaded
veranda overlooking one of the most beautiful landscape visions on the
planet: lake, forest, hill, and a far range of blue mountains--all the
handiwork of God is there.  I had seen these things in paintings, but I
had not dreamed that such a view really existed.  The immediate
foreground was a grassy slope, with ancient, blooming apple-trees; and
just at the right hand Monadnock rose, superb and lofty, sloping down to
the panorama below that stretched away, taking on an ever deeper blue,
until it reached that remote range on which the sky rested and the world
seemed to end.  It was a masterpiece of the Greater Mind, and of the
highest order, perhaps, for it had in it nothing of the touch of man.  A
church spire glinted here and there, but there was never a bit of field,
or stone wall, or cultivated land.  It was lonely; it was unfriendly; it
cared nothing whatever for humankind; it was as if God, after creating
all the world, had wrought His masterwork here, and had been so engrossed
with the beauty of it that He had forgotten to give it a soul.  In a
sense this was true, for He had not made the place suitable for the
habitation of men.  It lacked the human touch; the human interest, and I
could never quite believe in its reality.

The time of arrival heightened this first impression.  It was mid-May and
the lilacs were prodigally in bloom; but the bright sunlight was chill
and unnatural, and there was a west wind that laid the grass flat and
moaned through the house, and continued as steadily as if it must never
stop from year's end to year's end.  It seemed a spectral land, a place
of supernatural beauty.  Warm, still, languorous days would come, but
that first feeling of unreality would remain permanent.  I believe Jean
Clemens was the only one who ever really loved the place.  Something
about it appealed to her elemental side and blended with her melancholy
moods.  She dressed always in white, and she was tall and pale and
classically beautiful, and she was often silent, like a spirit.  She had
a little retreat for herself farther up the mountain-side, and spent most
of her days there wood-carving, which was her chief diversion.

Clara Clemens did not come to the place at all.  She was not yet strong,
and went to Norfolk, Connecticut, where she could still be in quiet
retirement and have her physician's care.  Miss Hobby came, and on the
21st of May the dictations were resumed.  We began in his bedroom, as
before, but the feeling there was depressing--the absence of the great
carved bed and other furnishings, which had been so much a part of the
picture, was felt by all of us.  Nothing of the old luxury and richness
was there.  It was a summer-furnished place, handsome but with the
customary bareness.  At the end of this first session he dressed in his
snowy flannels, which he had adopted in the place of linen for summer
wear, and we descended to the veranda and looked out over that wide,
wonderful expanse of scenery.

"I think I shall like it," he said, "when I get acquainted with it, and
get it classified and labeled, and I think we'll do our dictating out
here hereafter.  It ought to be an inspiring place."

So the dictations were transferred to the long veranda, and he was
generally ready for them, a white figure pacing up and down before that
panoramic background.  During the earlier, cooler weeks he usually
continued walking with measured step during the dictations, pausing now
and then to look across the far-lying horizon.  When it stormed we moved
into the great living-room, where at one end there was a fireplace with
blazing logs, and at the other the orchestrelle, which had once more been
freighted up those mountain heights for the comfort of its harmonies.
Sometimes, when the wind and rain were beating outside, and he was
striding up and down the long room within, with only the blurred shapes
of mountains and trees outlined through the trailing rain, the feeling of
the unreality became so strong that it was hard to believe that somewhere
down below, beyond the rain and the woods, there was a literal world--a
commonplace world, where the ordinary things of life were going on in the
usual way.  When the dictation finished early, there would be music--the
music that he loved most--Beethoven's symphonies, or the Schubert
impromptu, or the sonata by Chopin.--[Schubert, Op. 142, No. 2; Chopin,
Op. 37, No. 2.]--It is easy to understand that this carried one a remove
farther from the customary things of life.  It was a setting far out of
the usual, though it became that unique white figure and his occupation.
In my notes, made from day to day, I find that I have set down more than
once an impression of the curious unreality of the place and its
surroundings, which would show that it was not a mere passing fancy.

I had lodgings in the village, and drove out mornings for the dictations,
but often came out again afoot on pleasant afternoons; for he was not
much occupied with social matters, and there was opportunity for quiet,
informing interviews.  There was a woods path to the Upton place, and it
was a walk through a fairyland.  A part of the way was through such a
growth of beech timber as I have never seen elsewhere: tall, straight,
mottled trees with an undergrowth of laurel, the sunlight sifting
through; one found it easy to expect there storybook ladies, wearing
crowns and green mantles, riding on white palfreys.  Then came a more
open way, an abandoned grass-grown road full of sunlight and perfume; and
this led to a dim, religious place, a natural cathedral, where the
columns were stately pine-trees branching and meeting at the top: a
veritable temple in which it always seemed that music was about to play.
You crossed a brook and climbed a little hill, and pushed through a hedge
into a place more open, and the house stood there among the trees.

The days drifted along, one a good deal like another, except, as the
summer deepened, the weather became warmer, the foliage changed, a drowsy
haze gathered along the valleys and on the mountain-side.  He sat more
often now in a large rocking-chair, and generally seemed to be looking
through half-dosed lids toward the Monadnock heights, that were always
changing in aspect-in color and in form--as cloud shapes drifted by or
gathered in those lofty hollows.  White and yellow butterflies hovered
over the grass, and there were some curious, large black ants--the
largest I have ever seen and quite harmless--that would slip in and out
of the cracks on the veranda floor, wholly undisturbed by us.  Now and
then a light flutter of wind would come murmuring up from the trees
below, and when the apple-bloom was falling there would be a whirl of
white and pink petals that seemed a cloud of smaller butterflies.

On June 1st I find in my note-book this entry:

     Warm and pleasant.  The dictation about Grant continues; a great
     privilege to hear this foremost man, of letters review his
     associations with that foremost man of arms.  He remained seated
     today, dressed in white as usual, a large yellow pansy in his
     buttonhole, his white hair ruffled by the breeze.  He wears his worn
     morocco slippers with black hose; sits in the rocker, smoking and
     looking out over the hazy hills, delivering his sentences with a
     measured accuracy that seldom calls for change.  He is speaking just
     now of a Grant dinner which he attended where Depew spoke.  One is
     impressed with the thought that we are looking at and listening to
     the war-worn veteran of a thousand dinners--the honored guest of
     many; an honored figure of all.  Earlier, when he had been
     chastising some old offender, he added, "However, he's dead, and I
     forgive him."  Then, after a moment's reflection, "No; strike that
     last sentence out."  When we laughed, he added, "We can't forgive
     him yet."

A few days later--it was June 4th, the day before the second anniversary
of the death of Mrs. Clemens--we found him at first in excellent humor
from the long dictation of the day before.  Then his mind reverted to the
tragedy of the season, and he began trying to tell of it.  It was hard
work.  He walked back and forth in the soft sunlight, saying almost
nothing.  He gave it up at last, remarking, "We will not work to-morrow."
So we went away.

He did not dictate on the 5th or the 6th, but on the 7th he resumed the
story of Mrs. Clemens's last days at Florence.  The weather had changed:
the sunlight and warmth had all gone; a chill, penetrating mist was on
the mountains; Monadnock was blotted out.  We expected him to go to the
fire, but evidently he could not bear being shut in with that subject in
his mind.  A black cape was brought out and thrown about his shoulders,
which seemed to fit exactly into the somberness of the picture.  For two
hours or more we sat there in the gloom and chill, while he paced up and
down, detailing as graphically as might be that final chapter in the life
of the woman he had loved.

It is hardly necessary to say that beyond the dictation Clemens did very
little literary work during these months.  He had brought his "manuscript
trunk" as usual, thinking, perhaps, to finish the "microbe" story and
other of the uncompleted things; but the dictation gave him sufficient
mental exercise, and he did no more than look over his "stock in trade,"
as he called it, and incorporate a few of the finished manuscripts into
"autobiography."  Among these were the notes of his trip down the Rhone,
made in 1891, and the old Stormfield story, which he had been treasuring
and suppressing so long.  He wrote Howells in June:

     The dictating goes lazily and pleasantly on.  With intervals.  I
     find that I've been at it, off & on, nearly two hours for 155 days
     since January 9.  To be exact, I've dictated 75 hours in 80 days &
     loafed 75 days.  I've added 60,000 words in the month that I've been
     here; which indicates that I've dictated during 20 days of that
     time--40 hours, at an average of 1,500 words an hour.  It's a
     plenty, & I'm satisfied.

     There's a good deal of "fat."  I've dictated (from January 9)
     210,000 words, & the "fat" adds about 50,000 more.

     The "fat" is old pigeonholed things of the years gone by which I or
     editors didn't das't to print.  For instance, I am dumping in the
     little old book which I read to you in Hartford about 30 years ago &
     which you said "publish & ask Dean Stanley to furnish an
     introduction; he'll do it" (Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven).
     It reads quite to suit me without altering a word now that it isn't
     to see print until I am dead.

     To-morrow I mean to dictate a chapter which will get my heirs &
     assigns burned alive if they venture to print it this side of A.D.
     2006--which I judge they won't.  There'll be lots of such chapters
     if I live 3 or 4 years longer.  The edition of A.D. 2006 will make a
     stir when it comes out.  I shall be hovering around taking notice,
     along with other dead pals.  You are invited.

The chapter which was to invite death at the stake for his successors was
naturally one of religious heresies a violent attack on the orthodox,
scriptural God, but really an expression of the highest reverence for the
God which, as he said, had created the earth and sky and the music of the
constellations.  Mark Twain once expressed himself concerning reverence
and the lack of it:

"I was never consciously and purposely irreverent in my life, yet one
person or another is always charging me with a lack of reverence.
Reverence for what--for whom?  Who is to decide what ought to command my
reverence--my neighbor or I?  I think I ought to do the electing myself.
The Mohammedan reveres Mohammed--it is his privilege; the Christian
doesn't--apparently that is his privilege; the account is square enough.
They haven't any right to complain of the other, yet they do complain of
each other, and that is where the unfairness comes in.  Each says that
the other is irreverent, and both are mistaken, for manifestly you can't
have reverence for a thing that doesn't command it.  If you could do that
you could digest what you haven't eaten, and do other miracles and get a
reputation."

He was not reading many books at this time--he was inclined rather to be
lazy, as he said, and to loaf during the afternoons; but I remember that
he read aloud 'After the Wedding' and 'The Mother'--those two beautiful
word-pictures by Howells--which he declared sounded the depths of
humanity with a deep-sea lead.  Also he read a book by William Allen
White, 'In Our Town', a collection of tales that he found most admirable.
I think he took the trouble to send White a personal, hand-written letter
concerning them, although, with the habit of dictation, he had begun, as
he said, to "loathe the use of the pen."

There were usually some sort of mild social affairs going on in the
neighborhood, luncheons and afternoon gatherings like those of the
previous year, though he seems to have attended fewer of them, for he did
not often leave the house.  Once, at least, he assisted in an afternoon
entertainment at the Dublin Club, where he introduced his invention of
the art of making an impromptu speech, and was assisted in its
demonstration by George de Forest Brush and Joseph Lindon Smith, to the
very great amusement of a crowd of summer visitors.  The "art" consisted
mainly of having on hand a few reliable anecdotes and a set formula which
would lead directly to them from any given subject.

Twice or more he collected the children of the neighborhood for charades
and rehearsed them, and took part in the performance, as in the Hartford
days.  Sometimes he drove out or took an extended walk.  But these things
were seldom.

Now and then during the summer he made a trip to New York of a semi-
business nature, usually going by the way of Fairhaven, where he would
visit for a few days, journeying the rest of the way in Mr. Rogers's
yacht.  Once they made a cruise of considerable length to Bar Harbor and
elsewhere.  Here is an amusing letter which he wrote to Mrs. Rogers after
such a visit:

     DEAR MRS. ROGERS,--In packing my things in your house yesterday
     morning I inadvertently put in some articles that was laying around,
     I thinking about theology & not noticing, the way this family does
     in similar circumstances like these.  Two books, Mr. Rogers' brown
     slippers, & a ham.  I thought it was ourn, it looks like one we used
     to have.  I am very sorry it happened, but it sha'n't occur again &
     don't you worry.  He will temper the wind to the shorn lamb & I will
     send some of the things back anyway if there is some that won't
     keep.




CCXLVI

DUBLIN, CONTINUED

In time Mark Twain became very lonely in Dublin.  After the brilliant
winter the contrast was too great.  He was not yet ready for exile.  In
one of his dictations he said:

     The skies are enchantingly blue.  The world is a dazzle of sunshine.
     Monadnock is closer to us than usual by several hundred yards.  The
     vast extent of spreading valley is intensely green--the lakes as
     intensely blue.  And there is a new horizon, a remoter one than we
     have known before, for beyond the mighty half-circle of hazy
     mountains that form the usual frame of the picture rise certain
     shadowy great domes that are unfamiliar to our eyes .  .  .  .

     But there is a defect--only one, but it is a defect which almost
     entitles it to be spelled with a capital D.  This is the defect of
     loneliness.  We have not a single neighbor who is a neighbor.
     Nobody lives within two miles of us except Franklin MacVeagh, and he
     is the farthest off of any, because he is in Europe .  .  .  .

     I feel for Adam and Eve now, for I know how it was with them.  I am
     existing, broken-hearted, in a Garden of Eden....  The Garden of
     Eden I now know was an unendurable solitude.  I know that the advent
     of the serpent was a welcome change--anything for society .  .  .  .

     I never rose to the full appreciation of the utter solitude of this
     place until a symbol of it--a compact and visible allegory of it--
     furnished me the lacking lift three days ago.  I was standing alone
     on this veranda, in the late afternoon, mourning over the stillness,
     the far-spreading, beautiful desolation, and the absence of visible
     life, when a couple of shapely and graceful deer came sauntering
     across the grounds and stopped, and at their leisure impudently
     looked me over, as if they had an idea of buying me as bric-a-brac.
     Then they seemed to conclude that they could do better for less
     money elsewhere, and they sauntered indolently away and disappeared
     among the trees.  It sized up this solitude.  It is so complete, so
     perfect, that even the wild animals are satisfied with it.  Those
     dainty creatures were not in the least degree afraid of me.

This was no more than a mood--though real enough while it lasted--somber,
and in its way regal.  It was the loneliness of a king--King Lear.  Yet
he returned gladly enough to solitude after each absence.

It was just before one of his departures that I made another set of
pictures of him, this time on the colonnaded veranda, where his figure
had become so familiar.  He had determined to have his hair cut when he
reached New York, and I was anxious to get the pictures before this
happened.  When the proofs came seven of them--he arranged them as a
series to illustrate what he called "The Progress of a Moral Purpose."
He ordered a number of sets of this series, and he wrote a legend on each
photograph, numbering them from 1 to 7, laying each set in a sheet of
letter-paper which formed a sort of wrapper, on which was written:

     This series of q photographs registers with scientific precision,
     stage by stage, the progress of a moral purpose through the
     mind of the human race's Oldest Friend.            S. L. C.

He added a personal inscription, and sent one to each of his more
intimate friends.  One of the pictures amused him more than the others,
because during the exposure a little kitten, unnoticed, had walked into
it, and paused near his foot.  He had never outgrown his love for cats,
and he had rented this kitten and two others for the summer from a
neighbor.  He didn't wish to own them, he said, for then he would have to
leave them behind uncared for, so he preferred to rent them and pay
sufficiently to insure their subsequent care.  These kittens he called
Sackcloth and Ashes--Ashes being the joint name of the two that looked
exactly alike, and so did not need distinctive titles.  Their gambols
always amused him.  He would stop any time in the midst of dictation to
enjoy them.  Once, as he was about to enter the screen-door that led into
the hall, two of the kittens ran up in front of him and stood waiting.
With grave politeness he opened the door, made a low bow, and stepped
back and said: "Walk in, gentlemen.  I always give precedence to
royalty."  And the kittens marched in, tails in air.  All summer long
they played up and down the wide veranda, or chased grasshoppers and
butterflies down the clover slope.  It was a never-ending amusement to
him to see them jump into the air after some insect, miss it and tumble
back, and afterward jump up, with a surprised expression and a look of
disappointment and disgust.  I remember once, when he was walking up and
down discussing some very serious subject--and one of the kittens was
lying on the veranda asleep--a butterfly came drifting along three feet
or so above the floor.  The kitten must have got a glimpse of the insect
out of the corner of its eye, and perhaps did not altogether realize its
action.  At all events, it suddenly shot straight up into the air,
exactly like a bounding rubber ball, missed the butterfly, fell back on
the porch floor with considerable force and with much surprise.  Then it
sprang to its feet, and, after spitting furiously once or twice, bounded
away.  Clemens had seen the performance, and it completely took his
subject out of his mind.  He laughed extravagantly, and evidently cared
more for that moment's entertainment than for many philosophies.

In that remote solitude there was one important advantage--there was no
procession of human beings with axes to grind, and few curious callers.
Occasionally an automobile would find its way out there and make a
circuit of the drive, but this happened too seldom to annoy him.  Even
newspaper men rarely made the long trip from Boston or New York to secure
his opinions, and when they came it was by permission and appointment.
Newspaper telegrams arrived now and then, asking for a sentiment on some
public condition or event, and these he generally answered willingly
enough.  When the British Premier, Campbell-Bannerman, celebrated his
seventieth birthday, the London Tribune and the New York Herald requested
a tribute.  He furnished it, for Bannerman was a very old friend.  He had
known him first at Marienbad in '91, and in Vienna in '98, in daily
intercourse, when they had lived at the same hotel.  His tribute ran:

To HIS EXCELLENCY THE BRITISH PREMIER,--Congratulations, not condolences.
Before seventy we are merely respected, at best, and we have to behave
all the time, or we lose that asset; but after seventy we are respected,
esteemed, admired, revered, and don't have to behave unless we want to.
When I first knew you, Honored Sir, one of us was hardly even respected.
                                                  MARK TWAIN.

He had some misgivings concerning the telegram after it had gone, but he
did not recall it.

Clemens became the victim of a very clever hoax that summer.  One day a
friend gave him two examples of the most deliciously illiterate letters,
supposed to have been written by a woman who had contributed certain
articles of clothing to the San Francisco sufferers, and later wished to
recall them because of the protests of her household.  He was so sure
that the letters were genuine that he included them in his dictations,
after reading them aloud with great effect.  To tell the truth, they did
seem the least bit too well done, too literary in their illiteracy; but
his natural optimism refused to admit of any suspicion, and a little
later he incorporated one of the Jennie Allen letters in a speech which
he made at a Press Club dinner in New York on the subject of simplified
spelling--offering it as an example of language with phonetic brevity
exercising its supreme function, the direct conveyance of ideas.  The
letters, in the end, proved to be the clever work of Miss Grace Donworth,
who has since published them serially and in book form.  Clemens was not
at all offended or disturbed by the exposure.  He even agreed to aid the
young author in securing a publisher, and wrote to Miss Stockbridge,
through whom he had originally received the documents:

     DEAR MISS STOCKBRIDGE (if she really exists),

     257 Benefit Street (if there is any such place):

     Yes, I should like a copy of that other letter.  This whole fake is
     delightful; & I tremble with fear that you are a fake yourself &
     that I am your guileless prey.  (But never mind, it isn't any
     matter.)

     Now as to publication----

He set forth his views and promised his assistance when enough of the
letters should be completed.

Clemens allowed his name to be included with the list of spelling
reformers, but he never employed any of the reforms in his letters or
writing.  His interest was mainly theoretical, and when he wrote or spoke
on the subject his remarks were not likely to be testimonials in its
favor.  His own theory was that the alphabet needed reform, first of all,
so that each letter or character should have one sound, and one sound
only; and he offered as a solution of this an adaptation of shorthand.
He wrote and dictated in favor of this idea to the end of his life.  Once
he said:

"Our alphabet is pure insanity.  It can hardly spell any large word in
the English language with any degree of certainty.  Its sillinesses are
quite beyond enumeration.  English orthography may need reforming and
simplifying, but the English alphabet needs it a good many times as
much."

He would naturally favor simplicity in anything.  I remember him reading,
as an example of beautiful English, The Death of King Arthur, by Sir
Thomas Malory, and his verdict:

"That is one of the most beautiful things ever written in English, and
written when we had no vocabulary."

"A vocabulary, then, is sometimes a handicap?"

"It is indeed."

Still I think it was never a handicap with him, but rather the plumage of
flight.  Sometimes, when just the right word did not come, he would turn
his head a little at different angles, as if looking about him for the
precise term.  He would find it directly, and it was invariably the word
needed.  Most writers employ, now and again, phrases that do not sharply
present the idea--that blur the picture like a poor opera-glass.  Mark
Twain's English always focused exactly.




CCXLVIII

"WHAT IS MAN?" AND THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Clemens decided to publish anonymously, or, rather, to print privately,
the Gospel, which he had written in Vienna some eight years before and
added to from time to time.  He arranged with Frank Doubleday to take
charge of the matter, and the De Vinne Press was engaged to do the work.
The book was copyrighted in the name of J. W. Bothwell, the
superintendent of the De Vinne company, and two hundred and fifty
numbered copies were printed on hand-made paper, to be gradually
distributed to intimate friends.--[In an introductory word (dated
February, 1905) the author states that the studies for these papers had
been made twenty-five or twenty-seven years before.  He probably referred
to the Monday Evening Club essay, "What Is Happiness?" (February, 1883).
See chap.  cxli.]--A number of the books were sent to newspaper
reviewers, and so effectually had he concealed the personality of his
work that no critic seems to have suspected the book's authorship.  It
was not over-favorably received.  It was generally characterized as a
clever, and even brilliant, expose of philosophies which were no longer
startlingly new.  The supremacy of self-interest and "man the
irresponsible machine" are the main features of 'What Is Man' and both of
these and all the rest are comprehended in his wider and more absolute
doctrine of that inevitable life-sequence which began with the first
created spark.  There can be no training of the ideals, "upward and still
upward," no selfishness and unselfishness, no atom of voluntary effort
within the boundaries of that conclusion.  Once admitting the postulate,
that existence is merely a sequence of cause and effect beginning with
the primal atom, and we have a theory that must stand or fall as a whole.
We cannot say that man is a creature of circumstance and then leave him
free to select his circumstance, even in the minutest fractional degree.
It was selected for him with his disposition; in that first instant of
created life.  Clemens himself repeatedly emphasized this doctrine, and
once, when it was suggested to him that it seemed to "surround every
thing, like the sky," he answered:

"Yes, like the sky; you can't break through anywhere."

Colonel Harvey came to Dublin that summer and persuaded Clemens to let
him print some selections from the dictations in the new volume of the
North American Review, which he proposed to issue fortnightly.  The
matter was discussed a good deal, and it was believed that one hundred
thousand words could be selected which would be usable forthwith, as well
as in that long-deferred period for which it was planned.  Colonel Harvey
agreed to take a copy of the dictated matter and make the selections
himself, and this plan was carried out.  It may be said that most of the
chapters were delightful enough; though, had it been possible to edit
them with the more positive documents as a guide, certain complications
might have been avoided.  It does not matter now, and it was not a matter
of very wide import then.

The payment of these chapters netted Clemens thirty thousand dollars--a
comfortable sum, which he promptly proposed to spend in building on the
property at Redding.  He engaged John Mead Howells to prepare some
preliminary plans.

Clara Clemens, at Norfolk, was written to of the matter.

A little later I joined her in Redding, and she was the first of the
family to see that beautiful hilltop.  She was well pleased with the
situation, and that day selected the spot where the house should stand.
Clemens wrote Howells that he proposed to call it "Autobiography House,"
as it was to be built out of the Review money, and he said:

"If you will build on my farm and live there it will set Mrs. Howells's
health up for sure.  Come and I'll sell you the site for twenty-five
dollars.  John will tell you it is a choice place."

The unusual summer was near its close.  In my notebook, under date of
September 16th, appears this entry:

     Windy in valleys but not cold.  This veranda is protected.  It is
     peaceful here and perfect, but we are at the summer's end.

This is my last entry, and the dictations must have ceased a few days
later.  I do not remember the date of the return to New York, and
apparently I made no record of it; but I do not think it could have been
later than the 20th.  It had been four months since the day of arrival, a
long, marvelous summer such as I would hardly know again.  When I think
of that time I shall always hear the ceaseless slippered, shuffling walk,
and see the white figure with its rocking, rolling movement passing up
and down the long gallery, with that preternaturally beautiful landscape
behind, and I shall hear his deliberate speech--always deliberate, save
at rare intervals; always impressive, whatever the subject might be;
whether recalling some old absurdity of youth, or denouncing orthodox
creeds, or detailing the shortcomings of human-kind.




CCXLIX

BILLIARDS

The return to New York marked the beginning of a new era in my relations
with Mark Twain.  I have not meant to convey up to this time that there
was between us anything resembling a personal friendship.  Our relations
were friendly, certainly, but they were relations of convenience and
mainly of a business, or at least of a literary nature.  He was twenty-
six years my senior, and the discrepancy of experience and attainments
was not measurable.  With such conditions friendship must be a deliberate
growth; something there must be to bridge the dividing gulf.  Truth
requires the confession that, in this case, the bridge took a very solid,
material form, it being, in fact, nothing less than a billiard-table.--
[Clemens had been without a billiard-table since 1891, the old one having
been disposed of on the departure from Hartford.]

It was a present from Mrs. Henry H.  Rogers, and had been intended for
his Christmas; but when he heard of it he could not wait, and suggested
delicately that if he had it "right now" he could begin using it sooner.
So he went one day with Mr. Rogers to the Balke-Collender Company, and
they selected a handsome combination table suitable to all games--the
best that money could buy.  He was greatly excited over the prospect, and
his former bedroom was carefully measured, to be certain that it was
large enough for billiard purposes.  Then his bed was moved into the
study, and the bookcases and certain appropriate pictures were placed and
hung in the billiard-room to give it the proper feeling.

The billiard-table arrived and was put in place, the brilliant green
cloth in contrast with the rich red wallpaper and the bookbindings and
pictures making the room wonderfully handsome and inviting.

Meantime, Clemens, with one of his sudden impulses, had conceived the
notion of spending the winter in Egypt, on the Nile.  He had gone so far,
within a few hours after the idea developed, as to plan the time of his
departure, and to partially engage a traveling secretary, so that he
might continue his dictations.  He was quite full of the idea just at the
moment when the billiard table was being installed.  He had sent for a
book on the subject--the letters of Lady Duff-Gordon, whose daughter,
Janet Ross, had become a dear friend in Florence during the Viviani days.
He spoke of this new purpose on the morning when we renewed the New York
dictations, a month or more following the return from Dublin.  When the
dictation ended he said:

"Have you any special place to lunch to-day?"

I replied that I had not.

"Lunch here," he said, "and we'll try the new billiard-table."

I said what was eminently true--that I could not play--that I had never
played more "than a few games of pool, and those very long ago.

"No matter," he answered; "the poorer you play, the better I shall like
it."

So I remained for luncheon and we began, November 2d, the first game ever
played on the Christmas table.  We played the English game, in which
caroms and pockets both count.  I had a beginner's luck, on the whole,
and I remember it as a riotous, rollicking game, the beginning of a
closer understanding between us--of a distinct epoch in our association.
When it was ended he said:

"I'm not going to Egypt.  There was a man here yesterday afternoon who
said it was bad for bronchitis, and, besides, it's too far away from this
billiard-table."

He suggested that I come back in the evening and play some more.  I did
so, and the game lasted until after midnight.  He gave me odds, of
course, and my "nigger luck," as he called it, continued.  It kept him
sweating and swearing feverishly to win.  Finally, once I made a great
fluke--a carom, followed by most of the balls falling into the pockets.

"Well," he said, "when you pick up that cue this damn table drips at
every pore."

After that the morning dictations became a secondary interest.  Like a
boy, he was looking forward to the afternoon of play, and it never seemed
to come quick enough to suit him.  I remained regularly for luncheon, and
he was inclined to cut the courses short, that he might the sooner get
up-stairs to the billiard-room.  His earlier habit of not eating in the
middle of the day continued; but he would get up and dress, and walk
about the dining-room in his old fashion, talking that marvelous,
marvelous talk which I was always trying to remember, and with only
fractional success at best.  To him it was only a method of killing time.
I remember once, when he had been discussing with great earnestness the
Japanese question, he suddenly noticed that the luncheon was about
ending, and he said:

"Now we'll proceed to more serious matters--it's your--shot."  And he was
quite serious, for the green cloth and the rolling balls afforded him a
much larger interest.

To the donor of his new possession Clemens wrote:

     DEAR MRS.  ROGERS,--The billiard-table is better than the doctors.
     I have a billiardist on the premises, & walk not less than ten miles
     every day with the cue in my hand.  And the walking is not the whole
     of the exercise, nor the most health giving part of it, I think.
     Through the multitude of the positions and attitudes it brings into
     play every muscle in the body & exercises them all.

     The games begin right after luncheons, daily, & continue until
     midnight, with 2 hours' intermission for dinner & music.  And so it
     is 9 hours' exercise per day & 10 or 12 on Sunday.  Yesterday & last
     night it was 12--& I slept until 8 this morning without waking.  The
     billiard-table as a Sabbath-breaker can beat any coal-breaker in
     Pennsylvania & give it 30 in the game.  If Mr. Rogers will take to
     daily billiards he can do without the doctors & the massageur, I
     think.

     We are really going to build a house on my farm, an hour & a half
     from New York.  It is decided.

     With love & many thanks.
                                             S. L. C.

Naturally enough, with continued practice I improved my game, and he
reduced my odds accordingly.  He was willing to be beaten, but not too
often.  Like any other boy, he preferred to have the balance in his
favor.  We set down a record of the games, and he went to bed happier if
the tally-sheet showed him winner.

It was natural, too, that an intimacy of association and of personal
interest should grow under such conditions--to me a precious boon--and I
wish here to record my own boundless gratitude to Mrs. Rogers for her
gift, which, whatever it meant to him, meant so much more to me.  The
disparity of ages no longer existed; other discrepancies no longer
mattered.  The pleasant land of play is a democracy where such things do
not count.

To recall all the humors and interesting happenings of those early
billiard-days would be to fill a large volume.  I can preserve no more
than a few characteristic phases.

He was not an even-tempered player.  When the balls were perverse in
their movements and his aim unsteady, he was likely to become short with
his opponent--critical and even fault-finding.  Then presently a reaction
would set in, and he would be seized with remorse.  He would become
unnecessarily gentle and kindly--even attentive--placing the balls as I
knocked them into the pockets, hurrying from one end of the table to
render this service, endeavoring to show in every way except by actual
confession in words that he was sorry for what seemed to him, no doubt,
an unworthy display of temper, unjustified irritation.

Naturally, this was a mood that I enjoyed less than that which had
induced it.  I did not wish him to humble himself; I was willing that he
should be severe, even harsh, if he felt so inclined; his age, his
position, his genius entitled him to special privileges; yet I am glad,
as I remember it now, that the other side revealed itself, for it
completes the sum of his great humanity.

Indeed, he was always not only human, but superhuman; not only a man, but
superman.  Nor does this term apply only to his psychology.  In no other
human being have I ever seen such physical endurance.  I was
comparatively a young man, and by no means an invalid; but many a time,
far in the night, when I was ready to drop with exhaustion, he was still
as fresh and buoyant and eager for the game as at the moment of
beginning.  He smoked and smoked continually, and followed the endless
track around the billiard-table with the light step of youth.  At three
or four o'clock in the morning he would urge just one more game, and
would taunt me for my weariness.  I can truthfully testify that never
until the last year of his life did he willingly lay down the billiard-
cue, or show the least suggestion of fatigue.

He played always at high pressure.  Now and then, in periods of
adversity, he would fly into a perfect passion with things in general.
But, in the end, it was a sham battle, and he saw the uselessness and
humor of it, even in the moment of his climax.  Once, when he found it
impossible to make any of his favorite shots, he became more and more
restive, the lightning became vividly picturesque as the clouds
blackened.  Finally, with a regular thunder-blast, he seized the cue with
both hands and literally mowed the balls across the table, landing one or
two of them on the floor.  I do not recall his exact remarks during the
performance; I was chiefly concerned in getting out of the way, and those
sublime utterances were lost.  I gathered up the balls and we went on
playing as if nothing had happened, only he was very gentle and sweet,
like the sun on the meadows after the storm has passed by.  After a
little he said:

"This is a most amusing game.  When you play badly it amuses me, and when
I play badly and lose my temper it certainly must amuse you."

His enjoyment of his opponent's perplexities was very keen.  When he had
left the balls in some unfortunate position which made it almost
impossible for me to score he would laugh boisterously.  I used to affect
to be injured and disturbed by this ridicule.  Once, when he had made the
conditions unusually hard for me, and was enjoying the situation
accordingly, I was tempted to remark:

"Whenever I see you laugh at a thing like that I always doubt your sense
of humor."  Which seemed to add to his amusement.

Sometimes, when the balls were badly placed for me, he would offer
ostensible advice, suggesting that I should shoot here and there--shots
that were possible, perhaps, but not promising.  Often I would follow his
advice, and then when I failed to score his amusement broke out afresh.

Other billiardists came from time to time: Colonel Harvey, Mr. Duneka,
and Major Leigh, of the Harper Company, and Peter Finley Dunne (Mr.
Dooley); but they were handicapped by their business affairs, and were
not dependable for daily and protracted sessions.  Any number of his
friends were willing, even eager, to come for his entertainment; but the
percentage of them who could and would devote a number of hours each day
to being beaten at billiards and enjoy the operation dwindled down to a
single individual.  Even I could not have done it--could not have
afforded it, however much I might have enjoyed the diversion--had it not
been contributory to my work.  To me the association was invaluable; it
drew from him a thousand long-forgotten incidents; it invited a stream of
picturesque comments and philosophies; it furnished the most intimate
insight into his character.

He was not always glad to see promiscuous callers, even some one that he
might have met pleasantly elsewhere.  One afternoon a young man whom he
had casually invited to "drop in some day in town" happened to call in
the midst of a very close series of afternoon games.  It would all have
been well enough if the visitor had been content to sit quietly on the
couch and "bet on the game," as Clemens suggested, after the greetings
were over; but he was a very young man, and he felt the necessity of
being entertaining.  He insisted on walking about the room and getting in
the way, and on talking about the Mark Twain books he had read, and the
people he had met from time to time who had known Mark Twain on the
river, or on the Pacific coast, or elsewhere.  I knew how fatal it was
for him to talk to Clemens during his play, especially concerning matters
most of which had been laid away.  I trembled for our visitor.  If I
could have got his ear privately I should have said: "For heaven's sake
sit down and keep still or go away!  There's going to be a combination of
earthquake and cyclone and avalanche if you keep this thing up."

I did what I could.  I looked at my watch every other minute.  At last,
in desperation, I suggested that I retire from the game and let the
visitor have my cue.  I suppose I thought this would eliminate an element
of danger.  He declined on the ground that he seldom played, and
continued his deadly visit.  I have never been in an atmosphere so
fraught with danger.  I did not know how the game stood, and I played
mechanically and forgot to count the score.  Clemens's face was grim and
set and savage.  He no longer ventured even a word.  By and by I noticed
that he was getting white, and I said, privately, "Now, this young man's
hour has come."

It was certainly by the mercy of God just then that the visitor said:

"I'm sorry, but I've got to go.  I'd like to stay longer, but I've got an
engagement for dinner."

I don't remember how he got out, but I know that tons lifted as the door
closed behind him.  Clemens made his shot, then very softly said:

"If he had stayed another five minutes I should have offered him twenty-
five cents to go."

But a moment later he glared at me.

"Why in nation did you offer him your cue?"

"Wasn't that the courteous thing to do?" I asked.

"No!" he ripped out.  "The courteous and proper thing would have been to
strike him dead.  Did you want to saddle that disaster upon us for life?"

He was blowing off steam, and I knew it and encouraged it.  My impulse
was to lie down on the couch and shout with hysterical laughter, but I
suspected that would be indiscreet.  He made some further comment on the
propriety of offering a visitor a cue, and suddenly began to sing a
travesty of an old hymn:

              "How tedious are they
               Who their sovereign obey,"

and so loudly that I said:

"Aren't you afraid he'll hear you and come back?"  Whereupon he pretended
alarm and sang under his breath, and for the rest of the evening was in
boundless good-humor.

I have recalled this incident merely as a sample of things that were
likely to happen at any time in his company, and to show the difficulty
one might find in fitting himself to his varying moods.  He was not to be
learned in a day, or a week, or a month; some of those who knew him
longest did not learn him at all.

We celebrated his seventy-first birthday by playing billiards all day.
He invented a new game for the occasion; inventing rules for it with
almost every shot.

It happened that no member of the family was at home on this birthday.
Ill health had banished every one, even the secretary.  Flowers,
telegrams, and congratulations came, and there was a string of callers;
but he saw no one beyond some intimate friends--the Gilders--late in the
afternoon.  When they had gone we went down to dinner.  We were entirely
alone, and I felt the great honor of being his only guest on such an
occasion.  Once between the courses, when he rose, as usual, to walk
about, he wandered into the drawing-room, and seating himself at the
orchestrelle began to play the beautiful flower-song from "Faust."  It
was a thing I had not seen him do before, and I never saw him do it
again.  When he came back to the table he said:

"Speaking of companions of the long ago, after fifty years they become
only shadows and might as well be in the grave.  Only those whom one has
really loved mean anything at all.  Of my playmates I recall John Briggs,
John Garth, and Laura Hawkins--just those three; the rest I buried long
ago, and memory cannot even find their graves."

He was in his loveliest humor all that day and evening; and that night,
when he stopped playing, he said:

"I have never had a pleasanter day at this game."

I answered, "I hope ten years from to-night we shall still be playing
it."

"Yes," he said, "still playing the best game on earth."





CCL

PHILOSOPHY AND PESSIMISM

In a letter to MacAlister, written at this time, he said:

     The doctors banished Jean to the country 5 weeks ago; they banished
     my secretary to the country for a fortnight last Saturday; they
     banished Clara to the country for a fortnight last Monday .  .  .  .
     They banished me to Bermuda to sail next Wednesday, but I struck and
     sha'n't go.  My complaint is permanent bronchitis & is one of the
     very best assets I've got, for it excuses me from every public
     function this winter--& all other winters that may come.

If he had bronchitis when this letter was written, it must have been of a
very mild form, for it did not interfere with billiard games, which were
more protracted and strenuous than at almost any other period.  I
conclude, therefore, that it was a convenient bronchitis, useful on
occasion.

For a full ten days we were alone in the big house with the servants.  It
was a holiday most of the time.  We hurried through the mail in the
morning and the telephone calls; then, while I answered such letters as
required attention, he dictated for an hour or so to Miss Hobby, after
which, billiards for the rest of the day and evening.  When callers were
reported by the butler, I went down and got rid of them.  Clara Clemens,
before her departure, had pinned up a sign, "NO BILLIARDS AFTER 10 P.M.,"
which still hung on the wall, but it was outlawed.  Clemens occasionally
planned excursions to Bermuda and other places; but, remembering the
billiard-table, which he could not handily take along, he abandoned these
projects.  He was a boy whose parents had been called away, left to his
own devices, and bent on a good time.

There were likely to be irritations in his morning's mail, and more often
he did not wish to see it until it had been pretty carefully sifted.  So
many people wrote who wanted things, so many others who made the claim of
more or less distant acquaintanceship the excuse for long and trivial
letters.

"I have stirred up three generations," he said; "first the grandparents,
then the children, and now the grandchildren; the great-grandchildren
will begin to arrive soon."

His mail was always large; but often it did not look interesting.  One
could tell from the envelope and the superscription something of the
contents.  Going over one assortment he burst out:

"Look at them!  Look how trivial they are!  Every envelope looks as if it
contained a trivial human soul."

Many letters were filled with fulsome praise and compliment, usually of
one pattern.  He was sated with such things, and seldom found it possible
to bear more than a line or two of them.  Yet a fresh, well-expressed
note of appreciation always pleased him.

"I can live for two months on a good compliment," he once said.
Certain persistent correspondents, too self-centered to realize their
lack of consideration, or the futility of their purpose, followed him
relentlessly.  Of one such he remarked:

"That woman intends to pursue me to the grave.  I wish something could be
done to appease her."

And again:

"Everybody in the world who wants something--something of no interest to
me--writes to me to get it."

These morning sessions were likely to be of great interest.  Once a
letter spoke of the desirability of being an optimist.  "That word
perfectly disgusts me," he said, and his features materialized the
disgust, "just as that other word, pessimist, does; and the idea that one
can, by any effort of will, be one or the other, any more than he can
change the color of his hair.  The reason why a man is a pessimist or an
optimist is not because he wants to be, but because he was born so; and
this man [a minister of the Gospel who was going to explain life to him]
is going to tell me why he isn't a pessimist.  Oh, he'll do it, but he
won't tell the truth; he won't make it short enough."

Yet he was always patient with any one who came with spiritual messages,
theological arguments, and consolations.  He might have said to them:
"Oh, dear friends, those things of which you speak are the toys that long
ago I played with and set aside."  He could have said it and spoken the
truth; but I believe he did not even think it.  He listened to any one
for whom he had respect, and was grateful for any effort in his behalf.
One morning he read aloud a lecture given in London by George Bernard
Shaw on religion, commenting as he read.  He said:

"This letter is a frank breath of expression [and his comments were
equally frank].  There is no such thing as morality; it is not immoral
for the tiger to eat the wolf, or the wolf the cat, or the cat the bird,
and so on down; that is their business.  There is always enough for each
one to live on.  It is not immoral for one nation to seize another nation
by force of arms, or for one man to seize another man's property or life
if he is strong enough and wants to take it.  It is not immoral to create
the human species--with or without ceremony; nature intended exactly
these things."

At one place in the lecture Shaw had said: "No one of good sense can
accept any creed to-day without reservation."

"Certainly not," commented Clemens; "the reservation is that he is a d--d
fool to accept it at all."

He was in one of his somber moods that morning.  I had received a print
of a large picture of Thomas Nast--the last one taken.  The face had a
pathetic expression which told the tragedy of his last years.  Clemens
looked at the picture several moments without speaking.  Then he broke
out:

"Why can't a man die when he's had his tragedy?  I ought to have died
long ago."  And somewhat later: "Once Twichell heard me cussing the human
race, and he said, 'Why, Mark, you are the last person in the world to do
that--one selected and set apart as you are.'  I said 'Joe, you don't
know what you are talking about.  I am not cussing altogether about my
own little troubles.  Any one can stand his own misfortunes; but when I
read in the papers all about the rascalities and outrages going on I
realize what a creature the human animal is.  Don't you care more about
the wretchedness of others than anything that happens to you?' Joe said
he did, and shut up."

It occurred to me to suggest that he should not read the daily papers.
"No difference," he said.  "I read books printed two hundred years ago,
and they hurt just the same."

"Those people are all dead and gone," I objected.

"They hurt just the same," he maintained.

I sometimes thought of his inner consciousness as a pool darkened by his
tragedies, its glassy surface, when calm, reflecting all the joy and
sunlight and merriment of the world, but easily--so easily--troubled and
stirred even to violence.  Once following the dictation, when I came to
the billiard-room he was shooting the balls about the table, apparently
much depressed.  He said:

"I have been thinking it out--if I live two years more I will put an end
to it all.  I will kill myself."

"You have much to live for----"

"But I am so tired of the eternal round," he interrupted; "so tired."
And I knew he meant that he was ill of the great loneliness that had come
to him that day in Florence, and would never pass away.

I referred to the pressure of social demands in the city, and the relief
he would find in his country home.  He shook his head.

"The country home I need," he said, fiercely, "is a cemetery."

Yet the mood changed quickly enough when the play began.  He was gay and
hilarious presently, full of the humors and complexities of the game.
H. H. Rogers came in with a good deal of frequency, seldom making very
long calls, but never seeming to have that air of being hurried which one
might expect to find in a man whose day was only twenty-four hours long,
and whose interests were so vast and innumerable.  He would come in where
we were playing, and sit down and watch the game, or perhaps would pick
up a book and read, exchanging a remark now and then.  More often,
however, he sat in the bedroom, for his visits were likely to be in the
morning.  They were seldom business calls, or if they were, the business
was quickly settled, and then followed gossip, humorous incident, or
perhaps Clemens would read aloud something he had written.  But once,
after greetings, he began:

"Well, Rogers, I don't know what you think of it, but I think I have had
about enough of this world, and I wish I were out of it."

Mr. Rogers replied, "I don't say much about it, but that expresses my
view."

This from the foremost man of letters and one of the foremost financiers
of the time was impressive.  Each at the mountain-top of his career, they
agreed that the journey was not worth while--that what the world had
still to give was not attractive enough to tempt them to prevent a desire
to experiment with the next stage.  One could remember a thousand poor
and obscure men who were perfectly willing to go on struggling and
starving, postponing the day of settlement as long as possible; but
perhaps, when one has had all the world has to give, when there are no
new worlds in sight to conquer, one has a different feeling.

Well, the realization lay not so far ahead for either of them, though at
that moment they both seemed full of life and vigor--full of youth.  One
could not imagine the day when for them it would all be over.




CCLI

A LOBBYING EXPEDITION

Clara Clemens came home now and then to see how matters were progressing,
and very properly, for Clemens was likely to become involved in social
intricacies which required a directing hand.  The daughter inherited no
little of the father's characteristics of thought and phrase, and it was
always a delight to see them together when one could be just out of range
of the crossfire.  I remember soon after her return, when she was making
some searching inquiries concerning the billiard-room sign, and other
suggested or instituted reforms, he said:

"Oh well, never mind, it doesn't matter.  I'm boss in this house."

She replied, quickly: "Oh no, you're not.  You're merely owner.  I'm the
captain--the commander-in-chief."

One night at dinner she mentioned the possibility of going abroad that
year.  During several previous summers she had planned to visit Vienna to
see her old music-master, Leschetizky, once more before his death.  She
said:

"Leschetizky is getting so old.  If I don't go soon I'm afraid I sha'n't
be in time for his funeral."

"Yes," said her father, thoughtfully, "you keep rushing over to
Leschetizky's funeral, and you'll miss mine."

He had made one or two social engagements without careful reflection, and
the situation would require some delicacy of adjustment.  During a moment
between the courses, when he left the table and was taking his exercise
in the farther room, she made some remark which suggested a doubt of her
father's gift for social management.  I said:

"Oh, well, he is a king, you know, and a king can do no wrong."

"Yes, I know," she answered.  "The king can do no wrong; but he frightens
me almost to death, sometimes, he comes so near it."

He came back and began to comment rather critically on some recent
performance of Roosevelt's, which had stirred up a good deal of newspaper
amusement--it was the Storer matter and those indiscreet letters which
Roosevelt had written relative to the ambassadorship which Storer so much
desired.  Miss Clemens was inclined to defend the President, and spoke
with considerable enthusiasm concerning his elements of popularity, which
had won him such extraordinary admiration.

"Certainly he is popular," Clemens admitted, "and with the best of
reasons.  If the twelve apostles should call at the White House, he would
say, 'Come in, come in!  I am delighted to see you.  I've been watching
your progress, and I admired it very much.'  Then if Satan should come,
he would slap him on the shoulder and say, 'Why, Satan, how do you do?  I
am so glad to meet you.  I've read all your works and enjoyed every one
of them.'  Anybody could be popular with a gift like that."

It was that evening or the next, perhaps, that he said to her:

"Ben [one of his pet names for her], now that you are here to run the
ranch, Paine and I are going to Washington on a vacation.  You don't seem
to admire our society much, anyhow."

There were still other reasons for the Washington expedition.  There was
an important bill up for the extension of the book royalty period, and
the forces of copyright were going down in a body to use every possible
means to get the measure through.

Clemens, during Cleveland's first administration, some nineteen years
before, had accompanied such an expedition, and through S. S. ("Sunset")
Cox had obtained the "privileges of the floor" of the House, which had
enabled him to canvass the members individually.  Cox assured the
doorkeeper that Clemens had received the thanks of Congress for national
literary service, and was therefore entitled to that privilege.  This was
not strictly true; but regulations were not very severe in those days,
and the ruse had been regarded as a good joke, which had yielded
excellent results.  Clemens had a similar scheme in mind now, and
believed that his friendship with Speaker Cannon--" Uncle Joe"--would
obtain for him a similar privilege.  The Copyright Association working in
its regular way was very well, he said, but he felt he could do more as
an individual than by acting merely as a unit of that body.

"I canvassed the entire House personally that other time," he said.  "Cox
introduced me to the Democrats, and John D. Long, afterward Secretary of
the Navy, introduced me to the Republicans.  I had a darling time
converting those members, and I'd like to try the experiment again."

I should have mentioned earlier, perhaps, that at this time he had begun
to wear white clothing regularly, regardless of the weather and season.
On the return from Dublin he had said:

"I can't bear to put on black clothes again.  I wish I could wear white
all winter.  I should prefer, of course, to wear colors, beautiful
rainbow hues, such as the women have monopolized.  Their clothing makes a
great opera audience an enchanting spectacle, a delight to the eye and to
the spirit--a garden of Eden for charm and color.

"The men, clothed in odious black, are scattered here and there over the
garden like so many charred stumps.  If we are going to be gay in spirit,
why be clad in funeral garments?  I should like to dress in a loose and
flowing costume made all of silks and velvets resplendent with stunning
dyes, and so would every man I have ever known; but none of us dares to
venture it.  If I should appear on Fifth Avenue on a Sunday morning
clothed as I would like to be clothed the churches would all be vacant
and the congregation would come tagging after me.  They would scoff, of
course, but they would envy me, too.  When I put on black it reminds me
of my funerals.  I could be satisfied with white all the year round."

It was not long after this that he said:

"I have made up my mind not to wear black any more, but white, and let
the critics say what they will."

So his tailor was sent for, and six creamy flannel and serge suits were
ordered, made with the short coats, which he preferred, with a gray suit
or two for travel, and he did not wear black again, except for evening
dress and on special occasions.  It was a gratifying change, and though
the newspapers made much of it, there was no one who was not gladdened by
the beauty of his garments and their general harmony with his person.  He
had never worn anything so appropriate or so impressive.

This departure of costume came along a week or two before the Washington
trip, and when his bags were being packed for the excursion he was
somewhat in doubt as to the propriety of bursting upon Washington in
December in that snowy plumage.  I ventured:

"This is a lobbying expedition of a peculiar kind, and does not seem to
invite any half-way measures.  I should vote in favor of the white suit."

I think Miss Clemens was for it, too.  She must have been or the vote
wouldn't have carried, though it was clear he strongly favored the idea.
At all events, the white suits came along.

We were off the following afternoon: Howells, Robert Underwood Johnson,
one of the Appletons, one of the Putnams, George Bowker, and others were
on the train.  On the trip down in the dining-car there was a discussion
concerning the copyrighting of ideas, which finally resolved itself into
the possibility of originating a new one.  Clemens said:

"There is no such thing as a new idea.  It is impossible.  We simply take
a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope.  We
give them a turn and they make new and curious combinations.  We keep on
turning and making new combinations indefinitely; but they are the same
old pieces of colored glass that have been in use through all the ages."

We put up at the Willard, and in the morning drove over to the
Congressional Library, where the copyright hearing was in progress.
There was a joint committee of the two Houses seated round a long table
at work, and a number of spectators more or less interested in the bill,
mainly, it would seem, men concerned with the protection of mechanical
music-rolls.  The fact that this feature was mixed up with literature was
not viewed with favor by most of the writers.  Clemens referred to the
musical contingent as "those hand-organ men who ought to have a bill of
their own."

I should mention that early that morning Clemens had written this letter
to Speaker Cannon:

December 7, 1906.

DEAR UNCLE JOSEPH,--Please get me the thanks of the Congress--not next
week, but right away.  It is very necessary.  Do accomplish this for your
affectionate old friend right away; by persuasion, if you can; by
violence, if you must, for it is imperatively necessary that I get on the
floor for two or three hours and talk to the members, man by man, in
behalf of the support, encouragement, and protection of one of the
nation's most valuable assets and industries--its literature.  I have
arguments with me, also a barrel with liquid in it.

Give me a chance.  Get me the thanks of Congress.  Don't wait for others
--there isn't time.  I have stayed away and let Congress alone for
seventy-one years and I am entitled to thanks.  Congress knows it
perfectly well, and I have long felt hurt that this quite proper and
earned expression of gratitude has been merely felt by the House and
never publicly uttered.  Send me an order on the Sergeant-at-Arms quick.
When shall I come?
                    With love and a benediction;
                                                  MARK TWAIN.


We went over to the Capitol now to deliver to "Uncle Joe" this
characteristic letter.  We had picked up Clemens's nephew, Samuel E.
Moffett, at the Library, and he came along and led the way to the
Speaker's room.  Arriving there, Clemens laid off his dark overcoat and
stood there, all in white, certainly a startling figure among those
clerks, newspaper men, and incidental politicians.  He had been noticed
as he entered the Capitol, and a number of reporters had followed close
behind.  Within less than a minute word was being passed through the
corridors that Mark Twain was at the Capitol in his white suit.  The
privileged ones began to gather, and a crowd assembled in the hall
outside.

Speaker Cannon was not present at the moment; but a little later he
"billowed" in--which seems to be the word to express it--he came with
such a rush and tide of life.  After greetings, Clemens produced the
letter and read it to him solemnly, as if he were presenting a petition.
Uncle Joe listened quite seriously, his head bowed a little, as if it
were really a petition, as in fact it was.  He smiled, but he said, quite
seriously:

"That is a request that ought to be granted; but the time has gone by
when I am permitted any such liberties.  Tom Reed, when he was Speaker,
inaugurated a strict precedent excluding all outsiders from the use of
the floor of the House."

"I got in the other time," Clemens insisted.

"Yes," said Uncle Joe; "but that ain't now.  Sunset Cox could let you in,
but I can't.  They'd hang me."  He reflected a moment, and added: "I'll
tell you what I'll do: I've got a private room down-stairs that I never
use.  It's all fitted up with table and desk, stationery, chinaware, and
cutlery; you could keep house there, if you wanted to.  I'll let you have
it as long as you want to stay here, and I'll give you my private
servant, Neal, who's been here all his life and knows every official,
every Senator and Representative, and they all know him.  He'll bring you
whatever you want, and you can send in messages by him.  You can have the
members brought down singly or in bunches, and convert them as much as
you please.  I'd give you a key to the room, only I haven't got one
myself.  I never can get in when I want to, but Neal can get in, and
he'll unlock it for you.  You can have the room, and you can have Neal.
Now, will that do you?"

Clemens said it would.  It was, in fact, an offer without precedent.
Probably never in the history of the country had a Speaker given up his
private room to lobbyists.  We went in to see the House open, and then
went down with Neal and took possession of the room.  The reporters had
promptly seized upon the letter, and they now got hold of its author, led
him to their own quarters, and, gathering around him, fired questions at
him, and kept their note-books busy.  He made a great figure, all in
white there among them, and they didn't fail to realize the value of it
as "copy."  He talked about copyright, and about his white clothes, and
about a silk hat which Howells wore.

Back in the Speaker's room, at last, he began laying out the campaign,
which would begin next day.  By and by he said:

"Look here!  I believe I've got to speak over there in that committee-
room to-day or to-morrow.  I ought to know just when it is."

I had not heard of this before, and offered to go over and see about it,
which I did at once.  I hurried back faster than I had gone.

"Mr. Clemens, you are to speak in half an hour, and the room is crowded
full; people waiting to hear you."

"The devil!" he said.  "Well, all right; I'll just lie down here a few
minutes and then we'll go over.  Take paper and pencil and make a few
headings."

There was a couch in the room.  He lay down while I sat at the table with
a pencil, making headings now and then, as he suggested, and presently he
rose and, shoving the notes into his pocket, was ready.  It was half past
three when we entered the committee-room, which was packed with people
and rather dimly lighted, for it was gloomy outside.  Herbert Putnam, the
librarian, led us to seats among the literary group, and Clemens,
removing his overcoat, stood in that dim room clad as in white armor.
There was a perceptible stir.  Howells, startled for a moment, whispered:

"What in the world did he wear that white suit for?" though in his heart
he admired it as much as the others.

I don't remember who was speaking when we came in, but he was saying
nothing important.  Whoever it was, he was followed by Dr. Edward Everett
Hale, whose age always commanded respect, and whose words always invited
interest.  Then it was Mark Twain's turn.  He did not stand by his chair,
as the others had done, but walked over to the Speaker's table, and,
turning, faced his audience.  I have never seen a more impressive sight
than that snow-white figure in that dim-lit, crowded room.  He never
touched his notes; he didn't even remember them.  He began in that even,
quiet, deliberate voice of his the most even, the most quiet, the most
deliberate voice in the world--and, without a break or a hesitation for a
word, he delivered a copyright argument, full of humor and serious
reasoning, such a speech as no one in that room, I suppose, had ever
heard.  Certainly it was a fine and dramatic bit of impromptu pleading.
The weary committee, which had been tortured all day with dull,
statistical arguments made by the mechanical device fiends, and dreary
platitudes unloaded by men whose chief ambition was to shine as copyright
champions, suddenly realized that they were being rewarded for the long
waiting.  They began to brighten and freshen, and uplift and smile, like
flowers that have been wilted by a drought when comes the refreshing
shower that means renewed life and vigor.  Every listener was as if
standing on tiptoe.  When the last sentence was spoken the applause came
like an explosion.--[Howells in his book My Mark Twain speaks of
Clemens's white clothing as "an inspiration which few men would have had
the courage to act upon."  He adds:  "The first time I saw him wear it
was at the authors' hearing before the Congressional Committee on
Copyright in Washington.  Nothing could have been more dramatic than the
gesture with which he flung off his long, loose overcoat and stood forth
in white from his feet to the crown of his silvery head.  It was a
magnificent coup, and he dearly loved a coup; but the magnificent speech
which he made, tearing to shreds the venerable farrago of nonsense about
nonproperty in ideas which had formed the basis of all copyright
legislation, made you forget even his spectacularity."]

There came a universal rush of men and women to get near enough for a
word and to shake his hand.  But he was anxious to get away.  We drove to
the Willard and talked and smoked, and got ready for dinner.  He was
elated, and said the occasion required full-dress.  We started down at
last, fronted and frocked like penguins.

I did not realize then the fullness of his love for theatrical effect.
I supposed he would want to go down with as little ostentation as
possible, so took him by the elevator which enters the dining-room
without passing through the long corridor known as "Peacock Alley,"
because of its being a favorite place for handsomely dressed fashionables
of the national capital.  When we reached the entrance of the dining-room
he said:

"Isn't there another entrance to this place?"

I said there was, but that it was very conspicuous.  We should have to go
down the long corridor.

"Oh, well," he said, "I don't mind that.  Let's go back and try it
over."

So we went back up the elevator, walked to the other end of the hotel,
and came down to the F Street entrance.  There is a fine, stately flight
of steps--a really royal stair--leading from this entrance down into
"Peacock Alley."  To slowly descend that flight is an impressive thing to
do.  It is like descending the steps of a throne-room, or to some royal
landing-place where Cleopatra's barge might lie.  I confess that I was
somewhat nervous at the awfulness of the occasion, but I reflected that I
was powerfully protected; so side by side, both in full-dress, white
ties, white-silk waistcoats, and all, we came down that regal flight.

Of course he was seized upon at once by a lot of feminine admirers, and
the passage along the corridor was a perpetual gantlet.  I realize now
that this gave the dramatic finish to his day, and furnished him with
proper appetite for his dinner.  I did not again make the mistake of
taking him around to the more secluded elevator.  I aided and abetted him
every evening in making that spectacular descent of the royal stairway,
and in running that fair and frivolous gantlet the length of "Peacock
Alley."  The dinner was a continuous reception.  No sooner was he seated
than this Congressman and that Senator came over to shake hands with Mark
Twain.  Governor Francis of Missouri also came.  Eventually Howells
drifted in, and Clemens reviewed the day, its humors and successes.  Back
in the rooms at last he summed up the progress thus far--smoked, laughed
over "Uncle Joe's" surrender to the "copyright bandits," and turned in
for the night.

We were at the Capitol headquarters in Speaker Cannon's private room
about eleven o'clock next morning.  Clemens was not in the best humor
because I had allowed him to oversleep.  He was inclined to be
discouraged at the prospect, and did not believe many of the members
would come down to see him.  He expressed a wish for some person of
influence and wide acquaintance, and walked up and down, smoking
gloomily.  I slipped out and found the Speaker's colored body-guard,
Neal, and suggested that Mr. Clemens was ready now to receive the
members.

That was enough.  They began to arrive immediately.  John Sharp Williams
came first, then Boutell, from Illinois, Littlefield, of Maine, and after
them a perfect procession, including all the leading lights--Dalzell,
Champ Clark, McCall--one hundred and eighty or so in all during the next
three or four hours.

Neal announced each name at the door, and in turn I announced it to
Clemens when the press was not too great.  He had provided boxes of
cigars, and the room was presently blue with smoke, Clemens in his white
suit in the midst of it, surrounded by those darker figures--shaking
hands, dealing out copyright gospel and anecdotes--happy and wonderfully
excited.  There were chairs, but usually there was only standing room.
He was on his feet for several hours and talked continually; but when at
last it was over, and Champ Clark, who I believe remained longest and was
most enthusiastic in the movement, had bade him good-by, he declared that
he was not a particle tired, and added:

"I believe if our bill could be presented now it would pass."

He was highly elated, and pronounced everything a perfect success.  Neal,
who was largely responsible for the triumph, received a ten-dollar bill.

We drove to the hotel and dined that night with the Dodges, who had been
neighbors at Riverdale.  Later, the usual crowd of admirers gathered
around him, among them I remember the minister from Costa Rica, the
Italian minister, and others of the diplomatic service, most of whom he
had known during his European residence.  Some one told of traveling in
India and China, and how a certain Hindu "god" who had exchanged
autographs with Mark Twain during his sojourn there was familiar with
only two other American names--George Washington and Chicago; while the
King of Siam had read but three English books--the Bible, Bryce's
American Commonwealth, and The Innocents Abroad.

We were at Thomas Nelson Page's for dinner next evening--a wonderfully
beautiful home, full of art treasures.  A number of guests had been
invited.  Clemens naturally led the dinner-talk, which eventually drifted
to reading.  He told of Mrs. Clemens's embarrassment when Stepniak had
visited them and talked books, and asked her what her husband thought of
Balzac, Thackeray, and the others.  She had been obliged to say that he
had not read them.

"'How interesting!' said Stepniak.  But it wasn't interesting to Mrs.
Clemens.  It was torture."

He was light-spirited and gay; but recalling Mrs. Clemens saddened him,
perhaps, for he was silent as we drove to the hotel, and after he was in
bed he said, with a weary despair which even the words do not convey:

"If I had been there a minute earlier, it is possible--it is possible
that she might have died in my arms.  Sometimes I think that perhaps
there was an instant--a single instant--when she realized that she was
dying and that I was not there."

In New York I had once brought him a print of the superb "Adams
Memorial," by Saint-Gaudens--the bronze woman who sits in the still court
in the Rock Creek Cemetery at Washington.

On the morning following the Page dinner at breakfast, he said:

"Engage a carriage and we will drive out and see the Saint-Gaudens
bronze."

It was a bleak, dull December day, and as we walked down through the
avenues of the dead there was a presence of realized sorrow that seemed
exactly suited to such a visit.  We entered the little inclosure of
cedars where sits the dark figure which is art's supreme expression of
the great human mystery of life and death.  Instinctively we removed our
hats, and neither spoke until after we had come away.  Then:

"What does he call it?" he asked.

I did not know, though I had heard applied to it that great line of
Shakespeare's--"the rest is silence."

"But that figure is not silent," he said.

And later, as we were driving home:

"It is in deep meditation on sorrowful things."

When we returned to New York he had the little print framed, and kept it
always on his mantelpiece.




CCLII

THEOLOGY AND EVOLUTION

From the Washington trip dates a period of still closer association with
Mark Twain.  On the way to New York he suggested that I take up residence
in his house--a privilege which I had no wish to refuse.  There was room
going to waste, he said, and it would be handier for the early and late
billiard sessions.  So, after that, most of the days and nights I was
there.

Looking back on that time now, I see pretty vividly three quite distinct
pictures.  One of them, the rich, red interior of the billiard-room with
the brilliant, green square in the center, on which the gay balls are
rolling, and bending over it that luminous white figure in the instant of
play.  Then there is the long, lighted drawing-room with the same figure
stretched on a couch in the corner, drowsily smoking, while the rich
organ tones fill the place summoning for him scenes and faces which
others do not see.  This was the hour between dinner and billiards--the
hour which he found most restful of the day.  Sometimes he rose, walking
the length of the parlors, his step timed to the music and his thought.
Of medium height, he gave the impression of being tall-his head thrown
up, and like a lion's, rather large for his body.  But oftener he lay
among the cushions, the light flooding his white hair and dress and
heightening his brilliant coloring.

The third picture is that of the dinner-table--always beautifully laid,
and always a shrine of wisdom when he was there.  He did not always talk;
but it was his habit to do so, and memory holds the clearer vision of him
when, with eyes and face alive with interest, he presented some new angle
of thought in fresh picturesqueness of speech.  These are the pictures
that have remained to me out of the days spent under his roof, and they
will not fade while memory lasts.

Of Mark Twain's table philosophies it seems proper to make rather
extended record.  They were usually unpremeditated, and they presented
the man as he was, and thought.  I preserved as much of them as I could,
and have verified phrase and idea, when possible, from his own notes and
other unprinted writings.

This dinner-table talk naturally varied in character from that of the
billiard-room.  The latter was likely to be anecdotal and personal; the
former was more often philosophical and commentative, ranging through a
great variety of subjects scientific, political, sociological, and
religious.  His talk was often of infinity--the forces of creation--and
it was likely to be satire of the orthodox conceptions, intermingled with
heresies of his own devising.

Once, after a period of general silence, he said:

"No one who thinks can imagine the universe made by chance.  It is too
nicely assembled and regulated.  There is, of course, a great Master
Mind, but it cares nothing for our happiness or our unhappiness."

It was objected, by one of those present, that as the Infinite Mind
suggested perfect harmony, sorrow and suffering were defects which that
Mind must feel and eventually regulate.

"Yes," he said, "not a sparrow falls but He is noticing, if that is what
you mean; but the human conception of it is that God is sitting up nights
worrying over the individuals of this infinitesimal race."

Then he recalled a fancy which I have since found among his memoranda.
In this note he had written:

     The suns & planets that form the constellations of a billion billion
     solar systems & go pouring, a tossing flood of shining globes,
     through the viewless arteries of space are the blood-corpuscles in
     the veins of God; & the nations are the microbes that swarm and
     wiggle & brag in each, & think God can tell them apart at that
     distance & has nothing better to do than try.  This--the
     entertainment of an eternity.  Who so poor in his ambitions as to
     consent to be God on those terms?  Blasphemy?  No, it is not
     blasphemy.  If God is as vast as that, He is above blasphemy; if He
     is as little as that, He is beneath it.

"The Bible," he said, "reveals the character of its God with minute
exactness.  It is a portrait of a man, if one can imagine a man with evil
impulses far beyond the human limit.  In the Old Testament He is pictured
as unjust, ungenerous, pitiless, and revengeful, punishing innocent
children for the misdeeds of their parents; punishing unoffending people
for the sins of their rulers, even descending to bloody vengeance upon
harmless calves and sheep as punishment for puny trespasses committed by
their proprietors.  It is the most damnatory biography that ever found
its way into print.  Its beginning is merely childish.  Adam is forbidden
to eat the fruit of a certain tree, and gravely informed that if he
disobeys he shall die.  How could that impress Adam?  He could have no
idea of what death meant.  He had never seen a dead thing.  He had never
heard of one.  If he had been told that if he ate the apples he would be
turned into a meridian of longitude that threat would have meant just as
much as the other one.  The watery intellect that invented that notion
could be depended on to go on and decree that all of Adam's descendants
down to the latest day should be punished for that nursery trespass in
the beginning.

"There is a curious poverty of invention in Bibles.  Most of the great
races each have one, and they all show this striking defect.  Each
pretends to originality, without possessing any.  Each of them borrows
from the other, confiscates old stage properties, puts them forth as
fresh and new inspirations from on high.  We borrowed the Golden Rule
from Confucius, after it had seen service for centuries, and copyrighted
it without a blush.  We went back to Babylon for the Deluge, and are as
proud of it and as satisfied with it as if it had been worth the trouble;
whereas we know now that Noah's flood never happened, and couldn't have
happened--not in that way.  The flood is a favorite with Bible-makers.
Another favorite with the founders of religions is the Immaculate
Conception.  It had been worn threadbare; but we adopted it as a new
idea.  It was old in Egypt several thousand years before Christ was born.
The Hindus prized it ages ago.  The Egyptians adopted it even for some of
their kings.  The Romans borrowed the idea from Greece.  We got it
straight from heaven by way of Rome.  We are still charmed with it."

He would continue in this strain, rising occasionally and walking about
the room.  Once, considering the character of God--the Bible God-he said:

"We haven't been satisfied with God's character as it is given in the Old
Testament; we have amended it.  We have called Him a God of mercy and
love and morals.  He didn't have a single one of those qualities in the
beginning.  He didn't hesitate to send the plagues on Egypt, the most
fiendish punishments that could be devised--not for the king, but for his
innocent subjects, the women and the little children, and then only to
exhibit His power just to show off--and He kept hardening Pharaoh's heart
so that He could send some further ingenuity of torture, new rivers of
blood, and swarms of vermin and new pestilences, merely to exhibit
samples of His workmanship.  Now and then, during the forty years'
wandering, Moses persuaded Him to be a little more lenient with the
Israelites, which would show that Moses was the better character of the
two.  That Old Testament God never had an inspiration of His own."

He referred to the larger conception of God, that Infinite Mind which had
projected the universe.  He said:

"In some details that Old Bible God is probably a more correct picture
than our conception of that Incomparable One that created the universe
and flung upon its horizonless ocean of space those giant suns, whose
signal-lights are so remote that we only catch their flash when it has
been a myriad of years on its way.  For that Supreme One is not a God of
pity or mercy--not as we recognize these qualities.  Think of a God of
mercy who would create the typhus germ, or the house-fly, or the
centipede, or the rattlesnake, yet these are all His handiwork.  They are
a part of the Infinite plan.  The minister is careful to explain that all
these tribulations are sent for a good purpose; but he hires a doctor to
destroy the fever germ, and he kills the rattlesnake when he doesn't run
from it, and he sets paper with molasses on it for the house-fly.

"Two things are quite certain: one is that God, the limitless God,
manufactured those things, for no man could have done it.  The man has
never lived who could create even the humblest of God's creatures.  The
other conclusion is that God has no special consideration for man's
welfare or comfort, or He wouldn't have created those things to disturb
and destroy him.  The human conception of pity and morality must be
entirely unknown to that Infinite God, as much unknown as the conceptions
of a microbe to man, or at least as little regarded.

"If God ever contemplates those qualities in man He probably admires
them, as we always admire the thing which we do not possess ourselves;
probably a little grain of pity in a man or a little atom of mercy would
look as big to Him as a constellation.  He could create a constellation
with a thought; but He has been all the measureless ages, and He has
never acquired those qualities that we have named--pity and mercy and
morality.  He goes on destroying a whole island of people with an
earthquake, or a whole cityful with a plague, when we punish a man in the
electric chair for merely killing the poorest of our race.  The human
being needs to revise his ideas again about God.  Most of the scientists
have done it already; but most of them don't dare to say so."

He pointed out that the moral idea was undergoing constant change; that
what was considered justifiable in an earlier day was regarded as highly
immoral now.  He pointed out that even the Decalogue made no reference to
lying, except in the matter of bearing false witness against a neighbor.
Also, that there was a commandment against covetousness, though
covetousness to-day was the basis of all commerce: The general conclusion
being that the morals of the Lord had been the morals of the beginning;
the morals of the first-created man, the morals of the troglodyte, the
morals of necessity; and that the morals of mankind had kept pace with
necessity, whereas those of the Lord had remained unchanged.  It is
hardly necessary to say that no one ever undertook to contradict any
statements of this sort from him.  In the first place, there was no
desire to do so; and in the second place, any one attempting it would
have cut a puny figure with his less substantial arguments and his less
vigorous phrase.  It was the part of wisdom and immeasurably the part of
happiness to be silent and listen.

On another evening he began:

"The mental evolution of the species proceeds apparently by regular
progress side by side with the physical development until it comes to
man, then there is a long, unexplained gulf.  Somewhere man acquired an
asset which sets him immeasurably apart from the other animals--his
imagination.  Out of it he created for himself a conscience, and clothes,
and immodesty, and a hereafter, and a soul.  I wonder where he got that
asset.  It almost makes one agree with Alfred Russel Wallace that the
world and the universe were created just for his benefit, that he is the
chief love and delight of God.  Wallace says that the whole universe was
made to take care of and to keep steady this little floating mote in the
center of it, which we call the world.  It looks like a good deal of
trouble for such a small result; but it's dangerous to dispute with a
learned astronomer like Wallace.  Still, I don't think we ought to decide
too soon about it--not until the returns are all in.  There is the
geological evidence, for instance.  Even after the universe was created,
it took a long time to prepare the world for man.  Some of the
scientists, ciphering out the evidence furnished by geology, have arrived
at the conviction that the world is prodigiously old.  Lord Kelvin
doesn't agree with them.  He says that it isn't more than a hundred
million years old, and he thinks the human race has inhabited it about
thirty thousand years of that time.  Even so, it was 99,970,000 years
getting ready, impatient as the Creator doubtless was to see man and
admire him.  That was because God first had to make the oyster.  You
can't make an oyster out of nothing, nor you can't do it in a day.
You've got to start with a vast variety of invertebrates, belemnites,
trilobites, jebusites, amalekites, and that sort of fry, and put them
into soak in a primary sea and observe and wait what will happen.  Some
of them will turn out a disappointment; the belemnites and the amalekites
and such will be failures, and they will die out and become extinct in
the course of the nineteen million years covered by the experiment; but
all is not lost, for the amalekites will develop gradually into
encrinites and stalactites and blatherskites, and one thing and another,
as the mighty ages creep on and the periods pile their lofty crags in the
primordial seas, and at last the first grand stage in the preparation of
the world for man stands completed; the oyster is done.  Now an oyster
has hardly any more reasoning power than a man has, so it is probable
this one jumped to the conclusion that the nineteen million years was a
preparation for him.  That would be just like an oyster, and, anyway,
this one could not know at that early date that he was only an incident
in a scheme, and that there was some more to the scheme yet.

"The oyster being finished, the next step in the preparation of the world
for man was fish.  So the old Silurian seas were opened up to breed the
fish in.  It took twenty million years to make the fish and to fossilize
him so we'd have the evidence later.

"Then, the Paleozoic limit having been reached, it was necessary to start
a new age to make the reptiles.  Man would have to have some reptiles--
not to eat, but to develop himself from.  Thirty million years were
required for the reptiles, and out of such material as was left were made
those stupendous saurians that used to prowl about the steamy world in
remote ages, with their snaky heads forty feet in the air and their sixty
feet of body and tail racing and thrashing after them.  They are all gone
now, every one of them; just a few fossil remnants of them left on this
far-flung fringe of time.

"It took all those years to get one of those creatures properly
constructed to proceed to the next step.  Then came the pterodactyl, who
thought all that preparation all those millions of years had been
intended to produce him, for there wasn't anything too foolish for a,
pterodactyl to imagine.  I suppose he did attract a good deal of
attention, for even the least observant could see that there was the
making of a bird in him, also the making of a mammal, in the course of
time.  You can't say too much for the picturesqueness of the pterodactyl
--he was the triumph of his period.  He wore wings and had teeth, and was
a starchy-looking creature.  But the progression went right along.

"During the next thirty million years the bird arrived, and the kangaroo,
and by and by the mastodon, and the giant sloth, and the Irish elk, and
the old Silurian ass, and some people thought that man was about due.
But that was a mistake, for the next thing they knew there came a great
ice-sheet, and those creatures all escaped across the Bering Strait and
wandered around in Asia and died, all except a few to carry on the
preparation with.  There were six of those glacial periods, with two
million years or so between each.  They chased those poor orphans up and
down the earth, from weather to weather, from tropic temperature to fifty
degrees below.  They never knew what kind of weather was going to turn up
next, and if they settled any place the whole continent suddenly sank
from under them, and they had to make a scramble for dry land.  Sometimes
a volcano would turn itself loose just as they got located.  They led
that uncertain, strenuous existence for about twenty-five million years,
always wondering what was going to happen next, never suspecting that it
was just a preparation for man, who had to be done just so or there
wouldn't be any proper or harmonious place for him when he arrived, and
then at last the monkey came, and everybody could see at a glance that
man wasn't far off now, and that was true enough.  The monkey went on
developing for close upon five million years, and then he turned into a
man--to all appearances.

"It does look like a lot of fuss and trouble to go through to build
anything, especially a human being, and nowhere along the way is there
any evidence of where he picked up that final asset--his imagination.  It
makes him different from the others--not any better, but certainly
different.  Those earlier animals didn't have it, and the monkey hasn't
it or he wouldn't be so cheerful."

     [Paine records Twain's thoughts in that magnificent essay: "Was the
     World Made for Man" published long after his death in the group of
     essays under the title "Letters from the Earth.  There are minor
     additions in the published version: 'coal' to fry the fish in; and
     the remnants of life being chased from pole to pole "without a dry
     rag on them,"; and the coat of paint on the top of the bulb on top
     of the Eiffel Tower representing man's portion of this world's
     history."  D.W.]

He often held forth on the shortcomings of the human race--always a
favorite subject--the incompetencies and imperfections of this final
creation, in spite of, or because of, his great attribute--the
imagination.  Once (this was in the billiard-room) I started him by
saying that whatever the conditions in other planets, there seemed no
reason why life should not develop in each, adapted as perfectly to
prevailing conditions as man is suited to conditions here.  He said:

"Is it your idea, then, that man is perfectly adapted to the conditions
of this planet?"

I began to qualify, rather weakly; but what I said did not matter.  He
was off on his favorite theme.

"Man adapted to the earth?" he said.  "Why, he can't sleep out-of-doors
without freezing to death or getting the rheumatism or the malaria; he
can't keep his nose under water over a minute without being drowned; he
can't climb a tree without falling out and breaking his neck.  Why, he's
the poorest, clumsiest excuse of all the creatures that inhabit this
earth.  He has got to be coddled and housed and swathed and bandaged and
up holstered to be able to live at all.  He is a rickety sort of a thing,
anyway you take him, a regular British Museum of infirmities and
inferiorities.  He is always under going repairs.  A machine that is as
unreliable as he is would have no market.  The higher animals get their
teeth without pain or inconvenience.  The original cave man, the
troglodyte, may have got his that way.  But now they come through months
and months of cruel torture, and at a time of life when he is least able
to bear it.  As soon as he gets them they must all be pulled out again,
for they were of no value in the first place, not worth the loss of a
night's rest.  The second set will answer for a while; but he will never
get a set that can be depended on until the dentist makes one.  The
animals are not much troubled that way.  In a wild state, a natural
state, they have few diseases; their main one is old age.  But man starts
in as a child and lives on diseases to the end as a regular diet.  He has
mumps, measles, whooping-cough, croup, tonsilitis, diphtheria, scarlet-
fever, as a matter of course.  Afterward, as he goes along, his life
continues to be threatened at every turn by colds, coughs, asthma,
bronchitis, quinsy, consumption, yellow-fever, blindness, influenza,
carbuncles, pneumonia, softening of the brain, diseases of the heart and
bones, and a thousand other maladies of one sort and another.  He's just
a basketful of festering, pestilent corruption, provided for the support
and entertainment of microbes.  Look at the workmanship of him in some of
its particulars.  What are his tonsils for?  They perform no useful
function; they have no value.  They are but a trap for tonsilitis and
quinsy.  And what is the appendix for?  It has no value.  Its sole
interest is to lie and wait for stray grape-seeds and breed trouble.
What is his beard for?  It is just a nuisance.  All nations persecute it
with the razor.  Nature, however, always keeps him supplied with it,
instead of putting it on his head, where it ought to be.  You seldom see
a man bald-headed on his chin, but on his head.  A man wants to keep his
hair.  It is a graceful ornament, a comfort, the best of all protections
against weather, and he prizes it above emeralds and rubies, and Nature
half the time puts it on so it won't stay.

"Man's sight and smell and hearing are all inferior.  If he were suited
to the conditions he could smell an enemy; he could hear him; he could
see him, just as the animals can detect their enemies.  The robin hears
the earthworm burrowing his course under the ground; the bloodhound
follows a scent that is two days old.  Man isn't even handsome, as
compared with the birds; and as for style, look at the Bengal tiger--that
ideal of grace, physical perfection, and majesty.  Think of the lion and
the tiger and the leopard, and then think of man--that poor thing!--the
animal of the wig, the ear-trumpet, the glass eye, the porcelain teeth,
the wooden leg, the trepanned skull, the silver wind-pipe--a creature
that is mended and patched all over from top to bottom.  If he can't get
renewals of his bric-a-brac in the next world what will he look like?  He
has just that one stupendous superiority--his imagination, his intellect.
It makes him supreme--the higher animals can't match him there.  It's
very curious."

A letter which he wrote to J. Howard Moore concerning his book The
Universal Kinship was of this period, and seems to belong here.

     DEAR MR. MOORE, The book has furnished me several days of deep
     pleasure & satisfaction; it has compelled my gratitude at the same
     time, since it saves me the labor of stating my own long-cherished
     opinions & reflections & resentments by doing it lucidly & fervently
     & irascibly for me.

     There is one thing that always puzzles me: as inheritors of the
     mentality of our reptile ancestors we have improved the inheritance
     by a thousand grades; but in the matter of the morals which they
     left us we have gone backward as many grades.  That evolution is
     strange & to me unaccountable & unnatural.  Necessarily we started
     equipped with their perfect and blemishless morals; now we are
     wholly destitute; we have no real morals, but only artificial ones--
     morals created and preserved by the forced suppression of natural &
     healthy instincts.  Yes, we are a sufficiently comical invention, we
     humans.

                    Sincerely yours,
                                             S. L.  CLEMENS.




CCLIII

AN EVENING WITH HELEN KELLER

I recall two pleasant social events of that winter: one a little party
given at the Clemenses' home on New-Year's Eve, with charades and story-
telling and music.  It was the music feature of this party that was
distinctive; it was supplied by wire through an invention known as the
telharmonium which, it was believed, would revolutionize musical
entertainment in such places as hotels, and to some extent in private
houses.  The music came over the regular telephone wire, and was
delivered through a series of horns or megaphones--similar to those used
for phonographs--the playing being done, meanwhile, by skilled performers
at the central station.  Just why the telharmonium has not made good its
promises of popularity I do not know.  Clemens was filled with enthusiasm
over the idea.  He made a speech a little before midnight, in which he
told how he had generally been enthusiastic about inventions which had
turned out more or less well in about equal proportions.  He did not
dwell on the failures, but he told how he had been the first to use a
typewriter for manuscript work; how he had been one of the earliest users
of the fountain-pen; how he had installed the first telephone ever used
in a private house, and how the audience now would have a demonstration
of the first telharmonium music so employed.  It was just about the
stroke of midnight when he finished, and a moment later the horns began
to play chimes and "Auld Lang Syne" and "America."

The other pleasant evening referred to was a little company given in
honor of Helen Keller.  It was fascinating to watch her, and to realize
with what a store of knowledge she had lighted the black silence of her
physical life.  To see Mark Twain and Helen Keller together was something
not easily to be forgotten.  When Mrs. Macy (who, as Miss Sullivan, had
led her so marvelously out of the shadows) communicated his words to her
with what seemed a lightning touch of the fingers her face radiated every
shade of his meaning-humorous, serious, pathetic.  Helen visited the
various objects in the room, and seemed to enjoy them more than the usual
observer of these things, and certainly in greater detail.  Her sensitive
fingers spread over articles of bric-a-brac, and the exclamations she
uttered were always fitting, showing that she somehow visualized each
thing in all its particulars.  There was a bronze cat of handsome
workmanship and happy expression, and when she had run those all--seeing
fingers of hers over it she said: "It is smiling."




CCLIV

BILLIARD-ROOM NOTES

The billiard games went along pretty steadily that winter.  My play
improved, and Clemens found it necessary to eliminate my odds altogether,
and to change the game frequently in order to keep me in subjection.
Frequently there were long and apparently violent arguments over the
legitimacy of some particular shot or play--arguments to us quite as
enjoyable as the rest of the game.  Sometimes he would count a shot which
was clearly out of the legal limits, and then it was always a delight to
him to have a mock-serious discussion over the matter of conscience, and
whether or not his conscience was in its usual state of repair.  It would
always end by him saying: "I don't wish even to seem to do anything which
can invite suspicion.  I refuse to count that shot," or something of like
nature. Sometimes when I had let a questionable play pass without
comment, he would watch anxiously until I had made a similar one and then
insist on my scoring it to square accounts.  His conscience was always
repairing itself.

He had experimented, a great many years before, with what was in the
nature of a trick on some unsuspecting player.  It consisted in turning
out twelve pool-balls on the table with one cue ball, and asking his
guest how many caroms he thought he could make with all those twelve
balls to play on.  He had learned that the average player would seldom
make more than thirty-one counts, and usually, before this number was
reached, he would miss through some careless play or get himself into a
position where he couldn't play at all.  The thing looked absurdly easy.
It looked as if one could go on playing all day long, and the victim was
usually eager to bet that he could make fifty or perhaps a hundred; but
for more than an hour I tried it patiently, and seldom succeeded in
scoring more than fifteen or twenty without missing.  Long after the play
itself ceased to be amusing to me, he insisted on my going on and trying
it some more, and he would throw himself back and roar with laughter, the
tears streaming down his cheeks, to see me work and fume and fail.

It was very soon after that that Peter Dunne ("Mr. Dooley") came down for
luncheon, and after several games of the usual sort, Clemens quietly--as
if the idea had just occurred to him--rolled out the twelve balls and
asked Dunne how, many caroms he thought he could make without a miss.
Dunne said he thought he could make a thousand.  Clemens quite
indifferently said that he didn't believe he could make fifty.  Dunne
offered to bet five dollars that he could, and the wager was made.  Dunne
scored about twenty-five the first time and missed; then he insisted on
betting five dollars again, and his defeats continued until Clemens had
twenty-five dollars of Dunne's money, and Dunne was sweating and
swearing, and Mark Twain rocking with delight.  Dunne went away still
unsatisfied, promising that he would come back and try it again.  Perhaps
he practised in his absence, for when he returned he had learned
something.  He won his twenty-five dollars back, and I think something
more added.  Mark Twain was still ahead, for Dunne furnished him with a
good five hundred dollars' worth of amusement.

Clemens never cared to talk and never wished to be talked to when the
game was actually in progress.  If there was anything to be said on
either side, he would stop and rest his cue on the floor, or sit down on
the couch, until the matter was concluded.  Such interruptions happened
pretty frequently, and many of the bits of personal comment and incident
scattered along through this work are the result of those brief rests.
Some shot, or situation, or word would strike back through the past and
awaken a note long silent, and I generally kept a pad and pencil on the
window-sill with the score-sheet, and later, during his play, I would
scrawl some reminder that would be precious by and by.

On one of these I find a memorandum of what he called his three recurrent
dreams.  All of us have such things, but his seem worth remembering.

"There is never a month passes," he said, "that I do not dream of being
in reduced circumstances, and obliged to go back to the river to earn a
living.  It is never a pleasant dream, either.  I love to think about
those days; but there's always something sickening about the thought that
I have been obliged to go back to them; and usually in my dream I am just
about to start into a black shadow without being able to tell whether it
is Selma bluff, or Hat Island, or only a black wall of night.

"Another dream that I have of that kind is being compelled to go back to
the lecture platform.  I hate that dream worse than the other.  In it I
am always getting up before an audience with nothing to say, trying to be
funny; trying to make the audience laugh, realizing that I am only making
silly jokes.  Then the audience realizes it, and pretty soon they
commence to get up and leave.  That dream always ends by my standing
there in the semidarkness talking to an empty house.

"My other dream is of being at a brilliant gathering in my night-
garments.  People don't seem to notice me there at first, and then pretty
soon somebody points me out, and they all begin to look at me
suspiciously, and I can see that they are wondering who I am and why I am
there in that costume.  Then it occurs to me that I can fix it by making
myself known.  I take hold of some man and whisper to him, 'I am Mark
Twain'; but that does not improve it, for immediately I can hear him
whispering to the others, 'He says he is Mark Twain,' and they all look
at me a good deal more suspiciously than before, and I can see that they
don't believe it, and that it was a mistake to make that confession.
Sometimes, in that dream, I am dressed like a tramp instead of being in
my night-clothes; but it all ends about the same--they go away and leave
me standing there, ashamed.  I generally enjoy my dreams, but not those
three, and they are the ones I have oftenest."

Quite often some curious episode of the world's history would flash upon
him--something amusing, or coarse, or tragic, and he would bring the game
to a standstill and recount it with wonderful accuracy as to date and
circumstance.  He had a natural passion for historic events and a gift
for mentally fixing them, but his memory in other ways was seldom
reliable.  He was likely to forget the names even of those he knew best
and saw oftenest, and the small details of life seldom registered at all.

He had his breakfast served in his room, and once, on a slip of paper, he
wrote, for his own reminder:

The accuracy of your forgetfulness is absolute--it seems never to fail.
I prepare to pour my coffee so it can cool while I shave--and I always
forget to pour it.

Yet, very curiously, he would sometimes single out a minute detail,
something every one else had overlooked, and days or even weeks afterward
would recall it vividly, and not always at an opportune moment.  Perhaps
this also was a part of his old pilot-training.  Once Clara Clemens
remarked:

"It always amazes me the things that father does and does not remember.
Some little trifle that nobody else would notice, and you are hoping that
he didn't, will suddenly come back to him just when you least expect it
or care for it."

My note-book contains the entry:

     February 11, 1907.  He said to-day:

     "A blindfolded chess-player can remember every play and discuss the
     game afterward, while we can't remember from one shot to the next."

     I mentioned his old pilot-memory as an example of what he could do
     if he wished.

     "Yes," he answered, "those are special memories; a pilot will tell
     you the number of feet in every crossing at any time, but he can't
     remember what he had for breakfast."

     "How long did you keep your pilot-memory?" I asked.

     "Not long; it faded out right away, but the training served me, for
     when I went to report on a paper a year or two later I never had to
     make any notes."

     "I suppose you still remember some of the river?"

     "Not much.  Hat Island, Helena and here and there a place; but that
     is about all."




CCLV

FURTHER PERSONALITIES

Like every person living, Mark Twain had some peculiar and petty
economies.  Such things in great men are noticeable.  He lived
extravagantly.  His household expenses at the time amounted to more than
fifty dollars a day.  In the matter of food, the choicest, and most
expensive the market could furnish was always served in lavish abundance.
He had the best and highest-priced servants, ample as to number.  His
clothes he bought generously; he gave without stint to his children; his
gratuities were always liberal.  He never questioned pecuniary outgoes--
seldom worried as to the state of his bank-account so long as there was
plenty.  He smoked cheap cigars because he preferred their flavor.  Yet
he had his economies.  I have seen him, before leaving a room, go around
and carefully lower the gas-jets, to provide against that waste.  I have
known him to examine into the cost of a cab, and object to an apparent
overcharge of a few cents.

It seemed that his idea of economy might be expressed in these words: He
abhorred extortion and visible waste.

Furthermore, he had exact ideas as to ownership.  One evening, while we
were playing billiards, I noticed a five-cent piece on the floor.  I
picked it up, saying:

"Here is five cents; I don't know whose it is."

He regarded the coin rather seriously, I thought, and said:

"I don't know, either."

I laid it on the top of the book-shelves which ran around the room.  The
play went on, and I forgot the circumstance.  When the game ended that
night I went into his room with him, as usual, for a good-night word.  As
he took his change and keys from the pocket of his trousers, he looked
the assortment over and said:

"That five-cent piece you found was mine."

I brought it to him at once, and he took it solemnly, laid it with the
rest of his change, and neither of us referred to it again.  It may have
been one of his jokes, but I think it more likely that he remembered
having had a five-cent piece, probably reserved for car fare, and that it
was missing.

More than once, in Washington, he had said:

"Draw plenty of money for incidental expenses.  Don't bother to keep
account of them."

So it was not miserliness; it was just a peculiarity, a curious attention
to a trifling detail.

He had a fondness for riding on the then newly completed Subway, which he
called the Underground.  Sometimes he would say:

"I'll pay your fare on the Underground if you want to take a ride with
me."  And he always insisted on paying the fare, and once when I rode far
up-town with him to a place where he was going to luncheon, and had taken
him to the door, he turned and said, gravely:

"Here is five cents to pay your way home."  And I took it in the same
spirit in which it had been offered.  It was probably this trait which
caused some one occasionally to claim that Mark Twain was close in money
matters.  Perhaps there may have been times in his life when he was
parsimonious; but, if so, I must believe that it was when he was sorely
pressed and exercising the natural instinct of self-preservation.  He
wished to receive the full value (who does not?) of his labors and
properties.  He took a childish delight in piling up money; but it became
greed only when he believed some one with whom he had dealings was trying
to get an unfair division of profits.  Then it became something besides
greed.  It became an indignation that amounted to malevolence.  I was
concerned in a number of dealings with Mark Twain, and at a period in his
life when human traits are supposed to become exaggerated, which is to
say old age, and if he had any natural tendency to be unfair, or small,
or greedy in his money dealings I think I should have seen it.
Personally, I found him liberal to excess, and I never observed in him
anything less than generosity to those who were fair with him.

Once that winter, when a letter came from Steve Gillis saying that he was
an invalid now, and would have plenty of tune to read Sam's books if he
owned them, Clemens ordered an expensive set from his publishers, and did
what meant to him even more than the cost in money--he autographed each
of those twenty-five volumes.  Then he sent them, charges paid, to that
far Californian retreat.  It was hardly the act of a stingy man.

He had the human fondness for a compliment when it was genuine and from
an authoritative source, and I remember how pleased he was that winter
with Prof. William Lyon Phelps's widely published opinion, which ranked
Mark Twain as the greatest American novelist, and declared that his fame
would outlive any American of his time.  Phelps had placed him above
Holmes, Howells, James, and even Hawthorne.  He had declared him to be
more American than any of these--more American even than Whitman.
Professor Phelps's position in Yale College gave this opinion a certain
official weight; but I think the fact of Phelps himself being a writer of
great force, with an American freshness of style, gave it a still greater
value.

Among the pleasant things that winter was a meeting with Eugene F. Ware,
of Kansas, with whose penname--"Ironquill"--Clemens had long been
familiar.

Ware was a breezy Western genius of the finest type.  If he had abandoned
law for poetry, there is no telling how far his fame might have reached.
There was in his work that same spirit of Americanism and humor and
humanity that is found in Mark Twain's writings, and he had the added
faculty of rhyme and rhythm, which would have set him in a place apart.
I had known Ware personally during a period of Western residence, and
later, when he was Commissioner of Pensions under Roosevelt.  I usually
saw him when he came to New York, and it was a great pleasure now to
bring together the two men whose work I so admired.  They met at a small
private luncheon at The Players, and Peter Dunne was there, and Robert
Collier, and it was such an afternoon as Howells has told of when he and
Aldrich and Bret Harte and those others talked until the day faded into
twilight, and twilight deepened into evening.  Clemens had put in most of
the day before reading Ware's book of poems, 'The Rhymes of Ironquill',
and had declared his work to rank with the very greatest of American
poetry--I think he called it the most truly American in flavor.  I
remember that at the luncheon he noted Ware's big, splendid physique and
his Western liberties of syntax with a curious intentness.  I believe he
regarded him as being nearer his own type in mind and expression than any
one he had met before.

Among Ware's poems he had been especially impressed with the "Fables,"
and with some verses entitled "Whist," which, though rather more
optimistic, conformed to his own philosophy.  They have a distinctly
"Western" feeling.

                                 WHIST
            Hour after hour the cards were fairly shuffled,
               And fairly dealt, and still I got no hand;
             The morning came; but I, with mind unruffled,
                 Did simply say, "I do not understand."
             Life is a game of whist.  From unseen sources
            The cards are shuffled, and the hands are dealt.
              Blind are our efforts to control the forces
            That, though unseen, are no less strongly felt.
             I do not like the way the cards are shuffled,
              But still I like the game and want to play;
          And through the long, long night will I, unruffled,
                Play what I get, until the break of day.




End of this Project Gutenberg Etext Volume 3, Part 1 of MARK TWAIN,
A BIOGRAPHY by Albert Bigelow Paine






MARK TWAIN, A BIOGRAPHY

By Albert Bigelow Paine



VOLUME III, Part 2: 1907-1910



CCLVI

HONORS FROM OXFORD

Clemens made a brief trip to Bermuda during the winter, taking Twichell
along; their first return to the island since the trip when they had
promised to come back so soon-nearly thirty years before.  They had been
comparatively young men then.  They were old now, but they found the
green island as fresh and full of bloom as ever.  They did not find their
old landlady; they could not even remember her name at first, and then
Twichell recalled that it was the same as an author of certain
schoolbooks in his youth, and Clemens promptly said, "Kirkham's Grammar."
Kirkham was truly the name, and they went to find her; but she was dead,
and the daughter, who had been a young girl in that earlier time, reigned
in her stead and entertained the successors of her mother's guests.  They
walked and drove about the island, and it was like taking up again a
long-discontinued book and reading another chapter of the same tale.  It
gave Mark Twain a fresh interest in Bermuda, one which he did not allow
to fade again.

Later in the year (March, 1907) I also made a journey; it having been
agreed that I should take a trip to the Mississippi and to the Pacific
coast to see those old friends of Mark Twain's who were so rapidly
passing away.  John Briggs was still alive, and other Hannibal
schoolmates; also Joe Goodman and Steve Gillis, and a few more of the
early pioneers--all eminently worth seeing in the matter of such work as
I had in hand.  The billiard games would be interrupted; but whatever
reluctance to the plan there may have been on that account was put aside
in view of prospective benefits.  Clemens, in fact, seemed to derive joy
from the thought that he was commissioning a kind of personal emissary to
his old comrades, and provided me with a letter of credentials.

It was a long, successful trip that I made, and it was undertaken none
too soon.  John Briggs, a gentle-hearted man, was already entering the
valley of the shadow as he talked to me by his fire one memorable
afternoon, and reviewed the pranks of those days along the river and in
the cave and on Holliday's Hill.  I think it was six weeks later that he
died; and there were others of that scattering procession who did not
reach the end of the year.  Joe Goodman, still full of vigor (in 1912),
journeyed with me to the green and dreamy solitudes of Jackass Hill to
see Steve and Jim Gillis, and that was an unforgetable Sunday when Steve
Gillis, an invalid, but with the fire still in his eyes and speech, sat
up on his couch in his little cabin in that Arcadian stillness and told
old tales and adventures.  When I left he said:

"Tell Sam I'm going to die pretty soon, but that I love him; that I've
loved him all my life, and I'll love him till I die.  This is the last
word I'll ever send to him."  Jim Gillis, down in Sonora, was already
lying at the point of death, and so for him the visit was too late,
though he was able to receive a message from his ancient mining partner,
and to send back a parting word.

I returned by way of New Orleans and the Mississippi River, for I wished
to follow that abandoned water highway, and to visit its presiding
genius, Horace Bixby,--[He died August 2, 1912, at the age of 86]--still
alive and in service as pilot of the government snagboat, his
headquarters at St. Louis.

Coming up the river on one of the old passenger steam boats that still
exist, I noticed in a paper which came aboard that Mark Twain was to
receive from Oxford University the literary doctor's degree.  There had
been no hint of this when I came away, and it seemed rather too sudden
and too good to be true.  That the little barefoot lad that had played
along the river-banks at Hannibal, and received such meager advantages in
the way of schooling--whose highest ambition had been to pilot such a
craft as this one--was about to be crowned by the world's greatest
institution of learning, to receive the highest recognition for
achievement in the world of letters, was a thing which would not be
likely to happen outside of a fairy tale.

Returning to New York, I ran out to Tuxedo, where he had taken a home for
the summer (for it was already May), and walking along the shaded paths
of that beautiful suburban park, he told me what he knew of the Oxford
matter.

Moberly Bell, of the London Times, had been over in April, and soon after
his return to England there had come word of the proposed honor.  Clemens
privately and openly (to Bell) attributed it largely to his influence.
He wrote to him:

     DEAR MR. BELL,--Your hand is in it & you have my best thanks.
     Although I wouldn't cross an ocean again for the price of the ship
     that carried me I am glad to do it for an Oxford degree.  I shall
     plan to sail for England a shade before the middle of June, so that
     I can have a few days in London before the 26th.

A day or two later, when the time for sailing had been arranged, he
overtook his letter with a cable:

     I perceive your hand in it.  You have my best thanks.  Sail on
     Minneapolis June 8th.  Due in Southampton ten days later.

Clemens said that his first word of the matter had been a newspaper
cablegram, and that he had been doubtful concerning it until a cablegram
to himself had confirmed it.

"I never expected to cross the water again," he said; "but I would be
willing to journey to Mars for that Oxford degree."

He put the matter aside then, and fell to talking of Jim Gillis and the
others I had visited, dwelling especially on Gillis's astonishing faculty
for improvising romances, recalling how he had stood with his back to the
fire weaving his endless, grotesque yarns, with no other guide than his
fancy.  It was a long, happy walk we had, though rather a sad one in its
memories; and he seemed that day, in a sense, to close the gate of those
early scenes behind him, for he seldom referred to them afterward.

He was back at 21 Fifth Avenue presently, arranging for his voyage.
Meantime, cable invitations of every sort were pouring in, from this and
that society and dignitary; invitations to dinners and ceremonials, and
what not, and it was clear enough that his English sojourn was to be a
busy one.  He had hoped to avoid this, and began by declining all but two
invitations--a dinner-party given by Ambassador Whitelaw Reid and a
luncheon proposed by the "Pilgrims."  But it became clear that this
would not do.  England was not going to confer its greatest collegiate
honor without being permitted to pay its wider and more popular tribute.

Clemens engaged a special secretary for the trip--Mr. Ralph W. Ashcroft,
a young Englishman familiar with London life.  They sailed on the 8th of
June, by a curious coincidence exactly forty years from the day he had
sailed on the Quaker City to win his great fame.  I went with him to the
ship.  His first elation had passed by this time, and he seemed a little
sad, remembering, I think, the wife who would have enjoyed this honor
with him but could not share it now.




CCLVII

A TRUE ENGLISH WELCOME

Mark Twain's trip across the Atlantic would seem to have been a pleasant
one.  The Minneapolis is a fine, big ship, and there was plenty of
company.  Prof. Archibald Henderson, Bernard Shaw's biographer, was
aboard;--[Professor .Henderson has since then published a volume on Mark
Twain-an interesting commentary on his writings-mainly from the
sociological point of view.]--also President Patton, of the Princeton
Theological Seminary; a well-known cartoonist, Richards, and some very
attractive young people--school-girls in particular, such as all through
his life had appealed to Mark Twain.  Indeed, in his later life they made
a stronger appeal than ever.  The years had robbed him of his own little
flock, and always he was trying to replace them.  Once he said:

"During those years after my wife's death I was washing about on a
forlorn sea of banquets and speech-making in high and holy causes, and
these things furnished me intellectual cheer, and entertainment; but they
got at my heart for an evening only, then left it dry and dusty.  I had
reached the grandfather stage of life without grandchildren, so I began
to adopt some."

He adopted several on that journey to England and on the return voyage,
and he kept on adopting others during the rest of his life.  These
companionships became one of the happiest aspects of his final days, as
we shall see by and by.

There were entertainments on the ship, one of them given for the benefit
of the Seamen's Orphanage.  One of his adopted granddaughters--"Charley"
he called her--played a violin solo and Clemens made a speech.  Later his
autographs were sold at auction.  Dr. Patton was auctioneer, and one
autographed postal card brought twenty-five dollars, which is perhaps the
record price for a single Mark Twain signature.  He wore his white suit
on this occasion, and in the course of his speech referred to it.  He
told first of the many defects in his behavior, and how members of his
household had always tried to keep him straight.  The children, he said,
had fallen into the habit of calling it "dusting papa off."  Then he went
on:

     When my daughter came to see me off last Saturday at the boat she
     slipped a note in my hand and said, "Read it when you get aboard the
     ship."  I didn't think of it again until day before yesterday, and
     it was a "dusting off."  And if I carry out all the instructions
     that I got there I shall be more celebrated in England for my
     behavior than for anything else.  I got instructions how to act on
     every occasion.  She underscored "Now, don't you wear white clothes
     on ship or on shore until you get back," and I intended to obey.  I
     have been used to obeying my family all my life, but I wore the
     white clothes to-night because the trunk that has the dark clothes
     in it is in the cellar.  I am not apologizing for the white clothes;
     I am only apologizing to my daughter for not obeying her.

He received a great welcome when the ship arrived at Tilbury.  A throng
of rapid-fire reporters and photographers immediately surrounded him, and
when he left the ship the stevedores gave him a round of cheers.  It was
the beginning of that almost unheard-of demonstration of affection and
honor which never for a moment ceased, but augmented from day to day
during the four weeks of his English sojourn.

In a dictation following his return, Mark Twain said:

     Who began it?  The very people of all people in the world whom I
     would have chosen: a hundred men of my own class--grimy sons of
     labor, the real builders of empires and civilizations, the
     stevedores!  They stood in a body on the dock and charged their
     masculine lungs, and gave me a welcome which went to the marrow of
     me.

J. Y. W. MacAlister was at the St. Pancras railway station to meet him,
and among others on the platform was Bernard Shaw, who had come down to
meet Professor Henderson.  Clemens and Shaw were presented, and met
eagerly, for each greatly admired the other.  A throng gathered.  Mark
Twain was extricated at last, and hurried away to his apartments at
Brown's Hotel, "a placid, subdued, homelike, old-fashioned English inn,"
he called it, "well known to me years ago, a blessed retreat of a sort
now rare in England, and becoming rarer every year."

But Brown's was not placid and subdued during his stay.  The London
newspapers declared that Mark Twain's arrival had turned Brown's not only
into a royal court, but a post-office--that the procession of visitors
and the bundles of mail fully warranted this statement.  It was, in fact,
an experience which surpassed in general magnitude and magnificence
anything he had hitherto known.  His former London visits, beginning with
that of 1872, had been distinguished by high attentions, but all of them
combined could not equal this.  When England decides to get up an
ovation, her people are not to be outdone even by the lavish Americans.
An assistant secretary had to be engaged immediately, and it sometimes
required from sixteen to twenty hours a day for two skilled and busy men
to receive callers and reduce the pile of correspondence.

A pile of invitations had already accumulated, and others flowed in.
Lady Stanley, widow of Henry M. Stanley, wrote:

     You know I want to see you and join right hand to right hand.  I
     must see your dear face again .  .  .  .  You will have no peace,
     rest, or leisure during your stay in London, and you will end by
     hating human beings.  Let me come before you feel that way.

Mary Cholmondeley, the author of Red Pottage, niece of that lovable
Reginald Cholmondeley, and herself an old friend, sent greetings and
urgent invitations.  Archdeacon Wilberforce wrote:

     I have just been preaching about your indictment of that scoundrel
     king of the Belgians and telling my people to buy the book.  I am
     only a humble item among the very many who offer you a cordial
     welcome in England, but we long to see you again, and I should like
     to change hats with you again.  Do you remember?

The Athenaeum, the Garrick, and a dozen other London clubs had
anticipated his arrival with cards of honorary membership for the period
of his stay.  Every leading photographer had put in a claim for sittings.
It was such a reception as Charles Dickens had received in America in
1842, and again in 1867.  A London paper likened it to Voltaire's return
to Paris in 1778, when France went mad over him.  There is simply no
limit to English affection and, hospitality once aroused.  Clemens wrote:

     Surely such weeks as this must be very rare in this world: I had
     seen nothing like them before; I shall see nothing approaching them
     again!

Sir Thomas Lipton and Bram Stoker, old friends, were among the first to
present themselves, and there was no break in the line of callers.

Clemens's resolutions for secluding himself were swept away.  On the very
next morning following his arrival he breakfasted with J. Henniker
Heaton, father of International Penny Postage, at the Bath Club, just
across Dover Street from Brown's.  He lunched at the Ritz with Marjorie
Bowen and Miss Bisland.  In the afternoon he sat for photographs at
Barnett's, and made one or two calls.  He could no more resist these
things than a debutante in her first season.

He was breakfasting again with Heaton next morning; lunching with "Toby,
M.P.," and Mrs. Lucy; and having tea with Lady Stanley in the afternoon,
and being elaborately dined next day at Dorchester House by Ambassador
and Mrs. Reid.  These were all old and tried friends.  He was not a
stranger among them, he said; he was at home.  Alfred Austin, Conan
Doyle, Anthony Hope, Alma Tadema, E. A. Abbey, Edmund Goss, George
Smalley, Sir Norman Lockyer, Henry W. Lucy, Sidney Brooks, and Bram
Stoker were among those at Dorchester House--all old comrades, as were
many of the other guests.

"I knew fully half of those present," he said afterward.

Mark Twain's bursting upon London society naturally was made the most of
by the London papers, and all his movements were tabulated and
elaborated, and when there was any opportunity for humor in the situation
it was not left unimproved.  The celebrated Ascot racing-cup was stolen
just at the time of his arrival, and the papers suggestively mingled
their head-lines, "Mark Twain Arrives: Ascot Cup Stolen," and kept the
joke going in one form or another.  Certain state jewels and other
regalia also disappeared during his stay, and the news of these
burglaries was reported in suspicious juxtaposition with the news of Mark
Twain's doings.

English reporters adopted American habits for the occasion, and invented
or embellished when the demand for a new sensation was urgent.  Once,
when following the custom of the place, he descended the hotel elevator
in a perfectly proper and heavy brown bath robe, and stepped across
narrow Dover Street to the Bath Club, the papers flamed next day with the
story that Mark Twain had wandered about the lobby of Brown's and
promenaded Dover Street in a sky-blue bath robe attracting wide
attention.

Clara Clemens, across the ocean, was naturally a trifle disturbed by such
reports, and cabled this delicate "dusting off":

"Much worried.  Remember proprieties."

To which he answered:

"They all pattern after me," a reply to the last degree characteristic.

It was on the fourth day after his arrival, June 22d, that he attended
the King's garden-party at Windsor Castle.  There were eighty-five
hundred guests at the King's party, and if we may judge from the London
newspapers, Mark Twain was quite as much a figure in that great throng as
any member of the royal family.  His presentation to the King and the
Queen is set down as an especially notable incident, and their
conversation is quite fully given.  Clemens himself reported:

     His Majesty was very courteous.  In the course of the conversation
     I reminded him of an episode of fifteen years ago, when I had the
     honor to walk a mile with him when he was taking the waters at
     Homburg, in Germany.  I said that I had often told about that
     episode, and that whenever I was the historian I made good history
     of it and it was worth listening to, but that it had found its way
     into print once or twice in unauthentic ways and was badly damaged
     thereby.  I said I should like to go on repeating this history, but
     that I should be quite fair and reasonably honest, and while I
     should probably never tell it twice in the same way I should at
     least never allow it to deteriorate in my hands.  His Majesty
     intimated his willingness that I should continue to disseminate that
     piece of history; and he added a compliment, saying that he knew
     good and sound history would not suffer at my hands, and that if
     this good and sound history needed any improvement beyond the facts
     he would trust me to furnish that improvement.

     I think it is not an exaggeration to say that the Queen looked as
     young and beautiful as she did thirty-five years ago when I saw her
     first.  I did not say this to her, because I learned long ago never
     to say the obvious thing, but leave the obvious thing to commonplace
     and inexperienced people to say.  That she still looked to me as
     young and beautiful as she did thirty-five years ago is good
     evidence that ten thousand people have already noticed this and have
     mentioned it to her.  I could have said it and spoken the truth, but
     I was too wise for that.  I kept the remark unuttered and saved her
     Majesty the vexation of hearing it the ten-thousand-and-oneth time.

     All that report about my proposal to buy Windsor Castle and its
     grounds was a false rumor.  I started it myself.

     One newspaper said I patted his Majesty on the shoulder--an
     impertinence of which I was not guilty; I was reared in the most
     exclusive circles of Missouri and I know how to behave.  The King
     rested his hand upon my arm a moment or two while we were chatting,
     but he did it of his own accord.  The newspaper which said I talked
     with her Majesty with my hat on spoke the truth, but my reasons for
     doing it were good and sufficient--in fact unassailable.  Rain was
     threatening, the temperature had cooled, and the Queen said, "Please
     put your hat on, Mr. Clemens."  I begged her pardon and excused
     myself from doing it.  After a moment or two she said, "Mr. Clemens,
     put your hat on"--with a slight emphasis on the word "on" "I can't
     allow you to catch cold here."  When a beautiful queen commands it
     is a pleasure to obey, and this time I obeyed--but I had already
     disobeyed once, which is more than a subject would have felt
     justified in doing; and so it is true, as charged; I did talk with
     the Queen of England with my hat on, but it wasn't fair in the
     newspaper man to charge it upon me as an impoliteness, since there
     were reasons for it which he could not know of.

Nearly all the members of the British royal family were there, and there
were foreign visitors which included the King of Siam and a party of
India princes in their gorgeous court costumes, which Clemens admired
openly and said he would like to wear himself.

The English papers spoke of it as one of the largest and most
distinguished parties ever given at Windsor.  Clemens attended it in
company with Mr. and Mrs. J. Henniker Heaton, and when it was over Sir
Thomas Lipton joined them and motored with them back to Brown's.

He was at Archdeacon Wilberforce's next day, where a curious circumstance
developed.  When he arrived Wilberforce said to him, in an undertone:

"Come into my library.  I have something to show you."

In the library Clemens was presented to a Mr. Pole, a plain-looking man,
suggesting in dress and appearance the English tradesman.  Wilberforce
said:

"Mr. Pole, show to Mr. Clemens what you have brought here."

Mr. Pole unrolled a long strip of white linen and brought to view at last
a curious, saucer-looking vessel of silver, very ancient in appearance,
and cunningly overlaid with green glass.  The archdeacon took it and
handed it to Clemens as some precious jewel.  Clemens said:

"What is it?"

Wilberforce impressively answered:

"It is the Holy Grail."

Clemens naturally started with surprise.

"You may well start," said Wilberforce; "but it's the truth.  That is the
Holy Grail."

Then he gave this explanation: Mr. Pole, a grain merchant of Bristol, had
developed some sort of clairvoyant power, or at all events he had dreamed
several times with great vividness the location of the true Grail.
Another dreamer, a Dr. Goodchild, of Bath, was mixed up in the matter,
and between them this peculiar vessel, which was not a cup, or a goblet,
or any of the traditional things, had been discovered.  Mr. Pole seemed a
man of integrity, and it was clear that the churchman believed the
discovery to be genuine and authentic.  Of course there could be no
positive proof.  It was a thing that must be taken on trust.  That the
vessel itself was wholly different from anything that the generations had
conceived, and was apparently of very ancient make, was opposed to the
natural suggestion of fraud.

Clemens, to whom the whole idea of the Holy Grail was simply a poetic
legend and myth, had the feeling that he had suddenly been transmigrated,
like his own Connecticut Yankee, back into the Arthurian days; but he
made no question, suggested no doubt.  Whatever it was, it was to them
the materialization of a symbol of faith which ranked only second to the
cross itself, and he handled it reverently and felt the honor of having
been one of the first permitted to see the relic.  In a subsequent
dictation he said:

     I am glad I have lived to see that half-hour--that astonishing half-
     hour.  In its way it stands alone in my life's experience.  In the
     belief of two persons present this was the very vessel which was
     brought by night and secretly delivered to Nicodemus, nearly
     nineteen centuries ago, after the Creator of the universe had
     delivered up His life on the cross for the redemption of the human
     race; the very cup which the stainless Sir Galahad had sought with
     knightly devotion in far fields of peril and adventure in Arthur's
     time, fourteen hundred years ago; the same cup which princely
     knights of other bygone ages had laid down their lives in long and
     patient efforts to find, and had passed from life disappointed--and
     here it was at last, dug up by a grain-broker at no cost of blood or
     travel, and apparently no purity required of him above the average
     purity of the twentieth-century dealer in cereal futures; not even a
     stately name required--no Sir Galahad, no Sir Bors de Ganis, no Sir
     Lancelot of the Lake--nothing but a mere Mr. Pole.--[From the New
     York Sun somewhat later: "Mr. Pole communicated the discovery to a
     dignitary of the Church of England, who summoned a number of eminent
     persons, including psychologists, to see and discuss it.  Forty
     attended, including some peers with ecclesiastical interests,
     Ambassador Whitelaw Reid, Professor Crookas, and ministers of
     various religious bodies, including the Rev. R. J. Campbell.  They
     heard Mr. Pole's story with deep attention, but he could not prove
     the genuineness of the relic."]

Clemens saw Mr. and Mrs. Rogers at Claridge's Hotel that evening; lunched
with his old friends Sir Norman and Lady Lockyer next day; took tea with
T. P. O'Connor at the House of Commons, and on the day following, which
was June a 5th, he was the guest of honor at one of the most elaborate
occasions of his visit--a luncheon given by the Pilgrims at the Savoy
Hotel.  It would be impossible to set down here a report of the doings,
or even a list of the guests, of that gathering.  The Pilgrims is a club
with branches on both sides of the ocean, and Mark Twain, on either side,
was a favorite associate.  At this luncheon the picture on the bill of
fare represented him as a robed pilgrim, with a great pen for his staff,
turning his back on the Mississippi River and being led along his
literary way by a huge jumping frog, to which he is attached by a string.
On a guest-card was printed:

     Pilot of many Pilgrims since the shout
     "Mark Twain!"--that serves you for a deathless sign--
     On Mississippi's waterway rang out
     Over the plummet's line--

     Still where the countless ripples laugh above
     The blue of halcyon seas long may you keep
     Your course unbroken, buoyed upon a love
     Ten thousand fathoms deep!

                                  --O. S.  [OWEN SEAMAN].

Augustine Birrell made the speech of introduction, closing with this
paragraph:

     Mark Twain is a man whom Englishmen and Americans do well to honor.
     He is a true consolidator of nations.  His delightful humor is of
     the kind which dissipates and destroys national prejudices.  His
     truth and his honor--his love of truth and his love of honor--
     overflow all boundaries.  He has made the world better by his
     presence, and we rejoice to see him here.  Long may he live to reap
     a plentiful harvest of hearty honest human affection.

The toast was drunk standing.  Then Clemens rose and made a speech which
delighted all England.  In his introduction Mr. Birrell had happened to
say, "How I came here I will not ask!"  Clemens remembered this, and
looking down into Mr. Birrell's wine-glass, which was apparently unused,
he said:

"Mr. Birrell doesn't know how he got here.  But he will be able to get
away all right--he has not drunk anything since he came."

He told stories about Howells and Twichell, and how Darwin had gone to
sleep reading his books, and then he came down to personal things and
company, and told them how, on the day of his arrival, he had been
shocked to read on a great placard, "Mark Twain Arrives: Ascot Cup
Stolen."

     No doubt many a person was misled by those sentences joined together
     in that unkind way.  I have no doubt my character has suffered from
     it.  I suppose I ought to defend my character, but how can I defend
     it?  I can say here and now that anybody can see by my face that I
     am sincere--that I speak the truth, and that I have never seen that
     Cup.  I have not got the Cup, I did not have a chance to get it.  I
     have always had a good character in that way.  I have hardly ever
     stolen anything, and if I did steal anything I had discretion enough
     to know about the value of it first.  I do not steal things that are
     likely to get myself into trouble.  I do not think any of us do
     that.  I know we all take things--that is to be expected; but really
     I have never taken anything, certainly in England, that amounts to
     any great thing.  I do confess that when I was here seven years ago
     I stole a hat--but that did not amount to anything.  It was not a
     good hat it was only a clergyman's hat, anyway.  I was at a
     luncheon-party and Archdeacon Wilberforce was there also. I dare say
     he is archdeacon now--he was a canon then--and he was serving in the
     Westminster Battery, if that is the proper term.  I do not know, as
     you mix military and ecclesiastical things together so much.

He recounted the incident of the exchanged hats; then he spoke of graver
things.  He closed:

     I cannot always be cheerful, and I cannot always be chaffing.  I
     must sometimes lay the cap and bells aside and recognize that I am
     of the human race.  I have my cares and griefs, and I therefore
     noticed what Mr. Birrell said--I was so glad to hear him say it--
     something that was in the nature of these verses here at the top of
     the program:

               He lit our life with shafts of sun
               And vanquished pain.
               Thus two great nations stand as one
               In honoring Twain.

I am very glad to have those verses.  I am very glad and very grateful
for what Mr. Birrell said in that connection.  I have received since I
have been here, in this one week, hundreds of letters from all conditions
of people in England, men, women, and children, and there is compliment,
praise, and, above all, and better than all, there is in them a note of
affection.

Praise is well, compliment is well, but affection--that is the last and
final and most precious reward that any man can win, whether by character
or achievement, and I am very grateful to have that reward.  All these
letters make me feel that here in England, as in America, when I stand
under the English or the American flag I am not a, stranger, I am not an
alien, but at home.




CCLVIII

DOCTOR OF LITERATURE, OXFORD

He left, immediately following the Pilgrim luncheon, with Hon. Robert P.
Porter, of the London Times, for Oxford, to remain his guest there during
the various ceremonies.  The encenia--the ceremony of conferring the
degrees--occurred at the Sheldonian Theater the following morning, June
26, 1907.

It was a memorable affair.  Among those who were to receive degrees that
morning besides Samuel Clemens were: Prince Arthur of Connaught; Prime
Minister Campbell-Bannerman; Whitelaw Reid; Rudyard Kipling; Sidney Lee;
Sidney Colvin; Lord Archbishop of Armagh, Primate of Ireland; Sir Norman
Lockyer; Auguste Rodin, the sculptor; Saint-Saens, and Gen. William
Booth, of the Salvation Army-something more than thirty, in all, of the
world's distinguished citizens.

The candidates assembled at Magdalen College, and led by Lord Curzon, the
Chancellor, and clad in their academic plumage, filed in radiant
procession to the Sheldonian Theater, a group of men such as the world
seldom sees collected together.  The London Standard said of it:
     So brilliant and so interesting was the list of those who had been
     selected by Oxford University on Convocation to receive degrees,
     'honoris causa', in this first year of Lord Curzon's chancellorship,
     that it is small wonder that the Sheldonian Theater was besieged
     today at an early hour.

     Shortly after 11 o'clock the organ started playing the strains of
     "God Save the King," and at once a great volume of sound arose as
     the anthem was taken up by the undergraduates and the rest of the
     assemblage.  Every one stood up as, headed by the mace of office,
     the procession slowly filed into the theater, under the leadership
     of Lord Curzon, in all the glory of his robes of office, the long
     black gown heavily embroidered with gold, the gold-tasseled mortar-
     board, and the medals on his breast forming an admirable setting,
     thoroughly in keeping with the dignity and bearing of the late
     Viceroy of India.  Following him came the members of Convocation, a
     goodly number consisting of doctors of divinity, whose robes of
     scarlet and black enhanced the brilliance of the scene.  Robes of
     salmon and scarlet-which proclaim the wearer to be a doctor of civil
     law--were also seen in numbers, while here and there was a gown of
     gray and scarlet, emblematic of the doctorate of science or of
     letters.

The encenia is an impressive occasion; but it is not a silent one.  There
is a splendid dignity about it; but there goes with it all a sort of
Greek chorus of hilarity, the time-honored prerogative of the Oxford
undergraduate, who insists on having his joke and his merriment at the
expense of those honored guests.  The degrees of doctor of law were
conferred first.  Prince Arthur was treated with proper dignity by the
gallery; but when Whitelaw Reid stepped forth a voice shouted, "Where's
your Star-spangled Banner?" and when England's Prime Minister-Campbell-
Bannerman--came forward some one shouted, "What about the House of
Lords?" and so they kept it up, cheering and chaffing, until General
Booth was introduced as the "Passionate advocate of the dregs of the
people, leader of the submerged tenth," and general of the Salvation
Army," when the place broke into a perfect storm of applause, a storm
that a few minutes later became, according to the Daily News, "a
veritable cyclone," for Mark Twain, clad in his robe of scarlet and gray,
had been summoned forward to receive the highest academic honors which
the world has to give.  The undergraduates went wild then.  There was
such a mingling of yells and calls and questions, such as, "Have you
brought the jumping Frog with you?"  "Where is the Ascot Cup?" "Where are
the rest of the Innocents?" that it seemed as if it would not be possible
to present him at all; but, finally, Chancellor Curzon addressed him (in
Latin), "Most amiable and charming sir, you shake the sides of the whole
world with your merriment," and the great degree was conferred.
If only Tom Sawyer could have seen him then!  If only Olivia Clemens
could have sat among those who gave him welcome!  But life is not like
that.  There is always an incompleteness somewhere, and the shadow across
the path.

Rudyard Kipling followed--another supreme favorite, who was hailed with
the chorus, "For he's a jolly good fellow," and then came Saint-Satins.
The prize poems and essays followed, and then the procession of newly
created doctors left the theater with Lord Curzon at their head.  So it
was all over-that for which, as he said, he would have made the journey
to Mars.  The world had nothing more to give him now except that which he
had already long possessed-its honor and its love.

The newly made doctors were to be the guests of Lord Curzon at All Souls
College for luncheon.  As they left the theater (according to Sidney
Lee):

     The people in the streets singled out Mark Twain, formed a vast and
     cheering body-guard around him and escorted him to the college
     gates.  But before and after the lunch it was Mark Twain again whom
     everybody seemed most of all to want to meet.  The Maharajah of
     Bikanir, for instance, finding himself seated at lunch next to Mrs.
     Riggs (Kate Douglas Wiggin), and hearing that she knew Mark Twain,
     asked her to present him a ceremony duly performed later on the
     quadrangle.  At the garden-party given the same afternoon in the
     beautiful grounds of St.  John's, where the indefatigable Mark put
     in an appearance, it was just the same--every one pressed forward
     for an exchange of greetings and a hand-shake.  On the following
     day, when the Oxford pageant took place, it was even more so.  "Mark
     Twain's Pageant," it was called by one of the papers.--[There was a
     dinner that evening at one of the colleges where, through mistaken
     information, Clemens wore black evening dress when he should have
     worn his scarlet gown.  "When I arrived," he said, "the place was
     just a conflagration--a kind of human prairie-fire.  I looked as out
     of place as a Presbyterian in hell."]


Clemens remained the guest of Robert Porter, whose house was besieged
with those desiring a glimpse of their new doctor of letters.  If he went
on the streets he was instantly recognized by some newsboy or cabman or
butcher-boy, and the word ran along like a cry of fire, while the crowds
assembled.

At a luncheon which the Porters gave him the proprietor of the catering
establishment garbed himself as a waiter in order to have the distinction
of serving Mark Twain, and declared it to have been the greatest moment
of his life.  This gentleman--for he was no less than that--was a man
well-read, and his tribute was not inspired by mere snobbery.  Clemens,
learning of the situation, later withdrew from the drawing-room for a
talk with him.

"I found," he said, "that he knew about ten or fifteen times as much
about my books as I knew about them myself."

Mark Twain viewed the Oxford pageant from a box with Rudyard Kipling and
Lord Curzon, and as they sat there some one passed up a folded slip of
paper, on the outside of which was written, "Not true."  Opening it, they
read:

          East is East and West is West,
          And never the Twain shall meet,

              --a quotation from Kipling.

They saw the panorama of history file by, a wonderful spectacle which
made Oxford a veritable dream of the Middle Ages.  The lanes and streets
and meadows were thronged with such costumes as Oxford had seen in its
long history.  History was realized in a manner which no one could
appreciate more fully than Mark Twain.

"I was particularly anxious to see this pageant," he said, "so that I
could get ideas for my funeral procession, which I am planning on a large
scale."

He was not disappointed; it was a realization to him of all the gorgeous
spectacles that his soul had dreamed from youth up.

He easily recognized the great characters of history as they passed by,
and he was recognized by them in turn; for they waved to him and bowed
and sometimes called his name, and when he went down out of his box, by
and by, Henry VIII. shook hands with him, a monarch he had always
detested, though he was full of friendship for him now; and Charles I.
took off his broad, velvet-plumed hat when they met, and Henry II.  and
Rosamond and Queen Elizabeth all saluted him--ghosts of the dead
centuries.




CCLIX

LONDON SOCIAL HONORS

We may not detail all the story of that English visit; even the path of
glory leads to monotony at last.  We may only mention a few more of the
great honors paid to our unofficial ambassador to the world: among them a
dinner given to members of the Savage Club by the Lord Mayor of London at
the Mansion House, also a dinner given by the American Society at the
Hotel Cecil in honor of the Fourth of July.  Clemens was the guest of
honor, and responded to the toast given by Ambassador Reid, "The Day we
Celebrate."  He made an amusing and not altogether unserious reference to
the American habit of exploding enthusiasm in dangerous fireworks.

To English colonists he gave credit for having established American
independence, and closed:

     We have, however, one Fourth of July which is absolutely our own,
     and that is the memorable proclamation issued forty years ago by
     that great American to whom Sir Mortimer Durand paid that just and
     beautiful tribute--Abraham Lincoln: a proclamation which not only
     set the black slave free, but set his white owner free also.  The
     owner was set free from that burden and offense, that sad condition
     of things where he was in so many instances a master and owner of
     slaves when he did not want to be.  That proclamation set them all
     free.  But even in this matter England led the way, for she had set
     her slaves free thirty years before, and we but followed her
     example.  We always follow her example, whether it is good or bad.
     And it was an English judge, a century ago, that issued that other
     great proclamation, and established that great principle, that when
     a slave, let him belong to whom he may, and let him come whence he
     may, sets his foot upon English soil his fetters, by that act, fall
     away and he is a free man before the world!

     It is true, then, that all our Fourths of July, and we have five of
     them, England gave to us, except that one that I have mentioned--the
     Emancipation Proclamation; and let us not forget that we owe this
     debt to her.  Let us be able to say to old England, this great-
     hearted, venerable old mother of the race, you gave us our Fourths
     of July, that we love and that we honor and revere; you gave us the
     Declaration of Independence, which is the charter of our rights;
     you, the venerable Mother of Liberties, the Champion and Protector
     of Anglo-Saxon Freedom--you gave us these things, and we do most
     honestly thank you for them.

It was at this dinner that he characteristically confessed, at last, to
having stolen the Ascot Cup.

He lunched one day with Bernard Shaw, and the two discussed the
philosophies in which they were mutually interested.  Shaw regarded
Clemens as a sociologist before all else, and gave it out with great
frankness that America had produced just two great geniuses--Edgar Allan
Poe and Mark Twain.  Later Shaw wrote him a note, in which he said:

I am persuaded that the future historian of America will find your works
as indispensable to him as a French historian finds the political tracts
of Voltaire.  I tell you so because I am the author of a play in which a
priest says, "Telling the truth's the funniest joke in the world," a
piece of wisdom which you helped to teach me.

Clemens saw a great deal of Moberly Bell.  The two lunched and dined
privately together when there was opportunity, and often met at the
public gatherings.

The bare memorandum of the week following July Fourth will convey
something of Mark Twain's London activities:

     Friday, July 5.  Dined with Lord and Lady Portsmouth.

     Saturday, July 6.  Breakfasted at Lord Avebury's.  Lord Kelvin, Sir
     Charles Lyell, and Sir Archibald Geikie were there.  Sat 22 times
     for photos, 16 at Histed's.  Savage Club dinner in the evening.
     White suit.  Ascot Cup.

     Sunday, July 7.  Called on Lady Langattock and others.  Lunched with
     Sir Norman Lockyer.

     Monday, July 8.  Lunched with Plasmon directors at Bath Club.  Dined
     privately at C. F. Moberly Bell's.

     Tuesday, July 9.  Lunched at the House with Sir Benjamin Stone.
     Balfour and Komura were the other guests of honor.  Punch dinner in
     the evening.  Joy Agnew and the cartoon.

     Wednesday, July 10.  Went to Liverpool with Tay Pay.  Attended
     banquet in the Town Hall in the evening.

     Thursday, July 11.  Returned to London with Tay Pay.  Calls in the
     afternoon.

The Savage Club would inevitably want to entertain him on its own
account, and their dinner of July 6th was a handsome, affair.  He felt at
home with the Savages, and put on white for the only time publicly in
England.  He made them one of his reminiscent speeches, recalling his
association with them on his first visit to London, thirty-seven years
before.  Then he said:

     That is a long time ago, and as I had come into a very strange land,
     and was with friends, as I could see, that has always remained in my
     mind as a peculiarly blessed evening, since it brought me into
     contact with men of my own kind and my own feelings.  I am glad to
     be here, and to see you all, because it is very likely that I shall
     not see you again.  I have been received, as you know, in the most
     delightfully generous way in England ever since I came here.  It
     keeps me choked up all the time.  Everybody is so generous, and they
     do seem to give you such a hearty welcome.  Nobody in the world can
     appreciate it higher than I do.

The club gave him a surprise in the course of the evening.  A note was
sent to him accompanied by a parcel, which, when opened, proved to
contain a gilded plaster replica of the Ascot Gold Cup.  The note said:

     Dere Mark, i return the Cup.  You couldn't keep your mouth shut
     about it.  'Tis 2 pretty 2 melt, as you want me 2; nest time I work
     a pinch ile have a pard who don't make after-dinner speeches.

There was a postcript which said: "I changed the acorn atop for another
nut with my knife."  The acorn was, in fact, replaced by a well-modeled
head of Mark Twain.

So, after all, the Ascot Cup would be one of the trophies which he would
bear home with him across the Atlantic.

Probably the most valued of his London honors was the dinner given to him
by the staff of Punch.  Punch had already saluted him with a front-page
cartoon by Bernard Partridge, a picture in which the presiding genius of
that paper, Mr. Punch himself, presents him with a glass of the
patronymic beverage with the words, "Sir, I honor myself by drinking your
health.  Long life to you--and happiness--and perpetual youth!"

Mr. Agnew, chief editor; Linley Sambourne, Francis Burnand, Henry Lucy,
and others of the staff welcomed him at the Punch offices at 10 Bouverie
Street, in the historic Punch dining-room where Thackeray had sat, and
Douglas Jerrold, and so many of the great departed.  Mark Twain was the
first foreign visitor to be so honored--in fifty years the first stranger
to sit at the sacred board--a mighty distinction.  In the course of the
dinner they gave him a pretty surprise, when little joy Agnew presented
him with the original drawing of Partridge's cartoon.

Nothing could have appealed to him more, and the Punch dinner, with its
associations and that dainty presentation, remained apart in his memory
from all other feastings.

Clemens had intended to return early in July, but so much was happening
that he postponed his sailing until the 13th.  Before leaving America, he
had declined a dinner offered by the Lord Mayor of Liverpool.

Repeatedly urged to let Liverpool share in his visit, he had reconsidered
now, and on the day following the Punch dinner, on July loth, they
carried him, with T. P. O'Connor (Tay Pay) in the Prince of Wales's
special coach to Liverpool, to be guest of honor at the reception and
banquet which Lord Mayor Japp tendered him at the Town Hall.  Clemens was
too tired to be present while the courses were being served, but arrived
rested and fresh to respond to his toast.  Perhaps because it was his
farewell speech in England, he made that night the most effective address
of his four weeks' visit--one of the most effective of his whole career:
He began by some light reference to the Ascot Cup and the Dublin Jewels
and the State Regalia, and other disappearances that had been laid to his
charge, to amuse his hearers, and spoke at greater length than usual, and
with even greater variety.  Then laying all levity aside, he told them,
like the Queen of Sheba, all that was in his heart.

     .  .  .  Home is dear to us all, and now I am departing to my own
     home beyond the ocean.  Oxford has conferred upon me the highest
     honor that has ever fallen to my share of this life's prizes.  It is
     the very one I would have chosen, as outranking all and any others,
     the one more precious to me than any and all others within the gift
     of man or state.  During my four weeks' sojourn in England I have
     had another lofty honor, a continuous honor, an honor which has
     flowed serenely along, without halt or obstruction, through all
     these twenty-six days, a most moving and pulse-stirring honor--the
     heartfelt grip of the hand, and the welcome that does not descend
     from the pale-gray matter of the brain, but rushes up with the red
     blood from the heart.  It makes me proud and sometimes it makes me
     humble, too.  Many and many a year ago I gathered an incident from
     Dana's Two Years Before the Mast.  It was like this: There was a
     presumptuous little self-important skipper in a coasting sloop
     engaged in the dried-apple and kitchen-furniture trade, and he was
     always hailing every ship that came in sight.  He did it just to
     hear himself talk and to air his small grandeur.  One day a majestic
     Indiaman came plowing by with course on course of canvas towering
     into the sky, her decks and yards swarming with sailors, her hull
     burdened to the Plimsoll line with a rich freightage of precious
     spices, lading the breezes with gracious and mysterious odors of the
     Orient.  It was a noble spectacle, a sublime spectacle!  Of course
     the little skipper popped into the shrouds and squeaked out a hail,
     "Ship ahoy!  What ship is that?  And whence and whither?"  In a deep
     and thunderous bass the answer came back through the speaking-
     trumpet, "The Begum, of Bengal--142 days out from Canton--homeward
     bound!  What ship is that?"  Well, it just crushed that poor little
     creature's vanity flat, and he squeaked back most humbly, "Only the
     Mary Ann, fourteen hours out from Boston, bound for Kittery Point--
     with nothing to speak of!"  Oh, what an eloquent word that "only,"
     to express the depths of his humbleness!  That is just my case.
     During just one hour in the twenty-four--not more--I pause and
     reflect in the stillness of the night with the echoes of your
     English welcome still lingering in my ears, and then I am humble.
     Then I am properly meek, and for that little while I am only the
     Mary Ann, fourteen hours out, cargoed with vegetables and tinware;
     but during all the other twenty-three hours my vain self-complacency
     rides high on the white crests of your approval, and then I am a
     stately Indiaman, plowing the great seas under a cloud of canvas and
     laden with the kindest words that have ever been vouchsafed to any
     wandering alien in this world, I think; then my twenty-six fortunate
     days on this old mother soil seem to be multiplied by six, and I am
     the Begum, of Bengal, 142 days out from Canton--homeward bound!

He returned to London, and with one of his young acquaintances, an
American--he called her Francesca--paid many calls.  It took the
dreariness out of that social function to perform it in that way.  With a
list of the calls they were to make they drove forth each day to cancel
the social debt.  They paid calls in every walk of life.  His young
companion was privileged to see the inside of London homes of almost
every class, for he showed no partiality; he went to the homes of the
poor and the rich alike.  One day they visited the home of an old
bookkeeper whom he had known in 1872 as a clerk in a large establishment,
earning a salary of perhaps a pound a week, who now had risen mightily,
for he had become head bookkeeper in that establishment on a salary of
six pounds a week, and thought it great prosperity and fortune for his
old age.

He sailed on July 13th for home, besought to the last moment by a crowd
of autograph-seekers and reporters and photographers, and a multitude who
only wished to see him and to shout and wave good-by.  He was sailing
away from them for the last time.  They hoped he would make a speech, but
that would not have been possible.  To the reporters he gave a farewell
message: "It has been the most enjoyable holiday I have ever had, and I
am sorry the end of it has come.  I have met a hundred, old friends, and
I have made a hundred new ones.  It is a good kind of riches to have;
there is none better, I think."  And the London Tribune declared that
"the ship that bore him away had difficulty in getting clear, so thickly
was the water strewn with the bay-leaves of his triumph.  For Mark Twain
has triumphed, and in his all-too-brief stay of a month has done more for
the cause of the world's peace than will be accomplished by the Hague
Conference.  He has made the world laugh again."

His ship was the Minnetonka, and there were some little folks aboard to
be adopted as grandchildren.  On July 5th, in a fog, the Minnetonka
collided with the bark Sterling, and narrowly escaped sinking her.  On
the whole, however, the homeward way was clear, and the vessel reached
New York nearly a day in advance of their schedule.  Some ceremonies of
welcome had been prepared for him; but they were upset by the early
arrival, so that when he descended the gang-plank to his native soil only
a few who had received special information were there to greet him.  But
perhaps he did not notice it.  He seldom took account of the absence of
such things.  By early afternoon, however, the papers rang with the
announcement that Mark Twain was home again.

It is a sorrow to me that I was not at the dock to welcome him.  I had
been visiting in Elmira, and timed my return for the evening of the a 2d,
to be on hand the following morning, when the ship was due.  When I saw
the announcement that he had already arrived I called a greeting over the
telephone, and was told to come down and play billiards.  I confess I
went with a certain degree of awe, for one could not but be overwhelmed
with the echoes of the great splendor he had so recently achieved, and I
prepared to sit a good way off in silence, and hear something of the tale
of this returning conqueror; but when I arrived he was already in the
billiard-room knocking the balls about--his coat off, for it was a hot
night.  As I entered he said:

"Get your cue.  I have been inventing a new game."  And I think there
were scarcely ten words exchanged before we were at it.  The pageant was
over; the curtain was rung down.  Business was resumed at the old stand.




CCLX

MATTERS PSYCHIC AND OTHERWISE

He returned to Tuxedo and took up his dictations, and mingled freely with
the social life; but the contrast between his recent London experience
and his semi-retirement must have been very great.  When I visited him
now and then, he seemed to me lonely--not especially for companionship,
but rather for the life that lay behind him--the great career which in a
sense now had been completed since he had touched its highest point.
There was no billiard-table at Tuxedo, and he spoke expectantly of
getting back to town and the games there, also of the new home which was
then building in Redding, and which would have a billiard-room where we
could assemble daily--my own habitation being not far away.  Various
diversions were planned for Redding; among them was discussed a possible
school of philosophy, such as Hawthorne and Emerson and Alcott had
established at Concord.

He spoke quite freely of his English experiences, but usually of the more
amusing phases.  He almost never referred to the honors that had been
paid to him, yet he must have thought of them sometimes, and cherished
them, for it had been the greatest national tribute ever paid to a
private citizen; he must have known that in his heart.  He spoke
amusingly of his visit to Marie Corelli, in Stratford, and of the Holy
Grail incident, ending the latter by questioning--in words at least--all
psychic manifestations.  I said to him:

"But remember your own dream, Mr. Clemens, which presaged the death of
your brother."

He answered: "I ask nobody to believe that it ever happened.  To me it is
true; but it has no logical right to be true, and I do not expect belief
in it."  Which I thought a peculiar point of view, but on the whole
characteristic.

He was invited to be a special guest at the Jamestown Exposition on
Fulton Day, in September, and Mr. Rogers lent him his yacht in which to
make the trip.  It was a break in the summer's monotonies, and the
Jamestown honors must have reminded him of those in London.  When he
entered the auditorium where the services were to be held there was a
demonstration which lasted more than five minutes.  Every person in the
hall rose and cheered, waving handkerchiefs and umbrellas.  He made them
a brief, amusing talk on Fulton and other matters, then introduced
Admiral Harrington, who delivered a masterly address and was followed by
Martin W. Littleton, the real orator of the day.  Littleton acquitted
himself so notably that Mark Twain conceived for him a deep admiration,
and the two men quickly became friends.  They saw each other often during
the remainder of the Jamestown stay, and Clemens, learning that Littleton
lived just across Ninth Street from him in New York, invited him to come
over when he had an evening to spare and join the billiard games.

So it happened, somewhat later, when every one was back in town, Mr. and
Mrs. Littleton frequently came over for billiards, and the games became
three-handed with an audience--very pleasant games played in that way.
Clemens sometimes set himself up as umpire, and became critic and gave
advice, while Littleton and I played.  He had a favorite shot that he
frequently used himself and was always wanting us to try, which was to
drive the ball to the cushion at the beginning of the shot.

He played it with a good deal of success, and achieved unexpected results
with it.  He was even inspired to write a poem on the subject.

                    "CUSHION FIRST"

          When all your days are dark with doubt,
          And dying hope is at its worst;
          When all life's balls are scattered wide,
          With not a shot in sight, to left or right,
          Don't give it up;
          Advance your cue and shut your eyes,
          And take the cushion first.

The Harry Thaw trial was in progress just then, and Littleton was Thaw's
chief attorney.  It was most interesting to hear from him direct the
day's proceedings and his views of the situation and of Thaw.

Littleton and billiards recall a curious thing which happened one
afternoon.  I had been absent the evening before, and Littleton had been
over.  It was after luncheon now, and Clemens and I began preparing for
the customary games.  We were playing then a game with four balls, two
white and two red.  I began by placing the red balls on the table, and
then went around looking in the pockets for the two white cue-balls.
When I had made the round of the table I had found but one white ball.  I
thought I must have overlooked the other, and made the round again.  Then
I said:

"There is one white ball missing."

Clemens, to satisfy himself, also made the round of the pockets, and
said:

"It was here last night."  He felt in the pockets of the little white-
silk coat which he usually wore, thinking that he might unconsciously
have placed it there at the end of the last game, but his coat pockets
were empty.

He said: "I'll bet Littleton carried that ball home with him."

Then I suggested that near the end of the game it might have jumped off
the table, and I looked carefully under the furniture and in the various
corners, but without success.  There was another set of balls, and out of
it I selected a white one for our play, and the game began.  It went
along in the usual way, the balls constantly falling into the pockets,
and as constantly being replaced on the table.  This had continued for
perhaps half an hour, there being no pocket that had not been frequently
occupied and emptied during that time; but then it happened that Clemens
reached into the middle pocket, and taking out a white ball laid it in
place, whereupon we made the discovery that three white balls lay upon
the table.  The one just taken from the pocket was the missing ball.  We
looked at each other, both at first too astonished to say anything at
all.  No one had been in the room since we began to play, and at no time
during the play had there been more than two white balls in evidence,
though the pockets had been emptied at the end of each shot.  The pocket
from which the missing ball had been taken had been filled and emptied
again and again.  Then Clemens said:

"We must be dreaming."

We stopped the game for a while to discuss it, but we could devise no
material explanation.  I suggested the kobold--that mischievous invisible
which is supposed to play pranks by carrying off such things as pencils,
letters, and the like, and suddenly restoring them almost before one's
eyes.  Clemens, who, in spite of his material logic, was always a mystic
at heart, said:

"But that, so far as I know, has never happened to more than one person
at a time, and has been explained by a sort of temporary mental
blindness.  This thing has happened to two of us, and there can be no
question as to the positive absence of the object."

"How about dematerialization?"

"Yes, if one of us were a medium that might be considered an
explanation."

He went on to recall that Sir Alfred Russel Wallace had written of such
things, and cited instances which Wallace had recorded.  In the end he
said:

"Well, it happened, that's all we can say, and nobody can ever convince
me that it didn't."

We went on playing, and the ball remained solid and substantial ever
after, so far as I know.

I am reminded of two more or less related incidents of this period.
Clemens was, one morning, dictating something about his Christian Union
article concerning Mrs. Clemens's government of children, published in
1885.  I had discovered no copy of it among the materials, and he was
wishing very much that he could see one.  Somewhat later, as he was
walking down Fifth Avenue, the thought of this article and his desire for
it suddenly entered his mind.  Reaching the corner of Forty-second
Street, he stopped a moment to let a jam of vehicles pass.  As he did so
a stranger crossed the street, noticed him, and came dodging his way
through the blockade and thrust some clippings into his hand.

"Mr. Clemens," he said, "you don't know me, but here is something you may
wish to have.  I have been saving them for more than twenty years, and
this morning it occurred to me to send them to you.  I was going to mail
them from my office, but now I will give them to you," and with a word or
two he disappeared.  The clippings were from the Christian Union of 1885,
and were the much-desired article.  Clemens regarded it as a remarkable
case of mental telegraphy.

"Or, if it wasn't that," he said, "it was a most remarkable coincidence."

The other circumstance has been thought amusing.  I had gone to Redding
for a few days, and while there, one afternoon about five o'clock, fell
over a coal-scuttle and scarified myself a good deal between the ankle
and the knee.  I mention the hour because it seems important.  Next
morning I received a note, prompted by Mr. Clemens, in which he said:

Tell Paine I am sorry he fell and skinned his shin at five o'clock
yesterday afternoon.

I was naturally astonished, and immediately wrote:

I did fall and skin my shin at five o'clock yesterday afternoon, but how
did you find it out?

I followed the letter in person next day, and learned that at the same
hour on the same afternoon Clemens himself had fallen up the front steps
and, as he said, peeled off from his "starboard shin a ribbon of skin
three inches long."  The disaster was still uppermost in his mind at the
time of writing, and the suggestion of my own mishap had flashed out for
no particular reason.

Clemens was always having his fortune told, in one way or another, being
superstitious, as he readily confessed, though at times professing little
faith in these prognostics.  Once when a clairvoyant, of whom he had
never even heard, and whom he had reason to believe was ignorant of his
family history, told him more about it than he knew himself, besides
reading a list of names from a piece of paper which Clemens had concealed
in his vest pocket he came home deeply impressed.  The clairvoyant added
that he would probably live to a great age and die in a, foreign land--a
prophecy which did not comfort him.




CCLXI

MINOR EVENTS AND DIVERSIONS

Mark Twain was deeply interested during the autumn of 1907 in the
Children's Theater of the Jewish Educational Alliance, on the lower East
Side--a most worthy institution which ought to have survived.  A Miss
Alice M. Herts, who developed and directed it, gave her strength and
health to build up an institution through which the interest of the
children could be diverted from less fortunate amusements.  She had
interested a great body of Jewish children in the plays of Shakespeare,
and of more modern dramatists, and these they had performed from time to
time with great success.  The admission fee to the performance was ten
cents, and the theater was always crowded with other children--certainly
a better diversion for them than the amusements of the street, though of
course, as a business enterprise, the theater could not pay.  It required
patrons.  Miss Herts obtained permission to play "The Prince and the
Pauper," and Mark Twain agreed to become a sort of chief patron in using
his influence to bring together an audience who might be willing to
assist financially in this worthy work.

"The Prince and the Pauper" evening turned out a distinguished affair.
On the night of November 19, 1907, the hall of the Educational Alliance
was crowded with such an audience as perhaps never before assembled on
the East Side; the finance and the fashion of New York were there.  It
was a gala night for the little East Side performers.  Behind the curtain
they whispered to each other that they were to play before queens.  The
performance they gave was an astonishing one.  So fully did they enter
into the spirit of Tom Canty's rise to royalty that they seemed
absolutely to forget that they were lowly-born children of the Ghetto.
They had become little princesses and lords and maids-in-waiting, and
they moved through their pretty tinsel parts as if all their ornaments
were gems and their raiment cloth of gold.  There was no hesitation, no
awkwardness of speech or gesture, and they rose really to sublime heights
in the barn scene where the little Prince is in the hands of the mob.
Never in the history of the stage has there been assembled a mob more
wonderful than that.  These children knew mobs!  A mob to them was a
daily sight, and their reproduction of it was a thing to startle you with
its realism.  Never was it absurd; never was there a single note of
artificiality in it.  It was Hogarthian in its bigness.

Both Mark Twain and Miss Herts made brief addresses, and the audience
shouted approval of their words.  It seems a pity that such a project as
that must fail, and I do not know why it happened.  Wealthy men and women
manifested an interest; but there was some hitch somewhere, and the
Children's Theater exists to-day only as history.--[In a letter to a Mrs.
Amelia Dunne Hookway, who had conducted some children's plays at the
Howland School, Chicago, Mark Twain once wrote: "If I were going to
begin life over again I would have a children's theater and watch it, and
work for it, and see it grow and blossom and bear its rich moral and
intellectual fruitage; and I should get more pleasure and a saner and
healthier profit out of my vocation than I should ever be able to get out
of any other, constituted as I am.  Yes, you are easily the most
fortunate of women, I think."]

It was at a dinner at The Players--a small, private dinner given by Mr.
George C. Riggs-that I saw Edward L. Burlingame and Mark Twain for the
only time together.  They had often met during the forty-two years that
had passed since their long-ago Sandwich Island friendship; but only
incidentally, for Mr. Burlingame cared not much for great public
occasions, and as editor of Scribner's Magazine he had been somewhat out
of the line of Mark Twain's literary doings.

Howells was there, and Gen. Stewart L. Woodford, and David Bispham, John
Finley, Evan Shipman, Nicholas Biddle, and David Munro.  Clemens told
that night, for the first time, the story of General Miles and the three-
dollar dog, inventing it, I believe, as he went along, though for the
moment it certainly did sound like history.  He told it often after that,
and it has been included in his book of speeches.

Later, in the cab, he said:

"That was a mighty good dinner.  Riggs knows how to do that sort of
thing.  I enjoyed it ever so much.  Now we'll go home and play
billiards."

We began about eleven o'clock, and played until after midnight.  I
happened to be too strong for him, and he swore amazingly.  He vowed that
it was not a gentleman's game at all, that Riggs's wine had demoralized
the play.  But at the end, when we were putting up the cues, he said:

"Well, those were good games.  There is nothing like billiards after
all."

We did not play billiards on his birthday that year.  He went to the
theater in the afternoon; and it happened that, with Jesse Lynch
Williams, I attended the same performance--the "Toy-Maker of Nuremberg"--
written by Austin Strong.  It proved to be a charming play, and I could
see that Clemens was enjoying it.  He sat in a box next to the stage, and
the actors clearly were doing their very prettiest for his benefit.

When later I mentioned having seen him at the play, he spoke freely of
his pleasure in it.

"It is a fine, delicate piece of work," he said.  "I wish I could do such
things as that."

"I believe you are too literary for play-writing."

"Yes, no doubt.  There was never any question with the managers about my
plays.  They always said they wouldn't act.  Howells has come pretty near
to something once or twice.  I judge the trouble is that the literary man
is thinking of the style and quality of the thing, while the playwright
thinks only of how it will play.  One is thinking of how it will sound,
the other of how it will look."

"I suppose," I said, "the literary man should have a collaborator with a
genius for stage mechanism.  John Luther Long's exquisite plays would
hardly have been successful without David Belasco to stage them.  Belasco
cannot write a play himself, but in the matter of acting construction his
genius is supreme."

"Yes, so it is; it was Belasco who made it possible to play "The Prince
and the Pauper"--a collection of literary garbage before he got hold of
it."

Clemens attended few public functions now.  He was beset with
invitations, but he declined most of them.  He told the dog story one
night to the Pleiades Club, assembled at the Brevoort; but that was only
a step away, and we went in after the dining was ended and came away
before the exercises were concluded.

He also spoke at a banquet given to Andrew Carnegie--Saint Andrew, as he
called him--by the Engineers Club, and had his usual fun at the chief
guest's expense.

     I have been chief guest at a good many banquets myself, and I know
     what brother Andrew is feeling like now.  He has been receiving
     compliments and nothing but compliments, but he knows that there is
     another side to him that needs censure.

     I am going to vary the complimentary monotony.  While we have all
     been listening to the complimentary talk Mr. Carnegie's face has
     scintillated with fictitious innocence.  You'd think he never
     committed a crime in his life.  But he has.

     Look at his pestiferous simplified spelling.  Imagine the calamity
     on two sides of the ocean when he foisted his simplified spelling on
     the whole human race.  We've got it all now so that nobody could
     spell .  .  .  .

     If Mr. Carnegie had left spelling alone we wouldn't have had any
     spots on the sun, or any San Francisco quake, or any business
     depression.

     There, I trust he feels better now and that he has enjoyed my abuse
     more than he did his compliments.  And now that I think I have him
     smoothed down and feeling comfortable I just want to say one thing
     more--that his simplified spelling is all right enough, but, like
     chastity, you can carry it too far.

As he was about to go, Carnegie called his attention to the beautiful
souvenir bronze and gold-plated goblets that stood at each guest's plate.
Carnegie said:

"The club had those especially made at Tiffany's for this occasion.  They
cost ten dollars apiece."

Clemens sand: "Is that so?  Well, I only meant to take my own; but if
that's the case I'll load my cab with them."

We made an attempt to reform on the matter of billiards.  The continued
strain of late hours was doing neither of us any particular good.  More
than once I journeyed into the country on one errand and another, mainly
for rest; but a card saying that he was lonely and upset, for lack of his
evening games, quickly brought me back again.  It was my wish only to
serve him; it was a privilege and an honor to give him happiness.

Billiards, however, was not his only recreation just then.  He walked out
a good deal, and especially of a pleasant Sunday morning he liked the
stroll up Fifth Avenue.  Sometimes we went as high as Carnegie's, on
Ninety-second Street, and rode home on top of the electric stage--always
one of Mark Twain's favorite diversions.

From that high seat he liked to look down on the panorama of the streets,
and in that free, open air he could smoke without interference.  Oftener,
however, we turned at Fifty-ninth Street, walking both ways.

When it was pleasant we sometimes sat on a bench in Central Park; and
once he must have left a handkerchief there, for a few days later one of
his handkerchiefs came to him accompanied by a note.  Its finder, a Mr.
Lockwood, received a reward, for Mark Twain wrote him:

     There is more rejoicing in this house over that one handkerchief
     that was lost and is found again than over the ninety and nine that
     never went to the wash at all.  Heaven will reward you, I know it
     will.

On Sunday mornings the return walk would be timed for about the hour that
the churches would be dismissed.  On the first Sunday morning we had
started a little early, and I thoughtlessly suggested, when we reached
Fifty-ninth Street, that if we returned at once we would avoid the
throng.  He said, quietly:

"I like the throng."

So we rested in the Plaza Hotel until the appointed hour.  Men and women
noticed him, and came over to shake his hand.  The gigantic man in
uniform; in charge of the carriages at the door, came in for a word.  He
had opened carriages for Mr. Clemens at the Twenty-third Street station,
and now wanted to claim that honor.  I think he received the most cordial
welcome of any one who came.  I am sure he did.  It was Mark Twain's way
to warm to the man of the lower social rank.  He was never too busy,
never too preoccupied, to grasp the hand of such a man; to listen to his
story, and to say just the words that would make that man happy
remembering them.

We left the Plaza Hotel and presently were amid the throng of outpouring
congregations.  Of course he was the object on which every passing eye
turned; the presence to which every hat was lifted.  I realized that this
open and eagerly paid homage of the multitude was still dear to him, not
in any small and petty way, but as the tribute of a nation, the
expression of that affection which in his London and Liverpool speeches
he had declared to be the last and final and most precious reward that
any man can win, whether by character or achievement.  It was his final
harvest, and he had the courage to claim it--the aftermath of all his
years of honorable labor and noble living.




CCLXII

FROM MARK TWAIN's MAIL

If the reader has any curiosity as to some of the less usual letters
which a man of wide public note may inspire, perhaps he will find a
certain interest in a few selected from the thousands which yearly came
to Mark Twain.

For one thing, he was constantly receiving prescriptions and remedies
whenever the papers reported one of his bronchial or rheumatic attacks.
It is hardly necessary to quote examples of these, but only a form of his
occasional reply, which was likely to be in this wise:

     DEAR SIR [or MADAM],--I try every remedy sent to me.  I am now on
     No. 87.  Yours is 2,653.  I am looking forward to its beneficial
     results.

Of course a large number of the nostrums and palliatives offered were
preparations made by the wildest and longest-haired medical cranks.  One
of these sent an advertisement of a certain Elixir of Life, which was
guaranteed to cure everything--to "wash and cleanse the human molecules,
and so restore youth and preserve life everlasting."

Anonymous letters are not usually popular or to be encouraged, but Mark
Twain had an especial weakness for compliments that came in that way.
They were not mercenary compliments.  The writer had nothing to gain.
Two such letters follow--both written in England just at the time of his
return.

     MARK TWAIN.

     DEAR SIR,--Please accept a poor widow's good-by and kindest wishes.
     I have had some of your books sent to me; have enjoyed them very
     much--only wish I could afford to buy some.

     I should very much like to have seen you.  I have many photos of you
     which I have cut from several papers which I read.  I have one where
     you are writing in bed, which I cut from the Daily News.  Like
     myself, you believe in lots of sleep and rest.  I am 70 and I find I
     need plenty.  Please forgive the liberty I have taken in writing to
     you.  If I can't come to your funeral may we meet beyond the river.

     May God guard you, is the wish of a lonely old widow.
                         Yours sincerely,


The other letter also tells its own story:

     DEAR, KIND MARK TWAIN,--For years I have wanted to write and thank
     you for the comfort you were to me once, only I never quite knew
     where you were, and besides I did not want to bother you; but to-day
     I was told by some one who saw you going into the lift at the Savoy
     that you looked sad and I thought it might cheer you a little tiny
     bit to hear how you kept a poor lonely girl from ruining her eyes
     with crying every night for long months.

     Ten years ago I had to leave home and earn my living as a governess
     and Fate sent me to spend a winter with a very dull old country
     family in the depths of Staffordshire.  According to the genial
     English custom, after my five charges had gone to bed, I took my
     evening meal alone in the school-room, where "Henry Tudor had supped
     the night before Bosworth," and there I had to stay without a soul
     to speak to till I went to bed.  At first I used to cry every night,
     but a friend sent me a copy of your Huckleberry Finn and I never
     cried any more.  I kept him handy under the copy-books and maps, and
     when Henry Tudor commenced to stretch out his chilly hands toward me
     I grabbed my dear Huck and he never once failed me; I opened him at
     random and in two minutes I was in another world.  That's why I am
     so grateful to you and so fond of you, and I thought you might like
     to know; for it is yourself that has the kind heart, as is easily
     seen from the way you wrote about the poor old nigger.  I am a
     stenographer now and live at home, but I shall never forget how you
     helped me.  God bless you and spare you long to those you are dear
     to.

A letter which came to him soon after his return from England contained a
clipping which reported the good work done by Christian missionaries in
the Congo, especially among natives afflicted by the terrible sleeping
sickness.  The letter itself consisted merely of a line, which said:

     Won't you give your friends, the missionaries, a good mark for this?

The writer's name was signed, and Mark Twain answered:

     In China the missionaries are not wanted, & so they ought to be
     decent & go away.  But I have not heard that in the Congo the
     missionary servants of God are unwelcome to the native.

     Evidently those missionaries axe pitying, compassionate, kind.  How
     it would improve God to take a lesson from them!  He invented &
     distributed the germ of that awful disease among those helpless,
     poor savages, & now He sits with His elbows on the balusters & looks
     down & enjoys this wanton crime.  Confidently, & between you & me-
     well, never mind, I might get struck by lightning if I said it.

     Those are good and kindly men, those missionaries, but they are a
     measureless satire upon their Master.

To which the writer answered:

     O wicked Mr. Clemens!  I have to ask Saint Joan of Arc to pray for
     you; then one of these days, when we all stand before the Golden
     Gates and we no longer "see through a glass darkly and know only in
     part," there will be a struggle at the heavenly portals between Joan
     of Arc and St. Peter, but your blessed Joan will conquer and she'll
     lead Mr. Clemens through the gates of pearl and apologize and plead
     for him.

Of the letters that irritated him, perhaps the following is as fair a
sample as any, and it has additional interest in its sequel.

     DEAR SIR,--I have written a book--naturally--which fact, however,
     since I am not your enemy, need give you no occasion to rejoice.
     Nor need you grieve, though I am sending you a copy.  If I knew of
     any way of compelling you to read it I would do so, but unless the
     first few pages have that effect I can do nothing.  Try the first
     few pages.  I have done a great deal more than that with your books,
     so perhaps you owe me some thing--say ten pages.  If after that
     attempt you put it aside I shall be sorry--for you.

     I am afraid that the above looks flippant--but think of the
     twitterings of the soul of him who brings in his hand an unbidden
     book, written by himself.  To such a one much is due in the way of
     indulgence.  Will you remember that?  Have you forgotten early
     twitterings of your own?

In a memorandum made on this letter Mark Twain wrote:

     Another one of those peculiarly depressing letters--a letter cast in
     artificially humorous form, whilst no art could make the subject
     humorous--to me.

Commenting further, he said:

     As I have remarked before about one thousand times the coat of arms
     of the human race ought to consist of a man with an ax on his
     shoulder proceeding toward a grindstone, or it ought to represent
     the several members of the human race holding out the hat to one
     another; for we are all beggars, each in his own way.  One beggar is
     too proud to beg for pennies, but will beg for an introduction into
     society; another does not care for society, but he wants a
     postmastership; another will inveigle a lawyer into conversation and
     then sponge on him for free advice.  The man who wouldn't do any of
     these things will beg for the Presidency.  Each admires his own
     dignity and greatly guards it, but in his opinion the others haven't
     any.

     Mendicancy is a matter of taste and temperament, no doubt, but no
     human being is without some form of it.  I know my own form, you
     know yours.  Let us conceal them from view and abuse the others.
     There is no man so poor but what at intervals some man comes to him
     with an ax to grind.  By and by the ax's aspect becomes familiar to
     the proprietor of the grindstone.  He perceives that it is the same
     old ax.  If you are a governor you know that the stranger wants an
     office.  The first time he arrives you are deceived; he pours out
     such noble praises of you and your political record that you are
     moved to tears; there's a lump in your throat and you are thankful
     that you have lived for this happiness.  Then the stranger discloses
     his ax, and you are ashamed of yourself and your race.  Six
     repetitions will cure you.  After that you interrupt the compliments
     and say, "Yes, yes, that's all right; never mind about that.  What
     is it you want?"

     But you and I are in the business ourselves.  Every now and then we
     carry our ax to somebody and ask a whet.  I don't carry mine to
     strangers--I draw the line there; perhaps that is your way.  This is
     bound to set us up on a high and holy pinnacle and make us look down
     in cold rebuke on persons who carry their axes to strangers.

     I do not know how to answer that stranger's letter.  I wish he had
     spared me.  Never mind about him--I am thinking about myself.  I
     wish he had spared me.  The book has not arrived yet; but no matter,
     I am prejudiced against it.

It was a few days later that he added:

     I wrote to that man.  I fell back upon the old Overworked, polite
     lie, and thanked him for his book and said I was promising myself
     the pleasure of reading it.  Of course that set me free; I was not
     obliged to read it now at all, and, being free, my prejudice was
     gone, and as soon as the book came I opened it to see what it was
     like.  I was not able to put it down until I had finished.  It was
     an embarrassing thing to have to write to that man and confess that
     fact, but I had to do it.  That first letter was merely a lie.  Do
     you think I wrote the second one to give that man pleasure?  Well, I
     did, but it was second-hand pleasure.  I wrote it first to give
     myself comfort, to make myself forget the original lie.

Mark Twain's interest was once aroused by the following:

     DEAR SIR,--I have had more or less of your works on my shelves for
     years, and believe I have practically a complete set now.  This is
     nothing unusual, of course, but I presume it will seem to you
     unusual for any one to keep books constantly in sight which the
     owner regrets ever having read.

     Every time my glance rests on the books I do regret having read
     them, and do not hesitate to tell you so to your face, and care not
     who may know my feelings.  You, who must be kept busy attending to
     your correspondence, will probably pay little or no attention to
     this small fraction of it, yet my reasons, I believe, are sound and
     are probably shared by more people than you are aware of.

     Probably you will not read far enough through this to see who has
     signed it, but if you do, and care to know why I wish I had left
     your work unread, I will tell you as briefly as possible if you will
     ask me.
                                        GEORGE B.  LAUDER.

Clemens did not answer the letter, but put it in his pocket, perhaps
intending to do so, and a few days later, in Boston, when a reporter
called, he happened to remember it.  The reporter asked permission to
print the queer document, and it appeared in his Mark Twain interview
next morning.  A few days later the writer of it sent a second letter,
this time explaining:

     MY DEAR SIR,--I saw in to-day's paper a copy of the letter which I
     wrote you October 26th.

     I have read and re-read your works until I can almost recall some of
     them word for word.  My familiarity with them is a constant source
     of pleasure which I would not have missed, and therefore the regret
     which I have expressed is more than offset by thankfulness.

     Believe me, the regret which I feel for having read your works is
     entirely due to the unalterable fact that I can never again have the
     pleasure of reading them for the first time.

                         Your sincere admirer,
                                        GEORGE B.  LADDER.

Mark Twain promptly replied this time:
     DEAR SIR, You fooled me completely; I didn't divine what the letter
     was concealing, neither did the newspaper men, so you are a very
     competent deceiver.
                              Truly yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.

It was about the end of 1907 that the new St. Louis Harbor boat, was
completed.  The editor of the St. Louis Republic reported that it has
been christened "Mark Twain," and asked for a word of comment.  Clemens
sent this line:

     May my namesake follow in my righteous footsteps, then neither of us
     will need any fire insurance.




CCLXIII

SOME LITERARY LUNCHEONS

Howells, in his book, refers to the Human Race Luncheon Club, which
Clemens once organized for the particular purpose of damning the species
in concert.  It was to consist, beside Clemens himself, of Howells,
Colonel Harvey, and Peter Dunne; but it somehow never happened that even
this small membership could be assembled while the idea was still fresh,
and therefore potent.

Out of it, however, grew a number of those private social gatherings
which Clemens so dearly loved--small luncheons and dinners given at his
own table.  The first of these came along toward the end of 1907, when
Howells was planning to spend the winter in Italy.

"Howells is going away," he said, "and I should like to give him a stag-
party.  We'll enlarge the Human Race Club for the occasion."

So Howells, Colonel Harvey, Martin Littleton, Augustus Thomas, Robert
Porter, and Paderewski were invited.  Paderewski was unable to come, and
seven in all assembled.

Howells was first to arrive.

"Here comes Howells," Clemens said.  "Old Howells a thousand years old."

But Howells didn't look it.  His face was full of good-nature and
apparent health, and he was by no means venerable, either in speech or
action.  Thomas, Porter, Littleton, and Harvey drifted in.  Cocktails
were served and luncheon was announced.

Claude, the butler, had prepared the table with fine artistry--its center
a mass of roses.  There was to be no woman in the neighborhood--Clemens
announced this fact as a sort of warrant for general freedom of
expression.

Thomas's play, "The Witching Hour," was then at the height of its great
acceptance, and the talk naturally began there.  Thomas told something of
the difficulty which he found in being able to convince a manager that it
would succeed, and declared it to be his own favorite work.  I believe
there was no dissenting opinion as to its artistic value, or concerning
its purpose and psychology, though these had been the stumbling-blocks
from a managerial point of view.

When the subject was concluded, and there had come a lull, Colonel
Harvey, who was seated at Clemens's left, said:

"Uncle Mark"--he often called him that--"Major Leigh handed me a report
of the year's sales just as I was leaving.  It shows your royalty returns
this year to be very close to fifty thousand dollars.  I don't believe
there is another such return from old books on record."

This was said in an undertone, to Clemens only, but was overheard by one
or two of those who sat nearest.  Clemens was not unwilling to repeat it
for the benefit of all, and did so.  Howells said:

"A statement like that arouses my basest passions.  The books are no
good; it's just the advertising they get."

Clemens said: "Yes, my contract compels the publisher to advertise.  It
costs them two hundred dollars every time they leave the advertisement
out of the magazines."

"And three hundred every time we put it in," said Harvey.  "We often
debate whether it is more profitable to put in the advertisement or to
leave it out."

The talk switched back to plays and acting.  Thomas recalled an incident
of Beerbohm Tree's performance of "Hamlet."  W. S. Gilbert, of light-
opera celebrity, was present at a performance, and when the play ended
Mrs. Tree hurried over to him and said:

"Oh, Mr. Gilbert, what did you think of Mr. Tree's rendition of Hamlet?"
"Remarkable," said Gilbert.  "Funny without being vulgar."

It was with such idle tales and talk-play that the afternoon passed.  Not
much of it all is left to me, but I remember Howells saying, "Did it ever
occur to you that the newspapers abolished hell?  Well, they did--it was
never done by the church.  There was a consensus of newspaper opinion
that the old hell with its lake of fire and brimstone was an antiquated
institution; in fact a dead letter."  And again, "I was coming down
Broadway last night, and I stopped to look at one of the street-venders
selling those little toy fighting roosters.  It was a bleak, desolate
evening; nobody was buying anything, and as he pulled the string and kept
those little roosters dancing and fighting his remarks grew more and more
cheerless and sardonic.

"'Japanese game chickens,' he said; 'pretty toys, amuse the children with
their antics.  Child of three can operate it.  Take them home for
Christmas.  Chicken-fight at your own fireside.' I tried to catch his eye
to show him that I understood his desolation and sorrow, but it was no
use.  He went on dancing his toy chickens, and saying, over and over,
'Chicken-fight at your own fireside.'"

The luncheon over, we wandered back into the drawing-room, and presently
all left but Colonel Harvey.  Clemens and the Colonel went up to the
billiard-room and engaged in a game of cushion caroms, at twenty-five
cents a game.  I was umpire and stakeholder, and it was a most
interesting occupation, for the series was close and a very cheerful one.
It ended the day much to Mark Twain's satisfaction, for he was oftenest
winner.  That evening he said:

"We will repeat that luncheon; we ought to repeat it once a month.
Howells will be gone, but we must have the others.  We cannot have a
thing like that too often."

There was, in fact, a second stag-luncheon very soon after, at which
George Riggs was present and that rare Irish musician, Denis O'Sullivan.
It was another choice afternoon, with a mystical quality which came of
the music made by O'Sullivan on some Hindu reeds-pipes of Pan.  But we
shall have more of O'Sullivan presently--all too little, for his days
were few and fleeting.

Howells could not get away just yet.  Colonel Harvey, who, like James
Osgood, would not fail to find excuse for entertainment, chartered two
drawing-room cars, and with Mrs. Harvey took a party of fifty-five or
sixty congenial men and women to Lakewood for a good-by luncheon to
Howells.  It was a day borrowed from June, warm and beautiful.

The trip down was a sort of reception.  Most of the guests were
acquainted, but many of them did not often meet.  There was constant
visiting back and forth the full length of the two coaches.  Denis
O'Sullivan was among the guests.  He looked in the bloom of health, and
he had his pipes and played his mystic airs; then he brought out the tin-
whistle of Ireland, and blew such rollicking melodies as capering fairies
invented a long time ago.  This was on the train going down.

There was a brief program following the light-hearted feasting--an
informal program fitting to that sunny day.  It opened with some
recitations by Miss Kitty Cheatham; then Colonel Harvey introduced
Howells, with mention of his coming journey.  As a rule, Howells does not
enjoy speaking.  He is willing to read an address on occasion, but he has
owned that the prospect of talking without his notes terrifies him.  This
time, however, there was no reluctance, though he had prepared no speech.
He was among friends.  He looked even happy when he got on his feet, and
he spoke like a happy man.  He talked about Mark Twain.  It was all
delicate, delicious chaffing which showed Howells at his very best--all
too short for his listeners.

Clemens, replying, returned the chaff, and rambled amusingly among his
fancies, closing with a few beautiful words of "Godspeed and safe return"
to his old comrade and friend.

Then once more came Denis and his pipes.  No one will ever forget his
part of the program.  The little samples we had heard on the train were
expanded and multiplied and elaborated in a way that fairly swept his
listeners out of themselves into that land where perhaps Denis himself
wanders playing now; for a month later, strong and lusty and beautiful as
he seemed that day, he suddenly vanished from among us and his reeds were
silent.  It never occurred to us then that Denis could die; and as he
finished each melody and song there was a shout for a repetition, and I
think we could have sat there and let the days and years slip away
unheeded, for time is banished by music like that, and one wonders if it
might not even divert death.

It was dark when we crossed the river homeward; the myriad lights from
heaven-climbing windows made an enchanted city in the sky.  The evening,
like the day, was warm, and some of the party.  left the ferry-cabin to
lean over and watch the magic spectacle, the like of which is not to be
found elsewhere on the earth.





CCLXIV

"CAPTAIN STORMFIELD" IN PRINT

During the forty years or so that had elapsed since the publication of
the "Gates Ajar" and the perpetration of Mark Twain's intended burlesque,
built on Captain Ned Wakeman's dream, the Christian religion in its more
orthodox aspects had undergone some large modifications.  It was no
longer regarded as dangerous to speak lightly of hell, or even to suggest
that the golden streets and jeweled architecture of the sky might be
regarded as symbols of hope rather than exhibits of actual bullion and
lapidary construction.  Clemens re-read his extravaganza, Captain
Stoymfields Visit to Heaven, gave it a modernizing touch here and there,
and handed it to his publishers, who must have agreed that it was no
longer dangerous, for it was promptly accepted and appeared in the
December and January numbers (1907-8) of Harper's Magazine, and was also
issued as a small book.  If there were any readers who still found it
blasphemous, or even irreverent, they did not say so; the letters that
came--and they were a good many--expressed enjoyment and approval, also
(some of them) a good deal of satisfaction that Mark Twain "had returned
to his earlier form."

The publication of this story recalled to Clemens's mind another heresy
somewhat similar which he had written during the winter of 1891 and 1892
in Berlin.  This was a dream of his own, in which he had set out on a
train with the evangelist Sam Jones and the Archbishop of Canterbury for
the other world.  He had noticed that his ticket was to a different
destination than the Archbishop's, and so, when the prelate nodded and
finally went to sleep, he changed the tickets in their hats with
disturbing results.  Clemens thought a good deal of this fancy when he
wrote it, and when Mrs. Clemens had refused to allow it to be printed he
had laboriously translated it into German, with some idea of publishing
it surreptitiously; but his conscience had been too much for him.  He had
confessed, and even the German version had been suppressed.

Clemens often allowed his fancy to play with the idea of the orthodox
heaven, its curiosities of architecture, and its employments of
continuous prayer, psalm-singing, and harpistry.

"What a childish notion it was," he said, "and how curious that only a
little while ago human beings were so willing to accept such fragile
evidences about a place of so much importance.  If we should find
somewhere to-day an ancient book containing an account of a beautiful and
blooming tropical Paradise secreted in the center of eternal icebergs--an
account written by men who did not even claim to have seen it themselves
--no geographical society on earth would take any stock in that book, yet
that account would be quite as authentic as any we have of heaven.  If
God has such a place prepared for us, and really wanted us to know it, He
could have found some better way than a book so liable to alterations and
misinterpretation.  God has had no trouble to prove to man the laws of
the constellations and the construction of the world, and such things as
that, none of which agree with His so-called book.  As to a hereafter, we
have not the slightest evidence that there is any--no evidence that
appeals to logic and reason.  I have never seen what to me seemed an atom
of proof that there is a future life."

Then, after a long pause, he added:

"And yet--I am strongly inclined to expect one."




CCLXV

LOTOS CLUB HONORS

It was on January 11, 1908, that Mark Twain was given his last great
banquet by the Lotos Club.  The club was about to move again, into
splendid new quarters, and it wished to entertain him once more in its
old rooms.

He wore white, and amid the throng of black-clad men was like a white
moth among a horde of beetles.  The room fairly swarmed with them, and
they seemed likely to overwhelm him.

President Lawrence was toast-master of the evening, and he ended his
customary address by introducing Robert Porter, who had been Mark Twain's
host at Oxford.  Porter told something of the great Oxford week, and
ended by introducing Mark Twain.  It had been expected that Clemens would
tell of his London experiences.  Instead of doing this, he said he had
started a new kind of collection, a collection of compliments.  He had
picked up a number of valuable ones abroad and some at home.  He read
selections from them, and kept the company going with cheers and
merriment until just before the close of his speech.  Then he repeated,
in his most impressive manner, that stately conclusion of his Liverpool
speech, and the room became still and the eyes of his hearers grew dim.
It may have been even more moving than when originally given, for now the
closing words, "homeward bound," had only the deeper meaning.

Dr. John MacArthur followed with a speech that was as good a sermon as
any he ever delivered, and closed it by saying:

"I do not want men to prepare for heaven, but to prepare to remain on
earth, and it is such men as Mark Twain who make other men not fit to
die, but fit to live."

Andrew Carnegie also spoke, and Colonel Harvey, and as the speaking ended
Robert Porter stepped up behind Clemens and threw over his shoulders the
scarlet Oxford robe which had been surreptitiously brought, and placed
the mortar-board cap upon his head, while the diners vociferated their
approval.  Clemens was quite calm.

"I like this," he said, when the noise had subsided.  "I like its
splendid color.  I would dress that way all the time, if I dared."

In the cab going home I mentioned the success of his speech, how well it
had been received.

"Yes," he said; "but then I have the advantage of knowing now that I am
likely to be favorably received, whatever I say.  I know that my
audiences are warm and responseful.  It is an immense advantage to feel
that.  There are cold places in almost every speech, and if your audience
notices them and becomes cool, you get a chill yourself in those zones,
and it is hard to warm up again.  Perhaps there haven't been so many
lately; but I have been acquainted with them more than once."  And then I
could not help remembering that deadly Whittier birthday speech of more
than thirty years before--that bleak, arctic experience from beginning to
end.

"We have just time for four games," he said, as we reached the billiard-
room; but there was no sign of stopping when the four games were over.
We were winning alternately, and neither noted the time.  I was leaving
by an early train, and was willing to play all night.  The milk-wagons
were rattling outside when he said:

"Well, perhaps we'd better quit now.  It seems pretty early, though."  I
looked at my watch.  It was quarter to four, and we said good night.




CCLXVI

A WINTER IN BERMUDA

Edmund Clarence Stedman died suddenly at his desk, January 18, 1908, and
Clemens, in response to telegrams, sent this message:

I do not wish to talk about it.  He was a valued friend from days that
date back thirty-five years.  His loss stuns me and unfits me to speak.

He recalled the New England dinners which he used to attend, and where he
had often met Stedman.

"Those were great affairs," he said.  "They began early, and they ended
early.  I used to go down from Hartford with the feeling that it wasn't
an all-night supper, and that it was going to be an enjoyable time.
Choate and Depew and Stedman were in their prime then--we were all young
men together.  Their speeches were always worth listening to.  Stedman
was a prominent figure there.  There don't seem to be any such men now--
or any such occasions."

Stedman was one of the last of the old literary group.  Aldrich had died
the year before.  Howells and Clemens were the lingering "last leaves."

Clemens gave some further luncheon entertainments to his friends, and
added the feature of "doe" luncheons--pretty affairs where, with Clara
Clemens as hostess, were entertained a group of brilliant women, such as
Mrs. Kate Douglas Riggs, Geraldine Farrax, Mrs. Robert Collier, Mrs.
Frank Doubleday, and others.  I cannot report those luncheons, for I was
not present, and the drift of the proceedings came to me later in too
fragmentary a form to be used as history; but I gathered from Clemens
himself that he had done all of the talking, and I think they must have
been very pleasant afternoons.  Among the acknowledgments that followed
one of these affairs is this characteristic word-play from Mrs. Riggs:

     N. B.--A lady who is invited to and attends a doe luncheon is, of
     course, a doe.  The question is, if she attends two doe luncheons in
     succession is she a doe-doe?  If so is she extinct and can never
     attend a third?

Luncheons and billiards, however, failed to give sufficient brightness to
the dull winter days, or to insure him against an impending bronchial
attack, and toward the end of January he sailed away to Bermuda, where
skies were bluer and roadsides gay with bloom.  His sojourn was brief
this time, but long enough to cure him, he said, and he came back full of
happiness.  He had been driving about over the island with a newly
adopted granddaughter, little Margaret Blackmer, whom he had met one
morning in the hotel dining-room.  A part of his dictated story will
convey here this pretty experience.

     My first day in Bermuda paid a dividend--in fact a double dividend:
     it broke the back of my cold and it added a jewel to my collection.
     As I entered the breakfast-room the first object I saw in that
     spacious and far-reaching place was a little girl seated solitary at
     a table for two.  I bent down over her and patted her cheek and
     said:

     "I don't seem to remember your name; what is it?"

     By the sparkle in her brown eyes it amused her.  She said:

     "Why, you've never known it, Mr. Clemens, because you've never seen
     me before."

     "Why, that is true, now that I come to think; it certainly is true,
     and it must be one of the reasons why I have forgotten your name.
     But I remember it now perfectly--it's Mary."

     She was amused again; amused beyond smiling; amused to a chuckle,
     and she said:

     "Oh no, it isn't; it's Margaret."

     I feigned to be ashamed of my mistake and said:

     "Ah, well, I couldn't have made that mistake a few years ago; but I
     am old, and one of age's earliest infirmities is a damaged memory;
     but I am clearer now--clearer-headed--it all comes back to me just
     as if it were yesterday.  It's Margaret Holcomb."

     She was surprised into a laugh this time, the rippling laugh that a
     happy brook makes when it breaks out of the shade into the sunshine,
     and she said:

     "Oh, you are wrong again; you don't get anything right.  It isn't
     Holcomb, it's Blackmer."

     I was ashamed again, and confessed it; then:

     "How old are you, dear?"

     "Twelve; New-Year's.  Twelve and a month."

     We were close comrades-inseparables, in fact-for eight days.  Every
     day we made pedestrian excursions--called them that anyway, and
     honestly they were intended for that, and that is what they would
     have been but for the persistent intrusion of a gray and grave and
     rough-coated donkey by the name of Maud.  Maud was four feet long;
     she was mounted on four slender little stilts, and had ears that
     doubled her altitude when she stood them up straight.  Her tender
     was a little bit of a cart with seat room for two in it, and you
     could fall out of it without knowing it, it was so close to the
     ground.  This battery was in command of a nice, grave, dignified,
     gentlefaced little black boy whose age was about twelve, and whose
     name, for some reason or other, was Reginald.  Reginald and Maud--I
     shall not easily forget those names, nor the combination they stood
     for.  The trips going and coming were five or six miles, and it
     generally took us three hours to make it.  This was because Maud set
     the pace.  Whenever she detected an ascending grade she respected
     it; she stopped and said with her ears:

     "This is getting unsatisfactory.  We will camp here."

     The whole idea of these excursions was that Margaret and I should
     employ them for the gathering of strength, by walking, yet we were
     oftener in the cart than out of it.  She drove and I superintended.
     In the course of the first excursions I found a beautiful little
     shell on the beach at Spanish Point; its hinge was old and dry, and
     the two halves came apart in my hand.  I gave one of them to
     Margaret and said:

     "Now dear, sometime or other in the future I shall run across you
     somewhere, and it may turn out that it is not you at all, but will
     be some girl that only resembles you.  I shall be saying to myself
     'I know that this is a Margaret by the look of her, but I don't know
     for sure whether this is my Margaret or somebody else's'; but, no
     matter, I can soon find out, for I shall take my half shell out of
     my pocket and say, 'I think you are my Margaret, but I am not
     certain; if you are my Margaret you can produce the other half of
     this shell.'"

     Next morning when I entered the breakfast-room and saw the child I
     approached and scanned her searchingly all over, then said, sadly:

     "No, I am mistaken; it looks like my Margaret,--but it isn't, and I
     am so sorry.  I shall go away and cry now."

     Her eyes danced triumphantly, and she cried out:

     "No, you don't have to.  There!" and she fetched out the identifying
     shell.

     I was beside myself with gratitude and joyful surprise, and revealed
     it from every pore.  The child could not have enjoyed this thrilling
     little drama more if we had been playing it on the stage.  Many
     times afterward she played the chief part herself, pretending to be
     in doubt as to my identity and challenging me to produce my half of
     the shell.  She was always hoping to catch me without it, but I
     always defeated that game--wherefore she came to recognize at last
     that I was not only old, but very smart.

Sometimes, when they were not walking or driving, they sat on the
veranda, and he prepared history-lessons for little Margaret by making
grotesque figures on cards with numerous legs and arms and other
fantastic symbols end features to fix the length of some king's reign.
For William the Conqueror, for instance, who reigned twenty-one years, he
drew a figure of eleven legs and ten arms.  It was the proper method of
impressing facts upon the mind of a child.  It carried him back to those
days at Elmira when he had arranged for his own little girls the game of
kings.  A Miss Wallace, a friend of Margaret's, and usually one of the
pedestrian party, has written a dainty book of those Bermudian days.
--[Mark Twain and the Happy Islands, by Elizabeth Wallace.]

Miss Wallace says:

     Margaret felt for him the deep affection that children have for an
     older person who understands them and treats them with respect.  Mr.
     Clemens never talked down to her, but considered her opinions with a
     sweet dignity.

There were some pretty sequels to the shell incident.  After Mark Twain
had returned to New York, and Margaret was there, she called one day with
her mother, and sent up her card.  He sent back word, saying:

     "I seem to remember the name; but if this is really the person whom
     I think it is she can identify herself by a certain shell I once
     gave her, of which I have the other half.  If the two halves fit, I
     shall know that this is the same little Margaret that I remember."

The message went down, and the other half of the shell was promptly sent
up.  Mark Twain had the two half-shells incised firmly in gold, and one
of these he wore on his watch-fob, and sent the other to Margaret.

He afterward corresponded with Margaret, and once wrote her:

     I'm already making mistakes.  When I was in New York, six weeks ago,
     I was on a corner of Fifth Avenue and I saw a small girl--not a big
     one--start across from the opposite corner, and I exclaimed to
     myself joyfully, "That is certainly my Margaret!" so I rushed to
     meet her.  But as she came nearer I began to doubt, and said to
     myself, "It's a Margaret--that is plain enough--but I'm afraid it is
     somebody else's."  So when I was passing her I held my shell so she
     couldn't help but see it.  Dear, she only glanced at it and passed
     on!  I wondered if she could have overlooked it.  It seemed best to
     find out; so I turned and followed and caught up with her, and said,
     deferentially; "Dear Miss, I already know your first name by the
     look of you, but would you mind telling me your other one?" She was
     vexed and said pretty sharply, "It's Douglas, if you're so anxious
     to know.  I know your name by your looks, and I'd advise you to shut
     yourself up with your pen and ink and write some more rubbish.  I am
     surprised that they allow you to run' at large.  You are likely to
     get run over by a baby-carriage any time.  Run along now and don't
     let the cows bite you."

     What an idea!  There aren't any cows in Fifth Avenue.  But I didn't
     smile; I didn't let on to perceive how uncultured she was.  She was
     from the country, of course, and didn't know what a comical blunder.
     she was making.

Mr. Rogers's health was very poor that winter, and Clemens urged him to
try Bermuda, and offered to go back with him; so they sailed away to the
summer island, and though Margaret was gone, there was other entertaining
company--other granddaughters to be adopted, and new friends and old
friends, and diversions of many sorts.  Mr. Rogers's son-in-law, William
Evarts Benjamin, came down and joined the little group.  It was one of
Mark Twain's real holidays.  Mr. Rogers's health improved rapidly, and
Mark Twain was in fine trim.  To Mrs. Rogers, at the end of the first
week, he wrote:

     DEAR MRS. ROGERS, He is getting along splendidly!  This was the very
     place for him.  He enjoys himself & is as quarrelsome as a cat.

     But he will get a backset if Benjamin goes home.  Benjamin is the
     brightest man in these regions, & the best company.  Bright?  He is
     much more than that, he is brilliant.  He keeps the crowd intensely
     alive.

     With love & all good wishes.
                                        S. L. C.

Mark Twain and Henry Rogers were much together and much observed.  They
were often referred to as "the King" and "the Rajah," and it was always a
question whether it was "the King" who took care of "the Rajah," or vice
versa.  There was generally a group to gather around them, and Clemens
was sure of an attentive audience, whether he wanted to air his
philosophies, his views of the human race, or to read aloud from the
verses of Kipling.

"I am not fond of all poetry," he would say; "but there's something in
Kipling that appeals to me.  I guess he's just about my level."

Miss Wallace recalls certain Kipling readings in his room, when his
friends gathered to listen.

     On those Kipling evenings the 'mise-en-scene' was a striking one.
     The bare hotel room, the pine woodwork and pine furniture, loose
     windows which rattled in the sea-wind.  Once in a while a gust of
     asthmatic music from the spiritless orchestra downstairs came up the
     hallway.  Yellow, unprotected gas-lights burned uncertainly, and
     Mark Twain in the midst of this lay on his bed (there was no couch)
     still in his white serge suit, with the light from the jet shining
     down on the crown of his silver hair, making it gleam and glisten
     like frosted threads.

In one hand he held his book, in the other he had his pipe, which he used
principally to gesture with in the most dramatic passages.

Margaret's small successors became the earliest members of the Angel Fish
Club, which Clemens concluded to organize after a visit to the
spectacular Bermuda aquarium.  The pretty angel-fish suggested youth and
feminine beauty to him, and his adopted granddaughters became angel-fish
to him from that time forward.  He bought little enamel angel-fish pins,
and carried a number of them with him most of the time, so that he could
create membership on short notice.  It was just another of the harmless
and happy diversions of his gentler side.  He was always fond of youth
and freshness.  He regarded the decrepitude of old age as an unnecessary
part of life.  Often he said:

"If I had been helping the Almighty when, He created man, I would have
had Him begin at the other end, and start human beings with old age.  How
much better it would have been to start old and have all the bitterness
and blindness of age in the beginning!  One would not mind then if he
were looking forward to a joyful youth.  Think of the joyous prospect of
growing young instead of old!  Think of looking forward to eighteen
instead of eighty!  Yes, the Almighty made a poor job of it.  I wish He
had invited my assistance."

To one of the angel fish he wrote, just after his return:

     I miss you, dear.  I miss Bermuda, too, but not so much as I miss
     you; for you were rare, and occasional and select, and Ltd.; whereas
     Bermuda's charms and, graciousnesses were free and common and
     unrestricted--like the rain, you know, which falls upon the just and
     the unjust alike; a thing which would not happen if I were
     superintending the rain's affairs.  No, I would rain softly and
     sweetly upon the just, but whenever I caught a sample of the unjust
     outdoors I would drown him.




CCLXVII

VIEWS AND ADDRESSES

     [As I am beginning this chapter, April 16, 1912, the news comes of
     the loss, on her first trip, of the great White Star Line steamer
     Titanic, with the destruction of many passengers, among whom are
     Frank D. Millet, William T. Stead, Isadore Straus, John Jacob Astor,
     and other distinguished men.  They died as heroes, remaining with
     the ship in order that the women and children might be saved.

     It was the kind of death Frank Millet would have wished to die.
     He was always a soldier--a knight.  He has appeared from time to
     time in these pages, for he was a dear friend of the Clemens
     household.  One of America's foremost painters; at the time of his
     death he was head of the American Academy of Arts in Rome.]

Mark Twain made a number of addresses during the spring of 1908.
He spoke at the Cartoonists' dinner, very soon after his return from
Bermuda; he spoke at the Booksellers' banquet, expressing his debt of
obligation to those who had published and sold his books; he delivered a
fine address at the dinner given by the British Schools and University
Club at Delmonico's, May 25th, in honor of Queen Victoria's birthday.
In that speech he paid high tribute to the Queen for her attitude toward
America, during the crisis of the Civil Wax, and to her royal consort,
Prince Albert.

     What she did for us in America in our time of storm and stress we
     shall not forget, and whenever we call it to mind we shall always
     gratefully remember the wise and righteous mind that guided her in
     it and sustained and supported her--Prince Albert's.  We need not
     talk any idle talk here to-night about either possible or impossible
     war between two countries; there will be no war while we remain sane
     and the son of Victoria and Albert sits upon the throne.  In
     conclusion, I believe I may justly claim to utter the voice of my
     country in saying that we hold him in deep honor, and also in
     cordially wishing him a long life and a happy reign.

But perhaps his most impressive appearance was at the dedication of the
great City College (May 14, 1908), where President John Finley, who had
been struggling along with insufficient room, was to have space at last
for his freer and fuller educational undertakings.  A great number of
honored scholars, statesmen, and diplomats assembled on the college
campus, a spacious open court surrounded by stately college architecture
of medieval design.  These distinguished guests were clad in their
academic robes, and the procession could not have been widely different
from that one at Oxford of a year before.  But there was something rather
fearsome about it, too.  A kind of scaffolding had been reared in the
center of the campus for the ceremonies; and when those grave men in
their robes of state stood grouped upon it the picture was strikingly
suggestive of one of George Cruikshank's drawings of an execution scene
at the Tower of London.  Many of the robes were black--these would be the
priests--and the few scarlet ones would be the cardinals who might have
assembled for some royal martyrdom.  There was a bright May sunlight over
it all, one of those still, cool brightnesses which served to heighten
the weird effect.  I am sure that others felt it besides myself, for
everybody seemed wordless and awed, even at times when there was no
occasion for silence.  There was something of another age about the whole
setting, to say the least.

We left the place in a motor-car, a crowd of boys following after.  As
Clemens got in they gathered around the car and gave the college yell,
ending with "Twain!  Twain!  Twain!" and added three cheers for Tom
Sawyer, Huck Finn, and Pudd'nhead Wilson.  They called for a speech, but
he only said a few words in apology for not granting their request.  He
made a speech to them that night at the Waldorf--where he proposed for
the City College a chair of citizenship, an idea which met with hearty
applause.

In the same address he referred to the "God Trust" motto on the coins,
and spoke approvingly of the President's order for its removal.

     We do not trust in God, in the important matters of life, and not
     even a minister of the Gospel will take any coin for a cent more
     than its accepted value because of that motto.  If cholera should
     ever reach these shores we should probably pray to be delivered from
     the plague, but we would put our main trust in the Board of Health.

Next morning, commenting on the report of this speech, he said:

"If only the reporters would not try to improve on what I say.  They seem
to miss the fact that the very art of saying a thing effectively is in
its delicacy, and as they can't reproduce the manner and intonation in
type they make it emphatic and clumsy in trying to convey it to the
reader."

I pleaded that the reporters were often young men, eager, and unmellowed
in their sense of literary art.

"Yes," he agreed, "they are so afraid their readers won't see my good
points that they set up red flags to mark them and beat a gong.  They
mean well, but I wish they wouldn't do it."

He referred to the portion of his speech concerning the motto on the
coins.  He had freely expressed similar sentiments on other public
occasions, and he had received a letter criticizing him for saying that
we do not really trust in God in any financial matter.

"I wanted to answer it," he said; "but I destroyed it.  It didn't seem
worth noticing."

I asked how the motto had originated.

"About 1853 some idiot in Congress wanted to announce to the world that
this was a religious nation, and proposed putting it there, and no other
Congressman had courage enough to oppose it, of course.  It took courage
in those days to do a thing like that; but I think the same thing would
happen to-day."

"Still the country has become broader.  It took a brave man before the
Civil War to confess he had read the 'Age of Reason'."

"So it did, and yet that seems a mild book now.  I read it first when I
was a cub pilot, read it with fear and hesitation, but marveling at its
fearlessness and wonderful power.  I read it again a year or two ago, for
some reason, and was amazed to see how tame it had become.  It seemed
that Paine was apologizing everywhere for hurting the feelings of the
reader."

He drifted, naturally, into a discussion of the Knickerbocker Trust
Company's suspension, which had tied up some fifty-five thousand dollars
of his capital, and wondered how many were trusting in God for the return
of these imperiled sums.  Clemens himself, at this time, did not expect
to come out whole from that disaster.  He had said very little when the
news came, though it meant that his immediate fortunes were locked up,
and it came near stopping the building activities at Redding.  It was
only the smaller things of life that irritated him.  He often met large
calamities with a serenity which almost resembled indifference.  In the
Knickerbocker situation he even found humor as time passed, and wrote a
number of gay letters, some of which found their way into print.

It should be added that in the end there was no loss to any of the
Knickerbocker depositors.




CCLXVIII

REDDING

The building of the new home at Redding had been going steadily forward
for something more than a year.  John Mead Howells had made the plans;
W. W. Sunderland and his son Philip, of Danbury, Connecticut, were the
builders, and in the absence of Miss Clemens, then on a concert tour,
Mark Twain's secretary, Miss I. V. Lyon, had superintended the
furnishing.

"Innocence at Home," as the place was originally named, was to be ready
for its occupant in June, with every detail in place, as he desired.  He
had never visited Redding; he had scarcely even glanced at the plans or
discussed any of the decorations of the new home.  He had required only
that there should be one great living-room for the orchestrelle, and
another big room for the billiard-table, with plenty of accommodations
for guests.  He had required that the billiard-room be red, for something
in his nature answered to the warm luxury of that color, particularly in
moments of diversion.  Besides, his other billiard-rooms had been red,
and such association may not be lightly disregarded.  His one other
requirement was that the place should be complete.

"I don't want to see it," he said, "until the cat is purring on the
hearth."

Howells says:

"He had grown so weary of change, and so indifferent to it, that he was
without interest."

But it was rather, I think, that he was afraid of losing interest by
becoming wearied with details which were likely to exasperate him; also,
he wanted the dramatic surprise of walking into a home that had been
conjured into existence as with a word.

It was expected that the move would be made early in the month; but there
were delays, and it was not until the 18th of June that he took
possession.

The plan, at this time, was only to use the Redding place as a summer
residence, and the Fifth Avenue house was not dismantled.  A few days
before the 18th the servants, with one exception, were taken up to the
new house, Clemens and myself remaining in the loneliness of No. 21,
attending to the letters in the morning and playing billiards the rest of
the time, waiting for the appointed day and train.  It was really a
pleasant three days.  He invented a new game, and we were riotous and
laughed as loudly as we pleased.  I think he talked very little of the
new home which he was so soon to see.  It was referred to no oftener than
once or twice a day, and then I believe only in connection with certain
of the billiard-room arrangements.  I have wondered since what picture of
it he could have had in his mind, for he had never seen a photograph.
He had a general idea that it was built upon a hill, and that its
architecture was of the Italian villa order.  I confess I had moments of
anxiety, for I had selected the land for him, and had been more or less
accessory otherwise.  I did not really worry, for I knew how beautiful
and peaceful it all was; also something of his taste and needs.

It had been a dry spring, and country roads were dusty, so that those who
were responsible had been praying for rain, to be followed by a pleasant
day for his arrival.  Both petitions were granted; June 18th would fall
on Thursday, and Monday night there came a good, thorough, and refreshing
shower that washed the vegetation clean and laid the dust.  The morning
of the 18th was bright and sunny and cool.  Clemens was up and shaved by
six o'clock in order to be in time, though the train did not leave until
four in the afternoon--an express newly timed to stop at Redding--its
first trip scheduled for the day of Mark Twain's arrival.

We were still playing billiards when word was brought up that the cab was
waiting.  My daughter, Louise, whose school on Long Island had closed
that day, was with us.  Clemens wore his white flannels and a Panama hat,
and at the station a group quickly collected, reporters and others, to
interview him and speed him to his new home.  He was cordial and
talkative, and quite evidently full of pleasant anticipation.  A reporter
or two and a special photographer came along, to be present at his
arrival.

The new, quick train, the green, flying landscape, with glimpses of the
Sound and white sails, the hillsides and clear streams becoming rapidly
steeper and dearer as we turned northward: all seemed to gratify him, and
when he spoke at all it was approvingly.  The hour and a half required to
cover the sixty miles of distance seemed very short.  As the train slowed
down for the Redding station, he said:

"We'll leave this box of candy"--he had bought a large box on the way--
"those colored porters sometimes like candy, and we can get some more."

He drew out a great handful of silver.

"Give them something--give everybody liberally that does any service."

There was a sort of open-air reception in waiting.  Redding had
recognized the occasion as historic.  A varied assemblage of vehicles
festooned with flowers had gathered to offer a gallant country welcome.

It was now a little before six o'clock of that long June day, still and
dreamlike; and to the people assembled there may have been something
which was not quite reality in the scene.  There was a tendency to be
very still.  They nodded, waved their hands to him, smiled, and looked
their fill; but a spell lay upon them, and they did not cheer.  It would
have been a pity if they had done so.  A noise, and the illusion would
have been shattered.

His carriage led away on the three-mile drive to the house on the
hilltop, and the floral turnout fell in behind.  No first impression of a
fair land could have come at a sweeter time.  Hillsides were green,
fields were white with daisies, dog-wood and laurel shone among the
trees.  And over all was the blue sky, and everywhere the fragrance of
June.

He was very quiet as we drove along.  Once with gentle humor, looking
over a white daisy field, he said:

"That is buckwheat.  I always recognize buckwheat when I see it.  I wish
I knew as much about other things as I know about buckwheat.  It seems to
be very plentiful here; it even grows by the roadside."  And a little
later: "This is the kind of a road I like; a good country road through
the woods."

The water was flowing over the mill-dam where the road crosses the
Saugatuck, and he expressed approval of that clear, picturesque little
river, one of those charming Connecticut streams.  A little farther on a
brook cascaded down the hillside, and he compared it with some of the
tiny streams of Switzerland, I believe the Giessbach.  The lane that led
to the new home opened just above, and as he entered the leafy way he
said, "This is just the kind of a lane I like," thus completing his
acceptance of everything but the house and the location.

The last of the procession had dropped away at the entrance of the lane,
and he was alone with those who had most anxiety for his verdict.  They
had not long to wait.  As the carriage ascended higher to the open view
he looked away, across the Saugatuck Valley to the nestling village and
church-spire and farm-houses, and to the distant hills, and declared the
land to be a good land and beautiful--a spot to satisfy one's soul.  Then
came the house--simple and severe in its architecture--an Italian villa,
such as he had known in Florence, adapted now to American climate and
needs.  The scars of building had not all healed yet, but close to the
house waved green grass and blooming flowers that might have been there
always.  Neither did the house itself look new.  The soft, gray stucco
had taken on a tone that melted into the sky and foliage of its
background.  At the entrance his domestic staff waited to greet him, and
then he stepped across the threshold into the wide hall and stood in his
own home for the first time in seventeen years.  It was an anxious
moment, and no one spoke immediately.  But presently his eye had taken in
the satisfying harmony of the place and followed on through the wide
doors that led to the dining-room--on through the open French windows to
an enchanting vista of tree-tops and distant farmside and blue hills.  He
said, very gently:

"How beautiful it all is?  I did not think it could be as beautiful as
this."

He was taken through the rooms; the great living-room at one end of the
hall--a room on the walls of which there was no picture, but only color-
harmony--and at the other end of the hall, the splendid, glowing
billiard-room, where hung all the pictures in which he took delight.
Then to the floor above, with its spacious apartments and a continuation
of color--welcome and concord, the windows open to the pleasant evening
hills.  When he had seen it all--the natural Italian garden below the
terraces; the loggia, whose arches framed landscape vistas and formed a
rare picture-gallery; when he had completed the round and stood in the
billiard-room--his especial domain--once more he said, as a final
verdict:

"It is a perfect house--perfect, so far as I can see, in every detail.
It might have been here always."

He was at home there from that moment--absolutely, marvelously at home,
for he fitted the setting perfectly, and there was not a hitch or flaw in
his adaptation.  To see him over the billiard-table, five minutes later,
one could easily fancy that Mark Twain, as well as the house, had "been
there always."  Only the presence of his daughters was needed now to
complete his satisfaction in everything.

There were guests that first evening--a small home dinner-party--and so
perfect were the appointments and service, that one not knowing would
scarcely have imagined it to be the first dinner served in that lovely
room.  A little later; at the foot of the garden of bay and cedar,
neighbors, inspired by Dan Beard, who had recently located near by, set
off some fireworks. Clemens stepped out on the terrace and saw rockets
climbing through the summer sky to announce his arrival.

"I wonder why they all go to so much trouble for me," he said, softly.
"I never go to any trouble for anybody"--a statement which all who heard
it, and all his multitude of readers in every land, stood ready to deny.

That first evening closed with billiards--boisterous, triumphant
billiards--and when with midnight the day ended and the cues were set in
the rack, there was none to say that Mark Twain's first day in his new
home had not been a happy one.




CCLXIX

FIRST DAYS AT STORMFIELD

I went up next afternoon, for I knew how he dreaded loneliness.  We
played billiards for a time, then set out for a walk, following the long
drive to the leafy lane that led to my own property.  Presently he said:

"In one way I am sorry I did not see this place sooner.  I never want to
leave it again.  If I had known it was so beautiful I should have vacated
the house in town and moved up here permanently."

I suggested that he could still do so, if he chose, and he entered
immediately into the idea.  By and by we turned down a deserted road,
grassy and beautiful, that ran along his land.  At one side was a slope
facing the west, and dotted with the slender, cypress-like cedars of New
England.  He had asked if that were part of his land, and on being told
it was he said:

"I would like Howells to have a house there.  We must try to give that to
Howells."

At the foot of the hill we came to a brook and followed it into a meadow.
I told him that I had often caught fine trout there, and that soon I
would bring in some for breakfast.  He answered:

"Yes, I should like that.  I don't care to catch them any more myself.  I
like them very hot."

We passed through some woods and came out near my own ancient little
house.  He noticed it and said:

"The man who built that had some memory of Greece in his mind when he put
on that little porch with those columns."

My second daughter, Frances, was coming from a distant school on the
evening train, and the carriage was starting just then to bring her.  I
suggested that perhaps he would find it pleasant to make the drive.

"Yes," he agreed, "I should enjoy that."

So I took the reins, and he picked up little Joy, who came running out
just then, and climbed into the back seat.  It was another beautiful
evening, and he was in a talkative humor.  Joy pointed out a small turtle
in the road, and he said:

"That is a wild turtle.  Do you think you could teach it arithmetic?"

Joy was uncertain.

"Well," he went on, "you ought to get an arithmetic--a little ten-cent
arithmetic--and teach that turtle."

We passed some swampy woods, rather dim and junglelike.

"Those," he said, "are elephant woods."

But Joy answered:

"They are fairy woods.  The fairies are there, but you can't see them
because they wear magic cloaks."

He said:  "I wish I had one of those magic cloaks, sometimes.  I had one
once, but it is worn out now."

Joy looked at him reverently, as one who had once been the owner of a
piece of fairyland.

It was a sweet drive to and from the village.  There are none too many
such evenings in a lifetime.  Colonel Harvey's little daughter, Dorothy,
came up a day or two later, and with my daughter Louise spent the first
week with him in the new home.  They were created "Angel-Fishes"--the
first in the new aquarium; that is to say, the billiard-room, where he
followed out the idea by hanging a row of colored prints of Bermuda
fishes in a sort of frieze around the walls.  Each visiting member was
required to select one as her particular patron fish and he wrote her
name upon it.  It was his delight to gather his juvenile guests in this
room and teach them the science of billiard angles; but it was so
difficult to resist taking the cue and making plays himself that he was
required to stand on a little platform and give instruction just out of
reach.  His snowy flannels and gleaming white hair, against those rich
red walls, with those small, summer-clad players, made a pretty picture.

The place did not retain its original name.  He declared that it would
always be "Innocence at Home" to the angel-fish visitors, but that the
title didn't remain continuously appropriate.  The money which he had
derived from Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven had been used to build
the loggia wing, and he considered the name of "Stormfield" as a
substitute.  When, presently, the summer storms gathered on that rock-
bound, open hill, with its wide reaches of vine and shrub-wild, fierce
storms that bent the birch and cedar, and strained at the bay and
huckleberry, with lightning and turbulent wind and thunder, followed by
the charging rain--the name seemed to become peculiarly appropriate.
Standing with his head bared to the tumult, his white hair tossing in the
blast, and looking out upon the wide splendor of the spectacle, he
rechristened the place, and "Stormfield" it became and remained.

The last day of Mark Twain's first week in Redding, June 25th, was
saddened by the news of the death of Grover Cleveland at his home in
Princeton, New Jersey.  Clemens had always been an ardent Cleveland
admirer, and to Mrs. Cleveland now he sent this word of condolence--

     Your husband was a man I knew and loved and honored for twenty-five
     years.  I mourn with you.

And once during the evening he said:

"He was one of our two or three real Presidents.  There is none to take
his place."




CCLXX

THE ALDRICH MEMORIAL

At the end of June came the dedication at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, of
the Thomas Bailey Aldrich Memorial Museum, which the poet's wife had
established there in the old Aldrich homestead.  It was hot weather.
We were obliged to take a rather poor train from South Norwalk, and
Clemens was silent and gloomy most of the way to Boston.  Once there,
however, lodged in a cool and comfortable hotel, matters improved.
He had brought along for reading the old copy of Sir Thomas Malory's
Arthur Tales, and after dinner he took off his clothes and climbed into
bed and sat up and read aloud from those stately legends, with comments
that I wish I could remember now, only stopping at last when overpowered
with sleep.

We went on a special train to Portsmouth next morning through the summer
heat, and assembled, with those who were to speak, in the back portion of
the opera-house, behind the scenes: Clemens was genial and good-natured
with all the discomfort of it; and he liked to fancy, with Howells, who
had come over from Kittery Point, how Aldrich must be amused at the whole
circumstance if he could see them punishing themselves to do honor to his
memory.  Richard Watson Gilder was there, and Hamilton Mabie; also
Governor Floyd of New Hampshire; Colonel Higginson, Robert Bridges, and
other distinguished men.  We got to the more open atmosphere of the stage
presently, and the exercises began.  Clemens was last on the program.

The others had all said handsome, serious things, and Clemens himself had
mentally prepared something of the sort; but when his turn came, and he
rose to speak, a sudden reaction must have set in, for he delivered an
address that certainly would have delighted Aldrich living, and must have
delighted him dead, if he could hear it.  It was full of the most
charming humor, delicate, refreshing, and spontaneous.  The audience,
that had been maintaining a proper gravity throughout, showed its
appreciation in ripples of merriment that grew presently into genuine
waves of laughter.  He spoke out his regret for having worn black
clothes.  It was a mistake, he said, to consider this a solemn time--
Aldrich would not have wished it to be so considered.  He had been a man
who loved humor and brightness and wit, and had helped to make life merry
and delightful.  Certainly, if he could know, he would not wish this
dedication of his own home to be a lugubrious, smileless occasion.
Outside, when the services were ended, the venerable juvenile writer,
J. T. Trowbridge, came up to Clemens with extended hand.  Clemens said:
"Trowbridge, are you still alive?  You must be a thousand years old.
Why, I listened to your stories while I was being rocked in the cradle."
Trowbridge said:

"Mark, there's some mistake.  My earliest infant smile was wakened with
one of your jokes."

They stood side by side against a fence in the blazing sun and were
photographed--an interesting picture.

We returned to Boston that evening.  Clemens did not wish to hurry in the
summer heat, and we remained another day quietly sight-seeing, and
driving around and around Commonwealth Avenue in a victoria in the cool
of the evening.  Once, remembering Aldrich, he said:

"I was just planning Tom Sawyer when he was beginning the 'Story of a Bad
Boy'.  When I heard that he was writing that I thought of giving up mine,
but Aldrich insisted that it would be a foolish thing to do.  He thought
my Missouri boy could not by any chance conflict with his boy of New
England, and of course he was right."

He spoke of how great literary minds usually came along in company.  He
said:

"Now and then, on the stream of time, small gobs of that thing which we
call genius drift down, and a few of these lodge at some particular
point, and others collect about them and make a sort of intellectual
island--a towhead, as they say on the river--such an accumulation of
intellect we call a group, or school, and name it.

"Thirty years ago there was the Cambridge group.  Now there's been still
another, which included Aldrich and Howells and Stedman and Cable.  It
will soon be gone.  I suppose they will have to name it by and by."

He pointed out houses here and there of people he had known and visited
in other days.  The driver was very anxious to go farther, to other and
more distinguished sights.  Clemens mildly but firmly refused any
variation of the program, and so we kept on driving around and around the
shaded loop of Beacon Street until dusk fell and the lights began to
twinkle among the trees.




CCLXXI

DEATH OF "SAM" MOFFETT

Clemens' next absence from Redding came on August 1, 1908, when the
sudden and shocking news was received of the drowning of his nephew,
Samuel E. Moffett, in the surf of the Jersey shore.  Moffett was his
nearest male relative, and a man of fine intellect and talents.  He was
superior in those qualities which men love--he was large-minded and
large-hearted, and of noble ideals.  With much of the same sense of humor
which had made his uncle's fame, he had what was really an abnormal
faculty of acquiring and retaining encyclopedic data.  Once as a child he
had visited Hartford when Clemens was laboring over his history game.
The boy was much interested, and asked permission to help.  His uncle
willingly consented, and referred him to the library for his facts.  But
he did not need to consult the books; he already had English history
stored away, and knew where to find every detail of it.  At the time of
his death Moffett held an important editorial position on Collier's
Weekly.

Clemens was fond and proud of his nephew.  Returning from the funeral, he
was much depressed, and a day or two later became really ill.  He was in
bed for a few days, resting, he said, after the intense heat of the
journey.  Then he was about again and proposed billiards as a diversion.
We were all alone one very still, warm August afternoon playing, when he
suddenly said:

"I feel a little dizzy; I will sit down a moment."

I brought him a glass of water and he seemed to recover, but when he rose
and started to play I thought he had a dazed look.  He said:

"I have lost my memory.  I don't know which is my ball.  I don't know
what game we are playing."

But immediately this condition passed, and we thought little of it,
considering it merely a phase of biliousness due to his recent journey.
I have been told since, by eminent practitioners, that it was the first
indication of a more serious malady.

He became apparently quite himself again and showed his usual vigor-light
of step and movement, able to skip up and down stairs as heretofore.  In
a letter to Mrs. Crane, August 12th, he spoke of recent happenings:

     DEAR AUNT SUE,--It was a most moving, a most heartbreaking sight,
     the spectacle of that stunned & crushed & inconsolable family.  I
     came back here in bad shape, & had a bilious collapse, but I am all
     right again, though the doctor from New York has given peremptory
     orders that I am not to stir from here before frost.  O fortunate
     Sam Moffett! fortunate Livy Clemens! doubly fortunate Susy!  Those
     swords go through & through my heart, but there is never a moment
     that I am not glad, for the sake of the dead, that they have
     escaped.

     How Livy would love this place!  How her very soul would steep
     itself thankfully in this peace, this tranquillity, this deep
     stillness, this dreamy expanse of woodsy hill & valley!  You must
     come, Aunt Sue, & stay with us a real good visit.  Since June 26 we
     have had 21 guests, & they have all liked it and said they would
     come again.

To Howells, on the same day, he wrote:

     Won't you & Mrs. Howells & Mildred come & give us as many days as
     you can spare & examine John's triumph?  It is the most satisfactory
     house I am acquainted with, & the most satisfactorily situated .  .
     .  .  I have dismissed my stenographer, & have entered upon a
     holiday whose other end is the cemetery.




CCLXXII

STORMFIELD ADVENTURES

Clemens had fully decided, by this time, to live the year round in the
retirement at Stormfield, and the house at 21 Fifth Avenue was being
dismantled.  He had also, as he said, given up his dictations for the
time, at least, after continuing them, with more or less regularity, for
a period of two and a half years, during which he had piled up about half
a million words of comment and reminiscence.  His general idea had been
to add portions of this matter to his earlier books as the copyrights
expired, to give them new life and interest, and he felt that he had
plenty now for any such purpose.

He gave his time mainly to his guests, his billiards, and his reading,
though of course he could not keep from writing on this subject and that
as the fancy moved him, and a drawer in one of his dressers began to
accumulate fresh though usually fragmentary manuscripts. . .  He read the
daily paper, but he no longer took the keen, restless interest in public
affairs.  New York politics did not concern him any more, and national
politics not much.  When the Evening Post wrote him concerning the
advisability of renominating Governor Hughes he replied:

     If you had asked me two months ago my answer would have been prompt
     & loud & strong: yes, I want Governor Hughes renominated.  But it is
     too late, & my mouth is closed.  I have become a citizen & taxpayer
     of Connecticut, & could not now, without impertinence, meddle in
     matters which are none of my business.  I could not do it with
     impertinence without trespassing on the monopoly of another.

Howells speaks of Mark Twain's "absolute content" with his new home, and
these are the proper words' to express it.  He was like a storm-beaten
ship that had drifted at last into a serene South Sea haven.

The days began and ended in tranquillity.  There were no special morning
regulations: One could have his breakfast at any time and at almost any
place.  He could have it in bed if he liked, or in the loggia or
livingroom, or billiard-room.  He might even have it in the diningroom,
or on the terrace, just outside.  Guests--there were usually guests--
might suit their convenience in this matter--also as to the forenoons.
The afternoon brought games--that is, billiards, provided the guest knew
billiards, otherwise hearts.  Those two games were his safety-valves, and
while there were no printed requirements relating to them the unwritten
code of Stormfield provided that guests, of whatever age or previous
faith, should engage in one or both of these diversions.

Clemens, who usually spent his forenoon in bed with his reading and his
letters, came to the green table of skill and chance eager for the onset;
if the fates were kindly, he approved of them openly.  If not--well, the
fates were old enough to know better, and, as heretofore, had to take the
consequences.  Sometimes, when the weather was fine and there were no
games (this was likely to be on Sunday afternoons), there were drives
among the hills and along the Saugatuck through the Bedding Glen.

The cat was always "purring on the hearth" at Stormfield--several cats--
for Mark Twain's fondness for this clean, intelligent domestic animal
remained, to the end, one of his happiest characteristics.  There were
never too many cats at Stormfield, and the "hearth" included the entire
house, even the billiard-table.  When, as was likely to happen at any
time during the game, the kittens Sinbad, or Danbury, or Billiards would
decide to hop up and play with the balls, or sit in the pockets and grab
at them as they went by, the game simply added this element of chance,
and the uninvited player was not disturbed.  The cats really owned
Stormfield; any one could tell that from their deportment.  Mark Twain
held the title deeds; but it was Danbury and Sinbad and the others that
possessed the premises.  They occupied any portion of the house or its
furnishings at will, and they never failed to attract attention.  Mark
Twain might be preoccupied and indifferent to the comings and goings of
other members of the household; but no matter what he was doing, let
Danbury appear in the offing and he was observed and greeted with due
deference, and complimented and made comfortable.  Clemens would arise
from the table and carry certain choice food out on the terrace to
Tammany, and be satisfied with almost no acknowledgment by way of
appreciation.  One could not imagine any home of Mark Twain where the
cats were not supreme.  In the evening, as at 21 Fifth Avenue, there was
music--the stately measures of the orchestrelle--while Mark Twain smoked
and mingled unusual speculation with long, long backward dreams.

It was three months from the day of arrival in Redding that some guests
came to Stormfield without invitation--two burglars, who were carrying
off some bundles of silver when they were discovered.  Claude, the
butler, fired a pistol after them to hasten their departure, and Clemens,
wakened by the shots, thought the family was opening champagne and went
to sleep again.

It was far in the night; but neighbor H. A. Lounsbury and Deputy-Sheriff
Banks were notified, and by morning the thieves were captured, though
only after a pretty desperate encounter, during which the officer
received a bullet-wound.  Lounsbury and a Stormfield guest had tracked
them in the dark with a lantern to Bethel, a distance of some seven
miles.  The thieves, also their pursuers, had boarded the train there.
Sheriff Banks was waiting at the West Redding station when the train came
down, and there the capture was made.  It was a remarkably prompt and
shrewd piece of work.  Clemens gave credit for its success chiefly to
Lounsbury, whose talents in many fields always impressed him.  The
thieves were taken to the Redding Town Hall for a preliminary healing.
Subsequently they received severe sentences.

Clemens tacked this notice on his front door:

                                  NOTICE

                           TO THE NEXT BURGLAR

     There is nothing but plated ware in this house now and henceforth.

     You will find it in that brass thing in the dining-room over in the
     corner by the basket of kittens.

     If you want the basket put the kittens in the brass thing.  Do not
     make a noise--it disturbs the family.

     You will find rubbers in the front hall by that thing which has the
     umbrellas in it, chiffonnier, I think they call it, or pergola, or
     something like that.

     Please close the door when you go away!

                         Very truly yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.




CCLXXIII

STORMFIELD PHILOSOPHIES

Now came the tranquil days of the Connecticut autumn.  The change of the
landscape colors was a constant delight to Mark Twain.  There were
several large windows in his room, and he called them his picture-
gallery.  The window-panes were small, and each formed a separate picture
of its own that was changing almost hourly.  The red tones that began to
run through the foliage; the red berry bushes; the fading grass, and the
little touches of sparkling frost that came every now and then at early
morning; the background of distant blue hills and changing skies-these
things gave his gallery a multitude of variation that no art-museums
could furnish.  He loved it all, and he loved to walk out in it, pacing
up and down the terrace, or the long path that led to the pergola at the
foot of a natural garden.  If a friend came, he was willing to walk much
farther; and we often descended the hill in one direction or another,
though usually going toward the "gorge," a romantic spot where a clear
brook found its way through a deep and rather dangerous-looking chasm.
Once he was persuaded to descend into this fairy-like place, for it was
well worth exploring; but his footing was no longer sure and he did not
go far.

He liked better to sit on the grass-grown, rocky arch above and look down
into it, and let his talk follow his mood.  He liked to contemplate the
geology of his surroundings, the record of the ageless periods of
construction required to build the world.  The marvels of science always
appealed to him.  He reveled in the thought of the almost limitless
stretches of time, the millions upon millions of years that had been
required for this stratum and that--he liked to amaze himself with the
sounding figures.  I remember him expressing a wish to see the Grand
Canon of Arizona, where, on perpendicular walls six thousand feet high,
the long story of geological creation is written.  I had stopped there
during my Western trip of the previous year, and I told him something of
its wonders.  I urged him to see them for himself, offering to go with
him.  He said:

"I should enjoy that; but the railroad journey is so far and I should
have no peace.  The papers would get hold of it, and I would have to make
speeches and be interviewed, and I never want to do any of those things
again."

I suggested that the railroads would probably be glad to place a private
car at his service, so that he might travel in comfort; but he shook his
head.

"That would only make me more conspicuous."

"How about a disguise?"

"Yes," he said, "I might put on a red wig and false whiskers and change
my name, but I couldn't disguise my drawling speech and they'd find me
out."

It was amusing, but it was rather sad, too.  His fame had deprived him of
valued privileges.

He talked of many things during these little excursions.  Once he told
how he had successively advised his nephew, Moffett, in the matter of
obtaining a desirable position.  Moffett had wanted to become a reporter.
Clemens devised a characteristic scheme.  He said:

"I will get you a place on any newspaper you may select if you promise
faithfully to follow out my instructions."

The applicant agreed, eagerly enough.  Clemens said:

"Go to the newspaper of your choice.  Say that you are idle and want
work, that you are pining for work--longing for it, and that you ask no
wages, and will support yourself.  All that you ask is work.  That you
will do anything, sweep, fill the inkstands, mucilage-bottles, run
errands, and be generally useful.  You must never ask for wages.  You
must wait until the offer of wages comes to you.  You must work just as
faithfully and just as eagerly as if you were being paid for it.  Then
see what happens."

The scheme had worked perfectly.  Young Moffett had followed his
instructions to the letter.  By and by he attracted attention.  He was
employed in a variety of ways that earned him the gratitude and the
confidence of the office.  In obedience to further instructions, he began
to make short, brief, unadorned notices of small news matters that came
under his eye and laid them on the city editor's desk.  No pay was asked;
none was expected.  Occasionally one of the items was used.  Then, of
course, it happened, as it must sooner or later at a busy time, that he
was given a small news assignment.  There was no trouble about his
progress after that.  He had won the confidence of the management and
shown that he was not afraid to work.

The plan had been variously tried since, Clemens said, and he could not
remember any case in which it had failed.  The idea may have grown out of
his own pilot apprenticeship on the river, when cub pilots not only
received no salary, but paid for the privilege of learning.

Clemens discussed public matters less often than formerly, but they were
not altogether out of his mind.  He thought our republic was in a fair
way to become a monarchy--that the signs were already evident.  He
referred to the letter which he had written so long ago in Boston, with
its amusing fancy of the Archbishop of Dublin and his Grace of Ponkapog,
and declared that, after all, it contained something of prophecy.--[See
chap. xcvii; also Appendix M.]--He would not live to see the actual
monarchy, he said, but it was coming.

"I'm not expecting it in my time nor in my children's time, though it may
be sooner than we think.  There are two special reasons for it and one
condition.  The first reason is, that it is in the nature of man to want
a definite something to love, honor, reverently look up to and obey; a
God and King, for example.  The second reason is, that while little
republics have lasted long, protected by their poverty and
insignificance, great ones have not.  And the condition is, vast power
and wealth, which breed commercial and political corruptions, and incite
public favorites to dangerous ambitions."

He repeated what I had heard him say before, that in one sense we already
had a monarchy; that is to say, a ruling public and political aristocracy
which could create a Presidential succession.  He did not say these
things bitterly now, but reflectively and rather indifferently.

He was inclined to speak unhopefully of the international plans for
universal peace, which were being agitated rather persistently.

"The gospel of peace," he said, "is always making a deal of noise, always
rejoicing in its progress but always neglecting to furnish statistics.
There are no peaceful nations now.  All Christendom is a soldier-camp.
The poor have been taxed in some nations to the starvation point to
support the giant armaments which Christian governments have built up,
each to protect itself from the rest of the Christian brotherhood, and
incidentally to snatch any scrap of real estate left exposed by a weaker
owner.  King Leopold II. of Belgium, the most intensely Christian
monarch, except Alexander VI., that has escaped hell thus far, has stolen
an entire kingdom in Africa, and in fourteen years of Christian endeavor
there has reduced the population from thirty millions to fifteen by
murder and mutilation and overwork, confiscating the labor of the
helpless natives, and giving them nothing in return but salvation and a
home in heaven, furnished at the last moment by the Christian priest.

"Within the last generation each Christian power has turned the bulk of
its attention to finding out newer and still newer and more and more
effective ways of killing Christians, and, incidentally, a pagan now and
then; and the surest way to get rich quickly in Christ's earthly kingdom
is to invent a kind of gun that can kill more Christians at one shot than
any other existing kind.  All the Christian nations are at it.  The more
advanced they are, the bigger and more destructive engines of war they
create."

Once, speaking of battles great and small, and how important even a small
battle must seem to a soldier who had fought in no other, he said:

"To him it is a mighty achievement, an achievement with a big A, when to
a wax-worn veteran it would be a mere incident.  For instance, to the
soldier of one battle, San Juan Hill was an Achievement with an A as big
as the Pyramids of Cheops; whereas, if Napoleon had fought it, he would
have set it down on his cuff at the time to keep from forgetting it had
happened.  But that is all natural and human enough.  We are all like
that."

The curiosities and absurdities of religious superstitions never failed
to furnish him with themes more or less amusing.  I remember one Sunday,
when he walked down to have luncheon at my house, he sat under the shade
and fell to talking of Herod's slaughter of the innocents, which he said
could not have happened.

"Tacitus makes no mention of it," he said, "and he would hardly have
overlooked a sweeping order like that, issued by a petty ruler like
Herod.  Just consider a little king of a corner of the Roman Empire
ordering the slaughter of the first-born of a lot of Roman subjects.
Why, the Emperor would have reached out that long arm of his and
dismissed Herod.  That tradition is probably about as authentic as those
connected with a number of old bridges in Europe which are said to have
been built by Satan.  The inhabitants used to go to Satan to build
bridges for them, promising him the soul of the first one that crossed
the bridge; then, when Satan had the bridge done, they would send over a
rooster or a jackass--a cheap jackass; that was for Satan, and of course
they could fool him that way every time.  Satan must have been pretty
simple, even according to the New Testament, or he wouldn't have led
Christ up on a high mountain and offered him the world if he would fall
down and worship him.  That was a manifestly absurd proposition, because
Christ, as the Son of God, already owned the world; and, besides, what
Satan showed him was only a few rocky acres of Palestine.  It is just as
if some one should try to buy Rockefeller, the owner of all the Standard
Oil Company, with a gallon of kerosene."

He often spoke of the unseen forces of creation, the immutable laws that
hold the planet in exact course and bring the years and the seasons
always exactly on schedule time.  "The Great Law" was a phrase often on
his lips.  The exquisite foliage, the cloud shapes, the varieties of
color everywhere: these were for him outward manifestations of the Great
Law, whose principle I understood to be unity--exact relations throughout
all nature; and in this I failed to find any suggestion of pessimism, but
only of justice.  Once he wrote on a card for preservation:

     From everlasting to everlasting, this is the law: the sum of wrong &
     misery shall always keep exact step with the sum of human
     blessedness.

     No "civilization," no "advance," has ever modified these proportions
     by even the shadow of a shade, nor ever can, while our race endures.




CCLXIV

CITIZEN AND FARMER

The procession of guests at Stormfield continued pretty steadily.
Clemens kept a book in which visitors set down their names and the dates
of arrival and departure, and when they failed to attend to these matters
he diligently did it himself after they were gone.

Members of the Harper Company came up with their wives; "angel-fish" swam
in and out of the aquarium; Bermuda friends came to see the new home;
Robert Collier, the publisher, and his wife--"Mrs. Sally," as Clemens
liked to call her--paid their visits; Lord Northcliffe, who was visiting
America, came with Colonel Harvey, and was so impressed with the
architecture of Stormfield that he adopted its plans for a country-place
he was about to build in Newfoundland.  Helen Keller, with Mr. and Mrs.
Macy, came up for a week-end visit.  Mrs. Crane came over from Elmira;
and, behold! one day came the long-ago sweetheart of his childhood,
little Laura Hawkins--Laura Frazer now, widowed and in the seventies,
with a granddaughter already a young lady quite grown up.

That Mark Twain was not wearying of the new conditions we may gather from
a letter written to Mrs. Rogers in October:

     I've grown young in these months of dissipation here.  And I have
     left off drinking--it isn't necessary now.  Society & theology are
     sufficient for me.

To Helen Allen, a Bermuda "Angel-Fish," he wrote:

     We have good times here in this soundless solitude on the hilltop.
     The moment I saw the house I was glad I built it, & now I am gladder
     & gladder all the time.  I was not dreaming of living here except in
     the summer-time--that was before I saw this region & the house, you
     see--but that is all changed now; I shall stay here winter & summer
     both & not go back to New York at all.  My child, it's as tranquil &
     contenting as Bermuda.  You will be very welcome here, dear.

He interested himself in the affairs and in the people of Redding.  Not
long after his arrival he had gathered in all the inhabitants of the
country-side, neighbors of every quality, for closer acquaintance, and
threw open to them for inspection every part of the new house.  He
appointed Mrs. Lounsbury, whose acquaintance was very wide; a sort of
committee on reception, and stood at the entrance with her to welcome
each visitor in person.

It was a sort of gala day, and the rooms and the grounds were filled with
the visitors.  In the dining-room there were generous refreshments.
Again, not long afterward, he issued a special invitation to all of
those-architects, builders, and workmen who had taken any part, however
great or small, in the building of his home.  Mr. and Mrs. Littleton were
visiting Stormfield at this time, and both Clemens and Littleton spoke to
these assembled guests from the terrace, and made them feel that their
efforts had been worth while.

Presently the idea developed to establish something that would be of
benefit to his neighbors, especially to those who did not have access to
much reading-matter.  He had been for years flooded with books by authors
and publishers, and there was a heavy surplus at his home in the city.
When these began to arrive he had a large number of volumes set aside as
the nucleus of a public library.  An unused chapel not far away--it could
be seen from one of his windows--was obtained for the purpose; officers
were elected; a librarian was appointed, and so the Mark Twain Library of
Redding was duly established.  Clemens himself was elected its first
president, with the resident physician, Dr. Ernest H. Smith, vice-
president, and another resident, William E. Grumman, librarian.  On the
afternoon of its opening the president made a brief address.  He said:

     I am here to speak a few instructive words to my fellow-farmers.
     I suppose you are all farmers: I am going to put in a crop next
     year, when I have been here long enough and know how.  I couldn't
     make a turnip stay on a tree now after I had grown it.  I like to
     talk.  It would take more than the Redding air to make me keep
     still, and I like to instruct people.  It's noble to be good, and
     it's nobler to teach others to be good, and less trouble.  I am glad
     to help this library.  We get our morals from books.  I didn't get
     mine from books, but I know that morals do come from books--
     theoretically at least.  Mr. Beard or Mr. Adams will give some land,
     and by and by we are going to have a building of our own.

This statement was news to both Mr. Beard and Mr. Adams and an
inspiration of the moment; but Mr. Theodore Adams, who owned a most
desirable site, did in fact promptly resolve to donate it for library
purposes.  Clemens continued:

     I am going to help build that library with contributions from my
     visitors.  Every male guest who comes to my house will have to
     contribute a dollar or go away without his baggage.--
     [A characteristic notice to guests requiring them to contribute a
     dollar to the Library Building Fund was later placed on the
     billiard-room mantel at Stormfield with good results.]--If those
     burglars that broke into my house recently had done that they would
     have been happier now, or if they'd have broken into this library
     they would have read a few books and led a better life.  Now they
     are in jail, and if they keep on they will go to Congress.  When a
     person starts downhill you can never tell where he's going to stop.
     I am sorry for those burglars.  They got nothing that they wanted
     and scared away most of my servants.  Now we are putting in a
     burglar-alarm instead of a dog.  Some advised the dog, but it costs
     even more to entertain a dog than a burglar.  I am having the ground
     electrified, so that for a mile around any one who puts his foot
     across the line sets off an alarm that will be heard in Europe.  Now
     I will introduce the real president to you, a man whom you know
     already--Dr. Smith.

So a new and important benefit was conferred upon the community, and
there was a feeling that Redding, besides having a literary colony, was
to be literary in fact.

It might have been mentioned earlier that Redding already had literary
associations when Mark Twain arrived.  As far back as Revolutionary days
Joel Barlow, a poet of distinction, and once Minister to France, had been
a resident of Redding, and there were still Barlow descendants in the
township.

William Edgar Grumman, the librarian, had written the story of Redding's
share in the Revolutionary War--no small share, for Gen. Israel Putnam's
army had been quartered there during at least one long, trying winter.
Charles Burr Todd, of one of the oldest Redding families, himself--still
a resident, was also the author of a Redding history.

Of literary folk not native to Redding, Dora Reed Goodale and her sister
Elaine, the wife of Dr. Charles A. Eastman, had, long been residents of
Redding Center; Jeanette L. Gilder and Ida M. Tarbell had summer homes on
Redding Ridge; Dan Beard, as already mentioned, owned a place near the
banks of the Saugatuck, while Kate V. St. Maur, also two of Nathaniel
Hawthorne's granddaughters had recently located adjoining the Stormfield
lands.  By which it will be seen that Redding was in no way unsuitable as
a home for Mark Twain.




CCLXV

A MANTEL AND A BABY ELEPHANT

Mark Twain was the receiver of two notable presents that year.  The first
of these, a mantel from Hawaii, presented to him by the Hawaiian
Promotion Committee, was set in place in the billiard-room on the morning
of his seventy-third birthday.  This committee had written, proposing to
build for his new home either a mantel or a chair, as he might prefer,
the same to be carved from the native woods.  Clemens decided on a
billiard-room mantel, and John Howells forwarded the proper measurements.
So, in due time, the mantel arrived, a beautiful piece of work and in
fine condition, with the Hawaiian word, "Aloha," one of the sweetest
forms of greeting in any tongue, carved as its central ornament.

To the donors of the gift Clemens wrote:

     The beautiful mantel was put in its place an hour ago, & its
     friendly "Aloha" was the first uttered greeting received on my 73d
     birthday.  It is rich in color, rich in quality, & rich in
     decoration; therefore it exactly harmonized with the taste for such
     things which was born in me & which I have seldom been able to
     indulge to my content.  It will be a great pleasure to me, daily
     renewed, to have under my eye this lovely reminder of the loveliest
     fleet of islands that lies anchored in any ocean, & I beg to thank
     the committee for providing me that pleasure.

To F. N. Otremba, who had carved the mantel, he sent this word:

     I am grateful to you for the valued compliment to me in the labor of
     heart and hand and brain which you have put upon it.  It is worthy
     of the choicest place in the house and it has it.

It was the second beautiful mantel in Stormfield--the Hartford library
mantel, removed when that house was sold, having been installed in the
Stormfield living-room.

Altogether the seventy-third birthday was a pleasant one.  Clemens, in
the morning, drove down to see the library lot which Mr. Theodore Adams
had presented, and the rest of the day there were fine, close billiard
games, during which he was in the gentlest and happiest moods.  He
recalled the games of two years before, and as we stopped playing I said:

"I hope a year from now we shall be here, still playing the great game."

And he answered, as then:

"Yes, it is a great game--the best game on earth."  And he held out his
hand and thanked me for coming, as he never failed to do when we parted,
though it always hurt me a little, for the debt was so largely mine.

Mark Twain's second present came at Christmas-time.  About ten days
earlier, a letter came from Robert J. Collier, saying that he had bought
a baby elephant which he intended to present to Mark Twain as a Christmas
gift.  He added that it would be sent as soon as he could get a car for
it, and the loan of a keeper from Barnum & Bailey's headquarters at
Bridgeport.

The news created a disturbance in Stormfield.  One could not refuse,
discourteously and abruptly, a costly present like that; but it seemed a
disaster to accept it.  An elephant would require a roomy and warm place,
also a variety of attention which Stormfield was not prepared to supply.
The telephone was set going and certain timid excuses were offered by the
secretary.  There was no good place to put an elephant in Stormfield, but
Mr. Collier said, quite confidently:

"Oh, put him in the garage."

"But there's no heat in the garage."

"Well, put him in the loggia, then.  That's closed in, isn't it, for the
winter?  Plenty of sunlight--just the place for a young elephant."

"But we play cards in the loggia.  We use it for a sort of sun-parlor."

"But that wouldn't matter.  He's a kindly, playful little thing.  He'll
be just like a kitten.  I'll send the man up to look over the place and
tell you just how to take care of him, and I'll send up several bales of
hay in advance.  It isn't a large elephant, you know: just a little one--
a regular plaything."

There was nothing further to be done; only to wait and dread until the
Christmas present's arrival.

A few days before Christmas ten bales of hay arrived and several bushels
of carrots.  This store of provender aroused no enthusiasm at Stormfield.
It would seem there was no escape now.

On Christmas morning Mr. Lounsbury telephoned up that there was a man at
the station who said he was an elephant-trainer from Barnum & Bailey's,
sent by Mr. Collier to look at the elephant's quarters and get him
settled when he should arrive.  Orders were given to bring the man over.
The day of doom was at hand.

But Lounsbury's detective instinct came once more into play.  He had seen
a good many elephant-trainers at Bridgeport, and he thought this one had
a doubtful look.

"Where is the elephant?" he asked, as they drove along.

"He will arrive at noon."

"Where are you going to put him?"

"In the loggia."

"How big is he?"

"About the size of a cow."

"How long have you been with Barnum and Bailey?"

"Six years."

"Then you must know some friends of mine" (naming two that had no
existence until that moment).

"Oh yes, indeed.  I know them well."

Lounsbury didn't say any more just then, but he had a feeling that
perhaps the dread at Stormfield had grown unnecessarily large.  Something
told him that this man seemed rather more like a butler, or a valet, than
an elephant-trainer.  They drove to Stormfield, and the trainer looked
over the place.  It would do perfectly, he said.  He gave a few
instructions as to the care of this new household feature, and was driven
back to the station to bring it.

Lounsbury came back by and by, bringing the elephant but not the trainer.
It didn't need a trainer.  It was a beautiful specimen, with soft, smooth
coat and handsome trappings, perfectly quiet, well-behaved and small--
suited to the loggia, as Collier had said--for it was only two feet long
and beautifully made of cloth and cotton--one of the forest toy elephants
ever seen anywhere.

It was a good joke, such as Mark Twain loved--a carefully prepared,
harmless bit of foolery.  He wrote Robert Collier, threatening him with
all sorts of revenge, declaring that the elephant was devastating
Stormfield.

"To send an elephant in a trance, under pretense that it was dead or
stuffed!" he said.  "The animal came to life, as you knew it would, and
began to observe Christmas, and we now have no furniture left and no
servants and no visitors, no friends, no photographs, no burglars--
nothing but the elephant.  Be kind, be merciful, be generous; take him
away and send us what is left of the earthquake."

Collier wrote that he thought it unkind of him to look a gift-elephant in
the trunk.  And with such chaffing and gaiety the year came to an end.




CCLXXVI

SHAKESPEARE-BACON TALK

When the bad weather came there was not much company at Stormfield, and
I went up regularly each afternoon, for it was lonely on that bleak hill,
and after his forenoon of reading or writing he craved diversion.  My own
home was a little more than a half mile away, and I enjoyed the walk,
whatever the weather.  I usually managed to arrive about three o'clock.
He would watch from his high windows until he saw me raise the hilltop,
and he would be at the door when I arrived, so that there might be no
delay in getting at the games.  Or, if it happened that he wished to show
me something in his room, I would hear his rich voice sounding down the
stair.  Once, when I arrived, I heard him calling, and going up I found
him highly pleased with the arrangement of two pictures on a chair,
placed so that the glasses of them reflected the sunlight on the ceiling.
He said:

"They seem to catch the reflection of the sky and the winter colors.
Sometimes the hues are wonderfully iridescent."

He pointed to a bunch of wild red berries on the mantel with the sun on
them.

"How beautifully they light up!" he said; "some of them in the sunlight,
some still in the shadow."

He walked to the window and stood looking out on the somber fields.

"The lights and colors are always changing there," he said.  "I never
tire of it."

To see him then so full of the interest and delight of the moment, one
might easily believe he had never known tragedy and shipwreck.  More than
any one I ever knew, he lived in the present.  Most of us are either
dreaming of the past or anticipating the future--forever beating the
dirge of yesterday or the tattoo of to-morrow.  Mark Twain's step was
timed to the march of the moment.  There were days when he recalled the
past and grieved over it, and when he speculated concerning the future;
but his greater interest was always of the now, and of the particular
locality where he found it.  The thing which caught his fancy, however
slight or however important, possessed him fully for the time, even if
never afterward.

He was especially interested that winter in the Shakespeare-Bacon
problem.  He had long been unable to believe that the actor-manager from
Stratford had written those great plays, and now a book just published,
'The Shakespeare Problem Restated', by George Greenwood, and another one
in press, 'Some Characteristic Signatures of Francis Bacon', by William
Stone Booth, had added the last touch of conviction that Francis Bacon,
and Bacon only, had written the Shakespeare dramas.  I was ardently
opposed to this idea.  The romance of the boy, Will Shakespeare, who had
come up to London and began, by holding horses outside of the theater,
and ended by winning the proudest place in the world of letters, was
something I did not wish to let perish.  I produced all the stock
testimony--Ben Jonson's sonnet, the internal evidence of the plays
themselves, the actors who had published them--but he refused to accept
any of it.  He declared that there was not a single proof to show that
Shakespeare had written one of them.

"Is there any evidence that he didn't?"  I asked.

"There's evidence that he couldn't," he said.  "It required a man with
the fullest legal equipment to have written them.  When you have read
Greenwood's book you will see how untenable is any argument for
Shakespeare's authorship."

I was willing to concede something, and offered a compromise.

"Perhaps," I said, "Shakespeare was the Belasoo of that day--the
managerial genius, unable to write plays himself, but with the supreme
gift of making effective drama from the plays of others.  In that case it
is not unlikely that the plays would be known as Shakespeare's.  Even in
this day John Luther Long's "Madam Butterfly" is sometimes called
Belasco's play; though it is doubtful if Belasco ever wrote a line of
it."

He considered this view, but not very favorably.  The Booth book was at
this time a secret, and he had not told me anything concerning it; but he
had it in his mind when he said, with an air of the greatest conviction:

"I know that Shakespeare did not write those plays, and I have reason to
believe he did not touch the text in any way."

"How can you be so positive?" I asked.

He replied:

"I have private knowledge from a source that cannot be questioned."

I now suspected that he was joking, and asked if he had been consulting a
spiritual medium; but he was clearly in earnest.

"It is the great discovery of the age," he said, quite seriously.  "The
world will soon ring with it.  I wish I could tell you about it, but I
have passed my word.  You will not have long to wait."

I was going to sail for the Mediterranean in February, and I asked if it
would be likely that I would know this great secret before I sailed.  He
thought not; but he said that more than likely the startling news would
be given to the world while I was on the water, and it might come to me
on the ship by wireless.  I confess I was amazed and intensely curious by
this time.  I conjectured the discovery of some document--some Bacon or
Shakespeare private paper which dispelled all the mystery of the
authorship.  I hinted that he might write me a letter which I could open
on the ship; but he was firm in his refusal.  He had passed his word, he
repeated, and the news might not be given out as soon as that; but he
assured me more than once that wherever I might be, in whatever remote
locality, it would come by cable, and the world would quake with it.
I was tempted to give up my trip, to be with him at Stormfield at the
time of the upheaval.

Naturally the Shakespeare theme was uppermost during the remaining days
that we were together.  He had engaged another stenographer, and was now
dictating, forenoons, his own views on the subject--views coordinated
with those of Mr. Greenwood, whom he liberally quoted, but embellished
and decorated in his own gay manner.  These were chapters for his
autobiography, he said, and I think he had then no intention of making a
book of them.  I could not quite see why he should take all this
argumentary trouble if he had, as he said, positive evidence that Bacon,
and not Shakespeare, had written the plays.  I thought the whole matter
very curious.

The Shakespeare interest had diverging by-paths.  One evening, when we
were alone at dinner, he said:

"There is only one other illustrious man in history about whom there is
so little known," and he added, "Jesus Christ."

He reviewed the statements of the Gospels concerning Christ, though he
declared them to be mainly traditional and of no value.  I agreed that
they contained confusing statements, and inflicted more or less with
justice and reason; but I said I thought there was truth in them, too.

"Why do you think so?" he asked.

"Because they contain matters that are self-evident--things eternally and
essentially just."

"Then you make your own Bible?"

"Yes, from those materials combined with human reason."

"Then it does not matter where the truth, as you call it, comes from?"

I admitted that the source did not matter; that truth from Shakespeare,
Epictetus, or Aristotle was quite as valuable as from the Scriptures.  We
were on common ground now.  He mentioned Marcus Aurelius, the Stoics, and
their blameless lives.  I, still pursuing the thought of Jesus, asked:

"Do you not think it strange that in that day when Christ came, admitting
that there was a Christ, such a character could have come at all--in the
time of the Pharisees and the Sadducees, when all was ceremony and
unbelief?"

"I remember," he said, "the Sadducees didn't believe in hell.  He brought
them one."

"Nor the resurrection.  He brought them that, also."

He did not admit that there had been a Christ with the character and
mission related by the Gospels.

"It is all a myth," he said.  "There have been Saviours in every age of
the world.  It is all just a fairy tale, like the idea of Santa Claus."

"But," I argued, "even the spirit of Christmas is real when it is
genuine.  Suppose that we admit there was no physical Saviour--that it is
only an idea--a spiritual embodiment which humanity has made for itself
and is willing to improve upon as its own spirituality improves, wouldn't
that make it worthy?"

"But then the fairy story of the atonement dissolves, and with it
crumbles the very foundations of any established church.  You can create
your own Testament, your own Scripture, and your own Christ, but you've
got to give up your atonement."

"As related to the crucifixion, yes, and good riddance to it; but the
death of the old order and the growth of spirituality comes to a sort of
atonement, doesn't it?"

He said:

"A conclusion like that has about as much to do with the Gospels and
Christianity as Shakespeare had to do with Bacon's plays.  You are
preaching a doctrine that would have sent a man to the stake a few
centuries ago.  I have preached that in my own Gospel."

I remembered then, and realized that, by my own clumsy ladder, I had
merely mounted from dogma, and superstition to his platform of training
the ideals to a higher contentment of soul.




CCLXXVII

"IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?"

I set out on my long journey with much reluctance.  However, a series of
guests with various diversions had been planned, and it seemed a good
time to go.  Clemens gave me letters of introduction, and bade me
Godspeed.  It would be near the end of April before I should see him
again.

Now and then on the ship, and in the course of my travels, I remembered
the great news I was to hear concerning Shakespeare.  In Cairo, at
Shepheard's, I looked eagerly through English newspapers, expecting any
moment to come upon great head-lines; but I was always disappointed.
Even on the return voyage there was no one I could find who had heard any
particular Shakespeare news.

Arriving in New York, I found that Clemens himself had published his
Shakespeare dictations in a little volume of his own, entitled, 'Is
Shakespeare Dead?'  The title certainly suggested spiritistic matters,
and I got a volume at Harpers', and read it going up on the train, hoping
to find somewhere in it a solution of the great mystery.  But it was only
matter I had already known; the secret was still unrevealed.

At Redding I lost not much time in getting up to Stormfield.  There had
been changes in my absence. Clara Clemens had returned from her travels,
and Jean, whose health seemed improved, was coming home to be her
father's secretary.  He was greatly pleased with these things, and
declared he was going to have a home once more with his children about
him.

He was quite alone that day, and we walked up and down the great living-
room for an hour, perhaps, while he discussed his new plans.  For one
thing, he had incorporated his pen-name, Mark Twain, in order that the
protection of his copyrights and the conduct of his literary business in
general should not require his personal attention.  He seemed to find a
relief in this, as he always did in dismissing any kind of
responsibility.  When we went in for billiards I spoke of his book, which
I had read on the way up, and of the great Shakespearian secret which was
to astonish the world.  Then he told me that the matter had been delayed,
but that he was no longer required to suppress it; that the revelation
was in the form of a book--a book which revealed conclusively to any one
who would take the trouble to follow the directions that the acrostic
name of Francis Bacon in a great variety of forms ran through many--
probably through all of the so-called Shakespeare plays.  He said it was
far and away beyond anything of the kind ever published; that Ignatius
Donnelly and others had merely glimpsed the truth, but that the author of
this book, William Stone Booth, had demonstrated, beyond any doubt or
question, that the Bacon signatures were there.  The book would be issued
in a few days, he said.  He had seen a set of proofs of it, and while it
had not been published in the best way to clearly demonstrate its great
revelation, it must settle the matter with every reasoning mind.  He
confessed that his faculties had been more or less defeated in,
attempting to follow the ciphers, and he complained bitterly that the
evidence had not been set forth so that he who merely skims a book might
grasp it.

He had failed on the acrostics at first; but more recently he had
understood the rule, and had been able to work out several Bacon
signatures.  He complimented me by saying that he felt sure that when the
book came I would have no trouble with it.

Without going further with this matter, I may say here that the book
arrived presently, and between us we did work out a considerable number
of the claimed acrostics by following the rules laid down.  It was
certainly an interesting if not wholly convincing occupation, and it
would be a difficult task for any one to prove that the ciphers are not
there.  Just why this pretentious volume created so little agitation it
would be hard to say.  Certainly it did not cause any great upheaval in
the literary world, and the name of William Shakespeare still continues
to be printed on the title-page of those marvelous dramas so long
associated with his name.

Mark Twain's own book on the subject--'Is Shakespeare Dead?'--found a
wide acceptance, and probably convinced as many readers.  It contained no
new arguments; but it gave a convincing touch to the old ones, and it was
certainly readable.--[Mark Twain had the fullest conviction as to the
Bacon authorship of the Shakespeare plays.  One evening, with Mr. Edward
Loomis, we attended a fine performance of "Romeo and Juliet" given by
Sothern and Marlowe.  At the close of one splendid scene he said, quite
earnestly, "That is about the best play that Lord Bacon ever wrote."]

Among the visitors who had come to Stormfield was Howells.  Clemens had
called a meeting of the Human Race Club, but only Howells was able to
attend.  We will let him tell of his visit:

     We got on very well without the absentees, after finding them in the
     wrong, as usual, and the visit was like those I used to have with
     him so many years before in Hartford, but there was not the old
     ferment of subjects.  Many things had been discussed and put away
     for good, but we had our old fondness for nature and for each other,
     who were so differently parts of it.  He showed his absolute content
     with his house, and that was the greater pleasure for me because it
     was my son who designed it.  The architect had been so fortunate as
     to be able to plan it where a natural avenue of savins, the close-
     knit, slender, cypress-like cedars of New England, led away from the
     rear of the villa to the little level of a pergola, meant some day
     to be wreathed and roofed with vines.  But in the early spring days
     all the landscape was in the beautiful nakedness of the Northern
     winter.  It opened in the surpassing loveliness of wooded and
     meadowed uplands, under skies that were the first days blue, and the
     last gray over a rainy and then a snowy floor.  We walked up and
     down, up and down, between the villa terrace and the pergola, and
     talked with the melancholy amusement, the sad tolerance of age for
     the sort of men and things that used to excite us or enrage us; now
     we were far past turbulence or anger.  Once we took a walk together
     across the yellow pastures to a chasmal creek on his grounds, where
     the ice still knit the clayey banks together like crystal mosses;
     and the stream far down clashed through and over the stones and the
     shards of ice.  Clemens pointed out the scenery he had bought to
     give himself elbowroom, and showed me the lot he was going to have
     me build on.  The next day we came again with the geologist he had
     asked up to Stormfield to analyze its rocks.  Truly he loved the
     place .  .  .  .

     My visit at Stormfield came to an end with tender relucting on his
     part and on mine.  Every morning before I dressed I heard him
     sounding my name through the house for the fun of it and I know for
     the fondness, and if I looked out of my door there he was in his
     long nightgown swaying up and down the corridor, and wagging his
     great white head like a boy that leaves his bed and comes out in the
     hope of frolic with some one.  The last morning a soft sugar-snow
     had fallen and was falling, and I drove through it down to the
     station in the carriage which had been given him by his wife's
     father when they were first married, and had been kept all those
     intervening years in honorable retirement for this final use.--[This
     carriage--a finely built coup--had been presented to Mrs. Crane when
     the Hartford house was closed.  When Stormfield was built she
     returned it to its original owner.]--Its springs had not grown
     yielding with time, it had rather the stiffness and severity of age;
     but for him it must have swung low like the sweet chariot of the
     negro "spiritual" which I heard him sing with such fervor when those
     wonderful hymns of the slaves began to make their way northward.

Howells's visit resulted in a new inspiration.  Clemens started to write
him one night when he could not sleep, and had been reading the volume of
letters of James Russell Lowell.  Then, next morning, he was seized with
the notion of writing a series of letters to such friends as Howells,
Twichell, and Rogers--letters not to be mailed, but to be laid away for
some future public.  He wrote two of these immediately--to Howells and to
Twichell.  The Howells letter (or letters, for it was really double) is
both pathetic and amusing. The first part ran:
                                   3 in the morning, April 17, 1909.

     My pen has gone dry and the ink is out of reach.  Howells, did you
     write me day-before-day-before yesterday or did I dream it?  In my
     mind's eye I most vividly see your hand-write on a square blue
     envelope in the mail-pile.  I have hunted the house over, but there
     is no such letter. Was it an illusion?

     I am reading Lowell's letters & smoking. I woke an hour ago & am
     reading to keep from wasting the time. On page 305, Vol. I, I have
     just margined a note:

     "Young friend!  I like that!  You ought to see him now."

     It seemed startlingly strange to hear a person call you young.  It
     was a brick out of a blue sky, & knocked me groggy for a moment. Ah
     me, the pathos of it is that we were young then.  And he--why, so
     was he, but he didn't know it.  He didn't even know it 9 years
     later, when we saw him approaching and you warned me, saying:

     "Don't say anything about age--he has just turned 50 & thinks he is
     old, & broods over it."

     Well, Clara did sing!  And you wrote her a dear letter.

     Time to go to sleep.

                              Yours ever,
                                             MARK


The second letter, begun at 10 A.M., outlines the plan by which he is to
write on the subject uppermost in his mind without restraint, knowing
that the letter is not to be mailed.

     . . .The scheme furnishes a definite target for each letter, & you
     can choose the target that's going to be the most sympathetic for
     what you are hungering & thirsting to say at that particular moment.
     And you can talk with a quite unallowable frankness & freedom
     because you are not going to send the letter.  When you are on fire
     with theology you'll not write it to Rogers, who wouldn't be an
     inspiration; you'll write it to Twichell, because it will make him
     writhe and squirm & break the furniture.  When you are on fire with
     a good thing that's indecent you won't waste it on Twichell; you'll
     save it for Howells, who will love it.  As he will never see it you
     can make it really indecenter than he could stand; & so no harm is
     done, yet a vast advantage is gained.

The letter was not finished, and the scheme perished there.  The Twichell
letter concerned missionaries, and added nothing to what he had already
said on the subject.

He wrote no letter to Mr. Rogers--perhaps never wrote to him again.




CCLXXVIII

THE DEATH OF HENRY ROGERS

Clemens, a little before my return, had been on a trip to Norfolk,
Virginia, to attend the opening ceremonies of the Virginia Railway.  He
had made a speech on that occasion, in which he had paid a public tribute
to Henry Rogers, and told something of his personal obligation to the
financier.

He began by telling what Mr. Rogers had done for Helen Keller, whom he
called "the most marvelous person of her sex that has existed on this
earth since Joan of Arc."  Then he said:

     That is not all Mr. Rogers has done, but you never see that side of
     his character because it is never protruding; but he lends a helping
     hand daily out of that generous heart of his.  You never hear of it.
     He is supposed to be a moon which has one side dark and the other
     bright.  But the other side, though you don't see it, is not dark;
     it is bright, and its rays penetrate, and others do see it who are
     not God.
     I would take this opportunity to tell something that I have never
     been allowed to tell by Mr. Rogers, either by my mouth or in print,
     and if I don't look at him I can tell it now.

     In 1894, when the publishing company of Charles L. Webster, of which
     I was financial agent, failed, it left me heavily in debt.  If you
     will remember what commerce was at that time you will recall that
     you could not sell anything, and could not buy anything, and I was
     on my back; my books were not worth anything at all, and I could not
     give away my copyrights.  Mr. Rogers had long-enough vision ahead to
     say, "Your books have supported you before, and after the panic is
     over they will support you again," and that was a correct
     proposition.  He saved my copyrights, and saved me from financial
     ruin.  He it was who arranged with my creditors to allow me to roam
     the face of the earth and persecute the nations thereof with
     lectures, promising at the end of four years I would pay dollar for
     dollar.  That arrangement was made, otherwise I would now be living
     out-of-doors under an umbrella, and a borrowed one at that.

     You see his white mustache and his hair trying to get white (he is
     always trying to look like me--I don't blame him for that).  These
     are only emblematic of his character, and that is all.  I say,
     without exception, hair and all, he is the whitest man I have ever
     known.

This had been early in April.  Something more than a month later Clemens
was making a business trip to New York to see Mr. Rogers.  I was
telephoned early to go up and look over some matters with him before he
started.  I do not remember why I was not to go along that day, for I
usually made such trips with him.  I think it was planned that Miss
Clemens, who was in the city, was to meet him at the Grand Central
Station.  At all events, she did meet him there, with the news that
during the night Mr. Rogers had suddenly died.  This was May 20, 1909.
The news had already come to the house, and I had lost no time in
preparations to follow by the next train.  I joined him at the Grosvenor
Hotel, on Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street.  He was upset and deeply
troubled by the loss of his stanch adviser and friend.  He had a helpless
look, and he said his friends were dying away from him and leaving him
adrift.

"And how I hate to do anything," he added, "that requires the least
modicum of intelligence!"

We remained at the Grosvenor for Mr. Rogers's funeral.  Clemens served as
one of the pall-bearers, but he did not feel equal to the trip to
Fairhaven.  He wanted to be very quiet, he said.  He could not undertake
to travel that distance among those whom he knew so well, and with whom
he must of necessity join in conversation; so we remained in the hotel
apartment, reading and saying very little until bedtime.  Once he asked
me to write a letter to Jean: "Say, 'Your father says every little while,
"How glad I am that Jean is at home again!"' for that is true and I think
of it all the time."

But by and by, after a long period of silence, he said:

"Mr. Rogers is under the ground now."

And so passed out of earthly affairs the man who had contributed so
largely to the comfort of Mark Twain's old age.  He was a man of fine
sensibilities and generous impulses; withal a keen sense of humor.

One Christmas, when he presented Mark Twain with a watch and a match-
case, he wrote:

     MY DEAR CLEMENS,--For many years your friends have been complaining
     of your use of tobacco, both as to quantity and quality.  Complaints
     are now coming in of your use of time.  Most of your friends think
     that you are using your supply somewhat lavishly, but the chief
     complaint is in regard to the quality.

     I have been appealed to in the mean time, and have concluded that it
     is impossible to get the right kind of time from a blacking-box.

     Therefore, I take the liberty of sending you herewith a machine that
     will furnish only the best.  Please use it with the kind wishes of
                              Yours truly,
                                             H. H. ROGERS.

     P. S.--Complaint has also been made in regard to the furrows you
     make in your trousers in scratching matches.  You will find a furrow
     on the bottom of the article inclosed.  Please use it.  Compliments
     of the season to the family.

He was a man too busy to write many letters, but when he did write (to
Clemens at least) they were always playful and unhurried.  One reading
them would not find it easy to believe that the writer was a man on whose
shoulders lay the burdens of stupendous finance-burdens so heavy that at
last he was crushed beneath their weight.




CCLXXIX

AN EXTENSION OF COPYRIGHT

One of the pleasant things that came to Mark Twain that year was the
passage of a copyright bill, which added to the royalty period an
extension of fourteen years.  Champ Clark had been largely instrumental
in the success of this measure, and had been fighting for it steadily
since Mark Twain's visit to Washington in 1906.  Following that visit,
Clark wrote:

     .  .  .  It [the original bill] would never pass because the bill
     had literature and music all mixed together.  Being a Missourian of
     course it would give me great pleasure to be of service to you.
     What I want to say is this: you have prepared a simple bill relating
     only to the copyright of books; send it to me and I will try to have
     it passed.

Clemens replied that he might have something more to say on the copyright
question by and by--that he had in hand a dialogue--[Similar to the "Open
Letter to the Register of Copyrights," North American Review, January,
1905.]--which would instruct Congress, but this he did not complete.
Meantime a simple bill was proposed and early in 1909 it became a law.
In June Clark wrote:

     DR. SAMUEL L. CLEMENS,
     Stormfield, Redding, Conn.

     MY DEAR DOCTOR,--I am gradually becoming myself again, after a
     period of exhaustion that almost approximated prostration.  After a
     long lecture tour last summer I went immediately into a hard
     campaign; as soon as the election was over, and I had recovered my
     disposition, I came here and went into those tariff hearings, which
     began shortly after breakfast each day, and sometimes lasted until
     midnight.  Listening patiently and meekly, withal, to the lying of
     tariff barons for many days and nights was followed by the work of
     the long session; that was followed by a hot campaign to take Uncle
     Joe's rules away from him; on the heels of that "Campaign that
     Failed" came the tariff fight in the House.  I am now getting time
     to breathe regularly and I am writing to ask you if the copyright
     law is acceptable to you.  If it is not acceptable to you I want to
     ask you to write and tell me how it should be changed and I will
     give my best endeavors to the work.  I believe that your ideas and
     wishes in the matter constitute the best guide we have as to what
     should be done in the case.
                    Your friend,
                                        CHAMP CLARK.

To this Clemens replied:

                              STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONN, June 5, 1909.

     DEAR CHAMP CLARK,--Is the new copyright law acceptable to me?
     Emphatically yes!  Clark, it is the only sane & clearly defined &
     just & righteous copyright law that has ever existed in the United
     States.  Whosoever will compare it with its predecessors will have
     no trouble in arriving at that decision.

     The bill which was before the committee two years ago when I was
     down there was the most stupefying jumble of conflicting &
     apparently irreconcilable interests that was ever seen; and we all
     said "the case is hopeless, absolutely hopeless--out of this chaos
     nothing can be built."  But we were in error; out of that chaotic
     mass this excellent bill has been constructed, the warring interests
     have been reconciled, and the result is as comely and substantial a
     legislative edifice as lifts its domes and towers and protective
     lightning-rods out of the statute book I think.  When I think of
     that other bill, which even the Deity couldn't understand, and of
     this one, which even I can understand, I take off my hat to the man
     or men who devised this one.  Was it R. U. Johnson?  Was it the
     Authors' League?  Was it both together?  I don't know, but I take
     off my hat, anyway.  Johnson has written a valuable article about
     the new law--I inclose it.

     At last--at last and for the first time in copyright history--we are
     ahead of England!  Ahead of her in two ways: by length of time and
     by fairness to all interests concerned.  Does this sound like
     shouting?  Then I must modify it: all we possessed of copyright
     justice before the 4th of last March we owed to England's
     initiative.
                              Truly yours,
                                             S. L. CLEMENS.

Clemens had prepared what was the final word an the subject of copyright
just before this bill was passed--a petition for a law which he believed
would regulate the whole matter.  It was a generous, even if a somewhat
Utopian, plan, eminently characteristic of its author.  The new fourteen-
year extension, with the prospect of more, made this or any other
compromise seem inadvisable.--[The reader may consider this last
copyright document by Mark Twain under Appendix N, at the end of this
volume.]




CCLXXX

A WARNING

Clemens had promised to go to Baltimore for the graduation of "Francesca"
of his London visit in 1907--and to make a short address to her class.

It was the eighth of June when we set out on this journey,--[The reader
may remember that it was the 8th of June, 1867, that Mark Twain sailed
for the Holy Land.  It was the 8th of June, 1907, that he sailed for
England to take his Oxford degree.  This 8th of June, 1909, was at least
slightly connected with both events, for he was keeping an engagement
made with Francesca in London, and my notes show that he discussed, on
the way to the station, some incidents of his Holy Land trip and his
attitude at that time toward Christian traditions.  As he rarely
mentioned the Quaker City trip, the coincidence seems rather curious.
It is most unlikely that Clemens himself in any way associated the two
dates.]--but the day was rather bleak and there was a chilly rain.
Clemens had a number of errands to do in New York, and we drove from one
place to another, attending to them.  Finally, in the afternoon, the rain
ceased, and while I was arranging some matters for him he concluded to
take a ride on the top of a Fifth Avenue stage.  It was fine and pleasant
when he started, but the weather thickened again and when he returned he
complained that he had felt a little chilly.  He seemed in fine
condition, however, next morning and was in good spirits all the way to
Baltimore.  Chauncey Depew was on the train and they met in the dining-
car--the last time, I think, they ever saw each other.  He was tired when
we reached the Belvedere Hotel in Baltimore and did not wish to see the
newspaper men.  It happened that the reporters had a special purpose in
coming just at this time, for it had suddenly developed that in his
Shakespeare book, through an oversight, due to haste in publication, full
credit had not been given to Mr. Greenwood for the long extracts quoted
from his work.  The sensational head-lines in a morning paper, "Is Mark
Twain a Plagiarist?" had naturally prompted the newspaper men to see what
he would have to say on the subject.  It was a simple matter, easily
explained, and Clemens himself was less disturbed about it than anybody.
He felt no sense of guilt, he said; and the fact that he had been
stealing and caught at it would give Mr. Greenwood's book far more
advertising than if he had given him the full credit which he had
intended.  He found a good deal of amusement in the situation, his only
worry being that Clara and Jean would see the paper and be troubled.

He had taken off his clothes and was lying down, reading.  After a little
he got up and began walking up and down the room.  Presently he stopped
and, facing me, placed his hand upon his breast.  He said:

"I think I must have caught a little cold yesterday on that Fifth Avenue
stage.  I have a curious pain in my breast."

I suggested that he lie down again and I would fill his hot-water bag.
The pain passed away presently, and he seemed to be dozing.  I stepped
into the next room and busied myself with some writing.  By and by I
heard him stirring again and went in where he was.  He was walking up and
down and began talking of some recent ethnological discoveries--
something relating to prehistoric man.

"What a fine boy that prehistoric man must have been," he said--" the
very first one!  Think of the gaudy style of him, how he must have lorded
it over those other creatures, walking on his hind legs, waving his arms,
practising and getting ready for the pulpit."

The fancy amused him, but presently he paused in his walk and again put
his hand on his breast, saying:

"That pain has come back.  It's a curious, sickening, deadly kind of
pain.  I never had anything just like it."

It seemed to me that his face had become rather gray.  I said:

"Where is it, exactly, Mr. Clemens?"

He laid his hand in the center of his breast and said:

"It is here, and it is very peculiar indeed."

Remotely in my mind occurred the thought that he had located his heart,
and the "peculiar deadly pain" he had mentioned seemed ominous.  I
suggested, however, that it was probably some rheumatic touch, and this
opinion seemed warranted when, a few moments later, the hot water had
again relieved it.  This time the pain had apparently gone to stay, for
it did not return while we were in Baltimore.  It was the first positive
manifestation of the angina which eventually would take him from us.

The weather was pleasant in Baltimore, and his visit to St. Timothy's
School and his address there were the kind of diversions that meant most
to him.  The flock of girls, all in their pretty commencement dresses,
assembled and rejoicing at his playfully given advice: not to smoke--to
excess; not to drink--to excess; not to marry--to excess; he standing
there in a garb as white as their own--it made a rare picture--a sweet
memory--and it was the last time he ever gave advice from the platform to
any one.

Edward S. Martin also spoke to the school, and then there was a great
feasting in the big assembly-hall.

It was on the lawn that a reporter approached him with the news of the
death of Edward Everett Hale--another of the old group.  Clemens said
thoughtfully, after a moment:

"I had the greatest respect and esteem for Edward Everett Hale, the
greatest admiration for his work.  I am as grieved to hear of his death
as I can ever be to hear of the death of any friend, though my grief is
always tempered with the satisfaction of knowing that for the one that
goes, the hard, bitter struggle of life is ended."

We were leaving the Belvedere next morning, and when the subject of
breakfast came up for discussion he said:

"That was the most delicious Baltimore fried chicken we had yesterday
morning.  I think we'll just repeat that order.  It reminds me of John
Quarles's farm."

We had been having our meals served in the rooms, but we had breakfast
that morning down in the diningroom, and "Francesca" and her mother were
there.

As he stood on the railway platform waiting for the train, he told me how
once, fifty-five years before, as a boy of eighteen, he had changed cars
there for Washington and had barely caught his train--the crowd yelling
at him as he ran.

We remained overnight in New York, and that evening, at the Grosvenor, he
read aloud a poem of his own which I had not seen before.  He had brought
it along with some intention of reading it at St.  Timothy's, he said,
but had not found the occasion suitable.

"I wrote it a long time ago in Paris.  I'd been reading aloud to Mrs.
Clemens and Susy--in'93, I think--about Lord Clive and Warren Hastings,
from Macaulay--how great they were and how far they fell.  Then I took an
imaginary case--that of some old demented man mumbling of his former
state.  I described him, and repeated some of his mumblings.  Susy and
Mrs. Clemens said, 'Write it'--so I did, by and by, and this is it.  I
call it 'The Derelict.'"

He read in his effective manner that fine poem, the opening stanza of
which follows:

               You sneer, you ships that pass me by,
               Your snow-pure canvas towering proud!
               You traders base!--why, once such fry
               Paid reverence, when like a cloud
               Storm-swept I drove along,
               My Admiral at post, his pennon blue
               Faint in the wilderness of sky, my long
               Yards bristling with my gallant crew,
               My ports flung wide, my guns displayed,
               My tall spars hid in bellying sail!
              --You struck your topsails then, and made
               Obeisance--now your manners fail.

He had employed rhyme with more facility than was usual for him, and the
figure and phrasing were full of vigor.

"It is strong and fine," I said, when he had finished.

"Yes," he assented.  "It seems so as I read it now.  It is so long since
I have seen it that it is like reading another man's work.  I should call
it good, I believe."

He put the manuscript in his bag and walked up and down the floor
talking.

"There is no figure for the human being like the ship," he said; "no such
figure for the storm-beaten human drift as the derelict--such men as
Clive and Hastings could only be imagined as derelicts adrift, helpless,
tossed by every wind and tide."

We returned to Redding next day.  On the train going home he fell to
talking of books and authors, mainly of the things he had never been able
to read.

"When I take up one of Jane Austen's books," he said, "such as Pride and
Prejudice, I feel like a barkeeper entering the kingdom of heaven.  I
know, what his sensation would be and his private comments.  He would not
find the place to his taste, and he would probably say so."

He recalled again how Stepniak had come to Hartford, and how humiliated
Mrs. Clemens had been to confess that her husband was not familiar with
the writings of Thackeray and others.

"I don't know anything about anything," he said, mournfully, "and never
did.  My brother used to try to get me to read Dickens, long ago.  I
couldn't do it--I was ashamed; but I couldn't do it.  Yes, I have read
The Tale of Two Cities, and could do it again.  I have read it a good
many times; but I never could stand Meredith and most of the other
celebrities."

By and by he handed me the Saturday Times Review, saying:

"Here is a fine poem, a great poem, I think.  I can stand that."

It was "The Palatine (in the 'Dark Ages')," by Willa Sibert Cather,
reprinted from McClure's.  The reader will understand better than I can
express why these lofty opening stanzas appealed to Mark Twain:

                               THE PALATINE

                    "Have you been with the King to Rome,
                    Brother, big brother?"
                    "I've been there and I've come home,
                    Back to your play, little brother."

                    "Oh, how high is Caesar's house,
                    Brother, big brother?"
                    "Goats about the doorways browse;
                    Night-hawks nest in the burnt roof-tree,
                    Home of the wild bird and home of the bee.
                    A thousand chambers of marble lie
                    Wide to the sun and the wind and the sky.
                    Poppies we find amongst our wheat
                    Grow on Caesar's banquet seat.
                    Cattle crop and neatherds drowse
                    On the floors of Caesar's house."

                    "But what has become of Caesar's gold,
                    Brother, big brother?"
                    "The times are bad and the world is old--
                    Who knows the where of the Caesar's gold?
                    Night comes black on the Caesar's hill;
                    The wells are deep and the tales are ill.
                    Fireflies gleam in the damp and mold,
                    All that is left of the Caesar's gold.
                    Back to your play, little brother."


Farther along in our journey he handed me the paper again, pointing to
these lines of Kipling:

               How is it not good for the Christian's health
               To hurry the Aryan brown,
               For the Christian riles and the Aryan smiles,
               And he weareth the Christian down;
               And the end of the fight is a tombstone white
               And the name of the late deceased:
               And the epitaph drear: "A fool lies here
               Who tried to hustle the East."


"I could stand any amount of that," he said, and presently: "Life is too
long and too short.  Too long for the weariness of it; too short for the
work to be done.  At the very most, the average mind can only master a
few languages and a little history."

I said: "Still, we need not worry.  If death ends all it does not matter;
and if life is eternal there will be time enough."

"Yes," he assented, rather grimly, "that optimism of yours is always
ready to turn hell's back yard into a playground."

I said that, old as I was, I had taken up the study of French, and
mentioned Bayard Taylor's having begun Greek at fifty, expecting to need
it in heaven.

Clemens said, reflectively: "Yes--but you see that was Greek."




CCLXXXI

THE LAST SUMMER AT STORMFIELD

I was at Stormfield pretty constantly during the rest of that year.  At
first I went up only for the day; but later, when his health did not
improve, and when he expressed a wish for companionship evenings, I
remained most of the nights as well.  Our rooms were separated only by a
bath-room; and as neither of us was much given to sleep, there was likely
to be talk or reading aloud at almost any hour when both were awake.  In
the very early morning I would usually slip in, softly, sometimes to find
him propped up against his pillows sound asleep, his glasses on, the
reading-lamp blazing away as it usually did, day or night; but as often
as not he was awake, and would have some new plan or idea of which he was
eager to be delivered, and there was always interest, and nearly always
amusement in it, even if it happened to be three in the morning or
earlier.

Sometimes, when he thought it time for me to be stirring, he would call
softly, but loudly enough for me to hear if awake; and I would go in, and
we would settle again problems of life and death and science, or, rather,
he would settle them while I dropped in a remark here and there, merely
to hold the matter a little longer in solution.

The pains in his breast came back, and with a good deal of frequency as
the summer advanced; also, they became more severe.  Dr. Edward Quintard
came up from New York, and did not hesitate to say that the trouble
proceeded chiefly from the heart, and counseled diminished smoking, with
less active exercise, advising particularly against Clemens's lifetime
habit of lightly skipping up and down stairs.

There was no prohibition as to billiards, however, or leisurely walking,
and we played pretty steadily through those peaceful summer days, and
often took a walk down into the meadows or perhaps in the other
direction, when it was not too warm or windy.  Once we went as far as the
river, and I showed him a part of his land he had not seen before--a
beautiful cedar hillside, remote and secluded, a place of enchantment.
On the way I pointed out a little corner of land which earlier he had
given me to straighten our division line.  I told him I was going to
build a study on it, and call it "Markland."  He thought it an admirable
building-site, and I think he was pleased with the name.  Later he said:

"If you had a place for that extra billiard-table of mine [the Rogers
table, which had been left in New York] I would turn it over to you."

I replied that I could adapt the size of my proposed study to fit a
billiard-table, and he said:

"Now that will be very good.  Then, when I want exercise, I can walk down
and play billiards with you, and when you want exercise you can walk up
and play billiards with me.  You must build that study."

So it was we planned, and by and by Mr. Lounsbury had undertaken the
work.

During the walks Clemens rested a good deal.  There were the New England
hills to climb, and then he found that he tired easily, and that
weariness sometimes brought on the pain.  As I remember now, I think how
bravely he bore it.  It must have been a deadly, sickening, numbing pain,
for I have seen it crumple him, and his face become colorless while his
hand dug at his breast; but he never complained, he never bewailed, and
at billiards he would persist in going on and playing in his turn, even
while he was bowed with the anguish of the attack.

We had found that a glass of very hot water relieved it, and we kept
always a thermos bottle or two filled and ready.  At the first hint from
him I would pour out a glass and another, and sometimes the relief came
quickly; but there were times, and alas! they came oftener, when that
deadly gripping did not soon release him.  Yet there would come a week or
a fortnight when he was apparently perfectly well, and at such times we
dismissed the thought of any heart malady, and attributed the whole
trouble to acute indigestion, from which he had always suffered more or
less.

We were alone together most of the time.  He did not appear to care for
company that summer.  Clara Clemens had a concert tour in prospect, and
her father, eager for her success, encouraged her to devote a large part
of her time to study.  For Jean, who was in love with every form of
outdoor and animal life, he had established headquarters in a vacant
farm-house on one corner of the estate, where she had collected some
stock and poultry, and was over-flowingly happy.  Ossip Gabrilowitsch was
a guest in the house a good portion of the summer, but had been invalided
through severe surgical operations, and for a long time rarely appeared,
even at meal-times.  So it came about that there could hardly have been a
closer daily companionship than was ours during this the last year of
Mark Twain's life.  For me, of course, nothing can ever be like it again
in this world.  One is not likely to associate twice with a being from
another star.




CCLXXXII

PERSONAL MEMORANDA

In the notes I made of this period I caught a little drift of personality
and utterance, and I do not know better how to preserve these things than
to give them here as nearly as may be in the sequence and in the forth in
which they were set down.

One of the first of these entries occurs in June, when Clemens was
rereading with great interest and relish Andrew D. White's Science and
Theology, which he called a lovely book.--['A History of the Warfare of
Science with Theology in Christendom'.]
     June 21.  A peaceful afternoon, and we walked farther than usual,
     resting at last in the shade of a tree in the lane that leads to
     Jean's farm-house.  I picked a dandelion-ball, with some remark
     about its being one of the evidences of the intelligent principle in
     nature--the seeds winged for a wider distribution.

     "Yes," he said, "those are the great evidences; no one who reasons
     can doubt them."

     And presently he added:

     "That is a most amusing book of White's.  When you read it you see
     how those old theologians never reasoned at all.  White tells of an
     old bishop who figured out that God created the world in an instant
     on a certain day in October exactly so many years before Christ, and
     proved it.  And I knew a preacher myself once who declared that the
     fossils in the rocks proved nothing as to the age of the world.  He
     said that God could create the rocks with those fossils in them for
     ornaments if He wanted to.  Why, it takes twenty years to build a
     little island in the Mississippi River, and that man actually
     believed that God created the whole world and all that's in it in
     six days.  White tells of another bishop who gave two new reasons
     for thunder; one being that God wanted to show the world His power,
     and another that He wished to frighten sinners to repent.  Now
     consider the proportions of that conception, even in the pettiest
     way you can think of it.  Consider the idea of God thinking of all
     that.  Consider the President of the United States wanting to
     impress the flies and fleas and mosquitoes, getting up on the dome
     of the Capitol and beating a bass-drum and setting off red fire."

He followed the theme a little further, then we made our way slowly back
up the long hill, he holding to my arm, and resting here and there, but
arriving at the house seemingly fresh and ready for billiards.

     June 23.  I came up this morning with a basket of strawberries.  He
     was walking up and down, looking like an ancient Roman.  He said:

     "Consider the case of Elsie Sigel--[Granddaughter of Gen.  Franz
     Sigel.  She was mysteriously murdered while engaged in settlement
     work among the Chinese.]--what a ghastly ending to any life!"

     Then turning upon me fiercely, he continued:

     "Anybody that knows anything knows that there was not a single life
     that was ever lived that was worth living.  Not a single child ever
     begotten that the begetting of it was not a crime.  Suppose a
     community of people to be living on the slope of a volcano, directly
     under the crater and in the path of lava-flow; that volcano has been
     breaking out right along for ages and is certain to break out again.
     They do not know when it will break out, but they know it will do
     it--that much can be counted on.  Suppose those people go to a
     community in a far neighborhood and say, 'We'd like to change places
     with you.  Come take our homes and let us have yours.'  Those people
     would say, 'Never mind, we are not interested in your country.  We
     know what has happened there, and what will happen again.'  We don't
     care to live under the blow that is likely to fall at any moment;
     and yet every time we bring a child into the world we are bringing
     it to a country, to a community gathered under the crater of a
     volcano, knowing that sooner or later death will come, and that
     before death there will be catastrophes infinitely worse.  Formerly
     it was much worse than now, for before the ministers abolished hell
     a man knew, when he was begetting a child, that he was begetting a
     soul that had only one chance in a hundred of escaping the eternal
     fires of damnation.  He knew that in all probability that child
     would be brought to damnation--one of the ninety-nine black sheep.
     But since hell has been abolished death has become more welcome.
     I wrote a fairy story once.  It was published somewhere.  I don't
     remember just what it was now, but the substance of it was that a
     fairy gave a man the customary wishes.  I was interested in seeing
     what he would take.  First he chose wealth and went away with it,
     but it did not bring him happiness.  Then he came back for the
     second selection, and chose fame, and that did not bring happiness
     either.  Finally he went to the fairy and chose death, and the fairy
     said, in substance, 'If you hadn't been a fool you'd have chosen
     that in the first place.'

     "The papers called me a pessimist for writing that story.
     Pessimist--the man who isn't a pessimist is a d---d fool."

But this was one of his savage humors, stirred by tragic circumstance.
Under date of July 5th I find this happier entry:

     We have invented a new game, three-ball carom billiards, each player
     continuing until he has made five, counting the number of his shots
     as in golf, the one who finishes in the fewer shots wins.  It is a
     game we play with almost exactly equal skill, and he is highly
     pleased with it.  He said this afternoon:

     "I have never enjoyed billiards as I do now.  I look forward to it
     every afternoon as my reward at the end of a good day's work."--[His
     work at this time was an article on Marjorie Fleming, the "wonder
     child," whose quaint writings and brief little life had been
     published to the world by Dr. John Brown.  Clemens always adored the
     thought of Marjorie, and in this article one can see that she ranked
     almost next to Joan of Arc in his affections.]

We went out in the loggia by and by and Clemens read aloud from a book
which Professor Zubelin left here a few days ago--'The Religion of a
Democrat'.  Something in it must have suggested to Clemens his favorite
science, for presently he said:

     "I have been reading an old astronomy; it speaks of the perfect line
     of curvature of the earth in spite of mountains and abysses, and I
     have imagined a man three hundred thousand miles high picking up a
     ball like the earth and looking at it and holding it in his hand.
     It would be about like a billiard-ball to him, and he would turn it
     over in his hand and rub it with his thumb, and where he rubbed over
     the mountain ranges he might say, 'There seems to be some slight
     roughness here, but I can't detect it with my eye; it seems
     perfectly smooth to look at.'  The Himalayas to him, the highest
     peak, would be one-sixty-thousandth of his height, or about the one-
     thousandth part of an inch as compared with the average man."

I spoke of having somewhere read of some very tiny satellites, one as
small, perhaps, as six miles in diameter, yet a genuine world.

"Could a man live on a world so small as that?" I asked.

     "Oh yes," he said.  "The gravitation that holds it together would
     hold him on, and he would always seem upright, the same as here.
     His horizon would be smaller, but even if he were six feet tall he
     would only have one foot for each mile of that world's diameter, so
     you see he would be little enough, even for a world that he could
     walk around in half a day."

He talked astronomy a great deal--marvel astronomy.  He had no real
knowledge of the subject, and I had none of any kind, which made its
ungraspable facts all the more thrilling.  He was always thrown into a
sort of ecstasy by the unthinkable distances of space--the supreme drama
of the universe.  The fact that Alpha Centauri was twenty-five trillions
of miles away--two hundred and fifty thousand times the distance of our
own remote sun, and that our solar system was traveling, as a whole,
toward the bright star Vega, in the constellation of Lyra, at the rate of
forty-four miles a second, yet would be thousands upon thousands of years
reaching its destination, fairly enraptured him.

The astronomical light-year--that is to say, the distance which light
travels in a year--was one of the things which he loved to contemplate;
but he declared that no two authorities ever figured it alike, and that
he was going to figure it for himself.  I came in one morning, to find
that he had covered several sheets of paper with almost interminable rows
of ciphers, and with a result, to him at least, entirely satisfactory.
I am quite certain that he was prouder of those figures and their
enormous aggregate than if he had just completed an immortal tale; and
when he added that the nearest fixed star--Alpha Centauri--was between
four and five light-years distant from the earth, and that there was no
possible way to think that distance in miles or even any calculable
fraction of it, his glasses shone and his hair was roached up as with the
stimulation of these stupendous facts.

By and by he said:

"I came in with Halley's comet in 1835.  It is coming again next year,
and I expect to go out with it.  It will be the greatest disappointment
of my life if I don't go out with Halley's comet.  The Almighty has said,
no doubt: 'Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in
together, they must go out together.'  Oh!  I am looking forward to
that."  And a little later he added:

"I've got some kind of a heart disease, and Quintard won't tell me
whether it is the kind that carries a man off in an instant or keeps him
lingering along and suffering for twenty years or so.  I was in hopes
that Quintard would tell me that I was likely to drop dead any minute;
but he didn't.  He only told me that my blood-pressure was too strong.
He didn't give me any schedule; but I expect to go with Halley's comet."

I seem to have omitted making any entries for a few days; but among his
notes I find this entry, which seems to refer to some discussion of a
favorite philosophy, and has a special interest of its own:

     July 14, 1909.  Yesterday's dispute resumed, I still maintaining
     that, whereas we can think, we generally don't do it.  Don't do it,
     & don't have to do it: we are automatic machines which act
     unconsciously.  From morning till sleeping-time, all day long.  All
     day long our machinery is doing things from habit & instinct, &
     without requiring any help or attention from our poor little 7-by-9
     thinking apparatus.  This reminded me of something: thirty years
     ago, in Hartford, the billiard-room was my study, & I wrote my
     letters there the first thing every morning.  My table lay two
     points off the starboard bow of the billiard-table, & the door of
     exit and entrance bore northeast&-by-east-half-east from that
     position, consequently you could see the door across the length of
     the billiard-table, but you couldn't see the floor by the said
     table.  I found I was always forgetting to ask intruders to carry my
     letters down-stairs for the mail, so I concluded to lay them on the
     floor by the door; then the intruder would have to walk over them, &
     that would indicate to him what they were there for.  Did it?  No,
     it didn't.  He was a machine, & had habits.  Habits take precedence
     of thought.

     Now consider this: a stamped & addressed letter lying on the floor--
     lying aggressively & conspicuously on the floor--is an unusual
     spectacle; so unusual a spectacle that you would think an intruder
     couldn't see it there without immediately divining that it was not
     there by accident, but had been deliberately placed there & for a
     definite purpose.  Very well--it may surprise you to learn that that
     most simple & most natural & obvious thought would never occur to
     any intruder on this planet, whether he be fool, half-fool, or the
     most brilliant of thinkers.  For he is always an automatic machine &
     has habits, & his habits will act before his thinking apparatus can
     get a chance to exert its powers.  My scheme failed because every
     human being has the habit of picking up any apparently misplaced
     thing & placing it where it won't be stepped on.

     My first intruder was George.  He went and came without saying
     anything.  Presently I found the letters neatly piled up on the
     billiard-table.  I was astonished.  I put them on the floor again.
     The next intruder piled them on the billiard-table without a word.
     I was profoundly moved, profoundly interested.  So I set the trap
     again.  Also again, & again, & yet again--all day long.  I caught
     every member of the family, & every servant; also I caught the three
     finest intellects in the town.  In every instance old, time-worn
     automatic habit got in its work so promptly that the thinking
     apparatus never got a chance.

I do not remember this particular discussion, but I do distinctly recall
being one of those whose intelligence was not sufficient to prevent my
picking up the letter he had thrown on the floor in front of his bed, and
being properly classified for doing it.

Clemens no longer kept note-books, as in an earlier time, but set down
innumerable memoranda-comments, stray reminders, and the like--on small
pads, and bunches of these tiny sheets accumulated on his table and about
his room.  I gathered up many of them then and afterward, and a few of
these characteristic bits may be offered here.


                                   KNEE

It is at our mother's knee that we acquire our noblest & truest & highest
ideals, but there is seldom any money in them.


                                 JEHOVAH

He is all-good.  He made man for hell or hell for man, one or the other--
take your choice.  He made it hard to get into heaven and easy to get
into hell.  He commended man to multiply & replenish-what?  Hell.


                        MODESTY ANTEDATES CLOTHES

& will be resumed when clothes are no more.
[The latter part of this aphorism is erased and underneath it he adds:]


                               MODESTY DIED

when clothes were born.


                               MODESTY DIED
when false modesty was born.


                                 HISTORY

A historian who would convey the truth has got to lie.  Often he must
enlarge the truth by diameters, otherwise his reader would not be able to
see it.


                                  MORALS

are not the important thing--nor enlightenment--nor civilization.  A man
can do absolutely well without them, but he can't do without something to
eat.  The supremest thing is the needs of the body, not of the mind &
spirit.


                                SUGGESTION

There is conscious suggestion & there is unconscious suggestion--both
come from outside--whence all ideas come.
                                  DUELS

I think I could wipe out a dishonor by crippling the other man, but I
don't see how I could do it by letting him cripple me.

I have no feeling of animosity toward people who do not believe as I do;
I merely do not respect 'em.  In some serious matters (relig.) I would
have them burnt.

I am old now and once was a sinner.  I often think of it with a kind of
soft regret.  I trust my days are numbered.  I would not have that detail
overlooked.

She was always a girl, she was always young because her heart was young;
& I was young because she lived in my heart & preserved its youth from
decay.



He often busied himself working out more extensively some of the ideas
that came to him--moral ideas, he called them.  One fancy which he
followed in several forms (some of them not within the privilege of
print) was that of an inquisitive little girl, Bessie, who pursues her
mother with difficult questionings.--[Under Appendix w, at the end of
this volume, the reader will find one of the "Bessie" dialogues.]--He
read these aloud as he finished them, and it is certain that they lacked
neither logic nor humor.

Sometimes he went to a big drawer in his dresser, where he kept his
finished manuscripts, and took them out and looked over them, and read
parts of them aloud, and talked of the plans he had had for them, and how
one idea after another had been followed for a time and had failed to
satisfy him in the end.

Two fiction schemes that had always possessed him he had been unable to
bring to any conclusion.  Both of these have been mentioned in former
chapters; one being the notion of a long period of dream-existence during
a brief moment of sleep, and the other being the story of a mysterious
visitant from another realm.  He had experimented with each of these
ideas in no less than three forms, and there was fine writing and
dramatic narrative in all; but his literary architecture had somehow
fallen short of his conception.  "The Mysterious Stranger" in one of its
forms I thought might be satisfactorily concluded, and he admitted that
he could probably end it without much labor.  He discussed something of
his plans, and later I found the notes for its conclusion.  But I suppose
he was beyond the place where he could take up those old threads, though
he contemplated, fondly enough, the possibility, and recalled how he had
read at least one form of the dream tale to Howells, who had urged him to
complete it.




CCLXXXIII

ASTRONOMY AND DREAMS

August 5, 1909.  This morning I noticed on a chair a copy of Flaubert's
Salammbo which I recently lent him.  I asked if he liked it.

"No," he said, "I didn't like any of it."

"But you read it?"

"Yes, I read every line of it."

"You admitted its literary art?"

"Well, it's like this: If I should go to the Chicago stockyards and they
should kill a beef and cut it up and the blood should splash all over
everything, and then they should take me to another pen and kill another
beef and the blood should splash over everything again, and so on to pen
after pen, I should care for it about as much as I do for that book."

"But those were bloody days, and you care very much for that period in
history."

"Yes, that is so.  But when I read Tacitus and know that I am reading
history I can accept it as such and supply the imaginary details and
enjoy it, but this thing is such a continuous procession of blood and
slaughter and stench it worries me.  It has great art--I can see that.
That scene of the crucified lions and the death canon and the tent scene
are marvelous, but I wouldn't read that book again without a salary."

August 16.  He is reading Suetonius, which he already knows by heart--so
full of the cruelties and licentiousness of imperial Rome.

This afternoon he began talking about Claudius.

"They called Claudius a lunatic," he said, "but just see what nice
fancies he had.  He would go to the arena between times and have captives
and wild beasts brought out and turned in together for his special
enjoyment.  Sometimes when there were no captives on hand he would say,
'Well, never mind; bring out a carpenter.'  Carpentering around the arena
wasn't a popular job in those days.  He went visiting once to a province
and thought it would be pleasant to see how they disposed of criminals
and captives in their crude, old-fashioned way, but there was no
executioner on hand.  No matter; the Emperor of Rome was in no hurry--he
would wait.  So he sat down and stayed there until an executioner came."

I said, "How do you account for the changed attitude toward these things?
We are filled with pity to-day at the thought of torture and suffering."

"Ah!  but that is because we have drifted that way and exercised the
quality of compassion.  Relax a muscle and it soon loses its vigor; relax
that quality and in two generations--in one generation--we should be
gloating over the spectacle of blood and torture just the same.  Why, I
read somewhere a letter written just before the Lisbon catastrophe in
1755 about a scene on the public square of Lisbon: A lot of stakes with
the fagots piled for burning and heretics chained for burning.  The
square was crowded with men and women and children, and when those fires
were lighted, and the heretics began to shriek and writhe, those men and
women and children laughed so they were fairly beside themselves with the
enjoyment of the scene.  The Greeks don't seem to have done these things.
I suppose that indicates earlier advancement in compassion."

Colonel Harvey and Mr. Duneka came up to spend the night.  Mr. Clemens
had one of his seizures during the evening.  They come oftener and last
longer.  One last night continued for an hour and a half.  I slept there.

September 7.  To-day news of the North Pole discovered by Peary.  Five
days ago the same discovery was reported by Cook.  Clemens's comment:
"It's the greatest joke of the ages."  But a moment later he referred to
the stupendous fact of Arcturus being fifty thousand times as big as the
sun.

September 21.  This morning he told me, with great glee, the dream he had
had just before wakening.  He said:

     "I was in an automobile going slowly, with 'a little girl beside me,
     and some uniformed person walking along by us.  I said, 'I'll get
     out and walk, too'; but the officer replied, 'This is only one of
     the smallest of our fleet.'

     "Then I noticed that the automobile had no front, and there were two
     cannons mounted where the front should be.  I noticed, too, that we
     were traveling very low, almost down on the ground.  Presently we
     got to the bottom of a hill and started up another, and I found
     myself walking ahead of the 'mobile.  I turned around to look for
     the little girl, and instead of her I found a kitten capering beside
     me, and when we reached the top of the hill we were looking out over
     a most barren and desolate waste of sand-heaps without a speck of
     vegetation anywhere, and the kitten said, 'This view beggars all
     admiration.'  Then all at once we were in a great group of people
     and I undertook to repeat to them the kitten's remark, but when I
     tried to do it the words were so touching that I broke down and
     cried, and all the group cried, too, over the kitten's moving
     remark."

     The joy with which he told this absurd sleep fancy made it supremely
     ridiculous and we laughed until tears really came.

One morning he said: "I was awake a good deal in the night, and I tried
to think of interesting things.  I got to working out geological periods,
trying to think of some way to comprehend them, and then astronomical
periods.  Of course it's impossible, but I thought of a plan that seemed
to mean something to me.  I remembered that Neptune is two billion eight
hundred million miles away.  That, of course, is incomprehensible, but
then there is the nearest fixed star with its twenty-five trillion miles-
-twenty-five trillion--or nearly a thousand times as far, and then I took
this book and counted the lines on a page and I found that there was an
average of thirty-two lines to the page and two hundred and forty pages,
and I figured out that, counting the distance to Neptune as one line,
there were still not enough lines in the book by nearly two thousand to
reach the nearest fixed star, and somehow that gave me a sort of dim idea
of the vastness of the distance and kind of a journey into space."

Later I figured out another method of comprehending a little of that
great distance by estimating the existence of the human race at thirty
thousand years (Lord Kelvin's figures) and the average generation to have
been thirty-three years with a world population of 1,500,000,000 souls.
I assumed the nearest fixed star to be the first station in Paradise and
the first soul to have started thirty thousand years ago.  Traveling at
the rate of about thirty miles a second, it would just now be arriving in
Alpha Centauri with all the rest of that buried multitude stringing out
behind at an average distance of twenty miles apart.

Few things gave him more pleasure than the contemplation of such figures
as these.  We made occasional business trips to New York, and during one
of them visited the Museum of Natural History to look at the brontosaur
and the meteorites and the astronomical model in the entrance hall.  To
him these were the most fascinating things in the world.  He contemplated
the meteorites and the brontosaur, and lost himself in strange and
marvelous imaginings concerning the far reaches of time and space whence
they had come down to us.

Mark Twain lived curiously apart from the actualities of life.  Dwelling
mainly among his philosophies and speculations, he observed vaguely, or
minutely, what went on about him; but in either case the fact took a
place, not in the actual world, but in a world within his consciousness,
or subconsciousness, a place where facts were likely to assume new and
altogether different relations from those they had borne in the physical
occurrence.  It not infrequently happened, therefore, when he recounted
some incident, even the most recent, that history took on fresh and
startling forms.  More than once I have known him to relate an occurrence
of the day before with a reality of circumstance that carried absolute
conviction, when the details themselves were precisely reversed.  If his
attention were called to the discrepancy, his face would take on a blank
look, as of one suddenly aroused from dreamland, to be followed by an
almost childish interest in your revelation and ready acknowledgment of
his mistake.  I do not think such mistakes humiliated him; but they often
surprised and, I think, amused him.

Insubstantial and deceptive as was this inner world of his, to him it
must have been much more real than the world of flitting physical.
shapes about him.  He would fix you keenly with his attention, but you
realized, at last, that he was placing you and seeing you not as a part
of the material landscape, but as an item of his own inner world--a world
in which philosophies and morals stood upright--a very good world indeed,
but certainly a topsy-turvy world when viewed with the eye of mere
literal scrutiny.  And this was, mainly, of course, because the routine
of life did not appeal to him.  Even members of his household did not
always stir his consciousness.

He knew they were there; he could call them by name; he relied upon them;
but his knowledge of them always suggested the knowledge that Mount
Everest might have of the forests and caves and boulders upon its slopes,
useful, perhaps, but hardly necessary to the giant's existence, and in no
important matter a part of its greater life.




CCLXXXIV

A LIBRARY CONCERT

In a letter which Clemens wrote to Miss Wallace at this time, he tells of
a concert given at Stormfield on September 21st for the benefit of the
new Redding Library.  Gabrilowitsch had so far recovered that he was up
and about and able to play.  David Bispham, the great barytone, always
genial and generous, agreed to take part, and Clara Clemens, already
accustomed to public singing, was to join in the program.  The letter to
Miss Wallace supplies the rest of the history.
     We had a grand time here yesterday.  Concert in aid of the little
     library.

                              TEAM

                    Gabrilowitsch, pianist.
                    David Bispham, vocalist.
                    Clara Clemens, ditto.
                    Mark Twain, introduces of team.

     Detachments and squads and groups and singles came from everywhere-
     Danbury, New Haven, Norwalk, Redding, Redding Ridge, Ridgefield, and
     even from New York: some in 60-h.p.  motor-cars, some in buggies and
     carriages, and a swarm of farmer-young-folk on foot from miles
     around--525 altogether.

     If we hadn't stopped the sale of tickets a day and a half before the
     performance we should have been swamped.  We jammed 160 into the
     library (not quite all had seats), we filled the loggia, the dining-
     room, the hall, clear into the billiard-room, the stairs, and the
     brick-paved square outside the dining-room door.

     The artists were received with a great welcome, and it woke them up,
     and I tell you they performed to the Queen's taste!  The program was
     an hour and three-quarters long and the encores added a half-hour to
     it.  The enthusiasm of the house was hair-lifting.  They all stayed
     an hour after the close to shake hands and congratulate.

     We had no dollar seats except in the library, but we accumulated
     $372 for the Building Fund.  We had tea at half past six for a
     dozen--the Hawthornes, Jeannette Gilder, and her niece, etc.; and
     after 8-o'clock dinner we had a private concert and a ball in the
     bare-stripped library until 10; nobody present but the team and Mr.
     and Mrs. Paine and Jean and her dog.  And me.  Bispham did "Danny
     Deever" and the "Erlkonig" in his majestic, great organ-tones and
     artillery, and Gabrilowitsch played the accompaniments as they were
     never played before, I do suppose.

There is not much to add to that account.  Clemens, introducing the
performers, was the gay feature of the occasion.  He spoke of the great
reputation of Bispham and Gabrilowitsch; then he said:

"My daughter is not as famous as these gentlemen, but she is ever so much
better-looking."

The music of the evening that followed, with Gabrilowitsch at the piano
and David Bispham to sing, was something not likely ever to be repeated.
Bispham sang the "Erlkonig" and "Killiecrankie" and the "Grenadiers" and
several other songs.  He spoke of having sung Wagner's arrangement of the
"Grenadiers" at the composer's home following his death, and how none of
the family had heard it before.

There followed dancing, and Jean Clemens, fine and handsome, apparently
full of life and health, danced down that great living-room as care-free
as if there was no shadow upon her life.  And the evening was
distinguished in another way, for before it ended Clara Clemens had
promised Ossip Gabrilowitsch to become his wife.




CCLXXXV

A WEDDING AT STORMFIELD

The wedding of Ossip Gabrilowitsch and Clara Clemens was not delayed.
Gabrilowitsch had signed for a concert tour in Europe, and unless the
marriage took place forthwith it must be postponed many months.  It
followed, therefore, fifteen days after the engagement.  They were busy
days.  Clemens, enormously excited and pleased over the prospect of the
first wedding in his family, personally attended to the selection of
those who were to have announcement-cards, employing a stenographer to
make the list.

October 6th was a perfect wedding-day.  It was one of those quiet, lovely
fall days when the whole world seems at peace.  Claude, the butler, with
his usual skill in such matters, had decorated the great living-room with
gay autumn foliage and flowers, brought in mainly from the woods and
fields.  They blended perfectly with the warm tones of the walls and
furnishings, and I do not remember ever having seen a more beautiful
room.  Only relatives and a few of the nearest friends were invited to
the ceremony.  The Twichells came over a day ahead, for Twichell, who had
assisted in the marriage rites between Samuel Clemens and Olivia Langdon,
was to perform that ceremony for their daughter now.  A fellow-student of
the bride and groom when they had been pupils of Leschetizky, in Vienna--
Miss Ethel Newcomb--was at the piano and played softly the Wedding March
from" Taunhauser."  Jean Clemens was the only bridesmaid, and she was
stately and classically beautiful, with a proud dignity in her office.
Jervis Langdon, the bride's cousin and childhood playmate, acted as best
man, and Clemens, of course, gave the bride away.  By request he wore his
scarlet Oxford gown over his snowy flannels, and was splendid beyond
words.  I do not write of the appearance of the bride and groom, for
brides and grooms are always handsome and always happy, and certainly
these were no exception.  It was all so soon over, the feasting ended,
and the principals whirling away into the future.  I have a picture in my
mind of them seated together in the automobile, with Richard Watson
Gilder standing on the step for a last good-by, and before them a wide
expanse of autumn foliage and distant hills.  I remember Gilder's voice
saying, when the car was on the turn, and they were waving back to us:

               "Over the hills and far away,
               Beyond the utmost purple rim,
               Beyond the night, beyond the day,
               Through all the world she followed him."

The matter of the wedding had been kept from the newspapers until the eve
of the wedding, when the Associated Press had been notified.  A
representative was there; but Clemens had characteristically interviewed
himself on the subject, and it was only necessary to hand the reporter a
typewritten copy.  Replying to the question (put to himself), "Are you
pleased with the marriage?" he answered:

     Yes, fully as much as any marriage could please me or any other
     father.  There are two or three solemn things in life and a happy
     marriage is one of them, for the terrors of life are all to come.
     I am glad of this marriage, and Mrs. Clemens would be glad, for she
     always had a warm affection for Gabrilowitsch.

There was another wedding at Stormfield on the following afternoon--an
imitation wedding.  Little Joy came up with me, and wished she could
stand in just the spot where she had seen the bride stand, and she
expressed a wish that she could get married like that.  Clemens said:

"Frankness is a jewel; only the young can afford it."

Then he happened to remember a ridiculous boy-doll--a white-haired
creature with red coat and green trousers, a souvenir imitation of
himself from one of the Rogerses' Christmas trees.  He knew where it was,
and he got it out.  Then he said:

"Now, Joy, we will have another wedding.  This is Mr. Colonel Williams,
and you are to become his wedded wife."

So Joy stood up very gravely and Clemens performed the ceremony, and I
gave the bride away, and Joy to him became Mrs. Colonel Williams
thereafter, and entered happily into her new estate.




CCLXXXVI

AUTUMN DAYS

A harvest of letters followed the wedding: a general congratulatory
expression, mingled with admiration, affection, and good-will.  In his
interview Clemens had referred to the pain in his breast; and many begged
him to deny that there was anything serious the matter with him, urging
him to try this relief or that, pathetically eager for his continued life
and health.  They cited the comfort he had brought to world-weary
humanity and his unfailing stand for human justice as reasons why he
should live.  Such letters could not fail to cheer him.

A letter of this period, from John Bigelow, gave him a pleasure of its
own.  Clemens had written Bigelow, apropos of some adverse expression on
the tariff:

     Thank you for any hard word you can say about the tariff.  I guess
     the government that robs its own people earns the future it is
     preparing for itself.

Bigelow was just then declining an invitation to the annual dinner of the
Chamber of Commerce.  In sending his regrets he said:

     The sentiment I would propose if I dared to be present would be the
     words of Mark Twain, the statesman:

     "The government that robs its own people earns the future it is
     preparing for itself."

Now to Clemens himself he wrote:

     Rochefoucault never said a cleverer thing, nor Dr. Franklin a wiser
     one .  .  .  .  Be careful, or the Demos will be running you for
     President when you are not on your guard.

     Yours more than ever,
                              JOHN BIGELOW.


Among the tributes that came, was a sermon by the Rev. Fred Window Adams,
of Schenectady, New York, with Mark Twain as its subject.  Mr. Adams
chose for his text, "Take Mark and bring him with thee; for he is
profitable for the ministry," and he placed the two Marks, St. Mark and
Mark Twain, side by side as ministers to humanity, and characterized him
as "a fearless knight of righteousness."  A few weeks later Mr. Adams
himself came to Stormfield, and, like all open-minded ministers of the
Gospel, he found that he could get on very well indeed with Mark Twain.

In spite of the good-will and the good wishes Clemens's malady did not
improve.  As the days grew chillier he found that he must remain closer
indoors.  The cold air seemed to bring on the pains, and they were
gradually becoming more severe; then, too, he did not follow the doctor's
orders in the matter of smoking, nor altogether as to exercise.

To Miss Wallace he wrote:

I can't walk, I can't drive, I'm not down-stairs much, and I don't see
company, but I drink barrels of water to keep the pain quiet; I read, and
read, and read, and smoke, and smoke, and smoke all the time (as
formerly), and it's a contented and comfortable life.

But this was not altogether accurate as to details.  He did come down-
stairs many times daily, and he persisted in billiards regardless of the
paroxysms.  We found, too, that the seizures were induced by mental
agitation.  One night he read aloud to Jean and myself the first chapter
of an article, "The Turning-Point in My Life," which he was preparing for
Harper's Bazar.  He had begun it with one of his impossible burlesque
fancies, and he felt our attitude of disappointment even before any word
had been said.  Suddenly he rose, and laying his hand on his breast said,
"I must lie down," and started toward the stair.  I supported him to his
room and hurriedly poured out the hot water.  He drank it and dropped
back on the bed.

"Don't speak to me," he said; "don't make me talk."

Jean came in, and we sat there several moments in silence.  I think we
both wondered if this might not be the end; but presently he spoke of his
own accord, declaring he was better, and ready for billiards.

We played for at least an hour afterward, and he seemed no worse for the
attack.  It is a curious malady--that angina; even the doctors are
acquainted with its manifestations, rather than its cause.  Clemens's
general habits of body and mind were probably not such as to delay its
progress; furthermore, there had befallen him that year one of those
misfortunes which his confiding nature peculiarly invited--a betrayal of
trust by those in whom it had been boundlessly placed--and it seems
likely that the resulting humiliation aggravated his complaint.  The
writing of a detailed history of this episode afforded him occupation and
a certain amusement, but probably did not contribute to his health.  One
day he sent for his attorney, Mr. Charles T. Lark, and made some final
revisions in his will.--[Mark Twain's estate, later appraised at
something more than $600,000 was left in the hands of trustees for his
daughters.  The trustees were Edward E. Loomis, Jervis Langdon, and
Zoheth S. Freeman.  The direction of his literary affairs was left to his
daughter Clara and the writer of this history.]

To see him you would never have suspected that he was ill.  He was in
good flesh, and his movement was as airy and his eye as bright and his
face as full of bloom as at any time during the period I had known him;
also, he was as light-hearted and full of ideas and plans, and he was
even gentler--having grown mellow with age and retirement, like good
wine.

And of course he would find amusement in his condition.  He said:

"I have always pretended to be sick to escape visitors; now, for the
first time, I have got a genuine excuse.  It makes me feel so honest."

And once, when Jean reported a caller in the livingroom, he said:

"Jean, I can't see her.  Tell her I am likely to drop dead any minute and
it would be most embarrassing."

But he did see her, for it was a poet--Angela Morgan--and he read her
poem, "God's Man," aloud with great feeling, and later he sold it for her
to Collier's Weekly.

He still had violent rages now and then, remembering some of the most
notable of his mistakes; and once, after denouncing himself, rather
inclusively, as an idiot, he said:

"I wish to God the lightning would strike me; but I've wished that fifty
thousand times and never got anything out of it yet.  I have missed
several good chances.  Mrs. Clemens was afraid of lightning, and would
never let me bare my head to the storm."

The element of humor was never lacking, and the rages became less violent
and less frequent.

I was at Stormfield steadily now, and there was a regular routine of
afternoon sessions of billiards or reading, in which we were generally
alone; for Jean, occupied with her farming and her secretary labors,
seldom appeared except at meal-times.  Occasionally she joined in the
billiard games; but it was difficult learning and her interest was not
great.  She would have made a fine player, for she had a natural talent
for games, as she had for languages, and she could have mastered the
science of angles as she had mastered tennis and French and German and
Italian.  She had naturally a fine intellect, with many of her father's
characteristics, and a tender heart that made every dumb creature her
friend.

Katie Leary, who had been Jean's nurse, once told how, as a little child,
Jean had not been particularly interested in a picture of the Lisbon
earthquake, where the people were being swallowed up; but on looking at
the next page, which showed a number of animals being overwhelmed, she
had said:

"Poor things!"

Katie said:

"Why, you didn't say that about the people!"

But Jean answered:

"Oh, they could speak."

One night at the dinner-table her father was saying how difficult it must
be for a man who had led a busy life to give up the habit of work.

"That is why the Rogerses kill themselves," he said.  "They would rather
kill themselves in the old treadmill than stop and try to kill time.
They have forgotten how to rest.  They know nothing but to keep on till
they drop."

I told of something I had read not long before.  It was about an aged
lion that had broken loose from his cage at Coney Island.  He had not
offered to hurt any one; but after wandering about a little, rather
aimlessly, he had come to a picket-fence, and a moment later began pacing
up and down in front of it, just the length of his cage.  They had come
and led him back to his prison without trouble, and he had rushed eagerly
into it.  I noticed that Jean was listening anxiously, and when I
finished she said:

"Is that a true story?"

She had forgotten altogether the point in illustration.  She was
concerned only with the poor old beast that had found no joy in his
liberty.

Among the letters that Clemens wrote just then was one to Miss Wallace,
in which he described the glory of the fall colors as seen from his
windows.

     The autumn splendors passed you by?  What a pity!  I wish you had
     been here.  It was beyond words!  It was heaven & hell & sunset &
     rainbows & the aurora all fused into one divine harmony, & you
     couldn't look at it and keep the tears back.

     Such a singing together, & such a whispering together, & such a
     snuggling together of cozy, soft colors, & such kissing & caressing,
     & such pretty blushing when the sun breaks out & catches those
     dainty weeds at it--you remember that weed-garden of mine?--& then--
     then the far hills sleeping in a dim blue trance--oh, hearing about
     it is nothing, you should be here to see it!

In the same letter he refers to some work that he was writing for his own
satisfaction--'Letters from the Earth'; said letters supposed to have
been written by an immortal visitant and addressed to other immortals in
some remote sphere.

     I'll read passages to you.  This book will never be published--
     in fact it couldn't be, because it would be felony .  .  .  Paine
     enjoys it, but Paine is going to be damned one of these days, I
     suppose.

I very well remember his writing those 'Letters from the Earth'.  He read
them to me from time to time as he wrote them, and they were fairly
overflowing with humor and philosophy and satire concerning the human
race.  The immortal visitor pointed out, one after another, the
absurdities of mankind, his ridiculous conception of heaven, and his
special conceit in believing that he was the Creator's pet--the
particular form of life for which all the universe was created.  Clemens
allowed his exuberant fancy free rein, being under no restrictions as to
the possibility of print or public offense.  He enjoyed them himself,
too, as he read them aloud, and we laughed ourselves weak over his bold
imaginings.

One admissible extract will carry something of the flavor of these
chapters.  It is where the celestial correspondent describes man's
religion.

     His heaven is like himself: strange, interesting, astonishing,
     grotesque.  I give you my word it has not a single feature in it
     that he actually values.  It consists--utterly and entirely--of
     diversions which he cares next to nothing about here in the earth,
     yet he is quite sure he will like in heaven.  Isn't it curious?
     Isn't it interesting?  You must not think I am exaggerating, for it
     is not so.  I will give you the details.

     Most, men do not sing, most men cannot sing, most men will not stay
     where others are singing if it be continued more than two hours.
     Note that.

     Only about two men in a hundred can play upon a musical instrument,
     and not four in a hundred have any wish to learn how.  Set that
     down.

     Many men pray, not many of them like to do it.  A few pray long, the
     others make a short-cut.

     More men go to church than want to.

     To forty-nine men in fifty the Sabbath day is a dreary, dreary bore.

     Further, all sane people detest noise.

     All people, sane or insane, like to have variety in their lives.
     Monotony quickly wearies them.

     Now then, you have the facts.  You know what men don't enjoy.  Well,
     they have invented a heaven, out of their own heads, all by
     themselves; guess what it is like?  In fifteen hundred years you
     couldn't do it.  They have left out the very things they care for
     most their dearest pleasures--and replaced them with prayer!

     In man's heaven everybody sings.  There are no exceptions.  The man
     who did not sing on earth sings there; the man who could not sing on
     earth sings there.  Thus universal singing is not casual, not
     occasional, not relieved by intervals of quiet; it goes on all day
     long and every day during a stretch of twelve hours.  And everybody
     stays where on earth the place would be empty in two hours.  The
     singing is of hymns alone.  Nay, it is one hymn alone.  The words
     are always the same in number--they are only about a dozen--there is
     no rhyme--there is no poetry.  "Hosanna, hosanna, hosanna unto the
     highest!" and a few such phrases constitute the whole service.

     Meantime, every person is playing on a harp!  Consider the deafening
     hurricane of sound.  Consider, further, it is a praise service--a
     service of compliment, flattery, adulation.  Do you ask who it is
     that is willing to endure this strange compliment, this insane
     compliment, and who not only endures it but likes it, enjoys it,
     requires it, commands it?  Hold your breath: It is God!  This race's
     God I mean--their own pet invention.

Most of the ideas presented in this his last commentary on human
absurdities were new only as to phrasing.  He had exhausted the topic
long ago, in one way or another; but it was one of the themes in which he
never lost interest.  Many subjects became stale to him at last; but the
curious invention called man remained a novelty to him to the end.

From my note-book:

     October 25.  I am constantly amazed at his knowledge of history--all
     history--religious, political, military.  He seems to have read
     everything in the world concerning Rome, France, and England
     particularly.

     Last night we stopped playing billiards while he reviewed, in the
     most vivid and picturesque phrasing, the reasons of Rome's decline.
     Such a presentation would have enthralled any audience--I could not
     help feeling a great pity that he had not devoted some of his public
     effort to work of that sort.  No one could have equaled him at it.
     He concluded with some comments on the possibility of America
     following Rome's example, though he thought the vote of the people
     would always, or at least for a long period, prevent imperialism.

     November 1.  To-day he has been absorbed in his old interest in
     shorthand.  "It is the only rational alphabet," he declared.  "All
     this spelling reform is nonsense.  What we need is alphabet reform,
     and shorthand is the thing.  Take the letter M, for instance; it is
     made with one stroke in shorthand, while in longhand it requires at
     least three.  The word Mephistopheles can be written in shorthand
     with one-sixth the number of strokes that is required in longhand.
     I tell you shorthand should be adopted as the alphabet."

     I said: "There is this objection: the characters are so slightly
     different that each writer soon forms a system of his own and it is
     seldom that two can read each other's notes."

     "You are talking of stenographic reporting," he said, rather warmly.
     "Nothing of the kind is true in the case of the regular alphabet.
     It is perfectly clear and legible."

     "Would you have it in the schools, then?"

     "Yes, it should be taught in the schools, not for stenographic
     purposes, but only for use in writing to save time."

     He was very much in earnest, and said he had undertaken an article
     on the subject.

     November 3.  He said he could not sleep last night, for thinking
     what a fool he had been in his various investments.

     "I have always been the victim of somebody," he said, "and always an
     idiot myself, doing things that even a child would not do.  Never
     asking anybody's advice--never taking it when it was offered.  I
     can't see how anybody could do the things I have done and have kept
     right on doing."
     I could see that the thought agitated him, and I suggested that we
     go to his room and read, which we did, and had a riotous time over
     the most recent chapters of the 'Letters from the Earth', and some
     notes he had made for future chapters on infant damnation and other
     distinctive features of orthodox creeds.  He told an anecdote of an
     old minister who declared that Presbyterianism without infant
     damnation would be like the dog on the train that couldn't be
     identified because it had lost its tag.

     Somewhat on the defensive I said, "But we must admit that the so-
     called Christian nations are the most enlightened and progressive."

     He answered, "Yes, but in spite of their religion, not because of
     it.  The Church has opposed every innovation and discovery from the
     day of Galileo down to our own time, when the use of anesthetics in
     child-birth was regarded as a sin because it avoided the biblical
     curse pronounced against Eve.  And every step in astronomy and
     geology ever taken has been opposed by bigotry and superstition.
     The Greeks surpassed us in artistic culture and in architecture five
     hundred years before the Christian religion was born.

     "I have been reading Gibbon's celebrated Fifteenth Chapter," he said
     later, "and I don't see what Christians found against it.  It is so
     mild--so gentle in its sarcasm."  He added that he had been reading
     also a little book of brief biographies and had found in it the
     saying of Darwin's father, "Unitarianism is a featherbed to catch
     falling Christians."

     "I was glad to find and identify that saying," he said; "it is so
     good."

     He finished the evening by reading a chapter from Carlyle's French
     Revolution--a fine pyrotechnic passage--the gathering at Versailles.
     I said that Carlyle somehow reminded me of a fervid stump-speaker
     who pounded his fists and went at his audience fiercely, determined
     to convince them.

     "Yes," he said, "but he is the best one that ever lived."

     November 10.  This morning early he heard me stirring and called.  I
     went in and found him propped up with a book, as usual.  He said:

     "I seldom read Christmas stories, but this is very beautiful.  It
     has made me cry.  I want you to read it."  (It was Booth
     Tarkington's 'Beasley's Christmas Party'.) "Tarkington has the true
     touch," he said; "his work always satisfies me."  Another book he
     has been reading with great enjoyment is James Branch Cabell's
     Chivalry.  He cannot say enough of the subtle poetic art with which
     Cabell has flung the light of romance about dark and sordid chapters
     of history.




CCLXXVII

MARK TWAIN'S READING

Perhaps here one may speak of Mark Twain's reading in general.  On the
table by him, and on his bed, and in the billiard-room shelves he kept
the books he read most.  They were not many--not more than a dozen--but
they were manifestly of familiar and frequent usage.  All, or nearly all,
had annotations--spontaneously uttered marginal notes, title prefatories,
or concluding comments.  They were the books he had read again and again,
and it was seldom that he had not had something to say with each fresh
reading.

There were the three big volumes by Saint-Simon--'The Memoirs'--which he
once told me he had read no less than twenty times.  On the fly-leaf of
the first volume he wrote

This, & Casanova & Pepys, set in parallel columns, could afford a good
coup d'oeil of French & English high life of that epoch.

All through those finely printed volumes are his commentaries, sometimes
no more than a word, sometimes a filled, closely written margin.  He
found little to admire in the human nature of Saint-Simon's period--
little to approve in Saint-Simon himself beyond his unrestrained
frankness, which he admired without stint, and in one paragraph where the
details of that early period are set down with startling fidelity he
wrote: "Oh, incomparable Saint-Simon!"

Saint-Simon is always frank, and Mark Twain was equally so.  Where the
former tells one of the unspeakable compulsions of Louis XIV., the latter
has commented:

We have to grant that God made this royal hog; we may also be permitted
to believe that it was a crime to do so.

And on another page:

In her memories of this period the Duchesse de St. Clair makes this
striking remark: "Sometimes one could tell a gentleman, but it was only
by his manner of using his fork."

His comments on the orthodox religion of Saint-Simon's period are not
marked by gentleness.  Of the author's reference to the Edict of Nantes,
which he says depopulated half of the realm, ruined its commerce, and
"authorized torments and punishments by which so many innocent people of
both sexes were killed by thousands," Clemens writes:

So much blood has been shed by the Church because of an omission from the
Gospel: "Ye shall be indifferent as to what your neighbor's religion is."
Not merely tolerant of it, but indifferent to it.  Divinity is claimed
for many religions; but no religion is great enough or divine enough to
add that new law to its code.

In the place where Saint-Simon describes the death of Monseigneur, son of
the king, and the court hypocrites are wailing their extravagantly
pretended sorrow, Clemens wrote:

It is all so true, all so human.  God made these animals.  He must have
noticed this scene; I wish I knew how it struck Him.

There were not many notes in the Suetonius, nor in the Carlyle
Revolution, though these were among the volumes he read oftenest.
Perhaps they expressed for him too completely and too richly their
subject-matter to require anything at his hand.  Here and there are
marked passages and occasional cross-references to related history and
circumstance.

There was not much room for comment on the narrow margins of the old copy
of Pepys, which he had read steadily since the early seventies; but here
and there a few crisp words, and the underscoring and marked passages are
plentiful enough to convey his devotion to that quaint record which,
perhaps next to Suetonius, was the book he read and quoted most.

Francis Parkman's Canadian Histories he had read periodically, especially
the story of the Old Regime and of the Jesuits in North America.  As late
as January, 1908, he wrote on the title-page of the Old Regime:

Very interesting.  It tells how people religiously and otherwise insane
came over from France and colonized Canada.

He was not always complimentary to those who undertook to Christianize
the Indians; but he did not fail to write his admiration of their
courage--their very willingness to endure privation and even the fiendish
savage tortures for the sake of their faith.  "What manner of men are
these?" he wrote, apropos of the account of Bressani, who had undergone
the most devilish inflictions which savage ingenuity could devise, and
yet returned maimed and disfigured the following spring to "dare again
the knives and fiery brand of the Iroquois."  Clemens was likely to be on
the side of the Indians, but hardly in their barbarism.  In one place he
wrote:

     That men should be willing to leave their happy homes and endure
     what the missionaries endured in order to teach these Indians the
     road to hell would be rational, understandable, but why they should
     want to teach them a way to heaven is a thing which the mind somehow
     cannot grasp.

Other histories, mainly English and French, showed how he had read them--
read and digested every word and line.  There were two volumes of Lecky,
much worn; Andrew D. White's 'Science and Theology'--a chief interest for
at least one summer--and among the collection a well-worn copy of 'Modern
English Literature--Its Blemishes and Defects', by Henry H.  Breen.  On
the title-page of this book Clemens had written:

     HARTFORD, 1876.  Use with care, for it is a scarce book.  England
     had to be ransacked in order to get it--or the bookseller speaketh
     falsely.

He once wrote a paper for the Saturday Morning Club, using for his text
examples of slipshod English which Breen had noted.

Clemens had a passion for biography, and especially for autobiography,
diaries, letters, and such intimate human history.  Greville's 'Journal
of the Reigns of George IV.  and William IV.'  he had read much and
annotated freely.  Greville, while he admired Byron's talents, abhorred
the poet's personality, and in one place condemns him as a vicious person
and a debauchee.  He adds:

Then he despises pretenders and charlatans of all sorts, while he is
himself a pretender, as all men are who assume a character which does not
belong to them and affect to be something which they are all the time
conscious they are not in reality.

Clemens wrote on the margin:

     But, dear sir, you are forgetting that what a man sees in the human
     race is merely himself in the deep and honest privacy of his own
     heart.  Byron despised the race because he despised himself.  I feel
     as Byron did, and for the same reason.  Do you admire the race (&
     consequently yourself)?

A little further along--where Greville laments that Byron can take no
profit to himself from the sinful characters he depicts so faithfully,
Clemens commented:

     If Byron--if any man--draws 50 characters, they are all himself--50
     shades, 50 moods, of his own character.  And when the man draws them
     well why do they stir my admiration?  Because they are me--I
     recognize myself.

A volume of Plutarch was among the biographies that showed usage, and the
Life of P. T. Barnum, Written by Himself.  Two Years Before the Mast he
loved, and never tired of.  The more recent Memoirs of Andrew D. White
and Moncure D. Conway both, I remember, gave him enjoyment, as did the
Letters of Lowell.  A volume of the Letters of Madame de Sevigne had some
annotated margins which were not complimentary to the translator, or for
that matter to Sevigne herself, whom he once designates as a "nauseating"
person, many of whose letters had been uselessly translated, as well as
poorly arranged for reading.  But he would read any volume of letters or
personal memoirs; none were too poor that had the throb of life in them,
however slight.

Of such sort were the books that Mark Twain had loved best, and such were
a few of his words concerning them.  Some of them belong to his earlier
reading, and among these is Darwin's 'Descent of Man', a book whose
influence was always present, though I believe he did not read it any
more in later years.  In the days I knew him he read steadily not much
besides Suetonius and Pepys and Carlyle.  These and his simple
astronomies and geologies and the Morte Arthure and the poems of Kipling
were seldom far from his hand.




CCLXXXVIII

A BERMUDA BIRTHDAY

It was the middle of November, 1909, when Clemens decided to take another
Bermuda vacation, and it was the 19th that we sailed.  I went to New York
a day ahead and arranged matters, and on the evening of the 18th received
the news that Richard Watson Gilder had suddenly died.

Next morning there was other news.  Clemens's old friend, William M.
Laffan, of the Sun, had died while undergoing a surgical operation.  I
met Clemens at the train.  He had already heard about Gilder; but he had
not yet learned of Laffan's death.  He said:

"That's just it.  Gilder and Laffan get all the good things that come
along and I never get anything."

Then, suddenly remembering, he added:

"How curious it is!  I have been thinking of Laffan coming down on the
train, and mentally writing a letter to him on this Stetson-Eddy affair."

I asked when he had begun thinking of Laffan.

He said: "Within the hour."

It was within the hour that I had received the news, and naturally in my
mind had carried it instantly to him.  Perhaps there was something
telepathic in it.

He was not at all ill going down to Bermuda, which was a fortunate thing,
for the water was rough and I was quite disqualified.  We did not even
discuss astronomy, though there was what seemed most important news--the
reported discovery of a new planet.

But there was plenty of talk on the subject as soon as we got settled in
the Hamilton Hotel.  It was windy and rainy out-of-doors, and we looked
out on the drenched semi-tropical foliage with a great bamboo swaying and
bending in the foreground, while he speculated on the vast distance that
the new planet must lie from our sun, to which it was still a satellite.
The report had said that it was probably four hundred billions of miles
distant, and that on this far frontier of the solar system the sun could
not appear to it larger than the blaze of a tallow candle.  To us it was
wholly incredible how, in that dim remoteness, it could still hold true
to the central force and follow at a snail-pace, yet with unvarying
exactitude, its stupendous orbit.  Clemens said that heretofore Neptune,
the planetary outpost of our system, had been called the tortoise of the
skies, but that comparatively it was rapid in its motion, and had become
a near neighbor.  He was a good deal excited at first, having somehow the
impression that this new planet traveled out beyond the nearest fixed
star; but then he remembered that the distance to that first solar
neighbor was estimated in trillions, not billions, and that our little
system, even with its new additions, was a child's handbreadth on the
plane of the sky.  He had brought along a small book called The Pith of
Astronomy--a fascinating little volume--and he read from it about the
great tempest of fire in the sun, where the waves of flame roll up two
thousand miles high, though the sun itself is such a tiny star in the
deeps of the universe.

If I dwell unwarrantably on this phase of Mark Twain's character, it is
because it was always so fascinating to me, and the contemplation of the
drama of the skies always meant so much to him, and somehow always seemed
akin to him in its proportions.  He had been born under a flaming star, a
wanderer of the skies.  He was himself, to me, always a comet rushing
through space, from mystery to mystery, regardless of sun and systems. It
is not likely to rain long in Bermuda, and when the sun comes back it
brings summer, whatever the season.  Within a day after our arrival we
were driving about those coral roads along the beaches, and by that
marvelously variegated water.  We went often to the south shore,
especially to Devonshire Bay, where the reefs and the sea coloring seem
more beautiful than elsewhere. Usually, when we reached the bay, we got
out to walk along the indurated shore, stopping here and there to look
out over the jeweled water liquid turquoise, emerald lapis-lazuli, jade,
the imperial garment of the Lord.

At first we went alone with only the colored driver, Clifford Trott,
whose name Clemens could not recollect, though he was always attempting
resemblances with ludicrous results.  A little later Helen Allen, an
early angel-fish member already mentioned, was with us and directed the
drives, for she had been born on the island and knew every attractive
locality, though, for that matter, it would be hard to find there a place
that was not attractive.

Clemens, in fact, remained not many days regularly at the hotel.  He kept
a room and his wardrobe there; but he paid a visit to Bay House--the
lovely and quiet home of Helen's parents--and prolonged it from day to
day, and from week to week, because it was a quiet and peaceful place
with affectionate attention and limitless welcome.  Clifford Trott had
orders to come with the carriage each afternoon, and we drove down to Bay
House for Mark Twain and his playmate, and then went wandering at will
among the labyrinth of blossom-bordered, perfectly kept roadways of a
dainty paradise, that never, I believe, becomes quite a reality even to
those who know it best.

Clemens had an occasional paroxysm during these weeks, but they were not
likely to be severe or protracted; and I have no doubt the peace of his
surroundings, the remoteness from disturbing events, as well as the balmy
temperature, all contributed to his improved condition.

He talked pretty continuously during these drives, and he by no means
restricted his subjects to juvenile matters.  He discussed history and
his favorite sciences and philosophies, and I am sure that his drift was
rarely beyond the understanding of his young companion, for it was Mark
Twain's gift to phrase his thought so that it commanded not only the
respect of age, but the comprehension and the interest of youth.
I remember that once he talked, during an afternoon's drive, on the
French Revolution and the ridiculous episode of Anacharsis Cloots,
"orator and advocate of the human race," collecting the vast populace of
France to swear allegiance to a king even then doomed to the block.  The
very name of Cloots suggested humor, and nothing could have been more
delightful and graphic than the whole episode as he related it.
Helen asked if he thought such a thing as that could ever happen in
America.

"No," he said, "the American sense of humor would have laughed it out of
court in a week; and the Frenchman dreads ridicule, too, though he never
seems to realize how ridiculous he is--the most ridiculous creature in
the world."

On the morning of his seventy-fourth birthday he was looking wonderfully
well after a night of sound sleep, his face full of color and freshness,
his eyes bright and keen and full of good-humor.  I presented him with a
pair of cuff-buttons silver-enameled with the Bermuda lily, and I thought
he seemed pleased with them.

It was rather gloomy outside, so we remained indoors by the fire and
played cards, game after game of hearts, at which he excelled, and he was
usually kept happy by winning.  There were no visitors, and after dinner
Helen asked him to read some of her favorite episodes from Tom Sawyer, so
he read the whitewashing scene, Peter and the Pain-killer, and such
chapters until tea-time.  Then there was a birthday cake, and afterward
cigars and talk and a quiet fireside evening.

Once, in the course of his talk, he forgot a word and denounced his poor
memory:

"I'll forget the Lord's middle name some time," he declared, "right in
the midst of a storm, when I need all the help I can get."

Later he said:

"Nobody dreamed, seventy-four years ago to-day, that I would be in
Bermuda now."  And I thought he meant a good deal more than the words
conveyed.

It was during this Bermuda visit that Mark Twain added the finishing
paragraph to his article, "The Turning-Point in My Life," which, at
Howells's suggestion, he had been preparing for Harper's Bazar.  It was a
characteristic touch, and, as the last summary of his philosophy of human
life, may be repeated here.

     Necessarily the scene of the real turning-point of my life (and of
     yours) was the Garden of Eden.  It was there that the first link was
     forged of the chain that was ultimately to lead to the emptying of
     me into the literary guild.  Adam's temperament was the first
     command the Deity ever issued to a human being on this planet.  And
     it was the only command Adam would never be able to disobey.  It
     said, "Be weak, be water, be characterless, be cheaply persuadable."
     The later command, to let the fruit alone, was certain to be
     disobeyed.  Not by Adam himself, but by his temperament--which he
     did not create and had no authority over.  For the temperament is
     the man; the thing tricked out with clothes and named Man is merely
     its Shadow, nothing more.  The law of the tiger's temperament is,
     Thou shaft kill; the law of the sheep's temperament is, Thou shalt
     not kill.  To issue later commands requiring the tiger to let the
     fat stranger alone, and requiring the sheep to imbrue its hands in
     the blood of the lion is not worth while, for those commands can't
     be obeyed.  They would invite to violations of the law of
     temperament, which is supreme, and takes precedence of all other
     authorities.  I cannot help feeling disappointed in Adam and Eve.
     That is, in their temperaments.  Not in them, poor helpless young
     creatures--afflicted with temperaments made out of butter, which
     butter was commanded to get into contact with fire and be melted.
     What I cannot help wishing is, that Adam and Eve had been postponed,
     and Martin Luther and Joan of Arc put in their place--that splendid
     pair equipped with temperaments not made of butter, but of asbestos.
     By neither sugary persuasions nor by hell-fire could Satan have
     beguiled them to eat the apple.

     There would have been results!  Indeed yes.  The apple would be
     intact to-day; there would be no human race; there would be no you;
     there would be no me.  And the old, old creation-dawn scheme of
     ultimately launching me into the literary guild would have been
     defeated.




CCLXXXIX

THE DEATH OF JEAN

He decided to go home for the holidays, and how fortunate it seems now
that he did so!  We sailed for America on the 18th of December, arriving
the 21st.  Jean was at the wharf to meet us, blue and shivering with the
cold, for it was wretchedly bleak there, and I had the feeling that she
should not have come.

She went directly, I think, to Stormfield, he following a day or two
later.  On the 23d I was lunching with Jean alone.  She was full of
interest in her Christmas preparations.  She had a handsome tree set up
in the loggia, and the packages were piled about it, with new ones
constantly arriving.  With her farm management, her housekeeping, her
secretary work, and her Christmas preparations, it seemed to me that she
had her hands overfull.  Such a mental pressure could not be good for
her.  I suggested that for a time at least I might assume a part of her
burden.

I was to remain at my own home that night, and I think it was as I left
Stormfield that I passed jean on the stair.  She said, cheerfully, that
she felt a little tired and was going up to lie down, so that she would
be fresh for the evening.  I did not go back, and I never saw her alive
again.

I was at breakfast next morning when word was brought in that one of the
men from Stormfield was outside and wished to see me immediately.  When I
went out he said: "Miss Jean is dead.  They have just found her in her
bath-room.  Mr. Clemens sent me to bring you."

It was as incomprehensible as such things always are.  I could not
realize at all that Jean, so full of plans and industries and action less
than a day before, had passed into that voiceless mystery which we call
death.

Harry Iles drove me rapidly up the hill.  As I entered Clemens's room he
looked at me helplessly and said:

"Well, I suppose you have heard of this final disaster."

He was not violent or broken down with grief.  He had come to that place
where, whatever the shock or the ill-turn of fortune, he could accept it,
and even in that first moment of loss he realized that, for Jean at
least, the fortune was not ill.  Her malady had never been cured, and it
had been one of his deepest dreads that he would leave her behind him.
It was believed, at first; that Jean had drowned, and Dr. Smith tried
methods of resuscitation; but then he found that it was simply a case of
heart cessation caused by the cold shock of her bath.

The Gabrilowitsches were by this time in Europe, and Clemens cabled them
not to come.  Later in the day he asked me if we would be willing to
close our home for the winter and come to Stormfield.  He said that he
should probably go back to Bermuda before long; but that he wished to
keep the house open so that it would be there for him to come to at any
time that he might need it.

We came, of course, for there was no thought among any of his friends but
for his comfort and peace of mind.  Jervis Langdon was summoned from
Elmira, for Jean would lie there with the others.

In the loggia stood the half-trimmed Christmas tree, and all about lay
the packages of gifts, and in Jean's room, on the chairs and upon her
desk, were piled other packages.  Nobody had been forgotten.  For her
father she had bought a handsome globe; he had always wanted one.  Once
when I went into his room he said:

"I have been looking in at Jean and envying her.  I have never greatly
envied any one but the dead.  I always envy the dead."

He told me how the night before they had dined together alone; how he had
urged her to turn over a part of her work to me; how she had clung to
every duty as if now, after all the years, she was determined to make up
for lost time.

While they were at dinner a telephone inquiry had come concerning his
health, for the papers had reported him as returning from Bermuda in a
critical condition.  He had written this playful answer:

     MANAGER ASSOCIATED PRESS,
     New York.

     I hear the newspapers say I am dying.  The charge is not true.  I
     would not do such a thing at my time of life.  I am behaving as good
     as I can.

     Merry Christmas to everybody!       MARK TWAIN.


Jean telephoned it for him to the press.  It had been the last secretary
service she had ever rendered.

She had kissed his hand, he said, when they parted, for she had a severe
cold and would not wish to impart it to him; then happily she had said
good night, and he had not seen her again.  The reciting of this was good
to him, for it brought the comfort of tears.

Later, when I went in again, he was writing:

"I am setting it down," he said--"everything.  It is a relief to me to
write it.  It furnishes me an excuse for thinking."

He continued writing most of the day, and at intervals during the next
day, and the next.

It was on Christmas Day that they went with Jean on her last journey.
Katie Leary, her baby nurse, had dressed her in the dainty gown which she
had worn for Clara's wedding, and they had pinned on it a pretty buckle
which her father had brought her from Bermuda, and which she had not
seen.  No Greek statue was ever more classically beautiful than she was,
lying there in the great living-room, which in its brief history had seen
so much of the round of life.

They were to start with jean at about six o'clock, and a little before
that time Clemens (he was unable to make the journey) asked me what had
been her favorite music.  I said that she seemed always to care most for
the Schubert Impromptu.--[Op.  142, No.  2.]--Then he said:

"Play it when they get ready to leave with her, and add the Intermezzo
for Susy and the Largo for Mrs. Clemens.  When I hear the music I shall
know that they are starting.  Tell them to set lanterns at the door, so I
can look down and see them go."

So I sat at the organ and began playing as they lifted and bore her away.
A soft, heavy snow was falling, and the gloom of those shortest days was
closing in.  There was not the least wind or noise, the whole world was
muffled.  The lanterns at the door threw their light out on the thickly
falling flakes.  I remained at the organ; but the little group at the
door saw him come to the window above--the light on his white hair as he
stood mournfully gazing down, watching Jean going away from him for the
last time.  I played steadily on as he had instructed, the Impromptu, the
Intermezzo from "Cavalleria," and Handel's Largo.  When I had finished I
went up and found him.

"Poor little Jean," he said; "but for her it is so good to go."

In his own story of it he wrote:

     From my windows I saw the hearse and the carriages wind along the
     road and gradually grow vague and spectral in the falling snow, and
     presently disappear.  Jean was gone out of my life, and would not
     come back any more.  The cousin she had played with when they were
     babies together--he and her beloved old Katie--Were conducting her
     to her distant childhood home, where she will lie by her mother's
     side once more, in the company of Susy and Langdon.

He did not come down to dinner, and when I went up afterward I found him
curiously agitated.  He said:

"For one who does not believe in spirits I have had a most peculiar
experience.  I went into the bath-room just now and closed the door.
You know how warm it always is in there, and there are no draughts.  All
at once I felt a cold current of air about me.  I thought the door must
be open; but it was closed.  I said, 'Jean, is this you trying to let me
know you have found the others?'  Then the cold air was gone."

I saw that the incident had made a very great impression upon him; but I
don't remember that he ever mentioned it afterward.

Next day the storm had turned into a fearful blizzard; the whole hilltop
was a raging, driving mass of white.  He wrote most of the day, but
stopped now and then to read some of the telegrams or letters of
condolence which came flooding in.  Sometimes he walked over to the
window to look out on the furious tempest.  Once, during the afternoon,
he said:

"Jean always so loved to see a storm like this, and just now at Elmira
they are burying her."

Later he read aloud some lines by Alfred Austin, which Mrs. Crane had
sent him lines which he had remembered in the sorrow for Susy:

          When last came sorrow, around barn and byre
          Wind-careen snow, the year's white sepulchre, lay.
          "Come in," I said, "and warm you by the fire";
          And there she sits and never goes away.

It was that evening that he came into the room where Mrs. Paine and I sat
by the fire, bringing his manuscript.

"I have finished my story of Jean's death," he said.  "It is the end of
my autobiography.  I shall never write any more.  I can't judge it myself
at all.  One of you read it aloud to the other, and let me know what you
think of it.  If it is worthy, perhaps some day it may be published."

It was, in fact, one of the most exquisite and tender pieces of writing
in the language.  He had ended his literary labors with that perfect
thing which so marvelously speaks the loftiness and tenderness of his
soul.  It was thoroughly in keeping with his entire career that he
should, with this rare dramatic touch, bring it to a close.  A paragraph
which he omitted may be printed now:

     December 27.  Did I know jean's value?  No, I only thought I did.
     I knew a ten-thousandth fraction of it, that was all.  It is always
     so, with us, it has always been so.  We are like the poor ignorant
     private soldier-dead, now, four hundred years--who picked up the
     great Sancy diamond on the field of the lost battle and sold it for
     a franc.  Later he knew what he had done.

     Shall I ever be cheerful again, happy again?  Yes.  And soon.  For
     I know my temperament.  And I know that the temperament is master of
     the man, and that he is its fettered and helpless slave and must in
     all things do as it commands.  A man's temperament is born in him,
     and no circumstances can ever change it.

     My temperament has never allowed my spirits to remain depressed long
     at a time.

     That was a feature of Jean's temperament, too.  She inherited it
     from me.  I think she got the rest of it from her mother.

Jean Clemens had two natural endowments: the gift of justice and a
genuine passion for all nature.  In a little paper found in her desk she
had written:

     I know a few people who love the country as I do, but not many.
     Most of my acquaintances are enthusiastic over the spring and summer
     months, but very few care much for it the year round.  A few people
     are interested in the spring foliage and the development of the wild
     flowers--nearly all enjoy the autumn colors--while comparatively few
     pay much attention to the coming and going of the birds, the changes
     in their plumage and songs, the apparent springing into life on some
     warm April day of the chipmunks and woodchucks, the skurrying of
     baby rabbits, and again in the fall the equally sudden disappearance
     of some of the animals and the growing shyness of others.  To me it
     is all as fascinating as a book--more so, since I have never lost
     interest in it.

It is simple and frank, like Thoreau.  Perhaps, had she exercised it,
there was a third gift--the gift of written thought.

Clemens remained at Stormfield ten days after Jean was gone.  The weather
was fiercely cold, the landscape desolate, the house full of tragedy.
He kept pretty closely to his room, where he had me bring the heaps of
letters, a few of which he answered personally; for the others he
prepared a simple card of acknowledgment.  He was for the most part in
gentle mood during these days, though he would break out now and then,
and rage at the hardness of a fate that had laid an unearned burden of
illness on Jean and shadowed her life.

They were days not wholly without humor--none of his days could be
altogether without that, though it was likely to be of a melancholy sort.

Many of the letters offered orthodox comfort, saying, in effect: "God
does not willingly punish us."

When he had read a number of these he said:

"Well, why does He do it then?  We don't invite it.  Why does He give
Himself the trouble?"

I suggested that it was a sentiment that probably gave comfort to the
writer of it.

"So it does," he said, "and I am glad of it--glad of anything that gives
comfort to anybody."

He spoke of the larger God--the God of the great unvarying laws, and by
and by dropped off to sleep, quite peacefully, and indeed peace came more
and more to him each day with the thought that Jean and Susy and their
mother could not be troubled any more.  To Mrs. Gabrilowitsch he wrote:

                              REDDING, CONN, December 29, 1909.

     O, Clara, Clara dear, I am so glad she is out of it & safe--safe!

     I am not melancholy; I shall never be melancholy again, I think.

     You see, I was in such distress when I came to realize that you were
     gone far away & no one stood between her & danger but me--& I could
     die at any moment, & then--oh then what would become of her!  For
     she was wilful, you know, & would not have been governable.

     You can't imagine what a darling she was that last two or three
     days; & how fine, & good, & sweet, & noble--& joyful, thank Heaven!
    --& how intellectually brilliant.  I had never been acquainted with
     Jean before.  I recognized that.

     But I mustn't try to write about her--I can't.  I have already
     poured my heart out with the pen, recording that last day or two.
     I will send you that--& you must let no one but Ossip read it.

     Good-by.  I love you so!  And Ossip.
                                             FATHER.




CCXC

THE RETURN TO BERMUDA

I don't think he attempted any further writing for print.  His mind was
busy with ideas, but he was willing to talk, rather than to write, rather
even than to play billiards, it seemed, although we had a few quiet
games--the last we should ever play together.  Evenings he asked for
music, preferring the Scotch airs, such as "Bonnie Doon" and "The
Campbells are Coming."  I remember that once, after playing the latter
for him, he told, with great feeling, how the Highlanders, led by Gen.
Colin Campbell, had charged at Lucknow, inspired by that stirring air.
When he had retired I usually sat with him, and he drifted into
literature, or theology, or science, or history--the story of the
universe and man.

One evening he spoke of those who had written but one immortal thing and
stopped there.  He mentioned "Ben Bolt."

"I met that man once," he said.  "In my childhood I sang 'Sweet Alice,
Ben Bolt,' and in my old age, fifteen years ago, I met the man who wrote
it.  His name was Brown.--[Thomas Dunn English.  Mr. Clemens apparently
remembered only the name satirically conferred upon him by Edgar Allan
Poe, "Thomas Dunn Brown."]--He was aged, forgotten, a mere memory.  I
remember how it thrilled me to realize that this was the very author of
'Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt.'  He was just an accident.  He had a vision and
echoed it.  A good many persons do that--the thing they do is to put in
compact form the thing which we have all vaguely felt.  'Twenty Years
Ago' is just like it 'I have wandered through the village, Tom, and sat
beneath the tree'--and Holmes's 'Last Leaf' is another: the memory of the
hallowed past, and the gravestones of those we love.  It is all so
beautiful--the past is always beautiful."

He quoted, with great feeling and effect:

               The massy marbles rest
               On the lips that we have pressed
               In their bloom,
               And the names we love to hear
               Have been carved for many a year
               On the tomb.

He continued in this strain for an hour or more.  He spoke of humor, and
thought it must be one of the chief attributes of God.  He cited plants
and animals that were distinctly humorous in form and in their
characteristics.  These he declared were God's jokes.

"Why," he said, "humor is mankind's greatest blessing."

"Your own case is an example," I answered.  "Without it, whatever your
reputation as a philosopher, you could never have had the wide-spread
affection that is shown by the writers of that great heap of letters."

"Yes," he said, gently, "they have liked to be amused."

I tucked him in for the night, promising to send him to Bermuda, with
Claude to take care of him, if he felt he could undertake the journey in
two days more.

He was able, and he was eager to go, for he longed for that sunny island,
and for the quiet peace of the Allen home.  His niece, Mrs. Loomis, came
up to spend the last evening in Stormfield, a happy evening full of quiet
talk, and next morning, in the old closed carriage that had been his
wedding-gift, he was driven to the railway station.  This was on January
4, 1910.

He was to sail next day, and that night, at Mr. Loomis's, Howells came
in, and for an hour or two they reviewed some of the questions they had
so long ago settled, or left forever unsettled, and laid away.  I
remember that at dinner Clemens spoke of his old Hartford butler, George,
and how he had once brought George to New York and introduced him at the
various publishing houses as his friend, with curious and sometimes
rather embarrassing results.

The talk drifted to sociology and to the labor-unions, which Clemens
defended as being the only means by which the workman could obtain
recognition of his rights.

Howells in his book mentions this evening, which he says "was made
memorable to me by the kind, clear, judicial sense with which he
explained and justified the labor-unions as the sole present help of the
weak against the strong."

They discussed dreams, and then in a little while Howells rose to go.  I
went also, and as we walked to his near-by apartment he spoke of Mark
Twain's supremacy.  He said:

"I turn to his books for cheer when I am down-hearted.  There was never
anybody like him; there never will be."

Clemens sailed next morning.  They did not meet again.




CCXCI

LETTERS FROM BERMUDA

Stormfield was solemn and empty without Mark Twain; but he wrote by every
steamer, at first with his own hand, and during the last week by the hand
of one of his enlisted secretaries--some member of the Allen family
usually Helen.  His letters were full of brightness and pleasantry--
always concerned more or less with business matters, though he was no
longer disturbed by them, for Bermuda was too peaceful and too far away,
and, besides, he had faith in the Mark Twain Company's ability to look
after his affairs.  I cannot do better, I believe, than to offer some
portions of these letters here.

He reached Bermuda on the 7th of January, 1910, and on the 12th he wrote:

     Again I am living the ideal life.  There is nothing to mar it but
     the bloody-minded bandit Arthur,--[A small playmate of Helen's of
     whom Clemens pretended to be fiercely jealous.  Once he wrote a
     memorandum to Helen: "Let Arthur read this book.  There is a page in
     it that is poisoned."]--who still fetches and carries Helen.
     Presently he will be found drowned.  Claude comes to Bay House twice
     a day to see if I need any service.  He is invaluable.  There was a
     military lecture last night at the Officers' Mess Prospect; as the
     lecturer honored me with a special urgent invitation, and said he
     wanted to lecture to me particularly, I naturally took Helen and her
     mother into the private carriage and went.

     As soon as we landed at the door with the crowd the Governor came to
     me& was very cordial.  I "met up" with that charming Colonel Chapman
     [we had known him on the previous visit] and other officers of the
     regiment & had a good time.

A few days later he wrote:

     Thanks for your letter & for its contenting news of the situation in
     that foreign & far-off & vaguely remembered country where you &
     Loomis & Lark and other beloved friends are.

     I had a letter from Clara this morning.  She is solicitous & wants
     me well & watchfully taken care of.  My, my, she ought to see Helen
     & her parents & Claude administer that trust.  Also she says, "I
     hope to hear from you or Mr. Paine very soon."

     I am writing her & I know you will respond to your part of her
     prayer.  She is pretty desolate now after Jean's emancipation--the
     only kindness that God ever did that poor, unoffending child in all
     her hard life.

     Send Clara a copy of Howells's gorgeous letter.

The "gorgeous letter" mentioned was an appreciation of his recent Bazar
article, "The Turning-Point in My Life," and here follows:

     January 18, 1910.

     DEAR CLEMENS,--While your wonderful words are warm in my mind yet I
     want to tell you what you know already: that you never wrote
     anything greater, finer, than that turning-point paper of yours.

     I shall feel it honor enough if they put on my tombstone "He was
     born in the same century and general section of Middle Western
     country with Dr. S. L. Clemens, Oxon., and had his degree three
     years before him through a mistake of the University."

     I hope you are worse.  You will never be riper for a purely
     intellectual life, and it is a pity to have you lagging along with a
     worn-out material body on top of your soul.

                         Yours ever,
                                        W. D. HOWELLS.

On the margin of this letter Clemens had written:

     I reckon this spontaneous outburst from the first critic of the day
     is good to keep, ain't it, Paine?

January 24th he wrote again of his contentment:

     Life continues here the same as usual.  There isn't a fault in it-
     good times, good home, tranquil contentment all day & every day
     without a break.  I know familiarly several very satisfactory people
     & meet them frequently: Mr. Hamilton, the Sloanes, Mr. & Mrs. Fells,
     Miss Waterman, & so on.  I shouldn't know how to go about bettering
     my situation.

On February 5th he wrote that the climate and condition of his health
might require him to stay in Bermuda pretty continuously, but that he
wished Stormfield kept open so that he might come to it at any time.  And
he added:

     Yesterday Mr. Allen took us on an excursion in Mr. Hamilton's big
     motor-boat.  Present: Mrs. Allen, Mr. & Mrs. & Miss Sloane, Helen,
     Mildred Howells, Claude, & me.  Several hours' swift skimming over
     ravishing blue seas, a brilliant sun; also a couple of hours of
     picnicking & lazying under the cedars in a secluded place.

     The Orotava is arriving with a6o passengers-I shall get letters by
     her, no doubt.

     P. S.-Please send me the Standard Unabridged that is on the table in
     my bedroom.  I have no dictionary here.

There is no mention in any of these letters of his trouble; but he was
having occasional spasms of pain, though in that soft climate they would
seem to have come with less frequency, and there was so little to disturb
him, and much that contributed to his peace.  Among the callers at the
Bay House to see him was Woodrow Wilson, and the two put in some pleasant
hours at miniature golf, "putting" on the Allen lawn.  Of course a
catastrophe would come along now and then--such things could not always
be guarded against.  In a letter toward the end of February he wrote:
     It is 2.30 in the morning & I am writing because I can't sleep.
     I can't sleep because a professional pianist is coming to-morrow
     afternoon to play for me.  My God!  I wouldn't allow Paderewski or
     Gabrilowitsch to do that.  I would rather have a leg amputated.
     I knew he was coming, but I never dreamed it was to play for me.
     When I heard the horrible news 4 hours ago, be d---d if I didn't
     come near screaming.  I meant to slip out and be absent, but now I
     can't.  Don't pray for me.  The thing is just as d---d bad as it can
     be already.

Clemens's love for music did not include the piano, except for very
gentle melodies, and he probably did not anticipate these from a
professional player.  He did not report the sequel of the matter; but it
is likely that his imagination had discounted its tortures.  Sometimes
his letters were pure nonsense.  Once he sent a sheet, on one side of
which was written:



                                        BAY HOUSE,
                                        March s, 1910.
          Received of S. L. C.
          Two Dollars and Forty Cents
          in return for my promise to believe everything he says
          hereafter.
                                        HELEN S.  ALLEN.

and on the reverse:

                                 FOR SALE

     The proprietor of the hereinbefore mentioned Promise desires to part
     with it on account of ill health and obliged to go away somewheres
     so as to let it recipricate, and will take any reasonable amount for
     it above 2 percent of its face because experienced parties think it
     will not keep but only a little while in this kind of weather & is a
     kind of proppity that don't give a cuss for cold storage nohow.

Clearly, however serious Mark Twain regarded his physical condition, he
did not allow it to make him gloomy.  He wrote that matters were going
everywhere to his satisfaction; that Clara was happy; that his household
and business affairs no longer troubled him; that his personal
surroundings were of the pleasantest sort.  Sometimes he wrote of what he
was reading, and once spoke particularly of Prof. William Lyon Phelps's
Literary Essays, which he said he had been unable to lay down until he
had finished the book.--[To Phelps himself he wrote: "I thank you ever
so much for the book, which I find charming--so charming, indeed, that I
read it through in a single night, & did not regret the lost night's
sleep.  I am glad if I deserve what you have said about me; & even if I
don't I am proud & well contented, since you think I deserve it."]

So his days seemed full of comfort.  But in March I noticed that he
generally dictated his letters, and once when he sent some small
photographs I thought he looked thinner and older.  Still he kept up his
merriment.  In one letter he said:

     While the matter is in my mind I will remark that if you ever send
     me another letter which is not paged at the top I will write you
     with my own hand, so that I may use with utter freedom & without
     embarrassment the kind of words which alone can describe such a
     criminal, to wit, - - - -; you will have to put into words those
     dashes because propriety will not allow me to do it myself in my
     secretary's hearing.  You are forgiven, but don't let it occur
     again.

He had still made no mention of his illness; but on the 25th of March he
wrote something of his plans for coming home.  He had engaged passage on
the Bermudian for April 23d, he said; and he added:

     But don't tell anybody.  I don't want it known.  I may have to go
     sooner if the pain in my breast does not mend its ways pretty
     considerable.  I don't want to die here, for this is an unkind place
     for a person in that condition.  I should have to lie in the
     undertaker's cellar until the ship would remove me & it is dark down
     there & unpleasant.

     The Colliers will meet me on the pier, & I may stay with them a week
     or two before going home.  It all depends on the breast pain.  I
     don't want to die there.  I am growing more and more particular
     about the place.

But in the same letter he spoke of plans for the summer, suggesting that
we must look into the magic-lantern possibilities, so that library
entertainments could be given at Stormfield.  I confess that this letter,
in spite of its light tone, made me uneasy, and I was tempted to sail for
Bermuda to bring him home.  Three days later he wrote again:

     I have been having a most uncomfortable time for the past four days
     with that breast pain, which turns out to be an affection of the
     heart, just as I originally suspected.  The news from New York is to
     the effect that non-bronchial weather has arrived there at last;
     therefore, if I can get my breast trouble in traveling condition I
     may sail for home a week or two earlier than has been proposed.

The same mail that brought this brought a letter from Mr. Allen, who
frankly stated that matters had become very serious indeed.  Mr. Clemens
had had some dangerous attacks, and the physicians considered his
condition critical.

These letters arrived April 1st.  I went to New York at once and sailed
next morning.  Before sailing I consulted with Dr. Quintard, who provided
me with some opiates and instructed me in the use of the hypodermic
needle.  He also joined me in a cablegram to the Gabrilowitsches, then in
Italy, advising them to sail without delay.




CCXCII

THE VOYAGE HOME

I sent no word to Bermuda that I was coming, and when on the second
morning I arrived at Hamilton, I stepped quickly ashore from the tender
and hurried to Bay House.  The doors were all open, as they usually are
in that summer island, and no one was visible.  I was familiar with the
place, and, without knocking, I went through to the room occupied by Mark
Twain.  As I entered I saw that he was alone, sitting in a large chair,
clad in the familiar dressing-gown.

Bay House stands upon the water, and the morning light, reflected in at
the window, had an unusual quality.  He was not yet shaven, and he seemed
unnaturally pale and gray; certainly he was much thinner.  I was too
startled, for the moment, to say anything.  When he turned and saw me he
seemed a little dazed.

"Why," he said, holding out his hand, "you didn't tell us you were
coming."

"No," I said, "it is rather sudden.  I didn't quite like the sound of
your last letters."

"But those were not serious," he protested.  "You shouldn't have come on
my account."

I said then that I had come on my own account; that I had felt the need
of recreation, and had decided to run down and come home with him.

"That's--very--good," he said, in his slow, gentle fashion.  "Now I'm
glad to see you."

His breakfast came in and he ate with an appetite.

When he had been shaved and freshly propped tip in his pillows it seemed
to me, after all, that I must have been mistaken in thinking him so
changed.  Certainly he was thinner, but his color was fine, his eyes were
bright; he had no appearance of a man whose life was believed to be in
danger.  He told me then of the fierce attacks he had gone through, how
the pains had torn at him, and how it had been necessary for him to have
hypodermic injections, which he amusingly termed "hypnotic injunctions"
and "subcutaneous applications," and he had his humor out of it, as of
course he must have, even though Death should stand there in person.

From Mr. and Mrs. Allen and from the physician I learned how slender had
been his chances and how uncertain were the days ahead.  Mr. Allen had
already engaged passage on the Oceana for the 12th, and the one purpose
now was to get him physically in condition for the trip.

How devoted those kind friends had been to him!  They had devised every
imaginable thing for his comfort.  Mr. Allen had rigged an electric bell
which connected with his own room, so that he could be aroused instantly
at any hour of the night.  Clemens had refused to have a nurse, for it
was only during the period of his extreme suffering that he needed any
one, and he did not wish to have a nurse always around.  When the pains
were gone he was as bright and cheerful, and, seemingly, as well as ever.

On the afternoon of my arrival we drove out, as formerly, and he
discussed some of the old subjects in quite the old way.  He had been
rereading Macaulay, he said, and spoke at considerable length of the
hypocrisy and intrigue of the English court under James II.  He spoke,
too, of the Redding Library.  I had sold for him that portion of the land
where Jean's farm-house had stood, and it was in his mind to use the
money for some sort of a memorial to Jean.  I had written, suggesting
that perhaps he would like to put up a small library building, as the
Adams lot faced the corner where Jean had passed every day when she rode
to the station for the mail.  He had been thinking this over, he said,
and wished the idea carried out.  He asked me to write at once to his
lawyer, Mr. Lark, and have a paper prepared appointing trustees for a
memorial library fund.

The pain did not trouble him that afternoon, nor during several
succeeding days.  He was gay and quite himself, and he often went out on
the lawn; but we did not drive out again.  For the most part, he sat
propped up in his bed, reading or smoking, or talking in the old way; and
as I looked at him he seemed so full of vigor and the joy of life that I
could not convince myself that he would not outlive us all.  I found that
he had been really very much alive during those three months--too much
for his own good, sometimes--for he had not been careful of his hours or
his diet, and had suffered in consequence.

He had not been writing, though he had scribbled some playful valentines
and he had amused himself one day by preparing a chapter of advice--for
me it appeared--which, after reading it aloud to the Allens and receiving
their approval, he declared he intended to have printed for my benefit.
As it would seem to have been the last bit of continued writing he ever
did, and because it is characteristic and amusing, a few paragraphs may
be admitted.  The "advice" is concerning deportment on reaching the Gate
which St. Peter is supposed to guard--

     Upon arrival do not speak to St. Peter until spoken to.  It is not
     your place to begin.

     Do not begin any remark with "Say."

     When applying for a ticket avoid trying to make conversation.  If
     you must talk let the weather alone.  St. Peter cares not a damn for
     the weather.  And don't ask him what time the 4.30 train goes; there
     aren't any trains in heaven, except through trains, and the less
     information you get about them the better for you.

     You can ask him for his autograph--there is no harm in that--but be
     careful and don't remark that it is one of the penalties of
     greatness.  He has heard that before.

     Don't try to kodak him.  Hell is full of people who have made that
     mistake.

     Leave your dog outside.  Heaven goes by favor.  If it went by merit
     you would stay out and the dog would go in.

     You will be wanting to slip down at night and smuggle water to those
     poor little chaps (the infant damned), but don't you try it.  You
     would be caught, and nobody in heaven would respect you after that.

     Explain to Helen why I don't come.  If you can.

There were several pages of this counsel.  One paragraph was written in
shorthand.  I meant to ask him to translate it; but there were many other
things to think of, and I did not remember.

I spent most of each day with him, merely sitting by the bed and reading
while he himself read or dozed.  His nights were wakeful--he found it
easier to sleep by day--and he liked to think that some one was there.
He became interested in Hardy's Jude, and spoke of it with high approval,
urging me to read it.  He dwelt a good deal on the morals of it, or
rather on the lack of them.  He followed the tale to the end, finishing
it the afternoon before we sailed.  It was his last continuous reading.
I noticed, when he slept, that his breathing was difficult, and I could
see from day to day that he did not improve; but each evening he would be
gay and lively, and he liked the entire family to gather around, while he
became really hilarious over the various happenings of the day.
It was only a few days before we sailed that the very severe attacks
returned.  The night of the 8th was a hard one.  The doctors were
summoned, and it was only after repeated injections of morphine that the
pain had been eased.  When I returned in the early morning he was sitting
in his chair trying to sing, after his old morning habit.  He took my
hand and said:

"Well, I had a picturesque night.  Every pain I had was on exhibition."

He looked out the window at the sunlight on the bay and green dotted
islands.  "'Sparkling and bright in the liquid light,'" he quoted.
"That's Hoffman.  Anything left of Hoffman?"

"No," I said.

"I must watch for the Bermudian and see if she salutes," he said,
presently.  "The captain knows I am here sick, and he blows two short
whistles just as they come up behind that little island.  Those are for
me."

He said he could breathe easier if he could lean forward, and I placed a
card-table in front of him.  His breakfast came in, and a little later he
became quite gay.  He drifted to Macaulay again, and spoke of King
James's plot to assassinate William II., and how the clergy had brought
themselves to see that there was no difference between killing a king in
battle and by assassination.  He had taken his seat by the window to
watch for the Bermudian.  She came down the bay presently, her bright red
stacks towering vividly above the green island.  It was a brilliant
morning, the sky and the water a marvelous blue.  He watched her
anxiously and without speaking.  Suddenly there were two white puffs of
steam, and two short, hoarse notes went up from her.

"Those are for me," he said, his face full of contentment.  "Captain
Fraser does not forget me."

There followed another bad night.  My room was only a little distance
away, and Claude came for me.  I do not think any of us thought he would
survive it; but he slept at last, or at least dozed.  In the morning he
said:

"That breast pain stands watch all night and the short breath all day.
I am losing enough sleep to supply a worn-out army.  I want a jugful of
that hypnotic injunction every night and every morning."

We began to fear now that he would not be able to sail on the 12th; but
by great good-fortune he had wonderfully improved by the 12th, so much so
that I began to believe, if once he could be in Stormfield, where the air
was more vigorous, he might easily survive the summer.  The humid
atmosphere of the season increased the difficulty of his breathing.

That evening he was unusually merry.  Mr. and Mrs. Allen and Helen and
myself went in to wish him good night.  He was loath to let us leave, but
was reminded that he would sail in the morning, and that the doctor had
insisted that he must be quiet and lie still in bed and rest.  He was
never one to be very obedient.  A little later Mrs. Allen and I, in the
sitting-room, heard some one walking softly outside on the veranda.  We
went out there, and he was marching up and down in his dressing-gown as
unconcerned as if he were not an invalid at all.  He hadn't felt sleepy,
he said, and thought a little exercise would do him good.  Perhaps it
did, for he slept soundly that night--a great blessing.

Mr. Allen had chartered a special tug to come to Bay House landing in the
morning and take him to the ship.  He was carried in a little hand-chair
to the tug, and all the way out he seemed light-spirited, anything but an
invalid: The sailors carried him again in the chair to his state-room,
and he bade those dear Bermuda friends good-by, and we sailed away.

As long as I remember anything I shall remember the forty-eight hours of
that homeward voyage.  It was a brief two days as time is measured; but
as time is lived it has taken its place among those unmeasured periods by
the side of which even years do not count.

At first he seemed quite his natural self, and asked for a catalogue of
the ship's library, and selected some memoirs of the Countess of Cardigan
for his reading.  He asked also for the second volume of Carlyle's French
Revolution, which he had with him.  But we ran immediately into the more
humid, more oppressive air of the Gulf Stream, and his breathing became
at first difficult, then next to impossible.  There were two large port-
holes, which I opened; but presently he suggested that it would be better
outside.  It was only a step to the main-deck, and no passengers were
there.  I had a steamer-chair brought, and with Claude supported him to
it and bundled him with rugs; but it had grown damp and chilly, and his
breathing did not improve.  It seemed to me that the end might come at
any moment, and this thought was in his mind, too, for once in the effort
for breath he managed to say:

"I am going--I shall be gone in a moment."

Breath came; but I realized then that even his cabin was better than
this.  I steadied him back to his berth and shut out most of that deadly
dampness.  He asked for the "hypnotic 'injunction" (for his humor never
left him), and though it was not yet the hour prescribed I could not deny
it.  It was impossible for him to lie down, even to recline, without
great distress.  The opiate made him drowsy, and he longed for the relief
of sleep; but when it seemed about to possess him the struggle for air
would bring him upright.

During the more comfortable moments he spoke quite in the old way, and
time and again made an effort to read, and reached for his pipe or a
cigar which lay in the little berth hammock at his side.  I held the
match, and he would take a puff or two with satisfaction.  Then the peace
of it would bring drowsiness, and while I supported him there would come
a few moments, perhaps, of precious sleep.  Only a few moments, for the
devil of suffocation was always lying in wait to bring him back for fresh
tortures.  Over and over again this was repeated, varied by him being
steadied on his feet or sitting on the couch opposite the berth.  In
spite of his suffering, two dominant characteristics remained--the sense
of humor, and tender consideration for another.

Once when the ship rolled and his hat fell from the hook, and made the
circuit of the cabin floor, he said:

"The ship is passing the hat."

Again he said:

"I am sorry for you, Paine, but I can't help it--I can't hurry this dying
business.  Can't you give me enough of the hypnotic injunction to put an
end to me?"

He thought if I could arrange the pillows so he could sit straight up it
would not be necessary to support him, and then I could sit on the couch
and read while he tried to doze.  He wanted me to read Jude, he said, so
we could talk about it.  I got all the pillows I could and built them up
around him, and sat down with the book, and this seemed to give him
contentment.  He would doze off a little and then come up with a start,
his piercing, agate eyes searching me out to see if I was still there.
Over and over--twenty times in an hour--this was repeated.  When I could
deny him no longer I administered the opiate, but it never completely
possessed him or gave him entire relief.

As I looked at him there, so reduced in his estate, I could not but
remember all the labor of his years, and all the splendid honor which the
world had paid to him.  Something of this may have entered his mind, too,
for once, when I offered him some of the milder remedies which we had
brought, he said:

"After forty years of public effort I have become just a target for
medicines."

The program of change from berth to the floor, from floor to the couch,
from the couch back to the berth among the pillows, was repeated again
and again, he always thinking of the trouble he might be making, rarely
uttering any complaint; but once he said:

"I never guessed that I was not going to outlive John Bigelow."  And
again:

"This is such a mysterious disease.  If we only had a bill of particulars
we'd have something to swear at."

Time and again he picked up Carlyle or the Cardigan Memoirs, and read, or
seemed to read, a few lines; but then the drowsiness would come and the
book would fall.  Time and again he attempted to smoke, or in his drowse
simulated the motion of placing a cigar to his lips and puffing in the
old way.

Two dreams beset him in his momentary slumber--one of a play in which the
title-role of the general manager was always unfilled.  He spoke of this
now and then when it had passed, and it seemed to amuse him.  The other
was a discomfort: a college assembly was attempting to confer upon him
some degree which he did not want.  Once, half roused, he looked at me
searchingly and asked:

"Isn't there something I can resign and be out of all this?  They keep
trying to confer that degree upon me and I don't want it."  Then
realizing, he said: "I am like a bird in a cage: always expecting to get
out, and always beaten back by the wires."  And, somewhat later: "Oh, it
is such a mystery, and it takes so long."

Toward the evening of the first day, when it grew dark outside, he asked:

"How long have we been on this voyage?"

I answered that this was the end of the first day.

"How many more are there?" he asked.

"Only one, and two nights."

"We'll never make it," he said.  "It's an eternity."

"But we must on Clara's account," I told him, and I estimated that Clara
would be more than half-way across the ocean by now.

"It is a losing race," he said; "no ship can outsail death."

It has been written--I do not know with what proof--that certain great
dissenters have recanted with the approach of death--have become weak,
and afraid to ignore old traditions in the face of the great mystery.
I wish to write here that Mark Twain, as he neared the end, showed never
a single tremor of fear or even of reluctance.  I have dwelt upon these
hours when suffering was upon him, and death the imminent shadow, in
order to show that at the end he was as he had always been, neither more
nor less, and never less than brave.

Once, during a moment when he was comfortable and quite himself, he said,
earnestly:

"When I seem to be dying I don't want to be stimulated back to life.  I
want to be made comfortable to go."

There was not a vestige of hesitation; there was no grasping at straws,
no suggestion of dread.

Somehow those two days and nights went by.  Once, when he was partially
relieved by the opiate, I slept, while Claude watched; and again, in the
fading end of the last night, when we had passed at length into the cold,
bracing northern air, and breath had come back to him, and with it sleep.

Relatives, physicians, and news-gatherers were at the dock to welcome
him.  He was awake, and the northern air had brightened him, though it
was the chill, I suppose, that brought on the pains in his breast, which,
fortunately, he had escaped during the voyage.  It was not a prolonged
attack, and it was, blessedly, the last one.

An invalid-carriage had been provided, and a compartment secured on the
afternoon express to Redding--the same train that had taken him there two
years before.  Dr. Robert H. Halsey and Dr. Edward Quintard attended him,
and he made the journey really in cheerful comfort, for he could breathe
now, and in the relief came back old interests.  Half reclining on the
couch, he looked through the afternoon papers.  It happened curiously
that Charles Harvey Genung, who, something more than four years earlier,
had been so largely responsible for my association with Mark Twain, was
on the same train, in the same coach, bound for his country-place at New
Hartford.

Lounsbury was waiting with the carriage, and on that still, sweet April
evening we drove him to Stormfield much as we had driven him two years
before.  Now and then he mentioned the apparent backwardness of the
season, for only a few of the trees were beginning to show their green.
As we drove into the lane that led to the Stormfield entrance, he said:

"Can we see where you have built your billiard-room?"

The gable showed above the trees, and I pointed it out to him.

"It looks quite imposing," he said.

I think it was the last outside interest he ever showed in anything.
He had been carried from the ship and from the train, but when we drew up
to Stormfield, where Mrs. Paine, with Katie Leary and others of the
household, was waiting to greet him, he stepped from the carriage alone
with something of his old lightness, and with all his old courtliness,
and offered each one his hand.  Then, in the canvas chair which we had
brought, Claude and I carried him up-stairs to his room and delivered him
to the physicians, and to the comforts and blessed air of home.  This was
Thursday evening, April 14, 1910.




CCXCIII

THE RETURN TO THE INVISIBLE

There would be two days more before Ossip and Clara Gabrilowitsch could
arrive.  Clemens remained fairly bright and comfortable during this
interval, though he clearly was not improving.  The physicians denied him
the morphine, now, as he no longer suffered acutely.  But he craved it,
and once, when I went in, he said, rather mournfully:

"They won't give me the subcutaneous any more."

It was Sunday morning when Clara came.  He was cheerful and able to talk
quite freely.  He did not dwell upon his condition, I think, but spoke
rather of his plans for the summer.  At all events, he did not then
suggest that he counted the end so near; but a day later it became
evident to all that his stay was very brief.  His breathing was becoming
heavier, though it seemed not to give him much discomfort.  His
articulation also became affected.  I think the last continuous talking
he did was to Dr. Halsey on the evening of April 17th--the day of Clara's
arrival.  A mild opiate had been administered, and he said he wished to
talk himself to sleep.  He recalled one of his old subjects, Dual
Personality, and discussed various instances that flitted through his
mind--Jekyll and Hyde phases in literature and fact.  He became drowsier
as he talked.  He said at last:

"This is a peculiar kind of disease.  It does not invite you to read; it
does not invite you to be read to; it does not invite you to talk, nor to
enjoy any of the usual sick-room methods of treatment.  What kind of a
disease is that?  Some kinds of sicknesses have pleasant features about
them.  You can read and smoke and have only to lie still."

And a little later he added:

"It is singular, very singular, the laws of mentality--vacuity.  I put
out my hand to reach a book or newspaper which I have been reading most
glibly, and it isn't there, not a suggestion of it."

He coughed violently, and afterward commented:

"If one gets to meddling with a cough it very soon gets the upper hand
and is meddling with you.  That is my opinion--of seventy-four years'
growth."

The news of his condition, everywhere published, brought great heaps of
letters, but he could not see them.  A few messages were reported to him.
At intervals he read a little.  Suetonius and Carlyle lay on the bed
beside him, and he would pick them up as the spirit moved him and read a
paragraph or a page.  Sometimes, when I saw him thus-the high color still
in his face, and the clear light in his eyes--I said: "It is not reality.
He is not going to die."  On Tuesday, the 19th, he asked me to tell Clara
to come and sing to him.  It was a heavy requirement, but she somehow
found strength to sing some of the Scotch airs which he loved, and he
seemed soothed and comforted.  When she came away he bade her good-by,
saying that he might not see her again.

But he lingered through the next day and the next.  His mind was
wandering a little on Wednesday, and his speech became less and less
articulate; but there were intervals when he was quite clear, quite
vigorous, and he apparently suffered little.  We did not know it, then,
but the mysterious messenger of his birth-year, so long anticipated by
him, appeared that night in the sky.--[The perihelion of Halley's Comet
for 1835 was November 16th; for 1910 it was April 20th.]

On Thursday morning, the 21st, his mind was generally clear, and it was
said by the nurses that he read a little from one of the volumes on his
bed, from the Suetonius, or from one of the volumes of Carlyle.  Early in
the forenoon he sent word by Clara that he wished to see me, and when I
came in he spoke of two unfinished manuscripts which he wished me to
"throw away," as he briefly expressed it, for he had not many words left
now.  I assured him that I would take care of them, and he pressed my
hand.  It was his last word to me.

Once or twice that morning he tried to write some request which he could
not put into intelligible words.

And once he spoke to Gabrilowitsch, who, he said, could understand him
better than the others.  Most of the time he dozed.

Somewhat after midday, when Clara was by him, he roused up and took her
hand, and seemed to speak with less effort.

"Good-by," he said, and Dr. Quintard, who was standing near, thought he
added: "If we meet"--but the words were very faint.  He looked at her for
a little while, without speaking, then he sank into a doze, and from it
passed into a deeper slumber, and did not heed us any more.

Through that peaceful spring afternoon the life-wave ebbed lower and
lower.  It was about half past six, and the sun lay just on the horizon
when Dr. Quintard noticed that the breathing, which had gradually become
more subdued, broke a little.  There was no suggestion of any struggle.
The noble head turned a little to one side, there was a fluttering sigh,
and the breath that had been unceasing through seventy-four tumultuous
years had stopped forever.

He had entered into the estate envied so long.  In his own words--the
words of one of his latest memoranda:

"He had arrived at the dignity of death--the only earthly dignity that is
not artificial--the only safe one.  The others are traps that can beguile
to humiliation.

"Death--the only immortal who treats us all alike, whose pity and whose
peace and whose refuge are for all--the soiled and the pure--the rich and
the poor--the loved and the unloved."




CCXCIV

THE LAST RITES

It is not often that a whole world mourns.  Nations have often mourned a
hero--and races--but perhaps never before had the entire world really
united in tender sorrow for the death of any man.

In one of his aphorisms he wrote: "Let us endeavor so to live that when
we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry."  And it was thus that
Mark Twain himself had lived.

No man had ever so reached the heart of the world, and one may not even
attempt to explain just why.  Let us only say that it was because he was
so limitlessly human that every other human heart, in whatever sphere or
circumstance, responded to his touch.  From every remote corner of the
globe the cables of condolence swept in; every printed sheet in
Christendom was filled with lavish tribute; pulpits forgot his heresies
and paid him honor.  No king ever died that received so rich a homage as
his.  To quote or to individualize would be to cheapen this vast
offering.

We took him to New York to the Brick Church, and Dr. Henry van Dyke spoke
only a few simple words, and Joseph Twichell came from Hartford and
delivered brokenly a prayer from a heart wrung with double grief, for
Harmony, his wife, was nearing the journey's end, and a telegram that
summoned him to her death-bed came before the services ended.

Mark Twain, dressed in the white he loved so well, lay there with the
nobility of death upon him, while a multitude of those who loved him
passed by and looked at his face for the last time.  The flowers, of
which so many had been sent, were banked around him; but on the casket
itself lay a single laurel wreath which Dan Beard and his wife had woven
from the laurel which grows on Stormfield hill.  He was never more
beautiful than as he lay there, and it was an impressive scene to see
those thousands file by, regard him for a moment gravely, thoughtfully,
and pass on.  All sorts were there, rich and poor; some crossed
themselves, some saluted, some paused a little to take a closer look; but
no one offered even to pick a flower.  Howells came, and in his book he
says:

     I looked a moment at the face I knew so well; and it was patient
     with the patience I had so often seen in it: something of a puzzle,
     a great silent dignity, an assent to what must be from the depths of
     a nature whose tragical seriousness broke in the laughter which the
     unwise took for the whole of him.

That night we went with him to Elmira, and next day--a somber day of
rain--he lay in those stately parlors that had seen his wedding-day, and
where Susy had lain, and Mrs. Clemens, and Jean, while Dr. Eastman spoke
the words of peace which separate us from our mortal dead.  Then in the
quiet, steady rain of that Sunday afternoon we laid him beside those
others, where he sleeps well, though some have wished that, like De Soto,
he might have been laid to rest in the bed of that great river which must
always be associated with his name.




CCXCV

MARK TWAIN'S RELIGION

There is such a finality about death; however interesting it may be as an
experience, one cannot discuss it afterward with one's friends.  I have
thought it a great pity that Mark Twain could not discuss, with Howells
say, or with Twichell, the sensations and the particulars of the change,
supposing there be a recognizable change, in that transition of which we
have speculated so much, with such slender returns.  No one ever debated
the undiscovered country more than he.  In his whimsical, semi-serious
fashion he had considered all the possibilities of the future state--
orthodox and otherwise--and had drawn picturesquely original conclusions.
He had sent Captain Stormfield in a dream to report the aspects of the
early Christian heaven.  He had examined the scientific aspects of the
more subtle philosophies.  He had considered spiritualism,
transmigration, the various esoteric doctrines, and in the end he had
logically made up his mind that death concludes all, while with that less
logical hunger which survives in every human heart he had never ceased to
expect an existence beyond the grave.  His disbelief and his pessimism
were identical in their structure.  They were of his mind; never of his
heart.

Once a woman said to him:

"Mr. Clemens, you are not a pessimist, you only think you are."  And she
might have added, with equal force and truth:

"You are not a disbeliever in immortality; you only think you are."

Nothing could have conveyed more truly his attitude toward life and
death.  His belief in God, the Creator, was absolute; but it was a God
far removed from the Creator of his early teaching.  Every man builds his
God according to his own capacities.  Mark Twain's God was of colossal
proportions--so vast, indeed, that the constellated stars were but
molecules in His veins--a God as big as space itself.

Mark Twain had many moods, and he did not always approve of his own God;
but when he altered his conception, it was likely to be in the direction
of enlargement--a further removal from the human conception, and the
problem of what we call our lives.

In 1906 he wrote:--[See also 1870, chap. lxxviii; 1899, chap. ccv; and
various talks, 1906-07, etc.]
     Let us now consider the real God, the genuine God, the great God,
     the sublime and supreme God, the authentic Creator of the real
     universe, whose remotenesses are visited by comets only comets unto
     which incredible distant Neptune is merely an out post, a Sandy Hook
     to homeward-bound specters of the deeps of space that have not
     glimpsed it before for generations--a universe not made with hands
     and suited to an astronomical nursery, but spread abroad through the
     illimitable reaches of space by the flat of the real God just
     mentioned, by comparison with whom the gods whose myriads infest the
     feeble imaginations of men are as a swarm of gnats scattered and
     lost in the infinitudes of the empty sky.

At an earlier period-the date is not exactly fixable, but the stationery
used and the handwriting suggest the early eighties--he set down a few
concisely written pages of conclusions--conclusions from which he did
not deviate materially in after years.  The document follows:

     I believe in God the Almighty.

     I do not believe He has ever sent a message to man by anybody, or
     delivered one to him by word of mouth, or made Himself visible to
     mortal eyes at any time in any place.

     I believe that the Old and New Testaments were imagined and written
     by man, and that no line in them was authorized by God, much less
     inspired by Him.

     I think the goodness, the justice, and the mercy of God are
     manifested in His works: I perceive that they are manifested toward
     me in this life; the logical conclusion is that they will be
     manifested toward me in the life to come, if there should be one.

     I do not believe in special providences.  I believe that the
     universe is governed by strict and immutable laws: If one man's
     family is swept away by a pestilence and another man's spared it is
     only the law working: God is not interfering in that small matter,
     either against the one man or in favor of the other.

     I cannot see how eternal punishment hereafter could accomplish any
     good end, therefore I am not able to believe in it.  To chasten a
     man in order to perfect him might be reasonable enough; to
     annihilate him when he shall have proved himself incapable of
     reaching perfection might be reasonable enough; but to roast him
     forever for the mere satisfaction of seeing him roast would not be
     reasonable--even the atrocious God imagined by the Jews would tire
     of the spectacle eventually.

     There may be a hereafter and there may not be.  I am wholly
     indifferent about it.  If I am appointed to live again I feel sure
     it will be for some more sane and useful purpose than to flounder
     about for ages in a lake of fire and brimstone for having violated a
     confusion of ill-defined and contradictory rules said (but not
     evidenced) to be of divine institution.  If annihilation is to
     follow death I shall not be aware of the annihilation, and therefore
     shall not care a straw about it.

     I believe that the world's moral laws are the outcome of the world's
     experience.  It needed no God to come down out of heaven to tell men
     that murder and theft and the other immoralities were bad, both for
     the individual who commits them and for society which suffers from
     them.

     If I break all these moral laws I cannot see how I injure God by it,
     for He is beyond the reach of injury from me--I could as easily
     injure a planet by throwing mud at it.  It seems to me that my
     misconduct could only injure me and other men.  I cannot benefit God
     by obeying these moral laws--I could as easily benefit the planet by
     withholding my mud.  (Let these sentences be read in the light of
     the fact that I believe I have received moral laws only from man-
     none whatever from God.) Consequently I do not see why I should be
     either punished or rewarded hereafter for the deeds I do here.

If the tragedies of life shook his faith in the goodness and justice and
the mercy of God as manifested toward himself, he at any rate never
questioned that the wider scheme of the universe was attuned to the
immutable law which contemplates nothing less than absolute harmony.  I
never knew him to refer to this particular document; but he never
destroyed it and never amended it, nor is it likely that he would have
done either had it been presented to him for consideration even during
the last year of his life.

He was never intentionally dogmatic.  In a memorandum on a fly-leaf of
Moncure D. Conway's Sacred Anthology he wrote:

                                 RELIGION

The easy confidence with which I know another man's religion is folly
teaches me to suspect that my own is also.
                              MARK TWAIN, 19th Cent. A.D.

And in another note:

I would not interfere with any one's religion, either to strengthen it or
to weaken it.  I am not able to believe one's religion can affect his
hereafter one way or the other, no matter what that religion maybe.  But
it may easily be a great comfort to him in this life hence it is a
valuable possession to him.

Mark Twain's religion was a faith too wide for doctrines--a benevolence
too limitless for creeds.  From the beginning he strove against
oppression, sham, and evil in every form.  He despised meanness; he
resented with every drop of blood in him anything that savored of
persecution or a curtailment of human liberties.  It was a religion
identified with his daily life and his work.  He lived as he wrote, and
he wrote as he believed.  His favorite weapon was humor--good-humor--with
logic behind it.  A sort of glorified truth it was truth wearing a smile
of gentleness, hence all the more quickly heeded.

"He will be remembered with the great humorists of all time," says
Howells, "with Cervantes, with Swift, or with any others worthy of his
company; none of them was his equal in humanity."

Mark Twain understood the needs of men because he was himself supremely
human.  In one of his dictations he said:

I have found that there is no ingredient of the race which I do not
possess in either a small or a large way.  When it is small, as compared
with the same ingredient in somebody else, there is still enough of it
for all the purposes of examination.

With his strength he had inherited the weaknesses of our kind.  With him,
as with another, a myriad of dreams and schemes and purposes daily
flitted by.  With him, as with another, the spirit of desire led him
often to a high mountain-top, and was not rudely put aside, but
lingeringly--and often invited to return.  With him, as with another, a
crowd of jealousies and resentments, and wishes for the ill of others,
daily went seething and scorching along the highways of the soul.  With
him, as with another, regret, remorse, and shame stood at the bedside
during long watches of the night; and in the end, with him, the better
thing triumphed--forgiveness and generosity and justice--in a word,
Humanity.  Certain of his aphorisms and memoranda each in itself
constitutes an epitome of Mark Twain's creed.  His paraphrase, "When in
doubt tell the truth," is one of these, and he embodied his whole
attitude toward Infinity when in one of his stray pencilings he wrote:

Why, even poor little ungodlike man holds himself responsible for the
welfare of his child to the extent of his ability.  It is all that we
require of God.




CCXCVI

POSTSCRIPT

Every life is a drama--a play in all its particulars; comedy, farce,
tragedy--all the elements are there.  To examine in detail any life,
however conspicuous or obscure, is to become amazed not only at the
inevitable sequence of events, but at the interlinking of details, often
far removed, into a marvelously intricate pattern which no art can hope
to reproduce, and can only feebly imitate.

The biographer may reconstruct an episode, present a picture, or reflect
a mood by which the reader is enabled to feel something of the glow of
personality and know, perhaps, a little of the substance of the past.  In
so far as the historian can accomplish this his work is a success.  At
best his labor will be pathetically incomplete, for whatever its detail
and its resemblance to life, these will record mainly but an outward
expression, behind which was the mighty sweep and tumult of unwritten
thought, the overwhelming proportion of any life, which no other human
soul can ever really know.

Mark Twain's appearance on the stage of the world was a succession of
dramatic moments.  He was always exactly in the setting.  Whatever he
did, or whatever came to him, was timed for the instant of greatest
effect.  At the end he was more widely observed and loved and honored
than ever before, and at the right moment and in the right manner he
died.

How little one may tell of such a life as his!  He traveled always such a
broad and brilliant highway, with plumes flying and crowds following
after.  Such a whirling panorama of life, and death, and change!  I have
written so much, and yet I have put so much aside--and often the best
things, it seemed afterward, perhaps because each in its way was best and
the variety infinite.  One may only strive to be faithful--and I would
have made it better if I could.






                                 APPENDIX



APPENDIX A

LETTER FROM ORION CLEMENS TO MISS WOOD CONCERNING HENRY CLEMENS

(See Chapter xxvi)

                                   KEOKUK, Iowa, October 3, 1858.

MISS WOOD,--My mother having sent me your kind letter, with a request
that myself and wife should write to you, I hasten to do so.

In my memory I can go away back to Henry's infancy; I see his large, blue
eyes intently regarding my father when he rebuked him for his credulity
in giving full faith to the boyish idea of planting his marbles,
expecting a crop therefrom; then comes back the recollection of the time
when, standing we three alone by our father's grave, I told them always
to remember that brothers should be kind to each other; afterward I see
Henry returning from school with his books for the last time.  He must go
into my printing-office.  He learned rapidly.  A word of encouragement or
a word of discouragement told upon his organization electrically.  I
could see the effects in his day's work.  Sometimes I would say, "Henry!"
He would stand full front with his eyes upon mine--all attention.  If I
commanded him to do something, without a word he was off instantly,
probably in a run.  If a cat was to be drowned or shot Sam (though
unwilling yet firm) was selected for the work.  If a stray kitten was to
be fed and taken care of Henry was expected to attend to it, and he would
faithfully do so.  So they grew up, and many was the grave lecture
commenced by ma, to the effect that Sam was misleading and spoiling
Henry.  But the lectures were never concluded, for Sam would reply with a
witticism, or dry, unexpected humor, that would drive the lecture clean
out of my mother's mind, and change it to a laugh.  Those were happier
days.  My mother was as lively as any girl of sixteen.  She is not so
now.  And sister Pamela I have described in describing Henry; for she was
his counterpart.  The blow falls crushingly on her.  But the boys grew
up--Sam a rugged, brave, quick-tempered, generous-hearted fellow, Henry
quiet, observing, thoughtful, leaning on Sam for protection; Sam and I
too leaning on him for knowledge picked up from conversation or books,
for Henry seemed never to forget anything, and devoted much of his
leisure hours to reading.

Henry is gone!  His death was horrible!  How I could have sat by him,
hung over him, watched day and night every change of expression, and
ministered to every want in my power that I could discover.  This was
denied to me, but Sam, whose organization is such as to feel the utmost
extreme of every feeling, was there.  Both his capacity of enjoyment and
his capacity of suffering are greater than mine; and knowing how it would
have affected me to see so sad a scene, I can somewhat appreciate Sam's
sufferings.  In this time of great trouble, when my two brothers, whose
heartstrings have always been a part of my own, were suffering the utmost
stretch of mortal endurance, you were there, like a good angel, to aid
and console, and I bless and thank you for it with my whole heart.  I
thank all who helped them then; I thank them for the flowers they sent to
Henry, for the tears that fell for their sufferings, and when he died,
and all of them for all the kind attentions they bestowed upon the poor
boys.  We thank the physicians, and we shall always gratefully remember
the kindness of the gentleman who at so much expense to himself enabled
us to deposit Henry's remains by our father.

With many kind wishes for your future welfare, I remain your earnest
friend,
                              Respectfully,
                                             ORION CLEMENS.






APPENDIX B

MARK TWAIN'S BURLESQUE OF CAPTAIN ISAIAH SELLERS

(See Chapter xxvii)

The item which served as a text for the "Sergeant Fathom" communication
was as follows:

                                        VICKSBURG, May 4, 1859.

My opinion for the benefit of the citizens of New Orleans: The water is
higher this far up than it has been since 1815. My opinion is that the
water will be four feet deep in Canal Street before the first of next
June.  Mrs. Turner's plantation at the head of Big Black Island is all
under water, and it has not been since 1815.
                                        I. SELLERS.--[Captain Sellers, as
                                        in this case, sometimes signed
                                        his own name to his
                                        communications.]



THE BURLESQUE

INTRODUCTORY

Our friend Sergeant Fathom, one of the oldest cub pilots on the river,
and now on the Railroad Line steamer Trombone, sends us a rather bad
account concerning the state of the river.  Sergeant Fathom is a "cub" of
much experience, and although we are loath to coincide in his view of the
matter, we give his note a place in our columns, only hoping that his
prophecy will not be verified in this instance.  While introducing the
Sergeant, "we consider it but simple justice (we quote from a friend of
his) to remark that he is distinguished for being, in pilot phrase,
'close,' as well as superhumanly 'safe.'"  It is a well-known fact that
he has made fourteen hundred and fifty trips in the New Orleans and St.
Louis trade without causing serious damage to a steamboat.  This
astonishing success is attributed to the fact that he seldom runs his
boat after early candle-light.  It is related of the Sergeant that upon
one occasion he actually ran the chute of Glasscock's Island, down-
stream, in the night, and at a time, too, when the river was scarcely
more than bank full.  His method of accomplishing this feat proves what
we have just said of his "safeness"--he sounded the chute first, and then
built a fire at the head of the island to run by.  As to the Sergeant's
"closeness," we have heard it whispered that he once went up to the right
of the "Old Hen,"--[Glasscock's Island and the "Old Hen" were
phenomenally safe places.]--but this is probably a pardonable little
exaggeration, prompted by the love and admiration in which he is held by
various ancient dames of his acquaintance (for albeit the Sergeant may
have already numbered the allotted years of man, still his form is erect,
his step is firm, his hair retains its sable hue, and, more than all, he
hath a winning way about him, an air of docility and sweetness, if you
will, and a smoothness of speech, together with an exhaustless fund of
funny sayings; and, lastly, an overflowing stream, without beginning, or
middle, or end, of astonishing reminiscences of the ancient Mississippi,
which, taken together, form a 'tout ensemble' which is sufficient excuse
for the tender epithet which is, by common consent, applied to him by all
those ancient dames aforesaid, of "che-arming creature!").  As the
Sergeant has been longer on the river, and is better acquainted with it
than any other "cub" extant, his remarks are entitled to far more
consideration, and are always read with the deepest interest by high and
low, rich and poor, from "Kiho" to Kamschatka, for let it be known that
his fame extends to the uttermost parts of the earth:



THE COMMUNICATION

R.R. Steamer Trombone, VICKSBURG, May 8, 1859.

The river from New Orleans up to Natchez is higher than it has been since
the niggers were executed (which was in the fall of 1813) and my opinion
is that if the rise continues at this rate the water will be on the roof
of the St. Charles Hotel before the middle of January.  The point at
Cairo, which has not even been moistened by the river since 1813, is now
entirely under water.

However, Mr. Editor, the inhabitants of the Mississippi Valley should not
act precipitately and sell their plantations at a sacrifice on account of
this prophecy of mine, for I shall proceed to convince them of a great
fact in regard to this matter, viz.: that the tendency of the Mississippi
is to rise less and less high every year (with an occasional variation of
the rule), that such has been the case for many centuries, and eventually
that it will cease to rise at all.  Therefore, I would hint to the
planters, as we say in an innocent little parlor game commonly called
"draw," that if they can only "stand the rise" this time they may enjoy
the comfortable assurance that the old river's banks will never hold a
"full" again during their natural lives.

In the summer of 1763 I came down the river on the old first Jubilee.
She was new then, however; a singular sort of a single-engine boat, with
a Chinese captain and a Choctaw crew, forecastle on her stern, wheels in
the center, and the jackstaff "nowhere," for I steered her with a window-
shutter, and when we wanted to land we sent a line ashore and "rounded
her to" with a yoke of oxen.

Well, sir, we wooded off the top of the big bluff above Selmathe only dry
land visible--and waited there three weeks, swapping knives and playing
"seven up" with the Indians, waiting for the river to fall.  Finally, it
fell about a hundred feet, and we went on.  One day we rounded to, and I
got in a horse-trough, which my partner borrowed from the Indians up
there at Selma while they were at prayers, and went down to sound around
No. 8, and while I was gone my partner got aground on the hills at
Hickman.  After three days' labor we finally succeeded in sparring her
off with a capstan bar, and went on to Memphis.  By the time we got there
the river had subsided to such an extent that we were able to land where
the Gayoso House now stands.  We finished loading at Memphis, and loaded
part of the stone for the present St. Louis Court House (which was then
in process of erection), to be taken up on our return trip.

You can form some conception, by these memoranda, of how high the
water was in 1763.  In 1775 it did not rise so high by thirty feet;
in 1790 it missed the original mark at least sixty-five feet; in
1797, one hundred and fifty feet; and in 1806, nearly two hundred and
fifty feet.  These were "high-water" years.  The "high waters" since then
have been so insignificant that I have scarcely taken the trouble to
notice them.  Thus, you will perceive that the planters need not feel
uneasy.  The river may make an occasional spasmodic effort at a flood,
but the time is approaching when it will cease to rise altogether.

In conclusion, sir, I will condescend to hint at the foundation of these
arguments: When me and De Soto discovered the Mississippi I could stand
at Bolivar Landing (several miles above "Roaring Waters Bar") and pitch a
biscuit to the main shore on the other side, and in low water we waded
across at Donaldsonville.  The gradual widening and deepening of the
river is the whole secret of the matter.

                              Yours, etc.
                                        SERGEANT FATHOM.




APPENDIX C


I

MARK TWAIN'S EMPIRE CITY HOAX
(See Chapter xli)

THE LATEST SENSATION

     A Victim to Jeremy Diddling Trustees--He Cuts his Throat from Ear to
     Ear, Scalps his Wife, and Dashes Out the Brains of Six Helpless
     Children!

From Abram Curry, who arrived here yesterday afternoon from Carson, we
learn the following particulars concerning a bloody massacre which was
committed in Ormsby County night before last.  It seems that during the
past six months a man named P. Hopkins, or Philip Hopkins, has been
residing with his family in the old log-house just at the edge of the
great pine forest which lies between Empire City and Dutch Nick's.  The
family consisted of nine children--five girls and four boys--the oldest
of the group, Mary, being nineteen years old, and the youngest, Tommy,
about a year and a half.  Twice in the past two months Mrs. Hopkins,
while visiting Carson, expressed fears concerning the sanity of her
husband, remarking that of late he had been subject to fits of violence,
and that during the prevalence of one of these he had threatened to take
her life.  It was Mrs. Hopkins's misfortune to be given to exaggeration,
however, and but little attention was given to what she said.

About 10 o'clock on Monday evening Hopkins dashed into Carson on
horseback, with his throat cut from ear to ear, and bearing in his hand a
reeking scalp, from which the warm, smoking blood was still dripping, and
fell in a dying condition in front of the Magnolia saloon.  Hopkins
expired, in the course of five minutes, without speaking.  The long, red
hair of the scalp he bore marked it as that of Mrs. Hopkins.  A number of
citizens, headed by Sheriff Gasherie, mounted at once and rode down to
Hopkins's house, where a ghastly scene met their eyes.  The scalpless
corpse of Mrs. Hopkins lay across the threshold, with her head split open
and her right hand almost severed from the wrist.  Near her lay the ax
with which the murderous deed had been committed.  In one of the bedrooms
six of the children were found, one in bed and the others scattered about
the floor.  They were all dead.  Their brains had evidently been dashed
out with a club, and every mark about them seemed to have been made with
a blunt instrument.  The children must have struggled hard for their
lives, as articles of clothing and broken furniture were strewn about the
room in the utmost confusion.  Julia and Emma, aged respectively fourteen
and seventeen, were found in the kitchen, bruised and insensible, but it
is thought their recovery is possible.  The eldest girl, Mary, must have
sought refuge, in her terror, in the garret, as her body was found there
frightfully mutilated, and the knife with which her wounds had been
inflicted still sticking in her side.  The two girls Julia and Emma, who
had recovered sufficiently to be able to talk yesterday morning, declare
that their father knocked them down with a billet of wood and stamped on
them.  They think they were the first attacked.  They further state that
Hopkins had shown evidence of derangement all day, but had exhibited no
violence.  He flew into a passion and attempted to murder them because
they advised him to go to bed and compose his mind.

Curry says Hopkins was about forty-two years of age, and a native of
western Pennsylvania; he was always affable and polite, and until very
recently no one had ever heard of his ill-treating his family.  He had
been a heavy owner in the best mines of Virginia and Gold Hill, but when
the San Francisco papers exposed our game of cooking dividends in order
to bolster up our stocks he grew afraid and sold out, and invested an
immense amount in the Spring Valley Water Company, of San Francisco.  He
was advised to do this by a relative of his, one of the editors of the
San Francisco Bulletin, who had suffered pecuniarily by the dividend-
cooking system as applied to the Daney Mining Company recently.  Hopkins
had not long ceased to own in the various claims on the Comstock lead,
however, when several dividends were cooked on his newly acquired
property, their water totally dried up, and Spring Valley stock went down
to nothing.  It is presumed that this misfortune drove him mad, and
resulted in his killing himself and the greater portion of his family.
The newspapers of San Francisco permitted this water company to go on
borrowing money and cooking dividends, under cover of which the cunning
financiers crept out of the tottering concern, leaving the crash to come
upon poor and unsuspecting stockholders, without offering to expose the
villainy at work.  We hope the fearful massacre detailed above may prove
the saddest result of their silence.



II

NEWS-GATHERING WITH MARK TWAIN

Alfred Doten's son gives the following account of a reporting trip made
by his father and Mark Twain, when the two were on Comstock papers:

My father and Mark Twain were once detailed to go over to Como and write
up some new mines that had been discovered over there.  My father was on
the Gold Hill News.  He and Mark had not met before, but became promptly
acquainted, and were soon calling each other by their first names.

They went to a little hotel at Carson, agreeing to do their work there
together next morning.  When morning came they set out, and suddenly on a
corner Mark stopped and turned to my father, saying:

"By gracious, Alf!  Isn't that a brewery?"

"It is, Mark.  Let's go in."

They did so, and remained there all day, swapping yarns, sipping beer,
and lunching, going back to the hotel that night.

The next morning precisely the same thing occurred.  When they were on
the same corner, Mark stopped as if he had never been there before, and
sand:

"Good gracious, Alf !  Isn't that a brewery?"

"It is, Mark.  Let's go in."

So again they went in, and again stayed all day.

This happened again the next morning, and the next.  Then my father
became uneasy.  A letter had come from Gold Hill, asking him where his
report of the mines was.  They agreed that next morning they would really
begin the story; that they would climb to the top of a hill that
overlooked the mines, and write it from there.

But the next morning, as before, Mark was surprised to discover the
brewery, and once more they went in.  A few moments later, however, a man
who knew all about the mines--a mining engineer connected with them--came
in.  He was a godsend.  My father set down a valuable, informing story,
while Mark got a lot of entertaining mining yarns out of him.

Next day Virginia City and Gold Hill were gaining information from my
father's article, and entertainment from Mark's story of the mines.




APPENDIX D

FROM MARK TWAIN'S FIRST LECTURE, DELIVERED OCTOBER 2, 1866

(See Chapter liv)

HAWAIIAN IMPORTANCE TO AMERICA

After a full elucidation of the sugar industry of the Sandwich Islands,
its profits and possibilities, he said:

I have dwelt upon this subject to show you that these islands have a
genuine importance to America--an importance which is not generally
appreciated by our citizens.  They pay revenues into the United States
Treasury now amounting to over a half a million a year.

I do not know what the sugar yield of the world is now, but ten years
ago, according to the Patent Office reports, it was 800,000 hogsheads.
The Sandwich Islands, properly cultivated by go-ahead Americans, are
capable of providing one-third as much themselves.  With the Pacific
Railroad built, the great China Mail Line of steamers touching at
Honolulu--we could stock the islands with Americans and supply a third of
the civilized world with sugar--and with the silkiest, longest-stapled
cotton this side of the Sea Islands, and the very best quality of rice
....  The property has got to fall to some heir, and why not the United
States?


NATIVE PASSION FOR FUNERALS

They are very fond of funerals.  Big funerals are their main weakness.
Fine grave clothes, fine funeral appointments, and a long procession are
things they take a generous delight in.  They are fond of their chief and
their king; they reverence them with a genuine reverence and love them
with a warm affection, and often look forward to the happiness they will
experience in burying them.  They will beg, borrow, or steal money
enough, and flock from all the islands, to be present at a royal funeral
on Oahu.  Years ago a Kanaka and his wife were condemned to be hanged for
murder.  They received the sentence with manifest satisfaction because it
gave an opening for a funeral, you know.  All they care for is a funeral.
It makes but little difference to them whose it is; they would as soon
attend their own funeral as anybody else's.  This couple were people of
consequence, and had landed estates.  They sold every foot of ground they
had and laid it out in fine clothes to be hung in.  And the woman
appeared on the scaffold in a white satin dress and slippers and fathoms
of gaudy ribbon, and the man was arrayed in a gorgeous vest, blue claw-
hammer coat and brass buttons, and white kid gloves.  As the noose was
adjusted around his neck, he blew his nose with a grand theatrical
flourish, so as to show his embroidered white handkerchief.  I never,
never knew of a couple who enjoyed hanging more than they did.



VIEW FROM HALEAKALA

It is a solemn pleasure to stand upon the summit of the extinct crater of
Haleakala, ten thousand feet above the sea, and gaze down into its awful
crater, 27 miles in circumference and ago feet deep, and to picture to
yourself the seething world of fire that once swept up out of the
tremendous abyss ages ago.

The prodigious funnel is dead and silent now, and even has bushes growing
far down in its bottom, where the deep-sea line could hardly have reached
in the old times, when the place was filled with liquid lava.  These
bushes look like parlor shrubs from the summit where you stand, and the
file of visitors moving through them on their mules is diminished to a
detachment of mice almost; and to them you, standing so high up against
the sun, ten thousand feet above their heads, look no larger than a
grasshopper.

This in the morning; but at three or four in the afternoon a thousand
little patches of white clouds, like handfuls of wool, come drifting
noiselessly, one after another, into the crater, like a procession of
shrouded phantoms, and circle round and round the vast sides, and settle
gradually down and mingle together until the colossal basin is filled to
the brim with snowy fog and all its seared and desolate wonders are
hidden from sight.

And then you may turn your back to the crater and look far away upon the
broad valley below, with its sugar-houses glinting like white specks in
the distance, and the great sugar-fields diminished to green veils amid
the lighter-tinted verdure around them, and abroad upon the limitless
ocean.  But I should not say you look down; you look up at these things.

You are ten thousand feet above them, but yet you seem to stand in a
basin, with the green islands here and there, and the valleys and the
wide ocean, and the remote snow-peak of Mauna Loa, all raised up before
and above you, and pictured out like a brightly tinted map hung at the
ceiling of a room.

You look up at everything; nothing is below you.  It has a singular and
startling effect to see a miniature world thus seemingly hung in mid-air.

But soon the white clouds come trooping along in ghostly squadrons and
mingle together in heavy masses a quarter of a mile below you and shut
out everything-completely hide the sea and all the earth save the
pinnacle you stand on.  As far as the eye can reach, it finds nothing to
rest upon but a boundless plain of clouds tumbled into all manner of
fantastic shapes-a billowy ocean of wool aflame with the gold and purple
and crimson splendors of the setting sun!  And so firm does this grand
cloud pavement look that you can hardly persuade yourself that you could
not walk upon it; that if you stepped upon it you would plunge headlong
and astonish your friends at dinner ten thousand feet below.

Standing on that peak, with all the world shut out by that vast plain of
clouds, a feeling of loneliness comes over a man which suggests to his
mind the last man at the flood, perched high upon the last rock, with
nothing visible on any side but a mournful waste of waters, and the ark
departing dimly through the distant mists and leaving him to storm and
night and solitude and death!




NOTICE OF MARK TWAIN'S LECTURE

"THE TROUBLE IS OVER"

"The inimitable Mark Twain, delivered himself last night of his first
lecture on the Sandwich Islands, or anything else.

"Some time before the hour appointed to open his head the Academy of Music
(on Pine Street) was densely crowded with one of the most fashionable
audiences it was ever my privilege to witness during my long residence in
this city.  The Elite of the town were there, and so was the Governor of
the State, occupying one of the boxes, whose rotund face was suffused
with a halo of mirth during the whole entertainment.  The audience
promptly notified Mark by the usual sign--stamping--that the auspicious
hour had arrived, and presently the lecturer came sidling and swinging
out from the left of the stage.  His very manner produced a generally
vociferous laugh from the assemblage.  He opened with an apology, by
saying that he had partly succeeded in obtaining a band, but at the last
moment the party engaged backed out.  He explained that he had hired a
man to play the trombone, but he, on learning that he was the only person
engaged, came at the last moment and informed him that he could not play.
This placed Mark in a bad predicament, and wishing to know his reasons
for deserting him at that critical moment, he replied, 'That he wasn't
going to make a fool of himself by sitting up there on the stage and
blowing his horn all by himself.'  After the applause subsided, he
assumed a very grave countenance and commenced his remarks proper with
the following well-known sentence: 'When, in the course of human events,'
etc.  He lectured fully an hour and a quarter, and his humorous sayings
were interspersed with geographical, agricultural, and statistical
remarks, sometimes branching off and reaching beyond, soaring, in the
very choicest language, up to the very pinnacle of descriptive power."





APPENDIX E

FROM "THE JUMPING FROG" BOOK (MARK TWAIN'S FIRST PUBLISHED VOLUME)

(See Chapters lviii and lix)

I

ADVERTISEMENT

"Mark Twain" is too well known to the public to require a formal
introduction at my hands.  By his story of the Frog he scaled the heights
of popularity at a single jump and won for himself the 'sobriquet' of The
Wild Humorist of the Pacific Slope.  He is also known to fame as The
Moralist of the Main; and it is not unlikely that as such he will go down
to posterity.  It is in his secondary character, as humorist, however,
rather than in the primal one of moralist, that I aim to present him in
the present volume.  And here a ready explanation will be found for the
somewhat fragmentary character of many of these sketches; for it was
necessary to snatch threads of humor wherever they could be found--very
often detaching them from serious articles and moral essays with which
they were woven and entangled.  Originally written for newspaper
publication, many of the articles referred to events of the day, the
interest of which has now passed away, and contained local allusions,
which the general reader would fail to understand; in such cases excision
became imperative.  Further than this, remark or comment is unnecessary.
Mark Twain never resorts to tricks of spelling nor rhetorical buffoonery
for the purpose of provoking a laugh; the vein of his humor runs too rich
and deep to make surface gliding necessary.  But there are few who can
resist the quaint similes, keen satire, and hard, good sense which form
the staple of his writing.
                                             J. P.



II

FROM ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS

"MORAL STATISTICIAN"--I don't want any of your statistics.  I took your
whole batch and lit my pipe with it.  I hate your kind of people.  You
are always ciphering out how much a man's health is injured, and how much
his intellect is impaired, and how many pitiful dollars and cents he
wastes in the course of ninety-two years' indulgence in the fatal
practice of smoking; and in the equally fatal practice of drinking
coffee; and in playing billiards occasionally; and in taking a glass of
wine at dinner, etc., etc., etc.  .  .  .

Of course you can save money by denying yourself all these vicious little
enjoyments for fifty years; but then what can you do with it?  What use
can you put it to?  Money can't save your infinitesimal soul.  All the
use that money can be put to is to purchase comfort and enjoyment in this
life; therefore, as you are an enemy to comfort and enjoyment, where is
the use in accumulating cash?  It won't do for you to say that you can
use it to better purpose in furnishing good table, and in charities, and
in supporting tract societies, because you know yourself that you people
who have no petty vices are never known to give away a cent, and that you
stint yourselves so in the matter of food that you are always feeble and
hungry.  And you never dare to laugh in the daytime for fear some poor
wretch, seeing you in a good-humor, will try to borrow a dollar of you;
and in church you are always down on your knees, with your eyes buried in
the cushion, when the contribution-box comes around; and you never give
the revenue-officers a true statement of your income.  Now you all know
all these things yourself, don't you?  Very well, then, what is the use
of your stringing out your miserable lives to a clean and withered old
age?  What is the use of your saving money that is so utterly worthless
to you?  In a word, why don't you go off somewhere and die, and not be
always trying to seduce people into becoming as "ornery" and unlovable as
you are yourselves, by your ceaseless and villainous "moral statistics"?
Now, I don't approve of dissipation, and I don't indulge in it, either;
but I haven't a particle of confidence in a man who has no redeeming
petty vices whatever, and so I don't want to hear from you any more.  I
think you are the very same man who read me a long lecture last week
about the degrading vice of smoking cigars and then came back, in my
absence, with your vile, reprehensible fire-proof gloves on, and carried
off my beautiful parlor-stove.




III

FROM "A STRANGE DREAM"

(Example of Mark Twain's Early Descriptive Writing)

.  .  .  In due time I stood, with my companion, on the wall of the vast
caldron which the natives, ages ago, named 'Hale mau mau'--the abyss
wherein they were wont to throw the remains of their chiefs, to the end
that vulgar feet might never tread above them.  We stood there, at dead
of night, a mile above the level of the sea, and looked down a thousand
feet upon a boiling, surging, roaring ocean of fire!--shaded our eyes
from the blinding glare, and gazed far away over the crimson waves with a
vague notion that a supernatural fleet, manned by demons and freighted
with the damned, might presently sail up out of the remote distance;
started when tremendous thunder-bursts shook the earth, and followed with
fascinated eyes the grand jets of molten lava that sprang high up toward
the zenith and exploded in a world of fiery spray that lit up the somber
heavens with an infernal splendor.

"What is your little bonfire of Vesuvius to this?"

My ejaculation roused my companion from his reverie, and we fell into a
conversation appropriate to the occasion and the surroundings.  We came
at last to speak of the ancient custom of casting the bodies of dead
chieftains into this fearful caldron; and my comrade, who is of the blood
royal, mentioned that the founder of his race, old King Kamehameha the
First--that invincible old pagan Alexander--had found other sepulture
than the burning depths of the 'Hale mau mau'.  I grew interested at
once; I knew that the mystery of what became of the corpse of the warrior
king hail never been fathomed; I was aware that there was a legend
connected with this matter; and I felt as if there could be no more
fitting time to listen to it than the present.  The descendant of the
Kamehamehas said:

The dead king was brought in royal state down the long, winding road that
descends from the rim of the crater to the scorched and chasm-riven plain
that lies between the 'Hale mau mau' and those beetling walls yonder in
the distance.  The guards were set and the troops of mourners began the
weird wail for the departed.  In the middle of the night came a sound of
innumerable voices in the air and the rush of invisible wings; the
funeral torches wavered, burned blue, and went out.  The mourners and
watchers fell to the ground paralyzed by fright, and many minutes elapsed
before any one dared to move or speak; for they believed that the phantom
messengers of the dread Goddess of Fire had been in their midst.  When at
last a torch was lighted the bier was vacant--the dead monarch had been
spirited away!




APPENDIX F

THE INNOCENTS ABROAD
(See Chapter lx)


NEW YORK "HERALD" EDITORIAL ON THE RETURN OF THE "QUAKER CITY"
PILGRIMAGE, NOVEMBER 19, 1867

In yesterday's Herald we published a most amusing letter from the pen of
that most amusing American genius, Mark Twain, giving an account of that
most amusing of all modern pilgrimages--the pilgrimage of the 'Quaker
City'.  It has been amusing all through, this Quaker City affair.  It
might have become more serious than amusing if the ship had been sold at
Jaffa, Alexandria, or Yalta, in the Black Sea, as it appears might have
happened.  In such a case the passengers would have been more effectually
sold than the ship.  The descendants of the Puritan pilgrims have,
naturally enough, some of them, an affection for ships; but if all that
is said about this religious cruise be true they have also a singularly
sharp eye to business.  It was scarcely wise on the part of the pilgrims,
although it was well for the public, that so strange a genius as Mark
Twain should have found admission into the sacred circle.  We are not
aware whether Mr. Twain intends giving us a book on this pilgrimage, but
we do know that a book written from his own peculiar standpoint, giving
an account of the characters and events on board ship and of the scenes
which the pilgrims witnessed, would command an almost unprecedented sale.
There are varieties of genius peculiar to America.  Of one of these
varieties Mark Twain is a striking specimen.  For the development of his
peculiar genius he has never had a more fitting opportunity.  Besides,
there are some things which he knows, and which the world ought to know,
about this last edition of the Mayflower.






APPENDIX G

MARK TWAIN AT THE CORRESPONDENTS CLUB, WASHINGTON

(See Chapter lxiii)

WOMAN

A EULOGY OF THE FAIR SEX

The Washington Correspondents Club held its anniversary on Saturday
night.  Mr. Clemens, better known as Mark Twain, responded to the toast,
"Woman, the pride of the professions and the jewel of ours."  He said:

Mr. President,--I do not know why I should have been singled out to
receive the greatest distinction of the evening--for so the office of
replying to the toast to woman has been regarded in every age.
[Applause.] I do not know why I have received this distinction, unless it
be that I am a trifle less homely than the other members of the club.
But, be this as it may, Mr. President, I am proud of the position, and
you could not have chosen any one who would have accepted it more gladly,
or labored with a heartier good--will to do the subject justice, than I.
Because, Sir, I love the sex.  [Laughter.]  I love all the women, sir,
irrespective of age or color.  [Laughter.]

Human intelligence cannot estimate what we owe to woman, sir.  She sews
on our buttons [laughter]; she mends our clothes [laughter]; she ropes us
in at the church fairs; she confides in us; she tells us whatever she can
find out about the private affairs of the neighbors; she gives good
advice, and plenty of it; she gives us a piece of her mind sometimes--
and sometimes all of it; she soothes our aching brows; she bears our
children. (Ours as a general thing.)--[this last sentence appears in
Twain's published speeches and may have been added later.  D.W.]

In all relations of life, sir, it is but just and a graceful tribute to
woman to say of her that she is a brick.  [Great laughter.]

Wheresoever you place woman, sir--in whatsoever position or estate--she
is an ornament to that place she occupies, and a treasure to the world.
[Here Mr. Twain paused, looked inquiringly at his hearers, and remarked
that the applause should come in at this point.  It came in.  Mr. Twain
resumed his eulogy.] Look at the noble names of history!  Look at
Cleopatra!  Look at Desdemona!  Look at Florence Nightingale!  Look at
Joan of Arc!  Look at Lucretia Borgia!  [Disapprobation expressed.
"Well," said Mr. Twain, scratching his head, doubtfully, "suppose we let
Lucretia slide."] Look at Joyce Heth!  Look at Mother Eve!  I repeat,
sir, look at the illustrious names of history!  Look at the Widow
Machree!  Look at Lucy Stone!  Look at Elizabeth Cady Stanton!  Look at
George Francis Train!  [Great laughter.] And, sir, I say with bowed head
and deepest veneration, look at the mother of Washington!  She raised a
boy that could not lie--could not lie.  [Applause.] But he never had any
chance.  It might have been different with him if he had belonged to a
newspaper correspondents' club.  [Laughter, groans, hisses, cries of "put
him out."  Mark looked around placidly upon his excited audience, and
resumed.]

I repeat, sir, that in whatsoever position you place a woman she is an
ornament to society and a treasure to the world.  As a sweetheart she has
few equals and no superior [laughter]; as a cousin she is convenient; as
a wealthy grandmother with an incurable distemper she is precious; as a
wet nurse she has no equal among men!  [Laughter.]

What, sir, would the people of this earth be without woman?  They would
be scarce, sir. (Mighty scarce.)--[another line added later in the
published 'Speeches'. D.W.]  Then let us cherish her, let us protect her,
let us give her our support, our encouragement, our sympathy--ourselves,
if we get a chance.  [Laughter.]

But, jesting aside, Mr. President, woman is lovable, gracious, kind of
heart, beautiful; worthy of all respect, of all esteem, of all deference.
Not any here will refuse to drink her health right cordially, for each
and every one of us has personally known, loved, and honored the very
best one of them all--his own mother!  [Applause.]






APPENDIX H

ANNOUNCEMENT FOR LECTURE OF JULY 2, 1868

(See Chapter lxvi)

THE PUBLIC TO MARK TWAIN-CORRESPONDENCE

SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th.

MR. MARK TWAIN--DEAR SIR,--Hearing that you are about to sail for New
York in the P. M. S. S.  Company's steamer of the 6th July, to publish a
book, and learning with the deepest concern that you propose to read a
chapter or two of that book in public before you go, we take this method
of expressing our cordial desire that you will not.  We beg and implore
you do not.  There is a limit to human endurance.

We are your personal friends.  We have your welfare at heart.  We desire
to see you prosper.  And it is upon these accounts, and upon these only,
that we urge you to desist from the new atrocity you contemplate.  Yours
truly,

     60 names including: Bret Harte, Maj.-Gen. Ord, Maj.-Gen. Halleck,
     The Orphan Asylum, and various Benevolent Societies, Citizens on
     Foot and Horseback, and 1500 in the Steerage.



(REPLY)

                                   SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th

TO THE 1,500 AND OTHERS,--It seems to me that your course is entirely
unprecedented.  Heretofore, when lecturers, singers, actors, and other
frauds have said they were about to leave town, you have always been the
very first people to come out in a card beseeching them to hold on for
just one night more, and inflict just one more performance on the public,
but as soon as I want to take a farewell benefit you come after me, with
a card signed by the whole community and the board of aldermen, praying
me not to do it.  But it isn't of any use.  You cannot move me from my
fell purpose.  I will torment the people if I want to.  I have a better
right to do it than these strange lecturers and orators that come here
from abroad.  It only costs the public a dollar apiece, and if they can't
stand it what do they stay here for?  Am I to go away and let them have
peace and quiet for a year and a half, and then come back and only
lecture them twice?  What do you take me for?

No, gentlemen, ask of me anything else and I will do it cheerfully; but
do not ask me not to afflict the people.  I wish to tell them all I know
about VENICE.  I wish to tell them about the City of the Sea--that most
venerable, most brilliant, and proudest Republic the world has ever seen.
I wish to hint at what it achieved in twelve hundred years, and what it
lost in two hundred.  I wish to furnish a deal of pleasant information,
somewhat highly spiced, but still palatable, digestible, and eminently
fitted for the intellectual stomach.  My last lecture was not as fine as
I thought it was, but I have submitted this discourse to several able
critics, and they have pronounced it good.  Now, therefore, why should I
withhold it?

Let me talk only just this once, and I will sail positively on the 6th of
July, and stay away until I return from China--two years.
                                   Yours truly, MARK TWAIN.



(FURTHER REMONSTRANCE)

SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th.

MR. MARK TWAIN,--Learning with profound regret that you have concluded to
postpone your departure until the 6th July, and learning also, with
unspeakable grief, that you propose to read from your forthcoming book,
or lecture again before you go, at the New Mercantile Library, we hasten
to beg of you that you will not do it.  Curb this spirit of lawless
violence, and emigrate at once.  Have the vessel's bill for your passage
sent to us.  We will pay it.

                                   Your friends,
                                        Pacific Board of Brokers [and
                                        other financial and social
                                        institutions]



                                   SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th.

MR. MARK TWAIN--DEAR SIR,--Will you start now, without any unnecessary
delay?
                                   Yours truly,
                                        Proprietors of the Alta,
                                        Bulletin, Times, Call, Examiner
                                        [and other San Francisco
                                        publications].



                                   SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th.

MR. MARK TWAIN--DEAR SIR,--Do not delay your departure.  You can come
back and lecture another time.  In the language of the worldly--you can
"cut and come again."
                                   Your friends,
                                        THE CLERGY.



                                   SAN FRANCISCO, June 3oth.

MR. MARK TWAIN--DEAR SIR,--You had better go.
                                   Yours,
                                        THE CHIEF OF POLICE.



(REPLY)

SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th.

GENTLEMEN,--Restrain your emotions; you observe that they cannot avail.
Read:

                         NEW MERCANTILE LIBRARY
                               Bush Street

                     Thursday Evening, July 2, 1868
                             One Night Only

                            FAREWELL LECTURE
                                   of
                               MARK TWAIN
                                Subject:
                       The Oldest of the Republics
                                 VENICE
                            PAST AND PRESENT

                 Box-Office open Wednesday and Thursday
                   No extra charge for reserved seats

          ADMISSION .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  ONE DOLLAR
          Doors open at 7         Orgies to commence at 8 P.  M.

     The public displays and ceremonies projected to give fitting eclat
     to this occasion have been unavoidably delayed until the 4th.  The
     lecture will be delivered certainly on the 2d, and the event will be
     celebrated two days afterward by a discharge of artillery on the
     4th, a procession of citizens, the reading of the Declaration of
     Independence, and by a gorgeous display of fireworks from Russian
     Hill in the evening, which I have ordered at my sole expense, the
     cost amounting to eighty thousand dollars.

                        AT NEW MERCANTILE LIBRARY
                               Bush Street
                     Thursday Evening, July 2, 1868






APPENDIX I

MARK TWAIN'S CHAMPIONSHIP OF THOMAS K. BEECHER

(See Chapter lxxiv)

There was a religious turmoil in Elmira in 1869; a disturbance among the
ministers, due to the success of Thomas K. Beecher in a series of
meetings he was conducting in the Opera House.  Mr. Beecher's teachings
had never been very orthodox or doctrinal, but up to this time they had
been seemingly unobjectionable to his brother clergymen, who fraternized
with him and joined with him in the Monday meetings of the Ministerial
Union of Elmira, when each Monday a sermon was read by one of the
members.  The situation presently changed.  Mr. Beecher was preaching his
doubtful theology to large and nightly increasing audiences, and it was
time to check the exodus.  The Ministerial Union of Elmira not only
declined to recognize and abet the Opera House gatherings, but they
requested him to withdraw from their Monday meetings, on the ground that
his teachings were pernicious.  Mr. Beecher said nothing of the matter,
and it was not made public until a notice of it appeared in a religious
paper.  Naturally such a course did not meet with the approval of the
Langdon family, and awoke the scorn of a man who so detested bigotry in
any form as Mark Twain.  He was a stranger in the place, and not
justified to speak over his own signature, but he wrote an article and
read it to members of the Langdon family and to Dr. and Mrs. Taylor,
their intimate friends, who were spending an evening in the Langdon home.
It was universally approved, and the next morning appeared in the Elmira
Advertiser, over the signature of "S'cat."  It created a stir, of course.

The article follows:

MR. BEECHER AND THE CLERGY

"The Ministerial Union of Elmira, N. Y., at a recent meeting passed
resolutions disapproving the teachings of Rev. T. K. Beecher, declining
to co-operate with him in his Sunday evening services at the Opera House,
and requesting him to withdraw from their Monday morning meeting.  This
has resulted in his withdrawal, and thus the pastors are relieved from
further responsibility as to his action."--N. Y. Evangelist.


Poor Beecher!  All this time he could do whatever he pleased that was
wrong, and then be perfectly serene and comfortable over it, because the
Ministerial Union of Elmira was responsible to God for it.  He could lie
if he wanted to, and those ministers had to answer for it; he could
promote discord in the church of Christ, and those parties had to make it
right with the Deity as best they could; he could teach false doctrines
to empty opera houses, and those sorrowing lambs of the Ministerial Union
had to get out their sackcloth and ashes and stand responsible for it.
He had such a comfortable thing of it!  But he went too far.  In an evil
hour he slaughtered the simple geese that laid the golden egg of
responsibility for him, and now they will uncover their customary
complacency, and lift up their customary cackle in his behalf no more.
And so, at last, he finds himself in the novel position of being
responsible to God for his acts, instead of to the Ministerial Union of
Elmira.  To say that this is appalling is to state it with a degree of
mildness which amounts to insipidity.

We cannot justly estimate this calamity, without first reviewing certain
facts that conspired to bring it about.  Mr. Beecher was and is in the
habit of preaching to a full congregation in the Independent
Congregational Church, in this city.  The meeting-house was not large
enough to accommodate all the people who desired admittance.  Mr. Beecher
regularly attended the meetings of the Ministerial Union of Elmira every
Monday morning, and they received him into their fellowship, and never
objected to the doctrines which he taught in his church.  So, in an
unfortunate moment, he conceived the strange idea that they would connive
at the teaching of the same doctrines in the same way in a larger house.
Therefore he secured the Opera House and proceeded to preach there every
Sunday evening to assemblages comprising from a thousand to fifteen
hundred persons.  He felt warranted in this course by a passage of
Scripture which says, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel
unto every creature."  Opera-houses were not ruled out specifically in
this passage, and so he considered it proper to regard opera-houses as a
part of "all the world."  He looked upon the people who assembled there
as coming under the head of "every creature."  These ideas were as absurd
as they were farfetched, but still they were the honest ebullitions of a
diseased mind.  His great mistake was in supposing that when he had the
Saviour's indorsement of his conduct he had all that was necessary.  He
overlooked the fact that there might possibly be a conflict of opinion
between the Saviour and the Ministerial Union of Elmira.  And there was.
Wherefore, blind and foolish Mr. Beecher went to his destruction.  The
Ministerial Union withdrew their approbation, and left him dangling in
the air, with no other support than the countenance and approval of the
gospel of Christ.

Mr. Beecher invited his brother ministers to join forces with him and
help him conduct the Opera House meetings.  They declined with great
unanimity.  In this they were wrong.  Since they did not approve of those
meetings, it was a duty they owed to their consciences and their God to
contrive their discontinuance.  They knew this.  They felt it.  Yet they
turned coldly away and refused to help at those meetings, when they well
knew that their help, earnestly and persistently given, was able to kill
any great religious enterprise that ever was conceived of.

The ministers refused, and the calamitous meetings at the Opera House
continued; and not only continued, but grew in interest and importance,
and sapped of their congregations churches where the Gospel was preached
with that sweet monotonous tranquillity and that impenetrable profundity
which stir up such consternation in the strongholds of sin.  It is a pity
to have to record here that one clergyman refused to preach at the Opera
House at Mr. Beecher's request, even when that incendiary was sick and
disabled; and if that man's conscience justifies him in that refusal I do
not.  Under the plea of charity for a sick brother he could have preached
to that Opera House multitude a sermon that would have done incalculable
damage to the Opera House experiment.  And he need not have been
particular about the sermon he chose, either.  He could have relied on
any he had in his barrel.

The Opera House meetings went on; other congregations were thin, and grew
thinner, but the Opera House assemblages were vast.  Every Sunday night,
in spite of sense and reason, multitudes passed by the churches where
they might have been saved, and marched deliberately to the Opera House
to be damned.  The community talked, talked, talked.  Everybody discussed
the fact that the Ministerial Union disapproved of the Opera House
meetings; also the fact that they disapproved of the teachings put forth
there.  And everybody wondered how the Ministerial Union could tell
whether to approve or disapprove of those teachings, seeing that those
clergymen had never attended an Opera House meeting, and therefore didn't
know what was taught there.  Everybody wondered over that curious
question, and they had to take it out in wondering.

Mr. Beecher asked the Ministerial Union to state their objections to the
Opera House matter.  They could not--at least they did not.  He said to
them that if they would come squarely out and tell him that they desired
the discontinuance of those meetings he would discontinue them.  They
declined to do that.  Why should they have declined?  They had no right
to decline, and no excuse to decline, if they honestly believed that
those meetings interfered in the slightest degree with the best interests
of religion.  (That is a proposition which the profoundest head among
them cannot get around.)

But the Opera House meetings went on.  That was the mischief of it.  And
so, one Monday morning, when Mr. B. appeared at the usual Ministers'
meeting, his brother clergymen desired him to come there no more.  He
asked why.  They gave no reason.  They simply declined to have his
company longer.  Mr. B. said he could not accept of this execution
without a trial, and since he loved them and had nothing against them he
must insist upon meeting with them in the future just the same as ever.
And so, after that, they met in secret, and thus got rid of this man's
importunate affection.

The Ministerial Union had ruled out Beecher--a point gained.  He would
get up an excitement about it in public.  But that was a miscalculation.
He never mentioned it.  They waited and waited for the grand crash, but
it never came.  After all their labor-pains, their ministerial mountain
had brought forth only a mouse--and a still-born one at that.  Beecher
had not told on them; Beecher malignantly persisted in not telling on
them.  The opportunity was slipping away.  Alas, for the humiliation of
it, they had to come out and tell it themselves!  And after all, their
bombshell did not hurt anybody when they did explode it.  They had ceased
to be responsible to God for Beecher, and yet nobody seemed paralyzed
about it.  Somehow, it was not even of sufficient importance, apparently,
to get into the papers, though even the poor little facts that Smith has
bought a trotting team and Alderman Jones's child has the measles are
chronicled there with avidity.  Something must be done.  As the
Ministerial Union had told about their desolating action, when nobody
else considered it of enough importance to tell, they would also publish
it, now that the reporters failed to see anything in it important enough
to print.  And so they startled the entire religious world no doubt by
solemnly printing in the Evangelist the paragraph which heads this
article.  They have got their excommunication-bull started at last.  It
is going along quite lively now, and making considerable stir, let us
hope.  They even know it in Podunk, wherever that may be.  It excited a
two-line paragraph there.  Happy, happy world, that knows at last that a
little congress of congregationless clergymen of whom it had never heard
before have crushed a famous Beecher, and reduced his audiences from
fifteen hundred down to fourteen hundred and seventy-five at one fell
blow!  Happy, happy world, that knows at last that these obscure
innocents are no longer responsible for the blemishless teachings, the
power, the pathos, the logic, and the other and manifold intellectual
pyrotechnics that seduce, but to damn, the Opera House assemblages every
Sunday night in Elmira!  And miserable, O thrice miserable Beecher!  For
the Ministerial Union of Elmira will never, no, never more be responsible
to God for his shortcomings.  (Excuse these tears.)

(For the protection of a man who is uniformly charged with all the
newspaper deviltry that sees the light in Elmira journals, I take this
opportunity of stating, under oath, duly subscribed before a magistrate,
that Mr. Beecher did not write this article.  And further still, that he
did not inspire it.  And further still, the Ministerial Union of Elmira
did not write it.  And finally, the Ministerial Union did not ask me to
write it.  No, I have taken up this cudgel in defense of the Ministerial
Union of Elmira solely from a love of justice.  Without solicitation, I
have constituted myself the champion of the Ministerial Union of Elmira,
and it shall be a labor of love with me to conduct their side of a
quarrel in print for them whenever they desire me to do it; or if they
are busy, and have not the time to ask me, I will cheerfully do it
anyhow.  In closing this I must remark that if any question the right of
the clergymen of Elmira to turn Mr. Beecher out of the Ministerial Union,
to such I answer that Mr. Beecher recreated that institution after it had
been dead for many years, and invited those gentlemen to come into it,
which they did, and so of course they have a right to turn him out if
they want to.  The difference between Beecher and the man who put an
adder in his bosom is, that Beecher put in more adders than he did, and
consequently had a proportionately livelier time of it when they got
warmed up.)
                              Cheerfully,
                                             S'CAT.





APPENDIX J

THE INDIGNITY PUT UPON THE REMAINS OF GEORGE HOLLAND BY THE
REV. MR. SABINE

(See Chapter lxxvii)

What a ludicrous satire it was upon Christian charity!--even upon the
vague, theoretical idea of it which doubtless this small saint mouths
from his own pulpit every Sunday.  Contemplate this freak of nature, and
think what a Cardiff giant of self-righteousness is crowded into his
pigmy skin.  If we probe, and dissect; and lay open this diseased, this
cancerous piety of his, we are forced to the conviction that it is the
production of an impression on his part that his guild do about all the
good that is done on the earth, and hence are better than common clay--
hence are competent to say to such as George Holland, "You are unworthy;
you are a play-actor, and consequently a sinner; I cannot take the
responsibility of recommending you to the mercy of Heaven."  It must have
had its origin in that impression, else he would have thought, "We are
all instruments for the carrying out of God's purposes; it is not for me
to pass judgment upon your appointed share of the work, or to praise or
to revile it; I have divine authority for it that we are all sinners, and
therefore it is not for me to discriminate and say we will supplicate for
this sinner, for he was a merchant prince or a banker, but we will
beseech no forgiveness for this other one, for he was a play-actor."

It surely requires the furthest possible reach of self-righteousness to
enable a man to lift his scornful nose in the air and turn his back upon
so poor and pitiable a thing as a dead stranger come to beg the last
kindness that humanity can do in its behalf.  This creature has violated
the letter of the Gospel, and judged George Holland--not George Holland,
either, but his profession through him.  Then it is, in a measure, fair
that we judge this creature's guild through him.  In effect he has said,
"We are the salt of the earth; we do all the good work that is done; to
learn how to be good and do good men must come to us; actors and such are
obstacles to moral progress."  Pray look at the thing reasonably a
moment, laying aside all biases of education and custom.  If a common
public impression is fair evidence of a thing then this minister's
legitimate, recognized, and acceptable business is to tell people calmly,
coldly, and in stiff, written sentences, from the pulpit, to go and do
right, be just, be merciful, be charitable.  And his congregation forget
it all between church and home.  But for fifty years it was George
Holland's business on the stage to make his audience go and do right, and
be just, merciful, and charitable--because by his living, breathing,
feeling pictures he showed them what it was to do these things, and how
to do them, and how instant and ample was the reward!  Is it not a
singular teacher of men, this reverend gentleman who is so poorly
informed himself as to put the whole stage under ban, and say, "I do not
think it teaches moral lessons"?  Where was ever a sermon preached that
could make filial ingratitude so hateful to men as the sinful play of
"King Lear"?  Or where was there ever a sermon that could so convince men
of the wrong and the cruelty of harboring a pampered and unanalyzed
jealousy as the sinful play of "Othello"?  And where are there ten
preachers who can stand in the pulpit preaching heroism, unselfish
devotion, and lofty patriotism, and hold their own against any one of
five hundred William Tells that can be raised upon five hundred stages in
the land at a day's notice?  It is almost fair and just to aver (although
it is profanity) that nine-tenths of all the kindness and forbearance and
Christian charity and generosity in the hearts of the American people
today got there by being filtered down from their fountain-head, the
gospel of Christ, through dramas and tragedies and comedies on the stage,
and through the despised novel and the Christmas story, and through the
thousand and one lessons, suggestions, and narratives of generous deeds
that stir the pulses, and exalt and augment the nobility of the nation
day by day from the teeming columns of ten thousand newspapers, and not
from the drowsy pulpit.

All that is great and good in our particular civilization came straight
from the hand of Jesus Christ, and many creatures, and of divers sorts,
were doubtless appointed to disseminate it; and let us believe that this
seed and the result are the main thing, and not the cut of the sower's
garment; and that whosoever, in his way and according to his opportunity,
sows the one and produces the other, has done high service and worthy.
And further, let us try with all our strength to believe that whenever
old simple-hearted George Holland sowed this seed, and reared his crop of
broader charities and better impulses in men's hearts, it was just as
acceptable before the Throne as if the seed had been scattered in vapid
platitudes from the pulpit of the ineffable Sabine himself.

Am I saying that the pulpit does not do its share toward disseminating
the marrow, the meat of the gospel of Christ?  (For we are not talking of
ceremonies and wire-drawn creeds now, but the living heart and soul of
what is pretty often only a specter.)

No, I am not saying that.  The pulpit teaches assemblages of people twice
a week nearly two hours altogether--and does what it can in that time.
The theater teaches large audiences seven times a week--28 or 30 hours
altogether--and the novels and newspapers plead, and argue, and
illustrate, stir, move, thrill, thunder, urge, persuade, and supplicate,
at the feet of millions and millions of people every single day, and all
day long and far into the night; and so these vast agencies till nine-
tenths of the vineyard, and the pulpit tills the other tenth.  Yet now
and then some complacent blind idiot says, "You unanointed are coarse
clay and useless; you are not as we, the regenerators of the world; go,
bury yourselves elsewhere, for we cannot take the responsibility of
recommending idlers and sinners to the yearning mercy of Heaven."  How
does a soul like that stay in a carcass without getting mixed with the
secretions and sweated out through the pores?  Think of this insect
condemning the whole theatrical service as a disseminator of bad morals
because it has Black Crooks in it; forgetting that if that were
sufficient ground people would condemn the pulpit because it had Crooks
and Kallochs and Sabines in it!

No, I am not trying to rob the pulpit of any atom of its full share and
credit in the work of disseminating the meat and marrow of the gospel of
Christ; but I am trying to get a moment's hearing for worthy agencies in
the same work, that with overwrought modesty seldom or never claim a
recognition of their great services.  I am aware that the pulpit does its
excellent one-tenth (and credits itself with it now and then, though most
of the time a press of business causes it to forget it); I am aware that
in its honest and well-meaning way it bores the people with uninflammable
truisms about doing good; bores them with correct compositions on
charity; bores them, chloroforms them, stupefies them with argumentative
mercy without a flaw in the grammar or an emotion which the minister
could put in in the right place if he turned his back and took his finger
off the manuscript.  And in doing these things the pulpit is doing its
duty, and let us believe that it is likewise doing its best, and doing it
in the most harmless and respectable way.  And so I have said, and shall
keep on saying, let us give the pulpit its full share of credit in
elevating and ennobling the people; but when a pulpit takes to itself
authority to pass judgment upon the work and worth of just as legitimate
an instrument of God as itself, who spent a long life preaching from the
stage the selfsame gospel without the alteration of a single sentiment or
a single axiom of right, it is fair and just that somebody who believes
that actors were made for a high and good purpose, and that they
accomplish the object of their creation and accomplish it well, should
protest.  And having protested, it is also fair and just--being driven to
it, as it were--to whisper to the Sabine pattern of clergyman, under the
breath, a simple, instructive truth, and say, "Ministers are not the only
servants of God upon earth, nor his most efficient ones, either, by a
very, very long distance!"  Sensible ministers already know this, and it
may do the other kind good to find it out.

But to cease teaching and go back to the beginning again, was it not
pitiable--that spectacle?  Honored and honorable old George Holland,
whose theatrical ministry had for fifty years softened hard hearts, bred
generosity in cold ones, kindled emotion in dead ones, uplifted base
ones, broadened bigoted ones, and made many and many a stricken one glad
and filled it brimful of gratitude, figuratively spit upon in his
unoffending coffin by this crawling, slimy, sanctimonious, self-righteous
reptile!






APPENDIX K

A SUBSTITUTE FOR RULOFF HAVE WE A SIDNEY CARTON AMONG US?

(See Chapter lxxxii)

To EDITOR of 'Tribune'.

SIR,--I believe in capital punishment.  I believe that when a murder has
been done it should be answered for with blood.  I have all my life been
taught to feel this way, and the fetters of education are strong.  The
fact that the death--law is rendered almost inoperative by its very
severity does not alter my belief in its righteousness.  The fact that in
England the proportion of executions to condemnations is one to sixteen,
and in this country only one to twenty-two, and in France only one to
thirty-eight, does not shake my steadfast confidence in the propriety of
retaining the death-penalty.  It is better to hang one murderer in
sixteen, twenty-two, thirty-eight than not to hang any at all.

Feeling as I do, I am not sorry that Ruloff is to be hanged, but I am
sincerely sorry that he himself has made it necessary that his vast
capabilities for usefulness should be lost to the world.  In this, mine
and the public's is a common regret.  For it is plain that in the person
of Ruloff one of the most marvelous of intellects that any age has
produced is about to be sacrificed, and that, too, while half the mystery
of its strange powers is yet a secret.  Here is a man who has never
entered the doors of a college or a university, and yet by the sheer
might of his innate gifts has made himself such a colossus in abstruse
learning that the ablest of our scholars are but pigmies in his presence.
By the evidence of Professor Mather, Mr. Surbridge, Mr. Richmond, and
other men qualified to testify, this man is as familiar with the broad
domain of philology as common men are with the passing events of the day.
His memory has such a limitless grasp that he is able to quote sentence
after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, chapter after chapter, from a
gnarled and knotty ancient literature that ordinary scholars are capable
of achieving little more than a bowing acquaintance with.  But his memory
is the least of his great endowments.  By the testimony of the gentlemen
above referred to he is able to critically analyze the works of the old
masters of literature, and while pointing out the beauties of the
originals with a pure and discriminating taste is as quick to detect the
defects of the accepted translations; and in the latter case, if
exceptions be taken to his judgment, he straightway opens up the quarries
of his exhaustless knowledge, and builds a very Chinese wall of evidence
around his position.  Every learned man who enters Ruloff's presence
leaves it amazed and confounded by his prodigious capabilities and
attainments.  One scholar said he did not believe that in matters of
subtle analysis, vast knowledge in his peculiar field of research,
comprehensive grasp of subject, and serene kingship over its limitless
and bewildering details, any land or any era of modern times had given
birth to Ruloff's intellectual equal.  What miracles this murderer might
have wrought, and what luster he might have shed upon his country, if he
had not put a forfeit upon his life so foolishly!  But what if the law
could be satisfied, and the gifted criminal still be saved.  If a life be
offered up on the gallows to atone for the murder Ruloff did, will that
suffice?  If so, give me the proofs, for in all earnestness and truth I
aver that in such a case I will instantly bring forward a man who, in the
interests of learning and science, will take Ruloff's crime upon himself,
and submit to be hanged in Ruloff's place.  I can, and will do this
thing; and I propose this matter, and make this offer in good faith.  You
know me, and know my address.
                              SAMUEL LANGHORNE.
                                                  April 29, 1871.






APPENDIX L

ABOUT LONDON

ADDRESS AT A DINNER GIVEN BY THE SAVAGE CLUB, LONDON, SEPTEMBER 28, 1872

(See Chapter lxxxvii)

Reported by Moncure D. Conway in the Cincinnati Commercial

It affords me sincere pleasure to meet this distinguished club, a club
which has extended its hospitalities and its cordial welcome to so many
of my countrymen.  I hope [and here the speaker's voice became low and
fluttering] you will excuse these clothes.  I am going to the theater;
that will explain these clothes.  I have other clothes than these.
Judging human nature by what I have seen of it, I suppose that the
customary thing for a stranger to do when he stands here is to make a pun
on the name of this club, under the impression, of course, that he is the
first man that that idea has occurred to.  It is a credit to our human
nature, not a blemish upon it; for it shows that underlying all our
depravity (and God knows and you know we are depraved enough) and all our
sophistication, and untarnished by them, there is a sweet germ of
innocence and simplicity still.  When a stranger says to me, with a glow
of inspiration in his eye, some gentle, innocuous little thing about
"Twain and one flesh" and all that sort of thing, I don't try to crush
that man into the earth--no.  I feel like saying, "Let me take you by the
hand, sir; let me embrace you; I have not heard that pun for weeks."  We
will deal in palpable puns.  We will call parties named King "your
Majesty" and we will say to the Smiths that we think we have heard that
name before somewhere.  Such is human nature.  We cannot alter this.  It
is God that made us so for some good and wise purpose.  Let us not
repine.  But though I may seem strange, may seem eccentric, I mean to
refrain from punning upon the name of this club, though I could make a
very good one if I had time to think about it--a week.

I cannot express to you what entire enjoyment I find in this first visit
to this prodigious metropolis of yours.  Its wonders seem to me to be
limitless.  I go about as in a dream--as in a realm of enchantment--where
many things are rare and beautiful, and all things are strange and
marvelous.  Hour after hour I stand--I stand spellbound, as it were-and
gaze upon the statuary in Leicester Square.  [Leicester Square being a
horrible chaos, with the relic of an equestrian statue in the center, the
king being headless and limbless, and the horse in little better
condition.]  I visit the mortuary effigies of noble old Henry VIII., and
Judge Jeffreys, and the preserved gorilla, and try to make up my mind
which of my ancestors I admire the most.  I go to that matchless Hyde
Park and drive all around it, and then I start to enter it at the Marble
Arch--and am induced to "change my mind."  [Cabs are not permitted in
Hyde Park--nothing less aristocratic than a private carriage.]  It is a
great benefaction--is Hyde Park.  There, in his hansom cab, the invalid
can go--the poor, sad child of misfortune--and insert his nose between
the railings, and breathe the pure, health-giving air of the country and
of heaven.  And if he is a swell invalid who isn't obliged to depend upon
parks for his country air he can drive inside--if he owns his vehicle.
I drive round and round Hyde Park and the more I see of the edges of it
the more grateful I am that the margin is extensive.

And I have been to the Zoological Gardens.  What a wonderful place that
is!  I have never seen such a curious and interesting variety of wild-
animals in any garden before--except Mabille.  I never believed before
there were so many different kinds of animals in the world as you can
find there--and I don't believe it yet.  I have been to the British
Museum.  I would advise you to drop in there some time when you have
nothing to do for--five minutes--if you have never been there.  It seems
to me the noblest monument this nation has, yet erected to her greatness.
I say to her, our greatness--as a nation.  True, she has built other
monuments, and stately ones, as well; but these she has uplifted in honor
of two or three colossal demigods who have stalked across the world's
stage, destroying tyrants and delivering nations, and whose prodigies
will still live in the memories of men ages after their monuments shall
have crumbled to dust--I refer to the Wellington and Nelson monuments,
and--the Albert memorial.  [Sarcasm.  The Albert memorial is the finest
monument in the world, and celebrates the existence of as commonplace a
person as good luck ever lifted out of obscurity.]

The Library at the British Museum I find particularly astounding.  I have
read there hours together, and hardly made an impression on it.  I revere
that library.  It is the author's friend.  I don't care how mean a book
is, it always takes one copy.  [A copy of every book printed in Great
Britain must by law be sent to the British Museum, a law much complained
of by publishers.]  And then every day that author goes there to gaze at
that book, and is encouraged to go on in the good work.  And what a
touching sight it is of a Saturday afternoon to see the poor, careworn
clergymen gathered together in that vast reading-room cabbaging sermons
for Sunday!  You will pardon my referring to these things.  Everything in
this monster city interests me, and I cannot keep from talking, even at
the risk of being instructive.  People here seem always to express
distances by parables.  To a stranger it is just a little confusing to be
so parabolic--so to speak.  I collar a citizen, and I think I am going to
get some valuable information out of him.  I ask him how far it is to
Birmingham, and he says it is twenty-one shillings and sixpence.  Now we
know that doesn't help a man who is trying to learn.  I find myself down-
town somewhere, and I want to get some sort of idea where I am--being
usually lost when alone--and I stop a citizen and say, "How far is it to
Charing Cross?"  "Shilling fare in a cab," and off he goes.  I suppose if
I were to ask a Londoner how far it is from the sublime to the ridiculous
he would try to express it in a coin.  But I am trespassing upon your
time with these geological statistics and historical reflections.  I will
not longer keep you from your orgies.  'Tis a real pleasure for me to be
here, and I thank you for it.  The name of the Savage Club is associated
in my mind with the kindly interest and the friendly offices which you
lavished upon an old friend of mine who came among you a stranger, and
you opened your English hearts to him and gave him a welcome and a home--
Artemus Ward.  Asking that you will join me, I give you his Memory.






APPENDIX M

LETTER WRITTEN TO MRS. CLEMENS FROM BOSTON, NOVEMBER, 1874, PROPHESYING A
MONARCHY IN SIXTY-ONE YEARS

(See Chapter xcvii)

                                        BOSTON, November 16, 1935.

DEAR LIVY,--You observe I still call this beloved old place by the name
it had when I was young.  Limerick!  It is enough to make a body sick.

The gentlemen-in-waiting stare to see me sit here telegraphing this
letter to you, and no doubt they are smiling in their sleeves.  But let
them!  The slow old fashions are good enough for me, thank God, and I
will none other.  When I see one of these modern fools sit absorbed,
holding the end of a telegraph wire in his hand, and reflect that a
thousand miles away there is another fool hitched to the other end of it,
it makes me frantic with rage; and then I am more implacably fixed and
resolved than ever to continue taking twenty minutes to telegraph you
what I might communicate in ten seconds by the new way if I would so
debase myself.  And when I see a whole silent, solemn drawing-room full
of idiots sitting with their hands on each other's foreheads "communing"
I tug the white hairs from my head and curse till my asthma brings me the
blessed relief of suffocation.  In our old day such a gathering talked
pure drivel and "rot," mostly, but better that, a thousand times, than
these dreary conversational funerals that oppress our spirits in this mad
generation.

It is sixty years since I was here before.  I walked hither then with my
precious old friend.  It seems incredible now that we did it in two days,
but such is my recollection.  I no longer mention that we walked back in
a single day, it makes me so furious to see doubt in the face of the
hearer.  Men were men in those old times.  Think of one of the puerile
organisms in this effeminate age attempting such a feat.

My air-ship was delayed by a collision with a fellow from China loaded
with the usual cargo of jabbering, copper-colored missionaries, and so I
was nearly an hour on my journey.  But by the goodness of God thirteen of
the missionaries were crippled and several killed, so I was content to
lose the time.  I love to lose time anyway because it brings soothing
reminiscences of the creeping railroad days of old, now lost to us
forever.

Our game was neatly played, and successfully.  None expected us, of
course.  You should have seen the guards at the ducal palace stare when I
said, "Announce his Grace the Archbishop of Dublin and the Right
Honorable the Earl of Hartford."  Arrived within, we were all eyes to see
the Duke of Cambridge and his Duchess, wondering if we might remember
their faces and they ours.  In a moment they came tottering in; he, bent
and withered and bald; she, blooming with wholesome old age.  He peered
through his glasses a moment, then screeched in a reedy voice, "Come to
my arms!  Away with titles--I'll know ye by no names but Twain and
Twichell!"  Then fell he on our necks and jammed his trumpet in his ear,
the which we filled with shoutings to this effect: "God bless you, old
Howells, what is left of you!"

We talked late that night--none of your silent idiot "communings" for us
--of the olden time.  We rolled a stream of ancient anecdotes over our
tongues and drank till the Lord Archbishop grew so mellow in the mellow
past that Dublin ceased to be Dublin to him, and resumed its sweeter,
forgotten name of New York.  In truth he almost got back into his ancient
religion, too, good Jesuit as he has always been since O'Mulligan the
First established that faith in the empire.

And we canvassed everybody.  Bailey Aldrich, Marquis of Ponkapog, came
in, got nobly drunk, and told us all about how poor Osgood lost his
earldom and was hanged for conspiring against the second Emperor; but he
didn't mention how near he himself came to being hanged, too, for
engaging in the same enterprise.  He was as chaffy as he was sixty years
ago, too, and swore the Archbishop and I never walked to Boston; but
there was never a day that Ponkapog wouldn't lie, so be it by the grace
of God he got the opportunity.

The Lord High Admiral came in, a hale gentleman close upon seventy and
bronzed by the suns and storms of many climes and scarred by the wounds
got in many battles, and I told him how I had seen him sit in a high-
chair and eat fruit and cakes and answer to the name of Johnny.  His
granddaughter (the eldest) is but lately married to the youngest of the
Grand Dukes, and so who knows but a day may come when the blood of the
Howellses may reign in the land?  I must not forget to say, while I think
of it, that your new false teeth are done, my dear, and your wig.  Keep
your head well bundled with a shawl till the latter comes, and so cheat
your persecuting neuralgias and rheumatisms.  Would you believe it?--the
Duchess of Cambridge is deafer than you--deafer than her husband.  They
call her to breakfast with a salvo of artillery; and usually when it
thunders she looks up expectantly and says, "Come in."  But she has
become subdued and gentle with age and never destroys the furniture now,
except when uncommonly vexed.  God knows, my dear, it would be a happy
thing if you and old Lady Harmony would imitate this spirit.  But indeed
the older you grow the less secure becomes the furniture.  When I throw
chairs through the window I have sufficient reason to back it.  But you--
you are but a creature of passion.

The monument to the author of 'Gloverson and His Silent Partners' is
finished.--[Ralph Keeler.  See chap.  lxxxiii.]--It is the stateliest
and the costliest ever erected to the memory of any man.  This noble
classic has now been translated into all the languages of the earth and
is adored by all nations and known to all creatures.  Yet I have
conversed as familiarly with the author of it as I do with my own great-
grandchildren.

I wish you could see old Cambridge and Ponkapog.  I love them as dearly
as ever, but privately, my dear, they are not much improvement on idiots.
It is melancholy to hear them jabber over the same pointless anecdotes
three and four times of an evening, forgetting that they had jabbered
them over three or four times the evening before.  Ponkapog still writes
poetry, but the old-time fire has mostly gone out of it.  Perhaps his
best effort of late years is this:

               O soul, soul, soul of mine!
               Soul, soul, soul of throe!
               Thy soul, my soul, two souls entwine,
               And sing thy lauds in crystal wine!


This he goes about repeating to everybody, daily and nightly, insomuch
that he is become a sore affliction to all that know him.

But I must desist.  There are draughts here everywhere and my gout is
something frightful.  My left foot hath resemblance to a snuff-bladder.
God be with you.
                                             HARTFORD.

These to Lady Hartford, in the earldom of Hartford, in the
upper portion of the city of Dublin.






APPENDIX N

MARK TWAIN AND COPYRIGHT


I

PETITION

Concerning Copyright (1875)
(See Chapter cii)

TO THE SENATE AND HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE UNITED STATES IN
CONGRESS ASSEMBLED.

We, your petitioners, do respectfully represent as follows, viz.: That
justice, plain and simple, is a thing which right-feeling men stand ready
at all times to accord to brothers and strangers alike.  All such men
will concede that it is but plain, simple justice that American authors
should be protected by copyright in Europe; also, that European authors
should be protected by copyright here.

Both divisions of this proposition being true, it behooves our government
to concern itself with that division of it which comes peculiarly within
its province--viz., the latter moiety--and to grant to foreign authors
with all convenient despatch a full and effective copyright in America
without marring the grace of the act by stopping to inquire whether a
similar justice will be done our own authors by foreign governments.  If
it were even known that those governments would not extend this justice
to us it would still not justify us in withholding this manifest right
from their authors.  If a thing is right it ought to be done--the thing
called "expediency" or "policy" has no concern with such a matter.  And
we desire to repeat, with all respect, that it is not a grace or a
privilege we ask for our foreign brethren, but a right--a right received
from God, and only denied them by man.  We hold no ownership in these
authors, and when we take their work from them, as at present, without
their consent, it is robbery.  The fact that the handiwork of our own
authors is seized in the same way in foreign lands neither excuses nor
mitigates our sin.

With your permission we will say here, over our signatures, and earnestly
and sincerely, that we very greatly desire that you shall grant a full
copyright to foreign authors (the copyright fee for the entry in the
office of the Congressional Librarian to be the same as we pay
ourselves), and we also as greatly desire that this grant shall be made
without a single hampering stipulation that American authors shall
receive in turn an advantage of any kind from foreign governments.

Since no author who was applied to hesitated for a moment to append his
signature to this petition we are satisfied that if time had permitted we
could have procured the signature of every writer in the United States,
great and small, obscure or famous.  As it is, the list comprises the
names of about all our writers whose works have at present a European
market, and who are therefore chiefly concerned in this matter.

No objection to our proposition can come from any reputable publisher
among us--or does come from such a quarter, as the appended signatures of
our greatest publishing firms will attest.  A European copyright here
would be a manifest advantage to them.  As the matter stands now the
moment they have thoroughly advertised a desirable foreign book, and thus
at great expense aroused public interest in it, some small-spirited
speculator (who has lain still in his kennel and spent nothing) rushes
the same book on the market and robs the respectable publisher of half
the gains.

Then, since neither our authors nor the decent among our publishing firms
will object to granting an American copyright to foreign authors and
artists, who can there be to object?  Surely nobody whose protest is
entitled to any weight.

Trusting in the righteousness of our cause we, your petitioners, will
ever pray, etc.
                              With great respect,
                                             Your Ob't Serv'ts.




CIRCULAR TO AMERICAN AUTHORS AND PUBLISHERS

DEAR SIR,--We believe that you will recognize the justice and the
righteousness of the thing we desire to accomplish through the
accompanying petition.  And we believe that you will be willing that our
country shall be the first in the world to grant to all authors alike the
free exercise of their manifest right to do as they please with the fruit
of their own labor without inquiring what flag they live under.  If the
sentiments of the petition meet your views, will you do us the favor to
sign it and forward it by post at your earliest convenience to our
secretary?
                                        }Committee
Address
         -------------------
Secretary of the Committee.





II

Communications supposed to have been written by the Tsar of Russia and
the Sultan of Turkey to Mark Twain on the subject of International
Copyright, about 1890.


                                        ST. PETERSBURG, February.

COL. MARK TWAIN, Washington.

Your cablegram received.  It should have been transmitted through my
minister, but let that pass.  I am opposed to international copyright.
At present American literature is harmless here because we doctor it in
such a way as to make it approve the various beneficent devices which we
use to keep our people favorable to fetters as jewelry and pleased with
Siberia as a summer resort.  But your bill would spoil this.  We should
be obliged to let you say your say in your own way.  'Voila'!  my empire
would be a republic in five years and I should be sampling Siberia
myself.

If you should run across Mr. Kennan--[George Kennan, who had graphically
pictured the fearful conditions of Siberian exile.]--please ask him to
come over and give some readings.  I will take good care of him.

                                             ALEXANDER III.

144--Collect.




                                        CONSTANTINOPLE, February.

DR.  MARK TWAIN, Washington.

Great Scott, no!  By the beard of the Prophet, no!  How can you ask such
a thing of me?  I am a man of family.  I cannot take chances, like other
people.  I cannot let a literature come in here which teaches that a
man's wife is as good as the man himself.  Such a doctrine cannot do any
particular harm, of course, where the man has only one wife, for then it
is a dead-level between them, and there is no humiliating inequality, and
no resulting disorder; but you take an extremely married person, like me,
and go to teaching that his wife is 964 times as good as he is, and
what's hell to that harem, dear friend?  I never saw such a fool as you.
Do not mind that expression; I already regret it, and would replace it
with a softer one if I could do it without debauching the truth.  I
beseech you, do not pass that bill.  Roberts College is quite all the
American product we can stand just now.  On top of that, do you want to
send us a flood of freedom-shrieking literature which we can't edit the
poison out of, but must let it go among our people just as it is?  My
friend, we should be a republic inside of ten years.

                                                       ABDUL II.



III

MARK TWAIN'S LAST SUGGESTION ON COPYRIGHT

A MEMORIAL RESPECTFULLY TENDERED TO THE MEMBERS OF THE SENATE AND THE
HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES

(Prepared early in 1909 at the suggestion of Mr. Champ Clack but not
offered.  A bill adding fourteen years to the copyright period was passed
about this time.)

The Policy of Congress:--Nineteen or twenty years ago James Russell
Lowell, George Haven Putnam, and the under signed appeared before the
Senate Committee on Patents in the interest of Copyright.  Up to that
time, as explained by Senator Platt, of Connecticut, the policy of
Congress had been to limit the life of a copyright by a term of years,
with one definite end in view, and only one--to wit, that after an author
had been permitted to enjoy for a reasonable length of time the income
from literary property created by his hand and brain the property should
then be transferred "to the public" as a free gift.  That is still the
policy of Congress to-day.

The Purpose in View:--The purpose in view was clear: to so reduce the
price of the book as to bring it within the reach of all purses, and
spread it among the millions who had not been able to buy it while it was
still under the protection of copyright.

The Purpose Defeated:--This purpose has always been defeated.  That is to
say, that while the death of a copyright has sometimes reduced the price
of a book by a half for a while, and in some cases by even more, it has
never reduced it vastly, nor accomplished any reduction that was
permanent and secure.

The Reason:--The reason is simple: Congress has never made a reduction
compulsory.  Congress was convinced that the removal of the author's
royalty and the book's consequent (or at least probable) dispersal among
several competing publishers would make the book cheap by force of the
competition.  It was an error.  It has not turned out so.  The reason is,
a publisher cannot find profit in an exceedingly cheap edition if he must
divide the market with competitors.

Proposed Remedy:--The natural remedy would seem to be, amended law
requiring the issue of cheap editions.

Copyright Extension:--I think the remedy could be accomplished in the
following way, without injury to author or publisher, and with extreme
advantage to the public: by an amendment to the existing law providing as
follows--to wit: that at any time between the beginning of a book's
forty-first year and the ending of its forty-second the owner of the
copyright may extend its life thirty years by issuing and placing on sale
an edition of the book at one-tenth the price of the cheapest edition
hitherto issued at any time during the ten immediately preceding years.
This extension to lapse and become null and void if at any time during
the thirty years he shall fail during the space of three consecutive
months to furnish the ten per cent.  book upon demand of any person or
persons desiring to buy it.

The Result:--The result would be that no American classic enjoying the
thirty-year extension would ever be out of the reach of any American
purse, let its uncompulsory price be what it might.  He would get a two-
dollar book for 20 cents, and he could get none but copyright-expired
classics at any such rate.

The Final Result:--At the end of the thirty-year extension the
copyright would again die, and the price would again advance.  This by a
natural law, the excessively cheap edition no longer carrying with it an
advantage to any publisher.

Reconstruction of The Present Law Not Necessary:--A clause of the
suggested amendment could read about as follows, and would obviate the
necessity of taking the present law to pieces and building it over again:

     All books and all articles enjoying forty-two years copyright-life
     under the present law shall be admitted to the privilege of the
     thirty-year extension upon complying with the condition requiring
     the producing and placing upon permanent sale of one grade or form
     of said book or article at a price of 90 per cent. below the
     cheapest rate at which said book or article had been placed upon the
     market at any time during the immediately preceding ten years.


                                  REMARKS

If the suggested amendment shall meet with the favor of the present
Congress and become law--and I hope it will--I shall have personal
experience of its effects very soon.  Next year, in fact, in the person
of my first book, 'The Innocents Abroad'.  For its forty-two-year
copyright-life will then cease and its thirty-year extension begin--and
with the latter the permanent low-rate edition.  At present the highest
price of the book is eight dollars, and its lowest price three dollars
per copy.  Thus the permanent low rate will be thirty cents per copy.  A
sweeping reduction like this is what Congress from the beginning has
desired to achieve, but has not been able to accomplish because no
inducement was offered to publishers to run the risk.

                    Respectfully submitted,

                                             S. L. CLEMENS.


(A full and interesting elucidation of Mark Twain's views on Copyright
may be found in an article entitled "Concerning Copyright," published in
the North American Review for January, 1905.)






APPENDIX O
(See Chapter cxiv)

     Address of Samuel L.  Clemens (Mark Twain) from a report of the
     dinner given by the publishers of the Atlantic Monthly in honor of
     the Seventieth Anniversary of the Birth of John Greenleaf Whittier,
     at the Hotel Brunswick, Boston, December 17, 1877, as published in
     the Boston Evening Transcript, December 18, 1877.

MR. CHAIRMAN, This is an occasion peculiarly meet for the digging up of
pleasant reminiscences concerning literary folk, therefore I will drop
lightly into history myself.  Standing here on the shore of the Atlantic,
and contemplating certain of its largest literary billows, I am reminded
of a thing which happened to me thirteen years ago, when I had just
succeeded in stirring up a little Nevadian literary puddle myself, whose
spume-flakes were beginning to blow thinly California-ward.  I started an
inspection tramp through the southern mines of California.  I was callow
and conceited, and I resolved to try the virtue of my 'nom de guerre'.
I very soon had an opportunity.  I knocked at a miner's lonely log cabin
in the foothills of the Sierras just at nightfall.  It was snowing at the
time.  A jaded, melancholy man of fifty, barefooted, opened the door to
me.  When he heard my 'nom de guerre' he looked more dejected than
before.  He let me in-pretty reluctantly, I thought--and after the
customary bacon and beans, black coffee and hot whisky, I took a pipe.
This sorrowful man had not said three words up to this time.  Now he
spoke up and said, in the voice of one who is secretly suffering, "You're
the fourth--I'm going to move."  "The fourth what?" said I.  "The fourth
littery man that has been here in twenty-four hours--I'm going to move."
"You don't tell me!" said I; "who were the others?"  "Mr. Longfellow.
Mr. Emerson, and Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes--consound the lot!"

You can easily believe I was interested.  I supplicated--three hot
whiskies did the rest--and finally the melancholy miner began.  Said he:

"They came here just at dark yesterday evening, and I let them in, of
course.  Said they were going to the Yosemite.  They were a rough lot,
but that's nothing; everybody looks rough that travels afoot.
Mr. Emerson was a seedy little bit of a chap, red-headed.  Mr. Holmes was
as fat as a balloon; he weighed as much as three hundered, and had double
chins all the way down to his stomach.  Mr. Longfellow was built like a
prize-fighter.  His head was cropped and bristly, like as if he had a wig
made of hair-brushes.  His nose lay straight down in his face, like a
finger with the end joint tilted up.  They had been drinking, I could see
that.  And what queer talk they used!  Mr. Holmes inspected this cabin,
then he took me by the buttonhole and says he:

          "'Through the deep caves of thought
          I hear a voice that sings,
          "Build thee more stately mansions,
          O my soul!"'

"Says I, 'I can't afford it, Mr. Holmes, and moreover I don't want to.'
Blamed if I liked it pretty well, either, coming from a stranger that
way.  However, I started to get out my bacon and beans when Mr. Emerson
came and looked on awhile, and then he takes me aside by the buttonhole
and says:

          "'Give me agates for my meat;
          Give me cantharids to eat;
          From air and ocean bring me foods,
          From all zones and altitudes.'

"Says I, 'Mr. Emerson, if you'll excuse me, this ain't no hotel.'  You
see, it sort of riled me--I warn't used to the ways of Jittery swells.
But I went on a-sweating over my work, and next comes Mr. Longfellow and
buttonholes me and interrupts me.  Says he:

          "'Honor be to Mudjekeewis!
          You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis--'

"But I broke in, and says I, 'Beg your pardon, Mr. Longfellow, if you'll
be so kind as to hold your yawp for about five minutes and let me get
this grub ready, you'll do me proud.'  Well, sir, after they'd filled up
I set out the jug.  Mr. Holmes looks at it and then he fires up all of a
sudden and yells:

          "'Flash out a stream of blood-red wine!
          For I would drink to other days.'

"By George, I was getting kind of worked up.  I don't deny it, I was
getting kind of worked up.  I turns to Mr. Holmes and says I, 'Looky
here, my fat friend, I'm a-running this shanty, and if the court knows
herself you'll take whisky straight or you'll go dry.'  Them's the very
words I said to him.  Now I don't want to sass such famous Littery
people, but you see they kind of forced me.  There ain't nothing
onreasonable 'bout me.  I don't mind a passel of guests a-treadin' on my
tail three or four times, but when it comes to standing on it it's
different, 'and if the court knows herself,' I says, 'you'll take whisky
straight or you'll go dry.'  Well, between drinks they'd swell around the
cabin and strike attitudes and spout; and pretty soon they got out a
greasy old deck and went to playing euchre at ten cents a corner--on
trust.  I began to notice some pretty suspicious things.  Mr. Emerson
dealt, looked at his hand, shook his head, says:

          "'I am the doubter and the doubt--'

and calmly bunched the hands and went to shuffling for a new lay-out.
Says he:

          "'They reckon ill who leave me out;
          They know not well the subtle ways I keep.
          I pass and deal again!'

Hang'd if he didn't go ahead and do it, too!  Oh, he was a cool one!
Well, in about a minute things were running pretty tight, but all of a
sudden I see by Mr. Emerson's eye he judged he had 'em.  He had already
corralled two tricks and each of the others one.  So now he kind of lifts
a little in his chair and says,

          "'I tire of globes and aces!
          Too long the game is played!'

and down he fetched a right bower.  Mr. Longfellow smiles as sweet as pie
and says,

          "'Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
          For the lesson thou hast taught,'

and blamed if he didn't down with another right bower!  Emerson claps his
hand on his bowie, Longfellow claps his on his revolver, and I went under
a bunk.  There was going to be trouble; but that monstrous Holmes rose
up, wobbling his double chins, and says he, 'Order, gentlemen; the first
man that draws I'll lay down on him and smother him!'  All quiet on the
Potomac, you bet!

"They were pretty how-come-you-so by now, and they begun to blow.
Emerson says, 'The noblest thing I ever wrote was "Barbara Frietchie."'
Says Longfellow, 'It don't begin with my "Bigelow Papers."'  Says Holmes,
'My "Thanatopsis" lays over 'em both.' They mighty near ended in a fight.
Then they wished they had some more company, and Mr. Emerson pointed to
me and says:

          "'Is yonder squalid peasant all
          That this proud nursery could breed?'

He was a-whetting his bowie on his boot--so I let it pass.  Well, sir,
next they took it into their heads that they would like some music; so
they made me stand up and sing, 'When Johnny Comes Marching Home' till I
dropped--at thirteen minutes past four this morning.  That's what I've
been through, my friend.  When I woke at seven they were leaving, thank
goodness, and Mr. Longfellow had my only boots on and his'n under his
arm.  Says I, 'Hold on there, Evangeline, what are you going to do with
them?' He says, 'Going to make tracks with 'em, because--

          "'Lives of great men all remind us
          We can make our lives sublime;
          And, departing, leave behind us
          Footprints on the sands of time.'

"As I said, Mr. Twain, you are the fourth in twenty-four hours
and I'm going to move; I ain't suited to a Littery atmosphere."

I said to the miner, "Why, my dear sir, these were not the gracious
singers to whom we and the world pay loving reverence and homage; these
were impostors."

The miner investigated me with a calm eye for a while; then said he, "Ah!
impostors, were they?  Are you?"

I did not pursue the subject, and since then I have not traveled on my
'nom de guerre' enough to hurt.  Such was the reminiscence I was moved to
contribute, Mr. Chairman.  In my enthusiasm I may have exaggerated the
details a little, but you will easily forgive me that fault, since I
believe it is the first time I have ever deflected from perpendicular
fact on an occasion like this.






APPENDIX P

THE ADAM MONUMENT PETITION

(See Chapter cxxxiv)

TO THE HONORABLE SENATE AND HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE UNITED STATES
IN CONGRESS ASSEMBLED.

WHEREAS, A number of citizens of the city of Elmira in the State of New
York having covenanted among themselves to erect in that city a monument
in memory of Adam, the father of mankind, being moved thereto by a
sentiment of love and duty, and these having appointed the undersigned to
communicate with your honorable body, we beg leave to lay before you the
following facts and append to the same our humble petition.

1.  As far as is known no monument has ever been raised in any part of
the world to commemorate the services rendered to our race by this great
man, whilst many men of far less note and worship have been rendered
immortal by means of stately and indestructible memorials.

2.  The common father of mankind has been suffered to lie in entire
neglect, although even the Father of our Country has now, and has had for
many years, a monument in course of construction.

3.  No right-feeling human being can desire to see this neglect
continued, but all just men, even to the farthest regions of the globe,
should and will rejoice to know that he to whom we owe existence is about
to have reverent and fitting recognition of his works at the hands of the
people of Elmira.  His labors were not in behalf of one locality, but for
the extension of humanity at large and the blessings which go therewith;
hence all races and all colors and all religions are interested in seeing
that his name and fame shall be placed beyond the reach of the blight of
oblivion by a permanent and suitable monument.

4.  It will be to the imperishable credit of the United States if this
monument shall be set up within her borders; moreover, it will be a
peculiar grace to the beneficiary if this testimonial of affection and
gratitude shall be the gift of the youngest of the nations that have
sprung from his loins after 6,000 years of unappreciation on the part of
its elders.

5.  The idea of this sacred enterprise having originated in the city of
Elmira, she will be always grateful if the general government shall
encourage her in the good work by securing to her a certain advantage
through the exercise of its great authority.

Therefore, Your petitioners beg that your honorable body will be pleased
to issue a decree restricting to Elmira the right to build a monument to
Adam and inflicting a heavy penalty upon any other community within the
United States that shall propose or attempt to erect a monument or other
memorial to the said Adam, and to this end we will ever pray.

NAMES: (100 signatures)







APPENDIX Q

GENERAL GRANT'S GRAMMAR

(Written in 1886.  Delivered at an Army and Navy Club dinner in New York
City)

Lately a great and honored author, Matthew Arnold, has been finding fault
with General Grant's English.  That would be fair enough, maybe, if the
examples of imperfect English averaged more instances to the page in
General Grant's book than they do in Arnold's criticism on the book--but
they do not.  It would be fair enough, maybe, if such instances were
commoner in General Grant's book than they are in the works of the
average standard author--but they are not.  In fact, General Grant's
derelictions in the matter of grammar and construction are not more
frequent than such derelictions in the works of a majority of the
professional authors of our time, and of all previous times--authors as
exclusively and painstakingly trained to the literary trade as was
General Grant to the trade of war.  This is not a random statement: it is
a fact, and easily demonstrable.  I have a book at home called Modern
English Literature: Its Blemishes and Defects, by Henry H. Breen, a
countryman of Mr. Arnold.  In it I find examples of bad grammar and
slovenly English from the pens of Sydney Smith, Sheridan, Hallam,
Whately, Carlyle, Disraeli, Allison, Junius, Blair, Macaulay,
Shakespeare, Milton, Gibbon, Southey, Lamb, Landor, Smollett, Walpole,
Walker (of the dictionary), Christopher North, Kirk White, Benjamin
Franklin, Sir Walter Scott, and Mr. Lindley Murray (who made the
grammar).

In Mr. Arnold's criticism on General Grant's book we find two grammatical
crimes and more than several examples of very crude and slovenly English,
enough of them to entitle him to a lofty place in the illustrious list of
delinquents just named.

The following passage all by itself ought to elect him:
     "Meade suggested to Grant that he might wish to have immediately
     under him Sherman, who had been serving with Grant in the West.  He
     begged him not to hesitate if he thought it for the good of the
     service.  Grant assured him that he had not thought of moving him,
     and in his memoirs, after relating what had passed, he adds, etc."

To read that passage a couple of times would make a man dizzy; to read it
four times would make him drunk.

Mr. Breen makes this discriminating remark: "To suppose that because a
man is a poet or a historian he must be correct in his grammar is to
suppose that an architect must be a joiner, or a physician a compounder
of medicine."

People may hunt out what microscopic motes they please, but, after all,
the fact remains, and cannot be dislodged, that General Grant's book is a
great and, in its peculiar department, a unique and unapproachable
literary masterpiece.  In their line there is no higher literature than
those modest, simple memoirs.  Their style is at least flawless and no
man could improve upon it, and great books are weighed and measured by
their style and matter, and not by the trimmings and shadings of their
grammar.

There is that about the sun which makes us forget his spots, and when we
think of General Grant our pulses quicken and his grammar vanishes; we
only remember that this is the simple soldier who, all untaught of the
silken phrase-makers, linked words together with an art surpassing the
art of the schools and put into them a something which will still bring
to American ears, as long as America shall last, the roll of his vanished
drums and the tread of his marching hosts.  What do we care for grammar
when we think of those thunderous phrases, "Unconditional and immediate
surrender,"  "I propose to move immediately upon your works,"  "I propose
to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer."  Mr. Arnold would
doubtless claim that that last phrase is not strictly grammatical, and
yet it did certainly wake up this nation as a hundred million tons of A-
number-one fourth-proof, hard-boiled, hide-bound grammar from another
mouth could not have done.  And finally we have that gentler phrase, that
one which shows you another true side of the man, shows you that in his
soldier heart there was room for other than gory war mottoes and in his
tongue the gift to fitly phrase them: "Let us have peace."






APPENDIX R

PARTY ALLEGIANCE

BEING A PORTION OF A PAPER ON "CONSISTENCY," READ BEFORE THE MONDAY
EVENING CLUB IN 1887

(See Chapter clxiii)

.  .  .  I have referred to the fact that when a man retires from his
political party he is a traitor--that he is so pronounced in plain
language.  That is bold; so bold as to deceive many into the fancy that
it is true.  Desertion, treason--these are the terms applied.  Their
military form reveals the thought in the man's mind who uses them: to him
a political party is an army.  Well, is it?  Are the two things
identical?  Do they even resemble each other?  Necessarily a political
party is not an army of conscripts, for they are in the ranks by
compulsion.  Then it must be a regular army or an army of volunteers.
Is it a regular army?  No, for these enlist for a specified and well-
understood term, and can retire without reproach when the term is up.
Is it an army of volunteers who have enlisted for the war, and may
righteously be shot if they leave before the war is finished?  No, it is
not even an army in that sense.  Those fine military terms are high-
sounding, empty lies, and are no more rationally applicable to a
political party than they would be to an oyster-bed.  The volunteer
soldier comes to the recruiting office and strips himself and proves that
he is so many feet high, and has sufficiently good teeth, and no fingers
gone, and is sufficiently sound in body generally; he is accepted; but
not until he has sworn a deep oath or made other solemn form of promise
to march under, that flag until that war is done or his term of
enlistment completed.  What is the process when a voter joins a party?
Must he prove that he is sound in any way, mind or body?  Must he prove
that he knows anything--is capable of anything--whatever?  Does he take
an oath or make a promise of any sort?--or doesn't he leave himself
entirely free?  If he were informed by the political boss that if he
join, it must be forever; that he must be that party's chattel and wear
its brass collar the rest of his days--would not that insult him?  It
goes without saying.  He would say some rude, unprintable thing, and turn
his back on that preposterous organization.  But the political boss puts
no conditions upon him at all; and this volunteer makes no promises,
enlists for no stated term.  He has in no sense become a part of an army;
he is in no way restrained of his freedom.  Yet he will presently find
that his bosses and his newspapers have assumed just the reverse of that:
that they have blandly arrogated to themselves an ironclad military
authority over him; and within twelve months, if he is an average man, he
will have surrendered his liberty, and will actually be silly enough to
believe that he cannot leave that party, for any cause whatever, without
being a shameful traitor, a deserter, a legitimately dishonored man.

There you have the just measure of that freedom of conscience, freedom of
opinion, freedom of speech and action which we hear so much inflated
foolishness about as being the precious possession of the republic.
Whereas, in truth, the surest way for a man to make of himself a target
for almost universal scorn, obloquy, slander, and insult is to stop
twaddling about these priceless independencies and attempt to exercise
one of them.  If he is a preacher half his congregation will clamor for
his expulsion--and will expel him, except they find it will injure real
estate in the neighborhood; if he is a doctor his own dead will turn
against him.

I repeat that the new party-member who supposed himself independent will
presently find that the party have somehow got a mortgage on his soul,
and that within a year he will recognize the mortgage, deliver up his
liberty, and actually believe he cannot retire from that party from any
motive howsoever high and right in his own eyes without shame and
dishonor.

Is it possible for human wickedness to invent a doctrine more infernal
and poisonous than this?  Is there imaginable a baser servitude than it
imposes?  What slave is so degraded as the slave that is proud that he is
a slave?  What is the essential difference between a lifelong democrat
and any other kind of lifelong slave?  Is it less humiliating to dance to
the lash of one master than another?

This infamous doctrine of allegiance to party plays directly into the
hands of politicians of the baser sort--and doubtless for that it was
borrowed--or stolen--from the monarchial system.  It enables them to
foist upon the country officials whom no self-respecting man would vote
for if he could but come to understand that loyalty to himself is his
first and highest duty, not loyalty to any party name.

Shall you say the best good of the country demands allegiance to party?
Shall you also say that it demands that a man kick his truth and his
conscience into the gutter and become a mouthing lunatic besides?  Oh no,
you say; it does not demand that.  But what if it produce that in spite
of you?  There is no obligation upon a man to do things which he ought
not to do when drunk, but most men will do them just the same; and so we
hear no arguments about obligations in the matter--we only hear men
warned to avoid the habit of drinking; get rid of the thing that can
betray men into such things.

This is a funny business all around.  The same men who enthusiastically
preach loyal consistency to church and party are always ready and willing
and anxious to persuade a Chinaman or an Indian or a Kanaka to desert his
church or a fellow-American to desert his party.  The man who deserts to
them is all that is high and pure and beautiful--apparently; the man who
deserts from them is all that is foul and despicable.  This is
Consistency--with a capital C.

With the daintiest and self-complacentest sarcasm the lifelong loyalist
scoffs at the Independent--or as he calls him, with cutting irony, the
Mugwump; makes himself too killingly funny for anything in this world
about him.  But--the Mugwump can stand it, for there is a great history
at his back; stretching down the centuries, and he comes of a mighty
ancestry.  He knows that in the whole history of the race of men no
single great and high and beneficent thing was ever done for the souls
and bodies, the hearts and the brains of the children of this world, but
a Mugwump started it and Mugwumps carried it to victory: And their names
are the stateliest in history: Washington, Garrison, Galileo, Luther,
Christ.  Loyalty to petrified opinions never yet broke a chain or freed a
human soul in this world-end never will.







APPENDIX S

ORIGINAL PREFACE FOR "A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT"

(See Chapter clxxii)

My object has been to group together some of the most odious laws which
have had vogue in the Christian countries within the past eight or ten
centuries, and illustrate them by the incidents of a story.

There was never a time when America applied the death-penalty to more
than fourteen crimes.  But England, within the memory of men still
living, had in her list of crimes 223 which were punishable by death!
And yet from the beginning of our existence down to a time within the
memory of babes England has distressed herself piteously over the
ungentleness of our Connecticut Blue Laws.  Those Blue Laws should have
been spared English criticism for two reasons:

1.  They were so insipidly mild, by contrast with the bloody and
atrocious laws of England of the same period, as to seem characterless
and colorless when one brings them into that awful presence.

2.  The Blue Laws never had any existence.  They were the fancy-work of
an English clergyman; they were never a part of any statute-book.  And
yet they could have been made to serve a useful and merciful purpose; if
they had been injected into the English law the dilution would have given
to the whole a less lurid aspect; or, to figure the effect in another
way, they would have been coca mixed into vitriol.

I have drawn no laws and no illustrations from the twin civilizations of
hell and Russia.  To have entered into that atmosphere would have
defeated my purpose, which was to show a great and genuine progress in
Christendom in these few later generations toward mercifulness--a wide
and general relaxing of the grip of the law.  Russia had to be left out
because exile to Siberia remains, and in that single punishment is
gathered together and concentrated all the bitter inventions of all the
black ages for the infliction of suffering upon human beings.  Exile for
life from one's hearthstone and one's idols--this is rack, thumb-screw,
the water-drop, fagot and stake, tearing asunder by horses, flaying
alive--all these in one; and not compact into hours, but drawn out into
years, each year a century, and the whole a mortal immortality of torture
and despair.  While exile to Siberia remains one will be obliged to admit
that there is one country in Christendom where the punishments of all the
ages are still preserved and still inflicted, that there is one country
in Christendom where no advance has been made toward modifying the
medieval penalties for offenses against society and the State.






APPENDIX T

A TRIBUTE TO HENRY H.  ROGERS

(See Chapter cc and earlier)

April 25, 1902.  I owe more to Henry Rogers than to any other man whom I
have known.  He was born in Fairhaven, Connecticut, in 1839, and is my
junior by four years.  He was graduated from the high school there in
1853, when he was fourteen years old, and from that time forward he
earned his own living, beginning at first as the bottom subordinate in
the village store with hard-work privileges and a low salary.  When he
was twenty-four he went out to the newly discovered petroleum fields in
Pennsylvania and got work; then returned home, with enough money to pay
passage, married a schoolmate, and took her to the oil regions.  He
prospered, and by and by established the Standard Oil Trust with Mr.
Rockefeller and others, and is still one of its managers and directors.

In 1893 we fell together by accident one evening in the Murray Hill
Hotel, and our friendship began on the spot and at once.  Ever since then
he has added my business affairs to his own and carried them through, and
I have had no further trouble with them.  Obstructions and perplexities
which would have driven me mad were simplicities to his master mind and
furnished him no difficulties.  He released me from my entanglements with
Paige and stopped that expensive outgo; when Charles L. Webster & Company
failed he saved my copyrights for Mrs. Clemens when she would have
sacrificed them to the creditors although they were in no way entitled to
them; he offered to lend me money wherewith to save the life of that
worthless firm; when I started lecturing around the world to make the
money to pay off the Webster debts he spent more than a year trying to
reconcile the differences between Harper & Brothers and the American
Publishing Company and patch up a working-contract between them and
succeeded where any other man would have failed; as fast as I earned
money and sent it to him he banked it at interest and held onto it,
refusing to pay any creditor until he could pay all of the 96 alike; when
I had earned enough to pay dollar for dollar he swept off the
indebtedness and sent me the whole batch of complimentary letters which
the creditors wrote in return; when I had earned $28,500 more, $18,500 of
which was in his hands, I wrote him from Vienna to put the latter into
Federal Steel and leave it there; he obeyed to the extent of $17,500, but
sold it in two months at $25,000 profit, and said it would go ten points
higher, but that it was his custom to "give the other man a chance" (and
that was a true word--there was never a truer one spoken).  That was at
the end of '99 and beginning of 1900; and from that day to this he has
continued to break up my bad schemes and put better ones in their place,
to my great advantage.  I do things which ought to try man's patience,
but they never seem to try his; he always finds a colorable excuse for
what I have done.  His soul was born superhumanly sweet, and I do not
think anything can sour it.  I have not known his equal among men for
lovable qualities.  But for his cool head and wise guidance I should
never have come out of the Webster difficulties on top; it was his good
steering that enabled me to work out my salvation and pay a hundred cents
on the dollar--the most valuable service any man ever did me.

His character is full of fine graces, but the finest is this: that he can
load you down with crushing obligations and then so conduct himself that
you never feel their weight.  If he would only require something in
return--but that is not in his nature; it would not occur to him.  With
the Harpers and the American Company at war those copyrights were worth
but little; he engineered a peace and made them valuable.  He invests
$100,000 for me here, and in a few months returns a profit of $31,000.  I
invest (in London and here) $66,000 and must wait considerably for
results (in case there shall be any).  I tell him about it and he finds
no fault, utters not a sarcasm.  He was born serene, patient, all-
enduring, where a friend is concerned, and nothing can extinguish that
great quality in him.  Such a man is entitled to the high gift of humor:
he has it at its very best.  He is not only the best friend I have ever
had, but is the best man I have known.

                              S. L. CLEMENS.





APPENDIX U

FROM MARK TWAIN'S LAST POEM

BEGUN AT RIVERDALE, NEW YORK.  FINISHED AT YORK HARBOR, MAINE,
AUGUST 18, 1902

(See Chapter ccxxiii)

(A bereft and demented mother speaks)

.  .  .  O, I can see my darling yet: the little form
In slip of flimsy stuff all creamy white,
Pink-belted waist with ample bows,
Blue shoes scarce bigger than the house-cat's ears--
Capering in delight and choked with glee.

It was a summer afternoon; the hill
Rose green above me and about, and in the vale below
The distant village slept, and all the world
Was steeped in dreams.  Upon me lay this peace,
And I forgot my sorrow in its spell.  And now
My little maid passed by, and she
Was deep in thought upon a solemn thing:
A disobedience, and my reproof.
Upon my face She must not look until the day was done;
For she was doing penance .  .  .  She?
O, it was I!  What mother knows not that?
And so she passed, I worshiping and longing .  .  .
It was not wrong?  You do not think me wrong?
I did it for the best.  Indeed I meant it so.

She flits before me now:
The peach-bloom of her gauzy crepe,
The plaited tails of hair,
The ribbons floating from the summer hat,
The grieving face, dropp'd head absorbed with care.
O, dainty little form!
I see it move, receding slow along the path,
By hovering butterflies besieged; I see it reach
The breezy top clear-cut against the sky, .  .  .
Then pass beyond and sink from sight-forever!

Within, was light and cheer; without,
A blustering winter's right.  There was a play;
It was her own; for she had wrought it out
Unhelped, from her own head-and she
But turned sixteen!  A pretty play,
All graced with cunning fantasies,
And happy songs, and peopled all with fays,
And sylvan gods and goddesses,
And shepherds, too, that piped and danced,
And wore the guileless hours away
In care-free romps and games.

Her girlhood mates played in the piece,
And she as well: a goddess, she,--
And looked it, as it seemed to me.

'Twas fairyland restored-so beautiful it was
And innocent.  It made us cry, we elder ones,
To live our lost youth o'er again
With these its happy heirs.

Slowly, at last, the curtain fell.
Before us, there, she stood, all wreathed and draped
In roses pearled with dew-so sweet, so glad,
So radiant!--and flung us kisses through the storm
Of praise that crowned her triumph .  .  .  .  O,
Across the mists of time I see her yet,
My Goddess of the Flowers!

.  .  .  The curtain hid her .  .  .  .
Do you comprehend?  Till time shall end!
Out of my life she vanished while I looked!

.  .  .  Ten years are flown.
O, I have watched so long,
So long.  But she will come no more.
No, she will come no more.

It seems so strange .  .  .  so strange .  .  .
Struck down unwarned!
In the unbought grace, of youth laid low--
In the glory of her fresh young bloom laid low--
In the morning of her life cut down!
And I not by!  Not by
When the shadows fell, the night of death closed down
The sun that lit my life went out.  Not by to answer
When the latest whisper passed the lips
That were so dear to me--my name!
Far from my post! the world's whole breadth away.
O, sinking in the waves of death she cried to me
For mother-help, and got for answer
Silence!

We that are old--we comprehend; even we
That are not mad: whose grown-up scions still abide;
Their tale complete:
Their earlier selves we glimpse at intervals
Far in the dimming past;
We see the little forms as once they were,
And whilst we ache to take them to our hearts,
The vision fades.  We know them lost to us--
Forever lost; we cannot have them back;
We miss them as we miss the dead,
We mourn them as we mourn the dead.






APPENDIX V

SELECTIONS FROM AN UNFINISHED BOOK, "3,000 YEARS AMONG THE MICROBES"

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A MICROBE, WHO, IN A FORMER EXISTENCE, HAD BEEN A
MAN--HIS PRESENT HABITAT BEING THE ORGANISM OF A TRAMP, BLITZOWSKI.
(WRITTEN AT DUBLIN, NEW HAMPSHIRE, 1905)

(See Chapter ccxxxv)

Our world (the tramp) is as large and grand and awe-compelling to us
microscopic creatures as is man's world to man.  Our tramp is
mountainous, there are vast oceans in him, and lakes that are sea-like
for size, there are many rivers (veins and arteries) which are fifteen
miles across, and of a length so stupendous as to make the Mississippi
and the Amazon trifling little Rhode Island brooks by comparison.  As for
our minor rivers, they are multitudinous, and the dutiable commerce of
disease which they carry is rich beyond the dreams of the American
custom-house.

Take a man like Sir Oliver Lodge, and what secret of Nature can be hidden
from him?  He says: "A billion, that is a million millions,[?? Trillion
D.W.] of atoms is truly an immense number, but the resulting aggregate is
still excessively minute.  A portion of substance consisting, of a
billion atoms is only barely visible with the highest power of a
microscope; and a speck or granule, in order to be visible to the naked
eye, like a grain of lycopodium-dust, must be a million times bigger
still."

The human eye could see it then--that dainty little speck.  But with my
microbe-eye I could see every individual of the whirling billions of
atoms that compose the speck.  Nothing is ever at rest--wood, iron,
water, everything is alive, everything is raging, whirling, whizzing, day
and night and night and day, nothing is dead, there is no such thing as
death, everything is full of bristling life, tremendous life, even the
bones of the crusader that perished before Jerusalem eight centuries ago.
There are no vegetables, all things are animal; each electron is an
animal, each molecule is a collection of animals, and each has an
appointed duty to perform and a soul to be saved.  Heaven was not made
for man alone, and oblivion and neglect reserved for the rest of His
creatures.  He gave them life, He gave them humble services to perform,
they have performed them, and they will not be forgotten, they will have
their reward.  Man-always vain, windy, conceited-thinks he will be in the
majority there.  He will be disappointed.  Let him humble himself.  But
for the despised microbe and the persecuted bacillus, who needed a home
and nourishment, he would not have been created.  He has a mission,
therefore a reason for existing: let him do the service he was made for,
and keep quiet.

Three weeks ago I was a man myself, and thought and felt as men think and
feel; I have lived 3,000 years since then [microbic time], and I see the
foolishness of it now.  We live to learn, and fortunate are we when we
are wise enough to profit by it.

In matters pertaining to microscopy we necessarily have an advantage here
over the scientist of the earth, because, as I have just been indicating,
we see with our naked eyes minutenesses which no man-made microscope can
detect, and are therefore able to register as facts many things which
exist for him as theories only.  Indeed, we know as facts several things
which he has not yet divined even by theory.  For example, he does not
suspect that there is no life but animal life, and that all atoms are
individual animals endowed each with a certain degree of consciousness,
great or small, each with likes and dislikes, predilections and
aversions--that, in a word, each has a character, a character of its own.
Yet such is the case.  Some of the molecules of a stone have an aversion
for some of those of a vegetable or any other creature and will not
associate with them--and would not be allowed to, if they tried.  Nothing
is more particular about society than a molecule.  And so there are no
end of castes; in this matter India is not a circumstance.

"Tell me, Franklin [a microbe of great learning], is the ocean an
individual, an animal, a creature?"

"Yes."

"Then water--any water-is an individual?"

"Yes."

"Suppose you remove a drop of it?  Is what is left an individual?"

"Yes, and so is the drop."

"Suppose you divide the drop?"

"Then you have two individuals."

"Suppose you separate the hydrogen and the oxygen?"

"Again you have two individuals.  But you haven't water any more."

"Of course.  Certainly.  Well, suppose you combine them again, but in a
new way: make the proportions equal--one part oxygen to one of hydrogen?"

"But you know you can't.  They won't combine on equal terms."

I was ashamed to have made that blunder.  I was embarrassed; to cover it
I started to say we used to combine them like that where I came from, but
thought better of it, and stood pat.

"Now then," I said, "it amounts to this: water is an individual, an
animal, and is alive; remove the hydrogen and it is an animal and is
alive; the remaining oxygen is also an individual, an animal, and is
alive.  Recapitulation: the two individuals combined constitute a third
individual--and yet each continues to be an individual."

I glanced at Franklin, but .  .  .  upon reflection, held my peace.  I
could have pointed out to him that here was mute Nature explaining the
sublime mystery of the Trinity so luminously--that even the commonest
understanding could comprehend it, whereas many a trained master of words
had labored to do it with speech and failed.  But he would not have known
what I was talking about.  After a moment I resumed:

"Listen--and see if I have understood you rightly, to wit: All the atoms
that constitute each oxygen molecule are separate individuals, and each
is a living animal; all the atoms that constitute each hydrogen molecule
are separate individuals, and each one is a living animal; each drop of
water consists of millions of living animals, the drop itself is an
individual, a living animal, and the wide ocean is another.  Is that it?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"By George, it beats the band!"

He liked the expression, and set it down in his tablets.

"Franklin, we've got it down fine.  And to think--there are other animals
that are still smaller than a hydrogen atom, and yet it is so small that
it takes five thousand of them to make a molecule--a molecule so minute
that it could get into a microbe's eye and he wouldn't know it was
there!"

"Yes, the wee creatures that inhabit the bodies of us germs and feed upon
us, and rot us with disease: Ah, what could they have been created for?
They give us pain, they make our lives miserable, they murder us-and
where is the use of it all, where the wisdom?  Ah, friend Bkshp [microbic
orthography], we live in a strange and unaccountable world; our birth is
a mystery, our little life is a mystery, a trouble, we pass and are seen
no more; all is mystery, mystery, mystery; we know not whence we came,
nor why; we know not whither we go, nor why we go.  We only know we were
not made in vain, we only know we were made for a wise purpose, and that
all is well!  We shall not be cast aside in contumely and unblest after
all we have suffered.  Let us be patient, let us not repine, let us
trust.  The humblest of us is cared for--oh, believe it!--and this
fleeting stay is not the end!"

You notice that?  He did not suspect that he, also, was engaged in
gnawing, torturing, defiling, rotting, and murdering a fellow-creature--
he and all the swarming billions of his race.  None of them suspects it.
That is significant.  It is suggestive--irresistibly suggestive--
insistently suggestive.  It hints at the possibility that the procession
of known and listed devourers and persecutors is not complete.  It
suggests the possibility, and substantially the certainty, that man is
himself a microbe, and his globe a blood-corpuscle drifting with its
shining brethren of the Milky Way down a vein of the Master and Maker of
all things, whose body, mayhap--glimpsed part-wise from the earth by
night, and receding and lost to view in the measureless remotenesses of
space--is what men name the Universe.

Yes, that was all old to me, but to find that our little old familiar
microbes were themselves loaded up with microbes that fed them, enriched
them, and persistently and faithfully preserved them and their poor old
tramp-planet from destruction--oh, that was new, and too delicious!

I wanted to see them!  I was in a fever to see them!  I had lenses to
two-million power, but of course the field was no bigger than a person's
finger-nail, and so it wasn't possible to compass a considerable
spectacle or a landscape with them; whereas what I had been craving was a
thirty-foot field, which would represent a spread of several miles of
country and show up things in a way to make them worth looking at.  The
boys and I had often tried to contrive this improvement, but had failed.

I mentioned the matter to the Duke and it made him smile.  He said it was
a quite simple thing-he had it at home.  I was eager to bargain for the
secret, but he said it was a trifle and not worth bargaining for.
He said:

"Hasn't it occurred to you that all you have to do is to bend an X-ray to
an angle-value of 8.4 and refract it with a parabolism, and there you
are?"

Upon my word, I had never thought of that simple thing!  You could have
knocked me down with a feather.

We rigged a microscope for an exhibition at once and put a drop of my
blood under it, which got mashed flat when the lens got shut down upon
it.  The result was beyond my dreams. The field stretched miles away,
green and undulating, threaded with streams and roads, and bordered all
down the mellowing distances with picturesque hills.  And there was a
great white city of tents; and everywhere were parks of artillery and
divisions of cavalry and infantry waiting.  We had hit a lucky moment,
evidently there was going to be a march-past or some thing like that.  At
the front where the chief banner flew there was a large and showy tent,
with showy guards on duty, and about it were some other tents of a swell
kind.

The warriors--particularly the officers--were lovely to look at, they
were so trim-built and so graceful and so handsomely uniformed.  They
were quite distinct, vividly distinct, for it was a fine day, and they
were so immensely magnified that they looked to be fully a finger-nail
high.--[My own expression, and a quite happy one.  I said to the Duke:
"Your Grace, they're just about finger-milers!"
"How do you mean, m' lord?"
"This.  You notice the stately General standing there with his hand
resting upon the muzzle of a cannon?  Well, if you could stick your
little finger down against the ground alongside of him his plumes would
just reach up to where your nail joins the flesh."  The Duke said
"finger-milers was good"-good and exact; and he afterward used it several
times himself.]--Everywhere you could see officers moving smartly about,
and they looked gay, but the common soldiers looked sad.  Many wife-
swinks [" Swinks," an atomic race] and daughter-swinks and sweetheart-
swinks were about--crying, mainly.  It seemed to indicate that this was a
case of war, not a summer-camp for exercise, and that the poor labor-
swinks were being torn from their planet-saving industries to go and
distribute civilization and other forms of suffering among the feeble
benighted somewhere; else why should the swinkesses cry?

The cavalry was very fine--shiny black horses, shapely and spirited; and
presently when a flash of light struck a lifted bugle (delivering a
command which we couldn't hear) and a division came tearing down on a
gallop it was a stirring and gallant sight, until the dust rose an inch--
the Duke thought more--and swallowed it up in a rolling and tumbling long
gray cloud, with bright weapons glinting and sparkling in it.

Before long the real business of the occasion began.  A battalion of
priests arrived carrying sacred pictures.  That settled it: this was war;
these far-stretching masses of troops were bound for the front.  Their
little monarch came out now, the sweetest little thing that ever
travestied the human shape I think, and he lifted up his hands and
blessed the passing armies, and they looked as grateful as they could,
and made signs of humble and real reverence as they drifted by the holy
pictures.

It was beautiful--the whole thing; and wonderful, too, when those serried
masses swung into line and went marching down the valley under the long
array of fluttering flags.

Evidently they were going somewhere to fight for their king, which was
the little manny that blessed them; and to preserve him and his brethren
that occupied the other swell tents; to civilize and grasp a valuable
little unwatched country for them somewhere.  But the little fellow and
his brethren didn't fall in--that was a noticeable particular.  They
didn't fight; they stayed at home, where it was safe, and waited for the
swag.

Very well, then-what ought we to do?  Had we no moral duty to perform?
Ought we to allow this war to begin?  Was it not our duty to stop it, in
the name of right and righteousness?  Was it not our duty to administer a
rebuke to this selfish and heartless Family?

The Duke was struck by that, and greatly moved.  He felt as I did about
it, and was ready to do whatever was right, and thought we ought to pour
boiling water on the Family and extinguish it, which we did.

It extinguished the armies, too, which was not intended.  We both
regretted this, but the Duke said that these people were nothing to us,
and deserved extinction anyway for being so poor-spirited as to serve
such a Family.  He was loyally doing the like himself, and so was I, but
I don't think we thought of that.  And it wasn't just the same, anyway,
because we were sooflaskies, and they were only swinks.

Franklin realizes that no atom is destructible; that it has always
existed and will exist forever; but he thinks all atoms will go out of
this world some day and continue their life in a happier one.  Old
Tolliver thinks no atom's life will ever end, but he also thinks
Blitzowski is the only world it will ever see, and that at no time in its
eternity will it be either worse off or better off than it is now and
always has been.  Of course he thinks the planet Blitzowski is itself
eternal and indestructible--at any rate he says he thinks that.  It could
make me sad, only I know better.  D. T.  will fetch Blitzy yet one of
these days.

But these are alien thoughts, human thoughts, and they falsely indicate
that I do not want this tramp to go on living.  What would become of me
if he should disintegrate?  My molecules would scatter all around and
take up new quarters in hundreds of plants and animals; each would carry
its special feelings along with it, each would be content in its new
estate, but where should I be?  I should not have a rag of a feeling
left, after my disintegration--with his--was complete.  Nothing to think
with, nothing to grieve or rejoice with, nothing to hope or despair with.
There would be no more me.  I should be musing and thinking and dreaming
somewhere else--in some distant animal maybe--perhaps a cat--by proxy of
my oxygen I should be raging and fuming in some other creatures--a rat,
perhaps; I should be smiling and hoping in still another child of Nature
--heir to my hydrogen--a weed, or a cabbage, or something; my carbonic
acid (ambition) would be dreaming dreams in some lowly wood-violet that
was longing for a showy career; thus my details would be doing as much
feeling as ever, but I should not be aware of it, it would all be going
on for the benefit of those others, and I not in it at all.  I should be
gradually wasting away, atom by atom, molecule by molecule, as the years
went on, and at last I should be all distributed, and nothing left of
what had once been Me.  It is curious, and not without impressiveness: I
should still be alive, intensely alive, but so scattered that I would not
know it.  I should not be dead--no, one cannot call it that--but I should
be the next thing to it.  And to think what centuries and ages and aeons
would drift over me before the disintegration was finished, the last bone
turned to gas and blown away!  I wish I knew what it is going to feel
like, to lie helpless such a weary, weary time, and see my faculties
decay and depart, one by one, like lights which burn low, and flicker and
perish, until the ever-deepening gloom and darkness which--oh, away, away
with these horrors, and let me think of something wholesome!

My tramp is only 85; there is good hope that he will live ten years
longer--500,000 of my microbe years.  So may it be.

Oh, dear, we are all so wise!  Each of us knows it all, and knows he
knows it all--the rest, to a man, are fools and deluded.  One man knows
there is a hell, the next one knows there isn't; one man knows high
tariff is right, the next man knows it isn't; one man knows monarchy is
best, the next one knows it isn't; one age knows there are witches, the
next one knows there aren't; one sect knows its religion is the only true
one, there are sixty-four thousand five hundred million sects that know
it isn't so.  There is not a mind present among this multitude of
verdict-deliverers that is the superior of the minds that persuade and
represent the rest of the divisions of the multitude.  Yet this sarcastic
fact does not humble the arrogance nor diminish the know-it-all bulk of a
single verdict-maker of the lot by so much as a shade.  Mind is plainly
an ass, but it will be many ages before it finds it out, no doubt.  Why
do we respect the opinions of any man or any microbe that ever lived?  I
swear I don't know.  Why do I respect my own?  Well--that is different.







APPENDIX W

LITTLE BESSIE WOULD ASSIST PROVIDENCE

(See Chapter cclxxxii)

[It is dull, and I need wholesome excitements and distractions; so I will
go lightly excursioning along the primrose path of theology.]

Little Bessie was nearly three years old.  She was a good child, and not
shallow, not frivolous, but meditative and thoughtful, and much given to
thinking out the reasons of things and trying to make them harmonize with
results.  One day she said:

"Mama, why is there so much pain and sorrow and suffering?  What is it
all for?"

It was an easy question, and mama had no difficulty in answering it:

"It is for our good, my child.  In His wisdom and mercy the Lord sends us
these afflictions to discipline us and make us better."

"Is it He that sends them?"

"Yes."

"Does He send all of them, mama?"

"Yes, dear, all of them.  None of them comes by accident; He alone sends
them, and always out of love for us, and to make us better."

"Isn't it strange?"

"Strange?  Why, no, I have never thought of it in that way.  I have not
heard any one call it strange before.  It has always seemed natural and
right to me, and wise and most kindly and merciful."

"Who first thought of it like that, mama?  Was it you?"

"Oh no, child, I was taught it."

"Who taught you so, mama?"

"Why, really, I don't know--I can't remember.  My mother, I suppose; or
the preacher.  But it's a thing that everybody knows."

"Well, anyway, it does seem strange.  Did He give Billy Norris the
typhus?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Why, to discipline him and make him good."

"But he died, mama, and so it couldn't make him good."

"Well, then, I suppose it was for some other reason.  We know it was a
good reason, whatever it was."

"What do you think it was, mama?"

"Oh, you ask so many questions!  I think it was to discipline his
parents."

"Well, then, it wasn't fair, mama.  Why should his life be taken away for
their sake, when he wasn't doing anything?"

"Oh, I don't know!  I only know it was for a good and wise and merciful
reason."

"What reason, mama?"

"I think--I think-well, it was a judgment; it was to punish them for some
sin they had committed."

"But he was the one that was punished, mama.  Was that right?"

"Certainly, certainly.  He does nothing that isn't right and wise and
merciful.  You can't understand these things now, dear, but when you are
grown up you will understand them, and then you will see that they are
just and wise."

After a pause:

"Did He make the roof fall in on the stranger that was trying to save the
crippled old woman from the fire, mama?"

"Yes, my child.  Wait!  Don't ask me why, because I don't know.  I only
know it was to discipline some one, or be a judgment upon somebody, or to
show His power."

"That drunken man that stuck a pitchfork into Mrs. Welch's baby when--"

"Never mind about it, you needn't go into particulars; it was to
discipline the child--that much is certain, anyway."

"Mama, Mr. Burgess said in his sermon that billions of little creatures
are sent into us to give us cholera, and typhoid, and lockjaw, and more
than a thousand other sicknesses and--mama, does He send them?"

"Oh, certainly, child, certainly.  Of course."

"What for?"

"Oh, to discipline us!  Haven't I told you so, over and over again?"

"It's awful cruel, mama!  And silly!  and if I----"

"Hush, oh, hush!  Do you want to bring the lightning?"

"You know the lightning did come last week, mama, and struck the new
church, and burnt it down.  Was it to discipline the church?"

(Wearily.) "Oh, I suppose so."

"But it killed a hog that wasn't doing anything.  Was it to discipline
the hog, mama?"

"Dear child, don't you want to run out and play a while?  If you would
like to----"

"Mama, only think!  Mr. Hollister says there isn't a bird, or fish, or
reptile, or any other animal that hasn't got an enemy that Providence has
sent to bite it and chase it and pester it and kill it and suck its blood
and discipline it and make it good and religious.  Is that true, mother--
because if it is true why did Mr. Hollister laugh at it?"

"That Hollister is a scandalous person, and I don't want you to listen to
anything he says."

"Why, mama, he is very interesting, and I think he tries to be good.  He
says the wasps catch spiders and cram them down into their nests in the
ground--alive, mama!--and there they live and suffer days and days and
days, and the hungry little wasps chewing their legs and gnawing into
their bellies all the time, to make them good and religious and praise
God for His infinite mercies.  I think Mr. Hollister is just lovely, and
ever so kind; for when I asked him if he would treat a spider like that
he said he hoped to be damned if he would; and then he----Dear mama, have
you fainted!  I will run and bring help!  Now this comes of staying in
town this hot weather."






                               APPENDIX X

                A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF MARK TWAIN'S WORK

                 PUBLISHED AND OTHERWISE--FROM 1851-1910


Note 1.--This is not a detailed bibliography, but merely a general list
of Mark Twain's literary undertakings, in the order of performance,
showing when, and usually where, the work was done, when and where first
published, etc.  An excellent Mark Twain bibliography has been compiled
by Mr. Merle Johnson, to whom acknowledgments are due for important
items.

Note 2.--Only a few of the more important speeches are noted.  Volumes
that are merely collections of tales or articles are not noted.

Note 3.--Titles are shortened to those most commonly in use, as "Huck
Finn" or "Huck" for "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn."

Names of periodicals are abbreviated.

The initials U. E.  stand for the "Uniform Edition" of Mark Twain's
works.

The chapter number or numbers in the line with the date refers to the
place in this work where the items are mentioned.


                                 1851.
                    (See Chapter xviii of this work.)

Edited the Hannibal Journal during the absence of the owner and editor,
Orion Clemens.
Wrote local items for the Hannibal Journal.
Burlesque of a rival editor in the Hannibal Journal.
Wrote two sketches for The Sat.  Eve.  Post (Philadelphia).
To MARY IN H-l.  Hannibal Journal.


                                 1852-53.
                           (See Chapter xviii.)

JIM WOLFE AND THE FIRE--Hannibal Journal.
Burlesque of a rival editor in the Hannibal Journal.


                                  1853.
                           (See Chapter xix.)

Wrote obituary poems--not published.
Wrote first letters home.


                                 1855-56.
                        (See Chapters xx and xxi.)

First after-dinner speech; delivered at a printers' banquet in Keokuk,
Iowa.
Letters from Cincinnati, November 16, 1856, signed "Snodgrass"--
Saturday Post (Keokuk).

                                  1857.
                           (See Chapter xxi.)

Letters from Cincinnati, March 16, 1857, signed "Snodgrass"--Saturday
Post (Keokuk).


                                   1858.

Anonymous contributions to the New Orleans Crescent and probably to St.
Louis papers.

                                  1859.
                  (See Chapter xxvii; also Appendix B.)

Burlesque of Capt. Isaiah Sellers--True Delta (New Orleans), May 8 or 9.


                                   1861.
                      (See Chapters xxxiii to xxxv.)


Letters home, published in The Gate City (Keokuk).


                                   1862.
                      (See Chapters xxxv to xxxviii.)

Letters and sketches, signed "Josh," for the Territorial Enterprise
(Virginia City, Nevada).
REPORT OF THE LECTURE OF PROF. PERSONAL PRONOUN--Enterprise.
REPORT OF A FOURTH OF JULY ORATION--Enterprise.
THE PETRIFIED MAN--Enterprise.
Local news reporter for the Enterprise from August.


                                  1863.
              (See Chapters xli to xliii; also Appendix C.)

Reported the Nevada Legislature for the Enterprise.
First used the name "Mark Twain,"  February 2.
ADVICE TO THE UNRELIABLE--Enterprise.
CURING A COLD--Enterprise.  U. E.
INFORMATION FOR THE MILLION--Enterprise.
ADVICE TO GOOD LITTLE GIRLS--Enterprise.
THE DUTCH NICK MASSACRE--Enterprise.
Many other Enterprise sketches.
THE AGED PILOT MAN (poem)--" ROUGHING IT."  U. E.

                                  1864.
                    (See.  Chapters xliv to xlvii.)

Reported the Nevada Legislature for the Enterprise.
Speech as "Governor of the Third House."
Letters to New York Sunday Mercury.
Local reporter on the San Francisco Call.
Articles and sketches for the Golden Era.
Articles and sketches for the Californian.
Daily letters from San Francisco to the Enterprise.
(Several of the Era and Californian sketches appear in SKETCHES NEW AND
OLD.  U. E.)


                                  1865.
               (See Chapters xlix to li; also Appendix E.)

Notes for the Jumping Frog story; Angel's Camp, February.
Sketches etc., for the Golden Era and Californian.
Daily letter to the Enterprise.
THE JUMPING FROG (San Francisco)Saturday Press. New York,
November 18. U. E.


                                  1866.
               (See Chapters lii to lv; also Appendix D.)

Daily letter to the Enterprise.
Sandwich Island letters to the Sacramento Union.

Lecture on the Sandwich Islands, San Francisco, October 2.
FORTY-THREE DAYS IN AN OPEN BOAT--Harper's Magazine, December (error in
signature made it Mark Swain).


                                  1867.
        (See Chapters lvii to lxv; also Appendices E, F, and G.)

Letters to Alta California from New York.
JIM WOLFE AND THE CATS--N. Y. Sunday Mercury.
THE JUMPING FROG--book, published by Charles Henry Webb, May 1. U. E.
Lectured at Cooper Union, May, '66.
Letters to Alta California and New York Tribune from the Quaker City--
Holy Land excursion.
Letter to New York Herald on the return from the Holy Land.
After-dinner speech on "Women" (Washington).
Began arrangement for the publication of THE INNOCENTS ABROAD.


                                  1868.
          (See Chapters lxvi to lxix; also Appendices H and I.)

Newspaper letters, etc., from Washington, for New York Citizen, Tribune,
Herald, and other papers and periodicals.
Preparing Quaker City letters (in Washington and San Francisco) for book
publication.
CAPTAIN WAKEMAN'S (STORMFIELD'S) VISIT TO HEAVEN (San Francisco),
published Harper's Magazine, December, 1907-January, 1908 (also book,
Harpers).
Lectured in California and Nevada on the "Holy Land," July 2.
S'CAT!  Anonymous article on T. K. Beecher (Elmira), published in local
paper.
Lecture-tour, season 1868-69.


                                  1869.
                      (See Chapters lxx to lxxni.)

THE INNOCENTS ABROAD--book (Am. Pub. Co.), July 20. U. E.

Bought one-third ownership in the Buffalo Express.
Contributed editorials, sketches, etc., to the Express.
Contributed sketches to Packard's Monthly, Wood's Magazine, etc.
Lecture-tour, season 1869-70.


                                  1870.
             (See Chapters lxxiv to lxxx; also Appendix J.)

Contributed various matter to Buffalo Express.
Contributed various matter under general head of "MEMORANDA" to Galaxy
Magazine, May to April, '71.
ROUGHING IT begun in September (Buffalo).
SHEM'S DIARY (Buffalo) (unfinished).
GOD, ANCIENT AND MODERN (unpublished).


                                  1871.
            (See Chapters lxxxi and lxxxii; also Appendix K.)

MEMORANDA continued in Galaxy to April.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND FIRST ROMANCE--[THE FIRST ROMANCE had appeared in the
Express in 1870.  Later included in SKETCHES.]--booklet (Sheldon & Co.).
U. E.
ROUGHING IT finished (Quarry Farm).
Ruloff letter--Tribune.
Wrote several sketches and lectures (Quarry Farm).
Western play (unfinished).
Lecture-tour, season 1871-72.


                                  1872.
           (See Chapters lxxxiii to lxxxvii; also Appendix L.)

ROUGHING IT--book (Am. Pub. Co.), February.  U. E.
THE MARK TWAIN SCRAP-BOOK invented (Saybrook, Connecticut).
TOM SAWYER begun as a play (Saybrook, Connecticut).
A few unimportant sketches published in "Practical jokes," etc.
Began a book on England (London).


                                  1873.
                    (See Chapters lxxxviii to xcii.)

Letters on the Sandwich Islands-Tribune, January 3 and 6.
THE GILDED AGE (with C. D. Warner)--book (Am. Pub. Co), December.  U. E.
THE LICENSE OF THE PRESS--paper for The Monday Evening Club.
Lectured in London, October 18 and season 1873-74.


                                  1874.
            (See Chapters xciii to xcviii; also Appendix M.)

TOM SAWYER continued (in the new study at Quarry Farm).
A TRUE STORY (Quarry Farm)-Atlantic, November.  U. E.
FABLES (Quarry Farm).  U. E.
COLONEL SELLERS--play (Quarry Farm) performed by John T. Raymond.
UNDERTAKER'S LOVE-STORY (Quarry Farm) (unpublished).
OLD TIMES ON THE MISSISSIPPI (Hartford) Atlantic, January to July, 1875.
Monarchy letter to Mrs. Clemens, dated 1935 (Boston).


                                  1875.
                (See Chapters c to civ; also Appendix N.)

UNIVERSAL SUFFRAGE--paper for The Monday Evening Club.
SKETCHES NEW AND OLD--book (Am. Pub. Co.), July.  U. E.
TOM SAWYER concluded (Hartford).
THE CURIOUS REP. OF GONDOUR--Atlantic, October (unsigned).
PUNCH, CONDUCTOR, PUNCH--Atlantic, February, 1876.  U. E.
THE SECOND ADVENT (unfinished).
THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBER (unfinished).
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DAMN FOOL (unfinished).
Petition for International Copyright.
                                  1876.
                        (See Chapters cvi to cx.)

Performed in THE LOAN OF THE LOVER as Peter Spuyk (Hartford).
CARNIVAL OF CRIME--paper for The Monday Evening Club--Atlantic, June.
U. E.
HUCK FINN begun (Quarry Farm).
CANVASSER'S STORY (Quarry Farm)--Atlantic, December.  U. E.
"1601" (Quarry Farm), privately printed. [And not edited by Livy. D.W.]
AH SIN (with Bret Harte)--play, (Hartford).
TOM SAWYER--book (Am. Pub. Co.), December.  U. E.
Speech on "The Weather," New England Society, December 22.


                                  1877.
              (See Chapters cxii to cxv; also Appendix O.)

LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ-CLARENCE, ETC.  (Quarry Farm)--Atlantic.
IDLE EXCURSION (Quarry Farm)--Atlantic, October, November, December.
U. E.
SIMON WHEELER, DETECTIVE--play (Quarry Farm) (not produced).
PRINCE AND PAUPER begun (Quarry Farm).
Whittier birthday speech (Boston), December.


                                  1878.
                      (See Chapters cxvii to cxx.)

MAGNANIMOUS INCIDENT (Hartford)--Atlantic, May.  U. E.
A TRAMP ABROAD (Heidelberg and Munich).
MENTAL TELEGRAPHY--Harper's Magazine, December, 1891.  U. E.
GAMBETTA DUEL--Atlantic, February, 1879 (included in TRAMP). U. E.
REV. IN PITCAIRN--Atlantic, March, 1879.  U. E.
STOLEN WHITE ELEPHANT--book (Osgood & Co.), 1882.  U. E.
(The three items last named were all originally a part of the TRAMP
ABROAD.)


                                  1879.
(See Chapters cxxi to cxxiv; also Chapter cxxxiv and Appendix P.)

A TRAMP ABROAD continued (Paris, Elmira, and Hartford).
Adam monument scheme (Elmira).
Speech on "The Babies" (Grant dinner, Chicago), November.
Speech on "Plagiarism" (Holmes breakfast, Boston), December.


                                  1880.
                     (See Chapters cxxv to cxxxii.)

PRINCE AND PAUPER concluded (Hartford and Elmira).
HUCK FINN continued (Quarry Farm, Elmira).
A CAT STORY (Quarry Farm) (unpublished).
A TRAMP ABROAD--book (Am.  Pub.  Co.), March 13.  U. E.
EDWARD MILLS AND GEO. BENTON (Hartford)--Atlantic, August.  U. E.
MRS. McWILLIAMS AND THE LIGHTNING (Hartford)--Atlantic, September.  U. E.


                                  1881.
                    (See Chapters cxxxiv to cxxxvii.)

A CURIOUS EXPERIENCE--Century, November.  U. E.
A BIOGRAPHY OF -----(unfinished).
PRINCE AND PAUPER--book (Osgood R; CO.), December.
BURLESQUE ETIQUETTE (unfinished). [Included in LETTERS FROM THE EARTH
D.W.]


                                  1882.
                      (See Chapters cxl and cxli.)

LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI (Elmira and Hartford).


                                  1883.
                    (See Chapters cxlii to cxlviii.)

LIFE ON THE Mississippi--book (Osgood R CO.), May.  U. E.
WHAT Is HAPPINESS?--paper for The Monday Evening Club.
Introduction to Portuguese conversation book (Hartford).
HUCK FINN concluded (Quarry Farm).
HISTORY GAME (Quarry Farm).
AMERICAN CLAIMANT (with W. D. Howells)--play (Hartford), produced by
A. P. Burbank.
Dramatized TOM SAWYER and PRINCE AND PAUPER (not produced).


                                  1884.
                     (See Chapters cxlix to cliii.)

Embarked in publishing with Charles L. Webster.
THE CARSON FOOTPRINTS--the San Franciscan.
HUCK FINN--book (Charles L.  Webster & Co.), December.  U. E.
Platform-readings with George W. Cable, season '84-'85.


                                  1885.
                      (See Chapters cliv to clvii.)

Contracted for General Grant's Memoirs.
A CAMPAIGN THAT FAILED--Century, December.  U. E.
THE UNIVERSAL TINKER--Century, December (open letter signed X. Y. Z.
Letter on the government of children--Christian Union.)
KIDITCHIN (children's poem).


                                  1886.
              (See Chapters clix to clxi; also Appendix Q.)

Introduced Henry M.  Stanley (Boston).
CONNECTICUT YANKEE begun (Hartford).
ENGLISH AS SHE IS TAUGHT--Century, April, 1887.
LUCK--Harper's, August, 1891.
GENERAL GRANT AND MATTHEW ARNOLD--Army and Navy dinner speech.


                                  1887.
             (See Chapters clxii to clxiv; also Appendix R.)

MEISTERSCHAFT--play (Hartford)-Century, January, 1888.  U. E.
KNIGHTS OF LABOR--essay (not published).
To THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND--Harper's Magazine, December.  U. E.
CONSISTENCY--paper for The Monday Evening Club.


                                  1888.
                     (See Chapters clxv to clxviii.)

Introductory for "Unsent Letters" (unpublished).
Master of Arts degree from Yale.
Yale Alumni address (unpublished).
Copyright controversy with Brander Matthews--Princeton Review.
Replies to Matthew Arnold's American criticisms (unpublished).
YANKEE continued (Elmira and Hartford).
Introduction of Nye and Riley (Boston).


                                  1889.
            (See Chapters clxix to clxxiii; also Appendix S.)

A MAJESTIC LITERARY FOSSIL Harper's Magazine, February, 1890.  U. E.
HUCK AND TOM AMONG THE INDIANS (unfinished).
Introduction to YANKEE (not used).
LETTER To ELSIE LESLIE--St Nicholas, February, 1890.
CONNECTICUT YANKEE--book (Webster & Co.), December.  U. E.


                                  1890.
                    (See Chapters clxxii to clxxiv.)

Letter to Andrew Lang about English Criticism.
(No important literary matters this year.  Mark Twain engaged
promoting the Paige typesetting-machine.)


                                  1891.
                    (See Chapters clxxv to clxxvii.)

AMERICAN CLAIMANT (Hartford) syndicated; also book (Webster & Co.), May,
1892.  U. E.
European letters to New York Sun.
DOWN THE RHONE (unfinished).
KORNERSTRASSE (unpublished).


                                  1892.
                    (See Chapters clxxx to clxxxii.)

THE GERMAN CHICAGO (Berlin--Sun.)  U. E.
ALL KINDS OF SHIPS (at sea).  U. E.
Tom SAWYER ABROAD (Nauheim)--St.  Nicholas, November, '93, to April, '94.
U. E.
THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS (Nauheim).  U. E.
PUDD'NHEAD WILSON (Nauheim and Florence)--Century, December, '93, to
June, '94 U. E.
$100,000 BANK-NOTE (Florence)--Century, January, '93.  U. E.


                                  1893.
                  (See Chapters clxxxiii to clxxxvii.)

JOAN OF ARC begun (at Villa Viviani, Florence) and completed up to the
raising of the Siege of Orleans.
CALIFORNIAN'S TALE (Florence) Liber Scriptorum, also Harper's.
ADAM'S DIARY (Florence)--Niagara Book, also Harper's.
ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE--Cosmopolitan, November.  U. E.
IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD?--Cosmopolitan, September.  U. E.
TRAVELING WITH A REFORMER--Cosmopolitan, December.  U. E.
IN DEFENSE OF HARRIET SHELLEY (Florence)--N. A.--Rev., July, '94.  U. E.
FENIMORE COOPER'S LITERARY OFFENSES--[This may not have been written
until early in 1894.]--(Players, New York)--N.  A. Rev., July,'95  U. E.


                                  1894.
                    (See Chapters clxxxviii to cxc.)

JOAN OF ARC continued (Etretat and Paris).
WHAT PAUL BOURGET THINKS OF US (Etretat)--N. A. Rev., January, '95 U. E.
TOM SAWYER ABROAD--book (Webster & Co.), April.  U. E.
PUDD'NHEAD WILSON--book (Am. Pub. Co.), November.  U. E.
The failure of Charles L.  Webster & Co., April 18.
THE DERELICT--poem (Paris) (unpublished).


                                  1895.
                    (See Chapters clxxxix and cxcii.)

JOAN OF ARC finished (Paris), January 28, Harper's Magazine, April to
December.
MENTAL TELEGRAPHY AGAIN--Harper's, September.  U. E.
A LITTLE NOTE TO PAUL BOURGET.  U. E.
Poem to Mrs. Beecher (Elmira) (not published).  U. E.
Lecture-tour around the world, begun at Elmira, July 14, ended July 31.


                                  1896.
                      (See Chapters cxci to cxciv.)

JOAN OF ARC--book (Harpers) May.  U. E.
TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE, and other stories-book (Harpers), November.
FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR begun (23 Tedworth Square, London).


                                  1897.
                     (See Chapters cxcvii to cxcix.)

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR--book (Am. Pub. Co.), November.
QUEEN'S JUBILEE (London), newspaper syndicate; book privately printed.
JAMES HAMMOND TRUMBULL--Century, November.
WHICH WAS WHICH?  (London and Switzerland) (unfinished).
TOM AND HUCK (Switzerland) (unfinished).

HELLFIRE HOTCHKISS (Switzerland) (unfinished).
IN MEMORIAM--poem (Switzerland)-Harper's Magazine.  U. E.
Concordia Club speech (Vienna).
STIRRING TIMES IN AUSTRIA (Vienna)--Harper's Magazine, March, 1898. U. E.


                                  1898.
              (See Chapters cc to cciii; also Appendix T.)

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING SCHOOL AGAIN (Vienna)Century, August.  U. E.
AT THE APPETITE CURE (Vienna)--Cosmopolitan, August.  U. E.
FROM THE LONDON TIMES, 1904 (Vienna)--Century, November.  U. E.
ABOUT PLAY-ACTING (Vienna)--Forum, October.  U. E.
CONCERNING THE JEWS (Vienna)--Harper's Magazine, September, '99.  U. E.
CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND MRS.  EDDY (Vienna)--Cosmopolitan, October.  U. E.
THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED HADLEYBURG (Vienna)--Harper's Magazine, December,
'99 U. E.
Autobiographical chapters (Vienna); some of them used in the N. A. Rev.,
1906-07.
WHAT IS MAN?  (Kaltenleutgeben)--book (privately printed), August, 1906.
ASSASSINATION OF AN EMPRESS (Kaltenleutgeben) (unpublished).
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER (unfinished).
Translations of German plays (unproduced).


                                  1899.
                     (See Chapters cciv to ccviii.)

DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES (Vienna)--Forum, March.  U. E.
MY LITERARY DEBUT (Vienna)--Century, December.  U. E.
CHRISTIAN SCIENCE (Vienna)--N. A. Rev., December, 1902, January and
February, 1903.
Translated German plays (Vienna) (unproduced).
Collaborated with Siegmund Schlesinger on plays (Vienna) (unfinished).
Planned a postal-check scheme (Vienna).
Articles about the Kellgren treatment (Sanna, Sweden) (unpublished).
ST. JOAN OF ARC (London)--Harper's Magazine, December, 1904.  U. E.
MY FIRST LIE, AND How I GOT OUT OF IT (London)--New York World.  U. E.

Articles on South African War (London) (unpublished)
Uniform Edition of Mark Twain's works (Am. Pub. Co.).

                                  1900.
                      (See Chapters ccix to ccxii.)

TWO LITTLE TALES (London)--Century, November, 1901.  U. E.
Spoke on "Copyright" before the House of Lords.
Delivered many speeches in London and New York.


                                  1901.
                    (See Chapters ccxiii to ccxviii.)

TO THE PERSON SITTING IN DARKNESS (14 West Tenth Street, New York)--
N. A. Rev., February.
TO MY MISSIONARY CRITICS (14 West Tenth Street, New York)--N. A. Rev.,
April.
DOUBLE-BARREL DETECTIVE STORY (Saranac Lake, "The Lair") Harper's
Magazine, January and February, 1902.
Lincoln Birthday Speech, February 11.
Many other speeches.
PLAN FOR CASTING VOTE PARTY (Riverdale) (unpublished).
THE STUPENDOUS PROCESSION (Riverdale) (unpublished).
ANTE-MORTEM OBITUARIES--Harper's Weekly.
Received degree of Doctor of Letters from Yale.


                                  1902.
            (See Chapters ccxix to ccxxiv; also Appendix U.)

DOES THE RACE OF MAN LOVE A LORD? (Riverdale)--N. A. Rev., April.  U. E.
FIVE BOONS of LIFE (Riverdale)--Harper's Weekly, July 5.  U. E.
WHY NOT ABOLISH IT?  (Riverdale)--Harper's Weekly, July 5.
DEFENSE OF GENERAL FUNSTON (Riverdale)--N. A. Rev., May.
IF I COULD BE THERE (Riverdale unpublished).
Wrote various articles, unfinished or unpublished.
Received degree of LL.D.  from the University of Missouri, June.

THE BELATED PASSPORT (York Harbor)--Harper's Weekly, December 6.  U. E.
WAS IT HEAVEN? OR HELL? (York Harbor)--Harper's Magazine, December. U. E.
Poem (Riverdale and York Harbor) (unpublished)
Sixty-seventh Birthday speech (New York), November 27.


                                  1903.
                     (See Chapters ccxxv to ccxxx.)

MRS. EDDY IN ERROR (Riverdale)--N. A. Rev., April.
INSTRUCTIONS IN ART (Riverdale)-Metropolitan, April and May.
EDDYPUS, and other C. S. articles (unfinished).
A DOG'S TALE (Elmira)--Harper's Magazine, December.  U. E.
ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER (Florence)--Harper's Weekly, January 21, 1904.
U. E.
ITALIAN WITH GRAMMAR (Florence)--Harper's Magazine, August, U.  E.
THE $30,000 BEQUEST (Florence)--Harper's Weekly, December 10, 1904. U. E.


                                  1904.
                    (See Chapters ccxxx to ccxxxiv.)

AUTOBIOGRAPHY (Florence)--portions published, N. A. Rev.  and Harper's
Weekly.
CONCERNING COPYRIGHT (Tyringham, Massachusetts)--N. A. Rev., January,
1905.
TSARS SOLILOQUY  (21 Fifth Avenue, New York)--N. A. Rev., March, 1905.
ADAM'S DIARY--book (Harpers), April.


                                  1905.
          (See Chapters ccxxxiv to ccxxxvii; also Appendix V.)

LEOPOLD'S SOLILOQUY (21 Fifth Avenue, New York)--pamphlet, P. R. Warren
Company.
THE WAR PRAYER (21 Fifth Avenue, New York) (unpublished).
EVE'S DIARY (Dublin, New Hampshire)--Harper's Magazine, December.
3,000 YEARS AMONG THE MICROBES (unfinished).
INTERPRETING THE DEITY (Dublin New Hampshire) (unpublished).
A HORSE'S TALE (Dublin, New Hampshire)-Harper's Magazine,
August and September, 1906.
Seventieth Birthday speech.
W. D. HOWELLS (21 Fifth Avenue, New York)-Harper's Magazine, July, 1906.


                                  1906.
                     (See Chapters ccxxxix to ccli.)

Autobiography dictation (21 Fifth Avenue, New York; and Dublin, New
Hampshire)--selections published, N. A. Rev., 1906 and 1907.
Many speeches.
Farewell lecture, Carnegie Hall, April 19.
WHAT IS MAN?--book (privately printed).
Copyright speech (Washington), December.


                                  1907.
                    (See Chapters cclvi to cclxiii.)

Autobiography dictations (27 Fifth Avenue, New York; and Tuxedo).
Degree of Doctor of Literature conferred by Oxford, June 26.
Made many London speeches.
Begum of Bengal speech (Liverpool).
CHRISTIAN SCIENCE--book (Harpers), February.  U. E.
CAPTAIN STORMFIELD'S VISIT To HEAVEN--book (Harpers).


                                  1908.
                     (See Chapters cclxiv to cclxx.)

Autobiography dictations (21 Fifth Avenue, New York; and Redding,
Connecticut).
Lotos Club and other speeches.
Aldrich memorial speech.


                                  1909.
      (See Chapters cclxxvi to cclxxxix; also Appendices N and W.)

IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?--book (Harpers), April.
A FABLE--Harper's Magazine December.
Copyright documents (unpublished).
Address to St.  Timothy School.
MARJORIE FLEMING (Stormfield)--Harper's Bazar, December.
THE TURNING-POINT OF MY LIFE (Stormfield)--Harper's Bazar, February, 1910
BESSIE DIALOGUE (unpublished).
LETTERS FROM THE EARTH (unfinished).
THE DEATH OF JEAN--Harper's, December, 1910.
THE INTERNATIONAL LIGHTNING TRUST (unpublished).


                                  1910.
                          (See Chapter ccxcii.)

VALENTINES TO HELEN AND OTHERS (not published).
ADVICE TO PAINE (not published).

[The End]





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